She glanced at Rascher, who seemed to shrink back into his seat, his mouth closing with a click if his jaw, and then to Wick. “You’re right,” she said. “This is not my usual territory.”
“Indeed. This case with XList was your first time in the field?”
“Yes.”
Wick nodded, maintaining eye contact. “So you can understand my own incredulity when I’m told there’s a matter of national security at stake, and counter-allegations by a group of cyber-terrorists about a false-flag scenario, by an agent of the Justice Department who has previous spent all of her time in academia — co-authoring the training manual for the HTPU, of course — but nevertheless at a desk before this XList affair.”
“You’re right,” Jennifer said. “I am out of my depth, sir.”
He leaned his head to the side and scowled as if it pained him deeply to be so misinterpreted. “That’s not what I meant at all. What I meant was that we’re both a surprise to each other. I’m an advisor, really, and you’re an academic. Isn’t that fair to say? I initiate policy, you criticize it.”
The attorney general cleared his throat from the head of the table. She could feel the tractive force of him, wanting her to look at him, to defer to him. Jennifer ignored it. Agrawal had sat down at the head of the table, seemingly resigned to the fact that the meeting had begun without his inauguration.
Wick’s eyes never wavered. “So, when your superiors tell me you have some sort of sympathies for the terrorists we’ve just captured, I can take it with that measure. You’re uninitiated, Agent Aiken.”
“Fair enough. Then can you explain to me, General Wick, what the Central Security Service actually does?”
“Agent Aiken . . .” said the US Attorney General.
Wick smiled. “Of course. The CSS promotes full partnership between the NSA and the cryptologic elements of the Armed Forces. We team up with senior military and civilian leaders to address and act on critical military-related issues in support of . . .”
She broke him off. “You said ‘civilian?’”
“Yes.”
“Can you give me a for-instance?”
He continued to keep eye contact with her, but now the charm was draining away. “The Central Security Service was established by presidential directive in ‘72 to promote full partnership between NSA and the Service Cryptologic Components of the US Armed Forces. By combining the NSA and CSS, we created a more unified cryptologic effort. Which is why the Director of the NSA is dual-hatted as the Chief of the CSS.”
“That’s not answering my question.”
“Jennifer . . .”
“I am the principal advisor on military cryptologic issues and oversee the function of the military cryptology system. I manage and cultivate the partnerships, and I ensure military capabilities to fulfill the National Cryptologic Strategy.”
“Which is?”
Wick moved his folded hands to his lap. “Can I tell you a story?”
Everyone else in the room was fuming. But as long as Wick seemed flexible and cooperative, what could they do? Jennifer felt a satisfaction in the way her superiors had been so easily dispatched. CSS had them by their balls. A story? Let’s have it.
“Of course,” she said.
“In 1996, a year after I was commissioned, the Director-Chief requested an insignia be created to represent both the National Security Agency and Central Security Service. As a result, a CSS seal was designed and adopted that year.”
He turned his shoulder to her and tapped the round patch sewn into the clothing. Five different symbols balanced around a five point star.
The Cyber Command symbol was a heraldic lion. The same insignia as Titan Construction, LLC. Something few people would ever notice.
“This was ultimately the design chosen to represent the CSS,” Wick said, feathering his fingertips over the patch to indicate its entirety. “The CSS provides the funding, direction, and guidance to all of America's Signal Intelligence activities, and fosters the fluidity of information between the branches.” He rotated his shoulder back so his chest faced her once more. He sat primly, his gaze direct, looking more wooden by the second.
“Funding,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“You tap civilians for funding.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way. There are many aspects of government where the bulk of underwriting is from private individuals. That’s obvious, I’m sure. In fact, the RAND corporation—”
“General, have you ever heard of Jeremy Staryles?”
“Agent Aiken, this is not a deposition of the Brigadier General.” The attorney general grunted from the head of the table. “This will all be addressed in the proper forum at the Senate Select Intelligence Committee hearing in two days.”
Wick barely gave him a sideways look. “It’s quite alright. She’s just doing her job. No, there is no Staryles, nor Ewon Parnell, nor Ursula Galloway. There may be terrorists who assume those identities, but as far as the Defense Depar—”
“Because I’ve been looking into this since I encountered Alexander Heilshorn during the investigation leading to XList.”
A flicker — something registering in those cold eyes when she said the name Heilshorn.
She hurried on. “Is he one of the civilian leaders you speak of? Maybe involved in the funding? Maybe someone you met when you both served — as advisors, the way you describe yourself today — on a committee called The Foundation?” She turned her head the other way. “Is it possible someone like Heilshorn could be granted . . . oh say, certain powers, given a team of men and women to help him carry out his objectives — in the interest of national security, or, maybe, funding national security?”
She waited. She was aware she’d laid it on thick. She was aware that this might be her last hour as an agent for the federal government. And she was aware she had just insinuated that the CSS was paying for itself with prostitutes and sex slaves, among other things. She wondered, almost giddy now, if she should add anything else. Such as dead escorts, entrapped politicians, or illegitimate children as collateral.
Wick gave her a thoughtful look, some life returning to his eyes. Amp up the charm. Blast another smile at them.
“Alexander Heilshorn?”
“Correct. And his private equity firm, Titan.”
“Titan.”
“With subsidiaries in construction, medical technology, and defense contracting. Building schools and hospitals overseas. And doing a little business right here on American soil. Constructing a new college building that includes a data center, made to house colocation units; a massive fiber-optic junction for a new, government-controlled internet called Altnet.”
“Do you consider yourself a patriot, Ms. Aiken?”
“Absolutely. I love my country and haven’t a single doubt that we are a nation filled with good people.”
“I see.”
“Well-meaning people, guardians who want to protect the innocent, serve democracy, enable the market to work for everyone. I believe in justice, that’s why I am here, and I believe to serve justice, and equality, you must be vigilant. Because corruption and evil can find its way in anywhere. And I mean anywhere. Even in our own military. And we are precisely at the point in our nation’s history that we have to be more vigilant than ever.”
“You’re well-spoken, Agent Aiken.”
“Thank you.”
He leaned back slightly. “If I may be frank, you’re conflating vigilance with lending credence to these ideas of a false-flag event perpetrated by our great nation. Keeping an open mind does not mean a wind-tunnel. I find this sad. Sad that you have allowed yourself to be taken in — to sympathize with a group of terrorists — misled children, really — who themselves are the threat we are facing. It’s this kind of infectious, poisonous thinking, the same kind of outlandish ideas you’re espousing now, that are the most corrosive and deleterious to an American way of life. We are a nation of principles. Of laws. And of leadership.�
��
She was undeterred. “You and Alexander Heilshorn sat on The Foundation together.” I’ve seen records to prove it, she thought, and then glanced at Rascher. And he took them. Just like the FBI had absconded with Heilshorn’s financials, so now they were going to bury records that, among other things, linked the CSS to Heilshorn and Titan.
“Correct,” said Wick. “Likely where Heilshorn must’ve gotten ideas that led to his involvement with Nonsystem.”
“Bullshit.”
“That’s it, Jennifer,” said the attorney general, rising. He turned to Wick. “General Wick, I’m so sorry. Agent Aiken has been under a great deal of stress. I’m afraid we’ve pushed her too hard.”
“It’s my fault,” Rascher chimed in, getting up. “I knew she wasn’t ready to come back after her traumatic incident. But because of my own hubris, I pushed for it. I thought she was the best fit, since she had already established a rapport with—”
“Shut up,” the attorney general snapped at Rascher. Rascher’s face turned bright red and he tried to find somewhere to look.
Wick stood up as well and waved his hands in the air. “Please, there’s no need. I understand completely.”
Jennifer felt strangely calm. “You’re right,” she said, from her seat. “The fact that three men abducted me in broad daylight and dragged me off to a building in New York City to interrogate me, it rattled me a little.”
“Agent Aiken,” said Rascher, heedless of the attorney general’s admonitions for him to shut up. “You’re dismissed. Please see me outside.”
“Of course,” she said to Wick, “you would probably tell me that those soldiers were working for this group of — what did you call them — misguided children?”
“Outside, now.”
“I wonder then where they came up with the term Lebensluge?”
Wick looked down at her, and she saw a tendon twitching in his jaw. His nostrils flared as he took a breath, the only betrayal of the aggression uncoiling inside of him. “They’re very skilled cyber criminals,” he said in a measured tone. “You did a commendable job bringing them in. Consider yourself as having been of vital service for your country.”
“I have. I do. And since I’m so concerned, I just have to know — what would you do, General, in the event that these kids became such a threat to cyber security that lives were at stake?”
The attorney general put a hand on her shoulder. “Get out of the chair.”
“How would you stop them?”
Wick’s jaw kept tensing, but at last he was at a loss for words. In another second, she would be yanked out of her seat by her armpits. She was through. No more agent for the Justice Department; the only job she’d ever get in government again was maybe State Comptroller in North Dakota. She was finished. She stood up at last, on her own, before the attorney general could physically drag her away. She left the room, watching Wick as she went. Before she left she said to him, “It was very nice meeting you.”
* * *
“I can’t believe you, Jen. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“You never knew who I was. What are you going to do about Healy?”
“Healy? He’s got a sign on his back bigger than Osama Bin Laden had. Let the local authorities pick him up, wherever he’s going.” Rascher pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “God, Jen. You’ve lost it. You have no idea what you’re . . . You’re lucky all the Department is going to do is ask for your resignation. Charges could be brought against you for insubordination. Or worse.”
“Worse?”
“Wick is a very gracious man . . .”
“You’re sick,” she said. “All of you. The Joint Services Cyber Command has a private paramilitary force. Probably Wick and Heilshorn put it together. How do you think it would be done? Is there an internet kill switch?”
“Listen to yourself!” Rascher was boiling now. He looked like he wanted to hit her. “You know the same as I do there is no unilateral control of the fucking internet, Jennifer. Like Wick said, you did well. Okay? You realize what we did? We may have prevented a major catastrophe here.”
His composure was not merely slipping, it was gone. He’d cursed — John never used foul language, he felt far too superior — and he called her Jennifer. Just like her mother would, for God’s sake. Her mother, whom she loved. John Rascher, whom she loathed.
“You keep telling me that. ‘Listen to myself.’ I am. I’ve spent years listening to other people. Years. I started by listening to all your bullshit. And I’ve listened to the bullshit of countless men after you. And now I was just stared in the eye by one of the highest ranking officers in the country and was lied to.”
“You attacked him like you were in the courtroom and he was a witness on the stand you were looking to skewer. He’s the deputy chief of the Central Security Service, for fuck’s sake and—”
“And he denied knowing who Heilshorn really is because he’s the one calling the shots with Heilshorn dead! He had to step in. Don’t you see? This whole thing started to unravel when a woman named Olivia Jane and Reginald Forrester killed Heilshorn’s daughter. Brown and Forrester wanted more than Heilshorn was giving them, and Jane was a jealous psychopath. They all screwed up and it started a chain reaction. Brendan Healy investigated. He found out about Heilshorn, who he was, how far back this thing goes. He killed Heilshorn — or, Sloane Dewan did, John. Brendan brought these players together, and Heilshorn wound up dead. It hastened this; this event. Wick himself has had to step in. He’s just going for it. Crippling the internet in ways that will rock the economy, nearly collapse it and framing Nonsystem.”
“No. That’s ridiculous. You’re wrong. You . . .”
She looked at him, and at last allowed herself to accept how unredeemable he was. Maybe, she thought, this was how everyone seemed once you’d turned that corner. She grabbed the car keys out of his hand.
He looked down at his empty palm. And he raised his fist — the same fist he’d raised and held above her once before, years ago — ready to strike her. Ready to hit her and call her a bitch. Because that’s what men called women when they couldn’t control them. He was gritting his teeth — he wanted to hit her. It had always felt like that with John, that things were just on the edge of violence. And now, here it was.
Before he had a chance to bring his fist down on her, Jennifer ducked, and hit John Rascher in the stomach as hard as she could. Not the balls — she could’ve gone there, but she had her principles — and she listened as the air burst out of his lungs. It was a good shot, just beneath the diaphragm. It dropped John Rascher like a rock. When he went down, clearing her view she saw the attorney general, watching her, his mouth hanging open.
She lowered her eyes to look at Rascher. He was on his knees, bent forward, gasping for breath. She looked out over the base, out at the simulated Middle Eastern village where the soldiers trained. Thousands of men and women serving their country. They got their target, they went after it. No question about it.
Like Brendan Healy.
Their loyalty was commendable. Their faith. Their strength. Their honor.
But it all just depended on whom and what you were fighting for.
CHAPTER FORTY / FRIDAY, 8:40 AM
An announcement came over the loudspeakers: “Ladies and gentlemen we’re going to need to make an unscheduled stop on this morning’s ride to Albany, Westport, and Montreal. We’re very sorry for this inconvenience, and we’ll be rolling back along in no time.”
The train started slowing a minute later. Brendan stood back near the bathroom. He’d opted not to follow the conductor into the next car; he didn’t want the man to even see him again, his gut told him to stay put. He reminded himself of studies done at NYU, research involving the frailty of human memory. He knew from both study and experience what unreliable witnesses human beings were due to the limitations of short term memory.
But none of that mattered anyway. By now the CSS was commanding Penn Station
and the NYPD. They could have watched video footage confirming that Brendan had boarded the train a half hour ago. They knew he was here. Anything else was delusional. Yes, they might allow him to reach his destination, to wait and see where he was going, but surely an agent or three or ten were going to board this train at 125th street. Maybe some take-no-shit NYPD cops, too, who didn’t care about the CSS taking command of anything. Someone causing a ruckus in Penn Station on the train headed north? Awesome. I’m fucking on it. Who knew how many were going to board?
As the train neared the station, he walked a few seats up the aisle, ducking his head casually to see out of the windows. He spotted at least two NYPD uniforms, a Metro Transit Authority worker with an orange vest on, and one guy in a plain black suit. In the distance, through the crisscrossing steel girders of the 125th Street Bridge, he saw more police arriving with their lights twirling.
No. Goddammit. Maybe they weren’t going to keep the train moving at all. Maybe they were just going to let it sit here, despite all the griping that would arise from the disgruntled passengers, as they checked every person. If that was the case, he would just have to sit and take the scrutiny. Which he couldn’t. Not with a fake finger.
Brendan realized he wasn’t the only person on the train who was apprehensive. He spotted the kid with the headphones throwing nervous looks out the window. He wasn’t so much a kid, really. Eighteen, maybe twenty. He wore some chains, a Starter hat cocked to the side, and large basketball shorts. Brendan blatantly profiled him, made a decision, and headed over. The train was almost stopped.
He kept his head down and then bent over when he reached the kid and leaned in. He had to tap him on the shoulder.
The kid turned with a jump and scowled up at Brendan. Brendan pointed to his own ear, and the kid reached up and pulled one side of the headphones from his head.
“A hundred bucks for those,” Brendan said.
The kid just looked back. He had stubble around his chin and upper lip, and a thin line of it following his jawline, like a chin strap. His dark eyes were dancing. “Two,” he said.
DAYBREAK: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 3) Page 23
