by Tom Wheeler
Since when? uttered Crane.
“Excuse me, General?”
“Nothing, sir.”
26
Plotting
September 5
New York City, New York
The United Nations is located at First Avenue and 42nd Street in New York City. While business went about as usual today, Jonah knew the Secret Service and NYPD would add concrete and steel barricades from 42nd to 48th Street, as well as closing 20 other streets, blocking all access to the International Building when the General Assembly was set to convene on September 16, one month after Diablo 8-16, and 11 days from today. He was also aware of radar protecting the facility from air assaults.
What hadn’t changed since the building was constructed in 1947 was a ventilation system that ran from the top of the facility down to the outside of the building, intersecting with an old elevator shaft often under repair. Not that any human could manage their way from the top of the building to the bottom because of the sheet metal used to create the ventilation duct, which could easily lacerate human flesh; the barriers installed to keep animals out throughout the ducts; and a security system that picked up on all breaches. Besides, unlike the conventional ventilation systems of the mid-1900s, the ductwork of modern ventilation systems could not hold the weight of a human being. The fact that the red alarm “off” light was currently blinking for the elevator shaft was of no surprise to security, since elevator repairs occurred so frequently, and nobody believed an intruder could access the shaft without setting off another alarm. So they dismissed it as normal. At least that was what Jonathan had told Jonah in their last correspondence.
As for Jonathan Eller, he had gone from a pastime of basketball and hanging out with jocks to shaving his head and tattooing his entire body in rebellion against the “system” he’d learned to loathe. According to the recruiter, several of the jocks at Jonathan’s high school had mocked Eller because he wouldn’t bully kids considered gay by the more popular athletes. They had made it clear that either Jonathan joined the bullying, or they would make up a story about him having sex with one of the other players. Jonathan had ignored the threats, and the jocks had lived up to them, fabricating a story that had tarnished Jonathan’s reputation. He had been forced to quit the team.
While Jonathan didn’t care about the jihadist movement, despite his step-brother Mustafa’s attempts to recruit him to the movement, he did like the idea of a community that wanted revenge on just about everyone. That was what had led him to a homegrown terrorist training facility in an abandoned school in the Bronx in 2009.
What Jonah found strange about the kid, besides the fact that Jonathan had scored 1400 on his SAT, was that Jonathan had told the recruiter about the “voices” he heard, voices that told him to hurt himself and others—something most people buried deep inside their souls, since it suggested a type of insanity most didn’t want to reveal, particularly those as educated as Jonathan. But Jonah wasn’t complaining, since that made Jonathan the perfect candidate for the bombing—an educated, angry, and out-of-the-closet lunatic who was notably off the FBI’s radar—despite Mustafa’s own links to al-Qaeda. Since he was a step brother—they missed it, although Jonah wondered if Troy wasn’t somehow involved in keeping that secret—secret.
“Who the hell is she?” asked Jonathan, standing in his uniform clearly marked as United Nations Security with his mop of curls atop his head. He was having difficulty making eye contact.
“My associate,” said Jonah as Eva Cruise stood emotionless.
“You told me nobody else would be involved,” he retorted, appearing nervous. “The last thing I need is to be locked up for the rest of my life because you decided to impress your latest pinup.”
“She’s the only way this plan will succeed,” said Jonah. “Now, please show us the outside wall.”
“Nobody moves around these premises without a pass. What’s your name?” Jonathan asked with attitude, rolling his eyes while looking around nervously.
“Eva Cruise,” she said warmly. Jonathan immediately turned and stared into her eyes, as if studying her.
“You’re different,” he said as their eyes locked.
“Come on,” said Jonah with urgency as the two stared at one another as if connecting in some weird way.
“License?” Jonathan asked as she dug it out of her purse.
“Do I need to go with you?” she asked. Jonah’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t care about being exposed to a list of visitors to the UN. It was normal for him to visit the prestigious building, but he didn’t need the alarms sounding because of Eva’s titanium frame.
“Normally, yes, but I’m friends with the guy working security. I don’t have time to go through the normal procedure. I have to be back at my station in 15 minutes. It’s a mad house around here.” Jonathan proceeded abruptly toward the employee entrance as Jonah and Eva sat on a nearby bench, admiring the blue skies and watching tourists come and go. Jonathan was back in under 5 minutes.
“Here, put these on,” he said, handing the two passes to Eva and Jonah. “This way,” he said, escorting them toward the side of the building, and waving at another security guard as they passed.
“When do they change shifts?” asked Jonah.
“It’s all here,” said Jonathan, handing Jonah a small flash drive without making eye contact. “The entrance is over there,” he said, nodding toward the north entrance without pointing. “I’ll show you.”
Jonah and Eva turned toward the building.
“Where’s the vest?” Jonathan asked casually as they headed over to the north wall.
“It will be behind the storage case in the janitor’s closet, the only place you said the authorities didn’t check.”
“Impossible,” Jonathan said. “They don’t check it because nobody can get anything into the building. They scrutinize everything. Even your food is inspected, particularly this week. The only way someone could get something in would be by coming down the elevator shaft, which is impossible because the top of the building is wired. You’ll be shot down if you approach this building from the air,” Jonathan said, glancing at his watch while stopping at the edge of the building as Jonah and Eva looked up.
“Don’t worry, Jonathan, it will be there. You said the red light was flashing this morning?”
“Yes, elevator repairs.”
“Very good. Did you receive the larger-sized uniform?” Jonah cocked his head to look up the side of the building, then glanced at Jonathan, who nodded. “Make sure the orange detonation cord is connected to the striker sleeve and adhered to your left hand with duct tape. When you’re ready to detonate . . .” He trailed off as Jonathan interrupted.
“Pull the ring of the striker sleeve with my right hand, I know. I could have built the damn vest if you’d let me,” he said as Eva snapped pictures with the blink of her eyes.
“Oh, and don’t forget to say ‘Allahu Akbar,’ ” said Jonah as Jonathan shook his head. “Don’t worry, you will have served a purpose, Jonathan, but acting like a jihadist merely makes your sacrifice even more valuable,” said Jonah. “You will say it?”
“Anything to further divide this hellhole. Besides, Mustafa told me he’d watch over my girl friend.”
“Perhaps you will be the catalyst this world has needed. Good luck,” Jonah said instinctively as the three headed back to the front entrance, handing back their passes and making their way to the exit. Then Jonathan went back to work while Jonah and Eva headed to the 45th Street subway station.
27
Trojan Horse
September 6
The White House
Washington, D.C.
The elevator dinged as Crane stepped off, heading down the corridor toward the Oval Office. It was a typical Friday as he traversed the wide and prestigious white h
allway. Passing the Roosevelt Room, he moved through the small waiting area outside the president’s office.
“Don’t tell me, more bad news?” asked the president. Crane assumed he was referring to their brief discussion about Jonah Soul two days ago, the last time they’d met.
“I’ll save that for last,” said Crane with a slight smile. “Did you watch CBS this morning?” Crane noticed Wesley Masters sitting in one of the chairs in front of the president’s desk.
“You mean Leon Tuss’s demonstration of that mind-reading device?” Wesley asked as the general set down his briefcase on the floor. Crane nodded.
“The Telepathic Auditor, yes.”
“Old news,” said Wesley as he eyed the jar of colorful jelly beans sitting on the president’s desk. “They showed it on 60 Minutes months ago. Leon Tuss believes the only way to keep up with technology is to become part of it. That device is the first step. May I?” Wesley asked, sitting forward in his chair.
“Help yourself,” the president said. Wesley popped some of the beans into his mouth as if he owned the place.
Crane hesitated.
“Did you have a reason for asking, General?” asked the president as Wesley inhaled more of the candy.
“This was the first time Leon publicly spoke about neural thread,” said Crane, watching reactions.
“Which is?” asked the president.
“Electronic thread thinner than human hair, filled with electrodes that connect the human brain to the Internet.”
“Directly?” asked Wesley. “Without that device?”
“Besides the obvious, why does that matter?” the president asked.
“Because it increases the reality of psychic espionage,” said Crane. “At least according to Dhilan—”
“Don’t tell me, Leon’s secretly building a cyborg?” the president interrupted, half joking.
“Well, I doubt anything is going to be built without Dhilan and Dr. Mescher’s knowledge. But that would be up to you, sir,” said Crane as Wesley’s demeanor appeared to change.
“Speaking of cyborgs, I heard that Shareef said Wells Fargo is denying it was robbed by an alien. Is that true?” Wesley asked, referring to the director of the FBI, Shareef Hoke.
“They haven’t responded,” said Crane.
“Why would they stall?” asked the president. “Banks know how much gold is stashed in their safes.”
“They’re doing an internal review to make sure it wasn’t an inside job before announcing,” said Crane. “At least according to Director Hoke.”
“We didn’t do it, right, Crane?” the president asked, looking directly into the general’s eyes. Crane blinked.
“No, sir. The androids . . . ,” Crane said, stopping.
“He knows,” said the president stoically as Wesley stopped chewing long enough to lock eyes with the general.
“. . . have internal GPS systems that cannot be modified,” Crane continued. “They have not been out of our sight.”
“According to whom?” asked Wesley.
“Dhilan,” answered Crane, still uncomfortable with Wesley’s newfound authoritative style.
The president shook his head.
“I realize Dhilan is a genius, but how does one man have that much power?” asked the president. The general looked up at him with pursed lips. Wesley appeared cross-eyed at the remark. “I mean, how do we know Dhilan isn’t—? . . . Never mind.”
“The Congressional Oversight Committee will handle that in the future, sir,” said Crane. “As for President Crumpler, he wanted to test these androids before they were completed. You know that.”
“I do now. Who puts androids in play before the kinks are worked out?” President Tense asked rhetorically.
“It worked,” said Wesley, somewhat sheepishly.
“And Jonah Soul?” the president asked. “I’ve got an appointment with Marína Crumpler in a few minutes. Jonah was friends with Jordan. So if you have an update, let’s hear it.”
Wesley peered at Crane.
“General?”
“Apparently the FBI was tracking cell phone service in South Dakota as part of a task force pursuing white nationalists, not jihadists. They intercepted a call to Russia. It was a burner phone, which is suspicious ipso facto—”
“What’s this got to do with Jonah?” interrupted Wesley.
“Voice recognition identified the voice as Jonah Soul’s.”
“It’s not illegal to do business with Russia or talk on the phone,” said Wesley. “He’s chairman of one of the most technically advanced organizations in the world. I would assume he has conversations with the Russians on a regular basis.”
“According to Shareef, some of the conversation was odd—there was nothing about ‘business’ during the exchange. What got Shareef’s attention was that the second voice was purposely distorted,” said Crane as Wesley became much more attentive. Crane was well aware of the tension between FBI director Hoke and Wesley Masters.
“Meaning?” asked the president.
“Unrecognizable.”
“According to the former president, Jonah Soul is a patriot—a perfect American,” President Tense remarked. “I’m inclined to agree.”
“Mr. President,” came over the intercom.
“Yes, Megan?” the president said, while Crane considered the comment about Jonah. He was used to such comments from the former president—just not from President Tense, although the more he dealt with the new president, the more he saw him acting like former president Jordan Crumpler.
“Ambassador Crumpler is here to see you.”
“Send her in.”
“You want us to leave, sir?” asked Crane.
“No, I may need you.”
Marína Crumpler strutted into the Oval Office dressed in a pleated ochre dress and carrying a big, bright metallic bag, with matching statement necklace, metallic belt, and silver shoes.
28
Marína
“Nice to see you Marína,” said the president as she entered the Oval Office with a stoic look.
“Mr. President,” Mrs. Crumpler responded with a slight smile and an Eastern European accent. She offered her hand. He took it, although neither of them expressed much emotion.
“General, Director Masters,” she said, looking each in the eyes. “It is nice to see you, although I didn’t know the president had invited you to our meeting.”
Crane studied the former first lady, wondering what had possessed the current president to put her in any position of authority, particularly after the accusations against former president Crumpler. He questioned the move despite the logic of her appointment as ambassador: From Slovenia, a socialist republic positioned between Croatia, Austria, and Hungary, she was fluent in five languages and was afforded by foreign governments a level of trust not normally given to an American—just like Madeleine Albright, one of the country’s greatest diplomats because she was from Czechoslovakia. That Mrs. Crumpler knew all the world leaders because she had been the first lady, and had a level of intelligence not often found in ambassadors, was also unprecedented. Still.
“I didn’t. Coincidentally, the general was just telling me about a strange phone call between Jonah Soul and a Russian. Since we were going to talk about Russia, perhaps they can enlighten us with their most recent findings, wouldn’t you agree?” the president asked, looking at Marína as if more was being communicated than the words spoken.
“Thinking of starting another witch hunt, are we?” she replied. “Russia is attempting to appease the United States because of the nuke, not to find a way to take advantage of the vicious attack. But since you brought it up, I am concerned that you have not pressed Congress enough to refute the claim, once and for all, that my husband was involved with the Russians. Besides my own reputation as ambassador, I have children. They d
on’t need to carry this stigma into their own political careers.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” asked Crane.
“Oh please, Chesty, the only way to prove Russia is not involved in US affairs is to find out just who is,” she said, using a nickname the general was uncomfortable hearing in such a setting.
“I can assure you I am doing what is necessary, not that it is any of your business, Madame Ambassador. I would also appreciate it if you would address me as General Crane.”
“My apologies, General. Just remember, I am the ambassador trying to keep our relationship with the Russians in check. DECREE 2020 is the key to proving his innocence, and as long as it is voluntary, it is ineffective.”
“What?” asked Crane, looking at President Tense. “This is about DECREE 2020?”
“Marína believes chips will ensure that future presidential elections are secure, since chips would eliminate voter fraud. They would also uncover fraud from the real threats to our democracy.”
“The real threats?”
“The Turkish government,” said the president.
“That is a myth,” Crane said. “Every professional intelligence agency said it was the Russians.”
“That is still unproven,” said Marína sharply. “By the way, I can speak for myself.”
“I understand the controversy over the Stoner dossier, and it is not my intent to defame the former president, but Russia is still a threat to the democracy of the United States,” said Crane as Wesley remained unusually silent.
Marína glared at the general, then spoke. “Exactly why I want the chips, General.”
“Why is that, again?” he asked.
“Because there are still anti-Crumpler people in high levels of influence who believe the Russians are involved when there is no evidence,” she said, implying Crane was a dissenter, since he was the intelligence community. “Mandatory chips will ensure that our elections are clean. Hell, have people take them out after the election if someone believes it is a government takeover, which it clearly is not.”
