Patriot Act

by James Phelan

  The SSB agent was silent.

  “Unfortunately I’m not what you would consider a patient man,” the agent said. He held up a picture of the German’s wife and children, taken from the mantel in his house. Showing him had the desired effect, until a last wave of defiance came over him.

  “Fuck you!”

  Again the SSB agent was silent. He turned the photo to look at them, let himself linger over the image.

  “Tell me what you know,” the SSB agent said, putting the photo in his top pocket. “LeCercle. A coup in France. Sianne Cassel.”

  The German’s jaw tensed closed, a sure sign he was attempting to hold out for longer. We’ll see how long, the agent thought, opening the toolbox.

  “Every minute from—” he checked his watch “—now,” he said, bringing up a big set of bolt-cutters, “I will remove one of your fingers.”

  “Ha,” the guy answered, spitting out more blood. “I could fuck you over. Do you know who I am? I have friends everywhere. A quarter of the guns in the Middle East are supplied by me. Me! I could have you killed in a second! Your whole fucking family!”

  The agent went on unperturbed. “It stops when you tell me the location and people involved.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Whatever. As I said, I’m impatient, so while we’re waiting I’m going to cut a finger off.” The agent walked forward, put the open jaws of the heavy cutters on the German’s immobile ring finger.

  “This first one will be sent to your wife, so that she can see your wedding band forever,” the agent said, smiling. “A memento.”

  The German smiled too, still not giving in to it.

  “Bullshit.”

  The cold steel bolt-cutters snapped closed. A finger hit the metal floor.

  “Arrrrgggggh!!!!!”

  “Up to you,” the agent said, checking his watch. As the guy quietened a little, panting, the agent went on. “This stops when you tell me what you know. A coup in France. Who’s involved? What’s their location?”

  Fifteen minutes later the agent hoisted up the steel door behind the German and dumped his unconscious body out into the dark night. The summer wind blew through the beech forest, the leaves sounding like a million little sails at sea.

  In the cabin of the truck he dialled a number on a satellite phone as another agent drove off into the night.

  “It’s real. Confirmed location is Fort Gaucher, and we have more names.”

  84

  WASHINGTON

  Kate looked at her suitcase on the bed. She had packed and unpacked it four times, and the first tears finally rolled down her cheeks. She sat on the edge of the bed and held her face in her hands, biting her lip and sucking up the emotions.

  She stood and wiped the tears from her eyes, taking in a deep breath. She pulled the suitcase onto the floor and pushed her folded clothes into it. There were far too many items, and she dragged the overflowing case into the bottom of her wardrobe and shut it away, the task far too final to do now.

  Walking into the en suite, she put the plug in the bath and turned on the taps. Soon, steam filled the room and she climbed in, welcoming the feeling of warm water on her skin. She just couldn’t do it. She’d get dressed, go to dinner, and tell him. Yes, she would definitely tell Secher that she needed time, that maybe they should try another way of selling his business rather than her stealing Cooper’s NSA access key … she should never have told him about it.

  She knew why Secher wanted it, and there was an irony in there that doing this would free them both. In that way, she understood why he needed to do it.

  Laying back in the bath, she closed her eyes and thought back to when they’d met, trying to pinpoint the time he’d suggested using the key to find a suitable buyer for his business. Strangely, she couldn’t remember when or where the conversation had taken place.

  85

  WASHINGTON

  Dunn left Fort Meade and sat in the back of his town car heading home. He’d travelled fifteen minutes before his long-serving driver spoke up.

  “Not feeling well, sir?”

  “Why do you say that?” Dunn asked. Did it show?

  “Just that it’s mid-afternoon, and I’ve never known you to leave work before dark,” the driver said.

  That was true enough, thought Dunn, as he looked out the window at the school traffic on his way to Annapolis.

  “I’m fine,” he said. He stared down at the briefcase on the seat next to him, resting his hand on it. “I have some things to do from home today. And I’ll get you to pick me up late tomorrow. I have to be on the Hill at two o’clock.”

  86

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  The Security Council had assembled in the Situation Room and had finished being debriefed by McCorkell on last night’s events. They had been in an almost congratulatory mood, given the way events had unfolded, when the bombshell landed among them.

  “The Force Océanique Stratégique…” Vanzet repeated as they listened to the French President’s words in disbelief.

  McCorkell shared a look with Vanzet and Larter that the President picked up on, and he pressed the mute button on the speaker telephone in front of him.

  “Gentlemen?” he asked.

  “The Strategic Ocean Force is France’s fleet of boomers,” McCorkell said. “Nuclear-powered ballistic-missile subs.”

  “A force,” said Vanzet, “of four Le Triomphant class SSBNs, each armed with sixteen M51 missiles. That’s ninety-six targetable warheads per boat, at over 110 kilotons a pop.”

  McCorkell looked the President in the eye.

  “Mr President, they have to find that sub, no ifs or buts,” McCorkell said. “We asked the French President of the status of his navy assets last night, and he flat-out lied.”

  The President flicked the mute switch to speak to the French President again.

  “Mr President,” he said slowly. “Do you mean to tell me that you have lost communication with and the location of a ballistic-missile submarine?”

  “Correct,” the French President said, audibly shaken by the unfolding events.

  “And the rest of the fleet is accounted for?” Vanzet asked.

  “Yes. We have confirmation of the other three submarines. One is docked in the Maldives. Two are on the naval exercise in the South Pacific.”

  “What was its last known location?” McCorkell asked. The Situation Room in the White House was a tomb of silence. Every pair of eyes at the table stared at the small speaker phones lined out before them.

  “The last location was as of nine hours ago, when they received a message from Naval Command,” the French President’s voice rang out over the speaker phone. “Located in the Atlantic Ocean, three hundred kilometres from your coast. Heading west.”

  87

  ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND

  Dunn shut all the blinds in his study at home and sat behind his desk, flicking on his banker’s lamp. He reached into his cupboard under the desk and pulled out a bottle of bourbon, pouring a tumbler full. He had a sip and savoured the taste, that first moment his senses said hello to the familiar liquid.

  Leaning up against the wall opposite him sat the framed flag from the Liberty. He looked at it, his reflection staring back at him in the glass. He saw an old man with too little left to give. A drive that was diminishing with every day that his job sucked from his body. A life that he’d long ago given up to his country, putting every waking moment into his career. The photos along the picture rail stared down at him from the shadows. He knew the faces that were on them, those young men depicted in black and white posterity, capturing a moment and mood that was indifferent to the fears of the young men in uniform today of the world around them. They had been nation-builders back then, continuing to forge the greatness of the century that was theirs, building upon the generations that had gone before them through two almighty wars. They stood on the shoulders of giants in a time that lent
itself to the possibilities of immortality. They’d landed on the moon, for Christ’s sake. Where have we gone since?

  Dunn put down his glass and poured another four fingers. He opened his drawer and considered a cigar. He pondered over the humidor, looking without noticing. He removed a parcel and put it on the leather-topped desk. He unwrapped the white handkerchief to reveal a Colt service automatic. The weight of it felt good in his hand, and he remembered his dad teaching him to shoot that summer so long ago in the White Mountains of Arizona.

  He drained his glass and looked again at the flag, staring into the burned and tattered stars and stripes …

  8 June 1967

  Lieutenant Ira Dunn laid on the aft platform of the Liberty soaking up the Mediterranean sun.

  “Pass me the half-inch,” Dunn said.

  Boatswain’s Mate Greg Clarke did so, staring up at the twelve-foot moonbounce dish.

  “How’s this thing work, sir?” Clarke asked in his own slow southern fashion.

  “It’s—what’s that?” Dunn sat up, and looked out to sea on the portside. Three big torpedo boats were closing in fast on their unarmed American vessel. Instinctively, he looked up to be sure the American ensign was flying at full mast. It was, and he knew they were well inside international waters.

  “It’s okay, looks like the Israelis,” Clarke said. He waved in their direction.

  Dunn didn’t hear anything, but felt the young sailor’s blood splatter across his face as his head exploded. He didn’t flinch as he watched the torpedoes streaking in at them. He couldn’t hear or do anything.

  88

  WASHINGTON

  Secher and Kate sat at a secluded table in the Citronelle restaurant in Georgetown. It was packed, the second sitting for the evening picking up the late working crowd of mainly political powerbrokers. Kate could not decide on what to order, so Secher ordered them a full degustation menu, and their second entrée arrived, a soft-shelled crab with accompanying champagne.

  “I like your hair,” Kate said, taking a sip of Veuve Clicquot. “Dark hair suits you.”

  Secher touched his hair, a bit of feigned self-consciousness.

  “How do you Americans say? A change is as good as a holiday?” Secher said with a smile, and he noticed she tensed her shoulders, traded looking at him to staring at her glass. He took a sip of his champagne as he watched her mind ticking over. He could see the conflict in her as clearly as he read all her emotions. Secher leaned across the table and took her hand in his, noting her palm was sweaty. She was vulnerable. Pliable. He felt her pulse quicken.

  “I know you have been through a lot this week,” Secher said. He gave her his fawning look. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you. But that will change. From tomorrow night, I will always be there for you.”

  She softened a little. Her hand relaxed. Pulse settled.

  “We are going to have a beautiful life, you and I,” Secher said, topping up their glasses. “We are going to sail the world, we’re going to get away from everything that controls us and live our own lives. Isn’t that what you want?”

  She had tears in her eyes, which she wiped away with her other hand. She sniffled, nodded.

  He wiped another tear off her cheek. Smiled warmly, held his hand on the side of her face and turned her gaze up to face his.

  “What is it?” Secher asked.

  Kate couldn’t look him in the eyes. “My parents…”

  “You’ll see them again soon enough, we don’t have to be away forever,” he said as endearingly as possible. “You are the one who said you wanted to get away for a while, remember?”

  “My apartment…” she said, nodding her head in thought of all that she would be leaving behind. Secher could see that it was more than just real estate binding her here.

  “Sell it. Rent it out, whatever,” he said. “We’ll organise it when we land in Malta, before we set sail. We will have the money to make these problems go away. If you ever want to visit home, just jump on a plane.”

  Kate continued to stare at her glass, watching the bubbles as they rose and popped on the surface, escaping into the air.

  “My work…” she said. “I don’t know if—”

  “Kate. Twenty million Euros,” Secher said, the number putting a gleam in his eye. “That is how much I can sell my business for, if only you can get access to that key you have spoken about.”

  Kate had a sip of champagne, scratching her neck.

  “You will pick up the key tomorrow as planned,” Secher said. “We will use it, find a buyer who’s willing to pay the right price, and hey presto—we put the business in their laps and take the money. Everyone wins.”

  “I’ve been thinking—” Kate stopped mid-sentence. Looked down at the large envelope Secher put on the table in front of her.

  “What’s this?” she asked, a smile forming. Secher had surprised her with something the last time they’d met, a map with highlighted locations dotted around the Mediterranean where they would sail, brochures for diving in French Polynesia, a cabin over the water they’d rent in the Maldives.

  “Take a look. Perhaps this is your hesitation?” Secher said, taking another sip as Kate opened the envelope and removed a stack of paper and photographs.

  She stared wide-eyed, dropping the file on her side plate in shock. She looked up at Secher and caught a glimpse of iciness in his eyes before he turned on a calming presence. He reached an arm across the table and again took her hand in his.

  “Kate, my dear. Those photos of you with that man, Lachlan Fox.”

  “I—I can explain,” Kate said, her hand tense in his. Pulse almost too fast to count.

  “There’s no need, it is me who needs to explain,” Secher said, having a sip of champagne for dramatic effect. He watched as her eyes fell on the photos of her entering her parents’ building with Fox on that first day back in New York.

  “Kate, after that terrible attack on you in St Petersburg, I have worried about you, your safety,” Secher said as he stared into her eyes. “As I cannot yet be by your side, I hired a security firm in New York to watch you, to protect you from a distance.”

  Kate turned her head slightly to the side, as she did when she was considering new information.

  “In the process of their job, they investigated this man.” Secher tapped the photo of Fox with his arm on Kate’s back, leading her into her parents’ building. “He is investigating the Advocacy Center. He is investigating you.”

  Kate looked at the photos. Flicked them aside, started skimming the biographical info. A look of puzzlement appeared on her face as she turned the pages.

  “You must know he was in St Petersburg to investigate John Cooper,” Secher said, drawing her into conversation.

  “Yes, yes, I know that,” she replied, frowning as she read the pages in front of her.

  “You can see he has a military background. The thing is, he never left that job. Just changed countries, changed roles. He works for the US government, and it seems he may have had prior knowledge of the attack on Cooper,” Secher said. He held her hand a little tighter so that she looked up into his eyes.

  “Kate, my darling, that man works for the CIA,” Secher said smoothly. “They are in a power play to gain control of the Advocacy Center.”

  Secher could see his lie was being taken in. “Lachlan Fox is a spy. I’m sorry, but he is using you…”

  89

  NEW YORK CITY

  It was late and Fox was still in his office at GSR, elbow-deep in research. Without looking up he noticed someone enter. He knew it was Faith, knew her gait, her sound, her smell. She quietly shut the door behind her. He was deep in research, files everywhere, background on everyone and everything involved with Cassel.

  “Team’s in the air from Greenland, it’ll take them about twenty hours to get back, stopping over in Canada to cover their flight plans,” Faith said.

  “
Okay, thanks,” Fox answered. He read the open file in front of him but felt himself being distracted, right when he didn’t want it.

  Faith walked up to his desk.

  “You missed your session with the psych today,” she said. He could feel her watching him read. Could smell her perfume, freshly sprayed.

  “Huh?” Fox was deep in thought, pen in mouth.

  “Dr Bender, she booked you an extra session at twelve o’clock today, she was quite worried…”

  “Oh. Funny thing,” Fox said. “I kinda feel better about things now. Been sleeping easier.”

  “What, you’re fixed all of a sudden?” Faith sat on the corner of his desk, her pencil skirt sliding up her long, crossed legs revealing through the split the pale skin above her stockings. “I don’t have a doctorate in psychology, but I don’t think post-traumatic stress disorder ups and leaves overnight.”

  Fox didn’t answer but he knew he had lost in his battle of wills to ignore her.

  “What is it—perhaps this woman you’re seeing?” Faith asked.

  Fox looked up at her, the long legs on his desk. It was late, near midnight, and her shirt buttons were undone low. She’d done that before entering his office. A new coat of lipstick flashed bright red, matching her locks of hair falling over her shoulders.

  “She’s sweetened your dreams?”

  Fox looked away. Faith put a hand on his face, turned it towards her.

  “You know I would have done that for you a long time ago,” she said. “You know my door’s always open.”

  Again, Fox didn’t respond. He turned back to the file.

  “You’re like the Times cryptic sometimes,” Faith said through a smile.