Mike Smith Is Dead—Pt. 27 and 28
Christian lite - Fiction
At five in the morning two days later Mitch VanHorn’s phone rang and an official voice told him a limo was parked at his curb. He had thirty minutes to be on his way downtown to the Eisenhower building. At six thirty that morning he boarded a familiar elevator that took him to a special part of the office building. He was escorted in and told to wait. Five minutes later Ivan Sessions came into the room. They looked at each other and shrugged. Sessions used a handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.
Doors at the rear of the office suddenly opened and a staffer entered followed by the United States Vice President and more aides and secret service officers.
The Vice President, without saying a word tossed a folded copy of “L'Osservatore Romano,” onto a circular table. He followed by throwing two more Catholic newspapers, the New York Times, the Los Angles Times, The London Times, and the Boston Globe onto the table. Aides put several foreign language newspapers onto the pile.
“So, what’s this?” Mitch stared at the papers.
“Pick one in a language of your choice.” The Vice President tossed an AP wire line report onto the pile.
Sessions began looking at the New York Times. “We can spin all this out of existence.”
“Yeah, we can say all these stories are fabrications.” Mitch thumbed through the Boston Globe.
“L'Osservatore Romano,” is the Pope’s newspaper. Published by the Vatican. They say they have the original photos and documents.” Anger in in Vice President’s voice was evident. “So, you’re going to call the Pope a liar?”
The color in Sessions face paled. “These photos show a massacre and look at the faces of the men holding weapons.”
One photo showed a much younger man who was now Vice President standing with Sessions and VanHorn, proudly lauding over several corpses.
“How do we stop them?” Mitch asked.
The Vice President gave him a fierce glance. “My question is how did this all get released?”
Mitch sat down on an armchair. “Of course, that fool gave a copy to the church.”
“Maybe more,” said Sessions. “That is the source material likely entails much more—like the trail of United States funds.”
“My guess,” said the Vice President. “It was a dead man switch. Someone at the Vatican had orders to release the info when Mike Smith was killed. Before all these assignations I was sending Juanita Giles, a Panamanian woman who works for us, to recover the State Department money, what happened? Who ordered the killing of Mike Smith? And who ordered the hits on innocent people associated with Mike Smith? The intelligence staff tells me these were paid out of the special State Department budget.”
Sessions looked at VanHorn and shrugged then ignored the Vice President. “Does the President know?” Sessions tossed a paper back on the pile.
“He’s being briefed right now.” The Vice President moved behind a desk. “Everybody in the world will know in about an hour. Folks in Europe already know as well as most of the African Continent and the Orient plus Australia. South America is finding out this morning. My wife and kids are already headed for a special place and I plan to join them as soon as I can get out of here without the CIA on my tail. The President will see my resignation when he goes to the oval office in ten minutes. What the Speaker and several members of Congress do is anyone’s guess. As for you two. Find a way to disappear before the inquiry starts.” He slammed the door as he exited. The two secret service agents quickly reopened the door and followed him down the hallway.
Sessions turned and headed for the door, “I know where I’m going as soon as I can get out of Washington.”
Mitch looked over at him. “Say nothing to anyone. Simply say you’re going on break, if anything.”
Clinica Biblica Hospital in San Jose had unexpected patients admitted through the emergency room. Kip and Rosa arrived in separate ambulances. Rosa under her own identification, but Kip under the pseudonym of J. LeFey.
Kip was rushed into surgery for the removal a bullet that hit the top of his chest and lodged in his shoulder bone. Rosa stayed in the emergency room and was receiving treatment for a scalp wound that grazed her head. Mostly the doctors were watching for a concussion.
Father Luis came to see both patients. First he saw Rosa who was dismissed on the second day and later Kip who was allowed to have visitors on the third day. Rosa never visited.
“Padre, will I ever see her again?” Kip spoke through an oxygen mask.
The old priest patted his hand. “God will give her strength eventually. We can only pray she accepts the path of forgiveness, and comes to the realization, that what God has joined together cannot be undone under his eyes.”
Kip was sitting up in a chair with a contraption holding his torso and shoulder. He grimaced and tried to speak again, but between the oxygen mask and the equipment he could only utter “Okay.”
A week later Kip was dismissed and wheeled out to a waiting taxi. “Publica Bank, please.” The taxi driver was the size of a Sumo Wrestler with a tanned complexion and full beard.
Father Luis leaned in the cab door. “I gave the cab driver enough to drive you to the bank and then to a hotel. You can repay me later.”
Kip entered the Publica bank with a cane and went directly to the box desk. Nobody was in the manager’s office. He handed the young woman a key for the eighth box and signed the ledger as J.LeFey.
“Would you wheel the box into the little room for me. I’m not supposed to lift anything.”
After the door was closed he lifted the lid expecting to see cash or gold, but instead there was a letter covering four inches of paper. Kip read the letter.
Kip, I guess you’re Kip now. If you are reading this then I have already been dispatched or at best am running away to hide with friends in Panama. I feared what was going on at the bank, some very strange people have been hired without my approval. Nonetheless, some information you should know. I watched the markets and when emeralds hit their peak, I sold, per our agreement; the same with gold and silver. Those funds are in the LeFey public account, and as of this writing are a mid eight figure amount. Your major investment you instructed me to find a way to get that back to the United States, and I did that, sort of. There are 1,000 one million dollar treasury notes below this letter.” Kip put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. “The purchases were made from the special account, although before I finished moving the money, Juanita Ortiz, one of the bank executives, closed the account—an internal process to prevent a run. You were supposed to be notified. I sent one of our clerks, CeCe Santos, to your house to notify you personally. The treasury notes generate about ten million dollars American per year, which is accumulating in two investments—automatic purchases of additional treasury notes, now being held at Chase Bank in New York, plus a payment to LeFey accounts in Costa Rica at both Republica and Scocio Bank. Only bank fees have applied to the process. In ten years or so, take the T-bills below to the US Treasury Department simply sign them payable to the US Treasury—say nothing just submit them and walk away. The current interest is being paid into taxable accounts and is virtually untraceable.
My dear friend, I had hoped to be here with you to sort through the process, and if I am, this letter will not be seen. God be with you my friend. Perhaps we can haunt the halls of financial institutions again some day.
Kip sat for a minute trying to take it all in. He carefully folded the letter and looked under the T-bills. About a million dollars in American currency was in the bottom of the box. He took out ten ten thousand dollar bundles of hundreds and closed the box. The cash he held while he asked the clerk to bring him an envelope and a cart for the bank box. He returned the box, and slowly left the bank with his envelope of cash. The taxi was waiting. “Office Depot, do you know where it is?”
With the driver’s help he purchased a MacBook Air and a small printer with paper and extra ink. He also had the full Apple office suite installed. He also purchased a burn phone with a local San Jose number and the name J. LeFey.
“I need clothes, my suitcase and all must have been stolen.” In truth, Kip couldn’t remember where he last saw it and figured if not stolen, Rosa had it in her possession.
The driver smiled and held up a hand. Kip put four hundred dollar bills in the driver’s palm and the taxi scooted through the streets to a men’s clothing store. Kip gave the driver some ideas of sizes and $1,500 dollars. A half hour later the driver came out of the store with various boxes and bags. The driver placed the bags in the back of the van and then he held up a finger.
“Momento,” he said. Then he ran across the street to a drug store and came back with a large bag. Kip guessed it was toiletries. “I have your change,” the driver offered a small plastic sack to Kip.
Kip held up his hand to refuse, but said, “Courtyard Hotel, please.”
Once they arrived at the Courtyard he asked the cabbie to wait and hobbled into the lobby to check in. He secured a room for thirty days, paying $2,000 cash plus a $500 cash deposit. A bellman followed him out to the cab and loaded the bags onto a cart. Kip limped to the cab driver’s door and gave the man a roll of ten $100 bills. “Forget you ever saw me.”
The cabbie smiled and in English said, “Saw who? I’m just delivering some packages here.” He handed Kip a card. “If you need a ride call me, I will be your private cabbie.” He waved and drove off.
Ten minutes later Kip was stationed in a comfortable room watching the expressway near the airport. Exhausted, he collapsed on the bed. One of his duties would be to find the post surgical doctor who had been recommended, but he would wait until tomorrow before he started making calls.
In Brazil a tall thin man in a sleeveless t-shirt pulled a series of papers from the fax machine.
“Hmmm.” The contents of the satchel were his payment for the hits in Costa Rica, loosing a partner in Argentina hadn’t been in the plans. But, the partner was bumbling idiot who got greedy. The thin man held up the papers. Three women and three men were in the pictures. Five million dollars in US funds was the contract. All or nothing. Fifty thousand dollars was in his account as a down payment for services to be rendered.
On a pool patio at a palatial home in Nuevo Cuscatlan near San Salvador, Juanita Ortiz sipped on a glass of wine and watched the lean body of a young crème colored man with streaked hair swimming in a sparkling pool. He swam up to the edge and splashed water at her.
“Don’t do that. I just put on lotion.”
“Have you been watching the news?”
“No, silly. I’m sitting here in the sun watching you make a fool of yourself. Why is there something special?”
“Well, the Vatican has been saying all sorts of things about El Salvador. I don’t know if the news is yet to hit the media in the US,” he laughed. “Serves them right.”
A cell phone rang on a table.
“Want me to answer it?” Ortiz asked.
“No. If it’s somebody I want to talk to, I’ll return the call.”
“Who do you know in Miami?” Ortiz glanced at the caller ID.
He sang in English. “Everybody’s got a cousin in Miami.”
“He’ll be here tonight you know.”
“Just him, right?”
Ortiz rolled over on the lounge chair. “Uh huh. I need to fly to Rio tomorrow, and you need to get to the college football tryouts, make a note. Come put lotion on my back.”
Rosa sat in the master bedroom of the big house in Florencia. She looked out through the valley and cried. A maid came in and brought her a cold Cacique Guaro. Rosa pushed it away and fell face first into bed. The stitches on the side of her head pulled but she scarcely noticed. She had practiced looking in the mirror and pulling her hair from side to side to cover the shaved area. She would have another sleepless night.
To be continued...