Extreme Faction

by Trevor Scott

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  “What the hell do you mean there was nothing on it?” the Director of Operations, Kurt Jenkins, screamed into the secure phone. He was talking to the Mexico City station chief who had just gotten word from his officers in the field that the Cypriot fishing boat appeared to be just that. A fishing boat. Although it had been modified with extra fuel tanks. His men, who were sure it was the right boat, were heading out now to interrogate the fishermen.

  Jenkins swiveled in his chair with the phone propped against his ear and shoulder. He motioned for his assistant Bradley Stevens to hand him the satellite photos that had picked up the fishing boat coming ashore at Novillero. He adjusted his tiny glasses on his nose, and then flipped through the photos, listening to the station chief.

  “You hold those men,” Jenkins demanded. “Interrogate them thoroughly. You know what I mean.” The director stopped on a photo to scrutinize it more carefully. Kurt Jenkins had worked his way up the old CIA chain. He had started his career as a satellite analyst, so he could read the obscure markings that to some appeared as specks of dust, but could be a hidden missile site, artillery, or really a speck of dust. “What is this?” The DO pointed to a spot on the dark photo.

  The photo analyst, who had joined the assistant DO in briefing their boss, moved to the desk for a closer look. With a magnifying glass, the analyst crouched over the photo. “I don’t know, sir. It could be another boat. A smaller vessel, perhaps.”

  “Just a minute, Walt,” Jenkins said to the Mexico station chief, placing him on hold. The DO flipped to an earlier photo. “Why did the Cypriot boat vector down the shore like this?”

  The assistant and the analyst shrugged. Then Bradley Stevens, the DO’s most trusted assistant, a gangly man, reluctantly answered, “Maybe the captain was off course a little.”

  Jenkins glared at his assistant. “Bullshit. He’s an experienced captain, yet he approaches shore nearly five miles from his intended course. I don’t think so.” The DO switched to the previous photo. “This is why.” He poked his finger at the photo with the stray mark. The satellites had penetrated heavy clouds, so what was there was somewhat blurred.

  His two men looked at each other.

  The DO punched the secure hold button. “Yeah, Walt. We just found out the Cypriot boat might have dropped someone ashore five miles up the coast. Get your officers there ASAP.”

  He listened carefully to the man on the other end.

  The DO continued, “Yeah, we’ll need some assistance from the locals on this one. Close down the roads in the region and check all flights from every dinky strip of dirt a plane can take off from. Need to know only. Call it drugs if you will.”

  He slammed the phone down and let out a heavy breath.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Sitting in plush, uncomfortable leather chairs in the Oval Office, members of the National Security Council had been convened for a special session by the president. Present were the president and vice president, secretaries of state and defense, the national security advisor, the Director of Central Intelligence, and the chairman of the joint chiefs.

  The president, a large foreboding figure, swiveled around in his high back chair behind his large oak desk, his hands clasped together as if praying. In his short presidency, this was his first major crisis. It had been over a week since the incident on Johnston Atoll and the tension of not finding the bomb showed in each face.

  “What do you have, John?” the president asked the CIA Director. As a former assistant in the operations directorate of the old CIA while on loan from the Navy, the president had come to respect and understand his intelligence briefings like no other president in recent history. Since he and John Malone had served in the Navy together, they had a special rapport.

  The Director flipped open a folder. “We’ve been combing the Pacific for any boat that could have left Johnston Atoll, but we haven’t found anything definitive yet. Just after the incident, it took hours for our satellites to reach proper positions. We assumed a maximum and minimum speed in any direction. The Navy has currently stopped and boarded twenty-one boats. Nothing. We also thought about a smaller craft hiding out on one of the islands or even picking up an airplane somewhere, but we’re still looking into those possibilities. As you know there were a few major storms in the north Pacific just after the incident on Johnston, making it nearly impossible for our satellites and the Navy and Coast Guard radar. We positioned more satellites to track and photograph the entire region after the storms, and our analysts are continuing to study those as we speak.” He hadn’t been thoroughly briefed on the fishing boat seized in Mexico, and wasn’t about to bring it up half-cocked.

  “Have any terrorist groups claimed responsibility?” the president asked.

  “No, sir,” the director said. “Our Naval Intelligence people are still checking the backgrounds on the four vendor employees found executed in the walk-in freezer in Pearl Harbor. Nothing extraordinary, yet. They all appear to be victims.”

  “Dammit,” the president said. “Who in the hell took the weapon? And, how much damage can they do with it?”

  The Director shifted nervously in his chair. “We don’t know who took it, sir. And the problem with the weapon they took is that it’s a cluster bomb. They could crack it open and pull out individual bomblets. There are over a hundred bomblets, each over four pounds.”

  “How much damage could one bomblet do?” the president asked.

  The director gazed at concerned faces around the office. “It’s Sarin, a nerve gas. It could take out all of us in this room, the entire building, actually, assuming they had a method of dispersal.”

  “Don’t they have an explosive charge built in?” asked the chairman of the joint chiefs, an army general.

  “Yes, Bill. But they’d have to set it off with another charge. Unless they could drop it from a plane, which is possible, considering one of the terrorists had to fly the plane to Johnston.”

  “So, now you’re telling me someone has a hundred little nerve gas bombs that they could conceal in their pocket?” The president shook his head.

  “Yes, Mr. President. A big pocket. And this could be significant as well.” The CIA director rose and placed a one-page message in front of the president.

  The president quickly read the message. “How reliable is this officer?”

  “Tully O’Neill is one of our best,” the director said emphatically. “If he thinks there’s something more to that Ukrainian scientist’s death than meets the eye, we should listen. Yuri Tvchenko designed some of the Soviet Union’s most horrid chemical and biological weapons.”

  “You think his death might be related to Johnston Atoll?” asked the secretary of state, skeptically.

  “Anything’s possible,” the Director said. “Tully O’Neill, the Odessa station chief, checked Tvchenko’s apartment in Odessa. He had a complete laboratory set up in a back room. But more importantly, the entire place had been ransacked. Furthermore, we’ve pinpointed the time his apartment was trashed to after the man’s death. Just as our man was leaving, the place was bombed. He was nearly killed.”

  The president, uncertain what to think, looked at his other advisors in the room. “Does this mean anything, people?”

  They all answered with blank stares.

  The Director continued. “Sir, it could mean that the man was killed prematurely. Tvchenko was under investigation by our officers, and an agent we had recruited at the university there. The agent said Tvchenko was about to make a breakthrough with a new chemical insecticide. Very deadly. Sarin, the older nerve gas taken from Johnston, is basically a strong insecticide. Which is why we think Tvchenko was still working for the Russians. Or someone else. It seems that Tvchenko was also hurting for money and could have been looking for a buyer.”

  “Dammit,” the president said. “Anything else?”

  The Director shifted his eyes. “No, sir.”

  “What are you going to do about this?” the
president asked openly.

  The Director waited, and when nobody said a word, he took the question. “Sir, we’re in a bit of luck. One of our former officers, Jake Adams, is in Odessa. In fact, he was with O’Neill when the bomb went off at Tvchenko’s apartment. He saved my man’s life.”

  “What’s his background?” the president asked.

  “Adams was in Air Force Intelligence before he joined the old Agency. He was an expert in chemical and biological weapons. He helped verify the withdrawal and destruction of them from the Ukraine after the break-up of the Soviet Union. He holds a bachelor’s in geopolitics and a master’s in international relations.”

  “He’s private now? What does he do?”

  “He runs a security business out of the Portland, Oregon area. Computers mostly. But companies hire him to accompany them overseas, where they are trying to establish new companies or overseas subsidiaries. You may have heard about the computer chips he safeguarded from German and Hungarian companies over a year ago.”

  “He did that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s not a damn intellectual idealist is he?” the president asked.

  Malone smiled. “Not really, sir. Adams was a trapper in Oregon in his youth. He spent his summers guiding canoe trips deep into Canada. He’s more of an outdoorsman than an intellectual. During the Iran-Iraq War he was on the ground behind enemy lines checking for chemical weapons use. He’s tough and can handle anything that comes his way.”

  The president appeared reassured. “Very well. You’ve sold me, but will he help us out?”

  “You’re the president. If you want, you can reinstate his commission.” The director smiled.

  The president laughed. “Let’s not start by pissing him off. Just ask your man, O’Neill, if he’ll help us out. Give him whatever he needs. Let him lead if it’ll make him happy. And find that chemical weapon from Johnston Island.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll make it happen. And we’ll find the bomb.” The director left, and the other council members followed him out the door.

  13

  ODESSA, UKRAINE

  It was just a few hours away from the start of the third and last day of the Odessa Agricultural Conference. MacCarty and Swanson had ordered a western-style breakfast at the hotel restaurant. Both had tried the continental version for three days, with hard bread, salami, and numerous cheeses, and had found it difficult to stomach those things so early in the morning. So on the last day, they decided to deviate from the normal menu and force the hotel to their needs. They would eat bacon and eggs with fresh orange juice. At least that’s what they hoped the waitress had understood.

  MacCarty sipped a cup of Turkish coffee. “Have you seen Jake Adams lately?” he asked Swanson.

  His assistant shook his head. “Nope. I don’t know why you’re paying him. He hasn’t done a thing for us.” Swanson drained the last of his coffee and waived for a waitress to bring more, but the woman seemed to ignore him.

  “I think he’ll pay off eventually,” MacCarty said. “When we start negotiating a deal for our new plant, he’ll become indispensable.”

  “Maybe.” Swanson said. He had always been the one MacCarty depended on. Now this outsider was the one who would move the company forward to new markets. Become indispensable. He thought about the night before at the bar, where he met with the man he never saw, yet had managed to get a description from the bartender. It had been such a rush. Dangerous, but exciting. Why would anyone pay for so little information? It made no sense. Nor did Yuri Tvchenko’s death. The same could be said for their company wanting to deal with such an unstable, backwards country. He looked around him and saw America in the 50s. Low tech. Shit. No tech.

  ●

  Back in the kitchen, a dark young man in a white chef’s outfit swept through and checked the order sheets. Most of the slips had been sitting there, unattended, for ten minutes. It was the young man’s first day on the job. First hours actually. Each slip had a number on it corresponding with a table in the dining area. He verified the table number, double checked it to be sure, and then told the head chef he would like to try this one.

  Reluctantly, the head chef agreed. He had baking to attend to. And besides, he had had it with special requests from ungrateful foreigners. The Japanese had wanted one thing, the Norwegians something else. Now the Americans. Let the new kid handle it.

  The new young cook pulled a slab of back bacon from a refrigerator, dropped it to the cutting board, whacked quickly with the cleaver, and then slapped six pieces onto the grill. It might not be what the Americans were used to, but it would have to do. Then he cracked four eggs, and they sizzled instantly on the hot, flat surface. He slid a small salt shaker from the front pocket on his smock, glanced over his shoulder briefly, and then shook out a great deal onto the eggs and let the contents dissolve. He flipped the eggs once. In a moment, he carefully set the eggs and bacon onto each plate and handed them to a waitress.

  Disturbed, the older woman, whose job normally consisted of running coffee and refilling juice containers, snatched the plates from the young man and swept out through the swinging doors.

  The young man excused himself to go to the bathroom. Once in the back bathroom, he poured the remaining contents of the salt shaker into the toilet. He wrapped the shaker in a handkerchief, smashed the glass container into a thousand pieces and dumped it too into the toilet, and then he flushed everything. Next, he stripped off the white smock, rolled it into a ball, and stuffed it under his right arm. Then he casually walked out and left the building from a back exit, throwing the chef’s clothes into a dumpster.

  ●

  After nearly fifteen minutes of waiting, the older woman plopped the plates in front of the Americans and refilled their coffee cups. The eggs looked slimy and the bacon was more like a chunk of fat with tiny strips of brown thrown in for color. Neither looked cooked very well, but by now the two of them were extremely hungry. Besides, the continental fare had already been removed from the buffet tables. There was no turning back now.

  “Ummm... This looks good,” MacCarty said.

  Swanson didn’t seem to mind. He was already working on the eggs.

  MacCarty reluctantly took a bite of eggs. He noticed a strange flavor, but figured it was simply a difference in the spices used in the Ukraine. Swanson was scooping the eggs in as fast as his fork would work.

  “You don’t think these taste a little funny?” MacCarty asked.

  “Probably free range chickens,” Swanson said, his mouth full of eggs.

  MacCarty ate one egg and switched to bacon. It wasn’t bad. It reminded him of the bacon he used to make on hunting trips in eastern Oregon.

  In just a few minutes Swanson had eaten every bite on his plate and was eyeing the leftovers MacCarty couldn’t stomach. Then they sat back and washed the food down with a final cup of coffee.

  It didn’t take long for Swanson to start feeling funny. In less than five minutes he felt pressure in his stomach. Then his chest felt like it would explode.

  MacCarty, who had eaten half as much as Swanson, felt fine for now. But he could see that something wasn’t right with Swanson. His eyes seemed to enlarge. He was sweating profusely. Much more than normal. When Swanson’s arms reached for his chest, MacCarty thought his assistant was having a heart attack. Then Swanson grasped his own throat and crashed to the floor, and MacCarty started yelling for help. In seconds the half-full dining area erupted into panic.

  ●

  Sitting across the dining room at a table by himself, Omri Sherut watched the Americans. He had been able to pick up much of their conversation. But when the fat little bald man, who had thought he was so smart the night before, started gasping for air, Sherut knew it was time to leave.

  He threw down his cloth napkin to the table, disgusted.

  14

  It was a clear, cold spring morning in Odessa. Jake stopped by a small coffee shop to meet with Sinclair Tucker prior to his morning meetin
g at Tully O’Neill’s office.

  Sinclair rushed in and took a seat across from Jake, nearly fifteen minutes late.

  “Still on London time?” Jake asked, looking at his watch.

  “Sorry, Jake,” he said. “I had to stop by our front office to read a message. I see you’ve started without me.” He nodded toward two empty cups of espresso in front of Jake.

  “Yeah, I didn’t get much sleep last night, as you know.” The problem was he didn’t feel like eating a thing, since his ribs were killing him, and he figured the thick coffee might at least fill the void in his stomach.

  Sinclair Tucker ordered tea. “How are the ribs?”

  Jake tried not to think about the pain, but it was difficult. “I’ve felt worse. I’m pretty sure they were only cracked or bruised.”

  A young woman delivered the tea to Sinclair and smiled at both men as she swayed back toward the counter.

  “I think she likes you, Tuck.”

  “Let’s not go down that path again,” Sinclair said. “Remember that good looking waitress in Adana? The one with the eyes so big we thought they had to be glass?”

  “So.”

  “So, I’m not going through that again.”

  Jake laughed. “How could we have known she was a man?”

  “You bastard. You knew. That’s why you let me have her...it...whatever.”

  “I suspected,” Jake said. “That’s all.”

  Sinclair shook his head. “Listen, Jake. I’ve got a problem.”

  “That’s obvious. I’m sorry. Go on.”

  Hesitating long enough for a sip of tea, Sinclair said, “Quite the jocular fellow even with bruised ribs.” He paused to choose his words. “I haven’t been given much support here,” he said. “I was hoping you’d help me out. After all, we’re on the same team here.”

  “True. But I’m not sure what I can do for you. I don’t know anything yet.”