The younger man nodded. “And the Iranians are being pretty savvy about this. They know what we’re up to, and they’re ahead of it. They’ve got independent observers now who are all saying that there’s zero evidence of anything but peaceful nuclear development. It’s not helping.”
“I want an honest assessment, and I need some new ideas, people. We need to recognize when what we’re doing isn’t working, and come up with something better.”
“Well, sir, the polls all show that the public is behind us on a pre-emptive strike. So the American people have bought it.”
“That doesn’t really matter if the rest of the world is saying hands off, does it? Again, the whole media thing to get the sheep on board could only help us if the attack had been successful. Which it wasn’t. And the bastards have opened the oil exchange and are trading now in non-dollars. The Chinese are their biggest customers, and they’re paying in yuan. The Russians are paying in rubles. This is a disaster for the dollar if it continues. I trust I don’t need to remind everyone of the stakes.”
Nobody said anything.
“If we can’t invade Iran, the dollar is doomed. The Germans are already pulling their gold back to Germany and putting the pork to all the EU countries, in preparation for a meltdown. They tightened credit on the lower productivity countries, which jacked their borrowing costs, and now the European central bank has stepped in and offered emergency loans. But countries like Greece and Spain and Portugal have to sign over their hard assets to collateralize the loans.” The older man took another pull on the coffee and leaned back. “Russia is also calling its gold back and stockpiling it. China, the largest producer of gold in the world, hasn’t exported an ounce. Everyone sees a paper currency disaster in the making, and they’re all positioning to be in hard assets to the extent possible when the music stops.
“And we have another problem. The damned Germans are now demanding to audit the gold at the New York Fed. We’ve been able to get by with a ‘trust us, it’s all there’ for decades, but now they actually want to see it, count it, and verify that it’s real gold, and not tungsten cores with gold overlay. Do I need to tell you what will happen if the world discovers that…well, let’s just say that nobody is taking our word for anything anymore. Getting Iran to tumble so we can get back to denominating oil in dollars, and nothing else, is critical to the survival of the currency. Other countries are watching this closely, and it’s just a matter of time until the Saudis or Nigeria also want to get paid in something other than dollars. And when that happens, we’re screwed.”
The group discussed possible options for an hour, with no resolution and no breakthroughs. Eventually, the older man sat back with a groan and stared at the ceiling.
“What’s the latest on the Mossad agent that might know about this, sir? I know you said you would handle it, but could you give us anything more? Is it still an issue?” asked a fat, sweating man in a vested suit from across the table.
“It’s been handled. He’s no longer a threat. Met with an unexpected accident. It happens.”
“Then at least that’s one thing we can scratch off the list.”
“Yes. But I want some new thinking here. Let’s get together again next week and establish a more productive direction. What we’re doing may be stirring up the hayseeds, but it’s not swaying anyone that matters. Put on your thinking caps. Same time on Monday,” the older man said, looking at his watch as he stood.
Outside, the driver pulled to the curb as the club door opened, and the older man fumed over the lack of progress they were making as he descended the steps. The entire house of cards could come down if they didn’t do something. If things continued in the direction they were going, it would be time to start taking precautions for a dollar collapse. He could see it coming. It had always been planned, of course, but not for another decade or more. A default was the only way to clean the slate of the two hundred trillion dollars of unfunded liabilities the system was saddled with – Social Security, Medicare, Fannie Mae… When the dollar collapsed, the government could shrug and say, sorry, we’re bankrupt, but let’s focus on the future with a new currency which, this time, we’ll administer responsibly. It was the ultimate land grab. All the mortgages in the country would be immediately accelerated, with demands for payment in whatever the new currency was, ignoring that most people would be wiped out because they hadn’t had their wealth in tangible assets but rather in worthless stocks and bonds and ETFs. So he and his allies would wind up owning everything the middle class had accumulated since the Second World War, and the average Joe would be left out in the cold.
After all was said and done, nothing would change, except for the middle class – just like in the Great Depression, when the poor had still been poor, the filthy rich had stayed that way, and it was the middle class that went from having massive collective wealth to being destitute. It was amazing to him that people didn’t learn; but then again, that was all by design.
The U.S. would become like Argentina, or Britain, where most of the hard assets of the country were owned by banks or foreign corporations, and the population was living in its own country with no ownership of the land or the riches. The apocalyptic view of everything grinding to a halt was overblown, he knew from watching those countries. There would be six months of adjusting to the new currency and the new austerity, and then life would go on, only without the prosperity of before. People would still buy burgers and go to work, but they would be paid in a new currency instead of dollars, and their dollar-denominated savings would be a distant memory, just as they were for most in the Great Depression. Things would continue. And he and his cohorts would have redistributed four generations of wealth, and nobody would know how it happened.
It was the perfect crime, but the timing was off. They still needed more time to convert all the dollars that were being printed into hard assets without causing a run on the system. Iran trading oil in non-dollars could seriously disrupt the long term plan.
One way or another, it had to go. And soon.
~ ~ ~
Alan shook his head as he spoke on the internet phone to the director.
“No, sir, I’m not being disrespectful. I’m retiring. Effective immediately. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’ve done my time. I’m out. I quit.”
“You don’t get to decide when you’re out. I do,” the director warned.
“All due respect, no, sir. It’s my life, and I’m taking it back. I’ve done more for the country, and for you, than anyone. But it’s time to go on without me.”
“Where are you?” the director demanded.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Why not? Since when do you keep these things from me?” the director spat, outraged at his authority being questioned.
“Since I have reason to believe someone’s trying to kill me.” There. It was out in the open.
“What are you talking about? Speak plainly, damn it.”
“I was on a ferry. In South America. It exploded. I believe that it was destroyed to take me out.”
The director was silent, digesting the new information. “The Americans have been asking about you,” he said quietly.
“What? Why? What Americans?”
“It’s been very low key, but they expressed interest in interviewing you some more about the bio-attack.”
Wheels meshed, and the light bulb went on in Alan’s head. “They want to know where I am?”
“They haven’t asked since a few days ago.”
“Around the time the ferry exploded.”
They were both quiet for a few moments.
“Who’s looking for me?”
“Their homeland security. An agent named Ryker was mentioned. I believe he interrogated you before?”
“Yes. And you’re sure he was trying to get to me again?” Alan asked.
“Do I strike you as muddled or confused?”
“No, sir.”
The director sighed. “What di
d the terrorist tell you, exactly? Before he died?”
Alan repeated the story.
“Does anyone else know about this? Have you told anyone?”
Aland hesitated. “No. Only you.”
The director breathed heavily into the phone, each man trying to read the other over the line. Eventually the director came to a decision.
“For your own good, and perhaps mine, this call never happened. I haven’t heard from you. You’re dead to me, and I have no knowledge of any of this. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. That’s probably best.”
“Of course, it could take a few weeks for me to cancel out your server access. I’ve got a lot on my plate. And Alan? I’d stay off the radar if I were you. Don’t plan any trips to Disneyland, do you get my drift?”
Alan decided not to share that he was in the United States as they spoke. “Yes.”
“This Ryker works out of Los Angeles. He left a number. An enterprising young man would be able to figure out exactly where his offices were located with that.” The director rattled off a 310 area code number. “Not that it would be a good idea, mind you.”
“I understand. It would be a bad idea.”
“A very bad idea.” The director paused. “Good luck, my friend. You’re going to need it. God go with you,” he finished, and then hung up.
Alan replaced the handset in the cradle and sat back, then rubbed his face and stood. He exited the booth, paid the young man at the internet café counter for his time, and walked out onto the sidewalk, foreigners like himself milling around him – the only place he’d been able to find an internet café had been downtown, where tourists abounded. Apparently, everyone and everywhere else was wired, so the cafés couldn’t make a living. A sign of progress, he supposed.
He ambled to his car and handed the parking attendant a few bills, then got into the Dodge and started the engine. Jet would already be at Arthur’s, keeping watch. He had agreed to meet her there later, whenever she called him. From all appearances the prior night, getting in might turn out to be harder than they had hoped.
But now he had another, perhaps bigger, problem.
A problem named Ryker.
Chapter 29
Jet strolled down the lane in the late morning sun, the weather balmy, heading into Indian summer soon. The gravel at the side of the road crunched under her track shoes, which completed her outfit, consisting of a flowing hippie skirt and a tie-dyed tank top with a ratty sweater pulled over it. The wig she had bought that morning fitted well, a light blonde job that completely hid her still-short natural cut.
Her backpack contained a water bottle, binoculars, and some energy bars, along with a book, a blanket, and few odds and ends that would seem innocuous if she was searched – unlikely, but she was taking no chances. Dark sunglasses shaded her eyes, and to the world she would appear to be a trippy college-age girl out for a day communing with nature.
Her steps led her into the park, across from Arthur’s lair, and when she reached a spot where she was far enough into the woods that she wouldn’t attract attention, she pulled out her blanket and spread it on the grass, and then plopped down with her book and the spyglasses. She watched as the morning guards went about their routine, patrolling the grounds with robot-like efficiency, their demeanor anything but the relaxed casualness she had hoped to see.
At one point a thin man in a black suit exited the front of the house and approached the front gate guardhouse, so she took a few photos with her high-resolution phone camera for later study. He lingered there for a few minutes, then strutted back to the house with an officious bearing. Clearly in charge – perhaps Arthur’s second-in-command.
From watching the house itself she got no clue as to where the master suite might be. The windows afforded no visibility, the curtains tightly drawn in all but two of the rooms. Apparently, Arthur was taking no chances after his miraculous near-death experience. She didn’t blame him.
A box van pulled up to the gates and the driver had a brief exchange with the guard, who stepped into the security area and depressed a button. The gates swung slowly open and the van rolled down the drive, pausing inside the gate before easing to the front of the house and parking. Two uniformed men got out and went to the back of the vehicle, where they got toolboxes and some electronic testing gear and moved onto the grass near the fence. They stopped near one of the stone posts and knelt down, then began fiddling with something – a motion detector, Jet thought as she peered at them through the glasses.
With Author’s knowledge of tradecraft, he would be able to command the absolute best security money could buy, and with his ill-gotten profits from his multi-decade drug trafficking scheme, he had piles of cash to spend. The house was easily ten or fifteen million dollars with all the land, maybe more. And the level of security he was paying for had to run six figures per month.
He had gone from having only cursory safeguards to overkill, which would make him much more difficult to get to this time. If he never left the house, which was likely based upon Sloan’s description of his condition, he was effectively encapsulated within a protective cocoon. While she had penetrated many such facilities in the past, she had none of the supporting technology on this one she might have had if she were doing this for the Mossad – surveillance teams, blueprints, sat photos, deep research from an ongoing multi-month effort.
She was under no illusions that she would be able to waltz in, put a bullet between Arthur’s eyes, and then saunter out undetected. As it looked right now, it would be messy and risky. They would need to get in, neutralize the security team, stop them or the hidden devices from alerting anyone off-site, and then kill Arthur. That he had a small army guarding him was bad enough, but that he had access to the very latest counter-measures made it even dicier.
At eleven-thirty her cell phone vibrated. Alan’s disposable number popped up on the screen.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Not bad. Just watching the watchers.”
“Any revelations?”
“Not really. Just that they’re pro, he’s got at least a dozen men there, and serious electric countermeasures.”
“Your specialty.”
“Yeah, but I have a bad feeling about this, looking at it from here. We don’t have a month to figure out the best way in. And we don’t have intel support. Even on the Russian, we got to lean on the Mossad for blueprints. Without those, I’d still be sitting over there hoping for a break.”
“Well, I might have some good news in that regard. I spoke with the director.” Alan recounted his discussion.
“So what are you planning to do?” she asked when he was finished.
“I think I’ve got to put some of that Sloan money to use, charter a plane to Los Angeles, and have a serious one-on-one discussion with Ryker. I need to know what the score is and who’s after me. Just like you did.”
“The difference is that as far as they know, you’re dead.”
“All due respect, my confidence in that being the perfect way out of the maze isn’t high after your experience. Being dead didn’t really simplify your life like you thought it would, did it?”
“I’m not going to argue that. When are you going to leave?”
“Today. I’m at the hotel. I got fifty grand out of the safe and talked to a charter service that will fly me to Los Angeles for sixteen grand. I’ll worry about the return trip once I’ve got things sorted on that end. I can use one of my passports for the private flight – they didn’t ask for much in terms of ID other than either a domestic driver’s license or a passport. Apparently, terrorists aren’t winging around the sky in Lear jets.”
“Then you’ll be there by this afternoon? How many hours will it take?” Jet asked.
“About four and a half, and I leave in an hour. I’ve been online, on the servers, doing some checking. I think I have a handle on where he’s working.”
“Are you thinking about…”
“I don�
�t see a lot of ways to get information quickly other than interrogating him, do you?”
She thought it through, then shook her head and closed her eyes. “Not really. But he’s a…he’s a high-profile target. That will increase the heat exponentially. When one of their own gets it…well, you know.”
“I’m aware of the risk. I’ll be careful.”
“Please. And call me when you know you’ll be returning.”
“Do you have this covered?”
“For now. Although I’m going to ask that you, in all your spare time, access the servers for anything you can find about the compound.” Jet paused, thinking. “You know, something just occurred to me. It’s likely that Arthur was using Sloan’s company for security, given their relationship and his paranoia level. If so, maybe there’s something on the flash drive I found. Worst case, I can try hacking into their servers. Shouldn’t be too hard, given my abilities.”
“Modest, too,” Alan teased, breaking the tension.
“Just be careful. There’s a lot that can go wrong on a solo snatch. As you know.”
“I’ll do my best to not get caught. How’s that?”
“I guess it’ll have to do.”
They spent another two minutes on logistical matters and then Jet disconnected, her attention returning to the van. She took a photo of the license plate, wishing that the vehicle had some sort of identifying markings. Then again, that would defeat the whole point of being a discreet security company. Sloan had the kind of business that he wouldn’t be interested in advertising. Between the government contracts, his legitimate business, and Arthur’s black ops errands, he’d made a fortune.
Not that any of it had done him any good in the end.
It was going to be a long afternoon, she knew, and she returned to pretending to read her book as she eyed the security men’s comings and goings.
Jet 04: Reckoning Page 20
