The Great Deception (9 page)

President. We need our men outta there. The
longer we stay, the greater the risk

becomes."

Alexander took a long drag on his red
mug.

"We're not leaving without what we came
for." "But based on our landsat images," Alfred quickly rebuttled,
"unless we expunge the

enemy in the sky, there will be no retreat.
Our exit...cut off."

The chief of staff now eagerly gave his
input on the matter. "Director Demsky is right. We have to cut our
losses and get outta there before it's too late."

"Thanks Leonard, I'll take that into
consideration." Alexander looked to his right where the VP sat.
"Edmond?"

"The window is closing, quickly. I concur
with everything that's been said up until this point."

The president's lean face hardened.
"Alright, what's the suggested course of action?"

All eyes returned to the battle management
system for answers.

Meanwhile Minister of Defense Gene Barker
waited for an order.

Ahmed Negler who had silently analyzed the
odds calculated there would be a need for an escort of at least
thirty fighters. The Viper teams that had been sent in to retrieve
data and hardware would have to take with them all they could carry
and high-tail-it out of there. The president's national security
advisor calmly shared his thoughts.

Alexander responded to Negler
’
s opinion. "You mean we should take what we can
get

and ditch?" "Yes." "Alright."

After the discussion had conclusively gone
around the table the president punched the button on the
teleconference system to connect with Agent Jennings.

--

Tel Aviv, Israel

A hundred students packed into a room
designed to meet a capacity of seventy-five. In some cases, peers
had to share a desk. The economics class made do with what they
had. And therein lied a built-in lesson for students on
frugality.

"Based on last night's reading," the less
than enthusiastic teacher droned on in a monotone, "who can tell me
what hedge funds are?"

No eager hands shot up to answer him.

"Bonus points to anyone who knows why our
economy really tanked when the U.S.

market became unstable."

Why am I here?
I could care less
about economics.

"Markov?" The screechy voice could have
broken glass.

On the bright side the girls aren't half bad
here.

T
he bespectacled little man with a
head too big for the rest of his body raised his voice again.
"Markov!"

The girl with the pigtails can't stop
looking at me.

Azriel told the truth, more or less. The
girl he fancied along with the rest of the class all stared at Mr.
Clueless.

It wasn't too out of the ordinary for the
teacher to pick on transfer students. Everyone watched the
economics teacher hustle over to Azriel's desk with a quickness and
deliberateness they were unaccustomed to. It produced an awe in the
captive audience that unhinged jaws and made eyes pop.

The boy still paid no attention to his
surroundings. His dull number two drew figures and shapes on a
sheet of college ruled notebook paper. It was his first day in
class for crying out loud. No way would the teacher expect him to
know anything, much less expect an answer to a subject like hedge
funds. But that's exactly what was transpiring.

"When I call your name young man, I expect
you to acknowledge me. You didn't even give me the courtesy of
raising that lovely head of yours from your work of art." Azriel
realized a little too late just how tuned out he had been. Yikes.
This could be bad.
"Would you care to share with the class
what you've been working on this whole time, da Vinci?"

Azriel's seat mate slipped him a piece of
paper that read, "Tell him what hedge funds are."

Amazingly enough this little correspondence
went unnoticed by the teacher: an uncharacteristic oversight.

"A hedge fund is a collective investment
scheme of pooled assets from several investors in the interest of
benefiting from asset diversification and economics of scale,"
Azriel said with authority. He sounded more like a walking-talking
encyclopedia than the kid who appeared like he didn't belong in the
class a moment before.

The contrast stunned everybody.

The teacher backed away from the boy's desk
in alarm. "Good God! Where could you have learned that!"

Azriel could actually look down on the man
who stood only five feet four inches. But he sensed that sort of
intimidation didn't work on a guy like this.

He had already stepped on toes, no way did
he want to be added to
the list.

"Is it a sin to know a thing or two?" Azriel
contended.

By now the teacher had already returned to
the front of the class. He had had enough humiliation to last him
for the rest of the class period. "Tell me Mr. Markov, would you
like to enlighten your classmates then and tell them why the bubble
burst on the economy in the mid-20s?"

"The 2020s, sir?"

"Yes, yes, yes," the teacher impatiently
confirmed with a frown.

"Due to the fact that our economy became too
dependent on hedge funds which so happened to be with the financial
institutions of Wall Street...when the U.S. markets entered a
permanent freefall, it was too late. We were already sunk."

"I should take a day off and let you
substitute."

Azriel blushed. Using his cell phone's
screen as a mirror, he had it pointed to his right, hoping to catch
the girl who stared at him. On occasion her head would begin to
turn around, but then abruptly stop.
She's on to me.

Ten minutes later a shrill bell brought the
period to a close. The class emptied out into the hall in a
confusingly loud jangle. Azriel got bumped around a few times. This
would take some getting used to. School life, that is. He had been
out of the schools for so long that the quick immersion threw him
off kilter
.

...

"He's smart."

"What did I tell you? Eh?"

"He's headed to pre-cal next. Let's see how
he does."

"You don't understand. He's the son of Seth
Markov. The man who graduated summa cum laude from MIT--who's now
running Mossad operations in the field." Assistant principle
Rafael's eyebrows hiked. "I had no idea sir."

"By the end of the day I think you'll get
the picture. This kid is the stuff."

"The prospect is exciting."

Rafael ended the call feeling good about the
situation. He kept his expectations low on the new student though
despite the reports he had read about him.

A single bulb hanging from a thread threw
its glow down to a simple desk the eavesdropper sat at. Every
minute or so he checked the monitors like he was a night watch
protecting a vault loaded with stacks of bills.

A paperback opened up towards the middle
laid on the surface waiting for him to resume his adventures in the
action-packed tale of a double agent trapped in the Amazon.

Azriel had found his locker and fumbled
around with the combination lock for longer than was necessary. He
had no books in the narrow storage unit yet. No four by six of a
sweetheart taped to the mirror. No bag of contraband to munch
on.

Nothing to see here,
Rafael decided.
His hand swooped up the fiction novel rather eagerly. And to think
he would get paid for this. It was a good life.

--

The Ozarks

Heather stretched her cramped muscles.
Although no one came into her cell to bring the pain, neither did
they come to bring the food either. Malnutrition became a dangerous
new reality.

Her dry cracking skin, mangy hair, and dirty
jumpsuit plagued her night and day. Sleep didn't come easy. She
exhaled heavily and sat, reflecting on that morning's visit.
Christophe and Damion.

Heather smiled thinking about the French
scientist. He had made a good impression on her. Damion she was
more uncertain of. His resume and long list of achievements were
impressive. And so was his appearance. Probably a charmer no doubt.
Good with the ladies....

She looked forward to another meeting with
the inmates from the adjoining cell. She had a lot she wanted to
tell them. Suddenly the thought hit her. They were in far more
danger than she was. She didn't hold any secrets that needed to
come out, but they did.

Scorpion would pump them for facts. Anything
that would make their abduction especially worth it.

Heather never laid a hand on anyone or
assisted in any way in an interrogation before but she knew some of
the tactics. Most likely they would send a guy in first thing in
the morning when the prisoners were most vulnerable...and pliable.
With him he'd carry a little leather satchel. He'd spread it on a
nearby table and reveal the tools of the trade. Even before they
were literally ripping and tearing into flesh, just the mere
presence of the kit would jolt anybody and bring on the fear.

Heather shuddered and replaced the thought
with a happier one. Dinner. Little cutlets of meat, watery instant
potatoes and green beans most likely were on their way. Her diet
may not have been succulent, but she was grateful.

Her first couple of days in the cage were a
wash.

So this is what it's like to be out of touch
with civilization.

She wasn't a pop culture junkie, but she had
her shows and books and websites she frequented. The creature
comforts of a modern world. But they would do her no good in her
new residence.

Heather sat cross-legged on the dirty
mattress and contemplated about Howard. He had been so nice to her,
but she couldn't shake the feeling that she had been a means to an
end. A set up. She had no evidence against him however. What could
she do? He was untouchable...and extremely dangerous. Others had to
be warned.

Hours passed. Her surroundings looked no
different. Same silence, dinginess...loneliness.

A tray clattered on top of the pass-through
section of the grate. That meal she had salivated about for the
better part of the afternoon.

"Thanks officer," she thanked her waiter
dressed in uniform with a gun.

"So suddenly I'm your favorite person around
here?" he joked.

"Something like that," she returned the
humor.

While he pulled away from the cell to drop
off chow at the next one, Heather called out to him with a favor to
ask. "Officer?"

"What is it?"

"When can I have visitors again?"

He looked thoughtful, looping his thumbs
beneath his gun belt. "I suppose it could be arranged. Don't count
on too many favors though missy. I like you, but there's only so
much I can do without looking suspicious." A frozen grin remained
on his face. Heather walked over to the bars to get closer in order
to use her powers to get her way: they only worked near the
objective.

Manipulation had a range on it. "How about
tonight? Do you think I could talk to the two guys from this
morning again?" Her sweet syrupy voice worked wonders on the
captivated man's mind. He looked ready to say yes but suddenly
something grabbed his attention. There one moment, the
next-gone.

What bad luck. Heather held on to the hope
that he was at least thinking about it.

--

Westover Ventures Complex, LA

The impending news on departure orders from
the president loomed large over Agent Jennings. He was prepared to
give the order to the men below to pack it up and head out. They
would get what they came for, most likely. Even if that meant
grabbing the hard drives and other hardware that contained a
treasure trove of precious schematics. His headset chirped. On the
second ring he answered, "This is Jennings." "This is the
president. I want you and your men to get what you need and get
out. The situation outside is getting messy and can't be contained
for much longer. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," he resigned himself to the
not-sogood news. "We're moving out."

"Good."

Jennings appeared at his post
presently.

"Alright, I have orders from the president
to get outta here," he bellowed down below.

His men moved lickety-split, moving crates,
throwing things into bags.

"I don't like this," Miller grumbled. He had
to give up the task of parsing through data and just turn the
computer off. His gloved hands grabbed the computer tower he worked
on to open it up and reach in for what he assumed to be the hard
drive. He disconnected its cable running to the system-on-a-chip.
"Take this," he handed it off to Tony.

"Any luck before Jennings said he wants to
call it quits?"

Miller's granite face said it all.

Just when it looked like the operation had
wrapped up and the Viper agents were ready to make a beeline for
the exits, the grills to the ventilator ducts popped off,
clattering to the tiled floor. Ropes descended from the ceiling at
multiple locations. Scorpion Elite Guards rode them upside down
like Spiderman. Only instead of shooting web, they blasted the
enemy with plasma. One agent flew backwards, caught in the
concussive shockwave. His body flattened against several racks that
went down in sparks with follow up explosions.

Several men were already on one knee with
their battle rifles out, desperately trying to return fire. In the
midst of the mayhem the good guys had to defend an untenable
position. Their surprised forces who were previously scurrying to
gather data and equipment weren't prepared for the withering
barrage of plasma discharges.

Agent Jennings sprinted with his artificial
limbs for the door. He would never make it. Fire and heat breathed
up his back: an explosive force finally hurled him off the ground
and knocked him sideways into the wall. He crumpled to the ground
in a lifeless heap.