CHAPTER ONE
DEADLY PRELUDE
It was a refreshingly cool January night in Australia's long hot summer, and with the car windows up, Constable Charlie Cross nearly missed a reflection darting across the police cruiser's headlights from the right side of the road. Cross applied the brakes as the car shot past the distance marker: Sydney 140 KM. A small sign bearing the outline of a kangaroo warned: Careful.
"Did you see it, mate?" Cross asked his companion, Sergeant Neville Brown.
"See what?" Brown asked, turning to look back over his shoulder at the red glare of the brake lights through the rear window of the cruiser.
"Car off the road, I think," Cross replied. "Just caught a glimpse of it."
Cross slipped the car into reverse and the engine whined as it backed down the road.
Now, on the shoulder, the two officers, in their late 40's and pudgy from too many years of road patrol, pulled themselves out, each carrying a flashlight.
"Right over there, I think," Cross said, sending a beam searching the darkness.
Unable to see anything, Brown slid back into the car and focused the powerful beam of his spotlight into the night. The glistening eyes of a startled kangaroo for an instant stared defiantly at the bright beam of light, then vanished in a blink.
Brown moved the light slowly, straining to see into the darkness. He became alert as he caught the reflection of a car's taillights.
"You were right," Brown said. "It's a long way off the road."
"Probably a lovin' twosome making' it," Cross remarked, smiling.
"Seems like a long way to drive for a spot of carnal pleasure, mate," Brown replied, pointing to the distance marker. "Long ways from Sidney."
The sergeant killed the spotlight, then slid behind the wheel. "Better check it out."
"Yeah," the constable agreed, turning off his flashlight, "They've had plenty of time to make themselves proper."
The officer backed the cruiser further along the road, then eased it forward, aiming it at the illuminated headlights for a few seconds. He was lost in a dusty rooster tail. In moments, the gleaming hood ornament of a Mercedes reflected above the signature grill of the sedan.
Cross made a mental note of the 1980 license tag, before braking to a halt in front of the car.
Bathed in the cruiser's headlights, the officers, flashlights in hand, cautiously approached the luxury vehicle casting tall shadows through the dust cloud now enveloping the scene. The driver appeared to be slumped over the steering wheel.
"Looks like the bloke's asleep," Cross offered.
"He probably got pissed and pulled off the road to sleep it off," Brown added as he leaned to the window to investigate. "He seems. . ."
The sergeant cut himself short, as his companion's flashlight was directed through the driver's side window.
"My God!" Cross gasped. He shuddered as his pulse suddenly quickened.
The driver's head was blown half away, with part resting grotesquely on the dashboard. The man's blood and brains were spattered everywhere; a rifle rested on the seat next to him.
Brown, also sickened, followed the beam of his flashlight back to his cruiser to radio for assistance.
Soon, a helicopter arrived. Two officers got out, and presented their ID's.
"C.I.D.?" Cross asked the officers, than glanced at their credentials, and nodded his head.
"You're in charge now." Cross said, looking relieved and tired. The helicopter wheezed into silence.
After investigating the scene, one of the C.I.D. men approached Brown and Cross. He was carrying the rifle, now wrapped in plastic. He was obviously confused.
"Sergeant, did either of you touch anything in the Mercedes?"
"Hell no, matey. I could see there was no use checking if the bloke was alive, half of his skull was on the dash."
"I meant did you touch anything inside the car."
"No, neither of us bothered to open the door. Why?"
"Well," the detective heaved a sigh. "It appears to be a suicide; you two saw the rifle on the seat next to him?"
"Yeah, we saw it. So?"
Another sigh, after which he stared at the rifle in his hands. "Well, the fingerprint boys say there are no prints on the rifle, none at all!"
"Hold on now! How does a bloke shoot himself in the head and leave no fingerprints?"
"He doesn't, Constable--he doesn't."
Brown chimed in. "Any ID on the body, sir?"
"Car registration says the Mercedes belongs to Frank Nugan."
Cross, suddenly alert to the name which sounded familiar: "Of the Nugan Hand Bank?"
"One and the same, Constable--and you'd certainly think he had everything to live for, wouldn't you?"
"Aye, you'd think so, mate."
"One other thing. We found a business card in his pocket with the name of William Colby, and on the back was the itinerary for a trip next week."
"William Colby--that's a familiar name too, but I can't quite place it," Cross muttered.
"He was Director of the CIA in the States."
"Well, detective," the veteran Constable added, "now we know how a man can kill himself and leave no fingerprints, don't we?"
Brown, peering quizzically at his partner, asked: "What in the world are you talking about?"
"He means, Sergeant, it makes all the difference in the world when Spooks are involved in a case."
"What do you think is going on here?"
"Truth is, Constable, we'll probably never really know."
ASSASSINS--SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
The headlights of a car flashed on a Seattle Supersonics billboard, for an instant. Two men exited the car and walked, somewhat hunched over, through the rain across a parking lot to the entrance of a two-story building. A light was on in the second floor office, making it visible to the two approaching men, a sign that read: Cannery Workers Union Local No. 37.
Inside, two attorneys, both Filipinos, were pouring over stacks of records. They were both young, in their late 20's. One of the men checked his watch. "Damn! My old lady will kill me. She hates it when I don't call."
"Hey, mine, too," the second man said. "Mine too."
"How long have we been working?" the first man asked.
His companion stretched and yawned and then checked his watch. "Six hours, non-stop."
The first man was flipping through a checkbook on top of the desk in despair. Removing his glasses, he yawned, "I hate to stop. I know we're close to finding something. I can just feel it."
"Me, too," the other replied. "Maybe tomorrow."
Suddenly, the door flew open. Two men burst into the room, guns leveled at the two attorneys. Without a word, the intruders opened fire. The two victims fell to the floor, as the gunmen continued to fire into their bodies until their weapons were empty.
Knowing precisely what they were after, the men cleared the records from the desk tops and, along with other files, packed them into cardboard boxes. Gun smoke still floated in the air as they hurried with their task. When finished, they calmly walked out and closed the door, marked: Office of the General Counsel.
DEATH, HELP FROM FRIENDS
A weak beam of light escaped the fluttering drapes, drawn behind the sliding glass doors of the lanai. A shimmering full moon lit up the empty beach and pool some sixteen stories below. Inside room 1632, the lamp on the night stand next to the bed cast a dim light on the prescription bottle of Codeine #3, which was sitting next to the bloody razor blade. On the rumpled bed, an open Bible rested amidst the blood stains. On the floor at the foot of the bed laid a motionless body clad only in blue shorts. Blood oozed from a slashed right wrist.
A shiny boot roughly rolled the blood splotched body onto its back and the silence was broken by a heavy voice, carrying a Latin accent.
"Okay. Rewald's not dead." Angelo Cancel, a stocky Latino snorted. "We're in luck."
He was accompanied by Robert Allen, a man in his late 50's. His slick brown hair matted against his head. He was heavy; 200 pounds on a 5'10" frame. He grabbed Rewald by one hand. "Great. Let's get him into the bathroom. See if he'll talk."
The two dragged the limp body into the bathroom, leaving a smudged trail of blood. Propping him up against the tub, Cancel slapped his face, then again, harder. He seemed to revive momentarily, then slumped heavily.
"Shit!" Cancel snarled in frustration. "He's dying right here and now!"
"Drink," Allen said in panic, "try giving him something to drink!"
Cancel retrieved a glass of water from the sink and held it to the dying mans lips. It dribbled down his chin and chest.
"Son-of-a-bitch! It's no use," Cancel groaned. "He can't swallow."
In frustration, Cancel slapped Rewald twice more, then got right in his face, while shaking him violently. Bob leaned forward and lifted Rewald's head up by his hair.
"Ron! Ron!" Allen pleaded. "Where is the green book?"
Ron's eyes rolled in and out of consciousness. He gasped faintly, then gagged, trying to drink. Cancel shook him once more, banging his head against the tub.
"Ron, is it here?" Allen asked in desperation.
Ron forced a gagging response. He blinked through glazed eyes, then barely nodded 'no'.
Cancel sneered calmly, then continued in a soothing voice after withdrawing a Buck Knife from his white linen coat. "Ron, my friend. We came to help you."
Cancel pulled the knife blade open and gently laid it on Ron's left forearm, which he had lifted onto the rim of the tub.
"The company always looks after its own."
He then dug the knife tip deep into the flesh below the elbow, and slowly drew it across the forearm. The splayed tissue pulsated bright red ooze.
The two men left the dying man alone in the bathroom, and began a hurried search of the hotel room. After several minutes, they came up empty handed and cursed in frustration. Before leaving they stopped at the bathroom door for one last look, then were gone. Soon the Chairman of Bishop Baldwin Rewald Dillingham & Wong would be dead.
Go to Defrauding America.
Go to Drugging America.
Go to Unfriendly Skies.
Go to CIA Drugs.
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