Spy Thriller: The Fourteenth Protocol: A Story of Espionage and Counter-terrorism (The Special Agent Jana Baker Book Series 1) (24 page)

57
             
 

FBI Director Stephen Latent burst from the Oval Office door like he’d been vomited out. Just outside, the president’s chief of staff stood stunned. He could hear yelling from the normally tranquil office as the door closed behind Latent.

“Four hundred and fifty-six people! Goddammit, Latent! What in the FUCK are you going to do about this! This is America, you sorry sack of shit!”

Latent closed the door behind him, thoughts still racing through his head. If the president had secretly authorized the CIA to use the Fourteenth Protocol, he damn sure wasn’t acting like it. His reaction to the worst train disaster in US history revealed nothing of a man keeping a secret this big.

Latent, with years of interrogation experience, was looking for subtle signs of deception from the president. Anything that would indicate the presence of a lie—a slight darting of the eye, changes in position of his hands, the unconscious flicker of tiny facial muscles. But there had been nothing in the president’s mannerisms.

Then again, Latent had watched this president during the election debates. His command of each and every technique to deliver the most effective speeches possible was uncanny. The perfect posture, the controlled yet direct use of hand motions, lightning quick glances at the teleprompter, perfect enunciation, and the way he shifted his head and eyes from one side of the audience to the other. He had been very well trained. If there was a person who had the training to deceive, it was the president. Latent left the West Wing confused but more determined than ever to uproot this terror cell and tear its roots out like so many handfuls of his thinning hair.

58
             
 

Dew was heavy on the grass, and sunlight glinted off the duck pond onto downtown buildings in the distance. Waseem Jarrah wore an Atlanta Braves ball cap over a freshly shaved head in an effort to reduce the chances of being identified. Having shaken the FBI from his trail the previous night, he now had three remaining objectives that he would tackle in a specific order. First, he wanted to extract one last round of money from Bastian Mokolo that he could use to make his escape. Second, he would ensure the terror cell’s final and most important objective was put into motion. And third, he would simply disappear.

He walked into Piedmont Park underneath huge banners and into the throngs of humanity. The annual Dogwood Festival was filled with vendors selling everything from food to artwork, and with perfect spring weather, the crowds did not delay. He wove through the people over to a small replica of the Washington Monument that stood across the park. Three large plaques dedicated to Americans lost on 9/11 adorned the ground underneath. It was a fitting meeting spot.

Bastian Mokolo spoke in a voice reminiscent of the soft music of Bourbon Street. He leaned his Reggae net-covered head toward Jarrah.

“Dat train ’ting, mon. Dat was magic,” his breath, was thick with the smell of cigarettes. “I won’t bodder to ask how de hell you got de entayah train to disapeeah in dat rivah, mon. Dat was a ting of beauty.”

“I told you we were professionals,” said Jarrah, steeped in self-absorption.

The only person nearby was a man sprawled on a wooden park bench, some twenty yards away. Disheveled and unshaven, the thighs of his jeans were caked in dark dirt—one of Atlanta’s homeless.

Jarrah continued, “The timing of that little event would make a Swiss watchmaker jealous. By the way, we believe our friends at the FBI are aware of our countdown.”

Mokolo’s head snapped violently towards Jarrah. “What de fuck you mean de FBI knows about de countdown? Dey bettah not know more dan dat!”

Jarrah stared into the bright morning reflection without flinching.

“They don’t know shit,” Jarrah said. “But they do know of the countdown.” He looked over at Mokolo. “They have teams on the ground in less than an hour. No one could respond that quickly without knowing the timing.”

“Wot you mean dey have teems on de groun’?”

“Within thirty minutes after one of our little ‘events,’ there are FBI boys swarming the scene. And not just the local agents that live nearby. It’s the same crew of senior agents each time, the ones from Washington heading the investigation,” said Jarrah.

The homeless man shifted on his bench; a crumpled paper bag choking an empty wine bottle fell to the ground.

Mokolo stopped dead in his tracks. The surprise of hearing that agents were on the scene so quickly tasted of innocence, like one who just realized this wasn’t some farm team; they were now playing in the big leagues.

“They obviously are fully aware of the countdown,” said Jarrah. “They put their team in the air just ahead of the next event. Then the team races out to the scene.” Jarrah gazed through half-squinted eyes, black like lumps of coal. “You know what this means, of course,” he said.

“Wot?” said Mokolo, trying to recover his composure.

“It means the stakes are higher now. The risk is higher.” Jarrah turned and poked a sharp finger into Mokolo’s chest. “And with higher risk, comes higher price.”

“Hiyah price my ass, mon!” yelled Mokolo.

But Jarrah was unfazed. He continued his casual stroll past the park bench and towards the lake.

The homeless man grumbled something under his breath.

Jarrah continued, “Oh, you’ll pay the new price, my friend. You’ll pay it. The new price is two million
per event
.”

“Who de fock you tink you ah, mon? I’m de one payin’ de bills here. I pay de bill, I make de decisions.”

Mokolo directed his hands to his hips, exposing a handgun asleep in his waistline. Jarrah glanced at it and smiled.

“Threatening me is not a good idea, my friend,” said Jarrah. “You have any idea how easy it would be to kill you? You think killing someone like you is going to cause me to lose sleep? Here, let me help you out. You see over there just on the other side of the pond, under those trees? The two people with baby strollers? Look closer—see the tiny glint of light reflecting in between the strollers? Well, let’s just say that’s not a pacifier.”

Mokolo squinted and realized what he was seeing.

“That’s right,
mon
.” Jarrah’s tone was mocking, angry. “Any time you are with me, beware the sniper. You want us to keep working for you? You think this is a game?” He was speaking faster now. “It’s no fucking game, you Jamaican asshole. The price is two million per event. Today before 2 p.m. you’ll transfer half the money, as usual.”

“Meestah tuff guy, eh?” said Mokolo. “I’ll not be playin no games needah. If there’s a new price, I got to meet de hiyah-ups. I am not dealin’ wit no low-leval peepol like you, mon. You introdoos me to you boss, and we continue our beezness relashunsheep.”

Jarrah stayed a quiet minute.

“Half the money first. Then we’ll talk about an introduction.”

A flock of mallards with wings extended banked left and right, slicing through the air. They extended their feet and skidded down onto the calm water.

59
             
 

Jana shook the cobwebs out of her head. She stuck to the back roads and headed southeast but didn’t know why. They had to keep moving, and she was afraid the stolen vehicle would be spotted.

“Cade, I think we need to ditch this vehicle. I’m afraid someone’s going to spot the license plate.”

“What are you talking about?” said Cade. “You switched the license plate before we parked last night with that of another Ford Explorer. The chances that they even noticed is almost impossible.”

“Wait, what?” said Jana. “Oh my God. I completely forgot we switched license plates. Man, I need to concentrate. Last night was so . . . everything’s blurry in my memory. Okay, you’re right. I think we’ll be safe for a while. When’s the last time you ate something?”

Cade said, “I’m starved. Let’s find a place to eat in one of these little towns. You have any cash on you? We can’t use credit cards. I’ve got about thirty bucks on me.”

“That’s what you had in your pocket for our big date last night? Thirty bucks? Cheapskate.”

Cade reached down and turned the volume up on the radio.

“. . . speculation swirling at this hour about the events in Buckhead last night, and whether they are connected to the car explosion downtown near the Marriott Marquis on Peachtree Center Avenue. The FBI has not been forthcoming with information about these events. What we can confirm is that eleven FBI agents were killed, along with fourteen other individuals inside a building at 3340 Peachtree Road. That building is global headquarters for a company called Thoughtstorm, an e
-
mail service provider. The FBI has stated this is an ongoing terrorist investigation and that they do not comment about ongoing investigations. What ties Thoughtstorm, Inc. has to international terrorism are not clear . . .”

Cade and Jana looked at one another. They were right in the middle of it. Eleven agents killed. Cade cringed at the thought that Kyle was now just a statistic. His stomach clenched.

Jana stayed on Old Route 41 and slowed to enter the business district of Forsyth, Georgia. She pulled into the old town square, then drove around behind one of the buildings to park; she still wanted to keep a low profile. They got out and walked into the beautiful town square. It reminded her of the downtown square in Roswell or Marietta. The age of the buildings looked like they predated the Civil War. But, since only buildings belonging to northern sympathizers were spared from General Sherman’s fires, the original structures had probably been burned to the ground. The town hall itself was grand to say the least. It was a three-story colonial built in brownstone, its spire reaching up to a baby blue sky.

Cade said, “Hey, how about that place?”

They walked across the square into a tiny restaurant nestled in between the old Ross Theatre and a flower shop. The Grits Café was an unassuming little place that looked to be straight out of an issue of
Southern Living
magazine. A little bell tinkled as they pushed open the old glass door. It had a kind of diner charm that was accentuated with a dreamy aroma of roasted potatoes and banana crème pie.

“Y’all just sit anywhere ya like,” said a smiling waitress with blazing red curls that should have been gray. “I’ll be right with ya.”

They sat down at a two top close to the counter in chairs that were something you’d see in a 1950s movie: gleaming chrome, thick padding on the seat, with sparkly red plastic covers.

“Now how are y’all? My name’s Loraine. Y’all ever been here before?” said the waitress, practically speed talking. “Well you’re gonna love it, we don’t have nothin’ your momma wouldn’t approve of, and none of it’s fattenin’, honey, not even that lemon meringue pie, I made that myself, not that a skinny little thing like you couldn’t use a few pounds, but listen to me just a carryin’ on, can I get ya a nice tall glass of sweet tea? I’ll bring ’em right over, y’all just take your time and don’t forget to look at the board for the specials, I’ll be right back.” She was gone almost faster than she talked.

Cade grinned. “So, I guess we’re having the sweet tea?”

“Yeah, it’s the law in these small towns.”

“You know we’re going to have two slices of lemon meringue pie that show up whether we want them or not, right?”

“Yeah,” said Jana. “And I get the feeling we’re not even going to order the food. My money says Loraine just shows up with two plates of something fried.”

Jana was thinking more clearly now. Her mind was once again working on the problem of how they were going to get the data into the right hands. It was a challenge that had to be met quickly. She was keyed up and still nervous about someone spotting them. The plan to give the data to Uncle Bill had been brilliant. He was someone that Latent trusted with his life. But now that Bill was dead, they had to come up with something else. Everything was going sideways.

Right on cue, Loraine arrived with plates of food stretched across her arms.

“Now y’all will have to forgive me. I couldn’t help myself. I took the liberty of ordering for ya.” She placed the plates on the table.

Jana was steeped in concentration and barely noticed. She was staring out the large window and onto the town square. Loraine looked at Jana’s gaze and stood, staring at her with a curious little smile on her face. A glorious aroma of homemade fried chicken and dumplings rose delicately up at Jana. It beckoned her senses and pulled heartstrings she’d long forgotten. Memories of being on her grandpa’s porch when she was seven years old flooded forward. She would sit on his lap, and the gentle man would reach his arms around her, cut the fried chicken, and put each bite into her tiny little mouth.

Jana glanced down at the plate and stared. It was exactly as she remembered it. When she finally looked up at Loraine, she instead saw her grandma. A little tear welled in her eye; the emotions were still raw.

“Aw, sweetie. Now somethin’s wrong. Now don’t tell Loraine any lies, I can tell. Somethin’s wrong with the food. Oh, I always do this! I get carried away and just order food and look at what happens. Oh now, don’t cry, honey, I have a strict rule in the Grits Café. Nobody’s allowed to cry alone in my presence.”

A tear rolled down Jana’s cheek.

“I’m okay, ma’am. I am. I had a tough night last night, that’s all. It’s not the food, honest. I thought I was back on my grandpa’s front porch for a minute.” Loraine pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and touched it to her own eyes.

“Is there anything Miss Loraine can do for ya, honey? Well, I’m here, honey. If you need anything, I’ll be right over there.” Loraine sniffled and walked back towards the kitchen.

Jana said, “I’ve got to get a hold of myself. We’ve got to be much more anonymous than this. People need to see us then forget we even exist. Maybe I’m paranoid.”

“Are you okay?” said Cade.

“Look,” said Jana, “instead of being paranoid, let’s take action. Let’s take control of the situation. The situation is dictating us, and we need to dictate it. Let’s come up with a plan and let’s execute it.”

The two talked over lunch, but they weren’t coming up with what they believed was a safe way to get the data into the right hands. A few customers who were obvious regulars mingled in and out of the restaurant. Loraine chatted them up and they returned in kind. And the little doorbell swung back and forth, tinkling gently.