by David Archer
Of course, he checked out the situation to make sure that the child's illness wasn't part of some ruse by their current enemies. Even a secretary, under the right circumstances, can be turned into a spy or an assassin. It had happened, many times in the past, and would undoubtedly happen again in the future. Ron just wasn't going to have it happen on his watch.
His phone rang suddenly, and he jumped. The phone on his desk didn't ring very often, and when it did, it usually wasn't good news. He picked up the receiver. "Ron Thomas," he said.
"Well, Ron, Boy," Harry said, "I knew who I was calling, but thank you for telling me that I got through to the right person. I'm just checking in, have we got anything new?"
Ron shook his head, even though he knew Harry couldn't see him. "Afraid not," he said. "The only thing of any interest is something we basically already knew, that we've got some spooks coming in through the airport. I've got Ginger going out to sit in on the interview with the flight attendants tomorrow, just so we have our own idea of what's going on there. Besides the two you killed, there are six more floating around the city, and I've already stepped up our security watch around the building. Anybody shows up here snooping around, we'll spot them. I told the boys we want them alive, not dead. Of course, you know how that goes; they're usually under orders not to be taken alive."
He could hear Harry sigh through the phone. "Fine, fine," Harry said. "If you hear anything new on Sam, I want to know about it instantly. Sending him with Ken Long into DC is a lot like when Daniel got tossed into the lion's den. I'm afraid that boy had better be praying pretty hard, if he has any hope of getting out of this one alive."
"Harry, a couple months ago I would've agreed with you," Ron said. "The thing is, Sam Prichard is probably the most natural agent either one of us has ever seen, and considering what an old fart you are, that's saying something big. If anybody can pull this off, it will be those two. The real question in my mind is how you're going to keep Uncle Sam from deciding to burn them both, and all of us, when it's over. Got that figured out yet?"
Harry chuckled, and Ron felt the shiver that always ran down his spine when that happened. "Son, what you need to remember is that, next to Chandler, I probably know where more bodies are buried than just about anyone else in government service. There aren't too many people who will risk pissing me off if they can avoid it. That will be especially true once Mr. Chandler is not around to try to protect them. If our boys get the job done, I'm not worried about the repercussions. On the other hand, if they don't, I strongly suspect that we should start studying up on our Sunday school lessons."
It was Ron's turn to laugh, but it felt sour to him. "Harry, do you really believe there's any room for us in Heaven? After the things we've done?"
"Why, Ron, why would you ask such a question? Even Judas Iscariot could have been forgiven, so that means there's hope for an old codger like me. I can honestly say that almost everyone I ever killed not only had it coming, but benefited our country by making their exit. What about you? I don't think you've ever killed anyone yet, have you?"
"Harry," Ron said, "haven't you ever heard of the Fifth Amendment? I'll just hope you're right, be sure to say my prayers at bedtime. I'll let you know if I hear anything."
"You do that, Son, on both counts." The line went dead instantly.
Ron shook his head. Harry was one of the strangest old men he'd ever known, and he often wondered what it would have been like to have known him when he was younger. From the stories he heard, Harry was probably America's answer to that famous British super spy. Ron wondered what might've happened if Harry Winslow had run into James Bond. It certainly would've been a battle of dinosaurs, because each of them was about as outdated as a T-Rex.
Ron went back to reading his notes, but there was nothing of any great importance coming through them. He fought off the temptation to call Sam, knowing that Harry would call him when he got impatient enough. Something was definitely going to go down in DC within the next day or so, and it was quite possible that the whole world would be different when the sun came up afterward. If Chandler managed to come out on top, it would be highly doubtful that anyone would ever get another chance to take him out. He had so many powerful friends that it wasn't likely he'd ever be vulnerable again.
* * * * *
Harry was thinking similar things, but from his perspective, this mission was something that had been coming for a while. No, he hadn't known what Chandler was up to until Ken Long had been thrown into their laps, but there was a part of Harry that always believed that some Divine Providence had been directing the events of his life for many years. To him, that Providence was what he thought of as God, and he wasn't above whispering a prayer now and then.
On that particular day, considering the mission and all that was riding on it, Harry had reached the conclusion that God had thrust Sam Prichard into his life. Like Ron, Harry had never seen a man who was better suited to the work of a secret agent then Sam was, but he had become so fond of the young man that it broke his heart to see him forced to do things that so violated his own moral codes. Some recruiter at some college had certainly missed out failing to find Sam Prichard and sign him up for the CIA, or even the FBI. Their loss, however, was Harry's gain, because even when most of Capitol Hill thought Harry was safely out to pasture, he had suddenly discovered the young man who had already saved the country twice. Sam's accomplishments had been the foundation upon which Harry's superiors had been forced to build his new position, establishing a full Homeland Security office in Denver, to replace the satellite office Harry had been running secretly for almost a decade.
There was no more secrecy; Harry Winslow was now known as Homeland Security's man, and half of Capitol Hill was frightened. As old as Harry was, he knew things going back as far as the seventies, things that everyone in DC wanted to keep buried as deeply as possible. It wasn't even necessary to know what those secrets were, to be aware that if Harry ever decided to let go of all he knew, heads were certain to roll, and they would be rolling right down Pennsylvania Avenue.
Harry thought it was funny. While he did have his own version of the dead man's stash – a large batch of files that would be released to various members of the press if anything happened to Harry – he had enough safeguards on it that there was little risk that anyone would ever see any of those files. Instead of having it set up so that they would be automatically released if he failed to login to some secret server, he had spent a lot of money having a program written so it would simply scan various news sites looking for a death announcement about him, and then check certain other websites that were less public, looking for cues that would say whether his death was natural or not. If it was death by natural causes, the files would instantly be shredded and destroyed; if not, then an awful lot of reporters were going to get emails that would keep them up and awake for several nights.
Harry didn't want to ruin anybody's reputation, but he did want to live as long as possible. A dead man's stash was simply a new form of life insurance, and it was fairly common in the political and intelligence communities. By now, Harry was sure that Ron had one of his own, and he made a note to ask. If the boy didn't have one, it was time he got one set up. He knew where a few bodies had ended up, already, which made him a liability to some people.
A light blinked on his phone, telling him that someone was trying to reach him. He picked up the receiver. "Yes?"
"Mr. Winslow? You've got a call coming in from New York; do you want to take it? It's — it's her."
Harry smiled. "Well, of course I'll take it," he said. "Put 'er through." He waited for a moment as the phone made clicks and beeps, and then he heard that famous voice.
"Harry? Are you there?"
"Why, Sandra," Harry said. "What a surprise. What can I do for you, my dear?"
"Harry, you're no fool. You know exactly why I'm calling you. I got a call from our dear friend Grayson, and he's asked me to try to get you off his back. I don't need to remi
nd you, do I, that I have certain information regarding your last trip to Europe that I'm pretty sure you don't want to get out?"
Harry burst out laughing. "If you are referring to my dalliance with a certain member of the British royalty, I can assure you that I could care less who found out about that! In the first place, who would believe it? And in the second, who cares? Those people do more stupid stuff in a half hour than our Hollywood stars can do in six weeks. And while we’re on the subject of who knows what about who, do you really want to go there? Have you forgotten who was standing in the room with a certain First Lady, when she overruled her husband and demanded that a church full of men, women and children be burned to the ground? Do you honestly think I didn't manage to get copies of the monitoring tapes from that office? Don't threaten me, darlin', unless you're ready to play in the big leagues. I like you, kiddo, I really do, but I could destroy you in a matter of seconds, and you know it. Don't ever make me do it, okay? I'd really hate it."
The lady on the other end of the line laughed, a hearty laugh that said she'd gotten exactly the response she had been expecting. "Trust me, you old buzzard, I never will. I promised Grayson that I would call you, and I did. Can I call him back and tell him you said you'd consider it?"
"You can if you want to lie," Harry said. "The only thing I'm going to consider is what dance I plan to do on his grave. Things have gone too far, and whether you believe his take on the prophecies, or the Bible's, either way, things are coming to a head. I don't know about you, my dear, but I want to be on the winning side. Now, Chandler is putting all his chips on some weird Mesopotamian God that he thinks can whip all the rest of them. I've read up on that one, that Shamash, and what bothers me is that I can't find any record of his prophecies that have already come true. On the other hand, a nice, long read through the Good Book will show you hundreds of prophecies that can be proven to have come true already. My favorite is how Daniel was able to predict that Alexander the Great would attempt to invade Israel hundreds of years before he was born. When he showed up to begin that invasion, the Jewish high priest simply showed him the prophecy which so obviously pointed to him, and he was so blown away by it that he not only didn't invade, he went into the Jewish temple and made a sacrifice to the God Jehovah. Pretty amazing that the prophecies could be so detailed, isn't it? I think I'm going to stick on the side of the God who can pull off a coup like that. That's what you can tell Chandler, and you can tell him also that I think it’s disgusting he's hiding behind a girl. You have a great day, my dear, okay? We'll talk later." He hung up without even saying goodbye.
Harry leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. If Chandler was reaching out that far, then he was more worried than he was admitting. There was something that Harry was missing, and he knew it. Now all he had to do was figure out what it was.
For some reason, Chandler was getting scared. He was calling in favors that he should've saved for once he got his plans in motion, and that told Harry that he was worried about what Sam and Ken were likely to do. Somehow, he had come to the conclusion that there was a chance he was going to lose this gambit. What could be making him nervous? That was what Harry had to figure out.
He sat forward again, and picked up his cell phone. He tapped the icon for Sam and held the instrument to his ear. Sam answered on the second ring, and Harry smiled.
"Sam, Boy, how are you, Son?"
"Still on the road, Harry, how's it going on your end?"
"Sam, I'm not sure. I just got a call from somebody big enough that it tells me Chandler is getting nervous. He's rattling chains he shouldn't be rattling, not yet. He should be saving some of these people for when he really needs them, with the program he's put in the motion. I'm not sure what's got him scared, but something does. For some reason, he thinks you just might get to him. Any clue what could bring that about?"
"Not yet, Harry. Ken's got a plan, but we haven't done anything about implementing it yet. You got any ideas?"
Harry scowled. "Nothing, nothing at all. I don't know what's got him rattled, but we need to figure it out, so we can use it against him. Anything that makes him nervous can strengthen our position, so if we can figure out what it is, it improves the odds of our success. Keep your thinking caps on, and let me know if you come up with anything."
"We will, Harry. Ken is looking at me with his eyes wide, so I don't think he knows any more than I do. On the other hand, we’re only about an hour out of the city now, and we're coming in through some residential areas. Wish us luck."
"You know I do," Harry said, and then he hung up again. In the Corvette that was nearly seventeen hundred miles away, Sam looked over at Ken and muttered something about Harry lacking in social skills.
Harry wasn't worried about being sociable; he was worried about how to keep his country and its sovereignty intact. Globalization would come, that he knew, but that didn't mean he was looking forward to it. As long as there was breath in his body, he knew he would fight the concept and do all he could to delay it or stop it if that were in his power. That was the whole reason behind the mission his boys were on right now, and the fact that Chandler was nervous was giving him just a little touch of hope.
3
"It's called the Matomic building," Ken said. "It was actually built not long after World War II, by an Italian immigrant named Jerry Miaitico. Because we had just taken out Hiroshima and Nagasaki not long before, Jerry wanted this building to be one that could withstand an atomic attack so he built it with an incredible amount of steel girders. That's how it got its name: M for Miaitico, plus the word atomic, equals Matomic. Once it was built, Jerry leased it to the federal government. Its very first tenant was an organization that was considered top-secret at the time, the Atomic Energy Commission. Ironic wasn't it?"
Sam grinned. "Sort of fitting, if you ask me."
"Yeah, it was. There were a lot of little diversions along the way, but eventually the government set out to force Jerry to sell them the building. They even tried to take it under eminent domain, but he found himself an incredibly bright lawyer by the name of Herschel Shanks, and Shanks actually wrote a brief that beat the government at its own game. That didn't happen often, but in this case it worked out well. Jerry's daughters inherited the building when he passed away, and they eventually sold it to the government for an incredible fortune. Three floors of that eleven-story monstrosity ended up dedicated to the CIA. Now, mind you, this was before the CIA settled in Langley. That's where their headquarters is now, but they still maintain their offices in the Matomic building, and since it's only a block from the White House, that's where Chandler's senior Islamic desk is located. I think the reasoning is because, if he comes up with something critical in the way of a warning about impending terrorist activity, and for any reason it's considered too sensitive for the extremely secure phone lines in DC, well, then he can just take off and jog down the street to brief the president. Don't look at me like that, I know how stupid that sounds, but that's exactly how stupid Washington politics can be."
Sam held up his hands as if to ward off his comment. "Hey, I'm just along for the ride, remember?"
"Ride, my aunt Mabel," Ken said. "You're driving, remember? Okay, turn right at the next light. We don't want to get too close before we park this thing. If we had half a lick of sense, we'd have hidden it somewhere and stolen us a station wagon. Something that wouldn't stand out like a sore thumb, anyway. You and your hot rods!"
Sam made the turn and then pointed. "All day parking, ten dollars. Looks like a good place to leave the Corvette, don't you think?"
Ken nodded. "It'll do," he said. "You do have comprehensive insurance on this thing, right? I mean, when it gets stolen, somebody's gonna send you a nice big check, right?"
Sam pulled into the parking lot and chose an empty spot. "I hope you're being a smart Alec," he said, "but yeah, I've got theft insurance. Just hope I never have to file the claim. I've got years of work invested in this car. I'm not sure I'v
e got it in me to do all that again."
Ken was flipping through several debit cards that he'd taken from a pocket, and passed one to Sam. "Swipe this one to pay for the parking," he said. "It will lead back to either of us, so hopefully Chandler won't know the Corvette is here for at least a few hours. That ought to give us a little bit of a head start on them, a chance to find a position where we can spot the killers coming. Let's go, out of the car. We can't afford to sit in one spot for more than a few minutes, not in the city."
Sam got out, leaving his bag behind the seat, and he noticed that Ken did the same. That almost made him nervous, because it implied that they wouldn't be needing a change of clothes. As far as Sam was concerned, the only ones who didn't need a change of clothes were dead men.
He swiped the card Ken had given him in the machine, punched in the number of the parking space he had taken and waited for a moment while it printed a receipt. The system was completely automated, so that when he went to leave, he would hold the receipt up to a reader on the exit gate. The reader would scan a bar code, and decide whether Sam was paid up, or owed more money. If he was within the time allowed for the all day, ten-dollar fee, then the gate would open and let him go. If not, it would demand more money before opening.
"They get you coming and going," Ken said. "This city has more ways to fleece money out of you than anyplace else I've ever been in the entire world. Doesn't matter how tight you hold onto your wallet, trust me, somebody here will get money out of it."
Sam grinned at him. "That wasn't my money they just got, it was yours."
"No, it wasn't," Ken said, grinning back. "That card was a phony, backed up by some fictitious bank account somewhere in New Jersey. Whenever I'm sent out on a mission, I end up with some of those. A few years ago, I figured out that they don't ever cancel them once I'm done, so I just started holding onto them. I mean, you never know when you might need an extra fifty bucks or so, right? Some of the ones I've got only have a couple hundred dollars on them, and some of them have a few thousand. It's just nice to have something to fall back on."