Red Phoenix: A Thomas Caine Thriller (The Thomas Caine Series Book 2)

by Andrew Warren

  Ted closed the chat window and disconnected from the secure network. He ran a quick program that erased all traces of both conversations from his hard drive.

  Risk versus reward, he thought. If things didn’t go well in the briefing tomorrow, he was about to take a very large risk indeed.

  He stood up, drank the bitter last dregs of his cheap vodka, and left the office.

  Chapter Three

  It was well past dawn in Riga, Latvia, but the sun struggled to carve a path through the heavy clouds that hung in the sky. The city’s clustered rows of quaint buildings and gothic cathedrals stood bright and beautiful as always. They defied the gray skies above, but cast long, dark shadows over the winding canyon of streets below.

  A lone figure limped across the cobblestone expanse of the ancient city’s town square. The clicking of his footsteps echoed off the surrounding buildings. The man looked up as the clock on the oxidized green spire of town hall struck the half hour. A lonely bell chimed.

  Although it was warm for Latvia, there was a damp chill in the air. The man wore a thick, hooded wool sweater under a black peacoat. As he glanced up at the tower clock, the hood fell away. The dim morning light revealed a mosaic of scars and burns on the right side of his craggy, weathered face. Thick black-framed glasses magnified the man’s dark brown eyes. His withered lips pursed as he stared up at the beautiful tower. He looked out of place in the beautiful, peaceful surroundings.

  He pulled the hood back over his head, turned away from the tower, and continued on his way across the square. Rounding the corner, he turned down a narrow street flanked with tiny cafes and coffee shops. A few scattered people sat at tables outside the shops. They were sipping coffee and munching on pastries, enjoying the quiet morning.

  The burned man hunched his shoulders to hide his face and walked past the cafes. The street continued to wind through the colorful tiny shops until it passed a small park. Perched at the edge of the park was a tiny white brick tower with a gray roof. It looked like something out of a fairy tale. A minute, secret dwelling. A place where dwarves or elves might hide, spinning straw into gold.

  It was, in fact, a small coffee shop called the Coffee Tower. There were several such towers scattered throughout the city. The man in the dark hood, however, had chosen this location for a specific reason. Its park location gave him an unobstructed view of the opposite street. He walked up to the window, ordered his coffee, and scanned the park with his dark, intense eyes.

  There were a few early morning joggers, a couple walking their dog… nothing that aroused his suspicion. But nevertheless, he knew with absolute certainty that someone was following him.

  His meandering path through the city had begun when he left his normal drop point, at a cafe near his apartment. Something had felt wrong. He had noticed a man in a black leather jacket standing across the street. The man was reading a newspaper, standing at the corner. There were no buses or taxis running at such an early hour. The man with the newspaper had no good reason to be standing at that corner in the cold gray dawn.

  So he had continued on his peculiar route. He walked the long way through the town square. He doubled back down several narrow winding streets. And now he was cutting through the park. The path he took was known as an SDR. A Surveillance Detection Route. It was designed to force anyone following him to reveal their presence.

  Some might have dismissed such thoughts as paranoia, but the burned man in the dark hood knew better. He knew he had enemies. He was a wanted man.

  His name was Allan Bernatto.

  The girl behind the service window handed him his steaming cup of coffee. He watched as her eyes darted across his shriveled, burned skin, then looked away.

  He set off across the park, hoping that the open space would flush out anyone else that might be following him. He stopped and turned, looking for any sign that someone was watching him. People stopping abruptly, or making sudden movements to keep up. But he saw nothing.

  He crossed the park, turned left, and headed away from the town center. Above him, the clouds grew thicker, darker. The shadows of the buildings grew longer and seemed to follow in his wake.

  It took about twenty minutes to reach his neighborhood. The SDR detour through Old Town slowed his normal pace. His legs were throbbing, and his limp became more pronounced after the long walk.

  But now, he left the colorful buildings and fairy tale beauty behind him. Ahead, the streets were cracked, chipped concrete rather than cobblestone. Crumbling tenement buildings and Russian dive bars replaced the pink and blue pastel cafes.

  This was the “Quiet Centre,” a dismal, run-down suburb that lay on the outskirts of the beautiful city. For the last few months, it was where Bernatto had made his home.

  As he walked past a graffiti-covered bar, Bernatto tensed. He noticed movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and saw it was just a passed-out drunk rolling over on the sidewalk outside the bar.

  A few Ukrainian and Russian men stepped past him on the sidewalk. They eyed him with surly glances as they made their way down the street to the bus stop. Bernatto paid them no mind.

  But then … there, across the street, he thought. It was him, the man from before. The one with the newspaper. He had changed out of his leather jacket and replaced it with a blue windbreaker. But Bernatto recognized his face. There was no doubt about it now … He had a tail.

  Bernatto stepped past the snoring drunk and turned right. He limped down a narrow alley that ran alongside the bar. The alley stank of beer, piss, and vomit, but Bernatto pushed forward as fast as he could. The alley made a right turn and ran behind a series of crumbling Soviet-era apartment buildings.

  Bernatto approached one of the buildings. He took one last look. The alley was still empty; no one had followed him. He pushed open a cracked, chipped old door and ducked inside.

  After limping up three flights of stairs, he finally made it to his apartment. The keys jingled in his hand as he unlocked the door. There was a dusty, cracked window in the stairwell. Bernatto could see the alley outside was still empty. Whoever the man was, he appeared to have lost him.

  He swung open the door and stumbled into the tiny, dark room. He slammed the door behind him, turned the deadbolt, and slipped the chain in the lock.

  He took a deep breath.

  The apartment stank of mold and paprika, remnants of the previous tenant’s cooking. The shades in the sitting room were drawn closed. Only a thin crack of light illuminated the torn furniture and bare, peeling walls. The rest of the hovel lay hidden in shadow.

  Bernatto made his way to the tiny kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He removed a pitcher of water and poured the cold liquid into a cracked glass tumbler.

  He shut the refrigerator and brought the glass to his lips.

  A calm, quiet voice called out from the darkness. It was a man’s voice.

  “Hello, Allan.”

  Bernatto whirled around, dropping the glass. It shattered on the tile floor, dousing his worn leather shoes with water.

  He knew the owner of that voice.

  One of the shades in the living room was raised just enough to let in more light. A dark figure was sitting on the torn, sagging sofa.

  The figure leaned forward. A beam of sunlight cut across his chiseled, tan features. His cold, emerald-green eyes sparkled in the light. He held a Beretta PX4 compact pistol balanced on his knee, aimed at Bernatto.

  It was Thomas Caine.

  Allan raised his hands and backed up into the narrow kitchen.

  “Tom, I—”

  Caine snarled and leapt to his feet.

  Chapter Four

  Rebecca Freeling pressed a button on a small remote. There was a click, and the next slide was projected onto the white screen. It was a map of southern Afghanistan. The room was dark for the briefing, but she could make out the silhouettes of the men sitting around the table.

  Some sat ramrod straight, eying the information on the screen. They took notes, i
n case their superiors required a summary of the bi-weekly intelligence briefing. Others leaned back, coughed, and looked down at their phones. The briefing had run long and, as usual, her presentation was not exactly the most popular of topics.

  “Let's move on to the next slide,” she in a strong, clear voice. “In the provinces of Kunar, Nangarhar, and Paktika, once again we see the same pattern repeat.” She pressed a button on her remote. Glowing dots appeared in the three provinces she had named. A graph of statistics appeared to the right of the map.

  “In each case, extremist group recruitment surges after every drone strike. My sources on the ground confirm this data. What's more, there is a direct correlation between recruitment success rates and civilian casualties.”

  A man at the head of the table sighed. “Thank you Director Freeling, I think we see your point. Lights please?”

  “Sir, there’s one more slide I’d like to—”

  “We’ve seen enough. Lights.”

  Rebecca pressed another button on the remote, and the briefing room’s lights faded up. Her wheelchair emitted a soft hum as she rolled back to the table and took her place next to one of her colleagues.

  John Blayne, the man who had interrupted her presentation, removed his wire frame glasses. He sprayed cleaner on them from a small aerosol bottle. He did not look up at her as he wiped the lenses with a soft cloth. He was dressed in a slim, tailored charcoal suit. The gray fabric matched the thin fringe of salt and pepper hair that ran around the sides of his head.

  Blayne was the Director of National Intelligence, and this briefing was for his benefit. It was his duty to assess and advise the President on all intelligence matters pertaining to national security.

  “So, Rebecca,” John said, still wiping his glasses. “This is all very interesting, but what is your suggested course of action? Do you really want me to tell the President that the CIA recommends we stop using drones to fight terrorists? Should we put men on the ground? Get involved in another bloody Middle East war? All because we can’t stomach a few civilian casualties?”

  Rebecca looked around the table. The other men nodded and mumbled amongst themselves. Across from her she saw Ted Lapinski, the NSA’s head of Section S32, also known as TAO. His “Tailored Access Operations" group was tasked with hacking into foreign computer networks for espionage purposes.

  The man’s ruddy, cherubic face twisted into a sympathetic smile; his aqua-blue eyes sparkled, and he gave her a tiny shrug. His cheap suits and practiced joviality reminded her more of a used car salesman than a high-level intelligence official. Still, Blayne seemed to value his council. She had to admit, his unit had pulled off some spectacular intelligence coups in China and Korea.

  She turned back to Blayne. The man slipped his clean glasses onto his face and stared at her with small, beady eyes.

  “Well, Ms. Freeling?”

  “Director Blayne, you’re already fighting a war. But you’re using a weapon that makes your enemy stronger every time you deploy it. You're like Hercules fighting the Hydra. For every head you chop off, two more grow to take its place."

  Blayne scratched a patch of flaking skin on his bald, wrinkled head and smiled. “Hyperbole aside, you do make some good points. I’ll pass your report along to the President and we’ll take it from there. Now, unless anyone has any more questions for Director Freeling?”

  The other men at the oval-shaped table were silent. A few coughs filled the room.

  “I have a question,” Rebecca said. “Where are we on the prisoner exchange with the People's Republic of China?”

  Ted coughed and shifted in his chair. “Rebecca, with all due respect, Sun Wai Tong is an NSA asset. Once your people renditioned him from Hong Kong, you turned him over to us. He’s ours now. And let's be clear. We’re talking about a state-sponsored hacker. A digital terrorist, who has already provided us with critical intel on China’s cyber-warfare capabilities. And you want to give him back, in exchange for some snot-nosed journalist?”

  “That journalist is the son of a CIA officer, Ted," Rebecca replied. “It may not be politically expedient, but I try to take care of my own. And my understanding is the President feels the same way.”

  “That’s correct,” Blayne added. “The President has made it clear to China that he’s willing to deal with them on this. He's rolling out his new climate change initiative, the Global Environmental Accord. He wants the Chinese on board, and this is part of his diplomatic push. It’s up to them to reach out and make the next move, but it's going to happen. Ted, your people need to prepare for that. You’d better get as much information as you can out of Mr. Tong while we still have him in custody.”

  Ted gave another one of his shrugs, this time more exaggerated. “Sure, whatever you say, Boss.”

  Blayne shuffled the papers in front of him and slipped them into a manila folder. “Very well. Gentlemen, ladies, thank you. That will be all; I’ll see you in two weeks. Ted, could you stay a few minutes? I want to go over those international restrictions on the PRISM program one more time. The President wants me to brief him this afternoon.”

  “No problem, John,” Ted said with a chuckle. “But I’m telling you, I still think he’s throwing the baby out with the bathwater on this one.”

  Rebecca joined the other members of the committee as they filed out of the room. Her chair hummed as it rolled down the corridor that led to the elevator. To her right, warm sunlight beamed through a long row of floor to ceiling windows. She stopped and turned, moving closer to one of the towering panes of glass.

  She stared at the trees in the park across the street. The sun cast a dappled pattern of light and shadows on the ground as it filtered through the canopy of foliage. A narrow dirt trail wound around the park. Rebecca watched as a slim girl, maybe twenty years old, ran down the trail. Her blonde hair trailed behind her, catching the sunlight like fine strands of gold. Her pink and white sneakers kicked tiny puffs of dirt into the air as they drove her forward.

  Rebecca felt a hand on her shoulder. “Director Freeling, you okay?”

  She looked up and found herself staring into the warm brown eyes of Josh Galloway. Josh was a couple years younger than she was. Crow's feet around his eyes, and worry lines that ran across his tan forehead, made him look older.

  She had balked when the CIA had insisted on supplying her with a security detail. It had made her feel weak. Would they have assigned men to protect her if she was a man sitting in the chair? But over the last few weeks, Josh had proven that he was a capable operative, and an asset to her team. He was able to balance protecting her life with staying out of her way.

  Plus, she had to admit, the former Marine was easy on the eyes.

  She noticed two other men, beefy military types, walking up behind Josh and flanking him. She frowned.

  “Josh, I told you to keep the babysitters downstairs.”

  Josh looked at his watch. “And I said I would. Until the meeting ended. You’re five minutes late.”

  Rebecca smiled. “Well, good thing you were here. A lot can happen in five minutes.”

  “Director, you have no idea. May I?” He gestured to the handles on the rear of her chair. Rebecca shook her head.

  “No thank you, I’m fine.” She pushed the tiny joystick mounted to her armrest and spun the chair around. “Let’s go. I’m going to be late for the meeting with the SIGINT team.”

  “No worries, Director. I called your assistant, told him you were running late. He rescheduled the meeting for a half hour later. We should just have time to stop for coffee.”

  Josh walked alongside her as she guided her chair towards the elevator. “Josh, you know me too well.”

  The man smiled. “Well, if your Intelligence Community meetings are anything like my old recon briefings, you’re gonna need a pick-me-up. But I recommend we stop at a different coffee shop. You’ve been to Dean & Deluca three times this week.”

  “So? It’s called a preference.”

  “No ma
’am, it’s called a pattern, and it can be dangerous.”

  The elevator door opened, and Rebecca rolled in. “You know what else is dangerous? Getting between me and my favorite latte. See you downstairs.”

  The elevator doors shut. Josh smiled. He turned to his men. “You heard the lady. Bring the car around. Dean & Deluca it is.”

  John Blayne reached under the conference table and pressed a small series of buttons. He slid his cell phone from his pocket, turned it off, and placed it on the table.

  “There, recording equipment is off. Cell phone?”

  Ted smiled, rummaged in his pocket for a few minutes, then pulled out his cell phone and put it down next to Blayne’s.

  “All right, this is about as private as it gets in the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. Give it to me straight. How bad is it? What does this kid know?”

  Ted sighed. “Sun Wai Tong is one of China’s most talented state-sponsored hackers. I mean, this kid is good. Scary good. I tell you this so you understand that what I tell you next … John, it’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

  Blayne peered at Ted through his glasses for a second. “Christ, do I even want to hear this?”

  Ted shrugged. “Someone should.”

  Blayne took a sip of water, then nodded. “Fine, Fine. What does he know?”

  “This kid found his way into servers I didn’t even know existed. Deep Black, off-books stuff. He downloaded evidence of at least two sanctioned assassinations. You know, that thing we say is illegal and don’t do, but everyone knows we really do? Well, this kid has the files that prove it, buried on some hacker’s hard drive, God knows where.”

  Blayne folded his hands beneath his chin. “That’s manageable. As long as there’s nothing that ties those files to the President, we can pass it off on a rogue operation. Hell, maybe we can pin it on Bernatto now that he’s gone underground.”

  “There’s more sir. Much more. Guantanamo video records. Records that should have been destroyed. Enhanced interrogation. And I’m not talking the embarrassing stuff, like stress positions or forced rectal feeding. I mean real, hardcore torture. You ever see those videos?”