Blowback, p.26
Blowback, page 26
Liam says, “Where are we?”
“Closest thing to the ‘middle of nowhere’ you’ll ever experience, Mr. Grey,” Jeff says. “Namibia is over there, and Botswana is over there, and there’s not much in between. Anything else?”
With a bit of humor, Liam says, “You never showed me the ejection handle.”
Jeff says, “That’s because there isn’t one. That’s why it’s called a test flight. And like I said before we launched, by the time you figure out there’s an emergency, it’s too late.”
“Oh,” Liam says.
Jeff turns to go back into the warehouse. “But what difference does it make? This place doesn’t exist, this aircraft doesn’t exist, and neither do I.” He pauses. “Pity, because you’ve joined a very exclusive club.”
“Unauthorized civilians hitching a ride on a nonexistent aircraft?”
“Nope,” Jeff says, opening the side door. “We flew fifty miles above the earth’s surface. Congratulations, Mr. Grey, you’re officially an astronaut. But no one will ever know.”
CHAPTER 92
LIAM FINDS THE key to the Polo on top of the left front tire, and it takes three tries for the engine to start.
“Some astronaut,” he murmurs, sitting in the right seat, thankful the little car is an automatic, so he won’t have to worry about shifting on the “wrong” side of the car. On the passenger’s seat is a worn map of this part of South Africa, with a tiny red dot he hopes marks his location. A faded dotted line for what looks to be a dirt lane goes on for—crap, fifty miles?—before it connects with a paved road.
He shifts in his seat and slowly starts driving away from the hangar, the dirt road barely visible, and it doesn’t take long for the hangar to disappear in the rearview mirror.
Once he finds a paved road and eases out, he forgets for a moment that here, driving is on the left side of the road. A roaring dual-cargo tractor-trailer truck nearly collides with him, honking its horn, and he flips the steering wheel so he’s in the left lane.
Hell of a way to end this mission, he thinks.
Eventually he sees a sign telling him that he’s on the N14, and the drive quickly becomes monotonous and monochrome, the only color being buses and cars that scream by, passing him, or others heading in the opposite direction.
Following the map, he’s heading east and eventually to Johannesburg. He pulls the car over and takes a quick pee break, and then on his Company-issued phone, taken from Director Abrams’s home—a cautious woman, to have such supplies in her house—dials the number provided to him less than three hours ago. There’s low brush and trees not much taller than him, and an incredibly deep blue sky.
It rings twice and is picked up by a woman speaking Chinese.
Liam says, “I’m sorry, is this Chin Lin?”
The woman switches to English. “Yes, this is Chin Lin. Who is this, please?”
Another double-trailer truck flies by, spitting gravel and sand into his face. “Liam Grey.”
Her voice sharp, she says, “I told you not to call me until you were in South Africa.”
“That’s where I am,” he says. “A desolate spot, but that’s where I am. On the N14. About forty kilometers from a place called Kakamas.”
“Impossible. I only spoke to you about three hours ago.”
“Yet here I am.”
“How did you get there so fast, Liam Grey?”
“I clicked my heels three times and said There’s no place like deserted South Africa,” he says. “I’m here, I’ve called you. What now?”
“Hold on,” she says.
Liam looks around some more. His first time in South Africa, and there’s a desolate beauty here, if one has the time to appreciate it.
Which he doesn’t.
Lin says, “Stay on the N14. About four hours from now you’ll enter a town called Olifantshoek. Look for a large truck stop called Engen Fuel A Lot. I’ll see you there.”
“Alone, I hope.”
She laughs. “Of course. Don’t you trust me?”
“No,” Liam says, disconnecting the call.
Four hours later, as promised, Liam spots the signs for the Engen Fuel A Lot Convenience Center and pulls in and parks. He’s tired, worn, and, above all, he needs to refuel the Polo before he goes any farther.
But he steps out instead and goes into the one-story building divided into a little store and a Steers fast-food restaurant. He goes into the cool interior and smells fried food and grease, and sees a Chinese woman sitting alone in a rear booth.
Other booths are filled with truckers and one Black family—Mom, Dad, two girls—apparently on some sort of family trip.
Liam goes up to her. “Sorry to be so blatantly racist, but are you Chin Lin?”
“I am,” she says. “Please join me.”
Liam sits down and she pushes over a cardboard drink carton with a straw poking out. “A cold Coke,” she says. “Hope you like it. I’ve already had two servings of fries so I could keep my place.”
He takes the Coke, then pushes it back. Did she really think he was going to accept a drink from her?
“First things first, you know where Benjamin Lucas is located?” he asks.
“I do,” she says, her long black hair tied in back with a simple ponytail. She’s wearing a red turtleneck and short leather jacket.
A very attractive woman indeed, Liam thinks. No wonder Benjamin fell for her back in college. He swivels in his seat so he can keep an eye on people entering and leaving the restaurant. His 10mm Glock—originally belonging to the director’s bodyguard Bruce—is at his waist. He wonders how Bruce is doing. Liam’s also glad he’s armed, because there won’t be a second CIA officer captured by the Chinese this week in South Africa, not if he can help it.
“And you also know how to treat the vice president’s coma?”
A nod.
“And you’ve got a plan to free Benjamin?”
“I do,” she says. “An old friend named Bo-Bo is going to help.”
Liam turns so he’s looking at her. “Who the hell is Bo-Bo?”
A delicate but chilly smile. “Did you know the Romans knew of the Chinese empire, even back then, nearly two thousand years ago? Yet even though we are centuries old, the West never wanted to understand us, or more importantly, respect us.”
Liam stays quiet. It’s like the Chinese intelligence agent across from him is retelling an old story.
She says, “In the nineteenth century an English writer named Charles Lamb explained the origins of barbecued pig. It seemed hundreds of years earlier, a dull farm boy in China named Bo-Bo burned down his father’s house, along with their herd of pigs. While clearing it out, Bo-Bo discovered how delicious roasted pig tasted. His father agreed, and that’s how barbecued pig came to be. But the ignorant Chinese thought the only way they could correctly cook a pig was to burn their houses down. It supposedly took years before they realized house burning was a waste. Hah-hah-hah.”
Liam says, “Point taken. Admiration and respect. You got it from me. Now, how are we getting Liam out?”
Chin smiles. “We’re going to have a barbecue tonight, featuring you.”
CHAPTER 93
HANNAH ABRAMS WALKS into her office and Jean Swantish joins her from the door leading in from her own office, Jean’s clothes wrinkled and slightly stained from late-night and early-morning meals, and her hair is a mess.
But Jean’s eyes are bright and smart, and she sits down in front of her just as Hannah sits down as well. There’s a turkey club sandwich on Hannah’s desk and Hannah takes a healthy bite.
Jean says, “Before I start, Director, do we know the status of Noa Himel and Liam Grey?”
The sandwich suddenly tastes like it’s made of compressed sawdust. Hannah swallows one more piece, then drops it on the plate.
“Noa is on her way to see the Post reporter, Kay Darcy,” Hannah says. “I’m hoping she has helpful information that she’ll be willing to trade. Liam is probably on the ground now in South Africa, looking to meet up with the Chinese intelligence agent. And it also looks like Bruce is going to recover.”
“It’s going to be a hell of a thing, keeping that shooting quiet.”
“It’s what we do,” Hannah says. “What do you have?”
“Got him,” she says, her smile wider.
“Who?”
“Benjamin Lucas.”
“You mean, we got him out of Chinese custody?”
“No, no, I’m sorry,” she says. “I got his record, but the further afield we went from the official paperwork, there were some questions we got answered.”
Good for us, Hannah thinks, as she takes a sip from her now cold coffee. But couldn’t it have waited?
“Lucas grew up in San Francisco, graduated from Stanford, and then got his master’s degree in Asian Studies at Boston University, where an asset of ours recruited him. Went through training without difficulty, went to various specialty schools and did some fieldwork with Army and Navy units. He was in the Directorate of Operations before he was recruited into President Barrett’s arms. But one thing bothered me.”
“Go,” Hannah says.
“His accomplishments and advancements all came off without a hitch, a setback. He got everything he asked for, every school, every transfer.”
“Somebody here was clearing a path for him.”
Jean nods, eyes still bright. “That was the most recent question. Who was that wizard clearing things for him? Then I had a couple of my people really dig into his upbringing, and I mean, dig.”
Hannah recalls what she knows about Benjamin’s upbringing.
“An orphan, wasn’t he?”
Quick nod. “That’s right. Two months old, given up for adoption to Catholic Charities of California, and later adopted by the Lucas family of Los Gatos. The records were sealed, of course, but…through various means, we’ve gotten access.”
“Jean, please tell me nothing illegal happened.”
“Director, at this moment in time, nothing illegal happened.”
“Jesus…go on.”
“His birth mother was Roberta Tyler. She was a civilian contract worker for the Department of Defense. Father listed as unknown, but my folks went further, even did some out-of-the-box thinking involving DNA analysis…Director, you will not believe who Benjamin Lucas’s father is.”
“Tell me,” Hannah says.
CHAPTER 94
THE MEETING NOA Himel is having with Kay Darcy, Washington Post reporter and ex-wife of Liam Grey, is not going well. It took one long and cryptic phone call before Kay grudgingly gave up her address, and now Noa is sitting in her tiny kitchen, cluttered with unwashed dishes in the sink, piles of newspapers on the floor, and an overflowing trash can. Noa pushed to have this meeting somewhere else, someplace public, but Kay would have nothing to do with that.
“You think it’ll do me any good to be seen in public with a CIA officer?” she said. “Bad enough I was married to one. Forget it.”
So here Noa is, in Kay’s apartment. No water, no juice, no coffee or tea offered.
Kay says, “This is a first, having a CIA officer reach out to me that I’ve not been married to. I better mark this day on my calendar. Why me, then?”
“I’ve been working with Liam,” Noa says. “He’s told me what he revealed to you, about President Barrett’s illegal actions. I’m here to confirm that and pass along additional information about the program.”
Kay crosses her arms. It’s her day off and she’s wearing black sweatpants and a gray Washington Nationals sweatshirt, sleeves pulled up on her arms.
“Out of the goodness of your CIA heart?”
“No,” Noa says. “For a quid pro quo. We supply you with information, on background with no names attached, and you let us know what you’ve learned. And you also agree not to publish until we say it’s safe to do so.”
Kay shakes her head. “Why isn’t Liam here, making this offer?”
“He’s otherwise engaged,” Noa says, feeling like she’s starting a delicate dance with this woman, trying to gently get her to see what must be seen.
“Really?” Kay says. “You dating him?”
“No,” she says. “Not my type.”
Kay leans back in her kitchen chair. “This sounds too weird to be true. Maybe a setup.”
“What kind of setup? To get you in legal trouble? Or embarrass you and the Post?”
“It’s a thought,” Kay says.
“It’s neither,” Noa says. “I’ve been sent here as a representative of CIA Director Hannah Abrams. I have the authority to reveal highly classified information to you.”
“In exchange for what, again?”
“That you tell us what you know, and that you will cooperate in the timing of the story’s release.”
Kay says. “Not convinced. Tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll consider it.”
Noa says, “I need better than that. Sorry. This story is going to be worth it. I can promise you that. What Liam told you was true. I can tell you much more, with the blessing of the director.”
The kitchen is quiet, smells of old coffee and microwaved popcorn. The apartment block is in the Westchester section of the district.
Kay says, “Okay. It’s a deal. Truth is, I’ve been running in circles on this damn story. It would be nice to have some facts to play with.”
Noa nods. “All right,” she says. “The facts are, Liam and I have been in charge of CIA teams, appointed by the president, to operate illegally here in the States and abroad, without congressional notification, to capture and kill those deemed enemies of the United States.”
Kay slowly reaches over to a pile of papers on the kitchen table, pulls out a notebook and pen.
“Can I have more details than that?”
“You can,” Noa says. “But now I need something from you.”
“I’ll try,” Kay says.
“Do better than that,” she says. “We know you’ve been receiving information from Donna Otterson, a finance resource officer with the Agency. We want to know what she was passing on to you.”
Kay smirks. “Why not ask her yourself?”
“I can’t.”
“Why? She lawyer up?”
“No,” Noa says. “Because she’s dead.”
CHAPTER 95
NOA SENSES A chink in Kay’s hard journalist armor, and says, “It’s up to you now, Kay. With Donna’s death, whatever she was passing on to you only rests with you.”
Her voice is quiet. “And you want me to tell you.”
“Yes,” Noa says, “and we’ll pass on more information to you, so that generations from now, when people think of the Washington Post, they won’t recall Woodward and Bernstein. They’ll think of Kay Darcy.”
Kay picks up her pen, then lowers it. “How did Donna die?”
“Suicide.”
“How?”
“Cyanide, hidden in a toothpaste tube. My team and I were there, taking her into custody, when she killed herself.”
Noa is surprised to see tears come to Kay’s eyes. “Donna loved the Agency, loved her father, too,” the reporter eventually says. “That’s why she joined. She wanted to be in the Directorate of Operations, but it didn’t work out. She was determined to do a good job, not embarrass the Agency, but something came across her desk that concerned her. That’s why she came to me.”
“Why you?”
Kay says, “Sorority sisters, back at Northwestern. Funny, eh?”
“What did she bring you?”
The briefest of hesitations, and Noa says, “Your turn, Kay. We’re going to see this through, the two of us.”
A small shake of the head. “Donna was part of a division that oversaw the president’s Special Access Account.”
“The president’s own slush fund for pet projects. What didn’t she like?”
“A number of officers who were in the Directorate of Operations and the Special Activities Division were now being paid from the Special Access Account. Paying salaries from that fund, that’s never done. There were also unauthorized transfers of huge sums of money to FEMA, earmarked for Mount Weather and Raven Rock. That’s also never done. Donna told me that it was like President Barrett was beefing up those government retreat bunkers without any oversight, like he had advance knowledge that a war was going to break out.”
Dear God, Noa thinks.
“Go on.”
“Donna said there were odd purchases here and there. Special surveillance equipment. Hacking programs from people that populate the dark web. Firearms, C4 explosives…hell, even the purchase of a Town Car through a series of cutouts so it couldn’t be traced.”
Noa freezes at the last phrase.
“A Town Car? Really?”
“Really,” Kay says. “Why in the world would the President need C4, weapons, and a damn Town Car?”
She recalls the ambush in Virginia, near the National Ground Intelligence Center, and the Town Car that was recovered, stuffed with weapons and C4.
Why in the world, indeed?
Noa is about to say something when the lights flicker in Kay’s apartment.
They blink again.
“What the…”
Noa gets up from the table. “You ever have utility problems or brownouts here?”
“Never.”
She reaches into her purse, pulls out her 10mm Glock.
“Call 911, right now. Someone’s breaking into your apartment.”
“But…nothing’s happening!”
Noa says, “Trust me, they’re coming.”
She goes to the front door in the living room, makes sure it’s locked. There’s a chain and lock that she additionally secures, which will only slow the invaders by a few seconds, but she’ll take it.
Kay steps in, voice trembling. “I can’t make a call.”
“Service here is blocked,” Noa says.
Noa goes back into the kitchen, grabs a chair, brings it to the door and shoves the back under the doorknob. She looks into the living room and says, “Help me with the couch.”
