“Sit down and I’ll give you the details of what you’ll be doing.” So maybe his voice was a little gruff. At least he was talking.
“Where are we going?” She obediently sat on the couch, crossed her legs. He swiveled to face her and tried not to notice that, disarmingly, she’d applied Band-Aids to both knees.
“Newark. You’ll be taking a commercial flight to Paris that leaves first thing in the morning.”
“I will be?”
“I’ll be on the plane, but we won’t be traveling together. To all outward appearances, you’ll be alone.”
She nodded, waited.
“Your name is Lynette Holbrook. You live in Washington, DC. You’re a computer data specialist. You work for NSA contractor Crane Bernard Sherman. In that job, you’ve been computerizing top secret US government files and last night—you’ve been working nights lately—you stole some valuable information from those files. You’re on your way to Paris to offer it for sale. A small group of NSA security experts is already aware of the theft, but they’re trying to keep a lid on it while they determine exactly what was taken, who did it and where you are. Alarms are going off all over the place as the scope of the breach becomes clear. By the time you get to Paris word of a cybertheft of military secrets of enormous importance and magnitude will have spread throughout every dark corner of the intelligence community and beyond. Bad actors will be coming out of the woodwork like cockroaches when the lights go out to get hold of it. Our job is to make sure the information gets into the right hands.”
“Whose hands are those?”
“The North Koreans’.”
She looked at him without speaking for a moment.
“What kind of information did she—I—steal?”
“Details about operations the United States and its allies are currently running in North Korea. A virtual map of the allied spy network in that country, complete with names. Plans for a possible invasion, the seizure of their nukes, regime change, that kind of thing.”
Her eyes widened. “And I’m just going to sell all this to the highest bidder?”
“That was the information Lynette Holbrook stole. That information, the real information, has been recovered. What you’re going to sell is disinformation. The spies named in the material you’ll pass on include some of the military’s top commanders and the Supreme Leader’s most trusted advisers. Operational plans, details on an invasion, candidates to replace the Supreme Leader, it’s all in there and it’s all false, all meant to make him turn on and probably purge his closest allies and prepare for an attack that bears no resemblance to anything that might really be in the works.” He dug into a pocket in the file and held up what looked like a ChapStick tube. “This is the flash drive containing the information. It’s identical to the one Lynette Holbrook used and managed to smuggle out of a secure facility. No one suspects a ChapStick, I guess. And, oh, yes, besides containing the disinformation, it has another function. The hope is that once it’s in the hands of the North Koreans it will be given to the military for analysis and plugged into their system, which is air-gapped and not connected to the internet and thus is almost impossible to hack from the outside. If that happens, there’s malware on it that will spread throughout the entire system. It should give us access to everything they have, plus enable us to locate their nukes. Once we know where they are, it gets a whole lot easier to take them out.”
“But if the system’s air-gapped, what difference will it make? Nobody on the outside will be able to access the information,” she objected.
He smiled. “That’s the beauty of it. There’s a worm in the program that aggressively jumps into every device that’s ever connected to the network. At some point a laptop will connect to it that will subsequently be taken to a place where it can connect to the internet, or a thumb drive or some peripheral will be plugged in to it that will also be used on a home computer or a laptop or tablet that is connected to the internet. The second that internet connection is made, the malware is programmed to do an E.T. and phone home. Every bit of information on their system will be downloaded onto ours.”
She held up a hand to stop him. “Hold it right there. Let me make sure I’m understanding this. You’re planning to use me to try to save the world from possible nuclear annihilation.”
“Not just you. You and a ChapStick.”
“Funny.”
“Think of it like this. You’re the Trojan horse. Well, you and the ChapStick.”
“Just so you know, I’m still not laughing.”
“Fair enough. Nuclear annihilation is not a funny subject.”
The look she gave him was withering. She held out her hand for the flash drive, looked it over when he handed it to her. “And how, exactly, am I supposed to get this to the North Koreans? Last time I looked, Paris was a long way in the opposite direction.”
“They have a surprisingly substantial community in France. A couple of left-leaning political parties. A study group that has maintained ties with Pyongyang for years. There’s a France-Korea Friendship Association. They actually have a youth cultural exchange program. North Korean students from privileged backgrounds are sent to study architecture in Paris, political science in Le Havre, cookery at Le Cordon Bleu, that kind of thing. They stay for several years, with the idea that when they get back home they’ll be able to use what they’ve learned for the glory of the regime.”
“So what’s the plan? Somehow I don’t think putting an ad in Le Monde advertising North Korean invasion plans for sale is going to cut it.”
“You’re going to make direct contact with Park Il-hyeok and offer to sell the information to him. Park’s supposedly a defector from North Korea who escaped to the South and then moved to Paris some years ago. In reality, he was sent to the South and to Paris, and is North Korea’s top agent in France.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “And you know this how?”
“I’m a spy, beautiful. Knowing stuff is what us spies do. To make things even more interesting, the truth about Park was in the information Lynette Holbrook stole. It’s one of the few pieces of true intelligence still on that flash drive. As Lynette, you have, of course, seen it.”
Their eyes met in a moment of pure understanding. “And having me—Lynette—know who he is and contact him will validate all the other information—disinformation—on the flash drive.”
“Exactly.”
“Not bad,” she said. “So I pose as Lynette, sell this Park the flash drive, and that’s it?”
“More or less.”
She gave him a suspicious look, and he added, “Depending on conditions, we might have to make some field adjustments, but those are the broad strokes.”
“Then what?”
“Then whatever you want. We’ll probably need to keep you on Five Eyes’ payroll on a consulting basis for a while just to make sure the CIA leaves you alone, but you won’t have to take any job you don’t want to take. Or any job at all.”
“You swear.” Her voice dripped skepticism.
“Cross my heart.” He made the appropriate gesture.
“You didn’t need me for this. Any woman around the right age who isn’t on some kind of searchable special agent list could do it.”
“You did hear me say that a lot of bad actors—and I mean really bad actors, not just government agents but rogue spies and international criminals and terrorists—will be coming after this information? I need you because I need someone who can stay alive long enough to get the information to Park.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Should be easy enough.”
“Unless I die.” Her voice was faintly caustic.
“There’s that. But I have faith in you. And you’ve got me to play bodyguard. Besides, if there wasn’t any danger, we wouldn’t be offering you the big bucks.”
“And when do I get these big bucks?”
“This is where most people would tell you that avariciousness is not an attractive trait.”
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“Most people don’t have to worry about spending years on the run. A fugitive without money is dead in the water.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.” He kept it casual, a throwaway remark, but he was more than interested to hear her reply. It occurred to him that the bios he’d read on her and her many alter egos were probably all about as true as the information he was hoping to pass on to North Korea: in other words, not.
He found that he wanted to know the truth.
“Maybe,” she replied. “And you didn’t answer me.”
This wasn’t the moment to push her on her past. There was too much at stake.
“You get paid when you hand the flash drive to Park. And he passes you the money.”
“What?”
“You’re going to ask for fifty million US. And he’s going to pay it.”
“That’s—that’s—” she sputtered, her face pinkening with indignation.
He grinned.
“Smart,” he said.
“A total crock.”
“It’ll help sell it. Nobody takes this kind of risk for free.”
“What about the half you offered to pay me when I agreed to accept the job? As in, now?”
“Now that the CIA kill team’s found you, transferring money into any of your bank accounts will just tell them that you’re alive and where you are.”
“They won’t find my bank accounts.”
“Ah, but can you be sure they won’t find the bank account holding the clandestine slush fund the money was going to come out of? I’m fairly confident the CIA knows about most of them. And if they find the withdrawal, all they have to do is follow the money to you.”
She stared at him. He could almost see her calculating the odds.
“You planned this all along,” she said finally, accusingly.
He couldn’t help it. He laughed, but shook his head. “Field adjustments, remember? Adapt or die.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Look at this.” He flipped the folder open to show her the pictures clipped to the inside front cover. Full face and profile, full body and full body profile. Nut-brown hair with bangs to the eyebrows. Grayish-blue eyes beneath black, thick-lensed glasses. Round cheeks, thin-lipped mouth, unremarkable nose. A little on the plump side, with none of the spectacular physical attributes of the woman sitting across from him. He would find it impossible to believe that she could pull off a convincing impersonation if he hadn’t already seen for himself what she could do. “Lynette Holbrook. There’s a suitcase full of her clothes and everything else you’ll need waiting for us at the safe house where we’ll spend the night. Along with ID, passport, credit cards, the works. Oh, and her car will be left in the airport parking garage.”
She frowned as she took the folder from him. “What about the real Lynette Holbrook? She’s not going to show up somewhere like, say, Paris and blow this whole thing up, is she?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been assured that she’s securely under wraps. Only a handful of agents know that she was caught and that you’re taking her place. For this to work, it has to look real, and for it to look real, the spook network has to be lit up with the news that she’s on the run with stolen, highly classified information. Once you get in contact with Park, he’ll have his network check it out, believe me. Within a few hours, he’ll know everything about Lynette Holbrook down to her mother’s hair color. So will a whole lot of others. The best of the best, and the worst of the worst, will be coming after her—you—full bore. We’ll have about thirty-six hours after we arrive in Paris to make contact, make the sale and get out. After that it’ll get too dangerous. Word will have spread. Criminals will be doing their best to get hold of the multimillion-dollar payday that you and the information you stole represent. Swarms of spooks will have located you and be descending on Paris to either arrest you—well, Lynette—or take you out. And since we can’t ever reveal the charade we need to get you away before that happens.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Ever?”
“Not if this is going to work.”
“So if a criminal or an agent from a hostile government gets to me I’m probably going to get robbed and whacked. If an agent from a friendly government gets to me I’m looking at life in prison or the death penalty as Lynette Holbrook for stealing government secrets, and if I just get found without getting arrested I’m looking at something like a sniper hit.”
“Pretty much sums it up.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’d never make it to prison, would I? If I get arrested I’ll be dead before I ever see the inside of a cell.”
“I’d say that’s a fairly accurate assessment.”
“And this is better than being in the crosshairs of a CIA kill team how?”
“Because we’re going to get you safely in and out of there. And you’ve got me to keep anyone from getting to you in the meantime.”
“Oh, wow. Now I feel safe.” Her brow furrowed. “Who else knows that I’m the one taking Lynette Holbrook’s place?”
“You, specifically?”
She nodded.
“Strictly need to know. Which means me. The man who hired me. No more than half a dozen others, as far as actually knowing your identity is concerned. Maybe a couple of dozen more know that an operative will be impersonating Lynette Holbrook, but they don’t know your name, or anything about who that operative is.”
She bent her head, studying the photos. “Covering all the bases, hmm?”
“That’s the job.”
“I’m going to need contacts in her eye color. Acrylics and a dental mold so I can make a prosthesis to alter the shape of my cheeks. A recording of her voice so I can match it.”
“Anything you need that’s not already at the safe house we’ll have brought in tonight. By the time we leave for the airport in the morning, you will be Lynette Holbrook and Operation Fifth Doctrine will be up and running.”
She closed the folder, gave him a skeptical look. “Okay, I’ll bite. It’s a catchy name. Does it actually mean something?”
“Sure it does. You think somebody would just pull a name for an operation like this out of their hat? US military doctrine recognizes five ‘domains of war’ for which the military are responsible. The first one is land, the second one is sea, the third one is air, the fourth one is space, and the last one, the fifth doctrine, is information. Kind of gives that whole ‘war of words’ thing a brand-new meaning.”
“The web is mightier than the sword?”
He grinned. “There you go. That’s it exactly.”
12
Saturday, December 14th
CIA Special Agent Steve Hanes got the call at 6:00 a.m. He was already on-site, having driven in to the United States Army Regional Correctional Facility–Europe, located in Mannheim, Germany, from his temporary lodgings in that same city hours earlier in anticipation of this moment.
Outside, dawn’s charcoal sky was lightening to the gray cloud cover that was typical of Mannheim in chilly December. Inside, the prison was also gray. Concrete walls, steel bars, gray tile floors, all of it bathed in the harsh light of industrial fluorescents.
When it rang at last, his encrypted cell phone was sitting right in front of him on his borrowed desk in a small office deep in the bowels of the prison. He’d kept it within reach because, as he had been all through the night, he was expecting word on the success, or not, of an operation. Among other things, a man’s life hung on the answer.
The man in question was a former crack CIA operative gone rogue decades before. Elite assassin. Thief. Con man. Blackmailer. Bad Guy Extraordinaire. A fixture on Interpol’s most wanted list for years. A fixture on a lot of other most wanted lists as well, some of them so secret that even Hanes had not known they existed before pulling this assignment.
His name was Mason Thayer. Sixty-four years old, six-one, a hundred ninety-three well-honed pounds, gray hair, blue eyes. Handsome features now partially concealed by a grizzle
d beard. Recent gunshot wound to the hip. Even more recent broken ribs, severe lacerations and burns to the left side as a result of a helicopter crash, courtesy of Hanes and crew, who’d shot down the one he was attempting to escape Macau in.
Thayer was at that moment sitting in a cell kept at a deliberately miserable 50 degrees, on a concrete bench built into the concrete rear wall. The floor was concrete, too, with a drain in the center. A steel toilet, lidless and bolted to the floor, was within his reach. Nothing else was, because word was that the man could make a weapon out of anything. The cell was finished off with three Plexiglas walls so that its occupant could be kept under constant observation, both by anyone in this adjacent office and by a camera mounted on the wall opposite the cell. His hands and feet were shackled, chained to the wall behind him. Except for a pair of army-issued blue boxers, he was naked.
He lounged back against that cold concrete wall as if it were a BarcaLounger in his living room.
Hanes was itching to get the go-ahead to shoot the SOB in the head. If the operation had gone as planned, this phone call should provide it.
As Hanes picked up the phone, his eyes met the prisoner’s through the glass. Thayer knew the portent of the call, knew what had been going down on the other side of the world, knew that his own life hung in the balance, because Hanes had told him. Slowly and with a great deal of pleasure.
Thayer smiled at him.
Hanes flipped him the bird.
Hanes was SOG, or Special Operations Group. SOG was the United States’ most secretive special operations force. An offshoot of the CIA’s SAD, it was almost unknown to the public. The biggest, baddest, most covert of the covert intelligence operations being carried out at any given time around the world were by and large the work of the SOG. The Mannheim prison was equally big and bad, being the only US Department of Defense, Level 1 corrections facility in Europe. It held, and had held, some of the most heinous foreign criminals taken into custody abroad by the United States, from a trio of Benghazi plotters to the masterminds of the 9/11 attacks.
The Fifth Doctrine: The Guardian Series Book 3 Page 12