by Leslie Wolfe
“You’re right; it makes no sense at all.” Tom agreed.
Steve’s gaze was intense, anticipating more to it and not all good.
“Unless,” Alex started to say, but Lou took over.
“I’m thinking booby trap, or a silent alarm of sorts,” he said.
“Exactly,” Alex said, “in which case we stepped in it and we got made.”
“Would anyone care to explain for the rest of us?” Steve asked.
“Let’s think for a minute. What would be the easiest way for UNSUB to know if anyone was looking to pick up the trail at the only point they could, Melanie’s transplant clinic? That’s where the trail starts, right? That’s why we started there.”
“You mean they put the record in the system on purpose to track us?” Sam asked.
“Precisely. Either by having some intrusion detection software watching that particular record or some other type of silent alarm deployed on that system. It’s my belief this trick gave them the heads-up as soon as we started snooping around. From that point forward, they could have been on to us with accuracy, while putting in a minimal surveillance effort to catch us. I think we’ve been made.”
“Fuck...I miss the old days of real covert work, gun in hand, moving in the shadows,” Sam said bitterly. “I don’t understand half of what you’re talking about. We haven’t even started our op, and you’re telling me we’ve been discovered?”
“I think the UNSUB is definitely aware someone’s looking. There’s no other logical reason to have that record that I could find. Now, if the UNSUB is on to us, specifically, that’s a question for Lou. How careful were you?”
“Very. I connected from behind the University of California San Diego firewall, so worst-case scenario, they have a general location for the source, such as La Jolla, San Diego, or even the university. That’ll throw them off for a while.”
“Throw them off? They have our goddamn location!” Steve raised his voice, which rarely ever happened. “I’m pulling the plug on this, right now.”
“And I’m not letting you,” Alex said, turning to him, amped up and ready to fight. She was not a kid anymore, and she wasn’t about to let anyone treat her as such, regardless of how well intended they were. This decision was hers and hers alone.
“Alex,” Steve continued in a soothing tone, “I remember we agreed that if the situation got too dangerous, we’d pull out of this.”
“Yes, we did, but it’s not too dangerous. Not yet. What do they have? A city? How would they even know that means anything? How would they know this is where we are? Lou could have logged in from New York, and it wouldn’t have meant more. You’re overreacting, Steve. I’m fine. We’re fine; we’re good to go.”
“I’m not overreacting. These bastards are always a step or more ahead of everything we do. And we have Robert to think of. If someone looked at Melanie’s record, that could put her and Robert in danger. We’re gambling with their lives. Tom, please talk some sense into Alex.”
Tom started to say something, but Alex cut in, not letting him utter a syllable.
“Talk some sense into me? Now I’m mad, Steve; you’re crossing the line. I know what I signed up for, and we all knew it wasn’t gonna be easy. But this is my call and my call only. God damn it...” She leaned against the side table, almost tipping over the coffee machine. “All I have done in my life was for me, rarely for others. The core reason for anything I have ever done until now was to survive. Pay some bills, another month’s rent, eat a little bit better, get new shoes. This is my shot at doing something really important, that has meaning, that will add meaning to my entire existence. If everything I end up doing in this life is fight for my daily survival, how the fuck am I different from an amoeba?
“Don’t get me wrong, I am not the generous kind. I will never volunteer at some church or anywhere else for that matter. To me, that seems too small, and I know this sounds arrogant, but I can do way more than just organize bake sales. This is my shot to do something really worthwhile with my life. And yes, I am scared shitless. I know we’re walking on thin ice, and if that ice should break, I probably won’t survive. That, in the grand scheme of things, doesn’t really matter, by comparison with what we’re trying to achieve.
“We are fighting an unseen enemy who has tremendous resources and will stop at nothing to organize what could very well be the largest terrorist attack in our history. We are fighting to maintain our most important constitutional right, the right to vote safely, securely, in peace, without any fear. Families will go to the voting precincts together, Steve, families, taking their children along. This is not about preventing some localized attack that would harm one or two innocent bystanders. We could be looking at thousands of victims, maybe many more. This is the one time where almost every citizen of the United States will have to be at a certain location within a certain time frame. Can you see the proportions of that? Can you see the monstrosity of their plan?
“The American people could be looking at never voting the same way again. Did you know people still don’t want to fly on 9/11? Each year, during the week of 9/11, airline ticket sales drop significantly. We are fighting to prevent that kind of scar on our nation’s identity, that kind of terror in our collective lives. We don’t know what the attack is gonna be about, or what it will look like, but we will find out. We will, I can guarantee you that. That’s why I’m not stopping now. I’m not pulling any plug, so Steve, I’m sorry to say but you’re either behind me one hundred percent, or you get out of the way.”
Silence took over the room. Alex saw mixed emotions on Steve’s face. Hurt, concern, and admiration. She swallowed hard, tears coming to her eyes.
“And that, my friends, is called courage,” Sam said.
“Hear, hear,” Tom said. Brian smiled, looking at her slightly different than he normally did. Lou gave her a military salute, executed by the book, with a very serious expression on his face.
“Good. Then we’re set. By the way,” she continued, “I don’t think Robert or Melanie’s lives are at risk at this point. I don’t think the UNSUB would touch them while the contract’s still in progress.”
“I’d say that makes sense,” Sam said, “we can count on that logic for a while, but let’s not trip the alarms again.”
...54
...Thursday, May 19, 8:57AM Local Time (UTC+2:00 hours)
...Letiště Praha-Kbely Airport—Air Traffic Control, Prague East
...Prague, The Czech Republic
Jaro Zelezny rubbed his eyes for the tenth time since he had started his shift, less than an hour before. His back hurt, his abs and buttocks were sore, and he had slept less than two hours for the third night in a row. At this rate, his new girlfriend was going to kill him soon. But she was hot. She was hotter than he’d thought he’d ever find, and a total sex addict too. Jaro was still young, not even thirty-five yet, but he was feeling exhausted, worn out, and horny at the same time. There was no ending in sight. She was too damn hot. Her full breasts, her blonde, wavy hair, and those long, slender legs that wrapped tightly around him until he couldn’t breathe...He was getting an erection just thinking about her. How to say no to a girl like that?
Jaro poured himself another cup of coffee, extra-dark brew and the third one in the last hour. He spent a few minutes considering the drugs he could take to keep up with her desires. No need for Viagra, not yet, anyway. Some vitamins wouldn’t hurt and a nap between flights. It didn’t seem like a busy day today, so it might be a good time to get caught up on some shuteye. He pulled a file folder in front of him, thinking he’d better deal with flight-plan approvals before napping so the phone wouldn’t wake him.
A quiet day, indeed. Only one flight plan filed, for the new Piaggio Avanti EVO owned by that deli mogul or whatever he was. Jaro couldn’t get enough of that plane. He liked to watch it taxi, take off, and land. The elegance of its silhouette, the unusual wing design, the speed, and climb rate. He was in love. With a woman and with a plane. He already had the w
oman; he hoped one day he’d have the plane, or at least fly in it. His daydreams, when not filled with images of Helenka’s naked body, were populated by the Piaggio.
The flight plan was more complicated than usual. He concentrated with difficulty, trying to follow what the plane was scheduled to do. Fly out of Prague-Kbely Airport, LKKB, home base, and into Aden Adde International, Mogadishu, Somalia, airport code MGQ, with a quick refueling stop in Turkey. Refuel in MGQ and pick up, umm...three cases of coconut oil, one case of sesame oil, and two cases of camel meat. Who eats that crap? Very rich people, apparently.
Then the Piaggio would land here at home base, refuel, drop the sesame oil, pick up three cases of smoked oysters and four cases of various caviar assortments, and take off, heading to final destination BXM, Brunswick Executive Airport in Maine, United States. Of course, the Piaggio had to stop and refuel a couple of times before making it to Maine. But wasn’t it wonderful that it could cross the ocean all the way to America?
Jaro slammed the stamp down, marking the flight plan “Approved” with red ink, then started toward the fax machine. Dialing the number indicated on the flight plan, he wondered if he could use the Piaggio’s stopover on its way back from Somalia to check it out on the inside, pretending to inspect the cargo. He just wanted to smell that fine leather, feel the softness of it, and see the cockpit with all the electronic displays. It seemed like a good idea.
...55
...Friday, July 8, 5:12PM CDT (UTC-5:00 hours)
...Bobby Johnson’s Hunting Lodge
...Fox Lake, Illinois
Anthony Fischer allowed himself to relax a little and took a taste of single malt Scotch. The lodge was beautiful, its large windows overlooking the lake and forested areas around it. A large deck surrounded three quarters of the lodge, equipped with long chairs and small tables. The summer air was mild and carried the scents of forest and wildlife, the sounds of birds chirping and insects buzzing. Peaceful.
His protégé was a charismatic host, making Dave Vaughn feel welcome and appreciated, just like he should. The two of them were hitting it off nicely and had a good chance to forge an enduring partnership, maybe even a friendship. Vaughn’s endless resources and determined support were priceless at this stage in Johnson’s campaign. Vaughn’s presence at Fox Lake was a testimony that he was prepared to make a long-term commitment to Johnson’s presidential campaign.
They were both smoking cigars and sipping some of the most expensive single malt that money could buy, a gift from Vaughn. The man knew how to make an instant friend out of Johnson, who could never resist the lure of a good bottle. Good thing Bobby Johnson was taking it slow, keeping things under control and focusing on his guest.
At a small table near the window, Danny, Johnson’s ridiculously young PR expert, was playing a Texas hold ’em game with Vaughn’s assistant. Money was piling up on their table, and by the looks of it, Danny was winning big.
Their conversation was heating up, catching Fischer’s attention.
“Absolutely,” Johnson was saying, “it makes perfect sense to relax our policies and increase the collaboration with foreign energy players. We have to examine how it would best work for our interests and take action, make it happen.”
“Maybe I can offer some guidance, Mr. President?” Vaughn asked.
The man was smooth, Fischer had to admit. Johnson was purring like a kitten every time Vaughn called him Mr. President.
“I am counting on your guidance, Dave. I am counting on it! What would you do?”
“I would increase oil production, especially home oil production. Global warming has come and almost gone, and, yes, we must be aware of the risks and put control measures in place, but this is not the time to limit oil production here at home. Do we want to reduce our dependency of foreign oil? Yes, we absolutely have to. But we have to achieve that goal by drilling a little bit more, giving researchers time to come up with viable, truly viable alternate solutions for energy.”
“Uh-huh, I see,” Johnson said. “What would need to happen?”
“Change policy a little. Let’s make drilling permits easier to get and faster, for both inland and offshore drilling. That will allow us an increase in oil production that will achieve this goal for you, the independence from foreign oil.”
“That’s not going to be hard,” Johnson said.
“Not hard at all, but it could give you some unwanted media attention. It will just come and go, nothing really damaging. After all, everyone wants their cars more than they want global warming policy. And then, then we take it one step further.”
“How? What do you mean?”
“Then we invest. With the right permits and legislation in place, people like me can acquire oil fields in other countries, invest in pipelines and tanker distribution, and slowly get to control more and more of the black gold, globally. Of course, I’d need a little bit of help with satellite surveys,” Vaughn said, taking a long drag from his cigar.
“Of course.” Johnson agreed.
“Would that be a problem, you think?”
“No, I don’t see why it would.”
“Excellent. That would give me the upper hand in locating the ripest oil fields that money can buy, to consolidate America’s independence from foreign oil.”
They both stopped talking for a while, enjoying their cigars and single malt, eyes lost on the horizon and dreams of the future.
Fischer approached the two, engaging them in small talk.
“I see your boy is taking a beating, Mr. Vaughn,” Fischer said.
“Well, he didn’t come here to win,” Vaughn replied and winked. The other men laughed wholeheartedly. Vaughn had class. He had found a way to make a sizeable donation to the campaign without getting things too complicated for any of them.
“Tell me, please,” Vaughn asked Johnson, “what can I do for you, Mr. President?”
“Your support is highly appreciated, from all perspectives,” Johnson replied. “The fact that I can count on you as a friend and supporter in my campaign is priceless for me. From what I can see, our interests align perfectly, and that can be the basis of a long-term partnership that will be very rewarding for both of us.”
“Cheers!” Vaughn raised his glass to meet Johnson’s.
“Cheers!” Johnson said, raising his.
“Is there something, anything at all, you need right now? How can I make myself useful to you now, Mr. President?”
Johnson hesitated, giving the question some thought. Fischer held his breath. They had not discussed any immediate engagement strategy. He had no idea how Johnson would handle this.
“Well, there is a small problem you might be able to offer some advice on,” he started to say.
“Shoot,” Vaughn encouraged him.
“Many years ago, when I was still in college, I got a girl pregnant.”
Fischer’s hand went straight to his forehead, grabbing the thinning remnants of hair still clinging to his ever-higher forehead, and pulling them back vigorously. Damn. Damn it to fucking hell!
“It can happen,” Vaughn smiled encouragingly.
“Well, back then I dealt with it.” He stopped, gathering courage. There was not a trace of judgment in Vaughn’s kind eyes. “I...I paid for her abortion. She was fine with it. We were both young students; we didn’t want a kid. She was fine. Back then, she was fine. But she called me yesterday, just asking how I was.”
Just asking for a big payday, that’s what she was asking for, you fucking idiot, Fischer thought bitterly. He froze, wondering if Vaughn could indeed be trusted at this level. What on earth brought Johnson to tell this guy about the girl and not discuss it with him first? The man was a wild card.
“Well, Mr. President, consider the matter handled,” Vaughn answered. “We’ll make sure she is very well taken care of, so well that she can retire at a destination of her choice, where her newly acquired financial comfort will be the reward for her absolute discretion.”
Holy shi
t, this might work out after all, Fischer said to himself. They have bonded.
...56
...Thursday, July 14, 10:01PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Evening News at Ten
...Nationally Syndicated
The anchor’s face was somber, not a trace of a smile. He was grim.
“We start our newscast tonight with President John Mason’s remarks in response to the brutal attack on the cruise ship Alabaster Light that took place yesterday near the Ukrainian port Sevastopol. The ship, carrying 2,271 passengers and 218 crew members, was sunk by a surface-to-surface missile, launched by unknown forces operating in Ukraine, most likely Russian separatist rebels. Very few survivors were rescued, making this attack the most brutal and costly terrorist attack in recent history, with a total of 2,137 people dead and many of the survivors injured.”
The screen showed President Mason standing in front of the very familiar lectern in the White House briefing room, addressing the press. He spoke slowly, showing resolve with every word.
“We stand here today, joined in grief for the lives lost and appalled at the viciousness of this attack. The ship, sailing under the flag of a country that is not at war with Russia, was sunk in an act of defiance, of pure terrorism. Forty-seven American lives were lost on the Alabaster Light yesterday.”
He paused slightly to allow a moment of silence for the victims; then he resumed his address in a stern tone of voice. “My message to President Abramovich is clear: please work with us and the other peaceful nations of Earth to establish and maintain a state of equilibrium in Ukraine, prevent such disasters from happening, and eliminate terrorism at all costs.”
Mason cleared his throat quietly before continuing. “The American people are committed to spare no effort in reestablishing democratic values in the countries where these values have been put in danger. We are offering our support to any leader who wishes to maintain peace, civil liberties, and democracy.”
