The Liberty Covenant

by Jack Bowie

“In Oregon City, a fight erupted between the terrorists and two janitors. Both janitors were injured and we believe one terrorist may have died. No body has yet been found.

  “We have also determined the mechanism of the attacks. They were not ammonium nitrate-based, as was the Oklahoma bombing, but a combination of a high explosive, probably Semtex, coupled with an aggressive incendiary. These are not standard militia tactics, and again point to involvement of a much more sophisticated organization.

  “The bottom line, gentlemen, is that these attacks are a significant threat to our country. They are severely stressing the FBI’s, and I believe all other law enforcement agencies’, investigative capabilities. Should another escalation occur in the next few weeks, for example ten or even fifteen incidents, we would be unable to field sufficient forensic and investigatory teams. I recommend that we immediately initiate an aggressive response before additional lives are lost.”

  Flynn’s conclusion caused a stir in the room, and surprised even Slattery. What kind of a response was she suggesting? Carlson had the same reaction.

  “And to whom would that response be directed, Mary Ellen?” the DNI asked.

  “We have been able to associate certain cells with a number of the attacks. Those in Georgia and Tennessee in particular.”

  “One of these is the original Georgia cell?” Scott asked.

  “Yes, David.”

  “You have proof of this involvement?” Stroller continued.

  “Nothing direct, Claude, but our observer in Georgia did report what could best be described as a training exercise this past weekend. Over sixty individuals converged on the Tyler farm. There appeared to be both hand-to-hand, weapons and explosive training. Everything was border-line legal, but according to our agent, it looked like a terrorist boot camp. It could have been preparation for the later attacks.”

  “Can you at least place any of the participants at the attacks?” Scott asked.

  “Unfortunately no, David. But again, RIPPER has reported a high correlation of . . .”

  “Mary Ellen,” Carlson interrupted, “your statistical guesswork is hardly sufficient to go invading private property and conducting criminal searches. I, and I believe most of us in the room, cannot condone unsupported assaults on our citizens. I suggest you get back to your teams and tell them to do their jobs and come up with some real evidence. Find out who is behind these attacks. Then we’ll discuss next steps.” He laid his hands on the table and scanned the representatives around the table, ending back to Flynn. “Am I clear on this?”

  Flynn had turned scarlet. Her eyes searched the room, pleading for support, but everyone avoided her stare. They all had their own skeletons they could ill-afford to have surfaced. Carlson was too powerful to buck.

  “Yes, General,” Flynn spat. “Your position is abundantly clear.”

  Slattery knew all too well Flynn’s feelings. He had been there before. Was there any way he could help her?

  Chapter 27

  Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia

  Monday, 3:30 p.m.

  On the trip back to Langley, Slattery had thought of one other connection he could try. He didn’t like it, but they were all running out of options. Back in his office, he pulled out the background file and dialed the number.

  “Taylor Luckett.”

  “Mr. Luckett. It really wasn’t very smart to approach me like that. You could have gotten yourself in a lot of trouble.”

  “Oh. I was wondering if you’d call back. Look, Sla . . .”

  “Let’s not get too personal right now,” the agent interrupted. “I’ll give you some advice. If you have any information you’d like to share, I’m sure the FBI would be more than happy to listen to you.”

  “I’ve tried that before, er, Mr. Brown. Never felt like anyone there was interested. You see, I don’t really trust the judgment of the FBI or Homeland Security when it comes to this particular problem. I thought you might be different. I guess I was wrong.”

  Slattery knew he should just hang up the phone. He was going way out on a limb just making this call.

  The trouble was, he sympathized with the reporter. Everything he had read in the dossier said the guy played it straight. And whatever Luckett knew, it had to be better than the junk sitting on his desk. May as well stick his neck out a little farther.

  “Tomorrow. Same time, same place, as before, Luckett. You better have something good.”

  “See you then, . . . Mr. Brown.” The reporter hung up.

  * * *

  Dr. Patrick Flaherty picked up the next medical record in the basket and glanced at the cover. Richard Dalton. What was Ricky doing back here? Hadn’t he seen him just last week?

  “Well, Ricky, how’s the business of overthrowing our government?” Flaherty asked as he entered the examining room.

  “Shit, doc. Don’t give me that crap. You ain’t no lover of the IRS either as I remember.”

  “Okay. Got me there. What’s the matter today?”

  “It’s this damn bug, Doc. I ain’t gettin’ no better. You gotta do something for me. I’m dying, I tell ‘ya.” Dalton sat half-naked in the examining room, shivering from the cold.

  Flaherty leaned over the table and placed the ice-cold bell of his stethoscope against Dalton’s back.

  “Shit!” the patient yelled.

  “Take it easy Ricky. I ain’t done nothin’ to you. Yet.”

  “How come you keep this room so damn cold?”

  “So you can have something to bitch about every time you come in. I’ve never known such a complainer. Now shut up and let me listen.”

  Flaherty took five additional soundings and slowly hung the instrument back around his neck. Until now, Dalton had been one of the healthiest men in Tyler. A little heavy on the booze at times, but everybody needed something to pass the time. What could have happened?

  “Put your shirt back on, Ricky. I don’t want you dyin’ here in my office.”

  Flaherty watched as Dalton took a pained breath and slid down off the table to get his clothes. He glanced down at his nurse’s notes. Why would his temperature and BP both still be up? And the rales in Dalton’s chest sounded worse than he remembered from last week.

  “You been takin’ all the medicine I gave you?” Flaherty scribbled a few lines in the record, and leafed back to Dalton’s previous visit note.

  “Yeah. For all the good it’s been doing me. I’m chilled all over, and my fever’s worse than last week.” He coughed and Flaherty heard the sound of loose phlegm. “And the damn cough won’t go away.”

  “Okay. I don’t think there’s anything serious, Ricky. You’ve just got a bad chest cold.”

  “Don’t feel like no chest cold I ever had before. I ain’t gonna die am I, Doc?”

  “Jesus Christ, Ricky. You’re too stubborn to die. Here’s a new prescription. It’s stronger than the antibiotic I gave you last week. Have Stan fill it this afternoon.” He handed Dalton the small sheet of paper. “Take it instead of the one I gave you. You got that?”

  “I think so. I get the new pills from Stan. Take them instead of the others. What do I do with the old ones, Doc? Can I take ‘em back? I already paid for them, you know.”

  “No, you can’t take them back. Now get outta here before I charge you for another visit.”

  Dalton shuffled out of the room and Flaherty finished writing the visit note. He dropped the record in the completed pile and picked up the next file on his way to the other examining room. It was old Sarah Martinez. Her arthritis must be acting up again.

  He stopped at the door to the room, then turned and walked back to his nurse’s desk in the front of the office. He didn’t think there was anything to get alarmed about, but Dalton wasn’t reacting the way he expected.

  “Ellen?”

  “Yes, Patrick?” Ellen Synder, R.N., looked up from a pile of paperwork.

  “Give the CDC in Atlanta a call. See if they’ve heard anything about a resistant respiratory
infection.”

  “Is there a problem with Mr. Dalton?”

  “I’m not sure. Check it out for me. And make a note to follow up with him in a couple days. Just to be safe.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Flaherty picked up the next record folder and headed back into the examining suites. Life was getting too complicated. He couldn’t keep up with the latest medical discoveries any more than he could all the other changes in his profession. HMOs, PPOs, PSOs. Just a lot of alphabet soup. He had spent the last thirty-five years tending to the people of Tyler by himself and it looked like it was going to stay that way. Flaherty knew that there wasn’t any bright, young doctor that was going to come and save his practice. When he dropped over, the good citizens of Tyler, however many were left, would have to find help up north in the medical factories. It was nothing he ever wanted to see.

  He glanced at the cover of the record, then opened the door to the exam room.

  “Sarah, how are we doing today?”

  * * *

  Braxton sat back in the painfully-uncomfortable plastic seat in the Dulles KLM gate area waiting for his flight to be called. With a CNN talking-head droning on in the background, he reflected on the morning’s conversation with his CIA contact.

  He had called “Mr. Smith” from SFO while he was waiting for the red-eye back to D.C., leaving a short message that he had decided to attend the conference. Slattery had returned the call in ten minutes and suggested they meet for breakfast the following morning in the Tysons Tower cafeteria.

  Braxton wanted to get past the unpleasantness of seeing the agent again as quickly as possible so he had reluctantly agreed.

  He had caught a few hours of sleep on the flight which had managed to arrive on time at 6:30 a.m. After a short cab ride to his apartment, quick shower and change of clothes, he had been ready for the encounter.

  “What caused you to change your mind, Mr. Braxton?” Slattery had asked after laying down his breakfast burrito and coffee. He looked exactly the same as he had in Braxton’s office: conservative business suit, thin leather brief case and expressionless countenance.

  “Let’s just call it civic duty. And it’s Slattery, right?”

  “Mr. Smith will be just fine for now, Mr. Braxton.”

  “Well Mr. Smith, you can just call me Adam. The formality seems a bit misplaced given what you probably know about me. So you want me to listen for news of Chinese encryption research?”

  Slattery shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Looking back, Braxton should have realized this was not a positive sign.

  “First of all, Adam, I do need to tell you that the information I’m going to give you is highly confidential. I would recommend that you not discuss this with anyone, including our mutual friend. It could be, well, dangerous.”

  If the spook’s objective had been to get Braxton’s attention, he had definitely succeeded.

  “This doesn’t sound like simply eavesdropping on cocktail party conversations.”

  “No. I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that,” Slattery continued. “We need you to contact someone for us. A Chinese attendee at the conference.”

  Braxton jerked straight up and leaned over the table putting his face directly opposite Slattery’s. “Now wait a minute, Mr. Smith. If you think I’m going to run around like some TV superspy you’re very wrong. We can stop this conversation right now.”

  “Please, Adam,” Slattery raised his hands in defense. “Hear me out. We’re not talking about a late night rendezvous or clandestine meeting. Just two scientists getting together to talk shop.”

  Braxton sat back and took a breath. He decided to hear the spook out. “What scientist?”

  “I’ll get to that. But first you need some background. Last week, one of our top cryptographic researchers, Kam Yang, was killed in a traffic accident. He had been working on advanced decryption algorithms.”

  “Why am I not surprised? Which encodings, Mr. Smith?”

  “Let’s say block ciphers.”

  “Okay. Let’s say that. Like AES I presume. I’d be very surprised if he had made much progress.”

  “You might be surprised. No one thought it was possible to trisect a line until two high-school students did it a few years ago.”

  “Touché, Mr. Smith. You’re up on your mathematics. But what does this Yang’s death have to do with the meeting in Amsterdam?”

  “Kam Yang’s brother, Tak, will be attending the meeting. He’s part of the Chinese delegation. We’d like you to speak with him.”

  “Right. What am I supposed to say? ‘How’d you like to defect?’”

  “Absolutely not!” Slattery nearly jumped across the table. He quickly regained his composure and continued. “Look, Mr. Braxton. Sorry. Adam. Kam Yang was doing very important work. Work he may have shared with his brother. We would simply like to get your opinion of whether Tak Yang is aware of what his brother was doing, and if that information is now in the hands of the Chinese.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Surely you recognize the danger that would put Dr. Yang in. It is likely that he will be under surveillance by Chinese security. That’s why we can’t approach him directly. You, on the other hand, will be just another scientist at the conference. Use your judgment as to how best to start a conversation.”

  “So your concern is completely about Dr. Yang’s safety?”

  “Well, yes. I guess you could say that.”

  And very little about mine. “Why me?”

  Slattery paused. “Your professional credentials are obvious, Adam. And we do have a . . . history of working together.”

  Braxton gasped. This guy was one piece of work. “Working together?” he shot back. “You refused to help us. We were nearly killed!”

  “But look at you now,” Slattery replied, his expression completely blank. “A successful businessman. Without any criminal record.”

  The last comment hit him like a slap in the face. He had been involved in three murders—one he had actually committed. Yet a shadowy Fed had offered him complete immunity. All in return for his signature on a confidentiality agreement. Everything about the Incident was now hidden behind a National Security Finding.

  Could the CIA have been his rescuer? Maybe he did owe Slattery a debt after all.

  Braxton held the silence until it had become too uncomfortable for either of them.

  “So what do I do with this newfound information,” he asked Slattery. “Assuming I get any?”

  “Nothing suspicious. Just give me a call when you get back. We’ll do lunch.”

  The agent’s attempt at humor fell flat. What the hell had he gotten into?

  Slattery returned to his burrito, giving a thankful break from the intensity of the conversation.

  “Oh, there is one more thing, Mr. Smith,” Braxton had said as he finished his taco.

  “Yes, Adam?”

  “I do intend to take you up on your offer of covering my travel expenses.”

  “Travel expenses? Oh, . . . yes. I see. We’ll be glad to help. Within government per diems, of course.”

  So here he was, eight hours later, waiting—an economy ticket in his pocket—for his second all-night flight in a row. This time to a foreign country so he could spy for the CIA and investigate his ex-wife’s murder.

  What the hell am I doing?

  PART TWO

  The Consultant

  Chapter 28

  Krasnapolsky Hotel, Amsterdam, The Netherlands

  Tuesday, 2:30 p.m.

  Braxton leaned back in his chair and fought off a yawn. Shuffling through the conference schedule he found the abstract of the talk: “Stochastic Anomolies of the Richards-Haberhoff Algorithm in Intra-Organization Communications - Dr. Henri Fabret, INRIA.” INRIA was the French National Institute for Research in Computer Science and Automation. A name much too long for anyone—even French scientists—to remember so it was known in the community as simply INRIA.

  Fabret was a
young pony-tailed, wild-eyed researcher who was fervently explaining the mathematical details of an obscure encryption technique. Every time he wanted to emphasize a point—which was all too often—Fabret would pause, look to the side, and shake his head until his pony-tail would fall across his shoulder. Only then would he continue. The amazing aspect of the whole performance was that there were a number of attendees in the ornate Dutch ballroom who were actually paying attention.

  Braxton was definitely getting too old for this conference stuff. The hours of sitting in hard folding chairs, the endless presentations by aging academic experts who had made their discoveries far too many years before, or aggressive young turks whose own discoveries were still too far in the future, the inedible chicken cordon-bleu and stale wine. He did enjoy renewing acquaintances with a few colleagues but they were the minority. Most were just anonymous, lonely faces searching for someone that might be interested in their work. As for Braxton, his back ached, his head hurt, and his eyes burned.

  Fabret finished his talk with a characteristic flourish of gestures and the ballroom lights came up. He struggled through a few questions before the moderator thankfully called the session to a halt. Braxton used the interruption to excuse himself past four of his rowmates and escape.

  He walked into the vaulted hotel atrium and took a seat beside an overgrown Areca palm. At least the plant wasn’t likely to bother him.

  The Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky was a beautiful structure, visually stunning with polished woods and painted frescos contrasting with soaring steel and sunlit glass. Directly opposite the Royal Palace, he was sure the hotel had seen the march of the aristocracy of the Continent. Now it was host to a coterie of international techno-nerds.

  The plush, red brocade sedan in the lobby was well-worn but comfortable. His attention hadn’t lasted very long; it was only the mid-afternoon break on the first day of the conference. And as far as drumming up business was concerned, he wouldn’t get much out of this academic crowd. There was the meeting with Yang to attend to, but that would come later. What he needed to do was get started on why he really came to Amsterdam.