The Past
“I do
solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the
United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend
the Constitution of the United States.”
-
from the Presidential Oath of Office.
11 months ago, 02:08 hours,
outside Las Vegas, Nevada
Seventy-six
kills. Seventy-six. If circumstances were different, he’d rank amongst the most
prolific serial killers of the twenty-first century. Taking another life,
another human life, carves a piece out of your soul. That’s what the popular
writers would have you believe. Anson Moore knew otherwise. Forty-seven of
those deaths, deaths up close and personal, had given him… what? Pleasure? No,
not pleasure. Something else. Something… a sense of doing what was right, what
was needed? Perhaps…
Moore
knew what he felt. The emptiness he carried inside, filled, a little, by a new
victim. Some in his business, kept a record. A small notebook, coded notations;
who, how, when, where, never why… and, above all, the Number, worn as an
invisible testament to their efficiency. Moore didn’t bother with such details.
He felt the number; felt the emptiness remaining. She would have been
thirty-nine today, two years younger than him. He had failed, not kept his
promise, not been there when needed. Failed!
He
shifted position in the car. The seat bottom, too short for comfort, had tried
to cut off the circulation in his legs hours ago. His shallow, measured breath
streamed through the small window opening into the cool night air. His hands
were thrust into opposing armpits, deep under his jacket. He hated the cold;
too many bad memories associated with the cold. Too many missions in the cold.
Too many deaths. Seventy-six; an old hand; a Pro. Yet this one was different.
The man was innocent. Just some misguided tech who thought he was doing the
right thing. Just like Moore. Only difference was, the guy’s actions had
stirred-up some serious concern; so serious they had sent him to eliminate the
problem.
Moore
knew this was a test. The make or break for him. He knew the mission came
first, and an innocent life could not stand in the way. Quietly, he swallowed,
clearing the bile at the back of his throat; something he had never experienced
before on the job. This wasn’t a kill. It was murder, plain and simple. Easy
for the General to say it’s justified; if Moore didn’t do it, someone else
would. Then they would eliminate him. End of mission. End of months living on
the edge. End of the deceit. End of his emptiness.
Four
hundred yards away a light blinked off. At last, thought Moore. He would wait
another fifteen minutes before leaving the car, just to make sure. He raised a
warm hand to rub tired eyes. His mind drifted. Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan,
Hong Kong, India, and many more. All the exotic stamps in so many false
passports. This was the first one on home soil. Not the first time he had
killed a fellow American though. There was that bastard in Karachi, selling
troop details to Al-Qaeda. Then the guy in Madrid; more terrorist connections.
Even the rogue CIA agent in Liege. All sanctioned, all approved, all justified.
This guy? He’d done a phone-in on a live radio program for conspiracy nuts.
That’s what would get him killed; a damn phone call.
His
left hand left its warmth, the ghostly glow of a watch face telling him what he
needed to know. Can’t put it off any longer. The emptiness surfaced. And
something else. A tension, a sixth sense. He knew they were watching. He had
tried, all the way from L.A., to spot the tail. They were good, very good, and
he felt tired. Two days without sleep now. Not good for reflexes. He reached
across to the passenger seat and picked up the .22LR Sig Mosquito pistol, the
suppressor already screwed in place. The familiar tactile sensations calmed his
mind.
Anson
Moore went into Psychopath Mode.
At
least that’s what the Base shrinks had called it. No emotion. No feelings.
Detached. So they said. They were wrong. The emptiness was always there. More
so tonight. “Forgive me, Jen,” he said quietly as he opened the car door.
The
walk to the house was circuitous. The target’s bedroom was at the back. His
plan was to approach from the desert. Recon showed no dogs, either at the
target or at the neighbours. He slipped between the houses. No lights anywhere.
The neighbours on the left were home, but had gone to bed three hours earlier.
Those on the right were celebrating their anniversary in Hawaii, not due back
for five days. So far he was just a prowler; not too serious.
As he
neared the corner of the target’s house, a sound froze his advance. An empty
can hitting dirt; bouncing against a stone. The target was awake. The target
was outside, fewer than ten feet away.
Moore
crouched slowly. He leaned forward, his left eye clearing the side wall.
There
was an old wicker lounger on the porch, its back to Moore. It creaked as the
target reached down to grab another beer. The moon, high in the clear sky,
briefly highlighted a young profile, about Jen’s age. Moore felt his throat
constrict, his mouth became an extension of the desert. He fought the urge to
cough, to yell even. “Run, dammit! Get the hell away from here! Get the hell
away from me!”
Psychopath
Mode triumphed, slowly.
Moore
raised himself in silence; a snake uncoiling. He extended his right foot half a
pace, placing it, heel first, with care on the dirt floor. Weight transferred,
his left leg crossed over, foot at ninety degrees. The action repeated. Mae
Aruki, a stealth walk, taught to him many eons ago… by a gardener! Moore’s
right arm extended, the muzzle of the silencer unwavering on the back of the
chair. Seven feet… six… five.
The man
stood.
He
turned, seemingly ever so slow. In his right hand, a can of beer dribbled its
contents to the earth. In his left, a big revolver, pointed down. The target’s
mouth opened. No sound came forth. His brain must be refusing to process the
nightmare before him, thought Moore.
Moore
stared at the target, unblinking.
“Sorry.”
A one-word expiation. The pistol bucked. Again. The blood rushed through his
head dulling his senses. No sound perceived. The target crumpled onto the
chair, tipping it sideways. All silent, like some old Chaplin film. A moment
passed; then two.
Moore
forced himself to advance. He knelt and checked the carotid. A clean kill. No,
just a kill. The emptiness unsatisfied this time. Moore felt bile bursting from
within. He clamped his left hand over his mouth. Can’t leave DNA! His nostrils
flared, trying to force air into desperate lungs. He ripped off his jacket,
formed a makeshift bowl, ejecting the acid vitriol. He collected the spent
cartridges, on autopilot. Business as usual.
Moore
regained the relative calm of the car. He dumped the balled-up jacket on the
passenger side floor, and slid behind the wheel. No, this one was different. No
Psychopath Mode now.
9 months ago, the Oval Office,
Washington D.C.
The
President’s hand came crashing down on the desk. The report echoed briefly
around the curved walls and the room’s other occupier flinched. On the
President’s left, a door edged open and the concerned face of a Secret Service
agent poked in.
“It’s
okay, Evan. No problem.” said President Tyler. The agent withdrew, closing the
door with exaggerated slowness. When they were alone again, the President
turned back to his visitor.
“Hell,
no, it’s not okay! It’s far from okay! Who the hell do you think you are
talking to?” The object of the question paled.
“Mr
President, Sir, I meant…”
“I
don’t give a damn what you meant.” He stopped, abruptly aware that his tirade
would not help the matter. Time for a change of tactics. After a short pause,
he continued, his tone much calmer.
“Let’s
see if I understand this situation. I am the President of the United States.
You are my National Security Adviser.” So far, so good. “I gave you a direct,
legitimate order which you refuse to carry out.”
The
National Security Adviser swallowed hard. He could see where this was going;
did not like it one bit.
“It’s
not that I refuse, Mr President…”
Again
the President interrupted the man. Speaking now in the low, quiet voice all his
aides knew meant ‘no bullshit’.
“What
is the problem here?”
“It’s a
question of security clearances, Sir.”
“I say
again, in case you are a little hard of hearing. I am the President. You are an
adviser. I’m not asking for advice here. I’m giving you a direct order. So
again, what’s the problem?”
“The
material you ask for is classified above Top Secret. It’s compartmentalised on
a need-to-know basis. Even I don’t have access…”
The
President interrupted again.
“I am
the highest elected official in this nation. I am expected to run this country
to the best of my abilities. No, even better than that. How do you expect me to
do the job if the penny-ante, power-hungry, secret-keepers won’t collaborate?”
“I…”
began the other man.
“Just
make it happen. Now! I want a complete, uncensored presentation on this matter
by the end of THIS week. Tell my staff just how much time you will need, but no
later than Friday afternoon, I want to see you, and whoever you need to do this
briefing, in here. Is that understood?”
“Yes
Sir. There are many issues with this subject, Sir, far-reaching issues. Some of
them will cause major unrest. I’ll…”
Tyler
crossed the distance between them in two long strides. He forcibly took the arm
of the National Security Adviser and half-dragged him to the opposite end of
the Oval Office. Standing with their backs to the unlit fireplace, the
President pointed down to the wheat-coloured carpet at their feet.
“Do you
see that? Read it. Aloud.”
The
Adviser looked down. He stepped back so the text woven into the edge of the
carpet was clearly visible. He cleared his throat, swallowed a couple of times
and started reading.
“No
Problem of Human Destiny is Beyond Human Beings,” he said quietly.
“Do you
know who said that?” demanded the President.
“I
believe it was President Kennedy, Sir.”
“Damn
right. Now, just to make this absolutely clear to you. If you were military,
you’d be on your way to a full court martial now. But as you’re not, my options
are more flexible. I’m thinking along the lines of doing what many White House
staffers have done in the past; a quick, anonymous phone call to some hack on
the Post. Then I’ll follow that by an Official Press Release announcing your
immediate dismissal.” The President paused, letting the significance of the
last word sink in. “Yeah, I said dismissal; there will be no politically-correct
“resignation” here. Hell, man, the way this city works, before the day’s out
you’ll need to move to Idaho to find someone who’ll talk to you. Now get out
and do the job I’ve given you.”
The
National Security Adviser moved toward the door on his right. He took several
steps backwards, as though leaving the presence of royalty, or maybe
subconsciously reacting to a primitive instinct to safeguard his own rear.
As the
door closed, President Tyler took in a deep breath, forcing it out with a
strident sigh. He walked back to the burnished timbers of the large desk near
the southern end of the office. His fingers stroked the elegant wood, seeking
communion with the sentiments the desk represented. The origin of the wood was
HMS Resolute; he needed resolve above all now. He looked down at the edge of
the carpet behind the desk. Perhaps I should have shown him this quotation
instead, he thought. With the sole of his shoe he caressed FDR’s words, curved
upside down, at his feet.
* * * *
*
Outside,
walking briskly down the corridor, trying to put distance between himself and
the Oval Office’s occupier, the National Security Adviser took out his Sat-phone.
He dialled a number from memory. Instead of a ringing tone, he heard a single
click. He nervously typed in a seven-digit code, invoking high-level encryption
software. More clicks followed. Then, he spoke.
“We
have a problem. I need to see you now.”
“Come.”
The Sat-phone
clicked once. The National Security Adviser pocketed the device, muttering
under his breath.
“Shit,
Shit, Shit!”
8
months ago, Washington, D.C.
The
Secret Service agent introduced the key card in the hotel room lock. The
mechanism emitted a harsh click, and the door swung inward a couple of inches.
His hand went to his right hip, seeking the familiar comfort of the Glock's
grip. He pushed the door with his foot. As it opened, he scanned the room. All
seemed in order. Before advancing inside, he swivelled his head from side to
side, taking in the hallway. No one had seen his entry to the room. The security
camera system was disabled; the hotel still waiting on a call-out to the
support people. All as planned.
Secret
Service agent Crawford slipped inside the room and, pocketing the key card,
quietly closed the door. His training took over as he meticulously checked the
bathroom and bedroom for anything unexpected. Satisfied all was as it should
be, his attention centred on the male figure lying alongside the double bed.
The man was unbound, but drugged; no ligature marks for forensics. The agent
bent down and felt the man's carotid artery with two fingers of his left hand,
his right still gripping the Glock in its holster. A strong pulse, good. The
agent pried up an eyelid. The pupil reacted slowly to the change in light. He
glanced at his wristwatch; an hour remained.
On top
of the bed was a plastic shopping bag. The Secret Service man upended its
contents. Five objects: a pistol and suppressor, a pair of black, heavy-duty
latex gloves and a small roll of plastic wrap. He quickly snapped on the gloves.
Next, the suppressor and the Beretta. He screwed the silencer onto the barrel
of the automatic and dropped out the magazine. Deftly he flipped the cartridges
out of the clip. He bent and, with some difficulty, used the unconscious man's
left thumb and forefinger to reload the clip. He clicked off the safety and
pulled back the slide, also using the man's fingers. For extra measure, he
placed the suppressor in the man's right hand and wrapped his fingers around
it. Now he carefully folded the left hand around the pistol’s grip.
Agent
Crawford thought about firing the weapon now, but decided to hold off until
later. Too many Crime Scene shows on TV - you never know if someone will smell
the barrel or check its heat. The acrid smell would still linger, but the metal
would have cooled; inconsistent with the desired effect. He dropped the gun on
to the bed.
Crawford
turned his attention to the other unusual objects in the room: the Javelin
Anti-Armour Missile. Unassembled, as requested. He took hold of one of the two
missile tubes and, using the drugged man's hands, left suitable fingerprints
and DNA in the places where such trace evidence would be expected. He repeated
the actions with the second missile tube. He lay this down on the floor and
turned to the CLU. The stubby Command Launch Unit was easier to handle and
placing more trace on the device was easier. Carefully he positioned fingerprints
in the area where the CLU clipped onto the missile tube and then rubbed this
area on the bedspread, relying on Locard's Exchange Principle to transfer
minute fibres between the bed and the CLU. Any Doubting Thomas, in the
resulting investigation, would be convinced the man on the floor had assembled
this weapon in this room.
The
Secret Service man glanced at his wristwatch again. Only forty-three minutes.
He raised his left fist to his mouth and keyed his communicator.
"Position
West Nineteen. Position West Nineteen to Control. All quiet and secure.
Continuing area sweep."
"Copy
that, West Nineteen. POTUS party will leave on schedule. Check again in
fifteen," the tinny voice of the Secret Service Mobile Control Unit echoed
in his left ear.
"Copy,
check in fifteen. Out."
The
agent sat on the floor, in the middle of the room, and started to assemble the
missile.
* * * *
*
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