“Jonathon Carlson, one in particular, owns a ten-thousand acre Texas ranch where he flies in board members from Kinsley and the state retirement system directors to hunt exotic animals by day and frolic with exotic dancers in hot tubs by night. So far I know of two banks that received taxpayer’s bailout dollars and are complicit in some of these investments. The Kinsley Group retains some of the nation’s top PR and law firms to caulk the cracks and paint the walls when needed.”
Marcus was silent for a few seconds, and then he said, “Would there have been reasons for any members of this group, its board, advisors or people they do business with, to take out John Kennedy Junior? If Kennedy had become a senator, or president, could they have feared that one or some of their billion-dollar deals might be at risk of not happening? And if so, what were these risks and the transactions underway that fit that timeframe? How long before they were completed would they have been planned? What events happened around the world to influence these multi-billion dollar deals?”
“Those are all good questions. I think some of the answers are related to the death of Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin. Something else, Paul, I found names of two former members of the Kinsley board who are believed to be or have been members of an ultra-secretive faction. I don’t know the name of this club, but I do have two names.”
“Who are they?”
“I’d rather not say over the phone. I’ll tell you when I arrive in Paris?”
“Paris?”
“I’m changing my flight as we speak. Bonjour.”
Marcus sipped his coffee and set his cell phone on the dresser just as Alicia’s text arrived: James Tower — 1281 Canterbury Road, Wallingford — England.
Alicia opened the door to her family home. Her mother sat quietly by herself in the living room. She looked up from the photo album she held in her lap. She closed the album when Alicia entered the room.
“Hi, Mom. Are you okay?”
Her mother blinked her eyes then looked out the bay window into the backyard. She watched a cardinal land on the edge of the birdfeeder and peck at the seed. She looked back at her daughter. “The cardinal was your father’s favorite bird.”
Alicia smiled. “He loved to hear them sing in the spring.”
“Once a week, for forty-one years, he filled the birdfeeders. The birds relied on him. I saw a blue jay land on your father’s shoulder one time. It was a bird that had fallen from its nest as a baby, sort of fluttered down from the big oak out back. Dad put it in his shirt pocket while he climbed the oak tree and placed the little bird back in its nest.” She looked up at Alicia through watering eyes. “Oh, honey, what am I going to do without your father? I miss him so much.”
Alicia embraced her mother and simply held her. After a minute she said, “Mom, I’m going overseas.”
“What?”
“I’m going to do everything I can to help Brandi. I can’t stand to see Dianne like this. I’m going to do my best to bring Brandi home.”
“How will you do it?”
“I don’t know. I just feel compelled to go there.” Alicia lifted the small golden cross from the chain on her neck. “Mom, if I get in some kind of a situation where I can’t speak with you, somehow I’ll find a way to get this necklace to you. When you receive it, you will know I’m fine. Okay?”
She looked at her daughter, eyes swollen and sad. “Okay, baby. Alicia, you were always so different from your sister and brother. You’re a risk taker, just like your dad. If he were here, I’m sure he’d tell you to do what you feel you need to do. As your mother, I say do it with care. Just return to me, please? ”
“I will, Mom.”
SIXTY-FIVE
Marcus rented a Peugeot, pulled onto the A16 and drove to the coastal French town of Calais. He paid the fee at the terminal entrance and steered the Peugeot inside the train-car of the Chunnel. Thirty-five minutes later he arrived in Folkestone, England. After clearing customs, he punched the coordinates into the GPS and followed the vocal directions through the outskirts of London toward the village of Wallingford.
A winding road led him through farm fields that had been plowed under after a recent harvest. Sheep and cattle dotted the pastures, and smoke from farmhouse chimneys meandered in the still, crisp morning sky.
“Your destination is ahead on the right,” came the last direction from the GPS. Marcus stopped the car in front of a small, white cobblestone home with a faded picket fence around most of the yard. He got out of the car and quietly closed the door. The sound of a cow mooing came from somewhere behind the home. A song thrush warbled from a pine thicket in an adjacent pasture. Marcus stepped to the front door and knocked. A dog barked inside, and he could hear someone shuffling around.
The door opened slightly, the face of an old man peering from behind the tarnished brass chain. His snow-white hair was uncombed, faced deeply lined with a slight drooping of his left eyelid. Near the floor, a small dog poked its nose out of the opening and sniffed. Marcus smiled, looked at the old man and said, “Hello, Mr. Tower.”
“Who are you?” His accent had a slight British tone.
“My name’s Paul Marcus. I’m from Virginia. My grandmother lives in an assisted living center, and it’s the same place where an old colleague of yours now lives. Larry Foster sends his regards.”
Tower snorted and cocked his head. “I don’t know anybody named Foster.”
“It’s been a long time. But some things people don’t forget. Things like tragedies in the war, the loss of friends, the loss of innocence…and the killing of General Patton.”
Tower stared through the opening in the door, his sea blue eyes dimming for a moment in the past and then igniting as they focused on the present. “Who the hell are you and what do you want?”
“I’m doing some research. I won’t be long. May I come in?”
The old man started to close the door. Marcus shoved his foot in the opening. “Please, Mr. Tower. I have to speak with you.”
“What if I have a pistol in my hand? I could shoot you where you stand.”
“I have no doubt that you could. But from what I understand, your killings were justified. We were at war. You had a code of honor, and I’m willing to bet after all these years…you still do.”
The old man said nothing for a few seconds. “Give me a second.” He eased the door shut. Marcus could hear him coughing, the coughs long and deep. A half minute later he removed the chain from the lock and opened the door. “I expected one day somebody like you’d come knocking. Decades went by and no one ever did. Finally, I figured I’d die and take the wounds to my grave. Now here you are. Come in, I have nothing to lose. Not now. Hell no, not anymore.”
The little dog, a terrier, sniffed Marcus’s shoes and followed him to a leather couch. Tower said, “I was just pouring a cup of tea. Would you like to join me?”
“Thank you.”
“Please, have a seat. I’ll bring the cups.”
Marcus sat on the couch and looked around the living room. The home smelled of old newspapers and brewed tea. There was only one photograph. It was of a woman, a brunette. She was standing near some cliffs overlooking the sea, her wavy hair windblown. She had a strong resemblance to a young Elizabeth Taylor.
“That was Annie,” Tower said, shuffling back to the living room, a cup of steaming tea in either hand. “She was my wife.” He handed Marcus the tea and then sat down in a worn, brown leather chair across from him.
Marcus reached for the cup. “Where was the picture taken?”
“Ireland. The Cliffs of Moher. Annie loved it there. She loved the hills and the sea. She was a big city girl, New York, who fell in love with the country. Ireland became her favorite place. We went there a lot until she died. That’s been fifteen years ago.” The old man stopped, his mouth turned down, and he looked away from her photograph.