GrayNet

by D S Kane

  Shimon Tennenbaum, one of Cassie’s bodyguards, shook his head. “Please, allow me,” and moved her index finger out of the trigger guard and onto the side near the small gun’s barrel. Then he placed her middle finger through the guard so it covered the trigger. “Your hand is so small. Your middle finger will give you greater accuracy and make the process of pulling the trigger easier. With your index finger next to the gun’s barrel, your aim will be steadier. But make sure to always shoot two-handed when you use your middle finger to pull the trigger. Try it, please.”

  She did, and it was easier. But the result didn’t improve; she still hit the center of the bull’s eye almost every time.

  Ann found martial arts far more interesting than this. She enjoyed the staccato movements, the power of her arms and legs, and competing with Shimon. She realized she could learn much from him. She smiled back. “Thanks, Shimon.”

  Lee’s smile vanished as he saw Adam Mahee approach. Mahee pressed his fingers vertically to his lips, signaling for silence. He handed Lee a piece of paper. As Lee read the words, his face fell into a frown. “Shimon, please take Ann back to school. There’s something I need to take care of right now.”

  Ann’s face sank. “What? What’s wrong?” She grabbed Lee’s shirt. “Is it Cassie? Is she okay?”

  Lee looked at Shimon. And he faced Ann. “She’s okay. This is something I have to attend to.”

  As Lee and Adam hustled away, Ann wondered what besides her new mom could be so urgent.

  * * *

  The two subs traveled southeast, separated by about three hundred yards.

  Cassie paced the ready room of the larger sub. “I want to return to Washington as soon as possible.”

  JD shook his head. “Crazy idea, Cassie. Word will reach the hitters as soon as you step out of the sub onto dry land. You’d be dead in hours.”

  Shimmel stood and stretched his massive frame. “She doesn’t have to leave the sub. Sashakovich, is your desire to return because you fear for the safety of Lee and Ann?”

  She faced away to hide her concern. “Yes. It’s been so long since I last held Lee or Ann. Avram, I must put an end to this mess.”

  Shimmel nodded. “I think we have to design a plan to do just that. We have over a week to draft and revise a plan, then implement it, before we get to the port nearest your home.”

  “Baltimore.” She said the word dreamily, as if it held worlds within it. “From there, I can get Lee and Ann to come to me.” She had a vision of Lee and Ann, with Ann holding Gizmo, all of them in the living room of their home. Cassie sighed. “Okay then. Let’s be about it.”

  * * *

  Ainsley sat on the examination table, waiting for Dr. Gorman at Swiftshadow Consulting Group’s office. The physician had been flown in from the hospital in Maui by Adam Mahee. When Mahee met Lee at the gun club, he’d passed a written note to Lee telling him to remain silent and come with Adam to Swiftshadow’s offices. Urgent. And not talk until he saw the doctor. Lee was confused. It took a great effort for him not to ask what the burning issue was.

  Gorman led him into a room whose walls were lined with lead foil taped together with duct tape. “Sorry about the urgency, Mr. Ainsley, but someone stuck a dangerous piece of tech into your body. With the room lined in lead, they can’t hear or see what the bug inside you is transmitting.”

  “Bug? Inside me? What’s all this about?”

  “I’ll tell you soon enough. But first, let me ask you just one question. Have you experienced any new sensations, physical discomfort or severe pain?”

  “Well, yeah. A pain in my gut, and the base of my neck feels like it’s on fire all the time.”

  “Let me take a look.” He held a small device against Lee’s neck for a few seconds. “This is a network analyzer. Ah-hah. Glad this floor has a complete medical facility. Mostly used to determine the combat status of our mercs before we send ’em out. Take your shirt off, and remove anything metal from your pants. We’ll know the whole story in under an hour.”

  But when the hour had passed, Lee waited silently for another hour until Gorman returned. The doctor looked as if he’d just seen a team of aliens descend into the building. “Lee, we had an anonymous tip that you were in danger. Best not to ignore it, but I was doubtful we heard truth from power. Turns out, the tipster was right. You have a very serious problem. We’ll need to perform surgery this afternoon, and we’ll need a secure video-conference to work this properly.”

  “Huh? How serious?”

  “You might die if we don’t do this right now. You’ll be unconscious during the surgery. Since it’s in your best interest to start ASAP, I have a syringe here that will cause you to fall sleep before we get you to the operating room. When we’re done, I’ll explain everything. Promise.”

  Lee stared at the needle with his eyes agog. “Sheesh,” was all he mustered as its sharp tip penetrated his arm.

  The ride on the surgery cart was a blur.

  It was dark outside when he regained consciousness. Gorman was reading a magazine. “Wha wazzit?”

  “Oh, welcome back, Lee. Have I got a story to tell you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Okay, just listen. I just removed a device from the back of your neck. It’s designed to migrate from your digestive system to the brainstem. It’s called MicroTracker by its developers in Tel Aviv. Your agency calls it Bug-Lok. The folks in Beijing call it the DeathByte.”

  “Mossad?” He pursed his lips. “Ness Ziona? Beijing?”

  “Yes. Anyway, the device in your neck has a serial number indicating it was among the beta-test models Mossad sold to your agency three months ago. Delivered on October 1 and probably administered to you in food or drink before you resigned. And the reason why I couldn’t tell you more before the surgery is that the device might have transmitted the conversation back to the agency where they’re tracking you. The lead lining in the room where we kept you reduces signal strength but it might not have been enough. Not only would they have seen and heard the conversation, known that it was taking place right here, but they’d also have had the ability to kill you remotely by pressing a button on the remote they use to receive and send on the other end.”

  “Kill me?”

  “Exactly. But we removed the device. It’s in a lead-lined container where it can’t send or receive.” Gorman held up a tiny box. “The device is under five hundred microns in size. We needed help from Mossad scientists in its removal. We had to remove the neural pathway in your medulla oblongata where it had latched. So your vision and hearing may be diminished permanently. But, you’re alive.”

  Lee felt stupid but his eyesight and hearing seemed to work just fine. Who at the agency had done this to him? Why?

  CHAPTER 31

  November 3, 11:32 p.m.

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,

  Washington, DC

  Only two key states remained undecided in the Presidential election. Too early for California and too close in New York. Alaska and Hawaii had too few electoral votes to make a difference. The outgoing President sat frowning; his party devastated by news leaks stating he might have funded terrorism in an attempt to win the election for his party. He’d acceded to Sashakovich’s demands and in exchange, she’d promised to keep the intel secret, but slowly, it was unravelling.

  Although the news stories claimed the leaks came from the West Wing, he was sure it had been Ben-Levy, hired by Sashakovich to defend Lee Ainsley. He was convinced the old Jew leaked the intel she’d used to blackmail him. Worse, though, there was more intel, not yet leaked, that he’d have to fight to keep the pending Congressional investigations from discovering. Loads of proof that could have him sent to prison or even executed for treason.

  He sat watching television with the First Lady. He couldn’t believe the election was so close, with his party’s bumbling attitude about its invincibility. The squirrel-faced man took a sip of Johnny Walker Red from a shallow tumbler glass and smiled at his wife of thirty-four y
ears. “My dear, it’ll take some getting used to, being back home.”

  She smiled back. “We’ll make do. We always do.” She reached for his hand.

  A talking head on the election news show grinned and read from the teleprompter. “California looks like it has locked in Wallace Wilton. And with that, the winner of the election will be whichever candidate carries New York, which remains too close to call at this moment.”

  “Damn,” said the President. His party’s candidate, Sanford Stanchion, was behind in New York, by only thirty-five thousand votes, but with only one percent of the precincts left to be tallied.

  His mind looped uncontrollably through the events that had led him to this night. He thought, damn the woman. He should have ordered Greenfield to liquidate Sashakovich. But now, things couldn’t be worse.

  He took a large swallow of the Scotch. It wasn’t too late. He might end up in prison for treason, but at least he could have the satisfaction of vengeance.

  “What’s the matter, dear?”

  “Nothing, sweet. Just replaying events, wondering if my choices were good.”

  “Too late to unpress those buttons.” Her gaze at him was severe, as if she knew. But he was sure she didn’t. She smiled. “I know you did what you thought best.”

  The talking head bobbed again. “Here it is. NBS calls New York for Wallace Wilton, the first black woman ever to be elected President,” the reporter’s shiny face announced. “At 2:20 a.m., Washington time.”

  Something in his mind snapped then. He decided. Revenge for prison, it was a fair deal. He’d call Greenfield. At least now with the election decided, prison for the treason Greenfield had convinced him to commit was a fair trade; his party had already lost.

  “Excuse me while I head off to the office, dear. I’ve got to make some phone calls.”

  * * *

  Gilbert Greenfield dreamed about standing in his house as it burned to the ground, scorching him to ash. He could hear fire engines, feel his flesh crackling red from the intense heat. He became conscious as the dream’s sirens turned into the landline’s ring. He propped himself up on one elbow. “Hello?”

  “Gil, it’s me.” Greenfield recognized the President’s voice. He looked over to the clock radio at his bedside. 2:57 a.m.

  The fool was calling him on an unsecured line. “Mr. President, this line isn’t secure. How can I be of service?”

  “Well, it’ll be a long time before our party regains power. The clock’s running, Gil. Remember what you promised me? Take care of her before Inauguration Day.”

  Greenfield was close to losing his patience. Over the nearly forty years since they’d graduated college together as best friends. An unsecured line! He took a deep breath.

  “Yes, Mr. President, I do. And I will take care of the matter. But I’m waiting, since there are so many ways it could happen without our involvement. Give me until the end of the year. By then, the zombie patriots will probably have had their way with her. If not, I’ll get the task completed even if I have to do it myself.”

  “Listen, I called you at home because there was no other way. I can’t officially ask this of your agency. I can’t call you at your office for this one. And I can’t call from my office in the West Wing. It violates too many laws.”

  “But we may have a problem. Where’s the First Lady?”

  “Gil, she’s in the bedroom. I’m using the phone above the bathtub. She’s fast asleep.”

  Greenfield wondered how much the First Lady knew. He sighed. Less than two months before he’d be forced to complete a black op to execute Sashakovich. Time to get the players into place and hope that someone else did it for him. “Okay, then. I know the clock’s running.”

  “With Dillworthy investigating us, we’re still likely to end up in prison. I don’t care if I’m convicted of treason. I lost my chance for a legacy. I want revenge. Just make sure you do what you promised.” The phone line went dead.

  Gilbert Greenfield lay in bed, stock-still for several seconds. It wasn’t just the President who might end up in prison for this. Greenfield and one of his assistant directors of operations—Mark McDougal—might also spend the rest of their lives in prison, or even be executed. He thought, holy shit on a marshmallow stick! Greenfield dressed swiftly. It might take him over an hour to get to the agency, and then he’d have to talk with McDougal. Mark had a wife and if he called him at home, she might overhear the conversation.

  He called the agent in charge of his transportation. “Bill, get the car ready. I’m going to the office.” He dressed quickly and grabbed his attaché case.

  As he put on his coat and locked the door to his house, he thought about the Bug-Lok device embedded somewhere in the central nervous system of Lee Ainsley. It was his ace in the hole.

  * * *

  Mark McDougal’s cell phone rang out its tune from AC/DC, “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.” He looked at the clock radio. 3:18 a.m.

  His cell phone’s text message read, “Urgent, office meeting at 4:30 a.m. My office. Use secure link to confirm. Greenfield.”

  McDougal slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb his wife. He dressed quickly and exited the driveway in under twenty minutes. He wondered what that bastard wanted him to do? How could anything be urgent on election night after his party lost? Suddenly it hit him: Oh shit, he wants to clean up loose ends before Inauguration Day.

  * * *

  Just after noon, Wallace Wilton sat, waiting patiently, just outside the Oval Office. She was dressed in a light blue full-length formal blouse, high at the neck. Blue for her party. Black slacks for her heritage. She chuckled to herself, black and blue. With all the in-fighting until the nomination, she’d gotten that way. All the name calling during the debates. Yes, black and blue.

  The outgoing President’s secretary turned and smiled at her. “He’ll see you now.” The younger woman opened the door to the holy of holies. It was the first time Wilton had ever entered. She smiled at the gray-haired man and extended her hand.

  He smiled back. An awkward expression clouded his face. “I know it’s unusual for an outgoing President to offer to meet with his replacement the day after the election, but I wanted to express my desire to be helpful, you know, even before you try figuring out what goes where.”

  She nodded. “May I sit?”

  “Of course. Would you like coffee or tea?”

  “No, thanks. Is this a photo op? Or is there something I need to know at this time?”

  He sat still for a moment, his face moving and shifting as if he was trying to configure his thoughts before he spoke. She noticed this and instinctively understood. This would be a sensitive discussion.

  He said, “I have made some very difficult decisions that no one outside this office truly knows or understands. Information may soon be revealed that causes many to doubt my character. I don’t intend to tell you what I’ve done, but I want to prepare you. The news may come suddenly, and regardless of our party differences, you deserve to know just this much. I hope you come to believe that what I did was right and just, and in the best interests of our country, as I do.”

  Wilton’s jaw dropped. She imagined a possible Watergate scenario, and like Nixon did with Ford, was this President requesting a pardon in advance? She had no intention of granting him anything. “Mr. President, what do you expect me to do with this forewarning?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t want you to be totally surprised.”

  She shook her head. This visit had started with her being tense and worrisome, but now she was near panic. She self-consciously relaxed the death-grip with which she held her purse. “Is there—is there anything else?”

  “No. Sure you wouldn’t like some coffee or tea?”

  * * *

  As she sat back in the limousine, Wilton tried decoding the messages she’d received from the man she’d succeed. She turned to her husband, James Wilton, who’d followed her into the White House but then waited outside the West Wing during the me
eting of Presidents.

  “What was that all about, Wally?”

  “Strange. He gave me a storm warning. I have no idea now what to expect, just that something very bad will happen, and very soon.”

  Her husband’s worried face mirrored hers.

  The limousine exited the security gate onto Pennsylvania Avenue. The cold gray sky portended a storm, and the driver took several turns carrying the President-elect and her husband back toward their home in Chevy Chase.

  Three blocks from the White House, a missile hit and exploded the limousine, killing them both.

  * * *

  Washington Tribune Headline:

  Byline, April May O’Toole

  to the Tribune

  Washington, DC

  Late this morning, the day after the election, the President-elect, Wallace Wilton, was assassinated by a ground-to-ground missile fired by some person or persons as yet to be determined. Secret Service agents are investigating, but at this early date, the investigation hasn’t yielded anything.

  Ms. Wilton won the election by forty-two electoral votes, the highest in over two decades. Her husband was in the limousine with her and they were leaving the White House after a brief meeting with the outgoing President. The Wiltons are survived by their three children, Harley, Susan, and Michael.

  Wallace Wilton was the first black female ever elected President. She vowed a more open regime, with fewer foreign intrigues.

  Her Vice President–elect, Amos Mastoff, is a born-again Christian Fundamentalist and a neoconservative. Although there is some question whether a Vice President–elect can become the President-elect, a Supreme Court insider informed this reporter that the court will likely rule in the affirmative. This reporter’s source said, “To do anything else would cause a litany of claims that might take years to fix.”

  The Vice President–elect mentioned during the campaign that he favored a law to decree Christian beliefs, such as intelligent design, to be taught in schools in place of evolution. During the campaign, he also proposed a constitutional amendment to make Protestantism the official religion of the United States. Conservative groups and family-values groups were enthusiastic about his nomination as Vice President and were instrumental in Wilton and Mastoff’s electoral victory.