by Ty Patterson
‘Not you, prick. Your job is done,’ she hissed, out of earshot of the kids.
‘But, Elaine, I need to–’
‘You need to disappear,’ she said, cutting him off and slamming the door in his face.
Shattner, his face burning, banged the door again till she flung it open, stony faced. From inside he could hear the excitement in the kids’ voices as they reacquainted themselves with her dogs and cats.
‘There’s a mobile in Shawn’s bag with some instructions. He should use the phone only in an emergency. Lisa’s stuff is in her bag. I left a locker key in her bag, with some instructions. I’ll be back in a couple of days and will keep you posted… I’ve closed the loop at school for them. Let me say bye to them,’ he pleaded.
‘Bye. I’ll tell them.’ The door slammed in his face again.
Shattner stood there looking at the door, a wave of helpless anger sweeping over him. He forced a deep breath and walked back to the car. As he turned the key, he looked back at the house, hoping to see Lisa and Shawn in the windows, but knew that Elaine’s warmth had temporarily displaced him from their minds.
Elaine hated his guts, but would take care of his kids.
Forever, if she had to. If he did not return.
Part 2
Chapter 7
Broker stretched his long legs ahead of him and admired his Louboutin shoes. Broker was dressed in an immaculate gray suit, a white shirt of the finest Egyptian cotton and those shoes. With his shoulder-length shaggy blond hair, blue eyes, and executive threads, he was New Age surfer dude – equally at home in the boardroom as on the beach. He drew second glances from women and grinned unabashedly at them when their eyes met.
Broker was just that, a dealer who traded in information. The intel he traded in was sought after by governments, politicians, oil companies, intelligence agencies, security companies; in fact, just about anyone who could afford him. He had a real name, but Broker had stuck to him for so long that it was what he went by.
Lobbying firms came to him to know about the sexual peccadilloes of senators. Government agencies approached him to cross-check their intel on nuclear material on sale. Politicians consulted him to see which Middle Eastern leader was supportive of government policy. Oil companies wrote him blank checks to find out which African despot preferred which oil company. Russian oligarchs consulted him on which banks in the world offered the most secure and anonymous deposits. Mercenaries or private military security firms came to him to get the lie of the land in the most dangerous hot spots on the planet.
Broker was an equal opportunity vendor of information, with a few iron-clad rules. No trade with the dark side. No trade in information of any kind on women and children. No trade in anything against the national interest. Broker preferred to deal with those who used his information for the greater good, and he had often thrown clients out if he felt they were misusing his intel.
Broker had grown up in Lawrenceburg, Kentucky, with foster parents who had brought him up as their own child. They had lost their only daughter to a rare form of blood cancer when she was six, and when young Broker came into their lives, they showered all their love on him. His father was the county clerk and instilled a strong sense of right and wrong in his son, a set of moral values that were reinforced by his homemaker wife. They were the proudest parents in town when Broker enlisted, and they organized civic receptions for him whenever he visited them, much to his embarrassment.
Broker’s ties to the town were severed when his parents were killed in a car accident. A drunk had lost control of his truck on an icy road and had rammed into their compact.
He had started his career as an intelligence analyst in the US Army, and his unique way of analyzing, identifying patterns and correlating seemingly disparate incidents had not only secured him a fast growth through the ranks, but also put him on first-name terms with four- and five-star generals in the Pentagon.
Broker had been one of a kind as an intelligence analyst since he also got deployed with Special Forces covert and overt missions to read the local situation. It helped that he could handle a long gun much better than the average soldier.
He had injured his leg in his last mission and still had the faintest trace of a limp. He had retired from the army after that mission, set up shop as a trader of information, and had discovered a natural flair for business that had made him immensely wealthy. He had an army of analysts working for him, and the best paid informants and hackers in various parts of the world. He still got actively involved in certain projects, and one such project had brought him to the small coffee shop in Dupont Circle in Washington.
Broker let the aroma of hot coffee and the ebb and flow of conversation in the café wash over him, creating a moment of suspended time. The white door swished in and Broker’s meeting stepped in. The man took a sidestep and paused, waiting for his eyes to get accustomed to the darkened interior of the café.
Washington, D.C., was home to only two animals.
Ones who were important and others who thought they were. General Daniel Klouse belonged to the former species.
He stumped across the café on spotting Broker, pulled out a chair, and sat into it heavily, glaring at Broker. Washington was hell on his left leg.
A high-velocity concrete slab had taken a shine to it when a suicide bomber had driven through the gates of the US Marine battalion headquarters in Beirut with a truck bomb. It was many years back, but at times like this, in the heat, it felt like yesterday.
Despite his leg being nearly crushed by the concrete slab, General Klouse had dragged himself out of the rubble, using a metal pipe as a makeshift crutch, had taken command of the aftermath, and secured not only the safety of the survivors, but also had mounted a defense. His swift, courageous handling had taken him to the rarefied air in the Pentagon, and when the White House was looking to make a high-profile yet experienced appointee, General Klouse’s name was the only one on the short list.
General Klouse was the National Security Advisor. He was also that rarest of animals in Washington, an apolitical one, and because of that, he was the President’s most trusted confidant.
‘This stuff you gave me about the North Koreans,’ the General began without any preliminaries after pulling out a sheaf of papers from inside his jacket, ‘where did you get it? The NSA and the others were gagging for it, threw their best at it, and came up with the big fat zero. So how come a nobody analyst like you got it?’
‘General, I got a few things going for me that none of your agencies have. Mine is a private enterprise, for one. I pay big bucks for my information. And lastly, I am trusted. My sources know they will never be fingered or subpoenaed or WikiLeaked if they work with me.’ Broker smiled at him.
He added, ‘The Pentagon and many intelligence agencies around the world wouldn’t agree with your description – a “nobody” analyst.’ Broker was modest.
The General grunted and leafed through the documents. After a while he looked up. ‘These are genuine?’
Broker spread his arms and gave him a what-else-did-you-expect look, but Klouse was staring off into the distance and didn’t notice his gesture. Broker ordered them another round of coffees and waited for the General to finish his thinking. This meeting had been requested by the General, and Broker was curious to know why one of the most powerful people in the country wanted to meet him. Broker had given him the North Korean intel to prove his credentials even though he knew it wasn’t required.
‘I believe you’ve heard of Isakson.’ General Klouse turned to him after taking a sip of his coffee.
Broker shrugged noncommittally. ‘We have met.’
‘That wasn’t the way he put it to me.’ There was a ghost of a smile on the General’s face.
Broker had run into Isakson, a Special Agent in Charge in the FBI, when rescuing Lauren Balthazar, the wife of a prominent journalist, and her son, Rory, from a group of rogue mercenaries.
Broker and his ex-Special Ops friend, Z
eb Carter, had been pursuing Carsten Holt, the ringleader of the rogue mercenaries, who had fled to the US after committing horrific atrocities in the Congo.
Zeb and Broker hadn’t known that Holt was cozy with the FBI.
Isakson had asked them to back off when he’d found out about their pursuit, but the situation became a clusterfuck when Holt grabbed the hostages.
Zeb and Broker, ignoring Isakson’s by-the-book approach, had mounted a rescue and had secured their release.
Isakson was not on Broker’s Christmas card list.
‘Isakson is tipped to be Deputy Director of the FBI,’ the General continued, but was interrupted by Broker.
‘Director Murphy signed his appointment today, in the early hours of the morning, an official announcement yet to be made. But then I’m sure you know that.’
That ghost of a smile appeared fleetingly again. ‘Yes, I can see why you are so well spoken of. Isakson got appointed because of one quality of his that outweighed the better credentials of the others in the fray. Isakson is incorruptible. Totally.
‘You need to talk to him again. I think he could do with some help.’ The General sipped his coffee.
‘I think we know Clare in common.’ General Klouse nodded at him, and Broker nodded back, now knowing who had referred him to the General.
‘Clare speaks highly of you… and a few other associates of yours.’
Clare was the Director of the Agency, an agency that did not exist in any form. It had no paperwork, no legal entities, no personnel, nothing. The Agency ran the most clandestine black ops in the most volatile or strategically important hot spots in the world and worked with a rarefied set of contractors. Broker and his associates were that rarefied set. Clare had the nebulous title of Director of Strategy and reported directly to the President.
‘I need someone from the outside to work with Isakson and help him on a matter. Someone who has access to intelligence, who is not hampered by bureaucracy, can cut through the crap, and pull the trigger. Someone who the FBI has not used before.’
‘General, if Isakson wanted to talk to me, he could have gotten in touch himself. Or Director Murphy could have. Or Clare. This is not a matter I expected the National Security Advisor to get involved in.’
General Klouse looked at him, and for the briefest moment the professional mask dropped from his eyes and impatient steel shined from within. They hooded over quickly as the General considered his words.
‘Would you have taken Isakson’s call? Or called him if Clare asked you to?’
Broker remained silent.
‘I thought not,’ continued the General. ‘This matter is important, so important that I requested this meeting. Isakson needs your help. Talk to him, please.’
Broker still said nothing, but nodded almost imperceptibly.
General Klouse sat back and finished his coffee. ‘Have you heard anything different up for sale in your network? Anything so unusual that it pinged your radar?’
‘Such as? Help me here, General.’
‘Such as drones. Nuclear-powered drones. Highly sophisticated drones capable of flying themselves for all practical purposes, reducing or eliminating the need for the operator sitting thousands of miles away.’
Broker was aware of research into such drones, but the research hadn’t resulted in military-use drones in the field. The government had shelved development plans because of public opinion over the use of such drones. If such a drone crashed, it effectively became a dirty bomb. However, if such a drone could be made so reliable that it flew itself and could protect itself… Broker’s brain raced.
He shook his head. ‘Nope. Nothing even remotely resembling that. Believe me, General, that kind of intel would have had me hotfooting across to my old friends.’ He indicated in the direction of the Pentagon.
‘May not be a drone in its full form. Could be their designs, their power cells, guidance systems, and weapons systems… anything related to them.’
‘No, sir. I always keep my eyes out for such sensitive information. There has been the usual stuff about enriched uranium, nuclear warheads, Hellfire missiles… the usual assortment, but not the slightest whisper of drones or drone related. Is there–’ He stopped to rephrase his words. ‘Have any designs or components gone missing?’
General Klouse shook his head. ‘Thank Christ, no. However, they are high on the shopping list of the Chinese, the Russians, the Iranians, the Indians, the North Koreans. Heck, all the armies in the world want a nuclear-powered drone or two, or want the design blueprints. The National Security Agency has heard the odd rumor or two that quite a few countries are going all-out to lay their hands on a prototype or the designs. Now such rumors always go around, but the source of these whispers made the NSA flag this and bring it to my attention.’
‘Sir, do such prototypes exist?’ Broker asked carefully, looking the General in the eye.
The General looked weary, looked his age. ‘Son, you’ve been in this game long enough. You know our government’s stance on such drones. I can’t say anything more on this.’
Broker finally punctured the long ensuing silence.
‘Sir, don’t the Chinese have a drone program already? Wouldn’t they develop their own nuclear-powered drones? Why would they want to steal ours?’
‘They do. All countries having a drone program probably have some research going into such drones. However, we’ve always been decades ahead of any country in military research and arms development, and stealing research or prototypes from us would bridge those decades for them.’
Broker leaned back in his chair to take it all in, making the National Security Advisor lean forward.
‘I want you to be on the alert for any intel on this. Anything. A mouse squeaks “drone” in Siberia, I want to hear it. You hear Arabic whispers about blueprints, you come running to me. You come only to me. No one else wants to be seen working with private intelligence contractors except Clare, and she does things her way anyway. Me, I don’t care for appearances or political niceties. I took an oath to defend this country, and the more ears I have on the ground, the easier I can sleep.’
Broker grinned humorlessly. ‘Sir, I’m not sure if Clare has said this, my business is selling intel to whoever is buying, but I have some rules. I do not sell any intel that goes against the country and neither do I trade in intel on women or children. I would have gone to the Pentagon anyway if I had gotten any intel on drones of any kind.’
The grizzled veteran softened. ‘I know, son, and Clare has briefed me fully on you as well as your associates. I am aware of some of the assignments you guys have undertaken.’
He removed a card from his jacket and scribbled a number on its back and pushed it across to Broker. ‘My direct number. Call me anytime, you need anything or if you’re having any problems with Isakson.’
Broker nodded. He knew the General meant it. He was old school. He had never married, had no children, and had no life other than serving his country.
As he was leaving, he patted Broker on the back and smiled at him fully for the first time. ‘Call Isakson, son. That takes priority over anything else. Don’t let this meeting go in vain.’
Broker sat there for a long while thinking over the meeting. There were a million other ways a meeting could have been arranged with Isakson. The fact that the National Security Advisor had come in person indicated that whatever shit Isakson was dealing with had a stench so strong that it had reached the White House.
It also meant that the NSA was figuring on cultivating his own private intelligence source and wanted to assess Broker in person for that.
In the end it didn’t matter. Broker would meet Isakson and hear him out, but would take his time about it.
Isakson and he had history. Isakson’s slow-footed approach and bungling in the rescue of the hostages had cost Broker dearly.
Broker had lost his best friend, his brother operative Zebadiah Carter, in that rescue. They had secured the safe release of the ho
stages, and Holt had been killed, but Zeb hadn’t survived the rescue.
Never a day passed that Broker did not miss Zeb.
The barista behind the counter had been flirting with Broker all day. She was several years younger than him, but he appealed to her. There was something to him, and she had been planning to slip him her number when he came up to pay the check.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes as she was serving another customer, and her heart skipped a beat. Gone was the humor in his face, and in its place was a cold, dark look. She looked back to her customer, smiling brightly. On second thoughts, he reminded her of a wolf, best left alone.
Chapter 8
Broker caught an evening flight back to New York, and it was close to midnight by the time he reached his apartment on Columbus Avenue, near Central Park. His apartment also doubled as his office; in fact, he had a couple of other such establishments across the downtown area. One never knew when one apartment would be compromised, and in his line of business, redundancy always paid.
The door to his apartment was wood, with a plain finish; inside the door was armored steel that was thick enough to stop everything thrown at it short of a rocket launch. The steel could retract in the frame of the building if needed, turning the door to a more ordinary one. To the right of the door was a DNA and iris scanner under a concealed flap. Broker stepped in and turned off the invisible lasers and all the other nasties in store for an intruder. He headed to his office and booted up his machine after pouring himself a rich black coffee from the Jura on a corner table.
Broker spent the next couple of hours tweaking the spiders he had on the Internet, which were his ears to all the chatter that passed online. Other programs overlaid the chatter with real-time events, such as the visit of the Iranian Defense Minister to North Korea, Somalian pirates capturing a Pakistani merchant vessel, China buying mines in Australia.
