Patriot

by M. A. Rothman

  “Which is actually good for us,” said Thompson. “No chance of crossing paths, which can get complicated, and there’s nobody to mollify when we take out the bad guy. I’ll put real money that none of the higher-echelon directors in the agency or in the bureau have even been made aware of the nuke issue yet.”

  Connor shook his head. “Our intelligence services really are in a sad state.”

  “It’s not always this bad, but this one especially stinks of political correctness and the lack of will to tell the PC police to go screw themselves,” Thompson said.

  Richards turned to Connor with a grin. “So. What’s your plan?”

  Connor scratched behind his ear and smiled as the possibility of actually doing something useful became real. He scanned the printout from some of the Outfit’s analysts and smiles. “Well, I suppose I’d start with that mosque in Brooklyn that Hakimi called. And if we have satellites or something, is it possible to find the ship Hakimi was on?”

  Richards nodded. “We already have two satellites looking for marine traffic on the Pacific. But I wouldn’t count on finding it before it hits land. It’s a very big ocean. As for the mosque, that seems like a reasonable next step. And unlike the other kids in the intelligence community, we actually go out and do something even if it’s just a hunch.”

  “Good,” Connor said. “Then it’s cool if I make arrangements to pick up the Acela Express to New York?”

  Thompson tapped a few times on his phone. “No, looks like the Outfit’s puddle-jumper is here. It’ll be faster.” He turned off the screens, and the window to the main chamber became transparent again. “Have anything else planned for the mosque?”

  Connor nodded. “I’m thinking to do a decent job, I’ll have to infiltrate the mosque’s population.”

  Richards raised an eyebrow. “You think you can get away with it?”

  Connor had a darker complexion than most Americans, since his parents were Iranian refugees. That had afforded him many assignments in the army that hadn’t been open to his white colleagues. He’d often been used as the main contact to facilitate smooth insertions into hostile territories. Even though most of the indigenous people reacted positively to US troops operating in their areas, they tended to react even more favorably to someone who looked like them.

  “I can pass for someone from the Middle East, and I speak Arabic, Farsi, and Dari. Yeah, I think I can swing it.”

  “And you think they’re just going to let you walk in and be a part of their terror cell?” Thompson said. “‘Come on in, brother, we hate Americans, join our jihad!’”

  “Of course I don’t think that. But I can pay attention to things.” Holding up the printout from the analysts’s downstairs, Connor said, “And I know where to start. Looks like you guys have done some of my research for me, and that Abdullah that I heard on the phone tap, it might actually be Abdullah Khan, a member of that mosque who’s been extremely vocal with his anti-American sentiments.”

  “We know of him,” Richards nodded. “He hates America and he doesn’t care who knows it. We suspect he’s the catalyst behind a lot of recruiting for the jihadi cause. It would definitely be helpful if we can identify who else he’s working with. These cells are like a hydra.”

  “A hydra?” Connor asked. “You mean like Captain America? Marvel Cinematic Universe–type Hydra?”

  Richards snorted and shook his head. “No, I mean the mythological creature. You cut off one head and two more grow back in its place.” He put a hand on Connor’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Be careful in there, and no showboating. Before we move on Khan, we need to know where his connections go. We need to know which heads are going to pop up after we take his off.”

  “If you’re so interested in this guy, I’m surprised you haven’t infiltrated already. I mean, with all this technology, you can’t get inside one little mosque in the middle of New York City?”

  Richards shrugged. “All of their computer systems are offline; nothing is connected to a network. They don’t have a security system or cameras, but instead rely strictly on human eyes and ears. And they’ve got an entire team of round-the-clock security that never leave the premises. At least, not when they’re on duty.”

  Connor pointed at Richards. “See, now that’s information that would go a long way toward getting FISA. That’s not normal activity. That’s suspicious. That’s the kind of information the agency can use to build actual cases against these people.”

  “I already told you, we’re not here to go to court. We’re not trying to send people to Guantánamo Bay for the rest of their lives and wear hoods over their faces every time they’re outside. Our job is to put a stop to these people—permanently.”

  “All right,” Connor said. “But aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Richards pursed his lips, waiting for Connor to continue.

  Connor tapped his chest. “Agency personnel aren’t sanctioned to work inside the US.”

  “You’re kind of slow on the uptake, aren’t you? We’re telling you that you don’t work for the CIA anymore. Not if you don’t want to. And we aren’t constrained by those rules or regulations. We operate wherever we need to.”

  “Are you in?” Thompson asked.

  Connor crossed his arms, taking a moment to consider everything these men had told him. If even a fraction of what they’d said was true, he was entering the line of work that he’d always envisioned himself doing. Making a difference.

  It didn’t take him long to make his decision.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m in.”

  Thompson clapped him on the back. “Great. Let’s get moving.”

  “Moving?”

  Thompson opened the conference room door. “What, did you think we’re just going hang out in the office all day and talk about what-ifs and game plans and TPS reports? We’ve got work to do.”

  Connor appreciated the man’s frankness. He followed him out into the main room. “So when do I get my decoder ring?”

  Richards laughed. “No decoder ring today, Mr. Hunt.”

  “Do I at least get a cool car with ejector seats and rockets behind the headlights?”

  “Not quite. But I think you need an official ID and for that, you need to meet our gadget guy.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Thompson put his hand on the fourth palm reader and looked into the fourth retina scanner they’d come to since leaving the main chamber. A green light passed over his palm, a soft two-tone chime signaled approval, and the door clicked open.

  “You guys really do like your security systems, don’t you?” Connor said, following Thompson through.

  “Can you blame us?” Thompson said, holding the door for Richards. “The one thing you’ll learn about us is that we don’t take shortcuts and we’re nowhere near as trusting as the CIA.”

  Connor frowned. “I didn’t realize the CIA was that trusting.”

  Richards laughed. “How many double agents have come out of that place in the last fifty years? At least six. You want to know how many we’ve had since our inception?”

  Connor took the bait. “How many?”

  Richards held up a hand, making an ‘O’ with his fingers. “Zero.”

  “Pretty impressive.”

  “It’s because we’re extremely careful about who we invite into our ranks,” Thompson said. “It’s one of the benefits of being an invite-only organization. We’ve actually had our eye on you for about two years. So congrats: you’re trustworthy.”

  “Good to know.”

  “And not only that,” Richards added, “anyone we find in here who’s not supposed to be isn’t going to find themselves in a jail cell, much less a court of law.”

  Connor understood the implication.

  They stepped into another large room with a low ceiling composed almost entirely of illumination panels. The slate-gray wall to his right was lined with racks of equipment, and to his left, rows of HDTV monitors. A waist-high table ran almos
t the entire length of the room, covered with strange bits and pieces of tech that Connor didn’t recognize.

  The strong aroma of scented candles filled the air. Connor had never been a candle guy—though he’d had several girlfriends that would buy them for his apartment—but he was almost positive this was a sandalwood or driftwood or something like that. Some name that had no connection to any real smell.

  A short man looked up from the far end of the table, where he’d been hunched over something laid out in several tiny pieces on a rubber mat. The man was maybe five feet two, a bit on the chunky side, with a well-trimmed beard. His long brown hair was combed over to one side, leaving the other, shaved side of his head uncovered.

  He set down a pinky-sized screwdriver and pushed his wire-framed glasses to his forehead. “Another rookie, huh?” he said, smiling.

  Richards made his hand into the shape of a gun and pointed it at the man. “You know, Martin, I think you must have been a detective in another life.”

  Thompson motioned to Connor. “Martin Brice, meet Connor Sloane. Connor, this is Marty. You can think of him as the souped-up quartermaster for the Outfit.”

  Brice set the glasses down on the mat and moved around the table, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, brother. Welcome to the Outfit.”

  Connor pumped the offered hand hard and was more than a little surprised by the man’s grip. He didn’t look like he hit the gym on a regular basis, but he was strong. “The guys tell me you’re supposed to hook me up with an umbrella gun and an invisibility cloak.”

  “Ha! I’m sure they did. Unfortunately, my stash from Deathly Hallows is fresh out.”

  Richards moved along the table, eyeing the equipment. Brice turned and pointed. “Don’t touch anything, Richards. You break it, you buy it.”

  The agent held up both hands, stepping back from the table. “I didn’t touch anything.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Connor studied the equipment on the shelves. Some things were recognizable—computers and other handheld gadgets—while others were not. Many of the items looked like they’d been taken apart and had never been put back together again. But Connor’s gaze was drawn to a partially disassembled weapon on a low shelf. Even with his many years around firearms, Connor didn’t recognize it. It was about the size of an M240b machine gun, but it didn’t match anything in the SF arsenal or stuff he’d seen that was built overseas.

  Richards had moved to a table in the back, where he sniffed at a mug of steaming liquid. A stylistic version of the Bat Signal was painted in black across the mug’s white porcelain. “What’s the flavor this week?”

  “Black Coconut Husk,” Brice said. “It’s not as coconutty as it sounds though. Kind of disappointing.”

  “Hmmm.” Richards straightened. “It smells like burnt water.”

  “You should try it.”

  “No thanks, I’ll stick to coffee.”

  Brice grimaced. “Talk about burnt water.”

  “First things first,” Thompson hitched his thumb toward Connor. “Our boy needs an ID.”

  “Okay,” Brice motioned for Connor to follow him and said, “let’s get you your coin and put you into the system.”

  “Coin?” Connor asked.

  “I’ll get to the coin in a second.” Brice held up a finger as he sat in front of a computer terminal, reached into a desk drawer and grabbed what looked like a lacquered cube about the size of a large fist. “Well, I don’t know what these guys told you, but mostly we don’t carry the kind of IDs you’d think.” He motioned for Connor to take a seat next to the desk.

  “Okay,” Connor took a seat and upon Brice’s direction, placed his hand on a metal plate. “So, if you guys don’t carry IDs, then how do you know who is a member and who isn’t?”

  “Well, that’s the trick. We don’t really exist, so having a conventional ID can pose more problems than it solves.” Brice smiled as he handed Connor what looked like a viewfinder. “Look into that and keep both eyes open.”

  Connor stared into the viewfinder as a green light strobed inside the unit.

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Brice took the viewfinder, tapped a few commands into the computer and slid the black lacquered box toward Connor. “This box has a lacquer coating that is actually an arrayed microheater fabricated on a silicon substrate. The electric resistance of each heater element will measure temperature differences between what is in contact and not in contact between each of the ridges of your finger.”

  Connor panned his gaze to Thompson and Richards, who were both fiddling with something on the table. “Can one of you translate what he said?”

  Richards laughed. “All he said was that thing is a big ole fingerprint reader.”

  “It does more than that,” Brice huffed. “Anyway, the coin inside this box is ready to be programmed. Just go ahead and put your thumb on the box and hold it there for ten seconds.”

  Connor pressed his thumb onto the box as Brice continued explaining.

  “You’ll see a puff of smoke—that’s normal. There’s circuity embedded within the box to take the fingerprint data along with galvanic information and a few other proprietary pieces of biometric data. With that information, the coin will be synched to your body’s signature and will go online.”

  Connor did actually see a wisp of smoke rise from the box as a line burned across its perimeter. “Okay, it’s been ten—”

  “Okay, take your thumb off and open the box.”

  Connor held the box in one hand slowly wiggled the top off. Inside, on top of a velvet-lined bed, lay a silver coin emblazoned with a pyramid with an eye in it, surrounded by some Latin. It was the Outfit’s logo. Connor picked up the coin and turned it over. On its reverse side, there was an image of an eagle carrying a sword in its talons.

  * * *

  Connor hefted the coin in his hand and said, “Okay. So, a coin? This can’t be the ID you guys use. Is it?”

  “It is,” Brice held up his hand and said, “before you start stating the obvious, like how can a coin be an ID, it can be faked, and all the other nonsense everyone prattles on about, let me fill you in on a few details.

  “First, if someone approached you on the streets and claimed they were a member of the Outfit, and that would almost certainly never happen, but if it did, you’d be fully within your right to ask for proof. This coin is that proof.”

  Connor turned the coin over and studied it with a frown.

  Brice continued, “When two members of the Outfit grab hold of an identification coin, it quickly becomes obvious whether they’re a member or not. Go ahead and hold out your coin with the eye facing up.”

  Connor gripped the edge of his coin, showed it to Brice who reached out and gripped the other side of the coin. For a moment, nothing happened. But then, after a second or two, the coin grew warmer, and they eye in the pyramid began glowing.

  “Son of a bitch.” Connor smiled. “That’s cool as hell.”

  Brice grabbed the empty lacquered box and put it into his desk drawer. “Over time, you’ll find yourself in situations that require that ID to get into places. Just like you always have your wallet and keys, learn to always have that ID on you.”

  “Okay, now that he’s got his ID, what do you have for us today, Martin?” Thompson asked. “We need to get our boy here kitted out before he leaves.”

  Brice raised an eyebrow. “Leaving already, huh?”

  “That’s what they tell me,” Connor said, shrugging.

  “Well then, we better get you hooked up.” He turned to Thompson. “What were you thinking? Standard kit?”

  “That’s right.”

  Connor raised a finger toward the weapon he’d been eyeing. “Before we get too far into his, I have to know… is that part of the ‘standard kit’? Because if it’s not, I’d like it to be.”

  Brice followed his finger, saw what Connor was pointing at, and laughed. “The REMAG? Absolutely not.”

  “The REMAG?” Connor asked.
<
br />   The tiny man’s expression shifted to something like elation.

  Richards put his face in his hands. “Oh no. You put the quarter in.”

  Brice ignored the remark and motioned Connor over to the shelf. “Recoilless Electromagnetic rifle, the only one of its kind. My design.” He grunted, straining to lift the bulky frame. “It’s not exactly recoilless, but I’ve got recoil compensators that reduce the kick by a good amount. It can throw a caseless shell up to ten thousand meters. Accurate up to four kilometers. And other than a loud zap, it’s pretty quiet for what it does.”

  “Except it doesn’t work,” Richards said. “It still knocks most people on their ass when firing it.”

  Brice rolled his eyes. “It works, it just has some… glitches.”

  “Do you mind?” Connor asked, motioning to the weapon.

  Brice handed it over.

  The rifle was a lot heavier than it looked. Connor guessed it was about thirty pounds, unloaded. He held it up to eye level, as if he was going to shoot it. He could only keep it up for a few seconds before his arms started quivering.

  “Probably too heavy for field applications,” he said, handing it back.

  “Yeah, well the next smallest is on the deck of a battleship, so…”

  Connor nodded. “I’ve heard of the tech before, just never seen it in handheld form.”

  “No one has,” Brice said, setting the weapon back on the shelf. “Like I said, it’s not finished. For you though,” he pointed a finger at Connor, “I have something a little more… conspicuous.”

  The technician crossed the room to a black metal cabinet, put his palm against its scanner, then pulled the door open. He selected a box from the top shelf and carried it over to the central table. He slid his glasses back on, then pulled the top off the box.