Crosscurrents

By Tom Bierdz

Gold medal winner of the 2018 Political Thriller in the Reader's Favorite Contest

Could you kill your brother to save yourself?

A senator proposing a weapons' control bill. A hitman with amnesia. When the hitman instinctively saves the senator, his target from another assassin, the hitman's memory returns.

Knowing the senator is his brother, does he refuse the hit and place himself in the crosshairs, or does he go through with it to save himself?

A story about power and greed, good versus evil and a family caught in the crosscurrents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Bierdz
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780998364759

Tom Bierdz

Tom Bierdz, a retired psychotherapist, was born and raised in Kenosha,WI. He earned a BA degree from Marquette University and a Masters degree in social work from the University of Chicago. He worked in public welfare in Milwaukee and Kenosha before becoming the Director of Catholic Social Services in Racine, WI. From there he went into the private practice of psychotherapy.Several years later he retired his psychotherapy practice, earned his insurance and stockbroker's license,secured a CFP degree and practiced as a Certified Financial Planner.Tom has been passionate about needing to express himself artistically. He dabbled with writing from time to time before giving it full energy during his retirement. Finally, he has committed to publish independently.He and his wife, Susan, reside in Washington State.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

New York City

July, 2011

His Nikes rhythmically slapped the pavement. Perspiration trickled over his sodden sweatband, stinging his eyes. George wiped them with his t-shirt sleeves. His side ached as he neared the horseshoe-shaped blacktop that looped through the park, the six mile mark. It was tougher to run on muggy days. He stopped and sucked air into his lungs. Dripping wet, hands resting on his waist, George turned to check on his family. He spotted his eldest son, Steven, ten yards behind. His wife, Bridgett, followed another ten yards back and his youngest son, Donald, five yards behind her. This Sunday morning ritual pleased him.

He swelled with affection and pride as he watched his wife approach. A purple headband hugged her shoulder-length, blonde hair. Dressed in purple shorts and a white t-shirt, she looked as fit and firm as when they first met fifteen years ago.

A loud pow punctured his euphoria, probably an engine’s backfire. A late-model black Lexus, bulging with teenagers, jumped the curb onto the lawn. Then it swerved back onto the blacktop and hooked the road surrounding them. A gang following in a dark blue Lincoln opened fire.

A volley of gunshots answered.

He watched in horror as Steven’s face convulsed in terror. He thrust his arm into the air and spasmodically jerked forward, blood spurting from his head, and plunged to the ground. Seconds later he heard his wife’s horrifying scream. While bullets buzzed by his head, he saw her pivot. Then, her body arched backward, her head reaching her heels, before striking the ground. Simultaneously Donald hit the dirt.

George felt abject terror and rage.

The taste of bile tainted his throat.

You bastards! I’ll get you! he screamed.

Then, caught in the crossfire, a searing pain stabbed his right ankle and he collapsed.

1

Demetrius

On the Greek Isle of Mykonos, Demetrius stretched out on a gray webbed chaise lounge on his sprawling redwood deck, cantilevered over a barren, craggy cliff high above the Aegean Sea. His closed, weary eyes invited the mid-November sun, growing bright red behind his eyelids, to warm his unshaven face. He opened his eyes, sat up in his chair, and sipped retsina from a hand-painted ceramic goblet. Closing the cover on Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment he heaved a contented sigh. A man of action, more prone to the hedonistic lifestyle of the island’s fast-paced, abundant nightlife, Demetrius enjoyed this solitary contemplative phase. Perhaps, like Dostoyevsky’s Raskolnikov he had a dual personality. But didn’t all men possess a dark side?

Demetrius stood, sauntered to the red pipe-railing that rimmed the deck, and from his bird’s eye view, gazed at the rippling turquoise waters. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he followed the mesmerizing swoop of a hawk riding the prevailing thermal currents. Like the hawk he felt at peace with himself. Life was good. He wished this facet of his life could last indefinitely, but reluctantly he pulled himself away from this place of beauty to perform his daily ritual, his means of staying in touch with the global network of prospects seeking to purchase his services. Finishing the novel had already put him behind schedule.

He walked through his sleek, Mediterranean stucco retreat to his study and turned on his state-of-the-art computer. He set the TV to the interactive channel and typed: ICELAND. He paged down the list of directories to BULLETIN BOARD and hit the return key. Touching the screen called up the general directory, BOTANY, and then the sub-directories: FLOWERS and IRIS. That procedure produced a screen with two selections—FEEDBACK and EXIT. Touching FEEDBACK revealed the following Iris file names on the screen:

1. BABY BOOM                     6. HIGH WIRE

2. BISHOP’S PAWN             7. JUNGLE CAT

3. CHERRY TART                 8. LEPRECHAUN

4. DARK CRYSTAL               9. MIDNIGHT CALLER

5. FAUX PAS                         10. PERFECT COUPLE

The menu on the bottom of the screen showed retrieve, match, and exit. Highlighting match with his finger generated one match and yielded to MIDNIGHT CALLER. He entered the password and received the message: SEEDLING # AG-22-11-23.

Demetrius understood that to mean code-name, Archangel Gabriel, required his services and needed to rendezvous in New York’s Central Park on November 23. The time would be 10:00 am EST since no additional numbers were tagged. Like clockwork the system codes changed at least once a year, more often if someone suspected a hacker was tampering with the program or deciphering the code. The computer security was tight but nothing was infallible. After Demetrius hit a button confirming the meet, the monitor went blank and erased the message from memory forever.

He picked up the phone and called Sarvos, his chief pilot. Prepare the King Air. You and Panos will fly me to Athens tomorrow. I’ll need to hook up with Olympic to fly into Kennedy. Arrange it so I’ll arrive around dinnertime.

He returned to his deck, saw a storm brewing and choked with anxiety. Something about storms made him ill at ease for as far back as he could remember. A flying carpet of black clouds rapidly converged from the west. Swirling winds bent the smattering of hillside trees, scurrying boaters to safety, while waves splattered the shoreline. He rolled down his flapping table umbrella, moved some of his smaller furniture inside, and turned the rest upside down.

With a mission to complete, he hoped the squall wasn’t a bad omen. He wasn’t superstitious, but this time a bit of ambivalence tempered his usual rush of excitement.

Demetrius Kariakos killed for a living. A freelance assassin, known only by the code-name, Iceland, he hired himself out to governments, and private individuals around the globe. His reputation flourished. By most accounts his kills numbered in the hundreds. One official, seemingly in the know, estimated the figure to be one thousand. The truth, known only to Iceland tallied close to fifty, a number he believed would grace the pages of the Guinness Book of Records if such statistics were kept. More astounding, all of the murders remained unsolved.

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In New York he registered at the Plaza Hotel which was conveniently located adjacent to Central Park where he would rendezvous with Gabriel.

Dressed in a dark indigo denim shirt and jeans, ankle-cut boots, and a leather bomber jacket, he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and ran a comb through his coarse, black hair which was now streaked with gray. Blessed with rugged good looks and swarthy skin, weathered by a perilous lifestyle, he appealed to women. Cat-like, inquisitive gray eyes that seemed to see beyond the superficial, dominated his features. He spent an extra few minutes sweeping his hair over his grossly scarred right ear. Severed in a scuffle, it had been surgically reattached.

A sensation akin to an electrical current pulsed through his veins, tingling the tips of his fingers, signaling his readiness to meet with Gabriel. He aligned a piece of scotch tape over the door jamb before locking the door. A broken seal upon his return would alert him that someone had intruded, or tampered with the door, when he was gone. He was aware of more sophisticated security devices but the tape was tried and true and never failed him. His profession demanded extraordinary precautions. He had engendered an army of enemies and left nothing to chance.

Demetrius entered the elevator, visually verified the lit lobby button, then nodded and smiled at the white-haired, elderly lady in an ermine coat. She returned a nervous smile and diverted her eyes downward. He imagined she’d faint if she knew his profession. He studied the posted restaurant advertisements before the doors opened to a hive of activity. Well-heeled people checked in and out, bellhops wheeled luggage, a delivery boy carried flowers, and people scurried back and forth over the plush carpeting.

The doorman greeted him and held open the door as he stepped into a crisp sunny day with temperatures in the upper-fifties, quite pleasant for this time of year. Fall colors had already peaked, fading to a dull crinkle. Many of the trees had shed their leaves. He checked his watch and lost himself in the crowd. He took long strides, his body bent slightly forward, as he struggled with thoughts of retirement. In his forties, he was an old-timer in his profession, a Nolan Ryan or Satchel Page stretched beyond his prime. How long could anyone challenge fate and escape unscathed? Was he pressing his luck? He’d also grown weary of his lonely existence, never able to share his secrets. Many a mercenary had been unwittingly doomed by a friend who tried to help.

He had enough money for several lifetimes and no one to leave it to, could indulge himself in any passion he desired, and had committed all seven cardinal sins. His knack for investing had multiplied his wealth.

Not very far into the park he spotted his contact seated on a bench. Named after the Archangel Gabriel because he delivered messages from on high, he wore a bulky, black turtleneck sweater that exaggerated his paunchiness. He puffed on his pipe, shaped like an inverted question mark. Untrimmed white hair and beard and intelligent eyes suggested he toiled in his profession as a college professor or scientist, but because anonymity was critical, Demetrius could only guess.

A smile flashed across his face when he saw Demetrius and he stood to embrace him. Comforting to see a familiar face. How are you?

Demetrius inhaled the pleasant aroma of vanilla tobacco. Excellent, now that I’m with an old friend. Even under conditions of secrecy, when meetings occurred a few times each year for almost twenty years, a fondness developed, if not a friendship, as each discovered bits and pieces about the other’s life.

He sat next to Gabriel and discreetly pushed on his watch stem which activated a micro tape-recorder. He trusted Gabriel as much as he trusted anyone, and sometime even regarded him as a big brother. Yet, he believed in preparing for the unexpected. If ever their dialogue needed to be clarified he could play back the tape. He grabbed a package of Camel filters from his pocket, mouthed one and lit it. You look good, Gabe. Bigger around the middle, but you wear it well.

It’s the sweater. My wife told me it wasn’t very flattering, but I told her no one looks at an old man. And, I wasn’t going to meet any women. His smile revealed yellow, tobacco-stained teeth.

Demetrius chuckled, remembering in the old days he had interpreted Gabriel’s self-effacing behavior as a sign of weakness. Later, he learned Gabriel used it as a ploy to disarm his adversaries.

And, you my friend, look tired.

Demetrius drew on his cigarette. I’ve been thinking of leaving the business. I’m feeling a little burnt out.

You are human!

Demetrius grinned.

Gabriel jabbed his pipe at Demetrius. I know you. You’re no longer the youth with the chip on your shoulder. The years have seasoned you, but if you quit you’ll atrophy like a terminally ill patient whose muscles grow weak and feeble from lack of use. You’re not made like the rest of us. You only feel alive when you’re on the edge.

Maybe I just need to slow down. Who’s the target?

Don’t be in such a hurry. Who else can you talk to about these things? Even your women can’t understand.

Demetrius watched Gabriel study him through compassionate eyes, questioning if he should continue this line of conversation.

Gabriel did. I recognize your compulsion, but only as an outsider. But in the process you’ve become special to me. I’d like to help if I can.

Demetrius cleared his throat. I’m touched.

I have many shortcomings, but I have good ears.

I’ll remember your offer. Someday I may need your wisdom.

Two boys on bikes zipped past, breaking the mood.

Tell me my target.

U.S. Senator George Tobias.

Why?

A rhetorical question I’m sure. You have no need to know. And, most of the time I’m just as much in the dark.

Demetrius smiled to feign cleverness for trying to manipulate Gabriel, but he surprised himself more. He had no idea why he asked. The words just seemed to pop out of his mouth when he heard the Senator’s name. He would not be an easy target.

Standard procedure with one proviso.

And that is?

It has to be done in two weeks.

Two weeks! He frowned. Are you crazy? That’s not how I work. I insist on picking the time and I need up to three months.

That’s impossible in this case.

Then find someone else. He turned away.

Wait! Gabriel seized his arm. Walk with me.

Demetrius sauntered beside Gabriel, watched him suck on his pipe, attempting to light it. He heard the slurping sounds and watched him spit tobacco juice on the sidewalk. Finally, out of frustration, Gabriel rapped the pipe on the sole of his shoe, shook out the ashes and stuck it in his pocket. My people are offering five million. Half up front in a Swiss account at your direction, and the remainder upon completion.

What’s the rush?

Legislation I suspect.

The payoff was generous. Demetrius might be able to terminate the senator in two weeks, but it maximized his risk. Pressure to perform made mistakes more likely. He required time to study his victim and select the opportune moment. Even if the target suspected something, he couldn’t keep his guard up that long. Let me study the dossier. I’ll let you know.

Gabriel surreptitiously pulled a sealed, brown envelope from under his sweater. The letters mj2 were printed in the left upper corner. He handed it to Demetrius. Same time tomorrow?

Demetrius agreed and headed for the hotel. Close to noon, he bought a hot dog and a diet Coke from a street vendor and took them to his room. The door seal was undisturbed. Inside, he removed his jacket and spilled the contents of the envelope on the table—-three photos and several pages of text. One photo depicted George Tobias shaking hands with the President. Another standing, speaking to an audience. The third, an individual shot in casual clothes that had been part of a larger one, cut off and blown up. He appeared forty-something, dark and handsome with a sharply chiseled nose and jawline. Athletic-looking, he radiated self-assurance. He reminded Demetrius of somebody. Who?

He scanned the other pages. The less known about the alleged victim, the less chance of emotional attachment. Only essential information about the subject’s habits and activity schedule for the next two weeks was provided. With Congress in session the senator would be in Washington with a busy itinerary. Tobias would be more accessible in New York and easier to hit during the holiday recess.

It was a political hit. Although he had terminated political leaders in other countries, as a Greek citizen, he had only a rudimentary working knowledge of the American political system.

He removed the micro sd card from his watch and put it in a self-addressed envelope for mailing next time he went out. He tried to get his mind off the subject, flipped around the TV channels, but nothing piqued his interest. He spent the afternoon strolling around the shops, then saw a poorly made movie he erased from memory as soon as it ended. The evening was more of the same. Even at bedtime he thought of the contract. Was he obsessing needlessly? If anyone could accomplish the task in two weeks, he could. He’d have to intensify his efforts but that wasn’t all bad. Had his recent hits become too easy, too routine? Was he bored rather than tired? Maybe he needed the challenge. Although he didn’t need the five million, the payment would solidify his worth.

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Demetrius began the night sleeping restfully. Hours later he started tensing and shifting positions. His REMS accelerated…

A small dark-haired boy of five or six knelt in the dirt pushing a scrap of wood that vaguely resembled a car. Vroom, vroom, he said, totally absorbed. He picked up a second piece in the other hand. Stretching his arms behind him, as far as he could, he arched the imaginary cars toward one another until they smashed together. Making an exploding noise, he tossed them in the air.

A man, slovenly dressed in military garb, his face beet-red with anger, opened a door and peered out. David, goddamn you. I told you to get in here.

The frightened boy said, Yes, Papa, but made no attempt to move and resumed play.

A few minutes later the man reappeared and stepped to the stoop; a bottle of beer in one hand, a strap in the other. David, I told you to get your ass in here. Now, damn it! His face bloated as he shook the strap at the boy.

The boy froze, began to shiver.

The man swigged his beer and slapped the strap against the back of the house. Fire filled his eyes. Now, David, now!

Dropping his toys, David stood on wobbly legs. Bits of grass and dirt stuck to his knees. His eyes teared as he inched toward the man until he neared the house, then made a beeline for the door, the belt striking his legs. He screamed and dashed for the bedroom, the man in pursuit. Heartbeats later, the man scooped him up with one arm, threw him on the bed, and flogged the boy mercilessly. The boy howled, twisting his body every which way to avoid the bitter lashing.

A ringing telephone interrupted the siege. As soon as the man left the room, an older boy tiptoed in and shook the sobbing child. Quick, come with me.

They entered a closet, opened a small door behind a rack of clothes that led to an attic crawl space. Low light filtered through a small round window covered with cobwebs and soot.

Stay on the board or else you’ll fall through the ceiling. Do as I do.

Tattooed with welts and seething with fear and pain, the boy straddled the ceiling joists on hands and knees to an area covered with boards. The boys huddled together.

David, you little shit, where are you? the man shouted.

Muffled, the angry words evoked terror in the boys.

I’m not through with you. When I catch you, I’ll make you sorry you ran away.

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Demetrius jerked awake and pushed himself out of bed. Beaded sweat covered his forehead; his heart banged against his chest; he gasped for breath. He’d been dreaming. A frightening nightmare. Why? Was he the little boy? Did the dream reflect his childhood? He didn’t recognize the man or the boys, but he felt the little boy’s panic.

Amnesia had blotted out the first twelve years of his life. He snapped on the light and poured himself a cold glass of water, choking and gasping for air when he tried to gulp. He sipped a little at a time.

Lighting a cigarette, he tried to analyze what happened. He never lost control, seldom dreamed, and never about his childhood. His nerves of steel precluded emotion. These alien feelings alarmed him. Were they connected to the impending contract? If so, how?

2

Everhart Van Houten

Everhart Warren Van Houten, III’s eyes darted to the Monsignor’s sparkling gold ring when the clergyman raised his wine glass in a toast. He knew the ring symbolized the priest’s marriage to God, a spiritual relationship that demanded celibacy and transcended the mortal man and wife union. For one long moment he envied Monsignor Giuseppe because proximity to God loomed outside his reach, and he possessed almost everything else.

To one who speaks with authority, the monsignor said. With Evers as campaign chairman, St. Michael’s building renovation fund exceeded its goal of $12 million dollars. He raised $15 million—a crowning achievement. Dressed in a black cassock and sash trimmed in red piping, the handsome mid-forties clergyman with perfectly capped white teeth, presented his most winning smile and waited for the crowd to hush before continuing. Let Almighty God reward his good works!

Cheers and applause followed his remarks.

Mary Catherine, Evers’ lovely, aristocratic wife of thirty-nine years who still wore a size eight dress, patted her husband’s arm and affectionately looked at him.

In his mid-sixties, Evers’ long face spread upward into a receding hairline flanked by wild tufts of gray hair. He viewed the world through intense blue eyes. He smiled at his wife, then broadened his grin in response to the chants demanding he speak. He raised his hands to quiet the twelve guests who had gathered for dinner. They circled the antique oak table imported from a 14th century Italian monastery, carved in bas-relief with cherubs.

That proves that all the money on Long Island is not Jewish.

The Gold Coast residents howled.

I think we’re filled to our gills with speeches. The party is to express my appreciation to you, my neighbors, who pitched in for a good cause. The money will make the needed repairs and assure Monsignor and his staff can continue to minister to our community on a first class basis…

Hear. Hear.

Eat, drink, and be merry, as they say!

Under an anaglyptic twelve-foot ceiling, an ornate crystal chandelier, jokingly referred to as a ‘thousand points of light’ by Evers, hung over the dining table. Its low-hung position precluded anyone over six feet tall from making eye contact with anyone across from him. The walls, adorned with original paintings of the seventeenth and eighteenth century, were covered in subtle, striped rose fabric. The windows were draped in deep folds of the same material, trimmed in a striped rose braid.

Seated in a chair cushioned in burgundy velvet, Monsignor Giuseppe spoke, Evers, you’ve been a Godsend for St. Michaels. He touched Evers’ arm. If there’s anything I can do for you?

A smile lit Evers’ face. There is Monsignor. I’d like a personal audience with the Pope.

That can be arranged. The Holy Father enjoys meeting major contributors to the church.

The wait staff removed their plates.

"Each time I’m in your home I marvel at the works of art. Van Gogh’s Sunflowers is exquisite."

It’s priceless, an original. My grandfather bought it at an auction around the turn of the century, at a price considered to be exorbitant at the time. It turned out to be one of the great bargains of the century.

Your grandfather had an eye for art.

"He was a genius. He collected most of the art in this house. After dessert I’ll give you a tour of the exhibit. Many are in