The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

  “It is not what I have done — it is what we must do.”

  Tama explained how the electro-disruptor was delivered by Fatima, how she used it to cut off all power except the computer, black site mainframe, and security cameras. Each was programmed to run on the same frequency as the electro-disruptor, leaving the power shut down for miles around them. Kasim understood very little, but Tama explained anyway knowing the details of how the Level 10 malware worked were far too complex.

  “Five years ago, Abu and I were contacted by a man who made an offer to bring the war to American soil.” She slipped behind her computer, entered a series of passwords and gained access to the FBI, CIA, NSA, Homeland Security, and Pentagon mainframes. “He is the true Prodigal.”

  “Why did Abu not tell me?”

  “Abu knew they were coming for him, but I swore to tell no one.” Tama glanced back at Akram. “When you befriended the Americans, we could not take the risk.”

  Using the Level 10 malware, she punched in a series of codes and within a matter of seconds shut down access to all government security agencies in perhaps the greatest cyber attack in modern history.

  “The Prodigal was to help Abu escape,” she said, “but swore he never expected Hardeman to kill him.”

  “You knew Abu was alive?”

  “I did not know until after you were captured.”

  Tama accessed the databases of the government agencies and began downloading all intelligence, personnel, and operational missions across the globe.

  “I believed Abu was dead, and you had disappeared, so I left Baghdad and waited until the Prodigal gave me access to be infiltrated within the FBI. He said it was proof of his loyalty to our fight. While I have never seen him face to face, I have searched for his identity, but only know he is inside the government and is a collector of rare artifacts. I attempted to bait him on the dark web believing he would show himself.”

  Kasim asked in Arabic, “The car?”

  “It is worth hundreds of millions, Akram.” She scanned the files that scrolled by on screen. “I have kept it safely hidden.”

  “Why not trade for Abu?”

  “When I received the message, the Prodigal said Abu was alive, and I was to be ready for his return. I swear to you, if I had known he was a prisoner…”

  “What must we do?” Kasim asked.

  Tama pulled up the video file from Fatima on screen. “First, we must send a message to the President, then we wait.”

  Kasim pointed at the downloading files. “How long will this take?”

  “Forty-eight hours.”

  Whoosh!

  With one click of the mouse, Tama sent the video directly to President Bouchard’s personal cell — a number accessed by a handful of his inner circle — but easily found using the malware. She pushed away from her desk and stood beside Kasim who had walked over to the glass offices.

  He seethed, “Where is she?”

  “She is not here, Akram.”

  With his bandaged hand, he slammed his fist against the glass. Inside the office, Vaughn’s body moved on the floor. Kasim turned and headed for the duffle bag. He armed himself and marched back toward the office door.

  Tama held her hands up. “Akram, we need him alive.”

  “There are others.” Kasim loaded a clip and flipped the safety off.

  She pressed her hands against his chest. “None as valuable.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  LOS ANGELES — LAX

  Traffic from New York Med to JFK was brutal, but the flight from New York to LA felt more like eternity. I checked in with Dax every hour. He reached Laney and passed on the photo of Tama Fatima, or who she’d recognize as Yasmin Avakian. I tried texting her, but so far no response. Dax was still going through the hard drive. As of yet there were no more surprises.

  Elena hadn’t returned to the apartment either, which wasn’t unusual except the city was in chaos from a massive power outage. I needed to hear her voice, to be sure she was safe, knowing it might be my only chance for a while.

  On the flat-screen, the jet icon moved slowly across Arizona. Staring out the window, the pink, red, blue, and purple hues from the sunset brought a moment of peace. With each second that passed, my fingers gripped the armrests tighter sending me back to Dad’s final moments as they played on repeat. Closing my eyes, I allowed it to happen.

  My cell buzzed — saving me from the abyss.

  Laney: LAX. AF1.

  I read it a few more times before it registered. Air Force One.

  Passing word on to the pilot, I returned to my seat and strapped back into the nightmare. His final moments played in slow motion. Why’d I let it go so long? I wanted to believe the pain would bring healing, but deep down it was a way to release the rage to keep me alive.

  Before I knew it, we were on final approach.

  Amidst the thick clouds, strong crosswinds, and pounding rain, weather in LA was the flip side from the breathtaking sunset over the desert. With the landing gear down, the jet swung side to side, then jolted hard. Turbulence. I was relieved once the tires screeched against the runway and the pilot hit the brakes. It wasn’t the smoothest landing — which was an allegory for my life.

  A long line of aircraft waited for departure as we taxied along the tarmac, before veering away from the private terminal and maneuvering across other runways until we slowed next to a blue and white 747 with gold trim and black lettering: UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. The American flag on the tail brought a sense of patriotism that flooded through my veins.

  Grabbing my overnight bag, I stepped out of the cabin and was greeted by Laney, who was waiting on the tarmac beneath an umbrella. The engines of Air Force One, two fighter jets, and a cargo plane hummed loud.

  “Are we going somewhere?” I shouted.

  “Not us,” she answered. “Follow me.”

  We climbed the steps of the 747 and disappeared inside. A secret service agent ushered us into a conference room and closed the door. Wood-paneled walls. Oval emblem of Air Force One on a wall. A solid-wood conference table surrounded by dark leather seats. A chair at one end of the table was stitched with the Presidential seal — a throne for the most powerful man in the free world.

  “Laney, what’d you tell them?” I asked.

  “They know we’ve identified Tama Fatima.” She leaned in close and whispered. “FBI, CIA, NSA, Homeland Security, and the Pentagon are all down.”

  Holy…

  President Bouchard and his Chief of Staff, Simon Adams, entered the room. I was still processing Laney’s words, knowing the malware was activated.

  “I never thought I’d meet the man who killed Abu Haji Fatima.” Bouchard shook my hand. “But here we are.”

  He motioned to the chairs around the table. Laney, Adams, and myself found a seat. The President sat at the head of the table wearing a leather jacket with “Bouchard” stitched into the breast — the only uniform he’d ever worn.

  “Chase, your father was one of a kind. He’ll be remembered by us all. I’m just glad I won’t have to campaign against him.” Bouchard’s smile faded as he clasped his hands together. “Mike and Randall kept me in the dark, and for the sake of our country it must remain that way. We have suffered a cyber attack, possibly by the Russians, that has severely impacted our national security. Chase, I need your help.”

  Bouchard was lying — or skirting the truth in political jargon.

  “Mr. President, you need boots on the ground,” I answered.

  He leaned forward and lowered his Hollywood jaw. “Chase, you are my boots on the ground. I don’t care how you do it — just end this quickly.”

  “I’m not a soldier anymore.” His presence was intimidating, making it hard to get the next sentence out. “If I refuse?”

  “You’ll be considered an enemy of the state — as well as anyone connected to covering up the events of the last two weeks.” Bouchard peered over wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m giving you a second chance, Chase.”

&
nbsp; Dad once told me that Bouchard’s weakness was a fear of becoming powerless as Commander in Chief. He’d rather protect his presidency than dig his hands into the manure of the world. And if he were ever caught, he’d wash those hands clean long before impeachment. Like most politicians, Bouchard had a contingency plan. Instead of telling the American people that terrorists were on their doorstep, he was preparing for the aftermath, leaving a scapegoat to take the fall — me.

  I glanced toward Laney, whose eyes were fixed on Bouchard. Never before in history had there been an attack that left national security crippled. And there was no guarantee the attacks wouldn’t strike beyond our borders.

  How am I supposed to stop any of it?

  “Chase, the FBI will barricade and maintain oversight at the perimeters of the outage area. No one goes in, and no one comes out until this is over.” Bouchard leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Do we have a deal?”

  Judging others was simple. Staring at my reflection was hard. My gun started a war that was in our midst. Hunting Dad’s killer — auctioning the malware to Prince Azim — brought greater consequences than I imagined. Bouchard and I had one thing in common: we were sinners, not saints.

  “Mr. President,” I held out my hand, “liberty and justice for all.”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Laney gripped the steering wheel and punched the accelerator as we raced over the Sepulveda Pass. For the last twenty minutes we worked our cells inside the SUV as blue flashing lights cleared the way. News of a mandatory citywide curfew was announced as soon as Air Force One was airborne. Traffic changed lanes, allowing us through, toward the 405 and 101 interchange.

  “Fifteen unaccounted for — including Vaughn.” Laney tossed her cell in a cup holder. Frustrated. “No movement at the ranch in Los Gatos.”

  “Power outage hasn’t shifted,” I said. “Means the electro-disruptor is stationary.” I grabbed the passenger door as she swerved around a sedan with an oblivious twenty-year old texting behind the wheel. “Marcus said the malware works when it’s plugged into a system that’s powerful enough to handle the bandwidth of the mainframe it takes over.”

  “So, if it shut down all agencies it’s possible they’re still at the black site.” Laney slammed her palm against the steering wheel. “I never should’ve left there.”

  Sure, she pretended to be someone else when we were together, but I’d never seen her on edge in this way. This was who she really was — not the spoiled Beverly Hills brat who shopped on Rodeo Drive, lounged at The Ivy, or needed someone like me to take care of her every need. I couldn’t decide which one was more attractive.

  “Dax and Marcus are working on figuring out how to shut down the electro-disruptor, and Marcus is writing a program that I’ll take with me to corrupt the malware.”

  “You can’t seriously think you’re going alone,” she shot back. “What about Fatima, Tama, and Kasim? Most likely they’ve got hostages. Chase, it’s suicide.”

  “I don’t want anyone else’s blood on my hands.” I was improvising, yet composed. “Besides, it’s better than all of us becoming enemies of the state.”

  “Why won’t Bouchard bring in the Bureau, Homeland, or Special Forces?”

  When Laney told me security agencies were locked out, I’d thought the same. But Bouchard would never admit that to the world. Containment plus deniability plus scapegoat equals Classic Politician Playbook. If the situation couldn’t be contained, deny any knowledge or involvement, then find someone else to take the fall.

  “I blamed you and Vaughn for Dad’s death,” I said in a lowered voice. “But the truth is, he trusted both of you. That’s why he was going to give you a name — but it wasn’t one of our clients.”

  Laney glanced toward me. “What do you mean?”

  “I think Uncle Randy smuggled Fatima out of Iraq.”

  Laney didn’t press for more. She drove in silence. Adrenaline faded. I should’ve defended Uncle Randy — a man who was like a second father to me — but my gut told me he was involved deeper than I ever thought possible. Perhaps deeper than Dad thought too. My stomach ached at the possibility that he knew the truth about the electro-disruptor — and the crash.

  Did I have proof? Not one shred.

  But if my instincts were right, it’d be the hardest kill yet.

  Staring out the window, my mind wandered to the night Dax and I rode with Kasim out of Baghdad toward Mosul. I was ready to close the deal for The Artifacts of Exile and let Wilkins and his team handle Fatima. That wasn’t in the cards. I reacted without thinking of the consequences, and I never lost a night’s sleep over believing I’d killed Fatima — but those boys still haunted me. To think Uncle Randy helped Fatima escape burned at the edges of my grief.

  As we approached Hollywood, the desert of Mosul faded into the concrete jungle of LA, but that same feeling lingered. Bouchard left me no choice, and the more it seeped into my bones the more I was glad he did.

  “I’m not letting your compulsive heroics get you killed.” Laney picked up her cell, scrolled through her contacts, then dialed. The phone rang through the SUV’s speakers. “Reggie, this is Agent Kelley.”

  A deep voice replied, “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

  “How’d you like a few days of R & R in LA?”

  “I heard the city didn’t pay their electric bill.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Send an Uber.”

  “See you soon, Reggie.” Laney hung up, her eyes still focused on the cars ahead. “I’m going too, Chase.”

  I knew better than to argue. “Who’s Reggie?”

  “Reggie Swanson. Wilkins’ number two.”

  The name sent a deep shiver down my spine as I remembered Swanson, realizing that each of us had our own reasons to be in the fight. Who was I to stop them? My cell buzzed. Blocked number. It rang two more times before I answered.

  “Griffith Observatory. Thirty minutes.”

  McIntyre.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  GRIFFITH OBSERVATORY — 12:40 AM

  Amidst the fog, a perfectly lit LA landmark was perched on the edge of Mount Hollywood. On most weekends, the observatory was packed with cars parked clear down the mountain roads. With the curfew, we stood in an empty parking lot, with not a soul in sight. If painted on canvas, the downtown skyline was a perfect backdrop. Tonight, that skyline was erased.

  Laney and I had hiked the trails of Mount Hollywood nearly every weekend, so I knew why McIntyre wanted to meet here. Plenty of ways to disappear.

  “I hoped you’d come alone.” McIntyre appeared from the bushes. Hands dug into her coat pockets. Face shadowed from the parking lot lights.

  “I know who you’re running from,” I said, attempting to build a bridge.

  She stepped forward. “There is so much you don’t know, Chase.”

  “That’s why we’re here… and why you called.”

  Laney’s hand slipped to her sidearm. “Take your hands out of your pockets.”

  “If I wanted to shoot you,” McIntyre chastised, “I’d have done it already.”

  Holding up my hand, I tried to calm the tension. “All we want is the truth.”

  “I watched your every move in the Middle East.” A few more steps and she was only an arm’s-length away. “You were remarkable.”

  Laney stood off my shoulder, ready to pounce. “How were you involved?”

  “I was assigned as Chase’s handler during the covert operations.” McIntyre stepped into the light. Hair color changed. No glasses. A more pointed nose. Subtle changes. Enough to not be easily recognized. “I kept you alive, and you never knew it.”

  To think I believed Dax and I were on our own. “Who was in charge?”

  “Randall Collinsworth, of course.” She kept her gaze on me, as if Laney wasn’t even there. “I thought I was serving my country. Hunting terrorists. Yet the greatest danger was from within.”

  I asked point blank, “Did you smuggle Fatima out of
Iraq?”

  “My responsibility was to get Sarina across the border into Kuwait.” McIntyre shifted her stance. “But I knew Fatima survived the gunshot wounds and the helicopter crash. I thought the SEAL team handed him over to the Agency.”

  “Were you the one who took pictures at the crash site?”

  A puzzled look crossed her face. “Pictures?”

  “There are pictures of Fatima dead inside the helicopter as a cover up.”

  “I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Laney volleyed, “Where would they have taken him?”

  “A month ago, Michael contacted me asking the same question.” McIntyre turned her eyes away from me. “I told him most likely he was being held in a restricted section of Gitmo for ongoing interrogation, but I’d look into it.”

  “Dad knew Fatima was alive?” I asked.

  “At the time, neither of us knew for sure. He could’ve died from his wounds, or during interrogation, and no one would know. We decided to dig deeper into the finances of the operation and see if there was more.”

  Laney took charge. “Who funded it?”

  “Money was taken from a $2 billion stockpile seized during the invasion of Baghdad. Government hid the cash, but I don’t know where. When the operation was active, every month three million was transferred into an account.”

  “Who originated the transfer?”

  McIntyre shook her head. “All I know is the money was deposited into a shell company, Red Venture Group, and was used to buy the stolen artifacts.”

  Laney said under her breath, “The property in Los Gatos is under that name.”

  “After you returned home, the operation was shut down.” McIntyre checked her watch, ready to disappear. “Weeks later, the account was closed and millions disappeared.”

  “You think Collinsworth used it to help Fatima?”

  “I believe Randall was smuggling military weapons into Iraq before the operation began. He needed to keep the war alive long enough to secure a billion-dollar defense contract pushed through by Bouchard, and approved by the DOD. He wasn’t about to use his own money. Too risky. But accessing the RVG fund was off the radar.”