Bodyguard of Lies Read online

  Neeley looked out the window of the small cabin at the patch of late snow that blanketed Gant's grave. He had known the ground would be frozen now. He had insisted they dig the hole in autumn. They had dug it together, he tiring easily and sitting a lot, sipping a beer and making awful, morbid jokes.

  It had been the first time she had allowed herself to contemplate life beyond Gant. She'd asked what she should do once he was gone. His lined face had folded in on itself as he turned to look at her, the setting sun filling it with shadows.

  "Do you know what dead time is?" he'd asked her, and when she'd shaken her head, he'd continued. "That's what the past ten years or so have been for us: a condition of balance among various forces. We should have been dead these last ten years, but we’ve managed to keep things in stasis."

  "I don't understand," Neeley had replied.

  Gant had sighed, rubbing his wasted hand across his face. "There are even parts that I don’t know. That I’m not supposed to know because of the deal I’ve had. And even from what I know, I can only tell you so much without jeopardizing you before you are ready. The rest you are going to have to find out on your own. My dying is going to upset a balance and I don't know what is going to happen. People are going to react to my death and there’s a good chance that will put you in danger.”

  She had known from her first meeting with Gant that her life would never be the same, but that had not been his fault. She could remember that day as most women remembered their wedding day or the birth of their first child.

  Sitting alone in the cold cabin, she went back to the event that had brought her here, not willing yet to move on with the actions demanded of her for this new phase of her life.

  On that day over ten years ago, she had been a teenager and her journey against the flow of the terminal crowd with a large gaily-wrapped package in her hands had been handled well by the locals. Templehoff Airport was in the very center of what had been West Berlin and the few words spoken had the lilting Berliner accent that marked the speakers as natives. Since the end of the Second World War, West Berlin had tolerated the noise and energy of a major airport in its midst as graciously as it tolerated the foreigners who ruled it. Even a half-century later there were still many in the city who remembered when their survival had depended on the goodness of foreigners and the noise of the planes overhead. Those planes had brought the food that had enabled the city to endure the Russian blockade. And for many years afterward this airport had taken them from their small democratic island to the outside world, something their fellow Berliners to the east could only dream about until the Wall came down.

  So in Berlin, as nowhere else, Neeley had not been scolded for bumping and pushing, but rather given a wider berth and even a smile by those who had noticed the t-shirt pulled taut across her breasts. A few of the men looked past the shirt and continued to stare downward, taking in her lean, tanned legs that the cut-off Levis exposed. It was the first week in October; too cool for such attire, but Neeley remembered how she hadn't felt the chill. She’d made her way past the waiting line into the center of the terminal.

  Gant told her later that it was her obvious confusion and agitation that had first drawn his attention. In a place packed with people carrying bags and extra coats, she had seemed oddly out of place, clutching only the package and not even a purse.

  Gant’s row had been called ten minutes ago, but he had waited to board, another one of his rules he had given her as he told her the story of their meeting from his point of view. The last few passengers of the boarding flight had paid Neeley the most attention, but it had been more a matter of perspective and not the girl's action that had drawn the notice. They were Americans, young soldiers who even in their civilian clothes still bore the trademark short hair and overall healthy fitness of the Army's finest. They had ogled her with relish, their togetherness granting them certain anonymity. Some of the other passengers had turned at the sound of the catcalls, recognizing the blatant intent, if not the language. The soldiers noticed the looks and quieted in unison.

  Unspoken among the soldiers and those around them was the knowledge that this was not the time for noticeable behavior by Americans. It had been on the news non-stop: all the world now knew that just two days before the United States had failed in its humanitarian effort in Somalia.

  The images from Mogadishu had been horrible and broadcast around the world: helicopters shot down and soldiers dead, the bodies of some dragged through the streets by angry mobs. A pilot captured and the most powerful country in the world trying to negotiate his release from a warlord. It was a tragedy of the first order and a terrible blow to the Clinton Administration that had ordered the mission. As if remembering all that, the newly silenced soldiers joined the end of the line.

  Neeley remembered standing alone, not knowing what to do next. That was when she had met Gant, at that time just a strange, tall man who had stopped right in front of her. His eyes had been hidden by dark aviator glasses. He’d smiled at her. She would always remember that first smile.

  She’d handed him the package with the first words she ever spoke to him: "It's a bomb."

  He didn’t seem at all surprised about the bomb. His attitude implied a familiarity with such incidents that produced an immediate sense of confidence within her. She had been stumbling about with that horrible betrayal for what seemed like hours, but had in reality been only minutes. She had forgotten her knapsack and baggage in her haste to get out of the confining space of the plane's cabin with the bomb.

  The passion of the previous night, which Jean-Philippe had spent, reassuring her that he would miss her, had appeared genuine. Even the simple request to deliver the package to a man in Heathrow during her layover there had seemed normal and inconsequential. She had been a courier for him before, transferring the important documents of his trade to various cities around Europe and the Middle East and even to the States on occasion.

  When had she known? She would always worry about that simple question in the years to come. When had she finally known that the man she loved had handed her a bomb to carry on board a plane full of people?

  She had been sitting in her assigned seat waiting for the plane to take off and get her the hell away from Berlin and all the sleazy people Jean-Philippe knew. She had welcomed the trip, even the idea of seeing her mother in New York was more welcome than the thought of another night in the business house on Oncle Tom Strasse. The package had been in her lap and she shuddered to think how casually she had handled it.

  She had been told it was important documents. But when she picked it up, the weight indicated something of more substance than paper.

  Jean-Philippe had handed her the plane ticket and given her instructions on the method of delivery during the layover at Heathrow. He would be joining her later, he'd told her. There was business to attend to in Berlin that required his attention. He had just flown back from the Middle East and she had picked up his extreme unease the minute she’d met him. Something had gone wrong with the ‘big deal’ he had been working on for over a year now.

  Perhaps it was the overly wrought explanation that had first triggered Hannah's suspicions after she'd boarded the plane and had a chance to think. She and Jean-Philippe were lovers, had been for two years. But they had known each other since childhood and as Jean-Philippe had entered the shadowy world of high level, black market oil trading in Berlin, Neeley had blindly followed. He'd never bothered to explain himself before so why the change?

  It came to her as clearly as if the elderly man seated next to her had shouted it in her ear. It was a bomb. Neeley knew it with a certainty that pulsed through her stomach. She had to clench her teeth to prevent herself from screeching out her knowledge.

  Many of the people Jean-Philippe was affiliated with had Middle Eastern names and the Arab world was frothing at the mouth to strike at the Americans. And the plane she was sitting on was an American carrier with many American passengers, most of them servicemen. And there
had been much talk among Jean-Philippe’s associates of a major deal in the works and the concern that the Americans would mess it up and if that happened, then there had to be payback. Had that just happened in Mogadishu? And was what she held in her hands the payback?

  She'd looked up the aisle. The pretty American stewardess was greeting passengers hurrying through the door. Once that closed, there would be no way out.

  Neeley stood, carefully holding the package under her arm. She mumbled apologies as she forced her way to the aisle and then to the front of the plane.

  "We will be departing shortly," the stewardess said as Neeley approached.

  "I don't want to go," Neeley muttered. Her thoughts focused on getting off the plane.

  She felt the weight in her hands. Jean-Philippe. His name rolled through her brain with the accent she had acquired from her summers in France. He had betrayed her and she didn't have a clue why.

  There was nowhere she could go in the city. The only people she knew were Jean-Philippe's. All she had was the plane ticket. And what could she do about the bomb? It had to be several kilograms of explosive from the weight.

  That was when Gant had appeared and changed everything.

  Gant had simply reached out and taken the box. Neeley at first couldn't obey his simple command to follow, so frozen were the muscles in her legs. She finally walked empty handed behind the tall American soldier. His face was leathery from exposure to the sun, his eyes bright blue. He wore a black leather coat and carried his bags and the box effortlessly even though his body looked gaunt, the skintight against his cheekbones.

  She remembered noting all these details of his appearance while she followed him out of the airport. She also remembered the lack of fear, now that the bomb was in his hands. She asked no questions and, when they arrived next to the battered Volkswagen in the long-term parking, she allowed herself to be tucked into the front passenger seat. She dimly remembered not being surprised as Gant squatted next to the open door and carefully opened the package, confirming her worst fear as he revealed the explosives. Without hesitation he began humming as he defused Jean-Philippe's lethal package.

  No one approached them or even seemed to notice the oddly humming man hunched intently over his prize or the young girl rocking slowly to and fro inside the car. She guessed he was finished when he tossed the once again closed carton into the back seat. He was still humming as he walked around and climbed behind the steering wheel.

  He reached out one large warm hand and clasped her knee. Neeley knew at once there was nothing sexual in the touch. He just wanted to give her some firm, physical contact, something to snatch her back from the mindless shock. Then he backed out of the parking slot, aimed the car for the American sector and asked if she was hungry.

  Over ten years later, sitting alone, his grave nearby, she still remembered his first touch. It was as familiar and powerful as the last taste of Jean-Philippe's smiling lips.

  Neeley shivered. There was much to be done before she left.

  Gant had told her that he would find her something like the Bronx meeting for her to get money. She'd always wondered where his money came from but all he would say was that the government paid him every month for past services rendered. With his death that income would be gone and she'd be on her own.

  Gant had talked of his root family rarely, telling her he had a mother and a brother. The mother lived somewhere in New York but Neeley had never met her and as far as she knew neither had Gant in the time they were together. Of his brother, Gant had also spoken sparingly. She sensed something dark between Gant and his brother Jack and she had not pried. Gant’s given name was Anthony, but she had never referred to him by it or any derivation of it or heard anyone else do it either.

  He’d told her once his father had disappeared when he was twelve, an odd choice of words that left many unanswered issues that Neeley had not probed into. He also had someone he called his Uncle Joe, although Gant had indicated the man was not really blood, but a surrogate father that had raised him in the years after his father’s disappearance. This Uncle had been the one to call Gant with the information on the drug deal.

  "Then there are three other things you have to do," Gant had added. He'd reached into his pocket and given her a key. "This is for a locker in the bus terminal in Hartford, Connecticut. Go there. Get what's in it."

  She taken the numbered key.

  "Then go to Boulder." He'd smiled, recalling better days. "Remember the climb we made in Eldorado Canyon? The first route you led?"

  Neeley had nodded. “Thin Air.”

  "There's something up there that you will need."

  “And the third?”

  Gant had pulled out a letter. “It’s for my brother.”

  “How do I find him?” Neeley had asked.

  “You’ll meet some day. Trust me on that.”

  “How will I know him?”

  Gant had given a wistful smile. “That won’t be a problem.”

  And that had been it. He'd offered no explanation or hint of what she would find in either location or how she would find his brother. When she'd pushed him for more, he shook his head. "I can't tell you what will happen to you once I'm gone; all I can give you is what I had to keep the dead time going." He’d paused and reached into his pocket, pulling out a slip of paper. A phone number was written on it with a 212 area code— New York City. He’d given it to her. “That’s Uncle Joe’s number. If you really are in trouble and need help, call him. He knows your name. He’s very—“Gant seemed to search for the word, and then he smiled wistfully—“resourceful.”

  Then he'd tossed his empty beer into the grave and turned for the cabin. The gaping hole and his words had filled her thoughts those last few months. The hole became a symbol for the cancer that was killing Gant and she hated it. But she had always hated the dark small places that Gant insisted were really refuge. He would spend endless hours staring at the hole through the wide front window, wrapped in the big comforter as Neeley fought to keep the fire blazing. Gant had lost so much weight that she could easily carry him, but his voice remained strong as ever. He could no longer participate in her physical training but she still learned through his voice. He had tried to teach her everything he knew and had almost succeeded.

  Last week she had finally filled the hole. He had died in her arms, his last words full of sorrow that he was leaving her alone and in some unnamed danger that she would have to work her own way out of. She had sat by the grave a day and a night; her voice a keening cry that echoed through the snow covered mountains and stopped only by vocal cords too swollen to move. Then she had gone to the South Bronx and set up surveillance on the alley to do the first of her tasks.

  Looking at the suitcase helped her forget the cold somewhat. Everything had gone as expected, which surprised Neeley. She could hear Gant's voice: No matter how well you prepared and planned, there was always "Murphy" waiting to screw things up. Expect the unexpected and a whole slew of other sayings that Gant had harped on. The rules that he had given her one by one over the years; like other men gave the women they loved jewelry.

  She checked the small pile of wood next to the fireplace. Enough to get it going. Then she'd have to break some out of the frozen stack outside and let it thaw in the fire. She looked around for paper to start the fire with.

  After a moment, she quietly laughed. For all the preparation, she hadn't laid in any paper to start a fire when she got back.

  She tramped outside the cabin to the pick-up, opened the door and grabbed the newspapers she'd bought in town on the way through. She also retrieved the overcoat with the rifle attached inside.

  On the way back to the cabin, she paused to appreciate the view. Gant may have hated the cold but he had loved the scenery. The cabin stood on the west slope of Mount Ellen. The glow of the rising sun glanced through the trees one hundred meters above, at the crest of the mountain. Laid out below, like a toy town, down over a thousand meters of altitude and about
four kilometers to the northwest, she could discern a few twinkling lights in the tiny village of South Lincoln.

  The town was where the paved road ended. To get here from there, Neeley had to put the truck into four-wheel drive and negotiate an old, overgrown logging trail that switched back and forth up the mountain. Gant had enjoyed the isolation.

  The cabin didn't have much in the way of conveniences. Water came from a mountain stream, not more than ten feet outside the door; the quick flowing water didn't freeze, even in the coldest winter. Heat came from the fireplace.

  Neeley stomped inside and laid the papers on the table. The light from the kerosene lamp highlighted her chilled breath as she quickly scanned the news. She had the late edition New York Times and the Burlington Free Press. The Times had a brief mention about the incident in the Bronx that must have made it in just before press time.

  Neeley scanned the article and was satisfied that the official police statement was the usual double-speak, which basically meant the cops didn't have the slightest idea who had done it. Which they shouldn't, Neeley reminded herself.

  Curiously, the article didn't mention the destroyed drugs. Neeley had thought the police might have said something about that, but, on reflection, she realized that tidbit might be something they'd keep to themselves for a couple of reasons. It was their little secret to play against any suspects they might come up with; another might be because it would generate some sympathy for whoever had walked away with money. Cops were always afraid of self-styled vigilante killers: bad publicity and a bad example.

  The local Vermont paper held nothing on the story. Killings in New York City were common and not especially newsworthy up here in God's country. Neeley crumpled the local, sheet by sheet and lined the bottom of the fireplace. She threw in some kindling and then laid a pair of logs on top. She squirted lighter fluid over the whole mess. Maybe not what Daniel Boone would have done, but she was too cold to worry about style. She threw in a kitchen match. Neeley quickly retreated as the fireplace exploded in flame. While she waited, she pulled the locker key, which hung on a chain around her neck, out. She stared at it, knowing that she would have to be back on the road soon. There was much to do in the next several days.