The parkway exit led him onto a state highway from which he turned off down a smaller road. The Virginia countryside was dotted with snow, and rivulets of water ran across the asphalt as the morning sun warmed and melted the fields. The air temperature remained cold enough for Toomey to have worn his wool overcoat, but its heft made him perspire in the confines of the car. He turned on the air conditioner.
A small sign pointed the way to the parking area of the remote state game preserve. He wended the Lincoln through the bends of the narrow gravel road until the trees opened into a small empty clearing. Toomey cut the engine and emerged into a slashing wind.
With a curse he realized he hadn’t brought boots. He shrugged. Nothing for it. A moment’s search and he found the path he’d walked any number of times. It was slushy from the melting snow. His hand-sewn Gucci loafers sank through the speckled white into brown muck. On one step he almost lost a shoe altogether as the mud slurped and grabbed with the tenacity of a clutching hand. By the time he reached his destination, the shoes were ruined, his trousers stained, and his breath came in rasps. The wind tore at his face and found crevices within his garments, freezing isolated patches of skin. His nose felt like it might fall off from frostbite. Overweight as he was, he figured a heart attack would be the final insult. To be found dead in such a state would be devastating to his legacy.
The hunter’s shelter appeared before him none too soon. He stamped his feet before entering, saw the uselessness of the gesture, and went inside. The cabin—if it could even be called that—was tiny, built of rough-hewn beams with a hole-in-the-wall fireplace. There were no logs and no means of building a fire. Four men couldn’t sit in here without touching elbows.
Senator Franklin Toomey III plopped down on the single three-legged stool and waited.
***
Thirty-five minutes later and Toomey’s eyelids were drooping. He would have waited like this for no other man on earth, not even the president. For Moriarty he had no choice.
He felt a light tap in the middle of his forehead. He struggled toward wakefulness, his eyes heavy from cold and fatigue, his feet half-frozen. With a start, he saw the figure standing before him. He rubbed his face and tried to regain control of himself. “You’re late,” he complained.
Moriarty said nothing. His coal-black eyes held no emotion, but there was no mistaking the man’s smirk. He wore an off-white camouflage suit that fit his lean, muscled body like a knife in its sheath.
The silence stretched until Toomey’s nervousness got the better of him. “Look at me. Look what meeting at your little hiding place has done to my clothes.”
Moriarty was at least six-four, bearded, with the ruddy complexion of an outdoorsman. From Toomey’s low perch looking upward, the man appeared eight feet tall. Moriarty shook his head with an irritated expression twisting his face and propped himself against the wall by the door, one knee flexed with his foot on the planking behind him. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled.
“Your presidential dreams are about to become reality.”
Toomey perked up. “What do you mean?”
“We’re about to launch a plan that will propel you into the Oval Office.”
The Republican incumbent had been in office for two terms, and it was time to supplant him. The strength he’d initially shown had become a liability. Primary season was fast approaching, and some presidential hopefuls had already filed their intentions. The Republican run of successes had entrenched them in office for a string of terms, but they had no strong prospective candidates, particularly with the VP expressing no interest in advancing. If Franklin Toomey was ever to get his rightful shot at the presidency, now truly was the time.
“What do I have to do?” Toomey could hear the hunger in his voice, but didn’t care. Moriarty knew what he wanted. The man knew more about Toomey than any other person, friend or foe.
“You’re already a favorite because you love and protect the environment. You’re also the voice of moderation. The majority of the American people love that. All you have to be is steadfast. Espouse moderation in all forms and remain the earth’s best friend. Environmental protection is the most galvanizing cause in this country today. You will continue lending support to that cause. You will assure that overall environmental funding is increased and that your favorite organizations receive the lion’s share. Other groups, like the blacks and feminists, will grumble because of your attention to the Greens, but that doesn’t matter. You’ll be the strongest candidate because you’ll have the most money. We’ll see to that. People back contenders who attract capital. Why? They like winners. You will galvanize the left. Because of your position, if anything unfortunate should happen that makes your stand look better, then your foresight will be celebrated. Once the chips fall and you’re left standing, who else will these people vote for? Certainly not the Republican candidate, whoever that turns out to be.” A cynical smile stained his lips.
Toomey frowned. “What do you mean if anything unfortunate should happen? What are you talking about?”
“Just what I said.”
“But some of them are wackos. Green Liberation claimed responsibility for destroying that condominium building in North Carolina.” Toomey could hear the whining tone whistle through his nose, but didn’t care. “You know I’ve always kept my distance from the worst of this lot. If I come out of the closet with them, I’ll be toast.”
“And I’m telling you it won’t matter. The groups don’t matter. They will all be shown to be in the right.”
“This is crazy. I’m already on the leftmost fringe. Any further push in that direction and nobody’ll vote for me except my hard-core base. People in flyover country will turn away in droves.”
“The country needs a strong leader who’s willing to do what it takes to save the environment. It’s the most important matter this country faces. Your support of this cause will ultimately win over Middle America unless, that is, you don’t want the nomination. You want it, don’t you?” Moriarty spoke in a soothing, persuasive manner. It had a hypnotic effect on Toomey.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re right. I’ll make them believe. I’ll capture their hearts and minds with a campaign that’ll turn heads. Air pollution is increasing, children are dying from lead and mercury poisoning, genetically modified foods are causing unintended hereditary diseases. It has to stop! I’ll make them see. They need me.”
Toomey rose and turned as he spoke, his passion and his oratory overcoming him. His mind churned with the challenges ahead as he faced a blank wooden wall and painted mental images upon it. When he finished and looked toward Moriarty for approval, the spot where he’d stood was damp, but empty.
Chapter 20
Manufacturers of chemical storage and transport containers took extra precautions to assure the structural integrity of their products. The subject of numerous lawsuits over the years, they’d learned that erring on the side of using higher quality materials and rigorous construction methods was a wise course of action, even if such methods cost more and their end product forced them to charge higher prices.
In an increasingly volatile world, companies dealing with hazardous materials had also realized the necessity of screening their employees for terrorist connections. A certain blindness toward the scope of this infectious disease had focused background checks on obvious indicators: Middle Eastern roots, radical Muslim links with unrepentant Islamism, and criminal records with a history of violence, among others. Worthy as these efforts were, they’d neglected another source of extremism: eco-terrorist activity and the organizations which sponsored it.
Political correctness had tended to cause people to tread warily when it came to popular movements and their related ilk. Just as leveling criticism in any form toward blacks, however justified it may have been, such as decrying the detrimental effect of welfare and single motherhood on the rise in gang violence, brought inevitable accusations of racism; touching the third rail of liberal goodness�
��the environment—caused major heartburn for those so foolish as to venture into this trainyard.
So it was that Mako Manufacturing Company neglected to examine the background of one of its recent employees. They’d done everything else right in their quality control processes and enjoyed the status and reputation as one of the premier builders of double hulled storage and transport containers in the industry. Sales and revenue figures showed a rapid and sustained growth pattern. Their customers included chemical manufacturers, railroads, trucking firms, and shipping lines. Orders were streaming in. They were, in a phrase, “well-positioned” to enjoy many years of profit.
Alex Fairchild didn’t give a hoot about all this. His outlook was focused on the short term. He had a mission, one to which his paid employment at Mako came second. Fairchild was a zealous adherent to the environmental movement whose goal was to save the earth. A charter member of Green Liberation, he believed that if that meant certain sacrifices had to be made to accomplish an objective, so be it. If a certain condition had to be shown to be detrimental by first taking adverse action that could make it worse, Fairchild accepted the premise.
Mako Manufacturing’s containers featured seamless construction, meaning they had no definable weak points. As a welder and skilled craftsman, Alex Fairchild had exploited his share of “foolproof” design schemes geared toward reducing spillage. In fact, he’d made a second career of sorts in finding, if not creating, fabrication weaknesses in the materials under his practiced hands.
At Mako he’d applied himself to learning as much as he could about their products and manufacturing techniques. In a short time, his quick mind found what it needed, and he set about planning how to manipulate it.
***
For all the pressure to keep up production and avoid backorders, the third shift was a quiet time at Agro Chemical Corp. Kris Fairchild had marveled at this her first night in the graveyard, as her coworkers called it, and it hadn’t changed any during her three-month stint. The fraternal twin of Alex Fairchild, she too had committed her life to the Green way. Every bit as passionate as her brother about the importance of removing the stain of man from the environmental landscape, she’d been thrilled when given this assignment to work in tandem with him.
Agro Chemical had just received a new batch of shipping containers from Mako Manufacturing. Kris checked the serial numbers her brother had supplied. They matched.
Kris’s job was to fill the containers and prepare them for transport to the companies that would incorporate Agro’s products in the commercial sanitization compounds they created. It was also her job to exploit the weakness Alex had built into the containers so they’d become literal time bombs that could be detonated upon demand.
Before connecting the hose assembly from the filling tank to the secure fixture on the shipping container, Kris attached a black box the size of a watch case to the inside of the unit. Satisfied that it was locked into place, she screwed the hose down, then retreated to the control room where she’d be safe from any unexpected leakage of the lethal fumes.
With a smile, she punched the button that sent twenty tons of chlorine gas tumbling into the waiting container. She made a record for the company and one for herself, then applied herself to the next identical task.
Chapter 21
There was more than enough to keep Jason busy the week following the bust. First there was Charlie Bennett’s funeral. A young man struck down in the prime of life is tragic. Because he’d been Jason’s partner, he felt the loss even more. He came away from the event with a sense of mortality and inevitability.
The pastor’s sermon about the potential of life after death struck a nerve with Bennett’s catting around. Jason wasn’t sure if the description the pastor gave of a life surrendered to Jesus Christ, and the name of his friend, belonged in the same sentence, but it made him wonder about his own eternal future.
The money and drugs recovered from the raid had to be accounted for and reports filed. The paperwork was burdensome, the bane of CID, and every agent to a one chafed under the requirement. Still, it protected them in many ways. By thoroughly documenting the night’s action—every Special Agent wrote his own version—the agents corroborated what had happened in a manner that made later disputes difficult.
Seven men had died; thankfully none of their own. Stroniff, Jason’s snitch was among those killed. The informer had never given a satisfactory answer as to the identity of his sponsors. Jason knew they were major distributors, whose organizations sold to the street. Coming up with half a million dollars to make the buy meant there were serious business interests at stake.
The priorities in the planning of the raid had been twofold. One was to cut off the source of drugs. With top Gianelli family members dead, CID had gone a long way toward that objective, although if still alive, they could have been great sources of information if they had sung to the Feds.
The second priority had been to deliver a stinging blow to the distribution chain. Jason had planned to use Stroniff to accomplish that. With the man dead, the avenue into that organization appeared blocked. The only lead Jason had, one which he hadn’t shared with anyone else, was the business card for Gaiatic Charities.
The dilemma Jason faced was what to do with his next move. He knew time was running out to deliver the Gaiatic case file. He’d been given a deadline and the day was rapidly approaching. Whatever he did, however he handled the situation, he had to remain vigilant that his actions stayed below the radar so as not to trigger reprisals against his daughter. That was extremely delicate because he didn’t know how far or deep the organizational grasp of the abductors extended. He had enough evidence in his own mind to understand that their tentacles reached into quite dangerous places.
Jason examined the name on the business card. Lee Mossberg. Executive Director of Gaiatic Charities. What could be the connection between the Gianelli family—Italian mafia—with an environmentally-focused charitable organization? He and Bennett had already suspected that Gaiatic was involved in activities with criminal undertones. How did the two fit together? Expanding the circle, where did his North Carolina abductors fit in the human trafficking ring? And Jason’s superiors at the IRS? What was the connection with the shutting down of the Gaiatic case, Bennett’s death, and the attempt to steal the file? How about Hugo’s threat? No package had yet been delivered. The prospect of that kept Jason on edge.
One way or the other, it was clear that Gaiatic Charities needed to be investigated further, regardless that Steve Drennan had ordered the case dropped. That there was a conspiracy was something Jason hesitated to believe, yet the information he had to work with pointed in that direction.
He made a decision. Gaiatic Charities would remain his focus. He would dodge and feint and avoid the appearance of investigating the organization. That meant fudging the time spent on other cases. For now, the name Gaiatic wouldn’t appear in his reports. Yet Jason had no doubt. He would unravel the secrets of this environmental organization and why all roads led there.
***
A day later Jason’s world fell apart. The promised package arrived via UPS. Plainly wrapped, the medium parcel could contain three hardcover books. Jason needed to cut the tape holding it together with a knife. A compact refrigeration bubble was inside. Fighting with the seal that held it together, he found a perma-ice block within. Nestled alongside the cold pack was a small wooden container.
A hand seemed to clutch at his heart as he set the box on the kitchen counter. He knew he shouldn’t have touched anything. There might be fingerprints, but he didn’t really believe it. They would be careful.
There was a tiny clasp that he slowly snapped open. He picked up the box that was nothing more than cheap plywood. Sweat beaded on his forehead as dread seized him. There were too many movies, too many examples for people to emulate.
He wanted to vomit, even before looking. Oh, no! What had he done?
His shaking hand lifted the lid. With a cry of pain and horror the box fell from his grasp like a scalding frypan.
Onto the floor tumbled a bloody, ragged-sawed foot that might belong to a six-year-old child.
Chapter 22
Spring
April 22
The crowd surged down Washington Mall under the brilliant blue of a breezy spring day, heading toward the speakers’ platform at the far end. The chill in the air didn’t faze the hodgepodge of people in their grotesque masks, tattoo-inspired semi-nudity, and brightly-colored costumes; nor did the greasy-haired top-hatted men on stilts and unicycles wearing perversions of Uncle Sam outfits; or those garishly displaying their LGBT proclivities with varying degrees of undress. Many in the milling throng carried signs and shouted slogans. On their placards were phrases supporting the earth (Earth Day is #1; Give Earth a Chance!; Trees & flowers for me), many denouncing the Republican President whom they despised (The Prez sucks!; We want an Earth Lover; The Oval Orifice is for Sex), and an overabundance praising the political sympathies of those behind the event (International A.N.S.W.E.R. is the answer, World Workers Party supports environmental causes, Communism feeds the poor of the world). Volunteers at tables along the way solicited signatures for their causes while speaking earnestly about the merits of their positions. What better setting to collect names of supporters than an Earth Day celebration replete with Hollywood celebrities and Washington politicians?
Senator Franklin Toomey III walked among the hoi polloi parting them as Moses did the Red Sea, only it was Toomey’s phalanx of bodyguards and retinue of admirers which cut through the mass of humanity. As people in the crowd realized the celebrated presidential candidate was among them, they reached in, hands flailing, to try touching some little piece of Toomey or his clothing, as though by that contact they would be healed of all their ills. He hated being pawed by these great unwashed, in fact had always loathed the constituents who made up the special interest groups supporting him, but he was a realist in the way of politics. It was why he’d lasted so long in this arena of ideas and hyperbole. You had to pretend you liked them and admired their thinking, regardless of the silliness and negative consequences of their objectives. Who said politicians were impractical and out of touch? Certainly not Franklin Toomey!