Vigilante (14 page)

B
ranford ran his hands over the keys and called up a recording of everything Nolan’s glasses had recorded that night. It took just a few seconds of scanning to reach the moment Nolan had referred to, when the mystery man arrived on the scene. Branford showed the results of the facial recognition program, declaring that the guy’s name was Yuri Vasko.

“Who is he?” Nolan asked.

Branford pulled up an FBI dossier on Yuri Vasko and magnified it on one of his screens. “Small time crime lord. Ukrainian national, immigrated to the U.S. with a few others some fifteen years ago. Operates in downtown Manhattan, but runs a pretty small empire compared to most of the others. Got a hand in a bunch of different pots—everything from drugs to extortion. His FBI file says he has a natural talent for profiling his enemies, understanding them inside and out.”

Another few keystrokes, and photos of Vasko were on the main screen. Nolan’s eyes lit up. “That’s the woman and the teenager I saw. They were killed in the raid.”

“Vasko’s wife and kid,” said Branford with a bit of hesitancy. A murder in the family of any crime lord would require an answer of blood vengeance.

“Look there,” said Nolan, pointing to a smaller detail on the screen. “He was known to be Russian Mafia before moving to the U.S.”

“Maybe he still is,” suggested Branford. “Or maybe he’s doing his own thing now.”

The Russian Mafia was a relatively new subset of organized crime, birthed at the end of the Cold War. It began with former Soviet soldiers and KGB agents who acted as war profiteers and black marketers during the reign of Communism. When that ended, some turned mercenary for hire while others joined together under a single umbrella that now operated very similarly to the American Mafia.

“Oh my word,” said Alice, speaking up for the first time. She pointed to a different screen, where pages were scrolling up from Vasko’s FBI profile. “That just said he likes to kill his enemies by forcing them to swallow and choke on wet cement. He dumps the bodies in the ocean.”

Nolan’s eyebrows went up, but he said nothing.

“So he’s dirty, he’s ruthless, and he’s intelligent,” said Branford, summing it up. “He follows his own set of rules, and murder doesn’t bother him. His FBI profile says that someday he could be the most dangerous crime boss since Al Capone.”

“This is the guy that thinks I murdered his family,” said Nolan.

Branford nodded. “You’ve just made a blood enemy of one of the most dangerous men in the country.”

Nolan shook his head. “If he’s a crime lord, then he was already my enemy.”

He glanced over at Alice, saw that her expression was severe. “What? Do you know this guy?”

“I think I’ve been here long enough. How is it that you have access to all this information?” she asked, her eyes pouring over the various screens that surrounded them.

Nolan glanced at the old man. “The uplink.”

Branford frowned and sighed. “She knows everything else.”

Nolan had designed the surveillance cube himself. The idea was that it would be tied into an advanced surveillance computer that was equipped to coordinate live satellite feeds, traffic copters, unmanned drones, and any home or business security cameras that the authorities could override and look through themselves. The system was set up and in place, per Nolan’s specific instructions, long before his debut in Times Square, but it was just a shell without any data pumping through it.

About two weeks before the events in Times Square, he’d explained to Branford how he was going to pull off linking their hardware to existing surveillance software and systems—the kind of stuff that no one but the government owned. As with everything else, he’d figured out how he was going to accomplish this years in advance.

As he’d told Branford that day, his plan was to piggyback onto government surveillance systems, giving unlimited access to the most secure systems in the country.

When he explained it to Branford, Nolan had to fight the urge to grin; he was particularly proud of this part. “Remember Marty?”

Branford’s eyebrows knotted. “Martinez? That runt that got assigned to my unit during our second tour?”

Nolan nodded. “Care to guess where he works now?” He paused for effect. “CIA. Covert Surveillance division.”

Branford let out a long breath, understanding now but not entirely on board. “Kid could barely walk in a straight line, much less fire a weapon; he was a liability to the entire unit. And I was hard on him for it. Why would he help us?”

“I saved his life,” Nolan said. “Twice.”

So Nolan had called up his old friend, later that same day.

“All I’m asking for is remote piggyback access to the mainframe, and that you put in some masking subroutines to make it so no one can tell we’re accessing it,” Nolan said into the small satellite phone Arjay had programmed for him to route through an endless loop of towers and servers, putting its calls beyond anyone’s ability to trace.

“ ‘All you’re asking for . . . ’ ” On the other end of the line, Martinez swore. “As if that’s some small thing. You’re asking for a lot more than that and you know it!” he hissed. Nolan imagined the short, skinny man, suit and tie, sitting in his closed-door office and trying to remain casual to passersby while the very conversation he was having was a betrayal to his oath as a CIA officer.

Martinez was probably sweating, a thought that gave Nolan an odd sense of amusement.

“This is treason,” Martinez whispered. “If anyone found out, I’d be in front of the firing squad! And do I even want to know how you managed to
fake your own death
?”

“No,” Nolan replied, “but if I pulled that off, then that should tell you how far I’m willing to go to protect the uplink—and your involvement.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

Nolan hardened. “You owe me, Marty. This is me cashing in.”

As he finished his story, Alice screwed up her brow.

“You don’t approve,” he suggested, surprised to find himself bothered by the thought.

“I’m not overjoyed,” she told him. “But that’s not what I’m thinking.”

He regarded her. “What, then?”

Alice locked those piercing eyes of hers on his. “The way you all talk about this stuff. It’s so cold. Your determination to keep going, even though you’re hurt . . . It’s all a big military operation to you. You can’t stop until the job is done. Everything in life can’t be defined in military terms, you know.”

Nolan was taken aback by this. It was a notion that had never occurred to him. Just one reply came to mind; it was the only answer he had. “I’m a soldier, Alice. It’s all I know.”

Her expression became hard as she pointed at the exit. “Those people out there on the streets that you’re so eager to help? They don’t need a soldier. They need a hero.”

H
ow did this happen?” demanded President Hastings from the head of the table, slamming a single fist onto the hard surface to punctuate his words.

His underlings—Chief of Staff Marcus Bailey, OCI Director Sebastian Pryce, OCI Agents Janssen and Lively, and a few others—were seated around an oval table made of dark walnut. The black walls and dark light in this underground room at the White House allowed them to see the big screens surrounding the room with greater clarity, but it only fed Hastings’ feelings of anger and gloom.

Jonah Janssen was the first to speak up. “Sir, we have reason to believe that the informants who provided the intel that led us to Vasko’s home were on the payroll of a rival crime syndicate in New York.”

“What?” said Hastings, leaning forward and not believing what he’d heard.

“Our intelligence about Vasko’s operation,” said Director Pryce, a dour, overweight man with tiny eyes, pencil-thin lips, and a thick goatee, “came from a combination of four spoken testimonies given to the OCI. The physical location of Vasko’s headquarters is a closely guarded secret inside his organization. The individuals who gave us information presented intel that we triple and quadruple checked. But this morning, one of our informants confessed, under duress, to having been paid to give us false data.”

“I see,” said the president. “So not only is the OCI a colossal failure, it’s incompetent as well.”

“Now, hold on,” said Pryce. “The lives that were lost in this operation were far from innocent. At minimum, they were known associates to the work of Yuri Vasko. For all we know, they may have had a firmer hand in his business than is widely assumed. I think ‘failure’ is far too harsh a word to characterize this operation, Mr. President.”

“Too harsh, Director?” chimed in Marcus Bailey, Hastings’ right-hand man, who was seated directly across the table from Pryce. “If it wasn’t a failure, then what would you call it?”

“It was a perfectly executed undertaking that unfortunately was based on compromised intelligence,” said Pryce.

“Don’t you mean
un
intelligence?” Marcus shot back.

“Gentlemen,” said Hastings. “The bottom line is that everything we’ve worked for is over. The OCI cannot possibly survive this disaster.”

“Sir, if I may?” said Jonah Janssen, rising from his seat. Hastings noticed that Janssen tossed the briefest of glances at his partner, Coral Lively, who hadn’t said one word since taking her seat. Hastings understood why; he’d read her report and knew that her partner had pulled the trigger that killed fifteen-year-old Olena Vasko. Lively herself had shot and killed Lilya Vasko, Olena’s mother and Yuri’s wife. As her partner stood from the table to move toward its head, she cast her numb gaze in the opposite direction, at nothing in particular.

“I believe that last night has presented us with a unique opportunity,” said Agent Janssen.

“Son, this administration does not want to hear the phrase ‘cover-up,’ ” said a very bitter Marcus. “That’s not how we do things.”

Pryce shook his head. “A cover-up would be pointless; the destruction of Vasko’s home is a matter of public record, with hundreds of eyewitnesses.”

Hastings wondered if he’d made the right choice in his appointment of OCI director. Pryce had fit the profile perfectly, with a long background as an assistant director at the CIA and a history of fighting organized crime. But Hastings didn’t like the way Pryce had struck down any thoughts of lying about what had happened; he’d objected not because it was wrong, but because it was logistically impossible.

The room turned back to Janssen, who touched the enormous monitor behind the president’s seat. Hastings had no idea what his confident young agent was up to, but he didn’t like the photograph that came up on the screen.

“I’m sure everyone in this room is familiar with the New York–based vigilante known as The Hand,” Janssen said, nodding at the larger-than-life close-up on The Hand’s hood-covered head. “He showed up at Vasko’s home last night.”

“Why?” asked the president, eyeing the photo carefully. “What was he doing there?”

Hastings had followed the headlines about this enigmatic individual and was impressed by his accomplishments. Not only had he pulled off some extraordinary feats, but he’d displayed some fine detective work as well. Just last week, The Hand had tracked down and brought to justice a serial killer guilty of thirteen vicious murders. The culprit had eluded the NYPD for months. And hadn’t he heard something recently about a Mafia-backed business in Clinton that The Hand had shut down?

“We’re not entirely certain, sir,” replied Janssen, glancing again at Agent Lively. “We suspect he may have been conducting surveillance on our field op. Maybe he hoped to take credit for our success, but changed his mind after . . . well, after what happened.”

“Why would he need to take credit for OCI operations when he has so many successes of his own already on record?” Hastings asked rhetorically. It was a ridiculous notion.

“As I said, sir, we believe that his presence last night presents an opportunity. A chance to kill two birds with one stone.”

Hastings could guess the direction this was heading. But he decided to hear the man out. “Go on.”

“The Hand is a vigilante. His activities—however noble in their intent, however commendable in their success—are illegal by definition. Americans do not take the law into their own hands. Not ever. He’s a wild card, Mr. President, and we have no idea to whom or what he’s ultimately loyal. As long as he’s allowed to continue his actions, organizations like the OCI are at risk. How can we conduct operations when we can’t keep this man from interfering? And consider this. It’s no secret that he’s extremely popular among New Yorkers, and his notoriety is on the rise across the nation. What happens when his influence and fame become so great that they overshadow your administration? With all due respect, the nation is being held together by a thread as it is.”

Marcus made a show of rolling his eyes. “You’re reaching, Agent Janssen. If you think pinning the blame for your blunder on some misguided vigilante is all it’ll take to save the OCI from extinction, you’re living in a fantasy world. Besides, this Hand character is a mild curiosity at best, a novelty. He’ll be old news within a month.”

“What if you’re wrong about that?” Janssen challenged the chief of staff, but then turned to Hastings. “Sir, we have an obligation to stop him before he gets someone hurt or killed. Not to mention our larger responsibility to end the reign of this nation’s crime regime. No one feels the weight of what happened last night more than Agent Lively and I, and we grieve for the lives that were lost, but one mistake cannot be allowed to prevent this agency from fighting and winning this war. If the OCI goes out of business, then the United States government is telling the cartels and the terrorists that it’s open season to drag this country into chaos and devastation.”

Hastings was silent as all eyes fell on him. In the course of one briefing, his opinion had changed about several of the people in the room.

He hated that Janssen was right. The fight against crime was bigger than one mistake, and millions of Americans were counting on them to bring an end to the corruption, violence, and death. He had been elected on that very promise. Whoever this Hand guy was, even though he was operating outside of the law, he was doing real
good
in a part of the nation that needed all the good it could get. He didn’t deserve to take the fall for the mistakes of the people in this room.

But Hastings had learned—as all presidents do—not long after taking the oath of office, that the choices his job required were never, ever easy.