Fake Truth (Ian Ludlow Thrillers)

by Lee Goldberg

  “What narrative?”

  Mei moved faster now, speaking between her heavy breathing. “The story that . . . I’m a rich Chinese actress . . . who fled her country to avoid being jailed . . . like her parents . . . for financial crimes . . . A movie like this could . . . could . . . COULD make me a heroine in fiction and reality.”

  “Not that there’s much difference anymore,” Ian said.

  But Mei didn’t hear him. She was lost in her evolving story and her mounting excitement. She leaned forward and gave him a rough kiss, mashing her lips against his, and then leaned back again, moaning as she took him deep inside her. “This could be great for both of us.”

  “How is it great for me?” He reached up and squeezed her breasts, even as she exposed a different nakedness to him besides her body, one that wasn’t as beautiful. She moaned and moved with more urgency against him.

  “It’s a way . . . to leverage your success . . . with the Straker books . . . and the national media exposure you got with me . . . into a new series character that’s practically a presold commodity.” She was racing feverishly toward the climax of her pitch. “You could write the script first . . . and then turn it into a book . . . we could release . . . oh God, yes . . . release the two versions simultaneously . . . yes, yes, YES . . . and launch a global, multimedia franchise!”

  The words were barely out of her mouth before she was rocked by a sharp, intense orgasm that made her shriek and her entire body tremble.

  It was the first time in their short relationship that she’d come during intercourse before him (and, if he was being honest with himself, that any woman had). Unlike Clint Straker, who could exert total control over his orgasms, Ian was usually too early or just in time. But today he was distracted by several realizations:

  The actress he was sleeping with was only using him for her own selfish reasons.

  Professional assassins were hunting him down.

  He’d uncovered a vast, deadly conspiracy that threatened the future of the United States.

  Incredibly, this wasn’t the first time he’d been in any of these situations. It was just the first time they’d happened all at once. It was very stressful.

  On the other hand, it was also thrilling.

  Somehow, he’d become a man who routinely evaded trained killers, saved America from certain doom, and bedded beautiful actresses without coming too soon.

  Maybe he was an action hero after all.

  Ian pulled Mei down to him, kissed her hungrily, and rolled her over without pulling out so that now he was on top of her. Still hard. Straker hard. She gasped and grabbed his ass.

  “Enough foreplay,” he said. “Let’s get this party started.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Fox Studios. West Los Angeles, California. November 14. 3:00 p.m. Pacific Standard Time.

  “Welcome to a special broadcast of The Real Story, live from Los Angeles,” Dwight Edney said, tapping his Montblanc pen on the neat stack of papers on his desk as he stared into the camera. “This morning, the president of the United States visited Dunn, Texas, where dozens of innocent Americans protecting our border, our liberty, and the virtue of our women were massacred in cold blood by a Mexican death squad.”

  Video of the president walking somberly past the rows of body bags lined up in the makeshift morgue at Dunn High School played behind Edney as he spoke.

  “After seeing the bodies of the fallen patriots, the president met privately with their families to express his condolences and the heartfelt sorrow of our nation. But that’s not all that he said.” Edney took a beat to let that sink in and to create some suspense. “We’ve exclusively obtained a secret recording of the president of the United States making an extraordinary vow to the weeping child of a dead patriot. Here it is, complete and unedited.”

  A picture of the president appeared behind Edney as the audio played, interrupted only by the occasional whimper and sniffling of a child.

  “This is America. I promise you, sweetheart, that I won’t let this atrocity stand. We know where this son of a bitch Giron is hiding. He thinks he’s safe in Mexico, but he’s not. We’re going to bin Laden his ass. If Mexico has a problem with that, I’ll make their pissant country our fifty-first state and name it after your daddy.”

  Edney nodded in agreement through the whole speech and, when it was over, hammered his fist on his desk. “God bless America!”

  Top Chef Catering. Khimki, Moscow Oblast. November 15. 2:00 a.m. Moscow Standard Time.

  The reaction, domestically and internationally, to the secret recording of the president of the United States was immediate, loud, and strong. Within minutes of Edney’s broadcast, news anchors, political pundits, members of Congress, state governors, foreign leaders, big-name CEOs, terrorist groups, trade unions, and celebrities of all kinds (athletes, rappers, chefs, actors, house-flippers, Kardashians, comedians, supermodels, and Real Housewives) passionately expressed their approval or outrage in tweets, press releases, and live television interviews.

  On top of that, the Kitchen’s hundreds of internet soldiers were working to amplify the president’s recording, and the themes it conveyed, across every conceivable social media platform, large and small, in the United States. Seconds after Edney’s broadcast, they began posting thousands of premanufactured tweets, infographics, and news stories that quoted fake statistics showing overwhelming, widespread, enthusiastic support for the president’s remarks across every political, ethnic, religious, and racial spectrum. The stories also drew emotionally compelling parallels between Mexico’s horrifying attack on Texas and—depending on the target audience—9/11, Pearl Harbor, the Holocaust, the Lockerbie bombing, Benghazi, the assassination of John F. Kennedy, the assassination of Martin Luther King, the Munich Olympics Massacre, the Charles Manson killings, the Iran hostage crisis, the crucifixion of Jesus, and the premature cancellation of the original Star Trek.

  In his tenth-floor office, Morzeny opened a celebratory bottle of champagne and filled two crystal flutes for himself and Cannon. It had been a long but eventful day.

  “Congratulations,” Morzeny said, offering Cannon the glass of champagne. “The operation is a tremendous success. The fake recording was a brilliant idea and adding the sound of the weeping, heartbroken child was the masterstroke.”

  “Emotion is key to getting the audience invested in a scene,” Cannon said.

  “You’re the greatest director who ever lived. You’re directing history. It will only be a few days now before the invasions of Belarus and Georgia, the first big steps toward the glorious rebirth of the Soviet Union. There’s already talk at the Kremlin about honoring us both with the Gold Star medal as Heroes of the Russian Federation.”

  It wasn’t quite an Oscar, but Cannon would make do. Even so, he felt the celebration was a bit premature. The final act hadn’t played out in America yet, though it was inevitable now, and there were still a few strands of the story that hadn’t been tied up. He didn’t like that. Ludlow and French were dead, which resolved one unexpected plot twist, but Magar Orlov had disappeared. That dangling subplot wasn’t in his script.

  “Any word from Orlov?” Cannon asked.

  “None. He’s undoubtedly gone rogue, not that I blame him,” Morzeny said. “After his mistakes in Portugal, his career as a field agent is over and he knew it. The best he could have hoped for was a desk assignment and that was intolerable for him. A top field agent is like a shark. He has to keep moving or he dies.”

  “So now what happens?” Cannon finished his champagne. He didn’t like it much. He preferred Scotch.

  “We find him and kill him. He chose a better way to die. We should all be so lucky.”

  How typically Russian, Cannon thought. Tragic and morose at heart. But it was understandable. They lived in Russia. They didn’t have much to be happy about. The sun didn’t shine as bright here as it did everywhere else. Cannon could attest to that. It seemed that the Moscow skies had been cloudy and gray ever sin
ce he’d arrived.

  But now, after getting his epic revenge on America, the sun would at least feel like it was shining brighter on him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The White House. Oval Office. Washington, DC. November 14. 8:35 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.

  “I didn’t say it,” the president said, pacing furiously in front of his desk. “Not one fucking word of it.”

  Healy looked around at the others sitting in the room—Chief of Staff Loretta Jones, Attorney General Ritchfield Douglas, and Secretary of State Ted Delsey—and they clearly didn’t believe the president, either.

  “With all due respect,” Douglas said, “a preliminary audio analysis by the FBI’s top forensic experts confirms it’s your voice.”

  The president got in the attorney general’s face. “Are you calling me a liar, right here, in the Oval Office?”

  Douglas didn’t flinch. Healy had to admire him for that.

  “I’m just relaying the facts as we know them,” Douglas said.

  “The only fact is that the recording is a fake,” the president said. “I don’t know how they did it, but it’s not me.”

  “Whether it’s real or not—” Healy began.

  “It’s not real,” the president interrupted. “How many fucking times do I have to tell you people?”

  “—it’s consistent with how you actually feel,” Healy continued. “You already ordered the AG and me to find out where Giron was hiding so you could launch a strike.”

  “By law enforcement, not the military and with Mexico’s cooperation,” the president said.

  Secretary of State Delsey spoke up. “The president of Mexico has already informed me, in very strong terms, that he would consider an air strike or a military incursion a violation of their sovereignty and an act of war.”

  The president laughed. “That’s supposed to scare me? That limp dick can’t even stand up to the cartels on his own soil. What chance would he have taking on the United States? Besides, our economy is the only thing that’s keeping Mexico alive. If they can’t fight us militarily, what else are they going to do? A trade embargo? Cut off their exports of heroin and crack? That’d be a win-win.”

  “That, sir, is exactly the attitude I’m talking about,” Healy said. “The recording accurately reflects it.”

  “Which is why, if I did say what’s on the fake recording, I would own it,” the president said. “The fact that I’m not, and dragged you all in here for an emergency meeting, should tell you something.”

  It was a strong argument, Healy thought. But it could also mean that the president was simply embarrassed about being recorded saying something so politically raw and incendiary, even if it happened while he was justifiably emotional and trying to comfort a grief-stricken child.

  “Why not own it anyway?” said Jones, the chief of staff. “Isn’t dropping a bomb on Arturo Giron what you want to do?”

  “What I want to do and what is legal, moral, and in the best interests of our country are two different things,” the president said. “If I do this because some bastard put words in my mouth, then I am letting someone else use me to further their own agenda.”

  “But you want to do it anyway,” she said. “So what difference does it make?”

  “Because it undermines our foreign policy,” Delsey said with authority, though his past experience in the field of international relations was limited to being CEO of the world’s largest snack food company, selling cookies and potato chips to every country on earth. Healy didn’t respect him, but he agreed with him.

  “We can’t let an unknown actor, perhaps a foreign adversary, use the president of the United States as their puppet,” Healy said.

  “But in this situation, he’s not being used,” Jones said. “He happens to agree with what he didn’t say.”

  “Maybe that’s intentional, making it easy for the president to go along with what they want this time,” Healy said. “This is a test. If the president acts on the threat he didn’t make, it will embolden whoever is responsible for this to do a recording next time that is more incendiary and counter to our domestic and foreign policy objectives.”

  The president nodded. “Who knows what words the bastards will put in my mouth. They could have me singing Pitbull’s latest song.”

  “But the long-term negative consequences of calling the recording a fake could be far worse,” Jones said. “It acknowledges that it’s possible to perfectly replicate your voice. This revelation will sow doubt among the American people about the authenticity of anything they ever hear you say in the future.”

  “Nobody will ever trust what I’m saying again unless they actually see me saying it,” the president said.

  “Even video will be suspect,” she said. “If your words can be faked, why not your image, too?”

  “We know the world can accept a president who isn’t factual or truthful but not one who isn’t real.” The president took a seat behind his desk and let the implications of his choices sink in. “That’s dangerous territory.”

  Healy thought about all the possible ways he could use voice-imitation technology in covert ops. There was enormous potential for undermining foreign governments, disinformation campaigns, discrediting people, and simply destroying lives. It was a shame the technology had been used on them first. Which begged the question, who did it and why?

  The president glanced at Jones. “What are you hearing on Capitol Hill?”

  “Your bin Laden comparison was apt and powerful,” she said. “I’d say you have bipartisan support for aggressive action, and those who won’t back a military strike now will definitely line up behind you once the deed is done, assuming it’s a success.”

  “I didn’t make the bin Laden comparison because that wasn’t me on the recording,” the president said.

  “Of course, sir,” Jones said. “My mistake.”

  “But nobody got pissed at Obama when he sent the SEALs into Pakistan to blow bin Laden’s head off,” the president said.

  “Pakistan was upset,” Delsey said.

  “They were harboring bin Laden, just like Mexico is making Giron warm and comfy,” the president snapped at him. “In the end, bin Laden was dumped in the ocean, Pakistan did nothing, and the world learned that Lady Liberty will shove her torch of freedom up your ass if you fuck with us.”

  Now Healy wondered if the recording was a trial balloon launched by the chief of staff and if the president’s claim now, made in the privacy and sanctity of the Oval Office, that it was a fake was merely political theater, a backup plan to protect himself if the public reaction to what he said was negative.

  “You’re still enjoying the patriotism bounce from the assassination attempt on you in Paris,” Jones said. “Anyone in Congress opposing you risks coming across as anti-American. Also, while there may be some opposition, nobody wants to appear to support drug lords. It’s hard to see how this could go wrong for you.”

  “We could take casualties, or civilians could get killed,” Douglas said. “Or Giron, who reportedly has a new face, could slip away without being noticed or recognized and make a mockery of us.”

  “There’s always risks,” the president said to Douglas, then looked at Jones. “How long until you have poll numbers on public opinion?”

  “End of the day tomorrow,” she said.

  “Make it noon,” the president said, then looked at his CIA director and his attorney general. “I want to know how Edney got this recording or if he made the damn thing himself. Do it quietly for now.”

  “Why quietly?” Douglas said.

  “Because whether I disavow the recording or not, we need to know who wants to turn me into their bitch.” The president shifted his gaze back to Loretta. “Tell the Pentagon I want strike options on my desk by morning and each one ready for immediate deployment on my order.”

  “When will we know your decision?” Delsey asked.

  “If you see missiles streaking over the Rio Grande at noon tomo
rrow,” the president said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Somewhere in Nuevo León, Mexico. November 15. 6:30 p.m. Central Standard Time.

  There were things Arturo Giron liked, and didn’t like, about all the attention he was getting on the TV, which he’d been watching in bed almost nonstop for the last twenty-four hours.

  He didn’t like being framed for the massacre in Texas, or that it was supposedly retribution over an inept drug-smuggling operation that, even if it had succeeded, was an insult to the Vibora cartel. He didn’t like being told that Mateo, the Golden Devil, hadn’t been able to find the mysterious woman who’d created this farce. And he didn’t like seeing a piece of American white trash claiming to have single-handedly gunned down a dozen of his men, even though the Viboras had nothing to do with the attack.

  But he did like the terror that the massacre evoked, in Mexico and in the United States. It added to the Viboras’ mythical stature, making them more respected and feared. Even the bit about his men being half-naked and drenched in blood burnished the Vibora legend. However, Arturo didn’t like Mateo getting so much of the international spotlight. It might go to Mateo’s head and embolden him to mount a coup while Arturo was physically weak and politically vulnerable, which was why Arturo always kept a loaded gun and a knife under his sheets at all times.

  What Arturo really disliked was the possibility of the US military coming after him. That bin Laden stuff was some scary shit. The Americans went into Pakistan to shoot that camel-fucker. Compared to that, crossing the US-Mexico border to cap him would be as risky as the secretary of defense sending a secretary to Starbucks to get him a latte.

  Arturo wasn’t convinced that the Americans actually knew where he was, but if they did, running wasn’t an option. It would put him out in the open and make him an easier target for his adversaries in Mexico. And he’d seen footage on TV of American drones killing terrorist leaders and bomb-makers driving in their cars. No, he’d stay right where he was.