Nearest Night

by David VanDyke

  “What?” said Shortfuse.

  Hulk handed the object to him.

  “You found it, you carry it,” said Reaper. She turned to race up the hill toward her ATV.

  Chapter 20

  As a genuine professional, Director of National Intelligence Jeremy Sturgeon was an anomaly in the current administration. Since its inception, the office of the DNI, much like the Director of the CIA, had been filled by a political appointee. No intelligence pro since General Wild Bill Donovan, head of the World War Two OSS, had held an executive level intelligence position.

  Instead, all of those appointments except for his continued to be filled by novices. Politicians. People who knew how to shake hands and compromise their principles for a living.

  In Sturgeon’s opinion, politicians were one step above lawyers and one step below prostitutes. And now one was coming to see him.

  Sturgeon had entered CIA service nearly forty years before, straight out of Cornell University. The agency made it clear from the beginning they were much more impressed by the French and Arabic he’d learned growing up in the Middle East with his oil-executive father than by his Ivy League education. Still, his degree in International Studies hadn’t hurt.

  Since then, Sturgeon could proudly say he’d fought for every inch of ground during his rise to the Directorship. He’d completed dozens of overseas and wartime assignments, the ones no one else wanted. He’d served in thankless headquarters jobs where he’d had to bite his tongue to keep from torpedoing his own career. He considered himself a tough man, a risk-taker and a visionary.

  Now he stood at the top of his professional mountain, but he perhaps could go higher.

  With Vice President Prudence Layfield’s help, of course.

  The only problem was, by doing so, he might also become one of those politicians he despised. He salved his conscience by telling himself he’d be a different sort, bringing his vast background to the table, making decisions based less on exigency and more on informed judgment. That he’d elevate politicians everywhere by joining their sorry ranks.

  There came a light knock on his office door. Sturgeon looked up to see his secretary standing there.

  “Sir, the Vice President is arriving.”

  Donning his jacket as he rose, Sturgeon’s eyes lingered on the disturbing report sitting on the corner of his desk. The classified cover was closed, but he knew what was inside. “Tell Stokes to greet Her Majesty and give her the full red carpet treatment,” Sturgeon said, not looking up. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  The secretary retreated, closing the door.

  Sturgeon reached one finger over and flipped open the folder’s cover. The Top Secret report’s executive summary leaped out at him, as it had the previous times he’d read it.

  We believe it probable that a group of expert operatives, probably trained and/or financed by the political entity known as the Free Communities (FC), is tracking down and eliminating members of the ABEL CONJURER program. It is deemed likely that the program itself has been compromised and associated friendly assets are in grave danger. Recommend immediate suspension of ABEL CONJURER and recall of assets associated with this program. Failure to do so may result in resource loss, disruption to liaison relationships, and extreme repercussions.

  He closed the cover and tossed the report into his out box to be filed.

  We’re not going to get rid of our most successful infiltration program in years merely because it’s dangerous. Certainly not when our nation is at the most precarious point in its history since Pearl Harbor. The damn report was obviously written by headquarters weenies who want to protect their own asses should something go wrong. They never comprehend what it is they’re doing or why. To them it’s simply a job, like working at an insurance company where you calculate the risks versus gains.

  But this was not just a job. The United States intelligence community was the first, and often only, line of defense against foreign threats. From evil. Some would shy away from that term, but Sturgeon didn’t. As with communism back in the Cold War, it was evil they were fighting, and such a battle required sacrifice.

  And unyielding resolve.

  Which, to give her credit, Sturgeon admitted Vice President Layfield possessed in spades, politician or not.

  Sturgeon walked out of his office and took the elevator to the ground floor. The DNI facility occupied the old CIA building in Arlington. While not as new or spacious as the CIA headquarters in Langley, Sturgeon actually preferred his current location. A sense of history and purpose pervaded it, something that often got lost in the newer, more modern buildings.

  When the elevator doors opened, Sturgeon saw his deputy greeting Layfield as she exited a black armored suburban, her Secret Service detail fanned out in a protective circle. He walked quickly over and the woman’s hard eyes met his as she climbed out of the vehicle. She didn’t smile.

  There is no warmth in this woman, he thought. No compassion. No ability to compromise. She won’t last long in Washington, despite her rise and current position. She’s not really a politician. She’s a warrior on a crusade, and folks who go crusading usually don’t come back. I’ll have to be careful not to get dragged down with her.

  “Madam Vice President,” said Sturgeon. “Thank you so very much for visiting. It’s an honor to have you here.”

  “Thank you, Jeremy,” she responded with a perfunctory smile.

  “Please come this way,” said Sturgeon, leading her across the lobby and down a short flight of stairs into a small briefing room. Snacks, fruit, and drinks were arrayed in the center of the long table.

  Sturgeon’s and Layfield’s entourage began to jockey for seats, all of them waiting for the Vice President to sit first, but she remained standing. Eventually, she cleared her throat. “Perhaps it would be best if Director Sturgeon and I spoke privately. We have several matters of importance to discuss.”

  Those in the room took the cue and filed quietly outside. Once the heavy door closed, Layfield sat in one of the chairs, seemingly at random.

  “Madam Vice President, if I remember correctly, you drink your coffee black.”

  “I do, and thank you,” she responded. “Also, Jeremy, in private I prefer you call me Prudence. Like I said before, we are now partners.”

  “Yes…Prudence.” said Sturgeon, handing her a cup of coffee and pouring one of his own before also taking a seat. “So this visit isn’t really to get an overview of current national intelligence budget procedures.”

  She smiled. “No. Frankly I don’t care about any of that. Let Congress and the Treasury worry about money and budgets. I have more pressing concerns.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Is this room completely secure?”

  “Yes. It’s soundproof and TEMPEST-shielded.”

  “Good. I need you to pass along a message. To the New Soviet Union.”

  Interesting. “Not via State Department channels? I’m listening.”

  “Let them know unofficially that we would be grateful if they could establish a second front, as I believe military folks say, in Alaska. Tell them any damage they do to the Alaskan rebels would be seen as aiding their new strategic ally, the United States.”

  “You want me to invite another country to invade the United States?”

  “Let’s call it an incursion, not an invasion. For the specific purposes of helping us crush this rebellion. You must make it clear to the Russians they will not be allowed to retain any U.S. territory when this is all over.”

  “And why would they agree to this?”

  “Because in return, we’ll turn a blind eye to their next incursion in Asia. Your reports have shown they’re preparing to retake Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan. Between you and me, we can influence policy to go soft on them.”

  “What about our NATO allies? That puts the Russians right back on the border with Turkey. Though it also will piss off Iran, a good thing for us.”

  Layfield sighed. “Allia
nces can change. We have a new enemy now and must therefore seek new allies with common interests. The Russians meet that requirement, at least unofficially. The more we work together, the more likely we can make it more official, which they need more than we do.”

  “Can you deliver on that? It’s a big move for the United States to abandon allies in the region, especially to what has been until very recently considered a common enemy.”

  “We don’t need to abandon allies, as much as merely…neglect them a bit. Let me worry about what we can and cannot deliver. The important thing is, with Russia involved in Alaska, the President cannot belly-crawl out of the situation. He’ll be forced to get more involved. And we all need to recognize that the Russians are not our biggest worry. The Edens are the true enemy. The Russians understand that. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  “Am I your friend, Prudence? Because I’m taking a big risk doing this for you behind the President’s back.”

  “Yes, Jeremy. And my friends are well rewarded.”

  “Good. Because I like the idea of ‘National Security Advisor’ painted on my office door.”

  “If it’s within my power, you’ll have it.”

  Sturgeon thought for a moment, and then nodded. “I’ll pass it along to our people in Moscow today. They should be able to deliver the message by tomorrow. Any response is, of course, up to them.”

  “Fair enough,” Layfield answered, sipping her coffee. “Let’s shift gears for a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m very concerned about the Canadian government right now. Do you have solid analysis that indicates they have a policy of sympathy and support for the Alaskans or the FC? Or is it just a matter of popular opinion and their failure to put a stop to it?”

  “I don’t have a finished report, but the raw intel I’ve seen indicates the current Canadian administration is holding onto a majority by its fingernails. They’re afraid to do anything that might give the voters an excuse to replace them. That means not taking anything but token action against the Alaskan sympathizers.”

  “Excellent,” said Layfield. “What I’d like you to do is make sure that the President’s Daily Read Book contains reports indicating the Canadian government is, in fact, secretly aiding the rebels and the FC, and remove any reports that indicate they’re not.”

  Sturgeon stared at her in shock for several seconds. He hadn’t expected quite this blatant level of manipulation and duplicity…and she was asking him to implicate himself if it ever came to light. He rubbed his chin and stared at the wall to buy himself some time to think. He’d have to choose a fall guy to assemble the skewed reports and begin setting him or her up to take the blame, if necessary. “Do you have any idea what that could do?”

  “I fully understand the probable outcome of this action, which is why I am asking you to do it.”

  “That could lead to a severe deterioration of relations with Canada…even armed conflict,” he said. “We haven’t been seriously at odds with them since…hell, since the War of 1812!”

  “Exactly. And if everything works out, it could mean much more than that.”

  “Excuse me? More than what?”

  Layfield smiled. “Let me explain.”

  Sturgeon found himself shocked again at what she said, and, for the first time in a decade, a bit afraid. Layfield was raising the stakes indeed.

  Chapter 21

  “How about another Scotch?” Skull asked the statuesque flight attendant as he held up an empty highball glass.

  “You know that’s part of our ambassador’s private stock, don’t you?” asked Cameron.

  “Well, tell Sir Frumpy-Pants that I compliment him on his taste…in all things.” Skull eyed the woman in appreciation as she brought him his next glass of single malt.

  She returned a meaningful smile and brushed his cheek with her blouse as she leaned over, as if by accident.

  Skull folded the cocktail napkin that came with his drink, concealing the phone number written thereon, and pocketed it. He never allowed himself to be distracted by sex on a job, but between times, he permitted himself a few indulgences. Perhaps the next time he visited Britain…

  “We’re almost there anyway,” said Cameron checking his watch. “We didn’t hit the expected headwind.”

  “This private jet stuff is definitely the life,” Skull said, sipping. “I could get used to it.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. At least not when it involves His Majesty’s aircraft and the ambassador’s whisky.”

  “What are you complaining about? You’re getting off easy. This is a bargain. Or would you rather I’d kicked around The Hague another day or two while I tried to get a flight?”

  Cameron sat back in the plush leather seat. “Definitely not.” He turned to the flight attendant and pointed at Skull’s glass. “Would you bring me one of those, please? Neat.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Skull.

  “I’ll blame it on you.”

  When his drink arrived, he raised it in Skull’s direction. “Here’s to seeing your backside.”

  “Sorry, bud, I don’t swing that way.”

  “Pity. Makes things so much simpler.”

  “…Now that some other minority group is the target of public suspicion, you mean?”

  Cameron shrugged. “Every cloud, and all that.”

  Skull nodded, and with a plummy faux accent said, “Silver lining? Oh yes, old chap. Good show.”

  “You’re terrible at that, you know.”

  “I’m a one-trick pony. Well, maybe two or three.” He winked at the flight attendant.

  An hour later they made a smooth landing at a small private airport in Wyckoff, New Jersey, just across the Hudson River from New York City. They taxied toward a row of hangars, where a Security Service SUV waited for them.

  “You sure this is going to work?” asked Skull. “Maybe I should retrieve my bag, just in case.”

  “No,” said Cameron. “You’ll keep all your weapons stowed and safely out of reach. This isn’t just about you. If there is an incident at this stage it could implicate more than just you. Have no fear. All is arranged.”

  “Great. You’re overconfident.”

  “Relax. We have two important things working for us.”

  “Such as?”

  “Our diplomatic status.”

  There came a knock on the skin of the plane. A few seconds later, the pilot opened the door and lowered the stairs. A large man in uniform climbed up and stuck his head inside, looking back along the small cabin.

  “And the other?” Skull asked.

  “A healthy dose of the almighty dollar,” said Cameron.

  The customs official walked back between the aisles. “How many disembarking?”

  “Only one,” Cameron answered, pointing at Skull. “The gentleman seated right there.”

  “Passport,” the customs agent said holding his hand out.

  Skull smiled. “Damn, I knew I was forgetting something. I remembered the blowup doll and the hair gel, but I had a feeling I was a little light. You ever get that feeling?”

  The customs agent sighed heavily, looking at Cameron. “You know you’re going to get me fired, or worse.”

  “We understand the risks you’re taking and are grateful for your cooperation.”

  “A thousand dollars more grateful?”

  Cameron nodded. “My pilot will take care of you.”

  “Okay then,” the customs agent said, pulling out a small electronic device from a holster on his belt. “Assuming you check out, you can be on your way.”

  “Check out?” asked Skull, worried about biometrics.

  “That you’re not an Eden. I can’t risk bending that rule.”

  “No worries.”

  “We’ll see,” said the man, holding out the device. “Place your index finger on the pad.”

  Skull felt a pinprick, and a moment later the light on the sensor flashed green.

  “You’re all se
t,” the man answered pulling the device away. He produced an alcohol wipe and cleaned off his sensor before dropping it into a small bag at his belt.

  “You get many visitors like me who forget their passports?” Skull asked.

  The man’s smile vanished. “No. As long as you’re not an Eden terrorist lunatic, what do I care? All terrorists aren’t Edens, I guess, but all Edens are terrorists. Am I right?”

  “If you say so,” said Skull.

  “I do,” the man answered, looking at his watch. He turned to walk off the plane. As he descended the steps, he turned and stuck his head back inside, looking at Skull. “Oh yeah, welcome to the United States of America, Jack. Watch your fucking step.” Then he vanished.

  “Nice people here,” Skull said. “Makes me a little homesick, to be honest with you.” He stood to go.

  “How quickly can we be back up in the air?” Cameron asked the pilot.

  The pilot looked out the door, and then back inside. “The fuel truck is headed this way now. Maybe a half hour. Twenty minutes if we rush it.”

  “Rush it,” said Cameron. “I’d like to be out of here and over the Atlantic as quickly as possible.”

  “What?” asked Skull. “I thought we’d go into the city together. Maybe have some dinner, take in a Broadway show. My treat.”

  “Maybe another time,” Cameron answered.

  “Okay, so we’ll stay in touch. Never know when I might need this level of support again.”

  Cameron folded his hands in his lap. “Taking the piss out of me may be entertaining, but let me appeal to your sense of self-preservation and encourage you to get the hell off this plane. And if you ever show up on my doorstep again, I may not be so kind.”

  “Fair enough,” said Skull, walking to the exit and climbed down the stairs. “Toodle-oo.”

  A black luxury sedan waited with the trunk open. A man in a suit was loading Skull’s bags. “Where to, sir?”