Before the Proof Read online

  BEFORE THE PROOF

  Gary Williams and Vicky Knerly

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2012 by Gary Williams and Vicky Knerly

  Previously published by Suspense Magazine

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781477870525

  This title was previously published by Suspense Magazine; this version has been reproduced from Suspense Magazine archive files.

  CONTENTS

  BEFORE THE PROOF

  SECRET CHAPTER “INDISPUTABLE PROOF”

  FIRST FIVE CHAPTERS “INDISPUTABLE PROOF”

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  WORKS BY GARY WILLIAMS & VICKY KNERLY

  BEFORE THE PROOF

  August 6. Monday - 7:18 p.m. Colombo, Sri Lanka

  Clarence McReynolds scurried from the taxi to the entrance of the Hilton Colombo Hotel. He was already running three minutes behind due to the damn traffic. The man had threatened to leave if he was late.

  Sweat beaded across McReynolds’ thick brow as he was escorted inside by an overly cordial doorman with a crinkled face who spoke in broken English. He swept into the large lobby, and headed for a bank of elevators on the far side. The lobby was sparsely populated, and he never noticed the casually dressed black man with short hair and azure blue eyes glancing through a magazine in one of the furnished alcoves. McReynolds hurried to the elevators and anxiously punched the call button in machine-gun fashion. He then removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the perspiration from his forehead. The lobby was air conditioned, yet McReynolds was perspiring profusely. Nearly half a minute passed before the doors opened. He almost trampled a couple coming off the elevator as he pushed his way inside. The doors closed with a pneumatic swish.

  The man in the alcove placed the magazine on a table, rose, and left the lobby. He thanked the gregarious doorman, who was more than happy to hold the door open for his departure.

  * * * *

  Returning to his 5th floor hotel room at the Korgo Suites across the street, CIA operative Samuel Tolen took a seat at the table just inside the open sliding glass door that led outside to the room’s small balcony. It was a mild evening, and a gentle breeze wafted inside as dusk settled on the thriving city. Two large flamingo flower plants dominating a squat table on the balcony sweetened the room with each breath of wind. They also provided perfect cover, allowing Tolen to aim the audio cone unencumbered down toward Room 409 across the way where Clarence McReynolds was meeting with Jung Lu. The device, CIA technology, allowed a beam of light to read the sound waves coming from inside the room and vibrate off the window with crystal clarity. No internal microphone had to be planted in order to eavesdrop on the conversation.

  The curtains were drawn. He would have no visual confirmation of the interaction.

  Tolen inserted the earbuds, donned a pair of optic-ray glasses, and checked the laser penlight that was only visible with the glasses. The beam of light struck the window of Jung Lu’s hotel room.

  One week ago, an old college friend from Auburn University, Royce Tomlinson, now a special agent in charge of the Baltimore division with the FBI had contacted Tolen. An FBI analyst had uncovered information regarding a planned meeting between Clarence McReynolds and Jung Lu.

  For several years, the CIA, and in particular, Samuel Tolen, had been after Lu, a North Korean illegal arms dealer. Lu had vanished off the map earlier in the year, and it was unclear if he had gone underground or had been killed. Obviously, it had not been the latter, but what intrigued Tolen was not only the possibility of catching Lu red-handed, but the mystery of who he was meeting. Clarence McReynolds was the personal assistant of Arnold R. Bowman, an American millionaire who had made his fortune in the automotive industry. Although considered seedy and unscrupulous, Bowman was not known to be involved with illegal arms. Once Tomlinson’s people at the Baltimore division got wind of the meeting in Sri Lanka, they began digging into Bowman’s affairs and uncovered a tantalizing fact: Bowman, through holding companies and offshore accounts, had discreetly invested in U.S.-based companies on the New York Stock Exchange over the last week to the tune of $350 million. According to the FBI, tremendous efforts had been taken to mask his activities. Curiously, instead of buying stock long, Bowman had bought short; a strategy to profit when it is believed the price of a company’s stock will fall. Oddly though, Bowman’s investments were not in a single company, nor were they even in a particular sector or industry. His buys were all over the board, which meant he believed a catastrophic market decline would occur in the near future. It was a huge gamble unless Bowman had inside information or knew a market collapse was inevitable. The millionaire was up to something, and the visit by his personal assistant, McReynolds, with Jung Lu could provide the proof. Tolen was particularly anxious to know if there was a connection between Bowman’s recent stock activity and the arms dealer.

  Tomlinson recommended Tolen get a room on the fifth floor, as he had vacationed there last year with his family and knew the balcony afforded good cover for surveillance. Thus, with his strategic position and his earbuds in place, Tolen listened intently. He had turned the audio recorder on prior to leaving the room, expecting McReynolds would arrive at Lu’s room before he was able to return to his own. Instead, he was surprised by the silence. Tolen, who had only arrived last night, was not able to confirm Lu’s presence visually, but he heard shuffling in the suite, which confirmed the occupant’s presence. He was anxious to confirm that Jung Lu was, in fact, in the room.

  Tolen glanced at the recorder, knowing it was not for his benefit. Samuel Tolen had a unique skill. He possessed the aural equivalent of photographic memory. Not only could he recall exact sounds and conversations, but he could remember the exact pitch and intonation. He had heard Lu speak on several occasions in recorded phone calls. Once he heard Lu’s voice, he would be able to make positive identification. Recording the conversation would be useful if needed as evidence in a court of law.

  It was nearly two more minutes before there was a knock on Lu’s door. Tolen heard a click, then the sound of the door opening.

  “Mr. McReynolds. Come in please.” Tolen recognized Lu’s voice immediately. The cadence was slightly different than he remembered it, but his tone was dead on.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lu,” McReynolds said. His words were clear, composed, and very different than the nervous man Tolen had witnessed in Lu’s hotel lobby only minutes before.

  Several seconds of silence passed before the conversation resumed.

  McReynolds spoke, “My employer wants confirmation that everything is set to go in town this evening.”

  “All arrangements have been handled,” Lu responded. “Everything is on schedule, and I anticipate the time will be 8:43 p.m., but know that the exact moment is out of my hands.”

  Exact moment for what, Tolen wondered.

  “As agreed, a wire transfer of $100 mill
ion in U.S. currency will be made to your bank account upon verification your task is completed. The method of death must be as we discussed, or we have no deal.”

  Tolen’s thoughts swirled. Method of death? This is no arms deal. It’s an assassination. Who could be worth a $100 million payment? Jung Lu was many things, but he was no assassin.

  The conversation between the two men shifted to small talk, and no further mention was made regarding the assassination that was to occur in Colombo in a little over an hour.

  As soon as he heard Lu escort McReynolds out of the hotel room and all went silent, Tolen removed the glasses, fished his cell phone from his pocket, and dialed.

  * * * *

  At 10:02 a.m., Tiffany Bar sat in her office with the door closed. She had been tasked as Tolen’s analytical support at CIA headquarters in McLean, Virginia, for his mission in Sri Lanka. Given the nine-and-half-hour time difference, it was now 7:32 p.m. in Sri Lanka. The meeting between McReynolds and Lu was going on 17 minutes. Tolen had said he would call her the moment it ended.

  She loved working with Tolen, despite their age difference. Tiffany Bar had joined the agency four years ago at the age of 19 after achieving a doctorate degree from Princeton in forensic research. Considered an analytical savant, many peers in the agency seemed threatened by her intelligence at such a young age and treated her like a pariah. At barely five feet tall, with blonde bobbed hair and long bangs, most people saw her as a child. Tolen was different. A seasoned operative, he had treated her no differently than he would anyone else at the agency from the first day. It was refreshing. Best of all, he had a way of dealing with Bar that helped to maximize her potential.

  “Bar,” she answered, sweeping a long strand of blond hair behind her right ear.

  “This is Tolen. I’ve run into an unusual situation here.”

  “Did the meeting go off as planned?”

  “Yes, but the topic wasn’t illegal arms dealings. Arnold R. Bowman, via McReynolds, has apparently hired Jung Lu to assassinate someone in Colombo this evening. It’s peculiar because it’s not the type of criminal activity Lu has engaged in previously.”

  “Sounds like he’s branching out.”

  “Possibly. I need you to bring Deputy Director Vakind on board. We may need assistance from local authorities.”

  “Do you know the target?”

  “No, but the asking price for the hit is 100 million.”

  “Dollars?” This was the first time Tiffany had been involved with a mission where a human life was targeted for a price. While she knew it was a reality, the concept was still unsettling, not to mention the dollar amount was staggering.

  “Yes. Bar, are you absolutely certain that President Fane left Sri Lanka on Saturday?”

  “Yes, every United Nations delegate departed two days ago.” She typed in a command at her computer as she spoke and brought up a video from GNN. “As a matter of fact, after visiting France yesterday, Air Force One just landed at Heathrow. I’m watching a video from 40 minutes ago of President Gretchen Fane debarking onto British soil. As usual, Jessica is right behind her.” Jessica, the president’s 16-year-old daughter, was Gretchen Fane’s only family after her husband and her father’s accidental electrocution two years ago, one month before Fane took office. The two men were installing Christmas lights when the tragedy occurred. Since then, President Fane took Jessica on trips at every opportunity in order to spend time with her. They had grown closer, sharing hobbies and common interests that helped to bridge the generation gap.

  “Forget political figures for the moment. Who else is in Colombo of importance?”

  “Give me a sec.” Tiffany typed in a series of commands and located the Sri Lanka visitors’ log. The CIA, in conjunction with the Secret Service, maintained a detailed report of celebrity and dignitary travel around the world on a daily basis, based on passport scans at Customs. It was one of the few inter-agency projects that actually worked. “There are no other presidents, kings, or queens in town, but there is a knight. Sir Paul McCartney is in concert at the National Performing Arts Theatre. From what I can tell, there are no major celebrities or dignitaries in attendance.”

  “What else do you have?”

  “There’s a banking convention in town, but it’s strictly for Sri Lankan banks. A few guest speakers, but no names that stand out. Other than that, the Sri Lankan national cricket team is playing Ireland in an exhibition match under the lights in a stadium on the outskirts of town. That’s it.” She paused, thinking. “Tolen, besides the President of the United States, who is thousands of miles away in another country, whose assassination could possibly command a $100 million payout? And how is this tied to Bowman shorting 70 percent of his total net worth in the New York Stock Exchange?”

  “The assassination is going to occur at approximately 8:43 p.m. local time. We’ve got just over an hour to discover the answers. One more thing, Bar. I’m going to send you an audio file. I need you to confirm one of the voices is Jung Lu.”

  “With your audio-recall ability, you need me to confirm? That’s like Superman asking for some strength,” she said whimsically.

  “There’s something about his oral delivery that seems a bit off, and I’ve been unable to make visual contact to confirm Jung Lu’s presence. It sounds like him, but I have to be certain.”

  “What about Clarence McReynolds?”

  “I witnessed his arrival in the lobby of Lu’s hotel. It’s him, alright, although I want you to find out if he’s staying in town. Keep checking for possible targets in Colombo. Someone here is worth a lot of money dead to Arnold Bowman.”

  * * * *

  Tolen was still sitting at the table when he hung up with Bar. He emailed the audio file of the conversation, then his thoughts shifted to Arnold R. Bowman. Bowman was a millionaire because he lost his billionaire status when he took a bath in the stock market crash several years ago. In the inner circle of the rich and powerful, it was said he had “billionaire envy.” It was also said that Bowman would do anything to rejoin that elite status, but exactly how an arranged assassination would help his cause was unclear.

  The door to his hotel room suddenly burst open. A man with short, dark hair appeared in the entryway leveling a pistol at Tolen. A series of bullets whizzed by Tolen’s left side, one grazing his forearm. Tolen rolled off the chair to the side, and drew his pistol from his underarm harness with his right hand just before he slammed into the near wall. He remained low, firing off two shots. While the assailant used a silencer, the blast of Tolen’s gunfire was nearly deafening in the small room. Tolen’s shots landed, striking the man twice in his left leg. The man seemed genuinely surprised he had been hit. He hobbled backward, blood trickling, then gushing from the wounds. In agony, he lifted his gun again and fired. The errant shot struck the wall inches above Tolen’s head. Tolen returned fire, striking the man squarely in the chest. The man fell to the hotel room floor, face down. His weapon spilled from his hand and skipped across the floor, landing in the entrance to the bathroom.

  Tolen stood. He took a long, deep inhale, then exhaled slowly. He moved to the hotel room door, checked outside to make sure the man had been alone, and closed it before anyone came in sight. He wondered how long it would be before security swept the hallways after concerned guests reported hearing gunfire.

  Tolen holstered his pistol, knelt by the body, and felt his attacker’s neck. No pulse. His intent had not been to kill the man, but he had no choice.

  In all the confusion, all he had registered was that the man had Asian features. Could it be Jung Lu?

  He slowly rolled the body over until the face became visible. For an instant, Tolen saw the face of his father. Then he shook the vision away and focused on the matter at hand. Examining the features, it was definitely not Jung Lu. This man’s origin appeared more Chinese than Korean.

  The mystery had suddenly deepen
ed.

  He spotted something in the man’s right ear and turned the head to the side. He withdrew a small earpiece.

  Tolen searched the body for a wallet or any form of identification but came up empty. In the man’s pocket, he found a compact device with a single button glowing green. He also found a folded sheet of paper. The moment he began to read the text, he recognized it. When he flipped the paper over, he found two phrases. Strangely, they related to the New Testament.

  He removed his cell phone and snapped a close-up picture of the man’s face, then emailed it to Bar. Tolen stood, released the clip from his pistol, and replaced the spent shells. He dialed Bar’s number. As Bar answered, he realized it had only been a few minutes since they had last talked.

  “Just got your email,” Bar acknowledged. “The man doesn’t look too healthy. Is he . . . ?”

  “Yes. He attacked me in my hotel room,” Tolen said as he examined where the bullet had scraped a long section of his forearm. Blood was oozing slowly from it. “He’s not Lu or anyone I recognize, and I need you to run facial recognition on him. There’s a chance my cover’s been blown.” Tolen retrieved a bandage from his suitcase and quickly wrapped the wound to staunch the bleeding. Then he went to the sliding glass door, closed it, and locked it. He drew the curtains shut. “I suspect the man is either working for Lu or McReynolds, but I have no idea how they knew I was here.” Tolen threw on a sports jacket and left the hotel room, placing a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. “Bar, I need you to look up the following: on the deceased man, I found a paper that had handwritten phrases related to the Bible.” Tolen spoke low as he navigated the hallway and reached the elevator, pressing the call button. He looked around to make sure no one would overhear him. “One said: Charge Mother Mary. The second phrase: Live Jude 10.” The elevator doors opened. He stepped inside and pressed the button for the first floor.