Destiny

FIFTY-FIVE

The voice was that of a man, deep, slight Persian accent. “Taheera. Is the job done? Was the target eliminated?”

“So her name was Taheera,” Marcus said. “I liked Layla better. And no, that target’s still here. You’re talking to it.”

“Who is this?” The voice was flat, anger subdued, but there.

“The target at your service — Paul Marcus, and before you hang up and remove all trace of this line, I made the call to let you know I’ve reconsidered the offer by your government.”

“What offer?”

“Cut the act. I don’t have the time or the stomach for it. It’s not a matter of if it will happen, it’s when a cyber attack will happen on your nuke operation. You want me to decode a cyber-worm…then you release Brandi Hirsh and Adam Spencer.”

“You sound like a man with delusions. Our nuclear operation is purely as an alternate power source. Regardless, there is no threat or attack—”

“Bullshit! Its code name is Myrtus.”

“How did you know that?”

“If your centrifuge hasn’t been eaten by it…it’s just a matter of time. You want it stopped, you set those kids free.”

“What assurance do we have that you will comply if these two are released?”

“We’ll make a trade. The worm was probably delivered when someone stuck a flash drive in one of your computers and set it in motion. You’ve got Russians, Germans and who knows how many consultants working in your nuclear program. Any of them could have delivered the cyber hit. You load your operating system onto a portable drive. Meet me in a public place. Give me the drive and give me a week to deliver the cure for your worm. You schedule a press conference where your president or supreme leader says he’s reconsidered the plight of the two Americans and is going to release them on humanitarian grounds in a good faith movement.”

“I do not have the authority to—”

“Then get it! Or you find somebody who has it!”

“How can I contact you?”

“I’ll hang on to Layla’s — no, Taheera’s phone. You have the number.”

“Mr. Marcus, I will speak with my superiors. This, of course, will be decided at the highest level. However, remember one thing: should you try to deceive us, your head will be removed with a dull knife.”

Alicia Quincy needed hours of undistracted time to run extensive research and analytics. She took a comp day and worked from her apartment, a second fresh pot of coffee was brewing, giving off a final hiss when the last cup of water percolated through the dark Colombian grounds. She sat at the bar in her kitchen, hair pinned up, dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, leaning toward the computer screen. She pulled records for every federal defense contract issued in the past decade. She profiled members of the board of directors from companies with global footprints in telecommunications, media, aerospace, banking/finance, private equity, healthcare, energy/power and biochemical. She analyzed which asset management companies have been given large public pension funds, how the contracts were awarded and which members of Congress or the U.S. Senate had a possible role in the procurements.

She finished the second pot of coffee and could feel palpitations in her heart when she began to see patterns emerge. She looked away from the screen for a moment. Her mind racing, the implications building as the layers of complicity revealed a buried trail that intersected with America’s past, present and maybe crossing its future.

Alicia looked at her watch, picked up her phone and made a call. “Brad, hi, it’s Alicia. How’s the Justice Department treating you these days?”

“Can’t complain. White-collar crime is bad for most businesses, but it alone is enough to keep us in business for the next century. Anything new with your niece?”

“We’re told negotiations continue. But that’s all we’re told.”

“I wish I had some overseas experience, maybe there’d be something I could do.”

“You’re sweet, thanks. Brad, I remember you telling me about your younger brother. The one who worked at a bar in Boston—”

“That’s my brother Mark. He worked at Foleys”

“Right. You said Mark served a man at the bar one night, not too long ago, who said he was a diver on the wreck site when John Kennedy Junior’s plane went down off Martha’s Vineyard.”

“Yeah, Mark said the guy told him he was a former Navy Seal diver. He’d pounded back a few too many drinks that night and Mark cut him off. My brother was studying journalism at the time, until that profession went into the shit can. The guy said, for one last drink, he’d give my brother the story of a lifetime. Something about Kennedy’s plane.”

“What happened?”

“The customer threw up on the bar. Mark called the guy a cab and quit his job the next day. He’s been working in PR since graduation.”

“How can I contact Mark?”

“I can text you his number. He’s here in DC. What are you working on, Alicia?”

“Nothing yet. Just looking at bits and pieces. Thanks, Brad.”

Alicia met Mark Rockford for coffee at the Starbucks on the corner of 16th and K streets in downtown Washington. Mark, early twenties, gelled hair combed straight back, looked at Alicia through inquisitive, sea green eyes and said, “My brother told me about your niece. I hope there’s a positive advance soon.”
“Thank you.” Alicia sipped her coffee.

“So you’re interested in the dude with the Kennedy Junior story?”

“Yes. Brad told me some of what happened that night. What’d the man tell you?”

“Not a lot. He was the last customer still sitting at the bar on a Tuesday night near closing. I remember there was a couple at a table, but this guy was the only one at the bar. We’d been chatting for a while as I’d served drinks. He told me his girlfriend had recently left him, and the kick between the legs is that he had a bout with lymphoma. The guy was in his early forties, tops. He asked me if I was going to be a bartender all my life, and I told him I was interested in journalism. His eyes got wide and said he could give me the story of a lifetime.”

“What was that?”

“That’s what I asked. He told me he was one of the Navy divers that found John Kennedy Junior’s plane off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard. He said the crash wasn’t an accident. I fluffed this dude’s comments off to the booze. But then he said that he saw a hole blown through the tail of the plane and the hole looked like it blew out from the inside of the plane.”

“Did he say he had anything else?”

“Yeah, right before he vomited sausage pizza all over the bar. He said he and a Navy diving buddy were the first divers to see the plane, and he snapped an underwater picture of the wreckage. I told him to bring it to me and I might write a freelance story for the Boston Globe.”

“What happened?”

“Never saw the guy again.” Mark reached in his wallet and pulled out a receipt. “The fella left his credit card receipt on the bar. I kept it in case he ever came back or…well, here it is.” He handed the receipt to Alicia.

“May I have this?”

“Sure. You think you can track him down?”

“Maybe.” Alicia looked at the receipt. “His name’s Greg Owen.”

“Yeah. I know you’re with NSA. Why does the agency want to find this guy?”

“I can’t say much…you know…national security.”

“I remembered one of the things this guy, Owen, said. He told me that, for more than a year after the Kennedy accident, he felt like he was being followed. He said sometimes he still does.”