The evidence against the assassin was overwhelming. They had the rifle, the bodies, Cristos in the building at the time of incident, and while there were no prints, the circumstantial evidence was undeniable. The interim Pashir government, although secretly happy about the death of the despot, pressed for an expedient trial and execution, blaming the New York City police for the failure to protect their leader. The city of New York cried out for justice for the Bonsleys, and the public demanded a trial on the world stage to show that you don’t mess with New York.
The debate facing them was whether to charge Cristos on the local, federal, or military level. As an enemy combatant, he would not be afforded the rights of an American citizen, but this alternative, while satisfying the Pashir government, would not provide needed justice to the city of New York. If there were separate trials-the general’s murder in federal and the couple’s by the state-the matter could drag on for years with independent resulting appeals, but if the matters were handled concurrently, swift justice could be served, satisfying all concerned.
The four boats pulled up to a long, deep water dock on the eastern side of the island. The varied topography of the small spit of land was mostly undulating hills of old-growth trees and scattered bedrock. The North Shore was truly a misnomer, as there was no shore, just a sixty-foot sheer dropoff onto a rocky, riptide sea. A once-grand lighthouse stood on a precipice, holding court with its outstretched hand of guiding light to the now-diminished fishing fleets returning home. The western and southern sides of the island were large, sandy beaches that would be the envy of any Hamptons resident and would fetch in the tens of millions for a fraction of their white sand and magnificent views, if not for the large stretch of graveyard just beyond the scrub and tree line, a potter’s field of forgotten dead.
Jack and Peter watched as the twelve-man lead team of police, FBI, and Justice Department personnel disembarked and disappeared into the shadows of the windswept island to prep and secure the vacant facility.
From the second boat, four guards in black military fatigues, pistols strapped to their waists and rifles on their backs, climbed down onto the dock. The four turned as Cristos emerged from the boat’s cabin with shackled wrists and leg irons around his ankles. The four guards flanked him as he shuffled down the gangway, and they, too, disappeared, swallowed by the cold night.
Jack and Peter, dressed in heavy winter coats, finally leaped from the boat as the two Justice Department guards tied it up.
A large man in a black pinstriped suit greeted Jack with an outstretched hand. “Special Agent Carter Dorran, FBI.”
Carter stood just over six feet, a commanding presence in both stature and voice, with a deep tone that his fellow agents mocked behind his back. Despite the weather, he wore no coat and seemed unaffected by the elements.
“Jack Keeler,” Jack said as he shook his hand.
Dorran helped his agents secure the unmarked powerboat and turned to Jack. “Please excuse the formality, but we need your ID and to check your person.”
Jack smiled, his breath coming out in great clouds. He fully understood the procedure. He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open, and displayed the two-year-old picture. At Dorran’s nod, Jack extended his arms out, allowing him to run his hands up and down his body in the usual manner. Jack looked at Peter, who was enduring the same treatment, smiling at the irony; neither had ever been on this side of a pat-down.
Under the glow of a full moon, Jack looked up at the mansion in the distance. The enormous Georgian-style house, made of field-stone quarried from the island’s bedrock, was more than twenty-five thousand square feet and was entirely self-sufficient, with a power plant, a water desalination station, and a communication center all installed in the late ’70s when the mansion had seen extensive use as a classified government facility. Being off the radar, the island and the once-magnificent home were the perfect location to be forgotten. During the first half of the ’80s, it had been used for everything from a safe house to a refuge for Russian defectors at the end of the Cold War. In recent years, its location and function had fallen off even the radar of the government.
Dorran led Jack and Peter up the gangway and ushered them into a waiting golf cart. He drove up the long cobblestone pathway, the sides of which were overgrown with knee-high grass and weeds that poked up through a dusting of snow. Several felled trees, evidence of hurricane season, had yet to be removed, their haphazard patterns adding to the ominous appearance of the mostly wooded island. The enormous Georgian mansion was overrun with ivy that wove and flittered along its stone, giving it a Gothic feel.
A belching choke filled the night, as a generator muscled to life in the distance. And almost immediately, lights around the estate began to go from a dull orange, intensifying like the rising sun, into a full glow. The shadows around the mansion were chased away as walkway lights and decorative sconces flanking the entranceway lit the stone home into a semblance of its former glory.
Arriving in the circular courtyard, Jack and Peter hopped out of the cart and walked past two large stone lions that flanked the slate step and led to an enormous mahogany entrance door.
The choice of venue was Jack’s, which Peter, the FBI, and the Justice Department quickly agreed to in order to avoid the prying eyes of the press, or worse. It was the perfect location to hold Nowaji Cristos, the perfect place to conduct his interrogation.
Jack followed Dorran and Peter through the large doors and couldn’t help pausing in wonder, looking around the place that only existed in his dreams, a place that had sat two miles from his childhood home. It had lived in his imagination, in tales from a bygone era, when high society arrived in magnificent yachts for weekend parties that dragged on all summer. He couldn’t help picturing flappers and Gatsby types dancing until dawn, sipping champagne, the jazz band never tiring.
He had only seen the island from the perspective of sandy beaches and the overgrown graves in the potter’s field on the far side. He had never thought that the grandeur might exceed his imagination. The marble foyer was cavernous, his footsteps echoing off the decorative floors and dark-paneled walls. Dual staircases mirrored each other, their polished banisters and maroon carpeted stairs leading up to fourteen bedrooms.
As they walked, Jack peered into the library, an Old World room wrapped in floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and ghostly mementos of those long gone. The fireplace was enormous, speaking of an age before furnaces and heat. The oversized mantel and the shelves and furniture were caked with dust.
They walked past a billiard room and a parlor, through a chef’s kitchen that hadn’t known the smell of food in years, and came to a stop in the rear service hall.
“Bit of a surreal setting,” Peter said.
“Yeah, especially when the ghosts from the potter’s field come out and you realize you’re isolated on this island.”
“Did you get a look at this guy yet?” Jack asked. “Any sense of what we’re dealing with?”
“There is something in his eyes. A coldness. I don’t know if he’s practiced the look or it comes natural.” Dorran shook his head. “Cute name, Nowaji Cristos, loosely translated as ‘risen ghost.’”
“Nice,” Jack said. “Safe to say that’s not the name his mama gave him. Is this guy stable, or are we thinking he’s going to play the insane card?”
“The docs will check him out, but I don’t think he’s insane at all. A sociopath, yeah, but his mind knows what he is doing. There is no disconnect.”