by Dale Wiley
Britt placed bets in every direction, most of them with other people’s money. He used bots to do most of it and hired hackers to place computer loops inside viruses. When you clicked on the Nigerian prince e-mail or the one promising nasty photos of your neighbor, you were giving him entrance to your computer. You created a stock account you didn’t know existed. You were making him small amounts of money for months, and, now, you were about to make him a fortune.
Of course, Britt already had a fortune. He had more money than he needed even if he never touched a bomb. But this was only partly about money. It was much more interesting than that.
Britt had money—lots of it. His father was the stately Connecticut patriarch who invented a new type of laser printer that made architects’ jobs very easy. This was back in the eighties, when everything was bright and suburban, and his dad just let his alcoholic mother run the show at home while he made the money and screwed the help. Britt grew up with no grounding, no roots. He didn’t want to be his worthless dad, and he certainly didn’t want anything to do with his simpering mother. He was free to roam the neighborhood and do pretty much anything he wanted. So he came up with a plan. It was very simple, really. He wanted to be James Bond.
That’s what he trained for. He was circumspect enough not to tell anyone, but every maneuver was calculated to become a spy: good grades, good looks, good choices. Spies needed to be spotless, and he was just that.
He made it into the FBI because he knew a friend of a friend. It was a first step, but they didn’t see him as special. All the tools needed to become a player in today’s law enforcement were not the skill set he planned for. Diplomacy, multi-cultural schmoozing, analytical ability—these were the coins of the realm now. Many agents never even fired a gun. The life Britt dreamed of no longer really existed.
So he was going to create it. Years ago, when he was still working within their rules, for the most part, he was halfway through a complicated but utterly harmless maneuver which would have made him a hero. That was when he was confronted by Grant Fucking Miller. Britt gave some information on bad CIA agents to deep cover men. It would raise his profile with the CIA and get him out of the FBI. They claimed it compromised deep cover. He doubted that seriously, but Miller confronted him. At that time, he was in the middle of his 9/11 poster boy power trip. He was an asshole, and he wasn’t wise, or kind, or even reasonable with the knowledge he gained. He stuck it to Britt when he didn’t have to do that. He ruined his career. Miller had it all wrong; he thought the bad guys were good. When he came in and started waving his gun around, that was how it had to be played. Britt and two of his confidants were cashiered out of the service; with the cover story, they resigned instead of face criminal prosecution. He secreted a letter in a safe from the deputy director of the CIA that acknowledged no official wrongdoing, but that didn’t help. He would never be able to play again in spy ops. He was worthless as a clandestine, and everyone knew it.
For all of those years, being a spook was a fairly good replacement for having parents worth a shit, or real relationships, or any kind of balanced life at all. Grant Miller set him adrift and did so without an ounce of humility or any common sense. He didn’t have any mercy or even take the time to hear him out. Britt knew he was technically guilty of what he was accused of, but these were not good guys. Grant never gave him the chance to show that.
Britt spent six months at the bottom of a bottle, figuring out just how much of his identity was wrapped up in his choice of career. He lost his edge with women, and he became painfully aware of how few friends he really had. Sometimes people find out these issues over time, one after the other. Britt was not so lucky. One day he was a fast-climbing spy with cover personas and an exciting, interesting life. The next day he found himself very rich and with his entire life gone. He needed a new purpose, or it would end badly.
Then it came to him: instead of being Bond, he would have to be a Bond villain. Over time, he came to see that as nearly as intriguing. No moral code to adhere to, and you still got the girl, if you wanted that and, he had to add, if you could get it up. You got more money, and the power was fucking off the charts. Britt began his plan to rid the world of Grant Miller. At first, it was that simple. Then, like any good businessman, he decided to expand his operations. He used his former connections and his looks to begin to carve out a plot. He enjoyed putting on the Muslims. That was fun for him, but he never forgot Miller.
When he found out that Caitlin moved to Vegas, he worked it into his plan to sleep with Grant’s fiancée. She was rather worth at least some of the trouble, he thought. He imagined her running back to Grant about now. She would soon find out he was dead, as well.
Twenty-Eight
Omega Flight 723 was an hour and a half into its journey, carrying 220 passengers between Las Vegas and Chicago. As they flew through the late afternoon summer haze, passengers were on their second cocktail, and flight attendants, having put away the snack carts, played on their phones. By the time they would land, it would be nearly dark.
Sitting in first class, Amanda Beezer was a redheaded goddess going to meet her new boyfriend in Chicago for a weekend to be spent exclusively between the sheets. She had her eyes closed and her thoughts clearly set to naughty. It was her first time in first class, and she could only afford it because the new boy paid. She tried to ignore William Mentzler, a Bermuda shorts-wearing retiree sitting next to her. He wanted desperately for her to talk to him and was being downright haughty since she did not reciprocate the feeling. He pulled out a John Grisham novel and pretended to read.
In the back of the plane, Rikki Vanover sat with her two small children, Jack and Grace, who were six and four. They were meeting Daddy in Chicago for a weekend at Wrigley Field and the Field Museum. The kids traveled often and were very well-behaved, and her neighbor, Naomi Felder, complimented her several times. “They are so much better than my children were!” she kept saying in a way that made Rikki truly wonder about how bad Ms. Felder’s children had been.
They began the boarding process shortly after the first attacks, and the pilot had told them they were going to proceed since none of the attacks had involved aircraft. With all the new technology aboard planes, the tech-wired could keep tabs on all the activities and the wild theories that started circulating. In the process, at least one unlucky fellow would surely burn up his computer trying to guess Sabotage’s password. They were watching the massacre in real time if they chose to.
Omega Flight 723 was chosen because those who were charged with putting the freight—where the airlines really made their money—on the plane had long ago become lax. For six months, a small electronics company from Las Vegas called American Securities sent packages on this flight every Thursday. They were always the same number and weight, and, for some reason, they always set off the bomb detector. For the first four months, the employees took the packages apart and meticulously inspected them. Time and again, they consulted with the company, who could not explain why they set the bomb detectors off.
“Our products have bombed, but not in that way,” the jovial man at American always said when they would call.
Finally, they had seen enough. Despite the fact that the packages still set off the bomb detectors, the workers stopped caring. The packages were unopened by security each of the past eight Thursdays. Today, the same eight packages arrived, weighing the same and looking the same. They once again set off the bomb detectors. The men working in freight were used to this, and, frankly, were embarrassed they kept having to call the company every time. Once again and without even thinking about it, for the ninth straight week, they had loaded the packages on the plane.
This time, the packages were different, although it was still hard to tell. They contained C4 and a small detonator the size of a flash drive hidden in the middle of the package. It doesn’t take a lot of explosives to take down a commercial jet, provided they are placed right. These packages, timed to detonate seconds apart, gave off a
muffled bang at first, and then the main cabin sounded like an earthquake as the explosive met the reserve jet fuel. Parts of the plane fell away and the midsection exploded like an earth-bound meteorite. The lucky passengers never felt a thing. The unlucky ones had five or ten more seconds to wait. Then, for them, it was all over.
They made no screams and heard no explosions. They fell to the ground like ashen confetti.
Twenty-Nine
They were so close to the airport. He could see it, but they were still slowed like something out of a madcap comedy, one stalled motorist, the rear-ender, and now construction. Britt had now had too much time to think. He was exhilarated and sickened by the two point-blank killings today. He analyzed them both like the Plays of the Week on SportsCenter. His hand was still numb from the recoil on the .45. His ears still rang. It was either the best thing or the worst he had ever done. It wasn’t easy to tell which.
How long before they got on the plane? He was running out of time. He hadn’t even heard if the plane had exploded. God, this whole experience was escaping from his control. He really didn’t like that. Most importantly, had Tony found Caitlin?
He thought of her. The only woman who could fog the mind of the world’s most important man. She was out there, betraying him, stripping him of his power. He wanted her, and he wanted her dead. She taunted him. She was ruining this perfect moment. Why had she left him? Didn’t she understand? Did she still mourn that piece of shit Grant?
The pilot finally approached.
From the look on his face, Britt knew it wasn’t good news.
“Sir, there’s been a pretty significant in-air explosion. They’re shutting all air traffic down until tomorrow morning.”
Britt felt the life draining from his face. The bomb wasn’t supposed to go off for another hour when they were close to meeting them in air. It was supposed to have a synchronized effect. Now, instead of being halfway across the country, he was going to be near the center of the crime.
Britt almost blurted out, “It’s not supposed to go off yet,” but he shoved it back in. He breathed so deeply it sounded like it hurt. He managed to nod and dismiss the pilot without shooting him in the face like he wanted.
“Well, guess I’m in Vegas,” he told his driver, the only person around to talk to. “Take me to …”
Britt realized he had no great place to go. Time for a backup plan.
“Just drive,” he said, gray from the news, “toward the city.”
Thirty
Now where could he do it? He had spots in his area, every agent did, but he was out of his turf. It needed to be slightly out of the way, but he was on a tight time schedule as it was. It didn’t need to add to the confusion.
Then he thought of it: Highway 40 and Ballas—rich people driveways close to the highway. He would normally worry about people seeing, but, if it came to that, he would badge them and tell them it was national security. Today, no one would scoff at that.
He pulled off the road.
Naseem knew this stretch of St. Louis road well enough to know this wasn’t normal.
“What are you doing?”
“Give me a minute.”
Naseem didn’t say anything, hoping this was something legit, but everything told him it wasn’t. He had half-expected this, and, when Grant eased down a driveway, Naseem started getting out of the car. He got the door open and headed down the gravel road, but he slipped and came painfully down on his knee. He turned and saw that Miller was on him.
Grant spun him around and pinned him to the ground. Grant may have been less fit than his old pictures but was still powerful and strong.
“What …?”
Grant hit him across the face—hard. It wasn’t enough to break bones, but it was enough. Then he took his knees and pinned Naseem’s arm.
Naseem knew what he had to do, or he thought he did. Maybe Grant was fulfilling his duty. He sighed and let Grant put him in a choke hold. He knew this would be less fun for Grant if he didn’t fight it.
“You killed my friends today. I can be as professional as I want to be, but you killed my friends.”
Naseem looked up at him, a resigned gesture: do you want to talk?
Miller eased up. Naseem coughed, partly for effect, partly because he really hurt.
“Do that. I deserve it. Hold your rage. Kill me at the end! It will feel like the vindication you need.”
Miller boiled. This man had just put him in a corner. He did not want agreement. He wanted this man to hurt like the criminal he was. But his last statement rang true. He had to agree with him, and he wanted to do anything but agree with him.
“You so much as sneeze wrong, and I won’t kill you. I’ll just put bullets in both your kneecaps and let the vermin do the rest. You won’t get any virgins by my method.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I have to. Because I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t. Because you killed my friends.”
“Welcome to my world. That happens to me every day.”
Grant did not need this puke taking the moral high ground. He tried everything within himself to keep from doing it, but he kneed him in the balls—hard. Naseem sucked at the air and groaned, a sound Miller liked.
“Now I can be civil,” he said, grinning at Naseem. “Get in the fucking car.”
He roughly grabbed at Naseem and threw him back into his ride.
Thirty-One
During his time as a politician, President Morgan had not always remained calm. He ranted. He raged. He sometimes said things that caused people to cry and caused him remorse later.
But today, almost as if his own speech had transformed him, he remained calm. This was his time of crisis. He was determined to handle this in a way history would remember.
He and Jones watched the Sabotage briefing alone. When it was done, and he overcame the sick feeling in his stomach, they allowed the rest of the staff in. Jones let him know about the Omega flight. He took the news with equanimity. Time for him to fully take control.
“What do we know about Kenner Industries? Are those assholes behind this?”
“We know next to nothing, about them, but there is nothing to indicate they are involved in this at all, sir. They’re an old Utah manufacturing company. A few employees, some contracts of value. Worth ten, maybe twelve bucks at the most. Thirty-five dollars is out of this world. Their stock has been steady for years. They’ve always been fairly happy at their level. Make all their filings, not a single SEC complaint. A completely unobjectionable, minor American company.”
“How’s their stock now?”
“It’s on a roller coaster. First ten minutes it plunged to five, and then it went up—a lot. Possibly connected to all the viruses that people downloaded. They may be being used to buy the stock.”
“Or maybe people think they have to—their patriotic duty.”
“That’s what the website is trying to say. I don’t know what anyone is thinking right now, but there haven’t been any huge positions taken. It’s all mom and pop stuff. They’re scouring all the records right now.”
The president shook his head. “What is his motive? Is it one person? Many?”
“I don’t know. We don’t see massive put orders, in other words, shorting the stock in great numbers. Any number more than 5,000 must be registered, and we don’t have any put orders of that size on this truly unremarkable company.”
“Well, it’s remarkable now.”
“What do we do? The director of the SEC wants to know if we want to pressure the Nikkei to halt trading.”
“And make them look like the bad guys?”
“Say it was at our request.”
“Well, what does that solve?”
“We have no idea.”
The president scratched his chin. He took his time before responding.
“Don’t negotiate with terrorists? That kind of thing?”
Vanessa nodded. “No-win territory.”
“I don’t
know. What about people that have bought in the meantime? What do we do for them?”
“Wish I knew. Seems like their own problem”
“I don’t know. I have run for years on the idea that I trust the markets. I may just have to put my money where my mouth is.”
“Problem is, sir, it’s not your money.”
The president nodded. “Get me Grant Miller on the phone. I’m gonna either put that sonofabitch in chains, or I’m going to give him the keys to the kingdom.”
Thirty-Two
Pal Joey had watched enough mob movies to fully understand the importance of revenge. Whether the Corleones, or Scarface, or the bigger drug dealers he had watched growing up, Joey realized the first rule of being a gangster was take care of your own. Now that no more shit had gone down in LA, he told the driver to head back downtown. He called Raylon and arranged a rendezvous point, where he intended to leave Becky and pick up his boy. He told the driver exactly where he wanted to go and then turned his attention back to his current companion.
Leaving Becky was a risk. If she said one thing to the wrong person, she would not only jeopardize the royalties Joey stood to gain from people thinking he was dead, but she might also put his life at risk, too. But shit was about to get real, and she didn’t deserve to get caught in some firefight. Joey was going to learn what Raylon knew about the people who had hired him, and they were going to act on something and hurt someone. This was his moment.
“We gonna drop you off downtown,” he said, no room in his voice for disagreement. “But you can’t tell anyone what happened—no one, not even your best friend. It could put you and me in danger.” Joey could think of no way that she would be in danger, but he figured it was good to keep her worried for herself if at all possible.
