THE ANGOLA DECEPTION: An Action Thriller

by Dc Alden

  ‘If time is pressing then I suggest we make a start,’ Reynolds said.

  ‘Anna’s right,’ Burnett echoed, his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers. ‘If you have a story that’s in the public interest, we all need to hear it.’

  Vicky pulled out a chair. ‘Please, Frank. Take a seat.’

  Roy took his place next to a reluctant Frank. Folders had been arranged on the table for the newcomers. He watched them study the neatly printed pages inside, the PowerPoint presentations and flowcharts. Reynolds was skimming through hers quickly. Burnett clicked a pen and doodled on a notepad to get the ink flowing. Vicky slipped into a chair next to Frank. She cleared her throat and addressed her editor and Reynolds across the table.

  ‘The reason I’ve asked you both here is documented in this report. It’s not comprehensive and most of it is unverified, but it contains information that will potentially impact every nation on this planet.’

  She paused, tapping her own folder with a slender finger.

  ‘There is a conspiracy underway, one that is as far reaching as it is deadly, and it has been in play for well over two decades. The people behind this conspiracy operate at the highest levels of every major industrial nation across the globe. They are billionaires, some well-known, most unheard of, but they are all tainted with the stain of their involvement. Frank has intimate knowledge of these matters. He knows names, dates, times and events—’

  ‘Wait,’ Frank interrupted, turning to Vicky. ‘Who do you think you’re going to convince with this?’

  She held his stony gaze. ‘My editor and Miss Reynolds for a start. If I can do that, then we have a chance.’

  ‘A chance at what? I told you that the Transition can’t be stopped. I told you to keep the data safe, so that future generations would know the truth.’

  Roy turned in his chair. ‘Frank, please—’

  The American got to his feet, his eyes locking onto each of them in turn. ‘Don’t any of you get it? The Transition is like a runaway freight train—if you try to stop it you’ll be crushed. If you go public with any of this, all you’ll achieve is accelerating the speed of your own demise.’

  He stabbed a finger at Burnett.

  ‘Print and be damned, is that right? You’d be setting yourself against the power behind the global media, and as soon as they sniff this story they’ll crush you and your little newspaper.’

  He turned on Reynolds.

  ‘As for a politician, well, no offence, ma’am, but you’ll be an easy target. They’ll find something on you and—’

  ‘I can assure you, Mister Marshall, that I’ve lived a mundane and scandal-free existence.’

  ‘Congratulations. In that case they’ll make something up. You’ll spend every waking moment fighting a lie, and ultimately no one will care about you or anything you’ve got to say. They control the narrative.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Reynolds asked. She folded her arms on the table. ‘Why don’t you start from the beginning, Frank? Tell us who they are and why they cannot be stopped from doing something that all of you are clearly very concerned about.’

  Roy laid a hand on Frank’s arm. ‘Tell them, Frank. Tell them everything.’

  So he did.

  It was midnight when Frank had finished with them.

  Roy heard the sound of the grandfather clock in the hallway ring out a dozen soft, melodic chimes. He was dog-tired, slumped in a chair at the far end of the table, but he was determined to stay awake until he knew which way the wind would blow. He’d left the room twice, to use the toilet and to check in on Max, but for much of the evening he’d listened, watching the reactions of Burnett and Reynolds. Initially they’d been sceptical, well versed as they were in global politics and the workings of the media, but Frank slowly chipped away at their preconceptions. Reynolds had become particularly animated when Frank had revealed TDL Global’s deep involvement, the crimes of her nemesis laid bare. But it didn’t end there.

  Frank told them everything, every detail he could recall, every installation he’d ever visited, every political and business connection he knew of, the players he’d met, every name he’d heard. Frank the confessor, the two priests across the table peeling back the layers, digging ever deeper, their faces paling at the enormity of his sins and those of his employers. Frank sat before them, collar open, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, undermining their faith in a system they’d believed in all their lives, and when they couldn’t take much more of the truth Frank told them about Messina, bringing their carefully constructed world view crashing down around them. Finally, when the notepads were full and the coffee cups drained, Roy knew that Frank had convinced them. As he too had been convinced.

  Burnett and Reynolds sat at the table for a long time, going back over their notes, a clarification here, another question there, but Roy could see it in their faces and it frightened him. They were defeated, crushed by the sheer weight of Frank’s story. Now they sat in silence, troubled frowns creasing their faces, Burnett chewing his pen, Reynolds running a nervous hand through her hair. Across the table Frank watched them. There was no satisfaction in his victory, Roy could see that. He simply sat there, waiting.

  It was the politician who moved first, getting to her feet and helping herself to something dark from the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. She came back to the table with three glasses, sliding them across the polished wood to Frank and Burnett respectively. She took a small sip of her own and set the glass down.

  ‘And the Transition will happen when?’

  Frank shrugged. ‘Soon.’

  She looked beyond Frank, fingering the rim of her glass. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  The American necked his drink in a single swallow. ‘Then don’t. Either way, it’s coming.’

  Reynolds tipped her own drink back and pushed the glass to one side. ‘Unless we stop it.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Haven’t you been listening, ma’am? No offence, but you guys are seriously small fish in a sea of ravenous sharks. You’ll get eaten the moment you swim in their direction.’

  ‘There must be another way, Frank. What about the direct action you spoke of?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said you were going to bring the fight to them. You said one man wouldn’t make a difference, yet you’re going to do it anyway.’

  ‘It’s personal. I have a reckoning.’

  ‘It seems we’re all facing that same reckoning.’

  Frank shook his head. ‘I have to do this alone.’

  ‘How will you find them?’ Burnett said.

  ‘I know where they’re going to be. And when.’

  Reynolds came around the table, took a seat next to Frank, pulling her chair close. ‘Tell me, Frank, are you so disgusted with the world that you cannot bear to try and save it?’

  ‘You don’t understand—’

  ‘I think I do. You talk about God and redemption, the need to make amends, and yet you think that applies only to you. I’m a churchgoer, Frank. I’ve sinned too. Don’t I deserve the chance to change things?’

  Roy saw Vicky and Nate enter the room. She gave Roy a nod, their signal that Max was fine, still sleeping. She eyed the glasses on the table.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Frank’s about to tell us how to stop the Transition,’ Burnett told her.

  ‘You can’t stop it,’ Frank scowled. ‘An operation like that would be logistically impossible without government and military cooperation.’

  ‘So indulge us,’ Reynolds invited.

  Vicky and Nate took seats at the table. All eyes were now on Frank.

  ‘You want to waste your time, fine.’ Frank pulled his chair a little closer to the table. ‘The only way to neutralise The Committee would be to plan and execute an operation in total and utter secrecy. You would need authority at the highest level, with access to military hardware that can only be authorised on beh
alf of the President of the United States by the Secretary of State for Defence, and you can’t ask him because I’ve seen him at the Eyrie in Denver. Do you get it now? Officially sanctioned action is impossible. Which leaves illegal action, completely off the books. And without political authority you’re going to have to forget about the billion-dollar hardware you’d need to do the job properly and search for another solution. That would mean using small teams of experienced operators, willing to smuggle military-spec equipment and weapons across international borders and cross hostile terrain in order to engage with a well-armed and highly motivated paramilitary force. They would have to kill unarmed civilians without hesitation, putting their own lives and the lives of their families on the line, because if the plan fails, The Committee will hunt down every last man involved and kill them all. That’s if the authorities don’t arrest them first. Tell me you can do all of that, and I’ll tell you how it can be done. Otherwise you’ve got nothing.’

  Frank leaned back in his chair, spent. No one said anything for a minute or two. It was Reynolds who finally broke the silence.

  ‘Surely Messina will provide that motivation? If people knew what the alternative was—’

  ‘You’re outta time.’ Frank shook his head. ‘My advice? Save yourselves and your loved ones. Prepare for what’s coming.’

  Roy felt another ripple of fear. He’d been experiencing them all evening, the cold fingers on the back of his neck, his thoughts slowly turning toward escape. Where would he go? Where would any of them go? He looked at Vicky across the table, saw Nate’s hand gripping hers, saw that same fear reflected in Nate’s eyes. Then he looked beyond them, to the antique sideboard against the wall, the silver frames arranged along its length.

  He pushed his chair back, walked across the room, his finger tracing the framed photographs, of bowtied men and well-heeled women, suits and dresses, formal and informal, the powerbrokers who frequented this impressive country retreat. But it was the larger of the photographs that had caught Roy’s eye, two men standing side by side, their smiles wide, their hands locked together, one immaculately dressed in a tuxedo, the other clothed in the military splendour of a senior American officer, his chest bedecked with ribbons.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Roy asked, tapping the polished glass.

  Nate peered across the room. ‘My father.’

  Roy knew what Nate’s dad looked like. His jealous fingers had searched the Internet way back. ‘No, the other one.’

  ‘That’s General James Moody.’

  Roy picked it up, studied it for several moments. ‘They seem close.’

  ‘They’ve been tight since grade school. Best men at each other’s weddings, godfathers to each other’s kids. They’re practically brothers.’

  Roy took the frame back to the table. He laid it down in front of Nate. ‘This man is your godfather?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Bill’s attended every major event in my life. He’s family.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Thanksgiving. Mom and Dad flew down to the house in Tampa. I joined them for dinner on a layover. Why do you ask?’

  Roy tapped the photograph. ‘D’you think Bill would let you die?’

  Nate’s face darkened. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Roy!’ Vicky protested.

  Roy ignored her. Instead he looked at Frank and said, ‘I want to see Max grow up, Frank. I want us all to go on and live normal lives.’

  ‘You can forget that.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Roy shot back. ‘I’m scared, Frank. We all are. If this man is Nate’s family then maybe he’ll be scared too. Scared enough to help us.’

  Frank sighed and got to his feet. He came around the table, picked up the photograph. He studied it carefully.

  ‘A fellow jarhead, huh?’

  Nate stood up. ‘That’s right.’

  Frank drilled him with hard eyes. ‘Everything we’ve spoken about—the Eyrie, the Transition, Messina—have you ever heard those words used in any of your dealings with your father?’

  Nate shook his head.

  ‘What about TDL Global? You do any business with them? Or Terra Petroleum?’

  ‘I’m not familiar with Terra. I think we’ve brokered some investments for a TDL subsidiary. I’ll need to check.’

  ‘What about your personal diary? How does it look in six weeks? Six months? Any special family trips planned? Something out of the ordinary, somewhere remote?’

  Nate shook his head. ‘The family always gathers at the Hamptons for the summer. Dad likes to sail. This year’s no exception.’

  ‘What about the General? Senior career guys like him tend to fall into two categories. They either climb aboard the Washington merry-go-round or stay married to the Corps. Which one is Moody? Is he a politician or a patriot?’

  Nate stared long and hard at Frank. ‘Like you said, he’s a Marine.’

  ‘So was I. He’s human.’

  ‘Well, knowing Bill, if you had the audacity to question his patriotism he’d probably shoot you.’

  Frank smiled. ‘Oorah.’

  ‘Right. In any case, he’s not at the Pentagon. He’s in Florida, McDill Air Force Base. He’s CENTCOM commander.’

  Frank raised an eyebrow. ‘CENTCOM? Jesus.’

  Roy spoke for the rest of the room. ‘What’s CENTCOM?’

  ‘United States Central Command. It’s a theatre-level combat command, runs operations across the Middle East and Afghanistan. CENTCOM’s a big hitter. Huge.’

  Frank fell silent. The clock in the hallway struck the half-hour. Frank’s eyes remained fixed on Nate. ‘So the General’s a patriot, huh? You think he’s got the stones to rip up the rulebook? To go rogue?’

  ‘Bill’s courage is not open for debate. I can’t speak for his decision-making process.’

  Frank stroked his jaw. ‘He could still be dirty. Any approach would be risky.’

  Nate bristled. ‘My godfather is a man of impeccable honour and integrity. No way would he be involved in any of this.’

  ‘Honour or not, he’s part of the machine. He’s also in charge of a powerful combat group. When the Transition begins they’ll be used to maintain order, and men of honour will be forced to do unspeakable things to their fellow countrymen in the name of freedom and security. And they’ll do it because they’ll be told it’s the patriotic thing to do. The General’s no different from anyone else.’

  Nate shook his head. ‘I feel sorry for you, Frank. You’ve been on the wrong side for too long.’ He tapped the photograph with his finger. ‘If you ever meet Bill you should ask him about his only child, Kyle. We were best friends in college, only Kyle didn’t follow his dad into the military. He went MIT instead, computer engineering, a scarily bright kid. Bill and Kathy couldn’t have been more proud.’ He glanced at the photo again and said, ‘On the morning of Nine Eleven, Kyle was a passenger on United Ninety-Three. The last call he made was to his dad, just before the plane went down in Shanksville. He was twenty-two years old. Bill and Kathy never got over it.’

  Nate used the silence that followed to place the frame carefully back on the sideboard. Then he walked back around the table and stood before Frank.

  ‘If I can get you in front of the General you can tell him your story. And when you’re done, you can look him in the eye and ask him yourself if he has the stones to do anything about it.’

  ‘I’ll go one better,’ Frank replied. ‘You get me in front of the General and I’ll tell him why there was never any plane crash in Shanksville. I’ll tell him what really happened to his boy. And who was responsible.’

  Roy registered the faces around him, Burnett and Reynolds’s disbelief, Vicky’s concern for her fiancé, a sudden and unexpected determination in Frank’s eye. As for Nate, he already had a mobile phone clamped to his ear. In the silent wake of Frank’s words, everyone could hear the distant ringing, the voice that answered the call.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  Nate’s eyes never left Fran
k’s. ‘Have the jet prepped for transatlantic, please, Robert. We’re going to Florida. Tampa International.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The air in the deep-level basement room was thick and stuffy, the silence like a lead blanket.

  Roy fidgeted in his chair, ran a finger around his shirt collar. The grey linoleum floor beneath his shoes looked scuffed and worn, the drab green paint on the walls faded and peeling. The water cooler in the corner bubbled occasionally, the only other furniture four plain metal chairs, two of them now occupied by Vicky and himself.

  Across the room shadows moved behind the frosted glass door as the meeting inside lingered into its second hour. Roy cocked his head again, but he couldn’t hear anything. The briefing room was soundproofed, like the anteroom itself—even the sour-faced Military Policeman standing guard outside couldn’t hear them. Roy shifted in his seat again. Like most government buildings the radiators were too warm, the air cloying, and the armpits of his shirt had become damp with sweat. He pulled his tie away from his neck.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Vicky whispered. ‘You’re sweating.’

  Roy grimaced. ‘What do you expect? We’re stuck in a bunker fifty feet below ground and they’ve got the rads on full blast.’ He dabbed his forehead with a tissue.

  ‘Why did you wear a suit? It’s not a job interview.’

  ‘God knows. They sent a car for us, said we were going somewhere important. I wish I hadn’t worn the bloody thing.’

  Vicky smiled. ‘Well, there’s no chance of freezing to death, that’s for sure.’

  Roy fingered the plastic ID tag clipped to his pocket. ‘What is Northwood anyway?’

  ‘I asked Anna the same thing. It’s a command centre for UK military operations.’

  Roy grunted. His estranged wife looked infuriatingly composed in navy blue trousers and white shirt, a matching jacket draped over an empty chair. Her hair was tied in a neat ponytail, her make-up subtle, her skin already tinted by a few warm days of spring sunshine. She looked stunning, as she always did.

  And she’d worked so hard lately, juggling her time between caring for Max and compiling a more detailed report from the information Frank had liberated, until the final document ran into hundreds of pages. Cohen’s hacked email account had offered up a goldmine of intelligence, yet as he sweated in the basement, all Roy could think about were the human guinea pigs at Copse Hill, trapped in their own grisly dungeons. It was like something from a horror movie. He hoped they’d be in time to save some of them.