Face Off

by Robert Stanek

  Before Evers could reply, he repeated what he said earlier about being betrayed and not knowing what was going to happen. “I should have known, but I didn’t. My operative, Alexis, is very good at what she does. The best, in fact.”

  Evers didn’t seem to like what he was hearing. He repositioned the gun in his lap. “How does Peyton Jones fit into this?”

  The director lied for a living, but didn’t want to lie about this. “She was brought in to clean up. You first and then Alexis. Obviously, even though she told me to the contrary, you’re not dead are you? Well, they both told me things that were contrary to fact. I don’t know what’s between them, but I’ve learned a few things.” He handed Evers a stack of manila folders. “Their dossiers, yours. Everything I have on this operation and everything my team has learned over the past few hours.”

  Evers split the stack with the girl, pulling his dossier to the top and reading it first. “Who hired you to kill me?”

  The director matched the irrefutable purpose in the dark eyes regarding him with unquestionable intent. “That’s one of the few things I’m not at liberty so say.” He tried to explain about the three rules that were the cornerstones of his business, wasn’t sure if Evers really understood. “Suffice to say, I consider the contract null and void. To put your mind at ease, I can assure you I would not take a future contract either.” He paused, tipped back his drink and drank to the bottom of the glass. “You’re too much trouble.”

  Evers grinned, his eyes flashing to the girl’s.

  “She’s safe,” the director said. “I can assure you no one who works for me was targeting her. You were our focus.”

  Evers wrung his hands. “That’s somewhat reassuring, but you still haven’t told me what the hell’s going on?”

  “I can assure you, Mr. Evers, I’m trying to figure that out and that’s where I need your help.” His fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Do you know how many men have ever sat where you’re sitting? Figuratively, not literally, mind you. I’ve been in this business a long time, a very long time, and I can assure you no other has ever sat where you’re sitting. To say that you are in a unique position, Mr. Evers, is a severe understatement of the facts.”

  “I’m listening,” Evers said.

  The director’s face contorted in a grimace. “You’ve heard of the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting, have you not? World leaders—prime ministers, presidents, diplomats—from more than 50 countries who collectively represent a third of the planet. Did you know they’re all gathered here, in Malta, at this very moment? What do you think would happen to the free world if they all met their end today? What would you do to prevent that? Assuming you care, I wouldn’t want to presume.”

  Chapter 16

  Mediterranean Sea

  Early Afternoon, Wednesday, 20 June

  Scott paced back and forth in the cramped security office at Malta International, the parting expression on the director’s face haunting his every step. The question had been simple enough: “Why me?” The answer wasn’t simple at all.

  He tapped the manila folders gripped in his one good hand against the tabletop, then pressed them into his head. Squeezing his eyes together to block out everything didn’t help his focus, but it should have. The problem was that everything seemed to be spiraling out of control.

  Until an hour ago, he was one of the few who knew of the connection between yesterday’s attacks and David Owen Blake. It turned out that that information had been the final card he and the director needed to start to put together a picture of what exactly was unfolding. The director seemed to have contacts everywhere from the Sixth Fleet to the Pentagon, but the “head of the snake” as the director said was a key piece missing in his intelligence.

  It made sense that the attacks on the Bardot and Shepherd were all about redirecting the carrier strike group and ensuring its ships, soldiers and resources were occupied elsewhere at some critical juncture in whatever was being planned. But what had the hours of diversion and blood bought? Why hadn’t the plotters wanted the world to know what was going on? Did they want to ensure it all seemed business as usual until the final moments because it sure seemed that way?

  The door opened and Master Chief Roberts walked in. “Chief,” Scott said, extending his hand.

  “It’s as big a shit storm as you’d expect and I’m back to the Kearsarge to deal with the fallout as soon as we finish up here,” the chief said, shaking Scott’s hand. “I’m just thankful that we had a head start on all this—and I thank you for that. You’re a good man, Evers. Satellite imagery from the last 48 hours backed up everything from your assessments. Genius to have our teams tie that intel to Treasure Map so we could start looking for needles in haystacks.”

  Not genius, Scott thought to himself. His ideas but Ken from the Hawaii field station and Dave from NCI DC were the ones who did the heavy lifting while Big Black did the crunching and munching.

  Edie, who had been resting in a chair with her head pressed against the wall, jumped up. “That was quicker than expected. Do you still have field teams tracking Jones?”

  “I was already on a chopper when I got your call,” the chief said, walking to Edie and gripping her hand. “Team 3 is in place, waiting for you, Captain Parker. Other teams are setting up around the airport and at the secure CHOGM locales. I want you on point on this and I’ve told the teams as much.”

  Scott took the title and name in stride. Edie’s secret had been in the director’s folders. She wasn’t Aleph Bet or even plain-old Mossad. She was Captain Elizabeth “Edie” Parker from Fairmont, West Virginia, a Counterintelligence Special Agent for the US Army out of the 902nd Military Intelligence Group at Fort Huachuca, Arizona. Even though she was about as far afield as a special agent could ever get, her presence in all of this somewhat restored his faith in US national intelligence.

  Someone somewhere had seen something to recruit Edie as a deep undercover and position her where she was posted. No one though had known exactly what was coming, but someone had seen enough to take precautions.

  Scott fanned out the folders on the table and started opening them. “You’ve looked at the digital copies, I’m sure, but I’ve added some additional notes.”

  The chief walked over and eyed the documents. His long quiet was expected. The files were as thorough as any Scott had ever seen, complete with meticulous details. There were things in Scott’s own file that were entirely unanticipated, of which pictures of Cynthia, baby James and his father-in-law were only the beginning. He hadn’t known, as an example, that C wasn’t dating. He’d assumed divorce papers meant she’d found someone else and was possibly even planning to remarry. The fact that she was alone and not dating hadn’t even occurred to him.

  The pair of black folders at the end of the stack contained Scott’s follow-up analysis. He watched the chief study the summaries in the final folder, saw the same chill he experienced travel down the chief’s back.

  Edie briefly took Scott’s hand in hers, squeezed. They had unfinished business from earlier, when she’d started something with kisses and caresses that they weren’t able to finish.

  The chief closed the last file folder. “I had no idea. Or rather, until a few hours ago I had no idea. But this puts it all into perspective, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” Edie said, “and without Scott the Kearsarge and her resources wouldn’t have been anywhere near Malta to help handle this situation in time.”

  “Agreed,” the chief said. “You don’t have to sell me on his continued presence, Captain. You two are on this until it’s done and won, and that comes all the way from the top. Sixth Fleet. CentCom. POTUS himself.”

  Uncomfortable with the weight of their eyes on him, Scott tapped the photo he’d clipped to the first black folder. Grainy and out of focus though it was, it was the only supposed image of the man who called himself “the director” in the NSA’s collection files.

  “Someone with this kind of…” The chief seemed
to be searching for the right word, his tone was heated. “Well whatever it is, I’m happy as a pig in shit that he’s come over to our side on this one—and we, meaning the US government, plan to make him an offer he’ll be unable to refuse to keep it that way.”

  “Oh, I’m sure the government has plans,” Scott said in a measured voice. “White rooms and black cells would be a good start.” He said this not because he disliked the director, but because it was a simple reality. The director would need to be boxed and caged before all this was done and then in one way or another made to answer for his part.

  The chief started to say something, then caught himself. “At any rate, the situation we’ve found ourselves in is what demands our attention. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you the impossible situation we’re in. Dissemination of what we’ve uncovered would only create widespread panic. Even if we were to initiate an evacuation, Malta International as the only airport on the island is our chokepoint and it’d be an ugly, ugly mess.”

  Scott looked to Edie, needing no reminder of how impossible the situation was. “An evacuation might even be putting fish in a barrel.” Several thousand security personal were already deployed throughout the sensitive areas. Malta’s 1st Regiment infantry, including reserves from A, B, C and Headquarters Companies, were already working the events and secure locations. Local authorities had even been asked to call up additional reserves and police officers for patrols. “What are our priorities?”

  “No changes. Follow the trail, like you planned. Meanwhile, I’ll prepare everything you need for the Heads of State assembly and the general address. There’s an afternoon black tie event at the President’s Palace and an evening gala that our analysts tell us are the likeliest targets. That’s where we’ll be concentrating our screening and protection details.” The chief stabbed a finger at a photo. “Our mystery woman, one Alexis Gosling apparently, do you have any updates?”

  “Not since the hospital,” Edie said, “but I’m certain she was the one who eliminated our security detail.”

  “Terrible thing,” the chief said. “I didn’t expect…”

  Scott clasped the chief’s shoulder as the older man hung his head. “We’re going to sort this. She and the others are going to get what’s coming.”

  A petty officer entered, carrying a large manila envelope which he handed to the chief before going to parade rest position to await further orders. The chief removed a set of glossy 8” x 10” photos from the envelope and spread them out on the tabletop. “These are the photos we’ll be distributing to the response and tactical teams. They’ll go to AFM and select police units as well.”

  Slowly, Scott turned his head, gazing at the photos. His mind was suddenly flooded with images of Alexis, Peyton and Owen. He stepped back, bumping into Edie, a look of alarm on his face.

  “Scott, what is it?” Edie said. “Talk to me.”

  He tapped the photo on the end, the picture of a very proper-looking Englishman with thinning brown hair, brown eyes and refined jaw line. “Who is this?”

  “Professor Blake,” the chief said, “from his most recent lecture tour.”

  Scott shook his head. “That’s not Blake.”

  Everyone stiffened.

  Edie managed a weak nod. “Scott, are you sure about this?”

  “I don’t understand,” the chief said. “This is Professor David Owen Blake of the University of Chicago.”

  Scott started to reach for the folders he’d created but realized there wasn’t a picture of Blake in the files. “Yes, yes,” he said, “I’ve met him twice, but that’s not the Professor Blake I met. There must be another Blake at the University of Chicago, an affiliate or satellite campus maybe.”

  Before the chief could respond, Edie’s secure phone rang. “Parker,” she said, answering. “Our ride,” she mouthed to Scott, as she listened to something being relayed to her. She shuddered. “That’s two and a half hours away, are you sure?” She switched the phone to her other ear. “From the director, I see, that then is something you should trust as if God and devil got together and wrote it in the sky.”

  To Scott, she said, “Itinerary.” He pulled out the Heads of State itinerary and held it out for her to read. “There are three events at that time. Make sure to double the security detail at each. Full screening, protection, K-9.”

  Chapter 17

  Mediterranean Sea

  Early Afternoon, Wednesday, 20 June

  The clerk’s smartphone was in the back pocket of her short shorts and Peyton Jones snatched it up, noting the petechial hemorrhages in the whites of the girl’s eyes that told the tale of what she’d done. The girl’s scent was in her nostrils and on her skin, and she closed her eyes to dissect its rosewood, bergamot and vanilla components before walking into the showroom.

  “You’re a dead man, Scott Evers,” she said to herself as she dialed, clicking out the digits of the long international number with quick precision.

  After three rings, the call was answered, but no voice greeted her, only empty air. “It’s me,” she said into the silence.

  She was greeted by more silence until a cold, male voice finally said, “Where are you? We need to meet. It’s important, critical.”

  Peyton recognized the voice instantly. It belonged to one man and no other. The director.

  “Consider it done,” she said quickly, her voice steady even though her heart was racing. The director didn’t want to meet her; he wanted to kill her. But she wasn’t going to let him do that.

  She hung up, ran a hand absently along the long line of string bikinis. A bright orange one caught her eye but it wasn’t something she could wear with her injuries. Instead, she started looking at waterproof swimsuits, the kind athletes wore for training and swimming.

  The watertight seal of the suit was important to prevent further injury. It’s why earlier she’d looked at scuba suits, before settling on waterproof swimwear.

  “Oh the choices,” she said aloud, laughing, almost giddy from the kill.

  Bare-handed kills almost always got her motor revving, but this was something more. The pretty clerk, fawn eyed and freckle faced, had known which way she danced in an instant. Like always knew like, and the girl had known at once things most others never knew. Peyton saw it in her eyes, saw too that the girl was excited by the danger even when she knew her death was coming.

  Ignoring the sound of someone pounding on the locked outer door of the specialty swim and scuba shop, she stepped quickly into the changing area and over the body of the clerk. A moment later, she was slipping off her clothes and slipping into a swimsuit, admiring her own voluptuous figure in the full-length mirror.

  The suit, bright blue with yellow stripes and long sleeves, was made of a thin material and meant to be form fitting, but on her it was more than form fitting—it was very revealing, putting just about everything out on display for all to see.

  “Naughty, naughty Europeans,” she said to herself as she smiled and turned to the mirror, devilishly pleased with the way the dimples on her areolas showed.

  A good chameleon was invisible even when she was the center of attention, and in that swimsuit other women wouldn’t even be looking at her face. They’d be looking at her assets, and maybe even her ass.

  As she stepped over the clerk on her way out, she knelt down to pick up the heavy backpack she’d dropped earlier. While she hovered there, the girl’s lips called to her and she couldn’t resist their pull. She pushed her lips to the girl’s, thrusting inward with her tongue and taking in the other’s taste one last time.

  Before slipping the pack around her shoulders and clipping it into place, she checked its explosive contents, running her fingers over the blue and green leads from the C-4 bricks to the detonator and its remote receiver. An app running on the waterproof smartwatch on her wrist acted as the arming device. She poked at the touch interface, brought up the app and armed the bomb with a simple double tap. A series of lights on the remote receiver confirmed everyt
hing was working and ready.

  A few more simple touches to the device on her wrist and she was dialing. His voice answering made her go weak in the knees. “In motion,” she said in response to Owen’s, “Are you ready for the dance?”

  “Dinner’s at six,” he said.

  “I’m running late, but the mouse is about to get the cheese,” she said as she walked through the back hall of the shop. After heading into the stockroom and out through the open loading bay, she jumped onto the motorcycle she’d stolen earlier. “Time to play,” she said, as she put on her helmet.

  “The cats are ready,” Owen replied before hanging up.

  A quick start, a twist of the throttle, was all it took before she was racing off and wind was whipping at her. The euphoric rush she felt had nothing to do with the vibrating hum of the powerful Ducati Superquadro engine between her legs and everything to do with the soft taste of cinnamon and cloves on her tongue.

  Chapter 18

  Mediterranean Sea

  Early Afternoon, Wednesday, 20 June

  Blue Grotto was five minutes away by air. As one of the most popular tourist attractions in Malta, the presence of a helicopter in the area wasn’t a surprise to anyone. The grotto itself was a series of sea inlets, sea caves and tiny spits of land with stone walls rising up all around. The narrow, pocket valley on the eastern side of the grotto was called Wied Babu. The narrow, pocket valley on the other side of the grotto was called Wied iz-Zurrieq. Tourists tended to stay in the boating and swimming areas between the two valleys, but their destination was further afield.

  Scott tried to focus on what was ahead and not the questions he’d left behind. Wind buffeting the chopper bounced him around in his seat. Sitting across from him, gripping an M249 Para light machine gun given to her by one of the four Spec Ops along for the ride, Edie looked completely the part of the warrior woman he knew she was. She had on army camouflage and a protective vest, and strapped to her waist was a Glock 19. It was everything he needed to get his motor revving. Well that, and a few more nutritional supplements courtesy of a field medic.