by Brad Taylor
“He’ll do something with it, but cables are never as good as face-to-face. Whatever called him back will take front seat. It’ll be hard to pry him away from that now.”
I was surprised at the level of my disappointment, and wondered if I was more upset at our theories taking a backseat to something else, or that this adventure was drawing to a close. I hadn’t realized how much I had wanted to go to that meeting tomorrow, and to continue on with this excursion. I think in my heart I was hoping Kurt would take me with him to figure out what was going on. What a fantasy.
I said, “Let’s go get a flight out of here for tomorrow. No sense hanging around here now. Whatever we find out at the meeting tomorrow morning, the rest of this will be in someone else’s hands.”
“That sounds good to me. I’m ready to get back to my simple college life.”
Her words gave me another kick in the gut. I hear you. Boy, am I ever ready to get back to being a worthless fucking bum. Once we left the embassy tomorrow, she would go back to her life and I’d go back to mine. All I had to look forward to was waking up in a rage every morning. I could already feel my self-worth eroding. The thought was depressing and must have showed on my face.
“What’s wrong? Are you really that worried about the cable doing nothing? I thought Kurt was the Wizard of Oz.”
I lied, “Yeah, I’m worried about the cable. You’re probably right, though. No sense in crying over it now. Let’s see what happens tomorrow. Come on. I’d like to get a plane that doesn’t allow goats in the aisle.”
“PALMER,” President Warren said, “can you hang on a second?”
Alexander Palmer stopped at the door to the Oval Office, letting the other members of the president’s national security team leave.
“Sure, sir. What’s up?”
Warren stood up and leaned against his desk. “The Taskforce got a Prometheus alert, but I never saw it.”
“Oh, yeah. Standish told me about it. He’s run it to ground already. Some sort of misfire. It wasn’t Prometheus material. Sorry if I didn’t bring it to your attention, but it was nothing.”
“What do you think about him?”
“Standish? Ahh . . . I think if he wasn’t around you wouldn’t be president, but he’s not really giving us much in the administration. He’s just taking up space on the NSC. Is that what you mean?”
Warren had been thinking about what Kurt had said months ago. About some unknown terrorist with the skill and patience to really do some damage. The thought scared him. As president, he’d created the Project Prometheus at significant risk and let them run at full throttle. He had thought they were winning, that the risk had been worth every penny. But the commander didn’t. Kurt thought they had just been lucky—as if the Taskforce was no match for a smart terrorist, and that that man was out there right now, planning. The revelation had caused him to lose sleep.
President Warrant was a political infighter. A winner. He took no quarter and wasn’t above dirty tricks to win—just like every other politician at this level. He had a lot on his plate—the economy, global trade issues, the constant bickering between parties—but only one issue really scared him: the loss of American lives because of something he had failed to do. And not in a political way either. It scared him in a personal way. He couldn’t imagine being president on 9/11, watching the bodies fall from the burning towers. It was the one issue where politics had no business. And probably the one thing that allowed him to relate to Kurt Hale. Everything else he did in the name of democracy would make Hale’s stomach turn.
He had reviewed his national security team and begun to wonder if he’d ceded too much control. Everyone had become complacent when it came to terrorism, himself included. He’d allowed Palmer to run the NSC as he saw fit, but after hearing about Standish’s questions at the last Taskforce Oversight Council meeting, he was beginning to believe the man was dangerous.
He said, “No, I don’t mean what he’s contributing to the administration. You put him on the Taskforce Oversight Council, and I’m wondering if that was wise. You work with him. I’m asking if he can be trusted. NSC business is one thing, but the Taskforce is something else. There’s no room for error.”
“Well, he has managed to work his way on the inside a hell of a lot quicker than I would have thought possible, but he’s doing a good job. He keeps me abreast of all the secret things going on. He’s pretty good at collating information.”
“That doesn’t answer the question. Is he a threat? Standish’s answer for anything is brute force. He doesn’t understand the complexity. Doesn’t have the experience or background.”
Palmer reflected for a moment. “No, I think he’s okay. We both know he loves the feeling of being on the inside. He’s like a political groupie, but that’s about it.”
President Warren locked eyes with him. “Palmer, don’t let him become a threat. This isn’t about payback or politics. I won’t tolerate American deaths. That’s got nothing to do with politics.”
Palmer smiled. “Sir, don’t worry about that. He’s a coward at heart. He likes playacting. He doesn’t have the balls to do anything for real.”
57
Lucas Kane fiddled with his PDA, waiting on Standish to finish with a phone call. He played the keys with manicured fingers, looking like any other successful power broker in Washington, D.C. Actually, he looked like an actor in a beer commercial portraying a successful power broker in Washington, D.C. He had sandy-blond hair, an athletic build, and a face that belonged in a weekly Hollywood tabloid. From across the street, women were automatically drawn to him. Up close, when they could look into his eyes, the attraction would usually wilt. His eyes were dead. Not unintelligent, just lacking in any warmth. His last date, after saying she would rather not see him again, commented that they reminded her of a three-day-old bruise. Purple and rotting.
Lucas didn’t give a shit, as long as the date paid him back for the dinner and a movie once they returned to his apartment, which this one had, even if a bit reluctantly. If the eyes are a window into the soul, I guess a bruise is pretty damn close.
Standish hung up the phone, saying, “They’re on the way over. Should be here in about five minutes. You sure you can do this?
“Yeah, I’m sure. It’s not brain surgery. The key is the information you gave me. If the phone’s a different model, or the pager information is incorrect, it might not work.”
“That intel’s good. I’ve seen them myself.”
“Shouldn’t be an issue, then. We’ll know shortly.”
He left the office and positioned himself on a bench in the marble hallway within view of the entrance to Standish’s office, but far enough away as to be inconspicuous. He opened a magazine.
He didn’t have to wait long. Two men approached Standish’s office. He focused on the one matching the description of his target. They stopped and placed their two-way pagers and cell phones in the ubiquitous cubicles provided outside every government office that whispered the nation’s secrets. He noted which cubicle his target used. He waited until they passed through the cipher-locked door, then waited an additional few seconds. When nothing happened, he walked at a quick pace and pulled both the pager and cell phone from the cubicle. He raced down the stairs to the equipment he had left in his vehicle parked outside.
His task was to clone the cell phone with a sophisticated Trojan horse virus, which would allow a separate cell phone to act exactly like the original. Anytime the target phone rang, the other would ring too. Anytime it dialed out, his would dial out. It would be like a three-way call every time the target used his phone, except that he wouldn’t suspect it.
In addition to manipulating the phone, he was going to reverse the pager the target wore. Using the information given to him by Standish, Lucas knew that the device was specially constructed, capable of worldwide coverage through a satellite network, and equipped with a “panic button” that would send out a signal based on Global Positioning System satellites. Once
triggered, it would give a grid reference to its location worldwide. Lucas was going to ensure that the pager sent a signal without the button being pushed, in effect, making the pager a beacon without the target even knowing it. The trick would be ensuring the signal didn’t enter the normal channels and thus cause an alert. Instead, it would be visible only to someone who knew it was broadcasting. Lucas didn’t yet know exactly why this target needed to be tracked, but something told him that Standish wasn’t finished using him on this particular assignment.
STANDISH LEFT KURT AND GEORGE sitting in the anteroom for five more minutes, just because he felt like being a prick. Eventually, he closed out the solitaire game he was playing and told his secretary to show them in.
He heard them enter, pretending to work on his computer. He let them stand for a few seconds before turning around. He pointed to the chairs in front of his desk and started right in, skipping any pleasantries.
“You received a Prometheus alert two days ago, yet you didn’t notify anyone at all. If I remember your initial information briefings to me, those were supposed to trigger a response, but when I called the Taskforce, I got an idiotic duty officer who acted as if nothing was wrong. Either you’re running an organization that isn’t the caliber you so eloquently brag about in your brief, or you’re attempting to hide things from a member of the council that oversees your activities. For your sake, I hope it’s incompetence.”
Standish watched both of them squirm a little, clearly not expecting to be attacked. Good. They need to know who’s the boss here.
Kurt said, “Sir, we did get an alert, but it wasn’t what you think. Neither of your reasons is accurate—the alert came from an old unit member. It didn’t involve an active mission and thus didn’t require a response from the Taskforce.
“As for you not getting any word about it, I apologize, but if you remember the brief you were just talking about, we get oversight solely on which target to attack and our method of engagement, based on potential second- and third-order effects that might be generated from the action. Once we get the go-ahead to proceed against a target, there is no further oversight, unless one of those variables changes.”
Is he giving me a lecture? Like I’m slow? “Colonel Hale, don’t treat me like a child. I understand how the Oversight Council works. I’m one of the members. Perhaps it’s you that needs a refresher on who you work for.”
Kurt backpedaled. “Sir, we meant no disrespect, but the Prometheus alert is a tactical control measure used solely by us in the Taskforce, and we didn’t realize a report to you was necessary.”
Standish steepled his fingers. “Well, maybe I should speak to the president about relooking at this little experiment’s rules of engagement. It sounds to me like you think you get to decide what does or does not occur within your little secret world.”
George broke in. “Sir, he’s not trying to tell you that you had no right to know, he’s explaining why you didn’t initially get any feedback. We’re here specifically to provide that feedback. Kurt and I just came from meeting the man who sent the cable. He has an interesting story to tell, and while it may have some merit, the odds of it being true aren’t that great.”
George continued, giving Standish a broad sketch of Pike’s story, knowing that Standish had read the original message. He finished by telling Standish the coordination made with Guatemala and the way ahead.
“So, what’s the Taskforce going to do with this? Anything?”
Kurt said, “Well, it depends on what the CIA finds out. Right now, there isn’t a whole lot we can do and, with the information we have, not much we should be doing. This is more of a CIA issue. Unless you want us to start focusing on it, we’re going to let them take the lead. We have enough on our plate without this.”
Perfect. Just what I wanted to hear. “No, that sounds right.”
Looking at his watch, Standish said, “I’ve got another meeting coming up. I appreciate you two taking the time out of your day to come down. We don’t have to be looking across the fence at each other all the time. I want to work with you. All I ask for is a little courtesy and respect.”
He paused. “Trust me—if I don’t get it, you will cease to exist.”
58
After the door closed behind Kurt and George, Standish buzzed his secretary and told her to show Lucas in as soon as he arrived. After a minute and a half, Standish saw him coming through the door and was embarrassed to feel his pulse rate go up. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but Lucas scared him. Bastard looks like he belongs in Alaska killing baby seals. He was a cousin of Standish’s wife, and extremely useful for certain tasks, but Standish didn’t like being alone with him for any length of time. He watched Lucas plop down in a chair as if he were in his own office.
“No issues,” Lucas said.
“Will it work?”
“No. You pay me just to pretend.” He tossed the phone to Standish, reached into his pocket and pulled out another phone, dialing a number. The phone rang once before the one in Standish’s hand began ringing.
Standish heard Kurt Hale answer after the fourth ring. Lucas said, “Can I speak to Betty?”
Through the phone he held, Standish heard Kurt say, “Sorry, wrong number.”
Lucas hung up.
Standish grinned. With any luck, not only would he get all information relating to the Mayan weapon, but he might also get other useful information relating to the Taskforce, or even Kurt’s personal life. I should have done this a long time ago.
“Can you tell anything was done?”
“Not at a casual look-over. If the phone’s software is scrubbed, they’ll see it was manipulated.”
“We’re good there. No way they’ll suspect this office of doing anything. What about the pager?”
“The pager’s a little different. That panic beacon attempts to transmit on any signal it can find, like cellular, FM, you name it. With that much stuff blasting out on a constant stream, there’s a chance someone will pick up the signal. It’ll also run the batteries down about four times as fast, which might spike the target. I figured it would be better to restrict it to satellite only, so that’s what it will transmit on. The batteries will still burn more quickly, but not enough to spike.”
“Okay. What’s that mean to me?”
“You’ll only get a location when the beacon can see the sky. If the beacon loses signal, it’ll just show its last known location.”
“That’s fine by me. The pager was just a benny anyway. I’ll cut a check to the same account for your time. Is that acceptable?”
“Yeah. Same account.”
Standish paused, internally making a decision. “Before you go, I need to read you on to something that might require your attention.”
“All right. I’m still on your retainer. What’s up?”
Standish’s only weak link now was Pike himself. He had already gleaned both his and Jennifer’s passport information from the station in Belize and had fed that into the gigantic, bureaucratic Homeland Security database, ensuring they would be stopped at whatever port of entry they attempted to use. His only purpose was to tie them up until the terrorists could set off their weapon. Getting arrested as a terrorist associate should do the trick. By the time they got an apology and a pat on the back, the bomb should have gone off. Still, Standish hadn’t gotten to where he was by not planning, and he wanted to ensure he had a contingency in place. He’d play nice first but had no compunction about turning nasty.
“I have a couple of individuals I might need you to deal with.”
Standish gave him a brief rundown on Pike and Jennifer, leaving out the reasons he wanted them stopped. Lucas didn’t ask why or what they represented. It wasn’t part of the mission and thus wasn’t something that concerned him.
When he was finished, Lucas said, “What do you want me to do with them?”
“Nothing right now. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Lucas let the silence extend out a bit to
show what he thought of that answer, then said, “Yeah, I get that. That wasn’t my question. What do you want me to do with them if you call? What’s the mission?”
“Get rid of them.”
Lucas sat forward in his chair, looking a little agitated at the verbal dance. “What the fuck does that mean? Tell me what you want done. I’m doing the work. The least you could do is actually say it. You want them locked up, sent to the hospital, what?”
Let him know you aren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. “Kill them. Or do you have an issue with that?”
Lucas stared into Standish’s eyes. “I’m pretty sure you know the answer to that.”
Standish recoiled in his chair, mentally trying to distance himself from Lucas without appearing to do so.
“Yes. I guess I do.”
A year ago, Lucas had been a SEAL serving in Afghanistan, where he had been accused of intentionally killing civilians. That in itself wasn’t remarkable, since not a day went by without Standish’s reading some bullshit report of Americans killing civilians. Ninety-nine point nine percent of those reports were propaganda put out by the enemy to stir up a little Islamic fury. The difference with the accusations against Lucas was they hadn’t been brought forward by some unknown local with an ax to grind, but by his own teammates. Just before the investigation began in earnest, the two teammates died violently in an IED attack. The investigation took a new tack, now looking into the deaths of two American servicemen as well as the deaths of the Afghanis. Before it could build up enough steam, as a favor to his wife, Standish pulled Lucas out of the fire with a few well-placed words, allowing him to leave the military at fifteen years, his only true punishment being the loss of retirement pay. Now he was wondering if using Lucas might be a mistake. He’s liable to kill two hundred people to get this done.
