Brute Force

Chapter 18

Ronnie Garcia pretended to window-shop, strolling from store to store with the pockets of tourists who were in town after a long day at the battlefield looking for something to eat. She watched a young college-age woman leading a group of three or four families on a walking tour of downtown. Ronnie was sure the tour had all kinds of interesting history behind it, but ambling through a bunch of pastel brick buildings had to pale next to a day at the hallowed grounds like Cemetery Ridge, the Round Tops, and the Copse of Trees from where General Pickett led his ill-fated charge.

The point of choosing Gettysburg for the meeting was that anyone suspicious would be more likely to stand out. But Ronnie hadn’t considered the fact that she, herself, could look quite suspicious loitering around alone in the quiet little town. She did her best to blend in as much as possible while scanning passersby for weapons and intent to do her harm. Her instructors had taught her during CIA countersurveillance training that everyone had quirks. Trying to be too average only made one draw more attention. A female instructor had gone so far as to point out that while Ronnie’s biggest problem was her figure, it was also her greatest asset. This instructor, a longtime operative herself, observed that if Ronnie were to rob a bank, some witnesses might not remember her deeply tanned complexion. Others would fail to note the thick, ebony hair that she’d inherited from her Cuban mother or the broad shoulders and high cheekbones of her Russian father. But any adult that saw her would recall her figure. “T and A,” the instructor had noted, running a manicured hand over her own shapely rear end. “Hard to put these particular Talents and Assets in a lineup, kiddo. Remember to use them responsibly.”

Ronnie had learned early as a young woman that few people she met, particularly the men, would spend much time looking at her face.

The comforting whine of Miyagi’s Ducati revved behind her, toward the traffic circle and Lincoln Square. Garcia found it comforting to know she was there — a mother hen on a motorcycle… with a sword.

The weather was hot and extremely muggy compared to the canned air of the bunker. Garcia had exchanged the cashmere for a light blue button-down oxford and the loosest pair of jeans she owned. Her ex called them her “mom jeans.” Half expecting her meeting to turn into a run for her life, she opted for a light pair of Nike sneakers instead of more fashionable shoes. Far from formfitting, the outfit still drew plenty of nods from passersby, both male and female.

She was fairly certain she hadn’t been followed but used a half dozen countersurveillance measures in any case, doubling back on herself and stopping at intersections through two complete light cycles as if her car had stalled. If anyone had known where she was, Palmer and everyone else would have all been dead in a ditch somewhere. Her concern was that someone would follow the delegation. Palmer had briefed his friend, Congressman Dillman, on how to watch for surveillance. Dillman supposedly had considerable experience in combat, but like Thibodaux had pointed out that from his experiences in both, combat and tradecraft were about as far apart as a tickle and a slap. Their lack of covert experience notwithstanding, both Gorski and Dillman appeared to be extremely intelligent people. Ronnie was depending on that to keep them all alive.

All associated with the effort to bring down the administration were careful not to carry anything that would incriminate them or tie them to any organized effort. They committed information to memory, sent notes in encrypted e-mails, and used old-fashioned dead drops, but recruiting powerful politicians to the cause — convincing them to move forward and actually put themselves at risk — meant certain lines needed to be crossed.

Garcia had to take risks to show the others that certain risks were worth taking. The encrypted IronKey flash drive in her pocket contained photos and detailed charts that tied the Vice President to the Pakistani Qasim Ranjhani, and medical records connecting President Drake to known terrorist plotter Dr. Nazeer Badeeb. Any one piece of it would no doubt get her shot if found in her possession, but the fact that she was willing to hand carry the thumb drive to the meeting and look the congressional delegation in the eye when she handed it over should carry some weight. She would explain the contents during their meeting, and then provide the delegation with a password after they parted company.

Garcia stopped to look in the window of a shop selling Civil War chess sets, thinking idly of her parents. Revolution and civil war had been constant topics in her home. Her father, a rule-keeping Russian who taught math and science under the Soviet-backed education system in Havana, saw no room for anything but unwavering loyalty to the party. A devoted Cuban wife, her mother was the daughter of a man who had been a successful grapefruit plantation owner before Castro. Ronnie never acted on it, but the blood of a revolutionary ran deep within her veins. She missed them both to the point of tears.

Mind snapping back to the moment, Garcia reversed direction, wanting to make one more pass down the street. Miyagi kept coming, off her bike now and looking like a tourist in crisp white slacks and a navy T-shirt. She wore a white ball cap to match her slacks and dark shades that mercifully shielded others from the intensity of her eyes. The two women passed, acknowledging each other with the polite nod of two strangers and nothing more. No one else on the sidewalk knew that inside Miyagi’s oblong messenger case was a Japanese short sword that had tasted more than its share of blood. Garcia smiled to herself, thinking how odd it was that she found such a thing comforting.

Halfway down the block, she paused in front of a small café that sold Dutch apple pie and scrapple. Lifting her hand from the pocket of her jeans, she let a red crayon fall to the ground. Without looking down, she used the heel of her Nike to grind the wax into a small circle on the sidewalk. Satisfied she’d left a mark small enough to go unnoticed by most, but large enough to get the attention of anyone who was looking for it, she made her way across the street to another espresso shop. Ordering her third cup of coffee for the evening, she took a seat by the window to wait.