Pilier snapped on the huge flat-screen television, which instantly divided into multiple quadrants, broadcasting news networks from around the world: CNN, Fox, SKY, BBC1, ARD, ZDF, and others.
“A representative sample,” noted Skorzeny who, from time to time glanced at a laptop and tapped a few keys. “Pick one, please.”
Pilier turned up the volume on CNN, where und was muted.
Skorzeny spoke, “This is the United States of America, Anno Domini 2009. Excuse me, Common Era, 2009. The Lord is not much in our minds these days.” A flicker of a smile crossed his lips, signaling to the others that they were permitted a brief display of inaudible mirth. “Not the fearsome warrior it once was. Instead, a country ruled by women and eunuchs. Some call what is happening in Illinois a tragedy. We, however, here at Skorzeny International, call it something else. And what is it that we call it, gentlemen?”
As one: “An opportunity.”
“Precisely. An opportunity. After the first Gulf War, the first President Bush proclaimed the dawn of a New World Order. Even though he was ahead of his time, how right he was. By dint of careful, selected and…targeted…investments, we have been able to treble our operating capital. For you see, gentlemen, it is not true that the race belongs to the swift, or that the future belongs to the strong. Indeed not. The future belongs to the rich and the rich belong to the future. It is a symbiotic relationship, and one that will serve us all very handsomely in the coming days and weeks.”
Skorzeny indicated the slender manila folders in front of each board member. On his signal, each man opened his folder, read the contents of the single sheet enclosed therein, then dropped it into the shredder slot next to each seat.
Skorzeny watched them all intently as they digested his action plan. There was one among them who clearly demurred. “Signor Tignanello has a problem,” said Skorzeny.
Tignanello was not the man’s real name, of course, but was rather his favorite kind of Italian wine. No one but Skorzeny used his real name here; such was the volume of entreaties for foundation support that the board members would never know a moment’s peace should their true identities be revealed.
And, of course, Skorzeny’s name was not really “Skorzeny,” either, but no one needed to know that.
Tignanello looked around the room, trying to avoid Skorzeny’s basilisk glare. All eyes turned to him.
“Monsieur Skorzeny,” he began, “I have nothing against making money. None of us here does. We are, after all, all rich men.” He emitted a brief chuckle, hoping to bring his fellow board members around to his side via a small dollop of humor. In this he was immediately disappointed. “Still, what you are proposing here…I cannot, in good conscience…”
Skorzeny let Tignanello’s words trail off, “conscience” hanging in midair and gradually fading away into silence. It was not a word heard often in this boardroom, and it seemed to foul the air.
“So it’s not unanimous then?” asked Skorzeny, although it wasn’t a question. “I am disappointed. As you all know, we make no decisions here without complete and utter unanimity.”
A glance from Skorzeny to Pilier, and the secretary took up a position just behind the Italian.
“Far be it from me to…” Tignanello’s head was wrestling with his heart, and his heart was starting to lose when Pilier put his hands onstatement. He and Seelye cordially loathed each other, even as they were yoked together in the service of their country.
“Our forces around the world are on high alert, Mr. President,” Rubin said. “Keyhole birds report no significant adverse activity in NoKo, Iran, or the breakaway ’stans. We’re still watching the Columbia-Venezuela-Bolivia axis, though.”
“What about the film the terrorists showed us? What can we tell from that?”
That was Seelye’s department. “Being analyzed right now, sir. Results shortly.”
The president thought for a moment. “So…do we raise the threat level? Get the other agencies involved?”
As far as Seelye was concerned, the second question answered itself. This thing was too urgent to fuck around with the Department of Homeland Security, the CIA, or even the director of National Intelligence. “Not at this time, Mr. President. No sense letting them know they’re in our shorts before we get into theirs. As to your second question”—he looked at Rubin, whose face betrayed nothing—“my advice is that we keep this as compartmentalized as possible until we figure out what’s going on.”
No one dissented. Seelye’s BlackBerry buzzed. He hooked it up to a video port and switched on the screen. “NSA has run the tape through advanced face-recog software against all known terrorists in multiple databases, including CIA and FBI. Apologies for the quality, but it’s a gen2 beta system that we’re still testing.”
Everyone watched, fascinated. “As you can see, all of the commandos except Drusovic have some parts of their features obscured, which ordinarily wouldn’t be a problem for our equipment, since we can use almost any feature or distinguishing characteristic to—”
“Spare us the details of your wondrous toys, General,” ordered Tyler. “What you’re saying is, it is a problem.”
“In a sense,” replied Seelye. “But in an interesting sense. We’re drawing a blank on every single one of the commandos. Which means they’re all new recruits, fresh blood—or fresh meat—recruited for this specific occasion.”
“In other words, you don’t have the slightest idea who we’re dealing with.”
“In other words, we’re dealing with rookies,” replied Seelye.
Tyler frowned. “Why would this Drusovick—”
“It’s pronounced ‘Dru-so-vich,’ sir—”
“This ‘Drusovic’ want to show his face?”
Rubin got it in one. “Because whoever’s behind him wants us to see it.”
The president still didn’t get it.
“He’s not running the operation,” said Seelye. “He’s just a patsy, a pawn. A very expendable
On the screen now was live coverage from Edwardsville: HOSTAGES SHOT read the graphic.
There were two bodies, lying in front of the main entrance to the school, where they had been dumped. A man and a woman. The woman had half her face blown away, but as soon as the live feed picked her up, it disappeared from the screen. Some details were too gory for the delicate sensibilities of the American public.
“Did I see what I think I just saw?” asked the president. “Why the hell aren’t they showing us what happened? Why did they cut away?”
“The networks don’t want to inflame public sentiment,” said Secretary Rubin. “And I must say, I don’t blame them. All we need now are some gun-toting nuts to jump in their pickup trucks and—”
“And what, Howard?” asked Seelye. “Defend their children?”
“Shut up,” barked the president. “He’s talking again.”
It was Drusovic, sneeringly stepping aside to make sure the bodies would stay in the shot with him.
“These are for you, Mr. President,” the man shouted. “And they will keep coming until we get your answer. And when we finish with the teachers…we start on the children.”
He grinned maliciously. “We want the world to see what you have done, Mr. President. What happens here tonight will make history and we want the world to witness it. Every newspaper, every channel, worldwide. They are welcome. But anybody tries anything and—everybody dies.”
Pam Dobson started to cry. The ashen look on the president’s face spoke to their common humanity. Tyler may be a fool, thought Seelye, but no one doubted his capacity for empathy or his ability to touch the heart of the average man. It was the quality that had made him such a formidable lawyer and politician.
“Pam, he said, “we’re all going to have to be strong now. Strong for each other, strong for the country. So why don’t you go back to your office and pull yourself together. I’m going to need your best work.”
Dobson rose. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Thank you, sir.”
Seelye took the opening. “Sir, there’s something Secretary Rubin and I need to discuss with you. As you may recall from your briefing—”
Millie’s voice wafted over the intercom again: “Senator Hartley is still waiting, Mr. President.”
Tyler thought for a moment, then said, “Send him in.”
Seelye objected immediately: “Mr. President, I really must object to Senator Hartley’s presence in this meeting. He is not authorized to—”
“He’s the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, General,” replied the president. “Whatever we decide to do, however this plays out, both parties areommittee’s legitimate legislative oversight. But what we’re about to discuss is SCI.” Sensitive Compartmented Information, essentially, was above Top Secret.
Tyler shook his head. “I don’t care. As the president, I am authorized to release any information to anybody any time I want to, and this is one of those times. I need political backup on this and I also need plausible deniability. Bob Hartley is my friend, even if he is from the other party. So let’s get on with it. Hello, Bob…take a seat.”
Seelye and Rubin nodded in acknowledgment as Hartley entered the room. That was about all the courtesy they were prepared to show him at this moment.
Seelye pretended Hartley wasn’t there; not for nothing was “civilian” the dirtiest word in his vocabulary, even if Hartley was a senator. “Under the authority of National Security Decision Memorandum 5100.20, signed by President Nixon on December 23, 1971, and amended by President G. H. W. Bush on June 24, 1991,” said General Seelye, “the Sec Def and I believe that you should provisionally authorize a Central Security Service operation to terminate the ongoing incident in Edwardsville.”
“Terminate, how?” asked Hartley.
“Shut the fuck up, Bob,” said Tyler. “You’re here to observe, not talk.” Hartley bristled a little. Tyler noticed and didn’t care; they had been friends for too long for Hartley to take it personally. “Terminate, how, General?”
“With extreme, exemplary prejudice, sir,” replied Seelye.
President Tyler vaguely remembered the CSS, a special division of the National Security Agency that not one American in a million had even heard of, much less understood its function. The CSS had been created originally under the Nixon administration as the “fourth branch” of the armed services, to complement the Army, the Air Force, and the Navy/Marines in the burgeoning field of electronic intelligence and combat. But the traditional-minded put up the predictable bureaucratic fuss, and the CSS was quietly folded in the NSA, authorized to work with each of the individual service branches in capturing and decoding enemy SIGINT. So when, for example, a Navy submarine tapped an undersea Soviet communications cable, or one of the Air Force’s many electronic surveillance overflights picked up hostile transmissions, they were relayed to the CSS for evaluation and, if necessary, action.
But the CSS chafed at being a bystander and, using the “No Such Agency” cloak of anonymity, quickly moved into the void, coordinating covert strikes on Soviet assets with the utmost plausible deniability—“accidents” were amazingly common—and establishing its own presence as a service to be reckoned with. Still, resistance from the uniformed services kept it in the shadows of its birth, where it lurked now—the incognito, but highly effective, muscle arm of the NSA.
“Specifically, Section 6.1.21,” added Rubin.
“What’s that?” interjected Hartley.
“Shut the fuck up, Bob,” barked Tyler. “Remind me again w
“We’re talking about a Branch 4 operation, sir,” said Seelye. “It’s that simple.”
“Remind me again what Branch 4 is?”
Seelye ignored the question. “Sir, Branch 4 was established precisely to deal with situations like these, so unless you’re prepared to see kiddie corpses start flying out those windows, we strongly advise you to let us get this operation up and running ASAP.”
The president’s gaze drifted from face to face to the TV set on the other side of the Oval Office, to Edwardsville and the two dead teachers. Finally, it alighted on Rubin. “And your advice is, Howard? Branch 4 or…?”
“Or surrender before anybody else gets killed and run the risk of impeachment from Senator Hartley’s party for dereliction of duty. It’s that simple.”
The president glanced over at Hartley, who silently nodded his assent. “General?”
“I’ve been involved in counterterrorism since the 1980s,” said Seelye, “and if this isn’t a job for Branch 4, then nothing is. We need to get in there, take them out, and disappear.”
The president was confused but convinced. “So how do we do it?”
“Get ‘Devlin.’ Now.”
“Who’s Devlin?” asked Hartley.
“Shut the fuck up, Bob,” ordered the president.
“Mr. President, sir,” objected Hartley, “you invited me here and—”
Tyler ignored him. “Who’s Devlin?” he asked.
“‘Devlin’ is the code name for Branch 4’s most trusted and highly skilled operative,” explained Seelye, with uncontrolled pride. “He’s an expert in cryptology, in electronic surveillance, in marksmanship, and in hand-to-hand combat. In fact, he’s the best we’ve got.”
The president’s incredulous look begged Seelye to continue. “Nobody knows his real name. If it exists on record at all, it’s buried deep in the NSA files. Operationally, however, he used a rotating series of other pseudonyms, never the same one twice. Not even we know what they are when he goes into action.”
President Tyler was incredulous. “You mean to tell me that the United States government has an anonymous operative we can’t really control?”
“No, sir,” replied Seelye. “Not the United States government. We do. The three of us in this room.” Seelye caught himself, looked over at Hartley. “And one member of congressional oversight.”
If Tyler regretted his decision to let Hartley sit in on the meeting, his face didn’t betray him. “Go on,” he ordered, glancing over at Hartley with an unspoken warning: shut the fuck up, Bob.
“Imagine a platoon of high-tech exterminators, er the radar; and they work under pain of death.”
“What do you mean, ‘pain of death’?” asked the president.
“Operational security is not only everything, it’s the only thing,” offered Seelye. “The identity of each Branch 4 agent is unknown even to another Branch 4 agent. They put together their own teams, the members of which are unaware for whom they’re really working. And should their identities ever become known even to a fellow member of the unit…” His voice trailed off, his meaning clear.
“Are you telling me that the United States government employs professional assassins?”
“I wouldn’t use that word, Mr. President,” replied General Seelye. “More like the business end of our forward defenses. The tip of the tip of the spear.”
“Branch 4 is a unit whose very existence—until this moment—is authorized to be known to only three governmental officials: POTUS, the SecDef, and DIRNSA,” continued Rubin, turning his attention to Hartley, trying to impress on him the importance of keeping his mouth shut. “Notice I did not use our names. Branch 4 existed before we assumed our offices and it will continue to exist after we leave. No matter who is sitting in our chairs…”
The president did a slow burn. “Why is this the first time I’m hearing about it?”
“It’s not, sir,” said Seelye, quietly. “It’s just that you’ve made domestic considerations the top priority of your administration thus far.”
President Tyler was in a box. He hated being in a box. He hated Rubin and Seelye for putting him in a box. When this was over, especially if it ended badly, he was going to have both their heads on pikes, to be displayed in the Rose Garden until the next election. “This Branch 4, this Devlin…sounds like God.”
“The next best thing,” said Seelye. “Plus, Branch 4, you get your prayers answered one hundred percent of the tim
e. Devlin never fails.”
The president thought for a moment. “Does this mean I won’t have to convert to Islam?” he asked. “I don’t think that would go over very well with the folks back home in Lafayette.”
“That’s exactly what it means,” said Seelye.
That seemed to please Jeb Tyler. “Get Devlin,” said the president of the United States.
Chapter Eleven
LEONARDO DA VINCI AIRPORT, ROME, CHRISTMAS, 1985
The man known as “Devlin” was born on December 27, 1985, in Rome, Italy. At the time, he was eighalloons popping. The mind attempts to process what it already knows, and instinctively blocks that which it doesn’t wish to recognize. Such things are called “memories.”
“Mama, can I have one?” One what? He could only remember the want, not the object. Some trifle for sale in one of the kiosks.
“No,” she said.
Far better to remember her, his mother, as she was, young and beautiful, young to him, beautiful to him and at least two others—but that he only found out about later, when he was older, not young.
He and she both knew she didn’t mean it. But it was what she had to say. Because her husband, his father, would instantly overrule her had she said yes, that whatever it was he’d wanted would be dismissed as trivial, transient, of no moment. Unworthy. His father always said no.
The boy who would die that day loved his mother. All his childhood memories were of her, because she was the one fixed constant in his life. For as long as he could remember, through all the moves, all the travel, all the strange cities and foreign languages and new friends, there was always his mother there to comfort him, buck him up, and send him back into the fray that he already knew was life.
Civilians always ask service kids whether growing up without a hometown, without old friends, is hard. Absent the familiar anchors, the life that the boy and thousands of others like him lived seemed difficult, intimidating. Better to stay in one place. Better to have a hometown. Nothing ever happens in a hometown.
Hostile Intent Page 3