by Joseph Nagle
“She must have safeguarded any classified information?”
“Of course she did, but she was a sentimental woman, that one; she’s been using the same code for her safe for nearly twenty years: our wedding date. It was only a matter of time before she brought something home that would matter to me. I’ve known about Operation Merlin for years; I knew about it when it first failed so miserably. And when I saw the Pentagon reports on those ore deposits in Afghanistan…”
“Your eyes lit up.” It was York’s turn to add something to the conversation. “How can you kill your wife and all of those people; how can you give terrorists the ability to build nuclear weapons?! They’ll use them against us!”
Door’s response was truly evil as he glared at York. “That’s the point.” Door looked at Michael quizzically. “You haven’t told him yet, have you?”
“Told me what?” asked York. “What’s he talking about, Doc?”
Michael answered, “That’s the goal of the Order, kid—to cull the population. They want us to be at war, to constantly be at each other’s throats. It’s how they operate; it’s how they keep their hands on control. They want us to kill each other so that they can maintain control of the resources, of the wealth. He’s right; they are everywhere.”
York’s lips snarled at Door who stood firm with a fresh look of arrogance on his face.
Michael held up his hand as if to say to York keep it together. York took the cue, but it was obvious that he wanted to tear Door apart. His body was tensed, and he looked ready to spring forward at any moment.
“Doc?” asked York instead, pointing toward the salon’s television. “May I have the pleasure?”
Michael cocked a thin smile. Sure, why not. “By all means, kid; you’ve earned it.”
“Pleasure, what pleasure?” a confused Door asked. “What the hell is he talking about, Sterling?”
York picked up a remote from the salon’s table and pointed it at the flatpanel LCD TV affixed to the wall and turned it on.
“Channel twelve,” instructed Sheila.
“Thanks,” nodded York as he flipped to channel twelve—a live satellite feed from CNN. He turned to Door and Faust. “You two may think you’ve got the White House in the bag; you may think that we parasites, or bugs, or peons—or whatever we are to you—but you don’t know shit. I’ll bet your Order never saw this coming.”
As Door and Faust watched the live feed, the blood drained from each man’s face.
“Impossible,” stammered Door.
“My God,” added Faust.
On the screen, live footage streamed of the once-presumed-dead Elizabeth Door in her hospital bed. Across the bottom of the screen flashed the words: “Alive!”
It was then that Door did collapse into the chair. Ignoring the futile nature of the situation, he weakly said, “This doesn’t change anything, Sterling. I still have the evidence that you and your sidekick here were behind the destruction of Notre Dame.”
The attempt was not a good one. Michael and Door both knew it.
Michael, his weapon still pointed firmly at Door, stepped closer to the man. “You killed thousands in that attack on Notre Dame—they were innocent!”
“Innocent?” Door mocked. “None of them were innocent.”
At that, Michael slapped Door across the man’s jaw with his pistol. Door grunted heavily and fell backward where he sat. Michael screamed at him, “Save your bullshit the world is full of parasites speech; I’ve heard it before! The diatribe is tiring, so spare us the Order’s regal, self-anointing pitch!”
Michael re-aimed his weapon inches from Door’s face; Door squinted heavily, his lips quivering. “Dr. Sterling,” Door asked, this time more formally, “how did…how did you know it was me?”
Michael thought about his answer for a moment. Before saying anything, he pointed to Sheila and gestured for her to leave. When she did, Michael said to Door, “In the Secret Archives of the Vatican, stored in their most secured room, I came across a stack of vellums—notes, debts that the Vatican holds. The names on those notes were some of the most well-known on the planet: businessmen, aristocratic families, leaders, dignitaries, and presidents. But the one that was most glaring was for an Armand-Charles de la Porte. At first, I didn’t think much of it—my French isn’t the best—but the name stuck. Porte. That name translated into English means Door. It didn’t take much to do the math: your wife, Senator Faust, your VP nomination. But it was something else, too.”
At that, all eyes in the salon looked simultaneously at Dr. Michael Sterling.
“I couldn’t figure out the connection with Afghanistan. What interest would you have in that war-torn country? The question tormented me to no end; that is, until I remembered the book of satellite images that the kid here carried.”
Michael snapped his fingers at York who reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out the small book. He threw it at Michael. Michael snatched it out of the air and tossed it into Door’s lap.
“Look at the lower right-hand corner, in the margin. What does it say?”
Door did just that and slumped. In small, faded print was the manufacturer’s name. “Door Enterprises,” mumbled Francis Q. Door.
“That’s right, Door Enterprises. Your company,” Michael parroted. “When I was being chased by my own men from my home, I made my way to a safe house—that safe house doubles as the headquarters for the US Geological Survey. There, a map hung on the wall, much like the ones in that book. The map in that safe house outlined mineral and ore deposits in the US—guess whose company made that map? I found it odd that the History Thief demanded that map book from us. Now why would he have wanted that book, Door?”
No one answered; they didn’t need to. They had already heard and recorded the answer earlier.
Sheila returned. She was no longer wearing her flight attendant uniform; instead, she had on a jumpsuit and a helmet. Clear goggles were pulled over her eyes. On her back was a parachute.
She was carrying two other packs and two helmets. York went to her and grabbed one of each and put them on quickly and expertly.
She gave Michael a thumbs-up and then held up two fingers.
Two minutes.
He nodded, understanding the signal.
Michael backpedaled and grabbed the other chute and helmet. He put them on and returned to the two dejected men.
Hovering over Door, Michael said matter-of-factly, “When I said you had one option, I lied.”
Michael shouted through the side of his mouth at Sheila, “Now!”
Michael never took his eyes off of the men; he wanted to see their faces when they realized what was coming. He wanted to see the fear that would flash through them. He wanted them to feel what all of those souls in Notre Dame had felt, what the families of the victims still felt.
What his wife had felt.
He wanted them to feel the presence of death.
Instantly, the cabin was filled with the noise of a train; a horribly cold wind circled viciously throughout. Door covered his eyes with his forearms and watched in horror as Sheila put a small oxygen tube into her mouth and then jumped from the plane.
Senator Faust screamed out, “You can’t, Sterling! Don’t do this!”
But no one heard his cries; the torrent of wind and noise made it impossible.
Door was frozen to his seat, unable to fathom what he was witnessing.
York was already in the plane’s opened doorway; he put in his oxygen tube, but before leaping, he looked back at Door and Faust and gave them both one very emphatic gesture with his waving middle finger.
He jumped.
Michael rolled his eyes at York’s immaturity but smiled slightly, too; he lowered the protective goggles and inserted his oxygen tube. He looked back at the two men; they both wore the blank expressions of men both sure and unsure of what was happening.
Michael looked at a horrified Francis Q. Door, took the oxygen from his mouth, and shouted, “You were wrong; I do have
it in me!”
Michael jumped.
Both men sat in the plane and stared at the opened door. The currents of the tornado-like wind were throwing the contents of the salon into a spinning frenzy.
Michael, York, and the flight attendant were gone.
A loud, heavy metallic banging noise drew their attention. Over and over again, the overbearing collision of metal on metal added to their fear.
Up ahead, the cockpit door violently swung left and right slamming into the wall on either side of it; Door stood with difficulty and lurched awkwardly toward the cockpit.
There, he grabbed onto the flapping door and looked inside.
All he saw was two empty chairs and a mix of dangling wires. The radio had been ripped out.
His face went white.
He had never felt so much fear.
He fell to his knees.
But it wasn’t in prayer.
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
BELIEVING ISN’T THE
SAME AS TRUSTING
OUTSIDE OF LANGLEY
Michael floated through the dark sky.
There was no light; the sun had not yet come up. A small display on the inside of his goggles told him his path was true. The green hue from the night vision made the fall more surreal.
He closed his eyes.
Gravity played with his senses.
He loved it—jumping was the thing he had loved the most about special operations.
The air was frigid, but the polypropylene knit undergarments he wore were doing their job effectively.
He fell through the clouds as wind and little droplets of moisture rushed over his hands, his face, and his ears.
They stung a bit against the small amount of exposed skin.
The past days had been so loud, so full of anger and violence.
Now, all was quiet.
He thought of nearly nothing.
Bliss.
It always felt this way—he was alone in the sky, separated from everything physical.
The moment of peace was far too short. The reminder from the altimeter buzzed against his wrist. It was time; all good things must end.
He opened his eyes.
Michael pulled the ripcord and used the digital display and night vision in his goggles to track expertly his path to the drop zone and guided the RAM air chute to it.
A small array of chem-lights outlined the place to land.
Michael made out four figures: Sheila and York were already there, rolling up their chutes. A third man, their contact, was standing next to a vehicle. The fourth figure was rolled into a ball in the back of the black F-350 heavy duty truck, which demarcated the drop zone. Its driver was leaning against the hood watching as Michael tiptoed his landing five yards from him.
Quickly, Michael pulled in his chute, rolling it arm over arm.
The sun had started to rise.
“Glad to have you back, sir; nice landing,” said Jorge Garrido as he grabbed Michael’s rolled up chute and set it into the opened bed of the truck. “Langley has been apprised of your situation; the information that you downloaded onto the servers while in Portugal was invaluable. I’ve been given a message from the director himself.”
“What is it?”
“‘Good job’ and ‘let’s play golf this Sunday’ to discuss. His treat.”
It was back to business for both the director and Michael.
Without warning, Michael grabbed Garrido by his collar and threw him against the hood of the truck and then dragged him to the ground. There, Michael shoved his boot into Garrido’s neck; Garrido wanted to cough, but the pressure was too much.
“Mr. Garrido, I’m the deputy director of the National Clandestine Services. I don’t have room in my organization for an officer whose allegiances are elsewhere.”
Michael released the pressure somewhat. “So, tell me, Mr. Garrido; whom do you serve?”
Jorge coughed violently but looked directly into Michael’s eyes. “Sir, I’m a Watchman, but I swear, I belong to the CIA—just like the colonel; he was the head of the Swiss Guard and a Watchman, but his loyalty was to the pope. I’ve done nothing that contradicts my oath!”
“How can I believe that?” spat Michael.
“In the bed of the truck,” Jorge coughed, “under the blue tarp.”
Michael nodded at York who went to the truck and pulled back a blue plastic tarp. “Hey, Doc, you friends with a short and chunky bald guy that looks like George from Seinfeld?”
Michael glanced at Jorge who said, “A gift, sir. He’s been playing both sides. He’s the one that broke into our database and extracted the information on Operation Merlin; he’s the one that leaked it to the Intelligence Oversight Committee.”
“Can you prove that, Mr. Garrido?”
“Yes, yes, I can. I traced the IP that pinged the servers. It took some doing, but I eventually got through all of his backdoors, traps, and firewalls. The IP address went straight to his terminal in his office. I’ve made a backup of his computer; it shows everything: dates, times, files—everything that he’s been doing for the past three years.”
York pulled Stanford from the bed of the truck. His mouth was gagged, and a trickle of dried blood marked the place between his nostrils and upper lip. Behind his gag, Stanford glared at Garrido.
“Bring him here, kid.”
York complied.
Stanford was in front of Michael. When Michael yanked out the gag, Stanford spat a bit. He looked at both Michael and York before saying, “I see that you both aren’t dead. How nice for you two.”
“He killed the section chief, sir,” offered Garrido.
“I should’ve killed you!” an angered Stanford yelled. “We had a deal!”
Michael grabbed Stanford’s arm and yanked up the sleeve. On his forearm was a purple and red, bruised bite mark. “Seems you’ve been busy.”
It was the bite from his wife. Michael had seen it on the recording he had been shown before the Yukon cleaved a small vehicle in half and then flipped with him still in it.
Michael could feel the anger beginning deep within him; at his core, a small pit of pure hatred began to swell. He clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes at the man who had put his hands on his wife, at the man who had kidnapped and delivered her to that sociopath.
Michael moved closer to Stanford.
“There’s not a thing you can do to me that will stop us. The Order is everywhere, Sterling. Have your moment, but we’ll be back.”
His moment would be had, but not this way.
Michael put his mouth to Stanford’s ear. “The Order may be back, but you won’t.” His next words were a command. “Gag him and put him back in the truck, kid.”
“Gladly.”
York shoved the gag back in, not all too kindly; Stanford shouted muffled protests in vain. With a knee to the man’s belly, York doubled him over and then picked him up over his shoulder like a sack of dirtied clothing. With a very loud thud, Stanford was slammed into the bed of the truck.
He was knocked unconscious.
Michael ignored York’s manhandling of the man; there were more important matters to attend.
“Now get your ass off the dirt and show me what else you have, and, Mr. Garrido, you’d better impress me. I’m not yet convinced that I should trust you. We’re about ten clicks from anyone; no one would hear the bullet.”
Jorge swallowed dryly and pulled himself to his feet. “Sir, I’m with the Watchmen, but I’m CIA first. The Watchmen’s role is to only step in when the Order appears. That’s all I’ve done; all I will ever do. I would not betray my country; and I would not betray the CIA. Stanford approached me; he said he knew I was a Watchman and that he wanted to leave the Order. I never believed him, but I saw my chance to smoke out more of them.”
York eyed him cautiously, Michael and Sheila, too.
Michael nodded toward the truck.
Pleasantries aside, Jorge opened up the rear door of the truck’s crew cab; on the
seat was an opened laptop.
York moved closer to Michael and whispered, “Do you believe him?”
“He brought us Stanford, and he’s going to find that Antonov. He’s also the one that got us on the Gulfstream. Yeah. I believe him, but, kid, make no mistake and learn this fast: in this business, believing someone and trusting them are two completely different things.”
York nodded.
Michael walked away from York and stood behind Garrido as he typed. York and Sheila followed.
“It took some doing, sir, but I cross-referenced the Antonov-225’s fueling patterns. The plane’s parent company, Volga Dnepr, is based out of the UK. They regularly position and deposition the 225 out of Sweden, but the last time the plane was fueled, it was in the northeastern corner of Russia.”
“That’s a bit of hop from Sweden.”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“When, Mr. Garrido?”
“About four hours ago, sir.”
York interrupted, “But it could fly anywhere, right?”
Garrido replied, “Yes, Staff Sergeant, you are correct. So, I cracked into Volga’s servers and found the most recent invoices and flight plan for the 225. The problem was, the invoices didn’t make a lot of sense.”
“How so?” asked Michael.
“Sir, the 225 fueled last in Russia, a few hundred kilometers north of Magadan. The plane doesn’t have enough fuel to make a trip safely to Afghanistan, and the flight plan was ambiguous—it listed the flight as maintenance. The flight plan shows the cargo’s weight along with the plane’s just north of 600,000 kilos; it’s impossible that the 225 could land in Afghanistan—any part of it—with the amount of fuel and cargo it took on.”
“It’s going to refuel somewhere else then?”
“Negative, sir; Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan lie between Russia and Afghanistan. There’s no airport or landing strip friendly to a Russian tail number,” Garrido replied.
“China?” asked York.
“No way is that plane going anywhere near Chinese airspace, Staff Sergeant; China’s friendly only to China. They’d put a SAM right up its tail in a heartbeat.”
