by J. B. Turner
But the file also contained the names of those who were privy to this information. It was a distribution list of ex-generals, Joint Chiefs of Staff, and former directors of the CIA. The men behind this organization. And their contact details. It was all there. He had checked over the names carefully.
The man at the top was Clayton Wilson. A former director of the CIA who had been an adviser on the ground when Pinochet was overthrown in a coup. According to WikiLeaks, Wilson consulted with numerous blue-chip American technology companies, who wanted his knowledge and contacts within the intelligence community to secure lucrative multimillion-dollar contracts, but his services were also retained by these companies—at $100,000 a month—to advise on global security concerns that might affect their country. It was a win-win for Wilson.
Patterson wondered why men like Wilson were pulling the strings of a shadowy organization that wanted to kill fellow Americans. How was that even possible or, for that matter, allowed to happen in America in the twenty-first century?
It even had its own code name: Sundowner Winds. Had this originated inside the Pentagon or Langley? Had this been outsourced to a private organization with no official links to the military-industrial complex?
Patterson snapped out of his reverie and began to focus on the senator. A man he had donated funds to during the last election.
His calls to the senator’s office had just met a brick wall. He wondered if he should keep trying.
Patterson was feeling agitated as he walked. He took out his cell phone again and tried Jessica Friel’s number. She picked up after the first ring.
“Oh come on, you have got to be kidding me!” she said.
“Jessica, this is the last time I’m going to call.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Jessica, first, I apologize for the earlier profanity. It was unnecessary. Please believe me, it was just because of my concern, genuine concern, that I came across like an asshole.”
Jessica said nothing.
“I’m begging—literally begging—you to meet me to discuss what I know.”
A deep sigh. “I’ve alerted the police, I hope you know that.”
“I wish you hadn’t. I am genuine. What I say is not fake news or some other nonsense. I have information in my possession that places your boss at risk.”
“Are you making this bullshit up as you go along?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know, because you’re crazy?”
“I believe Senator Crichton is at grave risk. He is on a list. I want to show it to you.”
“Not possible, sorry.”
“Jessica, we’ve never spoken before, and you’re probably wondering if I’m some stalker nut—I get that.”
“It had crossed my mind.”
“I’m a serious journalist. The biography of Pat Buchanan?”
“That was written by Carol Levinson.”
“Not true. I was the ghostwriter. I wrote the whole thing. Carol was the celebrity on the cover. Her input was, at best, sketchy. I’ve also written for the American Conservative and the New Criterion, among others. I’ve appeared on Fox News. I’ve also written extensively about WikiLeaks.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with your work.”
“That’s fine. Not a problem.”
“Jeff, look, if you have any concerns, speak to the police.”
“I wanted you to pass it on. I’m concerned if I speak to the cops or the Feds, the information won’t get to Senator Crichton.”
“Can I be frank, Jeff?”
“Sure.”
“I’m really, really busy. And this sounds kinda flaky to me. As if it was dreamed up by a conspiracy nut.”
“This came from a source within the intelligence community,” he said. The lights changed and he crossed the street. “A source is putting his job on the line. If it was known who had accessed the original information, my source would be in jail. But he would rather take that risk than not alert people. He is a patriot first and foremost.”
“Have you ever met this source?”
“Yes, I have. He’s a good man. And I’ve used him for many stories on intelligence matters.”
“So it’s stolen information?”
“Jessica, we could get into a philosophical discussion about whether this is in the public interest or not, if it’s stolen or not. Then again we could talk about illegal surveillance methods infringing on our civil liberties, which I’ve reported on extensively.”
“So are you saying this guy is a Snowden character?”
“Listen, I admire the senator. He talks sense. I know the senator has spoken out supporting Snowden. He speaks my kind of language. I believe he’s genuine when he says he’s all about changing the way America works. What I’ve learned concerns me so much.”
“Let’s say for a moment that I believe you.”
“I need to speak to you face-to-face about this.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“So we can meet up?”
“I said I’ll think about it.”
She hung up.
Patterson felt slightly heartened as he walked on. He sensed Friel was coming around. He tried his source again. But again, no answer.
Patterson unlocked his sun-drenched apartment, pleased to be home. He turned on a talk radio station and went over to the windows to close the blinds.
His gaze was drawn to a car parked farther down the street. He pressed his nose to the window. Inside the car he saw two men. One with a telephoto lens pointing straight at him.
Twelve
Nathan Stone wiped the condensation off the windows of the ferry that would take him to the Isle of Skye and stared out over the gray seas. He picked up his coffee and took a welcome drink as some kids screeched up and down the corridor. The smell of fries wafted from the dining area. He felt nauseated.
A kid approached and stood right in front of him. “Hey, mister,” the boy said in a broad Scottish accent. “Where you from?”
Stone stared at the kid long and hard and smiled. He patted him on the head as his mother approached.
“Callum, that’s none of your business,” the woman said, scolding her son.
Stone smiled benignly at her.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “He’s just curious.”
Stone said nothing. He knew that nine times out of ten it was better to say nothing than to draw attention.
The boy stared sullenly at him. “Everyone knows where they’re from.”
“Callum!” his mother snapped. “Enough!”
Stone smiled again. He would rather be thought mute than engage in unnecessary conversation.
The mother pulled her son away. “Once again, I do apologize.”
Stone nodded. Inwardly, he seethed. The woman took her son back to the group they were with. He saw the way she scolded him. But he could see the defiant look in the boy’s eyes. Stone thought the boy was just a brat. A spoiled brat. Enjoying an island-hopping holiday with his well-off parents.
He thought back to his own childhood. A stinking one-room dive on the Bowery. Father an alcoholic. His sister psychotic. He remembered waiting for his father to return home from drinking with the rest of the panhandlers. Drunk. Unsteady on his feet. The smell of his rotten breath. The crazy dark eyes. Then the pain as he took off his belt and attacked Nathan and his sister remorselessly.
The torment lasted years. Until his sister snapped. She killed their father with a pair of scissors, stabbing him repeatedly, drenching herself in his blood. He remembered the screaming. The days, weeks, and months that followed were traumatic. He was torn away from his sister. He had no one besides her. And then she was gone. All he had were goddamn social workers, teachers. And a string of foster parents across the tristate area. They all tried their best with him. But the darkness within him had already swallowed any goodness he may once have had.
A man’s voice boomed out of the speakers. “Ladies and g
entlemen, five minutes until we disembark.”
Stone finished his coffee. A couple of minutes later, his new iPhone rang. He checked the caller ID and saw it was his handler. He moved to a quiet alcove. “Yeah.”
“A cab is waiting to pick you up once you land at Uig. The man driving the cab is one of our guys. Do not engage in conversation. He will drive you for a few miles to the parking lot of an isolated bar. You have the keys in your pocket for a BMW X5. Are you clear so far?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are then to proceed south through Skye until you come to the bridge that leads off the island to the Scottish mainland.”
“Copy that.”
“You will then take the A87 road and head to a small cottage. All the details are logged into the GPS of your car. We’ll be in touch.”
Thirteen
Just after midday, one block from the Library of Congress in DC, Jessica Friel breezed into the upscale Sonoma Restaurant. It was packed with staffers, interns, a few political hacks, and a few tourists. She immediately spotted her college friend Amy Blair sitting at a corner table.
“Oh my God,” Jessica said, pecking Amy on the cheek, “you look great!”
Amy smiled and rolled her eyes as she sipped her martini. “Gimme a break, Jessica. I look like shit. That’s what having two kids does to you.”
Jessica sat down opposite her closest friend from Yale. “So how long has it been?”
“Too long. I feel like we never see each other.”
“There aren’t enough hours in the day. I feel like I’m jumping from one meeting to the next, juggling a million different things in my life.”
Amy snorted. “Tell me about it. So how the hell are you?”
Jessica shrugged. “You see it all.” She motioned a waiter across and ordered a couple of martinis. “Look, I’m sorry I missed your thirtieth birthday party last month. It’s been crazy.”
“Hey, forget about it. All that happened was I got drunk and puked in the cab on the way home.”
Jessica laughed. “Well, good for you.”
It was Amy’s turn to laugh. “Yeah . . . not my best day by a long shot.”
“How’s Edward?” Jessica asked of Amy’s husband.
Amy sighed long and hard before finishing her first martini. “Yeah . . .”
Jessica smiled and shrugged.
“Not so good.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
The waiter returned with two fresh martinis. Amy lifted her glass and took a sip.
“You wanna talk about it?” Jessica said.
“Yes . . . Yes, I goddamn do.”
“I’ve got to say, I always thought you and Edward were so much fun together. You were perfect.”
“Go figure. The fun seems to have gone out of things since the twins were born.”
Jessica felt deflated. She’d known both since they were all in college together. “That’s pretty common in relationships, though, isn’t it?”
Amy nodded and gazed into her drink. “Yes, it is. Some couples can deal with it. But we’re finding it very difficult.”
Jessica sighed. “Do you want to order lunch now?”
“Good idea.”
Jessica ordered a goat cheese salad and Amy ordered a burger and fries.
When the waiter had taken the order and was out of earshot, Amy leaned in close. “It’s actually a bit more serious,” she said. “We’re getting divorced.”
“What?”
“I know. Shocker. But there you have it.”
“A divorce? Oh, Amy, no.” Jessica reached across the table and touched her friend’s hand.
Amy got teary and took a large gulp of her martini. “It’s been a long, long time coming. A constant drip, drip of disappointments, arguments, and edginess. No one is to blame. But the end result is that he’s moved out.”
“I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”
“Hey, shit happens, right?”
“Out of all my friends, I would have staked my life on you guys making it.”
Amy knocked back the rest of her martini and ordered another round from a passing waiter. “OK, let’s change the subject. I’m getting depressed. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you dating anyone in Washington? There are gazillions of eligible bachelors in town.”
“I’m too busy.”
“Gimme a break, Jessica. Too busy?”
“I am. My work with the senator is all-consuming. It takes up all my time. The energy I have left I use for jogging.”
Amy edged closer to her before lowering her voice. “You remember Annie McGowan . . .”
“Annie? Sure. Really smart girl.”
“Yeah, well, get this. She’s working at the Post.”
“I heard that. Investigations or something, right?”
“We had lunch about a month ago and she mentioned some talk going around about who’s putting out feelers to run for president.”
Jessica nodded, knowing where the conversation was going.
“And she said your boss, the gorgeous Senator Brad Crichton, is picking up some serious interest in running. Said he’s already been promised a ton of money for his campaign.”
Jessica smiled but said nothing. She was sorely tempted to open up to her old friend.
“But here’s the kicker. She said there are rumors about him.”
“Washington is full of rumors.”
Amy leaned in close and Jessica got a whiff of the martinis on her breath. “I know. But Annie was talking about rumors swirling around DC saying he gambles and chases women.”
Jessica felt herself flush. “He’s a good man. And I can vouch for him. He’s a great American. I think everyone can see that.”
Amy narrowed her eyes mischievously. “Jessica? You’re hiding something from me.”
“Maybe I am,” Jessica teased.
Amy stared at her openmouthed. “You have to tell me. You’re killing me! You getting engaged?”
The food arrived and Jessica picked at her salad, while Amy started on her burger and fries.
Jessica shook her head. “No, I’m not getting engaged.”
“So tell me,” Amy said. “What’s your news?”
“You can’t tell a soul. And I mean a living soul.”
“Trust me. Cross my heart and hope to die. Now are you going to tell me or not? I’ve told you my situation. You’re hiding something.”
Jessica felt her cheeks flush.
“I knew it. I goddamn knew it. Tell me all about it.”
“Well . . . there is a guy in my life. But this is super secret. Nobody knows about it.”
“Jessica, you need to tell me or I won’t be able to sleep tonight. Tell me something nice.”
“I’m having an affair.”
Amy stared at her for what seemed like a lifetime. “What?”
“With the senator.”
“Stop. Are you kidding me?”
Jessica shook her head.
Amy put her hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“I know. I can’t explain it. I love him. I can’t help it.”
“You’re having an affair? Like, as in having sex with him?”
“Yes, we’re having an affair. I know it’s wrong. I know all that. But I love him. I’ve fallen madly, crazy in love with him. I have no way of explaining myself. And I know he has a wife.”
Amy nodded. “Yes, he does. A very pretty wife.”
“And a family. I know all that.”
A sly grin crossed Amy’s face. “You cunning little minx.”
“Stop it.”
“So let’s start at the beginning. How did it start?”
Jessica took a sip of her martini. “His marriage was in trouble. He confided in me.”
“He did?”
“Said they were trying to get along but had discussed separation.”
“Oh my God. Really? So you’re having a full-blown affair? I w
ould never have known.”
“Don’t say a word. He says he’s going to leave his wife. He’s waiting for the right time.”
“So he still lives with her?”
Jessica felt herself wincing. “It sounds awful when you say it like that. It’s all about appearances, public perception.”
Amy sipped her drink and leaned in close. “Holy cow.”
“He’s a public figure. This is important on different levels. He needs to work this out before he can move on. There’s financial considerations for his family, his wife and all that, and that’s besides the political fallout he’ll have to contend with.”
“I read that his poll numbers are sky-high. I like him. I like what he says and the way he says it.”
Jessica nodded.
“He needs to leave his wife, though.”
“That’s where he’s headed, thankfully. I miss him. And I don’t like the fact that his life is still so entwined with hers.”
Amy shook her head and sipped her drink. “So is this physical? Ideological? Is he having a midlife crisis?”
“You’re not listening. He’s a really sweet guy. I love him, he makes me laugh.”
“My neighbor makes me laugh, but I don’t want to sleep with him.”
Jessica rolled her eyes. “You know, sometimes it’s meant to be.”
“Does your mother know?”
“No, thank God.”
“If she found out—and I mean reading it in the newspapers—that wouldn’t be good for her.”
Jessica sighed as she began to comprehend the potential fallout when it would eventually come out in the press.
“How often do you sleep with him?”
Jessica playfully slapped the back of Amy’s free hand. “Behave!”
“I need to know. He looks very athletic.”
“He works out. He runs. He looks after himself.”