Belmont Knoll, as the property had been named by its previous owner, had originally been constructed in 1898 by the Belmont family, who had immigrated from Ireland in the 1880s during the railroad boom that marked the beginning of the Roanoke area's industrial development. The original stone cottage that had stood overlooking the better part of the property and the driveway leading into it had burned to the ground in the 1930s. All that remained was an immense stone chimney that provided the cornerstone for the current house, which Declan had custom built and lived in for a decade. Dim lights from the living room told him his wife was still awake and likely waiting for him to return. With a slight bounce in his step he patted his leg as a signal for the beagle to follow him as he moved up the right side of the drive to the home's wrap around porch. Peering through the windows as he walked around the porch towards the door, he could see his wife sitting alone, a tissue in one hand and a pregnancy test in the other. Even without seeing the results of the test he knew they'd failed again as he arrived at the door.
At five foot six inches with her auburn hair spilling loosely over her shoulders, Constance McIver got up from the leather sofa and padded barefoot across the carpeted living room as Declan walked through the front door. Pressing her slender frame against his, she kissed him softly and said, "I missed you."
"Oh, you did?" Declan said, returning her kiss. They'd been married for eight years, but had until just recently put their careers ahead of starting a family. Last summer they'd decided it was time. The previous eight months had been marked with several disappointments. Tears gathered in her green eyes as she embraced him tightly.
"Hey, it's grand, it's grand," he said reassuringly, and he wiped away a tear that slid down her cheek with his thumb. He knew what she was thinking. At thirty-five years old, Constance was beginning to fear that she'd waited too long to have a child.
Constance laughed and wiped away more tears as their beagle pushed its way stubbornly between their legs and waded into the house.
"Shelby, I swear," Constance said, as the dog bounded onto the leather sofa and peered over the back of it at them with an open-mouthed expression that could only be interpreted as a smile. "You're a mess, dog."
Declan chuckled as he closed the front door. "I got a call while I was out," he said, as he walked over to the chestnut armoire that stood along the wall between the kitchen and living room. He took out a metal thermos and twisted off the cap.
As he took a sip Constance said, "Oh? Who from?"
Declan breathed heavily as he poured the concoction from the thermos into his mouth. The liquid was a special combination of vitamins mixed with soda water; it tasted horrible. "Ugh," he said as he finished and wiped his mouth on his forearm.
Constance laughed. "Well, you're the one that drinks it."
"It's supposed to be good for you," he said, returning the thermos to the armoire.
"Nothing that smells and tastes that bad can possibly be good for you. Now who called? Quit keeping me in suspense," she said, playfully pushing him.
"Kafni," he answered, in a matter of fact way.
She looked at him for a moment waiting for him to say he was joking. To her, Abaddon Kafni was a current events celebrity that graced the television screen on news and opinion programs, seemingly on a nightly basis. Although she knew her husband had once worked for him, she also knew that it was long ago and that the two hadn't been in contact for many years.
"Seriously," he said. "He saw our names on the guest list. He's having one of his aides meet us at the door tomorrow night to guide us around."
She smiled and her mood seemed to stay chipper, which was the effect he'd hoped the news would have. He was trying to steer her away from the failed pregnancy test and to cheer her up. His decision to attend the event the next night was an effort on his part to slowly begin spoon feeding her bits of the past he'd so carefully hidden for so long. She knew nothing of his past life in Northern Ireland. He wasn't sure exactly why he hadn't told her the truth. Beginning their relationship with a lie wasn't something he was proud of and his dishonesty on the subject nagged him. He supposed that when they'd met he had wanted her to think of him as the man he was instead of the man he had been. Was his past really all that different from someone who'd gone to Vietnam or Desert Storm and seen the horrors of war, he reasoned? Many of them had chosen not to speak of their experiences either.
"Your evening begins at six, Mrs. McIver," he said with a wry smile. "While Dr. Kafni probably won't have a lot of time at the gala itself, he's asked to meet us for dinner afterwards. I told him we'd try to find time in our busy schedule."
"Really?" she said, acting as if she was impressed. "I didn't know you were a man of such connections. Can I touch you?" She held out her index finger and reached towards him, grinning like a star struck teen.
He shook his head and laughed. "Why yes, you can."
Gently, he cupped her face and kissed her. Wiping her eyes with her hands, she returned the kiss with passion. She laughed and pretended to protest as he picked her up off her feet and carried her down the hallway towards their bedroom.
"I just thought of something we can do," he said, kicking the door shut with his foot as they entered.
"Oh you did, did you?" she asked.
"Aye, I did."
Chapter Three
The brakes of the decaying Crown Victoria ground against the rotors as the taxi cab pulled to a stop at the corner of Ralls Avenue and Van Deman Street in an industrial area just southwest of the city of Dundalk, one of the first suburbs inside what was known as the inner ring of Baltimore. Anzor Kasparov knew he was taking a great risk coming in broad daylight. Dressed in an open flannel shirt over a faded blue tee, and jeans with a hole in one knee, he hoped he looked the part of someone who belonged in and around the manufacturing district at this hour of the morning.
"You want me to wait?" the cabbie asked as he turned to look over his shoulder. "The cost is twenty dollars."
"No," Kasparov said pulling a Baltimore Orioles cap further down over his brow in hopes of keeping the man from getting too good a look at him.
"Okay. The fare is fifty-five."
Kasparov tossed three crumpled twenty dollar bills into the front passenger seat as he opened the door and exited. His hands in his pockets, he walked south on Ralls Avenue for twenty yards, as the cab drove away and disappeared from view, then he turned and headed back to the corner, this time going north onto Van Deman Street. He walked for two blocks until he reached a building with a rusted sign above the door reading Broughman's Welding Service. He surveyed the vicinity and looked over the odd collection of junk beside the building as he took his wallet out and removed a key.
Opening the blue metal door, he walked into what had once been the front office of someone's business. Now mildewed boxes sat collecting dust and the air smelled of rotting cardboard. He closed the door behind him and locked it. He could hear the sound of a power tool running in the larger part of the building behind the office and walked that way.
Inside what he imagined had once been some type of machine room a lone man lay on his back underneath a tattered panel van. The van had been driven onto a pair of mobile ramps for easier access and two red toolboxes sat open on either side of the mechanic. Undoubtedly the van was how their mysterious benefactor planned for them to get around without attracting attention. From such a humble veil, the surveillance, the collection of intelligence, and finally the selection of a target could be accomplished, and there was little chance that anyone would notice. After the target was selected their benefactor would make sure any necessary documents were supplied without hesitation. Blueprints, fire escape routes, mechanical, electrical and plumbing maps, whatever was needed. The plan was brilliant and Kasparov thanked Allah as he approached the mechanic.