Serpents in the City (Mac Ambrose Book 3)

by HN Wake

  Senator Gillis stared at him. “Fenton, is this your plan or your bosses?”

  “Mine,” he said definitively.

  “Does your boss even know about this plan?”

  “No. Like all the other elite in this country, she thinks it’s all about consolidating her wealth.” His voice dropped a decibel. “Trust me, they won’t see us coming. Ms. Kugal has only one interest: staying rich.”

  The television screens pulsated on the far wall as Senator Gillis gave Fenton Warrick a questioning look, letting the pause in the room lengthen. Finally she asked, “Why are you doing this?”

  His voice was clear on the audio. “I’m looking to do something new. To break out on my own.”

  Senator Gillis squinted as if trying to see through him. “What do you get out of this?”

  Fenton Warrick’s voice was gravelly yet clear. “The Vice Presidency of course.”

  The video ended on a still shot of Senator Gillis, her eyes wide.

  In the van, the three sat in silence.

  Joyce blew air from between tight lips. “You were right, Mac, this sure ain’t no sex tape.”

  “No,” Mac agreed.

  Isaac was the first to voice his conclusion. “Gillis said this was a sex tape because she needs Laura’s support for the presidential run. If Laura knew all along this was about retrieving a video showing the deal with Fenton Warrick, she would have pulled her support.”

  Mac nodded. She was coming to the same conclusion.

  Joyce said, “So Gillis said it was a sex tape as a ruse for us to go in and get it.”

  The three stared at the dark screen.

  Isaac continued, “Because Gillis wanted to break the deal.”

  Joyce filled in, “Warrick must have called in their agreement and Gillis balked. So he told her he had this tape.”

  It was the only possible explanation for Gillis’ audacious and risky tactic. Gillis must have been backed into a corner by Fenton Warrick and she panicked. Her only option was to get her richest supporter to retrieve a tape hidden in the bowels of Patriot News’ network under an elaborate hoax.

  Joyce asked, “What did Gillis think we’d do with the video once we found it?”

  “She offered to pay me,” Mac said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. When I first met her. She offered to buy the video back off me.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said there was no need for that. She also implored me not to show Laura.”

  “She was hoping, if you found it, that you’d keep it a secret from Laura?” Joyce turned to Mac. “Are we going to tell Laura?”

  Mac shook her head. “I don’t owe Laura anymore.”

  As before, the three sat quietly as rain pelted the van’s roof.

  Joyce broke the silence. “But it’s all different now. She offered to buy back a sex tape and you said no. Now we’re dealing with incriminating evidence that Gillis made a pact with the devil.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mac said.

  “So you’re not going to use the video against her?”

  Mac had formed the answer half way through the video. If she was going to walk down this path to a new life, she had to do it with her eyes wide open. If she was going to make her own decisions, no longer in the shadow of the Agency, then she had to make them wisely and with honor. She needed to recognize the weight of pivotal moments and be deliberate and principled in her response. That started now. She could no longer blame the Agency. This was about the responsibility of being free.

  “No, we’re not,” Mac said softly.

  There was another long silence before Joyce nodded. “If we use the video, we’re no better than Fenton Warrick.”

  Joyce was an extremely quick learner. Mac said, “We’d be no better. And that’s not who we are.”

  Isaac nodded in agreement.

  “So do we just destroy the video now?” Joyce asked.

  Mac said, “Not just yet.” She was still livid about the Alicia Cade panel on Patriot News. “First we take down Fenton Warrick.”

  Joyce’s jaws clenched. “Yesss!”

  Mac turned to Isaac. “I want you to make one copy. One copy only. Then I want you to go through the entire Patriot News network and make sure there are no copies left there. Totally clean. Can you do that?”

  “Of course.”

  “I want that one last copy loaded up on my tablet.”

  “Roger that.”

  SUNDAY

  The dilemma for early 21st century journalism is this: Who will pay for the news?

  — Nathan Myhrvold

  I believed that personal credibility was achieved by acid intelligence, enlightened will and superior effort.

  -- Suzi Gablik, “The Double-Bind” in “Eight Artists Reply: Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?” Artnews, Retrospective, June 2015.

  55

  New York, NY

  The sun breaking over Manhattan was a streak of pink against a pale blue, its warmth forcing the night’s cooler air down to the pavement. A bus pulled past and parked at the curb, its exhaust heavy and acidic, its hydraulic breaks rumbling. The smell of urine mixed with fresh pizza. In the distance, the ubiquitous sound of a police siren sliced the air.

  Mac moved quickly across the sidewalk, weaving past slower pedestrians. Her eyes scanned ahead with intense concentration. In her earpiece, she heard Isaac typing on a keyboard.

  Then silence.

  She slowed her steps.

  Isaac’s voice was controlled and soft. “He’s slowed. 100 meters ahead of you.” There was a pause before his voice came back in her ear. “Okay, he’s stopped. You’re closing in on him. Eyes left. He’s somewhere left.”

  She stepped forward, her soft shoes firm on the pavement. Up ahead was a sign for a souvenir store above a window cluttered with wares. Just beyond was a sign, Brighton Coffee.

  “On your left, 10 yards,” Isaac’s voice was tense.

  She stepped past the coffee shop with a cautious look.

  Fenton Warrick was standing at the counter in a tan trench coat, his grey hair smoothly parted.

  She double backed and pushed open the door. A cowbell clanged through the silence, making her hand hesitate for a second on the door handle. She slipped through and let the door close softly.

  Fenton Warrick was the only customer in the sparse, modern shop. His arms rested at his side as he waited for his coffee. Overhead, a black chalkboard advertised coffee specialties in quaint script. Steam hissed from the coffee machine behind the counter where the barista’s hands pumped a tin pitcher to froth cream. The pungent bitter of coffee hung in the air.

  Isaac’s voice jarred her, “You find him?”

  She ignored him and stepped softly forward. His hair was slick, almost greasy. Once again she was just behind the shoulder of Fenton Warrick. The hint of lavender tickled her nose.

  Snippets of images and sounds swirled in her mind. She heard Fenton Warrick talking to Senator Gillis on the video tape. She saw the still image of Senator Gillis, eyes wide as she realized the enormity of Fenton Warrick’s designs to be vice president. She saw the image of Alicia Cade, a solitary stone-like figure in the midst of a crowd in a green park. Then she saw the panel of angry experts on a news program delivering rapid-fire lies and accusations.

  This man. This man right here was responsible for it all. She felt her anger just below the surface, still contained, but ready to boil. She stretched her neck to release the tension. Follow the plan. Stick to the script.

  She watched his shoulders rise and fall, synchronized her breathing to his. In. Out.

  She placed her hand on his shoulder, leaned in, whispered, “Don’t turn.”

  He stiffened.

  Behind the counter the barista was oblivious.

  She said, “We know what you’ve done.”

  He began to pant. Good. Just what she wanted: Fenton Warrick scared. The plan was in play.

  She whispered, “You won’t
get away with it.”

  She lifted her hand, turned, exited quickly, and banked right on the sidewalk. Dropping into a smooth gait she said into the collar mic, “Contact made.”

  “Copy that,” Isaac said in her ear.

  “Let me know if he makes any calls to change the next meet.”

  The night before Isaac had used the duplicate they had made of Fenton Warrick’s smart phone to access his schedule and phone. After his coffee run and some time in the office, Fenton Warrick was scheduled for a brunch at Gramercy Tavern in two hours.

  “Roger that,” Isaac said.

  Mac said, “Joyce is up.”

  “Roger that.”

  She stepped into the street and hailed a cab.

  Six blocks away, the electronic billboards on Times Square flickered incessantly and the sidewalks were jammed with tourists. From the middle of an intersection, a traffic cop blared his whistle in sharp blasts at a slow truck, flagging him past. Temporary orange and white work barriers had been placed along the road. A jackhammer was battering through sidewalk, the pounding reverberating off the buildings.

  Outside the lobby of Patriot News, Joyce peered from behind dark sunglasses down 7th Avenue. Through the glass wall, the lobby was empty except for a single uniformed security guard behind the marble counter.

  Her earpiece buzzed and she cupped it with her hand, fighting the rattling of the jackhammer. She barely heard Isaac, “—contact made. Target moving up 6th Avenue.”

  “Roger,” she yelled into her mic.

  “Shit! Joyce, softer.”

  She grimaced. “Sorry.” She turned her back to the street, pressed her hand tighter against her ear.

  “Target moving. Estimated five minutes to you.”

  “Got it,” she said and turned back toward 6th Avenue. The crowd was tight here, working their way around the construction zone. She peered over shoulders, looking for Fenton Warrick, but couldn’t find him.

  Five minutes later, her ear buzzed. “Target nearing.”

  Fenton Warrick appeared at the far end of the block as he crossed the street. He was wearing a tan raincoat and walking slowly.

  “Target moving slow,” Isaac buzzed in her earpiece.

  “No joke,” she said into her mic. “He’s like meandering.”

  “Stay alert,” Isaac scolded.

  Fenton Warrick was troubled. His eyes darted through the crowd, trying to discern faces, and his lips were turned down in a harsh frown. She stepped away from the lobby and blended into the crowd. When he looked her way, she rubbed her nose to hide her face. He headed toward the revolving doors of Patriot News.

  Joyce hustled to the entrance and slipped with him through the revolving door. The door released her into the silent lobby. Ahead, Fenton Warrick was marching over the cold floor toward the turnstiles, as if having made it into safety inside he was once again in charge.

  Joyce jogged toward him. “Mr. Warrick?”

  From behind the reception desk, the security guard glanced up, instantly alert.

  Fenton Warrick halted, then turned slowly. Eyebrows knitted over a place. He squinted at her, but did not recognize her.

  She pushed her chin forward. “We know what you’ve done.” Just as Mac had instructed, she let the message sink in, waited for Fenton Warrick’s mouth to slacken before delivering the next message. “You won’t get away with it.”

  His eyes widened.

  She turned, slipped through the revolving door, hooked a left, and strode into the chaos of Times Square.

  56

  New York, NY

  The Yang Mi Restaurant in Chinatown was empty this early in the morning. That’s just the way Ernest liked it. Sunday mornings here were the best. The waiters were happy and chirpy, and the tea was strong. He could dig into a big bowl of noodles, savor the broth, and concentrate on work. At the moment, his mind was chewing on the call he’d had two hours earlier.

  Alister down in fingerprints had gotten back to him on the latents they had pulled last night from Fox’s glass in the diner; he had turned up empty handed. No pun intended, Ernest thought, letting himself have a moment of personal lightness. But in all seriousness, what Alister had said was disturbing.

  “Ernest, it’s weird,” he had said. “If there’s not a match, the system normally spits up a message that says ‘No result.’ This time the system said, ‘No match.’ Normally, I’m not sure I would have noticed the difference in the wording. But I wondered if maybe I’d read it wrong. Like maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. I mean I run these searches, what, every few hours? So I called the vendor.

  “Here’s where it gets funny. He said the system is actually programmed to produce two responses. If the print is not in the system it responds, ‘no result.’ Like I’ve seen a million times. But if the print is or ever has been in the system and for some reason is protected, it comes up ‘no match’ like I just saw.”

  Ernest’s mind had jumped quickly. “So the print is there, it’s just protected.”

  Alister had said, “Yeah, I think that’s what’s going on. Sorry, man. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  The bell at the front door to the restaurant chimed. Dammit, had the breakfast crowd already arrived? He shoveled a new ladle of noodles.

  A woman, 5’9’ with long auburn hair and a calm, quiet confidence slid into the booth across from him.

  He swallowed the noodles with a loud noise.

  He put her in her early 40s. Nice looking.

  He sat back.

  She gave him a grin. It was big and sincere, crinkling her eyes. She didn’t look surprised by his size or his tough face. In fact, she appeared to recognize him.

  Intriguing.

  He set down his chopsticks.

  She said, “Hi there, Ernest,” as if it was only yesterday they’d last seen each other.

  What the heck?

  He cocked his head to the white teapot. “Tea?”

  She must have liked his response because her smile grew. “Sure.”

  Boy was this weird. He wasn’t used to an attractive woman sitting down across from him. He definitely wasn’t used to an attractive woman looking him directly in the eyes with understanding and camaraderie. Very intriguing.

  He waved over the waitress and asked for another teacup.

  Across the table, the stranger was calmly assessing him, like she’d assessed hundreds of people in her life.

  The waitress set down a new teacup and the stranger deliberately stirred in two heaping spoons of sugar. Once it had melted she took a big gulp. “Counterterrorism. Am I right?”

  Suddenly he was on high alert. He nodded.

  She said, “It’s a funny word, counterterrorism. And the word terrorist.”

  She didn’t appear dangerous. Her energy was calm. He didn’t know if he should be amped up, ready for confrontation.

  She took another sip, savoring the tea or the word--he couldn’t tell. “A person who uses terrorism in the pursuit of political aims.” She set down her teacup. “That is strikingly similar to traitor. A person who betrays a friend, country, principle. Don’t you think?”

  Who the hell was this woman? She didn’t appear to be a nut job. She appeared to be someone who was in the same line of work.

  “Both are politically motivated,” she said. “Both work outside the law. One uses fear. The other uses secrecy. But both are dangerous to the proper functioning of this country.”

  Was she FBI? No, this approach was too unusual. She had to be intelligence of some kind. Her accent wasn’t from the East Coast. In fact, it wasn’t an accent at all. It was as if any original accent had been smoothed over into a beige Americana.

  She flattened both hands on the laminate table. “You were chasing a PI named Reddenbacker.”

  This jolted him. “Wait a good goddamned minute.”

  She said, “I think I can help.”

  He stared at her.

  “We’re taking a chance that you’re square. But I have a sense
you are.”

  “We?” he asked. It came out as a croak, embarrassing him. “Who are we?”

  She nodded but didn’t answer his question. “You’ll need to do right by the country with this.”

  “Okay?”

  She pulled something from a bag, slid a tablet across to him. It was teed up with a video. “We recorded this yesterday.”

  He tapped the screen, starting the video. It was night, Times Square was crowded and the lights flickered from all sides. He recognized himself running through the crowd. Wow, he was big in comparison to everyone else! His huge body was weaving through tourists. On screen, he saw his hand move to his ear. It was an amateurish move, a tell tale signal to anyone watching that he had an earpiece.

  Stupid fool, Ernest, he chided himself.

  She grinned at him over the video. “Don’t worry, nobody else saw it.”

  He should have been doubly embarrassed but her tone was sincerely empathetic. She was pretty.

  On the screen he watched himself sprint into the Disney store. Ten minutes later, he watched himself come back out. The video ended.

  She was watching him. She leaned over and tapped the tablet screen. “Don’t ask, but this image was also on our video feed.” A black and white image of a face appeared. It was Mr. Fox.

  He gaped at her.

  “His name,” she said, “is Robert Kitsune. Kitsune is Japanese for Fox, by the way.”

  Holy shit.

  “He’s Fenton Warrick’s Head of Security.”

  Ernest felt his face freeze. His heart somersaulted. The missing piece. His protected target. He wanted to jump up, run outside and call his boss, call Lester.

  She was still watching him. “I understand he is in possession of some files. Some background files as I understand it.”

  Holy shit. He said, “How did you know that?”

  “I’m finding it is very helpful to be outside the system,” she said. “I’m also finding it very useful to work with a team. Let me just say, we inserted a worm into a certain network and found some interesting stuff. We can confirm certain files are on his computer at Patriot. With a warrant, you should be able to find them as well.”