by Theo Cage
Then I heard her voice. Kyla’s. Behind me. I turned and she called to me. She was about thirty yards away, thrashing in the water towards me, Roger right behind her. I turned back to Xavier, now several more yards away across the reservoir. He was still watching me, knowing he had been beaten, hardly rowing. This would be an easy shot now; I could just take him out, end his pathetic reign of terror and stop Buzzworm forever.
I raised the gun again and aimed, seeing Xavier’s head in my sights. But I couldn’t pull the trigger. I heard Kyla's voice calling to me. I realized then that I didn’t want my daughter to see that side of me, the cold-blooded killer, the hardened cop. Or to see a side of my life I had always protected her from. So I turned then, slipping the Glock back into my water-logged pocket and sloshed back up the bank. She jumped into my arms, crying.
EPILOGUE
The National Bank of Panama City was conveniently located on San Martin Street, directly across from a quaint local bar with a small patio called Sharkey’s. Med ordered a Panama, which seemed appropriate, a local version of a Brandy Alexander. She sipped the drink as she watched the front entrance of the bank across the busy two-lane thoroughfare.
Down in sub 6 on that fateful Sunday night a week ago, the minute she realized that Buzzworm and David Xavier were the same person, she logged into Bill Warren’s accounts. The reason he didn’t react right away to defend himself, she learned later, was he was facing down Hyde on his front porch as well as dealing with the power outage engineered by Roger. With Jo’s help they quickly tracked his remote access and locked him out of the Avion’s system. The text message he got a few minutes later on his cell phone, sitting in the rowboat in the middle of the reservoir, must have shaken him. He got his termination notice. As well as a quick note to tell him that the Avion was powered down and the authorities were closing in.
At some point on the Monday following his escape across Mott’s Run reservoir, he had attempted to log back into the CIA network remotely. Vienna was able to track him to a location in Boston, but the FBI was unable to make an arrest.
What surprised Med the most, was his link to Xavier. The real Xavier was an experienced NOC agent who had disappeared in action years before while on a mission in the Middle East. He was presumed dead because his body had never been found. Warren had simply reactivated him in the CIA system and taken on his persona. Clearly he had looked for someone with a similar appearance. They were both tall and dark-haired, medium builds. But the resemblance ended there. Warren was a computer intrusion expert, a so-called ethical hacker, and that’s why he had been hired by the CIA.
The real Xavier owned a company that sold global positioning technology to the United States military and had become a trusted NOC agent, working for several US intelligence agencies over the years.
Med also learned that Warren had other issues.
She discovered that his mother had been institutionalized at one point with bipolar disorder, a disease typified by violent mood swings, hallucinations and delusions. It was quite possible that Warren was suffering from the same illness. She found lengthy text conversations between him and his imaginary NOC agent in his files. Reading them gave her a chill. Despite that psyche profile, she could still feel no sympathy for the man.
Med finished her drink and then ordered another. She looked up at a cloudless noon sky, enjoying the sun on her face for a brief moment, then looked down and shaded her hand over her latest handheld device.
On the screen was a detailed map of the local area based on a data feed from the fully functioning GIPETTO system. She knew that near the alcove in front of the bank were stationed two agents, both former Navy SEALs and trusted Panama CIA operatives. She had secured their services back in the States over a secure line; the same secure line that Warren had set up to carry out his activities.
She had explained the problem to them. The CIA had an internal problem, a rogue agent who had absconded with millions of American dollars and was about to turn over highly confidential materials to a foreign power. She gave them the details of Xavier’s Panama bank accounts and a number of aliases he had used, all details she had ferreted out of Xavier’s computerized transactions. She inquired about their fee. It was substantial, but the problem would be handled neatly and professionally. No blowback, she had said. They agreed to the assignment.
The country of Panama had a reputation globally for providing secure and anonymous banking services to anyone with significant capital. The local government even passed a law making it a federal offense for bank employees to reveal the names of individuals or companies hidden behind secret accounts. But the banks themselves, anxious to stay in the good graces of the American government, continued to provide information to intelligence services when required.
They knew who their friends were and gladly turned over details on Xavier’s banking activity.
Xavier had made an appointment the day before with the National Bank to make a significant cash withdrawal. Nothing unusual there, just business as usual. When Med was alerted to the message, she had grabbed a last minute flight from Washington to Panama City. All that Vienna knew was she was taking a well deserved last minute vacation.
As she waited for Xavier to appear, Med wondered what Roger would think of her actions today. He was back in Canada now, back in his minimum-security cell, but hopefully not for long. Vienna had provided a glowing recommendation on his work and the CIA made an official request that he be pardoned.
On Tuesday afternoon Med drove him to Dulles, filling him in on what she had learned about Bill Warren and how the ex-CIA employee had doggedly worked his way around system security. By giving the appearance that his intrusions were the work of a virus he had cleverly thrown everyone off the scent. Roger didn’t seem very pleased at the news. Sure, he was getting out of prison, but in a way, he felt like the virus had still beaten him. And Buzzworm had escaped in the end. A very unsatisfying conclusion.
Med told him as well that she had discovered his secret. During his first assignment with the Feds years ago, he had buried an interesting piece of code in the CIA’s security system. The program was designed to alert Strange to any intrusions and send that information to him directly. All very un-American and worth at least ten years in prison. Buzzworm of course, had found the code and blocked the messages. She promised him it was now gone and the secret was safe with her.
Standing there in the airport by the international security gate, saying their goodbyes, Med noticed for the first time how icy blue Roger’s eyes were. She wondered to herself how she had missed that before. A computer geek with piercing azure eyes. They hugged then, and Roger turned to leave, but before he did he turned back to her. For a minute she thought he was going to try and kiss her, but he only held up his right hand. She smiled as she realized what he was doing and they locked fingers one last time, their pinky-ring swear still in force.
On the Monday morning following Xavier’s disappearance, GIPETTO had a successful debut, which insured the survival of Division 213. At least until another intelligence division dreamed up a better mousetrap. Vienna was committed to not letting that happen and had fallen easily back into twelve and fourteen hour days again.
Buzzworm’s computer trail led Med to the infamous Archive K, to his requests for cash, to numerous impressive bank transfers. Vienna had asked her to go over everything. Erase everything. Remove every trace of Buzzworm. Clean out the system completely. Med hadn’t gone that far yet. By maintaining secret access she was able to connect with the two agents now waiting across the street for Bill Warren, and to pay them their exorbitant fees. She hadn’t decided yet when she would throw away the keys.
On her screen, over a street map of Panama City, she watched a tiny green dot blink. The dot represented Bill Warren. BW. Buzzworm. David Xavier. Take your pick. He was close, either walking from a local hotel or in a cab. The signal was emanating from a cell phone he had cloned a week earlier, something he was quite adept at. Locating his phone had
n’t been that difficult; Buzzworm had a bad habit. He continued to text messages to an email account he had created for the fake Xavier. For some reason, in his deluded mind, he still imagined that he was communicating with his fictional NOC agent.
Across the dusty street, a cab pulled up to the bank. Med squinted into the sunlight. A man was exiting from the back seat, his back to her. She knew it was Warren without seeing his face. On her screen his green locator light pulsed, the glowing dot superimposed directly over the banks location. She noticed him hesitate as he pulled his carry-on from the back seat and pay the driver. Two men had flanked him immediately, serious looks on their faces. Within seconds they had both of his arms and were moving him down the sidewalk to a parking lot at the rear. Then they were gone.
Med’s throat had suddenly gone dry. She had imagined she would feel some kind of pleasure at his capture, this man who had manipulated and used her for months. But she felt nothing but a kind of emptiness for the hours she had wasted on him. She watched a black Tahoe roll out onto the main street from behind the bank, the windows deeply tinted. She knew it was driven by one of the agents she had hired, the green dot on her handheld now quickly moving down San Martin Avenue west through the city.
Med slowly finished her second drink, feeling more satisfied than she had for weeks, enjoying the sunshine on her face, anxious to close the Buzzworm file for good. But she also knew she should keep moving – a good habit to keep. She reluctantly started looking for the waiter so she could ask for the bill.
Med looked up then, a shadow crossing her table. She expected to see her server, but a tall man smiled down at her. He was wearing a dark green sports shirt, khaki Dockers. He removed his sunglasses.
“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked. American, thought Med, if she was to guess. Probably Boston-raised, judging from his accent.
“I’m just leaving,” she offered, gathering up her phone and travel bag, thinking she was being picked up by a vacationing businessman.
He smiled. “You don’t want to meet the real David Xavier?”
Med stared at him, her heart in her throat. He was tall. Dark haired. Trim. Could this be the missing NOC agent? He sat down across from her and rested his elbows on the small table and set his sunglasses down. He seemed amused by the whole situation, not what Med would have expected.
“I’m not usually this forward, but I’d heard so much about you,” he said and then nodded in the direction of the bank. “And of course I could hardly miss my own arrest.”
Med dropped her travel bag back down on the red ceramic floor of the patio without even thinking. “You’re really David Xavier?”
“Pleased to meet you.” He extended his hand and they shook. “Seems odd that we even need introductions — you know, considering our colorful history together.”
Med leaned forward; fascinated. “But they said you were missing in action. And how did you know about what Warren was doing with your identity?”
Xavier smiled. “Missing and presumed dead can be a useful cover in the field. And I heard about Xavier coming back to life from a contact I have in the FBI. It’s been quite entertaining.”
Med frowned suddenly. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
Xavier noticed her discomfort and touched her arm lightly. “Listen. I’m not taking lightly what he did to you. But I couldn’t intervene. I was … occupied with something else.” Med seemed to accept the apology. He looked at her hand where she was protecting the handheld GIPETTO unit.
“You tracking him with that?” he asked.
Med was surprised by the question. “What don’t you know?”
“Not much. It’s always the stuff you don’t know that gets your ass in a sling. Where are they taking him?”
Med studied his face, the tanned cheeks, a slight scar under his lip. “I told them I don’t need to know.”
“Ahhhh,” was all he responded with, nodding slightly. “Can I see?”
She placed the handheld on the table between them, screen up. They could both clearly see the map and the blinking light that represented Bill Warren.
Xavier pointed at a sinewy yellow line on the screen that ran around the city. “They call that highway Coredor Norte. The North Corridor. It runs around Panama. Surrounded by thick jungle. Is your target wearing a transponder?”
Med was staring at the screen. The flashing green dot was now stationary, somewhere off the highway. Probably in the jungle area he was referring to. “I’m tracking his cell phone,” she said, never taking her eyes off the map. Her arrangement with the agents had been straightforward. Make Warren disappear. Permanently. It may seem harsh, but the police couldn’t touch him and he was a serious threat to the security of the United States. Med felt like she had no choice but to do what had to be done.
They both watched for a moment, saying nothing, imaging what was happening under the jungle canopy somewhere off the Nort Coredor highway. SOP was to destroy the transponding cell phone once the task was completed. That way everyone would know the mission had been a success and the final payment could be transferred.
Med heard a gull cry overhead. Then the green light blinked out.
When they ripped the hood off his head, Bill Warren looked up into a thick green canopy of palms, the air thick with the smell of moss and tropical detritus. What did the travel brochure call the color? Viridescent? Marketing-speak for brilliant green. And the air! It was like breathing in hot tea. He could feel the ground underneath him alive with insects and crawling things. Or maybe all of this was just the handful of caffeine pills he had downed before getting out of the cab. His brain was on high alert, all the colors unbelievably brighter, all his thoughts laser focused. In any case he realized he wasn’t fond of the jungle. Human beings had left the trees a million years ago and all he could think of was ‘good riddance’.
In front of Warren stood a man in a black t-shirt, muscled, scarred and tanned, a handheld automatic weapon trained on him. An American by accent.
Behind the gunman was another goon. Not so tall, but round like a wrestler. He heard him once in the Tahoe as they rolled along the Northern Corridor at high speed. He sounded Russian or Ukrainian or Chechnyan. Warren wasn’t sure which, but it didn’t matter.
This wasn’t unexpected. He had roused the anger of a lot of powerful people in the American security hierarchy. They would naturally want him gone — probably in creative ways. With pictures to pass along to anyone else who might be considering a similar action. Don’t tread on me. Wasn’t that the slogan? He had tread. Or tried to. But he didn’t believe he was finished yet.
“How much are they paying you?” he asked, blinking in the sunlight.
The American smiled. He obviously liked to talk about money. But didn’t they all.
“You are out bid, Mr. Buzzworm. We don’t need to talk about money. Only about how you want to die.”
“But we do,” answered Warren. “Everything is relative. I am worth so much more to you alive than you can even begin to guess.”
The American agent smirked. “For sake of argument then. To keep us entertained. Name a price. To keep you alive.”
Warren moved his neck around, feeling the muscles popping, his back stiff from being pushed down behind the seats of the SUV. “You have been hired by very miserly people. The American economy is kaput. What do they say in Russian? Poor people need to be crafty. The Americans must learn to be very crafty. Because there is nothing left in their cupboard.”
The hired killer behind the prisoner grunted. He liked the talk of money too. He pushed his gun barrel into Warren’s right kidney. He wanted to hear more.
“Two million each,” added Warren. Then he waited. He only needed a minute or two anyway and the vision of millions of dollars usually caused even the hardiest mercenary to zone out momentarily. “If they’re not paying you that much to make me disappear, you are being cheated.” The CIA probably guessed he had a few million stashed away, so easy to outbid. They were wrong. He
had moved over one hundred million in the past year. Without a trace. That kind of money had a special power.
What happened next was more the result of the special power of high velocity money than high velocity cartridges. But it added up to the same thing in the end. Five very talented men working for him were quietly moving through the jungle following Warren’s signal from the bank in Panama City.
Warren was no fool. He wasn’t going into the tiger’s den without backup.
They surrounded Warren and his kidnappers and using some very expensive sniper rifles, trained their laser sights on the two men. The American was the first to notice the bright red dot dance across his chest. He couldn’t see the other two dots vibrating across his temple, but the Russian did. And neither heard the shots as their brains exploded.
Warren waited patiently for his men to come and release his hands from the nylon tie straps. They had cost him millions. But this war was all about being the highest bidder. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and removed the battery. He knew the CIA was going to track him, he just didn’t know how committed they were to his death. But now he did.
And someone was going to pay.
The struggle back to the Tahoe through the thick jungle growth left Warren and his men drenched in perspiration. The humidity was suffocating. They climbed into the SUV, anxious to max out the air conditioning and get back to civilization. BW knew the others had only one thing on their minds right now; what the money would buy them back in the US.
All he could concentrate on was revenge.
When Warren turned the ignition key the CIA agents had left in the vehicle, he heard two sounds in quick succession. The first was the clunk of the door locks being activated. Not unexpected. But the engine wasn’t turning over, so something was clearly wrong.