The Toymaker (25 page)

Kyli sat next to Jake while the priest delivered the eulogy. Wiley sat on the other side of Kyli. Seated on Jake’s other side was a gaunt looking Isabella Hunt and Gregg Kaplan. Behind them were several rows filled with his parents’ friends and neighbors, all there to pay their last respects to a couple whom they’d known for many years.

In front of him were two caskets suspended in mid-air above the excavated burial pits where they would be lowered and covered with Georgia clay and dirt. An American flag was draped over his father’s casket, the man given a military funeral for his service to his country and as a public servant.

Beyond the caskets, as if segregated by some unseen force, sat the men of power and politics: Bentley, Carter, the Governor, and the five members of Congress. Behind them and arching around in a semi-circle back toward the caskets were the
guns
. Most were Secret Service. Some CIA. The rest were Georgia State Patrol. All conspicuously armed as if a turf war could break out any second in the historic old cemetery.

At the head of the gravesite stood seven Marines in full dress uniforms serving as Honor Guards.

The priest started the prayer. Jake lowered his head and closed his eyes. As the priest spoke, Jake felt Kyli’s warm hand move on top of his. Her touch was soothing, her compassion welcome. Kyli wore a conservative black dress, unlike her usual flamboyant style. According to Wiley, the doctors in Belgium had been overly precautious with Kyli and soon determined her wound not to be as serious as first suspected. She had a healthy glow on her face. The only indication of her injury was the bandage on the back of her neck.

With her other hand, Kyli grabbed his upper arm and leaned close to him. It had been a long time since he’d been close to a woman. He felt a need to be comforted, desperate to have someone care about his loss. His pain. It felt good, and he needed to feel something.

The prayer ended and so did the moment. Kyli sat up straight and removed her hands. He opened his eyes feeling guilty. The moment evaporated, but he wanted it back.

The priest motioned to Jake as previously discussed. He stepped forward and placed a rose on his mother’s casket. Two soldiers removed the flag from his father’s casket, folded it with military precision, and with gloved hands presented it to Jake. He glanced at Kyli, she was wiping tears from her face. Wiley had his arm around his granddaughter’s shoulder. Isabella Hunt had moved next to Kyli and held out another tissue. Gregg Kaplan kept his head bowed.

These were Jake’s best friends; he realized that now. They did care for him and even more, what happened to him. They stood by his side now in testament of their true friendship and in return, he’d stand by them.

After the Marine soldiers were dismissed, mourners stood and filed past the open graves to pay their respects. A few women tossed purple orchids, his mother’s favorite flower. Many bowed their heads and then made the sign of the cross on their chest. Others just paused and said goodbye.

Bentley walked over to Jake and asked Kyli if he could have a moment alone with him. He signaled Kaplan, Hunt and Wiley to join them. “Jake, we have new information on Khan and his whereabouts. The rest of us are meeting later to discuss with Fontaine what he’s discovered. You should to be read in on this.”

Wiley grabbed Jake by the arm. “Kyli and I are returning to Belgium, I have business that I must attend to. I want you in that meeting with Bentley.”

Jake looked at Wiley and knew Wiley understood how he felt. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Khan has to go down…and I want to be the one to bring down that worthless piece of—”

“Excuse me.” Senator Richard Boden, chewing his gum, placed his hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Scott, E.W., if you’ll pardon the interruption.”

Jake looked at the senator. “This is a private conversation.”

“I beg your pardon.” Boden removed his hand. “Because I know you’re under stress, I’ll overlook your insolence. I wanted to pay my respects.”

“Thank you, Senator. Now, if you don’t mind. I’m a little busy at the moment.” Jake caught sight of Bentley standing behind Boden giving him the
“cut it out”
signal by stroking his fingers across his neck.

“Listen here, Mr. Pendleton.” Boden’s face flushed, jaw noticeably clenched. “I’ve got half a mind to have your ass hauled in right now for your lack of discipline in the field. I knew and admired your father for a great many years and out of respect for his memory, I’m going to overlook those transgressions. But let me tell you something right here and now.” Boden looked at Kaplan. “And the same goes for you too. If either one of you so much as crosses an eye, I’ll march your trigger-happy asses to the steps of Capitol Hill and let you face a Senate inquiry about your actions. Do I make myself clear?”

Jake clenched his fists and glared into Senator Richard Boden’s eyes.

Boden took two steps back.

Jake took two steps forward, stopped, and then turned away, ignoring the Senator.

CHAPTER 50

H
ASHIM KHAN’S TRANSFORMATION into a Spaniard was almost complete. After parking his car across town, he spent the first night at the Hotel Niza in a beachfront room on the Bahia de la Concha, and then checked out, all part of his plan. He strolled through the streets of San Sebastian, with each stop his metamorphosis advanced.

Two streets over he found a men’s hair stylist where he had his face shaved and hair fashioned in the latest style. Next, he located a stylish clothes boutique recommended by a local. A salesman selected designer clothes, shoes, and accessories for his new wardrobe. His makeover into a wealthy Spaniard was just about complete as he continued down the narrow streets of San Sebastian looking for his final items. The cool sea breeze felt refreshing on his shaven face. Finally, he found the shop he was searching for and purchased posh luggage completing his ensemble.

Returning to his Volvo C70, Khan unpacked his old bags and repacked his new clothes in his new luggage. Everything about him screamed arrogance. The guise was necessary to stave off unwanted suspicion. Of course he’d be noticed, that’s what he wanted. Not for what he was, a killer and terrorist, but as an over-indulged man spending his money on booze and women and living a life of debauchery.

Hide in plain sight.

The last items he required proved the most difficult to obtain. When he checked in at the Hotel Maria Cristina under the name Arlo Delgado he had two voluptuous women hanging on his arms. He’d found the hookers on the streets, promised them cash and fine things in exchange for their services and silence. They eagerly agreed to Khan’s terms.

Khan plopped down the six hundred Euros per night required for a Royal Suite, paying for a full week in advance, and left strict instructions not to be disturbed. That was three days ago.

The Hotel Maria Cristina, named after the first guest through the doors on July 9, 1912—the Spanish Regent Maria Cristina—rose magnificently above the historic city of San Sebastian.

The first two women didn’t work out as well as he’d hoped. They were greedy, too demanding, and too interested in Khan’s personal affairs, so one evening they became shark food on the bottom of the Cantabrian Sea.

The same night he’d disposed of the first two women, he met two younger women in a bar on the Boulevard. They were on vacation from the United States and were infatuated with the idea of hooking up with a rich Spaniard and threw themselves at him. Khan bought them expensive clothes, jewelry, and liquor. In return, they kept him sexually satisfied. Mutual benefit. He kept his appearance as a playboy intact. In fact, it was no longer an appearance but a reality. He had become a playboy. The women would go home bragging of their adventures in Spain with a rich lover named Arlo taking with them new wardrobes and accessories, or at least, that’s what they thought.

The time had come to make arrangements for his travel to the States. His passports and documents all in order, the drive to Madrid would be uneventful. He knew he would pass through all the security checkpoints without a problem; he had nothing to hide but his true identity. No one would figure it out until it was too late. Not until
after
he’d struck his unprecedented blow. An attack considered unorthodox even by Al Qaeda standards. A despicable act of violence against thousands of innocent and harmless victims.

After supper with the women, he slipped a sedative in their cocktails. A knockout pill to keep them unconscious until morning. He had business to attend to and plans to arrange and confirm. The last thing he wanted was two horny women distracting him and prying into his personal affairs, so it was less trouble to drug them for the night. In the morning when the women woke up, groggier than normal, they would all be naked in the bed, reeking of an overindulgence of alcohol. They’d have sex again. All three of them. Just as they had the last two mornings.

When the women passed out, he grabbed his laptop computer, powered it up, and logged on to a secure server which relocated his IP address around the globe several times allowing him untraceable access to any website. He glanced at the naked women on his bed, they were both very attractive and desire stirred within him. A blonde and a brunette, former college roommates who met their freshman year when they were enrolled in a Spanish class together. Every year since graduation they’d taken a two-week vacation to a different destination in Spain, this year they were indulging his need for sexual pleasure.

But, he had a mission to accomplish. Unfinished business in America. By America’s own admission, the infidel could not defend against the "lone wolf" terrorist. And that was how he intended to attack.

He would enjoy the women for another day, partaking in their carnal pleasures, slaking his lustful desires with the women’s vigorous sexual appetites. Afterwards, he’d take the women on the same boat ride as the first two whores, a one-way trip to the bottom of the Cantabrian Sea.

CHAPTER 51

F
ROM HIS WINDOW, Ian Collins watched the third airline jet launch into the late afternoon skies over Atlanta in less than a minute. Thank God for soundproofing. Only the faintest of rumbles permeated the thick walls of the hotel.

He saved the last images on a flash drive. Soon he would take the flash drive down to the hotel’s business center and print out the documents, three in all, and return to his room to prepare them for mailing. When the envelope was received at its destination, Collins knew, the effect would be devastating, his ultimate goal.

His obsession with Jake Pendleton had culminated into the brazen surveillance of the man earlier in the day. Collins followed the news stories of the tragic loss of two of Newnan’s most prestigious and influential residents from a fire caused by a gas leak. It was payback for the elderly politician’s interference that resulted in two bullets being shot into Collins.

He followed the procession of vehicles from the funeral home to the Oak Hill Cemetery and, at one point, actually joined the line of cars then pulled away as they entered the cemetery grounds. As the procession moved toward the gravesite, Collins stopped his car at the section known as the Confederate Cemetery and removed his high-dollar digital SLR camera with its zoom lens.

Collins viewed the funeral through the lens, snapping pictures of those in attendance, focusing on Jake. He made note of Jake’s stoic demeanor throughout the funeral. The man and woman sitting to Jake’s left seemed familiar, too familiar, then it occurred to him. He’d seen them before. They were with Jake Pendleton in the Friar’s Chamber in Ireland. They were part of the reason for Collins’ failure. He would deal with them later.

It was the young woman sitting next to Jake that piqued his interest. She leaned against Jake and held him with both hands. She appeared to be showing him more affection than compassion. This, he found interesting.

Another opportunity to seek revenge on the meddling Pendleton.

Collins used his hotel keycard to access the business center, logged onto a computer, and opened the files on the flash drive. He printed each document on the hotel’s laser printer, logged off, removed the flash drive, grabbed his copies from the printer, and returned to his room.

With the photos spread on the table in front of him, Collins carefully affixed a marker, his marker, to each. Their meaning would be clear and the recipient would triple their efforts to locate him. Perfect.

His web was being spun and his prey lured into it.

Jake Pendleton's next funeral would be his own.

† † †

Four miles east of downtown Atlanta in an old brick building on Ponce De Leon Avenue in Decatur was where Bentley told Jake to meet them. He parked on the street two blocks away and walked in the darkness of night to the field office. The building was non-descript other than the red brick. It could have been an office for anything, accountants, lawyers, realtors, or a field office of the Clandestine Services of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Earlier Jake had arranged for a limo to take Kyli and Mr. Wiley to the airport. They were returning to Belgium—Wiley for a few days, Kyli for good. It was a bittersweet moment for Jake. He hated to see her go, the moment at the cemetery still lingered fresh in his mind. But he needed to clear his mind and focus on Khan.

Jake entered through the front entrance, a small foyer enclosed in glass, only to be greeted by a CIA guard who introduced himself as Bruno. The human tank towered over Jake like an NFL linebacker. His arms were the size of Jake’s thighs. His intimidation didn’t stop with his size. His dark black skin was covered in black attire. Adorned in full bling, Bruno wore a chain-link gold necklace, a gold earring, gold bracelet on his right wrist, and three gold rings.

“You don’t look like a Bruno.” Jake quipped. “You look more like a bodyguard for a rapper or a bouncer at a nightclub.”