Siege of Lightning

CHAPTER EIGHT SANCTIMONIOUS

Tom Pruett pinched the bridge of his nose and briefly closed his eyes as he walked toward the windows behind his desk. He stared at the overcast sky. An unseasonably low thirty degrees had brought an early frost to the Virginia countryside. Winter was settling in before summer had ended and even before autumn had gotten a chance to get started. It was like that worldwide. This would be one very cold, hard winter. But Pruett’s depression came not from that realization. He had just heard the most amazing story about a mole in the Paris office. Someone Pruett knew from his days as a case officer. He turned around and stared into Higgins’s intelligent but cold eyes, wondering how his subordinate had managed to detach himself emotionally from all this.

“Are you absolutely certain of this, Roland?”

“Beyond doubt. Stone killed his case officer, Richard Potter, during a meeting Stone had called. He’d claimed he had some vital information regarding something of national importance that could not be discussed over the phone, and that he couldn’t come into the station because it was under surveillance.” Higgins’s tone indicated disbelief. “Potter agreed to the meeting, and following standard procedure, he let me know of it before he left.” Higgins continued. “The bullet found in his chest has been confirmed to have come from a rifle which had Stone’s fingerprints. Also, we have depositions from two police officers on duty at the park during the incident. They both picked out Stone’s photograph from a stack of nearly one hundred mugshots. It all fits.”

“Yes, I can see that. It all fits too perfectly.” He walked to the bar, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed a small carton of milk. “Tell me, what would you say was his motive?”

“We’re working on that. Perhaps money? We’re not sure.”

“You better find out, and fast. I know Stone. I doubt money was his motive.” Pruett noticed his words had a strong effect on his subordinate. Higgins blinked twice, exhaled deeply, and looked away.

“I can understand where you’re coming from,” Higgins said. “But the evidence! It’s all there. And the incident earlier that day. We have reason to believe that he was involved in the murder of three French policemen during a shoot-out in a Paris warehouse. The bullets extracted from the bodies match Stone’s Beretta found in the park. Stone is a dangerous man. He must be stopped.”

“When will we get an official French police report with all the evidence?”

“Within the next couple of hours. We’ll need an additional hour to translate all the relevant portions.”

“Very well, you bring me the evidence. We’ll review it together and then I’ll make the call.”

“Sure, Tom.” With that Higgins turned and left the office.

Pruett was concerned. He had never labeled anyone beyond salvage in the years he’d been Head of Clandestine Services. And he didn’t want to now, especially someone he knew personally, but if the evidence was indeed as irrefutable as Higgins had indicated, Pruett knew he would have no choice but to issue the field alert. He still felt uneasy, even after Higgins’s convincing words. What are you up to, Cameron? Killing a bunch of cops and then your own case officer? Why? What’s your motive? Who are you working for? In another time he would have guessed the Russians, but not in this day and age. Then who? And why? It simply didn’t make sense.

One floor above, George Pruett noticed an icon turning yellow. It was the personnel icon. He clicked it and eight new icons appeared on the screen, one per area division. All were white except for the European Division. He clicked it and read about the death of Case Officer Richard Potter from the Paris office. The report had indicated that he had died from a gunshot to the chest.

Paris? The same place where the Athena scientists were killed. He leaned back on his chair without taking his eyes off the screen. What’s going on? Europe is supposed to be quiet these days. He shifted his weight uneasily, not sure what to make of the new finding. Is there a coincidence?

George switched from his algorithm to the CIA’s databanks and requested more information on Potter’s death. The system came back a few seconds later with the statement that more information would be available within the hour.

George checked his watch and returned to his algorithm.

For Cameron the nightmare had returned. Lightning engulfed him once again as the rain and wind pounded against his exhausted body. The dense canopied jungle funneled streams of water onto him; insects fed on exposed flesh. They’d been running from the VC — just the two of them, the only survivors of a bloody ambush that had taken the lives of twenty others — for three days. Cameron and Skergan had survived by hiding under their comrades’ bodies, remaining still for hours, waiting for the VC to move out. They had escaped during the night, under the cover of darkness. For two days they had not seen the enemy; then late on the third day Skergan stepped on a VC mine. His leg was taken off at the knee. Cameron tied it off with a tourniquet and managed to bandage the leg as best he could, and they continued struggling south. But the explosion had given their position away. The VC got closer and closer. Skergan kept slowing them down. With the bottom half of his leg missing, their progress was slow. Despite the tourniquet and makeshift bandage, he continued to lose blood at a staggering rate. It was just a matter of time. They stopped and stared into each other’s eyes.

Go, Cameron… you’ll have a chance… on your own, Skergan told him, but Cameron couldn’t bring himself to leave Skergan to a certain death. The soldier persisted. You must… Cameron. You have… a chance by yourself. I’ll… hide and wait. It made sense. If he could leave him hidden and then run for help, perhaps the two of them could make it. So he did. Cameron left him hiding under a large log, and moved south for a half hour before guilt overwhelmed him. He had left a comrade in arms behind. He had committed the ultimate sin of a warrior.

Cameron turned around and headed back — too late. By the time he got there the VC had already killed Skergan. Cameron found him hanging naked from a tree. He had been emasculated. Later that same day Cameron ran into an American recon platoon and was airlifted to safety. The same day. Oh, Jesus! I could have saved him. We could have made it alive together. The guilt finally consumed him whole when he visited his friend’s family after the war. A young wife and two boys. Memories of Lan-Anh’s death flashed in his mind as he stared at the anguish in their faces. The sadness in their eyes was beyond anything he could bear. Cameron left the house minutes after he’d arrived. He had destroyed them. He was responsible. He had sinned, caused pain. He would carry that burden forever.

With rivulets of sweat rolling down his forehead and neck, Cameron woke up with the worst headache of his life. His eyes scanned the room he was in. It appeared modest but clean. A single light bulb dimly illuminated the wooden walls and ceiling.

He turned his head. A plain table bearing a large white bowl stood beside his small bed. Beside the bowl was a pitcher. Aside from a single chair next to the table, the room was empty. He managed to sit up and looked out the small window over the bed. The waters of the Seine flowed peacefully under a bright, clear sky.

How long have I been here? Hours? Days maybe?

Inexorably, his mind drifted back and relived the encounter at the Botanical Gardens. The shooters had been undoubtedly sent by Athena to prevent him from revealing the plan to destroy the new NASA orbiter. But how did they know?

His case officer was dead, and he was isolated. If his case officer had used proper CIA procedures, then Chief Europe had to be in on it since he was the only other soul that knew about the meeting… unless the call had been intercepted. Cameron knew he could not afford to gamble. Chief Europe was not an option. Who then? Who could he approach with his information? Anyone at the Paris station? How? He hardly knew them. Whom could he trust? And Marie, where was she? She was supposed to have been waiting by the Seine. Did she get captured?

The door screeched open.

“Cameron! Thank god you’re awake!”

Marie ran to him and gave him a hug. He didn’t know how to respond. He hesitated. Part of him wanted to return the hug, but the professional in him pulled him back. As much as his feelings for Marie were growing, he had to remain emotionally detached. He needed his trained, logical mind to help him survive. Feelings and emotions would only cloud his judgment. He had to remain focused.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” He gently pushed her away and saw tears in her eyes.

“Oh, my, oh, God. For a while I thought that you…”

“It was close. Too close. How did I make it here? I remember the waves. The water was cold… then everything faded away.”

She sat next to him. “I thought I heard some shots, but wasn’t sure if it was just the storm. Then I saw you running down the steps. There were two men following you. I saw you dive in the river. You drifted in my direction. I waited until you got close enough and jumped after you. I pulled you to the shore and managed to get some help from a tourist boat captain. He helped me bring you here.”

“Where is here?”

“A small hotel a few blocks away from the Botanical Gardens.”

Cameron looked at his battered body and then back at Marie.

She smiled. “Don’t worry. This place rents rooms by the day or the hour. No one cares what you do up here or what you look like. We’re safe for now.”

“You saved my life,” Cameron said without taking his eyes off her. “Thank you.”

“I’m so glad you’re all right.” She hugged him again.

This time Cameron returned the hug. “So am I.”

“What — what happened? I thought it was supposed to be a simple meeting.”

“I found Potter dead. Someone set us up.”

Marie’s face became serious. “Dead? What do we do now?”

“Where’s my coat?

Marie gave him a puzzled look, got up, and walked to the other side of the room. “Here it is. I almost threw it away. It’s nearly torn apart.”

Cameron snatched it and rubbed his right hand over the side of the coat. The waterproof pouch was still there. He looked into her eyes and smiled.

Higgins read the faxed report from his contact in the French police and smiled. The report detailed in no uncertain terms the French government’s conclusions that Stone had orchestrated the murders of Potter and three French police officers. Stone would be labeled “beyond salvage.” If he was still alive, he was as good as dead. No one would dare touch him without killing him first. No one would listen to the shallow words of a marked man, who would most likely save anything to save his skin.

He got up and headed for Pruett’s office. He had removed the last barrier for the Head of Clandestine Services. With or without motive, his boss would have to give the order. And Higgins would have more than earned what was due him.

George Pruett noticed the same CIA personnel icon turning yellow again. Just as suddenly, NASA’s icon turned red once more. He clicked his way down the CIA personnel icon and found a new entry in his list. There were no additional deaths in the operative world, but somehow Potter’s assassin had been identified. Cameron Stone had been labeled “beyond salvage.”

Shit, George thought. That guy’s as good as dead.

He went back up to the main menu and selected NASA’s icon. Again, he clicked his way down until he reached the list. It had a new entry. His eyes opened wide in surprise when he read the name Cameron Stone. He was suspected of killing, not the three Athena scientists, but three policemen at the scene. The bullets from the three slain bodies matched Stone’s handgun found near Potter’s body.

Wait a second! What’s going on? That’s not the way it happened. George tilted his head. Something didn’t seem right.

He went up the NASA list and started reading the third entry. His recollection was that there had been three Athena scientists dead and seven unidentified men. If that was the case, where did the three policemen that Stone killed come from? Did he kill them afterward?

Those thoughts faded away when his eyes read a different report from the one he originally read. The “new” third entry indicated that the three policemen and four unidentified men had been found at the warehouse along with the Athena scientists.

What the hell?

George blinked twice in surprise and read the entry once more. Shit! Someone had changed it and my algorithm picked up the change and replaced the old one. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

His heart rate increased as a rush of adrenaline flooded his system. This just looked too much like a novel, yet it was actually happening.

With the palms of his hands already sweaty, he placed the cursor on the print command and clicked the left button on the mouse. A few seconds later the laser printer started humming away. He pulled out a sheet from the paper tray and read it once more.

“Pretty fucking incredible.”

“Talking to yourself again, George?” said the voice from the other side of the cubicle wall.

George ignored it. He simply locked the system and headed for the Records department.

He thought about taking the elevators but decided against it. He had been sitting in that chair for most of the morning and needed the exercise. George turned right and hurried toward the stairs at the end of the long hall. Who could have done that? If the new report was accurate and they were indeed policemen, then what do the French have to say? What do we have to say? And who changed it? The French? He didn’t think so. The information had to go through strict CIA screening before it was allowed inside the Agency’s databanks. That meant someone in the Agency had entered it. Could it have been a simple clerical error? Two operators entering data at separate locations? One writing over the other’s information?

He shook his head, finally understanding the reason for his uncle’s digestive problems. Too many questions and never enough answers.

He pushed the heavy door open and headed downstairs, reaching the second floor in seconds. He opened the door, exiting from the stairwell. Records was on the right.

“Hi, George.”

George stopped mid-stride, turned, and stared at Roland Higgins. “Wh — oh, hello, sir,” he responded. Where did he come from?

“So tell me, your algorithm coming up with anything new? I saw the report you sent to the European desk.”

George hesitated for a moment or two. All of his information had to be filed before leaving the Office of Computer Services. “Well… in a way, sir, but…”

“Hmm… tell me. I’m interested.”

“I’d like to, sir. But you know, the rules say I should go to Records before…”

Higgins laughed out loud. “I know the rules, George. I make most of them. You won’t get in trouble. I’ll go talk to Records afterward. Now, tell me. What’s new?”

George reddened. He felt silly, trying to quote CIA regulation to someone as high up as Higgins. “This, sir.” He pulled out the folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his pants. “The algorithm just picked it up.”

Higgins took the piece of paper from his hands and read it for about a minute.

“Good information. It is indeed too bad that you have to be exposed to this, but that’s the reality of things. These kinds of problems don’t always just happen in the movies. They occur in the real world.”

“I know, sir. It’s a terrible thing. Does it really mean that…”

“Yes. That standing orders are for termination with extreme prejudice. It sounds cold, but trust me, the evidence against him is overwhelming. We have to stop him.”

“I understand, sir. There’s one observation I’d like to point out to you.”

“Yes? What’s that?”

“Well, it regards the third entry, sir. It’s changed from the last time I printed it.” He noted that Higgins remained quiet for a few moments and stared at the sheet of paper.

George felt uncomfortable. Chief Europe finally raised his gaze. “When did you find out about this?”

“About ten minutes ago, sir. I was on my way to Records to file it and—”

“Don’t. I mean, I’ll handle it. I’ll talk to Records. You don’t need to get involved anymore. Is that understood?”

George noticed the warmness in Higgins’s eyes was gone, replaced by a fierce intensity.

“Yes — yes, sir. No problem. No one knows about this.”

“George, you have done the Agency a great favor. I can’t tell you anything else beyond that. Rest assured that this information along with your observation will go to the appropriate persons. Good job.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Higgins turned around and disappeared around the corner. George headed back to his office with a truckload of questions and concerns. Why had Higgins reacted like that when George told him about filing the report with Records? Was he up to something? George wasn’t sure about that, but he felt certain that someone somewhere had changed his story and got caught doing it, and Higgins’s reaction only added to George’s suspicion. Calm down, George! Think objectively. Objectivity. That’s the answer. He’d read or heard that somewhere, perhaps in one of his novels; perhaps he remembered his father telling him that once. Step aside and look at the problem as a bystander, George. You dug up conflicting information and presented it to one of you superiors, who didn’t react too positively when you told him about filing the conflicting information with Records. On top of that Higgins had pretty much ordered George to keep a lid on it.

All right, George, what can you do if you don’t trust the person that has the information? Easy. Pass that same info to someone you do trust. Who?

George headed for his uncle’s office.

The moment Roland Higgins reached his office, he walked directly to a metal trash can next to his desk. He took the glass lighter from his desk and set George Pruett’s sheet of paper on fire. He let it drop inside the trash can, where he’d burned the two stapled sheets from George’s previous finding the day before.

He reached for the phone. It has to happen today, he reflected, staring at the burning paper. Today he would settle his problems.