Mastermind- Rise of the Trojan Horse

by Tom Wheeler

  “What have I gotten myself into?” I muttered as one of the paramedics approached, offering her assistance. Debris continued to float from the ceiling. After patting my hands around my body to ensure I hadn’t been hit by a piece of shrapnel, I let her know I was fine. Then I moved closer to the front of the room, noticing three human vertebrae still attached to each other lying in front of me. Corpses and fragments of bodies were strewn among the wounded, some of whom continued to stumble to the exits. I continued my flight into the corridor just outside the General Assembly Hall, inhaling a deep breath of air that smelled of burnt flesh, wondering if this was the definition of being shell shocked. I put my hand on the wall, then turned my back and slid to the floor—and prayed.

  

  56

  Fatal Distraction

  September 16

  8 p.m.

  Paris, France

  “This is where I want to be buried,” said Carlos, walking through the Père Lachaise Cemetery with Capucine at dusk as a light mist fell from the sky. A car with a light flashing blue and white sat inside the gate, directing an entourage of cars in a funeral procession as the two walked in the opposite direction.

  “Why here?” asked Capucine, taking her eyes off the gray asphalt path and looking Carlos DaSilva in the eyes, wondering why he was talking to her like a mortician.

  “Père Lachaise is where Napoléon wished to be buried,” he said, his hands clasped behind his back as he took another slow step.

  “I thought he was buried at Hôtel des Invalides,” said Capucine, hands in the pockets of her jacket.

  “That’s what they tell the tourists. Napoléon established the Père Lachaise Cemetery when he was emperor, believing that every citizen had the right to be buried regardless of race or religion. As a fan of Napoléon, I want to be buried in the cemetery he established. I told the minister of defense, but I don’t think he cares.”

  “I didn’t know you were a fan of Napoléon Bonaparte.”

  “He was a master of propaganda and manipulation, before technology made public opinion the device that swayed people. He embraced opinion and shaped it for his purposes.”

  “Except he was a French version of Julius Caesar, fighting to create a republic, gaining the support of millions, and then becoming a dictator. He sounds more like the former American president, whom you despise.”

  “Crumpler wasn’t in the service. Napoléon was a great war hero. Crumpler’s full of hot air—he tells people what they want to hear.”

  “Isn’t that his game? Tell people something ad infinitum, while pointing the finger at everyone else as if you are being unfairly treated. Then create so much confusion and animosity with the press that people don’t know who or what they can trust.”

  “That’s Sun Tzu’s ideology. The perceived underdog must deceive in order to win, confuse everyone until they have no idea what is really going on.”

  “The Art of War. Hitler’s strategy, too,” remarked Capucine. “Although some attribute it to mental illness.”

  “Crumpler would be a different man had he seen the faces of his friends dying in his arms,” said Carlos.

  He paused.

  “Perhaps you take after Jeanne d’Arc,” he said, smiling.

  “What do you want, Carlos?” Capucine asked, studying him.

  “You don’t think you are a heroine of France?”

  “We aren’t embroiled in a long-running war with England. What did you find out?” she probed, assuming he was buttering her up for something.

  “They entered the country as Matt Tucker, Angela Thompson, and Sandy Duncan. The American DMV didn’t have anything on them, but the Crime Information Center database has them listed as a group of potential amateur con artists.”

  “Convictions?” asked Capucine, remembering Matt’s last name as Gibson, not that he would have told her the truth.

  “Matt had a misdemeanor for loitering and being drunk in public, nothing else. Angela and Sandy had convictions for prostitution that were reduced to public nudity.”

  “Where are they from?”

  “The Bay Area in San Francisco. Travel records have them going to and from Hawaii together.”

  “How’d they avoid the flight restrictions?”

  “Jack Dawson is an associate.”

  “The same Jack Dawson who works at Phoenix Corporation?” she asked, looking at Carlos. She was familiar with Jack through Mason.

  “Mm-hmm,” he replied, gazing straight ahead as they continued their walk.

  “Well, that’s odd,” Capucine mused.

  “Sure would be quite the coincidence if that wasn’t the reason they were here,” he said.

  “Dawson doesn’t have clout with the government, does he?”

  “Jack’s the son of Roger Dawson, who worked for J. Edgar Hoover years ago.”

  “The former head of the FBI?” asked Capucine.

  “You know your history, yes. His job was to dig up dirt on anyone who interfered with Hoover’s agenda. The FBI suspects someone from Phoenix Corporation has ties to Iran.”

  “Iran?” she asked as her mind raced. “Do they suspect Jack Dawson had something to do with the bombing at CEDRA or the nuke?”

  “That is the million-dollar question. Those three did get to France during travel restrictions.” Carlos paused. “All this has been kept hush-hush because of the transition from Crumpler to Tense. The politics of the United States has reached an all-time high, or low, depending on how you look at it, and any information that is leaked is no longer considered fact.”

  “So Jack Dawson, VP of development for Phoenix, is suspected of working with the Iranians. But the FBI isn’t saying anything because the former president is dying in ICU?” asked Capucine as Carlos maintained a stoic expression. “And yet these three people got to France during flight restrictions. That doesn’t make sense. I thought Russia was the suspected culprit? Besides, the US already took out the supreme leader of Iran.”

  “And North Korea,” he said as his eyes grew more intense.

  “How would you know . . .”

  Carlos interrupted. “The Americans are too busy accusing one another to understand their true foreign threats,” said Carlos as Capucine continued trying to understand just what spin Carlos was attempting to put on the facts.

  57

  Neural Prosthetic

  “What about the girl?” asked Capucine as she noticed someone staring at the two as they walked. The person quickly turned away.

  “Facial recognition has her listed as Émilie du Châtelet.”

  “Who is she?”

  “You want her history?”

  “Relevant history, of course.”

  “Not sure there is any. She was born in Paris December 17, 1993. The daughter of Jean-Marie and Monique Yvette Châtelet. Parents divorced in ’97. Sent to a provincial boarding school, raised by her maternal grandmother, worked as a hairstylist, bartender, and now a fitness trainer. Otherwise there is very little information. Seems to check out.”

  “Except that doesn’t make any sense, either,” she said. “Why warn me?”

  “Perhaps she was just at the right place at the right time and wanted to save you from date—”

  “Like that would have happened. I’m not that gullible.”

  “She wouldn’t know that. Besides, drugs are powerful weapons, Capucine. You were out partying with your friends. While you may not be gullible, you were vulnerable. Infiltrate Phoenix as we discussed,” he said, without elaborating about Émilie, as Capucine processed the rebuke—and what Carlos wasn’t saying.

  “Mason’s at NASA, in Florida—3,000 miles away. You know that,” she said. Carlos’s eyes bored into hers. He stopped and turned.

  “If Jack Dawson is watching you, we need to watch him,” he retorted. “Apply to be a developer.
Use Mason as a reference. Tell Mason it’s your attempt to get closer to him. Isn’t that the point?” he asked, still looking her in the eyes.

  “I thought the point was to find out what they have developed and steal their secrets,” she said, without blinking.

  Carlos pivoted and started walking again, hands behind his back as if he was managing his emotions. “Jack likely thinks you can help him with some part of his business. I doubt he knows who you really are. He’ll think he hit the lottery.”

  “They’re not going to tell me what they’re working on if they never told Mason,” Capucine said, as she followed.

  “That won’t matter,” said Carlos, his eyes now intense. Capucine took a deep breath.

  “This neural prosthetic won’t work on people,” she said. They eyed each other with the same intensity. “What changed?” she asked, irritated.

  “A nuke,” he said, smiling slightly. “It seems 2020 may be the beginning of the end.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Telepathic Auditor will allow you to listen to the mind of anyone wearing the device. I want you to ask Mason about the androids. Then tell him you want a job at Phoenix,” said Carlos.

  “Do you have one of these devices, or are you just telling me about them in the event I find one next time I’m at the store?” she said with sarcasm.

  “Funny. I have information. Mason will have one at NASA.”

  “I didn’t think the CIA was cooperating with the French?”

  “They aren’t. I’ve got my channels.”

  “Even if I had access to a device, why would Mason put it on himself? I can’t tell him I have an implant and want to read his mind.”

  “Ah, a lovely woman like you can be very persuasive to a young man like Mason,” said Carlos, with an evil grin. “I’m sure you can figure something out, particularly while the Americans are dealing with another bombing on their soil.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The United Nations General Assembly was attacked by a suicide bomber.”

  “When?” asked Capucine, stunned.

  “I am sorry, it just happened. I assumed you knew,” he said as Capucine gazed into his eyes. “Only 13 have been reported as dead—one was Cecilie Saevik.”

  “The United Nations president is dead?”

  Carlos nodded.

  “Who did it?”

  “Who else?” he answered. Capucine assumed he meant Muslim jihadists. “Be on your guard. If you’re on Jack’s radar, he may have another move. And don’t contact me again,” he said, as if a switch had gone off.

  “How will I know the next step?” she asked, still trying to process a bombing at the United Nations and her boss’s casual response. Perhaps he was numb.

  “I’ll find you,” said Carlos as he ran his hand through his hair. “Details are all here regarding the Telepathic Auditor,” he said, handing her a USB. “I am working on the plan to get you to NASA.” She immediately placed the device in her pocket as Carlos departed, heading toward the exit. Capucine went in the opposite direction, rethinking the conversation, trying to understand how Jack Dawson even knew who she was, let alone why he was trying to dig up dirt on her. Was this about Mason? But sending someone to France to find dirt was suspicious for minor league thugs.

  She was walking intently back to her car, re-sorting all the facts, when she noticed Carlos watching her from a distance. Her nerves were on alert. He wasn’t stalking her, and she made no eye contact, but she clearly saw him through her peripheral vision, particularly at this time in the evening. Perhaps Carlos, being older, had forgotten that younger people still had good peripheral vision in dim light. Or maybe he’d just slipped up. For the first time in her role with the French Directorate, she wondered if they suspected her being a double agent. Perhaps he was doing this as a warning—he wanted her to see him.

  She continued moving toward her car, giving no indication that she saw his eyes peering at her. It was the game spies played. She recalled their conversation about Napoléon, the master of manipulation.

  “No wonder Carlos is a fan of the master manipulator,” she muttered as she opened the door of her silver Peugeot. “Maybe I should put the device on him,” she mused as she drove off with a feeling in her stomach that she didn’t like. By all accounts, Carlos was a smart, charming, and trusted director within the French Directorate, someone most in the organization admired and strove to emulate. Capucine’s intuition, however, was causing her to wonder what, exactly, the man was up to. The information he’d just fed her wasn’t adding up. She turned on the car radio and tuned to the news, listening to reports of the explosion. “Mason!” she screamed, remembering he had been invited to attend the session. Quickly she dug out her phone and dialed his number.

  58

  Counselor Keeney

  Monday, September 23

  Cocoa Beach, Florida

  News reports of the attack on the UN went viral. Despite the fact that only a few parts of the assailant remained, within an hour after the attack his name was released to the world: Jonathan Eller. According to reports, Eller had had no known association with the jihadist movements and no red flags identifying the security guard as a threat—although all that meant was that he wasn’t on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, which included potential suspects. All they knew at the moment was that he’d had a broken heart and a vendetta against bullies, although other Facebook posts said he’d been tormented by demons as he sought a purpose greater than survival.

  What was known was that 13 innocent people had been killed, including the president of the United Nations, and another 30 people injured. Many speculated the UN would go bankrupt as a result of the tragedy, since the organization was already on the ropes, and the greatest insult to the peacekeeping organization was its own bombing. President Tense personally called me two days later to thank me for warning him, although it was not clear who was the true target of the assault. He explained that there would be no press about my dream or warning, not that I cared. I didn’t need the drama, since some people would likely refer to me as a witch, bokor, or psychic dealing in the paranormal, which would drum up an unwanted following. I had also learned that authorities had no idea how someone with a suicide vest had gotten inside the United Nations. It seemed no facility was safe.

  The door opened and a tall, lanky man with glasses and a gray beard popped out, looking for his next appointment. He was wearing his usual uniform of khakis, a colored cotton button-down shirt, blue sports jacket, and red Asics tennis shoes, something I identified with, since that was often my choice in shoes. It was my counselor, Russ Keeney, the only person on the planet to whom I had mentioned my visions or hallucinations of angels and demons. I had to tell someone. Besides having a past full of binge drinking, sexual promiscuity, and experimenting with drugs to fit into the crowd, as well as struggling with eating for fuel rather than fun, I’d had my share of adverse experiences that had caused my level of anxiety to dramatically increase.

  “I am glad you’re okay, Mason,” said Russ, appearing to study me.

  I grinned slightly.

  “Define okay,” I said as we sat down for our session and continued to discuss the potential of post-traumatic stress and its effects. Russ used a small, comfortable room as his office, with modern and slightly worn furniture that looked as if he’d purchased it from Goodwill. The couch was comfortable, too, and since I didn’t have many opportunities to sit on one, sinking into his eased my tension. Although Russ was a bona fide Christian counselor, he was also an associate professor of psychiatry at the University of Central Florida in Orlando. A plethora of Christian counseling books loaded the nearby bookshelf; some I recognized. One that stood out. Would You Have Fired Judas? “That looks like an interesting book,” I said.

  “Yes, it is. The author believes discipleship, strong christian relationships, is the answer to the many problems we
face today—rather than evangelism, which he suggests has become so watered down that it has lost its authority—at least in the United States.”

  “Huh.”

  “You’re welcome to take it if you’d like,” he said as I grabbed it off the shelf. “Mason, many soldiers have not seen the bombings you have. I’m sorry. But I am glad you weren’t physically harmed,” he said as I put the book back on the shelf and was now studying him, his eyes greener than I had noticed. “But post-traumatic stress is real, and it is not a disorder,” he said again, making sure I understood it was not PTSD, just PTS.

  I nodded. “My ears are still buzzing,” I said. “I just hope it goes away like it did last time. And the doctor says I have a slight concussion.”

  “Have you had any more dreams or sightings?” he asked with a look of empathy.

  “Last night I fell out of my bed fighting with someone. I screamed so loud I’m surprised hotel management didn’t call the police.”

  “You’re still living at the Hilton?”

  “No choice, not yet anyway,” I said as I nodded.

  “That’s it?”

  “No, I had a dream about you,” I said, remembering.

  “And?”

  “You were welding something on the porch of my house in Sunnyvale,” I said as his eyes narrowed. “I asked what you were working on. You smiled slightly and said, ‘Things you haven’t been able to fix without me.’ ”

  “Huh,” was all Russ uttered before adjusting himself in his chair, as if that scenario appealed to him. Of course it seemed favorable to me, too, since it affirmed his work.

  “Why do you think you had that dream?” he asked.

  “Because I once considered counseling a waste of time—no offense,” I said as he smiled. “Admitting weaknesses is not a sign of masculinity. Most would rather be a bully than be bullied, for instance. I should have knocked the living snot out of George when he punched me in high school.”