3 Lies (33 page)

He surveyed the patrons at the pumps. A girl with a crop shirt and a serious muffin top pumped fuel into a beat Toyota. She stopped at ten dollars. An older man sporting a grey ponytail cleaned the windshield of his black Charger with the squeegee while talking on the phone. A white pickup pulled into a parking space at the front of the store. Three guys piled out.

A man’s voice spoke from behind Doug. “Who are you, and why are you looking for the two ships?”

He turned to face the man. “Who are you? And why—why you’re—you’re Clint Masters.”

“I am. Who are you?”

Masters was on the tall side. Doug almost didn’t recognize him. All the photos of him in the press showed a stock photo of the industry titan in business attire. The man in front of him wore jeans, a thermal shirt, and at least three day’s beard growth.

“Doug Bryant. I—” He held out his hand to shake it, but none of this made any sense. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“My questions get answered first.”

Doug tried to retrace the steps in his mind but stumbled. “I’m confused. Did you respond to a fax about the ships?”

Masters looked over the grounds. “I did. But if you want to talk, then we take a ride.”

The day was too young for this kind of surreal. How could this be Clint Masters? The man acted like a spook not a techno genius. Okay, pump the brakes. Maybe this was a setup.

“You know. I’d like to see some I.D. first. If you’re Masters, then great, I’ll come with you.”

Masters fumbled for his wallet. He flipped open the bi-fold and flashed a Massachusetts driver’s license. The picture was his. Clint Edward Masters. Could be a forgery.

“Would you please take it out of the wallet?”

Masters’ eyes swept over to the pumps. He couldn’t keep his hands still as he wrestled the card from the pocket. He dropped it on the ground. Both men bent to pick it up.

Crraaaaaack! Crraaaaaack! Crraaaaaack!

Tires squealed at the sound of the shots.

At the fax transmission office, Posey located Sasha in a back room. She was taking off her coat when he entered.

“I was expecting you sometime today.”

“Doug said you told him the orders were changed on the fax to the marinas.”

“I remember the one you initiated.” She laid her coat across the back of her chair. “When it came time to broadcast, the job had changed. I didn’t think anything of it, orders change all the time. Doug got a little hot when I told him we hadn’t carpet bombed the East Coast.” She shrugged. “Sorry, I figured you guys knew.”

“I need to know who changed it. Can you check that for me?”

“Sure.” She turned to the keyboard on her desk and worked outside of Posey’s view. “The order was changed thirty-two minutes after you created the job. Hang on. I need to cross match the identification code.”

Posey felt a drum roll in his chest.

“Okay. Natalie Warda changed the orders.”

Doug and Clint kissed the glass-covered concrete while all around them people screamed. Whoever was out to harm Beth, Doug wasn’t one of them. His face bore the expression of someone genuinely horrified.

Clint grabbed Doug by the arm and pushed him toward the pumps where Merlin waited with the Charger. Clint opened the back seat and fell in after Doug. There was no sign of the drive-by vehicle, only rising smoke and echoing panic. Merlin sped off in the opposite direction.

Clint pulled Doug’s wallet from his back pocket. Doug’s reactions were dulled. Clint still held his own drivers license when he found Doug’s credentials.

“CIA? Shit! You’re CIA?”

“Oh, blimey.” Merlin slowed to match the traffic.

Doug panted out the words. “Who are you?”

“I told you.” Clint held out his ID. “I’m Clint Masters. Yes. The CatSat guy.”

Doug wiped his mouth with a shaky fist and read the card. “Okay. I believe you. Why are you involved in this?”

“Beth Sutton is my girlfriend.”

“Who’s Beth Sutton?”

Clint’s frustration roiled to a steam. He grabbed the front of Doug’s shirt and cinched his neck with a twist. For Beth’s sake, he resisted a flowing urge to slug this kid’s face. “Someone from that gang on the ship kidnapped my girlfriend, my sick girlfriend. Someone killed my dog and is now taking shots at me. So you tell me. Why is the CIA looking for this ship?”

“It’s— it’s one of ours.” Doug pulled at Clint’s fingers, but they weren’t budging. “A Hatteras and Grady White have been missing for a month. We tracked—” He gasped for air. “We tracked them through the Panama Canal, but then they disappeared. The faxes were sent all over the East Coast.”

Clint loosened his grip to let the kid breathe. “Who took the ships?”

“We think a group of our agents did.”

“Why are your agents involved in this?”

Doug pushed Clint away. “We don’t know.” He lowered his voice. “Someone inside the CIA launched a mission. We don’t know what the hell any of this is about.”

Clint fell back against the seat. “C.I. Freakin A.” He looked up at Merlin who nodded in the mirror. “Abe Melinger is my girlfriend’s uncle. Chief Justice Abe Melinger.” Clint let that comment sink. “She was kidnapped Tuesday. Your agents are holding her and eight other people hostage on the Hatteras. People very close to the Supreme Court justices.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw an article about a kidnapped girl, somewhat related to Justice Cohen. Anyway, I hired investigators to check on the rest of the justices. They all have someone missing. Abe finally admitted it, but he said they refuse to bring in the authorities. Your agents want to strong arm a Supreme Court vote.”

Doug blanched. “What interest would the CIA have in a particular decision?”

“You tell me. They’re trying to make it look like the work of Arab terrorists. But I don’t believe it.”

“Someone sure assembled a team that could pass.” Doug rubbed his neck, still red from the wringing. “In addition to the missing boats, we have ten agents gone AWOL. That’s what got us looking for the vehicles in the first place.”

“Ten? We’ve got ten guys on that ship to contend with?”

“Not anymore. We’re down to seven. Maybe less. One guy was a fluke. He’s been dead awhile. Two others were found dead this week.”

“Beth, my girlfriend. We’ve got to get her off there. She’s got a problem with her kidneys. She needs dialysis.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll—” Doug’s phone rang. His leg jumped as he checked the phone. “It’s my partner back at Headquarters. He’s dogging some information for me.”

Clint grabbed his hand. “Do you trust this guy?”

“With my life.”

“You may have to.”

Doug took the call.

“Posey, you are not going to believe this trip. Clint Masters was the guy that faxed us back. Yes, that Clint Masters.” Doug’s voice raised an octave. “I am not shitting you. Someone took some shots at us.”

Clint tried not to relive the grim details as Doug retold them to Posey. Even after hearing Doug’s version of the truth, the weird collection of facts didn’t bring him any closer to Beth. He focused his thoughts on the ship.

“No way it’s Natalie. I don’t believe it. Check the logs again. Do you believe it?” Doug paused. “I didn’t think so. Albert’s a damn good candidate.” He glanced at Clint. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you—”

“Don’t hang up.” Clint said.

“Hang on, Posey.” Doug covered the phone and turned to Clint.

“Do you have equipment lists for the Hatteras and Grady?”

“We should.”

“Tell him to find the list and call you back.”

“What’ve you got in mind?”

“The Hatteras is a big damn fish. We need to see if we have any bait."

The urgent mission assigned by the controller from the last call was an utter disaster.

Jaman and Binard went ashore to eliminate two men at a convenience store. Drive-by. Close range. Quick and dirty. When they sped away from the site, the targets were still alive.

According to Salif, even the bangers in the ‘hood would have gotten those orders straight. Salif met the news of failure with his usual concern for how it affected him. Amir’s opinion bent to the philosophical. Even with the clearest objective, the best intelligence, and the most prepared agents, the winds blew in the direction of its own choosing. In this case, they had none of these factors on their side.

When Salif’s phone rang, Amir knew it was the controller because Salif‘s already sour mood turned caustic.

Salif covered the phone. “Tell them I want to see them immediately when they return.”

He didn’t need to tell Amir to whom he referred. Jaman and Binard were a bad combination. Amir didn’t understand why Salif had sent them. The cobra and mongoose worked together with more enthusiasm.

Amir hurried to the control room to listen to the call.

“—was a disaster. Your people looked like amateurs.”

Salif did not defend them.

“Scuttle the Grady White immediately. I’m sending your final instructions today. We’re close to the finish. If anyone interferes with the Hatteras make sure you kill him.”

“With pleasure.”

Close to the finish. Amir hoped this was true. He expected hardship, they all did. Sleep deprivation had become a factor. He wanted to walk under the sun, among the stars, breathe fresh air, get thoroughly drunk. Experiences all currently prohibited. After four weeks at sea, the tight quarters of the ship grated on everyone’s very last nerve.

Merlin drove to a busy grocery store off Charles Street and found a parking spot near the edge. Doug was back on the phone with Posey. He put the speaker on for the others to hear and laid the unit on the console.

“We’ll skip the introductions. Posey’s got the equipment list for the boats. They left the GPS at the dock when they stole the ship.”

“But I guarantee you they’re carrying a replacement,” Clint said. “We can’t use it to trace them, but maybe there’s a CatSat chip in one of the other electronic devices. If so, that may give us some options.”

“Read the list, Posey.”

“We’ve got a Robertson AP200DL autopilot. A Furuno—”

“Wait. Do you have serial numbers?”

“Yeah.”

“Give me those too.”

Clint took notes on any device that might contain a CatSat chip. He needed to verify the model numbers with the manufacturer’s master lists back at CatSat Labs. But several of the names sounded familiar.

After Posey and Clint finished the information exchange, Posey excused himself and stepped off the call. “Hold on a sec.”

Another voice came back on the line. “Doug? This is Simon. Are you there?”

“I’m here, buddy. Have you got something I can use?”

“Maybe. We found a piece of the code that seems to reference, well, itself.”

Doug wiped his hands down the front of his pants. “Sorry, I’m not following you.”

“It’s binary code, part of the worm. But it may be the name of the operation.”

Doug smiled at his new partners. “Let’s have it.”

“Operation Splintered Bench.”

~

While Clint reviewed the equipment list, Doug called Chester. No answer. Doug left a message about the ambush though he wasn’t sure who was the real target, Clint or him, and he told Chester they were working a way to locate the ship but without details because he hadn’t any. He reluctantly left the same message for Natalie. She was still his boss, and no one had rescinded his orders to keep her informed. But until they found the Hatteras, none of this was too urgent. Except staying alive. He didn’t bother calling Albert. Albert had broken his link in the chain of command.

“If we find this ship, we’re going to need serious backup. These guys are trained agents, not likely to appreciate our interruption.” Doug leaned forward.

Merlin drove away from the grocery store. “Shoot first, ask questions later, isn’t it?”

“Just because a rogue operative from headquarters launched this, doesn’t mean the agents on the ship are in on it. They may not know their out in the cold. If not, they think this mission is legit.”

“Can’t you contact them and shut this thing down?” Merlin turned at the intersection.

“It’s not like a military unit. Once these guys are operational, the hard communications channels are no longer accessible by the Company. The controller manages the team by using prescribed code names, defined access paths, and strict protocols. Hell, the controller might even be on the team. We don’t know. No two missions are the same. Patterns get men killed.”

“Then we damn well better be unpredictable. Eh, mates?”

The CatSat Laboratories campus occupied two rehabbed city blocks overlooking Boston Harbor. Merlin pulled up to the unmarked executive entry at the rear of the building. When Clint stepped out, a security guard rushed to shoo him from the curb.

“I’m sorry, this is private property.”

“It’s me. Clint Masters.”

The guard looked unconvinced. He drooped under his epaulets. “Mr. Masters?”

“We’ll be inside for a while but have a car ready for me.”

“Do—do you want a driver, sir?”

Merlin raised his hand. “I’ll drive.” He handed the Charger keys to the guard. “Would you mind seeing this returned to the airport?”

The guard looked at Clint for approval.

“Good idea. Make sure all the charges are paid by CatSat.”

The three men left the bewildered guard and took the private elevator to the R&D lab on the 23rd floor. Clint wanted to avoid any fanfare he might attract in the common corridors. But by now, on a Saturday, even the least social creatures among the staff had abandoned this part of the building.

The electronic pad outside the CatSat transmission lab verified the entrant’s voice, hand geometry, and the vein pattern in the palm before gaining access. By corporate charter, only two people possessed the trio of acceptable parametric matches required to open the lab during off hours: Clint Masters and Todd Westerfield.

As CTO, the R&D lab had always been Clint’s domain. The team of engineers, programmers, mathematicians, and designers developed a multitude of prototypes for potential use in production or toyed with the latest technology for evaluation. Of all the places in the complex, this room was his favorite, the most comforting. It was the place he came to when he needed to study or wanted to relax. He came here to think about something else when he wondered where Paige had gone in the middle of the night.