DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE

by Doug Dollard

  Everywhere civilians would be sheltering in converted cellars, underground stations, public shelters or private Anderson shelters buried in their backyards. In the distance artillery batteries opened up, blasting away at targets caught in the stabbing streams of powerful searchlights. A cacophony of exploding bombs and artillery shells sent shock waves reverberating down the corridors as the whole of London was pummeled by exploding bombs. Rack after rack of high explosives rained down until the noise became one continuous roar.

  As the reverberations grew in intensity the doors and windows within Queen Anne’s began to shake and shudder until she thought they must surely shatter. Never before had the bombs fallen so near. Queen Anne’s had so far been spared the devastation so much of the city had suffered. But tonight the explosions approached in an ever-tightening pattern, shaking and trembling Queen Anne’s very foundations. Each deafening explosions erupted seemingly everywhere around her.

  Standing in the center of the ward she counted the seconds as the shock waves from the impact of exploding bombs crept ever nearer. Londoners knew the German bombers dropped their bombs in sticks of four. If you were close enough you could count the impacts as they approached.

  Captured in the sheer exhilaration of terror she stopped abruptly in the center of the ward and listened as the approaching explosions drew near. One massive explosion landed so near the shockwave reverberated through the building, blowing out windows along the west side of the ward. Slowly she began to count out loud, one, two…….

  Queen Anne’s was west of the Thames in central London. The German Bombers targeted the ports and central London but their targeting was notoriously inaccurate with bombs often falling on empty fields on the outskirts of London. It was pure chance Queen Anne’s had never been hit. But tonight it seemed as if the entire German air force was attacking the very heart of London.

  Standing frozen in place, mesmerized by the sheer horror of what was about to happen Mary turned her face upward, held her breath and closed her eyes.

  Chapter 6

  CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia

  Present Day

  I slept fitfully throughout the night and awoke earlier than usual. I grabbed the alarm off the nightstand and held it up until my eyes focused. The glowing hands on the clock face read ten after five in the morning.

  It was mid January and sunrise was still at least two hours off. Unable to sleep I rolled out of bed, donned my sweats, running shoes and wool cap and headed outside for a morning run. In winter Washington D.C. gets only occasional snowstorms. Last night was one of those occasions. The streets and sidewalks were covered in new snow that crunched beneath my feet.

  I headed for the park across the street. The streetlights were still on, casting long grey shadows across the unbroken snow. There were only a few cars on the roads this early, their headlights glowing eerily through the morning mist. I ran my usual six-mile circuit through the park, avoiding the areas where drifting snow was piled several feet deep.

  The morning air was crisp and it burned my lungs as I gradually increased my pace. In the frigid air my breath hung in condensed, translucent clouds. Around me snow swirled down in swift spirals, floating like moths into naked tree branches and swarming around the streetlamps. Despite the cold I was drenched in sweat by the time I eased into my sixth mile.

  Back in my apartment I stripped out of my sweat soaked clothes and headed for the shower. I turned the water on full hot and waited until the room was thick with steam. I stood with my head directly under the showerhead, letting the hot stream of water beat against my body.

  Dressed in my underwear I ate a light breakfast of toast and tea before slipping into the new white shirt I had purchased the previous day. Choosing a pale blue tie with tiny white dots I grabbed the only suit I owned, a dark blue pinstripe.

  By the time I had finished dressing the first muted streaks of sunlight were filtering through the pre-dawn darkness. Slipping on my heavy wool overcoat I left my apartment just after seven, giving me plenty of time to make an eight o’clock meeting with my section chief at CIA Headquarters in Langley.

  Outside the sun only now was breaking above the horizon. I pulled the collar of my wool coat up around my neck as I exited the building’s elevator into a frigid parking garage in the basement.

  The Shelby Mustang I’d purchased a year ago was parked on the far side of the garage. Despite the cold the engine roared to life as soon as I turned the key in the ignition. Clouds of white exhaust billowed out behind me as I eased the Mustang up the garage ramp and out onto the street. Outside giant white flakes of new snow were descending from a dark grey overcast.

  Despite having been cleared overnight the streets were blanketed in new snow. Pristine white powder crunched under the Mustang’s all weather tires as I turned onto Park Street. In the park dormant and leafless trees sprouted from the landscape like sticks of licorice and cinnamon stuck in white frosting.

  I made the commute to Langley in less than twenty minutes. At the main entrance I flashed my identity badge and passed through the twelve-foot chain link fence that surrounded the agency. A tiny microchip embedded in my badge was encoded with my identification and security access level.

  CIA Headquarters in Langley consisted of two steel and glass six-story office towers connected by a four-story core. I parked in the employee parking lot and walked the short distance to the glass-walled entryway. Beyond the lobby were security turnstiles where I presented my identification badge to a guard dressed in a blue blazer. Sliding my badge into an electronic reader the guard noted the information that appeared on his monitor before handing it back and ushering me forward to a bank of elevators.

  I rode the elevator to the fourth floor where Section Chief Carter had his office. The bronze plaque outside his door read:

  Martin W. Carter

  Directorate of Intelligence

  Science and Technology

  Carey Smith had been the section chief’s secretary for as long as anyone could remember. A woman of indeterminate age and meticulous appearance she greeted me with a warm smile as I entered.

  “The section chief is expecting you Mister Riley,” she said cheerfully. “You may go right in.” I smiled back and thanked her, taking a moment to hang my coat on the rack next to the door to her office.

  Carter was one of several section heads within the Directorate of Intelligence and Analysis. I worked for him as one of the science and technology analysts within the Directorate. January marked my second anniversary as an intelligence analyst.

  The door leading to the section chief’s office was open so I walked through. Inside special lighting replicating the spectrum of natural sunlight made it seem more like June than January.

  Catching sight of me the section chief, a man in his early sixties, avuncular, professional and handsome motioned me to one of the two high backed leather chairs in front of his desk. Despite his advancing years he appeared lean and muscular, his movements fluid, almost elegant.

  Relegated to administrative duties Carter had once been one of the company’s stellar covert field agents. An unfortunate incident in the late seventies put an end to his career and nearly his life. Arrested in Thailand by government intelligence agents in the pay of the Chinese he was thrown into the notorious Bangkok Hilton prison where he was starved, repeatedly beaten and horribly tortured. Three years later the intervention of a third party government secured his release. He was reportedly never the same afterwards. The Agency gave him his current assignment in all likelihood because it was devoid of risk.

  I chose the chair on my left and eased myself into it. The section chief intertwined the fingers of his hands and rested his arms outstretched on the top of what was otherwise an empty desktop. On his left wrist showing just above the cuff of his white shirt I noticed a thick band of pink scar tissue resembling a corded bracelet.

  “Michael,” he began and abruptly stopped. “I believe your prefer Michael,” he inquired.

>   “Yes sir, Michael’s fine”, I confirmed.

  “Miss Smith informs me you’ve discovered something you think bears further scrutiny?”

  “I have sir,” I answered quietly, less certain this was as good an idea as I had previously thought. Carter said nothing further, apparently expecting me to carry the conversation from here.

  “I sent you something last night sir,” I began, my voice unsteady. “It’s in your inbox if you’d care to check it.” There wasn’t a computer anywhere in the room and I began to grow increasingly uncomfortable.

  “I read your report last night,” Carter said, saving me further embarrassment. “It was interesting. Intriguing even. How did you come by this information?”

  My heart was beating faster now with what I presumed was the section chief’s encouragement.

  “I stumbled over some obscure communications between the station chief in Riyadh and our Department of State. The information originated with an agent in Dubai, a native fluent in Arabic. After that I just followed up on bits and pieces of related cables and reports. Nearly all of it originating with agents in the field. It took me six months of digging but I managed to put together a plausible scenario that I thought should be brought to your attention.”

  “I see,” the section chief commented coolly.

  “I did this all on my own time sir,” I clarified, thinking his sudden coolness might be concern for how I was spending my time.

  “I have no problem with initiative Michael,” he said warmly. “I believe your report has merit. But I think we are a long way from drawing conclusions based on what you have discovered so far. You have drawn conclusions that are only one of a number of alternatives that would explain the underlying facts.”

  “I know sir,” I interjected excitedly. “But this group called The Shield of Islam appears to be at the heart of eccentric and disturbing behavior. It is composed of members of the royal families from each of the emirates. They have access to billions of dollars and are making sizeable investments in alternative energy research around the world.”

  “And you see this as a threat?”

  “No sir, I see it as buying influence. Their interests appear to lie in thwarting advances in these technologies. The money buys them access so they are better able to decide which research projects pose the greatest threat to oil. And they have direct links to OPEC.”

  The section chief said nothing for a while. He just sat in his chair staring quizzically at me from across his desk.

  “Sir,” I continued, concerned now he was loosing sight of the entire point of my report.

  “This week an experiment in the feasibility of fusion energy is scheduled at the Global Energy Resources Laboratories in Wilton Park outside of London.”

  “You are referring to attempts to create and hold a thermonuclear plasma core in a magnet field?” He asked, obviously knowledgeable about the technology.

  “Yes sir, I think there may be an attack against the facility.” I had laid it out for him. Something I hadn’t done in my report. Carter’s expression didn’t change. I had just told him I believed there would be a terrorist attack against a significant target and he didn’t even blink.

  “Michael, if practical fusion were possible what might be the implications?” he asked, seemingly oblivious to my conclusion.

  “Any significant alternative to petroleum would inevitably realign the power structure in the Middle East by reshaping existing dependencies on OPEC countries and altering international alliances.”

  It was a lot to take in and not an insignificant leap to conclude the oil producing countries would act against any viable advance in alternative energy research. But the Section Chief already knew that. Perhaps he did understand after all.

  “I think Michael, you have uncovered something worthwhile here. But your conclusions are not entirely supported by the facts. You’ve done good work here but this report, although thorough and insightful is not actionable. But please, keep at it. You seem to have a knack for this sort of thing.”

  With that I was dismissed. Clearly I had made a mistake and it wasn’t going to bode well for my career at the CIA. I felt a cold uneasiness in the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t entirely disappointment. If my analysis had merit hundreds of people would loose their lives. I thanked the section chief and left.

  My job as an analyst at CIA headquarters earned me a cubical three floors underground in the Turner Building. Everything below ground was referred to as the dungeons. Several weeks ago I had scheduled two weeks of personal time, the first of my accumulated personal days I had taken since I joined the agency. Today was the official start of my two weeks leave. So instead of returning to my cubical in the dungeons I headed back to my car.

  I had hoped for a better outcome but Section Chief Carter’s decision left me little choice. My flight to Heathrow had already been scheduled and I was determined to do whatever was required to prevent another catastrophe that would leave in its wake hundreds of dead.

  * * *

  Immediately after the agent’s departure Section Chief Carter phoned the assistant to the Secretary of State. Carter had reviewed Riley’s personnel file as was his normal procedure before granting a meeting with any of his analysts. Riley’s file was particularly impressive. Three tours in Afghanistan, a purple heart, a silver star and multiple commendations from his commanding officers. His leadership in the field had won him a trip to OCS in Quantico and promotion to second lieutenant.

  The young analyst was apparently quite bright as well judging from his academic accomplishments at New York University and later graduate studies at Duquesne where he studied physics. His instructors at the academy in Quantico had praised his abilities and recommended him for fieldwork, an opportunity Riley inexplicably declined.

  There was nothing in his file to indicate why he had turned down the agency’s recommendation. That in particular puzzled Carter as Riley struck him as precisely the type of person who would feed on the constant peril in which his assignments would place him.

  When his call went through Carter was surprised to find he had been connected directly to the under secretary for political affairs. The undersecretary was in no mood to revisit a subject that had been a thorn in the side of the state department since the new administration had taken office.

  “We’ve been down this path before section chief,” the undersecretary observed impatiently, annoyed at having to address this issue once again. “I believe the secretary has made it clear that unless the agency has discovered the proverbial smoking gun no action against this cultural organization will be authorized. The emirates have been extraordinarily acquiescent with our initiatives to bring peace to the region. That boat you do not want to rock.”

  “I understand sir,” Carter countered using his most diplomatic tone. “But have you actually read the report I sent over last evening?” Carter was referring to the report Riley had filed which he had forwarded to his state department contact after deleting Riley’s name. There was a pause on the other end of the line while it appeared the undersecretary spoke with someone in his office.

  “We’ve read the report section chief. Its conclusions are mostly supposition. I see nothing in it that proves the Shield of Islam has any interest other than preserving the emirates’ rich cultural heritage. There is certainly no reason to suspect they would be involved in an act of terrorism least of all one against a facility in which the emirates have made a substantial investment.” The undersecretary’s voice was strained and growing increasingly impatient.

  “I thought we had reached an understanding section chief. Didn’t we agree the agency would take no further action regarding the Shield of Islam without first conferring with the department of state?”

  “Yes sir, we did have that agreement.”

  “Then I strongly suggest you find the agents who went rogue and put a stop to their insubordination.” With that the undersecretary rang off leaving Carter with little choice but to shelve Rile
y’s report.

  Carter had given the agent little encouragement, but neither had he forbad him from further investigation. For the moment at least there was little else he could do. Human resources had informed him Riley had put in for two weeks PTO so he wouldn’t be a problem for a while.

  The report’s conclusion there was a moderate to high risk of an attack against Global Energy Resources was troubling but far to vague in its details to warrant countermeasures. The Shield of Islam’s members were nearly all related to the ruling Emirs. Unless there were a direct and incontrovertible link to a terrorist act the Department of State would never condone covert actions against them. Carter had contemplated sharing this information with the young analyst but decided against it as the threat was not actionable. It was a decision he would later come to regret.

  * * *

  Before I left Washington I had one more task to complete. I put the Mustang back on Curtis Memorial Parkway and made the drive over to Oak Hill Cemetery. The expected snowstorm had gotten marginally worse that morning. Snow had been falling steadily since the previous evening and the horizon had turned from a hazy grey to an opaque white.

  Oak Hill Cemetery is in the center of Georgetown lying along Rock Creek. It was designed after a nineteenth century English garden. Its twenty-two acres were filled with winding paths and terraced gardens descending into Rock Creek Valley.

  The threat of a snowstorm had people hunkering down inside their homes and office buildings. There was no one at the cemetery when I arrived. One year ago my fiancé Kate Sutherland lapsed into a coma after a routine operation to remove her parathyroid gland. She was only twenty-eight years old. Her doctors later discovered she suffered a rare allergic reaction to the anesthesia used in her surgery. A genetic defect they said, unpredictable and tragically unavoidable.