Life is a dance; an elegant, stately,

sensuous dance; a lengthy dance with

charming, stylish movements of poise,
joy, and happiness and, at times, an
awkward, sad, horridly lethal dance
of bitter, intolerable consequences.
Alas, nevertheless a dance, always
ending gracefully, in a bow . . .
Chaconne.
1

One
The scandalous Watergate crisis during the mid 1970s and its overt
abuse of political power plunged the whole of the United States into a
paralyzing state of self-doubt and recrimination as the devastation of a
national tragedy furiously unfolded.

Growing distrust of Federal

authority and a particular abhorrence with the Executive Branch

created a retaliatory lust for justice among the wronged masses; a lust
endlessly fueled by the malevolent intent of blatant, arrogant, betrayal
and deliberately brutal victimization by the highest office in the land
against trusting American citizens and their long established
institutions of freedom, morality, and fair-play. A dark, gloomy mood
of uncertainty was unpleasantly rippling through the Nation as reports
of political chaos, federal indictments, distancing, egregious
Executive belligerence and retort, stonewalling, exploitation of
misguided devotion and accidental mechanical erasures, misleading
information, innuendo, failed attempts to deceive, denial, political
espionage, obstruction of justice, and outright lying consumed the
sanctimonious fabric of an all out American media frenzy and the near
hysterical society it hypnotically enthralled.

Utterances of plenary indulgence by whistleblowers with obvious

secret agendas and careers in jeopardy in hopes of reciprocal
dispensation, only now coming forward with laundered information
and shallow, transparent apologies because they were soon to be

caught, not because they were men of conscience or good will, further
sickened the already frail mood of a callously jilted Nation.
Shattering news of secretly audio-taped meetings and foggy
recollections of exact conversations, further had everyone thought to
be involved, dancing on their toes, and the implication of guilty by
association had guilty and innocent alike scurrying to forge alliances
of expos and cover-up, clearly adding to the devastating, malignant
drama metastasizing in and around the Oval Office and the entire
Washington corridor.

Vengeance is nothing more than a bitter lust for justice that fuels the
driving life force of a wounded, violated creature. Right or wrong in
Watergate America, justice would prevail, or at least appear to, no
matter what the cost.

The real powers-that-be feared only that their daisy chain of insulation
might be breached and that unwelcome players would have to be
added to repair and secure the breach, diluting and possibly mutating
the centuries old arcane organization of power, a wicked hierarchy of
merciless, parsimonious slave masters more powerful, more ruthless,
and more self-preserving than any ruling dynasty ever known to
mankind. The fertile haven of iniquitous special interests thriving in
and overshadowing the Washington Beltway was just such an arena
that was ripe to spawn, cultivate, and conceal this festering evil in
plain site; it housed the powers-that-be; the powers that control

governments and their leaders and their economies; the powers that
quietly ruled the world, and the struggling, sacrificial powers-thatwanted-to-be. Alas, the dance continues.

March 1973, Watergate Era of the Washington, D.C. Beltway

Ach, some men just do not know how to use and delegate power,
Feliks.
I could not agree more, Maurice. Ve have made a grave error in
judgment vis dis man und his petty criminal cronies. I fear ve no
longer have a use for der President. Der Agnew Vorfall, die
Pentagonpapiere und die Angelegenheiten von Indochina,
jetzt die Watergate-Ausgabe, solche matschige Arroganz,
konnte das Jahrhunderte von Bemhungen unserer Familie
beeintrchtigen.

Ich dachte, da das Loswerden Hitler und

Ende zu solchem Arrogance in westliche Gesellschaft gelegt

haben wrde.

(The Agnew incident, the Pentagon Papers and the Indochina

affairs, now the Watergate issue, such sloppy arrogance, this could compromise
centuries of our familys efforts. I thought that getting rid of Hitler would have put and
end to such arrogance in Western Society.)

English Feliks, English. You are going to have a stroke . . . Come,

come now; the President did give us China.
Ja, ja you are right Maurice. Und for dis ve shall spare his life, but
he und his regime must komb down!
More English, Feliks.

My daughter has designed a plan und commenced actions last year

involving the Company and two local reporters whose newspaper is
demonstrably antagonistic to das administration.
What publication is not? Please enlighten me to your daughters
plan, Feliks.
It is quite simple, Maurice: She has encouraged a high ranking
administration official, through the officials young assistant, whom
she has been quite intimate vis und is grooming for our future use, to
leak vital facts und incriminating information to the eager reporters,
off the record und deep background of course.
So far we appear insulated if, and I am guessing, one of the reporters
belongs to the Company; continue. All English now, please.
You have guessed correctly . . . She has further strongly suggested
that this action, along with the natural process of investigation and
denial, will manipulate the building fury of the American people to
force the President to resign and avoid impeachment. My daughter
has based this projected action on the mans impenetrable vanity and
his enormous ego. He always wanted to be the President, Maurice.
Yes he has and he will do anything to preserve his coveted title from
impeachment. But Feliks, the President will surely be prosecuted for
obstruction of justice. We can no longer trust this man.
We have worked through that also, Maurice. The Vice President has
been positioned as an honorable man among thieves, ja?

This

Presidential resignation will be conditioned that the now Vice

President, shortly after taking office as President, will decree a full

pardon for the resigned President for all offenses which he has
committed or may have committed. This, my daughter predicts, will
bring closure to the whole affair thus stopping the nations festering
over further prosecution of the President for willful obstruction of
justice and any further probing that may link our efforts. The Pardon
will be the right thing to do but it will be misinterpreted as payment in
full for the Vice Presidents ascendancy to the Oval Office. The
Pardon will thus create disgust and a broad mood swing for change of
party in the seventy-six election. Soon after the seventy-six election,
tensions will escalate in the Middle East and our oil division will
enjoy even more inflated prices.
Feliks, your English is now perfect and your daughter exhibits the
genius of her lineage, a true . . . suddenly without warning, a servant
appears just inside the barely opened doorway, also, as his employer,
speaking with a heavy Germanic accent:
Excuse me, sir. Vill you gentlemen be lunching in the rotunda or the
garten today?

We shall be dining in Georgetown this afternoon Kurt, but we will be

having dinner here this evening. I will let you know what time when I
return. Thank you, Kurt. There will be nothing more.
Forgive me for asking Feliks, can you trust this servant?
Maurice, why do you ask such a question? He simply inquired about
our lunch plans. It is his duty. You seem perplexed.

I was not sure at first but as he entered the room I could not help but
notice that the door had been partially opened before his entry and that
he had been standing behind it for quite some time.
How long, Maurice?
Long enough Feliks. You must tell me all you know about this
man.
Two years ago my daughter hired him und his wife. There names
are Kurt und Eva Schmekler und during ze war their families were
mistaken for gypsies und killed by the Nazis. As young children,
they were both placed in the same orphanage where zey met und
became attached to one another. Eventually zey married und have
been together ever since. My daughter thoroughly investigated their
background und vas impressed by their loyalty to vun another. The
Schmeklers retained ancillary positions at der U. S. military base in
Wiesbaden where they learned to speak, read, und write English. Our
people in Frankfurt were particularly strong on the Schmeklers vork
ethic und their degree of loyalty. They have continuously exhibited
great enthusiasm no matter what their station vas in the household.
My daughter promoted Kurt to butler last June. His wife is our chef.
Ach, her schnitzel is to die for!

They have no family or friends?

Apparently they have no one.

Never have they been observed

receiving any personal telephone calls nor have they made any
personal calls. They never have visitors of a personal nature either,

Maurice. Kurt und Eva live on the grounds und rarely leave for
anything more than shopping.
Excellent, there will be little questions. They must go, Feliks.
Ach, Maurice! . . . Was sagen Sie? (What are you saying?)
. . . Sie mssen tun ohne Eva zu kochen. (You will have to do without
Evas cooking.)

Feliks lowered his eyes and a moment of sadness pervaded his

composure as he pondered Maurices inference.

After a silent

melancholy gesture of contemplated pause he sighed and softly

answered with disgust and a hint of contempt in perfect English,
What do you propose, Maurice?
We will tell them they must immediately go to the lake house in
Michigan and make it ready for an unscheduled visit tomorrow. On
the way, the plane will encounter pressurization failure just minutes
after it has reached cruising altitude. The autopilot will malfunction
and lock, emergency oxygen masks will fail to deploy, and the pilot
and passengers will suffer immediate oxygen deprivation and, within
seconds, slip into unconsciousness. It will be arranged so that no
suspicion of sabotage shall manifest; the aircraft will simply have
suffered a rare pressurization failure.
problem solved, Feliks.

Gravity will do the rest,

Until then, we must have constant

surveillance on the Schmeklers.

Maurice, I dont mind losing the jet, but the pilots . . .
Feliks, along with our needed tin, Viet Nam has also given us an
abundance of jet pilots from which to choose.

Feliks, now with a growing smile and snapping out of his momentary
disgust, excitedly blurts with robust delivery, Excellent, Maurice,
excellent . . . Kurt! . . .
Yes sir.
Schicken Sie bitte nach dem Auto, Kurt.

(Please send for the car,

Kurt.)

Wird das alle, Herr sein? (Will that be all, sir?)

Nein Kurt, dort ist mehr.

(No Kurt, there is more).

As Feliks

glances over to Maurice, he gestures with silent speech, English

Feliks, English. We will need you and Eva to fly to the beach
house in Michigan.

There is an unscheduled event taking place

tomorrow evening and we need you both there this afternoon to open
the house and prepare for the occasion.

You will be leaving

immediately. Pack for the week. The jet will be waiting for you both
at National Airport and the pilots will have your instructions. I will
see you both tomorrow.
I will tell Eva immediately, sir.
Well Maurice, I seem to have suddenly developed an appetite for
Vietnamese food. Lets go to lunch!

Two
Tuesday, March 19, 2002 - 3:43 AM, EST
Transmission: Operation Indigo to Calvin Carrington
Kill it! . . . Kill it! . . . Kill it! . . . Kill it, damn it, kill iiiiit!!! . . .
Thats all there was to the transmission, Cal. Just twelve barely
audible words over one big garbled six-second mess. Tell Samuels
were filtering the background sounds now. Well have the results
separated and clean in about fifteen minutes. That constant scream
sure is an eerie bitch to listen to. Itll be the easiest sound to isolate
and the most difficult to identify.

No one here has ever heard

anything like it and Michelson doubts that well find an oscillation

signature to match it. Quentin was able to track the source of the
signal. It originated from a Ham radio at Signy station on Signy
Island in the South Orkney Islands, about 375 miles northeast of the
Antarctic Peninsula. The station houses eight to ten people max and
its only open during the austral summer. Unless this is an elaborate
hoax, there shouldnt be anyone on that island at this time of the year.
Harris alerted the Brits and theyre sending an air rescue group and
two Harriers out of the Falklands. The two fighters will be hovering
over the station in just over an hour, the other rescue planes should
arrive in two and half hours. We cant tap into satellite verification;
right now its focused on the Antarctic thing. Give us a few minutes,
Cal, and well have more information on the transmission. OK? . . .
Schnelling out.

10

Tuesday, March 19, 2002 - 3:58 AM, EST

A secure telephone call from the White House to the residence of
Henry Walter Randolph, National Security Advisor
Thats right sir, less than a quarter of an hour ago . . . Carrington
has assured me that Schnelling and his crew are on it . . . Its a British
possession, sir . . . Yes sir, Ill do that . . . Yes sir, Ill make the
appropriate calls and offer our assistance . . . Well have a better idea
within the hour . . . Ill phone you immediately as soon as I know . . .
Yes sir . . . Goodbye! Who the hell voted for this guy . . . and how did
he find out about this?

Youd think this was some goddamned

international emergency for Christs sake. There are people living in

cardboard boxes without shoes and food and hes worried about a six
second Ham radio transmission. Maybe I should have Cal call him,
personally. No, that would confuse the son-of-a-bitch. Hed panic
and hot line the joint chiefs to put us on Defcon One. Shit Jenny,
its four in the morning! This is abuse of power . . . President my
ass!!!

Tuesday, March 19, 2002 4:03 AM, EST

A secure transmission from Operation Indigo to its director
Calvin Christopher Carrington
Cal, Billy, weve got it. Im uploading the feed to Samuels now. Its
no hoax. Harris is on the line with the Brits. This is scary, Cal.
Listen to this: . . .

11

Tuesday, March 19, 2002 4:19 AM, EST

A secure telephone call from Calvin Christopher Carrington to
Henry Walter Randolph at his residence in Georgetown, Virginia
Good morning Jenny, its Cal Carrington. Im sorry to disturb you
so early.

I need to speak with Henry . . . Henry, weve got a

problem.

Tuesday, March 19, 2002 4:51 AM, EST

A secure telephone call to the White House from the residence of
Henry Walter Randolph, National Security Advisor

Yes sir . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . Yes sir, ambassador Kensington

appreciates your gesture of concern and has assured me that
Downing Street would most likely be unconditionally receptive to
your support offer . . . Thats right, sir . . . The Harriers will be over
the site in approximately nineteen minutes . . . No sir. They are
treating this with utmost security and we cannot monitor their
transmissions . . . Thats right, sir, there scramb . . . Sir, I can assure
you this is standard procedure. Kensington does not want to exclude
you-us . . . If I may suggest, sir, lets wait for the report from the
Harriers before we commit any deployment of . . . Yes sir, Ill stay on
it until its resolved . . . But sir, dont you want to listen to the . . .
Hello? . . . That dumb son-of-a-bitch gets me out of bed for this and . .
. he could have cared less about listening to it. I just cant leave it like
this. Goddamn it, now I have to deliver it personally. Jenny, Ive got

12

to go to the White House . . . Hello, Cal. Have a currier meet me at

the main gate of the White House at five-thirty . . . Yeah, he hung up
without hearing the feed . . . Ill need a clean copy . . . No, I havent
spoken with the Argentinean ambassador . . . Until we are officially
involved, its purely a British matter. Its their protocol to notify
Buenos Aires . . . OK! . . . Great! Ill meet you at the gate.

Tuesday, March 19, 2002 6:27 AM EST

Cal, the man yelling kill it is English. Weve detected three other
distinct voices: one Scottish female, another English male, and one
Belgian or French male. Weve identified metal crunching, glass
shattering and the three minor voices screaming in fear for their lives,
reason unknown. That eerie scream throughout the transmission was
mechanically produced; weve dubbed it the Banshee.

We also

cracked the Harriers encryption frequency modulation just in time to

unscramble this transmission, have a listen:
Humming bird to eagles nest, come in eagles
nest, over.
Humming bird, this is eagles nest, are you
rocking?

Over.

Affirmative, eagles nest.

our thirst.

We have quenched

The birdbath is dry.

birdbath is dry.

Repeat, the

Do you copy, eagles nest?

Roger that, humming bird.

birdbath will be refilled.

13

Sleep tight, the

Roger

that,

eagles

nest.

Humming

bird

sleeps.
Why did they let us hear that, Billy?
No theories yet, Cal. The Harriers heat signatures shut down at
0913 Zulu. The descrambled transmission occurred at 1011 Zulu.
They most likely landed and searched the area. Their heat signatures
are still cold.
Billy, the Harriers range is about 1600 miles at Mach 1, they cant
be out of fuel, its only about 900 miles from the Falklands.
Cal, they didnt come from the Falklands. The path of their heat
signatures was nearly due east to west. They came from a carrier.
And our satellite priority was upstaged by NASA, how convenient.
Any thoughts on why the misdirection that was so easy to discover?
It seems like a variation of hiding something in plain sight, Cal.
I agree Billy, but what and for whose benefit? Dont lose those
Harriers. Tell Harris to keep talking to the Brits as if you never
stumbled on to the Harriers transmission with eagles nest. This cant
be as transparent as it appears, Billy. Someone is calling for help.
Ill get Samuels crew on this immediately. Im leaving the White
House now and should be in Fort Meade in a half hour. Ill get back
to you.

14

Tuesday, March 19, 2002 7:17 AM EST

Henry . . . Cal again . . . I spoke with Billy Schnelling just as I left
the White House. You need to probe the Brits about this, but you must
appear non-chalant. Bring it up almost as an after thought. Dont let
them think we have anything more than a passing interest in the Signy
event . . . I wouldnt worry about that, Henry; the President showed
more interest in his oatmeal than in the Signy six-second
transmission. By tomorrow, itll all be out of sight and out of mind for
him.

Ill send you an encrypted E-mail in the next ten minutes

detailing Billys report. Right now, I have to let some extremely

playful seals go down the slide. Its Showtime, Henry.

15

The evening news Tuesday, March 19, 2002 6:32 PM EST

Good evening. Troubling news both locally and internationally
heads our broadcast this evening. A mysterious fire early this
morning involving an unidentified automobile on the northbound
side of Interstate 295, the Baltimore Washington Parkway, just a
few miles south of Maryland state road 175 and Fort Meade,
Maryland brought rush hour traffic to a screeching halt in both
directions for nearly four hours with motorists backed up as much
as five miles in either direction. The blazing vehicle was found
by passers-by to be burning so hot that it singed the paint and
tires on their vehicles as they sped past the raging firestorm.
Smoke could be seen for miles and air space within a three-mile
radius was also closed due to an unusual amount of smoke
plumes billowing from the burning automobile. The inferno was
such that by the time firefighters arrived a decision to let the fire
burn down was made before allowing firefighters close enough to
begin dousing down the vehicle with special fire retardant foam.
The car was burned beyond recognition, as most of it simply
melted into the roadway and shoulder.

Officials have not

released any information regarding the origin or nature of the

uncommon blaze. Human remains were found so badly charred
that it is highly unlikely a positive identification will be
forthcoming. There are no reports of anyone seen leaving the

16

vehicle and roadway surveillance cameras for a ten mile stretch

in either direction became inoperative just prior to reports of the
vehicles demise, no one knows why and Maryland state transit
officials are not commenting.

If anyone listening to this

broadcast has any information regarding this incident, the

Maryland State Police would like to hear from you immediately at
the number on your screen (410)-486-3101.

Thats the

Maryland State Police headquarters in Pikesville, Maryland, area

code four, one, zero telephone number four, eight, six, three,
one, zero, one. You will not be charged for this call and your call
will remain anonymous . . . On the international front, global
warming has been blamed for a massive ice break of the Larson
Ice Shelf in Antarctica. Recent satellite images analyzed at the
University of Colorado revealed the collapse of the Larsen B ice
shelf on the Antarctic Peninsula during a thirty-five day period
beginning January 31 of this year, thus fulfilling long time
predictions by British, American, and Argentinean Antarctic
Survey scientists. The mega-collapse of the twelve-hundred and
fifty-five square mile ice shelf, roughly two hundred square miles
larger than Rhode Island, is the latest demise in an area of
Antarctica that has undergone unprecedented warming during
the last fifty years. Earlier this month Ted Scambos, a researcher
with the National Snow and Ice Data Center at the University of
Colorado, alerted British Antarctic Survey glaciologists David

17

Vaughan and Chris Doake to images obtained from the NASA

MODIS satellite.

In Antarctica, Argentinean glaciologist Pedro

Skvarca, head of the Glaciological Division of the Instituto

Antrtico Argentino, realizing something was happening to the ice
shelf, dispatched a reconnaissance aircraft to retrieve aerial
photos confirming the NASA satellite data. While the collapse
was in progress earlier this month, a nearby British Antarctic
Survey ship conducting research, the Royal Research Ship
James Clark Ross, navigated her way through the massive debris
field of icebergs to gather photographs and samples. Sea levels
are not expected to rise because the portion of the ice shelf that
broke away was already floating in the ocean . . .

The White House, Wednesday, March 20, 2002 2:03 PM EST

The Oval Office
Mister President, I was the last person Carrington communicated
with via telephone, weve checked the records. That was about a
quarter after seven Tuesday morning.

He never returned to Fort

Meade. Thats not all Mister President, Billy Schnelling and his
entire team vanished also.
You mean theyve stopped broadcasting?

Operation Indigo is

silent?
Yes sir that is correct, and they vanished without a trace. Also, there
is no record of a response team being summoned by Cal Carrington.

18

Nothing in overt, nothing in covert, the records are sterile. Martin

Samuels has a team retracing Carringtons and the Schnelling teams
last movements. His report will be on your desk by 22:00 hours this
evening.
What has Kensington told you, Henry?
Kensington is not talking, sir. This whole event just fell off the
planet as far as the Brits are concerned. Ive alerted Daniel Givvings
at the CIA. He strongly suggested the three of us read Samuels report
together.
Henry, call Director Givvings and tell him I request his presence this
evening at 9:45 promptly. Ill call the Secretary of Defense and have
him drop by. That ought to fry Givvings ass!
Yes, Mister President.

The Oval Office Wednesday, March 20, 2002 10:00 PM EST

Mister President, Mister Samuels to see you, sir.
Thank you, Lorraine. Show him in.

Gentlemen, Ill open this meeting with a brief report on a lengthy

chat I had earlier today with the British Prime Minister.

His

perspective on the Signy incident is that it was an elaborate hoax,

testing the British military response in the south Atlantic. No one was
on the Island when the Harriers arrived and everything was intact,
nothing destroyed or missing. He assured me that MI-6 assessed it as
routine harassment . . . Ah! Mister Samuels, come in sir, come in. Its

19

so good to see you again, Martin. Please sit down and join us. I
believe you have something of interest to share with us. Please,
please, tell us your findings.

Outside the White House, 10:49 PM EST

That was a waste of time. Five members of the NSA vanish in a way
thats mysterious, even for them, MI-6 labels the Signy incident as
routine harassment and he buys the cover-up, and then says lets give
it a few days.
It wasnt a waste of time Dan, he knew Samuels. Samuels is the
mole.
What are you talking about, Henry?
The President knew about Signy before I did. How, Dan? We cant
trust Samuels or his report. The President is trying to play possum
with us but his stupidity always shines through.
Henry, he didnt make it this far by the grace of God.

Dont

underestimate him.
Where the hell did they go, Dan? . . .

NSA headquarters, Fort Meade, Maryland Martin Samuels office

Thursday March 21, 2002 8:32 AM EST
That was the first time I have ever spoken with or met the President,
Mister Randolph. Where did you get the idea that Im his personal
boy at NSA?

20

The President saying Its so good to see you again, Martin is a

good indication that you have met before. He knew about Signy
before I did Samuels and he didnt get it from Carrington, you were
the only other person that knew about Signy here!
Mister Randolph, no one calls me by my first name . . . Jimmy,
maybe James, but never Martin. I just went with the flow. After all,
he is the President of the United States. If he wanted to call me
Martin it was no big deal and it didnt seem like the time or the place
to correct the President on something so trivial.
He knew before I did Samuels.
Jimmy, Mister Randolph, just Jimmy.

21

Three
The present: an Oceanside residence in Manalapan, Florida

It was humid and the heat of the midday sun shone through a late
spring shower that gently coaxed the sprawling Poinciana to discharge
its rich cache of floral manna, sending it floating softly downward and
generously sprinkling its bright signature bouquets of colorful petals
over the lazy, verdant carpet of grass below, while all the time
effortlessly painting a peppery pattern of fiery reddish-orange dots on
the manicured turf, as only nature could imagine. Such an image was
a cherished signature adornment for the environs of the opulent
Oceanside neighborhood cradling behemoth residential monuments of
quiet wealth. The massive Mediterranean style villa at 1430 Ocean
Way shimmered in the radiance of the South Florida sun. Serenely
tucked away in its secure setting, so artistically laden with lush
botanical splendor and brilliant, lavish ornate architecture, the citadel,
itself a solitary sentinel buffering the gentle ocean breezes cooled by
the engine of the enigmatic river within the mighty emerald Atlantic,
the ever flowing northward Gulf Stream, stood quietly yet boldly as a
monument to the opulence and affluence only excessive, unrivaled
wealth could create and sustain. Its creator and resident: a single man,
private but proud to exhibit his worldly possessions, chattels privy
only to a select few of similar wealth and station. An elitist in his mid

22

sixties, tall, graying with strong, handsome features, exhibiting a

gentile but robust voice with a more than modest Deutsch accent;
cordial and thoughtful in demeanor; a man of great wealth and power.
An accumulated wealth and power; a questionably quiet wealth and
power evolving from a gray, dark business world one can only
describe as extremely lucrative, perilous, and notoriously nebulous.
Nivlac Nortacgrin, is that a Nordic name? Ach, no matter, you have
found me and if you can find me then I know whom I am dealing
with:

a connoisseur, a broker, or INTERPOL.

Are you an

INTERPOL agent mister Nortacgrin? Handing Nortacgrin a cognac

in a warmed snifter, No, I think not. If you were INTERPOL, I
imagine you would also bring the FBI or at least the local authorities,
hmm? You are dressed to well and your fit is not European. If you
were as I, a connoisseur, I would know and I would know you. I do
know that I do not know you sir. You are a broker mister Nortacgrin,
the new breed of broker, one with commodities but no credentials, a
maverick of sorts. So much emphasis is placed on credentials and
reputation these days. Reputations are so overrated, dont you think?
You have none mister Nortacgrin! None-the-less, I rely on results not
reputation. Thank you for thinking of me and my appreciation for
fine art. I never ask how a man hears of me or my art desires; I
simply show my appreciation by exchanging something for the fine art
that is presented to me. As you can see, my home is a living museum.
I call it a refuge for art lost, a hermitage for the collection of
extremely valuable collectables that I merely exhibit here as custodian

23

until someone as clever as you retrieves something, unannounced.

My collection is very private and extremely precious; its admirers are
many, very private, and always anonymous.

Forgive me mister

Nortacgrin, I do not mean to be condescending. Of course, you are

fully aware of how our world is. I have no doubt you are also fully
aware of the extremes I would go to if something were, how should I
say, missing.
You posses the name of the greatest Flemish Master, mister van Rijn,
yet your South African accent certainly does not sound, how should I
say, Deutsch.
Please mister Nortacgrin, call me Hans . . . Nivlac Nortacgrin, I dont
think Nordic, perhaps anagram?
Shall we talk art, Hans?
What results have you to tempt me with mister Nortacgrin?
Nortacgrin gingerly opens a humble looking leather bound, zipper
style case, which he has guardedly clutched since his entrance to van
Rijns villa, and carefully extracts two eight-by-ten inch color
photographs from a deliberately exposed cache of similar photos then
casually passes the two color plates to van Rijn making sure van Rijn
has gotten a glimpse of the remaining cache of photographs.
Aaahhh!!! . . . One of Monets finest: Vtheuil, vu de l'Ile SaintMartin, four million U. S. dollars, oh my, and a Renoir: Place de la
Trinit, two million seven-hundred thousand U.S. dollars; both taken
from the Andersons beachfront mansion on the Gulf in Naples
December 28, 2002. We are nearly neighbors but we have never met.

24

I understand Mister Andersons father won the contract to re-plumb

the White House in 1950. Alas, an insignificant fact. I notice the date
of the newspaper you are holding in the photograph is yesterday. Im
so glad to see that you are have a sense of humor and are not so
pretentious as to exhibit the Wall Street Journal; USA Today is a nice
touch. Is that all you have? van Rijn hurriedly quipped, somewhat
impatient. Nortacgrin baiting van Rijn, handed him three more eightby-ten glossy photos while nonchalantly exposing even more of his
cache of art photos, Well, well, well . . . the three Stradivari from
New York City. This one was taken in April of last year. The violin
was crafted in Cremona in 1714 and is currently valued at one million
six-hundred thousand U.S. dollars. It was taken from the workshop of
a violinmaker on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, correct mister
Nortacgrin. Van Rijn, pompous and proud of his in depth knowledge
of the event and the instrument, glances at Nortacgrin slyly and gently
returns his attention to the next photograph. Ah yes, this one is the
most expensive, three million five hundred thousand U.S. dollars
taken from a private residence in 1996. And this one, such arrogance
on the part of the owner, how careless, one million seven-hundred and
fifty thousand U.S. dollars, taken from a Rolls Royce parked on the
street in 1994. Van Rijns whimsical scolding abruptly modulates to
unimpressed and matter-of-factly, What else?
Do you recognize these, Hans?

Nortacgrin casually maneuvers

another photo into van Rijns periphery.

25

. . . J M William Turner-Shade and Darkness the Evening of the

Deluge, oh my mister Nortacgrin, its companion Light and Colour
the Morning after the Deluge. Do you know what you have mister
Nortacgrin!? van Rijns voice trembling, no longer able to maintain
his game face and pretentious attitude, again abruptly modulates his
behavior, this time to exceptionally excited and candidly receptive.
These works are considered the beginning of the Impressionist
movement. They are valued over twenty-four million U.S. dollars . .
. van Rijn overtly joyous continues in the tone of an epiphany, It was
you in Frankfurt in ninety-four. Oh mister Nortacgrin, you are indeed
a master. Van Rijn continuing to marvel at the photos of Turners
masterworks, suddenly remembers there are more photos and slyly
glances over to the remains of the photo cache Nortacgrin continues to
clutch. Mesmerized by what remains in Nortacgrins cache of photos,
van Rijns salivating gaze obediently, attentively focuses on the now
god-like Nortacgrin.
Hans, I am going to make you the envy of our world of acquired art
and it is only going to cost you five-hundred million U.S. dollars.
Flabbergasted, van Rijn blurts in a choking gasp, Surely you jest
mister Nortacgrin. I believe there is more but my resources are not
without limit. You are undoubtedly very good at acquiring fine art,
but what could you possibly have that would cause anyone to pay that
amount of money?

26

Boston, March of 1990, the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum; do

you recognize Rembrandts Storm on the Sea of Galilee? Over here
is The Concert by . . . van Rijn, now completely awestruck, chimes
in with a near whisper, finishing the statement.
Vermeer . . . the works in this photo are valued at over three-hundred
million dollars. Mister Nortacgrin, I spoke in haste suggesting Nivlac
Nortacgrin an anagram. You are not an anagram, sir. You are not a
master. You are an incarnation! . . . However, an incarnation with a
five million dollar bounty.

You are valued as much as your

commodities sir!
I have no doubt as to my value on the open market and I have no
doubt as to my value to connoisseurs of your station. I also have no
doubt that you are also fully aware of the extremes I have gone to and
the extremes I will go to remain, how should I say, unacquirable.
Forgive me Hans, I do not mean to be condescending. Of course you
are fully aware of how our world is.
You are a clever man mister Nortacgrin. We need not mock oneanother any further. One-upmanship does not lead to good business.
Let us talk money! And why I would want to pay beyond auction
price for your results when the going price is . . . well, always less?
Hans, I have no reason to disbelieve that you are a self made man.
Your wealth is the results of your personal design and construction
and you are very proud and guarded of the station in life, which you
have so carefully orchestrated and successfully attained.
begets success and success begets wealth and power.

27

Success
However,

without admiration for ones achievements wealth and power become

mute, their taste bitter-sweet, sour. What better way to share ones
achievement and gain the sweet admiration of ones peers than to
have what they have always wanted, and to openly flaunt a glimpse.
What better way to jockey yourself into a position of power than to
get people what they want. No doubt, you have built your wealth on
what other people have wanted. Help others to get what they want
and they will gladly help you to get you what you want. That is
powerful, admirably powerful and especially so when it is only you
that can get them what they want.

You will find out what your

admirers want and I will get it and they will pay. I will receive my fee
and you sir will receive your double fee: money and admiration.
Why should I trust you, mister Nortacgrin? How do I know you will
not acquire goods from my clients, uh-uh peers?
You have never heard of me, but I you. As evidenced, I have been in
this industry for quite some time. My temperance and patients all
these years was in search of the perfect partner. I wish only to remain
anonymous. I cannot achieve the degree of anonymity I wish by
dealing with multiple partners. What I have to offer is not what your
peers have lost.
How do you know my peers?
I found you. I know you. And, it is best to leave some things
unexplained. You will receive the full fee for our transactions. After
a designated time has passed, you will transfer a portion of my fee
into an assigned offshore account, which I shall provide prior to

28

transfer. The remainder of my fee will be transferred into a holding

account controlled by you. If the articles of our transactions are
reported missing then that portion of my fee in the holding account
that is associated with the missing article will be forfeited to you. I
guarantee my work for three years, I posses that power, Hans.
And how do you know you can trust me, mister Nortacgrin?
I cant trust Hans van Rijn, but I can trust Marten Grasdak.
Enough said, mister Nortacgrin. Let us continue with our business at
hand, partner.
You have a Dassault Falcon 900 at Executive airport in Fort
Lauderdale. Have it fully fueled. I will meet you in four hours.
There will be five in my party.
Where are we going?
We are going to the bank, Hans. You do have five-hundred million
U.S. dollars you can electronically transfer. Of course you do, Hans.

29

Later that day, Fort Lauderdale Executive Airport

Mister Nortacgrin, this is your staff?
These are my associates, Hans. They are not armed. Have you
brought the capability to transfer my fee?
Its all in this laptop, mister Nortacgrin. It has wireless capability,
encrypted wireless capability, mister Nortacgrin.
I expected nothing less, Hans. One of the many reasons I wish to do
business only with you.
My pilot requests a flight plan, mister Nortacgrin.
We are going to Executive Airport, Hans.
But we are already here!
Orlando, Hans, Orlando. I havent been to Disney World in years.
The results in the photographs I have presented to you are there.
When we land, you will inspect the goods and execute the money
transfer. My bank is in Grand Cayman. I trust we should be on the
ground in thirty minutes or so.

30

Approximately one-hour and forty-five minutes later inside a

Cessna Citation X in a private hanger
With fingers feebly stumbling over the keyboard of his laptop and
nearly delirious from the aura of the surrounding repository of
millions of dollars of the finest art works ever created, the covetous
van Rijn found himself momentarily paralyzed in a rapturous stupor
as he sat dazed, dazzled, and bemused amidst the cache of acquired
artifacts. With humbling awe, Hans van Rijn began to simper. And,
as he spoke, his accented speech sounded almost giddy, I do not
know how you accomplished this mister Nortacgrin and I do not want
to know. These works are in excellent condition. Let us commence
with the transfer . . . we are ready for your bank number and your
account number.

Nortacgrin swiveled van Rijns laptop ninety

degrees to the right and tapped a number of keys in a blinding flurry.

He gingerly returned the laptop to its original position and nodded to
van Rijn to continue. Mesmerized by the contents of the laptops
monitor, van Rijn froze, now with a sardonic smile sweeping his face.
What is it, Hans? . . . Complete the transfer and the art is yours . . .
Press Enter, Hans.

As Nortacgrin directed van Rijn van Rijn

transferred the gaze of his smile from the monitor to Nortacgrin, You
do realize that I have your bank number and account number on my
hard drive mister Nortacgrin. Unmoved by the Ive got you by the
balls look from van Rijn, Nortacgrin continued in a soft voice and
kindly manner, Press the Enter key, Hans . . . Excellent!

31

My, my, my, mister Nortacgrin, your account is filling before my

eyes. I could . . . oh my God! . . . What has happened?! A
sarcastic demeanor of gloating and malicious satisfaction suddenly
found van Rijn metamorphosed to beguiled and astonished.
It automatically transferred to another account and closed itself out
Hans, and also recorded your account number and password. A look
of horror and outrage further betook van Rijn, his persona now ashen,
livid with the shock of this blatant subterfuge, his anger boiling so
intensely that he became mute involuntarily. Now Nortacgrin sported
a simper and a sarcastic demeanor of gloating, Im just fuckin' with
you, Hans. Your account number and password are safe. However,
Hans, get rid of this account immediately. We dont want to give
anyone a trail to follow. Close out the account now. Oh, and Hans,
the Cessna is yours. Ill take the Falcon. Well meet again Hans.
And, next time, bring body guards that actually know how to protect
your interests. Your men need a great deal of training, Hans. I
demand it as a business partner. My associates were gentle. Your
bodyguards will be fine in a few days. Ill have your Falcon returned
shortly. Oh, and Hans, dont ever pull this macho gumba horse-shit
on me again. Maana, Hans!

32

In the air over Central Florida, destination top secret

Cal, dont you think van Rijn will check your prints, your voice, and
your face?
Billy, I altered all of that right after my car was torched. The dumb
son-of-a-bitch that stole my car never saw it coming, lucky for me.
Car theft just doesnt pay, Billy . . . van Rijn is unnaturally greedy for
art, hell make a few allowances, get justifiably careless again like he
did in Kabul and Angola.
What do you mean, Cal?
He was extremely cautious and brilliantly insulated when he was
small potatoes brokering the poppy fields in Turkey. Running arms to
the highest bidder waived more money in his face then he had ever
imagined. The higher the risk the more the money and our boy
Marten Grasdak, aka Hans van Rijn, threw caution to the wind and
became overly visible after his transition from drug lord to arms god.
A South African arms merchant who began selling armaments to
every rebel and terrorist group that could pay in U.S., British, or
German currency or untraceable precious jewels and precious metals
was like wearing a neon sign around your neck twenty-fours a day.
His entrepreneurial spirit amassed enough wealth to by a few high
level South African, pro Apartheid government officials to keep his
slimy ass out of INTERPOLs grasp. When Apartheid began to fall
apart in the late eighties-early nineties and after his involvement in a
botched clandestine assassination, Marten Grasdak abandoned ship
and resurfaced in ninety-three as Hans van Rijn. By that time, he had

33

successfully transitioned into the acquired art industry. Hell Billy,

hes got two-thirds of the worlds stolen art.

Hes a pig for

collectables, besides Billy, I stole the art Im selling him and the trail
to me died last year. In our industry, Billy, you have to plan for the
future. The art and the instruments are safe with Grasdak. When
weve collected the money and finished our mission well notify
INTERPOL of Grasdaks new identity and business address, and then
collect the reward. Everyone gets back the art I borrowed and the art
Grasdak acquired, we get some funds for living expenses, and the joy
of ownership of precious art once again fills the hearts of those left
temporarily barren. Billy, in a catharsis of admiration quietly spoke,
I owe my life to you Cal, we all do. The B-2 air strike on our camp
left nothing but ashes and we would have been part of that cinder pile
if it wasnt for you. How did they know where to find us? We were
invisible, Cal.
You still are Billy. Well find out who ordered us sanctioned when
we find out who knew where to find you. But now, we need to
complete this portion of our plan. Lets get this show on stage, Billy.

34

Four
Somewhere inside the gray world of the D. C. Beltway
I see that your husband is finally on board his cruise on the ship of
fools. As you predicted and as scheduled, he is sailing dogmatically
into oblivion in full regalia, proudly wearing his uniform of political
and civil integrity, and, as usual, always in audience of his betters and
lessers . . . sad . . . it must be lonely for you. Nevertheless, he is
where we want him and he and the President and the Prime Minister
are preoccupied, as you also predicted, with the Middle East campaign
and our new found blessing, that wonderful natural smoke screen
from the Far East, SARS. If genius were to have a queen, you would
bear title of no less than majesty. You are constantly in my awe and I
am constantly, as always, in your humble service. Ach, I digress such
when I am around you.

I find myself as a mere inarticulate,

pretentious schoolboy with romantic infatuation buzzing in my mind.

Please forgive my rambling my love, back to business. Im sure you
will agree it is time once again to resume our Antarctic efforts. I need
not remind you that with the overshadowing of the Middle East
adventures, and our wonderful disease from China, and the always
numbing, ever growing time difference of more than a year, few of
any significance are remembering the Larsen Ice Shelf incident, the
Signy disaster, and that wretched Carrington thing with the burning
car and the B-2 ending Operation Indigo. The shadow of current

35

world events could not suit our suspended efforts better. This brief
dormancy now beckons us to again waken the need to rekindle our
focus; the others are growing anxious for your guidance and direction.
Shall we again rouse our efforts and continue your majesty?

36

Five
Saint Enda Inn, Inis Mr
Few places in the Western hemisphere equal the harsh, desolate
isolation of the naked, barely hospitable, windswept rocks jutting
boldly and defiantly out of the chilly, furious Atlantic and not be more
than a stones throw from the vestiges of modern civilization than the
otherworldly Aran Islands. In a constant turbulent battle with the
mighty Ocean, Irelands hypnotic and enigmatic water-bound
limestone sentinels have long been haunting sirens for the multitudes
of summer tourists trekking across the enchanting Emerald Isle to
these western outposts of ancient Gaelic culture. For Kieran ODoyle,
the Saint Enda Inn on Inis Mr could not have been a more perfect
location for repatriation to his ancestors homeland. An American of
Irish decent, ODoyle was granted dual citizenship in Dublin in 1993.
Recently ODoyle and his four Yank partners Michael OShea, James
McDonough, Patrick Dillane, and Brendan Dirrane purchased the
rustic, three story stone and slate Bed and Breakfast from a tired Aran
Island native, Shamus O'Cile O'Donnell. The Inn lay mid Island
perched on a serene, picturesque summit at Inis Mrs highest point.
A place secure from the mighty Atlantic waters hundreds of feet
below belching mists of foamy salt spray as chilly waves crash over
the rugged limestone shoreline. The private Inn sat positioned only
thirty yards from the forbidding shear face of the jagged limestone

37

cliffs defining the Islands steep northern visage. Narrow and solitary
sits the lone scenic country road that quietly meanders not fifty yards
from the face of the Inn, the only land access to the remote retreat of
Saint Endas. The slender winding byway is an arduous, continuous
climb from the harbor town of Kilronan four miles to the east, a
tourist funnel with its handful of shops, pubs, and lodging, graciously
greeting and quaintly acclimating the orderly swollen bolus of visiting
humanity that washes up on Inis Mrs enigmatic, rocky shores. On a
clear day from Saint Endas dormers, across Galway Bay to the north
and to the east, the hushed coastline of the charming Irish mainland
casually appears in whispered majesty just above the horizon and the
full expanse of Inis Mr from east to west, replete with its etched
fortification of maze-like mosaic patchwork of winding stone-fenced
fields, is always in view; a perfect setting for anyone seeking
sanctuary in this island bastion of solitude and anonymity. What
simple Irish irony has befallen the five Yanks? The name sake of their
Inn, Saint Enda, the patriarch of Irish monasticism, was responsible
for the beginnings of monastic life in Ireland and established the first
monastery in the fifth century A.D., a citadel to asylum from the woes
of the mainland and the mainstream, solitary in its remote seclusion, a
cloistered religious refuge, just five miles toward the south eastern tip
of the Island at Killeany. ODonnells Saint Enda Inn has become the
Yanks monastery of sorts; Kieran ODoyle, Michael OShea, James
McDonough, Patrick Dillane, and Brendan Dirrane have found their
safe haven; their refuge; their home; Erin

38

Go Bragh!

I was involved with special ops. I thought it strange. What was a

solo navy seal doing in a Jordanian town miles from the sea? I wasnt
dropped in and didnt even swim to shore. I flew in on a commercial
liner as a visiting archeology student from Canada. I had crossed the
line of special ops and simply became a spook.

There was no

apparent use for my stealth and camouflage talents. I was sent to

observe the only MI6 asset ever from the Republic of Ireland, an
assassin of extraordinary qualities with an uncanny ability to work in
totally undetectable stealth and with untraceable anonymity. I was
told that you could meet this guy face to face and moments later never
recognize him again, another of his extraordinary qualities. Of course
this had all been rumored folklore among the greatest of non-existent
covert mercenaries, if you will. No one knew his true identity, except
for one man, Anton Kessler.

Kessler was a free lance handler

frequently commissioned by MI6 with exclusivity to the Irish asset

and the only means to activate him. My mission was to follow the
Irish guy and observe his talents without being observed, no reasons
just the directive. I was given the name and address of a restaurant
and a description of an average looking Irish-man, whatever that was.
I was told I would have found him when suddenly he was no longer
recognizable. I love riddles, especially when I havent got a clue what
I am supposed to observe about someone so vaguely described. No
one even had a snapshot of this guy and I really didnt understand
what could be so special other than he was considered an outsourced
double 0 by the Firm. I arrived at the rendezvous, a really swank

39

eatery in the center of town. I re-conned the immediate area and

memorized the streets and alleys and surrounding buildings. I paid
special attention to my target building and its ingress and egress then
entered the restaurant. I guess I must have been hungry because I
began to salivate from the smells and sights of the meals being served
and it showed. I scanned the entire dining room and no one fit this
guys description. A gregarious, flattering gnome of a man popped up
from the twilight of the crowded dining room and cheerfully greeted
me. He seemed to know exactly where I wanted to sit, a table for one
with my back to the wall and a clear view of the entire room. It
became obvious that he knew exactly who I was and why I graced his
establishment. Did he also know the Irish guy? Every man in the
restaurant sported a mustache or a finely cut beard in styles not
indicative of European flavor. The eyes, the color of the hair, the
physiognomy of the patrons revealed nothing of my stereo-typical
perception of someone from Ireland. Perhaps this was my lesson,
thou shalt not assume. Well, maybe that was woven into the fabric of
the days lesson but it certainly wasnt the lesson. Suddenly there was
a brief distraction. Something flashed off in the periphery in the
direction of the kitchen.

I dismissed it as a waiter and then it

happened: a familiar flash and a short lived muted spitting. The man
at the table directly across and to the left of me slumped over and fell
from his chair.

Blood began to pool under his head as he lay

motionless on the floor. His beautiful pregnant companion violently

jerked up and sprawled backward in her chair with her arms flailing

40

outward then quickly dropping to her sides framing her swollen belly.
Her mouth gaped open as if she wanted to scream but couldnt. Her
sparkling dark eyes were frozen in time and became fixed vacantly
upward. A small puncture with a crimson ringlet trickled a reddish
liquid oozing from the middle of her forehead. I crouched down using
the table as cover looking in every direction for any more danger then
tumbled over to the death table. The back of the womans head was
splattered all over the restaurant; her companion lay crumpled and
moaning. The guy was alive! Again, there was that sudden flash off
in the periphery and an incendiary device detonated instantly sending
scorching flames and searing heat in every direction. I instinctively
picked up the wounded man, he was still moaning, and jumped
through a window. We hit the sidewalk with a stinging thud, both of
us covered in pinpricks of blood from the shattered glass, our clothes
singed from the heat. My lungs were burning from the noxious gases
released by the fire. Somehow I managed to struggle through the pain
and dragged the man with me into an alleyway across the street. I had
never felt heat like that from a fire, ever. Pandemonium was running
rampant.

People were screaming violently, their charred bodies

roasting as I watched them being cremated alive. Scorching flames

sizzled the entire building as it became consumed by the spreading
inferno at an enormous speed, crumbling the structures concrete and
spontaneously igniting the neighboring buildings.

The blaze

incinerated the surrounding automobiles and reduced them to puddles

of liquid metal. Smoke billowed thousands of feet into the air. It was

41

as if night had fallen in hell. I carried the man as far away as I could
until I collapsed from exhaustion. The smoke was choking and the
heat turned our clothes to crumpling crpe. I had to keep going but I
couldnt carry this man any further. Was he dead? Oh shit! Was I
carrying a dead man? It didnt matter, I had to get up and move away
from the smoke and the heat and the stench of burning flesh. I
managed to get to my knees and I was yanked down. My dead man
was alive. He said nothing. Blood covered the entire left side of his
head and neck and it soaked the left side of his body. He was grazed.
The bullet that took the life of his beautiful young companion and her
unborn baby had simply slipped across the side of his head knocking
him unconscious and bloody. He had no idea where he was. I dont
think he knew who he was for the moment. I lifted him up and yelled
run as loud as I could. He got the message and we both hobbled
further and further away from the heat and smoke. It seemed like we
wandered for another ten or twelve minutes before we both buckled
from exhaustion. His memory began to return. He didnt remember
his companions demise, but he did remember a sudden flash in his
periphery that caused him to turn slightly; it saved his life. Something
strange was occurring before me, and for just a moment I attributed it
to exhaustion, but it wasnt physical exhaustion playing tricks on my
mind. Every time this man moved his head he would look slightly
different. This man was my rendezvous. He had been sanctioned. It
was a setup.

Was I sent there as a witness to verify the mans

slaughter? Was I setup? . . . When the authorities found me I reported

42

seeing a man and a woman shot in the head and then fled the fiery
restaurant. I sold that story to my superiors, too. They attributed my
survival to my physical condition and special ops training. Officially
speaking, I was the only survivor and for the moment my Canadian
cover was still intact. My actual presence was never officially denied
or confirmed. I was never there and that Canadian archeology student
never existed. I also never experienced an incendiary device like that
until my car was torched on I-295 . . . We are looking for the same
people that set-up ODonnell over twenty years ago. The Shamus
experience was the dawn of a new reality and it was my first lesson in
how to survive in the world of darkness. Now you four are its latest
members; it will last a lifetime gentlemen, membership is permanent .
. . The girl was an Israeli field operative and the Irishmans contact,
they had never met before. Her mission was to deliver an assignment
request to him, and she did: Ruhollah ibn Mustafa Musawi Khomeini
Hindi, Ayatollah.

In just four years out of exile, the Ayatollah

managed to bring Iran back to the fourteenth century and was

whipping Saddams ass in the mother of all wars.

An alleged

unnamed Iranian faction not related to the Shaw, but none-the-less fed
up with the cruel religious fanaticism and the misguided leadership of
the Khomeini regime, requested assistance through certain channels
to remedy the situation. Khomeini needed to be taken out . . . Six
years later the pig died. MI6 denied arranging the meeting. I never
found out how the Navy got me involved but it was no coincidence.
Mossad, Shin Bet, and Aman all refused to confirm or deny of the

43

girls existence and any such plan to remove Khomeini. Kessler was
sanctioned by the Firm before ODonnell could get to him. MI6 had
sanitized anything and everything connecting them to Kessler and
ODonnell. For all intents and purposes, ODonnell was dead; shot in
the head and vaporized in a grizzly fire that blazed out of control for
days. For the Irishman, it was time to go home. He hadnt been home
in twenty-five years. So he snuck back into his hometown and it
didnt work out. Nothing was the same; everyone he had ever known
was gone, so he vanished. In ninety-three I received a certificate of
Irish citizenship from Dublin for a Kieran ODoyle. The package
contained ODoyles passport with the address of the Saint Enda Inn
and my photo. It was an invitation I couldnt refuse so I took a
vacation to Ireland and worked the tourist cover to perfection, that is,
until I headed for Inis Mr. Shamus was waiting for me on the docks
at Kilronan. He knew I was coming before I stepped on board the
ferry in Rosaveal. Guys, there are eight-hundred residents on this
rock and Shamus ODonnell has been genuinely friendly with all of
them since his arrival. Theyre a tight-knit, tight-lipped community,
the definitive role model for every clandestine agency of any kind,
and they have eyes everywhere. They will never ask you what you
did before you came to Inis Mr; they know . . . Thats how
ODonnell and I hooked up again. This Inn was my schoolhouse
where, among a long laundry list of survival items and other things,
most of which I will never confirm or deny, Shamus taught me the
fine art of acquiring fine art. Its also where he retains his cache of

44

acquired art spoils and some of the most sophisticated surveillance

and communication equipment on the planet. You guys are going to
love what hes got here. Shamus ODonnell has been a sincere friend
and is eternally grateful for saving his life in Amman. He warned me
that what happened to him would eventually happen to us and he
unselfishly prepared me for it. Shamus ODonnell was the worlds
greatest

secret

asset,

the

most

invisible

covert

operative

extraordinaire. He became too good. We joined that club last year

when you were introduced to Signy Island. He found all of you for
me and helped me set up van Rijn.
Why van Rijn, Cal?
Its Kieran, Billy.
I believe you meant to say Michael, didnt you Kieran?
Yes Mister OShea, I meant to say Michael . . . When van Rijn was
Grasdak brokering sleazy arms deals with the Libyans in the late
eighties, he mistook Shamus for someone else and set him up as prey
for Gadhafis elite assassins in a pretty clever sting; much too clever
for Grasdak. Grasdak identified ODonnell as a Company cleaner
sent to Libya to silence the two asylumed terrorist accused of bringing
down Pan Ams flight 103 over Lockerbie. Gadhafi was still grieving
and incensed over the death of his baby daughter during the eighty-six
U.S. bombing raid on his palace in Tripoli and was more than happy
to thwart a clandestine attempt by the west to further undermine his
position in the Arab world.

As a result, Grasdak quit the arms

business and vanished from the African Continent; Gadhafi buried

45

thirty-one of his toughest bad boys. After his assassination and fiery
demise during the Amman incident, Shamus hung up the guns and
spurs, with the exception of the Libyan affair which he merely
considered self defense. He now finds it more satisfying to slowly
bleed the pigs that did him wrong than outright sanction them. That
simple mantra has made Shamus O'Cile O'Donnell a very wise, very
healthy, and a very much alive and wealthy man. Uncle Shamus is
going to help us hunt down the bastards that shut us out and were
going to start in Signy. Gentleman now is the time to raise your pints
and thank Shamus for taking us into his humble monastic order. Oh,
and just for the record guys, prior to Amman he wasnt Shamus
O'Cile O'Donnell . . . and hes really not Irish. Cheers!
The five Yanks silently toasted their new lives and identities with
Shamus in absentia. Adjustments came easily for these young men; it
was one of the reasons Cal Carrington hand picked them six years ago
and personally cultivated them for Operation Indigo. They were the
best in their fields with two common talents: they were outstanding
cryptologists and lethal martial arts specialists. William Otto Billy
Schnelling was the location supervisor possessing uncanny leadership
skills and seemingly able to sort things out before they happened.
Allan Joseph Michelson was the resident genius audio engineer.
There was not one sound this man could not identify or a conversation
he could not eavesdrop on. Samuel Jacob Sam Quentin was the
communications specialist; he could find a way to receive, transmit
and intercept messages through a lava flow, if need be. Robert Arnold

46

Bob Harris was a linguist and the teams political liaison. Neither of
the men had surviving family or significant others. These men were
the orphans of the covert world. Carrington had their identities altered
the day his car was destroyed.

Places of origin, birthdates, and

photos, distinguishing body marks, dental records, even their

fingerprints, blood type, and DNA results were altered. Destroying
the records would have left a trail of suspicion and clues Carrington
did not want to be acted on. Few people in the NSA would remember
the teams names. No one but Cal Carrington and Jimmy Samuels
had ever physically seen these men affectionately nicknamed Elvs and
not because they were little mythical creature types. Jimmy Samuels
likened them to Elvis Presley, you know hes out there but you know
youll never see him again. Being sanctioned with the devastating
destructive force of the stealthy B-2 bomber, a supreme weapon
capable of global mass destruction, covertly flown from Whiteman
Air Force Base in Missouri nearly six thousand miles away, to wipe
one off the face of the earth, instantaneously generated an irresistible
curiosity and deep-seated respect for these men from Shamus
ODonnell. He felt almost uncontrollably driven to flush these fellow
chameleon Elvs from the midst of societys dregs which they had been
forced to integrate with in order to hide and survive. God Save the
Queen!

47

Six
NSA headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland was buzzing with activity
much more intense than in recent memory. The war in Iraq had gone
well for the administration and a great majority of Americans had
whole heartedly supported the coalition invasion of Iraq and the
overthrow of Saddam Hussein. But the paranoia of terrorist reprisals
had the country on high alert. Its intelligence organizations, now
under ultra-close media scrutiny, were constantly jumping through
hoops to stay ahead of the fanatic terrorist cells that were
emancipating themselves like swarming locust from the throes of their
dormant, muddy burrows.

Tensions had always been high between Henry Randolph and Jimmy
Samuels since the Carrington/Operation Indigo affair. Randolph still
emphatically publicly espoused that Samuels knew more about the
death of Cal Carrington and the disappearance of the Operation
Indigo team than he detailed in his reports to the President and the
hierarchy of the NSA.

He accused Samuels of conducting

unapproved covert activity outside the sanction of the NSA and any
secret Presidential proclamation.

Jimmy Samuels defense was

predictably successful; simple, to the point, and intended to be

derisive:

Prove it!

Samuels had replaced Carrington despite

opposition of vehement resistance and outright character assassination

by Henry Randolph. The only reasons Randolph had not been dubbed

48

the Rodney Dangerfield of the intelligence community were his close

ties to the President and his position as National Security Advisor.
Suffice it to say, Jimmy Samuels now reported directly to the
President.

Randolphs rants and ravings of Jimmys alleged

unsanctioned activities created a silent, highly respected aura of

credibility for Jimmy Samuels as a cunning and ultra valuable
commodity to the covert intelligence chain of command.

Jimmy

played Randolph for all he was worth and it was paying big dividends.
Jimmy Samuels was rarely questioned after his promotion.

Dearest Jimmy:
Im having the time of my life here in Hong Kong.

Ive met a

wonderfully romantic soul mate from South Africa and we have set up
house in Kowloon across the bay. Im not working yet but fortunately
Ive got a lot of money saved and its fun spending it. Jo Anna is the
new love in my life. Attached is a picture of us honeymooning in
Beijing. We dont have an internet service at home yet so we use
whatever internet cafes are in reach. Ive got a hunch itll be a while
before IP service reaches our little remote area. Ill try to keep in
touch.
Love ya,
Karen
It was the first contact Jimmy had with Cal since Cal and the Indigo
team left Florida. Roughly translated Im having the time of my life
here in Hong Kong meant everyone had managed to arrive in Ireland

49

safely and undetected. Ive met a wonderfully romantic soul mate

from South Africa and we have set up house in Kowloon across the
bay Shamus met them at Shannon in Limerick and arranged for
transportation across Galway Bay to Inis Mr.

The rest was

academic; the money from the van Rijn caper had been successfully
transferred. Jo Anna and the inference of a lesbian relationship was
just filler.

Working out of internet cafes confirmed that

communication was still to be one way. This E-message was cleverly

routed to appear to have originated from an Internet Bar in China.
Jimmy Samuels was the eyes and ears on world intel for Cal
Carrington/Kieran ODoyle. An arrangement Carrington and Samuels
shared with no one, including Shamus ODonnell and the Indigo team.

50

Seven
Shamus ODonnells conspicuous absence from the solidarity of Saint
Endas orientation and reunion of the Operation Indigo crew was a
deliberate maneuver intended to timely deploy ODonnells stealth
and logistical skills to finalize the coordination of an important link in
the next step toward Signy Island. After initially greeting the new
owners of Saint Enda Inn, Shamus had flown from Limerick, ahead of
the Yanks, to Buenos Aires then on to the small, southernmost port
town of Ushuaia in Tierra del Fuego. It was the second hollow
reminder in less than a month of the aborted homecoming Shamus
O'Cile O'Donnell faced nearly twenty years ago, a disappointing and
unsuccessful attempt to return to a simpler time as Ushuaias returning
son, a forgotten Dieter Van de Meer. Dieter was just a toddler when
his parents risked everything to relocate from a war threatened
Netherlands to the end of the world. Ushuaia was a frontier town with
an equally hardy spirit not unlike the coastal towns dotting the
Alaskan shoreline, very different from the earthen diked, saltwater
marshlands of Mother Holland. It was a breathtaking land, a safe land
far from the beaten path of spreading fascism and the insanity of Nazi
Germany; a land Shamus O'Cile O'Donnell knew well. The wily old
mans mission was to ready an inconspicuous freighter he had
commandeered three weeks earlier; the only seaworthy vessel with an
unobstructed flat top at the stern, a ship of Panamanian registry: the

51

Argos Seas. Shamus demanded a value added alteration to the old

rust bucket that required a slight addition to the vessel; a retractable
telescoping shelter.

Bleeding like a hemophiliac suffering from

multiple lacerations after falling through a plate glass window,

Argentinas depressed economy had been devastatingly anemic for
years.

The Argentine society only recently emerged from the

damaging chaos of near fatal bankruptcy and possible anarchy, but

only barely. Money, and lots of it, spoke volumes to the devastated
populace of South Americas second largest country, and especially so
at the end of the Pan-American Highway. The infusion of a generous
sprinkling of unquestioned hard cash in the form of Euros and Dollars
in the right places to the right men would accomplish the retrofit task
quickly and quietly. Along with automobile parts manufactured in
Argentina bound for South Africa, the freighters most noteworthy
cargo would be as exotic as its new look: a hybrid MD 900 Explorer
with the customization of long range, extra distance capability and a
built in cache of ultra-sophisticated electronic devices rivaling any top
secret military or intelligence agency issue; another successful hard
cash endeavor. This NOTAR style helicopter could now cruise at
over one-hundred-and seventy miles per hour with a range two-and-ahalf times greater than manufactured specs. Its destination: as close
to Signy Island as The Argos Seas could get it, weather permitting.
Sam Quentin (Patrick Dillane) and Bob Harris (Brendan Dirrane)
would remain on Inis Mr minding the monastery. Cal, Billy, and
Allan would leave for Galway shortly. As a security measure, each

52

would book unidentifiable separate passage to Ushuaia. ETA: fortyeight hours. Leaving for South Africa via the Beagle Channel and
across the frigid South Atlantic: with the next immediate tide.

Politics in Washington had progressively turned as slippery and icy as

its unseasonably wet and chilly weather since the end of the Iraq War.
Critics and opponents of the President and his administration were
cautiously testing the masses with carefully worded innuendo of
embarrassing displeasure toward the plethora of mistakenly
swallowed misinformation with which they were so easily duped.
Where were the weapons of mass destruction?

Where were the

biochemical depots which stockpiled the cache of chemicals and

biological nightmares we generously, amply, covertly supplied to
Saddam in the early years? What happened to the bunker where
allegedly Saddam and the entirety of his regimes elite felt the
opening throes of the Iraqi incursion? That was the problem of the
President, the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense, and Daniel
Thomson Givvings, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. The
element of thunderous surprise and the launching of Armageddon
upon Saddam Hussein had been preempted with the dull thud of a
fizzled dud of botched CIA intel heard round the world and posturing
the President to appear as a desperate schoolyard bully cold-cocking
anything that looked even remotely like a threat. Henry Randolph
was not immune to public scrutiny. After all, he was the Presidents

53

National Security Advisor. But Henrys continued distraction about

the mysterious demise of his friend Cal Carrington and the entire
Operation Indigo team and Jimmy Samuelss sudden rise to power
was consuming his shallow but sincere core and eating away at the
needed nurturance of his long established now withering relationships
in the D.C. Beltway. Jimmy Samuels had painstakingly tracked the
daisy chain maze of military monetary transactions that occurred the
day Cal and the Indigo team met their demise.

It was a tangle

privilege reserved for ultra upper echelon clandestine activity only.

Why had a militarily non sanctioned unregistered flight of a B-2
bomber and its refueling that day off the Atlantic coast of South
America been so hidden?

Under whose orders was this mission

activated? Who ordered the flight? Where were the B-2 crew and the
crew of the refueling craft now? Why was tangled money transfers
routed through a defunct Cayman bank made to a fictitious underling
British Royal for the fuel costs incurred by the Royal Navy. Further
delving would raise suspicion, but from whom and how far removed
from the true source would they be? Follow the money . . . if you can.

Allan, when we land you post up with the bird. I figure weve got
thirty minutes tops to get in and out. You know the drill. Billy youre
with me on re-con. I want digitals of everything from the both of you
. . . get camera happy.
Copy that, Cal.

54

Scanning for life signs . . . were clear, not even a sea bird.
Copy that, Billy. Do you confirm Allan?
I thought there was some movement . . . No . . . Zip, Cal.
Where did you think you saw movement, Allan?
About thirty yards north of the main building.
Im going to do a fly by then circle back. I need your eyes on the
ground.
It looks like a cave or shaft entrance, Cal.
I see it, Allan . . . Billy?
I see it too, Cal.
Allan, scan again for detection devices and wrap the bird in snow.
All clear, Cal. Its snowing.
Were going down.
Lets go for a walk Billy . . . Keep scanning for any detection
devices. Create some snow around us just in case. Ill take the
photos.
Keep the camera warm Cal or the batteries will go dormant. A
southerly sub polar wind frigidly swept across Signy, chilling the near
dark, eerily silent island. Snapping still photographs and capturing
live video, the heavily jacketed men cautiously approached a crude,
rustic entrance to an old mine shaft. Either this is pretty clever or
they just didnt expect any visitors. Sealing this up with a door would
stick out like a strobe light in a black out. Great job leaving it natural
. . . would have been my ploy too.

55

Over here, Cal. I found the power plant. Its an oil fired steam
turbine generator.
Leave it, Billy. Itll take too long to activate. Well use our vapor
lights. Looks like an elevator shaft over there . . . Shine your light
down here Billy . . . Why the hell is the lift at the bottom of the shaft?
Cal, the pit must be huge down there . . . Shine your light to the left
of mine.
Hold the lights on it Billy, Ill photograph it. I dont think our eyes
are playing tricks on us. Its gigantic. Wheres the rest of it?
We need to climb down for a closer look, Cal.
Nineteen minutes is cutting it to close for comfort, Billy.
Cal, how many trips do you plan to make to this burg?
Point taken, theres a service ladder inside the shaft; looks like its
bent to shit at the bottom. Lets g-

Companys coming: Harrier, ETA six minutes.

Copy that, Allan. Pack up and get the bird spinning. Were on the
way.
Theyre eighteen minutes from here, Billy. Thatll narrow it down a
bit. Dont you think?
Cal and Billy ran for their life from the shelter of the open cave. Their
trek to safety found them traversing over the frozen, rocky terrain at
Olympic speed, bouncing effortlessly over watermelon sized boulders,
like gazelles hopping on an African plain, until they reached the
humming helicopter. Cal Carrington had received extensive flight
training as a Navy Seal in vertically powered aircraft and became one

56

of the Navys finest chopper pilots in evasive maneuvers. He would

need to rekindle that ranking soon. As they approached the copter, its
rotor whirring and turbines whining in a mechanical struggle to build
jet speed revolutions, Allan was unleashing the birds last tie down.
Allan, is there only one Harrier?
Just one so far, Cal.
Lets go!
Clear for take off, Cal.
Roger that, Billy.
Weve got four minutes, hes due east. Hell be able to lock on to us
as soon as we push the turbines.
Roger that, Allan. Disable his weapons, radar, compass, detection
systems, and communications. Lets see how he handles flying deaf,
dumb, and blind. As soon as were up well lose him in the fog. Ill
keep just above the waves. Buckle-up, we gotta go. And Cal gunned
the crafts mighty whirring rotor, vaulting the supped-up MD 900
Explorer into the foggy cold air, bobbing and weaving the fluttering
whirlybird in an evasive random pattern that skimmed the icy air
above the frosty whitecaps inches from the fatal grip of the freezing
South Atlantic.
Shit! Were being tracked by another bogey due east; one-hundredeleven miles and closing quick.
On my mark: Billy, prepare to cloak our heat signature and ping;
Allan, prepare to deploy decoys at the same speed were moving for
heading one-five-zero, thatll take him south. Give him a few seconds

57

to take the bait then disable him and blind him. Mother Goose
this is Golden Egg:

prepare for fairy-tale.

Roger that Golden Egg; turning page to Hansel

and Gretel, brothers Grimm.

Do you copy Golden

Egg?
Roger that Mother Goose; Golden Egg out.
Hes locking, Cal.
. . . Now!!!
He got one off at us . . . Looks like a Sparrow . . . Its not
following the decoy . . . fifteen seconds to impact . . . ten se . . .

Oh

shit!!! . . . It took out the other Harrier!!!

Is the one in the air disabled now, Allan?
Roger that, Cal.
Billy, I didnt see any markings on the downed Harrier.
Me neither, Cal. How bout you Allan?
Ditto! Negative!
Chalk one up to the luck meister. Did the pilot eject?
Roger that, Cal. Ive got a fix on him.
Take us to him, Billy.
Three degrees right, Cal . . . he should be below us . . . Now! . . .
Hes not moving.
Hes in shock. Drop a ladder, Allan.
Cal, weve got to get out of here now!

58

Two things Allan: he saved our lives and I want to know what he
knows.

Drop the ladder!

Hes not moving, Cal.

Billy, take the controls. Allan, pass me a life vest and the rescue
hoist cable harness.
Jesus Christ, Cal! You wont last five minutes in that frozen soup
without a thermal suit.
We havent got time, Allan.
He could try to kill you, Cal.
Allan, without warning youve been shot down by a five-hundred
pound air-to-air missile, youre automatically ejected from a burning
cockpit at four-hundred knots into liquid ice hundreds of miles from
friendly faces: are you going to fuck-up the only chance youve got to
be rescued? Allan, locking his blazing eyes on Cal with a fierce stare
of guarded silence, stood his ground, glaringly emphasizing his
cautionary statement . . . All right Allan, objection noted, keep a
weapon on him . . . Ya know guys, Ive been waiting years to say
this, Ill be back!
Long range vision was obscure at best and the frigid waters were
beginning to kick up bouncing the downed pilot around like a tiny
buoy as strong gusts of wind began to pelt the beefed-up MD Explorer
and sweep across the frothy, chilly surf. Billy was as adept as Cal in
the pilots seat of a twin engine rotorcraft; however, the unscheduled
rescue operation was consuming valuable escape time as the
temperament of the wind and waves became increasingly furious. Cal

59

lunged toward the nearly out of reach pilot narrowly missing the
downed flyers lifelessly floating left arm when, without warning, a
monstrous gust of wind slammed against the side of the Explorer
jarring Billy and Alan and painfully jolting Cal tethered to its jerking
winch. Somehow Cal had managed to wrap his arms in a vice-like
bear hug around the unconscious man. As fingers began numbing and
every muscle feeling as though moving through setting concrete with
the icy Atlantic ravaging precious body heat, Cal hurriedly attached
the front side of his harness to a latch ring on the pilots life vest and
hung on for dear life. A stinging white cap swept over the men
swallowing them both in a frothy whitewash of freezing ocean spray.
Billy lifted the chopper slightly to avoid the wave and Cal and the
motionless pilot were airborne. Allan quickly reversed the winch of
the rescue hoist and in a New York second the men were swiftly
reeled into the warmth and safety of the chopper and on their way.
Immediately Allan smothered the mens shivering, freezing bodies
with thermal reflective blankets and quickly inserted the warm breath
of tubular heat registers between their soppy, icy legs. The near onset
of paralyzing hypothermia was evident in Cals slurred, whispering
speech; his voice had been weakened from the atrophy of frosty vocal
chords but he managed to continue his venue of obediently executed
commands. Fortunately, the headset and microphone Allan wrapped
over Cals icy head and frigid ears didnt require any digital dexterity
to operate. Cal couldnt feel anything with his fingers and the rest of
his bodys musculature was non-responsive.

60

Sluggishly, with a hushed and crackling voice, Cal continued his

barely audible oratory of commanding requests, Billy, keep that
dampening signal focused on the Harrier. Allan, send out another
decoy with flight pattern zebra and point it back at Signy. Look! His
chest is moving. Hes breathing!!! Put me on the air, Billy . . .
Mother Goose this is Golden Egg:

what is the

status of Hansel and Gretel?

Golden
read.

Egg:

Hansel

and

Gretel

completely

We have fifteen stories to choose from

and thirty-two ways to read them.

Roger that, Mother Goose.

Warm up supper, set

another plate.
Copy and Roger that Golden Egg.
So Cal, how long do you think its been since I dropped a flutter bug
on a diving board in fifteen foot seas?
Cals voice now modulating from a slurred hush to a louder, crisper,
cackling raspy, Come on, Billy, nine-hundred square feet on a wet
yo-yo deck is plenty of space to crash on. Its the thirty-two knot
winds thatll probably kill us.
God damn, where the hell did that come fro?

Whoa!!! Jesus

Christ!!! The second Harrier just got toasted; no

eject; Allan, back track!!!
About three miles off the north coast of Signy; theres no surface
feedback . . . Billy!!!

Submarine!!!

61

Keep

us cloaked Allan!!!

Dashing through the frigid South Atlantic fog in random evasive

maneuver patterns just twenty-five feet above threatening throngs of
icy waves, Billy successfully dodged any further detection from
Signys hostile entities.

Within an hour the MD Explorer

rendezvoused with Shamus customized rust bucket Argos Seas, the

captain struggling to keep its bobbing bow churning into the gale
force winds of the roaring seas. Trying to line-up with the teetering
ship, the supped-up rotorcraft fluttered around like a bug in a wind
tunnel; the chances of hovering over its stern were between slim and
none. Decision time; either Billy drops the whirlybird onto the sterns
flattop or they take a sure fatal ice bath. An eternity seemed to pass as
Billy carefully played tag with the waxing and waning stern. Billy
had just about synchronized with the freighters bobbing rhythm when
a super swell hit the ship, effortlessly tossing it upward beyond the
zenith of its established rhythmic gyrations. The flattop of the stern
struck the landing skids of the Explorer just as Billy shut down the
rotor. The copter, its rotor blades still whirring, bounced off the deck
like a homerun pitch striking the waiting bat of a legendary slugger.
Explorers slowing rotor, barely keeping the now powerless bird
helplessly airborne, was, by luck, just enough to keep it aloft until the
next upward undulation of the bobbing freighter.

Thud, and the

chopper was down but sliding on the icy surface toward the stern of
the rocking freighter. The deck had been outfitted with steel cleats to
stop such an incident and the ice gliding Explorer abruptly ceased its

62

seaward path. Four men dressed in survival suits, each tethered with
three lines and carrying looped cables, magically surfaced from
manholes in the freighters aging deck and rushed toward the downed,
whirring copter.

Synchronously choreographed, each deckhand

quickly lashed the hooks of the Explorers landing skids with the
looped restraining cables then mechanically secured and shifted the
Explorer into its icy designated rest area. This done, sliding on its
guide rails like a greased pig on a lighting bolt, the newly fabricated
retractable covering Shamus commissioned prior to the mission began
its steady telescoping journey sternward, shielding the helicopter and
deck crew from the stormy South Atlantic winds and relentless wrath
of the furious, frigid sea. As the portable shelter finished its slick trek
and locked into place, a series of hydraulic lifts engaged below decks
and a rear shield emerged from the bowls of the ship, completely
sealing out the swirling gale force winds and stinging frozen waves;
the roller coaster ride continued.

Relieving the Belgian pilot of his skin tight thermal survival suit
revealed what medical scanners the ship did not have would have
confirmed: the man suffered from visible multiple fractures and was
fatally hemorrhaging internally, red liquid oozed from every orifice.
Warm, bubbly blood escaped from his crimson nostrils, creeping over
and around his upper lip, joining a stream of bloody saliva flowing
under his cheek and down his bruised swollen neck. Little mountains
of scabby crust were building in his ears and over his eyes as the

63

warm red life leeched from shattered organs and ruptured arteries and
torn veins. The short drenching in the frigid Atlantic waters simply
slowed the inevitable demise of this broken man, a demise now
accelerated by the warmth of the inner sanctum of the sick bay in the
rocking Argos Seas. A demise of irony, flying electronically blind in
a foggy South Atlantic broth and crossing the line of fire between his
Harrier companions Sparrow missile and the MD Explorer.
Hes whispering something . . . listen!
Turn it up.
The dying pilot, inexorably hemorrhaging and now drowning in his
once life-giving blood, courageously murmured short congested spurts
of barely audible last words, perhaps words of thanks. Le monstre . .
. la bte mcanique . . . a avanc la technologie robotise . . . l'arrt . .
. a tu plusieurs . . . La mer des Sargasses . . . Larsen . . . ptrole . . .
penche . . . horizontal . . . Lully, Antoine Lully . . . Dorlane Maison 39
Rue Roeland, suite 3C Cape Town, l'Afrique du Sud.

(Monster . . .

mechanical beast . . . advanced robotic technology . . . shutdown . . . killed many . . .

Sargasso Sea . . . Larsen . . . petroleum . . . tilt . . . horizontal . . . Lully, Antoine Lully . .
. Dorlane House 39 Roeland Street, suite 3C Cape Town, South Africa.)

Hes dead.
A sudden hush came over everyone as a moment of deafening silence
permeated the bobbing room. In a quiet eulogy of unspoken thoughts,
mixed emotions circulated in the minds of the men surrounding the
lifeless pilot.

Everyones eyes transfixed on the still corpse and

reverently focused on his battered remains as the respectful hush

continued. Almost as a slow, soft murmur in the distant background,

64

Cal interrupted the solemn quietude that had saturated the emotions of
the atmosphere of Argos Seas sick bay, Photograph him. Record his
height and weight. Get a bag of his blood and gel his prints and face.
I doubt that there are accessible records of this man in existence.
Dont bother with a search.

This man was a pawn many times

removed . . . No significant others. Play that tape back and boost it.
Shamus, tell the captain to set course for Cape Town. Were going to
deliver some auto parts.

When Billy and Allan finished with the unknown pilot they prepared
his body for burial at sea. There were no identifiable markings on the
lifeless man. Though his clothing was unmarked it was removed and
burned. Swatches of his bushy dark crown of hair were shaved from
his head and bagged for future use. The decision to leave his teeth
intact was dictated by the enormous ballast his burial bag would
contain. At these depths it would be years before any remains would
wash up anywhere, if at all.

65

Eight
There were missions that enlisted the prudent act of parking ones
transportation several blocks from the target during a minimal risk
operation and this venture did not preclude that dictum. The walking
helped to calm the usual jitters and butterflies, detect any possibility
of surveillance, take a last minute opportunity to review the entire
process and schedule of events while dry running through the scheme
and steps to the mission, and effect any last minute adjustments to the
procedure that may have been overlooked. Allan entered the wellkept tower first, nonchalantly parading past the buzzing ground floor
Church of Scientology to the elevator bank while Cal and Billy
casually window-shopped across the nearly empty street. A quick
visual scan revealed nothing out of the ordinary to Allans skillfully
trained eyes, no evidence of electronic surveillance, and no physical
security.

The lift arrived and a thorough swift examination was

skillfully executed by Allan before stepping into the car. All was
clear. Allan pressed the worn round button with a pale number 3.
The lift was lethargic at best and took eighty-eight seconds before its
doors opened to the third floor.

Allan cautiously stepped out,

instinctively ever vigilant of his new surroundings and again no

surveillance detected. There it was: suite 3C, the only unit on the
third floor overlooking the Dorlanes street front; perfect for Allan to
position his laser mic across the uncluttered street and eavesdrop on

66

the goings on in suite 3C. The astute point man took one last glance
down the corridor then casually lumbered to the stairwell and began
his decent to the Dorlanes lobby and out of the building, again
experiencing the obvious lack of electronic and physical surveillance.
Allan gave the all clear with a series of signals much like a third base
coach flashing coded information to a batter at the plate. He placed
both hands on his wire frame glasses, matter-of-factly removing them
from their perch over the bridge of his nose and around his ears, the
beginning of a carefully orchestrated message. He held the glasses in
front of him and slightly downward and with a slow motion of the
wrists rocking the frames downward, then upright and from side to
side: no detectable surveillance in the lobby. Now, Allan brought
them back to eye level and performed the same gyrations: nothing in
the lift. Then, stretching his arms out and above him at a forty-five
degree angle, offering the spectacles to the purity of direct sunlight all
the time squinting, face scrunched, peering through the lenses, slowly
tilting his head to the right then to the left: the third floor was clean.
Allan released the grip of his right hand from the wiry frames while
the left stabilized the glittering prop overhead. He reached into his
pants pocket and shook out a handkerchief, raising it to the dangling
spectacles and wrapping it around the lenses pretending to rub away
any blurring distractions. Gingerly, he dropped the prop to waist level
during the cleaning action, finally folding the spindly stems into the
lens frame, then placing the glasses into his coat pocket: stairwell is
clean to the lobby. Allan sent his last signal before moving into

67

position across the street by grabbing his left hand with his right hand
and looking at his watch, an inexpensive but reliable Timex Easy
Reader, for eighty-eight seconds: the time it takes the elevator to
reach the third floor and open its doors. And this completed a simply
ordinary recital of common everyday idio-tendencies. Allan stepped
into the street queuing Jimmy to begin his short journey to the
building with the morning newspaper folded under his arm. Jimmy
would simply find a place to park himself in the Dorlanes lobby and
commence reading the newspaper. Cal followed and the operation
was fully engaged: all systems go!
Once again a perfect eighty-eight seconds before the sluggish lift
opened its doors to the third floor. Suite 3C was an easy spot and Cal
cautiously ambled over surveilling all the way. Just as Carrington
reached for the filthy doorbell, no less a paint worn protrusion framed
with repugnant layered smudges of human grime, the snarling door
began a mesmerizing journey. It screeched open slowly in an eerily
dramatic fashion suggestive of one of Alfred Hitchcocks films most
frightening scenes that begins with a dawdling, deliberate
development of impending horror, entrancing and spellbinding in its
provocative simplicity . . . and then . . . Antoine Lully . . . He stood
statuesque, blocking the entrance, as would a surly garden gnome
impishly startling unsuspecting trespassers. A diminutive and frail,
sickly example of humanity; a weathered creature congenitally
deficient in pigmentation, flaunting frightening, vacant eyes of rich
blue iris hauntingly surrounding lifeless blood-red pupils, and

68

sporting a shock of carelessly coiffed hair, more platinum than a

bleached blonde bimbo. Wretched in his pale albino appearance and
foul in the stench of his gamely odor, Antoine Lully was nothing less
than a congenial, gentle blind man with an articulate upper crusty
English accent, the kind possessing the leisurely cantor of a Kentucky
Gentlemans Southern drawl, but nonetheless annoyingly uttered with
a Truman Capoteish nasal deliverance. Coco, a chocolate Labrador
and co-occupant of suite 3C, was the blind mans vigilant companion
and obediently sat motionless by her masters sightless side. It was
unpleasantly obvious that she shamelessly shared the cavernous space
with Lully in unrestricted freedom. However, it was also apparent
that she dutifully protected him with impressive canine presence and
an obvious fierce loyalty; they were inseparable. Without as much as
a cursory introduction, Lully graciously gestured his visitor to enter.

You are here because of the pilot . . . I know what you want . . . You
neednt speak . . . My senses are stirred . . . Lully nonchalantly
gestured his unidentified guest to a bank of three antiquated late
nineteenth century arm chairs, all with original upholstery and
cushions, none desirous of the nameless guest, but he chose hastily
and immediately experienced the unrewarding consequences of his
compliant action.

I perceive that you are deeply impassioned in your quest for the
truth, yes? . . . I will be delicate but fervent with my dissertation of the

69

particulars as I know them to be. Your nemesis has a penchant for

misdirection and a profound proclivity for a dazzling maze of
protective insulation. You will by no means ascertain the identity of
the entity you valiantly crusade to unmask unless you first discover its
true Achilles. Seek out the fragile connection of the weakest link kept
closest to its bosom. He will be identified as a loquacious repiner, an
ever wounded creature possessing a garrulous and prosy persona,
slightly overt in exhibiting a nearly masked innate propensity to
malinger.

Look for someone marked with a need for constant

mollycoddling in their domestic significant-other relationship.

serendipitous overachiever manipulated and maneuvered over an

extensive period of time, specifically postured, cultivated and
groomed for the sole and continuous function of unwittingly
channeling vital, top secret information. A pillow-talk conduit, if you
will.

This link will be a high ranking official or executive with

unlimited access to the upper most echelon of National or World

power. The dupe has been so mired in the superfluity of sustained
unexpected success that the evil puppeteers molding his public and
private life continuously appear altruistically benevolent, and
munificent, masquerading in sheeps clothing, appearing benign in
their cloaked manifestation of deceit and furtive ambitions. He has
long since risen to his career zenith and will never have the benefit of
surpassing his present rank. He is within reach of the summit but
restrained from being part of the absolute stratum; an irritating
reminder of his station, self perceived as paltry and derisory for a

70

person of his self believed bent.

His outlook toward further

promotions is beginning to wane and take on a demeanor bereft of

possibility as the cognizance of increasing conscious awareness of his
shortcomings becomes painfully more apparent; a contradiction with
his self perceptions and the beginning of a rift within his budding,
divergent persona. In his present position he is much too important to
the efforts of the powers-that-be to be allowed to ascend beyond his
current status. Pausing to clear his throat, Lully placed a loosely
clutched left fist to his mouth muffling a slightly congested phlegmy
cough and casually dropped his right hand on Cocos head, gently
stroking the silky brown crown of the quiet beast. He took in a deep
breath, exhaled slowly then again continued his dissertation to his
spellbound audience. His origins were humble. They can be traced
to the typical dreamer with nothing but near poverty as a constant
companion and an insatiable hunger for the elusive opportunity to
change his luck. Despite being from the other side of the tracks he did
attain unexpected entry level into the combine by groveling as a
sycophantic minion for a moderately public influential egotist of rank
and power.

His advances have been abrupt, characterized by

unfounded transitions rather than smooth and logical evolutions. His

success can be measured in leaps and bounds but he has always been
under-qualified and lacked patina for the positions he has held.
However, his motivations have always been sincere and unselfish. He
is not corrupt, just thankful for his success. He can be passionate and
has become driven with the idea that he can make a difference but

71

never does nor will. He has become egalitarian and when the current
political power structure abdicates its world position the powers-thatbe will have fully exhausted his use; he will be marked for slaughter,
he will be no more . . . I have answered all the questions that you did
not ask, save one. Our time together quickly draws to a close Lully,
now silent, as if taking a brief dramatic pause before a climatic close,
stands and gingerly gestures his guest to the direction of the door and
all three occupants of suite 3C trolley on cue to the dwellings main
portal for the diminutive albinos dissertation finale . . .

Signy Island is about the greed for petroleum and the lure of the
power it manifests.

Momentarily it silently stands veiled as

monumental evidence of unnecessary exploitation of antiquated

natural resources for the proliferation of technology of even greater
antiquity. Signy Island in itself is the undiscovered poster child for
the abolition of petroleum exploration worldwide.

Many were

brutally mutilated at the hands of a devastating failed robotic drilling

technology; an out of control sociopathic mechanical monster gone
wild, another of the Islands vigilantly guarded secrets. The robot
monsters powerful horizontal drilling proverbially broke the camels
back and spawned the beginnings of a near world disaster, all because
of the consortiums gluttonous greed to suck oil from beneath the
Antarctic Continent. It shattered the fragile Larson B Ice shelf and
hazardously jeopardized other delicate segments of continental ice
which could have lethally affected sea levels worldwide.

72

The

schizophrenic technological behemoth had to be extinguished. It did

not know; it simply could not decipher potential ecological disaster
from falling rock; it was designed to obliterate everything in its path.
A last resort maneuver of manual shutdown was viewed by the
monsters fried brain as a capital threat to its erroneously perceived
existence and its unquestionable programmed prime directive of
boring through sunken Earth. By some means it defended itself; our
Belgian pilot proved it no match for Harrier weaponry and quickly
silenced it last year. A team of expendable, now deceased scientists
followed and dismembered its lifeless being, removing its
revolutionary computer systems but thoughtlessly leaving chunks of
its anatomy intact for scavengers of your ilk. The Signy project has
been dormant since dismantling the Iron Man. You seek an entity that
is all about oil and the power its enslaving world reliance wields.
World commerce and industrial infrastructure have become paralyzed
by petroleum. Nuclear, solar, and hydrogen technology have become
its most dangerous adversaries.
addiction.

Modernity is imprisoned by its

It has become the whip of the modern slave master.

Move on from Signy young man. You have what you need . . . And
Lully, with Coco ever faithfully parked at his side, dramatically
capturing another theatrical pause, cryptically delivers a final
conundrum to his departing unknown guest in a grand finale display of
understated showmanship, One more thing sir, the identity of this
suite has significance to you . . . Good bye, Mister ODoyle.

73

The screeching singing of the grungy door quickly closing sealed off
the bizarre world of the mysterious erudite albino gnome and his
faithful chocolate Labrador. Overwhelmed by Lullys command and
stunned by his parting blurt, Cal Carrington stood numb and
motionless, staring blankly at the dark shabby entrance to suite 3C.
How did the old man know? Who else knew? Cal had to know. He
battered the ancient door with both fists pounding like a crazed
madman recklessly pursuing feigned prey; nothing, no response, no
movement. At least the dog should have barked. Billy finally arrived
in the lethargic elevator from his post in the lobby. Cal motioned to
ram the door and in unison, they speared the suites only portal off its
brawny frame.

The massive space was empty, devoid of the

threesome of nineteenth century chairs and noticeably absent of the

malodorous deposits of foul canine spoils; just a brightly lighted,
freshly painted space with the scent of cinnamon wafting on the gentle
breeze flowing from a half opened window through the front door.
Cal was speechless, he couldnt form words. What happened?

Cal, the wire went dead. You didnt transmit anything but static after
the door began to screech. A few minutes later, the static ceased and
you came back on line. The door was still screeching but quicker this
time. Allan got nothing but impenetrable snow from the laser mic.
Play back your mini-tape.
Static! Allan, if you can hear me then step off the curb then back on
. . .

alpha-cobra-zulu!!! Move, Billy!

74

All three men

scattered in different directions never looking back on one another.

This was the second of Cals cryptic commands to his men. The first
came last year:

Dance!

Avoiding the convenience of the Nissan Maxima, that reliably ferried

them from the lavish Steenberg Country Hotel and Resort twenty
miles away, was not an option but a dictate. If the three men had been
followed then the rental car would be a beacon and easily tracked.
The plan was to disperse in opposite directions, ducking through
alleyways and small streets, avoiding areas conducive to aerial
surveillance and traversing where visibility was difficult at best.
Being followed on foot would be obvious on side streets and
suspiciously slow moving vehicles would not be difficult to spot.
Sweating in fifty-five degree weather was not easy to accomplish but
several blocks later Cal found his forehead beading with sweat, his
face glistening from it, and his shirt collar soaked by its wet essence
gushingly flowing down his back and chest.

A damp V began

forming from his muscular neck down through his heaving, pulsating
thorax. Cal was uncharacteristically out of breath and needed another
block to cool down and then commandeer a taxi for the nearest
internet exchange. It was time Jimmy Samuels received another one
way E-mail from his lesbian friend Karen. This time their will be no
elaborate routing.

Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy!!!

75

Hello, hello, hello!!!

Guess what? Jo Anna has brought me to Cape Town to meet her
parents: Allan and Carla Zunich. Well be coming home to the states
in a few days to meet MY PARENTS! Its o f f i c i a l.
Hong Kong is not really working out for us now. I dont see us
returning in the near future. I know this is all so sudden. Oh, I just
hate these sleazy internet rentals. My time is nearly up. Ill see you
on my lucky Irish birthday and bring you up to date on all the dirty
details.
Love always,
Ka
The message was clear; Cal and two of the team (Jimmy, Jimmy,
Jimmy!!!) had encountered an anomaly (Hello, hello, hello!!!).
Someone or something lead them to Cape Town and it didnt turn out
well. Jo Annas parents smacked of alpha-cobra-zulu (Allan and
Carla Zunich) which meant there was unidentified danger and the
entire team would scatter, abandoning everything, and create a maze
of deceptive international trails before converging at a previously
specified safe house. Hence, Well be coming home to the states in a
few days to meet MY PARENTS! Its o f f i c i a l.
Hong Kong is not really working out for us now. I dont see us
returning in the near future, meant that they would not be returning
to Inis Mr. Lucky Irish birthday is Fathers Day. Cal will attempt
to make physical contact with Jimmy on Fathers Day at the place they
have gone to reflect every Fathers Day since Cals fathers untimely

76

death: Kinderhook Creek, a scenic half hour drive on route 9J, southeast of Albany, in upstate New York. Jimmy will go through his
normal daily routines. If Jimmy feels it is not safe to meet then he
will conveniently remove his irritating wristwatch. There will be no
other attempt to meet. The stage has been set.
During the next several days the short-lived inhabitants of Saint Enda
Inn would elusively and tirelessly crisscross Europe, Africa, and Asia
in six unrelated itineraries designed to fatigue, confuse, and lose any
pursuers.

Open commercial airline tickets had been previously

purchased for this occasion to add further frustration to the logistical

nightmare of effectively tailing these men in a seemingly patternless
maze of impromptu pseudo-schizophrenic travel.

Their final

destination: the pub in Kate Kearneys Cottage at the Gap of Dunloe,

not far from Killarney. Kates was usually busy enough in late spring
to gather and blend in safely. After all, it was Ireland!
Cal took advantage of the travel time to write down everything Lully
or whatever it was had said to him. He kept seeing the creatures
catatonic eyes peering lifelessly at him as he relived every word of the
grimy gnomes verbose dissertation. Cal kept thinking, This couldnt
have been a holograph.

I sat on something tattered and

uncomfortable.

77

Nine
Mister Samuels?
Yes Marla.
Director Givvings of the CIA is on the line for you.
Imagine that.

Jimmy coyly blurted with the rewarding, almost

gloating smile of a Cheshire cat. Please put him through Marla.

Hello Dan, to what do I owe this expected pleasure?
Touch, Jimmy.

I received a very interesting CD today and

immediately thought of you. Its right down your alley, Jim. I sure
would like to share it with you, if I could. Daniel Givvings was an
outwardly polite man and not one to mince with words; he always
found a way to be quickly direct.

How does tomorrow sound,

Jimmy? . . . Can you come to Langley? Well have lunch and catch
up on old times.
There were normal channels of communication between NSA and
CIA. The Director of the CIA personally calling anyone at NSA other
than the Deputy Director of the NSA or the Director of the NSA was
quite a deviation from the norm. Jimmy Samuels ploy had worked.
Dan, shouldnt you be at least speaking to Deputy Director Kilmartin
to guide you to an appropriate person to assist you? Jimmy Samuels
had learned well from Cal Carrington how to ask the obvious without
insulting the efforts of others to cautiously communicate.

The

question was just a non-threatening, modest ploy by Jimmy Samuels

78

to flush out any correspondence by Givvings with anyone else at NSA

about the CD.
Oh no, Jimmy. Its not about business. I just thought of you when I
heard the CD. I know youre going to want to hear about it, I mean
hear it.
Ya know, Dan, I could use a change of scenery for lunch. Ill come
by your office. Would eleven be too early?
Thatll be fine, Jimmy. Ill set you up for clearance.
Thanks for thinking of me and for the invite, Dan.
Its my pleasure, Jimmy.
Both men were well trained not to be facetious in their tone regardless
of personal feelings toward one another. If anyone had been listening
to the conversation, not even an extremely well trained ear would
have detected the shallowness of the exchange of pleasantries between
the two men. Neither trusted the other, but not in a hostile or personal
way. It was a simple organizational attitude of caution the NSA and
CIA shared toward one another in a never-ending struggle for power
and dominance in a clandestine world.

The Groves at Piney Orchard in Odenton, Maryland offered spacious

contemporary apartments with a full compliment of amenities,
including indoor and outdoor pools, tennis courts, jogging and bike
paths, a private clubhouse, and a forty-five acre wildlife preserve. A
guard-gated community with twenty-four hour security surveillance,
The Groves proved to be an ideal setting for a young bachelor of

79

Jimmys NSA ranking, and all just a short commute from Fort Meade
and NSA headquarters. With The Groves vigilant security network
and a need for space for all his ultra-sophisticated electronics,
multitude of computers, and scores of books and publications on
math, science, and cryptology, Jimmy chose the three-bedroom
Dogwood model.

Having two extra bedrooms afforded Jimmy a

private workout room for staying in shape to maintain his Red Sash
ranking in Shao Lin Gung Fu; something Jimmy Samuels thought best
not to share with the outside world (to westerners the name mutated to
Kung Fu). The ancient Shao Lin monk that fled China shortly after
his homelands brutal 1936 invasion by Japan, and had been Jimmy
and Cals martial arts master in their early years, had long since
passed. Only Jimmy and Cal had been chosen by the aging monk to
carry on the Shao Lin Gung Fu legacy he reluctantly fled China with,
and they did so faithfully as the ancient master wanted it: silently.
Jimmy Samuels had been rushed from his roomy Dogwood the
morning of Givvings call and had not had the usual morning time to
access his personal E-mail.

Coming home to Karens e-message

evoked a peaks and valleys range of emotions that gyrated in his

psyche at the speed of light, conjuring thoughts and questions to swirl
in a catch twenty-two vortex of uncertainty. It was relieving to know
that Cal was still alive; it was disturbing to know he may be on the
run; it was great news that he would once again be able to speak face
to face with his cousin and only surviving family member in the very
near future. But how coincidental was it that Givvings would call

80

today to notify Jimmy that he had just received the CD, the date on
the delivery receipt for the CD was five days ago. Jimmy knew the
world of hide and seek was always one of wait and see and long
memories.

Wait and see was taxing even for a consummate

professional of Jimmy Samuels rank. It was no secret in the cloak and

dagger world of covert intel that Cal Carringtons death by fire was
not accepted as the end all for one of the NSAs best. And, it was also
rumored that Carrington and the Indigo team had gone ultra deep
cover for an unknown covert operation not sanctioned by NSA or the
President, but were now renegade rogues freelancing for the highest
bidder. The problem with that rumor was that Cal and the Indigo
team had not surfaced for hire in over a year. So, this is how the facts
of legends begin. Undoubtedly, this was an indication that, other than
Jimmy Samuels, others had not forgotten Carrington or the Indigo
team and, by all means, was not satisfied with the many loose ends of
both Cals death and the Indigo teams disappearance. Investigations
had been abruptly ceased and all data and evidence had been sealed by
Presidential Proclamation, further fueling the facts of legends
phenomenon.

81

Ten
Admiral Malcolm C. Wohlgathor, USN retired, the NSAs Director
and Lawrence Kilmartin, Deputy Director of NSA were the only
individuals Jimmy Samuels was accountable to at the National
Security Agency. Since Jimmy personally and secretly conducted an
in-depth investigation into the elimination of the Operation Indigo
team and contacted the Director of the CIA without Wohlgathors or
Kilmartins authorization, he felt it best to continue his endeavors
without their knowledge or sanction. Wohlgathor and Kilmartin
conducted the administrative division of the agency by the book. Due
to a recently revised charter, Wohlgathor and Kilmartin would be
bound and obligated to report the investigation in detail to National
Security Advisor Henry Randolph who, in turn, would share the
information with the President and only God knows who else. If this
investigation were to continue then its existence and success would be
paramount to working under the Washington Beltway radar. Too
much was at risk and there were too many suspects in the periphery.
Jimmy Samuels could not afford to entertain uninvited players. It was
dangerous enough audaciously flushing out Daniel Givvings.
The late morning drive down the Beltway and over the Georgetown
Pike went fast. It was slightly after eleven AM when Jimmy Samuels
cleared the elaborate, almost excessive security checks at CIA
headquarters in the Langley area of McLean. Givvings had arranged

82

for Marianne Schuler to escort Jimmy Samuels through the bowels of

the buildings designed maze to his office. Director Givvings space
was much smaller than Jimmy had expected but was tastefully
coordinated with comfortable furnishings that hardly screamed the
austere, Spartan environment one would suspect of the director of one
of the most powerful covert intelligence agencies in the world. Daniel
Givvings exhibited the grace and charm his suave reputation
demanded, genuinely smiling as Jimmy and Marianne entered his
moderately humble office. Givvings stood, then effortlessly jockeyed
himself to the front of his desk, posturing the warmth of an extended
hand, offering a firm handshake and sincere salutations, thus the odd
encounter began.

Further taking control, Givvings nonchalantly

gestured to the comfort of the Italian black leather sofa fronting a wall
framing an impressive display of a well chosen sampling of
photographs with world leaders-present and past, awards from a
variety of institutions for being the best . . ., and certificates
substantiating the incredible step building process of earned
credentials a person of Director Givvings stature should possess.
Jimmy and Marianne responded to the queue. Marianne sat first,
cleverly taking the far end of the sofa and corralling Jimmy to take the
end nearest Givvings, who now had parked himself in one of the
sofas two companion armchairs. Givvings spoke first.
Jimmy, word around is that you are every bit as good as the man you
replaced. Jimmy responded with a slight smile and a faint head bob
accepting the compliment. Marianne turned her gaze from Givvings

83

and, slightly squinting, studied Jimmy Samuels almost inquisitively

then returned her gaze to Givvings as he continued. Its uncanny,
your mannerisms, gestures, speech, and general delivery are nearly
identical.

You arent related to Cal Carrington or should I say

werent, are you? Uh, there I go again, were you? Jimmy detected
Givvings cordiality had come to an abrupt halt but, with a long grin
and raised eyebrows, Jimmy casually volleyed, Youll never know,
Dan. It took all Martin James Samuels had not to show how right
Dan Givvings was. Jimmy idolized Cal when they were growing up
in Albany, New York. Jimmy had known only Aunt Sarah and Uncle
John Carrington as his parents. His mother, Aunt Sarahs German
born cousin, and father, also German, died when he was three years
old.

He remembered only that his parents death was due to an

unfortunate airplane disaster. All the other details were either lost or
forgotten. When Jimmy was five, Aunt Sarah and Uncle John were
tragically killed in a horrific head on crash with a tractor-trailer on
Vermont Route 9 while returning to Albany from Bennington. In
death, as in life, Aunt Sarah and Uncle John left no other information
as to Jimmys parents, a void Jimmy has been unable to fill. Jimmy
and Cal quickly became wards of the State of New York and were
placed in a foster home to be raised under the caring guidance of
Shaozu Zhang and his devoted wife, Mei; an elderly, loving Chinese
couple. Shaozu and Mei had no children or family in the United
States or China. A bad mix of politics and poverty laced with disease
and famine had destroyed any ties the Zhangs had with their

84

homeland. Cal had all records linking him and Jimmy to each other
and to the Zhangs expunged upon entering the NSA. Even Cals and
Jimmys naval records contained no connections to the Zhangs or one
another. Cal never explained his actions in full detail and Jimmy
dogmatically accepted this arrangement for security reasons.
Givvings, sensing the pungent intent of Jimmys reply, abruptly
modulated to commence to the business at hand. His voice became
louder, more forceful, and his demeanor became stiffer; as such,
Givvings began his homily.
Eight days ago in Buenos Aires, luggage containing sensitive
equipment was stolen from one of our operatives at the baggage claim
in BA international airport. We requested the surveillance tapes of the
baggage claim areas and immediately flew them to McLean for
screening. It turns out that a common thief working for the airline in
baggage claim pilfered the bag. He didnt know what he had. The
guy thought it was a laptop. Couldnt get it to work and just dumped
it in front of two hidden cameras. Yesterday I received this note from
Marianne Schuler with two photo prints attached. Givvings kept the
note but passed the smaller of the two photos to Jimmy, thus Givvings
began his orchestration of events. Marianne is our resident photo
enhancement

wizard.

Jimmys

head

swung

around

in

acknowledgement to lock gaze with Mariannes now stoic look. He

found himself momentarily mesmerized with her beautiful, chilling
eyes; he knew this woman.

Givvings kept up the pace of his

dissertation while Jimmy slowly returned his gaze to the eyes of the

85

CIA director and back to the photo. There is actually nothing in the
photo relating to the Buenos Aires theft. Its just a still frame of folks
picking up their luggage at the baggage carousels. Marianne has
incredible vision. Givvings, momentarily smiling admiringly at the
ice princess sharing the sofa with Jimmy, returned his attention to his
guest, losing the smile he continued: I looked at this for hours and I
couldnt see the guys face through the grain. But Marianne did.
Jimmy now sensed Givvings condescending building to a climax. He
did not like where this was headed but he kept cool and continued to
listen, casual in his body language and careful not to confirm any of
Givvings suspicions, whatever they may be. She recognized the very
man that tried to recruit her to the NSA seven years ago. Yep, he
waltzed into CIA as a guest on a really dumb idea of an NSA-CIA
exchange for a day and just started courting Marianne. She nearly left
us. Carrington was very charismatic and very, very persuasive. Cal
Carrington left an indelible impression on Marianne, he did.
Givvings, now leaning towards Jimmy as if to whisper something in
confidence, speaking in a low voice, glancing at Marianne as he
spoke, I think she was smitten by the guys good looks and suave
persona.

Obviously, this was a minor display of slapdash

showmanship setting the mood for the finale, Givvings voice

beginning to again build in volume and pace. Look at the upper left
corner of the photo. Recognize him now, Jimmy? Givvings blurted,
almost accusingly. Jimmy Samuels, again in complete control, never
giving away his astonishment, coyly remarked, Dan, do you mean

86

this smudge, this Dan? Jimmy innocently points to the left corner of
the photo and leans toward Givvings as Givvings plays along leaning
toward Jimmy to view the photo. Givvings looked intently at Jimmy
and, without relinquishing the distracting effect of his locking gaze,
magically produced a much larger version of the photograph.
Perhaps this enhanced print will help. Christ, thought Jimmy, even
a blind man could identify this face. I give up. Harpo Marx?
Givvings stiffened his posture as if bracing for a collision at warp
speed with a brick wall and Marianne drew in a startled, shallow
breath. Silence besieged the now chilly office of CIA Director Daniel
Thomson Givvings. Givvings finally spoke with a hint of sarcasm, in
a rushed, truculent manner, teeth nearly clenched. At first glance,
Jimmy, I would have said it was you but then youre not Mariannes
type, are you? The resemblance is uncanny, though. Ive never
noticed it before. Youre not related to this guy, are you Jimmy? Oh,
no, no, no, thats right.

Please forgive me, you have no living

relatives. Poor taste on my part. Givvings now beginning to glare

intensely, his harshening voice and churlish mannerisms were
building to an unnerving climactic crescendo as Jimmy Samuels sat
mute, maintaining a controlled, unruffled composure. No offense
intended, Jimmy . . . This is Cal Carrington! Growled Daniel
Givvings. Jimmy remained poised as silence once again betook the
room. Givvings, uncharacteristically sporting a beet red complexion,
glowered at the placid Jimmy Samuels. His peevish, condescending
melodrama continued as he shattered the silence, erupting in a

87

thunderous, irritated tone, Two days later our operatives in the south
Atlantic witnessed a skirmish between two free-lance Harriers and an
unidentified civilian chopper just off Signy Island, Jimmy.

The

Harriers locked their weapons on the chopper and the chopper

immediately deployed evasive maneuvers, sent out decoys, and
cloaked itself. We even lost it. It got away but not before one of the
Harriers was blown out of the sky.

The chopper braved it and

rescued the downed pilot. Those Goddamned trigger-happy Navy

bastards blew our cover when they shot down the second Harrier,
traced its point of origin to a flattop freighter then sunk the mother
ship that launched the Harriers. The freighter was the Sargasso Sea
registered in South Africa to Antoine Lully: the Prophet!
Jimmy knew of the Prophet as did all intel of his rank. Lully was
tagged as the covert worlds greatest enigma. It has never been
verified whether Lully is a man or a woman. Antoine Lully never
exhibited loyalties to anyone or any ideology, at least that can be
corroborated, and Lully, as an entity, is a self-contained power
syndicate without equal. Those that have experienced Antoine Lully
believe that Lully is a geniuss genius, a doctor or scientist or both,
and the ultimate master of every scientific discipline and a wizard of
mind control and manipulation, the consummate grand master of
human puppetry. It is also believed that Lully may be a disillusioned
rogue, fallen from the syndicate and possibly its greatest sovereign,
ever. The Prophet is elusive. No one has ever been able to physically
locate the Prophet and no one knows the Prophets true identity. The

88

Prophet finds you and has been known to make rare, occasional
personal appearances. Every appearance has always been as an
unforgettable
accompaniment

character
of

an

that

has

summoned

impressive, sometimes

the

obedient

exotic

animal.

Encounters with the Prophet are brief and the Prophet always exhibits
great command, regardless of the audience.

The elusive genius

services are available to everyone and no one.

There is no

discernable pattern to Lullys method of choosing employers.

Communication

is

cleverly

conducted

through

hundreds

of

newspapers around the world and monetary compensation for Antoine

Lully is always a kings ransom. The imbursement moves like the
wind and more frequently than a nomad; its final destination is
always imperceptible.

Simply put, Antoine Lully is a mind

manipulating entity that sells protection and delivers.

We enlisted a free lance operative, a fighter pilot from Belgium, and
postured him for hire by Lully. The Belgian woke up one day in a
Harrier obediently taking orders via radio transmission from Lully.
He said he couldnt remember how the contact was made or where.
Lully sent him and an English free-lance Harrier pilot to Signy last
year to destroy a huge robotic device. The Belgian was shot down at
Signy six days ago. The chopper involved in the skirmish pulled him
out of the water. We have had no contact with the Belgian since. Our
witness operatives were aboard the USS Sligo.

Until that trigger

happy incident, it was our covert sub. We positioned the Sligo in the
south Atlantic immediately after the Signy event last year.

89

This

incident was the only activity on that Island with the exception of
dismantling the robot. The CIA was notorious for using the armed
forces to do their bidding, but to sanction the covert use of a Naval
vessel for such an extended period could mean only one thing, it all
began to click: Givvings had the power to call in the B-2. Jimmy
Samuels could contain himself no longer, he snapped. You son-

of-a-bitch, you called the order on the B-2 to take out the
Indigo team! Jimmy, now on his feet and poised to crush Daniel
Givvings larynx, found the CIA director remarkably lithe and
physically evasive, almost anticipating Jimmys response. Givvings,
hands shaking in front of him at eye level, palms toward Samuels
waiving him off, quickly spoke, NO, Jimmy! It was not me! This is
why I called you here. You discovered what we have been working
on for several months. The B-2 refueling by a British military air
tanker, the payoffs to the British military for the fuel costs through
fictitious British Royalty to Cayman Bank accounts that never existed,
the missing pilots and lost flight crews, all the missing military
personnel. You are looking for the same people we are. Sure, I have
the power to call up a conventional weapons sub for covert activity
but not to commission a B-2.

Thats the White House, Jimmy,

someone at the very top. Marianne sat silently frozen, her eyes fixed
on Jimmy Samuelss impressive fearless stature, alone physically
standing up to one of the most powerful men in the world. Givvings
sounded no alarms. No security had been summoned. The postclimactic stillness of silence was deafening and paralyzing.

90

The

world suddenly had come to a screeching halt. Givvings, Samuels,

and Schuler were frozen in time, polarized by the sudden candor and
emotions of the moment. Jimmy Samuels slowly sunk back onto the
couch, taking in all Givvings had said, composing himself, his eyes
never leaving Givvings.

Givvings voice, weakened from the

encounter, spoke in a slow, crackled whisper.

Some of what Im going to say is common knowledge in our
community, Jimmy. So were both on the same page, Im going to go
over it as the Company sees it. Givvings, now more composed,
addressed a seated Jimmy Samuels with a genuine reverence. Prior
to the attacks on the Pentagon and the World Trade Center September
11, 2001, the FBI had gathered enormous amounts of incriminating
data of criminal activities on an extremely well established and deeply
rooted worldwide power syndicate. Joaquin Moriosa brokered an
illegal, multi-trillion dollar, multi-lateral cartel transaction involving
OXIDEN Oil, LIBOM Oil, Russia, Turkmenistan, Afghanistan,
Turkey, and Iraq.
Joaquin Almundo Moriosa, a ruthless international fugitive, as elusive
and enigmatic as the Prophet, had been INTERPOLs number one
priority for more than a decade. A mega billionaire and master oil
consultant, Moriosa was a man whose personal Tartan can only be
described as foul and stench and ranked uppermost of tarnished
renown. It is plaid in a pattern of deception, collusion, corruption,
and stained red with the blood of merciless murders of innocents and
assassins alike. It is woven with the fabric of greed and an insatiable

91

hunger for power, yet Joaquin Almundo Moriosa is a man sought by

the most corrupt, greedy, and powerful as an eagerly desired and
welcome business partner. INTERPOL and the FBI thought Moriosa
to be the linchpin that would expose the deeply rooted members of the
syndicate and lead to the organizations malignant family tree and
eventual thunderous collapse. Joaquin Almundo Moriosa is indeed a
very wanted man, a very evil, wicked man.
The consummation of the transaction required a pipeline across
Afghanistan and a huge increase in Iraqi oil production. The Taliban
were out of control.
We voted against instituting the Taliban from the beginning, the
Company pushed for them, Jimmy quickly interjected softly but with
a stone face expression. Givvings, focused with a glaring gaze on
Jimmy Samuels stoic posture, continued without comment, And the
regional Afghan warlords feared they would have to give up the land
that fueled their multi-trillion dollar Opium trade, a trade Moriosa
hoped to take over in lieu of his astronomical brokerage fee.
Consumed with the throes of near absolute power and his political
narcissism, Saddam Hussein was no longer useful to or tolerated by
the Moriosa faction. Again, Jimmy interrupted Director Givvings
with another expressionless sting, Company again, but before your
time . . . Dan. Givvings, as expressionless as his heckler, nodded in
agreement and continued, He in fact had become quite dangerous.
Hussein was plotting with the oil starved European community to
phase out expensive Petrol Dollars for the purchase of petroleum and

92

use the Euro for oil currency.

The pact would have guaranteed

exclusivity of market for Iraq, cheaper oil for Europe, and less
dependence on the U. S. monetary system. A pact like this would be
disastrous to the syndicates monetary stability and its ability to
purchase influence. The conversion would render the Dollar nearly
impotent. The United States would no longer be able to pay for its
military strength and the influence that strength peddles worldwide; a
commodity the syndicate has not been able to live without since the
Second World War. Saddam Hussein and the Taliban were obstacles
Moriosa and the syndicate needed to remove in order to complete the
oil maneuvering and the finalizing of Moriosas fee. Certain high
ranking officials in the Federal Reserve and a number of corporate
officers of major U.S. banks, while not outwardly condoning the plan,
but fearing the devaluation of the Dollar, nevertheless embraced
Moriosas transaction; all stood to make a kings ransom in fees for
laundering the oil and opium money. The question was how would
this power syndicate maneuver Hussein and the Taliban out of the
picture? . . . The Satanic equation.

The U. S. has always been

regarded by fanatic Muslims as the satanic homeland of the Western

World and the seat of Israeli power. Its the only country in the world
that possesses the military might and political influence to depose
both the Taliban and Hussein. What could possibly mobilize the
United States government and its people to unleash the deadly power
of its lethal military arsenal? Enter Osama Bin Laden and the hate
mongers of fanatical Muslims. Bin Ladens terrorists cells had been

93

in place for years and the time seemed right to strike.

Warped,

medieval mentalities of Bin Ladens mindless flock, enjoying

everything the West had to offer from air conditioning to Twinkies,
were still eagerly awaiting their opportunity to meet Allah in
Paradise.
We sent advanced warnings to all intel agencies, Dan, including
yours, the Pentagon, the White House, and NORAD that something
extreme was going to happen well in advance of 9/11. NORAD was
the only entity to step up. They put fighters on alert around the clock.
We didnt know when, where, or what but we knew it would be soon.
Everyone but NORAD brushed us off. NORAD saw the American
Airlines jet from Boston drop out of the sky when it turned off its
transponder. They scrambled fighters but not enough. There were
twenty-five hundred planes in the air over the northeast corridor that
morning. By the time they got a lock on the stray, it was too late. The
South Tower jet and the Pentagon jet snuck through a believed
impenetrable web.

You arrogant bastards ignored the NSA and

gullibly swallowed up outdated, hearsay intel from questionable

Israeli operatives on Bin Laden and Hussein and Iraq. The Company
has been compromised, Dan. You can track that crap all the way to
the White House. Tell me Dan, is that where the buck stops or is the
Executive Office a conduit? Givvings affect was as vacant as a vast
wasteland, eerily lifeless, absent of emotion and freakishly devoid of
expression.

Marianne, not accustomed to the privy of ears only

language and unsure whether to leave or stay, sat motionless in her

94

perch on the Italian leather couch, languishing like a deer caught in

the headlights of impending doom. Jimmy quickly filed his question
into the gray realm of rhetorical and continued to his captive audience.
Operation Indigo was an ultra covert project designed by Cal
Carrington, Henry Randolph, and the President to, among other
things, snuff out the CIAs bleeding and the reasons for the FBIs
chronic inability to act responsively. Carrington and the Indigo team
stumbled onto a British anomaly in the south Atlantic that proved to
be a clear path to the syndicate we were all looking for, and now they
are toast, and you and the FBI are still shit in the eyes of the President.
Right, Dan?

Almost ignoring what Jimmy Samuels had said,

expressionless, Daniel Givvings responded, sheepishly: The FBI tied

the syndicate into the 9/11 incident, it was all about the taking down
of the Twin Towers, specifically the South Tower. FBI headquarters
at the World Trade Center housed all the data regarding the
investigation of the Moriosa affair. The FBI was a few months away
from exposing the entire power syndicate and disrupting the Moriosa
transaction.

Even with the most elaborate security procedures in

place, information of the investigation leaked out. The syndicate

moved quickly.

It shamelessly manipulated zealous and gullible

Middle Eastern religious fanatic cells to unknowingly act as a smoke

screen to take down the Twin Towers and strike a fatal blow into the
heart, mind, and economy of the great satanic homeland . . . Why did
both Towers implode, Jimmy?

95

The NSA, FBI, and CIA knew too much had gone wrong too quickly.
Experts questioning the nature of the fires after the collapse of the
Towers were either quickly hushed or forced to recant any statements
contrary to the official report. Black billowing smoke belching
from the Towers indicated the fires were beginning to choke,
exhausting their fuel source and suffocating from lack of oxygen.
Exaggerated temperatures of the fires had reached a lackluster zenith
and began to decline as the smoldering fires voraciously consumed
and rapidly evaporated the jet fuel. The remaining firestorm gasped
for air and burned nearly two-thousand degrees too chilly for the
2800o Fahrenheit needed to compromise the integrity of the steel
framing that the official report indicated caused the implosive
collapse of both Towers.
Why did the South Tower, hit last, housing the twenty-third floor
FBI headquarters, collapse first?

Reports of explosions from the

twenty-second to the twenty-fifth floors and a two-point-one

earthquake under the building filled the airwaves seconds before the
South Tower began its fatal collapse. The air attacks were simply an
ingenious disguise and distraction for the detonation of carefully
placed charges that took down the Towers.

It was controlled

demolition. The whole Goddamn attack was a ruse. The intent was to
destroy the FBI records and simultaneously whip up a worldwide fury
against terrorists conveniently housed in Afghanistan, laying ground
for the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan and subsequently Iraq. The plan
was brilliant. Attacking America on its own soil was an unforgivable

96

act requiring lethal retaliation. Bin Laden, who allegedly claimed

responsibility for the attacks, was also reported to be in Afghanistan,
how convenient. The rest is history. 9/11, Afghanistan, Iraq, it was
all for oil and to destroy crucial evidence that would expose and
dismantle a ruthless, greedy syndicate of its massive influence and
power. The Indigo team stumbled onto the Signy Island-Antarctic
debacle. Signy was to be an oil backup by the syndicate in case the
Afghan-Iraq operation failed. Now you discover a paper trail that
links the syndicates daisy chaining to the rebuilding of evidence by
the FBI against Moriosa and the syndicate. Jimmy, someone in the
White House or very closely related is selling out the United States at
a wholesale rate. You have gotten close to that someone with the B-2
connection. We need the NSAs help, specifically yours. No one can
come close to your investigative skills, Jimmy. I am going to propose
a joint venture to your boss, the FBI has already agreed. There is just
one caveat, Jimmy: Neither the President nor anyone else must know.
I realize that we are bordering on possibly violating a number of laws
and protocols but I can assure you that we are miles away from
colluding to conspire a coup d`etat.
Just like you assured the President and the Joint Chiefs that Hussein
and his cabinet were having breakfast in Baghdad? . . . Givvings,
Operation Indigo was created because of the shit collection of intel by
you and the FBI. ECHELON wasnt getting the job done either, so
Carrington created Operation Indigo. Indigo dwarfed ECHELONs
capacity to hear and see, and it could be accomplished with a skeleton

97

crew and relatively few pieces of hardware. It was ingenious. You

could fit the equipment in a large motor home. Indigo was fast and
efficient. It was more powerful than PLATFORM, and it alienated
the UK, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand; it wasnt part of the
UKUSA agreement.

Indigo virtually rendered MAGISTRAND,

SILKWORTH, and VOICECAST obsolete.

Unlike Pine Gap,

Nurrungar, and Menwith Hill, Indigos location was never disclosed

but it was discovered. Operation Indigo and its team members were
just about to crack the syndicate when the project was destroyed and
the team members terminated. What took the FBI years to gather on
Moriosa, Indigo could have cracked in less than a week. Did you
really think you were telling me something the NSA didnt already
know? Five men are dead because of Indigos power and the evil it
was about to disclose. Youre right Dan, everything points toward the
White House and youre not very popular with the President.
Whatever your plan is, it cannot officially involve the NSA.
Wohlgathor and Kilmartin are not going to jeopardize their positions
and the NSA by withholding vital information about the nations
national security and economy. You need to rethink this scheme,
Dan. I dont give a damn about the FBI. Those self-centered hogs
never lent a hand to help anyone. Youve told me what you want me
to know and now Ive told you what I want you to know. This
meeting never happened. Your audio and video recording devices just
went through a snowstorm, compliments of NSA. I dont feel like
having lunch in Virginia, today.

98

Somewhere in the Washington D. C. Beltway

My darling, it is always business that brings us together. Call me

back on a secure line . . .
Hello Madame. Two pieces of news: Signy was breached several
days ago by an unidentified team, apparently helicopter driven. There
was an ensuing incident involving two additional aircraft and a United
States Navy submarine. The helicopter escaped. The other aircraft,
two Harriers, were destroyed. The submarine stalked the vessel that
launched the Harriers and sunk it: how heroic, it was Lullys. Item
two: Carrington is alive!

99

Eleven
Returning to Inis Mr evoked a feeling of safety and tranquility. It
truly had become home to the evermore-clandestine men.

The

stealthy resident transplants of the Saint Enda Inn group knew all to
well that dwelling on the Signy Island incident and the Cape Town
anomaly would only deter and possibly derail their progress. Lully
had brought closure to the Signy Island debacle, at least for now.
While the residue of Signys huggermugger operation was initially
significant to the investigation, it truly was no longer of any
consequence.

The Prophets verbose dissertation to Carrington,

regardless of how mysterious it may have been, set a direct path for
the team to pursue.

The target was somewhere in the Nations

Capital; the fertile haven of iniquitous special interests, the

Washington D. C. Beltway was back in focus.
Lets see if we can begin to map this out. We know the Presidents
family has oil interests everywhere and we know this is all about oil.
Add to that, his best buddy was the CEO of Enron. Chimed Bob
Harris, Indigos political liaison; everyone nodding in silent
agreement, Carrington continued.
The Vice President leaves a thirty-six million dollar a year job, sells
his stock in his cash-cow Company and legally tangles it in a daisy
chain back to his family, to become a minor player as a civil servant
for just under two-hundred thousand dollars and limited expenses.

100

The nodding of head bobbing abruptly veered into hushed sneers of

cynical facial expressions and, as quickly, twisted and grimaced to
contagious contortions of scowling disgust, as Cal continued.
His former company sold millions of dollars in spare parts to the
Iraqi oil industry through its European subsidiaries, despite U. S. and
U. N. sanctions, and now scores billions in the rebuilding of Iraq. The
man has never been altruistic to anything but the power to acquire the
almighty dollar.
Suddenly, in a surprise emotional outburst, the unobtrusive Shamus
exclaimed in an articulate Irish brogue, Move that slime ball son-ofa-bitch to the top of the list, eliciting an unintentional humorous
catharsis of tension, as the group chuckled at the uncharacteristic blurt
of the otherwise taciturn man.
Cal continued again as the comic relief of the moment subsided. The
Secretary of Defense: his callous antics make him too flagrant-a
decoy, hes too intelligent to be the fall guy. Are we in agreement on
that?
Again, a unanimous silent nodding yes betook the group.

The

Secretary of State is a brilliant man who should be giving orders not

taking them; hes merely a token for the military. He has big time
military influence but no overt reason to be running errands for
anyone. No one disagreed as Cal Carrington surveyed the room for
consensus.
. . . Billy, I want the President, Vice-President, Secretaries of
Defense and State, Attorney General; I want the whole Goddamned

101

Cabinet and Joint Chiefs tagged by VOICECAST. I want every fax

and telephone communication coming into and going out of the White
House and the Vice Presidents residence tracked. I want to know who
in the Beltway is connected, no matter how far removed they appear.
Check any tying interests, regardless of how remotely related, past
and present, in corporations, business endeavors, affiliations, charities,
municipal, county, state, national data bases, corporate registries,
country clubs, libraries, credit card receipts, the works; trace the
daisy-chaining. Tap into local, national, federal, and international
banking data bases for money transfers.
Harris, again: Include Liechtenstein and Luxembourg on that list.
Cal reverently bowed his head in agreement, as he continued.
Were looking for patterns of large transfers, consistent transfers.
Also check real estate, its the legal way to pay off or bribe someone.
A twenty-million dollar piece of property not condemned, not in
foreclosure or zoning or environmental violation, selling for fourhundred thousand dollars sounds like a greased palm to me . . . I want
to know everything about the B-2 pilots, their ground crew, and the
base commanders that ordered the bomber launched. Somewhere
there are transfer records of these people and there is a manifest for
the armaments and the initial fueling of the bomber. I want deep
backgrounds on all the players. I want everything, yesterday. Get the
team on it, dont leave any stone unturned. Sam, I want the inquiries
back transferred so it appears to be coming from Cape Town, Hong
Kong, Tunis, Haifa, Singapore, Riyadh, Paysand and Tacuaremb.

102

Lets get everybody thinking Indigo is alive. One more thing, Billy:
we need a copy of Jimmy Samuelss telephone bill and the envelope
its mailed in.
Cals last request solicited a quizzically focused, head jerking, steely
bead from the men. Cal, undaunted by the reaction, focused his gaze
at the wily Shamus.
Shamus, how do we go about acquiring museum quality Iraqi
antiquity of extremely extraordinary value these days?

103

Twelve
Somewhere in the Washington D. C. Beltway
. . . Hello again my love . . . We on a secure line, yes? . . . I am at
your humble service as always.

What need do you honor my

obedience with this call?"

I want Carrington found, alive. I want him found before the CIA
kills him. We need to know how much he knows before we dispose
of him. Is that understood?
Yes Madam. I will attend to it right away.
A Call to the White House
Yes?!
Phone me back on a secure line.
A Moment Later
Carrington is alive. We have orders to find him before the CIA kills
him. We must learn how much he has discovered and then dispose of
him, for good this time.
I understand . . . Ill begin at this end . . . Be careful old friend . . .
Keep me informed.

The Groves at Piney Orchard in Odenton

It was Friday and the end of Jimmy Samuels work week, a week with
long hours and little sleep. Jimmy reflected on the past few days and
found himself lost in thought about the happenings with Daniel

104

Givvings earlier in the week. Ignoring the annoyingly blinding lights

of oncoming traffic, and oblivious to the thunderous torrential
downpour, he strode through the late evening deluge in his Dodge
Ram; the solid, steady purr of its throaty Cummins Turbo Diesel
gliding, almost self guiding, the beefy quad cab truck over the slick,
water soaked roads, home from NSA headquarters in Fort Meade. It
was late when Jimmy pulled up to his three bedroom Dogwood, even
by Jimmys standards. He semiconsciously fetched the mail as a knee
jerk reflex while walking past its charming old fashioned box. Keys
in hand, he automatically coiled and readied the metal instruments to
obediently slide into the Medco locks of the decorative, mahogany
front door.

Jimmy Samuels was spent and it was good to be

someplace comfortable, someplace dry.

Surprised, he suddenly

realized he had driven home in a monsoon.

Jimmy let the mail slide matter-of-factly from his hands instinctive
clutch and silently dropped the several envelopes on the red,
variegated marble top of his ornately carved, giltwood faux Louis XV
key table when something struck him as odd. He quickly glanced
back at the table and shuffled the mail. There it was. Two telephone
bills both addressed to him. He opened the first bill and . . . it was his
monthly telephone bill. He opened the second bill and . . . it was his
monthly telephone bill again, but with an added document: an antique
Irish Shamrock Postcard torn in half . . . The door bell rang. Jimmy,
with a cursory glance, peered through the tiny security peephole of the
mahogany door . . . Marianne!

105

Thirteen
Undaunted, she glowed in a mystical quiescence, the ambient
backlighting from the street lamp wrapping around her exquisite
figure in dazzling silhouette. Her shapely feminine stature sensuously
evocative, nearly erotic, dripping from head to toe, and soaked like a
drowned rat, Marianne Schuler stood drenched, shivering in the
shimmering light of Jimmy Samuels doorway. We need to talk!
She was sobbing as she spoke. Her bottled-up narrative exploding,
choking in a verbal cantor of cathartic dissertation, confession-like
with nearly frenzied speech, the words came truncated between sobs.
Givvings is convinced that Cal Carrington is still alive. I realized at
our meeting that I had made a terrible mistake showing Givvings the
photo. He wasnt the man I should have gone to. But I didnt know
who else to turn to. He is my boss and I thought we were working for
the same purpose. I was wrong, Jimmy. Givvings believes that Cal
has become a rogue. Hes still fuming that he wasnt informed about
Indigo until the Signy incident. He feels as though he is deliberately
being left out of the loop and that the country is going into the crapper
through the White House. The CIA has been infiltrated. You were
right. He cant find the mole. Hes frustrated.
Jimmy hushed Marianne, gently, placing a quieting finger to her lips.
He affectionately grabbed her arm and guided her waterlogged body
through the doorway into the warm, dry foyer. He motioned her to

106

wait. Jimmy gathered towels and a washcloth, a black sweat shirt and
matching sweat pants.

With one finger tapping against his lips

signaling no talking, he handed the towels and change of clothes to

Marianne then pointed her in the direction of the guest bathroom.
Thankful and obedient, Marianne wept thank you and sloshed from
the foyer and across the living room to the comfort of the guest bath.
Jimmy prepared soothing herbal tea and cheese and crackers, as he
awaited Mariannes return, it wouldnt be long.
Clad in puffy black cotton that draped over her like a huge hand-medown from an older, much larger sibling, a noticeably less sorrowful
Marianne humbly emerged from the steamy cloud of the Dogwood
guest bath. Even in Jimmys bulky black sweat suit, Marianne looked
magnificent. Then it came to Jimmy: This was the girl at Cals
wake! The stunning brunette draped in black, sitting unaccompanied
in the back row of the chapel silently sobbing, grimacing, the heart
wrenching expression of grief poorly masked. She hadnt signed the
registry and she vanished like a magician before I could approach
her. They sat quietly, melting into the cottony fabric and cushiony
comfort of Jimmys earthy Lagoon sofa, sipping warm herbal tea and
munching water crackers slathered with spiced domestic brie, it was
refreshing. Mariannes seizure of sobbing she so expressively arrived
with had subsided, apparently quelled by the soothing, ever healing,
magical waters of a warm shower.

Gently, in a subtle paternal

manner, Jimmy interrupted the delicate silence of the moments

wordless tranquility and spoke first, Why are you here, Marianne?

107

Marianne began her narrative of the closely guarded relationship with

Cal Carrington that began six years before his death.

It was as

Givvings had stated, they met on an ill-conceived, feeble, at best

prophylactic attempt at dtente, exchange day between NSA and CIA.
Marianne was in her third week of a six week orientation when Cal
Carrington visited the imaging lab and swept her off her feet.
Immediately, there was somewhat more than the usual friendly banter
between them. The NSA guests attention was so avidly diverted and
devotedly captivated by the more than mildly electric flirtatious
exchanges performed at such public display and length, that the anal,
time conscious CIA host had to impolitely interrupt the adroit repartee
several times so the lackluster tour could continue. Cal, being struck
by Mariannes comfortable, immediate familiarity, as a parting
goodbye, politely encouraged her to join the NSA imaging team. An
awkward knee-jerk blurt, it was intended more as a compliment than a
bold recruitment. Cal didnt fully realize the impression he had made
on Marianne at the time of the serendipitous rendezvous, or the effects
of awakening kindred feelings between them that would effortlessly
nurture into a loving relationship.

Marianne pursued Cal,

aggressively. They quickly realized the path of severity that conflict

of interest posed and casually decided to keep their relationship secret,
clandestine, much the same as Jimmys and Cals blood relationship
had never surfaced, anywhere. Cals private life wasnt always privy
to Jimmy and vice-versa, but this came as a shock, pleasantly so, to
Jimmy Samuels. Marianne, bereft at Cals death, grieved quietly.

108

She, too, kept the relationship mum even after Cals horrible death.
She could confide in no one. Who would listen to her? Who would
believe her: the servers at the out of way restaurants they cautiously
haunted or the caretakers of the anonymous bed and breakfasts they
surreptitiously frequented?

Perhaps.

Marianne had no surviving

family and her relationship with Cal found no confidence with friends
or co-workers.

Jimmy Samuels had been Cal Carringtons only

contact at the time Cals automobile was bombed and burned on

Interstate 295. His instructions to Jimmy were two fold: contact the
Indigo team immediately and say one word, Dance! Then, swiftly
swap out the IDs in everyones files. There was no time to bring
Jimmy up to date on a six year, hush-hush relationship with Marianne
Schuler.
Jimmy couldnt and wouldnt reveal any knowledge of Cals current
existence or his relationship with Cal to Marianne. He needed to
confirm Mariannes love story with Cal, and all he knew was that Cal
was alive, somewhere. Since Cals reported demise, communications
with his absent cousin always occurred one way, unsolicited, with no
means of response and always cryptic, something Jimmy and Cal
were more than extremely well versed with, gifted by expert measure.
As children, experimenting with the integration of English, Chinese,
and Latin, they developed a routine of word puzzles and phraseology
with one another that evolved into a number of distinct languages with
sub-dialects. Even the venerable Shao Lin, Shaozu Zhang, the boys
beloved foster father, was frustratingly baffled with young Cal and the

109

even younger Jimmys ability to communicate without discovery.

They fooled everyone from teachers to credentialed linguists. As
always, Shaozu Zhang reinforced a low profile, keeping ones
strengths secret, especially the gift of language, regardless of how
esoteric; cryptology was their native tongue.
Mariannes inadvertent discovery of Cal Carringtons unmistakable
profile on a blurred surveillance tape from a mundane luggage
carousel at Buenos Aires International Airport became her rapture.
Her

sudden

vasovagal,

parasympathomimetic

response

disconcertingly froze her in her tracks, momentarily, at the imaging

facility of CIA headquarters in McLean.

Her mind spun wildly,

buoyant in the vortex of the fluidity of uplifting, relieving revision.

Alienating and painful bouts with sorrow, solitary grieving, suffering
she silently subsisted with was straight away vanquished and
magically banished to distant recesses of her psyche, rewardingly
replaced with a rousing, exhilarating, glimmer of hope. The passion
of her life, her soul mate, was alive! In desperation she alerted Daniel
Givvings. It was a grave mistake. Givvings was not interested in
rescuing Cal Carrington; Cal Carrington had become Givvings prey.
Jimmys display of contempt for Givvings convinced Marianne that
Jimmy was her only hope to finding Cal Carrington, alive.
Marianne and Jimmy talked for hours. Jimmy was curious as to how
Marianne breached the security of The Groves. She had driven her
car to Martys, a popular and busy twenty-four hour diner about two
miles from The Groves, and parked her car. It was Friday night and

110

she figured her car would go unnoticed with all the weekend late night
traffic.

Jimmy thought, had Martys been one of Cals and

Mariannes rendezvous? She trekked the short distance from the

diner through Odentons mix of suburbs to The Groves at Piney
Orchard and found a flaw in the security wall around the wildlife
preserve: a sprawling, climbable oak with branches dangling over the
eight foot antique brick barrier. Jimmy knew the tree, it required
above average athletic skills to negotiate the climb and affect the drop.
How long had Marianne been staking out The Groves? It seemed
humorous, comic relief that Marianne had been hiding in the bushes,
in the rain for so long, waiting for Jimmy to come home. Their
chatter ever more became victim to the remains of the day and the
laws of diminishing returns.

Each politely fought not to doze,

valiantly attempting to remain attentive, both eventually succumbing

to fatigue and finally to needed sleep.
Jimmys rest was interrupted by a nagging beam of intense, golden,
early morning light piercing through the spiders web window of the
mahogany door, bathing the sofa in its radiance and fluttering across
Jimmys sleepy eyes. Where Marianne sat was now only occupied by
the neatly folded black sweat suit and a note written on the back of
Jimmys telephone bill envelope, perched tent style, atop the cottony
suit: Find him for me. Please!
. . . The Shamrock! Jimmy jumped from the comfort of the sofa
and checked his mail. The torn Shamrock postcard: Fathers Day

was off!

111

Fourteen
Dublins broad, dusky, late spring sky swelled with fiery hues of silky
orange swirls surrendering to wisps of cottony tangerine puffs that
quietly melted into the descending cobalt twilight, as the Argo Seas
sailed on the outgoing, evening tide. From Dublin Port through the
mouth of the River Liffey and into Dublin Bay, the lumbering
freighter began its steady passage southward through the Irish Sea, St.
Georges Channel, Celtic Sea then into the North Atlantic. Hugging
the north coast of Spain and the coast of Portugal, around the south
coast of Spain, through the Straits of Gibraltar and east across the
Mediterranean Sea, the craggy cargo ship would voyage until its
scheduled sojourn at the Syrian port of Latakia. There it would await
delivery of its precious cargo.

The time needed for the ship to

complete its journey should be an adequate period for Shamus

ODonnell and Bob Harris to complete their mission.

* * * * * * *

Kurdish, Northern Iraq-1980

Iraq had begun its war with Iran as it simultaneously gassed thousands
of innocent Iraqi Kurds in the Northern provinces near the IraqiTurkish boarder. Minimally accountable, loosely controlled, death
squads of ethnic cleansing nomadically roamed the Northern

112

provinces unfettered, fearlessly patrolling like swarming locust,

brutally wreaking havoc, merciless in murderous search of dissident
Kurds, Turkmen, and Christian Assyrians supposedly sympathetic to
Iran. A small contingent of savage death squad elite had stumbled
into the tiny village of Zahknampersahz.

A greedy, avaricious

platoon, desensitized and callous from months of discretionless

killing, plundered what food, drink, and valued goods they forcibly
chose. Puerilely dissatisfied with the impoverished villagers and their
meager spoils, the ill tempered killers were quick to demonstrate the
cruelty of their grizzly mandate; the murderous mandamus placed in
their discretion.

With swift, iniquitous impunity, they retaliated

against the scant plunder the poor village yielded, indiscriminately

routing out a scapegoat unjustly branded as subversive to Iraqi
national security-d minimis non curat lex-the law does not care about
very small matters. Crudely bound and shackled, leg ties staked to the
ground, the terrified mid-thirtyish peasant, battered and bloody, faced
a jury of seven AK-47 rifle muzzles staring at his flesh torn forehead;
the signature weapon of an all too frequent and fatal impromptu firing
squad. With a massive, mud crusted boot planted on the buttocks of
the villagers screaming, pleading wife, repeatedly stomping her petite
frame downward, and his powerful Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum
629 classic revolver, not Iraqi issue, hanging over the back of her
wretched

peasant

head,

the

rugged,

ruthlessly

cold-hearted,

sociopathic Iraqi lieutenant, churlishly growling, barked a gruff,

authoritative command to an equally dispassionate, brutish sergeant to

113

expedite the frenzied riflemen to hurriedly carry out the senseless

blood lust and murder of this defenseless, innocent Kurd.

The

remaining soldiers, as delusional and merciless as their commander,

found foul enjoyment in forcing the helpless mans four young
children to watch the lethal, cold-blooded atrocity soon to be
perpetrated on their father. Suddenly, in less than four seconds, a
fusillade of cacophonous spits systematically dropped the seven
riflemen, domino like, to the ground, their heads jerking violently
from the deadly spits, bits of flesh and bone fragments splattering, as
they slammed to the dusty dirt street. Blood oozed and glistening
slimy gray matter dangled from what remained of their shattered,
lifeless heads. Then, as suddenly, the bullish sergeant and his brutal
commanding officer jerked and convulsed as they collapsed to the
dusty street, suffering the same fate as the firing squad. The confused
soldiers holding the children released their grip, as each fell as swiftly
as the rest of their evil, merciless death squad.

In less than ten

seconds thirteen of Saddam Husseins most feral miscreants and the

reign of fear and terror they besieged the sleepy village with were
neutralized-eradicated, almost biblically. Ajwan Pasha, his wife Eln,
their two sons, Serhat and Baran, and their daughters Rojda and Zelal
were spared a horrible and torturous death. Praise be to Allah!

* * * * * * *

114

The Present-St Enda Inn

Billy, tell me you guys have something.
We do Cal. This is what weve pieced together on the B-2. If the
information is correct and not coincidence then this could be our
worm hole.
Worm hole?
Voice communication surveillance is time consuming. So is the
unknotting of daisy-chaining. Tracking is faster. Worm hole is a
reference to a theoretical shortcut in spa . . .
I got it Billy. Talk to me.
Tangibly, this started for us with the launching of the B-2. There
was only one place that bomber could have come from: Whiteman
Air Force Base in Missouri. Three days after the B-2 attack on the
Indigo location, the base commander of Whiteman Air Force base and
his staff and two 509th Bomb Wing B-2 class pilots were transferred
out of Whiteman with no destination. Allan has prepared photos and
extensive bios on everyone transferred and their significant others.
The bird left town too, probably with the pilots-no flight plan, no
destination. If Sam tapped into the satellites to search for the bomber
there is a chance we could be located, no matter how convoluted he
routed the tap. So we decided to search the rosters of every U. S. and
British military base, embassy, consulate, Interests Section, and
diplomatic mission around the world.

We found nothing on any

names; service IDs, social security numbers, and passports lead us

nowhere.

We scanned what Pentagon databases and every bank

115

database and routing system we could hack into and a strange

anomaly occurred. The base commander, General William Nathaniel
Downeys service ID found a new name, Lieutenant Gerald R.
Michelson, and new fortune. Starting ten days after the Whiteman
transfers to the unknown, checks in the amount of seventy-five
thousand U. S. dollars have been routed from the Pentagon on the fifth
and nineteenth of each month and directly deposited into Benrus
Financial, an alleged private bank in Weelgeworth, England, under
Michelsons name.

The funds are simultaneously transferred to

Hamphsteller United Bank in Zurich, another private bank, again in

Michelsons name. From Zurich sixty-five percent of the money is
routed to a small securities exchange company, Erin Enterprise, Ltd.
in Athlone in care of Brenda OHare. Brenda OHare is Downeys
wifes grandmothers maiden name. The woman died thirty-seven
years ago.

Weelgeworth does not exist, at least physically, and

Benrus is not registered or licensed as a securities, exchange, or

procurement company anywhere. It too is a ghost, the quintessential
shell company. Erin Enterprises is nothing more than a computer
terminal in Athlone that automatically filters the money to the local
Bank of Ireland into the escrow account of Nathan Williams, Ltd.sweet, huh. The account immediately disburses into a no minimum
balance, no fee checking account in the name of William Reagan and
a savings account in the name of Nathaniel Downs. The arrangement
of the checking and savings accounts affords electronic transfers to
one another. The escrow account is one way and disperses when there

116

is excess of five hundred Euros. The split is always the same: sixtyfive percent to the savings and thirty-five percent to checking. Both
accounts have the same address-a post office box in Athlone.
Electric, water, trash, and taxes are paid electronically from checking.
There is a Visa debit card with no limit and records show it is used
only at ATMs for cash. No ATM is used more than once a month, but
it is always the same ATMs. There is no pattern to the use. Nathan
Williams, Ltd. is located in an office on Mardyke Street next to the
Royal Hoey Hotel. Williams, Ltd. and Erin Enterprises share the
same office space. I tracked the account numbers on the utilities and
tax payments. Bingo! An estate about twenty kilometers north of
Athlone on N61 in the village of Knockcroghery in County
Roscommon; its famous for clay pipes. The owner is Williams, Ltd.
The Hangmans Hill is in Knockcroghery. It was once renowned for
execution; how appropriate it is to have the return of the executioner.
Top of the mornin ta yuh!

Iraq
Alone, in the half opened doorway of a crudely constructed, poorly
whitewashed house that appeared to be supported on either side by
two structures of the same ilk, stood a small, diminutive woman.
Peasantly dressed and pleasantly endowed, perhaps in her late forties
or early fifties, she proudly displayed a shiny, nickel plated, large
caliber handgun securely tucked into an ornately carved leather
holster that was tightly strapped around her tiny mid section,

117

accentuating her petite waist.

The tiny womans gaze locked a

predators bead on the strangers entering the forgotten Kurdish

village.

Her intense stare was noticeable to all, especially the

unexpected visitors.

She tilted her head slightly and squinted,

blinking her tired eyes and squinting again, increasing the intensity of
her focus. Suddenly, the little peasant woman let out a riff of staccato
blood curdling screams, rousing a hoard of villagers who magically
appeared and swiftly surrounded the intruders. Without hesitation, the
tiny woman yanked the huge, shiny weapon from its ornate leather
holster and emptied its clamorous chamber of ordnance, spitting out a
flurry of earsplitting explosions into the air, thundering over the heads
of the gathered crowd.

Raucous howls of celebration ensued.

Jubilant cries of emancipation stirred the quiet village into a

cacophonous display of pent-up joy and celebration. Praise be to
Allah! The savior has returned.

The Village of Knockcroghery in County Roscommon

Cal and Billy surveyed the area surrounding the Williams, Ltd. estate.
The picturesque setting could have been anyone of dozens of
Shamrock class bed and breakfasts within a thirty minute drive of
Athlone. A crushed grey stone and pee gravel driveway gently curved
in a half moon from the road, casually continuing under an ivy
covered pergola that crowned an elegant entrance, less than onehundred yards from the narrow highway with its trademark
framework of continuous stonewalls. Surveillance and alarm devices

118

were absent, even to the untrained eye. No ornate wrought iron gates
or fencing, no security walls or guards, just a quiet, serene setting in a
sleepy village in central Ireland. Vast, lush patches of evergreen vines
of ivy with small yellowish flowers and little black berries covered the
stone walls of the mansion, climbing trellises where it could and
ferociously clinging to the stone exterior elsewhere, magically
framing windows and doorways in a charming picture postcard
fashion. Cal Carrington had let his beard grow for several days. Billy
would not be recognized but Cal was once somewhat of a public
figure, he needed the modest disguise. If Lully knew who he was, it
was now possible that warnings would have been issued with
accompanying photos and General William Nathaniel Downey would
not have been spared the warning.
Cal and Billy found Downey alone, unawares, peacefully sitting in a
cedar rocking horse glider on an open patio at the rear of the ivy
draped, stone mansion, silently ruffling through a cache of several
newspapers.
Did we startle you, General? Downey, surprised to hear himself
addressed by rank, seemed even more surprised and confused by the
sudden audience of strangers, American strangers.
Can I help you, gentlemen? Downey confidently bellowed with a
characteristically rich, commanding baritone delivery, as if holding
court. It was agreed that only Cal would speak. Billy needed to keep
his identity under wraps, even if he was hiding in plain sight.
Tell us about Uruguay.

119

Fifteen
As more villagers hurriedly poured out of their humble dwellings onto
the narrow streets in response to the salvo of explosions from the .44
Magnum, celebration of life once again filled the few dusty by-ways
of the little known Kurdish village of Zahknampersahz, fifty
kilometers northwest of the remote, northern town of Sinjar. How the
tiny Kurdish woman had recognized the ever changing face of
Shamus ODonnell was a mystery to Bob Harris. Dieter, Dieter,
Dieter! exclaimed Eln Pasha, passionately embracing the sleek,
weathered frame of Shamus ODonnell, squeezing and hugging and
kissing the old Dutchman like a returning lost loved one. Being a
brilliant linguist, Bob could just understand the Kurdish Kurmanji
dialect if it was spoken slowly and repeated. To Bobs bewilderment,
Shamus was flawlessly immersed in jovial banter and equally
passionate exchanges of words, embraces, and gestures, understanding
and speaking as if the village dialect had been his native tongue.
Dieter was home.

Ajwan Pasha and his sons immediately slaughtered and meticulously

washed and cleaned a fresh, plump lamb, as other family members
and villagers dug a shallow fire pit for the roasting. The freshly
butchered lamb, heavily seasoned with aromatic herbs and spices and
stuffed with dozens of colossal elephant garlic bulbs and oil cured

120

olives and tangy dried fruits, soon found its way to the fire pit and
being slowly roasted over hot burning embers, all enclosed in a
makeshift mud oven. Spirits of every imaginable derivative cousin of
moonshine were offered in endless supply. Essence of music and
dancing effortlessly blended with smiles and laughter and the wafting
scents of free flowing homebrew and succulent, roasting seasoned
lamb permeated every fiber of the joyous village.

Indeed, the

impromptu festivities were a vibrant jubilee long overdue. Shamus

and Bob would talk with the Pashas in the morning.

Knockcroghery
General Downeys head jerked and wiggled as his body lurched
wildly in the cedar glider. The gap between his eyebrows oozed with
crimson droplets leaking from a precision puncture almost surgically
delivered-the back of his head had violently exploded. The draping
evergreen ivy covering the wall behind the glider glistened with
moist, dripping, holly-berry red speckles. Cal and Billy scattered for
cover.

Zahknampersahz
The deliberate layover in Prague proved fortuitous for Shamus and
Bob. The specialty luggage shop, innocently tucked away among
other specialty shops in a busy, heavily trafficked sector of the city,
had been in business for two generations, supplying men like Shamus
used to be with unique luggage and other specialty gear without

121

question, that is if you asked the right way and paid the right amount
of cash. The silencers were the trickiest to disguise, but fared well as
boom microphones for the clandestine reporters. Security at PragueRuzyne Airport was in place but paled considerably in comparison to
Irish, British, and German security. The disguised equipment was
mainly comprised of graphite composites similar to the construction
materials of the F-117A Nighthawk and B-2 Spirit. The weapons
masquerade created no alarm and its shapes were accepted as what
they appeared to be: luggage and support audio and video equipment
generic to international free lance photo journalists. It was a cash
only business, lots of cash.

Knockcroghery
Downey was dead, swiftly assassinated before he could mutter one
syllable in answer to Cals question. The shot was deadly accurate
and silenced. Downeys assailant was unmistakably professional. Cal
and Billy were not his targets; they would have suffered the same fate
as Downey if they were. Downeys killer was long gone-vanished.
Planned, successful escape would have been and integral part of his
motis operandi. Cal and Billy needed to attend to their own getaway,
they had been seen.

Zahknampersahz
Dawn came earlier than anyone wanted it to. Sleepy and hung over,
Ajwan and his two sons looked on in awe at their guests, as Shamus

122

began to disassemble the framing of his expensive new Prague

luggage, systematically. Bob Harris did the same with his suitcases.
Within minutes the men had disassembled and reassembled the light
weight composite luggage framing into two custom made high
powered weapons with whisper quiet silencers. Binoculars and the
35mm SLR camera lenses, containing lenses within lenses, were
quickly converted and fashioned into special laser optical sights for
telescopic targeting with night vision, thermal, and infrared capability.
The 35mm SLR cameras, light meters, and flash packs were snap
assembled into vast reservoir carbines for their ultra lethal, whispersilenced weapons. What was so mistakenly perceived by customs and
airport security systems as solid-state components of the interior of
the video equipment, in reality ingeniously contained hundreds of
rounds of punch-out ammunition made of graphite composite, and the
sound equipment cleverly disguised a highly sensitive long-range
listening device. Shamus and Bob had assembled two of the most
lethal weapons on the face of the earth. Weapons nearly identical to
the silent spitting serpent Shamus ODonnell used to bring down the
brutal Iraqi death squad over twenty-three years ago.
ODonnells plan was simple and once executed would prove highly
profitable for the Pashas and the entire village. Shamus and Bob were
prepared to pay a price five times higher than the villagers would ever
receive for fleece and sheep and goat hides, and would further dole a
handsome amount of cash to the Pashas as escort fees for delivering
the cache through Syria to the port city of Latakia. The cargo truck

123

Shamus purchased would remain with the Pashas once Shamus and
Bob were aboard the Argos Seas. The only proviso: wrapped in the
wool and hides would be rare, ancient Mesopotamian antiquities,
antiquities of great value to wealthy Westerners. Ajwan asked for the
weapons and the surveillance equipment-it was a done deal.
While Kurds were ousting Iraqi Arabs from stolen Kurdish land in
surrounding towns, they had overlooked a key, little known Baathist
safe house tucked away in yet another forgotten, nameless village just
twelve kilometers from the Syrian border.

Here lay a long time

accumulated cache of priceless Mesopotamian antiquities stolen from

the Iraqi people by greedy Baathists loyal to Saddam Hussein. U. S.
intelligence had been strictly forbidden from exposing the loot. The
quieting order long ago came from the highest levels of government,
the U. S. government. Now was the time to countermand that order.
* * * * * * *
Darkness had befallen the hilly region hours ago, silently spreading its
star twinkling black velvet blanket over the desolate land.

The

darkness also sent a late night chill of descending cool air sliding
down the surrounding hills, sweeping over the sleepy village with a
crisp, frosty wave. Several dew-drenched villagers had just finished
bundling their wares with the exception of five untied bundles of wool
and skins; these were left for wrapping the special cargo. Packing the
cargo truck for the long haul to Latakia did not take long and soon
Shamus, Bob, Ajwan and his two sons were on their way to liberate
the antiquities. The Pashas were nervous. They had never been more

124

than a few kilometers from Zahknampersahz and it was five hundred

kilometers to Latakia. If all went well the round trip would take less
than a week, provided they made it past their first stop.
The ride to the antiquities had been bumpy and uncomfortable at best.
Ajwan and his sons were nearly carsick but miraculously recovered
upon sighting the outskirts of the nameless village just twelve
kilometers from the Syrian border.

Leaving the cargo truck a

kilometer or two from the village was not an option. The men needed
to get in quickly and out quicker.

They slowly drove past the

windowless dwelling where the stolen artifacts were stored. It was a

common house for the village, much the same as Ajwan Pashas.
Surprisingly, the area lacked lighting and visible security, no sensors
of any kind and no apparent guards. Shamus and Bob knew better.
Millions of dollars in rare antiquities would not be left unprotected.
Surely the interior was armed to the teeth with protection devices.
Shamus and Ajwans sons, Serhat and Baran, stayed with the truck,
quietly parked at the end of the street. Ajwan and Bob furtively
sauntered back to safe house.

Darkness still pervaded the early

morning, Bob and Shamus preferred it. Both men were equipped with
night vision, a definite advantage in the pitch black of night. Ajwan
and Bob approached the entrance to the target with caution. The
cover of darkness was there dearest friend, at the moment. Bob could
detect no laser tripping devices or motion sensors. His thermal device
reported nothing warm neither behind the door nor within a onehundred square foot area of the interior. Bob approached the doorway

125

slowly. He examined every crack and crevice of the door and its
craggy worn jamb. Nothing! Not even a clear trip-thread or slender
strip of tape. The doorway did not appear to be booby-trapped. The
lock on the door was just as the many locks of the surrounding
buildings, a shoddily installed old deadbolt.

The door handle

contained no lock. Bob quickly slipped a master key into the rusty
lock slot of the deadbolt and turned the key. It was a struggle. Click!
No alarms sounded. The thermal detector again registered nothing.
Bob slowly turned the door handle and the door grudgingly creaked
open. The smell was damp and musty, a trapped, aged stench. Bob
detected no interior security and no alarm system. Could this be the
right place? Bob surveyed the room. With the exception of time
accumulated dust piles and countless silken spider webs, it was
completely empty, devoid of furnishings, provisions, and, with the
exception of the spiders and their spoils, any evidence of life in the
recent past. Ajwan noticed something peculiar about the hearth-it had
never been used-no soot, no burn scars, not even an ash.

He

cautiously brushed away the evident years of dust looking for trip
wires. He gingerly placed his hands on every stone, and pushed and
tugged each as he surveyed the strange fireplace. Ajwan reached up
into the flue and slowly yanked a slim cable with a wooden handle.
The men heard a grinding movement as if one stone or brick was
rubbing against another. Suddenly one grew to two and two to three.
The floor beneath the hearth was beginning to open. Air, even fouler
than the air in the room they were in, began to rush out like a genie in

126

a bottle, spiraling upward, escaping years of acrid confinement.

Concealed beneath the hearth was a chamber at least sixty feet square
and eight feet deep. Floodlights shined by the two men revealed that
the dank room was lined with heavy stainless steal shelving, cradling
thousands of priceless antiquities dating back thirty-five hundred
years; again, no alarms or trips of any kind. Could this possibly have
been forgotten? Bob and Ajwan wasted no time in pondering the
possibilities. They dropped into the chamber, and each man grabbed
several artifacts and any evidence of provenance attached.

The

mission was to take only what you could carry, once.

Safely out of the cellar, Ajwan tugged the flue cable again and the
hearth floor began to close. The men swiftly traversed the small room
to the doorway, methodically checking the outside for any guards,
anyone. It was clear. Bob and Ajwan casually began their short
journey to the waiting truck when out of nowhere four rough looking
men, armed with high powered rifles and dressed with bandoleers of
large caliber ammunition crisscrossing their chests, appeared
menacingly in their path, obvious remnants of an Iraqi paramilitary
death squad still loyal to the ousted regime of Saddam Hussein.
Darkness of night was slowly evaporating to the murky haze of
twilight. The advantage of night vision was no longer an advantage.
Shamus, alert, readied his deadly equalizer.

It would take three

seconds to silently spit four lethal rounds into the menacing death
squad. Bob and Ajwan approached the men, still casual in amble.

! Stop! One yelled out in Arabic. Ajwan froze in place in

127

fear for his life but Bob kept walking intrepidly towards the squad.

! Stop! Again, was yelled out in Arabic. Focused like a

leopard stalking prey, Bob, widening his stride and hastening his step,
fearlessly advanced toward the men at an increasing pace. The death
squad raised their weapons and Bob rapidly continued to close on
them as they took aim. Shamus took aim. Before Shamus could
squeeze off a round Bob Harris had disarmed the four men and
rendered them immobile, lifeless. No shots had been fired. Ajwan
Pasha, still frozen in place and languishing in a puddle of urine,
instantly reminisced flashes of his distant past, remembering how he
had witnessed such skill only once before, nearly a quarter of a
century ago. But that skill was performed with a high powered rifle
with a telescopic sight by a legendary, world class assassin. Bob
Harris, the humble linguist, political liaison, cryptologist, effortlessly
dismantled these four death squad thugs, gracefully using his hands
and feet with lightning speed and lethal force. The four riflemen
proved no match for the swift and lethal martial skills of humble Bob
Harris. Their motionless carcasses were evidence to that maxim. Cal
Carrington had trained his men well in the martial ways of the Shao
Lin. Shamus ODonnell was stunned!
Bob ran back to where he had dropped his antiquities at the beginning
of the tragic encounter and to the numbed Ajwan, he commenced to
retrieve the artifacts and the trembling Kurd. Bob managed to coax
Ajwan into moving. Both scurried to the humming cargo truck and
hurriedly climbed in with the spoils of their mission intact. Albeit the

128

exception of the four lifeless riflemen, they sped off toward the west
into the hazy twilight and out of the village undetected.

129

Sixteen
Late spring had casually drifted into early summer as several weeks
quietly passed quickly and uneventfully since the Marianne encounter.
Neither Wohlgathor nor Kilmartin had approached Jimmy Samuels
about his heated meeting with Givvings. Most likely news of the
event never reached the Director or Deputy Director of the NSA; it
was now a personal and secret matter between Jimmy Samuels and
Daniel Givvings.

Jimmy detected no physical or electronic

surveillance since either the Givvings of Marianne events. However,

it was frightfully apparent that Givvings and the CIA would not
merely cease and desist in pursuit of Cal Carrington, especially when
it meant the possible addition of the biggest find, second only to
Osama Bin Laden or Antoine Lully, and redemption in the eyes of the
American public, and more importantly the White House, for the poor
intelligence gathering and reporting since 9/11 and the Iraq debacle.
Jimmy made no efforts, either casually, professionally, or covertly to
contact Marianne since that rainy Friday night at his apartment, and
tracking down Cal to leak a report on the recent events was absolutely
taboo. As a standard cautious maneuver, Jimmy had immediately
snowed out all possibility of any audio or video surveillance by the
CIA before the Langley visit and before sending Givvings the CD.
His sophistication in the detection and neutralization of surveillance
devices was second to none, and by far superceded anything the CIA
and Givvings could muster. Not even the NSA was aware of his

130

detection and masking prowess. His home, land telephone, cellular

telephone, pager, computers, internet connections, and automobile had
been sterilized and vigilance was 24/7.

But, still not even one

encroachment attempt, not even a minute increase in noise or a stray

microwave. Jimmys direct reports to the President were winding
down to a trickle. The President was overly occupied with the Iraq
conflict and the increasing lack of evidence surrounding Weapons of
Mass Destruction. Public relations on a global scale and reaffirming
waning allied nations of his Middle East intentions were consuming
his time. The world was growing impatient with the administrations
repetitive verbiage of near future delivery of WMD and the ever
present reality of empty promises. NSA reports could wait.

Jimmy came home one afternoon to find a FedEx retrieve tag wrapped
around his front door handle. He never received parcel deliveries
other than mail from the United States Postal Service at his Odenton
residence. The local FedEx facility closed at 7:00 PM. He still had
forty-five minutes to get there and he was only a ten minute drive
away. Jimmy retrieved his letter package from the FedEx facility.
The sender had a Long Island address and the senders name: Shaozu
Zhang. Opening the package proved innocent enough; there was no
mysterious dust or exploding gas. The contents were merely a first
class one way airline ticket to Kennedy International Airport, a one
way train ticket to Greenport, Long Island, and a note mapping out the
itinerary in Chinenglish accompanied:

131

***
***Kennedy 6:41

8
14 , 2003***
***
***Cab

***
, ***
***
***
***
8:01***

***
***
***Greenport 10:27***

***Car
dreams***
***
***
***
******
***
***Open-ses-a-mi***
***
***
***
***
*** 4:14 PM***
***!

(***Arrive Kennedy International Airport 6:41 AM August 14,

2003***
***Cab to Long Island Railroad station, Jamaica terminal***
***Leave Jamaica terminal at 8:01 AM***
***Arrive Greenport at 10:27 AM***
***Car of your dreams***
***Follow the map***
***Open-ses-a-mi***
***Dark night 4:14 PM***Wait!)

132

Seventeen
Mid-August was ungodly hot in the Mid-Atlantic States and the
Northeast.

Jimmy and Marianne were still incommunicado.

Marianne had remained at the CIA, uncomfortably, but it was her only
possible connection, other than Jimmy Samuels, to Cal Carrington.
Jimmy Samuels had requested taking a four day weekend for some
R&R in Long Island the day after receiving the FedEx from Shaozu
Zhang. It was early morning, Thursday, August 14, 2003. Jimmy
was on his way to the airport.

Jimmys flight to New York arrived at Kennedy International Airport

on time and he quickly summoned a cab for a ride to the train station.
Surprisingly the train was on time and he boarded it at the Jamaica
terminal. Jimmy patiently rode the steel rails for nearly two and a half
hours, more than double his plane flight time.

There it was:

Greenport, Long Island, an historic seaport village on the North Fork

of eastern Long Island. If it wasnt for modern automobiles prowling
its rustic streets you could swear you stepped back into a by-gone era
when Greenport was a successful whaling port in the mid-nineteenth
century.

Son-of-a-bitch, thought Jimmy Samuels.

A 1968

Checker Marathon in absolute mint condition, Jimmy Samuels

dream car!
Hello! Hello! Yoo-hoo! Mister Samuels! For a split second
Jimmy had overlooked the fact that an attractive brunette in her early

133

forties was sitting behind the wheel of the mammoth Marathon.

Mister Samuels, Mister Shaozu Zhang has asked me to escort you to
the beach house. Its only a few minutes drive. Hop in! Jimmy
Samuels gladly obeyed the perky summons of the brunettes invitation
and dropped his leather luggage bag on the spacious floor of the
cavernous rear section of the car and slid into the passenger seat in the
front of the car.
Mister Zhang sent me this photo of you along with explicit
instructions to make you as comfortable as possible. Are you here on
business or vacation?
Its a pleasure trip. Whats your name?
Oh, Im sorry. I guess I got so excited when you arrived that I forgot
to introduce myself. Im Sue Ellen Langdon, the real estate broker
who arranged the house rental for mister Zhang. Its quite the house,
Mister Samuels. We call it the cats meow of the North Fork. I
believe mister Zhang has made an excellent selection and I have no
doubt that you will be quite comfortable . . . Sue Ellens voice was
delightful and captivating, she was a fountain of knowledge regarding
the North Fork of eastern Long Island, a mythical Siren driving a
1968 Checker Marathon. Jimmy sat back pleasantly mesmerized and
admired the car. Oh, here we are! What do ya think? Come on,
lets go inside and Ill show you around.
Sue Ellen was not puffing when she said it was the cats meow of the
North Fork. The house was magnificent, spacious, and ingeniously
decorated. Technologically, it was a mini Gates mansion. The beach,

134

however, turned out to be a small displaced spit of sand at the waters

edge of the shallow sloping backyard of the two-story, ultra-modern
Victorian.

To one side of the beach stood a lengthy boat slip

protruding into the calm basin of the protected inlet. It boasted an

impressive forty-five foot cabin cruiser, securely moored, and begging
to be sailed.
Mister Zhang has also leased the boat with the house. Do you have a
captains license mister Samuels? Mister Zhang has assured me that
he wont sail the craft without a captain. Because the cabin cruiser is
leased with the house, its considered a charter and charters require
captains.
We can trust mister Zhang to do the right thing Sue Ellen, and no I
dont have a captains license.
Well . . . The house is fully stocked with foods, gourmet to junk, and
every beverage imaginable for your gastronomical delight. Exterior
and select interior lighting is programmed to gradually energize at
first detection of twilight. A large three ring binder on the mahogany
table in the kitchen will assist you with any questions about the house.
If you prefer to forgo the binder, you can access any information
about the house from the voice prompted computer system.

Its

available everywhere inside the house and can be activated simply by

saying computer: where is, or computer: identify, or computer: turn
on, turn off, or . . .
Ive got the idea Sue Ellen.

135

Okey-dokey, then. Here are the keys mister Samuels, and my card
should you require anything. Im sure you will enjoy your stay in
Greenport. Its a small village, so we might bump into one another
again. Bye, bye!
Jimmy explored the house and swept it for bugs, noise, cameras, and
intrusive micro-waves. The house was clean and the surrounding area
within three hundred yards, including the cabin cruiser, was clean.
Now what was ***
*****
***
*** (***Follow the map***), ***
***Openses-a-mi***
***,
***
***, ***
*** 4:14 PM***
***!
(***Dark night
4:14 PM***Wait!)?

It took less than an hour for Jimmy to memorize and master every
electronic device in the house. The basement contained three massive
generators with soundproofing and exhausts vents.

The huge

dynamos were designed to detect and anticipate power fluctuations in

the electrical supply, supplying a continuous, synchronized, and
unnoticeable transition of uninterrupted electricity in the likelihood of
a power outage.

The generators brains were powered by solar

batteries deriving their energy from decorative solar panels, of which

the greenhouse was partly constructed. Jimmy took full advantage of
the gourmet treats the kitchen yielded. He feasted on lobster salad,
spicy tuna tamaki, asparagus vinaigrette, and citrus Gatorade.

combination of very little sleep and a full stomach summoned a short

nap before the 4:14 thing and Jimmy confidently dozed off.

136

Jimmy woke at 4:00 PM and was fully energized. At exactly 4:14 PM

the electricity went off. But this should not have happened. Surely
the generators would have reacted. Jimmy secured a flashlight and
made his way down to the basement and the generator area. The solar
batteries were intact and the generators computer system was
operational.

Why didnt the generators engage?

Jimmy began

fiddling with the control panel and low and behold the digital readout
flashed a message: Dark night Jimmy---You have followed the map--***Open-ses-a-mi***---Shaozu Zhang. The message was clear. This
brought to mind something Jimmy had noticed upon his inspection of
the house, one simple item had been overlooked: candles and now
Jimmy knew why. Jimmy made his way out of the basement and
turned off his flashlight. Jimmy Samuels would wait for dark night.

***************

The late afternoon heat outside Greenports technological wonder was

sweltering, but the interior of the house remained cool and
comfortable. Jimmy remained indoors until twilight. He carefully
scanned the grounds and surrounding areas and once again, as earlier,
it was clean. Jimmy found a comfortable chair on the rear patio,
activated his surveillance system, and waited. Five hours had passed
since the power outage, unusually long Jimmy thought and, except for
some stars twinkling through slow moving cloud cover, it was dark as
pitch.

137

(The spirit

passes undetected, the man unseen, but the voice never changes.)
Jimmy instinctively vaulted from his chair and swung around in the
direction of the whispering incantation, and in the instant he had set
himself for martial contact realized who it was. Only one man could
have weaved through Jimmys warning devices, and only one man
could speak Chinese with that horrible accent.
You son-of-a-bitch! . . . Ive got the Goddamned CIA after me and
you . . . awe, man . . . its so great to see you, alive!
Its great to see you too, Jimmy, even in the dark. Lets go inside for
a few minutes.
So Cal, when were you going to tell me about Marianne?
Marianne?
She accidentally found a photo of you breezing through baggage
claim in Buenos Aires.
Jimmy, were a little tight on time. Get your belongings and lets
take a walk. You bring me up to date and Ill fill you in. Come on,
the tides waiting.
Tide?
Ill fill you in. We have to go.

***************

How did you manage the blackout, Cal?

138

We hacked into the Ohio-Michigan grid system and started rocking

the computers, unbalancing the voltage. It took about three hours to
get it to lean and begin tripping the Midwest grids. We essentially
caused the flow of electricity to reverse its direction to clockwise and
it surged big-time, overloading grids that werent designed to handle
the wattage, until a cascading system wide automatic shutdown
occurred. Once the overloads surged it took about nine seconds for
everything to begin to crash. I thought we did well to predict the
timing from Ohio eastward via Canada. Its time the NSA, CIA, and
FBI got off their complacent asses and got with the private and
government energy watchdogs and looked beyond the target. The
corporate sectors overly frugal marriage of oil powered, steam driven
turbines and antiquated communication and cyber technology is in
need of a long overdue overhaul. This was a national wake up call,
Jimmy. I needed the diversion to distract everyones attention away
from the Argos Seas for a few hours. Most of the municipally owned
power companies are still supplying electricity. Its the corporately
owned power companies subscribing to oil to churn their steam
turbines that were hardest hit. It was a gesture of necessary evil. I
apologize to all those that have been inconvenienced, there was no
other way to get into the country. Im sorry . . . I had a bizarre
meeting with Antoine Lully . . .
Cal and Jimmy walked through the crowded darkened streets of the
village of Greenport to an open field where Cal had left the chopper.
Cal and Jimmy talked extensively during the walk and the short flight

139

to the Argos Seas. The plan was to take advantage of the diversion to
enter and leave the country undetected, and the time it took for the
Argos Seas to sail southward toward the Maryland coast to brief
Jimmy Samuels.

Cal wasnt surprised by Givvings actions and

reactions. Marianne threw him a curve he was not prepared for.

Adjustments would have to be effected and plans modified. By the
time the craggy freighter was in chopper range of the Maryland coast
the plans had been adjusted and set. Jimmys instructions were clear
and understood.
Ive arranged a rental for you. Its in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart
reserved for the RVs. Cal handed Jimmy a note with the name and
address of the rental agency. Jimmy read it and handed it back to Cal.
Theyll take the car and arrange for a cab, its been paid for. No
questions asked. Take the keys. And Cal Carrington set the stealthy
whirlybird down unnoticed in a hayfield, within walking distance of
the super department store.
Ill see you in a few weeks, Jimmy.
(Good luck!)
Maana, Shaozu Zhang, whispered Jimmy as the MD 900 Explorer
silently whirred off like a ghost in the night, magically disappearing
into the early morning sun.

140

Eighteen
Shamus and the Indigo crew were not in favor of Cal Carrington
deliberately dangling himself in public, like so much chum in shark
infested water. Especially so when Cal opted out of the safety of a
tracking device, he feared that the signal emitted by the transmitter
could be intercepted by the other side and he was right, he used to be
the other side. In his characteristically swift and quiet way, Cal
charily calculated the dangers and risks-this was the quickest way to
route out a response from those that wanted him dead. If he was not
transmitting a homing signal then his stalkers would feel free to make
their move. Cal Carrington had not survived in covert intel for so
long by winging it. His plan was a dangerous one, relying heavily on
virtually last minute data gathering and communications he would not
be privy to. His life would be hanging in the balance and he trusted
the men he trained to protect that life, but not overtly-it must be at a
distance. Carringtons tactic of choice to roust out the vermin sent to
exterminate him was simple, uncomplicated, and unceremonious: let
them chase you until you catch them. After all, to catch a predator the
bait must be real, tempting, and safe to hunt, then it will most likely
be taken. He decided to meet Marianne, the unknowing prodder Judas
horse supposedly enticing an unsuspecting Cal Carrington into
captivity; the bait to be taken by the bait to be taken. There was no
doubt in Cals mind that Marianne had been under heavy surveillance

141

by the CIA since she announced her serendipitous discovery of Cal

carelessly roaming through baggage claim in BA international airport;
surveillance by the CIA and who else. Cal wanted to know the who
else. He hoped the who else would move first. The meet had been
arranged without Mariannes knowledge.

Jimmy Samuels had

managed to coax a reluctant Marianne to join him and several friends

at a coveted, over the top, nearly impossible to get into, luxuriously
posh nightclub, The Mlange, in the protected area of the Federal
district of Washington, D. C. It was an expensive and exclusive, no
holds barred, anything goes slice of Sodom and Gomorra that would
never be accused of having an aspect of reticent dignity. Elite in its
reputation, The Mlange, a smoldering cauldron of decadence,
overflowing with societys dregs as its surly clientele, and seasoned
with sin and deceit, screamed of lust and illicit adjure. A veritable
melting-pot fte of upper-crusty social slime where the shameless,
brazen, bored vermin of the free worlds wealthy, royals, heads-ofstate, diplomats, attachs, politicians, lobbyists, and their jaded
accompanying parasites meshed, could get liquored-up, doped-up,
unconscionably lucky, and roam unconditionally emancipated from
civil and moral consequences, only suffered outside the decadent
nurturance of its wicked confines. Jimmy Samuels had arranged entry
for six guests. Inside, the opulent nightspot resembled an old, multilevel library, rich with ornate, intimately explicit, hand carved
woodworking and sexually evocative sculpted poses suggestively
frozen in alabaster statuary. A cavernous vaulted arch, dominating the

142

core of the sprawling room, flaunted its twinkling jewel encrusted

dome, artistically intertwined with masterfully sculpted, brilliantly
painted erotic reliefs of excerpts from the Tantra and Kama Sutra-a
fiercely vivid, aerial masterpiece.

Each level was dramatically

peppered with cascading mezzanines, lavishly harboring suggestive

seating arrangements and imaginative drink docks. Every level of the
dimly lit colossus was tightly packed with a notorious pungence and
aromatic blend of wafting exotic scents of smuggled perfumes, Asian
cannabis, North African hashish, and Cuban cigars, no doubt a relaxed
breeding ground for illicit traffickers neatly veiled in the raucous mix
of vibrant, pulsating music and buzzing conversations, loud and
lively. Patrons continuously surged in and out of luxurious openings,
willingly crowding in every nook and cranny to be uncomfortably part
of something grand, to be with those to be with.
waiting.

Cal would be

Jimmy Samuels, sleeveless and handsomely chiseled,

nudged his way into The Mlange with a vivacious red head, coiffed
with a rich and radiant flaming mane of seductively long, fiery locks.
The young woman, affectionately draped over the masculinity of
Jimmys toned, bare arm, was dazzlingly stunning and scantly
wrapped in a revealing, strapless, halter midriff of emerald sequence
with matching slacks she somehow delicately poured herself into;
provocatively sensuous slacks beginning several inches below her
naked, pierced navel and revealing no silhouette of undergarment; her
glamorous presence delightfully flaunting an exquisitely sumptuous
display of evocative, centerfoldesque eye candy. They aggressively

143

squeezed their way in a little further, as close as they could get to the
elevated runway of a bar, where they were more than warmly greeted,
physically so, by two equally stunning, garishly clad, voluptuous
blondes, endowment silicon based, no doubt, and overtly lesbian, or
so it would appear. They all blended well with the remains of the
surrounding gregarious sea of carefree, morally emancipated
humanity. The music was earsplitting and the vibrations washed over
every inch of ones body, annoyingly massaging your essence,
inescapably, right down to the bone. If you were not specifically
looking for someone you most likely wouldnt recognize anyone,
regardless of how close they may be.

The place was a perfect

playground for those that wanted to be anonymous and unseen in a

renowned crowd.

Suddenly, for Cal, the boisterous, mammoth,

darkish room became silent and brightly illuminated: Marianne had

arrived. Jimmy spotted her the moment she appeared and graced his
way through the jammed herd of self-absorbed political social
climbers to greet her. He successfully managed to weave them both
back to his entourage for introductions.

This was a vulnerable

moment for Cal. It was also perplexing. He observed no physical

surveillance of Marianne, either by camera or a tailing spotter. Was
she wired? Cal surveyed her clothing and purse. Now the quiet
luminosity Mariannes long awaited entrance had created began to
wane and altogether vanish as reality reared its cacophonous, dimly lit
atmosphere once again. Jimmy appeared to be giving directions to
Marianne and pointing to the rear of the room, the rest rooms. She

144

left for the rear of the club, solo. This was the time for Cal to make
his move. It must be swift. Marianne must respond quickly and
quietly. Shamus was waiting with the car on the next street, but first
the meeting then the exit. It had to be quick. Now!
Mariannes eyes adjusted to the dim room with lighting speed.
Stunned, her mouth opening, about to blurt Cals name, was lovingly
caressed by the tender touch of Cals outstretched fingers gently
pressing against her full and luscious lips, exciting lips long absent
from the wanting reaches of Cals lonely heart. She said nothing. Her
eyes welling began to speak volumes and Cal eyes answered in kind,
the brief silent speak interrupted only by Cals hand gesture, come
with me. They squeezed through the swarming throng unnoticed and
out the crowded doorway onto the street. Still silent, they walked
beyond the flocking mass of chauffeured, dawdling limos, vigilantly
circling and ever watchful.

Once past the endless stream of

wandering sedans, the exiting couple increased their pace to slightly

faster than a casual saunter to the waiting minivan on the next street.
Shamus astutely unlocked the doors and the reunited lovers slipped
into the privacy of the middle seat.

Nothing said, Shamus

immediately drove off to the corner and obeyed the written command
reflecting from the corner stop sign. A cross traffic vehicle suddenly
appeared from left to right, screeching to a skidding, smoking halt and
stalling directly in front of them just as another car more than mildly
rear-ended the minivan. A brace of two more vehicles squealed to an
abrupt jerking halt on either side of the van. They were trapped. In

145

an instant the rear window shattered and a numbing smoke bomb

exploded in the car. Marianne screamed in terror. There was no
escape. They took the bait, Cal thought.

But who were they. The

noxious fumes from the smoke bomb were remarkably fast acting; it
was a gaseous form of etorphine hydrochloride, M99, an animal
tranquilizer.

Cal saw no one before slipping into euphoric

unconsciousness.
. . . Who . r. . you? . . . What do . . . know? . . . W . . . are . . . here? . . .
Wh . . . is . . . r name? Cals mind was spinning uncontrollably in a
semiconscious web of garbled voices waxing and waning.

They

seemed to be speaking in sentences with soundless gaps, as if

someone was childishly playing with the volume control on a public
address system. His head was pounding with excruciating tremors
and throbbing aches.

His tongue felt swollen and puckered with

cottony dryness and lay numb in his mouth, unable to from words. He
had awakened to a stinging pinprick in the back of his neck and
jumbled, incoherent words blaring through his bleary mind.

An

injection of naltrexone had been administered to counter the effects of

the M99 gas. It felt as if his eyes were going to pop out. The back of
his head was pulsating and his breathing was painful, taxed, and
difficult at best. Shamus was just as groggy and gasping. Marianne
was still out. It was a nightmare. The recitative of the monotone
voice, with its undetectable east European accent, inexorably asking
the same questions, was waxing and waning and echoing as Cal kept
slipping in and out consciousness. The place smelled acrid, pungent

146

with the mix of machine oil, the slag scoria of burnt metal, and an
unpleasant corrosive odor of hydrochloric acid making it even more
difficult for the captives to breathe.

Wherever they were it was

cavernous; a damp, moldy, sooty building; an aging, abandoned and

forgotten warehouse, perhaps waterfront. Could it be the Virginia
side of the Potomac, Chesapeake Bay? The maniacal quizzing went
on relentlessly and Cal lost track of time. At some point Cal realized
the excessive quizzing abruptly ceased. The room was verbally silent.
Only the neglectful stench of industrial waste dominated the moment.
Cal had no idea how long the monotone had been silenced. He knew
the tactic. A short reprieve followed by an even more intense period
of questioning that would alternate between longer periods of silence
and gradually more viscous styles of interrogation. How long had this
procedure gone on? He just couldnt shake off the cobwebs to get a
lucid read on the environs and his controlling captors or the events
taking place. Suddenly, Cal felt a painful plunge of something sharp
into the left side of his neck as he heard Shamus and Marianne cursing
somebody or something, just before he dropped off.
Cal woke from the drug induced stupor administered by his
interrogative captors, flanked by Marianne and Shamus, also waking
from the paralyzing effects of the unwanted narcotic. The groggy
hostage trio was loosely tethered together with a flexible strand of
one-eighth inch cable, the kind used to secure bicycles to fixed
objects.

Apparently they had been transported from the dingy,

isolated waterfront warehouse, where their haphazard interrogation

147

began, and dumped in an even more desolate place, as yet unfamiliar.

Each was now awkwardly wrapped with a heavy, deadly vest of
wicked explosives padlocked around their aching torsos. The crude
construction of the bomb packs were composed of several sticks of
dynamite with volatile blasting caps. A disturbing flickering of a
green LED timing device attached to each vest indicated an even
cruder triggering mechanism hastily counting down precious seconds
to detonation. Five hooded men trained silencer equipped handguns
with laser sights on the foreheads of the vested captives. Cal noticed
the menacing, tiny red laser beams reflecting off the trios sweaty
foreheads seemed to bounce and dance in comic relief. Or were the
beams shaking because the gunmen were nervous? Cal and Marianne
and Shamus were perched at the open end of a long, low lying, and
unfenced pier. The noticeably strong breeze of air was pleasantly
fresh. Breathe deeply, Cal muttered. They managed to stand,
groggy and wobbling in the stiff wind. No boats were in sight of the
limited visibility of the immediate area, either tied to the pier or in the
water, and the darkness was such that the beginning of the pier
connecting to dry land could not be seen. The misty night was eerily
devoid of any starlight or reflective light pollution. Only the ambient
light of a single down-turned flashlight sparsely illuminated the long,
dark pier. The wind was growing stronger and the water kicked up
over the planks and splashed into Cals face. The water was fresh. A
sixth man came into view and the interrogation began again. The
same questions were nervously delivered in what could now be

148

perceived as a phony foreign accent that modulated from Germanic to

Russian and back: How much did they know? Did they want to live
or be blown to pieces? What was their mission? Precious seconds
were ticking away. Cal knew if they said nothing they would live that
much longer; emotionally painfully so, but alive. The LEDs were
still counting down. The explosives, hokey as they were, were real.
Give them what they want and its probably a bullet to the head. Say
nothing and . . . As the flashing, digital, green readouts illuminated a
time of less than one minute and fifteen seconds, the gunmen and the
interrogator swiftly maneuvered away in retreat from their captives.
Cals whirring, cryptographic mind, heavily influenced with
diminishing tranquilizing remnants of narcotic residue, irrationally
burdening his thought process with raw, burning emotion, was
calculating variables at the speed of light. Quasi-schizophrenic and
tormenting, painful images of loved ones clouded the choices at hand
and meshed with exploding synaptic responses, churning millions of
connecting neurons in an electro-chemical lightning storm. As fresh
thoughts rapidly emerged from the lightning vortex in his busy mind,
they found their way zigzagging through a thick forest of recently
born companion thoughts. As more fresh thoughts flooded in constant
supply, the more abundant positive, agile thoughts promptly
permutated into newly formulated variables conceiving even newer
permutations in an endless series of involuntary conative actions,
flowing and spawning and mutating into more abstract notions; a
never-ending, neuropsychological whirlwind. A viable solution was

149

close at hand. Cal decided to take a calculated risk. Only seconds

remained. The interrogator and his small army were far enough away
that he had to yell. The timing couldnt have been more perfect, Cal
barked: Everybody into the water and swim toward the bottom and
away from the point of the pier.

He jumped and his tethered

companions followed into the frothy water. Would it be in time?

Cal figured correctly.

No shots were fired.

The triggering

mechanisms of the crude, poorly constructed explosive vests shorted

out in the choppy waters of the non-salty, less conductive, fresh water
lake. They must have swum thirty yards from the end of the dock.
Multiple conical illuminating beams of frantically waving flashlights
were dancing hysterically from the pier onto the surface of the water,
reminiscent of the nervous laser beams on the once captives
foreheads. Cal estimated that the soggy group couldnt be anymore
than seventy yards from the shore line. The explosive vests were
getting heavier and the cable tether was vexing. Their captors had not
fired even a warning shot.

Cal figured that the gunmen were

instructed to toy with them. The non truth inducing knock out drugs
and the crude explosives with lame triggering devices and the shoddy
foreign accent gave it away.
They let us get away. Theyre going to try to recapture us and set up
another escape until we break, then they are going to kill us. Cal
shouted as he easily treaded the choppy waters of what they all
discovered was a shallow lake.

The frantic waving of flashlight

beams suddenly ceased in a diminishing cascade of luminosity, and

150

the pier and the gunmen instantly disappeared into the night. Surely
the interrogation squad did not expect their captors to bolt into the
shallow lake and disappear? Cal gathered the group and they began
to tread into even shallower water.
We need to lose these vests and ditch the tether before we get to
close to shore. They snuck up on us once. They plan to do it again.
Cal, his torso absent of the explosive vest, clutched Marianne, bent
her head down and pulled her arms out in front of her. In a New York
second Cal removed her vest and she was free of the tether. Shamus
felt Cals grip and the same series of maneuvers were successfully
performed on him.
Hang on to the vests. Make sure the LED is dead. Theyre probably
tracking us with transponders attached to the vests. Were going to let
them chase us until we catch them. Lets go.
The shallow lake water wasnt as cold as a deep water lake but it was
uncomfortable enough to make your teeth chatter as the nippy preautumn wind gusts whipped up and wrapped its chilly breath around
Cal, Shamus, and Marianne. They needed to get to the trees. The
shore was lined with intermittent boulders surrounded by a mix of
hard packed gravel and sand. Tracks would be difficult to follow.
The beach ranged from a couple of feet to several yards wide and was
surrounded by a dark, unattended, old growth forest filled with
thousands of continuous performances of competing insect orchestral
works.

151

Leave the vests here on the beach. Space them out. There are
supposed to be people in them, right? Cal said in a strong whisper.
How did you remove the vests and cable, Cal? Marianne asked
with puzzled affection.
Cal, smiling in the dark at the shadowy Marianne: Well have a
lifetime to talk about it, Marianne. But now weve got to catch some
bad guys.

Come with me. And Cal affectionately clasped

Mariannes hand, whispering information to Shamus as they left the

beach for the cover of the blanketing, musical forest.
Shamus, weve got about seven minutes.
Right, understood Cal, Shamus chimed in a hushed tone, as the
words tripped off his tongue in a soft Irish brogue.
The two men knew what to do without saying another word.
Marianne had a hunch and hugged Cal affectionately in silence. They
waited. It was nearly seven minutes and the mix of beach sand and
gravel began to kick up in the flickering of illuminating flashlights.
Cal and Shamus would wait for the six gunmen to amble past then
silently take them down.

Shamus flashed back to that predawn

encounter in Iraq when Bob Harris fearlessly dismantled an Iraqi

death squad of four armed rifleman in the blink of an eye. Cal was
Bobs second greatest martial arts and self defense teacher. With Cal
at hand, Shamus felt confident that they would overcome the six
assailants, comfortably.

Shamus was perched and ready to strike

when instinctively he heard the faint spitting; six continuous rapid,

muted bursts that Shamus recognized from so many times before in

152

his past. Shamus reached out for Cal and wrapped his huge hands in a
concrete grip around his arm, like a doting father instinctively holding
his child back from the dangerous path of an unexpected, recklessly
speeding, passing vehicle.
Wait, exclaimed the elder man, in a whispered hush, his Irish
brogue shinning through, he is not yet gone, be still! They all stood
motionless and silent, obedient to Shamuss instructions. The silence
was eerie. Gravel scrapping under a pair of boots that scurried with
great speed around each gunman, and then disappeared into the night,
broke the unnerving quiet. The running boot falls became fainter with
each passing second. The interrogator and his henchman were dead.
Their heads had exploded, like General Downeys.
Cal scampered out to the downed interrogators, wary, instinctively
scanning the area with each step. Shamus and Marianne followed,
ever vigilant. Between the darkness and the black head masks the
sight of bloody bone splinters and splattered brains was not as
evidently grizzly. All six men were dead. Shamus examined the still
bodies of the lifeless men on the gritty beach and broke silence:
These men were amateurs, inexperienced at pursuit.

They were

taken out so quickly because they were to close together. They didnt
prepare to be hunted, Shamus whispered as he continuously diverted
his attention from the slain carcasses to the surrounding woods and
deserted beach, looking around, ever vigilant. Look at the way they
are laying.

No one guarded the rear.

They used incandescent

flashlights instead of night vision goggles; slow moving targets

153

flaunting bulls-eyes beacons. The fools went down like dominos,

Shamus standing tall, pausing and focusing a bead in the direction the
sniper had retreated spoke softly again, Few men in the world
couldve take down so many moving targets so efficiently and so
quickly in the dark, even when the targets are bunched up like cattle
waiting slaughter. The shooter was more than Government Issue I tell
you, but different than the Downey shooter.
Downey?, quizzed Marianne. Shamus turned to face Mariannes
shadowy silhouette, His assassin was hired for only one sanction, one
target, then back to Cals darkened figure. Thats why your DNA
isnt decorating the ivy on the walls, me bucko. No way were these
country bumpkins directly connected to the people were looking for.
They were sloppy from the beginning. Cal nodded in agreement at
the observation of the wise sage of the covert world and instructed
Shamus and Marianne to each grab two pistols and one flashlight
from the dead men. The weapons were real and loaded with live
ammunition. The safeties were still engaged. Idiots! Thought Cal
and the crusty Shamus in a synchronous exchange of head shaking
nos.
Tuck one gun into your belt, carry the other. Cover the front of your
flashlight to reduce its illumination and point the light down. I dont
want to end up like these bozos . . . Lets go.
What about car keys? Im sure they just didnt hoof it here with us
on their backs. Lets get their keys. Marianne was very strong with
the delivery of her argument.

154

These guys were targets. We were targets. We got away, they

didnt. Whoever took out these idiots is probably waiting for us at
whatever vehicles these guys transported us in. Logistically, were at
a disadvantage. They know how many we are and we dont know
how many they are or where they are. They have long range weapons
with obvious night vision capability and we do not. Cal shot back
firmly, but with a gentle touch.

Marianne began to rebut when

Shamus interjected softly, in a fatherly sing-song manner, with a wisp

of Irish humor, Look at it this way darlin, discretion is the better
part of valor. We need to avoid the vehicles and the road. Were still
being hunted. Besides, its a great night for a walk out of the woods,
and Im sure you have a lot to tell me about The Mlange. Youve
only got a future if you can stay alive, Marianne. Shamus reached
out his burly hand and gingerly wrapped it around Mariannes and
they began to move away from the pile of human flesh laying dead on
the beach.

Marianne muttered under her breath in compromised

protest, I dont have the shoes for this shit!

Approaching the pier, the group noticed three stretchers, obviously the
mode of transportation from the vehicles to the pier for the drugged
captives. The autos had to be close by. The road to the pier was lined
on either side with musical, old growth forest. The trees seemed
thicker and noisier here than near the lakefront. Walking the dirt road
was not wise.

Mariannes understanding of the danger of being

stalked and discovered grew more intensely with every step. No more
than fifteen yards down the now gravel country road, two cargo vans

155

stood silently.

A frightening sight for Marianne, Cals words

bubbling up in the recesses of her mind. Her cowering hesitation to

go any further went unnoticed as Cal and Shamus stopped in
simultaneous frozen posture. The two mens heads swiveled from
side to side like radar antennas; ears perking, acutely focusing on
every sound, systematically filtering the clutter of natures din,
assessing the audio portion of their nocturnal environment for sounds
that did not belong. Their patience to scan seemed prolonged. It was
observational overkill to the layman, but essentially necessary for the
survival of a covert professional-a waiting game. Someone would
eventually make a mistake that could be fatal. Cal and Shamus would
wait. Marianne was frozen in time, a sort of psycho-compensating
suspended animation process. Her desire to live overrode her urge to
nervously clamor. Nearly an hour had passed and the insect concert
had not been quieted by the insertion of disrupting guests. Shamus
and Cal exchanged puzzling looks and shrugging shoulders.
Emerging from her muted, motionless state Marianne added an I
dont know gesture to the silent discussion. Cal motioned with a
forward wave signaling Marianne and Shamus to follow. As the
group guardedly marched with soft, muffled steps through the fringe
of the woods toward the rear of the cargo vans, the daunting silhouette
of two prone lumps began to emerge on the gravel road in the
maddening darkness of forever night. Two men, flat on their backs,
unmoving, as lifeless as the six men back at the beach, but with one
difference: Their heads were intact. No wounds or pools of blood

156

leaking from anywhere. The first man appeared to have suffered a

broken neck, apparently facing his killer; his head was snapped
backward with a fatal blow severing his brain stem. The second
mans breast plate had been caved in. Broken by a fatal blow of
massive, concentrated power-he was wearing a bullet-proof vest; it
could not lessen the lethal, crushing volley that collapsed the mans
lungs and stopped his heart. Shamus and Marianne approached. The
Albanians, Shamus whispered in a disbelieving tone.
Rinon and Rinor Vulaj; twin brothers; the scourge of the Albanian
Secret Police; the ultimate enforcers, exceptionally skilled and
eternally successful freelance operatives, almost prohibitively
expensive. These guys were the cream of the assassins crop, said
the elder Shamus in a building tone, filling with anger.
And they were after us, Cal chimed as an afterthought, rising up
from a squatted position, looking off vacantly into the distance of the
slightly winding, country road.
Where are their weapons? Shamus said in a heavy brogue, almost
as an alert. Get back to the forest, he commanded, as he darted
back to the safety of the edge of the dark stand of trees, Marianne and
Cal by his side.

Frustrated, psychologically spent, and in tears,

Marianne demanded to know what Cal and Shamus had done that
would solicit the goings on of the previous several hours. There was
no simple explanation that would console Marianne and this was not
the time to fish for a few words of comfort. The Albanians were
notorious for traveling with high powered, sniper rifles with telescopic

157

infrared, thermal vision sights and whoever or whatever killed these

men most likely now has those weapons and more. Who hired these
men to sanction Cal and Shamus and Marianne and everybody inbetween? Who had the ability to take these men out without firing a
shot? And who took out the six men on the beach?
Cal, deep in thought, stared at Shamus and Marianne, using their faces
as a movie screen, mentally projecting images of thoughts and
variables buzzing through his mind, literally looking at them but not
seeing them while his calculations played out.

Faint specks of

twilight were beginning to peer through the thick stand of old forest
and bouncing off the rising fog, casting enough light to clearly see Cal
Carringtons vacant, staring face.

It was now apparent Cal was

beginning to sport the slow upward arch of a smile with the look of an
epiphany. Back on the road, were going home! He shouted with
enthusiasm and relief, for all to hear. Come on! Come on! Cal
prompted with a sweeping, waving hand gesture as his step began to
hop with a hurried cantor.

Puzzled and curious, Marianne and

Shamus followed, having difficulty keeping up with the spontaneous

and newly energized Cal. It has got to be good, Shamus assured
Marianne in his most optimistic brogue, pulling her most of the way.
Several hundred yards later, they came upon a jet black Escalade with
heavily smoked windows. The drivers side door was swung opened
all the way and revealed a dark-haired man seated sideways with his
legs propped up on the elevated running board, a waiting sentinel.
Under one arm and over his protruding lap, the man ominously

158

straddled a high powered rifle with a massive muzzle mounted

silencer protruding from its lethal gaping maw, and a colossal
monocular telescopic sight clinging atop its sleek black barrel, the
silencer muzzle pointing down on a bias: Jimmy Samuels!
I venture to say you found the twins. Jimmy said with a scratchy
voice and a tired, half smile.
There are six men in the world that could have dismantled that
Albanian killing machine by hand. Three are in Inis Mr and three
are here in the States. One is docked in Newport News with the Argos
Seas, one spent the night being hunted, and the other is you. Jimmy
responded with momentary silence and a continued smile as he
effortlessly whipped out a small, state-of-the-art walkie-talkie,
Captain Kirk style, Cal, that shipped sailed an hour ago.
Roy Rogers, this is Trigger.
come home.

Four to beam up.

Buttermilk has
Do you copy Roy

Rogers, over?
Copy that, Trigger; energizing, over.
Affirmative . . . Over and out!

Buttermilk? Yodeled Cal, Shamus, and Marianne in quizzical,

harmonious synchrony.
It was just minutes after Jimmy summoned Roy Rogers when
the whirring drone of a vertical rotor craft could be heard humming in
the near distance, the din of its engines getting louder as the
whirlybird closed closer to its rendezvous coordinates.

Within

seconds after the purring engines trumpeting its welcomed arrival, the

159

unexpected splendor of the MD 900 Explorer appeared in sight,

beckoning the weary ground group to the solace and protection of the
stealth-crafts warmth and safety and aerial transport. Billy Schnelling
had arrived!

160

Nineteen
In the air headed for the Virginia coast and the Argos Seas
In the last seventy-two hours, Sam has been monitoring a heavy load
of encrypted phone traffic from several telephone extensions located
in the west wing of the White House-the Vice Presidents office-to
Randolphs home in Georgetown.
Randolph and the Vice President arent the best of friends, how
many calls?
Forty-one, mostly short in duration, and, according to public record,
Randolph wasnt home during the conversations.
Has Sam been able to cipher the permutation strings and synchronize
with the encryption modulations?
Negative.
Is there more?
Yeah, last night several phone calls were placed from a satellite cell
phone to Randolphs, all encrypted. At the time the calls were placed
Randolph was supposedly at the Pentagon meeting with General
Brighton and the Secretary of Defense. Sam managed to triangulate
the cell calls. They were from a variety of locations in the D. C.
metropolitan area beginning outside of Mariannes condo. The next
call was twenty-five minutes later near The Mlange. Everything
went silent for three-and-a-half hours then a long conversation from
inside an abandoned warehouse on the Virginia side of the Potomac.

161

Ownership of the warehouse was traced to MetAll, a defunct company

owned by Wycek Global Enterprises. The place was an old forge and
fabrication company shut down in the early sixties. We contacted
Jimmy with its location.
As I got there, two cargo vans were leaving the building. Another
vehicle popped up out of the dark, the jet black Escalade with heavily
smoked windows. It followed after the vans. I shadowed the caravan
into the country until they turned off the highway on an unpaved, side
road. The last several miles on the highway I had to turn off my
lights, and when they took the side road I stopped on the shoulder and
jogged until I came upon the Escalade. The Albanians were in the
rear of the vehicle assembling their weapons. I followed them to the
cargo vans. They stopped and I took advantage to walk up along side
of them. They were stunned at my sudden appearance. It was the
element of surprise I needed to step in front of them. They raised
their weapons. I did feel a painful twinge in my foot when I kicked
the one guy in the chest. It was like I hit a stone wall.
It wasnt a stone wall, but pretty close. You kicked a level IIIA
Cobra Plus Tactical Vest wrapped around a Kevlar liner. Christ
Jimmy, that thing could stop a Saturn rocket at point blank range.
Maybe he had a heart condition. He went down without a yelp. I
slid one rifle under a van and ran down the road to the pier with the
other one. Six frenetic ghosts, dressed in stealth black from head to
tow, frantically ran past me in hot pursuit of something. I looked
through the scope down the beach and spotted three figures crawling

162

out of the water onto the beach, dropping some kind of packs then
running for the trees. One figure was definitely female, the other two
were male. One of ghosts barked out Fuck the questions! Ive had
enough of this shit. Follow their transponders. Find them and kill
them! . . . They came to a clearing on the beach where the packs had
been left and huddled around them. The guy barking orders raised his
weapon and the others followed, taking aim toward the trees.

neutralized them.
They were pawns, a layer of expendable insulation. The Albanians
were called in to take out the yahoos and us. Whoever hired these
guys called off the CIA surveillance on Marianne last night and its
between the west wing and the Randolphs residence. Ill bet if we
track down the construction of that broken monstrosity on Signy,
well end up with a company related to Randolph, the Vice President,
and the Wycek family. Get Bob and Allan on it immediately and keep
Sam monitoring VOICECAST. I want any available financial records
on the daisy chain. Ill also wager that LIBOM Oil and OXIDEN Oil
have a handsome amount of shares of stock tangled in that daisy
chain. Make the connection.
When the Albanians dont check in with their handler the scum that
hired them will know they failed. Theyre going to send everybody
after us.
*******
In the calm and warm comfort of the stealth chopper, as it flew
cloaked and undetected toward the Argos Seas, now sailing southward

163

in the safety of the Atlantics International waters, Shamus silently

caressed both of the Albanians custom machined .44 caliber death
serpents with bonded, ultra quiet whisper silencers that muffled the
thunderous explosive charge of the magnum cartridges without
decreasing muzzle velocity.

Extreme craftsmanship allowed for

lightning fast munitions recoil, three single trigger squeezed shots

could be accurately discharged in slightly less than one second. The
design and balance of the ultra lightweight alloys minimized its
powerful kick to that of .22 long. To the obvious unspoken delight of
the long time retired super assassin, Jimmy Samuels had respectfully
given the Albanians magnificent trophies to Shamus to steward for
life.

164

Twenty
An Emergency Meeting at the White House
Charles County Sheriffs Department in La Plata received a nineone-one call at approximately eight minutes after seven this morning.
They immediately alerted the Maryland State Police. A fisherman,
that identified himself as Jerry Beckman, stated he found six lifeless
bodies on the beach at Lake Omawhampko, just south of the pier.
Where is Lake Omawhampko?
Mister President, Omawhampko is an abandoned wilderness area,
about three miles west of Bel Alton just off 301. It was closed to the
public by the EPA in nine-teen seventy-one. Omawhampko has been
on the EPAs Superfund sites list since nine-teen eighty, something
about toxic dumping by a defunct company called MetAll.
MetAll, hmm . . . tell me about the bodies.
According to the police report the guy said their heads were covered
with black masks and smothered in deer flies.
Henderson, get to it. Who were the people that were killed and why
are we all here?
We dont really know sir, and thats why we are all here.
There must be more. Continue.
When the police arrived they found the area completely cordoned off
by U. S. Marshals. The marshals claimed priority because it was a
federal site and the dead men were federal agents, a top secret force of

165

specially trained U. S. Marshals. The marshals revealed only that the

six dead men had tracked down and were about to arrest Calvin
Carrington.
Carrington? The man died a year and a half ago.
Givvings impulsively interjected, Perhaps not, Mister President. We
have positive photographic evidence that Carrington is alive and well.
We have confirmed information connecting him to downing two
Harriers off Signy Island and the possible sinking of a merchant ship
in the southeastern Atlantic earlier this year.
The President glaring at Givvings, coyly shot back, And you chose
now to tell us? Why wasnt the FBI involved when he entered the
country or the NSA informed?
Givvings, embarrassed, was uncharacteristically at a loss for words
and sheepishly answered, We didnt know he had entered the
country.
Do you mean you didnt know where he was?
We lost him during the Signy encounter sir.
He just vanished? The President locked gaze with Givvings. No
one spoke. Eyes still focused with disgust, the President broke the
silence, condescendingly:
Continue with the Maryland incident, Henderson.
Yes, Mister President. The marshals already had B.O.LO.s with
Carringtons photos and physical description, and the reasons he was
being hunted.

166

What reasons? Copies of the flyers received by the Charles County

sheriffs and the Maryland State police from the marshals were
distributed to everyone in the room.
How did we find out about this?
As a matter of procedure, the FBI received a telex from the Maryland
State Police. The FBI was furious and immediately contacted Justice.
They knew nothing about a special force of marshals or Cal
Carrington.
Wheres the guy that found the bodies?
Vanished! The cell phone used to contact Charles County sheriffs
was a throw-away.

It was purchased in a convenience store in

Dentsville, Maryland, just off Interstate ninety, a little after six-thirty

this morning.

No security tapes, and the clerk cant give us an

accurate description, hed been drinking. It gets worse.

How?
Somebody tipped a local reporter. We managed to quiet him, for a
while. We told him he had encroached on the Blossom Point Proving
Grounds safe zone and that the matter was highly classified.
Christ, Blossom Point is five miles on the other side of the water!
He bought it.
And who tipped him, the fisherman?
We dont know.

*******

167

Somewhere in the mid Atlantic

Shamus, me boy, this is Captain OLeary. A voice likened to the
thunder of God with a heavy Irish brogue blared through the intercom
speaker of the tiny meeting room just below the main deck of the
Argos Seas, freezing everyone at attention.
Shamus here captain. How can I be of service to yuh?
Im gettin this television transmission off the satellite from the
evening news. Im pipin it through. Gather everyone around and
give a listen.
The Evening News
Good evening, this just in: A murderous tragedy including six
United States Marshals and a national alert. According to a late
breaking report of highly sensitive declassified information
released from the White House moments ago, there exists
evidence that once believed dead, but now very much alive, NSA
special operations agent, Calvin Christopher Carrington faked his
fiery death on Interstate 295, the Baltimore Washington
Parkway, just a few miles south of Maryland state road 175 and
Fort Meade, Maryland in March of 2002. As you may recall, his
automobile caught fire just a few miles from NSA headquarters
and brought rush hour traffic to a screeching halt in both
directions for nearly four hours, with motorists backed up as
much as five miles in either direction. Late last night a specially
trained covert team of United States Marshals tracked Carrington

168

to a remote and secluded wooded area near Lake Omawhampko

in Maryland and were closing in to apprehend him. The result:
six elite United States Marshals are dead, executed, the White
House states, in so grizzly a manner that cannot be any further
described. Carrington is also believed to have, last year, ordered
an NSA elite, deep cover, special operations team working on the
then highly classified Operation Indigo, killed in, and I quote, an
undisclosed South American location in such a way that is so
secret that it cannot be identified.

To add to his list of

horrifying accusations, CIA Director Daniel Givvings released a

statement, included in the White House report, implicating
Carrington in another, and once again I quote, dastardly, fatal
clandestine event in the south Atlantic just off the British
possession of Signy Island, a meteorological research station in
the South Orkney Islands about 375 miles northeast of the
Antarctic Peninsula.

The report indicates that Carrington is

believed responsible for the fatal downing of two Harrier aircraft

and the sinking of the merchant ship Sargasso Sea earlier this
year. Director Givvings statement did not include reasons for the
incident or why two Harrier assault aircraft and a hapless
merchant ship were fatal targets for the now branded NSA rogue,
Calvin Christopher Carrington. The report went on to say that
Carrington is also responsible for sabotaging a computer network
that caused the Great Northeast Blackout August 14, 2003. The

169

Evening News has learned that Carrington was once a trusted

member of the National Security Council and close confidant of
National Security Advisor Henry Walter Randolph.

At times,

Mister Carrington would personally report to the President on

matters of top secret national security. This news of Carringtons
accusations does not come as a shock to the Untied States
Intelligence community.

According to the FBI, Carrington has

been under surveillance for quite some time. Calvin Christopher

Carrington is believed to be heavily armed and extremely
dangerous. If you see this man, do not approach. Immediately
telephone the special twenty-four hot line now showing on your
television screen. That number is 1-800-FIND-CAL, once again
1-800-346-3225.

All callers will remain anonymous.

In

addition to a nationwide manhunt, Interpol is also conducting a

world dragnet for Calvin Christopher Carrington, now, perhaps,
the most wanted man in the world. No White House spokesman
or government officials could be reached for further comment.
What a spin! Man, this is a major smear campaign. Now theyve got
the good guys gunning for us.
Just me Billy . . . its not us, yet. They did get the blackout right. A
little bit of truth mixed in with a lot of fabrication goes a long way at
the White House these days.
Fabrication and bad math: six men, not eight? Thats a bit odd, do
you suppose the Albanians got away?

170

In body bags, Marianne, but who took the bags?

Like Billy said Jimmy, theyre sending everybody . . . everybody
except . . ., Carringtons speech slowed, trailing off in volume to a
loud whisper, and then suddenly appeared distant, as if caught in a
moment of deeply reflective thought. Oblivious to his surroundings,
frozen in silent contemplation, he appeared in a state of near
suspended animation.
Uh, Cal me Ladd, help us out here, everybody except . . . and now
you finish the sentence.
Cal peered at Shamus, all but looking through him, and
introspectively spilled in a slow hushed tone, Were going to need
help.
Aye, that we are Cal. That we are.
Cal, more animated, somewhat excited, Were going to need to buy a
lot of classified advertising, as of yesterday. I know whos pulling the
strings. Shamus, notify OLeary to set sail south. Were going to
sunny South Florida!

171

Twenty-one
Manalapan, Florida
. . . Check it out. These are the same goons the Indigo team put in
the hospital on our last visit. Do you believe how close theyre
coming to the rotor blades?
Give them a thrill, Billy. Rise and tilt a little. Then drop it hard and
shut it down.
Billy dipped the rotor dangerously downward and rocked the whirring
rotorcraft from side to side, whooshing inches above the manicured
tops of the open verdant lawn of van Rijns magnificent mansion.
Billy deliberately hovered the fluttering whirlybird haphazardly across
the lawn, magically suspending the barely airborne bobbing and
weaving chopper. It appeared to meander wildly over the length and
width of the yard, as if out of control and going to crash. The daring
maneuver threw a lightning bolt of fear into the bungling idiots of van
Rijns security force, now desperately sprawled prone over the
oceanfront lawn like littering confetti. The menaced men scattered
like roaches, desperately crawling out of the way, wild with fear.
Billy let the seemingly out of control helicopter appear to plunge
downward ever gently and then cut the engines, a slight bump was
easily absorbed by the air cushions built into the framing of the
landing skids. Annoyed at the frightening rotor blade exhibit, the
motley, foul-mouthed van Rijn security force, weapons steadfastly

172

trained on the whirlybirds passengers, waived Cal and Billy out of

the copter.

Billy shouted out to the ground crew, Its my first

landing . . . Pretty exciting, huh? This thoroughly pissed off the

surly van Rijn bad boys. As a demonstration of their displeasure they
rudely searched the choppers occupants for weapons, wires, and
transmitters-a complete shake-down from head to toe.

Still

smoldering from Billys actions with the helicopter, van Rijns guards
bullied their new found captives with gun prodding directives laced
with an ample dose of profane explicative verbal commands and the
usual assortment of accompanying gestures.

Cal and Billy were

marched off the lawn, hands clasped behind their heads, into a
windowless room. The rooms walls reflected a garishly painted dull
ocher with swirls of avocado green and eye-catching splatters of
paling crimson randomly peppering irregular patterns on the horrid
walls, the crimson was not paint.

Hans van Rijn immediately

appeared with his newly adopted effeminate air of quasi-aristocratic

suave and pseudo-pageantry.

His entrance screamed contrived.

Trailed by several men dressed in black turtle neck sweaters with

loose fitting black slacks, and low shine, black combat boots, the
entourage of bulky, heavily armed burly behemoths of steroidal
manhood, broad shouldered and extraordinarily muscled, was an
obvious staffing upgrade since the Orlando incident.
Well, well, well.

What have we here? . . . Calvin Christopher

Carrington. Van Rijn uttered slowly, almost condescendingly with

sarcastic delight.

His sleazy eyes washing over every inch of

173

Carrington from every angle as if measuring the condition of found

lost goods. My, oh my, oh my . . . my ship has come in. Alas, a
genuine opportunity to show my true worth as a citizen of this fine
country and enrich my circle of legitimate influence. How very clever
Nivlac Nortacgrin. So, I guessed correctly, didnt I Mister Carrington
. . . an anagram. Van Rijns statement resounded loudly, acidly
purred. It was audibly filled with barely controlled contempt as his
eyes grew larger, his irises swollen and glowing with growing disdain.
Your days are numbered, partner, and today is payday for me. Ive
just won the lottery! Van Rijn excitedly yelped in a sing-song,
crescendo blurt, as an evil grin of sardonic irony swept over his
spiteful visage. He was gloating with malicious triumph, the sly
demeanor of a smiling Cheshire cat.
And what is this, pray tell, Calvin? May I call you Calvin? Van
Rijn muttered with subtle sarcasm and mock affection, snatching a
solid gold artifact from one of his arresting security force. Another
acquired trinket, Calvin?
I have brought this for you, Hans. Accept it as a token of our
continued partnership. Van Rijn, nearly frozen with disbelief at this
brazen display, stood quietly as Cal, seemingly unaffected by van
Rijns remarks and attitude, calmly continued. Do you recognize
this, Hans? Its Assyrian, nearly three thousand years old, taken from
a tomb of ancient Kalkhu . . . modern Nimrud, Hans. Its an amulet
found in the tomb of Yaba, Queen of Tiglathpileser III, king of
Assyria, eighth century B.C.

174

Van Rijn now livid with anger, his cavernous nostrils flaring, shouted
with quizzical conviction, Are you insane, Carrington? Look around
you. You are my prisoner! You cant give me any tokens of our
continued partnership, we have none!!! Van Rijn, animated, dancing
around the room with emphatic gestures, pointing out the surrounding
armed security and his oxen entourage. And legally, yes legally I
can hold you. Yes. Yes, yes I can, Carrington. You are a wanted
criminal, an international fugitive, a deserter, a renegade, a murderer
and this other man is your accomplice. You are the most wanted man
in the world and you have just broken into my house to rob me! I will
turn you over to the authorities and selflessly not claim any monetary
reward. It will be a gesture of humanity valued as priceless. Yes,
priceless! Van Rijn shouted. It will open doors for me like a magic
genie in a bottle. And you, you imbecile, you foolishly dropped in out
of the sky and into my lap. What a spot of luck.
Still unshaken by van Rijns threat, Cal continued his pitch. The
amulet, Hans, do you sense its power, its wealth, its intrigue? Does it
excite you, Hans? There is more, Hans, plenty more. The question is
how legitimate do you want to become. Embedded in the heel of my
left shoe is a mini CD with photos of dozens more antiquities more
valuable than this, as you called it, trinket. Van Rijns raucous,
smug hostility was beginning to wane, his acid behavior vanishing
and his terse presence rapidly morphing to a shrewd, puissant
quiescence.

Cal had dangled the carrot and the donkey chased.

175

Acquired art and the riches it summoned were Hans van Rijns
ultimate weakness, his Achilles heel. Van Rijn could not resist.
I also have the name of a buyer that would pay handsomely for such
antiquities. Cal, emphasizing his last word in a tantalizing manner,
further diffusing the greedy art thief. Now Hans, doesnt that enrich
you circle?
Again Nortacgrin, uh Carrington you bring items to tempt me. I
could keep this and kill you, you know. No one would be the wiser
and I would possess a priceless antiquity, acquired through no risk to
me. Van Rijns demeanor and tone became noticeably gentler, now
toying with Carrington.
Yes, Hans. It would appear that you are holding the trump cardgame, set, and match . . . but no . . . no, I think not. Van Rijn with a
look of puzzled amusement stood quietly listening to Cals mildly
evasive but entertaining tangling maze of verbiage. Yes, yes, thats
it!!! Cal now showboating, mockingly dancing around and gesturing
as his evil counterpart had done so moments ago, his face a glowing
ensemble of sarcastic epiphany, impishly locking eyes with Hans,
Thirty-one of the most elite paramilitary to ever walk the earth. Yes
Hans, thirty-one of Mu'ammar Gadhafis greatest assassins, the heart
of his power, the most treacherous and successful terrorists on the
planet, and you sent them to slaughter. Now, how many people do
you think know that? Van Rijns eyes glaring. Im sure Gadhafi
didnt forget what happened.

It was a major incident of

embarrassment in the Arab and Muslim world. The brazen leader of

176

the Libyan nation, looked upon as the defiant, immortal, untouchable,

anti-western hero of the Arab world, embarrassed by a major incident
created by one man and, pardon the expression, executed by another.
Oh my, Hans, what would Gadhafi do to Marten Grasdak? Youll
find documentation to that effect also on the CD in my heel, Hans.
Enough!!! shouted van Rijn, furious and frustrated, again angered.
Hans, I believe we still have a potentially lucrative business
relationship, or am I just being pretentious? Van Rijn, obviously
embarrassed in front of his army of thugs, dismissed all the security
and his mammoth entourage.
Van Rijn reached into the inner right side of his coat pocket and
pulled out a small spiral note pad and pen. Write down the clients
name and contact numbers. Hans van Rijn, docile in his speech and
body language, his tail dipping between his legs, handing over the pad
and pen, his eyes looking away and down, with a quick shaking of his
head, submissively directed Cal to comply. Cal clearly and legibly
scripted the name and means of contact and, with a half smile,
gesturing with a humble tilt of his head, passed the notebook and pen
back to van Rijn. As he read Cals legible scrawl, Van Rijn instantly
became fearful and astonished, his eyes bulged wide and mouth
cavernously gaped open upon seeing the name. Surely you jest. Do
you take me for a fool? Van Rijn became ruefully disquiet, taken
aback with the name Carrington penned; a powerful name, a name
that invoked fear and hesitation, an unapproachable name.
Mesmerized by the content on the page of the little notebook, eyes

177

still focusing on the words on the small page, van Rijn stood frozen,
momentarily stunned. Cal moved closer to van Rijn and placed his
right hand on van Rijns shoulder, turning him toward the door to exit
the room.

Van Rijn seemingly unaware of his surroundings, his

glazed eyes rigidly fixed on the name on the pad as Cal answered the
question van Rijn had already forgotten. The three men ambled out of
the garish room and the mansion and matter-of-factly worked their
way to the chopper parked on the verdant oceanfront lawn.
No Hans, I take you for a savvy, opportunistic business genius who
readily identifies, fearlessly harnesses, and vigorously exploits
untapped avenues of potential wealth and monetary gain that would
more than enrich his circle. One transaction and you would not only
have this buyer and their power in your pocket but their continued
interest in a near endless supply of untouchable acquired artifacts of
priceless antiquities. You would need no other clientele. They would
become your sole conduit to unlimited wealth, the kind you are used
to, quiet and unquestioned.
Carrington stopped and faced van Rijn. He placed both hands on the
art thiefs shoulders and looked decisively with conviction into his
icy, heartless eyes, I need you, Hans. Im the miner and you are the
jeweler, a jeweler with an able client for the most desirous gems the
world has to offer. Gems only I can provide. The amulet is my gift to
you, Hans. Accept it and the client I have given you. Its time for
Billy and me to go, Hans. Cal opened the helicopter door and sat on
the step-up.

He removed his left shoe and twisted its heel in a

178

clockwise motion until it clicked. He removed the heel to expose a

mini CD and handed it to van Rijn. Act quickly, Hans. You have six
weeks to make contact.
Van Rijn, taking the CD, directed a question defensively at Cal as
Billy started the rotor and ignited the choppers turbines, And if I
cannot?
Cal hopped onto the co-pilot seat of the hybrid MD 900 Explorer,
Im counting on you, Hans. Id hate to have to pitch this to Hong
Li.
Hong Li? Van Rijn shouted in surprise, suddenly red faced with
disgust, as the rotor crafts engines drowned out most of his foray of
explicatives, That monkey faced, fudge packing, fat bastard, cock
sucker, Asian faggot. . . slimy . . . queer. . . No fucking way! . . .
Those antiquities are mine . . . Im the god-dammed jeweler . . . I want
my fucking Falcon back, Carrington!!! . . .
Cal closed the cockpit door, smiling and waving through its
bulletproof Plexiglas window to the once again angry, gut clutching
van Rijn, as the whirring craft leaped into the air and sprung aloft,
effortlessly fluttering off the warm South Florida beachfront and out
to sea. Van Rijn enthusiastically waived goodbye in return, with a
repetitive gesture of motions, alternating the middle fingers of both
hands.
Which way will he go Cal?
Hes in over his head, Billy . . . Theyre going to chew him up and
spit him out . . . Hell sell us out to save his ass . . . Im counting on

179

that . . . Were going to need to keep him alive until the Inauguration.
Get Sam to work on the bank accounts. Were going to need help
planting the rest of the antiquities.
I guess it couldnt get any more dangerous.
We dont have a choice, Billy. Weve got the world looking for us
and we cant hide forever, unless you wouldnt mind moving from
cave to cave every three hours. We need to see this through to the
end.
Are you sure that summoning the Prophet is wise. That creature has
no loyalty.
Thats what Im counting on, Billy.
Oh great, a well plotted plan!
I thought so, too. Cal grinning, answering Billy cheerfully, as the
craft banked slightly northward. Billy gunned the stealth chopper
streaking across the sunny sky to maximum air speed, momentarily
pinning its occupants to the seat backs, as the cloaked rotorcraft glided
undetected to the northeast and the Argos Seas.

180

Twenty-two
As the days light delicately ebbed, subtly succumbing to the softening
illuminant remains of the day, the mastery of Nature, in a supreme
effort of color and design, mustered a lustrous tapestry of mixed
cobalt azures and fluorescent tangerines, framing the sinking rouge
sunset. Magically morphing its gradual spectrum of fiery hues to a
cooler, dimming blood orange melting gracefully into the horizon
awaiting the first celestial twinkling of evening stars, the majesty of
the magnificent north Atlantic sunset silently greeted the Argos Seas
as it docked without ceremony in early evening at Kilronan, Inis
Mrs Capital. An anonymous but welcomed homecoming for the sea
weary crew and a cherished reprieve for its loyal captain and sailors to
rekindle with family and loved ones. While the ship lay moored at the
docks, it would employ all hands for a normal workday, taking on
provisions of staples, water, fuel, and cargo from neighboring ships,
and effecting needed repairs. Cal requested enough provisions and
fuel for three months at sea to be loaded on board over a leisurely four
week period. In a months time the crew would have had their fill of
terra firma and be chomping at the bit to be sea bound again; albeit,
summoning to an addiction stronger than being with family and loved
ones. The capable Captain Colm OLeary and his reliably vigorous
crew were indispensable to the newly grown population of St. Enda

181

Inn residents. Those employed by the Argos Seas found themselves

handsomely rewarded for their long voyages and discreet loyalty.
Allan, Bob, and Sam welcomed Cal, Marianne, Shamus, Billy, and
Jimmy with fine wine and a gourmet meal. They all shared the spoils
of their recent labors and adventures in a long evening or mirth and
chatter.

There had been no reply to the myriad of world wide

classified ads placed to induce a communiqu from Lully. During the

interim, Bob had systematically compiled a collection of publications
to share with the recent seafarers.
Youve become an overnight phenomenon, Cal. Look at this, the
cover of Newsweek, Time, USA Today, Al-Ahram. Front-page head
line in The Washington Post, The New York Times, il Giornale,
Handelsblatt, Sydney Morning Herald, Shanghai Daily, Moscow
Times. Jesus Christ, cal, you made Al-Jazeerah! Its an all out blitz
with your face around the world. Youve been linked with murdering
U. S. Marshals, causing major blackouts, drug trafficking, kidnapping,
electronic bank theft, destruction of military property and the death of
military personnel. Espionage, trading secrets, a wide assortment of
terrorist acts, hell Cal, theyve got you right down to the theft of a roll
of toilet paper at the Smithsonian. How the hell do you sleep at night,
man?
Smiling, Cal

punned

quizzically in

brilliant display of

understatement, Which museum? The mood lightened. Change is

in the wind and the wind, folks, is howling strong and cold.

182

Marianne, Jimmy, we need to alter our identities, our hair and

whatever. Lully will answer. We just need to be patient.

183

Twenty-three
Shamus, there was a frail, little old man with a mangy dog wandering
in the front yard. They both looked a little lost so I invited them in for
a rest. The old man didnt want anything to drink, but asked for a
bowl of water for his dog. The old man and the dog are downstairs
now, sitting in the kitchen with Bob and Sam. I think the guys a little
blind and he definitely needs a bath.
Wake Cal, Marianne, Shamus muttered excitedly, Hurry darlin,
hurry!
*******
There he sat, his right hand capping a crooked, old, knobby shillelagh.
He was holding court, giving a lesson on encryption, communications,
computer science, and the ways of the world. His audience was
captivated and enthralled. Bob and Sam hung on his every word,
mesmerized and inexplicably helplessly attentive. He sported ruddy
cheeks and a bulbous nose. His face lay draped with a fiery orange,
salt and pepperish beard. The old man appeared elfin, leprechaunish,
gleaming. He sparkled in the wrinkled emerald tailed coat that framed
his tartan vest and hung over a grotty pair of kaki pants with tattered
cuffs embracing dusty, dull black leather boots with tarnished brass
buckles. His faithful dog sat obediently at his side, skinny, scrawny,
and wire haired, with bangs partially masking his happy, bulging,

184

brown eyes. The animal had a perpetual, silent smile, much the same
as his gentle master: The Prophet, Antoine Lully.
The genius of Lullys amazing metamorphous to convincingly change
appearance was truly remarkable. However, the voice never wavered
from the unmistakable English accent with its slow drawl cantor and
nasal signature reminiscent of Truman Capote. Gentlemen, world
leaders are not driven by integrity and ideology but by the enticement
of ascendancy to commanding power; power which triggers a primal
greed and induces an appetite for the incentive lure of accompanying,
incomprehensible wealth and the continued power it can buy. Lully
swung his head around to his right, his blind eyes not completely
gazing in Cals direction, Ah, Kieran ODoyle, so good to see you
again. Have I come at an inopportune time?
Suddenly, there was no sense of urgency to restrain Lully or at the
very least harshly interrogate him. After all, Carrington did summon
his contact, but he never expected the creature to walk into his
protected safe haven of Inis Mr and the St Enda Inn undetected. This
tiny man, this ambiguous piece of humanity, the brilliant mastermind
behind good and evil deeds on a global scale; this rarely seen,
anonymous soldier of fortune sought by intelligence agencies of every
nation and by brutal criminals worldwide to carry out missions they
could not.

Did he send the Harriers to Signy Island to protect

Carrington or sustain the sensitive islands secret and at whose

behest? Lullys enigmatic charisma instantly overwhelmed all present
and neutralized any intended manifestation of hostility or existing

185

animosity. His presence seemed to inexplicably quell the disciplined

inquisitive nature of the St Enda residents. He was truly a master of
mesmorization, if not the reincarnate self of Frantz Anton Mesmer.
Carrington found himself pulling a chair up to the table unwittingly,
as a helpless knee-jerk reaction, and sitting next to Lully, the wiry
mutt between them, joining Lullys obedient audience, inexplicably
dismissing any questions he had so carefully formulated for his
encounter with the enigmatic Antoine Lully. Carrington sat as the
others: mute and attentive.
It had long been suspected by the intelligence community, now almost
folklore, that Antoine Lully was a fallen dark angel of a highly
organized, massively powerful group that exerted global influence and
veritably controlled most of the industrialized and third world. If the
rumors were true, and they were, then Lully could be the ultimate
whistleblower.

Carrington believed Lully to have irrefutable and

incriminating evidence documenting the history of evil doings of the

entity. To Carrington, Lully was the only known insider that was no
longer tethered with any loyalties to the addicting grasp of the ruthless
organization.
Your questions are many and I will address them all.
Lully asked for a glass of water, and then began his usual epic oratory.
Lully had left the wicked coven of world dominators in 1963,
unceremoniously. While just as enveloped in the evils of the powerful
age-old, oil based entity, as his counterparts, Lully had aspired to a
position as second only to Feliks Wycek, and in so doing became in

186

direct contention with the then maverick Maurice Geller. Geller was a
ruthlessly ambitious underling partner of Feliks Wycek and the heir
apparent to assume being second in command upon Lullys exit.
Gellers tenure quickly gained momentum and his overt aspirations of
being chief of tactical enforcement of the Wycek Empire soon came
to fruition. To the chagrin and outright opposition of other members,
who thought the move unwise or premature at best, the Emperor
himself, Feliks Wycek, with enthusiastic endorsement, appointed
Maurice Geller to the position some feared as powerful as that of
exalted Feliks Wycek. After Lullys exist from the entity, Geller
maintained his dual post as second in command and chief of tactical
enforcement.

He grew more powerful with each passing tick of

Wyceks aging mind and body and overdue reign, until his mysterious
death shortly after the Schmeklers demise. Geller was cold blooded
with sociopathic characteristics. He was single minded and danced
only to his own drummer.

He could spew a turbid litany of

metaphorical phrases, cleverly convoluted and masterfully misleading,

captivating and plundering the unstable psyche of the waiting masses,
and leaving in its wake a deadening ache of emptiness and despair, a
sad and lingering reminder as evidence of his words and their
maligned, deceitful intentions. Feliks Wycek adored him.
Gellers misologistic tendencies lent to his deriding misogyny,
secretly directed toward Feliks aspiring and cunning daughter,
Jennifer. Jennifer Wycek and Maurice Geller were at constant odds.
Even though Geller placated daddys little girl to further gain the

187

aging Wyceks favor, Jennifer saw through the deceitful veneer Geller
so neatly wrapped himself in. She recognized him as a purloining
oligarch. He was a man that would kill his own family at the drop of
a hat if it meant preserving his position in the Wycek Empire. That, in
itself, cast lengthy shadows of doubt of his fealty to the Wyceks, at
least in Jennifers perception. He was the architect of and directly
responsible for the murders of Kurt and Eva Schmekler and an
unknown pilot and co-pilot. The arrogance of his presence was a
constant reminder of Jennifer Wyceks flaw in judgment in hiring the
Schmeklers. His maneuvering of ruthless treachery since Lullys
leaving had catapulted him to a position threatening Jennifers
perceived primogeniture of the Wycek Empire. One of them had to
go.

Jennifer Wycek had him removed.

Soon after Gellers

disappearance, Feliks, without warning, had a debilitating apoplexy.

The timing of Jennifers ascendancy was shadowed with suspicion.
Some saw her as the black widow of the Wycek Empire. Those that
opposed her suddenly went missing. The words of her opposition had
not cleared the air before their originators of the fatal utterances had
mysteriously vanished.

Contention of Jennifers rivals ceased as

suddenly as those that disappeared. New alliances were carved and

Jennifer Wycek became supreme, more powerful than any Wycek
before her.
Lully opposed the Kennedy assassination. He detested the American
oil barrens that conspired with high ranking white house officials and
powerful government agencies to execute John F. Kennedy and to

188

distort and misdirect the investigation, ultimately covering up the

assassination conspiracy. Lully regarded Kennedy as basically a man
of peace. Lully firmly believed that Kennedy had already proven his
prowess as President, directing the unyielding strength of the United
States in the Cuban Missile Crisis, and for his endeavors against
organized crime, a group which the entity passionately disassociated
itself with. Furthermore, Lully applauded Kennedys leadership as he
stood up to the stifling, bigoted, racist power of the Deep South, with
his movement toward civil rights. However, Kennedys performance
frightened other members of the entity and their archaic ways of
control. Kennedy brought about an era of fresh ideas, created by
young minds.

Ideas which were enthusiastically embraced by

millions starved for change from the shoe slamming attitudes of the
stubborn, stale, war mongering old men of the mid twentieth century.
He was a threat to the stewards of the entity. The actions of his
administration during the Cuban Missile Crisis nearly involved their
oil rich kingdom in a nuclear war.

They couldnt risk another

confrontation from this peace monger. A catch 22: the entity thrived
on war but feared nuclear war and the merchant of peace that nearly
involved them in one. They were afraid of the winds of change John
F. Kennedy had conjured. Lully saw the swing of National unity
wrapped around the Kennedy Camelot myth as a windfall of
opportunity to expand the growing markets of the entity.

Feliks

Wycek and Maurice Geller did not share Lullys vision of Kennedy
and his movement. Lully vanished after the assassination.

189

Lully revealed to Jimmy Samuels who his parents were: Eva and Kurt
Schmekler.

The Schmeklers were deep cover operatives of the

Mossad, Israeli Intelligence, and the only outsiders ever to infiltrate

the ranks of the evil entity. They had been recruited in Germany by
the Mossad in an ill-fated operation to flush out more of the vanished
scum that had brazenly supported Hitler and the Nazi movement
during and after World War II. In a joint effort of a few zealous high
ranking and somewhat questionable U. S. military personnel and
Israeli Intelligence, the Schmeklers were educated and trained under
the guise of civilians working at the U.S. military base in Wiesbaden.
Their mission was to gather as many names in the Wycek clandestine
web and as much information about the secret Wycek Empire as they
could.

Passing on the few tidbits they had gathered to Israeli

intelligence was nearly impossible and the mission was basically

fruitless.

The Mossad never confirmed nor denied that the

Schmeklers were their covert operatives or even if their death was

accidental or designed, and the United States military officers
involved in Wiesbaden died of massive strokes: the officers were in
perfect health prior their deaths. Jimmy broke down upon hearing the
sad truth of how his parents had died and who was responsible for
their death.

Lully showed a rare gesture of compassion, gently

placing his hands over Jimmys and weeping with him. It was a flash
of sadness never grieved until this moment. It was a needed catharsis
for both men, and just for a moment their was a bonding, a strange
alchemy from which each man drew emotional strength from the other

190

to overcome the tragic demise Maurice Geller had befallen on Jimmy

Samuels mother and father. Jimmy asked if his parents were Jewish.
Lully replied that Jimmy was born of parents with German heritage
having no religious affiliation. Their only connection to Israeli was
with Israeli Intelligence, the Mossad. It was an heroic attempt to help
right a tragic holocaust that destroyed their families and murdered
millions of innocents. The Schmeklers were true patriots. Lully
admired their valor. There was a brief pause, dramatic and moving; a
time to momentarily reflect and regain composure. Everyone had
been moved by Lullys revelation of Jimmy Samuelss ancestry and
the surgical removal of his parents from existence. Everyone was
overwhelmed with Jimmys pain. They shared his sorrow. Some
wept quietly, others were choked without tears. The eulogy was
silent, it need not be spoken. Lully sipped the last refreshing drops of
water from his glass and continued.
The entity exists wholly consumed with the power of oil and the
stranglehold it has on it, regardless of what corporations or industries
it owns and controls. All homage must be paid to oil at any cost.
Industry is hopelessly dependent on it as an energy resource to fuel its
machinery. The worlds industries are its slaves, loyal only to its
gripping, tenacious addiction. They are hopelessly dependant on the
power that oil produces to fuel their own production engines. Oil has
become the ultimate control device, the infrastructure of Satan, and
the entity controls oil, ruthlessly. Oil is the industrial worlds master.
Oil is power! Lully paused again, this time to clear his throat. He

191

was still stinging from the rush of emotion he so tenderly shared with
Jimmy Samuels. The pause was brief and all remained silent until
Lully continued his tale.
The entity has controlling tentacles woven into the Bildebergers, it
has infiltrated the Trilateral Commission, maneuvered world policy
with the Council on Foreign Relations, is the largest investor of The
Bank of International Settlements, and conveniently sleeps in the
House of Saud. There exists little conspicuous evidence identifying
the source of its true wealth or the guarded recipients of its
immeasurable spoils. The entity surreptitiously launders its petty cash
through The Royal Family, of course for a staggering stipend that
exceeds the gross worth of most of the worlds nations, combined.
The entity panders to the addicted largesse of the Royal family to
itself, which, simply stated, is confounding and massive. Family
members are extensive in numbers, tens of thousands, and rapaciously
greedy.

How they satisfy their arrogant lust for wealth and the

accoutrements it garners easily supersedes the conscience of their near

absent integrity and any convenient religious convictions they pretend
to wear. It is a brilliant ploy. What world commoner would think to
question the income and investments of the oil rich Saudis? To date,
the Saudis have recycled the entitys petty cash as a trillion dollars
invested in American banks and another trillion dollars invested in the
U. S. stock markets.

The Presidents family and its cronies, for

decades, have been the architects continuously designing and

redesigning the structure of the wash and the posturing of the massive

192

investments. Many of the CIAs clandestine activities have found

financing, with no accountability owed to American taxpayers, via the
Royal Laundry. Oh, what a tangled web. Corruption amongst the
Royal Family and the puritanical Wahhabi movement has created an
extremely unstable situation for the House of Saud and profound
concerns for the entity. Afghanistan and Iraq were vital to the entitys
oil needs and they will not be on line for several years, if at all. The
Signy horizontal drilling alternative failed disastrously. The entitys
oil future, the strength of its power and the master device of its world
dominance, is on the ropes. They are perilously vulnerable. Their
laundry and chief price-controlling device, The House of Saud, can no
longer be trusted. The family has become too large and too divided
for the entitys imperial control. The Royal Family is teetering on the
brink of disaster. When the entity falls, so will the House of Saud,
and the swarming ills of the puritanical Wahhabi will ceremoniously
usher in with alacrity and zest and will mercilessly crush and cleanse
any remnants of western influence. The stability of oil prices Saudi
Arabia has controlled will run ramped. For a short, economically
painful period, the western worlds energy resources will be in
financial chaos, held hostage by the medieval mentalities of the
remaining OPEC nations.

But, fear not.

There will be a rapid

increase of usage of the many wondrous and great technologies at

hand. Technologies whose virtually untapped power potential will
free the worlds addiction to oil driven technologies. Wind farms,
flowing water and tidal action, nuclear power, solar energy, and

193

geothermal harnessing; available, plentiful, replenishable power

resources whose stunted development pale juveniley with its projected
use. The gigue will be up. Goodbye to oil, goodbye to the entity.
Lullys affect appeared weary, drained. His speech was raspy, no
doubt from the length of his verbose exposition. An unspoken gesture
was satisfied as Shamus fetched a fresh glass of cold water and placed
it in the elfin mans hand. He gently sipped the soothing water to
clear his parched throat and puckered tongue. The ancient mans
faithful canine companion, now slightly restless, began to wine as he
fluttered his slightly veiled brown eyes, an obvious signal that he had
been in one place long enough. There was a brief pause as everyone
sat in silent obedience awaiting Lullys continuance. I need to walk.
Please accompany me, Mister ODoyle. I will bid the rest of you
farewell. And Lully unceremoniously rose from his chair as a tired
old man would, charily ambling, not completely stable, relying
heavily on his twisted relic of wood to balance himself and steady his
hobbling gait, his messy canine companion synchronously rising with
wagging tail, answering his masters silent queue with an affectionate
yelp. Carrington, Lully, and Lullys wiry, four-legged companion left
the warm confines of the St. Endas kitchen to brave the brisk twilight
air of the north Atlantic island and stroll the empty Inis lane that
silently stretched across the lonely front of St Enda Inn. As they
walked, Lully began to utter the final episodes of his lengthy
narrative, now to the smaller audience of Cal Carrington and the
seemingly attentive, perky canine companion.

194

The entity further exerts its world dominance; it controls a vast

portion of the worlds media and all information resources in the
United States and throughout most of Europe. I proffer you this plan
of action you will find to be already in motion:

195

Sydney Times Express

billion

Paula Hornsby-Knight

dollar

enterprise

Pornography on a

Smithe

It

was

that
shocking

and

incriminating
announcement
Wilhelm

by

senior vice president of

Harbinger,

Klienschteler,

the

and
world

renown

multinational

accounting

firm,

Rohman

Mareth

Galen

Metro,

and

infamous

hardcore

pornography
living

International
in

Bandar

Brunei,
unlimited

child

kingpins,

protected

Seri

from

warrants,
Begawan,
received

funding

the

Winesnap

and

Funds

Limited.

further

revealed

Smithe,
Ceraphin

silent
today

Mulchanstein,

Rothman,

Group,

Ceraphin

Enterprise scale
a

from

World Financial Bank, and

Wycek Global
In

global

during

Winesnap,
are

partners

all
with

Mareth and Metro and are

wholly owned subsidiaries
of

Wycek

Global

Enterprises.

Officers

and spokespeople from the

institutions

named

Mulchanstein
contacted

has

were

but

comment.

declined

Mulchanstein

made

sensitive

by

available
records

and

documentation dating back

to

the

eighties

late

nineteen-

corroborating

his accusations and . . .

the last seventeen years

for their illicit, multi-

196

We will fight the powerful entity in a media guerilla war over the
next several months. We will begin our fight with gossip, rumor, and
innuendo, all cleverly laced with fact and stinging reality. We will
incite the conspiracy theorists to inundate the media with saturating
waves of overwhelming, intensely powerful and provocative facts
cleverly spun in an inescapable web that will echo and regurgitate
accusations and events like a raging inferno burning out of control,
scorching everything in its path, cutting off any means of safe retreat.
It will be credible enough to solicit inquiry by the next level, the
investigative journalists, and cast an increasing shadow of suspicion
until it would appear that we have amassed an insurmountable
mountain of irrefutable evidence against the entity. The effort will be
relentless

with

continuously

damaging

accusations

trickling

worldwide. We will expose the evil alchemy of oil and power and
truly create a new world order. We will build our own media empire
away from the smothering clutches of the gluttonous, deprecating
entity. We will create our own pomp and our own pageantry. No
doubt, whatever discoveries are disclosed, the entity will arrogantly
refute as misunderstood intentions and misinterpreted words.
Eventually, this will be the only explanation the entity will be able to
spin in its efforts to quash the onslaught, and it will become so
trademarked as an irksome yarn that it will begin to connote a
threadbare sham of bogus inference. An avalanche of disparaging,
never ending minutia of the ill-doings of the entity, streaming over the
internet, on radio and television broadcasts, and in print media will

197

linger to the entitys languish long after publication. The reports will
be so many and so often with so much verifiable evidence that it will
soon take over even the entity controlled media.

198

VOLUME CCIV

$3.75

Now you see it . . .

Wycek Global Enterprises

indisputably connected to illegal horizontal
drilling using revolutionary top secret A I
technology causing the break off of the Larson B Ice Shelf in early 2001.

The Vice

President of the United States, along with

several ranking administration members,
has been implicated in the Larson cover up.
President denies any prior knowledge of
goings

on

So

he

says!

Story on page 11
By Malc
Malcme Oberbracht
07614513126
#5FBI CIANSA *******CAR-RT LOT**C-000
#MLZ2549295206/0512 13ASO04 MI 6 Q
413
010
RESIDENT
100
THE WHITE HOU SE
600 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE NW
123
PR43
WASHINGTON, D.C. 20500-0003

. . . Now you dont!

newsweekly.jwh3.net/mag/fic

199

When we have the ear and mind of the entire world, regardless of
who controls the media, then we will make our move. Do you know
what that is? I will soon remand to you, Kieran ODoyle, a damaging
expos of tangled conspiracies and maligned collusions, an exhaustive
cache of the most crucial and damaging written evidence ever
amassed against the entity and its garrison of members. This will
bring chaos to the worlds political, governmental, and industrial
infrastructures. It will be necessary to dismantle the tangled web of
the entity and raze to the ground the institutions that have solidified its
existence for so very long.

200

ho

& W O R LD R E P O R T

U.S.News

W
is

A ntoine L ully
and why should
we believe him?
PAGE 11

Is this
Antoine Lully?

POL will respond. The documents

list names of prominent families
world-wide, including the Presidents, the Vice-President, the Wyceks, damaging world political and
business infrastructure.
The
Global Financial System will collapse and trillions of U. S. dollars
laundered through Saudi Arabia
and invested back into U. S. banks
and stocks will become victim to
marauding takers waiting patiently
for the demise of the House of

ALLEDGED PHOTO OF ANTOINE LULLY CONTAINED IN

THE VOLUMINOUS LULLY DOCUMENTS.

In an exclusive arrangement with

U.S. News & World Report, renown recluse, Antoine Lully released an expos of damaging
documents in a maneuver to fully
disclose willful collusion and rampant corruption politically, industrial, and economically by major
nations, corporations, and financial
institutions, including the Bank of
International Settlements (BIS),
world-wide in hopes that the World
Court in the Hague and INTER-

U.S. NEWS & WORLD REPORT 11

201

We will have the surviving scum washing windshields on street

corners and eating peanut butter out of rat traps. Will you be ready
for the collective bedlam and societal pandemonium, Mister ODoyle?
I can guarantee you that there are many souls that will be beckoned by
the call of the resounding message we will send, heralding the change
in the winds of power and the emergence of a new illuminati. Many
are now patiently waiting in the wings for their opportunity to exert
control and influence. It will be a veritable frenzy of vying mobs,
some ruthlessly moving upward a notch or two in narrowing ranks,
others contending for superiority, voraciously feeding off the coveted,
never empty plate of the promise of power, mercilessly consuming
miscalculated alliances stained with self deluding illusion and
avaricious greed. To the medieval leftist fanatical groups, this will
summon rapture unabated, a windfall of opportunity for the innovative
reclamation of their pre-historic values. Presumed wealth and power
will emerge to the music of their puritanical humanity, an emotionally
needy,

hapless

commodity,

eternally

hopeful,

and

forever

disappointing. Personally, I have found the concept of Utopia to be a

shapeless dream, a sham shallow of content, and at best a frightening
incubus nightmare, tragically without end.
Ethnocentrically validated integrity tends to inspire a grand cast of
quasi well wishing characters Mister ODoyle.

But it has been

conspicuously notorious for repeatedly peopling its history with toady

sycophants chanting disingenuous mantras while trembling from the
concussions of societys ills, and fostering the trappings of inbred

202

arrogance. Free yourself from ethnocentric values, and most certainly

from the ordeal of civility.

Its pseudo-altruistic trappings extol

glorified characteristics that earmark an unnecessary hindrance to

survival: ones conscience.

London Star Times Daily

101ST YEAR LONDON STAR TIMES DAILY NO 1541

Moriosa is dead!
clutching a 50cc syringe, fully
plunged, its needle still inserted into a
major vein in his left arm, an apparent
heroin overdose.
Baffled, Kabul
police and INTERPOL have released
no other details at this time. Moriosa
was alleged to have been intimately
involved in the attacks of 9/11 on New
York and Washington, D.C., and
wanted for questioning by the FBI and
INTERPOL. How he found his way
to this pricey hotel, owned and
operated
by
Wycek
Global
Enterprises remains a mystery, as do
so many things about Joaquin
Moriosa.
*TURN TO MORIOSA PAGE 3A COLUMN B

by DARYL SORJNYSON
Associated Press

KABUL-World fugitive and ruthless,

mega-billionaire oil broker, Joaquin
Moriosa, was found dead today by a
housekeeping crew in the Royalty
Inn, a recently opened five star luxury
hotel in the heart of downtown Kabul.
The
unsuspecting
housekeeping
crewmembers found Moriosas lifeless
body contorted and face down in the
Roman Spa tub of a lavish penthouse
hotel room. Moriosa was partially
floating slumped in a fetal position in
the huge tub. The tub had been filled
with a mixture of crude oil and
gasoline. Moriosa was said to be

203

The Evening News

Acting on an anonymous tip, in a bizarre and grizzly discovery
today by Brunei secret police at a palatial mansion in Bandar
Seri Begawan, notorious hardcore child pornography kingpins,
Rohman Mareth and Galen Metro, were found dead. The men
had been brutally murdered. They were mercilessly executed and
surgically dismembered according to reports filed by Brunei
police. It is believed that the dead mens livers and spleens had
been violently torn from their butchered bodies while they were
still alive, apparently removed through their rectums. The men
were found laying one on top of the other in a mutual phallacio
embrace. You may remember earlier this year a breaking news
story by Australian reporter Paula Hornsby-Knight in the Sydney
Times Express that implicated Mareth and Metro in a tangled and
convoluted connection with Wycek Global Enterprises and three
of its now defunct investment firms. For more on this story we go
live to Charles Bentencourt via satellite in the Brunei capital.
Charles: . . . Good evening, Dan. To many, the grizzly discovery
earlier today, by Brunei police, is justice due and served, befitting
the heinous crimes and suffering Mareth and Metro and their
entire organization have perpetrated on so many innocent children
around the world.

As Paula Hornsby-Knight and the Sydney

Times Express revealed, these men and their contributing

financers have . . .

204

Resign yourself, Mister ODoyle and fear not. There are absolutes.
Letters of Provenance are written by the test of time, not by man. You
can alter and revolutionize everything and it will still remain the same,
albeit with a different look; a look that may or may not be favorable to
your inner Feng Shui.

The Evening News

In a rare joint effort of cooperative investigation between the
Federal Bureau of Investigation and The National Security
Agency, a spokesperson representing both agencies released
evidence today that Hans Van Rijn, also known as Marten
Grasdak, the fugitive South African arms merchant turned art
thief, laundered stolen priceless artifacts from the Baghdad
Museum to buyers around the world, including heads of state and
powerful corporate and industrial executives, through Jennifer
Wycek Randolph, wife of Henry Walter Randolph, former
National Security Advisor. The report has begun an avalanche of
scandals and arrests which has opened the doors to the biggest
political shake-up in American and world history and which has
lead to the domino effect resignations of seemingly countless
multi-national corporation executives and foreign government
officials at all levels, world-wide.

205

You see Mister ODoyle, when angered, the soft, nimble, delicate,
fingers of the hand can become steel hard and form a brutal battering
fist, but it is still the same hand with the same delicate fingers. Will
you be able to accept your new, emergent rulers Mister ODoyle, or
will you become angered fingers, again?

206

The Washington Post

BY JACK KILKANON
jkilkanon@washingtonpost.net

Randolphs estates and

Exposition

documented implications

condominiums

damaging Lully Papers

contained in the Lully

the world have yielded

has

Papers outlining a far-

millions of dollars in

infrastructure of world

reaching conspiracy to

stolen artifacts, including

governments, militaries,

manipulate

Iraqi antiquities stolen

and

the

corporate,

societies and economies

from

biomedical,

and

through

Museum

In

lieu

of

world

control

of

and

the

petroleum
stagnant

explicitly

technologies

around

the

Baghdad

industrial

sectors.

paraphernalia of Adolph

Toppling

Financial

Hitler,

markets and institutions

including

Hitler to Feliks Wycek,

reflecting

Jennifers

collapse

has

letters

from

are experiencing chaos,

consumption,

Randolph

the

original

and

personal

Wycek

the

crippled

heavily reliant upon its

Jennifer

of

deceased

economic
as

investor

been arrested by federal

father and architect of

confidence cashes out as

marshals

the Wycek publishing,

best they can. It is hoped

with numerous crimes

communication,

and

that a new world order

ranging

industrial

fortune,

will soon emerge from

Misses

the residue of the smoke

and

charged

from

insider

trading to murder and

worldwide.

treason.

Randolph was speedily

and

arraigned

remain after the blazing

Wycek family

assets,

including

in

Federal

ashes

that

will

corporations, real estate,

Court and released on

international

inferno

bank

twenty-million

Antoine

Lullys

accounts,

securities

have

and
been

either seized or frozen.

Several

of

dollars

bond and confined to

devastating expos has

house arrest.

ignited.

Mrs.

207

Be careful of what you want, Mister ODoyle, because you just may
get it!

208

The Miami Herald

M IAM I

Summit of
World
Economic
Leaders
begins
Monday
Security at the Hilton
Hotel in downtown 3A

1A

America heightens it watch against terrorists as the Royal Family of the House
of Saud collapses and civil war breaks out in Saudi Arabia 11A

My wife is a monster, a murderous monster. My life has been an illusion. 2A

cide note in Randolphs handwriting, found by police next to the body, stated:

wife's arrest, shot himself in the head with a Valkyrie .44 magnum revolver. A sui-

residence. Randolph, who recently retired as National Security Advisor after his

Henry Walter Randolph was found dead late Saturday in his wifes Georgetown

HENRY WALTER RANDOLPH COMMITS SUICIDE

SUNDAY, JANUARY 2, 2005 I 102ND YEAR, NO. 342 I 2004 THE MIAMI HERALD I FINAL I ONE DOLLAR

SU N D A Y
SCHEDULED F EBRUARY 6,
2005 AT ALLTEL S TADIUM
IN
J ACKSONVILLE HAS
BEEN CANCELLED BY NFL
S PORTS 10C

ECONOMIC FORCAST NOT GOOD SAYS LIBOM

OIL CHAIRMAN RODNEY MUNROE BUSINESS 12E

Cruise ships at Port of

Miami without fuel to
go anywhere and no
one to take. Portions
of Port have closed
indefinitely. TRAVEL 1J
HAVE YOU SEEN
THIS HORSE OF THE
TANG DYNASTY?
S T O L E N F IG U R E
SUSPECTED TO BE
IN SOUTH FLORIDA
HOME. ARTS 1Q

209

And now I will bid you farewell. We will never meet again. Au
revoir !
Then suddenly, as if summoned on queue, a chilling fog from the
frosty north Atlantic began pouring over the quiet country lane,
instantly wrapping the men and the dog and the rocky surroundings of
middle Inis Mr in a moist cloak of blinding cottony whiteness. The
dogs clicking nails on the damp, hardened pavement became fainter
as did Lullys steady tapping of his crooked shillelagh began emitting
an ever softer, distant ping. The unique sound of Lullys captivating
voice became more garbled and hushed with every tap of his ancient
walking stick.
Why are you willing to do these things now, Lully? quizzed
Carrington suspiciously. He found himself momentarily disoriented,
as the fog began thickening, choking his vision with its white cottony
blanket and suffocating any chance of sight beyond the reach of his
extended hand. Lully, where are you? Answer me, Lully! Lully!
Cal called with a commanding tone of urgency.
Mister Carrington, you will never really know until . . . Lullys
voice became dramatically fainter with every word; a mere whisper,
becoming less with every barely audible syllable trailing off into
nothingness in the moist, cottony haze. The masking fog had eerily
managed to secretly swallow up Antoine Lully and his scrawny canine
companion.

It was as if the workings of a master magician,

performing the ultimate illusion, had suddenly graced the narrow,

island lane, and magically consumed the very essence of Lully and his

210

tail-wagging sidekick. Now, twice exposed to the enigmatic presence

of Antoine Lully, Cal found himself again pondering how the
diminutive, gnarly gnome of weathered humanity had managed so
gracefully to vanish with his furry partner into the void of absolute
nothingness.

And, even more vexing and direly important:

the

perplexing, ever burning question of what intriguing utterance of

significance, what Rosetta stone had Antoine Lully softly volleyed in
conclusion as response to Carringtons final urgent plea? A response
Calvin Christopher Carrington needed so desperately to salvage . . . A
response lost forevermore . . . Perhaps . . . The dance continues.

211

The Evening News

Wednesday, January 19, 2005 6:31 PM EST
Good evening everyone. We have more strange happenings to
report on this the eve of the Presidential Inauguration of the
forty-forth President of the United States. In the aftermath of
the worlds political and commerce demise and continuing in a
bizarre chain of events, we begin tonights broadcast with the
announcement of a fatal crash some are saying is justice long
overdue.

The mangled remains of Jennifer Wycek Randolph,

wife of deceased National Security Advisor Henry Walter

Randolph, and the villainous organizational epicenter of the
damaging Lully Papers, along with Florida billionaire Hans van
Rijn, also known as Marten Grasdak, the fugitive South African
arms merchant turned art thief, and the Vice President of the
United States, were recovered late last night after flying to their
death yesterday in the tragic and mysterious crash of a Dassault
Falcon 900 jet aircraft, registered to Hans van Rijn. The aircraft,
believed to be piloted by van Rijn, appeared to be flying on
autopilot as it crossed the U. S.-Canadian border in northwestern
North Dakota. Heavily armed Royal Canadian Air Force CF-18
Hornets intercepted the Dassault Falcon 900 as it strayed from
U. S. territory and into the wilderness of southeastern
Saskatchewan.

According to Royal Canadian Air Force

spokesperson Major Andrea LaSalle, the Dassault refused to

212

respond to the CF-18s three requests to identify themselves and

their destination, and to land. As the CF-18s maneuvered into
an attack pattern to deploy their lethal Sparrow air-to-air
missiles, the Dassault appeared to lose power and began a steep
decent, helplessly crashing moments later into an unpopulated
wilderness area twenty miles south of the tiny, rural town of
Stoughton, Saskatchewan.

There were no explosions or

subsequent fires after the Falcon 900 hit the Canadian

wilderness with deadly impact, which led Canadian authorities to
believe the straying jet simply ran out of fuel.

Further

investigation suggests that the doomed aircraft suffered a sudden

loss of cabin pressure at cruising altitude and within seconds
knocked its helpless passengers into a critically unconscious
state. The autopilot locked and failed to disengage, apparently
not compensating for the loss of cabin pressure by immediately
dropping to a less hostile altitude, and life sustaining oxygen
masks also failed to deploy. It is believed that the occupants of
the

craft

died

within

minutes

of

oxygen

deprivation.

Miraculously, priceless, stolen Mesopotamian antiquities, some

dating back thirty-five hundred years, were also recovered from
the jumbled wreckage and survived the crash intact. In the wee
hours of early morning today, FBI and IRS agents raided the
Manalapan home of van Rijn and seized countless millions in
stolen art and antiquities dating from the Renaissance to

213

twentieth century masterpieces including paintings, sculptures,

and rare musical instruments.

Also found were a cache of

Mesopotamian artifacts reported stolen in early 2003 from a

secret Iraqi depository in northwestern Iraq . . .

214