by Tony Bulmer
look. “I have spoken to the President—an off the record briefing. He is anxious that the situation be
resolved before the next National Security Council Principals meeting, in three days time. Don’t look at me like that Jack. The President has a lot on his plate. Economically we are balanced on the edge right now, and the international situation is running bleaker than ever. Just before the principals meeting, he has to fly out to Los Angeles to meet with those G20 jackals and you know what that means—every leader in the world crying and whining like we were the only folks who could do a damn thing to straighten this planet out.”
“Three days?” Senegar sat impassive. Finally he said, “I have initialized Deep Five. I have an asset moving into place as we speak.”
“The asset we discussed?”
Jack Senegar gave a snort. “Of course.” The VP smiled, “You have done well Jack.
The President will be pleased.”
“The Admiral won’t be pleased. Far from it.” “Welcome to the business of politics Jack,
no matter how hard one tries to please everyone, one often finds that diplomatic niceties are impossible luxuries.” The VP steepled his fingers, gave Jack a grave look and said, “We are cogs Jack, cogs in the big machine.”
“The Admiral is a man who holds a grudge. He is known for it. And when he finds POTUS has co-‐opted his daughter for a home-‐game operation there is no telling how he might react.”
“Who cares, how he might react Jack. He is an employee, like everybody else. He will do as he is damn well told, and like it.”
“The asset has a record of violent and unpredictable behavior, there are other assets I could deploy to resolve this little conspiracy, in fact
I would recommend we take that course. We are dealing with fire here, you know that don’t you?”
The Vice President laughed. “A conspiracy of fire? That has a certain ring to it Jack,” he paused, gave Senegar a careful look and said, “We have to ensure the Admiral’s loyalty.”
“What about the girl?”
“The girl is expendable Jack, just like everyone else. We are fighting for the greater good
here—the future of the United States of America.” Jack Senegar didn’t move, his hard-‐lined face cast in stone. Finally, he said, “There will be casualties. A lot of casualties.”
The Vice President, gave a sharp laugh, shook his head and said, “Collateral damage Jack, an inevitable consequence of war. And I would remind you that this operation is strictly beyond the rim. No blowback of any kind. Are we clear on that Jack?”
Jack Senegar sat impassively for a long time. Finally he said, “Affirmative. We will carry this one all the way.”
“Splendid.” The Vice President gave Senegar a sly look and said, “You should try the coffee Jack, it really is rather good. The best in DC I would say.”
Jack Senegar got slowly to his feet, and made his leave.
06
Honolulu International Airport, Oahu. A thousand tourists, maybe more, clogged the baggage hall, all of them buzzing with excitement at the prospect of a Hawaiian vaycay. Dressed in a lightweight business suit and unassuming cotton blouse, accessorized with a floaty scarf and designer sunglasses, Karyn always travelled low-‐ key. She made like a business traveler or
conventioneer, blowing into town for a boardroom meeting. Travelling anonymous, she wore her hair high, with heavy rimmed glasses, she called it the Librarian look, it was the kind of blind that would keep unwanted attention to an absolute minimum. Karyn always accessorized the Librarian look, with a well-‐used copy of the Wall Street Journal, the kind of literary bromide that could slap down just about any male ego in five seconds flat.
As she moved anonymous among the throng, trailing a compact carry on and Gucci purse, her senses moved to high alert.
They were watching.
They had to be watching.
Question was, who exactly was she was up
against? If the Federales were working a deep cover job like Senegar said, they would be swarming the job en masse—spotters, hitters, back up and beyond. Since the twin towers strike the Feds had really upped their game, moving wholesale into covert operations—anti terrorism strikes, the whole nine yards. They had even gotten themselves
a billion dollar Biometric surveillance system, known as Next Generation Identification. NGI was a vast computerized facial identification system that worked on 3D modeling algorithms. The system used security cameras at airports, rail terminals, and ports to recognize terrorists, criminals, and other persons of interest.
Persons of Interest .
That catch-‐all term would no doubt include deep cover operatives from the CIA, working beyond the rim operations on American soil. If a rogue cadre inside the FBI had been involved in the murder of the senator and his pal the governor, they would be monitoring new arrivals to the Island very carefully, striving to keep a lid on their dirty little operation.
Heading through the crowd, Karyn sensed cameras everywhere, all of them zooming in for a close focus shot of her face, so they put a make on her—mark her down as friend or foe. But she knew her face was NGI clean—The CIA’s electronic intelligence unit treated the virtual security of their agents very seriously. In the modern world, computer based intelligence could be as deadly to agents as real world assassins.
The eye in the sky, watching from above.
Watching day and night, without rest.
Recording everything.
Security always came at a price, thought Karyn. The bleating media had blown the lid on facial recognition, but they, like the public, would never know the full extent their so called privacy had been compromised. In the computer age where technology ruthlessly catalogued the lives of untold millions, there was no longer any escape from
Government. Privacy had become a lost luxury that society could no longer afford. No matter if you were a vacationing family or a terrorist scumbag looking to bomb your way into the hereafter— those pointy-‐nosed busybodies at the FBI would have your every move down.
And should you fall foul of their code— They would trace you down—your friends and your family too and they would do it quicker than you could email a complaint to your favorite liberal senator on Capitol Hill.
But for Karyn, the schmantzy new spy system the Feds were polishing up held no fear. The Agency was the last word in government muscle—all others were pretenders. And whoever had put the ice on the senator and his pal the governor were about discover how bad that kind of hurt could be. Hell, those freaks at the FBI could poke their beaks into the private affairs of the whole goddamn world it they wanted to. They could put the gun to enemies of the United States where ever they found them—court or no court, the more mad dog bombers that got fried the better.
But killing politicians?
That crossed the line, big time.
Killing politicians was the CIA’s job. Karyn angled her face away from the
pinch
point security cameras. She headed towards the taxi line, melding in with the burgeoning crowds. If the Feds had the eye on, there was no telling what could come next. The watchers would be ready, a double blip alert on a back room computer screen and the goons would come running—a TSA emergency, a cop hustle training event, or just an
“honest mistake.” They would call her in to a back room. She would show them her phony
Department of Justice credentials. They would make phone calls, they would apologize, put their enthusiasm down to a heightened state of security awareness but ultimately the message would have been sent—
You got pulled by the airport goon squad on a deep-cover call, you were compromised. The mission is finito, end of story.
She dismissed the thoughts out of hand. Her cover as an investigator for the United States Department of Justice Criminal Division was airtight, the Agency had seen to that. As far as local law enforcement was concerned she was a sword carrying Angel from on high, sent by the wise and powerful to ensure the integrity of their
investigation into the deaths of senator Johnston and governor Geryon. The bull-‐harness boys in the HPD would resent her and they would fear her— but for all the wrong reasons—if they knew the real truth, the full extent of her mission parameters, they would probably barricade themselves in the basement, shotguns drawn.
Co-‐operate or not, the locals would be out gunned.
The Feds might be more problematic.
But they were facing the big game now.
Transgressors of all colors would face the wrath of the Agency.
They would bow down in the face of superior firepower.
Walking out the arrivals hall, Karyn scoped for interference. She moved as quickly as decorum would allow, heading for the taxi rank. At the
arrivals gate she was greeted by a frantic scene, as a zoo of excited relatives, and drivers, holding scrawled placards jostled restlessly with each other, craning their necks to catch sight of the new arrivals.
One of the placards read Goodman. Karyn found it convenient to use her maiden name as one of her many pseudonyms.
As she approached the chubby faced Hawaiian who held the card high, she made eye contact. Jubilant that his wait was over, he gushed effusive greetings and made to take her bag.
Karyn held the case tight. She commanded him towards the door with a curt nod. “Let’s go,” she said.
The driver got the hint. He showed her to the waiting car like he had been zapped by a cattle prod. Unfortunately, the driver was a man of fraught nerves and he made free with the—Aloha to Hawaii chatter every step of the way.
Karyn sat low in the back seat, and battened down her big-‐bug designer sunglasses, oblivious to the inane stream of you have to do this, tourist-‐trap suggestions. She looked out the window, watching as monster clouds tumbled in over the mountains. They pulled out of the airport, heading towards the centre of town, progress on Highway One was slow. The driver weaved through the heavy traffic. Tower block condos loomed like giant postmodern creatures, a hundred billion dollars of glass and steel towering over the bay like predators at a desert watering-‐hole, whilst palm trees cut the breeze like pirate flagpoles. The traffic ground slower, then came to a stop. Horns sounded. Necks craned out of windows.
A giant golden office building cast a vast shadow across the freeway. Karyn stared, seeing the upper floors as the disappeared towards the roiling sky. A Chinese style hieroglyph in mirrored steel adorned the top of the building. The character seemed strangely familiar, a corporate brand belonging to one of the overlords of the modern age. Behind the golden façade, Karyn imagined a giant hive of worker ants sitting at their desks, carrying out their piecemeal tasks, so that the corporate beast might live. It seemed strange that on an island paradise such as this there would be corporate outposts of the world’s biggest
companies, all of them jostling for position on the billion-‐dollar waterfront.
As Karyn pondered what tasks might be undertaken in such grand outposts of capitalism, a sudden commotion erupted at the side of the Freeway. At first there was the noise, like the roar of an approaching plane coming into land. Then she saw them—running through the traffic, a horde of placard bearing protestors, thousands of them, shouting unintelligible slogans, waving cardboard signs, in magic marker scrawl. Dissidents. Always complaining about something.
“Sorry lady, these goddamn eco-‐protesters they make things crazy on the Island,” said the cabbie.
“What are they protesting?”
“Who cares, these radicals are always protesting something right? Make it so us working folk can’t earn a buck to feed our families.”
Surging around them now, the crowd of protestors grew thick, banging on the windows and roofs of vehicles as they passed, holding up
placards with flaming skulls and TAO NO! DENG MUST GO! written in large angry letters.
The Driver shook his fist at them, shouted out in counter protest, but his curses were lost in the roar of the crowd.
“They got some kind of beef against free electricity?” wondered the cabbie incredulously. “You ask me these damn eco-‐nuts are plain crazy— I mean, who protests the offer of free electricity?”
“Free Electricity? asked Karyn. “What’s the catch?”
“There ain’t no catch, far as I see it, lady. Governor Geryon gave the Tao Corporation out of Shanghai China rights to build one of those geothermal power stations on the Big Island, did some kind of smart deal that gave the Islanders free electricity in return. That’s some kind of sweet tasting deal if you ask me.”
Karyn’s mind moved fast now, the micro connections to senator Tex Johnston’s case file coming thick and fast—Johnston was a big business Texas oilman from an old money dynasty that had a history dating back to the nineteenth century. He was also chairman of the congressional House Committee on Oversight and Government reform— responsible for a whole range of power orientated legislation.
“Do you know who Deng Tao is?” asked Karyn.
“Don’t everybody know? He’s the man who owns that giant golden skyscraper you see right there by the freeway. Word has it he is the richest man in the world, no wonder he is giving electricity away. A man like that can afford to keep people sweet so he can get what he wants. Makes good
business sense. Am I right?” The cabbie gave Karyn a happy look, “That Deng Tao has got to be some kind of guy, let me tell you, he has a yacht moored out in the bay that’s bigger than any cruise ship, it must have cost a billion dollars at least.”
Karyn smiled, “I am sure it did,” she said.
07
Luckily the remainder of the drive to the hotel was short, and without further event, save the heavy traffic crawling through the city centre streets. The hotel was a five-‐star joint, The Regis, over looking the bay. Karyn thanked the cabbie, and dropped him a generous tip, big enough for the job done, b
ut not so big she would be remembered. Turning quickly away. She headed for the hotel lobby. Refusing the attentions of the bell-‐hop, offering to transport her bag to her room, Karyn headed to the hotel bar, where she ordered a Tequila-‐Blanco, rocks and popped her iPhone out of her bag. Carly wouldn’t be back from school yet, but Karyn just couldn’t help herself—she had to check the house—see if everything was safe. She scrolled through the screens, each one representing a different camera that she had secretly installed in the Goodman home—Lobby, Kitchen, Living Room, Playroom, Garden, and naturally Carly’s bedroom. She had left out the bathroom and the bedroom where Reed did the dirty with that bitch Julia— every one needs a little privacy right? But some times like now, Karyn regretted the oversight, feeling like she had to know everything—feeling that her oversight had created a blind spot in her intelligence gathering operation that would allow room for that bitch Julia to out maneuver her. And that would never do.
An aggressive, proactive attitude was always important to the success of any operation. Karyn double tapped her tequila, feeling the burn blossom inside her as she headed out to the lobby
to check in. Her plan—set up a false blind residence in the hotel. Once in possession of the room key, she moved fast, heading back through the busy lobby and out to the taxi rank, acting as though there were nothing more normal.
Attitude was everything—walking out the door five minutes after check in with her tiny hand luggage-‐case, would raise no questions. Karyn was an old hand at sleight of hand operations. Timing her walk out to the second, she melded in with the lobby full of guests as they thronged the check in desks.