Mastermind- Rise of the Trojan Horse

by Tom Wheeler

  “That is the pot calling the kettle black,” said Agent Ashton as the jailer escorted us out.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Moments later we were in a black SUV heading down South Washington Street, Anna in the front passenger’s seat. Out of nowhere a vehicle heading in the opposite direction moved into our lane and hit us head-on at about 30 mph. Anna struck the windshield and was knocked unconscious as if someone had known exactly how fast the car needed to be traveling and at what angle in order for her head to hit where it did. Of course the human body doesn’t always cooperate with the predictions of experts, particularly when it involves the human brain, but in this case it worked as expected, Anna was out. An ambulance was on the scene in a nanosecond, caring for the only injury—that of Anna Valeryevna Butwina. She was rushed to the hospital, where Dr. Mescher was waiting.

  Anna woke up three hours later.

  “Hi there,” said Nero. “Do you know where you are?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath and put her fingers on her head, feeling a bandage. She looked baffled.

  “What?”

  “Do you know where you are?” he repeated.

  “Hell?” she answered, and I half-chuckled at her wit.

  “Do you know who you are?” asked Nero.

  “Why, did you forget? Anna Valeryevna Butwina,” she answered, holding her head. “What happened to me? Did you all take out my brain?”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Barnaul, Altai Krai, RSFSR, USSR. Born on November 10, 1988.”

  “Very good. Welcome back.”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone hit us. You weren’t wearing a seat belt. Sorry about lunch.”

  “My head is pounding. What did you do to me?”

  “You don’t win a fight with a windshield,” Agent Ashton quipped. “You were knocked unconscious. The doctors patched you up and ran a CT scan to make sure you’re okay, which you are. They had to give you a few stitches for the cut in your head.”

  “Geez. You Americans . . . None of you know how to drive.”

  “I have to ask you some questions,” said Nero.

  “Are you up to it?” added Agent Ashton.

  “I get in an accident and you interrogate me? How about I interrogate you? Give me a mirror,” she demanded. I looked around, found one, and handed it to her. She immediately unwrapped her bandage and scanned her head.

  “I don’t think the doctor wanted you to do that,” I said as she continued to look at the stiches.

  “I was really in an accident?” she asked, as if accepting the lie.

  “Yes, unfortunately, we all were,” I answered truthfully.

  “Why would you think we’re interrogating you?”

  “Who are you?” Anna asked, wearing a quizzical look.

  “Agent Paradyse Ashton.”

  “Because you are Americans and believe anyone from Russia is a spy,” Anna then answered, looking around the room.

  “Are you?” she asked.

  “No!”

  “My government wants to confirm your identity. It’s more of a formality before we release you. Evidently your president wants you back,” said Nero.

  “Isn’t that nice,” Anna said, pausing. “I suppose I can answer a few of your questions. Why does my head hurt in two places?” she asked as she felt another area of her head. I looked at Nero.

  “You can ask the doctor when he returns. Tell me a bit about where you grew up, what your parents did, why you were hired,” said Nero.

  “I was raised in the taiga. My father was an engineer, my mother a C++ programmer for the government. I was hired because of their influence . . .”

  “Is that how you got into guns?”

  “You don’t survive the taiga without knowing how to use guns. You’re interrogating me,” she said, using her arms to sit up a bit more.

  “Just inquisitive.”

  “How long do I have to do this? My head hurts,” she said, now holding her head with both hands. “You’re really going to let me go?”

  “That’s why we are here.”

  “Who are you?” she finally asked, looking me in the eyes.

  “Mason Thomas.”

  “The prophet?” she asked.

  “So they say,” I said, continuing to downplay my role to avoid drama in the press.

  “Why don’t you just ask him why I’m here if he’s really a prophet?” she said, looking at Nero.

  “I’m not a psychic,” I said. “I just deliver messages.”

  “Did Jonah Soul provide you funding for your gun-rights group?” asked Nero, disregarding her comments.

  “Who?”

  “Jonah Soul.”

  “Who the hell is he?” she asked convincingly.

  “You met him in 2014, didn’t you?” Paradyse pressed on, firing question after question.

  “Seriously? You can do better than that,” Anna said. “You are interrogating me. Did you arrange that accident?” she said slowly. “Can I have some pain medication?”

  “I’m sure the doctor will give you a prescription. You’re a member of the Federal Security Service, Russia’s state intelligence organization, isn’t that true?”

  “No.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No!”

  “Any romantic interests?”

  “I’ve already told you. Why did you need to stage an accident? What have you done to me?” she asked. Smart woman, I thought to myself.

  “Tell me again.”

  “Paul Dickerson.”

  “The conservative political activist?”

  “Yes.”

  “You got your master’s degree in international relations from American University, is that right?”

  “Seriously? You don’t share data? I said all this before. Geez. What’s wrong with you people? I am not a spy, but I was attempting to infiltrate political circles,” she said, and I could tell this was working.

  “Who hired you?”

  “Nobody! I am starting a nonprofit to protect civil rights.”

  “You traveled across the US attending NRA meetings. The US government says you were making connections with Republicans to influence elections.”

  “That was social networking,” said Anna, “not espionage.”

  “You were an influence agent, getting close to people with power. You were acting as an agent of the Russian government while hiding your true identity.”

  “I didn’t collect sensitive or classified information. I want to learn from the United States to make Russia better. I admire the NRA—which is why I focused on learning about their methods. We have nothing like the NRA in Russia. I did this on my own. Crutin is a dictator, something I am against.”

  “You were at Freedom Fest—you asked former president Crumpler a question about eliminating Russian sanctions. Why would you pursue such an agenda if you just wanted to learn about the NRA?”

  “I care about Russia. I don’t see why Americans are so discriminatory against us.”

  “One of your texts read, ‘We made our bet. I am following our game.’ What did that mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I thought you said you were smart.”

  “Is that a crime?”

  “No, but writing coded texts isn’t smart.”

  “I’m a student. We had bet on a football game, if you must know.”

  “Another text read: ‘This is the battle for the future. It cannot be lost. Patience and cold blood.’ Is that referring to another football game? Who was pulling the strings, Anna?”

  “No one was pulling strings,” she said. “You don’t have proof, so why you ask me? My head hurts. Stop it!” she said in slightly broken English.

  “You had i
nfluence over one of the cabinet choices, Ron Colton. Why?”

  “My boyfriend wanted me to write that. Truth is, I found Emmanuel while incarcerated. But all I was was a young student who ended up in jail for trying to reach out to America.”

  “Very well, then. I would like you to answer these questions in writing when you have time,” Paradyse said. “As soon as you complete them, we will process your exit. But if you do not answer them, you will remain in jail until you do. Is that understood?”

  “I’m in the hospital,” she said tartly.

  “You’ll be discharged in the morning. Unless you’d prefer to go back to jail, I’d answer the questions,” I said, feeling my oats.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be a minister? You seem more like a CIA agent,” she said, looking at me, although I had been silent during the questioning. “Or maybe they are the same in your country?” she asked, smiling, as a flash of guilt pulsed through my body. I opened my mouth, then closed it as if knowing a response wasn’t necessary, nor would it matter.

  

  94

  FAILED Detonation

  October 18

  “Thank God!” said President Tense on his cell phone, having just received news about the killing of Hassan bin Laden. “Where?”

  “Skyline Drive.”

  “How the hell is it possible that he got across the country?” asked the president as General Crane sat at his desk at the Pentagon.

  “The FBI received a call about a strange man at Harpers Ferry,” Crane said. “Long story short, they called it in, and since the FBI had been casing the area because of your advice, they found him and ended up in pursuit. The man was identified as looking like Rama Rhamine. They put up a roadblock on Skyline Drive, and Rama drove off the cliff. We were lucky, sir. A second nuke was found at the scene. Had it detonated, it would have destroyed half the mountain.”

  “I thought you said it was Hassan?”

  “A diary was found at the scene. Hassan and Rama Rhamine were, indeed, the same person.”

  The president sighed. “Just as Mason said. And the body?”

  “We have enough, yes, sir. You want to make a statement to the American people?”

  “Better give me some time to prepare, since I now have to tell the public we killed Rama for the second time.”

  “Or just tell them it was Hassan.”

  “So now people know two major terrorists got into the United States on my watch? I’m going to have enough trouble being reelected after one bomb. Believe me, there is no good answer. I just have to blame it on—”

  “The former president?” Crane offered.

  “You mean Crumpler or Obama?” said the president with a sound of disgust. “Good job, General. Speaking of Mason, I’d like to speak with him personally,” he said, apparently calming himself.

  “About his dream?”

  “To thank him, for the second time. I’d also like an update on Anna. Did he get enough information to make this work?”

  “According to Wesley, she was a translator for the former president of Russia, Dmytrie Melvedev, who introduced her to Crutin. She was also trained as a hacker and recruited by the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation (FSB) for white-collar espionage of foreign adversaries.”

  “More of a spy than we suspected. I suppose that is good news.”

  “We also discovered that Anna is an orphan.”

  “So no close family ties . . .”

  “It means it will be easier to pull this off. Besides hacking her mind, Nero hacked the FSB’s server. She’s also got a titanium plate in her back from an automobile accident she was in several years ago in Russia.”

  “So even the real Anna can’t go through normal airport security,” Tense said.

  “Yep. Every little bit helps.”

  “What about Nero? Is he ready?”

  “The transformation into Anna has been completed. He’s ready,” said the general. “Well, Gemini Twin is ready, I should say.”

  The president took a deep breath. “I’ll set up the exchange for later this week.”

  “Just curious, won’t President Crutin be suspicious if you just hand her over?” Crane asked.

  “He agreed to stop his aggression with Kazakhstan. Perhaps his thinking we’re on the ropes is our saving grace.”

  “Or he’ll feel like we are backed into a corner without room to maneuver,” Crane mused aloud. “If he agrees, it shows how important she is to him. If he doesn’t, the deal’s dead.”

  “From his perspective, it helps him leverage a game of cat and mouse. If I were in his shoes, I’d stop the aggression, get Anna back on his soil, and wait this out. He didn’t get to be president because of his good looks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “On our part, he won’t suspect her. Although I am sure he will question her to see if her loyalty remains with him. Can Nero pass a polygraph?”

  Crane’s eyebrows flickered up and down just once, his gaze sliding to the side.

  “He passed one of ours,” Crane said. “Not sure about other tests they might subject her to.”

  “Since she was involved in white-collar espionage, I doubt he’ll ask her to kill someone to show her loyalty.”

  “Who do you mean? President Crutin?”

  “Crutin wouldn’t give her an order to execute someone, but one of his cronies might deliver the order for him. Doesn’t matter; we have to risk it. Worst case, she breaks out. You’ll have constant eyes on her, so I suppose it’s worth the risk. Just get ready to respond if this plan goes south.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Crane again.

  “When is the funeral for former president Crumpler?” Crane asked.

  “The formal farewell is Wednesday,” said the president, without emotion. “Sad. I wonder where he is now?”

  “He’s dead, sir.”

  “Do any of us really die, General? Mason . . .”

  “I know. He makes me wonder too, although I try not to. I’ve done so many things in my life, justified by the greater good. If there really is a heaven and hell, I’m not sure where I will end up.”

  “You remember his dream about the United Nations?”

  “Of course.”

  “He dreamt the president died. He was . . .”

  “Right again. He’s either a psychic or he’s responsible for it all,” said Crane half smiling.

  “Mr. President?” squawked the intercom. “Hold on. Keep me informed, General,” said the president holding the intercom button down as Crane exited.

  

  95

  SUCCESSFUL IMPLANT

  October 19

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  The only real reaction to the news of Hassan bin Laden’s death, and the second death of Rama Rhamine, was Congress’s desire to fully implement DECREE 2020, since the supposedly dead man had strolled across the country unnoticed and unidentified. It appeared 2020 would be the year all Americans were “chipped,” as the president had desired.

  Crane’s attention turned back to the screen as he listened carefully to each word, watching each action and reaction of President Crutin to Nero, a.k.a. Anna, who was now in Russia. Seeing Nero and Jerome in action weeks ago had left Crane speechless about their abilities in warlike operations, as had the assassination of Pak-un, but the kind of espionage he was now watching in real time only occurred in dreams and sci-fi movies created in the days of the Cold War. He sat at Langley with Wesley Masters, who was also dumbfounded watching Nero acting as if he was Anna Butwina.

  “Cut to the chase, Chesty. Where are we?” asked President Tense via the CIA’s teleconferencing system.

  “They put a polygraph on ‘Anna.’ ”

  “What do you think?” the president asked Crane.

 
“Almost too good,” he answered.

  “Unless something was happening that we couldn’t see,” Wesley weighed in, “I think it went as well as we could have hoped. They didn’t appear to be suspicious. It also appears the North Koreans are talking to Crutin about retaliation for the death of Pak-un, although they are unsure how it was done.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Particularly since we weren’t expecting to get intel this quickly.”

  “Perhaps Crutin wanted to see how Anna would react.”

  “You mean with the actual line on the polygraph?” asked the president. Crane nodded.

  “What’s next?”

  “If Crutin trusts her, he will likely bring her into his circle,” Wesley said. “If not, we’ve still got Nero close enough to snoop.”

  “How long will her power last?” the president asked.

  “According to Mason, she has up to a week, depending on her activity.”

  

  Rihanna sat in the hangar, cold and hungry. She opened the file marked “CEDRA” again. She had read the entire report several times before, but without time to study the specifications of the android that this division of Sharif University of Technology in Iran was building. She also knew it was under everyone’s nose without anyone knowing, except for select organizations dealing with high-end artificial intelligence, and powerful men like the supreme leader. According to the report, CEDRA had developed this secret android called Cedra using high-end students enlisted for training. That included Mason Thomas and Capucine Foushé, which was why Rihanna had tracked Capucine down in the first place.

  Until she saw someone spike Capucine’s drink, Rihanna had assumed she was just another technical geek who could help her get in touch with Mason. But that incident had raised Rihanna’s curiosity. Seeing Capucine with the older fellow on the boat wasn’t surprising in itself, but something was odd, although she wasn’t sure what.

  As for the helicopter, Rihanna’s home at present, it was parked at a small private airport invisible to authorities, at least according to the man she had paid $1,000 US to keep quiet. The same man had said he knew someone who would be interested in purchasing the advanced helicopter, regardless of the fact that it didn’t have a proper title. Her goal was to exchange it for a JetRanger with a title in her name, Émilie du Châtelet, with no questions asked. It was an unfair deal, except for the fact that she’d stolen the chopper.