Dark Vessel (COIL Book 4), page 10
"Francis!" Jenna, Corban's adopted blind daughter, now ten years old, threw off a blanket and rushed toward me as if she could see the furniture in the room. I knelt and accepted her open arms in a rough embrace around my neck, though my hands were still carrying Anna.
"Easy, hon." Janice was straining under Anna's weight. "We're carrying a sleeping woman."
With some effort, we took Anna into a back room and set her on a narrow bunk bed.
"I didn't know you had a sister, Francis!" Janice gave me an embrace, her familiarity still strange to me. Jenna felt Anna's sleeping face for her features. "It's been two weeks. What's happening out there? Have you heard from Corban? I've been going sick with worry!"
"No word yet." We left Anna in the back room and I closed the door softly. "I spoke to a friend of Corban's who he went to for help recently. Corban may be under the presumption still that you and Jenna are . . . no longer."
Listening politely nearby, I noticed Jenna tilting her head to hear. I was reminded of her very mature approach to conflict. She'd endured not only the death of her own parents, but also several attacks from her adopted father's enemies.
"When you picked us up at Corban's funeral, I thought this would take only a day or two for you to help Corban solve everything."
"Corban is most elusive, but I must find him to help him further." Glancing around the living quarters, I saw it was no place in which to live indefinitely, though pictures of forests and sunsets in window-like frames helped dispel the claustrophobia. "I stand by my decision to fake your deaths, though I will need a few more days. No more than a week, I hope."
Before Janice could pressure me for more information about Corban, I had to change the subject.
"My sister speaks only Italian," I said. "And she is a paraplegic."
"What? A paraplegic!"
"In an hour I will return with her wheelchair and medical supplies, but I cannot spend the night. I have to return to the city so I can remain available for Corban, should he need me."
"What will you do if you can't find Corban?"
"If Corban cannot be found, I must continue as Corban would—work in his place, as a COIL representative."
"Francis . . ." Janice frowned. "No offense, but if I remember accurately, you're not even a Christian. How will you work for COIL?"
"Every moment Corban is in hiding, there are people in need of his help. How I will do it must be left in the hands of Corban's God."
*~*
Chapter 17
Back in New York City, I sat in the midst of a technological jungle of surveillance equipment as I considered my next move. Monitors around me flickered with video feed from cameras and streaming text from servers around the world. There'd been no sign of Corban traveling through airports or train stations, or using any name publicly he'd been known to use. All facts seemed to indicate that Corban was indeed dead.
The data banks and racks of hard drives recorded intel from secret agents in distant countries—programs I'd written myself, meant to be customized for that on which I was focused at present. They searched for key words that related to only a variety of my interests from public news feeds and secret wiretaps alike. But nothing on Corban anywhere!
When I'd traveled with Corban, he never seemed to be without a plan. Surely, he was up to something now, but why so invisible? I suspected I'd done such a clean job of making Janice and Jenna seem dead that Corban and the rest of COIL truly believed they were deceased. And though it seemed the enemies of Corban were restricted to government men like Karl Coleman and General Forglade, I wouldn't trust the COIL office with precious information until I spoke to Corban, or at least to Chloe, myself.
I punched a few buttons on a keyboard, then sat back and watched for a screen to report any findings. Karl Coleman, in my opinion, was the most dangerous man of the two, but only General Forglade was in the news as a wanted man. I understood Coleman to be a clandestine officer, one with connections and certain deadly skills. Forglade had been missing for a week, almost the same length of time since the supposed bodies of Janice and Jenna had been found.
Coleman seemed to be just one of the powerful masterminds behind whatever was happening with Corban. Thus, Coleman was keeping his name out of the news. General Forglade, perhaps not as dangerous, was getting all the attention. It had been over a week since I'd answered the post through underground methods for the hit against Janice and Jenna. Anonymous net accounts and proxy servers made such deals generally safe. Except I'd been waiting with tracer and chaser programs to hunt the hunters. I'd found Coleman and taken the job after discovering it was against Corban's family. But Coleman's hands were still clean, it seemed. Someone else always did the dirty work in Coleman's world. Somehow, I needed to pinch the man to do some lawless deed himself and trap him. But how could I do that to someone I couldn't locate?
My past reputation continued to work for me, though I now despised who I'd been. Hiding the Dowler girls had been easy; covering up their deaths with other recently deceased bodies had required a drive to a Pennsylvania crematorium and a sizeable donation for two bodies. It certainly hadn't been my first staged death scenario.
Karl Coleman was a devil, and I knew spiritual matters beyond me were at work. Corban could've surely explained it all to me, but for now, I was content to interrupt the dark vessels at work.
Perhaps Corban hesitated to surface until General Forglade was in US custody? Or maybe Corban was hunting Forglade and Coleman himself? Either way, I had time to pass until someone or something surfaced for me to pursue.
Leaning back in my soft chair, I inserted two more pieces of gum into my mouth. My eyes peered past one monitor at a weathered Bible on the shelf of my basement office. Months earlier, I'd secretly followed Corban to Europe on one of his missions. I was forever intrigued by his unorthodox methods and hazardous courage. Since I'd lost him at an airport in Romania, I had to backtrack to a hotel for clues. That was when I'd found the Bible in his room—with a note in it from Corban to me. The note had advised me to make better use of my time for God.
The note had been burned, but I still had the Bible, and it was this Bible that I now took off the shelf. Flipping through its pages, I wondered how a mere book could inspire countless lives to live or die for a God who died on a cross and rose again. If there was a God, would He help me since I wanted to help Corban, one of God's own ambassadors?
I stopped on a page that said Psalms. My gaze settled on three lines: "Vindicate the afflicted, save the children, and crush the oppressor." It seemed quite unreasonable to trust the chance words of a Holy Book for a particular problem, but the words fit quite nicely toward my lack of direction.
Vindicate the afflicted? Until Corban could freely resume his usual duties for COIL, I would assume those responsibilities for him, which might actually bring him out of hiding.
Save the children? Protecting the innocent from evil had become a pattern of my new life since meeting Corban. But which children was I to save? I guessed if God was leading me, I would find out, though doubt plagued me over such a coincidence of fate.
Crush the oppressor? That was closer to my line of work from my old life, but more than a few times I'd witnessed Corban crush oppressors in ways that brought justice without compromising his high moral values from the Bible. Therefore, I would also crush the oppressor, whomever that would be.
But first, I would vindicate the afflicted. How? When I wasn't watching Janice and Jenna, I was usually taking care of Anna or tracking Corban or Nathan's COIL activities—sometimes even following Chloe. COIL itself had a sophisticated network of international missionaries and Christian contacts I didn't have access to, so the afflicted I would vindicate would need to be from my own network.
I logged onto three proxy servers before I digitally stepped onto a bulletin board system in Singapore. Someone in Florida was looking for a timing mechanism for a washing machine. It smelled like a setup, maybe for a bomb, but I didn't inquire. A contact name was left for someone who needed carpet cleaning in Nevada. Definitely a body disposal job.
Then, I came upon a gardener job for two rows of vegetables in New Jersey. For certain, it was for a hit on two people—a job only a pro would take, since two targets compounded the particulars of any job. Since the bulletin was still posted, no one had accepted it yet. If it was a trap, there were precautions I could take. But if someone really were seeking to have two people killed, I had to intercede. It was exactly what I'd done for Janice and Jenna, and it something Corban would do: vindicate the afflicted. I was going to New Jersey.
#######
Three days later, I stood in the doorway of a messy office in Franklinville's police station. To my left were four desks, vacant except for one attractive blond policewoman officer about my age. To my right was a tall window that didn't appear to be bulletproofed, which faced the local library. I'd parked my rental car in the library parking lot.
"So . . ." A man with a white mustache and a big gut turned toward me. "What brings you to Franklinville's cyber crimes department?"
"This is the whole department?"
"Just me." He pointed to his nametag and offered me a form, stapled to a dozen pages. "Fill this out, state the complaint clearly, get it notarized, and send it to this office via the US Postal Service."
I didn't reach for the form.
"My . . . complaint, Officer Madison, is rather urgent." I glanced to my left. The blond woman sat at her desk listening, which wasn't helping my nervousness in a police station. But then she nodded and gestured with a hand for me to continue. "A man is threatening to kill his sister and her six-year-old son. I am reporting a serious threat to their lives."
"People say things." He still held the complaint form for me to take. "Cyber threats go in section two, page three."
"How long will the form take to process if I fill it out now?"
"Well, my office is backed up right now. If I deem it worthy of actually getting an urgent classification, I have the option of turning it over to the Feds or pre-screening it myself. Pre-screening takes time since I'm only in the field one day out of the week. Questioning the accused may take two or three visits if an arrest is not yet warranted. That could take a few weeks, depending on the judge who—"
"Never mind." I held up my hand, half-tempted to tranquilize the man purely for his apathy. "I am sure the threat is not worth all of that time."
He turned back to his desk before I left his doorway. As the blond officer rose from her desk, I brushed past her toward the exit. I'd tried the legal route to vindicate the afflicted. Now, I would do it my way.
As I unlocked my car door, I heard footsteps behind me. I reached for my belt by instinct and turned to ward off any aggressor.
"Whoa! Easy, there, cowboy!" It was the blond officer, her hand now on her service gun. "What did you have in mind, whipping me?"
I looked down at the belt in my fist, ready to swing it. There was amusement in her eyes.
"You caught me by surprise." I put my belt back through the loops. "My apologies, Officer. I've been tense lately."
"Madison's behavior probably didn't help, either." She leaned on my car hood, her hand no longer on her gun. Women didn't naturally approach me, so what was her angle? "Maybe I'm the one who should be apologizing. You're trying to be a good citizen and then you got the brush-off."
With an identity to maintain, I didn't tell her I wasn't a citizen of any country, not even my own any longer.
"Apology accepted, Officer . . ."
"Oakes. I'm the dispatcher mostly, but sometimes I'm on patrol when not doing desk duty."
"I see." Smiling, I wasn't willing to share even my assumed identity if I didn't have to. "Have a nice day, Officer Oakes."
"You know, it's about my lunch hour. Why don't we go to the deli?" She nodded her head at the highway, but I didn't see a deli. "We can talk about his Internet complaint you have."
"No complaint." I smiled again, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. "Officer Madison helped me see it's not important."
"So, that's how it's gonna be, huh?" Her face grew very serious, and I felt like a student about to be scolded by his teacher. "You're gonna handle this problem yourself since the people in blue did nothing?"
My eyes narrowed. This dispatcher was no fool. Was I so transparent? She didn't wear a wedding ring. Had she noticed that I didn't, either? Not only had I been uncomfortable about going to the police about a threat I could easily have handled, I was especially uncomfortable at the prospect of going to a deli with a police officer, pretty or not!
"Come on." She started for the passenger door. "If a girl can't trust a good Samaritan over lunch, who can she trust? I'll buy. What do you say?"
"I'm not that good," I said as she smiled, and we both climbed into the car.
But I wasn't smiling.
*~*
Chapter 18
"Mmm! This is the best sandwich shop from here to Atlantic City!" My new friend, Officer Heather Oakes, took a man-size bite of a pastrami sandwich. "So, Luigi Brugnetti, you've got that humorless mob face. Ever been a mob man? By your accent, I'd guess you weren't even born here. Lots of mob still in Jersey, mostly in the north. Retired, too. You going to eat that?"
My meatball sandwich sat untouched until that instant when I remembered to eat. I took more modest bites than Heather, though if I'd been alone, I would've been more ravenous like she was. Eating had never been a social matter for me.
"I have no mob ties. I can account for my accent by my mother's insistence on speaking Italian in her home in Queens."
"Queens?" She wiped her mouth, missing mayonnaise on her cheek. "You're a long ways from home to be looking out for someone you found threatened on the Internet."
"Civic duty." I shrugged, then remembered Corban. What would he say? Of course, I'd told the truth. I did just want to be a good citizen, but I was too used to padding my responses while under cover that now I felt the need to say more. "More specifically, my Christian duty. Do for others, as Christ said."
"Did Jesus say that?" She frowned, then smiled as if she knew I was bluffing. "So, tell me about the complaint that isn't a complaint. You said a woman and a six-year-old boy are in danger?"
At first, I thought about trying again to brush off the threat, but she'd already guessed I would only do that to handle the threat myself.
"There's a database in Southeast Asia where certain . . . wickedness is both offered and requested."
"I see." She was finished with her meal while I was on my fourth bite. "This is a site you frequent?"
"No! I mean . . ." Too late. I hadn't recovered in time. Her eyebrows went up. "Yes, to be honest. I do frequent this particular site."
She sat back in her chair and seemed to study me in a new light. I chewed slowly on my sandwich, tasting nothing because of my nerves. Though I hadn't been psychoanalyzed in person since my early French DGSE years, I was reminded of that discomfort now.
"Luigi Brugnetti—if that is your name—I read you wrong." She wagged a finger at me. "You're definitely not mob. You're the guy the mob calls to solve . . . family problems. You're dangerous, Mr. Brugnetti."
"If I am so dangerous, why am I helping people—and eating lunch with a police officer?"
"I didn't give you a choice, that's why."
Before I said something else without thinking, I filled my mouth with another bite. Who was this woman? I couldn't keep her from prying, and her intuition seemed better than her prying!
"There's a Canadian named Carl Dawson on his way to Franklinville to make sure his sister and nephew are killed."
"Killed by you?"
"No, I am just reporting the facts. Savannah Perkins and her son Adam are in danger."
"You took the job and now you don't want to follow through?" She folded her hands and leaned forward, as if she had conversations about assassins and conspiracies every day. "Did you get too close to the victims? Fall in love with this Savannah woman?"
"I've never met them." It seemed like I was defending myself too much. "But I'm only keeping them alive. To prove involvement on the part of Carl Dawson, I can email you the tracing information. That's all I'm here for. You do something, or not, but I'm not here to be questioned. I'm only helping."
Sliding from the booth, I drew a worn wallet from my slacks pocket. A twenty-dollar bill would be sufficient.
"Have a good day, Officer."
She was still seated when I left the deli, but by the time I reached the car, she was on my heels.
"Did you forget, Brugnetti, that you drove me here?"
Turning, I hoped to react cooler to her inquiries if I had to be around her for a few more minutes. Instead, she challenged me no further as she climbed into the car. When I climbed in, I noticed her service gun was unclipped and ready to draw. And she was left-handed.
No longer was I in a position that I could imagine Corban handling. Either I was about to be arrested in my own rental car—or at the police station where she would have backup.
Instead of starting the car, I rested a hand on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. Using the mirrors, I checked everything around the car. Though I wasn't a veteran of doing right, I was aware, with some discouragement, of how much opposition I was receiving. Was doing right always this difficult?
"You have to start the engine for this next part." She chuckled, perhaps to remove the tension, but I could hear the uncertainty in her voice. She was the bravest woman I'd ever known—attempting to arrest a man she'd accurately identified as some sort of practiced killer. "Are we going? I have a shift to finish . . . sometime today."
"If you reach for your sidearm, this will end badly for you." I still gazed straight ahead, but her head was turned toward me now. Desperately, I wanted a piece of gum to help me relax, but if I reached for one, the movement could be misinterpreted. "You have been most perceptive in who you think I am, or who I once was."
A moment of silence passed. She moved her hand a little, and I saw her fingers shaking.
