Reckoning

by J. B. Turner

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “And just to check, if these documents, allegedly showing some assassination list, which you’re telling me were recovered from previously deleted files on an NSA server, amount to espionage or treason . . . We just need to look at the Snowden case. The theft of government property.”

  “Mort, listen, I’m not disputing these things. But this goes way beyond what the government says. I’m talking public interest. This needs to be out there. We’re talking a cabal who had eight people killed, made to look like accidents, including Senator Crichton in Scotland.”

  “Mark, I’m not disputing that. I love your work. This is what we aspire to at this paper. But you’ve got to realize they’re going to come after not only you but the New York Times. We’d be taking on the might of the American government, including the intelligence agencies.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “The unauthorized removal and retention of classified materials—and they won’t be too picky about how they came into your hands—would carry eleven years in a federal jail. I’m talking the combined maximum sentence. But you can guarantee, absolutely guarantee, the Justice Department wouldn’t rest there.”

  Mahoney sighed, knowing the hurdles he would now face to get the story published.

  “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? The Espionage Act, additional charges, and potentially far more severe penalties if you were convicted. This is classified. And I can see, from what you’ve sent me, it included a top-secret email chain.”

  Mahoney was disappointed at Weiss’s tone. He’d been expecting far greater positivity from his editor. More support. But as it was, it appeared the paper was very wary about getting embroiled in the whole shitstorm of a story. “We need to publish this. Publish and be damned.”

  Weiss leaned back in his seat. “I don’t know. This has got so many legal pitfalls in it, it’ll take weeks to get through it.”

  “Fine, weeks it is. I’m prepared to do this. And remember, I’ve been the one at the sharp end of this. An assassin, two assassins actually, were tasked with taking me out.”

  Weiss nodded. “Absolutely. Look, I’m not denying it’s a story.”

  “A story? It’s explosive stuff. This alleges that retired members of the intelligence community formed an organization to extinguish anyone who rails against global wars or globalization or wants our whole post-9/11 strategy reset. They don’t like dissent from opinion formers, influential people like Crichton.”

  “There are other aspects of the story that I find very troubling.”

  Mahoney shrugged. “Yeah, like what?”

  “Like accompanying this assassin, this Nathan Stone, back to New York before he went out into the city, was possibly responsible for killing Clayton Wilson, perhaps using a drug to induce a heart attack, then set up a gas explosion to take out three members of the so-called Commission on the East Side, met up with you and your family in Chelsea for a cozy dinner and a drink with you, and then headed off and shot Richard Stanton in cold blood in an abandoned hotel. I mean, Mark, I’m as open-minded as the next man, but this is not right.”

  Mahoney showed his palms, as if not disputing what was being said. “Sure. I get that.”

  “You’re too close to the story. That’s a problem for me. What’s that old saying? Once you become the story, you’ve crossed the line, or something like that.”

  “Listen to me, I didn’t have a fucking choice. Nathan Stone would’ve killed me.”

  Weiss shrugged. “Like I said, I’m playing devil’s advocate, and I can see all sorts of ethical issues you’ve got yourself embroiled in.”

  “The fucker was sent to kill me.”

  “Which is part of the problem. There are a lot of questions. An operative you believe was from the Canadian facility tracked you down to the Hamptons. And then Stone kills this operative? I mean, why would an assassin sent to kill you come and save you? It’s almost like—and remember, I’m playing devil’s advocate—collusion.”

  Mahoney rubbed his face. “Like I said, the whole thing is fucked up.”

  “OK, I don’t mean to be too hard on you. I know what you’ve been through.”

  “Do you, Mort? Do you really? I’m not so sure. My wife and kids, my family, were nearly burned to death.”

  Weiss cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, that’s terrible. Inexcusable.”

  “Thankfully they’re now safe and out of harm’s way.”

  “That’s another thing. If what you’re saying is correct, this might very well result in any remaining associates of this ‘Commission,’ perhaps in the intelligence community, coming after you.”

  “I’ve thought about that. A lot. And you know what, Mort? I’m not going to bury this story.”

  “Problem is, they might bury you.”

  “I know. But that’s a risk I’m prepared to take.”

  Weiss was quiet, staring down at the papers on his desk. “Tell me about this call from the computer forensic analyst in LA.”

  Mahoney cleared his throat. “High-end encryption and decryption specialists.”

  Weiss flicked through the papers. “And it says the bill for their services amounts to twenty-three thousand dollars. Not an insignificant amount.”

  “It’s not. But their work has produced what I think is another even more worrying aspect of this whole thing.”

  Weiss stared long and hard at him.

  “The possibility of an imminent terrorist attack in Toronto. That’s what they’ve uncovered from the decryption and the analysis. Remember, this firm works with, among others, Homeland Security. They know their stuff.”

  “And this is in code, you’re saying.”

  “Toronto is referred to as 416. And their analysis—and this company has ex-FBI, CIA, and NSA on their books—is saying this is a red flag.”

  “Did they have any recommendations for a course of action?”

  “None at all. We’re a private client. And they’ve passed on their thoughts and findings.”

  Weiss was silent for what seemed like an eternity as he pondered what he had been told. “First, we need to get our lawyers involved.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’ll give Olivia Bernard, our new general counsel, a call. But assuming she has no objections, we really need to pass on this particular case to the Feds. What’re your thoughts on that, Mark?”

  “Couldn’t agree more. If this is for real, we need to let people know. The legal stuff aside, I want this story out there.”

  Weiss nodded as a smile crossed his face. “You’re crazy. Do you know that, Mark?”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Leave this to me. But in the meantime, I love this story, warts and all. Write it up how you see it. Tell the story. Be true to the story. And then we’ll get the ball rolling.”

  “Good to hear.”

  “One final thing: if the Feds get involved, there may be no hiding place for you. We absolutely stand by your right to write this story, just as it’s our right to scrutinize it to the nth degree. But I have to warn you, Mark, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “From what I’ve read and what you’ve told me, there are powers at work that we don’t yet fully understand.”

  Sixty

  Just before dawn, Nathan handed the driver one hundred Canadian dollars and was dropped off a couple blocks from the downtown bus terminal in Toronto. He had no reason to believe anyone knew he’d be in town. But his instincts after everything that had happened were to take sensible precautions. He didn’t know if they’d tapped into the bus terminal computer system and were running face-recognition software.

  He caught a cab to a sketchy area, the Garden District, and checked into a cheap, divey hotel under his fake name.

  “You know, there’s a gentlemen’s club on the first floor,” the man behind the counter said.

  “What do you mean, a gentlemen’s club?”
r />   “You know, a place for guys to watch girls dance, if you like that sort of thing.”

  Nathan handed over his deposit and the price of one night and was given a card for his room. He peered out the windows over the morning street scene. A crackhead longhair was walking in the middle of the road, stoned out of his head. It wasn’t even seven o’clock.

  He watched as the man began yelling at oncoming traffic before taking his top off, despite the cold. The crazed addict was spewing obscenities at passersby. A cyclist had to swerve to miss him. Nathan stared transfixed at the man, who had lost his mind to drugs. His life. He’d abandoned hope. One of the forgotten, the hopeless, the left behind, who were usually hidden from plain sight in the city. Invariably, they came out at night if they were homeless, headed to hostels, park benches, under freeways or subways: panhandlers, druggies, alcoholics, the mentally ill. But this guy, who could have been any of those things, was out there, in the harsh early-morning light, railing against everything and everyone, his grievances, real and imagined, shouted to no one and everyone.

  Eventually, a cop car pulled up. Two burly cops stepped out and slammed the poor fucker to the ground. He was cuffed and thrown unceremoniously in the back of the cop car.

  Nathan couldn’t help thinking of his fuckwit of a father. He had seen his father meandering through the streets of the Lower East Side, drunk, cursing, and threatening onlookers in the same uninhibited way. He remembered crying the first time he saw his father like that. But years later, he didn’t cry when his father was taken. He cried when he came back.

  He remembered his sister’s quiet voice as she tried to reassure him. But nothing could assuage his deep fear of his father. The belt buckle across the face or back, or the leather strap across the back of his neck. Sometimes he just stood and took it. Other times he cowered in the corner, protecting himself with his hands and arms. But it was always to no avail.

  His cell phone rang and Nathan checked the caller ID. He didn’t recognize it. “Who’s this?”

  “Nathan.” It was Mahoney. “Are you there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m real frazzled.”

  “What is it?”

  “I wanna tell you a few things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “I’m writing the story. And I’ve just spoken to the executive editor.”

  “What are you telling me this for?”

  “The cell phone . . . You know the one?”

  “What about it?”

  “Remember I said the cell phone contained several messages that mentioned killing you.”

  “Go on.”

  “We found more. Coded messages.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Mahoney said nothing.

  Nathan shut the blinds in his room. “You know something. What else was on the phone?”

  “I’m telling you . . . I’m telling you because we’ve informed the FBI of the contents.”

  “So why are you telling me?”

  “I’m not sure I should be.”

  “But you are.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Do you think the Feds will come looking for me?”

  “Nathan Stone doesn’t exist, does he?” he said.

  “Good point.”

  “No, I don’t think they’ll come for you. But I wanted you to know there’s something planned for Toronto. A hit. Maybe an attack. Today maybe. I don’t know when exactly, but it’s imminent.”

  Nathan took a few moments to process the information. “A hit organized from within the facility?”

  Mahoney said nothing.

  “I get it. The instructions will still stand, no matter what. No matter if the Commission is destroyed, if there’s one man left standing, the hit will still be on.”

  “I’m trying to understand what this is all about. You know what I also don’t get?”

  “What?”

  “Why you came back for me. For us. For my family. Why did you do that?”

  Nathan closed his eyes and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “You didn’t have to do that. But you did. Why?”

  “You’ve got a family. A beautiful family. I don’t want to talk about that, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind. What you did was amazing. You came back for us. You . . . you can’t deny that.”

  Nathan said nothing. Mahoney’s emotional outburst was making him feel awkward.

  Mahoney snuffled down the phone, as if tearful. “I just wanted to say that whatever crazy shit went down there, I’m grateful to you for sparing my family.”

  Nathan felt his throat tighten.

  “When I write this story, I want to mention you. I want to mention your name. Your real name.”

  “Why do you want to do that?”

  “The story is authentic or it’s nothing. Besides, Nathan Stone doesn’t exist anymore.”

  Nathan thought long and hard about what Mahoney was asking. “OK.”

  “You’re fine with that?”

  “Sure. On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do not mention my sister’s name, or the facility she’s in.”

  “Can I say she lives under an assumed name somewhere in the United States?”

  “Sure.”

  “Nathan, you’re back in Toronto, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Jeez.”

  A pause. “Want a final bit of advice, Mark?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I’ll say it one last time. They’ll come for you. And they will kill you.”

  Sixty-One

  Berenger was in the main situation room within the Canadian facility, huge screens on the wall in front of him. Standing to his left was the operations director, with whom he had worked before. His name was Malcolm Strutt, ex-CIA senior operative. A dozen men and women sat at desks around the room running the operation, checking live news feeds. “I want to see the feed from outside the hospital,” Strutt said.

  Instantaneously, the main screen showed three split-screen images of members of staff and the public entering and leaving Toronto General Hospital.

  Berenger turned to Strutt. “What time do we expect the barriers to go up?”

  “We’re hearing late afternoon,” he said.

  “And the crowds we expect to turn up?”

  “It’s all very choreographed, as you’d expect. We’ve been led to believe he’ll be talking to two handpicked nurses.”

  “So there’ll definitely be people, members of the public, allowed behind these metal barriers?”

  Strutt nodded. “We believe forty or fifty will be allowed.”

  “I want to talk about our options. These were devised when Clayton was in charge.”

  “Absolutely. This was the agreed plan of action.”

  “And these are the three best scenarios?”

  Strutt nodded. “We worked the problem, as we usually do, and came up with what would do the job. Namely, take out the target.”

  Berenger cocked his head, and Strutt followed him out of the situation room to a meeting room fifty yards down the hall. He pressed his index finger against the fingerprint scanner, face against the retina scanner, and the door clicked open. They went inside.

  He sat down and poured himself a cool glass of water from a jug on the table. He took a couple of gulps and put down his glass. “Tell me about scenario one, the first choice for the operation, which was unanimously agreed on by Clayton and his guys.”

  Strutt opened a folder on the desk and flicked through the pages, scanning the information. He sighed. “Sniper from nearby roof. That was deemed most likely to succeed. We know for a fact there will be no security detail or police on roofs. It is viewed as a soft win-win, this appearance by the target.”

  Berenger had been up half the night considering the scenarios. He understood the rationale of the direct hit. The fact that it would be carried out by the Chechen woman was perfect. She w
ould be taken out as she escaped, under orders to fire at anyone who tried to stop her. And the false flag trail had already been laid down. An Islamic terrorist. It was an outrage. But no one would see the real motivation for taking down the target. “Tell me about scenario two.”

  “We considered a suicide vest. But the thinking was that it might not be practical in the short time frame we have. We needed far longer to get specialists working on the vest, and there just wasn’t time.”

  Berenger was quiet a moment before continuing. “Scenario three—I’m intrigued. To me, this appears to be the most elegant. And the most convincing. The target won’t expect it. No one will.”

  Strutt nodded. “Scenario three, if I remember correctly, provoked a lot of debate.”

  “And what did you conclude? What were the chances of success? Since I wasn’t involved in the discussions.”

  “There were no guarantees it would work.”

  “I’ve looked over the target’s medical records. And there are three times in the last eighteen months when his illness has been triggered. Once he nearly swallowed his tongue, once he blacked out, and another time he lost consciousness. Have we done a probability study?”

  “We believe there’s a sixty-eight percent chance it will succeed. That wasn’t considered high enough—by Clayton and Stanton in particular.”

  “What about the others?”

  “The other two liked it, but Clayton thought it was a bit out there.”

  Berenger contemplated scenario three for the umpteenth time. “What about you, Malcolm?”

  “My thoughts?”

  “Yeah. What are your thoughts on scenario three?”

  Strutt arched his eyebrows. “I’ll talk about scenario three in a moment, if I may.”

  “Sure.”

  “The beauty of the sniper scenario is the finality. My problem is and was how our operative accesses and then gets out of the building. What if she’s discovered, either by design or chance? What if we are wrong? What if there are police snipers on the roof?”

  “You were against that?”

  “Yes, I was, but it wasn’t up to me.”

  “I appreciate your honesty. What about scenario two?”

  “No problem with it at all. Islamist, posing as a doctor in a white coat. I actually like this scenario. I think it’ll work.”