On The Black: (A CIA Thriller)

by Theo Cage

  The Museum director then made a few calls. Kreegar monitored all of them and there were no surprises. The advice he received at every level was to comply. If you were a pick-your-battle kind of guy, they said, this wasn’t one you were going to win. The Director called him back and agreed to the hand off at midnight.

  Kreegar rubbed his head with both hands when he clicked off the call. He ran his arthritic fingers over the contours of his skull, feeling each depression and ridge, a mountain range of bone and broken skin; as familiar to him as a worn glove.

  He was pleased everything was coming together, that Rice had agreed to meet, that they were approaching closure. But the location bothered him. A museum at midnight? What possible advantage would the Air & Space building give Rice? Kreegar would be managing all the security. Even if Rice had somehow infiltrated that group, he would have lost all leverage once the current employees were led out of the building. And the building was over twenty-thousand square feet in size with hundreds of rooms. Manpower would be an advantage here. Kreegar was bringing in his security replacements, outnumbering Rice and his two bodyguards by more than three to one. Rice was walking into a trap. And he knew it. So Kreegar continued massaging his temple, seeking inspiration. Rice was up to something; he just couldn't see what it was.

  Kreegar stood under the Spirit of St. Louis in the Milestones Gallery, the same airplane that Charles Lindberg used to make the first flight non-stop from New York to Paris. It seemed so insubstantial; not something he would want to risk his life in. There's a thin line between heroism and insanity, he thought. The soldier who falls on a grenade for his buddies? Is he really all there? If he had the chance to do it again, would he?

  Kreegar looked around at the late afternoon crowd – mostly tourists and school children. All as cheerful and clueless as farm animals. What did they really know? The Gemini capsule on display could be as fake as a movie prop; the whole space race dreamed up by Hollywood directors and a Kennedy administration flush with cash - the Smithsonian only a step away from a Disney thrill ride.

  But who really cared. In the end, nothing mattered as long as people believed in something. As long as they weren't rioting in the streets. Just keep them entertained.

  The Director of the museum walked up to Kreegar at exactly four PM. He looked like Mr. Rogers, without the smile or the sweater. He quickly introduced himself even though they had never met before. Kreegar was used to that. He was hard to miss - like the Elephant Man at a kid's birthday party.

  “I’m placing in your hands one of the countries most valued assets,” he said. “I trust you will return it unscathed.” He was smiling, like a father handing over the keys to the family car.

  “Do you have a threat plan in place?” asked Kreegar, looking up at the plane hanging from the ceiling.

  “Are you saying there’s a threat?” The director followed Kreegar’s gaze, the smile gone from his face.

  “We believe that terrorists are targeting this building tonight. Why else do you think we are locking this facility down?”

  “There’s a rumor…”

  “There’s always a rumor. This is D.C.”

  “So it’s not the President?”

  “That’s just a cover. He’ll be as far away from here as possible tonight. How about you?”

  “Me?”

  “We could use your expertise. If things get ugly.”

  The Director crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders as if he had a sudden chill. “I don’t think I could be of much help in a terrorist situation.”

  “In that case I’ll need your office and access to all security in the building.”

  “I’ll take you there right now.”

  Kreegar followed the man through the herd of tourists. Twenty years ago it would have been unthinkable to commandeer a national treasure like the Smithsonian. In the age of Homeland Security, mere child’s play.

  CHAPTER 119

  Washington, D.C.

  IT’S ONLY A RUMOR,” said Jimmy. “Probably just one of those conspiracy theories worming its way through the tech community. But I'd take it into account.”

  “How?” said Rice, knowing he was out of touch, respecting every one of Jimmy's hunches, as wild as they sounded.

  “A lot of smart people think the NSA or Homeland have networked thousands of security camera in the capital. To monitor terrorist threats.”

  “Say that's true,” said Rice. “What do you want me to do?”

  Jimmy hesitated, never one to answer a question hastily. “Cover your face as much as you can. Be aware of cameras. Most of them are pretty obvious. Even change clothes tonight. Take another hat, a different jacket.”

  “You think that's necessary?”

  “Can't hurt.”

  “Hear anything back from the Security Group at the Smithsonian?”

  “Yeah, lots of buzz. The Feds are pulling all the Security employees at eleven. Sending them home and replacing them with National Security people. The rumor is the President and his wife wants a private tour at midnight.”

  “Clever. Did Kreegar plant that?”

  “Probably. Which explains why all the video systems are being shut down. Just in case the President and the first lady want to be the first to join the mile high club using the Spirit of St. Louis.”

  “Pretty awkward. Not much room.”

  “Yeah,” said Jimmy. “But according to Congress, at the end of his first term in office, the President is always more flexible.”

  Rice spent another ten minutes with Jimmy using the room’s landline, then he hung up and laid back on the king-size bed.

  Jimmy spent most of his career as a case officer, not an agent. The difference? A case officer occasionally makes a moral decision, for strategic reasons. He or she has to weigh consequences with actions. Agents just do what they are told. Highly useful but beneath contempt to the executive. Days after advancing his career Jimmy told Rice what he thought of agents in the field. Meat puppets with trigger fingers. Rice had laughed. He wasn’t laughing anymore.

  Rice and his team found a hotel just a few miles off the beltway. Tonight he would confront Kreegar, who talked like he wanted to end this decade-long hunt. Rice didn't believe him, but he was willing to give him five percent benefit of the doubt. There was only one other choice. Put a bullet through his huge brain.

  The other problem was Wheeler. Rice had personal experience with him when he was President. He was a maniac. Ruthless, uncompromising, and no moral compass to guide him. If he decided you stood in the way between him and world peace, or him and a free barbeque, both meant the same. You were dead, and he wouldn't waste even a fraction of a second debating the ramifications. The definition of single minded in D.C.

  Rice was a huge problem to Wheeler. His legacy was at stake. The thought that Rice could open the book on the ugliest thirty days in modern US history, with Wheeler in command, must be keeping him rolling in his ex-Presidential sweat every night. The problem with being relentless was focus. Rice must constantly be on his mind, ruining his concentration with his favorite hobbies - golf, sex and politics. It made ten years in the wilds of the Rockies almost worthwhile to cause that sociopath so much pain and anguish.

  Kreegar might consider a truce. But Rice believed that was never going to be an option with Wheeler. He would just sweep Kreegar aside and find some other mercenary willing to give his life for the cause.

  So it was simple. Wheeler had to go. It sounded clichéd, but this was kill or be killed for Rice and everyone associated with him. Wheeler would never give up until he destroyed Rice, and his entire tribe, every single trace of them burned to the ground and swept away in the wind.

  Luckily, Jimmy had a plan for Wheeler. Two actually. A plan A and a plan B. They had learned Wheeler and his wife, no innocent from day one herself, traveled from their villa in Mussel Cove to their condo in Georgetown. Probably so they could be close to the festivities tonight. Share a bottle of champagne and toast to the end of their trou
bles with Operation Kindergarten for good.

  Rice’s job was to make sure that didn’t happen.

  The other thing he had on his mind was Britt. She had been upgraded to stable condition at St. Vincent’s in Indianapolis. One bullet had struck her in the side, basically a flesh wound. The other was more serious and had nicked a kidney.

  Britt and Rice had been through a lot in the last forty-eight hours. They were like brothers-in-arms now. But Rice had never had a chance to finish his story about Operation Kindergarten. They had arrived at the farmhouse and he was about to tell her how drones were used to destroy dozens of schools across the Middle East and Pakistan when he heard the signature whine of a Rotax engine above them.

  Operation Kindergarten targeted dozens of schools in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Yemen and Saudi Arabia. Of the thousand names on the list, 300 Al-Qaeda offspring were confirmed dead within the first twenty-four hours. Rice was personally given the responsibility to terminate a summer camp on the outskirts of Radaa in South Yemen frequented by the children of senior Taliban officials. The equivalent of a Bible camp. Over fifty of the children in attendance were on the OK list.

  They were dropped into the camp by BlackHawk. Everyone on the team was convinced insurgents were hiding in the barracks. Only Rice knew the truth. The target was just kids.

  On their way through the classrooms in the dark, Rice came across a table full of clay figurines made by the children. Art class. Rice stopped moving and picked one up. The piece had a thumbprint on the side that had been left in the soft clay, half the size of his fingers. The clumsy sculpture was an American cartoon character.

  Rice scrubbed the mission right there and returned his team to the waiting helicopters.

  That’s what started it all. A crude clay figurine of SpongeBob SquarePants.

  CHAPTER 120

  Washington, D.C.

  JIMMY LOVED WASHINGTON. To him, it felt like the most important piece of real estate on the planet. Decisions were made here, both good and bad, which turned the tiller of democracy and freedom and moved the civilization forward, kicking and screaming like a spoilt child.

  Washington always smelled to him like cigar smoke, ancient stone and nervous sweat. And sometimes cherry blossoms, for one brief week in the spring. A brief respite from countless backroom deals and the frisson of high-octane brinkmanship.

  Jimmy was thinking end times. Like that last big punch in a drawn-out series of desperate battles. The make or break finale where everything can go completely to hell in a matter of seconds.

  He visited the compound in Faluzel where the Americans had razed a Taliban stronghold. A hundred men were preparing a massive onslaught using personal explosives. They were resting, ready to decamp before dawn when the bunker busters hit. He stood in the same spot later in the week. No concrete foundations remained. No rubble. Not a single atom of human evidence, just glassy sand melted into black globules of silicon. Like dead eyeballs staring up into the sky. And dust. Always dust.

  Regardless, that was the destiny for Wheeler and his wife, architect and sales manager behind project OK. They spent millions on tracking and watching Rice and his family, were personally responsible for the botched hit on Rice that ended his wife's life. Rice knew where the bodies were buried. And could connect the bones directly to Wheeler and Kreegar.

  They argued with Rice. Jimmy and Grace and even Britt, pleaded the case for ending this once and for all. Rice was visibly weary. He said it wouldn't make a difference. Killing Wheeler, his wife and Kreegar wouldn't change anything. And would risk too many people he cared for. They kidnapped and threatened Scott. What was to stop Razer from seeking revenge? Or some other over-ambitious bureaucrat with aspirations or career goals that wouldn't have a hope if complicit with the OK debate.

  Britt was the one who changed his mind. She told him she had met Trent Razer. He was just a contractor. He had a conscience. He wasn't a problem. But Kreegar and his boss would never stop until Rice was dead. He had no choice in the matter.

  Britt was trying to be strong, objective. But at one point, her eyes filled with moisture, and one tear-drop escaped her control and trickled down her cheek. Britt wiped it away, hoping Rice wouldn't notice. But he did. And they all stopped talking. And then Rice said alright. Let’s end this. It was that simple.

  And that’s why Jimmy was inside the hanger at the Montgomery Executive Airport, staring up at the blindingly white fuselage of Wheeler’s G150 private jet.

  Jimmy gained access to Wheeler’s email a week before and learned of the ex-president's plans to move to Georgetown. And have the plane fueled and ready for a long-term flight out of Washington. A flight plan wasn't logged yet, but the two pilots were alerted and on stand-by. It sounded like Wheeler was preparing an escape plan. In case things didn't go well with Kreegar at the Smithsonian.

  Wheeler didn't reveal anything else in his personal email, clearly cautious about surveillance. It didn't matter to Jimmy. He used fake credentials to gain access to the hanger and once in, was surprised to see no one guarding the Gulfstream. He charged up the ladder, ready with a story if confronted by a pilot or guard. The interior was customized, soft brown and vanilla leather everywhere, electronics galore. Jimmy quickly accessed a service hatch near the back and set to work. He finished in eight minutes. Enough time for one of the security men to climb the stairs and poke his head into the cabin.

  “You finished your safety inspection?” the guard asked.

  Jimmy closed the service door and stood up. “A few more minutes.”

  “Mind if I see your checklist?”

  “That's not SOP,” said Jimmy, feeling his gun in his jacket pocket. But knowing if he used it, he would blow his cover. And eliminate Plan B from their end game. Probably ignite a shoot-out in the hanger, with nervous security types. Jimmy saw himself lying in a pool of blood on the hanger floor; his plan exposed.

  “I know,” said the guard. “But I'm an amateur pilot and I thought aircraft safety might be a good career move. So I'm curious.”

  Jimmy turned his clipboard to the guard so he could read the form, about seventy-five percent of the check boxes completed.

  “I start with a physical inspection here,” he pointed. “I'm looking for hydraulic leaks, dents or signs of damage. Tire condition. Pretty basic. The same walk-around pilots do before take-off.

  “Cool.”

  “Then I check the onboard computers. There are three redundant systems. I run a diagnostic, here.” Jimmy pointed at the fake document, hoping the guard had only a passing familiarity with people who did actual safety inspections. He created the form the night before using Adobe Illustrator.”

  “What's next?” asked the guard, a broad smile on his three-day growth of beard.

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Sure.”

  “I'm really FBI.”

  “Huh?”

  “I'm looking for drugs.”

  “Fuck!”

  “Yeah. If I come barreling in here like narc, I scare the crap out of everyone. Cell phones light up. And pretty soon this whole hanger becomes a giant shit show.”

  The guard leaned back; his pupils as dilated as a meth addict after a hit. “The President?” he asked.

  “No. Not the President directly. But this jet is scheduled to fly to South America tonight. Could be an aide. Or a personal assistant. No customs checks for ex-Presidents. Too much of a temptation.”

  “Wow. Did you find anything?”

  “I was looking for cash. I've found millions on some other flights. Big shrink-wrapped bricks of twenties and fifties.”

  “Man, what was that like?”

  Jimmy looked at the young guard. He could see the raw hunger in his eyes. Too bad this job was a one-off. He could use a guy like this. An eager beaver with just enough brains to draw breath.

  “What was it like?” said Jimmy. “Like your first time. Only better.”

  “First time?” asked the guard.

  “You k
now. The first time you shoot a gun. Your first lay. The first time you kill a man with your bare hands. Take your pick.” With that, Jimmy hurried down the stairs, the most difficult piece of the puzzle now firmly in place.

  CHAPTER 121

  Smithsonian National Air & Space Museum, D.C.

  KREEGAR APPEARED OUT OF THE SHADOWS. Alone.

  He wore a dark gray pinstriped suit, white shirt and a blood-red tie. His power suit. His arms hung at his side, walking slowly, like he was taking a stroll through the main gallery. Then he stopped, put one hand inside his suit jacket and removed a cigar, which he raised to his lips.

  “There's no smoking in here, Kreegar,” said Rice, standing about thirty feet away, also unarmed.

  Kreegar smiled. “Always the cop, aren't you, Rice. Probably bossed around your playmates in kindergarten. Patted them down before recess.”

  Kreegar's arrogance made Rice stiffen. That was one of the Director's tricks. Insult you, stick his gnarly finger in your psychic wound and poke around until you blew up. The reference to Kindergarten caused a wave of prickly heat to roll across Rice's arms and chest. He was tempted to reach for his gun, but he knew it was too early. So he took a breath of cool museum air and let it out slowly.

  “I've got three snipers trained on you, Kreegar. Watch your mouth or you'll miss our grand finale. That way I can deal directly with your boss.”

  Kreegar looked up into the balcony on the second floor where snipers might be crouching. He put the unlit cigar between his teeth.

  “I out-number you four to one, Rice. And I control security and the exits and the lighting. This is all bullshit, anyway. I came here to make you an offer.”

  “Why bother?” asked Rice.

  “I'm tired of this. You're like one last unfinished piece of business that refuses to go away. Once this circus packs up and leaves town, I can spend more time with my family. Maybe even golf once a month. Oh yeah. Which reminds me, I want Remington back.”