In The Protection Of (A Thriller)

Prologue

Chapters 1-77

Author Bio

Author Notes

Prologue

June 14, 1999—Baltimore, MD (AP)—The Secret Service rushed President McIntyre to Johns Hopkins University Hospital after he was shot earlier this morning while arriving at a hotel in Baltimore. Surgeons operated and removed a bullet from his thigh.

Late this afternoon, Dr. Kevin Allen, Chief of Emergency Surgery, stated the president was in stable condition, conscious and alert.

The president lost blood. There is tissue and muscle damage, but we anticipate his injuries will heal over the next few weeks and he should be up on his feet in no time. We expect a full recovery.

June 15, 1999—Washington Post—Richard Heyward of the Secret Service had the grim task yesterday of informing Mrs. Constance that her husband, Julian Constance, died during the assassination attempt on the president in Baltimore.

It was the toughest day of my life, Agent Heyward said. I’ve worked with him for a long time. He’s going to be missed.

Florence Mangio read a statement from her sister on the front lawn of the family’s home, I will miss Jules. He was my only love. I ask everybody to pray for peace and understanding.

A large number of friends and family gathered at the Constance home in Virginia to comfort Mrs. Constance, her three teenaged boys and an infant daughter.

June 15, 1999—Washington, D.C. (Reuters)—Members of Congress and the Senate raised concerns about the Secret Service a day after the assassination attempt on President McIntyre. Senator Mitchell Slater of West Virginia questioned their effectiveness when he asked, How can a lone gunman fire two shots at the most protected man in the world?

The Secret Service’s only response to date has been on the status of their agents and their assurances every effort would be put in place to avoid such incidences in the future.

June 15, 1999—Washington, D.C. (AP)—The FBI charged Arthur Cowlings in connection with the assassination attempt on President McIntyre. The shooting yesterday in Baltimore resulted in the death of Secret Service Agent Julian Constance and severe injuries to the president and a second agent.

Police found Mr. Cowlings in an office building across from the hotel where the shooting took place. According to informed sources, witnesses saw Mr. Cowlings leave a vacant office where police discovered a high-powered rifle. They believe it was used in the shooting.

June 16, 1999—Baltimore, MD (NY Times)—Special Agent Emerson Black of the Secret Service is recovering in hospital after surgery following the assassination attempt on President McIntyre. Surgeons at Johns Hopkins University Hospital indicated a bullet entered his abdomen and exited along his spinal cord. It is believed the bullet exited Agent Black and struck the president. This account is consistent with witnesses at the scene who said they heard two shots.

Agent Black is in critical, but stable condition. While he suffered life-threatening injuries, doctors say his chances of survival are good. They cautioned Mr. Black experienced significant damage to his spinal cord and believe he may never walk again.

June 17, 1999—West High, Virginia (AP)—In a sombre ceremony today, family, friends, government officials and law enforcement officers from across North America laid Secret Service Agent Julian Constance to rest. Agent Constance was killed four days ago while protecting President McIntyre in Baltimore.

Vice president Walters spoke at the Holy Family Catholic Church in Dale City, Virginia, where he said, Jules was a great American. He loved his country, his fellow agents, and he especially loved his family.

June 23, 1999—Baltimore, MD (AP)—Lawyers for Arthur Cowlings announced today they will accept a plea agreement with the government. According to informed sources, Mr. Cowlings will plead guilty to all charges, including murder in the death of Agent Constance. In return, the accused will receive a life sentence with no chance of parole and avoid the death penalty.

July 28, 1999—Baltimore, MD (Reuters)—Under a bright sun and clear sky, Special Agent Emerson Black of the Secret Service left Johns Hopkins University Hospital. Agent Black had been in hospital since the shooting of President McIntyre on June 14th. The shooting has left him paralyzed from the waist down.

Accompanied by his wife and two grown children, Mr. Black left the hospital to a throng of media and well-wishers.

I spent July 4th cooped up in the hospital. Today is my Fourth of July, my day to celebrate.

September 14, 1999—Baltimore, MD (AP)—Arthur Cowlings pleaded guilty in federal court today for his role in the killing of Secret Service Agent Julian Constance and the attempted assassination of President McIntyre. Judge Tucker sentenced Mr. Cowlings to life in prison with no chance of parole. The admission of guilt and life sentence were part of a plea agreement between Mr. Cowlings and the office of the U.S. Attorney.

Judge Tucker had delayed the proceedings for three weeks to allow for a full psychological analysis of Mr. Cowlings. Three psychiatrists testified Mr. Cowlings suffered from paranoia and anti-social behaviour, but concluded he was not insane and fit for trial.

Renowned defense attorney Stewart Dent speaking after the trial said, My client continues to be uncommunicative and incoherent. I believe he is mentally ill and needs help.

Chapter One

Sunday, October 17, 2004

Washington, D.C.

He tried for the third time and saw the same results—there was no money in the account. On many occasions, Baird Carr logged into the bank’s web site to view the transactions in his company’s bank account. He could view the current balance and all the transactions of the last six months, but unlike those times, the computer showed no money in the account this evening. It was gone.

Carr had returned from Switzerland to his red-brick townhouse in Georgetown earlier in the evening. He had spent last week at a conference in Geneva and the week before in Spain. The conference was work and focused on security in the face of terrorism. His week in Spain was a vacation—a chance to sample Rioja and Cava wines.

Each day while he was away, he called into the office in Washington, D.C. to get an update on operations. The financial aspects of the business weren’t part of the conversation.

He printed out the list of transactions in the account for the month of October. The balance at the end of Friday was nil. Before then, everything was as he expected—an account balance close to fifty thousand and cheques clearing the account. It was the last three transactions that focused Carr’s interest.

At the start of Friday, the account balance was $47,787.12. The balance increased to $2,402,222.47 with a deposit, followed by a service charge of $45 and finally the account was cleared out with a debit of $2,402,177.47.

Two point four million gone with one line. Carr didn’t want to believe it.

He knew where the money came from. It came from the t-bills the company held—t-bills that were now cashed and gone.

He didn’t have to look at his watch to know it was close to midnight and know there was no one at the bank he could call. If he wanted answers from them, it would have to wait until morning. In the meantime, Carr couldn’t imagine a situation where the bank would cash the t-bills and transfer the funds without some sort of authorization from him and Black. It was inconceivable.

He knew he didn’t authorize the transaction. He was certain of it and he was certain it would require his authorization along with Black’s.

Emerson Black was a fifty percent owner of Black Carr Security Consultants Limited—a private company they started in 1999. Carr held the other fifty percent. They had a shareholder agreement that required both of their signatures to authorize a bank transaction.

He wasn’t worried about calling Black at this time of night. He picked up the phone and punched in the numbers from memory. He heard the first ring.

He heard the second and third rings. Carr had dialled Black’s home in Virginia. He heard the fourth ring and the phone switched to voice-mail. Carr left a brief message, Call me when you get this.

Black had been at the conference with Carr. They arrived at the same time and spent three days together in Geneva. With two days left, Black boarded a plane and returned to his home in Virginia.

Carr dialled Black’s cell phone and got a message that the phone was out of range. His last option was to call Black’s cottage. The cottage phone kept ringing. He let it ring fifteen times before ending the call.

Where are you?

He should be at home. There was no reason why he wouldn’t be at home.

Two point four million gone.

Chapter Two

Sunday, October 17, 2004

Falls Church, Virginia

Black watched him adjust the latex gloves on his hands. The right glove covered a tattoo on his hand just above his thumb—a red and blue five-point star. It was a tattoo Black had seen many times—just like the pistol. He knew there was one and there it came from a holster under his jacket.

Black swung his eyes away from his visitor and stared at the panic box.

You can forget about it, the visitor said.

The panic box was a small plastic box with two buttons—a white square button for medical emergencies and a red one for physical threats. There were also two small LED lights for each button, one green, the other red. The box sent a wireless signal through a satellite transponder in the house to the security company’s monitoring office. In turn, the security company would send an acknowledgment. The LEDs switched from red to green when the box received confirmation.

What makes you think I didn’t press it the minute you arrived?

Go ahead. Press it.

Emerson Black sat in his reading chair in the living room of his Virginia house, as he did on many evenings. He reached into the seat of his wheelchair beside him, grabbed the panic box and pressed the red button.

Black waited for a response. In the past, it took five seconds, never more than ten, to get a response. The LEDs stayed red. He rattled the box. Still red. A gloved hand entered his view and ripped the box away. The visitor waved it in front of Black’s face. Black swiped at the pistol. He felt clothing, but not the gun.

Nice try, the visitor said as he stepped back several paces. You’ll find your satellite dish needs some repairs.

He threw the box into the corner where it shattered into several pieces.

And that too.

Black lifted himself up with his arms, pushing his body back in the chair. His thin legs hadn’t moved on their own power in over five years, not since he took the bullet.

Buried between the seat cushion and the side of the chair was his wireless phone. He eased his fingers between his leg and the chair, and by touch, found the talk button and pressed it. He felt his way towards the redial button and pressed it.

The line connected and the faint sound of Hello rose from the chair.

We can go back to the way things were, Black said, I won’t tell anyone.

Hello, hello, then for the last time, Hello.

Black saw the visible effects of rising blood pressure—a red-flushed face, sweat, agitation.

With no response, the phone connection ended.

Believe me, it won’t be any different, Black said.

That’s where you’re wrong.

Chapter Three

Monday, October 18, 2004

Falls Church, Virginia

Camilla drove her ten-year old Honda Civic down the street to Black’s house. She was familiar with the scene in front of her, except today, as she looked to the end of the street, the garage door was wide open. That wasn’t right.

She arrived most mornings around seven, even when Black was out of town. The exceptions were weekends and vacations. Her job, first thing in the morning, was to help Black. She was part nurse, part maid. She was there to help Black put on clothes, if need be, and prepare breakfast. Afterwards she would clean and run errands. She enjoyed a job she thought of as easy and it didn’t hurt that she liked Mr. Black.

She knew Mrs. Black left last week to be with her daughter and new grandson. Helen wasn’t expected back for a couple of weeks.

Surely, Mr. Black hadn’t left? Not this early.

Despite having no power in his legs, Black could manage to go from his wheelchair to the driver’s seat of his truck. His wheelchair was lightweight and collapsed in seconds. The truck, modified with hand controls, made it possible for Black to get around on his own.

Black wasn’t the type to let two useless legs stop him, but leaving this early didn’t make sense to Camilla and leaving the garage door open was odd.

She stared at the empty space in the garage. Did she forget something he told her? No, he was going into the office today. She remembered him telling her.

Camilla positioned her car on the left side of the driveway, gathered her purse and carrying bag and proceeded to the side door. She located a separate set of keys for the house. As she moved to key the lock, she found the door open.

Mr. Black?

She pulled the screen door open and went inside. There were no sounds except the sounds she made.

She set down her bags and searched for any note Black may have left her. She didn’t find one. She wandered through the house.

Mr. Black?

Lights were on throughout the house, but there was no sign of Black. She opened the door to the bedroom and she knew something wasn’t right.

Chapter Four

Monday, October 18, 2004

Washington, D.C.

The disappearance of two point four million never ventured far from his attention. Carr arrived at the BCS office in Washington, D.C., minutes before seven in the morning. He was the first to arrive.

He wanted to check the bank account online. He entered his username and password on the bank’s login web page. He hoped it was all an administrative mistake—some sort of oversight. He hoped this morning the entries had been reversed and the two point four million was in the account.

But he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t log in. Each time he clicked on the login button, the web page came back with an invalid username or password error message. He had logged in hundreds of times before without any problems.

He tried his personal account and within a few seconds, he was on a page listing his accounts with the bank. There was no change in those balances from last night. No one had stolen his personal funds. If he could log into his personal account, he knew he should be able to log into the corporate account.

Even though it was early, he picked up the telephone to contact the bank. He wanted answers. He left a voice-mail message for his bank manager, George. This is Baird Carr at BCS calling. Last night I noticed some unusual transactions in the company’s current account. This morning I can’t even access the account online. Please call me at the office as soon as you get this message.

While Carr wanted to talk with the bank, he knew the best person to talk with was his business partner, Emerson Black. It was close to seven and he hadn’t heard from him.

He checked his voice-mail at his home. There were no messages. He scanned the display of the phone on his desk. There were no calls from Black. His cell phone was next and when he checked for messages, there were none. Black hadn’t called him.

Call me.

He had to speak to Black. He called Black’s house again and got voice-mail. He called his cell phone and heard the recorded message. The cottage number resulted in a long series of rings. He couldn’t reach Black.

He swivelled towards his computer, brought up his e-mail reader and composed an e-mail to Black. It was a simple message: Call me. URGENT!

Carr was used to being in touch with Black. Black was either next door in his office or a phone call away.

He tossed two simple facts around: two point four million was gone and he couldn’t access the corporate account online.

There was one plausible explanation. Black closed the account and set up a new account. It was possible. Maybe, the money was at another bank, a new bank account.

He rose from his chair and went into Black’s office. He thought he could find some sort of documentation, some sort of indication Black had opened a new account. He flipped on the light and found a familiar sight. The office was clean and organized. With a few minor touches, Black’s office could be a window display for an office furniture store. A large pile of mail had accumulated on the centre of his desk. Nowhere in the room could he find any indication of a new bank account or even a yellow sticky-note on the existing account. It looked as if Black had returned from Switzerland and hadn’t been to the office.

His next stop was Debra Paeytonne’s office across the hall. He keyed the lock and stepped into a small windowless office. Unlike Black’s office, Carr couldn’t see the top of her desk. It was covered with files, binders, letters, folders and just about anything else you might find in an office. Along the floor, she had arranged file after file in separate piles.

The well-worn folder on the middle of her desk caught his attention. At least twice a month Debra prepared all the cheques for Black and Carr to sign. It was the routine they followed.

Debra prepared and organized the cheques, along with the supporting documents, into this one folder. She sent it to Carr who reviewed the documents before signing. When he was satisfied the cheques were proper, he handed the folder to Black for the second signature. Black returned everything to Debra who mailed the cheques. Thousands of businesses implemented similar procedures. It was a way to ensure only valid invoices were paid.

Carr opened the invoice folder. On top was a one-page summary of the unpaid invoices. It listed the payee and the amount. On the bottom, the total read $112,764.55—an amount that included not only the unpaid invoices, but also the month-end payroll.

The amount was typical for BCS. At any other time, the cheques would be signed and mailed. There would be money in the account to cover it. Not today.

He noted the date on each cheque. They all had Friday’s date. Debra must have printed the cheques before the weekend. They looked familiar—drawn on the account BCS has used for years. There couldn’t be a new account.

Carr slammed the folder shut. He was about to toss it against the wall when he noticed Sarah standing in the doorway.

Getting your morning exercise?

He flung the folder on the desk and stormed across the hall to his office.

Sarah followed.

No good morning? Sarah asked.

Sarah was second-in-command at BCS. She was the first operational person hired for the business. Next to Carr and Black, she knew the most about the company. She knew what money came in and what money went out. She sent out billings to clients and made sure they were collected. She authorized expense reports for the BCS consultants and she knew the company had two point four million in t-bills.

One point seven million of the money came from a contingency fee they collected from an insurance company. The remaining amount was pre-tax earnings of the business. They kept the money in the company to pay upcoming income taxes and to smooth out the company’s cash flow.

Sarah received a three hundred thousand dollar bonus for her work on the insurance case. Money she used to pay off her mortgage, buy a new car and invest. Black and Carr had decided for tax reasons to keep the money in the business.

Do you want to tell me what’s going on?

Do I have a choice? Carr asked.

You are obviously upset about something.

She sat down on the chair in front of his desk. Carr stood near the corner with his eyes fixed on the window.

Do I have to guess? Sarah asked.

She waited for some sort of response. Carr was frozen, pensive.

She threw out possibilities. You met someone in Geneva? Jane wants more alimony?

Carr walked to his desk and picked up the computer printout. It was the printout he had made last night of the transactions in the company’s bank account.

Have a look at this.

Sarah took the pages and examined each line using her index finger as a pointer.

Is this the corporate account?

Carr nodded this head.

So where was this two point four million transferred to?

That’s what I’m trying to find out.

The money can’t just disappear. It has to be somewhere.

Yes, but where?

Sarah returned the sheet of paper to its spot on his desk. There has to be a logical explanation. What did Emerson say?

I can’t get a hold of him. I called, left messages, last night, this morning. I even sent an e-mail. I don’t know where he is.

Carr slumped down in his chair and finished the last mouthful of coffee.

By nine o’clock Emerson will roll in here like normal. He knows Emily Filden will be here today.

When did you talk to him last?

A couple of days ago when you two called from Geneva.

Nothing since?

Right.

And he hasn’t been in the office since he’s been back from Europe?

I haven’t seen him. I expected him back this morning.

Carr glanced at his computer screen to check for new e-mails and at his telephone for the flashing red light for voice mails.

Maybe he’s been resting, Sarah said.

Carr knew she could be right. Since the shooting, Black endured chronic pain. The pain was constant and intense. Flying and travelling aggravated it. When it got too bad, he had to rest for a day or two.

If he’s resting why haven’t I heard from him? Carr asked. If he’s resting, Camilla should have answered the phone.

It’s just after seven. She’s barely arrived.

You’re right, Carr said.

She was right. Camilla would just be arriving at the house or recently arrived.

He reached for his phone. Sarah took the cue and stood up to leave.

Don’t forget Mrs. Filden.

Mrs. Filden was the wife of Landon Filden—one of the wealthiest men in the United States. In the early eighties, he, along with Neil Walters, the current vice president of the United States, started a software company. Their sweat and determination resulted in a company with sales in excess of ten billion a year in over 120 countries. Filden and Walters became part of the elite class of the immensely wealthy and along with it came ego.

For Walters that meant power as the vice president. Now he wanted his boss’s job and he would spend whatever was required to get elected to the White House.

For Mrs. Filden that meant her daughter’s wedding would have everything required of a wealthy family—including a private security firm to oversee the event. BCS was a prime candidate for the job.

Sarah, I’m not meeting with her today.

She wants to meet you. She wants to meet Emerson. This is an important new client.

And that folder in Debra’s office contains cheques to be signed. One hundred and thirteen thousand dollars worth of cheques and there’s no money in the bank account.

The money will show up.

For all I know there are cheques that haven’t cleared and they’ll start bouncing.

So let me help.

Carr drew his hands towards his head and started to massage his scalp. He ran his hands through his curly brown hair several times.

You meet with Filden. I have to wait for the bank to open and get a hold of Black. They have the answers.

Carr placed the phone to his ear and dialled the number to Black’s home. Sarah left.

After the second ring, he heard Camilla’s voice.

Oh, Mr. Carr, it’s terrible.

Chapter Five

Monday, October 18, 2004

Dulles International Airport, Virginia

Last night and into the early morning, he drove Black’s SUV from Black’s house to a spot near his house in Maryland.

It took him several minutes to get used to the hand controls. The SUV was modified to allow Black to drive it with only his hands. It wasn’t natural for him to pull a lever to apply the brakes. The instinct to press the brake pedal with his foot was so great he almost went through the first stop sign he encountered. He had moved his foot to press the pedal and pushed on air until his foot hit the floor board.

He adjusted to the hand controls and drove the SUV with Black in the backseat and the wheelchair in the truck bed.

At his house, he carried Black to his wheelchair inside the garage and closed the garage doors. There was near blackness save for the light over the door to the house. He bound Black’s hands behind his back with handcuffs and attached them to the chair. Black’s mouth bulged with cheesecloth and was covered with two strips of duct tape. If there was any pain or discomfort from this position, Black didn’t feel it.

This morning, just before he left Black’s house, he gave Black another injection—an injection of a chemical that knocked Black out. Anaesthesiologists use it on patients for surgery. He couldn’t pronounce the name, even when looking at the label on the vial, but he knew how to use it. He knew it lasted four hours and the clock was ticking.

He got back into Black’s SUV and started for the airport.

Yesterday, he parked his truck at Dulles airport. He wanted to park it in the afternoon and pick it up this morning and couldn’t use the more convenient lot closest to