Whirlwind

by Joseph R. Garber

  “Don’t tell me the media are involved!” No anger now, only fear.

  “We’ve got them locked down for now. But if the body count starts to mount…”

  “So what are you going to do? How can I help?” He was on the edge of panic, exactly where Sam wanted him.

  “Subcontractors. Somebody effective but discreet. There’s an outfit I’ve used in the past. They can get the job done. Problem is, I can’t pay them direct. There’s no way I can let a money trail lead from people like that back to the White House.”

  “You want them on my payroll?”

  “Got it in one.”

  “No sweat. We’re on a cost-plus contract. We’ll just pass the expense through. My company is happy to do anything — let me emphasize that — anything to get Whirlwind back.”

  Done deal, another fine negotiation brought to a satisfactory conclusion.

  Sam had told Max to expect a quote-consulting contract-unquote to arrive on his fax machine within the hour. The letterhead would read “The Specialist Consulting Group, Inc.,” and the contract would be signed by that organization’s president. All Max had to do was countersign it and fax it back. He didn’t even have to read it. In fact, he’d be better off if he didn’t.

  Max understood. Max agreed.

  Only then did Sam make his last call. As he dialed, his skin crawled.

  Now, two hours later, he was keeping his eye on the clock. Quite soon, only a minute to go, Sam’s oversized plasma TV would switch on automatically. Then he and Claude would watch a closed-circuit broadcast — dangerous men being briefed by the even more dangerous man to whom Sam had made his final phone call of the day.

  Sam knew him, had met him more than once, had more than once shaken his astonishingly cold hand. He tried to picture his face. Oddly, he couldn’t. Whenever he tried to recollect his features, all he could think of was a pale tiger with hunger in its heart and no mercy in its soul.

  He could remember the voice, though. It was not a voice you forgot easily — low and guttural, an Afrikaans accent, throaty as a hunting cat’s growl.

  The television blinked on. The Specialist Consulting Group’s red eagle logo appeared on the screen. An announcer spoke: “Please stand by for a briefing from our chief executive officer, Mr. Johan Schmidt.”

  Good afternoon, gentlemen.

  I should like everyone to know…

  Excuse me, would someone kindly cue the music. Thank you. Ah, an excellent choice. The cavatina from La Forza del Destino, not inappropriate, I do believe.

  Well then, to recommence. I want all of you here in the auditorium, and all of you watching from the field, to know how much I appreciate your deferring your other duties to participate in an uncommonly important mission.

  As you are aware, our organization has gone through trying times. A few years ago, one of our consulting teams failed to perform to standards. As a result, a significant client dispensed with our services. Bonuses have been scant, and perquisites have been few. We have had to run lean and mean.

  However, I have been working hard to reestablish credibility with that client, doing all in my power to win back his trust. I am pleased to report that I have been successful. We have been given a second chance.

  Accordingly, to quote a famous maxim, failure is not an option.

  First slide, please.

  This is the heart of our mission. I do not know what it is, and our client has requested we not attempt to find out. Suffice it to say that it is oblong, sixty-two inches in length, thirty-five inches wide, eighteen deep. Weight: seventy-six and a half pounds — twenty-eight and a half kilos. It is essential that this article be secured. No price is too high to pay to achieve this objective.

  Next slide.

  A seemingly ordinary backup disk. It is our second objective, and quite as important as the first. A crucial fact, gentlemen: this disk is not to be put in any computer. Security codes are secreted throughout it. As soon as it is inserted in a drive, the disk determines if it is connected to a classified file server — and a very high level of classification it is. If no secure server is found, then, in nanoseconds, the disk destroys itself.

  Another crucial fact: as those of you with a technical bent know, such protection schemes can be breached. A man with the right skills can subvert any security system protecting any disk. For this reason, our client is keenly interested in whether or not the disk has been compromised. If any of you tamper with it…well, our client would find that disappointing.

  As would I.

  Next slide.

  Ah, I see I have your attention now. Yes, despite her graceless dress, she is rather comely, isn’t she? You at the projector, show the boys the next five slides. Whistle and applaud as much as you want, gentlemen, because this beauty is our third objective. Irina Kolodenkova is her name, and she plays for the Russian team. You will find a full dossier on her in the information package that will be distributed after I conclude my remarks.

  The computer disk and the rather large brown object are in Ms. Kolodenkova’s possession. Secure one, and you will have secured them all.

  Yes, question in the back.

  Ha! Of course! Most certainly you can strip search her when you catch her!

  There will also be a full body cavity search. You see, the rather tasty-looking Ms. Kolodenkova was in a place she shouldn’t have been. She may have had a digital camera in her possession at the time. Such cameras can record photographs on small magnetic strips. Sad to say, such strips can be swallowed. It should be self-evident that if the strips exist, our client wants them retrieved. Accordingly, a comprehensive autopsy is planned.

  However, and I cannot emphasize this enough, it is absolutely critical that the woman be taken alive. The possibility exists that she has spoken to another agent, transmitted a message, or simply dropped photographic strips into the mail. For this reason, she will need to be questioned. I myself will administer the interrogation. It will go quickly, I think. She’s a pretty woman. A pretty woman is a vain woman. The closer a straight razor comes to her pretty face, the more voluble she becomes.

  But we all know that, don’t we?

  To repeat and reemphasize: my cardinal point is that Ms. Kolodenkova is to remain alive and in reasonable health until questioned by me, questioned personally. This is not to say that you cannot amuse yourself with her. It is the right of warriors to use the enemy’s women as they wish. So enjoy. After all, no one will be filing charges.

  Let me add one salient point. There is a time element in this mission, and the clock is ticking. In the unlikely event we do not apprehend Ms. Kolodenkova before noontime Friday, she becomes an open contract. Were a competing party to take her, we would forfeit our performance bonus. Gentlemen, that would be unacceptable. Completely unacceptable. Am I understood? Good. Now, should this woman remain in play after Friday noon, the rules change. When you see her — when, not if — you are to kill her where she stands. That will earn us our head price, although I’m sure we all would be happier to provide full satisfaction to our client by delivering her before the deadline.

  I have every expectation we will.

  Final slide.

  Here we have the fly in our ointment. The gentleman’s name is Charles McKenzie. Some of you may remember him from the newspapers two years ago. Older hands will recollect our firm’s previous, distasteful experiences with him.

  Be advised: Mr. McKenzie is a good news/bad news proposition. The good news is our honorable profession has never known a better manhunter. Much to everyone’s advantage, he is in pursuit of Ms. Kolodenkova. I should be quite surprised if he does not find her. Therefore, if we follow McKenzie, he surely will lead us to her doorstep.

  Following him will not be as easy as it might sound. He already has eluded those charged with watching him —

  Yes? Ah, I am afraid so. The FBI. Gentlemen, please hold down the laughter. Our time is short, and I have a great deal more information to share with you. Good, thank you. Well then,
McKenzie is out of sight for the moment. However, he will resurface. He has no choice. Once he does, we will be alerted. Then we, rather than the lackluster lads from Quantico, will be in charge of keeping an eye on him.

  That brings me to the bad news. The bad news is that there’s more to McKenzie than his tracking skills. Succinctly stated, he is a highly competent professional, a master of the arts in which we all have so diligently trained. Approach him cautiously. Expect the unexpected. He is dangerous — and that is an egregious understatement.

  More bad news, our client believes McKenzie may have an agenda of his own. Having secured Ms. Kolodenkova and the objects in her possession, he is quite capable of behaving in a manner inconsistent with our client’s best interests.

  Question? Yes, on the aisle.

  There are more scenarios than I care to enumerate. I’m told he might try to use Kolodenkova as a bargaining chip. Alternatively, the materials she has stolen involve a secret that McKenzie could use against our client. Blackmail, apparently, is not out of the question. Why this is so is none of our affair. Our sole job is to deliver the results expected of us.

  What? No, absolutely not. Under no circumstances is McKenzie to be terminated. Our instructions in that regard are regrettably specific. I say regrettable because I personally would welcome some quality time with him. Unfortunately, the privilege is denied me. At most, we are allowed to incapacitate him — although not in earnest. A bullet through the ankle is acceptable, I suppose, but little more than that.

  Gentlemen, I do recognize that such unwelcome limitations to our flexibility raise the possibility of casualties in our ranks. The only consolation I can offer is that our company’s survivors’ benefits package remains the best in the business.

  Yes?

  Excellent question. Thank you for asking. There does indeed exist some possibility — however remote — that Ms. Kolodenkova will be captured by another agency. Both local police and federal officers are searching for her. Should one of them get luckier than he deserves, you are to relieve him of his prisoner. If he resists, you are authorized to employ appropriate force. The word “appropriate” is defined as whatever it takes to do the job.

  Now, let me move on to procedural matters.

  First: civilian wear. You must look and act like ordinary citizens. No battle dress, and, unhappily, no Kevlar or M5. The deer and the antelope play in the great American Southwest. Likewise the tourists. Protective coloration is the order of the day.

  Next, light weapons only. You’ll be issued nothing more powerful than varmint rifles —.17 and .22 caliber rimfires. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience. Our mission requires that Ms. Kolodenkova be interrogated, and therefore we cannot risk somebody inadvertently rendering her unavailable for questioning. For sidearms, no one is to carry anything heavier than a .25. Don’t use them unless you must. If you do use them, shoot to wound.

  Yes? Right you are. Stun grenades will be issued. Likewise tear gas, shock batons, and such other non-lethal arms as the company armorer can provide. And I should mention that we will deploy five airborne teams armed with automatic weapons. In accordance with the restrictions placed on us, they will be using rubber bullets.

  For vehicles, it’s civvies again — except for my command car. That means no Hummers, and more’s the pity because our prey will most likely be found in desert country. However, I have arranged a fleet of high-performance four-wheelers. You can take comfort in their anonymity, and in the fact that — in that part of America — well-stocked gun racks are common on every highway.

  Another point. I will be assuming personal command of this mission. As soon as we’re finished here, I’m boarding the company jet. I expect to be on the ground in West Texas at approximately twenty-one hundred hours local time. The usual chain of command will be in force, but with one exception. That exception is: if any of you come across anything that even hints as to McKenzie’s or Kolodenkova’s whereabouts, do not go through channels. Report to me immediately.

  As per usual, we’ll be using field names. Given the likelihood that most of this mission will play itself out in the desert, those names will be taken from the herpetology handbook. I am King Cobra. Directly reporting to me will be three zone commanders, Messrs. Nishikawa and Ortiz, and Ms. Jäger — a.k.a. Adder, Fer-de-Lance, and Cottonmouth. Their orders are my orders. Their will is my will. Never think otherwise.

  Finally, and not to belabor a point known to all, our fine firm is not the largest competitor in its field. However, it is my hope that one day it will be so. This mission — this absolutely crucial mission — will move us closer to that objective. Accordingly, we will reestablish our bona fides with our client. We will deliver the results expected of us. We will succeed.

  You — all five hundred of you — are the elite, battle-proven warriors with top performance ratings, handpicked from the ranks of more than four thousand men-at-arms worldwide. You are our company’s A Team. I have every confidence in you. You should have every confidence in yourselves. Be proud, gentlemen. Be proud that you are among the chosen. Be proud and you cannot fail.

  Now to summarize, you are to think of this operation as a minimally intrusive surgical procedure, leaving no scars behind. Our first step must be to find and follow Charles McKenzie. However, that is only a first step. We will not have earned our fees until we secure Kolodenkova and the materials in her possession — and until I obtain her full and enthusiastic answers to an intensive interrogation.

  Does anyone have any questions?

  No? Very well, gentlemen, I’ve nothing more to say. Let’s saddle up and ride.

  4

  Liar’s Poker

  Tuesday, July 21.

  1700 Hours Central Time

  “I like your hair. The color becomes you,” said Charlie, who had never trusted a blonde in his life.

  Irina, her mouth full of Big Mac, gestured irritably with her Tokarev.

  Handcuffs rattling against the sink pipe, Charlie leaned against the bathroom wall. As planned, she’d taken him prisoner. As expected, she used his own cuffs to immobilize him. Right on schedule, she was grilling him. “Just trying to be polite,” he smiled. “Well, anyway, to answer your question, finding you wasn’t all that hard. Everybody — the FBI, the state police, all of ’em — are convinced you’re headed east. The going theory is that you’re running for the Gulf, that you’ll try to steal a boat and sail to Cuba. Damfool theory, but then we’re dealing with damfool people.”

  He’d chosen his tone of voice carefully — the inflection of an irascible old fart. “The nincompoops are breathing their own exhaust, believing their own publicity. You know, it was my dad who cooked up the Cuba strategy — demonizing Castro, painting him as the incarnation of all that is ignoble, base, and vile. The idea was to convince you Russkies we thought he was a real threat — which the dummies in the Kremlin swallowed hook, line, and sinker. Whereupon they started hurling money at the clown. Heh! Just what we wanted! So then after the Soviet Union went Chapter 11, Fidel saw the writing on the wall. He may not be the sharpest needle in the haystack, but he’s got some brains. Two years after Yeltsin took power, he was ready to roll over.”

  A harmless, rambling antiquity with too many memories — he hoped she was buying the act, although he couldn’t tell for certain. You just can’t read a face that’s wolfing down an overstuffed hamburger. “My source — the number-two guy at your embassy as a matter of fact — told me that Fidel had his pen out, ready to sign just about anything we sent him. The poor schmuck probably would have applied for statehood if we asked. But by then Congress had come to believe all that mud slinging. Add to that the fact that the sugar lobby is one hell of a big political contributor which most definitely does not want Cuban competition. Plus Bill Clinton was too spineless a wimp to stand up to them —”

  Irina waved her gun again. Charlie smiled inwardly. He’d made most of the points he’d wanted to. The rest could wait awhile. “Sorry. I was just explaining why I
knew you wouldn’t be hightailing it for Cuba. Let me start over. The cops found that blue Ford buggy you swiped. By the time I got to the shopping mall, they’d made every clerk behind every cash register check whether his or her car had been heisted. Of course, nobody’s had. So they start going around the stores again, this time asking the managers if all their employees showed up for work this morning. Sure enough, a couple hadn’t. Well, lemme tell you, the sirens howled as those boys zoomed off to see if those employees were home with a tummy ache, or home with a gun to their head.”

  He gave her a cunning grin. I’m just your foxy old grandpa, sweetheart, and you can trust every word I say. “I knew better. Hostage-taking isn’t your style. So, I went looking for a store with a Help Wanted sign in its window. Found one. Sporting goods and such. I talked up the manager. Sure enough, early morning — just about the time you stole the Aerostar — he’d interviewed a hard-luck cowboy named Mitch Conroy.” Charlie raised his voice in a sneer of prissy insolence, “ ‘While having a professional athlete in our store is highly desirable, a rodeo rider simply would not be consistent with the outdoor adventure image we wish to project.’ The pompous ass still had Conroy’s application form and address on his desk — which I swiped and burned. After that, all I had to do was get rid of my car — it was bugged forty ways from Sunday — and dump the people who were tailing me. And now, you lucky girl, here I am.”

  He gave her his best boyish smile, confident he was convincing her that he was a garrulous fool, so indiscreet as to identify a double agent in the Havana embassy. She was a spy. She couldn’t help wanting to hear more.

  “Excuse me? I didn’t quite understand that, what with your mouth being full…. Oh, my car? Well, that was easy. They gave me an Explorer registered under my own name. I cruised around until I found a row of auto dealerships. Then I sashayed into a BMW showroom and told the salesman I had a low-mileage four-wheeler I wanted to trade in. He asked how low. Twenty-eight miles, says I, and he allows that, yessir, that’s pretty low mileage. So I offered him thirty-eight thousand bucks plus the Explorer for a new X5. Then I started counting the money — cash greenbacks — out on his desk. Well, he started playing silly car salesman games — jabbering about having to check with the manager, and how he’d have to get the mechanic’s opinion on my Explorer, and all that stuff.”