Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (16 page)

Assembly Covert Communications Facility, Moscow, Russia

“The infection appears to be spreading.”

Ilya Mashkov
frowned. He was still getting used to the idea that The Assembly thought
extremely long term. Both forward and back. They rigorously protected the
secret of their existence, and would do whatever it took to preserve it, though
this was the first time he had ever seen the distant past become an issue. And
with the Titanic barely a century ago, it wasn’t exactly the distant past for
this organization.

The full
truth had yet to be revealed to him.

As each
year passed, and he found himself ingrained deeper and deeper into the
organization, he was granted access to more of their files. He knew at least
centuries were involved, what he didn’t know was whether or not it was
millennia. He had been provided an impressive amount of information on other
organizations, from the Triarii to the Order of Mary, many millennia old. He
had the sense it was to impress upon him the fact that organizations like this
did exist today, and had been around for thousands of years. He assumed it was
to prepare him for the revelation that he too was now part of an equally
ancient organization, something he would have had serious doubts about
believing.

But not
anymore.

He just
wanted to know the truth.

He had
been given the file on the Titanic operation as soon as it had become an issue.
All members were provided with all relevant information for any current crisis.
After all, once one became a member, one was trusted.

Certain
death was the alternative.

The
Assembly could never risk a security breach from within, and the benefits of
being part of the organization made it almost unfathomable that someone would
betray it.

The
wealth and power were intoxicating.

As far
as he knew, not a single member had ever knowingly betrayed the organization,
though from what he understood several had done so inadvertently in the past
and were eliminated so the “infection”, as they called it, couldn’t spread.

“Our
monitoring of Internet traffic suggests an increase in searches on a painting
thought lost on the Titanic. Some of this is originating in the same geographic
region as Congressman Mahoney’s constituency office,” explained the digitally
altered voice, this man the longest serving member of The Assembly—which meant
he knew who every single one of them were. This man was the only truly
anonymous member of the organization.

Who
kills him if he’s the one who betrays us?

He
doubted anyone knew who he actually was, he only known as Number One.
Apparently The Assembly had forgone any names because of a previous security
breach that had threatened to expose their identities, it now forbidden to use
anyone’s name, only their designation.

I
wonder if I’ll ever be Number One.

“I’ve
invited our operative to bring us up to date.”

A screen
flashed and the image of an incredibly beautiful woman appeared, her cheekbones
sculpted, framed by short raven hair, her skin a healthy light brown from the
sun, her green eyes piercing in their intensity.

His
breath was taken away.

“Thank
you, sir. As you already know, interrogation of the records clerk yielded the
name of the individual requesting the information on Captain Wainwright,
Congressman Bill Mahoney. This interrogation also led us to believe at least
one other person was involved. In questioning the Congressman, we were able to
determine it was Captain Wainwright’s own grandson, a Steve Wainwright, that
had requested the records search. Apparently some records were found in the
Captain’s basement recently including a painting supposed to have gone down
with the Titanic. We are currently on route to pick up Mr. Wainwright and
determine who he has spoken to.”

“What is
your contingency if he has spoken to others about this?”

“I have
a plan to take care of it, assuming your orders are still to eliminate anyone
involved.”

“They
are.”

“Then
you have nothing to concern yourselves with. The entire family will be
eliminated should it become necessary.”

“Very
well, keep us posted.”

The
screen flashed and went blank, the beautiful woman gone, Mashkov determined to
find out who she was, suddenly infatuated with the desire to have her as his
own.

The
intoxicating delirium of absolute power.

It was a
wonderful feeling to know he could have anything, or anyone, he wanted.

Whether
they were willing or not.

Money.
Drugs. Both.

There
was always a way.

Though
he preferred willing.

In his
home base of Moscow he had dozens of willing women, concubines for the lack of
a better term, throwing themselves at him whenever he desired. He never had to
resort to pressure.

Except
with his wife.

Though
they barely spoke anymore.

His wife
and children lived in Saint Petersburg and he rarely saw them, which was fine
with him. His two daughters were ungrateful, spoiled little brats that had
turned against him long ago, his attempts to purchase their affections only
making things worse. His son had rejected the family money and instead changed
his name and joined the Russian Navy, determined to make a name for himself on
his own.

Mashkov
was immensely proud of him, though heartbroken he never saw him.

Give
it time.

He had
every confidence his son would come back to him once he had made a man out of
himself, though if he were to interfere, to call in a favor to help his son
climb through the ranks or get a plum assignment, he would never see him again
should his son find out.

So he kept
his distance, though a watchful eye was ever present.

He
flinched as he realized someone was talking.

“…most
disturbing. I think it’s time we spoke with him, do you not agree Number
Twelve?”

Oh
shit, what did he just say?

He tried
to replay the conversation but it was a total blank from the moment the
alluring woman had finished her update.

“Of
course,” was all he could think of to say.

“Excellent.
I took the liberty of arranging a meeting with our point man and Mr. Jones.
I’ll leave the rest in your hands.”

“Thank
you.”

JW Marriott Hotel, New Orleans

Christopher Jones lay on his bed, eyes clothes, still in slacks and
a dress shirt, though his tie was lying on the back of a nearby chair with his
suit jacket. His wife Constance lay beside him, the only light in the bedroom
of their suite from the alarm clock’s LCD display and a sliver from under the
door, activity still happening on the other side.

“I want
you to head home tomorrow morning. I’ll finish up here then join you.”

He felt
his wife roll over beside him. “No, I’ll be fine. I should be there with you.”

He turned
on his side and reached out to find her in the dark, gently squeezing her arm
as he felt her hand touch his chin. He kissed her fingers. “No, you’ve overdone
it this time. The doctors said it would take months for you to recover your strength.
It’s only been weeks. This was a bad idea and you’re paying the price.”

“But I
want to.”

He
shuffled closer and pushed an arm under her neck, pulling her closer, her arms
wrapping around him. “I know you want to, hon, but it’s more important that you
get better.”

“But
this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. We can’t let this pass us by because
I was sick. People want to see a husband and wife together on stage otherwise
they begin to ask questions.”

Jones
smiled, squeezing her a little tighter. “People only ask questions when there’s
no explanation. Besides, if the public won’t choose me because my sick wife
isn’t at my side, then they don’t deserve to have me as their President, and I
wouldn’t want to lead them anyway. But I don’t think our fellow Americans are
like that at all. I think they’ll understand as long as we always tell them the
truth.”

She
squeezed. “You’ll get the sympathy vote for sure.”

His eyes
burned and he closed them, feeling a tear threatening to spill out. He held her
tighter as the memories of almost losing her flooded back. It had been the
worst year of their lives, the brave face he had to always wear exhausting, yet
nothing compared to his wife’s exhaustion, the poor woman not only suffering
chemotherapy, but enduring the press hounding them at every step of the way,
despite his pleas for privacy. The mainstream media mostly respected their
wishes, it was the paparazzi that seemed to revel in the misery of others, as
if the consumers of their filth thrilled at the sight of a politician’s wife
dying.

Sometimes
freedom of the press goes too far.

He had
seen a movie years ago called Paparazzi that he couldn’t remember being good or
bad, though the premise seemed particularly satisfying now, the victim of
greedy paparazzi dishing out some vigilante justice.

Maybe
when you’re President you can have a few of them taken out.

He
chuckled at the thought.

“What’s
funny?”

He
laughed a little harder as he pushed back from her, running his hands through
her thin, short hair, the drugs to save it unfortunately not working on her.
“Just thinking of what I’d like to do to some of the press.”

“You’re
thinking of that movie again, aren’t you?”

“You
know me so well.” He moved closer and gave her a peck, it missing slightly,
catching only half her mouth.

There
was a knock at the door.

“Sir,
Mr. Quaid is here.”

“Give me
a minute!”

He gave
his wife another quick peck. “No rest for the wicked.”

His wife
rolled over and turned on a lamp, flooding the room with a gentle yellow glow.
“I don’t like him,” she whispered. “Sleazy.”

Jones
rolled out of bed, slipping his feet into his shoes and tightening the laces.
“I had him vetted. He’s clean but ruthless when it comes to business.
Unfortunately we need him. His pockets run deep. Once we’re on the ticket, we
won’t need people like him again.” He stood and debated putting on his tie.
You
better.
He grabbed it and flipped his collar up, his wife coming up from
behind, turning him around.

“Let me.
You never tie it tight enough.”

He
smiled then raised his chin, giving her space to work. “You spoil me.”

“Don’t
you forget it.”

“Not a
chance.” He felt the knot tighten then a pat on his chest.

“There
you go.”

He
turned and looked in the mirror. “Perfect as usual.”

She
helped him into his suit jacket then gave him a peck on the cheek. “Go get ’em.
I’ll be out in a minute.”

He
returned the kiss, shaking his head. “No, you get your rest. This shouldn’t
take long.”

She
smiled her thanks, her face so haggard it broke his heart. She had aged at
least ten years it seemed, the bright, vibrant woman he had celebrated
twenty-five years of marriage with just a year ago, gone.

He
pushed the thoughts out of his mind as he drew a deep breath then opened the
door, stepping out into the living area. “Pete, so good to see you.”

Peter Quaid
turned from his position at the window, gazing out at the city streets below.
He smiled, closing the distance between them with a few quick strides, his hand
extended the entire way. “Mr. Jones, I appreciate you seeing me on such short
notice.”

“No
problem at all,” said Jones, motioning toward a nearby chair as he took a seat
of his own. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Quaid looked
at the others in the room. “What I need to discuss can only be said in
private.”

Jones
had learned long ago to hide any look of surprise, instead merely looking at
Saunders. “Clear the room, please.”

Saunders
wasn’t as practiced, the surprised look on his face almost one of hurt at being
excluded. Within moments the few staff members had left, leaving him alone with
Quaid. “Now what is so important my most trusted staff can’t hear it?”

Quaid chuckled.
“I’m sorry about all the cloak and dagger, trust me, it’s more for your
protection than anything else. And by protection, I mean protection of your
integrity.”

Jones
already didn’t like where this was heading. He knew from past experience that
he was about to be asked to compromise his ideals. In previous instances he had
stood his ground, his principles remaining intact, yet never had so much been
at stake. This was his moneyman. Yes, he was one of many, but he was his
largest donor, and had brought several other deep pockets to the table,
promising even more if the campaign grew.