Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  ‘But if they need approval, they wouldn’t go in without ID on them,’ Jack said.

  ‘No. That’s what makes these guys a bit more interesting. They had nothing.’ Frank looked at him. ‘Nor did the two you shot last night. They had no ID at all on them. Not even a credit card.’

  ‘Which implies that they have some senior powers working with them,’ Jack said.

  ‘I think you’ll get on well with Debbie,’ Frank said. ‘She likes to make mental leaps like that too. Yeah, it’s what she said. They had to have government authority behind them to get their IDs wiped. There’s more, though. One of the guys who took a shot at you in Seattle – he was called Ian McDonnell. A Sergeant in Iraq. But he was supposed to have died out there. So someone with authority wiped his records – or removed them. According to the Army and Veterans, the lot of them, he died years ago. You killed a ghost.’

  ‘And this morning I killed two more,’ Jack said.

  ‘Is that a hint that I should appreciate you more?’

  ‘No. It was an assessment of your ability to get anything on them. Do you have anything on those two – or on the other one in Seattle?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Frank admitted. ‘They don’t seem to exist on any of our usual databases.’

  ‘They won’t. If they were with the CIA or something similar, there are computer specialists who can go through and remove every aspect of their lives.’

  ‘So what do you think we should do?’

  ‘I have to get to Virginia and see if I can find out anything about this “Deputies General” mob.’

  ‘How do you think you’ll be able to do that? Without an agency, without the help of your own guys, and against all the men the CIA can field against you? It’d be a miracle for you to learn anything before you were found. And killed.’

  ‘What else do you think I can do?’

  ‘Lie low. Give me a chance to see what I can learn for you. You’ll be better off keeping your head down.’

  ‘And you’ll be able to get warrants to arrest Amiss? Or you’ll be able to get into his office and search his desk and safe without help?’

  ‘I’d be more likely to do it than you,’ Frank said.

  ‘Really?’ Jack said. He leaned back, both elbows behind him. ‘Have you had training in breaking and entering, in how to crack safes, in how to look for alarms and…’

  ‘You’ll be on your own.’

  ‘Yes. Which is what I’ve been trained for,’ Jack said. ‘It’s what they teach us. How to get in and out quickly, how to gather intelligence, and always at arm’s length.’

  ‘Like I said, you think you can do that with all the US agencies looking for you?’

  Jack looked at him.

  ‘I managed it in Russia with the whole of the KGB looking for me.’

  Frank puffed out his cheeks, shaking his head slowly.

  ‘You’ll need help if you mean to get to Virginia.’

  ‘I will, yes.’

  Frank eyed him for a long time without blinking. Then, ‘Oh, shit! OK.’

  *

  17.55 Washington DC; 22.55 London

  Arriving at the Ronald Reagan International airport, Stilson felt the strain of the last few days leave him. He stepped from the airport into a cab and rode along the George Washington Memorial Parkway all the way to the turn off for Langley. He had a small house in West McLean, and he had the driver drop him off at the door. The CIA had a company account with this cab firm, and he signed the record for the driver before waving him off.

  Stilson unlocked the door, shut off the alarm system, and went to his bedroom. He carefully hung his suit on a hanger before going to the bathroom and preparing himself for a shower. He felt grubby after the last day. Over twenty-four hours without sleep had left him with the conviction that there was grit all over his skin. A long, hot shower was enough to banish the discomfort. He shaved, tidied his hair, dressed in a fresh grey two-piece, and was back downstairs in less than half an hour with his Glock checked and reloaded. He believed in preventing malfunctions by cleaning and testing his firearms at every opportunity. The Springfield .45 he had left in his wardrobe. It may become useful at some time in the future.

  The traffic from here to the George W. Bush Centre where the CIA was based was usually atrocious. Today, he took the turn before the Agency headquarters and drove in among the trees.

  It was a large house, and he took the sweeping drive slowly. Amiss hated hearing his gravel being torn up by young tearaways, he knew, and it had cost two or three men their careers when they braked too suddenly outside Amiss’s door.

  When he had parked, he nodded to the security camera by the door. The guards would be watching him. As he rang the bell, he knew that he would be surveyed from several angles. As soon as the door opened he stepped inside. In the wide marble-flagged hallway, there were two desks, one at either side of the front door. On the left were two men, standing well apart, with a series of television screens in front of them. To the right, with a third armed guard behind her, sat an unsmiling receptionist – a harsh-faced brunette with rectangular brown glasses. She stared at his ID card, as though she doubted its veracity, before she scanned it and then held up a small camera to record and validate his iris. Finally, she had him press his thumb against a small block. With iris and thumbprint checked and confirmed with a quiet bleep, she agreed to let him pass. The man behind her visibly eased as she turned back to her computer screen.

  Stilson entered the library. Amiss was sitting at the far end of the room with a man whom Stilson knew. Tullman, the deputy director (operations) at the NSA. Stilson knew Tullman by reputation. He was another career operative who had come up from military intelligence, like Amiss himself. He was a little younger, but he was known for his clear-sighted analysis of any threats facing America, and his determination to do all he could to protect her was undoubted. He had helped the President a great deal after 9/11.

  ‘Mister Stilson, this is Mister Tullman. You may speak in front of him with perfect confidence. What is said in this room stays in this room.’

  ‘Good,’ Stilson said. He knew that behind the panelling of the room there was a mesh of copper wires forming a barrier to electronic spying. The computers here were all NSA-checked weekly for security. There were line filters and scramblers fitted so no one could listen in or view what he was seeing on his screen, there was film over the windows to prevent a laser listening device, as well as bullet-proof secondary glazing, and every room in the building was regularly swept for bugs. The telephones were all STU-III handsets that could not be remotely turned on like other telephones. Only a few houses in America would have such sophisticated defences.

  ‘Your mission was successful?’ Amiss asked.

  ‘No. The Brit escaped.’

  ‘I see.’ Amiss’s expression clouded. ‘What of the other two?’

  ‘Sumner and Sorensen won’t talk.’

  ‘Who is this man?’ Tullman asked quietly.

  Amiss opened a drawer and pulled out a manila file, which he passed to Tullman.

  ‘He is a spy. Our fellows knew him in Berlin in the 1990s, where he had a very good reputation. When the Brits decided that money was restricted, they concluded they must close a number of their networks, and Case’s were amongst them. Result: a paltry saving of a few thousands of pounds a year, and the loss of all effective humint from the Soviet bloc. It was a great coup for democracy! Since then, he has apparently been held to a number of poor, end of service tasks. Nothing significant, and nothing with international impacts.’

  Tullman nodded as he leafed through the file.

  ‘This man should be little problem. I don’t understand how he has come to threaten us.’

  ‘He appears to be extremely fortunate,’ Amiss said coolly.

  ‘Well, luck comes and goes,’ Tullman said, as he placed the file back on Amiss’s desk. ‘We have the bigger battalions on our side.’

  Amiss nodded, bent his head and clasped his hands. Tullman f
ollowed suit, and Stilson copied them. But he was not thinking of God or offering up prayers. He knew that was a ridiculous affectation; he preferred to count on his own abilities rather than apportion success to a series of mythical beings. Nothing in his life had prepared him to believe in an omnipotent God, whether he was called God, Yahweh, or Allah. They were all smoke and mirrors designed to confuse tribes from the Iron Age. Stilson just couldn’t get how it was that bright guys like these two could believe so devotedly in this supreme being.

  Him, he preferred to trust to his handgun and his speed at firing.

  *

  22.56 London

  Karen Skoyles was in her apartment when she received the call.

  ‘You need to look at Twitter, Karen. Right now,’ Starck said.

  There was something in his voice that made her heart give a leap. She crossed the floor to the table and opened her laptop, logging on to her Twitter account and shaking her head.

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Just look at the trends, Karen. Do you know anything about this?’

  Karen stared at the top ten trends on her page. The fourth and seventh were *rendition and *USkidnap.

  ‘What the…?’

  ‘Seems there is a fellow who’s been snatched, Karen. One of the men held under control orders. Do you know anything about it?’ Starck asked.

  There was a note of glee in his tone. Karen gritted her teeth.

  ‘I want this to go.’

  ‘And how exactly do you expect me to stop this? It’s viral, Karen. There are comments flying around the internet from… From Reykjavik to Jo’burg and beyond. I don’t think that the Service has enough manpower to visit all of these people.’

  Karen swore and hit the off switch. It was that bitch, Sara al Malik. Karen should have seen to it that she was removed somehow. Made to keep her mouth shut. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. She had promoted this, must have, so she could be threatened with having her children taken into custody, maybe have her arrested for breaching the terms of her husband’s custody.

  But it was her husband’s custody. With him gone, it would look odd prosecuting her. Karen strode about her room. When she sat again and saw the refreshed Twitter screen, *USkidnap had risen to sixth in the trends.

  ‘Fuck!’ she screamed, and hurled her mug at the wall. It smashed, the coffee hurled in a stain over the white paint.

  Karen could do nothing. If Sara was silenced, the conspiracy theorists would all be out in force in moments.

  But the publicity would destroy her career. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  Saturday 24th September

  19.48 Washington DC; 00.48

  Frank walked through the doors at the airport with a real sense of queasiness –

  this was the first time he had broken his country’s laws since he’d been a teenager. Then, a young black guy growing in a project in New Jersey, he’d not had much of a chance. The likelihood was, he’d be taking a quick trip to a gaol before long, and he’d taken to thieving.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked Jack as they left the main doors and stood in line.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Jack said. He was glancing about him, his eyes flitting quickly from the two men managing the cab rank, to the men queuing in front of them, to the drivers of the cabs. His eyes remained fixed on the cars and their drivers. ‘You ever feel like your whole life was bringing you to a destiny where you’d just end up being a target?’

  ‘I used to be a bit like that when I was a kid,’ Frank admitted.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘My kid brother died,’ Frank said shortly. ‘It changes your outlook. Before that I was an asshole, but him and me were a pretty good team. Then we did something dumb and stole a car from a drug dealer, and got beat up.’

  Jack watched him.

  ‘I joined the police department after that. Managed to pass the test, but Gerry, he didn’t reckon the same as me. He wanted to get his own way in the world, so he joined the gang that had beaten him up. He was dead in less than a year. They told him to go kill a guy who’d upset their boss, and he tried to. But he was so damn young. Never had much idea. The target saw him coming and blew him away. Two shots. Bam bam.’

  Jack frowned.

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Plenty of others have similar experiences, I guess. It made me determined to go get other gangs and break them.’

  ‘But you aren’t fighting gangs now.’

  ‘You reckon?’ His phone rang, and Frank answered it quickly. ‘Yeah?’

  He listened, and then closed the call. ‘Debbie has been through the area and can’t see anyone on our backs.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Jack asked without turning.

  ‘About thirty yards up on the right at the next exit.’

  ‘Good. I wouldn’t want to think she was too far away.’

  Frank smiled.

  ‘I’ve seen her hit a target at more than two hundred yards with her little twenty-seven.’

  ‘So long as you’re sure,’ Jack said.

  A cab drew up, and Jack peered in.

  Frank gave a dry smile.

  ‘If you’re worried, let me just say I’ve had no involvement here. This ain’t Seattle.’

  ‘Good,’ Jack chuckled drily.

  He climbed inside and Frank followed him while the driver stored their luggage in the trunk.

  ‘What now?’ Frank asked.

  ‘You know what I plan to do. I need a car and some gear. Then I can get on with it.’

  Frank nodded.

  ‘OK. If you’re sure.’

  ‘What about you? Those two were after you, not me, in Vegas.’

  Frank nodded, and his face was set.

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘What will you do, then?’

  ‘That’s why I wanted to come here,’ he said. ‘I have friends who won’t mind helping.’

  ‘Officially?’

  ‘No. Very unofficially. They understand the problem I got.’

  ‘So long as you’re sure they’re on your side, Frank.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Frank chuckled. ‘Not too sure how to check that just now.’

  Jack turned and peered at the line of waiting people. As he watched, Debbie appeared and flashed her badge. In a moment she was in a cab and behind them as they entered the freeway.

  Frank gave a short grin.

  ‘What? You didn’t think she’d make it?’

  ‘I had no doubt she’d make it, actually,’ Jack admitted. ‘I just wanted to see if anyone dared try to stop her.’

  *

  19.52 Langley, Virginia; 00.52 London

  Stilson sat as Amiss and the others spoke. He knew his place. His was no more a position of authority than any servant’s. These men commanded, and it was his duty to obey. At half seven the rest of the committee had arrived. Three more men so that the management would never have the mess of a 50:50 split vote. The total present must always be an odd number.

  ‘They are on their way?’ Tullman said.

  The short, dumpy man sitting over at the far right answered. He was called Will Barnard, and he worked with the CIA. It was said he had been one of the founders of Air America in his youth. Now he ran airplanes again.

  ‘Yes. Bouvier is already here. He’s been stored safely in the park for softening. Al Malik is there too. We have three more in transit, but we’re being cautious about the shipments.’

  ‘Rendition was a lot easier,’ said a taller, paunchy man, whom Stilson knew as Louis Keen. He was based with the Security Service in the White House.

  Amiss pulled the corners of his mouth down. ‘Yes. It was faster. But since the Brits have started complaining, we’ve had to stop using that route.’

  ‘There are still plenty of other options,’ Barnard said.

  ‘I don’t need to know,’ Tullman said. ‘When do we begin on them?’

  ‘Tomorrow. There’s no need to hurry matters. We’ll get on with the initial questioning, s
often them up, and proceed accordingly.’

  ‘Fine.’

  The third member of the committee was a lanky, leathery-faced old man with a shock of yellowish white hair. He had faded blue eyes that contained a deal of sadness, Stilson thought. He was from the operations team that had set up Guantanamo and other interrogation camps around the world. Nominally he had reported along the army intelligence structure, but now he was a freelance. Brian Gutterson spoke with a mid-western drawl. ‘So long’s we can get to work soon. My boys are desperate to see what they c’n get.’

  ‘They will be able to start very soon,’ Amiss said.

  Within two hours the main business was complete. The money allocated for the interrogation suites was adequate, the food supply sorted, and now that the building had been prepared, the first inmates were on their way. The next stage of capture and rendition was talked about, and then the meeting moved to total numbers which could be disposed of, once their intelligence value was diminished, and then after some updates on transport, Amiss looked about him at the Committee.

  ‘Gentlemen, there is one other item I’d like to bring up.’

  The four men were silent, waiting expectantly.

  ‘I have been considering another member of our Order. He is not a Mason, but he has the faith. I have used him professionally, and he would appear to be honest and have the integrity we need.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Tullman asked.

  ‘You’ve seen him. He is Roy Sandford, a communications technician from the Echelon coordination unit. He is bright, and very competent with his job. He can scan communications and help us with surveillance when we have need. He has religious convictions, too. Do I have your agreement to approach him?’

  The men exchanged glances. Tullman nodded, and gradually the others followed suit.

  ‘In that case, I shall speak with him as soon as I can. We can induct him as an epopt at our next meeting. He can join the lowest level of initiates until he has been tested. Bearing in mind our schedule now, I propose we should hold that tomorrow.’