by Kenneth Eade
“What?”
“He just disappeared into thin air. Like a ghost. That’s how come I know it had to be Paladine.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Nathan Anderson got the alert a split second before it began appearing on computer monitors and television screens. The hashtag #Paladine was trending on Twitter, with scores of stories and even illustrations of what the alleged super hero might look like. ISIS was claiming their downed “soldier” and vowing revenge against all infidels.
Paladine posed a unique dilemma for Anderson. He was a problem, not because he was cleaning up the backyard sleeper cells, but because he was doing it without authority. It was the CIA who sent out assassins, and usually not in their own country. He wondered where this Paladine was getting his intel, and the first answer that was brought to mind made him sick at his stomach – from us! He’s getting it from us!
Anderson frankly thought that the NCTC could use an army of Paladines, but there was no authority for it in the law. If only they could just tick off the number ones, twos and threes on the watch list with a red check mark that stood for “dead terrorist” without having to mess with gathering evidence, courts and such. After all, we were at war, and like in any war, the rules had to be relaxed for the better good. But he’d be damned if he’d let a vigilante run around out there claiming all the credit and making them look stupid.
This Paladine was a professional, for sure. But was he an agency man? A retired employee from the company, or even worse, an agent gone rogue? Anderson got on a secure line to the head of the CIA. If this was the agency, then he sure as hell had better know about it.
***
As Robert sped away on his motorbike, he mentally moved $50,000 into the asset column on his balance sheet. Once the road turned into a monotonous and lifeless darkness, he pulled off the highway, onto a dirt road, and off into the desert. He stopped the cycle, withdrew the Ruger and wiped it clean. Then he dug an ample hole and buried it along with its silencer.
Robert mounted the bike and rode back to the highway. The mission was over and done. He had done a good job, but the adrenaline was building up in his head like a pressure cooker. He clamped down on the throttle and opened up the KLR650 to 100 miles per hour.
Robert was famished. His stomach was growling so loud it threatened to overpower the roar of the motor. He pulled over at an Outback Steakhouse in Kingman. He dismounted the bike, walked his rubber legs into the restaurant, and ordered a large bone-in rib eye medium rare. Robert feasted on the bloody meat like the carnivore he was. He pushed the plate away and waved for the waitress who asked if he needed anything else. Robert looked at the steak bone and said, “Yeah, could you please box this up for me?” He walked away from the meal with the bag tucked under his arm, sated and ready to complete the road trip.
When he got home, the dog had disappeared from his front porch, which was all the same to Robert. He chucked the doggy bag from Outback into the trash and forgot about the mangy mutt. But Robert was still pent up and not ready to sleep. He went out and took a membership at 24 Hour Fitness and went through a full routine of pull-ups, lifts and squats. Finally, the pent-up hormones in his blood had settled down and he went home. Robert took a quick shower and turned in. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow and lasted through the night without dreaming.
***
While Robert was in the sweet stages of slumber, the online world that never slept was conjuring up their versions of Paladine. He was a benevolent do-gooder, a super hero, an assassin, a government-created cyborg. The sketch of the police artist in Phoenix was copied from news report to news report, and went viral on social media. The “eyewitness” account videos by the metalheads on the scene painted the picture of a bigger-than-life paladin, a superman who waged a one-man war against terrorism. He was Jason Bourne, Batman without the costume.
When Robert woke up and swept the Net, he was overwhelmed with images and stories of valor of this non-existent Paladine. He chuckled to himself and shrugged it off. The Internet was a crazy place, especially for what they called “the news.” Almost none of it could be believed, so he didn’t. For Robert, the truth lay in the balance between life and death. He could feel the rise and fall of his chest and the thumping of his heart. Someday he wouldn’t. That was all that there was. No Nirvanah, no greener pastures, no god, just the here and the now. Life today, death tomorrow. He decided to throw a little fuel on the fire, and do some free marketing by hacking into a jihadist’s Twitter account and claiming responsibility for the hit as Paladine, making the hashtagged entry go viral.
After Robert left his apartment, he rapped on the manager’s door. The manager looked through the peep hole, grimaced, then opened the door.
“Good morning.”
“Yeah, whatever, hey, did you see what happened to that dog?”
The manager’s brows furrowed. “Dog? Oh, yeah, the dog catcher took him away yesterday.”
Robert fixed his eyes on the little ant-man. “I thought I told you not to call them.”
The manager practically kneeled in front of him. “I didn’t call them, man, I swear. They just came!”
“And you did nothing?”
“What could I do, man?”
Robert turned his back on the squid and headed for his bike. He clenched his fists in anger. He rode to the gym and went inside for another intensive routine. Robert changed into his shorts and tank top. In the free weight room, he loaded four fifty-pounders on the barbell, lay down on the bench and did 50. Then he did sets of alternating deadlifts and squats. Robert was building up a good sweat when he felt that someone was watching him. He used his peripheral vision as he was squatting and spotted her – Virginia from the DMV. When his eyes met hers, she instantly averted them. Robert walked over to her, smiling.
“I didn’t know it was your day off.”
She regarded him in a strange way, trying to keep her eyes off his massive biceps and shoulders.
“It’s Saturday.”
“Oh, yeah.” Robert felt stupid. In the rush of adrenaline and the expenditures that followed it, he had lost track of time and space. “Well, have a good workout.”
“You, too.”
Robert waved, turned and started to walk away.
“Hey!” She called out and he pivoted. “You want to grab a bite sometime?”
Robert looked at her, curiously. “A bite?” He approached her again.
“Are those real?” She grazed his biceps with her finger and her touch burned him with pleasure.
“Yep.” He flexed it and she covered her mouth with embarrassment. “What were you saying about a bite?”
“You know, a bite. Don’t you get hungry?”
Robert took the question literally. “Well, yeah, I get hungry.”
She laughed and Robert laughed contagiously. “How about lunch?”
Another thing Robert could not afford was ties. No dogs, no girls. But a little sexual recreation would be nice. Maybe Virginia, despite her name, would make a good fuck buddy.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Bryce Williamson was a dying man, but he was getting his last wish. He knew that the rumors of Paladine striking again meant that Robert was on the job. As he was watching the videos of “eye-witnesses” on TV describing their version of the super hero whom he knew to be no more than a super-assassin, he began to laugh. He stopped laughing when he had coughed up a good amount of blood in his hanky, another reminder that his days, and perhaps even his hours, were limited. It was time to automate the Paladine operation.
Bryce called his attorney and instructed him to draft a codicil to his will, which included a testamentary trust that would survive his death. The trust, among other things, established “The Paladine Foundation” and set up an e-wallet account into which Bitcoins would be deposited on a quarterly basis. It named the current beneficiary of the foundation as “Paladine” and designated him to appoint his own successor. If he failed to do so, the corpus of the trust w
ould revert back to Williamson’s estate. It was the only way that Bryce could achieve immortality.
Bryce’s mortality came to call that evening when he was rushed to the emergency hospital. The doctors confronted him with the reality he had already known – there was nothing more they could do except keep him comfortable and relatively free of pain. He refused admission to long-term care, instead opting to go home with a full time nurse on duty. Before he was released, he received a visit from a woman with blank eyes, like Robert’s. She had grey hair and feigned a kind expression, but Robert could not escape the impression that she looked like a witch. She came at him with her nose like the Wicked Queen in Snow White offering the poison apple.
“Mr. Williamson, I’m Margaret Jordan from San Francisco Hospice Services. I wonder if I may have a few moments of your time?”
Bryce waved her away, but she sat down next to his bed. “No thank you, I don’t need you people to help me die. I can do that all by myself.”
Jordan smiled. “Mr. Williamson, we’re only here to help you. It’s you who determines what level of hospice care to receive. I understand that you’ve opted to have home care.”
“Look, lady, I’ve got everything I need. I can die by myself. I don’t need anyone speeding it up or keeping me from enjoying it.”
She placed a brochure on his bedside table. “I understand, Mr. Williamson. I’m leaving you some information. In case you change your mind, you can reach me anytime at the number in the pamphlet.”
Bryce nodded, “I won’t,” and the lady bid him farewell and left. He shuddered. They’re not making a zombie out of me. Too much left to do.
***
Nathan Anderson’s conversation with Bill Carpenter at the FBI was even less productive than the one he had had with the CIA head, who, of course, knew nothing. Carpenter responded to Anderson in a condescending tone.
“Nathan, aren’t you reading a little too much into this Paladine thing? It’s just a legend, made up by a bunch of kooks on the Internet.”
Anderson clutched the phone in frustration. “I think it’s more organized than you think, Bill. Plus it’s making us look bad. You don’t want another Orlando, do you?” Anderson jabbed Carpenter about the FBI’s dismal failure to prevent the largest mass shooting in US history when two separate bureau investigations had classified the perpetrator, Omar Mateeen, as no threat.
Carpenter cleared his throat. “You’re right about public opinion. I’ll form a task force of special agents to look into it.”
“I’m not sure if that will be good enough, Bill. Can you assign some agents to work under my supervision? That way, they won’t be a chain of command away from the freshest data we have on Paladine.”
There was a pause of uncomfortable silence. “I don’t know, Nathan. I don’t think we really have the authority to do that.”
Bullshit.
“Sure you do, Bill, you’re the head of the FBI, for Christ’s sake.”
“We’ll form the task force, Nathan. Don’t worry, I’ll get on this personally.”
Right.
Nathan hung up the phone more exasperated than he was before the call. Forming a task force was just great. Carpenter would delegate to the head of the task force, then kick back and read (or not read) the reports generated by his agents. What they needed was a concerted effort to catch this guy and whoever was funding him. NCTC’s database on potential terrorists was the best in the world, but nobody was using it properly. It was a bunch of different agencies running around like the Keystone Cops, unable to accomplish anything but small-time collars. The government had Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi in custody in 2004 in Iraq and let him go. He then went on to become the caliph of the Islamic State. A major screw-up like that was not going to happen on his watch. It was time to call in the big guns.
Nathan Anderson reported directly to the president of the United States. So, when it came time to make his daily briefing, he decided to give it the personal touch instead of the usual written report. There was an upcoming presidential meeting on national security and, if he had his way, it would be held right there at the NCTC. It was time to give the agency the testosterone it needed and to stop treating Nathan himself like a eunuch. He picked up the secure line and placed a call directly to the Oval Office.
“Nathan, good afternoon, what can I do for you?”
The president was a likeable fellow, always made Nathan feel important and needed, no matter how his hands were tied by legislation or roadblocks in the Congress. Nathan liked him even though he had made the mistake of calling ISIS the “Jaycee team” and thinking about them as such.
“I’m good, Mr. President. Thank you for taking my call.”
“Nathan, I talked to Bill Carpenter and I know you’re concerned about this Paladine thing. Seems to me it’s a fictitious character made up to explain some unconnected incidents. I understand you’ve asked Bill to form a task force. Don’t you think that’s good enough for now?”
“I’m not so sure they’re unconnected, sir, but Paladine wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Okay, shoot, I’m all ears.”
The president had a great sense of humor, better than many stand-up comics, but Nathan was sure that his use of “shoot” and “I’m all ears” was not meant to be funny, even though Paladine was a shooter and the president had a prominent set of Alfred E. Newman ears.
“I’m concerned that this agency has the best tools on this earth to fight terrorism, yet we’re failing abysmally in that regard.”
“How so? Are you talking about Orlando? I’ve talked to Bill about that.”
“Not just Orlando, Mr. President. This Congressional Report about our shortcomings in the fight against terrorism has been on my desk since 2011.”
“I remember it.”
“It’s a terrible reminder of just how uncoordinated the fight against terrorism is right now between agencies. The report points out that there’s a ‘wall’ between analysts and operators, and the most important part of the fight against terrorism is to make sure that operational planning of enforcement is shared with analytical offices so threats can be adequately anticipated and assessed. With these home-grown terrorists like the one in Orlando becoming more prevalent, I think it’s more important than ever to give NCTC a bigger role in the enforcement effort.”
“Point taken, Nathan, but what are you suggesting? I don’t have to tell you how difficult it would be to get more enabling legislation or funding for your agency, especially now with only two years to go. That bunch wants to put me out to pasture as a lame duck.”
“Yes, Mr. President, but I think we already have the necessary framework without having to go back to Congress, which is why I think you should hold your security briefing right here, at NCTC. Let’s get everyone together and make a coordinated effort.”
There was a pause and the president cleared his throat. “I’ll take that under advisement, Nathan, thank you.”
With the president and heads of all national security agencies present, Nathan would attempt to make the biggest bureaucratic power grab in his agency’s history.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Detective Joshua Maynard scratched his head and rubbed his eyes. The autopsy report didn’t give him any more information than he already knew from looking at the body himself. Muhammad Abdul Kareem had been shot at close range with a .22 caliber weapon; a fatal shot to the head, another head shot and a shot to the throat which destroyed a carotid artery. Either one of the other shots would have killed him if the first one hadn’t. It had all the marks of a professional hit, including the fact that there was no physical evidence of a murder weapon found on the scene and no decent description of the shooter.
The explanations of witnesses supported the Paladine legend, which Maynard knew was a bunch of horse shit, and which had now been turned into a cancer by social media and the mainstream as well. He wondered who could be funding this hitman and where he came from. He deliberated whether there
could be any connection between the McDonald’s shooting in New York and this case, despite the mythological explanations circulating on the Internet. It looked an awful lot like CIA. If it was, they were way out of line as they had no authority to operate on US soil. Maynard called the investigators in New York who agreed to a mutual exchange of investigation information. He was like a bloodhound. Once he got a sniff of the evidence, whatever that was, he would track it down wherever it led him.
***
With his reading glasses on and staring at his computer screen, Robert Garcia looked more like an analyst or an accountant than an assassin. He studied the framework of Aqwa Bukhari’s organization. They knew the outer limits of what was legal and had played it well for years. There was a far-right Christian group that claimed the “American Muslims” organization had established terrorist training camps in their respective settlements. The feds had written the camps off as conspiracy theory, but a raid by Colorado Springs police on a storage locker maintained by Al-Benwa, a terrorist organization founded by Bukhari in Pakistan, had produced firearms, grenades, plastic explosives and target practice silhouettes labeled “Zionist Pig,“ and “FBI-Anti-Terrorist Team.”
The chat rooms and propaganda pages boasted Bukhari would be present for a speech at an alleged terrorist training camp outside Colorado Springs. Robert retrieved satellite and drone images of the compound from the federal government’s database, as well as building plans. He chatted with jihadists who planned to travel there to listen to Bukhari speak. This would be Paladine’s next operation.
***
Robert had dressed in his best jeans and collared shirt for his lunch date with Virginia. She had offered to meet him at Carson Kitchen, but he wouldn’t have it. He told her that a gentleman picks up a lady for a date, and she didn’t have any problem with her ride being a motorbike, so Robert met Virginia at her apartment. His nerves were a little shaky when he knocked at her door. It had been a long time. Virginia answered the door smiling.
