by Leslie Wolfe
“Ah, Miss Hoffmann. Can I please have a word with you before you leave?”
He stood in the doorway, inviting her back in with a gesture of his hand. She looked at him briefly. He had a faint trace of a smile on his lips, barely visible, and the coldest eyes Alex had ever seen. She felt goose bumps and a tingling in the back of her head. Adrenaline flushed her stomach, hitting her like a fist. Then, in a split second, she remembered Steve’s words, from her first week with The Agency.
”Many times,” Steve had said during one of their early training sessions, “the only warning sign we have in the presence of a sociopath is given by our ancestral instincts. Sudden and unexplained fear, tingling in your stomach, indicative of a sudden release of adrenaline, your hackles standing up, that’s all you will get. If you just met someone and you feel all that in their presence, walk away, or be very, very wary. If you had met the sociopath before, and your instincts rile up now, just run. Don’t look back, don’t analyze, just run for your life. The sociopath is about to strike. How do we know? Pure survival instinct, perfected over millennia, triggered by signs our subconscious mind perceives.”
Somehow, she managed to smile.
“Sure, but I need to use the restroom real quick. Too much coffee,” she laughed, pointing at the empty mug on the table where she had sat.
She slipped right by Bal, not waiting for him to answer, heading to the women’s restroom. As she opened the restroom door, she sneaked a peek behind her. He had turned away, not watching her anymore. She turned on her heels and ran for the staircase. She made it through the staircase door and ran down five flights of stairs as fast as she could. Once on the ground floor, she had no other option than to cross the big lobby. She did so in a running pace, but stopped briefly in front of the reception desk, where the beautiful receptionist greeted her with a smile. As usual, she wore a very decorative shalwar kameez ensemble, a very dark blue, decorated lavishly with gold embroidery and fringes.
“Hey,” Alex said breathlessly, “can I borrow your scarf?”
“My scarf...My dupatta? Sure...” She took off the long piece of fine cotton and handed it to her. Alex grabbed it, thanked her in a hurry, and stormed out the main door.
Outside, she saw Pranav sitting in the driver’s seat of the Toyota. It would take too much time to get rid of him. She stepped into the traffic and hailed for a cab. A tuk-tuk stopped, and she hopped in.
“Drive,” she told the driver. “Just go!”
The three-wheeler tuk-tuk started. She sat down in the small cabin, grateful for the side semi-wall that could hide her somewhat. She wrapped the dark blue dupatta around her head, neck, and shoulders, hiding her light brown hair.
“Take me to the airport,” she said, still breathless from her run. “As fast as you can.”
“Yes, memsahib,” the driver answered.
As the tuk-tuk turned right at the next stop, Alex peeked her head just enough to see the front door of the ERamSys building. Bal ran out through the main doors, followed closely by two other men, his head on a swivel looking for her. He was gesticulating wildly, but he had not seen her. Probably the receptionist had told him she had left the building.
She sat back against the vehicle’s hard seat and called Sam.
“Yeah, kiddo, what’s up?”
“Sam, they’re after me. I’m in trouble, serious trouble. Bal’s coming after me,” she unloaded with one breath.
“OK, calm down, where are you?”
“In one of the slowest goddamn vehicles invented, heading for the airport,” she said angrily.
Her driver turned briefly to look at her, smiling. He must understand English fairly well, Alex thought, as he cranked up the gas on the small vehicle, making it go faster and moving in a zigzag pattern through screaming traffic at what seemed to be about fifty miles per hour.
“All right, kiddo, go straight to the airport, and from there, straight to your gate. Do not stop under any circumstances; don’t use the restroom, just make your way to your gate.”
“He’s gonna catch up to me. He’ll figure out I’m headed for the airport; it’ll make sense. He’ll be looking for me there.”
“I know, but he won’t be able to snatch you with so many people watching. Just trust me, will ya?”
She closed her eyes. “All right. I got it.” She hung up the phone and promised herself she wouldn’t go down without a serious fight.
Minutes later, she saw Bal’s car passing them on the right side of the road, but they didn’t recognize her. She was barely visible, tucked in the corner of the three-wheeler’s dirty cabin and wrapped in eight feet of dark blue fabric.
Finally at the airport, she shoved a hundred-dollar bill in the driver’s hand, making him cheer. Keeping her head down, covered by the scarf, she made her way almost running to the security screening point. A long line formed there, and she had no alternative but to wait.
Someone touched Alex on her shoulder, startling her.
“You’re wearing this wrong,” a young Indian woman was saying. “It’s an Indian dupatta, and you’re wearing it like an Iranian shayla.”
Alex struggled to understand what she wanted. Her first thought was to tell her to leave her alone, but then reconsidered it.
“Show me,” she encouraged the stranger.
The girl reached out and wanted to bring the fabric down from her head.
“No,” Alex said, pushing back her hand.
“Oh.” The stranger’s expression changed. “I see. If you need to hide your face, then tuck the ends of the dupatta in your shirt. The gold embroidery and fringes will draw attention. If you tuck them in like this, it looks modest. It works best if you’re walking with your head down, just like a modest Muslim woman would.”
Alex looked at her reflection in a glass wall. She barely recognized herself. She thanked the stranger by gently squeezing her hand.
She passed through security, looking down almost the entire time. On occasions, she checked her surroundings briefly, but there wasn’t a trace of Bal and his men anywhere. She made it to the gate and approached the gate attendant, walking slowly through the dense crowd.
“Hi. My name is Alex Hoffmann, and I need your help to get safely on the plane,” she said.
A commotion behind her drew her attention. Bal and his men were shouting, trying to get the crowd to move away as they ran toward the gate.
“Yes, ma’am, your plane is waiting,” the attendant said and led her through a side gate. Two armed men in black uniforms showed up and flanked her, leading her to the tarmac. Behind her, in the crowded gate area, Bal was making headway fast.
“Stop!” he yelled. “Get out of my way!” he snapped at an older man, shoving him brutally to the side. He approached the side gate that led to the tarmac, but two uniformed men wearing the letters CISF (indicating Central Industrial Security Force) on their backs and sleeve patches stood in his path. They were militarized airport security, people who could not be easily intimidated.
“This gate is for private jet access only. I am afraid I can’t let you through.”
“Aaargh!” Bal yelled, out of his mind with anger, clenching his fists tightly.
Hearing Bal’s scream she turned, and, almost paralyzed, saw him pull a gun and shoot in her direction. The bullet hit one of the CISF men in the shoulder. The other CISF hit Bal in the head with his gun handle, knocking him down.
She resumed her brisk walk onto the tarmac escorted by the two uniformed men carrying automatic weapons. As soon as she turned the corner around the terminal building, Blake’s Phenom 300 came into sight. The familiar whirring of its engines was the sweetest sound she’d ever heard. Relieved, she climbed the five steps.
“Welcome aboard,” Blake’s pilot greeted her, turning his head toward her. He was clicking buttons and checking readouts. “We are ready for departure; we will be taking off shortly, please take your seat.”
“Whew, thanks!”
She took her seat, expecting the
plane to start moving immediately. She waited for another couple of minutes, but the plane still sat there, door open. She moved forward in the small cabin to speak with the pilot.
“Any idea why we’re not leaving yet? It’s kind of an intense situation I have going on here,” she tried to explain.
“I hope you weren’t planning to leave me here,” she heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Sam!” she exclaimed and ran to him.
“What happened to no man left behind?” Sam asked, hugging her.
“I’m a civilian,” she laughed.
“Go,” he instructed the pilot.
The plane’s door closed with a thump. Minutes later, the Phenom was taking off, soaring toward the permanently yellow sky.
...93
...Monday, September 26, 10:04AM MDT (UTC-6:00 hours)
... Outside InfraTech Headquarters—NSA / Homeland Security Joint Task Force—Mobile Intervention Unit
...Provo, Utah
Special Agent Lance Huntley fastened his Kevlar vest carefully, checking to see if it was secured in place.
He looked briefly at the geo-location screen, one of the many digital terminals in the Mobile Command Center. The screen showed blue dots corresponding to the respective locations of the team’s mobile units and red dots for any unregistered geo-locating devices picked up by the sensors. Blue for friendly, red for unknown or foe. All the blues were exactly where they were supposed to be. There was a cluster of red dots, immobile, centered on the InfraTech warehouse.
Huntley frowned, then dismissed his concern, attributing it to some active geo-locating devices that InfraTech might have had in stock. Who knows what else they got in there, he thought. Not giving the red dot cluster another second of attention, he picked up the radio.
“All teams, this is Command. Team Charlie, Team Delta, get ready. Confirm. Over.”
He looked at the young technician working on a laptop next to him.
“OK, start cell signal jamming now, five-mile radius. I want it dead quiet. God himself shouldn’t be able to make a call.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man answered and started entering commands on his computer.
“Team Delta in position, over.”
“Team Charlie in position, over.”
“All signal is down, sir, all is quiet.”
“Cut their landlines too.”
“They’re cut.”
“All teams, this is Command. All phone lines are down. Proceed at will.”
The MRAP (mine-resistant ambush protected) vehicles, marked ”Homeland Security—Special Response Team,” took strategic positions around the building. The blue dots on his geo screen reflected their new placement, showing them as a circle made of triangular blue tags enclosing the building, covering all angles and all exits.
Armed to the teeth and in full tactical gear, the two teams fanned out, surrounding the entire InfraTech warehouse and office building. Team Delta moved toward the back of the building, watching every exit. Team Charlie stayed at the front of the building, two of the agents blocking the parking lot exit. Five agents moved toward the main entrance to the building. Special Agent Huntley caught up with them and entered the lobby.
A startled, pale receptionist stood up, unsure what to say.
“Please call Mr. Weston for me,” Huntley asked.
“Y–yes, sir, right away.”
A few minutes later, Mr. Weston entered the lobby area.
“Good morning. How can I help you?”
“Good morning, sir. I’m Special Agent Lance Huntley with the NSA / Homeland Security joint task force. We have reason to believe the security at your facility has been compromised.”
“Oh?” Weston asked, surprised. He must have had many years as the leader of a government contractor, yet he seemed taken aback by the size of the task force. Just as an innocent man would react.
“We cannot go into details at this time. We are here to take over operations until the critical cargo leaves your facility. Please notify your staff they have to vacate the premises immediately.”
One by one, employees exited the building, heading toward a cordoned area in the parking lot. The task force was not letting anyone leave yet; the agents needed to know they had everyone’s information; everyone had to be accounted for.
Inside the Mobile Command Center, ignored by everyone, the geo-locating screen showed a smaller cluster of red dots in motion, away from the warehouse, where the majority of the red dots remained immobile.
Straying a little to the left, a man, dressed in blue coveralls and wearing steel-toe boots, slid unseen along the side of the building, walking faster as he approached the back. He was almost running when he turned the corner, only to meet the business end of a Heckler & Koch MP7.
“On the ground, now,” the agent holding the gun said. “Hands behind your back.”
Hands immobilized with quick cuffs, the man was escorted to the Mobile Command Center.
The agent slammed him onto a chair, not even looking at him or asking any questions. Then he swabbed the palms of his hands, his sleeves, and the inside of his pockets, and put the pad into a testing device, waiting for results. One beep indicated the result was negative.
“Command, Command, this is Delta Three, over.”
“Go for Command.”
“Command, I have one in custody. He swabbed negative for C4, but he was running. Over.”
“On my way,” Command answered.
A few minutes later, Special Agent Huntley climbed inside the Mobile Command Center. The geo-locating screen caught his attention. There were two red clusters now, and Homeland’s blue tag circle was no longer perfect. A red cluster of geo dots superimposed over one of the blue tags. Theirs. Whatever the red dots were, they were there, inside the MCC.
Huntley called the agent guarding the prisoner.
“Ben, empty his pockets.”
“Yes, sir,” the agent acknowledged. He pulled the man to his feet and started going through the pockets of his coveralls. From one of the side pockets he took out a handful of small screws. From one of his chest pockets, another handful of screws. He placed them on the table, in two separate lumps.
“Screws, smokes, and a lighter, sir; that’s it.”
Huntley studied the tiny screws attentively, looking at one from each pile. They were slightly different.
“What’s your name?”
“Chris Cohen,” the man muttered, showing more fear than attitude.
“What are these for?”
“They’re screws, for assembly. I work in assembly.”
“Why keep them in your pockets?”
“Bad habit, that’s all. It’s easier to grab them from where you can’t drop them on the floor, that’s all.”
Huntley turned his gaze to the geo-screen and lingered there for a while, thinking. Then he took a screw from each pile and went to the MCC door. He opened it and threw a screw out as far as he could. He looked over his shoulder to the geo-screen. Nothing had changed. Then he threw the other screw. A tiny red dot now showed outside the main cluster centered on top of the MCC, just a few yards away.
He took a chair and sat in front of Cohen, staring at him calmly for a few endless seconds.
“Let me tell you how this is gonna work,” he started to say. “I have some questions, and I need answers. I’ll only ask once.”
The man nodded anxiously.
“Have you heard of Gitmo?”
“I...I...thought it was closed,” the man whispered, turning pale and shaking.
“Ha, ha,” Huntley laughed. “Don’t believe everything you hear on TV. Gitmo’s still there. Do you wanna visit?”
“N...no, please, I didn’t do anything, I swear.” His chin was trembling wildly, signaling he was about to start crying.
“Then tell me, who gave you the screws?”
“It’s just screws for assembly, no one, just...I pick them from assembly trays, that’s all, I swear...You gotta believe me.”
“OK, then, Gitmo it is,” Huntley said, then stood up and turned away, ready to leave. “Ben, get a transport ready.”
“No, no, please,” Cohen pleaded. “I’ll tell you everything you wanna know, please...”
Huntley turned around slowly.
“I am not sitting down again unless I hear a reason to in the next three seconds. One,” he started counting.
“The screws, the screws, you see, I have to change them,” Cohen blurted out.
“What do you mean change them?”
“My line inspects the devices for explosives. I’m at the end of the reassembly line, where we put the device covers back together again. Instead of putting the same screw back again, the one from the battery cover, I pocket it, you see, and then I replace it with one of those,” he said, pointing at the pile of screws that generated red dots on the geo-screen.
“That it?”
“Yes, I swear,” Cohen pleaded.
“Who gave you the screws? Who put you up to it?”
Cohen turned silent for many seconds, looking at his feet.
Impassible, Huntley shrugged, turned toward Ben, and asked, “Gitmo transport here soon?”
“Just a few minutes out, sir,” Ben responded.
“No, no, I’ll tell you,” Cohen broke his silence. “It was this man; he gave me money.”
“Name?”
“He didn’t say. I swear he didn’t.”
Huntley waved dismissively and turned to leave. Cohen started sobbing.
“I swear I don’t know, I really don’t.”
“How much money?”
“Twenty grand, that’s all. And twenty more when the job was done. Please...I work a whole year to make that much money...I didn’t see anything wrong with it, really. A screw is a screw...they’re not explosive, these screws, I checked. Oh, God...I thought it was gonna be OK. What’s a screw gonna do?”
...94
...Tuesday, October 11, 11:43PM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)
...IDF 68 Operational Training Camp
...East of Tel Aviv, Israel