Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (58 page)

"Aye," Declan said, "but politicians fear scandal more than anything else."

"Exactly. We'll have to use the court of public opinion, the power of which you just pointed out, Mr. Simard," Allardyce said. "Tape the confession, release it to the media and anyone else that will air it, and hope that it rocks those involved back on their heels enough to cause them to call off the entire thing. If the very thing they are being accused of organizing comes to pass, then it will be all that much harder for them to defend themselves against it. There's no chance they'd go forward if such a confession came to light."

"That may not stop Baktayev," Declan said. "We're making the assumption that these people have him under lock and key, but I doubt that. He's an animal. I'm surprised they've been able to control him this long."

"It's the best we've got," Allardyce said. "And even if, God forbid, the attack does happen then at least those who are actually responsible will be identified, investigated and brought to justice instead of being allowed to accomplish whatever their goals are in committing the attack in the first place. I guarantee that an American senator isn't killing innocent people for the glory of Allah or the freedom of Chechnya."

Everyone around the table nodded their agreement.

"Good," Allardyce continued. "Now, what do we know about David Kemiss?"

"Looks like I won't be with you on this one," Shane said, as he and Declan were left alone in the dining room while everyone else fanned out around the house. Shane gripped his leg just above the knee where a bullet had passed through the flesh, narrowly missing the kneecap, but bringing him to the ground as the shooter had intended. Declan had cut his pants leg off at the thigh and had cleaned and dressed the wound with bandages from the farmhouse's bathroom.

Declan nodded. "No, not this time, but you'll be up and at 'em again before long."

"I want to see this bastard bleed, Dec. I want to be there when his face wrenches up in pain and he spills his deepest secrets. It's his type that's wrong with the world, ya know? It's his type that's the reason we have conflicts, the reason why innocent people have to die, so."

"I'll take a photo for you, but first we have to get to him," Declan said. He could relate to what Shane was thinking and feeling, that same notion was why he had decided to take a stand against those conspiring against him rather than run and hide. Together, they'd seen a lot of people die because of corruption and political agendas. "It'd be hard enough if we had weeks to plan and gather intelligence. It's going to be even harder in the short amount of time we're talking about."

"Aye, but you're up for it. You always have been. You remember that bloody bog you pulled me out of near the Amu Darya River after the Russians dumped us in the middle of nowhere? You found that shack, dragged me to it and managed to hold off a dozen heavily armed
Mujahideen
with a Makarov you nicked from one of the soldiers as they tossed us out of the troop carrier. I wouldn't have made it back to Ireland if not for you. You can handle this."

Declan smiled. "Aye, you always get emotional and reminiscent when you've been shot."

"Ah, screw you," Shane said, as his face turned red. "I wasn't shot that time."

"No, you tripped in a hole and—"

"Pardon me," Lane Simard interrupted, "but I've found something I think you'd like to have a look at."

Declan nodded, the smile disappearing from his face as he stood. Shane stayed seated, his face turning an even brighter shade of red as he realized that Simard had likely overheard their conversation.

"Hey, Dec," Shane said, just before Declan left the room. "Thanks, man."

"Aye," Declan said with a half-smile as he walked out. "What is it you've found?" he asked, as he followed Simard up the narrow stairs to the study.

"Kemiss seems to have been pretty careful about revealing too much about his personal life, so I wasn't able to come up with much until I found this," Simard said, as he took a seat in front of a computer on an oak desk and moved the mouse, causing the screensaver to clear and a website to appear.

"It's a recent article on Kemiss. Before this there's not much information on him outside of his political career, but it seems this last election cycle was particularly nasty and forced him to reveal more in an effort to hold onto his seat. He was probably trying to humanize himself or something. I found it on a site called blueridgeparents.com. It's a reprint of an article that appeared in
Fatherhood Magazine
in August of 2010."

Declan looked at the picture near the head of the article. A gray-haired man with a receding hairline and thin-rimmed glasses sat on a fence in front of a large Georgian mansion wearing a dark red sweater vest over a light blue button-down shirt, trying his best to look friendly. Declan couldn't be sure if it was because of what he'd recently learned about Kemiss or if it was real, but there seemed to be a regal chill in the politician's eyes that refused to be hidden, despite the man's obvious effort.

"It says his family has lived for two generations on an old vineyard in the Graemont area of Virginia, just north of Charlottesville. That's the property behind him in the photo and here it is on Google Earth," Simard said, as he clicked away from the magazine site and brought up a satellite image. "It's close to a hundred acres and surrounded on three sides by trees. The nearest neighbor's a mile away. It's really the only spot to hit him. Trying to get him in D.C. would be impossible."

"Aye," Declan said, as he scanned the image.

"There's one more thing and I'm hoping it's not an election year lie. The article says Kemiss has a traditional family night once a week that he never misses. It says the family tries to do it every Sunday night. It's not a guarantee, but if that's true, then he'll be at the house tomorrow night."

"That doesn't give us much time," Declan said, looking at the clock in the bottom corner of the computer screen.

"What doesn't give us much time?" Allardyce asked, as he appeared in the doorway of the study.

Simard quickly brought him up to speed.

"Hopefully it's all the time we're going to need, because it's all the time we've got," Allardyce said. "But there's no way you can do this alone. If you're going to have any chance of pulling this off, you're going to need help. For obvious reasons I can't be involved in this as any more than a background player. Neither can Tom, and Shane's going to be off that leg for a good long while. What about the men your wife is with? Could they help?"

Declan shook his head. "No. I'm not getting them involved and exposing Constance in the process. She's safe where she is and I want it to stay that way."

"I hope you've still got a few friends out there somewhere, then. I have contacts throughout the military and intelligence world, but few that would be able to help us with something like this at such short notice and without a lot of questions being asked."

"I've only got one idea and at this point I'd say it's a long shot. I've already been trying to get ahold of them most of the week without any success. I need a phone."

Declan took the phone that Allardyce withdrew from his pocket. This would be his fifth attempt at reaching Okan Osman and Altair Nazari, the only two men he could think of that would be up to the task before him. Allardyce was right. He needed help. He couldn't charge into the home of an elected politician, who likely had at least some kind of physical security, all by himself; at least not if he wanted to preserve the lives of the people he found inside. While he wasn't sure that he believed in divine providence, now would be the time to ask for it.

He dialed Osman's number and waited as the call connected.

"Hello?"

Declan's words caught in his throat for a moment at the sound of Osman's voice.

"Who's calling?" Osman said forcefully.

"Osman, it's Declan."

"Declan! Where are you? We've been trying to reach you for two days now!"

"I've been little busy."

"Yes, I'd say. What is going on? Where are you?"

"I'm in England and I'd rather not say anymore at the moment."

"I understand. Are you safe? Constance?"

"We're fine. Where are you?"

"In Roanoke. As I said, we've been trying to find you for two days. Nazari and I boarded a plane as soon as the reports reached us."

"I need your help."

"Name it."

Without going into any more detail than he had to, he caught Osman up on everything that had happened since he'd left the messages for him earlier in the week.

"And you're certain Kemiss is behind it? I've met the man in passing. Abe knew him. This is an unimaginable betrayal."

"I know," Declan said. "He just sent assassins to kill the CIA chief who helped him locate the United Kingdom's files on my past activities. We got here just in time."

"Then he has to be stopped. What are you planning?"

"A forced confession. We're going to need weapons and equipment for a raid. Some kind of surveillance would be great, if we can get it. Once this is done we're going to need someone with a lot of political connections to get it into the right hands. We need Asher Harel."

"Done," Osman said. "Harel already knows. We left Israel under his orders. He's had a team of men from the Israeli embassy helping us locate you. He doesn't believe you're guilty of this anymore than I do."

Declan felt his mouth curl into an involuntary grin. He didn't know whether it was the divine providence he had thought of moments before or sheer dumb luck, but David Kemiss was about to go down, hard.

11:19 a.m. Eastern Time – Sunday

Charlottesville-Albemarle Airport

Charlottesville, Virginia

The two Honeywell turbofan engines howled loudly as the rented Hawker 800XPR bounced onto the runway at Charlottesville-Albemarle Airport. The howl slowed to a consistent drone as the midsize aircraft made its way north on the airport's single runway towards the private hangar that had been arranged for the arrival of Lord Dennis Allardyce. Once the plane was inside, the double doors of the hangar were closed so the plane's occupants could disembark in complete privacy.

"It was an honor having you aboard, sir," the captain said, as he exited the cockpit. He extended his hand toward Allardyce. "I hope you'll consider Jet Plus for all of your future flying needs."

The fascination British subjects had with the aristocracy never ceased to amaze Declan. He stood behind Allardyce, dressed as one of his two security guards. Clad in black from head to toe and covering his facial features with a low-drawn cap, he nodded to each of the pilots in turn. He had been very skeptical of the idea of renting a private jet to return to the United States, but accepted Allardyce's assertion that there really was no other option and that no one was looking for him in the company of a British lord.

"Rest assured, Captain," Allardyce said, as he shook the man's hand quickly and stepped onto the staircase. The crew members beamed as Allardyce and his two man detail descended the stairs and entered the black limousine that was waiting for them.

"There now," Allardyce said, as Declan closed the door behind them and he and Tom Gordon removed their caps. "That went off without a hitch."

Declan nodded. "Aye, now we just have to keep our presence quiet long enough to get Kemiss where we want him."

"That'll be the trick, I'm afraid," Gordon said. "What exactly is our plan?"

Allardyce held up a hand. "We don't want to know, Tom."

Gordon nodded as the limousine was driven out through a smaller set of doors at the rear of the hangar and onto a two lane driveway leading off the airport's property. At a rotary in front of the airport's main terminal the car turned east. Declan watched through the tinted windows as the vehicle passed twenty-four hour pharmacies, fast food restaurants and car dealerships; a view that was uniquely American.

Turning south onto the main road leading into the town of Charlottesville, the limousine's driver spoke to them over the intercom.