COVERT WRITERS TAKEDOWN - Joe Bergeron (different ereaders TXT) 📗

to keep running.
Monday, May 29, 3:18 p.m.
“Mister Santiago, I understand we have had a
problem on your island.”
“The problem we had Mister Benson, has been
resolved.”
“Why didn’t you make me aware of what had
happened?”
“I would have thought you had known. It was
Americans who caused the situation. Miguel Belize and
his mistress have died. We will deal with this as if it
were a tragic fire. I‘m appointing a new Vice President
- a good man, and we will continue to break from the
past. Some things we must do on our own, Randall, if
we are to succeed as a democratic nation.”
Benson paused for a moment, then let a
comment go once again.
“Juan, Have you heard the news about our
Secretary of Commerce?”
“I did.”
367
“I’ll be appointing a new Secretary - also a good
man. I’m sure he’ll be a greater proponent of American
business support in Cuba.”
“And Mister Kushima?”
“He won’t be involved in any contracts. He’s
gone, but he did leave a trust fund that I am having
turned over to your treasury. I’m sure it will be used
well on American capital expansion projects.”
“You can be absolutely certain of that, Randall.
Thank you for your assistance.”
“Thank you for your patience, Juan.”
“I’ll speak with you soon.”
Monday, May 29, 4:25 p.m.
Santa Catalina Island agreed with Dan
Bellcamp. The warm, sunny climate was perfect for
sunbathing, swimming, and of course it was conducive
to meeting beautiful women.
He’d registered at the Athina Health Spa after
completing his cross-country drive. The suitcase
containing two million dollars American currency was
in the closet of his private apartment , now less twentyfive
thousand dollars he’d used for the journey, and to
pay in advance for a one month’s stay at the exclusive
resort.
For the first few days after his departure from
Miami, he often wondered what would become of
Catalina Salazar. ‘Would she marry the Vice President?
She was probably in a relationship with him.’ . Right
now, he didn’t care. He’d met a woman just last night -
a newcomer who didn’t look like she needed to lose
weight. They’d met at a dance, and in fact, she’d asked
him to dance first. All evening they talked about only
him. She was fascinated with his knowledge of The
Universal Physical laws, and how easily he could relate
them to everyday events.
368
Dan Bellcamp was trimming down, and was
determined to lose enough weight to alter his
appearance. He’d also had his hair styled straight
back, even though there was little of it to push in that
direction. His clothes were brand new - open collared
multi-colored shirts made of the best cottons -
Abercrombie shorts and Eastland deck shoes. His new
friend thought they were perfect, and gave him
extravagant compliments on his choices.
Tonight, he wore his blue and green, tropical
patterned shirt with white Bermuda shorts.
Brushing back his thinning hair, he stood in
the oversized bathroom off his bedroom thinking about
his date tonight, when another thought crossed his
mind. He hadn’t changed his identity yet, and he’d
better do it soon because they were bound to be looking
for him. But it could wait until he was finished at the
Athenian. They weren’t able to track him yet, and he’d
put a few thousand miles between himself and them.
He didn’t expect the knock at the door.
Walking from the bathroom, he slapped his face
with the after-shave he’d poured into his palms. A
quick gaze through the door’s peephole allowed him to
see Pat Malley on the other side of the wooden closure.
She was a lovely woman, about five feet six,
brown, shoulder-length hair, thirty-four years old, hazel
eyes, with an almost perfectly-formed oval face and full
lips - just his type.
He wasn’t supposed to meet her until six. She
looked like she’d just come back from a swim in one of
the Athenian’s two pools. Dressed in blue shorts
covering a full white bathing suit, she held a canvas
beach bag topped off with one of the Athenian’s
terrycloth towels.
Unlocking the door, his greeting was
enthusiastic.
“Pat - this is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t think
we were meeting until six.”
369
Shifting her weight, she allowed him a bright
smile.
“Well, I was on my way back to my apartment,
and I had something for you - for us - so I thought I’d
drop by with it.”
Pulling the door all the way open, he gestured
toward the living room.
“Well then, please come in.”
“If you want to wait until later, that’s OK with
me.”
“No, no, c’mon in, I’m all ready. I was just
going for a walk before I picked you up, but now that
you’re here, we can get the evening started early.”
Moving to the couch, she chose to sit on its
middle cushion. Bellcamp, following, joined her on her
left.
Producing a sly facial expression, she reached
into her bag and produced a quart of Absolut Citron
Vodka.
“I know this is probably against all the rules
here, but I wanted to put a little kick in our evening…I
hope I’m not being too forward.”
Although a bit stunned, he gladly accepted the
concept.
“Hell, no. Hey, I think it’s a great idea. Let me
get a couple of glasses and some ice.”
His gait was still the same as it was in Miami
as he left the couch, and returned shortly thereafter
holding two cocktail glasses.
She half-filled each with the clear liquid, and
raised hers in a toast.
“Here’s to us, Dan.”
The thoughts going through his brain tickled
every part of his body.
Clicking his glass against hers, he reciprocated.
“Here’s to tonight, Pat.”
She sipped - he gulped, and then spoke.
370
“So, tell me about yourself, who do you work
for, what do you do for a living? All I know is you come
from Washington D.C. I’ve got some acquaintances
there…or at least I used to have some.”
He refilled, waiting for a response.
“Well, actually, Dan, I work for a man in
Washington. He’s part of an organization. His name’s
David Eisenberg.
“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him. What kind of
an organization is it?”
“Oh, it’s all very hush hush, but he’s very
smart, and very good at what he does.”
“I used to know a guy who ran something like
that, in fact I used to work for him outside of the paper,
but I don’t anymore. What do you do for him?”
“I’m what you might call a Tracker’s Assistant.”
It sounded slightly ominous. His voice was
slightly higher.
“What do you track?”
“it’s mostly communications coming into and
going out of the organization. We work with a lot of
people, and we have to be very careful.”
“Communications - you mean like corporate
data?”
“Sort of - We work for a lot of companies and
have a whole network of people across the country.
What we do if very important to the welfare of these
companies, so we need a lot of people and we send them
a lot of communications.”
“Sounds a little clandestine to me.”
“Oh very, in fact every message that goes out is
coded. They’re all sent and received over special fax
machines.”
Beads of sweat began forming on his forehead.
Her eyes no longer joined her smile, but were cast
straight through his. Wiping his brow with the back of
his hand, he realized she was very in tune with who he
was and what he’d done.
371
“Listen, Pat, I only have a few ice cubes…there’s an ice
machine downstairs, let me go get some more. Why
don’t you see if there’s some music on the radio?”
Her eyes remained fixed on his - not even a
blink.
Moving quickly to the door, he turned once to
make sure she’d stayed put. In the hallway, he began a
gallop to the stairwell. Down two flights and through
the exit door, he ran to his recently-rented vehicle.
Safe in the car, he glanced up at the window of
his apartment. Standing there, he could see her
holding to her ear what appeared to be a portable
telephone.
The engine came to life.
Turning his head so he could see while backing
out of his assigned space, his face contorted when his
eyes met those of a bearded man no more than six
inches from his own.
The man spoke in a deep monotone.
“Mister Bellcamp, we know where you are. We
want you to know that we will always be able to find
you. You can keep what the Cubans gave you, but don’t
ever speak, or even allude to, the name Yankee Echo
again. If you do, they’ll be your final words. Do you
understand me completely?”
His voice was sheepish, lamblike.
“Yes.”
The CIA agent exited the vehicle leaving Dan
Bellcamp with soaking pants.
The former editor would return to his room to
find his friend, Pat, gone, along with the bottle of
Absolut
372
Tuesday, May 30, 8:35 a.m.
In his office at the National Security Agency,
George Tollman’s associate was taking no calls. Right
now he wanted to review the newspaper articles on the
former Commerce Secretary and Miguel Belize.
He’d been in clandestine operations in positions
at both the CIA and NSA long enough long enough to
know that a lot of what is released to the media by the
government is flooded with misinformation designed to
throw off investigation. The media knew it too, and
subsequently were relentless in their search for the
truth, even though many times they settled for only
half of it.
He also knew something else, and right now he
thought he was the only one in the world outside of an
organization known as Yankee Echo who knew it.
There was a possibility that much of what was
reported and editorialized in the U.S. newspaper
industry could be fabrications prepared by that
organization. Whether it was misinformation or Yankee
Echo didn’t matter to him.
What mattered was that someone had gotten to
George Tollman and Miguel Belize. He doubted a
philosophy teacher could have pulled off anything of
that scale, so it had to have been someone else, maybe
another firm operating under the direction of a higher
up. Whatever it was, if they could get to Tollman and
Belize, they could also trace back to him.
He knew both the FBI and the CIA would go
trough Tollman’s office and home, seize his computers
and records, and examine the same thoroughly.
Someone would see his name on an appointment
calendar, or an assistant to Tollman, under questioning,
would relay that he’d been in the Secretary’s office
recently. A lot of it was legwork for those guys, but if
either of those organizations were involved with Yankee
Echo, they’d eventually be looking for him.
373
He’d taken too big a chance. Tollman and
Belize had been amateurs. They didn’t know anything
about this business, and they paid the price. He’d been
involved with them, and his fate would probably be the
same as theirs. He had no alternatives, he had to get
out of town - out of the country.
His immediate supervisor was out of town. He could
leave a resignation letter with his secretary.
At 10:45 he headed straight for Dulles. When
his plane landed in Rome later that day, he rented a car
and began a solitary drive to his ancestral home in
Palermo.
Maybe he’d be alright. Maybe they’d give up
on him. He could never mention Yankee Echo to
anyone, and he never intended to.
What he didn’t know was that the man he
thought least capable of undoing him was the one who
actually brought him down.
Michael Courtney, through inaction, would
keep him defeated through Law Twenty-Seven.
An even greater irony