by Mike Maden
His decision deeply troubled her. The nation had nearly seven thousand banks, but just six of them controlled sixty-seven percent of all banking assets. Those “too big to fail, too big to jail” bankers were largely responsible for the 2008 crash and the long Great Recession still ravaging the nation and much of the globe. The last thing Wall Street and the Big Banks needed was more power and more regulatory protection in the guise of banking reform. If any Supreme Court Justice could have been expected to vote against the Fiero legislation, it was Tanner. Instead, he wrote the majority opinion. As any student of the Court knows, justices have a funny habit of changing after their appointments—and disappointing their champions. Myers and Tanner would be in the footnotes, too, but for a grislier reason.
She reflected on her decision to visit Tanner two weeks prior. Myers may have resigned the presidency but she still felt responsible for his disastrous decision. She had the right to know why he made it. God knows he’d been pilloried in the media, crucified on both the left and the right for his inexplicable vote. She had known that if the media got wind of her visit, it would only make his bad situation worse. But she had needed to see him face-to-face, look him in straight in the eye.
—
She arrived at his Georgetown brownstone late in the cool evening, unannounced. That way she could avoid the press, and Tanner couldn’t avoid her. She knocked.
Tanner’s dark, sleepless eyes narrowed when he saw her that night. He reluctantly waved her into his study.
“I’m surprised it took you so long.” He lit a cigarette. “Where’s your Secret Service detail?”
“I discharged them. I’m no longer the president, so why should the public have to pay for them? Only pimps need an entourage like that.”
“The world’s a dangerous place, Margaret. You need to be more careful.”
“Where’s your security detail?”
“Gave them the night off.” He led them into his study. Offered her a chair. Floor-to-ceiling built-in shelves were crammed with books.
“How are Michelle and the kids?”
“They’re fine. Visiting her parents.” He took a long drag. “Kind of late for a social visit.”
“I’m just a concerned citizen calling on an old friend. You look awful, by the way.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. What’s done is done. And I don’t owe you anything.”
“I’m not a debt collector. I just wanted to know why.”
“It’s all in the majority opinion.”
“I think it’s all in your face.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He stabbed the cigarette out in a crystal ashtray full of butts.
“You’re one of the most principled men I’ve ever known, and yet you’ve obviously made a decision you regret. You regret it so much it’s tearing you up. The Vin Tanner I know would never make a decision that violated his principles, but something compelled you to do so.”
Tanner’s face blanched. “I’ll have to ask you to leave. Now.”
“Is there anything you want to talk about?”
“No.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
He rose to his feet. “Yes, leave. This minute.” His shoulders slumped. “Please.”
“I’m sorry I’ve upset you.”
She left.
Three hours later, Tanner put a revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
—
Myers blamed herself, of course. The timing of Tanner’s death couldn’t have been coincidental. That meant she played a part in it. The guilt had eaten her alive since that day. But something else was wrong. Her intuition told her she was being followed. She couldn’t prove it. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized she probably was under surveillance. She made herself a target the minute she knocked on Tanner’s door. Stupid.
There was a knock on her door.
“Come in.”
The service technician. He’d left twenty minutes before, after a service call. Her TV signal had been experiencing irregular glitches the last few days. She had called for service and the tech arrived today, to replace one of the circuit boards on the satellite dish.
“Forget something?”
“No, ma’am. Found this about a mile up the road.” He handed her an electronic device about the size of a tablet.
“What is it?”
“Not sure, ma’am. But it’s generating a radar signal. And it was pointed in the direction of your house.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m retired Navy. I just do this job to keep from getting bored. Radar is kind of a hobby of mine. I carry a homemade rig in my truck, picks up all kinds of radar signatures, especially wide-spectrum. About a mile north of here, my rig alarmed. It wasn’t one of the police bandwidths, for sure. So I pulled over. Looked around with my handheld. Found an all-weather box strapped to a tree. Kind of unusual, to say the least. Found that inside. Just thought you should know.”
She flipped the device over. No markings. “What do you think it was doing?”
“Can’t be sure, but I’d guess it’s some kind of surveillance function. You need to run it by your people, just to be sure.”
Her security chief, Roy Fox, was scheduled to stop by after lunch. She’d ask him then.
“Thank you for taking all of the time and effort to bring me this.”
He shrugged. “Glad to do it.” Then he added, “If you don’t mind my saying, ma’am, you were a damn fine president. I hated like hell to see you go.”
Roy Fox arrived on schedule after lunch. He was former FBI, a specialist within the communications exploitation section (CXS) of the bureau’s Counterterrorism Division. Fox easily identified the tablet-sized device in his hands as one of the next-generation PHOTOANGLO radar units.
“This isn’t good.”
“What’s the problem?”
He explained. Myers agreed. This wasn’t good at all.
The presence of a PHOTOANGLO unit meant LOUDAUTO passive room bugs, or their equivalents, were planted in her house. The LOUDAUTO units were nearly impossible to find, either by electronic detection or physical inspection, if they were properly inserted. The miniature microphones turned room audio like human voices into analogue electrical signals that were picked up by the PHOTOANGLO radar unit, rebroadcast to a relay station, then reconverted to audio files for analysis.
Fox went on to explain that similar passive bugs could record keyboard strokes, printer outputs, and even video cable signals.
“God only knows how long they’ve been in place.” His face flushed. “I’ll tender my resignation immediately, of course.”
Myers didn’t know what to think. She had hired Fox to protect her security. He’d obviously failed. But whoever had deployed these devices was world-class. Maybe she was at fault for not taking her security more seriously.
“Well, at least we know now.” She pointed a finger at an invisible room bug. “And so do they.”
“I just hope there isn’t another PHOTOANGLO out there still picking up this conversation.”
“Why don’t you and your team conduct a sweep. Yank out everything you can find.”
Fox pulled out his cell phone, scrolling for numbers. “I’ve got a few favors I can call in. I’ll get a team here right away. I won’t let you down again.”
He bolted out of the room with the phone in his ear.
Myers didn’t know what to do next. She knew that all of this equipment was standard NSA ANT spy craft—the kind of technology they deployed to spy on the European Union, the UN, and sometimes even hostile governments in its DROPMIRE program. Not that any of these devices were stamped NSA. But she herself had approved of their deployment when national security was at stake. At least, that’s what she believed at the time.
Now that she was
being targeted by the very same technology, she began to doubt the wisdom of her previous decisions. She felt horribly exposed, even violated. She understood that sometimes people were targeted in order to eliminate them as suspects. Didn’t matter. Her privacy had been stolen from her, and no matter the reason, she resented it. Now she understood the rage of people like Chancellor Angela Merkel, who had been similarly bugged by her American “friends.” Was it possible that spying on allies caused more damage than it prevented? Spying, by definition, was illegal. Spying on allies violated trust, and alliances were built on trust.
Myers knew these surveillance units were also available to other federal agencies, and even state and local investigative units, including some of the larger metropolitan police departments. Undoubtedly, other national governments had access to similar technology as well. There was really no way to determine who might be behind these incursions. But she hadn’t committed any crimes. This couldn’t be an official investigation. This was a private affair—undoubtedly, the same people connected to Tanner’s death.
Her visit with Tanner had been unofficial, off the books. She hadn’t called him in advance or sent an e-mail. She’d known that if he was home he’d let her in, so why give him the chance to wave her off beforehand? Myers thought it wise to not volunteer any information about her visit that night, and neither the district police nor federal authorities had ever contacted her after his death. She didn’t attend his funeral, probably the reason she had never gained closure with his death.
Why had he killed himself? Even if he had made a ruling he’d regretted, it could have been addressed, either by later rulings or in off-the-record interviews. Unless he couldn’t do either. That meant some kind of pressure had been applied to him, didn’t it?
Whoever had pressured him was now coming after her. If that person could break Vin Tanner, they could break her. And now they had the gall to come after her. That made her angry. It also scared her. Whom could she trust?
A horrible thought crossed her mind. What if her own security chief had been part of this? He probably wasn’t—she’d known him for years—but now she had doubts. Was he really unable to find those devices? Or was he hiding them? Once again, the very existence of the technology had poisoned the well. Could she really trust him? Now she wasn’t certain.
She wanted to call Troy. But if her phone was compromised like her computer, she’d only put him in danger, too. She may already have. He was too busy on Early’s rescue mission to help her anyway. What was she thinking?
She needed to find a way to securely contact Ian McTavish, Troy’s computer genius. Troy gave her permission last year to contact anyone at Pearce Systems for any reason. Finding Tanner’s blackmailers seemed like a good reason to her. Not getting killed by them was even better. The brilliant Scot could help on both counts. She’d already worked with him to make arrangements for Troy’s rescue of Mike Early. Now she was the one who needed a little rescuing.
She made a decision. Purse, keys, cash.
Time to run.
15
Karem Air Force Base
Niamey, Niger
6 May
Guess we’ll have to play it by ear,” Pearce said.
“Is that before or after we’re shot down?” Judy was nervous flying toward an American military base without the proper clearances or emergency call signs. The Aviocar they flew in was strictly commercial and broadcasting the proper IFF signal, but her alarms indicated they’d been lit up with antiaircraft radar and laser range finders.
“We have our orders. Let’s stick to them and see what happens next.”
“Sure. What’s the worst that can happen?”
Pearce was concerned, but not for himself. Myers had called back late yesterday and instructed them to arrive at the American air facility precisely at 2100 local, and promised to call back with details about the plan but never did. Pearce tried to reach her but couldn’t. Either she was in trouble or running from it.
“Bet you wish you hadn’t threatened to beat up a missionary right about now, eh?” Judy grinned.
“Maybe we should’ve let the padre keep the gas after all.”
“Angel Two-Four, Angel Two-Four, do you copy?” A woman’s voice crackled in their headsets. The Air Force air controller.
“Guess they got the message. That’s our call sign,” Judy said to Pearce. She radioed back, “This is Angel Two-Four. Copy.”
“Angel Two-Four, this is Tower Control. You are cleared to land. Come to two-seven-zero heading. Over.”
“Copy that, Tower Control. Coming to header two-seven-zero. Over.”
“Here goes nothing.” Judy gently pushed the rudder pedals and turned the yoke to the new heading until the long black strip of illuminated asphalt was centered in her windscreen, one of three on the small air base. A granite-gray, push prop aircraft with a twenty-meter wingspan stood on one of the runways.
“Reaper drone,” Pearce said. “Night ops.”
“No wonder they built their own little base out here.” The U.S. Air Force located the facility five miles north and west of the city, not far from the N24 roadway, which they repaved and widened to accommodate larger military vehicles. Diori Hamani International Airport was about two miles south and east of Naimey’s outermost boundaries. Diori Hamani had too much civilian traffic and security problems for a sensitive military operation to have to deal with.
Just five hundred feet off the ground they could make out a series of low-lit prefab buildings and trailers: hangars, offices, quarters. At least one of those trailers was the ground control station (GCS) for the Reaper and its crew. Pearce watched the Reaper roll down its runway and gently angle into the brilliant night sky pregnant with stars. He lost sight of it as soon as it cleared the runway lights, but he could discern its deadly shadow blotting out a swath of starlight.
—
Moments later, Judy landed with practiced perfection. She taxied as directed by the tower toward an available hangar, an airman first class marshaling her into position with red-lighted batons. She was a young Hispanic, probably no more than twenty, Pearce guessed, with a pair of orange safety earphones nearly as large as her head. Did the recruiter tell her she’d wind up at a super-secret drone base in Africa when he visited her high school back in El Paso or Denver or Sacramento? The young face was earnest and confident in the blinding landing lights as she crossed the batons over her head, signaling a stop. Judy pressed the brake pedals. The marshal dropped her arms back sharply to her sides, then snapped the right baton to her throat, parallel to the ground, signaling Judy to cut her engines. Pearce threw the young woman a mock salute, and she allowed herself a small smile before turning on her boot heels and heading back into the hangar.
“Now what?” Judy asked.
Pearce pointed out the window. “There’s our ticket, I’m guessing.”
A black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows raced toward them.
Judy and Pearce went through the shutdown procedure, powering down and securing the aircraft. By the time they opened the cargo door, the big Chevy SUV had pulled to a stop and two doors had swung open. The man in the front passenger seat made a beeline for Pearce and Trudy, buttoning his suit coat as he marched toward them. He was followed closely behind by a harried young Air Force captain in her camouflaged ABUs and carrying a clipboard. Her name tag read SOTERO in block letters. The driver, a private, remained behind the wheel, but a square-jawed AF Security Forces sergeant named Wolfit stood watchfully by the vehicle, eyes boring a hole in Pearce. An M4 carbine with an HK grenade launcher and high-end optics was slung across his broad chest.
“Troy Pearce, Judy Hopper, it’s a pleasure to see you both again. You probably don’t remember me, but I’m Bert Holliday. We met at the HIV/AIDS conference in Nairobi last year.” He shook Pearce’s hand warmly.
“Bert, of course. Great to see you again, too.” Pear
ce had no idea who he was.
“Mr. Holliday,” Judy offered, shaking his hand without conviction.
“I’m sure you’re both surprised to see me out here. I was recently reassigned to this mission, and with Ambassador Ray just called away yesterday, I’m now the acting chargé d’affaires.” Holliday wore his smile as easily as his neatly tailored suit, no tie, and custom-made cobalt-blue oxford shirt. He pointed to the captain. “And this is Captain Eva Sotero, the officer in charge this evening. Captain, this is Troy Pearce and Judy Hopper, our valiant guests.”
Pearce put on his best poker face, but guileless Judy frowned with confusion. The captain was clearly frustrated and off her game, but she caught Judy’s expression. It only added to her suspicion. Sotero glanced at her clipboard. “I just received these orders twenty minutes ago from a Colonel Ian Sanders, out of AFRICOM’s offices in Stuttgart. I’ve been instructed to give you full logistical support for your mission.”
Colonel Sanders? Pearce stifled a laugh. It was a funny way for Ian to let him know he was the one who made the arrangements.
“I’ve been instructed by my superiors to offer any assistance I can as well,” Holliday added.
“But these orders are highly irregular,” Sotero insisted. “And I’ve never heard of this Colonel Sanders.”
“Did you try calling him?” Pearce asked. “We’re doing this on the fly, so a lot of things won’t be regular.” The late-night arrival meant a junior officer was in charge of the base, and Pearce intended to take full advantage of Sotero’s inexperience.
“I called Stuttgart immediately. But, unfortunately, the direct line to his office is out of service.”