The Journey

by Neil Howarth

  Ten feet.

  His hand was at the man’s back. He shoved hard and felt him fall. A sharp cry was cut off abruptly as the train consumed him and screeched to a stop ten feet further on. Fagan doubted the train driver had even seen him. A woman screamed. Fagan kept walking. He did not wait to check on the results. There was nothing more he could do about it either way. Pierre had done his thing with the security cameras, but he kept his head down just the same. He caught up with him at the top off the steps.

  “Nice timing.”

  Pierre lifted an eyebrow and allowed a subtle smile to creep across his handsome face. “We aim to please.”

  They stepped out into the rain. Fagan had a strange empty feeling in his gut.

  16

  San Francisco, California.

  And so it went. A string of assignments across Europe, the Middle East, and at home. The disturbing fact for Fagan, was that even though he was uncomfortable with it, he got better at it. All his jobs were carried out with the precision, and the covert deception that Schneider demanded. Fagan recognized within himself, what Schneider had described as the true mastery of a professional.

  Schneider started giving him the more difficult and demanding assignments. And part of Fagan got some satisfaction out of the challenge, planning a job in it’s finest detail and pulling it off with all the outward effects required. But all of that did not make him feel any better about himself.

  He had sworn an oath to protect the nation against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and he was still dedicated and faithful to that. But as time went on, he had the distinct impression that more of the jobs he was assigned were against domestic targets. They were not encouraged to question the assignments, just carry them out and disappear.

  Ali Said was an example of a job carried out with elaborate precision and detail, yet left Fagan with an empty haunted feeling.

  Said was a man in his forties, the CEO of a large IT and Internet company. Born in America of Iranian parents, his father was a doctor and his mother a teacher. He was a whiz kid who had dropped out of MIT and started his own software company in his parents’ basement. The company became a success and was now one of the top performers in the industry. And he was a billionaire.

  The details of his crimes were vague. Treason was the word used most often, but Fagan was given no evidence. From what he could see, apart from looking like, and sounding like a Muslim, which indeed he was, he was the embodiment of the American dream.

  Still, Fagan made his plan and did the job as per his orders. He tried not to think about the why. He planned it out in all its finest detail, in what was perhaps his most complex assignment this far, and he executed it to the letter.

  According to his calculations, and observations, Said's Learjet 40 took off from Cupertino airfield heading initially west and climbed quickly to its assigned altitude. For longer flights, Said would have had a co-pilot sitting beside him. But today it was a short flight, and he was excited. He had just taken delivery of the Learjet, and this was his first solo flight. The aircraft would not have been on autopilot as Said loved to fly himself. But that would have made little difference to the outcome.

  At 25,000 feet the seal on the pilot side windshield ruptured due to the specially designed sealant Fagan had personally used to install the window the night before. The aircraft would have rapidly lost cabin pressure and Said quickly incapacitated due to hypoxia – a lack of oxygen. Usually following depressurization, the pilot would have received supplemental oxygen to avoid hypoxia and incapacitation. Unfortunately, the oxygen bottle pressure regulator shutoff valve was blocked by a special resin, which would eventually dissolve when submerged in water - seawater.

  The aircraft continued, climbing past its assigned altitude, and headed out across the Pacific Ocean, failing to make its southward turn toward Los Angeles. With no one at the controls and no autopilot engaged, the aircraft quickly lost control and plunged into an uncontrolled descent, approaching supersonic speed, and crashed into the ocean.

  Job done.

  But something about it all didn’t sit well, even beyond his usual misgivings. Fagan had a vision of the executive jet diving into the ocean and could only ask himself one question.

  What have I become?

  It was the main headlines the next day.

  ‘Golden Boy of High Tech Industry cut down. Whizkid’s jet plunges into ocean.’

  The stock of his company nose dived and after a heartfelt eulogy to the fallen whiz kid, his chief rival swept in with a corporate takeover and the former company was quickly subsumed. The new combined stock soared to new highs, and the market continued as if nothing had happened. Fagan got the distinct feeling that someone had made a lot of money out of what he had just done.

  Strike 3 was now working out of an insignificant office block in Foggy Bottom, not that Fagan spent a lot of time there. Schneider was seated behind his desk when Fagan walked into his office the next morning. He was the only one with a decent view. His office window looked out across Rock Creek Park and the Potomac River beyond.

  “Joe,” Schneider looked up. “Great job.” He flicked his fingers on the headline of a newspaper lying on his desk. “But I thought I asked you to take a few days R&R.”

  “We need to talk.”

  Schneider sat back in his chair and gave Fagan his attention. “What’s the problem?”

  He had thought about how to say it, but in the end, he just blurted it out. “This whole thing, it’s beginning to feel wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just not happy with the kind of assignments we’re getting. Take this Said assignment. Have you read the news? All I see is some people making a lot of money out of this. And it’s not clear to me what the guy had done.”

  Schneider shrugged. “Side effects, Joe, fallout. That’s what happens. We can’t do anything about that. We have to focus on the problem at hand.”

  “You didn’t happen to have stock in the Company, or the one who just took them over?”

  Schneider smiled. “I wish.”

  “Well whoever has, should be thanking me today. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the people up there didn’t just push their pensions up by a few points.” Fagan pointed above his head, though their masters were never seen in this building. In fact, they were never seen at all, except by Schneider.

  “You’ve got a bug up your ass about something this morning, Joe.”

  “What was he supposed to have done?”

  “That’s not for us to question. Our orders come down from the top.”

  “I thought our job was to fight the enemy, but just who decides who the enemy is? And on what basis?”

  “Are you questioning the President?”

  “Is the President really making these choices, or is someone else acting on his behalf? Your infamous sponsor? Just who is he, and what does he base his decisions on? Does the President even know what he is sanctioning?”

  “Joe, trust me, the President knows and fully supports everything that we’re doing. We have a job to do, we have an enemy out there, and I don’t see them packing up and going home anytime soon. We have to strike at the heart of it all, the money men, the planners, the strategists. Ali Said sat in the middle of that framework. He was not what he appeared to be. I have all the details.”

  “Care to share?”

  “I’m afraid that’s way above your pay grade. But I can assure you. You did what had to be done. If there was some other fall out from it, well, we live in a complex world.” He cracked a smile. “I just wish I had some of that stock. Now take your R&R. We’ll talk again when you get back.”

  Fagan did not like what he was hearing, but he could see it was pointless arguing. He held in his frustration and walked out of Schneider’s office. He was far from happy, and far from convinced.

  17

  Foggy Bottom, Washington D.C.

  “I want you to meet Eugene Blanchet,” Morgan Schneider said.

&nb
sp; Fagan was in Schneider’s office. He had taken his R&R and come back to work. From what he could see nothing much had changed.

  Blanchet was a big man, most of it muscle. It looked like it came from pumping iron, and maybe the odd supplement. He had a completely bald head and a mean face. He looked at Fagan with a slight smirk. It was a trait of his that Fagan would come to dislike intensely.

  Fagan nodded an acknowledgment but didn’t offer to shake his hand. He had heard of him, not that he spoke much to the other members of the team, but he made it his business to know who was who.

  The word was, Blanchet liked the work, maybe just a little too much.

  “I have a job for the two of you.”

  Fagan held up a hand and tried to stop it then and there. “You know I work on my own. I choose my own team.” He looked at Blanchet. “Nothing personal.”

  Blanchet shrugged but said nothing.

  He turned back to Schneider. “If you have a two-man job, choose someone else.”

  He could see Schneider was not amused.

  “Last time I looked, I gave the orders around here. This assignment is critical, what information I can disclose, is in the brief. It needs two operators out front. It’s a French operation, and Blanchet is a son of Louisiana, he speaks fluent French. He also has a lot of experience.”

  Fagan was not impressed, and Schneider could see it.

  “You’ll be in charge of course.”

  “I can be in charge. I can also get French speakers, no problem. Experience too. I can set up my team without any outside help.”

  Schneider looked across at Blanchet. “Give us a moment.”

  Blanchet shrugged and walked out of the door.

  “Joe, how am supposed to get these guys experience of the most complex jobs, if I can’t send someone with you. How are they going to learn.”

  “You could try talking to me first, not just drop him on me.”

  “I’m sorry, but this is a rush job.”

  For some reason, Fagan didn’t believe a word he said.

  In the end Schneider got what he always got. His own way.

  As he walked out of the office, Fagan wondered if this was really a two-man job, or was Schneider keeping an eye on him.

  The next day they flew into Paris on separate flights. Fagan picked up a car that had been left in the long term carpark at Charles de Gaulle airport. Blanchet was waiting at the main terminal bus stop. Fagan swung in and stopped. Blanchet threw his bag on the back seat and climbed in beside him.

  They didn’t speak.

  Fagan made his way out of the airport and took the autoroute towards Paris. He knew a little about driving around Paris from his previous visits, enough to avoid the Peripherique, the Paris ring road that did its best at busy times to emulate a parking lot. He took the A86 skirting to the east and the south of the city.

  He had an empty feeling in his gut as looked across at the grey Paris skyline. Schneider had sent him the details a few weeks ago. Pierre had allowed himself to get too close to a Syrian group, supposedly planning a big offensive in Europe. The police had found him floating in the Seine with his throat cut. He had a brief vision of Pierre’s smiling face. But he didn't have time for that now.

  He took the A10 and swung southwest into the Loire valley and headed for Tours, then on into the Parc Naturel Regional. He and Blanchet spoke little on the journey apart from confirming a few facts about the target.

  His name was Ahmed Suf, a French Algerian with a US passport. He was married with two kids but separated from his wife who now lived back in France with the children. He was suspected of having links with Al Qaeda. And for a nuclear physicist that was considered a very dangerous thing.

  Suspected?

  That’s what the report said. What did that mean? Had he passed them secrets, was he building a dirty bomb for them, or was he about to? Or was the only thing that he and Osama Bin Laden had in common, was they were both Muslims. They were about to execute him, carry out his sentence, based on some intel that he had not even seen, which described his crimes as suspected.

  There was to be no trial, no chance for him to present his defense. According to Schneider, he was a threat, and threats needed to be eliminated.

  Was that what it had come down to?

  According to the intel, Suf was on holiday and taking the time to visit his children.

  Fagan met the team, and they worked out of a safe house for the next few days. It was a small farmhouse just outside Tours, the city where Suf’s former wife now lived. Suf was staying in a hotel in the center, which the support team had staked out. They had a GPS tracker on his car and tracked him for two days before Fagan decided it was time to make their move.

  Blanchet was driving, Fagan was in the front passenger seat. They were running a mile in front of Sud’s car, with another vehicle following behind. Blanchet swung left at the diversion sign, which blocked the road ahead. Part of the team would switch it from the main road to the one they were traveling on as soon as Suf’s car and the chase car had made the turn. The road was narrow and heavily forested. Blanchet parked the car, partly blocking the way, and they climbed out. It was a dark green Peugeot, but it had a blue police light on top. In the shadow of the trees, it appeared authentic.

  Blanchet was dressed in the uniform of a French Gendarme. He looked the part.

  “The target is approaching,” a voice spoke in Fagan’s earpiece.

  The new guy’s name was Sebastian. Fagan had that empty feeling in his gut again. It didn’t feel the same without Pierre. He should have heeded that feeling.

  “Remember, keep it nice and simple,” he called across to Blanchet, then pulled on a full face ski mask and ducked behind a tree. Blanchet switched on the blue light and moved into the middle of the road. Fagan pulled out the Sig Sauer from his shoulder holster and checked it, again, then waited.

  The plan was quite simple. Snatch him, interrogate him, and then dispose of him. Fagan was not happy with the last part, but that made little difference. An interrogation team was already in place at the safe house. They would do their job. Then he would do his.

  The car came around the corner driving steadily. It was a silver Citroen C5. It slowed as the driver spotted Blanchet, stood in the middle of the road with his hand in the air.

  Blanchet spoke French like a native. “Can you identify yourself?” he said as the car came to a stop.

  “What is the problem officer?” the man said through the open window. Fagan could clearly see he was Ahmed Suf.

  “Identification,” Blanchet repeated.

  The man looked nervous. “Is there a problem?”

  “Identification,” Blanchet said again.

  Suf reached into his jacket. Blanchet pulled out his gun. The sound suppressor fitted to the end was definitely not standard police issue. The man’s eyes went wide. He floored the gas, and the Citroen shot forward. Blanchet put two shots in through the open window. The car veered off to the left and smashed into a tree.

  Fagan ran across the road. Blanchet had already reached the car. He had the door open and had pulled Suf out.

  “What the f. .” Fagan started to say.

  He heard the sound before he reached the car. It chilled his soul. A child crying. Fagan made it to the car and looked into the back. Two children, maybe about ten years old, were strapped in. They seemed unharmed, but they were clearly frightened, and the two of them were sobbing and clutching each other.

  Blanchet lifted his gun. Fagan jerked his arm up as he took the shot and the bullet pinged into the trees.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Blanchet smirked, something Fagan already disliked about him.

  “Witnesses, they can identify me.”

  “They are little kids. They won’t remember a damn thing about you come tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s alright for you to say, you’re wearing the ski mask.”

  Fagan lifted the Sig and pointed it at his head.

>   “Drop the gun on the floor and go back and get in the car.”

  Blanchet gave Fagan a steady look. His gun was still in his hand by his side. “What if I don’t want to do that?”

  “Do exactly as I tell you, or I’ll put a bullet in your head here and now. Suits me either way.”

  Blanchet shrugged and dropped the Glock on the ground.

  “The boss won’t like this.”

  “I’ll deal with the boss. Now the gun in the ankle holster.”

  Blanchet reached down and pulled out a Walther and dropped it beside the Glock. Fagan indicated in the direction of the car with the SIG and Blanchet headed toward it.

  Fagan looked into the back of the Citroen. The kids were frightened, but that was all. He shut the door. He didn’t want them climbing out. He just hoped they would be too scared to move until someone came along. He stuffed the Sig in his shoulder holster, keeping his eyes on Blanchet and picked up his guns. He stripped them down quickly then hurled the pieces into the trees.

  “Car coming,” Sebastian’s voice spoke in his ear. “You have about four minutes.”

  Fagan hurried towards the Peugeot. Blanchet was still standing by the car.

  “You drive,” Fagan said. “And get rid of that.” He pointed to the blue light magnetically attached to the top of the car and climbed into the passenger seat.

  The boss wasn’t happy.

  But Fagan didn’t care. Of course, the subject was Blanchet. It was two days later. They had abandoned the Op, dissipated the team and flown out that evening. Fagan was standing in Schneider’s office. There was no sign of Blanchet.

  “He’s a liability. He doesn’t follow orders, doesn’t follow the plan.”

  “He says he was reacting to the situation.”

  “The situation that he screwed up. He pulled out his gun too soon. He didn’t wait for Suf to get out of the car. The man panicked and put his foot on the gas. Even then, Blanchet didn’t have to shoot him. He could have easily shot out the tires. He was standing right next to the car, but he panicked. I’m telling you the man’s a liability.”