One Child (25 page)

Chapter

44

Moscow, Russia

The team was beginning to fracture.

Trey could see the foundation crumbling and he was determined to stop it. Petr was all over Maelle, making derogatory remarks about her and calling her out for not responding to his advances. Maelle, in turn, had threatened to drug him and cut off his testicles while he slept. Alexi was like a pot simmering on the stove. Ready to boil over at any moment. Trey realized that if Alexi had a meltdown, someone would die. Who it was didn't matter, but it would attract the police and that was something they didn't need right now. He called a meeting at the shop to read them the riot act.

Three blocks away, walking on Usaceva Street on his way to the meeting, his phone rang. He ducked into a doorway for relief from the incessant road noise. He knew from the call display that it was Anne Sommer at CIA headquarters in Langley.

"Hello, Anne," he said. He cupped his hand around the mouthpiece. "Do you have something for me?"

"I do. Are we okay to talk on this phone?"

"Yes."

"I'll be quick," she said. "Do you know a man named Aaron Hall?"

"No. Is he the guy who hacked into my file?"

"Yes. But we don't think he's a player. He's a nobody living in a dumpy basement suite in Queens. Someone else is working him."

Trey noticed her choice of words.
We
. Whenever someone with the agency talked about what they had found, it was always
we
. Never I. Always
we
.

"Who are you working for, Trey?" she asked.

"Do you need to know?" he asked.

"It would help. We have a line on something and it would be nice to know if we're moving in the right direction with this."

Trey considered his options. There was no upside to keeping Anne in the dark. "William
Fleming
."

"The Wall Street billionaire, William
Fleming
?" she asked.

"Yeah, him."

He caught something in her voice. Recognition, perhaps.

"I have to check on something. I'll call you back in a bit."

"When?"

"An hour, maybe two."

He touched the end button and slipped the phone back in his pocket. He poked his head out of the doorway and scanned up and down the sidewalk. Nothing. Old habits died hard. He continued on to the retail space they had rented on Usaceva. He unlocked the front door, then closed it behind him. The brown paper on the windows kept out more than prying eyes. Barely any sunshine found its way through the well-sealed paper and it felt dreary inside. He made his way to the rear of the shop and opened the door that led to the office and restroom. Sitting around a rickety card table were the rest of his team. The silence in the room was noticeable. He slid back the last chair and sat.

"Did you find a line for Maelle to hack into the city computer?" he asked Petr Besovich. No preamble. Not with this group. It showed weakness.

"I did. She's working on it."

Trey looked at Maelle. "When will you be in?"

"Tomorrow."

Trey nodded his approval. "Tomorrow is Thursday. If you're inside the city computers by Friday, you can begin sending messages that look like they are coming from the city's electrical division advising the maintenance crews at the stadium of the upcoming power outages." He thought for a second, then asked, "Will you be able to intercept any calls from the staff at the stadium to the city?"

"Yes, but we have to be careful that we don't cut in on unrelated calls. We won't be able to patch them through to other departments or answer their questions. If they get suspicious, we're in trouble."

"Only monitor the calls immediately after you send them the notices. Ten minutes, max. If you get a call that isn't related, pretend they've called a wrong number and hang up." He turned back to Petr. "Do you have all six locations yet?"

"I've located all six. The contactors Alexi built are perfect. Small and easy to hide behind the junction boxes. No one will ever find them. I have the hardware in place on four of the six."

"Excellent. So there's nothing to keep you from having all six power conduits into the stadium rigged to fail."

Petr wiggled his head back and forth a bit. "Should be okay," he said. He rotated his body so he was facing Maelle. "I'll be ready for my bonus soon."

"Not now," Trey shot at the Russian. His voice was a step up from terse and one down from threatening. He had to stop this in its tracks before it got physical. "Have you tested Alexi's hardware?"

Petr reluctantly turned back toward the team leader. "The contactors are fine, and the switch to turn on the remote is excellent. He did a good job. I can trip the power remotely, then bring it back up after the crowd has left."

"Good work," Trey said. He offered a rare compliment. "You're a master with electronics, Alexi."

The thin, elegant man shrugged. His eyes were unemotional - pure ice. "I'm bored."

Trey changed the subject. "I'm leaving for Belarus early Saturday morning to take care of the backup generator. I should be back later that day, Sunday at the latest."

"Any problems with that?" Maelle asked.

Trey shook his head. "Not yet. The crew moving the generator are with a union, so it's simple to track them. The union stewards call the drivers a couple of times a day and their cell phone records are easy to access. Each time they connect it gives me a location. I track it on my map. They'll be in Orsha on Saturday. I don't think the truck will be leaving there for a week or two."

Trey's phone vibrated and he glanced down at the call display. He excused himself from the table and walked back to the front of the shop, out of earshot.

"Go ahead, Anne," he said.

"We have the connection, Trey, but before I give you anything, I need you to promise you won't do anything stupid."

Trey couldn't help smiling. Amazing how a reputation could stay with you for so many years. "All right, Anne, I promise I won't do anything that will get you in trouble."

"That's not what I said."

"It's the best I can do. What did you find?"

Silence, then, "Aaron Hall is a friend of a woman named Alicia Crane. She works for
Platinus Investments
, which, of course, is owned by William
Fleming
."

"Alicia is our gal?"

"We don't think so. We have a trail of other cell and landline calls. Our guess is that she was helping someone else."

"Who?"

"His name is
Carson
Grant, head of the Platinus High Frequency Trading division. Grant is on the inside track and would have known
Fleming
was in Cabo San Lucas and wouldn't be checking his e-mail."

"Opportunity," Trey said quietly.

She didn't acknowledge the interruption. "He swiped into the building at 8:36 on Wednesday, August 11
th
. Sixteen minutes later, Alicia Crane arrived. Grant went directly to his office on the forty-sixth floor and Alicia followed when she arrived. The elevators only went to forty-six. No other floors."

"And Alicia Crane's office isn't on forty-six."

"It's on eighteen." A brief pause and the CIA agent continued. "Twelve minutes after Crane arrived on forty-six, someone hacked into
Fleming
's computer. They downloaded two groups of e-mails. Four from you and three from a man named Jorge Amistav."

"Who is that?"

"Amistav is a mid-level arms dealer. He brokers deals. Usually stolen or damaged weapons. We'd love to take him out but he never does anything quite bad enough to justify it."

"Pity," Trey said.

She ignored him. "Now you're up to speed. Do not do anything that links the agency to this."

"Promise. Sort of." He waited a second, then added, "I owe you one, Anne."

"You did a lot for us when you were here, Trey. It's payback."

"Cool. Thanks."

He replaced the phone in his pocket and took a couple of deep breaths.
Carson
Grant. Who the hell was this guy and why had he opened up this can of worms? Why would a Wall Street golden child with a seven-figure income care about what his boss was mixed up with outside the office? It made absolutely no sense. Yet Grant had talked a friend into hacking the CIA mainframe and looking through a highly classified file. Then he had downloaded e-mails that tied William
Fleming
into an illegal act in a foreign country.

Fleming
was going to go ballistic when he found out.

Trey briefly considered not passing the information along, but discarded that path as dangerous and stupid. There was no reason to protect
Carson
Grant from his own curiosity. The bottom line was, the man had poked his head into a place where it could get cut off. That decision on how to handle Grant was up to
Fleming
. Trey dialed a New York number on his cell phone and waited.
Fleming
answered.

"We found the intruder," Trey said.

"Who is it?"
Fleming
's voice was terse. And anxious. He wanted to know.

"
Carson
Grant."

At least thirty seconds passed before another sound passed across the line. "Are you absolutely certain?"
Fleming
asked.

"Of course."

Another long pause. "Take care of Mr. Grant," he said. The line died.

Trey shuffled back to the group. All eyes were on him as he sat down. He looked at Alexi. "I have a job for you," he said.

"Excellent news," Androv responded. Excitement crept into his eyes. More than excitement. Desire.

Chapter

45

FOB Ma'sum ghar, Afghanistan

Russell
had never felt inadequate in front of a camera. Until now.

He sat on the pile of sandbags that rimmed his bunk and stared overtop of the video camera - outside the wire at the vast expanse of desert to the south. The sand dunes were so close he could see the ripples scarring their smooth peaks. Beyond the massive sand waves were more of the same. Unending, like the ocean, but barren of life. Even the Taliban steered clear of the wasteland that extended south from Kandahar to the border with Pakistan.

The resupply trip from the FOB to Mushan was vivid in his mind. He was stunned at the vulnerability of the convoy and the speed at which the Taliban were all over them. There was no doubt about the viciousness of the response to their presence. But nothing impacted him more than the pregnant woman and her husband.

What had happened after they left? Was she alive? Did the baby survive the birth? He had asked himself the same questions a hundred times over the last twenty-four hours. And he was still without answers. The scene haunted him now, and he knew that it would stay with him forever.

Russell
dragged himself off the sandbags and checked the settings on the camera. He had to film the report. That was the reason he was here. To show the world what insanity looked like in the first person. He scanned his notes, then touched the record button and took his spot on the x he'd marked.

Yesterday, we ventured outside the wire. A hundred vehicles left our new home at FOB Ma'sum ghar and headed for the combat outposts on the road to, and just beyond, the town of Mushan. American and Canadian soldiers working together to resupply troops who are dug into the rocks and sand that permeate every corner of Afghanistan. Tanks. Stryker armored vehicles. Trucks. Hundreds of troops. An impressive force.

Yet the advantage still lies with the insurgents. They waited for us. Patiently. When we hit the edge of Mushan they took out one of our lead vehicles, then laid down an unrelenting barrage of mortar and small arms fire. The convoy was under threat of annihilation.

In the midst of the battle, a human tragedy unfolded. A pregnant woman and her husband came to us in crisis. She was in labor and ready to deliver her baby. There was no doctor for hours in any direction. Her only chance was for one of our medics to assist in the birth. To ensure the woman and the child had a chance at life.

But that didn't happen. If we had stalled the convoy for the time it would take to help her, we would likely have been killed. The moment the disabled vehicle was removed from the road, we left. Chances are - we left her to die.

This is the tragedy of Afghanistan. We want to help. To change lives and bring stability to a country that hasn't known peace for thirty years. Normal does not exist in Afghanistan. If there is a traffic jam it's not because there was a fender bender, it's because an IED exploded somewhere ahead on the road. Electricity and clean water are luxuries, not necessities. Medical facilities are non-existent. Guns are everywhere, and trust is nowhere. Hope has been erased from the average Afghan's dictionary. They exist in a constant state of strife. Conflict surrounds them on every corner. Death and suffering are constant companions.

So how does Afghanistan rise out of this mess? It's a good question, and one that does not have an easy answer. Perhaps, there may not be an answer.

Yesterday - outside the wire - we couldn't help one woman in crisis. How are we supposed to help an entire country in crisis? This is
Russell
Matthews reporting from FOB Ma'sum ghar, Afghanistan.

Russell
retreated to his bunkhouse and replayed the video. Satisfied, he compressed it and sent it to Anita Greenwall in Boston. He sat in front of the computer for a couple of minutes, thinking about
Andrew
James. There was a nagging doubt in the back of his mind about the soldier's story. Something about the man and the picture he painted of his life in the US was bothering him. Finally, he gave in to his curiosity and keyed in a message to Anita, asking for some back-story on
Andrew
. He shut down the computer, packed up his gear, and stashed it in his bunk. He went to the kitchen and ate sitting by himself in the corner. The scene kept coming back to him. The woman, pleading in foreign words to save her baby. The husband, desperate for someone, anyone, to save his world from collapsing. The mortars crashing down.
Andrew
pulling him back to the Stryker before they were killed.

Some days he loved his job. Today, he hated it.

(Click here to watch this video)