The Cause

by Roderick Vincent

  The next day while in the car, Davis told Montgomery they were being followed. Davis spotted the tinted-windowed sedan on the long cruise up Pennsylvania Ave. He asked Davis to divert to M Street to see if the guy was any good. After crossing the

  Potomac on the 14th Street Bridge on the way to the Pentagon, the guy still clung on. He made a phone call to Hendricks and gave him the license plate. At the Pentagon, he met with the Joint Chiefs and the Security Council, did his briefings, and left.

  That night, Davis drove him home. When they arrived, Davis opened the door for him, and he hoisted himself out of the car, taking care with his wrapped up hand. Two more sentries had been posted on his roof. A BigDog guarded his front door. Davis told him it was a gift from General Walcott. Montgomery thanked him and strode by the huge mechanical beast whose red eyes followed him up the pathway. When he got inside, he was spent, his energy sucked dry. He found Emily on the couch reading a magazine.

  He was too tired to think. His head throbbed, but he couldn’t help himself. He said, “I found out about your P.I. today.”

  She jerked her eyes to him. “What P.I.?”

  “Honey, do you even understand what I do for a living?”

  “What do you know?”

  “I know you went there, Emily. I know the stupid fuck was trying to tail me this afternoon. Why are you doing this?”

  “Someone called. They hung up after I answered, how do you explain that?”

  “A crank caller, perhaps?”

  “It was a woman’s voice. I heard the giggle.”

  “I don’t know who it is,” he said, completely exasperated. “I’m not cheating on you. I’ve told you this I don’t know how many times.”

  “You lie, Ben,” she said sarcastically, bringing up the old nickname. “It was her on that phone.”

  “Do you have any idea how ludicrous that is? I’ve tolerated your insecurities, but fucking no more. No more of this insane paranoia. I’ve had enough!”

  She jumped up from the couch and scampered into the adjacent dining room. Something purposeful in her gait stood out, an angry catwalk but this time she wasn’t faking it. From the china cabinet, she unearthed the prized titanium-plated cutlery and threw it in handfuls at him. Forks, knives, teaspoons—shrapnel flung at him in arrowed silver streaks. He picked up a leather sofa cushion with his good hand and used it for cover. When a knife caught him in the leg, he snapped. He darted toward her as clanging silverware bounced off him onto the hardwood floor. He chased her around the dining room table. After the first circle, she armed herself with more plates and teacups while he threw a chair out of the way to clear a wider path. On the second turn, he banged his wounded hand on the table, and as he winced in pain, she caught him in the head with a teacup.

  The room now a helicopter crash of ceramic, she armed herself with more plates while he threw another chair, this time directly at her. Something in his look must have scared her. She began to scream. On the third rotation, he dove under the table and caught her, bonking his head on a rafter underneath in the process of catching her ankle. He heard crying in between screams. At first, all he wanted to do was shut her up. Grab her wrists and shout into her face to stop! Then, as he was crawling out from under the table, his grip slipped, and he absorbed a punishing kick to the nose. Still, he managed to hang on to her ankle as she tried to kick out of his grasp. Blood streamed from his nose as he tried to stop the flow with his bandaged hand. His eyes watered and his bloodied hand printed the white, sheepskin rug red. A primeval surge of anger jolted him into another level of fury. Through the whop and bone crunch he suffered, the ankle was still his. Most men would have let go, caved. This thought excited him as he gripped more meanly. She stepped into new kicks desperately trying to dislodge her trapped leg. He hung on tightly, as if clinging from a high-rise scaffolding with only air beneath. Now she twisted and tried to hop away, using her arms to grip both china cabinet and edge of the table to yank herself out of his grasp.

  Finally, he slid out from the table and towered above her. When he picked her up in a bear hug, his wounded hand now bloody and seeping through the bandages, he received a couple of wild kicks to the chins, but he wasn’t even feeling them. He suddenly released her and both of them went quiet. Elisabeth and Brandon stood at the foot of the stairwell gazing at them open-mouthed and horrified. Brandon was crying while Elisabeth seemed stuck in a stupor. Both of them rushed to scoop up the kids, explaining to them it was only a game, a stupid game that meant nothing.

  When it was over and the kids were tucked in, he went for a shower. As the hot water streamed over his back, he gazed down and saw himself hardening. He laughed, scratching the thought from his mind, telling himself it was a good thing they had fought. No matter how ugly and bloody it got, no matter the consequences of his children seeing them, he would have to remember how to get these dirty things done. He was sick of being the target. It was Kill ’em all again, and there was much to do. Way too much still left to do.

  Chapter 20

  “Never interfere with an enemy while he’s in the process of destroying himself”

  -attributed to Napoleon Bonaparte

  Montgomery strolled over to the tinted window in the conference room and gazed across to the mirrored panes of the building facing him. On the bar next to him, he picked up the pair of binoculars sitting next to an open bottle of Blanton’s and its cap. Atop the cap, a rider rode a bronze gelding in mid-stride. The rider seemed to be leaning over awkwardly. Montgomery felt similar, light-headed, a bit out of the saddle, not quite footed in the stirrups. He gazed down at his bandaged hand, re-gauzed this morning. He hadn’t been in a gun battle since the war, and that was an eon ago. After the previous week, he found himself fighting wars on two fronts.

  Emily had gone to her mother’s. “A timeout,” he had told the kids, mixing up the story she had told them when she had said her mother was ill. To throw the kids off the scent of a separation, he took the weekend off and flew them to Orlando. He spent the weekend in the Magic Kingdom, taking them on rides, casting a spell around them, pretending nothing was wrong.

  He poured himself another drink, dropped another ice cube in the glass, and took a gulp. He opened his arms. Wobbling a bit, he turned in a circle, welcoming any sniper out there to take his best shot. Of course, this time there would be no sniper unless it was one of his own people. He had gone through them all and done some pruning. Still, how had they gotten in here? And how did they get out?

  Through the binoculars, he focused on the building across the road. The windows had been replaced, the glass below cleaned, and he couldn’t spy a pockmark in the concrete side. As clean as if it had never happened. None of it had made any sense. The theory from internal investigations told him Hassani was the target. But if this was the case, why risk breaching the tight Fort Meade security? Hassani could have been hit anywhere.

  If he was the target, why hadn’t they shot him first? It seemed preposterous that he was alive. He focused on the mirrored windows and saw his image in the opposing building—jacket open, a drink in his hand. There he was, the iris on the other side, the retina dilating in the window. He looked at his mirrored self and thought of The Dupe waiting out in the cold each frosty morning. It was twisting the wings off a fly to watch it buzz around a table surface. It paralleled his situation perfectly. Someone very clever out there, indulging themselves, having a laugh. Some mistakes were not mistakes.

  Montgomery turned the binoculars to the left of the parking lot arrayed with cars—blue, green, black, white—under the midday sunshine and shadows of the higher floors. Eventually, he saw a car, a turquoise Humvee with tinted windows. The driver pulled into the shadows, out to the edge of the building and let a man out of the passenger door. The man stepped out on the pavement wearing a black blazer, chinos, and a pair of black polished leather boots that spit back the sun. On his mobile, Montgomery called reception and told the woman to hold anyone else coming to see him. Then he called T
he Dupe and told him to trot his ass up to the eleventh floor. Next, he called The Skulleyes’ control room and spoke with a guy in facial recognition to make sure they were getting good feeds, told them he wanted verification ASAP and would be down there shortly. When The Dupe arrived, he told him to act like himself, like he was the God boss. He told him he wanted to make a deal with the man about to enter. Someone named Hassani set up the meet, the man’s name was Cyril Tetsu, and to just make the deal. He then proceeded to walk out. When The Dupe asked, “What am I supposed to be bargaining for?” Montgomery gave him a wink and shut the door.

  In the control room, Montgomery watched alongside a couple of Skulleye techies monitoring the three screens. One, a close up on The Dupe, another a side-angled shot, and the third, a shot towards the door from The Dupe’s back. Hassani had told him Tetsu was the leader of The Abattoir, but Montgomery wasn’t so sure. Perhaps Hassani was giving him an impersonator. It enraged Montgomery that the NSA’s Tailored Access Ops essentially drew a blank about this guy. Even a cover should have some data associated with him. He had asked Bernie Horton in HR to fire a couple of underperformers just to make a point. “Let them know why too,” he had told him.

  Finally, he had called Ron Pelletier in the CIA. Pelletier was a fellow West Point graduate he would occasionally catch a drink with. Pelletier was about the only person Montgomery could count on in The Company, and it was with great humility that he called in a favor. But Pelletier told him that Tetsu wasn’t any agent or cover he knew about. He’d look into it. The leader of The Abattoir was a man named Grant Darenius. Pelletier told him he had never met the man, but Montgomery sniffed a lie. So who was this guy? This man with multiple names?

  Montgomery watched on screen four as the man aliased as Cyril Tetsu was led down the hall by two security guards. The man kept his head down, apparently shy of the cameras. A thick stubble grew on the man’s face, almost a full beard. He had a short Marine crew cut. As he passed the camera, his head darted up for a glimpse. In the couple of frames before the picture was lost, Montgomery saw eyes flaming like a pyre, whites smoking from the burn.

  Security showed the man into the room. The Dupe stood and offered his hand. A scowl swept over the man’s face that Montgomery found intriguing. A look composed of the same sort of distaste the President would show when the Vice President would speak out of turn. Cyril Tetsu took The Dupe’s hand. As if night suddenly turned into day, the severe face bloomed into a smile. He grabbed The Dupe’s hand and gave it a rugged handshake.

  “A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Tetsu,” The Dupe said.

  “Likewise, General Montgomery.” The two sat down at the conference table. “I heard there was a bit of excitement here a few weeks ago.”

  The Dupe wavered, smiling awkwardly. The man was a catastrophe. “Yes, a bit, but that’s being handled.”

  “How so?”

  “We’ve got it all under control.”

  “It appears so now, but how will you avoid these situations in the future?”

  “The bastard doesn’t know when he’s being led,” Montgomery said.

  The Skulleye next to him said, “Not so smooth.”

  Montgomery nodded. “Watch. He’s going to keep questioning him until the fucker catches on.”

  “We’ve beefed up security,” The Dupe continued. “Lined the fences with guards. They won’t be getting in here so easily next time.”

  “So they got in through the fences, did they?”

  “I never said that, Mr. Tetsu.”

  “You did, but it isn’t important. Did they escape that way too?”

  “Mr. Tetsu, please,” said The Dupe. “Can we speak about business now?”

  “Certainly.”

  With the sprightly tone Tetsu had just given, Montgomery sensed something seriously wrong and suddenly questioned his own experiment. “I don’t like it,” he said out loud. “Get a man down there to interrupt them.”

  A long pause followed while The Dupe thought of what to say next. All of the sound seemed to be sucked out of the room while The Dupe stumbled for words. Tetsu smiled. In his seat, one leg crossed over the other, boot twitching with a manic jerky motion.

  Finally The Dupe said, “So I assume we can come to an arrangement?”

  “An arrangement for what?”

  “An arrangement that would be mutually beneficial to both of us.”

  “I guess that’s what a deal is, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Tetsu. If you’ll be kind enough to extrapolate exactly what it is you require—”

  “Tch-tch-tch, General Montgomery. Not so fast. Romance me a bit. Tell me what you can do for me.”

  The Dupe forced a smile. “We can do a number of things. You know, everything within reason is within our power, so simply ask.”

  One of the tech guys spoke to Montgomery over the video feed. “We’ve got a facial match, but the name says Drey Ahanu, a contractor for—get this—Academi.”

  “Get me everything you can get on this guy,” Montgomery said. “And get me a fucking aide in there to pull him out of there. What is taking so long?”

  Tetsu uncrossed his legs and inched toward The Dupe. “If you bend over so easily, people might call you a slut.” He paused for a moment, then leaned forward in his seat, planting both feet on the ground. “Okay, I have a better idea. Allow me to ask you a question?”

  “Certainly,” The Dupe said, totally out of his element.

  “Why don’t we start with you telling me how your hand healed so quickly?”

  The Dupe didn’t have enough time to react. Montgomery watched a blank expression form on his face, and then Tetsu, as if purposefully waiting for the stupefied look, pounced on him, grabbing him by the hair and slamming his head into the side of the table. Once The Dupe had crumbled to the floor, Tetsu kicked him repeatedly into unconsciousness. Then he stared into the camera, face flushed, and shot out, “I do not like to get played! If you want to talk to me, then come talk with me!”

  By the time Montgomery reached the room, Tetsu had grounded the aide he’d sent into the room to interrupt. The man lay unconscious, his nose splattered across his face. The aide’s pistol sat on the table next to the conf-call phone, the muzzle pointing toward the door. Tetsu stood over the bar pouring whiskey into two glasses. The Dupe began to wake from his beating, groans sliding out of his throat while his fingers gingerly pawed the gash on his head.

  Montgomery approached, stepping over The Dupe, the color drained from his face. A stream of blood ran down The Dupe’s cheeks and formed a small pool on the beige carpet.

  “So,” Tetsu said turning, “you must be the real Montgomery.” The man was square-jawed and beady-eyed, carrying himself with a weightless air of confidence. He was shorter than Montgomery by a couple of inches, but confident to the point of extreme arrogance. The I’m better than you look of a man in the profession.

  A Charge Squad man ran into the room, looked at what had happened, and began to draw his gun. Montgomery put his hand into the air and said, “Get these men out of here and shut the door behind you.”

  Montgomery turned back to the man at the bar. “So you are the infamous Cyril Tetsu? Or should I call you Drey Ahanu?”

  Tetsu looked down at his watch. “I was figuring you’d get me in another fifteen minutes.”

  “They’ve given us a generous budget over the years.”

  “Indeed they have.”

  Montgomery raised his hand. “Where did you hear that I was shot?”

  “You wouldn’t believe what you can find out on the Internet.”

  “We’re quite aware what you can find out on the Internet,” Montgomery said.

  “You don’t believe you have the monopoly on information, do you?”

  “You got it from Hassani,” Montgomery said.

  Tetsu smiled and gave Montgomery the second glass from the bar. It was then that Montgomery made up his mind that this was his guy. “Mr. Hassani has kindly let you know why we wanted to spe
ak with you.”

  “Persuasion is a greater ally than compulsion, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Montgomery ignored the question. He would not be led like The Dupe.

  “Mr. Ahanu, we’ll find out who you really are soon enough, so why don’t you save everyone some time.”

  “I’m a trainer. I’m authorized to speak for the camp.”

  “What do you do out there at The Abattoir?”

  “Teach boys how to be men.”

  “They say you kill people out there.”

  “Not everyone deserves to live.”

  Montgomery laughed. “I’m in agreement with that. We’re looking to train some of our men. We want them to have certain skills, particular skills, skills that fall outside normal SERE training regimes.”

  “What? Torture training? Shit like that?”

  “I never said that.”

  “But you meant it.”

  “Let’s call it asymmetric training. We’re going to prepare a list of things that fall outside our scope.”

  “I understand, General Montgomery. But are you asking me this, or telling me this by way of threat?”

  “The NSA is asking as a courtesy.”

  Tetsu lipped a smile. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

  “We won’t stop your operation.”

  “If you must, you must, so be it.”

  “You don’t seem to care too much about it.”

  “Money is a trivial thing to us. You only need so much of it, don’t you? Then it becomes a worry about what to do with it. You have never had this problem?”

  “We are the government.”

  “Indeed you are. There are many resources at your disposal, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, shall we talk bluntly or maneuver more around moral gray areas?”

  “By all means, let’s talk candidly,” Montgomery said.