Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 02
Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Thirty-Three Minutes
"What do you have on this guy?" Detective Martin Guerrero from the passenger seat of Craig Donovan's BMW Roadster. "I mean ... I understand that he's a terrorist, but that's really all you've told me."
Donovan pulled onto the freeway, shifting the car into high gear, and he floored the accelerator. Veering through the building rush hour traffic, he ignored the posted speed limit, racing across the three lanes of clogged vehicles, careened onto the shoulder, and felt the roar of wind in his hair.
"You know damn well that I shouldn't be telling you a thing, Marty," the driver warned. "This is a matter of national security. Everything we have on this guy DeMarco is classified. As a matter of fact, you should know better than to even ask such a question. I could have you locked up for inquiring."
"Hey, buddy, this wasn't my idea," the detective countered. "You asked me to tag along, remember? My duty shift has ended. There's a TV dinner with my name on it faithfully waiting for me at home. I don't need the headaches, and it's not like you're paying any overtime. As far as I'm concerned, you can slow down to thirty-miles-an-hour, and I'll be glad to jump out."
Donovan knew Guerrero well enough to understand the past. The man had applied – on more than one occasion – to serve his country. He had applied – in his youth – for a position with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but budget cuts had kept the FBI's headcount low and Marty Guerrero's dreams of being a special agent had been vanquished by the bureaucracy. Apparently, thanks to a family history of heart disease, the Central Intelligence Agency wasn't interested in offering the man so much as a research position – not that he would've taken it, desiring a life of active service as opposed to culling through the foreign press every day for any splinter that could've been disguised intelligence dialogue. The Secret Service primarily recruited through the military for the last two decades, and, again anchored by bad genetics, Marty Guerrero settled for the last option available to him: to serve and protect the ordinary citizen. Somehow, a friend of a friend of a friend in a fairly high- ranking position had managed to keep the discussion of his father and his grandfather's heart condition to a minimum, and Marty Guerrero – as efficient as any detective Donovan had ever known – had worked his way up to the position of 1st Grade Detective, the crowning achievement of his contribution to the world of work. However, whenever he could, Donovan threw the man a bone as a show of appreciation for all of the red tape Guerrero cut through on the NSA's behalf. Given Donovan's foiling of a bank robbery just this morning, Guerrero was due for another bone.
"All right," the driver replied. "I'm going to tell you what I know, but I'll deny I said anything if this gets to the press ... and it had better not get to the press, Marty."
"I'm all ears, G-man."
"The man's name is Richard DeMarco," Donovan began, weaving off the shoulder and through two lanes of honking cars. "He's a terrorist. He specializes in bombs, but he's wanted in several countries as a possible assassin. A general bad apple, if you catch my drift. That the United States is aware of, DeMarco has operated under a variety of aliases: Dominic Martinez, Arturo Wainwright, Raymond Chianese, or there's the rather dry, dull, but very American-sounding Walter Churney."
"That is dry and dull," Guerrero agreed.
"Within the international community," the driver continued, "DeMarco goes by the code name of Efnisien."
"Efnisien?"
"That's what the file says," he said. "It's from Celtic mythology. Apparently, rumor has it that DeMarco is a nut for the stuff. Not just the Celtic myths, mind you, but all of it. Greek. Roman. Egyptian. You name it. Anyway, as the story goes, Efnisian if referred to as 'the God of the Hammer' by some texts. Apparently he was half-brother to royalty, a sister named Branwen. She was the world class beauty. Helen of Troy kind of beauty. She was courted by this Irish king, Matholwch. In exchange for the daughter, Matholwch gave Branwen's father these great horses. Efnisien believed a marriage between the Welsh and the Irish was a mortal insult to the bloodline, so, to make matters worse, he mutilated the horses. As you can guess, Matholwch wasn't happy, and the two kingdoms nearly went to war. However, at the last minute, Matholwch was given a peace offering: a cauldron that could resurrect the dead."
"That would come in handy."
"Tell me about it. So," Donovan continued, "Branwen wed the king, she bore him a son, and they named him Gwern. Now that the king has his heir, he imprisons her – don't ask me why royalty pulled this kind of crap – and the Welsh got wind of it and went to rescue her. Like any good Irishman, the lords weren't going to stand by and let their queen be taken back by the Welsh. In order to counter the attack, the lords hid themselves in flour bags. But the legend says Efnisien sniffed out their trick. He cast the bags into the burning cauldron before the lords could cut themselves free."
"But wouldn't the cauldron just resurrect them after they died?" Guerrero asked.
"That's not the way it worked, Marty," Donovan replied. "See, if you're alive and thrown into the burning cauldron, you died. If you were dead and thrown into the burning cauldron, it brought you back to life."
"So ... this Efnisien killed the Irish lords? He ... torched them?"
"Exactly! Then, he took Gwern – his own nephew – and threw him into the fire." Donovan shrugged. "Apparently, the Welsh had some rules that prohibited shedding the blood of a kinsman, so burning him to death was the only way Efnisien could rid their bloodline of the boy. Now, the Irish are really pissed. War broke out. Well, as you can guess, the Welsh found themselves on the wrong end of a raw deal. They fought hard and killed plenty of Irish soldiers, but Matholwch kept replenishing his army by throwing their dead bodies into the cauldron. The Welsh couldn't win!"
"What happened?"
"Efnisien realized he had started the whole thing, and he decided it was his responsibility to end it all." Again, Donovan screeched across two lanes of sluggish automobiles to pull back out onto the shoulder, where he raced ahead of the traffic. "The legend says that the man repented for what he brought on the Welsh, but I don't know."
"Why not?"
The driver cocked his head. "Well, the man faked his own death. Enraged, Matholwch didn't want the young man to get off so easily. He ordered his soldiers to bring the body to him, and then he ordered them to thrown it into the cauldron ... which would've brought him back to life. I'm guessing that, by doing this, the king could've tortured the man over and over and over again. But, once he was thrown into the fire, Efnisien took out his hammer and destroyed the cauldron, dying in the process but relieving the Irish of the chance to bring their dead back to life. As a result, by sacrificing himself, he gave the Welsh a chance to fight on equal terms."
"And this is who DeMarco idolizes?"
Donovan shook his head. "I never said he idolized Efnisien, but he obviously sees something so strongly in common with a character from Celtic mythology that he chose it as a codename."
Fastening his seatbelt, Guerrero nodded. "Well, both men obviously share an affinity for fire. We know that for certain. And by the way, G-man? DeMarco didn't torch only weapons, it turns out."
Curious, Donovan raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"I didn't tell you earlier because I was waiting on confirmation," the man admitted. "There was a body. Dental records have confirmed a match. The man's name was Emile Luga. He was on our radar, so he certainly should have been on yours. The D.C. police were watching him closely. He had recently been involved in illegal arms deals between some small-time thugs in Washington and some really nasty folks well south of the Mexican border. He'd been questioned on a few incidents, but nothing specific could be tied back to the man. He was very careful about whom he dealt with, but, given the circumstances, there's a good chance that those weapons DeMarco set fire to were part of an ongoing investigation."
"Luga?" Donovan asked. He reached down to his Blackberry and keyed in a message for Central Ops to perform a name search cross referencing any results back to Richard DeMarco. He knew the results shouldn't take long. The name – Luga – was uncommon, so he should have an answer shortly. "Let's let the administration pencil pushers run a search on that, Marty. If Luga died in this fire, then there's a good chance you and I may be on to something much bigger than we originally suspected."
"He didn't die in the fire," Guerrero corrected. "I said we found the body there. He died as a result of a gunshot wound fired at close range."
"Close range, eh?" Donovan jerked the steering wheel, and they pulled back onto the freeway. "That meant it was personal. The two men knew each other."
"It looks that way."
"The question is: how well did they know one another?" He nodded. "Let the NSA figure that one out for us."
Begrudingly, the detective asked, "You're going to share whatever it is you find?"
"Marty, are you implying that I've not offered you the cooperation of the NSA when you've asked for it?"
"A simple 'yes' or 'no' will do, Craig."
"Let me share this." He saw the exit sign – Broadway Avenue – and he swerved into the right lane. "DeMarco operates under a handful of alias, but there's only one I care about right now. It's that dull, dry, American- sounding Walter Churney."
"Why is that so important?"
Donovan smiled. "Because it was Richard DeMarco who took a plane from Paris to Washington, D.C., yesterday, but it was Walter Churney who registered last night at the EverRest Motor Lodge ... with no confirmed reservation and no anticipated date of departure. So, you and I are going to pay Mr. Churney a visit."
END of Chapter 02
Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Thirty-Three Minutes
"What do you have on this guy?" Detective Martin Guerrero from the passenger seat of Craig Donovan's BMW Roadster. "I mean ... I understand that he's a terrorist, but that's really all you've told me."
Donovan pulled onto the freeway, shifting the car into high gear, and he floored the accelerator. Veering through the building rush hour traffic, he ignored the posted speed limit, racing across the three lanes of clogged vehicles, careened onto the shoulder, and felt the roar of wind in his hair.
"You know damn well that I shouldn't be telling you a thing, Marty," the driver warned. "This is a matter of national security. Everything we have on this guy DeMarco is classified. As a matter of fact, you should know better than to even ask such a question. I could have you locked up for inquiring."
"Hey, buddy, this wasn't my idea," the detective countered. "You asked me to tag along, remember? My duty shift has ended. There's a TV dinner with my name on it faithfully waiting for me at home. I don't need the headaches, and it's not like you're paying any overtime. As far as I'm concerned, you can slow down to thirty-miles-an-hour, and I'll be glad to jump out."
Donovan knew Guerrero well enough to understand the past. The man had applied – on more than one occasion – to serve his country. He had applied – in his youth – for a position with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but budget cuts had kept the FBI's headcount low and Marty Guerrero's dreams of being a special agent had been vanquished by the bureaucracy. Apparently, thanks to a family history of heart disease, the Central Intelligence Agency wasn't interested in offering the man so much as a research position – not that he would've taken it, desiring a life of active service as opposed to culling through the foreign press every day for any splinter that could've been disguised intelligence dialogue. The Secret Service primarily recruited through the military for the last two decades, and, again anchored by bad genetics, Marty Guerrero settled for the last option available to him: to serve and protect the ordinary citizen. Somehow, a friend of a friend of a friend in a fairly high- ranking position had managed to keep the discussion of his father and his grandfather's heart condition to a minimum, and Marty Guerrero – as efficient as any detective Donovan had ever known – had worked his way up to the position of 1st Grade Detective, the crowning achievement of his contribution to the world of work. However, whenever he could, Donovan threw the man a bone as a show of appreciation for all of the red tape Guerrero cut through on the NSA's behalf. Given Donovan's foiling of a bank robbery just this morning, Guerrero was due for another bone.
"All right," the driver replied. "I'm going to tell you what I know, but I'll deny I said anything if this gets to the press ... and it had better not get to the press, Marty."
"I'm all ears, G-man."
"The man's name is Richard DeMarco," Donovan began, weaving off the shoulder and through two lanes of honking cars. "He's a terrorist. He specializes in bombs, but he's wanted in several countries as a possible assassin. A general bad apple, if you catch my drift. That the United States is aware of, DeMarco has operated under a variety of aliases: Dominic Martinez, Arturo Wainwright, Raymond Chianese, or there's the rather dry, dull, but very American-sounding Walter Churney."
"That is dry and dull," Guerrero agreed.
"Within the international community," the driver continued, "DeMarco goes by the code name of Efnisien."
"Efnisien?"
"That's what the file says," he said. "It's from Celtic mythology. Apparently, rumor has it that DeMarco is a nut for the stuff. Not just the Celtic myths, mind you, but all of it. Greek. Roman. Egyptian. You name it. Anyway, as the story goes, Efnisian if referred to as 'the God of the Hammer' by some texts. Apparently he was half-brother to royalty, a sister named Branwen. She was the world class beauty. Helen of Troy kind of beauty. She was courted by this Irish king, Matholwch. In exchange for the daughter, Matholwch gave Branwen's father these great horses. Efnisien believed a marriage between the Welsh and the Irish was a mortal insult to the bloodline, so, to make matters worse, he mutilated the horses. As you can guess, Matholwch wasn't happy, and the two kingdoms nearly went to war. However, at the last minute, Matholwch was given a peace offering: a cauldron that could resurrect the dead."
"That would come in handy."
"Tell me about it. So," Donovan continued, "Branwen wed the king, she bore him a son, and they named him Gwern. Now that the king has his heir, he imprisons her – don't ask me why royalty pulled this kind of crap – and the Welsh got wind of it and went to rescue her. Like any good Irishman, the lords weren't going to stand by and let their queen be taken back by the Welsh. In order to counter the attack, the lords hid themselves in flour bags. But the legend says Efnisien sniffed out their trick. He cast the bags into the burning cauldron before the lords could cut themselves free."
"But wouldn't the cauldron just resurrect them after they died?" Guerrero asked.
"That's not the way it worked, Marty," Donovan replied. "See, if you're alive and thrown into the burning cauldron, you died. If you were dead and thrown into the burning cauldron, it brought you back to life."
"So ... this Efnisien killed the Irish lords? He ... torched them?"
"Exactly! Then, he took Gwern – his own nephew – and threw him into the fire." Donovan shrugged. "Apparently, the Welsh had some rules that prohibited shedding the blood of a kinsman, so burning him to death was the only way Efnisien could rid their bloodline of the boy. Now, the Irish are really pissed. War broke out. Well, as you can guess, the Welsh found themselves on the wrong end of a raw deal. They fought hard and killed plenty of Irish soldiers, but Matholwch kept replenishing his army by throwing their dead bodies into the cauldron. The Welsh couldn't win!"
"What happened?"
"Efnisien realized he had started the whole thing, and he decided it was his responsibility to end it all." Again, Donovan screeched across two lanes of sluggish automobiles to pull back out onto the shoulder, where he raced ahead of the traffic. "The legend says that the man repented for what he brought on the Welsh, but I don't know."
"Why not?"
The driver cocked his head. "Well, the man faked his own death. Enraged, Matholwch didn't want the young man to get off so easily. He ordered his soldiers to bring the body to him, and then he ordered them to thrown it into the cauldron ... which would've brought him back to life. I'm guessing that, by doing this, the king could've tortured the man over and over and over again. But, once he was thrown into the fire, Efnisien took out his hammer and destroyed the cauldron, dying in the process but relieving the Irish of the chance to bring their dead back to life. As a result, by sacrificing himself, he gave the Welsh a chance to fight on equal terms."
"And this is who DeMarco idolizes?"
Donovan shook his head. "I never said he idolized Efnisien, but he obviously sees something so strongly in common with a character from Celtic mythology that he chose it as a codename."
Fastening his seatbelt, Guerrero nodded. "Well, both men obviously share an affinity for fire. We know that for certain. And by the way, G-man? DeMarco didn't torch only weapons, it turns out."
Curious, Donovan raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"I didn't tell you earlier because I was waiting on confirmation," the man admitted. "There was a body. Dental records have confirmed a match. The man's name was Emile Luga. He was on our radar, so he certainly should have been on yours. The D.C. police were watching him closely. He had recently been involved in illegal arms deals between some small-time thugs in Washington and some really nasty folks well south of the Mexican border. He'd been questioned on a few incidents, but nothing specific could be tied back to the man. He was very careful about whom he dealt with, but, given the circumstances, there's a good chance that those weapons DeMarco set fire to were part of an ongoing investigation."
"Luga?" Donovan asked. He reached down to his Blackberry and keyed in a message for Central Ops to perform a name search cross referencing any results back to Richard DeMarco. He knew the results shouldn't take long. The name – Luga – was uncommon, so he should have an answer shortly. "Let's let the administration pencil pushers run a search on that, Marty. If Luga died in this fire, then there's a good chance you and I may be on to something much bigger than we originally suspected."
"He didn't die in the fire," Guerrero corrected. "I said we found the body there. He died as a result of a gunshot wound fired at close range."
"Close range, eh?" Donovan jerked the steering wheel, and they pulled back onto the freeway. "That meant it was personal. The two men knew each other."
"It looks that way."
"The question is: how well did they know one another?" He nodded. "Let the NSA figure that one out for us."
Begrudingly, the detective asked, "You're going to share whatever it is you find?"
"Marty, are you implying that I've not offered you the cooperation of the NSA when you've asked for it?"
"A simple 'yes' or 'no' will do, Craig."
"Let me share this." He saw the exit sign – Broadway Avenue – and he swerved into the right lane. "DeMarco operates under a handful of alias, but there's only one I care about right now. It's that dull, dry, American- sounding Walter Churney."
"Why is that so important?"
Donovan smiled. "Because it was Richard DeMarco who took a plane from Paris to Washington, D.C., yesterday, but it was Walter Churney who registered last night at the EverRest Motor Lodge ... with no confirmed reservation and no anticipated date of departure. So, you and I are going to pay Mr. Churney a visit."
END of Chapter 02
