by Krakondack
The expression on Snyder’s face changed instantaneously and dramatically at the mention of Tilbury.
John continued. “What they stumbled on were multiple irrational financial transactions that started in earnest after the takeover. The trail led directly to San Marcos, an island off Panama that Tilbury’s new owners had bought outright. Our colleagues checked it out and found a compact city of cargo containers converted into troop carriers, along with large caches of small arms. The containers are probably en route to US ports right now. Those ports have security provided by a new subsidiary of Morningstar Security Services. We visited one in New Jersey and found them to be rehearsing a quick unload of the containers, with more security officers than union guys doing the work. We think the Chinese are behind this, and that this is the first phase of an invasion force to occupy the United States. The Chinese have a large military base in northern Mexico where at least a segment of the supporting forces might originate. There’s probably more, but that’s what we’ve learned.”
Snyder started to turn red in the face. “That shit eating bastard, Connolly! He’s in on it. That’s why my reports went straight to him, and only him. And why I’ve been doing this crap that nobody cares about.”
“I take it this all rings a bell,” said Frank.
“Sure as hell does. The Chief himself told Connolly to get a report on Morningstar and Derek Ellis.”
“We’ve made his acquaintance,” said John with a bitter expression.
“After the Chief banned them from government contracts, they were as good as sunk,” said Snyder. Then Ellis loaned millions of his own money to Morningstar and kept it completely intact. No layoffs, nothing. Nightwatch comes in soon after that, I think. Tilbury was the mystery to me. We had a dossier on them, ordered up after the takeover. But when I saw it any mention of the takeover was gone. Central details, like who it was that took them over. Not only that, but the Agent who developed it was bumped off. Have you heard about the DC area sniper?”
John nodded, and Snyder continued. “Well, our guy’s ballistics reports are sealed. None of the other victims’ reports are sealed, only his.”
“Couldn’t that just be a CIA thing?” asked Frank.
“If it was a low-level seal, say to keep the report away from the media, yes,” said Snyder. “But I can’t access them, and it takes the permission of the FBI Director to see them. That’s extraordinary.”
“And it means the FBI Director may be complicit,” said Millie. “Gentlemen, be very careful.”
“Robbie Linssman went to the FBI with his suspicions and he’s dead. It fits with the evidence, that’s for sure.” Frank stopped himself before saying anything about the FBI’s interest in them, deciding that this knowledge would only complicate matters with the CIA Agent.
“Did your report reach the President?” John asked of Snyder.
“Very improbable. The Chief’s too busy and too impatient to read our reports. In any event, I keep my reports dry. I describe facts and avoid interpretation. Connolly would have given the Chief a short note in his regular briefing, but if that sniveling chickenshit is what I think he is, he’d have given it a spin to make it seem like a dead end.”
“So who can we tell what we know?” asked Frank. “Who’s in a position to do something with the info, and won’t kill us for the effort?”
“Nobody,” said Snyder flatly, as he poked the remnants of his sandwich. “If you want to stay alive, you don’t tell anybody.”
Snyder looked up at them and noticed their astonished expressions. “What? Shit like this happens once in a while. Most likely China’s trying to make some point to the administration about the debt level, or their involvement in Taiwan, or something equally boring. They’ll show us we’re vulnerable and point made, they’ll stand down. But next time there are negotiations, we’ll have less to say when it comes to making our declarations and expecting China to just take whatever we dish out. Half the cabinet can be involved in something like this, so you’d be running into a machine gun nest if you tried to say something.”
“People have been killed here, Roger. Does that sound like a game to you?” asked Millie.
“They kill people all the time over things that make you scratch your head,” answered Snyder. “Yeah, sometimes it is a game.”
“Don’t you have some sworn duty to protect the country?” asked Frank.
“Nope, I’m not military. My sworn duty is to myself and my family. I’m not dying now, not over some stupid plot.”
“Could we go to the Washington Post?” asked Millie. “We could get some publicity, and then they’d have to act.”
“Ha!” mocked Snyder. “Connolly’s on their speed-dial list. Let me be perfectly clear. We’ll all live longer and happier lives if we just shut up. When it goes down, you’ll know it after the fact. There will be a few headlines and then it’ll fade into the mists of history. Our attentions will turn to the next sex scandal quickly enough.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a while until John spoke up. “Roger, I respect your reluctance here. I was with the SEC at one time and saw the corruption at work there. I stayed with it a lot less time than you did, but I came to hate what the institution of the United States has become. But I’ve also been away from it long enough to realize that I still love America. I can tell the two apart. My closest friend died because he thought the threat was real. He loved America too. So I’m in a quandary here. I’ve been sucked into this and I can’t get uninvolved now. I intend to report what I know. I’d like to report it to someone trustworthy, but failing that, I’ll go to the CIA and tell the story, all the way up to Connolly. His first instinct will probably be to dispose of me. But if I tell a lot of people along the way, maybe he can be convinced that he can’t get away with it and shut the whole thing down. I’ll probably fail. But I can’t live with myself if I do nothing. I hope you can live with your decisions.”
“Chief Torres is probably the one guy in the administration who’s clueless about what’s happening,” said Snyder, now engaged but still negative. “But this America you love, the America of the people? It’s not his America. He was put there by the elites because he’s one of them. His heart pumps elite blood. I think his farts even have an elite smell. The only commoners he even notices are those in their proper place of subservience.”
John nodded to acknowledge Snyder’s point, and took a drink of his ice tea. “I will make him care. This is no negotiating tactic. President Torres’ only hope is the allegiance of the people. The elites will drop him like a hot potato once their plot hatches. His disconnect with the people makes him so vulnerable, it’s hard to imagine the plotters didn’t factor that in as a major asset in their favor. He has to appeal to those people, and the people need him to lead them. He may be regarded by the people as a bad President, but he’s the only one we have right now. And they know it. He has to get past his history and attitudes. If he doesn’t, Morningstar will make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
Snyder gave the appearance of being even more irritated, if that were even possible. “Fine,” he mumbled. “I have someone I could talk to who might have a way of getting you close. But I’m risking my neck here, and I don’t like it.”
“So are we,” said Millie. “We all have a chance, every so often, to do something extraordinary. That’s where small actions have outsized consequences. It might only be once in your life. But that once will define you forever.”
John looked at Millie gratefully, for putting his feelings into words.
“Let’s step out for some sun,” said Snyder, having noticed everyone was done eating.
Once outside, Snyder motioned for them to get into his car. “Check out my new Lexus,” he said, louder than was necessary.
They sat in his car and he activated the built-in phone. “It has this cool phone where you can all hear me, and we don’t have to be in the freaking Deli or parking lot, where three guys from the Agency glance over every now and th
en.”
Snyder made a call on the car’s system.
“Hello.”
“Hi Helen. It’s Roger Snyder.”
“Roger, it’s been a while,” came the reply, in a delighted tone of voice.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. They’ve been keeping me busy lately.”
“I’m guessing you’re calling for Matthew. He’s on duty until late tonight, and as you know, they don’t allow calls at the office.”
“I understand, Helen. I’ll wait until he’s home. Please ask him to call me, even if it’s late.”
“Is it urgent?”
“We’re the government. Everything is urgent,” said Snyder with a chuckle.
“Got it. I’ll tell Inspector Clouseau to call Agent Smart,” she replied playfully.
Snyder disconnected the call and then turned to the group. “Matt Simpson is an old friend who’s on the Secret Service White House detail. I figure he’s worth a shot. He’s the only person I know who sees senior cabinet members regularly.”
As they got out of the car, Frank shook the Agent’s hand and as an aside asked, “It seemed like everyone was buzzing in there, talking about something that’s happened. Do you know what it is?”
“Some plane crashed this morning, headed out of Costa Rica and into Miami,” said Snyder. “We’re trying to sort out a lot of details in a hurry in case there was an act of war or anything.”
“Oh God!” said John, his stomach sinking in his abdomen. “They were supposed to be on that flight. Roger, can you get the passenger manifesto?”
“Yeah, I probably have a copy in my inbox. You worried about anyone in particular?”
“Lyle Ferguson and Jessica Linssman. Please check for me. She was like a daughter to me.”
“I’m sorry John. I’ll check.”
Chapter 64: A Change of Plan
The previous day in San José
Early in the morning, Lyle and Jess stopped at the US consulate in San José, where they were furnished with new passports which Lyle used to obtain a new charge card. He booked their flights out of San José and into Miami with a connection to Washington Reagan airport. They’d be airborne by nine the following morning.
Having attended to their itinerary, they walked around San José for much of the morning, stopping for lunch at a small restaurant across from the National Theater building. They sat outside so they could admire the architecture. “It reminds me of the one in Prague,” said Jess. It’s beautiful. “I can see why Dwight moved down here. Would you ever do that?”
“I won’t leave Kingston as long as dad’s alive. After that, I guess it will depend on what I have in the way of family ties of my own.”
“I guess I got there before you. I lost my mom years ago and well, you know about my dad.” For the first time since they started their trip, her face seemed to show traces of sorrow.
Lyle put his hand on her shoulder, and said, “I’m sorry Jess. I’ll be there for you, in whatever way turns out to be the right one.”
“Thanks Lyle, that means a lot to me.”
After lunch they walked slowly back to Dwight’s. Lyle was about to ring the buzzer when he noticed the gate had been pried open, the metal around the lock twisted out of shape. “Keep walking Jess,” he said. Looking back over his shoulder, Lyle saw a tall Caucasian man in a suit and sunglasses step out of Dwight’s house to follow them. He nudged Jess to warn her, and they started to run. They turned a corner and ducked into a shop before the pursuer managed to make the turn. They watched discreetly from the shop window as the man ran past them and farther down the street.
Once the man was down the street and out of view, Lyle and Jess ran out of the shop and back in the direction of Dwight’s house. But they were not quick enough. The pursuer turned and saw them. Around the next corner they ducked into an alleyway. The pursuer turned the corner and seeing them nowhere, realized they had probably hidden. Weapon drawn, he walked down the street slowly, peeking between houses. Waiting in the alley, Lyle found a sturdy piece of lumber about four feet long. When the pursuer’s outstretched gun hand came into view, he swung the wood as hard as he could. The pursuer dropped the gun and gripped his arm in pain. Lyle kicked him in the groin and for good measure whacked him across the side of the head. Lyle picked up the gun, then dragged him into the alley before running back to Dwight’s house.
The door to Dwight’s house was ajar and the house had been searched. It was not as much of a mess as Lyle’s office after the break-in there. They’re looking for people, not papers, thought Lyle to himself. He then rounded the corner to the kitchen and gasped. Dwight was lying on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood, with his throat slit open. Jess started to tremble, and tears coursed down her cheeks. Lyle ran to the wood box in the corner of the room, took Dwight’s gun and ammo, then took Jess’ hand and led her out of the house and down the street. “There’s nothing we can do for Dwight now,” he said to Jess, putting his hand on her shoulder.
They flagged down a cab to get across town where they took a room at a small Inn and settled in. Lyle lay back on his bed, cold and expressionless, except of the glint of moisture in his eyes. He looked helplessly at the locked bathroom door, where he could hear Jess weeping audibly, occasionally throwing up. It a good half hour before Jess came out of the bathroom, red around the eyes and looking completely drained.
Lyle sat up when she came back into the room. He wanted to comfort her, but he had little left to give. At a loss, he took her hand, and pulled her next to him on the bed.
“We led them to him, and they killed him to get to us,” said Lyle, his voice quivering. “Dwight was like a brother to me when I was younger. We fell out of touch, but that doesn’t change how close we were. It’s hard for me right now.”
Lyle was quiet for about a few moments, then added, “I guess this is not even equal to what you faced, Jess. I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” said Jess. She gave him a long embrace and they held each other silently for several minutes.
“How do you think they tracked us to Dwight’s?” she asked, finally pulling away.
“It wouldn’t be from the consulate. We didn’t go back to his house from there. My guess is they followed the bus into San José. When we didn’t return to Contadora, there were only so many places we could go, so they covered them all. They were probably told people matching our description got on the bus, and that was enough.”
“I don’t think getting on that plane tomorrow would be too smart,” said Jess.
“Yeah,” said Lyle, still not completely composed.
“Do you remember what Dwight said, that if he had to flee, he’d take a cruise ship,” said Jess. “You think he was serious?”
“I do,” said Lyle. “There’s safety in numbers.”
They went on the internet and booked a cruise from Puerto Limòn to Fort Lauderdale, leaving the following evening. The quickest route he could find stopped in Colon, Panama.
“A cruise,” said Jess. “Until an hour ago, I felt like we were on an exotic vacation. But now the thought of a pleasure cruise feels surreal. All I feel is grief.”
“Me too,” said Lyle. “Right now, it’s just about surviving and doing something with our information.”
Chapter 65: Basel
It was an old building on the South bank of the Rhine where the three visitors waited in a lavish sitting room. Ornate furniture with velour upholstery, high ceilings with wood carvings and gold inlays at the tops of walls, and deep pile carpets welcomed the visitors. A fresh pot of coffee sat on the table, along with fresh fruit and light pastries, all served on fine silver and delicately detailed porcelain with decorative gold plating. From the windows of the upper-storey room they could glance north across the Rhine at attractive old buildings with colored facades. To the right was a bridge whose architecture spoke of old-world charm, and in the background were the forested hills of the border between Switzerland and Germany. There was enough sun passing through the thin
clouds to bring out the colors in the architecture. But enjoyment of Basel’s beauty was not on the agenda today or any day these visitors came.
A large, dark hardwood door at the end of the room opened, and the porter motioned for the guests to follow. Once in the hallway, the porter closed the door behind them and with it vanished any outside light. They walked down a dimly lit ornate hallway with carved wood, dark red hues of paint and gold leaf on many surfaces.
The porter opened the door at the end of the hallway and showed them into a barren room with dark walls and overhead spot lights that illuminated only the three armchairs waiting for them.
Opposite them and barely visible in the dark were two tables angling away from them towards the center. Between the two tables sat a large formal chair on a pedestal, about a foot off the floor. This chair was always vacant. At each of the long tables sat three men. A second bank of lights was above the long tables, angled towards the visitors, making it impossible to discern any features on those sitting at the tables.
After they sat down there were several minutes of complete silence. This was always an awkward time, since the visitors did not understand its purpose, but they dared not say anything. At last, a voice broke the silence. It came from Councilor One as he was called here, and he spoke in flawless English but with an amalgam of various Continental accents. “We have completed the acquisition of the American debentures from the People’s Republic of China. You have done well Mr. Zheng, to maneuver the Chinese government to divest itself. As have you Ms. Morgensen, for steering the actions of the United States to make the Chinese see no alternative.”
Both Zheng and Morgensen bowed their heads slightly to acknowledge the praise. Councilor One spoke again. “Those holdings, together with those of several third world countries that we’ve been able to acquire, when added to our fractional holdings through the Federal Reserve System, now make us the holders of the majority of the debts of the United States. This has satisfied those among us who had expressed reservations about our legitimacy in moving forward with our operation. We have reached unanimous agreement, and are now free to proceed. On another note Mr. Ellis, I have learned that the security of your logistical details has been a little loose.”
