Authors: Jonathan Maberry
Sebastian Gault / Helmand Province, Afghanistan / July 4
GAULT’S HELICOPTER TOUCHED down two hundred kilometers from the Bunker, landing near a WHO outpost. The outpost supervisor, a wizened old epidemiologist named Nasheef, was willing to lend Gault a car but cautioned him about the dangers of traveling in the Afghani desert without military escort.
“We’ll be fine,” Gault assured him. “We have our Red Cross and WHO credentials. Even out here that often gives us safe passage.”
But Nasheef insisted on providing a driver, his burley nephew who had fought guerrilla actions against the Soviets. No amount of argument would dissuade Nasheef, and to make too strong a protest would raise suspicions, so they reluctantly agreed.
An hour later they were rolling out of the camp and heading west.
Gault had reclaimed his position as the de facto alpha dog in his relationship with Toys; though every now and then he could feel the ghost of a memory of the slap Toys had given him back in Baghdad.
“Go with God!” Nasheef called after them. It made both of them smile for all the wrong reasons.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania / July 4; 9:39 A.M.
TRAFFIC WAS HEAVY as we approached Philly. The Phillies were playing a doubleheader, and a bunch of rock stars had put together a Freedom Rocks concert at the Wachovia Center down near the airport. Plus an estimated half million people were descending on Center City and the Liberty Center. Overall it was supposed to be the biggest, loudest, busiest day in Philadelphia history.
“Great day for travel,” Rudy grumped from the backseat.
“Almost there,” Grace said as she turned off I-95 near Penn’s Landing. I’d called ahead and arranged for a pair of motorcycle cops to meet us and help us through the traffic snarls.
Grace filled us in on the people we would try and interview. There were six agencies involved in various aspects of security. The two who interested us most were Robert Howell Lee, the director of special operations for an FBI/Homeland joint command; and Linden Brierly, who was the regional director of the Secret Service and the direct link between the Secret Service and its parent department of Homeland Security. More current and proposed DMS personnel had been recommended by them than all of the other agencies put together. Both of them had extensive military connections and had sent candidates from every branch of the service. It seemed to be the best use of time to start with them first. They were also the men most closely involved with security at the Liberty Center event.
Robert Howell Lee and his FBI team were in charge of the facilities security and had oversight for all interjurisdictional arrangements between local, state, and federal law enforcement. He was an indirect descendant of Richard Henry Lee, the man who had ridden from Virginia to the First Continental Congress with the resolution to declare independence from England. He was an ambitious man of fifty who was almost certainly going to be the next director of the Bureau or maybe ever the top dog in Homeland.
The other man, Linden Brierly, was an equally careercentric man who had been involved in some key phases of the service’s transition to Homeland after 9/11. It was Brierly who would be overseeing the personal safety of the First Lady and her party.
They were both powerful men; patriots as well as seasoned field agents and politicians. Move the wrong way with them and we’d not only upset the security applecart but we’d bring down so much heat that maybe even Church’s clout would not save the DMS. This was dicey for a couple of big reasons: the careers of everyone involved with the DMS and the belief—which I now shared—that no other organization within the United States government was as equipped as the DMS to counter threats like the one we’d been facing during the last few days. The wrong word to either of these guys could spin everything out of control.
But, no pressure, right?
“We’re here,” Grace said.
Amirah / The Bunker, Afghanistan
“HE’S COMING!”
Amirah turned away from the big glass cage in the central lab as Abdul hurried into the room. Her only reply to his outburst was a slow smile.
“Did you hear me?” he demanded. He had a Kalashnikov hanging by a strap from his right shoulder and his face was dark with anger.
“I heard you, Abdul,” she said, her voice soft and dreamy.
“Well what are your orders? Should I have him killed?”
Amirah blinked very slowly, once, twice. “Kill Sebastian?” She abruptly laughed as if it were all a wonderfully funny joke. She covered her laughing mouth like a teenage girl. “Is he alone?”
“He has his assistant with him, and a driver.”
“Good. Let them come.”
“Come? Come here?” he echoed, incredulous. “Amirah he has to be aware of what we’re doing. He’s coming to shut us down!”
“Shut us down?” She laughed again.
Abdul stared at her. Amirah’s eyes were almost glassy. She looked drugged. Or worse, drunk! But that was unthinkable.
“You certainly don’t want him to come in here. Not now. Not when he knows.”
She shook her head. “How long until he gets here? Into the bunker?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Assemble the staff in the dining hall, Abdul.”
“For what reason
?
” he demanded, and for a moment the dreamy look on Amirah’s face solidified into something else. Something cold and reptilian that glared out at him through her beautiful eyes. Abdul took an involuntary step backward.
Amirah’s lip curled and she turned away to stare through the glass at the monsters she had made. Four of them, each one clawing at the inside of the reinforced glass walls, their eyes burning like black stars.
“You have your orders, Abdul,” she said without turning.
He backed toward the door, his anger warring with his doubt. He watched Amirah put both her palms on the glass and then lean forward so that her cheek was pressed against the cool surface as the four monsters clustered on the other side, tearing at each other to try and get to her.
Abdul fled.
The Liberty Bell Center / Saturday, July 4; 10:28 A.M.
WE STOOD IN the Liberty Bell Center, which is located on Market Street between Fifth and Sixth Streets in the Old City part of Philly. Because of the task force’s involvement with the event security I’d had a chance to tour the building a few times over the last six months and had a good working knowledge of its layout. The new building had been the centerpiece of a three-hundred-million-dollar makeover of the Independence Mall area, and they’d sunk nearly thirteen million dollars into the center, which opened in October 2003. The place was over thirteen thousand square feet, and was airy, well lighted, and pretty fascinating to any tourist or history buff. The bell itself sits in a glass chamber designed to magnify it so every one of the million-plus yearly visitors has a chance to get a really good look.
I think we all felt somewhat awed by all that it represented. I knew from having taken the tour that this was actually the second bell; the first one was made in the Whitechapel Foundry in England but it cracked shortly after it was cast. A couple of pot-and-pan makers named Pass and Stow recast it from a mixture of copper, tin, and traces of lead, zinc, arsenic, gold, and silver, but the second bell also cracked. That’s the one that we were all looking at. The names Pass and Stow were stamped into the front of the bell. Rudy leaned forward and read the rest of the inscription: “Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof—Lev. XXV, v. x. By order of the Assembly of the Province of Pensylvania for the State House in Philada.”
“They spelled Pennsylvania wrong,” Skip remarked.
I shook my head. “It was one of a couple of acceptable spellings at the time.”
“Darn thing’s broken,” Bunny said with a grin.
Behind us was a second large display platform but this one was draped with a Stars and Stripes tent, inside of which was the new Freedom Bell. Because this bell was intended to ring on special events it hadn’t been encased in magnifying glass. Time would tell if this one would be crackproof.
These bells symbolized everything for which the DMS had fought, suffered, and died. They were emblematic of the unsullied ideals of freedom, democracy, and fairness. Despite their many flaws the Founding Fathers had been mostly well intentioned. Freedom of speech, freedom of religion. The right to live. Even though those same founders had been unable to unite to abolish slavery and extend equal rights to all people of both sexes, they had at least started the ball rolling. Freedom had rung out across the land, and across the oceans, until its promise, at least, was heard in every country around the world. Without that bravery and optimism we wouldn’t be standing together here. Men and women, black and white, foreign and homegrown, united in a single cause: to take a stand against hate and destruction. Despite my years of practiced cynicism I felt a real stirring of good ol’ red, white, and blue patriotism.
From beside me Rudy said, “It’s a genuine perspective check, isn’t it?”
“Hooah,” Top said softly.
“Major Courtland ” We turned to see a big man in a beautifully tailored lightweight charcoal suit come striding across the floor, hand out, a smile on his tanned face. I recognized him at once from Grace’s description. Linden Brierly, regional director of the Secret Service. We stepped up to meet him by the podium that had been erected between the display cases. It was a three-step affair heavy with red, white, and blue bunting and bristling with microphones, none of which were currently turned on. I’d checked.
Grace made introductions and offered her hand; Brierly gave it a firm single pump. “Sorry for borrowing the Secret Service as our cover, sir,” she said. “The President thought it would be best under the circumstances.”
Brierly didn’t miss a beat. “Sure, sure, I understand,” he said, though he probably didn’t like it. I wouldn’t if I were in his shoes; but he hadn’t gotten this far in his career by letting sour grapes show on his face. He looked around to confirm that there was no one else in the room except Brierly and Echo Team. “I’ve met your boss. Mr. Deacon.” He paused and his smile became a bit rueful. “Or is it Church? There seems to be some disagreement about that.”
“He prefers to be called Mr. Church.”
“Interesting man,” Brierly said. “I tried to run a background check on him and pretty much had my knuckles beaten with a ruler by the Commander in Chief.”
Grace returned his smile but said nothing, nor did Rudy. I practiced looking like a cigar-store Indian.
Brierly waited a second, then shrugged. “Okay, I get it. No problem, Major. So, tell me what I can do for you?”
Grace and I had agreed that she’d handle Brierly and I’d take Lee, so she dug right in. “Sir,” she said, “we’d like to discuss the candidates you suggested for transfer to the DMS.”
That dialed down the wattage of Brierly’s smile. “Why is that, Major?”
Instead of answering she asked, “What can you tell me about the men you chose to recommend?” She recited eleven names including Sergeant Michael Sanderson, who was one of Dietrich’s security men, and Second Lieutenant Oliver Brown. The others I hadn’t yet met.
I saw Brierly flick a glance across the room at Ollie and then return his gaze to Grace. “Can you be a bit more specific?”
“Just dotting the
i
’s and crossing the
t
’s,” she said with a smile.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “And for that you flash a presidential order?”
Grace said nothing.
Brierly sucked his teeth. “Okay,” he said, “you caught me.”
I stiffened, but then he upped the wattage on his smile. “A couple of my recommendations were entirely self-serving, I’ll admit it. Mike Sanderson is the son of an old friend of mine. Mike’s career seemed to stall in place after he left the army and joined the Service. We all thought he’d rise like a meteor but he didn’t make the cut to the presidential detail, and when you miss that step you tend to tread water. I promised his dad I’d look out for him and the DMS seemed like a chance for a fresh start.”
“And Lieutenant Brown?” Grace asked.
Brierly colored. “Well that’s a little more awkward, and I’m not sure if it’s something we should even be talking about.”
“Sir, we’re here on the orders of the President himself.”
Brierly sighed and stared at the empty air between Grace and me for a few seconds, the muscles in the sides of his jaw flexing as he thought it through. We let him. Finally he said, “Okay, but it’s on your head if this information gets out because I’ll damn sure know that it didn’t come from me except right here and right now.” He nodded to himself, the decision made. “Homeland and the Service have done a number of ultra–top secret operations since nine-eleven. Off-the-books stuff, if you follow me.”
“Of course, sir,” Grace said. I nodded. A lot of black ops stuff never makes it onto paper. Plausible deniability is easier without a paper trail.
“Ollie was never in Iraq. That, um, was a cover story. He’s been Delta Force for four years and has been used in over twenty operations. Extreme stuff. Missions that involved military intelligence, the Service, Homeland, and the CIA but more recently, until he was transferred to the DMS, Lieutenant Brown has officially been a Secret Service agent, but one that we’ve had out on loan to the Company.”
“We know he’s with the CIA,” I said. “Are you saying he’s more than just another one of their spooks?”
He grunted. “Captain, until I transferred him he was one of this government’s very best operators. Covert ops, infiltration, and special skills—he has the full package.” Brierly looked past me to where the young man was standing foursquare, staring hard in our direction. “And on top of all that, he’s the best assassin I’ve ever seen.”