by Steve Richer
“Yeah, cop business. Get lost, fool.”
Rogan took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. “Listen, I’m a friend of Squeaky’s and I’m here for business. Go get him.”
It was unnecessary. The middle-aged man, all 400 pounds of him, came walking out of the building. He was wearing a ball cap and an Orioles jacket that was too small to zip up.
“Yo.”
Gathering his courage, Rogan turned off the ignition and stepped out of the car. The two gangbangers bristled and got ready to draw their weapons so the FBI man made every possible effort to keep his hands in plain view.
“Squeaky Barclay, remember me?”
He cocked his head and squinted. “You white people all look alike.”
His voice was the complete opposite of squeaky. As far as Rogan knew, he had gotten the nickname from never having been arrested.
“Several years ago I made a $5,000 contribution to your cause. It was a down payment for future services. Remember me now?”
“Yeah, your face rings a bell.”
“Good, I’m here to collect.”
“Collect what?”
“I wanna trade this car for a new one.”
Squeaky broke into a laughing fit. “You gots to be high, mothafucka! That’s a feds ride.”
“I’m sure your trusted colleagues can strip it bare in under an hour. It’s a sweet deal, only 30,000 miles on the meter and it drives smooth. Hell, I’ll sweeten the pot for you. Whatever’s in the trunk you get to keep.”
Of course, Rogan had already checked the contents to make sure he wasn’t giving them an arsenal. Aside from the blanket he had given Cass, the trunk only carried a bulletproof vest and an official blue FBI windbreaker. The latter he was currently wearing under his overcoat. He had also pocketed the parking placard he had found on the dashboard.
“What do you say? This beautiful piece of machinery against anything with four wheels that can last me more than 24 hours.”
~ ~ ~ ~
A little more over three hours later, Rogan drove into Manhattan with his brand-new 1987 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. It had once been blue but now it was mostly rust-colored. He didn’t know much about cars but from the noises this one was making he knew that it didn’t have another 200 miles in its lifespan.
It didn’t matter.
It was getting late in the afternoon and traffic was becoming heavy. Thankfully, it wasn’t snowing anymore otherwise he would have been stuck for hours. He negotiated tricky turns and made his way to the Lower East Side. He parked on Rivington, abandoning the vehicle for whoever was desperate enough to steal it, and continued on foot.
Two blocks later, he took a right and went into an alley. The fire escape ladder was pulled up, he had really no chance to reach it, but it was expected. About ten yards ahead was a dumpster and he made quick work of pushing it closer. From there, it was only a matter of getting on it and climbing up the rickety ladders all the way to the top floor.
The neighborhood was getting gentrified and that didn’t scare him. It only meant this walk-up was gaining value. He owned this entire building through shell companies and false names. It was the best way to make sure his safe house was always readily available.
The window was unlocked though it proved hard to open in this bitter cold. Nevertheless, he managed to get it done and hastily went inside. It was as much to find warmth again as it was to avoid being detected.
Rogan looked around. Aside from the dusty smell, nothing seemed to have changed since the few years he’d last visited. The apartment was small, nothing but a typical New York one-bedroom, but it was all he needed. After all, he had set up the place simply as a more convenient safe deposit box.
After peeling off his coat and FBI windbreaker, he went to work removing blankets from what little furniture he had. Next, he got an MRE from the fridge and ate chicken pesto and pasta while he thought.
He could hide for some time as he got ready to investigate this further. On the other hand, he had enough money and connections to disappear forever.
He had no idea which road to take.
Chapter 18
The thought of going to one of his other safe houses was appealing. While he enjoyed his villa on the Amalfi Coast, he owned a much more private home on a small island, off Bali, where no one would ever find him. It was the much-needed moment of rest which made him lean this way.
More than anything, more than peace of mind, what he wanted was to solve this puzzle. Why had the President killed his wife? Why did people want him dead because of this? What did he know that was so dangerous?
He finished his food and went into the bedroom. He didn’t bother taking the sheets off the queen-size bed, though perhaps a nap later would do him some good. No, for the moment what interested him was what was in the closet.
He slid the door open and found new clothes in a duffel bag, right next to a sturdy safe. He spun the combination. Inside was a stack of money – $250,000 – some prepaid credit cards, fake passports and IDs which had cost enough money to pass muster anywhere, a cell phone, and a Smith & Wesson J-Frame revolver, a 340PD. It wasn’t his favorite gun but it stored easily and required little maintenance.
Satisfied that everything was as he’d left it, he disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower. He had to wait a while until the stagnant water cleared up but it was worth it. He felt rejuvenated when he dried up and slipped into fresh clothes, khakis and a black turtleneck.
“Okay, now what?”
He wanted to connect to the Internet and see what they had to say about the plane crash or if he was even in the news personally. If the government really was involved, there was a good chance he’d be painted as a fugitive of some sort.
There was a man he knew at the CIA, he had met him in Iraq while working on a mission together. He was Rogan’s best chance to find out what was going on. His excitement growing, he reached for the phone but the battery was dead. That was understandable, it was why he had the charger conveniently lying next to it, so he plugged it in.
The phone didn’t even blink to life.
“Shit.”
Undeterred, Rogan selected a leather coat from the closet, slipped it on, and filled his pockets with money, IDs, and the guns. He grabbed the spare keys to the apartment – his original ones had disappeared in the plane crash, hence why he’d come in through the window – and he left.
It was almost completely dark by now but the shops were still open. This was New York City, it was always this busy. He found his way back to Rivington Street and embarked on a search for an electronics store. He snorted back laughter when he thought about who the street had been named after. During the American Revolution, James Rivington had run a ring of spies for George Washington himself.
At last, he found a shop that was nothing but a hole in the wall, but it had everything he needed. He bought a prepaid phone, a laptop, and a cheap carrying case, paying cash for everything. Then he walked another block where he found a coffee shop advertising free Wi-Fi.
He ordered coffee and settled at a table in the back where there was a convenient electrical outlet. He made quick work of unpacking his new equipment and plugged in the devices to charge them.
The phone still wouldn’t work but the computer booted up fine. It took almost his entire cappuccino to go through the initial setup procedure but then he was able to access the Internet. Making sure he didn’t use any of his usual logins, he began to browse news sites.
There were several mentions of the plane crash but all the articles were light on details. No government agency was confirming anything with the investigation ongoing, but no one had survived. Rogan knew it was only a matter of time before somebody uploaded a video of his parachute jump on YouTube, but for the moment he was in the clear.
He was tempted to access the FBI website but that would only serve to reveal himself, which he wasn’t ready to do just now. If he was to gather intelligence, then he had to go through a proxy. His CIA contact w
as his best option.
He didn’t trust the software’s anonymous browsing option so he went to a VPN provider and subscribed to their service. After installing the program on the laptop, he went to his digital safe house, a Gmail account he never accessed publicly and where he stored his most important contacts and information.
A minute later, he was dialing Dickie Joseph’s number.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Dickie. How’s it going?”
“Did I win something? Who is this?”
“I can’t say my name on an open line but you know me. Just outside Fallujah, I got the Navy Cross. This reminds you of anyone?”
There was a pause. “It does.”
“Last I heard, you’d retired and were working a civilian job in the Big Apple. Are you still there? I need to meet right now, it’s important.”
Another pause. Rogan was putting a lot of stock into him and if he denied him the meeting, his options would be severely limited. However, a big part of that Navy Cross he’d earned by risking his life to save Joseph in a particularly nasty ambush.
“Third and 118th, an hour.”
The man hung up. This was fine with him, he could get to Spanish Harlem by then.
Rogan put his new toys in his bag and made a pit stop in the bathroom where he also disposed of the packaging. Then he went in search of the nearest subway station, buying a New York Yankees cap as he walked, anything to improve his anonymity.
~ ~ ~ ~
He got to the corner early and waited by a laundromat, scanning the area. It was a little cold to be loitering but this was New York where nothing was never really out of the ordinary. He waited for a few minutes and then spotted Joseph across the street, on the other corner. He was waiting right next to a pharmacy.
Rogan pulled his hands from his pockets so he wouldn’t appear menacing and crossed the street to meet him.
“Fancy meeting you here, Dickie.”
“Hey. Let’s walk.”
They took off toward 118th Street which was much less commercial and therefore much less busy. There would also be fewer chances of being caught by a security camera. Tradecraft 101.
“So you’re retired?”
“You can skip the small talk,” Joseph said. “You in trouble?”
“More than you can imagine. I joined the FBI after the Marines and I have reason to believe that there’s a conspiracy going on in the government. I can’t talk to anyone.”
Joseph snorted. Beyond the dark skin and girth, he reminded Rogan of Uncle Phil from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, a balding fatherly figure. So his snort sounded like gentle amusement when in fact it was scorn.
“Boy, you don’t know the half of it.”
“Then tell me. You must still have contacts in Langley, people you can reach out to.”
“That won’t do any good.”
“Why?”
“Because I already know about it.”
“Jesus, tell me what you know! People are trying to kill me. The government wants me dead.”
“No, they don’t. What you have to be scared about is the shadow government.”
Chapter 19
Rogan stopped in his tracks, agape. “What are you talking about?”
“Keep walking.”
He instinctively complied, keeping pace with the older man, but his mind was on fire.
“What’s this about a shadow government?”
“Look, it’s nothing concrete. It’s just… Over the years there have been rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“You know, an order comes in from some senator or congressman and suddenly the agency is sending an SOG to bug an office building in China or do a drone strike against a camp in Pakistan. On the surface it sounds kosher but then you realize this senator or congressman has no authority, isn’t even on the right committees.”
“People having more power than they would normally have.”
Joseph shrugged. “It was always little things but after a while they start to add up. A lot of us started putting the puzzle together but what can you do about it? Nobody knows how far this goes so you can’t talk to anyone.”
“The press?” Rogan suggested.
“At best, you get discredited and at worst you get branded a traitor, charged with espionage. We live in a brave new world, boy. The laws aren’t in our favor, they were deliberately written so they would make everything hazy, to give the government advantage. Hell, it certainly helped make my job easier.”
Rogan nodded. Having been in counterterrorism himself he could vouch for the beauty that was the Patriot Act.
“Call me spineless but I decided it was better for my conscience to retire and take a job in the private sector,” Joseph continued. “So tell me why you think people are after you.”
“The short version? The President kills his wife on national TV, I’m called in from my cozy life in Alaska to lead the investigation, and 24 hours later I’m dismissed. The FBI Director has his personal goon drive me to the airport and during the flight the crew tries to kill me. I escape, plane crashes, and here I am.”
“The plane crash in Virginia?”
“That was me, didn’t even get to experience the in-flight movie.”
Joseph’s eyebrows rose. “I’m impressed you survived.”
“Tell me about it. There’s only one thing that I can think of for all of this happening to me.”
“What?”
“The President whispered something into my ear when I was interrogating him. I told one of the analysts to look into it and the next thing I know the kid is dead. Has to be because somebody found out he was searching this.”
“Searching for what?”
Rogan hesitated. This was the only card he held. Did he really want to reveal it? On the other hand, that was why he was meeting with Dickie Joseph. He needed answers.
“Hyperion Foxtrot Protocol. Does it mean anything to you?”
“Hyperion, I’ve heard that before from one of the congressmen I suspected was part of the shadow government.”
“Who? Give me a name.”
“Oh my God…”
“What is it?” Rogan asked.
But the question was unnecessary. Joseph pushed the FBI agent to the ground and at the same time gunfire erupted.
It was the staccato of a submachine gun and the sidewalk splintered around them, sending dust of concrete flying through the air and showering them. Rogan had no idea what was happening but every fiber in his body told him to find some cover.
His veins pumping with adrenaline, he hooked a hand under Joseph’s arm and pulled him along as they ran to the stoop of the nearest apartment building.
“What the fuck?!”
There was a grey SUV blocking the street, on the corner of Third Avenue, and a man with a ski mask was shooting from the passenger window.
Rogan drew his revolver as well as the pistol he’d stolen from the assassin on the aircraft. His ammunition was limited. All in all, he had less than 15 rounds. There was no way to win a shootout.
“See what I have to deal with?”
Joseph didn’t laugh and accepted the revolver Rogan thrust in his hand.
“We have to get out of here.”
Rogan glanced up over the stoop. They had to get up there and go into the apartment building. From there they’d be better equipped to plan their escape. Another volley of bullets came their way, shattering the brickwork.
“I go up, you cover me. Once I’m in position, I cover you and you climb up. Got it?”
Joseph nodded. “Go on, do it.”
Rogan took a deep breath and straightened up. He squeezed off two rounds toward the SUV and the former CIA man did the same. To his credit, he took his time between shots, maximizing the dissuasive effect. Rogan climbed the steps two by two, not even breathing once.
He jammed his body against the door, losing his hat in the process. He wasn’t really confident about his plan anymore, not with the door fram
e being so shallow. Mustering courage, he reached for the handle and opened the door. This allowed him to back up deeper, offering him more concealment.
“I got you,” he shouted over the hail of gunfire.
“Roger.”
Rogan raised his weapon and got a bead on the shooter. But just as he pulled the trigger, the truck lurched forward. Hiding wasn’t enough anymore.
“Come on, quick!”
Joseph was overweight and in his 50s. He wasn’t exactly spry as he got up and rounded the stairs. Rogan shot at the SUV but it was coming fast and he missed his target.
It didn’t matter, he just had to buy his old friend a few seconds. He continued shooting and he heard the disappointing sound of his bullets hitting the fenders. Joseph was already out of breath when he reached the first step.
“Aaah!”
His shriek pierced the earsplitting sound of gunfire as he collapsed. Rogan couldn’t miss the two holes in his chest as the bullets punched through his body, exiting through the front.
Out of the blue, another series of shots were heard. The sound was different from the submachine gun and unconsciously Rogan looked to his left.
A white car skidded around the corner as a hand poked through the driver side window, firing a pistol at the SUV in rapid succession.
The man in a ski mask was caught by surprise. He looked back and then at Rogan, clearly unsure where his priorities lied. He fired one last time in Rogan’s direction before motioning for his driver to take off.
“Rogan, over here!”
The voice startled him. The person in the car coming to his rescue was Cass. The car came to a halt in front of the stoop and she was already halfway out the door shooting at the SUV.
“Come on, get in!”
There was no time to think. He leaped away from his cover and went to Joseph.
“Dickie, give me the name of the congressman. Tell me who’s involved with this shadow government!”
The man in the SUV shot back toward them but Rogan barely heard the pavement exploding around him. He was so close to the truth!
“Rogan, let’s go!”
“Dickie, tell me…”