“You’re distracted,” said Jerome through the grille of his headgear.
“I’m just tired. Five a.m. is far too early for a beating.”
“It’s only a beating if you don’t concentrate. I can tell you’re not focused. Tell me what’s going on.”
Jerome lowered his sword. Leopold followed, secretly relieved he would get a few moments to catch his breath. Neither removed his head protection, which was lesson number one in any sport involving deadly weapons.
“I’m trying to figure out the connection between the dead state senators. Three now, all killed within a few weeks of each other. One from Massachusetts, one from California, and one from Florida.”
“I remember. It took you all of five minutes to figure out what happened. Staged suicides, right?”
“Right. All three deaths made to look like suicides, all three victims state senators. Other than that, I can’t find a connection between them.”
“So what’s the problem? You’ll figure it out eventually,” said Jerome, raising his sword.
“The FBI has jurisdiction,” – Leopold raised his own weapon – “which means I don’t get to know the facts. They’re playing a media game and trying to keep me off the team. They’ve announced that the bodies were recovered, but no mention of the connection between them or the cause of death.”
“What’s your point?” Jerome began to advance.
“It means that I can’t get to the bottom of what happened without going through the FBI staff, who so far aren’t returning my calls. There are going to be more deaths unless I can figure out who’s behind this.”
“Your problem, Leopold,” – his opponent circled to cut off Leopold’s retreat – “is you just have no faith in other people.”
“Thanks, Jerome, but you’re my bodyguard, not my shrink.”
“Bodyguard? That’s a hell of way to sum up twenty years of loyal service. I’m not so sure I should be taking it so easy on you.”
Leopold tried to dodge, but he was too slow. Despite years of practice, he could still not hope to compete at the same level as Jerome, who had the added benefit of a lifetime of combat training and expertise.
The giant bodyguard wheeled his blade round with impossible speed and connected sharply with Leopold’s wrist, causing him to drop his sword. He felt his eyes water from the pain, but picked up his weapon and resumed the defensive stance, shaking his wrist to get the blood flowing again. His wiry frame was a relatively small target, which he intended to use to his advantage against his opponent’s stronger strikes and longer reach. Jerome’s attacks were fast and powerful, but so far Leopold hadn’t provided much of a challenge, meaning that his sparring partner was bound to grow complacent eventually. All he had to do was focus and wait for the right opportunity.
Jerome advanced again, whirling the blade through the air faster than Leopold’s eyes could reliably follow. He counted on his instincts and brought his own sword up to parry, successfully avoiding a blow to the shoulder. The bodyguard countered with a strike to the side of the head, which he also managed to block. He sensed Jerome going for the wrists again and instinctively parried, dodging to the right and following up with an attack of his own.
But he was too slow. His opponent blocked the attack and stepped left, causing him to lose balance and open up his sides to attack. Jerome pressed his advantage and struck Leopold on the upper arm as he stumbled, knocking him to his knees.
“Better!” shouted the bodyguard.
“Hardly. I can’t feel my arms, legs, or head.”
“You kept yourself from getting hit for nearly two minutes. A personal best.”
Leopold stood and bowed. Usually, the first to land two strikes would be declared the winner, and Jerome had managed at least four so far.
“It’s over. You win.”
Jerome bowed back.
“I’m taking a shower before I regain feeling in my body and it starts getting too painful to move,” said Leopold.
“No problem. Don’t you need to be somewhere this morning?”
“Yes, I have that appointment later on, but I need to make an unscheduled stop first. This morning’s beating has given me an idea.”
The bodyguard nodded and followed his employer out. They stepped through into the main apartment, connected to the private gymnasium by a set of heavy glass doors, and Jerome slipped away to make use of one of the many wash rooms dotted around the sprawling penthouse.
Leopold let out a ragged sigh as the pain in his muscles reached a crescendo, before limping off in the direction of his bedroom, where he knew a hot shower was waiting. His apartment took up the entire top floor of an Upper East Side complex, with a view of Central Park to the west that stretched the entire width of the living area, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He had inherited the property, cars, and bank accounts several years ago, thanks to a trust fund, and had systematically turned the apartment’s chic decor and expensive furnishings into something that fitted his tastes a little better. As a result the apartment resembled a bomb site, with books and equipment strewn all around, often in piles several feet high. The only area kept relatively tidy was a small space in the cavernous living room, near the fireplace, where two high-backed armchairs faced each other across a shallow coffee table on which lay the day’s newspapers and a bottle of expensive scotch.
Housekeeping staff kept the place clean, but were under strict instructions not to move anything. Food was brought in from one of the many nearby restaurants, and Leopold worked off the calories during his daily training sessions with Jerome, who lived with in a self-contained suite at the other end of the apartment, which he kept in immaculate condition.
There were no photographs or paintings on the wall, only faint outlines where frames had been removed. All the family portraits had been taken down after the funeral and Leopold had still not found the time to hang any replacements. Seeing the portraits brought back painful memories, images of the day he’d buried his mother and said goodbye to the empty casket where his father’s body should have been.
The Blake family fortune had sustained a life of luxury for many generations, but since the death of his parents Leopold had no desire to continue that tradition. Instead, his considerable inheritance went into philanthropy, scientific research, and work in the local community. Despite his general distaste for wealth, however, the money only ever seemed to grow, vast investments tied up in everything from timber and coal to nuclear power and military weapons contracts. Such power, however, has inevitable downsides, which is why Jerome was paid to stay close at all times. Powerful men make powerful enemies.
Still reeling from his beating, Leopold stepped into the shower and gasped as the hot water struck his bruised body. Eventually the heat and steam helped ease his pain, and he began to feel human again. Once finished, he dried himself off and threw on a shirt, a ruffled suit jacket, and a pair of jeans, grabbing a cup of thick espresso from the machine as he headed out the door to his first meeting of the day.
He was glad they had no idea he was coming.
Chapter 5
At seven a.m., the leafy expanse of Federal Plaza NYC was already full of people on their way to work, clocking in at any one of the dozen-or-so federal buildings nearby. The FBI field offices were located in the plaza’s newest and tallest building, on the twenty-third floor overlooking the state supreme court. It certainly was quite a view. Leopold sat at the back of the conference room and watched FBI Special Agent Todd Coleman take the podium and raise his palms to the noisy crowd of journalists that had gathered inside. The room gradually fell silent and he spoke.
“Thank you for coming this morning. As you already know, the bodies of State Senators Wilson, Carrera, and Hague underwent forensic analysis earlier this week to determine cause of death. I am calling this press conference to announce that the results were inconclusive. As such, we’re waiting for more evidence before we can make a definitive statement.”