Shock

Chapter one

Waking up was not the best moment in my life, I really thought my eyeballs would melt in the intensity of the light they encountered when my eyelids opened. I shut them hastily.

The movement I sensed as they closed meant that someone had been watching me at the time. There was a rustle of cloth and a warm feminine voice said quietly, I see you are back with us, Mr Ross.

I tried moving my lips and managed a sound of sorts.

I then realised that a straw was being pushed between my lips, and the flow of pure nectar was lubricating the working parts of my speech apparatus.

I pushed the straw out with my now-mobile tongue and croaked, Thanks,

Sleep now. The voice instructed, and so I did as I was told.

***

When I awoke the room was semi-dark, no blazing lights. No visible attendants.

I thought too soon. The door opened letting in extra light from the corridor. Through my half-closed eyes I noticed the man who entered. Though he wore a white coat he was not a hospital employee. They do not carry a hunting knife in their hand to bring treatment to a patient. A voice came from the corner of the room behind my head. I realised it was the woman who had been there when I first woke.

Wrong move, Iverson! Only hospital cutlery allowed.

The intruder laughed, Wrong time, wrong place, Lucy. I get two for the price of one.He was moving forward as he spoke and the knife was headed for my chest when a baseball bat hit his fore arm, the bones broke. I watched the arm fold around the shaft of the bat the fingers unclosing, and the knife drop out of sight floorward.

The smile turned to a grimace as the man’s other hand lifted a Glock automatic from his belt, fumbling to release the safety one-handed.

On the return swing the bat contacted the back of the intruder’s head with a soggy thud. His head hit the pillow beside me, his staring eyes blazing into mine. Then his lights went out. The head followed the body to the floor out of my sight.

I realised that the lady behind me had dropped the bat when I heard the clatter as it hit the floor. Then I felt the weight of her body sitting on the edge of the bed.

A shaky, but still sexy, voice asked, Are you OK?

I managed a nod and, Yes. Thanks to you, and the baseball bat.

He should not have managed to get in here. She stood and came round the bed to where I could see her. Stooping, she picked up the Glock where the intruder had dropped it. Cocking it she went to the door and cautiously peered out. Then she stepped through letting the door swing shut.

When Lucy returned she was accompanied by dapper man in three piece suit with blue tie, carrying a gabardine raincoat and a trilby hat.

People had been in already to remove the body of the intruder. The soggy head strike of the baseball bat had been decisive—and final—for Mr Iverson, the would-be assassin.

Mr White, the dapper man, spoke in a cultured voice. Mr Harry Ross, you appear to have become involved in a matter of national importance, perhaps inadvertently, but nonetheless, involved. While you are under investigation you will be kept in a safe house where you can be protected. If you are cleared you may be released to carry on your own life—though I warn you now, that the attempt on your life indicates that the opposition do not regard you as free and clear.

Whilst I had been awake, I established that I had been injured in my left shoulder and my right leg and, though both wounds stung, neither was life threatening. My immobility in bed was largely due to the bedclothes, tightly tucked in to keep me from thrashing about.

I was able to release my body from the constraints of the bedclothes and venture on shaky legs, gingerly over to the cabinet where I guessed my clothes were stored. The blood had dried on the tear in the jacket and holes in the right leg of my pants were not as obvious as anticipated.

Removing the drip was no problem. I found a plaster in the small medical tray left by the nurse which allowed me to cover the needle site on the back of my hand where the drip had been inserted.

Dressed in my own clothes once more, I rested briefly on the bed before I set off for the outside world. In the corridor I encountered Lucy, who attempted to persuade me to stay and wait for the escort provided by Mr White.

If you insist on leaving, I suggest you take this with you. She produced the Glock automatic from the drawer in her station in the corridor.

I took the gun and checked the safety was on, then slipped it into the waistband in the small of my back. Thanks, Lucy. I’ll call you and let you know how I get on. If Mr White asks, tell him you tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t listen,

She smiled, passed over her card with her cell number and a landline. If a man answers come and get me. I live alone, and I am unattached.

I read the card. Lucy Woods, Registered Nurse. The address was in the village. I guessed a walk-up. I looked her in the eyes. They were serious and blue. I realised I was having a meaningful reaction to Lucy Woods. I managed, Thanks for everything, and left.

***

The battered Mustang was parked where I had left it, when I had set out on foot the previous night. It started instantly. The deep rumble of the engine belied the scruffy-looking exterior. With a sigh, I settled into the form-fitting seat and eased away from the kerb.

I was away from the parking area and well downtown before I spotted the car following me. It was a black Lincoln, not agency issue. Ford Crown Victoria’s were the standard for FBI and most of the police services. Secret Service tended to use the Galaxy SUV’s.

I was aware, and that was the main thing. I would not allow myself to get carried away with worry over the trailing car, but I would also need to keep it at a distance. At least until I knew a little more about the reason for the attack on my person. I was interested in the preoccupation of Mr White, who wished to keep me under wraps, ‘For my own protection,’ while they cleared the field of whatever mischief his department was involved in. He had not divulged which department. The alphabet soup of security organisations proliferating in the central Government meant he could be from anywhere. I was left to guess that he would either be FBI or NSA. Since he did not fit the image of the FBI, I favoured the NSA or perhaps even a moonlighting CIA operative. I had not asked for a badge when he introduced himself, nor had he volunteered his background.

I managed to beat a red light and turned off my route home to Toni’s garage, which lay beneath the arches of the El’. There was space for me to slip the Mustang into the stack car-parking elevator which rose as soon as the four wheels located on the tray. The voice-box beside the door clicked on, and the nasal tones of Slim Carlucci enquired if I required anything.

Hide the Mustang and find me some wheels, Slim. I’m making too many friends, and I could do with a little privacy.

Sure thing, Mr Ross. There’s a navy blue Cutlass on floor six. The keys are in it. Toni .keeps it for emergencies. I’ll let her know.

Thanks, Slim. I’ll leave the keys with the Mustang. I tucked a twenty dollar bill into the key-ring before I left the car. In the elevator, I punched the button for the sixth floor, and found my ride as directed. I have a thing for muscle-cars. It wasn’t a Mustang, but it would do until I could use my own car again.

I tooled the growling Oldsmobile out of the garage and drifted back onto the main drag. The car felt eager to go, but I held back, hoping to spot my follower. I had no luck, so I made my way to the Bronx, and pulled over and parked where I knew I could use my I-pad without a problem.

Chapter two

GG’s was one of the many restaurants in the area. The place was protected by the local mob, though only because the owner was related to the local Capo. It was old fashioned. Giorgio Giacometti, the patrono, allowed no drugs, numbers, or other mob activities within his walls. The family-run establishment was known to a select group of people who enjoyed fine country food from the south west of Italy. Members of the family, two daughters and a son, served at table and, one day each week, took over the cooking while Mama and Papa went to Coney Island in the summer, or in winter their cottage on Long Island. They had been married there in 1947, after Giorgio returned from his army service.

How did I come into this small haven of civilisation?

I had stood and defied the DA when he decided that Pietro Giacometti, Giorgio’s son, was the perfect subject for a murder rap. This was despite evidence to the contrary.

The DA was ambitious. By concealing the proof of the boy’s innocence, he could close the case, and his career would climax in the next mayoral campaign.

I had been lucky. Despite the efforts of the DA, I was able to reveal the hidden evidence and prove the DA had deliberately tried to conceal it. I made a lifelong enemy of Mark Archer, the deposed DA, and lifelong friends with the Giacometti family.

I am a consultant, at least that’s what my business card says. I was born rich and attended the right schools and obtained a law degree from Harvard, but I did not stay a lawyer. I had interned at a major law partnership during my training and swiftly realised that it was not for me.

My father was disappointed. My mother smiled sweetly and said, Take a little time and decide later. So I took her advice, left my home in Boston and settled for a life in the Army.

After six years in the Army, as a Delta Lieutenant, I was injured in a raid in West Africa, lost a little weight, gained a few new skills, and was no longer permitted to continue as a Delta officer. So I resigned.

A meeting with Pietro Giacometti occurred, and as a result, I became a consultant.

***

That was two years ago and history. I am now in GG’s with a coffee mug beside me, I-pad in operation, researching possible reasons for the recent attack. I had an office upstairs above the restaurant, but mostly I worked downstairs where people could see me, and I could see them. If the restaurant was busy, I worked upstairs.

I rang a contact at the FBI, to see what he could tell me about Mr White. I was not surprised that there was nothing he could help with. The name was obviously a cover. In these days anyone could buy an authentic-looking badge and warrant card from any toy store. I shrugged. He would show up again. People like that always did.

My client had asked me to find out about a company her husband had become involved with. She was concerned because he was showing signs of serious stress, which was affecting their home life. It was the reason I was in place to get shot at. It was also my main concern, as I looked for any information on line, which I may have missed when I did my initial enquiry.

Giorgio came across the room carrying a mug of coffee, You have been hurt, my friend?

I shrugged and regretted it, as the wound in my arm twinged the stitches pulled. Some guys doing a random shoot out. I got in the way.

You saying it were accidental? Giorgio’s accent was only faintly Italian these days. I noticed it got stronger when he was dealing with customers.

Probably. Who knows? One minute I am talking to this guy. The next he is on the pavement with his head spread out in bits. The guns keep firing and I’m down there with him, using his body to cover me. I hauled out my gun and blasted off in the general direction of the shooter. Then nothing, I woke up in hospital.

Who were you talking to? He paused. Perhaps he knew something he shouldn’t talk about and someone was making sure he kept his mouth shut. You would go on the list if they think he might have told you.

I thought about this. It had occurred to me, but the man I had been talking to was a complete stranger. I was asking him for directions.

I shrugged and said, The only reason I know the guy’s name is because Mr White mentioned it in hospital. So I see two options: jump a jet to LA and hit the beach: Or find out who the guy really is and why anyone wanted to waste him, and subsequently me. That way I can maybe, stop looking over my shoulder, and get on with my life.

You need a hand, call me. Giorgio stood up to return to his kitchen. Call me! He repeated, as he disappeared through the kitchen door.

For a brief moment I wondered how Giorgio, who was in his sixties at least, was able to help me. Then I remembered who his brother was, and decided perhaps he could help me more than I realised.

The two men who came into the restaurant while I was still sitting drinking coffee were blueprints of Agency men. The grey suit, white shirt and dark tie, with black oxford shoes, were a dead giveaway. They had the purposeful look of men with a mission and their focus was on me. Which was unfortunate, because right behind them two Armani-clad heavies stepped in. They grabbed the pair. A short discussion was followed by their enforced departure.

I watched the incident with interest. The intruders had produced badges. Their evictors showed no interest. All four left. I was working my I-Pad when one of the Armani men returned.

My apologies, Mr Ross. Those guys were NSA. They wanted to chat, they said. I told them you were not to be disturbed, so they said they would call when you were not so busy. My advice would be to use that gun if they show up again. They are removal specialists.

Thank you, sir. I appreciate the heads-up.

He nodded and left the premises.

I sat back. It seemed that Lucy’s instincts were correct. I really would need to watch my step from now on.

Thinking of Lucy, I pulled her card from my pocket, I guessed she would be off duty now so I rang her cell number.

She answered.

Harry Ross. I said.

Hi, Harry. What’s up?

I was getting hungry and wondered if you were interested in joining me for dinner?

Where would you be if I said yes?

Outside your door in 30 minutes in a dark blue Cutlass.

Look for me. I’ll wear a red dress.

She chuckled as she rang off. I thought, this woman is my sort of people! I gathered up my gear, paid my tab and, waving farewell to Giorgio, went to meet Lucy.

The village is full of little places, lots of quiet spots and plenty of outlets for the wide variety of ‘artistic’ talent living in the area.

Lucy had a favourite spot. It buzzed with quiet chat, and hungry people. Nobody bothered with anyone beyond the rim of the table edge. The dim flicker of candlelight made reading difficult, but only if you were interested in reading. The clientele knew the menu off by heart, so why bother trying to read. Newcomers took their chances with the recommendation of the waiter, or took one look through the door and left. Their loss!

We enjoyed a murmured conversation, getting to know each other without pressure. I realised that the food in front of me deserved attention. The lengthened silent periods were a sign of our mutual appreciation of the genius of the chef.

Between the main course and the dessert, we spoke. But it has to be said, there was more unspoken between us than expressed in words. When we left the restaurant we walked back to her apartment. I found that her hand connected and gripped mine quite naturally and, once the connection was made, it stayed that way to her door.

Her apartment was above a dress shop. We parted at the door. Well, we kissed and parted at the door. She had an early shift, and I had things to do. There would be time.

***

Mr White was not happy. He was in the office they were using for the current project. The report on Harry Ross was that ‘there was no report on Harry Ross’. The reason? Harry had dropped off the grid, despite the fact that this operation involved the most skilled agents from the three top agencies.

Mr White, in real life Alfred Simmons, was Agent-in-charge of the dedicated team known as Paragon. Set up to deal with threats to the nation, specifically identifying those involving the President Martin Desmond and his family. The current enquiry involved the person shot whilst meeting with Harry Ross.

While the actual importance of the man had not been established, the fact that he was killed whilst talking with Ross, suggested that he was regarded as more than just a foot-soldier, in whatever scheme was underway.

Harry Ross’s failure to come up with any feedback on the man was irritating, and Simmons was inclined to believe that Ross was holding something back. The problem with dealing with someone like Ross was that he had a wide circle of friends. He was former Special Forces, and he had retired as a result of injury. His legal training had been of use in deposing Mark Archer, the corrupt DA. The case had not highlighted any fault on the part of Ross. On the contrary, his conduct had been demonstrably correct, but it had caused a few skeletons to rattle in the upper reaches of law enforcement, making life uncom-fortable for the young lawyer/investigator.

He had dropped off the radar. That was until recently. The case involving the Giacometti boy had brought him into the spotlight. It seemed now he was once more doomed to upset the establishment, this time at a level, way higher than that of the former DA, Mark Archer, which was where Albert Simmons/Mr White became involved.

Simmons smiled as he thought of that aspect of things. It certainly made it clear that if you are going to abuse public office, it is better to remember, even if you think you have got away with it, that the chances are there was someone looking over your shoulder you had not taken into account.

Chapter three

I woke in my own bed and for a moment just lay there checking my body for aches and pains. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, apart that is from the plasters covering the stitches at shoulder and leg, I rolled out of bed and stretched. Then, after a visit to the shower, I poured cornflakes into a bowl, added milk and wondered, as I crunched my way through them, what my mother would say. She had always insisted that cereal was good for me, whilst I fought for toasted pop tarts, and called for pancakes and bacon. Now I enjoyed cereal. I sighed, Mom would be proud. I switched on the TV. Car chases, shootings, same old stories. I flipped channels and stopped when I reached ‘Lovejoy’.

The imported program was a favourite. The attitude of the rogue antique dealer was one that amused me. Certainly, I admired his ability to evade the consequences of some of his more dubious actions.

The phone rang as the program ended. I switched off and picked up the handset.

A female voice said, Harry Ross?

That’s what they call me. I answered flippantly.

The called hesitated a moment, then spoke, the voice was feminine and breathless. I’m Robert Bayliss’s sister.

Sorry. Robert Bayliss. I don’t recall anyone of that name...?

She broke in, He was shot when he spoke to you.

I made the connection. Oh, right. I’m sorry I was not told his name and we didn’t get that far in our conversation. I suddenly realised how unfeeling that was since I was talking to the dead man’s sister. Sorry about that. I said again.

Can I see you, please? You could be in serious danger. She had control of her breathing now, sounded calmer.

Sure. Where would you like to meet? I guessed my office would not be on the list. I was right.

How about the cafe in Central Park, at the Park Avenue side. Maybe lunch time?

Okay, how will I know you?

I will know you. I saw your picture when you helped that Italian boy with the DA.

Right. 12:30. Cafe in the park. I’ll be there.

I put the phone down and sat back. Contrary to popular belief I did not stick my neck out for the hell of it. I thought for a few minutes, running through the people I knew who might be of use as back-up in a tight corner. I used the phone and spoke to Pauly O’Brian. I found him at the second try. Pauly, what are you doing today?

The Irish lilt in his voice was responsible for the destruction of many a colleen’s defences, but to me it was just a ‘Mick’ accent.

Mr Ross, what a pleasure to hear your voice after all this time. I understood you were in hospital.

Rumours, Pauly. Just rumours. I need backup for a meeting at the cafe in the Park. Are you available?

For you, Mr Ross, I’m always available. What time do we go? Together, or do I follow you in?

12:15. Follow me in. I’m meeting a young lady, but there are one or two people about who are not very friendly. So bring your friend with you, just in case.

That I will, sir. That I will. You will see my Peugeot in the car park there. You’ll know I am about with my eyes open.

Good. The usual rates. I put the phone down gently and stepped over to the window. I kept out of the direct line of sight. If you wonder why I did this, it is because I am thirty-two years old. I reached that milestone by being careful and following my instincts, something was telling me that there was company about which I did not really wish to meet at this time. I still had no idea what I was involved with. In this case I decided I should be aware of the reason and the stakes, before I got too acquainted with whoever was targeting me.

The guy who was in the street worried me. He was so not dressed for this sort of stake-out. The suit was just too upright, if you know what I mean. In this area people dressed in decent clothing, but Brooks Brothers or Armani meant FBI or the Mob. The guy was like a sore thumb. My guess was Mr White had something to do with it.

I left the apartment through the garage, the Cutlass being still unidentified. I passed the watcher without him realising I was gone.

I parked the car in the parking area, opposite the Peugeot that I recognized as Pauly’s.

As I walked over to the cafe with its scatter of open-air tables I made no attempt to locate my back-up’s position. In this