The Jason Betrayal

by Jack Bowie

  Her ankles were also tied tightly. Singer was not taking any chances.

  She felt light through her eyelids and decided they had taken off her hood. Slowly, she opened her eyes to get a look.

  Her first image was of a man, slouched in a chair, about ten feet directly across from her. As her eyes focused, she could see his arms and legs were tied to a heavy metal chair. His head was bowed; all she could see was a dark red stain blotched over matted sandy-colored hair. It only took a second to realize it was Donnelly.

  She moved her eyes down and saw she was tied in the same way to a similar industrial chair. Except instead of just tying her forearms to the arms of the chair, a heavy board had been placed on top of the arms and her wrists had been zip-tied to the board and chair, forcing her hands flat on the board. It wasn’t hard to imagine the reason for the positioning.

  Walker didn’t sense anyone else in the room, so she finally turned her head to look around. As she had guessed, it was an abandoned factory filled with rusty cabinets and tables, piles of busted wooden pallets and a few pieces of metal-working equipment, their original use long-forgotten.

  To her left, a course of steel stairs went to a second-floor room. The room was small compared to what she could see of the factory floor. Its windows looked down on the floor and were dirty and cracked. She couldn’t see anything inside.

  Becoming more confident, she tried to move the chair, but it seemed fixed to the floor. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  She still hadn’t heard any noises, so she took a chance. “Ian?” she whispered.

  Donnelly didn’t move.

  “Ian!” she said a bit louder.

  The bloody head raised and Walker gasped. Donnelly’s face had been beaten, ugly orange bruises covering both cheeks. His left eye was swollen shut. His good eye seemed to focus and stare at her.

  “Sydney? Is that you?” Donnelly’s voice had lost all of its strength.

  “Yes. I’m here.”

  “What happened? Did they take you as well? Why?”

  Walker didn’t know what to say. How would Donnelly take being told she thought he was a traitor? And he was likely about to be sold to a terrorist organization?

  Given their current situation, on the other hand, she saw little point in soft-selling their state. She needed him to be prepared for whatever would happen.

  “It’s a long story, Ian.” She described the contact with Hawthorne and his concern over Jason leaks. Then the plan to have her take the position at MITRE. She told him of their belief in a dark web auction site and the likelihood that they were abducted by the terrorist who runs the site. She did, however, leave out her personal experiences with Singer. That would have been too much.

  Donnelly just stared at her with his one good eye.

  “And you thought I was the traitor?”

  “You were one of the Jasons who had access to all the leaked technology. We had to consider you.”

  “Lots of Jasons had access. All the Steering Committee members for starters. And all the MITRE folks.”

  “What?”

  “The MITRE team. The Project Managers prepare the reports. And the Program Office sees all of them.”

  Shit! Of course. Have we been looking in the wrong place?

  Walker heard footsteps and turned her head. Someone was walking down the stairs. A head finally appeared. It was Singer.

  He walked over to the pair. “Well, I thought I heard someone talking. Sydney, good to see you again. I gather you’ve reacquainted with your friend.”

  “Go to hell, Singer.”

  Singer shook his head. “Now is that any way to talk to your host? You really should be more polite.”

  He walked over to a table piled with tools and selected a large iron mallet. When he turned back, he pounded the mallet into his palm.

  “What do you want from us?” Donnelly asked.

  “From you, Professor? Absolutely nothing. Although I can’t say the same for your future hosts.” Donnelly looked to Walker. She turned away.

  “But you, Sydney,” Singer continued. “You need to tell me more about your latest little adventure. Why were you babysitting the good professor, here?”

  Walker needed to stall. She had to believe help was coming.

  “It’s over, Singer. We know all about the web site. And Scheherazade. You’re done selling secrets.”

  “Very brave, Sydney, but my colleague and I know all that. What is clear is that you and Adam don’t know where I am. So no one is going to come and save you this time. Now tell me, where is he?”

  “I don’t know. Last time I saw him was in D.C.” At least that was the truth.

  Singer pounded the mallet into his hand. “Insufficient, Sydney. Where is Braxton?” His voice echoed through the factory.

  “I don’t know.”

  Singer raised the mallet and slammed it down. It struck the board between her two hands with a deafening crack. She screamed.

  “No!” Donnelly yelled.

  Singer smiled “My. It appears I missed. I’ll have to aim better next time.”

  “Singer!” A female voice came from the upstairs room.

  “Is that your partner, Scheherazade?” Walker asked.

  “Perhaps. Not that knowing that will be of much assistance to you.” He dropped the mallet back on the table. “I’ll let you think on things for a while.”

  “We need water,” Walker said.

  “Of course. I’ll bring some down. We wouldn’t want the professor to die on us. He’s much too valuable.”

  Walker turned and saw that Donnelly’s chin had again dropped to his chest.

  * * *

  Singer walked up to the office. He thought the exchange had gone pretty well.

  “How are they?” Shahid asked.

  “Fine, apparently. Walker certainly hasn’t had any of her fire extinguished. Yet.”

  “What do they know?”

  “About what we expected. They figured out about the leaks and located the site. I think Walker was tailing Donnelly figuring he was the leak.”

  “What about the CIA?”

  Singer shook his head. “They definitely have their own investigation going, but I doubt there’s any direct connection. The CIA wouldn’t have put a civilian like Walker undercover. Knowing Braxton, he’s on his own and pulled Walker in to help.” They had to find the consultant. He was going to be the key to the endgame. And his cell had gone dark.

  “We need to find him. Anything on Teuber’s laptop?” The laptop had been in the hacker’s backpack.

  “That’s why I called you. Nothing on the laptop except typical hacker crap. Wilhelm wouldn’t have left any tracks. Same with the cell phone. A bunch of local Nuremberg numbers but none were suspicious.”

  Damn. How were they going to find Braxton?

  “What about Donnelly’s and Walker’s phones?” Singer had collected his prisoner’s phones when they had arrived.

  “Donnelly’s was clean. I’m just starting on Walker’s. There must be something there.”

  Singer remembered what Walker had said about needing water and opened the small refrigerator they kept for refreshments. All he saw were shelves full of HiEnergy, Shahid’s over-caffeinated drinks. He grabbed two and headed downstairs.

  “Hey!” Shahid called. “What the hell are you doing with those?”

  “We have to give our guests something to keep them alive. These should do. They haven’t killed you yet.”

  Shahid threw him an ugly glare.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll replace them.”

  * * *

  Walker sat quietly in the dark of the factory. Both Singer and his Goth colleague had left, the only light a faint glow from the second-floor office. It must be late. Her watch had been broken during her capture, and she had to rely on what little light came through the factory’s smoky windows and the level of noise from the outside to estimate the time of day.

  After her earlier outburst, Singer had appeared and fed the
m high-caffeine energy drinks. He had apparently decided that two dead hostages were bad for business. The bottles were relatively cheap, didn’t need any preparation, and provided at least some calories and moisture.

  Donnelly had initially choked when he tried to drink—not uncommon for someone in his condition—but Singer had finally managed to figure out a method that got most of the liquid into him.

  Walker’s initial reaction had been to reject the crap, but logic finally won out and she accepted the nourishment. If she was ever going to escape, she needed whatever strength the oily liquid would give her.

  She was trying to maintain optimism for their rescue, but as her strength waned so did her hope. Despite her bravado to Singer, no one knew where they were. Braxton was trying to use his contacts, but would he be able to find them in time?

  Donnelly was not coping well. His facial bruises were healing, but his eye was still swollen shut and his breathing was strained, probably from the beating he had been given in the van. He was trying to keep up a strong front, but Walker doubted he could last much longer.

  It sounded like he was resting now, but each day brought the terror of being taken away to some new location that could be even more painful.

  She took a deep breath and tried to relax. If there was one thing she had learned from her previous adventures, it was that you had to keep fighting. Once you gave up, you had lost.

  Walker closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

  * * *

  Slattery had spent the night holed up in his office, trying to make sense out of the conflicting reports on the previous day’s events in Budapest. After the call from Braxton, he had alerted the Budapest station to watch for anything on Walker. He doubted Singer would try anything again so quickly, but better to be safe.

  Gillum had called again, saying they were still working on the location of the dark web site, but there were so many redirections he couldn’t say how long it would take.

  Markovsky had appeared at seven o’clock asking for an update. It was a painful discussion. After having resolved the situation involving the article about Braxton, the damn consultant had again appeared on their radar, this time in the middle of a highly classified incident involving national security leaks and an abduction. His boss had been livid.

  He had finally confessed to the likely Jason involvement. It was the only thread they had that tied the events together. This was the first time he had expressed his suspicions to anyone. Markovsky was skeptical but knew better than to disregard his head of counterterrorism’s gut belief. He, of course, asked for the name of the Jason, and Slattery had to say he didn’t know. Markovsky left the office muttering about the Director’s likely reaction.

  Slattery feared for his professional future.

  At eight-fifteen, his phone rang.

  “Slattery.”

  “She’s gone.” There was no mistaking the voice. It was Braxton.

  “Who’s gone, Adam?”

  “Sydney. I’ve been trying to reach her all morning. There’s no answer on her cell or at the hotel. They said they haven’t seen her since this morning.” The man sounded panicked.

  Slattery had to calm the man down. He couldn’t have him running loose any longer.

  “She’s likely at the police station, Adam. They would want to talk with her again.”

  “All day? No, Roger. Please find her.” Braxton was no longer combative. He was pleading.

  “I’ll do what I can, Adam. I promise. I’ll call if I find out anything.”

  “Ah, there’s one more thing.”

  I hate it when he says that.

  “I’m in Vienna,” Braxton added.

  “Vienna? Why Vienna?”

  “Because that’s where Singer is.”

  “How—” But the consultant had hung up.

  How had he located Singer?

  Slattery pounded out another message to the Budapest Chief of Station asking—if he was being honest, ordering—him to check with the police and hospitals for any information of Walker’s whereabouts.

  Then he called Gillum and asked if Vienna was a possible location for the web site. He had said yes, surprise in his voice. Slattery had told him he should focus on Vienna.

  A few minutes later, Lewis arrived. She went straight to his office.

  “Roger, you okay?”

  “Fine. It was a long night.” He described the abduction in Budapest.

  “Anything I can do?”

  “No. Thanks. We can talk about it later. Anything on the Singer research?” He hoped there might be something that would point to a possible connection to Jason.

  “Not yet. I came in on Saturday and poked into some old files. I’ll try to have something later today.”

  “That would be great.”

  Lewis stepped out and closed his door. How had she ever learned to read him so well?

  Slattery could barely keep his eyes open. He laid his head on his desk. He just needed a short nap.

  Chapter 33

  Vienna, Austria

  Monday, 5:45 p.m.

  Singer stood up from his chair and walked to the small kitchen for some dinner. He had taken his Oxy and spent a half-hour in deep meditation, but the pain wouldn’t subside. It was going to be a race to see if he could stay alive long enough to complete his final mission.

  “When you have mastered the Way of strategy you can suddenly make your body like a rock, and ten thousand things cannot touch you. This is the body of a rock.”

  Why had his body abandoned him? The cancer was everywhere, eating away his insides like some giant tapeworm. But his mind was intact. He knew what needed to be done. It had been clear to him for years. Punishment for disrespect needed to be meted out.

  Singer had given the energy drinks to his prisoners with moderate success. It seemed an odd way to provide nourishment, but it didn’t seem to hurt Shahid, as much as he could tell. And the fact that it pissed off his colleague was a bonus.

  Singer dumped a box of macaroni and cheese in a saucepan and turned on the stove. Hardly a connoisseur’s meal but it would do. It’s not like he needed to worry about eating healthy.

  He had to keep focused on the goal. Soon Slattery would swoop in. It was inevitable. But what about Braxton? Was he the CIA’s stalking horse, or had he bumbled into something so far over his head he didn’t know it? Either way, he and his girlfriend would soon be collateral damage in a bigger war.

  His war against the CIA.

  It was time to make the final preparations.

  * * *

  Slattery had slept for a couple of hours, then been awakened by the sound of an urgent email message. The Budapest Chief of Station had reported there was no sign of Walker anywhere. He had checked with the team investigating Donnelly’s abduction and they had said they had no further questions for the witness. They hadn’t talked to her since the night of the attack.

  Similarly, she had not shown up at any healthcare facility or her hotel. He had said he would continue monitoring his contacts.

  Slattery had decided not to call Braxton with no news and spent the rest of the day interrupting Gillum for status updates. The scientist had eventually stopped taking Slattery’s calls.

  Around four o’clock, he heard a tap at his door. He looked up and it was Lewis.

  “Come in, Cassie,” he said.

  Lewis appeared with a twelve-inch stack of papers in her arms. She dropped them on the floor.

  “It’s the results of my research on Singer, Roger,” she said with a smile. “I knew you’d want to review it.”

  Slattery grinned at the theatrical entrance. She knew exactly how to get his attention.

  “Okay. I’m impressed. As always. But how about I get the Cliff Notes?”

  She sat down next to his desk. “The simple answer is I came up empty. There was nothing in Singer’s record that would suggest a friendship with anyone close to Jason capabilities.

  “His trainers from the Farm are all long retired; many a
re deceased. None of his, ah, assignments, involved scientists or technologists. He did have occasional contact with members of S&T, but most were in the munitions area and none had, or have, any relationship to the outside scientific community, at least at the level of a Jason. I also cross-checked his contacts with anyone currently at MITRE and found no links.

  “I’m sorry.” Her normally enthusiastic expression had gone flat.

  Slattery sat back and sighed. It had been a long shot, but he had hoped they would find that one needle in the haystack of Singer’s life.

  “Thank you, Cassie. That was great work. It was worth a try.” He forced a smile. “And if I can’t sleep tonight, I’ll give that a look.” He nodded to the pile of paper.

  “You’re welcome, Roger. I wish I could have done more.” She got up and headed to the door. Then she stopped and turned back. Her forehead was wrinkled. “One thing, though.”

  “Yes?”

  “Our records aren’t very complete before Singer joined the Agency. Just general family background. Could he have made friends with someone before that? Maybe at college? I’m still close to some of my college classmates.”

  Slattery sat forward. How did she come up with these ideas?

  “He certainly could Cassie. Singer went to Princeton, right?”

  “Yes. But how would we ever find out what he did there?”

  His expression broadened to a grin.

  There may be hope after all.

  “That is something I know how to do. Get me a Gulfstream to New Jersey. I want to be in the air by six.”

  * * *

  A rental car had been waiting at Trenton-Mercer airport when Slattery had arrived at seven o’clock. He took I-195 east and an hour later arrived at Spring Lake, on the New Jersey coast. He turned north on Ocean Avenue. On his right, across a narrow strip of sandy beach, the Atlantic Ocean lay cold and dark, stretching out to the horizon. On his left, sprawling Victorian homes stood watch on the sea. It seemed a different time, a century before, when New York City’s high society had built their summer homes on the Jersey Shore.