The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1) (79 page)

• • •

              Mr. Li took the I-40 headed east out of Los Angeles.  His strategy for making good time put his faith in an unlikely place, below average speed.  The freeway speed limit swung between 65 and 75mph.  Mr. Li set cruise control to two miles below the speed limit at all times.  His strategy was not to move fast but to stop less.  At below average speed, the
Escort
got better than average gas mileage making stopping to fill up needless over longer intervals.  He also avoided being pulled over for exceeding the speed limit, which would have added time to his trip.  He rolled comfortably in the far-right lane.  He snacked little and drank less.  He steered the car letting the cruise control do his work for him. 

              He was almost alone in the slow lane. With a longer itinerary, he ignored the cars going by.  The dark sky kept him company in his mobile solitude. It was almost midnight when he reached the I-40 freeway stretched through Flagstaff, Arizona.  The amount of cars and space complimented each other creating a free-flowing artery.  But the amount of activity and sleep for the past week came to a crescendo.  He wanted to keep driving but he couldn’t.  The interruption was planned for.  It was the reason for being time conscious.  He was in a hurry to get to Langley but the point was to get to Langley not careen off the highway.  Mr. Li pulled off the highway at Flagstaff and drove through the city center finding a motel on the other side.  The motel was a chain and looked like its brown-brick cousins in LA.  It gave Mr. Li the illusion of not having gotten far despite being on the highway for more that six hours.  The accent was the difference.  The man sitting behind the desk wore a maroon polo shirt with motel name on it, but everything about him said local not corporate.  His accent was southwestern letting Mr. Li know he hadn’t done his driving in vain.  It was clear he was far from Southern California.  He paid cash for just the night.  Knowing he needed the rest, made him comfortable with the delay.  His plan was faster than any other route and he had to stay away from airports—too many people.  Mr. Li wasn’t bothered by having to stop so soon.  Getting rest was as important as getting there.  The Agency would stack so many of its resources to find a high priority subject.  Mr. Li was one of the highest.  He knew what he was doing.  The only people he could count on were on their way to Hong Kong.  Rest became his biggest ally.  He went along with the night.  His eyes had been closed for fifteen minutes, when he heard an unexpected sound.  The sound settled in and his mind took time to identify it.  It was his phone, maybe his sister.  His guess wasn’t completely off.  It was a woman but not his sister.  It was Georgia. 

              “Ray, I’m sending the access code via text message to access the link.  Use the label Aramice for the voiceprint.  I switched it from Rainman.  That label will be flagged because they’re monitoring your file.”  Georgia ended the call before Mr. Li could say anything.  The text message came like she said it would.  Mr. Li read between the lines of the text to arrive at the code.  He got up from the bed and moved toward his duffle.  He pulled out his satellite phone, the one dubbed Spare Tire.  He connected the satellite antenna and used the code to access the secured link.  He used the label Georgia gave him to gain access from the sentry software.  Once his voice was recognized he heard hers.

              “Ray,” said Georgia.

              “Are you calling to tell me why you screwed me?” asked Mr. Li. 

              “No,” said Georgia, “I’m calling to tell you I didn’t.”

              “They kidnapped my sister,” said Mr. Li, “They wanted me to put the money back.  How do they know about me so soon?”

              “I told them about you when I told them about
Caprice
,” said Georgia, “I didn’t screw you over.  They asked why
Caprice
was shutdown and I told them about you.  They could check all the things they asked about.  That’s why they asked.  I couldn’t lie.  My heads on the chopping block too.  They evaluate everything about everything.  I’m connected to Mason so they want to know about me.  You’re connected to Mason so they’re on to you.  You even mentioned Mason by name to the Ambassador.  He called.  We know everything he knows.  It’s that simple.”

              “Who ordered the kidnapping?” asked Mr. Li.

              “A senior director of the Clandestine Service,” said Georgia, “His name’s Gael Barron.  He’s also the head project manager of the project that Mason is on in Venezuela.”

              “
Filartiga
,” said Mr. Li.

              “Yes,” said Georgia.

              “Is he your mole?” asked Mr. Li.

              “I thought of that,” said Georgia, “But couldn’t figure out why he would give up his own project to the Venezuelans.”

              “Deni Tam did it,” said Mr. Li, “He played both sides.  You don’t do it when you think you’re winning.  You do it when losing is inevitable.  You do it to negotiate favorable terms of surrender.  Who else knows how successful his project is better than him?”

              “No one,” said Georgia.  A professional pause ensued. 

              “The vote is happening day after tomorrow,” said Georgia, “We’re going to take a research day to look into whatever else needs looking into.  Then we make a decision on what to tell the Venezuelans.”

              “What’s the consensus?” asked Mr. Li.

              “Mason is a valuable asset that the Agency would like to get back but he’s in custody,” said Georgia, “And we assume—as always—the Venezuelans by now know something about
Filartiga
.  The Agency doesn’t want to admit to
Filartiga
officially.  They will disavow him.”

              “Delay them,” said Mr. Li.

              “With what?” said Georgia, “I’ve been fishing, used up all the bait.”

              “I got more for you,” said Mr. Li, “Tell them a story.”

              “About what?” asked Georgia.

              “Mykola Voloshyn,” said Mr. Li, “They’ve opened my
Caprice
file.  Open his.”

              “Why?” said Georgia, “What’s there?”

              “His timing,” said Mr. Li.

              “What about it?” asked Georgia.

              “When he dropped off the
Caprice
grid,” said Mr. Li, “He killed two people just before that.”

              “Aaron Argote and Fabian Gasset,” said Georgia, “Argote was Voloshyn’s project manager.  Gasset worked for another
Caprice
PM.”

              “Mason sent me to kill Voloshyn,” said Mr. Li.

              “I told him to,” said Georgia.

              “Then you know I’m not the first
Caprice
agent to drop off grid,” said Mr. Li, “I’m the second.”

              “You’re the last,” said Georgia, “We terminated the rest after you, at a $7 million loss each.”

              “The two agents that dropped off grid met,” said Mr. Li, “I found Voloshyn hiding in a church in Rome and I engaged him.  Mason didn’t tell me much about Voloshyn but I know he didn’t learn to fight in a cage.  He couldn’t adapt to me.  He kept using the same combinations over and over like it would work eventually.  He was redundant.  It was all a pattern with him.  I got used to it and I was able to anticipate him.  It gave me the advantage. I was taught to adapt.  But he had the advantage with
Caprice
.  His mind held to patterns—redundancies.  It turns out that was the secret to beating
Caprice
.  I thought of so many different ways to deactivate the chip.  But the thing I couldn’t adapt around was the chip being in my head.  Voloshyn didn’t adapt around the chip in his head.  He accepted it.  He killed Argote to hide that fact.”

              “How does that hide the fact?” asked Georgia.

              “Voloshyn was really after Gasset,” said Mr. Li, “He killed Argote to make it look like a pattern.  It wasn’t.  He wanted Gasset for his chip.  I killed Voloshyn and carried his head with me in a backpack.  I waited for his brain activity to shutdown and for his chip to go offline.”

              “Why?” asked Georgia, “If the chip was already deactivated?”

              “I wasn’t sure it was,” said Mr. Li, “I thought at first Voloshyn wanted Gasset’s chip to experiment, to see how he could deactivate it.  But when I opened his head I saw his chip wasn’t tampered with.  It was frustrating.  But then I thought about something.  I wondered what happened to Gasset’s chip.  The chips are activated by brainwaves.  It’s only useful if inserted in the brain.  Then I understood.  I went back and looked.  I found the other chip.  The
Caprice
chips were all inserted through the tear duct on the right side.  Voloshyn took Gasset’s chip and injected it on the left side.  He didn’t want to tamper with his own chip and cause it to detonate.”

              “Why put the second chip in?” asked Georgia.

              “The
Caprice
satellite can pick up the chip’s radio frequency eight inches from transmission point,” said Mr. Li, “Two active chips within eight inches of each other transmit along the same frequency wave.  Each chip is interfering with the signal of the other, constantly.  There’s never any relay to the satellite.”  Mr. Li paused.  Georgia said nothing.

              “Voloshyn realized he didn’t need to get the monster out of his head.  He had to be redundant.  He put another monster in,” said Mr. Li, “Especially when he knew the second monster gobbles the first, by jamming the signal. ”  The silence came back.

              “You haven’t been off grid all these years,” said Georgia, “You’re still on it, just hidden.”

              “It was a door you just kept walking passed,” said Mr. Li, “You recruited killers but never considered them killing each other.  The chips were so expensive, you never imagined implanting two in one person.  Voloshyn didn’t walk passed the door.  He walked through it.  You can tell them I’m hiding on grid and whatever else.  Just tell them, I need more time.”  Georgia let out a long exhale audible through the satellite link.

“Ok,” said Georgia, “What about the money?  Where is it?”

“Where the Venezuelans can’t find it,” said Mr. Li, “Negotiate with them first.  When you’ve got a deal call me back.  It’s easier to negotiate when you don’t have to think about the money.”

  “We’ll do it your way,” said Georgia.  She severed the link in shock—aftershock.  The damage was already done.  The aftershock worked at her foundation, the foundation that told her she was competent.  It took over thirty minutes for her to settle down, for her heartbeat to become regular.  It was a rare moment for her, more rare in her adult life.  She was dumbfounded, literally thinking herself to be dumb.  It was an oversight.  That’s all it was but it was expensive.  With one agent unaccounted for, it proved the whole program’s mettle—too costly.  After the cash was stripped,
Caprice
was cash strapped.  She had no choice.  She terminated all active participants with one exception.  The Agency’s most expensive program was scuttled because a big dumb man found what she missed.  It was frustrating. 

              She didn’t sleep.  Under her circumstances, she couldn’t fall under.  She looked for what could be found in the sleepless hours.  She didn’t go to her office the next day.  She stayed at home.  She wrote down her original idea for
Caprice
on a small square piece of paper.  It was simple.  The words
red card
and
yellow card
didn’t appear on her original sketch.  Mason had added those words himself.  She spent the entire day thinking about how it all came down.  Like the idea for
Caprice
, the answer to it was simple.   Two chips, one agent and the rest was undone.
She thought that sentence over and over for an entire day.  She didn’t need to eat.  She had no appetite.  She stayed in her t-shirt and sweat pants on a diet of cigarettes and espresso.  Her health reflected the nutrients of caffeine and tobacco.  Her outward irritation grew but she was alone.  No one saw it.  As her day closed, she laughed out loud realizing the only research she had done was on herself—her own mistake.  Her buzzed brain looked forward to the next day as the sunlight faded from her living room and her balcony.  The vote was coming.  She saw an opportunity.  She thought about the next day, about what she would say and how she would say it.  The only drawback, she would be sleep-deprived when she said it.   She finally fell asleep after her thoughts got old.  They shut her whole mind down and she slept for two hours. 

• • •

The alarm came when it was least welcome.  The simple device carried more authority than a senior agent.  The sound meant she lost the liberty to lie down.  She had to get up.  To shower or not was the question.  She packed ground espresso coffee into a stainless steel espresso maker and put a porcelain espresso cup in place.  Pushing one button got the process going and she walked toward the balcony of the sixth floor condominium.  She grabbed a blue pack of
Pall Mall
on her way out.  A white box of matches was next to her cigarettes.  She didn’t strike a match until she was outside, standing on the balcony looking across the bay toward downtown Baltimore.  Her condo was just north of Latrobe Park about an hour’s drive from Langley.  The drive was refreshing both to and fro.  It cleared her head.  The steady motion forward was reassuring no matter what was on her plate.  It gave the illusion of making progress.  She rented the condo almost immediately after being transferred from her overseas desk.  She gave her real estate agent only two requirements:  Nothing higher than the sixth floor and something with a view.  The failure of
Caprice
taught her how to survive a fall and the healing process that came with it.  She liked the sixth floor.  It was a perfect confluence, a match between luxury and security.  The view looking over the water and city was quite good from the sixth floor.  And she knew she could survive a drop from six floors up if she had to.  She reasoned she could get to her gun or her balcony in less than eight seconds.  It all depended on the situation.  She only had to make a choice to defend her fort or abandon it.  No matter the choice, survival came first.  And she could survive a six-story fall.  She was fifty-eight years old.  Something would break.  But she would live.  The older she got the more she saw living as the goal, life as a continuation.  She decided on a second cigarette as she stood in the same sweat pants and t-shirt on her balcony.  The air was chilly but she would survive it as well. The beep of the espresso maker was the sign it was time to come in.