Illusion of Splendor
An International Thriller by J.D. Easley
Waterton Publishing Company
No part of this book was created using Artificial Intelligence (AI).
This is a work of fiction. The events described are imaginary and the settings and characters are fictitious and not intended to represent actual places, companies, or persons.
Copyright © 2012 by J.D. Easley. Waterton Publishing Company. All Rights Reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproducedin any form without permission.
Published simultaneously worldwide.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012947104
ISBN: 978-0-9905249-0-8
New chapters to be released (see below).
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ILLUSION OF SPLENDOR
II PRIVACY
Sandra Downing’s and Gilbert Beaulieu’s forks dipped from opposite ends of a small table into a warm crème brulée at Le Restaurant Blanc in Paris. Sandra laughed, “Are you afraid I’ll eat the whole thing?” Gilbert, a mouthful of crème, smiled and again dipped his fork.
“S’il vous plaît monsieur,” Gilbert waved his left hand slightly to the attention of a nearby server, “peut-on avoir deux Sauternes.”
The server’s head bobbed once and off he darted for a short bar next to the kitchen entrance.
“You have almost eaten the entire dessert!” Gilbert teasingly said of Sandra while exchanging the fork for a spoon, “I now present la pelle!” They both laughed. On the table, the server carefully placed glasses of wine, bowed slightly, and retreated in a well-rehearsed pivot.
“To Monaco,” Gilbert held out his glass; “To Monaco!” the glasses chimed.
“I’m so glad my father’s coming,” Sandra’s green eyes sparkled to a candle’s flicker, “that was so nice of you to invite him; it would have totally been rude to leave him here, I mean, I just couldn’t have.”
The server quietly extracted the dessert dish. Gilbert waited until sure to be unheard by all but Sandra, sipped from his wine glass, and answered deeply, each syllable finely pronounced in a French accent, “It is with pleasure, Sandra, I’m anxious to meet this father you speak of so highly, and I am as excited as you we are going. It should be very enjoyable, with just very few of us on the yacht; it was fortunate I handled the account; there is just us and my boss and his family, from the bank.”
“You’ll have to help with my wardrobe” Sandra beamed, “I don’t have all my clothes here in Paris.”
“We’ll go shopping,” Gilbert smiled and sipped from the glass.
Sandra and Gilbert sat for another hour, concluded their romantic banter with espresso, and waited as the valet sprinted to a black Maserati Quattroporte parked several blocks away and returned the car slowly to the restaurant entrance, leaving open the driver’s door, holding open the passenger door for Sandra. Gilbert handed five Euros out the window and accelerated into traffic on the boulevard. In silence, Sandra and Gilbert absorbed the muted lights of Paris through black tinted windows as the car glided fast and slow, stopping at an occasional light, coming to rest eventually under the glow of a streetlamp in front of Sandra and Rachel’s apartment.
Once shifting into park, Gilbert pushed a button subduing the Maserati’s rumbling purr, turned to smile at Sandra, opened the door, walked around the front of the car and opened the passenger door. Sandra gracefully slid from the dark maroon leather and they walked arm in arm along a short cobblestone walkway to a wrought iron and glass door. There, Gilbert placed his hands on Sandra’s arms without saying a word. Gazing into her eyes, he moved his hands slowly up her arms, over shoulders bare but for narrow silver straps, along the sides of her neck to the sides of her head, holding the long blonde hair gently from her face he lowered his head to kiss her lips. For what seemed both an instant and an eternity, the two embraced, until Gilbert whispering “Bonne nuit” returned to the black sedan and drove away.
It was 8:30 a.m. in Washington when wiretaps activated on Robert Downing’s home and cell telephones; FBI agents had been monitoring the townhome since the previous night via digital video cameras mounted inside a parked Mustang half a block away and on a telephone pole in back overlooking the garage. Two agents in a Dodge Charger pulled behind the Mustang at eight forty-five; on the passenger’s lap was a notebook computer displaying split-screen video from both cameras.
“I hope he doesn’t decide to stay home all day” said the driver – a middle age woman with auburn hair wearing sweatpants and a Georgetown sweatshirt – flatly to the passenger.
“Maybe’s he’s got an overnight lady friend” said the passenger – a middle age man wearing Levy jeans, a Nike t-shirt, and a Nationals cap – in lighthearted response.
“Ha,” the driver smiled; sardonically retorting “maybe that Rain girl.”
The passenger pressed a button and the adjacent window descended; “Beautiful day” he exclaimed while unwrapping a stick of chewing gum. The driver did not acknowledge what she considered to be obvious and they sat silently looking out their respective windows. Boredom was a job detriment too well understood by both.
At shortly after eleven the passenger suddenly announced “The garage door is opening” while staring at the computer screen. His voice startled the driver and she turned the ignition key and moved the console lever to drive. “The car is backing out,” the passenger’s coolness to the driver conveyed a sense of urgency, “it’s a green BMW convertible, I think a Z3 or something like that.”
The driver made a hurried U-turn and pressed hard on the accelerator. “He’s out, the door is closing, he’s turning, going the other direction.” The hemi roared and the Charger’s front-end elevated with the soft rubber rear tires digging into pavement. “He’s…out of view.”
The brake pedal applied too firm, tires squealed, and the driver quietly uttered “Shit.” The passenger clenched a handgrip above his door; the Charger leaned heavily to the driver’s side, slid for several yards, straightened briefly, and slid again as the driver worked the brake and accelerator to maneuver into the alley well behind the BMW.
“He’s turning left” advised the passenger with his right hand still tightly gripping the vinyl handle.
“I know…I can see” the driver tartly responded as she slowed the Charger; “I hope we didn’t freak him out with the tires screeching and….”
“I’m just glad there weren’t any other cars,” the passenger’s exclamation interrupted the driver’s sentence; “Amen!”
The Charger turned left at the alley’s end and onto a residential two-lane road several car lengths behind the BMW cruising down a hill toward the river. The passenger reached back with his left arm and after feeling around the floorboard retrieved a small cardboard box, let go of the handgrip, and opened the lid. Inside was a small metal device, about the size and shape of a paper cup lid, one side covered by a plastic cap. The Charger followed the BMW to an intersection, turned right after several cars passed, and left as the BMW a block ahead pulled to the curb and stopped. The Charger continued slowly past. The passenger monitored the BMW in the rearview mirror outside his window until the Charger turned, slowed, and stopped.
“I’ll bet he’s going to Barnes & Noble” remarked the passenger, “That’s just great, Saturday morning in downtown Georgetown, he couldn’t have picked a busier place.”
“Let’s go, we’ll pull the lost dollar gag, we’ve got to get this done.” The driver was outside closing her door. A short brisk hike and the two paused a few feet from the BMW as shoppers strolled all around. The passenger reached in a jean pocket, pulled out several bills, selected a one dollar note, and replaced the others. They continued walking slower, passing the BMW, subtlety looking ahead and behind, stopping on a short bridge over a creek they talked for a minute until retracing their steps back to the BMW.
“Oh, did you see that, it flew right under that car!” the driver’s boisterous line the result of previous rehearsal.
“I’ll get it honey” replied the passenger with due inflection, glanced up and down the street, stepped off the curb, discreetly slid the metal object from a pant pocket under his t-shirt and pried off the plastic cap. He stooped, crawled, leaned and reached, until the object adhered magnetically to the BMW’s frame well behind the back bumper, crawled out and proudly presented a dollar bill to the driver. She raved in response, “You’re the best!” and kissed the passenger on the cheek as precise location information beamed to a surveillance computer.
As they walked back to the Charger, the driver quietly reminded the passenger, “Don’t forget to call the city about that camera at the intersection, and make sure there were no others.”