The orchid file, p.4
The Orchid File, page 4
Adrian sat quietly until the table stopped shaking. “You done?”
“I was done a long time ago, baby.” Maisie dropped the fake laugh.
“This is a matter of national security.”
“Which is no doubt why you’re entrusting it to me.” Her voice oozed sarcasm. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, so I can say no.” She kicked her feet up onto the table.
He focused on her for a few long seconds. “It’s about your father, Maze.”
“What about him?” She knew the strain showed on her face, so she shifted in her seat allowing herself to look uncomfortable. Of course she was uncomfortable talking about her father.
“I need to find the uranium, Maze.”
“A little late for that don’t you think?” She relaxed in her chair but fought the lump swelling in her throat. The pain she thought she’d buried long ago bubbled up, raw and seething. After all these years, how fucking dare he?
Keep control, she told herself.
Adrian leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. Outside the open door, a loud group of men walked by laughing and talking. He waited for them to pass. “Maisie, someone knows about the missing U.”
“And how would they know about it? The truth was buried in a DOE vault after they buried Dad. I’m the only person outside the agency that knows the truth about Orchid. Right?”
“Keep your voice down.” Adrian looked around.
“Right?” She prompted, louder this time.
“Three months ago, a vigilante hacker group released emails from a known Al Qaida operative in either Syria or Pakistan. We don’t know exactly where, but the email included the words ‘uranium’ and ‘Project Orchid’. The context is hard to figure out from the translation, so we had to reopen the case. Here’s the thing. The IP address belonged to Al Qaida operatives, but the keywords were in the inbox of the email account.
“Someone is advertising.”
“Exactly,” answered Adrian.
“Who?”
Adrian looked uncomfortable.
Maisie’s boots thunked on the floorboards as she sat bolt upright. Her voice was half growl, half whisper. “Who?”
“I have new information that he’s alive, Maze.”
“John Bressler,” she whispered. Her father’s old partner.
Adrian nodded.
Charles Sheppard had been accused of stealing highly enriched uranium and murdering John Bressler after they worked on the top-secret project. Accused by the man that now sat in front of her asking for help.
Maisie shook her head. “There was a body. They identified his remains.”
“His body was ID’d by dental records. The rest of the body was burnt beyond recognition. It’s possible the whole thing was faked. Charles and John were Cold War legends. I doubt there was a trick they didn’t know.”
“Dig up his bones. Test the DNA.”
“The body was cremated.”
“Fucking convenient,” Maisie spat out.
“Yes.”
“So,” Maisie spoke slowly, “You’re saying he faked his own death. That means Dad didn’t kill him. You testified that Dad killed him.”
“I testified that it was a suspicious accident. Come on, Maze. What was I supposed to think? I found newspaper clippings of the car accident in Charles’s apartment.”
“Did he kill Dad?” Maisie felt cold despite the heat. She felt squeezed and the room slid out of focus. The scenario running in her head was not new. Fifteen years later, she was more convinced her father would never have taken his own life.
A hand touched hers and she started. She yanked her hand away from Adrian’s.
His face softened. “Maze, all I know for sure is that everything pointed to suicide. The trajectory and the gun in his hand don’t suggest anything else.”
Maisie shook her head and shrugged like she didn’t care. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat.
“Who killed who is not our biggest problem right now. We’ve got five tons of highly enriched uranium that is now known to some of the world’s most dangerous men.
“Does Bressler have it?”
“I don’t know who else it could be. I have a source saying he’s alive, and then the hacked emails show up. It seems more likely now that they were working together. Maybe Bressler backed out on the deal or double-crossed Charles and tried to sell the U on his own. I don’t know.
The only thing I know for sure is I have to find that second file. It wasn’t in your father’s apartment. But if Bressler’s alive he has it, mark my words. And if he has it, then he knows where the U is.
“What makes you think I can find him?”
“You knew your father’s work habits. You knew his contacts, his drop spots.”
“I was seventeen when it happened. I was barely drinking age when you found out about it. It’s not like Dad briefed me on his assignments.”
“No, but you were with him constantly after your mother died. Prague was no place for a little American girl in the early 90s, but there you were. Hell, half the time you were his cover story. You absorbed his knowledge and his methods. You ate dinner with his assets and went to school with their children. He groomed you, Maisie, even if neither of you realized it was happening at the time.”
Maisie pressed her lips together and drew in a long breath. No. She realized it. And Adrian damn well knew it too. It’s why he was here.
“Help me find the U before this goes sideways on us, Maze.”
“Not my problem. I haven’t been American for a very, very long time.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What happened to me after Dad died wasn’t fair.” Maisie stabbed the table with her index finger. “I didn’t hear you bleating about that. You just let it happen.”
“Look, I don’t blame you for not wanting to see me,” said Adrian. “You have a right to be angry.”
She looked away in case her face betrayed her.
After her father died in disgrace, she had no one to blame. No one to hate. Now the one person responsible for the ruins of her life had risen from the dead. Adrian just plopped a chance for revenge into her lap, along with the resources to pay for it.
The scattered drifting of the last years melted into the operational focus she was good at. She’d prayed for this chance. Her last chance.
Still, things would go more smoothly if Adrian got the wrong idea.
She forced herself to relax. “I’ll do it for one,” she said.
“One what? One million? You want money?” Adrian sounded surprised. Hurt clouded his face.
An evil spark of pleasure flickered. So he could feel hurt. Maisie sat back. “I’m a freelancer. The goodness of my heart doesn’t pay the bills.”
“Oh, you do have a heart?” Adrian’s voice was hard. “How patriotic of you, Maze.”
She threw her hands up and shrugged. “What can I say? Treason is in my blood.”
Adrian’s chair scraped on the chewed-up linoleum as he stood. He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out three Kenyan shillings and tossed them next to his beer bottle. “Okay. One it is. Be at Likoni Ferry at nine AM tomorrow. See you then, Benedict.”
When he was gone, Maisie pulled on the long gold chain around her neck. She reached for Adrian's beer and drained it as she ran her fingernail along the groove of the worn clasp. The locket popped open.
Inside was a creased picture of a pretty woman with long hair and green eyes smiling next to a young man sporting a bushy beard. Maisie’s own two-year-old face grinned below her parents; the only proof she had that life had once been happy.
She snapped it shut and grabbed her bag. Without a look back she walked out.
5
Defense Intelligence Agency HQ
Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling, Washington D.C.
March 17
1300 Hours Local Time
A bulb was on the fritz. Luke heard a low buzz above his head every time the light flickered. It grated on his dwindling patience, although not as much as the group of people trying not to look at him. Four chairs separated him from the nearest person, and she looked like she would have preferred a few more.
Binders, coffee cups, and laptops cluttered the conference table. Modern, curved back office chairs surrounded it. People displaying various levels of stress occupied the seats.
Most of them were younger than Luke by about fifteen years. The young’uns all sported fashionable clothes. At least, Luke assumed it was fashionable. Wasn’t that the lingo for wearing something that ugly? Every intelligence briefing he’d ever attended was filled with camouflage, not couture, but that was a lifetime ago.
Not that he could cast any stones about appearance. He’d rolled in sporting clean but stained 5-11 tactical pants, and a faded plaid button-down cuffed at the sleeves. Even with the tear on the shoulder, it qualified as the nicest shirt he owned. His boots were the same ones he’d worn at the pier five days a week for the last eight months. The soles were separating and the leather was more gray than black. He kept his beard but trimmed it to look more presentable.
Luke scanned the group for the twentieth time. He knew two people in the room. That meant he trusted two people in the room.
Frank Longer, whom he’d served under, and the former head of Navy Intelligence, Rear Admiral James ‘Moby’ Brandis who now helmed the Defense Intelligence Agency. The only man above Frank at the DIA.
Luke never served under Brandis, but the man was a legend. It spoke volumes that men of Frank and Moby’s caliber were unable to stay retired because the rest of these thumb suckers couldn’t handle their shit.
What did he have to say to them?
Did Frank really think he had something to offer? He’d told Luke he was looking for a fresh perspective. Luke had perspective, but it certainly wasn’t fresh.
The group around the table talked among themselves ignoring him.
“Are they trying to come across as hard-liners?” A young man with an unlined face and a sleek comb-over gestured with a tablet stylus in his hand. “We’ve got all the major players taking credit for something they clearly didn’t do. We need to know why.”
“What if they’re manipulating fundamentalist groups,” said a young brunette that looked fresh out of grad school. She wore a structured blue jacket with short fuzzy strings hanging from it that looked like blue worms. “Or paying them for a job? Terrorism outsourcing, maybe?”
“There are cheaper ways to get the job done,” answered Comb Over.
Fuzzy shrugged. “Just brainstorming.”
“Confusion could be their play. Keep everyone looking the wrong way. It could indicate a larger plan,” chimed in a young black man whose shirt was a size too small. The buttons strained and he kept straightening in his chair trying to relieve the pressure on the fabric.
Luke thought Buttons sounded marginally less clueless than the others. More like he was thinking, and less like he had verbal diarrhea.
Frank stood and pointed a remote at a large TV on the wall. When nothing happened, Frank cussed and slapped the remote.
Out of nowhere, a mousy little gamer type with dirt brown hair and a gap in his front teeth appeared and took the remote. He mashed several buttons and the screen sprang to life. He whispered something to Frank who nodded, then he backed up still holding the remote.
Leaning over his armrest, Luke watched the young man recede to the corner and sit crossed legged on the floor. It looked like he was doing his best to become one with the carpet.
Luke immediately liked him. The nerd’s social dread was his own bristling posture minus the age and experience. The young man pulled a wireless keyboard onto his lap and watched Frank approach the screen.
“Alright everyone, let’s get started. Thank you for being here. This group is comprised of some of the best this agency has to offer. I appreciate those of you who volunteered for this assignment.”
Frank motioned to the nerd sitting in the corner. “We need all the help we can get to shut down this threat before more Americans are killed.”
Frank pointed to the screen as the flaming torch and red atomic ellipses of the DIA seal faded and a photograph popped up on the screen.
The image of a mangled, smoking red double-decker bus snapped Luke to attention. The first attack in London.
“Over the last six months, there have been three different bombings all targeting Americans. The first was October of last year.” Frank pointed to the charred bus. “One American dead, four injured.”
Frank pointed to Tommy who clicked.
The next photo was a street scene somewhere in Paris. Bistro curtains still hung in the shattered windows, the fabric pitted with holes from glass and shrapnel.
On the sidewalk under the window, tables and chairs lay tipped over. The scene was ashen gray and white except for a narrow ribbon of vivid red blood snaking through cobblestone.
“In December of last year, it was Le Bon Plat Bistro.” Frank uttered the French in his South Carolina drawl. “It’s a favorite of American tourists. The bomb detonated at supper time while the restaurant was full. This was the deadliest. Seven Americans.”
Frank pointed again and the screen flicked to a pitted sculpture in the center of a fountain. This photo must have been taken soon after the bombing. Bodies still littered the ground.
Luke counted three figures around the fountain. Two huddled protectively together in a pool of blood. He felt his heart rate spike as he looked at the mangled Americans lying in the sunny Italian plaza. This briefing was for his benefit. Everyone else at the table knew this information.
“And finally, three weeks ago in Rome three more Americans were killed. We are no closer to identifying the responsible parties, but I’m hoping that’s about to change. We’re not the only ones working on this, but,” Frank gestured to Luke, “we have help.”
Luke ignored the furtive glances sent his way and watched his old commander continue speaking.
“Both al-Qaeda and ISIL have taken the blame for the first two bombings, and al-Nusra is copping to the third. But none of them did so until recently. Al-Qaeda and ISIL both piped up one week after the third bomb went off. Al-Nusra issued a statement two days later.
“Most of us, including me, think they did so because nobody else spoke up. As detailed as these attacks were, there would have been some kind of chatter. Even going back over the mountain of data we collected, there is nothing that supports the involvement of any of these groups.
“Not to mention al-Nusra has never carried out an attack outside of Syria and Turkey. Ever,” said Brandis.
Frank nodded in agreement.
“Are we sure they’re not working together? A syndicate of some kind,” said Comb Over.
“Cooperation is unlikely. The groups that cooperate are few and far between. The only people they hate more than us are each other,” growled Brandis with his arms crossed. “They kill each other when they’re not targeting us.”
Comb Over sounded defensive. “Unlikely maybe, but it is a new generation as you regularly point out, sir. Methods evolve. It’s not impossible that they’ve brokered a peace to increase their reach.”
Brandis scowled. “You might want to write that in pencil. Methods may change, but people never do. I’ve been around long enough to see hate passed from generation to generation like eye color.”
“It would be unprecedented and a departure from the hardliner norm, but we’ll keep it on the list,” Frank said, ending the conversation. He pointed again and the picture gave way to a bullet point list.
“Here’s what we do know. All three attacks clearly targeted American tourists abroad. One American in London, seven in Paris. Two Australians also died in Paris, but we believe they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. In Rome, the bomb was placed five feet from a tour group. It was surgical.
“Immediately after the London bombing, a known ISIL operative, and several lower-level al-Nusra members showed up on a monitored chat room - the same chat room - asking about you.” Frank pointed at Luke.
“The same thing happened after the second and third attacks. Different forums, different operatives, but they were all discussing you by your real name, Luke.”
Frank turned to address the table. “For those of you who don’t know, Luke Marshall began his career as an Army intelligence officer and later transferred to the 75th Ranger Regiment. Before long he was selected for the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment serving under my direct command during the war. Lieutenant Marshall has graciously agreed to assist us.”
Luke sighed. He wished Frank wouldn’t call him Lieutenant.
Frank turned back to the screen. “Unfortunately, the forum chatter is not Lieutenant Marshall’s only link to this case. Every single American killed was from Colorado. Luke’s home state.”
Shocked murmurs rippled around the table. Everyone except the nerd feverishly rifled through notes or tapped on keyboards. Luke smiled. They didn’t know that little fun fact. Frank played that card close, no doubt trying to protect him.
“So that’s why he’s here,” said Comb Over loudly as the table erupted in strained whispers.
Frank held up his hands to silence the questions they were shooting at him. When that didn’t work, he approached the table and began to soothe feelings hurt by the lapse of information.
An argument broke out over what else Frank might be withholding from them and how they were supposed to do their jobs without all the information.
Luke watched the scene around the table for a few moments before settling on the nerd in the corner. He was still on the floor tapping away when he caught Luke’s gaze. The young man grinned awkwardly. Luke nodded in reply.
Ignoring the bickering group, the young man rose from his corner and approached Luke. He stuck out a pale, thin hand. “I’m Tommy Byrne. NSA.” He looked at the floor more than Luke.
“Luke Marshall,” said Luke, shaking his hand firmly.
