by C. T. Wente
“After neutralizing the first target, I received permission via COMLINK to investigate the target site and neutralize the second target if encountered. Upon entering the apartment… I mean the target site… I was confronted with a man sitting in a chair and was immediately disoriented by a loud noise and a bright flash of light. At that time I determined the man sitting in the chair was an aggressor and engaged him with my handgun. I fired several shots before I was subdued by the man who is now holding the phone. That… that pretty much summarizes my involvement in this situation.”
Jack Preston sat silently. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. An American army sergeant had just admitted to killing a Federal Agent and god knows who else. The reason his elusive terrorist had taken his call to Agent Martin was now clear – he wanted to make sure that Preston and everyone listening knew exactly what had transpired. He didn’t just know the call was being traced and recorded, Preston thought solemnly. He was fucking counting on it. Right now his team of technicians was analyzing the voice on the other end of the call, and the worst possible outcome would be what he already knew to be true. Agent Rick Martin’s death, through some unfathomable mistake, had come at the hands of another American soldier.
You clever son of a bitch.
Preston checked his watch. The trace had started just over one minute earlier. He knew he needed to keep the call active for at least another two minutes to give his team enough time to complete the signal trace. There was only one question left to ask, and the Director had no intention of ending the conversation without getting the answer.
“Sergeant,” he said with a steady tone of authority. “Who gave you those orders?”
The sergeant let out a sudden breath before responding. Preston had the odd impression that he had woken the man up from a deep sleep.
“The… the orders came directly from my C.O., sir,” he replied, reflectively adding the ‘sir’ in response to Preston’s tone. “But that doesn’t mean anything. I knew the minute I was given the mission that it was just another charter.”
“Another charter?”
“Yes sir, that’s our name for any special ops assignments that come from other agencies. You know, like a contract. Nobody does their own dirty work anymore. Too fucking messy.” The sergeant laughed softly at his own remark. “Excuse my French, sir.”
“So you’re saying you don’t have any idea who requested your assignment?” the Director pressed.
“No sir, I’m not saying that. I mean, yes sir, I do know. In fact, I’m absolutely sure I know who requested it.”
Preston hesitated before responding, faced with yet another dilemma. He needed to know who was responsible for the sergeant’s kill-order assignment, but asking the question meant allowing the man sitting next to the sergeant to hear what was essentially highly-classified information regarding military operations and protocols. And yet what other option was there? The entire investigation was now a complete and utter clusterfuck. The only hope of salvaging anything – including his own career – was to finish the location trace and find out who in the hell had authorized this idiot sergeant to go on a killing spree.
“Then tell me sergeant,” he said firmly. “Who ordered it?”
“The COMLINK response I received before entering the target location had an authentication code that started with 009,” the sergeant said matter-of-factly, his voice low and dull. “And the only agency that uses that code is the National Security Agency.”
Preston spun his chair around to the window and looked up at the dull, featureless sky. The NSA? How could they have gotten tangled in this? Even if they were monitoring a suspected terrorist, the NSA would rarely if ever initiate a kill-order directive unless they were absolutely certain of their information. He gazed out at the unbroken gray, puzzling over the information and beginning to doubt the likelihood of the sergeant’s assertion. Then suddenly it hit him.
Connolly.
It made perfect sense. The HSI Director had made it abundantly clear he didn’t approve of the way Preston was handling the investigation – demanding to know everything that was happening with Agents Coleman and Martin under the threat of carving Jack’s divisional budget into pieces if he wasn’t forthright with every new development. He was also the only person with whom Preston had shared the Dongying intelligence. And of course, Connolly was ex-NSA. He could have easily used his knowledge and connections within the government’s most clandestine organization to submit a kill-order request, then concealed his tracks beneath the agency’s thick layer of surreptitious protocols.
Richard, you conniving old prick Preston thought as he shook his head in anger. A heavy sigh on the other end of the line brought his attention back to the call. He checked his watch again. It had been nearly two minutes since his team had started the trace.
“You’re certain of this, Sergeant?” he asked sternly, choosing his words carefully in light of the fact that every word was now being recorded. “You’re certain your orders, including the authorization to use lethal force, came from a source within the NSA?”
“Yes, sir. I’m certain of it.”
Preston turned back to his desk and grabbed the case file Coleman had given him earlier that morning. He flipped to the copies of the Polaroid photos from the letters and immediately examined the obscured figure standing in each. “Sergeant, the man holding the phone… is he Caucasian, maybe six feet tall, with short, curly brown hair?”
“Yes sir.”
Preston nodded his head. “By any chance is he wearing a blue t-shirt with a logo on it?”
The sergeant hesitated for a moment. “Uh… yes sir. It looks like it’s a t-shirt from a bar. It says Joe’s Last Stand Saloon on it.”
So much for discretion Preston thought as he slapped the manila folder closed and leaned back in his chair. “Okay, thank you Sergeant. I would now like to speak to the man holding the phone, but I want you to know I will do everything in my power to get you safely back to your unit. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” the sergeant replied, a slight slur still evident in his voice. “Thank you, sir.”
“Good luck, sergeant,” the Director replied, rubbing his fingers deep into his temples. He knew Sergeant Kearney would likely be killed within seconds of ending the call, but he had to present an illusion of hope.
The voice of the man returned to the line. “It seems you know practically everything about me now, wouldn’t you agree, Director?” he asked in a cheerful tone.
“The only thing I know is what you’ve done… and what you’re capable of,” Preston replied contemptuously.
“Be careful of what you believe to be the truth, Director. The only thing I’ve done is expose the fact that you sent an innocent man to his death this morning. If there’s anyone you should be pursuing right now, it’s the person who initiated the murder of your agent. As far as what I’m capable of, well… do any of us really know our full potential?”
Preston looked again at his watch. Almost three minutes on the signal trace; certainly his team had pinpointed their exact location by now. They should have also collected enough audio to run a full vocal analysis. Within the hour they could have a voiceprint of the man distributed to every governmental agency in the free world if necessary. Preston knew it probably wouldn’t be enough to catch him, at least not in the short-run, but that hardly mattered right now.
Solving the case was no longer his primary objective.
The only thing that now mattered was pinning all responsibility for this atrocious situation on HSI Director Connolly and, with any luck, saving his own ass. Preston considered this as he spoke into the phone.
“I can assure you that whoever is responsible for the actions leading to Agent Martin’s death will face justice,” he replied. “I can also assure you if you kill that American soldier or the Petronus employee we both know you’re there to execute, there will be no limit to the resources brought forth by the American government to bring you to justice.
Do I make myself clear?”
“I’m afraid you’re operating under the wrong assumptions once again, Director,” the man replied. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to discuss those details right now. The Chinese authorities will be here soon, and I want to make sure that Sergeant Kearney is appropriately prepared for their arrival. Personally, I don’t think they’ll be too upset over the death of Agent Martin. But the man sitting here with four of the sergeant’s bullets in his chest is another matter entirely.”
Preston paused. He’d assumed the second man the sergeant had shot was the tall blonde-haired man Agent Martin had lost in Beijing. But if not him, then who was he? Another wave of dread washed over him as he considered the next logical possibility.
“Who is he?” he asked.
“I believe the authorities here will identify him as one Dr. Chung Zhu, a highly regarded forty-seven year old chemical engineer who, until being abducted from his home two nights earlier, was the head of research for Petronus Energy’s operations in northern China. Unfortunately, it appears Dr. Zhu has suffered from a fair amount of torture over these last few days. Both of his hands have been horribly smashed, his fingers mutilated. Even the poor man’s teeth have been pulled out, no doubt in some sadistic way designed to force him to talk. We can only hope the sergeant’s well-placed shots to the doctor’s chest brought a quick end to his misery.”
The Director dropped his elbows onto the desk and rested his head dejectedly in his hands, the cellphone still pressed against his ear. This couldn’t get any worse he thought as his office door suddenly opened and the round face of his assistant Julie appeared in the entry way. He gave her a wary stare as she shuffled towards his desk, a piece of notepaper poised in her plump hand. He snatched it from her and quickly read the brief message.
Signal trace attempts failed - cannot establish or confirm coordinates of location.
Preston pressed his hand over the mouthpiece of his cellphone and screamed out loud.
“Jesus fucking Christ! Is there anyone on this goddamn team that can do their fucking job?”
He waved an angry hand and Julie abruptly turned and marched out of his office, her head hung submissively as she closed the door behind her. Preston jumped up from his chair and loosened his tie. The air in his office suddenly felt stifling. He moved to the window and rested his pale, freckled head against the cold pane of glass. He then closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath.
“Are you still there?” the man asked politely.
“I’m here,” Preston replied flatly, fighting an overwhelming urge to end the call. What else was there to discuss? In just a few short minutes the man on the other end of the line had managed to effectively destroy his career. In the next few hours the US would become embroiled in a diplomatic shit-storm involving two American operatives and a murdered Chinese scientist – and he’d be squarely stuck in the middle of it. For the first time in his thirty-plus years of service, Jack Preston felt utterly and hopelessly outmatched. He spoke slowly into the phone.
“Why are you doing this?”
“You see, Director, therein lies the problem. You ask me why I’m doing this, but you don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“Then what exactly are you doing?”
“Exposing weakness.”
“In what?”
“In you,” the man replied calmly. “But anyway, by now I’m sure you’ve been told the trace on this call was unsuccessful. Unfortunately, the recording of my voice won’t be of much use either. I only wish things had ended differently this morning, Director. I’m sure Agent Martin didn’t deserve his punishment. As for the rest of you, I doubt it will be enough.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. Goodbye, Director. And good luck.”
The line went dead. Preston cursed softly and turned from the window, tossing his phone onto the desk before collapsing into his chair. He sat quietly, replaying fragments of the conversation in his mind. A few minutes later, he sat up and carefully straightened his tie.
There was only one thing left to do.
He picked up the phone and dialed Julie.
“Yes Director?” his assistant answered timidly.
“Julie, I’d like to apologize for my outburst a few minutes ago.”
“It’s fine sir.”
“No, it’s not. Luckily for you, you probably won’t have to put up with me for much longer.”
“Sir?”
“Never mind. Please get me the State Department immediately.”
52.
Alex Murstead barely noticed the cold morning wind that blew along C Street as he stepped from his car and glanced up at his destination. The exterior of the Harry S Truman building stood ominously under a gray Washington sky. He crossed the intersection at the building’s south entrance and presented his credentials to the guard. The guard studied his solemn face and quickly checked his credentials against a computer screen before waving him through. Alex marched past the guard station towards the entrance, staring once more at the massive limestone-clad façade that housed some of the country’s most powerful offices. Waiting just a few steps inside the large entryway, an attractive thirty-something woman in a tailored gray suit smiled and walked over to him.
“Agent Murstead?”
“Yes.”
“Good morning,” the woman replied, shaking his hand firmly. “I’m Susan Baker, Deputy Secretary McCarthy’s assistant. Would you follow me, please?”
Alex nodded silently. He glanced apprehensively at the large seal of the United States State Department that hung in the center of the lobby as they walked towards an awaiting elevator. Once on the third floor, the Deputy Secretary’s assistant led him through another security checkpoint. A badge with Alex’s name and clearance level was pinned to his shirt by a guard before the two continued via a second secured elevator to the seventh floor. Once there, he followed her down a long hallway of closed-door offices and meeting rooms. At the end of the hallway, the assistant paused and pointed to a small waiting room.
“If you don’t mind waiting in there, the Deputy Secretary should be with you shortly.”
“Thank you,” Alex replied, glancing around apprehensively. The woman gave him a thin practiced smile as she turned and disappeared down the hallway.
Alex stepped into the waiting room and absently noted the antique furnishings and a large, expensive-looking oil painting of old ships battling at sea. The other walls were covered with the décor de rigor of Washington – pictures of powerful people shaking hands with other powerful people. He was just starting to sit down when a door adjoining the room opened and a slight, thin-frame woman with short gray hair and a severe expression appeared.
“Agent Murstead?” Deputy Secretary Rose McCarthy asked curtly.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Let’s talk,” McCarthy replied as she turned and walked back into her office.
“Happy holidays, Deputy Secretary,” Alex said warmly as he followed her into the large office. The Deputy Secretary silently pointed him to the chair opposite her desk as she settled back into her own chair. She stared across the desk at him with a serious, calculating look.
“I wish that were true, agent.”
“I’m sorry to hear that it isn’t, ma’am,” Alex replied as he sat down across from her. His fear that this unscheduled and highly urgent meeting with the Deputy Secretary wasn’t going to be pleasant seemed to be coming true. Even more alarming was the fact that Alex didn’t know what he was here to discuss. He decided to tread lightly until the Deputy Secretary explained herself.
“How may I be of service to you?” he asked earnestly.
The Deputy Secretary seemed to consider his question for a moment as her dark, intelligent eyes studied his face. “Do you know anything about the history of the Deputy Secretary’s role at the State Department, Agent Murstead?” she asked with a cold, smug tone.
“No ma’am, I’m afraid I do not,” Alex r
eplied. “Please, call me Alex.”
“The position, Agent Murstead, didn’t exist until the Nixon administration. Before then, most daily matters of the State Department were handled by the Under Secretary. But by the early 1970’s the rest of the world had started to grow up. And as most parents will tell you, the path to any child’s adulthood is usually marked by a long and troubled adolescence. Our government suddenly found itself embroiled in the growing complexities of international affairs – the Cold War, Vietnam, the stirrings of unrest in the Middle East. Places most American’s couldn’t even find on a map were suddenly demanding ever more attention and persuasion. So our government did what all governments do best. We created yet another layer of bureaucracy to deal with it. And with that,” McCarthy suddenly snapped her finger. “The role of Deputy Secretary of State was born.”
She paused and gave him a cynical smile.
“Of course, in this town, those of us who sit behind desks with mid-level titles on them know damn well that any new layer of bureaucracy isn’t created to solve problems. It’s created to provide a political scapegoat for the top brass when the shit hits the fan.” McCarthy leaned forward and narrowed her dark eyes on Alex. “And let me just tell you, Agent Murstead – a lot of shit hits the fan around here.”
“I imagine it does, Deputy Secretary.”
“Twenty-four months. That’s the average tenure of anyone who’s ever sat in this chair. Certainly some have been here longer when matters of diplomacy were relatively easy, just as some have been here less when matters of diplomacy required something… well, something less than diplomatic. Do I make myself clear, Agent Murstead?”
“By all means, Deputy Secretary,” Alex replied.
“Good. Then you understand I have no intention of allowing poorly handled affairs by our country’s security agencies to jeopardize my stay in this chair.”
“Yes ma’am.”
The Deputy Secretary gave Alex a cold stare. “We have a situation in China,” she said flatly, putting on a pair of reading glasses. She opened a thick file emblazoned with the State Department seal. The word ‘Classified’ was stamped across the front in bold red letters. “Our Beijing Embassy was provided this information late last night.” McCarthy pulled out the first page from the file and began reading.