“We need you to go back to work. Act like nothing is different,” said Stark.
“Nothing is different, my ass!” snapped Cade. “I’m surrounded by a bunch of terrorists! They’ll probably find out I’m spying on them and smash my fingers to bits with a hammer. My body will wind up in a fucking dumpster somewhere, and you act like nothing is different!”
Jana jumped up and put her hands on his shoulders. “We need you, Cade.” Her soft voice sounded like two silk sheets rubbing together. “Yes, things are very different now. I’m afraid this is the new normal. But your role here is life and death. We need you to gather information. This information could prevent the next bombing. We need to see the e‑mail content, we need to see who the e‑mail was sent to, we need to know exactly what is causing the server problem, and where the server is calling to. We need it, Cade. Without you, people are going to die.”
29
Across town, FBI agents and surveillance specialists were tracking every move of known terrorist Waseem Jarrah and the Jamaican whose name turned out to be Bastian Mokolo. Data was pouring into the command center on the tenth floor of Century Center, the building housing the Atlanta field office. Strangely, Waseem Jarrah had been easier to investigate. US intelligence sources from overseas already had a thick dossier on him.
The Jamaican, Bastian Mokolo, was proving to be a different story. The only US records that could be found of him were a state-issued driver’s license and an apartment lease contract. No trace of him, however, could be found in Jamaica or the surrounding islands. There were no birth certificates, tax records, drivers’ licenses, voter registrations, or cell phone records—not even a library card. And stranger still, NCIC, the National Crime Information Center federal database, drew a complete blank. It was like he existed in the flesh but not in the system.
On the first night, agents attempted to enter Mokolo’s vehicle under cover of darkness. After witnessing the lengths that Mokolo went in order to avoid surveillance, paranoia ran high, and agents used extreme caution to avoid leaving any trace of their presence. At a minimum, their hope was to extract fingerprints. However, prior to even opening the driver’s side door, they became alarmed. They noticed a tiny piece of lint that was placed into the door jamb at the very bottom of the door. If the door was opened, the lint would fall, a signal to Mokolo that someone had entered the vehicle. This upped the game. Agents knew without doubt they were dealing with a very sophisticated subject who would take any precaution to avoid detection. An inspection of the passenger’s side door revealed no such countermeasures. However, once inside the car, agents found it devoid of fingerprints anywhere. Whoever Bastian Mokolo was remained a mystery. At this point, the only thing known about him was that he was a total professional.
Tailing Mokolo as he drove through town proved difficult as well. He would duck into side streets and neighborhoods, weave his way around, then pop out on another street. This was an effective method for finding out if someone was tailing you. On the third night, agents slipped the smallest, most advanced tracking device available onto the underside of the car. Its state-of-the-art digital circuitry enabled them to control when the device would ping its location. That meant if Mokolo electronically swept the vehicle for bugs, the tracking device would be dormant, and nearly impossible to locate. It might be their only way to keep up with him.
Another problem was that Mokolo seemed to switch cellphones daily. It was a trick taken from the playbook of Osama bin Laden, who never spoke on the same cellphone twice. Since they couldn’t tap his phone line, the only way to listen to cellphone conversations was to be within line-of-sight when he placed a call. Surveillance agents used laser microphones and electronic eavesdropping equipment to focus and catch bits and pieces of his cryptic conversations.
What the bureau knew at this point was that they had isolated two controlling individuals involved in the spate of deadly bombings. What they didn’t have—and what they desperately needed—was the rest of the terror cell’s members. Even if the FBI swept in and arrested Bastian Mokolo and Waseem Jarrah, other members of the terror cell might carry out attacks preplanned in the event the cell was compromised. No, they couldn’t arrest anyone without more information, and the clock was ticking.
Cade was briefed on all necessary precautions. His fraternity brother, Kyle, was a source of comfort. Cade knew he could call Kyle at any time. But Cade was more than just a bit smitten with Jana Baker. Being around her was distracting—downright intoxicating. He had to concentrate whenever she spoke, otherwise, he found he wasn’t hearing anything she said.
Cade knew the bureau would be listening to any cell conversations he’d have. But he also knew his cellphone was not being tracked or tapped by anyone else. The bureau was confident of that. Big Brother was listening, but terrorists were not. How comforting, thought Cade. Kyle assigned electronic specialists from the Atlanta field office to sweep Cade’s car and apartment for any bugs or tracking devices. His car would be checked daily; well, it would be checked nightly, anyway. The bureau wanted to keep as low a profile as possible, not being seen by anyone as it worked to protect Cade.
Both Jana and Kyle would be present on most days. Instead of trying to sneak around, they’d hide in plain sight. After all, they were both about the same age as Cade, and it wouldn’t look out of the ordinary. They would appear to just be friends.
Cade tried to relax on the couch in his apartment, but on top of the stress of trying to gather information right out from under the noses of terrorists, Cade was also very distracted by the situation with his father. He’d started to realize the cancer might be worse than his dad was letting on. It was a familiar theme. When he was growing up, his father would be deployed on short notice, and he’d always say something to make sure his wife and child weren’t worried about him. Flying a plane off the deck of a Navy carrier was never safe, particularly in hostile regions of the world. But talking to him on the phone in those days, you’d never know. Cal would speak in a calm, soft tone and assure them that all was well. Sometimes though, the news media would report a US military strike in a far-flung corner of the globe. The target was destroyed, yet in the process, ground-to-air missiles had been fired on US warplanes. Cade would glance at his mom to gauge her reaction. She was prone to crumbling under the stress of it all. She withdrew into depression. It was as if she retreated into a dark cave and couldn’t find her way out. Cade hated his father for that.
Now, though, Cade was mad at himself for spending the last fifteen or more years of his life carrying anger. It was always there, deep in the pit of his stomach. He tried to bury it deep down, but a burden like that comes with a price—and that price must be paid.
Cade looked down at his cellphone. He wanted to call his dad but thought about the fact that someone would be listening. He decided he might as well get used to it. He’d been worried about being monitored at work for months, and now the feeling would just transfer to his personal life as well.
The phone rang on the other end. But instead of his father answering, a sweet southern female voice answered, “Mr. Williams’ cell phone. Hello, this is Lou Anne speakin’.”
Cade paused, not knowing what to say. “Ah, yeah. This is Cade, Mr. Williams’ son. Is he around?” Cade felt stupid.
“Oh yes, honey. He’s here. Can you hold on just a minute, he’s puttin’ himself back together.”
Cade shifted in his chair. He’d interrupted his dad with some girl. It was as awkward as it gets.
“Oh, ah, well, that’s okay. If he’s busy, I can call back later.”
The silky voice laughed. “Oh no, honey, it’s no trouble. We were just finishing his X-ray.”
“His X-ray? Where is he?”
“Now don’t you worry your purty little head about it now. He’s down here in the ER at Crawford Long. But we’re gonna take good care of ’im. Don’t you worry. Here he is, hun.”
The emergency room?
“Hey, Cade,” said Cal with a r
aspy tone in his voice.
“Dad. What’s going on? Why are you in the ER? Are you okay?”
“Well, as good as can be expected, son. I’m not feeling the greatest. It’s like I’ve got no energy. I just can’t seem to catch my breath. Look, I’ll be okay. I don’t want you worrying about me.”
But Cade was moving towards his car. He may be forever mad at his dad, but if this cancer thing was serious, and apparently it was, he wasn’t going to chicken out of reconciling now.
Twenty minutes later, Cade walked into Crawford Long, a sprawling hospital complex in midtown Atlanta. The massive ceiling at the entrance was filled with light. Marble adorned everything. Cade double stepped across the floor, while a marble waterfall cascaded down the wall from high above. The reception nurse escorted Cade back into the emergency room and into the side room where Cal lay in a bed, several beeping devices hooked up to him.
“Cade! I didn’t want to bother you with this. You didn’t need to come down here. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m just getting old.”
“Come on, Dad, you can’t catch your breath. What’s up with that? Besides, I didn’t want you to be down here alone.” The fact that Cal had left his family alone on so many occasions hung in the air like thick molasses. After an awkward pause, Cade said, “How come you’re at Crawford Long? I thought you had a doctor friend out at Kennestone.”
Cal looked at his lap. “That’s where I told them to take me, but ambulances have to take you to the nearest hospital, which is here.” Cade’s insides buckled. You had to take an ambulance?
The two talked in awkward fits and starts, mostly about mundane things. Then Cal asked how things were going at work. Cade had shut his father out for so long. Now he wanted to break down the dam and tell him everything about what was really happening at his office. But he couldn’t.
A rap on the door’s glass window startled them. They both looked up as a nurse that had to be Lou Anne breezed through the door; her red hair was pulled back tightly in a bun. She was a bold, smiling presence in the room. Behind her was a clean-cut man in dress slacks, a crisp white dress shirt, and a tie. Cade thought it odd that the man wore no lab coat and carried no clipboard.
“Now, y’all, I want to introduce somebody,” said Lou Anne. “This is Eddie. Eddie visits us every day, making his rounds. He’s a chaplain here at the hospital, and he’s one of my favorites!” Her smile was as big as her stark white teeth. Lou Anne scooted back out the door with the energy of someone twenty years younger.
Eddie laughed. “Don’t you just love her? Hi, I’m Eddie Jenkins.”
Cade and Cal introduced themselves.
“Like Lou Anne said, I’m a chaplain here. I make rounds in the ER every day. I was passing through and wanted to pop in and say hello. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, Mr. Williams. Is there anything I can get you while you wait? A magazine? A tall Scotch? Lou Anne’s phone number?” Eddie was a confident guy, and his magnetism broke the tension. They both liked him immediately. There was peace and warmth spilling off of him that said “everything’s going to be all right.” And he was one of those rare people who seemed to have arrived at a higher plane of knowledge; he knew what to worry about and what to ignore. After telling a few stories to help pass the time, he stood up to leave.
“Oh, here’s my card,” said Eddie. “If you need to talk about anything, just let me know. They pay me the big bucks for that, you know.” He grinned and was gone.
After a few moments of silence, Cal looked up.
“Son, I can tell something’s eating at you. You’ve got that look in your eye just like when you were a kid. It’s true; you used to look just like that. You’d have gotten a bad grade or something and had to have your test paper signed and didn’t want to bring it up. I know that look. What’s troubling you, son? Is it me?” Cal knew far more about his cancer than he was letting on, and he didn’t want to have any regrets.
Cade picked at a tear in the fake leather seat on his chair and wished he could disappear.
“Dad, you ever get into a situation that you just can’t get out of?”
“There’s a way out of anything, son. I’ve been in more than a scrape or two in my time. Cade, you’ve got a whole life ahead of you. Is it your job? Don’t bog down if your job is the wrong place for you to be. Go out and find what makes your insides want to sing.” The word was emphasized like the last word of a sermon. Chaplain Eddie had gotten to him. “For some people, that’s flying a plane at Mach two with their hair on fire, headed into harm’s way. For others, it’s a woman. You just have to find out what it is for you.”
“I know what you’re going to say,” replied Cade.
“I’ll say it anyway. Don’t do anything you’re going to regret for the rest of your life.” It was a mantra Cade had heard a thousand times growing up. “You’ve grown up a lot,” said Cal. “You’ve grown up without me being there for you. I regret that. I regret that more than anything I’ve ever done. And now I have to live with it. Do you know what it means now, son? To not do anything that you’re going to regret?”
Cade looked over at his father. That was the deepest apology he had ever envisioned. His dad’s eyes streamed tears, but his voice was granite.
“Yeah, Dad.”
Through the door’s window, Lou Anne waved, inviting Cade out. He left the room with lines etched across his forehead.
Lou Anne took his hand and patted it, walking him forward.
“Now, hun, listen. There’s somethin’ I want to show you.” Lou Anne was quieter than before. Her voice was soft and sweet like honey. Cade knew that whatever she wanted to show him, it was something he didn’t want to see. She led him around the large circular desk of the nurses’ station and over to a large computer monitor. The nurse seated in front of the monitor saw them coming, stood, and then walked off. Lou Anne didn’t say a word. On the screen of the oversized monitor was the image of a chest X-ray. The lungs on the X-ray were striated with bright white steaks, scarring their way across the fragile organs. There was no need for a physician to interpret the X-ray for Cade. Any layman could see that his dad’s lungs were racked with cancer. The streaks looked like sharpened fingers, each thirsting to grow farther and faster than the others. Cade stared at the screen.
The large room, normally bustling with activity, had gone silent. There was no activity. Nurses stared at the ground, doctors across the room looked down, technicians stood still. Everyone who worked in that ER had been informed of what was happening. A family member was being told that their loved one’s medical condition was terminal, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
Lou Anne gripped Cade’s hand, pulling it against herself, her lower lip quivering. A small tear pooled in Cade’s eye. Lou Anne was a genteel southern lady and no longer bothered to fight back her emotions. She had one unwritten rule—no one was allowed to cry alone in her presence.
Soft footsteps approached Cade followed by a firm, comforting hand on his shoulder. It was Chaplain Eddie. Eddie stood. There was nothing to be said. It wasn’t his words that were needed; it was his compassion, his comfort, his presence. It was no fluke that Eddie happened to be passing through the ER earlier that day. After the X-ray had been taken, Lou Anne called him. He was called, and he came. He answered the call, like he always did, with warmth that penetrated everything he touched. By visiting Cal’s triage room before the X-ray was disclosed, he was able to offer the type of comfort a stranger can’t.
Cade’s knees shook beneath him. He looked at the X-ray but no longer really saw it. He put his arms around Lou Anne on one side and Eddie on the other.
And they all stood, and they all knew.
30
The morning’s threat assessment was delivered to the president by the director of the FBI. This happened six days a week, and sometimes on Sunday. Today’s assessment was grim. Another bombing was anticipated in four days. The countdown was on, the clock ticking. Under the enormous burden of an impending attack, t
he president signed Executive Order number 4636, something he had never done before. The weight of his office bore down on him with unforgiving relentlessness. EO 4636 was a directive that authorized the bureau to take whatever means necessary to stop the threat. In short, the executive order secretly authorized any level of force required, including assassination.
FBI Director Stephen Latent had never received such an order. But he understood the president’s decision. The citizens of the United States knew another bombing could happen at any time. They were not only scared, they were in grave danger, and they knew it. Danger was imminent, but it was fear that ruled the day.
The country’s reaction to the bombings was divided. People in small towns seemed more determined to go about their daily lives, refusing to let terror best them. Yet those in major cities avoided leaving their homes. Gripped with fear, they avoided events like baseball games, soccer matches, outdoor concerts, and graduation ceremonies. Restaurants in most major cities were vacant. Grocery store shelves emptied as families stocked up on food. Many flights were cancelled due to the number of open seats. School attendance began to falter. Fear impacted the US economy, though not badly yet. Worse, fear was impacting the American way of life, and that was exactly what the terrorists wanted.
Agent Philip Murphy, commander of the Hostage Rescue Team based out of the Atlanta field office, took the news of the executive order without visible reaction. His insides, however, reminded him of being in middle school and forgetting that a term paper was due. He’d killed people before, during the first and second Gulf Wars, but it was not something he relished. In fact, it made him sick. But he would do what he was told in order to secure a nation. HRT had been involved during the surveillance of Bastian Mokolo. If Mokolo was financing terrorists, the threat was extremely high, and the Hostage Rescue Team needed to be close by at all times.
The Fourteenth Protocol_A Thriller Page 14
