Patriot

by A S Bond

  She checked her phone. Thirty six minutes. No messages.She ran back through the newsroom, but Alice caught her at the doors.

  “Brooke - “

  Brooke thrust the carryall, now containing her old clothes, into Alice’s hands.

  “Burn this.”

  The taxi was still at the curb, the driver increasingly twitchy. “You said three minutes. It’s been five. I could get a ticket, man”

  “Shut up and drive,” Brooke said, waving two $100 bills, which he took and pocketed.

  “Where to?”

  “The Pentagon. We’ve got 30 minutes.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Brooke checked her phone again as she waited in line to go though security in the Pentagon’s foyer. Nothing. Picking up her purse on the other side of the metal detector, she hurried down the blank gray hall to the surprisingly small press room on the ground floor. It was already almost full. Cameras from the networks filled the back and sides, their wires underfoot. The press pack was squeezed into the middle of the room, standing, for now, between the haphazard chairs, and gossiping. A few familiar faces nodded at Brooke as she entered, others just stared. This wasn’t her beat.

  She found a spare seat on the end of the second row and sat down. In front was the small podium, backed by a blue curtain and simple oval sign, on which was written ‘Department of Defense.’

  The room quieted as the press officer entered and made a statement on the investigation into the events in Chesapeake Bay two days ago. There was nothing new. No leads, no arrests. Heightened security at all ports. The assembled reporters digested this, each wondering what they were going to use to fill their column inches.

  But the press officer was just the warm-up act. There was going to be a significant announcement on the war in Afghanistan.

  Aides suddenly flooded in from a side door and stood, sober-suited and silent along the wall. The press officer took a few desultory questions, then gathered her papers and left. She didn’t greet the Secretary of State or Defense as they passed. The temperature in the room notched up a degree or two.

  Brooke checked her phone and chewed her lip. Her insides were doing flips.

  Johnson, the Secretary of Defense, began speaking. A few opening remarks, designed to get the hacks on his side. A few polite smiles in the room. Finally, he got to the meat of his statement.

  “We believe that America is duty bound to meet the new challenges in Afghanistan head-on, and provide additional support to the Afghan people in their struggle for a democratic future. Therefore, plans for a drawdown will be put on hold, until such time as that country is strong enough to shoulder the burden of its own security.”

  A murmur ran around the room.

  “And so in the meantime, I can confirm we have agreed with other members of ISAF that the numbers of troops on the ground with be increased substantially. This will be effective immediately, with members of the 42nd Division leaving this evening....”

  The statement went on, the details washing over Brooke as her colleagues scribbled and stared at the major U-turn in U.S. policy.

  As Johnson finished speaking, there was a clamour of voices, but he picked out his favorite, as politicians always did. This time, it was Cohen, from the Philadelphia Inquirer

  “Secretary Johnson, can you confirm...”

  Brooke paid no attention, scanning her phone. Nothing. Was there coverage here? Yes. Battery? Fine. Her heart pounding, she realized Johnson wouldn’t take many questions at this time, but she had to keep him here. She thrust up her hand without any idea of what she was going to say.

  Maybe it was her appearance. The Secretary noticed her, but didn’t recognize - or perhaps even know - her, and nodded.

  “Brooke Kinley, the Daily Post.” Brooke tried to lick her lips, but her mouth was bone-dry and she could barely form the words. The Secretary of State stared at her, with a mixture of horror and confusion. At least he recognizes my name, she thought.

  “Can I ask you, Mr. Secretary, to comment on the recent joint CIA and Department of Defense investigation into the businessman Jean Maynard, and his connection to the Apache Incident?”

  Silence.

  Johnson stared at her. He appeared completely blind-sided. Eventually, he said

  “I’m aware of no such investigation.”

  The clamour began again and Brooke felt a discreet buzz in her hand. She looked at the screen

  Got it. Just as promised. Go for it. Emailing the details now. Scott. A second icon pinged on the top of the screen. She opened it and scrolled through the content.

  Suddenly, her nerves disappeared and her hand went up again. Johnson ignored her, but she stood up anyway and talked over the routine question from the chosen hack.

  “Mr. Johnson, have you ever received any inducements from members of the American arms trade?”

  Johnson turned gray, then an angry red, before he replied. “Of course not. Where - “

  “Then how do you explain evidence in my possession showing payments made by a consortium of arms manufacturers to your personal accounts, held offshore over a period of three years?”

  Brooke felt the glare of the lights as they turned onto her, the heavy cameras swinging around on their tripods, focusing on her battered face.

  “Nonsense.” Johnson appeared welded to the podium, his hands white as he gripped the stand.

  “Do you deny colluding to block an investigation into industry involvement in the Apache Incident by the Department of Defense’s own counterintelligence unit?”

  Aides swarmed around Johnson, shielding him from the cameras and dragging him bodily off the podium. From the corner of her eye, Brooke could see Security shouldering their way towards her. Brooke pulled a second phone out of her pocket. It was covered in blood. She held it aloft for the people in the room, and the cameras to see, and shouted:

  “I have here a cell phone taken from the man sent to kill that investigating officer. Shall I return the last call, Mr. Secretary?”

  The room became completely soundless, as if no one even dared to breathe. The Secretary and his aides froze into a tableau by the door, caught mid-hustle. She could feel their eyes - and the cameras of the live TV news feeds - on her, as she pressed the redial button. The moment stretched into years as the signal bounced through space up to a satellite and back down into the room, where a phone trilled discreetly.

  “Aren’t you going to answer your phone, Mr. Secretary? The phone you used to order the assassination of a deputy director of counterintelligence, right here at the Pentagon?”

  Chapter 46

  He had been waiting for several hours. A thin, wintry wind cut straight across the rooftop and made his eyes water. The view down the scope blurred and he slapped the tears away with the back of his hand. He wasn’t as young as he used to be.

  The Serbian’s success in Connecticut had brought him a further commission from his clients, an act of faith following his failure in Labrador. He gritted his teeth at the memory. He couldn’t have foreseen those events. The marks should have died in the explosion

  Yet he suspected the leniency shown to him by his clients was more an act of desperation than of faith. They had other things on their minds. Revenge was a side dish at the feast now. He merely had to ensure that it was sweet.

  He picked up his binoculars and scanned the area below him. It was an anonymous parking lot on the edge of Toronto. A motel formed one side of the square, some discount and mom-and-pop stores the others. A highway led out east, and a small service road wound around the back of the motel from the other. From his position on the roof of the tallest building, he could see everything; every exit, every escape route. All he had to do was wait.

  He had followed the mark here the previous night. The mid-range, unremarkable motel had been an odd choice, but the Serbian suspected the mark was about to disappear for good, probably with new documents. Money wouldn’t be a problem. He could go anywhere from here, and the Serbian had orders t
o follow until the job as done. But he wasn’t about to trail around the globe after this guy. He should have shot him in Labrador. But orders were what kept him in play. Too much creativity and the money didn’t arrive. If the client wants it to look like an accident, then that’s what they get.

  The curtains of the motel room were still drawn, but he was sure they were just a decoy, despite the early hour. The mark had to emerge sometime. The Serbian swept the area again with the binoculars, waiting for some movement.

  A garbage truck ground down the service road, its brakes squealing, and he watched it carefully. The men emerged from the cab, loaded and flipped the big commercial trash cans, then wheeled them back into place. The truck backed up towards the lot.

  But wait. The Serbian frowned. One of the garbage men wasn’t getting back on the truck. It had backed almost right into the lot, but one man was still outside the motel. He walked through the cars pulled up in front of each of the motel rooms. He stopped outside the mark’s room. What was he doing? The Serbian focused through the scope, his middle finger tight on the trigger. The man disappeared briefly from view. Was he looking underneath a vehicle? A moment later, he re-appeared, holding a large piece of trash, and strolled over to re-join the truck, jumping onto the back as it wheezed out onto the highway.

  The Serbian thought a little. It could be something, or it could be nothing. If he went down to investigate, he might miss his opportunity, and finishing the job could be a little messier than a single roof-top shot. On the other hand, so what if there was some kind of booby trap? All he would lose if someone else took out his mark would be personal satisfaction. He could claim responsibility and still get paid. Maybe. Who else was after Maynard?

  The Serbian had a few ideas about that, and he didn’t like it, but he stayed on the rooftop. Changing plans at the last moment unless absolutely necessary was always a bad idea. That’s when events spiralled out of control. Losing control was very bad in his profession.

  His right eye was fixed, watching through the scope, but the cold wind made it tear up again. He wiped it with the sleeve of his jacket and re-focused. A car door was open. Damn. Had he missed this guy again? The door closed. Was it Maynard? The Serbian couldn’t see, but the vehicle was right, he was sure of that; a Pontiac Grand Am, ten years old.

  The car’s engine turned over once, and coughed. It didn’t catch, but the ignition turned on switched on the car radio. Middle Eastern pop music swirled briefly around the lot at full volume, startling even the Serbian up on his rooftop perch. Another odd choice, he thought, given Maynard’s loyalties.

  The engine turned over again and this time it did catch. The explosion was so great, it blasted the neighboring cars clear across the lot, and shattered every window in the motel. Car alarms in a 500 meter radius went off, and, after maybe half a minute, people flooded in from all sides to look at the burning wreck of a Pontiac.

  The Serbian lowered his rifle. So the Iranians got to him first. It wasn’t a clean job, but that wasn’t their style. Boy, were they pissed. More American soldiers in the Middle East? The Serbian’s lip curled. He knew Hassan’s reputation for ruthlessness, and his ambitions for the presidency. And now he’d been played by the enemy. Maynard had been smart, he had to admit. Not smart enough in the end though, it would seem.

  He checked his watch. If he hustled, he could make the late morning flight out to Panama. He needed a rest.

  Chapter 47

  Kyle dropped a copy of the Daily Post on the table and sat down.

  “Where’ve you been?” Dex said. “Your beer’s getting warm.” He squinted against the lowering sun. They were sitting outside the bar, despite the coolness of early evening, watching people promenade along the Georgetown riverbank.

  “A nice young lady offered to show me the sights of D.C.” said Kyle, smiling. “I think I could like this town.”

  Dex leaned forward, his cast stuck out at an awkward angle. He grimaced slightly, as he picked up the paper and scanned the front page. The byline was Brooke Kinley.

  “Scoop after scoop.” He looked at her. “You’ve had the headlines all week. I think the Pulizer’s in the bag.”

  Brooke watched a line of ducks rise, squawking, from the water and flap into the reddening sky. “Denzel has played it pretty smart, I guess.”

  “You’ve set the news agenda! It’s phenomenal.”

  “Huh.”

  “Please tell me not all your stories are this risky, though.”

  “Not generally, no.” Brooke smiled. “Although I think I’ll get to write my own ticket from now on.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Kyle, finishing his beer in one long, smooth gulp. He held the bottle up briefly for the waitress to see, and then set it back on the table.

  “I get to investigate the stories that interest me, “ Brooke said. “No more covering routine committee hearings.”

  “Any of those stories ever likely to take you as far as Chile?” Dex said without looking at her. Brooke glanced at him. She didn’t want to dwell on that tonight. She had enough trouble reconciling herself to the recent past. The future could wait. She touched her fingertips to the cut on her cheek, now subsided to an ugly red color.

  “Maybe. You should think about coming to Minnesota with me at Thanksgiving.”

  “I thought you didn’t go back to Minnesota.”

  Brooke sipped her margarita. “Maybe I will this year.” She tried to make it sound casual.

  “Jaime will be home on leave, I think.”

  “That sounds great. But - “

  Brooke glanced quickly at him. “There’s a ‘but’?”

  “Tell me we won’t have to paddle a canoe anywhere.”

  She laughed. “It’ll probably be iced up by then, so don’t worry.”

  Brooke glanced up as the TV set bolted to the wall in the bar switched to the evening news, and saw Scott looking around near the door.

  “Over here!” she called out, and he eased through some groups of after-work drinkers and sat down.

  “Hey.” He nodded at Dex and Kyle.

  “Tough day?” asked Brooke, looking at his reddened eyes.

  “Not really, just long.” Scott stifled a yawn. “It’s taken a lot of explaining. Over and over again. Sykes, legal, the NCIX ...”

  “Is Johnson going to be prosecuted?” asked Dex. The waitress brought a tray with four bottles, which she set down on the little table. Brooke saw the girl’s gaze meet Kyle’s for a second before she stepped back into the bar.

  “Yes, it’s with the attorney general now, but I’d say he’s looking at life. Maynard’s evidence was impeccable. You didn’t hear that from me, of course.”

  Dex acknowledged this, his eyes on Brooke.

  “How did Sykes - and Shackleton take it?” she asked.

  Scott sighed. “Well, they weren’t wild about me ‘losing’ a key suspect, of course. And it has been made clear I took liberties engaging the services of a foreign country’s military force, but it got us out of a nasty situation, and the British are our strategic allies, after all. Their actions were no more than a small alteration to their planned exercises. “

  “Hey, you’re on!” said Kyle, looking at the TV set through the open doors. The footage of Brooke in the press conference was being played again. People glanced at the screen, then back to her and she shifted in her seat. The image cut to a man in his late 50’s, wearing a sweater and slacks, standing outside one of Georgetown’s more notable Colonial-era homes. Flashbulbs popped continuously, making his wife, who stood dutifully next to him, blink like a bewildered guppy. Johnson.

  “Turn it up!” Brooke said, half out of her chair. The bar staff hit the button and the sound spilled out onto the terrace.

  “...pending further investigations into the allegations against Secretary Johnson made earlier this week in a dramatic scene inside the Pentagon itself....”

  Scott turned and winked at her, and she grinned.

  “... a spokesperson for th
e White house has said there will be no change to the strategy in Afghanistan, announced by Secretary Johnson. The decision has been welcomed by some of the president’s strongest critics, including presidential hopeful Mike Twomey. He points to the groundswell of public opinion both in the U.S. and other ISAF partner nations for taking on the terrorist threat at its source, following the devastating effects of sophisticated new weaponry which has fallen into the hands of the Taliban

  “We must not let the actions of one man deter us from our course. With two U.S. Apache helicopters destroyed and dozens of lives lost, I welcome this U-turn by our president,” said Mr. Twomey on the steps of the Capitol Building this morning. “I’m just sorry it took him so long to see the truth of what our boys are facing out there on our behalf.”

  Part of the additional cost of the new surge in Afghanistan will be offset by an unprecedented decision to cancel and re-tender all existing U.S. defense contracts for supplies to American forces. This follows serious questions being raised about former Secretary Johnson and how those contracts were originally awarded. It is thought the savings for the American taxpayer will run into several billion dollars over the next five years.

  The announcement has rocked money markets in all ISAF countries, most notably the United States, where stocks in the companies affected by the decision have crashed, and it is feared the three largest may face extensive financial re-structuring. The CEO of the largest U.S. arms manufacturer, BH Hammons, has already been indicted, and it is thought others will follow. The White House Press Secretary made clear that the tendering process would be opened up to vetted companies in all ISAF partner countries, including the UK, something the British Prime Minister described as,