Split second, p.17
Split Second, page 17
“Look,” said Allen, “I know you’re lying to me. I know it. Which means you must be trying to protect someone. But here is the thing. Whoever you’re protecting isn’t in any trouble. I just need to speak to him or her. Ask some questions. This person is just a stepping stone in what is an investigation vital to the security of this country. When a nuke goes off in Chicago because you wanted to play games, how are you going to feel then?”
Sylvia considered. If she refused to cooperate after being given a direct order, this would not go well for her. And she thought it likely he was telling the truth. Because why would they want Blake? So maybe delaying this guy would lead to the type of disaster he had described.
But just in case it was all bullshit and they were after Blake, she could warn him the moment this man left. Let her friend know someone was coming.
Aaron Blake could be taken if he was surprised. But if he knew you were coming, she liked his chances against anyone. Or any group. She had seen him in action. He had a rare talent for survival. Survive a few ops that go south when other men don’t, maybe you’re lucky. But when a man like Blake keeps beating the odds, time after time, you have to chalk it up to skill.
“Okay,” said Sylvia. “You’re right. The man you’re looking for is named Aaron Blake. I worked with him pretty extensively when I was stationed in Yemen. He was spec-ops counter-terrorism. Ballsy, brilliant, and heroic. And very tenacious. Very popular with everyone, inside and outside of the service. But also self-reflective. Did a lot of soul-searching. The sort who never stopped worrying about turning into a monster, becoming too good at killing.”
Allen nodded as if her description of Blake’s skills and background didn’t surprise him in the least. He raised his eyebrows. “What’s he doing now? Is he still in the service?”
“No, he left. Recently. He runs a private detective agency in LA. He said he needed the video footage for a case he was working on.”
“Interesting. And that’s all he told you?”
“That’s everything.”
Sylvia paused and stared intently at the man across from her. “Just know this, if you were bullshitting me, and Aaron Blake is in your cross-hairs for whatever reason, you’ve got it wrong. He’s a good man. And he is fully on our side. His loyalty is absolute. So whatever intel you think you have, if it suggests he’s working at cross-purposes to the interests of the United States, the intel is shit.”
Allen rose from the sofa. “Thank you for your help. And also for giving us this perspective.”
“Just don’t forget what I told you about him,” said Sylvia bluntly.
But as she finished this sentence she found herself staring into the barrel of an automatic pistol, pointed at her chest.
Sylvia’s heart accelerated madly. “I told you the truth,” she insisted desperately. “You can check on it and you’ll see. There is no reason to threaten me.”
“Sorry about the gun,” said Allen politely. “But I can’t help but worry you might contact Aaron Blake the moment I leave. You know, warn him that I was here and wanted to talk to him. I can’t risk him going to ground. This is too important.”
Her eyes widened in horror. “So you’re going to kill me?” she said.
R. Sylvia Tagert had been in any number of dangerous situations, but she never thought she would die in her own home, in a white terrycloth bathrobe. A part of her mind, unbidden, came up with a stray thought that if she had to die, being killed at seven in the morning before she had any coffee was the best time for it.
But her visitor shook his head. “Of course I’m not going to kill you,” he said. “I really am grateful for your help. And what would your boss say if he helped a fellow organization and they returned the favor by killing one of his best people?”
He removed two small yellow capsules from his shirt pocket. “Swallow these,” he said. “They will put you out for about eight hours. That way I can be sure you won’t issue any warnings. And you’ll be fine. I’ve tried these on flights, and while I’m giving you a stronger dose than you need, I always wake up feeling like a million bucks.”
Sylvia took the offered pills, put them in her mouth, and swallowed. She knew she didn’t have a choice, and they could still be on the same side. She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to take any chances with Blake, a critical lead.
“Open your mouth and lift your tongue,” said Allen pleasantly.
She did as she was asked and within minutes already felt a pleasant drift toward sleep, although the man in her house wasn’t about to leave until he was certain she was sleeping like the dead.
On the other hand, this was infinitely better than being dead. And her visitor had robbed her of sleep, after all. Maybe this was just his way of returning what he had taken, with interest.
* * *
Joe Allen left a sleeping Sylvia Tagert and returned to his car. After half an hour of pulling strings and scanning through Blake’s file, he felt he was prepared enough to call Lee Cargill and answer whatever questions he might have.
Cargill answered the audio-only call on the first ring. “Good timing, Joe. The president is over two hours late for our meeting,” he said, his words dripping with barely contained rage. “But I’ve just been given the five-minute warning, so you’ll need to make it quick.”
“I had no trouble with our CIA agent,” said Allen. “She pulled the street video for an ex-special operator named Aaron Blake, who has seen enough action for ten men.”
“No surprise there,” noted Cargill.
“And get this, at the moment this Blake really is a PI, working and living out of LA. He left the service to try to make a go of it as a gumshoe. I’ve had his file pulled and I’ve sent it to your computer. He’s as formidable as we expected. I have his address, know what car he drives, and have people working to learn where he is right now.”
“Well done,” said Cargill. There was a long pause. “The team we spoke about on the plane is standing by. But let’s not be too hasty. Jenna Morrison and her PI aren’t the goal, after all. We need to find out if the flash drive exists, and then find it. Nothing else matters. So I want to know where this guy is now, but just as importantly, I want to know everywhere he’s been since Sunday night, and I want deep background on anyone he’s spoken with. If he went to a gas station to buy a candy bar, I want to know when this happened and the life story of the gas station attendant.”
“Understood. I’ll pull street camera and satellite footage of his past travels right away.”
“While you’re setting the wheels in motion, get your ass to San Diego, to Camp Pendleton, so you can lead the team I have waiting there when we decide to act. Report in as soon as you’ve gathered the information I’ve asked for.”
“Roger that,” said Joe Allen.
“I have to run. Time to meet with President Janney,” said Cargill, with all the distaste most men reserved for a visit to the proctologist.
28
Jack Rourk was resting in a seated position on a bed, watching a movie on the room’s main monitor. While the nineteenth floor of the twenty-two-story building was simply called the infirmary, it was as sophisticated as any hospital and just as well equipped.
He looked out a window at the lake off in the distance. It was hard to imagine he was in the middle of one of the most brutal deserts in the world, and less than an hour away from the neon lights, gaming tables, glamorous shows, and hookers of Las Vegas.
Dr. Susan Schlesinger had wasted no time patching up his arm, stitching the wound as neatly as a seamstress, and hooking him up to an IV drip for meds, hydration, and nutrition. She had no idea what was really happening on the man-made island, but she was being paid a fortune not to display unnecessary curiosity, or complain about the lack of cell phone coverage or outgoing Internet. She had been told to care for every patient as though he or she were a head of state, and since she had only been there a week, and Rourk was her first patient, she had maintained a bedside vigil while he slept.
She had left a few minutes earlier, after Rourk had awakened, and when he heard someone approaching he assumed she was returning.
But he was wrong. It was not Susan Schlesinger.
It was Edgar Knight.
Knight didn’t make personal visits to wipe the noses of his underlings, so it must be something important. And one glance at his boss’s face made it clear it was something bad.
“The flash drive is shit!” barked Knight immediately, not one to prolong suspense. “We cracked it, and it’s a huge data file of baseball statistics through the ages. Just in case the real file was somehow hidden, encoded, the consultant turned over every last possible stone.”
He glared at Rourk with an intimidating intensity. “That asshole on the mountain played you, Jack. Like a fucking fiddle.”
Rourk blew out a long breath. “Shit,” he said softly, embarrassed. “I don’t blame you for being pissed, Edgar. But the guy was good. It was the exact same brand and style of memory stick the real file is on. I had to assume it was real. If I’d have gone after this guy, while Cargill’s men were figuring out I killed Argent, I could have lost both the PI and the flash drive.”
“Which is what happened, anyway, isn’t it?” snapped Knight caustically.
He paused and made a visible attempt to calm down. “I’m not saying it’s your fault, Jack,” he added in more controlled tones, “or that you made the wrong choice. But I thought we had it, the holy fucking grail, and learning otherwise has put me in a foul mood. So quit lounging around and find me this private dick.”
“You know he probably isn’t really a PI?”
“Thanks, Jack. Any other brilliant thoughts you want to share? I know he probably lied. But where else are we going to start? So assume he really is a PI. When you’ve finished looking at photos of every PI on earth, then we’ll think of something else.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“See that you do. It goes without saying that if you find him, I want to know about it seconds later.”
29
Joe Allen stood in a secure conference room within Camp Pendleton, a Marine Corps Base in Oceanside, California, halfway between San Diego and their target in Orange County. Retracing Aaron Blake’s steps had proven quite valuable. When they discovered he and Jenna Morrison had visited a computer expert, one he had served with in the military, their purpose in so doing had been obvious.
Allen’s tablet computer was wirelessly synched with a sixty-inch monitor hanging like a picture from the wall, capable of displaying images and video in three dimensions without the need of glasses.
His four-man team, who knew nothing about Cargill or his black project, looked on in anticipation, having wondered why a team of Army Green Berets had been flown into a Marine base. The only conclusion they had come to was that they were about to conduct an op on US soil, and this was a nearby staging area, a prospect they found troubling.
Allen swiped the tablet computer with his fingers and an image of a soft-looking blond man hung in the air, as though he was personally in attendance, just in front of the monitor.
“This is Gregory Soyer,” began Allen. “He’s a civilian now, and looks like he’d be a pushover, but don’t be deceived. He spent six years with the Rangers and is extremely dangerous. He specialized in computers and electronics, hardware and software, and left the military a few years ago. Since then he has built a thriving computer consulting practice.”
He slid a finger and the next image appeared. “This is his home in Orange County. He’s wealthy enough, and quirky enough, to have bought a home that is fairly isolated, which is ideal for our needs. The house is one-story and relatively small, but it is secluded, and backed up against a canyon.”
Allen sent several images to the screen in quick succession, close-up and panoramic satellite photos of the back of Soyer’s house, as crisp and clear as if they were taken by an expert photographer standing twenty yards from the residence.
“Notice that the back of the house abuts a forty-foot cliff,” said Allen. “Soyer has a backyard we judge to be eleven yards wide, then a wrought iron fence so no one accidentally falls, and then an immediate and sheer drop off into the canyon below.”
The men took in everything he said but remained expressionless.
“Soyer is known to mostly work from his home, and satellites show his car, a white Mercedes C300 sport sedan, is still there, even as we speak. We believe he will remain at home for at least the next few hours. I know you’ve been assigned to me on a temporary basis and haven’t been read into the bigger picture. I’d love to do that for you—but I can’t. Just know that your actions are serving the national security and will be instrumental in averting one of the gravest threats this country has ever faced.”
Allen paused to let this sink in, his face grim. After several seconds he continued. “Our objectives today are threefold. First, and most importantly, we believe Soyer has a flash drive on premises that is vital to national security. I need to retrieve this drive, undamaged. Which is what makes this mission tricky. Because if we fail to nullify Soyer quickly, we run the risk that his first action will be to destroy the drive. So he can’t have any indication that we’re coming. He has to be taken out of the equation the moment he knows that we’re there.”
Allen frowned. “The problem is that he’s experienced and fairly well prepared. We’ve pulled the plans for his house and studied satellite images. He has video and sensors protecting the lead up to his house in the front. Given he’s now a civilian living in Southern California, he isn’t too worried about anyone scaling the short cliff in his backyard, so he doesn’t have any monitors pointed in this direction, and no alarms. It’s his only real blind spot. At least electronically. When he’s in the office, he does look out through a large sliding glass door, so anyone coming this direction has to be mindful of him spotting you the old-fashioned way.”
Allen gestured to the leanest member of the team, who had short black hair and Hispanic features. “Lieutenant Recinos, this is where you come in,” he said. “I understand you’ve done some competitive bouldering?”
Ricardo Recinos nodded. “Yes, sir, I have,” he replied.
There were different types of recreational and competitive rock climbing, but bouldering was the climbing discipline in which participants didn’t use safety rope typical of other styles. Instead, bouldering required the ascent of relatively low routes, with at most a cushioned bouldering pad below the climber to protect against injury.
“What’s the most difficult outdoor climb you’ve flashed recently?” asked Allen.
Recinos was impressed that Allen knew this term. Flashing a climb meant completing it on the first try.
“I flashed a V12 two weeks ago, sir,” replied Recinos, now confident Allen would know what this meant. Bouldering climbs were rated from V0, for beginners—although even these could confound strong athletes with no climbing experience—to V16 for the elite of the elite.
“Excellent,” said Allen. “I’ve had a climber pore over dozens of close-ups of different sections of the cliff below Soyer’s backyard. In his judgment, if this were a bouldering climb, he’d rate it a V4, maybe a V5. You’ll have time to study the photos yourself. Impossible for a beginner, but fairly comfortable for you. Except that it’s forty feet up, so you’ll have no choice but to flash it. And you’ll be carrying a backpack, which will add weight and change your center of gravity.”
“What equipment will be required, sir?” asked Recinos.
“You’ll need a gas grenade launcher, about twice as large as your current weapon, but no heavier. It can shoot a baseball-sized canister of highly compressed gas through Soyer’s sliding glass door in the back. The gas is colorless, odorless, and has dispersal kinetics that are off the charts. Non-lethal, but will knock him out within seconds of a single breath.”
“I see,” said Recinos. “So scale the cliff, quiet as a mouse, and shoot the gas canister through the slider?”
“Yes. Wait until you’re certain Soyer is in his office. But also make sure he doesn’t see you.”
“And if he’s not in his office?”
Allen chewed his lower lip. “Give it five minutes. All of his computer equipment is in there, so he won’t be anywhere else for long. If he doesn’t show after five, shoot multiple canisters through as many different windows as you can. If he’s anywhere in the house, the gas will reach him in seconds.”
“So I assume I’ll also need a gas mask,” said Recinos.
“Yes. So you can confirm that he’s down. Sorry, I know this will add extra weight and bulk to your ascent, but it won’t be too bad.”
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” said Recinos.
Allen gestured to one of the other men before him, a balding man with a wide face. “Captain Thompson will be piloting a—let’s call it an experimental helicopter—with the rest of the team inside. A helo that runs so quiet you could set it down in a library without attracting attention. We’ll be at high altitude and out of sight, but minutes away. So fire the canister, Lieutenant Recinos, and call us down. Soyer’s front lawn is large enough for us to land there. We’ll gather up his unconscious body for later interrogation and I’ll do a methodical search of his house for the flash drive I’m after.”
“Is that it, sir?” said a lieutenant named Akke Wilmes, correctly wondering why he and Lieutenant Brandon Laub were required for this mission. Recinos and Thompson would seem to be all the manpower required.
“Not quite,” replied Allen. He pulled up two additional photographs, which now appeared to hover in the air behind him, side by side. “You’re looking at Aaron Blake, ex-Army Ranger with considerable combat experience, and Jenna Morrison, a genetics graduate student at UCSD. We have satellites monitoring Blake’s car. While it’s still parked at his apartment complex in LA, we think the chances are reasonably good that he’ll visit Soyer later today. We’d ideally like to capture these two as well, alive and unharmed. That’s why I’ve opted to go with a slightly larger team. I’ll brief you on how I want to play that portion of the op after we’ve completed the higher priority half of the mission.”
