by L. Todd Wood
Once they had finished emptying both trucks, the foreman patted the truck driver on the back and said, “Harasho!” in Russian. The men then started dismantling the well. In a few days, there was no evidence remaining of their activities.
President Walker puffed on his cigar as the call was put through. “The president will speak with you now, sir, stand by,” said the White House operator.
“Yes, Hal, how are you?” said the president.
“I’m fine, Mr. President,” said former President Walker. “I’m up here in Michigan, enjoying myself. You know, I don’t have to worry about all of that political crap like you do anymore. It’s kind of nice!”
“I envy you, Hal. And thanks for not being a sore loser. What can I do for you?”
“Mr. President, I have some disturbing news to relay to you. It seems you have a rogue element inside of DHS, fronted by an Undersecretary Skinner. He’s picked up two friends of mine, Connor Murray and Peter Quinn, for what I believe are unlawful charges. I fear he may be working for foreign entities attempting to undermine our production of shale hydrocarbons, for whatever reason. I had some knowledge of this effort come to my attention before I left office, which I passed on to your transition team. I’m sure you can find the information quickly. I’d appreciate if you would use your influence to get my friends out of prison and to more importantly investigate this individual and his henchmen and put him in jail for whatever his actions have been concerning his agenda.”
“President Walker, these are serious accusations, and I assure you I will give this matter my utmost attention, and I promise you justice will be served. I will have my staff get back to you with a resolution for the matter within twenty-four hours. Does that suffice?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President, it does. And one more thing, Mr. Murray is currently being treated for lymphoma and is in a weakened state. He was picked up on a radiation alert in the city due to a recent PET scan and an isotope in his body to detect cancer. He has a card from the physician stating this. I hope that every effort will be made to ease whatever suffering he is enduring and to make sure he is not overly physically or mentally exerted. Thank you.”
“Of course, Hal. I will see to it myself!”
“Thank you, Mr. President, good day.” President Walker hung up the phone and stared at the white caps frothing on the straits. The bridge lights were green and red like a Christmas tree.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Connor sat at the computer console at the library in the small town outside of New York City in Westchester County. Mount Kisco was on the Harlem Line from Grand Central and was a quick forty-five minute train ride from the city. He had taken the local with many stops, and the train was filled with mothers and children coming back from Manhattan. They were chatting away, as opposed to the quiet commuter crowd in the morning, and were blissfully oblivious to train etiquette. The evening commute hadn’t started yet. He left the train in a crowd of strollers and crying children. The library was within walking distance of the station, and Connor made the trip in about five additional minutes.
He had been released unceremoniously from the DHS Detention Center in Manhattan a few hours earlier. There was no reason given. However, Connor was scared. He had been interrogated for hours on what he knew about the Catenation Energy situation. He didn’t tell them much since he didn’t know much, but they made it clear they could get to him if they wanted to. That’s why he had made the trip to Mount Kisco and had made sure he was not followed. Who are these people? Why is my own government harassing me? What am I up against? What is Natasha up against? Why did they release me? Where was Peter? He switched trains several times in Grand Central in a short period of time to make it almost impossible to follow him. He even got off and back on the train at the last moment at several previous stations on the way to Mount Kisco to make sure there was no tail. Of course, they could have someone waiting at each station, but he thought that was improbable. Or they could have a microchip implanted in my brain, he nervously laughed to himself.
Connor had not talked to anyone since he was released. He only wanted to get information to Natasha. His world was falling apart, and she was in more danger than he ever thought. He had to get in contact. Maybe today’s the day. They had prearranged several safe houses where they could hide indefinitely from prying eyes, but Connor had no idea which one she had chosen. That was on purpose. Until they were both together and safe, neither could afford to have the location of the other. This information could be extracted under duress and risk both their lives.
He accessed the email site and clicked to load his inbox. The PC was a very old model, and the processing time was predictably slow. He wondered if these library models were like rental cars, massed produced with very little quality. Finally the page loaded. No messages. Connor half expected that. It’s only been a couple weeks. Don’t kid yourself. He hit compose and began typing a message. Don’t Trust Anyone was all it said.
Unbeknownst to Connor, Natasha was heading into the nearby village to buy food and other staples. She had purchased an old Land Rover for transportation. It seemed to run well enough, and she ventured down the hillside to the dirt road, which crossed through the fields for ten miles into the nearby town.
The population here was a mix of indigenous Indians and descendents of African slaves brought in by the Portuguese to work the sugar fields. Their skin was a varying shade of brown depending on their bloodline. The mix of lineage tended to create strikingly beautiful women. Natasha knew she would stand out like a sore thumb as a white European woman and had dressed as nondescript as possible. She even had tied a scarf around her dark hair. The Land Rover negotiated the potholes fairly well and passed the occasional ox cart or tractor without difficulty. Soon she was entering the village.
The town was a throwback to the old Portuguese colonial settlements. Bright, pastel-colored masonry buildings with terracotta roofs adorned the main thoroughfare. It seemed there was a Catholic church on every street corner, complete with bell towers. The streets were wide and of cobblestone construction. Palm trees decorated the free spaces. Local farmers grilled meat on the side of the road, an impromptu churrascaria. For a small amount of money, they would carve you a slice. I love it here, she thought. I could stay here forever.
She needed to buy staples, but the real reason Natasha was in town was to check her email inbox. First things first, she decided, and entered the local market. After taking her pick of the local fresh produce and some canned goods, Natasha made her way to the internet cafe down the main street on the corner. She tried to visit here as infrequently as possible so as not to draw attention to herself. Once in a while was all she thought was appropriate. She picked a console in the rear corner, shielded from view from the street. The cafe was empty except for the proprietor, who paid her no attention. Good. The anticipation was sweet. Natasha had not initiated contact but was wondering if Connor had. As she loaded her inbox, a message appeared. Excited, she immediately typed back one word.
Connor was tired and demoralized. No contact from his girlfriend, he’d been arrested, interrogated, and he had cancer. Not a good day, sport. Exhausted mentally and physically, he stood up to leave the terminal and pushed the chair into the desk. I’d better log out—come on, don’t make that stupid mistake, he thought. Several weeks before, he had forgotten to log out of his session at the library, and some teenage girl hacked his account. Luckily, all she did was post a nasty message for all to see, but he learned his lesson.
As he reached over to click the sign out button, he noticed an untitled message load into his inbox from an unknown entity—his heart skipped a beat. Natasha! He excitedly opened the email. There was only one word in the text—Sugar.
Omar Hakim lived the American dream. It had not always looked like his life would work out the way it did. He was born into a poor Arab family in the Bronx, New York and grew up on the streets. Life had been hard and brutal. In fact, when he was twenty-one, it looked as if he
would spend the rest of his life in prison. He had been arrested as an accomplice in a gang shooting death and was going to be arraigned and sent to prison. Omar had not pulled the trigger but was nearby when the victim was killed.
He must have had a guardian angel that day, because a man showed up in the courtroom to speak to the prosecutor. He vouched as an eyewitness that Omar was not the individual to pull the trigger and commit the murder, and in fact had tried to stop it. This man was the local Imam from the mosque in his neighborhood. He left the courthouse with Omar after the charges were dropped and went straight to the nearest U.S. Marine Corp recruiting office. The recruiter was eager to sign him up, as he was light on his quota for the month. Several months later, Omar graduated basic training. After having distinguished himself with valor in Afghanistan, he left the service five years later as a decorated United States Marine. He was then given the opportunity to join the Secret Service and had served with distinction. Currently he was honored with the opportunity to guard Lion, or the Secret Service code name given to former President Walker.
It was late in the day in Michigan; the sun was dipping below the horizon, and the temperature began to drop as it always did this time of day. Where is my windbreaker? thought Omar. He was stationed in the front yard of the cottage on the Mackinac Island bluff where the wind off the water was the strongest. He could see the sailboats making their way back into the harbor after a day of recreation. The college kids manning the stores during the day would soon be heading for the bars. This was a dangerous time of day, when visibility began to decrease as the light dropped and the eyes started to lose their accuracy. Twilight forced the receptors in the retina to use both rods and cones, but neither was efficient in the period between day and night vision. Therefore, he had to be especially vigilant. He searched the sloping ground before him, always on the lookout for intruders. He had a switch in his pocket to illuminate the area with floodlights if necessary.
His cell phone rang, startling him. “Hakim here,” he answered.
“Hello, Omar, do you remember me?” the voice asked.
After a few seconds of recognition, he responded, “How could I forget?”
“Very good. I hope you have enjoyed yourself. It is time. God is calling you.”
“I am ready,” he answered.
Under Secretary Skinner opened the door to the limo and stepped outside of the vehicle once it had stopped in front of the office building in Washington, D.C. The white stone fortress of a structure was a formidable sight, he had to admit. Taxpayers had forked over a bundle for this new building, but what did he care. Not my problem, he thought to himself. I like walking on marble floors. The American priorities are all screwed up.
He made his way to the entrance while searching through his briefcase for his identification badge to process through security when a microphone was rudely stuck in his face from behind.
“Secretary Skinner, what do you have to say about the charges leveled against you? Are you really working for a foreign government? Have you abused your power by arresting United States citizens who opposed your agenda?”
Stammering, Skinner replied, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Sir, the president has just named you as an accomplice in an international plot against the United States, what do you say to that?”
“I have no comment,” Skinner replied as he pushed his way through the gathering crowd and attempted to enter the white fortress. Shit, what the hell is going on? He didn’t have time to think about it further, as he was slammed into the white masonry wall and handcuffs were slapped on his wrists.
“Secretary Skinner, you’re under arrest,” said the agent from DHS, waiting by the door.
The sultan answered the phone, “Yes?”
“It seems Skinner has been arrested. The rumor on the street is that former President Walker passed information to the White House, which had him taken into custody.” The man speaking to the sultan waited for a response. He always wondered during these pauses whom he was talking to. He had visions of an Arab sheik in white robes lying on a rug in front of his harem somewhere in the desert, but the reality he knew was quite different, as the man was in a position of power, probably more like a government building somewhere near the Persian Gulf.
“I have heard this already from other sources. It seems the president was alerted to our little plot from Walker and took action. We will adjust. Have you activated the contact inside Walker’s group?”
“Yes, he is ready.”
“Good, await my instructions.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The one good thing to come out of all of this is that my cancer seems to be gone. Connor was on his way to see Peter, who had been released as well. It was a kind of reunion of sorts. They had spoken briefly on the phone but purposely kept their conversation minimal. They were to meet at the table in Bryant Park, like old times. But the world was different now; nothing could be the same as it was. I just want my life back. I want Natasha back. I want to be back in New Mexico. I want to be away from the crowds, away from airplanes, away from hospitals, away from people chasing me.
The doctors had called Connor once he was out of custody. The PET scan showed no cancer cells. He was clean. However, this was just a preliminary finding. There had to be many more tests to confirm. The question now was, did he go through his last chemotherapy treatment? Technically, since he was clean, he could forgo the last injections. However, if he did the last treatment, his chances of the cancer coming back went down considerably. I’ll sleep on that question and interrogate my doctors. That’s a hard one. I definitely don’t want to go through that crap again. But?
The cab let him out in front of the New York Library on Fifth Avenue. He had to negotiate around a crowd gathered to watch the sidewalk panhandler comedy show, but the walk to the park in the rear of the building was without incident. The crowd was light at this time of the day. As happy hour approached, things would pick up. Peter sat at their table, staring off into space, his arms folded across his chest. He saw Connor approach.
“We still know nothing,” he said as Connor sat down at the table.
“What do you mean?” Connor asked.
“I mean we are released from custody for reasons we still don’t understand, and we know nothing. We don’t know why we were there. We don’t know really who gave the order to pick us up. We don’t know why Skinner was arrested. We just don’t know anything.”
“The president said in his news conference Skinner was involved in a foreign operation to alter our domestic policy. I was briefed by former President Walker and his contacts about more details on the whole scheme, but I can’t discuss them. Seriously, I promised.”
“Really? Well, I don’t know what to believe,” replied Peter. “And I’m angry about the whole thing. I want some normalcy back, but now I look over my shoulder constantly. I want to get back to work. I want to be worrying only about energy again.”
“I feel your pain, brother!”
Connor’s cell phone rang. “Yes?” he answered.
“Connor, it’s Eric. I’m glad to hear you’re out. The boss was responsible for that you know. He called POTUS. Please come to Michigan as soon as possible. It’s urgent. My people will make the arrangements.”
“Tell them I can leave in the morning. What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here. Come quick.”
“Okay, I’m on it. See you shortly.” Connor hung up.
Peter could see the worry in Connor’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“Walker is the reason we were released, but they want me up with him in Michigan as soon as possible. Something’s up and it doesn’t sound good.” Connor and Peter discussed their time in custody, set a time to talk again, and parted ways.
As the helicopter approached the Grand Hotel, Connor looked out the window and saw the black Suburban waiting near the grassy landing area. He could make ou
t the hotel’s guests playing bocce ball at the far end of the green. The tourist trade was in full swing as the horse-drawn carriages lined up to pick up passengers for the ride into town. This time, he wasn’t so impressed, as he had seen it all before. The aircraft landed, and the former president’s staff whisked him away. Soon he was walking in the rear doors of the governor’s cottage. The atmosphere in the residence was much more subdued than during his previous stay.
“The president is on the porch,” said Barnard as Connor passed him while walking through the study. “He’ll explain everything to you himself.” There was anxiety as well as worry apparent in his face.
Connor opened the glass French doors to the porch and spotted President Walker sitting in a rocking chair at the end of the wooden platform, staring again out at the straits. He had a blanket draped over him. As Connor approached, he noticed the man seemed thinner, weak, and pale.
“How are you, Mr. President?” asked Connor.
President Walker turned to him and pulled himself away from his thoughts. “I’ve been better, Connor. I’m sick. I’m not sure what’s going on. I can’t keep anything down now for days. Or keep anything in me, for that matter. It’s pretty violent. I just emptied my bowels full of water just before you arrived. It’s constant. Something’s really wrong.”
“Are you going to go to a hospital?”
“Yes, we are leaving in the morning. That’s why I wanted to see you. I made some calls after you were arrested. I spoke to the president himself. He’s the one that had you both released. As you know, the president also had Skinner arrested. However, my fear is that Skinner was not the only one. How big this cell, this cancer, is within our government is unknown. I’m sure the president’s staff will be all over it now, but who knows how long it will take to root it all out.”