Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (13 page)

No,
Steve Wainwright wasn’t going to be thrown under the bus by him.

“I
received a letter in the mail—anonymous—that said I should look into Captain
Wainwright’s involvement with the Titanic. I-I thought it was just some sort of
conspiracy nut, but I had a friend who would be able to look into it quickly
enough so I gave him a call.”

“Who was
that?”

His lip
trembled. They had found him, and if they had found him, then they had
definitely found Sparks.

It was a
test.

“Jerry
Sparks. I asked him to search the records and a security alert appeared on his
screen then we were cut off.”

“And
where is this letter now?”

His mind
raced, the problem with an impromptu lie the fact you never had the chance to
rehearse the challenges. “I, uh, shredded it. I thought that it was best to not
be involved once Jerry said there was some sort of security warning.”

The
woman’s footsteps neared then stopped directly in front of him.

“I think
you’re lying to me, Congressman.”

He flinched,
her voice so close she must have been leaning over and speaking into his ear.
“I-I’m not.”

“We know
it was a constituent of yours that asked you to conduct the search.”

Oh
God!

“We know
they are related to Captain Wainwright.”

How
could they know?

“You
have one last chance to name this person. Should you lie to me again, not only
will you die, but your family will as well. And so will everyone named
Wainwright that lives in your constituency.”

“Y-you’re
insane!”

“No,
Congressman, I’m extremely motivated.” A hand gripped his shoulder. “You have
five seconds before my colleagues continue their work.”

He felt
her push off his shoulder, the footsteps receding several paces, the sound of
something dragging on the ground nearby suggesting to him a two-by-four, or
something similar, being readied again. He couldn’t hear her countdown, and
wasn’t even certain she was giving one, but his own thundered in his head, and
as he reached the end, every muscle in his body went slack, a hot stream of
urine soaking his pants.

“Steve
Wainwright.”

Harlem, New York City
April 26, 1912

Brett Jones took Margo’s hand, squeezing it in thanks as she turned
to get a glass of milk from the counter. Jones winked at her, she smiling, then
he tucked into his breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, life good in the Jones’
household since his return from the Titanic job. He had quickly begun to break
down the large bills in various parts of the city, the gems sold off one at a
time on Maiden Lane to jewelers who asked no questions as long as the stones
weren’t set. Their nest egg was rapidly growing.

But he
went through life every day looking over his shoulder.

And it
was slowly driving him crazy.

If he
had at least heard something from his employer, The Assembly, as Astor had
called them, he’d feel better. Yet there had been nothing. Not a single word.
No new jobs, nothing.

“Whitman”
must have told them about the painting.

If he
was blacklisted, then so be it. He wanted out anyway. And if they wanted him
dead, he was certain he would be by now.

We
have to disappear.

There
was no choice. The big question was whether or not Margo would agree to leave
with him. He just couldn’t see it happening. She had a large family, all in the
area, and she was very close with them. To ask her to leave all that, to never
see them again, was something he just couldn’t do.

And if The
Assembly might one day come after him, they might come after her too.

And he
couldn’t let that happen.

He loved
her too much.

Which
meant he had to leave her, let her get on with her life with someone else,
someone who wasn’t a target.

There
was a knock at the door.

“I’ll
get it,” said Margo, but Jones raised a hand to stop her.

“You sit
and eat, hon, before it gets cold.”

“But
yours will get just as cold.”

Jones
grinned, motioning at his plate. “Your food’s too good, hon, I’m done.”

Margo
looked at the nearly empty plate and shook her head. “Did you even chew?”

“Like a
duck, babe, like a duck.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin, tossing it on the
table as the knock repeated. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” He opened the door and
nearly shit his pants.

“Commander
Whitman.”

“Come
with me.”

“I’m in
the middle of breakfast with my girl.”

“Now.”

He
frowned but realized there was no choice, two other men down the hallway,
clearly backup. “Fine.” He stepped back inside and grabbed his jacket and hat.
“Hon, I’m stepping out for a few minutes. Business.”

“Okay,
dear.” He could hear the chair scrape as she rose, her footsteps approaching.
He quickly stepped into the hall, closing the door, not wanting her to see
these men, nor they her.

He
followed Whitman in silence, down the several flights of stairs and into a car
waiting on the street. The two men stayed outside.

“I’ve
been sent to deliver a message.”

Jones
could feel his stomach fill with butterflies.

Did
it include bullets?

He said
nothing.

“They
know what you did.”

“What?
The painting? I said I was sorry. That Captain took it before I could burn it.”

Whitman smiled
slightly. “This has nothing to do with the painting, or the cash and jewels
you’ve been spreading around town.”

Jones felt
a lump form in his throat.

They
know.

“A body
was recovered and identified yesterday.”

Jones
said nothing.

“Retired
Lieutenant Colonel John Jacob Astor the Fourth.”

Sweat
began to bead on his forehead.

“Imagine
our employer’s surprise when it was found he drowned with no gunshot wounds on
his body.”

A
trickle of icy cold sweat raced down his back, his shirt slowly dampening.

He eyed
the door.

“Care to
explain?”

His
mouth was dry and he had to peel his tongue off the roof. “I must have shot the
wrong man.”

Whitman smiled.
“I’d believe that if you hadn’t brought me the envelope with the papers we were
looking for.”

Shit!

“Here’s
what I think happened. I think you had an attack of consciousness, brought on
by that little philly you’ve got upstairs.”

Jones’
fear turned to anger. “Don’t you dare touch her.”

Whitman smiled
triumphantly. “So that
is
it.” He waved his hand. “No matter, our
quarrel isn’t with some waitress from the wrong side of the tracks. It’s with
you.”

“Do
anything you want to me, just leave her out of it.”

Whitman’s
smile spread. “Our employer, or should I say,
my
employer, wants nothing
to happen to you. You have proven yourself unreliable, therefore you will no
longer be considered for future assignments.”

Jones
felt relief sweep over him.

“I see
that was what you wanted, regardless.”

Jones
nodded.

“Good.
You will be allowed to keep your money and jewels and you are of course sworn
to secrecy. You will be monitored from time to time, and should any breach be
discovered, you and your loved ones will be eliminated. You yourself have
carried out several of these executions over the years, so you know my employer
is sincere.”

Jones
went cold again, nodding as the images of the dead flashed before his eyes.

“But
there is one thing, Mr. Jones.”

“What?”

“My
employer, your
former
employer, is not an individual, but an
organization that never dies, and never forgets.”

The
Assembly.

“And as
such, at some point in time, you, or one of your descendants, may be asked for
a favor.”

“One of
my…”

Descendants?

“You are
to write a letter for your children, confessing to your crimes, and to how you
acquired your wealth. You are to make no mention of our employers, beyond
indicating that should they be approached, they must cooperate, or we will
eliminate your entire lineage.”

“But…but…”
Jones wasn’t sure what to say. His entire lineage? What did that even mean? Did
he mean they would kill his children and grandchildren?

“I see
you understand, Mr. Jones. You will write the letter tonight. Someone will
collect it tomorrow and it will be held by us until such time as it is needed.”

“Wh-what
might they ask them to do?”

Whitman shrugged.
“I have no idea, Mr. Jones. It will depend most likely on what type of people
your children and their children become. Perhaps your son will follow his
father’s footsteps and join the military. His skills could prove useful to our
employer. Or perhaps your daughter will work for a newspaperman, and she’ll be
asked to plant a story.” He smiled. “The possibilities are endless, and their
needs diverse.”

“But
they won’t be harmed.”

“Not if
they cooperate, Mr. Jones, not if they cooperate.” He leaned forward. “Which is
why you should make that letter as compelling as possible. Because should they
not, the consequences will be dire, as you well know.”

Jones
nodded, his heart pounding, the blood rushing through his ears almost drowning
out the noise surrounding them.

“And
should I not have any children?”

Whitman’s
eyebrows popped up slightly. “Why, then your family would be spared.” He
flicked a wrist toward the apartment. “But I hardly think a woman as lovely as
young Miss Margo would be satisfied without children.”

He was
right. She wouldn’t. Which left him with only one choice.

“And if
you’re thinking of killing yourself, Mr. Jones, I would advise against it. My
employer has instructed me to eliminate Miss Margo should you attempt such a
course of action.”

Jones’
shoulders slumped as his eyes closed, the blood draining from his face.

“Face
it, Mr. Jones,” said Whitman as he retrieved a cigar from his pocket, biting
the end off and spitting it out the window. “If you had only done your job,
none of this would have happened. Our employer is generous and only expected
one thing. Loyalty.” He lit the cigar, taking several hard puffs, the cherry
glowing brightly. He jabbed the air between them with the cigar. “Mr. Jones, your
actions have condemned you and your family.”

Jones
nodded and opened his eyes. “For how long?”

“Three
generations.”

He felt
his chest tighten, not sure if he was pleased with the answer or not. “Three?”

“Should
nothing be asked of your grandchildren, then nothing further shall be asked of
your family, and our employer will consider your debt paid.”

Jones’
head dropped onto his chest.

“But
that could be a hundred years.”

Moscone Convention Center, New Orleans
Present Day

“That is why we need to take a firm line when it comes to Russia’s
newly aggressive tone. If Russia continues to go unchallenged, we risk
returning to the days of the Cold War, where the entire planet teetered on the
brink of nuclear holocaust, where two sides were in an arms race that neither
could let up on for fear of an imbalance that might lead one side to think they
could win, triggering an unthinkable retaliation.”

Command
Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson scanned the partisan crowd through his
Oakley Standard Issue Ballistic sunglasses, their dark lenses preventing the
audience from seeing who he might be looking at from one moment to the next.
The key was to keep the head movement to a minimum. Watch the crowd out of the
corner of your eye and you were more likely to catch a suspect who thought he
was in the clear.