The Ragnarok Conspiracy (20 page)

Savas smiled. “But the CIA doesn't have authorization on US soil, if I remember correctly.”

“No, it doesn't,” said Kanter firmly, his tone imperial. “But I do. And I say this line of discussion has gone too far.”

Savas paced silently in his office. They were moving through September without an incident, and the stress of wondering if another attack would hit had him exhausted. There were long hours poring over the shipping records, information on Operon and GI, William Gunn and several other executives, other CIA and FBI information. Correlating, looking for patterns. Finding curious hints but nothing solid.

Kanter had decided to take the conservative approach and continue to follow up on the shipping information. This was the rational move and would certainly lead them eventually to the buyers and the source of the explosive orders, one way or the other. It was the “eventually” that had Savas worried. How much time and how many more attacks could the international community take before something cracked? Wars were often started for the stupidest of reasons, when international tensions were high and mistakes in judgment were made. As Cohen had made very clear, oil was the lifeblood of the modern world, and if its flow was impaired, nations would respond as they felt necessary to preserve it. If things did not resolve soon, John Savas knew, there would be war.

Just thinking about Cohen, even in this context, was comforting. She had left earlier, keeping to their plan of schedule separation at work. Savas was pleased that, despite the fact that they were together nearly every night, it seemed no one had an inkling of the situation. And while it rankled him to have to hide their affection, the time wasn't right, and it was the last thing they or the group needed.

There was a knock, and he half expected to see Cohen's silhouette
in the doorway. Instead, it was Larry Kanter. He looked exhausted. “Mind if I come in?” he asked.

“Sure, Larry. Have a seat.”

Kanter walked over and dropped into the chair. “This has been a real pain in the ass working with the CIA, John,” he began, tilting his head back onto the chair and staring up at the ceiling. “It's an expensive deal, in terms of how much information we get and how many years of my life are lost.”

Savas chuckled. “I'm glad it's you and not me.”

“Well, truly, pity Mira. She has to act the diplomat with that zombie Michelson nine to five. Only through men like him can bureaucracy prevail.” Kanter laughed. “Although it is a kick to watch him and Jordan have their polite disagreements. I tell you, if I were in a tight spot, I know who I'd want next to me.”

Savas listened attentively, wondering what had really brought Kanter to his office this night. He didn't pay social visits, and he didn't need to talk to the crew to unwind.

“But a man like that,” continued Kanter, “a good man, it should be noted, whatever you think, John—he can undo himself. Especially in a job like this. If he transgresses too many unspoken or, in his case, even spoken rules, he can find himself moved to the agency equivalent of Siberia, or even out of a job.”

Kanter paused and leaned forward to look at Savas. “Take, for instance, that scandal a few years ago with that guy, what was his name? Herr. Dale Herr.”

Savas felt an iced blade softly scrape up his neck.
Dale Herr?
The man who scandalized FBI with sex tapes with coworkers? Is this example a coincidence, or is he trying to tell me something?

“Wow, did that thing ever blow up in our faces! Taxpayer money not catching bad guys, that was for sure. Since then, it's gotten worse than having the Bureau run by nuns as far as how forgiving they are of in-house romances.” Kanter looked him in the eyes. “You know what I mean, John?”

This was no coincidence. Kanter was sending him a message, a
very strong one.
How did he know?
Who else knew?
If the Bureau knew, Kanter wouldn't be here now: some random cog would be announcing to him a formal investigation of policy violations. He could take some comfort in that, at least.
But for how long?
He brushed that aside; Kanter needed a clear response. Savas had to make it very clear.

“Yes, Larry, I know exactly what you mean,” he said, not taking his eyes off Kanter. “But a man like that, he's a free man, not a wheel in the machine here, like Michelson. He won't sacrifice who he is for the agency, for any agency, any government or any man. That can spell trouble sometimes. But, it is also the reason he has been so spectacularly successful. Like you said, he's the kind you want with you when it's bad.”

Kanter looked at him for several moments, nodded his head, and stood up. “Yeah, that's it, alright. I like the man, in all honesty. Reminds me of you a bit, if you don't mind me saying. I don't want him to change, either. The only thing I'd say to him, if I had the chance, is
be careful
, and don't give the zombies any more reasons to take you down.”

Kanter walked to the door, opened it, and was halfway out when he stopped and turned back. “Oh, I've been meaning to ask—how's Rebecca?”

“Rebecca?” said Savas. “She left some time ago, I think. She's a workhorse, as you know, a real asset in everything we do. Why?”

“Oh, it's just I haven't seen her for a while. She used to work late a lot more often. I could always count on you and Rebecca being here late into the night trying to crack a case.”

Savas smiled. “Well, she's been turning in earlier. I think the stress of this case is getting to her some.”

“Well, I think that's true for all of us, John. Good night.” Kanter stepped out into the hallway and walked down the corridor.

Headlights and the growl of an engine cut through the peaceful sounds of a forest in upstate New York. A dark Hummer bounced along a gravel roadway that hugged the shore of an expansive lake, the water black and silver as it reflected the moonlight. The large vehicle came to a full stop, small rocks raining in soft sounds as they fell from the deep tire treads. At the edge of the roadway was an old wooden bridge, supported in part by metal girders underneath, yet sagging all the same and seemingly too fragile to handle the weight of the vehicle.

Inside the truck, behind dark tinted windows, a blond man frowned. His harsh features and short-cropped hair added a stern frame to the scowl he wore. He always hated playing dice with that bridge. It should be modernized, brought up to specs. But the man he had come to visit had always refused to do anything about it, for sentimental reasons. That was the problem with him, his great weakness and strength, the driver told himself. His heart gave him the power of vision and steadfastness to do great things, but it also clouded his mind and made him vulnerable to attack or wrong decision. The scowl turned to a sneer that was almost a smile.
That's why I exist.
Patrick Rout knew he suffered from no such vulnerability.

It was a spectacular property. The bridge led out over the water to a small island in the lake. Two houses, a main structure and guest lodge, had been built on the island over one hundred years ago. They sat surrounded by trees and well-manicured shrubbery. Several docks extended into the water for recreational activities, and the western end of the island had a small boathouse. This is where his commander had
come with his wife on many occasions. It was her favorite retreat, and it was still a special place for him because of that. Isolated, unusual, pristine, and beautiful. The driver scoffed.
That's what you do when you've got more money than many nations. Buy your own damned island!

He shifted, accelerated, and drove across the bridge. Within thirty seconds, he had entered the circular driveway, passed the spraying fountain filled with live fish, and pulled up to the porch that framed the front entrance. A trim man with gray hair and glasses was already waiting for him at the bottom of the steps.

The CEO greeted him. “Thank you for coming. I know this is an inconvenience at this time, but with things moving as fast as they are, I wanted to speak to you personally to consider these new developments.” Rout nodded and let the man lead. “Please, it's a nice evening; why don't we talk outside?”

Outside?
Perhaps these new developments had spooked him more than he let on.
Is he really worried about surveillance? Or is this part of his vacation home persona?
It was better that his wife had died. The man needed the edge her death had given him to lead this battle.

They walked along the side of the small island, a path having been made for lazy excursions, and the wooded regions stopped some twenty feet from the edge. The stars shone very clearly and brightly this far from any streetlights, forming a milky whiteness in the central band across the sky from which the galaxy had gotten its name. There were few sounds: a soft wind, the water lapping the rocks ringing the island, and the insect sounds of the night.

The CEO continued. “Things have been penetrated faster than I had expected. The probing of the Operon businesses—this was FBI?”

“As far as we can tell, but they are not the only ones.”

“Meaning?”

“We aren't sure. Someone, not FBI, and not easily marked. Perhaps an international group, but it's not Interpol.”

“Then who?”

“It might even be the CIA,” he said. “Recent events point that way.”

“Explain.”

“The Russian dealers, the ones in Dubai, they have had a major incident. We just learned of this. Many in the leadership are dead. Our contacts—and a lot of money between parties—heard rumors that their operation there was hit recently, very violently. If that is true, records may have been retrieved, connections revealed.”

The CEO stopped near one of the rickety docks and turned to face Rout. “CIA?”

“There is no hard evidence, but there is enough circumstantial that it has me wondering. There is an active field house there that many have speculated was involved with the Dubai government in the arrest of Viktor Bout. There has also been a lot of chatter from sources about CIA involvement. But nothing solid. Even if they weren't involved, if the records were stolen, they could simply have been sold.”

“Can they trace Operon back to us?” asked the CEO, staring out over the lake.

Rout frowned. “I don't believe so. The bank trails are all but impossible to follow: no connections to anything illegal. Operon is a subsidiary. Even they can't know all the smuggling that occurs inside their system.”

The CEO turned quickly, his expression suddenly hard. “What worries me is not the likelihood of exposure. We've controlled for that as well as possible. What worries me are the people searching. I'm sure we are insulated from the organizations—bureaucracies are lumbering and clumsy. But individuals within the organizations, well,
that
is a different story. All it takes is one devoted person, and they can unravel the best defenses. We need to find out who is looking and why. We need their names, their histories, where they live, and what shoe size their children wear. Do you understand what I mean?”

Rout kept his smile in check. “Yes, sir, I do.”

“Good. See to that, then. We need to contain this and not lose our focus on the next mission.”

“Regarding the mission, sir, the Brits have begun guarding the site.”

“How many?”

“We aren't certain yet, but it appears to be a British Section—a small infantry unit of about eight soldiers.”

“Soldiers?” he asked with interest. “They are taking this seriously.”

“Indeed, and it will complicate the mission significantly to have to neutralize that many trained men readied in defense of the structure. But we are making plans to solve that problem, and to do so without alerting their command structure, which, as you realize, is the complicated part of this.”

The CEO's face hardened. “I don't care what it takes. I want that target hit, and hit hard.”

“It will be, sir.”

“New York?” he asked.

“No, sir. Nothing. Since when did Homeland Security anticipate anything real? The other sites show no suspicions.”

He nodded curtly. “It would not do to lose even one. A harsh statement will be made. The map will continue to be drawn all the way to the desert sands.”

He paused, looking out over the water, the soft breeze ruffling the gray hair that shone in the light of the rising moon. His more kindly smile returned. “Now, come inside, and have something to eat.”

Rout suppressed a sigh. He'd rather get back to work.