Russell Twyce

Chapter 24 of Shiva’s Messenger

Nataraja and the Bull Nandi

From his vantage in a void space behind a mechanical room, the assassin Dimitri Petrov watched the tiny dials. They were his only real view of anything happening outside of his enclosure. Was this vertical shaft originally to house a large dumb-waiter, or just the current pipes and conduits? It ran from the basement to the upper floor as a cobra’s lair.

“This space is a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare.” He was at the top of a ten-story well that was only 4 x 4 feet. Two large cylinders were chained in place, further cluttering his section on the upper level. Directly ahead was the back of an air-handling unit, as the duct doubled as part of the ventilation system. Dust of decades coated the walls. Suspended now in a fall restraint harness, Shiva’s Messenger was like a spelunker in an artificial cave.

He closed his eyes and imagined the link between his sniper’s blind and the one behind the fence in Dealey Plaza. His father was alive and standing with his carbine under his jacket. Dimitri took a deep draught of the fresh Dallas air. Thank you, Carl.

Silently, he watched and listened for the infinitesimal sounds that would signal the beginning of the endgame. In his mind, he circulated his plan again, avoiding the myriad of latent disasters. His confidence needed to remain doubt free. The skills his father had instilled in him were running at peak efficiency. Shiva’s Messenger was dangling in limbo and the world took a deep breath in anticipation with him.

…

The President of the Ukraine was at Boryspil Airport to greet the U.S. President when his foot touched Ukrainian soil. There were the customary handshakes and welcoming words. Weeds performed the rituals with his usual panache. This type of formality looked good on the newsreels but it took no special effort. The toughest job was for his stylist to make him look good after his long flight. Weeds would have time to relax and have a good night’s sleep before the grueling stuff began. Good thing, too, because he felt a major dump coming on and Larry hated airplane crappers.

He slid into the limousine amid a knot of Secret Service. Their heads were craning, ever watchful for an out-of-place move that signaled danger. The motorcade whisked him through the streets of Kiev, to his waiting hotel suite. Motorcycle escorts blocked the side traffic while they swept past all lights. His guards and the Secret Service would have already checked everything. He was probably safe but alone in the passenger compartment. Larry Weeds watched the crenellated building tops, for a sniper’s outline.

“Anyone standing on a roof would only appear to be a chimney pot, until a shoulder-fired missile contrail pointed him out.” Images accompanying that thought sent Larry sliding into the corner of the limo seat, out of sight. Weeds felt the familiar knuckle of fear grip and begin to twist intestines behind his belly button.

The POTUS detail was dedicated to his protection, and they performed as well as any agency ever could. He had appropriated a vastly increased budget for his personal safety but he didn’t feel any improved comfort level. “Could any extra spending ever keep me completely safe?” The law of diminishing returns said emphatically, no. A tiny risk must be overlooked. A dedicated assassin, like the innovative Shiva’s Messenger, could always find some way. Weeds gave an involuntary twitch, at the thought of that name.

“I felt so confident of my safety in Kiev but now I’m uncertain.” The president hoped beyond dread that the assassin would show up at the Washington lure but he hadn’t. Nick Taylor must’ve been confounded by that too because Larry’s buddy hadn’t been quite the same man since. Something was different about him and it was uncomfortable. “I didn’t even want Nick riding with me in the limo.”

Under a screen of American agents, the president was ushered to his suite. It was comforting as always to see Marine guards in the corridors. There aren’t many of them: perhaps they’re tucked away out of sight. Standing back a pace, he gently lifted the shade to peek out the window. Could Shiva’s scope see through the glass? Nervously, Larry tucked the curtains, so no daylight could peek in.

“With one outcome or another,” the president referred to his alternate plan, “at least it’ll all be over.”

…

[private_Chevron]Nick had ridden crammed in with other diplomats following the president’s limo. Taylor had not been up to his usual form with his pal but his mind was actively engaged on more important matters than placating an imbecile. On part of the flight, Weeds had been animated and excited about the Ukraine visit. It could have been a state visit to Antarctica and Larry would still have been ecstatic to leave America right now. The president and the chief of staff sipped several glasses of bourbon together, while Nick casually slipped in facts about the Ukraine. Weeds usually liked it when his friend did that. Then Nick had been called away to collect a secure message.

“It’s a go for sure! Bernard was right!” Nick had nearly sung the words. The message was like a Christmas gift with even a crepe wrapping that was of some lesser value. A wiretap of a politician he’d been monitoring since learning of her prior involvement with the Akron assassin had paid a rich dividend. Judith was astute enough to understand the veiled references and so was Taylor.

“She was too upright and unassailable to play political ball but now she will.” Congresswoman Forrester would obey or watch the headline ‘phone sex with an assassin’, kill her career.

“Is that enough to keep an inappropriate or misinformed tidbit of yours from sparking an international embarrassment.” The chief of staff had flagrantly crossed the line by openly calling his chat with Larry as what it really was.

“It’s plenty for now.” Nick recalled the president’s sharp reply but couldn’t care less. The man would soon be dead and if a miracle saved him, Larry would need his subordinate brain more than ever.

The jammed second limo smelling of a long flight’s armpits arrived behind the President’s. Nick stood on the hotel’s carpeted apron and turned a lazy circle. Where would it happen? Taylor felt on the cusp of poignant history that hadn’t repeated since 1963. A person in charge of befouling the security can only do so much. I’ll make further mistakes if possible but it’s now essentially up to the assassin, ‘Nick’s’ Messenger, to complete the job.

Taylor collected the key to his suite but his mind was on the next four days. The killer had that long and several appearances in which to pull his trigger. I would love to actually speak to Shiva right now. All he would like to know was where and when. With that information, the Chief of Staff could have set him up much better. He might have even been able to provide a nice padded sniper nest, complete with an aim here arrow. Nick smiled at the thought.

Throwing his bag onto the bed, he vowed to unpack it later. Right now, he felt a familiar stirring in his lower abdomen. It didn’t matter what time zone he was in. After the limited activity of a long airplane flight, the movements of walking to get to accommodations stimulated the necessary function. Taylor headed for the commode.

Tomorrow the public appearances will commence. Each of those was a target acquisition opportunity. This meant the vice-president’s chair and maybe even more. No more cow-towing to a man who was his intellectual inferior. My presidency is going to be inspired. The deed to that was securely locked in his office safe. Nick Taylor couldn’t suppress the smile that split his face from ear to ear. Go get him, Shiva! He didn’t even dare to utter that cheer in a whisper to the walls of the washroom.

…

“In spite of it all, it’s still good to be king!” Weeds stretched out on the large comfortable bed with a sigh. He loved nothing more than foreign junkets. It was world tourism, at far above first-class style, with foreign leaders and people treating him like royalty. More than just a king, I’m an emperor of the world’s most powerful empire. Nothing but the richest royal red carpet was rolled out.

“How can I be expected to make decisions and steer the country with this hanging over me?” Well, that sounded good and maybe it would even make a great line for a speech but Weeds knew that it wasn’t intrinsically true. He didn’t make decisions. People made them for him. His inner circle made choices and then he only ratified them. The Stryker Group set their priorities but that part would change soon. I don’t even select what socks to put on in the morning: my presidential valet does that.

“I certainly don’t steer the country but that would make for a great photo-op.” There he was, standing with resolve at the helm of a great tall ship. The name America was bold across her stern and he was holding fast the wheel with his thrusting jaw firmly set against a stiff squall. Then after the pictures, a make-up artist would fuss to repair his wind-wrecked hair. Someone who actually knows what a sheet, a jib or a spleen is supposed to do quickly grabs the tiller, before the boat can careen onto a shoal.

“I think a spleen is a body organ and Nick would’ve so rudely pointed it out.” Actually Larry was sure he felt a cramp in his spleen right now that told him that he had ablutions, he had put off. It would have enough bourbon in it to be noxious to the extreme.

“It’s too late now.” One thing that he had forgotten until just now was how much he detested the toilets in Europe. It was nasty having the biffy in a separate tiny water closet room, because it seemed to make the smell more concentrated. Even worse were the German ones, where the feces sat on a porcelain shelf without dropping straight into water. He should have used the presidential lavatory on the plane.

President Weeds unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants around his ankles. He sat down onto the toilet in the small WC. At least the seat was very nice and padded. Squirming slightly, into a more comfortable position, he looked around. Maybe this tiny room with no windows wasn’t so bad after all. It was one place where he was completely safe from Shiva, the gunman assassin.

Larry was suddenly gripped by a shocking memory. Shiva’s Messenger was an enigma to the world but he knew from the file that he was actually a Russian operative. KGB Colonel Vassily Orestovich Antenenko was a highly skilled agent. He was proficient in numerous languages, multiple weapons, hand-to-hand combat, field tactics, marksmanship and demolitions. While the president’s body prepared to perform one vital function, he was sitting on an apparatus, with a dualistic design that did two.

…

In the mechanical shaft, the needle of a gauge shot up upwards and jiggled briefly before coming to rest on an increment. The weight of the president’s butt had pressured up the water gel sealed inside the outer skin of the padded seat. The conforming action of the viscous fluid gave exceptional comfort but it was there for another reason. The semi-liquid pressed onto a plunger, crafted into the barrel of one hinge. The sensor sent its signal through the internal plumbing, to the antenna that was modified to serve also as a flush plunger. The knob, on the top of the surge tank, transmitted its message to a receiver in the nearby enclosure.

“I could turn a double play on foul bowels.” Shiva’s Messenger smiled at how appropriate that was for his strike three. The other gauge had registered just seconds ago.

“This will really shock the crap out of someone.” Dimitri Petrov flipped three toggles, with latex encased hands and then electrical impulses traveled back to the corresponding bombs.

Carl had spent hours carefully crafting the component parts. The luxurious seats were constructed of C4 explosive, painstakingly molded around an aluminum core. He had dipped the work into resin to seal it from emitting any detectible explosive fumes. The structure was then encased in a bladder that held the gel. The whole assembly had been coated with layers of vinyl to give it the impression of factory make and obviously of the finest quality.

With the sensor probe assembly in one hinge, the detonator was incorporated into the other. The power supply was a battery array housed in the tank stopper. Wiring was unobtrusively inside of the plumbing and hollow threaded bolts with nothing showing on the outside. Components of the electrical schematic were waterproofed against short-circuiting.

The whole ingenuous double functionality of the toilets had sat there innocuously waiting to execute a virtuoso performance. Agents from the Secret Service had sat on them while preparing for the president’s visit. Even a member of the explosives team had been caught short and used the one in the president’s suite, without even a flicker of an inkling of what he might be sitting on. They looked, felt, smelled and functioned like ordinary German style commodes.

“Security forces never examine further when they see exactly what they expect.” Dimitri had said this to Carl, when he produced the explosives from his luggage. This was simply one step further.

Shiva’s Messenger felt the major detonation and swung slightly in his harness. A generation worth of filth shook loose into the cramped quarters. Ready for an onslaught of the choking cloud, he slipped on his mask. It was of army surplus design and he looked like a foxhole doughboy.

“Out of the trench and into no man’s land.” He pushed aside the fan unit that was no longer secured to the floor. Maintenance man Dimitri had sawed the bolts off under the base. With the equipment moved, he now gained entry into the closet sized room, where staff previously accessed the dumb-waiter. From the hallway, it looked like only the slotted face of a large furnace because the shaft had been converted to do ventilation.

[Nataraja rides the bull named Nandi.]

“Now is not such a good time but in this case I already know what you’re talking about.” Dimitri distinctly heard the sounds of nearby feet as the Marine guards began to react to the blast. No matter. Those noises would soon cease.

Shiva’s Messenger placed both of his hands over the canisters of his mask and tried a breath. Suction pulled the goggles against his face. Now wouldn’t be a good time to suffer from an improper seal. He pulled the coiled hoses from the chained metal cylinders and clamped the open nozzles onto the vent panel. Leaning back into his vacated space, he cranked the main valves to full bore.

Deadly chorine gas flooded into the hotel corridor like chemical warfare. Liberating the two heavy cylinders of the highly toxic gas from storage at the hotel pool’s purification plant and transporting them by wheeled dolly, had been the easy part. Then had come the excruciating exertion of hoisting them up ten stories by rope and pulley. It had taken supreme effort that tortured his muscles and left him sore for days.

“Some may die but as few collaterals as possible.” He spoke a quote from his father in apology to the Marines outside. One toggle had triggered a small charge above the elevator shaft to disable the electric motors that moved the cables. No additional responding casualties would die in the gas. Taking only a few seconds, the lethal poison first intensified and then stilled the movements in the corridor as the last line of defense was neutralized.

Shiva’s Messenger employed the time by disconnecting himself from his lifeline and stripping off his clothes. Naked, he was more attuned to the surroundings and he could feel individual hairs tickle any warnings. He was connected with nature, even in a man made structure: like the ultimate predator seeking the supreme prey.

The messenger stepped into the devastated hall and the bodies of three Marines lay close at hand. Trapped in the corridor’s end by the shredded wall, there had been no escape from the vaporous death. He bent and relieved one of his sidearm and ammunition: now he had his gun. ‘You don’t need to bring what the environment can provide.’ Akron had also proved that truism.

The nude assassin kicked at the door and it flew open with a shattering of wood. The metal plate secured to the doorframe flew away, leaving only the frangible wood to hold the bolt secure. Dimitri had palmed the screws when he had replaced the piece he had accidentally damaged. The ones he replaced were sawed short and these pulled free easily when subjected to a sharp impact. Shiva’s Assassin paused for an instant while he brought his new weapon to the ready position. With a deep filtered breath, he stepped over the fallen Marine and into the sumptuous presidential suite.

“No shirt, no shorts, no sympathy.”

…

President Weeds hadn’t the opportunity to begin his body’s need, when shock and awe of a next-door explosion shattered his peace. Larry’s physique tensed in reaction and his sphincter clamped. Swiftly, he pulled his trousers up and buckled them before peering out. The immediate coast was clear.

His mind steeple chased the range of possibilities for a blast so close by. It could be a major gas leak, or a catastrophic structural failure. Larry dismissed these possibilities as quickly as they fleeted in. Shiva’s Messenger is speaking out once again.

The president looked into the suite’s opulent salon room. Plaster motes hung in the air and flakes of paint shattered by the detonation fluttered. The room was empty of foe. Hearing muffled shouts and struggles outside of his door, Weeds crossed to the window to look for an alternate escape. He could see some smoke and dust emanating from the next window. That suite was assigned to the second most important man on the junket.

Larry Weeds experienced another painful dread in the pit of his stomach. He had lost another close associate. Tom Albertson had been killed right before his eyes. Now, Nick Taylor was undoubtedly just as dead in the next room. The American President wheeled to the sound of his door crashing open.

Tendrils of greenish fume preceded the masked, but otherwise starkly naked figure that stepped casually over a sprawled body. He closed the door, with the hand that wasn’t holding a gun.

President Larry Weeds watched the unclothed specter of death striding across a carpet patterned with both the intended print and the fallen debris. Recent red scars of bullet holes marked Shiva’s chest. Those should have killed a mortal and the man that killed JFK must be over seventy-years-old.

This was a vision more horrible by far than his worst surrealistic nightmare. The president shrunk away into the open bedroom door. He retreated as the Cobra of Shiva, naked as the god that he spoke for, advanced and narrowed the distance. Larry’s trembling calves impacted gently with the foot of the massive bed, the POTUS could withdraw no further. The emperor is in checkmate. The sacrificed pawns in the corridor had failed to protect.

“You cower behind walls of guards,” the assassin’s voice was steady and deadly as he removed his mask: the smell of chlorine in the room was tart as hell’s brimstone, “but I can come this close to you whenever I wish.”

Demonstrating precisely how near, Shiva’s Messenger leaned until his nose provocatively pressed against Larry’s. Weeds felt the cold aura of death that pervaded his personal space so flagrantly and maliciously, in the form of a primal naked predator. The contact of the face against his was an act so bold, he knew in the heart of his soul there was no deed so violent that this man couldn’t do.

There was no circle of protection so tight that could abate his murderous onslaught. The messenger doesn’t even need clothing! His unabashed nudity was far more spirit invasively frightening than if he had been wearing a black cowl. The president looked deep into the eyes and his vulnerable mortality was reflected in the piercing blue orbs.

John Fitzgerald pressed the cold muzzle against the temple of the man holding the most powerful office in the world and it was as his father had foretold. He felt a wave of freedom wash over him—he had never felt so completely alive. The vow was completed, because John was about to kill President Larry Weeds.

Shiva’s naked messenger thumbed the pistol’s hammer back and the metallic click marked the end of his life and his presidency. The president’s sphincter muscle unclenched in mortal terror and he completed the void that was interrupted by the blast. No! Contrary to his grandmother’s stern advice as a child—Larry Weeds would have to be found dead, with badly soiled underpants.

…

“Third time is the charm.” In the lobby of the hotel, Beth Withers watched a frenzy of futile reactions. The detonation had been subtly felt even on the ground floor. In her heart, she knew that violent death had occurred upstairs. The tenth floor explosion meant the job was done. Her Mensa club qualifications weren’t required to deduce that Shiva had slipped the flimsy cordon, to complete his triad of attacks. “Strike three: the president’s out.”

“There weren’t enough security forces present.” The only way she had got here in time to be now too late was by driving to New York after the Washington speech. Not even Eldon Browning was with her. Beth’s trained Secret Services eyes scanned the bedlam. A knot of men stood huddled at the elevators watching indicator lights that weren’t changing. Screening point attendants had joined the throng. Some men were loosing patience and slowly moving for the fire escape. “No one is effectively coordinating.”

“I can’t take command.” FBI Agent Beth Withers’ decision took a forcing of her conflicting will. She was no longer a Secret Service agent and that wasn’t her responsibility anymore. Larry Weeds had effectively terminated that career. He was now dead and while she could sympathize with the flustered POTUS men, Beth could no longer empathize with them. “I don’t even have a headset to follow what’s happening.”

“I’m here specifically, because I know what the killer looks like.” Again the young agent pressed herself to think clearly amid raging confusion. She knew his appearance as intimately as only a woman can know a man. “The Secret Service attempt to prevent has failed. Now, the FBI seeks to apprehend and that’s my job.”

The young woman’s thoughts changed gears. Remote triggering of an explosive device didn’t require the bomber to be present, or even in the same city. Still, what if he was nearby? The killer she tracked, studied and thought she knew wouldn’t randomly place a bomb and hope for a hit. He was precise. “Allen Powers would’ve been here to do it in a controlled way.”

FBI Agent Beth Withers looked quickly around. Where would he be? What is his escape plan this time? The hotel staff and the presidential entourage were in pandemonium. She wouldn’t find him in this stampede. He might not be exiting through the front. Beth hurried out onto the textured brick sidewalk.

“What if I do see him?” The young woman looked both ways in vain, or was it relief. She tried to call back the hatred she felt on the day she saw Allen’s name on the Shiva Task Force wall. The anger wouldn’t come to heart. Beth had seen too much of what he’d done.

“Was killing the president even wrong?” She asked then decided. “My answer is moot.” Agent Withers took a position near the stairs to a tunnel under the busy intersection.

“If I was hoping for a fast way to vanish,” Beth glanced over her shoulder at the descending stair, “this is where I’d go.” From here, she could observe both the main foyer door and the alley opening from the building’s rear. The agent drew her service revolver: it was the first time in her government career when this action wasn’t just for practice. “This time, there is no convenient ambulance waiting.”

…

John Fitzgerald left the Presidential suite and looked both ways. The chlorine cylinders were almost empty and the scream of gas issuing from the nozzles had dulled to a high-pitched whistle. As soon as that tailed off, the green smokescreen that sheltered his actions would swiftly dissipate. I’ll be gone by then—one way or the other. He retraced his steps to his snake’s lair. After donning his shorts and t-shirt, the assassin buckled on the harness. Taking the quick way down, he stepped into the brink and rappelled faster than an elevator to the basement.

His splayed fingers of both hands, ruffled and freed the clinging dust and plaster from his hair. This would also somewhat dispel the chlorine smell but he didn’t intend staying near anyone long enough to be sniffed. There were no fingerprints on his mask and goggles so he left those behind. After peeling off the latex gloves, he stowed them in his short’s pocket. Shiva’s Messenger stepped into his maintenance coveralls.

The sidearm taken from the Marine was a comfortable weight in the improvised cloth holster under his armpit. His coverall’s zipper was lowered to exactly the point where it would hide the weapon but allow for swift access. If guards were still monitoring the screening point then the assassin would have to shoot through to freedom.

“Hello Dimitri Petrov.” A chrome electrical fixture sufficed, though his reflected image was barely discernable. The bewildered looking maintenance worker emerged into the lobby from a basement door, next to the elevator bank. He blinked innocently at the six Secret Servicemen who were waiting with guns drawn.

One agent looked briefly at the hotel employee coming from the lower level. That was from a non-secured and low priority area. An escaping suspect would be coming from the upper floors by the other stairs or the elevator—if the damn thing was working. The agent’s attention swung away and he finger-stabbed the button four times in frustration. Dimitri walked through a milling crowd to the main entry.

The metal detector gave a squawk at his firearm but the point was unmanned. There’s no value in watching the coop’s door when the fox is already amidst the chickens.

Proceeding through the slowly turning triangular glass prison, Dimitri felt briefly trapped. He controlled the sensation by focusing outside. To his left was a stairwell into the underpass where shops lined the tunnel. That would have been a good escape route but only initially. ‘Don’t get cornered’, his father had said, ‘keep as many avenues open as possible.’ The assassin scouted and that stairwell had only three potential exits but the greenbelt across the road had literally hundreds.

Beth Withers saw the young man in the orange coveralls leave by the revolving door. Something about the way he moved slightly jostled the trigger of her recollection but didn’t quite pull it. He fit perfectly into the scene of what was natural to expect. A number of people had exited and some had entered since she had taken up station here. A few of the hotel staff had even come out for a quick smoke despite the mayhem inside.

He stepped out into the oncoming traffic but still that was normal. Others took exactly the same perilous plunge into the full traffic flow, instead of moving to the subterranean pedestrian ways. He turned towards her and the shock of recognition registered double digits on the Richter scale.

“Allen Powers!” No, it was Shiva’s Messenger in the flesh. Beth cupped her left palm under her revolver’s butt and swiveled around the stairway retaining wall. Leveling her handgun at his back, she began to squeeze the trigger. “I have to shoot: he wouldn’t hear a shout and he’s getting away.”

Beth’s fractional hesitation cost her the perfect shot. Taking two-steps at a time, a pedestrian ran up the stairs and moved into her aim. Pulling the gun aside as she fired, her bullet struck a passing car’s windshield and whined harmlessly past the assassin.

Quickly sidestepping, Agent Withers tried another fast shot but he was now running ducked below the level of the colliding traffic. He sprinted the rest of the way across the street in a crouch and leaped the short brick wall into the park. Beth’s third shot rang off of the brick wall only millimeters from where his back disappeared over it. Rising fast from a roll, he dodged around a thick tree trunk and used its girth for a shield as he raced up the gentle slope.

“Anybody! There’s a gunfight going on here!” Agent Withers was already moving into the traffic as she hollered. Her first shot had begun a chain reaction accident. The screeching of tires and the smashing of vehicles confused the sound of her further gunfire. The snipers on the buildings that ringed the other side of the hotel couldn’t hear them. On this face, the hotel had no neighbor. It only bordered on the street and a park.

The few agents present would be somewhere in the hotel. The security contingent was spread as a tiny pat of butter, delimited to only the slice of bread currently at hand. Secret Service agents were imploding onto an area around their charge.

Having escaped the closing ring, the assassin was in the clear, just as he had been in Akron. The deceased Nick Taylor had performed his own last rites brilliantly.

Where were the news crews? Probably they were patting themselves on the back over the coverage at Boryspil Airport. The president had been whisked away and then slipped into his hotel. Their drinks were costing exclusive footage of a gripping incident.

Beth couldn’t fire again yet, as she required her full attention to avoid the wrecks. She hurdled the wall and sidestepped the tree bole that he had used as a shield. Finding a good target as he reached the crest of the hill, she fired once more. He had launched into a roll over the hilltop and the projectile again missed. Withers had qualified with a marksman rating at the range but practice targets don’t dodge and dive.

John tumbled: Dimitri had vanished with the first shot. Evasion was covered in a different lesson plan. He swiveled and drew the handgun he had carried from the president’s suite. Squeezing off two pairs of double-taps, he aimed only at the tree. He didn’t want to kill whoever it was following him if he didn’t have to. Showing his pursuer that he was also armed should slow the progress, with an infusion of caution.

Shiva’s Messenger sprinted over the grass towards the wooded slope down to the Dneipr River. Ducking around a bronze bust on a pedestal, he watched his pursuer crest the hill at a dead run. He fired five shots in a pattern around the woman coming at her full-tilt. The girl dived for the ground and though John couldn’t precisely see her face, he had a very strong hunch he knew who it would be. She was one of very few people who could recognize him by sight.

“Why did I dive?” The young woman slid on the cropped lawn like a tight steal of second base. “It was reflex.” It had now cost her seconds and she knew from the tree hits that he wasn’t aiming for her. “I won’t do it again.”

Her defensive sprawl gleaned the Messenger sufficient time to jump over the lip of the bank. He ran downhill toward the river but this was definitely not his intended escape path. The slope was steeper and John’s heel slipped on a bare dusty patch. He skidded two meters on the seat of his coveralls before his feet were under him again.

“Is this for my country or really for me?” Beth’s words were more mental but her lips did move as her feet pounded toward where he had again vanished. “Do I forgive him?” It was ironic to ask, as she’d already shot with intent to kill. She topped the crest.

Spotting Beth again, Shiva’s Messenger fired another six rounds over his shoulder. They were spaced full seconds apart and they weren’t even aimed. He intended only to panic her and arrest the chase. John felt another very close miss that sprayed him with rock chips from the footbridge. She had run brazenly through his volley, without checking her speed to shirk or duck.

Now, he didn’t have time to make it far enough over the bridge to be safe and would soon be a perfect target. Changing plans on the fly, John vaulted the railing and dropped behind the bridge root. He ducked under the deck and heard her thundering feet.

“Come out, Allen!” Panting from the headlong run, Beth looked over the side of the bridge. She had him cornered and fired another round to punctuate the power in her words. The slug whined off of the structural metal and whistled away towards the water. “This chase is over! I have both of your only escape routes covered.”

John Fitzgerald grinned at the shot and stepped casually from under his concealment. Gun at his side, Shiva’s Messenger walked fearlessly up towards her and saw her weapon aimed directly at his heart. Her legs were wide splayed and she had both hands on the pistol. FBI Agent Withers couldn’t possibly miss her mark especially at this range but he kept closing the distance.

“You have no more bullets in your gun.”

I don’t want to shoot him dead but he keeps on advancing. Breathless and now mildly panicked, his words didn’t register. She pulled the trigger and the hammer struck with a resounding but harmless clack on an empty chamber.

“I’ll bet your reload is still on your dresser and you only planned to kill six men again today.” The young man had never once seen Beth take the spare rounds with her in Akron.

“It appears I might not get to kill even one.” Beth confirmed his suspicion. She certainly hadn’t expected to find herself in a running gunfight in Kiev. Her mind quickly counted the 15 shots that he had fired back at her. She looked at the standard Marine issue Beretta, in his hand. Her knowledge of weapons wasn’t extensive but she did know this one held a 15-shot clip.

“You’re empty also.” Her optimistic assumption would only level the odds slightly. He was still bigger and stronger than her: Beth was also willing to bet he was trained in hand-to-hand combat.

“That’s where you would be wrong.” John stopped four paces from her. His back was facing the span of the pedestrian bridge. He fired one shot that splashed a divot into the soft dirt. “I now have 14 rounds left. My father always drilled me to never be caught with an empty weapon.”

“I can’t back down.” Beth’s face was set in grim determination. “You’ve assassinated the President of the United States.”

“The explosion didn’t kill Larry Weeds.”

“Why should I believe that?”

“The closest I have to a real name is John Fitzgerald.” How many ways had he hurt Beth already? Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to kill. Only a leg shot if needs be, would prevent her further chase but she at least deserved to know why. “My father killed Kennedy. His motive was pure at the time but later learned he was wrong. I vowed to correct his error and I’ve now fulfilled that.”

“When all the colors have faded, John is what the chameleon really looks like.” Beth’s words weren’t questions and neither was the last, “You’re now telling me the truth.”

“Yes,” he confirmed and then held up his gun, “and this isn’t a bullet that you need to leap in front of.”

“Whether to jump is my decision to make.” Agent Withers saw an apology already in his eyes and knew he would shoot to make his escape. She had been valiant in taking on Shiva’s Messenger but the Secret Service and FBI had caused that task to be single-handed. Yet, she also had her duty to consider.

“Yes it is.”

“Tell me one thing.” A professional reason didn’t provide Beth a clear choice so a personal one might. “Knowing all as we do now, would you have done anything—differently?”

“I wouldn’t have shot at Larry’s hind-flank.” John quipped but he was moderately certain that wasn’t answering her intent.

“You know what I mean.” Beth pressed. Allen had adapted his chameleon personality to what she expected after he failed to break off the dangerous date. Judith initiated the affair without his input and against his best judgment. Interviewing Jessica had given Beth the final clues into figuring him out.

“Retrospectively,” John paused for a breath while his ex-lover’s eyes carved slices off his, “I would’ve made damn sure that you showed me that gun in the evening instead of the next morning.”

“That’s the correct answer.” The young woman smiled and she forgave him. Her official opinion would have to wait and see.

“May I ask you the same question?” John chuckled and stood in a mock cringe of the answer.

“Don’t even dream of going there.” Beth laughed at the cheekyness. “Just go.”

Agent Withers watched him turn and trot away. Every fiber of her government training was screaming at her not to allow him to get away. She fought her conditioned responses with the strength of her humanity and knew she was doing the right thing.

Shiva’s Messenger stopped at the middle of the span and turned. He smiled as he stripped off his Dneipr Palace coveralls and then waved as he tossed them over the side of the footbridge. He jogged the rest of the way in running shorts and a t-shirt. The assassin would disappear amid the fitness conscious people using the semi-wilderness area in the heart of the metropolis.

Beth took one more look at the orange slash of cloth floating in the water’s slow flow. His get-away meant the Shiva Task Force would remain active—but could she find it in herself to stay on it? “I’ll decide that after I find out what happened.” Agent Beth Withers turned and walked back up the slope. She winced at the prospect of the madhouse she was going to find at the Dneipr Palace Hotel.

…

“I don’t care that you missed Weeds this time.” Hamster Man’s nose whiskers had been brushing the television screen since news of the President’s surviving the third attack broke. John’s sudden arrival caught him unaware and emotional. Cobra Boy had said that he would either be successful or dead.

“I didn’t miss.” The grin was satisfaction with a twinge mystery.

“You only got the chief of staff and a couple of guards?“ Carl’s initial voice showed his remorse at having to break this news of the one bomb’s failure to explode. Then he twigged to the suspense in the face and realized that Shiva’s Messenger already knew that. “Don’t you dare play that game now! Give me all the strait dirt.”

“After the president had messed his pants,” John recounted the full details, “and while we were nose to nose, I told him my terms.”

“Tell it word for word.”

“The toilet in your suite is also a bomb, like the one that just killed Nick Taylor. Your body isn’t splattered all over your bathroom walls because as in Akron and Spokane, I allowed you to live. Your toilet seat didn’t detonate because there is one component not sealed. A simple short-circuited can explain how you dodged a third strike. Shiva’s Messenger missed once again.”

“I’ll bet terror was etched in him so deeply,” Carl guessed, “that it shone out his back and cast a shadow of dread on the wall.”

“From here forward, I’m the quiet power behind your throne.” John continued the retelling. “If you ever once falter, fail to obey me or tell anyone of our meeting, you’ll die. We’ll work at undoing the harms you and your corrupt predecessors have wrought. In this, you’re doing the one decent thing of your presidency. If these terms are unacceptable, I can quell your fears with a twitch of my finger.”

“What was his response?”

“He is still alive, isn’t he?” A smile lit John’s face. He had known Weeds was ready to fold when Judith had hedged her assessment based on influence Bernard Stryker wielded. The congresswoman assumed she was condemning Weeds to die. Instead, she was again helping to save his life.

“You didn’t exactly fulfill your father’s request.” Eckert noted.

“My father really asked me to right his worst wrong, even by my killing another president if needs be.” John now fondly recalled his father’s last words. ‘Deadly force in abeyance is mightier than it is in actuality.’ “Larry’s free will is gone and that’s what defines a life. I tied my strings to Pinocchio and his flesh turned to wood.”

“Weeds was already Bernard Stryker’s marionette.”

“That puppeteer still thinks his strings control Larry’s ambitions but my concealed overriding controls are snip resistant. While the president craves life, I own him”

“Bernard isn’t daft. He’ll eventually notice sluggishness in the glove-dummy’s dance.”
“Stryker isn’t the only freight train on our track. Your Shiva file will help us predict the schedules. We’ll just have to dodge or derail each as they roll through.”

“What was the relevance of the Potemkin Stair?” As they drove back to Odessa, Carl was reminded of an unasked question.

“The Office of the Presidency is the illusion of the stairs. The public’s perception is from the narrow top. Pushing the president far to the front, blocks vision of what’s behind but the eye deception is that it appears straight. The power elite looks from the opposite end and the distorted view is double what it should be. They like their width being twice as large so more coins can roll down their way. They rebuilt the stair in this skewed manner on purpose when they replaced Kennedy with their own president.”

“An interesting analogy,” his mind’s eye gave Carl a vision of the attraction in a new way, “but where do they climb from here?”

“With small changes, I plan to maneuver Larry down to the mid-point, where the width is exactly true and proper. I hope when able to clearly see both the president and staircase together, people will determine that the steps don’t quite mesh with reality and fix them.”

“The president will always be an up front and visible figure.” The ex-CIA man understood how a nearby figure or object obscured a view more than a distant one did but it seemed difficult to avoid.

“That’s not quite what I meant.” The young man thought of an alternate metaphor. “A national leader should be as a surfer on a wave. He balances the ride and also steers but in teamwork with the nose, keels and board. Power of leadership is now an outboard motor on a speedboat piloted by only a few. The citizenry bounces in the wake and chop, as a towed tube does. Even the majority has no real input into where they are pulled.

“You’re now holding the office of the United States Presidency in your hidden hand.” Eckert pictured an armed protector of Rome now able to seize it for his own. The thought wasn’t uncomfortable, as Carl now believed young John showed the wisdom to be just. “You can use it to shape the nation to what you think it should be.”

“Shiva’s Messenger only destroys to make room for rebirth.” In the passenger seat, the young man took off his shoes and socks. He put his both feet out the side window and the wind whistled through his toes. “Nataraja plans to stand behind while still able and just to prod the Nandi bull’s forward movements. Brahma’s citizens can choose where they should lead it.”

…

The world media covered the huge event of Shiva’s Messenger’s third failed attempt on the president. Jokes were cracked on about President Weeds’ ability to dodge bullets. Quips were coined about the triple threat— that tripped at the tapes. Guest experts commented and speculated on what had happened and when the next attempt might be. Bookies had to pay off the long odds to the few contrarians that betted against the terminal strike three.

The world believed one thing clearly. In Akron and Spokane, Shiva’s Messenger had deliberately not assassinated the president. In Kiev, he had truly intended to kill but only a tiny glitch caused an otherwise brilliant plot to disastrously fail. Only the bomber and the surviving victim knew otherwise.

Prior to Kiev, the media and public opinion seemed against the president and cheering Shiva’s Messenger on. Savvy politician that he was, Weeds stunned pundits and reversed the downward trend with an unpredictable stroke of genius. Demonstrating his staunchly pro-feminist stance, Larry put a decorated up-and-comer into the Chief of Staff position left vacant by the late Nick Taylor.

“Beth Withers,” the president remarked as he introduced her to the assembled cameras,” has served with distinction in the Secret Service, where her peers view her as elite. On special assignment in the FBI, her singular contributions supplied much of what we do know about the Shiva’s Messenger assassin. Who other than this woman with her credentials could be better at protecting me from further menace?”

In countering criticisms with undeniable rationale, Larry Weeds proved yet again that his strongest political attribute was the ability to take an unwavering stance, on the side of his best interests.[/private_Chevron]

The End

Chapter 23 of Shiva’s Messenger

Dynamite Speeches that Bomb

The highway leaving Odessa again required caution in order to negotiate the sections where half completed repairs lurked. Some of the holes were almost big enough to swallow the tiny Lada in one gulp. The diminishing distance to the area of the national capital could be measured by increments of road surface improvements. Like governments everywhere, the Ukraine liked to waste the most money where it showed. In the city center of Kiev, the two would later chuckle as they witnessed road crews resurfacing asphalt that would’ve been considered brand new, if it had been in Odessa.

“Hello, Dimitri Petrov.” As Carl took his turn at the wheel, Shiva’s Messenger borrowed the rearview mirror and transformed. He stashed his German passport and became a Ukrainian national.

“That is impressive.” Hamster Man was surprised to note that from the moment he changed papers the effect was complete. The accent and whole demeanor dramatically shifted to match the new persona. Carl couldn’t help but immediately think of him, as ‘Dimitri’. As the idle traveling chat continued, Eckert marveled the part that was even more outstanding. “You know the language but now you also speak English with a Russian accent. When you were Gunter, you spoke it with a German inflection. How do you do that?”

“It took a lot of practice with my dad but I also start thinking in my persona’s language and I’m sure that helps.”

“Could you speak Russian with a German accent?”

“Yes, but only because Russian is my second strongest tongue.” The chameleon explained.

“Conversely, I can’t speak German and sound Russian. Well, at least not without a lot more rehearsal.”

“When you were Alex, I would place your accent from Nevada or California. I assume you could be from Boston if you wished.”

“A Bostonian sounds pretty thick,” Dimitri noted, “but I wouldn’t try to match to a city or someone may expect me to know intimate details. I’d make it more general to New England. The accents in North America are fairly easy. A few key word sounds can make the switch. My being an Australian in England would be harder at first but I’d get better as I used the persona.”

“You’re a human chameleon without even changing clothes or your appearance.” The exchange had brought Cark to stare with awe as if watching to observe a skin color change.

“But you’re not a flounder,” the passenger remarked on the driver’s long fixed gaze but he wasn’t excessively concerned yet as traffic was light, “with both eyes migrated to the side of your head.”

“The CIA trained me in watching the road through my ear?” Carl split his attention to give a little to his driving duty as well. “When did you ever have time to learn to shoot?”

“Weapons were only a small fraction of my father’s curriculum.” The young assassin fondly recalled. “My education was also started before my first childhood memories.”

“It must’ve been different as a tyke playing soldier,” Eckert tried to envision it, “but with live ammunition.”

“A loving parent doesn’t give toddlers knives to run with.” John squelched his friend’s thought. The memories invoked by this talk had slipped him from the Dimitri persona but since it was only with Carl he paid it no heed. “My father didn’t give me skills before he thought me responsible enough for them.”

“When did your languages training begin?”

“I could read and write both English and Russian before other kids would be starting kindergarten. I was also fluent in French and conversant in German.”

“Did he never give you time to just play and have fun?” Carl’s face had to turn away from the road again as he felt sorrow and had to study the effects of such a regimented childhood.

“It was all fun with plenty of play.” John read the expression. “I’ve had a wonderful life. My dad started off reading children’s books with me in English. Then he read them again in different tongues. I had friends my own age when we traveled and in the rest of the year he was a playmate as well as my parent and teacher.”

‘I suppose it built a strong relationship between you two.” Carl recalled his young years. “My father worked long hours and I saw him only on evenings and weekends.”

“My dad was at least your age when I was born but still a lot of fun to play with: maybe I kept him young. He and I did play soldiers and if the game involved being squad mates instead of opponents,” John grinned, “sometimes it was with real guns and bullets.”

“I suppose you’ve turned out rather well from it.” Hamster Man chuckled. “Other than the long string of corpses in your wake.”

“Its been my choice. A butcher may teach his son all he knows in hopes of passing on a family tradition but a good father also gives his child a wide base to build any future on. The boy could become an accountant—who also has a very good knowledge of meat.”

“I can see our young Shiva’s Messenger as a lawyer with latent skills to take out the bailiffs, judge and jury over a wrong verdict.”

“My being with you puts me in mind of spending quality time with my father but with an odd transition.” John glowed as he was realizing this for the first time as he was sharing it. “It’s like I’m my father and you’re me, trying to learn what I know with enjoyable conversations and having fun with the educational stuff we’re doing.”

“Hamster Man,” Carl’s chest puffed as he expanded on his official title, “the assassin’s apprentice.”

“Hi again Dimitri.” The young assassin switched back as they neared Kiev.

“Could you do that without seeing your reflection?”

“You probably don’t really need a mirror to brush your teeth but you’d certainly feel awkward without one.”

…

After finding a nice apartment through a rental agency, Dimitri scoured the classified ads for a large storage unit wired with electric. He applied for a job as a temporary maintenance man at a premier hotel in Kiev and managed to get hired part-time.

“You were lucky to apply at the perfect time,” the hotel staffing manager smiled, “a very important guest is expected soon and extra mechanical personnel are required for sprucing up the place.”

“Great,” the maintenance manager’s voice was cynical as he met his new temporary man, “another young one. I suppose you’ll need a day or two off after every payday too.”

“I’m a diligent worker.” Dimitri offered quietly.

“That’s what they all say.” Ivan issued the lad with a tool belt and his new coveralls.

…

“Some of the stuff we need is really tough to get, probably even impossible, not to mention dangerous.” Carl mused while shaking his head slowly in thought. Dimitri had sketched out a rough outline of the project. “I don’t think even selling your highly-touted soul will net enough to buy any C4 compound.”

“The hardest things to get, I brought with me.” After fishing into his bags, Dimitri pulled out the carefully prepared shaving kit from Calgary. “May I use your scissors?”

“You may as well.” Carl snapped back. He’d never seen the kit, it had irked him slightly that his boss always borrowed his shampoo and toothpaste.

“This bag is far too extraordinary for storing toiletries.” Dimitri’s tantalizing voice hinted at a treasure trove of delights.

“Oh my god!” Eckert’s eyes widened. “What have you carried half way around the world, on planes and through customs?”

“Airline security and border crossings can be a problem but not insurmountable. In addition to random searches, they also regularly use metal detectors, x-ray and explosive sniffing units.” Using the scissors, the smuggler cut the side out of his shaving kit. “You have to prepare well in advance of the screening.”

“The zipper triggers a booby-trap bomb?” Eckert leaned away.

“No,” the young assassin chuckled, “why would I set a trap to kill an innocent security worker?” It just doesn’t work because I dipped the whole bag in several coats of liquid plastic and let it harden.” Dimitri emptied now the ruined satchel onto the table. “The method of getting past explosive detectors, is to seal everything in airtight packaging. The sampling wand hunts for fumes only in the main suitcase cavity.”

“You took explosives onto an airplane!”

“This can make washing your hair a real blast.” Dimitri quipped and tossed a medium sized plastic shampoo bottle and another with conditioner. He had carefully filled and compressed as much C4 plastic explosive, as each would hold. Following that, the semi-solid was tamped into the containers and topped up completely, so the non-liquid consistency wouldn’t be apparent. “The ploy for x-ray units is to make the items look like something the operators see so often, that they pay no attention.”

“Be careful!” Carl handled the potentially volatile bottles like they might detonate. “I was wrong about the spirit auction.”

“This is a high velocity military explosive but it’s safe to handle until you use some of these blasting caps.” Dimitri broke the shell of his electric razor and extracted two detonators that were mixed in with assorted electronic components.

“You don’t just go into a supermarket and ask for C4 by name.”

“No. It’s controlled and purchase requires an end user certificate. It might be possible to get it here but with extreme difficulty and danger.” His father supplied a quantity and it had a ten-year shelf life. It was easier just to bring it along. “The rest of the components could come from hardware store and electronics shops.”

“I would’ve been sweating torrents at every checkpoint.” Carl marveled at the ingenuity and the nerve to pull it off. “They would have torn my up gear seeking the headwaters of my perspiration.”
“It’s a good thing I didn’t tell you or get you to carry anything. ‘Security forces never examine further when they see exactly what they expect’.” Dimitri recited one of his father’s favorite lessons. “I could use a gun too but those are tougher to hide. Even stripped down to components, a gun and bullets still looks like gun parts.”

[private_Chevron]“This must be another one of your esoteric things.” Carl was still looking dumbfounded at the smuggled stems. “You tell your soul to broadcast—please don’t look into my luggage!”

“If anything, it’s the reverse. I put the stuff into my bags and try to forget it’s there. Maybe my spirit has Alzheimer’s disease or a short attention span—it can’t tattle what it doesn’t remember.”

“But this,” Shiva’s Messenger carefully extracted the toothbrush from the toiletry pile: he handled it gingerly with two fingers, “also has an important function.” He offered it to Hamster Man.

“I’m not touching that.” Carl pulled away.

“Good.” Dimitri laughed and put the brush end into his mouth. “You can use your own for taking plaque off your teeth.”

“Its a crappy assignment for such non-existent remuneration.” After an explanation of what was to be done, Carl noted that his boss had assigned him most of the fabrication duties.

“I’ll help whenever I’m not busy at the hotel and finding supplies.”

“That’s fine,” Eckert showed a declining hand, “I worked with you on the banners and that showed me what to expect. That was only with paint. An innocent jest with volatile material might put more than just a White House smell in my underwear.”

With some clay and several top quality examples of the item they were going to fabricate, Carl got to work setting up the mold. He was finicky to the point of anal about the details but that was fine. An appearance of authenticity was critical, as the finished products would be intimately scrutinized.
Aside from his earlier quip said in fun, Hamster Man was happy being fully responsible for this duty. It kept him busy, which helped keep his mind off plan segments that the boss hadn’t divulged.

Over the following several days Dimitri worked longer hours at the hotel. Carl took long breaks from the workshop to enjoy the city and spend time on his other duties.

“Can we get an apartment with DSL or dialup?” Eckert looked wistfully at his laptop now idle in the evening at home. “I haven’t yet found an open wireless network at a coffee place and I don’t like the occasional peeping over my shoulder, in an Internet café.”

“Would you take occasional breaks from porn surfing,” Dimitri chided, “to get information on the state visit here?”

“Yes, but only because you asked so nicely.” Carl smiled at the barb. “That’s ironic because whitehouse.gov is a place to get the information you want, but whitehouse.com used to be a porn site.”

“I still need a gun.” Shiva’s Messenger mused out loud.

“You’ve said that only about 12 times in the past three days. So let’s get you one? There are police and security militia that hang out in every bar and casino. Most of them carry firearms. They play the gambling machines and even drink while they’re on duty.” Carl hatched a plan. “We could get one of them drunk and steal his.”

“They’re sure to have a metal detector on the way in, so I can’t bring one.” Dimitri pursed his lips in thought. “I don’t know if I dare hide one somewhere, either. Getting it to where I need it would be dangerous—but I need a gun.”

“Aaaargh.” Eckert voiced most succinct thought on the issue that revolved back to the start position again. “Why do you really need a gun anyways? We’re obviously making bombs.”

“Part of what I need a gun for, I can’t tell you. I also want to have a firearm for insurance, when I make my escape. If I didn’t have one in Akron, I wouldn’t have survived the get-away.”

“I’m sorry, boss, but that brings up something that I really can’t figure out.” Carl knew there was much that his friend wasn’t telling him of the overall plan. His revelation on the Potemkin Stair and now this gun business was starting to make Eckert feel slighted. “You’re willing to have me making bombs but you won’t tell me the rest. Is this some trust issue?”

“I have absolute faith in you. It’s more a confidence and a soul thing on my part. Some actions in my plan have precarious aspects. If I explain these, you’ll have questions. If I start thinking about concerns or possible complications, then I’ll begin to have doubts. I can’t solve every potential problem in my plan but I can’t afford to have second thoughts. To send a clear message to my soul, I’m fixating on the apparently workable plot and trusting that my reflexes and training can accommodate other situations that arise.”

“Now that I can understand.” Carl nodded knowingly. A need for unswerving self-assurance made perfect sense. “The spirit part of the equation, as you explained in Odessa, isn’t clear though. Souls communicate with people, so how is your confidence affected?”

“That’s not all that our spirits do.” Dimitri took a pause to think of a suitable example. “Have you ever noticed that if you fret and worry about something bad happening, it often does?”

“We probably bring it onto ourselves, subconsciously.”

“Or maybe soul-consciously?”

“OK, let’s hear it.” Carl heaved a heavy sigh and knew that he was in for another of the young man’s theories of eternity.

“Everything that you tell yourself in prayer, the bad by dreading and the good by fervent faith, causes your essence to attempt to make it happen. Whoever says that God doesn’t listen, simply doesn’t believe that God can hear.”

“That’s a nice theory.” Hamster Man looked dubious. “I won’t say I can believe it but I can’t yet figure out how to poke holes in it.”

“I see our employee development program has to work on your skepticism.” Dimitri sought for another instance to cite. “Remember back to when you were homeless and looking for me. Did you want to find me or did you know that we were going to meet?”

“I vowed that I would find you—or rather your father.” Eckert easily recalled when he saw the men in his apartment waiting to kill him. The president of his country had reneged on his allegiance, by ordering his death.

“You told your soul a fact that you believed to be true and then your spirit might have found mine and communicated that you were looking for me. Maybe, we were nudged into contact.”

“Come to think of it, our accidental skull cracking was a huge coincidence.” After thinking for a minute, Carl reprovingly wagged a finger. “You’re like a missionary trying to convert me.”

“The soul is a piece of infinity that we carry inside. It keeps us all connected to whichever God we believe in and to each other. They’re a vitally important part of us but they’re imperceptible to our weaker senses, so the mind tends to shunt the value aside.”

“Are you like a Mormon manager who only promotes subalterns of the same church?” Carl narrowed his eyes to a squint but a smirk betrayed his mirth. “A ten percent religious tithe would gnaw a big hole in my zero salary.”

“I could always tack on a 15% cost of faith allowance.”

…

“I’m almost certain he’ll be in Kiev.” Beth Withers brought her undocumented theory to her boss at the FBI Shiva Task Force. She had been puzzling it out since her realization that Spokane was intended only as a ruse. The biggest problem with her assumptions was that they had no absolute crux. Her faith came from deciding what the Spokane incident suggested and then assuming the opposite was more likely true. “The two attacks in America suggest another here, so the next will be abroad.”

“If your reverse theory is accurate and since Shiva has struck at the president twice, maybe the VP is the potential target needing more protection.” Bob twiddled his thumbs and tried to understand.

“If allegations I’ve heard about Clark are true,” Beth noted wryly, “it would give the Stryke two message an interesting connotation.”

“I’m defiantly not going to comment on that and I’m not going to run to the SS asking them to double team Lon Clark.” Bob Waters leaned back in his chair and rubbed at a crick in his neck before continuing. “Assuming you are correct, that puts Shiva’s Messenger in Europe, while we’re going all out to protect the president here in the U.S. I really hope you’re wrong, because Homeland Security is piling on the massive security overkill here—even at the Ukraine junket’s expense. The assassin’s Spokane stunt widened the scope of threats but the Chief of Staff has narrowed our field of focus.”

“At least send me to Kiev, so I have a chance to spot Allen if he’s there. Even if my theory is only intuition, it still makes good sense.”

“I can’t let you go until after the president’s Washington event is over.” Bob had to stand firm. “You could spot him.”

“I did that composite sketch.” Beth knew this was a slender bid as the result was a face that even she couldn’t pick from a lineup.

“It’s funny you should mention that.” Waters smiled in hopes of softening his agent’s resolve. “Were getting a ton of calls from girls who claim to have met Shiva’s Messenger because guys are hinting they might be him, as part of a highly effective come-on routine.”

“I guess I can’t deny to you that he has some allure.” Bob was the only person to whom Beth had confessed the intimate relations. The reference also nudged to mind another girl with an attachment to him. The agent was desperate for any support to twist her case. “Has surveillance on Jessica Ellis turned up anything yet?”

“The lawyer sent them a box of donuts,” Bob sighed resignedly, “our people just can’t blend into such a small town.”

“Can I have a short vacation?” Beth tugged at a thin straw. Would a wiretap on Jessica’s phone be productive—or just catty?

“A noble effort, but no. This isn’t my call to make.” Bob Waters had a niggling hunch that his agent may be right but his career was important to him. “The president’s Chief of Staff is clamping down hard to make sure everyone obeys his edicts. The best I can do, is get you on the first flight out after Weeds safely doles out his drivel.”

“You know this is a waste of the fact that I do know what Shiva’s Messenger looks like. Everyone I’ll see at this rally will have already have gone through about three screening points. In Kiev, I might spy him while doing his reconnaissance or preparations.”

“You could be right but the evidence you have isn’t conclusive enough to fly straight into Nick Taylor’s face.” Bob had experienced being on the wrong side of Nick a few times and it wasn’t a nice place to be. “I might fudge on the details if it was the president, because he tends to overlook things. I can assure you, the Chief of Staff isn’t one to try to slip something past. For some reason the Office of the President is putting a high priority on the Washington venue. It’s possible, however unlikely, that they know something we don’t. All information has to flow upwards from every source but it doesn’t always trickle back down.”

“You can tell yourself that they know what they’re doing,” Beth laughed despite her frustration, “but it’s a tough sell for people that have actually worked there. It seems like everyone that should be in the Ukraine yesterday, won’t even be on a plane until it’s the day after it’s too late.”

“If I had any choice in this, I’d send you there right now. I just can’t justify it.” Bob tried to find something optimistic but he had to stretch for it. “Maybe Shiva’s Messenger can’t operate out of North America? We know he speaks Russian but we’re not sure how well. Kiev is also the capitol of the Ukraine and contrary to the common misconception, Ukrainian is a whole another language. He might be actually aiming for the bleachers with his strike three in Washington, exactly like the odds makers in Atlantic City are forecasting.”

“If I were the president I wouldn’t be willing to stake my life on that line.” Withers resigned herself to the fact that she and a lot of federal agents were destined to ride red eye flights. “I hope Larry Weeds delivers a dynamite speech.” The female opened the door. “Excerpts of it might comprise his epitaph.”

“Dancing the Washington two-step!” Beth muttered as she returned to her cubical. Bob Waters was a nice enough guy but he was as bad as the rest. “The whole bureaucracy is mortally afraid that they might have to take a dump sometime and not have enough paper to wipe it with.”

…

“You make me a slave just in assigning you tasks to complete.” Ivan the mechanical supervisor stroked yet another item off his big list. “If I had more guys like you, I might even make the deadline.”

Gearing up for the big visit, all of the long delayed minor repairs were finally getting the go ahead. A state-run hotel had to return a profit, whatever costs had to be cut—until the government wanted to look good. Then there was no expense too great.

“I could work overtime.” The dedicated young man offered.

“It’s not usual to schedule extra hours for a temporary worker.” The harried manager considered how some of his regular full-time staff would likely punch the clock and then sleep away the duty in a hideout. Dimitri always completed the jobs fast and they were done well. “Because I’m in such a pinch I’ll authorize it.”

“I can probably get way more done in the slower hours when not tripping over people.” Shiva’s Messenger grinned amicably. That statement was doubtlessly accurate for both his assigned and his extracurricular jobs.

“Just please hold the hammering to a minimum when guests are asleep.” Ivan advised with a grin. “Stick to the wrenches and paint.”

Maintenance man Dimitri started doing double duty. Being in the hotel the extra time also brought him to notice more how very few American security people were around. Maybe the hornets are all still buzzing around Spokane or the Washington thing?

“Wouldn’t that be like getting a huge Xmas bonus in mid June?”

…

“The bomb components are ready and they’re comfortable.” Carl beamed as all pieces were intricately examined then divided into the two crates. Each box contained makings for one complete device. Shiva’s Messenger practiced with spare components, to ensure he could assemble them quickly.

Dimitri took the boxes out of the Lada and stashed them in the alley then with a broomstick, he broke out a couple of lights. Shortly after his shift began, the maintenance man in orange coveralls took some bulbs and a ladder out. The modules went inside with him.

“I’ll have to be crafty.” The next step was far more difficult. He had to install them in some of the most well guarded rooms in the whole hotel. The assignment of billets was held as top secret but the maintenance job sheets painted a clear picture of which rooms were being scrupulously preened for the highest profile guests. He hadn’t been inside those yet and couldn’t expect a temp to be offered such sensitive jobs either.

“There may be only a few American security personnel but that place would still be watched.” The time left before the presidential visit was growing short and Shiva’s Messenger had a decision to make. The later he left the installation of the bombs, the less chance there was of discovery but the sooner he put them in, the more familiar they may become. The access later might be even tougher. There were no times when the rooms wouldn’t be guarded, so he’d have to brazen it through. One of his father’s catch phrases applied to this circumstance. ‘A good place to hide is in plain sight’.

“On the dayshift I couldn’t even dare to be on this forbidden floor.” Dimitri took several deep breaths and felt for his heartbeat as he stepped from the stairwell door. As always, that dropped him into his well-rehearsed sphere of awareness. With his tools on his belt and crates in his arms, Shiva’s Messenger walked directly up to the first armed Marine guard in the hallway. The maintenance man noted that both visible sentries were young and that they took pride in their professionalism. That could be used to my advantage.

His halting English clearly bespoke his limited ability to employ the guard’s language. He tried to explain what he had to do but his English was so poor, that he mostly pantomimed. Dimitri emptied one crate of innocent looking components to illustrate his required function. Picking up the main bomb assembly component, he tried to put it into the Marine guard’s hand. ‘To avoid an inspection, offer to submit to one first’. As Dimitri expected, the guard preferred to usher the worker into the room, rather than to conduct a further look. I suspected he wouldn’t want to touch it and risk his white gloves.

Shiva’s Messenger had assembled the bomb components in less than one hour. Smiling and nodding at the guard, he walked down the hallway to the next room. Entry to this room was even easier. The two guards with the Beretta Marine issue pistols in their holsters had watched the maintenance man going into the first room. They allowed him to pass into this one too. He installed the second device then cleaned up his mess and removed all of the used parts.

On exiting from the second room, clumsy Dimitri accidentally turned sideways in the doorframe to get the two crates out the door. As he did so, the hammer in his belt hit the shiny catch plate on the doorframe. The heavy tool bent and marred the metal. Apologizing profusely in Russian, he hurried off to get a replacement piece and had the latch mechanism almost as good as new within the hour.

“I have fabulous news,” back home after his shift, Dimitri’s face had a big grin, “the volatile appliances are installed.” Not only had he successfully installed both devices, he had also solved another problem that had weighed on his mind. There were still a few more things to do, but the second hardest task was done.

“Bravo!” Carl saluted his wine. “Now you just need a gun.”

“I already found the perfect weapon and it’s going to be right where I need it.” Dimitri couldn’t help laughing at Carl’s return tight-mouthed glare. “Did I plunge a needle into an un-slaked curiosity?”

“Did you?” Hamster Man lied unconvincingly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You know, there’s one other reason why I can’t tell you more. If it doesn’t work, I don’t think I could stand looking down from the afterlife, and hearing you tell your grandkids about me. ‘He was a nice guy—but what a stupid plan’.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. I’ve got no kids and you don’t get grandchildren without them.”

“You’re a young enough guy still.” Dimitri teased. “That woman at the bar in Odessa was looking at your butt.”

“Yah!” Carl chortled. “Only to look clear around mine to ogle at yours.” Still he wasn’t completely positive about that. Hers was the kind of smile showing some latent interest.

“Now that you’ve mentioned it.” The young man scrutinized his older friend. “There is far less than an axe handle’s span across a previously ample backside.”

“I’ve been working out every day.” Eckert exulted internally at the opportunity to brag about this. With Dimitri doing the extra duty as well as his preparations, he’d been so bagged out that he came home for a bite and a sleep. “I’ve lost thirty pounds.”

“That’s too much and too fast.” The assassin suddenly worried about an onset of possible medical problems.

“I don’t think it is because I feel healthier than I ever did.”

“You’re still eating?” The boss didn’t recall his employee having skipped dinners. It was one of their infrequent times together lately.

“Only healthy stuff,” Carl then added to appease, “and no pills or fad stuff.”

“What inspired the change?” Dimitri nodded approvingly at the fairly sleek new Hamster Man.

“Nothing really. I was slightly angry at myself on the bus to Chicago. Then I started walking around Budapest and almost as an afterthought I went to a gym—and then kept going.”

“Muscles burn fat.” Dimitri stated three simple words that could replace hundreds of weight-loss techniques.

“Proper nutrition helps but you eat healthy and so I did too. A guy at a gym told me it’s better to have six small meals than three bigger ones so I’ve been doing that too. All seems to be working.”

“Even with my long days I should’ve noticed your drastic body transformation.”

“Well,” Carl Eckert grew suddenly sheepish, “my clothes looked largely the same even though my pants were getting baggy as a skater-boy’s. I—sort of—went shopping again today.”

“You’ll get no lip on this. Better money was never spent.”

“So,” Hamster Man clapped his hands, ‘I’m in shape to help out now with all the rest. What are we up to?”

“Nice try.” Dimitri chuckled at the obvious bid for information.

…

“The locals here are fantastic people,” Two days later, Carl tried a different tactic. “I can’t believe how friendly and helpful they are to strangers. Today, I was looking for a tattoo shop. I asked the owner of an Internet café, for me directions. He tried to explain, but I was getting a bit confused. This guy dropped what he was doing to walk me six blocks out of his way and then spent another 15 minutes translating my instructions, to the tattoo artist. Where do you find people like that anywhere else in the world?”

“Yes, they are pretty special here.” Dimitri paused slightly and looked questioningly, “you needed a tattooist?”

“I did but I found one.” Carl pretended the tattoo wasn’t the whole point in his scheme to gain privileged knowledge. His hope was to end in a mutual exchange of curiosity satisfaction. “And the girls are something else here as well! I’ve figured out part of what makes Ukrainian women so extraordinary. I see a female near a TV, and it’s invariably tuned to the fashion channel. When a lady is looking at a magazine, sure enough, it’s about style. I’ve never paid any attention to vogue but they sure do and it shows.”

“The streets of Kiev are the catwalks of future haute couture models.” Dimitri refused to nibble further at the tattoo. If that is a bargaining ploy, I’ll bet Hamster Man would be willful enough to actually get himself inked.

…

Inadvertently adding another tinder log to Carl’s inquisitiveness inferno, Dimitri returned the next day and could barely lift his fork to his mouth. After dinner, he sat back in the chair and rested his arms without even touching his drink. He emptied the freezer into an ice bag, to cool and soothe his strained biceps and shoulders.

“Is everything okay?” Eckert knew he would regret asking.

“Perfect, it was just a day of preparing for trench warfare.”

Carl tried hard not to growl. The answers he got always stoked instead of quenching.

…

“Try to relax.” Nick Taylor murmured encouraging words as he and Larry awaited the president’s signature tune. “I’ve got snipers on buildings that can’t even see the stage, just to watch the ones that can and helicopters are monitoring all. There’s not a soul in any building that isn’t one of ours. The audience looks ten percent as large as it really is because that many agents are on patrol. A bulldog with a spiked collar couldn’t get near to bark within earshot.“

That’s is how a President of the United States should be protected,” Weeds quipped, with a smile that was far from genuine.

“You’re safe here. Now get out there and sing.” The first bars of ‘Hail to the Chief’ had begun and Nick watched his old buddy move like an automaton. Under his breath, the words Brutus offered were different. “The overkill here would’ve chased Shiva away even if this was his plan. In Kiev, Larry’s fly is unzipped. The same dog with a collar rigged like a suicide terrorist’s vest could walk up and cock his leg onto the president’s shiny patent leather shoes.”

“Americans one and all,” President Weeds began his speech. He scanned the sea of faces in the audience and each set of eyes seemed as dead as Tom Albertson’s were. Larry read straight off the teleprompter, as he had lacked the concentration to memorize any of it ahead of time. On each breath or pause, he looked around nervously and felt crosshairs zeroing on his forehead.

“A terrorist cannot hope to sway the administration of the United States.” Weeds recited the words, but couldn’t manage to put his usual inflections and personality into the delivery. He finished in only 22 minutes: it was timed for 26.

…

“For all of his bold words, that speech was pretty flat,” Carl commented after the televised coverage. It had also been a little difficult to understand with a translator doing a Ukrainian voice over.

“I bet he’s exactly where I want him,” Dimitri noted sagely, “but find out within the next 36 to 48 hours, one way or another.”

“Whatever happens in the next two days, I have to tell you this right now,” Carl became serious, “I wouldn’t have missed this time since Spokane, for the world. If my life ended today, I’d die happy. If you wanted me to strap TNT to my body and give that SOB a big wet kiss on the lips, before pulling the rip cord: I’d do it.”

“I can’t ask you to do it.” Dimitri couldn’t resist the role of being an Ernest Payne this time. “That’s my job.”

“I can’t tell if you’re serious or kidding anymore.” Carl Eckert shook a stern warning finger. “If you get yourself killed, how am I going to find out what you’ve been doing? I’ll jump in front of a street trolley and then kick your soul’s skinny butt in the afterlife.”

…

Many of the Secret Service and FBI agents caught flights headed for postponed duties in Kiev. Unfortunately, some were further delayed by a Boeing 747 having a mid-air mechanical fault that forced a return to Washington: the segment resumed nine hours later. An inexplicably late departure of another aircraft bearing mostly government officials missed the onward connection from Frankfurt by three hours. It was unusually poor service from the Stryker Group controlled airline.

…

Dimitri left the shared flat to place a call using one of the cell phone entrepreneurs who operated near Freedom Square. They were untraceable and could better navigate the morass of the Ukraine phone system where dialing even a local number could take 20 digits. He first inquired about the call in English and when the vendor shrugged, Dimitri switched to Russian and engaged his services. He phoned a number that should have rang in Akron, Ohio but that sounded in Washington D.C. instead.

…

“America is the land of the free and the home of the brave. It’s not some little banana belt dictatorship.” With a twist of the taps, Congresswoman Judith Forester stanched the faucets and eyed the thin filaments of steam dancing on the water. “This is what the despot ordered though.”

Attired now only in a terry robe, she had earlier attended the president’s address in Washington. She wasn’t very impressed with either the things he had to say or the draconian security measures just to get there. The congresswoman had splurged in taking this Jacuzzi suite because watching certain politicians invariably made her feel like she needed a bath immediately afterwards.

“Fear was an omnipresent stink and I even fanned my nostrils.” Larry’s pomp-and-drip had stressed how no terrorist criminal could sway the presidency but it was like viewing a dubbed foreign movie, the sound didn’t match the lip movement. The bravado in his words, definitely didn’t harmonize with the martial law around the podium. “His verbal challenge to Shiva’s Messenger was cast tentatively in the form of frilly pink gauntlet.”

“Hello?” Judith Forrester had just poured a glass of red wine and let slip her dressing gown, when her cell phone sounded.

“Judith.” He left a long pause to allow her to place his voice. “Do you know who this is?”

“Yes.” The congresswoman didn’t dare say his name. “I never expected to hear your voice again. Now, I don’t know what to say.”

“I called to impose on your wisdom, for one more opinion.”

“Would I get to pose a query also?” She covered the receiver and whispered. “I’m naked and talking to Allen!” A tingle ran the length of her nude body as she recalled the racy but supportive discussion that she’d only recently interpreted.

“I have to hear it before I decide if I can answer. Remember that we are on a cell phone when you ask.” Shiva’s Messenger had specifically called on a non-secure appliance to avoid having to field some of the ultra-sensitive issues.

“Ask your question,” Judith took a long swig of wine both to wet her tongue and to brace, “but it has to be a yes or no only.”

“If I were to consider shifting my motivation, to the least likely, could I expect success, considering the current climate?”

There was an extremely long pause where the only sound was Judith taking a deep breath. The question was vague but she was more than sharp enough to interpret correctly. Attempting to force the administration to reduce corruption or sway any decision was by far the most irreconcilable rational. The question was a lot easier to figure out than an answer might be.

Feeling a chill in her unclothed state, Judith took the opportunity of her contemplation, to ease into the enveloping glove of hot water.

Her opinions had already been used, as the final nod on life terminating decisions. Unwittingly, her say in Akron killed three men, but saved the president. Now, she held the mortality of Larry Weeds in her balance and it must be an informed decision.

“No.” She had cleverly insisted on a one-word answer but had outsmarted herself and couldn’t stick to it. “Wait—before today, I would have said no. Now, maybe it’s yes. You know that his isn’t the final judgment, and those above will say no. Without them, yes.”

“I’ve never heard you waffle before. His voice held humor. “I’ll bet you’re blushing scarlet right now.”

“I haven’t been asked such a fatal question before. Which of my dithering replies did you just accept?”

“The correct one.” He ducked the issue.

“That most improbable of reasons is a hopeless fantasy.” Judith suspected he had changed his cryptography codes again because she still couldn’t read him.

“If you believe it’s unattainable, then your wavering rejoinders are just an attempt to save a man who might be already dead.” He had seen her do that in Akron. “Please, pose your return question.”

“What is your stance on capital punishment?” Judith didn’t have to hesitate a fraction of an instant before deciding.

“Where did that come from?” Apparently he couldn’t figure her out either. “I expected you to mine along a motivational vein.”

“Why buy what’s already bequeathed to me? When you do, whatever you intend, I’ll figure it out. Right now, you hold a unique perspective on a subject that’s important to me. If you’re killed, I will lose the chance of ever knowing.”

“I’m opposed to capital punishment: just as you are.”

“That opinion is contradictory to your profession.”

“No it’s not. I make decisions based on my own knowledge and I act on them according to my morality. When the law undertakes a murder, it’s mandated on a conspiracy between the judge, jury, prosecutor, witnesses and even the governor. Any participant with an ulterior design pollutes the purity. Life and death, is an either/or state. There is no grey area and there must be no ambiguity.”

“The government isn’t qualified to kill, but you are?”

“Change the punctuation and that answers itself.”

“You’re diluting your clarity, by conspiring with me now.”

“You’re not responsible. I value your insight but I conduct my own premeditation. I took your answer, now it’s mine.”

That felt like an absolution so she didn’t have to feel guilty about condemning a man to death. The flood of warmth she felt wasn’t completely from her current emersion in liquid. She recalled a handsome young man proposing a tryst. Judith took a deep breath. “Since I’ve already established my indecisiveness, I might be reconsidering my response to a previous risqué proposition.”

“You nasty cougar,” his delighted laugh preceded his playfully lowered voice, “you’re having a phone fling with me.”

“Maybe I am,” Her voice was sultry as in the afterglow of passion, “but it’s just flirting in the verge of nightmare and reality.”

“I’m picturing you in your tub.” The connection was of sufficient quality to hear small splashes.
“Much as I would love to help you scrub that filthy mind of yours, I have work to do. Goodbye.”

Placing the phone aside, Judith Forrester slid further down into the warm bathtub. She placed her fingers to her lips and drew a breath through them, as if through a lit cigarette. “He’s ready to kill this time and we’re going to be stuck with the vice-president.”

…

Air Force One lifted off smoothly from Washington D.C. This trip was a very big international event. An American President hadn’t personally visited the Ukraine for a long time. The media gave it big coverage, especially since Larry Weeds was himself under a death threat from a flamboyant scofflaw, who had deliberately missed his attempted assassinations twice already. The name of Shiva’s Messenger was going to hover in the air like an after hum from a sharply gonged bell, until he was either caught or successful. The country watched with checked breath and the news networks in the U.S. were capitalizing on the high public drama.

…

“Tomorrow I won’t change a bulb, I’ll switch off a life.” Dimitri returned to the apartment he shared with his friend and employee. He had worked his final maintenance shift. The hotel would be busier than any other day, as the whole weight of the presidential entourage would invade. “It’ll be my turn on the grassy knoll.”

“Take a walk with me, boss.” They descended the stairs to street level. Dimitri had been too busy to explore but Carl knew the Kiev streets. Hamster Man steered and they walked in silence.

“Where are we going?” Dimitri asked when they had aimlessly strolled for almost a half hour without arriving anywhere.

“John,” Carl forced himself to use the name to draw the boy into his true persona, “we’re just walking. Tomorrow you’ll do what you must do. Tonight, you’re my friend and I’m here for you.”

“I’m afraid.” John felt a chill and he shuddered. The night was mild but it was still only just past the spring. “I’ve come so far and done so much but now I’ll have to be in closer.”

“I have faith in you.” Carl put his arm around John’s shoulders. “You won’t tell me what you’re doing until it is done but that doesn’t matter to me anymore. The only thing I care about is making sure you are ready in here.” Eckert reached around with his other hand and placed the flat of his palm against the boy’s heart.

“Less than one year ago I killed my father.” John confessed something that Carl already knew. “I had all of his years of training but then suddenly I was alone. Even when my father had been away before, I was by myself but I was never alone because he gave structure to my life.”

“You’ve done really well and I’m sure he’d be proud.”

“Yes, I’ve had to learn and grow.” John felt good being here with the ex-CIA man. The friendly arm felt supportive and warm on his shoulders. “I still carry my father’s ghost with me. His words have been in my mind, giving me advice and encouragement. I’ve been on the path he set before me and it’s like he’s still here.”

“Are you worried that after tomorrow he’ll be gone because you’ll have done what he asked?” Eckert believed that he could see what the boy was thinking. It was difficult to think of John as a boy, because of the things he had accomplished so far in his short life: yet there it was. Right now Carl didn’t see the Shiva’s Messenger that had shaken the United States Presidency, or been the scourge across Canada. This was just a human boy that was facing the most momentous day of his life and missing his dad.

“He didn’t set out for me what I was supposed to do next.” John replied after a moment. “I don’t know if he will stay with me.”

“I don’t know that either, son.” Carl used the word intentionally in hopes of giving him a sense of family that he seemed to need. “I’ll still be here though.”

John didn’t reply, but Carl felt that he had helped. He gave him some time to be with his thoughts. They had come to a bench near a small fountain, under a bust of someone who must have been important for something. There were many monuments to people here. The city was older than the ones in America and the history pervaded into the statues and even the streets.

American cities would have to feel some sorrows before they could hope to match the same majesty. Probably, they would never come close. Those cities were mostly carbon copies of each other, turned out on a mimeograph, with even the same chain restaurants. Only a few places had been touched by sadness worth denoting. One of those was Dealey Plaza in Dallas, Texas.

Suddenly Carl had a thought. He closed his eyes and attempted it. It worked even here, halfway around the world.

“My father died in an industrial accident when I was twelve.” Carl now felt a deeper confidence in both himself and his young friend. “It happened in the small town where I was born. It affected me deeply but all through my life, it gave me strength in a strange way. After the funeral, the company sought to give us closure by taking the family to the place where the death happened. I recall that more vividly than I remember the internment. He had been dedicated to his family and this was where he earned our living. His presence there was strong because it was where he had been the most alive.

“Ever since that day, whenever I was feeling lost or afraid, I tried to feel joined to that place through the asphalt of the streets and it helped. When I moved away from my hometown, I had to find a new method. I visualize the globe of the earth, and imagine I’m standing on it. Right now, we’re in Kiev and I see myself here with my feet connected to the earth. I then conceptualize the point where I knew my father was most alive and I try to feel a flow between. I feel him there and he’s with me.”

John closed his eyes and he tried. In his mind, he saw his home in Canada and where he was now in Ukraine. He attempted to make the connection. There was no power as Carl described. “It’s not working for me. I can see the grave where I buried his body but there is no feeling of union.”

“That’s where he lived with you and where he died.” Carl offered. “Where would he have been the most alive?”

“Dallas.” The answer came quickly. “He told me that ‘nothing in the world would set me free more than killing a president’.” John closed his eyes and found Dallas on the globe. He traced the route and found the link. His father’s ghost was aware and focused on his task. Some power had remained even after over 40 years. “I’ve never seen Dealey Plaza in person. Yet I can feel his feet standing behind the slated fence, on top of the grassy knoll. My father’s heartbeat is pounding in my chest.”

Hamster Man just smiled. He’d never felt a response to his act quite as strongly as John just described. However, the young man did have some quirky ways.

“I’m still afraid but I can face it. I can now do what I have to do.”

“You’re a complex guy sometimes. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

“It’s got me this far.” He pulled Carl to a stop, as they reached the gate into their apartment’s courtyard. Looking quickly up and down the street to ensure no one was about, he turned and held his friend’s gaze. “One more thing.” He handed over a small brass key and told him where a safe deposit box was located. “I won’t be injured or captured tomorrow. My mission will be successful or I’ll be dead. If I don’t return, then I want you to take the money. There is one thing I want you to do with it.”

“Finish the job.” Hamster Man nodded grimly.

“No!” John was quick to respond. “I want you to make 100 copies of the Shiva File and send one to each major network and newspaper, in one mass mailing. Then use the rest to be homeless again on a nice beach in Thailand. I know a man in Canada that’ll set you up with ID to help you stay invisible.”

“You’re just saying that to protect me,” Carl observed with the same grim determination. “I’m as committed as you are. I’ll suicide bomb Larry Weeds to complete your quest.”

“No! Your justifications couldn’t be the same as mine. It’d be an act of terror and it would diminish you. It would reduce the things I’ve done to a level of villainy. Sending the file is enough. It will tell the world why I tried and they can decide for themselves.”

Carl looked deeply at him for a long moment and saw that he was sincere. “Alright, boss. I promise I’ll do as you ask.”

“Good.” John laughed slightly to break the somber pall. “I think I would actually enjoy watching you telling your progeny about me. Gather up all 50 half-Thai grandkids all at once and thrill them with the tale of Hamster Man and the Cobra Boy’.”[/private_Chevron]

…

“Good morning Dimitri.” He pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt to go for a long run through Kiev. What a beautiful city: I wish I could run naked. Stopping on the crest of the Dneipr River bank, he performed stretching exercises to limber up his supple muscles. Flexing his biceps, he was pleased that there was no longer any pain from his heavy exertion.

“Don’t spend all day glued to the TV.” Dimitri doubted that his employee would follow instructions. “You’re a Russian soap-aholic.”

“I only watch the news.” Carl fibbed: he also flipped often to the fashion channel too. Eckert really wished he could think of more to say but he didn’t want to risk casting the fatal doubt.

Chapter 22 of Shiva’s Messenger

The Stairs of the Distorted Stares

Along his coach ride, Carl found new situations to curse in each passing segment. He was physically too big in all three dimensions to sit in bus seats. His aching knees were cramped into a space that was too small and they pressed against the seat in front. The vehicle was filled to capacity and there was no room to unbend his legs. That was still only the first hop.

“I might’ve experienced a more luxurious seating jammed in the trunk of the car.” Eckert’s pained knee joints popped in protest as he descended the three steps to the curb. He walked until fully stretched and limbered for the following phase. Carl loitered as the nearly full passenger load was onboard, to relish each extra second. That left him one seat up from the furthest back row.

Here, the vision of the luggage compartment of a mid-sized car also seemed pleasurable. In shocking contrast, Carl imagined the ease that his employer would be voyaging. With the boy’s supple young body, he could have been folded up into a suitcase, found it conducive to a nice nap and emerged ready to run up behind a stretched limo.

The formed vision of that descriptive thought included Hamster Man watching the jogging assassin from a tailgate rumble seat. Carl’s mind’s eye even had difficulty focusing to see the gunshot into the passenger window for all his bouncing on the rough road. A seat behind the rear wheels, as was his current spot on the bus, maximized even small highway lumps. The large humps had his ample butt feeling like the skimpy cushion was a trampoline. Shiva’s playful puppy would’ve likely had fun with that too and engaged in acrobatics.

“Youth is wasted on the young because the aged need it more.” Carl remarked as the jarring had his belly fat jiggling like a bowl of jelly on a spin dryer doing a load of track shoes. Both of Eckert’s hands steadied the bulk and he didn’t like what they held. He wasn’t built like this back when his dreams felt attainable. “I should’ve bought a stair-master and climbed it whenever James Bond ran his treadmill.”

“The flight shows full,” the ticketing agent at O’Hare smiled encouragingly, “but you’ll be in first standby so you’ll be okay.”

“How is it in business class?” The recently homeless man saw a puzzled expression form on the woman’s face.

“There’s still some seats available.” She consulted her screen but he didn’t even look employed, much less a business executive.

“I’ll take it.” Eckert peeled cash from a roll nearly the size of a toilet paper tube. That was just what was in his pocket: the wads in his suitcase were even larger. While his employer’s payroll was tight fisted, the expense account was far more than just generous.

“The bus was as cruel as keeping a fat hamster in a habitat designed for a gerbil.” As the plane lifted off, Carl Eckert squirmed into his roomy seat like a rodent getting comfortable in shavings. He could stretch the standby to unavailable if his travel claim was questioned.

“Damn!” He giggled with glee. “I love my new job!”

…

[private_Chevron]Having swapped the Idaho rental that he had used in Spokane, Alex drove his Lexus easily back into Canada. His Calgary mailbox contained one rather bulky envelope from Toronto. He continued to his father’s mini-storage unit where he needed to spend some time carefully crafting some special items to pack into his suitcase. ‘It’s better to have more than you need with you than to suffer the lack later’. He tucked a set of toiletries into his kit.

“Ah good,” Alex drove a pick-up truck into the same mechanics yard where he left the Akron rental for stripping, “you’ve finished.” They hoisted the transmission and engine into the leased flatbed truck bed and connected the stripped car body to a trailer hitch.

A scrap metal dealer was more than happy to take the large parts and a volunteer fire department in a bedroom community near the city was pleased at the donation of a useless car body. The effort took an extra day but Alex was glad to spend it. The rental car from Akron deserved a more honorable final rest than over a cliff or in a lake somewhere. What could be more glorious for a car than serving as practice for emergency services vehicle extrication tools?

The messenger looked at the first of his new passports and then glanced at his rearview mirror.

“Hello, Gunter Klein.” He was a twenty-one-year-old resident of Frankfurt. Sam had placed the date of issue at about six months ago and taken the time to include a stamp in the passport to show his entry into Canada at Toronto Pierson Airport two weeks previously. Levi’s work was expensive but it was worth every dollar.

Every other airline flight he had ever taken had been with his father. It felt strange going on one without him. The procedures for security and the computerized ticketing made travel by air just about the least desirable method for someone in John’s line of work. Gunter on the other hand, was able to breeze through as if he had done it a hundred times.

“Did you pack your own suitcases?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Has your luggage ever left your sight?”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“Thank you, sir. Have a pleasant flight.”

His trip wasn’t going to be as fast as Carl’s. There was too much risk going through airport screening. He would clear customs only once at an airport. The rest would be by less scrutinized border crossings. From Calgary, that gave him a choice of only several initial destinations, so Gunter chose to fly to his hometown.

The direct flight from Calgary lifted off the runway and as soon as the plane cleared the ground, the man in the obvious toupee turned to say “hello” with a heavy French-Canadian accent.

“Bonjour,” Gunter answered a greeting to give his business class seatmate the opportunity to converse in either language.

“Raoul Cote.” Though slightly awkward to shake hands with someone seated right beside, the man offered his hand.

“What takes you to Frankfurt?” Gunter asked.

“Uh,” though an innocuous opening to small talk, the answer seemed difficult to spit past a full set of dentures, “just a vacation.”

“All by yourself? How about your wife?” Gunter found it hard to tell if there was a wedding band because each finger of both hands was bedecked with rings. The coffee-brown stains between index and pointer fingers also foretold of a long anxious flight.

“Just going through divorce number-three.” Raoul puffed up like it deserved a medal of military distinction. “I owe myself a treat.”

Over the next several hours, having as many drinks as necessary to stave off the urge to sneak a smoke in the lavatory, Raoul poured out his life story to the virtual stranger. Belted to a seat next to someone, in a confined aircraft cabin tends to reduce personal barriers. The need to make conversation over the extended time of a transoceanic flight can cause a person under the influence of alcohol, to relate anecdotes that they otherwise wouldn’t. Of course, when the fellow traveler is quite sober and nudging the discussion, who knows where it can lead.

Almost uneducated, young Raoul Cote had left a large family in Quebec to seek his fortune in the wilds of British Columbia. Working very hard in the logging industry as a young man, he had purchased his first piece of equipment and built up his company from there. Wife number one produced three dysfunctional kids, who never saw their dad for more than one day in 30. Raoul’s fondest memory of this time, seemed to be in bragging about how much alimony and child support he’d been able to produce.

“You’re truly a self-made man.” Gunter’s mind saw it differently than his mouth did. The payments are a status symbol. It’s a way to grind into his ex-wife’s face, how much money she missed out on, by his divorcing her before really hitting his financial stride. The kids suspect he looks like some long-dead Canadian politician, because all they ever see is the cash he sends. “I’m impressed by all of your successes.”

His real fortune came during the period of active Indian land claims and environmental protesting. Forest companies wanted to log a precious old-growth forest in disputed territory. The outcry brought ecological activists and treaty-claimant natives out to oppose. Most logging contractors refused to cross the lines but he persevered. Raoul’s trucks had to push people out of the way. Spiked trees injured his fallers but with stumpage rates at a hazard premium, the money rolled in.

“She had a rack out to here!” Spouse number two was a trophy, 20 years his junior and platinum blond. Raoul pantomimed, with cupped hands extended like scooping the cash pot off a poker table.

“Wow, those are big hooters. I have to say, I really envy your sex-life as you so vividly describe it.” He married a pair of breasts, instead of a woman. Gunter listened how the spark had died after she caught him banging a teenaged hitchhiker. Luckily, he had a signed prenuptial deal.

After selling his business for a windfall profit, Raoul bought a large motel with gas bar and restaurant. More wealth rolled in. Legal companion three was 18 to his 55 but in between luring his waitresses and housekeeping staff into trysts in vacant hotel rooms, the goat was able to knock-up his young wife.

“Your life story would make a bestselling novel.” Gunter saw the latest minor character in the book as neglected child number four. He supposed an absent male parent to be actually better than having an emotionless letch for a role model.

“The sleazy bitch had an affair and shacked-up with her new boyfriend.” Raoul spit the same venom he used to spur his lawyer into fighting dirty to ensure his latest wife and child would get as little as possible in maintenance payments.

“Her foolish loss is the gain of the rest of the women that are ripe for conquest.” Gunter stroked the ego that needed revenge, for her seeking a happy life with an attentive and faithful husband. It hurt the most that she left him and not the other way around. Her child has his genes but that’s about all he’ll get from Raoul.

Having sold his latest venture, for another handsome gain, Raoul was flush with cash and ready to pamper his prurience with the finest of sex-tourism in the underprivileged areas of the globe.

“So where’ve you been and what’ve you done?” Showing the proper awe of the great man’s grand exploits, Gunter feigned a lascivious interest in hearing all of the tasty details.

“Central America so far,” Raoul almost drooled at the recall, “even underage girls are willing to go, for only about nine dollars.”

“Wow, that must be great!” Gunter augmented his assumed persona, with a marked predilection for pay-4-play women. “Why would you ever leave a man’s paradise like that, to come here?”

“I like a variety and I’ve heard the Czech Republic is the sex capitol of Europe. I’m in Frankfurt briefly and then on to Prague.”

“What an amazing coincidence. So am I.”

…

As the aircraft banked around for the final runway approach, Hamster Man’s face was plastered against the Plexiglas window to examine the old capital. He was in love with Budapest before the Boeing 767’s main dolly wheels even touched the tarmac.

“I was meant for this.” It was long overdue and it required him to switch teams but now he was here. James Bond, well Ian Fleming, had been to Budapest often but it was Carl’s first visit to a European city. Even 007 had to start somewhere.

The room was technically a superior but to Carl anything that was grander to a park bench rated at least 3-stars. That made this one a full world class with its double bed—which was two singles together, each half possessing it’s own separate duvet. It didn’t have box springs or even a coil mattress but rather futon things that he found were both more comfortable and better for his back. The mini-bar held a selection of beverages and he took out what he assumed was just a normal bottle of water.

“Whoa!” When he snapped off the cap, it had more fizz than a soda pop. He wore half the bottle onto his pants before he could get it over to the sink. “Oh well, losing some just makes the rest of it taste better.”

The small bathroom took even more getting used to. The toilet bowl had an unusual shape that left all of the nasty stuff in plain sight. There it had remained, ominously, until Carl figured out that to flush he needed to lift the decorative knob on the top of the tank. Adjacent to the toilet was a butt washer bidet that he assumed only women had the plumbing to require—but it was fun to use anyways. The sliding door into the round shower stall was so narrow that Carl had to turn sideways to fit his shoulders in. There was the electrical outlet that his razor didn’t fit. In short, the room was perfect.

“There’s no way that I can nap yet.” The all-night flight had landed during the midmorning and Eckert should’ve been tired. With a wonderful friendly smile, the very cute hotel clerk explained on a map where to find a laptop computer with his name on it could be found. That was a legitimate business expense. His employer could amortize it and depreciate it off of the company’s taxes.

When Shiva’s Messenger had given Carl the cash, it seemed like an awful lot of money. It was substantially more than he’d been able to declare when he went through customs. He had asked how frugally he should spend. The answer was “don’t worry about it.” That boded well at least for the fringe benefits of this work. The retirement package was iffy but the rest was excellent. Even his yearly salary, currently pegged at zero, was ideal.

The work for no pay arrangement had begun in the spirit of a jest and had lingered because there was no reason to change it. The employer simply picked up all tabs and gave enough to cover in his absence. Where would Carl stuff the excess, in a bank? Other squirrels might be saving up nuts but Eckert had done that once and where had it got him? The trove to tide him through winter was in the hollow tree of an investment account but by presidential decree, a death snare encircled the hole leading into it.

…

The flight into Frankfurt punched a hole into a drizzly morning. The genial fellow travelers split up to snooze and met up later at the Bahnhof. While at the train station, they bought first-class tickets to Prague on an intercity express.

“The departure leaves us time for me to show you some of the sin-city we have right here in Frankfurt, it’s very close by.”

“Lead on.” Raoul smiled at his good fortune, in having met a knowledgeable local to guide him to the prime material.

The hometown native led the way. Gunter had arisen early to pre-scout a prostitution area near the main rail terminal. In Versace jeans and leather jacket from his favorite Calgary men’s wear shop, Gunter looked the role. The affluent young European man glanced at Raoul swaggering along wearing sagging-butt slacks. The loud-patterned silk shirt had buttons undone to showoff enough gold chains to stock a mall kiosk. Is he dressed-to-the-nines and ready to thrill—or just attired to thrall the nines?

“Just this way.” They traversed several tunnels under downtown intersections that were lined with vendors. What is that incredible smell? Mushrooms, fried in butter! Neon signs may draw some but truly devastating advertising targets tempts the senses that evoke salivation.

“A feast fit for the loins.” Gunter indicated a mist-dampened street reflecting neon and taillights even in the grey day to make it appear as the pervert’s candy land—that it was.

Lining both sides of several city blocks and adjoining streets, the government owned Sexo hotels provided a workplace for the ladies of the night. Bright signs and placards hawked an assortment of offerings that included peepshows and triple-x movies.

“It’s a business to do pleasure.” It wasn’t original but accuracy made up for the lack. Raoul sucked his intestines into his chest cavity to bolster his manly physique and entered the first building with a self-important strut. A steady river of Johns trudged up the stairs on the right passing spent ones descending on the left. The two punters joined the up-surging swell to the first floor of rooms.

“It’s a screw factory.” Raoul noted that along the hallway some doors were open and men stopped to consider the delectability of the courtesan within. Enterprising hookers beckoned enticingly at the doorframes but the more timid girls sat listlessly biding time on sagging twin-sized beds. “It’s just a service pit where a man’s part has a lube and an oil change.”

“This is all that’s available close enough to the Bahnhof.” Gunter supposed that presented a dilemma for Raoul’s ego. He wanted the very best girl but she also should be unattainable by others. Here he would just be a nameless tick the girl marked on her tally. “We can try the next level up.”

They climbed another flight. Strolling, as in a supermarket meat aisle, Cote ogled for a prime morsel but found none sufficiently tempting. Again they ascended only to repeat. By the time they reached the sixth floor, his gut had dropped back out of his ribcage and he was panting. These narrow stairs were probably the most concerted physical exercise he had, other than sex, in a decade.

“There’s no really fresh girl here.” Raoul wheezed his words past a lifetime’s worth of caked tobacco tar lining his lungs.

“We can check the pickings in another building.” The young guide didn’t add the obvious fact that these were legal bordellos. It wouldn’t satiate any lust for an underage sex partner.

In the next multi-story whore house, Raoul had deduced that he must lower his standards to save himself another trek to the summit. He settled for a stacked strumpet on the first floor. Gunter dickered the amount, as the girl in her twenties lacked the suitable linguistics.

“Let’s meet after, in the bar across the way.” Gunter rolled his eyes back along the corridor. “I know what I intend to do.”

“May I pay her for you, as a gift for your assistance?” The older man extracted a wallet stuffed with bills and handed over a fistful. Raoul entered the room with the bored-looking hooker.

“I’ve already been tantalized beyond my will to resist—but not by anything in this building.” The young man quickly departed and raced back to where he smelled the succulent mushrooms.

While enjoying his treat, Gunter compared this prostitution, to the bars in Windsor. The women here didn’t seem to be mistreated and run by the state, they didn’t face legal problems either. The oldest profession would doubtlessly survive any laws ever enacted against it because basic male needs had to be satisfied somehow. The system in Frankfurt made allowance for human nature and derived government revenue from the sex trade, while also keeping it regulated and relatively safe for all the participants.

“Was your German mädchen noteworthy?” Gunter had been gone less than 20 minutes but the man that regaled of his legendary stamina, was already nursing a half-empty beer.

“Well—,” the whoremonger near his sixties embellished an encounter of toe-curling pleasure, with the girl screaming for more.

“We better go catch our train.” Gunter paraphrased the described romp to a much briefer version. She neglected removing her pantyhose but loudly demanded a large tip anyways?

…

“My arms are quickly becoming envious of my legs.” Walking countless miles along the old city streets, he intimately knew the bridge over the Danube. It wasn’t the slow treads of a homeless man either. Carl had a lifetime of sightseeing to accomplish plus a job to do. He had ascended and descended the escarpments of the castled Buda side of the river a few times, both on foot and by the scenic little tram. He felt the tighter muscles in his thighs and as he had spotted a gym near the hotel, Eckert decided to visit. “Pushing some weights might actually feel pretty good.”

“I wasn’t just hired only for my spectacular looks and sparkling personality.” After the workout, Carl ordered a latté from his favorite riverside café. They served such great coffee he didn’t even need to spike it with sugar. Hamster Man opened his laptop, as this was also an Internet hotspot. “I brought marketable skills with me.”

He didn’t have a job description either, so he had to craft one. To start, Carl knew filing. That skill suffers from an underestimated value. There wasn’t much point in having good information, unless you could also retrieve it. The system he used at the CIA had flaws, but the agency wouldn’t permit any modifications. The constrictions were now gone and Carl could use whatever he wanted.

“My packrat role at the CIA and cutting-the-cheese in the White House, were the perfect background.” On the subject of obtaining knowledge and information to insert into a filing system, Carl had acquired skills he’d never been able to employ, until now. Reading reports, with bibliographies, it would be impossible not to gain an exceptional insight. The ambiance of a European bistro behooved comparison as an improvement from his office in Langley.

“It’s like James Bond’s habitat only so much bigger.” Using the Shiva File as his initial reference point, Hamster Man set to work. He tracked the money trails and corporate share connections as they branched out. Carl charted out where military engagements generated the major contracts: that showed the impetus of industry, kicking the spurs into the minor conflicts. “My Oval Office odor was pine-fresh next to some of the smells wafting around the Pentagon.”

When sorted and displayed in Carl’s referencing system, one thing stood out paramount proud. “Everyone in the Weeds family needs two walk-in closets. One for clothes and another reserved for the skeletons.”

“Damn!” The ex-government functionary told himself for the umpteenth time. “I love my new job!”

Carl wouldn’t take his old life back if President Weeds offered it on a golden serving dish. It’d be better to see Larry’s head on the platter. Instead of an apple in the mouth, a bitten-off hand that feeds him would be more appropriate.

…

Precisely to the second, the arrival/departure number panels flipped like a slight-of-hand card trick and simultaneously the train to Prague accelerated swiftly, but smoothly as velvet. Moments later, they were at maximum city speed but soon the train would be out into the countryside and clipping along.

“I found that the girls in Frankfurt were a bit long-in-the-tooth. I hope we can find younger ones in the Czech Republic.” In a private compartment that he shared only with his Germanic friend, Raoul settled back on the comfortable bench seat. “Was your afternoon dish—tasty?”

“Delicious.” How am I going to make an order of sautéed mushrooms sound like a sex romp? He held both hands out like holding a grapefruit in each. “The caps were round and ripe and each had a little brown stem poking out, that was mouth-wateringly firm.” –with a dash of garlic. Gunter’s prurient grin and raised eyebrows hinted at the pot of flesh at the end of this particular rainbow. The attentive student of the extramarital arts gushed at the undisputed master, “but Raoul, your adventures are so much more interesting than mine.”

The train whizzed over Germany and ploughed into the Czech Republic. Kilometers passed amid astounding stories of females with grandiose attributes and cherries falling like autumn leaves.

What’s the allure of the foul lifestyle he craves? There was no love, only nameless and faceless sex. Raoul Cote’s whole life revolved around his gigantic ego that needed to be sated regularly. Having to always increase his self-worth, Raoul had to keep outdoing himself. Quality meant beauty, aesthetics of sex organs and youthful age. Only the one had a quantifiable enumeration, so the pervert had to keep finding them younger.

Gunter was reminded of the bear near Fort Nelson. The French-Canadian man was similarly a furry omnivore that preyed on vulnerable underprivileged girls, to gorge his inflated sense of self. That image spurred another one. Giorgio Martini was a man that Shiva’s Messenger had killed in Akron. He was also comparable to Raoul. The WTO used the wealth of the rich countries, to rape the workforces of the poor ones. This affluent Canadian was advancing his amoral lusts, where he could get a better bang for his buck. It doesn’t matter where it is: it’s still wrong.

Raoul has no friends. His quickness in handing over money indicated his knowledge that he needed to buy male comradeship, as much as it was necessary to pay for the services of girls. His continual boasting, lent the impression that the physical enjoyment of sex, was of secondary importance to the elevation of his stature, in the eyes of acquaintances. My decision is made.

Sometime after the border, when customs agents had checked passports and departed, Raoul needed another cigarette. Shiva’s Messenger didn’t smoke but he never missed the opportunity to get fresh air through the open window with his new friend. This time however, it was for a different reason.

“I had one girl in Nicaragua.” Raoul began spinning another yarn after his smoke was lit. “She was a tight little one but then I convinced her to get her younger sister to play—.”

“Jump from the train’s window.” Gunter’s voice betrayed no jest or modulation as he bluntly interrupted the sordid retelling. His haughtiness and physique was as an elite Nazi SS Sturmführer without the uniform.

“What?” The excitedly perplexed man locked his eyes onto his young cohort. Raoul tittered nervously, as the taller and fitter man made no indication of sarcasm. Then after a pause he added, “I’d be killed.”

“Possibly,” Gunter nodded and pulled out a steak knife smuggled from the dining car, “even probably, but that still makes your odds of survival better than remaining on this train.”

“Why?” Raoul’s eyes centered on the knife while his mind grappled with the dramatic turnabout.

“By your own sordid admissions you’re an unredeemable pedophile. Foreign sex crime laws exist expressly for you.” Gunter waited for the one salvation that Raoul had. That was to recant his tales as fabrications.

“I’m not jumping!” In that statement, Raoul Cote sealed his fate. Of course, he couldn’t rescind at the expense of the gargantuan ego, even to save his life.

“Suit yourself but here is how it will be.” Gunter calmly described, and mimed the specifics with the point of the knife. “First, I’ll open up your jugular veins here and here. Then, before you can finish bleeding to death, I’ll drive the point through your ear hole. Finally, I’ll hoist you up and throw you out the window myself.”

“I’ll pay you!” Raoul frantically scrambled to remove his hidden money belt. Having sized up his opponent, the desperate man accurately surmised that he didn’t have a hope. His assailant was younger, bigger, stronger and in superb condition. Gunter was also armed with a weapon that he seemingly could handle skillfully. “There’s $50,000 U.S. dollars in here.”

“Wow, you were really planning to have a good time.” Gunter took the belt with his non-knife hand and simply dropped it behind. “That was unnecessary, as I would have gladly killed you for free.”

“I mean—,” Raoul realized it was too late to try to renegotiate.

“One way or the other, your body is going to end up bouncing down the tracks. Jumping while you’re still alive, is really the best chance you have.”

“I don’t know why you’re doing this.” Raoul decided to make a show of climbing slowly out the window, to balk for time. He was hoping for the intervention of another passenger or conductor. The odds were low, as Gunter had bolted both doors while the condemned man struggled to light his smoke in the buffeting gusts.

“I’m saving undeveloped girls in underprivileged areas, from having their childhood stolen, to slake your drooling lust. If even one goes into puberty unmolested, my actions are vindicated.”

“You took a wench today, too.”

“Actually, I didn’t, but even if I had, all the girls there had attained the legal age of consent. I have nothing against sex or even whore mongering. However, while your ilk exists to pay for the rape of innocence, then children are in danger.” Gunter brandished the blade at a lower point. “Now for your money, I’ll give you one other choice. I could take this knife instead and give you a very quick operation to remove the threat you represent to underage girls. It would be like a vasectomy but a bit more drastic.”

“Never!” Raoul grabbed at his package as if just the threat of emasculation caused some pain or injury.

“Good. I didn’t like that option either. Now stop procrastinating and jump.” Why does he wear that ugly fur-beanie? I would celebrate my baldness, as a chance for my head to be naked.

“There are lots of men that like very young girls.” Raoul was up to having one foot over the window frame and half sitting on the sill. That was as far as he was planning on going. If someone didn’t show up soon, he would have to start backing out.

“One rung at a time.” Striking as fast as a cobra, Shiva’s Messenger stepped forward and ripped the rug off Raoul’s head.

The insulted man first grabbed with both hands to cover his skinhead, then quickly reached to catch the toupee, as Gunter threw it out the window. Overbalanced, Raoul managed to snag his hair, but was completely unprepared for Gunter’s sharp lift on his knees. He grappled for a finger purchase on the way out but refused to release the grip on his toupee. The desperate, one-handed attempt, only effectively dampened the momentum that might have carried his bulky frame clear of the train’s undercarriage.

“Death by vanity!” It wasn’t even a good-looking hairpiece. As correctly predicted, Raoul’s body did tumble down the tracks but it was as a badly mangled corpse. Gunter picked up the money belt and sighed as he cinched it up under his shirt. “Raoul, it’s a warped view, when you believe the world exists to serve your gratification.

…

After the slower means of travel plus delays caused by his route change, Gunter finally arrived in Budapest. His friend wasn’t currently at the pre-arranged hotel, so he grabbed a magazine and settled himself into one of the lobby chairs to wait. He had the time to read six magazines cover to cover and to chat at length, with the very pretty desk clerk. When he was about to give up completely and return to his own hotel for a nap, Gunter saw someone that he almost recognized, jogging up the steps.

“Hamster Man?” Gunter asked in amazement. The several days apart had seen a transformation to an almost indistinguishable replica of Carl. He looked pounds lighter or maybe it was simply that the designer apparel was of a flattering fit. His hair was styled and he had even gotten a manicure. This wasn’t the same mousy guy last seen in Idaho and it was certainly nothing like the same decrepit homeless man, first met on a Spokane sidewalk. Shiva’s Messenger couldn’t help but to laugh uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry.” Eckert began offering his prepared apology. He had the speech ready but he wasn’t prepared for such an outburst. That had him somewhat flustered. He continued his exasperated explanation as his boss took him by the elbow and steered him to the elevator. “I know I’ve taken a few liberties with the budget. The computer was quite a lot and so was the leather jacket but—”

The door opened but a man was ascending from a parking level so Hamster Man curtailed his explanation. They reached his room and Eckert fumbled for his key.

“I got started and it just seemed to snowball.” Carl was now quite worried that his boss was about to see the rest of the new wardrobe, stashed in his closet.

“I told you not to worry about the money and I meant that.” Gunter had regained himself and then lost it again as Carl opened the door. “It’s just a shock, but you look fantastic. I would kill to see a picture of you right now, next to one taken in the minute we met.”

“As I recall, a sum of money was dropped then as well.” Carl felt a wave of relief and then hooted at the thought of himself in his homeless rags. “Your laughing wasn’t a reaction I braced for. You were supposed to give me a reprimand. How do you expect to hold me in check, if you let me have free reign?”

“Since I’ve never had any employees before, we’ll just make up the rules as we need them and you haven’t broken any so far. You get what you need to do the job.” Gunter almost started laughing again but restrained himself. “I only hope I can top up the money bucket as fast as you poke holes in the bottom of it.”

“How do we make our revenues anyways?” This topic opened the door to one of Carl’s curiosity.

“I manage to pick up a few high paying gigs.” Gunter pulled off his Raoul’s money belt. He first unzipped it to show it was cash and then handed it over to replace the funds obviously spent. “Tell me what you’ve been up to for the past few days? I mean besides blowing the budget and chasing after champagne girls.”

“Some approached me but I’m far too savvy to fall for that old nugget.” It was lucky Carl had read some reports about them and even from female agents playing that role. He wouldn’t have seen them coming until it was too late. Hamster Man gave a recounting of his adventure and became excited as he bragged the results of his Internet researching and filing.

“If the CIA ever wants you or the file back,” Gunter cut in when he spotted a brief silence, “I’ll cheerfully give them the folder.”

…

“Well, how’s the view from the top tier?” Nick Taylor swept into the president’s Camp David office. He expected to find his friend still in his morose state of four days ago. He’d been ready to rip the drapes back to let the sunshine in. Instead, Weeds was reclining on the sofa with his feet up and watching a ball game.

“It’s five to four in the sixth inning.” Larry turned down the volume but left the set on to follow the score. “You’ve been away for quite awhile. That’s not like you.”

“I thought you could use a few day off. You know I’m always just a call away.” Taylor had to look twice at him to be certain it was the same man. Weeds hadn’t only bounced back but he was even chipper. He takes the meaning of the word shallow to a whole new lack of depth. He didn’t have the stamina of character to hold a powerful emotion, opinion or revelation for longer than a few days. Sometimes I wonder how he made it here, even with my help.

“How much of what I asked have you accomplished yet?”

“Some, cuts can end up being even more expensive than the contracts unless handled right.”

“Whatever you’ve completed already is enough.” Larry smiled. Just venting his frustration to Nick had eased the president’s mind. Then his feeling of wellbeing was strengthened by the safety of being at Camp David instead of out in the open. His fears remained but they had now returned to a manageable level. “I needed some pressure taken off me but I definitely don’t want to piss off Bernard.”

“I think that’s a wise choice for now.” Unfortunately, Nick’s mind added, it’s just slightly too late.

Many people scoffed but Taylor felt the president’s profound fickleness wasn’t a weakness in politics—it was in fact his strongest weapon. No one could pin Weeds down absolutely, on any subject. He flip-flopped like a beached trout and equally supported both sides in their turn. Larry was also the political equivalent of method actor. He didn’t give only lip service to his vacillations he was fully in the role. The opinion he offered either for or against an issue was heart felt and genuine. Now however, Larry had a sudden change that didn’t fit Nick’s scheme.

“Sorry, did I miss something.” The president looked back from where his eyes had been drawn to a double play.

“Nah, let’s watch the game first and finish any business later.” The chief of staff sat and considered how that exchange illustrated another of Weeds’ best tools in politics. Larry could be distracted from where he might otherwise be tempted to look. That made him malleable enough to be manipulated easily by his inner circle. Those underlings found the deals that made for advancements. If decisions were left to the candidates, nothing would ever get done. Still, ‘a sword cuts both ways’.

That trite expression didn’t come even near to expressing Taylor’s skill at fencing both verbally and with a real saber. Nick took up the sport long before he met Larry Weeds. It was in his mind to ensure he was proficient enough to be a duel second for some aristocratic friend, but then he had settled for Weeds. The art of swordsmanship offered him satisfaction and he stayed with it.

The phrase about a sword cutting both ways had come to mean that it could attack but also was able to wound the wielder. That wasn’t so in Taylor’s usage. The blade of his favorite Japanese katana, or his tongue, was able to do damage both on the offence and defensively. He could attack aggressively but also while seeming passive: that was the style he employed with his friends.
I should feel remorse and regret for what I’m doing, but the vice-presidency and a shot at the big enchilada is just too rich a prize. Taylor wasn’t so capricious as Weeds, but his loyalty could be bought. Larry Weeds had enjoyed his time being the top dog but eventually all politicians became the kibble for the next.

“We’re working on the Shiva’s Messenger case and starting to make progress.” Nick waited for a commercial break to push this back into the president’s face. With an upbeat lilt, he disguised his real intent. “We’ve backtracked his movements in Canada. It doesn’t tell us where he is now but it helps with the profiling.”

“I’ve already been given that update from the FBI task force,” Larry’s chipper dropped a slight notch. “They’ve hit a dead end.”

“I wasn’t sure if you got that update. So, who’s going to win this contest?” The sponsor pause ended and Nick changed the subject. I couldn’t care less about that game. I’m taking the critical one.

Larry Weeds had been paying attention to the sporting event but now the pall of his dilemma was dimming his enjoyment. Still, he and Taylor idly discussed the ballgame’s possible final outcome.

“While you’ve been at your retreat, your approval rating has dropped. You won’t appear publicly here but you plan to in Kiev. It sends a message to the voters.” Now in the seventh inning stretch, supposedly originated by the 300 pound President Taft taking a break. Nick got busy again, breaking down the current office holder.

“Kiev? I wasn’t aware of an itinerary change from the Ukraine?”

“The capital city of the Ukraine may be a safer place for you to be than the U.S. right now, but Kiev citizens don’t vote here.” How could he avoid offending half the world with his ignorance, without Nick to correct his errors?

“I know that,” Weeds pretended he had spoken in jest, “but if I were dead, I wouldn’t really give a red rat’s butt who votes for whom.”

“You aren’t dead yet but if you stay out of the public viewfinder while avoiding the scope’s sight, then you might as well be.”

“I wouldn’t even dare walk to a poling booth to vote for myself.”

“The assassin is proving tenacious.” Nick Taylor slowly turned his head to casually look out the window. “Shiva’s Messenger could even be where we expect least possible.”

“I know we’ve discussed this before,” Weeds shuddered as his friend had just removed the secure feeling Larry had in his Camp David place of last refuge, “but what can I do?”

“The Spokane thing is fresh on your mind and it’s right on the heels of Tom Albertson’s murder.” The chief of staff reposted his blade to another sensitive area. “But the Larry Weeds that I know has the gumption to hurdle obstacles and shoot to the finish first.”

“Some of the hazards seem high and deep right now.” Larry felt yet another chill. His mind interpreted Nick’s description of winning as sounding like his being shot and dying before anyone else. Taylor’s attempt to bolster him had inadvertently done the opposite.

“What do you think of a strategy like this?” Taylor pretended to be inventing an idea as he spoke. Whenever Weeds sat in on one-sided brainstorms, he adhered to the results more firmly, as he wrongly believed he had participated in the inception. “Come out in front of America with a brave front, one more time. We set up one huge outdoor event in the United States. You appear strong and we cover it, security wise from every conceivable angle. If Shiva shows up, we nail him. If he doesn’t, you still look good at home. Then, you go to the Ukraine where you’re safe and give the FBI time to cinch a noose around the messenger boy.”

“That would help my popularity,” Weeds saw a glimmer of false hope in the dark mineshaft that Nick had managed to push him back into, “but what if the assassin isn’t caught?”

“If you get back from Kiev and Shiva is still at large,” Taylor was prepared for this response but his two hands made a church with a finger at his lips to show intense thought, “then you do what plan B was on the day we looked at the Shiva file.”

“Disseminate to the public what really happened in Dallas.” Larry mused along his friend’s chosen track. “Shiva would toss the sniper rifle away but Stryker would catch it before it landed.”

“Your personal security has increased fivefold from where it was. Could Bernard even find a more threatening assassin than the one you would be appeasing?”

“I could kiss my presidency goodbye.” Weeds recalled one good reason for his previous decision. “All my campaign funding would vanish, as would the political support Stryker wields.”

“Might that not be quickly replaced by your current opposition?” As strenuously as he had argued against, Taylor now propositioned for. It was quite convincing even to Nick—but it was academic. Shiva would ensure Weeds didn’t live long enough to implement reforms. “You may even go into the history books as the shining Caesar that gave a purloined Rome back to the citizens.”

“Looking at it that way,” Larry grinned, “why wait at all? We can sucker punch the Stryker group right now.”

“Your family name is indelible in that Shiva file unless we have the body so the plan we’re devising,” Taylor offered some undue credit, “is still the second best option to catching the Messenger. Besides, if you do it now, you don’t look good. Instead, you seem like a wimp that the assassin cowed. He takes the credit, while your name is dragged through the slime in the Dallas gutters.”

“I really think we should wait until after Kiev though.” Larry usurped the plan. “However, we might slip preparatory hints into my speeches. Sprinkle them in supporting either possible eventuality.”

“That’s an excellent suggestion.” Nick smiled. This is what he was good at. “I’ll give your speechwriters something to work with.”

“I’ll do the appearance out west. East coast people act like they believe the sun rises in the East.” Larry heaved a relieved sigh and went on to the details. What would he ever do without the loyal and absolutely dependable boyhood friend? Nick would also never try to usurp what rightfully belonged to Caesar. Larry was the throne that Taylor could never aspire to and that status quo couldn’t change.

“Well, I suppose most do but a few of them only believe that, because it does. Our best people are stationed here so Washington D.C. is the safest place for this event.”

“It would be quicker flying to Russia from out west.”

“If you were going to Sakhalin Island or Siberia it would be.” You’re not even going to Russia! Had he looked at a map lately? Larry was never very swift but had only grown denser lately. You have people to do everything for you but take a crap. Did being that pampered tend to atrophy a person’s brain?

“D.C. is the best place.”

“I’ll oversee all the security for it to help Mike Applegate better get a handle on his Homeland Security department.” Nick needed one last ingredient for his new recipe. “It’s just too bad I can’t be with you in the Ukraine.”

“I am the President of the United States,” Weeds intoned with false bravado, “and I make the rules. Lon Clark will enjoy a rare opportunity to actually do his job in holding the nation together while you and I are away.”

“That sounded like a decree so if only to avoid prison, I’ll accept.” Nick chuckled and felt Weeds was just too easy sometimes. The view from the upper bench is distorted and he believes he’s running things his own way.

“The game’s on again.” Weeds voice was almost as bubbly as before he’d ridden Taylor’s rollercoaster.

“Yes and with just a couple of more innings to go.”

…

“Those are premium wheels: are there four of them?” Carl scoffed at the dirt-cheap used Lada that Gunter had bought.

“I prefer my cars the same way I take my employees,” the boss allowed a long pause to allow Carl to fill in his own blanks before completing the statement, “with it’s own set of papers.” Convincing the previous owner not to switch registration had cost extra. “Unlike certain staff members, this can both cross the Ukraine frontier with no restrictions and blend in when it gets there.”

“I didn’t get that memo telling me what nationality to put on the ID that I bought out of my own pocket.” Hamster Man’s passport made him an American named Ernest Payne, so he’d have to fly into Odessa. There a tourist company representative would usher him through the visa formalities. The two had to split up again briefly.

Gunter drove the car, to avoid another flight. The roads out of Budapest were slightly confusing as Magyar was one of the few European languages the young man didn’t understand. A peculiar linguistic group, the Hungarian tongue was closest to that of Finland and even then the differences were significant.

“I’m a heating technician.” As a European Union citizen, Gunter was able to enter the Ukraine on only his passport. “I’m going to Odessa to spend three weeks training the staff in my company’s Ukraine office.” The few questions were simple and he passed through the border quite easily.

“These make the expressways in North America feel like slate billiard tables.” It took over seven hours to rattle the Lada over the highway potholes and pitfalls, between the border and the Black Sea port city of Odessa. The roads in Ukraine made the rough ones in Hungary seem like brand new asphalt in comparison.

[The pot of poison is why Maha Shivatri is celebrated.]

“Thanks for clearing that up for me.” The messenger sounded caustic. There were a few different legends purporting the reason for the Hindu festival. One involved Shiva actually saving the world from destruction by holding poison in his throat.

“Couldn’t you say something simple like ‘kill Weeds because everyone will dance in the streets’?” Much had changed about the young man after his death experience even though outwardly, not much might seem so. For one, he devoutly believed in a guiding power and his enigmatic spirit-rider was indicative of divine intent.

Souls are given absolute mastery over their mind’s choices. Any proof of eternity’s existence would negate the fullness of the gift. Shiva’s Messenger perceived his afterlife journey as real but he couldn’t utterly demonstrate it, even to himself. Shiva, if that was his occasional voice, was restricted in what he could say. His clues had to point to avenues that the recipient could envision himself being aware of, with knowledge already known. His internal voice needed ensure that he might only be a trick of the subconscious mind.

The jarring road soon jolted his mind back to the president’s visit in Kiev. In Akron, he hadn’t killed the president because the vice-president was worse. In Spokane, he only scared President Weeds again to provide misdirection, but a fateful head butt gave him the Shiva file.

“I dangled that Stryker clue like a carrot for American people to grasp at. Their government isn’t really about them anymore. It’s primarily an interface to big business.” According to the press, the Stryke two, only a misspelling and a sad commentary about literacy. Some pundit genius concocted a hidden message out of the Powers/Wright names, that wasn’t intended, but none could make the more obvious connection between Stryker and Clark. “That should be unfathomable, but look at who owns the networks.”

“Everyone seems to think that the next time the Messenger speaks, it will be the fatal voice for the president.” The news coverage lately confirmed this. Phrases like ‘third time’s a charm’ and ‘strike three Larry is out’ were being bandied about. Las Vegas bookies were purported to even have a line on the next attempt and assassination was the odds on favorite.

“I didn’t kill because Lon Clark is worse but my father murdered Kennedy when Lyndon B Johnson was also more corrupt.” Did that hold as a viable justification for completing his vow? He was aware of that correlation in Akron and still hadn’t the fatal shot.

“I have to complete my pledge only when I feel right about it.” Sam in Toronto expected Akron to be the day and now he believed Kiev would be. Carl also assumed the next one would be a payday shot. Jessica had gone so far as to mutter, ‘What a pinhead!’ when Larry’s face was on TV. Then she had looked at John with her sly smile that probably meant, ‘Go ahead because everyone wants you to.’ She was indicative of many folk, especially outside the filtered media sphere in the U.S., cheering the killer on.

Gunter needed to keep his mind on driving in order to navigate through Odessa to find an address. The apartment was accessed from a shabby looking inner parking court, just off the main walking street of Ekaterinskaya. The building’s exterior looked decrepit but the apartment’s interior was only slightly shy of luxurious. It had a distant view of the dark waters of Odessa harbor.

“How were the roads?” Already ensconced in their two-bedroom apartment, Carl had done some exploring and led the way to the nearby promenade. Street buskers played tunes at points along the boulevard, with hats upturned for coins and small bills. Independent vendors sold balloons to kids and photographers with unusual pets like snakes and iguana’s encouraged passerby to pose. The city core had a seaside carnival feel.

“A few sections still have incidental battle damage from Hitler’s invasion, Barbarossa.” They stopped for a light, delicious meal in a sidewalk restaurant but Gunter was lost in his thoughts.

It’s coming down to crunch time. It wouldn’t make much sense planning something for Kiev, if he didn’t have the one crucial piece to the puzzle. Lon Clark is worse.

It was a nice evening in the beautiful city and too early to sleep, so they strolled. Since Gunter was quiet and seemingly absorbed by a problem, Carl refrained from disturbing him. A walk towards the sea naturally took them to the top of the Potemkin Stair.

Carl was right. I did whack the hornet’s nest in Spokane. Even with them buzzing in all directions, the president would still be up to his armpits in Secret Service. Getting close would be very difficult and extremely dangerous. It would also be unbelievably stupid, if I’m going to target and balk again.

“Looking down, from the vantage point of the Duc du Richelieu monument, the flight of steps doesn’t have a narrowing perspective. It is specially constructed to appear the same width, at the bottom as it does at the top. Odessa locals call it the Ninth Wonder of the World.” A vendor of postcards and souvenir books took them as tourists and hawked his wares by describing the features of the stairway. Gunter got it twice, as the man tried again in German, in case he hadn’t picked the correct linguistic group.

Maybe it’s time to tell Carl that we’re just going home?

Sensing that his boss shouldn’t be disturbed, Carl quickly bought the offered book and shooed the salesman away.

“The stairs are out of whack with the rest of the world. Perhaps in that they resemble me.” The young man stopped and looked at the Potemkin stair. They’re similar to the president, also, because two sides see him from a different perspective.

“Yes!” A trillion-watt bulb flashed in his imagination. Shiva’s Messenger had his revelation.

“You have an idea?” After nearly leaping out of his jacket’s neck in start, Carl managed to land on his feet like a dropped cat.

“Oh yes!” Gunter grinned and devilment twinkled in his eyes. “It’s good—it’s really good!”

“What are we going to do?”

“As Shiva did at the churning of the ocean of milk.”

“Frankly, boss, I have no idea what you just said.” The two friends descended the stairs to view a doubly wide inverted ‘V’ of the visual perspective of distance. This bottom effect was the price to be paid to achieve the illusion from the top.

“Managers do the thinking so grunt workers don’t have to.”

“I knew you’d be a lousy boss with that attitude of yours.”

“Because you told me females don’t see you as attractive, even when you are. They only find you as uninteresting, because you think of yourself that way. You’re broadcasting your low self image and they get the first impression that you’re not stimulating.”

“Maybe so, but that’s the way I am and I can’t change that.”

“Who says you can’t? I change all of the time. I can be whoever and whatever I want. All I have to do is convince myself and then others will believe. Try right now to only think of yourself as Carl the interesting ladies man.”

“OK, I’m Carl the ladies man.” He gave it only lip service.

“Saying it’s alright but now you have to believe it. When you can think of yourself that way, then the women will also.”

“I think I can maybe do that.”

“I know that you can. You made everyone think that you were a homeless destitute man and they were convinced because you believed. If you were simply acting a role then people wouldn’t have given you money for panhandling.”

“You may be right.” He strained his well-developed imagination to believe he was interesting to women. No, more than just that. He was Carl Eckert the ‘babe-magnet’ Hamster Man. “Am I mistaken or did that beautiful woman just smile at me? I think she’s now looking at me differently as well.”

“I do perceive divergence in her stare,” Gunter confirmed, “but we can’t prove if it’s really so. We can only believe or not.”

Chapter 21 of Shiva’s Messenger

Thorns in the Rosebushes

“I’ve never seen anyone so casual about making an armed assault on a well-guarded president.” As Carl Eckert emerged from his lavatory routines, he found the young assassin had partially rearranged the furniture to facilitate his maximum sloughing comfort in a chair, with his legs on the bed. The Messenger’s one hand held the remote control unit now slightly modified with a spare part from the aircraft model kit: his finger idly spun a propeller set with the antenna as an axle, as he watched the window and the TV.

“How many of us have you observed in action?” The casual boy asked but he expected no reply and continued with that thought. “I read of a guy that applied for a research grant to study why fifty percent of female instructors at a particular campus married students. After the funding was in hand, the one of only two female teachers answered his study question. Because I loved him.”

“Don’t be smart—Alex.” Carl dried his hair and contemplated how in the last 50 hours they had watched as several times the Secret Service personnel had combed the street. Specialists had used explosive and metal sensors to sweep the environs. Welders also came by to tack down the manhole covers. It was almost as watching TV but it was occurring outside the window. The only part where reality had even come close to his fantasies of a dark sinister ploy unfolding happened at 3 AM on the night preceding Larry’s arrival.

“It’s time.” Alex had noted that almost exactly when it was anticipated, the vehicle he was waiting for appeared around the corner. The greenhouse truck that the city contracted to plant and water the floral displays began to make its slow progress up the street. Instead of staying to watch, the two president hunters had hurried out the back hotel entrance and traversed the distance to the dark parking structure. Their stolen truck was swiftly decorated with magnetic logo signs and Eckert had slid into the driver seat.

With Alex in the truck bed seated on a wooden crate, Carl drove the pick-up slowly out onto the dim street. He paused at the entrance of the main road and looked to ensure that the real maintenance crew had finished and moved on. The chassis had groaned, as he urged the wheels up the 4-inch step of concrete. In the back, Alex made a pretense of watering the boxes. He copied the motions of the other unit, while Carl navigated the sidewalk.

“If someone witnesses this minor event happening twice, they may even discount the oddity as their own sense of déjà vu.” Carl had muttered as he stopped briefly beside the chosen lamppost but his internal confidence didn’t match his words. The vibrations he felt were from both the vehicles engine and his nervous twitching.

The rearview mirror showed Alex removing the flowerbox and replacing it with the special one he removed from the crate. The job now done, the driver went on again slowly. The gardeners in green coveralls eased off of the curb and vanished.

“It appears our predictions of his true route were correct.” Carl watched the room’s television as the moderate sized motorcade was seen on a local channel. This presidential visit was big news in the area and stations were providing continuous coverage. “The entourage is not as large as the one that arrived at the hotel.”

“Larry will be slipping out the back to his meeting, while press crews watch the other limo taking a scenic tour of Spokane.” Alex took his feet off the bed and redoubled his focus on the access point from the rear entry route. As predicted, soon a smaller motorcade could be seen. “What happened to James Bond?”

“Let’s not talk about that right now—here they come!” Carl’s hissing whisper showed his extreme nervousness.

“He was your pet. You must have done something about him.” Alex urged, as the stretched black sedan rounded the bend.

“We’re about to fire shots at the POTUS and you’re asking about the fate of a stinking rat?” Actually, expressing it in those terms made it much more fitting. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Tell me now or I won’t push the button.” Alex poised his finger tantalizingly over his RC remote. Larry Weeds, in Limousine One, slowed at the corner. “It’s nearly time, tick, tick, tick.”

“I sneaked back into my apartment after they assumed I was dead.” Carl excitedly spoke as fast as he had in the Oval Office. “I turned him loose in an alley, now hammer down!”

“Alright.” As a sportsman leading the flight of a Canada goose, Alex mentally added travel time to his action and then thumbed the control. A servomotor in the flowerbox spun and cinched a wire around the triggers of the three fully automatic rifles secured inside. The wooden side splintered and blew out as the first 7.62 mm NATO issue rounds fired. “Your pet is probably in a stray cat’s belly. It might’ve been kinder to just hammer down on his skull.”

“I couldn’t do that.” As Carl watched, a hinged bottom dropped out of the flowerbox. A rolled paper banner flapped to the ground, accompanied by a drum roll of the rifles emptying their clips.
“I could.” Alex’s words hung as tangible as two icicles.

…

[private_Chevron]President Weeds was relaxing in the limo’s back seat and reading some of his briefing notes when the first shots fired. Two rounds harmlessly passed in front but the driver had no time to react and the car continued into the line of fire. High velocity slugs raked the side of the car as it careened through the hail of copper-jacketed lead. Weeds doubled-up instinctively, but struck his lower lip with his knee and it split open against his teeth.

The trained chauffeur stepped on the accelerator to speed the POTUS swiftly out of danger. The passenger was thrown back by the momentum and cracked his ear solidly on the window frame. The impact was hard enough to draw blood there also. He howled in pain and grabbed at his injured head but also craned his face to the ambush. The unfurled banner hung in full sight.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” President Weeds bellowed with such an expulsion, that blood from his split lip sprayed onto the window.

Only one other person received injury. A motorcycle escort had been riding beside the limo and it took one of the rounds in the gas tank. The bike didn’t instantly explode, as it doubtlessly would have in a Hollywood movie but fuel did spill onto the hot engine where it was ignited by the spark. The rider obtained some minor burns on his leg before he could slow the bike enough to jump clear.

News reports flashed across the nation. Local police cordoned off the entire area and nothing was moved or touched, pending a full investigation by the FBI’s crime scene investigators. That left plenty of time for camera crews of almost every station to converge on the site. Everyone managed to get beautiful footage of the banner fluttering in the breeze.

Shiva’s Messenger says: Stryke Two.

…

“All you’ve really done is whacked a wasp’s nest with a stick.” Carl had almost expected Alex to pull a surprise like using armor piercing rounds. “Players risk deceptive gambits in chess games but at the end, both shake hands and walk away. Pulling one off in real life against the president’s Secret Service is almost surrealistic”

“When hornets are buzzing mad, you can stand back to watch their defense mechanisms. They also wear themselves out flying around when they find nothing to sting. An insignificant attack in Spokane has given our adversaries a lot more to think about and it’s made the job of protecting the president much more difficult.”

“So why the misspelling?” Though he was open about many other things, Shiva’s whelp was very quiet about his planning. Carl supposed he needed to gain his employer’s full trust over time. Now that the banner was in the public eye, it was a fair game question.

Alex smiled innocently but said nothing while he watched the road and drove away from the now perilous city of Spokane

“I know. If you tell me, then you’ll have to kill me.” Carl’s face scrunched up in mock thought. “I might die from the suspense of not knowing or expire from tedium while listening to newscasters presenting a wide array of ludicrous rationales, so go ahead.”

“I had to use something from your material, so you could qualify for the death penalty along with me.” Alex chuckled. Hamster Man must’ve been too busy playing convoluted mental scenarios of the upcoming mission and missed the obvious.

The file spotlighted a tight connection between the Weeds family and the Stryker Group. The misspelling vaguely alluded to them but that message was for only certain readers. Maybe a news pundit could also equate it to the more commonly known correlation between the current vice-president and the same corporate entity.

“Your generosity is outstripped only by your contemptibility.” Carl doubted that a capitol verdict could apply to an attack as non-lethal as paintballs aimed at a brick wall.

…

“It appears we’re the first on the scene.” Eldon Browning’s statement contrasted the anthill of law enforcement activity but his eyes were only seeing the absence of Shiva Task Force members. Driving from Creston, he and Beth had responded quicker than the ones flying in from either Washington D.C. or Ohio.

“This suggests,” Beth pointed to one bullet casing nestled amid the scattered, looking like a ‘not like the other ones’ child’s puzzle, “that he’s not quite as dead as rumored reports from the Akron cop’s gun indicated.”

“That won’t be proved until fingerprints are matched,” Browning offered, “but my traces of estrogen intuition tells me that this wasn’t just the work of a copycat.”

“I’ll bet my virtue we’ll know even before then.” Beth giggled at the very masculine looking older man’s unabashed admission of a female quality. “If Shiva’s Messenger did this, then person trails will drop off like an unbudgeted overpass.”

“Pay up girl and fork that cherry over.” Agent Browning held a palm out and wiggled his fingers like a virgin Beth’s chastity could be delivered into an outstretched hand. A paper in his other showed the fingerprint confirmation. They hadn’t found any persons of note to even track to a dead end.

“I don’t happen to have that with me. Will you accept a check?” Beth briefly thought back to how his joke on the words of her wager would’ve seemed deplorable at the journey’s outset, Eldon was just really amusing to be around.

Their investigative legwork hadn’t found a room occupied by an older man and a younger, under a fictional name. That certainly wasn’t an uncommon or noteworthy occurrence. By the time that detail gained attention from the swelling ranks of Task Force troop, any fingerprint evidence would be overwritten. However, the fastidious guests had wiped the touched surfaces even before the future tenants and chambermaids completed the obliteration.

“Do you need me for anything here? Eldon asked. “If not I’ll buzz back to Canada to drop off the rental and pick up our luggage.”

Beth answered by handing over her key card. The more urgent priority had involved heading south to Spokane instead of east from Creston to where they were lodged. Along the drive, Agent Withers had confided that the cleverly dodging young lawyer had stymied her further efforts in the small Canadian town.

“Here the only shots fired could have had no possible effect.” With her partner away, Beth fell back to her old habit of talking to herself. The only shooter was a set of hidden guns triggered remotely from a location, yet unknown. The attack in Akron was a very carefully orchestrated plan complete with a series of grisly murders aimed to draw off resources. This ambush was haphazard by comparison. “Any amateur could’ve pulled this Spokane one off but the proven professional from Akron did it.”

Other more experienced personnel had largely taken over and Beth slipped away to treat herself to an evening meal. She went to a Spokane outlet of the franchise fast food place Allen had taken her to in Akron and ordered the same entrée item. She found a table to munch thoughtfully.

“How do I figure out how to catch the chameleon assassin if he keeps changing his style—in everything?” Her chicken sandwich was delicious, as always. Several seats over, a man complained to his companion about how horrible his burger was. That was also a constant and if she went to any of the myriad of carbon copies of this restaurant across the country, the burger would be just as lousy. The man grumbling about a disgusting meal had probably had eaten many of the same unappealing offering at an identical link of the chain, in another place. He unrealistically expected an improved product only due to a different physical location.

“A chameleon is still a reptile.” At a basic level, the hamburger was still meat, just like a good one was at another restaurant. Bad analogy! This franchise might not actually use meat, but some animal byproduct instead. Even the filler might be ground up cow’s hoofs and horns, so that they could still claim ‘all-beef’. At that nauseating thought, Beth opened up her sandwich just to ensure she was eating actual chicken. It was meat, but was she certain it came from that bird? Even some reptile was purported to taste like chicken. Icky! Why did I just conjure up that mental image?

“Beth, think about something else.”

“Were you speaking to me?” A woman at the next table asked.

“Sorry, I was just talking out loud to myself.”

“Oh gorsh,” the woman brightened excitedly, “you’re that secret agent girl from Ohio. You’re in Warshington for the shooting.”

“My secret was whispered in too many ears so I’m FBI now.” Beth smiled at the colloquial pronunciations that were probably unique to this state. After chatting for a few minutes, the woman left with her brood of youngsters. When I have kids, I’ll feed them at a place where I’m positive of what the food is made out of.

“People like doing things they are comfortable with and have done before.” The woman said gorsh as her preferred statement of surprise and Beth always seemed to use variations of her secret quip. “What did Shiva’s Messenger do here that was the same?”

The banner with his name and cryptic message was similar to Akron. A single mismatched bullet casing deliberately left with a fingerprint was as before. Those were just signatures and they weren’t the key.

“What similarities weren’t left on purpose?” Including features of the Canadian jobs was brain straining, so Beth targeted her search on other correlation to Akron but found none. Everything here was as dissimilar as his killings in the week preceding the roof top assassinations had been.

“The difference was part of a pattern! Spokane wasn’t a hit on its own. This was simply a segment of a larger. It’s the diversion as the wife beaters were, to draw away resources.”

…

The clandestine meeting with the potential contributor had been cancelled and President Weeds was trundled back to his plane. A flight back to the capitol seemed atop towering thunderheads of the flurry of airwave bustle raging beneath. Air Force One was buffeted by turbulence created by hot air rising from the breath of a nation full of newscasters.

‘Yes, it had been Shiva, but no, they didn’t have him’. As the president sat ashen and silent, he mentally condensed Marty Rodman’s droning presentation down to one sentence.

Nick Taylor sat in on the briefing and as usual he asked the poignant questions. Everyone in Washington knew full well that Weeds was blunt and flew into rages but he had a short memory. The one person you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of was Nick Taylor. He was the steel fist wrapped in a velvet glove behind the presidency. The Chief of Staff might not have the authority to speak on behalf of the president but if Nick Taylor said something then soon Weeds would coincidentally have the idea as his own.

“The president was never in any real danger.” The Secretary of Homeland Security had tried several times to stress this point but Nick had deflected each attempt. “That limo is designed to even protect the occupant from high-explosive land mines and the armor could easily turn aside the small rounds.”

“That might be true but there was room in that concealment point to have a more devastating weapon in place of the three minor ones.” Since Marty hadn’t taken his hints to muzzle this point, Nick had no qualms about shoving the words back down his throat. “If Shiva’s Messenger had wanted to kill in Spokane, then your whitewashing of the real issue would have sounded much different. The plated vehicle would have turned aside small arms ammunition,” Nick mocked, “but unfortunately, the armor piercing high explosive round incinerated everyone inside the vehicle.”

Shaking his head sadly, Nick continued in his own voice. “The president was in grave danger because we let him down.”

“Yes we did.” Stinging from the rebuke, Marty backed down meekly and would answer further questions exactly as Nick wanted.

“After the incidents in Akron and Spokane, the only reason we have a living president is because the assassin hasn’t finished toying with him yet. However, now we have two incidents to study and we should be able to read his methods better. Is that correct?”

“Not really.” The Secretary of Homeland Security didn’t want to answer, but since it was Taylor asking, he felt compelled. Marty suddenly felt he should give his career a peck on the cheek. “Everything about the Spokane incident was different, so it actually widened the range of possible threats.”

Nick glanced over at the president and only he knew just how badly shaken his friend had been by the ordeal. With a hail of lead slugs striking metal right beside you, it’s difficult to remember that the car itself was bulletproof. Larry hadn’t even reconciled the past episode in Akron. Taylor recalled his friend’s recent words. ‘In one moment, I was shaking hands with a political ally and in the briefest of an instant later—there was a sudden lurch. My hand was in death’s grip and I was looking into the eyes of a corpse’.

“Nick,” Weeds looked up from his thoughts and caught the chief of staff on his own reverie. The entourage had filtered away leaving just him and his pal. After a long breath he began to speak slowly, “I’ve been thinking that maybe—”

“Don’t go there, Larry.” Nick very rarely used the president’s familiar name even though he was one of his best friends. He saved it for occasions when he really needed to impress a vital point. “They put you into the Oval Office and if you believe they can’t also take you out of it, then you’re dead wrong.”

“Maybe being wrong is better than being dead.”

“Yes, that’s possible. Still, that road isn’t without dangers also. Let’s consider carefully before deciding on that route.”

“I’ve been thinking about it all the way back.” Spokane had given Weeds second thoughts about drawing Shiva out. “What limited concessions could we make to appease the assassin?”

“I don’t believe someone that determined will be satisfied with a move that’s only a gesture. This guy has burned all his bridges to force you to make a decision in his favor. He has gone ‘all in’ on this hand: you have to either call the pot or fold.”

“It’s easy for you to make that analogy,” Larry had a rare moment of absolute clarity, “but my life is the big blind ante.”

“I know. Just hold off on deciding anything for a few days. Stay at Camp David and relax. This has been harrowing for you.”

“No!” Larry suddenly snapped. “I’m clamped in a vice with no room to breath. Shiva’s Messenger is the jaw closing with each turn of the screw but Stryker is the other and he hasn’t given a fraction. That misspelling wasn’t the product of an under-funded education system. Rescind some appropriations we initiated as a lure and cut back on the ones already emplaced.”

“Bernard isn’t going to like that.” Nick sang the line like it was a nursery rhyme.

“He isn’t the one currently firing lead volleys with a scattergun. Stryker has an investment to protect but he isn’t. He can put some of his money where my skin is.” The tantrum was as short as some of his political stances were. It cooled to a confidence given to his buddy. “It was like I was in a hailstorm with ice the size of baseballs and a clattering tin pot was protecting my head.”

“I’ll get to work on your instructions.” Nick acquiesced but as per usual, with his own finishing touches. The difference between cuts and minor trims was subjective. Some also didn’t mean all.

“Get rid of the Secretary of Homeland Security.” The presidential ability to snip the umbilical cord of a career was seemingly the only untainted power Larry had left.

“If you see Marty again, it’ll be beside your gun cabinet with antlers stuffed into his ears.” Taylor picked up his notes from the conference table. “Get some sleep. I’ll come back out soon.”

Taylor left the office and later, the president caught the sound of him leaving by helicopter. Weeds didn’t take Nick’s advice about sleep. He couldn’t and he knew it. The incident at Spokane had triggered the return of his nightmares from Akron. Now they were worse and appeared to him even in his waking moments. He turned the television up, hoping it would drown out his thoughts.

“Shiva’s Messenger is playing games—first he said ‘Hi’ in Ohio with a game of tag but he didn’t touch the president so he’s still it. The next turn at bat was baseball in the State of Washington. The next could be chess and it will likely be Washington D.C. for the checkmate.” This latest attack didn’t have murder victims to grieve, so some of the coverage’s tone was actually upbeat and tending to almost cheer on the teasing assassin. The president changed the channel but not before the pundit scored a groin hit.

“Some have speculated the president’s false bravado since the shooting in Akron, may have spurred on this attack. Larry should’ve just taken his lumps and moved on to managing the nation.”

“I did ask for it.” Weeds spit at the reporter that couldn’t hear him and felt the urge to throw his glass at the set. “You won’t report what bravery it took to do that. You can only scoff.”

“I don’t want to die.” Larry tuned out the news. It had taken his valor to put on the cocky front, while his mind’s vision kept replaying the light going out of Tom Albertson’s eyes. He had been unable to move or wrench his gaze from his friend’s lifeless orbs, or release the hand locking his grip. Yet that wasn’t even the worst of Akron’s nightmares. Larry Weeds had looked at the girl.
The female agent’s eyes were young and alive. Suddenly, the president had felt Albertson’s dead orbs shift into his sockets. His were the lifeless ones that she was seeing. Larry Weeds had just seen how fragile life was and especially how breakable his was with the realization that he was mortal. His life of ease and privilege delayed that primary comprehension.

“I couldn’t award her medal. My death reflects in her eyes.” Larry hadn’t even regained any composure when another bullet had come so near to him that he could even feel the breath of the female agent’s pained shriek on his neck. In Akron, it had been that close.

“Instead of striking, the cobra reared back, hissed and flared its hood in warning.” The venomous viper spit again in Spokane. All the security that money and power could buy didn’t help against that kind of foe. Marty Rodman all but said they were useless.

Summoning the steward, President Larry Weeds ordered another bourbon. He gulped his drink from a shaking hand and slipped back into his melancholy.

…

“We’re going to go to Budapest first but even before that I need to smuggle you into Canada.” Alex mused aloud on the logistics. The safest place to get false documents was in Toronto but first they had to get there. Alex thoughtfully held his chin and studied the overweight Hamster Man. “Folding you into the trunk could prove difficult. I may have to sit on the lid to latch it.”

“I already have a passport.” Spy games were fun but Eckert balked at the prospect of an uncomfortable border crossing.

“The president may presume that you’re dead but taking a vacation as Carl Eckert would exhume the coffin.

“It’s sort of an identity theft one.” Carl sheepishly admitted and explained. “Fantasy gamers often buy a real sword or other item that suits the role-playing. It’s not for actual use but just to gain a real feel for the character.” Carl’s imaginative passion was espionage so he had motivation and a method. When the FBI becomes aware of a forger in the nation, they shut down the operation. The CIA just notes the potential resource for future reference and Eckert read the files. “I bought a really good one.”

“Hamster Man, you were really wasted in a cage.” The young assassin’s complement turned the blush to a beam. His plan shifted and his father’s advice fit yet again. ‘One can hide better than two’. “American’s don’t travel to Canada, just to pay more for a ticket.”

“I’ll take a bus to Chicago and fly to Budapest.”

“See you on the Danube.”

…

Nick Taylor viewed the landscape flowing under his helicopter, but his eyes were unfocused as the magnitude of his appointment precluded all other thoughts. After transferring to his car, he drove to the fashionable Adams Morgan restaurant district. It was early evening and establishments were already doing a brisk business, serving the rising young professionals that the power of the nation’s capitol drew like filings to a magnet. In one very upscale restaurant though, there was only one table occupied and the servers hid in the kitchen unless specifically summoned.

A small man with a fringe of white hair like a laurel wreath made of cotton batten sat on the rectangular table’s one side. Lon Clark was Vice-President of the United States. There were few people that he would demur a table’s head to, but his host for the meal was definitely one of them. In fact, the other guest was another and he was placed at the foot.

Lon was only a board member of the multi-national conglomerate that owned both halves of the presidential ticket, just as fully as they owned this restaurant. Bernard Stryker was the CEO, and on paper, he was the largest single shareholder. The sheik that was also here was the true largest stakeholder in the company. His holdings were scattered through such a morass of sub-entities that it would require the full time services of a Cray mainframe computer to sort it out. At this level of meeting, no one needed to see a sheaf of proxies to accept his authority, as second only to Bernard’s.

The three powerful men engaged in casual conversation while they waited for their final guest. The president’s Chief of Staff, Nick Taylor didn’t keep them waiting very long.

“I’m sure you know the vice-president but have you met Sheik Ghazi bin Omani?” Bernard offered a hand to the place reserved for the Chief of Staff. He didn’t waste any time waiting to hear Nick’s acknowledgment of the introductions but thrust directly to the point of the meeting. “How is the president’s state of mind?”

The sheer authority of Bernard Stryker was awe-inspiring. He could reduce most men to ruins equally with a snap of his fingers or with a withering look. With a full but immaculately trimmed beard, the Stryker CEO looked like King George V or Czar Nicholas II gone distinguished grey. His uncle had built Stryker Oil Services into a world leader and formed the Stryker Group. The nephew’s personal ruthlessness had enabled him to seize control, over his own elder brothers and his uncle’s heirs.

“President Weeds still hasn’t even come to grips with his ordeal in Akron and this latest attack sent him reeling.” Nick had steeled himself for this encounter but it was still unnerving. “He believes that scaling back will net him a reprieve from the assassin.”

“It will only buy him a new one.” Sheik bin Omani spoke slowly. The slight Oxford lilt of his accent didn’t conceal the ferocity that hovered underneath. He was a middle-aged Arab who continued to wear his head cloth and white flowing robe as a badge of authority, even when he was abroad.

“I had your assurance that his dearest friend could prop up his prudent decisions.” Stryker’s words were the power of Wagner’s ride of the Valkyrie set to voice. “Yet you have failed.”

“A second strike while I wasn’t with him was too much.” Weeds walked a balance beam and fell before I was ready to push him. Now Nick Taylor was on a piano wire but he controlled his own steps. “His decision was made before he arrived in Washington and there arrives a point where Larry Weeds is still the President of the United States and Nick Taylor is just his Chief of Staff.”

“I can send much nastier snakes than Shiva can.” Ghazi’s hiss even suggested that he was the serpent for the task.

“I could also have you killed in an excruciating manner,” Bernard Stryker glared across at the Arab, “but why won’t I?”

“My brothers and sons would avenge me.” The sheik’s retort stated defiance but his voice had backed down.

“Precisely.” Stryker’s tone was suddenly tranquil again. “There would be reprisals that would cost me some efforts to evade.”

Given time, I can convince Larry to read from the approved script again. Nick’s mind rehearsed a line but he held it in abeyance.

“Are you afraid of Shiva or his Messenger?” Bernard’s grim countenance landed heavily on the vice president.

“No.” Lon Clark’s response was an expulsion of conviction. Lon was older than President Weeds and his health wasn’t good. His body might not wait for the current president to finish his terms. For the chance to ascend to the highest office, Clark would sell his soul and happily die the day after inauguration. That sale would have to be on a second mortgage though, because his spirit was already an asset on the Stryker Group’s inventory.

“Your answer wouldn’t be so quick after meeting him once.” The CEO’s comment was wry but with a twinge of something else too foreign in him to recognize what it was. Stryker cast his mind back to a day long ago, when he had experienced terror. “You’ve only read Colonel Vassily Orestovich Antenenko’s dossier but I’ve been face to face with him.”

“Then I’d swallow my trepidation and do my duty.” Lon added.

“We should have gone with you as our candidate for president.” Bernard Stryker’s intense blue eyes circled the table as a precision watch with a second hand that moved in increments of a quarter minute. He captured and briefly held each diner’s eyes before moving on: Nick was the final tick.

“Larry was younger and we felt he could have appeal. He has a good pedigree but it seems the sins of the father may be beyond the son’s reach.”

“It’s far too late to change our nominee and as you noted, there can be implications.” Ghazi’s voice was caustic as he thought about money spent that was yet to be capitalized on. “Taylor has proved inadequate but I can instruct Weeds in where his loyalties lie.”

“You obviously didn’t comprehend my implication so don’t quote me.” Stryker’s steel-grey eyes drilled into the Arab again.

“I offered to have him killed and you barked at me.” The Sheik was shaken. “Now, I’m in the wrong for suggesting a reeducation.”

“Then perhaps, you should just shut up and listen.” Bernard put his elbows on the table. He laced his fingers together at his chin and his thumbs idly stroked his beard. “Subtlety always earns a far greater reward than blunt actions.”

The Stryker CEO smiled at the three petrified faces and took four long satisfied breaths: it was as if he was inhaling the men’s fear as his favorite nourishment. Bernard already knew what the preferred course of action was but in his subtle way, he was maneuvering to have someone else suggest it.

“Subtlety is cleverly indirect.” Taylor took the high board plunge by quoting a dictionary definition: he hoped there was water in the pool underneath. As in death the life flashes before the eyes, Nick saw his but it was only the portion of it from the day he met young Larry Weeds, because this was the final death of a friendship. “The assassin’s success could be beneficial. Shiva alone would take the heat for it and in the aftermaths, portions of the file could show that Larry’s family was primarily responsible for Dallas too. All hands in the background would seem completely clean.”
“Shiva’s herbicide sprayer would eliminate our Weeds problem.” Bernard Stryker checked around the table looking for a dissenting expression. He noted that Lon Clark was observing the president’s Chief of Staff as if worried that Nick had another dagger for his back. “Shiva or his messenger will doubtlessly be capable of operating inside or outside the U.S. As history tends to repeat itself, I expect that a real assassination attempt will occur in the Ukrainian city of Kiev.” The CEO’s focus centered on Taylor. “Do what you can to make sure it’s allowed to happen but don’t make it obvious.”

“Yes, sir.” Nick’s normally stoic poker face displayed an etching of anticipation as he awaited the offer of the prize.

“If Weeds is killed, you’ll be the vice-president.” Bernard grinned. Soon-to-be-president Clark had just seen the slavering jowls poised ambitiously at his flank—and Stryker held the hyena’s leash.

Nick left the meeting after a meal that he barely tasted: the fresh blood had been served to the jackal before the food. Walking to his car, he drove a safe distance before retrieving the small recorder from his jacket pocket. Covertly taping a meeting at this level was a dangerous game. In this case, the payoff more than made up for the risks. The vice-presidency meant the top job too. Lon Clark’s health wouldn’t take him through a full term in office.

“I have a copy the results of his recent medicals.”[/private_Chevron]

Taylor kissed the audiocassette before tucking it into his pocket. That would go into the ultra secure Chief of Staff’s office safe. H.R. Haldeman should have kept this type of get-out-of-jail-free card in that safe when he was Nixon’s Chief of Staff.

Chapter 20 of Shiva’s Messenger

Snake’s Heads or Rat’s Tails

Shiva’s Messenger stood on a bluff overlooking the Spokane River, as it snaked through a green city setting on it’s slithering path to the Columbia. He had performed his “Hello, Alex Benson” ritual at his father’s mini-storage unit in nearby Idaho. His rental car was over his shoulder at the curbside wearing license plates that weren’t issued by the agent. Alex’s body was serene but his brain worked.

“I wonder who President Larry Weeds is coming here to see.” The inquiring minds of media wanted to know that as well but the answer wasn’t forthcoming. The White House told that he was visiting Spokane and information regarding his lodgings was also forthcoming but the reason was only listed as a scheduled meeting. “Why tell a little about a trip and then withhold the juicy bits. That’s like dangling a celebrity in front of a slavering pack of paparazzi.”

“Is this an unguarded lamb in security I imagine or a sly tiger trap poised to rip open when stepped on?” The president obviously had this slightly clandestine trip arranged but then decided to bait the assassin. In putting the itinerary into the open as a lure, without the mention of this would be a black hole in Larry’s agenda. The travel time alone spanned a return trip across the continent. Alex’s thoughts went back to a dollop of confusion that was recently dished into mind by his brain’s houseguest.

[A white sahib has a badshah but also elephants and beaters.]

Alex recalled his home educational work as supplemented by the Internet. The imperial British masters in India were the white sahibs and one sport they engaged in was tiger hunting. A badshah was a very high ranked personage as a prince but deferring to the colonial overlords. The badshah commanded the elephants to ride and the beaters to drive and contain the tigers.

“Was that just interesting trivia or valuable insight?” Shiva’s Messenger weighed his knowledge against the current question and it fit. For Sahib Weeds to get his game in the open, Badshah Taylor had to have an adequate supply of drummers and pachyderms. All, or at least most resources would be on the east coast pounding and trumpeting through the urban jungle there. Since the hunt came up unplanned, Sahib slips away for his previously scheduled quiet tea.

“Larry doesn’t expect to share his crumpets with more than just his mysterious fellow sahib.” Hauling in a badshah and his retinue wasn’t logistically sound. The president would be bringing his usual security and it might be beefed up but was that enough to catch Shiva’s tiger?

Alex now focused his eyes back on the vista. He drew out his city map and found the president’s hotel. Then, he plotted several avenues where a presidential entourage was likely to pass. As he drove away, Alex constructed a three-dimensional area model in his mind with shimmering webs of his plan running through it. “I only need him to travel by once and slow at the corner.”

From a non-descript hotel room, Alex regularly scanned the street with field glasses. He monitored the people and the traffic patterns. Some of the things he was watching for might not take place until the wee hours in the morning. He dozed often to conserve his energy and took regular walks to rebuild his stamina. The messenger paced himself for a round-the-clock vigil.

On one of these strolls he passed a homeless man seated in a small, grassed area. Spokane is large but not a mega-city. Alex actually recalled this same man walking up the bluff he had stood on. He only noticed because the man was wearing a heavy coat. It had seemed too big to suit the mild Pacific weather and it was definitely overdressed for climbing a hill. Alex had driven away before the hiker reached the summit but this time he fumbled in pocket for loose change.

They may be invisible to most people, but each has a story. His compassion for the plight of destitute people had grown stronger since meeting Audrey. The tribulations behind this man’s life on the streets weren’t apparent. He was probably in his mid to late forties and showed no obvious signs of substance abuse. If it weren’t for his clothes and unkempt grooming, Alex could have taken him for a healthy office worker. The man didn’t beckon for money so Alex didn’t intrude on his solitude.

[private_Chevron]“My living expenses are so minimal, I’m actually earning more by panhandling than I’m spending.” Carl Eckert watched also. He’d spotted this location and two other potential ones, after his nasty climb. He planned to wander between and watch the three places. “I will when my legs aren’t sore. I’m not built for mountaineering.”

Hamster Man watched but the physical layout of the area didn’t interest him as much as the older men did. Whenever he saw one obviously above the age of 60, Eckert approached for spare change. Carl searched their faces and especially the eyes for the ones he had memorized. He glanced up and saw the young man’s hand actively mining in his trouser pockets.

“Go give your cash to a crack-head.” The homeless man had developed a habit of regularly talking but muttering. From more than an arm’s swing distance, it was incomprehensible. Truthfully, people often saw him continuing a conversation alone, thought him crazy and gave him money without his actively panhandling. “Can’t you tell from by the belly that Hamster Man would just buy a sandwich with it anyways?”

Carl watched the young man pass and followed him with his gaze. For lack of other gainful pass-times, the unemployed man had taken up a mental game of guessing the occupation or current doings of the people he watched. Older folk were easy to judge. As one matures further into their business, they begin to look more like it: a butcher generally looks like one even without a blood-smeared apron. Eckert couldn’t connect this young guy with any specific job, as he seemed directionless.

“The primary pursuit at that age is trying to impress the girls.” Carl then banished him from mind. He wished he could chase the stiffness from his legs so easily. “I’ll try one round of my new beat to stretch out the old pins and see if I can’t find a fresh newspaper.”

There was a disquieting piece in the last one he read. According to the article, the White House was considering canceling the Spokane junket. Eckert hoped that was a smoke screen in hopes of dodging bad press and quelling questions regarding the purpose.

“He almost seems to be doing exactly what I’m doing—simply observing.” About four hours later, Carl saw the same boy emerging from the lobby of a mid-range hotel. No one else was up to anything interesting, so he watched from his inconspicuous location. The young man walked apparently aimlessly for several minutes. He stopped to examine one of the flower boxes that lined the street. The lad was mildly intriguing but Eckert was scouting for someone much closer to geriatric.

Hamster Man had an amusing thought and chuckled. A hand in his pants pocket found a cupped palm full of coinage. If the youth is doing what Carl was, he should learn the apprenticeship.
“If I see him again, I’ll give him a handful of spare change.“

…

“You’re going to be a minor threat soon and I have to neutralize you.” As he examined the street décor, Shiva’s Messenger spied the homeless man again and noticed the relocation since the last sighting. His set-up would start soon and a vagrant haunting the area could make it more difficult. A snippet of his father’s advice came to mind. ‘A way to remove a potential witness is to give some money, let them think of where to spend it.’ The young assassin walked methodically around the corner and then the accelerated to circle the block.

“It’s your lucky day.” With a fifty-dollar bill in hand, Alex came up stealthily behind the man and jolted him.

Startled, Carl wheeled rapidly around and his fistful of coins scattered like a farmer hand-sewing a crop wheat seeds.

Acting on reflex, Alex grabbed to catch the scattering coins but there were just to many of them. All he managed to do was to drop his own banknote. The fifty fluttered down towards the shiny coins dancing and bouncing on the cement sidewalk.

“Sorry.” Both men spoke together and also in unison, stooped quickly to collect the wide assortment of cash. Their heads solidly and painfully collided. The resulting ‘ouch’ was also sung as a duet.

Alex Benson straightened and rubbed at his injured forehead.

Hamster Man’s both hands were already massaging his noggin as he unbent, so his palms were as if playing peek-a-boo. The quip forming in his mind screeched to an abrupt halt, as he moved away his hands. Carl Eckert was looking into the eyes he’d been seeking and as his vision took in the whole face, it was nearly exact with the photo as well. The shadowy dog-faced man from the grassy knoll hadn’t matured a day in over 40 years and in fact he reverse aged. The man should be over 70, but he looked like only twenty.

“Let’s go only one—.” Alex was proposing a solution to avoid another cracking of their cranial billiard balls. The man’s expression went suddenly extreme but it was unreadable. “Are you hurt?”

“Colonel Vassily Orestovich Antenenko?” A name long frozen in history was as an avalanche from a lofty pitch of Carl’s voice.

“How do you know that name?” The cascade of syllables had swept Alex Benson to oblivion and John Fitzgerald stood frantically blinking. His head swirled both mentally and physically in seeking the tiger trap that must be springing. I was captured so completely unawares but who could’ve expected this unlikely badshah?

“You’re so young after all of these years?”

“Are you alone?” Where was the rest of the ambush? Beaters and elephants weren’t charging from the foliage.

“Vassily,” Carl grabbed an arm imploringly, “we have to talk.”

John hustled the homeless man to his hotel room without a further word. Inside, they stood and simply looked at each other. Both had trouble deciding what to say first.

“I’m Colonel Vassily Antenenko’s son.”

“Ah!” Carl paused, nodding sagely and he spoke as if to himself. “That explains why it’s ‘Shiva’s Messenger’ instead of ‘Shiva’ and why the apparent half century disparity from the photo.”

“How do you know my father’s name?” John stressed the word, hinting for his inclusion in the dialogue.

“I’ve spent too much time inside of my own head lately. Folks don’t engage cast-offs in conversations much, so we spend the time talking to ourselves or rambling.” Taking the time to answer all of John’s questions and more, Carl spilt the whole Hamster Man saga in one long monologue.

Transfixed, John listened to how the fingerprints triggered the file, about the vaporous Oval Office and how the ex-CIA vagabond had found him in Spokane when all the king’s cavalry were whipping their mounts in all the wrong directions.

“My game ended in a head butt.” Carl rubbed his forehead as if the words brought a memory of the shock. He smiled knowingly to finish his soliloquy.

“Mr. Hamster Man, your story is amazing.” John felt an instant kinship with the homeless man.
Yes, all indigents have stories but few this good. “Your windbreaker really turned away a fatal shot.”

“Carl ‘Hamster Man’ Eckert at your service.” Realizing that he hadn’t mentioned any other but his self-assigned nickname, Carl bowed respectfully, complete with a hand sweep. He then burst into spontaneous and heartfelt laughter. His mirth was so infectious that the boy couldn’t help but chortle as robustly with him. The situation was somewhat comical but Eckert’s real ecstasy was unburdening the tensions that had threatened from the first ominous crackling of dry old paper, in the CIA archives.

Interspersed between gusts of questions, John chronicled the abridged version of his journey to this seemingly fated meeting.

…

“Hi again, Alex Benson.” After sending Carl to fetch his gear from a bus terminal locker, the assassin resumed the persona that had been staggered out of existence at the mention of his father’s name. On a knock, Alex readmitted his new companion and accepted a return of his rental car’s keys.

“I’ve never seen what he looked like when he was younger.” The son read through the file on his father’s mission. On finishing, he studied the photo.

“Your uncanny family resemblance explains my confusion.” His observation was based on the visual but Carl believed it ran deeper. The offspring carried the many other shared characteristics of the parent. Perhaps, even distilled to a more potent brew.

“Pick any page.” Setting his palm flat on the papers, Alex swiveled his wrist to fan them out like a poker hand. “It would make headlines for a year! Why didn’t you simply go to a newspaper?”

“I thought about that but decided against it.” Eckert recalled his revelation on the media. “The public might not take it well in the raw form and especially not from an unconfirmed source. Many would question the authenticity so it couldn’t completely resolve Kennedy’s murder. Meanwhile, Mr. Larry Weeds would still know that I could connect him with the file. Leaking the story wouldn’t protect me. It would just fit me out with a super-sized bull’s eye jacket.”

“Even as is, you’re lucky to be free and still alive.” Alex smiled at a mental picture of Carl standing atop the bluff wearing his heavy overcoat but with a florescent target. “Surely they’ve circulated your photo and fingerprints.”

“I planted evidence to suggest that I might have committed suicide.” Carl smirked at his potentially cannibalistic demise.

“So why did you come looking for me or rather for my father?”

“If you were killed or captured in Akron, I would’ve received the file but I’m not sure what I could’ve done. Probably, I would’ve sent it up the chain of command, only to die mysteriously later. Escaping after making a huge statement, you changed everything. I could go to the Oval Office and expect Larry would be compelled to release the material as I hoped. He’d be badly burned but lighting a bomb’s gunpowder to have it flare is less fatal than having it detonate and you were the fuse that he couldn’t clip off.”

“That’s understandable but it still doesn’t answer my question.”

“When I left the White House my martini was shaken but not stirred.” Carl grinned at how James Bond’s favorite drink fit the use so well. “I could surmise that the Kennedy controversy would now be ended and my own demise under odd circumstances was averted. I took your deliberately signing Akron with your thumbprint as a clear indication that you also had this file. The grim reaper waiting at my home was a strongly worded memo stating the president believed differently and so had decided not to fizzle the ordinance. My option was to only pray you had the information or deliver it to you in person and since I wasn’t gainfully employed otherwise—here I am.”

“The president was right. I didn’t have it but my father hinted that a lost one might exist.” Alex pondered briefly. The Shiva file was of doubtlessly high impact but it didn’t mesh with his current scenario. “What could I do with it that you weren’t able to?”

“Ah.” The homeless man smiled expansively. “I thought you would come to that query. At my first glimpse, I knew this had to be come from the top. Just now you’re the highest alternate pinnacle to the president’s peak. Having the real Dallas assassin delivering the goodies in person, renders the reliability issue as moot.”

“Hello, I’m the dog-faced man’s puppy-snouted son. See what I’ve been paper trained on!” Alex laughed off the non-feasibility of immediate action but added the course to his growing list of items requiring further mental analysis. He closed the file. “I’m not able to add this to my Spokane agenda but where does this put you and I?”

“I’m in need of employment,” in his rags the applicant grinned sheepishly, “but I abandoned my previous position without giving proper notice, so I don’t expect a favorable reference.”

“Hmmm,” Alex scratched his chin thoughtfully, “you’re so highly motivated, that I might not even have to pay you. That makes you the perfect employee. I do have the one opening but it’s specialized and requires previous farting in the Oval Office experience.”

“An attitude like that doesn’t make you the optimum employer but I’ll still take the position. It can’t help but be much more exciting than my last job. I hope the subsistence allowance is better than my current.” Carl added, “I imagine there’s a short-list of White House flatulence experts for headhunters to draw from.”

“Unfortunately, you may not get any on the job training this time out. The current news is that Spokane could end up cancelled.”

“I guarantee the Spokane junket will go ahead.” Carl offered insight gained from his many free hours of speculation. “If it were to be scrubbed it would’ve been, instead of just wiggling hints. Talk of cancellation is only to throw the hounds off the scent of why the trip was set. I’m certain that Weeds will meet with the ultra-rich head of Wall Soft Systems. Doubtlessly, the chatting will be in regards to possible campaign contributions. Even fear of assassination won’t keep Larry Weeds from attending that one as arranged.”

Alex Benson smiled widely. His reunion with both Cindy and Jessica had been the last thing that he ever would have planned. Shiva’s Messenger and Hamster Man wouldn’t have quite literally bumped into one another either.

Contrary to Eckert’s deductions, thoughts of the president’s possible vulnerability here occurred after Alex was already on his route. He initially chose Spokane only for its handy location from Creston after Sam’s advice to establish misdirection. Unlike the CIA game player’s attempts to think like an assassin, Shiva’s Messenger was one and professional killers go in for the shots. Alex would’ve found an opening even in the tougher spots. Unless a subtle other mysterious force was giving nudges, Carl Eckert just hit it lucky.

So did I. Now Alex had a dedicated assistant from one amazing irony. He also had a file that could turn out useful, though he didn’t yet know how. A scheming policeman’s gunshots on the outskirts of Akron were as beneficial as the one that the sniper gave Judith Forrester. My posthumous thank you, Officer J.D. Tippet.

…

On the night before, a light standard decoration several blocks away inexplicably disappeared. City crews blamed vandalism and simply scheduled it for replacement. Had they still thought Larry Weeds was actually visiting, the incident may have merited notice. Alex Benson had already rented a long-term storage unit that was swiftly transformed into a workshop.

“Why didn’t you just kill him when you had the chance?” While working on a banner together, Carl couldn’t resist the query.

“If I told you that,” Alex dropped his pitch and adopted an air of the macabre, “I would be forced to kill you afterwards.”

“Ayeeee!” Carl badly blotched the letter he was painting. “A lot of people can get away with saying that sort of thing in jest. I’m afraid that you’re definitely not one of them.”

“Are you completely sure I was kidding?” It was nice to have some friendly banter while the props were being prepared.

“Just forget that I asked.” His new employer was nothing like Carl could ever have envisioned. It was difficult to imagine that someone so affable could look at a man through a scope and then pull the trigger. Therein lay Shiva’s Messenger’s latent danger. He would have a cheerful and innocent smile on his face at dinner, right up to the second that the intended victim had a fork embedded in his skull. The deceased would never have seen it coming.

Carl watched his employer getting a new section of paper roll to replace the ruined one and wondered if Alex could switch off his deadliness just as fast as he forgot a damaged sign. Would he casually turn from that victim, now face down in mashed potatoes, and thank the hostess for the lovely meal, before he sauntered out?

The featured assassin in Eckert’s fanciful tracking game was a man so cold that the aura around him froze blood in nearby veins. Alex didn’t exude any violence at all. Despite the implied threats in fun, Carl felt no danger to himself. Quite the reverse—he had never felt safer. The boy proved his capabilities in Akron and just his presence made a presidential death decree seem inconsequential.

“Hmmm,” Alex was studying the activation mechanisms.

“What’s the matter?” Carl peered over his shoulder.

“Just trying to figure out how to operate this from a distance. I don’t intend to expose myself this time by shooting at it.”

“Use the servo units from a radio control airplane model.” Carl had filed several reports where field agents used that exact method.

“You’re brilliant!” Alex took only a nanosecond to see the merit in his partner’s proposal. The tiny electric motors that moved the rudder and elevators would be ideal.

Carl departed for a hobby shop to pick up a couple kits for his nephew’s birthday present, while Alex returned for a brief stop at his mini-storage unit in Idaho for some other special necessities.

…

The 747 jumbo aircraft was named Air Force One whenever a President was aboard and it bore that designation today in a flight to Washington State. Larry Weeds relaxed in a seat and mused at the strange circumstances causing him to actually hope for an attempt on his life. The president recalled his last chat with Nick Taylor.

“The Shiva Task Force is following evidence ropes that skinny down to spider strand ends wafting in the breeze.” The chief of staff had said.

“They’re only looking for a young man that had been in Akron.” Weeds pointed out the flaw in the Task Force’s data. “Fingerprints on the bullet belonged to the Dallas Shiva and he would be old.”

“If you can suggest how to communicate our facts to the FBI without disclosing knowledge of the file then give it to me but I can’t think of one.” Nick had first shut the door for finality, the opened it a crack. “I offered them my thoughts that an accomplice was indicted. Why else would the casing with the print be a mismatch? The man on the roof could’ve just thumbed a spent one. Instead, he carried the special one with him. I specifically mentioned the co-conspirator could be any age and even much older.”

“The FBI looking for two is alright,” Weed’s felt comfort, “even though we know it’s only the one.”

“Unless the Dallas operative found the fountain of youth, then he is working with a protégé.” Nick witnessed a renewed panic as the president felt his peril redoubled. “That’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s better. Where could the gifted assassin of the file find one so qualified and deadly as he was? Catching the lesser apprentice during his next attempt is our rainbow’s golden pot.”

“Then I can methodically defuse the Shiva file by the controlled dissemination to close the whole Dallas episode!” Larry Weeds had smiled at that. His friend’s description of an assassination scheme with the positive slant made it seem desirable and gold was exactly what this Pacific Northwest trip was about. Weeds anticipated a profitable meeting both for his campaign fund and to enrich the quality of his post-political life

“We have to catch him first.” Taylor had stated the obvious. “The speeches and photo ops here have honed our defenses. “We got the several copycats that tried and it was easy as straight fly balls.”

“My buddy Nick is my perfect companion for tiger hunting.” Back in Air Force One, Larry blessed the fortunate day when he chanced upon the one man that he could trust implicitly. Who could’ve anticipated such a random occurrence? His old friend also wouldn’t be where he was without having ridden the coattails of his lifelong chum. Larry could comfortably rely on loyalty of necessity. “I just have to make enough noise to draw the cat from the jungle.”

The analogy was spoken to comfort him but the effect was the exact opposite. Tigers had teeth, claws and were man-eaters.[/private_Chevron]

…

“You’re all spiffy for a date with a lady lawyer.” Eldon Browning regretted the statement on its utterance. He had remarked on the uncharacteristic and decidedly feminine appearance of his partner. He tried to cover his non-liberal quip. “Should I have broken off some comb tines in my curly mop?”

“I’m not even a switch-hitter so put your notebook away. I even enjoy looking like a girl again after I finish my shifts.” Beth Withers chuckled as she read his mind. After flying to the closest airport, the FBI team had taken rooms where Beth had carefully fretted over her appearance. She explained the motive behind her visual change.

“A bartender in Windsor said his name was Yuri. In Winnipeg he was Garcia and Roger with each persona having a different look and feel. In Akron it was Allen Powers and Wright.” Agent Withers didn’t include her burgeoning new belief that his apparent behavioral patterns would be different than the Allen she knew, if discussed with Judith. “The assassin is a chameleon but he takes that lizard a further step. His colors change and so does his technique for catching flies with his tongue.”

“There’s a better chance of finding him through that,” Eldon nodded his approval, “than we do in measuring the gaps in between his double-taps.”

“Darcy Leach spent business moments with him and I got some good details from her. Jessica Ellis spent intimate days with him.” Again the young agent failed to mention a critical fact. Beth too had enjoyed quality time with him but as yet, only her Task Force boss was privileged with that knowledge. “I want what’s in her head and I’m dressed to see if I can cajole what happened in her boudoir.

“I’d love to be a fly on the wall and you can even tick off closet voyeur on your Eldon’s foibles check sheet.” The male agent soon found the small town’s only lawyer’s office. “Can I at least fit you out with a wire in case you suddenly require a big burly backup?”

[private_Chevron]“What brings the Secret Service to Creston, pretending to be the FBI.” Jessica Ellis leapfrogged over the small talk phase as she ushered the agent into her office. She had carefully watched the news and so knew Beth by sight.

“It’s hard to remain non-descript with your picture smiling from magazine stands.” Beth hoped a rendition of her standard platitude could warm the decidedly frosty temperature. “My transfer to the FBI is a rewarding career move.”

“I see you also enjoy being a plainclothes unit now,” the young lawyer smiled sweetly, “and not wearing those frumpy bags.”

“That’s a plus.” Agent Withers burned from the barb disguised in veil of a very thin complement. The women were both still standing near the door as the exchange had occurred immediately. Beth’s eyes swept a decidedly masculine interior. The agent’s pan of the room finished with her eyes on the more comfortable furniture. “You have lovely rich wooden décor in here. May we sit?”

“It’s more suited to a mortuary and that’s the last place I saw the previous tenant.” Jessica noted where her guest’s eyes fell and she moved to sit behind her desk instead. “I have a designer booked to gut it. You didn’t say why Creston interests the FBI.”

“Your previous employer’s murderer wasn’t apprehended and we believe he may be operating in the U.S.” Beth took a strait backed chair as it was positioned opposing the desk. It wasn’t as conducive to the bubbly female sharing session she planned but neither was the interview starting off promising in that way either.

“The police have my statements.” Jessica could easily fathom precisely why the agent was here. She opted for a strategy—tell the truth and most importantly nothing but the already known truth. Her sideline goal would be cautiously prizing as much information as she could out of the info seeker. “Since trans-border police services enjoy a French-neck and tell relationship, you’ve likely read them.”

“Those were general details. I’m more interested in an account of your impressions.” Agent Beth Withers had fussed over her hair, make-up and clothes. She had done as well as possible, given the limited resources in her traveling kit. Still, she felt like a bag lady as compared with the stunning Jessica, dressed to the nines—or even elevens. Even if I spent my next five paychecks on my wardrobe and an extreme makeover, I couldn’t match her. The young agent was also a very attractive woman but just now she was somewhat demoralized and overly self-critical. “Intangibles don’t transcribe well onto paper so I came in person.”

“Then ask away.” The lawyer noted the agent’s eyes moving and a subtle shift in her expression. That’s a point for me. Human males can intimidate others of their gender with physical strength, size and prowess. Females of the species are similarly able to exert dominance on other women with their apparent desirability to males. Jessica had worked even harder than her opponent to achieve an overwhelming superiority and it worked. “But intangibles that don’t fit into words can’t be made into verbal sentences either.”

“What was he like?” Beth took a rather deep breath and held it briefly. The agent visually compared chest size with her rival but she didn’t stack up to the lawyer there either. I carry a gun though.

“I had a great time.” Without giving specifics and with some prompting, Jessica finished her recounting. Like a travelogue, it had been long on scenery but short on the succulent flavors.
“Finally, he stood me up in a Calgary restaurant. I returned to Creston to learn of the murders.”

“Did he take you to the bull riding and steer wrestling?” On her mentioning Calgary, Beth’s mind flashed to the famous stampede and she had to suppress a rush of envy.

“That’s a July event. Romero and I were there in the fall.” Jessica had to remind herself to use the name she previously knew John as.

“Oh, I didn’t know that.” Slightly disappointed, the agent also felt slightly abashed. While Canadians she’d met often showed a deep knowledge of what occurred South of the 49th parallel, the reciprocal awareness was much less. Beth didn’t even realize the rodeo was only a seasonal thing and she was usually passionate about that kind of sports event. She had noted though, that the hotels she stayed at carried as many American channels as Canadian and in fact more.

Agent Withers had questioned Jessica for over two hours. With the answers precisely tuned to questions, Ms. Ellis was infuriating in leaving no dangling threads for Beth to cling to and follow. Each further query was like starting an entirely new line.

“I’m afraid this is taking more time than I expected. I hope that you’re able to accommodate me.” I have all the time I need Miss Jessica Ellis and I’ll wring it out one tidbit at a time if needs be. Beth shifted in a chair that grew increasingly more uncomfortable.

“Since I intend to bill the FBI for my time, take all of it that you wish.” Squirm on that, government agent girl.

“You can’t charge for this! It’s a federal investigation!”

“We are in Canada, Agent Withers. What is the United States government to me but a foreign client?”

“Fine!” Her voice betrayed that it was anything but fine. The agent read the lawyer’s seemingly calm face as looking smug on a good knowledge that reconciling this claim expense was going to be a pain. Canadians can also be exasperating—when using the info gained from snooping over the fence.

“Then shall we make ourselves more comfortable?” Jessica indicated a hand to the other furniture. Her butt could use a break from the plush recliner, so the agent’s bottom must be brutalized. “I could have my staff bring us coffee.”

“I’m okay.” Beth moved to the sofa but would feel somewhat guilty wasting the taxpayer’s money on refreshments at a lawyer’s hourly rates. As Jessica walked to join her, the agent’s mind took a different stroll. Agent Withers could see what he saw in her, such a face and body would lure any man. What she didn’t understand was what drew her to him? Allen had a simplistic openness but with a wide knowledge base, as a classically educated Homer Simpson. Maybe the lawyer wanted a man to lead by a nose ring to serve the same function as a bull. Allen’s personality couldn’t make a thrilling mental playmate for this obviously sharp-witted girl.

Being each so very different, almost as hockey players are to figure skaters, how could she and Jessica possibly find the same guy stimulating? The alternative could be that he was a chameleon in the bedchamber as well. That would merit Beth’s further interrogation and she mined deeper into that seam of ore.

“You haven’t mentioned the nature of offenses that brought the FBI to Canada,” Jessica casually asked after another half hour and then she dropped the hammer, “but unless Romero is an interstate gigolo, your persistent probing towards my sexual experiences with him seems more of personal curiosity than of professional interest.”

“My Bureau is paying for your information,” Agent Withers shot back but her eyes widened like blue pools set amid the flowering poppy fields of her cheeks, “it’s our business what we do with it.”

Jessica stared at the blushing girl and all the various swallows flew to nest under her barn’s roof. Agent Withers knew John and probably even intimately! The young lawyer was uncertain if she should be angry or break out laughing at the unlikely pairing. Was a Secret Service girl in a horizontal body guarding position with an assassin? Why else would a new agent be the lead investigator over the well-seasoned one in the outer office? The particular case she was obviously working on fit, as had her ploys at digging for personal details. Does she think John shot her purposely?

As a curious cat after sniffing too closely at a mousetrap, Beth tried swatting back with an ineffective paw. Her attempted next few sharp questions were blunted by lingering embarrassment.

“We have to go!” Suddenly, Eldon Browning burst into the office. “Shots have been fired in Spokane! Shiva’s Messenger has probably struck at the president again.”

The lawyer and the FBI agent stood simultaneously and for a shortened moment, stared at each other. The only things these two women had in common were a man, gender, language and now, a concern about what was happening just south of the border. Even the cause of disquiet though, was another factor in how the two were so different.

“Mail me the bill.” Beth departed at a hurried pace but took one glance back from the door. If crafty Cleopatra didn’t know I’ve been with Marc Anthony, she does now and I had my asp handed to me.

As is often the case, the interviewed had learned as much as the interrogator. There was Cindy, herself, Darcy a tiny bit, obviously Judith Forrester and now Beth as well. Physical intimacy was likely, Jessica knew his draw there but it really didn’t matter. He got close enough to do his mischief on Beth. She saw the emerged pattern.[/private_Chevron]

“John simply can’t resist testing sharp women’s edges.” The lawyer recalled Romero’s intentional taunts with news of her status and pay raise. He impertinently sticks out his tongue just to see how we’ll react but Agent Withers got her dosage differently. “Beth had a schoolgirl’s crush on the cute boy in the desk behind. She swooned as he skipped away giggling, then found her ponytail in his inkwell.”

Chapter 19 of Shiva’s Messenger

Piñata of the Inquisition

John woke up gradually, still strapped to the kitchen table. When he had blinked his eyes for the first time, his lips were dry. A gentle hand had held his face and poured some water into his mouth. Most had spilled down his chin. The events of the past few days slowly came back to him.

On a zigzag course, always going west but with jogs north and south, he’d outdistanced any pursuit and closed in on the national boundary. His dash across the border was purposely timed for a peak period at a busy crossing. Canadian customs should be an unnecessary formality and often is. Who would want to smuggle out of the U.S.?

Sunlight was streaming into the kitchen window as he opened his eyes. Even before his pupils adjusted, a figure like an ethereal angel bathed in a halo of radiance approached, to moisten his lips again. His eyes focused and the seraph was Jessica. He had felt the presence of her voice but had thought it was part of a dream.

With a woman he loved on either side propped under his arms for support, he walked at their urging to a bed. He tried to speak but his voice wouldn’t answer the call.

“You need more sleep.” Cindy’s fingers stilled his lip’s efforts as she offered her prescription.
On one of the few lucid times in his early recovery, he’d asked for the name John instead of Roger or Romero. They in turn, had filled in the gaps of how they came to both be here together so unexpectedly. Now in the day following his surgery, Jessica helped him to eat some hearty soup but he ate as slowly as possible because he could see the girls were on the edges of their seats. There is a tempest of questions looming on the near horizon and I can’t see any shelter for the answers.

“What is your official name?” Cindy waited until a last mouthful went down then gave the eggshell a rap with the heel of a spoon.

“I don’t have anything official.” John’s thoughts raced. Father, please insert advice here. I’d even accept a cryptic Shiva gem. The internal pleas were barely past his brain’s lips when he realized the hitcher had advance paid his passage with a coin. Bhairava and his atonement bowl.

In Hindu lore, Shiva has another manifestation called Bhairava and while in that form, he beheaded his father Brama. The young John had mercy killed his as well. The guilt crazed Bhairava held his father’s skull and it transformed into a begging bowl. Atonement was finally found in the holy city of Benares but there was a lesson for the now and here. Absolution couldn’t be given until asked for.

How much baggage have I been packing from my dad’s death? Retrospectively, he could see the amount required a trailer hitch on his bumper. He was afraid to let people get too close. It wasn’t just to protect his mission, as he rationalized it to his consciousness, he was avoiding his own possible hurt. Existing in a space wasn’t living a life but contact with souls was. I have to check some luggage with a porter. I can answer their questions. Cindy and Jessica deserved no less than the truth. His habitual inclinations however, would still make it as sparingly as practical.

“I was born in a cabin in the far north.” Just that first sentence seemed to lighten his burden. “My father intentionally didn’t register my birth. There are no records of me anywhere in the bureaucracy. No one has my fingerprints or a sample of my DNA. That’s why I can’t ever go to a hospital. The closest thing I’ve ever had to a real name is the one my father called me by, John Fitzgerald.”

“Why would he do that?” Jessica took her turn at working a butter knife into the piggybank. It seemed to her that the worst kind of identity theft would be not providing an initial one.

“That’s a story that started long before I was even born.” John winced, as she nailed a critical inquiry. “My father committed an act on behalf of his governments. In return, they betrayed him. He escaped and swore to get his revenge. I’m his weapon.”

“You don’t have to do your father’s bidding.” Cindy bristled. If that were his motivation on her behalf, she would rescind tentative faith in him. “You’re a man of your own free will.”

“I made him a solemn vow and that was my choice.” Shaken at the way her voice had changed suddenly, John suspected he knew why. “Vengeance and weapon were the wrong words. They don’t suit his intent. Rather, I’m to be his tool to make amends and I will hold true to my oath.”

“What is your overall quest?” Jessica found a tasty trove and used a mallet on his walnut.

“That’s really the crux, isn’t it?” John took a cavernous breath. Two sets of eyes were each double-tapping his forehead. “I’m going to kill a man.”

“You’ve already killed many.” The lawyer was quick to point out. “Here in Creston, then Winnipeg, Windsor and Akron.”

“Why do you think I did those?” His brow furrowed on the admission of knowledge they shouldn’t have. Do I talk in my sleep?

“They had your personality etched in like a vandal’s signature in concrete.” The young woman explained. “My friend, Darcy Leach also confirmed that a Roger Connors was there in the periphery.”
“Do the police know what you do?” His trail had apparently not been very well concealed. Bound to make errors occasionally, his last line of defense was that there was a point where all trails would ultimately disappear. Even John’s real identity wasn’t factual.

“Neither of us said anything and locally, the RCMP couldn’t tell headquarters from hindquarters without both hands and a flashlight.” The scofflaw lawyer giggled. “Still, if we could figure it out, maybe others else can too but no one has asked us pertinent questions.”

“Thank you.” Cindy and Jessica may be subtle supporters,

“You’re welcome.” Jessica glanced over at her pensive cohort then returned the spotlight of inquisition back to her witness. “You evaded my crux question. Doctor Cindy may have sworn an oath, to do no harm but I haven’t. I’m not above poking a fingernail into your painful wounds. Now, what remains to be accomplished?”

“I’m to kill another president.” On second thought, one of them is a vindictive backer. John thought Shakespeare had stated it best. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ He might even be forced into knit sweaters with all the wool pulled over a certain ewe’s eyes.

“Then why didn’t you?” Jessica and the whole world knew that the golden ring had been right there for his trigger finger.

“The time wasn’t right.” John balked. Sins contemplated in the future had no place in the confessional today. His mind skipped to a paraphrasing of Judith’s dis-inspiring sermon. The vice-president is worse. Were he not absorbed in counting antler points on the other trophies, the season in Akron would’ve closed before opening. In fact, the man-hunter now wondered if he even had the appropriate quarry tag for the game specified on his license?

“The most earth-shattering thing my dad ever asked me to do,” Jessica grinned at her recollection because she hadn’t obeyed the order, “was to dump an older boyfriend when I was in grade 8.”

John just smiled. This isn’t turning out so badly. All Jessica really got him to do was to confirm some things she already knew.

[private_Chevron]“Your father was the real assassin in Dallas.” Cindy reared back and took an overhand swing at the coconut with her biggest sledgehammer. She’d been quietly adding up the numerous telling references. His real name, a betrayal by governments and another president were the biggest ones that sent her mind tumbling to the conclusion. There was probably only one spectacular justification big enough for a father to place such a colossal duty on his son.

“Yes, he was.” The thunderous reverberation of his whispered admission even stirred the dust motes in a shaft of afternoon sunlight. With the tissue piñata shattered wide open, it spilled more succulent candies than either sweet tooth could savor all at once.

…

“I’m starting to yearn for those halcyon days when nobody knew who you were.” Nelly joked to her boss as she set papers on the desk. “Now, I need someone manning the phones just to deliver a list of all the calls we’ve had to turn down.”

Judith’s career couldn’t be going better. Her popularity took a huge jump in the polls due to her elevated visibility. It was almost certain now that she would be the senior representative for her district, replacing the slain Thomas Albertson. Some of the causes and interest camps that she did support were starting to notice her as a contender. Coinage was finally starting to replace the cobwebs in her campaign fund.

“I work both of us too hard.” Judith Forrester found the excuse she’d been looking for to take a break. “Sit and talk with me.”

“How’s the chest injury?” The congresswoman’s oldest and most trusted aide inquired as she moved to the sofa.

“I barely even notice it.” Judith’s hand absentmindedly touching the spot seemed to contradict. Allen’s parting gift to elevate her visibility, it had also been to set up his escape plan. He had even driven her to the hospital. “It’s funny, I’m eager to see it as a scar.

“Old bullet wounds aren’t generally the character badges that a respectable lady cares to display.” Nelly chuckled at the small irony.

“It’ll be a memento like a treasured charm on a bracelet.” The years of friendship allowed Judith to talk with Nelly, as she could never do in public. Her relationship with Allen wasn’t even off limits.

“We both know his excellent reasons for shooting my shoulder. What is unfathomable is why Allen didn’t kill the president. Pundits have generally settled on a speculation, that the Messenger posted warning shots. The last especially, was intended to be a boot in the pants for attention. If aimed as a wake-up call then Larry’s finger is wedged firmly on the snooze button.”

“Oh, you’re in one of those moods.” Nelly sighed in pretended exasperation. She enjoyed these periodic sessions as much as Judith needed them to assist her thinking. “Let me zoom out and get the coffee.”

“How would I function without you?” The woman watched her aide hurry out. Nelly’s return was so quick that if the carpet were linoleum and her shoes were socks, the woman would’ve skidded into the wall trying to navigate the sharp corner. “Where were we?”

“Was it about the president’s wife holding true to the conjugal bed,” Nelly urged, “and the first bullet being unfaithful.”

“Maybe he’s trying to offset the embarrassment of the assassin’s deeming him insignificant.” Judith took up at a point between where she had been and Nelly’s incorrigibility was. “He’s displaying more bravado than usual.”

“At the cost of the taxpayer’s nickel.” Nelly noted Weeds had quickly put through an appropriation to increase his protection. “The number of POTUS detail agents should be now enough to form the roof of a superdome over him.”

“I don’t feel like talking about him.” The politician smiled “Let the chief of staff mind the president’s business.”

“It’s been quite a week.” Nelly sipped her beverage. “Like a media earthquake with the epicenter in Akron. Then the aftershocks kept coming piecemeal as particulars emerged.”

“If I wasn’t riding so high on the shockwave of the initial event, the news slipping out that Allen Powers worked for me, might have jostled me into a sinkhole. Now even the rumbling innuendo of my possible collusion may add support from disenchanted voters.”

“Reaction to media exposures makes political science more like alchemy.” Nelly couldn’t remember where or even if she heard this before but it did seem to fit.

“Some seem to think its thaumaturgy.” Judith chuckled at a theory she heard espoused by a supposedly shrewd analyst. “The one asinine commentator suggested the close call was an attempt to affect a change in the administrative policy. A terrorist can’t be seen to have any sway.

“Too true,” the aide agreed, “and Weeds would especially allow a city block to be leveled instead of changing the color of his socks.”

“There goes one more cause discounted and I’m still no closer to why Allen didn’t when he could’ve, would’ve and should’ve”

“How can anyone know what moves an assassin?” Nelly had a brief vision of the young man she really liked. “Especially when we had no way of knowing that he was one.”

“That’s it!” Judith perked up so abruptly that her cup nearly spilled. “I couldn’t, because his goal was so farfetched that my mind didn’t stretch to it. Factoring in what’s now known may make my results accurate.”

“Run with it girl!” Nelly sat back to listen and watch. Her job was now to nudge only if her boss sputtered.

“Why did he come to me in the first place? The one obvious benefit was to gain familiarity with the forthcoming event.” Judith tended to think best in the mouth over the mind. “He could’ve gotten that information working generally, without courting me specifically.”

“Why indeed?” The aide watched the thoughtful puzzling for a pause: then she stoked the fire.

“He wanted my expertise to condone his actions.” Judith then recalled their discussion about the speaker’s list. “His shots chose some of my least favorite politicians and almost in order of ranking.”

“It’s too bad the V.P. wasn’t there.”

“That’s the key to the enigma.” Judith’s nodded affirmatively. Suddenly, all the shots made sense. “It was my fault Allen didn’t kill the president after all his planning on doing just that. I couldn’t understand his sly motivations but I monkey-wrenched them. Larry Weeds may not need the extra security while the VP is alive.”

“Please don’t hint to the Secret Service that they should tighten up coverage on Lon Clarke.” The aide humorously dissuaded.

“It wasn’t shyness when I set up the date with Beth. He was petrified!” Judith didn’t respond to the quip because she hadn’t heard it. The gas was turned up on her inspirational burners and she forgot Nelly was there. “I had made a self-promise to comprehend lewd offer. Today is that day!”

“He only told lies when they were necessary.” The woman took some instances to recall and the pattern fit. With vision fully given to her mind’s eye, Judith could’ve been staring at Nelly and not seen her. In fact, she almost was. “The rest of the time he was honest about—everything! I couldn’t envision someone with no ulterior design but he had everything he wanted from me already. Why offer so unreservedly, with nothing to gain?”

“His was simply a beautiful, whole-hearted complement.” The normally slightly staid woman’s face lit up like a teenaged girl after a first backseat kiss. “His offer was genuine but he knew I wouldn’t accept it. Then in that brief pause of contemplation, an illusionary sexual affair was consummated. He puffed the imaginary cigarette and both were mental realities unsullied by physicality.”

“I’m jealous.” The aide reminded her boss that she was there.

“Nelly?” The congresswoman then suddenly realized that she was not alone and her cheeks flushed. This material was potentially more explosive and exposing than any shared before.

“I know you won’t ask me to confirm my confidentiality but in this instance you really should. Judith, whatever you say around me in private will always stay only in my head.” Nelly laughed. “Right now though, it’s blistering my libido too. I wouldn’t have said no.”

“It’s just not fair.” Judith’s color returned to normal. “I finally found the decoder ring but the enigma machine has disappeared. I would love to be able to crack open that assassin’s skull and spoon out thoughts like a 4-minute yoke.”

…

“Humans are amazing creatures.” John considered his recent relationship with the two especially astounding women. Cindy was now a respected medical doctor again. She firmly believed in the sanctity of life and had taken a Hippocratic oath to that effect. I’m an assassin that has and will kill again. Jessica was a barrister, committed to the rule of law as mandated by the political system. I’m a denizen of the world but a citizen of no country, so only my father’s code applies to me. Each woman knew exactly what he was. They should share no common ground but here they were sharing a period of tranquil home life.

Initially John had been treated as the invalid that he was. Cindy and Jessica had taken it upon themselves to nurse him back to health. They had taken turns calling in sick to stay with him chatting, watching TV, tending and fetching while he had been confined to the bed or the couch. Jessica had moved into the spare bedroom with him. In the evenings, the three of them enjoyed quiet domestication and discussions together where the one topic of what he was planning next was the only firm taboo.

“I had a horrifying day at the Hospital.” The three were seated casually around the television but none were particularly watching. Cindy recounted of a young child in her care that had passed away. There was no fault. It was just a sad occurrence in life.

“Oh no!” Jessica bewailed and tears welled up in empathy.

“Nothing could’ve prevented it.” John spoke flatly and phrased his remark so Cindy could take it as a comment or question as she wished. He wasn’t quite sure how he was expected to react. Perhaps his grief wasn’t sufficient to the occasion but he didn’t feign more than he felt.

“I think that’s what was the most troubling about the episode.” Cindy stared at the young assassin. In his disclosure, John had told them about mercy killing his own father.

Jessica had been shocked and Cindy mortified. A short debate with no winner had ensued but the doctor had the unusual sensation that she and the young lawyer felt more grief at the passing of man they never met, than John did and it was the dad he loved dearly. His seeming lack of regard for human life perhaps enabled his work but it was something she couldn’t condone. Cindy knew she had to arrive at a decision about him soon.

“What was?” Jessica chirped up. Cindy’s statement was yet unresolved and the lawyer couldn’t read what, if anything, was passing between them in the look.

“The mother’s grief.” The doctor continued both an elaboration and her evaluation of the young man. “She was intensely sorrowful of course but not as grief stricken as I would’ve been.”

“I trust she wasn’t as dispassionate about death as Mr. Heart-breaking Life-taker here.” Jessica now believed she understood the look and tried to make light to preserve a sense of unity.

“Certainly nothing so drastic as that.” Cindy smiled and then she grew serious again. “Yet I’m wondering if her philosophy could lean further towards his, than it does towards mine and why.”

“He is present and not just an anatomically correct mannequin. He can be spoken to rather than about.” John then asked. “Was she Hindu, Sikh, Buddhist, Islamic or possibly even Parsi?”

“I didn’t inquire. What difference could it be? A child’s death is the most devastating possible loss, in any faith.”

“Faith wouldn’t change anything as each adheres to an afterlife concept but religion would.” John had spent one vacation of living in India with his father for three months. “Perhaps her doctrines teach the Parable of the Mustard Seed.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” Jessica didn’t attend church either.

“It’s a recounting of Buddha’s wisdom.” John told it full but the story’s kernel was of a woman coming to terms with her child’s death when she finds that all families have suffered losses. The ending was a poignant line. “The living are few but the dead are many.”

“You’ve just told me that story and now I know it.” Cindy gave it thought in a pause. “The intensity of my grief won’t change from it.”

“I don’t suggest it would but a cultural predisposition is much more powerful than an individual’s. You grow up believing and the people close to you do as well. It’s engrained in your social being. Dogma forms the heritage that molds people. Faith is only comfort.”

“So which of those is yours?” The girl impishly inquired of his list. “My grandmother would wear out her rosary beads if she knew I was doing bedroom time with a non-catholic.”

“None.” Though his answer was for Jessica, it impacted more profoundly on Cindy. Her forehead crinkled slightly as if tasting tart lemonade. The doctor then went quiet for some time and the talk casually ranged to other topics.

“By planning his attack to employ a government weapon,” yet another expert was taking a stab at vivisecting for the television audience, “Shiva’s Messenger intends to suggest that controlling the purchase of firearms, is ineffectual in curbing gun crimes.”

“Yes, I’m so happy that my subtle message in support of the second amendment has finally been discovered. Not having to tote in a sniper rifle was only a slight side-benefit. I’m disappointed that no one has deduced the font style I used lettering my banner, was really to profess my favorite brand of cola.”

“It’s your own fault.” Jessica chuckled at the decidedly over-extended story. “You were the one that chose a rare moment in history when absolutely nothing else newsworthy was due to occur.”

“I’m starting to think these specialists don’t get paid for their services. Whichever singular-interest group the pundit is touting for, likely has to pay for a chance to play spin-the-event.”

“Some of the analysis has been succinct and many of the questions are valid.” The lawyer enjoyed automatically advocating the opposing side to John’s positions, if only to rouse debates.

“Can you cite an example to support that claim?” Unwittingly, John had just cracked open the vault housing the forbidden fruit.

“What is Shiva’s Messenger going to do next? They keep asking that important question and only one person in the world really knows the answer.” Jessica hung out the comment to dangle on a filament. Quoting a query wasn’t technically breaking the rule.

“Maybe he just doesn’t know yet.” John hadn’t made any post-Akron plans because he assumed that he would be either dead or his pledge to his father would be fulfilled. Not pulling that trigger had given him a lot to mull over. “The excessive coverage on that brain-sucking box may have confused him with disjointed blips of options.”

“It seems to me that when he simply moved on his own instincts, then his soul was his guide.” After being largely reticent since the earlier exchange, Cindy looked at the mystified expression on John’s face. The final segments of her mental model snapped together like a kinder surprise toy.

In her first meeting with the young lawyer, Cindy had expressed her uncertainty of feelings. An ambivalent hue painted her thoughts, since her realization that the men in Creston were killed for her. The doctor had followed Jessica’s moral lead because she didn’t have her own. Now Cindy Smart saw a pure color and it was verdant.

John’s blunt answer none to the religion question initially caused her disquiet because she presumed, as many wrongly do, that culture bestows ethics. His having none lent permission for amorality as suited his whim. The trouble was, that didn’t jive with the noble qualities Cindy had observed in him. His flip answer was ‘none’ but a better-suited reply was ‘mine’. Finally, her teeter-totter moved fully.

John was like a single ball on an empty pool table. His life’s structure began with a stroke of his father’s values. Rebounds off the rails were at predictable angles so he was alone but not chaotic. Cultural rules of conduct really only bent a ball’s roll from its true path. Was any ethnic group’s societal urging, or his none, actually right or wrong? That wasn’t up to Cindy to judge. He was true to himself. I didn’t ask for the murders. His culture required him to act. I can accept his diversity. Doctor Smart finally forgave herself.

“Maybe, the commentators aren’t speaking in the language his mind uses to process concepts.” The doctor stroked John’s hand to supportively flavor her words “When we watch television in Canada it’s with an awareness that we’re viewing foreign programming.”

“Let’s play scrabble.” John’s head cocked over slightly as he thought about her statement. Cindy is right. “I’m tired of TV.”

“So what is it that you’re planning to do?” Jessica couldn’t resist shattering the charcoal zone. It wasn’t fair. She had shinnied up the tree to shake the hive loose but Cindy somehow got the honey.

John ignored her question with a sly smile and because hers was such a flagrant violation of the unwritten compact, she had no option but to drop it. They started the board game that all three loved and played viciously with street-fight rules. Between his turns, the recovering assassin thought about plans. Rather than seeking, he cleansed his mind to allow notions uniquely his to drift in.

“Shiva’s Messenger will do something that nobody expects.” Near the end of the game, that Cindy was winning, John finally answered Jessica’s question.

“And that is—?” The curious Jessica prompted hopefully.

“Would I tell you and spoil all of your deductive fun?”

…

Jessica quipped of an absence of other happenings but there are always stories to follow. Akron was huge and so attention didn’t swing, it could only dilute. An item of business news gained airplay with a ringside look at a raging proxy fight between two of America’s largest corporations, Wall Soft Systems and bin Omani Holdings.

John’s complaint of the intense scrutiny beam stemmed from an overwhelming effect it exerted but that was a phenomenon of a differing sort. McLuhan’s ‘The media is the message’ was the clue. He believed newscasts tried to make news happen, instead of just bringing the public’s awareness to the events. The assassin had been allowing the coverage to manipulate his future actions.

The hypotenuse Cindy succinctly voiced, joined the couple’s right angle lines of thought, to form a triangle. The networks are foreign programming. Certainly they are to Canadians but also somewhat to alien to Americans as well. News attempted to bend the viewers to fit what the media wanted. The live action feeds from Akron had faded but the audience molding and the event shaping continued. Now aware of this trend, John could employ it to his own benefit.

The press showed President Weeds waffling as usual between stances on issues but he remained defiant about the assassination attempt. The man had even ceased acknowledging that others were killed and appropriated the event as a personal attack. John had a vision of Larry Weeds standing as a schoolyard bully with fists raised and saying, ‘Oh yah, well, come here and prove it!’

That impression was even supported by the news material. One should think that after an assassination attempt, information of the president’s schedule would be closely guarded. Instead, his White House staff made no efforts to hide his proposed movements and agenda previews were even pushed into the public eye. The president was almost begging Shiva’s Messenger to strike again.

Cindy’s rural acreage lacked Internet services and he obviously couldn’t use the local library so his researching options were limited. Those weren’t needed. Television and newspapers the girls brought home, had already provided his strategy. Larry Weeds was asking for a slugfest and John could provide a confrontation. He wheedled Jessica into buying several cheap cell phones and calling cards.

“Sam? Do you know who this is calling?” John dialed his forger friend in Toronto.

“Yes I do, young son of my very good friend.”

“I need some more of your fine work.” John went to the point. Sam should purchase his own ‘throwaway’ cell before the customer would go into specifics details. They arranged to speak only once on the connection between the two anonymous phones. “The work I need is extensive and it has to be shipped to me when completed.”

“The kitties are away, so the mouse will play.” After the call was finished, he glanced around slyly. The girls had both attended work today, as he no longer needed constant nursing. John overstepped his freedom to back his Lexus out of the barn, for a day trip to Calgary. Since a trip by car would take six hours each way, the traveler went to the Cranbrook airport instead. An exchange of cash chartered a small plane and pilot as an airborne limo for a day.

Sam Levi learned of the difficult passport requirements over his phone call from Alberta. One had to gain John access beyond the European Union. The other ID set needed made him a tax paying Ukrainian, able to hold a steady job. The documentation was a challenge but it was feasible. The complexity of the task wasn’t what gave the forger his cause for a very long pause. Sam was engrossed in recalling another long ago mission in the former Soviet Union that nearly ended in disaster.

“Sam? Are you still there?” John took the silent air in his ear as a possible lost satellite signal.

“Yes, I’m still here.” Sam compared the current situation to a promise that he had made to the boy’s father. His friend couldn’t have envisioned how things would turn out and breaking the letter of his oath might in fact be keeping the spirit. The old man took a deep breath before purposefully using the name. “John, when you used the title that I won’t say on this unsecured line, I began to worry. You threw open a door that’s been shut for a very long time. Your father would be pleased but I know it’s not what he expected. If you had completed your task in that city, the name would’ve been a brilliant capstone on it. You didn’t finish and I trust you had good reasons but using that word has added complications to what you’re doing. You have exposed yourself to certain people.”

“You know my name and what I’m doing!” John’s long stunned look had nearly transmitted through the phone as a video clip.

“I know that and most of the rest as well but I also made a promise to your father and I won’t say more than I must. You’ll see why when I do tell you and your oath’s fulfillment unseals my lips.”

“I understand.” John implicitly trusted his father’s reasons.

“Dangerous players are now involved, who may anticipate your going to Ukraine because your father once did.” The counterfeiter continued. “Don’t go there unless you can find a way to indicate you are doing something else. I don’t need to teach you misdirection. Your trainer could hoodwink his shoes into misinterpreting where his feet were.”

“I’m perhaps experiencing the justification in non-disclosure: my mind is already reeling in possibilities just from hints.” The young man confessed. “For right now though, how much am I sending you for the work and when can it be ready?”

The counterfeiter in Toronto gave him both answers.

“Wow!” It was a large sum but John could expect the quality work to be well worth it. “My dear old Sam must need a golden-age home complete with fixtures for hot and cold running nurses.”

“You just stay productive and keep on sending money.” The old man snickered. “The vices I fritter it away on are of my concern.”

After setting up an account at a mailbox rental agency, the young man had his passport photo taken. Finally, he went to his Calgary mini-storage unit.

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.” He spoke to the rental car he’d left in storage. As pony express rider wounded a holdup, Shiva’s Messenger had left this car here like it was an exhausted horse at a stage. He’d taken his Lexus on from here.

“My brother is building a dune-buggy and my part is to supply the engine and transmission.” After a cleaning and having removed indications of its being a rental unit, John had driven the car to a backstreet mechanic shop. “Take the major components out for me and I’ll be back to pick them up for the better chassis we have.”

“Where were you?” Cindy and Jessica spoke sternly in unison as he returned to Creston in the very late evening. They even held similar stances with hands on hips.

“Calgary.” His guilty eyes looked down. Are those toes tapping in cadence, spelling out ‘no more day paroles’ in Morse code?

…

“Each of these Canadian cases, have similarities.” FBI Agent Eldon Browning handed two folders to his new supervisor but held the third in reserve. The man was at least half again his recently elevated sub-team head’s age and he had 22 years at the Bureau. Given her service time of only several days, his seniority was about a million times greater. “The shooter used a .22 caliber and the kill shots were expertly placed.”

“You only gave me two.” Beth Withers eyed the other file and hoped this wasn’t indicative of an upcoming personality clash. The brutally obvious mismatch in age, gender, years of experience and even body mass nearly screamed. She had cringed when Bob Water’s introduced her new assistant.

“This one is especially delectable.” Browning wiggled the file as if teasing a flank of sirloin at Doberman Pinscher’s nose. “Perp takes out six armed men in one room, three more in an adjoining and strolls out like he just popped in for a lap dance. Boom, boom, boom, it’s the same thing at the next three peeler bars. Nineteen stiffs and this guy is finished up his quota in time to knock off early from the old bump and grind.”

“You sound impressed.” Beth took the other file.

“This guy’s cool as the flip side of my pillow.” The much older agent chuckled and his moderate paunch jiggled hard enough to foam the beer it was doubtlessly made of.

“We’ll see where that all happened after completing the liaison notifications the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service.” The young female agent hoped his reference to a pillow wasn’t implying any hidden double meaning or that Eldon’s highly casual manner didn’t head towards a condescending attitude. Bob Waters put Beth in charge and she would exercise that authority if needs be.

“CSIS.” He corrected with a word that sounded like ‘see sis’. FBI agents often worked with their Canadian counterpart but the Secret Service wouldn’t have many dealings with them. “I know a few and can grease the paperwork through quicker than you can.”

“Do it then.” The female agent returned to her desk muttering under her breath. Their working relationship wasn’t off to an overly promising start. “Physiologically, I’m sure Eldon can actually pee further me as well but I’ll still win any pissing contests with him.”

…

“Hey buddy.” President Weeds was on the stuffed sofa when his chief of staff entered, as usual without knocking.

“The police found something that might interest you.” Nick held a small shopping bag.
“Maintenance people at an abattoir made a discovery that has some grizzly implications.”

“What’s that?” The president was actually inquiring what the word ‘abattoir’ meant but he soon figured it out through the context.

“These clothes belonged to Carl Early.” Taylor drew out a suit the distraught CIA man was wearing on the day he disappeared. “These and a wallet containing his ID turned up at a slaughterhouse. They were hidden near the catwalk over an industrial meat grinder.”

“Are you suggesting,” Weeds swallowed hard, “the Records Chief committed suicide, by making himself into hamburger?” Larry shuddered at his mental picture of the naked bureaucrat swan diving into a cauldron of flesh chunks. The disturbing vision was complete with a flatulent vapor trail behind as if a jet powered plunge.

“Not the way I would have done it.” Nick was glad he hadn’t had any ground beef in the last week. “Yet it does tend to explain his complete disappearance.”

“Oooo.” Weeds nearly swooned with the sudden nausea that accompanied his recollection of eating several burgers and a nice meatloaf delivered from the White House kitchen.

“It isn’t conclusive proof. If that CIA puke started feeling queasy about his safety, he might’ve thrown up a smoke screen.” Nick tossed a few word cues into a clever sounding remark. They wouldn’t be as tasty as the emerging fruits of his subtle plot. “Still, I’m going to stick with chicken, fish or vegetarianism for awhile.”

The chief of staff played on his friend’s sensibilities that he knew so well. Larry Weeds had taken a severe double blow to his fragile psyche, from the brush with death and with the assassin’s deliberate snub. Nick then planted a notion that Shiva’s Messenger wanted the president to sever dealings with the Stryker Group. Taylor had even gone so far as to deep throat that message out to the press and had gotten it some good airplay. Manipulating both sides, Nick told Bernard Stryker what was on the president’s mind. The scheme had no downside for him and a huge possible payoff.

“Excuse me a minute Nick, I need to use the washroom.”

“I’ll wait.” It’s probably too late anyways, if you’re going to try to self-induce vomiting. The train of Nick’s thoughts returned to cruising speed. If the Akron killer was caught and the CIA file used, then Taylor would continue to be the president’s greatest asset. However, in demonstrating his willingness to cooperate fully with the ultra-powerful industrialist, Nick had slightly distanced himself from the president. If his friend fell to an assassin’s bullet, it wouldn’t necessarily spell the end of Nick Taylor’s advancement. Bernard Stryker was supremely pleased, because goading the Messenger into making an ill-considered strike, Weeds was willing to be blatant in granting concessions.

There is one big juicy peach ripening on a hidden branch. If Larry’s mental state deteriorated to where it became a threat to the huge investment in him, then the same remedy employed in 1963 could be applied. Taylor would ensure he was in a position to be propelled upwards in the power void to follow. Influencing Larry Weeds had never been a problem for Nick Taylor. In fact, I’ve most likely just inspired Larry into an episode of bulimia.

…

Beth Withers began legwork in Windsor after enduring a trip that found her seatmate actively flirting with a mature flight attendant. She might’ve been a stewardess back when that wasn’t considered a politically incorrect term. Her gushing over-friendliness with Eldon made Beth’s mind’s eye see ‘coffee, tea or me’ on her name badge.

“The four bars have since reopened under new management.”

“I suppose,” Eldon slightly drew the word out as in pondering, “waiting until show time isn’t in the offing.”

“Let’s do the first one now and see how it goes.” Did that almost cross the line? Agent Withers internally quailed at the prospect of Eldon Browning being in a position to visually compare her clothed female body with the attributes of nude ones.

“You weren’t in charge here at the time of the shootings?” Beth interviewed the manager at Alley Katz bar. “I read he was killed.”

“I was a bartender. The new owner hired and promoted me.”

Beth asked a few more questions while her partner snooped at the physical premises.

“Were you able to overhear any of that conversation?” Beth asked about a set of unusual circumstances that shortly preceded the killings. They involved a young man with close-cropped hair.

“Only a few Russian words.”

“Did the unknown man speak the language very well?”

“No clue. He wasn’t consulting a phrase book or speaking in tiny phrases but I don’t speak Russian. In fact, it could’ve been a Polish, Ukrainian or another Slavic language for all I know.”

“You worked here quite awhile.” Beth tried a different angle. “Surely you picked up a few words. Did you catch any you knew?”

“I just poured drinks and collected my pay.” He told the rest at once to avoid any painful process of piecemeal. “I didn’t want to know the owner or his cronies. When they weren’t molesting the girls, they kept in their clique. If they ever catch the shooter, the Windsor Beautification Society should deliver a bronzed toilet to his cell in honor of service to the community done in a flush.”

“What’s really changed though?” Agent Withers cast her eyes about the room. It was gaudy in the word’s shabbiest definition. She could imagine the club later bedecked with listless dancers

“That’s just paint and carpeting.” The manager caught her scan but applied his liquor server’s license to analyze her thoughts. “I expect you might think it’s no better for the girls here but it is. All the clubs have cleaned up some because they don’t dare being next.”

“Really?”

“It didn’t stop there either.” The man continued. “According to gossip, a substantial amount of cash was somehow involved. Subsequent to the killings, a loan shark suspected a local biker gang of stealing money from one of the slain and of being his killer.”

“This wasn’t in the police reports.” Beth frantically wrote.

“When the police were tagging, bagging and interviewing, nobody knew. All who might’ve seen cash were no longer alive to report it. Afterwards, well,” he paused and shrugged, “folk from this section of town don’t go into police stations unless dragged in. The murders in the bar triggered a small gang war but those deaths would likely be in different police file. Recently, the financier and several of his loan recovery managers died in an explosion at a downtown office so that might be over now.”

“This has been really helpful.” Beth smiled as her pen scratched.

“If you pluck the rotten carrots and the good ones grow fatter.” The manager concluded. “That’s worth at least a golden crapper.”

“These were still murders.”

“I personally knew five of those killed and for those it wasn’t murder. Exterminating vermin without a license would fit better.”

“Thanks for your time.” Beth concluded a short while later.

“May I say something off the record?”

Beth cocked her head as if eager and closed her notebook. If what he offered were important, she could jot it down later.

“Instead of taking one in the leg for him,” the man had obviously recognized who the female agent was, “you should’ve yelled ‘olé’ and flipped your jacket like a matador’s cape.”

“I was doing my job.” That had caught Beth Withers unaware.

“But you’re not at it anymore.” The ex-bartender had been in the trade long enough to qualify for an honorary degree in psychology. “That suggests your doing the job wasn’t appreciated.”

“I chatted with that ballerina,” Eldon’s head cock indicated a girl ascending the stage in a schoolgirl costume, “but she didn’t work at any of the crime scene clubs.”

“We should split up to cover more ground.” Beth noted that the dancer’s build was quite similar to her own and she felt revulsion at a thought of Eldon’s eyes juxtaposing the two females.

“Should we meet for a cocktail later and compare?”

“I’ll be too tired.” Beth lied. It was as if he had read her mind.

“You’ll love this.” Browning met with Withers in the morning to begin their next day of work. She had declined his earlier offer of breakfast, citing on the phone that she had room service already. “Your blue-eyed handsome killer had a French tongue.”

“Why should I love that?” Beth bristled and stared daggers.

“You seemed happy yesterday that he had a Russian one.” Eldon innocently smiled.

“The bartender’s information about the gang war checks out so I’ll presume that the money must be accurate as well.” The young FBI agent spoke to herself as she sat at in a borrowed police office. “Speaking with the Alley Katz manager was the only pleasant part of this whole journey.”

“There’s really no more to be found here.” Beth looked up from the thick dossier of the incident. It wasn’t any more helpful than the shortened version she had looked through in Washington.

The attractive agent leaned back in the high-backed swivel chair and stretched. Her hands clasped above her head, Beth yawned and the chair turned clockwise lazily. Three sets of eyes were fixed on her from the water-cooler. Eldon stood with two officers. All were grinning. Browning’s mouth moved and his two listeners laughed. Beth’s face burned and she snapped her chair away. I’ll see him in a disciplinary hearing. The young woman tried to hold her mind from speculating what Eldon had said about her.

“We’re headed to Winnipeg this afternoon.” Beth announced curtly on the drive back to the hotel. She’d made reservations after the leering moment that both embarrassed her and flared her anger.

“You’re not chatting up the flight personnel this time?” Agent Beth at least tried to restrain sarcasm from her voice in commenting on Eldon’s last fully appropriate interaction with the very pretty airline attendant.

“Nah.” The man turned and his grin at Beth was lascivious. He patted his heart. “I’ve already got everything I want on a plane.”

“That’s quite enough!” Withers glared and shook her finger.

“No, it’s not nearly enough.” Eldon’s face turned serious. “I’d prefer if this is off the record.”

“Let’s start out and see if I can keep it off my notes.”

“I was eager for this trip as a chance to get to know you but it’s turning into a punishment detail.”

“What do mean?” Her expression went from fury to confusion.

“Are you this surly with everyone or have I done something in particular to put a bitter frosting on your cookies?”

“What,” Beth thought back to the worst incident, “did you say to those police officers to make them laugh?”

“It’s a bit embarrassing.” Eldon tried a tiny smile. “We were talking about your performance in Akron when you stretched. I said she’s great in a gunfight but too damn skinny for me to hide behind.”

“No, it was funny.” She tried a slightly bigger smile than his. “What did you mean by your having something in an aircraft”

“Did you think I wanted to jump your bones?” Eldon couldn’t resist the humor in this. “I’m sorry to break your heart but I prefer women I can talk with about stuff that interests my generation.” He reached into his breast pocket and took out a napkin with a phone number written on it. “Besides, I might even be already taken.”

“I suspect I’ve had my horns out too far and you managed to snag on one.” The young agent confessed.

“The guys and I all know that you got shafted for being a hero. The Secret Service is under the president’s eye every day but you’re in the FBI now and we treat our female agents with respect.”

“It won’t be a punishment detail anymore.” Beth promised

“Does this mean we can actually take breakfast together,” Browning paused, “after waking up in separate rooms?”

…

Dr. Smart carefully examined John’s nicely healing wounds. She had pulled out the stitches several nights earlier. There was no sign of infection and that was amazing, especially given the operating table on which the emergency surgery had been performed. She poked him several times looking for signs of extreme pain and took his temperature.

“Well, you look fine,” Cindy admitted after her examination, “and from the randy noises coming out of the spare bedroom last night, I have to assume your vitality has returned as well. You do know that some people actually believe that the night is a time for sleeping.” She good-naturedly wagged a warning finger at both.

“Regardless of what you do with your life,” Cindy’s admonishing turned into some motherly advice, “you still must enjoy it also. If you don’t, then what’s the point? You don’t require constant medical supervision anymore, so those are the final doctors orders. You are released from my care—but you keep taking those antibiotics.”

…

“Jessica—” John began but her hand muffled his mouth.

“I know what you’re about to say but I want to speak first.” In the bed, she pulled her face back to a more comfortable distance. “Last time you snuck away without any explanation but I soon understood why. This time, Cindy and I know more and we’re still on your side. I know nothing between us can be normal but you should remember what Cindy told you. Enjoy your life. I’d like to be part of that. We can find the time if we try.”

“It could be dangerous.” He also knew how much he missed her. Jessica was worth taking some risks. “I might also meet my death in a quiet place and you would never know for sure.”

“All of life has perils. It’s the rewards from having met the hazard that makes it all worthwhile.” She closed the gap between them to nose-touching range again. “Besides, what I’ve seen from you so far, I’m not too worried about your disappearing forever.”

It was the last night and neither was overly concerned if Cindy had to cover her ears with a pillow.

…

“I should’ve tried this homeless game before.” Despite the obvious difficulties of facing cold or inclement weather, the life Carl endured was not without minor joys. There was a freedom of being completely anonymous and utterly unnoticed. It was quite relaxing, as he had no schedules to keep or deadlines to meet. Overall, there was a thrill of being a field agent and using his wits.

Just now, Eckert sat watching the television news in a medium sized hotel’s lobby. If Hamster Man timed his dart into the doorway when the desk clerk turned away he could go unnoticed in a chair sheltered by a large plant pot for hours before being evicted. Carl had liked the name of Hamster Man from the moment it first crossed his mind as he contemplated his arranged suicide. Now, he employed it often. The title was more fun than the boring ‘I’ or ‘me’.

“Maybe Weeds should wear a sandwich board, painted with a red target and stroll Pennsylvania Avenue.” Speculating experts were guessing the president’s overt bravado may be a challenge to Shiva but Carl was certain. The ex-CIA man knew the contents of the same file and could envision the president or especially his Chief of Staff, trying to draw the messenger into a hasty strike. “If I were a world-class assassin, would I be lured when I knew the vast weight of all the president’s resources were marshaled against me?”

“How would I know? I’m not one.” Carl Eckert had been trying to place his anticipation with the Shiva operative but was having little success. “I should abandon that losing tactic.”

“The White House may even be trying the same with well-funded assassin’s think tanks.” Carl’s imaginative mind envisioned a drama where a number of government assassins each tried to forecast Shiva’s actions by predicting what they would do. “All would arrive at the same point and with so many assassins in convention the real one would be as just an identical bee in the overcrowded hive.”

“That’s humorous but instead, I should ponder what I would do if I were me. Carl Eckert is the solitary resource that the president has none of, to my plenty.” The homeless man chuckled then reconsidered. “Why not? It’s not like I’m pressed for time to waste.”

He reached into a pocket and took out a newspaper clipping. The White House was unguarded about the president’s itinerary. In fact, they were advertising the schedule that included quite a few appearances around the national capital region. There was also a brief junket to the northwest corner of the contiguous states.

“I’m not an assassin but I’m big on games so I want to nail the president with a bright yellow paintball. Preferably, I want to live and escape. No, I definitely want to survive and to get away cleanly.” Carl viewed the almost memorized list again and mentally ticked off the places where he wouldn’t attempt it. The list waned down. He’d already played this list often as a pretending assassin to the same zero result. Eckert heaved a sigh.

“It’s a good thing I have a nice career in panhandling. I seem to bite at being either an assassin or a paintball warrior. If I were really me, I wouldn’t be within a thousand miles of any of these. Instead, I’d be in Spokane where there aren’t any public venues so it’s the last place to expect me. I couldn’t shoot him, so I may have to drop a bag of yellow flour onto his car from an overpass. But that is just Carl because he doesn’t want to serve time in Leavenworth.”

“Shiva also wishes to evade capture.” Carl Eckert considered the content of his frustrated rambling. “Why wouldn’t he do it in Spokane? Even if I share nothing else in common with Shiva’s Messenger, we both have caution as a strong motivator”

“I’m also still me,” Carl stretched the thought further, “so I don’t want to throw a marker beanie. I just hope to find the man from Dallas with his arm cocked back, preparing to pitch his shot. Spokane is a statistically better location for that as well.” If the assassin was going to try to hit the president in the Washington D.C. area, then Carl had too many potential venues to watch at once. If Shiva had a plan for elsewhere, then there was only one choice and that was Spokane. “Spinning it that way, I have a 50/50 shot of being where he’s reconnoitering or setting up.”

“I can panhandle in Washington State just as well as I could in Washington D.C.” A handful of crumpled bills bought a room in a downtown flop hotel. A few more dollars at a thrift shop elevated his appearance from destitute up to unemployed. After a shower, shave and a night on a mattress, Carl Eckert packed his homeless rags into his cheap suitcase and bought an Amtrak ticket.

…

[/private_Chevron]

“The perp in Windsor was a man of probable Slavic extraction with blue eyes and light brown hair.” Eldon recounted after their discussion with a car salesman. “This one is described as definitely Latino with dark hair, eyes and skin tone. Both are of approximate height, weight, build and age, as are a percentage of males in the planetary population.”

“The first mentioned descriptors are transformable with hair dye, contact lenses and a tanning bed.” Beth wasn’t ready to give up quite yet.

“The last group can be spoofed with elevator shoes, crash diet, a gym and a damn good Hollywood make-up artist.” Browning could play that game too.

“Our next chat is with the late owner’s widow.” Beth grinned at the partner she had a rocky start with and joked. “Try to remember the phone number already in your pocket.”

“I thought we agreed to be friends.” Eldon shot her a look that showed he appreciated the humor in it. Sarcastically speaking, the next witness was quite the prize.

“I’ve seen more realistic theatrics in an Ed Wood movie.” Eldon commented under his breath as Mrs. Frost took a powder room break after her description of the killer.

“If labels in his designer clothing can be traced,” Beth quipped on the over dramatized description heavily leaning towards fashion, “then his jeweler’s records can give a positive ID”

“True,” Eldon chuckled even as the sentence formed in his mind, “but the mug shot matched half of the demons in purgatory so we have to tack posters up all over hell.”

“You had just mentioned a racketeer.” Beth reminded of where they had left off before the urgent bladder mission. Unfortunately, she still had the mirthful aftereffects of her partner’s clever remark.

“It’s not funny.” Arlene Frost became indignant. “The man is involved with all the major mafia families in Canada, America and in Sardinia.” She heavily stressed the nation in her short list.

“Tell us about the circumstances.” Beth suspected the woman wished to impress global law-enforcement significance but Sicily was the original home to La Cosa Nostra
The killer’s portrayal matched fifty percent of the underworld’s denizens and the loan shark now comprised the remainder. Beth’s only valuable information from the chilling spiel was a sideline fact. The murderer had taken a large amount of cash from here also.

“I can identify him and will testify but I need to get into the FBI witness protection program as quickly as possible.” Mrs. Frost was such a selfless civic-minded person, willing to uproot her life to bring a felon to justice—then disappear with her inheritance intact. “One lawyer is already using pressure tactics—and she’s in collusion.”

“You’re more likely to find RCMP or CSIS sanctuary.” Beth jotted down the names of the two dastardly Mafiosi in question.

The pair of FBI agent’s then found the supposed loan shark. Though he confessed to lending money to Andrew Frost, he was offered that it was only in the interests of friendship. His angry tone of voice with four-letter expletives suggested otherwise. In a short sentence, he managed to insert five derivatives of the ‘F-word’ in an assortment of verb, adjective and noun positions. He couldn’t vent his frustrations by breaking the debtor’s kneecaps, so deluged it into his speech.
On that particular phrasing, Beth glanced over at her partner. Eldon was scrutinizing her in a manner that would’ve been offensive just the one day earlier. Now though, she just took a mental note and concluded the interview.

“Confess what you’re looking for?” Beth was friendly yet stern. His close examinations had been one reason for her initial reaction and now she wanted the root cause.

“None of the guys knows you from Adam, or in your case Eve.” Agent Browning certainly didn’t wish a return to her surliness and spilled his unofficial assignment. “I’m on sexual harassment reccon duty. In there, I was gauging your reaction to the intense vulgarity. The troops don’t want to accidentally jackboot on your sensibilities.”

“Different circumstances change them.” Agent Withers would deem a bawdy quip by Eldon as fine but the same one in Windsor would’ve been completely unacceptable.

“I’m not planning a detailed study, just jotting some handy-dandy reference markers.

“Pull out your notepad.” Beth quoted George Carlin’s line that listed ‘the seven words you can’t say on television’. Those covered the gamut. “I can also use those in some situational applications to redden the ears under a construction helmet.”

Eldon Browning licked an imaginary pen’s nib in his right hand and scribed a notation in his other palm then looked up and grinned. “I’ll send a photocopy so you’ll stop offending my tender feelings.”

“I’ve never spoken with a real FBI type.” Darcy Leach tried to decide why Beth looked familiar. Since the agent had caught her on the way out to lunch, the lawyer had invited her along. The two were now conversing over deli sandwiches in the building’s foyer.

“Until recently I was a Secret Service Agent.” Beth had elected this duty too suddenly to call ahead. Eldon was examining forensics but new to criminology, Agent Withers had pulled up short. The task was probably beyond the level of her squeamishness.

“That’s where I’ve seen you before!” Darcy nodded as her recollection also explained the noticeable limp. “You took that bullet meant for the president.”

“I did get shot,” Beth downplayed it for her likable acquaintance “but learning where the bullet would’ve hit, makes me wish my foot was heading there instead of my leg.” The American had found it odd that Canadians recognized her. At first, she thought it only in Windsor, as it was so close to the U.S. Now far from the border, Beth’s notoriety had traveled along. “Anyways, I’m with the Bureau now. I became a minor celebrity and then my secret was out.”

“If it’s any small consolation,” Darcy lightly touched the Agent’s knee in a reassuring gesture, “I think the president’s last minute ditching out on awarding your medal in person, was just shabby.”

“I was relieved when he begged off.” Beth divulged the secret detail and this new friend was now the first to know it. Why did I feel so comfortable in telling her that? The FBI agent was also bemused on the young woman’s casual knowledge of what was such a minor detail, in a nation foreign to her own. “But let’s talk of the murders.”

“I’m not your expert on that. I only served a search warrant on behalf of a client.” Darcy filled in with the details of public record. “The way it’s turning out, I should’ve taken the brief on pro bono.”

“You didn’t?” Beth found this surprising. From just her brief stop in the offices upstairs, she could see it was upscale. Those didn’t come with a frugal price tag in any country. “How would a penniless person, as you’ve described her, have the funds to obtain representation from such a prestigious partnership?”

“Her benefactor posted a retainer.”

“I’m mildly intrigued by this sponsor. Please tell me more?” The FBI agent sampled her spoon as gently as possible into this unexpected lunchtime desert but she was hungry to devour it all.

“His name was Roger Connors.” Darcy was honest but for an inexplicable reason she felt a twinge of guilt in talking about him. He hadn’t asked to remain anonymous and his name was recorded in billing records—but nice as Beth was, she was still the FBI.

Darcy Leach had been caught unguarded by having lunch with a woman with whom she shared such good rapport. Now her mind backtracked. Why was the FBI, for that matter, why was the girl shot at Akron specifically looking at a Canadian incident? The possible conspiratorial undertones were far too many to explore just now. Then, Darcy remembered her discarded notion of connectivity between her case and the murders. Jessica expressed her interest too. The Winnipeg lawyer decided to clam-up.

“Oh my goodness!” Darcy ingeniously thought of an alternative track of sending the topic into girl talk. She fanned her cheek and swerved onto the scenic detour. “He was just such a hunk.”

“Do tell.” Beth followed along as the chitchat sidetracked over some shoulders and through a chest, in an off route viewing of a hot young guy. The meandering trail was headed to precisely what she wanted to know. A familiar face formed on the description but a new backdrop was emerging. How could Agent Withers maintain her proper animosity? The snake seems as charming as the flute.

Chapter 18 of Shiva’s Messenger

Operating with Unorthodox Stitches

“It’s wonderful to be practicing medicine again but working at the convenience store sure wasn’t as hectic.” Dr. Cindy Smart left the Creston clinic after a long day. No longer working at the c-store also meant giving up the apartment above. She had bought a small hobby farm in the Lister area. Only a 10-minute drive from town, it was a quiet area and she was even considering buying a horse.

‘Will you have time to ride it? It’ll be an expensive, road-apple producing, lawn ornament’. Jessica had splashed some red ink into Cindy’s decision-making process.

“Maybe I should get a goat instead to keep the grass trimmed.” The doctor kicked at a tuft. She looked up at the sound of tires crunching on gravel but didn’t recognize the Lexus entering her driveway. A man with short light brown hair struggled to get out and his possible identity shot instantly to mind.

“Roger?” Cindy confirmed her guess despite the huge change from his previous appearance. Then, she noticed the ashen color of his face, the sheen of perspiration and the un-focusing eyes in his pained expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I have bullet pox and I didn’t know who else to turn to.” She had asked him to return if afflicted by childhood illness but this form of lead poisoning wasn’t specifically included in the invitation.

“Come into the house.” The petite doctor ducked under his armpit to support his tormented gait. “How did you find me here?”

“I waited until you left work and then followed you home.” His words were stilted between groans. “Will you keep me?”

“You should have come straight into the clinic. This time you do have to go to the hospital.”

“I can’t.” By now, they were into the house. Cindy took him directly to her spare bedroom.

“Let me see it.” She grabbed her scissors and cut away the bandages. “Oh, this is bad. I’m going to call an ambulance.”

“I’ve done some things,” he grabbed her wrist but his grip lacked even the strength it would take to milk a goat, “and a hospital would report the gunshot wounds. I would rather die now.”

“I know what you’ve done.” She looked more closely at the puckered bullet holes but couldn’t view his back for the exit wounds. “Did they go all the way through?”

“One did but I think I’m still plumbiferous.” His prone position was triggering the long resisted body urge to shut down and attempt self-repairs. On that quip, his consciousness lapsed.

“Don’t try to make me laugh right now!” She couldn’t suppress a snicker even in spite of the critical situation and had to rail against the urge to slap him playfully like she had several times during their scrabble games. Plumbiferous, an adjective, denotes something containing or yielding lead. The uncommon word had probably never been used to describe a human condition.

“If it were anyone but you.” She continued even though he was too far-gone to even hear. “I don’t have the necessary equipment.” Cindy dialed her phone.

[private_Chevron]“Hello?” A naked young female answered impatiently after about the tenth tone and stood dripping on her carpet. At first she had been just letting it ring but after six, it started to sound urgent.

“Come to my house.” Cindy sounded slightly out of breath like she had run hard before phoning.

“It’s a bad time.” Jessica protested. “I have a date tonight.”

“Cancel it. Someone showed up here and I need your help.”

“Who—” Jessica didn’t have to finish the question before she deduced why Cindy would be only hinting. “I’ll be right there.”

“I’ll be out, so just walk into the house when you get here.” The woman threw the phone down and ran to her car.

Using a gurney as a shopping cart and pushing it through the hospital like it was a grocery store, the doctor picked up the needed supplies. Torn between grabbing too much and not having urgently required gear, she was looking at a defibrillation unit when the duty nurse caught her.

“What are you doing, Dr. Smart?” The duty nurse asked.

“Just a favor for a friend. Her dog jumped a fence and landed on a stake. My friend thinks ‘doctor’ also means ‘veterinarian’.”

“It appears she is right.” The nurse chuckled.

“Don’t worry about this stuff.” Cindy shrugged off the small mountain of supplies. “I’ll bring everything back or replace it.”

“Does the dog need a heart transplant?” The woman looked puzzled at the excessive amount of stuff

“I’m not sure exactly what I’ll want, so I’m taking more than I need. The stick is pretty far into the dog’s chest.” Cindy hoped that she didn’t see the plasma that was in one of the boxes. That would have been difficult to explain for a canine, but the cardiac arrest kit she’d been considering, well, that would have been impossible.

“Your now my new nurse.” After toting the sleeping form to the kitchen table, Cindy looked at the lawyer in her expensive suit. “So I suggest you take off anything you ever want to wear again. Then scrub your hands and brace yourself.”

“Is he going to live?” Jessica stripped to bra and panties.

“That depends on us.” Cindy took a calming breath. Using forceps and the scalpel, the doctor probed into the first of the wounds. She sliced the puckered gunshot hole further open so that she could spread it and trace the track of the slug. As she worked, Cindy talked her nurse through setting up an intravenous.

“The upper bullet has snapped off one of the front ribs and a bone section has flailed onto the lung.” Cindy peeled the severed fragment away, giving her access into the chest cavity.
“Is his organ damaged?” The lawyer turned medical assistant grimaced at her next question. “Will it have to come out?”

“It appears intact. If it was pierced then you would be on the phone to 911 right now.” The doctor repositioned to work from a different angle and explained her findings. “One bullet traveled all the way through the body. It managed to slip between the ribs as it entered and exited. The other one hit the denser bone of his rib and that slowed the bullet. That one is still inside and we have to find it.”

Jessica couldn’t help noting that Cindy never referred to him as a person but rather as a specimen, like a formaldehyde frog. She envied the defense mechanism that allowed Cindy to retain enough detachment to do what she needed to do. For the young lawyer, each cut on his body gave her physical pain in sympathy.

“Aha!” Cindy’s forceps extracted a chunk of metal.

“It’s shaped more like a wad of chewed bubblegum.” Jessica put her eyes closer to examine the blood-coated object. Are you certain you didn’t dig into his stomach by accident?”

“I suppose that jab at my competence was in retaliation of my slur on lawyers.” Cindy opened her tool and the item dropped on the table with a dull metallic clunk. “Yep—it’s lead.”

Jessica didn’t respond because she had briefly thought it was gum. Now, she couldn’t even apologize for the unintentional barb without confessing to having a blond moment. They worked together over the next two hours. The worst was over and now it was mostly stitching: a sewing machine would’ve been handy.

“This has to make us rethink our decision not to speak with police.” Cindy looked up from the surgery in progress,

“Why? I thought that’s why we’re operating ourselves.”

“Deciding not to divulge what we believed was our choice,” the doctor offered, “but the reporting of firearm injuries is compulsory.”

“No it isn’t. In British Columbia there’s no law requiring the hospital to report. Maybe it’s policy, but it’s not a code. Ontario just passed a mandatory gunshot reporting statute but even that one didn’t place onus on doctors, only the hospitals must comply.”

“I didn’t know that. But you’re the lawyer.” Cindy had a slightly disconcerted expression but began to work again.”

“You weren’t thinking of turning him in.” Jessica offered after a few moments of considering the odd reaction. “Were you looking for a different answer than simply not having to follow a presumed law?

“What makes you say that?”

“You didn’t say let’s turn him in, you said let’s rethink it.” The young lawyer had already explained the principle of logic and didn’t need to again. “You were busy working but I had time to think. How old were his wounds?”

“I suspect they’re from about the day of the Akron shooting.”

“That means he had to drive half way across the continent and pass over one international border, in pain and risking death, only to avoid going to a hospital where they would report him. That was a conscious decision and it shows a fierce commitment to a cause.”

“I’m wavering about what his cause is.” Cindy put it into the open. “Roger kills people. Just by our count he’s nearly up to thirty and that’s only in a few months. Few serial killers total nearly that many and it takes them years or a lifetime.”

“Few people in general ever demonstrate the tenacity he has either and that makes Romero special. I’m willing to put myself to risk in sheltering and protecting him for at least until I understand what’s driving him so hard.” The woman in the bra and panties took a breath and continued in a lighter tone. “The man here that we both know and love hasn’t showed an evil bone in his body.”

“You’ve seen a few of those to know.” Cindy flicked her eyes briefly to her nurse’s scanty attire.

“Why Dr. Smart,” Jessica pretended to bristle, “spending time with me is fast turning you into a filthy-minded little gutter-snipe.”

With over six hours from the first incision until the last stitch, Cindy and Jessica were both exhausted. After covering him up with a sheet, they sat down as if he were the main course at a feast.

“Now we wait until the anesthetic wears off.” Cindy heaved a well-earned sigh of relief. “I can’t think of how we could’ve done any better for him.”

“Do you know what this means though?” Jessica smiled and clasped her hands under her chin in satisfaction. Then, at only a quizzical look in response she continued. “We don’t have to speculate anymore because the answers are all right here.” Jessica patted his sleeping leg, “Romero, you’ll know the exact definition of the legal term discovery by the time this attorney is done with you.”

…

The president and his Chief of Staff worked far into the night as they studied the Shiva file again. It was more than a bombshell—it was a ticking nuke. The complicated areas dealt with where the financial connections were. Knowing exactly what they were made for an easy task of selective erasing, to avoid any suspicion of a cover-up. Then, released carefully, this package would prove to be the perfect steak to place on a 40-year-old black eye.

“The money trail from Operation Shiva to my presidency looks like a Greek autobahn.”

“Yours and a few others.” Taylor looked up from his work. “I wasn’t aware the no speed limit highways were extended past the German borders yet.”

“When your head is on a chopping block, it’s small comfort to know that others are beside you.” The president was sullen.

“Why don’t you get some rest?” Nick noted the dark circles under Larry’s eyes.

The president’s Chief of Staff had his investment to protect. Nick Taylor had decided early in life that the way for him to achieve power was to water-ski behind a faster boat. His meeting the future president in college wasn’t coincidental. Nick had studied potential leaders in his age bracket and selected young Larry Weeds to be his friend. Taylor had moved across the continent to attend the same campus and arranged his courses to match Larry’s. Like a billionaire’s fiancé, Nick then chased other suitors away.

Doing everything from providing answers to exams, to setting up dates with prom queens, Taylor made himself indispensable to the rising young political star. Larry Weeds had the pedigree and Nick Taylor provided the political savvy to propel them to the top. The president might claim that Taylor was riding his coattails but both were very aware that Weeds wouldn’t have gotten this far without Nick’s backroom tactics.

“I can’t sleep even when I do go to bed.” Larry moved from the desk to sit on the more comfortable sofa. “What did Stryker say?”

“You know it’s better if we don’t talk about that.” Taylor was tasked with one other vital job for Weeds. He was the arm’s length liaison between the presidency and Bernard Stryker. If the long and expensive path to the Oval Office was a turnpike then the Stryker Group of companies was the asphalt.

“I know—plausible deniability.” Larry Weeds put his feet up and leaned back. “I’m tired. Forget I mentioned it.”

“If you can’t sleep in bed, then try to nap on the couch. On my way out, I’ll send the steward in with a blanket and pillow.” The chief of Staff left, but Stryker was foremost on his mind.

The allegiance of a lifetime forged between Nick Taylor and Larry Weeds, had subtly shifted on the day that Nick met Bernard Stryker. Taylor would never have risen to the position where he was without Weeds but Stryker could lift him even higher.

“Monitor the president’s state of mind,” Bernard hadn’t even batted an eyelash when Nick told the head of the cartel about the existence of the file. He had obviously known about it before and the group had a huge investment to protect. The file was like a squall of dread around the presidency but this assignment blew Nick a slight zephyr of personal ambition.

…

“We’re making some progress.” Bob Waters, the head of the Shiva Task Force had to choose words carefully in presenting this briefing. The president had mowed down a few careers lately. Giving the true blunt synopsis, without some positive spin would be a game of Russian roulette—without any empty chambers. “The assassin was a very young man and we’re seeking to trace his origin. He used the name of Allen Powers to do his reconnaissance. Then he had the alias of Allen Wright to set up his access and escape. We discounted the theory that two conspirators might be involved. Allen Powers must also be Allen Wright.”

Nick Taylor snapped upright in his chair and listened with piqued interest to the rest of the short briefing. He brusquely ushered the Task Force commander out, then slamming the door behind, he faced the president with a serious demeanor.

“Shiva’s messenger has told us what he wants from you.” Nick paused as if still in thought, to allow the drama to build. This is going to be a stretch but as coming from me, you’re completely gullible. “He spelled it out in his names. Allen Powers must also be Allen Wright. All in power must also be all in right. Psychopaths are often very intelligent, as this one obviously is. They hide information that they want found in their work.”

“That’s awfully obscure,” Weeds looked at the concentration in his friend’s face and tried to match his thoughtful intensity, “but assuming you’re correct, what could it mean?”

“Shiva’s Messenger doesn’t like the power brokers controlling who buys the elections: he wants a democracy.” That’s probably true. Only the name play was Nick’s invention to connect the incident, with the scheming raison d’être.

“The assassin is a Democrat.” Weeds misconstrued with a sage nod at the brilliance of his deduction.

“No, they are as prone to corruption as the Republicans are. The fingerprint matched a set hidden to all but the CIA file. That he deliberately provided it proves he knew they were there. He’s also doubtlessly aware that the Kennedy assassination was a profit oriented coup d’état—as the found file confirms that it was.” Nick Taylor inwardly gloated. Those facts are very likely correct.

Larry nodded and thoughtfully stroked his chin. He had no clue where this was leading.

“Shiva’s Messenger ordered you to enact legislation returning democracy.” There was the second thick slice of fabrication and with the truth in the middle makes a nice sandwich.

“A terrorist can’t push a president.” Weed’s touted out a gem he’d heard somewhere. He probably got it from Nick.

“If he were only threatening to blow up a city or even a state, then he couldn’t. This one is trying to shove you personally and where you move, so does the nation. He dropped a high trump in Akron to show he can do it and he left the print to suggest the deck is rigged to turn the Dallas card. Shiva’s Messenger is confident in his hand and he’s playing it face up on the felt.”

“He didn’t kill me in Akron.” It still felt convoluted but his friend was invariably correct about everything. The president’s thinking steered off on the same obtuse tangent to follow Nick’s lead. “He knows that my vice-president would stuff money into a glass wallet. He would rather deal with me.”

“Precisely.” Wow Larry, that last observation was more astute than I expect from you. Taylor hadn’t thought of that angle but it complemented his manipulation like a red rose in a black lapel.

“We can afford to sit on the file until we’re holding the finger to fit the print.” Weeds pushed the last nibble of Nick’s crap canapé into his mouth and swallowed it whole. He heaved a contented sigh.

Taylor found the meal savory even though he wasn’t the one chewing it. This would renew Larry’s confidence in his advisor’s skill of deduction and his devotion to keeping a promise to solve a riddle. A gravy train’s undercarriage must be greased as often as possible.

Conning his friend was too easy. Taylor’s next recipient would be much more difficult. The shrewd head of the Stryker industrial conglomerate was an infinitely tougher sell than the president. On the plus, it wouldn’t matter if Bernard thought this Powers/Wright interpretation was hallucination from smoking banana skins. The only important factor was whether or not Larry Weeds believed it strongly enough to be worrisome to his investors. The ambitious Nick Taylor, as Brutus, would have a better blade tucked in his toga.

“What’s my plan?” Larry paced his office pretending to think of one while he waited for it to arrive from the standard source.

“Simple choice from the only two available.” Taylor walked the floor alongside. It was better than watching a tennis match. “Bow to the Messenger’s demands and he will let you live. The downside is that you’ll make your backers very unhappy.”

“If that’s the first, then I can take the second without hearing it.” Weed’s halted just at the thought of that one. “If I roll over on the people that paid my campaign bills, then I’m worse than dead.”

“The alternative isn’t pleasant either.” Taylor warned as they strolled again. “That is business as usual but it tells the assassin that you’re not yet willing to negotiate. The hope is we can silence him before he can voice his displeasure.”

President Weeds paced the Oval Office with his now silent friend for a few minutes. Periodically, he looked to his Chief of Staff, but apparently, Nick had said all that he was going to. Larry was the president and the final decision had to be his. The president mulled the two ugly options but really, he had his mind made up before he even heard the second. The difficulty was in finding the intestinal fortitude to make it.

“At my hazard, I’ll opt for the second but I reserve the right to change my mind.” Thinking of the escape clause was the deal clincher for him. “I also need improved security.”

“That’s the brave decision I expected.” Nick stroked. “While you were deciding, I thought of something else but it will take even more courage on your part.”

“Give it to me.” Weeds winced.

“The last time Shiva struck, it was after he spent time methodically setting it up. Pushing his buttons and challenging him may goad him into trying again, before he’s fully ready.”

“That’s baiting a wolf.” He didn’t need a Harvard diploma to figure this one out. “Except I’m the lamb staked in the pasture.”

“You have the world’s premier security force at your disposal and well beef it up.” The chief of staff promised. “If the assassin makes the slightest mistake we’ll have him.”

“Let’s do it.” Oddly enough, Larry found the plan to provoke Shiva’s Messenger comforting. It was a proactive measure, instead of his cringing at wisps indefinitely. Both his major concerns were now addressed albeit with snags.

“I’m on it.” Taylor turned to leave but only made it three steps.

“What about the man with the brown trumpet?” Larry asked.

“Good line.” Nick chucked at the description. “I’m not sure if he’s played his postmortem bugle yet. He cleaned out his bank accounts. I suspect he’s holed up in a hotel and spending all his remaining money on hookers. It could be he’s planning to do the job on himself.”

“The folder was bigger than he was,” Larry recalled how vividly that manifested. “Still, he showed some guts in coming in here with it and my stomach would rest easier if I knew for certain.”

…

Though pushed into the hide and seek challenge, with the twist of reality, Carl Eckert immersed himself into it and tried to have fun. Games are intended to be enjoyable and even with the physically punishing pastimes like football, the participants are still playing. Small pleasures found in learning the new rules and gamesmanship tactics kept his spirits up. Interestingly, his life on the crawl also gave the newly homeless man a fascinating perspective.

“I’m witnessing current events from the cheap-seat bleachers and they look different from here.” Carl had no budget for proffered goods, so advertisements no longer drew his attention away from the newspaper’s text. He could fully absorb the story’s subject and they even made nice insulation against the night chill when stuffed into his clothing. As viewed soundlessly in shop windows, television also held a differing slant He could watch with eyes, that don’t lie, without the simultaneous voice over fibbing about what he saw. He scurried through alleyways looking for snippets and then huddled in alcoves digesting the tidbits, until his findings became a revelation.

“My hamster’s cage was the microcosm of my life but in fact, our developed society is a macrocosm of James Bond’s contrived habitat. We simply can’t see it while we’re in it. The media fills our feed dispensers with pellets of happenings but it’s been filtered through politically correct charcoal. Slowly over time, the audience has become sensitized to pure food, as it’s too rich to stomach.”
The raw stuff in Carl’s head and pockets would explode picture tubes and transmute printer’s ink into battery acid. “If my piñata disgorged into the press undiluted, the public might just choke trying to swallow and spit it back out.”

“I hope President Weeds find this as disquieting as I found his Oval Office to be.” They were looking for the man Carl Eckert had been. He spotted the surveillance but as the eyes were fixed on watching, they failed to note that they were observed. Something had to be done to dissuade the active searching. With an ingenuity that made him chortle as he worked, Eckert arranged a plausible scenario to up-chuck a red herring. “The president or Nick Taylor might believe me desperate enough to entertain suicidal thoughts, so I’ll just prod that assumption along. What does a hamster man have to live for anyways?”

His task in establishing a defensive gambit now completed, the street denizen shuffled off to find a soup kitchen. His mind trod faster on a walkway elevated far above.

“A grandmaster doesn’t win by concentrating on the ramparts around his king, that’s only playing for a draw.” Carl recalled the self-pledge he’d made to search out the power piece that was also moving on the checkered board.

“It’s no matter that the queen is the powerhouse piece in the game.” The strategic game of chess provides interesting analogies applicable to a range as diverse as life itself. Carl Eckert had just found another one. “It still can’t achieve a checkmate victory on an open field without at least one ally, even if it’s only a pawn.”

“I shouldn’t think of him as a queen without first determining his sexual orientation.” Carl chuckled openly and amusedly watched as an approaching pedestrian make a wide circle around a presumed escaped mental patient talking and laughing to invisible persons.

“He doesn’t need to be a queen either.” If the opposing king has escape blocked by his own forces, even lesser pieces can kill.

“So,” Carl wondered, “where is Shiva’s Messenger most likely to be lurking?”[/private_Chevron]

Chapter 17 of Shiva’s Messenger

Paper Snake and the Mongoose

“Do you use this stuff while I’m away?” Carl Eckert considered whether buying a video camera to record the movement for later fast forwarding was advisable. He refilled the food pellets and water in his hamster’s feeding apparatus and watched the animal’s shuffling progress from the furthest corner of the sprawling habitat. Knowing the answer may be detrimental because Carl often felt he only kept the pet to justify buying intricate segments for the elaborate cage. New pieces somehow added scope to the habitat of Eckert’s own life. He locked the door of the two-bedroom nesting-box condo that he shared only with his stinky rodent, James Bond.

Skittering his oft-navigated maze of the Metrorail and myriad rat-tunnel corridors of the Langley facility, Carl’s mind followed the convoluted pathways of his memory. His recruitment into the CIA had been before the Berlin wall fell. With his eyes full of nameless stars, Eckert had stepped over the CIA seal at Langley for the very first time. He was destined to be like Ian Fleming’s 007 spy, with a license to kill and a life to thrill but it hadn’t turned out quite like that. For reasons undetermined, he never made field grade.

Carl Eckert switched on the light of a box shaped room with a window for people with larger lives to look in through and watch him. As Section Head of Filing, he held probably the least glamorous job in the CIA. Now at age 44, after 20 years of plodding forbearance, the enticing light at the tunnel’s end showed only as a shiny gold retirement watch dangling like eighteen carrots on a telescoping stick. Unrelentingly, the grist stones of the bureaucracy had rolled over his aspirations but like diamonds, his dreams resisted crushing.

The files were now the cheddar in his job. Flavored to taste by his imagination, a routine report from the field office in Berlin had a dangerous female operative slowly strolling out the fog at Checkpoint Charlie with secrets under her trench coat. Fine cheese does improve over time and as his administrative grade went up, so had his security access but that was a vicious triangle. The more he could read meant more he could imagine but by morning, as now, he knew he could only just read.

“What tasty Roquefort is this?” Carl found that an overnight codex sweep had shunted an intriguing prompt to the department head. The file in question had a baffling classification that existed outside of the normal secrecy hierarchy. The dossier had originated before he even joined the CIA. “It’s been aging for a long time.”

Now came a dusty task of rodent proportions. Carl needed to travel the catacombs of the subterranean archives to gain his treat. The physical folder had lingered unmolested for decades and it took almost an hour to locate.

Perhaps it should’ve grown crumbly and somewhat moldy like the king of cheeses he had named it after. Instead, the jacket felt brittle and papers peeking out seemed to crackle with an electrical charge poised to arc on a touch. Like a timid mouse tempted, his shy fingers gingered at the folder and a fanciful vignette took its mysterious roots in his mind. Carl Eckert was about to learn that real traps snap harder than imaginative ones do and a lightning bolt of power spins a treadmill like a whirligig in a tornado.

[private_Chevron]

…

Presidential Chief of Staff Nick Taylor stepped into the Oval office without knocking and poured himself a cup of the excellent White House coffee. Sipping it black and steaming, he found President Weeds pretending to work. Nick looked at the desktop and easily read the open file the president was intently studying upside-down with his glassed over eyes. The Shiva episode was still too ripe in his mind and would be for some time yet. Instead of garnering sympathy, the assassin’s bullets had sparked a political nightmare and it was just getting worse.

“Did you know that trajectory analysis of the slug that struck the Secret Service woman, indicates it was aimed at your buttocks?” Nick closed the folder and shoved it to the side, spinning it end for end as he did.

“Yes, the jests on late night TV after that revelation were libelous.” In Weeds’ opinion, here was another perfect application for terminal sentencing. Legally though, a case would be difficult to contest because to be slander, it must be proven as an untruth.

“Information seems to be hemorrhaging into the headlines even before bleeding onto your desk.” Despite his friend’s consternation, Nick found some of it quite clever.

Larry looked up and a cold shiver traveled his spine. A gory allegory like that wasn’t exactly what needed to hear right now.

“A CIA man is waiting outside.” Nick changed the subject.

“The Director?”

“No, he’s only a Section Head and this is quite strange. He claims it’s critically urgent and told me that he won’t move from the hallway, until you see him, or the Marines drag him away. That’s fairly audacious for a minor functionary.”

“Bring him in.” Weeds circled the desk and geared up his most unnerving stance. Sending careers to be guillotined was bolstering his wounded feelings of manliness and another might be headed for the block. “But this had better be important.”

…

Outside the door, Carl Eckert was in the same borderline state of semi-coherence that he’d been in since his morning shock. The raw power that seemed to emanate through the Oval Office door was like errant radiation leaking out of a microwave, simmering his insides like baked lasagna. His resolve vacillated between bolting or persevering to a duty owed his country that demanded he bring the documents here. The door swung open and the Chief of Staff beckoned a finger like a cannibal chef to a plump missionary.

“Mr. President, Sir,” talking in a quavering voice as he walked, the bureaucrat stumbled on the flooring and stopped short. Frozen both still and silent, a vision of a spitted rat revolving over a campfire cooked in his mind. The two politically powerful men closed to within arms reach of him and Carl Eckert stood blinking.

“Go on.” The Chief of Staff urged strongly but the man stood in goggle-eyed silence. Nick impatiently swung a hand and cuffed the petrified functionary firmly on the back.

Already overly tight with fear, Taylor’s nudge jolted Carl’s tuba into blowing a ripping blast. The bodily tone in a low octave sharply juxtaposed with the regal vibes of the Oval Office as it reverberated. Sour methane gas from his back end began to defuse into the air.

“The shell casing from Akron triggered a retrieval request, to my desk in the CIA records section.” Stewing in a cauldron of his own aromatic vapors, Carl’s words now boiled out as fast as the torrent of his lower wind had been. “I pulled out a folder that’s been untouched since the sixties. The security classification was unclear but it was flagged to me.”

“What’s in it?” Weeds’ nose wrinkled, as he took the file.

“You should—.” Carl’s stomach lurched. “I don’t feel so well!”

The president had a premonition of the distraught man vomiting on the eagle-sealed carpet. One noxious smell was quite horrible enough. He shooed the CIA man away with a dismissive wave.
His physiological gaff and the hand poised to clamp his mouth, gave Carl’s exit far less dignity than even his entrance had shown. He hurried the White House corridors and in a cold sweat, managed to find an exit in time. The afternoon air quelled Eckert’s distress but it did nothing to restore his shattered nerves.

“The Cold War is long over.” Carl tried reminding himself why he went to the president. “It’s too late for that to start a nuclear war.”

When Kennedy was shot, Carl knew he had been in a crib but older people remembered where they were when they got the news. Every American of his generation, had grown up with feelings of a conspiracy that was akin to an unfinished symphony. People deserved the truth but it had to come from the very top.

Carl Eckert was underappreciated but he was far from stupid. He knew the files original intent from the moment he read the first page summary. It contained material to pin the assassination on the fingerprint’s owner and prove a fully plausible reason for it. The file even went so far as to show the real beneficiaries of the plot, how to best attest that they weren’t involved at all. The Weeds family was a prominent participant of that elite group and that fact gave Eckert a cause for concern but the situation now was much different than the file’s creator had predicted. Shiva’s Messenger changed that.

That the president wasn’t killed first was puzzling to Eckert, as it was to the press and the world but the file gave a perfect reason. The Akron shooter obviously knew about the folder’s existence and that his fingerprint would activate its reactivation. He was giving the administration an opportunity to come clean on what really occurred in Dallas and why. Shiva backed that up with a solid motivation of why Larry Weeds should take the appropriate measures.

‘How can Weeds be that tall when he has no backbone at all?’

The filing manager had heard some quips like that relating to the president’s spineless performance during the Akron shootings. From what Carl Eckert had read about him, Shiva was certainly a man able to make good on his warning. Eckert had felt a shudder of dread and he wasn’t even the man’s target. Doubtlessly, Weeds must feel the menacing full effect as he peruses the material. Carl’s life hung now on a coin flip but at least the toss was weighted by the president’s proven trepidations for his own safety.

Aimlessly, Carl wandered the seedier areas of Washington. A person with a less active imagination than his might’ve returned to his desk at Langley. Instead, while pondering the presidential decision process, Eckert used the opportunity to envision himself cast as Turner in Three Days of the Condor, fearing for his life because he knew something he shouldn’t. Unlike that movie’s plot, he had spared everyone in the chain of command by taking the paper bomb directly to the top.

“Your day is probably less stressful than mine is today.” Carl saw a homeless man curled up in an alley and slipped a twenty into his dented hat. Being indigent would be a blessing about now and Eckert actually coveted the man’s status

Now several hours since his embarrassing gas attack on Pennsylvania Avenue, the civil servant threaded the labyrinth of public transportation. How many mysterious deaths had followed 1963? In response to this mental question Carl expanded his fun by taking a far different route than normal. He pretended that every innocent person on the subway was someone sinister.

As part of his acted out fantasy, Eckert got off the train at a neighboring stop, instead of his own. His apartment overlooked a parking structure for suburban commuters, so he could look from there into his own window. He’d done this before while playacting the spy, out on his covert missions. Carl skirted several cars as if being actively tailed and positioned himself adjacent to the corner wall, he could see into his secure little bed of shavings.

“What if there really was a death sentence for flatulence?”

…

“That was really nasty!” The president fanned his face with the file and then opened it. His eyes scanned the first few lines and all air, even the foul smelling, seemed sucked from the space. Larry tottered. The comfortable chair behind his desk was far too distant for his faltering knees, so the president sank down onto one lining the walls.

“I guess that what’s in there, is alike to what’s in the air.” The chief of staff took the folder from his friend’s hand as the man had shuffled back. Only a quick peek proved Nick as prophetic, as he was poetic. He read the covering summary aloud.

“I don’t see how we have any other options.” Larry Weeds spoke quietly after a very long thoughtful pause.

“That’s not entirely your decision to make.” Nick Taylor saw his own aspirations in a vortex. A flushing toilet takes everything in the bowl but fortunately for the ambitious chief of staff, there were other influential people in there with him. Weeds knew that very well too.

“There is no question. The Shiva operative knows about this and he delivered that message clearly with his warning in Akron.”

“We don’t know that for a certainty.” Taylor’s mind spooled up to his conniving best. His friend was leaning toward a rash action that needed averting. “We had no knowledge of the folder until now so how would he? Why has he waited? Yours isn’t the only name.”

“What was the sniper saying if it wasn’t expressly this file?” Weed looked expectantly to the one man who provided him with all his best answers.

“I suspect the drastic statement was in some way connected with Dallas but that Ohio was not directly targeted at this particular dossier.” Internally, the chief of staff smugly smiled. “I just need some time to figure out what Shiva’s Messenger said.”

“What about the Records Chief?” Larry was uncertain if he should adopt a concerned visage or a stern one at the decidedly unpleasant next agenda item. The resulting blend of expressions came out looking stunned instead of either selection. “Do you think he read too much?”

“Unless NASA needs an astronaut for a mission to orbit Uranus, there’s no posting remote enough to suppress what he knows. This file’s been hidden because premature release is not an option.”

“Who would believe him anyway?” Weeds offered a possible pardon. “There are conspiracy theory sites all over the web and few lend any credence.”

“If they had this material posted,” Nick shook the papers for effect, “they would get noticed and believed.” Taylor paused. “I’ll go make the unofficial arrangements.”

…

“What was that?” Carl Eckert was shocked from his acted out espionage by a shape crossing his window. He scanned the sky to see if a wisp of cloud or an airplane had thrown a fleeting shadow but the clear blue sky wasn’t even marred by a pigeon. Looking back, he saw the motion in his living room again but this time a pair of unmistakable hands cracked the blinds open and a face showed. Carl leaned his back against the reassuring cool of the concrete block. Suddenly, this wasn’t a game anymore.

The foreknowledge of an expedient murder situation lurking for him in his own residence transcended his wildest imaginings. Snowflakes falling on a hot griddle flash to steam without the intermediate step of melting to water. So did Carl Eckert’s emotions pass into anger without going through fear.

“Well, screw you very much, Mr. President! I’m glad I passed wind in your office.”

His misguided patriotism had demanded he do the right thing and there had been no option on that. It was only his misfortune that the dangerous file landed in his hands at all but luck did have it that Carl was a dreamer. The Roquefort file was the tastiest morsel he had ever seen. How could he simply hand it away and never see it again? On his route between CIA headquarters and the office of the presidency, Carl had paused to make and store photocopies.

In his commission of the act of making reproductions, the bureaucrat had no intention of using them in any nefarious ways. He just wanted it to read and enjoy, or just having such an explosive toy in an envelope under his arm would’ve given delicious realism to his fantasy role acting. Now, that plaything was a deadly weapon.

“I’m sure you’ve changed over the years but I’ll recognize you.” The now ex-CIA bureaucrat stared at a 40-year-old photograph of a handsome assassin known by most as the shadowy dog-faced man. The eyes were particularly identifiable by their piercing nature even if the black and white didn’t show the hue. Eckert’s mind assigned them as grey with some blue.

“I’m going to find you.” Carl Eckert spoke a vow to the image. As he did so, his entire skin surface shuddered at an effervescent pleasure that was as bathing in a glass of seltzer water. Perhaps that’s what happened when one realizes that they’ve just stepped onto their dream’s pathway.

…

“Close the door behind you.” Bart Jefferson welcomed Beth Withers into his office and waited for her to hobble with a cane to a seat before continuing. “How’s the leg?”

“Jogging beside a limo could prove difficult.” Beth still felt she wanted to be somewhere useful and had showed up at work.

“A scar will make a good story for kids one day but that’s not why I called you in.” Though he’d always liked Beth, this past event had brought them closer. It even crossed the line between boss and friend. He took a deep breath and continued. “The President wants some quick results and the FBI has responded by forming a task force with the sole purpose of finding Shiva’s Messenger.”
“And?” Beth urged after a painfully long pause.

“How would you feel about transferring your services to the Foolish Bloody Idiots?” Jefferson jokingly allowed his inter-service rivalry to show.

“I’d love it!” She wanted onto it for two critical reasons. The potential route avoided an untenable dead-end gully and it delivered an opportunity to apprehend the assassin who had jeopardized her career. “Do you suppose it’s possible?”

“Well,” the senior Secret Service agent grinned, “I anticipated your reaction. A buddy of mine is heading it up. Bob Waters owed me a marker and I felt obligated to you for one. You can start as early as tomorrow morning.”

Agent Withers was speechless but words couldn’t have done justice to her appreciative expression either.

“There is just one codicil and I agreed to it for you. After the investigative sub-unit disbands, if you want to stay on at the FBI you have to attend their Quantico training. Now scoot before any dust can settle,” Bart smiled and gestured her to leave, “and don’t leave any make-up or panties in your desk drawer.”

…

Carl Eckert visited his bank and converted everything he could into cash. Unfortunately, his investments would take too long to liquidate and were useless to him. All he had at hand was close to $20,000, but it might be the last money he would ever see. Using his credit cards was almost as foolish as carrying a cell phone.

Just one more victim of the president’s penchants for fatal verdicts, Carl would disappear into plain sight. His business suit would be exchanged for goodwill box cast-offs. There would be no more razors, warm beds or bathtubs. No one notices the homeless. Larry Weeds would be able walk right past him and not see the man he was looking for. The president wouldn’t stoop to give him any spare change. Why would he want to? Indigent people don’t vote and certainly not for Republicans.

…

“Welcome onboard.” Bob Waters took his new employee on a limping tour and introduced her to the team.

“Can we speak in private?” After a glance at a blackboard name, Beth sighed resignedly and turned her new boss by the elbow. She explained the dilemma.

“With pre-knowledge of this, I wouldn’t have hired you.” Bob Waters settled back into his swivel chair. An agent confessing to a previous affair with the principal person of interest was bizarre. “I can’t say I’m pleased but I’m glad you told me right away. It tells me something about your character.”

“I’ll quit.” Beth felt her eyes ready to fill up with a shovelful of dirt. Damn you Allen! That’s twice. “My relationship with him makes me a potential witness or even a possible suspect.”

“Then I have to keep you, both to protect evidence and provide for handy interrogations.” Bob joked away the tension of his newest teammate. “I’m rejecting your resignation. Your jumping in front of a bullet tells me whose team you’re playing on. His identity isn’t conclusively proven yet but It could be advantageous to us that you’ve actually seen the messenger and you can recognize him.”

…

FBI agent Beth Withers sat at her small cubicle desk to brood before going to work with her assigned sup-unit.

“Bet your ass I’ll know you instantly!” She might not even have to see his face to identify him because she knew the way he moved. Allen had torpedoed one assignment, attached a limpet mine to the next and shot her in the thigh. What hurt most of all, was that he had been intimate with her, while fully aware that he was an assassin and she was an agent.

“You were so slick! You knew exactly how to weasel your way in with me.” Why would he take such an enormous risk though? That didn’t make sense. He hadn’t pumped her for any information. She would’ve caught onto that. In her mind, Beth played back every moment she spent with him, searching for anything that would make the liaison worth the inherent danger.

“Now I know why he balked at going into that photo booth with me.” In fact, she’d even teasingly threatened to force him in at the point of her gun to get the keepsake. He had an odd expression as he was vehemently declining. “Retrospectively, it was his fear.”

Finding only that non-essential incident, she then tried another memory technique. With her eyes closed, Beth ran encounters in reverse. The unusual viewpoint allowed her to almost step out of her body to see the details clearer.

“My book?” He could’ve seen it briefly on that first morning. She thumbed quickly through it. There were several bits of information but the most telling was her comment on a discussion with the Chief about manpower.

“You could’ve found that information from a safer source.” Even with it, he would still have to guess where she would cut. No further thoughts could get her any closer to his motivation because there were several possibilities and only one stayed prominent. “Were you just toying with me? When I catch you, I’m going to apply thumbscrews!”

Different units within the group were handling various aspects. One was tracking all of the references on Allen Powers’ resume. Each thread they followed led only to a soap bubble that popped as it was touched. They traced another man that had since vanished. Allen Wright had been a maintenance person at the sniper-nest building and was the ambulance driver on the scene.
Beth was attached to the division acting on an assumption that a police officer killed on the outskirts of Akron had also been the work of the assassin. There was no solid connection and Beth was convinced it wasn’t even related to the Shiva case. That would have made the Ohio scenario like a hokey mock-up of Dallas, complete with J.D. Tippet slain. That proposition was almost ludicrous.

“If only I could figure out where you gained and perfected your skills. Maybe then I could find some small details of your consistent modus operandi.” The trouble was that the Shiva case wasn’t comparable to anything else, with the possible exception of some of the Dallas conspiracy theories. That was 40 years ago, and it was unlikely that the same shooter would still be working.

“Hold on!” Beth brought her thinking back a step. Equating Akron to Dallas reminded her that she had just thought about the 1963 plot, in connection with the police officer. “What if Shiva did kill Jerry Burke during his escape?”

The dead officer was shot once in the throat and twice in the forehead with a .22 caliber handgun. Experts thought that the bullets also passed through a suppressor. It might have looked like a professional hit, except the grouping of shots suggested less than elite marksmanship. Burke had fired two rounds from his .38 caliber snub-nose, as the spent casings confirmed. Presumably, they went into the other vehicle because the slugs weren’t found. It could be expected Jerry had to hit someone because how could he miss from that close range?

Agent Withers retrieved a file and perused it. Patrolman Jerry Burke was a policeman with a history of anger management and discipline problems. On the day of his death, he was previously slated to sniper escort but had been reassigned back to patrol. On the night before he died, Burke had a spousal altercation. His wife filed an assault charge in the morning. Could Shiva’s messenger have known that? No. That was impossible.

“Why would Burke have a throw away gun?” Beth mused for a plausible scenario. If pissed off about not spending a day snoozing on a roof, would he take his frustrations out on his wife? “I’ll assume that he would and that explains the domestic violence.” When the alert went through the force to be on the lookout for a possible assassin, what would he do? “Getting hero status in the papers with a high profile bust would be a very nice thing, wouldn’t it, Jerry?”

“Did your oxymoron come true?” Beth recalled the first line of Edgar Alan Poe’s ‘Tale of the Monkey’s Paw’, ‘Be careful what you wish for, you might receive it’.”

“Patrolman Burke is looking for a suspicious gunman, leaving town. Jerry has an untraceable weapon with him because—Why?” Beth mumbled as she left her cubicle to pour a coffee. Her preoccupation and talking to herself earned some smiles from her new coworkers. Though she continued to think, by the time she got back to her desk Beth had come up with only one possibility. “In case whomever he found wasn’t already armed!”

“Phew! Jerry, that’s disgusting! Do you even care if you have the right suspect? I think I may be glad you’re dead.” Her assessment of the slain policeman didn’t begin high but it had just descended further. “Unluckily, you found the right victim, like a flea in a couch and he killed you. Still, you managed to shoot him twice.”

“The hits were likely in the critical head or upper torso area.” Walking back to her desk, Agent Withers had a nasty mental image of Allen dead somewhere and drawing flies. While she had just expressed pleasure at Burkes demise, Beth couldn’t find the same sentiment about the man she thought she had known.

“You had a .22 caliber gun with you.” Why didn’t Allen just kill Burke as he walked up to the car? This was the stupidest thing Shiva’s Messenger did all day. Was it a superior ego or a danger thrill thing? Was it akin to dangerously dating a federal security agent? Beth thought about the personality she’d observed in Allen. Her personal alarm sensors never even jiggled around him. A split personality might’ve been needed to make him into a person prone to shooting before questioning

“How many people are there in your portfolio?” Beth chuckled. His real name may not even be Allen. Powers and Wright were just pseudonyms. All they really knew was that he was a sniper with razor sharp targeting.

“If your aim was so damned good, why wasn’t the group tighter on Jerry’s forehead?” Shiva’s messenger had just been wounded and wildly struck the throat but then he was able to double-tap, albeit with a shaky hand.

“Canada!” Two big pieces of the jigsaw puzzle slipped perfectly together. Beth spilled her drink all over the desk in a hurry to talk to her boss. Bart Jefferson had told her that if Shiva had hit the wife-beaters with a double-tap then it might be a concern. The differing style with the lead-up murders was because he didn’t want to look like a pro. They were to evoke a police response. He knew from her book that manpower was tight and he wanted to reduce it further. “Everything fits.”

“Sir, I think he was practicing north of the border, all the way to Akron!” Beth finally ended her dissertation. Coming up with the logic trail had taken much longer than explaining it. The task force commander followed patiently along. “He switched his technique only to keep us from construing him as a credible threat.

“You have been judged and found wanting.” Bob looked at the new girl and slowly nodded his head while musing.

“I’m sorry.” Beth was crushed. “I thought it made sense.”

“Not you!” Bob laughed at her misapprehension that really was his unintentional fault. “The quote from Daniel’s interpretation of the disembodied handwriting on the wall that foreshadowed the fall of Babylon. The serial killings seem to have contained a message.”

“Are you suggesting,” Beth swiftly veered to follow his new logic trail, “he was intending to kill the president while he was committing the five murders and then changed his mind sometime between then and the Akron rooftop?”

“Your real talents were wasted when you were in the meat shield service.” Bob Waters grinned and laced his fingers together on his desk. “I think you’re even sharper than Bart said you were. You can cover this new aspect and you’ll have another agent to help out. Take your mittens and toque, eh? Keep me appraised.”

Recalling the soggy mess waiting back at her desk, Beth went to the ladies room to get some paper towels. She steadied herself, with palms on the cool marble vanity and looked at the mirror.

“May he live in interesting times.” As quoted by Robert Kennedy two years before Sirhan Sirhan, supposedly it was a Chinese curse. Change in her life was definitely rampant, but not all was bad. “It’s what? P-day + 3, but it feels more like a month.”

Now if she was to take an investigation into a foreign country, there was a small mountain of red tape to move. The smug young FBI agent smiled as she flexed her fingers. “I hope that the pen is mightier than the bulldozer.”

“Unfortunately, Allen’s likely dead in a remote wooded area and my Shiva Task Force fun will end when his body is found.”

Remote wooded area, that sure sounds like Canadian terrain.[/private_Chevron]

Chapter 16 of Shiva’s Messenger

J.D. Tippet’s Revenge

Policeman Jerry Burke had been elated by the word on the radio about shots fired at the president. How opportune that it had happened on such a perfect day, when he was already set to capitalize on it. He had brought a small quantity of drugs and a throwaway gun on his patrol today. His nefarious plan had been to find a likely looking subject in an unobserved location. By the time he called for backup, the evidence would prove that Jerry had killed an armed drug pusher during the commission of a brilliant arrest.

Jerry could rationalize slaying a possible innocent, to further his selfish aims in the fact he was a policeman and therefore he was above the law. Shopkeepers should pay him in free donuts for keeping thieves at bay with his presence. It was only Burke’s due for streetwalkers to give him free services because he carried a badge. Though she had reneged on her obligations, his wife owed him release from his tensions in whatever way he demanded. Now someone could pay a life to buy Jerry Burke his deserved stature.

Then suddenly, an assassin had fired shots from one of the buildings where he should have been standing escort. Now the whole department was on full vigilance looking for the escaped subject. Burke had the opportunity to gain everything he wanted and far more. He just needed to find a sole occupant in a rental car. He could murder the hapless driver and plant the disposable firearm. The FBI would have a dead suspect and the fame would be Burke’s. The foul patrolman ditched the dope and went hunting.

“This looks perfect.” Waiting stealthily on the highway on-ramp, the cop very shortly spotted a lone male in a late model car. Highway traffic was sparse and Jerry gunned his engine to follow. Sure enough, there was the leasing company bumper sticker. He had his high-visibility bust and even if this guy had nothing to do with the shootings, his situation and locale fit with a getaway attempt. “You’re mine, Lee Harvey Oswald.”

Allen checked and then rechecked his speedometer. He was definitely not speeding and he couldn’t think of any reason why he would be stopped. Is this my second mistake today? A wait of a day or two in Akron before trying to leave town might have been wiser. He reduced his speed slightly to let the police car travel by him but instead the lights flashed and siren started wailing.

“I hope that I don’t have to kill another policeman.” He might not have any choice in the matter. As he turned into a lonely siding, Allen leaned naturally away from the centrifugal gravity of the corner and used the movement to reach into the glove box for his gun. He slipped it into ready reach, out of sight beside his seat. Maybe I can talk my way through this without bloodshed. He braked smoothly to a halt then observed the officer exiting his cruiser with a hand on his Sam Browne belt. Allen took several deep breaths in case a parley wasn’t going to be sufficient.

[private_Chevron]“What’s the problem, officer?” Allen’s voice was in a questioning lilt. “I’m not aware of anything that I’ve done wrong.”

“Then this is just your unlucky day.” With a malicious snarl, Jerry Burke slapped at the leather holster. He drew his sidearm and pointed it into the driver’s window. “Get out of the car.”

“Yes officer.” This doesn’t look very promising. Allen agreed meekly to give himself the seconds that he needed. Did he have a bumper sticker that said ‘I’ll shoot the Sheriff’? With the shifter in park, he couldn’t just step on the accelerator and peel out.

Instead, Allen stomped both feet onto the brake pedal and straitened his legs to almost stand up in the seat. ‘If you can’t avoid being shot, don’t take the bullet in the head.’ Here was a snippet of his father’s instruction that he never planned on using. With his skull pressed against the car’s padded ceiling, only his torso was now vulnerable. In two simultaneous motions, he opened the door latch with one hand and drew his own weapon in the other.

Jerry had planned to kill outside the car but he saw movements and pulled his trigger.
Allen took the murderous shot in his lower chest but if he didn’t complete his maneuver, the next would kill him. He dropped his left shoulder into the door, thrusting with all the force he could muster. It smashed into the policeman’s legs and staggered him back. Allen’s face was now in the open but so was his gun. He fired once without aiming, catching the cop in the neck.

Both men fired once more at almost the same instant. Burke’s aim was off due to his throat wound and his second hit near to the entry point of his first shot.

Allen had already squelched his pain and his bullet was precisely on target. The policeman took the round in the small point between his eyebrows. The assassin’s third projectile struck just an instant later but centimeters away on the forehead. The job Burke intended was murder but now he was dead on his feet. With the spinning gyroscope of the brain to maintain equilibrium now in full stop, the lifeless patrolman toppled to the ground.

“That’s an unusual accoutrement.” The dead officer had fallen onto his side and front. Allen could see a second gun stuffed into his belt in the hollow of the man’s back. There had been no overt reason for the cop to suspect anything. The revolver tucked into the dead policeman’s pants and his outward aggressiveness, suggested this wasn’t a routine stop. I was just at the wrong place and time.

“Or was I in the right at the right?” All possible remorse for an unplanned killing was bleached spotless by his solving the cop’s mystery on the clues. The police band radio must be playing the song of an escaping assassin. All the media would sing the praise of the policeman that dragged in his corpse.

Allen put the car into gear and stomped down on the gas pedal. The spinning wheels churned up a rooster tail of gravel as he sped away. As rubber treads bit into highway asphalt, the acceleration jarred his wounds and he wincingly felt them through his blood-soaked shirt. He staunched the further bleeding as well as possible with his hand pressure but putting distance between the participant and the aftermaths took president over his paltry pain.

“A Murudeva is someone that worships dummy gods,” belatedly, Shiva’s warning made sense, “and the dance is to the bongo drums of bullets firing.”

“The only way to avoid the mistake would’ve been to commit a worse one.” Shiva’s Messenger spoke to himself and thought as he traveled. He wouldn’t have been shot if he’d killed the policeman before the first word was spoken. But that isn’t my father’s code.

After driving on the highway for about twenty more minutes, he changed the direction of his route. The deceased officer indicated where his killer had fled as surely as if his dead finger pointed. He turned onto a well-traveled rural road to confound the trail.

“If I don’t stop, I’ll bleed to death.” His interim remedy of hand pressure had helped but he was literally sitting in a pool of blood. At a small bridge, Allen spied tracks leading off on the far side. This would be where anglers parked their cars while they fished in the stream but it was too early in the season for fishing. Big patches of snow still hadn’t thawed. Branches didn’t yet have the verdant twinge that showed the trees were coming to bud.

As he struggled to get out of the seat, his chest felt on fire. The action also opened the wounds as newly formed clots broke and his blood flowed again with renewed vigor. The injured young man staggered towards the small brook, but hadn’t decided what he would do when he got there.

“I haven’t bled this badly since I stabbed myself.” Years ago, a young John was learning how to skin a rabbit. An error in realizing just how little pressure he should put on his buck knife, sent the very sharp tip through the bunny and his wrist. An artery was cut and the blood actually squirted out in pulses until his father held it under cold water in the rain barrel. It worked than and it might now again.

Shiva’s Messenger reached the water’s edge. He kicked off his shoes and tossed his wallet into one of them, then kept on walking. He sat when he reached thigh depth and the numbing cold water eased his pain. His hands busied themselves under the surface stripping off his bloodstained clothing. A fallen snag overhung the creek and he used it as a temporary clothesline.

His fingers searched out his wounds. There were the two bullet holes in his ribcage. Both were lower than his nipple and on the same side of his chest. Is my lung punctured? That would be serious but possibly survivable if he could get some medical aid. In a choice between hospital and death, I’ll accept the latter.

Then, he groped around his back and found only one ragged rent but it didn’t feel as big as he would have expected. The bullet luckily passed between his ribs in front and back, so the lead didn’t mushroom on striking any bone.

“The other bullet either went out through the same hole, or it’s still inside.” The exit wound seemed too small for two, so he suspected the worst. The poisonous heavy metal would have to come out somehow. That meant surgery and he was back to the question of selecting between doctors and demise. His answer remained still the same.

The stream water was a balm and the frosty cold also stemmed the hemorrhaging. Soon he felt capable of pressing onward. The trunk held his duffle but that didn’t have much for first aid supplies.

“An hour ago, I had an ambulance full of triage gear: I could sure use that now.” He set some socks as dressings and ripped both sleeves off a shirt to bind them in place. He looped a spare belt around that so he could tighten it later, if required. This would have to do until he could find a motel or something.

Allen dressed again and then considered the blood soaked driver’s seat. He cast about for a stray piece of cardboard. Where is a litterbug on a unique occasion when someone actually needs one? He dumped the contents of his duffle into the rear seat and used the canvas as a cushion to protect his fresh clothes. The wet clothes stayed in the trunk.

As he climbed behind the wheel, Allen thought of the sopping jeans and shirt in his trunk and that sent his mind to his entire evidence situation. His rental had been intended for a simple drive out of Akron and it would have been returned. At least one bullet from the policeman’s gun was lodged somewhere and DNA was infused into the upholstery. Allen can tack grand theft auto onto his rap sheet. The car wouldn’t show up back at the rental agency.

“One dead patrolman, plus two grievous wounds equals a scrubbed plan.” Including the variables of many spurred decisions and rapidly deteriorating capacities made for a formula that Ptolemy would’ve balked at.

[Bhairava’s begging-bowl returns absolution.]

“That was helpful but I’d prefer an aspirin.” Shiva’s Messenger quipped to the essence that had hopped into his mind like a hobo on a freight train. His namesake’s spirit never engaged in lengthy conversation, so the critically wounded young man resumed his outbound odyssey from Ohio.

There was torturous dirt ahead and his biological hourglass was fast loosing sand.

…

Judith Forrester woke to find herself in the recovery room. A white-smocked man was standing by her bed. She took a moment to orient herself to the recent events while the doctor waited patiently for her to focus. In a preference between hospital and anywhere else, she would choose the second also, but the choice had been made for her.

“How are we feeling?” Dr. Shavers asked the traditional bedside question: it was trite but it came with the sheepskin.

“We’re not sure yet, you tell us.” If he was going to assign her the royal plural, why shouldn’t Judith accept?

“We are a very lucky girl.” He smiled and countered her barb. “You should be feeling better soon.”

“I believe I was almost killed, so you’ve an unusual perception of what qualifies as good fortune. How long was I in a coma?”

“You weren’t comatose. You fainted. Then your body likely decided to accept the downtime.” He then gave some doctor’s advice with a sternly shaking finger. “The candle you burn at both ends isn’t in its twenties anymore. Have you given yourself much rest while preparing for and worrying about the event?”

“No.” She admitted sheepishly but then her feisty nature took over again. “But I was shot.”

“Yes, and the slug hit you in such a manner that it did negligible harm. It didn’t even strike a bone in passing through a fleshy area between your upper breast and your armpit. The bullet would’ve only traveled through layers of skin, in front and in back, if you weren’t somewhat overweight.”

“Oh.” Judith actually felt deflated at not being hurt worse. I could be mocked as a hypochondriac for being carted away in an ambulance after a flesh wound.

“If someone had supposed,” Dr. Shavers mused, “that I could treat a person struck in the torso by a high powered bullet and release them after only an hour, I would have laughed at the impossibility—but here you are. Go and greet your awaiting fans.”

“What fans?” Judith morosely regretted her missed opportunity. “I didn’t even get to deliver my speech.”

“What fans?” Shavers broke out laughing. “Judith Forrester, I vote for you, even though I’m not a Republican and so I’m quite aware of your intellect. I have to chalk that question up to shock, your pain and possibly the medication. You were just wounded on a stage where one of the most dramatic events of the past decade has just occurred. Reporters are stacking up in the reception area like a Los Angeles traffic jam. Most politicians would gladly mutilate themselves for the exposure that you’re going to get.”

“Wow!” With almost greater impact than the bullet, a realization of what that meant struck Judith belatedly. In the crack of a rifle’s report, her career had just jumped from neutral and sputtering, into overdrive with the throttle wedged at maximum and with a full tank of high-octane gasoline. Congresswoman Forrester would just have to hold on tight for the ride of her lifetime.

“I’m going to take Wow as a confirmation that I haven’t over-prescribed.” Shavers was still chuckling as he left the room.

Her young volunteer had been so confident that Judith’s career would take off. He certainly turned out to be right, in a way that he never could have guessed. She could hardly wait for him to return from Las Vegas and was already planning to hire him on full-time. Powers and Wright, the invisible Allens in their big bulky knit sweater, just hadn’t started to unravel quite yet.

…

“You brought me to a place where the television doesn’t work either.” Larry Weeds hurt all over from the rough treatment and with his caustic voice, he hinted at their failure at keeping a sniper away. The Secret Service had been almost faultless in protecting him but that was akin to a phrase like—a nearly prevented pregnancy. The initial secured location as set up by the advance team, was a hotel’s conference room. The facility was luxuriously equipped on the one end with a grouping of comfortable chairs around a media center. The president sat and keyed the power button repeatedly while he aimed the remote from contorted angles.

Wordlessly, an agent moved five paces from his stance to flick an obvious wall switch. A lamp lighted on the top surface and it could be surmised the switch controlled the power for the entire unit. On the next remote tapping, the TV powered up with an audible click sounding vaguely like—duh.

Larry glared at the Secret Serviceman’s expression to see if it betrayed any mocking he could pounce on but it was stoic. Turning to face the set, Weeds uttered neither an apology nor gratitude.
The youngish man molded like an all-star running back, took his five steps again. It was better to show dispassion than what he truly thought. Jefferson’s weather prediction was far more accurate than aching corns. Black thunderheads were indeed boiling overhead. Old customs in some remote places had practiced human sacrifice for appeasing angry gods. That was destined to occur again here too and each agent could guess whom the first virgin into the volcano would be. This ex-football player had witness the play and felt it would be wrong for the referee to toss a penalty flag at her.

“You’re supposed to be bringing Taylor to me.” Weeds barked impatiently: but he didn’t target his remark and none volunteered a reply. The president had his eyes glued on the picture tube where a news anchor was mouthing words. The volume was sufficient to hear but his attention was welded to the background visual. The scene of his holding Tom Albertson’s dead hand matched the one playing predominantly in Larry’s mind since the stage.

‘Mayhem in the Midwest’. The channel Larry was watching had dubbed the incident with a catchy name and the text graphic was in bold lettering to add dramatic oomph. There were more camera angles and carnage on the main screen behind the anchorman. A small picture-in-picture was a serious looking on-scene reporter. Weeds didn’t listen to what he was saying either.

“I’ve seen this nightmare I’ve lived through replayed over and over.” The president muttered but the footage on the television was oddly soothing: the visuals in his mind were much more terrifying.

“Why wasn’t President Weeds killed?” Weeds caught a question posed by the anchor. In the smaller cut-away box, a pundit in a suit jabbered some lingo that rendered down into a much less verbose answer—I don’t know. The president continued watching intently but listening sporadically as he waited for his Chief of Staff and longtime friend. Only five minutes passed.

“Why wasn’t President Weeds killed?” Weeds quoted the line heard only moments ago as the tall and slimly built man took a seat on a chair facing. Larry clicked off the TV’s power with vengeance. “I heard that line twice while I watched. They don’t care to mention how fortunate the nation is to still have a president.”

“Half empty glasses draw better ratings.” Nick Taylor didn’t add that the office would immediately switch to the vice-president so the country would still have a leader. The Chief of Staff then remained quiet as president launched into a tirade vehemently berating news coverage and then continuing into butt ripping the Secret Service. A lifelong friendship told Nick how to calm Larry down—wait for it to pass naturally. He remained silent.

“Leave us,” Weeds testily barked, then waited for the guards to depart before continuing. “I want that Messenger’s head stuffed and mounted on my trophy wall. Nobody does this to me”

“I’m already working towards putting it there,” Taylor ran a hand front to back smoothing out his hair. The action was cognizant of his pulling his already receding hairline even further over his scalp. “It’s still to early too know much about him yet.”

“Shiva obviously sent him so let’s go after that organization.”

“We’re fairly confident that the Hindu God of Destruction didn’t personally endorse this use of his name.” Nick was mildly surprised that fact hadn’t been news coverage Larry had watched.
“I want to nail Shiva in a state that still has the death penalty.” Weeds took Nicks lesson and learned from it as he always did. He nodded thoughtfully then continued and used the new knowledge. “Even if it’s not the same State as the Hindus come from.”

“That should be doable.” Taylor was a master at correcting Weed’s lack of knowledge in a manner not overtly condescending. “After emigration from India, Hindus settle in many different states, including ones that condone capital punishment.”

“If India is behind this, I’ll nuke their capitol,” Weeds hotly threatened atomic retaliation, then considered the proposed flight plan of the B-1 bombers, “whatever city that is.”

“I sincerely doubt that Delhi is part of a plot. I’ll get the best people working on it. We’ll find whoever is responsible.”

“He shot Tom Albertson while I was shaking his hand. The bastard didn’t even shoot at me first. He nailed four others and I was almost a piddling afterthought. Do you know how the media is going to rip into me over that? I’m going to be made the butt of jokes by every comedian in the free world.”

“Would you have preferred that he killed you?” Taylor’s question brought the president’s thoughts back to reality. “Have patience. We’ll get him. People don’t take shots at an event where the president is and then get away cleanly.”

“Damn straight on that!” The President was as grim as he could manage and then he changed the subject. “I want that female Secret Service agent protecting a penguin-counting station in Nome. Women should know their place and it isn’t doing a man’s job. She was hanging off of me and hindering my escape.”

“After all the penguins relocated to the South Pole, we closed that facility but I’m sure I can find a suitable assignment.” Taylor had seen some of the first footage. The fault was definitely not with the girl. She had done everything she could possibly do to protect the POTUS: even to the point of taking a bullet in the leg. It was male agents and the president himself that created the bottleneck.

With the trivia regarding penguins, the Chief of Staff may have been deemed as patronizing but few knew the depth of latitude that Nick enjoyed. The parameters were set by a long ago event.

Nick had written two assignment papers for a shared university class and he offered the better of the two to Larry. The higher graded accolades accrued to the undeserving scholar. They later discussed the incident over some beers and Weeds had made a remark that made up for in astuteness, for what it lacked in oratory composition.

‘You think you’re smart but I’m much smarter than you. I have the smarts to surround myself with smart people that work harder than I do at making me look smarter.’ It was his influential family rather than smarts that initially drew Nick to fostering the friendship but the sentiment was essentially true. Taylor lived by it.

“First, though,” the advisor resumed, “you’re going to have to make a show of gratitude to her. There is no way to banish Agent Withers before her moment of fame fades. I’ll make the Alaskan deployment look like a promotion but she’ll be gone from the detail.”

“Yes, you always manage to get what I want done and still make me look good.” As his friend Nick Taylor left the room, it seemed that all Larry Weeds’ strength left with him. His hands had been quivering slightly since the near miss but now they started to quake badly. Looking at them now, brought on the memory of Thomas Albertson’s hand. It suddenly closed like a vice. Just in that fraction of a second, a man had been there and then a corpse stood in his place. The shuddering turned into violent convulsive shaking and the president gripped his cushion to help it abate.

…

Beth foresaw that her posting in the POTUS detail was finished when they scheduled her for some interview news events. The Secret Service wasn’t very secret if everyone knew who you were.
She had all of the publicity that she could ever want and then some. Her picture, along with the president’s, was plastered all over the newspapers. Beth had a nice trophy wound in her leg and the comfort of believing her actions were right. It was galling that she was being inexorably expunged. Agent Withers had to talk with someone about this and she chose Bart Jefferson. Calling him off duty, she invited him to join her for a drink. With a crutch for support, Beth hobbled into the lounge.

“I was hoping you’d call.” Bart smiled as she awkwardly lowered her body onto the bench seat. “I would’ve phoned you but I didn’t know how to get through to your press secretary.”

“Laugh it up.” She couldn’t help but be morose. “I feel like I’m about to be chased into a box canyon because of the assassin. I hate it and I loath him. Don’t make me despise you too.”

“I want to be completely off the record with you about a few things.” Jefferson leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The guys think of you as a hero right now, because of what you did in Akron.”

“If you want to cheer me up, you need to come up with a load of crap that is at least partially believable.”

“Your problems are all coming at you from the man you took the bullet for, not the one you got it from. The guy at the top has some unresolved issues with women in non-traditional roles. That’s mostly why things have been tougher for you than they would be for a male. Shiva only made that much more obvious. Every time Weeds looks at you now, he remembers that you, the woman, were brave in the line of fire. That reminds him of how weak kneed that he was. The president is getting rid of you so he can forget.”

“I can’t think of anything I could’ve done differently.”

“You did everything exactly as you were trained. With sniper bullets whizzing all around, you guarded our charge while he was sliding in slime like a snail. That’s the stuff of Secret Service legends so feel proud. You took a bullet headed for a man we’re sworn to shield. That alone vaulted you to the highest standing that an agent can possibly aspire to, in the eyes of his or her peers.”

“I didn’t know the shot was coming.” Beth felt her eyes starting to well up. She daubed at them with a napkin and covered her emotional weakness with a lie. “Excuse me, it’s a bit of dust.”

“Does seeing the gun make the slightest difference? I feel a little bit of that grit coming on also. At least I’m a secure enough man to admit what the dust really is.” He further proved his self-confidence by stepping slightly out of his role as a boss to stroke the back of her hand with concern. “Would you take some advice from a guy who has only steered you horribly wrong once?”

“That wasn’t your fault. Who could have really known? It was my responsibility and I made the call.”

“You’ve shown yourself as one of the elite. Choose another challenge and move onto it. Go on your own terms and don’t let that coward cheapen who you are or run you up that box canyon.”

…

Cindy Smart and Jessica Ellis sat down to one of their frequent lunches. When Roger or Romero had been actively creating such a stir in Canada, they had followed with interest. It was a game for them to deduce what he was up to. Since the killings in Windsor, there had been nothing. Still they met regularly to faithfully follow the news together.

Generally, they attended a Creston café that had a TV and again today, the two girlfriends settled in to the gossip. As expected, the hot topic was the Akron shootings. Shortly after the story broke, Cindy had tentatively suggested that maybe it was their boy resurfacing. Neither of them found that very likely. Nothing he had done previously suggested any political inclinations. Still they discussed the event and speculated with the rest of the world while the television set chattered in the periphery.

“I don’t care how many experts point out differences.” Cindy responded thoughtfully to the current dialogue on the set. “It still reminds me of Dallas.”

“You aren’t old enough to remember the J.F.K. assassination.” Jessica smiled as she thought of how many of that generation told of lingering remembrances. “Or will you claim to recall the womb you were in when you first heard the news.

“Thanks for not bumping me up by a decade.” Cindy laughed. “There I was in a delivery room when a doctor swatted my bare butt and told me what had happened. Having been born on that day, I’ve always had a fascination with the event.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“What mostly reminds me of it is that no gunman was taken on the spot.” Cindy returned to her previous thread. “I keep watching for the F.B.I. to pull a Lee Harvey Oswald out like a rabbit from a hat, as the police in Dallas did.”

“He must be over eighty but the shadowy dog-faced man still seems spry.” The young lawyer called the doctor’s attention to the television where a fuzzy sniper could be seen at the brink of a roof.

“That’s a steady hand for an amateur.” Cindy remarked. “My camera work usually looks as if it were done by a palsy patient.”

“I wish it were Romero.” Jessica sighed and her imaginative vision zoomed in on a face she recalled in its vivid detail.

“This isn’t really my business.” The doctor studied her friend’s rapt expression for an extended moment before offering some non-medical words. “I enjoy our time together but you should be looking for a boyfriend.”

“I don’t really want one just yet.” The young woman’s dreamy eyes swung to her girlfriend and focused.

“Waiting for someone not likely to return isn’t healthy. A young person has desires and needs.”
“I can get physical intimacy at the drop of a G-string.” Jessica grinned impishly. She didn’t mind the older woman’s possible intrusion on her privacy. In fact, she welcomed the gift of another opportunity to scandalize the less unabashed woman.

“A nubile female has the tools to get the sex life she wants.” Cindy laughed. Between her time with Roger and now with Jessica, her tender sensibilities had toughened like overdone steak.

“I’m spoiled.” Jessica sighed. “My mind likes fishing in a conversational stream that runs deeper than ‘hey, let’s get naked’.”

“That one did fight like a steelhead.” She recalled discussions over a scrabble board. “He didn’t have to be begged to strip either.”

“I can play the talks with Romero back in my mind and find a multitude of levels that we were communicating on. I thought he liked ‘double’ entendre but after I realized what he was—even those replays delved much deeper.”

“I noticed that too.” She related the episode of his talking about the death experience and the part of his suggesting that he would use fake ID. “It was probably the one thing he ever said to me that was an utter truth. Yet I don’t think he wanted to lie to me either.”

“He did have an honesty about his deceptions. How is that for a contradiction in terms? Whew!” Jessica humorously fanned her face. “I’m randy enough to drag our busboy into the broom closet.”

“Jessica!” Cindy’s eyes flicked to the employee in question. At about thirty-five, the man exuded an air of his having spent twenty of them in prison. About once every ten minutes he dropped his duties to open the side door. There, he would sit on an upturned bucket and smoke a cigarette while ogling the young lawyer’s form.

“Seriously though, I will consider your good advice. Romero’s still got my heart now but as the saying goes—you use it or you lose it.” Jessica caught a glimpse of a face on the television and she pointed. “Look. Here’s an interview with the lady politician who was shot in the shoulder. This could be really interesting.”

…

“Congresswoman Forrester.” The host of one of America’s top talk shows beamed at her guest. It was a definite coup to get this interview. “Thank you for joining us.”

“Good of you to have me, Barbara.”

“We in the press have been unable to figure you out. Most politicians would line up at the studio door to be on-air, yet you’ve stayed incommunicado for two days despite news crews camped in your driveway.”

“My doctor advised me to rest.” She had anticipated this query and she smiled at having it come at the outset. There’s no second chance for a first impression. “I also felt my flesh wounding was of far less importance than the other events of the day.”

This was a good answer. By mentioning her minor injury first, Judith seemed brave in downplaying the gunshot. Especially as her preamble to it seemed to indicate medical concern. Had she waited to be asked about severity, any answer could sound as her milking it into more than it was. Her true cause for waiting was complicated.

Her injury was paltry when compared to the three men killed. She also felt it would be ghoulish to capitalize on their demise so soon, especially as she couldn’t think of anything nice to say about them if pressed. Of probably more importance, Congresswoman Forrester needed the time to think before plunging. It would’ve been nice to have her favorite young sparring partner to help with that but he failed to return. Since then, some other troubling information had come to light. Allen might not be who he seemed.

“Well the public’s been starving for 48 hours now so let’s get strait to the meat they want to eat. You were hit with an assassin’s bullet. How does that feel to you?”

“It is still a little tender.” Judith had her arm immobilized in a pristine white sling, starched for the occasion. The congresswoman rubbed idly at the spot where she’d been hit and her thoughts traced to the shooter that did it. Her volunteer aide was her best guess at the sniper’s identity. On phoning her friend Brian Bain to inquire if Allen were there yet, she’d become privy to some information. Powers was the agent of record on the policies sold to the men killed earlier on in the week. That snippet almost confirmed, what her heart already knew.

It also left her gored by horns of a dilemma. If her suspicions were true, Shiva’s Messenger intentionally gave her a parting gift of her fondest heart’s desire, the chance to be where she now sat. She couldn’t agree with his methods and had no clue of his motives but loudly berating his actions didn’t seem right. It was like telling a friend you hate a birthday present blouse, while being more than pleased to wear it.

“Judith!” Barbara stiffened abruptly and seemed to grow three inches taller in her chair. “I would think words like horrifying, ghastly or perhaps ravaging should spring to mind?”

“You asked how I felt and my pain has been endurable.” While already thinking of him anyways, Judith now recalled her interview with Allen. He had steered her quickly on a road fork, as she had just done to Barbara. The interviewer was also about to find a tray of plump grapes where she could pluck just the one. That was also a page of Allen’s hymnal. “The thoughts in my mind as I was shot might be what you were looking for or perhaps those of when I awoke in hospital. Reporter’s tents are staked on my front lawn and as you said politicians do relish that. I’ve soul searched over the past days so my personal impressions have also shifted since.”

“Is asking about your self examination too personal?” Juicy as the other fruit looked, Barbara this one. The one question on her mind was the one she couldn’t put on her lips. Why, with a country swathed in outrage, was this woman downplaying the seriousness? Being hit by a bullet should be a cause for anger.

“Of course not.” Judith chuckled and smiled for the camera. “The electorate has to know how a candidate thinks before trusting them with their votes. Three men were killed but I wasn’t. I’m now more appreciative of my place in the political spectrum.”

“Did I just understand you correctly?” Barbara’s deep furrowed eyebrows sent the off-camera make-up artist grabbing for his tray. “Did you say your self-assessment suggests your personal platform separated you from those killed?

“I didn’t say that.” Judith also didn’t deny that she might have meant it. “I sympathize with the families of the slain but I was almost the polar extreme in my political and ethical views from Tom Albertson and Evan Masters. I’d never met Giorgio Martini but I’ve read several of his essays and was frankly, appalled.”

“Your courage is what has impressed the nation.” Barbara wasn’t certain she really wanted to touch anything out of Judith’s last answer. Coverage of memorial services was scheduled to air immediately following her segment. “One thing that stands out is how brave you were trying to tend to the WTO rep, instead of seeking safety for yourself. Why did you risk that, especially as you didn’t even like him?”

“Any animosity towards the man doesn’t change the fact that he was a human in peril. People should help each other in times of need. Retrospectively, I don’t think there was refuge to be had. The messenger was perfectly positioned to complete his objectives.”

“You characterized yourself as the opposite of the murdered men, yet you suggest the assassin had a master plan?” Barbara seized this opportunity to drift into the topic of possible motives. “That implies that you believe the targets were random.”

“No, my judgment is quite the contrary. I believe he carefully pre-selected where his aim would fall. His targeting had different motivations, at least four come to mind.”

“Judith,” the interviewer’s askance look suggested a mild chastisement, “we’re talking about a maniac on a roof with a gun. Those four reasons would be what; to commit murder, to sew mayhem, to terrorize and spread destruction in the name of Shiva?”

“That’s a very simplistic view.” Do I dare to defend his actions? I can if I’m careful. “I’ll tentatively agree with your four suggestions in order. Yes, his first intent was obviously to make deliberate kills. Three men were assassinated, one after the other and with deadly precision. Next, he wounded me as part of the chaos created and it did cause a disfigurement, albeit minor. If he wished me dead then I wouldn’t be here. Then his bullet unfurled a banner that must be considered a threat to evoke terror. Finally, he aimed at the president or his bodyguard after announcing his deity. However, if he had meant to kill the president, then he would have done that first. Assassination of the American figurehead would have much more impact than a Congressman, a WTO rep and a DA. I suspect that the last shot was inspired by an urge to non-lethally devastate Larry Weeds.”

“Oh, I do see your point.” Bravo Judith Forrester! This kind of discussion was good for popularity and it was certainly fascinating. “So why would he want to slay, maim, cause fear and topple the administration, in that sequence?”

“I’m not currently in his head.” Judith chuckled to suggest the absurdity. “I simply pointed out how his rationale was diverse through the event, as witnessed by what we’ve all seen. I think you should ask Shiva’s Messenger to tell you what his full intentions were. I will definitely be in the audience for that show.”

“If I could get him as a guest they would have to put extra digits atop of the ratings scale!” The interviewer examined her guest with her practiced political observer’s eye. Judith was different from most and Barbara believed she would even get her vote. The media circus around her now, was like her winning a lottery but it would take savvy to build on it. Did this Congresswoman have it? Many sweepstakes winners ended up bankrupt.

Judith smiled at the comment and awaited the next question.

“The president said that when Shiva’s Messenger is caught he is to face the death penalty for killing those three men.” Having just decided that Judith could well become a political force, Barbara added some sweetener to their later dealings. Presenting the opportunity to espouse her strongly held view was that treat. “What are your feelings about that?”

“Ohio allows capital punishment, but I strongly oppose it. Killing a human is murder and that is wrong. Commission of the act by the state, makes it no less of a crime.” Judith began her answer but her mind spun. The question was a purposely given gift but this interviewer seldom gave politicians the chance to soapbox their positions. She took pride in being able to understand people’s motivations but this one baffled her. Judith didn’t realize she’d just scored an A+ mark on an extremely valuable exam. “If subsequent evidence brings to light that a travesty of justice has occurred, then shouldn’t the president, governor or even the nation face an indictment for committing a wrongful death? Only God should be dishing out death in judgment.”

“Shiva is a god to the Hindus.” Barbara noted with a hint of irony. “One of the three biggest deities of their pantheon. He is the destroyer who is responsible for handing out death.”

“I knew that, Barbara. I also know that the figure of Shiva, the Lord of the Dance, is a symbol of masculine love.”[/private_Chevron]

…

Jessica Ellis had been watching the interview with rapt attention. She had been oblivious to everything else. She didn’t see her friend Cindy smile back at her several times and even good-naturedly wave slightly, as if to catch her attention. The young lawyer was scrutinizing the words the American Congresswoman was saying—and her ambiguity. Suddenly Jessica turned back to her doctor friend and her face turned ashen.

“Romero is Shiva’s Messenger!” Jessica announced.

“We agreed that he wasn’t.” The doctor was now quite puzzled. “What’s prompted your sudden change of mind?”

“Did Judith Forester study law? I would bet my new car against your next cup of tea that she did.”

That would be quite the wager, as Jessica loved her recently bought, used, but very well kept Alfa Romeo Spyder. Jessica claimed it was a well-crafted automobile, but Cindy chided that she bought it just for the name.

“I don’t know. Probably. A disproportional number of elected leaders seem to be from the legal profession.” Cindy mused.

“Did you ever wonder why that is? I agree with you that the percentage is far above reflective population.”

“Because lawyers are naturally as dishonest as politicians?”

“I’m going to be the only nice kid in the playground and pretend I didn’t hear that,” Jessica warned with a derisive look. “It’s because in law we learn and use logic. That’s also a very valuable tool in government, so it’s a natural progression.”

“Almost every profession uses it. I see a patient’s symptoms and come to logical conclusions about their ailments.”

“Yes you do. However, the actual science is a cognitive evaluation of statements and I loved it.” It was also the only subject where Jessica had outscored Darcy Leach.

“Why does that make you believe that Roger was in Akron?”

“Someone can speak in a way that sounds on the surface like they are saying something else entirely. If taken to task, they can demonstrate word for word, that they hadn’t actually said what was assumed. A really good lawyer or politician never has to lie.”

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t see the relevance.”

“Judith Forrester doesn’t believe in capital punishment, yet she confirms the validity of the assassin’s choice of victims. She forgives him for the injury because the boon outweighs the harm. Her statement of not currently being in his head could imply that she was there previously. Lastly, she specially equated Shiva to love.”

“She agrees but can’t agree.” Cindy suddenly felt a strong kinship with the American lady that epitomized her feelings also.

“There are a lot of murderers in this world,” Jessica’s eyes twinkled, “but how many of them do you suppose are lovable?”

“Roger is Lee Harvey Oswald.” The doctor whose birthday was on Kennedy’s death day nodded knowingly and then paused. “I just hope that Jack Ruby doesn’t find him.”

Chapter 15 of Shiva’s Messenger

Hailstones from a Leaden Sky

[private_Chevron]The ambulance pulled into position and as usual in a stand-by assignment, the paramedics started a game of cards in the back. They weren’t surprised when solitary Allen declined joining in and preferred to sit in the cab. Seemingly dozing behind his sunglasses, in truth, he was instead watching as people were processed through the gamut of detections and indignities to filter into the square. His carefully pre-selected parking spot afforded an unobstructed view of the main security cordon and a vista of the stage through the rearview mirror.[/private_Chevron]

Numerous times, he caught sight of Agent Beth Withers performing her circumnavigations of the protected regions. Her intricate familiarity of the environs doubtlessly exceeded his by a stretch. His advantage was that after his plan was established, his concentration could narrow to within finite parameters. The range of possible threats for her to guard against encompassed the entire sphere surrounding the site where the president would be vulnerable. Hers was a daunting task that he didn’t envy and when Shiva’s Messenger was successful, it was one where she would face recriminations. He suffered a twinge of guilt over that but this was set in motion long before he even met the lovely security fed.

On several occasions as she neared the emergency vehicle, he casually obscured his face with his nose tucked behind his pocket novel. While her head craned everywhere to see everything, her busy eyes never managed to lock sunglasses onto the one place that would have triggered a suspicious recognition.

In the rearview mirror, Allen could see Judith and he knew her well enough by now to almost hear the thoughts running through her mind in anticipation of the event. Her eagerness to participate in such a well-attended function would be conflicting with a desire to convey the right message. The throng of media in the midst of their preparations would be both a source of ecstasy and consternation. They represented a rare opportunity to expound her message—if still taping at her turn.

Allen saw Judith’s hand nervously searched her pockets for the absent notes. It seemed she actually heeded his last advice. Yes, he thought that she did speak better when not prompted by her prepared text but his suggestion was based more on his wishing to spare her the exhaustion of working on a speech that she wouldn’t have the opportunity to give. As if in thanks for that small kindness, Judith Forrester waved at him and smiled.

Allen’s mind did a fully automatic lurch that jerked his body alert. How could the congresswoman have possibly detected him here? He adjusted the mirror slightly and recognized the trim curves of a tailored dark suit as seen from a delightful angle. The politician was actually greeting Agent Withers where she had taken up station in the wing of the stage, with her rearview towards his mirror.

Having Beth now on the platform was a sure indicator that the show was about to start. The timing for the next phase was nigh.

“Guys,” a look into the back of the ambulance confirmed that the paramedics were still engrossed: he interrupted the card game, “I need to find somewhere to take the boa out for a hiss.”

One of the medics simply waved an offhand affirmative and Allen dissolved into a mingled throng.
The senior congressman for the district was the master of ceremonies and lead speaker for the event. Thomas Albertson was one of the president’s best cronies and was the driving force behind this visit. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he introduced himself with a self-flattering diatribe that was flowery enough for his own eulogy.

Allen turned his attention away from the podium. He moved to the spot where a dumpster partially hid the maintenance door into the Akron Financial Tower Building. This was the tallest structure that bordered the square and there was sure to be a sniper posted in that excellent vantage. There had better be one there or this whole set-up was going to be fruitless.

Unobserved, he slid his fingers into sheer surgical gloves. His master key duplicate gained him entry and he quickly traversed the maintenance passageways to the elevator. Although he entered in the alley door, the building rested on sloping ground and he was technically in the basement. All access to this level required a maintenance key.

He pushed the button to call the only elevator and as he entered it, he used another key on his ring to select the lift console to service mode. His finger depressed the top floor button and Allen ascended in the conveyance that would now only respond to local commands.

[private_Chevron]Now came the technical part that had required a study of the control schematics and some electrical rewiring. He quickly opened a junction panel and disconnected two wires from the service mode enable unit. He reconnected these to a set of leads coming from a remote location that he had personally installed. The elevator now wouldn’t respond to any buttons until the remote switch was toggled and it would remain in position until Allen decided otherwise. With his modifications completed, he closed the panel and removed the service mode key and the controls looked normal.

Shiva’s Messenger emerged into the upper hallway and found the roof access stairs. His oath’s fulfillment lingered just outside, where it was flirting with his destiny.

…

On the stage, Judith Forrester felt a secure confidence in her appearance even while fighting her urge to fidget as the cameras swept the stage. Perhaps she could thank her rascally young aide for that. While women wore makeup and fussed over their clothing in order to look good in the eyes of other females, it took a male’s attention to drive in the confirmation. Allen’s sincere sounding offer of intimacy, for whatever his true intentions, was a beneficial form of flattery she was now drawing on for encouragement.

Tom Albertson is such a cretin! As her main party adversary prattled on, Judith paid no heed to his words. She’d heard so many of his eloquent speeches that she had a theory about his method. With a deck of cards, each containing one of his trite phrases, Albertson’s speechwriter needed only a quick shuffle and deal, to put a fresh oration into his hand. Albertson represented everything she despised most in political panorama. With anything involving graft or backroom back scratching, Tom invariably had his snout pushed into it all the way to those curly hairs poking out his ears.

The congresswoman was more interested in hearing the next person on the agenda. Giorgio Martini was a representative of the World Trade Organization, the bureau that embodied the notion that the downtrodden people in emerging nations were just animal fat to grease the shafts of multinational industry. She had read some papers that he had penned. Judith wanted to know if he was the same megalomaniacal despot in person, as he was in his prose.

…

Allen carefully opened the door and peeked at the concrete roof deck outside. As anticipated, the coast was clear. He skirted the stairwell enclosure wall, to look around at the edge closest to the square. Sure enough, a sniper was in a prone position overlooking the area. Taking several deep, calming breaths and extending a tendril of his awareness to the primal throb of his heartbeat, Shiva’s Messenger was now primed for peak functioning.

From one pocket, he extracted a soft cloth. After twisting off the cap, he liberally doused it with ether from a bottle pinched from the ambulance garage. Taking careful steps, Allen prowled like a jungle cat. He was poised to spring if his quarry detected his stalking. The POTUS sniper heard only the chattering of routine voices in his headset, until it was too late.

With the element of surprise working perfectly to Allen’s advantage, he threw himself onto the prone man and the impact of his weight knocked out the agent’s wind. Pinned with his hands forward on his rifle, the hapless man’s arms were ineffective in offering any defense. Allen clamped the anesthetic rag onto the Secret Serviceman’s mouth and nose, holding it firmly in place until the struggles had subsided. Shiva’s Messenger gave him a few more seconds of the ether just to make sure. So far so good—the federal man hadn’t even seen the assailant’s face before he was rendered unconscious. There were still no witnesses.

Allen took the rifle from the limp hands and removed the POTUS detail headset for his own use. The lurking assassin could now hear the security network as he repositioned into the much better location he’d pre-selected at the corner. He checked the weapon and tested its balance. Of the finest quality, this rifle was obviously well loved and carefully tended. With a smile, he guessed with relative certainty that it would be sighted-in to pinpoint accuracy. The new sniper looked into the scope.

…

Giorgio Martini ladled out his thickly accented dreary drivel. Judith had expected to find him detestable and now her opinion was completely vindicated. Obviously, Giorgio considered himself to be of the nobility and the underclass owed him their due. It was a surprise that his speech hadn’t used the term feudalism yet. What the WTO did around the world was nothing short of criminal but this man’s draconian views were heinous beyond even that. As Judith watched, Martini finished his prepared text and turned away from the podium.

Congressman Albertson rose quickly from his seat and thanked Giorgio with a friendly handshake. Judith could almost see Tom’s eyes lighting up like a cash register’s display, as he vigorously pumped the WTO rep’s arm like it was the handle of graft well.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Tom paused dramatically in his moment of reflected luminance, “here comes the moment you all have been waiting for.”

The public address system began a rousing chorus of Hail to the Chief. Amid a fanfare of applause and the strains of the signature song, a man with sandy hair in a tweed suit emerged from the curtains. There he was, Larry Weeds, the President of the United States of America. With a big toothy smile, he waved expansively with both arms open. The trailing knot of the POTUS detail surged like high water cresting over a Levi: they flowed into the stage wings and washed into the crowd beyond.

…

The assassin’s blue eyes checked his watch in a habitual manner without even noting the time. Time was insignificant. This specific moment would be indelibly etched into history. He lined the crosshairs on the president’s forehead. Just as Kennedy had filled the scope in his dream at the hot spring, so did this president’s face. Time slowed. He tightened his finger on the trigger. John’s blood quickened and his thoughts raced. ‘Am I really ready for this?’ His mind responded with a complete surprise.

The vice-president won’t be there. He’s the worst of the lot.

“Judith said that!” John suddenly recalled a snippet of the conversation with the congresswoman then compared it to one his father said. ‘Kill a president for the right reasons.’ John Fitzgerald was confronted with a ruinous predicament. Was killing a president only to promote a worse vice-president the right reason?

“Father, what’ll I do?” Frantically, John tried to reconcile pulling the trigger but it was to no avail. Judith was correct and the reluctant assassin had to find another way, regardless of how much effort had gone into this scenario. Make the statement anyway!

Larry Weeds took Tom Albertson’s hand. With no discernable arm movement, the greeting was a just protracted handholding. The president smiled with genuine warmth and looked directly into his very dear friend’s cheerful eyes.

John moved the rifle in a fluid motion that brought the crosshairs to rest on his precise target. He squeezed the trigger, and with time seeming slowed, it was as if he could almost trace the track of the bullet as it streaked. That first shot hit Congressman Tom Albertson exactly in the center of his hairline like a supersonic hailstone. The lead precipitation blew blood and grey brain matter out of a freshly created hole in the lower back of his head. The Ohio politician crumpled to the floor with a literal death grip on the American president’s hand.

A bedlam of excited words, like a recording from an elementary school recess but with post-pubescent voices, erupted from the earpiece. The Secret Service’s training regimen includes radio discipline but in these first seconds each sought to tell, that which all others already knew. It was simply background music to Shiva’s Messenger as he fired a second aimed shot that took Giorgio Martini in the peak of his forehead. The bullet, like a WTO infusion of capital, entered his skull like a developing nation. Also similarly, the slug mushroomed inside and explosively tore a much larger exit hole at the base of his skull, as profiteering in a ravaged economy does. Buffeted by the shock of his terminal globalization, the vacant remains of Giorgio Martini heeled backwards off his chair.

…

Beth was sprinting towards Larry Weeds when Martini’s head burst like an exploding cantaloupe. That wasn’t her first concern. The president was still standing and stupidly staring down at his lifeless friend on the ground. He still held the dead Tom’s arm aloft. Agent Withers stepped hurriedly in against the president’s back to shelter what the size of her body would allow. She wrapped an arm around his waist and tried to march her charge to the safety of the stage wings—but he thwarted her effort.

The president turned his head to the girl’s determined face and he panicked. Larry Weeds dove for the floor onto hands and knees but sprawled on his face, as his outstretched palm slipped in the blood, gore and tissue that used to be Albertson’s living brain.

The remaining speakers, save Judith, dropped off their chairs to cower on the floor where in fact, there was no cover from the elevated gunman. Rushing recklessly from her seat, she attempted to do something for the WTO representative who was already beyond all help. She cradled his head but found the back portion of it gone and his unblinking eyes stared lifelessly into hers. Gently closing his eyelids, Judith set the devastated skull back down and she rose to her feet.

Secret Serviceman Bart Jefferson spotted the second muzzle flash and observed Beth Withers covering the president. Other agents were also scurrying to assist her. Bart shouted into his headset for men to accompany him to the Akron Financial Building. The bulk of the POTUS detail was already in action to make a swift getaway for their charge.[/private_Chevron]

…

Up in the sniper’s nest, John took aim at his next victim, who was trying to hide under a chair. District Attorney Evan Masters was a rising young comet in the Republican Party. His entire life had been devoted to soaring in politics and he knew what manipulations were required to get him there. Since his heart was comprised mostly of ice and rock, he had no problems in doing whatever was necessary. In his luminous wake were the vaporized remains of the people that had fueled his meteoric ascent. His chosen trajectory might’ve been the seat that Judith now held but now at the very zenith of his career, Evan was only headed for perigee with a stainless steel cadaver tray in the morgue.

John Fitzgerald, a different kind of shooting star, sent his next lead projectile through the cowlick of Evan Masters’ hair and it exited out much larger hole punched in his forehead. Since he was already cowering on his hands and knees, the DA’s lifeless husk had only a short freefall to the splashdown on the stage deck.

Completely in the zone, John concentrated on his breathing. He swung his muzzle gracefully to trace the actions of his next target. This one took extra care, as the sniper had to wait for the victim to adopt a conducive pose for his precise shot.

The periphery of the scope showed him that several Secret Service John Wayne types had their service revolvers out and were trying to pick him off of the 14th story roof. Shiva’s Messenger seriously doubted that any of them had given thought to what gravity was going to do with lead bullets as they tried to climb up the 14 floors. If one of the agents managed to allow enough of an arc to actually hit him, it wasn’t a problem. The bullet wouldn’t even have the inertia left to penetrate his skin.

His only real worry would’ve been the snipers on neighboring buildings. However, with his position being higher and by moving to a place where he was effectively shooting down and around the corner, none of those could even see him.

…

[private_Chevron]Congresswoman Judith Forrester cast about at the stage in pandemonium. The gruesome scene caused her to grasp her head with both bloodied hands in horror. She looked at the rooftop to see the source of the deadly metal precipitation in time to watch a slight puff of gun smoke. A slamming impact on Judith’s upper chest, threw her against the rear of the stage. With carnage all around, it was now her turn. Is this what it feels like to die? Judith slid down the wall into blackness.

In the audience, people screamed till breath was gone, only to gasp and then shriek again. Many dived for a nonexistent cover. Camera crews defied their personal danger to film a cataclysmic event that would shape their future careers. Pulitzer Prizes could be made of this stuff.

“Can I dare risk repositioning the camera?” One such location producer with accolades on his mind, considered the difficulty in a shot at the shooter. The mount wouldn’t swing to such an oblique angle. They could tip the whole unit but it would be shaky. He took a glance over at his competition. I could have an exclusive. “But I’ve also got a great location for so many other compelling visuals.”

“I’ll give you two thousand dollars for that camera.” He spied a woman holding a video camera.

“No way. This could be valuable.” She patted her unit.

“There are professional crews here so yours is worth squat. But I’m in news and know exactly what will sell and who’ll buy it. “I’ll make it four thousand.”

She traded the item for his driver’s license and promise.

He wedged the camera against the truck to steady it as well as possible and zoom to the maximum. The assassin’s hands on the rifle and the scope at his eye obscured most of his face. Much could be done to enhance digital imagery but the subject was a long way away and it wasn’t a professional mega-pixel camera. “It’ll be nearly as fuzzy as the Zapruder 8mm film from Dallas but I’ve got it.”

…

On top of the Akron Financial building, John had now tagged everyone that he intended to shoot, except the president. He was completely satisfied with the precision of the weapon and in his own deadly accuracy with it. Raising the rifle, he found the triggering mechanism of the sunlight-recording instrument under the flowerbox on third floor balcony in the opposite building.

“Sorry Agnes, but I didn’t say that it would be completely unobtrusive.” The people needed to see his signature on this event. John fired and hit his target exactly as aimed. The steel clasp flipped back and released the hinged bottom of the box. The carefully prepared 20 x 3 foot wide, cloth banner that unfurled down the side of the building held a single short sentence.

‘Shiva’s Messenger has spoken.’

John scanned the stage once more through his scope to assess his triumph. Several Secret Service agents had taken the president by the arms and were pulling him upright. The stunned politician was only marginally cooperating and the progress of getting him off the platform had come to a temporary halt. I won’t kill him yet, but I can give a nasty flesh wound. John recalled the bear that rushed him near Fort Nelson. I’ll be the wasp that stings the butt and we’ll see what rash actions it provokes. He centered the crosshairs and firmly squeezed. Wait! A screen of charcoal turned his vision to monochrome.

A pulled trigger can’t be pushed back. An interposing body obscured his target and the firing pin struck the primer. A POTUS detail agent, performing the ultimate duty, had leaped in front of a bullet to protect the president. With a shriek of anguish, Beth Withers collapsed under the onslaught of an unintended slug.

…

Bart and his men roared around the Akron Financial Building and into the front foyer. They had picked up a few of the local police strays along the way. At the front of the elevator, Bart glanced at the indicator that showed the lift at the top floor. With terse instructions in the radio, two teams were dispatched to ascend the stairwells and check floors on the way up.

Satisfied with his speedy preparations, Bart stabbed his finger into the elevator call button, half expecting it not to respond. Surely, the assassin would have wanted it for a rapid decent from the nest. He was surprised when the light bar showed the lift answering.

The Senior Secret Service agent pulled his weapon and aimed directly where the doors would slide open but it was empty. Ten men crowded into the small space and ascended to the topmost floor. The roof access door was securely locked but it sundered to a solid shoulder. Like buffalo stampeding from a narrow canyon, the herd of agents and officers thundered up the stairs and forked at the roof deck to circle back around the stair shed on both sides.

“Don’t shoot!” Bart rounded the corner and noticed the sniper had relocated to different position. His order came just a fraction too late. A shot echoed and the rifleman’s prone body jerked as a slug hit the upper thigh. The rifleman didn’t even twitch.

“Hold your fire!” The Secret Service senior officer hollered again. Jefferson ran to the roof’s edge and pushed his boot under the sniper. Seven other feet volunteered in the effort of rolling the man. There was the still peacefully sleeping face of Jack Logan.

“He’s one of ours.” The Secret Services senior officer stared a volley of bullets at the eager beaver cop who obviously wanted his name in the history books for shooting a presidential assassin. “And you,” Bart pointed an accusing finger at him, “are going to send him a case of good liquor as an apology for the needless leg wound.”

…

Shiva’s messenger stood up and fishing into his shirt pocket, he removed a spent shell casing in a small plastic bag. The brass didn’t match either the form or caliber of the strewn others but it didn’t have to. It carried a specific missive that would be received exactly as intended. This small shiny item would be read as clearly as the 20-foot banner.

He sprinted back to the roof access door but looped around to put the rifle back with its true owner. That ploy as a deception might gain me a few vital seconds. He then bolted down two flights of stairs to the floor second from the top. John jimmied open the elevator door and grabbed the rope sling he’d secured under the elevator cab during his last shift at the building. He jerked free his pry bar and the door slid shut, enclosing him in silent semi-darkness.

The clever assassin toggled the remote switch to enable the elevator and listened in his headset to a Secret Service commander ordering his men up the stairs. The lift began to descend and with thumbs up and holding the rope, he was hitching a free ride down.

As the elevator stopped at the main level to pick passengers up, one floor down a rider was now dropping off. John heard the many heavy feet shuffle in above and it covered any sound of his levering doors open into the basement. As the conveyance carrying Bart and his men sped upwards, the assassin emerged into the basement hallway.

While the pursuit team headed up to the roof, the assassin moved quickly to the rear entrance and slipped out the alley door. He stripped off his gloves and tucked them into his pocket. ‘Never toss your latex gloves: they carry a full set of your prints inside.’ The ambulance driver returned to his duties.

…

“Sniper is on the run!” Bart called into his headset. “I repeat—sniper is on the run. No one is to get in or out.” He looked quickly around the rooftop area and counted seven spent casings. Seven? His mind raced back through events he had seen, heard and caught on his earpiece radio. There should be only six.

“Get a forensic team up to this rooftop immediately.”

Agent Jefferson peered over the building’s lip at the mayhem below. He couldn’t help but to be morbidly impressed by the ideal location Shiva’s Messenger had chosen. Outlines of crimson blood haloed the deceased when viewed from this angle like macabre artwork. One ragged brushstroke of red, slashed across the canvas of the stage, showed where Larry Weeds had been dragged through Tom Albertson’s gore.

The president was already on the way to safety but how could he have been miraculously spared amid such a deadly ambush? The POTUS should have been killed first. What possible point could there be in orchestrating such a masterful plot and then not snatching for the biggest brass ring?

“You decided to play ball instead of watching it on TV.” Bart looked at the banner, where it was fluttering in the slight breeze.

Even with the president still alive, the effect of this attack would be devastating on the Secret Service. Bart shuddered to think about the supreme shit-storm that was black on the horizon. He was a 23-year veteran and he had never seen one that would match it. There was no umbrella big enough to protect everyone from the looming deluge. Beth Withers was probably going to get washed away in the flood of reproach. If she survived her gunshot wound, Beth was going to have to face another series of blasts and nothing could protect her.

“Hell,” Bart vocalized his thoughts, “I may end up standing in the kill zone myself.”

…

Screams had jolted the paramedics away from their card game. Their reactions honed by countless emergencies, they flew into action assessing the casualties and administering intervention to the only two who could be saved. With only simple, single injuries, both women were rapidly packaged onto the gurneys and wheeled to the awaiting ambulance.

“Let’s roll!” Slamming the back door, the lead medic shouted.

Allen Wright already had the engine running and his gloved hand on the steering wheel. Selecting ‘wail’ on the siren, he drove away with all possible speed. Now almost a veteran driver with the experience of numerous emergency calls, he only slowed once to be ushered through the police cordon. In the back, the conscious woman was protesting. Live and kicking ones always made the most fuss, so the attendants hadn’t loosened her gurney restraints. The patient could only curse to professionally deaf ears.[/private_Chevron]

After discharging their duties to the Emergency department staff, the ambulance crew was finished with their shift. The assignment ended abruptly and in chaos, but the event was over and they were now off watch. Having missed just about everything while they were absorbed in their game, they glued themselves to the set to see it. Nobody expected the aloof driver to join in, and he didn’t disappoint.

Shiva’s Messenger now couldn’t think of a single thing standing between him and an entirely successful getaway. He would drive to somewhere quiet and destroy the remaining evidence in his car. Allen Wright, like Allen Powers, could vanish leaving only his names and the few people he had brushed briefly past. He had nothing left to do in Akron except to look at it in his rearview mirror.

[A Murudeva asks for a cosmic dance duel.]

“Can’t you just give me straight instructions?” Instinctively, Allen began his breathing exercises. A police cruiser had squirted off an on ramp and was accelerating like a nitro-fueled dragster.

[private_Chevron] [/private_Chevron]