by J. B. Turner
“Very interesting place. We heard about it six years ago. Then a year after that we had an observation team assigned to get near the facility. And then we heard it was being used as a dark site, run by a quasi-CIA organization made up of former directors of the CIA and handpicked guys from the Pentagon. It was used to train, house, and monitor a team of assassins.”
“When you say we heard, how did you hear?”
“I’m not divulging how we got this information.”
“Was it electronic surveillance?”
“I’m not going there.”
Mahoney sighed as his gaze wandered across the parking lot. “I’m going to give you a name. And you can confirm or deny that this guy was involved. An operative.”
The man nodded.
“Does the name Nathan Stone mean anything to you?”
The man nodded. “Yes. It most certainly does.”
Mahoney had heard that now from three separate sources. “Officially, he doesn’t exist.”
“Neat trick, isn’t it?”
“How did you hear about all this?”
“As I said before, I’m not going there.”
Mahoney went quiet.
“Look, we heard whispers on the grapevine. That’s how it usually starts.”
“How exactly?”
The man sighed. “Can’t say any more.”
“Why?”
“It may inadvertently reveal a source.”
“So how did you go about verifying that there was indeed a facility off the coast of mainland Scotland?”
“Canadian and Scottish links run deep.”
“Sure.”
“So we had a fishing boat with a couple of our guys on board taking long-range photos. Then we hired a chopper and got within five hundred yards before it was fired at. We also had a drone used for aerial photography. But we got photos of a former CIA operative who’d trained Stone. We also intercepted encrypted messages that mentioned his name.”
“You’ve got all that?”
“Yes. And we’re quite sure about all of it.”
“What else?”
“OK, so this secret facility is run by a private company.”
“Details?”
The man shook his head. “Not at this stage.”
“When can I get that?”
“When we’re ready to give it to you. There’s something else I want to let you in on.”
“What?”
“This secret facility in Scotland was effectively burned to the ground, destroyed, in a series of fires and explosions.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“The work of Nathan Stone.”
Mahoney cleared his throat, mind racing.
“There’s something else you might want to know.”
Mahoney leaned a bit closer as the man lowered his voice.
“We’ve now uncovered a second facility.”
“A second facility?”
The man nodded.
“Where?”
The man looked around, as if sensing he was being watched. He turned back to face Mahoney. “Here in Canada.”
Mahoney’s heart was beating fast. He had heard similar rumors from an intelligence source in DC, which was what had prompted his move to Canada. “Where exactly?”
“Can’t reveal that just now.”
“And the Canadian government knows about this?”
“Yes, they do. But there’s nothing they can do.”
“Why not?”
“Think about it. Are they going to get their powerful neighbor riled up? Best to watch and wait.”
“What else?”
The man’s eyes were hooded. “I believe you’re at grave risk.”
“In what way?”
The man didn’t answer. His window went up, and he calmly reversed out of the space. He pulled away, disappearing into the night.
Ten
Nathan was tailing the Jeep from the parking garage after watching the surreptitious meeting with Mahoney.
He followed the vehicle with a new GPS tracking app to the western suburbs of Toronto. The Jeep parked in the driveway of an upscale detached house.
Nathan drove on past for half a mile, then doubled back. He pulled out a telephoto lens and photographed the man getting out of his car. Then he uploaded the pictures to his handler.
He waited for a few minutes, then drove past the house and saw the number on the door and the license plate of the Jeep, and messaged those details too.
Nathan headed out of the suburbs and caught the freeway back into Toronto.
His cell phone rang and he switched to speakerphone. “Very fine work, bro,” his handler said.
“What do we know about this guy?”
“He’s a senior intelligence operative of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. Matthew Blanc. Former military attaché to the UN. So he knows his way around.”
“I’m wondering if this guy is being used as a conduit by the Canadian government to alert the journalist, which in turn would spook the Americans, in effect using the journalist as a proxy to get this facility out of the way, or is this guy acting alone?”
“Very good question. I suspect this guy is acting alone. It’s an ideological thing with him. What they’re doing doesn’t sit right. That’s what we believe. The smarter elements within the Canadian government, while not keen to draw attention to it, understand that America needs to keep all security options on the table.”
Nathan said nothing.
“We’re very pleased how you’re responding to this challenge, Nathan. And the manner you’ve gone about your business. The report from our psychologist is most impressive. And we’re hopeful we can both get what we want. Namely, us getting you to deal with this pest of a journalist, and you getting your sister back to where she should be.”
Nathan wondered if the guy was fucking with him. Had the psychologist advised his handler to mess with him? To ask him questions to rile him? To tease out his anger?
“As a token of our thanks, bro, we think you’ve earned some gratitude.”
“What sort of gratitude?”
“As a small token of our good faith, you can talk to your sister. How does that sound?”
“When?”
“When you get back to your apartment, the phone will ring five times. Then pick up.”
Eleven
Half an hour later, Nathan was back in his downtown Toronto apartment. He fixed himself a coffee. He took a couple of large gulps as he sat down, awaiting the call.
The time dragged as he waited . . . and waited.
Eventually, just after one in the morning his cell phone rang. He let it ring five times as instructed and picked up.
“Nathan, is that you?” The voice of his beautiful, damaged sister.
Nathan closed his eyes. His mind flashed to images of his sister killing their father on that terrible night in their room in the Bowery. Blood splatter on her face as she drove the scissors in again and again. All these years later, the images were still there. Haunting him. “Helen, it’s me. How are you?”
“I’m good, Nathan. Your friends are so cool.”
“That’s good to hear. They treating you nice?”
“Nice? They’re treating me supernice, Nathan. One of them—I forget his name—he said his grandmother’s not well, but he tries to see her as often as he can. How sweet is that?”
Nathan felt his throat tighten. Her voice was so innocent. So pure. The same singsong cadence she’d had since she was a girl. It was like she was locked into that time. While she was now a woman, her childlike qualities and mannerisms had been preserved. It was the same voice that had tried to reassure him when he wet the bed as a child. Back then he had been nervous, anxious, racked by fear and anger, which would manifest itself in rage, violence, and assassinations all these years later.
He had become a cold, soulless monster. He knew that. He understood that. And he also understood that his sister was cocooned in a parallel universe of psychiatric care, w
ith no real contact with the outside world for decades. “That’s a very nice thing, yes,” he said, trying to muster some conviction. “Aren’t you tired? It’s way past your usual bedtime.”
“It’s just after ten, Nathan, it’s not that late.”
Nathan realized she was on Pacific time. Had they transferred her to Los Angeles, Seattle, or somewhere in between? Or had she been given a misleading time on purpose? “Sorry, my watch must’ve stopped. Are you eating well?”
“Eating real good. Fresh apple pie, ice cream, lots of it.”
“Helen, don’t overdo it. It’s important we don’t overeat.”
“I know, Nathan, but you know how it is. I get bored, I get sad, and I feel good when I eat.”
“Fair enough. So what about movies? Are you able to watch any movies?”
“Listen to this, Nathan. Your friends have a fantastic huge TV, and I’ve been watching everything. Blade Runner, Star Wars, amazing. And so, so kind, Nathan.”
“Tell me, Helen, are you able to get out in the sun? I know you enjoy the sun in Florida, don’t you?”
“It’s very foggy here in the morning, but by lunch it’s great. The weather’s nice.”
Nathan wondered if she could be in San Francisco. But then again, she could really be anywhere. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too, Nathan. When will I see you again? I like when you visit.”
“It won’t be long, sis. And you know what? I’m looking forward to seeing you again too.”
There was silence for nearly a minute before his handler came back on. “She’s been well looked after, bro.”
Nathan sighed.
“Soon as this is over, everything will be back to normal.”
Twelve
It was the dead of night when Clayton Wilson’s Gulfstream touched down at the private island off the Florida coast. The others had flown in the previous evening. The air was like glue. Lightning bugs were illuminated by the harsh exterior light. Security guards wearing dark suits escorted him from the limousine. Then into the sprawling mansion. The host shook Wilson’s hand on the step.
Wilson followed the man in silence down into the bowels of the house, which contained the surveillance-proofed subbasement conference room. He, like all the other members of the Commission, had to go through an X-ray machine, and all electronic devices were left outside the room.
He sat down at the head of the oval table, with the other members along the sides.
Wilson glanced at the papers in front of him and surveyed the faces staring back at him. He sipped some water and took a few moments to compose himself before he began. “Sorry about the late hour. Couldn’t be helped. OK, this is a progress report update as requested, gentlemen. I will outline our position and when I believe this mission will be accomplished.”
A few nods of approval.
“We’ve had a long time to reflect on what happened at the facility in Scotland. The operation was far from perfect. There were problems with the mission, and for that I accept full responsibility. But what is easy to overlook is that the target, Senator Crichton, was taken out, as was his mistress. The purpose of the mission was to neutralize that threat. And this was done. So in that sense we were successful. The problem was the blowback from Stone.”
Thoughtful looks crossed the table as Richard Stanton scribbled some notes.
“We thought long and hard about him,” Wilson said, “and concluded, after much soul-searching, that if anyone could undertake this operation, it was him. Yes, we could have had him disappeared. But we believe that he is still an invaluable asset to our organization.” Wilson cleared his throat and sipped a glass of water. “You see, Stone took years and millions—and I mean millions—of dollars in investment. His rise from the ashes—from the grave, if you will—gave him and us perfect plausible deniability. What we had not anticipated in any way, shape, or form was him turning the tables on us. And alerting a journalist—Mark Mahoney; you have his file in front of you. We have heard from numerous sources, including two people within the highest echelons of the New York Times—one an ex-lover of his, but also from friendly intelligence agencies, as well as the CIA, no less—that he is piecing together an investigation into our activities.
“His details are limited to what Stone knew. And the people involved were killed when Stone destroyed the facility. That said, Mahoney is clearly a risk we must shut down. And that’s why we’re killing two birds with one stone. We are engaging Stone to delete him, safe in the knowledge that his sister will not live if he doesn’t carry out the task.”
Wilson looked across at Stanton, who was peering over his half-moon specs. “Richard, I’ve been hogging the floor. What are your thoughts?”
“I think the nice thing about Stone again is his atonement,” Stanton said. “You’re right, Clayton. The rationale is sound. The costs involved in destroying what was a secret facility are tens of millions but incalculable with regards to a generation of assassins who would have been honed at the facility. But to me the smart thing about this is that it contains the threat of Stone. If we were to use another asset, perhaps in Canada, then that would mean a potential leak. But in the circumstances, I think Stone understands who runs the show.”
Wilson leaned back in his seat and sighed, looking at the men around him. He could see a lot of nodding, a couple of members scribbling. “I’ve been informed that Nathan is making progress already. Serious progress.”
Stanton said, “What sort of progress has he made?”
Wilson smiled. “Gentlemen, Stone has uncovered the identity of the intelligence operative who has begun to liaise with Mahoney. Already.”
Stanton nodded. “Interesting.”
“This addresses both of our problems. We keep Stone to do the wet work, and Mahoney is rubbed out of the equation. Not to mention that we have begun, after the surveillance of Mahoney’s source, to understand that Canada or some elements of Canadian intelligence are aware of our presence on their soil and don’t like it. But the main priority is this operation. Mahoney. We also need to consider how we push back on this Canadian operative to make sure his bosses get the message.”
Stanton looked around the table. “We all know how this works. There are two possible ways to neutralize someone. You can either blackmail or threaten him into silence, or you can kill him. That’s essentially it.” He shrugged. “To kill a Canadian operative is just asking for trouble. It might spiral out of control, and the facility might be compromised if the media got wind, and not just the New York Times. I’m talking everyone and their dog would love this story. Can you imagine how that would look?”
Wilson sighed. “Not good. I agree with Richard. We can’t just waltz in and kill this guy. It might suit us, but that would bring heat like you wouldn’t believe. It would not end well. Best option? Richard?”
Stanton checked his briefing paper and his notes. “In my opinion, we get into this operative’s private life, find out what we can—we have people that can do that, and very, very quickly. If need be, we could create a scandal . . . Having him silenced through his own misdemeanors is always a good option for everyone.”
More nodding around the table.
“You know what I’m talking about, right?” Stanton asked. “Pictures of him in bed with a girl. A young girl. There are options that can be deployed to neutralize the most lily-white of people.”
“Richard, pass on those thoughts to Stone’s handler,” Wilson said.
Stanton and those around the table nodded.
“But I’d like to task you with finding out everything there is to know about this Canadian operative,” Wilson said. “I want to know his foibles. His past. Girlfriends at college. Drugs perhaps? Postings overseas. Photographed with prostitutes? What about his family? Is that a weak spot? Let’s get into his life.”
Thirteen
It was just after seven in the morning and Nathan was watching the feed of Mark Mahoney in his apartment. The journalist was sitting at his lapt
op, tapping away at the keys.
Nathan stared at the man. He was still running all the scenarios as to how the journalist could die in a way that would look like an accident or natural causes. And at that moment, his favored method was to use the assassination drug of choice, sux, that would kill Mahoney with a heart attack in a matter of minutes. How innocuous. How perfect.
Nathan’s problem was getting close. He could pass Mahoney on the street. Do it that way. But that posed innumerable problems. Being seen as he jabbed him. Surveillance footage, which was all-pervasive. Cell phones everywhere. But a disguise would solve that problem.
There were so many ways to kill and make it look like a tragic death. Nathan had heard it called a contrived accident. It was an accurate description. And the sux method was a favorite for secret assassination.
Perhaps the most efficient method was a high fall onto a hard surface. Elevator shaft plunge, stairwell fall, high windows, balconies, terraces, bridges. He had read that Toronto had numerous bridges. But many were over rivers. Sometimes fast moving. That wasn’t guaranteed. Not perfect. Some might drown. Perhaps have a heart attack from the shock. But some might, and almost certainly would, survive. That wasn’t acceptable.
Nathan needed certainty. His handler, and those pulling the strings in the operation, would absolutely need certainty.
The conversation between Mahoney and his wife lingered in his head. It was bothering him. Her voice was soft. Gentle even. Trusting. Nathan imagined her now back home in New York, unaware of what was about to happen to her husband. Then he thought of her children.
Nathan felt strangely reflective. It was strange for him to be having such thoughts. Without fail, he got a mission and he saw it through. He didn’t dwell on things. It wasn’t him. But here he was thinking about the voice of Mrs. Mahoney, in New York. A woman he had never met. Blissfully going about her family life while Nathan was preparing to assassinate her husband, a brilliant American journalist.
The voice of Mahoney’s wife echoed, as if in a dream. The cadence. The tone. Definite New York accent. It reminded Nathan of his beloved sister. A sweet disposition. Innocent even. Then it occurred to him why he couldn’t get the woman’s voice out of his head: she sounded just like his mother.
