Chapter 19
London House...
10 October 2001, 10 AM GMT
Clutching a large file, Franklin Cross bustled into Sir James Loxley Millard's imposing office.
The Ruling Council's president glanced up, irritated that Cross had neglected to have himself announced. The man's an ignorant buffoon, he thought, but at the moment a damned useful one. ''What is it?" he demanded.
"We've got them."
Loxley Millard smiled at the eagerness in Cross' voice; ambition could be a wonderful thing, if properly directed. "Whom, exactly, do we have?" he asked in a casual tone, while deliberately replacing his pen to its holder. To deny Cross the satisfaction of having his full attention, he proceeded to dust the brass ship's bell that sat front and center on his desk.
"Rayne, of course... all of them," Cross continued, stepping closer. "Van der Linden's gone.... Everyone now accepts that.... The latest report's come in from the medico in Dorset.... Rayne's gone barking mad.... I'm waiting for full details... but it sounds good.... Well...." Pausing, he struggled to conceal a smirk. "...not good for Rayne... obviously... but good for the Legacy... for our plans.... We have a window of opportunity here," the Chief Investigator announced. "One we can't let pass.
"Without van der Linden to pull his strings, Boyle will never handle his preceptoral duties and management of the Luna Foundation, as well.... Sloan's too side-tracked to help... and even then, when Rayne went missing back in the mid-eighties, he couldn't manage both jobs himself."
"Yes...," the older man interrupted, trying to ignore Cross' supercilious manner. The man really was not "top drawer"... but then he was a Scotsman... from Glasgow, no less. "The foundation could be at risk... but how does that help us? We could lose the funding entirely."
So as to conceal his enthusiasm, Cross removed his glasses and began to thoughtfully polish the lenses. Finally, he spoke. "Before he went on his 'career break' in Wells Ward, Rayne temporarily granted Boyle and van der Linden joint authority over Luna.... Boyle was to handle the San Francisco end and the House... Rayne's financial wiz of a cousin was to assist Boyle as necessary, but mostly he was to handle the money and international interests. I've had to cross swords with him a couple of times. He was worse than Rayne ever dreamed of being. Rayne would at least cooperate. Van der Linden apparently considered his life's prime function to protect the Rayne derriere and pocket book.... Anyway, the board was quite happy to go along with Rayne's plans.... By anyone's opinion, they've always been time-serving 'yes men,' anyway."
"Indeed," Loxley Millard agreed, "...and this gets us... precisely where?"
"Rayne kept his Board of Directors in line," Cross expounded. "They were completely under his thumb. Van der Linden could've covered adequately... but Boyle... alone.... I doubt he'd survive a vote of confidence... and, as the Luna Foundation's principle beneficiary, I'm certain the Legacy could arrange for something of the sort to be convened."
Loxley Millard considered, "I'm not so sure of that.... The board are all Rayne men... and women.... For some reason... they're totally loyal to him. I did have hopes of Dr. Corrigan, but she's not proven herself to be the independent thinker I'd hoped for. They don't see how the Legacy is at risk of because the foundation's dictatorial behaviour.... Its refusal to relinquish control of its funding, particularly that which is earmarked in perpetuity for the Legacy.
"However... let's think this through," the elderly bureaucrat continued. "We could get Rayne declared insane... or, at the very least, declared legally incompetent. It could be done in open court... either here or in the States... if done carefully... but why risk that?... As long as Rayne's a member of the Legacy, he places himself under our authority. There should be no problem in convening a tribunal to hear competency evidence.... Then... if Boyle was out the way, we'd have some leverage... and the board would have no choice but to yield at least some control to the Council."
The old man paused to rub his chin. "I've had an enquiry from our friends in Millbank House... MI6," he explained, noting Cross' puzzled expression. "They wanted Rayne to call in an old favor from some Afghani warlord. I've not yet had the files pulled, but apparently, Rayne and Maj. Boyle were in the region when the Soviets invaded back in 1979. They were the only Westerners ever known to have survived contact with this man. Now, it seems MI6 and our American cousins are unsure where this warlord chappie's loyalties lie... and he has something they want... which means it might also be something Al-Quaida wants."
Loxley Millard rose from behind the heavy, oak desk and ambled across the room to look through the slatted blinds, down on the traffic that crowded Pall Mall. After a moment of quiet reflection, he turned back to face the Chief Investigator. The old man's mustachioed, stiff upper lip nearly cracked into a smile. "I had to tell them that Rayne was out of the picture... but, if we offered Boyle as his replacement... family tie and all that... don't you know!... Plus... him being Special Forces... no less."
Cross' lips turned up, then a broad smile grew. "... And without Boyle, the board will fold like a pack of cards... ergo...." He looked down and gave the small bell a push. Its ring was one of perfect pitch. "The bell tolls for Rayne... and Luna's treasury will be ours."
< < + > >
Angel Island... the Library
10 October 2001, Wednesday, 4 PM PST
Nick stood with his back to the room, looking out towards the bay and the distant Golden Gate. What a perfect target... a great, orange beacon! The very symbol of San Francisco... of America's West Coast. It had been a warm, clear day... dry... fire weather. Angel Island and the surrounding hills were brown and brittle. As he started to turn, a reflection on Alcatraz caught his eye. His gaze was drawn to that barren rock of misery that lay between Angel Island and San Francisco. Which island held more tragedy, he wondered. Somehow, it now seemed that life was a series of prisons. Derek's physical one... of Wells Ward; the mental one of Derek's mind and body.
Nick studied the ring on his finger. In his heart, he was certain that Derek Rayne would never return as precept... that the job was his now. His own prison was here... that ring, this island, the job, but the real prison was his own honor. He would take up Derek's burden... willingly, and with love and respect... but without Derek, Angel Island would never again be a home. "Face it, Boyle," he told himself, "your allegiance has always been to Derek Rayne... not the Legacy, where it should have been. This is your Alcatraz."
The sound of heels on wood dragged his attention back to the room. The ladies had arrived. Still unable to bring himself to sit at the head of table, the former SEAL slid into his usual place. Nothing would persuade him to sit at the head, in Derek's chair... not the ring on his finger, the mountain of papers in the office, the Luna files demanding attention, the growing list of Legacy cases to be dealt with... nothing.
Glancing up, he watched as Rachel and Alex settled themselves, then read through the latest Legacy guidelines, which he'd placed on the table before their customary seats. Each member had to read the document, then sign that they had fully understood its contents.
While she read, Rachel rapidly tapped her pen against the wood, checked her watch, then continued to tap and read. It annoyed the hell out of Nick.
"Got a hot date?" Alex asked.
"I wish...," Rachel sighed. "I haven't seen David since... since... well, you know.... Brief phone calls... that's it. He's been pulling double shifts.... We're short-handed here... and getting handed all this redundant bullshit." She impatiently tossed the papers down on the table and scrawled her signature.
"Same with Tiny," Alex agreed, though with less disappointment. Her feelings for the big, LA cop were a quandary... unresolved... like those she had for Derek... but in a different way. God... after what Nick had told them... her heart ached for the man she wanted to love.
"Cross strikes again," Nick muttered to himself, his voice tinged with bitterness. Still... the world was reeling in shock and confusion.... Maybe this was the time for the "administrators" to bring a little control and organisation into place.... Sometimes a feeling of safety lay in mundane routine. "Can we skip the love life...," he snapped, "...and stick to business... since we are so short-handed?"
Alex looked up from the document. Her dark eyes flared in his direction, but she saw the strain that pinched his face. "This paragraph about anthrax?" she said, calmly gritting back a retort. "We already scan all incoming mail and packages anyway.... In fact, everything listed in here... we already do. It's already Legacy policy."
"Yeah...." Nick agreed. "Maybe some Houses aren't so conscientious."
"Has a definite threat been identified?" she asked, now determined to "stick to business". "I know about the two anthrax cases in Florida... but is there any hint as to how they contracted it?... Are there other cases?"
"Not so far," the young precept replied. "Not that we know of."
"Inhalation anthrax is pretty rare," Rachel agreed. "Cutaneous is common in those who work with animals, but neither is spread person to person.... Inhalation points to the ventilation... like Legionnaires Disease... or maybe even something blown into their faces."
"The FBI is taking it serious enough," was Nick's only comment. He suspected Legacy intelligence was "on the mark"... if not ahead of the game. All Legacy Houses were running continuous computer searches... checking databases for any information that might help... monitoring all communications at their disposal. But... his military mind pondered... the mail would be a perfect way to spread disease, poison.... If they had found a way to spread airborne particles from letters or parcels to contaminate all they came in contact with... it could stop business cold... spread fear everywhere. Jesus!... He was thinking with Derek's devious mind.
He brushed the thought aside... anything was easier to bear than thoughts of Derek... the deaths of thousands of innocents, the pending war, more terrorism... anything but the shell of a man sitting in that sterile room. Yet every thought somehow reminded him of that man he loved.
He would contemplate it no further, he promised himself, for when he did, he'd feel the old, long absent rage return, as it had just now, with Rachel. He didn't like that rage, which Derek had helped him to dismantle... and he didn't like the Nick Boyle it resurrected. That Nick Boyle was a cruel son-of-a-bitch, every bit his father's son, who took his pain out on those closest to him. Alex had borne the brunt of it yesterday, and Dominick the day before.
He selected a folder from the pile before him. Its green label indicated finances. Today's problem, he thought. He would solve this one today. The Luna accounts were in a hell of a mess, and most of the problems west of Switzerland were being dumped in his lap. He chuckled softly at the irony. Hell... he couldn't even balance his own checkbook half the time.
The President's action to freeze the bank accounts of charities that might have terrorist links had accidentally snared one of the foundation's accounts. It was a legitimate fund... sort of... designed to finance archaeological digs in the Middle East... but it was also designed to funnel cash to a Legacy consultant in Iraq. The man and his family had to live; he had been of great assistance to the Legacy and a source of valuable information for many years. However, efforts to sort things out were going nowhere. Willem or Derek would have resolved the problem with a few strategically placed phone calls, but there was no Willem... and no Derek.... He didn't know who to call... and if the media were to catch onto the story.... He could see the headline. Luna Foundation Flaunts Embargo!... Funnels Cash into Saddam's Pockets.
"Goddamned son-of-a-bitch!" he muttered."Ahhhmmm...," Dominick discreetly coughed, to catch Nick's attention. "Excuse me, sir.... The gate has just been on," the majordomo stated with unusual formality. "There are four visitors... a naval officer... two seamen, whom George identifies as Shore Patrol, and a civilian gentleman. They've asked to see you, sir."
Nick noted the "sir".... He wanted he be Mr. Nick... not "sir". "Did they say what they wanted?" he asked.
"No, sir, only that they wish to speak with you, personally, in private."
"OK, Dom," Nick sighed. What new trouble was this, he wondered. "Tell George to send 'em up. I guess I'll see 'em in the sitting room."
"Yes, sir," replied the elderly servant. "...And you might wish to slip into something more presentable. Might I suggest a freshly pressed shirt with that pair of pleated, khaki slacks you never wear," he said, eyeing Nick's time-worn jeans and stained sweatshirt.
"I'm not Derek... and I'm not 'sir'," Nick snipped. "This is who I am... Nick Boyle."
"Yes, sir," Dominick quietly responded. "I'll offer them a cup of coffee... in the drawing room... while you change."
< < + > >
the Drawing Room...
When Nick, now properly attired as Dominick had suggested, entered the drawing room, he found the majordomo serving coffee to the officer and the dark-suited civilian, while the two SP's stood at ease, hands behind their backs, on either side of the fireplace. The former SEAL noted that they were positioned in such a way as to block either set of double doors. Interesting, he thought. "Welcome to my parlor," said the spider to the fly.
"Coffee, sir?" Dominick offered.
"No... thank you... Dominick," Nick replied, as he appraised his guests. He easily recognized the insignia of a commander on the dark blue, double-breasted uniform. One look at the "suit" and the bulge at the man's armpit screamed, "Spook!"... an agent of some organization, known only by its initials... CIA, FBI, ATF, NSA, MI5, MI6.... Who could tell? They all tended to have the same cold, watchful eyes, set in a bland, bureaucratic face.
"Very good, sir. I'll leave the pot," Dominick said, removing the silver service to a tea table near Derek's piano. "Ring should you want anything more," he added, then discreetly withdrew, closing the doors behind him.
"I'm Nick Boyle.... What can I do for you, Commander... Mr.... Uh...?" Nick asked, extending his hand to the officer, who rose and tucked his white cap beneath his arm.
"I'm Commander Jeffries," he said, shaking the offered hand.
"...And your two friends in white?" Nick asked, cocking his head towards the armed sailors.
"Our escort in these troubled times," the commander responded.
"I'm John Smith... of the Department of Defense," said the other man as he too rose to shake Nick's hand. Casually surveying the room, he commented, "Quite a place you have here, Mr. Boyle?... You run all this?"
Nick gave a weak smile. "For the time being, I try," he replied. "It really belongs to Derek Rayne." He noted the glance that passed between the two men at the mention of Derek's name.
"I'll get to the point, Mr. Boyle," said Commander Jeffries. "We've been sent here by the Secretary of the Navy to personally deliver this notification into your hands," he explained, drawing a white, legal envelope from his jacket's inner pocket. "You are hereby recalled to active duty in the Navy of the United States of America... effective immediately... and you are restored to your former rank of petty officer."
Nick's stomach dropped to his toes. He knew the shock read in his face as he accepted the envelope, opened it, and read. "But...," he stammered. "There's been nothing about my reserve unit being called up."
"They haven't been," said Mr. Smith. "You'll see by the signatures... that this comes from the very highest levels... with the full consent of your 'employers'. It's 'top secret'... and these two seamen will escort you to your duty station."
"But," Nick objected, "we're short-handed here.... The foundation took a hellava hit on Nine-One-One.... There must be some mistake."
"No mistake, sir," Smith replied. "Miss Moreau and Mrs. Corrigan should be
quite capable of handling affairs here... at least until your 'employer' can send
assistance.... Now, sir... shall we go? All necessities will be provided. You'll be briefed
when you arrive." He paused to glance down at the ring on Nick's finger. "Say your
good-byes carefully," he instructed, "...and leave all valuables and identification here."
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