Esperanza Harper—Espy to her friends—is a high-powered attorney for the US Department of Justice, and the head of a covert task force charged with investigating economic terrorism.
When the head of the secret Society of the Cincinnati, Senator Garrett Crandall, dies in a freak car accident, Espy gets a call that points to murder. A murder that sets in motion a chain of events that leads Espy and her team to a secret cache of decades-old documents. Documents that contain clues not to just the murder of Senator Crandall, but to the truth behind who really committed the most shocking murder in our country’s history—the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. Clues that send Espy and her team racing across the country—racing against time—before the deadly killers can strike again.
SAGAS OF THE CINCINNATI: They have been with us since our nation’s founding. A secret society composed of patriots of all creeds and colors, drawn from all walks of life. Hidden in plain sight, hidden beneath the banner of a Revolutionary War organization formed by our country’s founding fathers, they come together when America’s need is greatest to fight the forces of evil our government cannot.
Esperanza Harper—Espy to her friends—is a high-powered attorney for the US Department of Justice, and the head of a covert task force charged with investigating economic terrorism.
When the head of the secret Society of the Cincinnati, Senator Garrett Crandall, dies in a freak car accident, Espy gets a call that points to murder. A murder that sets in motion a chain of events that leads Espy and her team to a secret cache of decades-old documents. Documents that contain clues not to just the murder of Senator Crandall, but to the truth behind who really committed the most shocking murder in our country’s history—the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. Clues that send Espy and her team racing across the country—racing against time—before the deadly killers can strike again.
SAGAS OF THE CINCINNATI: They have been with us since our nation’s founding. A secret society composed of patriots of all creeds and colors, drawn from all walks of life. Hidden in plain sight, hidden beneath the banner of a Revolutionary War organization formed by our country’s founding fathers, they come together when America’s need is greatest to fight the forces of evil our government cannot.
Apex, Nevada
20 Miles Northeast of Las Vegas
Sunday, October 27, 1963
The hat was a white Stetson.
Over the last six months, Averill had taken to wearing it as a matter of course. Not because he was trying to fit in out here—that would be a waste of time. Averill was as East Coast blueblood as they came (with a name like James Preston Averill, how could he be otherwise?), a product of Choate, Yale (Skull and Bones, of course), then the CIA and a half dozen other acronymed government agencies that had come and gone over the last decade. Before his hair thinned, before he’d let twenty pounds worth of embassy dinners and DC banquets accumulate around his midsection, he’d been the archetypal blond-haired, blue-eyed, square-jawed American prep-school kid. He still was. No sense in trying to pretend otherwise.
No, he wore the hat not to roleplay, but to honor the man who’d given it to him: the late General Kazmir Wachtel, USAF. What had happened to Wachtel was a shame—necessary, but a shame nonetheless. Every time he put on the hat, Averill thought of Kaz.
Your sacrifice was not in vain, General. I promise.
Averill sat behind the wheel of a black Ford Galaxy, heading northeast out of Vegas on the Salt Lake Highway. Windows open to feel the breeze. The cold braced him, refreshed him after the day’s heat—close to a hundred degrees. Unseasonably warm.
The road straightened, swooping down from the ridgeline into a vast and empty basin. The full moon poured down enough light to get a sense of scope and distance. The landscape here was immense—most of it desert. A single light shone in the darkness a few miles ahead.
“Is that it? That has to be it, right?” His passenger pointed toward that light with the rolled-up newspaper he held in his right hand, the same newspaper he’d been tapping against his knee throughout their journey.
“I would think so.” Averill glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye. “Relax, lieutenant. This is all going to be very straightforward.”
The “lieutenant” was an honorific. Stephen Guidry was a geologist, not a military man. Averill had convinced Guidry to leave Saudi Arabia and come to work for his country, use his expertise in service to something other than profit. It had been easier to have him enlist than to run through the paperwork required for the civilian clearance that would have been required to fully brief Guidry on Ararat—so the man understood the necessity, the urgency, of the task facing them.
“Yes, sir. Understood, sir.” Guidry stopped fidgeting and sat quietly for a moment … and then went right back to tapping the newspaper on his knee.
Averill sighed inwardly.
Guidry was a good man—a solid citizen, married, beautiful wife, two beautiful kids. Averill had gone to his house for a holiday party last year. Everyone from Ararat had been there; it was all drinks and laughter, the old bonhomie among friends, the shared smiles between men who knew the importance of what they were doing.
That was before the “accident,” of course.
Now, good man or not, Guidry was a problem. His nervousness, Averill knew, masked a deep unease. Immense guilt over what they’d done. How much longer could he hold those feelings in? Not much, Averill suspected. He saw a reckoning coming, sooner rather than later.
Not that he wasn’t haunted occasionally by the specter of that afternoon himself. The look on General Wachtel’s face, on the closed-circuit monitor in the control room.
“Jim,” Wachtel had said. “Something’s wrong. We can’t breathe down here. Jim.” There had been desperation in his voice, in his eyes, desperation mirrored by the frantic activity behind him, the other men trapped beneath the surface, trying desperately— fruitlessly—to find a way out of the deathtrap they were in.
Averill pushed those memories away, pushed the brim of the Stetson back, letting the cool breeze hit his forehead. The past was past. What was done was done. What was important now: the future. The promise of a better tomorrow. Not just for him but for the whole country. For the whole world.
The promise of Ararat.
He drove on.
The light in the distance grew closer. It resolved into a single sodium spot fastened high above a wooden sign at the side of the road, two stories high.
American Lime Products Corporation No Trespassing
Averill turned off the highway and onto a gravel drive. American Lime Products was a huge company, a big supplier to the ongoing construction in and around Las Vegas. The site here was quarry and refinery, plant and offices. The road snaked past a series of huts and trailers, conveyor belts and gravel hoppers, huge piles of rock and sand, until it curved around a mound of earth and there, hidden from sight, a car was waiting.
Averill glanced at the dashboard clock: 2:51.
His man was early. Not a surprise, Averill thought. He and Guidry were early too. Force of habit. What was a surprise: His man was not alone. There was someone else with him. A woman.
Averill had a moment of unease. He felt the weight of the gun in his shoulder holster, the heft of the knife strapped around his ankle. His days in the field were long over, but he’d made a point of keeping up with his training. If things went south, he had full confidence that that training would be more than adequate. And if it wasn’t…
The risk was worth taking.
Averill set the parking brake and stepped out of the car.
The man he’d come here to meet stepped forward, giving Averill his first up-close look at Frank Ferrone.
Ferrone was general manager of the Peacock Hotel and Casino, in the heart of the Vegas Strip. Forty-eight years old, unmarried, worked eighteen hours a day. Even now he was dressed for his job: dark suit, white shirt, thin black tie. Thinning black hair. An altogether unremarkable face—an altogether unremarkable man.
Other than a rumored taste for showgirls, Ferrone eschewed flash and Vegas glitz entirely. Made a point of flying under the radar at all times, unlike any other member of La Cosa Nostra, the Mafia, that Averill had ever come across.
Which made him perfect for the job.
The two men stopped six feet apart and regarded each other.
“Colonel Averill. A pleasure.”
“Mr. Ferrone. Thank you for coming.”
“How could I say no? Your invitation was … intriguing, to say the least.”
“I’m glad. But that invitation was for you, Mr. Ferrone. And you alone.” Averill put some steel in his voice. “I stressed the importance of keeping this meeting secret, didn’t I? And yet, you bring her.” He gestured to the woman.
She was taller than Ferrone. Dressed for work as well, a tailored suit for a well-proportioned figure. Dark wavy hair, strong features—handsome, not beautiful. A showgirl? No, he decided. Something else. But what?
“Who is she?” Averill asked. “And why is she here?”
“Miss Falconetti is my right hand,” Ferrone said. “She’s involved with every aspect of my work. Whatever deal we make, she’ll be part of it.”
“You don’t have to worry. I know how to keep a secret,” Miss Falconetti said.
Averill heard a Chicago accent in her voice. Educated guess: She had come here from the Windy City with Ferrone, who’d moved to Vegas a dozen years ago. The man had quickly proven himself so capable that the Committee—the organization that represented the interests of all the families and ruled the Mob everywhere, not just in Vegas but Chicago and New York, Miami, Jersey and Rhode Island, Philly and Cleveland and every place in between—had taken notice of him. Had promoted him up the ladder time and again until Ferrone worked for not just one family … but all of them.
Frank Ferrone managed the Committee’s money here in Vegas—greased the wheels that needed greasing, kept the construction unions in line, paid the building inspectors to obtain the necessary permits, handled the cops whose instincts needed massaging, kept the politicians’ ambitions in check. An incredibly able man, driven and hardworking. Just the sort of man Averill needed.
“I’ll count on your discretion, Miss Falconetti. Your ability to keep secrets. This, by the way, is Lieutenant Guidry. He’s an associate of mine in this matter.”
“Lieutenant.” Ferrone nodded, a greeting and an acknowledgement. “So, what exactly are you up to these days, Colonel?”
“Excuse me?”
“Give me a name, I’m usually pretty good at finding out who the person is. What they do. But in your case…” Ferrone shook his head. “Last thing I found on you is from ten years ago. You were in Korea, with General MacArthur. A special advisor.”
“I’m still with the government,” Averill said.
“Not the Department of Justice, I hope.” Ferrone’s face darkened. “Not that cocksucker Bobby Kennedy. Because if that’s what all this hush-hush, tell-nobody, three a.m. bullshit is about, you trying to get me to rat out the people I work for, we got a huge problem.”
Ferrone shifted position and Averill saw the telltale bulge of a gun under his suit coat. The woman was probably carrying a weapon as well. Averill made a few mental calculations. “No. Rest easy, Mr. Ferrone, I’m not with the Department of Justice. I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency now. And for the record, I’m not a fan of our current attorney general either. Or his brother, for that matter.”
Averill had a particular animus for JFK. Part of the reason he was here.
“Good. Because those goddamn Kennedys, they’re making life just about impossible for us here. We invented this town, and now they’re trying to squeeze us out.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep a hand in,” Averill said. Even if that hand was largely invisible. As much cash as there was pouring into Vegas, as there always would be—he knew the mob would find a way to stay involved.
“Okay, so you’re not with the DOJ. That’s good. I still don’t know what it is you want with me, though.”
“That’s simple. I want us to be partners.”
Ferrone smiled. “You want to go into the casino business?”
“Hardly.”
“So?”
“Let me give you a little background first. Lieutenant Guidry?” Averill held out his hand and Guidry handed him the rolled-up newspaper. “This is a copy of the Las Vegas Journal Review, from two weeks ago. You may have seen—”
“I’m too busy to read the papers,” Ferrone interrupted.
“I read them,” Miss Falconetti said.
“Good. Then perhaps you remember this article.” He flipped through the paper and held it up so the moonlight shone on the headline he now pointed to. “Here.”
“Deadly Desert Disaster.” Miss Falconetti nodded. “Yes. I think I did see this. There was an accident of some sort at Nellis Air Force Base. Some equipment that malfunctioned. A number of people were killed.”
“Yes. Twenty-six, to be exact.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” Ferrone said. “Friends of yours?”
“Yes,” Averill said. “Some of them. Friends and colleagues.”
He pictured Wachtel’s face again. Jim. Can you hear us? Jim!
“But it wasn’t an accident,” Averill continued. “We just made it look that way. What it was, really, was murder.”
“What?”
“Murder.” Averill looked Ferrone in the eye. “I killed them.”
“Hey. Hold on here.” Ferrone shook his head. “You sure you want to be telling me this?”
“Absolutely I’m sure. You need to understand the importance of what we’re discussing here. The seriousness of our mutual endeavor.”
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
“You said yes the moment you agreed to this meeting,” Averill replied.
The two men stared at each other for a moment. Averill had shifted position slightly, so his sport coat hung a little more loosely on his left side. So the gun handle was a little more accessible.
“So that’s how it is,” Ferrone said.
Averill nodded. “That’s right.”
“Okay. So, these twenty-six people. Tell me why you killed them,” Ferrone said.
“Ararat.”
“Ararat. What’s that?”
“Project Ararat. A top-secret program we were all part of.”
“That’s from the Bible,” Miss Falconetti said. “Ararat.”
“That’s right.” Averill nodded. “The mountain where Noah landed after the flood. Where the world began again.”
“So what was this top-secret program about?” Ferrone asked.
Averill smiled. “Well. I don’t have to tell you these are dangerous times we’re living in, Mr. Ferrone,” he began. And now he was thinking of JFK again, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, who had ignored the wisdom of the agency’s old hands and bungled the Bay of Pigs invasion, who had caved to the Soviet Union during the Cuban missile crisis barely a year later, who had withdrawn nuclear missiles from the Izmir bases in Turkey, whose misadventures and timidity in Southeast Asia were threatening the stability of an entire continent. But it wasn’t just JFK’s foreign entanglements that worried Averill. No, Averill’s animus for the president sprang from actions closer to home as well. JFK’s actions, and his words, and his intentions. Despite the president’s own military experience—the PT 109 incident, which had made him a war hero—Averill found the man naïve at the best of times and dangerously misguided at others.
“These are times of crisis,” he continued. “Crisis and opportunity. Times that demand bold and decisive action by bold and decisive men.”
“Like you,” Ferrone said.
“And you. Lieutenant?”
“Sir?”
Averill motioned Guidry forward. “Tell our friends, broad strokes, what Ararat is about.”
Guidry cleared his throat and began to speak. Nervously at first, about the project’s history, and then with more confidence as he delved into the science. How the project had progressed over the years, and then how it all had changed in one night. With one simple discovery.
Averill watched Ferrone and Falconetti as Guidry talked about the implications of that discovery.
When Guidry was done speaking, there was silence again for a moment.
“Jesus Christ,” Ferrone said finally.
Averill smiled. “Yes.”
“If what he’s saying—what you’re saying—if that’s true…”
“It is.”
“Then these numbers. They’re for real?” Ferrone reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. It had been fabricated to look exactly like a slot machine receipt from the Peacock Casino, but the numbers on the paper had nothing to do with slot machines, would be meaningless without the explanation Averill had supplied in the invitation itself. And the dollar figures those numbers translated into.
“Real? They most certainly are. As real and solid as the ground we’re standing on.”
Averill could see Ferrone’s wheels spinning. Could see him doing the math. The man might not be as flashy as his other mafia brethren, but deep down he was motivated by the same thing they all were. Money.
“I think we could have something here, Mr. Averill,” Ferrone said.
“This is too dangerous.” Miss Falconetti spoke. The way she looked at Ferrone then, Averill could see the two of them were more than just colleagues. Lovers? Maybe. “You’re asking us to betray the people we work for. The Committee will never allow it.”
“The Committee will never know,” Ferrone said. “They’ll never find out about this. As long as we keep this secret.”
“The Committee always finds out. And they’ll kill all of us when they do.”
They were both right. The Committee would kill Ferrone if they ever became aware of this arrangement. Of the dollar figures involved. Discretion was a matter of life and death—not just Ferrone’s but Averill’s.
Averill ignored her, focused his attention on his partner. “This is the one and only time you and I will meet in person, Mr. Ferrone. In the future, we’ll communicate in the same way I just reached out to you.”
Ferrone held up the slot machine receipt. “This?”
“Exactly. A fabricated receipt from the casino. The numbers on it will relate to the requirements we’ve just discussed. And they’ll vary, of course. As circumstances dictate.”
“Of course,” Ferrone said. “We want to be smart about this. And percentages…”
“We’re partners, as I said.” Averill held out his hand. “Fifty-fifty. Equal risk, equal reward.”
A broad smile cracked Ferrone’s face. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. Then we have a deal, Colonel.” He reached out his hand.
“Please,” Averill said, “call me Jim.”
The two shook hands.
“Just one thing,” Ferrone said. “One problem.”
“Oh? And what might that be?”
Ferrone pointed at Guidry. “Him.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look at him,” Ferrone said. “Your lieutenant. He’s scared to death. I’ve spent ten minutes with the guy, and I can tell he’s not comfortable with any of this. Those men you killed—they were his friends, yes?”
“Yes.”
“He’s going to talk.”
“I won’t,” Guidry said. “I would never betray—”
“You got that right,” Ferrone said, and then—Where it had come from? When had he drawn it?—there was a gun in his hand.
He shot Guidry. Right in the forehead.
Guidry fell backward to the ground.
Averill was too stunned to respond for a second. He looked at Ferrone, who held the gun down at his side, his finger still on the trigger. Ready to shoot again, if necessary.
Averill knelt next to Guidry.
The man had the same perplexed look on his face that Kaz Wachtel had worn in the last few seconds of his life. Jim. Override the latch. Jim. Please. If you can hear me, you have to hear me, we’re dying down here. We’re dying.
He looked back up at Ferrone.
Guidry had a family, Averill was about to say, we could have used them as insurance. But he recognized that thought as sentiment and cast it aside. “I wish you hadn’t done that. Mr. Guidry’s expertise was invaluable,” he said.
“Yeah, well, in my experience … you can always buy expertise. You can’t buy trust.”
Averill nodded. He could buy expertise like Guidry’s. And the man had been a problem. Ferrone was right about that. But there was another problem now.
“I agree,” Averill replied. “You can’t buy trust.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Ferrone said and relaxed … just a little.
Just enough.
“Something else you can’t buy,” Averill said, beginning to stand. “Respect.”
He drew the knife from his ankle and, in one smooth motion, threw it.
It caught Miss Falconetti square in the right eye, and she fell without a sound.
Ferrone turned, his eyes widening in shock, giving Averill time to draw his own gun.
Ferrone and Averill stood facing each other, arms extended, weapons at the ready. They remained that way for a long moment.
“You…” Ferrone gasped, struggling to master his emotions. “You sonofa…”
“Now we not only understand each other, we respect each other. Don’t we, Mr. Ferrone?” Averill asked.
“Respect,” Ferrone said slowly, “is not the word I’d use.”
“Use whatever word you’d like. Do we have a deal?”
Ferrone took a deep breath and then lowered his weapon. Averill did the same.
“We do,” Ferrone said.
“Good. Then I’ll leave the bodies to you.” Averill holstered his gun. “And I’ll be in touch. As discussed.”
He climbed back in his car and got back on the road. Far ahead, the lights of Vegas beckoned.
Sin City, they called it.
Las Vegas knew nothing about sin.
The tracing of murders from political assassinations such as JFK to ones incurred over organized crime, private sector scandals between private investors, companies, and political motivations within agency officials are explored over time and events. Further speculation over mistrust led to accusations that he was using the CIA to overthrow Castro. These themes all have common threads with the Las Vegas project at the center of this novel. Its tracing of issues such as bureaucratic over-reach, covert projects and excessive financial over-runs widens the possibilities for motives. A timeless theme that has modern day relevancy in understanding the cyber-physical threat landscape, especially as it relates to
patriotism, progress, and stated disdain for tech. Each of these topics worthy of further and ongoing exploration.
Organized crime through the private sector including defrauding investors, government, and misuse of private funds is a provocative topic that despite significant advances in technology and policies since the sixties, continues to evolve in the acceleration of digital currencies, privacy and data protection, and design and deployment of intent-based systems.
The language is tight, concise sentences that move fast and is descriptive while sparse. The cryptic language is suspenseful and matches the tone. The only suggestion is that it is at times difficult to follow the transition between the scenes and characters.
A parallelism between the motivations and physical dangers of covert operations - both intelligence agents and criminals, and their modern day relevance between the cyber-physical landscape. It reaches beyond financial crimes to risks to property and other physical assets in addition to individuals and populations. From the seemingly one-off events to those with greater magnitude such as the bomb reference cited, it illustrates the importance of digging beneath the simple explanations to the more intricate patterns in intelligence gathering from a historical perspective and in developing understandings about present modern day threats in order to build a resilient future.