Patriot Act Page 4

  Ira Dunn walked into his office on the seventh floor, the executive level largely deserted. Dunn was a military man born and bred, and some things, such as an early roll call, were hard to dispel.

  Certainly not as hard as following the directive of a government, a battle of temptations that his patriotism fought with daily. Nationhood versus political whim. Posterity versus a term in office. Historical identity versus modern spin.

  “Fuck’n ’crats,” Dunn said, tossing his copy of the Washington Post on his desk. He moved to the coffee percolator in the corner, filled the pot with hot water, added his daily measure of fresh ground beans, and flicked the well-worn switch. The pot percolating, he walked back over to his desk and switched on his computer.

  Again, the Post’s headline story caught his attention, a piece about Secretary of State Adam Baker, and the deal he had made with the Israelis on the Lebanon issue. Capitulation again for the Americans. Might as well have walked into the negotiation room, put a tub of lube down on the table and bent over.

  After reading the article, Dunn smashed his fist down on the newspaper in disgust.

  The nation as it was now—as it had been for the past thirteen years—wasn’t what he’d worked hard at building. It sure as hell wasn’t one he was content with.

  Dunn logged into his computer and opened the browser, SIPRNet coming to life immediately with a stream of messages for him to follow up. The Secret Internet Protocol Router Network looked much like its successor, the civilian version of the World Wide Web. Outside the US Department of Defense, there were few people in the world cleared for access to this secret network. His homepage started up with a CIA briefing of up-to-the-minute news. Sourced from legitimate news services and supplemented with further intelligence information from various hot-spots around the globe.

  An article halfway down the page caught his interest.

  “ Russian trade conference tomorrow, free trade on the agenda.”

  He clicked the link and read the CIA brief. Over a dozen news pages were linked, and he clicked on the New York Times.

  “Hmm…” The piece pretty much told him the same as the CIA brief notes.

  On his keychain was a 512-bit encryption coder that loaded via a firewire plug on his NSA-designed keyboard. A twelve-digit alpha-numeric code changed every ten seconds. Inserting the firewire plug, Dunn read the current code and typed the digits into the computer.

  While SIPRNet was the most secure version of the internet, Dunn was one of just three people in the world to have access to the SIPRNet gateway to Echelon. In a nutshell, this was the only way you could access the information remote from the few key supercomputing terminals at NSA bases around the globe.

  He clicked through to the Dictionary commands area and scanned through the Russian list to make sure they were targeting the appropriate keywords. The file was extensive, by far still the biggest of any targeted country thanks to a largely bygone threat, and he tapped in a translation priority request.

  Within seconds the commands fed into the biggest collection of supercomputers in the world, disseminated within nanoseconds to the appropriate information bank.

  Until otherwise directed, the Russian economic COMINT in and out of St Petersburg would be higher on the priority list for the NSA. Anything written or spoken in the world that travelled over a communication device that contained relevant words, in any language, would be recorded, and an analyst would manually go through each entry.

  “Targeted data mining, my Russian friends,” Dunn said to himself, closing the Dictionary control panel. Hunting, rather than simply gathering. Measuring voice patterns. Tracking locations of targets. Dunn was wielding the latest tool in the world’s fight on terror. The most important tool in the US economic arsenal. An integral component to the superpower status of his nation.

  Dunn logged out of the command screen and clicked through SIPRNet to the page of one of his divisions, the Advocacy Center.

  “… $4B contract won through Boeing and Raytheon for new missile defence system for Japan…”

  “… $720M of new wheat sales Iraq…”

  “… Lockheed wins $4.9B contract in Canada, in purchasing the new C130J over the Airbus A400M…”

  Dunn leaned back and cracked his knuckles.

  On the wall of his office was a tattered US flag, a big ship’s ensign. A glass case kept its burned and bullet-ridden fabric from falling apart. Every morning Ira Dunn looked at this flag and said the same thing.

  “It’s all for you, boys.”

  6

  WASHINGTON

  Fox and Gammaldi arrived at Dulles International Airport and looked up their next connecting flight. With some time to kill, they went to a café adjoining the terminal’s main bookstore.

  “Two double espressos please,” Fox ordered, surprised to see Gammaldi lean forward to pay. He put his change into a stuffed wallet.

  “Al, not that I’m complaining about you paying, but why are you carrying so much cash around?”

  “We’re going away, you never know what I might need to buy in Russia,” Gammaldi said.

  “You’ve got enough in there to buy a nuke,” Fox replied. “At least a tank.”

  “Maybe I will,” Gammaldi said. “Tom Clancy has a tank.”

  “Good for him. Seriously, you didn’t get money out before we left, which means you already had it on you,” Fox said, watching as Gammaldi struggled to fold his wallet so he could squeeze it into his back pocket. “I know you are normally pretty liquid, I put it down to your grandparents going through the war. But dude, you’ve got like a couple of grand in there?”

  “A few,” Gammaldi said, taking his coffee and following Fox into the bookshop.

  “Where’d you get a few thousand dollars?” Fox asked, watching his friend’s face through the steam from his cup as he sipped his drink. “I know we get paid pretty well and I’ve been watching you spend your easy—ah, hard-earned—cash on decking out your snazzy Brooklyn brownstone. Next you’ll be buying a DB9 or a stretch Hummer.” Gammaldi was silent through Fox’s jibes. “Seriously, are you the local Park Slope stand-over man or something?”

  “If you must know, nosy one, I sold my place back home,” Gammaldi said.

  “What’s that?” Fox replied, eyebrows raised.

  “I sold my homestead back in Oz a few months ago,” Gammaldi said. “I like it over here. The food, the people, the work. Even getting used to the sport.”

  “In that order too, I bet,” Fox said, putting his bag down inside the bookshop. “Seriously, you’re gonna stay here for a while? That’s a big decision. And you’re just telling me now…”

  “Did I give you grief when you sold your place on Christmas Island?” Gammaldi asked while he dropped his carry-on bags onto Fox’s. “You did that and decided to stay here within the first month. At least it took me closer to a year.”

  “Yeah, but I had nothing left at Christmas Island. You’re close to your family, I mean your house was even physically close to them. And you still had the navy job to go back to next year.”

  “Told them I’m out,” he revealed. “Sick of flying the shit helos we have in the navy anyway. Every time I’d go up I’d be wondering how I’d get back down—the easy way, or the flaming-wreck way.”

  Fox finished off his coffee and tossed the cup, shaking his head at the revelations of his mate.

  “And here I was thinking you were just hanging around to make sure I settled in,” Fox said with a grin.

  “You settle anywhere. You’re like a nomad, or a member of the Rebel Alliance—”

  “Okay, I’ll stop you there before you go on another two-hour rant about Star Wars,” Fox said. He turned away to look over the contents of the new releases, amazed by the sea of covers that seemed to change every week or so.

  “A lot of crap gets written…” Fox said to no one other than himself. Gammaldi was already lost in a Sports Illustrated.

 
“People love it,” a man’s voice behind them said.

  Fox turned around and recognised him. Bill McCorkell, National Security Advisor to the President of the United States. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Napoleon Bonaparte, and always seemed to wear the same cut of pinstripe suit. A close inspection of the stripes bore the name WILLIAMMICHAELMCCORKELL in a superfine constant font. Bill Clinton got him onto the master tailor in Hong Kong.

  “Bill, good to see you,” Fox said with a smile, shaking the man’s hand. They had met on only a couple of occasions, but McCorkell’s close ties to Wallace at GSR meant he was an invaluable resource. As the military and intelligence brain for the President, McCorkell knew it all when it came to global security. And he understood the power that the media could wield for him when he needed it.

  “This mug here is Al Gammaldi, GSR’s handyman and occasional pilot,” Fox introduced.

  “I’ve heard only good things,” McCorkell said. Gammaldi gave an inquisitorial eyebrow dance at Fox. “Sorry I’m a bit late,” McCorkell said. He passed Fox a manila folder.

  “I thought we were early. Thanks,” Fox said. He flicked through the printed pages in the folder, scanning the information that he’d read with greater detail on the flight.

  “Bit of background on John Cooper,” McCorkell said. “As he heads the Advocacy Center, it’s a glowing report. Also in there is what we have on LeCercle that isn’t readily available in the public domain—sadly, not that much. They’ve never made any threat lists. Same goes for Bilderberg, and while there are administration officials and business leaders from here that attend that annual gathering, there’s virtually nothing I can tell you that isn’t in the press.”

  “And they’ve been good at flying below the press radar,” Fox said as he tucked the folder into his leather satchel and they left the bookshop, joining the throng in the main international terminal.

  “Well, like all those power groups, they’re a secretive lot,” McCorkell said. “First rule for attendees is that they don’t talk about what goes on.”

  “Kinda like the first rule of Fight Club, I guess,” Fox said with a grin. “I’m surprised you haven’t attended any meetings by the likes of Bilderberg.” From what he knew of McCorkell, he had a good idea in which direction his answer would be.

  “Not for me, I’m afraid,” McCorkell said. “Always made it a point to keep a clean nose from affiliating myself with any of these types of special-interest groups—not an easy thing to do in my line of work.”

  “Kissinger has done all right by it,” Fox said, baiting him good-naturedly.

  “Yeah, don’t get me started on that man,” McCorkell replied.

  “They’re calling our next flight,” Gammaldi said.

  “Listen, on the off-chance something happens while you are in Russia, you may need this.” McCorkell passed over a business card. “A friend at the US Embassy in Moscow, should you need one. Just mention my name and he’ll get me on the blower, and I’ll vouch for you bums.”

  “Thanks, Bill, I’m sure we won’t need it but I never pass up a ‘get out of gaol free’ card,” Fox said. “I’ll be in touch when we’re back.”

  “Sure.” McCorkell checked his watch, and nodded to his Secret Service agent fifteen paces away that it was time to go. “I kinda wish I could join you on this little adventure, sure sounds more interesting than the state dinner I’ve got to get ready for.” McCorkell walked off, his Service agent leading the way to the car park.

  “He seems like a good guy,” Gammaldi said with a mouthful of chocolate bar as they walked to their departure gate.

  “One of the best,” Fox replied. “Been a friend of Wallace’s from way back, and now has the ear of the President. Thank God this country has guys like him.”

  “Always good to have friends in high places.”

  7

  FRANCE

  “Arsehole,” the pilot muttered under his breath, levelling the aircraft out.

  “Faster!” echoed up into his cabin again.

  The pilot tapped the throttle in a futile gesture as the small twin-engine jet was flying at its maximum cruising speed. He was used to being chartered by the French government for VIP shuttle service, but this Secher character had some kind of death wish to get to Russia.

  At least he was being paid well, the pilot reconciled. Ten thousand Euros cash for a round trip. Not bad for a day’s work. He could put up with the irritating passenger for that.

  Secher leaned back in the leather seat and opened a bottle of sparkling water. In an attempt not to think about the pressing situation at hand, his mind raced as he went through what he had to do over the coming days.

  Having called in a favour from the director of his agency’s Eastern Field Operations, he knew the location of the final assassination. He’d also learned that it was an order-and-forget mission from the outset, some three months ago, and this last target could not be worse for Secher’s end of the mission. Everything was coming to a head; everything was close to making or breaking point.

  It was down to the wire, as always. His adrenalin was pumping, nervous sweat breaking out across the back of his neck.

  Part of him liked it. The challenge. The game. Yet part of him hated the frustration of it.

  Secher threw his water bottle across the empty cabin.

  “Faster!”

  8

  ST CATHERINE’S PALACE, ST PETERSBURG

  Fox and Gammaldi walked into the opulent foyer of St Catherine’s Palace.

  “I’m impressed, you’re even wearing a cummerbund,” Fox said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “I’m surprised you’re not wearing your medal,” Gammaldi retorted.

  The interior of the palace was a sea of colour and all that glittered in modern Russia. Fox recognised a few faces, a mix of business and political leaders in a showing of East/West economic and military cooperation.

  “Not quite my scene, old boy,” Gammaldi said to Fox in a mock toffy accent.

  “Who you calling ‘old boy,’ fatso?” Fox replied. They had to wait in line to get through a security checkpoint. “Officially this function is a preamble to free-trade talks with key economic partners, for the opening up and management of the resource-rich and still largely untapped south-western Russian states, and a crackdown on terrorism in the region.”

  “Okay, you’ve sold me, this is just my kinda party.”

  “Unofficially,” Fox continued, looking with raised eyebrows at his sarcastic mate, “this is an opportunity for the legitimate businesspeople to mingle with underworld figures. Hardly a rarity in Russia. In fact, often these people are one and the same.”

  It was their turn to go through some airport-like metal detectors, complete with armed guards carrying trays for the guests to place their metallic objects in prior to being scanned. A security guard waved them forward and Fox and Gammaldi placed their watches and belts in the offered tray and passed through.

  Fox set off the alarm, and he shrugged at the guard on the other side, a man a head taller than Fox’s six foot two and almost twice the weight.

  “Boots,” Fox said in Russian as explanation, as Gammaldi walked through and got the all-clear.

  Another guard patted Fox down, not caring about ruffling the guest’s tux. He nodded and the big security guy let the pair through.

  “I’ll look for Cooper,” Fox said as they climbed the ornate main staircase. “You check the place out.”

  “Onto it,” Gammaldi replied, taking a handful of canapés from a passing waiter and a champagne from another.

  “And stay sharp,” Fox added before Gammaldi peeled off. “The night is still young.”

  “What, you’re worried about Cooper even with all this security around?” Gammaldi said. “There are more guns here tonight than in Baghdad.”

  “Only one of them has to be in the wrong hand,” Fox answered, checking his watch. “If I don’t bump into you before, we’l
l meet back here in an hour.”

  They went their separate ways at the top of the stairs and Fox walked along the Vaulted Passageway. He strolled up to a long bar and waved over a barman.

  “Vodka, crushed ice, lime and sugar,” Fox ordered, the drink being shaken before his eyes within seconds. “In a short glass, thanks.”

  While the bar tab was on the house, Fox passed a twenty-dollar Euro over in an exchange that would mean the barman would remember his drink of choice for the night.

  Fox turned around and leaned on the bar. He took his time to survey the scene before him, and sipped his drink as he watched the passing crowd. He only noted a couple of bodyguards, unusual given the stature of the guest list but not surprising given the overt security in and out of the palace’s entry points.

  Plenty of new money here. Dirty money, those who had cashed in on the rapid shift to capitalism at the right time. Also, plenty of English, French and Italian accents. By their look and dress, this was an opportunity for older money to forge ties with the shifting tide of wealth on the continent. Old-money families, representing finance and industrial sectors, making bonds with the emerging resource, manufacturing and information technologies rooting themselves in the developing East. Survival of the richest. He recognised some European Union parliamentarians, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, football players, military leaders, royalty. All in black tie but for a few dress uniforms.

  As he approached the Great Hall, the sound of a modern take on a classical Russian composition spilled from the room. A table by the large gilded entry doors was piled with sequined masks, with a sign that read in Russian and English: ‘For the after-dinner dance.’