by Leslie Wolfe
He steadied himself, looking at his image in the mirror. His hands were shaking just a little bit. Quite understandable. He was pale, and dark circles marred his tired, troubled blue eyes. Also understandable.
He took a sealed envelope addressed simply “Melanie” from his dressing room drawer and put it in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He didn’t want Melanie to hear he had been arrested and understand nothing of it. He quietly opened the door to their bedroom and stood there, watching her sleep. Her skin had returned to the pink color of a healthy woman. She slept soundly, an arm thrown over his pillow, her hair covering her face. Robert felt tears coming to his eyes. Missing her, that was going to be the hardest part of what he had to do. Nonetheless, he still had to do it.
He approached the bed and kissed her gently on her hair. She woke up slightly and mumbled in her sleep. “What’s up, baby?”
“Nothing, just saying goodbye. Go back to sleep.”
He kissed her again and left, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him. He went straight to his home office and placed the envelope by his desk phone. Then took his briefcase and car keys and left.
In his DCBI office, on the sixth floor, Robert watched the early morning sky and recapped the day’s agenda. First, he would sign off on the offshore software, marking the end of this contract. Then he would release the payment to the Indian offshoring company and send them the confirmation. The Agency had insisted this step had to be taken; there was no way around it. The thought of paying them still made him very angry, considering everything they had done. But it just had to be done, so he would do it. Then he would swap the Indian software received by FTP from ERamSys with the one Lou Bailey had sent him on a DVD. Very easy.
He’d load the DVD onto the lab’s machine and transfer the software onto an encrypted hard disc, which he would then send to InfraTech using the NSA-appointed courier. A senior NSA agent was scheduled to pick up the encrypted HDD and then head out to Utah where he would take things over. He would replace all employees with NSA agents for the few days remaining and ensure all hardware was clean. Everything made sense and everything was doable. He could be done with all this by lunch.
Robert picked up his office phone and dialed an internal extension.
“Campbell,” a man answered in seconds.
“Robert Wilton, here. I think you should cancel your afternoon agenda and see me right after lunch. This is important.”
...Chapter 91: A Different Approach
...Wednesday, September 21, 10:09AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Capitol Skyline Hotel
...Washington, DC
Warren Helms liked open views and elevated vantage points. They made him feel in control. His top-floor room overlooked the city landmarks and the distant noises were barely noticeable. He was irritated this morning, bothered by his inability to deliver on his task, which had never happened before. He had been given a month to bring Doug Krassner’s ratings lower than Bobby Johnson’s. A month and a half later, he had to admit he had failed.
This acknowledgment bruised his ego and put a blemish on his spotless record of achievement as a private contractor. In his line of business, failure was not an option. Failure could be lethal. His clients weren’t exactly forgiving, understanding people. But he was much better at eliminating unwanted people than he was at discrediting them in the eyes of the public; that was a fact. He was not a PR specialist; he was a contractor. The best there was. He should be allowed to do his job, the job he was good at.
Helms grabbed his encrypted cell phone and called his client. It was early afternoon in Greece; the Russian should be awake, his hangover well dissipated by now.
“Yes?” The familiar raspy voice picked up.
“This is Helms.”
“Yes...The man who will not give me results, right? The man who is putting our entire operation at risk, da?”
“Sir, I recommend a different approach. This one is not working. No matter what I try, he manages to fix it.” He swallowed hard and continued. “Sir, this is not what I do, not what I’m good at. Let’s try a different approach, one that would have the guaranteed results you’re looking for. It’s time he stops being a problem. There’s only a month and a half left.”
The Russian was silent. Not a good sign. Finally, he spoke. “Yes, not much time left, that is true. OK, do it, but be very careful. He cannot be a martyr, or linked to us in any way. No Russian connection. No Islamic connection, either. The circumstances must be above any suspicion. It needs to be clean, natural, and in the public eye. Can you do that?”
“Absolutely,” Helms answered, relieved.
“Good. Make sure it happens just a few days before Election Day, you understand? I do not want them to have time to regroup. And do not fail me again.”
“I won’t.”
“You better not,” the Russian answered and hung up.
It was going to be challenging. It wasn’t that easy to get anywhere near the presidential candidates, when their Secret Service detail was already in place watching their every move. A precisely timed heart attack, his signature hit, would work best for the annoying Mr. Krassner. It required unrestricted access to what his target ingested, and that wasn’t so easy to get. Maybe a carefully placed substance or biological contaminant? He could place it somewhere he would touch, inhale, or brush against.
His plan still needed work.
...Chapter 92: On the Run
...Thursday, September 22, 10:23AM Local Time (UTC+5:30 hours)
...ERamSys Headquarters
...New Delhi, India
Alex felt like singing. She was finally going home. She had checked out of her hotel, wearing her megawatt smile, and had brought her suitcase with her to the office. She had some paperwork left to wrap up, after DCBI had finalized the payment and the contract was closed. That shouldn’t take her more than half an hour or so, and then she’d be on her way to the airport.
Pranav helped her with the suitcase, bringing it to the fifth floor conference room. She wanted all remaining documents to travel in her suitcase, not her extra heavy laptop bag. Priya brought her a file folder and a cup of coffee. She drank absently, while reviewing the contract closure, scope validation, and financial transactions documentation, signing off on everything. She waited for Priya to make copies and then shoved all the paperwork into the exterior pocket of her suitcase. She was ready to go home.
She grabbed the laptop bag, put it on her shoulder, and started toward the door. Startling her, Bal appeared out of nowhere.
“Ah, Miss Hoffmann. Can I please have a word with you before you leave?”
He stood in the doorway, inviting her back in with a gesture of his hand. She looked at him briefly. He had a faint trace of a smile on his lips, barely visible, and the coldest eyes Alex had ever seen. She felt goose bumps and a tingling in the back of her head. Adrenaline flushed her stomach, hitting her like a fist. Then, in a split second, she remembered Steve’s words, from her first week with The Agency.
”Many times,” Steve had said during one of their early training sessions, “the only warning sign we have in the presence of a sociopath is given by our ancestral instincts. Sudden and unexplained fear, tingling in your stomach, indicative of a sudden release of adrenaline, your hackles standing up, that’s all you will get. If you just met someone and you feel all that in their presence, walk away, or be very, very wary. If you had met the sociopath before, and your instincts rile up now, just run. Don’t look back, don’t analyze, just run for your life. The sociopath is about to strike. How do we know? Pure survival instinct, perfected over millennia, triggered by signs our subconscious mind perceives.”
Somehow, she managed to smile.
“Sure, but I need to use the restroom real quick. Too much coffee,” she laughed, pointing at the empty mug on the table where she had sat.
She slipped right by Bal, not waiting for him to answer, heading to the women’s restroom. As she opened the restroom door, she sneak
ed a peek behind her. He had turned away, not watching her anymore. She turned on her heels and ran for the staircase. She made it through the staircase door and ran down five flights of stairs as fast as she could. Once on the ground floor, she had no other option than to cross the big lobby. She did so in a running pace, but stopped briefly in front of the reception desk, where the beautiful receptionist greeted her with a smile. As usual, she wore a very decorative shalwar kameez ensemble, a very dark blue, decorated lavishly with gold embroidery and fringes.
“Hey,” Alex said breathlessly, “can I borrow your scarf?”
“My scarf...My dupatta? Sure...” She took off the long piece of fine cotton and handed it to her. Alex grabbed it, thanked her in a hurry, and stormed out the main door.
Outside, she saw Pranav sitting in the driver’s seat of the Toyota. It would take too much time to get rid of him. She stepped into the traffic and hailed for a cab. A tuk-tuk stopped, and she hopped in.
“Drive,” she told the driver. “Just go!”
The three-wheeler tuk-tuk started. She sat down in the small cabin, grateful for the side semi-wall that could hide her somewhat. She wrapped the dark blue dupatta around her head, neck, and shoulders, hiding her light brown hair.
“Take me to the airport,” she said, still breathless from her run. “As fast as you can.”
“Yes, memsahib,” the driver answered.
As the tuk-tuk turned right at the next stop, Alex peeked her head just enough to see the front door of the ERamSys building. Bal ran out through the main doors, followed closely by two other men, his head on a swivel looking for her. He was gesticulating wildly, but he had not seen her. Probably the receptionist had told him she had left the building.
She sat back against the vehicle’s hard seat and called Sam.
“Yeah, kiddo, what’s up?”
“Sam, they’re after me. I’m in trouble, serious trouble. Bal’s coming after me,” she unloaded with one breath.
“OK, calm down, where are you?”
“In one of the slowest goddamn vehicles invented, heading for the airport,” she said angrily.
Her driver turned briefly to look at her, smiling. He must understand English fairly well, Alex thought, as he cranked up the gas on the small vehicle, making it go faster and moving in a zigzag pattern through screaming traffic at what seemed to be about fifty miles per hour.
“All right, kiddo, go straight to the airport, and from there, straight to your gate. Do not stop under any circumstances; don’t use the restroom, just make your way to your gate.”
“He’s gonna catch up to me. He’ll figure out I’m headed for the airport; it’ll make sense. He’ll be looking for me there.”
“I know, but he won’t be able to snatch you with so many people watching. Just trust me, will ya?”
She closed her eyes. “All right. I got it.” She hung up the phone and promised herself she wouldn’t go down without a serious fight.
Minutes later, she saw Bal’s car passing them on the right side of the road, but they didn’t recognize her. She was barely visible, tucked in the corner of the three-wheeler’s dirty cabin and wrapped in eight feet of dark blue fabric.
Finally at the airport, she shoved a hundred-dollar bill in the driver’s hand, making him cheer. Keeping her head down, covered by the scarf, she made her way almost running to the security screening point. A long line formed there, and she had no alternative but to wait.
Someone touched Alex on her shoulder, startling her.
“You’re wearing this wrong,” a young Indian woman was saying. “It’s an Indian dupatta, and you’re wearing it like an Iranian shayla.”
Alex struggled to understand what she wanted. Her first thought was to tell her to leave her alone, but then reconsidered it.
“Show me,” she encouraged the stranger.
The girl reached out and wanted to bring the fabric down from her head.
“No,” Alex said, pushing back her hand.
“Oh.” The stranger’s expression changed. “I see. If you need to hide your face, then tuck the ends of the dupatta in your shirt. The gold embroidery and fringes will draw attention. If you tuck them in like this, it looks modest. It works best if you’re walking with your head down, just like a modest Muslim woman would.”
Alex looked at her reflection in a glass wall. She barely recognized herself. She thanked the stranger by gently squeezing her hand.
She passed through security, looking down almost the entire time. On occasions, she checked her surroundings briefly, but there wasn’t a trace of Bal and his men anywhere. She made it to the gate and approached the gate attendant, walking slowly through the dense crowd.
“Hi. My name is Alex Hoffmann, and I need your help to get safely on the plane,” she said.
A commotion behind her drew her attention. Bal and his men were shouting, trying to get the crowd to move away as they ran toward the gate.
“Yes, ma’am, your plane is waiting,” the attendant said and led her through a side gate. Two armed men in black uniforms showed up and flanked her, leading her to the tarmac. Behind her, in the crowded gate area, Bal was making headway fast.
“Stop!” he yelled. “Get out of my way!” he snapped at an older man, shoving him brutally to the side. He approached the side gate that led to the tarmac, but two uniformed men wearing the letters CISF (indicating Central Industrial Security Force) on their backs and sleeve patches stood in his path. They were militarized airport security, people who could not be easily intimidated.
“This gate is for private jet access only. I am afraid I can’t let you through.”
“Aaargh!” Bal yelled, out of his mind with anger, clenching his fists tightly.
Hearing Bal’s scream she turned, and, almost paralyzed, saw him pull a gun and shoot in her direction. The bullet hit one of the CISF men in the shoulder. The other CISF hit Bal in the head with his gun handle, knocking him down.
She resumed her brisk walk onto the tarmac escorted by the two uniformed men carrying automatic weapons. As soon as she turned the corner around the terminal building, Blake’s Phenom 300 came into sight. The familiar whirring of its engines was the sweetest sound she’d ever heard. Relieved, she climbed the five steps.
“Welcome aboard,” Blake’s pilot greeted her, turning his head toward her. He was clicking buttons and checking readouts. “We are ready for departure; we will be taking off shortly, please take your seat.”
“Whew, thanks!”
She took her seat, expecting the plane to start moving immediately. She waited for another couple of minutes, but the plane still sat there, door open. She moved forward in the small cabin to speak with the pilot.
“Any idea why we’re not leaving yet? It’s kind of an intense situation I have going on here,” she tried to explain.
“I hope you weren’t planning to leave me here,” she heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Sam!” she exclaimed and ran to him.
“What happened to no man left behind?” Sam asked, hugging her.
“I’m a civilian,” she laughed.
“Go,” he instructed the pilot.
The plane’s door closed with a thump. Minutes later, the Phenom was taking off, soaring toward the permanently yellow sky.
...Chapter 93: Hardware Issues
...Monday, September 26, 10:04AM MDT (UTC-6:00 hours)
... Outside InfraTech Headquarters—NSA / Homeland Security Joint Task Force—Mobile Intervention Unit
...Provo, Utah
Special Agent Lance Huntley fastened his Kevlar vest carefully, checking to see if it was secured in place.
He looked briefly at the geo-location screen, one of the many digital terminals in the Mobile Command Center. The screen showed blue dots corresponding to the respective locations of the team’s mobile units and red dots for any unregistered geo-locating devices picked up by the sensors. Blue for friendly, red for unknown or foe. All the blues were exactly where they were su
pposed to be. There was a cluster of red dots, immobile, centered on the InfraTech warehouse.
Huntley frowned, then dismissed his concern, attributing it to some active geo-locating devices that InfraTech might have had in stock. Who knows what else they got in there, he thought. Not giving the red dot cluster another second of attention, he picked up the radio.
“All teams, this is Command. Team Charlie, Team Delta, get ready. Confirm. Over.”
He looked at the young technician working on a laptop next to him.
“OK, start cell signal jamming now, five-mile radius. I want it dead quiet. God himself shouldn’t be able to make a call.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man answered and started entering commands on his computer.
“Team Delta in position, over.”
“Team Charlie in position, over.”
“All signal is down, sir, all is quiet.”
“Cut their landlines too.”
“They’re cut.”
“All teams, this is Command. All phone lines are down. Proceed at will.”
The MRAP (mine-resistant ambush protected) vehicles, marked ”Homeland Security—Special Response Team,” took strategic positions around the building. The blue dots on his geo screen reflected their new placement, showing them as a circle made of triangular blue tags enclosing the building, covering all angles and all exits.
Armed to the teeth and in full tactical gear, the two teams fanned out, surrounding the entire InfraTech warehouse and office building. Team Delta moved toward the back of the building, watching every exit. Team Charlie stayed at the front of the building, two of the agents blocking the parking lot exit. Five agents moved toward the main entrance to the building. Special Agent Huntley caught up with them and entered the lobby.
A startled, pale receptionist stood up, unsure what to say.
“Please call Mr. Weston for me,” Huntley asked.
“Y–yes, sir, right away.”
