Patriot Act

by James Phelan

  “Admiral, I don’t think this is the time or the place—”

  “I was on the USS Libertywhen the Israeli Defence Force shot us up all day—”

  He was interrupted again. “Let’s not forget it was your department that intercepted the calls of the September eleventh terrorists prior to the attacks. Why don’t we explore what you have done since to ensure that can never happen again.”

  “It’s people like you who think eighty thousand US soldiers in South Korea are the defence of this nation. It’s people like you—” Dunn pointed at the entire panel. He’d reached the point of no return, and was going to go out with a bang, “—who believe that if we have a quarter of a million boots on the ground in the Middle East you will be able to drive your SUVs for another fifty years. You think that’swhere the walls should be. You want to make that the central front on terror, yet you don’t have the capacity to realise the work that goes on by the quiet Americans like me.”

  “Colonel Dunn!” This from the minority leader. “I sympathise with what you are saying, and I know of that frontline of which you speak—my son’s serving in Afghanistan right now. What we need to ascertain here today is the scope of operations your section has been conducting and whether that is outside the legal framework of the Patriot Act.”

  “The Patriot Act?” Dunn leaned forward on the desk. “That Godforsaken shit rag you passed overnight is a ream of bullshit. You think terrorist cells have oversight committees? You think al Qaeda has to waste time getting a court order to park a bomb in the car park at your kids’ school? To send anthrax to your office?”

  “There’s provision to go to the FISA court after the—”

  “There is no ‘after,’ this is fluid, this is constant,” Dunn said. “We are engaged in asymmetrical warfare at its most simple, its most ruthless.”

  “I think we’ve heard enough for today, Colonel, perhaps we’ll pick this up tomorrow when you have thought about your answers,” the chairwoman said. “I’m offering you that lifeline, Colonel, and I suggest you take it.”

  “I’ll answer the question,” Dunn said, not the least bit concerned about shooting his mouth off. “The work we do saves more lives than you will ever know.”

  “Does your office intercept local traffic?” the minority leader asked. “Local calls, emails, faxes within the US?”

  “There is no local, there is no boundary,” Dunn said. “Communications and information travel and develop faster than you can ever pass laws. You send an email down the hall, it bounces to Canada and back first. Do we intercept? You bet your ass we do.”

  “So you are confirming that the NSA currently intercepts domestic communications intelligence?”

  “You could not fathom what we do on a daily basis,” Dunn said.

  “We need to know.”

  “You need to do your jobs and I need to do mine.” Dunn banged his fist down on the table in front of him and bit his lip to regain some composure. The silence in the room was palpable and Dunn grabbed it.

  “There are more hostiles wanting to bring down this nation than you could possibly imagine. We at the NSA are thefront-line. Forget intercepting illegal immigration, drug trafficking and terrorist attacks for a minute. We have more foreign ownership of our companies and land than any other country on this earth. We have more threats to our nationhood than the countries and entities that are pitted against us combined. We are knee-deep in the beginning of a century where we are destined to become a second-rate power in the world. The very ideas and ideals that make up this nation are eroding fast and being torn down from within as much as from outside.”

  “So you are confirming, Colonel Dunn,” the grey-haired Senate minority leader said slowly, “that your directorate of the NSA deliberately targets US citizens, within the country?”

  “You have no idea of the enormity of what I do for this country.” Dunn’s hands were fists, his knuckles white. “When information is power, I hold that power. For America. You understand that concept: America? Or are you too busy worrying about bringing the troops home in time for your next election. Too worried about which component of the Joint Strike Fighter will be built in your backyard.”

  The panel shifted in their seats.

  “I think it’s un-American to suggest—”

  “Un-American!” Dunn snorted. “Abraham Lincoln used to say that the test of one’s Americanism was not one’s family tree; the test was how much they believed in America. Because we’re like a religion, really. A secular religion. We believe in ideas and ideals. We’re not one race, we’re many; we’re not one ethnic group, we’re everyone; we don’t speak only one language, we’re all of these people. We’re tied together in our belief of political democracy, in religious freedom, in capitalism, a free economy where people make their own choices about the spending of their money. We’re tied together because we respect human life, and because we respect the rule of law. Those are the ideas that make us Americans.”

  “It’s the particular rule of law that we are questioning here today, Colonel. If you suspect a US target of terrorism, then your course of action is to apply to the FISA court to obtain the appropriate warrant.”

  Dunn was silent.

  “Colonel?”

  “How do I ask a court for warrants to track the thousands of criminals tearing apart this country that I’ve helped build. Criminals who openly break laws that they so righteously defend in public? Criminals who make the laws?”

  “What are you talking about, Mr Dunn?” the grey-haired senator asked, shifting in his seat.

  “How do I tell the court I need a warrant to listen in to your phone calls to the VP at Raytheon regarding the fifty grand a month they deposit into your Cayman account?”

  The senator went as pale as a ghost. He sat back in his chair, his colleagues looking at him. Sweat dotted his forehead.

  “How do I tell the FISA court that White House staffers are raising political funds from government offices. That extortions and bribes are rife in this country. I don’t go looking for these criminals, they pop up in the system. I don’t commit the crimes in this country, my dear representatives. I protect this country, inside and out.”

  CIA Director Boxcell listened to every word spoken.

  He sat with a CIA technician in a cubby-hole office in the Capitol Building, listening to the discussion, picked up on by a tiny bug planted in the room.

  “He’s hung himself out to dry,” Boxcell said, over the small speakers on the technician’s laptop computer. A smile crept over his face.

  111

  AIR FORCE ONE

  Air Force One flew at cruising altitude, a pair of F-22 fighter aircraft flying ahead with another off each wingtip. The main level of the big Boeing 747–200B was full of the White House senior staff, most of the Security Council, their aides and twenty members of the US Secret Service. While through the use of aerial refuelling the aircraft was equipped to stay in the air for two weeks, they were headed for Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana.

  “Are you certain?” Vanzet said into the phone. “Okay, thanks.”

  “Waiting on confirm from the Coast Guard,” Vanzet said. “But they think they’ve found the sub, tracking westbound within twenty klicks of New York City.”

  “That’s it, it has to be a drop or a pick-up,” McCorkell said.

  “What have we got on hand in NYC?” the President asked.

  “ASW helos with SEAL support teams, and a Tico-class missile cruiser steaming south from Boston,” Vanzet said. “If this is her, we’ll rock the house good.”

  112

  NEW YORK CITY

  Secher went to the car-hire desk at La Guardia airport using his Winston Smith ID, and retrieved the keys left for him the day before by his agent.

  “Here are the keys, Mr Smith, your colleague left the vehicle in this parking bay.” The clerk handed over a printed diagram of the car park with a space highlighted in the far
corner.

  When he got to the car he popped the boot, and was glad to see that the last useful thing his New York agent had done had gone to plan. He took out the long duffle bag and threw it through the open driver’s side door onto the passenger seat.

  He waited until he was out of the airport lot and away from its CCTV cameras, settling into the afternoon traffic on the Grand Central Parkway, before opening the bag. A hardened steel case was on top of two wetsuits. He flicked the combination and revealed the Sig Pro 9 mm pistol with suppressor and two loaded magazines inside.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting you, Lachlan Fox.”

  113

  WASHINGTON

  Kate walked from the cab to the corporate jet terminal at Dulles and was met by a flight attendant bearing her name on a card.

  “Welcome to NetJet Airways, ma’am,” the flight attendant greeted her and took her bags. They walked through the small terminal to the waiting Gulfstream 200 parked in close.

  “Thank you,” Kate said, as she was shown up the steps into the plush nine-seater corporate jet. An ice bucket held a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a bunch of yellow tulips were awaiting her, with a note from Secher. “Relax and Enjoy.” She took a seat and buckled in, and double-checked the NSA key was secure in her purse. To think that tiny little thing once connected to any computer via a firewire port would access information to facilitate the sale of Christian’s business. She smiled and reached for the champagne.

  114

  NEW YORK CITY

  “I’m on East 52nd, I can see your car ahead,” Secher said, pulling into a loading-zone park. “I will take it from here. Thank you for your efforts, I will inform the Consul General of your dedication.”

  “Thank you, Major,” the consular officer said, all too happy to be rid of the assignment. He put his Toyota into gear and drove into the evening traffic leaving Manhattan.

  Secher called another number and hung up. While he waited for his cell to ring back, he screwed the long suppressor onto the end of the Sig Pro pistol, the action hidden from view under the steering column. His phone rang and he answered it one-handed.

  “General,” Secher said with a big smile.

  “Christian,” Danton replied.

  “What, no more rank for me?” Secher asked. “I checked my account, thank you for the payday.”

  “Do you have the key?” Danton interrupted, audibly annoyed.

  “Almost,” Secher said, feeling the weight of his unloaded pistol in his hand. “Did you arrange for the pick-up to come in closer?”

  “Yes. It will be there at nine-twenty your time, at the ferry slip.”

  “Excellent. The key will be there. Goodbye, and good luck with your future.”

  Secher ended the call before Danton could retort. Really, he could not care less about the mission from the time he handed over the key. Yes, he would be proud to see France become the jewel in the Super EU’s crown. Yet jewels of his own were what he was looking forward to a lot more. Twenty million Euros bought a heck of a lot of luxury.

  He leaned the seat back and settled in, looking up at the towering bronze monolith of the Seagram Building, glowing in the setting sun that broke through the overcast conditions. He was prepared to wait in the car with the air-conditioning running until he had confirmation that the NetJet flight had arrived in New York with Kate. Then, it would be time to move on Fox.

  115

  US WATERS

  The Coast Guard had lost her.

  “She won’t be that way, I’m telling you,” the officer said. The sonarman continued to activate the net of buoys along their southernmost point.

  “I reckon he’s drifting, not making any noise.”

  “Doesn’t matter, we couldn’t hear him anyway,” the sonarman said, looking over a chart of the seafloor.

  “Where did you last see him?” the captain asked as he entered the room. He looked over the sonarman’s shoulder.

  “He was here; now he’s gone,” came the reply, the sonarman pointing to an area around the southern tip of Long Island. The captain scanned the chart, following the depths of the water.

  “Chart’s wrong,” the captain announced. “They dredged that section of the shipping channel last fall, it’s much deeper now.”

  The captain picked up the intercom to the bridge. They were back in the chase.

  116

  NEW YORK CITY

  Fox walked out of the Seagram Building and strode across the open granite plaza, brushing past the commuters ending their day at work. The sun was a bright orange that cut through the big-city haze to give New York the sort of light seen usually in Bruckheimer’s Miami. On the south-eastern horizon a dark bank of clouds was rolling in, beads of lightning crackling through the eerily still air. The humidity today had gone through the roof.

  Goldsmith walked by Fox’s side, scanning the crowd for threats. His Hawaiian shirt splayed out at his right hip where a Smith & Wesson .45 auto sat in a quick-release holster. A bumbag hanging at his front rode low with the weight of two spare mags and a police radio.

  “Here’s a cab,” Fox said, waving an arm.

  Seated in the hire car, Secher could see Fox struggling to wave down a taxi. He pulled back the slide to chamber a round into his pistol, flicking off the safety.

  Once the lights turned green, Secher stamped on the accelerator to get ahead of the traffic, and depressed the button to open his tinted window. Within ten metres of his target he brought the pistol up and sighted Fox, pulling the trigger repeatedly.

  Fox had walked along the sidewalk, arm up, turning to look in the other direction—

  He was pushed aside—

  Saw a glimpse of a man with a pistol from inside a grey Ford—

  A loud gunshot, close by—

  He hit the ground hard.

  Secher’s side airbag exploded into the cabin from the one shot the bodyguard got off. Through the action, Secher knew some of the rounds from his full clip of 9 mm ammo had found their mark on both Fox and the bodyguard.

  Fox did not hear the bullets firing from the silenced pistol.

  Rather, he felt them, felt the rounds pound into his travel bag, felt the bullet that passed through his left shoulder.

  Instinctively, he turned his head, and in the fraction of a second as he fell to the ground he saw the end of a silencer disappearing into the window of a speeding sedan.

  Through the darkened rear window, he saw the profile of the driver as he looked over his shoulder.

  He knewthe driver.

  And Fox knew where he was going.

  Secher again floored the accelerator, taking off into the traffic, sideswiping a courier van in the process, when his windscreen was shot through from ahead. He looked up in time to see a suited man, unmistakably a federal agent, standing ahead in a two-handed firing position, and he ducked under the cover of the dash and turned the wheel, feeling the impact as the car hit the man and he was thrown over the roof and onto the road behind.

  Secher sat back up, corrected the steering, and braked hard to avoid a head-on collision.

  Fox’s world was silent, devoid of all sensory stimuli for a few seconds. His vision returned, tunnelled at first, then back to full view. He looked up at the buildings that towered into the sky. A face came into view, mouthing words he couldn’t hear, and he went to get up to find a weight pinning him. Goldsmith had thrown himself on him. Fox lifted his head, tried to push him off, only his left arm was useless. He looked down at his shoulder, saw a stain of crimson spreading from a gunshot wound. Strange, no pain, although his head rang with the force of having hit the ground.

  Fox slid from under Goldsmith, who was fighting for breath as he’d taken at least two shots in his bullet-proof vest and one through the neck. The side of his face was splattered with blood that had erupted from the wound.

  A security guy from the Seagram Building foyer arrived on the scene, calling emer
gency services over his radio. Pedestrians formed a ring around them.

  Fox reached into his duffle bag, taking out his SOCOM pistol as he got up and scanned Park Avenue for the silver Ford—to see it disappearing as it turned onto East 57th Street.

  Fox stepped onto the road, people screaming in the background as they realised what was playing out in front of them. He pulled the gun up level with a cab that came to a screech in front of him.

  “Move over or get out!” Fox yelled at the stunned driver, who went from shock to utter bewilderment in under a second. He decided to move across to the passenger seat.

  Fox got behind the wheel and took off with a squeal of tyres and smoke.

  Roaring down East 54th Street, Fox raced through the red light of Madison Avenue without even blinking. Cars travelling through the intersection with the right of way skidded and swerved, smashing into one another as the cab hit forty-five miles per hour driving on the centre-line.

  “Gringo—you’re in some hurry,” said the driver.

  Two Japanese tourists in the back seat went pale as Fox pulled on the handbrake and sloughed sideways onto Fifth Avenue, knocking the rear wheel off a horse-drawn carriage in the process.

  “I have to save someone—” Fox said. He honked the horn and swerved between lanes. “Outta the way!”

  Fox stamped on the brakes as they came to Fifth Avenue, the cab screeching to a halt in a cloud of tyre and brake smoke. At best—breaking every road law on the journey—the Matthews’ place was a good twenty minutes away.