"What the hell do you think you're doing?" one of the firemen shouted. I ignored him.
"Clare, is this Marilyn?"
"Oh, God. I think so. I don't know." She turned away gagging. Before the fireman could speak again, I held up my hand.
"I'm a Kazak. This is the woman who intentionally started the fire. You found her outside a door that you'll find was the origin of the fire. There should also be a container nearby, containing gasoline." I walked away supporting Clare
***
I sat with Clare, the managing editor, and the executive editor in the third-floor conference room. The managing editor, Harry Wilson, was a middle-aged man with the sleeves of his shirt rolled part way up his arms. In contrast, the executive editor, Sean Harrison, was an elderly man dressed in a dark-blue suit, white shirt, and blue- and yellow-striped tie.
"The police have identified the body as Marilyn Gisson. She was found outside Clare's door along with a can containing gasoline residue," Harrison said and turned to the managing editor. "Harry, I want the next couple of newspapers devoted to an accurate account of this incident. The intent is to let the public know what happened, not to sell papers, although it will; sales are a secondary consideration."
Over the next two days, Clare detailed the events that led up to the fire. She affirmed that previous stories about the Kazak had been true and that
he
had helped save her during the fire. Although the chief editor wanted an accurate account of the incident, I insisted that some details be omitted, that I be referred to as
he
rather than
she,
and that I had returned because the killer included
him
in the equation. I twisted the facts slightly without taking away from the true essence of the incident.
***
"Lynn, thank you for coming back to help me. Marilyn was intent on killing me. The police investigator suspects that she felt I had somehow hurt her career and was filled with rage at my success. Whatever her reason, I know that without your intervention she would've succeeded in killing me. No one would've believed she shot herself. Not to mention, it would've put a cloud of suspicion on your exploits."
"Your life is worth far more than any story about me or the Kazaks. You're my adopted sister-my only one, by the way." I hugged her, feeling real love. We slept close together that night. I knew she needed to feel close to me. For me it had been a normal, if personal, assignment. For her it had been a nightmare. I flew home the next day, treating myself to first-class seating.
When I arrived back at my condo, it was not quite five p.m., so I decided to see if Witton was available. When I arrived, his office door was closed and Ann Marie wasn't at her desk. Not having anything else to do, I wandered into the waiting room, picked up the latest copy of the
Washington Times
, and made myself comfortable. Some time later, Ann Marie and a distinguished-looking man with good-looking silver-gray hair exited Witton's office. He carried himself like someone used to being in charge. Ann Marie saw me and waved.
"You can go in now. Mr. Witton is free."
Witton looked up from what he had been doing as I entered and shut the door.
"That was a nice piece of detective work, Lynn. Now that you've settled that, it's time to get back to Kazak business."
"Yes, sir. I want to thank you for your support. I don't have many friends, and Clare is family to me."
"You're welcome. I've read the police report. The woman outside Clare's door was badly burned and had two bullets in her. They were unable to determine whether the bullets or the fire killed her, not that it matters. What is important is that the matter has been satisfactorily resolved, and you are back and available for work," he said, looking down at some papers on his desk. He smiled. "I've an easy assignment for you."
"Another one?" I replied with a straight face. Witton nodded.
"I keep trying, but you insist on causing trouble. You have the State Department and the U.S. Senate upset. In fact, I think you've been banned from the Senate building. Never mind, I've got a very brilliant man whom we need to keep safe. He's developing software to ensure a secure cyberspace for our increasing dependence on the storage and movement of digital information. Our national security is built on the foundation of cyberspace, which is currently insufficient for today's or tomorrow's needs. They claim his death could jeopardize our nation's long-term security; therefore, he needs a Kazak to babysit him. That's you."
"I guess I'm supposed to be my usual sweet self?"
"Just don't break anything he needs to work-like fingers. Your job is to keep him alive until he finishes the project. Try not to upset the Secret Service folks. At your current rate, pretty soon I won't have any place I can send you without getting a ton of grief.
***
Two days later, I entered the Pentagon. After going through multiple security checks, I received a pass for access to Mr. Samuel Gerstel and was escorted into his domain by an army colonel. Gerstel was a small man. He had thick brown hair and wore glasses with dark brown frames that gave his young, clean-shaven face a college student look. His odd assortment of clothes reinforced the image, although I knew his age was somewhere in the mid-thirties. The entire room was crowded with electronic equipment. Three other people were in the room: two men and one woman. They were a cross section of America ancestry: one European male, one African male, and a Chinese female.
"Mr. Gerstel, this is the Kazak who has been assigned to you," the colonel said in an authoritative tone of voice. Mr. Gerstel didn't seem impressed.
"OK," he mumbled without looking up, waving the colonel away. At least I think he meant the colonel and not both of us. I looked around and found the other three staring at me, like I was some kind of yet unidentified bug. They didn't look like they wanted any kind of acknowledgement, so I found myself a chair and sat. I had yet to determine the hours when he would be most vulnerable. Although Assassins had the skills to make it past security, it would take them several hours. After five hours and several conferences with the others, Samuel got up, rubbed his eyes, and looked at me.
"Who are you and how did you get in here? This is a secure area. Sue, call security." He pointed at the entrance door.
"She's a Kazak. I believe she's part of your security," the Chinese-looking woman replied.
"She shouldn't be in here. She should be out there with the rest of the Secret Service people."
"Samuel, she's a Kazak. I don't think anyone is going to tell her where to sit."She shrugged. At least one person knew a Kazak from a civil servant with a gun.
"What's your name and what security do you provide that those men don't?" he demanded, pointing to the door to the room.
"Lynn. I follow you around, bored to tears. Oh, and I shoot anyone I don't think likes you," I said in a bored voice, which wasn't hard after sitting with nothing to do for five hours.
"You'd shoot someone?" He stared at me with a frown on his face. The others seemed to have diverse emotions: the African amused, the Chinese emotionless, and the European nervous. Interesting reactions.
"Yep, I get real cranky when I'm bored." This was a silly conversation, but it did liven up an otherwise boring day.
"Life may not be so boring then. Lots of people don't like me. I'm Samuel."
"It's nice to meet you, Samuel. I'll try not to interrupt you, but I'll be within spitting distance at all times."
"I think someone has finally given me real security." He walked out the door with me following behind him and two men following me. Just like a mother hen and her chicks.
***
I found he had no routine. He had temporary sleeping accommodations in the building, a townhouse in D.C., and a house in Connecticut. I assumed he had more money than me, by several millions. He would stop working in the middle of the day for no reason I could ascertain, rose at random hours during the night, and usually started work early before anyone else arrived. Occasionally, he would go home to his three-bedroom, two-bath, Victorian-style townhouse and stay for a day or two. The first time, I spent two hours walking around the townhouse to learn the layout in case he came under attack. The Secret Service provided a good deal of security before he arrived and while he was at the townhouse. Nevertheless, I slept in a recliner in the hallway outside his bedroom.
Gerstel's space at the Pentagon included a small living room, bathroom, and bedroom. I had a leather recliner installed in the living room, which made it a little cramped with the existing loveseat and coffee table. The recliner provided a convenient place for me to nap, since Witton hadn't provided anyone to relieve me. Without relief, Samuel's erratic movements made it impossible to schedule time away.
Witton had promised another Kazak, when one was available. I think that was just to make me feel good. I didn't mind. I had nowhere I wanted to go. The visit with Gabe and Clare in Vegas had been wonderful. My visit to Denver to find the person threatening Clare had been traumatic but satisfying. I owed Witton for that.
"Well, Lynn. How about some breakfast?"
"Sure."
"You weren't kidding when you said you'd be within spitting distance. What if I only had a bedroom here?" He gave me a devilish grin. He had insisted I eat sitting down with him; I had in turn insisted our table be near a wall and I face the entrance to the dining room.
"I would've had the recliner placed in the hallway." I returned his smile.
"Why? Don't you need a break? This building's very secure. You must have noticed I've security in front of the computer lab, although I think they are more worried about the equipment."
"That's stupid. The equipment isn't worth much without you." If true, it was stupid. "I'm sure other people could program the software you're working on; however, it would take them years longer with questionable results. You see the solution and how to achieve it, because you're extremely good at what you do. The security people are good at their job, but they're not trained to face professional Assassins. An Assassin could slip by all this security. Kazaks have the necessary training-which is not to say an Assassin couldn't get by me. It would just be much harder." I shrugged. He sat quietly, eating his French toast.
"I guess we are both in a special class. I'd like to go home for a week or so. The brass says it isn't safe and more or less forbids it. What do you think?"
"It's a little safer to stay here, but it really comes down to the risk you're willing to accept. Assassins are like Kazaks. We're both very well trained, and in addition have enhanced abilities. The brass assumes you're a hundred times safer here, whereas outside you are one hundred times more vulnerable. It's an illusion. They think ninety-nine to one; I think it's more like two or three to one."
"I'm going home then. I need a rest. I've been locked in here for over six months. I love the work, but now and then I need to come up for air."
The Pentagon attempted to stop Samuel. When that failed, they tried to get me replaced. When
that
failed, they increased his security team from three to twenty and sent a helicopter to fly him to his home in Connecticut.
As we waited with the six agents assigned to accompany Samuel in the helicopter, a white and blue Sikorsky S-92 gently settled on the landing pad outside the Pentagon. When the door opened, Gerstel entered. As I moved to enter, the lead security man stepped in front of me and held a gun pointing at my face. Two others moved closer to me-one on each side.
And to think we're on the same team
.
"My name's Dan Antonis. I'm the lead man on this detail. You can go find another ride."
Like an adder, my hand shot out. My fingers sank into the back of his hand. I twisted his arm as I executed a 360 degree sweep with my left leg. The three went airborne. Unfortunately, the leader's wrist broke because I failed to release my hold and the fall produced too much torque.
I guess I could say I forgot.
By the time, they hit the ground, I had Antonis's gun and my own pointing at them. The three men standing well behind us suddenly realized their comrades were down and began reaching for their guns. The two on the ground couldn't. They had lost their weapons when they went flying.
"Everyone freeze. I will shoot to kill." I didn't smile. I collected their guns, while Antonis screamed obscenities. Then I called Witton.
"Boss, I just broke the wrist of the Secret Service guy in charge and disarmed his five henchmen. If anyone else points a gun in my direction, I'll take that as an attempt on my client's life."
"Stay there and try not to shoot anyone. I don't need any more complaints than this is already going to generate." The phone went dead.
"Won't you get in trouble for hurting those men?" Gerstel asked from the doorway of the chopper. From the smile on his face, he seemed to be enjoying himself.
"No, they obviously intended to kill me, so they could kill or kidnap you."
"I think you're right." His eyes brightened and his smile widened.
We sat there, listening to a variety of threats from my new friend, Antonis. A half an hour later, an ambulance arrived along with a big black Chevrolet Suburban. After Antonis had been loaded into the ambulance, a woman in her late twenties exited the Suburban and stood talking to one of the medics. Afterward she approached along with two new henchmen. She had short curly black hair, tan skin, and stood only a few inches taller than me. I hoped she wasn't going to do the gun stunt Antonis had pulled.
"Good morning. I'm Ann Woehl. They sent me to replace agent Antonis. Are you and Mr. Gerstel ready to leave?" A small smile creased her lips.
Once in the air, she turned toward me. "That wasn't nice, Lynn," she said with a slight twitch of her lip. "You fractured a bone in his wrist. It will require a cast and several weeks to heal. He's lodging a complaint against you."
"It'll take a month for my boss to get through the other complaints against me before he gets to Antonis's. Then my boss will be happy I was in a good mood when your fearless leader stuck a gun in my face."