The Langley Profile

by Jack Bowie

  He stepped into the small room, the C8 carbine Fogarty had given him hanging ready across his chest. Rockwell sat calmly behind a battered pine table that had probably once served as a dining counter. His hands were hidden, apparently resting in his lap. He looked surprisingly like he had when Braxton had last seen him. The same haggard face, the same buzz cut silver hair.

  “Not quite the way I had planned our next meeting, Roger.”

  Slattery saw the soldier’s mouth move, but the rest of his face was motionless. He looked like a marionette. A very frightening marionette.

  “I take full responsibility,” Rockwell continued. “My hatred colored my judgment. I was more focused on laying the head of that buffoon at your feet than I was about removing an operational nuisance. I should have just gutted him at Nod.”

  “Nice speech, Henry. You work on that a long time?” Slattery returned the soldier’s gaze without a flinch. “Face it. You screwed up. Just like you screwed up in Langley. Your plan blew up because you couldn’t see where your actions would lead.”

  Rockwell smiled. “Oh, Roger. So like you. All you see is the press release. Life isn’t about press releases. It’s about Truth. I have shown everyone I was right. I built a team of genetically-perfect assassins. I was the first. You think I’ll be the last? My plan will live longer than you or the pathetic CIA. There are others who will continue my work.” He paused to let the implication hang in the room like an apparition. “Oh, did you tell him?”

  “Tell who?”

  “Your rabbit. Braxton. Did you tell him you shipped him off to Geneva to flush me out? And nearly got him killed?” Rockwell’s smile dissolved into a leer. “Of course not. Who the hell are you lecturing me? You’ve never given a damn about people. Just yourself and your goddamn press releases.”

  Slattery felt his pulse rising and his face flush. He couldn’t be pulled in by this psychopath. He needed answers.

  “Thought you’d like to know that the President is fine, Henry.”

  Rockwell’s smug expression froze. “You’re lying. It was perfect.”

  Slattery smiled and shook his head. “Nothing’s ever perfect. We found out about Charlie. And the video. Jack Knox gave you up without a second thought. A team of Rangers met your little ambush. All your men are dead.” Slattery had heard the update over his comm just minutes before.

  “My children? What about my children?”

  “The children you abducted are fine, Henry. They’ll go back to their families. Still think you’ve won?” He had to stay focused. Rockwell knew how this was going to end. Slattery just needed a little longer.

  “So who paid you, Henry? Who paid you for these killings?”

  Rockwell seemed to recover his composure. “Ah, back to the point is it? Actually, I have no idea. They’re a group of concerned individuals. Concerned that their livelihood could be affected by a peaceful Middle East. They asked me to stir the pot a bit.”

  “You must have a contact. Someone you dealt with.”

  Rockwell cocked his head and looked at Slattery with surprise. “You really don’t know? Why he’s a friend of yours.” Now Slattery wrinkled his brow. “The philosopher with the albino eyes.”

  Rockwell had timed the response for the maximum effect. Seeing Slattery’s surprise, he raised the MAC-10 from his lap and fired.

  Slattery had already spun and raised the C8.

  Two SRR operatives burst through the door at the sounds of the gunfire. They saw Slattery sitting on the floor and Rockwell slumped across the back of his chair, a line of red spots across his chest.

  “Rockwell always was a crappy shot,” Slattery explained.

  * * *

  Braxton, Walker and Slattery sat in a quiet corner of the bar at the Malmaison. They were already on their second round of drinks. The news of the attack on the Summit motorcade had been playing on the TV monitor for the past two hours.

  “The Prime Minister just announced that the capture of the assassination team was a joint operation between MI5 and the United States Secret Service,” the young correspondent reported. His face displayed a well-practiced seriousness.

  Braxton grabbed another handful of spicy pretzels from the bowl on their table. “I thought it was our Rangers?” he asked Slattery.

  The agent shrugged his shoulders. “Politics at its best. Now everybody gets to take credit.”

  “What happened with Knox?” Walker asked.

  Slattery took a long draw from his beer. “Knox folded as soon as he was arrested. He had been stopped on his way to dinner a couple nights ago. He was shown the video and told if he didn’t comply with their demand for the President’s escape plan, his son would be killed and that video would be sent to every news outlet in the world. There was no way his wife wouldn’t see it. He said he had to protect her.”

  “Not the first person to betray their country for love,” Walker commented.

  “Knox actually tried to justify his actions. He said he knew how good the Summit’s security was, so it wouldn’t really make any difference if the terrorists knew the escape route. He believed there was no way they really could assassinate the President.”

  “He was wrong on that count,” Braxton said. He swirled his glass of Talisker. “How did Rockwell arrange the diversion?”

  “Pretty clever. He knew he had to separate the President from the rest of the Summit. There was simply too much security around. Brooks found almost a hundred small digital players with high-power speakers planted along The Royal Mile. In planter boxes, doorways, gutters, light post bases, you name it. Every one playing nothing but the sounds of random gunfire. There was no way it was going to be ignored. The security details had to follow protocol.”

  “I haven’t heard anything on the news about the assault on Rockwell’s headquarters,” Walker commented. “How did you cover that up?”

  Slattery flashed a genuine smile. “Didn’t have to. A single gunshot in an out-of-the-way suburb doesn’t carry nearly the weight of a major fire-fight. Rockwell had set up in a fairly remote area. We went in quiet and didn’t disturb any of the neighbors.”

  “What’s the final assessment?” Braxton asked. “Did you get everyone?”

  “We think so. Besides Rockwell, six of his team were killed by the Rangers and we captured two more, including a guy named Penrose who we think was Rockwell’s second-in-command. I doubt we’ll get much out of them though. They’re pros. We did find a lot of documentation.”

  “Anything that points to who paid for the assassinations?”

  Slattery glanced away. Braxton thought it was an odd reaction.

  “Not yet. My guess is that Rockwell was the only one who knew their identity. But we’ll keep looking.”

  “What about the kids?” Walker asked.

  “We captured three at Rockwell’s headquarters and five at the assassination attempt.”

  “With Asher’s death at our attack, that only makes nine,” Braxton said. “But there were ten missing.”

  “We don’t know Rockwell had all ten,” Slattery argued. “That was our guess based on the abductions.”

  “Was Danny Peters captured?” Walker asked.

  “No.”

  Walker stared into her vodka and tonic. “Then we missed one. None of the others could have been Alpha. He’s gone.”

  “Dammit,” Slattery said. “We’ll find him. Don’t worry.”

  That brought a silence to the trio. Braxton thought of all they had been through. Had they really failed?

  Walker broke the despondency. “Are the children we have okay?”

  Slattery paused. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Physically, yes. Mentally is another matter. They’ve all been asking about their family. And they don’t mean their families back in the States. They have a long road ahead. That’s the shrinks’ job. There’s going to be a lot of pain for everyone before they can go home.”

  “Except for Frank Knox. After all he’s been through, he has no one to go ho
me to. What will happen to him?”

  Slattery shook his head. “Maybe he has some grandparents. An aunt or uncle. But you two did bring him back. That’s something to be proud of.

  “One more thing. The President called my boss and thanked him for our work. Wanted me to pass along the appreciation. Peter said he also hopes this will be the last time he ever hears about Cerberus Consulting.”

  Braxton looked over at Walker and raised his glass. “I think we can echo that sentiment.”

  * * *

  Braxton returned to his room and immediately downed two aspirin in a feeble attempt to stave off his inevitable hangover. The painkillers had been part of the go-bag he had been given at the Mission.

  He was exhausted. He shouldn’t have stayed for that third round, but he had actually enjoyed the company of his comrades-in-arms. Talking through their shared adventure was liberating. Going to another empty hotel room just didn’t compare.

  Tomorrow he would get on an airplane and return home. Back to his company, to Chu, and now, it appeared, to Walker. He was actually looking forward to having her around. Cerberus had become too much his company. Ever since his failure at Century Computer, and the failure of his marriage, he had been driven to do everything himself. Have all the control, make all the decisions. It had seemed like the only way to protect himself.

  But he knew he couldn’t do it all. Chu had been his first attempt at bringing someone else into his life. She had been a godsend. He hoped Walker would agree to stay.

  As he undressed for bed, he found a folded sheet of paper in his pants pocket. He opened it and stared at the background on the remaining child-assassin.

  Danny Peters where are you?

  PART FOUR

  Stockholm

  Chapter 40

  The Grand Hotel, Stockholm, Sweden

  Wednesday, 10:15 a.m.

  Much to his surprise, two days after Braxton arrived home, he had received an elegant, engraved invitation to the upcoming Nobel ceremonies, courtesy of Dr. Devon McAllister. A call to McAllister’s office had confirmed that Braxton had been invited, “in appreciation of all your diligent contributions to Omega Genomics” according to McAllister’s secretary.

  Braxton had immediately shown the invitation to Chu, who, after an initial gasp of disbelief, immediately began planning every aspect of his coming trip.

  His assistant’s surprise had been echoed by his new partner. Walker had agreed to stay on, despite no combat pay, saying someone had to keep the founder of Cerberus from getting himself killed.

  The following week, Chu had rushed into Braxton’s office waving a check from the CIA in the full amount of his highly unusual, and over-sized, invoice. He had then read in the Wall Street Journal that In-Q-Tel had completed their investment in Omega Genomics, the article citing the company’s “potential for significant future advancements in DNA technology leading to breakthroughs in criminal investigation.”

  “Future advancements.” Right.

  So two weeks later, Braxton had flown to Stockholm to begin his Nobel adventure. Soon after arriving, he had quickly learned that the mere mention of “Nobel” brought with it an immediate reaction of awe and deference. “Nobel Week,” as it was known in Stockholm, was the city’s celebration of Swedish history and a return to a time where pomp and circumstance were the rule, not the exception. To be associated with one of the laureates was as close to royalty as Braxton would ever get.

  He took a taxi to the Grand Hotel in Stockholm. Regally placed across the Lilla Vartan strait from the Swedish Royal Palace, it was, truly, a Scandinavian grand hotel. No soaring atria or modern furniture here. It remained a sprawling and stately structure of stone and carved wood fit for the royalty of any century.

  The hotel had been crowded with individuals and families but Braxton had finally made it to the front of the registration line. Along with his room materials, he had been given a Nobel package with his personal credentials, a full schedule of events, and a handful of Nobel “coins”: chocolate disks wrapped in gold foil and pressed into a replica of the Nobel Prize seal. He would see these everywhere in his Stockholm travels.

  The Grand Hotel was the residence of choice for the Nobel attendees. Braxton had seen no less than three of this year’s recipients and two past laureates in his brief stay in the lobby. It was like living in a dream.

  He had gotten unpacked and lay on his bed when his room telephone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Adam? It’s Kerry.”

  Kerry? Now we’re on a first name basis?

  “Ah, Kerry. Great to hear from you. I really want to thank you for—”

  “Yes, of course. But we’re about to take a tour of the palace. I just heard you had arrived. Would you like to join us?”

  “Sure. I need to change. A few minutes?”

  “Of course. We’ll meet in the lobby. But don’t dress up. Something casual. And warm.”

  “Thanks.”

  Five minutes later, Braxton was standing in the lobby doing more Nobel watching when a young woman approached him. She was tall, blond and dressed in a trim dark blue suit.

  “Mr. Braxton? My name is Anna Garretsen.” She also had a thick Swedish accent. “I’m Dr. McAllister’s attendant. Please follow me.”

  Attendant?

  Braxton followed Garretsen out of the hotel to a black Volvo limousine parked at the entrance. On the side of the vehicle was a large gold emblem containing the likeness of Alfred Nobel. It was the same image he had seen on his chocolates. She opened the rear door and motioned for Braxton to enter.

  “Adam!” said Devon McAllister. “How good to see you again. Glad you could join us.”

  Sitting in the rear of the vehicle was Devon McAllister, Kerry McAllister and Michael Kennedy. Braxton squeezed into the rear seat next to the younger McAllister. Garretsen took the passenger seat up front.

  Devon McAllister extended his hand across his daughter.

  “Dr. McAllister,” Braxton replied, taking the scientist’s hand. “Good to see you as well, but I must say I was surprised when I received your invitation.”

  “It’s the least we could do, Adam. When we first met, you promised me you would apply your best efforts to completing our audit. Needless-to-say, the assignment took a quite different direction, but from what Mr. Slattery has told me, your efforts were instrumental in resolving an unfortunate breach of our security. Our invitation is a small expression of our gratitude for fulfilling your promise.”

  “You’re very welcome, Dr. McAllister. I’m glad we were able to resolve the … difficulties.”

  “My thanks as well, Mr. Braxton,” said Kennedy. “If you hadn’t found that breach, it could have had serious implications for our future business.”

  It was typical of the COO to be more worried about the state of Omega Genomics than it was the health of the President. But Braxton really didn’t know how much of the Rockwell incident the trio had been told. Slattery would not have shared that many details with the executives. He was sure the younger McAllister had to have some suspicion, but she was silent.

  “It’s good to be back to normal,” Kennedy continued. He smiled and looked around. “Well, at least as normal as can be expected this week.”

  Braxton looked over to Kerry McAllister for her contribution to this self-congratulatory fest, but she simply stared at him then returned her attention to the messages on her cell phone.

  Apparently, her friendliness had run its course at the hotel phone call.

  Braxton felt the limo pull out.

  “We’ll be heading over to the palace now,” Garretsen said.

  “You’ve met Anna,” commented the older McAllister as they drove across the Strombron Bridge toward the palace. “She’s from the Foreign Ministry. Her title is Nobel Attendant. Every new laureate has one. She is our escort and liaison with the Nobel Committee. Officially, her job is to see that I get to all the Nobel events at the right time.” He winked at Braxton. “In reality, I
think she’s my keeper; her job is to make sure I don’t get into any trouble while I’m here. It wouldn’t be proper for a laureate to get drunk at one of the ceremonies.”

  Braxton soon discovered that riding in one of the Nobel limousines was like having your own magic carriage. Everywhere they went traffic stopped, gates opened and pedestrians waved. It was surreal.

  The Royal Palace was a huge, box-like structure of brick, sandstone and glass standing just across the bridge. Garretsen had mentioned that it contained over fourteen hundred rooms and over nine hundred windows. They turned left and drove along the strait, giving Braxton a view of the massive U-shaped eastern facade on his right. It had to be over a hundred yards long. Were it not for the four long rows of windows filling the facade, it could have been a fortress. Which it probably had been in past centuries.

  Once they had passed the end of the building, the vehicle turned into a side street, drove along the south facade and was directed through a narrow gate in the palace wall. They emerged into a huge open courtyard, the palace all around them, and stopped on the opposite side. Three identical Nobel limousines stood waiting ahead of them.

  Garretsen opened their door and the four stepped out. “Welcome to the Royal Palace,” she said.

  * * *

  The Palace tour had been fascinating. It had been another look into an era Braxton had thought no longer existed.

  They had left the Palace about noon and returned to the Grand Hotel. Garretsen had told Braxton that Dr. McAllister had a luncheon appointment, but that he would like to invite Braxton to again join the group for a trip to Skansen Park later that afternoon. She had said it was a favorite on the Nobel sightseeing schedule.

  Braxton had returned to his room and taken a nap. He still hadn’t recovered from his jet lag.

  He met Garretsen in the lobby at three-thirty. They walked outside to the limousine and Braxton noticed it was nearly dark.

  “Welcome to Scandinavia, Mr. Braxton,” Garretsen said, noting his surprise. “It will be completely dark by four-thirty. And we’re quite far south. It takes some getting used to.”