by Brad Taylor
I decided to get my issues out first. “What’s up with the new team member? The one Knuckles is in-processing? If I’m the ‘favorite,’ why didn’t I get a say?”
He looked confused, then said, “What are you talking about? She’s not a new member of your team. She’s just new to the Taskforce. That’s not why I asked you to come up.”
And it all became clear. I said, “Knuckles is a sponsor for a female support person?”
He said, “Yeah, but that’s not why you are here.”
Before he could say anything else, Jennifer said, “A CIA case officer?”
He looked wary and said, “Yeah?”
I said, “Named Carly Ramirez?”
Then he got aggravated. “Yes. Carly Ramirez. The same one you read on in Athens. How did you know that?”
I said, “Just a hunch.”
He went from me to Jennifer, then said, “What’s the big deal?”
Jennifer grinned and said, “You know they’re dating, right?”
He said, “Of course I did.” But the reaction on his face betrayed him. He said, “That’s not why I brought her on board . . . She’s the one who helped your fiasco in Greece. She’s a good hire.”
I realized he had no idea what Knuckles had in mind. I said, “Why is an Operator doing the legwork for support staff?”
“Because he knew her, damn it. She was a friend of Decoy, and a friend of his. It made sense. It’s not a fraternization issue. She’s support and he’s an Operator. What’s your point?”
“I’m saying he wants her in on the team. As an Operator. Did he say she could do more than case officer work?”
Carly was an operations officer in the CIA who had crossed paths with us more than once, including having a heated relationship with a Taskforce Operator who had been killed in action. Since then, Knuckles—my 2IC—had taken a shine to her. She probably had no idea what Knuckles had in mind, but then again, neither had Jennifer. It wasn’t that hard to figure out, unless you were Kurt Hale.
Kurt said, “Well, he did say something like that, but we don’t work for the Department of Defense. This isn’t a social experiment.” He glanced at Jennifer and then said, “Understand, I’m not against it, but I’m not doing it just because some female wants to prove her bones.”
Jennifer grinned and said, “Yeah, screw all of that ‘proving yourself’ crap, since she’s handicapped as a female and all. On the other hand, maybe she’ll be worth it on skill alone. Hard to tell.”
Kurt nodded solemnly, completely missing the sarcasm. He said, “I had enough trouble getting you inside.”
I stepped in, saying, “But that was worth it.”
He finally laughed and said, “Yes, it was worth it. If only to keep your ass in line.”
I said, “Can you at least give Knuckles some grief? Make him pay for the subterfuge?”
Jennifer poked me in the ribs and I said, “Okay, okay. Let him live. Why are we here? What’s the forest fire?”
Kurt exhaled, relieved to be off the hot seat.
He said, “I have a mission that—believe it or not—I can’t do with Taskforce assets. I need a cutout, and you’re it.”
7
Cutout? What the hell is he talking about? The entire Taskforce organization was a cutout. We were so illegal, how could the fact that I was a civilian company matter?
He said, “You heard about the Panama Papers, right?”
“Yeah, of course. It had everyone in a tizzy a few months ago, but we came up clean.”
The Taskforce had no taint of official government on it, and so, in order to operate, we did much like the Mafia did—we created shell companies that were stitched together like a giant Frankenstein monster, making it impossible for anyone to figure out that the tail end was with Uncle Sam. All those various firms were covered under a shell company for the purposes of payment and leasing, and unfortunately, the Taskforce had chosen the law firm of Mossack Fonseca to create a lot of them.
Aircraft leases, transnational shipping vessels, in extremis medical care, intelligence/reconnaissance assets, and a host of other companies were buried in a blizzard of paper to prevent anyone from determining their true purpose. When the first leak had occurred, everyone had soiled their pants, but at the end of the day, we’d come up clean.
Honestly, I had some mixed emotions about the damn leak. While I hated the press just on general principle—because all they ever did was make things worse in my world—the ICIJ was a group comprised of journalists, unlike that saggy, self-important windbag site known as WikiLeaks. I hated reporters digging into my world, but I grudgingly respected them.
I did, after all, live in the United States, and somewhere underneath my constant fighting to get the mission done, I realized why I was doing it. Yeah, the ICIJ was reporting on things that might hurt us, but they were reporting. Unlike that foppish asshat hiding in the Ecuadorian embassy in Britain, who simply leaked classified information wholesale without any attempt at reflection or perspective.
Kurt said, “Yeah, we did come up clean last time, but we’ve got indicators saying there’s another leak on the way, and we need to know what’s in it.”
“You mean you want me to interdict it?”
Grudging respect went only so far. If he wanted me to affect the outcome, I was more than willing.
“No. Just get visibility on the data. The Oversight Council won’t approve of actually stopping a journalist from getting the documents. They only agreed to let us intercept what’s in it so we can start with damage control. Closing down accounts, building new firewalls, that sort of thing.”
The Oversight Council was the Taskforce’s board of directors, so to speak. Thirteen men and women isolated from all three branches of government who had a vote on everything we did. We were way, way outside of any legal constructs—such as the Constitution—but when we were created, Kurt had made sure there were some checks and balances to prevent people like me from going hog wild.
I usually agreed with their orders, having the ability to see the second- and third-order effects, but in this case, it was ridiculous. I got along okay with the Council, having had a personal stake in saving the lives of some of their family members in the past, but this sort of myopic order was downright stupid. Either you were wading in the mud or you weren’t. It’s like they thought they could fight this kind of war and still maintain their dignity in their cloistered, oak-paneled room. They might as well order me to give Miranda rights to the next terrorist I saw.
On second thought, I’d be better off keeping that thought to myself, because they would probably agree.
I said, “So all you want me to do is obtain the data? Isn’t that self-defeating? If I can get it, I can destroy it.”
He said, “Yeah, yeah, I hear you. The problem is the source himself. You destroy this data, and he’ll still have access. Nobody knows who he is, and he’s not going to quit. Bottom line, the Council is not going to allow you lethal authority to prevent his disclosures. And I would, in no way, even ask for that.”
I nodded, the statement making sense. I wasn’t going to kill some whistleblower simply to protect my own ass. I guess, like the Council, I had some lines I wouldn’t cross.
Jennifer said, “So what’s the mission? Why is the cutout with us important?”
Kurt put his hands behind his head and leaned back, saying, “Well, the Council isn’t completely pure here. Even directing someone to interdict the press has them hot and bothered. They refused Omega authority for anyone on active duty under the employ of the United States government, be that CIA or DoD. They do, however, have a soft spot for you.”
Omega authority meant unilateral Taskforce action and was really hard to come by. You had to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the target was out to harm the United States. In this case, it didn’t meet the smell test, because this
guy was only threatening Taskforce exposure—and not in a violent way.
I said, “You’re kidding me. Is this going where I think it’s going? I finally get the IMF mission?”
He grinned and said, “Yep. If you’re compromised, they’ll disavow any knowledge of you. Your company is a well-established entity—unlike some of the slipshod covers we use here—so the only way it’ll be penetrated is if you roll over. They want you to do the mission but don’t want the liability. In their minds, it’s not real if no US government employees are used. I know it sucks, but that’s just where they are right now.”
“You mean because of the election coming up?”
“Well, yeah. That’s a big part of it. President Hannister can’t be caught in a scandal two months before the nation votes.”
President Philip Hannister had assumed the office of the presidency six months ago, when Russian thugs in Ukraine had inadvertently assassinated his predecessor by blowing Air Force One out of the sky. He had done well in that disaster, preventing World War III when all considered it a foregone conclusion—and my team had been the linchpin behind that success. I genuinely liked him, and if he’d asked for this, I’d do it.
I said, “Did Hannister get a vote? Was he there?”
The Council met every quarter for updates on ongoing operations, but that didn’t necessarily mean that the president was at the meeting. He was, after all, running a campaign.
Kurt said, “Yes, he was. In fact, he’s the one who brokered the compromise. He personally asked for you.”
Well, I liked him even more.
Kurt continued, “There’s one more thing: We have reason to believe that the release will hit the Rock Star bird. Which will lead to all sorts of questions about Grolier Recovery Services.”
The Rock Star bird was a Gulfstream G650 that was ostensibly leased to our company for mundane travel as we flitted about the world looking at archeological sites. In reality, it was a flying weapons platform, with an arsenal hidden inside it to allow us to execute operations without worrying about host nation immigrations and customs finding the lethal tools. And it was really, really cool to fly around on.
I said, “That lease is Mossack Fonseca?”
“Yep. Hasn’t come out yet, but it might now.”
“Can I take it to do the mission?”
“Of course. It’s your aircraft. As far as anyone knows. But if you fail, it might be the last time it’s used. We’ll have to burn it to the ground if the company leaks.”
I said, “What do I have to go on?”
“We intercepted the email traffic between this Agent Zero and a journalist. Agent Zero is the one with the data. He’s due to meet the reporter from the ICIJ this weekend.”
I said, “How do you have that? If he’s talking to journalists?”
We weren’t allowed to eavesdrop on the American press, which made me skittish about the source of the information. If it was a “he said that she said that someone would meet,” then I might balk.
Kurt said, “The initial journalist he contacted is from Spain, and he’s also been communicating with known members of ISIS. Not in a bad way—he was simply doing research—but it was enough for us to be able to make an argument for investigation before we knew he was a journalist. We caught this on the ISIS investigation and had no idea that it would lead where it did. An American journalist is meeting him, passed off from the Spaniard. We don’t know Agent Zero’s name; we don’t know the journalist’s name; we only know when and where. You guys will have to figure the rest out.”
I said, “Well, what’s the when and where?”
Kurt said, “I saved the best part for last. It’s at the Atlantis resort in the Bahamas. Apparently, that country is the host to a ton of Mossack Fonseca shell companies. Including ours.”
I glanced at Jennifer, seeing concurrence to go ahead with the deliberations. I said, “Okay, who do I get from the team?”
“Nobody. You’re it. The rest are active duty.”
“You’re shitting me. Just the two of us? How do you expect that to happen?”
“The usual way. Make a little Pike luck.”
“Sir, that’s asking a lot. Even of me. At least give me a network guy. I mean, I’m going in for computer crap.”
Kurt said, “Maybe. They’re on contract like you, so maybe.”
“Seriously? Do you even want this to succeed?”
George said, “Pike, I get it’s a stretch, but we’re on a full-court press against 9/11 anniversary threats. Yeah, Knuckles is leading around a new hire, but he’s also here, at the flagpole. As is Retro. As is Veep. As is the rest of your team. We might need them to react on short notice. Sorry for the news, but it is what it is.”
I let the sarcasm leak out, “Well, hell, if I’m not good enough to stop the next 9/11 from happening, I guess this is the next best thing.”
Kurt said, “Don’t take it that way. Look, the Council needs your civilian company, but the president and I would have picked you anyway. Because of you. I need a surgical touch here. Just get the data and come home. No drama.”
I glanced at Jennifer, not wanting to make a decision without her agreement. She was half owner of our business, and this was a little bit of a risk, but I knew what I’d see. Bahamas? Paid by the US government? For nothing more than a digital theft?
She winked at me.
I said, “Okay, sir. What happens if it goes wrong? Will we be hung out to dry?”
Kurt grinned and said, “You’ve never asked for backup before.”
“Backup was always explicit with the Taskforce. You’re saying it’s not now.”
I hated to do the negotiation, the very thought disgusting me, but I couldn’t put Jennifer in harm’s way for the US government only to have her roasted if things went bad. And they could most definitely go bad. Since it was a deniable mission, we could refuse and be good.
Kurt saw the reticence and said, “Hey, you know I won’t do that. You get compromised, and you’ll have the best legal team that money can buy. It’s not really like Mission: Impossible.”
Jennifer said, “A legal team that’s also a shell company? Created yesterday?”
“Well, yeah. Of course. But they’ll be good.”
I leaned back and looked at Jennifer. George caught the eye contact and said, “Who’s in charge here? You guys need a room to talk?”
I looked him in the eye and said, “We’ll do it. But if you miss an attack because you’re so worried about covering Taskforce ass, I’ll be back in this office. And it won’t be because I needed to consult with my partner.”
8
Wearing chemical goggles and a protective mask, Anwar Suleiman looked at the crystals in the water, the largest batch he’d created yet. White, looking a little like rock salt, they floated about on the bottom of a Pyrex jar, giving no hint of their destructive capability.
Anwar picked up a set of tweezers with eight-inch legs and fished inside the jar until he held one of the bits of crystal. He withdrew the tweezers until the crystal was just below the surface, then leaned back as far as he could, turning his head to the side.
He pulled the crystal free from the water, and it burst into flame like a mini-star, burning at a temperature hot enough to melt the metal that held it.
Anwar tossed the tweezers into an old metal sink full of rusty water, starving the crystal of oxygen until it ceased burning.
He was supremely satisfied with his work. This batch, like the ones before it, had been clearly successful, and now he had enough white phosphorous to execute his mission.
Nicknamed “Willy Pete” by the military, white phosphorus was a chemical that burned extremely hot the minute it was exposed to the atmosphere. It had been used as an incendiary weapon as far back as the nineteenth century and still caused massive controversy when utilized on the modern-day
battlefield, for both psychological and practical reasons.
Practical in the sense that the burning chemical created some of the densest smoke on earth, perfect for marking targets or hiding movement, and all one had to do to create the screen was expose the chemical to the air.
Psychological because when used against humans, the embers tended to burn right through the body, like hot coals dropped into a vat of soft butter. It was an excruciating way to die. Once it was on fire, the only way to stop it was to completely deprive the chemical of oxygen. Something that was hard to do with a man screaming and thrashing around as his insides were devoured in flame.
Even given this, the chemical had one aspect above all that Anwar desired: It wasn’t that hard to make in his improvised lab, especially for someone as smart as he was.
He poured the latest batch in with the others he’d created, taking extreme care to ensure the crystals remained below the surface of the water. It had taken him close to a month to get enough, but now he had a pint-size mason jar filled to the brim with water and half filled with crystal. Enough to do the damage he envisioned.
He tucked the jar underneath the sink, washed his hands, and looked at the time. His mother would be home soon, and he wanted to be there when she came. She was growing suspicious of his activities, and he didn’t want any more questions about what he was doing or where he’d been.
He exited the “lab,” the ninety-degree heat actually feeling refreshing after the punishing temperatures within. At least out here there was a breeze. He clicked a padlock on the door of the abandoned Airstream trailer, then trudged through the broken asphalt and weeds toward his home, a derelict double-wide that sat at the end of a sorry row.
He reached the first occupied trailer and saw a mother and child listlessly staring at him, the child in a small plastic pool, projecting an air not so much of having fun but of simply trying to cool off, the mother nearby in a torn aluminum lawn chair.
He waved, but they didn’t wave back. One more bit of proof that his online friends were right. One more reason to hate.
