by A S Bond
Scott walked over and showed her his DOD security tag. “We’re on the same side. So let’s start again, shall we? I’ve shown you mine, now you show me yours.”
Hesitating for a moment, her eyes locked on the ID, the woman reached into the pocket of her jacket and handed him her security pass. Scott looked at it. A low-ranking operative from Homeland Security.
“So, Marcie.” Scott sat down and indicated that she should do the same. “Why don’t we have a little chat?”
Chapter 37
“Are you really Scott Jensen?” said Marcie as she perched on a plastic chair.
“That’s an odd question.”
“I’ve heard your name before.” Marcie straightened her suit jacket with quick, exacting movements, like a bird pecking at a worm. “Tonight, in fact.”
Scott kicked a plastic chair around to face her and sat down heavily. The night was beginning to take its toll.
“Tell me.”
“The terror suspects we questioned here mentioned your name. I thought it was part of their game, you know; distract, confuse, delay. I had no idea you are really a director at Counterintelligence, sir. We were ordered - “
“Hold on.” Scott’s mind was already going in circles. “Terror suspects?”
“Yes.” Marcie looked a little disconcerted. “I’m with HIG...but you knew that, right? You’re in the NCIX based out of the Pentagon.”
Scott looked at her, thinking. HIG was the High Value Detainee Interrogation Unit, a new intelligence-gathering group created by the President. It questioned terrorism suspects as soon as possible after their arrest, to extract information and head off any plots that might be about to unfold, or track down anyone who may have assisted them. Both overseas and domestic targets were included in its oversight, and it was made up of intelligence specialists from various branches of the US Government: CIA, FBI, Defense... Scott began to see things falling into place.
“But I understood there was one witness, not two suspects....from the ship.” Scott was fishing now, hoping Marcie wouldn’t catch on.
“I don’t know anything about that.” Marcie looked him in the eye. “I’m not trained to make judgments about suspects, but I can count. There were two.”
“Was one of the suspects a woman?”
“Yes...A man and a woman, both American, I would say.
“Names?”
Marcie looked at the floor, undecided and reluctant.”Brooke Kinley and Dexter Adams. We were ordered to just humor them, you know, keep them here, get them talking and so on. It was only an initial debrief, to assess them....”
“So who led the debrief?” asked Scott.
“I can’t tell you that. “ Marcie was getting suspicious now. “Why are you here, if you’re not in the loop?”
Scott considered his options. It didn’t really matter who led the debriefing; they were following orders. It was the person giving those orders who counted. Scott had to find Brooke, fast. But the only way was to get Marcie on his side. Too much pressure and she would clam up. The only leverage he had was his rank, and the truth. He’d already played out rank. It would have to be truth. “How did my name come up?”
“They - the woman - kept asking when you were going to arrive. She seemed to think you had been contacted already. She wanted to use a cell to call you herself.”
“I should have been contacted,” Scott said. “Because they are not terror suspects. They’re witnesses, and their information could be crucial to counterintelligence. In all likelihood, they are the two people to whom we all owe a great deal tonight for stopping that attack, and I need to find them. Right now, Marcie.”
Marie looked at him and he could see she believed him.
“They’ve been moved on.” Marcie looked away, biting her lip.
“Where?”
“Well, that’s the odd thing...” Marcie frowned. “All sorts of things happen within HIG...”
Scott knew only too well what she meant. The occasional details that leaked to the press often caused an uproar, as much from overseas governments whose territory was used as from the U.S. domestic audience.
“Where did they take them, Marcie?”
“The airfield at Stafford. I don’t know the destination.”
Scott was already out the door and halfway along the corridor when she called after him.
“Mr. Jensen, sir—they weren’t hurt, but...”
Scott paused and looked over his shoulder.
“Yes?”
“They were in pretty bad shape when they arrived and they ...they’re somewhat sleepy right now.”
“What time does the plane take off?”
She looked at her watch and shook her head.
“Fifteen minutes. Sor-.”
But the heavy metal door had clanged shut, leaving her alone.
Stafford Airfield. It was a tiny, one-strip airport out in rural Virginia. Publicly owned, it was occasionally used by the military, too. Why use Stafford though, when standard procedure for transporting high value detainees anywhere by air would be Andrews Air Force Base in Washington? Scott could only think of one reason...and he didn’t like it.
His ankle ached from keeping the gas pedal pressed to the floor of the little car as he sped up the highway to the airfield. There was a chance the flight would be delayed by the evening’s activity. He gripped the steering wheel and refused to look at his watch.
As the airfield came into view, he saw a plane on the strip. It looked smaller than an airliner, but far too big for light aircraft. How much traffic could there be out here at this time? Scott took a chance and barely slowed as he swerved the car to the right, entering the airfield in a spray of gravel. Bouncing over curbs, he took a direct route through the empty parking lots and walkways toward the landing strip. A service gate was open in the wire mesh fence, and he crashed through it, barely aware of angry and bewildered faces at the windows as he raced towards the plane.
“Please let that be her plane,” he prayed to nothing in particular.
But the aircraft was taxiing now, engines on, lights off. As he got closer, Scott could see it was a medium-sized private jet, a Gulfstream, capable of transcontinental flights. Scott gritted his teeth and forced his car into one last rattling effort over the grass strips between the asphalt apron. The plane loomed high above him, dark against the lightening sky. But then, the sudden roar of the jet engines drowned out distant shouting as the plane shot forward down the runway, engines blazing, a whoosh of hot air rocking the car.
Scott braked, skidding to a stop, and he sat motionless for a second, watching the plane lift gently from the land and climb into the early dawn. The moment didn’t last; uniforms, noise and at least three guns quickly surrounded him. Putting his hands in the air, Scott eased out of the driver’s seat and stood up.
“I’m going to put my hand in my pocket to get my ID.” He said to the largest guard, who seemed to be taking the gun-pointing most seriously.
As he reached for his security pass, Scott knew he was on shaky ground. He was an office guy; a pencil pusher. He didn’t have clearance to invade airfields, or stop flights. But the guys on night detail in a regional airstrip might not know that. He passed over the plastic and saw a small frown of puzzlement cross the guy’s face as he read it carefully. This was Scott’s chance.
“Right, so you can put your weapons down. I’ve identified myself to you, as a Director in U.S. Counterintelligence. You can verify that by calling the number on the card. But right now, I want to know which flights have left this airport tonight, where they were going, and who was on board.”
They looked at him, open-mouthed.
“And then I want to talk to the airfield manager. Right now!” Scott held his breath as no one moved.
“This is a matter of urgent national security. This airfield should be in lock-down! We are on full terrorist alert! What’s the matter with you? Move it!”
The airfield manager was an overfed, balding man with an apparen
t taste for heavy gold watches and expensive ties. He didn’t take kindly to being awakened at this time in the morning. Scott decided to go for cooperation.
“I’m sorry to wake you at this hour sir, but we have a situation.” He told the man, Petersen, the barest details, throwing in just enough tidbits to make him feel like he was in the loop. Scott guessed the guy’s vanity and self-importance wouldn’t be able to resist. It worked. Petersen tapped on his computer, frowned and walked over to the door.
“Venning! Get in here!” Petersen turned to Scott. “He’s my operations director.”
Venning appeared. He was a waif of a man, and he looked scared. More scared than anyone could rationally be of Petersen, Scott thought. The two men had a hurried conversation in low voices.
Petersen turned back to Scott, the egotism gone, his expression and movements those of a condemned man.
“There has only been one flight tonight, sir and... and ‘m afraid we don’t have the complete paperwork for it.”
“That’s a serious offense. “
“Yes, sir.”
“Why isn’t this airfield in lockdown?”
Petersen and Venning shared a glance.
“It...it was a government flight, sir. The highest security clearance.”
“Personnel on board?”
“Sorry.”
“And the flight plan? That is a federal requirement. You didn’t let it take off without providing one? Even Air Force One has to file a flight plan!”
“It was filed just before take-off, sir. The destination given was the Goose Bay Air Base, Labrador.”
Scott’s heart raced as he sat in his little red car, now parked more appropriately in the airport’s main parking lot. The place was eerily quiet, as the city woke to the news of another major terrorist alert.
Scott drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He needed to do something, and fast. But he would now officially be a wanted man, thanks to the body in his apartment. Discredited. It was clever, and effective. Scott didn’t know why Brooke and her companion - he guessed it might be the missing scientist, Dexter Adams - were being taken back to Labrador, but none of the options looked good. No one outside HIG knew for sure Brooke had left Labrador; it was the perfect place to make her disappear permanently. Maybe she would be found, months or even years from now, a frozen body in a ravine, or washed up on the shores of a lake at spring break-up. He shuddered.
Scott took out his phone and brought up a map of eastern Canada, zooming in until he could see Goose Bay. Then, remembering something, he re-read the contents of the intercepted conversation from Maynard’s satellite phone sent over from Sugar Grove. This time though, he was looking for something else: the GPS coordinates for the satellite phone at the time of the call. It was a long shot; they were mobile, after all.
Switching to mapping, he punched in the coordinates. The map zoomed in, to Canada, Labrador and finally, Okak. A nickel mine on the coast, in fact. Scott allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.
He pressed speed dial 3 and within two rings it picked up. Scott came right to the point.
“David, what assets do you have in northeast Canada?” His friend listened without speaking as Scott outlined the situation.
“This is quite some favor.”
“Call it a function of the Special Relationship.”
There was a brief laugh at the other end of the line. “How are your operational contacts within the DOD? “
“I know who to talk to.”
“Good. This may be possible...but I’ll need something to sweeten the deal.”
“Name it.”
“Daisy. I think we’ve found her, but we may need your help.”
Chapter 38
The pain in her face began to dig into her consciousness, deeper and deeper. Into the subconscious place of dreams, where it swirled around with voices and footsteps. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t move. The pain got sharper. It wouldn’t let up.
With a rush, Brooke woke and tried to move her head away from the throbbing in her cheek, the one split by her fall on the Marie Louise. But that wasn’t the reason why it hurt so much. Through sticky eyelashes, Brooke focused on the jagged rock pressing into her. Or was she pressing into it? It took a moment for her sluggish mind to realize that she was lying face down on the ground, her hands tied behind her back. With an effort, she did the only thing she could: She rolled over, realizing at the same moment that her feet were bound, too.
She groaned.
“Brooke! Wake up!” The voice came from somewhere to her left; not too far away. Brooke rolled her head towards it, wincing as brilliant arc lights overhead burned across her eyes.
“Mmmmm.” The voice was very familiar, but she couldn’t come up with a name. Hell, her brain was scrambled.”Brooke!”
“Dex.” The word croaked out, making Brooke aware of her dry throat. She coughed and tried to swallow.
“Are you hurt?” his voice got closer as he sat upright and tried to shuffle towards her across the rough floor. Brooke slowly assessed each part of her. Everything seemed fine, although her wrists and ankles were bound with thin strips of something that cut into her painfully.
“I’m okay.” She tried to sit up, wriggling backwards until she could lean against the wall. For the first time, she could look around properly. Her eyes had adapted to the lights now, and she could see the room was windowless. In fact, it was a cave. A deep rumbling from elsewhere vibrated through her body.
“Are we where I think we are?” She turned in disbelief to Dex.
“I’ve been awake for about ten minutes, and I’d say we’re back in the mine.”
“The coffee...it was drugged....” the memory of the struggle and the hypodermic needle in the office building in Virginia came back to Brooke in a flash.
“I figured as much.”
“Who are these people?”
“I don’t know, but this? It ain’t good.”
“I wonder if Scott even knew we were there.”
“I seriously doubt it, unless he’s in on it.”
Brooke shook her head, then winced again and settled for “No way.”
Footsteps crunched in a passageway that opened out into the cave. Both Brooke and Dex looked up. Of the three men, Brooke recognised only the first to step into the light. She had seen him several times now, but, most tellingly, in the photograph taken of the president. Maynard.
His tall frame seemed frailer up close, and he moved oddly; stiff, as though pulled by invisible wires. After a few steps, he stumbled and almost fell, regaining only enough balance to avoid landing on top of Brooke. She flinched, and a shot of adrenaline-driven fury ran through her, as an image of Jaime flashed in her mind. Then she realized two things: first, that Maynard’s wrists were also bound, and second, that one of the men now standing over them had pushed him. The larger of these was dressed for the office, in tailored slacks and a dark overcoat that completely failed to cover his air of thuggery.
He was also the one pointing a gun at them.
Then Brooke realized. Not them; Maynard.
“You treacherous scum,” the man snarled in a heavy European accent Brooke couldn’t place.
“Going to shoot me?” Maynard said, mockingly. Brooke saw the gunman’s hand tighten, his tiny eyes glittering. Bizarrely, she noticed that his index finger was missing. It was his middle finger on the trigger. No matter. Part of her wanted him to do it. A big part.
“I should.”
“I’m a patriot, not a terrorist,” Maynard said calmly. “Your bosses will come to understand that. Eventu - “
Blood sprayed from Maynard’s’ mouth as the gun whipped against first one, then the other side of his angular face. Some of the spray landed on Brooke’s bare arm, and she stared at it in disgust. The gunman leaned in, his fleshy face red with effort and rage. Brooke smelt tobacco and rotten meat on his breath.
“You’ll get yours. Real soon,” he said. Stepping back with a leer, he checke
d his watch, then that of his companion, a tough looking, wiry individual who, it seemed, had little use for words. Yet Brooke noticed that this man’s left hand twitched occasionally, revealing a heavy baton in the folds of his long overcoat.
The two men left.
“Who did you betray?” Dex asked, staring at Maynard.
“Why didn’t they kill us?” Brooke said at the same moment. Maynard looked at them both in turn, then said to Brooke,
“A bullet to the head is rarely considered accidental.”
“That didn’t stop you from shooting Max,” Dex said.
“Who?” The rhythmic hum got louder, resonating through the cave and vibrating up through Brooke’s feet.
“Why accidental?” she said
“Listen to me,” Maynard said. “We need to get out of here. Right now. This place is going to blow sky high. “
Brooke heard the words, but she focused on rubbing the tie around her wrists against the rock. There was a sharp projection - the one that had cut so painfully into her cheek - and she used it now to saw at the strand of plastic.
“What did you mean, you’re a patriot?” Dex said.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Maynard shouted Maynard over the noise. “We need to get out of here.”
The plastic strand snapped and Brooke quickly hunted through the pockets of her combat pants for the lightweight pocket knife she used in the country. Had they found and taken it? No. She sighed with relief as her fingers closed over the warm, smooth wood of the handle. With a single flick, her feet were free, and she crawled over to Dex. But his eyes never left Maynard’s.
“Tell me, or we leave you here.”
“I tipped off the Navy about the Marie Louise. It would never have reached Washington, even without your heroics.” He smiled at Brooke, who stood over him, knife in hand.
“That was you?” she said. The military’s speedy arrival made sense now. “But I saw you here, loading that yacht.”
“My friends, have you never heard of the Trojan Horse?”
“We’re not your friends,” Dex spat out.
“Then call it a collaboration of convenience. We need to get out, and only I know the way, so cut me loose.”