Terminal Secret
Contents
Also By Mark Gilleo
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Also By Mark Gilleo
Favors and Lies
Love Thy Neighbor
Sweat
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
2020 Press, LLC.
Copyright © 2017 by Mark Gilleo
Visit the author’s website at www.markgilleo.com
ISBN: 978-0-999-0472-0-0
ISBN: 978-0-999-0472-1-7 (ebook)
First trade edition: September 2017
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people for their input and/or editing assistance: Dave Allen, Chris (Coach) Barker, Tim Davis, Diana Ellis, Claire Everett, Sue Fine, Scott Forrest, Joel Frost, Michele Gates, Jeffrey B. Krieg, Dan Lord, Carroll Reed, and Nancy Williams. Without your help, I would still be muddling through drafts of this manuscript. I would also like to extend my gratitude to Dennis Dobrzynski for his medical input and suggestions. Any errors or omissions are mine and not his. Additionally, I would like to extend gratitude to my editor, Nora Tamada, for her skill and professionalism.
Last but not least, I would like to thank my wife, Ivette, for all of her support.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my father, who has valiantly battled cancer for ten years, smiling through radiation, chemotherapy, countless medications, and endless needles and body scans. He is a testament to the power of the human spirit.
Chapter 1
It’s always easier to break the law wearing a tuxedo.
Dan Lord teetered on the top of the security fence, both hands resting on the flat crossbeam of the large metal structure. In between his hands, and for as far as he could see in either direction, sharp metal spikes shot upward like menacing teeth. Music from the small live orchestra on the other side of the property floated across two acres of manicured lawn and gardens.
Dan lifted his right leg and slipped his polished black shoe between an adjacent void in the spikes. He took one look behind him, paused for a final view from the top of the fence, and threw himself over. The ground shook as his weight transferred to the soil, his legs absorbing the downward energy as he bent at the knees and landed in a crouched position.
He stood, brushed off the bottom of his pants, and straightened his black bow tie. He looked up at the fence, all ten feet, and hoped that he would be using the front door of the lavish residence for his exit. If not, he would be forced to have another dance with the fence spikes on his way out, most likely with security personnel in pursuit.
Dan checked his watch and then patted the front of his tuxedo jacket. He acknowledged the small square outline of his digital camera and confirmed his lock pick set had survived the journey through the woods—an area of no man’s land near the terminus of Klingle Road in Washington, DC.
A few paces from the fence, Dan’s foot found the crushed gravel path that ran through the property behind the residence of the Deputy Chief of Mission for the Indian Embassy. Dan weaved to the right, past a large gazebo. He noticed the outline of a well-dressed couple with roaming hands seated on a small bench in the dimly lit corner. At the next bend in the gravel path, he intercepted a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.
As the path widened and the lights from the residence stretched forward, Dan stepped onto firmer ground. Pausing, he digested his surroundings. A large square fountain filled the center of the entertainment area. To the left, the live eleven-piece woodwind and string ensemble continued to play. Dan performed a quick headcount and estimated attendance at just over two hundred. A respectable size for any garden party. He had no idea if it was an equally respectable number for the festival of Dussehra, the Hindi celebration of good over evil.
“Spectacular home, isn’t it?” a woman’s voice interrupted.
“Incredible,” Dan agreed, turning in the woman’s direction.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she added.
Dan smiled. The woman was attractive. Mid-thirties. Dirty blond hair. She wore a proper black dress that subtly pushed her chest front and center. The intentional uplift was neither overtly promiscuous, nor possible to ignore.
Dan extended his hand. “Dan Lord. Attorney at Law.”
“An attorney? There’s no shortage of those here. What kind of law do you practice?”
Dan considered his current assignment. “International labor,” he replied. “And you? To whom do I have the pleasure?”
“Abigail Downs. Foreign Service.”
“Oh, really? I was actually a diplomat brat growing up.”
“Anyplace interesting?”
“All of them were interesting. Some more than others. How about you?”
“Did two years in the UAE. Another three in the Philippines. Been back in DC for the last two years. I’m heading to Moscow in the spring. I’m in intensive language training now.”
The woman’s voice seemed to fade as Dan glanced over her head and made eye contact with a waiter on the far side of the fountain. Dan gave an almost imperceptible nod and politely ended his conversation with the woman in the black dress.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to go,” he said, gently touching the woman on the arm. He took two steps, turned back around, and added, in Russian, “Good luck in Moscow. And try not to look too surprised the first time someone attempts to bribe you for a visa at the embassy.”
The woman was still working through the translation in her head as Dan turned and weaved his way through the crowd of party guests.
Dan approached the waiter as an inebriated man grabbed a handful of grape-leaf wraps off the server’s tray. A second later, Dan was alone with the waiter, pressed against the edge of a large boxwood. Dan grabbed an hors
d’oeuvre off the tray and waited for the waiter to provide the information he had paid for.
“I think the two women you’re looking for are located in the bedrooms downstairs. There are locks on the doors. On the outside of the doors. If they’re in those rooms, then someone has to unlock the doors from the hallway in order for them to get out. There are small windows at ankle level on the other side of the house. The windows are blacked out.”
“How many people are in the house?”
“A couple dozen. Plus the waitstaff and caterers. It’s a big place. Ten bedrooms and at least that many bathrooms. Most of the guests are outside. It’s beautiful weather for a garden party.”
“General security?”
“A half-dozen security guards are on the premises. A couple of dignitaries arrived with their own security, on top of what was here for the event. Everyone had their IDs checked at the door and their names matched to an invitation. From what I’ve seen, no one is watching the basement. Access to the downstairs is through a door at the end of the hall, on the right side of the kitchen, as you enter from the front of the house.”
“The right side of the kitchen, as you enter from the front,” Dan confirmed. “I assume the hall will be obvious once I get inside.”
“It should be. The kitchen opens to the living room and the main foyer. There are two halls off the kitchen. The hall on the left leads to one of the bathrooms. The hall on the right leads to the basement door.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
“No one knows what’s really down there, behind the doors,” the waiter added.
“I have a good idea.”
“So you say.”
“I don’t intend on leaving without proof,” Dan said.
“What’s the plan?”
“I’m going to access their location, make a couple of quick videos, and then disappear.”
“And if you have problems?”
“I’ll handle them. The element of surprise is on my side. I’m just a drunk guest in a tuxedo who got lost in a big house while looking for the john.”
“And if there’s a guard downstairs?”
Dan winked. “He’ll never know what hit him.”
The waiter nodded nervously and looked around. “Are we done? I need to keep moving.”
“Yeah, we’re done. Thanks. I’ll take it from here.”
“I hope it works out.”
“Why wouldn’t it? We have karma on our side. We’re celebrating the festival of Dussehra, the triumph of good over evil.”
“Sorry if I don’t share your enthusiasm. Seems like evil does its fair share of winning these days.”
“Not tonight,” Dan replied, turning towards the house.
*
Twenty minutes later, the sound of breaking glass on the far side of the house was inaudible over the live music permeating the property. Dan cursed as he brushed aside glass shards from the windowsill and eyed his tiny exit. The small basement window was near the ceiling of the bedroom wall and Dan pushed a wooden writing desk beneath the window to expedite his departure. Behind him, on the other side of the room, the closed door to the bedroom thumped heavily, an unseen shoulder slamming into it from the hall. For now, the weight of the bed and dresser resting in front of the door was keeping security at bay on the other side of the threshold. It wouldn’t last forever.
Dan ambled to the top of the desk and shoved one arm through the broken window frame. He looked back at the two women in the room who jumped onto the bed to add weight to the barrier.
“How long do you think it will take?” one of the Indian women asked, looking up at Dan wide-eyed.
Dan paused and glanced at the camera in his hand. “I’ll send this video to the press later this evening. After that, your employer will have some explaining to do. As a diplomat, he has immunity from criminal prosecution. But illegal enslavement isn’t going to be completely ignored. Pack your bags. Be ready to go,” Dan said.
The sound of the doorframe cracking, combined with growing grunts of desperation from the hall, propelled Dan through the narrow window opening. He stifled his own grunt as a shard of glass still attached to the window frame ripped through his tuxedo jacket and dug into his flesh. He could feel skin tearing and the warmth of blood on his shoulder. He gritted his teeth through a series of curses and pushed through the pain at the expense of a larger wound. Seconds later he pulled himself through the window, stood on the grass, and plotted his exit. He followed the brick walkway from the side of the house to the front yard, where a large man stood stoically at attention. Dan made eye contact and smiled. No one checks the ID of people on their way out of a party.
“I don’t want to ruin anybody’s good time but a couple of drunk guests started getting a little frisky on the other side of the garage, if you catch my drift.”
“Do they still have their clothes on?”
“Not for long. It may not be good PR for the party if someone sees them. Just thought I would mention it.”
The man looked at Dan and nodded. “I’ll check it out.”
“Have a good night.”
“You do the same.”
By the time the lone guard assigned to the women in the basement broke through the bedroom door, Dan was a half-mile away, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a black backpack slung over his still-bleeding shoulder.
Chapter 2
Detective Earl Wallace of the Washington Metropolitan Police rolled out of bed and climbed onto the elliptical machine. Five feet away, his wife was still asleep. After a quarter century of middle-of-the-night beepers, phone calls, and progressively intense snoring, only the sun and her alarm clock would wake her. She no longer heard him come and go—the holster, the gun, the handcuffs—all rattling and clanking in the darkness. She was the wife of a detective and, like most others in her predicament, she molded her life around her husband’s. The first five years of their marriage had been peppered with a thousand sleepless nights. A thousand strikes of the sleepless chisel that transformed her into a work of art, capable of seven hours of shuteye, regardless of what her husband did.
Wallace hit the red button on the elliptical and increased the resistance. He could still feel the pain in his calves from yesterday’s workout. Weakness leaving the body, he reminded himself. Now, if the new limp would just leave with the weakness.
He was the first to admit he had allowed middle age to sneak up on him. Fifty had been a particularly difficult milestone and the years since had reminded him that his body wasn’t what it should be. He’d blamed the first additional twenty pounds around his midsection on natural weight gain. Weight he thought he could afford to have on his bones. His knees disagreed. Then came another twenty pounds. Followed by ten more.
When high blood pressure reared its ugly head, a pill a day put the concern to rest. Surging triglycerides—something he had never heard of—arrived next on the scene and served as the impetus to cut alcohol and donuts from his diet. With the exception of the occasional digression, Wallace took his sacrifices in stride. It wasn’t until a skyrocketing cholesterol reading stole the bacon off his plate that he decided to fight back. Steal all of a man’s little devils and there may be no angel left in him either.
When the bacon thief came knocking, the clothes hanging on the handles of the elliptical machine sitting in the corner of the bedroom found their way into the closet. On a rainy Sunday afternoon, with the thoughts of losing forty pounds in mind, Detective Wallace had found himself in running shoes, nose-to-nose with an instruction book written in twelve different languages.
The first fifteen pounds had dropped as if a fat-busting fairy had waved a magic wand over his slightly graying head. Another twenty-five pounds and he would be out of the big men’s section of the department store. And as much as he wanted to attribute the weight loss to the elliptical, the real secret was in his diet. And he had tried them all. Meat only. Only carbs. No carbs. Veggies and fruit. Anything liquefied. Ultimately, too many options resulted i
n no results.
So Wallace took all of the variables out of the equation. He would eat whatever he wanted one day, and eat nothing the next. It worked for him. In the moments when hunger struck, the thought of yesterday’s indulgence lingered fresh enough to be rewarding. He could shut his eyes and still taste the previous night’s dinner. When that failed, the promise of tomorrow’s feast was enough to keep him motivated. The one-day off, one-day on diet.
Detective Wallace spent thirty minutes on the elliptical in a pair of boxers and a white T-shirt. He spent an equal amount of time shaving his gray whiskers, showering, and getting dressed.
The first call of the day arrived while Wallace was in the kitchen making coffee and eyeing the food he would eat tomorrow. The day’s Washington Post rested on the kitchen table next to his empty coffee cup. Wallace answered on the third ring.
“Yo.”
“Hey, Sarge. We have a murder in Spring Valley.”
“Nice neighborhood. Robbery gone bad?”
“Doesn’t appear so.”
“Domestic?”
“Negative. A professional woman was shot on her doorstep as she left the house.”
“In Spring Valley?” Wallace confirmed incredulously.
“It gets better. You might need to see this in person. The news trucks just arrived. It should be on the TV momentarily.”
*
Wallace parked his unmarked police car along the curb and took a sip of his coffee. He got out of the car and squinted at flashing lights from various emergency vehicles filling the neighborhood street. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the front yard. A forensic photographer snapped pictures on the front porch.
Detective Matthews, a mulatto with Puerto Rican and South Pacific islander thrown in for spice, spotted Detective Wallace as he stepped away from his car. Matthews weaved through the activity in the front yard to meet Wallace before he reached the driveway.
The two detectives exchanged handshakes.
“So this is how you want to be remembered?” Wallace asked. “Forty-eight hours left on your temporary transfer and you call me with the first murder in this district in two months.”
“Go ahead. Bust my balls. But by the end of the week I will be back in Anacostia, where the murder rate is ten times what you see in the rest of the city.”