by James Phelan
It’s like warring mob clans. But why? What’s to gain?
Fox scanned his eye on the optical identification pad by the door and jogged the hall to his office, hanging his bike on the wall and plugging in his notebook computer.
It was 6 am and the office floor was deserted. He took his change of clothes from his pack and made for the bathroom.
At 9 am every Monday morning, Managing Director Tasman Wallace held a meeting in the briefing room with his senior investigative journalist team. They first went through the top news items from around the globe, each member collating stories in their respective fields of expertise for their teams to chase up.
Fox noted down the latest reports coming out of Iraq and replayed what his guy on the ground in Baghdad had sent through to him overnight.
“CNN’s crew is stuck out of the city for forty-eight hours, think you can get them some coverage of the next parliamentary press conference?” Wallace asked.
“Yep, Ray Cassin is on station in the Green Zone, he’s done plenty of TV work, I’ll have him get a crew ready,” Fox replied.
“Good,” Wallace said, sitting back down after refilling his tea from the side table.
For the next fifteen minutes, Fox listened as the other eight bureau heads went through their latest work. Every day was school for Fox, as he watched and listened as eight of the smartest reporters in the world, each hand-picked by Wallace for their tenacity to bring their chosen field to the light of day, went through some of the most up-to-date investigative reporting to be found anywhere.
The last few minutes were taken by the Chief of Staff, Faith Williams.
“I need everyone’s quarterly budgets and team expenses in by the end of the week,” Faith said, to predictable groans all around.
“Come on now,” she jibed, to precede her oft-heard spiel. “GSR is renowned for spending more time and money on investigative stories than any other news source on the planet—and your diligence in managing your financial affairs is what keeps us afloat.”
“And I thought it was our brilliant reporting skills that kept the electricity on,” Fox said with a smile.
Faith stared back, her green eyes turning mischievous.
“Well, Mr Fox, I’m happy to share with the others in the room that your department is breaking records when it comes to expense accounts,” Faith said as she looked down to check her figures. “Your costs are up around forty per cent on your predecessor for this time last year.”
“War is an expensive undertaking,” Fox retorted good-naturedly. “You’ve got to spend money to make money.”
The room laughed as one, as they all knew too well that the world was increasingly a hostile place. They also knew that the stories Fox was filing and coordinating were the most lucrative in the building. Media outlets, and ultimately the viewing, reading and listening public the world over, had an insatiable appetite for news from the frontline.
“Okay, people,” Wallace said. “Go find the truth.”
After his usual sign-off, the reporters filed out. Fox waited to be the last to leave with Wallace and Faith.
“Lachlan, how was Africa?” Wallace asked as they walked to his office. On the other side of his fifties, Wallace looked paternally at Fox from under bushy white eyebrows—he was always relieved to see staff return safely from an assignment, particularly from a trouble spot.
“Miserable,” Fox replied, making way for Faith to precede him into Wallace’s office.
“You look like you’ve fallen asleep on a sun-bed,” Faith said.
Fox checked his reflection in Wallace’s mirror-backed bar. He was deeply tanned to the point of having skin peeling from his nose and cheeks.
“I’ve got a good few weeks’ worth of leads to chase up, on top of this month’s Middle East load. Gammaldi is briefing a research team for me right now,” Fox said, taking a seat across the desk from his boss. “In a nutshell, our reports will be enough to put Mugabe and his cohorts on trial in The Hague, and that’s just a start.”
“About bloody time that bastard was out. The sooner that continent gets rid of the old guard, things will be that much easier to fix,” Wallace said.
Fox nodded absently, thinking over the events that were coming together, slowly connecting the dots that were the European killings.
“You look like you had a tough time over there,” Wallace said. “Make sure you see the med team and have them check you over and design a program for you—I can’t be having you go soft on me.” Wallace’s concern was more that of a friend than employer.
“Yeah, too much sun and not enough food,” Fox said. “Amazing what most of Africa does for the appetite—if they ever went into the business of tourists coming for health retreats, they could make a killing.”
“Rather than just killing their own,” Wallace said.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Fox replied.
“The UN is making some progress?”
“The UN is about as useful in Africa as the rest of the world,” Fox said, putting his folders on Wallace’s desk. “I guess that’s unfair, the UN ground-staff are trying their best to make a difference. But the problems in Africa, while so simple, are on such a massive scale…”
The three sat in the office for a moment in silence.
“While over there I got wind of a couple of CIA camps in the Sudan,” Fox said. “Until six months ago they were used as terrorist training camps, set in forts originally built by the British in the nineteenth century.”
“What’s the CIA doing with them?” Wallace asked, sipping tea as he paced his wood-panelled office. The streetscape of Manhattan was alive below as the morning sun streamed in through the tinted glass.
“My guy says they have some interrogation centres set up there, transit points for Extraordinary Rendition,” Fox said, referring to the politically spun euphemism for Americans moving people around the globe into countries with far less human rights concerns. “Basically they’re black-op camps away from any press, so naturally I’m interested. I’m planning to go in and check it out in a couple of weeks.”
“I thought you were going back to Africa in a few days?”
Fox leaned forward and opened the top folder, passing over the material he had been given at the bar the night before.
“I have to look into something else,” Fox said as Wallace scanned the folder, marked simply: ‘The groups that control the world.’
“What, is this your novel outline about the Knights Templar or something?” Wallace asked with a crooked smile until he registered the seriousness on Fox’s face.
“Tas—this is regarding something I’ve been working on for a couple of months. It started with my article in the New York Times that linked deaths of dead European leaders. It’s part of something that’s going to blow up in some important faces real soon.”
“What is this list—looks like a Washington powerbroker’s phone book.” Wallace flipped through the first few pages, taking his time as he went. He stopped about midway.
“What’s up with these people? Some of these names are untouchable—I mean if you’ve got anything incriminating them it’s gotta be solid, you’ll have to run it past me and legal…” Wallace trailed off, his eyes went wider and wider as he continued through the list.
“They’re not party specific…” Faith said, getting up to read over Wallace’s shoulder. “Lachlan—what does this mean?”
Fox looked at Wallace, not sure where to even begin.
“In a nutshell, it’s…” Fox began. “No, wait. I’ll go back a step.”
Fox dragged his chair closer to Wallace’s desk, as if fearing being overheard in the office.
“Last night I was given a lead that ties in on this story,” Fox said. “Transcripts of chatter among right-wing groups in Europe. Nothing specifically targeted by the NSA, but picked up by them through their following of economic angles. Many of these guys head up the biggest continental businesses.
”
“I’m not sure I’m following…” Wallace said.
“Last night I received that from my NSA source.” Fox pointed at the stack of paper in Wallace’s hands. “A complete list of every attendee of the groups I’ve been writing about.”
Fox passed over another stack of printed paper.
“And these are the transcripts,” he said. “They’re of phone and email conversations that I have had in this investigation.”
“Why would he give you these?”
“Proof of authenticity,” Fox said. “They’re legit. I made those calls, I typed those emails.”
“So we assume the rest is legit too,” Faith said. “So what’s going on?”
“I’m working on an answer to that,” Fox said. “But what I finally have now is a list of surviving attendees of the Bilderberg Group.” Fox again pointed to the papers in Wallace’s hands.
Wallace flicked to the last page and scanned upwards:
Wallace, Tasman, Director GSR.
“I attended a meeting in ’94,” Wallace said.
“I know, but look at this.” Fox leaned over and flipped through the pages Wallace was looking at.
“This,” Fox said, tapping the page, “is the list of the last annual meeting of LeCercle, held in Nice two months ago.”
“They’re basically the right-wing equivalent of the Bilderberg Group?” Wallace said.
“Yes, it’s as right-wing as they come, and like Bilderberg they are made up of the world’s powerful elite. Leaders of business, government, the military.” Fox paused. “Big difference is, LeCercle is totally Eurocentric, rather than having the Bilderberg’s purpose of bringing the US and Europe together. That article I filed a couple of weeks ago opened the flood-gates; I had to sort through a million and one conspiracy emails in my inbox this morning.”
“And I thought you were clutching at straws on this group connection,” Wallace said. “Your source is trustworthy?”
“Tight as. Ex-NSA, now on the outer for calling attention to domestic spying, similar to the much-publicised case in Britain’s GCHQ when they blew the lid on spying on the UN delegates.”
“What if he’s got a grudge against his former employer?” Wallace said. “It may compromise what he’s feeding you.”
Fox spread out the pages of the transcripts on Wallace’s desk.
“He may well have a grudge, but he’s got the goods. These are the raw transcripts of NSA phone and email intercepts,” Fox said. “The first couple are from inside the UN headquarters, between Security Council members and their governments during the lead-up to the Iraq war.”
“What’s the significance of that, the story broke years ago,” Wallace said, reading over the calls that the delegates thought were secure conversations at the time.
“Further proof of authenticity, like evidence of a proof of life. It was a big story at the time, and this shows that my source is genuine. Next up, these,” Fox said, handing over several pages.
“They’re eavesdropping on your whole team?” Faith asked, reading the transcripts of Fox’s investigation phone calls on the dead Euro leaders. Calls to their businesses, the police agencies involved in the investigations, and journalists who covered the events in their own backyards.
“Yep. My communications, the research department’s, my people in the field,” Fox said.
“So we’ve now got the NSA spying within the US,” Faith said. “Not that we didn’t suspect it was going on, but this is proof.”
“They could deny these are genuine,” Wallace said. “Or say that it came up as the communications were between US parties and overseas persons of interest. The Patriot Act covers them for that.”
“Going public with this will force their hand,” Fox said. “Make them comment, make others look closer at what they’re doing.”
“But you’re not planning on doing that…” Faith said, watching Fox closely.
“Not yet,” Fox replied as he met her gaze. She knew how to read him almost too well. “First I want to know the why. I think that this spying on me is proof that these hits in Europe are part of something bigger. You don’t take out such high-profile targets, particularly in such quick succession, without something big going down.”
“Hmm…” Wallace stacked all the papers in front of him into a neat pile. “You do realise that you’re the only one to be linking these deaths. Interpol, Europol, Scotland Yard, none of the Euro agencies are banging this drum.”
“That’s why I’m on your staff,” Fox said, getting a grin from the old man. Fox tapped the list of the group’s attendees. “Look, Tas, I can taste it now. This is the tip of the iceberg. And it’s enough to have this NSA guy put his neck out and start running for his life.”
“Who are these names you’ve got highlighted?” Faith picked up on the six names, the six same names, who were highlighted on each list.
“Those were six members who have also attended a Bilderberg conference in the past.” Fox cleared his throat. “The five I wrote about in that Times article, and a sixth who was killed last weekend. All up, there were seven attendees out of the 126 who attended the last LeCercle meeting who had also attended a Bilderberg conference in the past.”
“And this one you’ve circled—John Cooper, Senior Partner at Cooper and Patterson in Washington?” Faith asked.
“He’s the seventh.”
Wallace looked at Fox, getting the point.
“He is the only surviving Bilderberg member who attended that conference in Nice.” Fox looked from Faith to Wallace. “Cooper’s time is ticking.”
Half an hour later, Fox and Gammaldi were riding in the back of a GSR car, heading to JFK airport.
Fox tapped his fingers on the windowsill, not in tune to the top forty song blaring loudly over the radio at Gammaldi’s request, but for the adrenalin running through him.
“This John Cooper guy’s in Russia?” Gammaldi said, rifling through the contents of his carry-on bag.
“Just got there, a trade conference in St Petersburg tomorrow,” Fox said. “He’s giving us some time for a chat tonight.”
“What if he’s targeted over there?” Gammaldi asked, pulling a packet of M&Ms from his bag.
“We’ve got the warning through,” Fox said, taking a few of the offered chocolates. “He’s got extra protection. Hopefully, it’s enough.”
4
RUSSIA
The black Citroën C5 waited at the border while the two French DGSE agents handed over their passports.
“Returning from Poland?” the border guard said, inspecting their visas. Another guard walked an Alsatian around the car, the big dog pulling on his chain, sniffing, checking, eager to find something.
“Would have been a good trip, if we didn’t have to come back through Belarus,” the agent behind the wheel replied in Moscow-accented Russian. “Full of pigs.”
“And ugly women,” the other agent said from the passenger seat.
The guard grunted and handed back the passports. He took a close look at their registration, not picking up on the French forgery of Russian officialdom.
“We have nothing to declare, but for some American porn,” the other agent said loudly, passing over a DVD. “For you, comrade.”
The guard laughed and took the DVD, waving them through.
The agent looked into his rear-view mirror as he got up to speed, pocketing his fake passport.
“Fucking Russians,” he said, in his native French. “Maybe we can take a few days rest on the Black Sea after this final hit. Our Euros go far over here.”
“Hmph,” the other agent grunted, opening his briefcase and removing a thin file.
A series of photos were in there, and he looked at them for the tenth time. John Cooper’s image and biography were seared in his memory.
“Russians,” he said. “Almost as bad as Americans.”
5
NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY H
EADQUARTERS,
FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
Ira Dunn wore his marine dress uniform with his test pattern of service ribbons pushing out from his barrel chest. He strode in his mirror-finish patent leathers through the halls of Foggy Bottom like he owned them. Hell, the guy practically did, certainly more so than anyone else on the planet.
“Why do they call it Foggy Bottom?” the computer contractor asked his military minder.
Dunn considered the pair of them standing behind him in the elevator. He’d been young and full of questions once too.
“Foggy Bottom is the affectionate, yet deservedly unfortunate, name we gave this HQ,” the young officer replied. “As you’ll find out if you start work early enough, this here basin in Virginia is often fog-filled. Officially we’re designated as Fort Meade.”
“What’s with the black glass façade of this building, is it just to look ominous?”
“It has the reflective qualities of mirrored sunglasses. It’s part of a security system known as Tempest. The windowpanes are triple-glazed, each space between the panes has a pocket of air in-between and a current buzzing through the specially made glass. Different levels and combinations of steel in the glass further add density. Put simply, this building is a vault. No sound waves get in. More importantly, nothing gets out. It’s kind of a motto around here. That, and the other expanded meaning of NSA being ‘Never Say Anything.’”
The elevator chimed and the pair got out, Dunn waiting alone in the lift as it went up another level to the executive floor.
The scale of the operation he was a part of no longer impressed him like it did that starry-eyed visitor. While people the world over had heard of the CIA, until recently few were aware of the United States’ largest intelligence agency. Unlike its more famous cousin, which was primarily charged with operating human intelligence, or HUMINT, NSA was in the communications intelligence, or COMINT, business. Employing more mathematicians than any other organisation in the world, and housing the most supercomputers on the planet, it was an expensive ship to run. Dunn’s section of the NSA was charged with two primary missions: to intercept foreign communications, and to secure US communications. Code-breaking and code-making. Unveiling and veiling.
