He closed his mind to them.
Debrille would want a situational report in the morning. Even though he’d been instructed to leave her alone tonight, Marcus struggled out of his clinging pants and crawled in behind Samantha, drawing his arms and legs around her chilled form. Gradually her shivering lessened, and her breathing relaxed as she drifted into legitimate sleep.
The rising emotion disturbed him, to realize it could come up so unbidden. The circumstances of Samantha’s evening must have been much harder than any of them had realized. So many years he’d spent numb to true feeling, it had not registered when she’d returned. But he felt it now.
A concern for someone other than himself.
Chapter 41 – The Search Begins
A headache followed him incessantly in the beginning, but after spending weeks in the caverns Joe had adjusted to the musty odor emanating from acre after acre of documents, photographs, and texts. The outdated lighting hadn’t helped either but perhaps it had become an ally of sorts. The stiffs at the front desk rarely bothered him in the murky light.
Joe pulled another box from the shelf and sat down on the cold concrete floor. In case anyone happened by, he again turned the label toward himself to avoid advertising his quest. The idea of getting caught digging through unauthorized boxes didn’t sit too well. They’d toss him from the Bureau for sure, and Hitchens would deny instructing him to search in unauthorized territory.
More yellowed sales slips from Oleander. The Belgian-based company made a killing after World War Two, selling off confiscated art from throughout Europe. Before that they’d dealt in Egyptian antiquities. They’d found many a willing buyer in America – too many. If only Bill were still alive, he’d have found muddling through the numbers fascinating, though deplorable to see how the Nazis had profited from their thievery.
The sales slips were getting him nowhere. How soon did the chief expect some real results to his special clearance? At this point, Hitchens probably suspected he spent his days sleeping in the caverns instead of investigating.
When Joe surfaced toward the end of every day, Laturno would chide him. Even though he knew Laturno had to be itching to ask where he’d been every day, he never did. Sometimes agents spent time in the office while others disappeared for weeks on end. All worked hard, long hours regardless of assignments.
A green file appeared as Joe neared the bottom of the yellowed stacks. The sight gave him goosebumps. Perhaps this oddity offered something more tangible, but as he perused it, his heart sank in frustration. He slapped it shut, sending receipts fluttering across the floor – just a file on the death of Adolf Hitler and his mistress, Eva Braun. Who knew how long since it had gotten crammed into the wrong box.
Joe shoved the box aside and pulled out his lunch. The questions tumbled about as he munched on the chicken sandwich. How was a Belgian art seller connected to a little Kansas based company like Castor? Then why was Castor connected with Samantha Bartlett and her family? Some of the art through Oleander had come to a few wealthy Wichita families, but Sam’s family was never wealthy, even with those large payouts from Castor. That money had gone initially to pay those ridiculous utility bills then support Gramm.
Joe stopped chewing in mid-thought.
The art.
Nazis overran Belgium in 1940, an early casualty in the European conflict of World War Two. Oleander was based in Belgium and had sold pieces the Nazis had stolen from Jewish families during the course of the Holocaust. However, Oleander existed long before the Nazis came to power in Germany. Oleander had to be more than just a front. Who ran the company? What did the name mean?
Joe stuffed the remainder of his sandwich in his mouth and grabbed the green file again. Hitler’s death file in a box with information about Oleander. It seemed ludicrous, but one thing he’d learned over his career was never to immediately discount any possible connections no matter how ridiculous.
Oleander was European—Hitler was European.
Oleander sold Nazi confiscated art—Hitler was the supreme Nazi.
As he scanned through the file, Joe read of the suicide of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun in an underground bunker in Berlin. The Soviet Red Army were the first upon the scene of the bombed out area. The Soviets interviewed and documented witnesses saying two wrapped bodies were removed from the bunker and burned.
The handwritten notes in the margins moved into the realm of speculation. Hitler and Braun bodies. Soviet cover-up. Tunnel underground bunker.
Joe’s mind froze. A tunnel from the underground bunker.
Samantha and the concrete storm shelter – with a tunnel.
South American drug cartels and human traffickers used tunnels.
Nazis were found throughout South America after the war.
Middle Eastern terrorists used underground bunker systems.
Nazis were connected to Middle Eastern terrorists in the past.
The chicken sandwich churned in his stomach as his mind grasped a horrifying thought. Was Sam’s family somehow connected to terrorism?
The file had an identifier written on the back. Carefully he wormed his way through the aisles until he found the proper section and pulled the box. Instead of putting the file back where it belonged, Joe glanced through the contained files of former Soviet communiqués from the forties, the translations notated below the Cyrillic script. The facts pieced together before his eyes.
He needed a computer, but he couldn’t use a government issue. Not his home computer either. Joe scanned the contents again then chucked the files back in the box and tucked it where he’d found it. A quick sign-out of the facility then he hit the road south to Alexandria. No way he’d use an internet café in downtown Washington D.C. Couldn’t have some agent or God knew who else peeking over his shoulder.
***
As he sped down I-395, Joe’s mind whirled from the crazed thoughts. The file would have sure come in handy. Why hadn’t he hidden it in his jacket? The act was beyond his normal character – the thought alone sent a shiver down his spine. He’d done it before in Wichita, but now the consequences of such actions could land him in jail…or worse.
Even though Hitchens commanded he commit everything to memory, Joe exited the interstate just outside of Alexandria and pulled into a drugstore. They only had four packages of 3x5 cards, so Joe grabbed them all and took them to the cashier.
“Is there a cyber café nearby?” Joe asked the plump woman behind the counter.
“Yeah, go east through this intersection and two stoplights down take a right and it’s down the sidewalk, second door on the left.” She smiled through her bright lipstick and handed him the bag. “Have fun researching.”
The paranoia level thickened. Was he that obvious? It reminded him of Samantha’s paranoia over her grandmother’s death. Now he realized she was likely onto something—and gave her life in the pursuit. He truly needed to keep his head about him. No telling who they were dealing with.
The café seemed surprisingly devoid of human life. Unable to risk using his personal information, Joe obtained a temporary log-in and settled at a corner computer. The espresso helped to settle his nerves as he sipped the steaming brew.
After unwrapping a package of cards, Joe wrote at the top of one ‘O. E.’. On the second card he wrote ‘A.H.’ and ‘E.B.’. He’d worry about Sam’s connection after he deduced any between Oleander and the reported deaths of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun. Which one should he start with? Might as well start at the beginning.
He glanced over his shoulder before typing into the search engine the name oleander. An online encyclopedia popped up first, and he read all about and made notes on the oleander shrub native to Mediterranean and Asian regions, its ancient medicinal uses, and its dangerous and almost immediate toxicity as a poison. It sounded like very scary stuff—a medicine and a poison from the same plant. Hopefully doctors knew which to administer in ancient times.
Years in Sunday School class tickled his mind – something i
n the Bible about people being bitten by snakes and drinking poison without dying. Did the poison mentioned there perhaps apply to the oleander plant?
A click on another link took him to an ancient Egyptian myth, a recipe of sorts reportedly utilized by the Egyptians in the time of the pharaohs to prolong his life – something to do with his god-like status to the people. Perhaps that’s where the fountain of youth mythology arose. Oleander Enterprises had gotten their start selling Egyptian antiquities. Had they come across this so-called recipe along the way?
Numerous reports referenced modern day attempts at replicating the recipe – with disastrous results. A doctor in France had received a life sentence for killing five patients, even with signed authorization and hold-harmless forms from said patients. Ditto in Italy and Austria. After the fall of the Soviet Union, rumors swirled about deaths from experiments authorized by Stalin to develop a formula from the oleander plant.
As Joe scanned through all the documentation on the plant, he came across something that seemed almost too coincidental. Another name for the oleander shrub screamed out from the screen of the computer—Adelfa. The track he was on seemed almost logical in his present state of mind. Could the name of the plant perhaps have a tie to Adolf Hitler himself? And thus through this plant a tie to Oleander Enterprises?
Just for the heck of it, Joe typed Oleander Enterprises in the search engine. Information on the company popped unexpectedly onto the computer. It seemed too easy. If this was a secret underground company, why did they even have a public website? For the next forty minutes, he perused well known material on the company, its origins, operations, and reported history. They even had a site with information about the officers, board members, and worldwide partner auction houses. If they were trying to keep the organization shrouded in mystery, they were doing a piss poor job of it.
Anticipation deflated. The last dregs of the coffee were cold as he tossed it down. Maybe this whole train of thought was an enormous waste of time.
The door chimed as a new patron entered, a voluptuous redhead. She reminded him of the world of high-class prostitutes Laturno had introduced him to. The muscles in his neck tensed as she glanced his way and smiled before she ordered an espresso from the clerk. Not the same girl, but something about her seemed odd – calculated. As he continued pecking his way through various websites and information about Oleander, Joe kept his senses trained on the woman. She wanted to be noticed.
Of course, if she was a prostitute then being noticed was an important part of her job – the hike of the skirt to scratch her leg, the high dollar clothes accentuating key curves. Something about her presence nagged at him – her actions, or lack thereof.
She expected to find him there.
After flirting with the clerk and giving him ample cleavage views while she drank her coffee, she excused herself to the restroom. Her smoldering eyes invited him to look as she passed by. Joe clenched his teeth and focused on the computer screen to slow the uptick in his heart rate. These girls were well trained in the subtle art of seduction.
After exiting the restroom and with a final glance his way, she walked out of the café. Joe gathered up his note cards and stuffed them in the bag, careful to ensure none had floated to the floor, then signed off the ID. The clerk had other things on his mind, still gazing out the glass after the departed woman. Joe thanked him before clashing again with the busy realm of humanity in the bustling city. The woman had disappeared.
Glass acted as shrapnel with the explosion. The blast tossed Joe behind a parked car along the sidewalk, shielding him from further damage. The stun fogged him for a second before he recovered his wits. He’d have to dig a little glass out of his skin, but otherwise he felt relatively unharmed. The shop smoldered but the blast was fortunately minor – not so lucky for the clerk.
A screech of tires alerted him to the oncoming car. It sped up onto the sidewalk and mowed down three people before coming straight at him. Joe leapt and rolled across the hood of the car before landing in the street to stare after the speeding car—but not before he’d had a chance to stare into the eyes of the redhead from the cafe. He dialed emergency services on his cell as he tended to the injured littered along the sidewalk.
No doubts remained – his investigation was apparently on the right track.
Chapter 42 – The Resolute
The June sun beat down all afternoon on the Little Leaguers playing on the South Lawn. Alexandra had occasion to glance toward Warner and the First Lady as they worked the crowd and cheered the teams, but she maintained her distance. She rather enjoyed observing him, catching his occasional heated stare. Then Abbie Warner would ruin the moment.
The Missus looped her arm through Warner’s and steered him among the crowd. He hardly had time to enjoy watching the game. If Abbie knew and cared less about her purpose in screwing the President, why did the woman cling so protectively to her man? It only made the fire in Alexandra’s belly burn the hotter. The Missus wasn’t woman enough to satisfy her husband.
Yet it still remained – Abbie Warner knew her husband was unfaithful. So why did she stay beside him? What did she have to gain, save for face? Hell, she had lost the face too many years ago even. No love remained between the two. The way Warner talked, there hadn’t been almost since the beginning. So why did he stay with her then?
Their dalliance had thus far lasted two months. She’d never imagined in the beginning that she’d keep his attentions for so long. From all points and purposes, Warner’s liaisons usually lasted a few weeks before his interest waned and he found a new skirt. Then he’d dump her off on that smarmy Chief of Staff. At least she wouldn’t be forced to endure his hands and mouth on her body. Or would she?
Debrille seemed ecstatic and in no rush for her to carry out the final purpose with Warner. However, once completed, what were the Elite’s plans for her? Would they force her to tolerate a man like Ben Forsdale or perhaps endure another surgery and get to Durksen? The man seemed to be cut from a completely different cloth. Even though Warner spoke in frustration at times about the Vice President, secretly Alexandra suspected he respected Durksen’s focused work ethic.
Alexandra’s musings were cut short as the familiar green-eyed staffer strolled nearby – her cue.
“Excuse me, sir. Would you direct me to the nearest powder room?” Alexandra called.
“Follow me, madam.”
***
“Well, what do you think?” Warner asked as he snapped shut the door of the Oval Office.
Alexandra slowly walked around the striped sofa and stared up at the presidential seal gracing the coffered ceiling. The power. Here she stood in the office that had housed presidents – the power of the United States since 1934. She shivered with awe.
“Are you chilled, my dear?” Warner asked as he settled his clammy hands on her bare shoulders.
She knew what he was thinking – what he wanted.
“I was thinking of the power this room holds,” Alexandra whispered. “The power you hold.”
“Yes, the power. Can you not feel it?” His hands burned with desire as he slid them down her arms and around to her breasts. “Doesn’t it excite you?”
Alexandra glanced at him seductively as she pried from his grasp and strolled over to the massive desk. The aged wood glistened in the sunlight streaming through the drapes.
“The Resolute or Kennedy?” Alexandra purred. She stroked the polished surface as she held his gaze with her own.
Warner smiled, the creases of his face deepening – his eyes hungry. “I see you know your Oval Office history. It is the Resolute”.
Slowly Alexandra walked around the desk as she one-by-one unclasped the unending line of pearl buttons down the front of her coral-hued dress.
“The Resolute,” she began, “from the oak of the H.M.S. Resolute, a British navy ship retrieved from the Arctic ice by the United States in eighteen-fifty-five, restored and presented to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, as a gift of good
will and friendship.”
Alexandra let her dress slip to the floor and unclasped her bra, releasing her pent-up breasts and exposing her naked body save for the red garter belt. Warner’s eyes bulged from their sockets, the throbbing vein in his neck pulsing with each rapid beat of his heart.
“Decommissioned in eighteen-seventy-nine,” she continued, “the Queen presented to President Rutherford B. Hayes this desk made from the ship’s hull.” On hands and knees Alexandra crawled onto the desk and flared her legs. She stared over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing – welcoming. “It’s time we break it in.”
Warner scarce could get out of his clothes fast enough, seeming to care little for the open drapes. He pressed his face between her legs as he let his slacks fall to the floor and struggled to unbutton his shirt. Alexandra arched her back and moaned to urge him on, beginning a slow rhythmic dance with her hips as he lapped up the heat of lust.
The aroma of desire swelled as Warner climbed atop her back and gripped her breasts hard, searching for their peaks. When Alexandra dropped her head forward, he pressed his mouth into her neck, biting as a male subduing its female. He growled softly just before plunging into her.
Alexandra pressed her buttocks upward to match his forward thrusts, their sweat mingling and dripping onto the historic desk. He swirled her nipples faster as their intensity grew. Instead of weakening over the months, Warner’s desire for her had grown beyond anything she could have hoped. He had fallen completely within her power. He was totally hers.
Alexandra smiled with the thought. It spurred her on with each thrust. No longer did she think of the biological connection he held with Samantha nor the revulsion she had fought to hide with his first touches. Samantha had completely transformed into Alexandra with him.
And she enjoyed it.
Chapter 43 – The Past
A left. Another left. Turn right. The light changed red as Joe floored it through the intersection and onto the interstate. At last it seemed as if he could safely make his way without threat of a tail. Even so he weaved his way in and out of traffic for several miles. The neon sign of a seedy motel flashed in the rising dusk as he exited the interstate near the edge of the city. Lightning flashed in the distance.