Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (5 page)

"Hey, listen to me," a loud voice said from in the basement. "Hear the words that are coming out of my mouth. I'm not replacing an entire electrical panel because of a little bit of rust. There's no water in here. Do you see any water?"

Declan shook his head and descended the basement stairs. The aged wood creaked underneath his weight and the two men standing in the unfinished room looked up as he reached the bottom. Standing in front of an open electrical panel in the musty smelling room was Brendan Regan, an overweight man with a clumsy cluster of blonde hair, a beer gut hanging over his belt and a lopsided expression that gave him the look of a fat kid in an ice cream shop faced with an impossible number of choices. Regan's six foot frame towered over the building inspector in front of him, a stout man in a blue denim shirt with receding gray hair and a bushy mustache.

"Hi, I'm Declan McIver. I'm the principal for DCM Properties," Declan said, extending his right hand toward the inspector.

"Howard Terry, Mr. McIver. Lynchburg City Planning and Zoning," the man said, as they shook hands. "Your subordinate here was just telling me you have no plans to replace the electric in this house, but I'm afraid the city is going to require an update before we can issue a certificate of occupancy."

"I haven't had a chance to look at it yet. We just started this project a few weeks ago. What are we dealing with?"

"Well, this desk jockey here says the whole thing has to come out because it's rusted," Regan said. "But the only rust I see is the quarter-sized spot there. Here, I'll scratch it off."

"Easy, Brendan," Declan said. "We're all professionals here."

"Professionals, my big ass; he's a hack."

"That's enough. Mr. Terry's with the city and if we're going to be successful in expanding our business to Lynchburg we need to listen to what he has to say. Why don't you wait upstairs while we finish up down here?"

"Fine, you want to kiss his ass, you kiss his ass," Regan said, as he pushed his way between Declan and the inspector and headed for the steps mumbling, “Stupid desk riding bureaucrat."

Declan watched the inspector as Regan climbed the steps, the man's eyes followed him with a disapproving glare.

Declan flashed a smile as the inspector looked back at him. "I've raised him since he was thirty," he said, with a short chuckle as he bent down to take a closer look at the electrical panel. Pulling a multi-tool out of his back pocket, he opened it and produced a Phillips head screwdriver. After loosening four screws, he pulled the face off the junction box at the bottom of the panel. Rust colored water slopped out of the bottom of the box and spilled onto the floor.

"There's your problem, Mr. Terry, ground water," Declan said, pulling out a fistful of hastily taped wiring. "We'll install a new watertight conduit and a NEMA-4 junction box. Think that'll get us a C.O.?"

Terry nodded. "Yeah, that'll do."

"Thank you, sir," Declan said, as he stood and shook hands with the inspector again. "Let me give you one of my cards. My cell number is on there if you run into anymore issues."

Terry took the card and withdrew one of his own from his pocket. "I'll be by for a final inspection when you're done remodeling," he said, handing his card over.

Declan nodded and followed the building inspector up the basement steps. As the man left the house and closed the front door behind him, Declan turned and looked into the kitchen. Constance sat uncomfortably on an upturned five gallon bucket, with Regan and Dex standing nearby, Regan grinning ear to ear as he attempted to position himself at just the right angle to get a view down her shirt. Declan grinned as she flashed Regan an annoyed look and pulled her jacket closed.

"You about ready, then?" Declan asked.

Constance jumped to her feet and said, “Yes, very much so."

"Dex, good work man," Declan said, as he opened the door for his wife. "I'll be round Monday to help you secure the back deck. Regan, try not to bring the entire city council down on us in the meantime, will you?"

Regan grumbled a response as Declan closed the door.

"You're fired," Constance mouthed inaudibly from outside the house.

Declan flashed a smile. "He works cheap," he said, as he put his arm around her and led her back to the car. "Let's get to the hotel and get checked in."

6:02 p.m. Eastern Time – Friday

C.H. Barton Center – Liberty University

Lynchburg, Virginia

By six o'clock a light rain had begun to fall. Arriving at the campus, Declan followed the directions of the orange-vested parking attendants and pulled into a spot just big enough for his wife's sports car. They'd chosen to drive her car rather than his truck for that exact reason. College campuses weren't known for spacious parking and the crowd expected for the night's event would exacerbate the problem.

Opening the door and exiting the vehicle, he looked south along Candler's Mountain Road. He could tell security was tight, just as he had expected it would be. White SUVs with flashing LED lights blocked entrances and men in navy blue security uniforms stood at the edges of every sidewalk, .40 caliber Glock sidearms visible on their hips. Opening the door for his wife, he waited as she stepped out of the car.

In the distance the indignant shouts of a group of protestors could be heard from a sidewalk just beyond the Campus limits, but in full view of the arriving guests. Some things haven't changed, thought Declan. Like many others who vocally supported America and Israel from their platforms as authors and speakers, Abaddon Kafni was a target of constant protests. Signs reading
Free Palestine
and
Occupation Is A Crime
were waved defiantly in the air as chants of “Stop Israeli aggression!” were shouted loudly at anyone who came within fifty yards of the group. The people taking part in the protest were likely the same ones who would protest the appearance of war veterans, members of a Republican administration and conservative personalities, all of whom frequently appeared at the university's many venues.

"Does Kafni always travel with this much security?" Constance asked, as they wormed their way between parked cars towards the path leading to the front entrance.

"No, I don't think so," Declan answered. "At least he never used to. There are a lot of other guests tonight in addition to Kafni; senators, congressmen, probably some ambassadors as well. No one wants to miss a photo-op."

"Always the pessimist," she said, rolling her big green eyes towards him and grabbing his hand.

"I prefer the term 'realist' when it comes to politicians," he said, pulling her closer as they walked.

Ahead of them the newly constructed C.H. Barton Center for International Relations and Politics stood separated from the main campus by the four lanes of Route 460. Nestled into the side of Liberty Mountain, underneath the university's gigantic hillside logo, the building was an impressive sight. The Barton Center, as it would likely be nicknamed by the students and faculty, was as ambitious an architectural project as the university had attempted to date. Not known for shying away from a challenge, the university had designed the building to look like a larger scale version of a retreat once owned by Thomas Jefferson, the third President of the United States.

Octagonal in shape, the Barton Center was three stories high, with two floor-to-ceiling windows on each level of the eight sides. Like Jefferson's former plantation, Poplar Forest, the building was capped at both the front and rear entrances by a white gabled portico supported by four marble columns. A one story rectangular hall jutted off the east side in the same position as the servant's quarters at the original property. At the base of a set of steps extending from the front portico, a circular hedge surrounded a mock carriage court paved with cobblestones. Wrought iron benches were positioned every ten feet in a wide circle. In the center of the court stood an imposing bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson, holding a feather pen and a copy of the Declaration of Independence. He looked down on everyone who approached the building, his soft but knowledgeable gaze conveying the seriousness of the task he had undertaken two hundred and thirty six years earlier.

Walking through the carriage court to the base of the steps, Declan and Constance entered a tent that had been set up as a covered valet. Several limousines were unloading their tuxedo-clad occupants, who strode into the entrance as if they were late for an important meeting.

"See what I mean?" Declan asked wryly as they approached the security team at the front door and one such tuxedo-clad man strode past the security without a second look.

"Name, please?" a guard seated at a gray card table announced.

"Declan and Constance Mc—"

"I said
name
, not
names
. Unless she's mute, she can speak for herself in a moment."

"I see the manners haven't improved much over the years," Declan grumbled, before repeating his name loud and clear. "Declan McIver."

The guard made a tick mark with his pen and motioned towards two other guards standing at the base of the steps. "Remove your coat and stand with your arms and legs open wide, sir," one of the guards said as Declan approached.

Declan took off his coat, as instructed, and handed it to a guard who patted it down and searched through the pockets. Meanwhile, as he stood spread-eagled, the second guard ran a metal detector over his body. As he endured the security screening, he took note of his surroundings. Inside the tent, in addition to the guard checking the list of names and the two currently dealing with Declan, there were several young men in black raincoats guiding cars into and out of the tent, and holding doors for the occupants as they exited their vehicles and entered the building. A white Ford Crown Victoria sedan sat parked at an angle behind the card table with a full set of clear LED emergency lights on its roof and bright red lettering down the side of the vehicle reading s
ecurity
.

"Good to go, sir," the guard with the metal detector said as he moved onto Constance, who had successfully stated her name and was next in line. Declan stood waiting for his coat, but the guard handed it to a woman in a black raincoat instead. She wrote a number on a ticket and tore it in half, placing the first half on a hanger along with the coat.

"Don't lose my coat," Declan said to her, as she handed him the stub. "I like that coat."

The woman flashed him a quick smile then took Constance's coat from the guard as Declan was joined by his wife. "C'mon," she said. "Quit giving them a hard time."

"What?" he asked, as she took him by the arm and led him up the stairs. "I like my coat."

Ahead of them at the building's front entrance, two more guards stood on either side of a set of open oak doors. A short man in a tweed three piece suit stood next to them and he smiled and extended his hand as the McIvers approached.

"It's good to see you, Declan," he said, in a Semitic accent. "Sorry about all of that."

Gripping the man's hand, Declan said, "I guess I should've taken Abe up on that car," as he watched an older gentleman step out of the back of a Lincoln Town Car and stride past the security. "It's good to see you too, Levi. This is my wife, Constance."

"Hi," Constance said, smiling as Levi took her hand and kissed it.

"I'd say something in French," Levi said, "but my memory fails me at the moment."

Constance laughed shyly.

"Constance, this is Levi Levitt, Dr. Abaddon Kafni's chief of security."

"And personal assistant and errand boy and everything else these days," Levitt said with a laugh. "I sometimes think I'm getting too old for this stuff."

"I bet the traveling schedule is horrendous," said Constance.

"Oy, you have no idea. If it weren't for e-mail, I wouldn't even remember my mailing address. Now, if you both want to follow me, I'll walk you through the room to Dr. Kafni. He's quite excited that you've decided to attend."

Levitt turned and walked through the double doors past the guards. He was a small man in height but made up for it in a sturdiness that communicated the idea that he was not a man to fool with. Declan knew that somewhere beneath the professor-like tweed suit, bushy gray beard and thick rimmed glasses lay the instincts and training of a former Mossad agent, much like his employer, Dr. Kafni.

Declan's road to friendship with him had been rocky. Levitt had been injured during an attempt on Kafni's life by a group of vengeful gunmen and it had been Declan who intervened to save the lives of both Kafni and his family.

Aware of Declan's past in the IRA, Levitt had regarded him with more than a little suspicion. despite Kafni's assurances to the contrary and insistence that Declan was the perfect candidate for their fledgling security team. It had taken three years and another assassination attempt before Levitt had let down his guard and began to trust him. Seeing Levitt again tonight, Declan still heard a flicker of the old mistrust present in the man's voice. Taking Constance's hand, he moved slowly after Levitt into the crowded room beyond.