by Brad Taylor
He reached the avenue and began speed-walking back the way he’d come, seeing the train station a block away. As old as the abandoned mansions he’d just left, the train line had been built before the statue itself. Originally designed to service the coffee plantations that encased Mount Corcovado a century ago, it now was used solely to transport tourists up the steep incline to see the monument.
He waded through tour groups and individuals, purchased a ticket, and took a seat, watching the line begin to grow for the next train. He glanced toward the avenue for his target, but didn’t see anything resembling a black SUV. Not that it mattered. He had no intention of waiting for the target here, as there were two ways to get to the top—the train and a van service—and he wasn’t sure which one the black SUV would seek out.
All he wanted to do was get to the top before they did.
Chapter 57
George Wolffe heard a knock, spun around in his chair, and saw Creed in the doorway fidgeting like a child. Wolffe held up a finger, and into his phone he said, “So you’re good? Safe?”
“Yeah. We went to Savannah. Back in the day, when I was a somebody in Air Force special operations, I made some friends in First Batt. A guy who’s now deployed is a platoon sergeant in 1/75. We’re in his house. We’re safe.”
“Good to hear. Kylie and Amena okay?”
“Kylie’s a little freaked out. Amena thinks it’s a blast.”
Wolffe chuckled and said, “Get any more from the police response?”
“Yeah, it’s the biggest news story in the Southeast. A bunch of Saint Kitts passport holders killed in an apparent drug smuggling operation gone bad. They’re chasing their tails trying to find the connection to the port of Charleston. I think we’ll be okay.”
“No mention of the missing man? No indications of ‘looking for one more person of interest’?”
“Nope. These guys were good at sterilization. Whatever they turned up didn’t lead to the man you took with you.”
“Good, good. Look, I’ve got Creed here about to wet his pants. I gotta go.”
Veep said, “Is it bad news?”
“I have no idea. I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Don’t you leave me. You’d better call.”
“I won’t. Take care of the precious cargo right now. The threat is still out there, and that’s your mission now.”
He hung up the phone, turned to Creed, and said, “Okay, what?”
When Creed was done, he picked up the phone and said, “Get me the president. Prometheus override. And I need the principals there.”
Wolffe entered the West Wing and was immediately confronted by National Security Advisor Alexander Palmer. He said, “What’s going on? Why the alert? Is it Pike?”
Wolffe looked at him in disdain and kept walking, saying, “You can hear it with the rest of the council.”
Hurrying to match Wolffe’s pace, he said, “I want to know what the fuck has happened before we enter. I want to know right now.”
Wolffe kept walking, saying, “Must be nice to want something.”
Palmer snatched his elbow and said, “You don’t run the Taskforce. We do. Get that through your head. I want to know what you’re going to say in there.”
Tired of the political games, knowing Palmer was just looking for an edge, and, truthfully, because it was a little enjoyable, Wolffe grabbed his hand, pulled it away, and twisted until Palmer yelped.
The security men and passing aides looked on in shock. Wolffe locked eyes with Palmer and said, “Don’t ever grab me again.”
Without another word, he continued walking, straight to the Oval Office. When the onlookers saw his destination, they relaxed. Palmer stumbled, and rushed to catch up.
Wolffe entered the Oval Office and saw President Hannister behind the Resolute Desk, the rest of the principals on the couch. He started to close the door, and Palmer pushed it open, coming in behind him holding his wrist.
Hannister took one look at Palmer’s blanched face and said, “What the hell happened to you?”
Wolffe said, “He slammed his hand in a door.”
Palmer said nothing, taking a seat on the couch. Hannister went from him to Wolffe and said, “Okay, you got us here, what’s this about? Are we at risk for Pike’s actions in Brazil?”
And that answer was why George Wolffe, like Kurt Hale before him, trusted the president of the United States. Hannister had already been told about the rescue of the ferry, which meant he already knew that Pike had gone off the reservation to save Knuckles and Brett, but he didn’t care about that. There were no recriminations in the question. No “I knew this would go bad. I told you so.” No searching for someone to blame. He was all business.
“No, sir. That was clean. A good hit. They’re secure, and we’re under no scrutiny. It was a BOPE action all the way.”
Palmer said, “I still want to know how Pike got involved in that. He had no sanction to do anything, and then he’s conducting a rescue?” He looked at Amanda Croft and said, “And apparently there was some State Department help.”
Only two people in the room knew of the connection between the man on the boat and the secretary of state, and one of them, George Wolffe, wasn’t going to utter a word.
He saw Amanda start to say something, and Hannister spoke first: “That’s water under the proverbial bridge. If we’re clean, we’re clean. Can we get to why you’re here? I don’t have a lot of time.”
And Wolffe saw Amanda sink back, a small smile on her face. He went from face to face, and when he reached hers, she winked.
He said, “Sir, you told me to hide in Charleston from the inquiries into Kurt Hale.”
“Yes, and that worked. The Senate staffer fished around for a little bit, and then gave up. Why is that a big deal?”
Wolffe took a deep breath, then let the bomb free. He said, “Pike was right. He was targeted for elimination because of his company. While I was in Charleston, they attacked again. We killed three men and captured another. Someone in Russia is hunting Grolier Services.”
The room was silent, with most sitting on the couch showing an open mouth. Hannister was the first to break the silence. “Did you just tell me you killed three men in Charleston?”
“Yes, sir. From a Russian private military company called Wagner. They’ve figured out a GRS connection to the Taskforce. We don’t know how, and we don’t know why they care, but they’re trying to kill us.”
He went through a detailed report of what had happened, ending with, “They’re still out in the wild, and Pike is on the trail in Brazil. It all leads to that country.”
When he finished, there was absolute silence. Amanda Croft broke it first, saying, “Where is the man you captured?”
“He’s in the cloud. A terrorist holding cell in Utah. I didn’t have another alternative.”
“The cloud” was a nickname for the incarceration of terrorists captured by the Taskforce. Exploiting small town jails throughout the United States, it was the most sensitive aspect of Taskforce operations. Due to the publicity and ongoing fiasco with military tribunals in Cuba, the prison at the Guantanamo Bay naval base was out of the question, and so the Taskforce had built an alternative. They’d reviewed police human resources databases throughout the United States, zeroing in on the ones run by ex–special forces, finding more than a handful. They’d individually interviewed each law enforcement person that they’d found, and had come up with four sites, all in the Southwest, with each law enforcement officer signing nondisclosure statements. It had been a win-win for the police. The Taskforce paid to refurbish and expand their regional jails, and they kept a prisoner for as long as the Taskforce wanted. A terrorist who’d disappeared into the “cloud,” as it were.
Palmer exploded: “You have a Russian national in our classified terrorist rendition architecture? Have you lost your mind?”
Calmly, Wolffe said, “Well, after he tried to kill me, I suppose I could have taken him to a cornfield in Iowa a
nd put a bullet in his head, then buried him in a shallow grave. But that’s not my style. I don’t kill prisoners I catch.”
“What the fuck are we supposed to do with him now? Have you thought about that?”
Wolffe glared at him and said, “Yes. I have. Option one is for you to come with me and I take him to that cornfield. You can pull the trigger. You got the stones for that?”
President Hannister regained control of the room, saying, “Okay, so you have him. What’s your recommendation?”
“Let him go.”
Palmer said, “What?”
“Let him go. We’ve interrogated him, and all he knows is he was targeted against a company. He has no idea why. I say we keep him until we’ve bled him dry on Wagner, giving us individuals and scope of operations, but when we’re done with that, we just put him on a plane.”
Palmer said, “How? How can we do that? He’ll scream to high heaven about being kidnapped.”
“He won’t scream to anyone. He says anything here and he gets arrested for Charleston. No, he’ll go home and shut the fuck up. There is no upside to him saying he’d been captured. They’ll wonder what he said, and put a bullet in his head just for insurance. I want to reiterate, he knows nothing. He has no reason to rock the boat. It’ll get him killed by his own people. He goes home, spins some tale about escaping the carnage in Charleston, and he’ll shut up after that.”
Palmer started shouting again, and Hannister raised a hand, saying, “Okay, okay. It’s something to think about. He’s secure now?”
“Yes, sir. He’s secure.”
“So why the emergency meeting? It’s obviously not because you just found out about this. Since you engineered the whole thing.”
Chapter 58
Alek stood up when the train arrived, a two-car carrier powered by electricity that, while no longer an ancient nineteenth-century vehicle, still looked like it hadn’t been updated since the seventies. He boarded with everyone else, sitting next to a young couple who couldn’t keep their hands off of each other.
Within minutes, they’d left the concrete of Rio behind and entered a forest, the vegetation close and huge, reaching out to the open windows of the cars as the train cut its way through, as if the jungle resented the intrusion.
Once barren earth from rapacious clear-cut logging in the nineteenth century, Mount Corcovado had been deliberately replanted in the twentieth to heal the years of abuse, and was now a national forest, with the jungle greedily reclaiming the land from the coffee plantations that existed a century ago.
Twenty minutes later they arrived at the top, Alek having spent most of his time dodging out of the frame from tourists snapping pictures. He exited first, wound through the line of people waiting on the return trip, and rapidly walked to the first chokepoint leading to the monument: two long escalators traveling to the crest of the mountain, the back of the Christ Redeemer towering over them. From his earlier reconnaissance, Alek knew that it didn’t matter if the target arrived via train or van, the group would end up here. There were stairs that could be used, but Alek refused to believe that the minister would make his potential Chinese investors walk up two hundred and fifty steps when an escalator was available.
He took a seat on a concrete bench and watched the flow of tourists heading upward. He didn’t have to wait long. Within eight minutes he saw the small entourage walking to the escalators, bobbing along with the rest of the tourists like empty beer cans in a river, the target talking animatedly with his guests and gesturing to the statue.
Alek let them get to the top of the escalator, then followed. Ignoring the statue rising above him and the spectacular view spilling out below, he circled around the stone plaza, reaching the staircase leading down to the piazza with the juice stand. He glanced back at the target, saw him taking pictures of the Chinese, and pulled out his radio. He started to press the push-to-talk when two uniformed policemen began climbing the stairs.
He hid the radio and walked halfway down, letting them pass as he pretended to gaze at the view to his left. When they reached the top and disappeared into the crowd, he put the radio to his mouth and said, “Pushka, Pushka, you there?”
“Roger.”
“Get ready. They’re here. It’ll be about ten minutes.”
“And if they just keep going?”
Letting some exasperation leak out, he said, “Then they just keep going. Are you set?”
“Yeah. I’m acting as a bar-back for free. I’ve got a handle on it, and the locals appreciate the help. One of them has been outside smoking cigarettes since I arrived. I should confiscate his salary.”
“Just stay on your toes. Out.”
Alek remained in position for twenty more minutes, then began to think Pushka had been right and they’d simply taken the escalator back to the exit. There just wasn’t that much to do up top. Take a selfie in front of the statue, take a panorama of Rio below you, maybe visit the chapel at the base of the monument, but that was about it. There were no interactive displays or other things to see, and was precisely why he was sure the target would bring them to the piazza for a fruit smoothie. The minister wouldn’t want the trip to the monument to take longer than the tour of the monument itself.
Alek began walking back up the stairs when he saw them at the top. Unable to pull out his radio in front of them, he kept his gaze forward and passed them by. He reached the top and found himself face-to-face with the police now returning down from their patrol.
Shit.
He walked into the mass of people around the Christ statue, milled for a second, then returned to the stairs, pulling out his radio and hissing, “They’re coming, they’re coming.”
He got nothing back, and hoped it was because Pushka was engaged. He bounded down the granite stairs, reached the bottom and scanned the area, seeing the police milling about on the flagstone, tourists sitting in the cracked plastic chairs he had used yesterday to come up with his plan, and then the group of Chinese at the fruit stand, the target explaining the menu.
He glanced around for a place to loiter as a singleton without drawing attention, and spied a cluster of tourists snapping photos of a marmoset monkey cleaning itself in a tree branch, begging for food.
He went to the back of the group and brought out his phone, pretending to snap photos. He reversed the camera to selfie mode and held it up, now looking at the stand.
He watched the target play local host, recommending various flavors, then the Chinese make their choices. One by one the target passed out the selected juice drinks, until only one was left. The target had chosen a mango smoothie, showing bright yellow through the clear plastic cup. He turned to the group in time to see one of the men from the delegation grimace with a sour face, having taken a sip of his pink-colored guava drink.
The target said something to him, and Alek put his phone down, turning around to face them. He saw the target hold out his own mango drink, trading his smoothie for the guava-flavored one he’d recommended.
No, no, no!
The Chinese took a sip of the mango smoothie, smiled, and nodded his head. The target sipped the pink guava juice he’d traded and smiled as well, saying something. They all touched their cups together before taking deep gulps. Alek sagged against the concrete railing, causing the lone marmoset to scamper upward in the trees and the tourists to complain at his actions. He ignored them, glancing at the fruit stand.
Pushka locked eyes with him and nodded his head, telling Alek that he’d accomplished his mission. Alek flicked his head high, ordering him to vacate by way of the escalator and not the stairs. He watched Pushka leave, then saw the target point toward the stairs headed down to the landing area for both the vans and the train.
The men began walking, laughing and finishing their smoothies. They reached the top of the stairs when one of the Chinese clutched his chest, his face contorted in pain. He fell to his knees, dropping his smoothie as his other hand grasped the railing, his mouth bubbling a froth, the yell
ow mango juice spilling into his lap. The target began shouting and waving his arms while the other Chinese stood by in bewilderment.
Alek had seen enough. Cursing his luck, he took the steps back to the top two at a time, getting on his radio and saying, “Pushka, Pushka, contact your Petrobras security source. We’re going to need his itinerary in Manaus.”
Chapter 59
Wolffe remained quiet, considering what he should say. President Hannister repeated, “What’s the emergency? It has to be bad if killing three people in Charleston didn’t even rate an update.”
“Sir, I just came home last night. I haven’t even had time to create a situation report when this new information surfaced. This is all rolled in together. It’s all the emergency.”
Hannister said, “Continue.” Wolffe caught the president’s tone of voice, realizing that the president wasn’t pleased with his actions, but once again, wanted to solve the problem. It gave him courage.
“Sir, you know that the Taskforce keeps track of all web activity related to any of our cover organizations?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there is a story on both the website 4chan and another site that was just created, detailing the attacks in Charleston, both of them. It has information about Kurt Hale, Grolier Services, and his manner of death, and the recent attacks at Sullivan’s Island. It’s not random. The Russians are trying to split us. They haven’t been able to stop Pike by force, and now they’re using an information campaign to get us to quit.”
“How bad is it?”
“It’s bad. There is stuff on the blogs about what Veep and I did in Charleston, with real information only the Russians would know, along with a huge conspiracy theory of how Grolier Recovery Services is a front organization for a pedophile sex ring.”
