Jack poured them a fresh cup of coffee, muttered and settled back in his chair.

Peter sipped from cup and looked at Jack. Jack nodded and Peter picked up his story.

“All this time the KGB was frantically searching for us. As careful as I was, one day in Colorado when you were playing at a neighbor’s house, I left by the back door of our rented house and went shopping. KGB killers entered the house and killed your mother and infant sister, Sarah. The killing team was just leaving from the front, when I walked up through the alley to the back of the house. I recognized one of the killers. Someday I swore I would find him and kill him.” Pounding his fist on the chair arm, Peter said in a hoarse voice, “That time is now. I saw this killer in the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown last week and followed him to his house.”

Peter whispered, “You have no idea how much I have missed your mother.”

Jack hugged his father and asked if he wanted to rest awhile, but Peter said, “No, not yet. But go find Le Dinh and see if he’ll produce something a little stronger than coffee.”

When Jack returned with two bloody marys, Peter said, “I just want to live long enough to see justice done and, yes, vengeance as well. There is no evidence we can turn over to the police or FBI. It is almost as if some higher power has delivered Yuri to me in my last days. I’m sure he won’t be leaving the area soon. We’ll take him within the next few weeks.”

Jack looked over at his father and said, “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll see to him! Now tell me some more of what happened after my mother and sister were killed.”

Sipping his coffee and clearing his throat, Peter picked up his tale with a weakened voice. “Now there were just the two of us. We ran fast. Before everything was computerized, it was relatively easy to change identities. I chose a very American name and slowly added documentation to support the name of Brandon. Although I was born in Russia, my grandmother told me I had a lot of Celtic ancestors. Since your mother was no longer with us, I didn’t have to worry about explaining her slight accent. My American English was native and so was yours. So with our changed identities, we bought a used car for cash and headed east, looking for a place where we could start a stable, if not a normal life.

“We needed schools and a place where no one was interested in our backgrounds. We had plenty of money. In fact, taking care of the money was almost a full-time job for me. We had to pay some taxes, so the money had to come from someplace. Some of my early high risk investments paid off many times over. I paid taxes on our investment income and stashed the rest in a number of safety deposit boxes.

“Fairfax County in Virginia was exploding with new development and an influx of people pouring in from all over the country. Land was cheap and I bought a lot of it. We settled on a house in a Fairfax County development called Kings Park. You may remember some of this. No one cared where you came from. Everyone was from someplace else. Schools were good. And the chaos of rapid growth provided a good place for us to hide and continue to improve our identities.

“Early on I decided to find a contact in the CIA. For the next year I spent all my free time trying to identify the right place to start the destruction of the KGB network assigned to me. The FBI and other organizations with judicial cultures that are focused on making cases for prosecution in the courts just don’t have the liberty or even the desire to look at solutions beyond the law. At the end of a year of investigation and research, I had a few prospects. I needed an ambitious officer who had served a number of foreign tours. From my KGB training I knew the organization and function of the different components of the CIA.

“Before the KGB could warn my entire network of illegal agents, I contacted each of them and gave them new locations and identities. A few years later the CIA, with my assistance, captured all but one of these illegal agents.

“My first attempt to establish contact worked. I picked Frank Batcher, an officer who had just returned from a posting in Vienna. I found his address and one morning, followed him to work. The rest was easy. I made up a package giving complete details of one of the most dangerous agents in my old network. To improve my credibility I included the small clandestine radio given to me by the KGB. In my note I told Batcher if this worked out, I would give him more leads, but he must make no effort to find or identify me, and there must be no leaks to the media. I put my package in his mailbox at night and then called him from a pay phone. When he asked me how he could contact me, I said he couldn’t. I’d call him occasionally, and he could give me information over the phone. From the beginning, we have completed twenty-five years of working together.

“During those years my contact, moving from one assignment to the next, became quite senior in the Intelligence Community. He trusted me and began giving me things to work on. I’m sure, from time to time, the CIA tried to identify me. I don’t know how hard they tried because my information was always accurate and dependable. I believe they made the decision it was better to have my cooperation, instead of identifying the source and taking a chance of losing the information.

“In intelligence terms I was a very good source who asked for nothing in return. You see if all a source wants to do is provide information, he or she can control all contact. If you are doing this for payment or some other tangible form of reward, you will eventually lose control of the contact arrangements. All I had to do was to conceal my packages of information, and then call my contact and tell him where to pick them up. I assure you after the first package of information, there was no hesitation about picking up my packages. Then, too, since there was no money or the usual paperwork involved, there was no Congressional oversight.

“Three years ago my CIA friend moved into a very senior position as the head of the Counter Terrorism Center (CTC). From his position he could provide some protection for his sources. One time when I called him on the number he had given me, he convinced me to meet with him in person. I was concerned but he agreed to my stringent meeting arrangements. There was no need for my paranoia. We talked for several hours and agreed to regular monthly meetings. His proposal was very attractive. He had been impressed by the information I had provided in the past. He said it was some of the best he had ever received but now we needed to make some changes. He said my knowledge of the workings of Russian Intelligence was dated. He wanted to continue our relationship but in another direction.

“Frank told me his work was being handicapped by the increasing liberalism of government officials, elected and appointed, who failed to realize terrorism is not a law and order problem. It is, instead, a war. And different rules had to be applied. The war cannot be won by trial lawyers and words. The FBI and the lawyers in Justice and on the intelligence staffs on the Hill were culturally wedded to the case method, where evidence collection, an indictment, an arrest are followed by a trial. A long process with a high standard for rules of evidence that is not suited to a battlefield. According to Frank, they act as if their own government is the enemy. When people who are trying to kill us are given the protection of the Constitution and our system of Justice, it is a recipe for national suicide. He feels strongly that the law and order process will never win the battle with terrorism.

“Frank wanted a source of assistance and financial support that would never be exposed to anyone with an oversight role or those looking for political spin. The government is full of people who try to impose their solutions in an area they do not understand. Most of them have never heard a gun fired in anger. But they are full of tactical advice and are willing to apply the protections of our Constitution to people trying their best to destroy our way of life. Partisan politics and intelligence operations just do not mix well. The motive of ninety-odd per cent of all representatives and senators is to get reelected and to increase their power positions. The needs of the nation come in a distant second, and truth is what benefits the office holder.

“Frank gave me his speech, a long one for him, nearly two years ago. Frank is the only name he gave me, but he of course knows that I know his full name and address. His full name is Frank Alan Batcher. He knows me as Paul. In return for my help, he was willing to give me the guarantee neither I nor my family would ever be prosecuted for entering this country illegally or for any of the work done in his behalf. Frank knows I am dying and wants to meet with you to discuss a new direction for our work together.

“He also knows I’m trying to track down the man known to me as Yuri. This is the same man who was part of the KGB team that killed your mother and sister. To help protect our arrangement he wants us to send our information to the FBI but to tell him when we have done so. When we finish up here, I’ll make arrangements for the three of us to meet. No one else knows our story.”

Peter Brandon went on to say, “I was born as Ivan Kalin in the Soviet Union in what was then Leningrad. I was a young KGB Officer, selected early in what you would call the sixth grade and trained in a mostly English environment by American and Canadian born staff in a special school not far from Moscow. Languages were easy for me. I learned Polish and French. Many of the skills I learned were passed on to you as you were growing up, sometimes in the form of games and other times in the context of sports and physical fitness.

“It was in the period of Détente, the counter-intelligence vigilance of the cold war era was fading into memory and the KGB leaders decided to take advantage of the soft U.S. borders. My superiors began to infiltrate KGB Officers into the United States through Canada and Mexico.

“No one except my instructors knew of my KGB status, and they would never leave the Soviet Union. My handlers decided to send me into Canada and then into the United States. They never knew I despised the regimented life under the Party elite. The grayness of life, the constant worry that anything I said or thought might be seen to be anti-party, the arbitrary allocation of career opportunities, and the danger of trusting even your best friends made me yearn to escape. My grandmother was the only person I could talk to. She told me tales of how her friends and family members had been persecuted in the insane purges prior to World War II. Before she died she made me promise to take the first opportunity to escape. What better way than for the Party itself to make the arrangements?

“So for years I knew, if I ever got a chance to get out of the Soviet Union, I would never go back. I despised the cruelty and arrogance of the Communist Party. I was certain one day the Russian people would rise up against the regimes who had, one after the other, brought them hardship without hope. The threat of the camps and the omnipotence of the KGB sapped the courage of even the bravest. I could not be part of the historical repression that had wrung the light and gaiety out of people wherever the Hammer and Sickle flew on its field of red.

“A young man traveling alone presents a higher level of risk so I was provided with a wife. The KGB was a resourceful organization, and within three months they found a suitable wife. She was a beautiful young Polish woman from a good family who spoke excellent English. Her name was Anna. I’m not going to tell you her full name or give you any dates. Nor am I including the places and details of our break from the KGB. Backtracking my story would be dangerous for you. Her parents were ranking party members and highly trusted. I loved your mother from the first day I saw her.

“Armed with KGB-provided papers, we now had a Polish identity with all the necessary documentation including university student identity cards from Warsaw University, drivers’ licenses, a military status card, medical records and a collection of pocket litter to add authenticity to our cover stories, we made our way across Poland and Czechoslovakia into Austria, where we joined with other refugees in the endless processing. Eventually we got our Canadian immigrant visas and arrived in Canada. The journey was not hard. The trip from Austria to Canada was the easiest part of the trip.

“The Catholic Church in Canada helped us to get settled in a small town near Ottawa. Much to my surprise Anna was fascinated with the Christian church, and keeping with our cover, she attended church several times a week. Once in a while I went with her but was never able to match her interest and commitment to religion. I found work as a carpenter’s helper and with the help of the church and Canadian social services, we made ends meet. Two years later you were born. I was told my mission was to make my way into the United States and to settle within thirty miles of Washington, D.C. Once there I would take control of a spy network.

“My Control in Canada handed me a list of important American military and civilian office holders to assassinate prior to the start of a military attack on the United States. The intent was to confuse the American political and military chain of command. I had a secondary mission of creating chaos in the civilian sector by the spread of bacteriological agents, placing bombs in pre-selected key areas and sabotaging other targets.

“I was relieved when I learned Anna, though frightened, shared my feelings and was willing to take the risks we would face breaking away from KGB control in the United States.”

Talking rapidly now as if he were trying to get through a difficult time of his life, Peter plunged on, telling his son he knew they had to get out of Canada and make their break soon. “There were not enough places to hide or cities large enough in Canada to hide a family on the run from the KGB. Fortuitously, the KGB contact in Canada told me to get ready to move to the United States the next month. He said the counter-intelligence forces in the U.S. were improving rapidly and personal contacts between KGB controllers assigned to the Soviet Embassy and Consulates and undercover officers were becoming more and more dangerous. Officers with my training had to move in and take over key espionage networks. I was assured all the necessary funds and equipment to perform my mission would be in place, so I could improve the access of my network, recruit and pay agents, and acquire necessary real estate for the mission. Once in the United States, I systematically withdrew nearly all the funds from each safety deposit box and bank account under my control.”

“Wait a minute! Are you telling me our whole life is financed with funds stolen from the KGB?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Over the years I have grown this money into a sizeable fortune and used a lot of this money to help protect our country.”

“Why didn’t you just walk into the nearest FBI office and tell them your story?”

“Good question. But once you walk in as a defector to any counter-intelligence organization, you cannot walk out. For the rest of your life, you will be in their hands. They will never fully trust you nor allow you to develop your life by following your own path. Also, I didn’t trust the Americans to keep us safe from a vengeful KGB. One of the essential things I have learned from my life is that while some people will keep their word, all governments break their word as soon as it is expedient to do so. I swore once our family was safe, I would help the American government to protect this wonderful country.

“Now, please bear with me, and let me get through my story.”

The snow covering the landscape disappeared just outside of Frederick, Maryland, and it was late afternoon when Jack pulled into his father’s driveway. His father lived in a small estate on a hillside above the town library in McLean, Virginia. Jack parked in the roundabout near the front door and let Shadow out to chase after a gray squirrel. In all his six years he had never caught one, but true to Bouvier honor Shadow gave it all he had each time. The clamor brought Jack’s father to the front door.

Jack hadn’t seen him for four months and the change was incredible. Peter Brandon had lost a lot of weight. His skin hung in folds under his chin, the color was gone from his face, and only the piercing blue-gray eyes remained. He looked much shorter. His hair had thinned and he could see his scalp under the wispy white hair. Jack ran up the few steps and took his father in his arms. He could feel every vertebra and was conscious of his dad’s fragile body. His father hugged him back and said, “My God, do I look that bad? Never mind. Come on in and have a drink with me. Le Dinh will get the baggage. I’ve put you in the master bedroom.”

At Jack’s look, his dad said, “I moved out of my huge master suite a month ago. Everything is too far apart, and the old guest bedroom on the other side of the house is quieter and the bathroom is much closer to the bed.”

Jack called for Shadow who came bounding back instantly to greet Le Dinh Nguyen, his father’s long-time friend and servant who, with his wife, kept the house running and excellent meals on the Brandon table. Jack greeted Le Dinh and tried to give him a hand with the baggage, but he was chased away. Jack followed his father back to the library. His dad asked for a scotch on the rocks. Jack poured himself three fingers of Jack Black over one ice cube and said, “I wasn’t prepared for the oxygen bottle. Is there any reason to get another opinion? Maybe there is some new treatment out there?”

“No. I’ve seen the best. I have rejected the transplant process. The doctors tell me I am not a good candidate anyway. We have six months to a year, and I have a lot to say to you. By the way I’m sorry about your divorce, but to be honest, I could never warm up to Marsha. I don’t think she thought the world of me either.”

“Don’t be sorry, Dad. I made a mistake and got out of a bad situation without needing a shrink or a loan officer.”

“You know you could have money from me at any time. I’ll bet Marsha thought I was either a fraud or the tightest old man she had ever known.”

“Hmm, not too far off. She couldn’t understand I wanted to make my own way and you had taught me to be self-sufficient. Yeah, but finances were only a part of our problems. It wasn’t like I was in debt or couldn’t pay my bills. She just wanted to live beyond our means.”

“I’ve asked Le Dinh to serve us a light supper in here. It saves me some steps and energy. Talking tires me out and I have a lot to say to you. After supper I want to have a short talk about your past work with the police in Pittsburgh and then about your future with them, but I want to get to bed early. I have a long day planned for tomorrow.”

Before Jack could ask any questions, Le Dinh entered with their trays. Jack had forgotten how good the food was in his dad’s house. A cold cucumber soup served with curried egg salad sandwiches and roasted red peppers stuffed with saffron rice and diced shrimp. His dad passed on the Chablis, but Jack, knowing the quality of the wine cellar, accepted. After supper Jack talked to his father about his police work and where he could expect to be in the next five years, if he continued working with the police. His father asked a few questions and then said he needed to go to bed.

Jack wondered as he tossed in bed how he could go on without his father. His father had always been there for him. Here he was at thirty about to make a turn in his life he would not have thought possible yesterday. It seemed during their after-supper talk, his father wanted to know how qualified Jack was to manage the Brandon money and to continue with his life work of encouraging private enterprise.

After a late breakfast the next day, his father suggested they have coffee on the sun porch. After they were settled in the warmth of the morning sun, he told Jack he had a complicated and shocking story to tell him. He began his story by saying, “Brandon is not the name I was born with, and I was not born in this country.”

Jack nearly spilled his coffee as he sat up and sputtered, “What do you mean?”

“My story is long, so please sit back and hold your questions until I take you through it.”

This blog will serialize Barry Kelly’s first novel “Justice Beyond Law” every Wednesday and Saturday. For more by Barry Kelly, visit his Amazon author page.

One

Jack Brandon rolled out of bed just after dawn, dressed in his casual style of traditional Levis over the ankle lace-up boots, a polar tech mock turtle and an old leather jacket. He let his black Bouvier, Shadow, out in the small snow-covered fenced-in backyard. The temperature was still below freezing. Leaving Shadow to his morning ritual, Jack knocked the snow off his boots and went back in the house to finish packing and shutting the house up for a long absence. Before bringing Shadow in, he ground up some Colombian beans for coffee. Jack wouldn’t need breakfast, but Shadow wasn’t big on skipping any meals.

Jack’s father had called him last night and asked him to move in with him. His doctors told him he wasn’t going to get better. His failing heart might give him another year. Jack hadn’t hesitated. He told his dad he and Shadow would be there tomorrow. He called the captain of his Homicide Department and asked for a leave of absence. After a few questions his captain told Jack he could come back anytime, but now he needed to take care of his father. The Department would mail the necessary paperwork to his father’s home. Jack was his best sergeant. He had several awards for valor and his captain hated to lose him. The captain said he would be in touch and put the phone down. Jack would miss the guys in his unit and the challenge of homicide work in Pittsburgh. He knew he would miss the city where real Americans lived and worked. Blue collar was not a bad thing in Pittsburgh.

Jack ran a hand over his chin and decided to skip shaving. Lugging his three bags down the narrow staircase to the front porch, he went back into the house and motioned for Shadow to come in. After feeding Shadow and locking the front door, he pulled on his black watch hat and went down the steps where his Jeep Cherokee was parked at the curb. He signaled Shadow to jump in the back seat.

Throwing his bags in the luggage compartment, Jack glanced at the house and warmed up the Jeep for the trip to Washington, DC. It hadn’t taken long to close up his small Cape Cod house located in Oakland, one of the older neighborhoods of Pittsburgh. His ex-wife Marsha had been gone for five months and had taken anything of value with her. In no uncertain terms she had told Jack her family was right. He would never amount to anything. She wasn’t going to sit around this shack while her husband wasted their lives fighting crime in Pittsburgh. A bullet wound last year followed by a commendation hadn’t helped matters. Marsha cared little for awards without money. She constantly nagged him to ask his father for money.

Why didn’t he get some money from him? Jack told her his dad believed in people making their own way. She said well screw him, too, the tight old bastard. Last week Jack had signed the final divorce papers. She left him his books, Shadow and the house she hated. Life with a high-powered attorney would suit her much better. Jack didn’t expect a wedding invitation. At least he had no alimony to pay and there were no kids. He wondered if her new husband-to-be knew Marsha didn’t believe in post-marital sex.

With the radio tuned to a country music station and with Shadow looking out the window, Jack felt freer than he had in months. He might even sell the Pittsburgh house and try a new career. He got great satisfaction from his job, but wasn’t sure he could handle all the politics Captain Shorer faced every day. Jack was often counseled to be more politically correct and more respectful of his leaders. Captain Shorer was wonderful to him, almost like a second father, but the rest of the hierarchy sucked. Maybe it was time for a change.

No new snow was predicted, but the mountain-sides were covered with deep drifts and the highway had patches of ice and snow. As long as he kept a reasonable speed, 4X4 wouldn’t let him down. He planned to stop in Ligonier at a place he knew. Jack and Shadow never met a cheeseburger they didn’t like.

Shadow was a good listener, and Jack talked things over with him as the Cherokee rolled along route 30 East through the Allegheny Mountains. Two hours later Jack pulled into the small parking lot at the diner. Shadow immediately sat up and howled. Jack told him to be patient and went inside to get two cheeseburgers and a large black coffee. Sitting in the jeep eating his cheeseburger with Shadow watching hopefully from the back seat for a second helping, Jack thought Marsha was partially right. He wasn’t going anywhere in his police career. He loved being on the “job” but recognized he had gone about as far as he could bringing killers to justice in Pittsburgh.

He was in great physical shape. He had been a starting cornerback for the University of Pittsburgh before wrecking his left knee early in the season his senior year. After graduating from Pitt magna cum laude with two majors, one in political science and the other in criminology, Jack took an opportunity to go to Officer Candidate School at the Marine base in Quantico, Virginia. There he ranked at the top of his class and was accepted into Marine Recon School at Camp Lejune, North Carolina. Jack did equally well there. With the training he had received from his father and with his hand-to-hand combat skills from fifteen years of Hapkido, it was easy for him to excel. None of his instructors could beat him.

Early in the Iraqi War, Jack led a sniper team on the leading edge of the Marine Corps advance. After Baghdad fell, his unit moved into the Sunni Triangle near Ramadi. During a night mortar attack, he got enough shrapnel in his left leg to get a ticket home. After recovering, Jack was assigned to Quantico. While there he met and fell in love with a debutante from Washington, DC. After a whirlwind romance he found himself in civilian clothes with a wife and no job. The law enforcement job in Pittsburgh was just too timely and convenient to pass up and he had the credentials.

Now he was at another crossroads. This time he had neither a wife nor a job. Money would not be a problem. He could always find a job, and he knew his Dad was a millionaire several times over. Jack had doubts about going back to the Pittsburgh police. He liked the action and the hunting down of killers, but he hated the bureaucracy. Maybe he would like his father’s world of finance. He could always look for the excitement of living on the edge outside his job. With no responsibilities, he was free to try different paths.

This blog will serialize Barry Kelly’s first novel “Justice Beyond Law” every Wednesday and Saturday. For more by Barry Kelly, visit his Amazon author page.

Prologue

December

Arthur Cohen, congressman from New York’s 10th District, was anxious to begin his usual morning run. Everyone else in the Cohen house was still sleeping, at least in the case of his wife, Shara, who liked waking up softly, especially since their third child was expected late next month. Without his workout he had trouble concentrating on the minutiae of constituent problems. They invaded his time to work on new legislation. At 7:15 a.m. the world looked good. The weather forecast was for a bright sunny early winter day. The first rays of light made the forecast look good. The coolness of the night still prevailed and wafted around him like a cocoon as his ten-minute-a-mile stride carried him down the slope to the C&O Canal. The dirt path along the canal was the best place he had ever found to run. It was good for his over-forty knees. He often felt he could run forever along the canal. This morning he would run for exactly another twelve minutes and ten seconds, and his life would end.

Just before first light Jason settled himself into his shooting position and waited for his target to come striding down the canal path. It wouldn’t be long now. In the distance Jason could see a few runners approaching. Runners all have distinctive styles. Jason saw the blue and white warm-up suit come in view. The second runner was his mark, but to be sure Jason used his binoculars to compare the runner to the photo his Control had given him. It was a match. For the last two mornings from his carefully chosen shooting position, he had watched the congressman run along the tow path. Jason liked punctual targets. He had one here. Right on time. The light was good. At one hundred meters he would fire one round into Cohen’s chest. Then he planned to hit two more people among the cyclists, runners, and dog walkers to confuse the police and worry the local population.

Jason was concealed near the top of a steep bank. He had a clear view of the canal path. His getaway car was parked just off MacArthur Boulevard, a short walk from his ambush site. The weapon, a Steyr-Mannlicher SSG-69, when broken down could be concealed under his long dark coat. Although Jason was over sixty, he was a born hunter with steady hands and a keen eye. Jason’s spare frame carried the same weight it had decades ago when he came across the Canadian border. Nothing about him stood out.

The perfect kill was always easier than the perfect escape. The target neared the stone he had placed to mark the distance. Cohen’s left foot landed beside the hundred meter marking stone at the same instant Jason fired his first round. He hit Arthur Cohen in the middle of the chest. Cohen took one more half-step and fell on his face. No one paid any attention to the partially silenced first shot.

Jason held his position and selected the next target, a tall blond ponytailed runner with a near perfect stride, who had been gaining steadily on the blue and white warm up suit. Ponytail saw Cohen fall and broke her stride. Sighting on her upper right thigh, Jason’s second shot knocked her down within three feet of his kill. As other runners and bikers seeing the blood and the downed figures scrambled for cover, Jason, secure behind a screen of dead wild grapevines, selected a young male cyclist on a silver racing bike and shot him high on the right shoulder. The bike swerved and plunged into the shallow canal, causing more chaos.

Jason picked up the three brass casings, smoothed out the impressions made in his ambush position, and then worked his way back up the slope, wiping out all traces of his movements.

Jason didn’t mind killing. These people were all enemies, and the mission came straight from Moscow. He would just as soon have killed everyone on the canal trail, but he always followed orders. Jason did not hurry. It would be ten minutes before the first District of Columbia police car and an emergency medical unit arrived on the scene and by then he would be part of the morning traffic headed north around the beltway. In two hours Jason would be back on Tilghman Island on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake Bay, secure in his job as an owner-operator of a small marina. He would call his Control as soon as he turned off 495. This job was worth a nice sized bonus.

 

This blog will serialize Barry Kelly’s first novel “Justice Beyond Law” every Wednesday and Saturday. For more by Barry Kelly, visit his Amazon author page.

Jack, Rip, Peter, and Bernadette thrived that long winter in the cabin. The Nguyens’ soon had the cabin running like a resort. All were excited to move into the McLean house. Peter told Jack he would now have other kids to play with and a good school to go to. Jack asked, “What about Rip?”

Bernadette said, “Rip will have a big place to run and he will guard us just like he does now. There will be a swimming pool next summer and you can help build it. And I’ll be going to school at American University where I’ll learn about people and things in South Asia. A long way from here. On the otherside of the world. Someday we will all make a trip to India and Nepal.”

Peter knew he was committed to helping his new country. The haul from O’Hara’s office led to the CIA identification of the traitor Congressman who was now doing time. O’Hara had been deported and the bomb plot stopped. A sharp note to the Soviets destroyed Yuri’s career, and he was recalled to Moscow.

Peter and Bernadette had talked over many issues. All of them related to their future together. Bernadette with the wisdom of the Irish said, “When the time comes, the way will be clear. For now, lets enjoy what we have. It has never been better for me. Peter quietly and gently took her into his arms and held her tightly, and said, “Amen.”

 

The end.

Early November

 

Peter made arrangement to close up the Florida house. In early November Peter, Bernadette, Jack and Rip went to the cabin to rest and recover from Terry’s death. Bernadette always felt safer at the cabin. Bernadette and Peter placed a bronze plaque inside the hidden room Terry helped build to honor his life of service. The Nguyens stayed behind to complete the job and take their own brief vacation before joining the family at the Pennsylvania cabin.

Living in the Pennsylvania Allegheny Mountains in the winter, left little time for remorse. Peter was in charge of cutting and hauling wood to heat the cabin. Bernadette helped him and did all the cleaning and cooking with Jack’s help. Mostly, Jack and Rip romped in the snow and slid down the hill on a small toboggan Peter bought in Somerset. Rip wouldn’t get on the toboggan but loved to chase it down the hill and jump on Jack at the bottom. The Nguyens arrived three weeks later, just in front of a big snowstorm. They went right to work.

As soon as the roads opened up and Peter had cleared the driveway with his new John Deere tractor, he decided to leave Jack and Rip with the Nguyens and take Bernadette to visit Terry’s grave-site in Arlington. He also made an appointment to see Lee Jensen in McLean. After some serious thought, he and Bernadette decided maybe McLean would be a good place to settle in, so he had asked Lee to keep his eyes open for a house with some land.

It was a four-hour road trip from the cabin to McLean in good weather. In their new Jeep Station Wagon they made good time over the snow-covered roads. Near Tysons Corners, they checked into a Marriot Hotel. The next day was overcast and threatening additional snow. Arlington Cemetery was a lonely, forlorn place. It fit their mood. They found Terry’s grave after a little trouble and Bernadette knelt and talked to her Uncle Terry while quietly sobbing. When she finished, Peter took her arm and they walked back to the Jeep.

After lunch at the McLean Deli, they went to Lee’s office. Lee told Bernadette how sorry he was about Terry. “Terry saved my life in Vietnam more than once. He was a great and compassionate warrior and the nation needs more people like him.”

Lee told them Peter’s seed money had turned into a fortune. A number of technical IPO’s they had heavily invested in had paid off far beyond expectations. Lee had managed to convert half of the diamonds into cash through several steps. Peter was now a legitimate businessman with real tax obligations!

Lee also had some houses he wanted to show them. Both of them loved the second house they saw.which overlooked the McLean Public Library with an acre of fenced land backing up to a local park. Peter told Lee to make it happen.

After making arrangements for a move into the new house in a few months and playing tourist in Washington, Peter and Bernadette drove back to the mountain cabin. The day was sunny and bright. Bernadette was able to smile and laugh again. Both felt the imminent danger they had been living with had faded into the background.

October 24, 1977

 

The next morning Peter and Bernadette slept in. They awoke when Mrs. Nguyen brought in coffee with fresh baked biscuits, bacon, and medium poached eggs. Peter was on his second cup of coffee when he switched on the morning news. He was half following a shooting and a fire in Fernandina Beach when he realized the local anchor was talking about Terry’s condo. People had called in a 911 report of gunfire very early in the morning.

When the 911 calls brought the police, they found two dead men in the entrance hall, another one on the staircase and a fire rapidly gaining headway. The fire department couldn’t save the house. Arson is suspected. All three men were found with weapons. “No identities as yet, but the condo is owned by a Mr. Terry O’Brien,” the TV reporter said.

Peter rushed into the bathroom and got Bernadette out of the shower. When she said, “What?” Peter said, “Come quick, look at the TV! Some people killed Terry last night! His condo has burned to a gutted shell. The reporter said two dead armed men were found in the entranceway.”

Bernadette screamed, “The bastards were after me and killed Terry to satisfy their crazy code. I’ll find them and kill every last one.”

“Yes! But not now! I won’t let you throw your life away. Terry died for you and me. Don’t let him down by making his sacrifice in vain. He wanted to give you a chance to live. You have that now. Respect him as a great warrior who loved you. He died a warrior’s death. He took at least two of them with him.”

“Oh, Peter! Will they never let me be? If I had stayed in Ireland with the IRA, Terry would be alive right now.” Bernadette, still wrapped in a towel, dropped to the floor with her head in her hands.

“No. It just doesn’t work like that,” Peter said, rushing to hold her. “First, Terry wouldn’t hesitate a second over giving his life for yours. Keep the good and happy memories of your remarkable uncle. . What do you think Terry did for a living? He constantly put his life on the line to perform some mission or other. Some worth it, some not.

“Protecting you was the best mission he ever had. I want you to remember your Uncle was a true hero and he loved you. His sacrifice caused your enemies to fail. Let’s keep it that way. Terry made many serious enemies in his decades of military and security work. I think the IRA was behind this, but we can’t be sure now. It is time to wait and let them thrash around looking for someone they now will never find. That is victory. That is a gift Terry gave you.”

No one from the Brandon house attended Terry’s funeral service. Peter knew the IRA could have someone there taking pictures. Bernadette was upset by not being able to get some closure from Terry’s military funeral. His remains were interred at Arlington.

October 23, 1977

 

The return trip to Tysons Corners in Virginia was even easier than trip up to Boston. The stress was gone. The operation had gone smoothly. Their adjustment to unforeseen events was nearly flawless. No one got hurt, not even the muggers. They will never know that they had flirted with death and escaped. During the entire fight, both Peter and Bernadette had weapons ready to fire in their hands.

Peter and Bernadette had quickly scanned the boxes of documents. They found nothing about a terrorist attack on the Old Executive Office building next to the White House and under White House Secret Service protection. Nor did they find anything about Soviet involvement. But Terry noted one of the wallets taken from the men on the floor contained an I.D. badge to the House of Representatives.

Peter talked to Frank at the CIA and told him the borrowed equipment and their take from O’Hara’s office were put in the same storage unit, and he and his team were leaving the area. Twenty minutes after his call they were in the Red Carpet Lounge waiting for their flight to Jacksonville to be called.

Terry said, ‘This anti-terrorist stuff is picking up. First class travel, luxury hotels, great food, and moments of action to escape the boredom of peaceful living.”

“Terry, God bless you, but I’m ready for a big chunk of peaceful living. It’s good to see you back. I was worried about you going up to Boston,” said Peter.

“So was I. I had lost my confidence in tight situations over my stupidity in getting shot and damn near killed. I’m over that now and feel good.”

“Amen. I was also more than worried. I wanted my Uncle Terry back. You know, the one who walked without fear.”

As their flight descended into Jacksonville Airport, Bernadette put her head on Peter’s shoulder and said, “Maybe the IRA threat can be put behind us now. What do you think?”

“Maybe so but let’s keep our guard up for a while longer. My enemies will never give up looking for me. But I think I have lost them for now.”

Bernadette pulled the Cadillac up two blocks from Terry’s condo. Terry had only light luggage and had drilled her into following a security protocol. “Never be so careless that someone watching this condo, which was also your address of record, could connect you to the Brandon house,” Terry had told her multiple times.

It bothered her that while Terry was going in to an empty house, she and Peter were going to a home that was filled with love, noise, and laughter with a few barks thrown in.

As they moved in close, Bernadette moaned and Peter spun and drove the heel of his right hand into to the chest of the nearest attacker but not hard enough to kill him. Bernadette took advantage of her legs free of her skirt to hit the second attacker in the side of his head with a sweeping inside crescent kick. Peter put the last one down with a neck lock that shut off the flow of blood to the brain. He would wake up in a few minutes with a sore neck and headache.

Bernadette helped Peter drag the three unconscious muggers behind a dumpster. He ripped their pants and shoes off and threw them in the dumpster and said, “By the time they get moving, we will be inside. Our five minutes is almost up.”

When Peter eased the door open, he could see Terry standing near the ladies’ room like he was waiting for his woman to come out. It took Peter less than 30 seconds to open the office door. Inside he relocked the door, put a chair up against the doorknob, and joined Bernadette in searching the office. There were no windows so they felt comfortable switching on one light at a time. Bernadette quickly found a wall safe but both knew there wasn’t enough time to even try to open it. Instead they concentrated on the two four-drawer file cabinets whose locks were simple.

Peter found two empty cardboard boxes and began dumping any documents that looked important into the boxes. He wanted to be in and out in no more than five minutes. They were pushing the time. Without getting into the safe, they had done all they could. Peter called to Bernadette it was time to break off and leave.

They each picked up a box and headed for the door when they heard the door being unlocked. Peter moved the chair he had placed under the doorknob. The door swung open and several men started to enter. Peter and Bernadette flanked the door. There was a sudden commotion at the door as Terry charged, pushing everyone inside. The group was surrounded by three people pointing guns at them. Peter spoke, “No talking. Anyone even looking like they are reaching for a weapon will die. Everyone on the floor face down. We’re just looking for a chance to kill you. Don’t give it to us.”

Bernadette pointed out O’Hara. Peter walked over to where he was lying uncomfortable on the floor and showed his I.D. that he was a federal agent. He then grabbed O’Hara by the front of his suit coat and pulled him to his feet. When he had O’Hara away from the others, he said, “I’m going to give you two minutes to open your safe. If you don’t, I’ll put the first slug in your knee and go on from there until it is open. You won’t be alive if the safe doesn’t get open in two minutes.”

“You don’t scare me. The FBI does not operate like that.”

Peter chuckled, “We are nothing like the FBI. I don’t intend to arrest you if you cooperate. That’s the good news. The bad news is if you don’t cooperate you will die or almost die, depending on how I feel. Now open the safe.”

O’Hara hesitated and Peter shoved the sound suppressor on his 9mm hard into O’Hara’s throat, just under his chin. He looked hard at O’Hara and said, “Last chance.”

O’Hara moved to open the safe, and it was open in less than 30 seconds. Peter put O’Hara back on the floor and not very gently. After dumping the contents of the wall safe in one of the boxes, Terry and Peter collected wallets from all the men. Bernadette was out in the hall. O’Hara hadn’t gotten a good look at her.

Bernadette and Terry, carrying the boxes, went out the back door to the Ford wagon. Peter stayed behind to give them more time for the getaway. He pulled the phone out of the wall and took all the car keys. The door to the office required a key to open from either side. Seeing two of the guns had left the room, one very big man started to get up. Peter hit him behind the neck with an axe kick that drove him back on the floor. No one else moved. Peter took a picture of each man, then left, locking the door from the outside with O’Hara’s key.

The wagon was standing by to pick him up as he left the alley. As Peter got in the car, he was smiling. Bernadette knew what he was smiling about. She, too, had seen the three muggers dumpster diving for their shoes and pants. They wouldn’t forget attacking the romantic couple in the alleyway.