Oracle's Diplomacy

by A. Claire Everward

  The ambassador clinched his jaw. He was being held by a group no one knew about, in a location it seemed to be sure could never be found. The anger erupted out of nowhere. “Why keep me alive?”

  “While you are alive we have the option to use you as leverage, if we find it necessary.” The smile was slow, cruel. “We can keep you here for a long time, George. No one will ever find you.”

  “How do you know I will not kill myself? Then you will have no leverage.”

  “You, Ambassador George Sendor, are the symbol of hope. You know that your death will take away any hope of peace for those you have fought to attain the treaty for. And you have a family. A person like you always retains the hope of seeing his loved ones again. No, you will not end your life, life is too precious to you. Life and the hope it carries with it, the hope that the future will be better.”

  The man rose, walked to the door and opened it. He took a step outside, then stopped and turned back to Sendor. “But you are right about one thing. We will kill you. Eventually.”

  Scholes found Lara in her office, leaning back in her chair, the sky outside the window behind her brightening with the occasional star as the clouds separated, then darkening again. The screens on one wall were still on the Brunei mission, showing satellite feeds of the navy ship the soldiers of the Australian Tactical Assault Group were now on, and no movement on the ground at the site they had left back in Brunei. Nothing there, nothing other than anticipated. But that’s what she did, followed missions through, closing them on site and in her mind.

  Her eyes weren’t on the Brunei feeds now. They were on a screen on another wall. One with a smiling image of Ambassador George Sendor on it. She didn’t react as Scholes came in and set his huge frame down carefully in the corner, on the recliner he’d long before requisitioned for her, for those long days she spent working on missions.

  “You really should let me replace this with something more fitting,” he said for the thousandth time as he tried in vain to find a comfortable sitting position.

  “This one fits just fine,” she said, as she always did, and finally turned to him. She contemplated him. He had that look again, the one he never could hide from her when he was worried.

  “Smooth job on Brunei,” he said. He wasn’t comfortable with what he was about to do, had to do.

  She continued to contemplate him.

  “What would it take—” he began, then realized it wasn’t a question that could be answered, nor would he understand the answer if it could. “How long would it take if we asked you to find him?”

  He didn’t have to say who.

  “You’re assuming I can.” It was a quiet observation more than a question.

  “I’m assuming you might have to. We are not making any progress finding him.”

  She said nothing. She’d been giving it thought, tentatively probing into her mind. So far, she had locked on to nothing. There was nothing to lock on to, she had nothing but too implicit information and the face, the life of the missing man.

  “The peacekeepers, that’s not anything like it, is it?” Scholes sighed. “This is bigger. It’s bigger than what you did before that, too.” And it would require much, perhaps too much, from her. He was torn between his role as the head of IDSD Missions, his responsibility to do all he could to prevent tensions in Europe from coming to a head, and his need to preserve the unique resource IDSD had in Oracle. Making it even more complicated, was his caring about her. But there really was no choice. He was well aware, had been from the moment he had heard the Russian news broadcast in the conference room the day before, that if all else failed, if nothing else was enough, Oracle might well be their only chance.

  “Can you do this, Oracle?” he finally asked the question he had no choice but to ask.

  “I don’t know,” was her answer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The call was rerouted from IDSD Missions to Lara’s home two hours later. Donovan started. He’d been watching the news reports. They were all the same, on all media outlets. Russian forces had been mobilizing throughout the day, beginning hours after the news broadcast alerting the world about the ambassador’s death was first aired. Too few hours, which, Donovan knew, made Internationals and US officials wonder if the Russian Federation had been prepared, planning this move for a while. But the media wasn’t wondering about this, nor were the various political analysts who were voicing their opinions to every media outlet that would listen. No one seemed to care about how organized the Russian forces were, how prepared to move, how fast to move. They were too busy targeting the alleged guilt of the Internationals’ High Council and the US administration, trying to analyze the how and why of something they had no idea about, taking the Russian news broadcast at face value. Only some, too few, mainly seasoned broadcasters who remembered the lessons of the past or correspondents who had seen too much while covering bloody conflicts in too many places, only they questioned, raised doubts, tried to caution discretion, to maintain reason.

  The incoming call tone sounded again, more insistent this time, and Donovan switched from the media system to the home communication system and heard the main security console behind him beep to indicate secure mode had been initiated. The man who came on-screen standing in a tiny, grimy room was at least partially of Filipino origin. He was scrawny, his hair unkempt, his beard wild, his shirt missing the odd button. His eyes were red, phlegmy. He and Donovan stared at each other for a long moment. And then the man straightened up.

  “Oh, sorry. Hang on a sec, will ya.” His speech was clear, coherent, and he spoke Australian English. He turned to the side, removed a pair of contact lenses and turned back. His eyes were now a clear dark brown, intelligent and alert.

  “Better, I bet.” He laughed cheerily. “Sorry, I live the role. Forget sometimes. Good morning! I’m Jon. Agent Jon Agawin, IDSD Southern Territories, Intelligence.”

  “Agent Donovan Pierce, USFID, SIRT unit. Good morning?”

  “Morning here. Micronesia.”

  “Micronesia?”

  Agawin laughed again. “Unreal, right? Tell you, though, once you get used to this place, you never wanna leave.”

  “Wait. Yahna isn’t in Micronesia.” There was no mention of the place in any of the records about Yahna. The group seemed to be partial to the more affluent and internationally significant countries.

  “Yahna isn’t. But my boss’s boss says you want to know about the extremes. And they’re here. At least, this is where they hide, meet, plot, however you want to look at it.”

  “In Micronesia.”

  “Pohnpei.”

  “Where?”

  “Pohnpei. An island state in the Federated States of Micronesia. Specifically, on the main Island, you guessed it, Pohnpei.” Agawin laughed at Donovan’s surprise. “Makes sense, if you think about it. Nobody ever looks at Micronesia, other than to have an exotic vacation in, maybe. It’s got damn near more islands than people, and it really is a rather easy place to hide your activities in. Especially if you’re going against a global nation that’s got its footprint pretty much everywhere. This entire area is independent nowadays and is not a part of the alliance. It’s not a part of anything. It’s a quiet place, keeps to itself, and, most important, it couldn’t care less about alliances and global disputes. This group, if you can call it that, causes no problems for Micronesia, puts a lot of money into it—and I do mean a lot of money—and is therefore a very welcome resident. The local administrative authority doesn’t allow law enforcement near any of its members. Hence, yours truly lives here, begs for pennies here, moves around freely here. Sees stuff, you guessed it, here.”

  “You say they’re not a group.”

  “Not per se. They’re smart. No name, no tangible identity. They know who they are, we think that all members memorize the members and locations they need to know about. They’re small, but damn powerful. We have no idea what their exact hierarchy is. We haven’t been able to infiltrate them yet, they ar
e endlessly careful.”

  “But something made you look for them there.”

  “Tireless observation and painstaking analysis.” Agawin chuckled. “And even now I can tell you we know the identities of too few of them.”

  “Problem is, I have to tell you, the little I read about them while they were still part of Yahna, they don’t seem . . .” Donovan considered his words. He had to be careful not to link this conversation to his investigation. At his request, Scholes didn’t tell Agawin’s boss—or his boss’s boss, apparently—what investigation this inquiry was linked to. It was, for them, a favor of sorts to a senior USFID agent, requested by the vice admiral. “They don’t seem to be very sophisticated in their actions,” he finally said.

  “Ah. You read that. No, that’s old stuff, back before this faction split off from Yahna. Or, to be more accurate, were shunned by Yahna, because they were too extreme, willing to go to more violent lengths. No, see, they were quiet for a long time after that, after the trials and their ouster. Intelligence thought that that was pretty much it, but then they turned up again, and when they did, they were different. As if they had thought things through, planned. Focused. When we began to notice them, they were already well organized. Careful, calculated. Damn smart. Money, clever use of resources. And they never slip. We think they’re extra small and extra zealous because it helps keep them safe.”

  “Zealous against?”

  “Us,” the IDSD agent simply said. “As in us the Internationals, first and foremost. And then us the alliance, which means you, too, the United States. Although we think they work a dangerous mix of ideology, money and power. They don’t care who they hurt as long as they get what they want. And what they want is for things to be their way.”

  “You said clever use of resources. How so?”

  “Their actions cannot be traced back to them. Only to whoever they were using. A politician who hired them for a whole lot of money but for whom they were an anonymous group that did the job provided that he didn’t ask questions, the makers of components that can be used for bombs who had their signatures all over their work but no idea what it was being made for or who hired them. You get the idea.”

  “Go back a minute. Bomb makers who didn’t know they were making bombs?”

  “Yeah, and techies who had no idea they made circuits for surveillance devices, that kind of stuff.”

  That, Donovan thought, was certainly interesting. But he left it at that, not wanting to hint at what his aim was in the conversation. “So what’s in Pohnpei?”

  “A leader. The only one we’ve so far been able to identify as a leader, at least. Makes sense, there has to be someone at the top who is calling the shots, coordinating, whatever. Anyway, these people, this faction if you want, they have a meeting place here. In a privately owned mansion on a ridge overlooking the city of Kolonia. It’s a conservation building that was bought by this guy two decades ago after he promised to have it restored and keep it properly maintained, and to allow visits. Ironically, tourists go there for the sightseeing. If they knew what’s right under their noses . . . Of course, I’ve never been anywhere near the place when they hold one of their meetings. They close it for miles around, damn near the entire island, plus the airspace above. No way of knowing even who comes and goes. Anyway, this guy who owns the place, he’s the assumed leader. We have nothing on him, not even a clear image. We’re not even sure if he’s ex-Yahna or not. But several others we do know used to be in Yahna live around here too.”

  “Have you ever heard of a guy named Bourne?” Donovan asked.

  “No. You think he’s one of them?”

  “Could be.”

  “You find something, let me know, maybe I can dig on this end. Either way, we’d love to have more leads on these guys, bring them down.”

  Donovan ended the call and sat back, his eyes narrowed. Something he’d seen in Bourne’s file and hadn’t assigned any importance to was now at the forefront of his mind. Bourne traveled regularly on ARPA business. He didn’t oversee projects directly—program managers did that—but he was still required to travel to the higher-level meetings, where executive decisions were made. Always for a day or so, only a little longer for the longer travels, as would be expected for a business trip. Other than that, and the occasional visit to his daughter in Australia, he traveled only to one place, never elsewhere.

  He had a vacation home on the main island of Pohnpei, in Micronesia.

  Donovan stretched, removing the kinks in his neck, then got up to make some coffee. The problem was that this wasn’t enough to link Bourne to Yahna or to its extremist faction, and it would certainly not stand as clear and convincing evidence. Nor would it likely be nearly enough to bring Bourne in and rattle him into a confession, and perhaps even into leading them to the ambassador, if Bourne even knew where he was. Donovan shook his head. An ARPA director with a clean record, who just happened to have a house on the same island as an extremist faction no one knew much about, which might or might not have had anything to do with taking the ambassador and instigating the events in Europe. Two major links were missing here—the extremists’ connection to the ongoing events and Bourne’s connection to them.

  Although the first link wasn’t Donovan’s job, not in this investigation—it was Emero’s—the two were connected. Donovan sent Emero a message, updating him on what Agawin had said, and then returned to concentrate on the second link, the one more accessible to him. Bourne was a US citizen who, as far as Donovan was concerned, was suspected of murdering a US Air Force officer. Even if he didn’t put the bullet in Berman’s head himself, he had something to do with the murder. Donovan wanted him for that, but linking him to Sirion’s theft and making him lead them to his accomplices, which just might bring IDSD closer to Sendor, was the more urgent priority.

  The problem was that so far the only break he’d gotten trying to connect Bourne to anything was that vacation home he had. Still, it was a connection that could pan put. Unless of course he was wrong, and Bourne was innocent.

  He didn’t think so.

  Before coming here, he had dropped by his house next door and had picked up his work screen. He now took it to the kitchen and sat at the counter with his coffee, and took a look at the Federated States of Micronesia. The place wasn’t well known. As Agawin had said, it kept to itself, was independent, and had long nurtured a reputation as a tourist attraction. But emigration had taken a severe toll on it. There was a big world outside the small islands, and as the gap between the simple, modest life on them and the advancing world beyond grew, many had left to seek new opportunities. For a while Micronesia’s future was uncertain, but it had found a new way to survive. It became a place the rich flocked to for some peace and quiet—and privacy in a world in which exposure was the most prevalent commodity—and Micronesia was only happy to accept them. But that meant that it became extremely expensive to live in. A man with Bourne’s finances, as generous as they were, could not hope to buy and maintain a vacation home there.

  He opened a secure channel and accessed his office, then brought up the records of Bourne’s house on the island of Pohnpei. Right. Apparently Bourne had not bought the property, he had inherited it from his grandparents. Other than that, there was nothing there, nothing to speak of. There was a photo, a date of purchase, dry details. Not much more than that.

  The problem was that Donovan couldn’t look any deeper without attracting unwanted attention. He’d already had to use his own resources to get this much on Bourne and had managed to do so without alerting anyone to what he was doing. But going deeper, and further using US resources to investigate this specific high-ranking US citizen who necessarily had political connections, would likely raise an alarm somewhere. The eyes that routinely tracked ARPA’s employees, for their safety as well as that of the United States’ defense secrets, were far more alert following the ARPA liaison’s murder at its building and the technology theft, both serious breaches of security, and Donova
n couldn’t risk being tagged as digging into the director’s life. Nor could he risk Bourne finding out he was a suspect.

  No, Donovan needed something else, another way to learn more. Something . . .

  He had an idea.

  His call to Lara was once again answered by Aiden, who explained that he hadn’t had a chance yet to relay his message to Ms. Holsworth but would do so as soon as she came out of the mission debriefing. Donovan asked the loyal aide to let her know where he was, knowing that if Aiden told her that, she might decide to come hoe. Maybe, he hoped, he could even convince her to get a few hours’ sleep.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Lara came home, Donovan was sitting on the living room sofa, his work screen on the coffee table before him. He raised his head from the forensics of the Berman crime scene that were leading to nothing, not even when he compared them to what little evidence was collected in the jet, which Emero had sent him. He was touched that he’d been right, that his being there brought her home. He was thrilled that it seemed as if it was natural to her that he was there, hoped it had less to do with the fact that he’d been around since she had first found herself entangled in the plot to destroy Oracle and more to do with their new relationship. And he was astounded to find himself crossing right over to happy when she came over and slumped close beside him on the sofa. He put his arm around her, drawing her to him, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. She snuggled up against him, fitting so perfectly.

  “Seriously, I hate that car.” She contemplated the thought a bit. “What do you think Frank will do if I, oh, I don’t know, blow it up?”

  Donovan’s brow furrowed. The memory was still too raw.

  She felt him tense and looked up at him. “Sorry,” she said.

  He kissed her. “It’s okay. I guess it’s good that you can joke about it.”

  “It’s easier now,” she said. With you, she thought.