Breach of Power (7 page)

F
our days
later Ashley Regan and Sam Connors lay in bed after making love. It wasn't their normal Saturday morning romp. The steamy sex stimulated their appetite for each other until their naked bodies were drenched in sweat. Connors had fallen back to sleep. Regan was almost asleep when she heard her cell phone vibrate on the nightstand.

Arthur DeLoach.

She grabbed her phone and padded naked across the room. She grabbed her robe and quietly closed the bedroom door behind her.

"Mr. DeLoach, what a pleasant surprise." Regan was good at turning on the charm when she needed to and this was one of those occasions. She walked into the kitchen and turned on her Keurig coffee maker.

"Your book is ready. Be here at 9:45 precisely. Six hundred fifty dollars, cash. As agreed?"

"Yes sir. I'll be—"

DeLoach hung up on her. What a grumpy old bastard.

She looked at the clock. 8:42. She had one hour to get ready, swing by the bank to get the cash, and drive to DeLoach's house.

Regan walked back to her bedroom and opened the door. Connors was awake.

"Ashley, why did you get up?" Connors asked.

"Turn on the coffee pot. I gotta get moving. I'm burning daylight."

"Come back to bed." Connors lifted the sheets. "We can go for round two."

"Not now, I have errands that can't wait." Regan slipped on her jeans and a t-shirt. "You wouldn't want me interrupting you during trading hours, would you? No. So respect my need to do things too."

"It's Saturday. It's not a trading day," Connors said.

"That's right. And since I can't get anything done during the week because of
my
job, I have to do it all on Saturday."

"You're right," Connors said. "You don't have to be get snippy about it. You've been edgy ever since we got back from Europe."

"I know, Sam. I'm sorry. I just feel…unsettled. Like I can't get back in the groove." She looked into Sam's eyes. "Does that make any sense?"

"I know just what you need to fix that." Sam said. "How about a 'wine and dine' tonight?"

Regan's lip curled into a faint smile. Today was the day she'd anticipated since she returned from Europe with the book. She wasn't about to let anything spoil her day. "That would be nice, Sam. It's a date."

R
egan pulled
in front of Arthur DeLoach's house with a minute to spare. She used the brass knocker to announce her arrival. Within seconds she heard DeLoach shuffling down the long hallway.

DeLoach opened the door and gestured her in with his arm. "Come in. Let's talk about your book."

"Good morning, Mr. DeLoach." Regan was determined not to let her discord with Sam Connors this morning ruin her enthusiasm about the book. "Did you have any trouble with it?"

"Not really, no. The pages are a bit stiff and fragile, so you'll need to exercise extreme care." DeLoach motioned for her to follow him. "The leather binding restored remarkably well considering where your uncle had it stored."

Ashley Regan noticed a strong smell of chemicals in the workroom, much stronger than her first visit. Her book was lying open on the table. It looked significantly different than the soggy book she'd found. The leather was supple and soft with a rich new color and the pages were lighter, the writing easier to read.

"I hope you can read German, Ms. Regan, because most of what is written inside is in German. As far as I can tell the book dates back to World War II. Of course, I'm basing some of that on the swastika branded on the front cover. If I had to guess, I'd say your uncle got this journal during the reign of the Third Reich. This could be a valuable find for you. As family heirlooms go, its contents could reveal volumes about your family history." He picked up the book and ran his hand gently across the cover, hesitating at the hole in the book. "I have no idea what caused this perforation, but it went through clean. I'm afraid these stains are set and won't come out. Looks like blood as best as I can tell. Kind of adds character and mystery to it, wouldn't you say, Ms. Regan?"

"It certainly has sparked my interest." Regan opened her purse and pulled out the cash. "Six hundred fifty dollars, just as you said."

"Ms Regan, the format of what's written inside doesn't look much like normal journal entries. It could be a family genealogy, which would explain the format. Family is important and so are roots. I've traced my family line back almost three hundred years. Beyond that, records become scarce and in many cases nonexistent." He took the cash and started to hand her the book. "Wear gloves or wash your hands well before handling the book. The oils from your fingers can damage the fragile pages."

"I will, Mr. DeLoach." She gently removed the book from his hands, her curiosity to learn the contents almost irresistible. "I promise to be careful with it."

Ashley drove all the way home thinking of nothing but the contents of the book. At last she would discover why the dead man was clasping the book. The thought of learning its secrets was delicious and she already savored it with anticipation. She parked her car in the driveway and grabbed the book from the seat next to her. She held it to her nose and took a deep breath. She expected the musty smell of leather and old pages, but all she smelled were the organic chemicals DeLoach used to restore it. She delicately pushed the leather binder into her purse, got out of the car, and walked toward her front door.

A
shley Regan and Christa Barnett
had grown up together in Charleston. Friends of their parents called them Frick and Frack. They did everything together. Went to school together. Studied together. Partied together. Got in trouble with the law together. But during college they drifted apart and lost contact with each other. Regan went to accounting school at the University of Georgia. Christa, graphic design at University of Florida. Christa was short in stature, barely reaching five feet. Her feisty personality matched her long dyed black hair. Christa was the only person Regan knew, and trusted, who could speak German. Who better to decipher the book?

Regan hated lying to Sam again but she needed an excuse to get away. Christa was her ticket to translating the book and Sam could never know of its existence. Sam knew Christa was Ashley's best friend so during their 'wine and dine' date, Regan told Sam that Christa was going through a rough breakup and she was going to stay with her for a few days.

At first Connors protested, but Regan resorted to the oldest trick in the book, sex. When they got home from their date, Ashley seduced Sam in an interlude that made their morning adventure pale in comparison. It was almost stereotypical. For Sam Connors, sex was the ultimate show of love. And after that romp, Regan knew, Sam would be content for a long time to come.

It took Christa a day and a half to translate all the entries in the mysterious book while Ashley Regan impatiently watched her work. Like a small child on Christmas morning waiting to run out and see what Santa brought, the anticipation was unbearable and intensified with each "oh my God" and "this is too weird" comment that Christa made.

Finally Christa held up the book. "Sister, this is un-freaking-believable."

"Don't keep me in suspense. What is it?" Regan nearly shouted.

"Here." Christa handed Regan the translated copy. "Read and be amazed."

She studied the translation and realized her work had just begun and, that to truly understand the significance of what she read, extensive research would be required.

Christa was the first to break the silence. "We can do this," she said. "It'll be like the old days."

"You know what this means, right? You'll have to take time off work."

"So what. I'll get someone to cover for me."

"We'll be breaking the law," Regan said. "If we get caught we lose our jobs for sure. And maybe even go to jail."

"Ashley. We can do this. Sure, it'll be risky, but that's part of the fun. Right?" Christa smiled. "And you know what the best part is?"

"What?"

"We get rich while we're having fun."

It did sound like fun, Regan thought. And Christa was right. They could get rich. Very rich. And what was the real danger after all? Getting caught and being arrested? They had been arrested before—misdemeanors in high school—but arrested nonetheless. It wasn't like anyone would get hurt. No one's life would be in jeopardy. It wasn't dangerous, just illegal.

"Well, Ashley? What do you say?" Christa egged her on. "You up for another adventure of a lifetime?"

"We need to do some research." Regan closed the book. She was already envisioning her forthcoming adventures with Christa, although somewhat remorseful that they wouldn't include Sam Connors.

"Something else."

"What's that?" Regan's thoughts were clouded by her good fortune in the ice tunnel in Germany.

"Buy a map." Christa smiled.

S
cott Katzer opened
the doors to the Katzer Funeral Home at precisely 8:00 a.m. so the McClaine family could start making funeral arrangements for Mr. McClaine's 86-year old father who passed during the night after a prolonged battle with prostate cancer. Katzer gave McClaine an orientation package and tour of the facility including a breakdown of the fees associated with each portion of the post-mortem care for his departed father.

Katzer excelled at developing the calm, reassuring demeanor and sympathetic voice that was crucial for a funeral director. Clients who entered the door were usually grieving and vulnerable which, as his mother had reinforced repeatedly over the years, made them spend more to ensure their departed loved one rested in comfort for eternity.

Maybe it was a result of the years of his mother's sardonic influence, but the whole idea seemed ludicrous to begin with, Katzer thought, that families would spend several thousands of dollars to bury the dead. In reality, the money wasn't spent on their dead loved one—it was spent to make them feel better. If they could think logically about death, they would realize it didn't make any difference to the dead whether they were laid to rest in a solid mahogany casket with velvet lined interior or a simple wooden box or, for that matter, cremated. Grief, and perhaps guilt, overshadowed their judgment, which his mother claimed was good for business.

Katzer systematically maneuvered McClaine into the casket room, the money room in the funeral home business according to his mother, where the price markup on a casket could be as high as 250 %. In some cases, the profit margin alone on particular high-end models could amount to a few thousand dollars. His mother trained him to always give the illusion he cared and to try to comfort and console the grieving family while convincing them that their dead loved one was worth the price they were spending. But at the end of the day when he locked the doors, she said it was all about the money. And the Katzers had made plenty with their lucrative business.

McClaine's father had been a respected businessman in Nashville for several decades and the wealth of the family was well known—including their lavish lifestyle. Katzer guided McClaine to the newest model casket in the showroom, the Mercedes. The casket was a 32-ounce solid bronze sealer with brushed natural bronze rails, a beige velvet interior, and full glass inner seal. Basically, a casket within a casket. Double protection. Katzer noticed McClaine's instant attraction to the gleam from the casket. Lighting around the casket had been meticulously placed to enhance its luster and shine—his mother's idea. A cheap trick but it worked. With a price tag of just under $12,000, the Mercedes was a moneymaker. A splendid choice for a man who would want a grand display for hundreds of the area's upper echelon guaranteed to be in attendance at his ceremony.

As Katzer explained the merits of the double seal protection, an associate director interrupted.

"Excuse me, Mr. Katzer?"

"What?" Katzer heard the annoyance in his own voice too late. He was on the verge of making the sale and the interruption could give the wealthy McClaine son time to reconsider his choice.

"I'm sorry." She looked at McClaine then back to Katzer. "Mrs. Katzer requests you come to the office immediately."

"Tell her I'll be there in a few minutes."

"I'm sorry, sir, but she was quite insistent that I take over so you can go to the office at once."

"Very well." Katzer looked at McClaine and smiled. "I am very sorry for the interruption, Mr. McClaine, but it seems I must attend to an urgent matter. This is Heather Anderson. She is one of our Associate Directors. She's been with us for five years so you're in good hands." He turned to Heather. "I was just explaining the advantages of the double seal protection on the Mercedes to Mr. McClaine."

Katzer stepped away and motioned to the casket to draw McClaine's attention back to the casket. "If you'll excuse me please while I check with Mrs. Katzer. Heather will answer any questions you may have."

S
cott walked
into his office to find his mother, Heidi Katzer, waiting. She had an ambivalent look on her face, he thought, a mix between concern and relief depending on how the light from the window played across her pasty white skin.

"What's so important, Mother, that couldn't wait until I finished with Mr. McClaine? I was about to cinch a sale on the Mercedes."

She looked at him with her blue eyes, still resilient at her advanced age. "Did you read the newspaper this morning, Scott?"

"Just a quick glance. Looked like the same partisan mudslinging that's been dominating the news for months. Politicians are all crooked anyway." His mother's stern look gave him pause then he thought about what he had said. "Almost all."

He could tell something was troubling her. "What was in the paper?"

She turned the paper facing him and pointed her finger at a small sidebar article no more than three inches tall. "This could be it." She said.

"It?" He gave an inquisitive look and slipped on his reading glasses.

"Just read."

"
W
ow
." Scott Katzer removed his glasses and set them on top of the newspaper. "And you think this is him? After all these years."

"I never knew if Don was still alive or dead." She struggled to stand. "I need you…to go find out."

"You want me to fly to Germany?"

"Yes, I do." She hobbled toward the door. "Find out about the book. I don't want to know how you do it…I don't care how you do it. Just find out whether it's him or not. And if it is him, find out what happened to my journal."

"I can't leave right now, we have three services scheduled over the next two days. And that's provided the phone doesn't ring again." He was protesting her order more than making a solid argument. "You can't handle this by yourself."

"Yes I can. I might be old, but I'm not helpless. Give your mother some credit. Besides, I have Heather."

"But—"

"No, Scott. I need you. I expect you on a plane this afternoon. Tonight at the latest." She stood in the doorway without speaking for almost a minute. Then she spoke without facing him. "Don't come back unless you know for sure about the book."

Heidi Katzer walked out without another word.

T
he mission was called
Task Force Christman in honor of Private William Christman, a Civil War soldier who was the first soldier buried at Arlington National Cemetery. Troops from Delta Company of the 1
^st
Battalion of the 3
^rd
Infantry Regiment were tasked with the execution of the mission. They were known as the Old Guard, the Army's official ceremonial unit, which provided escorts to the President and helped conduct military funerals.

Sergeant Blaine Roberts wasn't dressed in uniform but rather blue jeans, a t-shirt, and flip-flops—all approved attire for this mission. The mission was to photograph the more than 219,000 grave markers and more than 43,000 cremated remains markers at Arlington National Cemetery. The army's task, as mandated by Congress, was to visually account for every grave, update the cemetery database, and digitize the cemetery's maps. In order to accomplish this without disrupting funerals, therefore this portion of the mission was conducted at night after the cemetery was closed to the public.

Roberts had been doing it all summer, walking through the graveyard and taking pictures with an iPhone. The photos taken by him and the rest of his Company were compared and matched with other records in order to identify any discrepancies that needed to be corrected. Congress tasked them with this mission due to the scandal over mismanagement at the nation's most famous cemetery. But the hours were getting to him. All summer he'd been walking the graveyard. Night after night, the same routine, sleep during the day, walk the cemetery all night.

At 3:20 a.m., Roberts wasn't at the top of his game.

His routine had been simple, walk down a row of headstones, stop and take pictures, and log the headstone information on his clipboard. After snapping the photo, penlight between his teeth, he walked to the next marker while writing on his clipboard. Combining the tasks expedited his mission. He'd done it all summer so now it was a mindless rote habit.

Tonight was warm and muggy. His clothes clung to his sweaty body. Earlier in the day thunderstorms drenched the cemetery leaving the ground saturated and the nighttime air hot and sticky. Roberts had just finished a row and rounded the last marker to make his next sweep in the opposite direction. Preoccupied by logging in the last marker, his foot caught on a pile of wet dirt.

Then, he fell.

His clipboard flew from his hands knocking the penlight from between his teeth.

He tumbled against a moist earthen excavation pile, rolled down, and crashed onto something hard at the bottom of the pit.

A casket.

A sharp pain shot through his right shoulder from the impact. Dirt and mud caked his face and clothes. He spit the grit from between his teeth. Musty damp earth filled his nostrils.

How could he have been so careless?

But the bigger question stirring around in his mind was why a grave was left open? Even with the heavy rains, the pit should have been covered. No casket should be left in an open gravesite. And no open gravesite should be left without, as a minimum, flagging to prevent what had just happened.

The casket rocked back and forth while he climbed from the pit. He looked for his penlight and clipboard and found both in the wet grass. He didn't remember seeing any notices of interments among his assigned markers, so why was this one open?

Sergeant Blaine Roberts flashed the beam of light down into the grave.

"Holy crap."