Tesla and the C.I.A. murder

By J.C. MURDAK

When Victoria Daley, a NARA document preservation specialist, accepted an assignment at the CIA, she had not foreseen that her life would be at risk. After a murder in the most improbable place she becomes the target of a thief and serial killer. After her kidnapping, Louisa Ross, deputy director, has no choice but to ask for the help of her friend and ex-colleague, David Burnham, an operative turned special investigator. Will David be able to free Victoria before it's too late? And will he find the motive for the murder? And what about Nikola Tesla? This is a fast moving adventure that will keep you on the edge of your seat till the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. MURDAK
• Release date: Jan 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781775090304

Book preview

Chapter 1

EARLY1940. THE DIRECTOR was a discreet man, running a shadow organization. It was the result of an agreement with an important financial backer of some US senators. This organization couldn’t be found on any official document. Even in this wartime period, he was able to keep the agency quiet and deliver the expected results. His only boss was the richest financier of that time who needed to run covert operations in the shadow, on the US territory. It could be anything: discovering spies, tracing occult money, finding invisible hands, compromising politicians, terminating unpredictable individuals, copying secret documents, intimidating some people and much more.

The President himself had never heard of this organization, but many congressmen who received bribes from this powerful financier, were aware of being watched by it. The Director was known to be a close friend of this important financier. He was keeping a very low profile and nobody was able to engage him in any discussion since he never had an opinion. He and his financier boss had actually been friends for a long time, since 1905, when they first met at Harvard, and later at Colombia School.

It wasn’t until the beginning of the war, on September 1st, 1939, that the two friends agreed on the need of a shadow organization to accomplish some tasks that could be viewed as less than honorable by the public and that needed to remain secret to pursue their goals.

The financier gave his friend, the Director, ‘carte blanche’. They concurred that from now on, all communications between them would be private, face to face, never written or spoken over the phone. Only in case of emergency and if communications became essentials, they could use a limited set of coded keywords in writing or over the phone, these words being meaningless to anybody listening or watching.

The financier gave the Director a small building in downtown Washington to build the organization and run his operations. The first thing the Director did when he entered the building was to go to the basement, find the connecting block and disconnect the incoming telephone lines, de facto canceling phone service. After renting the house next door, he got a contractor to dig in a phone cable from that place to his own building. Anybody trying to tap the previous phone line would get a dead signal, but the building would get phone service from the rented building next door through a cable buried three feet in the ground, making it almost impossible to tap. Of course, the new phone numbers were registered to the old lady living next door. The Director was operating his organization with a small core of agents, of unquestionable loyalty, all picked out personally, and their discretion was mandatory.

Chapter 2

SEPTEMBER 1942. ON this rainy afternoon, the Director was waiting in the bleak warden’s office at the DC jail. He had finished reviewing a few inmates files previously selected for him and he had chosen one with a promising profile that should fit easily in his group of operatives.

James was in his cell when the prison guard told him that he had an important visitor. He brought James, not to the visiting room, but to the warden’s office.

James, rather tall and beefy, with hands big enough to knock out an ox, was an ex-marine. When the prohibition ended in 1933, he became reacquainted with his former demon, malt whiskey, and he fell back into his addiction. His drinking problem got worse, and he was discharged from the United States Marine Corps in 1941. It had been impossible for him to find a decent job with a dishonorable mention in his Navy file. Unable to live on his meager pension, he resorted to petty crimes and ended up in prison.

A well-dressed man, about fifty, with gray hair and an ice-cold stare, stood up in the warden’s office and greeted him as he was pushed in by the mean looking guard.

Unfortunately James, I’m here anonymously and I cannot give you my name, so just call me Mr. Director.

Unsure, James assessed the man for a few seconds and said: Nice meeting you Mister Director. Why am I here?

I reviewed your Marine Corps file. I was impressed with your courage and your fighting abilities. I felt bad that you relied so much on alcohol and that you ended up here. I also talked with the prison superintendent who assured me that your behavior here is exemplary. You need a second chance in life, and I’m here to give it to you.

I’m all ears, James replied with an inquisitive look.

The director didn’t hesitate and lied to him. In a monotonous voice, he said; I am with an obscure government service. Very often, to protect our country, we have to do some illegal acts, and I need some strong intelligent men who can obey orders, do the required work and never ask any questions.

And... said James.

Could you be that kind of man? asked the Director.

I could be if you promised me I would be on the right side of the law. The last thing I want is to come back in here.

The Director lied again, Of course you will be. Everything you do for your country is considered legal. There’s no need to be worried. I need to quickly replace a good man I just lost. If you feel up to the job and you accept my offer, we will walk out of this prison together. There’s only one condition; you must stay away from the booze. If I ever learn that you’ve gone back to drinking, and you can be sure I will know, you’ll get fired right away and sent back to jail.

I’m your man. That’s the best offer I’ve had since I left the Navy, and don’t worry, I’m a sober man now and I intend to stay that way, he replied energetically.

The straight faced Director reached in his jacket and pulled out a brown envelope. Here’s five hundred dollars. Get a nice black suit and some black knits for night operations. Use the rest of the money to rent a decent apartment. You will team up with another agent, his name is Ron. He’s waiting for us in the car. Let’s go!

They left together, after the Director signed a few papers and gave a thick brown envelope to the warden who thanked him with a huge smile.

This looks good, thought James, doing interesting work, and not getting bothered by the law.

A racy black 1941 Packard Clipper, the engine running, was waiting for them near the entrance. The Director waited for James to open the car door. James understood and they sat together in the back seat while the driver kept looking ahead without exchanging a single word.

Ron, meet your new partner, his name is James, said the director to the small dark hair man at the wheel. Ron took a quick look to the back, acknowledged James with a quick bow of the head, engaged the transmission and the Clipper disappeared into the fog.

Chapter 3

HOTEL NEW YORKER, JANUARY 7th, 1943. After a good lunch at the Hotel New Yorker, James called the Director from a phone booth in the lobby, as he was asked on the note delivered to him that morning. He had no idea who the Director was, but he knew he was important. Ron, his partner, was standing next to him. James and Ron had executed all kinds of unorthodox tasks at the request of the Director and the only thing that mattered to the unscrupulous pair was the fat deposit in their checking account at the East End Branch of the National City Bank of New York, every time a mission was completed.

Over an anonymous phone line, the Director had explained the assignment. He always spoke to James, never to Ron. While listening, James took some notes in a grimy notebook, wetting the tip of his pencil with his tongue as needed. As usual, at the end of the conversation, the Director reminded James to stay quiet; if they got caught, the Director himself would take care of freeing them; don’t bring in any lawyers or admit anything.

After receiving his instructions, James hung up the phone and turned to Ron: This one should be easy, we have to bully the old guy we’ve been watching for the last few days here at the hotel, and get some information out of him.

Yeah, we’re pretty good at that, when is it for?

Tonight, said James, let’s go to the races for the afternoon and at six, we’ll go for a slider at The White Castle, it’s only a few blocks away from the hotel.

Good idea, I really like their burgers!

Chapter 4

THE WHITE CASTLE RESTAURANT around 5 pm, on January 7th, 1943. Part of a chain of restaurants, The White Castle with its all-white porcelain exterior, was a landmark in New York. Two or three long counters with revolving stools, that was the way of the White Castle. Coming back from the races after a lot of excitement and a considerable loss of money, James and Ron got inside and spotted some free stools along one of the counters. The glaring white light of the neon lamps gave a sanitary atmosphere to the place. They sat down and looked at the many menu signs posted on the wall, above the coffee makers and the pedestal pie stands.

Ron, a smaller-sized man, with a poor complexion and large ears, had no limits when it came to burgers. I don’t know how they do it, they still price their sliders at five cents, he told James who was busy putting a nickel in the jukebox player.

Me, I’m not a big fan of burgers, I’ve heard all kinds of rumors about the meat. For ten cents, I prefer the plate of beans with the apple pie.

The burgers don’t scare me. Whatever is in there, it’s still better than the rats I ate in the trenches. War does that to you, commented Ron. What are the details on tonight’s job?

Yeah, our target at Hotel New Yorker, the old man. We just need to scare him enough to get the papers and the sketches about his discovery. The Director has insisted that we don’t harm the client, but if he refuses to collaborate, we might have to.

Piece of cake, for a change, exclaimed Ron

That’s when a bunch of young ladies, talking profusely, entered the restaurant, and grabbed all their attention.

Chapter 5

BRYANT PARK, JANUARY 7th, 1943. This winter of 1943 in New York was particularly harsh; cold weather and lots of snow, almost three feet. Again, this week, Mother Nature had brought winter back with snow and sub-zero temperature. Here at Bryant Park, located in the busy heart of midtown Manhattan, right behind the Main Branch of the New York Public Library, snowflakes were falling generously from the sky, giving the small park an atmosphere of tranquility.

Flocks of white and gray pigeons, and shades of white and brown sparrows were taking turns swarming around the pink granite fountain, diving over it to take a quick sip of the icy water. Under this frigid weather, only a few streams of water escaped from the top nozzles of the giant fountain located on the west side, near the entrance of the park on Avenue of the Americas.

The pigeons were standing on their rosy legs and cooing softly to each other, eating the many seeds given to them. They were gathering around the food, almost in a civilized manner, taking turns to eat the seeds, a lifesaving staple in this kind of weather.

One of the few passersby feeding the pigeons was a very old man, his head shaped like a wedge with a pointed chin and grayish white skin. Frail and tall, slightly stooped, he was wearing an elegant dark winter coat, his neck hidden under a wide white scarf. Strands of silver hair extended from under his Russian black hat. His eyes, sharp and piercing, weren’t missing anything from the scene.

After an afternoon at the movies, he liked to stop at the park on his way back to the hotel. Many times, he said that watching a movie rested part of his brain and allowed him to come up with new ideas. That’s why, whenever he had a chance, he would walk to one of the many movie theaters in the area to watch a good film.

From time to time, he removed his black gloves and grasped some seeds from his pocket. The pigeons fed directly from his large hands, while he was talking lovingly to them. He felt an immense pleasure in doing so as he truly loved these birds. His preference was for the all-white ones. He had been doing so for the last ten years, and sometimes, he would bring a wounded pigeon to his hotel room to nurse it. The one perched on his wrist swiped her beak along the side of his hand as some kind of thanks after swallowing some seeds, while other birds on the ground fluttered their white feathers, hopping around and looking now and then for signs of danger.

This late afternoon was busy with people bustling by on their way back from work. Few had the time or the will to stop.

Nobody walking past the man would ever believe that this was the greatest inventor and scientist of modern times. The man’s genius had been recognized by many scientific societies, specialty magazines, and the press in general. However, he had always lived by and for himself. He had made a lot of money with his inventions, and the money had always been reinvested in new research. He never cared to protect and sell his patents properly, and as such, he never benefited financially from his fabulous discoveries. If he had been more astute, he would have been a very rich man, and he could have brought more of his experiments to term. Instead, to survive, he had to rely on a small monthly allowance from The Westinghouse Electric Corporation and some money given to him by his nephew, then Minister of State of the Yugoslav Government, in exile in New York.

Now eighty-six years old, he was reminiscing on his past life. He had lived in semi-seclusion for the last ten years, having no more laboratories to conduct his experiments, and having lost most of his friends to death. Not that he had many friends, but for the ones he had, he really loved their company and their intellect. He enjoyed talking about love, relationships, art and the beautiful side of life. He appreciated artistic people and was friends with writer Ernest Hemingway and Robert Underwood Johnson, poet, and editor of Century Magazine. Underwood’s wife, Katharine Johnson, was the only woman he ever loved, but although they had been flirting, it had been a platonic love because she remained loyal to Robert, her husband.

When he was 78, he had offered the world his greatest invention: a perfect and impossible idea, a weapon to prevent World Wars. A death beam so powerful and terrifying that it would make war impossible. This beam would surround each country like an invisible wall and make the nations safe against all forms of attacks. Unfortunately, none of the governments took him seriously.

Suddenly, a sharp pain radiated from his chest and left arm. He moved his right hand to his heart and stayed still. These sharp pains happened occasionally and he never made much of it. But the chest pain was getting worse each time, and it had started to worry him. No doubt, he would need to see a doctor even if he had never consulted one before. He had considered most of them to be charlatans. Yes, this time, he would consult. The pain lasted only about half a minute, but it was so intense that he had to stand still and release tears.

Feeling weak after the shot of pain, he decided to return to his hotel, a few blocks away, the beautiful New Yorker Hotel. Walking hesitantly on the slippery sidewalks, and leaving fresh crisp footprints in the snow, he could feel the tears freezing to his face and his skin tingling, whit the icy air whistling around his ears. His fingers and toes were numb, but he knew that every step was bringing him closer to the hotel. And that was giving him the courage to go on.

Chapter 6

JANUARY 7th, 1943, around dinner time. Located at the corner of 8th Avenue and W. 34th Street, the New Yorker Hotel was a typical example of modern Art Deco style. The three-story limestone base supported the unadorned exterior of alternating vertical bands of warm gray brick and windows, creating an elegant pyramidal set-back of towers.

The hotel, the largest and tallest one in New York at the time of its opening in 1930, was forty-three stories high with 2,500 rooms and more than one million square feet. With all the services within, it was described as a Vertical Village. More than ten dining salons and five restaurants staffed by 135 chefs and thirty-five master cooks were able to satisfy the most discriminating epicurean. The hotel provided its guests with the world’s largest barbershop, equipped with fifty chairs, and the services of twenty manicurists. The twenty-three elevators, racing at eight hundred feet per minute, quickly brought the guests to the upper floors. The New Yorker offered a radio in every room with four different stations and proudly boasted about its own private station.

Behind the scene, on the 41st floor, the hotel ran a switchboard manned by ninety-five phone operators, while in the basement, a large laundry of 150 employees washed as many as 350,000 pieces daily. But more importantly, nearly eighty feet underground, a coal power plant, was producing 2,200 kilowatts of direct current electric power, more than enough for a city of approximately 35,000 people, saving the hotel a large amount of money.

Despite the snowstorm raging outside and the pain in his chest, the old man had made it back to the hotel. He entered the grand lobby on the north side, that still harbored the yuletide appearance thanks to the well decorated, very tall Christmas tree reaching from the lobby floor to the top of the mezzanine. Arrays of fir branches everywhere provided a fresh and wonderful sweet smell. As he advanced slowly with the aid of his cane on the thick carpet toward the elevators, someone called him.

Mr. Tesla, Mr. Tesla!

Hello Johnny, he said as he recognized the bellboy coming toward him, dressed in the typical costume; red coat and cap, with black pants.

Sir, I have a message from Marcel. He would like to have dinner with you. He has prepared a special vegetarian dish just for you, you’re expected around eight, at the end of his shift.

Marcel was the master chef of the Manhattan Room, and over the years, he had become somewhat of a confidant for the old man; Tesla lived alone, except for the few celebrities who came to visit once in a while. He welcomed every opportunity to chat with Marcel since it gave him a chance to socialize with a human being, instead of his dear pigeons.

Johnny, please be kind enough to tell Marcel that I accept his invitation, but first I have to go freshen up. On that, the chiseled brass door of the elevator opened, and he got in.

Chapter 7

JANUARY 7th, 1943, around 8 pm. Dressed as always in an elegant and stylish way, meticulously groomed, Tesla entered the dining room and sat at his favorite table.

The dining room was filled with patrons, and a jazz quartet played some smooth music to cover the noise of the conversations. The smells of garlic and spices were present in the air, and the curtains of the large dining room were closed over the curved glass windows. The soft glow of the large central Art Deco candelabra created a cozy atmosphere, while Persian Walnut walls inlaid with solid bronze completed the luxurious setting.

Marcel had already set the table for Tesla. On it, in addition to the normal setup, Marcel had placed eighteen napkins and three glasses of water. The old man had the habit of wiping often his utensils with a fresh napkin as he ate. Marcel wanted to please his old friend obsessed by the number three.

Marcel Savoy was one of the great chefs in New York. Having had the chance to be trained in the best kitchens of Europe like Le Train Bleu in Lyon (France) and Le Grill at Hôtel de Paris in Monte-Carlo (Monaco), he was hired immediately when he applied at The New Yorker Hotel in 1936. He was appointed executive chef of The Manhattan Room, a delightfully informal restaurant, where his cooking style, with fresh, local ingredients, often named ‘Cuisine du Soleil’, attracted a daily crowd of gourmets.

Marcel arrived with a serving tray of three different plates of steaming vegetables and three smaller plates with raw veggies. With great care, he placed them on the table in front of Tesla, along with a glass of warm milk.

Marcel, fifty-seven years old, average height and weight, with a small paunch, dark intelligent brown eyes, an almost oval face with a perpetual grin, a thin mustache and short grayish black hair neatly combed, pulled a chair and sat to the right side of his friend. His work shift was over, but he still wore his white chef uniform.

I don’t know how you can be so full of energy. You don’t eat any meat or fish, and you hardly get any sleep. You told me you don’t retire until five o’clock in the morning and you still get up at eight.

You know Marcel, I sleep between one and three hours a night, the inventor replied. I think that is enough for any man. When I was young, I needed more sleep, but at my age, I don’t require so much. I feel that time spent sleeping is lost time. For the last ten years, because of my financial problems, I did not have the luxury to experiment in a lab, but thanks to my photographic memory, I can run an experiment in my head with great precision. I am able to visualize a particular device, test it, disassemble it, check for its proper functioning and wear, all of it in my mind. I will put it on paper only when I am satisfied with the outcome.

That’s really amazing, you’re quite a character. And you always keep busy.

Indeed I do. I went to the movies this afternoon and stopped by the park, but I had underestimated the storm. It was difficult to come back.

I’m glad to see you in one piece. I was afraid you would slip on the ice.

The inventor looked at him and said with the weak voice of his eighty-six years, "You were right to worry, the sidewalk was slippery and with the strong winds, I had a hard time standing up. When I was hit by a cab five years ago coming back from the park, I did not recover a normal usage of