The blonde and blue Russian had first bumped Hewitt two days ago at the local sports bar where he liked to watch his beloved Redskins. They’d beat the Vikings 26–20, which put him in a rare good mood. The Russian was a pro, Hewitt lonely and vulnerable, and she’d quickly closed the deal.
The Russian had finished Hewitt less than thirty minutes ago. The pungent smell of sex still filled the room. Doyle and I had rented a room identical to Hewitt’s down the hall. We had a camera and microphone installed in a lamp from our room, then swapped it with an identical lamp in Hewitt’s room while the Russian distracted Hewitt down in the lobby bar. So Doyle and I got to watch and listen to Hewitt’s performance. The perfect placement of the lamp ensured we didn’t miss a thing. I felt dirty watching this man’s life circle the drain. Hewitt was different from the other two, Li and Webb. He had no problems we could solve, no favors to barter. So Hewitt would get all stick and no carrot. It was the most expedient way to bring him to heel, the only viable option we could play. But that truth didn’t make me feel any better about this.
The beautiful Russian had just left our hotel room moments ago. She’d given us her version of what happened in the room, as well as the spare key card she’d swiped from the nightstand while Hewitt was in the bathroom. It was how we’d entered Hewitt’s room so casually.
Hewitt was in the bathroom when we entered. He must have thought we were the Russian, but his smile quickly faded when he realized his mistake. He was a squat man, unremarkable in a crowd. A tangle of coarse white chest hair sprang forth from the opening in his cheap terrycloth robe. He had the bloated face and thick unruly eyebrows of a man who had already surrendered to time. In sharp contrast to Doyle, Hewitt looked every bit his age.
We sat Hewitt down on the bed. He didn’t act surprised or overly concerned. He was robotic and appeared resigned to his fate. He followed our instructions without protest. Both Doyle and I had pistols tucked into our waistbands. Neither one of us brandished them. Hewitt gave us no reason to.
I started our negotiation. “Charles, let me tell you what’s going on here—”
“I know what this is,” Hewitt said, shaking his head. “Vasya. Such a beautiful name.” He sighed. “How could I be so stupid?”
“Let us walk you through this, Charles,” Doyle said.
“Who sent you? The Russians?” Hewitt straightened himself at the side of the bed, planting his feet on the floor. “I’ll not betray my country to the Russians, or any other foreign government.”
I told him no, we were not with the Russians, that we were true Americans, just like him. I told him we needed his help.
“What do you want?” Hewitt asked, looking between me and Doyle. I started to answer, and he cut me off. “You know what? I don’t care. I’m not interested in helping anyone. Do whatever you’re going to do.” He mumbled “I don’t care” several more times, slowly, enunciating every word.
I told Hewitt his country needed him. That America now faced a great threat. This got his attention. He stopped muttering and locked eyes with me.
“ODYSSEUS,” I said.
Hewitt shot to his feet, his face a mask of confusion and fear. He loomed over me. Doyle, also now standing, eased Hewitt back onto the bed.
“What do you know about ODYSSEUS?” Hewitt asked, both hands gripping the side of the bed.
“We know you’ve been a part of it from the start. You and Prisha Baari,” I said.
Hewitt recoiled at my mention of Prisha, then gathered himself. “That woman ruined my life.”
“You and I have that in common, Charles,” I responded.
Hewitt cocked his head to one side and studied me. I saw the recognition cross his face.
“Wait,” Hewitt exclaimed. “You’re that homeless guy. The Medal of Honor guy that used to work on ODYSSEUS.”
“I never worked on ODYSSEUS,” I said.
Hewitt guffawed. “Yes, you did. You just never knew it. We had many intel analysts across the CIA and the USIC working on various parts of ODYSSEUS. Your supervisor—Mitchell, right? He knew all along what he was doing.”
I thought of Mitchell and me in the parking lot at Walter Reed. Bastard. I bit down hard.
“I know about you and Prisha having sex in her office. She told me all about it. In detail,” Hewitt said with an empty chuckle. “Yet another thing we both have in common.”
I felt my face get hot. “It was one night. A big mistake.”
“Prisha and I shared many nights, I’m afraid,” Hewitt said. “At first—many years ago. That all stopped once she hooked me, of course. She played the long game with me.”
“Not me,” I said. “I was fired within a month of my one night with that black widow.”
“Yes, I remember now,” Hewitt continued, nodding his head. “About five years ago, wasn’t it? Yeah, I remember she was pissed that you blew her off. No one ignores that woman. She took great satisfaction in scorching you. Had you fired. Took your TS security clearance… called around the USIC, made you unemployable. Salted the earth.”
I thought of her now. Saw her face. My nostrils flared.
“She bragged about it to me. How she took down an American hero. Medal of Honor winner. She’s destroyed many, but you and I were her highest achievements. Her magnum opus, as it were.”
There it was. It was Prisha. Mitchell hadn’t lied about that. Now all I needed was proof. Proof that I had been improperly fired. Proof to get my benefits restored. Proof that would put a proper roof over Teddy’s head. Proof to show my son I was an honorable man, not a traitor. Proof that Hewitt could provide, should he choose to do so.
I fell silent, my mind racing. I now knew the truth. I believed this man. One night. One mistake. The wrong woman. Prisha had knocked me to the canvas, and for the first time in my life I had taken the count. Chosen not to rise and keep fighting. My entire life had pivoted on that one night.
Doyle jumped in.
“He had his night,” Doyle said, nodding at me, “but you—you stayed in that woman’s bed.”
“What do you want of me?” Hewitt asked Doyle.
“We want to help you, Charles,” Doyle responded. “Tell us how it happened.”
Our courtship lasted several hours. Hewitt went from silent, to sullen, to suicidal, then back to silent again. He whimpered and wept and wailed. He swung from self-righteousness to self-loathing, and everything in between. He cursed us, then Prisha, his life, and finally himself. We hung on for the ride, patiently closing doors and opening others as we led him down the path to his redemption. It was important he came to it himself, not pushed into it by Doyle or me. We watched as Hewitt danced around it, flirted with the idea. Why not do it? Fuck Prisha, she had this coming. Do the right thing, Charles. It’s time to do the right thing.
It was well past midnight now. Doyle once again probed Hewitt, asked him to tell us how it had all happened. This time he was ready. Hewitt hung his head, then told us his story from the beginning.
Hewitt had been a major political force in his day, heavily networked on Capitol Hill and at the White House. He was a Senior Executive Service political appointment. Prisha was an ambitious, vivacious middle manager when Hewitt landed at CIA. She instantly saw his value and targeted Hewitt as her tool for advancement. This was the early years, when the sex started. Hewitt was smitten with Prisha and had secretly advanced her career from the shadows. She pestered Hewitt for an assignment to ODYSSEUS, and he made it happen. She rapidly became the rising star at CIA.
Prisha’s seduction ended as her and Hewitt’s power reached equilibrium. That’s when the sex ended and the blackmail began.
Hewitt was married at the time he first got involved with Prisha. A marriage he stayed in for the sake of his two young daughters, whom he loved above all else. By the time they had grown to an age where they might perhaps have accepted his infidelity, it was too late. Prisha had set her hooks in deep and he was fully compromised. By that time, he had done enough damage for her to put
him in prison. Hewitt’s wife had passed away three years ago. He said she was a good woman who deserved better. Hewitt’s daughters had both moved out of state, started families of their own. He spoke with them only occasionally, saw them and his grandchildren even less. Hewitt, formerly a gregarious man, grew despondent. And lonely.
Hewitt then gave us the basics of ODYSSEUS. How mind control could be established by attaching hidden suggestive messages to sound waves, and delivering these sound waves, as benign streaming music and such, through various consumer goods like iPhones and the smart speakers that had begun to hit the market.
Doyle and I both gasped at this revelation. We had heard only the codename ODYSSEUS, never what the project entailed. Mass mind control. So this was what Prisha was plotting. Hiding. Protecting at all costs. This explained the fear on Doug Mitchell’s face when I’d pressed him for answers.
Doyle and I asked lots of questions. Hewitt had answers. We challenged him, pushed him hard, but he stuck to his story. This was ODYSSEUS. He swore it was true. Said the technology was not quite there yet, but it would be soon. When, he knew not.
Hewitt told us that soon after Prisha had taken control of ODYSSEUS, she’d created a secret cell—a project within the project—that worked offsite to explore asymmetrical uses for ODYSSEUS technology. Prisha kept this sub-project close hold. She hand-picked all cell members and purchased their loyalty. Prisha kept two sets of books: one she shared with the CIA director and the president, and a true set only certain members of her cell were privy to. Hewitt confirmed Khabir Ahmad as her trusted tech advisor, and put a name to the Viking: Henrik Karlsson, her Swedish head of security. It was clear that Hewitt feared Karlsson and gave up his name only after some prodding by Doyle.
I went into the bathroom and poured Hewitt a glass of water. I noted the spent condom lying in the trash beside the sink. In the moment I felt bad for Hewitt, worse about myself. Wanted to jump in the shower and scrub all this off me. I walked back out to the bed and handed the glass to Hewitt.
“Anything else, Charles?” Doyle said, leaning in.
The two men seemed to have developed a rapport. Same generation. Very different men. One a politician, one a criminal. Which was which depended on one’s perspective.
Hewitt put his face in his hands, rubbed his eyes, then ran his palms over his bald head. He thought long before he spoke.
“Prisha’s going to use ODYSSEUS messages to brainwash the electorate into putting her in the White House in 2020. She plans to succeed Mo Udell as POTUS 46.”
That sucked the air out of the room. Silence. The drip of the bathroom sink resounded like the toll of a church bell.
“The presidency is just the start with that woman,” Hewitt said. “Her appetite for power and dominance is unquenchable. She’ll stop at nothing to get what she wants.”
Both Doyle and I began to pace the room. Hewitt rose to his feet and re-cinched his robe closed. Doyle had one arm wrapped around his torso, the other hand rubbing his chin. I leaned against the wall by the window, watching them.
Doyle leveled Hewitt with a stare that lingered. “You sure about this?” he asked. “I mean, really sure?”
Hewitt nodded.
“And you’re on the inside now?”
Hewitt scoffed. “Prisha doesn’t trust me anymore. She still uses me when she needs me to run interference for her, keep people out of her business. I still know a lot of people.”
“Then how do you know what she’s up to with ODYSSEUS?” I asked from across the room.
“I got a woman who’s close to Prisha now, at least close enough to tell me what I need to know to keep me—alive.”
“Who?” Doyle asked.
Hewitt shook him off. He had gone as far as he would go.
It was time for the pitch. Through Robinson we had learned that Hewitt’s world had begun to crumble completely last year, after his beloved nineteen-year-old daughter had taken her own life, distraught over a breakup with her boyfriend.
Doyle pulled the lever: “Charles. Tell us about your daughter Allyson.”
Hewitt began to sob. Softly at first, then harder. It was difficult to watch. I looked to Doyle for reprieve. He held up a hand and watched Hewitt closely. Hewitt started to speak, then choked up again. We waited him out.
Hewitt finally regained control of himself and faced us squarely. He spoke softly now, barely above a whisper. About how Allyson’s death had hollowed him out to the point that nothing really mattered anymore. He told us he had begun drinking again, breaking thirty years of sobriety. He’d started seeing escorts, first discreetly and tentatively, lately much less so. There was other high-risk behavior as well. He said most of him just didn’t care anymore. He confessed to having suicidal thoughts. Hewitt said he was actually glad that he’d got caught, relieved it was now all over.
I jumped in and told Hewitt what we needed from him, to work with us against Prisha. To stop her before she ruined the country. Hewitt equivocated. Told me he was not up to the job, that he was a tired old man at the end of his rope. I tried to buck him up but got nothing.
Doyle tried a different approach. He closed on Hewitt slowly. Placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Allyson,” Doyle said. “Make her proud. Do it for her, Charles.”
That did it. Hewitt’s face hardened to grit. He asked us what we needed him to do.
By now it was closing in on two a.m. Hewitt said he had an ODYSSEUS staff meeting with Prisha that morning, but that he would call in sick. We told him no. Instructed him to go home, grab few hours’ sleep, and go to work like nothing had happened.
I gave Hewitt his first official tasking: find out when Prisha intended to go live with ODYSSEUS. Hewitt accepted my direction without rebuttal.
Hewitt got dressed and prepared to leave the hotel room. Doyle and I stood aside, by the door, careful not to touch anything.
We said our goodbyes. Hewitt was again on the edge of emotion. I took a step back and patted him on the shoulder. Told him not to worry, everything would work out. Doyle swooped in and, without words, wrapped Hewitt in a big bear hug. He patted Hewitt’s back gently, whispered something in his ear. Hewitt nodded and broke their embrace dry-eyed and resolved. He turned and left the room.
Doyle and I watched him walk down the hall.
Allyson would’ve been proud of the old man.
Chapter Thirty-Four
November 16, 2016
CIAHQ
Langley, VA
“Isn’t that right, Charles?”
Hewitt sat across from Prisha, in his usual spot. His elbows were on the conference table, head in hands, downcast eyes fixed on the six inches of mahogany directly in front of him.
“Charles?” Prisha asked again, her voice rising.
A colleague next to Charles nudged him. He stirred, pulled his head up. His eyes darted around the room as if he had just awoken from a bad dream. His gaze settled on Prisha.
“Pardon?” Hewitt asked in a wavering voice.
“I asked if you were still scheduled to meet with the Speaker next week on the Hill. We need his support on the budget enhancement for ODYSSEUS.”
Hewitt saw a drop splash to the table, then realized his forehead was covered in sweat. He brushed his brow with the back of his shirt sleeve.
“Oh… yeah. Sure,” Hewitt stammered. He kept nodding his head. “Yeah.”
“Everything all right, Charles?” Prisha asked, now concerned. “You look peaked.”
“Yeah. No. I mean, yeah. I’m fine. I’m just not feeling quite right.”
Prisha squinted at Hewitt. She felt a stone in the pit of her stomach. Prisha had feared this day might come. Hewitt had been acting strangely this past year, something she had chalked up to the death of his daughter. But he hadn’t bounced back, and his odd behavior had continued. Prisha thought of the all the security issues that had plagued ODYSSEUS over the past month. And now Hewitt, who knew enough to sink both her and her ambitions, sat catatonic across
from her. Something dramatic had clearly happened to Hewitt in the past twenty-four hours. No, Prisha didn’t like this at all.
She rushed through the rest of the meeting. Wrapped it up and dismissed everyone.
Hewitt haphazardly gathered his things and bolted for the door. A colleague blocked his escape by engaging him in small talk, just long enough for Prisha to catch up to them.
Prisha and Hewitt now stood alone outside the conference room door.
“You sure you’re okay, Charles? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Hewitt squirmed. Prisha stepped closer. He stepped back into the wall behind him and hit it with a thud. Prisha smiled at this.
“I’m not feeling well,” Hewitt croaked. “I think I’ll go home early today.”
“Anything wrong, Charles? Anything you’d like to tell me?”
Hewitt’s face turned crimson. He was hiding something. Prisha pressed him some more, but Hewitt held out, stammering again that he wasn’t feeling well. Prisha had seen enough. She held up a hand, stopping him in mid-sentence.
“Would you excuse me just for a moment, Charles? This will only take a minute.”
Prisha pulled her encrypted satellite phone from her bag. Not her CIA-issued phone for official business, but the other one. Hewitt went silent.
“Oh no, please keep talking, Charles,” Prisha said as she pecked out a quick text message. “I’m listening.” She gave Hewitt the big open smile that she knew he liked so much.
Prisha: something’s wrong. hewitt’s got a secret. find out what it is. he’s going home early today. pay him a visit. do what you have 2 do.
Prisha hit send and looked up. She told Hewitt to go home, that she hoped he felt better. Hewitt was all twitchy, like a cornered animal. Prisha let the moment linger until Hewitt spun off the wall and excused himself.
Prisha looked down at her phone.
Karlsson: k
Chapter Thirty-Five
Talion Justice Page 20
