by Tim Tigner
Fitzpatrick had invited him to record a profile interview for a special extended episode of PoliTalk. Fitzpatrick would use it on Sunday, during his comparative analysis of the leading contenders for the presidential election tickets. He was gunning to become the preferred source for election coverage, and that suited Wiley just fine.
They had just finished twenty minutes of raw video when Fitzpatrick held up one hand indicating that the camera should cut as he placed his other hand over his right ear. As Fitzpatrick listened to the news coming over his earpiece, Wiley’s cell phone began to vibrate—right on cue. Once his expectation was confirmed by the pallid look on Fitzpatrick’s face, Wiley surreptitiously switched off his phone. He did not need to answer it to get the message.
“There’s breaking terrorist news,” Fitzpatrick said, looking up from the notes he had just scribbled. “Are you okay with going live?” His face was rife with excitement.
This was no coincidence, of course. Wiley had timed things to a tee. His speeches were prepared and his messages ready. The Proffitt-for-Vice-President Campaign was about to launch into the stratosphere. The confluence of events was beautiful. He would not even have to feign surprise at the images of exploding planes and flaming corpses. This was the attack The Prophet had been predicting. He gave Fitzpatrick a take-it-or-leave-it answer: “If you’ll cover my back, I’ll cover yours.”
Wiley knew that Fitzpatrick would hate to surrender his boxing license even for an hour, but he had little choice. To have the Director of the FBI live in his studio at a time like this could make him a network news anchor if not a legend. Nonetheless, Wiley thought that Fitzpatrick said “Deal” a little too quickly. Seconds later, he understood why.
The suicide bombers had failed.
For an hour, Wiley had to sit there looking perky and satisfied as amateur videos showed air marshal after air marshal apprehending Ayden’s bombers. It was not hard for Wiley to spin this battle in his favor, but behind his flashing teeth and glowing eyes, he knew that this public-relations victory might cost him the war. For terrorism to top the election agenda, the voters had to be scared. These videos not only calmed them, they gave the whole country the cocky jubilation of the winning Super Bowl team.
“Well, your prediction came true, Director. The Prophet epithet holds. And even more impressive and important than your ability to predict this attack was your overwhelming success in defeating it. We calculate that thirty-eight hundred souls were aboard those twenty-four planes. You saved them all—not to mention their families and the casualties spared on the ground. Why, by this time tomorrow, most Americans will have looked up at the sky and understood that without Wiley Proffitt, a plane might well have crashed on them. Please accept my professional congratulations and my personal thanks.”
Wiley was about to comment on the value of a team effort and the dangers of dropping one’s guard when Fitzpatrick held up his finger and pressed his earpiece. “We’ve got more breaking news—also with amateur video.” He pointed to the studio plasma screen. “This video was shot just minutes ago aboard Cunard’s luxury cruise ship the Queen Mary 2 as it sailed a hundred nautical miles from New York. Like the other videos we have shown you this evening, this was streamed to us from a camera-phone. Our apologies for the low resolution and the jerky quality—the photographer was running while shooting. When you see it, you will understand why.”
The monitor cut from Fitzpatrick to the scene of a man running up a set of ornately carpeted stairs. He carried another man over his shoulder, and that man’s wrist was spurting blood. His hand had obviously just been severed at the wrist. The camera angle shifted to center on the victim trying to stem the bleeding from his stump. His efforts were not doing much good, and his moans were becoming feeble. Wiley recognized Ayden.
The running man was shouting “Make way!” and “Move!” while the amateur videographer kept repeating “Oh my God.”
As the crowd of gowns and tuxedos parted, some cursed while others screamed. The bobbing camera kept tight on the running man’s heels as he exited onto the ship’s promenade. Without pausing, the running man dumped his handless hostage over the rail, soliciting a gasp from the audiences in the studio and on the video. Ayden’s screams crescendoed and faded as the camera followed his plummet. Then the audience lost sight of him among the churning waves.
The operator panned the camera back to the perpetrator’s face and everyone went silent. Wiley felt his blood thin as the camera zoomed in. He was looking into a dead man’s eyes.
No sooner had the camera focused on Odi’s panting face than the speakers were filled with a water-muffled boom. The camera whirled about to reveal a geyser of seawater. Ayden had exploded a good hundred yards behind the ship, but the blast was still big enough to be both heard and felt.
The studio monitor cut back to Fitzpatrick who was eagerly waiting. “We have learned that the Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, Senator Lawrence Marshall, was aboard that ship and is presumed to have been the bomber’s primary target. Would you care to comment, Director Proffitt?”
Wiley’s mind was redlining as it raced toward the distant light he sensed at the end of this tunnel. He sat there motionless for several seconds with the camera on him. Finally he nodded as though making a decision and looked into the lens. “Well, now that the cats are all out of the bag, I may supply additional detail without endangering ongoing operations or innocent lives. Your assumption that Senator Marshall was the target is correct. In fact, the twenty-five members of the Senate Armed Services Committee were the primary targets of all of tonight’s attacks. Al-Qaeda will stop at nothing to murder defenders of freedom.
“The man you saw throwing the bomber over the rail of the Queen Mary 2 was FBI Special Agent Odysseus Carr. Agent Odi Carr and his sister, Agent Cassandra Carr, have been working undercover in a top-secret operation to combat a specific al-Qaeda cell. Due to potential agency infiltration, their mission was so secret that the brother-and-sister team reported exclusively and directly to me.” Wiley paused to let this fact sink in.
“You will recall that three defense corporation CEO’s have been executed during this last month.” Wiley held up three fingers on his right hand. “That was the work of this same terrorist cell. Those operations showed inside knowledge, as did the attack on our envoy to Iran. So in order to avoid the chance of any leaks in this highest-priority mission, I worked exclusively with a couple of expert field operatives whom I knew I could trust.
“While investigating those killings under deep cover, Odi Carr learned that the next 9/11 was pending. Unfortunately, he was not close enough to the terrorist mastermind to learn the details. In an effort to win him the terrorists’ confidence, I added Agent Carr to the FBI’s most wanted list. That ruse succeeded, if only just. Technically this operation was a resounding success, but as you saw we were nearly too late. We need to get even better.”
“Amazing, truly amazing,” Fitzpatrick said. “I certainly thank you for your unprecedented candor, Director. I find it refreshing.”
Wiley nodded and relaxed inside as a warm glow suffused him. He had done it! He had covered his ass with the sweetest perfume, and the scent would never wear off. Nobody picked through glowing successes. The fine-tooth comb was reserved for political failures. Of course there would be those in the Bureau who would suspect foul play, but they would not dare to question him now, much less point a finger. This coup gave Wiley the power to castrate his opponents with a flick of his golden wrist.
All he had to do to get the keys to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was win over the Carrs. That should not be too hard. He had Odi cold for the CEO murders. Besides, his story made them national heroes. They would be fools to contradict it. Hell, he could even marry Cassi now if he wanted. Even Stuart could not object to having a bona fide hero as First Lady. No one could attack her without reminding everyone of Wiley’s finest hour.
The thoughts were coming so fast and furious that Wiley momentarily forgot
that he was on TV. As he turned to refocus on Fitzpatrick, Wiley caught sight of Cassi standing at the corner of the soundstage. His bowels turned to water as they locked eyes. As he read the intentions telegraphed by her expression, Cassi held up a DVD.
“... don’t you think?” Fitzpatrick asked.
Wiley forced his attention back to his host. “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”
“Well, it’s good to see that you are human. I was beginning to wonder. I asked if you would be content with the VP slot on the ticket after today. Perhaps you’ll consider challenging Carver for president?”
Cassi waved the DVD behind Fitzpatrick’s shoulder and gave the thumbs-down sign with her other hand—although that arm was in a sling.
Wiley made a split-second decision—not that he had any choice. He refocused on Fitzpatrick. “No, no. I’m not so ambitious. In fact, I informed the president earlier today that I would not consider running for any office at all.”
“Really!” The unflappable Fitzpatrick seemed genuinely shocked.
Cassi nodded but kept waving the damn recording. The message was clear: she wanted more.
Wiley felt an irresistible urge to strangle her but he had to sit there looking affable on the air. He thought of everything he had sacrificed in the course of giving whatever it takes. He thought of Potchak, Drake, Rollins, and Abrams. He thought of a yacht on the Chesapeake, a cabin on Lake Maroo, a clinic in Iran, and a daycare center in Baltimore. He thought of Stuart’s smarmy smile, Cassi’s agonized eyes, and Odi’s brilliant Creamer. He thought of Air Force One, the White House, and the Presidential Seal. He saw his dreams flash brightly before his eyes and he saw his future fade to black. He looked directly at the camera. “Yes. In fact I’ve decided to let this last operation be my crowning achievement. At that same meeting I informed the president that I was retiring from the FBI. This was my last day in the Director’s chair.”
Epilogue
Six weeks later. Arlington, Virginia
“ARE YOU SURE this is the right place?” Odi asked the government driver while studying the unfamiliar brownstone.
“Yes sir, this is it. Number twenty-one.”
“What’s here?”
“I don’t know any more than you do, sir,” the driver replied.
Odi slid out of the black Lincoln, pulling his duffel bag behind. The brownstone certainly looked more inviting than the suburban Maryland safe house he had been locked away in for forty days and nights while patiently waiting for the powers that be to decide his fate. But looks could be deceiving. Had the offer been a ploy? He wondered. Were they about to take him out?
Standing there on the elm-lined curb watching the Lincoln disappear, he realized that he was alone outdoors for the first time since throwing Ayden from the Queen Mary’s deck. It felt good. Whatever his fate, he would embrace it.
He closed his eyes and let the late afternoon sun shine down on his face for a minute. For six weeks he had been chomping at the bit, frustrated by the slow spin of bureaucratic wheels. Once everything fell into place, however, things started moving very fast. One minute he was sitting in his cell, the next he was getting an overview of his new assignment. Five minutes after that he was sitting in the back of the limo.
As he reached for the bell to number twenty-one, his eyes fell on the brass plaque beside the door. He sprouted a satisfied smile. Now he understood.
A grandmotherly lady with lively eyes answered his ring. “Good afternoon, Odysseus. My name is Mary. Please come in.”
Mary ushered him into a cozy parlor appointed in yellows and greens. He took a seat in a soft armchair across the coffee table from an attractive woman of his own age. Once Mary disappeared, the woman asked, “Since you’re alone I assume that you’re here to interview the doctor?”
Odi chuckled to himself at that notion. “In a manner of speaking.”
“She’s wonderful. My Stephen was having the worst nightmares and,” she lowered her voice, “wetting the bed. She cured him in just three sessions. I was going to stop coming after that but Stephen threw a tantrum. He actually looks forward to their talks. Can you imagine? A six-year-old looking forward to talks? The first time I brought him here he was screaming murder. I’m Melanie, by the way.” She held out her left hand rather than her right. Odi understood the eccentricity when he saw that her ring finger was bare.
“Odi. I’m glad to hear that you’re so pleased. Actually—”
The thick wooden door at the end of the room flew open and a boy with carrot-colored hair came rushing in, cutting Odi short. As Stephen hugged his mother, Cassi stepped into the doorway. She looked radiant.
Odi excused himself and walked into his sister’s new office. They embraced the moment she closed the door.
“I can’t believe that you left the FBI, Sis, but I’m so glad that you did. You look great.”
“I feel great. Better than I have in years. Better than any time since mom and dad died.”
Odi raised his eyebrows inquisitively.
“My life is about compassion now—rather than hate. But enough about me. How about you? The isolation must have been terrible. I knew that you’d be okay though, being so tough.” She took two steps back and appraised him in full. “You look good, even great.”
“I had the use of a small gym to while away the hours.”
“I was assured that you were being taken care of, but other than that I was kept in the dark. Then the new Director called me personally yesterday to say that you had reached a mutually beneficial settlement. I appreciated the courtesy, but would have preferred the details.”
“Mutually-beneficial, eh?” Odi mused. “I guess that’s right. I can’t say that I’m entirely comfortable with their decisions, but I agree that the country will be best served in the end.”
“You sound dubious.”
“Ayden is getting posthumous blame for my killings. They will release the story of his father’s unfortunate death as motive and try to keep the profile low. Meanwhile, to complete the whitewash, I’m receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom for my deep-cover work—and a new job.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
Odi nodded. “I’ll command a group of high-tech operatives tasked with identifying and counteracting soft spots in homeland security.”
“That’s wonderful Odi. I’m happy for you.”
Cassi motioned him to take a seat and then asked, “What’s happening to your Creamer?”
“That was both my biggest bane and my best bargaining chip. For a while I was worried that they would make me disappear in order to make it disappear. In the end I gather they decided that such an approach would be shortsighted. If I could concoct Creamer, so could someone else. I’m to work with industry experts to design a means to detect and neutralize it. Ayden’s contact in Iran knows that Creamer existed, but he doesn’t have any technical details, so we should have detection equipment in place long before he or anyone else is able to recreate it.
“But enough about me. I didn’t have any access to news while in isolation, and my handlers never answered a single question unless it suited their purposes, so I’m more curious than a boy scout in a brothel. Seeing as how you are doing so well, I guess I’ll start with the big one. What happened to Wiley?”
A shadow crossed Cassi’s face, but it vanished in an instant. “The official word is that he went overseas for an extended vacation—something about visiting Norway and Scotland to track down his roots. I don’t know anything more than that.”
“Do you believe it?”
Cassi shrugged. “I try not to think about him.”
“And Stuart?”
“There’s been little mention of him in the press, and no mention at all of his connection to Wiley. The bottom line is—he drowned. A fisherman found his body. He had two severely broken arms and the autopsy revealed a broken back. The Reedsville Police are assuming that he fell off a cliff onto some rocks and his body washed out into the bay.”
<
br /> “I get the impression that you know better?”
“Some things are better left unsaid.”
“I see,” Odi said. “So tell me about your new practice. How’s it going? From the looks of things I’d say great.”
“It is. I’d love to tell you more but I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
Cassi blushed. “I have to run, Odi. I have a date.”
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading Betrayal. I hope you enjoyed it. If you would be so kind as to take a moment to leave a review on Amazon or elsewhere, I would be very grateful.
Reviews and referrals are as vital to an author’s success as a good GPA is to a student’s.
I know this can be a bit of a pain, so if you do write a review, please email me at [email protected] and I will forward you the unpublished story behind Betrayal, and my thoughts on what happens to the characters next. I thought that would be a fun way to say thank you.
All my best,
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About the Author
Tim began his career in Soviet Counterintelligence with the US Army Special Forces, the Green Berets. That was back in the Cold War days when, “We learned Russian so you didn't have to,” something he did at the Presidio of Monterey alongside Recon Marines and Navy SEALs.
With the fall of the Berlin Wall, Tim switched from espionage to arbitrage. Armed with a Wharton MBA rather than a Colt M16, he moved to Moscow in the midst of Perestroika. There, he lead prominent multinational medical companies, worked with cosmonauts on the MIR Space Station (from Earth, alas), chaired the Association of International Pharmaceutical Manufacturers, and helped write Russia’s first law on healthcare.