by D C Alden
Memorials were supposed to be a celebration of a life well lived, but for the most part they were depressing affairs, all black clothes, whispered conversations and a lot of tears. Fond memories and smiles came later, and occasionally laughter, once the alcohol began to flow. But not today, Ray knew.
Kelly Novak, citizen journalist turned investigative reporter, had been cut down in the prime of her life. Not even thirty years old. Beyond tragic. Through the tangle of umbrellas, Ray watched a middle-aged guy in a black suit help a similarly clad woman out of her chair. Kelly’s mother, Ray assumed. Her shoulders shook as she grabbed a handful of dirt and tossed it into the hole in the ground. Then she broke down, her knees buckling beneath her. Family members sprang out of their chairs, steering the woman back into her seat. A ripple of thunder accompanied the moment, and Ray glanced up to the heavy grey sky; Mother Nature, adding her own accompaniment to the drama.
After the final prayer the gathering broke up, the mourners hurrying towards their cars to escape the rain. Ray stepped forward to Kelly’s grave. The polished grey casket was spattered with muddy tributes, and Ray reached over to the pile of dirt and made his own contribution. He wasn’t a religious man but he respected the tenets of Christianity, the message of peace and goodwill, the fight for good over evil. As Assistant Managing Editor at the Washington Times, Ray knew all about that fight, a conflict waged on many levels both in DC and across the world. Kelly Novak had joined that fight, and had started to make a name for herself. It was tragic that she’d never get to fulfil her potential.
‘Mister Wilson?’
Ray turned around. It was the woman from the graveside, Kelly’s mother. Kelly had been an only child, her father losing his life to sepsis when she was a teenager. The woman who stood before him had experienced more than her fair share of tragedy. Ray shook her hand.
‘I thought that was you,’ she said, trying to control her emotions. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’
‘Missus Novak, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Kelly was an exceptional — ’
‘Please, Mister Wilson. I don’t think I can take another platitude, well-meaning as they are.’ Beneath the wide brim of her black hat, the grieving mother’s blue eyes were moist and expectant. ‘You’ll join us back at the house, yes?’
‘Thank you, ma’am. I will.’
‘Good, because there’s something I’d like to discuss with you. About Kelly.’
Ray could smell more than cut grass and damp earth.
‘I’ll follow you in my car.’
Where she summoned the strength from, she did not know.
Her fingernails were cracked and bleeding, her hands caked with freezing mud, and they were the only things keeping her out of the flooded pit beneath her. Her body shook violently, the twin assaults of cold and shock, and a voice in her head pleaded with her to release the terrible pressure on her fingers, to slide back into the black waters below, to succumb to its cold, eternal embrace.
But Olivia was determined to cling to the muddy wall, because help was coming. She also knew they would have to move fast. Despite her determination to survive, her strength was failing.
Her body shook again as the terrifying event flickered through her mind. The minibus had tumbled through the air, landing roof-first on the water. The disorientation, the shock of the freezing black water, had almost stopped her heart. Then she’d felt the minibus sinking and she’d opened her eyes, catching glimpses of pale hands and faces in the darkness, bodies thrashing and spinning around like clothes in a washing machine. Her fingers had worked furiously to release her seatbelt, and she’d managed to grip the side of a broken window and haul herself out. As she’d clawed for the surface she’d glimpsed the minibus beneath her, sinking into blackness.
Salvation sparkled above her, fractured light on a distant surface. She’d kicked upwards, struggling against the weight of her coat. She’d shrugged it off, her lungs screaming for air, and then gasped and choked as she broke the surface. She’d swam for the side, tried to haul herself out of the water, but the quarry walls were steep and slippery. She’d managed to find a handhold, but clumps of wet clay broke off beneath her bloodied fingers. She’d kept moving sideways, the water chilling her blood and bones. Finally she’d found a root embedded in the mud wall and managed to lift her upper body out of the water. She’d called for help, her voice echoing feebly around the quarry walls. Only the birds answered, oblivious to her plight.
Time stood still. She’d watched an airliner pass high overhead, its occupants oblivious to the struggle taking place below them. Olivia’s choices were limited; hold on, or join the others at the bottom of the quarry. Delirium assaulted her mind. Terry had whispered to her from below the water. She’d heard the buzz of an approaching insect. It sounded huge, and she imagined it hovering behind her, its antenna brushing her wet hair. She thought she might grab its legs, have it lift her to safety. She’d twisted her head…
And saw the drone, riding the air behind her.
Terry’s whispers were drowned out by its rotors. She’d heard shouting somewhere above her. Hold on, that’s all she had to do, all that mattered. Time passed. She’d heard another roar, thunderous, the clatter of rotor blades. Brightly coloured ropes had tumbled past her. Something hit the water beside her and Olivia saw it was a bright orange life-preserver. But letting go would mean certain death, so she’d clung on while the helicopter roared somewhere above, while men in red flight suits had abseiled down to her. They’d prised her fingers from the muddy root, and finally she’d given in.
Everything after that was a blur; the open sky, the stretcher, the downdraught of the rotor blades. She drifted in and out of consciousness. Lights were shone into her eyes. She heard concerned voices, urging her to stay with them, to not give up. They needn’t have worried, because Olivia had stopped listening to the seductive whisper of death. He’d called her many times that morning, from inside the minibus, as she’d clawed her way up through the black waters, as she’d clung to life against the quarry wall.
Death had tried, and death had failed. Death could go fuck itself.
Because Olivia had a story to tell.
The house was located in the Colonial Place district in the west end of the city, a quiet suburb dotted with expensive properties set back from tree-lined roads. The Novak house was a sprawling, thirties-built dwelling that had been impressively renovated, and they were greeted at the front door by a Hispanic housemaid who took their coats. As Kelly’s mother - Barbara, she insisted - led him through the house, he learned that she’d taken control of her husband’s fledgling property portfolio after his death and turned it into a profitable business. Ray was starting to get a better sense of Kelly’s own drive and ambition.
They passed a large reception room filled with mourners, most of them attending their first funeral, Ray guessed, and he found that fleeting image of so many young people gathered together in mourning desperately sad.
Kelly’s private office was at the back of the house. The room was all dark mahogany and lit with brass lamps. Tall windows overlooked the wide patio and the manicured lawn beyond. It was a quiet room, and all Ray could hear was the rain against the windows as the storm rumbled across the city. They sat on couches opposite each other and Ray accepted a glass of Scotch. Barbara poured herself a larger measure and settled in, crossing her thick legs.
‘I knew this day would be tough. I just didn’t realise how much.’
‘I can’t imagine,’ Ray offered.
‘Do you have children?’
‘Two, both in college. I don’t see them as much as I should.’
‘Are they likely to follow in their father’s footsteps?’
Ray shook his head. ‘They have first-hand experience of the damage a busy newsroom can do to a marriage.’
Kelly’s eyes drifted over to her desk where there were several framed images of Kelly. ‘Being a reporter was all Kelly wanted to be. She was deeply indebted to you for taking h
er on at the Times.’
Ray recalled the first time he’d met Kelly, the bright young intern with dark curly hair and an infectious smile, who’d taken his hand with a confident grip and made eye contact when she spoke. Intelligent, hard working, popular around the newsroom, confident beyond her years; Ray was sorry to see her go.
‘We were lucky to have her. When she turned down my job offer, it was one of the major disappointments of my career.’
Barbara smiled and looked away, and for a moment Ray thought she might break down again, but she held it together.
‘She held you in the highest regard. The Times itself, not so much. But you know that, of course.’
Ray did, because Kelly had told him to his face. She’d lost faith in the mainstream media and their ability to report the truth, a contagion that had swept the nation and much of the western world since Nine Eleven. Kelly Novak is a truth seeker, she’d told him with that wide smile of hers. She wasn’t going to be controlled by Big Media. Ray had wished her well and they’d promised to keep in touch.
That was a year ago. Kelly had taken the alt-media path, much to Ray’s disappointment. Established media groups like the Times had a long tradition of reliable news-gathering built on credible sources and verifiable data. The alt-media was speculation built on wild theories and rumour. Why Kelly had been drawn to that world, Ray didn’t understand.
‘You said you wanted to discuss something. About Kelly.’
Barbara swallowed the rest of her drink and set her glass down on the table between them. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her fingers interlocked. Steeling herself, Ray realised.
‘Are you familiar with the circumstances of Kelly’s death?’
‘Only what I read.’
‘The truck was stolen in Baltimore the day before it hit her car in Fredericksburg. Kelly was waiting at an intersection when it rolled over the top of her Honda Civic and just kept going. They found the truck abandoned in a wood several miles away. The driver is still on the loose.’
‘The police will run down leads,’ Ray assured her. ‘They’ll get the guy.’
‘The truck’s cab had been doused in bleach, which means no fingerprints or DNA. There’s no CCTV out on that highway, and there were no witnesses. Hardly surprising, given the remote location.’
‘What was Kelly doing out there?’
‘She got a call, about the story she was working on, that’s all I know. I think she was lured out there.’
‘Lured?’
‘That stretch of road is very quiet, rural. And it was late when it happened.’ Barbara looked at him and said, ‘You want to hear the best part? The Fredericksburg PD has lost the file.’
‘What d’you mean, lost?’
‘Exactly that. A week ago they had some sort of data breach. Kelly’s case file was wiped, along with dozens of others. Backups are gone too. Allegedly,’ she concluded.
Ray raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s it? That’s all they told you?’
‘They apologised and promised to continue the investigation, but I don’t hold out any hope.’ She paused for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice trembled with emotion. ‘I went out there, to the place where she died. I got out of my car and stood at that intersection. It was ten-thirty at night and there wasn’t a single vehicle in any direction. There were no rubber marks on the road either. That truck driver, he didn’t hit his brakes at all. It was no accident.’
Ray watched mascara tears roll down Kelly’s face. It was not an unusual reaction to an unexplained and untimely death; there would be doubt, suspicion, a blatant refusal to accept the possibility of a freak accident, but Ray’s antenna was quivering like Kelly’s bottom lip. If everything she’d told him panned out, it might lead somewhere.
Barbara went to her desk, rummaged around a bit then sat back on the couch. She placed a small USB thumb drive on the coffee table between them.
‘Occasionally Kelly would send me one of these for safekeeping. I received this one about a month ago.’ Barbara fixed Ray with her piercing blue eyes. ‘She called me, not long after she sent this. She made me promise that if anything happened to her, I’d get this to you. Boy, was I mad at her for saying that.’ She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and forced a smile. ‘Kelly laughed, blew it all off, but she made me promise nonetheless. Twelve days later she was dead.’
Ray shook his head. ‘Why me? We hadn’t spoken for a year.’
‘Respect. Trust. She never said.’
‘What was she working on?’
‘Kelly never discussed her work with me. We clashed, politically I mean.’
Ray picked up the small data drive and held it in the palm of his hand. ‘Ma’am, with all due respect, the possibility still exists that what happened to Kelly was nothing more than a terrible accident. You shouldn’t get your hopes up.’
Barbara stood. ‘I’ve neglected my daughter’s friends for too long. Some of them have travelled a long way to be here.’
Ray took the hint and pocketed the drive. ‘I can’t promise anything, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘I understand. And one more thing, the drive, it’s password protected.’
‘What’s the password?’
‘Wilson. With a one and a zero.’
It took Ray just over two hours to drive back to his apartment in Arlington.
He took a shower, made a pot of coffee, then flipped open his MacBook. He plugged in Kelly’s USB drive.It contained five gigs of data, all of it neatly catalogued. Nothing jumped out at him immediately so he started going through the folders one at a time. Much of it was political; Federal Library papers, Congressional records, C-SPAN transcripts, and reams of official, non-sensitive documents relating to a variety of subjects that were already out in the public domain.
Nothing to get the juices flowing.
After an hour he took a break. He made himself another coffee and stood at the window. Night had fallen, and across the Potomac River his nation’s capital shimmered. He sipped his coffee, watching planes turning in the sky over Dulles, and wondered why Kelly Novak feared for her life and who might’ve wanted her dead. And if both of those things were true, why? Ray knew there was only one way to find out.
It was after two a.m. when he found his first clue. The sub-folder was buried several layers deep. It was labelled State and it contained documents related to the incident in Baghdad earlier that year. Beneath it there was another folder called Bragg, containing just one file, a Microsoft Word document. Ray opened it and began reading. A minute later he was snatching pages out of the printer.
As he crossed the room he picked up his reading glasses and a yellow highlighter. He flopped onto the couch, slipped his glasses on and kicked his feet up. He re-read the document several times, highlighting important sections and making copious notes on a legal pad. By the time the sun had risen, Ray Wilson had a good idea why Kelly believed her life might be in danger. Sure, she’d made some assumptions in her research, but taken as a whole the document that lay on the couch next to Ray contained just enough fact and testimony to warrant a little more digging. He also knew the Times wouldn’t sanction it, not in the current climate.
For almost a year, the political world had witnessed a series of seismic upheavals. Every G8 country had suffered to various degrees, the United States especially, so Kelly’s work, if it ever saw the light of day, would once again plunge the country into political and economic uncertainty. And that was the upside.
It had been a long time since Ray Wilson had worn out the shoe leather chasing down a story, a long time since he’d knocked on doors, waited in empty parking lots and sat drinking in bars until the sun came up. Ray had made a name for himself by putting in the time and effort, and never leaving a stone unturned. The thought of getting out of the office, of becoming a real reporter again, excited him. He welcomed the idea, embraced it, because for the last few hours all he’d felt was a growing anxiety that bordered on —
What exactly?<
br />
Fear, he realised.
Kelly had started to piece together a story. In death, she’d passed the baton to Ray. She was challenging him to turn his back on journalistic orthodoxy, to venture out into the shadowlands of fake news, rumour and conspiracy. To become a truth seeker.
Ray couldn’t promise her that. What he would do was follow up a couple of leads, see where it took him.
And he would start with the sniper.
Savage Kingdom
Mike Savage was unshaven, filthy, and exhausted to the bone.
For the last three days he’d managed only six hours of sleep, and his clothes were caked in dirt and dust. The darker patches were blood, but thankfully not Mike’s. The mission was over, that was the good news. The bad news sat and glared at Mike from the seat across the aisle.
Mike stared right back at the forty-three-year-old Libyan in the torn suit and bloodied shirt. The man had lost his shoes, and his socks were shredded and caked with blood. His hands were zip tied behind his back, though it didn’t appear to bother him. He slouched in his window seat, occasionally glancing at the world outside the SAAB 340B turboprop, but mostly he stared at Mike, his pockmarked face a mask of defiance. It was a look that said, you’ve fucked up, and now you’re going to pay.
In normal circumstances the prisoner would be hooded, but that was pointless now. Mike watched him sneer and was struck by the similarity to his cousin; the thick moustache flecked with grey, the tailored suits, the habitual wave of the left hand when smoking a cigarette, the guttural Arabic he used to berate his lackeys. It was an understandable mistake. Unforgivable too, Mike wagered.
For the last seventy-two hours, Mike Savage and four of his best men from the CIA’s Special Activities Division, Special Operations Group, had staked out a smallholding in the green, fertile lands to the south of the city of Al Bayda, Libya. It was one of many farms in a sparsely populated area dotted with crop fields, woods and orchards, and Mike and his team had moved into position under cover of darkness, establishing their observation post in a drainage ditch less than fifty yards from the main building.