“You’re already helping, Aunt Paula, just by putting me up. And I really appreciate it.”
“And I’m more than happy to help. But surely, I can do more. I owe that and more to your father—and to you.”
Wanting to be careful, Morgan paused for a few seconds to weigh her next question, then asked it. “Do you say that because the FBI found out he had something to do with that article you wrote?”
Paula Andrews’s face took on a quizzical expression that quickly melted into one of sudden realization. “He didn’t tell you? He never explained what he did for me?”
“No. What do you mean?”
Now, the Pulitzer-winning journalist was faced with an uncomfortable dilemma. If Chad hadn’t told his daughter exactly how his troubles with the FBI started and why, how could Paula tell her? She was sure Chad had his reasons for withholding this information from his daughter. But the girl deserved to know that her father had done nothing wrong.
She took a little too long to sort this out, prompting Morgan to nudge her.
“Aunt Paula?”
“Yes, sorry. To be honest, I’m just trying to think through what I should do. It’s not—”
“If there’s something I should know, please tell me.”
A brief but deafening silence ensued. As long as she’d known her, Morgan had only seen Paula cry once before, when they buried Morgan’s mother, Paula’s sister. But she thought she might be about to see it again right now. Then, like a performer coming abruptly to the realization there was an occasion to rise to, Paula Andrews pulled herself together and began to explain.
“It all started about a year and a half ago, shortly after the exposé I wrote—the one you just referred to—was published. The NSA and Homeland Security were both very riled up over the story.”
“What exactly was the story about? Can you tell me?”
Paula sighed. “Have you heard of Project Bigeye?”
Morgan shook her head.
“Well, there’s really no reason you would. It’s a codename for the development of a centrally monitored, next-generation national surveillance system, to be deployed in all major cities throughout the continental US. Very high-tech, very expensive, very secretive—at least it was. My piece revealed cost overruns, serious system flaws, and misappropriations associated with the project—a project most of the public wasn’t even supposed to know existed.”
Morgan sat quietly while Paula took a deep breath and a longer draw from her glass of water. There was an audible sound as the fluid made its way through Paula’s tightening throat.
“Shortly after the story hit,” she continued, “I was subpoenaed by the Justice Department to appear before a grand jury. The special counsel demanded I divulge my source for the story. I refused, citing reporter privilege. The judge recessed the proceedings and gave me the weekend to decide to reveal my source or be held in contempt of court. You know what happened with Judith Miller, right?”
“Not really,” Morgan admitted. “I don’t really know who Judith Miller is.”
“She’s a former New York Times journalist. She spent months in jail for sticking to her principles and not revealing a source.”
Now Paula Andrews’s voice started cracking, but she still seemed able to blink back the tears, at least for the moment.
“I couldn’t be away from the kids. But I couldn’t reveal my source either—it would go against everything I believe in. I didn’t know what I would do.”
She paused again to decide how best to explain what happened next.
“That’s when I heard from your father. He had been following the situation closely through some of his contacts and had an idea. Because of his experience with national security projects and the players in that community and his connection with me, he suggested that he would be believable as having been my source. He offered to step forward and act as if he were the source to get the Justice Department off my back. He said he thought he could do it in a way that would take the heat off me without getting himself into permanent trouble.”
As Morgan consciously tried not to take on a goggle-eyed look, Paula paused again to moisten her overly dry throat.
“I told him I couldn’t ask him to do that—that I would have to think about it.”
Now Paula’s eyes were welling up with tears.
“But the next day I got a call from my attorney saying Chad had sent some kind of message to the FBI, identifying himself as the source of the leaked information, and then left the country.
“And it gets worse from there. A short time later, DARPA reported to the FBI that evidence had surfaced that he had been trying to sell critical encryption technology to the Chinese and—”
“What!” Morgan was stunned.
“Oh, Morgan, I know he didn’t do it. For sure he was set up. Maybe in retaliation by someone in the government who believed he leaked the information in my article, maybe by someone else, but he was definitely set up.”
“So why didn’t he defend himself?”
“I was wondering the same thing initially, but—”
Paula Andrew’s voice was cracking and her throat was tightening up so badly that she had to take a moment to compose herself. Finally, she continued. “I think he believed his credibility was already too compromised because of his admitted involvement with the article I wrote.”
Paula’s reddened eyes looked right into Morgan’s, begging forgiveness. “I’m so sorry, Morgan.”
Now Paula was flat-out crying—and Morgan was getting close.
“It’s okay. It’s better to understand. Thank you for telling me. And you can’t talk my father out of something once he gets his mind set. No one can. There’s nothing you could have done differently.”
Morgan reached over and the two shared a sitting embrace, albeit a sobbing one.
Chapter 48
19 Months Earlier
October, 2010
The members of the Conclave sat at their usual places around their grand table in the dimly lit meeting room at the Retreat. An ornate fireplace behind Macbeth’s seat at the head of the table held a vigorous blaze of French hardwoods, the hot, oxidized vapor venting up to the surface through an active chimney system.
Over the years of use by the Conclave, the ancient room had learned perfectly how to reflect the grim conversations held within its walls, and it did so now in a relentless, joyless echo. Eerie, sudden shadows formed on stone walls from the flickering light of the oddly cold hearth, only to dance away as mysteriously as they had appeared.
Even though there were no formally assigned seats, each of the seven always took the same place at the table, evidence that not even these powerful individuals were immune to the habits to which mere mortals are subject. These placements, a natural selection evolved over many silent struggles, defined an unspoken but very real pecking order.
This particular meeting was one that seemed wrought with thorny issues. One of those issues had to do with a man named Chad M. Swan.
Macbeth brought his hand up to his brow. “Am I experiencing dèjá vu or have we not dealt with this gadfly before.”
Claudius was more than a little impressed by Macbeth’s ability to remember such a minor detail from so long ago. He looked directly into the powerful octogenarian’s eyes and measured his words before responding. “Yes, that is true. Twenty-two years ago, he was causing problems for Montjoy and we took action.”
“So why still does he bathe in our ointment?”
“We did not take lethal action at that time. We decided to attempt to acquire leverage to turn him. There was an error in execution and he was never turned, although our action neutralized him sufficiently to address the immediate problem.”
Macbeth’s memory seemed to be refreshing itself, retrieving fragments stored away somewhere in his cold brain. “Wasn’t it also Montjoy so long ago who was having problems with this one? And now it’s Montjoy again?”
“Yes, Swan was away from DARPA for many years, b
ut is now back. He seems to have a bad habit of getting in Monjoy’s way during critical times.”
“Perhaps the problem is with Montjoy,” Macbeth said.
“Perhaps, but Montjoy is the horse we are riding.”
“Othello?” Macbeth looked directly at the aging architect for confirmation.
Othello straightened up, also measuring his words before he spoke. “Claudius is right. We need Montjoy. We have no other in place.”
“I will get it right this time,” Cladius pledged.
Macbeth paused for a moment. An unlikely and uncharacteristic smile crossed the lips of the old, corrupt and obdurately heartless plutocrat. “To your credit, you understand the importance of unity in our group, Claudius. As I remember now, the approach taken the first time was against your wishes.”
“That doesn’t matter. It was still my responsibility.”
“Very well then. How would you have it this time?”
“We will terminate Swan. It will be made to appear an accident to avoid garnering attention—and possible scrutiny.”
“And if that fails?”
“It will not fail. But we always have a contingency option. In that event, with the help of our partners, we would discredit him—have him branded a traitor to the United States. This would be expensive, but certain.”
“So be it then.” Macbeth paused for a moment, briefly studying the stolid, gloomy faces as he glanced around the table. “Next item.”
Chapter 49
8 Months Later
June, 2011
Both the lighting and mood were dim in Claudius’ quarters at the Retreat. Inexplicably, yet another operation involving the vexing Chad Swan had gone awry, forcing Claudius to turn to his contingency plan.
Certainly there were always challenges and potential pitfalls when attempting to terminate a target while making the termination event appear accidental. But Claudius’ plans and execution had simply missed too many times when it came to this one individual. Sloppy was the only word for it.
He went over it all in his mind from the beginning. Not an excuse, but one mitigating factor dating way back to when it all began was that Claudius would have terminated Swan when he first became a problem. Instead, the Conclave had decided on a more elaborate plan. Claudius’ mistake was simply picking the wrong man to carry out that plan. Romeo had lost control of himself, killed Swan’s fiancée, and turned the operation into a messy, semi-effective bollix.
This time, it was Claudius’ plan that was perhaps too elaborate and the result was that Swan’s wife was now dead—and Swan, once again, was alive and still a frustrating thorn in the Conclave’s side. Sure, the death of his wife had taken Swan out of the mix for a month, but now he was back and causing problems again.
So just days ago, Claudius had initiated his contingency plan, which would turn Swan into a traitor. It had taken months to develop the plan and finalize arrangements. And putting the plan in motion had been painfully expensive, which, given the Conclave’s cash reserves, was saying something indeed. But the investment was necessary and unavoidable, and would finally close the book on Chad Swan.
Just as Claudius thought that the whole Chad Swan scenario couldn’t have been any more convoluted or frustrating, the light on his desk phone began to flash—an incoming call on the secure line.
Owing to the fact that only a few individuals in the world could have initiated the call, Claudius answered very simply. “Yes?”
“Claudius, it’s Othello.”
“Hello, my friend. Good news or bad?”
“Perhaps neither, I was hoping you could tell me. I was in contact with Montjoy last night.”
“And?” Claudius pressed a bit impatiently.
“And it may not be necessary to take further action on Chad Swan.”
“What?” Claudius demanded.
“Apparently, Swan’s sister-in-law is a journalist who has been in some trouble with the US government over not revealing a source for—”
“Yes, Paula Andrews’s exposé. I’m familiar with that situation. What about it?”
“Well, Montjoy learned yesterday that Swan has now admitted to providing her the information and has left the country. He has discredited himself and become a fugitive.”
Claudius held his forehead in his hand while he thought through this new information. Seconds later, he began to speak. “The action has already been paid for. And trying to abort now would damage our credibility with our Chinese friends and possibly compromise our asset in the CIA.”
“I see,” Othello said.
Claudius continued. “The course is set. We best simply consider this action as insurance. One additional, ultimate nail in Swan’s coffin—a nail made easier for us to sink by the one Swan has just sunk himself.”
“All’s well then?” Othello ventured, feeling slightly on the edge of his seat.
“Yes, all’s well.”
Chapter 50
Now
Nora Givens sat in the empty conference room on the first floor of the Cambridge Detention Center. She had worked quickly and deftly over the past several hours to accomplish what was necessary to make it here before the FBI did.
Inspector Mark Davies and his team had barely gotten through the door, with Angel Cruz in tow, when they were informed that a professional-looking woman in her mid-thirties from the law firm A & A Litigation was waiting for them. The bad part of this news was that she had produced a court order for Cruz’s release.
Nora had little background information on her assignment and knew only that she was to get Angel Cruz out of the Cambridge Detention Center as quickly as possible. She knew she would be cutting it close with her timing. She had been in the room for less than five minutes when she learned how close.
Through the heavy glass of the conference room door, she sensed a distinct increase in the volume level of the muffled din outside. She reasoned, correctly, that her man had arrived and her presence had been made known. She was just making her way to the door, when it swung open, revealing a very irate Mark Davies.
Inspector Davies didn’t bother with introductions of any sort. “How the hell can you serve me with a release order for a prisoner we haven’t even processed yet?”
Nora extended her hand. “Nora Givens, Inspector. A & A Litigation.”
Davies looked at her hand, but did not take it, turning away and shaking his head in disgust.
Nora Givens pressed on—one of her numerous skills. “The court order requires the release of Mr. Cruz without delay.”
“We’ll see what the FBI has to say about that. I’m holding him for them.”
“No sir. We will not. Mr. Cruz is being detained illegally and compliance in this case requires his immediate, unconditional release. Anything less constitutes willful and intentional violation of a court order.”
Davies’s expression and color changed so radically, Nora half-expected steam to begin blowing out of his ears. That might help avoid having his head explode, she mused.
The Inspector began dialing his cell phone. “This is bullshit. I’m calling Special Agent-in-Charge Fox.”
Time for Nora to bluff—another thing she did very well. She stared at him with ice eyes, the likes of which he had never before seen in a non-sociopathic individual. She raised her cell phone and prepared to dial. “I can call friends too. Terminate that call and release Angel Cruz immediately or there will be a Federal Marshall here in two minutes to take you into custody.”
Davies suddenly found himself a little out of his league. He wasn’t actually sure if Nora Givens could really do what she had just threatened, but with her ability to secure such a stringent court order so quickly, he wasn’t quite sure who she knew or what she was able to accomplish.
Davies terminated his call and walked out of the conference room. Nora followed, with none too small a sense of relief. Her thoughts on playing chicken rolled though her mind. Stimulating, yes. Always. Enjoyable, yes. But only when you win.
&nb
sp; She waited just inside the front desk area and within three minutes, she was joined by Angel Cruz and a uniformed officer.
“Mr. Cruz, my name is Nora Givens and I am acting as your attorney.”
Unlike Davies, Angel gladly accepted her handshake. “Very happy to meet you. Thank you so much. Were you sent by—”
“Please Mr. Cruz. Let’s not discuss any such issues here.”
“Of course. Sorry.”
“It’s not a problem sir. Have all of your personal effects been returned to you?”
“Yes, there wasn’t much,” he said with a smile.
“Please follow me then.”
With that, Nora Givens spun on her heel and marched Angel Cruz out the front door of the Cambridge Detention Center.
Chapter 51
During the ten-minute drive from the Black Cat, Milton Fox, Thomas Jarboe, and Tom Drake discussed the tactics they would use to crack Angel Cruz. Fox wasn’t yet sure just how hard he was prepared to press on Cruz—but he knew it was pretty damn hard.
It was almost 11:30 PM when they arrived at the Cambridge Detention Center. Jarboe grabbed a parking spot on the street and the three quickly exited the dark van, making their way with determined step.
They had gotten only a few feet past the entranceway when Inspector Davies walked up with his arms raised as if Fox and company were holding him up. “He’s not here.”
“What do you mean?” Fox demanded.
“Angel Cruz. Some skirt lawyer from some big legal outfit—A & A something—showed up with a court order for his immediate release.”
Milton Fox employed profanity rarely and only in extremely frustrating situations. This was one such situation. “Are you fucking kidding me? You better be fucking kidding me.”
Romeo's Tell (A disappearance mystery turned international thriller) Page 14