Gone Bad

by J. B. Turner

  Meyerstein leaned back in her seat and shrugged. “What doesn’t add up? We have the best minds from all the counter-terrorism and intelligence agencies working together in this joint terrorism task force. We’re giving it everything we’ve got. You know what’s missing?”

  Reznick shook his head. “I do know something feels not quite right.”

  “I don’t believe that kind of thinking is getting us anywhere.”

  “Yeah, but don’t you see? No one is asking fundamental questions about how the hell we’ve got so many agents working on this case, and yet we still can’t find the fucker, and also don’t know what the hell the target is. This just doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “We’re all working very hard, Jon, as you know, to get to these guys. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Meyerstein, let’s step back from this and look at what we have.”

  “Jon, please don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m not patronizing you. I want to talk about this. We need to get back to basics. We seem to have gotten lost in a world of hypothetical scenarios and analysis.”

  “I don’t disagree with what you’re saying so far.”

  “Meyerstein, what are we all agreed on?”

  “We all agree that Hunter Cain is with two Aryan Brotherhood enforcers and they’re planning something major.”

  Reznick clicked his fingers. “Bingo! Absolutely. Something major.”

  “I’m sorry – I don’t follow.”

  “What three things are on just now in or around Miami? What did Agent Miller say? A social media conference, a sci-fi convention, an Apple conference and a fundraising gala for Syrian refugees.”

  “You’re not suggesting any of these would be the target?”

  “No, I’m not. Which leads me to my point. What are we missing?”

  “Missing? I’m sorry – I don’t follow.”

  “There are no would-be spectaculars that come to mind if we’re thinking right-wing militias.”

  Meyerstein sighed. “At a push, the fundraising gala for Syrian refugees may be something they’d object to, although I don’t hold that view myself.”

  “Forget fundraising galas. Hunter Cain is after big fish. He’s been sprung to do something big in Miami, would you agree?”

  Meyerstein lifted up her pen and pointed at a map of South Florida on the wall. “Well, either Miami or South Florida.”

  “Right. So why the hell isn’t there something that comes to mind?”

  “Look Jon, we’ve checked and double-checked this: these events are the only places where there will be either significant numbers or that are big convention-type events which would lend themselves to a spectacular.”

  “Agent Miller – she gave us this list?”

  “Agent Miller is one of our finest agents, Jon. Please don’t cast aspersions on her competence.”

  “No one’s casting aspersions. What if the information she had to hand was all the information the FBI were aware of?”

  “Jon, I’m sorry to be acting dumb on this, but what the hell are you getting at?”

  “Have you considered a scenario whereby because of the sensitive nature of a gathering, perhaps security concerns, the FBI hasn’t been in on something? Is that a possibility?”

  “Jon, I think you’re reaching.”

  “Why are there no realistic targets that might interest such a group of right-wing patriots?”

  Meyerstein went quiet for a few moments, as if mulling over what he’d said. “Let me get this straight. Do you think that, because we’re framing this around what we know is going on, we might be limiting ourselves, as we don’t know exactly what’s going on?”

  “Let me spell it out to you. What if, and it is a big if, the FBI is not in the loop regarding a gathering in Miami that has security implications?”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Impossible, or highly unlikely?”

  “Impossible. We know what’s going on?”

  “What if there are agencies that are not sharing what they know? Inter-agency rivalries, turf wars, and all that?”

  “Jon, that’s in the past. That doesn’t happen. Trust me, we work together.”

  Reznick sat down in his seat and looked across the table at her. “Meyerstein, we need to go the extra mile. We make assumptions. Details that should be passed to another agency somehow aren’t. It happens, right?”

  “Jon, I’m not buying this.”

  “I’m not asking you to buy it. I’m asking you to get Agent Miller and her team to go back and reach out individually to intelligence agencies, and find out if there’s anything in Miami we need to know about, or if there are sensitive meetings we don’t know about.”

  “Look, if there’s anything major, we’re always the first agency in the loop.”

  “Let’s go that extra mile. What harm will it do?”

  “It might be wasting precious time.”

  A few Feds started filing back into the room. “Let’s triple-check this, why don’t we?”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Just after midnight, Hunter Cain and Pearce were picked up from the underground parking garage of the property by the military man coordinating things. He pulled away in his Jeep Renegade through the huge electronic steel gates, and down a wide palm-fringed street. “Just so you know, guys, Foley has been disposed of.”

  Cain was sitting up front. “Needs must. The operation comes first, right?”

  The man nodded. “Fucking A.”

  Cain said, “Okay, so how long till the destination?”

  “ETA eight minutes.”

  “But they’ll be choppered in, right?”

  “Absolutely. Reduced things massively. But it does leave them vulnerable to those on the inside.”

  Cain grinned. “Motherfuckers.” He turned and looked round at Pearce, who patted him on the shoulder. “They’re going to pay. We’re going to light this fire. And, make no mistake, people are gonna get hurt.”

  Pearce nodded. “How long now?”

  Cain turned and faced the driver. “Not long now, right?”

  “You’re on the home straight. This is just to give you a feel for the road, and intersections and such-like.”

  Cain said, “What about police patrols?”

  “It’s all perimeter and inside. Nothing at all out in the community. Nobody knows this is going on. How cool is that?”

  Cain began to laugh. “Motherfuckers!”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The early-morning sun was peeking through the fronds of the palm trees as Meyerstein paced the parking lot of the FBI in North Miami Beach, coffee in hand. With her was Jon Reznick, leaning against an SUV.

  “Jon,” she said, “everyone in that goddamn room is busting their ass on this, so give me a break, will you?”

  Reznick turned and sat down on some steps. “We’re missing something. There’s a piece of the jigsaw not in place.”

  “You keep on saying that, Jon, but we’ve gone over everything, and we’re drawing a blank.”

  Special Agent Gillian Miller stepped out and approached Meyerstein. She looked ashen-faced. “Ma’am, we got a problem.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  “I’ve been reaching out to all the agencies, one by one.”

  “And?”

  “Ma’am, I have two systems experts on my team …”

  “I know, I recruited them myself.”

  “They spotted a discrepancy, just over fifteen minutes ago.”

  “What kind of discrepancy?”

  “They’re still doing some tests, but they’re near as dammit certain – three messages sent to three separate individuals at the FBI in Florida have been intercepted by a third party.”

  Meyerstein stared at Special Agent Miller, who began to flush under the harsh gaze. “Who intercepted them, and why?”

  “We believe the IP address is being spoofed, so we can’t track it
down. Pretty sophisticated operation.”

  “What else?”

  Miller cleared her throat as Reznick approached her. “Am I good to continue?”

  “Jon has full security clearance, Agent Miller.”

  Miller nodded. “Here’s the kicker. The three encrypted messages were sent from the Secret Service to the FBI, alerting us that a sensitive conference would be held in the city.”

  Meyerstein ran a hand through her hair. “Jesus Christ, what the hell? So the FBI in Miami is unaware of something about to happen, is that what you’re saying?”

  “We’re not leading on this.”

  “So what’s happening?”

  “Just over a month ago, the private security company responsible for this conference changed the location, which was in upstate New York, alerting the Secret Service as to why.”

  “What’s the conference?”

  Miller blew out her cheeks. “It’s a planning meeting ahead of a major Bilderberg conference.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  Miller shook her head. “The security head of Secure Solutions Inc. got information about credible threats from anarchist groups and far-left-wing groups in New York trying to disrupt the conference.”

  “And they decided to move it down to Miami?”

  Miller nodded. “A former president is scheduled to speak at this planning meeting, talking about what goes on the agenda. That’s where the Secret Service come into this.”

  “What about Miami-Dade police?”

  “Just checked with them. They know nothing either. We’re working on the assumption that those who have compromised the FBI’s system have done the same for Miami-Dade police.”

  Reznick nodded. “So it’s a strategy meeting organized by the Bilderberg Group. We’re talking wealthy corporate, military and political interests.”

  Miller looked at the list. “Goldman Sachs, Bank of America, IMF, a smattering of industrialists from Europe. They’re all part of the pre-planning group.”

  Reznick said, “Where exactly is this?”

  “A luxury hotel on Fisher Island.”

  Meyerstein stared at Reznick; then she fixed her gaze on Miller. “Get the FBI director on the phone right this minute. And get a chopper ready. I’ve heard enough.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Hunter Cain checked himself in the full-length mirror of a bedroom in the waterfront home. He wore a navy suit, white shirt with pale-blue silk tie, and black shoes polished to a deep shine. He picked up the lanyard with his fake FBI photo ID and hung it around his neck. He turned to look at Pearce, who was buttoning his shirt. “How you feeling?”

  Pearce’s eyes were glazed as if he was in the zone. “I’m good. Real good. Whatever goes down today, bro, I just want to say I love you, man.”

  Cain hugged Pearce tight. “Today, we’re going to go down in history. We’re going to light this fucking touchpaper. We’re patriots. And we’re taking our country back.”

  Pearce grinned. “Fucking A.”

  The pair headed downstairs where the ex-military instructor was waiting, also wearing a smart dark suit, white shirt, dark-red tie and shiny black shoes. “Us white boys scrub up well, what do you say?”

  Cain grinned and hugged the instructor. “Let’s get it on.”

  They headed down to the underground parking garage. Cain sat up front, Pearce in the back, as the instructor got behind the wheel. He started the car and the garage door opened.

  They pulled away and headed in the direction of the luxury resort. The men sat in silence with their own thoughts. Fears.

  Cain cranked up the air con a notch. The cool air felt good. A few minutes later, they caught sight of an outer security cordon. They pulled up.

  The instructor flashed his badge. “Morning. FBI.”

  The security guard used a handheld reader to scan the ID badge of the driver. Then he scanned the badges of Cain and Pearce. “Thank you, gentlemen.” He turned and pointed in the direction of a huge parking lot adjacent to the complex.

  They were ushered through a secondary security cordon.

  A huge security guard, holding an iPad with a list of names, nodded. “They’re good.”

  Cain and the two others walked a couple of hundred yards to a third screen zone where they were photographed and their biometrics checked with their records.

  The female guard gave a thumbs-up to her colleague, who was running a security wand over the three men. “They’re good.”

  The man nodded and stepped back. “Welcome, gentlemen,” he said, pointing to the side entrance of the huge hotel complex. “The delegates will be arriving in the next couple of hours. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to let us know.”

  Cain smiled. “Much appreciated.”

  He turned, the other two close behind, and headed inside.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Jon Reznick stared out of the window as he sat beside Meyerstein in the back of an FBI chopper headed for Fisher Island. She glanced at the iPad on her lap as another message came in from Stamper. He adjusted his headset and mouthpiece, and turned to face her. “Meyerstein, can you hear me?”

  Meyerstein nodded. “Sure, Jon. What’s on your mind?”

  “Let’s talk about logistics. How many agents have we got working this?”

  “More than a hundred as we speak. Two FBI SWAT teams are being scrambled.”

  “ETA for them?”

  “They’re loading up now. Assume they’ll be at least ten minutes behind us. We’ve also got two six-man teams headed on a boat direct to Fisher Island.”

  Reznick nodded, glad she was covering all bases.

  Meyerstein replied to Stamper’s message and looked again at Reznick. “I’m worried.”

  “Not surprised.”

  “No … I’m worried I might be overreacting. We have no proof Cain or anyone is there or will be there, or is even aware this is going on.”

  “Do you really think that?”

  Meyerstein sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know. These miscommunications happen. Inter-agency failings et cetera.”

  “Meyerstein, listen to me. This fits the bill perfectly. Ninety delegates, a sub-committee of the main body, meeting to discuss the agenda for a major Bilderberg conference in the fall. This is low-key. No media invited. No one knows about it. It’s not the main thing to attract serious attention from the mainstream media.”

  The chopper dipped as they hit turbulence over Biscayne Bay.

  Meyerstein cleared her throat as she regained her composure, and looked at the pilot. “We okay?”

  The pilot turned and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Just crosswinds. We’re fine. We’re having to take a different route from what I’d usually do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The pilot went quiet for a few moments. “Sorry, ma’am. Roy Stamper is on the line. You want to speak to him?”

  “Sure, put him on.”

  The headset crackled as Stamper’s voice came on the headset. “Martha, airspace from the airport to the resort on Fisher Island is blocked off.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Roy?”

  “Martha, I’ve just spoken to the Secret Service. And they’re confirming that as a former president is among the delegates and guests, they’re not allowing choppers anywhere near this air channel.”

  “Roy, that’s bullshit.”

  “They’re pulling rank on it.”

  “Did you tell them what we’re facing?”

  “They’re adamant.”

  “So what the hell are we supposed to do?”

  “We’ve got a car ready for you and Jon at the playing fields on the opposite side of the island. It’s inconvenient, I know. But it is what it is.”

  Meyerstein turned and faced Reznick. “Jon, did you get that?”

  Reznick shrugged. “Let’s roll with it. We land. We move on.”

  Meyerstein ended the call. The chopper ba
nked low as it turned and headed for Fisher Island. In the distance, Reznick caught the first sight of storm clouds rolling into the bay.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Hunter Cain pressed the earpiece in tight as he got his bearings and headed down a stairwell. He lifted the cuff of his jacket sleeve to his face. “Can you give me your bearings?”

  His earpiece buzzed into life. “Fifteen yards behind you, sir,” Pearce said.

  “Number three?”

  The voice of the instructor. “Walking the corridors as we speak, making sure we’re all clear. I repeat. We are all clear. The auditorium is filling up. Delegates have arrived. Airspace still closed off for twenty minutes around complex. And we are good. Inspection proceeding.”

  Cain’s heart began to beat harder as he descended the stairs. Deeper and deeper into the bowels of the complex. He went through a No Entry door and headed further down. Along a concrete tunnel, past a boiler room and then through another door to a locker room in a sub-basement. “I’m in the locker room. Have you got this covered?”

  Pearce coughed hard. “Yes, sir, we are in the adjacent room. No one is coming in or out. And we’re good to go on this.”

  Cain strode down the rows of gun-metal gray lockers till he came to locker 2301. It was locked. He pulled out a key and opened it up. He peered in. Empty inside. He reached in and pressed his hand to the back of the locker and felt for a tiny switch in a metal crevice. He flicked it and pulled away the false rear of the locker. Behind that was a brown leather briefcase. He pulled it out and unzipped the bag. Inside was a Semtex suicide vest, fake beard, horn-rimmed spectacles, a new ID lanyard, steel handcuffs and a 9mm Glock.

  Cain strapped on the Semtex vest and pressed a switch activating the device. He put on the fake beard and horn-rimmed spectacles and hung the ID lanyard round his neck. Then he zipped up the briefcase and walked out of the locker room. He walked past Pearce, his blocker.

  His earpiece buzzed into life. “Auditorium filling up for the first session,” said the instructor. “Are you on your way?”

  “Two minutes. Don’t start without us.”