Mastermind- Rise of the Trojan Horse

by Tom Wheeler

  “Hey! What’s going on over there?” asked Abella, stretching out her neck.

  “Oh, mon dieu!” said Daniela Sofia, taking a deep breath. “This girl is on fire!” Angela pulled her toward the dance floor.

  “Don’t worry, Angela loves to dance,” said Matt, as if this were routine.

  “So do we!” said Margot, as the others followed Angela and Daniela Sofia.

  The now party of seven made small talk, laughed, and enjoyed each other’s company.

  51

  Bi-lateral Subterfuge

  Paris, France

  “You girls want a treat?” asked Matt as they continued to mingle having moved to the upper deck of Le FLOW restaurant, which was housed in a barge on the Seine and filled with millennials.

  “Another one? Sure!” responded Margot with an expression that showed confusion at Matt’s question.

  Matt turned to the bartender, who was decked out in a standard penguin uniform, as a larger crowd had found their way around the group cluttering the bar like sardines.

  “Could we have seven smoked chocolate and raspberry old-fashioneds?” he asked the bartender, as Margot smiled at the order of another popular and expensive drink.

  “Pardon?” said the bartender, looking quizzically at Matt. Matt turned to the girls.

  “Nous voudrions six chocolat fumé et framboises à l’ancienne, s’il vous plaît. Sur son onglet,” said Abella, leaning over toward the bartender.

  The bartender nodded his head, obviously appreciating the use of his native language.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Duh, Monsieur Matthew, I ordered the drinks you asked for!”

  “It sounded like you added something?”

  “Oui. I told him to make sure they were on your tab,” said Abella with a smile.

  When the bartender had mixed the drinks and placed them on the bar, Matt handed her a glass and turned back around.

  “Pas mal du tout!” Abella said, taking a sip.

  “Wait . . . I want to make a toast,” interrupted Matt, handing Capucine a drink while flashing a look at Abella.

  “Oups, mon mauvais!” said Abella. “My bad!”

  Capucine was used to having men approach her in bars; it had happened to her all her adult life. But something was peculiar about these three Americans, not that she could place her finger on just what. And her training had piqued her awareness of the behavior of everyone, especially strangers who approached her in a bar.

  “Doke! Pardon, mademoiselle, ce mec vient de verser quelque chose dans vos boissons,” a strange girl said as she bumped into Capucine. Before Capucine could react, she was whispering in her ear.

  “Je ne sais pas qui il est mais il a dopé ton verre,” said the girl. Capucine glanced quickly into the woman’s slightly slanted eyes as they found the floor, appearing not to want to make eye contact.

  “I’m a friend. I’ll find you again,” the stranger said into Capucine’s ear again. Capucine looked down and noticed a small dragonfly tattooed on the girl’s abdomen, visible under the black crocheted see-through halter top she wore.

  “Qui es-tu?”

  “A friend of a friend,” the young woman whispered without ever making eye contact as she disappeared into the crowd. Capucine was a little uneasy dealing with yet another stranger. Her instincts were on high alert. She adjusted her hair and scanned the crowd, looking for the unusual girl whose only feature she’d seen clearly was her Miley Cyrus haircut, although her hair was jet black. Capucine wouldn’t have allowed her to go had she not been with her friends. She would have chased her down, but not at the risk of her cover.

  “Capucine! Who was that?” asked one of the girls as Capucine scanned the crowd, unable to see her in the massive throng.

  “A friend,” she said, nonchalantly.

  “Drink up!” said Matt after he had handed out all the drinks.

  Capucine quickly reengaged the strangers before her. “In France we switch drinks! It’s our way of expressing ourselves,” she said without appearing to be concerned, even though the stranger had warned her.

  “No, it’s not!” said Margot. Capucine gave her a look.

  “Unless it is among friends,” Margot corrected, pausing between words while returning a look to Capucine that she was clueless but playing along.

  “Maybe the next round?” Matt said, slightly defensive at the suggestion.

  “We don’t have cooties, Matt,” Capucine said, taunting him and moving her drink to his lips. She moved her hand down the front of his pants, likely enough to arouse him but without touching anything.

  “Don’t you want to play?” she said, taking Matt’s drink from him and raising it to her lips. “A toast. To our new friend Matt!” said Capucine as Daniela Sofia, Margot, Abella, Sandy, and Angela raised their glasses. Capucine fixed her gaze on Matt while moving her hand back down his leg. This time she knew his mind was distracted.

  Matt chugged the drink intended for Capucine.

  “The bathroom calls,” said Capucine as soon as the drinks were gone. She quickly moved from the bar through the crowd, scanning for the strange girl. She looked everywhere inside the bar, then outside. Whoever it was, she had disappeared.

  Capucine made her way back to the bar, her mind racing for several reasons. Who was she? How’d she find me? Did Matt really spike my drink?

  She waited, rejoining the party but without drinking. Within a half hour, Matt was passed out.

  “Girls, looks like American boys can’t handle our liquor!” Capucine said in jest as the other girls chuckled. “Pardon me, monsieur, can you take a group picture?” asked Capucine of a stranger.

  “Of course,” said the 30-something man, grabbing Capucine’s phone.

  “Be sure to include our passed-out new friend!” she said, and was interrupted by Angela.

  “No, thanks, I look awful! It was so nice meeting you,” said Angela, visibly uncomfortable with getting her picture taken while attempting to lift Matt and leave.

  “Oh, please, I insist. Girl, squeeze in here,” said Capucine, taking charge and grabbing Angela’s hand, arranging herself around Matt. “Go ahead, monsieur.” The man snapped off several pictures.

  “Do you need any help with Matt?” asked Capucine, taking back her phone.

  “No, thank you. I can’t believe he can’t handle his liquor. We’ve got him,” said Angela as she and Sandy lifted Matt to his feet and helped him toward the exit.

  A moment later, Capucine took her phone and texted: “Please run these faces through facial recognition.” She attached the photo and hit send. Tomorrow she would get video footage from the restaurant and see who the secretive girl was who’d approached her, warning her that the American had spiked her drink. The girls partied for another hour before Capucine insisted on calling it a night.

  

  52

  Spider-Woman

  September 15

  2 a.m.

  New York, New York

  A bead of sweat dripped from Jonah’s forehead as he watched Eva scale the concrete side of the Secretariat Building in New York City, otherwise known as the United Nations. He wiped his hands on his pants, then grabbed a napkin from the glove compartment of his Mercedes and pressed it against his forehead. He watched Eva on his laptop’s screen as she carefully took another step straight up. His heart raced. He glanced at the second camera angle, which showed the entire south side of the giant structure so he could have the same view as security if they actually looked up. She was a small speck, unnoticeable to anyone who didn’t look carefully, because of the darkness. On another laptop he scanned the various feeds of the security cameras located around the building. He continued to relive the steps already taken to ensure that he was following the plan as intended.

  He had dropped Eva Cruise three miles fro
m the United Nations at rush hour yesterday morning, wearing a black outfit and a disguise. Then, like clockwork, she had made her way through the crowded streets to the UN. At the arranged time, she’d rendezvoused with Jonathan Eller who had slipped one of his identification badges into her hand so she could get on site. It had worked as Jonah had expected. Eva had made her way to the small spot hidden from cameras and waited—also according to plan. At 2 a.m., she’d headed up the side of the 39-story building, one hand at a time, along the edges of the structure.

  “Yes, we are on schedule,” he muttered to himself nervously.

  Eva took another step, her hands gripping every crack and crevice as if she were a rock climber, without ropes. Jonah’s heart skipped a beat as Eva grabbed a piece of the building that broke loose and traveled silently 10 flights to the ground. Her feet ran mechanically on the side of the building, trying to keep her from falling. In a last-ditch effort, she reached around the glass, finding a ledge that detached from the building as her body slipped. “Der’mo!” he said in Russian as adrenaline flooded his body, his heart rate triggered into overdrive. He watched as she kicked one time hard, catapulting herself from the building. She began free-falling some 100 feet to the ground—maybe 30 feet from the building. Jonah held his breath as seconds felt like minutes, his eyes widened at the scene.

  He cursed loudly as her body slammed against the grass with a thud. For an instant he closed his eyes and clenched his laptop in a death grip, wondering if the vest she carried on her back would detonate, his worst nightmare. Nothing. He exhaled as he opened his eyes and relaxed his grip, his hands again wet with perspiration. But he knew this wasn’t over. If she didn’t get up in the next 30 seconds, life as he knew it was over; not that he hadn’t considered an escape route.

  His eyes darted back and forth from camera to camera. A security guard appeared on one of the rear cameras, heading toward her location. The security guard started running.

  “Vstavay! Get up!” Jonah screamed into his mic as he watched the guard near, knowing she didn’t have 30 seconds. “V nastoyashcheye vremya! Okhrannik priblizhayetsya s severo-zapada,” he said, telling her a guard was approaching from the northwest. Eva jumped to her feet and headed directly to the back of the facility, away from the approaching guard, as Jonah’s heart continued to race. The guard then looked around the building with his flashlight. He scanned the area, searching for anything or anyone that might have caused a noise. He glanced up the side of the building. Jonah closed his eyes hard, then opened them.

  “Responding to the code yellow at the southwest corner,” said the security guard in a Jamaican accent. Eva’s hearing picked up the conversation as if she were on his radio. Jonah relaxed, shaking his head at the durability and incredible technical prowess of Eva, but wondering how long his heart could take the adrenaline of this work.

  “Go ahead,” came blaring back from the radio as the guard turned down the volume.

  “Looks like a ghost, nothing here,” he said as a gust of wind hit him causing him to grap his cap. Then he noticed a piece of metal, apparently from the side of the building.

  “You need assistance?”

  “Negative. Looks like something fell off the glass. No big deal,” he said, looking back up the towering building.

  “Roger. Head back to your post,” came the response as the guard walked toward the grassy area, then stopped, noticing an indentation. He shined his flashlight around, doing a 360-degree turn as Jonah monitored his every move. After a brief look, the man shrugged and headed back around the building, continuing to scan the area. Jonah closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled for several seconds.

  “You’re clear, EC626,” said Jonah, using Eva’s technical name. “Try the other side,” he suggested. She darted through the darkness and began the climb again. Jonah shook his head as his heart continued to recover from the drama. It was now 2:45 a.m. He continued to watch her climb at an unprecedented rate, as if she had learned on the first attempt the best technique for scaling the building.

  At 3:05 a.m., Eva moved over the top of the 505 foot tall building to the locked panel. She ripped off the top, sounding the beeping alarm while reattaching the wires she carried, stopping the beeps and disabling the alarm. She moved through the ventilation system onto the 39th floor, just outside the elevator shaft.

  “Ready,” she signaled to Jonah, then waited. Moments later, Jonah watched as the elevator appeared on the 39th floor. Jonathan Eller stepped off, peeked around the corner, then returned as part of his rounds. He moved the elevator down one floor as Eva opened the doors and scurried inside the shaft. As soon as Jonathan took the elevator to the bottom floor, Eva quickly moved toward the basement, into the janitor’s closet, where she removed the vest tucked away on her back and placed it where Jonathan had requested. She clambered back into the elevator shaft, up to the roof, and down the side of the building like Spider-Woman. The vest was in place. Jonah headed to the pickup point to meet his greatest asset. Eva Cruise.

  

  53

  Paper Tigers

  September 16, 2019

  1 p.m.

  United Nations, New York City

  A slight chill flowed through my body as I gazed around the outside of the international building known as the headquarters of the United Nations in New York City. My eyes locked on the black SUVs I’d been told were part of the Mobile Security Deployment team, which was the advance security for President Tense. According to my limo driver, the MSD protected the “president’s walk.” The Secret Service had informed me that the UN was covered by 50 teams of armed federal agents monitoring cameras, surveiling the streets of New York City as well as the East River. According to their estimates, 800 good guys were looking for that lone person or team of persons whose intent might be to do harm, although they had assured me they didn’t believe there was much chance of a terrorist attack coming from inside the building because of the increased security.

  Still, I found myself nervous as I was escorted past the flags and into the huge glassed building. I marveled at the entrance; large brown and off-white squares lined the floor beneath incredible architecture and statues. Large pictures covered the walls. An associate led me to my seat in the General Assembly Hall where I would be a guest among the 193 representatives of the peacekeeping organization currently meeting to deliberate the recent strike on the United States of America. General Crane greeted me as my eyes found the bamboo poles of African design making up walls of the room, just as I had dreamt, but much more imposing than I recalled. I figured this event could go in one of four directions: nothing happened, the optimal outcome, although that would mean my dream had been just that; the terrorist was caught before igniting a bomb, which would be almost as good as the first option; the bomb was detonated without anyone getting hurt, which would be unlikely; or the bomb killed the president, the absolute worst outcome.

  “What is that?” I asked the general, indicating a design on the wall as he stood beside me.

  “A drop of rain. The nucleus is supposed to represent homogeneity; a good concept.”

  “But . . . ?” I prompted, since he sounded a bit dubious.

  “I don’t believe it is possible. Most people are homogeneous until they disagree with you over something important to them. Then they want to cut your throat,” Crane said. “You brought binos?” he turned to me and asked. I looked at him strangely. “Binoculars,” he clarified.

  “Oh, right, binos. How else will I be able to see what’s going on?” I asked. “I’m not dying today, sir. Not at the hand of one of the nonhomogeneous dissenters.”

  “That’s comforting, Mr. Thomas,” said Crane, his face expressionless.

  “Yes, sir, General, it is,” I said, smiling nervously.

  “How was your flight with Colonel Wilson?” he asked as we took our seats.

  “The most exhilarating experience I�
��ve ever had. You don’t get G-forces like that in a Cessna,” I said, relaxing a bit and referring to my own airplane, currently being flown to Cape Canaveral from Sunnyvale as part of my relocation package.

  He smiled as someone approached the stage, bringing our attention back to the reason we were at the United Nations. I scanned the room. At the head was a gold wall with the UN logo plastered on it. The desk where the under-secretary-general sat along with the deputy secretary and another senior official was there with a marble front that I recognized from broadcasts I’d seen. For a moment I gazed up at the huge blue dome in the middle of the ceiling above, covered in lights.

  Since there was time, General Crane gave me a short history lesson on the United Nations, although I had googled it before I’d arrived. But I did have questions. For instance, why were we in the General Assembly instead of the Security Council? The General Assembly normally did not discuss or make recommendations on peace and security matters addressed by the Security Council. Crane explained that today was different. The world was different. Everyone was on edge, and the point was to avoid World War III at all cost, similar to the situation just after 9-11, when President Bush had formed a war cabinet that included the director of intelligence—Crane’s current position. Because of the seriousness of the detonation and the fact of another bin Laden at the helm, they had initiated a multilateral discussion called “a temporary expansion of the Security Council.” Evidently the United Nations was gaining more authority because of the bombing.

  “There’s Ambassador Crumpler,” I said, pointing at Marína Crumpler, who was striding to her seat with her normal poise. “When is the president arriving?”

  “1:45 p.m.”

  I nodded. “It’s 1:55,” I said, and Crane shrugged. “Any precautions?”

  “The director ordered the countersurveillance team to do multiple sweeps, and the president is wearing a bulletproof vest,” he informed me. I smiled nervously.

  “The director?” I asked curiously.