COPYRIGHT
THE BRIDGE TO CARACAS
Volume One of the King Trilogy
Stephen Douglass
This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, and plot are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, companies, or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2013 [STEPHEN DOUGLASS]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.
The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.
ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-937563-17-2
eBook designed by MC Writing
THE BRIDGE TO CARACAS
VOLUME ONE
OF THE
KING TRILOGY
A STORY OF CONFLICTED, ENDLESS LOVE AND OF A CAYMAN ISLAND FORTUNE LARGE ENOUGH TO MAKE THE NEW YORK STATE LOTTERY LOOK LIKE THE CONTENTS OF A SUNDAY SCHOOL COLLECTION PLATE
STEPHEN DOUGLASS
This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, and plot are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, companies, or events is purely coincidental.
To Ann, with a love that comes only once in a lifetime.
FOREWORD
Jim Servito possesses a brilliant criminal mind. Cynical and remorselessly ruthless, he has an enormous contempt for law, police, government, and the system in which they function. Rules are for fools, and Jim takes sadistic pleasure in breaking them.
Karen Taylor is tired of the private school life, the endless doting of her wealthy parents, and the monotony of constant female company at her all-girl school. She wants to experience the real world, preferably on her own, and this drive leads her to a providential and endless love affair with Mike King. However, cruel and unusual fate finds her in a disastrous marriage to Jim Servito.
Mike King has it made. A third generation medical candidate, and a gifted athlete, Mike has a perfect future about to unfold. Then he changes everything. Instead of the career chosen for him, he wants one of his own. After enduring the nightmare of his final night with Karen and disclosing his decision to his parents, he heads for British Columbia. His return a year later leads to a heart breaking reunion with Karen and a perilous confrontation with Servito.
The story you are about read is fiction, but the likelihood of it actually happening is high. During the time-frame of the saga, the conditions were perfect, the opportunities too numerous to mention, and the door was left so wide open it is enough to blow a criminal’s mind. Think about it the next time you arrive at a retail gasoline outlet to fill your tank. Do you really know where the gasoline came from? Do you know who delivered it? Are you sure all the relevant taxes are paid? Are you certain the gasoline you’re pumping is pure?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
So many people assisted me in the preparation of this book, and I would like to thank them all from the bottom of my heart. Without the contributions and encouragement of my friends, The Bridge to Caracas would have forever remained a dream. Thank you, Judith Bookalam, Frank Cashen, John and Linda Cimba, Michel and Maureen Comette, Carter Cook, Dan and Jamie Dickens, John and Maureen Fitzpatrick, Al Hand, Jack Hugenberg, Peter and Louise Jennings, Bert and Bubbles Kaswiener, Don Mackey, Tom and Barbara McDonald, Barbara McGowan, Varian Succo, and Peggy Woodworth.
Special thanks to Michael Campbell, my expert formatter, and to Sarah, my wonderful copy editor.
CHAPTER 1
Athens, Greece, Wednesday, May 18, 1963.
“If anyone moves, you will die!” shrieked the hijacker. His shrill declaration resonated through the fuselage of the Boeing 707. The easy conversation of Flight 806 was instantly terminated. Dressed in faded green trousers, a wrinkled white shirt, and scuffed brown side-tie shoes, the man stood in the aisle, staring down the passengers. His wavy black hair and heavily pockmarked face framed two fanatical eyes, which surveyed his prisoners with dart-like precision.
It was the last thing Karen Taylor wanted to hear. She had been enjoying her holiday. It was supposed to be fun. Now, too terrified to move, she slowly shifted her brown eyes to stare at the steel, 45-caliber pistol clutched tightly in the hijacker’s trembling hand. It was mere inches from her head. She slid her gaze to the left, directing a speechless stare at her best friend, Patti Arthur. Patti shook with the same fear.
Most of the passengers aboard Flight 806 were Jewish, carrying either U.S. or Israeli passports. They were escapees from Nazi Germany during the Second World War, and had chosen this particular time to re-visit Germany.
Karen looked past Patti to the window to her left, then beyond, until Patti’s face was a blur. The azure sky was cloudless, the sun glaring down at the hot tarmac. The motionless flags of numerous nations drooped above the terminal building. Thoughts of Mike raced through her head. She desperately wished he was beside her. She remembered the bitter sweetness of their final night together.
“We are The Angels of Freedom!” the hijacker shouted. “We are in complete control of this airplane. We will shoot anyone who moves!” The terrified silence held still until cries and screams erupted at the sound of two shots fired at the front of the airplane. Silence was quickly restored when the man with the pockmarked face fired a shot through the back of an empty seat. “Do not make any more noise or I will shoot to kill!” he warned loudly. “You must all put your passports on the floor in the aisle, immediately!”
The passengers moved slowly to comply with the demand of the terrorist with muffled whispers. Some stood to remove their carry-on luggage from the overhead compartments. When it appeared that all passports had been placed on the aisle floor, the terrorist pointed his pistol at the head of an old man wearing a yarmulke. “You will pick up the passports and bring them to me,” he ordered.
Trembling, the old man pulled himself from his seat. “Put them on the floor at my feet,” the hijacker stipulated. He waited until the old man had knelt to comply, and then struck the side of the old man’s face with his pistol, screeching “Zionist pig!” with a frenzied look in his eye. He snatched the old man’s skull-cap and soaked it in the blood flowing from the fresh wound, and then spit on the cap and threw it to the floor, trampling it beneath his boot.
The blue curtains to first class were flung open by a second terrorist with a thick shock of white hair. Larger and older than his companion, he wore a brown, pinstriped suit with a pale yellow shirt that was open at the neck. In one hand was a pistol, and the passports of the first class passengers were clenched tight in the other. The two terrorists whispered in muffled tones, and then sat on the floor with their backs to one another as they examined the passports.
Karen leaned to her right and stared forward in horror. The captain of the airplane was lying face down on the aisle floor of first class. His arms and legs had been bound with rope, his mouth bound with a red napkin. On the floor of the cockpit lay the lifeless body of the co-pilot. The back of his head rested i
n a large pool of blood.
At 12:50 p.m., a maintenance crew approached the airplane. The failure of the airplane to move once it had been cleared for takeoff alerted air traffic controllers that something was wrong with Flight 806, and they in turn had contacted Airport Security. A yellow and blue truck raced down the runway in the direction of the stalled aircraft, attracting the attention of numerous passengers on the plane’s port side. The older of the two terrorists stood to look, and then dashed to the cockpit and lifted the headset of the co-pilot. “Do not approach this airplane!” he shouted. “All passengers will die if you persist!”
Given this confirmation that Flight 806 had been hijacked, Airport Security radioed the maintenance vehicle and ordered its retreat. Within minutes, numerous two-note sirens could be heard as countless police vehicles converged on the airport.
Throughout the ordeal, Karen and Patti had remained silent and frozen in their seats.
When the terrorists had completed their inspection of the passports, they stood and waved their guns at the passengers. On the floor below them were all but five of the passengers’ passports. The younger terrorist held the five passports above his head and shouted the names of the owners, “Malcolm and Mary Christianson. David Alexander. Patti Arthur. Karen Taylor. Those five people will come to me now!” Again, muffled whispers erupted throughout the plane. Several passengers correctly speculated that the Jewish passengers had been segregated. The five whose names had been called were moved to first class, while the seven Jewish passengers in first class were ordered into tourist class.
At 1:15 p.m., the older of the two terrorists again lifted the co-pilot’s headset. “We are the Angels of Freedom,” he declared. “Please confirm that you can hear me.”
“We can hear you,” was the reply.
“Ten million American dollars must be brought to this airplane and our flight to Syria must be guaranteed. This must be done by three p.m., or all passengers will die.”
“We’ll get back to you within an hour.”
Before being tied and gagged, the pilot had turned off the airplane’s engines to conserve fuel. The heat inside the airplane had swelled and became unbearable. After it became clear that several passengers were in distress, the stewardesses had obtained permission to do whatever they could to comfort them. They had been warned, however, that they would be shot if they tried to do anything else.
Three o’clock passed without a response from the control tower. By four, the terrorists had begun to argue. The younger terrorist paced up and down the aisle while his partner stood at the rear exit, staring through the small window in the door.
With each passing minute, the plane only grew hotter.
Finally, the younger terrorist, his pockmarked face contorted with rage, untied the ropes binding the legs and arms of the pilot. When the pilot flinched in pain, the terrorist slapped his face and swore. He jerked the pilot to his feet and pressed the muzzle of his pistol to the pilot’s temple. “In the name of freedom, you will fly the airplane to Syria!” he hissed. “You will do this now, or you will all die!” He poked his gun between the shoulder blades of the pilot and prodded him into the cockpit.
From her window seat, Patti Arthur could see the flashing red, blue, and yellow lights of numerous approaching vehicles. Then she heard the familiar whine of the airplane’s engines as they roared to life. The plane shifted and started to glide forward. Then Patti’s head was pressed against the seat back as they accelerated and lifted from the tarmac. The reflection of the setting sun glimmered on the waves of the Mediterranean Sea, a thousand feet below. A deafening silence filled the airplane as its passengers struggled to contain their panic.
The Boeing 707 landed at an abandoned military base located almost a hundred miles from Damascus. The older terrorist quickly opened the front door, allowing a welcome rush of fresh, cool evening air into the passenger compartment. He turned and waved his pistol at the five passengers in first class. “Come with me now!” he demanded, beckoning with his left arm. “Get up! We must go now!” he yelled, and then ushered the five passengers from the plane and into the rear section of a waiting truck.
After waiting in silence for less than a minute, they were joined by the younger terrorist. He jumped head first through the opening in the back of the truck. “Go now!” he screamed. The truck raced down the runway away from the airplane. Karen looked back at the darkened silhouette of the airplane, its lights on and its engines idling on the primitive empty air strip, feeling as though her fear would choke her.
A brilliant white light lit up the night sky and a thunderous explosion shook the truck. A ball of fire rose billowing from the spot where the airplane had come to rest.
Karen and Patti trembled in silence as a cold, nauseating sweat bathed their bodies. The passengers and crew had still been aboard.
CHAPTER 2
Mike King’d had it made. A third generation medical candidate, he had been voted, almost unanimously, as most likely to succeed. His near-perfect smile, robin’s egg-blue eyes, blond, wavy hair, and tall, athletic frame had qualified him as campus heartthrob. He played first line center for the Meds’ inter-faculty hockey team and played bridge on Saturday nights, while managing to maintain a satisfactory academic performance. He, like his father before him and his grandfather before that, was going to be a doctor. There was never any question about it.
Then, like the first snows of winter, everything changed.
His decision appeared sudden, but in reality was the culmination of months of growing discontent. He first refused to write his final exams, and became a de facto dropout. Then he disclosed his decision to his parents and, after a bitter-sweet last night with Karen, left Toronto for good.
For six cold and lonely months he worked on board a filthy fishing vessel off the coast of British Columbia. The sabbatical at sea afforded him the opportunity to reflect on his past and ponder his future. He was delighted by the freedom and sense of independence the life afforded him, but the isolated existence eventually began to wear, and he knew that a fishing career was not his destiny. He slouched over the starboard railing and covered his face with his hands. “What the hell am I doing here?” he shouted into his unyielding palms.
A light rain fell on Mike’s dilapidated green Chevrolet when it arrived at the customs checkpoint on the Canadian side of the Ambassador Bridge. Delighted that his car had survived the journey to his home country, he savored the last bite of a chocolate bar while he relaxed and waited. He glanced down at the stained and wrinkled T-shirt and blue jeans he had been wearing for the past three days. The dark blue Lincoln in front of his car at last moved forward, allowing Mike’s car to pull up to the kiosk. He stopped and rolled his window down, looking apprehensively up at the man behind the customs checkpoint.
A middle-aged customs officer gave him a bored glare. He was dressed in the sinister gray uniform of all customs officials who spent each day questioning thousands of traveling motorists. His primary function was to identify smugglers, and he could always tell when someone was lying. He could see it in the eyes. “Where were you born?” the officer asked in a deliberate, icy monotone, continuing his relentless stare.
“Toronto, Ontario,” Mike answered. Even though he had nothing to hide but the expired license plates on his car, he experienced an immediate sensation of guilt.
“What is your citizenship?”
“Canadian.”
“How long have you been out of the country?”
“Four months.”
“What was the purpose of your visit to the United States?”
“Pleasure.”
“Do you have anything to declare?”
“No sir.”
The customs officer scanned the rear seat area of Mike’s car, and then his lips quirked into a microscopic smile. He waved his hand. “Welcome back,” he conceded, his eyes sliding over toward the car behind Mike’s.
Mike moved his car forward and rolled up his window. The exhilara
tion of being in his home country for the first time in four months overwhelmed him. He accelerated to the speed limit and squinted slightly to focus through the downpour that splattered on his windshield.
The rain subsided within five minutes, allowing him to relax and again turn his thoughts to home. He thought of Karen—he’d missed her desperately. Where was she now?
When they’d met, Karen was in a league of her own. Her smile was intoxicating, her raven-haired beauty easily matched by a sharp intelligence and infectious humor. It only took one look to know that you wanted her, and Mike’s attraction to her was absolute, the kind most men experience only once in a lifetime.
They’d met when she leased an apartment on Toronto’s St. George Street, directly across from Mike’s fraternity house. They quickly became inseparable, until his desire to be with her usurped priority over his studies… and her desire for him began to affect her job as a stewardess. Their torrid relationship was only part the reason Mike had lost interest in his studies, however. It was the first time he realized he really didn’t want to become a doctor. Instead of thinking about his future as the terms his parents had prescribed for him, he began to focus on his personal satisfaction. It was becoming more and more clear that he would be miserably unhappy unless he followed his own instincts.
One Sunday afternoon in April of that year, Karen had convinced him to go for a walk. It was finally warm enough to shed their winter coats, and the two walked for a while in silence, enjoying the gentle glow of sun against their skin.
Eventually, Karen stopped and pretended to stare at the reflection of the late afternoon sun in the windows of the Texaco Building, which was then one of Bloor Street’s tallest structures.