by Jack Bowie
“Mr. Braxton! Hello!”
The loud, shrill voice shattered his concentration. He looked up to see a tall, well-dressed woman striding toward him. Her face was vaguely familiar but he couldn’t associate it with a name. The outburst had centered the lobby’s attention in their direction.
“Oh. Hello,” he sputtered as he stood up.
“Sydney Marino,” she said with a disarming smile, obviously sensing his confusion. “We met at Megan’s apartment.”
Damn! How could he have forgotten? He took her outstretched hand. “Miss Marino. Of course. I’m sorry. I guess I haven’t gotten over the jet lag yet.”
“That’s okay. It happens to everyone. Although it does crush a fragile ego.” She suddenly seemed to notice the attention she caused and lowered her voice a decibel or two. “I guess I shouldn’t have yelled. But I certainly didn’t expect to see you in Amsterdam. What are you doing here?”
“I’m attending a conference in the hotel. Weren’t you here last week?”
“Yes, but something came up and I had to return. Everything is always urgent.”
Braxton looked around and saw that they were still a focus for those in the lobby. Marino’s animated style was hard to miss. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked.
“Oh, that would be nice, but I can’t. I have to get down to Utrecht.”
“I understand. It was good to see you again.”
Marino paused, then flipped the smile into a wide grin. “What about later, though? A drink?”
“Ah, sure. Fine.”
“Great! Here in the bar about 7:00?”
“Okay.” Caught up in her enthusiasm Braxton didn’t know what else to say.
“Super. See you.” She spun on a toe and rushed off toward the entrance.
He watched as she handed something to an attendant. A few minutes later a car arrived and she disappeared into the afternoon sun.
What do you know? I just got picked up.
* * *
Tak Yang was a member of a panel discussion on governmental control of cryptographic technology. It was one of the few sessions Braxton had been able to endure. Actually, the topic was of considerable professional interest; he had been asked by many of his current clients to give them briefings on cryptographic export controls. While the panel session had disclosed little new information, the discussions had given him some ideas on a better presentation approach. He could always use a new “spin” to his proposals.
Yang had been the most insightful member of the panel. He spoke in polished King’s English and seemed to even understand the less articulate questions of his colleagues. His descriptions of China’s activities had been appropriately circumspect, but he had offered competent analyses of global political trends and positions.
The session had just completed and most of the attendees had rushed to dinner engagements and other appointments. A small group of questioners were still gathered around the panel participants at the front table. Braxton rose from his chair and headed to a corner by the rear door. He wanted to try to catch Yang as he left the hall.
Braxton’s thoughts had slipped back to his conversation with Slattery when he suddenly saw a short black-haired man break from the group and walk toward the far door.
Damn! It was Yang. Should he try to catch the scientist now or wait for another opportunity? He couldn’t take a chance on missing him altogether. What if he was leaving right after his presentation?
Braxton rushed across the room, knocking over a chair left haphazardly in the middle aisle. Yang stopped and turned at the unexpected noise.
“Dr. Yang!” Braxton called, and waved his hand.
Yang reached in his shirt pocket for a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, wrapped them around his ears, and squinted through the thick lenses at the tall American running toward him.
“Yes?”
Braxton took a breath after he had caught up to the scientist and tried to appear relaxed. “Dr. Yang. My name is Adam Braxton. I was very interested in your analysis of the business impact of controls. I was wondering if we could get together to discuss it further.”
Yang glanced to each side, as if to see if anyone was watching. Then he peered back at the westerner.
“Mr. Bratton? What do you do?”
“It’s Braxton, sir. Adam Braxton. I’m a security consultant in the United States. I was hoping we might be able to share some experiences.”
“I see. Braxton. Yes, we could do that. Perhaps tomorrow at lunch? I understand the food is much better outside the hotel.”
Braxton smiled. Even a Chinese scientist could smell a free meal. “I believe it is, sir. I’ll meet you after the morning session. By the registration area. And I’ll find an appropriate restaurant.”
“That would be fine. Until tomorrow, Mr. Braxton.”
Yang bowed slightly, then they shook hands and parted company in the crowded hallway.
Well, he had done it. At least set up a meeting. Now, how would he get the scientist to talk about his brother?
* * *
Braxton sat in the Krasnapolsky bar, twisting impatiently on a gold-plated bar stool and nursing an amber Talisker on the rocks. The bar was definitely old-world: rich in walnut paneling and soft leather chairs, smelling of tanned leather and expensive cigars. Oils of hunting scenes and windmill landscapes adorned the walls. Most of those sitting around the tables were in groups, paired by business interests or loneliness, so he had selected a stool along the brass-rimmed bartop. It was a great place to watch the other negotiations.
He glanced at his watch. 7:25. He would give her another five minutes then he was gone.
“Adam!”
The voice soared above the refined murmurs of the room’s other occupants. He didn’t need to identify the caller, but turned anyway and watched Marino stride through the entrance. Many quickly ignored the rude American, but a few, all of them men, took their time returning to their previous conversations.
“So sorry, Adam. I got hung up in traffic. Do you still have time?” She slid onto the stool next to him and placed her hand on his.
“Uh, sure. What would you like?”
“The usual, Karl,” she called to the bartender.
“Yes, Miss Marino,” the man replied.
“He seems to know you pretty well,” Braxton said, hoping he didn’t sound too jealous.
“Karl’s a great guy,” Marino replied innocently. “He’s listened to a lot of my complaints over the past few months. How was your day? Is the conference interesting?”
“It’s okay. There were a few good talks. Most of it was pretty stale though.”
Karl returned and placed a tall, clear drink in front of Marino. She took a long swallow and seemed to relax.
“That tastes good. I’m sorry about your meetings. You really should get outside these stuffy walls. Amsterdam is a really cool city. And the countryside is beautiful.”
“That could be tough. I didn’t get a car.”
“Oh? Then how about a little tour? Tomorrow’s kinda light. I’ve got a meeting in the city in the afternoon, but I could free up the morning.”
“I couldn’t ask you to . . .”
She smiled and it lit up her whole face. “Not at all. And I really need to get away from work. It would be nice to do it with a friend. Where would you like to go?”
Braxton realized this was his chance to work on his real reason for coming to Amsterdam. He hated to take advantage of Marino, but he had to find out more about Vision One.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been here before. Where’s your office? Utrecht?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s gotten pretty industrial lately but parts are still really quaint. And it is a beautiful ride.”
“Then let’s do that. Unless you think it’s too much like work?”
“Not at all. How about 7:30?”
“That would be fine. I do need to be back here for a luncheon appointment. That
okay?”
“No problem. Speaking of an appointment, I’ve got one tonight. Sorry I cut things so close. I don’t budget my time very well I’m afraid.”
Somehow that didn’t surprise Braxton. The woman was completely out of control. In a cute sort of way.
“I’m glad you could come,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Great. I’ll stop in front of the lobby and pick you up. ‘Til tomorrow.” Marino downed the remainder of her drink and hopped off the stool.
“Bye,” he replied.
She turned to leave, then unexpectedly leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Ciao!”
He could feel the warm flush in his face as he watched her leave. A wave of turned heads followed her passage like a wake behind a speedboat. She was definitely a very attractive woman. He almost felt bad about using her this way. Then again, what did he really know about her?
“Karl?” he called to the bartender.
“Yes sir. Another drink?”
“No. Not yet. But tell me, what does Miss Marino drink?”
“The lady is very particular, sir. It is always the same. Avion. Mit gaz. And a slice of lemon.”
Maybe not so out of control after all.
“Thank you, Karl. Maybe I will have another.”
Chapter 29
National Security Agency, Fort Meade, Maryland
Tuesday, 2:00 p.m.
“He’s as ready as he’ll ever be.” Slattery said. He was again sitting in Robinson’s non-descript office at the NSA ostensibly to discuss their strategy after Braxton contacted Yang. Slattery didn’t have a lot of confidence in Braxton’s ability to pull off the meeting, but he had done all he could do. He just wished that Robinson had done the same. “Have you gotten anything new on Yang?”
“No. How do you think I would have? You did check out the Agency’s files didn’t you?”
Slattery took a deep breath. “Yes, Garrett. There wasn’t anything.”
Robinson shook his head in agreement. “Then I guess this consultant just has to go with what we gave him.”
Which was precious little.
Robinson was being outwardly attentive but Slattery had been a field agent too long not to notice the slight pauses and drifting gaze. The analyst’s mind was definitely on something else. What could be eating at him? Maybe Stroller was really on his back.
“We have to have the algorithm for the decryption, Roger. These militia attacks aren’t going to stop with just two disruptions. This is just the start.”
“You’re right. They aren’t random events. But something doesn’t fit.”
Robinson bowed his head and pressed his fingers into his temples until his forehead turned white. It hurt Slattery just to look. “You alright, Garrett?”
The analyst pulled his hands back to his lap. “Yeah, fine. Just a little headache. Are we covered in case the consultant gets in trouble?”
“I called our station chief in Amsterdam. He’s keeping his assets on alert. But we can’t put a tail on him at the conference. The place is already crawling with Chinese agents. If they get spooked they’ll pull Yang back to Beijing.”
“Why all the attention? Do they expect trouble?”
“Not from us, but there’s already been some anti-China demonstrations. Human rights groups still get upset about China’s behavior. Yang’s on a very short leash. I don’t know how close Braxton can even get.”
“He’d better get damned close!” Robinson suddenly yelled across the desk. “This goddamn civilian was your idea, Slattery.”
It took all of Slattery’s training not to reach across the space and drive his hand into the wunderkind analyst’s throat. But the conversation was taking an interesting turn. What had set Robinson off?
“I don’t remember you having anything better, Garrett,” Slattery replied in an infuriatingly calm tone. “You did ask for our help as I remember.”
“Yes, of course, Roger. I’m sorry. I’m just so anxious about this militia threat.”
Slattery searched Robinson’s face for the truth, but the analyst had regained his composure. The professional’s mask snapped back in place and Slattery had seen all he was to see for today.
* * *
Robinson spun out of the bed, grabbed his pants and went to look for a clean shirt. The Special Assistant had a penchant for ripping buttons and pockets in moments of passion, so he had started to stockpile laundered oxfords in her closet. Pushing innumerable blouses and suits aside—his area always migrated to the end of the pole—he found a respectable blue pinstripe.
“Garrett?” Flynn called from the bathroom.
“Yes?”
“You remember I asked you about Roger Slattery?”
Shit! Why did she have to bring up Slattery again? As if the conversation with him earlier this afternoon wasn’t bad enough. “What about him?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. He’s come over a few times to talk about the militia thing. Doesn’t seem like a bad guy. Are you involved in any of that?”
“The militia? No. Claude’s trying to stay out of it. We’ll leave that battle between you and the CIA. We’re the guys in the background, remember?”
“Some of my friends would say the shadows, Garrett. Like an illusion. By the way, put on the pink shirt, it makes you look really sexy.”
He heard the rush of the shower and the rest of her comments were buried under the noise of streaming water.
Robinson spread the apparel back along the rod, and noticed the suit Flynn had worn at yesterday’s meeting. Could she have left anything interesting? He turned back to the bathroom and, satisfied she was still occupied, stuck his hand in the jacket pocket. Empty. He reached farther into the closet and checked the breast pocket. Nothing. Reaching over to the other outside pocket, he felt an unusual stiffness. He pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper. One more look to the shower, and he opened the sheet.
Not a neat FBI memo, the sheet was a collage of handwritten letters. He remembered her doodling at the meeting, a decidedly unusual behavior for the intense agent. Across the top in bold capitals was IMAGER. The rest of the paper was filled with permutations of the six letters. Having seen enough, Robinson carefully refolded the paper and replaced it in the coat pocket.
He grabbed a tie and finished dressing. When she emerged from the bathroom, he gave her a quick peck on the cheek and headed out the door.
Waiting in the hallway for the elevator, the paper burned in his mind.
Damn Markovsky. He always has to be so clever.
Circled in the middle of the sheet had been the word “MIRAGE.”
* * *
“Mr. Luckett, I believe?” Slattery stepped out from behind a row of cars and confronted the reporter. He had spent the last hour wandering the stores of the Falls Church strip mall, staking out the area for his meeting. He had felt stupid staring into the windows of beef cuts and designer clothes, walking among the housewives and whining children, but good tradecraft required the surveillance. It was unlikely Luckett was anything but what he seemed, but Slattery had learned long ago that first impressions could never be trusted. Not even his own.
“Well, Mr. Brown. Good to see you again.”
“I’d like to keep this very short,” Slattery replied. “What is it you’d like to tell me?”
“All business, huh? Okay. The arson, and murder, in Tyler was performed by Macon Holly’s cell, but it was planned and staged by someone else. The same person who bought that old farm, buys the materiel, and directs the militia exercises. And the one who is coordinating all the militia operations. These are dangerous people, Slattery. And things are going to get a lot worse.”
“That’s quite a story, Mr. Luckett. Why don’t you print it? I’m sure the Post would sell a lot of copies.”
“If I had real evidence, I sure as hell would. But you know I don’t. I’m just a poor hack reporter, Slattery. I don’t have the resources to uncover dummy corporations, expose money transfers,
and track clandestine communications. This is a very well-funded organization. They operate across the country and have all the participating cells under their control. I’ve done all I can, and lost a very good friend along the way. I do promise you though, if you don’t do something I’ll find a way to make all your lives miserable.”
Slattery stared down at the smaller man and took a step forward. When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. “I’ll forget that threat and chalk it up to frustration and remorse, Mr. Luckett. But don’t ever do it again. I believe we all want the same thing: to see that those responsible for these acts of terrorism are punished. I have complete confidence that the proper authorities will see to that.”
“So that’s it? The ‘proper authorities’ will handle it? Jesus, Slattery, I thought you would be different. But you’re the same as the rest. Nobody wants to buck the political line. You and Killer Carlson. Well, I’ll find some way to write this story, with or without you.”
“More threats, Mr. Luckett? Gil Converse, he’s your editor right? I hear he’s pretty much had it with your conspiracy theories. I don’t imagine he’s going to print anything new until you get your facts straight. And pissing me off isn’t going to get you anywhere. Have a good day, Mr. Luckett.”
“I hope you all rot in hell.” Luckett spun on his heels and headed back to his car.
Slattery watched as the reporter got into a battered Escort and drove off. Luckett was undoubtedly the FBI’s source. Of all the informants in the world, reporters were the worst. You never knew what was going to pop up on the next morning’s front page.
Luckett would come back if he heard anything more. And God knows, they needed all the help they could get.
As he walked back to his car, Slattery thought about Amsterdam. He hoped to hell that Braxton could get something out of Yang. And manage not to get himself killed in the process.
Chapter 30
Krasnapolsky Hotel, Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Wednesday, 7:25 a.m.
Braxton appeared at the Krasnapolsky’s entryway and searched for Marino. It was a crisp clear morning, the street still damp from an overnight rain. He watched as pedestrians made their way along the sidewalks, glancing down the canal and greeting the street vendors just opening their carts. It was so friendly, so casual. So unlike the hurried gruffness in …
