“Yes, there have been reports,” Williamson said. “Fortunately not very many, though.”
“Tell me again why martial law isn’t a good thing?” Protégé asked. “It seems like we’d want to demonstrate that there’s still law and order, and people can settle down and get back to work.”
“That would be a good thing to demonstrate,” Williamson said. “Unfortunately, it’s not even remotely true. Even if every Guardsman and cop in the country showed up for duty right now, we couldn’t possibly restore order. There just simply aren’t enough of them.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” Archive said. “We don’t live in a police state, after all.”
“Right,” the four-star agreed. “The martial law construct in America was designed to lock down isolated areas of unrest. It was never intended to canvas the country.”
Protégé looked thoughtful. “Will the president use the active duty military forces for more manpower?”
“Already has,” Williamson said. “Obviously a higher response rate, given the immediate threat of jail for failure to report for duty, but the numbers are still pretty small. We have less than two million soldiers in the active and reserve components, roughly half that number Stateside at any given time. And truth be told, most of them are clerks and paper-pushers.”
“You’re not all steely-eyed Rambo clones?” Archive asked with a smile.
Williamson chuckled. “Not even the SEALs.”
“So the active duty has been put on domestic police duty, but that won’t be enough manpower to lock down the unrest?” Protégé asked.
“It wouldn’t be enough to control Southern California. Besides, those kids are trained to blow shit up, not prevent shit from getting blown up. It ain’t rocket science. The combination of insufficient numbers and misguided training goes a long way toward explaining our failures in Iraq and Afghanistan, and should tell you a lot about why I vigorously opposed declaring martial law. We’re apt to make a much bigger mess.”
“You guys didn’t tell me this when you recruited me for your little revolution,” Protégé said.
“Relax,” the general said. “America isn’t a time bomb like those other shitholes we invaded. We only have a few religious fanatics, not an army of them, and we haven’t been killing each other with pitchforks for the last five centuries. Most Americans want to get along by getting along.”
“Maybe so,” Protégé said, “but a little bonhomie runs pretty thin when there’s no food, water, or power.”
“No lie,” Williamson said. “Which is why the martial law declaration is potentially disastrous. If we say we’re going to restore civic function, then demonstrate that we have no such capacity…”
“People will freak,” Protégé finished.
Williamson chuckled. “One way of putting it. ‘Open revolt’ is another way.”
“So we’re screwed?” Protégé asked.
“That’s one outcome. I’d place the odds at about twenty-five percent for that one, though. The upside of the martial law declaration is that I can turn the crank on the infrastructure, get the power grid up and running at close to capacity, and spend some money to get the fuel supplies running again.”
“What money are you spending?” Archive asked. “They can’t possibly be so stupid as to print more dollars, can they?”
“I’m afraid so,” the general said. “At least, that’s what it sounded like at this afternoon’s Cabinet meeting. I was a fly on the wall via video teleconference.”
Archive exhaled slowly, looking more tired than Protégé had ever seen him. “This is turning into a disaster,” he said, his voice low and weak.
“Not yet,” the general said. “As usual, when the people wake up and pay attention, they’re a lot smarter than the government. Nobody’s accepting dollars for anything at the moment. The Fed can print as many new bills as it wants, but that’s just paper, and they’ll stop printing in no time once they figure out that nobody wants the bills. What really made the world go ‘round was the large-scale electronic lending between banks. You gutted that system.”
“So the Fed has no real levers to pull,” Protégé said.
“Exactly,” Archive said, brightening a bit. “It’s almost like we designed it that way.” The twinkle returned to his eyes for a moment.
“I’m using a combination of bullion from the national reserves and a bit of federally-mined Bitcoin.”
“The US government was mining Bitcoins?” Archive asked incredulously.
“Damn right,” Williamson said. “In huge quantities. But very quietly, through front corporations.”
Protégé whistled. “That changes the equation.”
“Not really,” Williamson said. “There’s not enough in federal coffers to come close to mitigating the banking meltdown.”
“So what now?” Protégé asked.
“Finesse,” Williamson said. “We let the PLO effect run its course.”
“PLO? As in the Palestinian terrorist group?” Protégé asked.
Archive chuckled. “To those of us living in the US, where a pro-Israeli stance is as apple pie as baseball, I suppose the PLO is still considered a terrorist organization. But definitely not in Palestine.”
Williamson agreed. “The PLO pulled the rug out from under the incumbent regime by simply being better at providing infrastructure and the rule of law. PLO troops handed out food, provided shelter, and repaired buildings after Israeli attacks. Palestine’s titular government was nowhere to be seen. Didn’t take long for the people to favor the PLO over the sitting administration.”
“So you want a revolution? Overthrow the government?” Protégé looked incredulous.
“Not at all,” Williamson said. “But we do want law and order, and the reality is that only the citizens can provide that for themselves. The federal and state governments are stuffed to the gills with bureaucrats, most of whom have no real skill or expertise beyond building PowerPoint presentations.”
Archive nodded. “There is still an alarming amount of violence, but we’re already seeing strong signs of self-organization.”
“By street gangs,” Protégé cautioned.
“Among other groups,” Williamson said. “Like soccer moms and school boards and professional societies. But I share your concern, which is why I’ve already started deploying my Spec Ops guys into the cities.”
“To take out the criminals?” Protégé asked.
Williamson guffawed. “Hardly! You want complete civil war on your conscience? Their mission is to support productive activity while keeping criminal activity under control. I’ve told them to be completely agnostic regarding the source of the activity, in either direction. If it’s a gang or cartel that’s handing out food and picking up the trash, I want them supported. If it’s a group of rogue nuns running around looting, I want them stopped.”
“Rogue nuns?” Archive laughed.
“You get my meaning,” the general said. “Bottom line, there will be skirmishes, and this will not be neat or tidy, but I’m optimistic. My guys know what’s at stake.”
“So you’re not expecting the unrest to last long?” Archive asked.
“I’m expecting it to last as long as it takes to get goods and services flowing again.”
“Which takes a viable currency system,” Protégé observed. “We need to get that Bitcoin theft operation under control.”
“Long-term, absolutely,” Williamson said. “If you want my guess, it’s probably some of the usual suspects in the oligarchy game. They didn’t get to be as rich as they are — or at least as rich as they were up until a few days ago — by being stupid.”
Archive nodded. “Agreed. Trojan is with the federal agents trying to track down the source of the hack right now. And I’ve got Vaneesh working on things from this end.”
“Sounds like a good start. But you need to find where the money trail ends,” Williamson said. “Those are the people you need to worry about. Unless you get their hands o
ut of the cookie jar, they’ll just buy the new government, exactly like they bought the old one.”
“And all of this will have been a complete waste,” Protégé said.
Archive nodded grimly. “Looks like we’ve all got our work cut out for us.”
“Yep, and I’ve got to get back to it,” the general said. “If we do well, maybe they won’t hang us when this is all over.”
Archive and Protégé chuckled uneasily. It was an outcome they’d begun to fear in a very real way. Revolutionaries rarely died in bed.
13
“Time’s up,” Sam said. “I’m officially out of patience, Señor Rojas. Where are my agents?”
“Relax, Agent Jameson.” Rojas seemed a little too smug, as if her threat of violence no longer seemed credible to him.
It was occasionally necessary to restore a mark’s confidence in one’s gumption, Sam reflected. “You’re not really taking me seriously, are you, Señor Rojas?” She smiled sweetly. “I get this a lot. It’s because of my tits, isn’t it?”
She placed the muzzle of her .45 against Rojas’ thigh and squeezed the trigger. The roar of the big Kimber semiautomatic was like a thunderclap in the confines of the aircraft cabin.
Rojas threw his head back and filled the small space with a howl of agony, eyes closed in pain, veins bulging on his neck.
“Holy shit!” Brock shouted in alarm, surprised both by the noise and by Sam’s cold-bloodedness. “What are you doing?”
“This isn’t America,” Sam said. “The game is different down here. These people will gut you for bus fare.”
Brock shook his head, watching Rojas writhe. “Jesus H. You scare the shit out of me sometimes.”
Sam chuckled. “I’d hate for you to get bored with me.”
She waited for Rojas to settle down. It took many seconds for him to come to grips with his new reality. She hoped her message was clear: the redhead American bitch was crazy, and the situation was a long way out of Rojas’ control.
“I trust we now have a deeper understanding of each other, Señor Rojas.” Sam’s voice was calm and quiet, and she smiled with exaggerated cordiality. “Kidnappings really piss me off.”
“She’s telling you the truth,” Dan said with a chuckle. “Hey, stop bleeding on the carpet.” He rolled Rojas over onto his side, wounded leg up, and shoved a cocktail napkin into the wound. Rojas barked in pain.
Sam held the phone to Rojas’ ear. “It’s ringing. We’re calling your friend, the kidnapper. Same rules apply about playing games with me. I’m confident you now have a healthy appreciation for my sincerity.”
Rojas clenched his jaw, then spoke rapid-fire Spanish into the phone.
Sam bashed his forehead with the gun barrel. “English!”
“En Inglés, por favor,” Rojas told his counterpart on the phone, eyeballing Sam with venom in his gaze.
“There has been a delay.” The phone’s small speaker crackled with the third driver’s voice. He sounded calm, controlled.
“Your amigos are in deep shit,” Sam said into the phone. “Two are wounded. One has a mangled hand. I am holding them at gunpoint. I won’t tolerate delays.”
“There was an accident on the road,” the man said. “We are stuck in traffic.”
“At this time of night? Bullshit. Hand the phone over to the fat guy.”
“Si, señora.” Sam heard the rustling of static as the phone changed hands.
“Hi, Sam.” Harv Edwards’ familiar smoker’s rumble was recognizable despite the speakerphone distortion. “You shot the greasy skinny guy, didn’t you?”
Sam chuckled. “How’d you guess?”
“Seemed like your style. Anyway, Pedro here is telling the truth, as far as the traffic goes. There’s one lane for both directions, and a guy with a sign to stop and start traffic. But I think our chauffeur is lying about something else.”
“Such as?”
“I’m watching planes take off and land,” Harv said. “Out the back window of the car.”
Sam instantly got his meaning. They were heading away from the airport. It had that kind of vibe about it. “So you’re going sightseeing?”
“Looks that way. No door handles in this thing, either.”
Sonuvabitch. She snapped her fingers at Dan. He nodded his understanding, and was already opening his laptop. He held up three fingers. “I need three minutes,” he mouthed. Cell phones were Big Brother’s best friend, even in Costa Rica.
“A detour for construction.” The driver’s voice sounded far away.
“That’s funny,” Harv’s voice said. “Because we haven’t made any turns recently. None at all, really, since we left the airport.”
Sam shook her head. “Are you guys really that stupid, Rojas?” She pointed the muzzle of her gun at Rojas’ buttock and pulled the trigger. He screamed with a renewed agony. Getting shot in the ass was horrifically painful, to both ass and pride.
“Way to show ‘em, Sam!” Harv’s voice was loud and boisterous. Then, in a quieter voice, “Our man Pedro doesn’t look nearly as agitated as I’d expect.”
Sam’s face registered deep concern. “No worries, Harv,” she said, her voice far more nonchalant than her expression. “He probably didn’t care much for Rojas either. Just sit tight. I’m sure all of our interests will somehow intersect.” She placed heavy emphasis on the last word.
“Will do,” Harv said. Then, sotto voce, phone held close to his lips, “Looks like Avenue Central and Calle…”
Sam heard a sharp slap, then the call went dead.
Damn. Edwards had almost gotten his location out before the driver took the phone and ended the call.
She looked over at Dan. He shook his head. “Someplace in Alajuela. That’s all I was able to get.”
“Didn’t he give you two street names?” Brock asked.
Sam shook her head. “‘Calle’ means ‘street’ in Spanish. He didn’t get the name out in time.”
“We got one name though. That’s something.”
Dan called up a map on his laptop. He shook his head. “Avenue Central covers a lot of real estate,” he said. “Not much help, honestly.”
Sam turned to Rojas, who was moaning softly on the cabin floor. She brought her gun to his face, held it close enough for him to smell the cordite. “I could have sworn we had an understanding.”
He flinched. “What do you take me for?” he said. “I am not a fool.”
“Yet you interfered with a gaggle of Gringos Federales,” Sam said. “Are you new?”
Rojas shook his head. “You heard me tell him to turn around.”
“Why didn’t he?”
Rojas shrugged. “I do not know him. It was part of the conditions for the job. They said he had to be on the snatch team.”
“Who said?”
“I told you already. The Gray One. His people.”
“You idiot,” Sam said. Rule Numero Uno in the spy business: never work with strangers. Great way to end up dead.
But it’s an interesting twist, Sam realized. If the Gray One was a longtime player, he had to have strong Agency ties. Central America was a collection of relic puppet regimes, and while it was true that their spy agencies didn’t exactly dance to every CIA tune these days, they sure as hell tapped their feet to the rhythm.
So the Gray One has either gone a little bit rogue, or he hasn’t. They were equally probable options, Sam figured. The currency crisis up north probably hadn’t done much to extend the Agency’s influence down in the equatorial jungle, and there was probably a little more slack in the leash for someone like this Gray One to exploit.
On the other hand, the cash problem up north had left the Agency just as strapped as every other mammoth American bureaucracy. But the CIA was never afraid to dabble in a little entrepreneurship, particularly if it could do so with any degree of plausible deniability. It seemed just as likely that the Gray One was in lock-step with the Agency, which could stand to profit handsomely through a convenient little all
iance with whoever was stealing all the Bitcoins. Which, not for the first time, would put the CIA at odds with the Department of Homeland Security.
“So what’s your guidance, fearless supervisor?” Dan asked with a sardonic smile.
Sam surveyed the scene. Three DIS agents, in various states of disrepair, were strewn about the aircraft cabin floor. Two of them were leaking blood. None of them wore a happy expression.
Four problems came quickly to mind. First, they had to figure out where the hell Sabot Mondragon’s charter flight had disappeared to. Rojas’ earlier call to the airport’s flight management office would hopefully grease those skids.
Second, Rojas and his fellow goons needed a place to cool their heels. She needed them available to use as leverage, should occasion arise, but she needed them safely out of her hair.
Third, her entourage was missing two members, and they weren’t exactly hardened field agents. One was a skinny computer nerd, and the other was a fat academic with poor social skills. She couldn’t count on either of them for anything in the way of operational savvy, and she really just hoped they didn’t do anything to get themselves shot while she figured out what the hell to do about their kidnapping.
Last, she may or may not be unwittingly working against Agency interests. Or, more likely, against the interests of the local Agency thugs. The only coherent CIA agenda, in her experience, was securing its fair share of the federal budget. Beyond that, all bets were off. There was really nothing to be done about the potential conflict, but it could certainly make life more interesting.
“Just another day at the office,” Sam muttered. “Copilot-guy!” Her shout startled everyone in the cabin. The youngish looking copilot peered sheepishly around the corner of the cockpit bulkhead. He clearly wanted nothing to do with the commotion in the passenger compartment, but Sam had other plans for him. “Ever shot a gun?”
He shook his head.
“It’s a point-and-click thing,” Sam said helpfully. “You’re our new prison guard. Keep these three goofballs under control.” She gestured toward the disheveled and tied-up DIS agents, racked the slide to chamber a round in Rojas’ sidearm, and handed it to the copilot. He took the weapon gingerly.
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 170
