The Benefactors: Gold Factor

By Jeff Callan and Wesley Miller

Present day:

Sterling Morris reaches across the aisle to select Kaki Smithson as his Presidential running mate, uniting a polarized nation. But when an assassins bullet leaves the new President critically wounded in New Orleans Charity Hospital, tenacious journalist Ronnie Tamlin set her sights on a conspiracy and gives it a name: The BENEFACTORS - an organization that may have orchestrated Kakis rise to power and Sterlings fall and the consequences may prove fatal.

Flashback to 1945:

WWII is coming to a close. The Nazis and the Japanese have looted their empires and are secreting vast treasure. Leading the ranks of the OSS, three brazen agents, Herbert Mannington, Anthony Laperose, and Charles Constantine aid the U.S. to victory and in doing so, commandeer unimaginable wealth. As the world rebuilds, these well-intentioned renegades remain determined to establish a new world order while the pull of unfettered power begins to erode their sense of direction.

The Gold Factor, the first in the series and based on real events, is a twisting tale of intrigue that follows the rise of The BENEFACTORS, the legacy of a man who would see them stopped dead in their tracks, and the lives of four women entangled in a plot to assassinate a modern-day President.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491748664

Jeff Callan

About the authors Wesley Miller is the author of Pigeons, Penguins & Post Turtles. He lives with his wife of 24+ years, his 4 daughters, is a U.S. Navy veteran and successful health industry IT executive. Jeff Callan is a writer, IT professional, and self-described conspiracy theorist. A native of New England, he now lives in Gilbert, Arizona with his loving wife, three beautiful children, and crew of suspicious-looking pets.

Book preview

THE BENEFACTORS

GOLD FACTOR

Copyright © 2014 MCAG Financial Management, LLC.

Cover Design and Layout by designer, Ellie Bockert Augsburger, of Creative Digital Studios.

www.CreativeDigitalStudios.com

Military Personnel Holding His Precious Cap © stockyimages / Dollar Photo Club

Female Detectives © gulfix / Dollar Photo Club

White House, South Facade, Washington DC © sic2005 / Dollar Photo Club

German Soldiers © Sergey Kamshylin / Dollar Photo Club

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4868-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4867-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4866-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014917457

iUniverse rev. date: 10/28/2014

CONTENTS

Prologue

Frankfurt, Germany—January 1945

New Orleans, November 22—Present Day

Capitol Building, Washington, Dc—Present Day

Subic Bay, Philippines—September 1945

New Orleans, November 22—Present Day

Part One

Houston, Texas—March 1928

Ouachita Parish, Northeast Louisiana—July 1928

New Orleans—Present Day

Cambridge, Massachusetts—March 1929

Offices Of Continental Conveyance, Pier 131, New Orleans—January 1930

New Orleans—Present Day

Washington, Dc—Present Day

Office Of The Director Of National Intelligence—10:45 A.m.

Boston, Massachusetts—April 1931

Pier 131, New Orleans—June 1932

Falls Church, Virginia—Present Day

New Orleans—Present Day

Algiers, North Africa—August 1933

Italy—June 1936

Washington, Dc—Present Day

New Orleans—Present Day

Washington, Dc—Present Day

Falls Church, Virginia—Present Day

Washington, Dc—August 1937

Italy—September 1939

Washington, Dc—Present Day

New Orleans—Present Day

Washington, Dc—Present Day

Washington, Dc—March 1939

New Orleans—July 1939

Falls Church, Virginia—Present Day

New Orleans—July 1942

Algiers—October 1942

Falls Church, Virginia—Present Day

New Orleans—Present Day

New York—August 1942

New Orleans—September 1942

Part Two

Washington, Dc—Present Day

Chalmette, Louisiana—Present Day

Washington, Dc—Present Day

Falls Church, Virginia—Present Day

Bern, Switzerland—December 1943

New Orleans—January 1944

New Hampshire—July 1944

New Orleans—Present Day

Basel, Switzerland—January 1945

Washington, Dc—Present Day

New Orleans—Present Day

Falls Church, Virginia—Present Day

Washington, Dc—Present Day

New Orleans—Present Day

Washington, Dc—Present Day

Nancy, France—March 1945

New Orleans—Present Day

Washington, Dc—Present Day

New Orleans—Present Day

North Africa—April 1945

South China Sea—July 1945

Subic Bay, Philippines—July 1945

New Orleans—Present Day

Washington, Dc—July 1945

Part Three

New Orleans—Present Day

Bern, Switzerland—August 1945

Washington, Dc—Present Day

New Orleans—November 1945

Thailand—1946

Washington, Dc—February 1946

New Orleans—1946

New Orleans—Present Day

Washington, Dc—December 1946

New Orleans—March 1947

Hamburg, Germany—January 1948

New Orleans—Present Day

Pier 131, New Orleans—June 1948

Washington, Dc—January 1949

New Orleans—Present Day

Washington, Dc—January 1949

New Orleans—Present Day

Washington, Dc—January 1949

Epilogue

New Orleans—Present Day

Washington, Dc—Present Day

New Orleans—Present Day

To my patient and beautiful wife Suzanne and our four beautiful angels, Meagan, Caitlin, Alaine, and Gillian. Thank you for all the love and support that a husband and father could ever hope for and who knows that the Lord Jesus Christ is ultimately in control of our lives.

Wesley Miller

For my loving wife, Carolynne, and my children, Sydney, Julia, and Sean.

You are the angels on my shoulder who remind me that dreams,

even those I could never have imagined, can come true.

Jeff Callan

This book is dedicated to those who died in the Tigantourine gas facility attack in Amenas, Algeria, January 16, 2013, in particular Nederland High School alum Victor Lovelady; to the brave Americans who died in Benghazi, Libya, on September 11, 2012; and to all the men, women, and those unsung heroes of the intelligence services who have given their lives in defense of freedom so that we may all live in the best republic there has ever been—the United States of America. May you be remembered, and we salute you.

Special thanks to the following people who contributed their time and energy in the creation of this work: Walter Washburn, Marvin Dulaney, Padma Min, Valerie Miller, Reginald Harvey, Lisa Fox, Sherry Steele, and others (including some we cannot name).

Thank you.

PROLOGUE

FRANKFURT, GERMANY—JANUARY 1945

In the silver-gray light of dawn, several sets of headlights rumbled down the Bergen-Enkheim road toward the checkpoint. Corporal Horst Goehl could make out two cars followed by two canvas-sided trucks splashing through the slush toward him. The Bergen-Enkheim checkpoint lay just northeast of Frankfurt on a remote rural road, a good choice for those hoping to avoid notice. Until recently, most nights proved to be sleepy duty. The war had shifted in favor of the Allied forces, so he and his fellow soldiers kept watch for deserters and looters, often officers looking to survive the war and make their way to Switzerland with a portion of the Reich’s riches. The war was over for the Nazis, but neither Horst nor his comrades soldiers dared speak of it.

Horst limped out into the road and set himself in front of the barrier gate. He earned the limp during his time at the eastern front, where he took a bullet in the ankle during the advance of the Red Army. His left foot stayed behind in a filthy medical tent near Zaporozhye, while he returned to duty after receiving an ill-fitting prosthetic at a hospital in Berlin. As the vehicles came into range, Horst raised his arm to signal a required stop. His other arm rested on the barrel chamber of a Schmeisser machine gun slung over his shoulder.

His commander, Captain Vogt, emerged from the converted farmhouse they used as a garrison. Tall, thin, and blond, Vogt might have served as a poster model for the Aryan ideal: fit, elitist, loyal to the Reich, with blue eyes that reveled in pointing out the failings of those beneath him. Vogt was a hard-ass and, as near as Horst could tell, loved the war. Horst joked to his comrades about rolling a grenade under Vogt’s bunk some evening. But so far, Vogt had survived.

Vogt eyed Horst and the oncoming vehicles with typical squinting suspicion and the slightest hint of a warrior’s anticipation. A private followed Vogt out the farmhouse door and took position near the lift gate control, a carbine slung over his shoulder, his square face dour and bored. The remainder of the squad billeted inside the farmhouse and out of the predawn chill.

The lead auto, a mud-caked Admiral Cabriolet staff car, slowed and crunched to a stop twenty feet back from the gate. After a moment, the rear passenger door opened, and a large, barrel-chested SS general stepped out. He moved stiffly and as if he were both welcoming and suffering his exit from the vehicle.

Horst’s stomach sank. He had a family, and he longed to see them again. He bore no desire to return to the eastern front for having inconvenienced a general on a remote and cold farm road an hour before his breakfast.

Captain Vogt strode forward and greeted the general with a click of his heels and a sharp salute. My apologies, Herr General, but I am under orders to search all vehicles, and I must ask to see your papers.

The general returned the gesture with apparent disinterest and frowned. I am General Lutz Maximilian, commander of the Schutzstaffel at the southern front, he said, pronouncing each word for emphasis.

As I said, Herr General, my apologies, but I do have my orders.

Horst eyed the occupants of the vehicles in front of him. Unless the trucks contained more soldiers, it seemed a small contingent to be escorting such a high-ranking official across the German frontier. The two Opel Blitz diesels were not troop carriers but common commercial freight haulers. Perhaps they would catch bigger fish today.

Your papers, Herr General? Captain Vogt repeated.

The general grimaced, produced proper identification, and just as quickly returned the papers to his breast pocket. Now, let us be on our way, he demanded.

I am sorry, Herr General, but I must search the vehicles, Vogt said. He motioned to the private to call out the remainder of the garrison.

Captain, that will not be necessary, the general said. "In fact, I forbid it!"

A moment later, six men, armed with rifles and machine guns, trotted out of the farmhouse and onto the road. Vogt waved them up. They split, three on each side of the lead auto. You may report your dissatisfaction to the regional commander in Frankfurt, Herr General, Vogt said. My orders are quite specific.

With the brewing delay, several members of the convoy exited their vehicles and stepped onto the road. All were dressed in black SS uniforms. Several men stretched as if to loosen the effects of a long ride, and one relieved himself on a snowbank beside the road. Two SS officers, one a foot taller than the other, convened alongside the second vehicle, a road-weary Kraftfahrzeug 11. The two chatted inaudibly to each other.

Horst eased a few steps forward. Neither Vogt nor the general appeared to be backing down. A squadron of butterflies broke formation and fluttered about Horst’s insides. The hair at the back of his neck stood on end in the frigid morning air. Hunching his shoulders against the chill, he gripped the Schmeisser and hobbled forward to join his squad.

The private, a friend, stopped him by the arm. You take the gate controls, Horst; rest that leg of yours, he said in a hush. You are in no condition to make for cover if things go bad, and with Herr Vogt, that is assured. The private moved up and left Horst standing there.

This is an outrage, the general complained. What is in these trucks is classified. I will not have it compromised on this ridiculous pretense.

Vogt held his ground. Nevertheless, Herr General, I have my orders. He waved his team forward. Vogt’s squad flanked the first two vehicles and ordered the remaining occupants out. Vogt demanded identification from the driver of the Cabriolet. The driver made no move to respond. Identification, the captain repeated, angering. General Maximilian, Vogt chuffed. "This will proceed more smoothly if you order your men to cooperate. We will use force, if necessary."

Horst shifted uncomfortably. The SS troopers were well armed. He spotted several Erma Werke Mod-40 machine pistols. He’d seen those weapons in action before. If violence broke out, his squad would be outmatched.

Two SS troopers drifted off and disappeared behind the first truck. Another passenger, ushered out of the second car, stood hatless with no obvious markings of rank. The man pulled his long wool coat tightly about himself, looking patently annoyed. The squad completed a search of the cars and moved on to the first truck, ordering the driver to exit. The soldiers searched the cab and proceeded to the rear of each truck. The driver followed, walking along the length of the truck behind them.

As the soldiers worked to drop the tailgate, the SS officer trotted after them, shouting, No! No! One of guards raised his carbine to stop the advance. The officer stopped short and raised his palms to dispel any intention of violence. As he stood, hands raised, the shorter officer sidled up next to him and pulled his comrade’s arm down, glaring at the soldier as he did it.

Vogt and the general strode down the line of vehicles toward the commotion. Horst limped farther up the line, keeping a watchful eye on his distance from gatehouse.

Captain, if you persist, the general said, I will personally report you to the führer.

I have my orders, Herr General, Vogt said. I trust the führer will not condemn me for following them.

I will relish your education on that point.

The threat did nothing to deter Vogt. He basked in obstinacy if following orders. One of the soldiers tossed back a tarp to reveal three large wooden crates on the bed of the truck. Vogt drew his pistol and leveled it at the general. Step back, Herr General. Then he said to the soldiers, Open one of the crates.

The morning air echoed with the trip and ratchet of weapons being cocked and bullets chambering into firing position. The SS stood ready to cut down Vogt’s men, and the infantry responded in kind. For a long moment, each group stood its ground in threatening silence, staring the other down.

You are a fool, the general spat.

At that moment, the passenger in the long wool coat walked out among them with his hands splayed. Gentlemen, please. He approached Vogt and gave a casual salute. Herr Captain, I am Major General Reinhard Gehlen, the man began. He opened his coat to reveal a general’s uniform beneath. With two fingers, he slipped his identification papers out of his coat and handed them to Vogt, confirming his identity.

Herr General, Vogt said, saluting, something is out of the ordinary here, and I have my orders.

I will have you shot, General Maximilian snarled.

Gehlen smiled. Very well, Captain. He motioned to the members of his convoy, who stood armed and ready for a bloody confrontation with Vogt’s men. Some of these men are SS under the command of my comrade general here, he said. The rest are American spies, disguised as members of our SS brigade.

Horst backed up a step. Two of the SS officers whispered to each other and eased their sidearms out of their holsters.

Spies? Vogt gasped. Breath condensed in front of his face in great heaves.

Members of the American intelligence service, the OSS. Gehlen confirmed. We are conveying them to Strasbourg.

But Herr General, Vogt exclaimed in disbelief. They are … the enemy!

Herr Captain, Gehlen said calmly, the war is coming to an end. We are defeated. The Americans understand that the Russians are their next great foe. If your men open these crates, they will find information on the full extent of our intelligence operations on the eastern front, and then—he motioned to the armed OSS operatives and SS troopers positioned about the road—these men will start shooting, and many of us will not live to see our families again.

Vogt’s eyes darted from face to stern face as his squad and the others squared off with each other, a mix of anger and strict duty boiling behind his eyes.

If you let us proceed, Gehlen continued with incongruous calm, the Americans will take up our fight with the Soviets.

Vogt’s breath seethed in his chest. I must search the crates, he repeated absently, as if hypnotized and parroting his own orders.

Horst took two more backward steps toward the gatehouse and set his jaw. Vogt was a fool and would get them all killed.

Vogt raised his pistol and motioned to the two soldiers to eject one of the crates from the truck bed. The soldiers groaned in an attempt to move one crate toward the tailgate.

So be it, Maximilian said with a wave.

Two SS troopers stepped from the far side of the second truck and let loose with their Mod-40s on full automatic. Bullets ripped into the soldiers on the truck and shredded the end of the crate. The soldiers crumpled and pitched off the tailgate. Maximilian shot the captain in the back of the head and dropped him to the road like a discarded marionette.

Gasping, Horst hobbled as fast as he could into the farmhouse, heading for the radiophone.

The infantry fell in a rain of bullets as fire erupted around them. Men shouted and shrieked as blood sprayed across the slush-filled road and soaked their uniforms as they collapsed.

From the back of the truck, gold ingots marked with the eagle and swastika of the Reichsbank spilled off the back of the truck in a shimmering cascade. They clinked and bounced off the bullet-ridden body of one of the dead privates and pooled on the road around him.

Inside the farmhouse, Horst struggled to ring up the Budesheim garrison, his hands shaking. The shooting seemed to end as quickly as it began. A voice answered on the other end just as the touch of cold steel pressed to his temple.

Put down the radio, Corporal, the OSS officer said in passable but imperfect German.

Horst, mouth open, listened to the garrison radioman calling out in his ear. Slowly, he pulled the handset away from his head. Horst raised his hands above his shoulders and turned to face his captor. Amerikaner? Horst whispered. The garbled voice of his counterpart rattled away at him from the earpiece.

The officer nodded. The war is over for you, Corporal. You can die here and now, or you can turn off the radio.

Horst’s mouth opened and closed like a grounded fish with no sound coming from it. After a moment, he switched off the receiver.

What is your name, Corporal?

Horst … Horst Goehl, he stammered.

This situation is going to be difficult to explain, Horst, the officer said. With your comrades dead and you without a scratch.

Horst shook in place. Yes.

I’m afraid we cannot have you telling the truth, the officer said. Do you have a family?

Horst nodded, staring at the black hole of the Luger aimed at his chest. Yes … yes, in Freiburg.

Not far from the Swiss border?

Horst nodded. He was breathing hard through his mouth, licking his lips reflexively.

Keeping his weapon trained, the officer jotted down a telephone number on a slip of paper near the radio and stuffed into the corporal’s raised hand. You will come with us as far as Colmar and then go collect your family. That is my telephone number in Switzerland, he said. I can make arrangements to get you out of Germany.

Horst cocked his head, confused, but nodded, his pupils dilating. A pistol cracked, and a small hole punched into his forehead. He crashed backward into the radio table and slumped dead against it, his eyes wide open.

***

Charles Constantine, an American-born OSS operative, spun to find General Maximilian standing behind him.

The general pushed past him and put a second shot into the radio. Perhaps one day, you will discover your testicles and become a man, Constantine.

Charles ground his jaw. The image of Basma, the woman he loved, flashed in his mind—sprawled and lifeless on the deck of a yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, ravaged by a drunken General Lutz Maximilian.

Since I have done your job for you, Maximilian said, turning for the door, you may help clean up the road. Come. We go.

Charles took one more look into the dead man’s eyes in front of him. Blood and gore leaked from his skull and scrawled a thin rivulet down the bridge of his nose. The line ran past the man’s lip and down his chin, disappearing into the grey tunic. The image burned into him. Charles snatched the slip of paper, still clutched in the man’s twisted grip. It tore as he pulled it free. He stuffed the paper into his pocket and followed the general out into the cold.

NEW ORLEANS, NOVEMBER 22—PRESENT DAY

Bywater District—6:25 a.m.

As New Orleans wiped the nighttime crust from its eyes, Gary Broussard hunkered down in the front seat of his car and watched Robert Brickshaw enter a hole-in-the-wall bodega on Dauphine Avenue two blocks back from the Mississippi River. Gary’s back ached, his feet were cold, and he needed to piss, but his bladder was going to have to wait. A private investigator and retired police detective, he’d been trailing Brickshaw on and off for a couple of weeks in the employ of Jolene Teagarten, a small-time criminal defense lawyer. Jolene initially brought him on as lead investigator supporting a class-action suit she’d led against McKenna-Wilson, a local pharmaceutical corporation, but as the case neared verdict, Jolene asked if he would tail Brickshaw. Just see what he’s up to. Where he goes. Who he meets, she’d said. Jolene had also said that Brickshaw was connected to a case she was working, but offered little else.

Gary called in an alumni favor and got one of his pals in the DWI unit at NOPD to run Brickshaw’s plate. What came back was a Mercedes E-class sedan registered to a one Robert W. Brickshaw, special agent in charge of the New Orleans field office of the FBI. Gary wasn’t thrilled with the idea of shadowing a fed, especially FBI brass. He’d had quite a few dustups with the feds before he retired from the NOPD and tailing Brickshaw around the city didn’t have a lot upside, especially if he was caught.

Jolene must have known that Brickshaw was a fed, and even if Brickshaw only rarely found his way to the bureau offices, he’d go there eventually. But Jolene had spunk, and Gary trusted her. That was enough to lose some sleep and live off cold coffee and food that came in soggy paper wrappers. Today, he thought, he might have earned his pay. Brickshaw broke routine.

Moments after Brickshaw entered the bodega, a maroon-and-white Oldsmobile rolled up, and two men in suits hoisted themselves free of it. Gary propped up a small digital SLR with a telephoto lens, spun it into focus, and snapped a couple of pictures. He kept snapping photos of the two men until they disappeared into the storefront. Scrolling through the photos, he sent a clear picture of the driver from the camera to his phone via a Bluetooth wireless connection and e-mailed it to Jolene’s private account. The passenger had his back to Gary’s lens the entire time before he disappeared, preventing Gary from getting a useful shot.

A minute later, Gary’s phone vibrated against his hip, and Jolene showed on the phone’s display. He tapped his earpiece to answer it.

I got the picture, Jolene said, sounding jazzed. Where are you?

Bodega on Dauphine. Gary filled her in.

What about the other one?

Couldn’t make him out—dark hair, a little taller. The driver looks familiar. You know him? Gary asked.

Jolene paused and then answered, Well, sort of. He’s the assistant to the director of Homeland Security.

You’ve got to be kidding me, Gary blurted. Do you want to tell me what is going on, Jolene? I’m really not in the mood to stick my foot in the middle of some federal operation going down this morning. He had a bad angle on the Olds’s license plate and couldn’t get a picture. Who’s the other guy, you think? Director of the CIA or the head of the damned KGB?

Jolene sighed. Listen, Gary, I need you to trust me on this one at least a little longer. There was something desperate in her tone, and it made Gary nervous.

How much longer?

A little longer, Jolene urged.

Gary decided that this was no ordinary legal case on Jolene’s desk. If she was in over her head, Gary felt a fatherly duty to figure it out and—if need be—protect her from her own curiosity. He hoped that it wouldn’t come at the cost of his own livelihood. All right, Jolene, you’re the boss. But I might have to put in for hazard pay.

Jolene laughed. No problem, Gary. If McKenna-Wilson goes our way, I promise I will take good care of you.

And if it doesn’t? Gary stared across the road at the empty two-tone Olds and dingy bodega. He saw quiet malevolence staring back at him from the darkened storefront. It hung in the air like river fog. He could almost taste it, and he didn’t enjoy Jolene keeping him in the dark.

Just stay on him, and try to find out what they’re up to.

They catch me tailing them, and they could hose up my license, Gary said. Odds are that this is all government business, and they won’t appreciate me snapping photos as they go about it. He paused, watching the doorway and windows for any sign of movement. Maybe I’ll just mosey over and order a cup of coffee and ask them flat out what they’re up to. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind a bit.

I wouldn’t recommend it, Jolene said.

I’ll tell ’em you sent me.

Gary? she said, serious.

Yeah?

You be careful.

Broussard waited for the men to emerge and tried not to think about his swelling bladder. Robert Brickshaw emerged from the bodega with the DHS brass and one other man in street clothes—shaven head, flannel shirt, ex-military type, from the look of him. Brickshaw and the other man slipped into the Olds. DHS went back inside the store. The Olds backed, wheeled into the street, and took off at a good clip.

Gary shot a quick text update to Jolene and rolled after them. The sedan turned right on Franklin and picked up speed. Gary got boxed in by a FedEx truck and then missed the light at Saint Claude. The Olds disappeared into the morning traffic. On the green, Gary punched it, caught a glimpse of color, and pressed after it. He caught another light at North Robertson and lost it again. At the Almonaster split, he thought he saw it two blocks up and veered off Franklin. He chased it for another minute but found a maroon Caddy sedan instead of the Olds. Cutting left, he made his way back to Franklin, weaving in and out of traffic and craning for the Olds for several minutes, but it was gone. Gary smacked the steering wheel with both hands. Damn it!

Even though he was angry for losing the Olds, Gary wasn’t all that sure that he wanted to catch it, either.

***

Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport—11:00 a.m.

Earl Mavers pulled his black stretch limousine to the exact spot that Mr. Simon directed, all the way at the end of the limos, almost into the next county. He eased his rail-thin, midfifty-year-old frame out of the car, straightened his hat, and finger-smoothed his razor-thin gray mustache as if it would respond in any way but bounce back to where it started. Two men that he picked up on the way to the airport, including Mr. Simon, waited inside the car. Earl carried a handwritten placard that read Simon Party. He was neatly dressed, with creases in his black slacks and matching polo and windbreaker, but his gaunt physique moved with the slight stoop of a downtrodden man. Earl made the long walk back to the terminal and then craned and scanned the exiting crowd, showing his placard in hopes of locating his fare.

A moment later, two men—one carrying a large black duffel and the other a small carry-on—ambled down the sidewalk. One man gave him a confirming wave, which he returned with a closed-lipped smile and directed them up the line to his waiting car. The two new riders, in casual clothes, piled in back with the other two. Earl hunker-strode around the vehicle and slipped in behind the wheel. Where to, Mr. Simon?

Head downtown, and drop us off at the Piazza d’Italia near Champions Square, the man said.

Earl winced imperceptibly. He’d heard that the president was in town, and traffic would be a bitch. He blinked twice, slid the limo into gear, and eased away from the curb.

Before he left the limo, Mr. Simon handed Earl a bargain-brand cell phone in a clear cellophane bag and two grand in cash. When I call, you come like the back of the car is on fire. I’ll tell you where. Simple. You got it?

Earl gave him a practiced no questions nod and parked in the limo section of a premium lot on Loyola Avenue. Whatever they were up to, it was their business, Earl decided. It would take him weeks to make that kind of scratch on regular fares and his favorite girls’ nights out.

The venue hosting the president’s surprise visit was around the corner. Most of the central parking lots were jammed, and street traffic made for slow going. President Morris would be in the square, not the Superdome, so every sidewalk and half the streets were filled with onlookers and hopefuls waiting to catch a glimpse of the popular prez, or his entourage, or the color of his socks. Earl didn’t give a crap. His mouth watered at the thought of a nice, comfortable bar stool and some serious quenching.

But Earl wasn’t stupid. He readied the digital camera mounted in the glove box. A little insurance was never a bad idea. His buddy set the camera up after Earl met an amateur pornographer in a bar in Chalmette. The camera provided two angles in the passenger compartment using some kind of filament lens connected off a Y cable at the back of the camera. The eyes were hidden in the back and set for good up-skirts of the rear-facing bench and side bench behind the driver’s seat where most of the heavy action took place. Earl made a few extra bucks selling the good shots to the guy in Chalmette, and—since Earl didn’t have a computer—the buyer even printed copies for Earl’s personal enjoyment.

Twenty-five minutes later, the phone rang. Earl fumbled it out of the plastic.

Parking garage at the corner of Loyola and Julia. Fifth level, Simon said, all business. Right now.

Earl bounced the limo out of the lot and made for the parking structure two blocks away. He felt like a getaway man and practiced his blind eye to whatever you’re up to nod as he went. The six-story garage was connected to a commercial office building and condo apartments that ran up more than twenty floors. Earl screeched into the garage and pushed the Lincoln around each turn, hoping that no one would back out and cream the only asset he had worth owning. He came around the corner and roared across the fifth level of the garage, spotting his group in a cluster near a stairwell exit door. Mr. Simon waved him over. Earl pulled up and slammed on the brakes to make sure that Simon knew that he’d really tried to punch it to get there.

The back door flew open, and the group piled in—five guys, not four as before. The fifth, a man in uniform whom they dragged into the back, was clearly injured and struggling. The uniform was not NOPD or SWAT, but it had that look, including a badge on a lanyard. Earl flicked the switch to the B position and snapped a few pictures using the button secreted on the steering column. The last man in dropped a heavy bag in the middle of the back and closed the door behind him.

Earl snatched his hand away from the device when his client, Mr. Simon, opened the passenger door and dropped in beside him.

Go!

Earl stomped it. The limo squealed around a dozen corners heading for the exit.

Left.

Earl cut the corner short, and the Lincoln teeter-tottered into the street with a groan.

Simon pulled out a phone and made a call.

Earl caught the distinctive timbre of a woman’s voice on the other end.

Simon caught the intrusion and switched the phone to his other ear. We have one with a bee sting; he’s going to need a Band-Aid. Simon said. A moment later, he said, "The hotel what? Spell it … okay, I’ve got it … on Franklin, yes, I’ve got it." He turned to Earl.

Shouldn’t we get to a hospital? Earl said, praying that Simon would agree.

Head for the north end of Almonaster.

Earl nodded as his heart sank. Up near 10? It wasn’t by Franklin on the north end, but not too far off.

Corner of Almonaster and Jourdan, across the canal. Step on it, and don’t get pulled over, Simon said.

Earl drove the seven miles to the destination. They crossed the canal and took a right onto Jourdan.

Pull in here. Simon pointed to an abandoned industrial park.

Earl squeezed the brakes and hauled the wheel over. The limo rumbled across the parking area. A long, rectangular warehouse lay rotting in the November sun. Two outbuildings sat peeling and tilting across the rutted asphalt driveway.

Over there, Simon said, pointing to a maroon-and-white Oldsmobile parked between the second outbuilding and a twelve-yard trash container brimming with construction debris that looked like it had been there awhile. The limo ground to stop.

Earl began to seriously consider the possibility that he’d end up in the dumpster or the canal—or the trunk of his own limo and the canal. Two grand was a lot to pay a guy for a couple of hours and easy to take back if the guy had a couple of bullet holes in the back of his head.

The men began to exit the limo.

Simon grabbed the cellophane bag from the console and held it open. Give me the phone.

Earl dropped it in.

Simon opened the door and hopped out but leaned back in. Stay put.

Earl took the opportunity to snap a half dozen more pictures as the men cleared the back.

They loaded the injured man into the back of the Olds. Simon came back to the driver’s side window and motioned for Earl to crank it down.

Earl gritted his teeth and waited for a gun to come up level with his face.

Simon called back to one of the men. We drop him off, and then get yourselves to the house. He then handed Earl another stack of cash.

Twenty crisp hundred-dollar bills lay burning in Earl’s coat pocket. The second stack appeared to be identical.

Mr. Simon leaned down. You talk, you’re dead.

Earl gave him ‘the nod’.

Get lost.

Earl slapped the limo in gear and took off, barely breathing until he put a mile between himself and the drop-off.

***

Yes? A woman answered.

This is Arrowhead; I need a bus ride for three, the man in uniform said.

Not four?

We could only purchase three tickets at this time.

Where is the fourth?

The man paused. On another bus. We don’t have his phone.

A pause. Get to the station. I’ll call the bus driver. She hung up.

Tapping into a computer, the woman activated the tracker on all four phones. The screen registered four blips. Three of the signals pulsed together in a cluster; the fourth was several miles away and moving. Thirty minutes later, the missing phone’s blip stopped and then went out completely.

***

To his dismay, Earl found something besides blood in the back seat. It looked like the edge of a seat belt buckle wedged into the seat cushion. It was a cell phone; a nice one too. To Earl, it might as well have been a lightning rod. Using some Chick-fil-A napkins that he found in the front console, he eased the phone out of its blood-soaked spot between the cushions. He popped out the SIM card to render it useless. It was worth a few bucks at least. He cleaned and then wiped down the entire inside of the car, including the front seat and all the doors. After a trip to the liquor store and some further thought, the cell phone went in to the river.

CAPITOL BUILDING, WASHINGTON, DC—PRESENT DAY

4:45 p.m.

Katherine Kiley Smithson stepped out of the closed-door Euro Summit meeting she was hosting, a pert female staffer close behind. She wanted rapid answers for the interruption. This had better be damned important, she hissed. Secret Service agents Paul Baker and Amelia Alvarez, the lead agents assigned to her security detail, moved in on her, flanked by two additional agents whom she did not recognize.

Baker grasped her behind the elbow. "Madam Vice President, we need you to come with us right now."

"What? She pointed back to the conference room. Do you have any idea what is going on in that room?"

Agent Baker ignored her and put a hand to his ear. Palomino is in hand, and we’re on the move. He began dictating instructions to his team through a secure radio, and he angled Smithson down the hall.

Agent Alvarez sidled up and took her other arm. Something has happened to the president. We’ll explain in the car.

Smithson’s heart sank. She wrenched one arm free and aimed back at her staffer with one taupe-colored fingernail. Julie, get someone from the State Department in that room ASAP. I don’t want those bozos coming to any grand conclusions by themselves. You got that?

The staffer nodded and turned down the hall, her phone already to her ear.

The vice president allowed the agents to pull her through a maze of hallways at a brisk pace. At the door leading to the underground parking garage, one agent drew his weapon and put a hand to his earpiece. Clear! he shouted and burst through the door ahead of them. A black Chevrolet Suburban screeched and met them a few feet from the door. The passenger door swung open, and an agent extended a hand to pull the vice president in to the vehicle.

What is going on? Smithson demanded of Baker. His expressionless face disappeared as she was heaved into the backseat.

Inside, CNN warbled away on an overhead monitor. What she saw put her guts on a corkscrew roller coaster.

No, not like this …

Smithson watched the screen in private panic, like an errant step into a primordial swamp that pulled her to its murky depths, as the report played out from New Orleans expressing urgent concern for the life of President Sterling Morris.

This was never part of the plan …

SUBIC BAY, PHILIPPINES—SEPTEMBER 1945

There’s something over here, Sergeant! A young marine moved out of the brush and ambled down a small embankment, waving as he went. Looks like there was something here, covered up pretty good, though.

The squad followed him back up the rise. Sergeant John Rangely surveyed the hillside, rubbed his chin, and frowned. The marine grabbed a stick and scratched some lines on the ground. It’s a symbol. Hard to see, but it’s been planted that way. The marine hiked up the hill, grabbed a shrub by the stalk, and yanked it free of the ground. Not all that long ago, either.

Rangely frowned again, and then his brow lifted as the pattern emerged. He waved the radioman over. Halloran, what do you make of that?

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that’s kanji. The radioman cocked his head. It says, ‘Posterity.’

The sergeant squatted down, scooped up a handful of moist brown earth, and bounced it out through his fingers. Jonesy, those Seabees still hanging around down in the bay?

Yeah, Sarge.

Better get ’em up here.

***

It took most of the day, but the bucktoothed goober running the backhoe finally idled the big diesel engine down. He stood in his seat and twisted back to the officer in charge. We’re through!

Lazing in shade nearby, the marines pried themselves out of the grass and began to gear up.

Halloran, get command on the phone and confirm this. Tell that OSS fella that we found it right where he’d said it would be.

The backhoe left a pile of dirt and concrete and a rough four-by-eight hole in the hillside. Beyond it steeped impenetrable blackness that could have stretched for ten feet or ten thousand.

Get some torches, Rangely barked, and stay awake, you clowns. Some of these tunnels can run for miles and can drop off in a heartbeat. This wasn’t the first time he’d crawled into a Japanese tunnel, and he didn’t want it to be the last time, either.

The squad moved into the cave, one at a time, hugging the interior wall and shuffling down the angle of dirt and rocks that made up the entrance. The air ran thick and rank with mold and earth. The clink of their equipment and chunk of boots echoed back from somewhere far off in the darkness. The sergeant held up two fingers and waved off to the right flank. Jonesy. You and Idaho.

Thirty feet ahead, the tunnel cut left, shearing off any light from entrance. The squad eased forward, wading through the black air, their flashlights catching the dust and barely pushing back the veil of endless dark.

Jonesy raised his hand, and they all froze. I think I heard someth—

A flash and roar flattened them to the walls. Someone shrieked in pain. The tunnel bellowed and blazed as the squad returned fire.

I’m hit!

Cease fire! Cease fire!

The marines stopped shooting and scanned the darkness for signs of the sniper.

They got Davies!

Put those lights out!

Ah, jeez, damn it—

Pipe down!

They waited and listened in the dark with the shots still ringing around the cave and in their ears. Jonesy motioned ahead. I see some boxes or cover in that cut on the left. The shot came from farther on.

Just one shot?

Yes, sir.

How’s Davies?

Man! They buried the bastards in like the pharaoh’s builders.

Pipe down!

Damn it. Uh, okay, Sarge … he’s okay—took one through the hand.

Rangely swore under his breath. Another shot boomed in the tunnel and exploded in the dirt right next to his head. He winced and crouched under his helmet.

Then another.

One shooter, Sarge, Idaho called out.

Greenbean, put a flare up that tunnel.

Gee, Sarge, what if it’s full of munitions? It’d take us and half the mountain!

They don’t bury bullets. Another shot ripped through the dark. Give me a flare! Idaho, I want your eyes on that Nip.

Private Ronson McClatchy of Lewiston, Idaho, the best shot in the company, eased prone and settled his eye behind the sight of his Springfield .30-06. No problem, Sergeant.

With a whump, the flare spiraled down the tunnel and popped the space into instant daylight.

Idaho squeezed off a single shot, and it was over.

Jonesy stood up and lowered his rifle, his face basked in the hissing glow of the flare. Sweet mama’s biscuits! he exclaimed.

The squad eased up alongside him and, to the man, squinted and stared slack jawed into the cavernous expanse that lay before them.

Halloran, Rangely said after nearly a minute.

Yes, Sergeant?

Better get outside and call it in.

Ah, yeah, sure, Sarge … who to?

Rangely rubbed his chin. Stretching back into the tunnel, lined up like cordwood in neat six-by-ten-foot stacks, gleamed a mass of ten-kilo gold bars that went on as far as he could see. Ask for Mannington with the OSS. Not another word. Just tell him we found it. Nothing else. No one else. Just tell him we found it.

NEW ORLEANS, NOVEMBER 22—PRESENT DAY

2:15 p.m.

This is the Cleaner, a man said.

I have a job for you. Three one-way tickets, the woman said.

Understood.

Take any luggage, and collect three of four phones. The location will be provided at the post office.

The usual box?

Affirmative. They will be waiting at the station as arranged.

Roger that.

Call me when it’s done.

***

The Cleaner arrived at the safe house location and parked his van in the alley behind it. He slipped through the gate behind a wooden shed and approached the house at a safe angle, all prearranged. He carried an overnight-sized black tote bag with him. He located the air-conditioning system and produced a small red cylinder from the bag. He twisted the canister onto a brass fitting where the pipes entered the house and opened the nozzle to release the gas. The unit had been specifically designed for this purpose and for this eventuality.

The Cleaner checked his watch.

Exactly two minutes later, he closed the nozzle, removed the canister, and returned it to the bag. He donned a respirator mask, produced a key from his pocket, and entered the house through the back door.

Three men lay dead on the first floor of the house, one in the narrow galley kitchen and two in the dining room, sprawled beneath the dining room table where they fell. Using three body bags, the Cleaner collected each man and dragged them in turn to the back door. He scooped up their gear and weapons, including a Remington Model 7600P Patrol Rifle fitted with a high-powered scope and three cell phones, and placed it in a large black duffel bag he found on the dining room table. He then carried the men over his shoulder, one by one, back to the van.

When he was done, the Cleaner removed a small, rectangular device from his tote and set it on the kitchen floor, and using an adjustable wrench, he disconnected the gas line from the stove. He locked the back door behind him and pulled the van down the alley. He turned right on the cross street and then made a call.

A woman answered. Yes?

Three tickets punched. He produced a small transceiver from his pocket and activated the single button on its face.

The house erupted somewhere behind him and roared into flames.

The bus is clean, he added.

"Dump the passengers, and stow the luggage. Payment will be