Resurrection, p.1
Resurrection, page 1
RESURRECTION
A Jon Steadman Thriller
Nellie Neeman
Copyright © 2021 Nellie Neeman
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-7351505-4-3 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-7351505-3-6 (E-book)
Author photo: Elan Sachs
Printed in the United States of America
To Mommy
Your daily kindnesses heal the world. Te amo.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Part II
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Part III
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Part IV
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Epilogue
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
The Jon Steadman International Adventure Series
Acknowledgement
About The Author
Praise For Author
Prologue
Manaus, Brazil
Alberto Sousa looked behind him at the colorful waterfront houses growing smaller as the dinghy made its way along the Rio Negro. Only six kilometers to the Meeting of Waters where the striking phenomenon of two converging rivers—one dark, the other pale—appeared to defy the laws of nature.
How did I get so lucky? Alberto thought. He had the job of his dreams, bridging the gap between ancient and modern worlds. He took great pride in the strong bond he’d forged with the indigenous tribes, a deep friendship built over years of mutual respect and trust.
Alberto set the outboard motor to full throttle, maneuvering the boat farther from the riverbank. His pulse quickened with the acceleration. Today he was doing the chief’s bidding. Searching the hidden pockets of the planet for flora and fauna possessing medicinal properties the tribes needed to survive. It was the first time an outsider was entrusted with such an important task. With increasing exposure to marauders, neighboring tribes had succumbed to the illnesses foreigners had brought with them to their lands.
Alberto steered into the muddy Solimões River, the lifeblood of the Amazon. The skies were bright, visibility clear. He had sailed these waters before but never alone and he was glad to have his grandfather’s compass chained to his safari vest.
Now as he approached the age-old mangroves, the absence of human activity was pronounced. Clear of the dense tangled root system, he cut the engine allowing the boat to glide silently. The only sounds were of exotic macaws shrieking from the rainforest canopy and buzzing insects in search of a juicy bit of blood. Alberto shooed away a giant mosquito and sprayed another layer of DEET before reaching into his sack for his botany kit.
Twenty minutes passed before he found what he was looking for within the forest. They looked exactly as the chief had described them. A colony of miniscule tree crabs hugged the lower portion of the tree trunk nearest him, undulating upward to escape the lapping water. Found only in this region of the Amazon, they were not easily accessible to the Awá, who had settled many kilometers away, sequestered from the relatively populated area. Alberto donned surgical gloves and unzipped the vinyl zipper case, laying out a magnifying glass, forceps, and lab tube. With extreme care, to avoid a mass dispersion, he extended the forceps out to the tree trunk and took hold of a single crustacean, placing it in the tube. Using his magnifying glass, he studied his catch, confirming its genus. Satisfied, he painstakingly began to fill a glass terrarium with the tiny crabs, placing the hood atop. Next would be a far more challenging find.
Paico, an annual herb with reddish stems and tiny yellow flowers producing thousands of tiny black seeds, was used for millennia by the Awá to relieve maladies ranging from stomach upsets to internal hemorrhages. At nearly three feet high, with a strong, distinctive odor, paico ought to be easy to find. Nevertheless, in a massive area, densely packed with foliage of all kinds, it was the proverbial needle in a haystack.
“Follow your nose,” is what the chief had said. Alberto pulled out the photo from his pocket. If he could find it, his bond with the tribe would deepen all the more.
A rustling of the trees caught Alberto’s attention. He turned to locate the source of the sound and caught movement on the shoreline. The rainforest was teeming with wildlife. Maybe it was the ubiquitous four-toed sloth or the green anaconda, a boa endemic to the region. As the quiet returned, he laughed to himself. Maybe it was Vanzolini’s bald-faced saki. The extremely elusive monkey had been seen only a handful of times over the past century. Alberto was familiar with the native primates though not from a classroom. Rather, in the wild, becoming enamored with the rarest of them. They were remarkable beings. Perhaps someday they would allow him a peek.
Another movement.
He took hold of this rifle. Just in case. The likelihood of a jaguar was slim but best to be on the safe side. He didn’t want to leave without the paico, but cooler heads prevailed. There was no point in sticking around. The plant could wait till his next trip. The chief would be happy with the crabs. He revved up the engine and began to reverse course when he felt a sharp sudden pain in his neck. Instinctively he slapped a hand to the spot, shocked to find a dart jutting out.
What the hell?
He looked around, panicked. No one there. His vision began to blur. He grabbed the throttle and pushed it to its limit, jerking the boat while trying to navigate in his increasingly numbed state.
He felt his limbs go stiff as the boat crashed full on into a twisted mangrove, ricocheting off like a pinball. He fell backward into the boat. As he lay still looking up at the foliage above him, he watched as a monkey swung from vine to vine. His last thought was he hoped it was the bald-faced saki.
Part I
the past
Chapter 1
New York City
The man in the camel-hair winter coat stood at the edge of the playground. He did his best to look friendly, a challenging task at best. His features simply didn’t align that way. His hooded eyes and bulbous nose lent him a perpetually severe visage. He knew a middle-aged man loitering near a school in a frigid New York winter could easily attract attention. All he needed was someone calling the cops. A strange man with slicked-back dark hair is hanging around the playground. He comes by and just watches.
He took a few steps back from the fence, subconsciously reaching inside his coat pocket. His desire for a cigarette was overwhelming, but having recently gone cold turkey, he hadn’t brought his Davidoffs with him. He’d heard chewing gum was a temporary substitute, but he’d rather suffer than engage in the abhorrent habit.
Every few minutes he took a look at the boy. Small in height, slight in build, his anorak swallowed him. At first glance, one would assume him to be the bullied child in the class. The observer would be dead wrong. The boy was a leader—the one deciding who was assigned to which team of stickball, directing where each boy should stand—his confident nature apparent even to the other nine-year-olds. They deferred to him, following his lead.
The man watched as they played. A ball from another game bounced sharply off the fence, ricocheted, and hit the boy hard in the arm, stunning him. He seemed to take a momen t to catch his breath, clearly in pain, rubbing the spot. He didn’t cry. Another boy, older, came running over, his hand extended, clearly asking for a toss back. From where the man stood, he couldn’t hear the exchange. The smaller boy looked up at the other, said something to him, and without as much as a moment’s pause, pulled his arm back and threw the ball with all his might, aiming straight for the older boy’s head. The ball skimmed his temple, causing him to lose balance and fall hard on the ground. Even from the distance, the man heard the boy yell a profanity no child should know. The teacher rushed over and looked back and forth between the two boys. The younger was now holding himself with deference, his head bowed meekly, his demeanor suddenly doe-eyed. The next thing the man saw was the teacher taking the older boy forcibly by the arm, dragging him toward the building.
The man smiled broadly and walked away.
Chapter 2
10 years later
Yankee Stadium
New York City
The NYU graduation ceremony had turned the iconic stadium into a sea of purple gowns. The sun was just past its midpoint in the cloudless New York sky. A pop singer donning a tan banded Fedora stood mid-field singing into a hand-held mic. He didn’t know the singer’s name, but the cheerful crowd was following along.
The man with greying slicked-back hair passively watched the performance on the Jumbotron. More than ten colorfully robed university higher-ups were seated on the stage, feigning interest in the proceedings. Seated in the nosebleed section among a smattering of latecomers, the man was content to be in the shade. There was no need for him to sit closer.
He suffered through the boring speeches and tributes, doing his best to remain patient. Finally, the dean of students called upon the most distinguished graduates who shuffled in an orderly line up the stage steps. Handing diplomas to 17,000 people was impossible, and only the most accomplished were given the honor of traversing the stage.
The man felt a palpable sense of anticipation. Years of influencing the boys from afar earned him the status of a benevolent uncle they’d never met. He had bankrolled their upbringings—private school tuitions and niche summer camps, language and chess lessons. Their parents had been most appreciative of his generosity. He fulfilled his part of the bargain and for the most part, they had as well.
The names were announced alphabetically, each graduate handed a leather-bound award document and scrolled diploma, followed by the dean’s handshake.
“Spenser Germain.”
The man stood, lifted his binoculars to his eyes, fixated on the graduate who was grasping something in his hand. Bespectacled and slim-faced, the purple-clad young man strode with determination, a gait of confidence. Swiftly, he raised a paper sign, holding it high, a steely mien on his face. Simulcast on the overhead screens, the act elicited both good-natured hoots and shouts to move as the next two graduates were now too close together in the timing. The sign read, “We shall overcome.”
The man watched as the graduate shook the dean’s hand, accepting his diploma. Clearly irritated by the interruption, the dean placed a hand on Germain’s back coaxing him along. The boy’s smug look remained on his face all the way back to his seat.
The man put down the binoculars, took his graduation program off the empty seat beside his, and made his way down the aisle and out of the stadium. He walked briskly to the 161st Street subway station, and though unaccustomed to the bourgeois of mass transit, he waited for the Manhattan-bound D train. The train pulled into the station, the crowd of every race and creed edging toward the still moving doorways. When the doors opened, a rush of passengers swarmed out, those on the platform shoving past them, intent on scoring a seat. It was the transit system’s version of musical chairs.
Crammed among the smelly passengers, he was left to grab hold of the overhead germ-ridden bar. He looked out the filthy window at the bleak Bronx scenery whisking by, obscured at times by another train racing in the opposite direction. As the train carriage shook spastically, he nearly lost his footing, silently ruing what sacrifices his position necessitated at times. Alighting at his stop, he chastised himself. He would not permit benign annoyances to affect his mood today. After all these years, the boys were finally heading into the world on their own.
Part II
the present
Chapter 3
FBI Headquarters
Federal Plaza
New York City
“Steadman, in my office.”
Jon recognized his boss’s tone. Special Agent Doug Matthews was in overdrive, which meant a new case had come in. The two had entered a truce of sorts. Tolerance bordering on mutual respect. A result of them both facing untold hardship. But all bets were off when Matthews was wound up.
When Jon walked in, Matthews was standing behind his desk tucking his wrinkled button-down into the waistband of his trousers. He shuffled through files, pulling one out. “Have a seat. Remind me what you’re working on now.”
Jon sat in one of two beat-up pleather chairs. “The identity theft case out of Queens.”
“Thieves. Robbing the elderly,” Matthews bristled. “Why can’t people with enough brains to conjure up such a scheme find a way to make a legitimate buck?” He paused a moment in thought. “Okay, I’m reassigning you. Craig can take the Queens job.”
“What’s going on?”
Matthews handed over a manila folder. “Here’s a printout. The digital version is already in your inbox.”
Inside were several high-definition photos of a man standing on a stage in what appeared to be a school auditorium, a sizeable crowd in the audience.
“Isn’t this—?”
“Yes. We need to keep this one quiet.”
Matthews gave Jon a few minutes to riffle through the paperwork. “Spenser Germain. NY State Congressman, representing the tenth district including NYU. Up for reelection. Loves the sound of his own voice. He’s attracting a lot of attention from his leftie student followers and more recently the national media.”
“What’s his rhetoric?”
“Changing the status quo. Crap about taking back control of the government by the people.”
“That’s what college students like to hear. Probably how he got elected in the first place. Sounds like he’s just pandering to his base.” Jon waved the file.
“He’s been accused by some students of inciting violence on campus. Shoving, slurs against those who disagree, things like that. The NYPD has been called a few times to break things up.”
“Do his talks qualify as hate speech?”
“Depends who you ask. He’s already had four presentations on university grounds, each one followed by several incidents. The university claims they have no legal grounds to ban him, but they keep inviting him back. They seem to be enjoying the notoriety. Each time he’s drawn a larger crowd. The last one was nearly a thousand people. He has a strong presence on social media now. Calls himself the twenty-first century Sam Adams after the American revolutionary. His posts are just short of actionable. He’s smart. Seems to know what Facebook and Twitter would kick him off for and avoids crossing that line.”
“It does sound strange for a politician, but he represents a far-left constituency. If you ask me, it seems like small potatoes. Why’s the FBI getting involved in this?”
“The President’s campaign manager called my boss, wants the congressman investigated. He thinks he will damage the President’s own reelection efforts. Last thing the republic needs is an army of misinformed twenty-somethings ready to storm Capitol Hill. His words, not mine.”
Jon was amazed his boss was only three degrees of separation from the leader of the free world, but the probe sounded more Marxist than the man he was intent on investigating.
“The President?” Jon asked, clarifying.
Matthews nodded.
Jon took a moment to absorb that. “What do you want me to do?”
“Get a closer look at Germain. You look about the right age to blend into the NYU crowd. Assess if his rhetoric is socialist hyperbole or treasonous. Get what we need to shut them down.”
