Against All Enemies

by John Gilstrap

  “I don’t,” Rollins said. He appeared to be embarrassed. “But my bosses do. They think that he’s only toying with us, that sooner or later, he’ll start releasing the truly damaging material.”

  “How do you know he’s even got it to release?” Boxers asked.

  “Because we know which databases and files he stole,” Rollins said. “And it goes way past Agency assets. We’re talking war plans here, guys. We’re talking every bad thing you can imagine.”

  Jonathan laughed again.

  “This is funny to you?” Rollins said.

  “Hell yes, it’s funny,” Jonathan said. His volume rose with his blood pressure. “How many times do you guys need to learn the same lesson? How did you let one guy—I don’t care who the hell he is—access that kind of data and not know he was doing it?”

  “Because he was with the Unit!” Rollins boomed. “We’re the best of the best, remember? The most trusted of the trusted! Can you think of a single time that you were denied access to something you told your boss you needed to see when you were in country? It’s not like you have to open every file. You just copy everything and look at it later. This is huge, Dig. It’s beyond huge.”

  “If he turns himself in, he’ll go to prison forever,” Jonathan said. “How can we talk him into that?”

  “It’s better than getting murdered.”

  “Is it?” Boxers asked. “Given the choice, I’d take the bullet over a concrete hole.”

  Rollins stood, prompting Jonathan and Boxers to share a glance. If Jonathan hadn’t received assurances that the colonel was unarmed, he’d have interpreted the movement as an aggressive act, an effort to gain physical advantage.

  “That brings me to the next point,” Rollins said.

  “You ever notice there’s always a next point when you’re talking with Roleplay?” Boxers quipped. Rollins’s shoulders stiffened at the use of the name he hated.

  “I have,” Jonathan said. He was this close to kicking the colonel out of the compound. “Just tell the whole damn story.”

  “It’s the question you just asked,” Rollins said. “How was he able to do steal what he stole? We don’t have the answer to that question. Our tech guys can’t figure it out. We need to know how he got the information.”

  “So you want to squeeze him before you put him in a hole forever,” Boxers said.

  Rollins squared off opposite Big Guy, staring him directly in the eye. “Yes, Box, that’s exactly what I want to do. I want to squeeze him for information. I have every right to want it, and I have every intention of getting it.”

  “Why not just do it yourself, then?” Jonathan asked. “Get somebody with stars on his shoulder to cut the orders and you go in with the Unit and grab him.”

  Rollins took a few seconds to settle down, then returned to his chair. “That’s not possible. The president will never approve a move like that.”

  “But he’ll approve it for the CIA?” Jonathan asked. “What’s the difference?”

  “There are places where the Agency can go that the US military cannot.”

  “Do you even know where he is?” Boxers asked. “I kind of got the impression that you were clueless.”

  “We have reason to believe that he is somewhere in Central or South America.”

  “That’s good, limiting the search parameters to six, seven million square miles,” Boxers said. “With eighty million dollars’ worth of Unit training in his head, that’s a big playground to disappear into.”

  “I think the colonel is telling us they think he’s in a part of the six or seven million square miles where the military cannot go without igniting a war,” Jonathan said.

  Rollins confirmed the guess with his eyebrows.

  “And that means Cuba?” Boxers said.

  “Or Venezuela,” Jonathan said. “I think Colombia is our friend now. Or maybe that was yesterday. It gets so confusing after a while.”

  “So now you know why I’m coming to you,” Rollins said. “Plus, that part of the world is your old stomping grounds.”

  Early in their time with the Unit, the squadron Jonathan and Boxers had been attached to had in fact stirred a lot of trouble south of the border.

  “Are you saying that Boomer sought and received asylum from Cuba?” Jonathan asked. This was getting weirder by the second.

  “We have no evidence of that,” Rollins said, “but that is definitely a concern. Armed with the information he has, he’d be a big score for any of our enemies.”

  “I’m still confused on this,” Boxers said. “Who’s he leaking French and Austrian secrets to?”

  Rollins pointed at Big Guy, acknowledging a good point. “Excellent question. I should have mentioned it earlier. Every release that we know of has been very specifically targeted. He sent the French information to the Russians, and only the Russians. The Austrian secrets went exclusively to the embassy of the Czech Republic. That’s why I think he’s playing with us, testing his strategies before sharing the really damaging information.”

  It was Jonathan’s turn to stand, and he took his scotch with him. “This is different from the other blanket leaks of secrets, then,” he said. “Edward Snowden sent his to the press for the specific reason of exposing secrets for the sake of exposing them. By targeting them like this—”

  “—only a small population of people know that the secrets exist,” Boxers finished.

  “That’s what I mean when I say that I think he’s testing his systems. He doesn’t want to tip his big hand until he knows he can pull off everything he wants to pull off.”

  “Which would be what?” Jonathan asked.

  “I don’t know.” Rollins glared at Boxers. “Thus the desire to squeeze him for information. We don’t even know for a fact that he’s working alone.”

  Jonathan thought it through. “You know, it’s not easy to pull off the kind of snatch and grab mission you’re suggesting in another country. The logistics are difficult and the costs are high.”

  “We’re not expecting you to do this on your own dime, Dig,” Rollins said.

  “Oh, I already knew that. The question is, who will be paying for it?”

  “Your dear Uncle Sam,” Rollins said. “Over the years, we’ve accumulated stashes of cash that Congress doesn’t know about. There’s enough to do pretty much whatever you want. We’ll place what you need in an account of your choosing and under a name of your choosing. You draw from the account as you see fit. When the mission is over, it’s over, and the remainder is yours to do with as you please.”

  The number Jonathan asked for needed to be a big one. Not only would he have to arrange for noncommercial transport in and out of the country, he’d have to arrange for weapons and identification, and all the other moving parts that went into operating that far away from home.

  “Just to be clear,” Jonathan said. “Will we have any government cover at all?”

  “Absolutely not. If asked, this conversation never happened, and your kind Uncle had no idea where you were or why you were there.”

  “And when we locate Boomer, what then?” Boxers asked. “Who do we contact and where do we take him?”

  “You’ll have a contact protocol,” Rollins assured. “If it comes to that, it’ll be handled efficiently.”

  “Who else knows about this?” Jonathan asked. “Not officially, but in reality?”

  “My boss knows,” Rollins said. That would be the commanding general of the Unit.

  “And what about his boss?” That would be the secretary of defense and on into the leaking civilian structure.

  “I can’t imagine a reason why he would be clued in,” Rollins said. “Especially since this conversation never happened, and the cash we’ll be transferring never existed.”

  Jonathan looked to Big Guy, whose expression looked oddly like JoeDog’s when she thought it was time to go on a ride in the car. Let’s do it, let’s do it, let’s do it ...

  “You’ll stay out of my way in the planning?�
� Jonathan asked.

  “Even if you call, I will not answer,” Rollins said. He made a cross with his finger over his heart. “Scout’s honor.”

  Jonathan weighed the options one last time. “What the hell?” he said. “You gotta die of something. Deal.”

  They shook on it.

  Chapter Four

  Haynes Moncrief acknowledged the maître d’ with an arched eyebrow and headed for his regular table in the back left corner of the dark and opulent dining room, past the private wooden wine lockers of the establishment’s most pretentious patrons on the left, and past the expansive display of wines for sale on the right. Morton’s Steakhouse at Connecticut Avenue and Seventeenth Street, Northwest, had been his favorite spot for far longer than his celebrity had made him recognizable. His table made him invisible from the door, though not necessarily from the rest of the diners, but he’d found that by the time most people were seated and engaged in their own conversations, they had little inclination to break away to talk politics.

  If he truly wanted to be invisible, he could sit with his back to the room, but he’d spent too many years under fire in too many corners of the world to not keep tabs on the people around him. Besides, since the murder of Congressman Blaine from Illinois remained unsolved, the Hill security apparatus had redoubled their efforts to get people like Haynes to pay more attention to their surroundings. He so loved getting lectures from tough-looking kids who were younger than Haynes’s oldest pair of underpants.

  He’d just pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket when he saw his Manhattan on its way. More specifically, his perfect Manhattan—Maker’s Mark plus equal shares of sweet and dry vermouth—with a twist instead of the cloying cherries that were the normal garnish. Too few bartenders knew how to pour a decent drink anymore, and Pierre was one of them.

  Luis Martinez carried the silver tray with the drink perched in the middle, like the hub of a wheel. “Good evening, Senator,” he said as he approached. “I took the liberty.” Luis placed a napkin on the charger plate in front of his customer, and the drink on top of the napkin.

  “Thank you,” Haynes said. He took care lifting the conical martini glass, concentrating on not spilling a drop of the nearly overflowing drink.

  “Are you ready to order, sir?”

  “Tell Pierre he did it again,” Haynes said as the drink warmed his core. “I don’t think I’m ready just yet. I’ll take some bread, though, and a glass of water.”

  “And are you expecting guests this evening, or should I take these other settings away?”

  “I hope I’m dining alone. But leave one extra place.” He winked. “You never know when some beautiful young lady might want to discuss politics over dinner.”

  Luis smiled. “Of course, sir. I’ll check back with you in a few minutes.”

  “Luis, I’ll tell you what. When this glass is empty, bring it a little brother, and then we’ll talk food.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  He took another sip, placed the drink on its napkin, and turned his attention back to his phone. He’d been working hard to fully embrace the twenty-first century, and part of his commitment was to depend more and more on electronic readers as his source of news. While he missed the rustle of the newsprint, he didn’t miss the inconvenience or the ink-stained fingers, so he figured he had a decent shot at successfully making the transition. The question now was which site to read first, the news outlet that portrayed him as a hero, or the one that portrayed him as an asshole. He decided on the latter to see what the president’s media buddies were up to.

  The update on the Washington Enquirer site read, “Moncrief Vows to Undermine President.”

  He’d done nothing of the sort, of course. Rather, he said in session that the president’s plan to reduce military spending would undermine the security of the Free World, and that as long as he, Haynes, held the position of minority leader, his caucus would do everything in its power to block him. Partisanship aside, Haynes could not wrap his head around why the president and his party felt so uncomfortable showing international leadership. Whereas the Monroe Doctrine professed to protect the United States from all incursions into our hemisphere, President Darmond’s doctrine seemed to be all about apologizing for past successes and surrendering against future victories. How that ass hat was able to get reelected after all the scandals of his administration remained one of life’s great mysteries.

  He’d just clicked on an article about the non-progress on the Blaine investigation when a shadow loomed over his table. He looked up to see the face and then he groaned.

  “Excuse me, Leader Moncrief, but I need a moment of your time.”

  It was Mark Reeder, a longtime political gadfly, who now served as deputy assistant under chief special counselor to the president. Or something like that. Skinny and bald, he sported a ring of white Larry Fine hair above his ears and a Fagin beard.

  “Mr. Reeder,” Haynes said. “Having dedicated a great deal of time in recent months acquainting myself with new technology, I understand that a Mr. Alexander Bell from up your way in Yankee country has invented a device called a telephone. Have you heard of it?”

  Reeder pulled out the chair to Haynes’s left and sat. “May I join you?”

  “Apparently so.” Haynes checked his watch. “You do know it’s seven-thirty, right? In a mere four and a half hours, you’ll have a whole new day for working.”

  “This is important, Haynes.”

  The senator pressed the button to darken his phone and slid it back into his jacket pocket. “I prefer Leader Moncrief. Make it short.”

  “The president would like to speak to you about—”

  “I believe he has a telephone, too. Even has my cell phone number. If it was as important as you purport, His Highness could be talking directly to me, and you could be at home with your dogs.” Reeder famously preferred the company of dogs to human relationships. It made him the perfect White House staffer.

  Luis reappeared. “Excuse me, Senator. May I get your guest something to drink?”

  “He’s not staying,” Haynes said.

  Luis blushed and looked to the floor. And vaporized.

  “What are you so pissed off about?” Reeder said. “You’re jumpy.”

  “I’m not jumpy, Mark. I’m tired and much more sober than I care to be. You want to talk about work, when in fact, I just left fifteen hours of work.”

  “That’s the job when you’re at the top of the heap.”

  Haynes took another sip of his Manhattan. A much bigger one. “Right now, Mark, I feel like hitting you in the face. I’m tired of the games your team has been playing.”

  “You’d feel differently if yours was the side that was winning.”

  “That’s the thing, Mark. Until your regime moved into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, both sides understood that the game really was anything but a game. We have serious jobs to do, with serious consequences if we do things wrong. You guys just want to throw socialist, populist bullshit to the masses, and then call us names in the press when we save you from yourselves.”

  “If it’s so bad for the country, why not just let us win?”

  “Because you guys don’t blink. You’re already in your second term, and you know damn well that the damage you’re doing will be delayed in its effect, and then, when we take back the White House in four years, you’ll point to the new guy and the public will blame all the problems on him.”

  Reeder grinned. “You’re right,” he said. “You really aren’t drunk enough yet. Still, my boss wants you to reconsider your resistance to the Defense bill.”

  “That’s fascinating. Have your boss talk to my chief of staff, and we’ll arrange a special appointment for him to kiss my ass.”

  “Jessica Reinhardt,” Reeder said.

  The name hit like a gut punch. Haynes tried not to show it, but he knew he flinched. He said nothing, but as he lifted his drink, he saw the slight tremor in his hand.

  “She
was only sixteen,” Reeder went on. “Her son, Lance, found out who his father is, and he contacted us with the news.” He leaned in closer. “Turns out he’s a populist-socialist, and the stuff he’s reading about his daddy does not make him proud.”

  Haynes felt his ears going hot. “This Lance fellow,” he said. “How old is he?”

  Reeder shrugged. “Thirty-ish. Thirty-one, I think.”

  “And I’m forty-nine.”

  Reeder chuckled. “Ah, you want me to do the math. Yes, I understand that you were only eighteen yourself, but statutory rape is statutory rape. I don’t believe there’s a statute of limitations for sex crimes in Virginia.”

  Haynes felt the room narrowing, the light dimming. You didn’t get to his heights in the political stratosphere without expecting cheap shots, but this one had come out of nowhere. Jessica had been his high school squeeze, and when they’d first done the Big Nasty, they’d both been minors. Then his birthday came first, and the rest was named Lance. Last time he’d heard, Jessica had married a lawyer in North Carolina and was living a happy life. She’d never sought anything from him. And now this.

  “There’s a demand at the end of this,” Haynes said. “Understanding that I’m neither confirming nor denying, why don’t you cut to the chase?”

  Reeder’s face peeled back into its lobbyist sneer as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “You are a cynical, cynical man, Senator Moncrief. I’m merely here to give you a heads-up on a threat that seems to be looming over your sterling reputation.”

  The steak knife at Haynes’s left hand called to him. In a single stroke, he could drive it through the soft spot under this chickenshit’s jaw and into his brain stem, disconnecting his melon from the rest of his body before he’d even know to flinch.

  “You’re attempting to blackmail me on behalf of your boss. Be careful, Mark. He has a security team. You don’t.”

  “Did you just threaten me?”

  Haynes leaned forward until his arms were on the table and glared at the little man with the big beard. “I would never do such a thing,” he said.