Spy Thriller: The Fourteenth Protocol: A Story of Espionage and Counter-terrorism (The Special Agent Jana Baker Book Series 1) (22 page)

46
             
 

Contrary to outside perceptions of what life was like in the Queens borough of New York, the neighborhood association was active, vibrant, and alive. It was common to see people jogging or walking their dogs. And cars drove slowly in fear a child on a bicycle might careen onto the road at any moment. The house sat at 217 175th Street, just a few blocks off the Union Turnpike near the corner of 76th Street. A quiet little Cape Cod whose dormers were never un-shaded. The yard was small but well-tended. Nothing drew attention to the unassuming structure which melded into the well-kept 1940s neighborhood. An effervescent red glowed through leaves of a maple in the front yard. Neither the front door nor the windowless garage door was ever left open. In fact, no one had ever seen either door open, not during daylight hours anyway.

Well-trimmed shrubs across the front sported what looked like little purple flower-skirts below. The blooms, nestled at the base of the bushes, appeared to await the homecoming of a mom, dad, or kids into the otherwise cheery brick home. The narrow walkway to the front door was sided by shrubs, and cement pineapples adorned the brick end posts to welcome visitors. Visitors, however, never came. Those that did arrived during the late night hours and were greeted only by a garage door that, when opened, looked more like a giant mouth. The door would open, and the vehicle would disappear behind it as if it had been swallowed by the night.

“Old Mrs. Neebody,” who owned the home for longer than anyone could remember, had passed away during the previous fall, and neighbors knew nothing of the new owners. Nor was anyone aware that if a Geiger counter was placed anywhere inside the house, that its curious needle would bury itself to the right, indicating a heavy presence of radioactivity throughout the home, especially in the basement.

47
             
 

The train’s next stop was the North Avenue station. Jana and Cade disembarked at the far end of the platform, as far away as possible from riders on other cars. They had to avoid being seen; the blood on their hands, faces, and clothes would cause quite a stir. Jana tried to obscure the submachine gun by pressing it lengthwise against her hip. Fortunately, at this time of night, there were only a handful of riders. The two slipped into the empty, stale smelling women’s restroom. At the sinks, they scrubbed hard and fast, doing their best to clean themselves up. In broad daylight, this would have never worked, but under the cover of night, they had a good chance of not being noticed on the street.

The North Avenue station was nestled beneath the midtown business district. A few skyscrapers, restaurants, churches, and condos dotted this part of the city. Pushed by their real fear of being tracked, they darted out of the train station and onto the well-lit Atlanta streets above.

“So what’s this big idea of yours?” said Jana.

“Just follow me. We’ll get rid of these cell phones up here.”

Jana trailed Cade, trying to keep up with his long stride as he headed up the hill. The Varsity restaurant had stood on this spot since the glory days of the 1950s when it opened. The Varsity had been built as the largest fast-food restaurant in the world and still maintained its drive-in parking spots where cars were once served by pretty girls on roller skates. In those days, The Varsity was the place for any self-respecting Georgia Tech student to be seen on a Friday night.

Cade stopped and surveyed the ten or so cars parked in the drive-in spaces. Then he spotted it. At the far end, an aging taxicab pulled in. The driver placed his order from the car window then walked into the restaurant, probably to use the head.

“Look at how old that cab is. It’s perfect. That’s it,” said Cade, “we’re going.”

Jana still wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing, but she handed him her cell phone. They walked past the row of cars and ducked behind the taxi’s rusted rear side. Cade reached under the hollow metal bumper and tucked the cell phones inside. Jana realized now what he was doing. If the CIA were tracking the phones, they’d be led on a goose chase that could take them all over the city. It was perfect.

They walked back out onto North Avenue, and Jana said, “We’ve got to steal a car and get out of this area.”

“You know how to steal a car? What, do they teach you how to hotwire cars at the FBI Academy?”

“Don’t I wish,” said Jana. “Where’s the nearest restaurant with valet parking?”

A few minutes later, they were two blocks up. Station Number 11 was a restaurant that sat just adjacent to a sprawling condo building. It had been a fire station until about fifteen years ago when budget cuts plagued the city. The conversion to a restaurant and bar had been a hit with the locals, yet since crime was common in the midtown area, they’d elected for valet parking to help with security.

“Okay, we’re here,” said Cade. “Now what?”

“You wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.” Jana watched a few more cars stop in front of the valet station. As the valet drove the last car behind the building, she ran over to the key box, grabbed a set of keys, and ran back. As the valet ran back to the front, a young couple that looked like they were on a first date wandered outside of the restaurant and handed the valet their ticket.

Cade and Jana held hands and strolled towards the rear of the building as if they owned the place. The valet drove back past them, taking little notice. On the key chain, Jana pressed the key fob’s unlock button, and a black Ford Explorer chirped, its parking lights blinking once. They were in and out in less than two minutes. They pulled out and headed south on Interstate 85, then exited quickly and took the back roads, holding to the speed limit. They were both still shell-shocked. A headache was brewing, and Jana squinted against the lights of oncoming cars. Exhaustion began to overtake them both. It wouldn’t be long before they would need to find a place to pull off and conceal the car.

48
             
 

At this time of night, the Queens neighborhood was very quiet. The only sound that could be heard was a lone dog barking some blocks off in the distance. At 217 175th Street, two patient men in the basement entered their sixteenth hour of continuous work. Beads of sweat hung from their dark brows, and when it dripped, it nestled itself in thick, black beards. The temperature in the basement was a comfortable seventy-six, but the precision work was nerve-racking and required a steady hand. If they made a mistake now and accidentally detonated the device, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. After all, the two of them would not survive very long anyway under radiation exposure of this magnitude. And, since the device was to be used against the beast, it would have served its purpose well having annihilated a dozen city blocks in the highly populated area of Queens, New York.

However, the pair would do everything in their power to bring the device to its fully active state. If successful in these final critical steps of assembly, the device would be transported to its true intended destination, thereby completing their final objective.
Allah’s rewards will be grand,
thought one of them.

“Get me Senator Highton,” said Latent into the phone. It was one thirty in the morning, and he was not in a good mood. “I know he’s sleeping, goddammit! Wake him, and wake him right now.”

A few moments later, the senator picked up the phone. “Latent—good Christ, man, do you know what time it is? You better damn well have a good reason for . . .”

“Senator, we have a Baker-Able scenario. I’m invoking Executive Order 2213.”

The phone went silent as the seventy-three-year-old senator tried to process what he’d just heard.

“But, wait. You don’t mean . . . ? Baker-Able? Holy shit. I’ll assemble the committee and be down there in . . .”

But Latent interrupted him again. “No need, Senator. There are six agents standing outside your front door. Be dressed in five minutes. They’ll take you to a secure location. All the other committee members are en route. And, senator, not a word of this to anyone.”

Senator Leyland Highton was the chairman of the Senate Oversight Subcommittee, which held several special powers. One of the least known was a power that, until now, had never been invoked in the history of the United States. Executive Order 2213 had been enacted in 1865 under Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln was not in favor of the idea, but didn’t exactly oppose it either. At the time of the Civil War, there was an enormous amount of espionage and deception on both sides. Fears of a presidential assassination were high. And if that happened, it might be possible for opposition forces to seat a new commander in chief that was sympathetic to the Confederacy. This caused deep-rooted fears of a new sitting president that might commit treason against the people of the United States.

Lourdes Bruhaus and Winthorp Algester were both congressmen at the time. Neither one had any love of slavery, but they had no love for the war either, nor were they alone. Fearing the country might slip into chaos if the war wasn’t brought to a close, they went to work spreading their idea. They described a scenario in which a sitting president, who had more power than any single person in the country, might abuse his power. The Baker-Able scenario, as it became known, pointed out that Lincoln had gone against the will of the people and of Congress to enact the war in the first place. And, in their minds, this itself was an act of treason. The two congressmen were not able to gain popular support for an actual charge of treason against the president. However, their ideas resonated as they explained that there had to be a way to unseat a conspiratorial president. When the war finally ended, they quietly attached their amendment onto an existing ratification whose original purpose had been to return property rights to southern landowners. The mood in Congress was so positive right after the war, the bill was passed. Only a special Senate subcommittee could officially enact the measure against the president. It was time for Director Latent to sell his case.

49
             
 

In the shabby gray apartment that morning, Maqued glanced around. Dust caked the tops of the few creaky cabinets in the kitchen. The ancient linoleum was worn through in spots, exposing plywood hiding below. It was quiet, and only the hum of the murmuring refrigerator was audible. He placed the mat down at his feet facing east. His father gave him the mat when he was seven years old. Memories of his father only came in flashes, like the flickering of an old newsreel. Just spurts of a hint of a man—the feel of his rustling beard against Maqued’s face, the faint little whistle his nose made when he breathed, the jingle of coins in his pocket, and the wafting smell of incense.

Maqued grinned at the thought of his father. It was 5:05 a.m. He dropped to his knees and went facedown, praying. He finished his morning prayers, and with one more glance around the Spartan dwelling with dirty curtains, he rose to his feet. Maqued knew Allah. Although Allah would be proud—and the rewards grand—Allah was unsympathetic. Maqued had no choice. He boarded his bus at 5:25 a.m. on perfect schedule. He made the first circle on his route, crossing the bridge for the first time that day. He glanced at his watch.
Tick, tick, tick
. The ticking came like echoing hammers pounding on forged bronze, and Maqued was afraid.

50
             
 

Waseem Jarrah’s activities had been monitored closely, but nothing else in his behavior produced viable clues as to where the next bombing target would be. The next attack was only hours away. Agents from the bureau were frantic. No one was sleeping. Hundreds more agents from around the country had been reassigned to the case. They were pounding the pavement, looking for anything that might provide a clue. Since his appointment as director of the FBI, Stephen Latent was in the most precarious position he had ever conceived. Back in Washington, his daily security briefings with the president were set to resume. The president himself represented a conundrum of deadly proportions. How far up did this conspiracy go? If the president had invoked the Fourteenth Protocol, authorizing the CIA to conduct this operation, then he knew full well what was going on. Dozens, if not hundreds, of CIA operatives would be working the terrorism case in utter secrecy. In fact, if the president had authorized it, he could thwart Latent’s attempts to stop the bombings in their tracks.

He stared at his own reflection in the framed mirror in his master bath. The mirror’s twin hung empty over the sink next to him. He may as well have divorced his wife the day he took office. After a while of never being home for her, she thought of him more as a roommate that showed up late and was gone before she woke up in the morning. She had been a casualty of power, a casualty of the war on terror.

Dark circles outlined his upper cheekbones and he looked older. Out loud, but talking only to himself, he reassured himself, “This is not my agenda. I didn’t sign up for this shit. This is not who we are. I don’t care about anything else anymore. These bombings will stop, and no one will get in my way . . . not even the president.”

The clock was ticking, and the only thing Latent could do was wait.

51
             
 

Twenty-four-year-old Mike McCutcheon arrived at the State Street train station with his web-purchased ticket in hand. It was the first Saturday after his second full week on the job at McFeny, Stein, and Lawson, a criminal defense practice on Fortieth Street in Manhattan. It had been Mike’s dream to get this internship, and he knew that if he could prove himself to the three law partners, he could write his own ticket.

The burden of debt hanging over Mike’s head from law school had brought him—for the third time in his young adult life—back home to New Haven to live with his parents. The commute from New Haven to Manhattan was over an hour and a half, and it was killing him. On weekdays, with a 6:23 a.m. departure, he would arrive in Manhattan at exactly 8:06. That left fifteen minutes to walk the two blocks from Grand Central down to Fortieth Street and the firm’s office. He originally thought he’d work a few months, then find a roommate to share a dumpy apartment somewhere in the city. But this living at home crap was a real drag when it came to meeting girls. He needed to live in town now. He was saving money, but at around forty dollars per day, he was also spending a lot on his commute. It was a Saturday, and today, he would go into the city and begin looking at apartments.

Mike edged his way across the train platform, just one speck in the mosh pit of people climbing their way up the three steps and onto a rail car. He reveled at the number of people commuting on a Saturday morning; it was almost as full as a typical weekday. Many were tourists, but several appeared to be blue-collar workers headed to the job. Inside the train, if he could have seen the floor, he would have been revolted at the volume of filth that had accumulated after fifteen years of people slogging across it. But with riders shoulder to shoulder and face to back with each other as they looked for open seats, no one seemed to mind the stale smell of humanity clinging to the worn upholstery. He shuffled back to the first available seat, which happened to be on the right-hand side of the train. The seat next to him and the ones facing him were still empty, though not for long. The overhead bins were filling fast as commuters snugged their bags into a tightly nestled jam. The various forms of leather and canvas bags melded together in a sort of temporary marriage.

As the train filled, Mike noticed a family hustling their way onto the platform. The station platform was still soaked with the latest unmerciful rainfall that had deluged the New Haven area over the past four days. Combined with higher than average temperatures, the morning sun seared against the steel tracks and caused a steamy vapor to rise off of everything. It smelled like a wet Labrador on a hot summer day.

The State Street station was abutted by a little square of grass and trees called the Union Street Dog Park, a place not unfamiliar to mothers out for a morning walk, strollers leading the way. The park was small and covered with a small number of young trees. The few middle-aged oaks soaked up the remaining rays of sunlight that peeked through high clouds. There was no sign marking the park, only a single, dormant park bench facing the tracks, but everyone in the neighborhood knew it was there.

On this particular morning, a man sat on the bench with a cell phone in his hand. Had anyone noticed him, they would have said he was not nervous, jumpy, or displaying any outward show of emotion. Nothing about his appearance or demeanor would have telegraphed his intent.

The park’s only other patron was an older gentleman walking his Corgi behind a tightly stretched leather leash. The spry little dog didn’t appear to be aware of its small stature. Its narrow shoulders pinged up and down with each step in a sort of tiny-dog swagger.

The train smoothed itself into an ever-increasing pace as it began its morning leg. It ambled past the park, taking no notice of the crisp air, the rising sun, or the glimmer of light bouncing off the fresh oak leaves. On the park bench, the man glanced at the cell phone, and pressed the call button. Holding it to his ear, he heard the phone pick up. There was only silence. The man on the bench said in a stoic, almost hollow tone, “I am become Death.”

The sole reply came, “The destroyer of worlds.” The signal complete, the train was on its way . . . headed into certain catastrophe. The time was 7:59 a.m.