The Project

by I C Cosmos

  Helen finished her macchiato and ordered an Uber to take her back to Athens. She’d work on her new venture and enjoy the city for a few days.

  For the first time since signing on to the Project, Helen felt in control.

  Dallas, Texas

  Two days later

  “No.”

  Collin Frey’s response was swift and unyielding, his eyes drilling into his opponent. Collin despised the arrogance of these DC types. That Frank Crawford wasn’t any different was a massive letdown. A few minutes ago Collin had still respected the man. A Marine Corps officer, prosecutor, and ambassador, Frank had served the country with remarkable integrity. Appointing him the counterterrorism czar was one of the few good things the president had done.

  But asking whether the charges against Ralph Gibson could be dropped was beyond the pale, and Frank had to know it.

  “Wouldn’t expect any other answer from you, Frey.” Frank returned Collin’s stare. “But this is a question of national security.” A tiny smile lifted Frank’s lips. It lasted only a millisecond, but long enough to infuriate Collin. This isn’t a laughing matter. Collin sat back, hiding his rage behind a poker face.

  “You see, Ralph Gibson was a key go-between in a crucial operation,” Frank said.

  “Too bad you couldn’t control him,” Collin countered, thinking about the endless months his team had worked around the clock to arrest Ralph. And the struggle wasn’t over yet. Even from behind bars, Ralph posed a risk to anyone who had ever crossed his path. Releasing him would be the mother of all nightmares.

  “I am not here to get Ralph released,” Frank said, as if reading Collin’s mind. “I have a proposal for you.”

  A proposal? Collin’s trouble detector went through the roof. If the counterterrorism czar needed something done, all it took was to give an order.

  “I believe it would be beneficial if your team worked closely with mine.” Frank steepled his fingers.

  “Why?”

  “Because we know the whereabouts of Paul Santini.”

  So that’s what Frank’s visit was about. Paul Santini was a hard-core criminal and Ralph Gibson’s right hand. And a thorn in Collin’s side. Santini had escaped when Collin’s team rounded up Ralph and his gang. Free as a bird, he still continued to carry out Ralph’s orders.

  “There are multiple arrest warrants for Paul Santini. Bring him in.”

  “We will let your team do that. Santini is yours.” Frank chuckled. “But right now we still need him undercover. As I said, it’s a question of national security.”

  The pieces fell together. Ralph Gibson had kept a detailed ledger of his lucrative dealings with several terrorist groups, but so far Collin’s guys weren’t able to verify any of it. And weren’t able to locate Santini either. But Collin wasn’t going to share that with Frank.

  “If we are talking about the same Paul Santini, and if you are referring to the operation I am thinking of, Ralph and Paul are making millions of dollars as we speak.” Collin noticed surprise laced with fear flash in Frank’s eyes. Interesting. “How can you guarantee that Santini won’t disappear without a trace when your operation’s over?”

  “I want your team to monitor Santini’s every move. I’ve freed the necessary funds.” Frank’s arrogance was gone.

  He doesn’t trust his own people, Collin realized, stunned. He lets us monitor Santini because it’s our job anyhow and no one will think twice about it.

  “The paperwork is on its way.” Frank stood up and walked toward the door. “I’ll stay in touch. But I can’t guarantee you’ll get Santini alive.”

  Is that a warning?

  Nice, France

  Three weeks later

  Helen looked out the window as the airplane prepared for landing. A wave of anxiety tightened her throat. What if I am not good enough?

  Images of the meeting with Uncle Andreas two days before rolled through her mind.

  “…many people will depend on you, Helen.” They were having lunch at the Beau Rivage hotel in Geneva.

  The invitation had taken Helen by surprise. She had expected a debriefing in some unassuming place hidden among Geneva’s thousands of office spaces. She’d braced herself for a one-way conversation with a low-ranking officer who’d self-importantly inform her that she hadn’t made the cut.

  At first she thought she did well on both trials, but as time passed, her doubts got the upper hand. What if she overlooked something crucial? Missed something obvious?

  Helen went to the lunch wondering why they bothered with a meeting at all. A quick message would suffice. Already on tenterhooks, her heart hammered against her chest when the maître d’ brought Andreas to the table.

  “Uncle Andreas, what a surprise,” she managed to say. “Um… I am afraid this is a mistake.” Helen gave a small smile. “I am supposed to have a business meeting here.”

  “Not a mistake, dear,” Andreas greeted her, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

  Helen’s warning lights lit up. There is no such thing as a free lunch! Doubly so when Andreas was involved.

  “Not a mistake at all,” Andreas repeated. “I am honored to tell you that you got the job.”

  Helen gasped, immediately hating herself for showing Andreas how much it meant to her. He laughed and nodded at the waiter.

  “The champagne is on its way, dear. You deserve it.”

  “Thank you.” Helen sat down and collected herself. Andreas can’t be trusted. Did she really get the job? Or was Andreas talking about some lower-level position? Helen took a deep breath.

  “And what job exactly did I get?” she asked.

  A flicker of astonishment crossed Andreas’s face.

  “Well, there was only one opening, Helen.” Andreas leaned forward. “It’s a unique position. Outside the regular ranks. Deep undercover. The title is of course negotiable…as is your income.”

  Negotiable? Helen sat back, her eyes never leaving Andreas.

  “What’s my job description?” Helen tilted her head.

  Andreas looked away. The arrival of the champagne gave him a welcome distraction.

  “To doing a great job.” Andreas raised his glass.

  Helen raised hers. “Yes. So, tell me…what will I be responsible for?”

  Andreas’s eyes had narrowed. “You came a long way,” he had said. “You’ll receive your orders after this meeting. All I can tell you is that many people will depend on you, Helen.”

  For weeks Helen had wanted nothing more than to be part of the Project. But now doubt swamped her with images of failed missions, destruction, devastation. She took a deep breath as the plane touched down.

  There is no way back.

  Her cover identity was Hélène Martin, a literature teacher born in Geneva. She was married to Nicolas Martin, born in Lausanne, a banker. The same guy who’d made her heart skip a beat in the Rosendals Café in Stockholm because he looked so much like her brother, Josh. Helen had studied the snapshot she took of him many times, but he wasn’t Josh. He was her partner.

  For the sake of their cover, they were a couple spending their first wedding anniversary in Nice. Nic was there already, attending a conference. Helen would join him, and they’d spend a few weeks in southern France and Italy. Anyone watching them would see a happy couple enjoying an easy, laid-back vacation, having not much to do besides delighting in the scenery and each other.

  Helen ran through all the dates and details as the plane taxied to the gate. Her anxiety disappeared in the chaos of people retrieving their luggage from the overhead bins. The door finally opened, and the thick line of impatient passengers moved forward.

  She stepped off the plane and inhaled the balmy, fragrant air, touching the magnificent three-carat diamond that sparkled on her ring finger. Helen faded away. The woman who left the plane was Hélène Martin, traveling to Nice to join her husband and celebrate their first year together.

  Nice

  Hotel Negresco

  “What a magnificent view
.” A genuine smile animated Helen’s face.

  She isn’t that imposing, Nic thought, and joined her on the balcony of their hotel suite.

  “This is one of my favorite places,” he said.

  “I can see why.” Helen looked briefly at him and then returned to gazing at the Mediterranean and scanning the device that seemed glued to her hand. Nic took in her competent fingers, her concentration, her regal profile.

  One day I’ll paint her, he thought, surprising himself. For he wasn’t taken by her looks but by her brains.

  Nic had never met anyone who grasped his technology so completely. He was used to glazed-over eyes, uncomfortable little giggles, he-is-nuts looks behind his back. People simply didn’t get it, and over the years he had learned to dumb things down and explain only what they could follow. She didn’t just follow. She understood. She dove into his software and took it a step further.

  She was his cyber-soulmate. Yet he could never tell her that because he couldn’t take being rejected by her. And rejection was what he would get. Nic knew.

  Perhaps she wasn’t nearly as imposing as when he watched her work the codes, but she kept her distance. After playing his loving wife at the airport, she had settled into the car, all business, working two devices at once. Luckily everyone checks their phones all the time these days.

  Nic stepped closer to her and took her hand in his. Her eyes warned him not to get any closer.

  “Do you like the ring, Mrs. Martin?” Nic lifted her fingers to his lips.

  She didn’t respond, but her tensed fingers spoke volumes.

  “I selected it myself.” He put her hand down gently.

  “From the prop department?” she asked and went back to the room.

  “No, from Cartier,” he replied, stung by her remark.

  Her eyes bored into his. “Right. And you have the receipt to prove it.” She winked.

  How much does she know about the ring? Nic wished he could have followed her every step after Athens, but she had surrounded herself with an impenetrable cyber shield.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you,” he said.

  “OK. So, why did you buy the ring?”

  Is she testing me? Trying to get more intel?

  “Because God’s in the details.”

  She almost smiled. “A fake would suffice.”

  “No. It’s not the same. What did you feel when you put the ring on?” Nic asked.

  Her eyebrows shot up. She was looking at him, silent.

  “I was wondering what it would be like to receive such a glorious ring for real,” she finally said, turning the ring on her finger. Nic held his breath. A sunray bounced off the diamond and sent sparkles through the room.

  “Are you planning on getting married?” he asked.

  “Only if I find the right partner. Are you?”

  “No. I’ll never get married.”

  “Never say never.”

  “I’ll never marry a woman.”

  “I see.” She tilted her head slightly. If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. “Well, I guess that concludes the introductions. Time to do some work.” She scooped two more devices looking like phones out of her bag and put them on the table.

  “Agree. But put your techno-candy back. We will not need it today.”

  “No? What will we work on, then?” She didn’t hide her surprise now.

  “Being invisible.”

  Nice

  Helen gently tugged on Nic’s hand and directed him toward the Chanel window while pointing to a lovely purple bag.

  “Nine o’clock. Big. Dressed in black. Aviators,” she whispered.

  “How many times have you spotted him?”

  “Four.”

  “Not bad for an amateur.”

  Helen kept her face straight but fumed inside, still smarting from the lecture Nic had given her back in the hotel. He had railed about her rushing through the streets of Stockholm and Athens without paying attention to anyone or anything except her technology. Like an amateur.

  Always striving to be on top of her game, Helen hated amateurs in professional jobs…

  So, be a professional, she ordered herself, and focused on the guy in the aviators. Who is he? Was he part of Nic’s exercise? Helen decided to find out.

  “Is he part of Operation Being Invisible?” she asked.

  “No. Never seen him before.” Nic gave her a surprised look.

  “Hm. So what do we do now, Mr. Bond?”

  “Let’s go back.”

  Helen would’ve loved to go into the store and inquire about the purple bag, but she wouldn’t risk being called an amateur again. So she put on a sweet smile, pecked Nic on the cheek, and took a step toward the guy in the aviators. He turned around and crossed the street. Helen observed him until he disappeared into a Hugo Boss store. Brutish stride, heavy boots, large hands. Unease tightened her chest. A skinny man she had spotted a couple of times before crossed the street and lingered in front of the Boss store. His touristy outfit was nowhere near Hugo’s style.

  She squeezed Nic’s hand. “Number two. The third time I’ve seen him.”

  “Good job.” Nic put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a big smile. This time his eyes smiled too. Not like when he picked her up at the airport. He had played the loving husband to a T there, waving at her, smiling, taking her into his arms, kissing her. But his eyes had been as cold as ice.

  And they had become even colder when Helen had asked Nic the point of Operation Being Invisible. Didn’t they have op-codes to go through, systems to fix?

  “What’s the point?” Nic had exploded. “Survival. That’s the point. You can’t protect anyone when you are dead.”

  Helen shivered just thinking about it. She worked with op-codes and computer programs. Engaging in life-threatening situations wasn’t in her job description. Nonetheless, she had followed Nic’s orders and gotten into the rhythm of the streets. Blended in. Discreetly observed what was going on around them. And stored faces in her memory.

  They were walking toward the Promenade des Anglais and everything shouted summer vacations. Helen took in the tanned people, their merry banter, lively outfits, fun jewelry, expensive perfumes… Nic was right about leaving the techno-candy behind, she realized with a start. Operation Being Invisible definitely sharpened her senses.

  She caught her and Nic’s reflection in a window of a restaurant, amazed how well they fitted in. And how handsome they looked together. She in a light, flowery dress and Nic in off-white pants and a short-sleeve cotton shirt. A happy couple on a happy vacation, living a happy life. Not a thing to worry about… Helen stopped to scan the restaurant’s menu while sneaking a peek at the crowd behind them. Black polo, black pants, aviators.

  She squeezed Nic’s hand. “Three o’clock.” The guy took out his phone, and Helen felt severely handicapped without her devices. Next time she’d insist on combining physical surveillance with her apps.

  “Yeah, you’ve got to use everything you have,” Nic said as if reading her mind. “That’s your only chance to stay alive.”

  Washington, DC

  The library

  “That concludes the Nice report,” Andreas said. “Let’s move on to the CEO selection.”

  Satisfied with Helen and Nic’s progress, the Consortium focused on their next venture. Operation Total Protection, a spinoff of Nic’s terrorism prevention system adapted for the general public and designed to put the Consortium in a position of unprecedented power.

  Total Protection, or TP, had been quietly developed by DEI, a private company owned by the Consortium.

  The preliminary testing of the product in several target markets had been concluded, and the Consortium was looking for Mr. Total Protection. A CEO who’d become TP’s public face and oversee its worldwide launch.

  “Our search came up with two final candidates, Mark Gilmore and Robert Bullock.” The bios of both candidates appeared on the Transparency Stations, color coded and meticulously analyzed.


  Both men were accomplished IT entrepreneurs. And, more importantly, both had a shady side, which was a hard requirement for the Consortium.

  Mark Gilmore, publicly known as a devoted family man with huge political ambitions, secretly frequented escort services the world over. And nobody in his circles knew that Mark had lost his wife’s fortune in bad investments and most of his current wealth had come from an international drug operation, which Mark ran with military precision.

  “Gilmore could be controlled like a puppet,” a Consortium member opined.

  “Yeah, what we have on him would put him away for years.” Another one laughed.

  “But he is too much like a politician.”

  “With the boy-next-door appeal. People like that.”

  “Absolutely. Plus he has a lovely wife, three kids, and a fourth one on the way.”

  “Still, Gilmore is boring. Bullock has a star quality. That special flair people follow without questioning.”

  “But we don’t have nearly as much on him.”

  Unlike Mark Gilmore, Robert Bullock, known to the world as Bobby, hadn’t committed serious crimes, and earned his money from legitimate businesses. His newest venture, a gamers’ paradise called 7’Heaven, had been hailed as one of the most brilliant technological startups ever.

  Yet Bobby’s penchant for living extravagantly had made his bottom line yo-yo like the weight of a perpetually dieting woman, rendering Bobby susceptible to risky, if not questionable, deals. That and his persistent cocaine habit could get Bobby in enough trouble.