The Jason Betrayal

by Jack Bowie

  “We’re online, Mr. President.” It was SecNav Admiral Walter Sheehan.

  Everyone took their seats around the small conference table as Sheehan narrated the images on the screens.

  “Seal Team 4 flew into Islamabad yesterday. They were not given much time for preparation, as we were concerned the suspects could disappear at any time. The team staged in one of the rooms at the hotel—with the embassy across the street it’s used to American guests—and were given the go to proceed ten minutes ago. You are watching the live feeds from the team’s helmet-mounted cameras.”

  “Is Pakistan aware of the operation?” An obvious question from SecState Robert Henderson. He would be the first to get any blowback.

  “No, Robert,” answered Matthews. “I decided there was too much risk of interference. The Admiral assured me we can keep this under wraps. I’ll take the heat. If there is any. Getting these bastards is the only priority.”

  Slattery was again impressed by Matthews’ courage. At least someone cares about what happens to our citizens.

  Grainy green images of a hotel hallway appeared on the screens. Then they centered on a door. Slattery saw a pair of hands fumbling with the lock, and the door flew open with a bang. It was a small hotel suite. Two men were still awake, surrounding some electronic equipment in the central room. A yell, Slattery couldn’t make out what was said, and the men scrambled across the room, probably going for weapons. He heard four pops. On another screen, a third man appeared in a doorway holding a gun. Two more pops.

  “Room is clear. Executing clean up.” The disembodied voice came over the comm line.

  “Roger, Team Leader,” Sheehan replied. “Safe travels.”

  “Roger that. Team out.”

  Fifteen seconds. That was all the Seals needed. Slattery never ceased to be impressed by the efficiency of the special ops teams. He was damn glad they were on his side.

  “That was a transmitting dish by the window, Mr. President,” Sheehan said. “I think we got them.”

  Matthews sat quietly, still staring at the now-blank screens. Everyone waited for their Commander. “Thank you, Admiral. What happens now?”

  “The team will take pictures of the scene, bag-and-tag everything, equipment, personal effects, et cetera, and take it to the embassy across the street. It will be repackaged and flown out tonight under diplomatic cover. Everything should arrive here tomorrow. The CIA gets first shot. The bodies will be disposed of, and the team will disappear. They will check out early and be gone by daybreak. I expect any damage to the suite will be written off to the deadbeat infidels.”

  Matthews smiled. “Excellent.” He turned to Markovsky. “Peter, I look forward to the results of your analysis. Hopefully, we can finally find out who has been behind these attacks.”

  Slattery glanced at the faces around the room. Everyone seemed quite satisfied. Of course, now he and Markovsky were on the hook.

  What would the confiscated material tell them?

  * * *

  It was late in the evening, and a cool ocean breeze blew through the open, second floor of the cantina relieving what would have been a stifling and unbearable locale. Alfred Whitehead Singer sat quietly nursing a now-warm longneck Pacifico beer. His young, busty waitress had long since given up asking about a refill.

  His table was in an isolated interior corner where he had a clear view of the two entrances, the stone-topped bar and the more popular tables along the wrought iron railing overlooking the courtyard below. The door to the kitchen, his chosen emergency exit route, was only ten feet away. It was a familiar position.

  He had spent most of his life sitting like this, observing and studying the movements of his fellow man. Often in preparation for executing one of them.

  Tonight, however, Singer’s task was not assassination but information. Fifteen minutes earlier, his contact had arrived and taken a seat at the crowded bar. Dressed in sandals, cargo pants, a long sleeve sweatshirt and a New York Yankees baseball cap, it was a perfect disguise. There was no way anyone in this drunken crowd would remember either of them. Soon, the contact would get up, go to the restroom and deposit the package.

  The Cabo Wabo Cantina was an ideal location for a drop. It was a raucous, tourist-infested bar located in the middle of downtown Cabo San Lucas, the famed resort community at the southern tip of the Baja California peninsula where the Sea of Cortez meets the Pacific Ocean. Sparkling sand beaches rimmed the peninsula tip which was home to multi-million dollar mansions, celebrity-designed golf courses and uncountable condominium resorts. It was also a popular port-of-call for cruise ships that anchored in the quiet bay and disgorged their sun-burned passengers into the streets of Cabo via a flotilla of rickety water taxis.

  Over the cantina’s railing, Singer could see blocks of tiny storefronts and pop-up stalls selling the wonders of Mexican life: sterling silver jewelry, carved leather boots, serapes, sombreros, t-shirts, sweatshirts and beer can holsters, all available adorned with the logo of your favorite NFL team. It was a merchandiser’s dream.

  The cantina itself was filled with colorful mosaic tile panels, soaring areca palms and grating mariachi music. The patrons were a depressingly representative mix of his fellow humans: a professional at the bar looking to score a lonely college student with more money than sense; two raven-haired waitresses pushing overpriced Cabo Wabo Tequila; and a pair of tourist couples who had just arrived from the cruise ship, the man and woman eying each other with an intense urgency, despite the presence of their current partners.

  Without acknowledging, Singer saw his contact leave the bar and walk to the restroom. At first, he had felt Cabo San Lucas was an inappropriate location for their meeting, but his contact had explained that next week’s Cryptology on the Coast conference was a perfect cover and even gave a chance for a long-needed vacation. The conference, a regular event held up the peninsula in La Paz, would enlist no unwanted attention by either the contact’s employer or colleagues. Singer had been assured the material was well worth the trip.

  His contact returned to the bar and Singer watched for any undue attention or reaction. Seeing no obvious surveillance, he rose and walked to the restroom. Upon entering, he was hit by the repulsive stench of beer, urine and vomit that permeated the small room. He shook off the assault, walked to the last stall and closed the door. Then he reached behind the tank and removed the adhesive plastic bag. It was opaque, but Singer felt the outline of a USB stick through the plastic.

  Early in their relationship, Singer and his contact had decided never to exchange confidential information electronically. There were simply too many ears in the ether. He slipped the package into his pants pocket and left the stall. He wasn’t expecting what he saw next.

  The exit was blocked by two rough-looking Hispanic youths who seemed more interested in Singer than relieving themselves. The one on the left was tall, over six feet, and stocky. Black hair was slicked over his head, and a prominent scar ran down his right cheek from his ear nearly to his chin. His partner was shorter and rounder, with a bald head and angry dark eyes. They both wore t-shirts that highlighted their muscled upper bodies and sported smug, self-satisfied expressions.

  Singer could not afford a confrontation that might draw unwanted attention. But he had also never been one to walk away from a fight, even if he had a choice. Whatever was going to happen would have to be fast and quiet.

  “Hey, mista rich guy,” the taller man began, “we’re here to collect a little tourista tax. Why don’t you just empty your pockets and we can all leave happy?”

  “Yeah, amigo,” added the man on the right. “We wouldn’t want to have to mess you up.” He smiled, and a mouthful of gold teeth glittered in the incandescent light.

  Singer dropped his shoulders. “Yes, yes,” he replied softly. “Please. Don’t hurt me.”

  The men exchanged grins as Singer reached into his pockets. What came out was not what his would-be assailants expected.

  Singer’s right hand
emerged in a fist, but with his thumb resting, exposed, over his index finger. He turned to his left as his right arm swept out and up, driving the end of his thumb into the taller thug’s neck crushing his Adam’s apple and trachea. Singer then drove his right foot into the side of the assailant’s right knee. There was an explosive crack as his patellar ligaments burst and the knee tore apart. The man fell to the floor helpless.

  Singer turned his left foot and continued to spin left, gathering momentum as he landed a crushing right roundhouse kick to the second thug’s solar plexus. He doubled over and Singer stepped behind him, wrapped his head in his arms and snapped the assailant’s neck with a violent twist.

  Both men lay silent on the floor of the bathroom. No gunshots, no blood. And there was no way the altercation would have been heard over the din of the cantina.

  He completed the scene by pulling each one into a stall and stuffing his head into the toilet bowl.

  Singer straightened his clothes, confirmed the USB stick was still in his pocket and left the restroom.

  He walked to his table and saw that his contact had already left. There did not appear to be any recognition of the altercation. Dropping a handful of bills on the table, he calmly left the cantina.

  * * *

  Singer went into the bathroom, popped two of the dark brown pills and stuck his mouth under the faucet. He returned to the desk chair, closed his eyes, and softly repeated the mantra he had learned from his sensei at the Farm. His body immediately responded, reacting automatically as it had for over twenty years. His heart rate slowed, fatigued muscles relaxed, and the knife of pain in his abdomen slowly withdrew.

  More than once, this meditative state had saved the man’s life: giving him a rejuvenation from his job’s physical punishments. Tonight, all he needed was a few moments of relaxation before the numbing narcotic would enable him to continue his work.

  The attacks were coming more frequently now, sometimes twice a week, and the steady diet of Oxycodone was having less and less effect. He knew the end was coming and would have to accelerate his plan. There had been a long list of indignities that needed avenging, and he had been successful at most. But the one remaining was the most important and he would not permit failure.

  He had rented a comfortable, but over-priced, condo in one of Cabo’s resorts along Medano Beach. Only a few kilometers from downtown, he had a picturesque view of the bay and, when the tide was down, even the famous El Arco, a dramatic rock arch at Land’s End: the tip of Baja California Sur where the Sea of Cortez meets the Pacific Ocean.

  The sounds of surf on the beach whispered through the open patio doors. Outside, the bay was alive with lights from booze-cruise boats filled with tourists and private yachts hosting celebrities from up the coast in San Diego and Los Angeles. A mammoth cruise ship lay quietly anchored in the inner harbor, the lights from the cabins turning the vessel into a floating signboard of an undecipherable digital message.

  He plugged the zip drive into his computer and started the decryption process. A few seconds later the first page appeared on his screen. His contact had been right. This will generate significant interest. And significant reward.

  Singer logged into his Gmail account and composed a short message to his associate confirming receipt of the package and inquiring about the status of a project he had requested before leaving. Rather than pressing Send, however, he left it in his Drafts folder.

  He noted the time, then sat back and closed his eyes. The years had been profitable, but they had also taken their toll. He owed, or blamed, one man for this fate: Edwin Bullock, Earnhardt Professor of Political Science at Princeton University. Had Bullock been the gruff, crusty old teacher that berated his students in class? Or the kind, thoughtful mentor to those who sought him out? Or the hard, war-weary veteran reciting tales of excitement and danger? Probably a bit of them all.

  The professor had seemed to take a liking to the quiet student. Bullock had brought him under his wing, shown him how to hone his “gift.” He had taught him to see things differently. The young man had thought he had known so much, but Bullock had shown him a whole new world of knowledge. Things that others avoided, or simply ignored. A world of secrets and intrigue.

  After graduation, he had continued to take Bullock’s direction. Soon he was sharpening his skills at the Farm, and applying them in the back alleys of Beirut and the deserts of the Middle East. As the years passed, Bullock faded into the shadows; the teacher had others to lead. So again Singer had been alone, but he had accepted his destiny.

  Others had tried to direct him, but they had all failed. Now he was obligated to no one. Working for the highest bidder, free to do what was required. It was a fitting end to his life.

  When he looked up, the draft had been updated. It had only taken seven minutes for the reply to appear.

  Doesn’t Sallie ever sleep?

  He read the new draft, then deleted it. Apparently, despite all of her supposed skills, she was having difficulty getting the information he wanted. Well, there are other, more direct, ways.

  Singer called up his return flight information and added a short stopover.

  Chapter 12

  Fairfax, VA

  Sunday, 11:30 a.m.

  Slattery spent the morning staring at his cell phone praying for a message about the materiel from Islamabad. He knew it had arrived this morning. He knew it was now sitting in a Science and Technology lab in Langley. The tech guys should be all over it.

  Why the hell is it taking so long to process?

  The agent was not a patient man. His career had been spent acting in dangerous, faraway locations, not planning operations in Langley for others to execute. It’s what he wanted to do, what he was good at, but it’s likely also why he had reached his current personal glass ceiling.

  Since he had to do something, he paced. He paced around his living room. He paced over the tattered Oriental rug in the hallway between the front door and the kitchen.

  But when he started pacing in the kitchen itself, Beth, his wife of twenty-five years who normally had the patience of Job, had had enough. She told her spook husband that he’d better go somewhere else or she was going to kill him. She had things she needed to do, and she couldn’t do them with him funking around.

  He had gotten the hint. He went to his car and drove to Langley.

  The secure laboratories of the Science and Technology Directorate were located in the second subterranean level. Slattery made his way through the security checks and into the room. The lab was a sprawling space, nearly the size of his son’s high school basketball court, filled with about a dozen technicians. The floor was a maze of desks and lab benches. Shelves and cabinets covered the walls, filled with all manner of electronic equipment, some Slattery recognized like oscilloscopes and power supplies, others unrecognizable, made by the magicians in S&T. Despite all the activity, the room was relatively quiet, attesting to the cerebral nature of the techs’ work.

  Slattery saw Eric Gillum, one of the S&T senior managers, staring into a laptop on one of the lab benches. The others in the room likely worked for him. Gillum was a small man with wavy silver hair and glasses with Coke-bottle-thick lenses. He was dressed in khaki pants and a starched white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A large gold ring sat on his right hand, a not-so-subtle reminder of his pedigree, a doctorate in computer science from MIT.

  Slattery approached carefully, wary of disturbing Gillum’s concentration. The scientist was as edgy as he was competent.

  “Roger, welcome,” Gillum said, still staring into the laptop. “I was wondering when you’d appear.” Then he spun on the stool to face his visitor. “I heard you were the instigator of this scavenger hunt. Couldn’t stand waiting any longer?”

  Slattery looked around and wrinkled his nose. “Sorry, Eric. Didn’t mean to bother you. But how did you know it was me?”

  Gillum flashed a broad smile. “You think only you secret agents know tradecraft? I saw your ref
lection in my laptop screen.”

  Slattery nodded, but then thought better of it. Was it really possible to see a reflection on a screen? Or did Gillum just happen to be looking at the security camera feeds? He decided to give his colleague the benefit of the doubt.

  Slattery returned the smile. “Nice work. Now, as long as I’m here …”

  “Yes, yes. I know. You’d like to know what we’ve discovered so far.” The smile disappeared and Gillum fell into his manager persona. “We’ve got lots of electronics associated with the weapon itself.” He pointed to one corner of the room. Slattery recognized the dish from the Islamabad hotel room. I have a team going over it, but it’s going to take a while to figure out exactly what it does.”

  “I may know some folks who might be able to help with that,” Slattery offered. Nothing quite as satisfying as throwing his colleagues in Fort Meade under the bus.

  “That would be very helpful, Roger. Thanks. The three terrorists all had burner cell phones, and their calls were to burners. We’re trying to locate the other phones, but my guess is they’ve all been trashed by now.”

  Slattery felt a deepening throb in his stomach. Had he come downstairs for nothing?

  “There was one laptop, however. And that was a gold mine.” Gillum’s face brightened. He must have saved the good news for last. “It belonged to the head of the operation, none other than General Ricardo Sandura, a senior officer of the Operational Strategic Command, National Bolivarian Armed Forces of Venezuela.”

  Venezuela? What the hell?

  Slattery’s usually impassive expression must have cracked. “Yeah, we were surprised too. We identified him pretty quickly by facial rec. I spoke with Lorentz up in the Latin American section, and he says the connections make sense. Cuba, China and Pakistan are all close partners of Venezuela. And have no love for the U.S. Sandura would have had no trouble bringing the equipment into the countries and would likely have had at least tacit approval of any local operation from the governments.