Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series (20 page)

Popeye chuckled. “He ran into a slight problem. The boss let him out tonight with the promise that he’d be good.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Tattoo looked at his watch. “Better get your ass in gear. Thing’s about to start.”

“Oh, shit, thought I had more time.” Popeye chugged his beer and pounded the bottle down on the bar, causing the bartender to jump. “Are you going?”

“Later,” Tattoo replied. “I’ve gotta stay here for another half hour in case any others show up.”

Popeye rose and nudged Rose. “Let’s move.”

“Jesus Christ, we just got here. I’m ready for another beer.”

“There’s plenty of beer where we’re going.” He slapped Tattoo on the shoulder. “See you there, brother.”

“Later.”

Popeye hurried outside and jumped into his pickup.

Rose slammed the door. “Where the hell are we going?”

Popeye turned on the inside light and looked at the map. “No sweat. I’ve been there before. It’s only a couple of minutes from here, and there’ll be broads galore.”

When they pulled up the lane to the barn, there was an array of pickups, SUVs, and even a couple of Hummers parked around the yard. It might have been a farmyard like any other, except loud music seemed to blow out from every pore of the ancient wooden building.

Popeye and Rose jumped out of the truck and picked their way around the cow patties, but Popeye stepped in one. “Shit.”

Rose laughed. “That’s right.”

Popeye opened the door. The blast from the amplified guitars almost knocked him over. The band Tear-down was playing tonight, and they were really into it. He listened to the song “Bloodbath,” trying to remember the words to sing along.

Pushing his way through the crowd to the bar, he ordered a couple of draft beers. He handed one back to Rose and took a swig.

When the band started playing “I Need a Gun,” a young woman jumped onto the top of a table and began dancing. Her hips moved wildly to the heavy beat, and her long, black hair swung out in all directions. She ripped off her top and threw it out to the clapping men. Hands reached up, trying to grab her bare breasts. She laughed and rubbed her crotch.

Popeye loved it. Music, booze, drugs, and loads of women. None of these clowns ever worked. They just committed petty crimes and robberies for cash, drank beer, and did drugs. One of his friends, Pogo, told Popeye he’d been smoking marijuana and drinking beer and wine since he’d been in eighth grade. Started doing LSD and heroin in ninth grade. What a guy.

He thought back to his trip to Minneapolis. He had watched a platoon of Nazi skinheads, twenty young men with black jackets, black boots, shiny heads and faces. They’d carried baseball bats with swastikas on them, knives, brass knuckles, and pipes. The power oozing from the group had been awesome.

Violence had been a test for membership in the group. Popeye remembered the lineup—official one-on-one fights to make sure the applicant wouldn’t back down on the street.

Federal agents had raided the meeting. They’d almost captured Popeye. That would have been the end for his job. Popeye loved the idea that Hitler had been a nobody who had risen to rule the world. Some of those jerks at work might laugh at him now, but they’d be sorry later. He smiled to think that later was almost here.

He glanced behind him. Where the hell had Rose gone?

The woman on the table wiggled out of her pants and threw them to the crowd. She continued to dance, naked.

Rose jumped up on the table and started dancing, reaching out for the woman’s breasts. Igor, the bouncer, pushed his way through the crowd, his head above the rest of the people. The guy looked like a gorilla.

Popeye elbowed his way through the crowd toward the table, finding it almost impossible to move. Disaster was imminent.

The bouncer had grabbed Rose by the leg to pull him down from the table.

Rose kicked Igor in the face, then spun the woman around to kiss her.

Blood streamed from Igor’s nose. He reached up and grabbed both of Rose’s legs in a tackle, and pulled him off the table.

Frantic, Popeye kept pushing through the young men who screamed for the naked woman to take them on. He’d been caught in absolute gridlock, a real traffic jam.

By the time Popeye got to the table, Rose had the bouncer down on the floor and was kicking him in the head. Blood poured from Igor’s nose and mouth. Rose kept kicking and kicking, laughing all the time.

Popeye grabbed Rose from behind. “We gotta get out of here.”

Rose kicked at the downed man again and screamed, “I’m gonna kill him.”

Popeye yelled in his ear. “You promised the general.”

As if a machine had been shut off, Rose stopped and turned. “All right. Let’s go.”

The look of excitement in Rose’s eyes froze Popeye’s blood.

S
am pushed open the heavy gold-framed door of the Manoir Valentin and stepped outside, enjoying the early morning mist on his face. Jackie had apparently decided to call a truce after the incident last night. While Sam stayed on the couch, at least they were talking to one another.

The Explorer had barely fit in the slot assigned to their room behind the hotel. He’d had a tough time backing it out to drive it around to the front earlier this morning. Looking at his watch, he saw it was almost eight o’clock. The professor should be arriving soon, though Sam had no idea what he looked like.

Surveying the street, he saw no one who could be the professor. Clouds hid the sun. A hint of rain hung in the air. Fortunately, the temperature had risen to about two degrees so the roads shouldn’t be slick for the drive back to Pennsylvania. The wind whipped down the narrow cobblestone street, making him glad he was headed south. Horns honked and tires squealed as commuters hurried down the hill to work.

He stepped inside to retrieve their bags and carried them outside. Packing carefully, he made sure there’d be room for another set of bags.

Promptly at eight, Sam stood at the curb in front of the hotel, waiting. He licked his lips. He hated to wait.

A portly, gray-haired man walked up the hill. Sam didn’t pay any attention to him until the man spoke. “Good morning, Colonel Thorpe. I understand you’re to give me a ride to Pennsylvania.”

“Sean?”

“Professor Sean Kaminsky, at your service.”

Kaminsky came up to Sam’s shoulders, but his belly pushed against the front of the khaki trench coat. Gray hair poked from underneath the black stocking hat in tufts, and his short white beard and moustache gave him a look of a Santa Claus. He carried a black briefcase, and a camouflage-colored backpack hung from his shoulders.

“Let me take that backpack. I’ll put it in the cargo area. We have plenty of room.”

“Thank you.” Kaminsky contorted himself to wiggle the backpack off his shoulders. He handed it to Sam.

Sam reached for the briefcase. “Here, I’ll set that in the back, too.”

Kaminsky pulled it back. “No.”

Sam shrugged and placed the backpack in the cargo space. “How about a cup of coffee before we leave?”

“That would be nice.” Kaminsky’s pinched face relaxed into a smile. “I missed breakfast. A croissant or two would fuel me for the trip.”

“We can handle that.” He directed Kaminsky up the stairs and opened the door for him.

Sam motioned with his hand. “This is Jackie.”

“Why, hello, Jackie.” Kaminsky shook her hand. “I wasn’t expecting such lovely company. Jackie…ah?”

“Just Jackie.” Jackie jerked her hand back. “My goodness, your hand is cold. You must be freezing.”

Kaminsky glanced down as if he’d forgotten he had hands. “I keep misplacing my gloves.” He laughed. “And in this weather.”

They walked down the narrow winding staircase to the breakfast area. Stale air and cigarette smoke found Sam’s nose and made him cough.

The professor pulled off his stocking cap and shrugged out of his coat. Underneath, he wore a wrinkled lavender shirt, an orange and purple striped tie, and dark gray rumpled pants.

Kaminsky poured himself some tea. He reached into the breadbox and, after touching a number of pastries, his pudgy fingers pulled out three croissants. He scooped up a half-dozen grape jelly packets, then walked over and plopped down in a chair.

Sam poured himself and Jackie a cup of coffee, waiting to see if the hemp chair would hold the rotund little man.

“Climbing that hill almost did me in.” Kaminsky pulled out a cigarette and lit it, pulling the smoke into his lungs. He leaned back and shut his eyes. “Ah, that’s better.”

It would be a long trip with Kaminsky puffing away in the back seat.

Jackie sat down at the four-person wooden table. “Have you lived in Montreal long?”

Kaminsky leaned forward. “Almost thirty-five years. I left the States to protest the war and never went back.” He slathered jelly on the croissant and took a bite. The croissant disappeared into his mouth. The only evidence was a spot of grape jelly that joined the other spots on his tie. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then spread jelly on the second croissant.

“I understand you’re a professor.” Sam took a sip of coffee. “Where do you teach?” The hot coffee tasted good.

A couple entered the coffee area and started cooking waffles.

“McGill University. Love it. The students are motivated and fun to be with. Not like those spoiled brats south of our border.” He took another sip of tea, then inhaled again, blowing smoke out into Sam’s face. “What about you, ah … Jackie?”

“Well, I attended the University of Pennsylvania, then went to work in state government.”

“Penn, I went there briefly, although I’m sure long before you did.” He looked at Sam. “And you?”

“That’s not important. As you must know, I now work for Aly Kassim.”

“Ah, yes, my friend Aly.”

“You know him?” Sam leaned back in his chair to stretch his right leg. It ached from the cold—souvenir of his football days. Between the sore leg and pain in his side from the attack, Sam still moved gingerly.

“Oh, yes.”

“What do you think of him?”

“Intense, but capable. Have you spent much time in Washington?” Kaminsky asked.

“A while.” Sam would test the professor with more questions about Kassim later.

Kaminsky kept chewing on his croissant and raised his eyebrows. “I understand from Aly that you have some training experience.”

“That’s right.”

Kaminsky nodded and looked back at Jackie. “And what do you do now, my dear?”

“I work in human resources.”

Kaminsky waited, apparently hoping for more information.

“What do you teach?” Sam asked.

“Chemistry.”

Jackie chuckled. “Not one of my best subjects.”

They finished their croissants and coffee amid a flurry of small talk about Montreal.

Sam looked at his watch and stood. “Let’s go. It’ll take about nine hours to drive back to Pennsylvania.”

Bob O’Brien sat in the back seat of the black Chevy Suburban, his Blackberry in his lap. He watched Sam’s Explorer pull out from the curb and move down the street. Captain Jeffrey had told him that Sidney Kramer was a chemistry professor at McGill University but, more importantly, was on the Mounties’ watch list. According to Sam’s message last night, the professor was now going by the first name of Sean.

Kramer had run to Canada to avoid the draft in 1969. He’d been active in student protests during the height of the FLQ movement in the early ‘70s. Nothing much had been heard from him over the past few years. Interesting he should show up now.

Agent Monar held up the photograph of Kramer. “The date on the photo is 1999. Sure looks like the guy who just met Sam, but he’s added some weight. Actually,” she smiled, “a whole lot of weight.”

O’Brien punched in the speed dial for Captain Jeffrey.

“Jeffrey here.”

“O’Brien. Sam and Jackie just pulled out with Kramer in the back seat. Will the guy be able to get out of Canada?”

“We have no reason to stop him if he has a valid passport.”

“Let’s make sure he gets through. I think he’s key to what we’re working on.”

“I’ll call the border authorities to request that they get a picture of him and make a copy of his passport.”

“Let me know what you find out. We’ll be following about twenty minutes behind Sam.”

“Will do.”

“Oh, and Captain Jeffrey, thanks for your help. I think we’ll both benefit before this is over.”

“Keep me in the loop.”