CHARLIE DOBBS WAS CONTEMPLATING HIS next move when the monitor to his right started beeping. Dobbs glanced over his shoulder after the second beep and moved his chair. The monitor beeped three more times, and the information came up on the screen.
FLASH TRAFFIC: LEVEL 5
TYPE: PERSONAL ALARM
SUBJECT CODE NAME: RED COYOTE
Dobbs stared at the code name and tried to
match it with a face but couldn’t. These personal alarms had become
kind of a pain in the ass for the Operations Center. They were
receiving more and more false alarms. Dobbs punched in his password
so he could access the real identity of Red Coyote. A second later,
the name Arthur Higgins appeared on the screen. That’s a first for
him, Dobbs thought. No need to get excited yet. He probably hit it
by mistake. Dobbs looked through the Plexiglas and watched the
operator for the United States work to
verify the alarm. The
home phone number for Red Coyote came up on the screen along with
several others. Dobbs tapped in a keystroke so he could listen to
the operator handle the situation. Their system told them that the
alarm was coming from his estate, but no one was answering. He
listened to the phone ring. After about thirty seconds, Dobbs
started to get nervous. The file on Red Coyote said that he had
around-the-clock security. Someone should have been answering the
phone.
A second later, a frantic voice
did.
Director Stansfield was sitting at his
desk reading a report on the mental stability of North Korea’s
leadership. Because of the recent flurry of assassinations his
regular work was suffering. He didn’t like falling behind, there
were too many potential problems just over the horizon. As director
of the Agency, Stansfield saw it as his job to know and understand
who the players were in each country that had an adversarial
relationship with the United States. When things turned sour, he
wanted to be able to predict the behavior of the men he was up
against.
The phone rang and Stansfield removed his
spectacles, rubbed his eyes, and then picked it up.
“Hello.”
“Thomas, it’s Charlie. We’ve got a major
problem! Someone just grabbed Arthur
Higgins!”
Stansfield sat up straight. “How long
ago?”
“His personal alarm went off about four
minutes ago. We called his estate and one of the security guards
verified that they’d been hit.”
“I’m on my way down.” Stansfield hung up
the phone and headed for the door. When he reached the outer room,
his bodyguard looked up from behind a desk and Stansfield said,
“Come on, we’re going downstairs.” The director continued into the
hallway and shoved his ID card into the slot next to the elevator.
Five seconds later, the doors opened and they stepped in. While the
elevator descended, Stansfield battled to suppress the hope that
Arthur had been killed. He hoped so for two reasons. The first,
which embarrassed him, was personal. Arthur had ignored
Stansfield’s warnings to cease his activities in the intelligence
community. He was a growing security risk and a thorn in
Stansfield’s side. The second reason was purely professional. If
Arthur was dead, he couldn’t be interrogated. He had more damaging
secrets in his head than any other person in the Agency. Arthur had
conducted unofficial operations that no one else knew about, and
his knowledge of official CIA operations was thorough. If he was
taken alive and interrogated, the Agency would be compromised at
every level. The damage would be
unimaginable.
The elevator opened and Stansfield
approached the door to the Operations Center. He placed his hand on
a scanner, and a second later the door opened. Charlie Dobbs was
standing with his watch officers conferring on the
crisis.
Stansfield approached. “Give me the
rundown.”
“We’re tracking his homing signal right
now.” Dobbs pointed at the big screen in the front of the room. A
detailed map of the Chesapeake was on the screen and a slow-moving
red dot. “It appears they’ve got him on board a boat and are making a run for
the open sea.”
“Do we know how it
happened?”
“We’ve talked to the guard who was running
the control room inside Arthur’s house. He says Arthur stepped
outside to smoke a cigar, and then they came over the wall. He
isn’t sure how many of them there were because they shot his
cameras out. Two of the guards are dead, and there is no sign of
Arthur.”
“What procedures have we put into
effect?”
“We’ve scrambled two Cobra gunships out of
Quantico and an AWAC was on patrol when the whole thing went down.
The AWAC has confirmed our bogie and has classified it as a small
watercraft moving at a speed of sixty-two knots. I have also
notified the Coast Guard, and they are moving to set up a picket at
the south end of the Bay.”
“How long will it take for the choppers to
intercept?”
“If there is no course change, they should
intercept in about ten minutes.” They all looked at the big board
and watched the moving red dot. “I also activated two of our
security details. I’m sending one to the estate to investigate, and
the other will be airborne within the next two minutes. I’m sending
them after the boat.”
Stansfield shook his head. “Charlie, do
whatever it takes to get him back.”
Stroble peered over the top of the
windscreen, his night-vision goggles helping slightly, but not
much. The stars and moon were blocked out by the thick clouds, and
the water was black. He kept the boat just to the west of the channel
markers. The Chesapeake was notorious for unmarked sandbars, and
now would not be a good time to run aground on one. Hackett came
out from the small cabin and announced that the charges were set.
He kept his night-vision goggles up on the top of his head and
checked the sky and water behind them.
They were less than a minute away from
their demarcation point. Hackett threw their weapons and equipment
over the side, everything except their fins and mask. Taking two
short pieces of rope, Stroble tied the steering wheel down so the
boat would stay on a straight course. He looked at his watch and
gave Hackett a thumbs-up. Hackett got on top of the engine cover
and without hesitation dove off the back of the boat, curling into
a ball. As soon as Hackett was away, Stroble flipped on the running
lights, grabbed his fins and mask, and ran for the back of the
boat. He leapt clear of the propellers and also tucked into a tight
ball. He hit the water and skipped several times, rolling as he
went. Their bodies stung slightly from the initial impact, but
otherwise they were fine.
Hackett appeared at Stroble’s side, and
they paused for a second to watch the boat rumble away. They put on
their fins and masks and started swimming as fast as they could for
shore. They had a little over a mile to go. Before leaving the
boat, Hackett had placed a series of small, timed charges that
would rip holes in the bottom of the boat’s hull. They pumped their
arms powerfully through the water, their fins doing most of the
work. Shortly, they were within two hundred yards of
shore.
Hackett stopped and so did Stroble.
Sticking his hand into the neck of his scuba suit, Hackett pulled
out his radio headset. Without putting it on he held the unit next
to his ear and said, “Mercury, this is Cyclops, come in,
over.”
“I read you loud and clear, Cyclops,
over.”
Hackett and Stroble bobbed up and down in
the water, staring at the dark shoreline. “Can you give us a mark
on your position, over?” They both saw the flicker of red light.
Marking the position with a dip in the tree line, Hackett
responded, “I’ve got a fix. We’ll be joining you in a couple of
minutes, over.”
Hackett shoved the headset back under his
suit and was getting ready to swim again when he heard an all too
familiar noise. Stroble heard it, too, and they both sank a little
deeper in the water. The chopping sound grew, echoing off the
water. It was hard to get a fix on where it was coming from, but
there was no doubt what it was. It was getting louder. They turned
in the water, looking skyward.
The noise increased markedly, and then,
without warning, two helicopters screamed over treetops above where
Tim O’Rourke was waiting. For a brief second, both former SEALs
thought they had been discovered, but the choppers didn’t stop.
They kept going, racing overhead, out into the Bay and then turning
south. Stroble and Hackett looked at each other quickly and then
sprinted for shore.
Back in the Operations Center the tension
was mounting. Stansfield watched the chase unfold on the big board.
The display from the AWAC was up on the screen. Arthur’s homing signal
hadn’t changed course. It was still headed south. The position of
the two Cobra gunships was marked by a duo of green triangles on
the screen. The radio communication between the pilots of the
choppers and the airborne controller on board the AWAC was being
played over the loudspeaker. The choppers were closing
quickly.
Dobbs turned to Stansfield and said, “I
have to tell the pilots what their rules of engagement
are.”
Without pause Stansfield replied, “If they
are met with the slightest resistance, they are free to use
whatever force they deem necessary. I want that boat
stopped.”
The small charges exploded, ripping three
holes in the bow of the boat and two more next to the engines. The
holes in the bow acted as scoops, funneling water into the cabin.
In the stern, water rose rapidly, the engines straining with the
extra weight and the loss of a smooth hull. The engines revved
louder and louder until they were smothered by the water. All
forward movement stopped and the expensive boat slipped beneath the
surface of the dark water.
The controller on board the AWAC announced
the decrease in speed before it was noticeable on the big board in
the Operations Center. He continued to read off the decreasing
speed until the boat had stopped. Stansfield, along with everyone
else in the room, watched the helicopters rapidly close the gap.
The green triangles inched closer and closer to
the stationary red dot.
The AWAC’s controller vectored the choppers right in on top of the
mark, and then came the surprise. The pilots announced no boat was
in sight.
The black BMW weaved through the busy
Fridaynight traffic of Georgetown. As Coleman drove, he told
Michael that his former boss, Admiral DeVoe, had called to tell him
the FBI was snooping around asking questions. A pensive O’Rourke
asked, “Did he say why they are interested in
you?”
“Only that they wanted to know why I was
discharged early.”
O’Rourke stared out the window and said,
“That means they know about Snatch Back. Did the admiral tell you
who called him?”
“No. All he said was that they were from
the Bureau. Michael, I wouldn’t get too worried yet. They might
just be going down a list of former
SEALs.”
“I doubt it. The FBI is looking for
someone who had motive enough to do this, and when they find out
Fitzgerald was the one who leaked Snatch Back, they’re going to be
all over you.” O’Rourke nervously tapped his fingers on the
dashboard. “And then they’re going to find out about Mark’s death,
and they’re going to get real interested in
you.”
“Let them look. They’re not going to find
anything. They can’t prove I knew squat about who leaked Snatch
Back. I found out from you, and you weren’t supposed to
know.”
Michael thought about it. “If all they
have is Fitzgerald’s connection to Snatch Back and
your brother’s death, that won’t be enough to indict, but it
will be enough for them to assign a couple dozen agents to watch
you around the clock. You are going to have to lay really low for a
while. Dump the car as soon as we’re done tonight, and don’t go
back to the garage.”
Coleman agreed, and several minutes later
he turned onto Michael’s street. They stopped in front of Michael’s
house and O’Rourke jumped out. Flipping up the black cover on the
security pad, he punched in the code for the garage door and it
opened. Coleman backed the car into the tight garage, and Michael
followed, closing the door behind him. At first they were going to
bring Arthur to the cabin, but since it was only fourteen miles
from the estate, they thought it would be best to bring him back to
the city where they could use the busy traffic and people for
cover.
Before opening the trunk, Michael and
Coleman pulled their mesh masks down over their faces. Coleman
inserted the key into the lock and pushed in. The trunk opened,
revealing the bony white body of Arthur. His eyes were glassy and
his wrists and ankles tied together with rope. A blue racquetball
was shoved in his mouth. Michael dug the ball out and Arthur moved
his jaw. With a deep look of confusion he stared up at the two dark
figures. Michael almost felt sorry for Arthur and then remembered
who he was.
Coleman grabbed him under the armpits and
Michael grabbed his ankles. Together they hoisted him out of the
trunk and brought him into the house. The ground level of
O’Rourke’s brownstone consisted of a single-car garage on one side and a
utility and washroom on the other. They brought Arthur to the
corner of the washroom and set him on the floor with his back
against the wall. Coleman went out to the car and came back with a
small black case. He set it on top of the dryer and opened it.
Inside were two clear liquid vials and several syringes. Coleman
grabbed the vial labeled sodium pentothal, tilted it upside down,
and stuck the tip of a syringe through the rubber top. Pulling the
plunger back, he filled the syringe about halfway. After putting
the vial of truth serum back in the case, he let the bubbles rise
to the top of the syringe and squeezed some of the fluid
out.
Arthur mumbled something, and Coleman
ignored him. The chloroform was wearing off. Coleman grabbed a
stick of smelling salts and broke it open. He stuck it under
Arthur’s nose, and the pungent smell forced the old man to yank his
head away. Coleman did it several more times and Arthur responded
verbally.
“What are you doing? . . . Where am
I?”
Coleman ignored him and grabbed the
syringe from atop the dryer.
Arthur looked up at the needle and
realized what was going on. “Before you use that, let’s talk for a
second.”
Coleman kneeled down and grabbed Arthur’s
arm. Arthur’s eyes shot frantically back and forth between the head
of the masked man and tip of the needle. “I don’t know who’s paying
you, but I’ll double it.”
Coleman found a blue vein just under the
surface of
Arthur’s thin, dry skin. He slid the needle in and depressed the
plunger.
Arthur watched with a panicked look on his
face. “You have no idea what you’re doing. My people will come
looking for me. . . . They will find you no matter what it
takes!”
As Arthur shouted, Coleman walked out of
the room and shut the door behind him. Michael came down the stairs
with a tape recorder, video camera, and a set of small speakers. He
handed them to Coleman and went into the garage to grab the mobile
scramble phone. When Michael got back, he asked Coleman how long it
would take for the drug to take effect, and Coleman told him about
another five minutes. Both of them went back into the washroom. The
second they opened the door, Arthur began pleading, his voice
growing more placid by the minute.
Michael and Coleman ignored him while they
set up the equipment. O’Rourke plugged the two speakers into the
mobile scramble phone and attached the voice modulator to the
mouthpiece of the handset. Coleman took the video camera and
mounted it on top of a tripod. They did a quick test to make sure
everything checked out. Michael waved for Coleman to follow him,
and they stepped out into the hallway.
“Remember, I’ll ask the questions. If you
want to say something, turn off the tape recorder and camera first.
If we end up using this tape, the CIA and the FBI will analyze
every little noise.”
“Understood.”
“Is there any chance he’ll be able to lie
to us?” asked Michael.
“No, I’ve used this stuff in the field
before, and you can’t fight it.”
Michael nodded and they went back into the
room. Arthur sat in the corner staring up at the light in the
middle of the ceiling. Coleman approached, grabbed Arthur’s jaw,
looked into his heavily dilated eyes, then told Michael Arthur was
ready. Coleman turned on the camera and Michael hit the record
button on the tape recorder. Speaking into the modulator, Michael
asked, “What is your name?”
Director Stansfield stared at the big
board on the front wall of the Operations Center and noted the
running time since Arthur’s personal alarm had been sounded. They
were approaching the fortyminute mark, and things were not looking
good. With each tick of the clock, the odds of getting him back got
worse. They were still getting a signal from Arthur’s beacon, but
the Cobra gunships had found nothing. Navy frogmen were on the way
from Norfolk to find out what was beneath the water. At first they
thought Arthur’s alarm might have been thrown overboard by his
abductors, but the AWAC operator told them the bogie had stopped
dead in the water. The quick-reaction team had arrived at Arthur’s
estate and was assessing the situation. Only one thing was certain:
Arthur was nowhere to be found.
Stansfield watched as his people in the
Operations Center alerted the Coast Guard, local law enforcement
agencies, airport officials, and U.S. Customs agents to be on the
lookout for anything suspicious.
For security reasons,
they didn’t tell anyone the real reason for the alert, only that
they were looking for a fugitive. They didn’t want the story ending
up in the press. Stansfield knew if they were to get Arthur back at
this point it would take luck, and to get lucky they had to hustle.
For every minute that expired, their chances of getting him back
decreased. Stansfield also had procedure to follow. He picked up a
secure line and dialed the number for the National Security Desk at
the White House.
“National Security Desk, Major Maxwell
speaking. Please identify yourself.”
“This is Director Stansfield of the CIA.
Is the president on premise?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Alert the National Security Council and
bring them in. We have a potential crisis in the making. Tell the
president I’ll be there in fifteen
minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stansfield hung up the phone and told his
bodyguard to get the chopper warmed up. The director then turned to
Dobbs. “Charlie, hopefully we’ll get him back, but we have to start
preparing for the worst. Get everyone in here. I want damage
assessment reports as quickly as possible. We need to know what
current operations might be in jeopardy, and how many of our
agents’ covers could be blown if Arthur is
interrogated.”
“Do you want me to alert our friends
overseas?”
“Don’t tell the embassies yet. We’ll wait
another hour or so.”
“What about the Brits? Arthur did a lot of
work with them.”
Stansfield hadn’t even thought of that
yet. Their allies would be extremely upset. “Hold off on that for
another hour or so. I’ll have to make those calls personally. If
any further developments arise, call me immediately.”
Arthur answered the last question of his
life. Michael looked at Coleman in complete disbelief and hit the
stop button on the tape recorder. As Michael rose, he pointed
toward the door and Coleman followed. When they got into the
hallway, they took off their masks and stared at each other. They
could not believe what they had just
heard.
Michael spoke first, through clenched
teeth. “This is unbelievable!”
“It’s more than unbelievable, it’s enough
to bring the whole government down. Do you know what would happen
if we released this tape to the press?”
“We’ll be the bastards of the
international community,” said O’Rourke.
“It’ll rip the country apart. If Watergate
tarnished the presidency, this will destroy it forever.” Coleman
pointed toward the room. “Do you want to ask any more
questions?”
O’Rourke thought about it for a second and
said, “No. We found out what we wanted.” Michael looked at his
watch. “The sooner we get rid of him the
better.”
“I agree. Make a copy of the tape, and
I’ll take care of Arthur.”
They both went back into the room. Michael
grabbed the tape and went upstairs. Coleman grabbed the empty
syringe from atop the dryer and pulled the plunger back, filling it with
air. Bending down, he looked into Arthur’s glassy eyes for a
second, and then, with utter disdain, he stuck the needle into
Arthur’s arm. Coleman depressed the plunger, sending thousands of
lethal air bubbles into Arthur’s bloodstream. Coleman had no desire
to watch him die and went to the garage to find something to wrap
the body in.
Michael came back downstairs several
minutes later and helped Coleman wrap Arthur in green trash bags.
They placed the corpse in the trunk of the BMW and covered it with
some blankets. Coleman looked at O’Rourke and asked, “What are you
going to do with the tapes?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Are you thinking about releasing them to
the media?”
“I’m not so sure it would be a good
idea.”
Coleman nodded. “I think it would set us
back a hundred years.”
“I agree.”
“Well, whatever you decide to do, you’re
going to have to do it without me. I don’t think you and I will be
able to see each other for a while. If you’re right about the FBI,
I’m going to have to lay low.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. This tape
might come in handy.”
“How?” asked
Coleman.
Michael shook the tape in front of
Coleman’s face. “This little confession would topple the entire
government if it was released. Whether Stevens was involved or not,
he would be implicated. He would be willing to do almost anything
to keep this from being released, and the CIA . . . they stand to lose the
most. If this thing went public, the entire Agency would be shut
down within a week. They would do almost anything to keep it
quiet.”
“Yeah, like putting a bullet in the back
of our heads.”
“Not if we do it right. Let’s talk about
it in the car.”
“You’re coming with me to dump the body?”
asked a surprised Coleman.
“Yeah, I know the perfect
place.”