by Wesley Cross
“That’s great,” Hunt said, still looking at the picture. “We got the ballots and got away with it. What do we do with them?”
“I have an idea,” Connelly said. A hollow pang twisted his guts, and he took a deep breath, trying to push it away. “I used to know this woman, who worked for the New York Gazette.”
“The Gazette? Guardian’s mouthpiece?”
“It wasn’t Guardian’s anything, until they forced the sale of the paper.”
“Oh.” A shadow crossed Hunt’s face. “Sofia McAllister. I remember now. I’m sorry. I did not connect the dots before.”
“Thanks.” Connelly collected himself. “There was a lot of pressure on the paper to get acquired. Sofia didn’t know at the time from whom. Her boss, Brian Sorkin, abruptly resigned because he feared for his life and moved out of New York. He advised Sofia to do the same.”
“I take it she didn’t listen,” Hunt said softly.
“No. But recently, I tracked him down and he’s back in New York.”
“Does he know?”
“Yes. The guy’s been through hell himself. His family was killed in a traffic accident—as far as I know, unrelated to any of this. But regardless, he says he’s full of guilt about how things worked out for Sofia. He doesn’t work for any news outfits at the moment, but he still has a lot of contacts. He could help us disseminate this and give it legitimacy. There are still small independent papers throughout the country that aren’t bought by Engel and his ilk.”
“All right.” Hunt’s bionic fingers rapped on the smooth surface of the computer glass. “Tell us how we get them to move the ballots.”
19
The limo pulled up in front of the building, and Jason Hunt stepped out on the sidewalk. The boutique hotel was perched above a restaurant at the very end of the famed Wall Street, its stepped facade cascading toward the East River. The sun was still low, and Hunt screwed up his eyes as he glanced at the sparkling water.
“Mister Hunt?” A burly man with a crew cut stepped out of the hotel’s double doors and headed toward him, only to be stopped by Connelly, who seemed to have materialized out of thin air between them.
“It’s okay, Mike,” he called out to Connelly and then turned to the man. “Can we come up?”
“Yes.” If the man was displeased by Connelly’s intervention, he didn’t show it. “Mr. Price is ready to see you.”
“Great.”
The man opened the double doors and ushered them inside the art déco lobby. They crossed the marble floor without slowing down by reception and headed straight for the elevator. A few moments later, Jason stepped inside the suite as Connelly and Price’s man stood guard on the outside without as much as glancing at each other.
“Mister Hunt.” Darius Price put a paper he was reading down on a coffee table and got up from the chair to offer Jason a hand. He wore a pair of dark-gray slacks and a crisp white shirt that contrasted the deep black of his smooth, clean-shaven face. Even without wearing shoes, he stood at least an inch taller than Hunt. The man gestured to another chair facing him. “Take a seat. I trust you had no trouble finding the hotel?”
“Despite its great influence,” Hunt said, shaking the man’s hand and then taking a seat, “Wall Street is only six blocks long.”
“Very true.” Darius Price took a seat, crossed his legs, and rested his hands on his knee. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I have to say I’m a big fan of yours, Mr. Hunt. I’ve been following your work for quite some time. The technology your company produces is fascinating.”
“Thank you.” Hunt reclined in his seat and studied the man. In his internal vision, the outline of the man’s body pulsated in green, signaling that he was relaxed and not a potential threat. “I wish I could spend more time working on that, but alas, I don’t always have the time. I’d like to discuss with you the results of the election.”
“There’s not much to discuss, I’m afraid.” The man chuckled and his foot clad in a black sock gently kicked the corner of the newspaper. “Didn’t you hear? The election is over. I’m a private citizen now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m disappointed, of course, but it’s the nature of the game. Someone wins and someone loses.”
“I’m here to tell you that you didn’t lose the election,” Hunt said, “and maybe if you—”
“Stop.” Price held up his hand. “I appreciate the sentiment, I do. But there was an investigation and the independent commission determined that those votes were fraudulent.”
“They weren’t. And if you challenged—”
“Mister Hunt,” Price interrupted him again. “Do you have any proof?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well then.” Price took a deep breath. “It doesn’t even matter. At some point, one candidate has to throw in the towel and let those on the opposing sides to come together again for common good. For the sake of the nation. Let’s face it, we are living in dark times. We have been, and I know you share the sentiment because I’ve listened to more than a couple of your speeches about the future of the human race. And I wish I could do more—that’s why I decided to run—but it looks like it was not meant to be.”
Hunt rubbed his chin with his bionic hand, his metallic fingers running against the short stubble of yesterday’s shave.
“Is it true?” Price asked. “That you can actually feel with your artificial hand?”
“Yes.” Jason opened his palm, closed it into a fist, and then opened it again. “Better than the hand I was born with.”
“Amazing.” Darius Price leaned forward, as if trying to see it better. “Your tech is bringing many amputees back to their normal lives. People with ET and Parkinson’s. It’s a noble quest.”
“I might not have the proof that you won the presidency.” Hunt steepled his fingers and looked Price in the eye. “Not yet. But I’d like to tell you a story that might put what you know into perspective. In return, I’d like only a couple of things. One, I’d like you to keep what you’re about to hear to yourself and never share it with anyone else.”
“And two?”
“I’d like you to consider postponing conceding the election for three days.”
“I can promise you the first. You have my word. As for the second, it will depend on how compelling your story is.”
“Fair enough.” Jason stood up and walked across the suite to the window. The sun had climbed higher and the sparkles on the surface of the river were gone. He turned back to Darius. “My father, Andrew, worked for the CIA as a consultant for many years.”
Price raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“One day back in 2007,” Hunt continued, “his handler asked him to come down to DC for a meeting. They met at a Ronald Reagan Airport parking lot, and the man told my dad about a vast conspiracy spanning across the entire globe. It was a tale fit for a movie—a secret alliance of corporate interests trying to take over the world. Buying their influence, killing people who stood in their way. They called themselves the cabal. According to my father’s boss, their plan was entering the final stage. They were consolidating influence and were moving to override the last safeguards that were still keeping them in check.”
“Sounds improbable,” Price said.
“That’s what my father thought. But his handler was adamant. He proposed to start an organization to counter the cabal. Something effective that could operate completely off the books. The man offered my father to head the new agency. It never had an official name, but between themselves they referred to it as the Unit. Unoriginal, I know.”
“What happened?”
“It started well,” Hunt said. “They partnered with the International Serious Crimes Directorate, ISCD for short, and landed a few serious blows to the alliance. But then my parents died.”
“I’m sorry,” Price offered. “I read it was a tragic accident—a gas leak.”
“That’s what I thought. But it was no accident. The cabal killed them. The head of the organization employed an ass
assin who was a master of making his hits look like accidents. The murder of my parents was one of them.”
“I’m truly sorry.”
Hunt glanced at the river again. There was surprisingly little traffic on the water. A tugboat was pushing an empty barge up the stream and a small yacht was bobbing in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. He turned around and walked back to his chair.
“Do you know what happened after your father’s death?”
“The Unit was decapitated. Political winds changed, and the people in charge disbanded it. Some of the personnel went to work undercover for the ISCD, some went back to active service duty. I didn’t know any of that. I was young and grieved for the loss of my parents. My wife and I moved down to Florida, where I intended to stay.”
“I see it didn’t quite work out that way?”
“No.” Jason looked at his hand again. “My wife got a job in New York, and I reluctantly moved. But that was only a part of my motivation. The other part was my friend stumbling over some email trail that for the first time made me think my parents’ death wasn’t an accident. Before I knew what was happening, I was on the collision course with the same people who went after my father.”
“You took on the cabal?”
“Yes.” Hunt looked Price in the eye. “I have de facto resurrected the Unit a few years ago. Remember the failed coup?”
“It’s hard to forget.”
“That happened because of the pressure we applied on the alliance. They accelerated the timetable and things didn’t exactly work out the way they had hoped.”
They sat quietly for a few moments as Hunt studied the man. The contours of Price’s body glowed orange now. Hunt’s internal system still didn’t consider him a threat, but the man, despite his cool appearance that would have fooled most observers, was agitated.
“That’s a fascinating story,” Price finally said. “I don’t know why you are telling me this, but knowing your reputation, I find it hard to believe the story isn’t true. What I don’t understand is what does it all have to do with me? And, more specifically, with the recount?”
“That’s simple.” Jason stood up and headed for the door. “The coup may have failed. Some people went to jail, but contrary to what had been fed to the general public, those people hadn’t been in charge. They were figureheads. Puppets. The man who was at the head of the cabal was never caught and after the coup had failed, he decided it was time for the organization to come out from the shadows. The name of that man is Alexander Engel.”
“You can’t be serious. I wasn’t sure what to make of your visit. My initial guess was that you’d invite me to work for Orion. The thought excited me and made me anxious at the same time. But then I thought that if it was about a job, you wouldn’t come to me in person. You’d invite me in. This story of yours,” Price paused, as if looking for the right words, “I don’t know what to make of this.”
“Three days, Darius.” Hunt pulled on the handle and looked over his shoulder before exiting the room. “Just three days. That’s all I ask.”
20
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Engel waved to the two Secret Service agents outside the door as he retreated into the room and turned to Victor Ye. “I have to say, I had some serious reservations even after agreeing with you. But your sentinels are top-notch. Yesterday, I watched the ones that your boys will deliver to the White House grounds and they look like they can bring some serious heat.”
Victor nodded without saying a word. He was sitting in a plush, burgundy leather chair, his black hair uncharacteristically pulled back into a ponytail. Seeing Engel in good spirits put him in a foul mood.
“Something on your mind?” Engel kicked off his shoes, walked across the shag rug, and climbed into another chair. “They counted the votes. We are on the cusp of victory, but you rather look troubled. I’m sure Darius will make some noises, but it’s a battle easily won.”
“The greatest victory is that which requires no battle,” Victor said, still without moving. “I say we should heed the wise man’s words.”
“Are you suggesting we should take care of him?”
“Absolutely not. At least not now. If you’re planning on maintaining any pretense of legitimacy, he must live long enough to see you sworn in.”
Engel looked Victor up and down, as if trying to decipher the meaning of his words. “I don’t understand, then. That’s what’s happening, anyway.”
“For now, yes.” Victor reclined deeper in the chair and crossed his legs. A deep drone of a passing helicopter vibrated the window. “But I’d like to make sure that should things change, we have a plan.”
“I see.” Engel’s fingers tapped a muted staccato on the soft leather. “It sounds like you have an idea already.”
“I do. My sources tell me that Price had a visitor recently. None other than your friend Jason Hunt.”
“So I heard.”
“I’d say it’s a reasonable assumption that Hunt and Price might work together to undermine your plan. I took the liberty of taking some steps to make sure even if they succeed somehow, which right now doesn’t seem probable, we have some alternative options.”
“Say you’re right. If Price somehow overturns the results and gets into the White House, it’d be difficult to eliminate him. The best time to do that would be during his inauguration.”
“Not here in DC.” Victor stood up and walked to the window. H Street NW below was blocked by the blue police barricades as far as he could see. Apart from a small group of policemen, there were hardly any people at this hour. The lights of the White House were visible through the bare trees of Lafayette Square Park. He could see the roof of his black limo with a running engine parked next to the intersection. “Security here would be too tight. And eliminating Price is only a part of the issue. What I suggest is a two-prong attack. One in the real world and one in the digital realm. I have a talented team that could create a deepfake, which would be released at the same time.”
“I don’t follow. Where would you suggest we attack him if not during the inauguration?”
“Oh, I agree on the timing,” Victor said, turning back to the other man. “The inauguration is the only public event he cannot skip, no matter what risks. But we’d need to force him to change the venue. We are used to seeing presidents being sworn in at the Capitol building, but it hasn’t always been the case. George Washington took his oath up in New York. Price was born and raised in Manhattan. Maybe if we play the cards right, we could arrange he does it there as well.”
“That’s because New York was the capital of the United States at the time.” Engel got up as well, went to the bar, and poured himself a glass of water. “Last time I checked, that is no longer the case. And since it’s no longer a capital, to show this kind of favoritism to one state—regardless of the reason—would be politically impossible.”
“Let me worry about that—”
“More importantly, though,” Engel interrupted him, his voice rising. “This is a waste of time. I’m all for being cautious, but there’s simply not enough time for Price to challenge the results now.”
“The polling shows people aren’t convinced—”
“Who gives a shit about polling,” Engel interrupted him again, now visibly angry. “I have a million important things to take care of, and this isn’t one of them. I’ll tell you what. You want to take some precautionary steps, be my guest. But I don’t want to be bothered with far-fetched scenarios.”
“Fair enough.” Victor turned back to the window in time to watch as a group of cops passed his limo. “I’ll do what I can and won’t bother you with details. I have some good news, however. We just took a shipment of new-gen tech. It arrived last night in New York. Daimyo is here and some other toys that I’m anxious to test in action. Some of it needs last-minute tuning, but it should be ready for a live presentation in the next few weeks. I think by the time you take office, everything will be fully operational.”
“Goo
d enough to take on Jason’s pet?”
Victor shrugged without turning. “I think we’ll find out sooner rather than later.”
He left the room and nodded to the two men in black suits by the door as he headed for the elevator. He crossed the bright-lit lobby of the hotel and stepped out into the brisk morning. The cops who camped out next to his car had moved on, and for the moment Victor was the only person on the block. He stood there for a few seconds looking through the trees of Lafayette Square Park, and then made his way to the limo.
Squeezed into the side of the backseat next to Mute, his giant bodyguard, was a skinny man who jumped at the sound of the opening door. He wore a pair of dark-green flannel pajamas and was shivering despite the warmth of the car. His hands were bound behind his back and he nervously shuffled his bare feet as if trying and failing to find a comfortable position. A black hood was covering his head.
“Please,” he said, his voice muffled by the hood. “I don’t know—”
Mute struck him with an open hand across the face, and the man yelped from pain and stopped talking.
Victor looked through the window as the car sped up, heading east on H Street, turned on Fourteenth Street NW, and then merged onto I-395 South toward Richmond. Finally, he turned back to his captive.
“Matthew,” he said in a soft voice, and the man sat straighter at the sound of his name. “I apologize for your experience, but we are going through some troublesome times in this country and sometimes it requires certain sacrifices. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” The man feverishly nodded his head a few times. “Whatever you say, sir.”
“Good,” Victor continued as the limo passed a sign for Reagan National Airport. “I have a simple task for you, which you might not even have to complete. But if the time comes, I’ll be watching you and your family closely. Make sure not to disappoint.”