by Carl Rackman
“Take the stairwell down,” warned Barnes. “The elevator is…out of service.” Brad glanced at the guard’s prone body blocking the elevator doors where she had dumped him barely five minutes ago. He’d have a headache for a week, but at least he was alive. He wondered if Alex gave any thought to what it would mean to the man’s family, if he had one, to welcome him home alive. That was a distinction few of her marks shared.
Brad guided them out of the building and into the car.
Alex started the big Mercedes-Benz, pulled innocuously out of the space and headed east towards Third Avenue.
The reception clerk rang Ken Ferguson’s office phone at exactly 1243 to inform him of Alex and Brad’s arrival. They were also requesting a security pass for a Russian national named Dmitri Kuznetsov who appeared to be in need of medical attention.
“Let me speak to them, please.” Ferguson waited a few seconds before he heard the familiar voice of Agent Barnes again.
“Sir, she kept her word,” said Brad.
“Who’s the Russian?”
“He’s a slippery sonofabitch who’s encrypted the files we need on his personal hard drive. If you want the data, you’ll have to have him, too.”
Ferguson sighed. “At a price, no doubt. How much does he want?”
“That’s the least of our problems, sir.”
“Okay. Wait for Berkoff. He’s coming to pick you up.” Ferguson sighed and punched in Berkoff’s extension. “John, Barnes is with our dragon lady and her new Russian friend in the lobby. Ivan will need a security pass.”
There was a pause from Berkoff on the other end of the line. “I hope he brought a passport. And a birth certificate. And his green card. He isn’t going to get very far without them.”
“This is a national security situation, John. Get him up here. Arrest him if you have to. Meeting in my office at thirteen hundred. Bring lots of coffee and secure laptops disconnected from the network. I think this is going to be the start of something big.” Ferguson replaced the receiver, then picked it back up again immediately. “Dolores, clear my afternoon. I’ll be with Barnes, Berkoff, Savage and two guests. Please ensure we are not disturbed. All right, thanks.”
He brought up the Voyager-related files on his laptop and switched on the hidden desktop microphone in his plaque. Then he leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and drew some quietening breaths. Game on, he thought.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thursday, 19th January 2017
East 19th Street, New York City
Jacob Samuelson sat in his office in the Flatiron District. His executive chair swivelled away from his desk so he could stare out of the window without craning his neck. Across the desk from him sat two other men, neither speaking, waiting for him to say something.
He looked along the wide ribbon of Broadway angled across the gridded streets and shrouded in shade from the setting sun. The rays illuminated the thick end of the Flatiron Building facing him. The wedge of the distinctive landmark pointed up Fifth Avenue towards the immense, square-sectioned bulk of the Empire State Building in the distance, which was bathed in orange against the grey clouds behind. Steam billowed from a thousand rooftops while the cars stacked up at the intersections in a kaleidoscope of colours accentuated by the flashing reds of their brake lights.
It looked intensely ordinary, yet Samuelson knew it was probably the last ordinary day of the world as they knew it. The immensity of the order he had given weighed on his mind. Even though he had ordered thousands like it before, this was only the second time anyone had called for the assassination of a President of the United States. And this one hadn’t even taken office yet.
He took in the view one last time before turning to face his associates. “Gentlemen. What is the risk?”
The younger of the two other men spoke. “The files could prove compromising, but the loss of the Keymaster is regrettable.” The man spoke in the clipped British vowels of the country where he’d learned his English. There was still a trace of his original accent.
Samuelson addressed the older of his companions. “Mr Smythe, what would happen to the plan if the files were to prove decisive?”
The older man laughed. Also with a British accent, he answered, “Really, Jacob! There’s no way the truth of the matter could possibly take hold by noon tomorrow. The death of the newly-elected President will overshadow everything. It’s clear he has the fanatical backing of the anti-government tendency. They won’t heed any evidence that the federal government was not responsible for the assassination, whatever the political outcome. By tomorrow evening, it won’t matter if the Voyager files are real or not. No one will care by then. We will have sown the seeds perfectly for the next phase: London will happen on schedule.”
Samuelson’s mind worked quickly; as a consummate chess player he was used to evaluating scenarios ahead of time. “All the same, gentlemen, I fear exposure. Our hand must not be evident in any way before the London phase. I shall not give America even the slightest chance to understand what will happen in the next month.” He paused, glancing out of the window once more. “Mr Ephraim. How many members of Supra are in Washington right now?”
Without referring to any notes, the younger man answered, “Three, sir. The shooter will strike just after noon. The spotter will contain any attempts to stop the assassination. The wheelman will transport them to Virginia for their flight back to New York.”
“What do we know of the woman?”
“We understand she is in FBI custody here in New York. Her place on the operation has been reassigned,” answered Ephraim immediately.
Samuelson frowned. “I find her continued incarceration worrying. Why hasn’t she already escaped?”
“If you give the order to terminate her, Mr Smythe and I already concur.”
“Really, Mr Ephraim? I understand she’s a…protégée of yours?”
Ephraim’s face didn’t even twitch. “Sir, if she cannot escape custody she must not be allowed to live. She is far too dangerous.”
“I understand she will be the first loss. Will it weaken Supra?”
“We must assign the three remaining Supra agents to terminate her, along with the Keymaster and the FBI people who broke her cover. If you’re prepared to give the order.”
Samuelson looked sharply at Ephraim. “Do not assume anything, Mister Ephraim.”
Smythe decided to chip in his view. “Jacob, if I may – the woman is not an urgent problem at this point. May I propose we focus our efforts on the matter at hand and send the full team to tie up the loose ends at a later stage?”
Ephraim shook his head, but deferred to Samuelson who was thinking once more.
When Samuelson finally spoke it wasn’t subject to argument. “We proceed with the plan. I want all our operatives in Washington for the operation. I fear our former agent’s reticence to escape may hide a deeper treachery. The FBI didn’t stumble upon the Keymaster by accident. She’ll be at the Inauguration, and we will take them all down in one decisive strike.”
Brad shook his head in amazement as he monitored the conversation from an anonymous panel truck several blocks away. He was crammed into the truck with Agents Berkoff and Savage and a cutting-edge suite of advanced communications and surveillance equipment.
Dima the Russian had demanded a hundred thousand dollars to decrypt the files, to which Ferguson had agreed through gritted teeth. Brad admired Ferguson’s willingness to put his neck on the line for a lead – he was still Bureau old school, and no doubt hated by careerist Ivy Leaguers like AD Morrison.
But the intel paid off. Dima had detailed records of e-mails, transcripts and bank transactions dating back to 2012. As Alex had said, the idea behind the ‘Visitors’ surfaced during internet hysteria surrounding the Mayan prophecies predicting the end of civilisation. The idea to subvert the entire government of the United States had grown from the seed of those fears. Yet still, the direct link to Voyager was missing from the files.
But the main piece of the jigsaw was discovering the Triumvirate’s operating office in New York, one of dozens around the world. The Russian had tracked down the address in a few minutes despite there being no public record of its existence. Brad spent much of the past three hours poring over the construction plans and building permits before mobilising Ferguson’s people to set up surveillance.
Savage was using a hovering drone outside the 19th Street office. The building was surprisingly secure for a nondescript office. For one who allegedly held so much power, the man in charge kept relatively spartan accommodation. No gold-plated penthouse for Samuelson – it was a standard office in an unassuming block. Hidden in plain sight was probably the best description.
Brad discovered the walls were shielded with double layers of aluminium foil to prevent electronic eavesdropping. They had some serious electricity generators in the basement assigned only to this floor, and the antennae on the roof were considerably larger than the usual satellite dishes on neighbouring buildings. Even the glass in the office windows had vibrators attached to prevent electronic monitoring. But the surveillance drone was state of the art. Not only could it read lips through the polarised glass, but its laser microphones also combatted the vibration by removing their frequencies from the feed. Brad’s transcription of the men’s conversation was almost happening in real-time.
He was frustrated the men hadn’t discussed any intricacies of the assassination plan. He supposed that would be far too convenient – in any case, all he had was confirmation that Alex’s information had been correct. He felt chastened that he hadn’t believed her the first time.
“Alex.”
Her voice sounded in his earpiece. “Brad?”
“You were right. There are three Supra operatives in D.C. One’s a shooter. They’re going to shoot the President once he’s officially sworn in.”
“You sound like you didn’t believe me.”
Brad could almost picture her pouting. “Alex, they’re coming after you, too. They’re sending the other three Supra operatives to kill you.” He hated saying the words; the sense of dread gripped him in an instant.
“I already know who was on the roster for D.C. The shooter’s Supra codename is Blacklight. He’s a white male, six-four, sand-blond hair. He shoots right-handed and has a Z-shaped scar on the left side of his chin just below the mouth. He could be disguised as anyone, from any agency. But he’ll definitely be using an XM2010 rifle with a triple-scoped smart sight.”
“Like yours in Mexico?”
“Exactly, Barnes! Just like mine. He’ll be within one klick. He has one shot and if he gets it, I guarantee he won’t miss.”
“Got it. Ferguson can flash that to all agencies.”
“As for the other guys sent against me - I can take any one of them. Three at once – could be tricky.”
“We’ll cover you.”
“I know you will, Barnes. But these flatfoots can’t take down one Supra soldier, never mind three. Just watch my back.”
“Okay. I’ll see if I can find out any specifics, then I’ll meet you at Ferguson’s office.”
“See you, Barnes.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Thursday, 19th January 2017
JPL, Pasadena California.
Callie rubbed her eyes from fatigue. She had been awake since 5:00 a.m., and it was now 1:00 p.m. She had spent the past two months working with the only remaining raw data copies of the Voyager photos in existence – the ones she’d saved from destruction by chance.
So much had changed since then. She was working under guard day and night, but at least she was allowed to return to her home each day. She’d assembled the remains of her team and worked beneath their furtive glances and apologetic smiles of concern. She hated being cast as a victim, even after two months of therapy.
Her mental well-being had taken a severe blow. First the events of last September, which were bad enough, then the shock of finding out her brother wasn’t all he appeared to be. He was connected to the British intelligence services and had orchestrated the subsequent events resulting in her confinement and eventual limited release by the FBI.
Through Robbie and his contacts, the British had struck a deal with the Feds that meant she wouldn’t be tried for espionage. In return, she was locked in at JPL to assist research into the Voyager hack and trying to find the true origin of the photos.
Though she worked with a forensic FBI team from Quantico, Virginia, she was still forced to wear an embarrassing electronic ankle tag that she self-consciously displayed around the campus. She ignored the surreptitious glances of grad students who peered at it trying to imagine what kind of anti-social menace the nice-looking, middle-aged blonde woman might be. She was deeply irritated having to source a new wardrobe of long slacks to hide it. But she still liked to sit cross-legged in the Red Planet Café; the tag always appeared accusingly from beneath the hem of her leg, inviting curiosity.
But at least she was alive. It gave her hope that all of this actually meant something. She had also stayed in touch with Matt, the airline pilot from New York. Something about their shared experience and instinctive connection was cause for optimism, the promise of a potential new life once all this was over. She felt secure just knowing he was there. His calmness and optimism kept her buoyed up when every fibre of her being was ready to collapse.
Since the incident, Matt was repatriated to London as part of the deal, but he was in touch with Robbie. Robbie sent her weekly e-mails, vetted by the Feds of course, but through them she heard Matt was doing okay, even though he no longer had a job. She longed for just one phone call; better still, to hold his hand and hear his calm English voice comforting her.
Callie knew Matt was probably barred from entering the United States for the rest of his life. If they were ever to be together, it would mean Callie would have to leave her life in America – if the government would ever let her. As things stood, she was probably finished at JPL and NASA as a result of the hacking scandal. Anyway, Callie liked England; she would be near Robbie, and a life with Matt could be a realistic choice. But in her mid-forties with college-age kids Callie wasn’t sure she could handle such a drastic change with no job to go to. It didn’t help her despondency, so she threw herself into her work with all the enthusiasm she could muster.
They had finally finished running the photos through the image analysers, a process that had taken weeks. Even with the supercomputer time available, the image software was still constrained by its own hardware; every single pixel needed to be analysed and compared with its neighbours to empirically prove whether it was consistent with Voyager’s cameras or a carefully constructed fake. Any evidence of tampering had to be forensically detailed, and the final runs had to definitively prove that the photos were constructed rather than taken in one image.
She waited now, nervously, as senior staff analysed the final report on the photos. She wasn’t part of this evaluation, but she was waiting to be called in if they needed her to consult. In practice, she was just being asked to sit on her butt and wait.
Callie felt the whole exercise was a complete waste of time. Far beyond the photos themselves, the concept was ridiculous – as Jerry and Morris said right from the beginning. Then there were the messages taunting her that someone was tampering with Voyager 1. Also, there was Bryan with his stupid lawsuit.
It was obvious to Callie the whole thing was an elaborate hoax. The frustration was, the longer their painstaking research took to provide answers, the more time the media had to whip up the whole thing into a frenzy. Already there were ‘Alien Rallies’ in downtown L.A. and other cities around the world. Roswell had become a massive tourist attraction as enthusiasts descended on it from every nation believing it to be the most likely landing site. And, of course, there were sceptics fighting a losing rearguard action against an incoming administration which had already made up its mind in favour of alien visitors.
It was a fruitless task; Callie fought of
f depression as each day brought little resolution. She was appalled at how her whole life had been turned inside out by the conspirators. The anger she felt towards them was visceral.
She hadn’t even touched her coffee when her beeper chirped loudly, drawing more attention from the surrounding tables. Nobody had a beeper anymore, but Callie wasn’t allowed to have a phone while she was at JPL.
SFOF 5MIN PETERSEN
Callie sighed. Petersen wanted her in the Spaceflight Operations Facility in five minutes. She gathered her laptop and files and headed for the garden exit.
It was a short walk to the facility. Within five minutes she was walking into the large control room with its hanging array of huge screens covered with orbital paths and data from the Mars probes.
She was immediately met by her FBI minder and Petersen’s assistant, who whisked them through to one of the seminar rooms off the main corridor right next to an enormous model of the International Space Station. The minder waited outside while the assistant held the door open for Callie.
She walked in to see Petersen at the head of the table flanked by the lesser dignitaries of Vern Galvin and William Trask. It was the first time Callie had seen any of them in the four months since the disturbing chain of events had begun. None of them looked particularly pleased.
“Dr Woolf, please take a seat.” Petersen’s growl was no less intimidating than it was the last time.
Callie eased herself into one of the vacant chairs down one side of the long table. She caught the eye of JPL’s media relations and PR manager, a feisty character called Jessica Mulherne who drove a Hummer and must’ve been the last smoker left in Southern California.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Dr Carolyn Woolf, former project manager of the Voyager Interstellar Mission. Dr Woolf, you know Mr Trask and Mr Galvin, this is Ms Mulherne from PR, and the other gentleman is JPL’s legal counsel, Steve Berensohn,” announced Petersen.