Overwatch

by Marc Guggenheim

  Out of the corner of Alex’s eye, he sees Leah’s head nodding in concert with his own. “Yes, sir.”

  “But there is a gaping wide chasm between what’s planned and what’s executed. As an attorney, you know better than I do that there’s no law against thinking about doing something, even thinking about it in extensive detail and formulating a very thorough plan.” Again, the file gets a finger tap. “And that’s what we clearly have in this case.” Rykman offers up a helpless shrug, as if to suggest that all his power and authority doesn’t confer upon him the ability to turn Solstice into something it’s not.

  “And yet three people—that we know of—are dead,” Alex says, taking care to keep his tone respectful.

  “As I said, we’ll be opening an inquiry into those matters. However, that’s the purview of the inspector general’s office, not the general counsel’s.” In other words: Thanks a lot. I’ll take it from here. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

  No so fast, Alex thinks. “I’d like to assist in that investigation, sir. I think, by virtue of my involvement and work to date…I believe I can be of some value,” he asserts.

  “You’re right,” Rykman agrees, “that your work here gives you key insights.” Alex nods. “But your involvement’s a double-edged sword. It also raises issues of impartiality.” Rykman lets the veiled accusation land before taking it back. He’s feeling charitable today, so he throws in a smile ordinarily reserved for congressional oversight committees. “Our hands remain clean if we let the inspector general’s office do its job here.”

  The smile is undercut by the silence that follows. It’s a quiet that says, This meeting’s over. Rykman waits patiently for Alex or Leah to get the message. It’s Leah who picks up on the body language first. “Thank you very much for your time, Director,” she says, getting to her feet. “I’ll have Mr. Garnett summarize everything we discussed in a memo.”

  “Let’s give that code-word clearance,” Rykman agrees, referring to the highest security designation. “I don’t want some Agency auditor coming across it and getting the wrong idea, blowing everything out of proportion.” There’s a slight glance in Alex’s direction when he says this, as if to imply that he’s guilty of the same overreaction.

  Alex weathers this with a pleasant grin and a respectful nod. “Thank you, Director.” The belief that Solstice is being swept neatly under the rug is starting to feel undeniable. Rykman’s attitude—equal parts patronizing and threatening—is grating on his nerves. Alex’s mood isn’t helped by the fact that he’s kicking himself for ignoring his first instincts and not keeping this whole thing to himself. All he wants to do is get away from Rykman—and, for that matter, Leah, with her unhelpful silence—before he says something that will cost him his job.

  Alex looks at Leah and then back at Rykman. He has his head down, reviewing another file and marking it with a pen as if Alex and Leah have already exited the office.

  Out in the corridor, Alex waits at the elevator for Leah to catch up to him. Focused on smothering his bubbling frustration, he didn’t realize he’d bolted away from her when he left Rykman’s office suite. But she doesn’t offer an apology for not speaking up, and he knows her well enough not to expect one. Instead, she asks, “How long do you think it’ll take you to write all this up?”

  The elevator’s opening doors spare Alex the burden of answering. They just enter in strained silence. “For what it’s worth, you did show me something in there,” Leah says. Alex turns to her. “You stood your ground with him. You were articulate. You were assertive, but respectful.”

  “I’ll have a draft of the memo to you by the time I leave tonight.” And with that, the elevator’s chime announces its arrival at their destination, and Alex walks out, leaving Leah in his wake.

  * * *

  HOTEL KOWSAR, TEHRAN

  2337 HRS. ZULU

  Yesterday was a frustrating day. Everyone in Ayatollah Sattar Namdar’s inner circle agreed that his official election as supreme leader was nothing more than a formality, but each day without government confirmation of Jahandar’s passing—the blessings of Allah be upon him—was a source of growing concern. The Assembly of Experts might be an academic body composed of mujtahids, Islamic scholars, but its appointment of the supreme leader was a political determination, which made it a political body. And Sattar Namdar knows better than most how vulnerable political bodies are to infection. That’s why he’s had his closest aides lobbying for him as strongly as decorum permits for the past three days. Not strong-arming, but providing timely whispers in the proper ears, reminders of favors long since bestowed and personal debts heretofore uncollected. Namdar’s faith in the ultimate success of these backroom maneuvers was as unshakable as his faith in Allah, but he knew well that while his allies were advocating for him, his competition had friends doing similar work for them. And so, in spite of his faith in both his inner circle and the will of Allah, Namdar finds himself facing another day without even the rumor that the coming dawn will bring his election to the supreme leadership.

  In this state of unrest, he finds it heartening to be getting a visit from an agent of the VEVAK. He doubts a member of the intelligence community can offer news of the assembly’s decision, but you never know. At the very least, he takes the visit as a sign of respect for the presumptive supreme leader. Perhaps today will bring some favorable news.

  He opens the door of his hotel suite. The VEVAK agent he finds calling on him looks young enough to be his youngest son.

  “I am Rasoul,” the intelligence officer says. “I apologize for calling on you at such an early hour.”

  “It’s no bother at all,” Namdar assures him. He waves the young man in.

  “Omid Zandi sends you his best wishes,” Rasoul says as he enters the suite. “He regrets he cannot conduct this meeting in person.”

  Namdar smiles inwardly. Naturally, it is Omid who is keeping him informed about events. The VEVAK officer has always been the most loyal of his friends. “I miss Omid. Please tell him that we must have dinner. It’s been too long.”

  Rasoul offers a compliant nod. Namdar gestures for him to take a seat on one of the living room’s three chairs, but the man remains respectfully standing. “The reason Omid could not be here in person this morning is that he is preoccupied reacting to new intelligence we recently received. It is this intelligence that he asked for me to convey to you personally. Given its import, he says you will understand why his efforts must remain focused on Iran’s response.” This is intriguing, Namdar thinks. He nods, indicating not only his understanding but that Rasoul should continue. “We have reason to suspect that Supreme Leader Jahandar’s passing was not due to natural causes.”

  “What do you mean?” Namdar is unable to keep the shock from his voice.

  “An agent of the Mossad committed suicide less than twelve hours after the Ayatollah Jahandar died. He left behind a note. We are currently working to verify its contents.”

  “What did the note say?”

  Rasoul pauses to take a deep breath. “The note was accompanied by a file outlining how it’s possible to eliminate a political target through delivery of an enhanced strain of swine flu.”

  Namdar works to maintain a stoic expression. “Given that,” he says, choosing his words with care, “I would think the appropriate course of action obvious.”

  Rasoul offers a compliant nod and says quietly, “Acting on this information, we had a series of tests run on the supreme leader’s remains.” He pauses again. “The results were conclusive for the presence of influenza A virus subtype H1N1. Swine flu.”

  Namdar nods, his expression grave. The implications of what Rasoul is saying are obvious. “To be clear, Rasoul, you are telling me that the VEVAK believes the Israelis are responsible for the supreme leader’s death. That this was an assassination.” The idea is so preposterous that Namdar can barely give it voice.

  “This is the conclusion suggested by the Mossad officer’s suicide note
,” Rasoul confirms. “As I said, we are working to authenticate the validity of this intelligence.”

  “But if it’s correct,” the future supreme leader of Iran notes, “then Israel’s actions constitute an act of war.” Namdar’s tone is grave. Rasoul replies with an equally serious nod. “Does the president know?”

  Rasoul nods again. “He has requested that the minister of defense develop a list of military options by the end of today.”

  Namdar sits. He turns to the window and looks out on Tehran, feeling secure in the knowledge that two things will happen by the end of the week: he will be elected supreme leader, and his country will be at war with Israel. Although neither is absolutely certain, he can feel the tide of destiny moving events. Both outcomes seem likely to him now. What he cannot see, however, is which will happen first.

  * * *

  US-29

  9:35 P.M. EDT

  Washington’s National Public Radio station, WETA-FM 90.9, has been a fixture on Alex’s car radio since he got the call confirming he had a job with the CIA. The interview process revealed major gaps in Alex’s knowledge of current events. So listening to NPR during his commute—when not rolling calls or dictating legal memoranda—has become part of his daily routine. He’s glad he’s made the effort to stay informed about what’s going on in the world that his current employer investigates and protects.

  Tonight, however, the radio is only white noise. Alex is still thinking about Rykman and Leah, about bureaucracy and inertia and keeping secrets. While he strongly believes Rykman is actively covering up the existence of Solstice, he is not enough of a conspiracy theorist to think the DCIA is doing it for anything other than politically bureaucratic reasons. As far as he can tell, Solstice is nothing more than an embarrassment to Rykman, another covert flight of fancy cooked up by the Agency’s Clandestine Service, like the plan to lace Castro’s cigars with a chemical that would make his beard fall out, as the Clandestine Service’s predecessor, the Operations Directorate, plotted to do in the early 1960s. But Alex knows in his bones that Solstice is not merely some operational strategist’s wet dream, just as he knows that the deaths of Harling, Moreno, Miller, and Zollitsch were not accidental or unrelated. Yet he’s truly out of options. He has already taken Solstice to the doorstep of the CIA’s highest officer, a man outranked only by the director of national intelligence and the president of the United States. And he has no intention of taking the matter farther up the chain.

  But there’s one last thing he needs to do. He dials his phone through his car’s Bluetooth system. Gerald answers on the first ring. It takes Alex a good three minutes to get past Gerald’s now pro forma anxious inquiries, and then an additional fifteen minutes to relay the specifics of his meeting with Director Rykman. Alex could have boiled it down much faster if Gerald hadn’t kept interrupting him with questions. But Alex manages to be patient. It’s the least he can do, he reasons, still regretting his inability to keep Gerald’s name out of the whole thing. Moreover, Gerald has a right to be worried about losing his job in the aftermath—a concern he expresses repeatedly on the call. “If I’m lucky,” he says, “and I think we both know I’m not—but if I’m lucky, they’ll just give me a colonoscopy. They’re going to go through every keystroke on my computer. They’re gonna review every log, every download, every TCP packet.”

  “Are you worried they’ll find something that’s a fireable offense?” Alex asks. “Have you been using the Agency network for anything you shouldn’t have?”

  “I told you,” Gerald says, reading Alex’s mind, “the Agency’s network is closed. There’s nothing I could do.”

  “Then what are you worried ab—”

  “I’ll be under investigation,” Gerald interrupts. “The subject of an inquiry. All they need to do is find something—anything, virtually—that’d give them probable cause to subpoena my home computer. And that’s if they’re going by the book enough to bother with a subpoena, which is doubtful. Bottom line, Alex, my entire life is gonna be stripped naked in front of them. And that’s, again, best case—otherwise defined as ‘not getting fired.’”

  Alex tries not to sigh lest Gerald hear it over the Bluetooth. This is one instance where he feels Gerald is entitled to his neuroses. He didn’t ask to be a part of this drama, and it was Alex’s failing that he’d given Director Rykman his name. So Alex remains patient, listening calmly and offering the occasional empathetic platitude (“I get it. I totally get it”) and reassurance (“It’s gonna be fine, Gerald. I promise. I’ll make sure it’s fine”). But these are empty promises. Alex has as much influence over the Agency’s Inspector General’s Office as he does over the weather.

  “I didn’t want to get involved in this,” Gerald says, a pronouncement that scrapes Alex’s conscience.

  “I know,” Alex says. “You didn’t want to get involved in this. But I forced you to. And I’m sorry. I’m gonna make sure it all works out, Gerald, like I said. But I am sorry.”

  “What’d Rykman say? About the Solstice thing?” Gerald asks, offering an olive branch.

  “Pretty much what you’d expect.”

  “Some analyst’s mental masturbation?”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “And you know that’s bullshit, right?”

  Alex thinks on that question, but not for long. All these related deaths, one that utilized a weapons-grade neurotoxin developed at a military base, cannot be explained away by coincidence. “Yeah,” he confirms, his voice almost a whisper, “I know it’s bullshit.”

  “I mean, did you ask him how Solstice could be theoretical after what went down in Iran?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I read it on Google News, like, an hour ago.” Alex can feel Gerald’s incredulity over the phone. How can Alex not know about this? “The supreme leader of Iran is dead.”

  “So?”

  “So, do you know what killed him?” Gerald pauses for effect. “Swine flu. An incredibly fatal and, therefore, incredibly rare strain of swine flu. Swine flu—”

  “Holy Christ,” Alex whispers, cutting Gerald off, his hands white-knuckling his steering wheel. “Holy Christ…”

  “Swine flu is one of the viruses in the Solstice file.” Gerald sounds uncharacteristically calm at this development, as if the degree to which he finds it fascinating eclipses the extent to which he finds it terrifying. “At first, I totally freaked,” he admits, “but I figured, if you thought it was a thing—y’know, if you thought there was a connection—you’d call me, like, pronto. But you didn’t, so I thought, y’know, coincidence.” Gerald takes a long pause. “But you didn’t know.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “If Jahandar was killed by Solstice, it’s real.”

  That’s not all it means, Alex thinks. It also means that the deaths of Harling, Moreno, Miller, and Zollitsch were murders—assassinations committed on American soil—to cover up the program’s existence.

  “Don’t panic, Gerald.”

  “Too late for that, hoss. Way too late.”

  “When I get back into the office tomorrow, I’ll take a deeper look into this Jahandar thing. There might be a perfectly reasonable explanation for it.”

  “It’s cute that you can still say that after all the shit we’ve learned,” Gerald says.

  Alex has no rebuttal to that.

  * * *

  About an hour later, Alex’s Lexus slides into a parking space in the garage beneath his apartment building. As he gets out of the car, he sees something flash in the corner of the garage. It’s a light. Cherry colored. He turns in response, and a second flash of crimson appears to settle on the center of his chest like a landing fly.

  Alex instinctively recognizes this red dot as a laser sight and instinctively drops to the garage’s concrete floor. As he does, he feels a puff of air along his hairline. The same instinct that just saved his life tells him he just felt a bullet whiz past his head. There’s a crackle of safety glass behind him a
s the rear windshield of his Lexus becomes instantly opaque with impact fractures emanating from a tiny hole directly in the path of where his head had been just seconds before.

  * * *

  NEW HAMPSHIRE AVENUE NW

  WASHINGTON, DC

  10:43 P.M. EDT

  Tyler Donovan has fought in wars and worked covert missions all over the world and he can hardly fathom what he’s just witnessed. In all his twenty-eight years—a lifetime in the world of the professional military—he’s never seen anyone dodge a laser-sighted bullet. All it took was a fraction of a fraction of a second—an infinitesimal gap between his sighting of the target and the twitching of his finger on the trigger—but in that interval, Alex found immortality, at least briefly. And proved to Donovan that he was one lucky son of a bitch indeed.

  But luck has a tendency to run out before bullets do. This is particularly true when the shooter wields a M4A1 carbine assault rifle, as Donovan does. He has a standard magazine slapped into it, which means he has twenty-seven bullets left, having spent the first three on a volley that should have blown Garnett back across the length of the parking garage.

  Donovan adjusts his aim through the advanced combat optical gun sight to the center of Garnett’s forehead. The maneuver flashes the rifle’s AN/PEQ-5 carbine visible laser directly into Garnett’s eyes. Garnett squints—momentarily blinded—as his hand moves up to instinctively shield his eyes and the second three-round burst comes for his head.

  * * *

  Alex feels the trio of bullets part his hair as he presses his face against the concrete floor, instinctively trying to make himself as difficult a target as possible. Somewhere, someone is muttering, “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ,” over and over again. And then Alex realizes that it’s him. He scrambles along the floor. With any luck, all the automotive steel and fiberglass surrounding him will save his life. Safety glass rains down on him like hail. Bullets whiz past his ears like angry hornets, each one carrying death. Not thinking about the possibility of his hand being shredded by 45-millimeter rounds, he blindly reaches up to grasp the handle of his car’s driver’s-side door. It doesn’t open. But the realization that the car is locked only spikes Alex’s adrenaline. His thumb scans the back of the handle, feverishly working to get the keyless entry system to recognize his hand on the lock. It feels like a lifetime—a passage of seconds marked only by the three-shot staccato of machine-gun bursts—before the car chirps and he’s able to swing the door open. Bullets slam into the car. Alex hurls himself into the driver’s seat, the steel of the open door shielding him as he tries to keep low. He gulps in air as if his lungs were punctured, but the breaths are his most compelling evidence that he’s still alive.