All Necessary Force pl-2

by Brad Taylor

  As Jennifer worked through my bag, she asked, “How many companies are there like us?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. A lot. So many that probably only the comptroller or Kurt Hale knows for sure. None have a business like ours, though. All the other companies that I know of are just that — companies full of corporate types. We’re the only one founded and run by operators.”

  Jennifer reflexively touched her eye, looking at me with a sad, wistful expression, like a child who had saved forever to buy a toy only to be disappointed in the reality when it arrived at the door, a pale imitation of the TV commercial promises.

  “I don’t think anyone in the Taskforce thinks about me that way.”

  I regretted my choice of words, because she was right. It would take more than some training and assessment to win them over, but she was on the way. In truth, I respected her abilities greatly, but deep down, even I still harbored a sliver of doubt. I covered it up.

  “Bullshit. Knuckles doesn’t feel that way anymore. He’s a believer now. Anyway, who cares what those assholes think? It only matters what you think.”

  I changed the subject. “Knuckles will be here any minute. Where do you want to take him for dinner? He’s never been to Charleston.”

  “I just figured you’d take him to Red’s Ice House. It’s why you rented this office space in the first place.” She smiled. “So you could walk home.”

  She was partly right. I had snapped up an office on Shem Creek in the town of Mount Pleasant because the depressed economy made it a steal, but being a stone’s throw from my favorite haunt hadn’t hurt the sale.

  “We can go wherever you want. No bars. I’ll even dress up.”

  She zipped up my bag and stared at it for a second like she was trying to figure out what to say. What came out took me completely by surprise.

  “Pike, I’ve already got plans tonight. I’m meeting someone downtown. I figured you’d want a boy’s night out.”

  “Plans? Tonight? With who?”

  “Nobody. Just a college friend I haven’t seen since I graduated.”

  “A guy?”

  She didn’t have to say anything. Her expression told me it was. I started shoving all the loose gear I wasn’t taking back into a duffel bag, using more force than was necessary. Before it could get any more awkward, Knuckles came through the door, dragging a backpack.

  “Hey, workmates. Ready to do some sightseeing on the government dime?”

  He saw our expressions and said, “Did I interrupt something?”

  Jennifer pulled out onto Coleman Boulevard headed toward the Ravenel Bridge, feeling a little guilty. She really was just meeting a friend from college, but she’d hidden it from Pike because she’d known it wouldn’t be taken that way. She knew him better than he thought. She knew the terrible history and had seen the demons he constantly fought. She had simply wanted to protect him from any pain, but had failed. She had seen it in his eyes, and the hurt had boomeranged right back into her.

  She knew Pike’s emotions were still ragged from the loss of his family, and gave him space because of it, but the truth was she had her own confusion to deal with. There was no doubt she felt drawn to Pike, but she wasn’t sure if it was real. Last year he had been willing to sacrifice his life for hers. Not once, but twice in selfless acts that had touched her core. She couldn’t tell if that was affecting her feelings. If maybe she wasn’t projecting a debt she felt she owed.

  The idea of going to Assessment and launching the company had been intriguing, but initially she had shied away. Pike had been insistent, and she’d acquiesced simply because he’d asked. Well, mostly. She couldn’t deny that some part of her had enjoyed the excitement and satisfaction of success. And Pike had promised that it wouldn’t all be Taskforce business. She’d get to do some real research with real scientists. She knew it would just be to keep the cover intact, but that was good enough. Where Pike fit into all of this she was unsure.

  She realized that they were going to have to talk. To get it out in the open, for real. For either good or bad.

  She was broken out of her thoughts by her cell phone. Looking at the screen, she saw it was a call from Texas. She didn’t recognize the number but did know the area code. As soon as she answered, she wished she hadn’t.

  “Hey, baby. How’re you doing?”

  Immediately sick to her stomach, she was taken back to the fear, like she’d never left.

  “What do you want?” she said.

  “Nothing. I just wanted to catch up.”

  “You’re not supposed to contact me. Ever. Your dad promised. You promised.”

  Her voice quavered, and she hated herself for it. You’re not the same girl he beat on. You’re better than that.

  “Well, Dad and I have sort of… fallen out. So, no more money from the trust fund, and no more agreements that he made for me.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you. Good-bye.”

  “Wait! Okay, so we can skip the small talk. I saw you found some sort of temple last year. Made a little money.”

  “Yes. So what.”

  “Well, I was hoping you’d be willing to share a little of your good fortune with me. Not a lot. Just enough to get your ex back on his feet.”

  She couldn’t believe the audacity. “Chase, forget it. Forget this number and forget we were ever married. You’re not getting a dime.”

  His voice went from silky to rabid. “You little bitch! I’m just asking for a little help. Consider it payback for all of my money you spent when we were married. It’s only fair.”

  “I hear you, and I’m hanging up. Stay away.”

  She cut off his screaming and threw the phone in the passenger seat, shaking. The voice of her ex-husband had released a kaleidoscope of images and feelings, all competing for attention in her mind. The beating, the blood and vomit. But mostly the terror. Something she’d run from and thought she’d left behind, but his voice was enough to take her back.

  It dawned on her that she had felt this same way in the saloon. Not as extreme, but a knife edge of terror facing a roomful of men all intent on beating her. Just like her ex-husband. Maybe even taking joy in it like her ex-husband. The difference had been that she had learned how to fight back. She’d been so intent on survival, she hadn’t made the connection. Now it left her a little disgusted.

  The Taskforce was supposed to be made of heroes. Pure, with her being Tonto to the Taskforce Lone Ranger, both only doing what was necessary for the defense of the nation. She’d seen Pike’s selfless side but had also seen him act in ways that were borderline homicidal. She’d put it down to the torture of his past. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Maybe the difference between the black hats and the white hats was simply the interpretation of the artist. Maybe they’re all like my ex-husband, but they’ve just found an outlet for the violence.

  She wondered again if she’d made the right choice.

  10

  It was a little bit early, but Congressman Ellis told his secretary good-bye and left the Hart Office Building. He still needed to pack for tomorrow’s travel to the international trade fair in Cairo, Egypt, and the hearings had worn him out.

  He strolled at a leisurely pace up Delaware Avenue, away from the Capitol. When he reached Union Station, his heart picked up a bit. He’d either see that his instructions had been passed, and the meeting in Cairo was set, or he’d see that he’d wasted six months’ worth of work.

  While in D.C., he lived in a luxury condominium complex at Judiciary Square, just inside Interstate 395 on Massachusetts Avenue. It had taken quite a while to find a location close enough to a Metro station that allowed him to walk to work, and he’d looked hard. His business had to be put on hold until he could, which was a distinct motivator. There was no way he was going to attempt contact with a driver watching his every move, and going out for a walk every day would have raised someone’s suspicions.

  Walking home from work, however, was just a congressman judiciously using the t
axpayers’ money. No driver for him. No, sir. He’d rather use his God-given legs.

  He went straight through the station and took the escalator down to the food court. Walking toward the Union Station Metro stop, he scanned the wall of the up escalator. There were three food-court tables against the wall, and between the second and third table, both occupied with tired tourists eating a hasty meal, he saw a Chinese character scribbled in chalk. He recognized it as the character for victory, and felt the tension leave his body. The transfer was a go.

  If he’d seen the character for fail, he would have known the transfer was off. No character at all meant his Chinese contacts hadn’t gotten the instructions.

  He had worked for the Chinese for close to forty years, and found them just as confusing now as when he’d first made contact. They insisted on this archaic method of communication, as if it were still the seventies. Originally, they had simply used different colored chalk to denote messages, but there was so much intrigue going on in Washington that, once, they had actually confused signals with some other group. The Chinese had settled on chalking characters from their language and had steadfastly continued doing so while everyone else had gone high tech. They would order food, sit at one of the three tables, and sometime during the meal scribble out the message. Invariably, the tile of the wall would be wiped clean within twenty-four hours.

  Ellis found the old-fashioned tradecraft ironic because his job involved transferring cutting-edge U.S. technology to China. He had asked to change tactics, to begin using the very technology he was transferring, but the Chinese had refused. He assumed it was because they knew nobody could hack a chalk mark, and that they liked him taking all the risks. He didn’t really mind. He had to walk through the food court to get to the Metro, so it was a natural movement he took every day to get home. Nearly impossible to prove he was doing something else. So far, the risk had been worth it, with only one close call, and it hadn’t involved chalk messages.

  In the 1990s, three separate Chinese rockets with U.S. satellite payloads had crashed. The U.S. satellite companies, in an effort to prevent future losses, had helped the Chinese with their rocket systems — without going through the proper channels in the State Department for release of possible military technology.

  The ensuing political carnage had spawned a select committee on Chinese industrial espionage, which had caused Congressman Ellis a great deal of concern. After all, he knew that the crashes were done on purpose. The transfer of technology had been the satellites themselves, supposedly obliterated by the explosion. While they were, in fact, destroyed, the specific computer chips that regulated their functions were not.

  Unwittingly, the satellite manufacturers had almost caused his downfall with their stupid release of data, all in the name of profit. Of course, the Chinese had gleefully accepted the information, getting a two-for-one deal. Ellis had managed to become a member of the investigating committee and had diverted attention away from himself, but it had been close.

  He didn’t consider himself a spy. Well, not in the traditional sense. He would never sell U.S. military or diplomatic secrets to the Chinese. Only technology, letting them sort out how they would use it. He wasn’t naive. He knew the information could enhance China’s military systems, but in his own mind he had to draw the line somewhere.

  He had started out as a case officer in the CIA during the Cold War and had become jaded at how the game was played. And to him, it was just that: a game. Friends one day, enemies the next. And it hadn’t ended with the Cold War, either. It had just carried over. Arm the Afghans with stingers to defeat the Soviets, then invade the country twenty years later, fighting the same damn Afghans we had cultivated as friends. It was just a game, and he’d make a profit on it, just like Raytheon, Loral, or Halliburton.

  Going up the elevator in his condominium complex, he reflected on the risks of this latest venture. In the past, he’d simply worked in the shadows. A key vote here, a corporate nudge there, a little information passed on locations, times, or meetings. Now he was the middleman, and it made him both excited and uneasy.

  The Chinese had contacted him a little over a year and a half ago, irate, claiming he had failed to warn them about a covert action in Sudan. At the time, he’d told them the truth: He had no knowledge of any covert act against Chinese interests. While on the Intelligence Committee, he wasn’t a vaunted member of the “Gang of Eight,” so he wasn’t privy to anything considered extraordinarily sensitive, which an attack on Chinese assets would most certainly be. The Chinese had abruptly gone silent at his protest, then come back a few months later with a request: Find them a weapon they knew existed. Obtain samples and transfer them to the Chinese.

  He’d never, ever been tasked before. In fact, he didn’t even consider himself an “asset” of the Chinese. More like an entrepreneur. When he’d balked, he’d received a veiled threat — something else that had never happened. While the threat irked him, he had decided to go ahead because of the money involved. He was given parameters to research by his handlers, and begun to dig, using his Intelligence Committee standings. He’d found what they were looking for in the Defense Advanced Projects Research Agency, and now was within a month of transferring the technology.

  He had no idea how the Chinese knew what to look for, knew how to point him in the right direction. Maybe there were more like him in America, but he didn’t think so. If there were, and they were feeding the parameters to the Chinese, why wouldn’t they just feed them the device? Why make him dig, and risk exposure? At the very least, why not just tell him where to look? One thing was for sure; he was out after this. The risk was just too great. And the Chinese were now treating him a little like a doormat instead of the rock star he had been. He’d had enough of their ungrateful shit.

  Opening the door, he felt his BlackBerry chime with a message to check his e-mail. Probably a change in the flight schedule.

  He connected securely with his congressional account and saw a note from his aide, short and to the point: “You said to keep tabs on this guy.” Attached was a report from the Joint POW-MIA Accounting Command detailing possible information regarding the location of Christopher Hale, MIA in 1970, Cambodia. The name brought a flash of nostalgia, a comfortable blanket he found himself wanting more and more as he grew older. So they finally found him.

  He remembered the disbelief he had felt when the North Vietnamese had said a reconnaissance team was in the area. At first, he had dismissed the alarm, since he knew for certain where every recon team was targeted and had routinely passed that information on to the NVA. The nearest one was a full day’s walk from the camp. After the gunfire erupted, he had fled with his Chinese counterparts, desperate to beat the bombing that was sure to come.

  Returning to his job as CIA liaison to MACV-SOG, he had been relieved to learn the team had died, then mortified to hear one man was MIA. He had lived in absolute terror for weeks, waiting for Chris Hale to pop out of the jungle and finger him. As time went on, and the man never appeared, the terror faded, only spiking briefly in 1973 when the POWs were released by North Vietnam. Chris Hale wasn’t among them.

  Returning to the United States, he had forgotten all about the man, until the drive for MIAs in Vietnam had reached a fever pitch in the U.S. consciousness. He’d used his position as a newly minted congressman to be updated on the status of Hale and had done so every year since, more out of a perceived connection to the man than anything else.

  He opened the report and felt a small sliver of fear. The only items listed were a reconnaissance journal and a camera. He immediately willed himself to calm down. No way any film has lasted this long, and even if it has, the odds of it having anything besides some bamboo bunkers is nil.

  Just to satisfy his curiosity, he Googled “processing old film,” and felt the fear return. Apparently, it not only could be done, but it was done routinely. There were whole Web sites dedicated to finding old cameras at garage sales, developing the film, then trying t
o determine who is in the picture. Several companies were solely dedicated to developing outdated formats, and claimed success with film from the early 1900s. A roll of film from 1970 was well within the art of the possible.

  He returned to the JPAC report, seeing the items were currently located in the U.S. Embassy in Cambodia and that the investigation was labeled INITIAL, which meant JPAC wouldn’t get to it for at least six weeks.

  He closed out his account. He had too much on his plate to worry about it now. Just have to beat JPAC to the camera when I get back.

  11

  Peering out of the grimy Kentucky Fried Chicken window, through the growing throngs of Egyptian tourists, Rafik saw a young man wearing a white shirt enter the café and look at his watch. At precisely one o’clock, he sat down and removed his sunglasses. Rafik waited. The man pulled a tattered paperback book from his pocket, thumbed through the pages, then placed the book facedown on the table, still open.

  So far so good. Rafik had never met the contact from the Muslim Brotherhood and didn’t know what he looked like. The only way he could be sure he wasn’t walking up to a stranger or into a trap was if the contact followed his instructions to the letter.

  When the man crossed his legs, the final signal, Rafik started to rise, then abruptly sat back down, a spike of adrenaline coursing through him. Left leg over right. Not right over left. To protect himself, he had given the contact an emergency signal. If the man was compromised and was making the meeting under duress, he was to cross his left leg over his right. If everything was fine, it would be right over left.