The Lawyer and the Killer Ch. 12

Shawn was having the time of his life. Testifying and participating in discussions all day, and out partying all night. With Kia and Shai by his side they kept the taverns open and the impresarios up all night long. The CID, thanks to the beneficence of Warrant Officer Sam Houston, had provided him with a splendid expense account, and Shawn spent his country's money as though deficits didn't matter.

The three ate, drank, danced, and made the rounds of the hottest hot spots in the hottest city in the world. Shawn wolfed down rich grain fed two inch slabs of rare Angus steak accompanied by baked potatoes rich with butter or sour cream, and accompanied with bacon sloshed string beans. Kia joined him; enjoying well cooked lamb, chicken and sometimes buffalo suffused with various curry sauces all on heaps of rice cooked in fresh eggs, and an unending array of vegetables from spring peas to bamboo shoots. Shai, never outdone plied herself with kitfo; a dish of extremely rare, almost raw, beef customarily drowning in some spicy tangy and always delicious chili sauce.

Alcohol was always one of the great treats of the evening. Shawn loved his Jack Daniels over ice in coca cola followed by an equally tall iced water chaser. Kia had her home grown millet drink, a rich heavy Nepalese beer. But Shai had the best of all; hers was Tangha wine, a rich honeyed wine, more mead than wine; a centuries old drink of the people of the Amhara Plateau.

Prohibitions regarding shared utensils may have been technically upheld, and Shai may have pretended to eat in the traditional way using her right hand dipping up her scrumptious entrées with morsels of rice cake like everything was finger food, but the food, the drink, and most of all the company made all but the most rigorous cultural taboos irrelevant. They were a team, a group of companions whose experiences and love for one another superseded old folkways.

More than once Shawn awakened with a hang over; the fall out from a previous evening he knew he shared with his beloved comrades in arms. He didn't care. They didn't care. They'd come through it together, and together they were reawakening the conscience of the world. He did it for Lauren, a little girl buried in a road on some rocky stretch of a barren land. Kia did it for a mother who'd lost three babies to Souma, and Shai did it for all the babies, all the children, and the lost and hungry whether it was in Darfur, Cambodia, Rwanda, or Paraguay.

They had been on hand to see the suffering, the misery, and the tragedy, but they been there to see the perseverance, the determination, and humanity's indomitable will; a will born of mankind's faith in Divine Providence. They'd been there, seen it all and wherever they were, no matter how difficult the circumstance they'd seen the hand of God. Be it a Hindu in Nepal, a Buddhist in Thailand, a Christian or Muslim in the Sudan, or an Orthodox Christian in Ethiopia there was always man's ever present faith.

Shawn was a Catholic; a conservative Irish Catholic. How he got that way was a mystery, for he'd never had much religious schooling growing up. Yeah, he was put off by the current scandals in the Church, but all faiths were shallow and weak when one looked at the people who ran them. He'd seen Jews cry at the 'Wall' in Jerusalem even while Israeli soldiers shoved helpless Palestinian woman and children into pestilential ghettoes. He'd heard self righteous imams tout the nobility of Allah even as fanatical men cut away the faces of innocent beautiful young girls. He'd watched wealthy Hindu Brahmins ignore the starving poor, while the most upright Buddhists found ways to justify other peoples' misery.

Shawn loved God, but he'd come to love humanity more, and in his world humanity had come to increasingly mean just two people. They were somewhere in the south, in a gritty old southern city, a city that was both beautiful and ugly; a city where social injustice and the divisions between rich and poor were almost stark as in the Sudan. He despised the city, but loved its content.

She was still 'down there'. But he knew, once she was finished she'd join him in the Big Apple, and together, with all his friends, they'd have the biggest splashiest wedding this side of Charles and Diana. He even considered making Houston his best man; that was, if Kim wasn't available. Yes the world had become his oyster, he was reveling in it, but the pearls were down in the south, still in the shell.

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Kim steered clear of the nonsense he saw with Shawn, Kia, and Shai. They could play. He still had his job to do. Keeping track of Shawn was easy. In fact it was as though Shawn was supposed to be out and about; being playful, being the giddy gadfly.

What hadn't made sense were the two men following him. Kim knew right away it was Shawn and not the women who were being followed. There was an incongruity to the men tailing Shawn and it concerned him; one was clearly some kind of low class thug, but the other looked out of place. One was ready to shoot, the other ready to run.

Using his cell phone Kim got pictures of the two and had the photos forwarded to his contacts. They looked them up and came back with an interesting observation; one was indeed a hired killer, and the other was just another in a long line of corrupt businessmen. What was disturbing was both these men were connected to Camulos, and through Camulos to Shawn.

It was clear Camulos wasn't finished with Shawn, and by the look of the two men on his tail Shawn's life was still in some danger. Kim made the decision he'd knock off the killer, and collect the businessman; a little well applied pain was certain to reap all the information he wanted. Who knew, considered Kim, something big might be in the offing?

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Irene kept close watch on Susan. She didn't like was she was seeing. The demure young damsel was dressing and behaving more and more like the tramps going in and out of hotel office complex. She was afraid Susan was moving too quickly; moving too rapidly into the role Camulos expected of her; the result might not be favorable.

Meanwhile Irene kept her own mother as well informed as possible. At some time soon she, the baby, Susan, and her mother were bound to go north. When the time came Irene had to have everything in place.

The First Dinner Party:

The elevator took Susan up to the floors where she knew the all too familiar offices were, but instead of getting off at the same gloomy level she was disgorged in a brightly lit receiving area. A tarty looking hostess obtained her shawl, while a smartly dressed man directed her into the main chamber.

It was in poor taste to describe the young hostess's attire as tarty. She was terribly young and was only wearing what was expected of her, but it did still look a shade on the tacky side; with a thinly woven, tightly fitting white silk blouse, its deeply plunging frilly neckline tightly shirred in a way that emphasized her small but prominent breasts.

Susan couldn't say much for the girl's extremely short black skirt either. It was way too skimpy, and there was nothing to conceal her bright white frilly panties and thigh high stockings with their accompanying high heeled black patent leather shoes.

Her hair was tied up in two tight pig tails held in place with somewhat overlarge red ribbons tied off in small but prominent bows at just about ear level. The hostess looked much too youthful but still very pretty.

Susan wondered if someone might try to take advantage of the girl sometime during the evening. They probably would, and Susan thought that was too bad, since she was sure the girl was under age.

The man, dare she say butler, who directed her to the main chamber was certainly well dressed in a black two piece suit, but otherwise his appearance was very disquieting. He may have been someone assigned a butler's duties, but he clearly wasn't a butler; a servant certainly, but one more likely to yoke and strangle or perhaps plunge a stiletto into someone's throat. He was absolutely polite and deferential, but she got the impression he was only polite and deferential until someone ordered him to be brutal and murderous.

The proof of his actual responsibilities she thought were more in the size and shape of his hands, and in the ill concealed calculating stare that followed her around the room. No he wasn't a real butler, not by a long shot.

The setting was sumptuous if a little garish. Arranged as a buffet, there was too much food, but it all looked appetizing. There was roast beef, Beluga caviar, crab dip, oysters on the half shell, and the delicious and omnipresent crab cakes always found in this city.

A small band was playing softly in the corner; only six musicians, but they made some delightful music. She especially liked the gentle melodious sounds of some of the older Broadway tunes.

As far as alcohol was concerned; she'd never seen so much in one place at any one time. There must have been two dozen bottles of different kinds of wine; all expensive, and she was sure all tasteful. As for the really good stuff there was the usual Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, and other hard liquors she didn't care for like types of Scotch, Gin, and Vodka. There were three quarter kegs of beer, one domestic, one clearly European, and one quarter of Guinness.

She was a Jim Beam person, but on occasion she'd settle for the bitterer Jack Daniels. None of the other stuff interested her.

The room was well lighted, and she could see it was set out with some very expensive furniture. Beautiful, but mostly stuff she thought a little heavy, that would be to say too bulky, for her tastes.

Simpering around the room were four young women dressed in much the same costume as the girl who first greeted her. If there were whore ingénues, these girls fit the bill.

The party; if one had the nerve to call it that, included eight women, counting herself, and close to twenty men. It looked like only seven of the men were what she'd consider legitimate male guests; the rest appeared to be bodyguards or some other kind of atypical creature.

Regardless of what she thought of them, most of the rank and file paid little attention to her except perhaps as some slice of meat they might like to carve up. She, like the other women, was certainly considered nothing more than just several pieces of ass to be ignored, scorned, or perhaps used later. Excepting for the remote possibility of being used, that was fine with her; none of them had anything she was interested in.

The women were a largely uninteresting lot. They were all overdressed, and dressed in outfits that revealed too much skin. They all looked like cheap whores. Thinking about it; she realized she fit right in.

There was the group of seven men, that was Camulos and the six others, who got her attention. Camulos was, by far, the most sinister of the group, but a couple more had that same predatory look. To her surprise she figured at least three looked completely out of place.

Something was up. She could tell. Just what it was she deduced was her primary objective. She squirmed in with the seven central figures, and using Camulos's good graces, finagled introductions. She recognized none of the names, but tried to memorize their faces; At least one looked vaguely familiar.

For nearly an hour the seven men, tolerating her, talked about nothing in particular. Then, as if after someone gave a signal, they all stepped from the main area to a side room. Camulos allowed her to come along, but stealthily warned her to keep her mouth shut. He said, he'd ask her for opinions when everything was done. She nodded her understanding. None of the men seemed concerned that she was allowed admittance.

The men all sat around a large oaken table. For the first time she noticed all seven men had been accompanied by one other man; bodyguards she presumed. These additional men all took up positions as if each was standing behind their particular sovereign. The key figures all sat down; Camulos provided her a chair beside and a little behind his. This was a stunning turn of events. She had no clue what was about to happen, and she certainly had never had anything to do with any of the men present before.

Camulos opened the discussions by making direct reference to Susan, "This is my girl. It's been through her all the paperwork's been completed. She answers only to me, and to the law if she gets caught." He looked over at her, "She won't get caught."

One of the other six asked, "You mean no one in this room but her is mentioned?"

Camulos grinned, "What ever we decide to do tonight will be handled by us, but everything will carry her signature." He guffawed, "You might say she's our bottom line, our insurance policy."

Susan understood why she was there. Todd had told her she'd signed things, things that might not be legal. Whatever these men were all up to, she was their fall guy. If things went south, she would go south with it. None of them, regardless of what it was would be implicated. Susan wanted to cry, cuss, scream out her anger, but she kept her head.

Susan did make one remark, "My neck may be on the block, but the way things are arranged, if I do get caught, I'll get off lightly, and if things work out I'll be very rich, as rich as all of you."

Her comment was met by a wall of blank faces. She took a chance, thinking she sort of recognized one of the swarthier looking men. She added, "So don't cry for me Argentina."

The man she looked at blinked. She knew who he was, and he knew too!

The other men all cast surreptitious looks at her target, and then glanced back at her. Susan wondered if she'd made a mistake, or of she'd done the right thing. If they thought she knew more than they'd been led to believe would they kill her, or would they treated her more carefully?

The answer to that question came quickly. One of the other men spoke, "Don't worry Susan Slattery. If anything goes wrong you'll be the first to know."

Susan was afraid, and she had every right to be. These were all dangerous men, even the ones who didn't look dangerous. The threat the man made was real, but she also recognized the conditionality of the threat. If she didn't screw up she stayed alive.

With her out of the way the men went about debating the odds and ends of their plans. As they talked she pretended to understand. She did understand, and that was what really scared her.

The plans these men were making didn't involve narcotics, though narcotics were mentioned, there was a lot of illegal, unlaundered, money, that had to be scrubbed, and there were certain foreign dignitaries who needed to be coddled. None of that scared her.

What terrified her was the content of the primary deals. Someone had gotten their hands on an old disgruntled Soviet nuclear physicist, and somewhere someone had a stockpile of heavy water, and another one of these people had gotten his hands on some uranium 235.

Sure uranium 232 hearkened back to 1945 and guys like Robert Oppenheimer, and Enrico Fermi, but even primitive stuff like that had killed a quarter million people.

She remembered reading John Hersey's book about Hiroshima in high school.

These men were discussing the sale and delivery of nuclear weapons, not stolen from some old Soviet arsenal, or something manufactured by some legitimate, attackable, renegade state, they were in a position to make and sell weapons of mass destruction, privately and secretly manufactured. If they could make the stuff, they could sell it to anyone! The money they'd make would be unbelievable, the costs could be astronomical!

While the men at the table bantered about words like photons, isotopes, and radiation around as though they were ping pong balls; Susan reflected on something else she'd once heard. The old German rocket scientist Werner Von Braun was once alleged to have said something about his V-1 and V-2 rockets that had killed so many innocent people in World War Two. What had he said? 'Once the rockets are up, who cares where they come down? That's not my department.'

As Susan sat there at the table; she understood the importance of what she heard. She understood why CID was interested, why Sam Houston knew he had to use her, why Shawn had to stay away. If a street thug like Camulos got something like this? She couldn't consider the consequences. She needed to get out of the meeting, find Mark Miller, or get him to find her; they had to shut this terrible thing down.

Back in New York:

Kim had seen enough. He had to take direct action. Shawn had just left another late night party. He had Shai and Kia on his arms. A block away the two men were skulking around. Kim figured tonight either one or both of the stalkers or Shawn would die.

Kim left Shawn and dropped south. Creeping up behind the two men he pulled out a stiletto. Swiftly, like a cobra, he moved. In a split second the knife was under one of the men's chins, through his mouth, beyond his sinuses, and deep in his brain.

It happened so fast Myron never knew what hit him. He was down and dead, blood spewing out on the dark recently rain soaked sidewalk.

Kim moved decisively. He thrust the base of his hand under the other mans chin while his right leg curled around the other man's legs. Todd Bitterman was down, staring into the blazing brown eyes of a ROK agent, an agent with a bloodied knife already inching its way into his chin.

Kim whispered, "Don't say a word. Get up, and walk with me into the alley."

Bitterman's pants were soaked with fresh urine. He looked over at the lifeless body of his would be fellow assassin. He vomited. Then with the help of the stranger with the knife he made his way into the alley.

Kim thrust him against a wall, drew his right arm into a half nelson and whispered again, "If you value your life you will do exactly as I say." He hesitated, "Do you understand?"

Bitterman nodded in understanding.

Kim continued, "Walk down the alley, make a left, and walk to the nearest hotel. Smile when you enter the lobby. I'll make a comment, and then together we're going upstairs. Understand?"

Bitterman nodded again, but added, "Please don't kill me. I'm not like the other guy."

Kim whispered harshly, "You're not like the other guy because I haven't killed you. If you want to stay, not like the other guy, keep doing what I say."

Bitterman was crying, "Please, I don't want to die."

Kim whipped him around and shook him, "I've just saved your life. You think he was going to let you live after you killed McClellan?"

Bitterman looked surprised, "You. You know?"

Kim smiled, "Todd Bitterman, one time employee of Oscar Camulos, I'm your guardian angel. Now turn around and start walking."

Todd was still scared shit-less, but somehow he felt better. He followed Kim's directions, and shortly they were in a private room, in a nice quiet Manhattan hotel.

For a few brief seconds Kim thought he'd have to apply some pressure on Bitterman, but the other man was so grateful not to be dead he willingly told Kim everything he knew. In a few minutes, though he didn't know what the specifics of the sales meetings were about, Kim got the whole deal on Susan, Camulos, and the others.

Kim placated Bitterman with a nice chemical cocktail, and six yards of rope; he called his people, and left word where they could obtain the package. He had Bitterman's cell phone. He leaned back against the wall. Maybe later tonight he'd make a phone call. It would be fun letting Camulos know McClellan was still alive, and that his people were out of circulation.

But at the moment he had to find Shawn. Having been in touch with his own people he'd been fully apprised of the situation with Camulos and where Susan fit, or more likely didn't fit, in the picture. Kim knew he shouldn't, but he wanted to let Shawn in on what was happening. Of course it was contrary to his convictions, his training, and his better judgment, but if anything happened to Susan and Shawn was left out of any effort to help her it would be too unbearable to accept.