Rogue Operator (26 page)

“Are you
okay, son?”

Chris
looked at his boss and nodded.

“Yeah,
it just suddenly hit me how real all this is.”

Morrison
nodded, his lips pursed. “You’ve handled it extremely well. I’m proud of you.
Proud of you both.” He put a hand on Chris’ shoulder. “Now, get inside, take
care of yourselves, and I’ll be in to see you soon.”

Chris
nodded and the Director jumped back in the van, it pulling away seconds later,
returning, Chris assumed, to the south-east gate.

Sherrie
put her arm around him and leaned her head on his chest as she gently urged him
forward. Chris’ legs began to move, reluctantly at first, toward the complex.

What
happens next?

Interview Room 4, CIA Headquarters, Langley Virginia

It was an “Interview” room, not an “Interrogation” room. It was
semantics, but it made people feel like they had a choice, even if they didn’t.
Within the confines of the US borders, most people entering the room were
indeed only being interviewed. Occasionally, however, they did “interview”
people against their will. And tonight, with the local authorities swarming
outside, Morrison knew he wouldn’t have long with the two prisoners. In fact,
if the medics didn’t hurry up, he might have no time.

Morrison
heard someone running up from behind, and turned. Tyson Hammond, a trusted senior
agent, held out a file as he came to a halt. Morrison took the file, but didn’t
open it.

“Spill.”

“Vehicle
is privately registered to Chester Donald, same name as on the license of one
of our guests. Record is clean, too clean, as in bullshit. I ran their prints
and they come up both as ex-Army Rangers, both dishonorably discharged for an
incident in Iraq involving the killing of several civilians. We couldn’t get
prints off the helicopter occupants; they were extra crispy. We’re going with
DNA but that’s going to take some time.”

“And the
helicopter.”

Hammond
grinned.

“Oh,
that’s the goose that laid the golden egg. The tail number was BS, registered
to a local company. I had someone call them and they confirmed the chopper was
sitting on the tarmac, right in front of them. I’ve dispatched people to
confirm that, however I assumed it was true so had the serial number run on
some of the parts, and that”—he pointed at the file—“just came in.”

“Tell
me.”

“Purchased
three years ago by BlackTide.”

Morrison
closed his eyes, his jaw clamping shut as he shook his head.
BlackTide
again!
There was no doubt they were at the center of this, and it also
looked like whatever their game was, they felt the rewards were greater than
the risks.

They
were wrong.

Morrison
pointed through the glass at the two prisoners.

“See
what you can get out of them, we’ve only got minutes before the FBI
requests
they be handed over. Delay their request if you’re getting anything useful, but
I doubt these guys know anything. They were probably just sent to kill Leroux,
and were too stupid to back off.” Morrison began to walk away before he stopped
and turned. “Did you send a cleanup crew to Leroux’s apartment?”

“Yeah, got
there just before the locals; some of his neighbors had called it in.”

Morrison
frowned. “Okay, see if you can get some IDs on those guys. I want a mountain of
evidence before we proceed.”

Hammond
nodded then stepped inside the Interview room.

“Good
evening, gentlemen,” was all Morrison heard before the door closed. Morrison
headed toward the guest rooms to check on Leroux and White. He felt bad for his
underling. This wasn’t his area, his job. He wasn’t supposed to be under fire,
targeted for assassination. That was for Special Operators, like Kane. They
were the ones who stuck their neck out every day for their country, knowing
full well that if they were caught, they would almost certainly be tortured,
and most likely killed, and the very country they defended, would deny their
existence.

There was
no honor in the spy game anymore.

In the
good old days with the Soviet Union and the Warsaw Pact, there was a code. Yes,
torture and murder did happen. On both sides. But quite often, very often, once
the torture was finished, the operative was held and word was quietly put out
that an exchange would be entertained. And on a cold, foggy night, two souls
would pass each other at Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin, and the game would
continue.

It still
did happen with the more ‘civilized’ countries, but nowadays, so much of what
they did was done in Islamist countries that they simply assumed now that if an
agent went dark, he was dead. Horribly. And China? They were another ball of
wax. A code was still being developed with them, and in time, he was pretty certain
it would be similar to what it was with the Soviets. Mutual respect. When
possible.

But
North Korea?

Kane was
heading into a whole lot of trouble, but the beautiful thing about the North
Koreans was that if they were able to catch Kane alive, and prove who he was,
they were more likely to parade him in front of the cameras to try and
embarrass the United States. Kane might just survive a capture, but his career
would be over.
Which might be worse than death for a kid like that.

Morrison
knocked gently on the room assigned to Leroux, but there was no answer. He
turned the knob and looked inside, then smiled. Leroux was passed out on the
bed, face down, sporting CIA issue boxers and a t-shirt. White had one hand on
his back, her head on the bed beside him, and the rest of her body curled up on
the floor.

Sound
asleep.

Morrison
closed the door and left the two alone. He knew they wouldn’t have any more
useful information, and they’d be more use to him well-rested. He would need
Chris to keep digging tomorrow for more evidence. Clearly they had a mole
somewhere, and once the word got out that Leroux was not only alive, but
digging deeper, they’d be even more desperate to eliminate him.

Because
tomorrow Morrison intended to take down BlackTide.

Pearson International Airport, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Kane emptied his pockets, dropping the contents into the dull grey
plastic container, then pushing it toward the conveyer belt. He stepped through
the metal detector and was waved forward, the green signal freeing him from a
good wanding. Crossing the border into Canada had been easy. He knew trying to
board a plane domestically would be too risky. He had modified his face so that
the biometric scanners wouldn’t recognize him. A set of specially designed
glasses that caused the eyes to look slightly narrower, the frames slightly
narrower than the face would suggest they should be, a wig that covered his
ears, but not too long to look ridiculous, and some makeup, sparingly applied,
that made his cheekbones look like they were a few tenths of an inch from where
they actually were.

And a
big, excited smile.

Nothing
threw facial recognition off like a good smile, since it altered so much of the
face. It, along with his modifications, would fool the computers in the off
chance they were looking for him in Canada, and his excitement would set the
security staff at ease, especially when he explained his ticket only being
hours old because his ex-girlfriend had called him last night, asking him to
join her in China to see if they could rekindle their relationship.

That,
and a suitcase with a generous supply of condoms—since his cover wasn’t sure if
they were available over there—should get him through the ridiculously
inconvenient security measures still in place since 9/11. What people didn’t
seem to realize was that 9/11 could never happen again. Every single airliner
now had reinforced cockpit doors, and as soon as the plane began to taxi, that
door was locked. Hijackers could never gain access to the cockpit again unless
they were the official pilots for the flight, which meant no amount of security
at the airport would matter, since security had failed long before that point.

And
passengers since had proven time and again they wouldn’t tolerate any nonsense.
From passengers and crew leaping over seats and attacking would-be terrorists, to
rushing forward with fire extinguishers and holding them down until they could
be bound, passengers the world over had proven they weren’t going to sit idly
by while planes were hijacked and flown into buildings.

United
93 had been the only plane to truly realize what was happening that day, and
they heroically stood up and fought back, forcing the plane into the ground,
sacrificing themselves rather than let more innocent Americans die while they
sat cowering in their seats.

They
were the first in this conflict to die fighting back, and when they rolled, it
signaled a permanent shift that changed hijacking forever.

Passengers
now knew they were going to die anyway, so they were willing to fight back.

What had
Air Marshals, at a tremendous expense, actually accomplished over the years
since 9/11? They had arrested drunks, uncooperative passengers, terrorists that
had already been or would have been subdued by the passengers, and ass-grabbing
louts.

And how
many planes had been commandeered?

Zero.

Yet we
still have to take off our shoes, can’t bring a bottle of water on a plane, and
for a while, had to be leered at by underpaid workers in a booth with access to
naked photos of us.

Thankfully
in Canada he didn’t need to take his shoes off unless travelling back to the
US, but the freedom once enjoyed by both sides of what was once the longest
undefended border in the world, had been curtailed dramatically. Now it took a
passport to cross the border, even on foot, whereas before it was as simple as
flashing your drivers license and a smile.

Why?

Because
some politicians and a surprising number of the American public thought some if
not all the 9/11 hijackers entered the US through Canada, when the reality was
that not a single hijacker crossed the Canadian border. They
all
had
proper documentation, and entered legally, through countries other than Canada.

Yet the
border was being closed up, affecting trade and tourism, and wasting billions
of dollars because the government and private industry had successfully stirred
up the fears of the populace, convincing them that if they didn’t spend
billions on homeland defense, planes would be flying into buildings on a weekly
basis, and terrorists would be streaming across the Canadian border with bombs
in their shoes and underwear, screaming Allahu Akbar while chugging maple syrup
and cursing Canadian bacon.

It was
an understandable overreaction at the time, but now, in the time tempered
retrospect that should be allowed, it was a ridiculous waste of money.

Cleared
through security, Kane flashed one last smile at the security personnel, then
headed for his gate. He popped a ball cap on his head, then sat, legs out, arms
crossed, and pretended to sleep.

His Air
Canada flight left in one hour, then he’d be in China by tomorrow. Then all he
had to do was cross the North Korean border.

Piece of
cake.

Guest Quarters, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

Chris woke up with a groan. His entire body ached, and he wasn’t
sure he’d ever feel quite the same again. The floor of an SUV was not where you
wanted to be when it was jerking from side to side, its driver alternating
between flooring it and hammering on the brakes. He was sure he had some
cracked ribs, and if not cracked, then definitely bruised.

He felt
something on this back and turned his head to find Sherrie draped across him.
He remembered her rubbing his back gently as he fell asleep, and at some point
through the night she must have climbed into the narrow bed with him.

It felt
wonderful.

He
couldn’t remember the last time he had woken to have a woman cuddled beside
him. It made him feel like a man, virile and desired. Something stirred, and he
suddenly remembered where they were. He tried to will it away, but the more he
thought of something else, the more the sensations of her touch consumed him. Her
breath on his neck, her arm across his back, her chest against his side, her
leg over his.

Within
minutes he was in the danger zone, wide awake, with nowhere to go. If he moved,
she’d wake up, and all would be revealed. If he didn’t, he risked getting an
inopportune visitor who would wake them both, and the embarrassment would be
extended beyond Sherrie.

He
decided standing up with a flag pole in front of Director Morrison was not an
option.

He
gently rolled himself away from Sherrie, exposing his front to her. She moaned.
And she was beautiful. Carefully moving his leg, he successfully freed it and
was just about to escape her arm when her eyes fluttered open. She looked at
him and smiled, then looked down the bed.

“Is that
for me?”

Chris
felt his face burn and despite his aching muscles, executed a move worthy of an
Olympic gymnast, almost cartwheeling over her and off the bed, facing him and
little Chris away from Sherrie.

“Umm,
I’ve got to pee.”

“Uh
huh.”

She
didn’t sound convinced.

Nor
upset.

He
glanced back at her and she had a grin that just made her look even more
gorgeous and him even more ‘uncomfortable’. He raced for the bathroom, grabbing
a suitcase he recognized as his.

He
looked in the mirror and dropped his chin to his chest with a sigh. He was the
very definition of a lobster. His face and ears burned the same color as those
crimson crustaceans he loved so much, and with his eyes directed down, he could
see the cause all too clearly.