2 A Month of Mondays

  A Month of Mondays

  Jake Monday Chronicles Book 2

  Robert Michael

  Copyright © 2013 Robert Michael

  INFINITE WORD PRESS

  Broken Arrow, OK

  Chapter 1

  Smoke on the Water

  Smoke circled around the man's head like a halo. His shoulders were immense. It looked as if someone had stuffed small boulders in the sleeves of his Armani jacket. A dim light reflected from his bald head. He held a cigar the size of a Sharpie in his fat fingers. His fingers looked like white sausages, his nails trimmed and gold rings on three fingers of each hand. He was a powerful man. Giselle hated him. Father practically worshipped him.

  "So," he said, his voice like gravel being dumped over a bass drum. "What are we going to do about the President, now? Hmm?"

  Her father was composed. He sat in an old chair with his legs crossed primly. The room was stuffy. It was decorated in a French style reminiscent of the Second World War.

  "The President's demise is the least of our worries now. We have problems at home. Our clients are at each other’s throats. We are bound to lose one or the other."

  The man smacked his lips. They were small, but puffy. Giselle understood that her hatred for this man came in no small part from the fact that she had never learned his name. Her father did not even repeat it. It disgusted her that this man would think he was so far above the rest of humanity as to not use his name.

  "This is your problem, Eilif. Galbraith can rot for all my care. I am talking about power. Not money." He stabbed the cigar in the air to punctuate his sentence. The ember glowed for one second, a mystical period suspended in the air.

  "Our plan to entrap Monday, expose his government tail, and put the President on notice failed in most aspects."

  "Monday. An ant. Do you know what I do with ants, Eilif?"

  They all knew the answer to that. Giselle saw her father falter for the first time. He looked down.

  She felt the need to rescue him. She pushed away from the book shelf she had been leaning on and walked between them to the table by the man's arm. She lifted the fluted glass canter of rare Glenfiddich 40-year bourbon whiskey. She poured some in a tumbler, straight, about two finger's worth. She watched its caramel color swirl for a moment as a chocolate richness settled. She knew the man was watching her.

  How could he not?

  She lifted the tumbler to her lips and sipped. She could taste peat and smoke, honey and the deep flavor of one of the finest rare whiskeys in the world. She exhaled through her nose and closed her eyes, feeling the whiskey on her lips. She flicked her tongue out across her lips seductively, acting as if there were no one else in the room, but knowing full well the man's eyes were following her every move. She had his attention.

  "The tail turned out to be a CIA agent, Camilla Cross. She was killed by the proximity of the EMP blast. It ruptured blood vessels in her brain. She was dead before she hit the ground."

  "Impressive. Is that typical fallout from a weapon like that?" The cigar man asked, tapping ashes lightly onto the carpet.

  She shook her head and took another sip. The Glenfiddich was warm in her throat.

  "No. Apparently, the proximity, angle, frequency, and power were a dangerous mixture. It cannot be trusted to perform that way with every target."

  "That explains why Monday was unaffected," Eilif offered. Giselle glanced at him.

  He did not sound desperate, but his comment smacked of pandering. This surprised her. Who was this man who produced such fear in her father?

  "Yes. And the President. This brings us back to the business at hand. The President is not off the board, strictly speaking. He is still priority, but not in order of chronology," Giselle said.

  The man smiled.

  "That is not how I understand priority, Ms. Chaput."

  It rankled her that he used her name like a blunt weapon against her. He made it sound dirty.

  "New definition. Priority in name only. He is to be dealt with at a time appropriate to the deed. In other words, sir, he is dead already. He and the world just do not know that yet."

  She held the tumbler up in a mock toast, a playful and prideful smile on her face. Cool confidence had always worked in her favor. With her physical attributes, her knack for negotiation, and her wits, she rarely had to resort to baser methods of manipulation. She watched his eyes flick from her to her father.

  "Your daughter is brave. I hope she can back up her courageous speech."

  Eilif hesitated. She need not look at him to know that he was nervous. Not for his daughter, no. Her failure would mean his skin as much as hers.

  "I am not making a promise. I am merely stating what we know as fact. Someone as powerful as the President of the United States is surrounded by layers of security. This is especially true since Atlanta. We need access, a trusted associate, and plausible denial," she said. She struggled to not sound defensive.

  "Who cares? Once he is removed, the chaos that ensues will create a vacuum. It will not matter who took his life. Besides, why am I paying all these newspaper editors and news agency executives if not to twist the public perception?"

  She knew he was powerful. She wished her father had given her more information before she had agreed to join him at this meeting. This mansion on the coast of France near Cartegena was proof that he had power globally. Her father was rich, but power was fleeting. His operations were global as well, but the casual ease with which their host made his veiled threats gave her cause to begin to worry for the first time.

  Are we over our heads for the first time? She wondered. She wondered why they had allowed Clarence to convince them to work with this man and his clandestine, global organization. Perhaps they were not working with them. In truth, it seemed they worked for them. If her father came to the same realization, she was sure he would be torn between pride and fear.

  Giselle looked out the patio door out to the waves of the Mediterranean Sea crashing on the moonlit beach. The night was lit in hues of blue. It was a sharp contrast to the dark paneled room filled with books, an old green carpet, antique cherry-stained furniture, bitter cigar smoke, and the ancient trophies of a life lived in the last century. She sighed.

  "What Giselle is saying is that it will take more time to accomplish. Our focus is still the same. However, we will also be carrying out several other missions that are less crucial, but use different personnel and have a quicker time line."

  The man looked at Giselle wistfully. His eyes roamed from her tight calves exposed by the short Versace vintage dress to her hips. He seemed to be tracing the gold and brown leaf patterns of her dress with his gaze. He turned his head, a light smile playing at his lips. He enjoyed toying with the two of them. With everyone, probably. It demonstrated his power. Giselle felt a creeping sensation down her spine. She was not sure if it was fear or disgust.

  Eilif was putty in this man's hands, and therefore she was just as much a pawn and toy as her father. She hated her father even more for it.

  Giselle put the tumbler down, the final ring of whiskey giving her courage to stand up for herself.

  "No. The President is one piece of the puzzle. The biggest piece. But, without a consolidated client base, without control over our cash flow, we will not be prepared to reap the harvest to come. Our organization needs to be focused."

  He twisted his thick neck slowly, his jowls sagging with his frown. He breathed in deep. Smoke trailed from his thick nostrils.

  "You speak of Galbraith as though it is yours. You are just another client. How would Zeke Galbraith see your recent machinations in his own company?"

  Giselle shrugged.

  "Our actions and success demonstrate the extent of our i
nfluence."

  "Your power? Your foolishness and prideful arrogance, perhaps. You play with fire. Trust me. I crossed Zeke once. Only a billion dollars and half of my associates and assets would sate his revenge,” He chuckled, a low, coughing sound, "We are fast friends now, you know?"

  "It was your contacts with Zeke and his executives that allowed us access to Galbraith."

  "For your money, my dear. Or rather, your father's," he said, his eyes reluctantly, meaningfully drifting to Eilif. The tension in the room was as thick as the cigar smoke.

  "Regardless, our success gives us the ability to use Galbraith's extensive networks, technology, and influence to accomplish our goals. Your goals," Eilif said. He stared disconsolately into his drink. He usually enjoyed rare bourbon. He looked as if it were turning his stomach.

  "I should be impressed. What about Monday? You seem to want to avoid that topic."

  "He is not untouchable. However, he is almost as difficult a target as the President."

  "Really? Since when does an ant threaten the great Eilif?"

  Her father was smiling. She was sure it was a defensive mechanism. He was embarrassed at his weakness. Her father was a proud man. A powerful man. But, facing this man, this mountain in an Armani with small eyes, fat hands, and no neck, Eilif Nicholaisen was humbled. Giselle did not know whether to be disappointed in her father or afraid of the man with the cigar.

  Who are you? Why is my father so scared of you?

  The flight back to Ventura should prove to be enlightening.

  "Monday will no longer be a hindrance to our cause. He still works for us."

  "How much longer before he knows that you have been messing with his memories?"

  Eilif smirked.

  "The studies show that his sort of treatment can maintain traction for prolonged periods of time."

  "Two years? Really? Maybe I should be investing in this product, what do you call it?"

  "It is a long scientific name, something based on Latin."

  "Of course."

  "We call it Sychol," Giselle offered. His eyes snapped to her again.

  "Sychol. Have there been any side effects?"

  She shrugged.

  "He does not mention any. We believe, though, based on the studies, that he has severe headaches, migraines, even, an elevated temperature, heart rate, and increased sensory acuity," she explained. She leaned against the book shelf again.

  "So Mr. Monday experiences some good and some bad effects from your meddling?"

  "Yes. Of course, the drug is just one part of the equation. During the two weeks he spent in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, he underwent severe psychological memory altering. Several mental keys and verbal cues were implanted. In addition, we implanted a device in his hip that transfers certain blocks to his memory."

  "You reboot him?"

  "In essence, yes. It has been proven that the first memory blocks, the ones that block the memory of a subject's childhood, his or her loved ones, and most technical training are suppressed."

  "So, how is he able to still perform? How can he read, or talk? Are we not a culmination of our experiences?" The cigar man was more interested than she had considered. Or was this just a way for him to make another assertion of his power over them?

  "The memories are suppressed. Not the values. Not the training. The mind has been blocked. The body and the mind, still can draw from the well of experience to perform latent talents and use learned skills, but cannot access the specific memories."

  "Hmm. This all sounds so futuristic."

  "It is old technology and it is not an exact science."

  "Is that why the Russians abandoned it?"

  "In some subjects, failures can be violent. Messy. Often, the very scientists that created the procedures, the drugs, and the literature fell prey to these failures in one way or another. Soon, the whole project was stalled. Three facilities were abandoned in the eighties. What we use now is a combination of older Russian cases and more modern Chinese studies and advances."

  "I see. And because of this…Sychol you feel you can control Mr. Monday."

  "Control is too specific. Influence would be a better term. Deputy Director Smith tried the control method and you can see the results."

  He arched his eyebrows.

  "And Deputy Director Smith is now…?"

  "Dead. She was found in her pool yesterday. She had a heart attack."

  "I will say you people are efficient. And ruthless."

  "How else do you expect to rule the world?"

  Chapter 2

  Just a Cup of Joe

  What Jake really hated about Mondays was that it meant he had to go back to killing again. He felt the weekend was a great getaway from the hustle and bustle of the weekday drudgery of being a high-end assassin for the Galbraith Alliance. On weekends, he especially enjoyed playing volleyball on the beach and slamming the ball like a heated missile toward some bikini-clad co-ed. He loved watching the skin turn pink where the ball ricocheted off their forehead or thigh.

  As he headed for the office at the top of the Galbraith Tower, he daydreamed about the past. At least the past he could recall. Jake wanted desperately at times to remember his childhood, or his friends from university. Sometimes he would just like to remember what he did last week.

  He pieced together the ordeal in Atlanta. He vaguely remembered the trip there and the briefing with Deputy Director Smith on Thursday. She had outlined a plan to trap his CIA tail. The rest was a blur. If he dwelt on remembering specific details, he would experience a sharp pain in his head and feel so nauseous that he could think of little else than breathing.

  When he arrived home, the most curious thing he remembered involved the lady who had given him the silver locket. He remembered her body lying limp on the ground. He had difficulty fighting the feeling that she had somehow sacrificed herself for him. But, why? He had assumed she was the CIA tail he had exposed. Who had killed her, if not him? That question haunted him.

  Of course, there was his botched attempt to assassinate the “Leader of the Free World.” Remembering the knife in his pocket and the EMP devices he had stationed strategically in the park made Jake weak in the knees. He was not scared of dying. He just did not like feeling as though he had no control. He had somehow arrived in Atlanta in a sort of mental fog. No other explanation could suffice for his sudden willingness to take the life of the President of the United States.

  Hundreds of questions had passed through his brain this weekend. He had decided finally that he was better served leaving the tough questions for Monday. He expected a team of professionals to arrive on the yacht, taking him or more likely eliminating him. Nothing like that had transpired, so he imagined he would receive his punishment today.

  The only consolation to the danger that he knew he was about to face, was that he had thoroughly enjoyed his weekend on a yacht, relaxing and running these impossible questions through his head until he was satisfied that the only answers would come from Galbraith.

  Jake wanted the weekend to go on forever. He enjoyed the spray of the salt water as he watched the moon rise in the darkness. He loved the way the inky darkness of the night sky sparkled against the gently rolling waves. He became transfixed by the way the moon reflected off the peaks of the waves as they slapped against the brilliant whiteness of the sixty-five-foot Sea Spray.

  Standing at the bow, holding a cold drink in his hands, feeling the humidity moisten his linen shirt, Jake could almost forget the past week. Almost. The whole ordeal left him worried. He had prepared himself for the worst. He gathered that since he was allowed to return without a security team hunting him down that perhaps he would be given a slap on the wrist or a demotion. Or worse, maybe they would assign him to Team Lars again. Jake cringed at the idea. He did not trust that man. Of course, after this weekend, Jake did not know who to trust.

  Jake stopped in at the café in the first floor lobby. He scanned the menu. He stared at the pretty head in front of him of so
me new co-worker he noticed last week. His friend and co-worker, Gary constantly griped at him about his date choices. Gary seemed to always land dates with supermodels, movie starlets (usually just as they flamed out), CEO’s of magazines and other more powerful—and rich—ladies of various ages. He claimed once that he would date someone as old as sixty-five if she were interesting, driven and passionate. Or rich, of course.

  “I’ll take a poppy-seed lemon muffin and an espresso,” the girl said. She pulled her auburn hair behind her ear and half-turned. Jake could tell she was a field agent. She scanned the lobby efficiently. He knew she was counting. The drill was too familiar. Suddenly, he felt a chill. It was a familiar feeling that usually was accompanied by a painful headache.

  He looked at the menu again, swallowing hard and gripping his key ring in his front trouser pocket. He glanced back at the girl—Hallie, he remembered. Her black wool jacket was open in the front and he noticed the large bulk under her left arm. Packing in public was not discouraged, he knew, but only someone newly out of boot camp actually kept a firearm in such an obvious position. Jake felt the sudden urge to reach around her back and take the Browning he knew she carried there as she reached for her espresso.

  Instead, he checked his watch and wondered how late he should purposefully be today. The meeting was scheduled for seven in the morning.

  Who made up these hours, anyway?

  He would spend all day in briefings, debriefings, research, planning sessions, coaching sessions from Vladimir Vissarionovich, working out at the gym, an hour at the range, and then tonight his mission would kick off and usually not finish until late. It never occurred to him that perhaps he would not be assigned another mission after the debacle in Atlanta.

  Jake occasionally lamented to Gary that he could not figure out why he didn’t just take a long vacation to Africa or lose himself in the Outback. Gary loved the life, but he actually got assignments that would take him away from the office more and his schedule was not as stressful as Jake’s. Gary worked on the technical end. He set up the scenarios and laid out the groundwork. Jake was involved in the wet work. At twenty-six, he was the youngest agent at Galbraith.