Rating
CHAPTER SEVEN
SEVEN CURSES
“Gold will never free your father
The price my dear is you instead”.
Seven Curses, Bob Dylan (1963)
“Vengeance and retribution require a long time.”
A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens (1859)
1995
Charlie surveyed the house from his rented Cherokee through a pair of military issue binoculars. It was a sultry, red-skied evening; Friday, 31st March. He could see her through the window. Mel was 37 now and yet she still looked so much like the 18 year old girl he’d first set eyes on half their lifetimes ago. Boy, how much he’d loved her then. And how much he’d hated her afterwards.
And now ?
Now that he knew the truth ?
He realised his hands were bending the jeep’s steering wheel. Truth was, he loved her, always had, and always would. Proportion, like many things, had never been his strong point. He had punished her unduly. And punished himself. And yet the only person who should be punished was ...
Well, that could wait a while; one-two-three-breathe.
He had never married and had never loved anybody else. Nor had she.
And above all, he had punished his son. The son he didn’t know. The son who didn’t know his father. The son Mel had named after their favourite singer-songwriter. The poet whose music they first made love to.
Leonard Cohen.
And the son who would celebrate his 18th Birthday the very next day.
Slowly, Charlie climbed out of the SUV, locked it and started towards the house.
He had spent almost twenty years engaged in some of the most terrifying warfare and ruthless hand-to-hand combat in global history. Not once had anything frightened him. Ever. He had always laughed in the face of danger.
After all, he never had anything to lose.
Now he wondered what his woman and son would say when he appeared out of the blue at their door after all this time.
Would Famous Blue Raincoat take Red Mist back ?
Or had he lost his family before he even had one ?
Suddenly, without any warning, for the first time in his life, Charles Victor felt real fear.
*** *** ***
Yesterday
Lonely Man licks his lips with anticipation.
As always, he is sat alone in his dark one-room apartment in a small, Midwestern town. His only table is littered with the detritus of his solitary life; spent cartons of old takeaway meals and delivery pizzas, unwashed plates and overflowing ashtrays, empty cans and scrunched up tissues. The blinds are drawn and the air in the room hangs heavy with the reek of musty carpets, stale tobacco smoke, and body odour.
But, to hand, he has a nice chilled six-pack of Miller, two packets of Camel still in their cellophane, and a warm Big Mac in a bag.
In the centre of the table stands his pride and joy; a 28-inch widescreen monitor hooked up to the PC under the table.
It is time for his daily round as self-appointed policeman.
He logs onto the Literotica site and selects New Stories. The familiar light blue letters on white background fill his screen.
He surveys the titles, looking for anything that smacks of the things he dislikes. He spots the name of an author and immediately clicks through to the end of the new chapter. He rates it a 1 out of 5 without reading a word.
Lonely smiles with satisfaction. He moves on to another story he spots and skims through it checking for words. He finds piss and shakes his head in disgust. Anything scatological, however subtle, offends him. He gives it a 1.
He moves to the site’s tags portal and searches on cuckold. He knows this section like the back of his hand. Aha! Some loser author has written a new story tagged cuckold. He opens it up and finds that the author has disabled the voting function. Lonely has won ! He has persecuted the guy with so many low ratings and vicious anonymous comments the wimp has run up the white flag.
Lonely lights a Camel and exhales a ring of satisfaction.
He pulls out a tissue and wipes his sweating forehead. Then, slowly, almost reverently, he lifts up his other pride and joy. It is a latex mouth that he lowers carefully onto his thin dick. It is a battery-powered, Fleshlight blowjob device. As soon as he flicks the power control, his darling Girl-who-never-says-no starts sucking him to heaven.
Lonely types an abusive private message to the loser telling him to give up. The idea of letting your wife fuck another guy appals Lonely. Heck, he’d never even be able to get a real girlfriend himself, so why would he fantasise about sharing one ?
He has never actually written anything in his life. Lonely himself isn’t even that good at reading! He prefers jerking off to free video sites. Hot babes the like of which he can only dream about. He is just about to move onto Slutload to ogle some cumshot compilation clips when he spots something.
A new title.
By somebody called Famous Blue Raincoat.
Reap the Whirlwind, Ch 1.
Hmm. Interesting.
*** *** ***
2007
It was a modest Sixties timber house on the lower slopes of the Hollywood Hills, ten minutes from Sunset.
The combined FBI and LAPD team surrounded the house and yard and then the lead agents bust in the front and back doors simultaneously.
The place was registered to Ms. Melissa Jones and locals confirmed that she had lived there alone with her son for maybe two decades.
Five minutes after the forced entry, it was apparent that neither Ms. Jones nor her son was in. Furthermore, neither had been home in quite a while.
Over the following 24 hours, it was to become apparent that the place had been ‘cleansed’ by total professionals. There was nothing left to indicate anything personal about the people who had lived there; no clothes, no books, no PC, no music, no papers, no tins of food, no cans of drink.
“Walt.”
The West Coast Head spoke into his cell to his boss back east.
“It’s like a show home. Just basic furniture. Table, chairs, sofa, bed without sheets. Not new. Used, but totally clean. Like nobody ever lived here yet.”
“Well dust the darned place again.” Walt Furness replied, exasperated.
“That’s it, Sir. We have. Twice. And we haven’t found a single print or hair.”
There was a silence.
“But there’s a note, Sir. It was found glued to the underside of the kitchen table. No prints on the sheet of paper. Just eight typed words in Calibri font.”
“What did it say ?”
“The trail stops here. Trust us. The Chameleon.”
*** *** ***
19.59 hrs
Rachel was in one of the underground interrogation rooms.
She was on her back with her legs in gynaecological stirrups, thighs wide apart. Two men were casually raping her. One was stood between her knees rhythmically pounding balls deep into her sore vagina. The other had already used her and he was wiping his smeared penis clean over her cheeks whilst preparing a set of piercing equipment.
She was fastened to the rack by leather straps round her forehead, neck, wrists, knees and ankles. She could wriggle her fingers, toes and hips but otherwise she was helpless.
The men were both thugs in their forties, old enough to be her father, but one was black and the other was oriental. She winced and whimpered with pain as the big black penis raped her. Her new breasts were rocking and rolling on her chest and both men sniggered at them.
She groaned with shame as she felt the second man’s orgasm squirted deep inside her. His coal black eyes studied her throughout as he emptied his testicles. He was smiling, eyes twinkling, enjoying her shame.
At least they had fed her beforehand to give her strength. It was the first proper food she’d had since the kidnap. A thick soup of beef and beans in some kind of spicy African sauce, along with a large drink of water.
The oriental man had a tattoo of a reticulated python covering his torso, neck and down his arms. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and wiped her breasts with a sterilizing cloth. Then he held a cold clamp in front of her eyes.
“Please.” She whispered, shaking her head.
He shook his head mock-sadly and placed the clamp over her left nipple and squeezed. Without warning, pop, a needle pierced her nipple.
“Aaah.” She flinched.
He repeated the procedure on her right nipple. Another pop.
She looked down and saw two shiny bars sticking out of her nipples. They were steel and looked alarmingly heavy atop her breasts.
He grinned approvingly.
“That’s all for today.”
The black man had been watching. Now he opened up a cellophane package and unwrapped something white. Rachel frowned as she realised it was some kind of diaper. He unbuckled the leather straps securing her knees and ankles and spread the diaper out.
The two men lifted her hips and placed it under her bottom like she was a baby. The black man spread open her wet vulva as if admiring the state they had left her in. Then he fingered up a scoop of their juices and put his thumb into her anus.
“Aaah.” She cringed.
He ignored her and opened a cellophane wrapper with his teeth. Inside was a capsule about the size of Rachel’s little finger. He showed it to her.
“This is a suppository. Ever had one ?”
She shook her head.
She felt him place it in the lubricated entrance of her anus. He pushed it slowly inside, smirking at her.
Within ten seconds, she felt a twitching sensation in her bottom.
He began taping up the adult diaper into position round her waist covering her orifices. Then he strapped her knees and ankles in place again and patted her stomach gently when he’d finished.
She noticed a burning feeling inside her bottom.
He was studying her eyes. Both men were.
“It’s a ginger suppository. It will burn. Enjoy.”
They walked to the door and turned off the light, just as the first fiery cramp hit her.
*** *** ***
21.00 hrs
Mel woke Susan Cumber with a gentle pat on the shoulder.
“Wake up, Sue. There’s work to do.”
Susan blinked at her, wiping her eyes. Her hair was tousled and she looked a mess. She had spent the afternoon with a handful of mercenaries. Her skin reeked of stale tobacco and sex. Slowly, she pushed the moth-eaten, coarse blanket aside and began to sit up.
“Phew.” Mel smiled. “You need a shower.”
Susan rolled her green eyes in agreement, shifting her stiff body.
“Hold still. Knees open. Press your ankles to your butt and show me your cunt.”
Susan looked at Mel and presented her hairless mound. The reddened lips of her cunt gaped open, still dirty and moist with the afternoon’s hard pounding. A sour waft of sexual odour mushroomed up from between her thighs.
Mel studied it without flinching. “Let’s go.” She said, finally.
Since the kidnap, Ryan had been the only one of the five captives to have had no sex. Or rather, no orgasm.
He was in the largest of the interrogation rooms, strapped onto an x-shaped steel frame. His naked arms and legs were stretched out, leaving his genitals nude and exposed. The x-frame was tilted at 45 degrees so he was resting at a comfortable angle. With his private entertainment system, he could almost have been travelling Business Class !
He was wearing a Bose headset and a there was a Sony TV screen fixed into the ceiling above his head. His upturned face flickered with vivid colours and light as a movie was broadcast just a couple of feet above his eyes.
During the first hour, Komodo had attached monitors to various parts of him, to gauge his reaction to the porn on the screen and blaring into his headphones.
Initially, it was bland softcore, just naked babes and vanilla male-female lovemaking. Then the clips ran through the gamut of things like interracial, watersports, gay male, cougar action, face-sitting, fem-dom, cuckold scenes, and hardcore Bdsm. All those did pretty much nothing for Ryan and the monitors proved it. Komodo crossed each fetish off on some kind of chart.
Occasionally excerpts of scenes featuring Ryan’s family had been inserted in the compilation. Blowjobs and anal and all kinds of sex, sometimes it was made to look like his mom and sisters were willing, other times they had obviously been forced. The disgusting action seemed to feature every horrible mercenary, except for the resolutely homosexual Komodo.
After an hour working out what got Ryan most excited, he had been drip-fed a constant diet of the hottest porn he’d ever seen. He loved threesome sex above all; consensual MFF action, with one fit guy and two babes, ideally two blondes, like Savannah, or maybe a blonde and redhead. He loved money shots too, seeing great geysers of jizz spurted over their cutes faces and between their gobbling red lips cloying their white teeth.
In the ten days since he’d been kidnapped, Ryan hadn’t had an orgasm. At first he had been too traumatised to care, but his pent up libido kicked in. He had a hot girlfriend called Savannah at college and the two of them usually made out at least twice a day. Now his balls had turned blue and his mind was going crazy.
But there was no respite. His dick had been constantly erect, oozing pre-cum. Komodo occasionally popped in to check up on him and give him sips of water. He made him swallow a tiny pill and then skilfully teased Ryan’s throbbing stiffness with his slim brown hands.
Despite his disgust at a man’s touch, Ryan’s dick felt as rigid as an iron bar. Then, without warning, the screen suddenly went black and his headphones fell silent. He was plunged into a few seconds of quiet calm.
The door opened and his mom walked in followed by the Chameleon woman. Even after everything that had happened, Ryan gasped like a teenager caught jacking off, feeling his cheeks blush.
But there was nothing he could do. He was spread-eagled, naked, with a throbbing erection jutting up towards his face.
His mom blushed in return. She looked shocking too; grimy naked, her tangled hair, smudged makeup, breasts marked with hickeys.
Ryan looked into the calculating eyes of the woman standing next to his mom.
She patted his mom on the shoulder while staring down at him. He felt both women’s eyes on his face, his body, dried pre-cum, his erection.
“Not bad.” She said. “What do you think, mommy ?”
His mom’s lower lip trembled. “Pl ...”
“Answer me !”
“It’s ... yes ... it’s nice.”
The woman reached over and lifted the wireless headphones from Ryan’s ears. She hung them over a hook and smiled at him.
“Mommy thinks you have a nice cock.”
He gulped. She walked her fingers down his chest and abdomen to his shaft and put her fingers around it, giving it a couple of teasing strokes. He shut his eyes unable to prevent his hips lifting slightly in reaction to her touch.
“Open your eyes.” He saw her take a step back. “You take over.”
His mom’s eyes filled with tears. “Please ... no ...”
The woman sighed. She put her hand in her pocket a removed something. It flashed in the overhead light. It was a steel scalpel.
“Tell her, Ryan. This will be the only way you get to cum.”
He gasped as she trailed the razor-sharp over the vein in his penis.
“Or maybe you’d rather that you never cum again ?”
“Please mom,” he sobbed, “... do it. Please.”
He recognised the shock and shame in his mother’s eyes. He felt it too. Slowly she placed her fingers on his erection and gripped it. She started to stroke him, up, down, jerking him off.
*** *** ***
03.10 hrs
Rachel lay in the dark in a soggy diaper full of her own waste.
She had survived the burning and the gut-wrenching cramps, but in the end the overwhelming need to relieve her bowels and bladder had beaten her.
Now, her inner thighs had turned from moist and warm to damp and cold. Her nipples ached and her bottom itched. She felt terribly alone.
Sometime, in the middle of the night, the bright halogen overhead lights suddenly blazed on.
She blinked at the black man who’d put on her diaper. He was wearing a towelling dressing gown, gazing down at her. By his dishevelled appearance it looked as if he’d been sleeping. He was holding a green plastic bag.
He reached down and peeled back one side of the diaper so he could peer inside. He sniffed and nodded, pushing the tape closed again.
“You sure have filled that, young lady, haven’t you ?”
She swallowed, feeling her cheeks flush. “Uhuh.”
He chuckled. “Well, that was a very rash thing to do.”
She watched him put on a pair of gloves and open the plastic bag. He carefully pulled out some plants. She realised they were a bunch of cut stinging nettles.
“No.” She gasped. “No, please. I can’t take any more.”
He held up a long clump of feathery green fronds.
“You’d be surprised how much more you can take.”
“Please.” She sobbed. “Not those.”
He ignored her and pushed a dial, adjusting the rack. She heard a whirring sound and felt her back and shoulders being lowered, so she ended up at a 45-degree angle with her head lower than her waist.
He walked round and stood facing her feet, with one leg astride each side of her head. His towelling robe hung open and she could see his dangling penis and scrotum, and his brown buttocks covered in frizzy hair.
OMG!
“Aaaaahssss.” She hissed.
The nettles slithered over her sensitive breasts and pierced nipples. She felt a hundred stings as the silica hairs stabbed her flesh, injecting their venom.
She tried to scream but he lowered himself onto her face and muffled her nose and mouth. She could only mewl into his bottom.
Her muscles twitched helplessly as she tried desperately to move, her wrists and ankles cutting into the leather straps, the nettles tickling and pricking her ribs.
And then, to cap it all, the man farted loudly in her gorgeous face.
*** *** ***
Day 10
There was excitement in the room at last !
After ten days of no progress, the investigation finally had something to go on.
Eighty agents and officers were being addressed by Walt Furness.
“Leonard Jones.” He said.
He pointed at a black & white image of a man wearing a Fedex uniform, looking straight into the lens of what was obviously an office lobby CCTV and sticking his long, lizard-like tongue out. It was date and time-coded 09.07 hrs 03/05/07. The man was clean shaven and he appeared to be middle aged, maybe mid, late forties.
Walt Furness pressed a button and produced a new, full-color slide. It showed a different, clean cut, quite handsome youth of around thirty. He looked a bit like a younger Kiefer Sutherland in his role as 24’s Jack Bauer.
“Leonard Jones.” Walt repeated with irony. “Same guy, different appearance. Ladies and gents, we are dealing with a master of disguise. Or to use his chosen handle, a chameleon.”
There was the sound of shuffling, murmurs, sideways glances.
“And Homeland Security has good reason to believe he is currently still at large somewhere within the United States.”
*** *** ***
09.07 hrs
Susan Cumber knelt while the black collar was sealed round her neck.
Mel grinned at her.
“There we are. Now we don’t have to worry about chains and ropes and all that stuff. See!”
Susan choked, apoplectic, as a short, sharp electric current coursed from the base of her spine up her nervous system to her brain, before ricocheting down to her feet.
She tumbled forwards face first onto the floor, trying but failing to scream, clutching at her throat.
“If you take one step outside this compound, that’s what will happen. Get up ! Get up !!”
Susan struggled slowly back onto her knees, gagging.
“Pl ... sss ...” she gasped. “No m ... more. Look, my husband w ... will get you your money, I promise.”
Mel laughed at her, tucking the controller for the electric tag collar into her leather belt.
“Oh yes. I forgot. Thanks. The money arrived safe and sound some time ago. We’re all already multimillionaires.”
Susan shook her head, struggling to hear and comprehend.
“Wha ... ?”
“Yeah, good old John. He’s done his bit. Now you just have to complete your part of the deal.”
My part ? Surely ? Susan shook her head to clear it.
“I don’t un ... understand.”
The woman smiled like a mother explaining homework to her kid.
“Look. Your husband had to pay to buy you all the opportunity to earn your freedom. But now he’s done that, you still have to complete your part of the bargain.”
“I ... wh ... what do we have to do ?”
“Well, we’re going to be here for a while. You see the money is a bit hot so we have to wait for it to chill.”
Mel reached and lifted Susan’s chin with her fingers so that both of them were looking into each other’s eyes.
“You see, even your money is best enjoyed cold.”
“H ... how long ?” Susan gasped.
The woman shrugged casually.
“I’m not sure. A year or so. Maybe longer.”
Unable to prevent herself, Susan sobbed. “Noooooo ! Nooooooo !”
A short, mild, electric shock soon brought her under control.
“I must warn you that outbursts like that will only extend your sentence. That noise just added one whole month to your stay. And any more silly comments will add a whole year to it.”
Completely defeated, Susan simply hung her head like a punch drunk boxer. Be strong ! Be strong for Rachel, Lorna, Ryan.
And John.
“Good.” Mel said. “Now, a few new rules. While here, you will make yourself useful. You will work 18/7. Do you know what that means ?”
Susan’s mind was still numb. Before she had the chance to reply, Mel carried on speaking.
“That mean eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. You have a personal maid don’t you ? What’s her name, Catalina ?”
“Yes.” Susan whispered.
“You will be my Catalina. Your duties will obviously include anything like hers, domestic chores, polishing floors and scrubbing toilets, that kind of stuff. And manicures, pedicures, massage, etcetera. Yes ?”
Susan nodded.
“But tell me, did Catalina lick your cunt ? Did she put out for your husband’s friends ?”
Susan merely stared at her, mouth frozen slightly open.
“Well ?”
There was a crack.
Susan’s hand shot up to cool her cheek where it had been slapped.
“No. She didn’t.”
“But you will of course ?”
“Y ... yes.”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Yes, M ... Madam.”
“And you will obey any sexual instruction, understood ?”
Mel waited for her, clearly expecting a response.
Susan bobbed her head slowly up and down.
“Yes ... any.” She mumbled.
Mel smiled, mock-kindly, gently cupping Susan’s cheek.
“Well, that’s all clear then. So let’s put you straight to work.”
*** *** ***
Day 11
The young FBI agent was quivering with excitement.
“Sir.” He said, holding a printed piece of paper out to Walt Furness and John Cumber. “We have him.”
There it was. In black and white.
A reservation had been made for a Mr. Lionel C. Jones on American Airlines, Flight 1385, from New York to Bridgetown, Barbados. Departing JFK the following morning, a Sunday, at 09.55 hrs.
The ticket had been purchased with cash from a midtown Manhattan travel agent two days ago.
“Yesss.”
John Cumber punched his right fist into his left palm and muttered under his breath.
“It’s a single ticket, Sir. One way.”
“Barbados ?” Walt mused, stroking his chin cautiously.
“The nearest international airport to St. Vincent, Sir.”
“Where my fucking billion dollars was wired.”
The young agent’s grin widened with a triumphant flourish.
“And there’s more, Sir. A small 4-seater jet has been booked with SVG Airlines. It is chartered to fly from Grantley Adams, Barbados to Joshua Airport in St. Vincent, tomorrow afternoon.”
He paused for full, dramatic effect. “It is to fly just a single passenger. Chartered by somebody travelling under the name of Lenny Johnson.”
Walt looked at the agent and then at John Cumber.
“Let’s go hunt our reptile guys !”
*** *** ***
15.15 hrs
Seven of the reptiles were playing poker in the afternoon shade; Skink, Gator, Gecko, Night Snake, Cobra, and a couple of others.
The atmosphere was intense. Large piles of chips were heaped in front of several players and smaller stacks belonged to the rest. It was evident that the millions each man now possessed in foreign bank accounts were being wagered on No Limits Texas Hold’ Em.
Skink, a Nigerian, surveyed the table with his motionless, poker face.
“Raise.” He said, pushing several $10,000 chips forward.
Gator’s eyes studied him. His lopsided face with its missing ear slowly broke into an ugly grin.
“Gotcha !”
Skink froze, then grinned in defeat. He looked down between his thighs. Lorna Cumber’s pretty head was glued to his waist.
As well as poker, there was a game of side-bets. The men were all naked from the waist down. Lorna was kneeling under the table. She randomly sucked a dick for about a minute and each man had to keep a straight face whenever it was his turn.
Now that his bet was lost, Skink relaxed and forgot about trying to hide his orgasm from the table. He groaned and seized her long brunette hair, pumping Lorna’s head up and down on his dick.
“Blow zat fuckin head off, man.” Gecko, the heavily tattooed Russian encouraged.
“Man it’s coming out her ears.” Night Snake, laughed.
Skink twisted her hair and pulled her head up so that everybody could see her pretty face above the rim of the table. Her lips were pursed tight, throat working, gulping his seed.
Everybody laughed. Skink flicked a $10,000 chip over to Gator.
“Your turn, Gate. Now let’s see you keep a straight face !”
He pushed Lorna back under the table towards Gator’s seat.
“Start again, darling.” He smiled. “Now, I think I just raised you all.”
*** *** ***
20.35 hrs
Ryan Cumber was the last of the five to break.
Komodo was highly skilled at keeping him there. He could have broken him at any time but he enjoyed making the fun last.
Ryan was strapped over the wooden raping stool, his asshole in the air, his wrists and ankles cuffed to the base. He was hollering loudly but futilely into the stone walls as Komodo sodomised him again and again.
In between ass-fucks, Komodo relaxed, charged his batteries and amused himself. He had an insatiable libido fortified by tabs of Viagra. He thrashed Ryan’s cute muscular butt with vicious cane strokes. He stretched his scrotum with heavy lead weights and threatened to slice his balls off with a serrated knife.
“No !” Ryan screamed, as the blade pricked his prostate.
Eventually, it was the fist that did it. Komodo managed to force his entire hand up to the strap of his Rolex into the young man’s sphincter and Ryan’s body sagged. He sobbed for mercy. He proved it by sucking Komodo’s shitty cock until the Indian had squirted his umpteenth orgasm down Ryan’s throat.
“Good boy.” Komodo chuckled, slapping Ryan’s bruised bottom. “I told you. Slowly we’re turning you into a much nicer person.”
*** *** ***
Saturday
Lenny sunk back into a First Class seat for the first time in his life.
He admired the flaxen-haired stewardess who served him a glass of champagne, as she leaned over to ensure he got a nice view of her deep cleavage.
He felt a twinge in his groin as he imagined reaching out and grabbing her tits. Like he would soon be able to do to those two Cumber girls.
Out through the oval window he could see frantic activity as the baggage handlers and airline staff filled the plane with suitcases and fuel.
He felt no emotion, no Star Spangled banner. It was goodbye and good luck as far as he was concerned. God bless America but he doubted he would ever set foot on her rich soil again.
Now he had riches of his own.
A male steward suddenly brandishing a clipboard gave him a shock.
He smiled down at Lenny momentarily. Like he fancied him.
“Monsieur Kohn.” The cabin steward said. “Bienvenue.”
Lenny peered back up at him through his dark glasses and flashed his best white teeth smile. “Er, merci.”
“Vous etes Americain ?”
“Nao. Eu sou Brasileiro.” Lenny replied in his well-rehearsed Portuguese. Lenny’s s temporary skin colour was mulatto and he had a sharp goatee to compliment his wiry black hair. Every inch a Brazilian.
“But ... er ... I can speak a leedel English.” He attempted.
The steward gaily flipped into his own mix of cabin crew Portuguese and flawless English himself.
“Bemvindo abordo, Senor Kohn. Enjoy the flight.”
“Obrigado.”
“I will leave you the menu and entertainment guide. If I can be of any assistance, please do not hesitate to call me.”
Sixteen minutes later, with typically Swiss precision, at 19.55 precisely, the Airbus A330-200 that was Swissair Flight 65 took off on time from Miami on its overnight haul to Zurich.
Around fourteen hours later, at JFK New York, Sunday morning’s American Airlines flight to Barbados was delayed for several hours as Federal Agents checked out every single inconvenienced passenger, searching for a Mr. Lionel Jones, without any success.
Popping an antacid tablet into his mouth, Walt Furness couldn’t help chewing bitterly on eight words:
The trail stops here. Trust us.
The Chameleon.
*** *** ***
Day 12
Walt stood jacketless, sleeves rolled up, in the same crammed meeting room, in front of most of the same eighty agents, but this time there was no air of excitement.
The tang of sweaty armpits, certainly.
Grim determination for sure.
But mostly just exhausted resignation.
He projected three mug-shot images onto the screen behind him.
To the left, there was the same modestly handsome youth he had displayed before.
“Leonard Charles Jones. Born Los Angeles, 1st April, 1977.”
To the right, there was a nice looking woman. It was her driving license photo. At first glance, she looked like a standard, well preserved Californian soccer mom. The resemblance with her son was apparent, despite their age and gender difference.
“Melissa Jones.” He said. “Born Anaheim, Orange County, 11th November 1957. Unmarried single mother of Leonard.”
And finally, the middle of the three images, projected directly above where Walt stood, showed one of the most extraordinary faces most of the agents had ever seen.
The picture was black and white. A military ID. By the fading quality, the photo looked maybe a couple of decades old.
The masculine features themselves were reasonably ordinary. Tough looking sure, strong cheekbones and firm jaw, military back and sides. He looked maybe late twenties at the time. At first glance, his photo could have been pretty much any photo from the front page of USA Today, showing the face of another casualty in Afghanistan or Iraq.
Yet, behind the features and within the slightly narrowed eyes, there was something else entirely.
Something indescribable that made the little hairs of every member of the audience stand on end.
“You are looking at Charles Victor. Born Ontario County, New York State, 14th February 1957 to an American father and a Brit mother, both deceased. Served nine years in the British Armed Forces and has since worked around the world as a mercenary. Current whereabouts unknown. But we believe he may be the biological father of Leonard Jones.”
The silence in the room was palpable, as if hearts had stopped beating. At second glance, there was something about the eyes of the two men that was similar.
“Charles, Melanie, Leonard.” Walt enunciated each name slowly.
Then he picked up a marker pen and wrote on the white board.
C ... H ... A
He turned briefly to glance at his audience then carried on writing.
M ... E ... L
There were murmurs.
L ... E ... O ... N.
Walt Furness calmly placed the pen down and stared everybody hard in the eyes.
“Gentlemen, ladies: The Chameleon !”