by Mike Maden
But the vice president was a pain in the ass, too. Didn’t know his place. Stomped around the Oval Office like he owned it. Drank up Greyhill’s best liquor. Didn’t even have the courtesy to ask Greyhill if he wanted one of his own, which he did.
“Quit pissing your pantaloons. It’s a nonstarter,” Diele said over the top of his glass. “Fiero can’t touch us.”
Greyhill shifted in his chair behind the famous desk. The pronoun “us” grated on him. “You’ve seen the headlines today, haven’t you? Seems Fiero is awfully prescient.”
Today’s below-the-fold front-page article in the New York Times featured a map of Africa and the spreading influence of the Chinese. A Washington Post op-ed had picked up on the Fiero Sunday-morning interview, too, and echoed her concerns.
“Slow news day at the fish wrapper, that’s all. And who watches those tired old news shows anyway?” Diele fell onto the couch, put his feet up on the heirloom coffee table. Greyhill clenched his jaw. Diele was a primitive.
“But what about her point? China and REEs and all of that? And, of course, the terrorist connection.”
“What terrorist connection? She didn’t offer any proof. Just some damn hearsay speculation. Don’t you see? She’s throwing everything out on the stoop, see what the dog’ll lick up. Or in this case, the reporters. You can smell her desperation. Don’t you think if any of this was legit, it would’ve popped up on the PDB?” Diele was referring to the Presidential Daily Brief, a document provided each morning by the director of national intelligence. Greyhill preferred an oral presentation by someone from the DNI’s office with just bullet points. He seldom read the actual documents. Diele pored over them.
“Our national intelligence community hasn’t always batted a thousand. Remember Benghazi? A dead ambassador and three brave Americans murdered by our ‘allies.’ Just because something isn’t in the PDB doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.”
Diele drained the last of his drink. The ice rattled in the glass. “Worst-case scenario? The terror threat turns out to be real. Then we send in the drones. But don’t even think about getting sucked up in that quicksand over there. It’s all a damn mess. The first Marine boot you put on the ground over there will be marching on your political grave.”
Greyhill frowned. Diele might be right. His instincts usually were. But Greyhill had taken note of the vice president’s grammatical shift. Suddenly, it was “your” political grave. Another irritating pronoun. He took the change as both a warning and a threat.
48
Karem Air Force Base
Niamey, Niger
11 May
The raccoon rings beneath Captain Sotero’s eyes spoke volumes to Judy. Clearly, the woman hadn’t slept in days. No doubt because of her and Pearce’s arrival four nights before.
The captain sat at the small table in Judy’s dining/living room in the spartan visiting BOQ trailer where she’d been largely confined by AF Security Forces guards since her return from Mali.
“You have everything you need here, Ms. Hopper? Any personal items you need sent over?”
“No, everything’s fine. Just a little cramped, that’s all. But I’m used to that.” Judy had grown up in even more austere environments as a missionary kid in Africa. “Wouldn’t mind being able to stretch my legs every now and then.”
“Sure, no problem. Just help me clear up a few things, will you?”
Judy smiled. “If I can. I mean, I’ve told you everything I know already.”
“You see, that’s what I’m not so sure about. I think there’s a lot more to you and this humanitarian mission you’re supposedly on. For starters, where is the American you were supposed to be evacuating?”
“Like I said before, he decided not to come.”
“And you said his name was?”
“I didn’t say.” Judy didn’t know if Mike Early was in trouble or not for being there. Her dad had raised her with the maxim “Better to keep your mouth shut and appear the fool than open your mouth and confirm it.”
Sotero’s weary eyes narrowed. “His name is Mike Early. Your friend Mr. Holliday just confirmed that for me.”
“Okay.”
“But your friend”—Sotero checked her notes on a tablet—“Pearce, he decided to stay?”
“Something like that.”
“In Mali?”
“Yes.”
“You see, that’s what’s confusing to me. Do you remember Sergeant Wolfit? The man who was with me the night we first met?”
“Vaguely.”
“Square-jawed? Broad across the chest?” She mimed his torso with her hands. “Always looks pissed off?”
“What’s your point?”
Sotero pulled up a map on her tablet, turned it around. Pointed at a winking dot. “See that? That’s an RFID chip. The one that was attached to Sergeant Wolfit’s weapon. The weapon he believes your friend Pearce stole from him that night, an M4 carbine.”
“Do you always plant RFID chips in your guns?”
“We inventory everything, especially weapons. It’s easier to chip and scan them than do the paperwork. The Air Force is pretty good at technology these days.”
“Makes sense.”
“So you know anything about that? I mean, Pearce stealing his weapon?”
“You’d have to ask Troy when you see him.”
“If you’ll look closely at the map, you’ll see the chip is now located in Algeria. What’s Pearce doing in Algeria?”
Judy shrugged. “Maybe it’s just the gun that’s in Algeria.”
“Why would the weapon be in Algeria without Pearce?”
“You’d have to ask Troy when you see him.”
“So you’re saying Pearce is not in Algeria right now?”
“I have no idea where he is exactly.”
“But he’s probably still in Mali?”
“Like I said, I have no idea.”
Sotero spun her tablet back around. “Is Pearce really on a humanitarian mission?”
“He went in to get Mike Early, yes.”
“That’s kind of strange, too. We checked with the State Department as well as with the Mali government. We have no record of Mike Early entering the country of Mali, at least not legally. What is Mike Early doing in Mali?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Mike when you see him.”
“Is this Early guy still in Mali? Or is he with Pearce in Algeria?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be difficult. I really don’t know.”
“Okay, let’s try another tack. Do you have any idea why my base commander has been detained in Frankfurt?”
“No.”
“Funny thing is, he was dispatched to Bonn–Bad Godesberg for what was apparently a bogus meeting the same day you arrived here, and when the meeting didn’t occur, he was flagged by the NSA as a possible terror suspect on the way back. He’s still in custody.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“You don’t understand. Colonel Kavanagh is the most squared-away officer I ever knew, and a real straight arrow. He’s a ring knocker—academy grad, third-generation Air Force. No way he’s AQ-affiliated. I think someone’s messed with his data profile. You have any idea who that might be?”
“No.”
“Or why they would want him detained while you and your friends are operating out of this base?”
“No.”
“Of course you don’t.” Sotero took a deep breath. “Let me ask you something else. Do you know who Mossa Ag Alla is?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Never heard of him?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“He’s an AQ affiliate. A real bad-ass. Just got bumped up to number one dickhead on our extensive list of dickheads.”
“I believe you.”
S
otero sighed with frustration. “Okay, one last try. When you flew out of here on the tenth, your IFF signal stopped broadcasting when you crossed into Mali airspace, and then you dropped off the radar. What was that all about?”
Judy wasn’t a missionary anymore, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie about anything. It just wasn’t in her nature. “Security precautions.”
“Failure to broadcast an IFF signal is highly irregular and dangerous, which is why it’s also illegal.”
“Illegal in Mali, technically, since that’s where the violation occurred. I don’t suppose you have jurisdiction over there, do you?”
“And did you make any unauthorized or unscheduled stops on the return flight?”
Judy had to think about that. Technically, her flight to the Niamey civilian airfield was both authorized and scheduled, just not with the United States Air Force. “No.”
“Look, Ms. Hopper, I’m not trying to disrupt or interfere with your CIA op or whatever it is you guys are actually trying to do, but all I have to stand on is an extremely thin paper trail—basically, a one-paragraph order from this mysterious Colonel Sanders whom I still can’t reach—and nothing else to show for it. You were supposed to bop in and out and then bounce out of here in twenty-four hours with your man Early. Instead, there are now two Americans missing, presumably at least one of them is in Algeria, and he’s carrying a weapon stolen from a very pissed-off SF sergeant who’s about to be busted to corporal if that rifle doesn’t show up in the next twenty-four hours.” Sotero caught herself rambling. She rubbed her face to help her focus.
“So this is all about a missing rifle?”
“No, it’s not about a missing rifle. It’s about you people clearly lying about what your real mission is, and about me not being able to get independent verification that authorizes your fake humanitarian mission. I need to be very, very sure that I haven’t let a couple of bad guys onto my base. If I have, there’s a cell in Leavenworth with my name on it.”
“I promise, Captain, you haven’t.”
“This Pearce guy, he’s a friend of yours?”
Judy wanted to call him a first-class jerk for the way he’d been acting lately, but now was not the time for a Dr. Phil moment. “Yes, he’s a friend. A very good friend. A decorated veteran, too.”
“I’m glad to hear that. So you’d vouch for him?”
“Of course.”
“And you wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to him, right?”
“Not at all.”
“Straight up?”
“Word of honor.”
“Well, since you’re being perfectly honest with me, let me be perfectly honest with you. I just got word that a strike mission has been set for that dickhead I was telling you about, that Mossa character? Reaper, missile, you get the picture. If your friend Pearce is with Mossa, your friend Pearce is going to die.”
“Oh my word. When?”
“You tell me where Pearce is, I’ll tell you when the strike is.”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Do you know somebody who does? Because if you do, you’d better give me his name.”
Judy knew somebody, all right. Ian could still locate the tracker in Troy’s body. She also knew Ian had just eavesdropped on their entire conversation. She just prayed that he could do something about it.
He couldn’t.
CIOS Corporate Offices
Rockville, Maryland
Jasmine Bath listened in on the entire interrogation, too. She already knew Mike Early was a former close associate of Margaret Myers. When Sotero had initiated a query on Early and his status in Mali earlier, two of Bath’s algorithms tripped and he was flagged. She traced back the query to Sotero’s tablet and immediately hacked it.
Bath had always admired Pearce, if for no other reason than she had been able to acquire so little information about him. Either he or someone working for him was very good at keeping him out of all of the known databases and obliterating his digital shadow. There were thousands of “Pearce-shaped holes” everywhere she looked, as if someone was going in after Pearce whenever he popped up anywhere and erased any data relative to him and his company, Pearce Systems—one of the few organizations in the world she’d never been able to hack. This all just confirmed what she learned earlier from her hacked phone call between Zhao and Anthony Fiero.
Today’s interrogation now also confirmed for Bath that Pearce and Early were both in Mali at the same time as Mossa, and Myers had initiated Pearce’s mission into Mali, presumably to rescue Early. And yet Early was never rescued, nor did Pearce return. In fact, thanks to the RFID chip tracking on Captain Sotero’s hacked tablet and its ridiculously childish security system, Bath now knew where both Pearce and Mossa were located in Algeria.
That was all information that Fiero would desperately want in light of the concerns raised by Zhao. Information that Bath passed on immediately to Fiero before she herself succumbed to the pressure to torpedo it. Bath hated the idea of Pearce getting killed before she could meet him and figure out how he had managed to remain such a mystery to her. But Fiero was still paying the bills. Her curiosity about Pearce would have to remain unsatisfied.
No matter. Bath knew she would find greater satisfaction in her newfound knowledge that connected Zhao Yi, the Fieros, Pearce, and Mali. Knowledge she could use to finally untangle herself from the violent web she had been spinning all these years.
Bath decided it was time to make her move. She couldn’t afford to wait seven more months to retire, despite her plans. She’d been riding the tiger too long. Staying on would prove fatal. But if she wasn’t careful, so would the dismount.
49
The Office of the Vice President
The White House, Washington, D.C.
11 May
Senator Fiero picked up a photograph from the fireplace mantel. It was a picture of Vice President Diele leaning against the Oval Office desk, talking down to President Greyhill seated on the couch. Very telling.
“You’re confusing the hell out of me, Barbara. Yesterday, you were busting our balls on national television about our failure to address the terrorism threat, and now you’re here asking us for a favor.”
Diele poured himself a scotch from a crystal decanter. The cold ice cracked beneath the warm liquor. He didn’t offer her one.
“I’m sorry. I’m not sure why that’s confusing to you. You’ve read the same reports I have. This terrorist Mossa is a dangerous new threat in the region. I want him stopped. So do you.” She set the photo back on the mantel. “I know you, Gary. You want this guy’s scalp as badly as I do.” Diele and Fiero had served together in the Senate for years.
Diele took a thoughtful sip of scotch. “You’re right, I do. He’s Asshole Numero Uno, as far as I’m concerned.”
Jasmine Bath had done a brilliant job seeding the various jihadi websites—legit and NSA-managed—with the uploaded war footage supplied by Zhao. Dead bodies, flaming vehicles, Tuaregs firing machine guns. A real horror show. Her automated systems also planted hundreds of fake comments on those sites in support of Mossa, linking him and the Tuaregs with al-Qaeda, jihad, and every other hot-button word flags that lit up the NSA algorithms. Within forty-eight hours of the first upload, Bath had transformed the obscure Tuareg chieftain into a worldwide villain. Carefully leaked “anonymous government sources” also put Mossa and his “AQ-affiliated terror group” on the front pages of the leading mainstream media sites, always scrambling to fill the insatiable twenty-four-hour news cycle.
“Terrorists like this Mossa character are Whac-A-Moles. You smash one down, three more jump up.” Diele took a sip. He was starting to look his age, Fiero thought. His famous mane of silver hair had receded in recent years and his pinkish-gray scalp was really starting to show. He needed a good set of hair plugs if he ever hoped to make a presidential run.
“Who said ‘The cost of freedom is eternal vigilance’?”
“Does it matter?” Diele asked.
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
“And you probably know the answer anyway. You always did like to show off.” Diele fell into an upholstered chair. He pointed at the empty one next to him. “Take a seat.”
“Thank you.” She sat.
“You still haven’t answered my question. Why not go running to another talk show this Sunday and decry this administration’s failure to deal with the Tuareg threat? Isn’t that your strategy? I bet Fowler is behind all of that.”
Just like Diele to give credit to a man, Fiero thought. She bit her tongue.
“I did answer you. I really do think this Mossa sonofabitch needs to be taken out, quickly, before he causes real damage over there—or over here.” She smiled demurely. “You and I have worked together well in the past on the issues that mattered most, wouldn’t you agree?”
Diele nodded thoughtfully. Fiero had always voted the right way when it came to the War on Terror. She’d supported all of the NSA spying stuff that even he felt a little uncomfortable with, at least privately. Diele loved crossing the aisle and cutting good deals with reasonable people. What most voters didn’t understand was that mainstream Republicans and Democrats in Congress shared nearly identical values. They only kicked up a big stink about the other side to keep their voters in line. But the truth of the matter was that Washington was perfectly content with itself, even if the American public loathed it.
Diele’s father had taught him years before that every system was perfectly designed to get the results it achieves. Congress was no different. Congress wasn’t broken. Congress was perfect, as far as most congressmen were concerned. It gave them wealth, power, and privilege.
