The Kremlin Phoenix Read Free Page B

seen a bomb destroy it. He hardly gave a thought to his wound, or the
fact that he was now a prisoner of war. His only concern was to see his downed
stealth bomber destroyed before the Serbs could carry it off.
    Soon, a Serb Army truck arrived
to take him away. Even as he was dragged from the muddy field, he continued to
look expectantly towards the crashed F117, despairing that it was still largely
intact. Unable to walk, the soldiers lifted him into the truck, then several
climbed in after him. He listened as the truck drove away, hoping to hear an
explosion signaling the destruction of his stealth bomber, but it never came.
     
    * * * *
     
    Present Day
     
    Why would they
lie? Craig wondered for the hundredth time as he
sat in his office, staring at the photograph. The Defense Department had told
them his father’s aircraft had been destroyed in a devastating operation that
had disabled seventy percent of Serbia’s electricity system in a single night.
It was an amazing victory that had cost Craig’s father his life. At least, that’s
what they’d been told. His mother, Joan, and himself had attended the funeral. She’d
received the flag and had saved Colonel Balard’s medals and photos, but had
never once considered the possibility that he’d survived the crash.
    Craig’s phone rang. “Yes?”
    “You have the photograph?”
    “Yes. What do you want?”
    “A trade. I will tell you what
happened to your father, in return for everything you have on one of your
clients.”
    “Client information is
privileged,” Craig said automatically. “I can’t giving you anything.”
    “Then you will never know the
truth about your father.”
    “Is he still alive?”
    “I will tell you nothing until
you give me what I want. Do you need time to consider my request?”
    Craig hesitated. If he did what
this man asked, he could be disbarred, or face criminal charges, and if he didn’t,
unanswered questions would haunt him the rest of his life.
    “Mr Balard, do you need time to
consider my offer?”
    Craig cursed silently. “Which
client?”
    “Marcell Laurence Incorporated.”
    Craig had never worked on MLI,
but he knew the name. “Why them?”
    “That is not your concern. I will
call you later today to arrange a meeting. Tell no one about this.”
    Craig replaced the receiver, leant
back in his chair and rubbed his temple. After a minute, he picked up the old
black and white photograph again, and stared at the dirty, bloodied face of his
father, wondering what had really happened to him.
     
    * * * *
     
    Detective Rick Harriman wore a plain
grey, inexpensive suit. His top button was undone, his tie loose and his black shoes
scuffed. Strands of grey flecked his unkempt hair and a perpetual stubble covered
his chin, but as he entered Jerry Goldstein’s office, his eyes swept the room
with an intensity that missed nothing. Goldstein lay on his back, halfway
between the desk and an open liquor cabinet, eyes staring vacantly at the
ceiling. A single bullet hole penetrated his forehead, smearing his face and
saturating the surrounding carpet with blood. An empty glass lay on its side, not
far from Goldstein’s open hand.
    Harriman circled the forensic team,
now busily at work, noting the neatly ordered piles of documents on the desk,
the sophisticated computer and the expensive hand carved teak furniture. When
he had a feel for the scene, he approached Dr Benjamin Chaing, the white coated
forensic scientist studying the body. “Morning Ben. Got anything for me?”
    “Hi Rick,” Dr Chaing replied with
only a glancing look. “Not much so far. The entry wound indicates a small caliber
bullet. No abrasion ring around the wound, so they were quite far apart when
the shot was fired. Precise shot, right through the center of the forehead.
Considering the distance, I’d say the shooter is quite an expert.”
    “Found the bullet?”
    “Got a few pieces.” Chaing stood
up. “It’s a hollow point, shattered on contact