Stephen Frey (21 page)

“Absolutely.”

“When things have settled down, you'll pay us back.”

“That's a very generous offer, Michael. I don't plan to ever take you up on it.”

“I hope you never need to.” Mendoza checked his watch, then waved to his driver. “Ready,” he called.

“Yes, sir,” the driver called back through the open window, putting the newspaper down on the leather seat beside him. He reached for the key to the Town Car's ignition.

“It's been wonderful to reconnect with you over the past few days,” Mendoza said, gripping Bo's hand. “But I don't want to feel like I'm being interrogated—”

Mendoza's words were obliterated by a massive explosion that rocked the ground beneath them. In an instant, the limousine had exploded into a massive fireball that enveloped both of them.

H
arold Shaw's trip from Jimmy Lee's funeral reception in Connecticut back to his beachfront home in tony East Hampton, Long Island, had taken five hours—twice as long as it should have—because of a ten-mile backup at the Throgs Neck Bridge. The delay had been caused by a man who had ultimately taken a death plunge from the middle of the long suspension bridge into Long Island Sound. Shaw's limousine driver had chosen to detour into Manhattan, and this had turned out to be an equally bad option because construction snarled the traffic on this route. Shaw could have taken a helicopter and the trip would have been finished in less than an hour, but he was deathly afraid of flying.

Shaw hardly noticed the delay. He sat hunched in the back of the limousine, reading light on, poring over American Financial Group internal reports, engrossed in the daily business of the company he loved. He was ecstatic with the company's recent performance, and it was sweet to see such outstanding results. AFG was performing with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine, taking advantage of huge operating synergies at every turn so that Shaw could offer cheaper and cheaper financial services to America's consumers and drive his competition out of business.

The driver eased to a stop in front of Shaw's large stone house overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, then hopped out and moved hurriedly to Shaw's door. The driver was eager to return to the city. It was after two in the morning, but he had the rest of the night off and there was a party that would be going strong until noon. He had a small bag of cocaine in his coat pocket, and he planned to snort some at the end of the driveway before getting on the road. That would keep him awake for the long drive back into Manhattan.

“Here we are, sir,” he said, opening the door.

Shaw hesitated a moment, struck by something he had noticed as the driver had opened the door. Something that didn't look right about the numbers. He made a note on the page to remind himself to review the issue tomorrow, then stuffed the reports in his briefcase and climbed out of the limousine. “I'll need you here by noon tomorrow,” he ordered.

The driver touched his hat. “Yes, sir.” He waited for Shaw to let himself into a side door of his home, then trotted back to the limousine and slipped in behind the wheel. Moments later he was tooling back down the driveway.

Shaw flicked the light switch inside the door several times but nothing happened. “Dammit!” He checked over his shoulder and saw the limousine's taillights moving swiftly away. “He wouldn't know what to do anyway,” Shaw muttered to himself, fumbling through his briefcase in the darkness for his cell phone.

Shaw didn't see the shadow moving stealthily through the small entry room toward him and felt only a momentary numbness as a smooth, blunt object slammed into his neck.

The man smiled as he stood over Shaw's limp body. They had him doing what he loved to do again and he was thankful. He had no idea why they had wanted him to break into the Harlem office and be caught, but he had done as they had asked and he had been rewarded accordingly.

Harold Shaw's body would never be found. The billionaire's disappearance would remain one of New York's great unsolved mysteries.

CHAPTER 14

S
cully was having a torturous time keeping his eyes open as he guided the rented Taurus across what seemed like an endless Iowa cornfield through the half-light of dawn. All he could think of while he rushed past freshly tilled, ebony soil was that he faced at least another sixteen hours of consciousness before he could give in to the inevitable. At this point he'd been awake for three straight days, monitoring the weekend's critical events.

He had tried everything to fight off the drowsiness. He'd lowered all four windows so that fresh air blasted his face, turned the radio on full-volume, and guzzled a gallon of high-test coffee since landing several hours ago at Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport. Nothing had worked, and when his chin bobbed on his chest and the car's right tires skidded on side-of-the-road gravel for the third time in as many minutes, he shook his head savagely and slammed the dashboard. “Dammit!” He had less than ten miles to go, but he was going to end up roadkill if he didn't wake up.

So he stuck his forefinger in his mouth and slashed the soft tissue of his upper gum with his nail. He tasted blood and right away was wide awake. Stimulating the gums, particularly with pain, awakened his body more quickly than a shot of adrenalin. It was one of many techniques he had learned during survival training at a remote North Carolina base years ago. But the effect was only temporary, which was why he had waited until the homestretch to execute it.

Several miles down the lonely road Scully slowed the Taurus to a crawl, then turned left onto a dirt road leading off toward an oasis of trees in the distance. After a bumpy, dusty five-minute ride, he guided the car past two tall blue-and-silver Harvestore silos and an adjacent barn, in front of which were parked several tractors and two huge combines. He pulled to an abrupt halt in front of a pristine white-clapboard farmhouse encircled by tall maples. As he stepped from the car, the irritating ping of a key-left-in-the-ignition warning violated the early morning stillness.

“Hello, Scully.”

Scully peered through the gray light toward a wide, screenedin porch running along the entire front of the house. “Hello,” he called back. He could make out various dark forms on the porch—which he assumed were furniture—but couldn't see who had spoken. Then the screen door opened and Gerald Wallace emerged.

“You're late,” Wallace announced, moving down the porch steps and striding across the lawn.

“Sorry,” Scully apologized, shutting the car door. His plane out of New York had been delayed and there was nothing he could have done, as Wallace undoubtedly knew, but Scully didn't protest. Wallace was a demanding man who cared little about excuses, only results, a trait Scully admired even though at the moment he was being unjustly criticized. The country needed men of character like Wallace.

“I know the plane was late,” Wallace conceded, extending his hand in greeting, “but you should have stuck a gun in the pilot's ear or something.” He allowed himself a slight smile.

“That would have been subtle.”

“I get tired of being subtle.”

Scully chuckled as he shook Wallace's hand. Wallace was famous for his lack of patience. “Hello, Senator.”

“Joseph.”

Wallace was of average height and build, with thinning gray hair and a grizzled face that still bore scars from the acne of his youth. He was dressed in work boots, grimy jeans, and a red plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to his armpits. A box of Marlboros rested atop one shoulder, held in place by the rolled-up sleeve. He wore a green John Deere cap as well as his typical pained expression—like he was constantly shitting razor blades, Scully thought.

Wallace had retired from the United States Senate two years before, after five terms and thirty years. During his last two terms he had served as chairman of the Armed Services Committee. Throughout his career he had been a key member of the military and intelligence establishments, personally responsible for ensuring that many of America's high-tech weapons were developed and deployed. Politicians of both parties had fought epic battles against him in the eighties during the days of huge budget deficits as Wallace had continued to push for massive military expenditures despite a lack of government funding. Now that America's military might had produced world supremacy, he was an icon revered on both sides of the Senate's aisle.

After retiring, Wallace had returned to his native Iowa to take over the family farm. His brother, who had run the farm for many years, had recently died, and the sister-in-law wanted to sell the property to a large corporate operator. So Wallace had stepped in and purchased her share of the land, matching the price of the corporate suitor, who wisely declined to make a higher bid. At sixty-seven Wallace still rose each morning before the sun to tend five hundred acres.

A grizzled Iowa senator retiring to a family farm had made for wonderful press, but the scenario was not quite as advertised. Rows of corn and soybeans flourished in the surrounding fields, but the property had a second, more complex reason for being. The “Nest,” as it was known to a select cell of the U.S. intelligence community, served as headquarters for the Secrecy Agency, the SA, the country's most covert operation. Only ten people inside the government knew of the SA's or the Nest's existence, and only three knew of the Nest's exact location.

Scully's eyes narrowed. Wallace alone knew the identity of that other individual, whom Scully assumed was at the very top of the SA cell.

Wallace motioned toward the barn. “Take a walk with me,” he ordered, his boots crunching on gravel. “How did this weekend go?”

“Extremely well.”

“Give me details.”

“At two o'clock this morning, Harold Shaw, CEO of the American Financial Group, disappeared without a trace. When Shaw's disappearance is made public early this week, our man, Bob Johnson, will be named acting CEO at a special AFG board meeting.”

“As Jim Whitacre was named CEO of Global Media after Richard Randolph died in Korea.”

“Exactly.”

Wallace patted Scully on the back. “You came through on that one, Joseph. Shooting Randolph and Whitacre to make it appear as if they were both targets. I heard Whitacre was screaming like a baby while he was lying in the street.”

“It was a flesh wound,” Scully said, dismissing Whitacre's suffering with a quick wave of his hand. “I barely grazed him.”

“All the same, it was very convincing.”

“Thanks.”

“He was pretty pissed off when he found out what you had done,” Wallace observed, a wry grin on his face. “The fact that you had actually been aiming at him, I mean.”

“Tough,” Scully answered indifferently. “If he's that pissed off, he can come and tell me about it himself.”

Wallace took a deep breath and gazed at the vast horizon. He had grown up on this land and had an affection for it beyond words. “Now both AFG and Global Media are free to work with Online Associates.”

“Through the cutout.”

“Yes. Cooperation among the three entities can be much more open,” Wallace continued, “and therefore more effective. Everything is finally coming together.” They reached the barn and Wallace unlocked a small side door.

“RANSACK has incredible reach,” Scully observed. “The tentacles are becoming longer, wider, and more effective by the day. The operation has achieved one hundred percent penetration. Now it's simply a matter of being able to reach targets in multiple ways without specific investigations. The more information we have on certain parties the better off we are.”

“How are we on capacity?” Wallace wanted to know.

“We constantly need more storage, but the wonderful thing about computers is that we can keep them in remote locations. Here, for example.”

“That's all well and good, but you know as well as I do that people can still break into them and find out what we're doing no matter where they are kept,” Wallace warned.

Scully shook his head. “Our people assure me that they are well ahead of any existing intrusion technology. No one can violate our systems.”

“That's exactly what people out there are saying about the networks and systems we're breaking into right now,” Wallace scoffed. “You're naïve if you think we're one hundred percent secure. It's a one-up proposition with computers just as it is with weapons. You build the perfect guided missile, then someone figures out a way to knock it down. Then someone else comes up with a superior cloaking device so it can't be knocked down. The cycle of escalation never ends. I spent thirty years inside the arms race—which is exactly what RANSACK is, a weapon.” Wallace paused. “Except that we aren't fighting Communist insurgents or Muslim terrorists anymore. The targets in this case are ninety million households within our borders, although we can easily scale it to include the rest of the globe.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Perfect information,” he said softly. “The ability to know everything there is to know about an individual. Medical records, financial situation, even sexual history. The ability to inspect every check ever written, every medical report ever issued, every cash withdrawal made, every item purchased by credit card, every service paid for over the Internet, every e-mail written or received, every Web site visited, every telephone call made.”

“It's an awesome force,” Scully agreed.

“More powerful than the traditional weapons I worked with most of my career,” Wallace conceded. “Thank God we anticipated the end of Echelon and made provisions.”

Echelon—an existing network of electronic-intercept stations and deep space satellites put in place to capture all microwave, cellular, satellite, and fiber-optic communications—was designed literally to monitor all communications around the globe. Wallace had watched as Echelon, operated by the United States, Canada, Britain, Australia, and New Zealand, came under scrutiny from consumer protection groups and nonparticipating countries. Since Echelon's technology was aging and it was unable to pick up an increasing number of communications, he realized the time had come for a new more powerful surveillance system.

“RANSACK is so much more powerful anyway, and it will be years before anyone unearths its existence,” Wallace continued. “People will be so focused on destroying Echelon, it won't cross their minds that we might have developed another way to look in on their personal lives.” He sneered. “Even though people know Echelon exists, the NSA won't officially admit to it for some time.”

Scully laughed loudly. “They've got camera crews outside Menwith Hill round the clock now and we still won't admit to what's going on.” Menwith Hill, England, was one of Echelon's largest installations. “It's amazing how fearful people are of what the government sees.”

“They should be.” Wallace grunted. “It's amazing how much the average person has to hide, to what lengths he'll go to hide it, and how easily he can be manipulated if the damaging or embarrassing information is uncovered.” He shook his head. “It's the opposite of conventional warfare. In the face of insurmountable military opposition, people will continue to fight. They'll live like rats with bombs exploding all around them. Their resolve turns to steel. But in the face of humiliating personal information being widely revealed about them or their family members, human resolve disintegrates like sugar in coffee. Death is acceptable, honorable in fact, but public ridicule is intolerable, particularly for prominent people.”

“I'm glad I'm on this side of the fence,” Scully admitted.

“But, of course, the fence moves.”

Scully glanced up. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means we monitor everyone,” Wallace snapped, his expression turning intense. “But I'm pleased to inform you that with no wife, no children, and no discernable vices you would appear to be untouchable, which is why we like you.” He held up his hand. “Except that at this point we have the ability to plant things on or about people as well. We can fabricate very credible wrongdoings about anyone based upon an individual's personal data bank maintained in our files.” He let out a long pleased breath. “Of course, it's still more effective to find an authentic skeleton in the closet. We would have to work very hard to manipulate you. Fortunately you are in the minority.” He gestured at the horizon. “Most people out there are vulnerable because they have done things in their past that their family, friends, or society in general would scorn them for. That negative history allows us to manipulate policy whichever way we choose. If someone is getting in the way of what we want, we pay him or her a timely visit.” He turned toward Scully. “As you have done with that bastard who would have killed the submarine project this country so desperately needs. As you have done with Dr. Silwa.”

Scully shook his head. “It's so easy. They give up so fast.”

“I told you, people are weak when it comes to their personal lives being exposed.” Wallace ducked through a small side door of the barn and walked down a narrow passageway dimly lit by several dusty bare bulbs. “All of that computer storage capacity will cost a great deal of money,” Wallace said over his shoulder, thinking about numbers now.

“Not as much as you might believe,” Scully disagreed gently. He was well aware that Wallace was conditioned to think about hundreds of billions. The price tag here would run into the billions, but not by as much as Wallace assumed. “Besides, we've already moved a great deal of money offshore. The green has turned black. It's gone for good. Spirited off into the cosmos and impossible to trace. Even if someone sniffed something wrong, they'd never be able to follow the trail back to us.”

“How much have we moved to date?”

“Two billion.”

“On top of what we already put into the cutout last year?”

“Yes.”