Patriot Deception: A Thriller Suspense Novel (Mason McCall Book 1)

by Ross Elder

  “Whew! That was exhilarating!” She’s giggling as she tries to catch her breath. The heavy breathing is kind of hot. Her hands flip her tousled hair from her face. She seems…happy. Apparently, my naughty nurse is a violent woman. “You always see that in those old movies, you know? The hysterical person unable to control themselves, so the other person slaps them back into reality? Know what I mean? Probably works better if you actually slap the person, though.” Her hands find their way to my chest. Her touch is very soft. “Are you okay?”

  I can’t answer right away. Am I okay? Will I ever be okay? These are esoteric things far beyond the scope of my immediate mental capacity. I’m feeling good right now, though. That memory dump was intense. But, I feel as though I should say…something. I can’t just leave her hanging. She looks so excited. Proud of herself, even. “Yeah. I’m…fine. I feel fine. I think I just had a breakthrough.”

  “That’s great, Morgan! Tell me!”

  “You just tried to slap the shit out of me.”

  “Yeah, so? A breakthrough, sweetie! That’s a big deal. Okay, let’s talk.”

  “Well, I…” My phone is buzzing on the dining room table. It’s distracting. “I saw myself… working. Doing things. Doing my job. I…” The message display on my phone is telling me I have a text from a Max… something. Max? Do I know a Max? Toni is snapping her fingers at me, attempting to draw my attention back to our conversation. “Hold on a second, okay?”

  “We need to talk, bro. Soonest,” the message read. Max Lawler is the name. Max. Who is…Max?

  “Morgan, we…”

  “Max!” I yelled it. Yes, Max! I know Max. We work together. No. No, we don’t. We used to work together. Not anymore. He…Max…works…for the government. We’ve known each other for a few years. I don’t think we’ve seen each other for a while. I text back that we should meet because there is a lot to discuss.

  “I’ll be there in an hour,” he answered.

  An hour? That would be…I just looked at my naked wrist again. I seriously need to get a new watch. 6:00 A.M.? And, seriously, who texts someone at 5:00 A.M. expecting the other person to answer? I mean, other than Max, apparently.

  We showered. I put on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt while Toni stuck with a t-shirt and, well, that was it. She planned to go back to bed while Max and I talked. According to my phone, Max texted at 6:03 A.M., and asked me to meet him in the parking lot. He thought it would be better to go for a drive. I recognized him immediately, which was good, and I instantly understood that he was a trusted friend. We shared a hearty, if awkward, “bro hug” before I climbed into his Ford Taurus. At least I think it is his Taurus. The car was clean and devoid of any personal items one would expect of a vehicle driven frequently. It could be a rental, or something. I don’t remember this car, just him.

  He’s aware of what I went through in the last few weeks. He knows about the coma and the hospitalization and the injuries. He seems to know…everything. He was “briefed,” he tells me. Briefed? What am I, some sort of case file? Wait, I guess that’s kind of possible.

  “Look, I’m going to hit you with some rapid questions. I know, I know, you may get confused, and you may have limited memories, but we need to do this, even if it hurts.” He’s not looking at me. His eyes are constantly shifting from the road to the rearview mirror, and then to the side mirrors, and back to the road. He seems to be a very cautious driver, yet somehow aggressive in his maneuvering. There are few cars on the road at this hour. I sort of grunt out an, “Okay” and he starts.

  “You remember me, right?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t, really. Not until I got the text. Then, everything sort of trickled in.” I’m not sure “trickle” is a good choice of words, but it’s too late.

  “Okay. Do you remember us working together?”

  “Yes. Well, sort of. I remember we used to work together but… I can’t really remember doing what.” I have visions of us discussing unknown things and reviewing unknown files and mapping out things on a whiteboard, things like that, but nothing specific.

  “Do you know who took you?”

  “Took? What do you…wait, you think I was taken? As in kidnapped?” I’m agitated now and squirming in the seat. I have a sudden need to open the window and feel the air on my face. I’m sweating under my arms profusely.

  “I don’t know. We aren’t sure. So, I need to know if you know. I take it you don’t. Okay, so, let’s move on.” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “Do you know what you were doing just prior to your…ordeal? Do you remember which project you were working on?”

  “Not really. I mean, reviewing things around the house, I think I was researching information online and in some books, but I am not sure. I have some vague memories of analyzing links between various things.”

  “Okay. Let me try to push you a little bit. A few weeks before you were…before your…incident, you showed me a book by some guy, what’s his name? Elton? Alton? Something like that?”

  “Upton. Roger Upton.”

  “Yeah, that guy! I remember the page. It was page 119. There’s a document on that page. Do you remember it?”

  I scan my memory. There is something there. I do remember something. I can see the yellow Post-It note protruding from the top of the pages. I can see the page number. There are several hand-written notes in the margins, and there’s another Post-It note in the center of the page. I can’t remember what it says. I can’t read it. I don’t remember, but I see the document now. It appears to be a government document. U.S. government. The letterhead, the headers, the date format, they all scream bureaucratic efficiency and redundant personnel costs. I tell him, “I remember it but very vaguely.

  “Do you remember where I work? What I do?” He did take a quick look at me this time.

  “You…” Memories and flashes are coming, but slowly. Government. Officer. Former Naval Intelligence. And…well, shit. Lost it. “Not really.”

  “Dammit. Okay, here goes.” He is taking a deep breath. “I work for the C.I.A., bro. Does that break anything loose in your memory?”

  The floodgates opened almost immediately. I do remember. He works for the C.I.A., bigger than shit, which is a weird phrase I believe I picked up from my late father. Late father. My father suffered a serious stroke and was hospitalized, eventually losing his battle. Dad was a career government man as well. Dad was an Army officer and served in Vietnam. It was all government service after that. He had retired four years before he died. I don’t remember which government department he retired from, but that is what led me to quit my own government job and go into the private sector. Wait, I was a government employee. Max and I worked together. Jesus.

  “I worked for the C.I.A.” My voice is strained and uncertain.

  “Yes! Here we go! Alright, alright. Do you remember doing what?”

  I thought about it for a few moments. “No. I don’t. I think.”

  “Page 119. What’s wrong with that document? Why are there so many notes on that page?”

  “I don’t remember. It was leaked, or something, per Upton. Yeah, that’s it. It was part of a document dump. Exclusive to that book, until it was lifted from page 119 and made its way around the internet.”

  “Good. Very good. What was your interest in it, Morgan?”

  Thinking. Thinking. Take a guess. “Was I looking for the source of the leak?”

  “No.” Max is grinning for some reason.

  “Are you looking for the source of the leak?”

  “Nope.” More grinning.

  “Well, why not?” I really don’t understand the lack of interest in this source. That’s huge. That document is labeled Top Secret with a couple of different compartmentalizations. Highly sensitive information is in that document. I just wish I could remember what that information was. It might help me remember.

  “Think, Morgan! Think! Fight through this. Do you know what you did for us at the Agency? Try?”

  “Authentication!” The
word popped into my head out of nowhere. What the hell sort of job title is that, anyway? “Wait, what the hell does that even mean?”

  “You are an artist, Morgan. Not a Picasso, or even a Warhol, but an artist nonetheless. The department was Graphics and Authentication. Hell, I used to call you my personal legend maker, you were so good. Ringing any new bells?”

  “Legend?” Yes, legend. Legends, plural. Not legendary, like some iconic hero, but a legend. A tale. A falsified background provided to personnel entering a clandestine occupation or participating in deep cover operations. Their “legend” is the false background, but a background that must stand up to even robust scrutiny, often at the hands of foreign intelligence agencies who know how to access sensitive documents. A legend maker.

  Hobby knives, razor blades, microscopes, miniature tools. Paper of every type. Weaves, presses, sandpaper. Inks, pens, stamps. Things are surfacing I do not thoroughly understand but, in some strange way, they make sense to me. I am comfortable with them. Computer programs as well. Even mobile apps for phones. Photographs, digital and film. Fake. Fakery. Forgery.

  “Forgery.” The word came out as a whisper. It was unintentional.

  “So, this.” He has taken his hands from the steering wheel briefly to make air quotes. “leaked…document. Why are we not concerned about a national security breach?”

  “I don’t know.” Honestly, I don’t. That guy should be in prison.

  “It isn’t real, Morgan. Just like quite a few things, actually. It’s a fake. Everyone who had access to that document knows it’s a fake, so none of them would have been dumb enough to…” Air quotes again. “…leak it.” We make eye contact for a second. I’m still not following as closely as I would like. Okay, it’s a forgery. “And, that means?”

  “I don’t know. What? Then, who leaked it?” I forego the air quotes. They’re implied by my inflection. “No, wait! The target! It had to be leaked by the target of the deception because they don’t know it’s fake and they don’t know that we know it’s fake, right?”

  “Bingo! Give that boy a prize!”

  “But, how are we so sure it isn’t real? We did the research on it? Did I do the research on it?” I still can’t see it all in my mind. Max is rubbing his face with his right hand. He is obviously frustrated and maybe a little tired. He still has a mild grin, however.

  “You, Morgan,” he keeps emphasizing my name strangely. “You know that document is a forgery because you are the one who created it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  September 16, 2016

  Max and I drove and talked for just over two hours. When we returned to my townhouse, Toni was gone. A note was left on the coffee table telling me she needed to run home for a while to pick up some clothes and other things. She also needed to go to the hospital for a while to make some reports and fill some prescriptions. She would be back later this evening, the note said.

  Max, in his shotgun-style questioning and not giving me easy answers method of conversation, helped me through some blank spaces in my brain. So many things are rushing forward, vying for attention within my memory now. I do remember much of it, now that it has been forced. Why I left the employment of the CIA is a bit vague. There is a sense of not wanting to languish in service to “the man” as my father had done his entire life. Not that I do not admire such dedication but, something, somewhere inside this battered brain of mine, there is a feeling I wanted something else. What that “else” is, is certainly not clear. Not at the moment, anyway.

  I don’t remember many of the methods I apparently used to create, or forge, various documents, visas, passports, licenses, work histories, and the like. Some of it I do, but not all the details. I wonder…I hope that those details return. Those are skills that could come in very handy to an enterprising person such as myself.

  “You aren’t, you know, still doing that work, are you? I mean, doing it for Uncle Sam is one thing. Patriotic duty, and all that. But, doing it out here in the world, well, that’s kind of…well, a felony. A serious one at that.” Max appeared to be legitimately concerned when he asked it. I guess he really doesn’t know what I’ve been up to since leaving the outfit.

  I assured him I wasn’t. Honestly, I just told him that because I figured he might have some obligation to report me if he discovered a crime. I have no idea if I’ve used those skills for less than honorable purposes in the recent past. I don’t think so, but I can’t be positive. For now, let’s just assume I am an innocent, little, fluffy bunny who has done no harm. I’m the victim here, you know? Pretty sure.

  During our last two meetings before my still unexplained incident, I had filled Max in on my research. He described it as a pet-project and not a paid gig. He knew of various research projects I had completed for high-level customers. Not just high-level, but high-wealthier than any human needs to be, customers. I have vague memories of it. Generally boring stuff. Opposition research: who is that guy, who does that thing, or, who is the puppet master behind such-and-such ordeal. Blah.

  Something and neither of us know exactly what, touched off a spark that ignited a very passionate exploration of ongoing Russian “Active Measures.” During the Obama years, as was the case during the Bill Clinton presidency, militia groups, conspiracy theorists, and wannabe revolutionaries grew in number and influence. It wasn’t shocking. Most of those groups are decidedly right-wing so the presidency going to a decidedly left-wing character would expectedly result in that reaction. But, something about this trend was different. Foreign news agencies were now highly visible over the internet, and a few had access to American television screens. Russia, China, and Iran maintain English language “news outlets” that specialize in addressing a specific audience, particularly Western Europe and the US/Canada market.

  The revitalized “Patriot” or, “Liberty” movement embraced these news sources. After all, these same patriots had been labeling U.S. media as nothing more than government propaganda for decades. Shunning information offered by their own nation’s press, they turned to outside sources and found nations generally considered our enemies eager to provide.

  Being a person with an analytical mind, it was simple business to identify the linkage between these “sources” and various outlets frequented by the patriot community, the Three Percenters, and general conspiracy theorists making a nuisance of themselves. News items presented by Russian media would soon be repackaged and presented to the patriot groups. This repackaging usually involved hiding the originating source by slightly editing and rewording the article. The number of outlets increased at an alarming rate, with political websites, militia websites, conspiracy websites, and even the occasional mainstream outlet propagating information that originated within the halls of the Kremlin itself.

  Large segments of the news-consuming public became more trusting of SVR propaganda than of CNN, NBC, or FOX. The patriot movement’s thirst for information created a need for weightier offerings and a new collection of authors emerged to slake that lust; Roger Upton among them.

  How Upton came to my attention is still a blur, but I picked up a couple of his works during my research. That’s when page 119 slapped me in the face. It was proof, irrefutable proof, that the Russian government itself was pumping information into the patriot movement in an attempt to directly influence the political machinations of the United States. Millions of self-described liberty-lovers, oblivious, or indifferent to the source of their information, were armed with manipulated data, half-truths, and complete fabrications as they made their way to voting booths across the country.

  After what appears to be nearly a full year of investigation and research, I had the key to the entire operation. In fact, I was the key. The key. The key that does not open Mrs. Harris’ secret love nest. That dimly lit townhouse next door, itself a mystery, seems to be illuminating a segment of my gray matter. Not a love nest. Not a secret chamber for some mysterious neighbor.

  That’s my fucking townhouse! Wait. What the
hell? I’m sitting in my townhouse. I’m here with Max. He’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. I…think…I may have been saying a lot of this stuff out loud. Didn’t realize I was doing that. Okay, so let’s go with it.

  “What fucking townhouse?”

  “Next door. I have a key. I came out of a blackout standing in the bedroom upstairs in the middle of the night.”

  “You’re a weird dude, bro.”

  “I was buck naked, too.”

  “No shit?” For some reason, Max doesn’t seem shocked by that. I guess there’s just too much information for him to process.

  I further explained the situation with the townhouses. Max’s response was to casually suggest we go check it out. I have a key, after all, so obviously, I’m allowed to be there. If it really is my townhouse, why do I have two of them? Why is this one so…boring? Sterile? At least I would be dressed this time.

  I was glancing about furtively as we approached the door. Max told me to stop it. I was just making it worse. The lock clicked open, and we entered, max following close behind me. And, there she was - Mrs. Harris, standing in the middle of the living room, hands clasped behind her hips. Grinning. Grinning like I had just succeeded in placing the square peg in the round hole.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Uh… hello.” I mean, that’s what a guy says to something like that, right? When a woman is found in your house like she belongs there, even though you didn’t know if she belongs there, you say, “Hello.” Simple. Effective. Stupid.

  “Hey,” Max said quietly. “I’m Max. You must be Mrs….”

  “Amanda, please. Morgan is the only person who calls me that. I don’t know why. I hate it.”

  “I…bu…,” I’m stuttering now.