Endangered Species: PART 1 (9 page)

At mid-morning, Tom and
Paddy returned to the Fianna House, and for the sake of
appearances, delivered the official announcement that it’s sole
current guest, Miss
Elenora Tankersley, had
perished the previous evening in an unfortunate one-car accident.
The Whelans confirmed that she had told them she was going to
Tralee to enjoy a touring version of
Oliver!
Her family in Sheffield had
been notified by local authorities and arrangements made to ship
her personal possessions.

Caitlin made tea for her father, brother,
and herself. Whelan, Irish-born, but American-raised, opted for
black coffee. They settled around the table in the now-spotless
kitchen. The faint odor of bleach barely intruded on the
nostrils.

“
As it’s been quite a busy
morning already, we should dispense with the small talk,” Tom said
in Gaelic. It was a language the four of them spoke, but any
outsiders who might be eavesdropping on the conversation wouldn’t
be able to follow it. He looked at Whelan. “Have you an idea why
those men were after you, and who might have sent them?”

Whelan swallowed some of his coffee. “They
were Ukrainians. I was involved in some wet work in the States last
year. I believe this was related to it.”

Tom nodded. “I remember. Somethin’ to do
with the American political scene; a takeover attempt by radical
leftists working in concert with those bastard Russians. An attempt
was made on the life of the president, but the shot took out the
attorney general instead. The reports also indicated that the death
of Chaim Laski, the billionaire, was a part o’ that.”

He paused and glanced at Caitlin then back
to Whelan. “We knew from things you had shared with us previously
that you might have had a hand in that.”

“
Not the assassination
attempt. That was the president’s own backers,” Whelan
said.

“
How do the Ukrainians fit
into all of this?”

“
Laski maintained a private
force for protection and whatever dirty work he deemed necessary
for the achievement of his one-world dreams. The force was made up
of Ukrainian hoodlums. My colleagues and I killed a few dozen of
them.”

“
So these men were a part
of Laski’s organization?”

“
No. Laski was just an
overpaid bagman for a much larger, more complex shadow
organization.”

“
The Russians?”

“
No. I’ve been told it’s a
domestic organization with international connections. Its power
structure uses the Russians and anyone else in an effort to
fundamentally change the United States political and economic
systems.”

“
So, are you sayin’ they
sent the Ukrainians?”

Whelan slowly shook his head. “I doubt they
give a damn about me.”

“
Who then?”

“
Laski had a very dangerous
man running his security force. He survived.”

“
Another
Ukrainian?”

“
No. He was raised in the
Ukraine, but he was born Irish.”

The other three exchanged quick glances.

“
The hell you say! An
Irishman?” Paddy said.

Tom said, “And you think he may have sent
the killers after you for revenge?”

“
I don’t
think
he did. I know he
did. The last one of the intruders to die admitted it.” Whelan
paused and looked at Caitlin. “It’s not just a matter of vengeance.
It’s more personal than that.”

“
I don’t understand,”
Caitlin said. “Does this mean there will be more attempts like the
one last night?”

Whelan nodded. “There will be unless I can
find him and kill him first.”

“
Who is this bastard?”
Paddy said.

“
His name is Maksym. But
that’s not his birth name.” He paused and looked at each of the
other three one at a time, with Caitlin last. “Remember I told you
a long time ago that I had an older brother?”

“
Yes. He died when you were
still a toddler.”

“
That’s what we always
thought. He disappeared when he was about six. I was two years old
at the time. The authorities and family members searched for
months, but eventually my parents accepted that he had been
kidnapped. Probably by a sexual deviate and likely murdered. But
there had been a tribe of gypsies—Welsh Kale—in the area at the
time he disappeared. So it seems he was abducted. Probably sold
somewhere on the Continent. Most likely the Ukraine.”

“
It’s why your family
emigrated to the States, wasn’t it?” Caitlin said.

“
Yes, a fresh start in a
new environment; no painful memories around every
corner.”

Tom was getting impatient. “So what does
your family history have to do with this Maksym?”

Whelan lowered his gaze to the floor briefly
then raised his head and said, “My brother isn’t dead. Maksym is my
brother.”

The other three sat in stunned silence.
Finally, Caitlin said, “If he’s your brother, why is trying to kill
you?”

“
I can think of a couple of
reasons. He must feel that he failed Laski in some fashion, and he
blames me. Killing me will even the score in his mind. Plus I
suspect he believes our family didn’t do enough to find him after
he was abducted. Growing up on the mean streets of Kiev must have
been a nasty experience; the opposite of my own childhood in the
States.”

Tom sat forward in his chair and turned a
little to his right to face Whelan squarely. “This has to be a
death wish on his part. He’s no match for a man with your unique
abilities.”

Whelan just stared at Tom.

“
Holy Jesus and Mary!” Tom
said, as realization dawned. “He’s like you, gifted with a very
rare genetic combination that makes him so much stronger, quicker
and physically superior to other human beings.”

Whelan nodded. “Now you know the
problem.”

Chapter 8—Albuquerque,
NM

It was a little past six in
the morning, Albuquerque time. Dawn was just breaking on a
mid-April day, slowly brightening the arid landscape that
paralleled both sides of I-25 north of the city. A first quarter
moon hung low on the western horizon like a large half pie
descending. The
barren satellite was
at a 90-degree angle with respect to the earth and
sun. Exactly half of it was illuminated; the other half in
shadow.

The digital thermometer on the dashboard of
Mitch Christie’s Ford Crown Vic four-door sedan showed forty-three
degrees. It was a 2010 model; the next to the last year the car was
produced at the St. Thomas assembly plant in Talbotville, Ontario.
This one had a blue exterior and interior with the police
interceptor and street appearance packages. It also had over
100,000 miles on the odometer and rode like it. The cushioning in
the seats was worn out. The springs dug into Christie’s butt. The
shocks had worn out long ago. That made handling difficult and
added to the discomfort of riding in the car. A myriad of
unpleasant aromas filled the vehicle. The smell of stale coffee,
old food and body odors clung to the headliner and other
upholstery. There were food stains and cigarette burns in the seat
covers, or what was left of them after 100,000-plus miles of butts
sliding across them. Assorted scratches and gouges marred the
dashboard, armrests and center console. There were footprints on
the dash on the passenger side where agents had rested their feet.
Christie recognized all of them as vestiges of long ago
stakeouts.

All of the other Bureau agents in the field
office drove newer model vehicles, mostly Impalas. Wojakowski drove
a very well equipped Suburban. Christie’s Crown Vic had been
destined for the junkyard when Wojakowski learned he was being
assigned to her office. She rerouted the paperwork and saw to it
that the car was assigned to him. He chalked it up to one more
strike in favor of the Polish Viper.

He didn’t usually go to work this early, but
Christie was running away from a situation, and he knew it. It was
ironic, he thought, that he was choosing to go to the office over
something else. He was opting for something he hated over something
that scared him. He saw the sign for Exit 233, Alameda Boulevard
NE, and glanced to his right. A short distance to the west was
Balloon Fiesta Park, site of the city’s renowned annual
International Balloon Fiesta. He had been in Albuquerque for almost
six months, yet had never visited the popular site. The truth was,
he knew, hot air balloons terrified him. It seemed there always
were news articles about them crashing and burning and killing the
occupants.

Airplanes were a different matter. They had
wings and engines to propel them. More importantly, they had
devices to control direction and speed. Balloons, however, had none
of those. To him, they were helpless objects blown wherever the
wind took them, and dependent on a limited fuel supply to create
the hot air that kept them aloft. And where they came down often
wasn’t a matter of choice. There were dangerous objects, like power
lines, that spelled certain tragedy. No, he reminded himself, hot
air balloons weren’t for him.

Neither was the situation that had led him
to flee his own apartment earlier that morning. Shortly after
arriving in Albuquerque, he had found the small studio apartment in
Bernalillo, just over the line in Sandoval County about seventeen
miles north of the office. It was the perfect blend; not too far
for commuting purposes, but not too near either. He didn’t
particularly like the place. It was in a large apartment complex
filled with young families with noisy kids, but it was cheap and he
could afford it with what he netted from his salary after alimony
and child support deductions. Although it was on the east bank of
the Rio Grande, all he could view from his low rent studio was a
section of parking lot.

Given where he was in his life at the
moment, Christie didn’t socialize much, and never had guests over.
The place was too small and he wasn’t much of a housekeeper. That
was why what had happened this morning was so shocking to him.

He woke up, as usual, about five o’clock.
This time, however, he had a very bad taste in his mouth, a queasy
stomach and a mild to medium headache. His first thought was that
he had a fast moving stomach virus. Then he was aware of the bare
leg resting firmly against his left thigh. He was still half asleep
and his thoughts were foggy. Was he with Deborah? Had the divorce
been a bad dream? Or was he dreaming now? The room was dark, but
light from the parking lot lamps intruded around the edges of the
drawn shades. Christie turned his aching head slowly. He knew now
that he really was awake. He wasn’t dreaming. In the weak light, he
could distinguish a woman lying next to him. Tousled mane of thick,
dark hair. Olive complexion. Naked. Sound asleep and snoring
lightly. He realized he was naked too.

He rolled his head back and
stared through the darkness at the popcorn-plastered ceiling above.
Slowly the memories began to emerge through the fog. Tom Burkhardt
had encouraged Camilla Ramirez to call Christie and invite him for
a drink. He’d been so focused on Whelan that he was caught
completely by surprise and couldn’t think of a plausible excuse.
Ramirez had been savvy enough to know how to handle a skittish man.
She’d suggesting meeting somewhere rather than offering to pick him
up or having him come to her house. At a loss for words, and
reluctantly, Christie had agreed. He also made a mental note to
give Burkhardt hell the next time he saw him.
I’m a grown man, and if I want a date, I could find one on my
own. I don’t need a damn matchmaker.
What
was the word his Jewish friends used? He tried to remember.
Yenta
?
Yente
? One was the male
term, the other female. His head started to pound worse. He
remembered meeting Ramirez at the Prairie Star restaurant. It had
been her choice, and it turned out to be a very nice place. It was
in an old adobe house and surrounded by a golf course. The place
was located on a ridge that rose gently to the west of the Rio
Grande. The view, he remembered had been wonderful; darkness of the
desert at night, the lights of Bernalillo and the traffic on I-25 a
few miles away, and rising above it all, the rugged, moonlit spine
of the Sandia Mountains.

They sat in the bar area and had a couple of
drinks. She persuaded him to try tequila. It had been a long time
since Christie had drunk the stuff. He remembered it from his
college days; cheap and harsh. But Ramirez knew her tequilas and
encouraged him to try an añejo distilled from the blue agave plants
in the highlands of the Mexican state of Jalisco. It was
surprisingly sweet and mellow. It went down easily. Too easily.

The Prairie Star, what he
could remember of it, had a very genuine Southwestern atmosphere.
Vestiges of the original flat-roofed, earthen structure added just
the right touch of ambiance; a
kiva
fireplace and the round wooden beams or
vigas
overlain with the
smaller
latillas
that supported the ceiling. There were
nichos
in the stuccoed walls
containing
santos
,
small wood carved statues. Small oil paintings of saints on wood or
metal, known as
retablos,
and the ubiquitous strings of red peppers,
or
ristas,
also
were hung along the walls. Christie began to relax and actually
enjoy himself for the first time in a very long while. He didn’t
want the occasion to end, so, judgment impaired by the tequila, he
offered to buy her dinner. Over an excellent meal and more tequila,
he noticed how easy she was to talk to. And Camilla Ramirez was
very pretty. She had smooth skin and even features. The dress she
had chosen for the evening enhanced her natural beauty. The low cut
neckline revealed deep cleavage, and the high hemline showed off
her remarkably well-shaped legs. There was a certain shyness about
her, yet at the same time she seemed open and at ease. He liked her
calm demeanor. It seemed like a long time since anything in his
life had proceeded smoothly. He found himself enjoying the
situation so much that he invited her to return to the lounge area
for a nightcap. It turned out to be more than one.