Original Sins Read online

  Savange became blanched by the experience, with the color of his face turning as gray as the underbelly of a fish. Damien Lovecraft began to fight against his bonds in panic, only to discover that his binding to the chair was thorough and hard to break. “Ms. Woolery was your editor, if I’m not mistaken,” he addressed Savange, “She was the one who corrected every word, every sentence, every paragraph, becoming your associate who supported your articles of condemnation of the senator. What you just witnessed could have been avoided if you had decided to cooperate with my demands. And because you decided to puff out your chest by claiming to hide behind the Constitution, Ms. Woolery is now a boneless heap lying somewhere beneath us. It was a tragedy that didn’t have to happen, Mr. Savange. If you had, she’d be sitting right in that chair.” Kimball pointed to the vacant seat. “This was on you.” Savange appeared to be caught within a kaleidoscopic of confusion while trying to fight for calm, his head bobbing and nodding as if to shake off the mental chaos. “Compose yourself, Mr. Savange,” Kimball said. “We can get back to square one with this now that I have made my point. And please keep in mind that if you decide to maintain your course of obstinance, you have another who is as dispensable as Ms. Woolery.” He quickly pointed to Damien Lovecraft, who was writhing in his seat to escape his bonds. Savange’s eyes became thick with tears, which gave them a red and rheumy look as the gravity of his position was beginning to weigh on him. After running a mildly moist tongue to wet his desert-dry lips, he whispered, “Please don’t kill me.”

  “Have you not been listening, Mr. Savange?” Kimball stated rhetorically. “I offered you a proposal to correct what you have done. Write a retraction to be posted for all to see. Admit to the reading public that your yellow-journalistic past played a great part in fabricating your articles. And make a further confession that your ambitions of seeking the Pulitzer was too great, that you adjusted the facts accordingly. Once done, you will resign your post and move on. Though this will kill your career, it won’t kill you. As a matter of fact, I hear Brazil is a good place to visit this time of year. Perhaps even to live a full life. The choice, Mr. Savange, is yours to make.” “How will I know you’ll keep your promise?”

  “That you’ll live after you write the retraction?” Savange nodded. “You don’t,” said Kimball. “It is what it is. Fail me, for sure, is certain death. This planet is not large enough to hide in, no jungles deep enough or mountains too high. The organization I work for has a global reach. Should you decline my offer and betray me, no matter where you go, Mr. Savange, my team will hunt you down and kill you within a week. That’s a promise.” Peter Savange turned to Lovecraft, who was looking at his bonds. “What about him?” “Damien Lovecraft?” Kimball responded. “Same thing. He’ll disappear from the public eye and carry on with life, if he promises to keep his mouth shut. To say anything to anyone would guarantee the same consequence that I had just outlined to you . . . Questions?”

  Savange’s eyes rolled from left to right and then from right to left, examining the situation. Kimball Hayden sat before him with that constantly unwavering look that was cold and uncaring. Then he turned to study Ghost, the Native American who sat with the same distinct coldness to his demeanor. Though their features didn’t hint at anything to help Savange prognosticate his future, he didn’t believe Kimball Hayden when he promised that his life would continue after he wrote the retraction. If he did go to Brazil as the assassin insisted, he also knew that he’d be hunted and killed. The loose end that he was would become a knot too great to undo, and the black secrets of Senator Rhames would remain forever safe. “Questions?” Kimball repeated. Savange nodded and said, “No.” “Then you fully understand what you need to do?”

  Another nod. This time ‘yes.’ But then Savange tried to leverage his fate by adding: “There’s something you need to know.” Kimball tilted his head slightly and waited for Savange to continue. “There’s an alleged tape,” Savange said. “Of the senator and the girl.”

  “Alleged? Meaning that you’re not in possession of it?”

  Another nod from Savange. “The girl’s mother wants money for it. A lot of money.”

  “How much is a lot?”

  “Two hundred thousand dollars.”

  For the first time Kimball showed a slight measure of emotion, a marginal slipup when his eyes quickly detonated with surprise before they settled back into their icy-cold stare. “That’s a lot of money.”

  Savange nodded in agreement. “It was a sum the Post was willing to pay.”

  “And why haven’t they paid it?”

  “We wanted confirmation before the transaction. The Post is in the middle of negotiations with the transaction to be consummated shortly, maybe within a day or two.”

  “By whom?”

  “My supervising editor.”

  “His name.”

  Savange gave it to him. “And how factual is this video?” Kimball asked him.

  “According to the mother, one hundred percent.”

  Kimball leaned forward. “And how was this tape recorded and by whom?”

  Savange swallowed. “The mother set up the recorder,” he answered. The muscles in the back of Kimball’s jaw worked from measurable anger. If the senator did partake in such unimaginable activity, there was no doubt that he’d been set up for financial gain by the girl’s mother, the stage having been set. Kimball didn’t know what was worse: the senator’s weakness for the flesh, or the mother’s greed who manipulated her child to be a prop for financial gain. Then his lips pared back and skinned his teeth to reveal an angry sneer, his first true showing of emotion that lingered. Then his lips finally fell into place, his mouth once again a grim and straight line. As he eased back into his seat, he asked, “The mother set up the senator by prostituting her own child, is that it?”

  Savange shrugged. “All she said was that she had a video, one that was clear and not doctored. We never went into detail as to how she obtained the video. She admitted that she had the evidence against him.”

  “Sounds to me that this was a setup from the get-go, Mr. Savange. Perhaps by the Post who just happens to be a pro-newspaper for the political candidate who’s running against the senator?” “The Post had nothing to do with the setup.”

  “So, you admit that it was a setup?”

  “I’ll admit that the video was done under questionable means.”

  “But not enough for the Post to turn an ethical eye away, the news just too great to pass up. Is that it?”

  “If not us, then it would have been someone else.”

  “So you decided to abandon your integrity for higher sales, is that it?”

  Savange remained silent. Kimball looked at him for a long moment, until a slight bump in turbulence galvanized him to speak. “Even though the identity of the young lady and her mother remains protected by the Post, you’re going to give me their names, aren’t you? Before they have a chance to make the video public.”

  “I want guarantees,” said Savange.

  Kimball continued to stare at him with a blank look. And then: “Of course.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll do what you ask. I’ll give you the retraction and the name of the girl and her mother, if you guarantee my longevity. I’ll disappear and you’ll never have to worry about me. That’s a promise.”

  “I already said, Mr. Savange, that I would.”

  “You also said that there was no way I would ever know if you’d keep your promise to leave me alone once I wrote the retraction.”

  Kimball leaned forward once again; the breadth of his shoulders massive. “Mr. Savange, I’m going to put it to you this way: If you don’t cooperate, then I will have Mr. Lovecraft tossed from the plane the same way Ms. Woolery was. If that doesn’t motivate you, then you will follow Mr. Lovecraft. The only guarantee I’m going to make is that you get to walk off this plane to perform the tasks we agreed upon. That’s it. The choice is yours.” />
  While Peter Savange started to think about contacting the authorities the moment the plane touched down, Kimball appeared to have intuited his thoughts. “Should you be thinking about contacting law enforcement once we land,” he told him, “be assured that they have no power to respond to your complaints. The group I work for has tentacles that reach far and deep into any organization within this country . . . and then some. Should you betray me, as I stated before, you’ll be dead within hours, Mr. Savange . . . Hours. Now, with that said, do you have any follow-up questions?” Savange nodded. “Now I have another question,” said Kimball. “The mother and the daughter, are they your sole contacts regarding the senator?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone from within the White House? Another senator maybe? A rival?”

  “No. Just the woman and the child.”

  Kimball appeared at ease with the answers. Then: “Very good. Now enjoy the rest of the flight.”

  Peter Savange, who once felt like he was sitting on top of the journalistic mountain, never felt so impotent or low. With his wrists and ankles bound, he found little comfort for the duration of the flight.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ronald Reagan Airport, Virginia

  After the jet landed at Ronald Reagan Airport and taxied to the terminal, Damien Lovecraft was released from his bonds and strongly advised by Kimball to isolate himself from others—"See no one and say nothing,” which was stated under the watchful eye of Peter Savange. It was also a staged event to lend Savange the belief that no one would be within the crosshairs if they adhered to the rules, if their silence remained golden. But this was subterfuge on Kimball’s part to make Peter Savange believe that he would be pardoned in the long run, but only if he complied with the program. “Trust me,” Kimball informed the journalists, “we have eyes and ears everywhere. Betray me is to betray yourselves. Betray yourselves and you’ll wind up dead.” To direct and redirect was Kimball’s stratagem for compliancy. Tossing Michelle Woolery from the plane was the key accomplishment that demanded obedience, and the moment that anointed Kimball as the puppet who had the power and decision as to who lived or died. By killing those around you under the veil of threats, it often became the motivator that kept people in line. Peter Savange and Damien Lovecraft had been no different, the two immediately falling in place. As soon as Lovecraft picked up a cab at the cab queue, he demanded that the driver move and quickly, his words coming in a rush. “Somethin’ the matter, pal?” the cabbie, wearing a Newsboy cap, asked with a thick city accent, maybe Boston or New York. “You seem a little tense, you know what I mean?” Damien Lovecraft, though the temperature was cool, nevertheless had the Rorschach-shaped blots of sweat stains on his shirt. His forehead was pebbled with drops of perspiration, as was his upper lip, the droplets having pearlescent glimmers to them when the lights of oncoming cars hit them just right. The driver continued to look at a clearly agitated man in the rearview mirror. “You OK, pal? You ain’t lookin’ too good.” “Just drive,” was all Lovecraft said after wiping a sleeved arm across his forehead. After the drive through D.C., and then closer to Damien Lovecraft’s address by Georgetown, the cabbie continued to strike up a conversation about his kids, especially the older one who was dabbling with ‘marijuana,’ even though Damien was far from wanting to hold any type of counsel. The man’s voice continued to drone on in a steady hum of nothingness, his words having no meaning as Damien’s thoughts centered on the abduction. Michelle was dead, tossed from a plane at 10,000 feet. Her body was no doubt a mash of broken bones and gelatinous gore. As the cabbie continued to talk and drive, Damien gave quick glances through the rear window. Some vehicles stayed back and maintained their lanes, though none appeared suspicious, whereas other cars passed either on the left or the right with their drivers, for the most part, nondescript. But does an assassin ever have a unique look? he thought. Or does he make

  himself appear like others in order to get close to his target? And then: Now I know what paranoia feels like. It’s a crushing terror that lurks around every bend or shadow. The driver continued to talk, his words sounding nonsensical to Damien. He had looked into the assassin’s eyes, saw the blue of their color that was as cold as ice. And then he remembered the promises given, and the promises he must keep. But he also sensed the man’s deceit, the lies that opened a gateway to his underlying sense of self-preservation. The man with the blue eyes was dangerous, if not heartless, when it came to achieving-the-means. With a lack of a moral compass, that was all Damien needed to realize that his life would forever be in jeopardy if he remained a threat. He would always be that Pandora’s Box who had the capability to open wide enough to dispense tragedies upon others. And it was made abundantly clear that the world was not large enough to hide in. Yet escape was all he could think about. In his mind’s eye he saw the jungles of Colombia, thick and wild with vegetation. Then he mentally relocated to places like Prague, a beautiful city. And what about cities like Los Angeles or New York? Areas with dense populations that ran into the millions. Surely, he could get lost within the masses. All he needed was a new name, a new look, maybe a few pounds to alter his appearance. A beard even. But his thoughts came circling back to the fact that these men, these assassins, were highly skilled practitioners in the art of killing. No matter where he went, he knew they would find him. To his right, Damien saw the Georgetown campus with its lights lighting up the early morning sky, as the cab continued down the highway. “Hey, you missed the cutoff.” The cabbie quieted, looked to his right, and murmured to himself, “Dammit.” And then: “My bad, kid. You won’t get charged for it. Consider the meter off. Sometimes I tend to talk too much, if you know what I mean. Go right past the exit without realizing it sometimes.” Taking the next exit, the cabbie began to take a series of side streets and one-ways with no sidewalks, and lanes that were bordered by an overgrowth of trees and wild shrubbery. It was an area that Damien did not recognize.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the cabbie. “Do you know where you’re going?” “I know exactly where I’m going,” he answered. What was odd to Damien, however, and something immediately notable, was the cabbie’s sudden lack of a city accent, that New York or Boston inflection. “What did you say?” Damien inquired. The cabbie pulled the cab over to the side of the road and removed his cap. The man’s hair was conservatively cut with a ruler-straight part. After tossing the cap on the dashboard, the cabbie wheeled around slowly to confront Damien. And when he did so there was a gun in his hand, a Glock that had a suppressor attached to it. “Sorry, kid,” the cabbie stated without an accent and with indifference.

  “Can’t leave any loose ends.”

  Then he shot the weapon three times in quick succession, all muted spits of gunfire.

  . . . phffft . . .

  . . . phffft . . .

  . . . phffft . . .

  Two bullets struck center mass, whereas the last struck Damien in the forehead, the hole a bloodless wound as a ribbon of smoke curled lazily from the dime-sized opening. Setting the Glock on the passenger seat, the assassin known as Walker donned his cap, set the vehicle into DRIVE, and slowly drove away from Georgetown.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Washington, D.C.

  Peter Savange truly believed that his heart was about to misfire inside his chest, the pain great and constant. Once the cabdriver let him off, he entered his apartment and immediately went to the window and drew back the drape, enough to peek a single eye through. The streets were clear, the night quiet. Then allowing the curtain to fall back into place, he began to pace the floor of his apartment while nervously raking his fingers through his hair. Who were these people? What were their ties to Senator Rhames? Are they a shadow attachment? Perhaps a black-ops unit of the CIA? The NSA? Am I getting that close to the truth? So many questions raced through his mind, and so many answers avoided him.

  Government assassins, he considered. It had to be. Then he looked at the phone lying on the couch, the type that needed a master base.
He could call the authorities, he thought, and ask for protection. He could put something out immediately about the senator, something that would draw the instant curiosity with the feds, should he suddenly and mysteriously die. But he wasn’t too keen on the idea of self-sacrifice since it was a price too high to pay. Nevertheless, he remained on the fence as to whether or not to make the call. He could confess all that he had witnessed, and Michelle’s body would certainly bolster his story once she was discovered. More so, he’d have the backing statements of Damien Lovecraft. But then he kept seeing the assassin’s eyes, those cold, blue orbs that held little mercy or compassion. This man, he knew, was Death. Now that he was leaning towards breaking his commitment by calling the authorities, the phone rang. Savange, who looked at the wall clock and noted the time, wondered who it was at such an early hour. His heart skipped out of rhythm believing that he was about to be told something he already knew, something about Michelle Woolery, a terrible tragedy. When he picked up the phone he stated tentatively, “Hello.” After a moment of hesitation, a voice said, “I’m glad you made it home, Mr. Savange.” It was the unmistakable voice of the assassin with the stark blue eyes. Savange tried to swallow away the sour lump that had suddenly cropped up in his throat but failed. Then: “What do you want?” he asked. “Not a thing, Mr. Savange. This is simply a curtesy call.” “Regarding what exactly?” “Your promises to keep, of course.” “I already told you that I’d follow through.” “I believe you. But you might also be having difficulties in deciding where your true loyalties lie. To the paper . . . Or to me. Perhaps you’re having considerations of contacting the authorities, even when we decided that there would be no such intervention? I can see the potential of you making that very unwise decision, Mr. Savange, if your fear happens to be greater than your self-control. Is it?” “Is what it?”