The Scent of Revenge Read online

  The Scent of Revenge

  Russell F. Moran

  Coddington Press

  Copyright © 2015 by Russell F. Moran

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission from the publisher or the author, except where permitted by law. Contact the publisher for information on foreign rights.

  ISBN: 978-0-9963466-0-3

  Edited by Brenda Judy

  www.PublishersPlanet.com

  Cover Design by Erin Kelly

  http://erinkelly.webs.com/

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  www.MoranCom.com

  This book is dedicated to those who suffer from Alzheimer’s and other forms of dementia, and especially to their families who suffer along with them.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing may be a lonely craft, but no work comes to daylight without the input from many people. As always, I thank my wife, Lynda, for her attentive reading and re-reading of my many drafts. I also thank my eagle-eyed friend, John White, for his proofreading and editing. And finally, I thank my editor, Brenda Judy. Brenda has an amazing ability to jump back and forth from the big picture to the tiniest detail. She is a pro.

  Author’s Note

  You will find a Cast of Characters after the last chapter of the book. It can be frustrating to come across a character on page 250, who you first met on page 25, especially if you’ve put the book down for a few days. I’ve seen this done in Russian novels, and I happily add a cast of characters to The Scent of Revenge.

  Chapter 1

  “I almost lost you. I almost lost you for good. I can’t stand this, Rick. I can’t take it anymore. If you think you’re marked for death, why do you have to help them?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What am I talking about? You just spent three days in the hospital hooked up to a cardiac monitor. You’re 42 years old and in great physical shape, and you just had a friggin heart attack. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  A tear rolled down her face as Ellen looked at her coffee. She reached for the remote and turned off the TV.

  The anchorman had just announced the latest terrorist attack on the United States, the first one in a week—a commuter train in Chicago was bombed and it derailed on a bridge. Terrorist attacks have been on a sickening rise since the infamous day of October 15, the worst day since 9/11. The attacks came so often we were becoming emotionally numb to the details. News stories of death and destruction were as familiar as weather reports.

  It was Sunday, and we both had the day off.

  With all of the insanity in my life, Ellen is the center of my universe. Just being with her calms me down. We’ve been married for three years, and I’m as much in love with her today as the day I proposed. I hate to see her upset. She’s told me that when I’m in pain, she’s in pain, and that’s exactly the way I feel about her. I can’t stand seeing her upset.

  Love at first sight sounds hackneyed, but when I first met Ellen at a charity fundraiser, that’s exactly what it was. She’s 38 years old, has medium-length blond hair, and beautiful pale green eyes. Ellen’s a fitness nut, and has the figure to show for it. Under her left eye is a slight scar from a fall she took as a kid. But now it looks like a dimple, especially when she smiles, which is often. I once told her that the prettiest thing about her face was the scar. I’m not the greatest with words. Good-looking women are all around, but Ellen is different, or at least I think so. She has a warmth about her that just kind of radiates. She cares about people. Once, as we walked down the street near our apartment, she saw a woman drop a bag of groceries on the other side of the street—the other side of the street—so naturally, ducking traffic, Ellen crossed the street to help the woman. I followed, of course, but Ellen led the way to help the complete stranger with her groceries.

  Life plays out in strange ways, ways that we often can’t control. Three years ago, I was about to leave my apartment to go to a book signing. My old friend, Mickey Giordano, had just launched his latest novel. The afternoon before the event, Mickey was riding his bike when a squirrel darted in front of him. He swerved to avoid it, jumped a curb, and fell against a hydrant, fracturing his leg. Mickey texted me from the hospital to say the signing was cancelled. Since I had already planned to go out for the evening, I figured I’d go to a charity fundraiser that I also had an invitation to, so I changed into a suit. The event was to raise money for children’s cancer research, something I always supported. That’s where I met Ellen. Had that squirrel not ran in front of Mickey’s bike, Ellen and I would never have met. To this day, I keep a brass statuette of a squirrel on our mantel with a nameplate in front of it: “Yenta.”

  I remember that night like it was yesterday. While Ellen and I chatted, a guy bumped into my arm, spilling my wine on Ellen’s dress. “I’m sorry,” she said, “let’s get you a refill.” She was sorry, not for the wine on her dress, but for my inconvenience. That’s Ellen.

  I’m an FBI agent, and I specialize in counterterrorism. I have a lot of weird stress in my life. Since the attacks of 10/15, I’ve lived a life of anxiety. But there’s one part of my life that centers me, that makes me happy: my wife, Ellen.

  After serving with the Marines in Iraq, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, so I used my GI Bill to go to law school after I mustered out with the rank of captain. While I was in law school, I met a recruiter with the FBI, and it’s been my life since. I was worried that I wouldn’t pass the physical, having taken a bullet in my left arm in a firefight. Even though I passed, I still get a nasty pain in my arm occasionally. The bullet hit me inside my upper left arm, missing my heart by four inches. It’s crazy what you think about sometimes, but it’s occurred to me that if I’d been killed, I never would have met Ellen. That’s a thought worse than death.

  Ellen got up and refilled our coffee cups. She sat down at the table, looked into my eyes, reached over, and squeezed my hand.

  I got up, pulled my chair next to hers, and put my arm around her.

  “Hey, it wasn’t a heart attack. The doctor said it was just a rare occurrence of atrial fibrillation, just a fluttering. No big deal. The FBI has strict rules about health issues, and that’s why I was in the hospital for three days. The doctor didn’t even put me on medication. I’m fine, hon. I just wish to hell you’d stop worrying.”

  “Rick, ever since President Reynolds announced that World War III has begun, you’ve taken it on as if it’s your own goddam private war, as if winning it is up to you. You’re the best agent in the FBI, but you can’t take this on alone. We live in a world where terror is no longer news, and it’s taking a big toll on you. I’m not going to let your job kill you. Hey, dickhead, say something.”

  “I love you. That’s all I have to say.”

  “I love you too, honey, but I want to hear what the hell you’re going to do to stay calm. I know it’s your job to fight this war, but you’ve got to take care of yourself, and it’s going to start right now.”

  Ellen got up, walked across the room to the breakfront, and pulled out a yellow pad.

  “Okay, handsome, I’m the architect and you’re my client. Together, we’re going to design the new Rick Bellamy.”

  “This is getting me nervous.”

  “Pay attention, Mr. Client. We’re about to do some preliminary sketches. Number
one, yoga. I can teach you right here so you don’t have to go to class. It’s the best form of exercise I’ve found, and I’ve tried everything. Number two is meditation—every day for at least 20 minutes. I can teach you that too. Number three is more sex.”

  “Why don’t we make that number one?”

  “Done,” she said as she pinched my knee and made a note on her pad.

  “Number four,” she said, “you and I should continue with that novel we’re writing. We can have a manuscript ready for the editor in three months if we do 500 words a day.

  “Number five,” Ellen continued, “the telephone.”

  “The telephone?”

  “Yes, the goddam telephone. Every time your phone rings, your face looks like you just stepped in dog shit. I can tell that you’re expecting bad news whenever you answer it. So, here’s my question: who’s your favorite comedian?”

  “Jerry Seinfeld, why?”

  “I’m going to make up a list of jokes I found on the Internet for you to carry on an index card. I sometimes use Jerry Seinfeld jokes when I give a talk. Every time your phone rings, read one of the jokes, and imagine that Jerry Seinfeld is about to tell it. Great choice, by the way. He’s my favorite too. Now you’ll laugh at the scary cell phone whenever it rings. I want you to do the same thing before you turn on the TV. As the anchorman is about to announce the latest bombing, at least you’ll start by laughing.”

  “Laughing at the telephone and TV? I like that.”

  “Number six,” she said, “is more aerobic exercise. Good for the mind, and it calms you too. We have the treadmill in the guestroom, and I want you to do at least a half-hour a day.”

  Ellen walked over to the photocopy machine in the corner of the den. She put her list on the flatbed, made a paper copy, and then scanned the document to save it as a file. Ellen amazes me. She has an incredibly organized mind, with a memory that never quits. I’ve seen her at work in architectural planning meetings. She can recite a lengthy list of items without referring to her notes.

  She handed me the original.

  “Here, hon, our plan for the new Rick Bellamy.”

  ***

  I guess a lot of people who have been married for only three years think their marriage is special. I know it is for me and Rick.

  A lot of things about our respective jobs seem contradictory. I’m an architect and my work is relatively predictable from day to day. Sure, I have crises occasionally, but it’s not an occupation that I’d consider dangerous. Well, yes, last year I was kidnapped and almost killed by some Islamist extremists, and the reason that happened was because of an architectural project I was working on. Long story. I think the work of an architect is rather peaceful. Fascinating and remunerative, but peaceful.

  Rick, on the other hand, is a warrior. That’s right, he’s a warrior. As an FBI agent, his work mainly involves investigation, not gun play. But our world is in turmoil, and Rick’s work as a counterterrorism specialist puts him in harm’s way—a lot.

  On 10/15, the forces of radical Islam declared war on America and the West; not by a formal decree, but by action. On that day, seven commuter trains and five commercial buildings were bombed, along with the people in them. Within a couple of weeks, two luxury cruise ships were blown up and sunk. In the next few months, more trains were attacked, two college football games were bombed, and, in the biggest terror spectacular of all, a plane loaded with explosives crashed into the Super Bowl game just before kickoff. Rick and I were supposed to be at the Super Bowl, but we couldn’t get there because of a blizzard in New York. Our seats were beneath the broadcast booth that blew up and fell. We both would have died.

  The attacks of 10/15 changed the world.

  Even in a world of terror, my job comes at me slowly. A prospective client calls and we have a meeting, and then another meeting. Once we sign a contract, my fun begins as I start work on the new project. It all flows in a predictable way.

  There’s nothing predictable about my husband’s work. Most of us wake up in the morning, check our to-do list, and have a pretty good idea of what our day will look like. It’s not that way with Rick’s job. He may flick on the TV to see the morning news, and an anchorman announces something that Rick has to jump on immediately. That’s why I insisted he look at a joke before he answers the phone or turns on the television.

  Rick is a dedicated man, and that’s one of the many things I admire about him. He doesn’t believe in leaving some shit for the next guy to pick up. Rick is waging a personal war against people who want to kill us, and he wants to win the war. Ever since the terrorist attacks of 10/15 last year, Rick’s job has spun into an almost unearthly series of crises, one after another. I know it’s silly to think that the radical killers are trying to personally hurt Rick, but I want to stand between them and him.

  When he was hospitalized for his heart flutters, that did it for me. No way in hell was I about to watch the man I love burn himself out for his job. I think he’s serious about my action plan for calming his overactive emotions. I know he’s serious about the number one item on my plan—making love. I sure am. It’s not that we need a reminder, because it’s something we do a lot, a whole lot, but it was just kind of fun to put it in writing.

  I want Rick around for a long time. I love him, I admire him. He’s also my friend, probably my best friend.

  Chapter 2

  Today is Friday, April 1, and I’m about to meet with New York FBI Director Barbara Auletta, my boss. Thanks to Ellen, my day started off great. We took care of number one last night, and I started the day with a half-hour on the treadmill, followed by some new yoga exercises that Ellen taught me. After that, I meditated for 20 minutes. Then we did some speed writing on our novel, hitting the 500-word mark in 45 minutes. My cell phone rang at 7:30, and I envisioned Jerry Seinfeld—“Two guys walk into a bar…”

  I could do without Ellen about as easy as I could do without oxygen.

  At 8:45 a.m., I sat in Barbara Auletta’s office waiting for her and sipping a cup of decaf (another one of Ellen’s ideas). Barbara’s office was tastefully decorated with warm colors. The walls were beige and the carpet a light brown. Across from her desk were two leather arm chairs for visitors. At about 600 square feet, the office was large. A round conference table with six chairs occupied the corner.

  Barbara walked in. She’s a thin, pretty woman, 5’11”, about 55 years old with short brown hair. She has a relaxed way about her, which I find amazing, considering her job. Barbara has a well-earned reputation as a by-the-books taskmaster, but I find her easy to work with. I think of her as a friend, not just a superior.

  She’s also tough as hell. A few years ago, Barbara and I were making an arrest. I was busy with one of the two men and Barbara went to cuff the other. After she tripped the guy, she slammed her knee into the small of his back and put on the cuffs like a sailor handling a line. And he was a big man. She stays in shape with a vigorous workout every day. Barbara came up through the ranks, and is now one of the senior officials in the bureau.

  “I’m glad you’re sitting, Rick. You’ve heard about the United Airlines plane crash at Newark Airport? Over 300 people killed.”

  “Of course,” I said, “it’s all over the TV.”

  “It wasn’t just terrorism,” Barbara said, “but something we’ve been worried about. The plane was taken down by a surface-to-air missile, a SAM.”

  Since 10/15, terrorist attacks in the United States have become as common as weather reports on the radio. Besides the constant bomb attacks, we narrowly avoided a massive bombing of five shopping malls across the country. Ellen designed the malls, and she helped us to stop the plan in its tracks. As the plot unfolded, Ellen was kidnapped by al-Qaeda. It was the worst time in my life. Thank God she was rescued by a SWAT team. Ellen pitched in by shooting two of her abductors. As I’ve said before, Ellen is gentle and kind, but she’s also a tough customer.

  Never a week goes by without a new terrorist event. President
Reynolds took to the airwaves and announced that World War III had started. Yes, he actually announced that we were in World War III. At first, a lot of people thought that Reynolds was overreacting and being melodramatic. But as the incidents picked up in frequency and the body toll mounted, people realized that Reynolds was correct, that the world really was at war. But it’s a war unlike anything we ever dreamed of. It’s a war that wasn’t declared by an enemy, because the enemy is a diffuse army of self-actors, not beholden to any nation state, although supported by plenty of them.

  “Barbara, do we have any idea who was involved?” I thought this was a stupid question, but I had to ask it.

  “No Rick. We know it was a SAM from a video that someone took as the plane came in for a landing. We know where the missile came from, a field of tall grasses about a half-mile from the airport. The missile shooter escaped before the police got there. Buster’s on his way. We’re about to find out what the CIA knows about surface-to-air missiles.”

  Barbara had no sooner finished her sentence when the desk intercom buzzed. “Agent Atkins is here to see you, Madam Director.”

  Buster walked in. Tall, at six feet, thin and impeccably dressed in a spring suit, Buster is an amazing spook, which is what spies like to call themselves. His real name is Gamal Akhbar, also known as Charles Atkins, also known as God-knows-what. Buster’s the lead CIA agent for counterterrorism matters, and I often work with him. Thanks to some solid leadership at the top of both agencies, the line between the CIA and the FBI often blurs. Because he’s fluent in Arabic, a language he picked up from his Lebanese mother, he’s an invaluable asset to the CIA and the country. He’s a good looking guy, about 45 years old, with a dark complexion and deep brown eyes. He wears his jet-black hair closely cropped. I’ve heard him say often that he has no time to waste combing his hair. Buster and I have become close-working colleagues as well as good friends over the past few months. He was instrumental in helping to free Ellen from the kidnapping last year. He helped save Ellen’s life, and that fact alone makes him my friend.