Vertigo

by Wesley Cross

  “Wait a sec. What kind of forces?”

  “Global forces, Andy.” He made a circling gesture with his hand. “I think some international bigwigs have formed a cabal and they are ruthless, Andy. They are bribing, extorting, and killing, and will do anything to get their way. This is a power grab on a massive scale that transcends international borders. I don’t understand how far this goes and it scares me. And you should know by now that not a lot of things scare me, Andy. That’s why we need a global reach. No congressional oversight, no bullshit. For now, pick the guys from Delta and the teams. Later, establish our own shop. A training camp and the whole nine yards.”

  “And POTUS is on board with this?”

  Rovinsky didn’t answer and stared at his friend.

  “Shit, Jim. That’s crazy. I don’t know if I want in, man. Frankly, I’m not even sure I want to hear about it at all. I don’t like the idea of spending the rest of my life in Gitmo or some other dark hole with no visitation rights. Besides, what would I even do at a place like that?”

  “You’d take the helm,” Rovinsky said. “You can—”

  “Stop. Jim, this is madness.” Hunt interrupted him. He turned around and grabbed the door handle. “I’m an analyst. That’s all I’ve ever done for the agency.”

  “Wait—”

  “No way, Jim. No fucking way. I’m going. In fact, I’m leaving the agency. Period. This conversation never happened.”

  He reached out and grabbed Hunt’s shoulder and turned him around, locking his eyes with his old friend.

  “You’re not just an analyst, Andy. Don’t fucking play coy with me. But yes, to a degree, you’re still an outsider. But I need an outsider,” he said forcefully, “an outsider who understands the rules. I can’t let one of the locals make decisions like these. I don’t know who to trust and they’re too deep in this; they can’t see the big picture. Don’t give me the answer now. Take a week. Look at the docs, use that big head of yours and let me know.”

  “I’ll look at them, but the answer is still no.”

  Rovinsky watched as the man disappeared inside the enormous Maybach. A moment later, the white beast effortlessly accelerated away, the understated roar of its powerful engine echoing throughout the parking lot. Rovinsky flipped the switch, taking the privacy screen down, and rolled down the windows.

  “Going back, sir?”

  “Yes,” he said, relaxing. The draft from the windows was hot, but it was better than the stale heat of the car.

  He’d made the right choice. Andrew Hunt might have said no for now, but he hadn’t seen the documents yet. The trail of crumbs he’d found was leading somewhere so dark, it made his skin crawl. And if he could sense it, there was no way one of the smartest minds in the country would miss it.

  What he was proposing was dangerous. And if things were to go off the rails, spending the rest of their lives in jail could be a real possibility. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. If there were other solutions, he failed to see them. For better or for worse, there was no other way.

  3

  July 2007

  Kenya

  “This is unfair,” the boy whispered.

  “I know,” she whispered back, without moving.

  “I’m scared, Miss Audrey,” he said, and leaned his head on her shoulder. “They are very bad people.”

  “It’s okay to be scared, Dalmar,” she said, “but we have to keep calm. I promise you, we’ll figure something out. We need to stick together.”

  The place still smelled of wood and fresh paint. Two dozen tablet-armchair desks with gray tops and bright-blue seats filled the classroom in neat rows. A few days ago, she had watched them being brought in, assembled, and put in the classrooms with quiet joy. She made this possible. Because of her and the tireless help of a few local administrators, there was going to be a brand-new school in a place where kids knew nothing but war for the longest time.

  Four years ago, when Audrey Hunt first visited the town, the place now occupied by the new school was an abandoned pharmacy with a faded sign quoting the Bible: “Jesus is the way, the truth and the life. John 14:6.” A few rusted satellite dishes were perched on top of the sign, as if trying to receive a message from God himself. Now, the new school, she hoped, was going to be a launching pad for success for countless bright minds who hadn’t stood a chance before.

  The pain abruptly ended the trip down memory lane. Her bound feet and wrists were starting to feel numb. Her shoulder, where the butt of the AK-47 landed, was hot and sore. But she was still alive.

  She had been standing in front of the building with the director, his nephew Dalmar, the school administrator Canab, and a security guard when a rusty Toyota Hilux with a mounted machine gun pulled up. Her memories were hazy after that. She remembered the guard being shot, his body collapsing onto the dusty road. She remembered the director trying to shield them as one of the guerrillas slammed the butt of his rifle into the old man’s face. She pulled the boy into her arms as the men forced them back into the building. She tried to protest, and that was when one of the soldiers hit her in the back.

  The three of them were tied up and then thrown into one of the classrooms on the third floor. After one hour, two men came in and dragged a sobbing Canab out. A few seconds later, Audrey could hear the woman’s screams from the room next door, and that’s when she made Dalmar hum a song. A few minutes later, a lone shot rang out, and the screaming stopped. She listened to the angry men’s voices outside, and for a few long minutes, she sat on the hard floor, heart in her throat, preparing for the worst. But the voices sounded farther and farther away and then there was silence.

  “You need to do something for me, Dalmar, okay?”

  “Yes, Miss Audrey.” His voice cracked with emotion, and he corrected himself at once. “I will, Miss Audrey.”

  “We need to maneuver, so our backs are against each other,” she said. “Do it slowly, so you don’t fall. Lean on me the entire time. I need you to find my fingers with yours, okay?”

  They wiggled on the cement floor, trying to keep contact with each other. Her shoulder burned with pain, but she persevered until her numb fingers touched the boy’s.

  “We did it,” he whispered happily.

  “Good job.” Despite the predicament, she found herself smiling. “Now keep still. I’ll try to untie you.”

  That was much easier said than done. She fumbled with the knots for what seemed like an eternity, but finally, the rope yielded, and she felt Dalmar’s hands wriggling themselves free.

  “It really hurts,” he said. The boy was shaking his hands and grimacing in pain.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “That is just the sensation coming back to your hands, that’s all. It’ll pass. But I need you to untie my hands now. Can you do that for me, Dalmar?”

  It took the boy even longer, but after a while, she welcomed the pins and needles on her skin as the blood started to flow back to her hands. After she removed the remaining bonds, Audrey slowly stood up, trying not to make any noise.

  “We have to get out of here,” she said to the boy, “but we have to be quiet, okay?”

  She walked to the window and peeked outside. The pickup truck was still parked in front of the school, the flared nozzle of its machine gun pointing at the darkening sky. Two guerrillas were leaning on the vehicle, listening to an older stocky Caucasian man dressed in military fatigues. She could see his gray beard move as he spoke. The director’s body wasn’t visible, but she didn’t let hope rise in her chest—chances were the bastards finished him off.

  She looked around the empty classroom for a makeshift weapon. There was a broom in the closet, but the handle was too long to be useful, and she couldn’t risk breaking it without making too much noise. After some consideration, she unscrewed the handle and took it anyway, the heft of the polished wood in her hands giving her some sense of security.

  “C’mon,” she said, taking the boy’s hand. “Let’s find a way outta here.�
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  She put her ear to the door and listened. As far as she could tell, there was no one outside of the classroom but there was only one way to find out. She motioned to Dalmar to stand away from the door and slowly turned the handle. Sweat trickled down her back as the lock softly clicked, and she pulled the door open. There was nobody on the other side, and as she peeked through the narrow gap, there was no one in the long, dark hallway either.

  She waved to Dalmar, and together they crept to the staircase at the west wing of the building. They started making their way down when she heard the voices again.

  Peeking over the banisters, Audrey could see two men smoking at the bottom of the stairs. There was no way for them to get out of the building unnoticed, but hopefully it didn’t mean the game was already over. She squatted and pulled the boy close, whispering in his ear.

  “We need to go down to the second floor, but we have to be quiet as a mouse, okay? Stay by the wall and take one step at a time, real slow.”

  The boy nodded, his face serious, and took her hand in his. Unlike the hallway, the stairwell was brightly lit, making her feel vulnerable as they made their way down clasping each other’s hands. She regretted taking the broom handle now. The long stick swayed back and forth as they walked, making her nervous that she would bang it on something and give them away.

  Finally, they made it to the second floor. Audrey peeked into the hallway first, making sure there was no one around and then, as silently as they could, they ran to the administrative office. Once they were in, she barricaded the door with the broom handle and went to the desk.

  The desk was empty, save for a few loose papers with handwritten notes on them and a large, beige, old-fashioned rotary phone shining in all its cheap plastic glory. She couldn’t remember ever being so happy to see a phone before. She grabbed the handset and dialed the State Department number she’d memorized a long time ago. After what seemed like an eternity, the line beeped.

  “Alpha, hotel, niner, niner, zero, seven,” she blurted into the mouthpiece.

  “Please hold the line,” the female voice responded almost immediately.

  “Mrs. Hunt, this is Senior Chief Rower,” a deep baritone cut in. “What’s your emergency?”

  “The school’s under attack,” she said, trying to keep her voice low. “At least five people, possibly more. There’s a truck with a machine gun parked in front of the building. I’m with a kid; they tied us up but we managed to get away. We are on the second floor right now, in the admin’s office.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “We are fine, but…” she cast a guilty glance at Dalmar, “but the administrator and the director, they, I don’t think—”

  “I got it.” He cut her off. “We have assets in the area, but it will take a couple of hours before they get there. Are you safe at your location?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, pondering the question. “If they don’t check on us, then maybe.”

  “Can you get to the roof?”

  She thought about it for a moment. The locks hadn’t been installed yet in most of the building, so chances were they could make it to the roof. But if she was wrong, and while they were out there looking for a way to climb to the roof their captors decided to check on them, then their current hiding place would become impossible to get back to. And then she would have no way to communicate their position to the rescuing party.

  Audrey Hunt had a decision to make.

  4

  July 2007

  New York

  Andrew Hunt had been coming to the Sunshine Diner well before he could rub two nickels together. The coffee was mediocre at best, the place smelled of burnt toast and bleach, but their Eggs Benedict was phenomenal, and the booths were just small enough and tall enough to grant some privacy.

  This was the place where one warm April evening he saw Audrey for the first time. She came with a posse of students, dressed in a pair of jeans, a peach-colored top, and a pair of rather worn-out sensible shoes, but Andrew felt momentarily blinded, as if he looked directly at the sun. Her golden hair was cut in a simple angled bob that exposed a long delicate neck and framed the cheekbones that most fashion magazines would pay top dollar for a chance to feature them on their cover page.

  He hadn’t dared to approach her that night, stealing glances in her direction, convinced that she was so far out of his league that he didn’t stand a chance. He then spent two agonizing weeks beating himself up for being a coward and seriously depleting his meager savings by spending each and every night at the diner. He got lucky—after two weeks she came back, and this time he didn’t squander his chance.

  Today, as he sat in his usual spot by the window, he found himself more distracted than ever. He watched pedestrians going about their business as his thoughts wandered back to the time when Audrey was pregnant with their son, Jason. Hunt had just branched out on his own, and they were crammed into a tiny studio apartment on what he thought was the smelliest block in Hell’s Kitchen. They came to the brink of bankruptcy twice that year, but somehow survived, using loans to pay credit cards and paying credit cards from Audrey’s infrequent tutoring gigs.

  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, he thought. The time of sneaking into movie theaters and ramen noodles for dinner.

  The waitress came by, asking if he wanted more coffee, and unceremoniously plucked him from his daydream. He sighed and picked up the worn-out leather dossier from the table. The papers were now neatly stacked and arranged alphabetically.

  Rovinsky had been modest about his investigating abilities. He clearly had seen more in the documents than he let on during their brief conversation down in DC, and he’d assembled a compelling case. It wasn’t just a collection of random articles—there was a brief narrative describing how the conspiracy, which Rovinsky christened in the papers as the cabal, had come to life, and how, through the progression of covert and overt actions, it had grown in influence and reach. Andrew could see it now, too. The slithering tentacles of a great beast feeling its way into the places of power. Political contributions, corporate takeovers, reshuffling of senior personnel at the top of some of the most powerful corporations in the world. Abrupt resignations of people who hadn’t shared the right vision. A series of convenient accidents.

  Things like that happened before, of course. And the fact that despite the circumstantial evidence he had presented, Rovinsky didn’t show him a single viable suspect didn’t make it easier to accept it was something bigger than a wild conspiracy theory. But Andrew couldn’t deny that there seemed to be a greater purpose in those ostensibly unconnected events: a concerted push, moving things in a specific direction. It was easy to dismiss something like that before diving into the deep end as a conspiracy, but he didn’t think that Rovinsky was wrong. There was a movement out there in the great shadows cast by titans, and there was no power that could balance the growing menace. The question was—was he the right man for the job?

  This wasn’t the first time he was in this predicament, of course. His thoughts went back to the first meeting with Rovinsky, when the then-intelligence officer had tried to recruit him to the CIA. Hunt said no and left the meeting, flattered and pissed off at the same time. Flattered, because the famed agency thought he was capable of helping. Upset, because he instantly understood that to be determined capable, he must have been watched and analyzed for a long time.

  The requirement to keep anyone and everyone in the dark didn’t sit well with him either, as it meant he had to lie not only to his friends and colleagues but also to his wife and the mother of his child. Yet, after a few days of arguing with himself, he called Rovinsky back and took the job and accepted the responsibility.

  It wasn’t nearly as glorious as he’d thought it would be. There was no sneaking into secret rooms with guns drawn, no car chases or dead drops with coded messages. The vast majority of his work was spent behind his desk, analyzing financial statements of entities suspected of terrorism and money
laundering. But despite never quite feeling like James Bond, the job gave him a sense of purpose and the sense of pursuing something bigger than himself.

  He felt as if his path had completed a full circle, but this time the stakes would be even higher. For that reason alone, he was probably not going to accept Jim’s offer, he thought. It was too great of a responsibility, especially considering the lack of approval from the appropriate governmental channels.

  It was tempting, of course. To have the power to shape the world for the better. To be the tip of the spear in the fight against the darkest and ugliest manifestations of human nature.

  But that was the poetic part of it. How would they even get the funding? It was one thing to oversee clandestine operations when you operated outside of public scrutiny, but received full support and funding from the United States government. It was a completely different story when you had to hide your actions from the public eye and from the president himself. There was also a not-so-small issue of making life-and-death decisions on a daily basis.

  Hunt took a deep breath, fished out his phone, and scrolled through his contacts, looking for Rovinsky’s number. Jim Rovinsky, he decided, was going to have to tap somebody else to play his spy games. Before Hunt was able to dial his old friend, the phone vibrated in his hand, startling him.

  “Jim? Were your ears burning?” he asked in surprise. “I was just looking for your number.”

  “There’s something you need to know—”

  “I read the dossier,” Hunt interrupted him, “and I want you to know that I seriously considered it. You’ve done a hell of a job putting it all together. But the answer is—”