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Max Medici leads the Advance Intelligence division of the US Secret Service. A descendant of Nostradamus, Max is well versed in his ancestor’s quatrains—prophetic poems depicting major historical events centuries into the future.
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 PROLOGUE
The ancient work will be accomplished.
From the roof, evil ruin will fall upon the great man.
They will accuse an innocent, in death, of the deed.
The guilty one is hidden in the misty copse.
(Nostradamus, Michel. The Prophecies. C6:Q37)
Secret Service agent Max Medici ran furiously down Elm Street, struggling to reach the shooter before the president got in range.
How the hell am I supposed to get there in time with all these people moving around?
Max had used his psychic abilities in the service of his country most of his life, but today he was at a huge disadvantage.
That dream, that damn dream. Today is the day it becomes a reality.
He had been experiencing the recurring dream for several weeks. The critical moment played out as a picture in his head.
The challenge was to find that picture in the real world while running along the side of a road filled with onlookers.
A young man in front of him took a step back—and right into Max’s path. Max prepared to dodge to an opening on the right to avoid a collision. And in that moment, a little girl stepped into the opening.
No choice, thought Max. He kept his original course, and shoved the man back. The little girl was fine, but the man lost his balance and toppled over.
“Sorry!” Max yelled back over his shoulder without slowing his pace.
That vision … he could make out a cluster of trees in front of a hill that led to train tracks above. There was a rifle barrel pointing out from the trees. The sun was almost directly overhead, with stunted shadows in front of him all pointing slightly to his right. He had to approach the shooter from the northeast. The time of the shooting would be just after noon.
Right about now.
Max’s lungs were starting to burn. With each breath, he took in as much air as they would hold. Considering the hiding spot, time of day, angle of the sun and multiple escape routes, he realized the shooter had made some very intelligent choices.
A professional assassin, possibly more than one.
His vision didn’t reveal the shooter, who managed to stay in the shadows and behind leafy branches. Stopping the shooter was paramount, but without more detail from his dream, the odds were against him.
Max felt the anxiety building throughout his body. Focus—you must focus. However, everything had been a struggle this morning. He was dealing with a massive headache and dried-out throat. Only two glasses of wine last night with his fiancée Katarina, yet he felt completely hung over. He slept past his wakeup time and arrived late to his post. It was as he approached his post when he realized today was the day from his vision.
He felt a pang deep in his stomach, knowing the potential consequences of his mistake. Max had always been able to rely on his internal clock, a precise and reliable mechanism. Each night he would focus on the time he wanted to wake up. In the morning, his eyes would open just in time to see the clock by the bed read the exact time he envisioned.
His fiancée had often marveled at this ability. Where was she, anyway? She knew how important it was for me to be on time today. Katarina should have woken me! Instead, she’d quietly left the hotel room without a word or even leaving a note.
Dressed in a dark suit, dress shirt buttoned up all the way, snug tie and black dress shoes made running enough of a challenge. However, with so many people fighting for position to get a good view, Max had to keep deciding whether to dodge someone—or push them out of the way. The crowd reacted to his frantic running by backing away from the street, but it was nearly impossible for people in front of him to see him coming. He thought this could work to his advantage as long as he could get to the shooter in time.
His transceiver had faltered, so communicating with other Secret Service agents wasn't an option. Max was on his own, sensing he was closing in on the cluster of trees and the shooter. Worse yet, he hadn’t been able to find his amulet before he left the hotel. Without it, his abilities were greatly diminished. A sour taste was rising in his throat and beads of sweat were breaking on his forehead.
Time is running out!
The motorcade wasn’t far behind him. He could not fail the president—it wasn’t an option.
Few people knew about the hundred-and-fifty-year-old curse casting a shadow on the leaders of the United States of America. Max would wager that most of the people who heard of it wouldn’t believe it anyway; but the accuracy of the curse was impossible to deny.
Max knew Dallas well enough to know the train tracks were not far ahead. He was approaching from the northeast, paralleling the motorcade. There were fewer people here, so he ran closer to the tree line to hide his approach.
With so many bystanders, even an errant shot poses a huge risk. Max willed himself to run faster. I'm barely staying ahead of the president.
He considered turning back and stopping the motorcade before it drove into range of the shooter, but all the side streets were cluttered with people. If the shooter had any help, he could easily have the president surrounded in no time. Max sensed it was better to stop the shooter he could find, and try to clear an escape path for the president. The president may already be in range, so stopping the motorcade could prove to be foolish.
There it is! The elm trees and hill he was approaching seemed to match his clouded vision. Just as he heard the rumble of the motorcade closing in behind him, Max saw a rifle barrel emerging from the trees. Secret Service agents are trained to take a bullet for the president, but few expect to be put in that position.
He never hesitated.
Running as quickly and quietly as he could, Max leapt along the tree line, preparing to take the full force of the shot with his chest. He cringed, expecting his current breath to be his last. His reflex was to close his eyes, yet he wanted to see the shooter before facing his own demise.
Max looked down the long barrel of the rifle to see a woman's surprised face staring back at him. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, with long and straight jet-black hair, fair skin with high and prominent cheekbones, full red lips, and piercing blue eyes. She hadn't fired yet, but she also hadn't lowered the gun.
Her finger poised on the rifle's trigger, a mixture of shock and defeat across her face.
Max quickly assessed the situation and declared, “You have to shoot.” He braced for the inevitable impact. He had been at least partially responsible for protecting every president since Franklin Roosevelt. There had been a few close calls, but for the first time he might have met his match. The assassins knew that removing him from the equation would be critical to their success. She couldn't possibly be working alone, but without my amulet, I can’t see all of the possible outcomes!
Max looked her directly in the eye. “What are you waiting for? Go ahead and shoot!”
“I … I can't do that,” she murmured as tears began to well up in her eyes. The rifle shook in her trembling hands.
Max took a deep breath. “Look, Katarina. I don't know what the hell is going on, but under the circumstances, you have no choice but to shoot.”
Max was on the edge of losing control, but there was too much riding on the next few moments. He had to maintain focus. If she shoots me,he reasoned, it might provide enough warning for the president’s life to be spared.
“Maximo,” Katarina almost whispered. “I cannot kill the father of my—”
Suddenly Max heard an echoing rifle shot from behind. He turned his head, still keeping himself between Katarina and the location he estimated the president to be.
It's too late.
Max's heart felt as though it had dropped from his chest. From this short distance, he could easily see President Kennedy in the back of the motorcade, holding his bloody neck. Two more rifle shots from the same distant sniper quickly followed. The last one passed right through the president's head, scattering shattered pieces all about the car.
As he turned back to Katarina, he felt physically ill. Max questioned whether he’d be shot as well. He almost didn't care. The woman he loved was part of a plot to assassinate the president he had sworn to protect!
Slowly Katarina lowered her rifle. Behind Max, a Secret Service agent jumped on the motorcade’s rear bumper to try to shield the passengers from any additional shots. The driver sped up to get them all out of the line of fire. Most of the people in the crowd ran for cover in utter mayhem, many not truly registering what had just happened.
“How?” Max yelled at Katarina, feeling rage quickly overtaking him. “Why?”
He loved her … trusted her … she was his future. The world as he knew it had been turned completely around in an instant. The president of the United States had just been killed on his watch, and the woman he loved was directly involved. Breathe Max, breathe. It was devastating. He struggled to stay in the moment, alert and prepared for any other surprises that might occur.
The past eight months with Katarina had been filled with laughter, travel, and intense conversation. He immediately fell in love with everything about her. At twenty, she was much younger than Max. Nevertheless, even with their age and cultural differences, they enjoyed every moment they were together. She was beautiful, intelligent, spontaneous, athletic, joyful, and obviously much, much more. She’d told him that she was Ukrainian, which explained her barely noticeable Russian accent.
Katarina seemed to want to say more to Max. However, she could only cry quietly, shaking her head. The rifle now lay at her feet. She was a broken woman.
The Soviets are behind this.
From the onset of Kennedy’s term, the Soviets assumed he would be soft on foreign policy. However, during the Cuban Missile Crisis President Kennedy learned to steel his resolve and stand up to the Soviet Union and communism. In doing so, he made many enemies, both at home and abroad. Although open war was a continual threat, each country knew the devastation a nuclear war would cause. As a result, intense covert action in both countries escalated and intensified.
Max had certainly never thought he, of all people, would be susceptible to covert operations aimed directly at him. He’d always assumed he'd be able to see that type of thing coming.
Could it be that Katarina has the same abilities I have, and perhaps even more so?
I've been played brilliantly, and President Kennedy paid the ultimate price for my failure.
Savannah, Georgia, USA November 23, 1963
“Chyort voz’mi!” Viktor Krostov punched the wall violently, easily putting a hole through the plaster. He was a heavyweight boxer before joining the Russian mafia, and then creating his own private espionage team. He craved for someone’s jaw to hit.
Viktor had just completed an eighteen-hour drive straight from Dallas to Savannah. Having only stopped for gas and food, he was exhausted. He stumbled into the hotel just in time for his call. Although the assassination had been successful, his client would be livid if he found out things did not go as planned. Karl was highly secretive, extremely punctual and detail-oriented. And details had been missed today. Karl, who never disclosed his last name, would be irate. He always paid handsomely for Viktor’s services and expected perfection.
Katarina was perfection personified. His sister was his best agent by far, possessing skills like no other. She was strikingly beautiful and highly intelligent. Men where putty in her hands. Yet even with her unique abilities, she’d failed to carry out her role. Furthermore, she allowed herself to be captured. Viktor felt his rage bubbling to the surface.
It makes no sense.
Viktor reviewed the meticulous assassination plan that he, Katarina and Karl had devised.
* Katarina was to kill Maximo Medici—massive failure. At least she delivered his amulet to me. Apparently, that helped to neutralize him.
* Oswald would make the first attempt on Kennedy from the sixth floor of the warehouse facing Elm Street. After years of re-education, Oswald actually believed he was doing a service to his country. He also mistakenly believed he was included in the escape plan. What a complete fool!
* If Oswald were to fail, Katarina was his backup from behind the trees where Elm Street passed under the railroad tracks.
* As soon as I heard shots fired, I was to ride the motorcycle from the southwest up the embankment and on the tracks to pick up Katarina.
* Take the motorcycle down a branch of the tracks heading west across the Trinity River. This’d make it nearly impossible to for anyone to follow us.
* Ditch the motorcycle, and climb into the car I’d left waiting in a parking lot near the tracks.
* Drive to Savannah, report to Karl and then make our way back to St. Petersburg.
* Oswald only knew fake names, but he did know our training location and he could identify several faces, including Katarina's. He’d have to be killed, so the trail for the FBI would end there.
Viktor closed his eyes. He was in disbelief. Katarina handing her rifle to Medici, turning herself in voluntarily! It made no sense at all. He had no choice but to continue on without her. Viktor prayed she had a back-up plan to meet him in Savannah or St. Petersburg.
Why the hell didn't she just shoot Medici? The ramifications from Karl will be severe. Lying to him might mean a death sentence for me, but the truth would certainly result in a death sentence for Katarina.
It was time, so Viktor dialed Karl’s phone number.
“Yes,” crackled the same raspy-voiced woman who always answered the phone.
“It's Viktor. I'm at the hotel, room two-twenty—”
“We know the number. Karl will call you back.” She hung up.
Less than a minute later, his phone rang. “Yes,” Viktor answered.
“Say nothing,” replied Karl. Viktor could hear several people speaking in the background. “Congratulations. We’ll discuss this in person the next time we meet.”
The call disconnected. Karl notoriously hated providing any information over the phone, especially when either party was in the US.
Victor sighed with relief knowing he had time to investigate and possibly resolve the Katarina situation.
The prince who has little pity and clemency after finding peace from upheaval will come through death to become very knowledgeable. And with great tranquility, reign again. (Nostradamus, Michel. The Prophecies. C7:Q17)
Cairo, Egypt November 23, 1963
Ah, the Mena House, thought Karl as he licked his lips and entered the hotel's lobby. The King of Egypt, Khedive Ismail, built it as a vacation home and guesthouse for visiting royalty. He eventually sold it before it was converted to a luxury hotel in 1869.Built for royalty, and hence the most appropriate place for me to stay while I tour Egypt.
“Ameer, keep an eye on our luggage. I have an important call to make.” Karl and his personal guard Anatoly added their small bags to the larger bags Ameer and Paka had already placed in the corner. Karl nodded to Ameer as he and Anatoly walked off to find a phone to make his call to Viktor.
Karl had met Ameer just after he arrived in Cairo. Ameer, who looked to be about twelve or thirteen years old, was stationed right outside the airport. The boy had been standing near the limousine and taxi stand holding a cardboard sign with “Prince Tours” written in thick black marker. Ameer spoke nearly perfect English, with a very slight French accent, and made a highly informative and convincing sales pitch. Claiming to have a limousine and driver at his disposal, Ameer appeared to cover all of Karl’s needs while in Egypt.
Without hesitation, Karl hired him to guide his tour of the Egyptian pyramids, museums, and artifacts. Paka, several years older than Ameer, was included in the package deal. He immediately brought the limo up when Ameer waived in his direction. In his late teens, Paka was tall, muscular, and nearly silent. His brutishness only served to highlight the refinement Karl saw in Ameer, who was clearly the leader of this two-person operation.
Karl was intrigued by Ameer, so he probed deeper for more personal details.
The boy shared the tale of his father, who had once ruled an African country he didn’t want to name. In an attempt to stabilize control over his people, Ameer’s father had accepted financial and military aid from the Soviets. It was only a matter of time before the king was convinced to convert his country into a communist state.
American intelligence was monitoring the situation, and apparently felt the whole region might fall into Soviet hands if they managed to gain a foothold. The CIA hired mercenaries out of Portugal who swept quickly through the capital, killing Ameer's father and many of his closest advisors. Ameer and the rest of his family were forced to flee to Egypt and change their names to avoid being hunted down. The prince chose Ameer Khan as his new identity, and befriended his former servant Paka. With his well-rounded education, multilingual abilities and familiarity with the affluent, guiding tourists in Egypt appeared to be a natural and lucrative role for Ameer.
Ameer watched carefully as Karl and Anatoly placed the remaining luggage on the pile and disappeared around a corner to make their call. Ameer sent Paka to the hotel garage to start the limousine in case they needed to leave the hotel quickly. Carefully taking in his surroundings to ensure he was in the clear, Ameer took the opportunity to quietly open the nicer luggage. His system was simple. If he could steal something of value, he’d take it, and the tourists would never see him or Paka again. If not, he and Paka would continue as tour guide and limo driver, and they would have to earn their money the hard way. Not many people would pack cash in their luggage, but Ameer was pleasantly surprised at the number of people who would pack jewelry. It would only take a few moments, and he could make more than he would for a week of tour-guide duties.
Unbeknownst to Ameer, Karl and Anatoly returned from the short phone call far sooner than he’d anticipated. Ameer never heard them as they walked up behind him while he was still rummaging through Karl's luggage.
What an amazingly bold boy, thought Karl as he put his index finger to his lips to signal to Anatoly to be quiet. Here is the former prince caught stealing from the tourists he’s supposed to be guiding!
Karl had already taken a liking to Ameer, and now found him to be even more appealing. He nodded to Anatoly who quickly snatched Ameer from behind and brought him around to face Karl.
“Young prince,” Karl paused to make sure he had the boy’s full attention. “You and I need to have a conversation about choosing the appropriate target, time, place, expected outcome and persona you want to present when committing a crime.” He could barely contain his urge to smile.
Copyright © 2011 by Vincent Vizzaccaro. All rights reserved.
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