Thriller-Writer: The OPENING CHAPTERS of 'FULL DISCLOSURE'

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.

* * * * *