by James, Mark
Garneau rose and they shook hands. “No problems, Pierre-Louis, I was admiring your wall, looking for the newest one.”
“I have one, actually, only need to find a frame. I keep the local frame shop in business, don’t you know. Anyway, I met President Walker at the G-20 summit, that first night. The photo came out perfect, and he even signed it for me later. He was quite pleasant, actually. Then again, it’s his vocation to appear affable, no? It’s one of his main jobs.”
Garneau sat back down and Chastain continued to rub his hands behind his desk.
“Actually,” Garneau said, “he just might be. Dr. Prevot has an American friend who’s a writer and he and his wife recently moved to Washington, D.C. She works at the White House. She told Prevot that President Walker is very pleasant. Of course, that would be nice to believe.”
“And so, therefore, we will choose to do so,” Chastain smiled broadly, “because we are the true optimists, the old altruists still hanging on, true, Henri?”
“I hope not the last of the altruists, but I can confirm the old part. My God, my hands are still thawing from that wind too. Is it me, or do you notice that the meteorologists are guessing more and more these days?”
“The whole world is up and down, Henri. On the other hand, I remember my father complaining that the world changed too fast for him too, so maybe this is simply our own symptom of change. Who’s to know?”
“Is our Friday dinner still on?” Chastain asked.
“Certainly, as always. Now, I know how busy you are, Pierre-Louis, so what was it you needed?”
“Yes, sorry again, so last minute. I thought it would be best coming from me.”
Garneau looked closer at his friend, “Well, that never sounds good.”
“No, no, nothing like that. It’s about this row with the Americans over Dr. Prevot’s lab and that raid. We accused the Americans, the Americans vehemently denied it and now it turns out it wasn’t them.”
“How do we know?”
“Well, we’ve never discussed this before, but consider, hypothetically, that if we had someone placed in the CIA’s hen house, then we’d know.”
“A French mole in the CIA? That’s hard to believe.”
“There are moles everywhere and everyone is spying on everyone else. Not necessarily the CIA and you never heard it from me, of course. As for the lab raid, no one knows who’s responsible. Our forensic team found nothing. The vans were ditched at an empty hanger at Orly. They were leased four months before under bogus IDs. Everything disappeared. Airport cameras were too far away. The film shows blurs, nothing useful. Obviously, it was a professional job. Who, remains a mystery. Undoubtedly, these GMA sorts will attempt to use the incident to gin up their arguments on the Surveillance-Net. It’s getting to be a scary world, Henri. Anyway, the PM is backtracking and everyone is waiting for the Americans to get off their high horse.”
“Is that possible?” Garneau jested.
They both laughed, loving their secret sport of taunting Americans.
“You’ll never be a diplomat, Henri.”
“Well, that’s my advantage, then, that I don’t want to be one. How does this effect my investigation?”
“Well, you see, that’s the bad news. Our Security Intelligence Service has asserted jurisdiction, citing the diplomatic angle, and the U.S. Ambassador’s investigation is being transferred to them. Actually, it’s already effective. I took it up with the prime minister, but he doesn’t see it as crucial and is focused elsewhere, to say the least. The PM is a good sort, but the decision was made before I even arrived. To be honest, it might be somehow tied into this whole Prevot lab fiasco. That’s my gut feeling.”
“How so?”
“My political intuition tells me that these GMA fellows are involved somehow. I don’t know how, not yet – I still have inquiries out – but the Intelligence Chief let something slip yesterday, about how some of the people in our government surprisingly and at the last moment changed their minds on the case transfer, suddenly pushing for the ambassador’s case to be sent over to the SIS. Where, my intuition tells me, the GMA will have access to it. Did someone get bribed, or blackmailed? Was it the GMA? And, remember, this GMA is also pushing for us to capitulate on the Surveillance-Net negotiations. And I don’t quite know why, it’s the same old traffic cameras as always, they just want it globally – so everyone is arguing about controlling a bunch of traffic cameras! It’s all happening at the same time, like it’s all part of the same ball of yarn. You know, this GMA, they can’t seem to keep their little weasel fingers out of anything. It’s like negotiating with the Chinese! Anyway, the bottom line is that the PM is coming up for election and, essentially, he wants it to all go away. I’m very sorry, Henri. You were doing such good work, as always. I know how hard it is for you to let go of such things.”
Garneau knew when not to argue with his friend and thanked Chastain for trying so hard. He walked from the office, both of them promising not to let this unfortunate mess ruin their Friday dinner.
But Garneau still had the flash drive given to him by Dr. Prevot and continued to operate under a lifelong creed that nothing was ever quite finished until, well, it was finished.
Sitting down at home with his computer, he wondered whether Chastain had realized this about him, his intentions, even as he’d ordered him to cease his investigation. It was odd that he hadn’t ordered him to transfer his files to the SIS.
Garneau hit the search key and chuckled to himself.
Of course his old friend had known.
†
Exactly 6,643.5 nautical miles from Paris – east across the Urals and the Gobi Desert, across the Sea of Japan and into the remote Pacific ocean – on the French Polynesian island of Bora Bora, the killer picked up the phone.
“Freed here, sir,” the disavowed computer expert said. “Mr…”
“Never use my name, Mr. Freed. It was a strict condition of our arrangement. I’m certain you recall.”
“Yes, sir, I was distracted for a moment, my apologies.”
Freed, the former NSA Special Agent, was not accustomed to apologizing to anyone. In fact, it was his own fierce independence that had led him to betray his NSA handlers and the Agency, a circumstance he would never forget, nor forgive. However, this particular client was different, like a spitting cobra was different.
There was a long pause.
“What do you have for me, Mr. Freed?”
“We have another hit, factors six and eleven. I have to be honest, when you first offered me this assignment I thought it was a bit of a lark, but…”
“Please transmit the information, Mr. Freed. As per usual, the amount will be deposited into your account.”
“Thank you, I…”
The killer hung up. A moment later, the transmitted information appeared on his laptop.
He stared, familiar with the name.
He put the laptop down next to the chaise lounger and took off his robe. He walked along the pool to the far end and dove in. He completed seventy-five laps, each stroke a focus for his mind.
After the swim, he toweled off and proceeded to the gym, completing two full circuits of free weight exercises – upright and reverse rows, military presses, dips and incline bench presses – feeling the burn in his deltoids, still waiting for the answer to come.
In the evening, she arrived on time. Lingtang was lithe and dark, mirroring this exotic archipelago. After a dinner of mahi-mahi with Thai coconut sauce and a bottle of 1998 Chateau Haut-Brion, he moved her to the bed and placed the blindfold over her eyes. She was an accomplished Tahitian dancer and he enjoyed her flexibility. Before dinner, she’d danced an ote’a, describing in moving hips the flight of butterflies. He’d told her to imagine the beat of the pahu, the slow drum.
At midnight, he told her to leave and he walked out onto the deck that sat a foot over the ocean, the luxury hut perched on stilts in the center of a sheltered lagoon. The water was motionless, the moon large. H
e continued to wait for the answer.
He fell asleep and entered the dream. Sometimes, his dreams were of the past places where he’d been, before this life, and he was able to watch them as if he were an outsider, as if from above. But in most, it was a lucid dream and he could walk within it, each moment aware that he was awake within his own dream.
He found himself standing nude in a desert with a vista of black onyx mountains on a distant horizon. He ignored the piercing star in the evening sky. He couldn’t discern the meaning of this particular dream, which was unusual.
He continued to wait for the answer. The star had never appeared in his dreams before and he looked up at it, then away.
He walked down the sand dune, still waiting.
In the Cascade, inaction could be as important as action and he finally concluded that the dream must be telling him to leave this person where they were, for now. A further meaning would come to him, he was sure, it always had.
He awoke and looked down at the list, at a name he had absently scribbled at the bottom, apart from the victims.
Henri Francois Garneau.
†
Lani could hear him downstairs – the water running, the clinking of cups against the sink.
The night before, she’d had trouble falling asleep, the day’s tensions intruding into every thought, causing her to continually look out the window at the large moon, to reach for the water glass one more time. Her mind had sought anything to keep from sleeping.
Was it all a dream?
She was groggy and found her robe in the corner and carefully walked downstairs.
She saw Jack in the kitchen. “Good morning,” she smiled.
“Hey, there you are.” He motioned with the spatula to the pan, “I made some breakfast, not sure what you like.”
“Are those scrambled eggs? Sure, I’d love some.”
She moved next to him and leaned against the counter, yawning, “Can I help?”
“No, all done. You could grab the forks, though, second drawer down. You want bacon? Crisp or raw?”
She curled up on the chair. “Blackened and crisp like a cracker, the way mom always made it. She wasn’t the best cook, but black bacon always smells like home. You know what I mean?”
“Sure. Playing ball on the front yard after dad cut the grass, picnic burgers and fresh sliced tomatoes from the garden, the honeysuckle mom planted outside the front door – all good days.”
“It sounds like you had a nice childhood?”
“I’m lucky – my folks stayed together, always told me I could do anything, yet always said that I was the same as everyone else. They cheered in the stands, gave me fair rules but not too many, loved me every day. Yeah, I was lucky. To be honest, before I went off to college I thought everyone lived that way. How about you?”
“The same, really. I missed not having a brother or sister, but I was always held tight. Dad used to say that we might not have much, materially, but what we did have was what counted. I’ll tell you, though, no one ever got away with a thing in that house. If you stepped out of line, the other two whipped you back! You should have seen mom and me debating any issue we could find when I was younger. Looking back, I think she did it to give me some spine, to push me to find out who I was.”
“You know,” she said after a pause, looking out the back window, “I’m really looking forward to calling dad later this morning. When did you say Mac was getting here?”
“Any moment. Can’t call him, though – too risky. On the other hand,” he said, leading her out the back door onto the deck and setting the plates on the table, “we have these great ocean breezes, a bright morning and good food. All and all, not a bad beginning.”
She liked it when he tried to cheer her up. It was one of his charms.
“I guess I’m just a bit down,” she conceded. “Far from home, you know, mainland fever. Strange dreams.”
She looked up. “Do I look out of it?” wondering if her late night showed.
“No, you look great. Here, take these,” he said, setting down the pitcher of orange juice. He scooped the scrambled eggs from the pan onto the center plate and set it down next to her.
“I don’t know when we’ll have a chance to eat later. Best that we get something now. How’s that black-as-night bacon?”
“It’s great, like charcoaled jerky. Straight out of the campfire, another of mom’s endless experiments. Do you remember that my mom was a writer? You know, always looking for a new idea.”
“And I heard she was a poet to boot.”
“Well, it was sure interesting growing up, between my wonderfully wacky mom on one side and my sedate dad on the other, a real pair. You know, I didn’t think about it earlier, but he probably won’t be up yet. It’s still early on the islands. I hope he answers.”
“We’ll keep trying if he doesn’t,” Jack said.
They finished their plates, sopping it up and putting the dishes into the sink. She began to run the water.
“Lani, let those dishes wait. How about we finish these coffees before they get cold and check out the news? Maybe we can get our bearings.”
“Sounds good.”
They sat in the chairs that fronted the fireplace and turned on the television. Jack began navigating the unfamiliar channels until he found the national news.
They caught the tale end of a special news story:
…congressional warrants were
issued this morning for the arrest
of prosecutor and novelist, Jack
O’Neill, and Kauai Police Detective
Keialani Keno, on multiple charges
of collaborating with terrorist
insurgents, with details of the
allegations remaining sealed.
Again, a sequestered grand jury
handed down earlier this morning…
Halfway through, they began to stand, the shock pulling them to their feet.
She turned, a black shadow coming over her. He took her hand and she fell towards him.
A single tear came, but she said nothing. Their families – their entire worlds – had never been farther away.
18
“We interrupt our scheduled programming for a special news alert,” Jeremy Wainesworth intoned, dropping his voice. He’d waited for this opportunity for six months.
He paused, holding a hand up to his earpiece, as if hearing something important. “We’re now going to the White House, where we understand the president is about to speak to the nation.”
To the nation. Only two years out of the Los Angeles affiliate, he’d always wanted to say that.
Bob Stahl, a veteran war correspondent, and his longtime cameraman, Cecil “Buzz” Jones, stood in front of the White House, fully aware that the ambitious anchor knew that the White House Press Secretary had scheduled the news conference over an hour ago. They shook their heads.
“Ready, Bob?”
Although they’d worked together for thirty years – through wars, riots and hurricanes – Jones had always insisted on starting out with, “Ready, Bob?” It was akin to not stepping on the first base line.
Stahl nodded as the camera light activated and fifteen million viewers looked his way.
“Although information is still coming in, we know that approximately two hours ago an advanced nuclear reactor in Iran went critical and a meltdown event is imminent. The Iranian government has accused the Israelis of causing a malfunction of the cooling system of the radioactive rods through a cyber attack. The Israelis have denied this accusation, countering that this is further evidence of the Iranians’ reckless development of a nuclear weapon capability. Again, the Israelis have continually accused the Iranians of using this nuclear site as a ruse for underground nuclear weapons development, charging that a meltdown event would itself prove that the Iranians have implemented insufficient safeguards.”
The anchor broke in, “Bob, this is Jeremy Wainesworth, here in the New York studio. We have a questi
on. What is the status of the Israeli military? We have reports that the Israelis are gearing up for a protracted conflict and have fighter jets currently standing ready.”
The young anchor had no such information, but knew that “gearing up” and “standing ready” could mean anything. He also knew that pushing the word, “conflict,” meant that more people would tune in, as internal polling data had recently showed.
As Wainesworth spoke, Stahl and Jones stared at each other, wondering how such a dink could have wormed his way into the main room.
“Jeremy, we have no such information here. Sarah Willis, our Pentagon correspondent, also has no such indication. We await clarification from the president. What we are hearing is that…”
“Bob, I’m sorry,” Wainesworth interrupted, “we’re switching to the streets of Washington, D.C., where we have Jessica Cameroni talking to the source, the American people. Jessica, are you there? I understand that you have some people, our citizens, who have something to say…”
At the time of the first satellite detection of the Iranian meltdown, Mac had been meeting with his NSA staff across town, expecting to then drive to Maryland to meet with Jack and Lani. As he walked into the White House, news correspondents began yelling questions across the lawn, which was never a good sign.
“Good you’re here,” the president said as Mac walked into the Oval Office. They were alone, which was their pattern when the world seemed to fall in. “Because you know, Mac,” the president laughed, “it sure wouldn’t be an apocalyptic crisis without you.”
They laughed in their shared, dark humor.
“Okay, let’s get it done,” the president said, turning to walk down the corridor towards the cameras and the world.
“One last thing, Mr. President. You saw the warrants?”
Walker turned, “I haven’t forgotten about our friends, Mac. Take two hours and take care of it. Get them to a safer place, the one we talked about. After that, we need you back here. This is going to be a mess.”
“A favor?”
“Shoot.”
