by Rachel Grant
Tomorrow, they’d be one step closer to wrapping up this mission and getting their lives back. Starting a new future.
Dad had always said he’d fallen in love in a Congolese jungle. Now Cal couldn’t help but wonder how closely he was following in his dad’s footsteps.
With a population of over three hundred thousand, Mbandaka, the capital of Équateur Province, was the largest city Freya had visited in Congo. The town had more infrastructure than most, and in addition to an airport and a university, there were even a few hotels and other services for travelers.
There were enough hotels that they decided to risk renting a room using one of Cal’s fake passports. Freya was desperate for a real shower, and some of the hotels offered private bathrooms. That alone was reason enough to risk breaking out a bonus passport.
She waited in a café as Cal arranged for a room in one of the larger hotels that overlooked the river. Later, he entered through the lobby, then let her into the hotel through a side door. A white woman was more likely to be remembered by the staff, while a Lingala-speaking black man would hardly be noticed at all.
The first thing she did upon arriving in the room was plug in every device she had. All the batteries were now dead or in the red zone. She’d recharge the electronics while she recharged her body with a glorious hot shower.
She wished Cal would join her in the spray, but caution was the rule. One person had to remain vigilant at all times. Refreshed and revitalized, she stepped out of the bathroom and let Cal have his turn.
While he showered, she packaged up the video and photos and sent a download link to Cal’s XO. She debated reaching out to the CIA analysts again and decided against it. They hadn’t responded to her earlier report. If they’d cracked the VPN, they might believe she was still on the river. No point in letting them know she was in Mbandaka.
At this point, it was clear redemption wouldn’t be found in CIA channels. She and Cal were pinning their hopes on SOCOM.
SOCOM would help her take Fitzsimmons and Lubanga down.
But still, there was one person in the Agency she could contact. In spite of Cal’s urging, she hadn’t reached out to Kaylea Halpert. At the time, there hadn’t been much Kaylea could do to help her with the CIA from her position in Djibouti. But now they weren’t looking to Langley for support, they were looking to Camp Citron, and Kaylea was in the perfect place for that.
Months ago, she and Kaylea had set up a Gmail account to communicate outside government channels. They never sent email using the account; they posted draft messages that the other person would see when they logged in and delete when read. It was a simple technique that covert operators used the world over, and sometimes Kaylea and Freya shared information on informants that they didn’t want part of any official record. Plus they could set up their occasional night out in Djibouti City without people in the embassy discovering they were more than casual acquaintances.
She’d checked the Gmail account daily, finding nothing. Either Kaylea knew nothing of what was going on—entirely possible as she wasn’t in SAD and probably wouldn’t recognize Harry’s photo on the news—or she’d opted to wait to hear from Freya. The third option, of course, was she thought Freya was guilty and was distancing herself, and if that was the case, Freya couldn’t really blame her. They weren’t that close.
She logged in to the Gmail account and felt a ripple of surprise flavored with apprehension at seeing “1” next to the drafts folder.
Time to find out if Kaylea was still on her side. When she saw the message, relief and gratitude flooded her.
Holy shit! I just heard. What the hell is going on? DO NOT email my work address, I’m being monitored—have been for at least a week but didn’t know why until today. Posting this from a burner. I don’t know if I can help, but I’ll try.
Freya deleted the draft and posted her own: the message she’d sent to the analysts days ago and the updates shared with SOCOM, including links to view the uploaded videos and the URL for the yellowcake tracker. She also sent Kaylea the link to her cloud drive, where all of Lubanga’s files were stored. Freya hadn’t dared to give them to the analysts, in case the files disappeared, but during the long days on the barge, she’d had a chance to set up a second cloud, and she’d copied the files. She had a backup. She hit Save and logged out of Gmail.
It was possible the message from Kaylea was bait, and she’d fallen for it, but deep down, she didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. There were good people in the CIA, and Kaylea was one of them.
Cal stepped out of the bathroom and dropped onto the couch beside her. She told him about Kaylea’s message.
“I knew she was CIA.” He grinned.
She smiled. “Yes, you’re very smart.”
He laughed and kissed her. “Damn straight.” He looked at the computer. “What are we doing now? Researching Fitzsimmons?”
She nodded. She’d gone over the USB drives she’d taken from the tunnel back when they were on the barge. It would take a forensic accountant to fully understand the finances and reach of Lubanga’s organization, but she had what the US needed to connect the most important dots, and now Kaylea had that information too.
One thing was clear: Lubanga was working for Gorev—which meant if Lubanga took control of DRC, Russia would have the riches of Congo in their pocket. Freya had already suspected that, but the money confirmed it.
Fitzsimmons’s connection was a little less clear. She’d assumed the school was a front for diamond mining and the man operated on pure and simple greed, but they’d seen with their own eyes what the “students” were mining.
How did that fit in? Obviously, there was still a profit motive, but illicit yellowcake was more likely to fuel nuclear bombs than to supply nuclear power, and one didn’t arm people with nukes without a bigger agenda. What good was money when the world was decimated by nuclear holocaust?
The thing about black-market yellowcake was that buyers were the type who actually planned to use it. It wouldn’t be used to create a standoff designed to result in a stalemate that supported a fragile peace. No. Whoever purchased uranium oxide concentrate was after the big bang, either to cause devastation or so they could seize the world stage as a nuclear power.
There were any number of rogue states that were after yellowcake, but those were unlikely allies to an evangelical minister. So why would Fitzsimmons sell nuclear material to a group that was ostensibly his enemy?
Sure, there was a big payday, but a diamond concession from Lubanga could—and probably would—pay more with less risk of discovery and ruin. What was Fitzsimmons’s long game? Drugov’s files had had precious little information on the televangelist. She’d spent her time before embarking on this mission memorizing everything she could about Gorev and Lubanga. It was time to find out what made the Reverend Abel Fitzsimmons tick.
She opened the browser and started with a basic search. Beside her, Cal smelled of Irish Spring. She wanted to breathe him in while running her hands over his scalp, neck, back, and ass.
But dammit, they had a job to do.
She opened the televangelist’s website and clicked through the profile he wanted the world to see. From there, she moved to news coverage that was less flattering and included his investment in Drugov’s South Sudan operations, along with his claim that it hadn’t been an investment, it had been a charitable donation towards sanitation products for girls.
She clicked on a link to watch his daily cable program, surprised to see he didn’t stand within a megachurch, with a mega-audience, behind a gilded pulpit. His sermon was delivered from a shockingly simple wooden podium.
“He must be hiding his money,” she said as she dove further on the web, searching for information on his ministry’s finances.
The CIA wasn’t allowed to monitor American citizens. That was the FBI’s job. Freya didn’t doubt the FBI had a file a foot thick on this man and his ministry, but even if she were in good standing with her employers, no one from t
he FBI could or would share, and she didn’t have the time or resources to do the sort of digging she needed. She checked the public records of the charity arm of the organization.
On the surface, it appeared the ministry had a hefty bank account. A large portion of the outflow was earmarked for ministry work in Africa—with the bulk going to DRC. No surprises there.
She returned to the videos. Fitzsimmons was all fire and brimstone when he stood behind his plain pulpit. She didn’t spend a lot of time watching evangelical preachers, so she didn’t know how he compared. He had a certain zeal when he spoke of the coming end of days. Fervor with a tinge of longing.
“Do you think he’s the real deal?” Cal asked. “The finances of the organization look clean. Every article about the charity, every link that details where the money goes, everything except for the school appears legit. He doesn’t drive a fancy car. Doesn’t live in a mansion. Maybe he really wants to be the spiritual leader of Congo. It’s possible he doesn’t know what’s going on with the school.”
“That would mean he’s never been to the camp and hasn’t seen what the donations are financing.” She frowned at the image on the screen, considering the idea. “It might fit the reverend, but it doesn’t mesh with what we know about Lubanga. He doesn’t give a damn about the religious leadership in Congo, which means there’s something in it for him if he’s letting Fitzsimmons become the voice of Christianity in DRC.”
“True,” Cal said. “I just think if money were his goal, it would show. He’d mess up somewhere and there’d be a paper trail to a yacht or a hidden vacation home. Something that shows why he siphoned off money in the first place. Why the hell would a guy this devout, who is so damn careful to present a frugal façade, want to arm terrorists with nukes?”
She returned her gaze to the screen and upped the volume. From what she’d read about the reverend, this recorded sermon followed his favorite theme.
“And as we learned from Luke 17,” Fitzsimmons said with televangelist fervor. “‘On the day when Lot went out from Sodom, fire and sulfur rained from heaven and destroyed them all—so will it be on the day when the Son of Man is revealed.’ Yes, my children, we will have fire from the heavens! When Jesus returns, humanity will be divided into two groups: those who live only for themselves, who live without regard for God, who haven’t submitted to His kingdom; and those who are true to the teachings of the Lord.
“The selfish, godless souls will fall under His judgment. They will be struck down in a firestorm! A rain of fire and sulfur, as when Lot went out from Sodom! Vultures will feast. The second group, the faithful, you, my children. You. You who have submitted your life to the kingdom of Jesus, you will escape His judgment. You, who don’t live for this life only—accumulating objects to flaunt wealth and avarice. Fancy homes. Expensive cars. Diamond jewelry. These are the property of the godless. The trappings of the devil. The faithful who have remained true, who have shunned worldly goods for the sake of earning a place in Jesus’s kingdom, you are the ones who will escape His judgment. At the end of days, we, the faithful, will be received into the kingdom of the Lord!”
On the surface, the sermon explained why the man was so careful with his public image. His wife could hardly be seen wearing diamonds when this was his main selling point. He then continued on to ask parishioners to give their excess to the church, as Jesus wanted.
And many thousands did just that.
She backed up to the middle of the sermon and watched his face with the volume low, trying to read him.
“They will be struck down in a firestorm! A rain of fire and sulfur, as when Lot went out from Sodom!”
She paused on his face, his words echoing in her mind.
Text she’d seen on the ministry’s website came to mind, and she clicked to bring up the window. A banner filled the top of the page with a quote from the New Testament.
Then he said to them, “Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be great earthquakes, and in various places famines and plagues; and there will be dreadful portents and great signs from heaven.” – Luke 21:10-11
After several seconds, the words changed to a different New Testament quote.
When you see Jerusalem surrounded by armies, then know that its desolation has come near. – Luke 21:20
“Those are both references to the end of days, aren’t they?” Cal asked. “My knowledge is a little vague when it comes to Bible quotes.”
“My parents were both scholars in the humanities and schooled my brother and me in the basics of all the major religious texts. We didn’t delve deep into Luke, but I think that’s the part where Luke shares what Jesus said about the Second Coming. Some religious sects believe it’s a road map. Directions to bring about judgment day. Jesus won’t return until Jerusalem is surrounded by armies. There must be war and famine and plagues…” Her voice trailed off as the truth sank in.
Fitzsimmons was the real deal. She hadn’t researched him enough to write up a professional analyst’s report, but her gut—which had been trained by the best analysts the CIA had to offer—was flipping over the idea that Fitzsimmons was a true believer.
War and famine and plagues. Famine and war were a problem in South Sudan, Congo, Yemen, and so many other areas in Africa and the Middle East. Drugov had tried to trigger a massive Ebola outbreak in South Sudan—which surely would count as a plague. That must be Fitzsimmons’s connection to Drugov, the spreading of a plague.
But that wasn’t all. Fitzsimmons believed that for Christ to return, Jerusalem had to be surrounded by armies.
She stared at the screen, hearing his words from the sermon echoing in her mind. “They will be struck down in a firestorm!”
Her body went cold as his motive crystalized. “He’s not after money or power. Fitzsimmons wants uranium so he can bring about the end of days.”
30
Three hours later, after exhaustive online research, Cal was on the phone with his XO, relaying Freya’s theory as she wrote up an analysis for SOCOM. It felt like a leap of logic, but at the same time, she’d once been an analyst, and this was exactly the type of opinion she’d been trained to form. Presented with evidence, what were the likely motives, actions, and outcomes?
His gut said she was on the money. She’d been on the money with Drugov, and her instinct had helped stop a genocide. Now they were looking at World War III.
The end of days. He knew there were evangelicals who were eager to bring it about, but he’d never suspected any would be willing to go so far as to invest in a uranium mine to make it happen.
He finished his conversation with Major Haverfeld and Captain Oswald. Both men would attempt to convince SOCOM to send in a special forces team to close the mine and liberate the kids, but the situation was tricky with Freya’s role. The CIA wouldn’t sign off on anything she’d touched—so they couldn’t mention her.
He didn’t want to know the contortions they were going through to get the pertinent information up the right channels without identifying either Cal or Freya as the source. Hell, he’d bet the information hadn’t been shared beyond the fence of Camp Citron. Until Seth Olsen was unmasked, the CIA couldn’t be trusted.
The intelligence community had been compromised by several attacks within and without in the last year. What did it mean that Seth Olsen, who wielded a good deal of power in the Directorate of Operations, was a traitor?
And then there was Fitzsimmons. Where had his plan for Armageddon originated? Had they found the uranium ore first and then come up with the plan for a phony school? Or did Fitzsimmons just send the money and let Lubanga do the rest?
It made sense that the uranium was being moved through the tunnel under Mobutu’s palace. It hadn’t been mined at the southern tip of DRC and transported overland or by plane. It had probably gone upriver on a barge.
Even more alarming, a new source of uranium had been located, and once they managed to rescue the kids, artisanal miners would step in. T
hat was what happened at Shinkolobwe. The mine had been closed for years, but locals were desperate, so they mined anyway.
Freya pushed back from the computer and stood. She rolled her shoulders. “I’ve never written an analysis with such scant information, but it’s all I’ve got for now. I’ve also never written an analysis where I could include video of a slave camp I witnessed with my own eyes. So. There’s that.”
He moved to stand before her. He placed a hand behind her neck and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Did you send it to SOCOM?”
She nodded. “What did Captain Oswald say?”
“He and Haverfeld are going to try to find a way to send a team without buyoff on the mission. Misfiled paperwork, a transport to a forward operating base in the Republic of Congo. There are ways to make it happen. But it’ll probably take several days. CIA is ramping up the search for you. That’s probably why Kaylea heard the news. Haverfeld thinks you’ll be publicly burned soon.”
That was the ever-looming threat. Freya’s name and photo released to the world. Identified as a covert CIA operator. And not just any kind of operator. Special Activities Division. The one that may or may not commit assassinations…and orchestrate coups. Black ops.
“Fuck,” she said softly.
“Yeah.”
“What about you? Is the CIA going to go after you next?”
He shrugged. “They can try. My XO won’t have it.”
She smiled up at him. “Lucky.”
He kissed her nose as he cupped her ass. “You know it.” Behind her, the computer pinged. “Email?” he asked.
She nodded and turned to the computer. “This could be from my contact at CIA. Finally.” She clicked a few buttons. “I’m running the incoming message through a scan to make sure it’s not a Trojan horse or any other kind of trap. Checks out.” She opened the message.