The Spy

by James Phelan

  “Hutchinson isn’t answering his cell,” McCorkell said.

  Somerville checked her watch. “It’s eight-thirty.”

  “Let’s make our way to the Stock Exchange,” he said, trying Hutchinson’s cell phone again as he headed for the road.

  •

  Walker could see that the clock on the television news channel read 8:25.

  Il Bisturi sat in a plush, orange, velvet, high-backed chair watching the four of them. Next to him, on a small side table, lay an unfolded set of cutting instruments, along with Hutchinson’s Glock and the silenced pistol.

  “We’ve met before, you and me,” Bellamy said.

  Walker remained silent.

  “At your father’s funeral,” Bellamy said. “I was there. I was the guy smiling.”

  Walker remained still.

  “Do what you like with those three,” Bellamy said, taking one last look at the captives. “Make sure Walker watches the start of trading. Then kill him.”

  •

  “Hutchinson’s still not answering,” McCorkell said.

  “Maybe he and Walker are already inside the security bubble,” Somerville replied.

  “Maybe. I told him to wait for us, though.”

  “Walker doesn’t strike me as the patient type,” Somerville said.

  “Really? I thought the opposite.”

  “Not my read.”

  “To be fair,” McCorkell said as they walked up Broad Street toward the New York Stock Exchange, “the first time you met him they did try to blow the both of you up, so he wasn’t exactly in a situation to show patience.”

  “True. Though ditching us at Langley was just rude.”

  “Or genius, depending on how you look at it.”

  “Have they found your car yet?”

  McCorkell shook his head. “Are your people ready?” he asked.

  “I’ve got the local agents from CCRS Branch on standby around the corner at the Court Admin Building, along with a squad from HRT in case things get sticky.”

  “Good.” McCorkell didn’t know which he would rather see in action today: the Hostage Rescue Team, the FBI’s heavy hitters with all the weaponry that the best of Special Forces could muster, or the CCRS with their computers and ledgers, specialists in dealing with financial crimes and public corruption.

  “How do you think this’ll play out?” she asked.

  “Best case: we confront Bellamy with whatever evidence Walker retrieved from Langley, and he confesses.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “That was best case.”

  “More like dream case.”

  “Right.”

  “So, in the real world?”

  “Real-world best case?” McCorkell said. “I think we’re going to get nowhere today. But our presence will show Bellamy that we’re onto him, and it might stall this so-called Zodiac terrorist attack.”

  “So called?”

  “Crashing a market? Look, I think us being here might break some of Bellamy’s alliances, such as that with the VP. And, whatever the longer term consequences, it should prevent whatever chaos he’s trying to stir up on the ringing of the bell.”

  “You’re not afraid of Asad and whatever part he may have played in this?”

  “Of course I am,” McCorkell said. “But I think that’s a distraction, or unrelated. I mean, Bellamy’s going to be there, standing next to the VP, and he’s hardly going to blow himself up, is he?”

  •

  The hotel clerk passed out again when Il Bisturi made the cut. It was a small lateral incision in the wrist, about an inch long, but it would not seal, Walker knew, without medical attention.

  Blood pooled to the carpet. It would be a slow bleed out to death.

  “Two hours,” Il Bisturi said in his Italian accent. “That is how long it will take him to die.”

  Next to the clerk Hutchinson squirmed against his duct-tape binds, his mouth wide open against the tight tape wound through it, watching as Il Bisturi wiped the blood from the scalpel, its blade small and straight. He replaced it among his tools and selected another. This one had a curved cutting edge with flat back. A slicing instrument.

  Hutchinson started to rock from side to side, sweat pouring down his face.

  Next to Walker, Clara was still. Eerily calm.

  Il Bisturi moved close to Hutchinson, crouching down, and sliced off his shirt with three precise swipes of the blade.

  Walker had nothing to cut through the duct tape around his wrists, which had been taped together at an angle, one over the other, forming an X, with five layers of tape. There was plenty in the room that would get through it, including the scalpels, but to get to them or anything else he would have to get past a man who was an expert in wielding them.

  Hutchinson was starting to panic as Il Bisturi felt down the side of his ribs, as though counting them off and finding the point of entry that he desired.

  Walker leaned back as hard as he could into the sofa, putting more tension against the tape and preparing for his next movement.

  Next to the television, across the room, were two pistols: Il Bisturi’s silenced FN, and Hutchinson’s Glock. Next to that Hutchinson’s cell phone, disassembled.

  Hutchinson screamed through his mouth tape.

  Walker let the fear in. He knew the process, had been in countless sudden dangerous situations and lived through his body undergoing the changes. The release of adrenaline and noradrenaline as he moved to the state of readiness that helped him confront danger; the rise in his heart rate; the increase in respiration; the dilation of his pupils and—perhaps most importantly—the rapid contraction of muscles.

  Walker felt each movement. He was now more agile, able to take in more information and use more energy. He was ready.

  Hutchinson continued his muffled scream.

  Walker couldn’t see what was happening. Behind his back, his wrists taped tight together, he pushed his elbows down—a fast, sudden movement—with every ounce of strength he had, and then just as quickly he lifted his hands up, moving through an X motion.

  The violent action against the duct tape ripped off hair and skin.

  And snapped the tape.

  Walker’s wrists broke free of the binds.

  Il Bisturi, still crouched in front of Hutchinson, turned to face him, the bloodied scalpel in his outstretched hand, as Walker lunged toward him.

  Hutchinson lifted both his feet in a kick, knocking Il Bisturi’s arm high.

  Walker was on his knees and pulled Il Bisturi to him, a hand on the back of his knife-wielding wrist and another on the back of Il Bisturi’s neck.

  Il Bisturi twisted hard and fast to get away.

  Walker held onto the small man’s wrist, twisted it and pulled.

  The scalpel dropped free.

  Walker expected the guy to chase after his weapon, opening himself up for an attack.

  He didn’t.

  Walker could tell that Il Bisturi knew how to fight, how to survive, how to kill.

  The Italian elbowed Walker in the jaw and rolled away, Walker a second behind and pulling him back in. Il Bisturi kicked Walker’s arm, pulled himself in and delivered two short jabs to the chest.

  Walker bent into the fist blows and retaliated with a swipe, his backhand connecting with Il Bisturi’s face.

  The move only served to make Il Bisturi faster. He was already more agile, particularly with unbound feet, and he moved out of the strike range.

  Walker reached for a table lamp, gripping the stem.

  Il Bisturi made for the curved scalpel, holding its handle in a forehand grip. He was on his feet, moving sideways, crouched forward ready to pounce.

  A blunt tool versus a fixed blade. Walker would choose the blunt tool any day.

  Walker was on his knees, his bound ankles behind him. He transferred the lamp to his left hand, the power cord, which he yanked from the wall, in his right.

  Il Bisturi lunged forward—not for Walker, but for Clara.
<
br />   Walker let his full weight fall forward as he swung the lamp in a backhander that was flat and hard.

  Il Bisturi ducked the blow, but the lamp caught him on the shoulder, twisting him.

  Hutchinson kicked again and tripped him as Walker threw his full weight on top of him.

  Il Bisturi wriggled on the ground to get up, but he couldn’t move under Walker’s weight.

  Walker passed the power cord around Il Bisturi’s neck and pulled, yanked, with every fiber of strength he had. There was an audible crunch as the quarter-inch plastic-coated copper wire tightened around the neck and compressed all the air, leaving only bone and muscle.

  Il Bisturi went limp.

  Walker dumped the body to the carpet. He picked up the scalpel, cut his feet free and then Clara’s binds.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Walker nodded, breathing hard from the efforts.

  Together they freed Hutchinson and the unconscious clerk.

  “You okay?” Walker asked Hutchinson.

  “Yeah,” Hutchinson replied, holding his cut-up shirt as a bandage to his left side at the front of his chest between the fourth and fifth rib. “Just a flesh wound. I think the little fucker was going to fillet me.”

  Walker moved to the clerk. He took one of Il Bisturi’s knives and cut a section from his uniform shirt to wrap tightly around the bleeding cut, as Clara cut her ankles free.

  “Keep the pressure on this guy’s wound, keep it elevated,” Walker said to Clara, and she moved to do as he instructed. “I’m going to get to the Stock Exchange.”

  “Not alone,” Hutchinson said.

  “You’re out of this round, buddy,” Walker said. He made for the minibar and drank a bottle of Coke in seconds. He tossed Hutchinson the penthouse’s cordless phone. “Call in an EMT.”

  “I will come with you,” Clara said to Walker.

  “No,” Walker replied, crouching down to her.

  “I’ve got this guy,” Hutchinson said, taking over the first aid on the clerk. “You two get out of here. Get Bellamy.”

  Clara nodded. Walker helped her to her feet.

  One hour to deadline.

  71

  Walker re-assembled Hutchinson’s cell phone and it rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Walker?”

  “Yep.”

  “McCorkell. Where’s Hutchinson?”

  Walker gave him a quick rundown as he sat in the back of the cab, headed south on Broadway. McCorkell spoke off the phone for a bit and Walker could hear him relay the information to Somerville.

  “Somerville and I are almost at the Stock Exchange,” McCorkell said. “You’ll need to get out at Beaver and walk up to Broad; NYPD has the whole place shut down. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  •

  Dan Bellamy greeted the Vice President of the United States like the good friends they were.

  “Thanks for doing this,” Bellamy said to him as they walked into the NYSE building on Broad Street.

  The Vice President’s press secretary asked them to turn at the top of the stairs for a photo op.

  “My thanks to you, Dan,” the Vice President replied to Bellamy. “I just wish that everyone saw your company as the future of defending this nation, as I do.”

  “Give it time,” Bellamy replied, smiling as the cameras flashed. “They will.”

  •

  There were thirty minutes to deadline when Walker found McCorkell at the NYPD roadblock at Beaver and New Streets.

  “You look like death warmed up,” McCorkell said to him.

  “That’s how I feel.”

  McCorkell nodded to the sergeant on the gate and Walker was ushered through and handed a visitor pass for those cleared to access the streets around the Stock Exchange. Press, mainly, gaggled around their tech vans that bristled with satellite dishes.

  “Clara?”

  “She’s gone with Somerville,” Walker said.

  “She’s set up with her colleagues around here someplace,” McCorkell said. “She’s got several agents here, ready to move in and arrest Bellamy as soon as he shows his hand.”

  “I think I know how that’ll be,” Walker said. He described the cell phone and the case in which it had been so carefully stored.

  “You think it’s an IED?”

  “Yes.”

  McCorkell shook his head, said, “Can’t be. You can’t bring cell phones inside the Secret Service’s protective bubble.”

  •

  “Sir,” the Secret Service agent said to Bellamy, his metal-detector wand lighting up during the pat-down search. “Do you have a cell phone on your person?”

  “Oh, yes,” Bellamy said, removing the ordinary-looking smartphone from his inside jacket pocket. “I’m expecting a call from my daughter.”

  “Sorry, sir. Protocols,” the agent said. “You’ll have to surrender that.”

  Bellamy looked to the Vice President.

  “Let me take that, Dan,” the Vice President said.

  “Sir, I must—” said Agent Bronson, the man in charge of the Vice President’s Secret Service detail.

  “It’s fine,” the Vice President said. “Dan is one of my closest friends, and when my goddaughter calls, we’re going to answer.”

  Agent Bronson looked uneasy, but after a moment’s hesitation he capitulated.

  “You put this on vibrate, right?” the Vice President said, patting his breast pocket and flashing his trademark smile of bright white teeth as he and Bellamy strode into the Exchange and entered the trading floor.

  “Of course,” Bellamy said. “Don’t worry. When it rings, you’ll feel it.”

  •

  At the end of Broad Street was another security cordon, with more NYPD officers—these ones in black combat gear and carrying M4 assault rifles—standing around another ring of temporary barricades. Secret Service agents in dark suits were stationed between them and the Stock Exchange building.

  McCorkell showed his ID and the NYPD sergeant called over a Secret Service agent.

  “Bill McCorkell.”

  The agent looked from the ID and said, “I know who you are, sir.”

  “Good,” McCorkell said. “I spoke on the phone to your agent in charge, Bronson, before. We’re cleared to enter.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Secret Service agent replied. “Follow me. Leave all cell phones, wallets, everything loose on your person in a tray with these officers here; pick them up again on your way out.”

  The bubble, Walker knew: the protective zone around the President and Vice President wherever they traveled. Nothing in or out that the Secret Service couldn’t control.

  Walker and McCorkell complied and were then patted down and scanned by metal-detecting wands.

  “See,” McCorkell said. “If he’s using the phone as an explosive device, how’s he getting it past here?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure he’s found a way.”

  72

  Walker watched as the Vice President worked his way around the trading floor, shaking hands and smiling.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. McCorkell, my hands are tied,” the Secret Service agent said. “I can’t let you onto the trading floor; you know our pre-vetting procedure.”

  “We just need a minute,” McCorkell said.

  “Hey Bill, the Vice President’s here to ring the bell for trading,” Agent Bronson said. Through his work in the Secret Service he had known Bill McCorkell throughout his entire career, as McCorkell had spent almost twenty years in the White House as an advisor to the President. “He’s got a twenty-two minute window afterward for meet-and-greets: I can push you to the front of that line.”

  From a pamphlet he had picked up by the entry, Walker knew that the NYSE opening bell was rung at 9:30 am EST to mark the start of the day’s trading session, and at 4 pm the closing bell was rung and trading for the day ceased. There were bells located in each of the four main sections of the Stock Exchange, and they all rang at the same time once the electronic b
utton was pressed.

  That button, today, was being pressed by the Vice President. Ostensibly it was to mark the passage of a new bill being passed on financial-market reform, but there was no mistaking another reason: INTFOR was going public. Since 1995 the Stock Exchange had started to invite special guests to stand behind the NYSE podium and ring the bells, and these ceremonies had become highly publicized events involving celebrities or executives from corporations. Many considered the act of ringing the bells to be an honor, and due to the amount of coverage that the opening and closing bells received, many companies coordinated new product launches and other marketing-related events to start the same day the company’s representatives rang the bell.

  Today, on either end of the podium, below the Seal of the Vice President of the United States, was the company logo of INTFOR. Bellamy stood before the podium, taking it in: this would be a photo op for him that would be broadcast and recorded and replayed time and time again.

  “Hey, Bill,” the Vice President said, spotting McCorkell. He strode over, smiling, and shook McCorkell’s hand. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Working, sir,” McCorkell said. He saw that Bellamy had his back to him, talking to the camera crew. “Do you have a couple of minutes?”

  “I will, right after this,” the Vice President replied.

  “Sir, I have an emergency situation that you need to hear about,” McCorkell replied. “Right now.”

  The Vice President looked at McCorkell, and Walker could see that the old man’s eyes took in the tone and the speaker, and knew what had to be done.

  “I’ll give you three minutes,” the Vice President said, checking his watch. “Let them through.”

  Agent Bronson nodded to the thickset agents to let McCorkell and Walker through, and then led them, along with the Vice President, into a side room.

  Ten minutes to deadline.

  73

  “So, what is it?” the Vice President asked once the door was closed. “Have you got a tip on a hot stock?”

  “Hardly. Sir, this is Jed Walker,” McCorkell said. “He’s a deep-cover operative for the government.”

  “Which agency?” the Vice President asked.