by James, Mark
They used numbers as codes for words.
“Identity?” the killer asked.
“A lone U.S. citizen, factors emanating from the U.S.”
“Thank you, John, transmit the information. Your fee will be in the usual account. One final matter – the phasing viruses were inserted at the lab, correct?”
“Yes, sir, as you instructed.”
The killer hung up and consulted the information sent from Freed and immediately dialed another number.
“Yes, sir, how can I be of service,” his Zurich banker answered.
“Bernard, I’m sending you some account numbers. I need the Beirut account closed and its funds transferred to the Cayman/Atlas account. However, I want the transfer to route from Beirut through the dormant Croatian accounts with the route trails wiped, in the manner we discussed last month. Use the Croatian account numbers that I supplied to you then.”
“Understood, sir. The funds will be available within the half hour.”
His plane landed at Charles de Gaulle airport thirteen minutes early, which pleased him. He forwarded two bottles of 1998 Chateauneuf-du-Pape to his pilots, passed unhindered through customs and entered a limousine that drove him to the restaurant.
He sat at his usual table – within the largest curved corner and towards the back. It allowed him to see who was approaching. He didn’t care who came in; it was simply his instinct to watch.
Claudette was two minutes late. Later, he would correct her in the usual manner.
She came through the door moving like a gorgeous animal, a lynx over snow, a modern Aphrodite. No words could ascribe her. Men reflexively paused in conversation, smelling the hint of her, their mates eyeing her as she passed.
“Good evening, Claudette,” he said, pulling her chair out.
She glanced at his glass of wine, half empty.
“Did I keep you?”
She never asked this of any other man.
He didn’t answer and motioned over her shoulder for the waiter.
“Ah,” she replied knowingly, “so now I am subject to the discipline. But, chèrie, have you ever considered that maybe I like it.”
He knew that she did.
In some ways, he and Claudette were very much alike – two lions in a world of lambs.
“Cosmopolitan for the lady,” he said in French.
“Well, it must have been a good day for you,” he said, “to be so full of yourself. The play went well in London I heard.”
“Actually, I’m exhausted. They’re talking about an American tour, but I’m not sure.” She picked up her glass and smiled wide with her famous teeth. She raised her glass, her hand tilting off balance, obvious that she’d had something to drink earlier. “Here’s to indecision, no?”
“I see we’re self-medicating today.”
“Always!” she laughed. “Come on, why are you so serious tonight? What’s to be serious about?”
Claudette would be one of those actresses dead on the floor of a hotel bathroom by the age of thirty, famous and infamous for her party life and martyred as the next Marilyn Monroe, just another tragic waif.
She was sad behind those eyes.
He raised his glass to hers.
“So be it.”
†
GMA Deputy Director Robert “Bobby” Jessup Jr. looked up to his subordinate, “Chandler, close that door and seal it.”
As the youngest attendee, GMA Special Agent Jesse Chandler performed his duty and then returned to the long, graphite-black table.
Ten special agents lined the table on both sides, the most senior gathered towards Jessup. Each was dressed in a dark blue or black suit and with darkish ties. As required, each wore crisp, white shirts.
The secretly located GMA office space had been constructed at Bobby’s instructions and it gleamed in postmodern sleekness. When he was young, Bobby had loved watching reruns of the TV cop shows, CSI and Without a Trace, and had reveled at the office sets: clean lines, stainless steel accents and subtle mood lighting. He knew that CSI’s purple indirect lighting was found in no police station in the world, but he was still drawn to the effect. He’d once read an academic study saying that workers were greatly affected by the gestalt of a space. He, of course, couldn’t go so far as purplish lighting, but he still wanted his agents to feel special – to know that theirs was a near-sacred mission.
Bobby had been raised southern and Baptist, but his religion had become, as he’d often say, the “Good Old U.S. of A.” Democratic-capitalism was his God and anything less was socialism, a heresy to the soul of what we once were and, Christ willing, could be again. He was certain: he and his agents stood at the ramparts.
He touched a button on the table and the bank of windows went black. Automatically, the lighting became raised to compensate.
“Gentlemen, I want to first address the European surveillance problem, or rather, problems. You’ll find it on your laptops, screen three.”
He motioned to one of the agents. “Dick, you’ve been working this European thing. Let us know what’s going on?”
Pursuant to Bobby’s instructions on meeting procedures, Special Agent Richard Danley stood before speaking. “Basically, the Brits are moving ahead with the surveillance installations, but the French and Italians are balking at some of the more stealth technologies. The French in particular are bitching about the satellite linkages from the micro-cameras and their reluctance is impeding installations in the rural areas. They want access to the satellites – our satellites – and, of course, we’re telling them to piss off.”
“Pressure?” Bobby inquired.
“We have film on the son of the French Finance Minister – a party, ecstasy, gay shit – and have been holding back on it. Maybe it’s time? The Minister’s brother is a wonk and is tapped into their intelligence branches. There should be some weak spots there.”
“I think we’ll need more,” Bobby said. “You know, there have always been scattered rumors on the French Prime Minister liking young girls, paying for them. I think it’s time someone looked a bit deeper.”
Agent Danley squinted down the table, “Cameras? Taps on phones?”
Bobby concentrated, resting his chin on his knuckles. “Approved,” he finally said. “But dictate any reports under protocol 7.2, understood?”
“Understood,” Danley said.
“The next thing,” Bobby continued, “is this Arab girl that the executive branch somehow sees as their sole province.”
Bobby’s mood suddenly shifted, “I’m telling you, boys, this is a direct affront to our mission, to what this country needs. For God’s sake, we don’t even have her name, much less her location and I’m starting to lose my fucking patience. There’s not jack-shit in these interrogation transcripts and I’m starting to wonder if something stinks here. Who is this O’Neill, do we even know?”
The table held still. When Bobby became fervent, no one knew what he’d say next, or do. And he’d been much worse these past few months.
“Alright, gentlemen, I had assumed from last week’s meeting that I’d made myself clear. Evidently, not. So, here it is, again: If someone doesn’t develop something on this O’Neill character – a damn lawyer, for Christ’s sake – or on that shit-head Osborne and get us some access, I’m going to start looking for fault. No, let me be clearer: the director will start looking.”
He gathered up his notes and laptop and began walking to the door, opened it halfway and paused.
“Protocol 13,” he said measuredly. He knew the import of what he was saying.
Protocol 13 was reserved for the initial twelve hours after a domestic terrorist event and authorized emergency circumvention of certain U.S. laws. It was not applicable to the present circumstances.
“Thirteen?” the most senior agent asked. “Specifically, in relation to the Arab girl?”
Bobby hesitated.
“Authorized,” he said and left the room.
Once in his office he looked up
at the clock. Seven minutes until his phone appointment with the director. He cherished and loathed these calls. They were his chance for ingratiation, for plum rewards, but also offered the possibility for his demise. The director was exacting, demanding like a Spartan general, impenetrable as a storm.
The sleek blue light activated on his phone. “Yes, sir.”
“Bobby, how are we today?”
“Fine, sir, thank you.”
“What’s our status then, on this Arab girl?”
Bobby considered his answer carefully. He decided it was safer to lie. “We’re making progress, sir. I should have something by the end of the week.”
The director sensed the lie. He was the master of lies.
“Bobby, I think you hear my focus on this issue. As such, you will call me this Friday at 9:30 a.m. and apprise me your progress, understood?”
“Understood, sir.”
The line went dead.
The director walked across his office to the wall of books – history, philosophy, an extensive collection of first pressings. He loved the smell of their history.
What most people, including Jessup, didn’t understand was the sweep of time. And yet, at once, how history was never far from the present.
Americans were convinced of their superiority, their righteousness and their place as the end-point in history.
But all empires rise and all empires fall. The Roman Empire fought a war every ten years – the same average as for America.
Dust to dust…
Alexander the Great once laid siege to the city of Tyre, an ancient citadel built on an island off the coast of present-day Lebanon. For over a year, Alexander and his soldiers lived in tents in a dry alien world, each day throwing whatever they could find into the sea and building a causeway to the island over a mile and half long. Feeling safe within their refuge, the citizens of Tyre had refused Alexander’s will and when he finally reached them he killed every man, woman and child within their walls.
Alexander the Great, the nomadic conqueror, ruler of the known world, educated by Aristotle, died in an army tent at the age of twenty-nine, far from home and poisoned by a friend.
We, the American Empire, were not immune from the waves of history.
God and the God-less were not finished with us yet.
†
Air Force One flew at 38,000 feet over Nebraska on its way to California. The air space had been cleared in a ten-mile radius as four fighter jets shadowed the jumbo liner like ninjas. An A-10 Sentry AWAC held farther back, sweeping the skies for radar and thermal anomalies. Air escorts had been doubled since the theater bombings.
Inside, President Walker and Mac were hashing through a response to the latest scandal – a senior senator from Oregon had been discovered outside of a bar, passed out and face down in an alley. Police were called and during a pat-down search recovered a bottle of powerful painkillers – and which the senator did not have a prescription for. One of the cops used his cell phone to secretly take pictures of the disheveled senator and the pills and then sold the photos to a rag magazine. The mess had settled down, but now the photos were reigniting the story. In the aftermath of the bombings, the American public was thirsty for distraction.
“As they say, no response is sometimes the best response,” Mac noted. “I mean, we helped him through the first round. On the other hand, maybe we could wait, see if he can get his wife to step forward and help him and, who knows. Admittedly, the mistress coming out didn’t help.”
The president looked over, “Mac, I think we can call that an understatement.”
“Yeah, I’m an optimist. A dark optimist, if that’s at all possible. Basically, he’s a good guy. I had a couple drinks with him once. And, don’t forget, he took a couple of tough votes for us. On the other hand, we went out on a limb for him when the story first broke, so maybe we should call it a day on this one.”
“I remember the votes,” the president said, “but going on that late night talk show and stumbling so badly. We told him to hold back, get some help.”
The president thought it through for a moment. There were certain advantages to being a lame duck. “Alright, just once more. He’s a good man. Tell his chief of staff that I’ll say something getting back on the plane tomorrow. The rest is up to him, all right? You know, someone might want to drop the word, rehab, at some point.”
“You’re a better guy than me,” Mac smiled, shaking his head.
“Alright, the topic we’ve been avoiding. The girl. And O’Neill. I’m sensing a bit of warmth here, and not the good kind. That first toasty feeling. You know what I’m saying.”
“Hey, Peking duck ain’t made in a day!” Mac laughed. “Really, though, Jack says we’re getting there. I’m talking to him tonight.”
“I don’t want to undermine what he’s doing,” the president said, “and I understand it’s an unpredictable process. It’s just that, hey, have you seen the transcripts? At one point she says to him, I’ll give you the truth, just ask – and he asks her about her mother! I know who he is, Mac, I really do, but we have to have some movement here. GMA or not, I think it’s time.”
“Yes, sir,” Mac said, assuming his role. “I know him, of course, so it’s easier for me to wait. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
Air Force One landed at LAX and their motorcade headed directly to a fundraiser at the mansion of a famous director. After glad-handing for an hour, the president and Mac proceeded to a function at the UCLA campus, where the president gave a short speech on the new crime bill and laid a wreath at the memorial for victims of the Oscar night shooting that had occurred seven years before.
Mac felt the vibration of a cell call and looked down at the number.
“Hey, Jack. How’s it going?”
“Good. How’s the sunshine?”
Jack knew how Mac hated slapping high-roller hands on the west coast, on any coast.
“Same old thing. Hey, Jack, the president asked about what’s going on with the girl. He wondered why you haven’t dropped her name yet. I think you were going to do that when you ran the fire drills, right?”
“Planned to, then didn’t need it. Saving it.”
“For what?”
“For the right time, you know that. What’s up?”
“We’re starting to get some heat on the girl. Small stuff so far, but the situation is vulnerable. Someone could leak her existence to the Congressional Intelligence Committee at any time. Frankly, I wouldn’t put it past those GMA weasels. I’ve seen it happen before. Any idea on when we might see some hard info?”
Jack knew his friend well and knew that Mac was skirting an issue. “Just say it, Mac.”
“Okay, you’ve got full support, no doubt, but the president is checking, that’s all. Any kind of bone I can throw him?”
If Jack had been President Walker he would have been asking too. Probably sooner.
“It’s set up for tonight, late. We’re about there.”
“What’s the plan?” Mac asked, intrigued.
“I’m going to lie to her.”
†
In her dream, there is always the white, chalky pool. It was when they had changed her skin.
Aisha passes through the same dream each night – a white porcelain tub, clawed feet, the creaking floorboards. She would lower, or be lowered, into the warm white water, nude, floating and finally submerged, her nostrils filled and a breathing tube placed in her mouth. Her lips smeared with a sealant to keep them from the staining.
On some mornings, she was able to hear a great horned owl call from outside the lodge window as she walked to the tub, as she lowered in and under. Very quiet, she could sometimes hear those calls through the water.
They made it warm to soothe her – to soothe the others – yet every cell in her body had screamed for her to leave. Get out of the water! She would hold still, listening to her forced breaths through the tube, holding that inner voice down until it was over.
In her
cell at the medical facility, the white pool dream is sometimes interrupted by the dream of a white light or star. She does not know why, or what it means.
Aisha feels a hand at her shoulder, pulling her up and she wakes. The white padded room is blurred from the lingering dream. The hand continues to yank at her.
“Get up,” the rough voice is saying and she looks up to see two of her guards removing the bed covers and pulling her to her feet. What time is it?
“Get dressed,” one of them orders and holds out clean clothes.
She hesitates, disorientated.
“Now!”
This is the third time tonight she’s been taken from her sleep, from her dream. In the others, she was taken blindfolded from the facility, bound and thrown like a sack into the back of a vehicle, a van. She heard smooth roads and a bridge, small ruts beneath the tires making a whirring sound. There were other sounds too – furtive voices, orders being shouted. She was sure: something was happening.
“Where are you taking me?”
One of the guards throws starched clothes in her face. “Do it and shut up!”
Something has changed; something is different.
She is being escorted down the medical facility hall, nearly pulled along by the guards with tasers at their waists. She’s never noticed tasers before, or any weapons. Who were these people?
She stumbles, bleary.
The guards push open the interrogation room doors and shove her inside.
At their usual table, O’Neill is seated across from her. She’s never seen him like this – his eyes welled up and blood-shot, dark circles and a disheveled white dress shirt, as if he’d slept in it.
There is an urgency in him, a sharp tension throughout his body.
At Jack’s instructions, Aisha has been pulled from her bed twice during the night and driven through the compound, into the countryside, dramas reenacted, kept awake and disorientated. Directly prior to entering the interrogation room, a makeup artist applied the dark circles and put the irritating drops in his eyes.
