David Stone

by Micah Dalton 04 - The Skorpion Directive (v5)

  have been done either. Aleksandr Vukov was going back to the death that should have taken him in Podujevo, a self-inflicted execution by fire that was long overdue. They continued to watch in silence, grimly fixed on the sight, each person alone with the vision. It took quite a long time before Vukov, a large man, finally burned down into a small, fiery ball, sinking into the water like a small sun setting, a tongue of fire flaring up at the end. Then he was gone, and there was only the yellow flames rippling across the black seas and a few sticks of smoldering wood bobbing in the surf. Dalton turned to Mandy, staring out at the ruins of the Blue Nile

  , her face set in hard lines, as she watched what was left of it drifting on the petroleum-soaked waves. She was holding her cell phone in her left hand, down at her side, the way someone holds a weapon. She moved closer, looked up at him, put her hand on his arm. “I remembered it,” she said with a shaky smile. “Levka’s cell phone. In the engine room. He said there was a problem with the gas fumes building up. I guess he was right.” “You took a chance. We all ran through that mist.” “We were outside. All I had was the phone. I thought it was worth a try. Next time, I’ll make sure I have a gun.” Dalton and Mandy turned and looked back out at the water. “Poor Dobri,” said Mandy. “I killed his boat.”

  New York State

  LONG ROCK ISLAND, SAINT LAWRENCE RIVER, UPSTATE NEW YORK, TEN P.M. LOCAL TIME The great Saint Lawrence River flowed majestically into the east under a starlit sky. The last traces of an indigo twilight were fading into night, the pink veil of the Milky Way stretching out across the pine-covered islands and rocky shoals of Thousand Islands country. Across the broad back of the river, to the north, the mainland of Canada showed as a wall of forest broken here and there by the lights of a cottage or a small village. The air was cold and clear, the water rippling in silvery curls around this scattered archipelago, around literally hundreds of islands ranging in size from bare rocky outcrops less than a yard across to huge, shaggy green mounds, granite rimmed, with one, two, sometimes three private cottages or estates set out on high points or on cleared land down at the waterside. Old Money lived on these islands, Old Money came from the mainland on sleek Art Deco motor cruisers or sailing yachts, and Old Money sat warming itself by crackling wood fires, sipping single malts, while the northern night rose up and covered it all with silence, peace, comfort, certitude. At the little supply village of Clayton, on the U.S. shore, a whippet-thin, sharp-featured woman of indeterminate age with a Damn Yankees

  air of cranky self-confidence about her, her hair a shining bell of blue-black hanging down, cast off the ropes of her motor launch and turned around to speak to the harbor mate. “I’ve got enough for a week, Simon,” she said in a carrying voice, glaring at Simon, a young man with a round pasty face and darting, nervous eyes. “See to it I’m left alone. You sure Gabe had the wood-shed filled up and the generator checked?” “He did, ma’am. I loaded the gas cans up myself. Gabe checked the house, opened it up. Being shut all winter, it needed an airing. But everything’s fine. You might have a squirrel in the mudroom. But, other than that, it’s all ready for you.” The woman nodded, unsmiling, already staring out at the water between her and the island where her great-grandfather had built his home one hundred and three years ago. Although she knew these waters as well as she knew her own face, she had been delayed for two hours down at the 69 interchange, a tractor trailer accident. She’d had to take a side road damned near all the way to Oswego and hadn’t gotten back on to 81 until after Watertown. So it was dark, dark as a pit, out on the river. And though she was an experienced waterwoman, the cruise down current to Long Rock Island involved some tricky shoal water. And the river was running fast tonight, a deep, cold rushing surge you could feel through the hull of the boat, a thrumming vibration in the ribs. Well, this timid stuff wasn’t going to get her home. She hit the starter, and the little Grew coughed to life. Simon cast off her stern line as the bow came around into the current. She caught it with her left hand and flaked it neatly at her feet. In a moment, the lights of Clayton were falling back behind the stern, and the huge shapes of the islands out in the great river were looming up like freighters all around her. She followed the navigation lights, steering past all the old familiar landmarks—Pine, Gull, Little Round, Big Round. Basswood Island was coming up. Looked like the Garlands had opened their place up early, lights all over the grounds. Looks like a damned lunar landing. So much for starlight and moonlight. The council had already sent letters to all the islanders, asking them to shut down their dock lights and floodlights so people could enjoy the stars and, every now and then, the northern lights. She heard a high, mournful cry—a loon—on the Canadian side. Closer in came a comical, blatting honk from a solitary Canada goose. Canada geese—a feathery, farting, crapping plague. They ought to shoot them all and feed them to the homeless. She came slowly around and set a careful course between Basswood and Woronoco islands. She could hear the river current hissing along the granite edges of Woronoco. Little Basswood went by, a mound in the night. She edged the boat to port a little, aiming for the docks on the north side of Long Rock Island, her private island, freehold and clear title and riparian rights for over a hundred years. A rock in uncertain times. The big house was dark except for the porch lights, and a single orange lamp marked her dock. Executing a practiced curling turn, she threaded back through the current and slipped in smoothly between the swing booms, gliding to a muttering coast in the moorings, finally bumping up against the deck, quickly stepping off with a line in her hand and snaking it in a running reef around the iron stanchion. She looked down at the bags of food piled in the stern, sighed. She had wanted to be alone, had insisted

  on being alone, after these frustrating weeks, after all the recriminations

  , and so she was alone. She would have to make a couple of trips up to the house. She decided to take the scotch and the perishables first. It was a long walk up a rocky slope to the side door. The house rose up before her, black against the stars, walls made of granite from the Canadian Shield, with leaded windows and peaked dormers. Hardly a cottage

  , she thought, more like a hunting lodge for a merchant prince. Which it had been. But that’s what they still called it, at least on her side of the family. She punched the code into the security pad, the automatic interior light came on and the heavy side door slid open. She carried her bags into the mudroom, breathing in the smell of old pines, long-ago wood fires, her father’s pipe smoke . . . And something else? A darker scent, some sort of aromatic smoke? Gabe, she was thinking as she set the bags down and came down the hall to the main living area, still in the dark. If he’d been sitting in the big room smoking one of those cigars, she’d have his legs cut off at the . . . There was a hard-looking young man sitting in a leather wingback next to the fireplace and facing the hallway entrance. A single reading lamp was burning at his shoulder, his long blond hair shining with amber highlights, his rocky face in darkness, a large revolver shining in his right hand, the muzzle aimed at her. “Miss Vale,” said Dalton, not rising. “You’re late.” Mariah Vale turned, stepped to a hallway table, jerked the drawer open. “Your little Smith is on the mantle,” said Dalton, standing in the doorway, smiling down at her. “Unloaded. I hope you don’t mind, but I made myself a drink. Would you like one?” Vale turned around and glared at him, fear in her eyes and in the lines around them. Fear and something else. But she was fighting it. Dalton watched as she literally wrapped herself in an invisible cloak of federal authority. She even seemed to get a little larger. “Yes. I’ll have a drink,” she said, stepping past him, sweeping with immense dignity into the great room and flicking on a table lamp. Yellow light flared out, revealing a stone-walled room with low wooden beams, a massive granite fireplace, lots of warm plaids in all the colors of autumn, and a large green-leather sofa. Vale got to the long bar by the wall of windows, started clattering crystal, her hands shaking as she did. Dalton walked over to the coffee table—a single slab of maple—picke
d up a bottle of Laphroiag and a glass, poured her a stiff one, set it down on a side table by one of the plaid armchairs. He picked up two ice cubes and dropped them gently into her glass and stepped away, the revolver sloping down, then took a seat in the wingback again. Mariah Vale came over—vibrating still but mastering herself with effort—sat down, straightened the crease of her navy blue slacks, plucked at her starched white blouse, picked up her scotch, and looked at him, her face settling into a magistrate’s cold judgmental regard. She had learned this intimidating look from her grandfather, a famous jurist and a senior lecturer in law at Cornell. “How did you get on my island in the first place, Mr. Dalton? Some secret covert-ops trickery?” “Yes. I hired a boat. Don’t tell anyone. It’s a trade secret.” “I’m at a loss to understand why you are here. You have been reinstated. Allegations quietly dropped. Your contribution to the prevention of an atrocity in Morocco has been recognized . . .” “It’s also been classified and sealed. And the Moroccan authorities are still calling it a Jewish plot foiled by the Brits.” “I am not responsible for what those people manage to convince themselves of,” she said. “And the Israelis can take care of themselves. Regarding your achievements, there are stars on the wall at Langley. Many of those stars record acts that have also been sealed and the details classified. No one finds that demeaning.” Dalton nodded. “I get that. I’m fine with it.” She sipped at her drink, seeming to relax into herself, feeling more like the judge than the prisoner now. “And yet here you are, effectively throwing it all away. And why? So you could throw a fright into a person you dislike?” “I don’t dislike you, Miss Vale. I disagree

  with you.” “You’re thinking of the role my committee plays in righting some of the Agency’s past wrongs? Mr. Dalton, we are attempting to redress grievous excesses, acts of prolonged savagery, that have stained our national honor.” “I’m not recording this, Mariah. You can hold the Patrick Henry stuff. I’m not even here to try to set you straight. I think, in the main, you’re doing what you really think is the right thing to do. I don’t even think you’re an evil person. You’re sort of accidentally dangerous. You can’t help yourself.” He shrugged, took a sip of the scotch, went on in a low, amiable rumble, his expression calm. “I think you may be a little too . . . fastidious . . . for the job. And I’m puzzled why it’s okay with you that we stand off at twenty thousand feet and launch Hellfires and Paveways into crowded villages in Yemen and Waziristan, knowing with absolute certainty we’re going to kill and maim at least a few innocent women and kids in order to take out a couple of jihadists and a donkey but it’s not okay to rough up a prisoner who might know which train station or airport his buddies are going to blow up.” “The first is war, but the second is not. It’s a violation of the Geneva Convention.” “So’s embedding your fighters in the middle of a crowded village packed with innocent civilians, like Hamas did in Gaza, knowing they’re going to die and being happy to use their deaths as propaganda.” “The world can be dark,” she said. “We are the light. We remain true to what is American by never

  compromising our sacred principles in exchange for some fleeting sense of security. America shines through the darkness because

  of those principles.” Dalton pulled at his scotch, set it down again. “Fine, ringing words,” said Dalton.” We’ll see how that all works out for you. We’ll see if the American people are ready to lose sons and daughters so you and your crowd can feel really good about yourselves. I find it’s risky to preen at funerals. Anyway, this is not really why I came. This is between you and me. It’s personal.” Her face paled slightly, and she reached for her glass. “Fine,” she said. “It’s personal, I’m tired. I’d like to go to bed. Make your point, say your say, and then get out and swim for it.” Dalton reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, walked it over to her. She put on a pair of gold reading glasses and held it up to the glow of the table lamp. Dalton noticed that the sheet of paper was vibrating very slightly.

  CLASSIFIED UMBRA EYES DIAL INTERNAL AUDIT COMMITTEE File 92r: DALTON, MICAH Service ID: REDACTED Security cameras outside the Westbahnhof station Auto-Park in Vienna confirm that DALTON and MIKLAS arrived there at 0821 hours and that it appeared from their actions that some sort of physical intimacy had taken place, which is common in hostage situations if rape is a component. Although the main security camera at Leopoldsberg malfunctioned, peripheral cameras confirm that DALTON and MIKLAS were next seen in the parking lot of the castle at 0917 hours, just prior to the explosion of a brown Saab. In the confusion of the blast, which killed one and injured two police officers, the authorities lost track of the pair, and their current location or direction remains unknown. MOSSAD confirms that the body found in the trunk of the Saab was that of GALAN, ISSADORE—a former MOSSAD agent currently in the employ of the Italian Carabinieri in Venice. BDS officers from the Vienna Station have been dispatched to Venice to interview the local officials. As GALAN, ISSADORE, was an Israeli citizen, the MOSSAD have expressed a desire to assist us in our inquiries into this matter. As a courtesy and at the request of the Consulate, we have notified the MOSSAD of DALTON’s last known GPS coordinates, as well as a description of his vehicle. Actions considered this time/date after consultation with Commander PEARSON, DD of Clandestine Services, and his Adviser Pro Tem, D. CATHER, former DD of Clandestine, with the DNI in attendance, include but are not limited to the possibility of an official Joint Task Force Liaison with elements of the FBI, the BDS, and the Justice Department, under the aegis of the Audit Committee’s Official Mandate: (op cit: Presidential Finding F2391). No conclusion has as yet been reached, pending final decisions from POTUS/DNI. LEGAL IMPLICATIONS: The Secretariat, having consulted with General Counsel Dir/CIA Justice and DNI, takes note that new POTUS Intelligence ROE Policy mandates that, since all subsequent events that occurred in the early hours of the following morning had their predicate cause in DALTON’s aggressive response to the possibility of surveillance by Parties Unknown to him, Presidential Finding F2391 requires that legal responsibility for these outcomes must devolve upon DALTON and not upon this Agency or the U.S. Government, since DALTON was not acting in any official capacity as a CIA employee but as a private citizen. CONCLUSION: We bearno legal responsibility for and offer no protection toDALTON, MICAH, in this matter. This is theofficial positionof the United States Government and as such will be communicated to the relevant authorities in Vienna, the UN, Tel Aviv, INTERPOL, and the ICC officials in Bonn. No statement will be issued to the media or the press concerning this matter until it has been resolved by the investigating authorities or by external events. MARIAH VALE/OD/DD/EXECUTIVE SECRETARIAT Vale read the page without comment. Only a very slight tremor in her hands and a certain fixed look in her eyes gave anything away. She set the page down, looked at him over the rims of her reading glasses, her mouth a little prim. “First, this is a highly classified document. How did you obtain it?” “Fell off a truck. Tough read, isn’t it? More of an indictment than a report.” “This was how the events were interpreted,” she said, looking away and then coming back. “The report is a reasonable inference from the facts on the ground, as they were—” “That passive voice . . . it always gets me. I’ll bet Pilate used it in his official report to Rome. ‘After due deliberation, a decision was reached to crucify the subject according to accepted practice. A regulation cross of recycled wood was obtained from on-site inventory and nails procured from local suppliers after a competitive and open-bidding process, subject to appeal. Regulation hammers were then deployed as per the manual.’ ” “Please. You’re hardly Jesus Christ.” “True enough. Anyway, what I’m getting at is that middle part, where you write you have notified the Mossad of my last known GPS coordinates as well as a description of my vehicle. I found that interesting. I mean, aside from how happy you were to feed me to the Mossad. But the bit about the GPS data, I wondered about that, since part of the indictment against me was that I deliberately shut down my BlackBerry to avoid any kind of tracing
operation and that after the fact none of my BlackBerry voice recordings were available.” “That’s hardly conclusive—” “No. Just suggestive. But then there’s this . . .” He held up a small digital recorder. “Couple of guys in the Mossad got me this little sound bite. Care to hear it?” She nodded, her eyes fixed on the machine. Dalton clicked the button. A tinny voice came out but recognizably his own. “Galan’s a problem, a nasty one. I need to take care of it.” “Pretty damning, isn’t it, Mariah? Turned out not to be quite accurate. The Mossad worked the tape over and determined that it had been doctored. A slice of the digital recording had been taken out. By somebody good. It was an important slice. I managed to get hold of the original. It was when I was talking to a woman named Sally Fordyce, in Clay Pearson’s office. Another one of those voice records that dropped off the grid after I got out of Vienna. Lend an ear, Mariah.” He held the machine up again, clicked the button. “Galan’s got a problem, a nasty one. I need to meet him, take care of it.” He reversed it, hit the button again. “Galan’s a problem, a nasty one. I need to take care of it.” There was a silence. Dalton put the recorder away. “Well,” said Vale. “It’s obviously been doctored.” “Obviously.” “In an attempt to . . . incriminate