by Chase Austin
Wick made contact with William Helms, his boss, on the first attempt.
“There is a chemical attack planned in DC in four days.” Wick repeated whatever Majeed had told him. He had already given the pen drive to Logan who had uploaded the data to the NSA server for decryption. Helms listened to everything in silence without interruption.
“Where is Majeed?” he asked finally, after Wick had finished.
“Dead,” Wick responded.
“How?” There was a slight hint of a surprise in his voice, but not an overt reaction.
“I shot him,” Wick spoke in a plain tone. No apology, no guilt, no nothing.
“We needed him alive.” Helms said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Wick said nothing.
“What now?” Helms continued. He had considered the possibility that Majeed might get killed in the operation, but Wick’s response meant that he had had the opportunity to capture him alive and had still chosen not to.
“The support team is following the itinerary. I need more time here.”
“Why?”
Wick explained his plan and theory to him.
“How confident are you of this theory?”
“About seventy percent.”
“That’s not enough,” Helms said.
“That is why I have to stay here to get the evidence.”
“You’ve made up your mind?” Helms asked.
“Yes.”
“What if it doesn’t pan out the way you think it will?”
“I’m ready to face any inquiry or termination.”
“I’ll still need a full report in my email inbox. Don’t mention anything about your theory right now.”
“You’ll get it.”
“Be safe.”
“I will.” Wick disconnected the call.
The attack on US soil was troubling, but Wick was confident that it would now be taken care of.
CHAPTER 23
William Helms was pacing back and forth in his office. He had called an emergency meeting, and also informed the CIA, Homeland Security, and the FBI about the potential attack. They had already started to raid the locations specified in the data Wick’s team had uploaded. Till now Wick’s intel was on the mark.
But there was something else. He had allowed Wick far too much latitude, and this angered him. Although he hadn’t shown any of it during the call, and while much of his anger was directed at Wick, a lot of it was also directed at himself. How had he not seen the signs earlier?
This place, this operation, all of it was his responsibility. People had tried to warn him as respectfully or as forcefully as they could, but his days were filled with hundreds of other pressing issues of national importance. And he had developed a blind spot when it came to Wick’s abilities and his mental strength. Especially on the operational side of things. He’d known Wick longer than anyone else at TF-77. He knew his long list of talents as well as his short but potent list of faults. There’d been a few bumps over the years, but there was never an occasion when Wick had let him down. He still remembered the day Wick was recruited. He had been in his early twenties, fresh out of tours from Afghanistan and Iraq, trained and thirsty to reach greater heights, ready for a fight. Helms had seen his hunger firsthand when they had operated together on a mission involving the extraction of a North Korean General. Wick had a real aptitude for mayhem. He was talented, remarkably perceptive, favored with an elephant memory and calculative; a lot of other things too, some good and some bad. But one thing was undeniable—he knew how to get to his targets, engage them, upset them, get them, and somehow make it back with nothing more than a few scratches. Wick was meant for this deadly business. He was an artist. Minimum bloodshed and maximum impact. He rarely used bullets, and always focused on figuring the best possible way to isolate the target before pouncing. He had few friends in the TF-77 group, but instead of choosing a desk job and falling into a safe rut, he had chosen his current life.
Wick had never thought much about his own life. He was always ready to jump into the eye of the storm. When he landed in a new place, he headed straight for the rough part of town. He got to know the prostitutes, the barkeeps and, most importantly, the black marketeers who despised their overlords. He was the best field operative they had. Indispensable.
Tonight, however, the director was having his doubts. Looking back, he could see where the mistakes had been made. He had allowed Wick to create a personality cult down here. Even on this mission, he had been adamant about going solo until Helms had intervened. It was time to correct the mistakes.
“Elena, what do you propose?” The director looked at TF-77’s deputy director, who was sitting in his office examining a thick file about Wick’s failure to get Majeed alive. “What does the protocol say?”
“We should wait for him to come back with credible intel,” she replied.
“But the rules say that there has to be an inquiry on this.”
“Yes.”
“Who do you suggest should head the inquiry committee?”
“David Scott would be a good choice,” Elena said.
Helms knew about David. The man’s reputation preceded him—tough as nails and unwavering in his commitment to TF-77. He shrugged, indicating he was fine with the decision.
“Elena, start the work but go slow. I want to give Wick a chance to redeem himself. If his theory is correct, we don’t want to look stupid. Give him enough time before you conclude anything. Supervise this yourself. I don't want to be involved since this is about Wick, but I would like to see the final report before it goes into the records.”
“Okay,” Elena said.
“What about the White House? They must have checked the news on Majeed’s death.”
“The Secretary of Defense is not happy, but his priority is stopping this chemical attack. This botched mission has already put our position with Iran in jeopardy. Russia has joined Iran in insinuating that the killing was our doing. The President has denied any links and has also promised his support to bring the perpetrators to book even though the two countries are not on good terms. Looks like this will take a long time to go down, and not without some collateral damage. We have also found some incriminating evidence of the attack originating from Iran and we’ll respond at the right time. At the moment though, the White House is still working on a foolproof strategy to corner Iran.”
“Elena, everything eventually comes down to two things: influence and money. One of those will be used to settle this as well.”
Elena said nothing. The director looked out the window. Why had Wick allowed this to happen?
CHAPTER 24
Four weeks later
Wick walked down an empty corridor. The plain white walls were designed to give the building an air of truthfulness, even as they hid the dirty secrets of surveillance and espionage. His appointment with the director was in fifteen minutes. He had just got out of his hearing with the inquiry commission. David Scott had been prepared to the hilt and had taken a lot of time grilling Wick, but Wick’s poker face had given him nothing more than the routine answers he was expecting.
Right after the hearing, Wick was told Helms wanted to see him.
Helms squinted through the windscreen of the Suburban as the SUV turned into the empty fast lane, accelerating past a Kia. The skyline was clear and cloudless, but his mind was swirling with questions. He put on his shades to avoid the glare. Sitting in the passenger seat, he opened his laptop to check the news. It was filled with Iran’s accusations against America. The US had taken the counteroffensive by showing incriminating evidence against Iran in the chemical attack which Iran called a conspiracy. A battle was ongoing between the US and Iran through media headlines.
The White House was doing its best, of course. A statement had already been made denying any connection with the cleric or the blast. The President had also strongly condemned the massacre and given his assurance that everything would be done to help Iran in its investigation, but in return
he wanted Iran to hand over the culprits who planned the attack on the USA. Iran had vehemently denied any such terror group operating from its soil, but America remained insistent, and it decided to remain so till the news of the cleric would die down.
Helms asked the driver to turn on the radio. After the weather forecast of searing heat, the lead item in the news was the murder of the cleric. The motive for the killing had not been found. It was “senseless and shameless,” an Iranian policeman concluded.
Helms knew this wasn’t true. It wasn’t senseless, and it wasn’t a mistake. The operation had been in the works for a long time, one hundred and seventeen days to be exact—identifying security details, cultivating targets, understanding their routine, gaining the trust of their aides in Iran, followed by weeks setting up the set pieces.
The objective had almost been successfully achieved, but then it wasn’t. The director had seen botched operations, but this was an operation that had been botched deliberately.
This raised doubts over the performance of the man who had carried out the operation. The fact that it was Sam Wick was troubling. It had been the director’s operation—a direct chain of command from the top. He knew the targets; he was involved in the planning. He had stopped doing that for almost all the other missions, but he had done it for this one. A decision had been made, within the walls of the Oval Office, that Majeed knew too much and he needed to be brought in. That decision was stamped with the presidential seal and passed on to NSA to be closed. It was critical, and that’s why Sam had been selected to close the file.
As the Suburban entered the headquarters, the director reviewed his preparation. He thought hard about whether there had been any flaw in the original plan. No, the plan was faultless. The problems were all of Wick’s making. The dead man would give Iran’s secret service agencies a strong personal motive to locate the killer; religion and terrorism were strong motives to accomplish things in any country, and here the slain man combined both. It would make them more tenacious and less likely to shelve the investigation when the trail went cold, as Helms knew it would.
The SUV slowed and turned into the parking lot at the National Security Agency headquarters, Fort Meade, Maryland.
TF-77 wasn’t run from this building, but Helms’ office was located there, and that’s why the inquiry was taking place there.
Mirrored and forbidding, the NSA campus stood like a fortress surrounded by a moat of parking. The general public knew almost nothing about what happened inside. It was like a reminder that the environment of state security has taken dark turns over the last three decades. The architecture of the building was as compelling as it was unsettling—much like the J. Edgar Hoover, the FBI headquarters. Hundreds of cars were parked around the building, standing in for the thousands of intelligence workers inside—the serfs of the deep state, as it were. Fort Meade looked like it might be the end of the earth, an exurb you never hope to have reason to visit. Like the FBI Building, the NSA headquarters was a metaphor for the agency it hosted. Helms took the elevator to the fourth floor. The doors hissed opened, and he stepped out into the bustling open space beyond, full of analysts staring at large monitors and tapping keyboards, printers chattering and telephones ringing incessantly. He walked through the chaotic space to a corridor with gray tiles, white walls and red oak doors. The clamor behind him slowly faded to a gentle hum of activity. He pushed one of the doors open. Vanessa Lisbon, his private secretary, looked up from her computer. “Good morning, Director,” she said.
“Morning, Captain,” he said. “And what does this morning look like?”
“You’re speaking to the Secretary of State at midday for an update on the Iran situation, and Sam Wick is waiting for you in your cabin, sir.”
William Helms said nothing and kept walking. His office was a large room dominated by his desk at the center with minimal accessories to adorn it. A set of sofas clubbed around the table. There were no filing cabinets or anything that looked official. Sam stood at the wide window at the other end of the room looking outside. Helms paused for a moment and regarded him. Dressed in plain white shirt and black trousers he looked lean.
“Good morning, Sam,” Helms said.
“Morning, sir.”
“Take a seat.”
He watched as Wick sat down. His eyes were impenetrable. He looked a little weary, maybe from the nonstop grilling and lack of sleep, but overall, he was still sharp. As always, Wick was dressed sharply, perfectly groomed. Over time, Helms had decided that these things do matter, but only in diplomatic situations, which this was not.
“Anything you would like to say about the mission?”
“Everything is in my final report.” Wick was talking about the final report he had submitted a week ago, corroborating his theory and the evidence.
“Nothing to add?”
“Nothing.”
“The only good news amid all this is that the girl… what was her name?
“Hiba.”
“She is now with her family.”
“I know.”
“It took time, but they found her family.”
“Yes.” This time director felt that there was a slight hint of a smile on Wick’s lips, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Have you had any contact with Olivia, Logan or Elijah after the mission?”
“No.”
“Any idea what they could have said during their testimonies?”
“No.” Wick’s responses gave Helms no room to maneuver further.
“The inquiry will take another week to conclude.”
“You did good with Maksud. Once the team analyzes the evidences in your report, we can use it to strengthen our case against Iran.”
Wick said nothing but the director could tell that he didn’t care much about it. He had done his job and now cared nothing about it.
“I’m sorry but the inquiry will still go on for not following orders.”
“I understand.”
“Your future in the agency depends on it.”
“I understand,” Wick said, looking blankly at Helms.
CHAPTER 25
Ten days later
Wick sat at the window of his apartment, overlooking the street. He had been asked to stay home while the inquiry was in progress. He had not raised a question on why he was being grounded. He knew the protocols. They had called him for a hearing, and after that he had to stay put.
He had no friends, no family, no one to call and talk to about his feelings. Even if there had been someone, he doubted he would have reached out. What could he tell them? His was not a regular job, and he wasn’t a regular guy. It was better this way. Fight for yourself and live for yourself—it was easier to focus. And focus meant a better survival ratio.
He knew that his house was bugged and everything he said would be heard by some analyst sitting in the black tomb, better known as the TF-77 headquarters. Every one of the agency’s assets’ houses and cars was bugged, and he knew that the agency continued this practice even after you left it. Only the agency didn’t know that Wick knew.
Wick had said nothing for days. He didn’t have a television. He didn’t use the Internet and so had not opened his laptop since he came home. He didn’t care about the news or anything else. He checked his cell occasionally but did not send anyone any messages or speak to anyone. It was as if he had gone mute. So much so, that the TF-77 team had had to send agents dressed like delivery boys or lost paper boys to ring his doorbell to see if he actually was in the apartment or not. It took him no time to see through their act, but he said nothing, just played along, politely helping them with their fake questions as best as he could.
Ignorance was bliss as far as the agency was concerned. The agency had to feel safe. And Wick made sure of that by making them believe that the collective heads in the agency were smarter than him. He didn’t know what would happen if they knew he was usually miles ahead of them in the game, even when not on active duty. The reason was that he di
dn’t want them to try new tactics which he would then have to waste time deciphering. That was trivial shit he cared nothing about. He just cared about sitting still as a sculpture for as long as he could. It was his way to test his limits. And knowing his limits made him win battles and rise to the occasion when he needed to.
He had had a meeting with Helms after his hearing and it had been uneventful, at least from his side. He was not perturbed by the radio silence that followed.
He knew that if he was to be terminated from the agency, there would be a target painted on his back, with all the agency’s assets aiming to eliminate him ASAP. If he was reinstated, then his next mission would be one that he would have to fight hard to come out of alive. Either way, he would have to wrestle to survive, and he was ready for both.
