"The Prodigal's Return"
by Dwight Geddes
Copyright ©2001
ISBN: 0-87714-659-4 eBook edition
ISBN: 0-87714-450-8 PB edition
All rights reserved by Denlinger's Publishers, including the right to reproduce this electronic book, or portions thereof, in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
DEDICATION
Thanks to everyone who's ideas and inspiration have gone into the making of this story.
THE AUTHOR
The author, born in Kingston, Jamaica, attended Jamaica College High School in Kingston, has been a native of New York since 1985.
He attended Pace University and York College in New York City and Gotham Writers Workshop.
He has worked as a private investigator, process server and a paralegal in NYC.
His writings are the inspiration from Donald Goines, Robert Ludlum, Frederick Forsythe and Walter Mosely, but his style of writing probably falls closer in a medium between Goines and Forsythe.
The author's writing style appeals to a wide cross-section of readers and while most of his major characters are minorities, his stories have a definite cross-cultural and mainstream appeal.
At present, he is finishing work on a second novel "Prima Facie."
THE BOOK
An assassin is hired by a secret group of African American businessmen, called the Africa Concern, engaged in the brokering of legal and illegal business 'opportunities.' A plan is devised to kill the South African President.
The protagonist, a former CIA assassin, now operates as a hired gun. He is enticed by the opportunity to help create a new black world power.
The CIA learns about the plot. The action explores the social viewpoints and passions of rich and poor people from New York to Africa and leads to an explosive culmination in New York.
CHAPTER 1
June 10th 6:30 am
It was a typical June morning in New York, and Blake Casson was going to work. In that sense he was not unlike the millions of others in the city that morning, but his job description and qualifications were not to be found in any newspaper help wanted section.
For years he had worked for the United States government, but for the last few he had plied his trade in the private sector. As his profession went, he was one of the best. At this particular moment he was lying among the bushes looking down on the Grand Central Parkway. He was near the sign pointing the way to Queens Boulevard. He was barely visible from three feet away; in a moving car on the parkway he would be impossible to detect. Four hundred feet away from where he now laid was the Kew Motor Inn, and his Pathfinder 4X4 sat in the parking lot. He had positioned himself directly next to the split in the parkway. He could see the Grand Central winding it’s way to the Bronx while the Interboro Parkway sped towards Brooklyn. His appointment was expected at six forty-five, and Blake was ready.
Every morning Felix Kaufman was driven to the offices of his Manhattan law firm accompanied by a cadre of bodyguards. He was the chief negotiator for the Israeli government in their dealings with several major banking concerns on the East Coast, and Blake had been hired by very wealthy Arab sympathizer to make sure that Felix did not live out the week. Blake had followed his target discreetly for three days and decided that right here and this morning would be his best opportunity.
He unzipped his duffel bag and pulled out his weapon; a .35 Remington XP100 with a 7X scope. He quickly attached the silencer, rested it on the ground beside him and peered down at the traffic below. The Grand Central Parkway had been under construction for several months now, and at this particular juncture the steady stream of morning commuters had been reduced to a stop and go snarl. He put the gun to his shoulder and adjusted the sights. The target should be here any minutes now. Traffic was crawling as everyone tried to merge from three lanes to one in typical New York fashion.
He spotted the car. It was a black Mercedes S500 with lightly tinted windows. From his surveillance he knew that Kaufman would be sitting in the right rear passenger seat, with a bodyguard beside him and another one behind the wheel. He saw the car winding its way towards the first of the many orange construction barriers. It was now a little over three hundred feet away. Blake knew that the ideal distance for his weapon was about one hundred and fifty feet. He squinted through the scope and focused on the slowly approaching target. The driver was obviously used to local driving, negotiating his way around the other vehicles that were not as adept as he was at cutting cars off. He could make out the outline of his intended target reading a newspaper. Blake had calculated the exact point where he would take his shot and he began a mental countdown. Five, four, three, two, one…
The phhttt!! of the silenced bullet split the relative quiet of the morning. It traveled the short distance in milliseconds and dissolved the right rear window into tiny fragments of flying glass. Smoothly and with no wasted motion, Blake squeezed off two more rounds into the vehicle. The second bullet shattered the windshield and hit the driver in his chest as the car lurched into the rear of a van, the third punctured the hood of the Mercedes and ruptured the gas tank. The resulting explosion was deafening, and diverted everyone’s attention away from the source of the surprise attack. Blake rose quickly and stuffed his rifle into the duffel bag. The first bullet had hit the target, of that he was sure, because he had seen the head snap backwards and to the left. In a crouch he quickly trotted back to where he had parked his vehicle earlier, not even sparing a glance at the hysterical carnage developing below. This job was over.
June 13th 7:00pm
"I am very happy to see that all of you could make it this evening, gentlemen." The speaker had just entered the conference room, and all eyes were focused on him as he strode to the head of the table. There were nine others sitting or standing around the room when he entered. They were all between the ages of forty and sixty, and all African-American. Indeed the men gathered in the conference room of the midtown Manhattan office building were all among the most successful blacks in America. It was this quality they shared that led to their union, and also to their deference to the older gentleman who was about to speak again.
"As you all are well aware, there is one topic on the agenda tonight, and that is our South African initiative." He paused for a second before continuing. The room was silent as everyone focused on him and his next words.
"We have been examining the situation for some time now, and the operation committee has conferred with our budget committee and arrived at the course of action." Another pause. He turned to an aide and instructed him to start the projector. It was done, and the lights in the conference room were dimmed.
"Oswald Iseku is a name I am sure you are all familiar with." The screen showed an image of a slightly overweight, dark skinned black man in his forties, wearing combat fatigues and smoking a cigar. He stood in what appeared to be a mountain camp surveying a group of approximately 500 men.
"He is a very popular figure in many parts of the country, but an unknown entity in the world view. He is considered to be the most charismatic, intelligent, capable leader in the country by most of the people familiar with the situation over there. He has some other key attributes that make him an attractive choice for what we have in mind: no smothering media coverage, limited funding, and no weapons supply. We have provided him with all of these, but our agenda will only be manifested if he is the leader of the revolution." The screen flickered to reveal a guerrilla camp in a mountain clearing.
"These are the full time members of the South African Liberation Front. Two thousand, five hundred and seventy strong. The most active anti-government group operating in South Africa today. They operate from small camps in Namibia and conduct lightning strikes against specific targets in South Africa. Their leaders are Walter Siloso and Van Koos. Both are capable gentlemen, but neither one is dynamic; neither can serve as the peoples’ representative once the revolution reaches it’s zenith. Mr. Iseku, however, can." The screen flickered from the pictures of the two black men back to Oswald Iseku. "We have made some overtures to Mr. Iseku and expressed our conditions to help him. He in turn has organized with Messrs. Siloso and Van Koos to form a coalition that will lay the ground work for the overthrow of the pacifist government in power now." A snap of his fingers and the aide reappeared and turned the lights back on. "Mr. Iseku requires some conditions from us. Most can be done with no problems, one cannot. Mr. Gold will explain further."
At this time a short, balding, heavyset gentleman stood and addressed the group.
"We have selected our representative, gentlemen. His relevant information will be handed to each of you."
"Blake Casson? The basketball player?" uttered one member at the far end.
"I see you are familiar with our choice. For those of you who are unaware however, Mr. Casson played forward at Georgetown."
"Yeah, I remember him," another member interjected. "I saw him in the Final Four. Boy, was he smooth!"
"Isn’t Ghost Squad just a myth?" Asked the youngest member of the group, looking up from the paper handed to him, a scholarly looking gentleman with horn-rimmed glasses.
"On the contrary Dr. Murray, Ghost Squad was and still is the best kept secret in our armed forces. The best thing Dick Nixon ever did. Only thirty people, trained in everything form hand to hand combat, through advanced computer warfare. The elite anti-terrorist group. You have no doubt heard of Delta Force," he paused again, "These people train Delta Force." The leader spoke again, as if to enforce the point Mr. Gold had just made.
"Blake Casson retired from Ghost Squad three years ago because of an injury related to a covert government assignment in the Mid East. The fact of the matter is that he was recruited by our group and has performed some freelance work for several different parties."
"What work is he going to do here?" asked Mr. Lockridge, a plump man at the far end of the table. Mr. Gold’s dome had a sheen of perspiration that gave him an anxious look under the bright lights in the room. He nodded to the acknowledged leader of their group. It was he who responded, gripping a cigar in his right hand that he used to puncture every word.
"Mr. Casson will orchestrate the removal of the president and opposition leader of South Africa. They will be replaced by a new regime. Our regime. It is time, gentlemen, for us, the prodigal children of Africa to reclaim our birthright, and begin the payback process."
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