by Martha Carr
“That’s a disgusting word for murder,” said Wallis.
“Yes, it is. But if you are to at least stay alive in this game then you must see things from the same angle as your opponent. And they would see the zwanzig and all of their families as a poisoned herd with only one solution. Do not ever lull yourself into thinking that reasoning will be possible. If they have figured out that Norman is a zwanzig then you and Ned are in grave danger, which is why I don’t believe they know that small fact just yet.” Esther sat back, suddenly looking very tired. “Ray Billings did you no favors.”
“Did he know?”
“I don’t believe he did. He singled you out quite innocently for a completely different reason. He saw you as an honest lawyer,” said Esther, with the beginning of a smile, “and a local girl. You see, it proves my point. Webs are very easy to weave and very difficult to break apart.”
“How do you know so much?” said Wallis.
“Ah, at last, the question just as you have finally figured out the answer, correct? I am a zwanzig as well. The only one of my family to make it to America. I am not exactly Romanian as everyone believes. I am German, through and through.”
Wallis heard the slight change in Esther’s accent.
“Tom, your dear brother in law, is coming to see me. A war has begun and we would like to prevent another slaughter. You, my dear may be key to that.”
“Me? How is that possible?”
“You not only hold information dear to the Circle but you are also a precious commodity to Management. It’s brilliant really. It’s why Norman was allowed to leave the cell he was in and settle down with you in the suburbs. Enough, though, eyes are watching and I’m sure they’ve seen your car outside by now. You must go home. Talk to Norman and he will tell you the rest.”
“I have Bunko tonight,” said Wallis, almost to herself. “I have to go.”
Chapter Twenty
Twenty-five steps from the small basement office at the bottom of the B ring and a left turn to the wide stairs straight up near the entrance of the Pentagon. Heel, toe, heel, toe. Turn right and walk a hundred steps down the hallway, through the security turnstiles and out the glass double doors to the South parking lot. One minute flat, he thought, looking down at his watch, and he was standing by his car.
Fred Bowers counted each step, every time, willing himself to remember which role he was playing today.
Every year he thought it might get easier but after twenty years he realized he was at a baseline. Counting the steps, finding a pattern made the transition between the two worlds bearable. He was a mole within his own country, even within his own organization.
At the dawn of the internet the Circle became a little more like Management and grew wary of its own members. To quell the uneasy feeling the zwanzig created deeper cells within the structure that were hidden from everyone else.
Fred was tagged as the perfect recruit to be of service to the upper echelon within the Circle and overnight he was split into two distinct lives. One was spent as a forensic accountant located in the James Center in downtown Richmond, Virginia and the other was as an Assistant Director in the Department of Defense as a part of the Senior Executive Service corps with an office inside of the Pentagon.
The dual roles were like having an affair with a passionate, out of control woman and going home to her controlling, murderous sister. The two sides are related and both need you but there are boundaries. Beyond them he was very expendable.
The first role required him to be the good family man and capable lawyer who was always the follower attracting attention for the nervous fear that seemed to cling to him. In this persona he was the low-level member of the Circle who was never entrusted with anything of importance. Neither side saw him as much of a threat, only a pawn.
The other role was closer to the truth. He was serving in a top cell stripped of anything but the duties at hand. It was a role that measured every thought, every action and every word out of his mouth and always with a glance at the bigger picture.
He saw himself as a necessary part of the game at hand but he was also keenly aware that parts can always be replaced.
He had accepted that death was a likely part of the mission a long time ago when he was sworn in to serve the highest elements in government that belonged to the Circle. Over the years the strata fluctuated, sometimes within a few heartbeats of the oval office. Once again, though one of their own was elected president and it was Fred’s job to keep him informed.
Misinformation could advance an enemy plot far more than the threat of any missile and without the right kind of advisor at his side it would be very difficult for any president to know what to do.
Most of the struggle between the two giants was played out in the open. American members infiltrated both political parties, sat in both Houses and were sprinkled at the top of every major corporation. The lobbyists, however, were by far the most interesting group.
Their express purpose was to represent the will and intention of whoever was paying their tab but with a hard slant toward their team, Management or the Circle. They were the enforcers dressed up in very expensive suits who spent their days reminding legislators what happened to anyone who betrayed their cause. Management had the advantage in those moments and bared their teeth more openly. The Circle lobbyists always had to spin the story into what lives would be lost at the hands of the Management. But every Circle Senator or Congressman knew there were limits even within their own group.
Fred’s life in the Washington area consisted of a small triangle that sometimes went from a small high rise apartment in Alexandria along Seminary Road to the Pentagon in Arlington to the White House along Pennsylvania Avenue, and that was it. He had direct orders to never walk down the long halls in the Old Executive Office Building or the Capital or anywhere else he might be recognized. He never went out at night when he was in D.C. and the apartment where he stayed was kept clean and stocked full of food by an unseen member. He was never detected and slid easily in and out of town along the interstate.
While it was true that technology had made it possible for either side to locate and follow anyone, they first had to be aware they wanted to and Fred was not on Management’s list. It was an impossible task to keep track of everyone and Fred’s Richmond persona had made it clear that he wasn’t valuable to the Circle and therefore to the other side. They never noticed his occasional weekend trips.
His wife, Maureen, was a Circle operative as well, put in place to give him cover. It was an arranged marriage of sorts but over the eighteen years they had been together they had grown to respect each other and were close friends. In all those years, however, they had never discussed the Circle or their real purpose, never slipping even when their heads lay inches from each other.
There was no mention to anyone when Fred slid out of town. On those weekends when Fred was gone, Maureen made a point of being seen puttering around the garden and stayed close to home. She joined only the groups that she was directed to in the encoded messages such as the neighborhood Bunko game or the large Episcopalian church, St. Thomas located just down Pouncey Tract Road that was full of young families who were eager to get ahead.
She had been trained well and knew her purpose out in public was to establish common routines and tell stories about Fred in order to reinforce the outline that had been so carefully created right in front of everyone.
Both of them were filling out shadows of a suburban life and in that sense Maureen had the worst of it. There was never a break from the role she had been directed to play out until further notice.
Her second, underlying mission was to keep track of her friend, Wallis and their young son, Ned but over the years there had been very little to report.
Fred sometimes looked at Maureen and wondered if she minded or had she slipped somewhere in all of these years into the role so completely that she didn’t know anything else anymore. The thought never lasted long though; it would have been a
distraction.
Four hundred and thirty two steps, a short turn and then back, three hundred and eight steps, turn again all the while still heading straight. Two hundred and two more steps to get from the East Portico of the White House to the small elevator hidden behind the folding partition that was the official separation between the East and West wings. Each time a small distraction was timed to take place among the Secret Service who helped to turn away the few faces that may have wondered who he was and why he had access to the First Family’s elevator right next to the old winding stairs that were used by past presidents such as Lincoln or Coolidge. Both lead up to the private quarters.
The family quarters was one of the only secure places left where only the team that held the presidential office knew exactly what was happening at any given moment.
To ensure discretion, whenever an administration changed sides every cook, every valet, every maid was let go and an entire new team was put into place. Even with that, extra precautions were taken whenever Bowers walked the halls.
Sixteen steps from the elevator to the front sitting room.
“Mr. President.”
“Mr. Bowers, so good to see you, again.” President Ronald Haynes was resting back against the cream colored couch. His famous head of thick, snow white hair stood out against the square linen cushion.
“At your service, sir.” It was always the same greeting.
“Please, take a seat.”
Bowers sat down on the edge of the Queen Anne wing chair and recited the information from memory. None of the short missives, the Special Compartmentalized Intelligence that Fred brought to the President were ever put down on paper.
“Operation Kirchenfenster has begun,” said Fred.
“Ah, they do love their German names, even now, don’t they?” said the President with a thin smile. “The Stained Glass Operation is again in play. We will work to confuse and deceive rather than come at them directly. But there’s a difference this time, isn’t there?”
“Yes, sir. We are at war.” Bowers said it calmly and evenly, his voice never wavering.
“Yes, so it’s official, then. A quiet war, though. Most of the people who walk the streets will never know. They may feel the repercussions but they’ll never know what caused it all. It’s very interesting, really. Any head of government, anywhere in the world really only gets to declare something is a war after those above him give him the go-ahead.” Fred sat motionless waiting for a direct question.
“We look so powerful to the general public. Does it have an official name, this war?” asked the President.
“No, sir, not at this time.”
“It was bound to happen,” said the President, with a sigh. “I knew that when they came to me and asked me to run for office. I saw the timing and what was coming. There was so much at stake. I’m surprised I made it into office. I was never sure that Management wouldn’t find out or at least wonder. Good Lord, all you had to do was look at who was starting to fill our ranks, really look, and you could see the pattern.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, we put the counter measures into play. Are the operatives on their way?”
“We were awaiting your approval,” said Fred.
“You mean this office still has some actual power?” The President stopped to absently straighten out his blue silk tie. “Let it be so,” he said, giving a nod. “Give them the authority to negotiate whatever they need to. We start with the MPLA in Angola, then Congo, Gabon, Cameroon and Niger. That should be enough to draw Management’s attention away from this country.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fred, waiting for the president to wind down.
“It’s a win-win, you know. I wanted to do this last year when I noticed China cozying up to the Sudan. They call it a mutual agreement and then use their land to grow crops but not one blade of wheat would stay in Africa. We may yet get to distribute the food across the continent where it belongs and gain a bargaining chip with China in the deal,” said the President.
“If we don’t then more than a few Africans are going to starve just a hundred yards from crops that will be shipped back to China but we’ll still have our diversion,” said Fred.
“An interesting dilemma; which is worse? This deception had better be worth it.”
“Sir, if the wrong people found out what the Circle has been creating all of these years and right under their noses then a lot of innocent young lives will quickly pay the price.”
“Mr. Bowers, the lives that may be lost in Africa are innocent as well.”
“Yes sir, but exposure of the list would be enough to tip the balance of power too far into Management’s hands. Millions more would die. And sir, I don’t think we’re going to come out of this war without some calculated loss.”
The President looked up at Fred. “We are at war, aren’t we, Fred? Sometimes I forget your military background. Alright, then, well, if we can distract the other powers that be enough to think we actually wanted the land rights I will live to be an old man, Mr. Bowers, God willing. If not, my reelection and my life will once again be in the hands of conniving mortals. No offense,” he said, with a short laugh.
“No, sir.”
“What is our next move?”
“We send over the agricultural engineers with the Special Forces Unit to start laying the groundwork, sir.”
“And if there is resistance?” said the President.
“We are ready to negotiate in good faith, sir, but we will aggressively remove enough obstacles to make our intentions appear genuine.”
“Have we pulled at Management’s purse strings as well?”
“Yes sir, we are pushing down the value of the Cardinal Group as we speak and shorting the stock. Our deception won’t last long but will let Management know that we are moving forward and can hurt them.”
“Of course,” said the President, slowly getting up and walking to the window. “Is that all, Mr. Bowers?” he said, looking out the window at the lawn in front of the north portico and the familiar front porch.
“No, sir, there is one more directive. One of the zwanzig, the special one, he may have been detected.” The President jerked around to look at Bowers.
“You aren’t sure? How is that possible with all of this technology?”
“Both sides are being very cautious, sir, very quiet, and there’s a special circumstance.”
“And that is?”
“A Circle OTP has gone missing. A drive that belonged to an upper level cell originating from the Mid-Atlantic. We believe it was taken from her dead body right after she was drowned.”
“Mr. Bowers, this is turning into a very bad day. Do we have a remote idea of where it is now?” said the President in an angry hiss.
“Yes, sir. It slipped out of Management’s hands. The special zwanzig, we believe his mother has it, sir.”
“Well, I suppose the Management’s theory of DNA will be proven at last. If they are right, his mother will give in to some deep, inner need for power and all is lost. If the Circle is right, then we still have a chance to finally bring some democracy back into the world after an absence of more than a hundred years. This contest of wills, it will be very interesting, Mr. Bowers. I suppose both sides are waiting to see what happens next.”
“Not exactly, sir. Tom has been called home. We are going to see if we can tip the balance in our favor.”
“And Management will likely respond.”
“They appear to have already tried, sir. There are several dead in Richmond.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Yvette Campbell quickly pushed the cart up and down the aisles at the grocery store trying to get everything on the list without thinking too much about what still needed to get done.
“Saturday is just not long enough,” she shouted over her shoulder to her husband, Bob as she ran out of the door. There was a Bunko game later and she was determined to get enough of her chores done so that she could relax tonight. Maybe even drink a g
lass of wine.
“Ah, boxed wine,” she said, smiling, as she reached into the glass cooler and pulled out a box of white chardonnay and a box of rose. There was a general agreement among the group to never bring anything in a deep red color that could leave a more obvious stain. Everyone at Bunko was firmly in the middle class and knew that each possession could not be easily restored. A stain would have to be endured until there was room in the budget for a replacement.
“Coffee, coffee,” mumbled Yvette, looking up at the markers at the top of each aisle. Two aisles down. She started to push the heavy cart.
There were three kinds of grocery stores in town. High end, discount and bulk and Yvette shopped at all three, never completely memorizing the layout of any of them.
She found the coffee at the far end of the aisle and pulled the cart as far over to the side as she could manage, trying to stay out of the way of other shoppers as she stared at the different brands of coffee. She was doing a social calculation in her head, trying to figure out just how expensive the coffee needed to be for her friends at Bunko divided by how much she had to spend this month. Her hand reached out for the Folgers. It was on sale and was fancy enough for the girls.
“Score,” said Yvette. “Now, maybe I can get a little somethin’-somethin’ for myself.”
She grabbed a small paper bag from the shelf and measured out half a bag of coffee beans from one of the more expensive gourmet bins. The one marked chocolate raspberry. The aroma wafted into the air as she breathed in deeply and her shoulders relaxed. She poured the contents into the grinder on the left with a hand-made sign taped on the front that said, ‘Flavored Coffee only’. The beans rattled down into the bottom as she turned the dial on the front till it pointed at the word, drip and she hit the on button.
