Rogue Empire

by William Tyree

  “Then why come to a bar?”

  Brenner turned his droopy-eyed gaze toward Carver. “If you must know, I’m waiting for roadside assistance. Had a blowout.”

  “Bummer.” Carver motioned to the bartender. The redhead wore a half-shirt to show off a stomach tattoo that bore some smudgy resemblance to the Seattle skyline. She took his order – fish, chips and Coors Light – and walked it into the kitchen. Although Carver had been raised in a culture of complete alcohol abstinence, a recent global study on longevity in so-called blue zones – regions where people live unusually long lives – had convinced him that drinking moderate levels of alcohol would be good for his health.

  Brenner kept his eyes fixed on the game on the TV mounted above the bar. Despite the efficiency of the bar’s air conditioning, he was sweating. His phone chirped, signaling an inbound text message. Must be a prepaid phone, Carver thought, because they had found Brenner’s primary phone in a neighbor’s dumpster a few hours ago.

  Brenner cursed when he read the text message.

  “Bad news?” Carver said, although he already knew the answer. He had talked to AAA personally and composed the message Brenner had just received.

  “They’re running late. Could be another half hour.”

  “I can think of worse places to wait.” Carver signaled to the bartender. “Another beer. My tab.”

  Brenner nodded appreciatively. “Thanks.”

  ESPN Classic was showing an NBA finals game from years gone by.

  “Cavs versus Warriors,” Carver noted. “Game seven. One of the best.”

  “Meh.”

  Carver motioned toward the screen. “Hey, check this out. LeBron’s about to take a hard foul from Bogut. He’s actually going to bleed from this one.”

  Brenner gave Carver an annoyed glance, and then watched in amazement as a cut opened up on Bogut’s head.

  The bartender delivered two beers. The two men toasted. Brenner drank a third of his beer immediately.

  Carver pointed to the screen. “Watch this. Now he’s about to make an incredible two-handed tomahawk dunk. Camera’s going to zoom in on LeBron, and he’s going to make the craziest face, like a cartoon character. Sometimes I think his head is actually going to explode into a ball of mist.”

  Brenner watched as the scene unfold on TV just as Carver described it. He was clearly astonished. “You a super fan, huh?”

  “Nah,” Carver said. “Casual at best.”

  “The Cavs played more than 100 games that year. How many times you seen this one?”

  “Once.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yup.”

  Brenner scratched his beard. “Either you’re lying, or you’ve got a photographic memory.”

  “You’re warm.”

  “Seriously? An honest to God photographic memory?”

  “That’s not the clinical name for what I have, but you’re in the right neighborhood.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Carver said. He put on a smug smile, and it was genuine. Brenner was taking the bait, just as he’d hoped.

  “So prove it.”

  “What?”

  “Prove it.”

  “How?”

  “You see the 2015 Super Bowl?”

  “Of course.”

  “A hundred bucks says you can’t tell me anything detailed about that game. And I mean meaningful stuff that nobody else would remember.”

  It figured that Brenner was itching for some action. The bookshelf in his room had contained several books on game theory, and the most dog-eared of them all was Mastering Texas Hold’em for Fun and Profit. Carver suspected his money problems had less to do with his sister’s illness, as Ellis had speculated, and more to do with a gambling addiction.

  Carver called the bartender over. “Two shots of Jose Cuervo.” He turned back to Brenner. “Loser pays $100 and drinks two shots.”

  Brenner put his money on the bar. “You’re on.”

  “Super Bowl forty-nine,” Carver said. “That was February first, a Sunday. In the hours before the game, the Vegas odds closed from 2.5 points favoring the Seahawks to a toss up, which eventually proved remarkably prophetic in light of the evenness of the game itself.”

  Brenner shook his head slowly. “Not impressed. Anyone could say those things.”

  “There was a full moon that night, but nobody at the game saw it, played as it was in University of Phoenix Stadium, a domed arena, which is actually in Glendale, Arizona. The Seahawks were penalized seven times for 70 yards in all. Neither team fumbled. New England’s Ryan Allen tied a Super Bowl record for the longest punt with 64 yards. The Patriots’ Edelman caught nine passes for 109 yards and a touchdown, but he was only their second most prolific catcher of the game. The first was Shane Veeran, whose longest catch was 16 yards. The Patriots players made $189,000 each as a bonus for the win, which was –”

  “Hold up.” The fugitive picked up his phone and began looking up game stats. Moments later, he drank both shots and slid the money across the bar top toward Carver. “Buddy, you just blew my mind. What do you do for a living?”

  “Play cards,” Carver lied.

  “That figures. For a guy with your mind, counting cards must be easy. What’s your game? Blackjack?”

  “Yeah mostly.”

  Carver figured his mark was sufficiently warmed up by now. “Hey,” he called to the barkeep. “Would you mind switching to a news channel for just two minutes?”

  She did as he asked, and as he had figured, the network was covering the crisis. They were replaying footage of anti-American protests in Beijing while pundits offered a play-by-play analysis.

  “This China situation is pretty crazy,” Carver said.

  Brenner sipped his beer. “Yeah, you don’t know the half of it.”

  And there was the conversational segue Carver had been building toward. “What do you mean?”

  The fugitive shrugged. “Nothing, man. I’m just talking.”

  Carver swigged his Coors and nodded amiably. “Didn’t sound like nothing to me.”

  “I’ve said too much already.”

  Carver turned and focused all his attention on Brenner. He flashed a sly grin. “I think you know something. C’mon, one gambler to another. You work at the Pentagon or something?”

  The fugitive put a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  “I knew it!” It was time to double down. “Give me a hint!”

  “Nah, I better change the subject, buddy.”

  The way Carver saw it, this was the last opportunity to get something unbiased out of Brenner. Once they had him in custody, he would get an attorney, and they might be stuck for months on end. “I’m a nobody, okay? What am I going to do? Who am I going to tell?” He slapped another hundred bucks down on the bar and watched as the fugitive, who was getting a bit buzzed, eyed the cash on the bar. “Come on. Double your money back?”

  Brenner took the cash to shut Carver up if nothing else. He leaned close enough so that Carver could feel his breath. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Keep your voice down. They might be listening.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The Chinese,” Brenner whispered. “They did this. Mark my word.”

  Brenner grabbed the cash off the bar and winced, realizing he had said too much. He checked his watch. “I better get out to my car and wait for roadside assistance.” He whistled to the barkeep. “Check please.”

  Carver put his hand on Brenner’s shoulder. “Hey friend. Last bet while you wait for your check. Fifty bucks says the next person to come through that front door is not with roadside assistance.”

  Brenner grinned wearily. “Dude. Always looking for action. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “All right. You’re on.”

  A ray of late afternoon sun flashed across the bar as the front door opened behind them. The two men turned. Ellis stood the doorway. “Excuse me, ma’
am?” Carver shouted over the music. “I’m wondering if you could come over here and settle a bet.” Ellis did, resting her right hand on her purse. “Ma’am, would you please tell my friend here who you are here to see?”

  Ellis focused her attention on Brenner. She could still turn on the sex appeal when she really wanted to. “I’m here to see you, Jack.”

  Brenner looked her up and down. “You’re with roadside assistance?”

  “Nope.” She nodded to Carver. “I’m with him.”

  The fugitive reached for the handgun in his ankle holster, but Carver was faster. He knocked Brenner off his stool with a forearm shiver, and then pounced, pinning his head against the ground with a knee. “Sorry, Jack. You lost the bet. Now put your hands behind your back. My friend here is going to cuff you. Then you’re going to tell us where we can find the Pink Dragon.”

  “I don’t know anything. I swear I don’t.”

  Ellis disarmed Brenner and moved in with the cuffs. Then she flashed her federal ID to the bartender. “Make sure nobody leaves, okay? We need to talk to everyone.”

  Carver pressed his knee harder, squeezing Jack’s head. “I get it, Jack. You needed money. You were desperate to pay your debts. All we want is the buyer, Jack. We want the Pink Dragon.”

  “I’m telling you, just shut up. They might be listening.”

  Ellis stole a glance at Carver. “Who’s listening?”

  The fugitive shut his eyes. He winced, as if someone had pinched him. “I don’t feel good.”

  Carver squeezed his arm. “Focus, Jack. Who’s listening?”

  “You already know.”

  “Where is the Pink Dragon?”

  “Please. I’m serious. I feel really sick all of a sudden.”

  The door opened again. Sunlight flooded the place as the FBI team entered. Ellis’s hand pulled at Carver’s shoulder. “Blake, ease up!”

  But Carver didn’t let up. He pressed harder. “You know, Jack, you could get the death penalty for treason. Unless you help us. Right. Now.”

  The fugitive’s voice was weakened. “There’s a final drop. I sent a message telling her where to pick it up.”

  “Where? Where’s the final drop?”

  Brenner’s eyes closed. Ellis dropped to her knees. “I think he’s unconscious!”

  Carver turned him cautiously. Brenner would hardly have been the first fugitive to feign illness.

  The paunchy hipster’s body convulsed so violently that Carver’s doubts instantly vanished. The seizure hit again and again, as if Brenner were a human lightning rod. The room suddenly smelled of urine. Brenner’s shirt rode up, revealing a small device attached to his belt. The insulin pump Brenner’s sister had spoken of.

  A small indicator on the device was flashing red. Carver touched it, and pulled his hand away. It was insanely hot, and a warning message indicated the pump was completely empty. This was far from normal. Carver’s own mother had a pump just like it. He’d never heard of anything like this.

  Ellis swooped down and wedged the edge of her jacket into Brenner’s mouth to keep him from biting his tongue.

  “Ellis, I think this thing just shot its entire load of insulin into Brenner.”

  “What? Why would it do that?”

  “It wouldn’t. Not without help.”

  He recalled reading, years earlier, about a hacker who had demonstrated his ability to hack a pacemaker before a live audience. It stood to reason that an insulin pump could be hacked too, and with fatal consequences. But could lightning really strike twice? Could the insider who had helped someone hack into the attack drone also be the victim of a hack?

  Carver pointed at one of the FBI team members. “Search the parking lot and the pub for anyone with a computer. Confiscate all phones and personal devices.”

  Brenner’s seizures continued. While Ellis treated him, Carver caught notice of the fugitive’s burner phone, which had slipped off the counter and fallen onto the floor. The screen was cracked, but the device came to life quickly in Carver’s hands.

  He scrolled through Brenner’s text messages until he stopped at a terse directive he had sent earlier in the day: drop is at Verizon center. go to will call tonight. the ticket is in your name.

  Tonight? Carver knew the Washington Wizards were playing the Knicks tonight at home. Tip off was in 91 minutes.

  Meanwhile, Ellis was still furiously working to save Brenner’s life. Carver whistled for one of the other agents to come assist. “Take over,” he said. “We have to go.”

  Ellis looked up, incredulous. “He could die! I’m a trained army medic!”

  “I know where the Pink Dragon is headed. But we have to leave right now.”

  Verizon Center

  Washington D.C.

  Carver stood on the concourse in Verizon Center, wearing a Washington Wizards hoodie that he had purchased moments earlier. Tip off was in less than 10 minutes. Highlight footage of eye-popping dunks played on the overhead screens, and the enormous crowd seemed to sigh with each new video clip. Ahhhhhhhhh. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Ahhhhhhhh.

  He watched as basketball fans swarmed the arena like ants over a hillside, looking for the shortest route to their seat while shouldering all the pizza, popcorn and beer that they could carry. Carver figured that the Pink Dragon would indulge in no such luxuries. She would be businesslike in her movements. She would get what she came for and exit the game as quickly as possible.

  Ellis was stationed at Will Call. Fifteen others in plainclothes surrounded the arena. Everything in its right place.

  The ticket office confirmed that Brenner had indeed made the purchase, and that the envelope was left for someone named Jessica Wu. Was Jessica really the Pink Dragon, the spy the FBI had been chasing all these months? Could she be the link that proved China’s Technical Reconnaissance Bureau was not only behind the massive intellectual property raid on American defense industry, but also the bombing of their own embassy?

  Beneath the seat reserved for “Jessica,” a small copper key had been taped to the plastic underside. A photo of the key had been sent back to McLean. But what did it unlock? Was it the key to a bathroom or utility closet within the arena itself? A locker somewhere in the team’s facilities? A safe deposit box in a bank in another country? The possibilities were endless. Guardian’s best people were working on matching the key against a vast database. Still, barring some miracle, it would take days to find the answer. And that would be far too late.

  One thing was for sure – Jack Brenner would be of no help. Ellis’s attempt at CPR had been vigorous, but it was too late. The seizures had wracked his body with blow after blow of electrical energy until his heart stopped.

  With Brenner dead, the Pink Dragon was their next best hope to unraveling the mystery of the errant drone strike in Tripoli. This boiled down to an old-fashioned stakeout, and there were 18,000 crazy Wizard fans in Carver’s way.

  Suddenly Ellis voice crackled in Carver’s ear. “It’s a go. She picked up the ticket at Will Call, and she’s coming in now.”

  “Who am I looking for?”

  “Asian female. Five-foot-five. Gray coat, fur collar. Black hair in a braid. Earrings, golden-backed studs with some sort of small gemstones. Black converse sneakers. Red clutch handbag.” In his mind, Carver created a virtual mashup of Ellis’s description and the grainy image the FBI had taken of the woman in oversized sunglasses.

  Carver had a bitter taste in his mouth. Was it possible to actually taste adrenaline? Although his face was stone cold, his skin felt alive. The hair of his arms stood like 10,000 tiny antennae.

  There she was, just 30 feet away now. The Pink Dragon. Jessica Wu. The unicorn. Carver had expected her to be taller, somehow, and more striking. Someone who could get people to say yes with a single look. She wasn’t ugly, but she was no beauty, either. The kind of woman that would easily blend in with a crowd. “I have a visual.”

  “Maybe we should go ahead and take her,” Ellis suggested.

  “Absolutely
not,” Carver replied in a tone that was intended to discourage further debate. “We need to catch her in possession of the package. We need conclusive evidence.”

  “This is a big place, Blake. We could lose her.”

  The fact that Ellis was technically running this op did not elude Carver. But damned if he was going to see history repeat itself. Among the dozens of suspected spies nabbed in the U.S. on Carver’s watch, too many had been used as pawns to be traded in backroom diplomatic negotiations. Carver wasn’t about to take any chances with this one. Capturing the Pink Dragon could be the game changer they needed.

  “Negative,” he said. “We will take her when she is in possession.”

  “As you wish. But my objection will be documented in the operation brief.”

  Only if this is a complete failure. If it turns out to be a stunning victory, you’ll take full credit, of course.

  He fished a white capsule out of his pocket. He opened it and removed a tiny tracking chip that looked and felt exactly like a piece of gray lint. Then he positioned himself behind the Pink Dragon as she made her way around the concourse. As he drew closer, he saw that the outer layer of her coat was a quilted nylon shell. The lint-like tracking chip wouldn’t stick to it, nor would it likely take to her clutch. His only option was the fur collar.

  He moved quickly, touching the soft chip to the collar as he brushed past her, pretending to look for someone. The lint-like tracking chip clung readily to the fur. From the texture and color, he guessed it was rabbit.

  Carver broke away quickly, melting back into the crowd before speaking again. “It’s done. Did she make me?”

  “Not from what I can see,” Ellis said. “She’s still en route to her seat.”

  Carver descended the stairs, making his way to the landing below the Pink Dragon’s section. The app on his phone displayed a detailed map of the facility. A red dot displayed the Pink Dragon’s location. A blue dot showed Ellis, who was behind her. Fifteen other dots marked the location of the other agents, who covered the exits in case someone else picked up the key and slipped it to the Pink Dragon.

  The red dot entered Section 404 and turned into one of the upper rows. Carver moved into position at the bottom of the section. He watched the Pink Dragon sit, rest her elbows on her knees and with her left hand, reach underneath the seat and retrieve the key. She balled up the packing tape that had attached it to the seat and dropped it to the floor. Then she dropped the key into her clutch. Now she flattened her right palm and patted the top of her head twice.