Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series (21 page)

Sam drove along Route 20 until they reached Ontario, then followed Route 401 to the border. The total trip took about an hour and a half. Uneventful, except for the ongoing cloud of smoke emitted from the back seat.

Sam glanced in the rearview mirror. “You’ll have to cut back on those cigarettes. They’re starting to bother me.”

“Sorry.”

When they reached the border, Sam maneuvered the Explorer into a parking spot in front of the duty-free shop. Jackie bought a few things for friends, then exchanged the rest of their Canadian money.

Sam started the engine. “They’ll need your passport.” He looked in the rearview mirror to see if he could spot O’Brien. A black Suburban idled in the driveway.

Sam handed the three passports to the custom agent, sure that he would ask why Sam was bringing this draft dodging son of a bitch back into the country. Perspiration trickled down his back. The guard studied the passports, then looked at each of them.

He asked Sam to get out of the car and open the trunk. After sifting through items in the trunk, he made some notes, nodded to Sam, and handed back the passports. He waved them through. Sam turned the Explorer south toward Interstate 81.

Sam adjusted his leg again. Darn thing continued to ache. “You’d think after 9-11 they’d be more thorough at the border. It seems like anyone could cruise through.”

“Why?” Kaminsky blew out some smoke from his umpteenth cigarette. “What? Are you afraid of someone sneaking into the good old USA? Who in their right mind would want to do that?”

Sam was surprised at the question. “There’s enough going on in the world. I wish our border with Canada was more secure.”

“Ah, but they’re not going to stop a retired Army colonel unless they’ve got a pretty good reason, now are they?”

Sam didn’t comment.

“Does either one of you have children?” the professor asked.

“Not me,” Jackie said.

Sam shook his head in the negative. No way did he want Kaminsky to know anything about Emily.

“Do you have any family?” Sam asked.

Sam glanced in the rearview mirror, but Kaminsky stared out the window and remained mute.

The Suburban cruised along Interstate 81, maintaining a constant speed of sixty miles per hour, the pace agreed upon with Sam.

“What happens when we reach Harrisburg?” Agent Monar asked.

“Depends on what we find out from Captain Jeffrey,” O’Brien replied. “I think his call will be enlightening.”

Agent Stoner looked over at O’Brien, his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. “I’d be willing to bet a month’s pay his passport doesn’t say Sidney Kramer.”

“I wouldn’t take that bet,” O’Brien replied.

As if on cue, O’Brien’s cell phone jangled. “O’Brien.”

“Captain Jeffrey here. An interesting development. It seems that our good friend Professor Sidney Kramer is now Professor Sean Kaminsky.”

“Why am I not surprised?” O’Brien answered.

“I’ll fax a copy of his current photo to you. Guy has really added some weight since his last picture in 1999.”

“Thanks again, Captain Jeffrey,” O’Brien said. “I’ll keep you up to speed on things as they develop, and you do the same.”

“Will do,” Jeffrey replied. A click, and he was gone.

O’Brien folded his cell and slipped it in his pocket. “Sean Kaminsky. Now, isn’t that interesting?”

T
he drive through New York state passed uneventfully. Sam stopped at a Cracker Barrel Restaurant just inside Pennsylvania for a late lunch.

After they were seated by the hostess, Sam excused himself to go to the bathroom. He wanted to get some pictures of Kaminsky for Alex. In the bathroom, Sam pulled the small digital camera out of his briefcase and practiced holding it in his palm.

When he returned to the dining room, Sam detoured around the edge of the tables in their section and came at the professor from the side. Jackie kept the professor’s attention, while Sam held the camera in the palm of his right hand and snapped three quick photos. He got profile shots of Kaminsky, but couldn’t get a front full-face.

Sam sat back down and nodded to Jackie.

“Did you bring the camera, Sam?” Jackie asked. “Wouldn’t it be fun to get a picture of the three of us for my scrapbook?”

Kaminsky’s head snapped up. “No pictures.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jackie said. “I just love photographs of our trips.”

“Jackie’s a real nut for pictures.”

Kaminsky focused on the menu.

Jackie put her hand on Kaminsky’s arm. “My goodness, I hope I didn’t upset you.”

Kaminsky didn’t look up. “I don’t like to get my picture taken.”

“Would you mind taking a couple of us when we get outside?” Sam asked, trying to deflate the tension.

Kaminsky seemed to relax. “That would be all right.”

After they passed Scranton, it began to snow but without much accumulation. Trucks splattered the windshield with the slop from their wheels. Fortunately the traffic stayed light, so they arrived back in Harrisburg about ten o’clock that night.

Sam exited off Interstate 81 onto Route 322 west.

“This won’t take long. I’m going to drop off Jackie at a friend’s house.”

“That’s fine with me,” Kaminsky said. “I appreciate the ride.”

Sam exited Route 322 onto Route 34 and drove into the tiny borough of Newport. Turning left at the square, he pulled up in front of a red brick house that had seen better days. A wraparound porch with white peeling paint stood at the front of the house, illuminated by a porch light. The house belonged to a friend of O’Brien’s. They had been instructed to not give out any information in case one of Oliver’s people called.

Jackie climbed out, careful not to slip on the ice. She stuck her head back into the car. “I enjoyed meeting you. Hope your visit to Pennsylvania is a pleasant one.”

“Thank you, Jackie. I enjoyed meeting you, too.”

Sam waited until Jackie had gotten inside; then he pulled away from the curb and worked his way back onto Route 322. The Explorer slipped on several icy patches in the road.

When he next turned off Route 322 just fifteen minutes later, Sam could feel the back of the car fish-tailing. He slowed down. A couple of minutes later, he pulled into the farm lane, glad he had made it back safely. His frustration level remained high, however, because he’d been unsuccessful in worming much information out of the professor.

When they pulled up to the fence in front of the barn, Popeye ran out, brushing snowflakes from his hair. “You’re late.”

“Your concern for our safety overwhelms me.” Sam got out and walked back to the rear of the Explorer.

“The general has been waiting for the professor.”

Sam pulled the backpack out of the trunk without comment. The professor had jealously guarded the briefcase. Sam had found no opportunity to check it out when they’d stopped for lunch.

Popeye reached for the backpack. “You should have planned better. We can’t keep the general waiting.”

Sam grabbed Popeye by the collar. “I’ve had about enough of your bullshit. If you don’t like the way I do things, keep it to yourself.” He released the shirt, pushing Popeye back so he nearly fell on the ground, and walked back to the back of the Explorer.

Popeye glared at Sam, his hands clenched into fists.

Sam shook hands with Professor Kaminsky, opened the car door, and climbed back inside. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

He drove back down the rutted driveway and returned to the house in Newport to pick up Jackie. He related what had happened, ending with “Guy’s name is Popeye, a real jerk.”

Jackie remained silent.

Sam pulled out of the driveway and headed back to Route 322 once again.

Jackie watched the snowflakes. “I don’t think you want him for an enemy.”

“He already is.”

Quentin Oliver leaned back in his chair. “Sean Kaminsky. Where did you get that name?”

Kaminsky dropped his backpack to the floor of the study and walked toward the fire. He set his briefcase next to his foot and rubbed his hands together. “Like it? I’ve always wanted to be a Sean. Much better than Sidney Kramer, don’t you think?” He paused. “Make sure you use it all the time.”

Oliver puffed on his cigar, and studied the man. He hated this lard-bellied, draft-dodging son of a bitch, but Oliver stifled his anger because he needed Kaminsky. He gestured toward the bar. “Why don’t you pour yourself a drink?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Kaminsky walked over and poured a stiff shot of Jim Beam. He sat down in one of the two black leather chairs facing the fire. “Did you save me some dinner?”

Oliver pushed a button on the intercom.

A male voice answered. “Yes, sir.”

“Bring us some sandwiches.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

“That’s what I like about you, Quentin. You know how to treat a guest.”

Oliver straightened the crease in his fatigues. How could Kaminsky talk about food when the mission should be uppermost on his mind? He drew on his cigar again. “Did you bring the plans?”

“Not one for small talk, are you?”

He struggled to maintain a straight face. “No time for that when we have a mission.”

“Yes, I brought the plans.” Kaminsky patted his briefcase. “But first, what do you think of Colonel Thorpe?”

“He’s done a credible job of working with my soldiers,” Oliver replied. “Why?”

“Seems nice enough, but I’m not sure about his companion. Why did she come along?”

“That was Aly’s idea. He thought it would be easier to get you back into the States with a woman in the car.”

“She is certainly a beautiful woman.”

The idea of Kaminsky with a woman almost made Oliver laugh.

Kaminsky took a long pull on his drink. “I’m concerned that she’s seen me and knows who I am.”

“But she doesn’t know who you are. She believes you’re Sean Kaminsky.” General Oliver rubbed his goatee. “Do you think that’ll be a problem?”

“I don’t know.”

There was a knock on the door.

Oliver called, “Enter.”

A man in the standard black fatigues uniform entered. His eyes had black rings underneath them, and his nose stood out like a puffy tart. “Your sandwiches, sir.” He set them on the table and stood at attention.

“Thank you, Benson,” Oliver said. “That will be all.”

Benson saluted, did an about face, and pulled the door shut behind him.

Kaminsky chuckled. “You certainly have your men well trained. What happened to his nose?”

“That’s a story for another day. Benson is a good cook but leaves a lot to be desired as a soldier. Sergeant Bacher has been tasked to correct that.”

Kaminsky jumped up, grabbed a plate, and heaped three sandwiches onto it. He lathered the bread with mayonnaise and shoved half a sandwich in his mouth. After brushing crumbs on the floor, he walked back to his chair.

He shoved the other half in his mouth. While he chewed, he said, “You should do something about her.”

Oliver stood and paced around his study to mask his irritation with Kaminsky. “Maybe I’ll have to correct Aly’s mistake. I’ll call him and see if he has the address for this ‘Jackie.” He’d better. He’s the one who screwed it up.”

Kaminsky wiped a trace of mayonnaise off his mouth with the back of his hand. “What are you thinking of doing?”

“Let me worry about that.” Oliver walked over and straightened “The Traveler” statue he’d gotten as a farewell gift from his command at Quantico. He allowed his mind to wander, imagining a future moment in which Kaminsky lay on the floor, blood pouring from where his throat had been cut.