Karyn Kane: Conspiracy of Fire Part 27

"That business operation you are talking about almost destroyed the entire West coast.

"Volcanic eruptions, tidal waves-such acts of nature happen all the time Kane. So if you think I am going to swallow down your crazy-a.s.sed story about some conspiracy to destroy America you got another thing coming."

"Is that what you are going to tell all those folks who had their homes flattened by the tsunami waves?" said Karyn.

d.i.c.k Hanssen leaned forward to respond, but Senegar raised a finger and said, "We have been talking to Alan Borkin, Deputy Director of the FBI. He is an old friend of yours isn't he d.i.c.k?"

"One of my many subordinates Senegar, as well you know it."

Senegar raised his chin and nodded almost imperceptibly. He dabbed the raised finger in the Vice President's direction and said, "Borkin is being real cooperative d.i.c.k, in fact he has been reeling off the kind of stories you just wouldn't believe, unless you were the kind of sleaze ball who was planning to overthrow the democratically elected government of the United States. Senegar pursed his lips very slightly and said. "We knew it was you all along d.i.c.k. You planned the whole thing didn't you?"

d.i.c.k Hanssen paused for a moment his face twisting into a snarl, "You can't prove a d.a.m.n thing Senegar, not a d.a.m.n thing. And you know what? That makes me doubly pleased, because both you and Kane have outlived your usefulness. Both of you are finished, I will see to it personally."

"You aren't in any kind of position to see to anything," said Senegar. "Your first mistake was getting the Admiral involved. You figured that you could undermine his position and mine by throwing us into this, getting us to act outside the accepted command structure and then discrediting us so that you could replace us with stooges who would do your bidding." Senegar raised his bone china cup to his mouth and sluiced coffee. He paused for a moment, his face looking hard and angular in the new morning sun. At last he said, "You were right about the coffee d.i.c.k, it really is rather good."

"You think you are smart Senegar?" A hard line arched up across Senegar's forehead and he said, "A h.e.l.l of a lot smarter than you and your friends in the Humanistian network d.i.c.k. We have been watching you for years, every dirty little move, and you know what? I am glad you made this play in Hawaii, because it gave me just the excuse I needed to take you down-course I didn't know for sure how deep you were into this thing, not until you spilled Karyn's ident.i.ty to your friends in the FBI." Jack Senegar sniffed, replaced the tiny coffee cup on the saucer and placed it on the porch table. "You are finished Hanssen."

The Vice President's face deepened with growing anger. "You might be the head of the CIA, Senegar, but there are bigger more powerful forces in this world than your feeble little spy agency."

"No doubt." d.i.c.k Hanssen rose out of his chair and hissed, "My people are everywhere, Senegar, you and the girl here are so far out on a limb with this thing you will never be able to crawl back to safety. The new age of man is upon us and there is no place in it for those who lack our vision. We have geothermal devices all over the world; very soon you and your ilk will pa.s.s forgotten into the annals of history."

Karyn Kane rose quickly to her feet. She caught the Vice President by the hand and struck him hard in the throat with her elbow. d.i.c.k Hanssen's greedy little eyes bugged wide as he struggled to choke out a protest, or maybe even call out to his staff for help. But, on the pretty white- painted porch, no help was forthcoming and there was no one to bear witness to events, Jack Senegar had seen to that.

So, when Karyn Kane twisted hard on the Vice President's arm and stabbed him between the fingers with the syrette of fast acting neuro-toxin. There was no one to see his final agonized convulsions; no one to bear witness as he withed and twitched on the floor, his last moments of life ebbing so quickly away.

The death certificate would read- heart attack, death by natural causes.

68.

Long Beach, California Kellerman was lying on the couch watching Double Indemnity on TCM channel when the knock came. She had seen the movie a dozen times at least, so the hard rap against the door pulled her out of a blissful doze. She blinked, as reality flooded back. She was home in Long Beach, in her tiny little walk up flat on Atlantic and Broadway. Not floating in the shark filled ocean a thousand miles from anywhere. Again she blinked, considering the implications of not answering the door. How would they know she was here? Dramatic music swirled from the television set building until it hit a peak. Who ever was out there would have heard the sound for sure. Maybe they would think she had gone out and left the TV on? The knock came again. Who ever it was knew she was here. She would have to get up G.o.dd.a.m.n it-rise up and face the day.

As she rolled off the couch, a shower of b.u.t.tery popcorn crumbs drifted to the floor. She watched them fall, absorbing the sudden brightness filtering into the room through a slat in the drawn curtains. Daytime, it must be daytime. The knock came again, harder and more insistent this time. Who the h.e.l.l could it be? In the past three weeks, every family member and friend she had ever known had beaten their way to her door, all of them demanding an exhaustive rundown of her adventures on the high seas. Kellerman was sick of recounting the story. She had told it so many times now, her throat hurt and her mind ached, a constant throbbing migraine that refused to quit. Then there had been the flashbacks-nightmares so real and frightening, they forced their way into her consciousness at will, no matter what the time of day. She set her feet on the floor and looked anxiously towards the door. Who the h.e.l.l could it be? Surely those parasites in the news media had squeezed every last sordid angle from the Nautilus story? She had trusted them at first, recounting events honestly, telling them over and over again, every last thought and feeling she had experienced-every action she had taken. They called her a hero at first, but when they had done with that, they began to dig deeper-dredging into her past, for any sign of vulnerability or weakness. They found people she hadn't seen in years, folks who were only too happy to talk about her and her life as though they knew her intimately. Very quickly the stories grew darker and more sensational, painting her as a freak and an outsider, a feminist ball-breaker who would do anything to get ahead, no matter what the cost. And then there were the men she had killed-they liked to talk about that. It was impossible to forget the nightmare aboard the Nautilus-the gunfire, the explosions and the blood. Impossible to forget the cold dead faces of the attackers, and the crewmembers they had murdered. They could have killed her too. It could so easily have been her who had been s.h.i.+pped home in a black-rubber body bag, but she had survived, by sheer dumb luck. It hardly seemed fair.

Kellerman shuffled over to the door like a zombie, not even bothering to look through the spy hole, to see who it was. She unbolted the latch, and swung the door wide, and there he was, his thick arms folded across his stomach, his head tilted c.o.c.kily to the side just looking at her.

"So what the h.e.l.l are you doing?" asked Buchanan. "Are you turning into some kind of recluse or something? Because I have rung that phone of yours a hundred times at least."

Kellerman looked at him. He looked different. He had gotten himself a haircut and a shave. He smelled good too, no more body odor and cigars.

"What the h.e.l.l do you want?" she asked. "I want to talk to you stupid."

Kellerman frowned. "I ain't got nothing to talk about."

"Uhuh-well, that makes a nice change- but you are dead wrong, in fact I was hoping you would hitch a ride with me."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about

Buchanan?"

Buchanan looked down at the avalanche of mail cascading over the entrance. "I guess you didn't get your invitation huh?"

Kellerman ran her fingers through her hair and looked at him blankly.

"The President of the United States wants to pin us with medals, what do you say to that hero?" "I am no hero," said Kellerman. "I sure as h.e.l.l don't feel like one anyway."

"Bulls.h.i.+t. Are you gonna let those fishtailed Navy lunks take all the credit for rescuing Captain alvares and the crew? If it hadn't been for us softening up those killers, those Navy bozos never would have been able to breeze in like they did."

"They pulled us from the ocean, saved our lives," said Kellerman, quietly.

Buchanan narrowed his eyes, "Get some G.o.dd.a.m.n clothes on, I am taking you out for pool hall pizza and a cold beer, no arguments." "You are taking me out?"

"You heard me. Although you might want to grab a shower first, and when you do you might want to toss that tracksuit you are wearing, because laundering ain't going to help it none. Kellerman gave him a look.

He smiled. He had a nice smile.

68.

Beverly Hills, California Julia Goodman walked out of her office in Beverly Hills. She took a shortcut through the seventh floor lobby and exited into the multi level parking structure that stood right next door. As she moved through the auto-lock security door, a closed circuit security camera tracked her progress. Once outside, the security door snapped shut with an air of finality. The parking structure was dark, a gloomy mausoleum of concrete and steel. Julia stepped out into the darkness and popped the security fob with her thumb. Her Mercedes gave a high-pitched trill and the lights snapped on, a beacon in the darkness-warm, familiar, safe.

As the darkness of the parking lot closed in around her, Julia felt her heart quickening. She was late out. Only a few cars remained. She walked faster, her heels reverberating, hollow and metallic against the advancing darkness. She looked about anxiously. A hundred concrete pillars stared back, cold and wordless like tombstones in the night. She bent down, took her shoes of and ran the last hundred yards to the car, with her heart beating out of control. She grabbed the car door, and dived inside.

The doors locked down immediately. Julia's eyes widened with fear. Were the doors supposed to do that? They never did usually. Perhaps they had done something to the central locking system whilst the car had been in the shop?

She sat back fearfully, her pulse hammered, she felt the unpleasant s.h.i.+mmer of sweat beading on her body. The gloomy parking lot had really gotten her spooked. She turned, looked behind her into the back seat, rea.s.suring her self that she was just being silly; then she checked her reflection in the powder mirror and saw that all the color had drained from her face. She cursed, resolving to ring the buildings Super tomorrow, so he could see about getting the lights upgraded.

Julia popped her key into the ignition and turned it.

Nothing.

She turned it again.

Still nothing.

The engine was dead. Her mind raced forwards with panic. What in the h.e.l.l was wrong? Had she left something on that had drained the battery? She drew a sharp breath and reached for her phone-she would call triple A; tell them she was a woman alone; they would be with her in no time. Then, she would call the security guard out on the front desk; tell him to watch out for the breakdown truck, so he could let them in through the security gate. Julia felt the power of rational thought eat into the building fear. Everything would be all right, everything would be...

Her phone rang. She jumped so hard she almost hit her head on the roof.

Who the h.e.l.l could that be? Maybe Reed, calling to find out where she had gotten to? Or maybe it was her mother ringing to find out about dinner arrangements, or the trip they had planned to Palm Springs. Julia turned the phone over and pressed the b.u.t.ton-an incoming video message- but the number was restricted, not from anyone she knew. Julia peered into the screen, "h.e.l.lo, who is that?" she asked, as bravely as she could manage.

The face on the screen was backlit, by tall, bright buildings. The skyline looked strange- unfamiliar. The neighborhood looked overdeveloped, like downtown Los Angeles and yet- "I have been watching you." The voice was distorted by some kind of electronic trickery. Julia strained to find something familiar about the caller but the crucial connections eluded her.

Julia took a swallow and said, "Who are you? What do you want?" the words flowed too quickly; she felt them waver as they came.

"That is not important-only your actions are important."

"My actions? If this is some kind of blackmail call, you can go straight to h.e.l.l."

"h.e.l.l? That is an interesting place Julia. I suggest you treat your family right or you might just find out what it is like first hand."

The phone went dead.

The car engine started up, and the headlights burned out across the vacant lot. Julia Goodman sat there in the drivers seat, dry mouthed and terrified. Who would say such things to her- such creepy, horrible things? And what did they know of her family and how she treated them? That was no ones business anyway. Julia shuddered. It was almost as though that crazy b.i.t.c.h Reed had been married to so long ago was speaking out from beyond the grave. But that b.i.t.c.h was dead-long dead, Reed had shown her the obituary himself. Julia grasped the steering wheel with both hands and jammed her foot hard on the gas. The big- engined Mercedes moved forward quickly sending a squeal of rubber echoing into the darkness.

Karyn Kane crouched on the Shanghai rooftop and looked down through the night scope of her high velocity M40 sniper rifle. The windows of the Tao Corporation's head office came suddenly into sharp-magnified focus. Julia Goodman could wait-she wasn't going anywhere.

TONY BULMER.

A graduate of the London School of Journalism, Tony Bulmer has spent the last 25 years pulling the oars in news room galleons

across the globe. He lives and works in Los Angeles California. For more information on Tony and his books meet him online at: www.tonybulmer.com.

ALSO BY TONY BULMER.

THE s.e.x NET.

DEAD FAMOUS.

THE FINE ART OF MURDER MANHATTAN TAKEDOWN.

end.