by Leslie Wolfe
Tears flowed freely on Robert’s cheeks. He covered his mouth with his hands, trying to control his emotions.
“Oh, my God,” he whispered, swallowing his sobs. “Oh, my God.”
Steve put his hand on Robert’s shoulder, comforting him. “It will all be OK, you’ll see. Everything will turn out just fine,” he said in a soft, reassuring voice.
Robert wiped his tears with his hands and cleared his throat. “Umm...by the way, Campbell gave me this,” he said, taking an envelope from his pocket and handing it to Tom, “to give to you, the leader of the organization that helped DCBI and me. I didn’t tell him anything more, not your name, not anything.”
Tom took the envelope and studied it silently, with a frown on his forehead.
“Maybe this is where he tells us we have ten days to run to a non-extradition country, or else we’re gonna get canned,” Brian joked.
“Ah, shut up, you,” Tom laughed. “Let’s see.” He opened the envelope and took out the contents. “OK, so there’s a note that says, quite cryptically, ‘Thank you. You know what for,’ and there’s a money order for one-million dollars. See? All good stuff!”
They cheered, a welcome wave of relief inundating them.
Steve’s laughter covered everyone else’s.
“There goes our opportunity,” he said, “our once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be heroes, true patriots, people who sacrifice, risk, and endure for their country. We’re back to being mercenaries again, just like we normally are.”
Silence dropped heavy among them. Tom looked at everyone carefully, silently asking for their approval. Somehow, they all knew what he intended, and they all agreed.
“Nope, it doesn’t,” Tom replied. “Lou, why don’t you take this and compensate your...umm...hacker friends, the ones who wrote the new software for us?”
“Sir, that’s a lot of coin for a week’s worth of work,” Lou said.
“It’s the value that should be rewarded, not the time,” Tom pushed back. “And Lou?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Stop calling me sir, already!”
...102
...Friday, October 28, 10:17PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Evening News at Ten
...Nationally Syndicated
“In other news tonight,” the anchor said, starting the final segment of the newscast, “Russian President Piotr Abramovich has announced in a Kremlin press conference today the retirement of Minister of Defense Mikhail Nikolaev Dimitrov. Dimitrov has led the Russian office for almost seven years, and he was considered a moderate, appreciated for his balanced, non-military approach to resolving crises. Dimitrov is also a long-time personal friend of Abramovich, dating to their early careers in the KGB, where they served together in the same foreign intelligence unit. This could maybe explain why the Russian president himself held the press conference to announce Dimitrov’s resignation. President Abramovich stated that Dimitrov resigned for personal and health reasons and wished him all the best in his retirement.”
The anchor paused a little and changed his pitch slightly as he continued.
“Analysts are saying that being a moderate and the recent frictions between him and the president are the real reasons behind the defense minister’s resignation. A successor has not yet been named, but it is expected to be one of the old guard generals, more aligned with President Abramovich’s hardline policy toward the West.”
The anchor set down his papers, then continued. “Moving on to coast-to-coast weather, with our very own meteorologist, Dylan McPherson.”
...103
...Friday, October 28, 10:48PM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)
...Alex Hoffmann’s Residence
...San Diego, California
She unlocked the door, happy to be home and looking forward to a nightcap at the end of a long, emotionally draining day. Yes, a martini straight up would do it; the strong taste of undiluted vermouth on ice would definitely help her sort through her mixed thoughts.
She kicked her shoes off and entered her living room. She turned on the light and froze. A man was sitting on her couch, a handgun on the coffee table in front of him. He looked somewhat familiar. At first, she couldn’t figure out who the stranger was; then she remembered the sketch she had seen.
“Miss Hoffmann, I presume?”
“Helms...You’re Warren Helms, right?”
“I prefer Mr. Helms, if that’s all right with you,” the man said politely, as if they were just introduced in a social situation.
“Sure, I apologize,” she reacted. The slight buzz from her earlier mojitos was all gone, her brain in high gear. How the hell was Mossad looking for this guy, when he was right there, installed comfortably in her living room? How the hell did they miss it?
“Ah, polite...That is refreshing,” Helms said.
Alex stood a few feet away from the coffee table, not sure what to do. Her phone was in her pocket, but she doubted Helms would allow her to use it. She decided to engage him, ignoring her trembling knees that were urging her to run.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Helms?”
“You can tell me who you are, Miss Hoffmann. Who are you? How did you get involved in this?”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” she tried to deflect.
“You know, we’re both going to die, Miss Hoffmann. You will die here, today, by my hand. That is a fact. I will probably follow at some time in the future, although I intend to postpone that event as long as I can. Therefore, you can tell me. Who are you?”
“Just someone who can’t take your kind of bullshit and be indifferent, I guess,” she answered, regaining her self-confidence. The hell with it, she thought. “I’m actually happy you found me, relieved to be exact. I knew you were coming, and I was getting tired of looking over my shoulder.”
“Happy to oblige,” Helms said coldly. “I am glad to finally make your acquaintance. You see, there are only two people in this world who caused me grief in the past few months. You are one of them, and we’re going to end that today. The other one is Krassner, and I’ll deal with him next week. But let’s get back to you. I am glad you saw me coming. You have clear expectations, I take it.”
She stood quietly, holding his gaze.
“This is good,” Helms continued. “Who pays you?”
“I’ll be happy to answer that if you tell me who pays you.”
Fast and unexpected, Helms rose from the couch and slapped her hard across the face, throwing her off balance. She hit the side of the coffee table with her left shoulder and landed hard on the carpet, face down. Her head throbbed, and tears burned her eyes.
“This is not how this works,” Helms said quietly, sitting back down on the couch. His voice was a whisper, almost soft, conveying a level-toned sequence of short phrases, separated by silence in between. It had a silent staccato rhythm, underlying his point. The effect was threatening. “I ask. You answer. Or you get hurt. A lot. Before you die.”
He watched her trying to pick herself up from the floor, using just her right arm for support. “The die part is a fact we cannot change, but it can come slowly or quickly. It’s entirely up to you. Please don’t get to the point where you have to beg for your death. It’s just such a bad experience.”
She groaned and started crawling on the floor, approaching the coffee table. She turned slightly to her left and leaned on the coffee table with her left hand, grabbing the edge for support and letting out inarticulate whimpers of pain. She watched Helms waiting for her to get up, but she let herself fall back on the floor instead, almost on her back, in parallel with the coffee table. Unseen, her right had reached under it and grabbed the small pistol she had taped under there. Without hesitation and without squinting she pulled the trigger twice. The bullets hit Helms in the chest, tightly grouped. She watched Helms as life left his body, still pointing the gun at him.
“Bang means the bad guy is down. Yes, I want to see that happening,” she mumbled, picking herself up from the floor.
>
She took her encrypted cell out of her pocket and called Tom.
“Hey, sorry to call so late, but I found Helms.”
“Where is he?” Tom asked.
“In my living room, staining my fucking carpet. The couch is a write-off too.”
...104
...Tuesday, November 8, 8:07AM PST (UTC-8:00 hours)
...Carmel Valley Recreational Center—Polling Precinct
...San Diego, California
Alex entered the polling precinct and went straight for the registration desk, presenting her driver’s license and voter registration card. An absentminded woman in her fifties checked her ID and let her go through to the booths. She waited for a minute or so for one to become available, a strong sense of excitement making her smile widely. The Agency had made this Election Day possible.
Alex entered the booth and closed the curtain behind her. She touched the upper left corner of the voting tablet, holding her finger in place for a few seconds. A screen prompting for a username and password opened up. Lou’s hacker friends had built a backdoor into the software, to allow access to the admin level, control panel, where they could see the statistics. She entered her credentials to gain access and checked the application’s performance. Stats were great; the application was running smoothly, not a trace of malware, external attack, or anything of that nature. Satisfied, she exited the admin control panel and cast her vote.
A few minutes later, she exited the polling precinct, smiling just as widely as she had on her way in. Steve was waiting for her, leaning against a side wall. She grabbed his arm in a side-hug and kissed his cheek.
“So, who do you think is gonna win?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s gonna be whoever they choose,” Alex said, gesturing toward the people coming in and out of the polling precinct. “And that just makes it all worthwhile, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Absolutely agree,” he replied, not letting go of her as they walked toward his car. “What next?”
She looked straight into his blue eyes and considered her options for a second. It was time for a leap of faith.
“How’s St. Thomas this time of year?” she asked.
“Always perfect,” Steve answered, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.
“Wanna keep me company?”
“I’ll book us on the earliest flight.”
“Ahh...don’t bother,” she laughed, as she opened the door to his matte black M6. “I happen to have a good friend with a private jet. I might as well take advantage, don’t you think? We can leave as soon as you’re ready.”
“I’m ready anytime you like,” Steve said, “but we won’t be able to stay too long. We have to be back by Sunday evening. We should probably fly straight to New York City when we come back.”
“Why’s that?” Alex pouted.
“We have a new client. You do, to be precise. We’re meeting with the Board of Directors on Monday morning, 9AM, on Wall Street.”
~~~ The End ~~~
Read on for an excerpt from
The Backup Asset
by Leslie Wolfe
Alex Hoffmann Series Book Three
~~~~~~~~
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THE BACKUP ASSET
A Novel
Leslie Wolfe
*** Preview ***
...1
...Undisclosed Date, 4:39PM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)
...Undisclosed Location
...Norfolk, Virginia
He stared at the back of his hands in disbelief. They were shaking so hard it made for a difficult task to get another taste of coffee. Using both hands, he grabbed the mug and took a sip of steaming liquid, warming his frozen hands on contact with the white glazed ceramic. He smiled a little, as his eyes focused in passing on the message written in red lettering on the side of the mug. A gift from his coworkers, it read, “I do math well, what’s your excuse?” How appropriate, he thought, I don’t do this very well, and I need to get better at it. Grow a pair, for Christ’s sake, he admonished himself, giving his trembling hands another disgusted glance.
He made an effort to set the mug on his desk without spilling any coffee, but that didn’t work as planned. His hands were shaking too much. A few droplets stained the scattered papers on his desk, most of which bore the stamp TOP SECRET.
“Fuck,” he muttered, under his breath, and rushed to get some Kleenex.
He patted the papers dry, cleared his desk of everything else, and spread the top-secret files on the glossy surface, carefully going through every piece of paper. He finished sorting through each piece of documentation; then paced his office anxiously for a couple of minutes, clasping his hands together, trying to steady himself. Can’t back down now, he thought, and I wouldn’t even if I could.
He looked up at the digital weather station hanging on his office wall. His rank within the organization gave him the privilege of a private office, decorated to his taste. Hanging close to the large window overlooking Norfolk Harbor, the device told the time and the weather. It displayed the forecast, showing the high and low temperatures expected, indoor temperature, humidity, and also showed barometric pressure as a yellow chart. In the middle section of its display, a small graphic depicted the sun peeking from behind some clouds, all drawn in blue. It was going to be a nice day, with partly cloudy skies, barometric pressure steady, and reasonable temperatures for the season. None of that mattered, though. He had less than three hours to make the drop, and he wasn’t ready yet.
He refocused and wiped his sweaty hands nervously against his suit pants.
“Let’s get this done and over with,” he mumbled, removing all papers from his desk except a single pile he had just put together. He spread out the contents of the pile and started organizing the documents in order, placing them facedown in an unmarked manila folder.
The first document was an evaluation memorandum regarding the compatibility and readiness status for laser cannon installation aboard USS Fletcher, DDG1005, a Zumwalt-class destroyer. Marked TOP SECRET. It was several pages long, and he made sure he had them all and in the right order.
The second document was a capabilities assessment for Zumwalt-class destroyers, complete with technical specifications, class overview, and general characteristics, including weapons array, sensing technology, and vessel performance. Marked SECRET. Nine pages long.
The third document was a performance and capabilities assessment for the laser cannon itself, the most recent and groundbreaking technology developed for the US Navy, the successful and eagerly awaited result of seven years and $570 million worth of research and development. Marked COMPARTMENTED—ABOVE TOP SECRET.
Satisfied, he turned the carefully constructed pile of documents face up and closed the folder.
He was ready for the drop.
...2
...Tuesday, February 16, 10:23AM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)
...Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) Headquarters, Director Seiden’s Office
...Langley, Virginia
Henrietta Marino came a few minutes early for her 10.30AM appointment with Director Seiden. His assistant, a sharp-looking young man in his thirties, barely made eye contact with her before asking her to take a seat and wait.
She didn’t follow that invitation. She stood, pacing slowly, feeling uneasy and awkward in her professional attire, and checking her image in the pale reflection of the stainless steel door leading to the restricted communications area. She straightened her back, trying to project the confidence expected of an analyst if she wanted anyone to take her seriously
. There was no way she could improve her average, almost plain looks, her dark brown hair tied in a ponytail, or her freckled complexion, but at least she could project some confidence.
Henrietta Marino, Henri for short, was a senior analyst with the CIA’s Directorate of Intelligence—Russian and European Analysis. Thirty-five years old, she held a master’s degree in political science, and had a twelve-year record of accomplishment as an analyst for the CIA.
For the past eight years, her work had focused on Russia, Russian affairs, and the repositioning of Russia on the world power scale. She understood the Russians really well, or at least she hoped she did.
Her latest report illustrated Russia’s concerted effort to reinvigorate its nuclear stance, unprecedented since START I in 1991. The signing of START I, the first Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty, by the United States and the USSR, had marked a historic moment. The USSR was still a federation back then, but the treaty encompassed all former Soviet republics and remained in effect after the federation dissolved.
START I, and later START II, limited the number of nuclear warheads and intercontinental ballistic missiles, or ICBMs, on both sides and mapped the road to arsenal reductions. It marked the beginning of a new era, where peace was becoming a possibility. It marked the end of the Cold War.
Henri had anticipated her report would cause some turmoil, being the first report ever to document and argue the rekindling of the arms race, the first of its kind in fifteen years. Within minutes after she had filed it, her phone had started ringing. Colleagues asked her if she was sure. Her boss followed suit immediately and grilled her for an hour on the report facts. Even the CIA’s general counsel, whom she’d never met, reached out and asked if she knew what that report meant. He also encouraged her to withdraw it if she wasn’t 100 percent sure. Finally, Seiden’s chief of staff asked her for more details and her degree of confidence. Now Seiden wanted to see her.
