The real difference was their personalities. If the old adage of opposites attract needed any proof, it was them, though with her help and encouragement, and his boss giving him an unwanted promotion that resulted in a team of almost ten, he was coming out of his shell.
Slowly.
He found more and more often he would forget who he was, sometimes catching himself giving orders, directing his staff during a crisis, that he’d shock himself when he realized it was his voice barking the orders.
“I told you you could do it.”
His boss, National Clandestine Service Chief Leif Morrison’s words always brought him comfort. Morrison was as big a champion of him as Sherrie was, and he found his team was frequently getting the tough assignments where real digging was needed, or a rapid response.
Like today.
The President had taken it upon himself to invite a guest aboard Air Force One without telling anyone. It apparently happened from time-to-time, though this was the first time Leroux had been involved.
So far the guest was coming up clean, though that could just be because they had nothing on him besides a name. They were running it against every database they had and were tapping South African sources where they could.
Yet so far, all they had was a name and address, and a photo they thought might be him.
“This is interesting.”
Leroux looked over at one of his team, Marc Therrien. “What?”
“He’s related to the South African President.”
“We knew that, didn’t we?” Leroux quickly glanced at the notes he had made. “Yeah, the agent who reported it said he was his cousin.”
“Sorry, boss, a little tired, I forgot.” Therrien took a long drag on a Red Bull.
Leroux’s mouth watered. He had kicked his long time addiction to the stuff at Sherrie’s insistence, yet he had to admit there were times, especially mid-yawn, where he’d kill to have just a sip of the caffeine infused drink.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, tearing his eyes away.
“Whoa.”
The entire team paused, looking at Therrien.
“What?”
“You’ll never guess where he just came back from.”
Leroux felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Where?”
“Moscow.”
Madison Cove, Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland
Pam Wimbush watched as the Military Police officer stepped up to the door and knocked. It had taken less than ten minutes for them to arrive, and it was probably closer to five, her body fueled with adrenaline that seemed to make everything feel longer.
“You don’t think I tried that?” she snapped, immediately regretting it. “Sorry, I’m just worried.”
“I’ll get you to step back, ma’am,” said the second MP. He noticed her stomach. “Umm, maybe you should sit in your car, let us handle this.”
She nodded, stepping back, with no intention of getting in her car.
The first MP slammed on the door with his fist. “Military Police, please open the door!”
Nothing.
He looked at his partner. “What do you think?”
“We’ve gotta know. Open ’er up.”
The MP broke the glass with the back of his flashlight then reached inside, unlocking the door. He pushed it open, stepping inside. “Military Police! Is anyone here?” The two officers stepped inside, listening for any sign of life, as Pam crept through the door behind them.
She gasped.
The MPs turned. “What?”
She pointed to a table in the hallway, Cecilia’s purse sitting on it. “That’s her purse. She’d never leave without her purse.” She stared at the officers. “Something’s wrong. I know it.”
The first MP pointed at her. “Wait here.”
Her feet froze, yet her eyes roamed, looking for any clue as to what might have happened to her friend. She could hear the MPs calling out as they searched the house, one of them heading into the basement only to return a minute later.
“Nobody’s here,” said the first MP. He turned to Pam. “You’re certain she’s missing?”
Pam nodded emphatically. “She was supposed to be at my baby shower today but she didn’t show, and I made some calls while I was waiting for you and she missed a meet-and-greet yesterday with her daughter.”
“How old is the child?”
“Four.”
“Where’s her husband?”
“He’s in South Africa, I think, with the President. He works on Air Force One.”
Air Force Base Waterkloof, Outside Pretoria, South Africa
Senior Airman Cameron Lennox emptied his pockets and placed everything in the dull gray plastic tray. It was routine, everyone having to go through the scanner, no matter how high your clearance level.
Except the President of course.
His finger swept over the memory key in his right front pocket. He had been told it wouldn’t trigger any alarm and if it were discovered, simply to claim he had forgotten he had it.
It’s filled with movies to kill time with.
“You don’t have a pacemaker or any other implanted device?”
Lennox glanced at the guard, a man he knew well. The question was asked with half a grin. “Huh?” He had forgotten that new security protocols had been implemented for this trip and his heart suddenly leapt into his throat.
“The new scanner wipes everything electronic. New protocol to combat bugs.”
“He’s okay!” laughed Senior Airman Jerry Cornel, shoving him from behind. Lennox stumbled through the scanner, almost yelping in panic, his hand gripping the memory key in his pocket.
“You’re clear,” said the agent, handing him the tray with his things. He nodded, saying nothing, his head down as he filled his pockets. His upper lip was coated in sweat, the cool morning breeze only sending a chill through his entire body. He rushed toward the stairs rolled up to the rear of the highly customized Boeing 747-200, the model so unique it was actually classified as a VC-25A.
He climbed the stairs, nodding to the flight attendants, their crisp Air Force uniforms always a surprise to the first timers. He stared back at the crowd gathered behind security tape, a ring of Secret Service and local police keeping the crowds at bay as the President and his family went through the standard goodbyes.
Yet he wasn’t looking at them.
He was searching the crowd, looking for the man who had kidnapped him, unsure of what to do, now that the memory stick had been wiped clean.
They’re going to kill my family.
He felt sick.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
“What was he doing in Moscow?”
“Cancer treatment,” replied Marc Therrien. “Apparently he was at the Hertzen Moscow Oncology Research Institute in Moscow for almost six months.”
Leroux tapped his lips, thinking. “Sounds expensive.” The ties between Russia and South Africa were strong, so a South African citizen travelling there for specialized cancer treatment didn’t surprise him, though why Zokwana wouldn’t have sought treatment in his own country was a question that needed to be answered. He turned to Therrien. “See if you can get your hands on those hospital records. I want to know what he was treated for, what the outcome was, and why he was treated there and not at home.”
Somebody tapped on the office divider, Leroux sitting in the center of a cluster of cubicles that housed his staff. He pushed himself to his feet at the sight of his boss, Leif Morrison. Morrison waved him down. “You weren’t in your office, thought I’d find you here.”
“All the op centers are in use and nobody would let me book a meeting room for twelve hours.”
Morrison chuckled. “No, I doubt they would.” Somebody shoved a chair toward him and he sat. “What have you got?”
“Thulas Zokwana. South African national born in Nkandla on April 25th, 1966, wife and five kids.” Leroux tapped his tablet, bringing up a photo then flipping it around for M
orrison to see. “We’re pretty sure this is him. This is from a driver’s license photo.”
“How’d you get that?”
Randy Child snickered. “Hacked their DMV.”
Morrison held up a hand. “What I don’t know, I don’t have to tell my boss. Any red flags yet?”
Leroux nodded. “Yeah, he was treated for cancer in Moscow recently.”
Morrison’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Moscow?”
“Yup. Six months, apparently.”
“Sounds expensive.”
“That’s what the boss said,” laughed Child. Child suddenly blushed, eyes cast to the ground. “Umm, I mean my boss.” He panicked. “I mean, not that you’re not my boss, I mean—”
Morrison raised a hand, saving the poor kid. “I got it.” He turned to Leroux. “Do we know why Moscow, and where the funds came from?”
“Not yet, but we’re digging.”
“Keep digging. I don’t trust anything that might link back to the Russians.”
Air Force Base Waterkloof, Outside Pretoria, South Africa
Thulas Zokwana smiled broadly as he shook President Starling’s hand. The man was impressive, taller than he had imagined with a strong grip. One that put his weakened one to shame. He had always been proud of his handshake, it always firm, confident and dry, though after the past six months, he was a shadow of his former self. His wife had barely recognized him, crying when he had arrived. He knew she was happy to see him though the fear in her eyes was obvious.
And he knew she didn’t believe him when he told her he was free of the cancer that had riddled his body. His treatment had been experimental and only available in Russia and China, it not yet approved in the West or in his country. The doctor in Cape Town had said he would be dead within weeks without it, and even then, the likelihood of survival was slim to none.
He hadn’t mentioned that part to his wife.
Or his cousin when he had reached out.
President Surty had surprised him by agreeing to a meeting. He had always thought him an asshole, though he thought that way about anyone who was more successful than he was, which unfortunately was almost everyone he knew.
Zokwana knew he wasn’t a smart man. He could barely read, his math was non-existent, and he had never been much for skilled labor. But he was strong. Ask him to move a pile of wood from one spot to another and he’d put his back into it and get the job done without complaint.
Unfortunately, there were millions of men like that.
Men far younger than him.
He had always kept busy and always kept food on the table, though not much of a roof over their heads. The shantytowns where they lived were miserable, things not improving at all since apartheid had been swept away. The promises echoed hollow now, though he hoped one day his children might do better than their father.
At least they can read and do their math.
“I understand you’re a cancer survivor.”
Zokwana nodded, tuning back into the conversations, his cousin rattling off the story of how he had used a special program he had created to send disadvantaged people abroad for complex health issues their own system couldn’t handle. It had turned into a quick pitch for funding that the American President politely nodded at before returning his attention to the man whose hand he was shaking.
“I am, Mr. President. I just returned home a few weeks ago.”
“And you’re off already!”
Zokwana bowed slightly. “I am. I felt it my duty to try to raise awareness of how the initiative started by my cousin—I mean President Surty—could save lives. A friend told me that Kenya is thinking of starting its own program and felt I might be able to persuade them with my story.”
“It’s an honorable effort, I wish you luck.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
Zokwana bowed again then joined the line clearing security.
“Please place all metal objects in the tray.” Zokwana emptied his pockets. “Do you have any medical implants?” asked the guard.
Zokwana shook his head. “No.”
“Please proceed.” The man waved him toward the scanner and he stepped through, filling his pockets on the other side. He was ushered toward the plane and climbed the stairs, winded by the time he reached the top. He stood in awe at the sight.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” said a young woman, her smile wide and from all outward appearances, genuine.
“Th-thank you,” he managed, his mouth agape as he took in the opulence. It was unlike any plane he had ever seen, though it was only the third plane he had ever been inside. The planes that had taken him to and from Moscow had everyone crammed in like goats, but not this one.
It’s a hundred times the size of my home!
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out as he was led toward the seating area. He read the text and frowned.
This isn’t good.
Senior Airman Cameron Lennox had had no choice but to contact the men involved. The memory stick had been wiped, that much he had been able to confirm. They said they would know if he didn’t do as told and he couldn’t risk them killing Cecilia and Janice by doing nothing.
He had sent them a text.
And the reply had shocked him.
Go to the main deck. Guest seating area.
He climbed the stairs, two at a time, his palms sweaty, his shirt soaked, sweat dripping off his earlobes.
He felt like shit, sick from worry.
“Airman, are you feeling okay?”
Lennox nearly pissed his pants as he grabbed the railing, bringing himself to an immediate halt. “Umm, yes, Mr. President.”
“You look like hell, son.”
“I guess the local cuisine didn’t agree with me, sir.”
President Starling leaned in, lowering his voice. “Pepto-Bismol helped me to sleep last night. I think sometimes our American stomachs are a little too delicate.”
Lennox forced a smile on his face. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“Listen, you try to take it easy and I’ll have the galley rustle up a good old American cheeseburger and fries for you.”
“That’s not necessary, Mr. President. I’ll be fine.”
Starling slapped him on the back. “Your choice, son, but now that I’ve said it, I think I’m in the mood for one. You just let the chef know if you change your mind.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
Starling continued on, his wife and daughter smiling politely at him as he stood against the wall, giving them room, not that there were many cramped quarters aboard. He headed for the guest seating area and stepped to the side as a black man who looked as bad as he felt stepped in front of him.
“Excuse me, where is the bathroom?”
Lennox pointed. “Over there, sir.”
The man took his hand, shaking it. Lennox’s eyes popped wide as he felt something pressed into his palm as the man leaned forward, lowering his voice.
“Remember your family.”
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
“Got something, boss.”
“What is it?” echoed Leroux and Morrison, Leroux blushing, Morrison deferring with a wave of his hand.
Child grinned, then thought better of it. “Newspaper article from six months ago. Looks like South African President Surty was interviewed about a new program that sent citizens outside of the country for medical treatments that were beyond the South African system’s capabilities. Mostly experimental stuff. Last ditch stuff, if you know what I mean.”
“Is Zokwana mentioned?”
“Yes. He was challenged as to why a member of his family was part of the program.”
“And his response?” asked Morrison.
“He said that his cousin was dying and this was his only hope. He questioned the reporter why a member of his family should be discriminated against merely because he is related, then ended the interview.”
“He’s got a point,” said Therrien. “I mean, if he�
��s eligible, then why not?”
“Not our concern,” said Morrison. “So who pays for this?”
“The government pays the travel and accommodations, and usually the treatment is donated by various institutions around the world. In this case the entire medical bill was foot by Moscow.”
Therrien grunted. “Generous of them.”
“The Russians are always trying to make themselves look good on the international stage,” said Leroux.
“Then they should stop invading people,” muttered Therrien.
Morrison chuckled. “I see your staff are as blunt as you are sometimes.”
Leroux flushed. He usually wasn’t blunt, if anything, he was too tactful. Unless frustrated. If enough idiocy was displayed, his filter would sometimes fail and what he was truly thinking would slip out.
He encouraged it with his staff.
“If we ignore the ulterior motives, and just look at the program for what it appears to be on the surface, then it seems innocent enough.”
Morrison nodded. “Agreed. And his status? Is he cured?”
Sonya Tong rolled into view from her cubicle, one of Leroux’s top young analysts who also had a little crush on the barely older Leroux. “Not according to the hospital records. He’s terminal.”
“Really?” Leroux looked at Morrison, surprised. He snapped his fingers, closing his eyes as he tried to remember the original report. “Wasn’t the purpose of his visit to share his success story with others?”
“That’s how I remember it,” agreed Morrison.
Leroux flipped through his tablet, stopping at the original communique. “Yeah, here it is, he’s going to Kenya to talk about how his treatment had been a success. Apparently the Kenyan’s are looking to start their own program.”
“How long does he have left?” asked Morrison.
“Weeks.”
Leroux’s chest tightened. “And he has a family.”
“Wife, five kids.”
Leroux tapped his lips. “Why does a man with three weeks left to live get on an airplane to Kenya claiming he’s cured? Wouldn’t he want to spend his final days with his family?”
The Lazarus Moment Page 6
