by James Phelan
“Give ’em time,” Dunn replied. “They’re a bit slow in reading the news.”
“Yeah, well, not that their helping hand means I’ll pull any punches on them in the future,” Fox said, raising his glass in a mock toast.
“Glad to hear it.”
“From the Liberty?” Fox asked, pointing to the framed US ensign hanging on the wall. He got up for a closer inspection.
“Yep,” Dunn said, draining his bourbon. “Know what happened?”
“Only what’s been printed,” Fox said. Two photos on the wall showed the USS Liberty, before and after she was put out of service by the Israelis. In the centre of the wall was a framed large US flag, torn and burned in places; a flag that Fox had read was hanging in the National Cryptologic Museum across the road. He’d researched the Liberty incident prior to the meeting. Always be prepared when heading into an interview with a subject. Where possible, know that person as well as they know themselves.
“Damn fine men lost that day,” Dunn said. “You know what that’s like.”
“I do.” Fox sat back down. A plaque from GCHQ, Britain’s NSA equivalent, was on the wall behind Dunn, celebrating ‘sixty years of partnership.’ With the world’s biggest intelligence agency at his fingertips, it stood to reason that Dunn had read a report on him prior to the meeting. “Colonel, what motive could you see for Cooper’s murder?”
“Plenty of motive. Cooper looked after Advocacy Center stuff, so there are hundreds of big foreign companies that would wish he and his outfit didn’t exist.”
“I have spoken to some of the businesses that have profited from Advocacy Center dealings,” Fox said. “They are unwilling to say what information was provided by that office.”
“Part of the deal, for operational security reasons,” Dunn said, clearly pissed off that Fox had contacted these companies. “If the foreign companies wised up to what information we’re gathering from them, they may try to shut that door. Besides, much of the info we are passing these American companies are details of bribes being offered by their foreign rivals to sweeten the so-called tendering process.”
“Sounds fair enough,” Fox said with double meaning. “Does that information cost the US companies anything?”
Dunn locked Fox in a hard stare.
“The government gets reparations through the taxes involved,” he replied. “Raises the GDP, gives US companies a foot in the door into new markets they otherwise might miss out on.”
What else are you lying about? Fox thought, and reminded himself that this man was in a profession of lies and deceit.
“I’ve put together a list that shows all members of the Bilderberg Group who attended the last LeCercle meeting have been assassinated,” Fox said.
“Yeah, I had a read of your hypothesis piece in the Times that this is a warring-groups thing,” Dunn replied. “Assassinated or murdered? And only them? No other wealthy or high-profile people killed in the same time-period?” He leaned forward on his desk. “I don’t believe in coincidences, and what you’re saying seems too blatant. One special-interest group taking out another. These guys are connected, sure, but they’re glorified country clubs. What you are saying just doesn’t scan.”
“That’s what Cooper said,” Fox went on. “Blatant as it may be, these guys were killed after that last LeCercle meeting.”
“So what’s your read on that; they saw or heard something they shouldn’t have?” Dunn asked.
“France’s National Front Party has been funding key members of the LeCercle group to assume positions of power,” Fox said. “Joseph Cassel was head of NFP and LeCercle. His murder kicked off this spate of killings across Europe.”
“I didn’t mind Cassel, pretty spot-on for a French guy,” Dunn said. “So you’re thinking these other deaths could be reprisal for his assassination? By who?”
“That’s one explanation I’m looking at,” Fox replied. “His daughter, Sianne Cassel, has taken the reins of the party, and she is the current head of LeCercle. She has a motive if she thinks that her father was taken out by Bilderberg. She’s rich, powerful, well connected.”
“So it may have nothing to do with the groups, other than her using them to gain her own foothold in Europe?” Dunn asked. “Like her father, she’s been in and out of the European Parliament over the years, a position only obtained through the international connections she would have made from LeCercle.”
“Perhaps. The sticking point that I keep coming back to is that these were all invited guests to the same conference,” Fox said. “With no LeCercle members willing to talk to me about that meeting, I can only assume something was learned by these men that cost them their lives.”
“Lachlan, it’s assumptions in this game that kill, take it from a wiser man than you,” Dunn said, leaning back and sipping his drink. “Whatever the case, this stinks.”
“I for one am not gonna wait around for six months to read an obscure FBI report on Cooper’s death.” Fox tried that hot button.
“Fuck’n’ feds,” Dunn said, staring into his drink.
“Anything remarkable that Cooper had done lately?” Fox asked. He leaned forward in his chair. “Advocacy Center made any extraordinary deals, big deals?”
“They consistently play a hand in signing big deals,” Dunn informed him. “The Advocacy Center adds billions, tens of billions, to the economy every year through what they do. They’re the point guys making a path for our exporters to follow. You name a big American company, find their overseas rivals, and bet your ass they have been pipped at the post by what the Center does.”
“Uncovering bribes, giving the good guys the inside info on rival bids…”
“Where’s this going?” Dunn fixed a stare on Fox.
Fox went for it.
“Ever include me on any target lists?”
“What?” Dunn looked surprised but confidently steadfast. “I could say that I don’t comment on intelligence issues but this is just too much. We don’t intercept COMINT of journalists in the US. I mean, if something like that were done, such as if we suspected you were communicating with a foreign person of interest, I’d know about it as it would be me who’d have to okay it before obtaining a FISA court warrant.”
“So neither me nor anyone at GSR has been listened in on?” Fox asked.
Dunn leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “What have you got? I take it you’re not asking me this for nothing.”
Fox took the printed transcripts from his satchel, and passed them over to Dunn.
“Okay, these look like ours,” Dunn said, surprised. “Where’d you get them?”
“A source.”
“These originals?” He scanned through the pages, turning them with care.
“Yeah, I’ve got copies back in New York,” Fox said.
“Can you leave these with me? I’ll run them through our archives to see if we pulled this down,” Dunn said. “If these are ours, then I’ll find out who authorised them and why; I get his ass and you get your story.”
“If they are yours?” Fox said.
“I said they look like ours,” Dunn replied. “It’s our format, our font, our classification codes … but I’ve been in this game long enough to know that you need to chase down every possibility before coming to a conclusion.”
“You think they could be fakes?” Fox asked.
“That never crossed your mind?”
“It did, until you just confirmed that they look exactly like what you produce,” Fox said, cottoning on to what Dunn had said earlier. “You have those originals, I presume you’re going to check them for prints and other evidence of an origin?”
“Right after I check with our intercept team to see if these are legit,” Dunn replied. “These could be wiretaps set up to look like ours. If they are, they’re damn good, which means it’s someone who’s seen our docs before. Whatever the case, you’ve got me concerned.”
Fox watched as Dunn slid th
e papers into an envelope and put them in his out-tray.
“That it?” Dunn asked, eyebrows raised.
“Colonel, I’m not letting this Cooper thing go,” Fox said. “It’s part of something big and I’m going to find out what. Has there been an increase in chatter between right-wing European groups and individuals?”
“As in LeCercle members?” Dunn asked with raised eyebrows, as if he knew the question was coming.
“Them or anyone related,” Fox replied.
“Can’t say,” Dunn responded.
“Something’s going down with them. Do you at least target them for interception?”
“Lachlan … One, I can’t tell you what or who we target, and while I’m not surprised you’ve asked, I’m surprised you are persisting. Two, we’re a little busy dealing with real national-security problems at the moment to worry about a European right-wing group bumping off rivals—if indeed that is what they’re doing. Seriously, who or what organisation is doing this, right now, in the scheme of things, I couldn’t give a fuck about it.”
“It doesn’t warrant a closer look?” Fox persisted. “Even now that they might have targeted one of your own?”
“Lachlan, we’re not the world police, we’re charged with securing America. That’s it, it’s that simple.”
Fox shook his head like he wasn’t agreeing with what Dunn had said, his own mind driving thoughts that came out of his mouth as he clutched at possibilities.
“Why now?” Fox asked. “What’s significant about the timing?”
“Who knows.” Dunn could see Fox was not satisfied. “Look, this intercept stuff,” he tapped the envelope, “if it leads to an NSA mole, then I’ll see what we know about these LeCercle guys, okay? As a courtesy to you for bringing this to my attention. Not that I’m offering to show you anything raw, but if something stinks then I’ll point you in a direction.”
“Okay,” Fox said, getting up from his chair to leave, picking up his bag. “What’s your read of Europe right now?”
“What, politically? The last French election outcome stirred the pot over there. Cassel has a huge following, and she’s well-connected through LeCercle. And France is hosting the next EU summit. Austria, Belgium, Spain and the Netherlands are headed for the polls soon, many more coming up next year. But this is your story, you tell me.”
Fox stared at the big old tattered US ensign on the wall behind Dunn’s chair. A few seconds passed in silence.
“What if it’s not just about Europe?”
“Well, if LeCercle is your only lead then it has to be Eurocentric. That’s their mandate, they’re driven to make Continental Europe the leader in every aspect.”
29
MARLBOROUGH, NEW ZEALAND
“No visible targets,” he said.
“Let’s move,” Secher commanded, climbing the cyclone-wire fence and vaulting over the barbed wire at the top. The station was surrounded by rolling green lawns, and Secher was surprised to see a handful of sheep wandering around to keep the grass low. High-tech global surveillance installation surrounded by the world’s lowest-tech lawnmowers.
The three agents moved silently towards the transmission building, where Secher paused and took the thermal imager from the backpack of the junior agent. Holding it close to the concrete-block building, he lifted his night-vision goggles and peered through the scope.
Two figures sat in the far room of the complex, at the opposite corner of the building. They showed up as flaring white heat among a sea of dark blue inanimate space.
Secher nodded to his lieutenant, who picked the lock on the double doors. Inside, Secher motioned for the junior to wait inside the doors to safeguard their exit.
Walking the dark corridor, Secher pulled one of the two USB transmitters from his breast pocket, as they moved along the tiled floor in their silent-soled combat boots.
Left, Secher motioned with his hand, and they came to another cyclone-wire fence that divided the room. Beyond the locked fence was their objective. This was not on the design specs that they had been provided with back at Fort Gaucher.
The pair traded a look, and Secher pointed to an alarm that linked the steel-framed gate. If it was opened, the lack of connection would set off the alarm. He motioned a cut across his throat and pointed to the wires. The lieutenant nodded, and pulled a small pack of electrical equipment from a thigh pouch and went about diverting the alarm trigger.
Secher took a few moments and looked around the dark room. If the fence was not on the plans, he wanted to know what else wasn’t. Again, he lifted his night-vision goggles and looked through the scope of the thermal imager.
One target.
Secher scanned the vicinity where the other had been. Nothing.
He stepped around a wall, scanning further, in the other corner, the image clearer now through less concrete.
Still nothing.
Click. The gate opened behind him, and he backed through with his lieutenant, passing over the imager once inside.
One target, he held up a finger, circled it and pointed to the thermal scope. Find the other.
Secher took the six quick steps he knew he had to take, turned right behind the supercomputer, and bent down to the maintenance panel.
He was surprised to find the panel cover off, indeed nowhere to be seen. This would mean their USB stick would be visible if anyone bothered to bend down and look in the space.
He looked at the empty space for a moment, weighing up his options.
The lieutenant came to him and motioned, Time to go. Fast.
Secher plugged in the special DGSE-designed USB stick and they left the room and building in double-time.
30
NEW YORK CITY
Fox landed back in La Guardia late, thankfully missing the last true rush of commuter airline traffic for the day. The Delta flight had been a rough one, the weather this week really turning up the winds as the night rolled in.
Travelling only with his leather file satchel, he skipped the luggage carousel and headed for the exit. Almost there, a familiar face caught his eye and he headed for the nearest bathroom.
Standing at the urinal, he heard the door open and from the corner of his eye he could see the man he’d spotted a couple of times before leaving New York that afternoon. About his height, ten years older, a good thirty kilos heavier. And he’d seen a glimpse of a pistol on his hip.
Fox waited until the other man was standing at a urinal too, and then turned to head for the washbasin. He took his time washing his hands, leaving the faucet running as it became clear that the man was not going to turn around until he heard the water stop. Fox called his bluff.
“Long way from Quantico,” Fox said, baiting him. There was no one else in the room, so the man must know he was talking to him. Fox turned off the running water and went to the hand-dryer. The man still did not turn around, remaining silent.
“You always posted to the New York office?” Fox asked, and the man turned around to face him. He gave Fox a blank stare. “On second thought, you look more than a little too out of shape, even for a fed. Suit’s a bit too tatty as well.”
“I think you’ve got me confused,” he replied.
“That may be the case,” Fox said, finishing up with drying his hands, then taking his satchel from under his arm and holding it in his left hand. “But you have been following me.”
“Fuck off or I’ll make you eat that bag,” the man said. He put his head down and moved for the door.
“Okay, I’ll follow you for a while,” Fox replied, stepping in line to follow him out, the man turning in a pace that belied his bulk to hit Fox with a right hook to the jaw.
Fox leaned out of range, swinging with his left hand as he did so, the satchel hitting his target flat on the face. A crunch came with the weight breaking the man’s nose, the force making him lose his footing on the tiles, and he went crashing flat onto his back.
Fo
x knelt down to question him but was confronted with a gun coming up to his face, the man’s finger moving inside the trigger guard of the old Colt .38 revolver. As Fox registered the weapon it settled his mind that this guy wasn’t law enforcement. He chopped his two hands together in a blow that flicked the Colt from the man’s hand and sent it rattling across the floor. Fox kicked the pistol under the washbasin counter and as he turned back the man grunted through his pain and sent a meaty fist up into Fox’s stomach, the blow knocking the air out of his lungs.
While Fox was stepping back and heaving in some deep breaths, the man got to his feet, pulling a knife from his ankle as he did so.
Fox surged forward, deflecting the blade away with his forearm and crashing the man into a cubicle. He sent two quick punches into his bloody face as he went down, then dragged him around and put his head into the toilet, standing on his knife-wielding hand until he let go. Kicking the knife into the next cubicle, Fox pushed the man’s gorilla-like neck down into the bowl and pressed his knee against it to add force. Holding the flush button down, he kept the man’s head in the wet confines until he felt him starting to sputter for breath.
Fox pulled the man’s head clear of the toilet bowl, forcing him to face upwards. He looked down into the man’s eyes, and noticed his own arm was spewing blood to the floor from the knife encounter.
“Who are you?” Fox said, watching the man gain some composure. Five seconds later and no answer forthcoming, it was drink time again. The floor was slippery underfoot, a mixture of Fox’s sticky, thick blood pooling with the blue chemical-laden toilet water.
Fox pulled the man back up, and turned his face away as he coughed sprays of toilet water everywhere.
“Who are you?” Fox asked, holding the man by the hair at the back of his head. “Who are you working for?”
The door to the restrooms opened and Fox quickly closed the cubicle door behind his back. A hand pressed tight against the man’s mouth, thumb and forefinger pinching his broken nose in an action that sent his eyes wide with pain. Fox held the man’s head hard, forcing him to look up at Fox’s eyes. Fox was giving his best ‘dare me to’ stare.