The octopus deception, p.16
The Octopus Deception, page 16
Two bodies. Now, he understood. One of the snipers was covering him, God bless his soul. He dropped to the ground, his eyes scanning the underbrush.
The guard whipped his head back as the razor-like edge of the blade sliced the flesh on his cheek. The commando was working his blade in a skillful, semi-circular, compact motion, protecting his body with his left hand while the knife-wielding right pounced at the victim. The guard lashed his right foot out – just as the blade was coming back for another go at his head – catching his attacker in the kneecap, then instinctively crossed his wrists and blocked the steely edge. The commando spun to his left, freeing the blade and changing the grip. For a moment, the two men stared at one another. Then, the commando, his eyes ablaze, flexed his mammoth right arm, the heavy, jagged piece held blade down, shot up slicing the flesh under the guard’s chin. The guard grimaced, sucking his breath between his clenched teeth and staggered several feet away from the attacker.
Light reflecting off steel. A gun! The guard lurched to the ground, rolled over and rolled over as the commando kicked the gun away from him, trying to stomp on his head. The commando sprang forward, slicing the blade toward the guard’s forearm. Still on one knee, the guard grabbed his arm, twisting the commando’s wrist and crashing his shoulder into the assassin’s body. The guard ripped the knife from him and whipped his arm with all the force he could muster, sending the long, jagged blade with desperate force into the commando’s neck, blood matting his blond hair instantly. The commando gasped, then exhaled audibly and went limp, falling backwards on the grass.
Breathing heavily, the guard reached for the transmission switch on his radio. He winced, wiping the blood from his face and forcing himself to concentrate.
“Ascolta! C’é un’emergenza…!”
“What?” came the steely voice of his Captain.
“We got company.”
“We are ready.” A shadow. Or was it a premonition?
The Captain threw himself down a split second before a quadruple burst shattered the central window-pane in his second floor makeshift office.
“Activate the pipe bombs in the western and northern sectors,” came a gruff reply.
The explosion was massive, blinding and deafening. Flames erupted into the early morning sky, a throbbing, immense wall of fire, destroying a fuel tank and sending the debris up into flaming sky.
“Alpha team hold your fire and your positions,” shouted the Captain to his men positioned on the second floor of Villa Stanley.
“Team two, path!” shouted the Captain, in a hoarse voice. “We will split them up if we can pull them into the western sector.”
“They will go in through the front door!” shouted one of Captain’s men.
“Exactly!” replied the Captain. “Team two, ready?”
“I am going with you Captain!” shouted one of the men in the elite unit protecting Shimada. “You are short staffed.”
Seconds later, more explosions began, first in the northern sector and then in the western sector of the Villa.
“The communications back-up center is out, sir,” shouted one of the men.
“Captain, they are using—!”
Another explosion, this one much nearer the main house. The man’s head slammed against the concrete, and he let out a low moan. “Pronto!” screamed the Captain into his radio. “They are using heat-seeking missiles. You two—”
“Sir?”
“Cover me, we’ve got to draw them out.”
“Too dangerous, Captain.”
“Cover me. That’s an order. On three, two, one, go!” cried the Captain, slinging the strap of his Uzi over his shoulder as he leapt down the stairs, taking them three at a time, followed by two barrel-chested men with short, cropped hair.
As he came out, the gravel erupted all around him; he zigzagged wildly towards the protection of a Jeep. Pain! The shock waves shot through him like a lightning strike.
He grabbed his shoulder. The Captain spun around the edge of the van, his weapon exploding, firing at the military fatigues in front of him. One down, and then another. His muscles were spasming in agony. He pressed automatic fire. One, two, three, four, five, six; the shells flew in the air … and then they stopped. The explosions replaced by the sickening sound of a jamming click as the round in the chamber failed to eject.
The Captain reached for his Beretta pistol, his left arm limp and bleeding, his right arm clutching the gun as if it was life itself, his two sentries on either side of him. He fired at a rapidly moving figure some thirty meters in front of him.
There was another explosion, then another, then the third and finally the fourth, much louder and nearer than the other three.
“They are attacking the western sector, Captain! We must pull back.”
“No,” shouted the Captain over the general mayhem. “They are trapped. Now, they have to go through the main entrance. That’s their only way in or out.”
Four more explosions in rapid succession could be heard from the northern side of the perimeter. The thick fifteen-foot wall on the northern side blew up with such force that the earth shook, sending stone fragments high into the air.
“Colonel, we’re trapped. We have to evacuate,” the short guard said with a harsh bark.
Silence. “Colonel?”
“Evacuate Echo Lambda One. It’s over,” replied the Colonel. Automatic gunfire burst from the shadows just beyond the gravel path killing one of the snipers on the roof protecting Shimada, his limp body collapsing and plummeting to the ground.
Suddenly, a massive explosion blew out the front gate, as a Hummer lurched through the black smoke and debris towards the eastern end of the estate. Several commandos were running toward the vehicles. In seconds, they would get away.
“Cut them off !” shouted the Captain.
Another explosion blew away a large section of the wall as the vehicle rolled through the gaping hole and sped away. The Captain raced out through the hole, emptying his weapon, then hurling it after the receding taillights in impotent fury.
Chapter 40
Michael and Simone passed through the lobby, nodding at the doorman, who sat in his stool behind a wooden counter at
a brightly lit desk, reading a newspaper and listlessly smacking his lips. The thought occurred to him, God, I love her.
Simone, glancing at Michael, reflected that, by some kind of collusion between them, their romance had followed a pattern of unfulfilled expectations and dashed dreams. It occurred to her how insignificant these longings were compared to the sublime anticipation, the enormous excitement of the actual moment. She realized that, ultimately, reality is beyond our ability to truly express it. At the same time she felt a transfiguration of her self, a healing radiance. After all, what is love, if not a sublime surprise of mutual discovery, a chance amazement of the senses.
She pushed the apartment door open and stepped across the divide, bridging the gap between then and now. A gust of wind blew several loose sheets of paper onto the floor, some flat, others crumpled. Michael walked over and stood for a moment by the window, observing the dim light drifting in. Despite the rain’s having stopped hours ago, it was still wet. She sensed his gaze upon her, but her swift glance failed to catch him; only the right corner of his gently joined lips was slightly raised.
She came from behind and slid her hand under his shirt. A tremor invaded Michael’s back as the instantaneous surge of enchantment rippled through his chest. He turned and caressed her neck with his lips, then bit her softly, his teeth threatening the skin of her throat like a playful cat. She fitted herself to him, her eyes blazing, the fabric of her blouse rising and falling in rhythm with her breath, her fine breasts heaving, her nipples stretching with desire. They fell back against the window pane. Without taking his eyes off her, Michael slipped his hand under her top and felt the firmness and warmth of her breasts. She cried out, her hands clasping his body, clinging to him for dear life.
In a sort of staggering dance, they collapsed on the couch. Michael closed his eyes in order to concentrate on the golden flood of swelling joy, and the sweet despair of desire. He lost himself in her endless dark hair, her bow-shaped pink lips, parted slightly, her healthy hot flush, the softness of her skin and the long, pure line of her throat.
His heart thumped alarmingly, one hand caressing her between her legs, their mouths locked, as she arched in absolute urgency.
Suddenly, Simone pushed him away, and sat up.
“What?” said Michael.
“Let’s get rid of the masks.”
She pulled off her black silk bra, and pulled down her skirt. “This time is for real.”
Michael threw off his clothes and looked her in the eye. “Yes.”
She shuddered as she lowered herself to him, and began the rhythmic beauty of true man-woman bonding, sinking deeper and deeper into the quicksand of the magic moment. Her hair flew across his chest like the leaves of a willow tree. She glued her mouth to his ear. He gave her his all, and more. An eternity passed in a matter of moments.
Afterward, as they lay entwined in each other, the long beams of late afternoon sunlight slanted in through the French window, glowed in seeming harmony with their newfound truth, and from afar, down in the street came the sounds of music – a lonely saxophone. Russian rhapsody. All was beautiful and the day overflowed with life, love, and the promise of hope fulfilled.
Chapter 41
A black convertible, a Lincoln Continental, and a hulking SUV pulled up to a house at the end of Twenty-fourth Street North in
Arlington, Virginia. Their headlights shone on the circular drive in front of wide slate steps that led to a heavy oak entrance door. The white mansion was set far back from the road, surrounded by red cedar and oak trees. It was dusk; the streetlamps had already started to glow, bathing the house in rich ochre. Smooth, transparent clouds blanketed the sky, promising a clear night. Everything was still. Everything was ready.
Robert Lovett gently pressed the doorbell as the others moved in behind him. He blew his nose into a handkerchief, a yawn suddenly overcoming him. The door opened.
“Gentlemen.” It was more a command than an invitation. The four men silently walked into the study. David Alexander Harriman III switched on the light, shining a dull tawny tint on the rosined linoleum and the wood-paneled shelves lining the walls with the spines of books huddled in tight ranks. Beyond the plate-glass windows, the soft light of a half-moon shone through, reflecting the soft incandescence of the evening. A night to remember.
“You’ve heard?” Harriman said, as he threw a late afternoon edition of the Washington Post on the mahogany coffee table. He looked over at Lovett. “I suppose you’d look better with some sleep.”
Lovett sat down in a soft easy chair and again blew his nose. “It has been a long several days,” he said.
“I read about Schaffhausen this morning. They are actually calling it a mugging gone wrong,” said Ed McCloy shaking his head with a snort of disdainful amusement. “Are they the same people who took Reid?” he asked, tugging on his ear.
“No, Ed, we took out Reid, and unless you know something we don’t, Schaffhausen was someone else’s operation,” replied CIA Associate Director Henry Stilton, leaning forward and pulling a cushion from underneath him.
“In the meantime, we have business to attend to.” Harriman picked up a glass, tossed in a couple of ice cubes and filled it with Bourbon. His voice was casual and unhurried. “Robert?”
The four men held their breath. Robert Lovett, officially a senior analyst for the State Department, was better known to the men in the room as deep cover for the Political Stabilization Unit, a branch of the U.S. intelligence known as Consular Operations. “One hundred and four of Casolaro’s contacts have been analyzed and discarded for various reasons; three because they are dead, natural causes, and the rest did not know or suspect anything of substance. We have painstakingly gone over their phone logs, credit card charges, bank account statements, personal and professional relationships, anything that might, inadvertently show some foreknowledge of the real situation. Nothing.”
“And the remaining three contacts?” asked Harriman, his intelligent eyes penetrating and searching.
“One was Caroni. The other one is Barry Bachrach, a United States attorney. Straight as an arrow. God, flag, country.”
“A real patriot,” added Stilton. “I know the man. When the Agency tried to buy his silence for certain transgressions of little consequence, he put a few of our best men in jail.”
Harriman got up slowly, shaking his head, a mean smirk on his face. “There is always a confused soul who thinks that one man can make a difference; and sometimes you have to kill him to convince him otherwise.” He stopped and looked at Stilton. “That’s the hassle with democracy, Henry.”
“I left the best for last,” said Lovett.
“Who?” insisted Harriman.
“Remember how we couldn’t find him because he used a routed line bypassing Cons Ops? The authorization was verified by code and a call made on the basis of internal security.” Lovett unbuttoned his half-brown wool and polyester suit jacket.
“No log, no tape and no reference to the transmission. Yeah, I remember,” added McCloy.
“We found a chink in his armor.” He looked smugly around the room. “Routed lines with code authorizations have 28A-40J level of clearance. That’s their technical designation. Only people with Three Zero and Four Zero clearance have them.”
“Except for security purposes they are not identified as names, but rather as numbers,” said Stilton. “How did you get around it?”
“We isolated all potential Three and Four Zero candidates and checked their whereabouts at the time of the call. That provided us with zero-knowledge pass code for purposes of verification. There is a system for limited-access intranet verification in cases of National Emergency developed for collaborative operations with other agencies. Through it, we got an abbreviated personnel listing which provided us with a Top-level confirmation. A simple request to the Joint Intelligence Services got us a digital photograph of the only two people who might have made that call. One was in surgery. An emergency appendectomy verified by the medical staff at Bethesda and CCTV cameras.”
“And the other?”
“The other is a Four Zero clearance at the most unlikeliest of places.”
“You know, Robert, I almost understand what you just said.” Harriman tilted his head. “His name, please.”
“Mike O’Donnell.” Lovett pulled a photo out of his manila folder.
“Cristian Belucci’s senior staff member,” added James F. Taylor.
“My, my!” replied Harriman, his eyes roving the room. “I hate owing. Always prefer to be owed.” He was addressing McCloy. “We’ll just have to pay him off for his services, Ed. God, flag, country.”
The former Secretary of State reached for his phone and dialed.
“Oui?”
“This is David Harriman. I have a matter which requires your immediate attention.”
“I am at your service, Mr. Secretary.”
“You will be given a photograph of a man. Find out what he knows, then put him to rest. Do it as soon as possible.”
“C’est fini.”
Harriman picked up a remote and turned on the TV. CNN erupted into the room.
“Stephanie, what are you hearing from your White House source”
“Lou, if there was any doubt in anyone’s mind that this voracious bear market is going to be with us for a long, long time – this week’s events should have erased them all.”
“Is there a bright spot in any of this Stephanie?”
“Well, let’s see. General Motors shares plunged 22% to $1.56, touching levels not seen in 71 years and putting its market capitalization below $1 billion. That’s gotta hurt.”
“What about banking?”
“Bright spots in banking, Lou? Bank of America shares hit a record low and Citygroup stock slumps to a 28-year low as the two financial giants face extinction in the face of government’s inability to steady the sinking ship.”“Thank you Stephanie.
In international news, Latvia’s coalition government collapsed today, plunging the Baltic country into political turbulence at a time when its economy is mired in a severe crisis and investors are increasingly concerned about the situation in Eastern Europe.
“The capital Riga was rocked by protests over economic policy in January. The government collapse in Latvia comes only weeks after Iceland’s government resigned over the devastating crisis that has wrecked the island nation’s economy and less than a week after Lithuanian President and Estonian Prime Minister have resigned after a vote of non confidence.”
Harriman punched the off button and dumped the remote. “Unless we find the money, none of it will make a damn bit of difference,” he muttered, his hands clasped behind him, anguished exasperation in his voice.
“We are doing the best we can,” said Edward McCloy, shrugging his shoulders.
“Ed, we have spent the better part of the past decade buying up companies all over the world through mergers and acquisitions, using misleading front companies as surrogates, cornering the world markets and manipulating prices. With the world economy tanking, our initial investment has lost most of its value and our collateral has been requisitioned because a former United States government employee broke into a secret account containing trillions of dollars in slush funds. We have to do better than that.”
Chapter 42
It was past midnight when the exhausted Executive Vice President of the World Bank walked out of his office located at 1818 H Street in Washington, flagged a cab for a short ride to the airport and boarded a company jet. Less than one hour later he touched down at LaGuardia airport in New York.
Cristian went to his car and pulled out of an executive parking lot attached to the east end of the airport’s national terminal one, reserved for government officials and corporate elite. He put his Bentley into fourth gear and raced through the intersection just as the light turned red. To say his day had been brutal would definitely qualify as an understatement. Someone at the World Bank had leaked a preliminary draft document to a senior financial columnist at the New York Times that showed the bank was lending money to CityGroup, brokered by the White House. The government leaned on the Times’ Chief Executive Officer, who was made to understand that foregoing reporter-source confidentiality, in this case, was in everyone’s best interest. The senior financial columnist, under threat of instant dismissal, had given them the name of Mike O’Donnell, an affable Irishman and Cristian’s most senior staff member. This put Cristian under instant suspicion as the man behind the leak, causing the President of the United States to cancel his telephone call.
