Immune

by Richard Phillips

  “Not in over a week. When I need to get information to him, I encrypt it and post it on one of the public Internet sites we both monitor. Jack does the same.”

  “Does he know you’re pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry. You can tell me it’s none of my business.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not shy.”

  Tall Bear laughed as he turned away. “That thought never occurred to me.”

  78

  El Chupacabra. The blood beast of the shadows, a creature of the South American night, seldom glimpsed and never caught.

  Eduardo removed the lens cover on the scope and settled into his hide position. He had not picked the nickname that now provoked such fear throughout the Colombian cartels, but it suited him. He was death incarnate. He didn’t just enjoy killing. It sustained him.

  There were now only two other professional killers who could be compared with him. One was Carlos the Jackal, now rotting in Clairvaux Prison in Paris and hardly a worthy comparison. The other was still out there among the sheep, very much like himself. Hunting. But the one known as the Ripper would come for him. Eduardo would see to that. And then El Chupacabra would be the only name whispered in dark places.

  But right now, business called. Below him, the George Washington Parkway rounded a gradual bend along the west bank of the Potomac, the heavy foliage ensuring he could not be seen from the ground, especially not from the highway. Two narrow windows through the trees provided twin sight lines to the road. The crosshairs steadied on the nearest section of highway.

  Killing a president wasn’t supposed to be easy. The biggest problem was a general dearth of information critical to making the hit. The US Secret Service was very, very good at what they did, and one of the things they did was protect the specific information that made killing easy. Travel by motorcade was one of the times when the president was most vulnerable since the entire route could not be as thoroughly secured as the departure and destination points. Therefore, a combination of armor, deception, and misdirection were the primary tools used to ensure the president’s safety.

  Which car the president was riding in, his seating position in the car, the exact route of the motorcade, the time of departure—all of these were zealously guarded secrets. But not today. Eduardo’s inside source had provided incredible detail, the last update coming in via encrypted text message just five minutes ago. Everything was go.

  As the police escort entered his peripheral vision and then moved through the crosshairs, Eduardo felt the familiar tingle where his cheek welded itself to the stock of the AS500 sniper rifle, down along his arm and into his hand, terminating where his finger rested against the trigger. In rapid succession, the vehicles flashed across his sight line as he counted. Now!

  Although it was secured to the thick tree branch in a vice and despite the weapon’s incredible recoil-damping mechanism, the recoil of the three incendiary, armor-piercing, fifty-caliber rounds rocked the weapon back into his shoulder. It didn’t matter. The killing pattern had been perfect, the first round entering through the forward edge of the armored limousine roof, each subsequent round four inches behind it.

  Without waiting for any reaction from the convoy, Eduardo grabbed the handle that dangled below his branch and let himself fall outward. His momentum snapped the string that had secured the pulley in place and swept him down the steeply angled cable into a thicket on the water’s edge.

  Filling his lungs with air, he slipped beneath the river’s murky surface, feeling his way along the rope that guided him down to the submerged scuba gear. Opening the valve on the tank, he cleared his mask, then grabbed the underwater sled that would pull him to safety.

  As the propeller spun up, El Chupacabra smiled inside the scuba mask. Killing a president shouldn’t be this easy.

  79

  The cacophony in the White House briefing room made it difficult for the television audience to discern what was being said. In the midst of the melee, CNN’s star White House reporter, Rolf Larson, held sway.

  “As we have been reporting for the last hour and a half, the president of the United States was assassinated this morning as the presidential motorcade made its way toward a political rally in Rockville, Maryland. Despite the best efforts of the staff at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, President Harris was pronounced dead at 10:25 a.m., leaving this city and the rest of the country in shock.

  “Although details of the assassination remain unclear, sources within the FBI and the Department of Treasury indicate that it is only a matter of time before the killer is caught and brought to justice. Even now a broad net has been cast around the Washington, D.C., area, with all highways and airports shut down, ports and waterways sealed, so the assassin cannot escape.”

  The reporter paused as the CNN anchor interrupted. “Rolf, this is Karen Whitcomb. Can you tell us if you are hearing anything from your extensive contacts within the administration and the Justice Department about who the killer might be?”

  Rolf nodded into the camera. “Karen, although no one is willing to go on record at this early stage of the investigation, my sources are telling me that this is almost certainly the work of the same man believed to have conducted a string of recent assassinations. I am, of course, speaking of the man at the top of the most-wanted list of every law enforcement agency in this country. Jack Gregory, better known by his street name, the Ripper.”

  “Rolf, this is truly shocking information. Thank you so much for the type of inside reporting that only you can deliver. I’m sorry, but I am getting word that the new president, formerly Vice President Gordon, is about to speak to the nation from the oval office. We go now to the president of the United States of America.”

  The image on camera shifted to the presidential desk in the oval office. The newly elevated president stared into the camera, backdropped by the seal of office, his eyes shining with moisture as his jaw tightened with determined resolve.

  “My fellow Americans. It is with deepest sadness that I assume the mantle of the presidency. We have all just endured a most terrible shock, one that has left the nation stunned with its loss.”

  President Gordon’s eyes narrowed. “But before I speak of that loss, let me assure you, the American people, that this vicious murderer, who has attacked our nation, has failed in his principal aim. This cowardly act has accomplished nothing except to rob a generation of a fine leader, a man I was proud to call a friend. I assure you that the wise constitutional measures that the founding fathers put in place are functioning. This government goes on without interruption.

  “I also want to say something to the man that murdered our president. Know this. No matter where you run, no matter how deep you burrow—no power on earth can stop us from finding you. As president, I vow this on the Constitution of the United States of America.”

  President Gordon paused to clear his throat. “Now, let me speak of my friend. President Harris was a man of vision. He was a man who knew who he was, a man elected by the people of this country because they looked into his eyes and recognized a man who would always do what he believed was right.

  “This fine man, a man I was proud to serve under, put his very life at risk by doing exactly what he pledged. He cracked open the dark shroud of secrecy that has hidden wondrous technologies away from mankind. By opening the Rho Project to worldwide view, he took a tremendous risk, one that has now cost him his life.

  “Once again, I am here to say to this assassin and to those who sponsor him…you have failed! The people of the United States of America will never be cowed or intimidated. In the face of tribulation, we will persevere. If you think that, by this atrocity, you have slowed the release of Rho Project technologies, then you are sadly mistaken. You have only redoubled our national resolve.”

  The president dabbed at his damp eyes with a clenched knuckle.

  “I pledge to you now that, as your president, I will follow through on the noble work started by this great man. I
ask for your prayers and support in the difficult days to come. May God be with Mary Beth and the rest of the Harris family. May God be with us all.”

  80

  Garfield Kromly blinked into the glare of the headlights as he turned onto Jefferson Davis Highway. Shit, he was tired. Two fucking a.m. and just getting home. Barely enough time to catch a catnap before heading back to Langley. A left on 15th Street and then straight across Crystal Drive and he was back at the apartment he had called home for the last eleven years. Water Park Tower South.

  The high-rise apartment tower, or condos if it tripped your trigger to call them that, ran north–south, bowing gently away from the river. It was exactly the opposite of its twin tower a little farther north. A pair of twin parenthesis, offset from one another in an oddly artistic way, each having a side that looked out over the Potomac River, just north of Ronald Reagan National Airport.

  Kromly pulled into his parking spot, rolling down the window to nod at a pair of CIA agents prominently posted near the building entrance. And those were just his visible guardians. Amazing, really. Since President Harris’ assassination yesterday, all of the high-level CIA staff had their special bodyguards, the CIA’s best of the best, assigned to babysitting duty. And that was in addition to the security that had locked this city down as tight as a snail’s ass, turning a normal half-hour drive at this time of the night into an hour-and-a-half crawl down the GW Parkway.

  Clicking the lock button on his keychain, Kromly left the red Mustang convertible wedged in close to a black Caddy that had pulled in crooked and made his way inside the large foyer. The ride to the eleventh floor was notable only for the seventh-floor light that failed to illuminate. Nothing surprising about that. Lucky number seven just wasn’t coming up lately.

  At the door to his apartment, Kromly fumbled with his key ring. Damn. Gonna have to get rid of some of these things. He couldn’t even remember what two of the small ones unlocked.

  The door swung open to a dark apartment, the only light coming in through the large window that looked out across the Potomac to the Washington Monument and the rest of DC. Without bothering to switch on the light, Kromly moved to the window. God he loved this city. Since Pam had died, his work, one bedroom, a small kitchen, a living room, and this view were all he had to keep himself sane.

  Looking down at the Potomac, Kromly shook his head sadly. Another president shot down in a motorcade, this time only a few miles from this very spot. The assassin had made the shots that had almost cut the president’s body in half and slid down a zip line into those muddy waters to make his escape. Except for the fifty-caliber rifle secured to the tree and some ancillary equipment, the killer had vanished without a trace.

  Kromly stiffened. Had he heard something? His hand moved toward his shoulder holster.

  “I wouldn’t.”

  The familiar voice raised the fine hairs along the back of his neck. Kromly let his hands fall back to his sides, turning slowly toward the speaker. There in the darkness across the room, a shadow leaned back in his reading chair.

  “Jack.”

  A low chuckle. “Now, Garfield. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

  Kromly struggled to control his elevated heart rate, applying the same techniques he had drilled into field operatives for the last thirty years, including the man who now sat shrouded in darkness. His ultimate student.

  “Sorry. I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “Not surprising. Have a seat.”

  Kromly moved to the couch, keeping his hands well away from his body at all times. No use giving Jack an excuse to pull the trigger. Not that he needed much of an excuse, not after what had happened to his team.

  “Why, Jack?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why the president?”

  Jack paused several seconds, the silence in the room growing thicker with each passing moment. Kromly considered triggering the panic button on his key ring but discarded the idea. Jack would kill him before his hand reached his pocket.

  “How many years have we known each other?”

  Kromly cleared his throat. “Twelve.”

  “How long has it been since you considered yourself my friend?”

  The question stunned him. Christ. Jack had been the best student he had ever had at the CIA. He was the whole package: dynamic personality, quick wits, lightning-swift reactions. But it had been his instincts that set him apart. Jack had always seemed to sense what was about to happen before it did.

  Kromly had been drawn to the young man early on, pulling strings to get Jack the assignments he desired. And Pam had loved him like the son they had never had. She had succumbed to breast cancer shortly after Jack was reported killed in Pakistan in 2002. It just seemed that she had lost part of her will to keep fighting. If a young god like Jack could fall, then maybe she could let go too.

  “I guess it was when I thought you were dead.” Kromly felt the anger edging into his voice. “You damn sure didn’t go out of your way to let me know that wasn’t true. You must have been busy those five years. You’ll have to forgive me for not being thrilled to see you now.”

  “I know you were advising the FBI unit that took down my team.”

  Shit. This was it. Nothing to do now but bend over and kiss his ass good-bye.

  “You know me well enough to know that you’d already be dead if I wanted that.”

  “Yes.” A faint glimmer of hope that he might yet see another sunrise sharpened Kromly’s focus. “I’m listening.”

  “You think I killed the president.”

  “There aren’t many that could have made that hit. You’re at the top of the list.”

  “But here I am, sitting in your living room.”

  Kromly shrugged. “You might have stopped by to scratch another name off your list.”

  “You’re still alive.”

  “True.”

  “When were you first aware that Admiral Riles had a special NSA team looking into the Rho Project?”

  “I only found out shortly before his suicide. The FBI was keeping the investigation very close-hold.”

  “What do you know about what Admiral Riles was up to at NSA?”

  “Not much more than was in the press. He was trying to discredit the Rho Project in order to prevent the president from publicly releasing the technologies coming out of it.”

  “Let me paint a different picture. Admiral Riles called me in on a meeting at the NSA in early January of this year. The subject of that meeting was what was being called the New Year’s Day Virus. I led the team that secured a computer from the house in Glen Bernie.”

  “Then Riles exceeded his authority by sending your team in on that one.”

  “Maybe. He had a Presidential Finding. That was good enough for me.”

  “Okay.”

  “The NSA was able to extract information from that computer which could only have come from within the Rho Project. The Rho source indicated that something was dangerously wrong inside the project.”

  “Pretty weak justification to send you to Los Alamos. Why didn’t Riles notify the FBI? That’s their area.”

  Jack shifted positions ever so slightly, the movement producing a barely visible reflection of the DC lights from the barrel of a weapon.

  “I don’t know how he justified it. I do know he had a damn good reason to think the Rho source was legitimate enough to send me to check it out. That investigation left no doubt in my mind that the project is corrupt, with support from the highest levels of the government. I sent back an interim report along with the decapitated body of Carlton ‘Priest’ Williams.”

  Kromly shook his head. “You’re losing me. What did Priest have to do with any of this?”

  “Other than being the sick psycho bastard he always was, his blood carried proof of secret illicit testing of alien nanotechnology outside the confines of the national laboratory.”

  “Yeah, I read about it in the papers. But that story is old news. It was all ex
plained by Dr. Stephenson a couple of weeks later.”

  “About the time the FBI came after my team.”

  “Coincidence.”

  “Let’s talk about coincidences. First, I send my report to Riles. Two days later he is dead. Second, I steal Priest’s body and provide evidence to the reporter who broke the nanite story. Immediately my team is taken down. Third, the president starts to back off on his commitment to release the Rho Project nanotechnology and he is assassinated.”

  Kromly shook his head. “You left out a couple of other killings in the sequence. The FBI man in South Dakota and the FBI director, both people you had good reason to kill. That also applies to the president.”

  “That’s true. You still have the scenario you have been operating under, the one that assumes Riles went nuts and that I’m a revenge killer working my way back up the chain of command. Everyone is so busy barking down that trail, they can’t see any other possibility.”

  Jack stood. “I came here to tell you something’s very wrong with the work being done within the Rho Project, wrong enough to make someone kill the director of the NSA, the director of the FBI, and the president of the United States.”

  “Jack, that’s one crazy story.”

  “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “I’m still listening.”

  “You tell me you’ll do some digging into what I told you, and you’ll live to see tomorrow. Lie to me and you’re dead.”

  Kromly stared at the shadow standing above him. It hadn’t been the barrel of a gun that had glinted in the dim light, it was Jack’s knife. There was no doubt in his mind that judgment was now being passed.

  “I, ah,” Kromly swallowed hard to wet his throat. “I’ll look into it.”

  “Right answer. Sleep well, my old ex-friend.”

  The cold spray of knockout gas hit Kromly in the face as he was inhaling, wrapping his brain in a fog in which the carpeted floor rose up to kiss him. He hadn’t felt the Berber against his cheek since he had made love to Pam on this floor. God, I miss you, baby. As his consciousness faded to black, a single tear rolled down his cheek and into the fibers of the carpet.