by Brad Taylor
“As you know, through CIA assets, we had positive identification of a North Korean asset attempting to pass security information of US intelligence and DoD members gleaned through the Chinese OPM hack in 2015. Because the CIA had no capability to interdict, you granted me Alpha authority to explore, with follow-on Omega authority for a takedown if we confirmed a meeting with Syrian assets.”
Kurt paused, knowing the next part was going to aggravate the many members of the Council who’d said that this mission was outside the Taskforce portfolio. Tasked with counterterrorism only, he couldn’t argue that point. But he followed orders, and when directed, he had executed.
He flipped the slide, revealing a close-up photo of an Asian man with two security personnel. “This was our target, and we successfully breached his room, where we gathered significant intelligence, but—”
Amanda Croft interrupted, “What do you mean ‘was’ your target?”
Kurt took a breath and said, “We were forced to interact with the security detail in a manner that would preclude the team continuing surveillance.”
Croft said, “What does that mean?”
“We believe the Korean team had established an electronic intrusion alarm in their room. A trip wire, basically, and when we breached the room, they were alerted. In order to finish the sweep of the room, we were forced to interdict them.”
“Meaning you did what, exactly?”
He smiled and said, “We did what we do. We removed them from the equation in a nonlethal manner.”
The national security advisor, Alexander Palmer, interjected, saying, “You had no authority for that.”
Instinctively, Kurt smelled blood in the water, with skittish members of the Council looking for any reason to question this mission. He worked quickly to shut down the line of inquiry lest it derail the rest of the briefing, most notably, his request for future activities.
He said, “Sir, they initiated, not us. They attacked our team, and we removed the threat. They were not permanently harmed, and in so doing, we successfully extracted intelligence from electronic devices in the room. In addition, we placed a beacon on one of the security men, which led to this man.”
Before he could get another question, he flipped the slide to a picture of a black-haired male with a thick mustache.
Kurt said, “This is the Syrian, still unidentified. Using the beacon we’d placed on the Korean, we located the meeting site, a restaurant on the waterfront of the harbor. Two Koreans met him there, and we saw him pass a cell phone across. The Koreans did something with the phone, and handed it back. That was the extent of the meeting, although the team did report that it wasn’t a cordial affair. The Koreans looked decidedly aggravated, and the Syrian looked scared. We ran the picture by the CIA case officer provided by Kerry, and he had no idea who the man is.”
Kurt turned to the D/CIA and said, “Kerry, anything to add?”
“Not really. The case officer we pulled from Turkey knows more about Syrian personalities than anyone on earth. In the past, he’s run sources deep inside the Assad regime. If he couldn’t get a positive ID, nobody can.”
President Hannister said, “So they passed the data?”
Kurt said, “Maybe. We’re not sure. Using a separate team, we followed him to his bed-down at a hotel in Monaco, and we were preparing to duplicate what we did with the Koreans, but just before walking in here I was informed that he’d disappeared.”
Croft said, “What do you mean?”
“He checked out of the hotel and vanished. We couldn’t keep eyes on him twenty-four/seven without compromising our team, and in a gap in coverage, he left.”
Palmer said, “Which is why this should have been a CIA operation.”
Kurt said, “Sir, manhunting is what we do. It’s our specialty, and we’re better at it than anyone else on earth, but we can’t work miracles. This isn’t some Hollywood movie. He had a reservation for two more days. The gap in coverage was prudent while we dedicated assets to researching and defeating the hotel security.”
Palmer scowled, and looked at the D/CIA for support. Instead, Kerry nodded his head, saying, “Even if I’d had a team there, we couldn’t do what you ask. We have to deal with the real world. It’s not a Taskforce mistake. Every indicator was we had the time, and if you have the time, you use the time. You don’t push the issue. It’s like the Syrian’s command called him away for some reason. It happens. You can’t predict it.”
Inwardly, Kurt smiled, because now was the time for the vaunted CIA to throw the Taskforce under the bus, and yet Kerry had not. Kurt was glad for the support. He kept his expression neutral, but nodded slightly when Kerry caught his eye.
Palmer turned away from the D/CIA and said, “So what now? Just let them have the data?”
“No, sir. The team that was compromised also gleaned significant data from the Korean’s hotel room. From their communications pattern, we’ve located a node inside a server farm in Switzerland. The node shows the same fingerprints that were used on the North Korean hack of Sony in 2014. It’s a gateway, and possibly the repository of the OPM data.”
President Hannister said, “But if he’s already passed it to the Syrian, what’s the point?”
Kerry held up a hand, saying, “May I?” Kurt nodded.
Kerry turned to the president and said, “The passing of the OPM data to the Syrian is not optimal by any stretch, but there is still intelligence to be gleaned by learning exactly what was passed. We think we know what China got from the hack, but it would be better to know positively, so we can mitigate it. If they’ve got a lead, I say let them go.”
President Hannister took that in, then turned back to Kurt. “So, what, exactly, are you asking?”
Kurt took a breath and said, “Pike Logan’s team was the one forced into compromise. I had to get them clean from Monaco, so I sent them to Switzerland. They’re currently buying space on the same server farm. Give me the word, and I’ll penetrate that farm and learn everything the Koreans are doing.”
Palmer said, “You’re already executing a mission?”
“No, sir, I’m just executing Alpha. All they’re doing is taking a tour of the location and asking for pricing. You tell me to quit, and they’ll be on the first thing smoking back to America.”
Palmer shook his head, convinced Kurt was subverting the chain of command. He said, “Now’s the time to put this back into the box. Let the CIA explore the server farm. I’m sure they can do it remotely. Get the Taskforce back on their charter. I understand why we used them for the initial mission, but this is traditional intelligence work, and we don’t need to be expanding their portfolio.”
Expecting this, Kurt said, “It’s the Council’s call, but understand that the Swiss farm was chosen for a reason. It’s in an old cold war bunker built to withstand a nuclear blast, and has more digital security than the CIA itself. A remote penetration could take up to half a year. We want the information, then it’s going to have to be physical, and Pike has already done the reconnaissance. The CIA could most certainly do the mission but”—he looked at Kerry Bostwick—“I don’t think they could execute for at least a month, is that right?”
Kerry nodded and said, “We could do it with TAO, but I’d have to create a team, read on the chief of station in Bern, then conduct detailed planning. He’s right. If Pike’s already done the legwork, there’s no reason to switch horses. We might lose the data, and I’m not looking for a turf war.”
Kurt breathed a sigh of relief, then heard Alexander Palmer snort. He said, “This is getting out of control. The Taskforce mission is counterterrorism, and lately it’s been anything but. Last time it was a coup in Lesotho, now it’s this. We’re breaking the damn charter for convenience.”
Kurt said nothing, watching the president rub his eyes in contemplation, and then he received support from a least expected quarter.
She was fairly new to the Council, and to government, but that wasn’t the shocking part to Kurt. Clearly, she didn’t understand the ramifications of what she was proposing, but the true seismic shift was having a secretary of state actually advocate for a military operation. It was a first for Kurt, as all previous SECSTATEs had been one stick-in-the-mud after another, demanding diplomatic solutions and fighting anything he did.
He hid his surprise and waited. Hannister looked up and said, “Okay. Put it to a vote.” Which was the same as saying, I agree with the mission, will anyone tell me I’m wrong? Technically, the Council could, but Kurt knew they wouldn’t.
Five minutes later, it was over, execute authority granted. Kurt was policing up his laptop when President Hannister approached. Kurt stopped what he was doing, saying, “Sir?”
Hannister waved away the Secret Service member near him, then said, “Is Nick on this mission?”
Taken aback, Kurt paused, then said, “Yes, sir, he is. He’s on Pike’s team.”
Hannister pulled his glasses off his face and pretended to clean them, saying, “Pike. Yes. We’ve had a few bits of high adventure with him.”
Kurt said, “Yes, that’s true. But every one has been in our favor. Don’t forget that.”
Hannister put his glasses back on, patted Kurt on the shoulder, and said, “Okay, Kurt. If you say so.”
He walked out of the room, leaving Kurt to wonder about the exchange, and then Amanda Croft approached. He thought, What the hell is going on, and she said, “My vote wasn’t swayed by anything other than national security. Remember that.”
Confused again, he said, “Yes, ma’am. I know.”
She said, “Is Knuckles in Switzerland with Pike?”
She’d met Knuckles on a previous Oversight Council presentation, and Kurt was surprised she’d remembered him. Unfortunately, the president asking about his son was one thing, but this was breaching protocol.
He said, “Ma’am, I can’t tell you that. The Council controls overarching permission for operations, but I control the tactical execution. It’s for both our protection.”
A little miffed, she said, “I understand,” and walked out of the room without another word.
Kurt finished packing up his equipment, the room now empty except for George Wolffe. Kurt said, “Let’s get the hell out of here before someone else asks me a personal question.”
George said, “What on earth was that with the SECSTATE?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
15
Panting in terror, Amena sprinted to the front of the fort, then flung herself over the roof, hanging on with her hands. She dropped to the ground and began running downhill, away from the building. Away from the horror it held. The image of her father’s neck split in two was burned into her brain, her brother underneath his feet, his dead eyes staring at the ceiling. She couldn’t think straight. Truth be told, she couldn’t think at all, just like when the boat sank, and they had all fought for survival in the Mediterranean Sea, screaming and begging for someone to save them. Only this time, she knew it was just her. She was all that was left. There was no Italian navy. There were only two men who wanted to kill her for a phone she’d stolen.
She heard the footsteps of the killers rounding the corner, and a powerful flashlight splashed over her. She heard, “There!” and she took off down the side of the slope, running pell-mell through the brush.
She turned to look behind her and hit the chain-link fence at the base of the park head-on, slamming into it and bouncing back to the ground. She saw the flashlights coming toward her. She leapt up, scaled the fence, and fell to the other side.
She picked herself up and ran down the hill, the bushes slapping and cutting at her as she went. She hit a rock and tripped, falling forward and rolling, bouncing downhill until she slammed into a tree. Her breath knocked out, she remained still.
To her right was a ribbon of road lined with another chain-link fence, the first before she reached the main highway of the Moyenne Corniche. She saw the flickering lights of the expensive houses hidden in the woods and thought about running to them, but she knew the residents would probably just turn her over to the men chasing her. Everyone here in the land of the rich saw her as a threat. Everyone hated her.
She lay on the ground, catching her breath, a part of her wanting to quit. Wanting it all to end. She had nothing left, and was tired of running, both literally and figuratively.
Her mother swam into her vision, and she heard her voice, telling her a mantra she had chanted throughout the bombardment of their city, whenever the darkness fell and they’d fought for pure survival.
If it is to be, it is up to me.
The words grew louder in her head, a mantra giving her strength. IF IT IS TO BE, IT IS UP TO ME.
She saw her mother’s visage, prodding her, telling her to fight. The kind eyes, the loving touch. The iron will. She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on her mother’s face, then leapt up with renewed energy. She was the one in control here, not them. She knew where she was, having walked these woods every single day from the Eze train station. They could chase her, but only she knew where she was going.
She scrambled over the fence next to the ribbon of asphalt and crossed the road. She sprinted faster than she should have down the hill, heading toward the coast, and felt a drop of water on her arm. Rain? She kept going, then felt another. She stopped, holding her arm up in the dying twilight. She saw red, the same red that had gushed out of her father’s neck. The memory slammed into her, and she sagged to the ground, dazed, wondering if it was his, staring at the blood on her arm in the fading light as if it held her father’s life force.
She realized that couldn’t be, and snapped out of her trance, frantically searching her body. She discovered a scalp wound leaking blood down her face and mixing with her sweat. She gingerly touched it, and found it was just a scratch. Something that had happened during her fall.
She pressed a hand against it and considered her options, now of sounder mind. She decided to get to the Eze train station and leave, creating as much distance as she could between the men hunting her and here. Get to Nice or Monaco.
She heard rocks spilling down the slope and snapped her head upward. Only one light was coming down now, much more slowly than she had. She couldn’t believe it. One of them was still chasing her.
She began slipping down the slope at a speed that would have been out of control, but she used the trees to maintain her pace, slapping a hand against a trunk or branch like a gymnast on the uneven bars. Something she used to do with Adnan on their daily trek to the train station. Before, it had been for fun. Now it was saving her life.
She barreled down the hill, hearing the man shout at her. What on earth did they want? Was the phone that important to them?
She spilled onto the shoulder of the Moyenne Corniche, the middle road between the famed Grande Corniche at the top of the mountain chain and the Basse Corniche along the coast, and the same sad road Princess Grace Kelly had died on. She saw a car approaching, and she jumped out to flag it down. The car slammed on its brakes and she ran to the driver’s door. It opened, and a man stepped out, wearing a gold chain.
One of the killers.
She stumbled back, and he shouted at her. She sprinted across the blacktop, heading toward the parking lot of the Eze mountain village, a primordial survival instinct taking hold, all thought of the train station gone.
She heard the door slam and the car spin its tires, coming after her. She ran through the lot, dodging between the scattered cars until she reached a tourist information hutch. It was clo
sed. She looked behind her and saw the headlights of the car gunning toward her location, and a flashlight bouncing down the slope across the Corniche. They were still coming.
She ran up the cobblestone path that led into the heart of Eze. She passed a restaurant at the base, people staring at her from an outdoor eating area. She thought about running into the restaurant, but feared that in the confusion they’d just turn her over to the men. She had no doubt that her enemies would be able to talk their way through anything. Or just kill her outright. She needed to evade them, and that would mean evading everyone else.
She realized she was making a scene and slowed to a walk. The sun had finally set, leaving the path in a murky gloom that she hoped would hide the blood and her disheveled appearance.
She kept walking up the hill, into the town, going into an area she knew well, but it wasn’t without risk. The village was pedestrian only, with a rat warren of alleys, cobblestone lanes, and shops every step of the way. The entire town had one entrance—which meant one exit. When she passed the stone arch into the town proper, she would have effectively locked herself in. But it was too late to change now. She certainly couldn’t go back to the parking lot.
She passed through the arch, and saw another problem. A major tourist attraction, the mountain village had changed from a defensive fortification to one infested with cafés, eateries, art galleries, and hotels. Unfortunately, she’d spent so much time in Eze that she was known, and on her last trip, she’d found that the store owners had banded together, keeping an eye out for her and her brother. Like the parade ground, she didn’t pickpocket here too often, but she’d visited much more, and they’d made the connection—or at least suspected. She and her brother had been chased out on their last visit with threats to call the police.
At this hour most of the art galleries and shops were still open, and if the owners saw her, they might alert her pursuers of her location. Or even help in the pursuit if the men chasing her proclaimed she had stolen a phone from them.
