No Fortunate Son: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  She heard the door open above, and her nascent confidence wilted like a flower in the desert. She heard footsteps, but not of someone walking clean. They were dragging a body down.

  She perked her head up, straining to see anything through the hood. She heard something large slap the concrete, then a wail. “I work for NATO! I don’t know anything about Ireland. I haven’t done anything.”

  She heard something like a sack of dirt being kicked, then coughing.

  “Shut the fuck up. I’m sick of your whining. Keep it up, and you’ll be the first we kill.”

  The steps retreated, and they were in silence again. Eventually, Nick brought up the courage to break it. “Hello? Who was just brought down?”

  She heard nothing. Nick tried again. “Hello?”

  A voice tentatively said, “Who are you?”

  “Nicholas Seacrest. American. You?”

  “Travis Deleon. American as well.”

  Nick said, “Who are you related to?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Why did they take you? Who do you know?”

  Kylie heard nothing for a moment, then, “I don’t know anyone. Why would you ask that?”

  He thinks we’re trying to trick him.

  She said, “Travis, I’m Kylie and we’re just trying to figure out why we’ve been taken.”

  “Kylie who?”

  “Kylie Hale. I’m sitting here with a hood on my head as well.”

  He didn’t respond. She heard scraping and worming, then heard Nick say, “You’re in ACUs. You’re Army.”

  “How would you know that? If you’re hooded?”

  “I just got my hood off. Listen, I’m an Air Force weatherman stationed at RAF Molesworth in England. I see your rank. You’re a lieutenant colonel in the Army. Something’s going on, and I want to know if it’s because of what’s in our heads, or something else. What do you do?”

  “Quit talking. They’ll hear us. They’ll come down here.”

  “Maybe so, but they took us alive for a reason. They aren’t going to kill us because we piss them off. No matter what threats they throw out. I thought originally it was for intelligence, but you shouted you work for NATO, just like I do, and these guys are Irish, so that makes no sense. It must be because of who we are. So, who are you?”

  Kylie heard the door open and curled up, praying Nick was right. She heard footsteps, then a struggle with the slapping of flesh. A man said, “Keep your fucking hoods on.” She heard a kick, then coughing. “All of you shut the hell up, or I’ll cave your faces in.”

  The footsteps retreated, the door slammed, and there was silence. She heard someone spit something thick, then Nick said, “Well, which is it? Do you work in a capacity that they’d want what’s in your head, or is it you?”

  Travis hissed, “Be quiet. They’ll come beat us.”

  Nick said, “They just did. And I can take it. The scare’s over. They’ll only kill who can’t help them, and you can. Why?”

  Kylie whispered, “Nick. Maybe he’s right. Maybe we should just wait to see what’s going to happen.”

  “Bullshit. I’m not waiting. Nobody is coming for us. If we want to get out, we’ll do it ourselves. We need to start thinking about escape. Get ready for an opportunity.”

  His voice strident, Travis said, “No. No, no, no! We will do nothing. Nothing, do you hear? Let the US government sort this out.”

  Kylie heard Nick exhale, then say, “The US government won’t come for us in time. These fucks intend to use us to leverage our government. To alter some policy. They will use our lives to harm the United States. We have to plan an escape. You’re in the Army, for Christ’s sakes.”

  The steel in his voice was new. Something different from the soft man who had talked her out of her shirt. Something like her uncle’s friend. She debated whether he was putting them in jeopardy, and whose side she would take. Her uncle’s friend came to her mind’s eye, all hard edges and predatory skill. She decided.

  Better to fight.

  She said, “Travis, he’s right. We need to plan for a way out. Sitting here waiting on the police isn’t going to work.”

  Travis said, “I am a lieutenant colonel in the US Army. I am the senior officer here. I’m giving you an order to not do anything. Nothing. Do you understand?”

  Kylie had no idea what any of that meant, but got a clue from Nick’s response.

  “Jesus Christ. They put a pussy in here with us.”

  11

  Standing behind a man working a laptop, Seamus McKee saw Colin return. He said, “What were they talking about?”

  “Nothing. Trying to figure out why they have bags on their heads.”

  “They’ll know that soon enough.”

  He returned to the man on the computer. “Christ, Kevin, you said this Reddit thread would catch their attention. They still haven’t responded. Are they that stupid?”

  “The ragheads don’t send riddles. This isn’t Belfast. They aren’t used to your signature.”

  “Well, maybe we’ll have to acquaint them.”

  Colin said, “We don’t have a drone strike yet, and even if we do, I still don’t think this will work.”

  Seamus smiled. “A little late for that.”

  “They won’t deal. And there will be no end to the search.”

  “As long as the press is in the dark, they’ll deal. Remember the US Iran-Contra scandal? When President Reagan tried to exchange arms for hostages? After all of his tough talk about smashing terrorists? Just like Whitehall when they handed out those secret immunity deals to the Irish traitors in ’98. Doesn’t matter which government. They’re always willing to deal.”

  Seamus McKee was a dying breed. A leader of a splinter group of the fading Irish Republican Army, he was one of the last who still believed Irish unity could be achieved through violence. In his eyes, Northern Ireland was an affront to every person of Celtic blood, and he was determined to see the final six counties under it returned to Irish control. Or at least punish those who disagreed.

  Calling themselves the Real IRA, they’d been fighting since the Provisional IRA had called a cease-fire in 1998. When the cowards in the PIRA put down their arms, preferring to grovel for a half-step political solution, the RIRA split off and continued the campaign of violence. Car bombs, land mines, mortar attacks, and assassinations were all in its repertoire. Its goal: a unified Ireland—just like Michael Collins had envisioned so many years ago. Others could quit under the strain, but Seamus McKee never would.

  The fight had been going on for decades—centuries, really—but Seamus and his brother Braden had been at it just under ten years. In that time Seamus had carved out a leadership niche and had proven his dedication to the cause. There was no shortage of will to attack, but operations cost money, and the cash flow had become harder and harder to maintain. Gone were the days of passing the hat in the pub, with even Americans of Irish descent supporting the cause.

  For the most part, the younger generation didn’t really think about Northern Ireland, and the older generation had grown complacent, satisfied with a country of twenty-six counties instead of the total island of thirty-two. Because of it, the RIRA’s primary source of income was from crime. Gaining small-scale payoffs from extorting drug dealers and businesses, they spent more effort trying to collect operational funds than on the operations themselves.

  In order to increase the flow of money, Seamus had had some of his men migrate to the continent, working with a team of Serbian jewel thieves who were experts in their chosen field. Called the Pink Panthers by Interpol, they’d pulled off some spectacular heists. While their nickname implied buffoonery, the operations were anything but. In less than a decade they’d netted over five hundred million dollars in places as far flung as Dubai and Tokyo, conducting hits that looked more fit for a Hollywood
movie than real life.

  Even with that, the Serbs were the undisputed leaders of the team. They used Seamus’s men for their specific skills but took most of the profits, leaving him little to show for the risk. But through it he’d learned that there was money to be made if one found something valuable enough to steal. He’d decided to graduate from material things. After all, at the root, what was more valuable than life?

  While his men thought the entire operation was about money, for him it was personal. Make no mistake, he intended to earn enough funds to keep them in operations for decades, but he also had some lessons for the special relationship between Britain and the United States. Lessons only his brother Braden knew about.

  Kevin turned from the computer, a Reuters press report on the screen. “Looks like they just conducted a strike in Yemen. Hit a wedding party by mistake. Talk about perfect timing.”

  Seamus smiled. “You see, you can always count on the Yanks. They don’t take any shit. Unless something valuable is at stake.” He turned to Colin and said, “Execute the plan. Get the package in the air. Time to show we’re serious.” To Kevin, “Go ahead and send the message.”

  Kevin pulled up the Whitehouse.gov contact page and filled out the return information using the name of one Abu Mustafa. He typed a message, then turned around and looked at Seamus, waiting on permission.

  Dialing his phone, a concerned look on his face, Colin said, “You sure that can’t be traced? The government owns that website and the United States will bring everything they have to bear. The NSA is no joke.”

  Kevin said, “I’d try to explain it to you, but it would be wasted effort. Just consider it magic, and me Gandalf. It can’t be traced. Unlike me, the NSA isn’t a magician.”

  Seamus said, “Send it.”

  With Colin talking in the background, Kevin posted the message. Seamus waited until Colin was done and asked, “Any issues?”

  “No. They’re ready to leave Honduras. They’d already made the tape. Now it’s just a matter of cutting the limbs. The issue is whether we’ve gone too far too soon. This is going to cause the US to explode.”

  Seamus bristled, saying, “What is your fucking problem? Are you afraid of them? Afraid of the fight? They are no more powerful than England. No more powerful than the intelligence agencies we’ve been fighting for years. They know nothing of us. They’re babies in our fight. They’ll never figure it out. The secret is the power we hold. They will be looking for the wrong people, and in the meantime someone will pay for them. One way or the other.”

  “What about later? When the hostages say it wasn’t a bunch of ragheads who held them? How long can we hold up under that pressure? Christ, all they have to say is we had Irish accents.”

  “The hostages will never talk. It’ll work out. Worst case, we blame the Serbs. We’re paying them enough.”

  Colin said, “One more weak link. Those bastards will sell their own mothers. They have no cause.”

  “You’re wrong. They have the omertà. They will never utter a word. I’m more worried about you.”

  Colin said nothing under Seamus’s withering gaze. He eventually nodded, wanting to break the contact.

  Seamus held his glare one moment longer, then said, “Call Braden. Tell him to deliver the package as soon as it arrives.”

  Colin began dialing and Seamus said, “Let the games begin.”

  * * *

  Twenty-eight hours later a nondescript two-door Fiat pulled over on rue Royale, a large expanse of park separating the driver from the US embassy in Brussels, Belgium. A man exited carrying a small Styrofoam ice chest, just large enough for a six-pack of soda. The Belgium weather was blustery, and he didn’t look out of place wearing a hat and scarf, his cheekbones the only thing visible just below the sunglasses on his face.

  He entered the park and walked through until he reached rue Ducale, the rear of the US embassy just in front of him, local national guards surveying everyone who exited. He circled the block, coming south down boulevard du Régent. He passed the Russian embassy and saw the black chain-link fence and the Belgian guards protecting the front entrance to the US embassy. He continued to approach, nodding to the guards and proceeding around the fence, just one more pedestrian walking the boulevard.

  When he reached the front of the embassy, still outside the fence, he bent over and placed the ice chest on the ground, in full view of the guards and the cameras, then walked rapidly away. Before the guards could react, he was gone.

  A suspicious package alert was called, requiring a response from the Brussels police force bomb squad. They used their robots and other technical kit, setting back Seamus’s plan by another four hours and aggravating the hell out of the drivers on boulevard du Régent, now closed in the name of safety. Finally, after enough exploration, a man in a full-on blast suit stiffly advanced, looking like a character from a Saturday morning cartoon. He bent over the container, searching all around for hidden triggers. When he saw none, he removed the lid. Then he fell back.

  At first, the men in his squad thought he’d tripped but when they saw him crawling away they became agitated. One zoomed a camera in on the Plexiglas shield of his helmet.

  It was covered in vomit.

  12

  As Kurt raced as fast as he could through the DC traffic, George Wolffe said, “They didn’t give you any indication of what this is about?”

  “No. But it’s serious. I haven’t seen this much activity since Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. Everyone’s spinning. And it’s going to leak. Only a matter of time.”

  “Who are the players?”

  “The chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee is going bonkers. He’s a powerful guy, and his twins are gone. The SECDEF wants to start bombing Pakistan. And that fucking governor of Texas is raising holy hell.”

  “What about the vice president?”

  “Surprisingly, I haven’t heard much from him. They’re really hoping to keep that under wraps. Can’t see how that’ll happen, though.”

  “This meeting is Oversight Council only, right?”

  “Yeah. Something’s broken free.”

  As they pulled into the lane for White House security, George considered his words, then said, “I hate to be a CIA stickler about sources and methods, but we’re starting to blend Taskforce activities with the traditional intelligence architecture. The pressure to share is going to be enormous, and we’re going to be compromised.”

  Kurt showed his identification to the uniformed Secret Service manning the gate at the West Wing, waited until he was checked off a list, then pulled through. He said, “Maybe. Maybe not. We can use the director of Central Intelligence. Thank God he’s a Council member. We can feed all of our intelligence into the CIA, and they can sanitize it for the FBI. Hopefully they’ll do the same in return.”

  “That’s not going to be timely. And what happens if we find one of them? Are we going to conduct an assault? Or call for someone else?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “We need to start. If we conduct a rescue, successfully or not, we’re going to end up splashed on the world stage. We might be able to hide who did it from the public, but we won’t from all of the other elements involved. And some of those elements will forget the gratitude in one news cycle, especially if the press continues to push. After all of the other crap that’s happened in the intelligence world, they’ll throw us to the wolves to save their elective ass.”

  Kurt parked and said, “Yeah, I know. I’m worried about having to make a call like that. As bad as it sounds, it might be better to let them go. I’m not sure their lives will be worth all the lives that will be lost if our counterterrorist capability is eviscerated.”

  “Maybe you should bring this up to the president. He knows the stakes.”

  “Maybe. But not just yet. We aren’t at that stage, and
odds are we won’t be. Police work is what will solve this, and we can’t do direct interface. Waiting on the CIA to feed us what the FBI learns from a host-country liaison is way too slow. Someone will beat us to the punch. Or it’ll just all go bad without our ability to help.”

  George climbed the cracked granite stairs in the Old Executive Office Building, replying, “I hate to say it, but we’d better hope so.”

  Kurt rounded the corner, seeing the Secret Service flanking the conference room doors, knowing that meant President Peyton Warren was attending this meeting. Knowing that couldn’t be good news.

  They showed their badges and passed into the room. Unlike the bedlam last time, there was stone quiet, all eyes on them as they entered. A discomfiting feeling, given that Kurt had no idea why he’d been summoned.

  He looked at the president and said, “Sir, I . . . uh . . . is the Council expecting a briefing on something? Because I don’t think I got the memo.”

  “No. We’re expecting some biometric results, then an update. You can give us yours while we wait.”

  Kurt nodded at George to take his seat, then said, “Well, I don’t have a lot. I’ve got four teams in the air, each headed to a disappearance location. Honduras, England, Okinawa, and Belgium.”

  “What’s taking so long? We gave the order to launch over two days ago.”

  That came from Secretary of State Jonathan Billings, the same prick who had pulled Pike Logan from his operational capacity. Worried about Pike’s habit of pushing the envelope, he now wanted it both ways. Wanted the envelope pushed to the point of compromise. Or maybe he just didn’t get it.

  Kurt said, “Sir, I don’t have a division of commandos sitting around waiting to launch. I had to redirect teams that were on operational missions. Two on Alpha, one on Omega, and one running Assessment and Selection.”

  The Taskforce called every stage of an operation a different Greek letter, each representing an escalation of potential actions. Before a mission moved to a different stage, the Oversight Council had to sanction the elevation.