Escape Page 28

  "Why thanks, nephew. I appreciate the sentiment. But no fears." He tapped on his bony chest. "Healthy as an ox.... So, this evening's festivities."

  "I've attended more black-tie dinners and shaken more hands in a week than a presidential candidate two days before the election, and may I never have to enter another discotheque."

  Dean Newbury chortled. "Sorry about that, I'm sure it was an auditory challenge, if not a legal one. But everything I've heard from our client is that you've represented the firm well and that the prince and his people are comfortable with you. They know that people like our Mr. White are foot soldiers, so it's been important to them that we also presented them a general."

  "That's quite the promotion from the junior lieutenant I was at the DAO," V. T. replied. "I'm not sure that I did much other than exercise my inherited ability for small talk, but I'm glad I could be of service."

  "Yes, leading from behind takes some getting used to," Dean said. "The further up the chain of command we move, the less we're on the chess board where the action is. Still, we're the guys moving the pieces into the right places. However, somebody has to do that well enough, or we'll find ourselves in checkmate."

  He looked over at the wall above his shelf of books and pointed to a row of portraits hanging beneath three paintings of sailing ships. "Those men knew how to play the game."

  V. T. knew that the portraits were of the Newbury ancestors who'd headed the firm over the past two hundred years. And, as his uncle had once explained, the sailing ships were a reminder of the family's early beginnings "as seagoing men."

  "I don't think I need to remind you—not after the way those two niggers beat you bloody and still haven't been caught—that this world is going to hell in a handbasket," Dean said.

  The remark caught V. T. by surprise. He felt tears rise up in his eyes, and walked over to the bar where he poured himself another glass of cognac, bringing the bottle over to refresh his uncle's glass.

  "The justice system can't deal with the numbers anymore," his uncle continued. "Which leaves the scum of the Earth to terrorize good, hardworking people. In the meantime, illegal immigrants flood across our borders, taking jobs, living off taxpayers, committing crimes with little to fear in consequences. They're like a bunch of cockroaches, hiding from the light, spreading pestilence, reproducing more vermin."

  The old man stood up and started to pace. "In Washington, D.C., weak-willed administrations and do-nothing Congresses pussy-foot around the threat of Islamic extremism and rogue nuclear states. They're either so busy appeasing these criminals so that our so-called 'allies' don't get their panties in a bunch, or they blunder about like drunk cowboys, shooting every which way but never really going for the kill. They don't have the balls to do what's necessary to make the world safe for the next generation of white Americans."

  V. T. joined him at the window. "So what are a couple of aging attorneys to do about it?" he asked and took another sip of the cognac. His brain felt like someone had turned a fog machine on inside it.

  When his uncle turned to face him, V. T. was reminded of the fierce predatory look of eagles and hawks. "We do what we can," he said firmly. "We are in a war, and sometimes in war it's necessary to do things that are unpleasant, sometimes even repugnant. But we keep our eyes on the future and understand that sometimes the ends do justify the means if the cause is a good one."

  "There's precedent for the government to usurp civil liberties on a temporary basis in times of war," V. T. noted. "Sometimes liberty must be tempered by realism."

  "Exactly. But then the left-wing liberal dogs start whining about their precious liberties; they just don't understand that unless the realities are taken care of, there won't be any civil liberties to lose."

  "I get your point."

  "I've hoped you would. You've already met my associates and know that they care deeply about where this country is headed. Once you've earned their trust, you can trust them yourself as no other. They're men who are ready to act to save this country, and Western civilization."

  As Dean Newbury spoke, his breathing grew faster and more labored. He had to put a hand against the glass window to steady himself.

  V. T. shot out a hand to hold him by the elbow. "Are you all right?" Dean Newbury took a sip of cognac. "Ah, yes, thank you, my boy, quite all right. Afraid I get myself a little worked up. For two hundred years this family and others have worked to build something great here, and we won't see it overrun by the immigrant horde, unchecked criminality, and Islamic extremists."

  "I'm with you on that."

  The old man reached over and gripped his arm so hard it hurt. "You may be called upon to make a hard decision soon," he said. "And at first, the right answer might not seem clear. But your family and your country need you to make the correct choice. Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh."

  V. T. patted his uncle's hand to loosen the grip on his arm. "I hope I'm up to the task when the time comes," he said.

  The old man's face looked predatory again when he answered. "So do I, my boy, so do I."

  A half hour later, V. T. was still thinking about the conversation when he got out of the taxicab in front of his walkup apartment on Minetta Lane down in the Village. On the outside, it was a modest brick building, constructed well over a hundred years earlier; no one would know by looking at it that he'd purchased the entire top floor and completely remodeled the interior.

  V. T. had more money than he knew what to do with from the inheritance he had received from his mother, a New England blueblood whose family went back to the Mayflower and whose fortune originated with the spice trade. His father had quietly amassed a personal fortune as well, through judicious investing of his large salary from the firm.

  V. T. had indulged himself with his apartment, which among other things featured the best entertainment system to listen to his beloved jazz. He also drove an Aston Martin, but other than that was not ostentatious with his toys or lifestyle. True, there was the place in the Vermont countryside, and the family beach house in Martha's Vineyard; a painting of himself as a child, picnicking on the sands there with his mother and father, hung in his office. The thought of it now made him nostalgic, which is why his selfpreservation radar didn't pick up the four men who had followed him up the steps. When he opened the door, they shoved him roughly inside.

  They were dressed in black, including the ski masks that covered their faces. One of them pointed a gun at his head. "Don't move, Mr. Newbury. We only want to talk to you."

  Apparently, the gunman was nervous, because his finger touched the button that released the bullet clip from the gun and it clattered to the floor. The gunman bent over to retrieve the clip, knocking his head against the head of one of his comrades who'd been doing the same thing. They remained crouched over, rubbing their heads and cursing one another.

  "Whoever you are," V. T. said, not sure if he should laugh or fight while they were occupied, "you're really not very good at this. I suggest that you let me go before this gets out of hand."

  "Shaddup punk," the shortest of the men snarled like a movie gangster. He waved a canister of pepper spray at V. T.'s face. "Don't make me get rough." The fourth man, who had a gray ponytail peeking out from under his ski mask, sighed. "Excuse the theatrics, Mr. Newbury," he said in a low voice obviously meant to disguise his real one. "I wouldn't blame you for thinking that this is some sort of joke. You're right, we're not very good at this. But what we want to talk to you about is very serious."

  "Then why don't you take off the ridiculous masks, put away the gun—by the way, I can see that there's no bullet in the clip—and get your friend here doing the James Cagney imitation to take his finger off the pepper spray. And then we can talk like civilized people."

  The four men shook their heads. "We can't do that," said the fourth man. "Whatever you may think of our drama here, it's not meant to be a comedy. People have already died, and we can't risk that you're not the man we think you are ... or were. But you should know
that this concerns your father and how he was killed."

  The partial smile disappeared from V. T.'s face. "What do you mean 'killed'? My father died of a heart attack. If this is some sort of looney theory, I don't appreciate it."

  "I can assure you this is not a looney anything," said the heavyset man who'd pulled the gun, which now dangled absently in his hand. "Nor would we go to this extreme—as you've correctly noted, this isn't our usual line of work—if we didn't think this was important."

  The portly man added, "Say that we knew your father ... for a long time ... and we liked him very much."

  "Then stop acting like the Keystone Kops and talk," V. T. said.

  "We have our reasons for the disguises," the man with the ponytail said. "Please, have a seat, and I'm afraid we're going to have to tie you up."

  "Oh, come on," Newbury said. "It's really not necessary. And besides, your gun doesn't work."

  "Yeah, but this does," the short man said, waving the pepper spray.

  The portly man pulled a Taser stun gun from his pocket. "And so does this. I'd rather not use it, but I will if I have to."

  Newbury sat down. The big man put his gun in his pocket and produced a roll of duct tape that he used to secure him.

  "All right, now I'm no danger to you," V. T. said angrily. "So what is it that is so important you'd commit a half-dozen major felonies to say it?" The fourth man with the ponytail spoke. "Like I said, what I'm about to tell you, you may already know, and if so, and you've done nothing about it, then you are not your father's son, and we will have kept our identity a secret for a good reason. Mr. Newbury, what do you know about the Sons of Man?"

  "Sons of who?"

  The four masked men looked at each other. "The Sons of Man," said the ponytailed man. "It's a long story, but we have a few minutes."

  He began by telling V. T. how they'd met his father at law school. "We were young and idealistic," he said. "We didn't always agree with each other, but we swore that we'd always defend the Constitution and what it stands for."

  According to his captors, they'd lost touch with Vincent Newbury over the years. He went into the family law firm, and they'd gone on to their own careers. Then suddenly one day, Vincent got back in touch with them. He said he'd stumbled on a Newbury family connection to a secretive cabal of powerful men. "He believed that their ultimate goal was the destruction of the Constitution and the government," the ponytailed man said.

  To get proof, he'd taped a conversation between Dean Newbury and a man named Jamys Kellagh. "Who we believe was actually Jon Ellis, an assistant director with the Department of Homeland Security."

  "A spook," said the little man with the pepper spray.

  "The discussion was conducted in an ancient language called Manx," the ponytailed man said. "Anyway, they were discussing a plan to assassinate a U.S. Senator, Tom McCullum."

  "My uncle? Dean Newberry? An assassination? That's crazy."

  "Maybe so," the ponytailed man replied. "But would-be dictators have done crazier things for power. We're not exactly sure why McCullum was targeted, except that he's made a number of enemies on the Right with his attacks on the Patriot Act. We think it also has something to do with the senator's upcoming congressional hearings on recent terrorist activities that seem to implicate people in the Russian and U.S. governments, as well as business and crime syndicate leaders."

  "I'm sure this would all make a good movie, but what proof do you have?" V. T. demanded.

  "You mean other than the attempt on McCullum's life at the St. Patrick's Day Parade?"

  "I believe the current theory is that the assassin was after the mayor or the police chief. The shooter was a former cop who'd been fired. What you're saying sounds like more conspiracy theory bullshit."

  "We know it's hard to accept," the ponytailed man continued. "At one time, we had more proof—a book that your father took from your uncle's bookshelf. A book about the Sons of Man."

  "So my uncle killed his brother, my dad, because he took this book. Please!"

  "We think that book could have exposed the entire organization if the right people had it and traced the genealogy," the portly man said. "So yes, we think Dean Newbury killed Vincent because he took the book ... and taped that conversation."

  "Where's the book now?" V. T. asked.

  "Gone. Along with the man to whom we sent it, hoping that he'd be able to get the information into the right hands. Unfortunately, he was murdered and the book destroyed."

  "Let me get this straight," V. T. said. "My uncle is part of a secret organization, one that was behind at least these two murders. But your only proof is gone. Sounds far-fetched, don't you think? Now, how is it you think my father was murdered?"

  "Are you sure his heart attack was not induced?" the pony tailed man asked. "Could have been. But if so, it appears that it might have been an accidental overdose of his digitalis medicine."

  "Accidental?" the heavyset man scoffed. "He had dinner with your uncle that night and suddenly keels over because he took an accidental overdose of prescription medicine. Was he that senile he couldn't remember taking his pills?"

  "He was old," V. T. responded. "His memory wasn't as sharp as it once was.... Maybe he took his pill, forgot, and took another."

  "Was that the level of digitalis in his bloodstream?" the pony tailed man asked. "One extra pill? Or did he take a dozen extra? Enough to stop his heart?"

  "Have you seen the medical reports?" asked the short man. "What was the level of digitalis?"

  "I only saw the certificate of death," V. T. acknowledged. "It said natural causes."

  "Maybe you didn't care to know the truth," said the short man.

  V. T. glared at him. "I loved my father. Say that again, and I'll forget that you're a bunch of old men playing James Bond."

  But the short man wasn't backing down. "Then prove it. All I see is a guy who sold out for money and is working for the man who I think killed his father. If that's true, I'll cut you out of that chair and kick your ass myself... old man or not."

  Before V. T. could respond, the man with the ponytail held up his hand. "Enough," he said, using his normal voice, a voice used to commanding and being obeyed. "Handsome is as handsome does, Mr. Newbury. In the meantime, I'd point out that the ring you wear bears the symbol of the Sons of Man, which makes you suspect in our eyes."

  V. T. glanced at his ring. "I'm hardly the one in this group to be called a suspect. If you're so sure of all of this, why haven't you gone to the police?"

  "You pointed it out yourself," the portly man said. "We have no proof."

  "But," the ponytailed man continued, "given Mr. Ellis's position with the Department of Homeland Security, we're also convinced that it's tough to trust some of our law-enforcement agencies with this information."

  "What makes you so sure that I won't go straight to my uncle and have you all wiped out?"

  The other men were quiet. "We aren't, Mr. Newbury," the ponytailed man said at last. "You're right, we're old and for us the world seems to have gone crazy. Old values like faith and loyalty seem to be in short supply. But we thought that if there was one thing that we might still be able to count on, that would be the love of a son for his father."

  With that he leaned forward and started to place a piece of duct tape over Newbury's mouth. "That's not necessary," V. T. said. "I'll count to a thousand before I yell for help."

  "Sorry," the ponytailed man said, and applied the tape. "We can't take that chance. We'd like to trust you, Mr. Newbury, for your father's sake. However, that ring gives us cause to wonder. Sit tight for twenty minutes and someone will come to release you."

  With that the short man turned on the television, which to all of their surprise was set on MTV. They shrugged and turned up the volume. But Newbury shouted a muffled protest. He was obviously in such distress that the man with the ponytail pulled back the tape from his mouth. "What is it?" he asked.

  "There are laws against torture," Newbury replied. "T
he housekeeper must have been here today and turned the channel to MTV. Please, twenty minutes of that and I'll be stark raving mad."

  The ponytailed man looked over at the television and laughed. "You're quite right," he said, replacing the duct tape but also nodding to the short man, who picked up the remote and turned to a Nature Channel special on dinosaurs. The men started to leave, but then the short man turned around and pointed a stubby finger at V. T. "We'll be watching, punk."

  The four men removed their masks before leaving the walkup. Outside, Geoffrey Gilbert, who'd been leaning against a wall, "minding my own business," whistled and waved. Down the block, a car turned on its lights, which flashed twice before rolling forward.

  When it was even with the apartment building, the four men rushed forward to get into the doors, while Gilbert hopped in from the other side. "Hello, Father Jim," Judge Plaut, the ponytailed fourth man, said to the driver next to him.

  "Hi Frank. Was the mission a success?" the priest asked as he pulled onto Sixth Avenue.

  "Well, if you mean did we discuss our concerns with Mr. Newbury without revealing our identities, then yes," Plaut replied. "Though I'd like to ask Mr. Florence about some of the more dramatic dialogue." He turned to the short former newspaper editor. "What was with the 'Shaddup punk'. Don't make me get rough' speech? You sounded like you were in a B-grade gangster movie."

  "Hey, I got a little carried away," Florence pouted. "I was just trying to get the point across that we meant business, while that other yahoo dropped his gun. If he'd decided to resist, he probably would have kicked all of our asses, even with the pepper spray. I was just trying to head him off at the pass. And besides, Saul, what's with the gun falling apart?"

  "Hey, I've had it since Dubya-Dubya Two," Silverstein growled. "What'd you expect? Something that actually shoots?"

  Sunderland laughed. "I see I missed some great theater."

  "Well, to be honest, I kind of liked it," Murray Epstein said. "I kept waiting for Bill to drop a 'you dirty rat' on him."

  The men laughed. "You think it will do any good?" Sunderland asked.