Psychological Damage (Gray Spear Society) Read online

  He looked around, hoping to find inspiration in his surroundings. There was a large shopping mall across the street, and it appeared pretty new. He wondered what the neighborhood had been like when the murder had taken place.

  "Clearly, the place to start is the original police report, if it can be found. Yvonne and I need to guard Wesley, so you'll do all the legwork for this investigation. You have to talk to the police."

  "Of course," Marina said. "That's perfectly fine. I'll do everything."

  * * *

  Smythe examined the north wall of the parking garage in headquarters. It was covered with fresh, white paint and looked ordinary enough. It was impossible to see where twenty large holes had been drilled and packed with C-4. When the bombs exploded, the thick wall would shatter. Then the Chicago River would flood all of headquarters.

  The bombs were wired to thermal sensors placed throughout headquarters. Any rise in temperature would start the countdown to detonation. A small fire or even just the presence of many warm bodies would trip the system. He set a fifteen minute delay on the fuse.

  He looked across the garage at Aaron's classic Ford Mustang. Nancy had refurbished it shortly after Aaron had joined the Spears, and she had transformed the car into an automotive masterpiece. The iridescent blue paint caught the light beautifully. Chromed wire rims sparkled when Smythe moved his head. It will be destroyed before it was ever driven, he thought. The loss of the car was as poignant as the loss of headquarter itself. This wasn't the right way to leave a place. It felt too much like failure.

  Moving briskly, Smythe left the garage.

  Jack was working in the small, white lobby. Light gleamed from the sweat on his bald head. Smythe was relieved to see the security door leading to the rest of headquarters was propped open.

  "Watch your step, sir," Jack said.

  Hair-thin threads crisscrossed the room. They were attached to glass bottles filled with nerve toxin and placed precariously on high shelves. Smythe very carefully avoided the threads.

  "The garage is done."

  "I'm done in here," Jack said. "We can move on."

  They went through the security door. After they were out of the lobby, Jack pulled a .38 caliber pistol from a holster on his hip. He quickly shot all the lights in the lobby without missing one. It was impossible to see the threads in the darkness.

  "Nice shooting," Smythe said.

  "Thank you, sir. What's next?"

  "Let's see. We did the napalm sprinkler, the guillotine, and the poison tacks. I believe the only remaining item is the thermite."

  The rest of the team had already evacuated headquarters. Smythe and Jack had stayed behind to finish the traps.

  They went into the conference room. Smythe sighed when he saw all of the leather-bound books on the shelves. They were the tabella, the official records of the Society. The pages were real parchment, and the older books had been copied by hand. Even though he couldn't read Latin, he enjoyed the beautiful calligraphy. Every Spears cell had a complete set. Soon, the Chicago cell would be the exception.

  A fifty gallon drum stood on the table in the center of the room. It was filled to the brim with thermite.

  "This is the most important trap," Smythe said. "The tabella have to be completely destroyed."

  "That much thermite will do a lot more than burn books," Jack said. "This whole place will go up in flames."

  "Until the water hits it."

  "Water won't stop thermite. You'll just get a lot of scalding steam."

  An electronic device stood on the table next to the drum. It looked like an old fashioned radio with four extra antennas. It was a sensitive signal detector built by Edward. Any kind of nearby transmission, whether from a cell phone or a portable radio, would cause the detector to ignite a phosphorous charge.

  "Check your phone," Smythe said.

  Both of them confirmed their phones were completely off.

  "I'm good," Jack said.

  "The computers are shut down? Every piece of equipment is unplugged? We don't want a stray radio signal."

  "Yes, sir. I double checked."

  Smythe switched on the detector and jumped back. A little light flashed green. He gently placed it on top of the thermite.

  "Let's get the hell out of here," he said.

  He and Jack walked to the workout room. Each man picked up two suitcases, one in each hand. Jack grunted with the effort of lifting them but Smythe had less trouble. The suitcases were full of weapons, important documents, and other essential items.

  They left headquarters through the back door, which was propped open with a barbell. As soon as both men were through, Jack rolled the barbell out of the way so the door would close.

  "Keep moving," he said. "The security system in this tunnel is still hot. As soon as we're out, it will go into full lockdown."

  They walked down a long, narrow passage with concrete walls. Cracks in the walls were patched with tar and Smythe smiled at the irony. The Gray Spear Society had struggled to keep river water from leaking into headquarters since the first day of its construction. Now the river would finally win.

  The tunnel terminated at a steel ladder. Long ropes hung down from the darkness above. Smythe and Jack tied the ropes to the suitcases. They climbed about two hundred feet up the ladder, pushed through a trap door, and entered a closet from below. Using the ropes, they pulled up the suitcases.

  Smythe walked out of the closet and found Ethel sitting on a couch. She was in a studio apartment furnished with a haphazard collection of cheap furniture.

  "Any problems?" Ethel said.

  "Nope," Smythe said. "We're all ready for uninvited guests, ma'am."

  "Good."

  A theatrical makeup kit was lying open on a nearby table. She quickly applied disguises to Smythe and Jack, her hands moving so fast they were just a blur. Both men put on wigs as the finishing touch.

  Ethel stepped back and nodded. "Jack, I want you to stay home for a few days. Catch up on your sleep. We'll contact you when we need you. Keep your phone with you at all times. Go on."

  "Yes, ma'am." Jack picked up his suitcases and left the apartment.

  "You don't get a break," she told Smythe. "We're meeting the legate and Atalanta at the rendezvous point. We're going to spend the rest of today and probably all of tomorrow looking for a place to build a temporary headquarters. We need to get fully operational as quickly as possible."

  His shoulders sagged. "Yes, ma'am." No rest for the weary.

  * * *

  Marina knocked on the office door of Sergeant Kenneth Liscombe of the St. Louis Police Department. The door opened and a middle-aged man with sparse, white hair peered out. He wore a white shirt and blue slacks. A scar on his forehead marred an otherwise pleasant, rounded face.

  "Special Agent Stableford?" he said.

  Marina shook his hand. "You can call me Gretchen."

  "Come in. Sorry about the mess. The maid service didn't come today." He smiled at his own joke.

  She followed him into a cramped office. There was an old, wooden desk and some battered filing cabinets. A shelf held sports trophies and framed photographs of women and children that Marina presumed were family members. An open window allowed fresh air into the room. Stacks of folders stood on just about every surface that could bear weight.

  She sat on a creaky, wooden chair. "Thanks for seeing me on short notice."

  "When the FBI calls, you make time." Liscombe sat behind his desk on a chair that was hardly more comfortable than hers.

  "As I mentioned on the phone, I'm trying to reopen the Pavlova double murder case. New information has come to light."

  He nodded and took a folder from one of the piles. "You're lucky. I found the file in the basement." He gave her the folder.

  She quickly flipped through the contents. There were plenty of faded crime scene photographs, and she immediately recognized her parents. Both of them had horrible shotgun wounds in the chest. She wanted to cry, but with the
sergeant watching, she had to maintain the appearance of professional detachment.

  "The brother of the male victim was the only witness," Liscombe said. "The killer left him alive for some reason. He provided an interesting theory about the murder."

  Marina had forgotten that her uncle, Dmitry Pavlova, had actually witnessed the murder. She wondered why this crucial fact had slipped her mind. It wasn't like her to lose track of important details.

  "You read the report?"

  "While I was waiting for you," he said. "I was curious."

  Marina found a statement written by Dmitry. According to him the local mob had hired a hit man to kill her parents because they were snitches. Secretly, they had worked for the Drug Enforcement Administration.

  "What's your opinion?" Marina asked.

  "I don't have one. There is a note from a detective. He called the DEA, and they denied having any information about the crime. Of course federal agencies usually lie about stuff like that. No offense."

  She continued to read. "The witness provided a description of the killer. Six foot two. Long, black hair. Black jacket. Do you know if the police looked for this man?"

  Liscombe shrugged. "I only know what's in that folder. I didn't even live in St. Louis back then."

  She scanned through the rest of the pages.

  "You look frustrated," he said.

  She sighed. "There isn't much here. The detectives didn't get very far in the investigation."

  "What did you expect? The victims were poor Russian immigrants. This case probably didn't get top priority."

  "Murdering immigrants isn't a crime?"

  "You know how it is." He shrugged.

  She wanted to leap across the desk and throttle him. You're talking about my parents!

  "Besides," he added, "getting a conviction would've been impossible. A jury wants to see physical evidence. A single fingerprint would've been enough, but the hit man was very careful. What new information do you have?"

  She put on a serious expression. "A federal prisoner confessed to the crime, but I doubt he did it. He certainly doesn't match this description. Sometimes prisoners get bored and just want attention. Sorry to waste your time."

  "I'm not complaining." He smiled at her. "I don't think I've ever had such a beautiful woman in my office before."

  "Thanks. Do you mind if I take this file with me? My supervisor might want to see it. I'll mail it back to you." She stood up.

  "No problem. The case was dead anyway." Liscombe jumped up to open the door for her.

  She gave him one last smile. "I'll see myself out."

  She hurried through the busy police station and out the front door.

  She wore a wool business suit, which was comfortable until the bright sunshine started to warm her up. She took off her jacket.

  After walking a block, she found Aaron in a public park. He was playing soccer with Wesley and two teenage boys. The game seemed evenly matched despite Aaron's much larger size. Yvonne was yelling encouragement from the sidelines.

  When Aaron noticed Marina, he waved his arms and said, "Sorry guys. We have to take a break."

  He walked over to her. Sweat was dripping from his forehead and had soaked his T-shirt. Wesley followed close behind.

  "What's the story?" Aaron said.

  "There was a witness: my uncle, Dmitry," Marina said.

  "You never mentioned an uncle before."

  "He emigrated from Russia with me and my parents. We all shared a house. Read this." She gave him the file.

  He studied the paperwork for a few minutes. Marina remembered he had been a cop for several years and had seen many such files. When he was done, he gave the folder to Yvonne.

  "A couple of things don't make sense," he said. "Why did the hit man leave a witness behind? Your uncle saw the entire crime."

  "Maybe Dmitry wasn't part of the contract," Marina said.

  "The killer could've waited until the targets were alone. I also don't understand the shotgun. That's a very noisy, sloppy weapon for a professional."

  She shrugged. "It does seem odd."

  "Maybe you need to talk to your uncle." He raised his eyebrows. "He was the only witness. If you want the truth, he's the best source."

  "Contact with family is forbidden for members of the Society."

  "Go in disguise," Aaron said.

  "No!" Marina shook her head. For some reason her neck was very tight. "Dmitry won't remember anything after all these years. We have his eyewitness account, and that's good enough. This is my investigation, damn it. I'll do it my way! I'll never speak to my uncle again."

  Both Aaron and Wesley gave her a funny look.

  "What's wrong?" she said.

  Aaron deferred to Wesley.

  "Nothing," the boy said. "Do you have a plan?"

  "Sure," she said. "We know the mob is responsible. I'll lean on them until somebody confesses."

  "What?" Aaron stared at her. "You actually think that will work? Nobody will remember a couple of snitches who died almost two decades ago."

  She tried to work the stiffness out of her shoulders. Why was she so tense? "Those snitches were my parents. I can't give up now. I'll find some gray haired mafia don who knows the true story and beat it out of him."

  "All by yourself?" He grimaced. "Doesn't that seem pretty dangerous? We can't call headquarters for backup. We're on our own out here."

  "This isn't Chicago or New York. The locals can't be that tough. I'll be fine, dear. Stop fussing."

  His shoulders sagged. "Do whatever you want, but this isn't a good plan. It's excessively violent and unprofessional."

  "In your opinion."

  Chapter Eleven

  The steam tunnel was packed with men and the moist air stank of body odor. Brother Norbert slowly made his way along the tunnel, walking sideways in the cramped space. He was performing a final inspection of the troops.

  Captain Huttenlocher's soldiers would lead the charge. They wore full body armor, helmets, and gas masks. Night vision goggles mounted on the helmets could swing down. The soldiers also carried assault rifles, side arms, and hand grenades. Some had demolition charges in case they had to break through a door. Everybody had a military-style headset radio.

  Forming a long line behind the Swiss Guard, the monks of the Brotherhood wore flak jackets for protection. Their weaponry was nearly as good as the soldiers, though. They would not lose this fight due to lack of guns or bullets.

  Norbert finally reached the front of the line. A circle of sixteen holes surrounded the orange X the radar technician had drawn. The holes contained dynamite and were three meters deep. Fifteen kilos of C-4 sat at the bottom of the holes, directly on the ceiling of the enemy's underground fortress. The arrangement was designed to instantly create a vertical tunnel for rapid entry.

  It had taken a full day to drill the holes and pack them with explosives. The Brotherhood had worked in silence to avoid alerting the enemy below. They had even used hand tools to cut the concrete floor of the steam tunnel.

  Captain Huttenlocher looked at the circle of holes with a thoughtful expression.

  "Are we ready?" Norbert whispered.

  He nodded. "Get into position."

  They crouched behind a wall of sandbags. The nearest soldiers carried clear plastic riot shields in case of flying debris. Everybody stuffed earplugs into their ears.

  Norbert spoke softly, "O most powerful and glorious Lord God, the Lord of hosts, that rules and commands all things. Thou sits on the throne judging right. Stir up thy strength, O Lord, and come and help us. Hear us thy poor servants imploring thy help, that thou would be a defense unto us against the face of the enemy. Be our Savior and mighty Deliverer, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

  "Amen," Huttenlocher echoed.

  He pressed the detonator button.

  The shockwave was strong enough to knock Norbert down. He felt his guts bounce around. Dust filled the tunnel, and he covered his mouth with his shirt. He peeked ove
r the sandbags and was pleased to see a nice, round hole in the floor.

  The soldiers surged forward. They tied rope ladders to thick pipes and threw the ladders down the hole. Without hesitation the soldiers climbed down. They moved swiftly but efficiently.

  Norbert listened for gunfire but there was only an eerie quiet. Apparently, the enemy was too surprised to defend themselves. Soldiers continued to descend in a continuous stream, and Huttenlocher joined his men.

  It was finally the Brotherhood's turn to go down. Norbert took the lead and the rest of the monks followed immediately behind him.

  The walls of the hole were made of oozing, slippery mud. He had to grip the ladder firmly to keep from sliding off. When he reached the bottom, he stepped onto a huge pile of dirt and broken concrete. On his hands and knees, he carefully climbed down.

  He found himself in a spacious kitchen. There were broad, granite counters and a pair of commercial refrigerators. Copper pots hung from a rack. A glass table was big enough to seat ten people. Wooden cabinets provided enough storage for two ordinary kitchens.

  He still didn't hear gunfire, which troubled him. Why wasn't the enemy fighting back?

  He grabbed his radio. "Captain Huttenlocher, can you hear me? Do you have anything to report?"

  Huttenlocher responded through the radio. "We are performing reconnaissance, as planned. We've met no resistance. The scoundrels must've fled when they heard the explosion."

  That didn't sound believable to Norbert. He left the kitchen and walked down a hallway. He looked into a room with a large television, a stereo system, and some plush couches. He was surprised by the comfortable accommodations. He had expected a dark, hellish pit.

  He heard horrible screams of pain. Suddenly, many voices on the radio were yelling about some kind of fire. When Norbert heard the words "napalm" and "trap," he got a bad feeling.

  He turned to his monks and said, "Tell our men to stop coming down. Just stay put."

  "Sir?" one man said.

  "We'll let the professional soldiers search this place. They have better training and equipment."

  "Yes, sir."

  Norbert felt guilty about letting the Swiss Guard take the risks, but there was no enemy to fight here. The Brotherhood would just get in the way and cause confusion.