Silent Assassin (5 page)

“Oh damn,” he said.

“What?”

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” He typed furiously, looking back and forth between the monitors. He had gotten it wrong. One misunderstood variable, and it made most of what he had done so far complete junk.

“What the hell is going on? Shepard, answer me.”

“Just let me work.”

Could he fix it? Yes . . . yes! He saw it. The way out, like a whiff of fresh air in a dank cave. He was going to have to make up for lost time. But he would do it. His fingers moved like the wind, and he saw nothing else. Just variables, abstract symbols swimming around, then locking into place as he set them down. The seconds counted down as he worked, sweating. Shepard blocked out everything else, and went into that entirely abstract zone, where he had no body, just a mind manipulating logical elements. His mind was working three steps ahead of his fingers. He glanced up at the clock on the monitor. The threshold was coming to a close. He just needed one final push. And he was done. This would work. Now it was just a matter of running the compiler....

“Shepard, we’re over the twenty-minute mark,” she said. He looked at the clock, which was now showing 20:13.

“I’m compiling!” The program ran shockingly fast on the Zeta system—but not fast enough.

“Shepard, you need to disconnect!”

“It’s almost done! Uploading . . .”

“We need to disconnect
now
!”

“
Just . . . one . . . more . . . There!
” One more hit of the Enter key, and the timer reset. The satellite, to the Chinese, was up and running again, as normal. Everything had been set right back where it had been left, everything but one imperceptible change. And they would be none the wiser that anything had happened until the satellite went down, and then they’d never be able to trace it.

“Shepard. What happened?” asked Bloch.

“I am a goddamn
genius
, that’s what happened.”

“Did you set the satellite to self-destruct?”

“I did you one better.” He paused for effect. “I built a backdoor. A way in, whenever we want. And that’s not all, there’s more,” he said, in his best imitation of an infomercial. Bloch did not look amused, but he didn’t care. He brought up a fresh screen, filled with varying numbers and graphs—data being beamed down from the satellite. “See? We have full access. Everything they see, we’ll see. Whatever they can order the satellite to do, we can too.”

“And what’s the chance they’ll catch us at it?”

“The way I rigged it? None. I built it into the brick and mortar of the operating system. Like secret passageways in a castle. They can’t detect us there. We can keep downloading information until which time we decide that we want to get rid of it. With just a couple of keystrokes, we can take it over, and then do what we meant to in the first place, and send it to burn up in the atmosphere.”

Bloch sighed, and seemed to relax. She put her hand on his shoulder.

“Well done, Shep. You did good.”

C
HAPTER
8

 

M
organ pulled up to his house and eased his 1967 Pontiac GTO into the driveway as gently as he could, crushing the unshoveled snow beneath the tires, fitting it into the snug space in his garage. He got out of the car to the whir of the garage door closing and shivered in the chilly night air. As he swung the car door shut, pain shot up his right shoulder. It had been hurt in his run-in with Novokoff—no long-term damage, but it was sore and raw, and the cold seemed to make the pain well up again. Morgan had yearned for the warmth of his bed, with Jenny by his side, the whole way back. Right now, it seemed like the cure for all his troubles.

As the garage door whirred, he unlocked the door that led into the kitchen and pushed it open. Neika was already waiting on the other side of the door, panting, wagging her tail and nudging his hand with her black snout. Morgan ran his fingers through the soft fur on her head and back. He walked into the kitchen, and his skin tingled from the sudden warmth. The familiar environment enveloped him—the simply ornamented white cupboards with brass pulls that his wife, the home decorator, called “old New England style,” the tan pinstripe wallpaper and copper pots hanging on the wall—the decorative elements that blended with the things that made it home, like the looming shapes of kichen appliances, the stained and warped cast iron skillet that had once belonged to Jenny’s mother, the faint smell of garlic from the night’s cooking. It felt good to be back.

Neika was still whimpering in excitement at his arrival. He ran his hand vigorously down her back a few times. “Shh, that’s right, nice and quiet, girl.” Morgan left her to chase her own tail as he opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk. As he closed it, he saw a new picture had been put up. It was Alex standing proudly in her Junior ROTC uniform. This made him smile. For many years, he had felt her slip away from him. As much as he respected that her choices were her own, he couldn’t help rejoicing in this latest one as something that had brought them together. They had started reconnecting recently, and now they were closer than ever.

That picture was also a reminder of his other side—the other side of Cobra, the ruthless killer. Others in his position had not been so lucky. Some, like Novokoff, had become out-and-out monsters. Others, like his friend and longtime partner Peter Conley, had become lifelong loners, with a woman in every port but never someone to come home to and share their lives with. Morgan’s family preserved the side of him that made him feel human, and gave a meaning to the things that he did that was deeper than any abstract duty to protect the innocent. He might even call it his soul, if there was such a thing. It made him whole, having Alex and—

“Dan ? Is that you?” Jenny’s voice was composed of that middle-of-the-night mixture of drowsiness and concern. Morgan turned to see her in her faded blue bathrobe, squinting, her face lined from sleep.

“Hey,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said tenderly.

“I was awake. Nightmares again.” She had been having them since the Atlanta attack—dreams of terrorist attacks, of their neighborhood destroyed, of everybody she knew dying.

“Every night?”

“Every night you’re not here.” She slid her head onto his shoulder, gently squeezing what turned out to be bruised, raw flesh. He flinched despite himself, wincing.

“Jesus, Dan,” she said, drawing her hand away. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing.” He shrugged.

“What happened?” she insisted, suspicion creeping into her voice. “Let me take a look.”

“No, Jenny, it’s fine.”

“Dan,” she said, the concern in her voice turning into stern insistence, “let me see your shoulder.”

He sighed as he unbuttoned his shirt. There was no way to hide it, not anymore. He pulled it off, exposing his shoulder to the cool air inside. Jenny gasped. He knew it was bad—even though the doctor had taken a look at it, it was still a nasty purplish black.

“It looks worse than it is,” he said.

“How—” she started, then stopped herself, and began again in a weary, resigned tone, her lips pursed, her eyes disapproving. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

Morgan opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him before he could make a sound.

“Don’t lie to me,” she warned, index finger outstretched. “Not about this. Not now.”

He took a deep breath. “Yes. I’m back in.”

She took a step back, and seemed momentarily out of air. It took her a moment to digest his confirmation. Emotions seemed to struggle for control of her face, with anger and sadness prevailing. “With the CIA?” she said curtly.

“No. Something different this time.”

“What? NSA?”

“No. Nothing you’ve ever heard of.” Before she could speak, he added, “And I think it’d be better if it stayed that way.”

“Christ, Dan,” she said. “Is that supposed to make me feel better, not to know? Just what have you gotten yourself mixed up in?”

He just looked at her apologetically, but didn’t answer.

“And I don’t suppose you can tell me where you’ve been, can you?”

“You know the answer to that question,” he said. “I’m sorry I kept this from you, Jenny. But you know I have to keep you separate from this side of me. You know why I can’t discuss this sort of thing with you. There are secrets that need to be kept.”

“That,” she said, tears welling up in anger, “is a load of self-serving . . . hogwash!”

“Jenny, you don’t understand,” he said. “I can’t tell you because I need to protect you. Knowing anything at all puts you and Alex in danger.”

“Oh, yeah? Tell me, Dan. What exactly about me not knowing about your involvement in this—
stuff
—keeps me safe?”

He opened his mouth, but he really didn’t have anything to say for himself. He could have spun a dozen lies in this situation, and made them sound like the truth. He might even have made her believe it. If he lied, he could make her embrace him, offering a tearful apology for ever doubting him. If only he would lie.

“You’re right,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” she said though gritted teeth.

“Because I didn’t want you to be angry with me,” he said. “Because I didn’t want to
stop
. I still don’t want to stop. And I was afraid that I might not have a choice if you knew.”

Jenny sighed, disappointed, and it pierced him more deeply than any needle could. “You can’t tell me what you’re doing, fine,” she said. “At least tell me this: what kind of danger are you in?”

He looked down and didn’t answer, which itself was enough of an answer.

“Ah,” she said resentfully. “I see. And what were you planning on doing if you were killed in a foreign country? Was someone going to let me know, or was I supposed to wonder forever why my husband simply didn’t come home one day?”

Morgan wrung his hands and looked down. He knew she was venting now, and of course he knew she deserved to.

“And have you even thought about Alex through all this? How devastated she would be if you were gone?”

Alex was almost all he thought about, and he had always felt justified by telling himself that by doing what he did, he was making the world a better place for Alex. This was absolutely true, and he felt it deeply, as far as it went—and given that the world seemed to be going to hell in a handbasket, this seemed perfectly justified. Still, he felt that it was the wrong thing to say right now. It rang hollow against Jenny’s anger. “I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “I love you and Alex more than anything, and I would never do anything to hurt either of you.”

“You lied, Dan. And you put yourself in danger again. Have you ever thought about what the hell I’m going to do if you die?” Tears ran down her face, and her hands formed fists at her side. “Because now I have to think about that every day.”

“I’m sorry, Jenny,” he said, and meant it. But she just shook her head and turned around. “One day, you’re going to have to decide what’s really important in your life.” She walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

He thought about calling out after her, about saying something, anything, that would make it better, but he decided to respect her anger instead. She needed this time to think about things, and he would let her. Also, her words had stung. They had hit uncomfortably close to home about his own doubts. The truth was that he loved being a spy, and sometimes it was hard to tell whether he did it for the right reasons. He suspected this might turn out to be a night of sleepless tossing and turning. There was, at least, some relief in the truth finally coming out.

“Come on, Neika,” he sighed. “I guess we’re keeping each other company tonight.”

As he walked toward the living room couch, just for a split second he wished that he had lied and made everything okay. He instantly felt guilty about wishing it. She needed time to cool off, he thought to himself as he lay in the dark. He’d be going to D.C. the next day, and so she’d have the opportunity. In the meantime, Morgan would try to find some answers regarding the mysterious organization he was now working for.

C
HAPTER
9

 

“I
don’t have much that I can tell you, my friend. You are chasing a ghost.”

The man sitting across from Dan Morgan was Kadir Fastia, a former lieutenant colonel in the Libyan Air Force, former asset and old friend. He looked at Morgan with perfectly serene dark brown eyes, stroking his close-cropped white beard. They were in his study, where every piece of furniture was made of dark, heavy wood, with bookcases that stretched from floor to ceiling and were lined with beautifully bound books in both Arabic and English.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” said Morgan.

“I think that in fact you knew that I would say that. There is not much that gets past you, Cobra, not if you want to find out. If you are coming to me, it is because you have exhausted your own resources.”

They had first met on a mission together years before. Fastia had been a CIA asset in Libya who had been lying in wait for a very long time. Morgan and Conley had run the mission that Fastia had been preparing for the past many years.

“You are one of my resources,” said Morgan.

“Certainly not the first you have come to,” said Fastia. “Not even close, I believe. As always, Cobra plays his cards close to the chest.”

Kadir Fastia was a powerful man. While he had no official title, Fastia had a finger in every pie. He acted as a consultant on Middle Eastern and North African affairs for various government agencies, think tanks and other private and nonprofit entities, and this alone gave him an in with a lot of movers and shakers. Morgan knew, however, there was more to it than that, that the money that paid for his house and car came from elsewhere. Government agencies frequently needed to act under plausible deniability in delicate situations. To do so, they needed intermediaries to act on their behalf and do things the government couldn’t. And the Libyan fulfilled that precise role.

“How can there be nothing, Kadir? Zeta Division’s headquarters alone must have cost millions on millions, and that’s without even considering the secrecy aspect. Then we have the equipment, human assets, bribes. That’s not even touching on our compensation, which, let me tell you, is not exactly a tiny sum.”

“Money can buy silence as well,” said Fastia.

“Not half as well as a bullet can,” said Morgan.

“That it does. And still you dig for answers, Cobra.”

“I guess not knowing just rubs me the wrong way.”

“So you simply follow the trail?” asked Fastia. “Wherever it leads?”

“That’s the basic idea of it, yeah,” said Morgan. He frowned. “What are you not telling me, Fastia?”

“Some are better than others at hiding their existence,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I have heard of your Zeta Division. Your activities have been hard to miss.”

“What do you know?”

“The fact that it exists,” Fastia said. “That it is a serious player in intelligence and security. Not the government, as far as I know. And not much else. Specifically, I do not know who is financing the operation.”

“There has to be some kind of paper trail,” said Morgan.

“None that has come to my attention yet,” said Fastia.

“There has to be a weak link. No conspiracy is perfect.”

“We don’t know of a perfect conspiracy,” said Fastia.

“But then again, you would not expect to ever find out about one, now would you?” The Libyan grinned an easy grin.

Morgan snorted. “I guess you’re right.”

“But I would not bet on this one being so,” he said. “This organization involves too many people to be perfectly concealed. You simply must do what you always do when you wish to find the force behind the act.”

“Follow the money,” said Morgan.

“Precisely,” said Fastia, his hands together, touching by the fingertips. “You have said it yourself. Division Zeta has a headquarters that cost millions upon millions. Who paid for it, Morgan?
There
is your link.”

“Sure,” said Morgan. “Now it’s just a matter of finding the right people and asking the right questions.”

“And isn’t it always the way?” Fastia smiled. “There is one more thing. A far-fetched possibility.”

“What?”

“A name. Tell me, Cobra. Do the words ‘Aegis Initiative’ mean anything to you?”

Buck Chapman looked at the delicate face of baby Ella, wrinkly, looking like a little monkey cradled in his arms. It had been barely five months since this baby had changed his life. So young, and born into such a dangerous world. The fact that she coexisted in the world with the terrorists, with so much death and suffering and evil, didn’t fit into Chapman’s mind. It kept him up at night, prompting him to get up to look at her in her crib as his wife snored quietly in their bed, and just watch her, despairing for her innocence and fragility.

“The babysitter’s coming in half an hour,” said Rose, picking up her gym bag. “And then you can go. Think you can manage without me for that time?”

“Are you kidding me? I’ve got this like a leopard’s got spots.”

“You’re such a dork,” she said affectionately. “Thanks, honey. I know you’ve been so busy these days. I
really
need this time, and I
so
appreciate this. See you tonight?”

“See you tonight.” He pecked her on the lips and watched as she walked out the door. He felt Ella stir in his arms. Probably woken up from the banging door.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said softly, rocking her gently from side to side. Ella cooed. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s a cruel world out there. Lots of bad men out to get us. But don’t worry. The good guys are going to win in the end.” He sighed. “That’s how it’s supposed to go.”

The babysitter arrived twenty minutes later. He gave her instructions and left her with baby Ella. Then he got into his car and made the twenty-minute drive down to the National Mall. He parked at the far end of the Museum of Natural History, then walked around the block along the tree-lined sidewalk.

Chapman knew how to act natural when he had to. He’d been in intelligence long enough that he was always wearing the mask when he was out in public. And so, it was with a semblance of perfect calm and collection that he crossed the three lanes of Madison Drive to the Mall, where he was about to commit treason.

As he walked past the tourists looking at their maps and pointing at landmarks, the word was swimming in his mind.
Aegis
. It had been lurking in his head for months now. But once he’d resolved to do this, it had started to insinuate itself into his conscious thoughts. He heard it reverberate in his head as he was falling asleep, or after long stretches of silence, cryptic, its significance escaping him.
Aegis
. In ancient Greece, it had been the name of the shield of the gods, and their insignia, conferring authority and knowledge along with protection on its wearer.

But from what he had been told,
Aegis
meant something else too. Something that, like the word in his head, was also mysterious, also hidden, and also a constant presence. He dreaded what he was about to do. It was, he kept telling himself, for the good of his country. Of the world. It might help him stop this ongoing slaughter, and that was worth it. But he could never forget that, like in any deal with the devil, he did not truly comprehend the full potential consequences of what he was about to undertake.

He shook these thoughts from his head and looked for the man he’d come to meet here, near the oaks across the street from the Smithsonian columns. The man, however, found him first.

“Mr. Chapman,” came the greeting. Chapman turned around to see the person he was there to meet. The man himself was unremarkable. He looked like he might be a lobbyist or political advisor. Nothing about him would lead anyone to give him a second look. Except that, even with his glasses, Chapman could see that his face was devoid of any kind of expression. A cipher. You wouldn’t know by looking at him that this might be one of the most powerful men in Washington. Maybe one of the most powerful in the entire world.

“My name,” the man said, “is Mr. Smith.”

 

 

“So, you got something for me?” Morgan asked.

Grant Lowry stepped aside to admit him into his home, a dark and unkempt apartment boasting stains on dirty carpets and an empty pizza box on the coffee table.

“No, ‘hello, nice to see you, old friend’?” Lowry asked.

“Hello, nice to see you, old friend,” said Morgan obligingly. “How’ve you been?”

Grant Lowry was a computer programmer who’d been a friend of Morgan’s back when he worked for the CIA. They had struck up an unlikely friendship during Morgan’s service, and they had come through for each other enough times before so that Morgan trusted him implicitly.

“Same old, except for all this shit that’s going on,” he said, walking through his apartment, and into the kitchen. “The Agency’s abuzz day and night, and Carr’s been on the warpath. Plus, we’ve got this special presidential task force breathing down our necks.” He opened the refrigerator. “Beer?”

“It’s ten a.m.,” said Morgan. He looked at the pile of dishes and pots in the sink and grimaced.

“It’s my day off, and it’s bad enough I’m stuck running errands for your sorry ass.” He twisted the cap off the beer bottle and took a swig.

“So, you have something for me?”

Lowry nodded, then swallowed a mouthful of beer. “Over this way.”

For all the mess in his apartment, he had an impressive setup for his computer—four monitors, dual keyboard, and a couple of gadgets Morgan didn’t recognize, all on some kind of specialized piece of furniture that kept everything cool and adjustable. Lowry brought up an image on one of the monitors, which was upright. It showed a wire-frame rendering of the building that housed Zeta Division headquarters.

“These are the final blueprints for the building,” he said. “Exactly what the developers used to actually build the thing, including whatever changes were made while the project was underway.”

“And this is from the developer’s actual servers?” Morgan asked.

“Blue Sky Corporation, yeah,” said Lowry.

“Show me the underground,” said Morgan. Lowry zoomed in to the garage. Everything looked perfectly innocent—no sign of a multilevel secret base anywhere. The entrance to Zeta Division was, in this blueprint, nothing more than an innocent utility closet. “Is there anything else there?” Morgan asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Lowry. “That’s it. That’s the blueprint.”

“Does anything seem odd to you?” Morgan asked.

“Beats me,” said Lowry. “I’m not an architect.”

“All right. That’s all I need to know. I owe you one, bud.”

“You owe me a hell of a lot more than one,” said Lowry. “Grab a beer sometime?”

“Don’t drink,” said Morgan, on his way out. “You never saw me.”

“I never do.”