by Leslie Wolfe
“Not hard at all, but it could give you some unwanted media attention. It will just come and go, nothing really damaging. After all, everyone wants their cars more than they want global warming policy. And then, then we take it one step further.”
“How? What do you mean?”
“Then we invest. With the right permits and legislation in place, people like me can acquire oil fields in other countries, invest in pipelines and tanker distribution, and slowly get to control more and more of the black gold, globally. Of course, I’d need a little bit of help with satellite surveys,” Vaughn said, taking a long drag from his cigar.
“Of course.” Johnson agreed.
“Would that be a problem, you think?”
“No, I don’t see why it would.”
“Excellent. That would give me the upper hand in locating the ripest oil fields that money can buy, to consolidate America’s independence from foreign oil.”
They both stopped talking for a while, enjoying their cigars and single malt, eyes lost on the horizon and dreams of the future.
Fischer approached the two, engaging them in small talk.
“I see your boy is taking a beating, Mr. Vaughn,” Fischer said.
“Well, he didn’t come here to win,” Vaughn replied and winked. The other men laughed wholeheartedly. Vaughn had class. He had found a way to make a sizeable donation to the campaign without getting things too complicated for any of them.
“Tell me, please,” Vaughn asked Johnson, “what can I do for you, Mr. President?”
“Your support is highly appreciated, from all perspectives,” Johnson replied. “The fact that I can count on you as a friend and supporter in my campaign is priceless for me. From what I can see, our interests align perfectly, and that can be the basis of a long-term partnership that will be very rewarding for both of us.”
“Cheers!” Vaughn raised his glass to meet Johnson’s.
“Cheers!” Johnson said, raising his.
“Is there something, anything at all, you need right now? How can I make myself useful to you now, Mr. President?”
Johnson hesitated, giving the question some thought. Fischer held his breath. They had not discussed any immediate engagement strategy. He had no idea how Johnson would handle this.
“Well, there is a small problem you might be able to offer some advice on,” he started to say.
“Shoot,” Vaughn encouraged him.
“Many years ago, when I was still in college, I got a girl pregnant.”
Fischer’s hand went straight to his forehead, grabbing the thinning remnants of hair still clinging to his ever-higher forehead, and pulling them back vigorously. Damn. Damn it to bloody hell!
“It can happen,” Vaughn smiled encouragingly.
“Well, back then I dealt with it.” He stopped, gathering courage. There was not a trace of judgment in Vaughn’s kind eyes. “I...I paid for her abortion. She was fine with it. We were both young students; we didn’t want a kid. She was fine. Back then, she was fine. But she called me yesterday, just asking how I was.”
Just asking for a big payday, that’s what she was asking for, you preposterous idiot, Fischer thought bitterly. He froze, wondering if Vaughn could indeed be trusted at this level. What on earth brought Johnson to tell this guy about the girl and not discuss it with him first? The man was a wild card.
“Well, Mr. President, consider the matter handled,” Vaughn answered. “We’ll make sure she is very well taken care of, so well that she can retire at a destination of her choice, where her newly acquired financial comfort will be the reward for her absolute discretion.”
Holy shit, this might work out after all, Fischer said to himself. They have bonded.
...Chapter 56: Response
...Thursday, July 14, 10:01PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Evening News at Ten
...Nationally Syndicated
The anchor’s face was somber, not a trace of a smile. He was grim.
“We start our newscast tonight with President John Mason’s remarks in response to the brutal attack on the cruise ship Alabaster Light that took place yesterday near the Ukrainian port Sevastopol. The ship, carrying 2,271 passengers and 218 crew members, was sunk by a surface-to-surface missile, launched by unknown forces operating in Ukraine, most likely Russian separatist rebels. Very few survivors were rescued, making this attack the most brutal and costly terrorist attack in recent history, with a total of 2,137 people dead and many of the survivors injured.”
The screen showed President Mason standing in front of the very familiar lectern in the White House briefing room, addressing the press. He spoke slowly, showing resolve with every word.
“We stand here today, joined in grief for the lives lost and appalled at the viciousness of this attack. The ship, sailing under the flag of a country that is not at war with Russia, was sunk in an act of defiance, of pure terrorism. Forty-seven American lives were lost on the Alabaster Light yesterday.”
He paused slightly to allow a moment of silence for the victims; then he resumed his address in a stern tone of voice. “My message to President Abramovich is clear: please work with us and the other peaceful nations of Earth to establish and maintain a state of equilibrium in Ukraine, prevent such disasters from happening, and eliminate terrorism at all costs.”
Mason cleared his throat quietly before continuing. “The American people are committed to spare no effort in reestablishing democratic values in the countries where these values have been put in danger. We are offering our support to any leader who wishes to maintain peace, civil liberties, and democracy.”
The screen shifted back to the news anchor.
“A strong message that left many wondering if it could be interpreted as a declaration of war by Russian President Abramovich.”
The screen shifted again to show the evening’s next news title.
...Chapter 57: A Visit to Taiwan
...Tuesday, July 19, 6:38AM Local Time (UTC+8:00 hours)
...Taiwan Taoyuan Airport—International Arrivals
...Taipei, Taiwan
Alex dragged her wheelie luggage on the endless corridors of the international airport, surprised to see how little it differed from any modern, high-traffic American airport. If it weren’t for the Chinese lettering on every sign and every advertisement, it was hard to imagine she had flown around the world to Taiwan.
It felt good to stretch her legs after the long flight. She had flown nonstop from Los Angeles for fourteen hours, and despite flying Delta Business Elite and having her own personal private space where she could lie horizontally and rest or sit comfortably and work on her laptop, she hadn’t slept or gotten much work done. She kept going over the details of her planned visit and spent generous amounts of time thinking, speculating, and analyzing the very limited data she had to work with. She knew the hardware and software specifications by heart. How the devices should look, how many, how they should work, when they were scheduled to be ready and delivered, how quality control would happen, and so on. But that was all she knew.
All resemblance with an airport from back home stopped abruptly when she exited the terminal. A wave of impossibly humid and hot air hit her as soon as the sliding doors of the terminal opened. She felt sweat beads form instantly on her face, at the roots of her hair, and on her back. She struggled to breathe for a minute or so until she adjusted. Damn, this place is hot, she thought.
She walked out of the terminal with her wheelie, laptop bag on it, and suitcase now in tow. A cab pulled up, and she climbed in, holding onto her heavy laptop bag and letting the driver deal with the rest of her luggage. She gave him the hotel address, and they started driving on a highway at first, then on narrow streets filled with motorcycles, bicycles, and pedestrians. Everything was in Chinese. Every storefront in the low-rise buildings, every sign, every street name. This is gonna be tough, she thought. When the cab turned a corner, she saw a Starbucks coffee shop and sighed with relief. There was at least one familiar place she
could go.
The Okura Prestige Taipei hotel was impressive. Situated at the heart of Taipei, on the busy Nanjing Road East, the hotel was another one of the surprising places that could easily be taken for a five-star hotel on American soil. She entered, relieved to be breathing conditioned air again, and got checked in fast by a beautiful young receptionist. The hotel was a pleasure to explore. Marble floors featuring intricate designs, vaulted ceilings illuminated by exquisite crystal chandeliers shining thousands of miniature bulbs, thick carpeting in the dining areas, and a croissant smell to die for in the breakfast restaurant.
Finally in her room, Alex started her stay by running the bug sweeper across every corner, discreetly, just like Sam had taught her. The room was clean. Relieved, she kicked off her shoes and went for the shower, promising herself a croissant breakfast immediately afterward.
She had a day to explore the city a little and get over the jet lag. The next morning she would head to the manufacturing plant and start her investigation. She could hardly wait, feeling the intense time pressure. They had less than four months left until Election Day and less than six weeks until everything had to be ready for deployment, both hardware and software.
But no matter how she tried to rationalize it, she couldn’t head straight to the plant today. No other regular business traveler in her place did that, jumping straight to work after a fourteen-hour flight, so she couldn’t do that either. If she did, she’d raise the suspicions of anyone who paid any attention. She was forced to sacrifice yet another precious day to keep her cover intact. She just hoped she’d finally be able to find some answers. Soon.
...Chapter 58: Cargo Inspection
...Friday, July 22, 10:26AM Local Time (UTC+2:00 hours)
...Letiště Praha-Kbely Airport Tarmac, Prague East
...Prague, The Czech Republic
Karmal Shah loved flying his new plane, but too much of anything can become a bit of a pain before you know it. He opted to stretch his legs on the tarmac and maybe get a coffee from somewhere, while waiting for the Piaggio to be refueled and loaded. His pilot would stay with the plane, making sure everything was in order for their scheduled departure to the United States.
He stood from the pilot seat with a groan. His back was killing him. A little overweight and carrying a potbelly that he blamed not only on his age but also on the constant temptations offered by Overnight Delight’s product stock, his back hurt quite often. He looked outside the window and noticed the tanker was approaching, right on schedule. It might have been difficult to get this small converted air base to accept him and his plane, but it was totally worth it. The place was quiet, there was hardly any activity, and the staff was complacent, leaving him alone and undisturbed, just the way he liked it.
He made his way toward the plane’s door, careful not to trip on the cases they had picked up in Somalia, his departure point for this trip. The back of the plane had been configured for cargo, and neatly laid out cases of merchandise were hooked to the sides of the plane, immobilized in place.
He unlocked and pushed the plane’s door open.
“Good morning, sir,” a young man holding a clipboard greeted him.
Shah frowned.
“Good morning. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Jaroslav Zelezny, Air Traffic Control. I am asking your permission to inspect the cargo.”
The man’s English was grammatically correct, yet his heavy accent made it hard to follow. Why was ATC looking at his cargo? If anyone would look, it would be Customs.
“We’re a small air base; sometimes we do it all,” the man responded with a crooked, almost embarrassed smile, as if reading his mind. “May I come aboard?”
Shah clenched his jaws, his right hand instinctively reaching for the gun he was carrying at his back, tucked in his belt.
“All right,” Shah invited him coldly, stepping aside to make room. The man climbed up almost happily, or so it seemed. At least he was easy going, not your typical customs officer.
“I need to check your cargo against the cargo manifest you filed with your flight plan. What are you bringing in today? Are you unloading any cargo here today?”
“Yes, I am dropping a case of sesame oil, that one,” Shah said, pointing at the case closest to the plane’s door. The ATC man approached the case and lifted the lid. Neatly packaged bottles, surrounded by straw to prevent breakage during transport. He picked up one of the thin bottles and held it in the light.
“Interesting,” he said. “Is this good?”
“It is. It’s healthy too.”
The man put the bottle back in its case and moved on, touching the wall as he walked toward the front of the plane.
“Are you picking anything up today?” He checked his paperwork.
“Yes, I am loading four cases of caviar and three cases of oysters,” Shah replied. He was starting to lose his patience.
The man kept walking slowly toward the front of the plane, carefully looking at everything. He reached the two cases nearest to the cockpit and stopped. Shah’s right hand went behind his back, grabbing the handle of his pistol.
“What do you have here?”
“More oil, I am afraid,” he said. “There are many rich people who will pay a fortune for these oils,” he continued. He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill the guy. It would be one hell of a mess to clean up, from all perspectives. Maybe he wanted money, a bribe or something.
The man reached and touched the lid of the case next to him. Shah pulled his gun from his belt and brought his arm alongside his body, ready to fire.
“Nice,” the man said, touching the case lid without opening it. “And in here?” He stepped toward the cockpit. “Any cargo in here?”
“Of course not,” Shah replied.
The man checked out the cockpit thoroughly. Shah’s pilot was still in his seat, flipping switches and preparing the Piaggio for the next leg of the trip. He turned and smiled at the ATC man.
“Would you like to sit in the pilot seat for a moment?”
The man’s face lit up. Shah sighed, tucking the semi-automatic SIG Pro in his belt. This plane of his turned more heads than a Paris Pigalle hooker at the prime of her career. His pilot deserved a bonus. The ATC man thoroughly enjoyed a few minutes of examining the plane’s glass cockpit, controls, and chatting with the pilot. The cargo wasn’t brought up again. Then he stood up and left, excited and thankful, not looking once in the direction of any crate as he made his way out of the plane.
...Chapter 59: Hardware
...Friday, July 22, 8:17AM Local Time (UTC+8:00 hours)
...Taiwan Electronics Manufacturing Co.
...Taipei, Taiwan
On her third day visiting the manufacturing plant in Taiwan, Alex saw no difference from the other two days she had spent there looking for any clue, any indication about what the election day attack was planned to be. At the end of two long and frustrating days, she literally had nothing.
Initially, she had been discrete and extremely cautious in her investigation, not wanting to potentially alert the UNSUB to her real agenda. But everywhere she looked, across thousands of square feet of workstations staffed by people wearing white coveralls, facial masks, and hairnets, the story was the same. The workers continued their work undisturbed by her presence, rarely acknowledging her or looking up from the work in front of them. Whenever they looked at her they smiled, a smile only visible in their eyes, as white masks covered their mouths and noses. The sterile and antistatic environment was maintained to the highest standards, not allowing a speck of dust or a single personal item to make it near the production line. Even Alex had to wear white coveralls to enter the assembly floor and special shoes that prevented static electricity from accumulating as she walked. A static discharge, no matter how small, could fry the exposed circuitry of open voting tablets, rendering them useless.
Even the plant managers, just as disciplined as the workers and just as polite, showed no concern for her being the
re. Smiling and accommodating, they took care of everything she asked for immediately, with the only roadblock being the language barrier. Yes, English was not very common on this factory floor, and when someone did speak a little English, it was broken and very hard to follow and understand. Of course, everyone spoke Chinese, but that didn’t help Alex much.
The day before, she had collected a few pads to test for explosives. She had swiped a few open tablets, even swiped discreetly over a counter and across a production line. Then she swiped the conveyor belt toward the end of the packaging process line. Back at her hotel, she tested all the swabs to find that none carried even the tiniest amount of trace chemicals indicative of the presence of explosives. This was a dead end.
People’s calm reactions were also an indication of a dead end. No matter how hard she pushed it, she wasn’t able to generate one reaction of fear or anger in any of the plant managers. She made them uncomfortable; they seemed confused as to what she was expecting of them and a little flustered, but that was all.
She decided to take it one step further and be bolder, grabbing partially assembled devices from assembly consoles and walking away with them. The workers, unperturbed, just jotted something down on a notepad and picked the next tablet in line, starting the assembly process again. It was obvious these people had nothing to hide.
She gave the factory floor one last look, filled with disbelief and admiration at the same time. Countless rows of people working quietly in perfect discipline and alignment, moving in harmony and following tight procedures, their synchronized performance yielding hundreds of e-voting tablets per hour. It was her first opportunity to observe closely the famous Asian worker discipline and manufacturing principles that had made Japan a famous leader in the field several decades ago.
That observation aside, she decided to cut her Taiwan visit short. There was nothing more she could do here, and her gut told her the action, the real threat was at the other vendor’s location in New Delhi.
