Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5)

by Erec Stebbins

  High-functioning alcoholic.

  His eyes fluttered to a view of the ceiling. Another wave of nausea built. Maybe she wasn’t so bright. Maybe just being kind. But reality had him by the gut, tonight. Whatever all the others in this teeming and mad world were, he knew what he was.

  Alcoholic.

  39

  Paper Trail

  Follow the money.

  Savas shook his head, weary eyes gazing through the tinted glass of the rushing black SUV. Manhattan flowed. Yellow and green cabs darted. Pedestrians, accordion buses, and the concrete canyons churned into a confused mess in his mind. His life blurred along with it.

  Here he was, having stepped from the NYPD to the FBI to this covert and probably illegal reincarnation of INTEL 1. Here they all were, a quirky and damaged group of talent, having gone through a modern civil war, unearthing and somehow defeating a global conspiracy. Now they operated from underneath the city like Batman’s deputies to root out what remained of that organization. Insane resources waited at his fingertips. A frightening lack of oversight primed him to resign at the first sign of abuse of power. Here John Savas sat, rolling over the streets of Manhattan in a black SUV with dark windows like some sinister head of an underground police force.

  And despite this formidable arsenal of intelligence and investigative weaponry, back to Gumshoe 101.

  Follow the money.

  And boy, where the money had led.

  “Don’t focus on the politics,” said Cohen, her hand brushing his. Her deep intuition of his moods still shocked him despite their many years together.

  And many trips to hell and back.

  He leaned his head back against the seat rest. “It’s hard not to, Rebecca. Angel’s sure opened up Pandora’s box with those files from Tehran.”

  “The box has been open a long time. This is just the latest incarnation.”

  “Sure. Some nasty bugs, with nasty stingers. But millions, millions of dollars pouring into this election, into Suite’s campaign. Can we say Manchurian Candidate?”

  Cohen sighed. “This isn’t new. Foreign powers are always meddling. We just got a look under the rock this time. And we’re hardly unbiased. York gave new life to INTEL 1. Without her, we’re done.”

  “To hell with bias. Maybe York’s right. Maybe INTEL 1 should get shut down. But after what happened in Kansas, I’ll never doubt her again. And this isn’t complicated. A level of foreign meddling that’s unprecedented. It’s unbelievable. And we know who’s behind it. That alone makes Suite’s candidacy corrupted.”

  “He might not be aware of the history of the cash. Politicians don’t want to know. Don’t look.”

  “Does Suite seem like the kind of man who doesn’t know where his money’s coming from? He’s a tycoon with a reputation of balance sheet malfeasance and fraud!”

  Cohen’s brown eyes darted away.

  I’m ranting. He tried to calm himself.

  Cohen opened her tablet and flipped through case files. “For all these reasons,” she said, “I’m glad the political investigation is in other hands. Neither one of us wants to start investigating York’s political enemies. Even if it’s clear crimes are being committed. It’s a hot mess. Not our problem.”

  “Too close to Nixon’s playbook. Honest work could blow up in a scandal.” He turned his body toward her in the seat. “And what if we end up in the same place today? More political money.”

  “Maybe, but this account’s an outlier. Nemesis was up to something very different here. No big organization. No famous agitator or politician. An unknown, single account. Chump change compared to the other money transfers.”

  “All the more intriguing for it.”

  She glanced at him, her eyes smiling. “Now that’s the old NYPD detective I like to see. Yes. Something very different is going on with this guy.”

  “Assassin? Spy? We’ve struck out on every possible correlative search on the account name, bank, location, you name it. Nothing.”

  “It could be any of those things. The name’s an alias. For sure. It might not even be a man.”

  The SUV pulled to a stop in front of the large Citibank building. The driver awaited their instructions. Savas reached into his briefcase and removed a false Secret Service ID.

  “So, let’s review. We’re part of their Financial Crimes division looking into major fraud. York guarantees all background checks will clear us with the bank. NSA code in the bank computers will scramble any video footage during our visit, so we’re free to play.”

  Cohen removed her ID and closed her purse. “Right. Hopefully no robbery during the next hour. There’ll be no record, no evidence of two shadow agents.” She sighed. “They’ll want to freeze the money. You know that.”

  “We can’t let that happen. He’ll learn his source is compromised. Whatever he’s up to, he’s our best link to Nemesis, wherever she is now. We can’t lose that.”

  “Losing her in Tehran was a disaster,” said Cohen.

  “The entire mission was a disaster.” Savas slid toward the door and gripped the handle. “Whatever they say, the account stays open.”

  Cohen nodded. “We push them to disable online access. Force him to show in the flesh. He’ll come for the money.”

  Savas opened the door, the cold air hitting his face and bringing his senses to full alert. “And we’ll be waiting.”

  40

  Schrodinger’s Immigrant

  “Hail, holy Queen, mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve.”

  Lopez left his seat in the military transport plane again, continuing to mumble the litany under his breath. He’d lost count of how many times he’d paced the length of the aircraft. The movement and prayers brought no peace.

  “To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

  This time he was determined to walk off whatever was plaguing his mind. He passed the sprawled form of Lightfoote, dangling over two seats, her eyes hidden behind mirrored glasses. He passed Houston, who watched him with growing unease.

  She’s going to ask me soon. I’m not ready to talk.

  He steadied himself on two nearby seats as the plane shook through a bout of turbulence. Holding on in turbulence. It was symbolic. A summary of his life in the years since his brother’s murder and its CIA coverup. Since he became a fugitive from the US government. From the time he worked, ironically, within this very government to protect the nation.

  “O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary! Pray for us, O holy Mother of God, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ. Amen.”

  His head swam. They’d departed Ramstein Air Base in southwestern Germany several hours ago. It was a surreal and staccato change of environments. The deserts and mountains of Iran, violence and escape. The cramped hold of a smuggler’s ship. A wild ride into Turkey. All the while trying to keep a wounded Zaringhalam alive while they maintained their cover. Finally, to the US global center of drone operations, the historically central and strategic Ramstein.

  After landing in Germany, they’d handed off the wounded man to a medical crew, eaten, and followed marines on a plane bound for the United States.

  Dizzying.

  “Okay, Paco,” said Houston as he sat. “What gives?”

  “Only my brother called me that. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Archangel Miguel looks over you. He’s worried. And you are in one hell of a mood. Paco.”

  He frowned at her.

  “More like St. Bloody Francis of Assisi,” said Lightfoote from behind. “How’s a girl gonna get some shuteye with monk-man haunting the aisles?”

  Houston ignored her. “Tehran rattle you?”

  “Sure,” he said. “As much as any of the lunatic things we’ve done the last few years.”

  She lean
ed against his arm, staring forward, her brown hair disheveled from the chaotic trip. “It was a close one. You always said we’d die on one of these missions. I thought that might be it.”

  “The Lord heard our prayer.” He paused, but couldn’t contain it anymore. “But I wonder if it was a sign.”

  “Oh, Lordy,” came Lightfoote from behind. There was an impact on the backrest as she sat up. Her head poked through the space between the seats..

  “Okay, how many times do we have to almost die together?” she said.

  He grunted. “It’s not about dying. Or about risk. It’s about making a difference. How we live.”

  Houston looked up at him. “Francisco, we have made a difference. A huge difference.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Houston sat upright in her chair. “We stopped the conspiracy of all conspiracies! Saved the country. We freed humanity!”

  Strawberry scented gum smacked as Lightfoote chewed.

  His voice deepened. “Did we? Or do the rich still rob the poor? Do the powerful still abuse the weak?”

  Lightfoote blew a large bubble. It popped between them. “So what is this about, Hercules?”

  Lopez looked out the window. “Those I left behind in Alabama. The Latino mothers and children and workers who are paid nothing for the labor of five men. Those across America who are being scapegoated, demonized by some rich kid’s stab at playing TV Hitler.”

  “Daniel Suite?” asked Lightfoote, pulling gum out of the piercings in her lips. “Nasty piece of work. He’s going to win. You heard it here, first. Going to be bad.”

  “It’s nothing we haven’t heard for decades. We began as second class citizens. And the illegals—God help them with the hate I’m hearing. It’s insane. First they’re lazy immigrants freeloading off the government. In the next breath they’re stealing American jobs!”

  “Schrodinger’s immigrant,” laughed Lightfoote, her hands on their shoulders.

  Houston squinted. “What?”

  “Schrodinger’s cat?” Lightfoote tipped her glasses down, her green eyes sparkling. She smacked the gum. “Quantum mechanics? Uncertainty principle?” Houston blinked. “Never mind.”

  Lopez continued. “How quickly people forget. Mexicans fed the damn country in the Second World War. Bracero Program. Ever hear of that?”

  Houston shook her head. “What was it?”

  “US government plan. Brought truckloads of Mexicans in to grow the food. Millions over two decades. Marriage of convenience between the US and Mexico. White Americans hated the visuals of it. Hated the poor migrants—those invited by their own government—hated those breaking their backs, feeding the nation.” He scowled. “Spic, rapist, job-stealer, gang-banger. I watched families in my parish work themselves to death while America scorned them. Now, this candidate, this monster is legitimizing the hate, wants to ethnically cleanse the whole country.”

  “Never going to happen,” said Houston. “That’s not America.”

  “Sara, being white is blinding. You don’t know a lot of America.”

  She pouted. “Maybe I don’t.”

  “You can’t. You can’t know the ugly underbelly. But I’ve seen it. Felt it personally. It can happen. It might. Don’t underestimate the death-throes of a racist and privileged population.”

  Lightfoote stopped chewing. “I see. You need to help.”

  Lopez stared forward. “I told Sara when we signed on to this York resurrected INTEL 1 that I didn’t like it. Big, secretive government programs that kill people rub me the wrong way. And after Bilderberg, Suite? Black ops that bring down one tyranny for the next leave a bad taste in my mouth. Mexicans, all Latinos are under threat. Hell, anyone with brown skin. God forbid you wear a turban or hijab. Hate crimes are spiking with Suite encouraging violence and discrimination. I need to be on the ground with the endangered Muslim and Latino communities.”

  “He’s always got a vague escape clause,” said Houston, her voice low.

  “Of course he does. And vague is good for him. It’s exactly what he wants. It puts the choice of how monstrous to be in the hands of others. He’s got his 21st century Jews, his boogiemen for a tyrannical state.”

  “And women,” said Lightfoote. “He despises us.”

  “I’m ready to fight all of it.” He turned to Lightfoote. “What about you?”

  A large bubble expanded from her mouth, blotting out her face. She pinched it from her teeth and held it over her head, staring up at the pink sphere.

  “We’re going to fight. Dark times coming. But only once this serial killer thing is stopped.”

  Houston turned toward her. “The Eunuch Maker? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “We’ll see,” she said, her eyes distant. “But we won’t talk about him.”

  “Why not? You brought it up.”

  Lightfoote sprung backward and thudded against her seat, kicking both of theirs.

  “Because I say we don’t!”

  Lopez frowned. He’d never heard her voice so shrill. Lightfoote popped another bubble and sucked the deflated strands into her mouth.

  “Okay, Angel,” he said. “But you said we’d fight. Why?”

  “Because Suite’s going to win, like I told you.” She smacked the gum. “And then INTEL 1 won’t be working for York. It’ll be working for him.”

  41

  Torchbearer

  The reek of whiskey pummeled Carl Miller, but the young aid smiled. He smiled through the spittle that rained on him as the large man bellowed, his tongue locked in place.

  Miller melted in his suit. He obeyed the strict codes of the Suite campaign, even as the tycoon’s campaign manager flouted them. Stan Brennem lounged in oversized pants, fly unzipped, shirt untucked and food-stained, his face a grizzled lawn of unshaved stubble.

  Miller sat unmoving, upright, holding the laptop forward for Brennem to see the numbers. He would await the imperious commands, withstand the shouting and insults. He would continue to remain indispensable to his boss, because one truth he knew: this coalescing power was going to make history. And Miller was sure as hell going to be part of it.

  “God damn!” shouted Brennem, staring at the monitor. “Holy God damn!” Miller flinched at the burst of pickled vapor. “The Russians are running with this. They’ve got some line into her people’s files. My God! Look at the reports from the hack! We can grab some of the more extreme statements out of context and make York look like Hitler himself! Gentlemen, this could be it! This might be the kill shot!”

  Miller smiled back at the maniacal grin in front of him. He spoke. “And the bank transfers—”

  “Yeah, I see them, Miller. I can read, goddammit.” Brennem took another swig of the brown liquid from his glass. The smile returned. “But they are spectacular. With all this money pouring in, we won’t have to do much fundraising. We’ll explain it all away. Dan’s a billionaire. We’ll deep-six all the records. Hide any financial information of his. No one will know where it came from.”

  A man in the back spoke. “What about the Iranian money?”

  Brennem held a half smirk on his face as he spoke. “Well, we don’t actually have a clear source on that.”

  Miller blanched. “You don’t know where it’s coming from?”

  “No,” said Brennem. There was some murmuring. He raised his voice. “But that doesn’t concern me.”

  “But sir,” said Miller, unable to catch himself. “It’s Iran. Russia is one thing, I know, but Iran is Muslim.”

  Brennem laughed. “And so I’m even happier to take money out of the pockets of those towelheads.” The large man leaned forward and stared into Miller’s eyes. “You think the money’s tainted? You think money gives a shit about whose hand it’s in?”

  “Well, no, sir, I—”

  “Maybe you think we’ll be compromised? That those towelheads will have something on us? We’ll owe them or they’ll blackmail us?” Silence. “Well, let’s get one thing clear. We don’t owe
shit to anyone.” His voice was a snake’s hiss. “They’re going to owe us. Every last one of them from the dickless pants-pissers in Congress who wouldn’t back us to the donors and voters who think we work for them.”

  “The voters, sir?”

  Brennem chuckled. “God you’re a fucking idiot.” He threw back his head and downed the rest of the whiskey. “We’ve got a vision for this country,” he said, wobbling as he stood. “We’re gonna reclaim what’s ours, what they’ve taken. The right people are gonna set our course in history.” His arms whirled. “We’re going to use every tool to win. Russian mob money, hacking, secret Iranian donors, disinformation, voter fraud, you name it. If you think they’re gonna give you your country back without a fight, you’re sadly mistaken. We’re a nation with a culture and a reason for being. And I’m on a mission to save it.”

  He slammed the glass on the table. Miller jumped, amazed it didn’t shatter.

  “Nobody’s going to stop us.”

  42

  Conspiracy Theories

  Shutters chirped like angry birds in the NYU press room. Dr. Linda Richards stalked into the cramped space in a frumpled pantsuit, her long, graying hair in disarray. She dropped into a chair behind a table covered with microphones from major news outlets. The mayor, chiefs of the NYPD, the president of NYU, and several unidentified men and women in suits were arrayed behind the table.

  Richards surveyed the crowded mass of reporters. The room stank of wet clothes, steam still rising from those who had dashed through the rain. She put on reading glasses and exhaled. The clicks intensified as she unfolded a piece of paper and read.

  “Good morning. My name is Dr. Linda Richards. I’m Head of the Department of Reproductive Biology at the NYU Center for Women’s Health. I’m here to make an announcement related to the spate of killings in the city over the last few weeks.”