Upon A Pale Horse

SIX The Agency

“What did he know?”

George Thorn, the deputy director of the CIA, shook his head and shrugged at the question, deliberately taking his time with his answer. The questioner was not a man to be trifled with — enormously powerful, and one of the richest men in the nation. Thorn had been summoned to New York to meet with him rather than addressing the entire group to which he and the man belonged. It was better if some things were kept away from the others, although the two generals in their clique knew, and in fact had helped orchestrate the latest operation.

“We’re not completely sure. We do know he was poking around in areas that were sensitive. Restricted. Top secret, and not in any way related to his work.”

“Yes, yes. I’m aware of all that. How he was able to gain access is another troubling matter.”

Thorn looked around the room — the sitting room of a penthouse suite in the most exclusive building in Manhattan, the cost per square foot more than if it had been cast in pure gold. Two Picassos adorned the walls, along with a Renoir that belonged in a museum. The questioner, Reginald Barker, was old, old money — the kind of money that had prospered during the Second World War from funding both sides of the conflict, in addition to now owning the largest investment bank on Wall Street and having its tentacles in oil, real estate, military contractors, and Big Pharma. It was the kind of money that would never show up on any Forbes list — the sort that ran nations, and Barker had been actively doing just that for at least fifty of his seventy-nine years, after inheriting the mantle from his father, a hard-nosed industrialist who had taken the billion-dollar legacy he’d been handed when Barker’s grandfather had died and built it into a mega-empire.

“Indeed. But don’t forget that he was a computer expert. With fifteen years of experience with our systems. He ran some of our hacking groups. This was not an ordinary analyst.”

“That’s precisely what has me worried.”

Thorn nodded. “Me too. But we believe we’ve contained it.”

“Yes. Blowing planes out of the sky is akin to using a sledge hammer to kill a fly.” Barker reached to the side table and opened an antique humidor, selecting one of the Cohibas he favored. He snipped the tip and touched it to a platinum and diamond lighter. He didn’t offer Thorn one, and Thorn didn’t expect it. That wasn’t their relationship.

“We discussed our options. This had to be stopped immediately. As soon as we understood he was leaving the country, we needed to act. We couldn’t take the chance he would escape on the other end,” Thorn said.

“I see the media is treating it as another regrettable accident — an unexplained explosion. At least that’s going according to plan.”

“We’re confident that the flight recorder won’t show anything unusual.”

“Then it’s a dead end. Pardon the pun.”

“Yes. Although we’re still tying up loose ends.”

“The Italian.”

“No longer an issue,” said Thorn with an air of finality. “He was clean.”

“Nobody’s clean in this,” Barker spat. “He was a potential trouble spot. I’m glad he’s off the table. Stupid bastard couldn’t keep his fool mouth shut. It got him what he deserved.”

“Yes, well, at the moment, everything is progressing nicely. Our Defense Department contacts are on board, although they aren’t sure for what. Just that everything’s going to change soon. Permanently.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Barker said, studying the fine ash on the end of his cigar, tendrils of smoke drifting to the ceiling where they were discreetly sucked into the air filtration system, to be blown out over Central Park after being run through two different types of carbon filters.

Thorn had been a close friend and confidant of Barker’s for forty years, and was part of the innermost sanctum, the true hall of power. Thorn was also wealthy — not nouveau riche billionaire level like some of the members of the last administration, but seriously wealthy, which was a closely guarded secret. To most he was a tireless champion of freedom, working as the number two man in the CIA for decades, his worth unquestioned. He didn’t have a private jet, didn’t live in a twenty-million-dollar mansion, took reasonable vacations, had been married to a decent woman for most of his adult life, wore a stainless steel Omega watch. Thoroughly unremarkable in most ways. Which was how he liked it.

For as long as he could remember, he’d been part of the plan, which had morphed over time, but was now more urgent than ever before — not only because of Barker’s advancing age, but also his own… and other factors outside his control. It had never been more important for there to be no screw-ups. A lifetime of preparation had gone into this, resources that were unimaginable devoted to this new, final phase. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with it or derail it.

Nothing.

“I’m worried that the analyst may have not taken all his secrets with him. Is there any chance that he talked?”

“Not that we can see. We’re monitoring his contacts, including his girlfriend, and there hasn’t been a peep. No, it looks like he was working this one on his own, which makes sense given his personality profile. It would actually be surprising if he had shared it — he was compartmentalized with his work, and drove that home with his team time and time again. I’d say there’s virtually no chance that he passed anything on.”

Barker fixed Thorn with a hard stare, his gray eyes cold. “We’re down to the finish line. Everything’s in place. The WHO program, the manufacturing, the political jockeying, everything. We’re long past the point of no return, and we can’t have anything interfere. Never mind the money we’ll make. That’s meaningless at this point. No, we’re going to forever re-mold the world, solving a host of its problems in one fell swoop. You can be proud to be a part of it.”

Thorn nodded, his assent obligatory. This was ground well covered, and he didn’t need to be sold on it or reminded of the stakes. They were taking a bold step that would do what many privately understood was essential to the survival of the species, but were afraid to voice out loud. That was the difference between wolves and sheep. He was one of the few, the chosen, who would do what needed to be done, moral quandaries be damned. He’d devoted his entire life to this cause and didn’t need convincing that it was the single most important thing that would happen. The societal, religious, and financial impact would be profound, and out of the change would emerge a new and better order. Of that he was sure.

“What steps are you taking to confirm that there’s no further danger?” Barker asked, interrupting Thorn’s rumination.

“We’re watching the girlfriend and the brother — we’re working on having NSA backdoor monitor their cell phones, but that can take weeks absent a warrant. As it is, those are probably dead ends.”

“I have some thoughts on that,” Barker said, taking another satisfied draw on the cigar.

When Thorn left the penthouse he felt a swell of excitement. They were so damned close to changing the course of civilization. Perhaps one day he would be remembered in the history books, but he doubted it — his contribution would be silent and unacknowledged, which was as it had to be. The world wasn’t capable of grasping what they were about to do. Better to allow events to unfold, to play the part of silent spectator than catalyst. The end would justify the means, and the outcome would be its own reward.