by Ballan, Greg
Erik took a moment to digest what each man said. The guards were convinced the staff in the president’s household were not involved in the attempted poisoning. What he couldn’t yet determine was if the guards were simply covering their asses because they’d screened the staff prior to hiring, or were they that positive of each staff member’s character.
“Has yesterday’s trash been collected yet?” he asked the guards.
René spoke up. “Pick up is scheduled every third day at ten o’clock in the morning. The next pickup will be in about two hours.”
Erik turned to Monique. “Is that juice concoction you’re so fond of prepared fresh or from a frozen concentrate or is it from a carton?”
“It’s frozen and then mixed with water; the staff usually adds a shot of lemon juice while they’re mixing it to give it a little more punch,” she answered.
“Well, that cinches it. Let’s go sift through the trash. I want that container,” the detective stated as he stood.
“Why in God’s name would you want it?” the president’s aide asked.
“Simple. I want to see if the container was tampered with. The method of tampering will tell us if it likely occurred in the presidential compound or outside.” Erik glanced at each person in turn. “It will also give us an idea of just how well our opponent knows his target. This, gentlemen,” Erik paused, then added, “and lady, wasn’t random.” He motioned toward Monique. “She was directly targeted, pinpointed by a specific item that only she drinks. This action gives us two possibilities. The attempt was made to look like an inside job, or it was an inside job. That container will help me come to the right conclusion.”
Erik read the look of distaste on the guards’ faces. He sensed they didn’t trust him yet. His first lesson learned in the military was that both trust and respect were earned, not simply given. When dealing with new people it was a constant factor.
“Look,” Erik said lightly to the three, “this is my wild hunch. I don’t expect any of you to go digging around in yesterday’s garbage. You have enough to do with the security details and arrangements. Can we touch base back here for lunch? We can start wading through the details of the next six months.”
A look of relief spread over each man’s face.
“That would be most suitable, Mr. Knight. We shall resume our discussions at noon.” René then made a quick gesture and his counterparts stood. “We will take our leave now, Mr. President.” René waited for the nod of the president then all three men marched away.
“They are good men,” President LaSalle remarked as he watched them disappear around a bend in the long corridor.
“They seem to be just that.” Erik nodded curtly and turned to the president’s aide. “Is there any word about the toxin used in that ‘Mickey Finn’ they tried to slip Monique yesterday?”
Jean-Paul reached into his jacket and read from a form. “All local pharmacies that carry alkaloid compounds similar to the ones discovered in the toxicology report were contacted. Whoever used that poison didn’t get it anywhere around here.” The aide returned the paper in his jacket, clearly disappointed by the report.
“That’s fine; it’s just one less thing on our list to verify,” Erik answered.
The president turned to Erik and asked, “Are you really serious about digging through the garbage? Surely such a thing is not really necessary?”
“It is a necessity, Mr. President. As soon as someone points me in the right direction, and provides me with some rubber gloves, I shall be on my way.”
Monique rose. “I’ll take him, father. I’ve finished my breakfast.”
* * * *
For the better part of a half hour, Monique watched the American wade through the multiple garbage bags from the large dumpster behind the estate. Finally, he spotted something of importance and held up a dark purple container for inspection.
“Is this it?” he asked, and she nodded.
He leapt out of the dumpster, holding up the empty carton like a prize. He inspected the container while walking to the bench by the rear entrance to the main building.
Monique followed him.
Once seated, his fingertips moved gently up and down the small container almost as if they were able to scan and analyze every grain and imperfection on the plastic and cardboard surface. His eyes changed slightly, burning with a pale aquamarine glow.
He looked up, frowning.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The container was most likely poisoned outside the estate. There is a small puncture hole right in the middle. The toxin was injected into the container and froze. The poison thawed right along with the juice concentrate, when the water was added. Do you know if the same people make all the deliveries to the estate?”
Monique shrugged her shoulders. “The kitchen staff could confirm that. I don’t really get involved with the food preparation. I’m far from domestic.”
“My wife was the same way.”
She couldn’t miss the longing in the American’s voice. “Was?”
“Was.” The American said nothing more. He turned toward the rear entrance and walked away. Monique studied him for a moment and then followed.
“What now?” she asked.
He turned around. “I will show Jean-Paul the container. It has a serial number that will tell us where it came from, and possibly where it shipped from. We’ll also find out who makes the food deliveries. If the people who deliver them are regulars, we’ll check to see if, on the day this container was delivered, different persons made the delivery. If there was somebody different on that day, we find out who and question them.”
* * * *
Erik tried to sound positive but the more he considered the numerous possibilities, the more he realized that even though they now knew how the container was poisoned, he wasn’t any closer to eliminating anybody completely. The container could just as easily have been poisoned by the staff on the night before. About all he could do was reduce the probability that the servers hadn’t poisoned the young woman. The kitchen help was still suspect.
The darker part of his persona admired the methodology employed in this attempt. If Monique LaSalle had been poisoned, the odds anybody would ever discover how it was done were close to zero. Had he not possessed his hybrid senses, he would have missed the tiny round puncture mark in the container. Had he not possessed the powers given to him from the long dead Esper race, Monique LaSalle would be dead right now. He reminded himself that the good guys were up one. But the military man inside him knew an enemy that failed in its objective would undoubtedly redouble its efforts and try again.
This form of attack didn’t fit the paradigm of his profiled opponents. In all his past experiences, the terrorists used direct frontal assaults. They were like a sledgehammer, direct and forceful. That was how they generated fear among the populace – by blatant open violence with no regard for bystanders or themselves.
The failed poisoning of Monique was an indirect attempt on a single target, with no potential for collateral deaths. This didn’t bode well for setting up adequate security precautions. If the terrorists had adopted new methods and were now focused only on the elimination of a single individual target, the good guys were being forced into an unfamiliar defensive posture. It would be nearly impossible to protect Monique LaSalle without being constantly at her side. He would have to become more personal bodyguard than security specialist.
“I don’t like the look you have on your face,” the young woman began.
Erik smiled. For the briefest of moments, he heard Brianna’s voice in this young French socialite’s. “I need to get a poker face,” he grumbled to himself. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” He began to walk again.
Monique walked past him and blocked his path. She crossed her arms and looked directly up at him, her face grim and determined. “Look, Mr. Knight, I know you probably think I’m just some overstuffed window dressing and I’m supposed to simply settle b
ack and let the brave American save me. Well you can toss the cowboy mentality. It’s my life that’s been threatened. My life that’s at stake! I.…”
Erik’s enhanced vision spotted a form on the adjacent rooftop then saw the form raise a hi-powered rifle to his shoulder. A sniper!
His Esper hearing heard the pop from a silencer then he detected the supersonic whine of the high-powered bullet. Erik grabbed Monique and spun her so that his back served as a shield between the young woman and the rifle’s slug. The momentum of his action forced them both into a lateral dive to the ground.
A hot sensation on his arm told him the projectile had grazed it. He hit the ground hard, making sure that his body absorbed the bulk of the impact and shielded Monique’s body.
Erik freed the 9mm from its holster as he turned onto his back. With his enhanced vision, he spotted the sniper still perched on the roof.
Erik leapt to his feet, his mind calculating the trajectory and bullet drop. He fired. The muted black automatic spat out five rounds of angry retaliation.
The sniper jerked back, indicating that at least one of the 9mm rounds had found its target. He disappeared from view.
“Amazing!” Erik admired his weapon for a moment then sheathed it and refocused his attention on the president’s daughter.
“Monique,” Erik knelt down beside her, “are you okay?”
The dazed teenager rolled over. Erik helped her to her feet and brushed the dirt and debris from her hair and shirt. Monique spotted the bloody wound on his arm.
“Oh my God, you’ve been shot,” she cried out.
He gestured toward the hole in the concrete foundation of the estate. “It just grazed me. The bullet is embedded in the building. See?”
* * * *
Several people, including the three security men, rushed out in response to the gunfire. Each of the three security men had a weapon drawn as they approached.
René spotted the bloodstain on the detective’s shirt. “Should we call a medic?”
“No, just a scratch,” Erik answered, pointing out the adjacent rooftop. “He was stationed on the roof over there. He’s been hit, most likely is bleeding. That would be the best place to start looking.” Erik escorted the visibly shaken Monique LaSalle back into the relative safety of the closest building on the presidential estate.
René looked at the distant building and back at Erik Knight. “You say you shot him, from this distance?”
Erik looked over his shoulder at the security specialist. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”
Gestation Day 40; 1:15 p.m.
Michael Sparks sat behind his desk, studying the list of contract awards that his assistant had provided. Nancy had done her usual thorough job. He held one puzzle piece; his other research would hopefully provide the other. Pendelcorp had become a lucrative defense contractor, seeming to grow into prominence overnight under the nose of every federal regulatory agency.
He had made some phone calls to his friends at the Senate Oversight Committee; those friends would investigate the anomaly for him. He also had the link between Erik Knight, Pendelcorp and Colonel Ross. Digging into that triangle was a cakewalk compared to what he was trying to accomplish now.
Who gave the order that forced his agency to send Knight overseas on the diversion? Where had the authorization for that assignment come from? And more importantly, who was the top dog pulling the strings of both Pendelton and Colonel Ross? Neither of the men had the political clout to pull off the kind of operation occurring at Groom Lake. In his gut, he knew the president would never authorize Operation Homegrown; therefore it had to be a subversive force somewhere in the administration.
Earlier in the morning, Sparks had run several queries from his computer; he was looking for the exact source of the order that requested the involvement of the OSA and CIA. Something smelled rotten and he was determined to get to the bottom of things.
His computer chimed, alerting him that the results of his morning queries had been returned to his data terminal. He scanned the electronic files with great interest.
“Nothing, damn it.” He cycled his way through several more screens of information – with the same disappointing results. According to all of the sources he had checked, no agency in the United States government had any official knowledge of Operation Homegrown, despite the fact that the databases that he had used for this particular query had the highest security clearance and contained records of every operation dating back over thirty years. At the very least there should be some mention of a project pertaining to genetic splicing and cloning.
“This doesn’t make sense. I know the information has to be here somewhere.” He took a swig of coffee. Grumbling, he rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair away from the display monitor. He had been at it all morning and needed a diversion. A fresh cup of coffee would be just the thing.
He grabbed his suitcoat from the closet and headed out into the reception office.
“Nancy, I’m going down to the coffee shop. Can I bring you back anything?”
“That’s your fourth cup this morning. All that caffeine with your blood pressure?”
“I know, I know, but I’m so close and the coffee helps me focus. The key’s hanging out there just outside my reach. This is big, Nancy, really big. It’ll make the Watergate and Contragate seem like a bounced check in comparison. I just have to find it; it will put the whole mystery together.”
He went quiet. It was poor protocol to be discussing these things with his secretary, but Nancy did have top secret clearance and she had been working for him for over fifteen years.
“I’ll bring you back one of those gourmet latte things.” He gave her a quick wave and headed toward the elevator.
* * * *
Nancy Bertoni took this opportunity to search her boss’s office. She rushed into his suite and studied the data on his terminal then browsed through pages of notes on a yellow legal pad beside it. She shook her head in disappointment. Mr. Sparks was digging into Operation Homegrown – exactly what he wasn’t supposed to be doing. The ‘higher up’ that had instructed her to spy on her boss was correct in his assumption.
Mr. Sparks would unravel whatever was being buried and eventually bring some dark secret to light. She didn’t know what Operation Homegrown was, and didn’t care – only that she was to inform her contact if that term appeared in her boss’s notes or queries.
Top-secret files on Operation Homegrown littered his boss’s desk. Despite her better judgment she glanced through the pages. She let out a quiet gasp. They were going to harvest a woman’s baby for some awful genetic cloning experiment.
Nancy read as much as she deemed safe and committed two names to memory: Shanda Kerwin-Knight and Erik Knight.
Nancy knew that her boss had been studying Erik Knight, a Special Ops Cleaner working through the CIA. Knight was sent to search and destroy when all other methods of espionage had been exhausted. She gathered that Knight’s wife was part of some classified experiment. She closed the file and listened for any noise before returning to her own desk.
She only wanted the money to put her kids through college and possibly to add to her retirement funds. She knew that Michael would continue his work no matter what; that’s just who he was. He had the tenacity to dig and dig until he pissed off just about everybody. Perhaps she was even doing him a favor; if he could be derailed before he got much too close to whatever it was he wasn’t supposed to find, he’d be able to keep his job.
Settling at her desk, she reached for her cell-phone. She hit the speed dial and the usual voice of granite answered.
She hesitated a moment then remembering her reasons for taking on this role she went ahead. “He’s looking into Operation Homegrown. You wanted to be contacted if I discovered that,” she whispered.
The voice on the other end swore.
“What should I do?”
The voice ordered her to do nothing and say nothing more. She had completed her role. The conn
ection was cut abruptly.
The sound of the elevator door opening startled her. Michael Sparks had returned.
Sparks placed the hot drink on her desk. “Here ya go, kiddo. One mocha latte with whipped cream.” He rebalanced his coffee and a bag of pastries then entered his office whistling.
* * * *
Sparks was enjoying a fresh glazed donut when his scramble telephone line rang. The caller ID registered the word ‘classified.’ One of his sources was reporting.
“OSA, Sparks.”
Sparks listened intently to the voice on the other end. It confirmed what he had already suspected; Pendelcorp’s acquisitions were not legitimate. Their corporate purchases had been ram-rodded through the Senate Oversight Committee with none of the defense purchases submitted for a formal hearing or vote.
This was an indication that the Oversight Committee Chairman had been bought and paid for, and Sparks assumed that a number of senators on that particular committee were in on this scheme. He’d bet it was a bi-partisan cover-up because if the cover-up regarding Pendelcorp was only occurring in one political party, there would have been no way to keep it secret.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked his source. “You have proof?”
The voice on the other end was adamant. In twenty years, this source had never been wrong.
“I knew I could count on you.” Sparks felt good but wanted the proof in his hands before the day was out. “We’ll meet in the usual place for the pickup—”
The mole interrupted him. “-This isn’t the first time we’ve done business. It will cause me to bounce a few checks but it’s well worth it.”
Sparks hung up the phone and opened his intercom.
“Nancy, I need you for a second.”
* * * *
Nancy Bertoni instantly observed the excitement in her normally calm boss.
“We got the bastards, Nancy. We got them, you and me.” He grabbed her shoulders with genuine warmth and friendship. “Those contracts, they were the key. I’ll see that you get credit for the callers too.”
