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

when there’s a
breach, I would want control until it’s fixed.”
Wirtham studied him - the preppie, dark
haired, green eyed student who still looked like a kid,
but thought like an aged and experienced philosopher.
“I think that would be acceptable. At least it
would be from me. I’ll have to run it by Mister
McKenzie, but I’m quite sure he’ll agree. I’d like you to
meet him next week if you can. He’s coming up for
Commencement with his daughter - Kathleen.
“Sure, Robert - tell me, how did you swing the
teaching job at Boston College? I don’t have a
doctorate?”
“Connections - it comes as a bonus working for
Pat McKenzie.”
“Courtney made a mental note - ‘ Probably
wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a contingency plan of my
own.’
They left the canteen together, Courtney with a
job following graduation, and Wirtham with a mission
accomplished. Five days later, Wirtham introduced
Michael Courtney to Patrick McKenzie and the three of
them spent two hours reviewing Yankee Echo in
Wirtham’s study overlooking Lake Champlain. The
third man was in, the organization had its Master of
Laws, and all conditions were met.
Everything but he whole truth was on the
table.
43
Just before he left, Courtney was introduced to
Pat McKenzie’s daughter, Kathleen.
The breach would occur in nine years - almost
to the day.
Saturday, May 20, 5:50 a.m.
WILMINGTON - the glass-white reflectors on
the green highway sign overhead revealed their
geographic location as the Jeep passed beneath its
message. One quarter mile later another appeared -
WILMINGTON TRUCK STOP 1 MILE. His
requirements were the same as they’d been one
hundred forty miles ago. Leaving I-95, he noticed the
mercury vapor lights in the parking lot reflecting off at
least a dozen of aluminum-skinned tanker trucks, most
probably either bound for, or leaving from the giant
Maloney & Marcom chemical plant. Courtney briefly
thought how McKenzie Industries was to electronics
what Maloney & Marcom was to chemicals - both large
corporations, both well run.
What he didn’t know was they were connected
through Yankee Echo.
Also without knowing it, over the next nine
years he’d indirectly help keep both of them, and many
other corporate giants out of harms way.
The Jeep stopped in the farthest parking space
from the truck stop’s restaurant. He hoped the walk to
its coffee counter in the clear, brisk air, would help clear
his mind, and keep him awake. Turning off the
ignition, the sudden lack of movement awakened his
passenger from a dream, she was a bit disoriented, but
recollected.
“Michael, where are we? What time is it?
How’s your shoulder?”
44
The words were expressed with most emphasis
on the last three. She leaned toward him, her head
gently resting on his arm.
“We’re at a truck stop in Wilmington, it’s five
thirty, and my shoulder’s pretty good, thanks.”
“I don’t know about you, but I could eat a
horse.”
Walking arm in arm toward the glass facade of
the restaurant, the aroma of bacon and flapjacks
escaping the kitchen’s vents heightened both their
appetites. Kay, a small bag of necessary woman’s
essentials in hand gave him a breakfast order before
heading to the lady’s room.
“Three pancakes, four strips of bacon, a
blueberry muffin, a glass of OJ, and a cup of coffee - I’ll
be back in about ten minutes.”
Releasing her arm, he kissed her cheek, two
dozen truckers silently wishing they were standing in
his pair of shoes.
The corridor wall heading to he men’s room
supported a bank of six pay phones. Courtney thought
of Pat - actually, the absence of Pat McKenzie. Pulling
the encoding device from his pocket, he dialed for an
operator.
Taking the call, she cleared a line the Grand
Bahamian hotel as he’d asked.
The hotel operator allowed the Grand Caribbean Suite’s
phones to ring seven times.
“I’m sorry, there is no answer in Mister
McKenzie’s suite, would you care to leave a message?”
“No operator, would you please connect me
with the hotel’s Assistant Manager?”
“Certainly - hold just a moment.”
A pleasant, aristocratic voice was his next
human contact.
“This is Mrs. LaChance, how may I help you?”
“Thank you ma’am - my name is Michael
Courtney, I’m an associate of Mister Patrick McKenzie.
45
His daughter, Kathleen, and I have been trying
to reach him in his suite, but he doesn’t answer, and
apparently hasn’t received our messages.
It was a statement made to sound like the hotel
had over-sighted - certainly requiring investigation by
its on-duty Administrator.
“Can you hold the line for a minute, Mister
Courtney?”
She needed only forty seconds.
“Mister Courtney?”
“Yes.”
“He does have several hotel operator’s
messages but hasn’t retrieved them as yet - would you
like to leave another message for him?”
“No - thank you Mrs. LaChance - I’ll try later
on.”
They disconnected.
He’d lost his appetite.
His gut feelings were battling his logic.
‘Think - slow down.’
Staring straight ahead, he walked toward the
door marked with a graphic design of a stick man.
Analysis wasn’t working - nothing was
working.
‘Where the hell is he?’
Courtney thought of calling Wirtham while
splashing cold water against his face from one of the
washroom taps.
‘No time now, Kay will be out. I don’t want her
upset. Shit, she’ll see right through me.’
He was right.
Emerging from the lady’s room, she saw him
standing by the restaurant’s double glass doors holding
a egg tray carton supporting two cups of coffee and a
bag obviously housing pastries, donuts, or muffins.
He look worried - and he didn’t look like that
when he walked in.
46
She felt him look at her, not in her. There was
a wall behind his eyes. They’d spent too much time
together for her to miss it.
“Michael, what’s wrong?”
“I tried your father’s suite again, he still wasn’t
in.”
Her mind searched for a rational explanation. Finding
none, she made a statement, almost in childish
arrogance.
“He probably went jogging, he’s usually up this
early.”
Courtney put his arm over his shoulder.
Spinning toward him, she refused his embrace
pushing both his arms as far away from hers as
possible. As two sixteen ounce coffees washed the truck
stop restaurant’s glass doors, Kathleen McKenzie
allowed her frustration to vent.
“DON’T PATRONIZE ME, MICHAEL, I’M NOT
A CHILD.”
Twelve truckers thought the sight of her long
legs, even covered in jeans, plus the form filling her
black, scoop necked sweater were evident testimony to
this fact.
In another motion, sweeping her hair behind
her ears, she took two steps toward him. Leaning her
face into his - hands now on both hips.
“YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE SO DAMNED
SMART, MICHAEL COURTNEY, WHY DON’T YOU
JUST ANALYZE THIS LIKE YOU DO EVERYTHING
ELSE AND GIVE ME SOME WISDOM!”
The wrath of womanhood may sometimes seem
illogical, but it is seldom understated.
He had no answer, no questions, no statement.
Turning, she pushed the glass doors apart,
entering the pre-dawn Delaware morning to walk alone.
While searching for something to clean the
floor, he found a sympathetic cashier has appeared with
two fresh coffees in her hands.
47
“You’d better take care of her, Michael.”
Everyone within one hundred feet of him now
knew his name.
He received further advice.
“That girl’s eyes were filled with both love and
hate, honey. If I were you, I’d be real careful what I say
to her. Don’t worry about the floor, I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks….”
He found her leaning against one of the
parking lot’s dozens of galvanized light standards, the
illumination from above accenting her figure in
shadows.
Courtney extended a coffee to her.
“Take it, Kathleen.”
He seldom used her proper name. Most often
when he was serious.
“Michael…”
“Kay, listen to me…”
Bending to place their breakfast on the
asphalt, he rose to hold her.
She accepted his embrace this time burying her
face deep in his shoulder and pressing her body firmly
against his.
“Michael…I’m scared.”
“I know, Kay.”
“How much longer before we get to
Washington.”
“About two hours.”
He bent to retrieve the first meal of the day.
Placing her arm through his, her conviction
was evident.
“You tell me what you want, and I’ll either do
it, or I’ll be damn sure you get it. I know you’re in
charge of Yankee Echo now, Michael.”
That thought had crossed his mind before.
48
Stopping at the Jeep, she squared herself to
him.
“My father’s lost too much in one lifetime. The
bastards behind this don’t know the power we control.”
They didn’t know all of it - and neither did
Courtney - but she did.
49
Chapter 3
Greed and Breach
The United States Department of Commerce is
a Cabinet-level Executive Department. Its
responsibilities include establishing and administering
federal programs promoting economic growth and
international trade. International economic and
commercial programs are developed by The
International Trade Administration (ITA) which
encourages the expansion of world markets for U.S.
goods.
Friday, May 19, 8:33 p.m.
United States Secretary of Commerce, George
Edward Tollman, was not only a skilled bureaucrat, but
also an astute businessman. A Harvard economics
graduate, he’d served as a Marine Corps officer
commanding a rifle company in Vietnam. Although
Tollman had lost many of his men in jungle warfare, he
himself was decorated twice with the Silver Star for
meritorious service, once for his bravery in a firefight in
the La Dang Valley during the Tet Offensive. Following
his tour of duty, a meteoric rise through corporate
America culminated with the Presidency of Beechman
Aircraft in Kansas City, Kansas. George Tollman knew
how to manipulate people. His greedy and self-serving
character, disguised as ambition and confidence, helped
him create substantial personal wealth through
well-concealed bribery and corruption.
Anticipating a phone call, he paced his
luxuriously-appointed office in the nation’s capitol, a six
foot four inch frame, clad in a Brooks Brothers Spring
Tweed creating an impressive figure. One that
intimidated many people in corporate America, as well
as in Washington, D.C.
50
He had incredible economic power - and where
there’s that great a concentration of power, there’s
usually corruption.
Passing his desk, he pulled the day’s WALL
STREET JOURNAL from beneath a leather-bound
presentation book destined for the Chairman of a
congressional sub-committee on exports. Tollman
understood the power of the Press and his thoughts on
it now caused his mind to calculate his risks while
simultaneously abstracting a large-scale, forced, and
clandestine media campaign.
He wondered to himself if Thomas Griffin
might be a member of Yankee Echo, but it didn’t matter.
Tomorrow he’d begin to know everything he needed
about the covert operation; a phone call would be made
to JGM Exports two miles across town - but not by him.
As he read about himself, an electric current
caused the secure line on his desk phone to emit two
rapid beeps. Dropping the paper, he reached across his
desk and retrieved the receiver.
“Secretary Tollman.”
“It’s me.”
The call came from a desk at The National
Security Agency.
“Is everything set?”
“Yes, Wirtham has his first call, I’ll get back to
him again at twenty one hundred zero five. Courtney
will get his message at twenty one hundred ten hours.
I expect he’ll call the girl right away. He uses an
encoding device, so we’ll have to make some
assumptions.”
“Who’s the shooter?”
“An operative I’ve used before, he’s all set for
five grand.”
“Is he good? I don’t want any traumatic injury,
I need Courtney very functional.”
“He could put a round in a chopper pilot’s ear
from a mountain top.”
51
“Does he know anything?”
“No, it’s just another job for him. He’ll
disappear. He doesn’t even know the target’s name.”
“What about Kathleen McKenzie’s apartment?”
“We’ll give Courtney ten minutes to call her. I
have a tap on her line. My man’s