Deep State Stealth

by Vikki Kestell

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting that whoever ‘inherited’ Trujillo as a resource is waiting, observing and testing her to see if she’s been compromised, perhaps holding her in reserve. So far, I don’t believe they have noted any taint in her loyalty to them.

  “I think I see where this is going.”

  “Yes sir. I propose that we bring her under Gamble’s oversight—carefully, of course—and keep her in readiness for when she receives an actual assignment.”

  “And becomes our double agent inside the enemy’s camp.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. Initially, the enemy will work her ‘blind,’ without any face-to-face contact. However, when her handler does reveal himself to Trujillo, that ‘someone’ will be our ‘in’ to Harmon’s network.”

  “I like it.”

  Axel frowned. “You’ve told me that our, er, ‘ace’ and her partner have extraordinary abilities. We would need them and their abilities at that point to surveil Trujillo’s handler and infiltrate his or her chain of command.”

  “I know you doubt them, Axel, but I assure you: They can do the job. As regards Agent Trujillo? Set it up.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Chapter 3

  “JUST SO WE’RE CLEAR—AND I can’t emphasize this enough—your first duty, the most essential of your tasks, is to keep a low profile . . .” Gamble’s warning trailed off mid-thought before he amended his admonition. “No, not a low profile, but no profile. Nada, zip, nil. We can’t have either of you even registering a blip on our adversaries’ radar. Do nothing to draw attention to yourselves.”

  I nodded and, out of the corner of my eye, saw Zander do the same.

  Agent Gamble, Zander, and I were huddled in the darkened living room of a rental in a modest neighborhood outside of D.C. Not an FBI location or Secret Service safe house, but a house Gamble had leased himself using cash and a fake ID. Axel Kennedy, the head of the President’s Secret Service detail, had passed a chunk of money to Gamble for such expenditures. Gamble had paid out more cash to have window bars and security doors installed, along with a state-of-the-art security system.

  Zander and I had met Gamble in an alley two blocks away and, under the cover of the nanomites’ optical invisibility, the three of us had made our way to our meeting place and entered through the back door. It was probably the slickest covert entrance on record—not that anyone was keeping records, since that would kind of defeat the whole concept of “covert,” right?

  Gamble cleared his throat. “We’ve poked and probed your cover, and it is very good, Gemma—”

  “Jayda.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Jayda Locke.”

  “Jayda Cruz.”

  Gamble ran a hand over his face. “You’re killing me. You know that, right?”

  Zander and I laughed softly, but I fumbled for my husband’s hand, glad to feel my fingers nestled within the warmth and strength of his. We had prayed over the nasty dream of two nights past, and its hold on me was fading. Now it was late Sunday evening, and I would start work at the NSA in the morning but still, as the saying goes, “It was about to get real,” “it,” in this case, being my infiltration into the most formidable intelligence service on the planet.

  No biggie.

  Uh-huh.

  Gamble started over. “Your cover is very good, Jayda, better, in fact than what we could have provided, given such a small window of time. It is better—and it is totally outside our intelligence channels. That’s a bonus.”

  “The nanomites.”

  “Thank the little guys for us.”

  “You just did.”

  Speaking of “the little guys,” a stream of them had left me when we entered the house. They were checking it out to ensure that no one was bugging our meeting and to provide us with the safe house’s exits and any incidental details.

  “Right.” Gamble wiped his face again. “Okay. Back on task, you two.”

  “You seem nervous, Agent Gamble,” Zander observed.

  “Yeah, well, it’s not every day the President of the United States arranges my transfer to a post that requires practically nothing from me—a post that is, in reality, a cover for a covert op of the most delicate and sensitive nature—an operation predicated on treason at the highest levels of our government and, if botched, could trigger a Constitutional crisis and a political shakeup of unprecedented proportions. An op I am tasked to lead and that, furthermore, relies upon two untrained, unqualified, and untested assets.”

  I nudged Zander. “Huh. He might be talking about us.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Well, I’m offended. Untrained, maybe, but unqualified and untested?”

  We both grinned. Gamble did not.

  “Not a laughing matter, you two. Despite your ‘special abilities,’ neither of you has any idea how vital your roles are to the preservation of this presidency—or how precarious is the situation.”

  Zander spoke up. “Question: Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that things were to go sideways. Breaking into the NSA has to be considered espionage—at the very least, right?”

  “Espionage? On the face of it, yes, but so is weaponizing the nation’s intelligence community to remove a sitting president. However, I can provide assurance regarding the legality of what Jayda will be doing. Executive Order 12333 delineates the goals, directions, duties, and responsibilities of the intelligence community, its purpose being to provide the President and the National Security Council with the information they need to govern.

  “EO 12333, Item 1.4, reads, The agencies within the Intelligence Community shall, in accordance with applicable United States law and with the other provisions of this Order, conduct intelligence activities necessary for the conduct of foreign relations and the protection of the national security of the United States.

  “Note the phrase, ‘with the other provisions of this Order.’ Line items 1.4 (a) through (e) spell out the specific authority and responsibilities of the intelligence community, but line item (f) adds, Such other intelligence activities as the President may direct from time to time.”

  Gamble pointed to me and then to Zander. “Line item 1.4(f)? Such other activities? That’s you guys.”

  Zander nodded. “Good to know.”

  “All right. Back to ‘untrained.’ Our White House contact has asked me to arrange for both of you to receive private, specialized instruction.”

  Zander perked up. “Spy training?”

  “Call it a series of ‘How to Stay Alive’ workshops.”

  “Man, you know how to filch the fun out of everything.”

  I interrupted. “Where? And when? I start my job tomorrow.”

  “And I want you to be nothing more than a model low-level NSA contractor employee until we determine our first step forward.”

  “Gamble?”

  “What?”

  “You know that’s not how it’s going to go, right? It’s not possible for you or anyone else to micromanage my infiltration. The moment I set foot inside NSA territory, the nanomites will start digging. Our initial goal will be to figure out what happened to the President’s friend, Wayne Overman.”

  Gamble and I engaged in a staredown that he had zero chance of winning.

  He broke off eye contact and frowned. “Jayda—”

  “Don’t worry about me, Gamble. The nanomites are undetectable. Things aren’t going to ‘go sideways.’”

  “Yes, but you need to remember that everything at the NSA is bugged—phones, computers, work email accounts. They aren’t messing around. If you thought security at Sandia was tight, you haven’t seen anything—these are the world’s spy masters, remember? It’s likely that they have video cameras in every department, office, hallway, and broom closet. I wouldn’t put it past them to have bugged the bathrooms, too.”

  “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  “Just . . . just don’t count on your invisibility tricks going unnoticed, okay?” He sighed. “Gue
ss I’m more nervous about you starting your assignment than you are.”

  I doubted that, but I put on a good front. “I hacked the White House, remember? Defeated its security measures and got to the President with no one being the wiser. You don’t need to fret.”

  I managed to sound more confident than I felt.

  Before Gamble could respond, I changed the subject. “Tell us more about this spy training.”

  “Call it Tradecraft 101. The basics of modern espionage: techniques, methods, and technologies. Your trainers are off-book contractors, all ex-military. These men are hardened, no-nonsense operators.”

  Zander asked, “How do you know we can trust them?”

  “We served together. Seems like a hundred years ago now, but I’d stake my life on their loyalty to this nation and its President. Also, they won’t know anything about you, and you won’t know anything more about them than what I’ve told you.”

  He got all businesslike on us. “You are not to offer your names or any personally identifiable information. Pick a bogus first name for them to call you. Remove your wedding rings before you go. Not only are you not married, you are strangers, so act like it. Arrive at separate times from different directions. Total anonymity.

  “A lot of what they’ll begin with is terminology and head knowledge. When they move you on to tasks in the field, do what they ask of you without any nano-hocus-pocus. No invisibility or lightning bolts.”

  I stifled a snicker.

  “You’ll begin next week in your spare time.”

  “What spare time? Lowly administrative assistants put in forty-hour-plus weeks in addition to the commute.”

  “Nights and evenings. You told me you don’t need as much sleep as regular people do, right?”

  It was true. The nanomites had infused us with incredible stamina and resilience. Zander and I had energy to burn and required less sleep than most people did.

  “You will report after dark this Wednesday for your first session. Your trainers will set additional sessions that accommodate your schedules.”

  I blinked. Zander and I called Emilio and Abe every Wednesday evening around nine, seven o’clock back in Albuquerque. We would have to call them earlier.

  “Where?”

  Gamble handed Zander a slip of paper. “Both of you memorize this address and the instructions; flush the water-soluble paper afterwards. Never speak the address aloud. Can’t be too careful.”

  “Not a problem,” I answered. The nanomites uploaded the information to their data repository while, with a single glance, Zander and I memorized the same.

  “Just FYI, Agent Gamble. While Jayda is at work, I’ll be looking for a job,” Zander said. “Something in my wheelhouse. Can’t let Jayda be the sole breadwinner. We need a second vehicle, and somebody has to make those car payments.”

  “Find something with flexible hours. We don’t yet know how you will fit into the scheme of things, but when we require your help, we’ll want you to be available.”

  Zander shifted. “Kinda narrows my options.”

  Zander and I had also discussed scenarios where I might need him to back me up once I’d made inroads at the NSA.

  Gamble slid an envelope toward Zander. “I’ve been authorized to supply you with a weekly stipend. When this is all over, we’ll arrange a more substantial payment to compensate both of you for your help cleaning out Harmon’s collaborators.”

  Zander’s pride bristled. “That’s not necessary.”

  “It’s not charity, Zander. It’s compensation for the real work you’ll be doing and the expenses you’ll accrue.”

  Neither Zander nor I said any more. The move from Albuquerque had cost money, and I’d needed a car for work. We’d used up what remained of the cash I’d “appropriated” when I burned down the drug house in Albuquerque. The money Gamble offered would come in handy.

  “We have a request,” I announced.

  “Oh?”

  “We need some space to work out. Doesn’t need to be fancy or big. Just an open, empty room.”

  Gamble didn’t like not knowing the whole picture, and his expression said so.

  “Stick fighting, Agent Gamble.”

  “What—for him?”

  “For both of us. You have to admit, it will keep us in shape.”

  He eyed me and nodded. “You’re the poster child for stick fighting, Jayda.”

  I suppose I was: Gus-Gus, my nanomite-created VR coach, had pushed, pummeled, and provoked me in the art of Filipino escrima fighting until my reflexes were beyond instinctual and every muscle in my body was honed and hard. My core was solid, too.

  I grinned. “Consider our workouts another variety of ‘how to stay alive’ workshop.” My grin widened. “My husband will benefit the most over the next few weeks.”

  “I’d pay to be a fly on the wall for that.”

  “Whatever,” Zander tossed back.

  The nanomites returned from exploring the safe house and reported their findings to me. I jumped topics again. “Huh. You installed a 3D printer in the basement?”

  Gamble was surprised. “How did you know that?” Then he snorted. “Never mind. Yes, we had it installed last week, but not just any old 3D printer. Dr. Bickel provided the printer’s very particular (and expensive) specs and a list of the materials the nanomites would require to print more of themselves.”

  “That can’t have been an unremarkable work order for a residential house.”

  “You’re right. We brought in Dr. Bickel’s two technicians to retrofit the basement into a cleanroom and perform the install.”

  “Rick and Tony?” I had worked with Dr. Bickel’s techs at Sandia, first as Gemma and later as Jayda, and I nurtured a fondness for them. However, Rick and Tony believed Gemma was dead—as did the rest of the world, with the exception of exactly seven individuals. And of those seven individuals, Axel Kennedy and Agent Trujillo knew only bits and pieces of my story and the extent of my (and now Zander’s) abilities.

  “Yes, Rick and Tony. They helped Dr. Bickel hide the nanomites from Cushing in his mountain laboratory and managed to convince Cushing that they knew nothing about Dr. Bickel’s whereabouts. In my book, they have proven they can be trusted. Compartmentalization of this operation being as vital as it is, they were our best option to install the printer.”

  Gamble started to wrap things up. “The printer, of course, is so the nanomites can manufacture more of themselves, should the need arise.”

  The printer and materials are satisfactory to our needs, Jayda Cruz.

  “Good to know, Nano.”

  “Use this house only for our weekly meetings and if you should require access to the printer,” Gamble added. “If we need an emergency meetup, I liked how we communicated in Albuquerque.”

  He was referring to a Craigslist ad that read, “Wanted: Uncut Gemstones.” The nanomites had inserted a line of code into the Craigslist webpage so that the words “uncut gemstones” triggered an alert that they received and passed on to me.

  I pursed my lips. “And here I’ve been holding my breath, hoping to graduate to that big ol’ Bat Signal in the night sky.”

  Gamble arched one brow. “That was my line, Jayda.”

  We all chuckled, and I was relieved to see Gamble unwind a little.

  “We don’t need to resort to covert communication methods,” I told him. “We can use our regular cellphones. Our calls don’t register with our carriers, and the nanomites scrub our phone logs. Our phones don’t leave a trace of data.

  Gamble looked uncertain. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. The night the President called you? The nanomites evaded the Secret Service’s monitoring of all cellphone signals coming into and out of the White House.”

  “All right then. Keep me apprised of your progress.”

  We left the rental the same way we’d arrived—invisibly—depositing Gamble at his car. Zander and I walked another mile to the restaurant parking lot where we picked up our vehicl
e and drove back to our apartment in Maryland.

  WHEN GAMBLE ARRIVED at his apartment, he checked the burner phone he used exclusively for calls from Kennedy. He found a short voice mail.

  “Call me.”

  A light summer shower had begun to patter the ground when Gamble grabbed the phone, walked back to his vehicle, and drove to a park a mile from his home. By the time he dialed the only number in the phone, rain was beating on his windshield, lending more privacy to the call.

  Kennedy picked up. “Can you talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. First, how are our transplants?”

  “Ready to go and not nearly as nervous as I am.”

  “I understand. We have a lot . . . invested in this effort.”

  Every sentence they spoke was parsed in patently oblique terms. Kennedy paused a moment to marshal and construct his next thoughts. “I have further instructions for you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You are to contact a certain individual, a mutual acquaintance, although, on our end, we have only spoken with said mutual acquaintance over the phone. This individual is also known to our transplants.”

  Gamble ran through the possibilities. Only one fit the bill. “I believe I understand.”

  “Our transplants once considered this individual an enemy.”

  That clinched it. “Understood. Orders?”

  “Bring into the fold. Wait for said individual to receive orders from on high. Goal? Identify and surveil up the chain of command.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Report in when you have something.” Kennedy hung up.

  Gamble thought through the call he was about to make. Her involvement would add a layer of complexity to the operation, but it also added her own mix of skills. She would be a great asset if things got dicey.

  He had her number in his cell, but he didn’t want to establish a link between them after six months of no communication. He also didn’t want to call her on the same burner phone he used to call Kennedy. If the wrong person were to connect her to Kennedy through that phone, it would no doubt prove detrimental to the operation—and fatal for her.