by D S Kane
Mastoff has had no comment as yet about his accidental ascent to the Presidency.
* * *
Amos Mastoff lit the cigar he held as he watched cable news. He considered himself the luckiest man on planet Earth. A broad grin split his face. “Dear, things have changed. We’ll be moving into the White House.”
His wife, Valerie, sat beside him on the couch. Her face still showed shock at the speed with which their fortunes had changed.
She was as small as he was large. Both were over sixty years old, and Mastoff’s senate seat in Florida had brought him to the ticket. And Florida had bought the presidency for Wallace Wilton, one-time Governor of California. Mastoff’s other attribute of value was his ultra-conservative Christian fundamentalism that complemented Wilton’s liberal policies.
Mastoff took her hand. “Now we’ll bring religion to those heathens in Washington. I’ll have those bastards fearing God as they fear me.”
* * *
The sub rode the surface, recharging its ancient batteries. Its antenna dragged on the surface behind them. It was nearly seven in the evening on November 10.
Cassie found the thrumming of the engines disconcerting. She’d spent this day until dinner-time consumed by the frequent and vocal planning meetings she had with Avram and JD. She took a bite of a melted cheese sandwich on Russian black bread, made from what they found in the sub’s stores. Days had passed, but she hadn’t forgotten how close to death she and her mercenaries had come.
Now, one day melded into the next, as they hammered out pieces of a plan.
Cassie had been involved in paramilitary operations in Nangarhar Province, Afghanistan, and in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. As she saw it, the problem was, the pieces of the plan were discrete islands of action with huge missing bits still not covered in any way. So much could go wrong. So many people might needlessly die, not just her and her mercenaries. The plan, though well thought out, was merely pieces, like bricks lying on the ground without mortar to hold them together. The planning sessions went on for most of each day. It was very slow plodding work, exhausting, frustrating, like playing chess with a relentless opponent.
She walked the narrow corridor through several hatches, fifty feet to the ready room.
In minutes, they had Wing, Lee Ainsley, and Adam Mahee on Skype, with sound from a satellite speaker. They had all gathered in the living room of her house in Chevy Chase and she could see them on the screen of her notebook computer.
Lee spoke first. “Greenfield tried to kill me using a piece of Mossad technology called Bug-Lok.”
“What?” everyone exclaimed in unison.
“I got it removed yesterday. Gorman said the agency calls it Bug-Lok, and it can see and hear what I see and hear, and track where I was. Plus it contains a bit of lethal poison.”
“How did Gorman know?” Cassie was in a state of panic, her jaw hardened.
“An anonymous tip. That’s all we know.”
“The voice was male. I was the one who talked with him.” Mahee seemed calm.
“And that’s all we know? Can we backtrace the call?” Cassie’s voice was shrill.
“I can. I will. Just another thing on my to-do list.” Wing’s voice sounded hoarse, as if he hadn’t slept in days.
But once again, the conversation quickly deteriorated into accusations between Cassie and William about his failure to locate Watson. Wing shouted. “Okay! Cass, believe me. I’m doing all I can. I know how desperate you are. Take it easy on me.”
“Okay, children,” said an angry Avram Shimmel. “Let’s behave ourselves.” Cassie could see his face go red with anger. “Let’s review the pieces we have.”
Wing said, “We all agree that we need both Achmed Houmaz and Omasu Maru dead, as soon as possible. So, one possible plan calls for us to take out bets on the deaths of each. This piece is easy to implement. The second piece is to leverage Mark McDougal, but we don’t know if he can even help us. What does he really know that we could leverage? Then there’s the piece to make Phillip Watson either totally ineffective or render him dead. On this one, we’ve already failed several times. But there are other pieces that are missing. What to do about Ann and you, Lee? What do we do about GrayNet and the other betting websites that are being used to cause your assassination, Cassie? What do we do about the hitters who might eventually find and murder you? And, are there any other players involved who we don’t know about?”
She shook her head. This isn’t working. “Unless the President has decided that the leak removed all my leverage, I think we’re safe on the last count. And, with the assassination of Wilton by alleged terrorists, the confusion there will keep everyone from even guessing what’s going on. The country is in a massive state of turmoil. We just can’t guess what the new President will do. Meanwhile, Mastoff’s been mentioning that the prior administration caused God to bring about Wilton’s death. What a mess.” She looked at Wing’s face in the tiny screen at the front of the metal conference table in the ready room. “Have we determined why Maru and Houmaz are working together?”
Wing frowned. “No firm evidence. What I told you a week ago is still the best we can come up with. We’ll probably never know for certain.”
Cassie kept asking him the same question even though she knew he had nothing new to tell her. She could hear his sigh on the other end of the vid-cam connection.
“How did the bounty on my life get to be so high?”
Wing shook his head. “I’ve already gone through this with you.” He paused and closed his eyes for a moment. “It appears that when people believe a thing is easy or certain, almost all the bets go to that side and the odds for those that bet on the certain outcome receive a tiny return for their bets. Of course, betting long odds simply means a huge probability of losing your bet and your money. In your case, Cassie, as more hitters got involved, the odds eventually began to move toward even. But in the process of evening the odds, more and more cash dropped into the betting pool for the winners.”
Wing paused and on their Skype connection, Cassie saw him shuffling papers and then the sound of keystrokes before he continued. “There’s a class of betters that have very long odds of living much longer. These are people with terminal diseases that wiped out their savings when their medical insurance declined to pay for their expensive treatment. They won’t be able to support the families they love after they die. This class of assassins with terminal diseases probably feels that a sudden death is relatively painless compared to a protracted one. Earning the bounty is as probable as winning the lottery, but it makes a bigger statement to their families if they die trying.”
Cassie nodded. “Are there that many crazies waiting to die of some disease?”
“Uh, yes. They are being called ‘zombie patriots.’ But there’s another group. A more predictable group of better-organized crooks. These include people whose political views lead them to want to kill someone. This class includes terrorists who see it as a noble effort if they die trying to fund their organization. And finally, there are rational killers. Professional hitters. They can retire if they earn the bounty from murdering you. I think they are among the ones betting on you living, so the odds get better when they kill you.”
Cassie shook her head. So, now it’s no longer “if” they kill me, it’s “when” they kill me. She knew she had started this, with her bets on the deaths of drug company CEOs. But now, she was the likely victim. “Okay, what happens to the bets on my death, if Maru and Houmaz both die?”
“Cassie, the bets are already funded. Like a put or call stock option, the cash is held by the broker until the option is sold or exercised. So, if Maru doesn’t terminate the bet and call back his cash, the bet remains active on the website. Watson’s company has the money in its bank account. Even though I took the cash from GrayNet’s accounts, he’s long gone. There’s no one there to update the connection between funded bets and received cash.” He waited for her to show understanding.
When she nod
ded, Wing did too. “Unfortunately, the updates are automatic, part of Predictive Markets infrastructure. If I try changing the website, the system will simply reimplement them the next time it reconciles itself with its backup files. This happens to ensure system integrity with every daily cycle. I’ve tried to hack into Watson’s emails and his documents, but still can’t determine his password. I think he made it a very long alphanumeric string. Besides, even if I could hack Watson’s web page, it might take many hackers weeks of work. And as long as the other websites sponsoring the bet are being actively managed, we can’t hack them all, because they’ll surely just recycle the bets with the backups on the web pages again.”
Her head fell into her arms. There weren’t any good options.
She faced Shimmel, her jaw trembling. “Avram, take a team and end Achmed Houmaz. Then end Maru. Make the deaths look accidental. Can you do that?”
“Sashakovich, we can’t use contract assassins, because the word may leak while we’re recruiting them. We’ll have no choice but to do this ourselves. But, when either of them dies, the other would likely assume they’re also in danger and change their habits and schedules. Or just disappear. So, to succeed, the two missions must be completed simultaneously.”
He waved his finger through the air to make a point. “Remember Afghanistan and Riyadh? There are serious problems in simultaneous missions. Timing would have to be critical and we’d need a communications blackout between Riyadh and Tokyo, much more difficult than the one we created between Nangarhar and Riyadh a few months ago, since the communications technology of Nangarhar is primitive, but Tokyo’s is very sophisticated and robust.”
He stopped and thought for a few seconds. “And complicating the matter further, none of us has ever completed an assassination. We’re mercenaries. We lack the capabilities. We aren’t capable of making anything look like an accident.”
Cassie’s words came out more as sobs. “It isn’t just my life at stake. Lee and Ann’s too. Do it. And succeed!” Tears formed in the corners of her eyes.
He shook his head. “We can try to make them look like accidents, but I pray that I can come up with a better idea. Then, if we’re successful, you might have William hack the GrayNet website.”
She lifted her head. “You’re saying it was a bad idea for me to use the website to offer bounties on their lives because that made them more cautious?”
“Yes.” Shimmel’s expression showed sadness. “And, should we fail to kill both, then Lee and Ann will surely become Yakuza targets.”
Cassie stiffened. “I’ll end the bets I started on everyone. That was a big mistake.” She shook her head. “Organize simultaneous missions, Avram. Best to try to make them look like accidental deaths if you can, just in case the timing gets fouled.”
Things were already so badly screwed in her life. She wondered about that ancient saying, no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy. What would go wrong next?
* * *
“So, what you’re telling me is the little bitch escaped from more than three thousand hitters, including over twenty Navy SEALs?” The President was obviously distressed as they walked outside the White House into the rose garden.
Greenfield just nodded. “It appears she was exfiltrated by submarine.”
The President stuffed his hands into his pockets against the cold of the day. “Where did she find a fucking sub? Gil, this is unacceptable. Your covert force was there to assist those amateurs, and make sure the throng of idiots took the blame for her death. Now we don’t even know where she is.”
The director wasn’t willing to face his friend and kept looking at the last of the flowers still blooming. “Well, the good news, Mr. President, is that when she does contact Ainsley, we’ll know about it. Bug-Lok will give us everything.” Greenfield smiled, thankful now that he’d not told the President about the device’s ability to eliminate Ainsley as well. If things went badly, maybe he could offer Ainsley up as a substitute for Sashakovich.
“Gil, I want this taken care of before I leave office in January.” The man’s anger was audible.
Greenfield winced. There were three things of which he was certain. The first was that if they attempted the executions after the President left office it was virtually certain there’s be a leak. So the black op must be done before mid-January. The second was that—given the Ben-Levy leaks—the Congressional oversight committee would appoint a special prosecutor within days. Even riskier to run executions from an impeachment hearing. And the third point was that Sashakovich seemed to be a champion at evading death. If Navy SEALs couldn’t do it, how could it be done at all?
He tried to ignore the bad taste in his mouth.
CHAPTER 32
November 4, 1:56 p.m.
Agency headquarters building,
K Street, Washington, DC
Mark McDougal sat at his desk, staring out the window at a gray sky blowing rain in a sudden storm. Clouds moved toward the agency’s headquarters. Hail rattled the windows, falling on startled people, most without umbrellas, trotting down the street or huddled under overhangs of buildings.
He was caught in a tempest of emotions and indecision, torn between telling Gilbert Greenfield, the agency’s director in chief what he’d done with Achmed Houmaz or just keeping quiet.
So much of the information Sashakovich had blackmailed them with had already found its way into the newspapers. Soon they’d all be in prison cells, or possibly even executed for treason. But if he did tell them, they’d want him dead as well. Achmed Houmaz had threatened him, just as his brothers had done the year before this. And Mark McDougal had done what he hoped would best protect his wife and son.
Either way he was fucked. Sashakovich told him when they last met that if he didn’t perform to her specs she’d have his wife and son assassinated along with him, but that she’d have him done last.
He’d pondered this for over two weeks while he watched the drama unfold in Maui, eventually making its way to the major television stations and cable news networks.
Was she now dead? He hoped she was. If she’d somehow escaped Hawaii and simply disappeared, McDougal was certain she’d somehow return wanting vengeance. He prayed she’d not survived her Maui vacation.
He was in a foul mood when the phone on his desk began to buzz. The display on the receiver blinked “Unknown Caller.” Someone he hadn’t coded into his address book. A rare event.
Cautiously, he drew the receiver from its cradle. “McDougal.”
“It’s Sashakovich. And you know you’re going to die soon. This isn’t a threat. Count the days and enjoy each breath. And also know that your wife and son will die before you do. That is, unless you can convince me that I can still make good use of you, which isn’t very likely. Start by telling me why you did it.”
McDougal sighed. He wondered how she’d discovered everything. “Achmed Houmaz threatened me, my wife, and my son. Why should I also react to your threat? If I aid either of you, then whoever kills the other will still kill me and mine.”
“I understand, but I owned you first. You could have told me and I might have been able to protect you. But you didn’t rely on me. Shame on you. Now I’ll have you broiled to ashes. Whether I live or die, we’re not finished yet. If I survive, I’ll make you a sorry man. If I die, I just won’t be there to watch you die. But die you will. When Houmaz calls you next, consider your fate. Figure out some way to get me out of this, Mark.” The line went dead.
* * *
Both subs headed toward Punta Arenas, the southern tip of Chile, making good time. Traveling silent, deep, and fast under the sea during daytime and slowly on the surface while recharging the ancient batteries at night.
Shimmel thought it unlikely they’d been detected, even by the intelligence agencies. As they neared their closest objective he realized it might take another week at most before the subs would close the distance to the United States and, once again, be in the teeth of the storm. He’d completed pl
anning the two missions. He’d selected two teams. One consisted of mercenaries intimately familiar with the Middle East and knowledgeable about undetectable poisons, and the other consisted of mercs who were specialists in combat, including a sniper and a few who could pass for Japanese and spoke the language.
The Middle Eastern team would go in under cover as management consultants for Brewster Jennings, the economic consulting firm that had been Cassie’s cover during her years working as a NOC—non-official cover—at the agency. Their goal was to make the death of Achmed Houmaz look like an accident. This mission looked easier than Shimmel expected it to be, since he suspected that if they were caught, their beheading deaths at the hands of Saudi justice would follow after torture, slow and cruel. With all the mercenaries aware of this, they might be anxious, and the tension they felt would increase the probability of mission failure.
The Japanese team would use OPEC as its cover. This, on the face of it, was a much more dangerous operation because there was no one at OPEC to corroborate their identities and especially since Yakuza were trained killers. There was no way Shimmel could think of to make Maru’s death look like an accident, so instead he’d have this team leave evidence that could shift the blame to Houmaz. Not easy, but he’d thought hard and finally formed a plan.
The trick for the Japanese team would be to conceal their cover identities until they’d lured Maru out. Then, they’d use the sniper to terminate him. The team would leave traces of OPEC’s guilt as they left after completing Maru’s assassination.
The overall intention was to draw the Yakuza and OPEC into fighting a war neither could win.
As the plans for both missions were completed and the missions staffed, Cassie canceled her bets against the assassinations of Phillip Watson and Achmed Houmaz.
