COVERT
WRITERS
TAKEDOWN
Copyright 1991
Joseph M. Bergeron
ISBN 978-1-257-07103-6
I
For Jill, Jimmy, Peter, Kate
II
THE UNIVERSAL LAWS
Although it may not always appear so, there is
order in our universe. Every plant, animal, mineral,
human, or any other entity that ever was, or ever will
be, is not only governed by this order, but is also a part
of it.
The universal order, through the science of
metaphysics, is revealed to us in a set of Laws or
Axioms. They are known as The Fundamental Truths.
These forty Laws are guidelines for life, principles upon
which we can rely to base our decisions causing
ourselves to be moved, to feel, and to be felt.
While the power in the Laws has been
demonstrated throughout time, their explanations and
interpretations have only been the subject of intense
work for the past two thousand years. These studies
have come to us from the minds of Plato, Aristotle, Lao
Tzu and others in the fields of physics, metaphysics and
philosophy.
The Universal Laws are studied by
metaphysicians in our nation’s colleges and
universities. The metaphysician is an analyst, a
strategic planner and thinker who uses the Laws to
complete practical applications from their meaning.
The Metaphysician practices TAO XIA, the
martial art of the mind.
III
TAO XIA
The Universal Physical Laws
1. Nothing can happen until something else first
happens.
1.a. Courtney’s Corollary:
Nothing will happen until you cause something else
to happen.
2. Unbalanced energies are unstable, and their time as
such will pass;
“The Leverage Effect.”
3. Everything is made of Energy, Matter, Space and
Time.
“The Differentiation Principle.”
4. Nature keeps nothing to itself. It gives everything
away. By constantly evolving, it becomes constant. By
constantly renewing itself, nature endures. You cannot
step into the same river twice.
5. In the presence of conflict, it is the responsibility of
the most powerful individual to avoid conflict.
6. Nothing escapes the laws of nature, and nothing
escapes nature’s notice and reaction.
7. Neutralize extremes by using an opposite force
against them.
8. Never push anything to an extreme state, not even
positive achievement. When things are too full, they
become useless.
9. When action is necessary, the most subtle effect will
gain the most effective result.
IV
10. The use of force enhances power only to the extent
that it is regrettable.
11. Everything will cycle towards its opposite.
Opposites exist in every phenomena.
12. What one believes, one becomes, the more of a
“mind” one has to believe with, the more profound the
transformation.
13. Velocity can only be measured in relation to
another object.
14. Truth about reality neither comes from observation,
nor experiment, but from observation tempered with
instinct and experience.
15. The less obvious you make your advantage, the
more obvious your power becomes.
16. A void will always be filled by its nearest source.
17. Nothing is static in nature.
18. Time is elastic, and rapid motion slows it. “The
Twins Effect.”
19. The quantity of any event can never substitute for
the quality of a single event.
20. Intuitive calmness will make complex events
appear simple.
21. Fear can be reduced to lack of preparation.
22. Every show of strength suggests an insecurity.
V
23. High velocity yields low pressure, low velocity
yields high pressure.
24. Any amount of prosperity depends on twice the
amount of generosity.
25. Power is achieved through cooperation, no wellbuilt
house is well-built by one man.
26. The accumulation of defenses will not protect an
entity, but rather will diminish its worth.
27. Offer an enemy as many opportunities as possible
to make self defeating errors.
28. Advance like wind, leave like lightning.
29. You become invincible in defense, but victorious
only in offense.
30. To make anything move, create a situation to which
it must conform.
31. Even the ocean is but many drops. Everything is
built, or dismantled piece by piece.
32. No one will make more mistakes than the man who
negates intuition and acts only on reflection.
33. While we search for knowledge in books, we find it
in things themselves through the empirical and
axiomatic orders.
34. In order to simplify, eliminate the unnecessary, and
the necessary is revealed.
35. If you intend to walk, then walk. If you intend to
sit, then sit. Do not wobble.
VI
36. In the mind of the beginner, there are many
possibilities. In the mind of the expert, there are few.
37. The innocent and vulnerable mind is the mind that
sees without distortion.
38. To understand reality, concentrate more on how
something happened, and less on what happened.
39. We too often seek from without us the wonders of
the universe within us.
40. Know you are ignorant, and you know much.
VII
Introduction
THE EIGHTH PHYSICAL LAW
The written word is the greatest, and strongest
form of communication ever devised. It always will be.
While dynamic orators in all their eloquence can
spellbind an audience during the course of their
deliveries, the impression left by the spoken word is
usually one of the speaker’s personality more than their
message, and the image of the personality soon fades as
our proximity to the speaker becomes greater and
greater.
Writing exists forever. It may be read,
reviewed, and reread for further observation. The
author as an artist, has a capacity far beyond the
speaker that, when used properly, can cause an
outpouring of emotions in thousands, if not hundreds of
thousands, and even millions of people The writer’s
asset is not diction, nor presence, but rather time. The
best writing in its final form has been surgically
manipulated many times. The great writers will draft,
edit, and re-edit until a final communication represents
their deepest feelings. Great and insightful writings
are not spontaneous, they are rather reflections of
thought processes spanning days, months, and
sometime years.
The ability to form words if inspiration, love,
terror, and all other feelings, gives an author a channel
of power unequaled by any size armaments or divisions
of forces. The author becomes the former of opinion,
and can be a driving force behind revolution, rebellion,
war, or peace and tranquility. A good writer can
escalate conflict, move governments, and turn human
emotion to fit his desire.
Isn’t it possible then, that the clandestine
manipulation of our population could be a routine
activity for a secret organization of writers across the
United States? VIII
Isn’t it conceivable that much of what we read
in our newspapers is really what the leaders of an
organization code named ‘Yankee Echo’ want us to read?
Could it be that many of our opinions are based
on stories developed by this group to fit the
requirements of greater initiatives they’ve fabricated?
In the United States, the team of writers that
belonged to Yankee Echo would be a source of extreme
power. While our government exists under a
constitution, our leaders are swayed by public
constituencies, and their opinions and feelings. Given
access to the printed communication channels in the
U.S., Yankee Echo writers would have tremendous
indirect leverage with public officials, and would have
similar controls on the economic, financial, production,
and management functions of the nation. In addition,
they could control the emotional banks of millions
through these same channels.
In the U.S., the government tries to control any
domination of print media with antitrust laws
interpreted by U.S. District Court Judges. These laws
serve a vital function in protecting us from any one
owner’s opinion; but forming public opinion through the
printed media in the U.S. could remain well controlled
by a group of writers inside these institutions.
For the purpose of this particular
communication, I suppose it would be wise to assume
this is a fantasy - a piece of fiction. This may only be a
story about what could be happening, or, is it really
happening every day?
Wasn’t it Lord Byron, a great writer and
manipulator himself who told us, that truth is stranger
than fiction?
IX
Prologue
The Sixth Physical Law
Friday, May 19, 9:10 p.m.
Michael Courtney sat patiently, but
apprehensively, alone in his small, cramped office on
Boston College’s north campus. He’d been waiting for a
call from his superior, not the Dean of Academics, but
another man who had more influence in his life.
‘Something’s wrong’ the teacher of physical laws
thought to himself. ‘He should have called an hour
ago.’
It had been an exhausting week, and unknown
to him this evening, it wasn’t over yet. It would get
worse before it got better.
Courtney reached across his desk to retrieve
the stack of accumulating WALL STREET JOURNALS
sitting in exactly the same spot for the last five days.
Grading his students’ final exams right now would take
more energy than he had. It also wouldn’t be fair to
them - and besides, his intuition was telling him Robert
would be calling shortly. Scanning the papers, his clear,
wide, green eyes noticed the front page article on the
most recent, in fact, today’s issue. COMMERCE
SECRETARY TO VISIT CUBA ON TRADE. The byline
hadn’t escaped his notice, Thomas Griffin, Staff
Writer, a good, solid kid he thought, young and eager to
please. But he also wondered how a staff writer got to
get an interview with the United States Secretary of
Commerce. That was usually reserved for higher ups.
His sharp Irish heritage and choir boy round
face were an expression of coolness and calmness when
it happened. Almost simultaneously as his phone began
ringing, the window to his right exploded in a million
pieces of flying debris.
X
A lead projectile the size of the tip of his index
finger crossing his right shoulder created a burning
sensation which made him instinctively dive to the
floor. Crawling to the wall where the room’s light
switch was located, a glass-covered telephone
continued ringing as he reached for the switch. In one
motion he flipped off and dove to the floor again.
The telephone’s sound continued to pierce the
darkness while moonlight beaming through his now
empty window reflected off the myriad pieces of glass
scattered everywhere.
With a deliberate effort, the thirty two year old
moved his five foot eight inch muscular frame along the
floor to his desk, and picked up the receiver.
“Yes!” His voice was understandably urgent.
“Michael, the phone must have rung fifteen
times.” His superior was sitting at his own desk in a
Washington D.C office building.
“Hang on, Robert. I’m going to put it on the
floor, I have a problem. Don’t hang up.”
As quickly as he could, withdrawing a set of
keys from his left pants pocket, he unlocked the bottom
drawer of his desk. Leaving the keys in the lock, and
reaching to the back of the drawer, he retrieved a small
electronic black encoding device used to scramble
telephone conversations. He put it in his right pocket,
rolled toward the wall that used to contain his window
and reviewed the darkness outside.
‘He’s gone.’ The thought caused little relief.
Reaching with his left hand to his right
shoulder, he could feel his own warm blood. He couldn’t
tell how badly he’d been wounded, but he did notice he
still had full use of his right arm and hand.
Returning to the phone laying on the aged oak floor,
now strewn with glass particles, he pulled the encoding
device from his pants and placed it against the receiver.
“Robert, someone just tried to blow my head
off. What the hell’s going on?”
XI
“Damn….we’ve been compromised Michael.”
“Yankee Echo has a leak; we think it’s in
Miami. St Croix’s leaving in twenty minutes to check it
out. I was calling to tell you to get out, and to take
Kathleen with you. Are you alright?”
“Shit, no. Yes! What? Kay!” He pushed his back
against his desk.
“No one knows she’s involved except us; what
are you talking about?” His mind raced: he’d thought
she was going out to celebrate with the rest of the laws
class.
“Get her Michael, I’ll have two passes waiting
at Eastern’s ticket counter in Logan for a midnight
flight to D. C.. I’ll meet you at Dulles, and bring you
both in while we resolve this.”
“Are you kidding? I’m laying here with a room
full of glass and a bloody shoulder. I’ll drive down with
her as soon as I can find her. I don’t even know where
she is.” He squinted.
“ OK, just be careful. I’ll have someone over
there in thirty minutes to clean up your office and bring
your work back to Washington.”
“Robert, we have a lot to talk about if we’ve
been compromised. I need to know what’s going on.
How can you get someone here in thirty minutes? How
do you know someone isn’t trying to kill me?”
“Trust me - just leave.”
“I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”
The teacher winced, replacing the receiver.
‘Yankee Echo compromised? Everyone’s hand
picked. Did someone discover us? We’d be hard to
infiltrate the way we’re set up. Would someone have
turned? Who?…..it’s happening.’
Retrieving the phone again, and placing the
encoding device against the handle, he dialed her
number, planning to leave a message.
XII
After three rings, he heard the voice of
someone he hadn’t expected to be home.
“Hello”, Kathleen McKenzie answered in a
clear, even voice.
“Kay, are you alright? I thought you might be
out.”
“Yes…Michael? What’s the matter? She could
feel his tone.
“Listen to me. Turn your lights off. Lock your
door, and stay away from your windows.” Although he
tried not to be frightening, it was easy for her to sense
his urgency. “Please Kay, do what I’m asking. I’m
coming over. You’d better pack some clothes, we’re
going to D.C.”
“What are you talking about Michael, what’s
wrong?”
“I’ll tell you on the way.”
Before the phone went dead on her end, he
clearly heard her scream.
“MICHAEL!”
XIII
Part I
Discovery
Chapter 1
Friday, May 19, 9:22 p.m.
1991
The First Physical Law
Nothing Can Happen
Until Something Else First Happens
The sound of breaking glass can be heard
almost as distinctly over the telephone as it can be
heard if you’re standing fifteen feet from a shattering
window pane.
Sitting with a disconnected phone on the other
end of his line, he felt the helplessness of someone
without recourse, and the anger of a man in torment.
Kay was in trouble. She was also six miles
North and West of him in a Waltham condominium.
His instincts told him to run, fly to her side, be there,
protect her, pull her away from this problem, but his
training prevailed.
He secured another outbound line. Facing the
door for what would be a hurried exit, the time span of
two short rings caused by his three digits of pressure
seemed to be an eternity.
“Newton, Sergeant Wilkes.” The voice came
from two miles to his West.
“Sergeant, my name is Michael Courtney, I’m a
teacher at B.C.. I was just speaking to…a friend in
Waltham when her phone went dead. I thought I heard
glass shattering just before she was cut off, so I think
she may have a problem at her place. Could you ask
Waltham to get someone to respond to her address?
She lives in the Pine Glen condominium project,
unit 6C.” 1
His tone expressed desperation.
“What was your name again, sir?” The by-thebook
sergeant’s pen created scribblings to be later
translated into his log book.
“Courtney, Michael Courtney.”
“OK, I’ll contact Waltham and get some response units
over right away - you said it was 6C in Pine Glen,
right?”
“Yes.”
Sergeant Daniel Wilkes, a former 82nd Airborne
communications specialist in Vietnam understood
desperation. Twenty six months of calling in air strikes
from Kontum to dong Hoi had developed a cool mental
attitude in the former paratrooper allowing him to
make quick evaluations while securing the assignment
of appropriate resources to a situation.
Within two minutes, three Waltham patrol
units had wheeled their Ford Crown Victorias into
violent turns - the smoking Michelin ZR’s beneath them
screeching against the lateral force of applied
acceleration. Officers touched the nine-millimeter Colts
at their sides and adjusted their seat belts for a short
ride to an encounter now forming in their minds.
He didn’t hear the phone hit the desk blotter
when he dropped the
no-longer useful too from his hand, nor did he feel the
pain in his bleeding right shoulder. Instead, both his
vision, and sense of touch became acutely defined. He
could feel the fingers of his right hand pulling the set of
keys from an unlocked drawer, and he chose to ignore
the release of the tumblers in the very secure Schlage
lock.
He could feel his left hand putting an encoding
device into his pant’s pocket, but he didn’t hear his own
footsteps carrying him toward the door while broken
glass cracked beneath his feet.
Running, Courtney laid out a mental road map
with alternative routes to a condominium unit that
seemed very far away right now. 2
'Nine twenty-five, too much traffic on Waverly - could
be problems on the Pike too - something’s in the Garden
tonight - I’ll take Commonwealth to 95 - five, maybe six
traffic lights - should be able to run two and make the
rest.’
Taking three stairs at a time, he caught sight
of his black, Jeep Cherokee through the glass wire
mesh doors on the landing, but he didn’t hear them
open or close.
Nor were they closed by the time the 4.0 liter
Power Trac roared to life. He did hear the engine -
wanting to hear that sound, but he didn’t pick up the
sound of his own heart pounding as an image of
Kathleen McKenzie entered his mind.
Her long-lashed, round, moist, blue green eyes
could look through and behind his, but it wasn’t just her
beauty that attracted him.
She was an anomaly, a deviation from the rule -
having the capability to virtually at one and the same
time use both hemispheres of her brain. An evolved
thinker, she belonged to a group of human beings
comprising less than two percent of the world’s
population. It was something she never thought about,
and Courtney could never forget. She was his student,
now his lover, and the daughter of the man he worked
for.
Driving on, he recalled the conversation they’d
had at the college just prior to Thanksgiving break.
“Pardon me?” She’d never heard the term
before.
“I want you to know you’re an evolved thinker.
You can use both sides of your brain, almost
simultaneously - it’s genetic, but doesn’t necessarily
appear in every generation. You inherited this ability
from one of your ancestors.”
His then student responded quizzically. “Mister
Courtney, I don’t understand,”
“If you have a few minutes, I’ll explain it to
you.” 3
Although he’d only known her for a few weeks,
he thought her to be a very sensitive individual - a girl -
woman - who wouldn’t take readily to being told either
what, or who she was.
“I’m not leaving for home until six - I have
some time.”
He hit the first light on Commonwealth green.
‘That’s one - maybe I’ll get lucky.’
The Jeep continued to propel the analyst
toward a five-foot, seven inch ash blond with light
wispy bangs who usually wore her hair bobbed to just
above her shoulders. Her simple, straight nose, without
flair ended just above lips which were not unusual until
she smiled revealing behind them a set of perfect white
teeth.
“Kathleen…” he continued, his thoughts on a
conversation held six month ago - not wanting to think
about the possibilities he could find confronting him
within the next twenty minutes.
“…people think in two ways - deductively, or
inductively, and I’ll explain those terms to you. The
problem is - ninety eight percent of us can’t do both at
the same time. You happen to be someone who can
think both ways - almost at the same time. Deductive
thinking is a process used on the left side of the brain -
it’s logical and analytical. Most everyone in the
Western hemisphere thinks with the left side of their
brain almost all the time. This type of thinking is
called linear, it involves using words and numbers to
explain conclusions that already exist. It’s sort of like
the vanilla ice cream of thought, something has either
happened, or we know the result of something that’s
going to happen, and we have to respond to it. With
inductive thinking, we create premises leading up to
conclusions that don’t already exist. Consciously or
unconsciously, most people consider inductive thinking
too risky, or too hard, simply because it’s harder to
create something than it is to respond to something.
4
Because most people are deductive thinkers,
they’re usually measuring and analyzing their lives
rather than creating and directing newness for
themselves. Ultimately, people who think deductively
all the time can only accomplish so much because they
put themselves in a closed learning format. If there’s
nothing existing for them to act on, in other words,
some thing, or situation created by someone else, they
just keep re-measuring and re-analyzing, which, over a
long period of time creates a sort of mental stagnation.”
“Mister Courtney, I don’t think you…”
‘Wait - let me finish.” Her eyes remained
focused on his.
She nodded.
“American culture actually teaches people to
ignore their intuitive, and sometimes irrational
feelings, or what we’d call gut feelings - so - these
feelings get repressed, along with inductive thinking.
When this happens over and over again, people lose
touch with their intuitions, and any insights they might
have.”
Two vehicles were waiting to cross the
intersection, one a pick up truck. His light was red -
theirs green. The Jeep covered one hundred feet more.
The first car crossed. The pick up, second in line hadn’t
moved.
“Fifty feet, c’mon buddy - what’s your move
gonna be?”
It looked like a Chevy half-ton. The fog lamps
across the roof line, oversized Goodyears, and front end
grill spoiler all suggested one other thing - manual
transmission and clutch - two mechanical actions
requiring at least three seconds to complete from a
standing position.
5
Releasing pressure from the brake pedal,
Courtney pushed the Jeep’s accelerator to the
floorboard - its electronic fuel injection responding, the
lurch pressed his back into the bucket seat.
Speeding beneath the red light, he quickly
scanned the still unmoved pick up. A teenage boy and
girl were embracing, the last thing on their minds the
light before them. His chest heaved as much with relief
as the thought of Kay and similar embraces.
“Nine forty Eight…” he whispered to no one
while noticing the LED display on his dashboard.
Courtney swung the Jeep from Commonwealth
Avenue onto the I-95 northbound entrance ramp toward
Waltham. Two and a half miles left to travel.
“I know you’re an evolved thinker because of
the processes you use to react to, deliberate, and answer
questions that require both inductive reasoning and
deductive logic. In this Physical Laws class, I’ve had a
chance to observe all twelve of you for about seven
weeks now.”
It felt like she was looking straight into his
soul.
“I suppose I should be flattered, but I don’t feel
any different from anyone else. I think there’s a lot of
people smarter than me in this class.”
Without losing eye contact, she released the
straps of her pocketbook from her left shoulder,
allowing the dark brown Italian leather bag to slide
down her forearm coming to rest on the floor.
“You’ve aroused my curiosity, and I am
flattered, but I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re
talking about…”
She smiled, manipulatively.
“…not even with my evolved mind.”
He spent, and she spent the next six seconds in
silent eye-to-eye union - considering, contemplating,
examining, reviewing one another.
6
They could each sense the other - both feeling
an equanimity - a consciousness neither had ever before
experienced.
A gentle smile crosses his face. Now wasn’t the
time to continue.
His voice was soft, yet manly.
“We need more time on this - why don’t we
finish up when you get back from Thanksgiving break.”
She smiled - again manipulatively.
“I’d like that.”
Nine fifty two. The Waltham exit was lit not
only by street lamps, but also from the reflection of a
strip plaza’s lights bouncing off the all-glass facade of
the Hilton Vista International Hotel sitting on the
hillside Courtney made a right hand turn at the ramp’s
end, the Jeep’s stabilizer bars performing well under
duress.
Climbing the hill - five hundred feet ahead to
his left he could see the soft yellow glow created by
lights pushing through closed drapes and curtains in
the Pine Glen condominium complex. The thought of a
disjointed phone connection lingered. He negotiated the
entrance with a quick counterclockwise turn.
Two - no, three Waltham police cruisers were
parked laterally in front of her unit, their final, skewed
positions indicating a hasty egress by the officers
responding.
Twenty, maybe twenty-five people stood in the
parking area - randomly in pairs, arms folded, amongst
the cruisers, their red and blue strobes enhancing an
aura of fear.
He felt sick - ‘hang on.’
Pushing the shifting lever to the park position,
he pivoted to grab the navy blue LANDS’ END jacket
laying on the back seat. He’d recollected his shoulder,
and he didn’t want anyone, especially a police officer, to
notice.
7
His right arm was already through the
appropriate sleeve when his left foot hit the asphalt.
Closing the driver’s door, Courtney ran past the cruisers
toward the door of unit 6C.
Two uniformed officers stood on the landing in
front of the closed door.
“Is she OK?” The gravity of the request from
the jacketed stranger was compelling.
The senior of the two spoke for the pair.
“Are you a relative?”
“No…I’m a friend - IS SHE ALL RIGHT?” His
voice precise, it contained a bearing noted by both men.
“She’s pretty shook up, but she’s not physically
hurt - who are you?”
“Could you please tell her Michael Courtney’s
here.”
It sounded reasonable.
Retreating through the door, and carrying only
a first name, officer Hale promptly returned - his
interior conversation brief.
“You can go in, she’s in the…”
“Thanks.”
He crossed a small foyer. Turning to his left,
pausing, he made an evaluation of the living room - of
both its living and inanimate contents.
A policewoman sat with Kay on the couch, both
were facing him - three other officers were in various
parts of the room. He made a mental record of her
unnerved appearance.
His thoughts didn’t need tattooing on his
forehead, she could read them in his eyes.
“I’m alright, Michael.”
She was lying.
He saw that.
The rock thrown through Kathleen McKenzie’s
window was now in the possession of Waltham police
sergeant June Olson.
8
She still couldn’t understand why three units
were committed to what seemed to be such an
elementary crime - but you don’t question the dispatch,
you just do your job.
She’d take the rock in as evidence, write a
report, and give it to the detective assigned to the case.
‘Probably just some kids out being wild,’
thought the department veteran. She finished up.
McKenzie seemed alright - with her friend.
Speaking to Kay, now standing next to her
teacher, her right arm through his left, the officer was
informative.
“The maintenance people for the complex will
be over to fix the window. My report will be at
headquarters if you need it for insurance.”
Courtney addressed her.
“Officer?”
Releasing himself from Kay’s hold, he walked
slowly toward the foyer, an unspoken invitation for
Olson to follow. She complied.
“We’re leaving for Washington tonight. Could
you have a copy of that report sent to this address?” He
pulled a card from his wallet handing it to her.
“JGM Exports…do you work there?”
“I teach at B.C., but I do consulting at JGM.”
“Is that alright with you Miss McKenzie?”
She’d turned to face her.
“That’s fine.”
“OK, we’ll send a copy down.”
“Thanks, good night, officer.”
“Good night.” The policemen, and woman, left
together.
Closing the door, he returned to the archway
dividing the foyer and the living room. Kay, her back to
him, was across the room.
“What is it Kay?”
Turning without speaking, she extended a piece
of crumbled white stationery in his direction.
9
He crossed the room to accept it.
“It was attached to the rock. The police didn’t
see it.” Courtney carefully unfolded the cotton bond
sheet.
WE KNOW ABOUT YANKEE ECHO
WE HAVE DEMANDS
YOU’LL BE CONTACTED
Dropping the paper on her coffee table, he
folded his arms over her shoulders, her head coming to
rest against him. They felt each other breathing, eyes
closed, hers moist with emotion.
The First Physical Law, while seemingly very
basic, is actually quite complex, and eternal.
It was a twenty-one year old Michael Courtney
who had proposed its corollary to his Laws professor,
Robert Wirtham, while in his Senior year at The
University of Vermont. The corollary had been
subsequently approved and adopted the National
Collegiate Committee of Laws professors.
He’d apply it tonight.
‘The ball is in their court’ he thought.
Remaining in his embrace, she spoke quietly.
“What are you thinking?”
“I have to contact Robert. He told me Yankee
Echo’s been compromised. He thinks the leak came out
of Miami. Andy St. Croix is on his way there now. I
don’t know how they could know you’re involved. They
may have done this because of your relationship with
me.”
Pushing herself slightly away from his hold,
she kept hold of his forearms while speaking with more
force than she’d used previously.
“Compromised? Michael, how? We have to call
Dad.”
“I’m sure Robert’s taking care of that, Kay. We
have to get going.” 10
He removed his jacket, throwing it on the chair
opposite the couch, the action revealing his wound.
“Michael - your shoulder! What happened?
Stay right there.”
She left him.
Courtney began an analysis:
‘They’ll make contact - with whom - where?
Who are they? Why send her this message and cut her
phone off and not mine? Did they know Robert would
be calling? He was delivered a similar message - most
likely a lot more civilized. How could they know she’s
involved? Have they located our physical plant in D.C.?
Why was Tom Griffin interviewing the Secretary of
Commerce on his position with Cuban trade? Did that
have anything to do with what happened tonight? Is
Robert OK? What about Pat McKenzie - Oh shit, he’s
in the Bahamas.’
She returned.
“Here, take off your shirt - how did you do
this?”
“ I didn’t. Someone did it for me.”
“Oh, great, are we going to keep this a secret?
Who compromised us?
“Someone used a gun and took a shot at me in
my office tonight.”
“”WHAT! Does my father know about this?”
“I told you - Yankee Echo has a leak and I
would bet someone’s serious about using it for their own
purposes - according to your rock note.”
“Oh God, you knew this was going to happen.”
“Yeah - but we’re not unprepared - you know
that.”
“Well I’m not prepared for people shooting at
you - or me.”
“There won’t be any more of this. They wanted
to make a statement and deliver a message - and they
did.”
11
He suggested packing enough clothes for a
month
“I not going to stay in Washington for a month.”
“You may be right. One, or both of us, might be
in Miami in a few days.”
“Oh, shit, Michael. I can’t believe all this.”
Twenty minutes later, she produced three
suitcases and two carry-all bags into the living room.
“Kay, a month - not a year.”
“I’ll need to change.”
“We’re going to the VISTA to make a phone call. Do you
have your checkbook - credit cards?”
“Yes, I’ve got everything.”
In the lobby of the Waltham Hilton Vista
International, he used a pay phone near the main
entrance - wanting a clear line of vision on anyone
entering or leaving, or just hanging around - even
though he didn’t know who, or what he was looking for.
It was also easier for him to keep a line of sight on Kay,
who was now sitting in the bar just off the lobby, a
Perrier in front of her.
Dialing the number for JGM Exports, he
followed it with another that a remote AT&T computer
interpreted as JGM’s credit card. Subsequently, the call
was allowed to go through. Before he heard the first
ring, he recovered the black encoding device from his
pocket and held it against the phone. Any taps on
either line would hear only gibberish.
“JGM”, the company, named from the initials of
Patrick and Laura McKenzie’s only son, contained only
one employee tonight, its President, and, according to
any legal records, its owner, Robert Wirtham.
“Robert, we’re safe. I have Kay with me.”
“She’s OK?”
“Yeah, someone threw a rock through her
window - there was a note attached to it about Yankee
Echo - I have it with me.” He turned his head again to
look at her. 12
“Robert, how did they make contact with you?”
“I had two phone calls. In the first one, I was
told to wait for the second. I got that one just before
calling you
“Are you closing down the office?”
“No, they don’t want blood, Michael.”
“They’ve already got some of mine - but I think
you’re right. What do they want?”
“Ink.”
“In the second call, they told me they intended
to use the organization to dismantle public support for
the President’s proposed trade program with Cuba - and
that we’d better comply.”
Courtney allowed the statement to sink in.
While speaking, he turned again to study Kay.
“Have you made contact with South, West
Coast, and East and West Central?”
“Yes - everything in the network is normal. I’m
trying to reach Pat. How soon can you get here?”
“We’re going to my place now to pick up some
clothes. It’s going to be at least eight or nine hours.”
“OK…this is your ballgame now, Michael.”
He thought about that for a second.
“I know…we’ll see you in the morning, can you
get our TAC 5 ready?”
“It’s in the computer, all set to go out. Be
careful.”
Returning the receiver to its hook, he walked
across the lobby and into the bar, pulling out a stool
next to her.
Something and everything about him
consumed her. She loved his complexity. She also knew
she’d fallen in love with her teacher.
Michael Courtney was the Group Head of
Yankee Echo, and had five managing Agents working
for him - controlling what he’d been told was an
organization of six hundred newspaper writers placed
strategically in newspapers around the country.
13
She looked at him, speaking with a ragged
sincerity.
“I hate this organization.”
He’d heard it before.
“I know - but your father runs it - maybe that’s
what makes you feel that way.”
He’d squared himself sideways on the bar stool
to face her.
“Did Robert contact my father?”
“He hasn’t yet - he’s trying.”
She rested her and on his forearm.
“Yankee Echo is wrong, Michael.”
He reaffirmed his belief in the organization, as
much for her as for himself.
“It’s done a lot of good over the years, Kay.
Think about the incidence of drug abuse in kids in this
country. It’s decreased by fifteen percent with our help.
Yankee Echo helped instigate the first Earth Day. The
twenty-sixth Amendment got House approval by a four
hundred to nineteen vote because of the organization.
Don’t forget Watergate, and the White House Plumbers
- we helped keep that alive.”
Turning to sit straight to the bar, he folded his
hands on its oak surface and declined an offer from the
bartender for a beverage.
….. “It’s still manipulation, Michael. People
should be able to decide for themselves what they want
and don’t want.”
She wanted to tell him all the things he didn’t
know about the organization, but couldn’t. Not now.
Maybe not ever.
His head bowed slightly.
“They do. All we do is give the public more
information - and more accurate information than they
get from some of the brain-dead desk jockeys that sit in
the editorial offices of this country’s newspapers. Our
people don’t write material to meet deadlines.
14
They have enough time t write the truth -
without a stopwatch in their faces. You know yourself -
they’re all hand picked - they’ve been through Laws
classes - they’re honest, and their protecting the best
interest of everyone.”
Her eyes fixed on his.
“There’s a lot of good people in the newspaper
industry besides ours.”
“That’s true, but there’s still too many screwups
with too much power. Maybe there’s no malicious
intent on the part of an Editor, or a staff writer, but
because they have to get a story out, a lot of times they
skew the truth. Besides, as a group, they’re not
organized like us. Even when they want to do some
good, they can’t act simultaneously across the country.
They don’t have a network - we do.”
She knew it was a moot point - until he was
told the whole truth.
“What else did Robert say?”
He hesitated for a moment, sometimes
forgetting it was her father who ran this operation, and
thinking she probably knew more about it than he did…
he was right.
“The people who did this tonight want to use
the network to dismantle President Benson’s proposed
trade program with Cuba.”
Her thoughts jumped back on the crusade.
“What’s the the Tenth Law, Michael?”
“You know what it is.”
“I want you to say it.”
He felt more like the student.
“The use of force enhances power only to the
extent that it is regrettable.”
The argument was going to continue - briefly.
“Don’t you think that Yankee Echo is a force - a
powerful force?”
“Yes - but you know there’s no subsequent
enhancement of power.” 15
We don’t write to gain - we write to reveal truth
- and to implement the development of greater
initiatives.”
“Then explain to me why my clothes are in your
car and we’re leaving for Washington. The Laws work,
and you believe they help us translate and understand
a complex world, but sometimes they can work against
us. You put yourself at risk by continually using the
Laws in Yankee Echo to develop your greater
initiatives. The odds say you’re going to lose
sometimes. There’s bad people out there who know how
to use the Laws too.”
“That’s right, but without risk, without ever
trying, without applying the Laws, there would never
be any necessary gains. We might never beat the bad
guys, Kay. Think about it. The media isn’t full of
inductive thinkers. It’s Yankee Echo creating the first
moves, or beginnings, or newness, or whatever you
want to call it. And to do that, we need to think and act
past challenges. You can’t succeed if you don’t take
risks - you know that. Right now we have a bad apple
in the system. We’re going to fix the problem. You
know there’s contingency plans.”
“You also have a worm, someone who’s letting
power become their goal, and who’s sold us out because
greed or ego became their truth.”
“It happens in every organization, at every
level.”
“Yankee Echo’s my fathers vendetta - for what
the newspapers did to his father, and for the lousy deal
my brother John got after he died in Vietnam. Don’t
you understand that?”
“You’re right, and I do understand, and out of
the ashes of his despair came some good.”
Drawing a deep breath, she finished her drink. Placing
one hand on his shoulder, she moved her other to his
face. She was so close to telling him. Maybe Robert
would.
16
“You’re a good philosopher, and you’re a damn
loyal one.”
“We have to leave, Kay. I need to pick up some
clothes. Do me a favor while I bring the car up front?
Pick up a copy of the WALL STREET JOURNAL in the
gift shop.”
“Are you going to read and drive at the same
time?”
He chuckled. “Of course not, I’m going to read
while you drive.”
He kissed the backs of her hands.
There were two copies of the WALL STREET
JOURNAL left. Taking one, she paid with a five dollar
bill, putting the change in her purse. Walking toward
the lobby, she caught sight of his Jeep through the glass
facade. He was in the passenger’s seat. Looking at
him, she thought -‘You’ve got some real surprises
coming Michael Courtney. I hope you and everyone else
is ready when you discover them.’
Opening the driver’s door, she handed him the
paper while somewhat nervously asking, “do you think
anyone will be following us?” Outside the shelter of the
hotel, it was a logical question.
“No - they got out attention tonight, and now
they have us moving. They’ll contact us again.”
She turned to look at him while pulling the
shifting lever to the drive position, her foot still on the
brake.
“Do you think Robert will get to talk to Dad?”
“I’m sure he will, Kay. We can also try to reach
him from my place. Where’s he staying?”
“Same place he always stays - The Grand
Bahamian Hotel.”
Unfolding the paper, he turned on the reading
lamp and glanced at her. She felt his question before he
could ask.
“The light won’t bother me…you can read.”
17
Thomas Griffin, staff writer for THE WALL
STREET JOURNAL was a one-year member of the
clandestine organization known as Yankee Echo. A cum
lade economics major, with a Laws minor out of
Georgetown University, he’d accepted a position with
the prestigious business publication immediately
following graduation, and was subsequently assigned to
its Economics Desk.
As such, he had daily access to over two million
subscribers. With pass-along readership, his total
possible daily audience was in excess of three million.
Griffin was an eager, energetic young man.
Responsible and serious, he had accepted the invitation
of Robert Wirtham to join Yankee Echo after a series of
meetings with the former Laws Professor, and was
considered one of its brightest young writers.
His interview, although documenting the
Cabinet-level Executive’s attitude on the President’s
proposed trade program with Cuba, also demonstrated
an attitude that neither Courtney nor Wirtham wanted
publicized.
The sudden death of Fidel Castro had left the
door open for democracy in the Latin American nation.
While democratic elections had taken place, the Cuban
economy was still in shambles.
Juan Ramos Santiago, the island nation’s
newly-elected President, had asked U.S. President
Randall Benson for help in rebuilding his country’s
economic system. Benson agreed to assist providing the
U.S. was given authority to help keep Cuba democratic.
He was given his assurance by Santiago, a proven
democratic idealist.
Patrick McKenzie III, Chairman of McKenzie
Industries, one of the world’s largest manufacturers,
and privately held, had, at the President’s request
pledged his support for the Cuban reform plan.
18
Both Benson, and his Director of The Central
Intelligence Agency were well aware of the support
McKenzie could bring to the program through the use of
the clandestine organization the man had founded.
Instructions had been delivered in February to
McKenzie’s Yankee Echo network to prepare for possible
positive press initiatives on the Cuban economic reform
plan, but because public support was already in
Benson’s favor, only a stand by alert had been issued.
Tom Griffin had personally interviewed
Commerce Secretary George Tollman. With regard the
Cuban situation, he’d come away from the interview
expressing the Secretary’s mixed feelings
The story mentioned such companies as
Caterpillar in Peoria, Dana in Toledo, Cummins in
Columbus, Indiana, and Borg-Warner in Chicago.
In each case, the Secretary had relayed to
Griffin that the development of Cuban assets by these
companies could be counter productive to United States
interests.
“Shouldn’t we employ our own people to
manufacture products for foreign markets before we
employ an unskilled foreign work force in Cuba with
American Assets,” the Secretary had been quoted.
In addition, Tollman believed that past Russian
interests in Cuba could remain a hidden priority, and, if
the new democracy failed, the seizure of American
assets as some point in the future was a distinct
possibility.
Courtney had noted the young writer closed his article
with an open-ended statement.
“It may, or may not be in the best interest of
American industry to support the restructuring of
Cuba’s economy. The Secretary of Commerce will have
his work cut out for him over the next few months as it
appears he is the authority to decide the scope of U.S.
business involvement in our for-now democratic
neighbor ninety miles off our Southern coast.”
19
“This guy’s amazing.” He was folding the
newspaper as she was turning off the Mass. Pike
heading south on Waverly toward his apartment.
“Who?’
“Guy who wrote an article on Cuban economic
reform.”
“Why’s he so amazing?”
“He got himself an exclusive interview with the
United States Secretary of Commerce.”
“What’s so amazing about that?”
“He’s a staff writer. An interview at that level
is usually handled by a Managing Editor. He’s also one
of our writers.”
“Maybe he’s very aggressive.”
“Maybe he’s got some friends.”
They’d arrived at his apartment complex.
He had two locks on his door - a dead bolt and a
keyed door handle. There appeared to no evidence of
tampering with either.
The apartment itself had the same cluttered
appearance it always had. Books were everywhere in
what seemed to be a haphazard, but was actually a
highly-structured disarray. Shirts and sweaters were
draped over a couch and two chairs. The front hall
closet was open revealing a winter jacket on the floor.
“Michael, you’d never be able to tell if someone
broke in - your apartment is always a mess.
“I don’t think anyone’s been in here, it doesn’t
look like anything’s been touched.”
“How can you tell?”
The question drifted away.
“Kay - do you want to try your father while I
pack?”
The switchboard operator at the Grand
Bahamian allowed the four telephones in its Caribbean
Presidential Suite to ring ten times before returning to
her caller.
20
“I’m sorry ma’am, but it appears that mister
McKenzie is not in his suite at this time.”
Kay looked at her watch, it was ten past
midnight. Releasing a sigh, she bought some time -
thinking.
“Operator, please leave a message for him? Tell
him Kathleen called, and that she, Michael and young
Edward are fine, and we’ll see him soon.”
“Certainly, I’ll leave it in his mail box.”
Replacing the receiver, she noticed he’d entered
the room with his suitcases, slightly smiling.
“Young Edward?”
“Yeah, it’s a little thing he and I worked out.”
She studied the intensity in his eyes.
“Do you think he’s alright?”
He gave her a questioning look.
“Of course he is - let’s get to the Capitol.”
She was asleep before they passed the last
Rhode Island exit heading South on I-95.
Since the day Robert Wirtham had asked him
to come to work for the organization, he’d always been
aware this day would come; when Yankee Echo would
either be discovered, or revealed to sources outside its
intangible boundaries. He’d also felt that disclosure
could, and probably would, come from within.
During the last ten years, he’d prepared
contingencies for a breach. His strategies had all been
approved by Wirtham and Pat McKenzie. All except
two, which he’d set up, but kept to himself.
Michael Courtney held the title ‘Master Of
Laws’ - an honor bestowed on him while still in college.
The title got him his job with the organization. It also
meant he had the responsibility of developing and
implementing a strategic plan if, and when disclosure
occurred.
He’d begun a battle plan, forming it with the intent of
using the only weapons he understood - The Universal
Physical Laws. 21
But he also knew these Laws wouldn’t be just
for his use, that any opposing force, even one within the
organization would also have their interpretation and
application available. He just had to hope he’d be
better at it than they were.
Colloquially, he knew Law Two as The
Leverage Effect.
He understood that the application of the
Second Law to natural phenomena was quite simple.
Occurrences such as tornadoes, hurricanes, and
thunderstorms were all easily identifiable as
unbalanced energies, and although they could be
extremely violent - they always passed.
In metaphysical terms, or in the world of
human realities, the Second Law was more complex
than it was in nature.
He continued thinking as he drove.
‘Yankee Echo never had a counter-balance’, he
thought. ‘it wasn’t set up to be balanced. It was
intended to be an unequal force, a powerful force, and a
big risk, but the risk is still worth the investment. It
took the Second Law a long time to catch up to the
organization, but it’s also going to affect the breachers.
They have to be an unbalanced force, and we need that
to work against them. We need to know how much
they’ve learned about us.’
He kept thinking.
‘Fifteen - we’re not only clandestine, we’re
hidden from each other. Our writers only know Robert,
me, and the Managing Agents. Robert said the network
is stable, no one else has been contacted. That means
whoever breached us only has Echo information on
Robert and me right now, and Kay by association.’
He glanced at her, almost as if to draw some
evolved inspiration.
22
‘They can’t have much of an idea of how
extensive we are, or which newspapers we’ve
infiltrated. They want to manipulate the manipulators,
but they have no idea of how many manipulators exist -
we have advantage on Fifteen.’
He paused, wondering how much he really
knew.
‘Thirty-Five - the breachers used a greater
force to get my attention than they used to get Kay’s.
Whoever took a shot at me was damn good. They must
have had my phone tapped thinking I’d call her, and cut
hers off to get me out of my office. I have the encoder -
it would take Robert a half hour to get someone over to
the office - time enough to search it, but they couldn’t
hear our conversation - why didn’t they search my
apartment - or did they and I overlooked it? There was
nothing to find there - it’s all in Washington. They have
something we don’t know about yet. I’ll give them half
of Thirty-Five. We won’t wobble.’
Courtney would weigh all forty Laws in the
eight hour journey to JGM Exports in Washington, D.C.
He felt an uneasiness with everything.
23
Chapter 2
Reasons Why
On September 25, 1798, The First Congress, at
its first session in the City of New York submitted to the
states, twelve amendments to the Constitution of The
United States that were intended to clarify certain
individual and state rights not named in the
Constitution. Ten of these amendments were ratified.
These are most frequently called The Bill of Rights
Amendment 1: Congress shall make no laws
respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting
the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of
speech, or of the press, or the right of people to
peaceably assemble, and to petition the government for
the redress of grievances.
Newspapers in the United States enjoy
tremendous power under First Amendment protection.
At national, regional, and local levels, they have
emerged from thousands of court cases over the years
with their First Amendment rights in place. America,
as a nation, has fought bitter wars, not only for
ourselves, but for others to protect these rights. They
are a precious cornerstone of democracy.
There are times in the newspaper industry,
however, when the First Amendment is used more as a
shield for sloppy work, than as a guardian of our rights.
In January, 1950, Alger Hiss, former American
public official in the Departments of Agriculture,
Justice and State, was convicted of perjury as the result
of his prior testimony before the Committee on Un-
American activities of the U.S. House of
Representatives. The Hiss case was part of an
investigation led by Senator Joseph R, McCarthy into
Communist activity in the U.S.
24
Hiss was accused of turning over classified
documents over to Whittaker Chambers, an editor for
several years of TIME magazine, for transmittal to
Soviet Agents.
In testimony before the Committee on Un-
American activities, an associate of Hiss testified that
part of the classified information Hiss had passed on to
the Soviets involved top-secret work on bipolar
transistors as they applied to covert electronic
technology. Although his evidence was totally
circumstantial, and was written into the court record as
such, the associate was allowed to present oral
testimony against McKenzie Industries of Old
Saybrook, Connecticut, and its Chairman, Patrick
Gaffey McKenzie Jr. whom the associate accused of
delivering his company’s technology to Hiss in exchange
for lucrative government contracts.
Almost every newspaper in the country was
either covering this event, or was retrieving it from the
wire services at the time. In a period of six months,
McKenzie’s chairman had spoken with dozens of editors
and staff writers in newspapers around the country.
It was said Patrick McKenzie Jr. never refused
a telephone call or a personal interview, this against the
advice of the best attorneys and public relations
agencies representing the electronics manufacturer.
The Press continually challenged his plea of innocence
against the circumstantial evidence presented at the
Hiss hearings.
The celebrated case, in concert with the
McCarthy investigation, combined to create a national
mood of sensationalism, and an almost unquenchable
public thirst for more, which editors and reporters were
only too happy to supply.
It appeared no one wanted to believe that
either McKenzie or his corporation were guiltless. Both
had become victims of the Press, publishing at its
discretion, and without concrete reference, words that
were half-truths, here-say, and innuendo. 25
If reporters and editors injected opinion into a
story and based it on presented testimony from the
trial, then whatever they wrote was protected by the
shield of the First Amendment
In January, 1950, at the second trial of Alger
Hiss, it was revealed that the McKenzie Industries part
of the case, along with several other parts, was
completely fabricated by Hiss’ associate to divert
attention away from the major issues.
Patrick McKenzie Jr. died of heart seizure
shortly following the exoneration of himself and his
company. His only child, Patrick Gaffey McKenzie III
was eighteen years old at the time.
McKenzie’s son understood that in the U.S.
legal system, when there is uncertainty, acquittal
prevails over conviction. He found it incredible that in
the minds of people who had read newspaper accounts
of the case that a degree of guilt had still attached itself
to the uncertainty surrounding the proceedings.
The loss of his father created a void in Patrick’s
life that seemed impossible to remedy. Turing to his
high school sweetheart for support and comfort, he and
she decided to elope, and were married by a Justice of
The Peace on New Year’s Eve, three weeks after his
father’s death. That same night, Laura Worthington
McKenzie would become pregnant with the first of her
two children. Only a teenager, she would bear a son,
John Gaffey in September.
Even though he had married, Patrick’s mother
thought her son should attend the University of
Pennsylvania where he had been accepted for the
following academic year. She, as well as Laura’s
parents, were disturbed over the children’s matrimonial
decision, but she saw in her son the same determined
qualities that she loved and respected in her husband.
Patrick had gumption and intelligence like his father.
The young man, however, decided not to enter the
structured academic life of college.
26
He was being neither defiant, nor radical; he
simply felt he could learn more in the practical world of
business if he taught himself.
His mother resigned herself to this decision
thinking formal education could always come later - he
would succeed, she thought, with, or without a college
education.
She was a woman of great insight.
The young man threw himself into a learning
curve. Working daily in the McKenzie plant, he
assumed over time, positions in production, finance,
and management. His nights were filled with readings
- Samuelson’s Economics, Stockton’s Business
Statistics, Donaldson and Pfhal’s Corporate Finance,
Bethel and Atwater’s Industrial Organization, and the
metaphysics his father had been teaching him since he
was twelve.
Within four years, he was made President of
McKenzie Industries by its Board of Directors of which
his mother was Chairman due to principle stock
ownership. His move to the CEO’s position was clearly
an inside family move, but it was not a mistake.
The company flourished under his direction
and leadership. He sought out and hired the best
minds, not only in the electronics field, but also in the
field of Applied Physics. McKenzie technocrats created
and developed products far superior to its competition
which placed the corporation in a solid growth pattern.
Although he'd never had formal training in the
Application of The Universal Physical Laws, Patrick
McKenzie III engaged Law Forty as his own personal
philosophy.
During the ensuing years, McKenzie would
have many philosophical discussions with Robert
Wirtham, his best friend. Wirtham had attended The
University of Michigan, and eventually became a
corporate consultant, and also Professor of Physical
Laws at the University of Vermont.
27
It was Wirtham who first broached the
possibility of media control to McKenzie during one of
these conversations.
The corporate President hadn't forgotten what
he considered the unjust and malicious treatment of his
father at the hands of the Press. Captivated by the idea
of clandestine media control, he reserved any
implementation of this concept until the next trauma in
his life place him once again at the mercy of the
newspapers.
John McKenzie, his only son, had enlisted in
the United States Marine Corps at the age of seventeen.
An adventurer, he told his father he would eventually
finish high school and college, but he didn't want to
miss the opportunity of missing a real war. Following
military occupational specialty training at the Marine
Corps facility on Paris Island, South Carolina, John,
and the rest of Bravo Company were assigned to duty in
the Republic of Vietnam
It was in the La Dang Valley during the Tet
Offensive when Corporal McKenzie refused a direct
order from his Company Commander.
They'd stumbled upon a group of six women
and three children during a fierce firefight with the
Vietcong. McKenzie and his Lieutenant were alone on
the Northwest perimeter of a battle line, separated by
two hundred meters from the rest of their unit. The
young marine had discovered the group huddled under
a tarpaulin after he’d heard a child cough. The
Lieutenant, feeling the women were part of the
Vietcong, and possibly concealing Russian AK-47
Kalashnikov rifles, ordered McKenzie to terminate the
group. Refusing the order, he told his commanding
officer he was returning to the point position on the
perimeter.
In the next thirty seconds, the Lieutenant
completed his own order with one hand grenade and a
rapid fire volley from an M-16 rifle.
28
McKenzie, now fifteen meters from the atrocity,
turned in horror to see body parts spread in every
direction and a deranged superior facing him. The
Corporal directed his weapon toward the Lieutenant
with the intention of taking him down. Before he could
fire, however, he was himself shot five times by the
maniacal officer. As he fell, mortally wounded, an
involuntary muscle system caused his hand to close, the
one on his rifle releasing several rounds into a clear
blue sky.
The Lieutenant disappeared into the jungle.
The Vietnam experience allowed Americans to
see a live war for the first time from the comfort of their
living rooms. Advanced electronics, some manufactured
by McKenzie Industries, made film camera more
compact, and therefore more portable. All the major
television networks had several crews carrying new
mini-cams throughout Southeast Asia.
A CBS crew had been filming the Northeast
perimeter of the firefight from a position only thirty
meters to the south of McKenzie and his Lieutenant
As the network reporter and his camera man
advanced, they came upon the scene of the massacre,
capturing all of its completed horror on film. No one
was left alive. It appeared McKenzie had acted alone,
and had subsequently killed by cross fire.
The monstrous aftermath of the massacre was
displayed on the television sets of millions of American
homes. Newspaper editors and reporters from around
the country scrambled to acquire additional information
about the marine corporal who was apparently
responsible for this carnage.
What type of person was this? What in his
background could make him commit such an act?
Where did he live? Who were his friends? Did he have
a police record for assault?
29
His parents spoke with every editor and
reporter that called their home. They were sure a
mistake had been made. Their son was not the warmad
soldier the newspapers portrayed. John was an
outstanding, courageous, and moral individual with a
strong sense of human values. Nevertheless, according
to the newspapers he’d become a vicious killing
machine in the short time he’d been in Vietnam.
The newspaper investigations of the atrocity
were base solely on film footage of the massacre. No one
ever questioned the camera crew who happened to be
on the scene. No one ever reviewed the filming that
occurred just before the shots that killed McKenzie
were fired.
Patrick McKenzie knew the devastation of his
son’s character was based on inconclusive evidence, and
was unable to secure from the Pentagon the full
findings of the Military Review Board. He was,
however, allowed to speak to his son’s Commanding
Officer.
On three separate occasions he’d spoken with
the Captain, a man promoted and decorated for his
bravery during the La Dang Offensive. On each
occasion he’d heard a slightly different variation of the
firefight. There was nothing left to either prove or
disprove according to the officer. McKenzie’s intuition
and paternal instincts told him the officer wasn’t
revealing everything, but he could not prove it. In his
grief, he too had never thought to review the full CBS
film footage.
Bravo Company’s Commanding Officer entered
the corporate arena following duty in Southeast Asia.
He became well known for his perceived bravery in the
jungles of Vietnam, and through a combination of
political patronage and savvy, eventually became
President of a major mid west aircraft manufacturing
company. He would subsequently be asked by a
President of The United States, Randall Benson, to
become his Secretary of Commerce. 30
Former United States Marine Corps Captain
George Tollman would accept the position.
After the newspapers had taken as much as
they could out of the McKenzie story, they shut down
their Old Saybrook operations and turned their
attention elsewhere.
Patrick McKenzie’s family had once again been
devastated by the newspaper industry. It was enough.
Phoning Robert Wirtham in Burlington, Vermont, he
told his friend he wished to renew a discussion they’d
once had on the idea of forming a clandestine
organization capable of controlling issues through the
country’s newspapers. The wheels were set in motion to
form Yankee Echo. It could not be done alone, there
would need to be partners. The organization would also
need protection, and Wirtham had friends whom he
thought could affect that outcome.
They eventually did.
Trauma did not end for McKenzie - he had one
more to live through. Laura McKenzie would bear a
daughter, Kathleen, in nine months. Twelve weeks
after her daughter’s birth, Laura McKenzie would die in
an automobile accident.
Saturday, May 20, 4:03 a.m.
Courtney had been driving for three hours
before he allowed his concentration to shift from the
Laws to the highway signs. Right now he needed a rest
room, a coffee, and some gas. He found all three of his
requirements at a rest stop two miles over the George
Washington Bridge. Kay slept through the pit stop,
adjusting her position only once while he filled the tank.
Returning to the highway with a sixteen ounce
coffee, he forced his mind to relax.
His thoughts returned to the second day
following Thanksgiving break - his morning Laws class.
31
“Today, we’re going to discuss Law Nine.”
Twelve very bright young adults had assumed
seated positions in his class, and now listened intently
to their teacher.
“When Action is Necessary, The Most Subtle
Effect Will Gain The Most Effective Result.”
Writing the Law on the blackboard, he turned
to face his class, arms folded.
“This Law is the keystone of presence,
something we’ll begin today, and spend some time
discussing over the next two weeks.”
His mouth straight, eyes moving among all
twelve of his students - they stopped on Kay’s for an
instant, she looking back.
“Right now you have a presence, a state of
posture and being. In every moment of your life,
whether you’re conscious or unconscious, you have a
presence - even when you’re alone. Consider this for a
few moments.”
Twelve sets of eyes followed their teacher who
moved laterally no more than ten feet in either
direction from his original position.
“I’m noticing you, and you’re watching me. If
we were adversaries, your presence would tell me how
nervous you are. I could look in your eyes to see how
much confidence you had. You could review me and
consider a train of thought and your next movement.
By being aware of your own presence, you’ll also be
aware of how people see you. The best presence is one
without pretense - just being yourself…”
He noticed her head turn slightly to the left,
then right, observing her peers. The teacher turned
again, reviewing the board.
“Miss McKenzie,” his voice had lifted,
intentionally, startling not only her, but also the rest of
the class. She bumped her knee on the bottom of the
desk.
He pivoted, facing them.
32
During every class he would choose a student with
whom he’d discuss a particular metaphysical effect, or
Law. The practice was an exercise in spontaneous
intuition and analysis.
“What would you question about this Law”
Their eyes had joined, seeing into each other
again. The feeling had become familiar, and was
pleasant for both of them.
She’d done her homework. He knew she would
have.
Adjusting quickly, she rose from her seat,
walked to the blackboard, and addressed his chalk
marks.
Grabbing the chalk, she added two words to the
beginning of the Law, “If And”.
Law Nine now read, “If And When Action is
Necessary, The Most Subtle Effect Will Gain The Most
Effective Result.”
Replacing the chalk in the blackboard tray, she
faced her teacher.
“I think there’s two questions we need to ask
about this Law. The first is, how do we define
necessary action? I might think action is required in a
situation when you wouldn’t The end result of any
meeting could be the same with, or without action.”
Her eyes watched his, searching for a sign of
approval.
None yet.
“We also need to ask, what’s an effective result?
If I’m looking for a date, should I use subtlety to get
one, or wait until I’m asked by the person I want to go
out with?
Still no sign of his approval.
Three male students had made a mental note.
“If I’m enraged, how can I be subtle? If I’m
sorrowful, should I be subtle at all? Do both of these
situations call for subtle effects? Isn’t it up to me to
determine if an action is necessary?”
33
Her logic was strong, and although she was
right about everything she’d said, she had been timid
and unsure of her answers.
He sensed this.
“Your corollary’s insightful, Kathleen. You used
both inductive and deductive reasoning to form it. You
can go back to your seat and we’ll talk about your ideas.
They spent the remainder of the period
analyzing her theory.
He explained to both her and the class that
while the Laws were immutable truths, they were also
flexible axioms capable of being interpreted to fit
practical applications. She’d done a good job in using
this Law to fit her own criteria.
At the end of the session, he asked her if she
had time to stay for a for a few minutes.
“Yes,” she’d hoped he’d ask her. In fact, she
used quite a bit of subtlety during the class to make it
happen.
“Please, sit down.”
She took a seat in the front row of the
classroom as he came around to the front of the desk.
The same, deep penetrating eye contact remained.
“I want you to know your logic is excellent. I
also believe you have strong intuitive capabilities - you
just demonstrated them. You’re doing good in this
course, but I think you feel intimidated by the fact t hat
someday you’ll have to apply all of this. Am I right?”
She didn’t speak.
“I’m sorry, maybe I’m pushing you because your
Pat’s daughter. You may feel that’s unfair, but I’m stuck
in a tough position here. Your father wants you to learn
to apply this material. Give me a chance, and give
yourself a chance too.”
She lowered her head, raised it, and looked
around the room.
34
“I know how much these Laws mean to my
father, and how often they’re used by you and Robert in
the organization. I also know I have a responsibility to
learn them…Look, I feel awkward in here because you
and I know something no one else in the class knows.
I’m uncomfortable with Yankee Echo…in fact, I think it
stinks.”
She turned her head away from him.
“How much do you know about Yankee Echo?”
She knew a lot more than she could tell him.
Her head came around again - their eyes met.
“I know the work you do is important. But that
doesn’t mean I think the means you use are right - I feel
sorry for my father, he’s lost a lot in his life and he’s
very vindictive.”
“Towards newspapers?”
“Yes.”
“Kathleen, we write to improve things in this
country, not make them worse” He could see she
needed time.
“Maybe we should talk about this more often.”
She felt that was an invitation to spend some
time together, away from school. She was attracted to
this man, and liked the thought of having time alone
with him. Smiling, she decided to accept. An instinct
told her to be both subtle, and mysterious.”
“OK, call me…I’m sure you already have my
number.
Getting up from her seat, she swept her hair
back. Holding her notebook against her chest, she
continued eye contact.
He tried giving her a little confidence. “You
might surprise yourself.”
She turned to leave - leaving him with a subtle
remark.
“I might surprise you too.”
The result was effective.
35
Saturday, May 20, 5:05 a.m.
The Jeep and its passengers were half way
between New York City and Washington, D.C. when
directional signs for Philadelphia began appearing.
A conversation with Robert Wirtham was two
and one half hours away in the nation’s Capitol on the
third floor of the Rand Building in the offices of JGM
exports. Wirtham was a man he respected, and
mistakenly trusted.
It was in Burlington, Vermont, on the campus
of the University of Vermont where Courtney studied
his metaphysical major and had learned the application
of The Laws under Wirtham’s tutelage. In his senior
year, five days prior to graduation, his professor had
asked him to lunch following the final Laws exam.
While passing one of the exits toward the city
that was home to Independence Hall, he let his mind
retrace that day eleven ears ago.
His professor smiled slightly as they walked
toward the student union along UVM’s maple-covered
south campus.
“How did you feel about the exam?”
“You embarrassed me by putting my corollary
on it.”
In five days, Courtney would become the
youngest American ever to earn the honor and
designation of ‘Master of Physical Laws’ due to not only
a four point zero cumulative grade point average, but
also because his First Law corollary had been accepted
a year earlier by the National Collegiate Committee of
Laws Professors, and the following year had become
part of the National Physical Laws curriculum.
“Then you should get at least one question
right.” They laughed climbing the steps to Bennington
Hall housing the student union.
36
Courtney sat opposite Wirthim at one of the
seventeen round, oak tables in the snack bar. The
professor, a tall, lanky man reminded him of Abraham
Lincoln without a beard. Wirthim noticed Courtney’s
preoccupation as he randomly allowed his right index
finger to trace the myriad chronicles carved in the table
top by lovers, idealists, and people who liked to see four
letter words in print.
“Everyone wants to be immortal, don’t they
Michael.”
He indicated his tracing finger with strong
brown eyes.
“This was all done by the journalism majors,
professor, they’re always looking for a format.”
He was relaxed, and glad his exams were over.
“That’s an interesting comment, because
journalism is what I needed to speak with you about.”
The professor’s eyes were plumb with his
student’s. Courtney could see he was serious. He’d
been taught by this man to recognize and analyze a
person’s presence. He made no comment, however,
because he knew that the professor understood he was
being analyzed - it was an intellectual standoff - and
neither of them felt uncomfortable with it. What he
didn’t know at the time was that Wirtham was better at
it than he was.
Wirtham continued as he opened a plain
manila folder he’d brought from class.
“Michael, I have here a copy of the supporting
statement you wrote to support your First Law
Corollary last year. Would you mind if I read part of it
to you?”
The question was asked as if the answer were
already known.
Courtney acknowledged affirmatively.
37
“Your Corollary reads, ‘Nothing Will Happen
Until You Cause Something Else To Happen.’ You make
the case that in the original Law, one could apply it
either inductively or deductively to gain an advantage,
to stabilize a situation, or to improve something that
already exists. In your Corollary you state, and I’ll
quote you…’But it’s only through intuitive analysis with
inductive reasoning that real newness is created. Any
analytical process in induction is never an afterthought
to intuition, but the application of the First Law is too
broad to allow this. There is opportunity for deductive
logic and personal opinion to become woven together
with facts in the First Law. When personal opinions
are expressed, or even alluded to as part of the facts,
there exists the possibility for erroneous assumption,
and more dangerously, false, or unrealistic conclusions.
Therefore, we must create for the First Law an
inductive Corollary, a model that gives us a straight
line to pure creativity by separating inductive reasoning
from personal opinion and facts.’ I’m sure you
remember all this, Michael.”
Carefully replacing the profound document in
the folder, he folded his hands on top of it.
Courtney shifted in his chair.
“Do you want me to apply the Corollary to
journalism and give you an opinion?”
“Yes, I want your opinion.”
“I think journalism is too protected. The First
Amendment allows editors and reporters to write
almost whatever they want without reprimand. I don’t
know of any other industry that more flagrantly abuses
the First Law more than the newspaper industry.
Editors and reporters constantly weave deductive logic
with their personal opinions - so they end up letting
their readership draw conclusions from information
with little substance in a lot of cases. Radical groups
love this stuff. They can turn and twist articles to fit
their needs, imposing someone else’s supposed
endorsement on their cause. 38
That’s how they gain followers - it’s almost like
having a triple-A feeding system in baseball - and they
get it for free.”
He hesitated - he’d made his point but he could
tell the man seated across from him was looking for
more.
“I guess I have to say though that newspapers
like THE WASHINGTONN POST, THE WALL STREET
JOURNAL, and THE NEW YORK TIMES have some
staff writers and editors that are extremely precise, and
don’t inject personal opinion into deductive logic. I’ve
read some great articles in these papers that have a
strong sense of purpose and meaningfulness. I think
the newspaper industry would consume itself without
writers like these.”
Pausing, he hoped he’d begun striking a
responsive chord.
“Professor Wirthim…”
“Michael, in five days you’ll graduate - we’ll be
peers - even though I consider you one now - you can
begin addressing me as a friend.
“…Do you want me to call you Bob?”
He chuckled… “whatever you feel comfortable
with - my friends call me Robert.”
“OK, Robert. I just gave you my brief on the
newspaper industry. Now, can you tell me why we’re
discussing this topic?”
Wirtham considered the young man before him.
He’d have to be careful. Courtney was the best he’d
every taught, a student with great intuition and
insight.
A year earlier, he’d accompanied Courtney
when he’d made his proposal of his First Law Corollary
before the National Collegiate Committee. Twelve
professors of Metaphysics sat silently for one hour while
the undergraduate defined and defended his
statements. Acceptance of any Corollary, or amendment
to the Physical Laws by this Body was rare.
39
Most new proposals in the form of either
corollaries or amendments were presented by
experienced philosophers twice his age. In addition, the
aggregate of new knowledge presented in these
hearings was usually addresses in the form of
deduction, or intuition and deduction, but seldom, if
ever, as pure induction.
Following the handsome student’s discourse,
the committee Chairman had asked Wirtham to
approach him.
“How long has this young man been with you,
professor?”
“Three years now, sir.”
“Do you realize he’s asking us to accept a
purely inductive model of the most basic Law?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
The Chairman, removing his glasses, had
placed them on the closed document before him, and
had glanced left and right at his fellow committee
members.
Each of the additional eleven scholars had
simply shook their heads from side to side.
“Mister Courtney, would you please stand
before this committee?”
The formal address and request wasn’t usually
made in an initial meeting.
“Young man, at this time you’re theory for a
corollary to the First Law has no refutable testimony
from either myself, or any of my colleagues. I can speak
for all of us, and tell you, that today, we believe you
have added a new dimension to the body of
metaphysical knowledge…we salute you, Mister
Courtney - you’ll hear from us further on this.”
Wirtham returned to the present hearing
Courtney’s voice.
“Robert, why did you ask me about the First
Law Corollary and journalism?”
40
“I’m sorry, Michael - I was lost in thought for a
moment.”
He understood - having had many similar
experiences.
“You recognize the name McKenzie Industries,
don’t you?”
He thought for a second…
“Aren’t they an OEM? They manufacture
electronic equipment.”
“Yes - McKenzie’s Chairman, Patrick
McKenzie, is a close friend of mine. He and I have been
involved in an undertaking for the last eleven years…”
Over the next hour, Wirtham described to his
student an organization known as Yankee Echo - why it
supported certain causes, and it’s present need for a
Master of Physical Laws as the number three man in
its ranks. He gave him as much as he thought he
needed to know to get him to take the position. He also
withheld more than he told him.
Courtney listened intently, hardly moving
during Wirtham’s elaboration.
He finished with a request, asking Courtney to
join the organization.
He’d work out of Boston College where he’d be
a teacher of Physical Laws, and teaching only The Laws
three days a week.
His salary, paid by JGM Exports, was a lot
more than he thought he’d make following graduation.
“That’s it, Michael. Yankee Echo needs a TAO
XIA Master, and we want you to take the job. I’m going
to get us a couple of cheeseburgers and Cokes. Think
about what I’ve told you for a few moments.”
Backing his chair out, he left his student alone.
When he returned, he found him writing on the back of
the manila folder.
As Wirtham approached the table with their
lunch, Courtney sensed his return.
41
“Robert, I’ve thought about what you’ve told
me, and I’m writing a response. I’ve agreed to accept
your proposal, but I want you, and Mister McKenzie to
understand I’ll have one condition of acceptance and I’ll
need both of you to agree on it. I also have a couple of
questions.”
He looked up at his professor
“That depends on the condition, what is it?”
He pushed a well-done cheeseburger and a
medium sized Coke in his direction.
Wirtham, although Courtney’s Senior by
twenty-six years, allowed himself to become a
subordinated listener.
“Because I know you, Robert, I’m not surprised
you’re a part of this organization. I think it’s brilliant,
and challenging. You have it structured so you’re only
at very serious risk of exposure by five people - your
Managing Agents. However, at some point in time,
Yankee Echo is going to meet an injurious occurrence
from risks you might not have considered. At least I
didn’t hear any sustaining argument to support the
consideration of these risks.”
Lifting the cheeseburger for a bite, he held it in
one hand, and used the other to sip the Coke.
“From what you’ve told me, there’s three
systems in your organization. The original system is
just you, and Mister McKenzie - this is fine. Your first
sub-system is composed of you, five Managing Agents -
and now me. Your risk has increased by six hundred
percent, but it’s still a low risk. Your second sub-system
has six hundred writers, and even though they don’t
know each other, your risk in this system is
unjustifiably, and exponentially compounded. A risk
analysis would tell you you’ll have a breach in your
system in the next eight to twelve years. The Leverage
Effect, and the Second Law have to catch up to you at
some point in time. Also, the breach will likely come
from within the organization.
42
Actually, this will work to your advantage,
because you’ll be able to identify it more easily. OK,
here’s my condition, Robert. When the breach occurs,
and it will, I would want control of the organization
until we have remediation. My intention would be to
develop contingencies estimating the probability of
occurrence for all the unacceptable results of any
breach. I’ll also detail a plan to either eliminate or
discredit the breach, and then to reestablish control of
the organization. That’s it…if and 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 carrying a mobile
phone. I’ll call him while Courtney’s talking to her and
the rock will go through the window.”
Again, his timing would be perfect.
“Is your rock thrower secure?”
“Same thing - I’ve used him before - he’ll be
gone tomorrow.”
“I think you’re right about Courtney, he’ll run
to McKenzie when her phone goes dead.”
“Courtney’s not suspecting anything - this is
going to shake him up. Right now he’s just sitting in
his office reading. Are you sure you don’t want them
followed if they clear out?”
“I’m sure.”
“This guy’s just a philosopher and a writer.”
The comment implied a lack of understanding.
“He’s a Master of Laws, there’s a big difference.
He analyzes situations for a living - don’t underestimate
him. - Courtney and his girlfriend have to meet up with
Wirtham at JGM. You can make contact again after
they arrive, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were tomorrow
- you have the message.”
“Whatever you say.”
Tollman glanced at his Rolex thinking to
himself as he hung up the phone.
‘Risks seem alright, we’re on schedule.’
Collecting the JOURNAL from the floor, he
quickly glanced again at the article on the front page
and thinking to himself, ‘Griffin, if you write for them,
then next week, you write for me.’
He had one more conversation before leaving
the office.
52
A speed dial allowed him to circumvent any
local or overseas operators - a perquisite of his position.
Two rings on a phone ninety miles off the Florida coast
were all that was necessary to alert the new Vice
President of Cuba, and an old Harvard acquaintance, to
personally answer his phone.
His Administrative Assistant would normally
have stayed late and have answered, however, a final
meeting with a U.S. newspaper Editor in Miami had
caused her to leave the island yesterday.
“Miguel Belize.”
“My good friend.”
“Yes, Mister Secretary.”
“Our plan is secure. Are you prepared to deal
with Mister Bellcamp?”
“Tonight, as we speak, he is with Catalina. She
knows what must be done. If the plan does not work,
she has a back up.”
“Will she return to the island?”
“Of course. I will soon give you some of my
assets, Mister Secretary, but not that one.”
“Are you sure he has no additional information
on this organization?”
“I’m certain of that. Once she has the final
codes, she will have taken from him all he knows.”
“What about McKenzie?”
“He’s comfortable. When you tell me, I will allow him to
speak with his daughter.”
“That’s fine, I’ll call you over the weekend.”
“Good night, Mister Secretary.”
Tollman left his office, taking a private elevator
to a secure garage.
It was 9:10 p.m.. Michael Courtney would soon
be on his office floor bleeding, and Daniel Bellcamp
would soon be terminated.
53
The MIAMI HERALD ranks about nineteenth
in circulation among the nation’s top one hundred
newspapers. A morning print media, it publishes
approximately 435,000 copies a day.
Daniel William Bellcamp had become The
Managing Editor of THE HERALD at the young age of
thirty-six. His ability to write prolifically, and with
great presence had captured the attention of Robert
Wirtham eleven years before his promotion to M.E..
Bellcamp had joined Yankee Echo while a staff writer
for the same publication. A Physical Laws candidate
from Arizona State, he’d won many awards for
journalism, all of which helped him rise through the
ranks of Staff Reporter, Editor, Suburban Editor, City
Editor, and finally to the position of Managing Editor.
Heavy set and balding, he was a fast track,
smooth communicator with the written word. However,
his egocentric bearing, and two hundred fifty pound
waddly frame caused him the thing he wanted most -
attention from the opposite sex. His erudite manners
and conversation were simply not enough to attract the
type of female companionship he desired. The M.E.
couldn’t put into his personal life what he longed for,
and frequently purchased.
Subsequently, and consequently, he allocated a
portion of his weekly pay to subsidize his addiction to
women. Behind closed doors in fourth floor walk ups,
and in some of Miami’s finer hotels, his whores created
for him a life he craved.
It was on an exceptionally warm February
morning in Miami when his dream of associating with a
beautiful woman who needed him for more than one
night’s pay began to materialize.
54
Tuesday, February 14, 10:50 a.m.
Fidel Castro, Prime Minister of Cuba since
1959, and President since 1976, had died in September,
a massive stroke claiming his life. Degreed on Law
from The University of Havana in 1950, Castro had
become leader of an underground organization known
as the July 26th Movement which eventually overthrew
the Cuban government of Fulgencio Batista in 1959.
Castro proceeded to nationalize Cuban
industry, collectivize agriculture, and establish a oneparty
socialist state, moves that drove thousands of
middle and upper class Cubans into exile. His seizure
of American-owned companies was one of the reasons
for the unsuccessful Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961. His
sudden death opened the door for a CIA contingency
plan code named ETHAN’S ENTRY that would place
Juan Ramos Santiago, a Cuban exile and banker living
in Miami, into the position of President.
A democratic idealist, Santiago and his Vice
President, Miguel Carlos Belize, a government official,
were elected in a landslide victory. Although their
country’s economy was in shambles, both Santiago and
Belize were determined to rebuild their Latin American
nation through the democratic process - at least that
was Santiago’s belief. Belize’s acceptance of democracy
was dissembled - his love of power was not.
For five months, Belize, and his Administrative
Assistant, had been planning with George Tollman, The
United States Secretary of Commerce, a method of
utilizing U.S. media to dismantle support for the U.S.
President’s proposed trade program with Cuba.
Belize, as Vice President, was directly
responsible for the Cuban treasury which, even though
it was decimated, still contained a few hundred million
dollars in American currency and liquid securities.
55
With Russia now attending its own economic
problems at home, Belize figured to create his own
brand of Communism, not only for Cuba, but for all of
Latin America. With his old friend’s assistance,
American industrial and financial investment in the
island nation would be dissuaded long enough to move
Santiago out of office. For George Tollman’s efforts,
Belize would deposit from his treasury thirty million
dollars into two of the Commerce Secretary’s three
Swiss bank accounts.
Tollman would pay his NSA associate two million
dollars for his assistance in the plan, and Miguel Belize
would take care of his Administrative Aid.
But the dissuasion would not be easy, and
presently neither Belize and his assistant, nor Tollman
and his associate had been able to conceive through
their planning a significant use of the media that would
cause the President’s program to fail. The Cuban
people wanted American support, both houses of
Congress were backing Santiago and the U.S.
President, and corporate America saw opportunity
waiting ninety miles off the Florida Keys.
The only way the rebuilding of Cuba could fail
was if the American voting populace did not support the
plan. In the U.S. politicians lend patronage to their
constituencies.
A grass roots media effort that would destroy
public support in the United States would be an
incredible task, and the question of how to devastate
this support through the media was one which neither
Belize nr Tollman could answer - until Daniel Bellcamp,
writer for Yankee Echo, betrayed a trust, and gave them
part of the answer they needed.
Bellcamp had been tied up in budget and
management meetings for six weeks, and, as a writer
was itching to get his pen in hand again.
Standing at the easterly window in his sixth
floor office, he silently reviewed potentials for an
editorial. 56
Local politics, education, municipal solid waste,
corruption in collegiate sports - nothing moved him.
Returning to his desk, he noticed a cryptic
facsimile message sitting on top of his latest personnel
budget. It was a fax he’d received on a specially
retrofitted fax machine in his home - a message that
should have been committed to memory, and then
destroyed.
D.B. 2/13 9:03 A.M.
ROBERT, ROBERT
PREP
CBA
CPTUS
SUPTUS
NOOP - USEDL
FLWC’SLYBS
2CME - POSSIBLE - STNDBY
ROBERT, ROBERT
It would have appeared as a nonsensical
message to anyone reading it without knowing its point
or origination, or its reason for existence.
Translated, this particular message regarded
support of the President’s Cuban economic initiative.
To: Dan Bellcamp
From: ROBERT WIRTHAM
Prepare for writing
On Cuba
Corporate United States involvement
Support President’s program
No personal opinions - use deductive logic
Follow Courtney’s lead - you’ll be sent
Possibility it will come - Stand by
ROBERT WIRTHAM
Bellcamp, and every other Yankee Echo
reporter and Editor or writer across the country had
received the same fax.
57
Neither he, nor any of the other writers or
Managing Agents knew the exact size of the
organization - a decision to keep size confidential was
made many years ago by Wirtham, McKenzie, and the
then sitting Director of The Central Intelligence Agency.
The writers only knew their recruiter, Wirtham, their
geographic Managing Agent, and Courtney - the guy
who wrote their leads. Their extra paychecks came
from subsidiary companies of JGM Exports with local
bank affiliations in each state.
All had received the message on fax machines
in their homes, and alal were prepared to follow
Courtney’s lead, should it come.
Any wavering of public support for the
President’s Cuban economic reform package could be
met immediately by a blitz of organization-written
articles and editorials published throughout the
country. If necessary, several articles would follow the
first. The fax was simply an alert.
BE AWARE - WE MAY ACT
Bellcamp understood, having received both by
Federal Express, and by fax, several hundred of these
messages I his eleven years with the covert group.
The idea of the Cuban initiative piqued the
robust editor’s interest. The Latin population in THE
HERALD’s primary market had increased dramatically
over the last five years. He wondered how many Cuban
exiles would be returning, or had already returned to
their homeland.
How would this egress from America onto the
beaches of Cuba affect both economies? There were
considerable monies in the greater Miami area
controlled by Cuban exiles. How would the potential
exodus of these funds affect the local economy? Would
the sudden impact of democracy rumble through the
entire infrastructure of Cuba, or would it spurt and
decline, and ebb and swell like most other start-up
democracies?
58
Bellcamp picked up his phone to speak to his
Business Editor, a man sitting only thirty-five feet
beyond his own office. Marshall Chamberlain was past
his first deadline, waiting for the results of the initial
blocks of trading on the New York Stock Exchange.
Nonchalantly taking the call, he could tell the boss was
excited.
“Marshall, who in the new Cuban government
will be handling the day-to-day logistical effort on their
economy?”
A blank, yellow legal pad sat ready to accept
his notes.
The Business Editor, not expecting the
question, thought silently for a moment.
“That’s probably going to be Belize, Dan. I
know he’s got all the money under his control - why?”
“I’m thinking of interviewing him.”
He wrote the name.
“Good idea. There’s been a lot of talk and
speculation but I don’t think anyone has a real handle
on how the whole thing’s going to shake out over there.
I can get you a phone number from downstairs.”
“Do that for me, please, Marsh.”
His mind was already formatting headlines.
Twelve minutes later, THE HERALD’s
receptionist, a former AT&T overseas operator, had the
private number of Miguel Belize, Vice President of
Cuba. It was passed on to the M.E.
He dialed, not knowing what he would say, but
feeling a rush of adrenalin from the possibilities that
could emerge from the story.
“Buenos Dias.” Belize’s Administrative
Assistant answered the private line thinking the call
might be coming from someone within the new
government.
59
“Good morning, Miss, my name is Daniel
Bellcamp. I’m Managing Editor at THE MIAMI
HERALD. And was wondering if you would allow me to
speak with the new Vice President of Cuba, Senor
Belize.”
He didn’t even know if she spoke English - she
sounded young.
There are times when luck becomes the most
important part of a successful bid to secure a goal.
Such was the case in his first attempt to speak with the
new Vice President of Cuba.
Catalina Salizar was not only Miguel Belize’s
assistant, but also his financial advisor, and mistress.
Holding a Masters degree in finance from The
University of Miami, she believed, as he did, that the
wealth of a nation belonged in the hands of the masses,
as long as a good portion of that wealth belonged to her.
She was as greedy as Belize, and until Juan Ramos
Santiago fell from power, both she and the Vice
President would remain greedy without power.
She knew all about his plans, all about George
Tollman, and all about the problems both men faced.
Bellcamp’s call triggered in her the thought process
they all had been considering, the potential use of the
media to subvert the proposed U.S trade program with
Cuba. The M.E.’s call was unsolicited - could it be
converted into opportunity, for Miguel, for Tollman, and,
of course, for herself? Although she had good intuitive
instincts, she had no way of knowing the degree of
opportunity this caller would lay before them. Although
she’d been surprised by the call, she responded without
hesitation to the polite voice in Miami.
“Yes, Sir, the Vice President is available.”
She played the patron.
Two minutes later, Bellcamp would hear the
voice of the Vice President of Cuba.
During the wait, Belize had been quickly
briefed by his assistant.
60
They both thought it would be worth the effort
to investigate his intentions.
He took the call.
“Mister Bellcamp, this is Miguel Belize, what
may I do for you, sir?”
“Thank you for taking my call, Mister Vice
President.” He used the English formal title.
“I recently been reviewing pieces of information
relative to your new democracy, and I’d appreciate the
opportunity to personally interview you regarding your
country’s economic plans. As you are aware, there’s still
a large contingency of your fellow nationalists in the
greater Miami area, and your reforms will affect them,
as well as your own population. I believe you might
have a need to communicate with this exiled
community. My newspaper could become the vehicle for
that communication.”
Belize shook his head, thinking to himself, ‘you
certainly can help solve my problems with your
newspaper.’
“It would be my pleasure, Mister Bellcamp.
Perhaps you could spend Friday and Saturday this
weekend as my guest?”
Glancing at his calendar, the Managing Editor
noticed a scribbling he’d written - a not regarding a
rendezvous with a cocktail waitress.
He struck through the note with his pencil.
“Thank you Mister Vice President. I am free
this weekend. I can arrive on your island - say Friday
evening sometime?”
“That will be fine. My assistant, Miss Salazar
will assist you with an arrangement for an escort from
the airport.”
“Thank you again sir, I look forward to seeing
you on Friday evening.”
All two hundred fifty pounds of him bounded
toward his office door.
61
Throwing it open, he produced a sweeping
gesture with his right arm.
“MARSHALL, COME IN HERE, AND BRING
YOUR PAD.”
The Dow was down sixty points with mild
trading. Were it not for IBM moving up a point and a
half, Marshall Chamberlain would almost have been
asleep. He’d seldom heard his boss so excited, and
moved in proportion to the apparent urgency of the call.
Now seated in the M.E.’s office, he wrote furiously on a
small pad while Bellcamp gave orders.
“I want everything you’ve got on the Cuban
economy. I need agricultural output for the last five
years, gross national product, degree of indebtedness,
stability of the currency, and every forecast you can get
your hands on. I’ll be on the island this weekend
having a personal interview with their new Vice
President.”
“How the hell did you swing that in ten
minutes?
“Law Eleven, Marsh. These people haven’t
talked openly to the American media in years. I’m
about to open the floodgates of journalism in the world’s
newest democracy.”
He wondered if Chamberlain had understood
his reference to the Physical Law - it didn’t matter.
“Get me that information before tomorrow
noon, Marsh.”
Without any additional comment, he was out
the door, moving his portly form to a private celebration
at his favorite watering holes with one of his whores.
He would have the beginnings of an international story
this weekend. He thought of Joseph Pulitzer, and the
annual awards presented in his name for outstanding
achievement in letters and journalism.
‘Would the Advisory Board of The Columbia
School of Journalism see this story as a potential?
They’d have to consider it, wouldn’t they?’ 62
Friday, February 17, 7:37 p.m.
Miami Airways flight 223 touched down at
Havana airport carrying twenty five passengers. The
Fairchild’s variable-pitch propellers rotated counter
clockwise thirty degrees creating air brakes as they
pushed against the plane’s forward thrust. The pilot
and copilot applied wheel brakes fro inside the cockpit.
Catalina Salazar had been previously notified.
A black Mercedes 560SEL now pulled to within seventy
feet of the plane’s port wingtip.
The little luggage that Bellcamp needed for a
short visit would not reach the Havana terminal, nor
would he pass through customs. He’d been thoroughly
checked out by Police security, and was receiving VIP
treatment usually reserved for visiting diplomats and
dignitaries. When flight 223’s self-contained stairwell
came to rest just above the Cuban soil, two national
secret police agents were waiting to escort the
Managing Editor to the Vice President’s private villa.
During the ride, he thought of Wirtham and
Courtney. He new both men would have disapproved of
this interview.
However, they weren’t important to him now,
the possibility of a Pulitzer nomination, and the money
that would come from it mattered more.
Both secret police agents accompanied the M.E.
to the front entrance of the Vice President’s villa. One
opened the door, allowing Bellcamp to enter alone.
When a hidden metal detector remained silent, both
agents left without speaking.
“Welcome to Cuba Mister Bellcamp…please
join me, the Vice President will be with us shortly.”
She was stunning.
Catalina Salazar had appeared to his right in
the open doorway of a mahogany-walled room. Just five
days short of her thirtieth birthday, she was wearing a
plunging black evening dress hemmed at mid thigh.
63
Her long, shapely legs revealed both youth and
physical prowess, She was a black haired, brown eyed,
silky Morena colored Latin American beauty.
The fat M.E. absentmindedly straightened his
coffee-stained blue and white tie while she gracefully
took his arm leading him into Miguel Belize’s library, a
considerable resource of reading with a diversity of
authors - Tolstoy, Poe, Virgil, Yeats, Sinclair.
Releasing his arm, the comely, almost thirty
year old turned to face him. It was such a smooth
movement, it was almost if she were in a waltz.
“I am Catalina Salazar, Senor Belize’s
Administrative Assistant, would you join me for a
cocktail, Mister Bellcamp?”
“Continuing her waltz movements, she took
four steps to a Brazilian teak wet bar where she lifted a
cut Waterford crystal decanter, her jet black hair falling
half over her face due to the sexy tilt of her head in his
direction.
“It’s Kauffman Vodka from Russia - rocks?”
Her words were phrased more as an invitation
than a question.
“Yes, please, that would be fine, thank you.”
His staccato response was to a question, not an
invitation.
She noticed.
Pivoting, she swept her hair with a twist of her
long neck, arm extended offering the libation. He began
to feel more at ease, accepting the drink more
graciously than he’d responded to its proposal.
Bellcamp raised his glass, an offering for her to
follow.
“To the success of your new democracy,
Senorita Salazar.”
The toast was sincere, and quite evident to her. She
responded without hesitation and moved closer to the
fat man.
“To you, Mister Bellcamp, and your kind
words.” 64
Her toast was patronizing. He didn’t miss it,
she’d just blown Law Nine.
As they sipped their Kauffman, the Vice
President appeared in the library’s doorway. Belize was
a handsome, mustached, muscular, average sized man
who looked aptly intelligent enough to be able to handle
and interpret the volumes gracing his favorite retreat.
She played hostess.
“Senor Vice President, this is your houseguest
from Miami, Mister Bellcamp.”
He felt an awkwardness standing next to this
woman, a drink in his hand. Shuffling, he moved three
feet.
Walking briskly toward them, the Vice
President extended his right hand, reaching for the
Managing Editor’s.
“Welcome to our country Mister Bellcamp.
Please, make yourself comfortable, we have much to
discuss.“
The VP motioned to a couch and two red
leather wingbacks sitting on a blue Persian oriental in
the middle of the room.
“Something for you?”
Her voice indicated not only a willingness to fix
her boss a drink, but also a comprehension indicating
she knew what it would be.
‘Yes, Catalina, a tequila, please.”
For the next two hours, Miguel Belize
demonstrated what the M.E. had anticipated in the
Eleventh Law, a willingness not only to speak with the
U.S. media, but also to cooperatively respond to any
questions. The new democratic nation was in its
infancy, it would need to walk before it could run.
There would be at least a three year transition period
required to rebuild reliable production, service, and
distribution system, among others. Belize told him the
government had not yet decided which direction Cuba’s
new economic policy would follow.
65
There were opportunities in finance, tourism,
agriculture, and industry. To pursue all of these at once
with limited capital available would not be practical. To
pick a niche would require many months of diligent
analysis and planning.
The Vice President was buying political time.
He disguised his economic hesitation as pragmatism,
but Bellcamp was no fool.
His many awards for journalism were bestowed
for his intellectual insight. His training in the Physical
Laws, and their applied application, led him to believe
that before him there was a planner who was not
planning, a comptroller with a hidden agenda.
The M.E. had ten pages of notes at the end of
two hours. Beside him on a red leather, brass
appointed couch sat Salazar, her position erotically
emblematic.
She was willing to assume any posture
necessary to secure the type of editorial commentary
THE MIAMI HERALD could provide that would help
subvert U.S. economic development in Cuba, and
therefore, indirectly provide for her future.
Three intelligent people, sitting less than six
feet away from each other were playing games.
Bellcamp, feeling he was the brightest of the three,
decided at the end of the second hour to shift the game
to his rules.
Both of them had been cooperative, but he felt
they were too anxious, too prepared with pat answers.
It appeared they had orchestrated and rehearsed both
their conversations, as well as their responses to his
anticipated questions. He had scrupulously reviewed
the data provided to him by Marshall Chamberlain.
“Mister Vice President, please excuse me if my
naïve knowledge in government is showing, but
wouldn’t it be wise for you to accept the offers of
American corporations willing to provide the economic
expertise and capital you need to rebuild your
economy?” 66
He saw a diminishing glance cast from Belize
to Salazar.
It was she who spoke next.
“Mister Bellcamp, with my Vice President’s
permission, I’ll answer your question, if I may speak …
off the record.”
Both looked toward Belize, he making a simple
gesture of approval by slightly raising his cocktail while
moving deep into his chair.
The M.E. obligingly agreed to the ‘off the
record’ request by simply depositing his pad and pen on
the Italian marble coffee table between all of them.
She moved closer to him, right leg crossed over
left, her right knee slightly touching his right thigh.
Her cocktail evening dress shifted accordingly, the hem
line now about three inches higher on her leg than
where it was intended to be when the dress was made.
She engaged the M.E.
“There’s still very much poverty and
deprivation in Cube, Mister Bellcamp. Before any
macro economic development plan is developed, we
have to feed every man, woman and child. Hungry
people cannot build factories and manufacturing
equipment. The proposed U.S. aid is unilateral, and we
don’t think it’s properly prioritized.”
Leaning toward him, she gently touched his
hand.
“We need food and clothing right now, not
bricks and steel.”
The M.E. knew he was being delivered a copout
story. Cuba was in no way going hungry or naked.
He listened politely, however, until she’d finished her
attempt at just plain bullshitting him.
At 11:30 the Vice President excused himself -
an early morning appointment with Cuba’s Agricultural
Minister required two hours of preparation.
Bellcamp stood to shake the VP’s hand once
again and thanked him for the interview.
67
“Mister Bellcamp, perhaps while I’m attending
my agricultural meeting, you will allow Catalina to
show you our island. I will be able to meet with you
again tomorrow afternoon. Enjoy the rest of your
evening, Sir, please, make yourself at home in my
residence.”
“Thank you, Mister Vice President.”
The V.P. acknowledged his Administrative
Assistant, and with no further words left them alone.
“Vodka rocks, Mister Bellcamp?”
She was pouring before he had a chance to
answer.
“Miss Salazar, while we’re touring your island
tomorrow, I’d feel more comfortable if you’d call me by
my first name.”
“Of course…Dan, and I am Catalina.”
They chatted idly for another hour. She’d
kicked off her shoes and had drawn her legs up and
under her on the leather couch cushions. Her left arm
extending along its top, she was nearly touching his
hair.
The right side of his brain told him he was
being misdirected. What the hell was so necessary in
what she said to keep ‘off the record’ The left side of his
brain told him it was of no consequence, he could write
whatever he wanted.
At 12:45 a.m., she suggested they have
breakfast together on the north veranda. She was also
staying the night, and would meet him at
8:00.
Directing him to his room, she held his arm as
she had when he first arrived. At the bedroom door, she
leaned against the dark walnut trim, hands behind her
back.
“Cuba desperately needs help, and your
newspaper can play an important role in our
development.”
68
He detected a pretense - why? What was it she
and Belize really wanted?
“Good night, Dan.” He didn’t return her words
with his own.
Saturday, February 18, 8:04 a.m.
The view from beyond the north veranda’s
French glass doors was straight across the Archipelago
de Sabana toward the Straights of Florida. Its deep
blue-green waters had been crossed by many exiles both
in yachts and on homemade rafts.
‘What price will people pay for democracy’ he
thought.
“Good morning, Dan!”
Turning, he watched her move toward him in a
tight, Egyptian cotton Liz Claiborne, its blue and white
floral pattern, as her evening dress, stopped at mid
thigh.
“Good morning, Catalina.”
He wore an open collard, green Izod and white
chinos.
They were totally out of synch. He knew it,
and she knew it.
Eating breakfast with accompanying small
talk, he thought through the notes his Business Editor
had given him to review.
The Soviet Union had been spending eight
million dollars a day in Cuba when it abandoned its
only Western Hemisphere Satellite. While the Russian
presence had provided a ninety-six percent literacy
rate, it’s efforts to diversify the economy had failed.
Cuba remained one of the world’s leading sugar
producers, but its markets were still primarily in the
Soviet Bloc. The island was strategic to the U.S. in
terms of its geographic venue, and whatever U.S.
President Randall Benson needed to do to keep it
democratic would receive top priority in his
administration. 69
Cuba’s per-capita income was a dismal fourteen
hundred dollars per year. A better communist economic
system would boost total PCI, and would geometrically
improve the living standards of the masses in equal
proportion, however, a democratic system would
exponentially increase the PCI, but would leave a
residual core of depravity. Such is the price of a free
society.
Supposedly, the rich will care for the poor, but
the translation of that idea never seems to reach
maturity. In a democracy, there will always be
economic, and subsequently and consequently,
sociologic stratums.
Sipping her dark coffee from a Belleek cup, she
returned the china to its identically patterned saucer.
“Dan, I grew up in the lowest layer of society in
Havana. My mother tailored for the Military Officers
Corps, and spent a good deal of her earnings each
month to buy me books that would help me learn
English. When I was eighteen, a little-known exchange
program allowed me to attend The University of Miami
where I received a Bachelor’s degree in Accounting, and
a Master’s degree in finance. When I finished, I entered
government service as a financial analyst. I was
Miguel’s protégé at the time, and I’ve been with him
ever since.”
What she didn’t tell him was that both her
great beauty, and her intelligence had captivated the
senior government official who would eventually
become Vice President, and who would subsequently
reward his assistant; rewards she perceived as
deserving.
“The first part of my life was not easy, Dan. I
know what it’s like to be poor, and if I can help it, I’ll
remove poverty from my country.”
She finished her personal, and partial political
platform. He’d heard a lot of sob stories in his
journalism career.
70
Normally, to him, this just would have been
another. But the storyteller captivated him, caught his
emotional attention. He knew his feelings were
displaced, but they overruled his logic.
They decided to go for a ride.
A four door, silver 700 series BMW cruised the
Cuban landscape driven by a woman, who as a child,
could only dream of owning such an extravagance.
Beside her sat the Managing Editor of a major U.S.
daily, his head swimming with questions and doubt.
“Catalina, pull over.”
“What…do you feel alright?”
“I need to speak with you.”
She swung the car off the coastal highway onto
a dusty, seventy foot wide patch of dry dirt and pebbles.
The high torque pride of the BMW fleet negotiated
perfectly over several rain-washed ruts, finally coming
to rest beneath a shady palm.
“What is it?” She’d shifted her left leg to meet
her right as she leaned in his direction.
Stroking his closed eyes with the left thumb
and forefinger, he suddenly released his hand from its
corneal massage, using his hand now to slap his left
thigh.
“Damn it, Catalina, you know as well as I do
that Juan Santiago has met with Randall Benson, and
they’ve agreed to develop an economic reform plan for
your country. So what’s all this bullshit about feeding
the masses? Your people are not starving. You’ve been
talking like a Third World Socialist. Miguel Belize says
he can’t decide which economic policy to implement - he
wants to be pragmatic - that’s a lot of crap. If you want
me to write your story, then give me the truth. I didn’t
come over here to get jerked around.”
The last part of his statement was directed
more toward the arm holding and leg flashing than any
fiscal or monetary crisis or policies.
71
His former remarks were based on an analysis
of a deceptive presence demonstrated by the Vice
President and his Administrative Assistant the night
prior.
Dan Bellcamp, a man who paid women to love
him, cast a glance at her shapely legs, and then her
eyes.
Pulling the door handle, he escaped the airconditioned
comfort of the Bimmer to enter the mid
morning heat settled on the Cuban landscape.
Walking fifty feet to the north, he stood arms
placed on hips and reviewed a calm sea.
He hoped he’d temporarily abandoned a now
remorseful woman. He knew, however, he’d only left
alone a calculating bitch.
She came to his side.
“I’m sorry, my people really do need your help.
Your newspaper - you - can write the story of today’s
Cuba the way it should be told.
This woman had a mission.
He thought about Law Twenty Four. In order
for him to successfully determine both Belize’s and
Catalina’s intentions, he’d need to offer them more than
they expected. It appeared that right now, however,
they needed him more than he needed them.
“Catalina, just tell me what you and Miguel
Belize want. You and I both know my newspaper is
very influential in the state of Florida - I can help you.”
A decision had to be made.
She decided to tell him half the truth.
“Dan, walk with me.”
Her request was followed by low level
seduction, her right arm through his left, his bicep
pulled to her breast, she led him across the dusty
Cuban landscape.
Her tone was even.
“I am very familiar, and comfortable with the
world of corporate and government finance.
72
I was recruited by United Technologies, Arthur
Anderson and Prudential-Bache, but I turned down
their offers to return here and work in our government.
I have an affinity for my country and my people. I
know what it’s like to be without. I’m on my own, and I
intend to have the life I’ve dreamed about. Miguel and
I can, and will lead our people.”
He came to understand that she and Belize
shared more than an Executive and Assistant
relationship. He stopped, making her face him.
“What are you talking about?”
She looked at him without speaking, waiting
for an affirmation of confidentiality.
He didn’t miss the point.
“I won’t print any of this conversation.”
He knew what that could do to the Pulitzer.
“Dan, how much money do you make a year?”
He’d been asked that question twice before,
once by a commercial real estate developer with an
asbestos problem, and once by a large auto dealer
accused of odometer tampering. In both instances, he’d
walked away from the conversation. He didn’t now,
however.
“I make enough to keep me well fed…
obviously.”
She continued, feeling a sense of security.
“If I could make available to you a substantial
amount of money, would you consider working with me
to help develop in Florida a more proper perspective of
Cuba’s priorities without the U.S. reform plan as the
main one?”
They both regarded one another following her
solicitous comment. She had no fear, feeling this man
was approachable.
It was he who was wrestling with the
implications of her statement.
‘Did she and Belize want to dismantle the
economic plan approved by Santiago and Benson?’
73
The warm, gentle trade winds brushed over
them as he considered for the moment the fact that he
could deliver to this woman not just the most prominent
newspaper in Florida, but maybe access to the entire
system of a clandestine organization known as Yankee
Echo. Were she and Belize able to access the covert
operation, there was no question they could destroy all
U.S. public support for Randall Benson Cuban economic
reform plan.
His position of power escalated exponentially.
His emotional needs now overwhelmed, he decided to
create a monetary opportunity for himself that would be
unparalleled in his lifetime.
Although he didn’t know the actual number of
writers in Yankee Echo, he did know whom he thought
were its two main players - Robert Wirtham and
Michael Courtney.
He also knew that Wirtham and Courtney
wouldn’t just hand over the reigns of the organization to
Belize and Salazar for their initiative. In fact, there
plan was diametrically opposed to the information
contained in a fax message he’d received regarding
support for the President’s program. Once again, he felt
the pulsations of greed and power rippling through him.
He would need time to organize, to prove his worth, to
establish his conditions, to plan for a method of
payment to him as well as its schedule.
He hardly believed his own thoughts. How
many beautiful women would he have if he could get his
price from her? He would become a valuable commodity
among the fraternity of single females with…say two
million dollars in the bank.
He decided to breach his trust. No more
fourth-floor walk-up whores for him.
“Catalina…I have a special fax machine in my
home……”
74
The cloudless Cuban morning allowed a
February sun to heat, not only the day, but also two of
its participants sitting on a bluff overlooking the ninety
miles of water between them and the USA. Catalina
Salazar now had two million reasons not to believe his
amazing story about a clandestine writing organization
in America.
Having listened to a one hour narration on
Yankee Echo’s ability to crush U.S. public support for
the Cuban economic reform package, she considered
both his terms, and his story.
“You want two million dollars to give me two
names?”
“Catalina, you’ve just finished telling me you’d
provide me with a substantial amount of money if I
gave you the media coverage in Florida, and I’m telling
you that you can have the whole country. If you want
the economic reform plan subverted, and you’ve neither
denied nor confirmed that yet, then the only hope you
have is me.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth, Dan?”
“You don’t.”
“Then how do Miguel and I know we can trust
you?”
“You don’t know that either, but give me two
weeks, and I’ll produce enough evidence to convince
you.”
She rose to her feet, Claiborne clinging to her
ample form.
“Okay, Mister Bellcamp, let’s go tell this story
to my Vice President.”
“No, you go see him. I’m going back to Miami
to prepare the documentation you need.”
His eyes were cast all over her, sweat beads
from the morning sun forming on his brow cascaded
into his optic sockets, their saline content causing him
to squint.
75
Bellcamp was using Law Twenty Eight - a
rapid departure would leave open questions only he
could answer, question he preferred to answer on
American soil, on his turf.
“What about the story you came here for?
What will you tell your publisher?”
“He’ll understand. That story can’t be written
after one interview. I’ll need you to come to the U.S. to
give me more details. When you come to visit, I’m sure
you’ll have a diplomatic passport, and be able to deliver
my two million dollars - in American currency, please.
I’ll disappear once I have the money - Marshall
Chamberlain can have the Pulitzer.”
“Who…What!?”
“Never mind.”
“Dan, Miguel’s going to require a lot of
convincing.”
“Then we’ll need to spend some serious time
together to make that happen, won’t we?”
With a smile full of lust, he wiped the sweat
from his eyes. She took advantage of an opportunity
taking his arm, and, once again pulling it tight against
her body.
“Maybe we can spend some time very close
together, Dan.”
Deductive logic told him to be cautious, but
emotions overruled.
Friday, March 17, 11:15 a.m.
Miguel Belize left his meeting with Juan
Ramos Santiago feeling auspicious relief. He believed
his report on the state of the Cuban economic reform
plan had caused his President to believe each targeted
initiative of the plan was on schedule, and receiving his
full attention.
76
He’d told Santiago that the United States
Secretary of Commerce would be on the island during
the third week of May to discuss the possibility of
developing several manufacturing plants with
American assets - tractors and large-format diesel
engines were the most distinct possibilities.
Santiago knew the U.S. Commerce Secretary
was skeptical about American assets being committed
in Cuba, but he agreed to leave the American in his
V.P.’s hands.
He had an understanding with Randall Benson
who had three more years in office, and he trusted the
U.S. President implicitly. There were also others
interested in Cuba - from other countries.
Tollman’s meeting with Belize would actually
be a planning session, but it would be the antithesis of
what they thought Santiago expected. Their
discussions would revolve around the forced
exploitation of a clandestine writing organization, and
also around the two people revealed to them by a
Managing Editor of a major U.S. daily to be the leaders
of that operation, Robert Wirtham and Michael
Courtney.
Tollman, through the NSA had complete
dossiers no both men. In Wirtham’s folder, records
indicated he was the legal owner of JGM Exports. His
business consulting background, and the Physical Laws
component of his education, led the Secretary to believe
he was very capable of both forming, and operating a
multi-million dollar company.
Records indicated Wirtham had formed the
company while teaching at The University of Vermont.
An authorized electronic check into Internal Revenue
Service records evidenced no abnormal asses or capital
behavior at JGM - the company was solid.
On paper, and in the IRS computers, Wirtham
was a responsible corporate president making money
for his company.
77
Had Tollman not been briefed by Belize, he
wouldn’t have known that the great majority of monies
spent by JGM were going to Yankee Echo writers. In
addition, what was not in the former UVM professor’s
folder was the ‘why’ Why had Wirtham formed Yankee
Echo? There were no records to indicate payoffs for
favorable press from large corporations, foundations, or
political organizations.
Why the need for a covert organization with
such power? Where was the utility of the operation?
That part didn’t make sense to the Secretary. However,
an adversarial commonality actually made him admire
the organization and its composition.
Michael Courtney had been a straight ‘A’
student through the four years of his metaphysical
major at UVM. In his junior year, the acceptance of his
Physical Laws corollary earned him a title he never
used, even though the bequeathing of he title had made
him a nationally recognized figure in his field.
Courtney was paid one hundred twenty
thousand dollars a year by JGM Exports, and another
fifteen thousand by Boston College where he taught
The Physical Laws albeit just a few days a week. His
income taxes were in order, and he didn’t live
extravagantly. A casual, well-dressed and clean shaven
individual, he had dated several women, but had never
been married.
It was in the last paragraph on the final page
of the dossier for Michael Courtney where George
Tollman found the link he needed to convince the
analyst, and either his partner or boss, to provide
under duress, the power behind the organization known
as Yankee Echo.
78
Courtney was seriously involved with one of his
students, a Kathleen McKenzie, daughter of Patrick
Gaffe McKenzie III, Chairman of McKenzie Industries.
There was only one other McKenzie child, John Gaffe
McKenzie, mortally wounded in a firefight in the La
Dang Valley of Vietnam.
Tollman would meet the McKenzie family once
again - what was left of them. An addendum sheet to
Courtney’s folder indicated Patrick McKenzie III would
be vacationing alone in the Bahamas during the second
and third weeks of May.
Tollman jotted a note to himself:
Take K. McKenzie’s father to Cuba.
Let Courtney know through Wirtham
Operation begins 5/19
Saturday, May 20, 7:34 a.m.
There are approximately ten thousand people
per square mile in Washington D.C.’s sixty-three square
miles. The city with forty three hospitals, sixty-one
radio stations, and six universities and colleges, was
remarkably quiet considering its potential to make
noise.
Courtney appreciated the calm.
Passing the final light, another with an
electromechanical switch manufactured by Greencastle
Manufacturing, he saw the Rand building two blocks
ahead.
The granite structure, headquarters of JGM
Exports, was also home base for Yankee Echo. She
notice the lights on the third floor where all the square
footage was assumed by the export company and the
writing organization.
She thought out loud. “I wonder if Robert got
any sleep last night.”
79
Courtney, knowing she needed no confirmation,
responded with a request, the first part of the first
contingency plan he’d formed, and was now developing
through its first phase of implementation.
“Kay, after we see Robert, could you call the
Marriott and get us a suite with two separate phone
numbers? And also, could you call Eddie Dalger, either
at McKenzie, or at his home on Old Lyme? Ask him for
a Wallensak reel-to-reel tape recorder with an encoder
and also an anti-static system. Either he, or a
McKenzie technician is going to have to get it delivered
to the hotel today.
She nodded affirmatively without speaking.
Courtney wheeled the Jeep into the Rand’s
private garage. The new parking attendant, reviewing
his license plate, and checking it against his log, waive
the wagon through a now opening steel-grilled gate.
Locating a space next to one of the building’s three
elevators, he breathed a temporary sigh of relief
shutting down the V-6.
“It’ll be nice to take a shower upstairs. Which
bag do you need for a change of clothes?”
“All of them.”
She finally settled for her largest bag, the
carrying strap of which was now slung over his left
shoulder. She carried one of his, half as large in the
same fashion.
Behind the closed door of the elevator, he
regarded this girl, woman. In a physical statement
they had come to accept as a private demonstration of
passion, he gently stroked her cheek with the back of
his fingers, both looking deep into each other’s soul
through the passageways behind their eyes. Allowing
each other their vulnerability, they had now walls
between them right now.
80
The Rand’s entire third floor, to the casual
observer, appeared to be occupied by the export
company. Etched in its glass door were the scripted
initials JGM. They’d been engraved in memory of a
son.
Pushing on the three hundred pound clear
panel, it swung freely and easily on it fulcrum brushedsteel
hinges. He allowed her first entry.
A call from the garage attendant following a
prior briefing by Courtney had alerted JGM’s President
to the fact his visitors had arrived. He now entered the
unattended reception area where his two tired, one
slightly wounded friends deposited their luggage.
“KATHLEEN, MICHAEL!”
Robert Wirtham was promptly and
affectionately embraced by a young woman he’d known
since her childhood.
“Oh, Robert, it’s so good to see you - have you
heard from Dad?”
A somber reflected moan signified he had no
answer, but it wouldn’t be what she wanted to hear.
Courtney, two feet behind her, reacted with a straight
stare while almost imperceptibly shaking his head, not
an indication for Wirtham to lie, but to tell a half truth.
“Not yet, Kathleen. I’ve been trying. Don’t
worry, Hon, your dad can take care of himself.”
The latter part of Wirtham’s brief report cause
a release of hydrochloric acid into the innermost layer
of Courtney’s stomach.
“Kay, why don’t you take a shower and freshen
up, then you can call the Marriott and Eddie Dalger.”
She looked through him knowing he’d need
time to speak to Wirtham.
She also believed he’d tell her everything when
he finished analyzing whatever it was he needed to
analyze.
81
“Robert, I think my teacher’s going to ask you
some questions. I hope you have answers - he can get
cranky.”
She kissed her father’s friend on the cheek.
“I’m glad we’re with you.”
Retrieving her bag, she moved to JGM’s
executive suite, three rooms and two bathrooms that
would easily flatter any five star hotel guest.
Courtney exchanged a deliberate with his
mentor.
“Where’s Pat?”
“I don’t know…but he’s in their hands.”
82
Chapter 4
The Eighteenth Physical Law
Time Is Elastic, And Rapid Motion Slows It
Saturday, May 20, 11:37 a.m.
Albert Einstein’s Special General Theory of
Relativity is considered by many learned men and
women to be the single most important thought of
humankind.
In part of his theory, Einstein proved that the
effect of motion and gravity on time caused it to become
dilated, or expanded. Time dilation in relativity
confirmed that the faster you move, the more time you
have to complete something.
In metaphysical terms, the theory of the
Eighteenth Law has more philosophical than physical
properties. In the world of human realities, advantages
are gained by rapid motion, thinking and acting before
an adversary can act, causes a negative effect on any
offense posture established by an opponent.
A pitcher in baseball always has the advantage
of a batter because of the Eighteenth Law, but a runner
on first base has the advantage over the pitcher. A
Special Forces British commando unit who’s slogan is
“Who Dares, Wins” is an example of the practical
application of Law Eighteen.
Courtney, sitting opposite JGM’s President
following a shave, shower, and three hour rest,
subconsciously brought Law Eighteen to bear on the
breach in Yankee Echo. In his contingency plan, it
would become a remediation priority. Act first, and act
quickly.
83
“How’s Kathleen, Michael?”
“She’s still sleeping.”
Wirtham’s voice was soft - “When are you going
to tell her about Pat?”
Courtney’s was equally soft - “Soon, before she
figures it out on her own. When was the last time they
made contact with you?”
“It was about forty-five minutes before you got
here. - the message was - We Have Mister McKenzie,
And We’re Serious.
“It was a man’s voice, mature, clear, no accent.
Apparently, they don’t know Pat’s involved with
Yankee Echo. I think they took him because of your
relationship with Kathleen.”
Wirtham had no sooner finished his statement
when he realized he may have phrased it imprudently.
“Michael, I didn’t…”
“Don’t worry, I understand. They want me.
They probably think you own Yankee Echo and run it,
that’s the appearance we give them. I’m worried about
Pat, but at the same time, I’m thankful they didn’t go
after Kay. Pat can handle himself. She’d kick someone
in the balls and would have been in a world of trouble.”
Sitting deeper in his chair, he began tapping
the tips of his fingers together in front of his chest,
finally bringing each hand’s opposite digits to rest
against their counterparts.
“Robert, is our TAC 5 ready?”
A ‘TAC‘, or Tactical Advantage Communication,
was a coded organization message which would alert
the Yankee Echo network regarding the stories, and the
number of stories they would write, what position to
take on their stories, and when to publish.
“Yes, it’s all loaded for a Cuban write.”
“When did the breacher say he’d contact us
again?”
“He wasn’t specific - but he sounded urgent.”
84
Courtney sat up straight in his chair, his hands
coming to rest on his knees.
“OK, let’s roll the TAC this afternoon, but I
want to exclude any newspaper with a circulation base
greater than two hundred thousand. I’m guessing the
breachers are probably metropolitan based, so I want to
keep the stories in the smaller format papers. Maybe
we can give grass-roots America a shot in the arm.”
“How many writes do you want?”
“Just one - I don’t want to make too many
changes right now.
“Michael soon were going to be working for
them, they want negative press.”
“They’re going to get it. Remember, they don’t
know how big we are - at least we don’t think they do. I
don’t intend to turn the whole organization over to
them. Only half of it.
Courtney had no idea he’d only be turning over
one-tenth of the writers in the clandestine operation for
the breachers’ purpose.
“What’s your occurrence plan?
“Three hundred writers will go pro-active on
the Cuban Reform Plan, and the other three hundred
will write anti-package. We’ll work off population,
income, and demographic bases.”
Wirtham began taking notes.
“In areas where there’s a high concentration of
above average marginal incomes, we’ll be pro-package.
I want to use the anti-package writers in our rural
zones, and in the SMSA’s that have a diversity of ethnic
inner city pockets. One half of our editorials and
articles should negate the effect of the other half. Until
we locate the breachers, and Pat, and take control of
this situation for good, that’s going to be the procedure,
unless we run into any unplanned contingencies. Right
now, I’d like to know more about Florida - what’s
happening down there?”
85
The former professor would answer his
question, understanding that his former student, who
was now in charge of Yankee Echo would want a full
comprehension of the arena in which he was working.
“Andy St. Croix left for Miami last night to
check out Dan Bellcamp, our writer at THE MIAMI
HERALD. Bellcamp’s called me at least twenty times
over the past twelve or thirteen weeks asking for
clarifications, checking codes, verifying identification
procedures - it was like he’d lost his manual. Then,
last week, he sent an exchange editorial to THE
SAVANNAH MORNING NEWS about the exploitation
of the labor force in Cuba. I don’t know if he faxed it
anywhere else, but I haven’t heard of anyone else using
it. I checked with West Coast, East and West Central,
and none of the M.A.’s have seen it in print either. One
other thing, he asked me if Tom Griffin was an Echo
writer, and if he was, would I mind if he exchanged
some writes with him. You know I didn‘t answer that
question.”
“That guys a loose cannon, Robert.”
“Andy should be calling in soon, we’ll have the
details on whatever he finds. He was going right to
Bellcamp’s house.”
The now-in-charge metaphysician had another
question.
“Where’s Griffin located? I should have a
conversation with him about his article yesterday in the
JOURNAL. Did you see it?
“That was something I wanted to ask you
about. Where does a staff writer get the leverage to
have an exclusive with a Cabinet-Level
Secretary?” “Someone was behind that, we need to
know who.”
86
Friday, May 19, 8:29 p.m.
The short, jacquered-pattern kimono,
appropriately packaged in a black Frederic’s box rested
in the center of his living room coffee table, it’s contents
awaiting transfer of ownership.
It was going to be a surprise for her.
Although Catalina Salazar also had a surprise
in store for Dan Bellcamp, the kimono was not the only
thing he had prepared for the Cuban V.P.’s mistress
tonight.
Dan Bellcamp was expecting a visitor - a Latin
with shapely legs who had promised him tonight would
be the most everlasting evening he would ever
experience.
Splashing on his after shave, he thought about
the message he’d written for her on the card he’d
purchased at CVS, two blocks east of his house.
On three prior visits, they’d only talked - about
a clandestine writing organization and its codes,
security clearances, and the top two men in the
organization. One who owned and ran it, and one who
was it’s analyst. Tonight was the night they
had agreed to exchange two million American dollars
for the information he’d previously provided, plus the
final list of Yankee Echo security codes.
The concept of the organization seemed
incredible to both Miguel Belize and George Tollman.
But the coded and translated facsimile messages sent
from JGM Exports, arriving on request to a fax machine
in Bellcamp’s suburban Miami two bedroom ranch, plus
the realities that his in-house fax could not be accessed
by any other fax, and that its number was unlisted
anywhere, led the two men to believe his story could be
real.
87
The investigation of his breached trust,
however, had come to several dead ends. How many
writers were actually involved? Which media had
Yankee Echo infiltrated?
His preliminary inquiries satisfied, the
Secretary of Commerce had decided to press the issue,
and eliminate the loose end. He and Belize had enough
information to begin their operation, and all the
information they were going to get from the Managing
Editor.
He hadn’t heard her come in. On her last visit,
he’d given her a key to the domicile he would never see
again after tonight.
“Dan, where are you?”
He heard her voice, his first thought was the
card. He’d finished writing the message, but hadn’t yet
put it in the envelope.
Hurrying, the Hallmark with painted flowers
on its cover was thrown into his upper nightstand
drawer while he quickly joined her in his living room.
“Catalina, I wasn’t expecting you until nine.”
The sight of her in her black silk Emporio
Armani jump suit caused him to forget the card even
existed.
She’d brought with her a rather large pullalong
piece of leather luggage.
“Can I fix you a drink? We need to celebrate. I
bought a new bottle of Smirnoff.”
Slithering toward the center of the room,
Salazar deposited the luggage next to his couch noticing
the unmarked envelope on his southern pine coffee
table.
Releasing one more button on the bloused part
of her already revealing Armani, she accepted the
invitation.
“Yes, that would be fine.”
88
“I have a gift for you, Catalina.”
Waddling to his living room dry bar, he filled
two old-fashioned glasses with ice, THE MIAMI
HERALD’s masthead and anniversary date on them
providing point of origination. The vodka followed,
trickling over and down the frozen water in each.
Turning, he noticed she had assumed a seated
position on the couch, right arm over its crest, left leg
crossed over right, left hand on left thigh.
The Fredric’s box remained in its original
position unopened.
“Dan, come, sit next to me.”
His pulse quickened as he shuffled toward her,
a newspaper anniversary glass in each hand.
She stood to meet him, reaching for the
tumbler extended in her direction.
Grasping it insecurely, its topmost
circumference was caused to tip backwards spilling
most of its contents on his new Levi chinos, while the
rest of the masthead anniversary edition’s liquor and
ice fell to his gray rayon carpet.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, let me clean it up.”
“It’s OK, maybe you could get the paper towels
under the sink. Let me go change, I’ll be right back.”
Unbuckling his belt, he moved toward his
bedroom.
It would take no longer than two or three
minutes to change the chinos, a time limitation held in
both his mind as well as hers.
She had no intention of cleaning the carpet,
although she would cause it to appear an attempt had
been made.
A small, glass vial in her right pocket had her
full attention while returning from the kitchen and
throwing a pull of five paper towels to the carpet.
A quick glance toward the bedroom assured her
she had time.
89
The flask was removed from its silk hiding
place next to her equally silk Latin skin. A small, tan
cork was pulled from one end.
Pouring the vials clear liquid contents into his
masthead edition glass, she replaced the tube in her
sleek apparel.
The M.E. returned to the living room.
“There, good as new.”
He moved toward the bar to make her another
drink and reviewed the seductress sitting in her
original position, a wad of Bounty beneath her soaking
up some of the spilled cocktail from his carpet.
Presenting her with the new mix, the breacher
deposited himself on the cushion closest to her.
He offered her both a toast, and a question.
“Catalina, I’ve dreamed of tonight - here’s to
you and to success - did you bring the money?”
Leaning toward him while taking a heavy sip
of her vodka, both silk lapels on her jump suit were
caused to fall away from her chest exposing ample
breasts, sans bra. The black haired beauty was well
aware of her position, as well as the cast of his vision.
“This a night you’ll never forget, Dan. And yes,
I brought the money. It’s in the leather luggage. Do
you have the final Yankee Echo security codes?”
“They’re right here.” Reaching to the table, he
lifted the unmarked envelope on its surface and handed
it to her.
Placing his drink in the now empty space
where the envelope had been, Bellcamp reached for the
Fredric’s box and, in another clumsy gesture, struck his
glass with the box’s edge while lifting it for
presentation. This caused his MIAMI HERALD
anniversary edition to empty itself on the already wet
carpet.
The Cuban beauty’s dark brown eyes closed,
and summarily slowly opened.
90
She would need to implement the alternative
plan with the assistance of two Cuban secret police
presently sitting idle in a black Cadillac Seville parked
across the road outside his house.
It would be messy.
“Oh, shit, I’ll get another one.”
Sipping her beverage once again, Salazar
thought of the lamp she needed to illuminate sitting on
a table across the living room in front of a window - a
signal for two agents to lock and load their silenced
revolvers. Enough rounds from each would be
deposited into the body of one Managing Editor until
that body no longer functioned.
The agents were now on standby. When she
left the ranch, they would enter and complete a night’s
work. She would not have to witness it - just accept it.
Uncrossing her legs, Salazar rose to complete
the indicator, but found her long, lower left limb buckle
beneath her weight. Tumbling to the deep, gray rayon,
her own, and second drink splashed to a radius of ten
feet while a blurred, spinning vision of soft light,
accompanied by a generous warmth, consumed her
nervous system. When she resumed consciousness two
hours later, she would remember the words of the bulky
man in white chinos perched over her numb form.
“Catalina, you and Miguel neglected Law
Twenty-Nine because you never studied it. You never
assumed I would take an initiative of my own.”
He prepared to leave with two pieces of
luggage, one containing a compensation the jumpsuited
Cuban never expected him to own, the other
holding enough clothes for three days in California
where he’d replace his wardrobe.
Dan Bellcamp was a fool for women, but he was
also an intelligent fool; and tonight, he was a lucky fool.
The now former Managing Editor had no idea
she’d put enough poison in his drink to kill two horses.
91
His own plan to drug the Cuban was aided by a
‘friend’, a classy uptown whore with access to every
drug known to mankind. His instincts had told him
Miguel Belize had no intention of allocating two million
dollars to his asset balance, no matter how much the
Vice President needed the information he could supply.
He also felt that, once the money was in his possession,
there would be an immediate desire to have it returned,
by one method or another.
Bellcamp also had no idea how lucky he would
be to put two hours between himself and the two men
still in their parked Cadillac waiting for the return of
one Catalina Salazar, they absent the signal to prepare
for an alternative elimination plan.
He’d left his house by the side door next to the
garage, a rose trellis sheltering him from recognition.
Finally, because he’d mowed his lawn earlier in the day,
the door facing the front of his car was still open in his
drive-through garage, allowing him to leave his home
from the rear, undetected.
Dan Bellcamp was on his way to sunny Avalon
on Santa Catalina Island off the California coast, a
weight reduction health spa, and a new identity.
92
Saturday, May 20, 11:45 a.m.
“Michael, should we call the FBI?”
Robert Wirtham’s voice was low and seemed
serious. It was a plan he’d never execute, but he
needed to understand Courtney’s intentions. He never
got the chance. The question was answered by
Kathleen McKenzie as she entered the room.
“NO.”
Her eyes, clear, were filled with purpose.
Quarter-turning a conference chair next to his,
he expressed a silent communication to accept a seat in
the strategy session.
Her hands now folded on the rosewood
conference table, she looked at Wirtham knowing it was
he who would have the most information.
“Robert - where’s my father?”
Over the next half hour Wirtham would explain
to both of them everything that had happened. He
didn’t know how much she could take, and he hoped
Courtney would be able to hold her together.
She addressed the same man again.
“Robert, I know he’s not going to be with us
again until we go and get him. What are we doing
about that?”
He didn’t want her to take it any further while
Courtney was there.
“Kathleen, you know we’ll use all of our
resources.”
Her knowledge of the scope of the organization,
along with accompanying knowledge of its alliances
with other organizations allowed his statement to settle
her for the time being.
Courtney sensed her for-now resignation.
“Did you have a chance to call the Marriott -
Eddie Dalger?”
“He’ll meet us at the hotel this afternoon, at
four.”
93
He looked at Wirtham.
“Let’s send the TAC.”
JGM’s computer room easily handled the daily
transactions of the export company. While the company
did broker exports for a number of food and kindred
product manufacturers, its banks of IBM’s were set up
to control an additional product; an information system
and network of tremendous proportion.
Inside the room’s soundproof wall were Eleven
IBM CL45 class computers with enough stored data on
specific topics to rival the United States Census Bureau
and the U.S. Commerce Department combined.
Forty computer data specialists daily entered
changes into the system with regard to marginal or
spend-able income levels in three thousand U.S cities,
age and population demographics, political party
affiliations by city, U.S. Senate and U.S. Congressional
statistics including voting histories on all bills, multinational
business statistics, and information on worldwide
standard industrial classification indexes broken
out into seventy-two financial and product criteria.
One of the computers housed a transmitter
which would deliver the cryptic message to the writers’
fax machines via a radio signal sent out to a satellite.
Wirtham, followed by Courtney and McKenzie
approached the main console and keyboard of the
complex data center. Taking a seat in a black leather
executive chair, JGM’s president tapped out a simple
code.
HOTEL - JULIET - TANGO
Almost instantly the computer monitor
responded.
CBA 1 WRT
MCTNYLDD
ACC
TTLWRTS
STATS 94
The computer banks were ready to accept
input.
“It’s ready, give me the stats.”
“First, delete all papers with greater than two
hundred thousand circulations.”
Wirtham pressed nine keys.
“Now, let’s add an addendum to the lead.”
Twelve more keystrokes.
“The lead’s up.”
“Last line.”
“Got it.”
“Suggest to readers written contact with
Congressional Reps and U.S. Senators.”
More keystrokes were tapped.
“It’s in.”
Courtney continued.
“I want to exclude New York City, Los Angeles,
Washington, Boston, Miami, and Chicago.”
More keystrokes.
“All set.”
“Let it go - send it TAC five.”
Five additional keystrokes.
“Robert, we’re going…”
The telephone’s ring interrupted the analyst.
Wirtham contemplated the Merlin
communication system sitting to his right at the
keyboard.
“Is the TAC complete, Robert?”
“Yes - it’s through.”
Courtney breathed deeply
He indicated a telephone on a vacant Assistant
Communication’s Director’s desk.
“Kay, pick up the extension over there.”
“Robert, put this one on the speaker.”
Wirtham was slightly apprehensive - both the
metaphysician and his girlfriend noticed.
95
The export company’s president picked up the
receiver knowing the caller had identified him as the
recipient of the communication, and the receptionist
had directed the call to the appropriate phone.
“This is Robert Wirtham.”
“Bobby, it’s Andy.”
Andrew St. Croix was Director of Internal
Security at JGM Exports. A veteran of the Vietnam
conflict, former Naval Deep Cover Operative, and
Physical Laws candidate out of Annapolis. He was a
somewhat irreverent, however loyal organization man
who only knew as much about the clandestine writing
group as Courtney did.”
Wirtham exhaled.
“Go ahead, Andy - I have Michael and Kathleen
McKenzie on the lines with me.”
The Southern born Naval Academy graduate
acknowledged the latter two.
“Hey, Mick, Miss McKenzie, ma’am.”
Wirtham relaxed.
“What’s going on?”
“Well, Bellcamp’s not here. Looks like the man
had a Smirnoff party and decided his rug needed a
shampoo with it.”
“Are his clothes gone?”
“Not all of them, but by the looks of how their
spread out on the hangers seems like a few are missing.
There‘s also a couple dresser drawers open”
He continued to report his findings thus far.
“Ah also found the ugliest card ah ever did see
in his nightstand drawer, had a message on it that was
interesting, dated yesterday - written to a Catalina -
Listen to this…”
‘Let your dream begin, not in vain did you
come, you return to hold another - ah know. If ah’m
betrayed, it is because ah have betrayed.’
“This boy has a real case on some belle. Ah
think you were right about him, Mick - he’s apparently
a problem.” 96
Courtney spoke next.
“Andy, bring the card back with you.”
“Yes, sir. You want me to stay, kind of keep an
eye on the place?”
“Stay through Sunday, Andy, check out the rest
of the house. If he shows up, talk to him.”
“Yes, sir, Ah’ll get a flight out on Monday and
let you know when ah‘m in. Mick, you and Miss
McKenzie staying in town?”
“I thought we’d be going to Miami - it depends
on what else you find out down there, but it sounds like
you have it under control.”
“Ah need to go over your plan. Ah don’t want to
be shooting in the dark.”
“OK, Andy. I’ll brief you either Monday or
Tuesday.”
“Miss McKenzie, you keep him down on Earth,
sometimes his head goes spinning off in space.”
Kay felt a moment of relief.
“He’s a little weird sometimes, Andy, but I can
handle him. You be careful down there.”
“Yes ma’am. So far it’s a walk in a pine forest.”
Phones were cradled following final regards.
Courtney thought out loud.
“If I’m betrayed, it’s because I’ve betrayed?
Sounds like we have our breacher, doesn‘t it?”
Wirtham had the first part of the puzzle and
speculated on the second.
“We may have the worm, but we don’t know
who’s holding the pole, and right now he’s apparently a
double worm.”
She had the perspective.
Robert, we have a suite at the Marriott…”
He faced Kay for a confirmation.
She nodded affirmatively.
97
“I’m taking Kay over there now. I need some
cash, and a favor.”
Wirtham was prepared to provide both.
“Tell me what you need.”
Courtney continued, detailing his
requirements.
“I’d like you to download everything you have
on Cuba; economics, financial status, government stats
with names - then get me a list on Cuban writes for the
last two years. I also need a report on the multinationals
that have expressed interest in the
President’s Reform Package. I’ll need it all by tomorrow
afternoon.”
It was all within the realm of possibility.
“I’ll have to bring some people in, but you’ll
have it.”
There were two additional requisites.
“I’m also expecting a police report from
Waltham. It probably won’t be here until Monday, but
I’d like to see it as soon as it comes in. I also need my
students’ exam papers, and I have to call the Dean and
tell him why I’m not around. Who’d you get to fix my
office window?”
“We have friends in Boston. B.C.’s in order as
far as your office is concerned, and I‘e already notified
your Dean. I’ll arrange for your exam papers to get
here.
Courtney didn’t question who Wirtham’s
‘friends’ were in Boston, or who would gather up his
students’ exam papers. He knew this man to be
someone with tremendous human resources available to
him, and the subsequent actions of those resources had
always worked in the analyst’s favor.
Gently placing his hand on the lower part of
her back, Courtney made eye contact and addressed
her.
“Kay, are you ready to leave?”
“Yes.”
98
“Robert, one last thing - I’m going to need Tom
Griffin’s number. I’ll call you for it when we get to the
hotel.”
They took the elevator down, but got off in the
lobby instead of the garage.
She knew there must be a reason, but still had
to ask the question.
“Aren’t we taking the Jeep?”
He knew the question would be coming.
“Not until Eddie Dalger gets here and does a
sweep on it. We’ll grab a cab to the hotel and have
Robert arrange for the rest of the luggage to be
delivered.
At every point of egress from Yankee Echo
headquarters, and approximately fifty yards away from
each point of egress, stood men, each holding a highfrequency
Motorola portable radio. The one covering
the front entrance now toggled his to establish
communication.
“They’re walking out the front door.”
The radioed response was brief.
“Follow them.”
Saturday, May 20, 12:33 p.m.
George Tollman slammed his fist on his
mahogany desk.
“HE WHAT? I’LL KILL THAT FAT SHIT!”
“I’m afraid, my good friend, that has already
been surmised by our recent Managing Editor. He was
not the complete fool we thought.”
Were the Vice President of Cuba not missing
two million American dollars, he would almost have
admired Bellcamp’s initiative.
“Do you have anyone looking for him?”
“My two best men are in your country as we
speak. 99
They will be going back to his house tonight.
They will complete a thorough investigation.”
“They’d better be good - this is a loose end I
won’t tolerate - damn!”
“The Secretary thought of his other property
now in Cuba.
“Where’s McKenzie?”
“He was brought to my villa, blindfolded of
course. He is now in an upstairs room with no
windows.”
“What have you told him?”
“He has been told he is being held for a
monetary ransom by the Revolutionists, Las
Quienientos.”
“Keep him in that room, feed him and make
sure he stays healthy.”
“When should I have him speak with his
daughter?”
“Not until I tell you. She just left JGM Exports
with Michael Courtney. They’re being followed. I’ll call
you when I find out where they’re staying.”
“Very well, my friend.”
Forsaking closing remarks, the former Marine
Corps Captain hung up his phone. His mind continued
to analyze the process he’d use to destroy a Presidential
plan, and in so doing, receive a purse of thirty million
dollars. He turned his thoughts to his associate, hoping
he’d taken him seriously when he explained Courtney’s
capability as a foe.
The National Security Agency feeds interpreted
covert information derived from sophisticated electronic
instrumentation in a network of spy satellites and
planes, and from other electronic instrumentation
placed around the world, directly to The Central
Intelligence Agency, The Defense Mapping Agency, and
to the Intelligence Desks of the Army, Navy, Air Force,
and Marine Corps.
100
All this data will eventually find its way to The
Chairman of The Joint Chiefs of Staff, The Secretary of
Defense, and finally, in management briefs, to the
President of The United States.
One of NSA’s employees, a curator of much of
this information, and working on this Saturday
morning, was studying a note transmitted to him from
a cellular fax machine in a Black Ford Sedan.
Jeep has been wired.
Transmitting on 6
This man had seen and reviewed hundreds of
clandestine messages at jobs in both The Central
Intelligence Agency as well as The National Security
Agency.
But this particular note was part of a chain,
another link that would earn him the payoff he’d
always known was available to government officials in
positions of authority and trust. Two million dollars to
keep three amateurs under surveillance.
Tollman had said it could be a difficult
assignment, and had also told him not to underestimate
the metaphysician.
Underestimation of Michael Courtney was also
mentioned in the NSA brief on him.
Walking to the document shredding room, he
thought to himself, ‘What the hell is the big deal about
this guy? He’s a philosophy teacher, he doesn’t know
the first thing about undercover operations.’
The memo properly disposed, he returned to
the office to await a radioed call. It would tell him the
destination of two people now in a Washington Yellow
Cab, and being followed by one man with a portable
Motorola radio in a black Ford sedan.
101
Courtney handed the cab driver a one hundred
dollar bill.
“I want you to do me a favor.”
The cabbie didn’t blink. This had happened
before, and he was quite comfortable with it. Nothing
needed to be said, just take the Benjamin, and do what
he was about to be told.
“Bring us to the Hyatt Regency, and help us
carry our bags inside. The lady and I will go to the bar.
You go to the restroom, and stay there for five minutes.
When you come out, put he bags back in your cab, take
them over to the Marriott, and leave them at the front
desk. Tell the clerk they should be delivered to…”
He looked at Kay, she understood and finished
his sentence for him.
“The McKenzie suite.”
Courtney continued.
“Will the hundred cover it?”
“Hell Boss, I’ll tell them for my grandmother
for a hundred. Yeah, I got it.”
The ride to the Hyatt’s main entrance took
fourteen minutes.
The black Ford pulling into a Hyatt parking
space was now perpendicular to, and two hundred feet
away from, the Yellow Chevrolet.
He spoke into his hand-held radio.
“They’re at The Hyatt Regency.”
The response was instantaneous.
“Stay with them.”
The NSA counterpart who’d received the
communication wrote a hotel name on a yellow legal
pad.
Their luggage deposited just inside the Hyatt‘s
lobby, it now rested behind three green Yucca trees in
separate royal blue floor planters.
Michael and Kay walked toward the hotel’s
Embassy Lounge while a one-hundred dollar wealthier
D.C cab driver headed for the men’s restroom.
102
He knew the question was coming.
“OK, why are we here?”
As usual, his response had been well thought
out.
“They don’t know where we’re staying. If they
don’t have a base in Washington, I would assume that
they at least have people here watching us. They’re
smart, and they’ve demonstrated themselves as pros, so
we can’t underestimate them.”
“But won’t they find where we’re staying
eventually?”
“I’m sure they will, but we’ll make them
commit some errors first. I want them to start
questioning themselves.”
‘So, what do we do now, Professor Courtney?”
“You go into the lounge and order us
something. I’m going up to the front desk for a minute.”
Reviewing the lobby as he slowly walked, he
noticed eleven people. A mother was disciplining her
son for chasing his younger sister around a tall rubber
plant. Two business men were checking either in, or
out. A thirty-fiveish looking woman with long, straight
auburn hair sat in a lounge chair glancing through a
copy of WOMANS DAY magazine. An elderly couple had
just come through the front entrance accompanied by a
Bell Hop. A teenage boy stood against a pillar looking
entirely bored; and a man about forty was approaching
him. They passed within four feet of one another, the
well-dressed, brown haired stranger entering the
Embassy Lounge.
Once at the desk, Courtney requested a
Washington D.C. street map. Receiving a combination
map and sightseeing guide, he unfolded it, and stood so
his peripheral vision caught sight of the brown-haired
stranger, now standing in the doorway of the lounge.
Courtney additionally noticed a cabby who had exited a
washroom, and was picking up some luggage that had
been sitting next some Yucca trees.
103
His thoughts, and his sight line, returned to
the brown-haired stranger.
‘Why didn’t stay in there? Why’s he standing
next to the door?’
Finishing what appeared to be a serious
perusal of his street directory, he began moving toward
the Embassy’s entrance.
Courtney approached the entrance to the Hyatt
lounge.
The stranger had entered the lounge once
again, and was now pulling a high-backed, swiveling
yellow oak bar stool away from the brass foot rail near
its base.
Kay was seated at a round, dark brown oak
table in an overstuffed chair, legs crossed.
He sat down in a similar one directly across
from her, his back to the stranger. He had two other
chairs he could have chosen at the same table.
“ I got us a sparkling water, Michael.”
She leaned into the table between them.
“How long are we going to stay here?”
His answer was appropriate for the moment.
“I guess until I can figure out how to get us out
of here without them seeing us go - if they’re even
watching us at all.”
She said the first thing that came to mind.
“Do you want to split up?”
He said the only possible thing that could have
come to his mind.
“No way.”
She appreciated the two words.
One-half hour later, he decided to test the
stranger still sitting at the bar, apparently engrossed in
the Yankee, Red Sox game on the television near his
end.
“Kay - there’s a guy down the end of the bar.”
She leaned her head slight to the left to see
past Courtney’s.
104
“Dark brown hair?”
“Yeah, he’s been here as long as we have - came
in just behind us. I’m going back to the front desk, you
watch him; I want to know what he does when I leave.”
It seemed like a simple enough assignment.
“OK.”
Courtney backed his chair out, rose, and
reached for his wallet in his left rear pocket. As he
exited the lounge, he pulled a credit card from its
contents. It looked like a logical procedure as he once
again proceeded to the registration desk. It was close to
3:00 p.m., normal check-in time. At the desk, he
registered a room with a King-sized bed for May 29th, a
reservation that could easily be canceled later. The
transaction complete, he returned to the lounge.
Returning to their table, she gave him her
report before he asked for it, but had assumed his
previous position across from her.
“He came to the door and watched you all the
time you were gone.”
His instincts had told that was exactly what
was going to happen.
“Then he’s probably one of them.”
Courtney had formed a plan for an occurrence
during the time he and Kay had already spent in the
Hyatt’s oak-furnished lobby lounge. He knew he would
lose some or all of the effectiveness of it if he told her
what it was. So he simply decided to put it into action.
“Kay, we’re going to have a loud argument..”
This time the tilt of her head was slightly to
the right, eyes somewhat squinting.
“What!?”
“DON’T ASK ME THAT, YOU’RE SUCH A
PAIN IN THE ASS!”
“Michael, what the…”
He was on his feet now, interrupting her.
105
“IS THAT THE ONLY WORD YOU HAVE IN
YOUR VOCABULARY! WHEN THE HELL ARE YOU
GOING TO BE ABLE TO THINK FOR YOURSELF!”
Besides the dark haired stranger, there were
about two dozen other people in the lounge. The room
was large enough to accommodate one hundred, an
presently small enough for everyone to bear witness to
a very loud argument between and man and a young
woman, the latter, still seated, now poised with half a
glass of sparkling water in her right hand.
Kay caused the remaining beverage in her
glass to spread through an arc to a radius of about ten
feet. Within that radius stood a teacher of Physical
Laws, his black Izod pull-over now soaked with a
portion of her Saratoga. Sprinting from her comfortable
seated position, she moved to no more than six inches
from him, both hands on appropriate hips.
Hers was a very loud indulged request.
“HAVE YOU GONE WHACKY!”
“His was just a continuation of an occurrence
plan now in action.”
“I’M NOT THE ONE WHO’S WHACKED OUT!
I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING IN THE DAMNED
WORLD FOR YOU! I’M SURPRISED YOU CAN
EVEN WIPE YOUR OWN NOSE!”
Kathleen McKenzie was a woman you always
wanted as an ally, and never a foe.
“I’M GOING TO WIPE MY HAND ACROSS
YOUR FACE IN ABOUT TWO SECONDS!”
Behind the bar, Lillian Torres, known
affectionately as Lil to everyone on The Hyatt Regency
staff, had pressed what would have appeared to be a
doorbell were it able to be seen on the underside of the
dark oak trim bordering a shelf of assorted liquor
bottles. Although no audible sound was heard in the
lounge itself following its depression, the button had
alerted the hotel’s security staff to a problem they
needed to address in the Embassy Lounge.
106
Presently, two, six-foot six inch Georgetown
University varsity basketball players just beginning
their summer employment were within earshot of
Courtney’s next words, their forward-moving position
just beyond the lounge doorway.
“I DIDN’T KNOW THAT PEA BRAIN OF
YOURS COULD SEND A MESSAGE TO YOUR HAND
THAT FAST.!”
Her right arm, drawn back to its furthest
position before beginning its forward thrust found itself
captured there by the largest black hand she had ever
seen. Marven Devon, a Junior point guard for the
Hoyas towered over her. James Mitchell, Devon’s
teammate and a Senior forward at Georgetown was
standing behind her teacher with equal towering
status. It was Mitchell who made the request of the
two arguers.
“Would you please come with us, Sir, Ma’am.
The bar will take care of your tab.”
There was no hesitation. Walking from the
room, the Senior forward to his immediate right,
Courtney noticed the dark-haired stranger near the end
of the bar slapping a twenty on its highly polished
smooth solid oak surface.
The stranger, now half turned on his stool, was
still in a line of sight for Courtney - he would obviously
follow them, but would not be allowed entry into the
Hyatt’s security offices.
Another occurrence plan almost completed.
The short walk to the Regency’s security offices
took only two minutes. Inside, two black pillars stood
with backs to the doorframe requesting their charges be
seated.
Five minutes later, The Regency’s Chief of
Security appeared from an alternative entrance to the
room. Courtney took notice. A possible egress.
107
Steve Fortunato, a retired New York City
Detective with multiple awards for meritorious service
addressed Courtney and McKenzie just prior to seating
himself behind his desk.
“May I see some identification?”
He’d asked the same question hundreds of
times before.
Courtney pulled his driver’s license and Boston
College ID from his wallet, politely handing them
across the desk.
His in hand, Fortunato requested the same of
the young lady.
“And you, Miss?”
She, in turn, retrieved a driver’s license and
her McKenzie Industries Senior Executive ID from her
purse. Her intention was not without logic.
The corporate identification didn’t escape the
Security Director’s notice. McKenzie Industries
maintained hospitality accounts, not only with the
Hyatt, but also with several other international hotel
chains. Pat McKenzie was well known for very
generously taking care of the security staff at all the
hotels.
“Miss McKenzie, are you related…”
“Yes, he’s my father. I‘m very sorry about all of
this.”
“Are you folks staying with us now?”
“Not this week, we just stopped in for a drink.”
“Do you think you could work out your problem
somewhere else?”
Courtney had taken notice of the engraved
brass nameplate on his desk.
“Mister Fortunato, this has been very
embarrassing, I apologize. We’ve been traveling all
night, and we’re both pretty edgy.”
The former detective wanted closure.
“Well, aside from putting on a show, I suppose
there was no harm done.
108
Mister Courtney, would you excuse us while I speak
with Miss McKenzie?”
She put her hand on Courtney’s arm before he
could move.
“That won’t be necessary, Mister Fortunato.
Mister Courtney and I have McKenzie Industry
business in Washington. We had a major disagreement
in you lounge, but that’s not uncommon for us. This
man is under contract with my father’s company, and
he sometimes allows his loyalty to become confused
with authority. I appreciate your concern, and I know
it’s for my well being, but this man is no threat to me.
In fact, I trust him with exclusivity. If it wouldn’t be
inconvenient, and if we may, I’d appreciate it if we could
leave by a door other than the one we came in.”
Neither ball player/security guard had ever
heard a girl approximately their age speak with such
disarming fluency. The both sensed her brief speech
had caused their boss enough satisfaction to feel that,
although she was irritated with him, he posed no threat
to her.
The Chief of Security stood addressing his two
charges.
“Very well, James, Marvin, would you please
show these people through the kitchen to the outer
doors?”
He looked at Courtney.
“You’re welcome here anytime, but we can’t
disturb our guests.”
Courtney’s answer was brief.
“I understand. It won’t happen again.”
There were three chefs in the Hyatt’s kitchen
preparing for the evening meal. As the strange
entourage passed through, two of them turned, not only
to enjoy the pleasant appearance of a long-legged blond,
but also because they’d heard her make reference to a
black-eyed vegetable to be served with dinner.
109
“Pea brain, Michael? You’re going to take that
back.”
He thought it best to offer no response. It
didn’t take a lot of any kind of thinking.
He sat disconsolate in the black Ford reporting
to a senior.
“I lost them.”
He already knew the response he’d hear.
“How the hell could you lose them?”
“They got into a fight in a lounge, some
security guys took them into an office, and they never
came out. I checked with the front desk, they’re
registered to by here on the twenty-ninth.”
“This is incredible, get your ass back here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Saturday, May 20, 4:15 p.m.
The United States government is the world’s
largest purchaser of high-tech electronics systems.
Each year, hundreds of millions of U.S. tax dollars are
allocated to procure the best available computers,
guidance devices, electromechanical systems, and
electronic control systems. In addition, millions more
are spent on research and development to insure, and to
maintain, superiority in weapons technology and covert
surveillance equipment.
No one, including Japan, Germany, France,
England, and Russia, has developed anything close to
the electronic technology and complexities found
onboard U.S. fighter jets and other military aircraft.
The U.S. has an ability to defend itself, and to engage
war, that is incomparable in the annals of human
history.
110
Ninety-five percent of the electronics systems
developed for either the U.S. military, or for
surveillance use, are manufactured by private industry.
In the field of covert and military electronics,
McKenzie Industries was one of the U.S. Government’s
major research and development, as well as production
vendors. McKenzie’s anti-static system was created to
give U.S. Air Force F-15E Strike Eagle fighter pilots
absolute hearing ability while flying at the speed of
sound. At close to fifteen hundred miles per hour, an F-
15 fighter commander can switch to an enemy aircraft’s
radio frequency and hear the pilot of that aircraft
breathing.
Eddy Dalger, McKenzie’s Chief Electrical
Engineer, was a small, thin man with salt and pepper
hair and an engaging smile. The son, and only child of
German immigrants, his parents had both worked
tirelessly to provide him with a good American
education. A electrical engineering cum laude
undergraduate of Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in
Troy, New York, he earned his Masters Degree in the
same discipline while at The California Institute of
Technology in Pasadena, California.
He was now sitting and finishing the
encryption of a modified anti-static system into a
German made Wollensak reel to reel tape recorder. The
encryption was being made into a telephone line at the
Washington D.C. Marriott hotel.
She addressed him again.
“Eddie, thanks for coming down here on such
short notice.”
He looked up from his work.
“No problem, Kathleen. Your dad’s orders are
pretty clear to us -when he’s out, you’re the boss.”
“Let’s keep that our little secret, Eddie. I think
some of our Executive V.P.’s might not take to it as well
as you do.”
111
“They all know about it, and they all respect
your dad.”
He finished tightening a screw.
“There, you’re not only going to record your
calls, you’re also going to hear everything within two
hundred feet of the caller.:
Setting the tape, he noticed Courtney entering
the suite’s living area.
“All set, Michael, you’ve got the best set of ears
in the world here.”
The metaphysician, finishing his traverse of
the room, took a chair next to the engineer.
“I need another favor, Eddie. My car - I think
it may be wired with a transmitter. It’s in the parking
garage at the Rand building. Do you have anything in
your black bag that could detect it?”
Dalger spoke without hesitation.
“Sure do. What do you want me to do if I find
something.”
“Leave it there, but put some kind of distortion
device on it.”
He picked up a bag containing electronic
testing equipment.
“Let’s go check it out, I’ll need to stop in the
lobby and get some chewing gum.”
While Dalger was securing a McKenzie
manufactured transmitter detector from his bag, Kay
pulled Michael aside for a brief and whispered
conversation.
“Michael, do you think they’re watching your
car?”
He’d already thought about the possibility.
“I don’t think so Kay. They probably think
we’re just going to cab it for awhile.”
It didn’t matter - he would use evasion
techniques on his way back to the hotel.
112
There were actually two transmitters in the
Jeep. One beneath the dash on the passenger’s side,
another under the rear bench seat.
Dalger had been chewing a major-league wad
of gum from the time they had left the Marriott. He
now took from his right pants pocket the foil that had
formerly wrapped his Wrigley Spearmint sticks while
additionally securing the soft, gummy contents of his
mouth.
Pulling the gum apart in two equal halves, he
flattened both of them like miniature pancakes and
placed a foil strip on each. Rolling the little spearmint
flapjacks into balls, he stuck each of the two pieces over
the transmitters.
The engineer addressed Courtney.
“Looks kind of crude, Michael, but it works
better than anything. Whoever put these here will hear
you talking, but the foil will cause repeatability. It’ll be
like trying to hear a conversation in an echo chamber.
They’ll only be able to make out every seventh or eighth
word you say.”
Standing alongside the Jeep now, Courtney
opened the passenger door allowing Kay entry.
Once she was seated, he closed it and turned to
Dalger.
“Eddie, can you join us for dinner? I’m sure
you have some questions about all this. I’ll tell you as
much as I can.”
“Michael, my marching orders come from the
top. Pat isn’t messing around when he says Kathleen’s
the boss in his absence. But he also knows she’s got you
to rely on. I’ve been with Pat a long time, Kid. If he
trusts you, so do I. When you think I need to know
something, tell me. Otherwise, I’m here on McKenzie
business, and that’s all anyone needs to know.”
113
“Thanks, Eddie, I can see why you have Pat’s
confidence. Let’s go, I have to go and make some phone
calls.”
The first call was made from the second line in
the suite - the exchange now wired into the Wollensak.
Courtney knew there was a high probability the
breachers would eventually find their hotel. The
probability of them searching the suite once they were
found was even higher. He needed the recorder for just
one incoming conversation.
Wirtham was finishing a review of the Cuban
information he’d requested. One final piece would
arrive on his desk shortly.
The sound on his Merlin indicated a call.
“Robert Wirtham.”
“Robert, it’s Michael. I’m patched through on
the reel to reel. We haven’t had the next call yet, have
we?”
“No, it hasn’t come through.”
“I’m going to leave this line open here, Robert.
Put this call through JGM’s secure line to McKenzie.
We’re encrypted here to record on that activation.”
Wirtham understood.
“I got it.”
Courtney needed something else.
“Can you give me Griffin’s number”
“Yes - hold on a minute.”
JGM’s President tapped twenty-one keystrokes
on the keyboard to his left, a JGM computer
immediately responded with a detailed portfolio on the
WALL SSTREET JOURNAL staff writer, which
included his home phone number.
He relayed the finding.
“Here it is, five five five, seven eight six zero.”
“Thanks - how are you making out with the
Cuban information?”
“We’re just about through.”
114
“Hang on to it. Break off for the evening and
send it over tomorrow.”
“OK - be safe.”
Wirtham’s phone was cradled, Courtney’s line
remained open.
The aromatic fragrance, and the sweet, tart
tang of McIintosh apples have been enjoyed by people
since 1811 when John McIntosh discovered the first
seedling. McIntosh apples grow particularly well in
New York’s cool climate and are available September
through June.
Tom Griffin had just finished his McIntosh,
throwing its skinny core into the trash compactor of his
Washington apartment. Express mailed each week by
his parents from upstate Cortland, New York orchards,
a McIntosh was his choice of supplement following a
workout.
He hadn’t received the urgent TAC 5 prepared
by an organization he felt was the most dominant force
in the USA.
Because his newspaper’s circulation was over
two million, he’d missed the cutoff mark of writers
instructed to prepare positive Cuban Reform Plan
press.
Had he received the TAC, the young staff
writer would have already been half way through his
story, and would have had it completed for editorial
review by Monday morning.
Griffin was considered by both Wirtham and
Courtney to be one of the best candidates ever recruited
into Yankee Echo.
The twenty-four year old was relaxing on his
couch when his phone rang.
Picking up the receiver, he acknowledged with
a traditional ‘hello’.
“Tom, this is Michael Courtney calling.”
Griffin sat up straight.
115
“Oh - Mister Courtney - hi - how are you - what
can I do for you?”
Courtney relayed his communication.
“Tom, I read the article you wrote on the Cuban
Economic Plan - your interview with the Secretary of
Commerce. I thought it was interesting that he called
you for an exclusive.”
Griffin sat up even straighter.
“That didn’t come from him, Mister Courtney. I
got a letter through the Cuban Embassy about six
weeks ago, pretty high-up signature on it - a Catalina
Salazar, Special Administrative Assistant to Cuba’s Vice
President, Miguel Belize.”
Courtney recalled Andy St. Croix’s telephone
conversation and the card he’d found in Dan Bellcamp’s
nightstand.
“Who did you say signed it?”
“Salazar - Catalina - it’s Spanish for Kathleen.”
“Can you describe the contents of the letter,
Tom.”
“Yes, in fact I still have it. I did my research on
this project, I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong.
My Managing Editor was kind of put out that I got the
call on this, so I took a lot of extra care to be thorough.”
“The write was fine, Tom, we’re just very
sensitive to the Presidential initiative, and we’re
checking out all the stories we see. We haven’t decided
which way we’re going with this. I know you received a
standby fax on this that was write positive, but things
may change, and we haven’t produced a final TAC yet.
How about the letter?”
“It came courier class, embassy status,
monarch letterhead with the Vice President’s
designation. I checked it out with their embassy. They
acknowledged positively. If you can hang on a second,
I’ll go get it and read it to you.”
“Go ahead.”
116
Courtney lifted the phone off the nightstand by
the bed. Placing it on the bedspread next to him, he
grabbed a pen and yellow legal pad off the same
surface. Resting the receiver on his lap, and fluffing the
two pillows behind his back, he assumed an upright
seated position. Receiver retrieved, he poised himself to
write highlights.
Griffin indicated his return.
“Here it is - are you there?”
Courtney indicated he was still present.
“I’m here, go ahead and read it”
“OK, here it is…”
“Dear Mister Griffin. The Vice President of
Cuba has asked me to contact you regarding Mister
Randall Benson’s Economic Reform Plan. You come
highly recommended to us by an associate of ours in
Miami. Your publication’s reputation would benefit the
common interests of our countries with an unbiased
story on the reform package. Diplomatic channels have
been cleared, and we have been able to arrange for you
an exclusive interview with the United States Secretary
of Commerce. If you will call his office, you will find
him available. The Secretary’s number is attached as
an addendum herewith. Thank you for your
consideration.”
“That’s it Mister Courtney - it sounded almost
too good to be true.’
The metaphysician hesitated for a moment - he
was still writing.
Griffin accepted the in-between silence - having
done the same thing many times himself - he knew
what was going on.
When Courtney finished his scriblings, he
continued.
“Tom, do you know who this associate of theirs
was in Miami?”
“No, sir - I didn’t think to ask Mister Tollman,
it wasn’t relative to the story. In fact, I didn‘t even know
if he knew himself.” 117
Courtney adjusted himself and kicked his legs
over the side of the bed.
“OK, Tom, I appreciate your time today. You’ll
be seeing some TACS coming your way soon on this
whole issue. If you’re contacted again by Miss Salazar,
please give me a shout.”
Griffin understood - and also thought his boss
should have one more piece of information, if he didn’t
already have it.
“Mister Courtney, did you know the Secretary
of Commerce was leaving for Cuba tomorrow to discuss
the economic plan with Miguel Belize?”
“Yes, I did. How much did he mention about
that visit when you interviewed him?”
“I found him very closed mouth about it. I did
bring it up in the interview, but the only thing he said
was that the talks would be substantive, and that for
this meeting, it would involve just him and Belize.
There was no talk about program development, or
anything like that.”
Courtney was now off the bed and standing.
“Did you find that unusual, Tom?
“Sure - there’s some heavy duty corporations
involved in this plan. Procedurally, they’re ready to
build down there. One of the Executive Vice President’s
I talked to at Cummins said he has blueprints drawn
for his facility but he’s being held at arms length by the
government - ours.”
“Mister Courtney, I was planning a follow-up
when the Commerce Secretary returns - should I hold
off on that?
The analyst did not hesitate with his answer.
“Yes, when he returns, stay away from him.”
“I understand.”
It was time for conclusion.
“Tom, I’ll speak with you soon, thanks for your
help.”
118
Griffin didn’t know what kind of help he’d
given him, but he acknowledged.
“Yes, sir.”
Phones disconnected.
Courtney reviewed part of what he’d written on
the legal pad.
Salazar - Catalina - VP - Adm. Asst? Belize?
Sec of Comm. - Tollman - Miami
Andy - Bellcamp - Card – Catalina
Kay had accompanied Eddie Dalger to the
Hyatt’s lobby for a cup of coffee. He was leaving for
home, there was a family picnic on Sunday. The
Wollensak and its reels would be taken to JGM upon
completion of its
one-call mission. Should he be needed for anything
else, he would be available by car, or McKenzie
Industries helicopter or one of its two executive jets.
Courtney, now on his back and in a prone
position, had replaced the phone on the nightstand. He
held the yellow tablet and tore off the top page, and
reached over to place it on the nightstand. Laying both
the pen and the remainder of the pad on his lap his
crossed arms now covered closed eyes. He was in
concentrated thought.
‘Why do these people want to destroy a plan
both governments want? Who’s Catalina, where does
she fit in? Is Bellcamp’s Catalina the same one?
Where’s Bellcamp now? Where’s Pat being held?’
Kay McKenzie hugged the engineer.
“Thanks so much Eddie. Michael and I really
appreciated your coming down on such short notice, and
on a weekend.”
Dalger was very loyal to McKenzie industries,
it had taken good care of both him, and his family.
119
“ You stay close to Michael, Kathleen. If you
need anything, just call.”
She would need to call him again.
“I will.”
As the engineer walked away, she focused her
mind once again on a man who’d come to trust her.
‘He’d like a cup of coffee - cream, no sugar.’
The thought was spontaneous, without regard
for reciprocity. It was one more simple gesture of real
friendship, something she’d never realized in any male
companion until she met, and befriended him.
She always felt terrible that he hadn’t been
told the whole truth about her father’s clandestine
organization. He should have been told everything -
who was involved - how many writers - everything.
But would he have taken the position of its
Master of Laws? Would she have ever met him? She
released the thought from her mind.
‘Coffee.’
Entering the suite from the bedroom door, her
eyes met his
“You’ve got your thinking cap on, don’t you
Professor?”
He smiled - no answer was necessary to an
obvious truth.
“Thanks - come over here.”
Placing the beverage on the bureau, she kicked
off her shoes, first at on its edge, then swung her long
legs onto the king bed ending up in his arms with her
head laying on his chest.
They didn’t speak as he idly traced his hand
through her blond hair.
Fifteen minutes later, the coffee was
untouched, and now only lukewarm.
And two people were fast asleep in their
original embrace.
120
Chapter 5
Push To An Extreme State
Sunday, May 21, 8:46 a.m.
General Telecom, the world’s largest producer
of telecommunications equipment, and one of the thirty
corporate components of the Dow Jones Industrial
Average, had flown one of its Gulfstreams from Ohare
International Airport in Chicago directly to Dulles
International Airport in Washington, D.C. where a
flight plan had been filed for a trip from Washington to
Havana.
Although The wide, roomy cabin on the plane
could comfortably accommodate up to 12 passengers,
onboard would be a solitary traveler, The Secretary of
Commerce for the United States - one George Tollman.
G.T. was a major contractor for the U.S.
Government, and knew it made good business sense to
take care of this man when he called on them. It was
not unusual for Tollman to travel by means of private
business aircraft from the fleets of America’s corporate
giants.
His luggage loaded into the Commander’s belly,
the Secretary stepped into the jet’s interior, and
proceeded down a plush Mohawk ocean blue carpet.
The tastefully appointed cabin had abundant natural
light streaming through its signature oval windows,
and 100 percent fresh air constantly circulated
throughout its interior. Should he require something
from his luggage, the aircraft had a large, fully
accessible baggage area, and retrieving a file, or
anything else would present no problem at all.
Selecting a seat over the port wing, Tollman
was greeted by a five foot nine inch strawberry blond in
a sharp General Telecom blue blazer.
“Mister Secretary, my name is Carole and I’ll
be your hostess during your trip. May I get you a
beverage?” 121
General Telecom didn’t actually have hostesses
on their fleet of private aircraft. The executives at the
telecommunications company were used to getting up
and getting their own drinks or snacks. Carole Martino
was actually the Executive Assistant to G.T.’s Executive
Vice President for government relations. Her boss had
asked her to take the plane ride.
Tollman responded without looking up.
“A water would be fine.”
Estimated time of arrival on the Cuban island
was 11:00 a.m.
Sunday, May 21, 9:15 a.m.
Catalina Salazar approached the door on the
second floor of the Vice President’s villa where two
armed secret police loyal to Miguel Belize stood silently.
Neither of them escaped noticing her shapely legs, nor
her cotton denim mini, and black, scoop neck lycra tee.
She addressed them during her approach.
“Has he finished breakfast?”
“Si Senorita Salazar.”
“Let me in, and stay by your posts.”
A key turned in a deadbolt lock.
Pat McKenzie sat in a gray stripped low-back
chair, a day-old NEW YORK TIMES on the floor beside
him. As requested by Tollman, they were keeping him
comfortable.
The turning deadbolt had attracted his
attention.
He rose as she entered.
She commented on the gesture.
“Are you standing because a woman has
entered the room, or to defend yourself, Mister
McKenzie?”
122
McKenzie gave her the truth.
“I’m standing because an emissary has
approached me. I meet my enemies as I do my friends -
face to face.”
“I’m not your enemy, Mister McKenzie.”
“You’re either one of the two.”
He moved toward her.
“Los Quinientos, I’m told, are my abductors.
You’re revolutionists in need of money. How much for
my freedom”
“That is being decided. For the time being we
need to address your absence from work. I’ll arrange
for you to speak to your daughter - she’ll make your
excuse.”
As he took two more steps toward her, she felt
a subjection.
“If my daughter’s harmed, you’ll have to kill
me, and when I die, I’ll come back from the grave and
drag you to Hell.”
She sensed a terrifying truth in both his words
and eyes.
“GUARD!”
Two agents quickly entered, quickly assessing
the room.
The Sergeant noticed her paleness.
Momentarily a bit shaken, she felt a sense of command
comfort return.
“No, I’m fine.”
McKenzie’s bearing was straight, honest, and
unaffectedly confirmed.”
She told him both a lie and a truth.
“We could use a man like you in our cause,
Mister McKenzie.”
He gave her the straight truth.
“Your fucking cause can go to Hell.”
123
With the same stroke he’d used during a
different regime on defenseless Panamanians, the
Sergeant brought the steel plated butt of his automatic
to the right temple of McKenzie’s head.
As he fell to the floor bleeding, a white hot
flash seized his body.
Raising the weapon for a down stroke, her
hand placed on the Sergeant’s arm caused him to cease
his action.
Looking down, she offered him her final
remarks.
“These men are dedicated, Mister McKenzie. I
hope for your sake you’re a quick learner. You’ll speak
to your precious daughter soon.”
Sunday, May 21, 10:58 a.m.
The Gulfstream touched down two minutes
before its estimated time of arrival.
During the flight, Tollmam had assembled and
detailed the information the U.S. public would see and
hear regarding his private meeting with Miguel Belize.
The Cuban Press, as well as the three
American television networks, and a few dozen Major
metropolitan U,S. newspapers had been told they would
all receive official press kits detailing the talks, which
were described as preliminary to comprehensive review
procedures, or, ‘I’ll tell you what I want to when I want
to tell you.’
The black Mercedes moved to within twenty
feet of the plane’s stairwell. It’s two occupants had
simple instructions.
‘Deliver the Secretary through the front gate to
the portico entrance of the Vice President’s villa.’
124
Sunday, May 21, 9:25 a.m.
Akron, Ohio
Murray Herold, Managing Editor for the
ACRON BEACON JOURNAL sat at the computer desk
in his den, a glazed donut in his left hand, a coffee in
his right while reading his TAC 5, and Michael
Courtney’s lead.
With a circulation of 160,000 THE BEACON
was not part of the cutoff for the ‘write positive’ Cuban
program.
Herold, a Laws candidate out of Ohio State,
had been writing for Yankee Echo for eleven years at
two different newspapers. He’d joined the organization
one year before the man who’s lead he now read.
M.H. 5/20 11:53 a.m.
ROBERT - ROBERT
CBA 1 WRT PROSPRS SUP PRES PLN
MCLEAD FOLLOWS
INS DT 5/24-29
This part of the TAC told him who the
communication was from, what the write was about, the
fact that he was to take a positive position supporting
the President’s Cuban Reform Plan, how many articles
to write, and when to publish.
DTL NEEDS
ECON MFG HVYEQ
C CORPS 6, 12, 37, 40, 41
SPT W/DTA FOLLOWS
SGST RDRS C/W CONG RPS A/O USSENS
The last five lines of the cryptic Tactical
Advance Communication instructed Herold to detail the
needs of the Cuban economy with regard to
manufacturing, and especially to the requirements
geared toward heavy equipment. 125
It additionally requested readers contact their
Representatives.
Taking the final bite on his donut, and licking
his fingers like any good glazed donut eater does, he
sipped his coffee one more time before placing it on the
desk top.
Pulling a three ring binder from his desk’s
lower right drawer, he flipped to the corporate section
and corresponded numbers to names.
(6) Cummins, (12) Caterpillar, (37) Dana, (40)
Borg-Warner, (41) GM
The fax sheet detailing Courtney’s lead
expressed the desperate need for the Cuban nation to
remain democratic. In addition it paralleled President
Benson’s thought that only through free and democratic
capital enterprise would the island nation be able to
maintain its present, albeit frail status, as an
independent and free country.
Herold spread his data around him while
speaking to himself.
“Here we go Courtney, one Cuban positive
coming up.”
Greenville, South Carolina
Julie Mathaeis, Business Editor for the SAN
BERNADINO SUN lit a Marlboro - a habit she’d
acquired while at Bates College in Lewiston, Maine.
While at the school, the distance from home in
California, combined with her struggle in Laws class,
had caused he to worry incessantly, and cigarettes
helped calm her nerves.
Although not at the top of her class, she was a
fluid, pragmatic, and resourceful writer.
126
Because she wasted no words, her readers
found her stories easy to comprehend and remember.
She was a good choice for Yankee Echo.
Tapping the keyboard of her Apple Mac, the
Cuban editorial would appear in Wednesday’s edition.
‘President Benson’s Cuban Economic Reform
Plan deserves a chance…’
Albuqerque, New Mexico
Ron Collins, Editorial Page Editor for the
ALBUQUERQUE TRIBUNE was the oldest member of
the clandestine writing organization. At sixty-seven,
he’d taken up residency in New Mexico after retiring
from a senior editorial position with the NEW YORK
TIMES. A personal friend of Pat McKenzie’s for years,
they’d spent many afternoons chatting by phone about
national and international events.
McKenzie trusted Collins, he having been one
of the few writers who’d supported his son John’s
position, while chastising members of his industry for
their shoddy investigative procedures. Collins, sitting
on his porch with his Commodore laptop began his
‘write positive.’
‘I’ve been around a long time. Long enough to
remember The Bay of Pigs, the Cuban Riot Police death
squads, and all the other horrors suffered directly or
indirectly by the Cuban people under the Castro
regime. Juan Ramos Santiago is a democratic idealist
who needs help - we can neither turn our back on him,
nor on his people as they struggle to breathe the air of
freedom.’
There are approximately sixty newspapers in
the United States with circulation bases greater than
two hundred thousand.
127
Together they represent an incredible power
base, a force that, when united, can cause tremendous
damage or good simply because of the large number of
people who read them, and are influenced by either the
truth or fiction within their pages. The very real
possibility existed that the breachers, wherever they
were located, would be subscribers of one or more of
these publications.
By Courtney’s design, these newspapers had
been excluded from the ‘positive write’.
His first contingency plan had called for this
probable occurrence, and the risks were unacceptable.
There were still three hundred newspapers in
the U.S. where the ‘positive writes’ would see type hit
newsprint, and their pro-active effect on The Reform
Plan.
It was a one shot deal, and it was one of the
few balances Courtney had on the asset side of his
analytical equation.
Soon, half of Yankee Echo writers, at least
what Courtney thought was half, would be authoring
‘write negatives’.
He had to find Pat, free him, eliminate, or
discredit the breach, and remediate any damages to the
organization, and to the President’s Reform Plan that
would occur during the elapsed time.
What Courtney thought was a worst case
scenario for Yankee Echo would bring to bear on the
organization the truth in the famous quote from the
English Restoration’s leading poet, John Dryden, that…
‘Even Victors Are By Victory Undone’
128
Sunday, May 21, 11:40 a.m.
George Tollman’s luggage was carried from the
Mercedes up a back entrance stairway to the second
floor of the villa. During his official visit, although
separated by walls, he would oftentimes stand no more
than fifty feet from Patrick McKenzie, the man whose
son he killed in a fit of rage years before.
Although the Secretary of Commerce was well
aware of the relationship, the thought would not cross
his mind. It was in another time, another place, simply
a moment when he was disobeyed, and subsequently
threatened with revealment.
The logic of his warped mind had sent a
message to his trigger finger, a thought with no regard
for either life, or emotion.
He stood in the library where Dan Bellcamp
had first met, fell in love with, and then betrayed the
same woman standing there now.
Catalina Salazar was more appropriately
dressed for this visitor. Although nothing, save a tent,
could hide her exquisite Cuban figure, her white,
draping, V-neckline cotton blouse over a black skirt did
not evidence her womanhood as much as some of the
other clothing in her extensive wardrobe.
“May I offer you something, Mister Secretary?
There was no tilt of the head, no broad,
encompassing smile - only businesslike professionalism.
“No”
She was on his shit list, having allowed
Bellcamp to escape his death.
She sensed the contempt.
Had she not had a conversation with Miguel
twelve hours earlier, she would have told him what he
could do with his contumely manner.
129
“We need him,” her Vice President and lover
had told her.
“When he helps us turn American public
opinion away from investment in Cuba, we will have
the Presidency within out grasp. Santiago will not be
able to hold the government together.”
It was to important to allow egos to become a
variable in the plan; they shared a common goal for the
same reasons - money and power.
“George - welcome to Cuba.”
The Vice President had entered the library not
a moment too soon for her. There was little
conversation left between its prior two occupants, one of
the latter now shaking hands with Belize.
He got right to the point.
“Miguel, good to see you - let’s go to work.”
The Secretary seated himself where Bellcamp’s
ghost remained.
Salazar allowed herself a smug grin.
She wondered how many women were a part of
the Secretary’s highest level discussions in the United
States. Her intuition told her zero - she was right.
Tollman had a question.
“Is Mister McKenzie being cooperative?”
Belize had an answer.
“He has no choice, my friend. Yes, he is
behaving as a normal prisoner.”
Tollman had an order.
“We need him to speak with his daughter. I
want her to know he’s not harmed, and I also want her
to make his explanation for being away from the office.
Everything must appear normal in the United States.
Remember, we don‘t know how long this will take.
Belize had a question.
“Do you think they will contact the FBI”
130
“I doubt it. Wirtham and Courtney have too
much to lose, and they haven’t heard all our demands
yet. They would at least wait until we call them.”
“Very well, when you tell me, I will arrange for
him to speak with her.”
“I’ve written down what I want him to say -
nothing more.”
Opening his leather briefcase, the Secretary
retrieved a piece of plain white paper, no embossed
emblem of office on its mast.
The Vice President quickly scanned the sheet,
and handed it to Salazar, a silent demonstration of
confidence in her ability to carry out a mission.
Tollman didn’t question Belize’s decision to
hand over the instrument to his assistant.
He thought there was more to the expressed
trust than an official consignment of liability.
Sometimes faith is blind - and sometimes placed to
create illusions. In this case, for Belize, it was neither.
Every risk with her was worth the reward.
“I’ll call you when I want him to speak with
her. It’ll be early in the week.”
Tollman’s reluctance to be specific about an
exact date was not based on any masterful plan, but
rather on the present inability of an associate to locate
the party to be called.
The venue would be made. It was just a matter
of time.
Unknown to him, Michael Courtney was also
aware of that reality. The Leverage Effect might claim
the location of their temporary residence, but not before
the analyst had claimed a small victory.
Tollman continued.
“We need to discuss the Reform Package. I
have an outline Randall Benson’s given me to follow. If
I can make a presentation to congressional leaders that
will hang the President up on two points, I’ll gain
ninety days. 131
That could be enough time for Yankee Echo to
turn U.S. public opinion in our favor. Will that be
enough time on your end to secure the militia?”
“Si. Santiago now has their confidence, but I
believe it to be weak. He has yet to define their role in
the new democracy.”
“Good - use that as a base of strength. I want
to discuss these points and set a policy procedure that
depends on the two positions we have in our favor.”
During his emissary visit, The Secretary had
made judicious use of his ability to create and set in
motion the effort required to develop the Cuban
recovery. It was, however, a covertly cumbersome
initiative relying on the probability that Congress
would not be able to quickly work through his plan, the
effect of the multiple logistic complexities of the eleven
leading economic indicators, while at the same time
analyzing the possibility of a renewed Russian threat.
Within the halls of Congress, it would be
translated as ‘business as usual’ and would be
designated to linger in committee
The Secretary often thought how simple it
would be to run The United States if only businessmen
were allowed to run it. The chances of either the U.S.
Congress, or the Senate approving his plan in
committee were remote. It would take months before
they reacted.
In the elapsed time, a clandestine organization
would develop a negative public attitude toward the
plan, but not its originator.
Tollman would stand in the background and
watch the freedom of ten million Cubans become as
distant to them as the fifteenth sun from Jupiter.
It was thirty million dollars from the Cuban
treasury that formed the keystone in the arch he’d use
to complete the rest of his life.
132
Sunday, May 21, 12:31 p.m.
He glared at the man standing in front of his
desk.
“Did you say the Jeep was wired for six?”
The voice responding was tenuous.
“Yes. There‘s two transmitters. One under the
passenger‘s side of the dash, and one under the rear
seat.”
“Set my scanner. Have you found them yet?”
He tried to be reassuring,
“No. We only have a few more hotels to check.
We’ll find them.”
Sitting back, he scratched his jawbone.
“Call me as soon as you do.”
The dark haired man finished setting the
scanner and left. No closing remarks were required.
Rising from his seat, Tollman’s NSA associate
walked toward the fourth floor outer offices of the
National Security Agency. Thirty people were at
various posts processing data, tapping keyboards,
reviewing satellite imagery, and listening through
earphones to conversations thousands of miles away.
Tomorrow, a contingent of fifty others would
join these staff members on this floor. A rotating shift
meant the office was always covered.
The security of the United States has been, but
never again will be, without constant attention.
Satisfied no one was close enough to hear a
phone conversation, he decided to try calling the offices
of JGM.
When Patrick McKenzie’s company, and its
compliment of engineers, were retained by the United
States Air Force to develop the most powerful listening
system in the world for the F-15E Strike Eagle, they’d
solicited Courtney’s attendance at their meetings
133
He’d consulted before on many projects for the
company.
Patrick McKenzie understood the advantages
of weaving the world of ultimate realities through the
sphere of accumulated scientific data.
The order of intuitive logic is a primary
ingredient in any scientific, or other research. In order
to form a consistent mathematical model, both
empirical knowledge and inductive reasoning must
merge in the research agenda. The scientist brings
empiricism, the metaphysician brings intuitive
reasoning and inductive order, and together, they build
mathematical theories.
Eddie Dalger and Michael Courtney had
discussed sound energy, which is mainly the back-andforth
motion of molecules. They’d also talked about the
fact that when the amount of energy in sound
diminishes, the amount that it becomes as another form
of energy increases by an equivalent amount.
Voice-activated sound energy emitted from a jet
fighter traveling at fifteen hundred miles per hour
toward another jet fighter simultaneously moving at
the same speed (toward the first fighter), is distorted in
both its transmission and reception because of heat
transfers in the molecules that constitute its sound
waves. There was never a way to eliminate the defined
‘static’ because the transfer of sound energy to heat
energy could never be prevented.
Courtney suggested to the group of engineers
that part of their problem could be solved by
investigating Law Thirty-Four.
34. In order to simplify, eliminate the
unnecessary, and the necessary is revealed.
He explained that while it would be impossible
for the team to rewrite the Laws of thermodynamics, it
would not be impossible to borrow from one to improve
another.
134
Using Law Thirty-Four as a fundamental tool,
the engineers eventually developed an anti-static
system model. The idea itself was quite simple.
If they could not stop sound from becoming
heat, why not super cool sound for only the moment you
need to hear it, and let it become heat after you’d
listened to it.
A subcontracted group of cooling experts from
United Technologies Carrier Corporation in Syracuse
New York, were brought in to develop the world’s tiniest
are conditioner.
Retrofitted into the F-15E pilots ear phones,
the system super cooled the fighter commander’s
incoming voice-activated sound waves for one and onehalf
seconds, allowing no transfer of energy, and
subsequently no distortion in the waves themselves for
that period of time, just enough time to hear what was
needed.
This same system, now assigned to a Wollensak
reel-to-reel tape recorder on the sixth floor of the
Washington Marriott waited to super cool the sound
waves in a telephone call from the breachers. The
phone connection from the JGM Exports to the Marriott
suite would silently activate the recorder. Every sound
wave being transmitted within two hundred feet of the
caller’s phone would enter that phones transmitter, and
would be recorded.
Dialing JGM’s seven digits on his secure, and
untraceable line, he laid before him the text prepared
by George Tollman.
His initial failure to locate the teacher and his
girlfriend did not sit well with The U.S. Secretary of
Commerce, and he was both anxious and determined to
make amends. The thought of two million dollars
lingered in his brain.
135
Seated thirty feet outside his door, an Iranian
national, positioned as a Maps Analyst, had come to
work today to fill in for an ailing translation specialist.
His ability to understand sever Arabic dialects allowed
him to be used for dual purposes, and it was worth the
overtime to him.
At the same time JGM’s number was being
dialed by Tollman’s associate, the Iranian map
specialist decided to get a coffee, and had placed his
earphones, complete with anti-static systems
manufactured by McKenzie Industries on his desk.
He was out of his traditional professional
environment, and therefore had not read the new
procedural manual for this particular section that made
it imperative for translation specialists to turn down
their incoming transmissions whenever they left their
post
The sound waves created by a conversation
between two Iraqi Generals were now being fed through
the improperly placed anti-static earphones, traveling
through the air into the associate’s phone transmitter,
and being recorded by the anti-static system in the
Wollensak. The caller’s human ear heard nothing but
unanswered ringing.
The Wollensak, set in record mode by the
activation of JGM’s secure line, taped the caller’s
breathing, the Iraqi Generals conversation, and
everything else within two hundred feet that made
noise. The tape recorder’s digital counter, originally set
at zero, now read 018 - not a lot of recording tape used,
about one minute, but enough used to reveal a truth.
136
Sunday, May 21, 12:46 p.m.
“Corn Flakes?”
“Yep, two boxes.”
Kay smiled, elbows resting on the table, chin in
her hands.
“Do you want them with milk?’
“Of course, it’s good for my bone development.”
They’d left the suite to have lunch in the
Marriott’s Diplomat restaurant just two minutes before
an unanswered call was placed.
Courtney had been correcting exam papers, she
perusing the Cuban information delivered by Wirtham’s
courier an hour earlier.
Although Wirtham had already called the
Dean, Michael thought it only polite to call the man
himself. He apologized for leaving quickly, but
sometimes consultants need to be available on a
moment’s notice.
The Dean, also a part-time management
consultant understood.
The Dean was also a close associate of Robert
Wirtham, whom he respected as a former professor.
“Fax us your grades when you finish correcting
your exams, Michael.”
He knew Courtney, not only by national
reputation, but also as a friend.
“Did you correct my exam yet, Professor?”
“Not yet - I’m waiting for you to offer me a
bribe.”
“How about I let you keep your job at
McKenzie?”
He chuckled for the first time in what seemed a
long time.
“OK, you aced it. I can’t find a better job, It
comes with too many perks.”
He reached across the table and touched the
back of her hand with his.
137
“Kay, what’s in the info Robert sent over?”
“I didn’t get too far into it, looks like - economic
data - agricultural stuff - population demographics -
government organization.”
He needed the information, but more
importantly, he needed to keep her occupied.
Her thoughts, however, weren’t far from the
realities.
“Michael, aren’t you frightened by all this?”
“Yes…but I’m trying to stay more pissed than
frightened, and I need to keep telling myself that.
Whoever shot at me, if he wanted, probably could have
done a lot more damage. They need us to be frightened.
When we get their next call, they’ll probably tell us
their terms. Time’s on our side. We also have Robert,
Andy St. Croix, and McKenzie Industries behind us.
It’s not like we don’t have assets.”
He had no idea of the breadth and depth of the
additional assets that could be set in motion for him.
She did.
Leaving a tip on the check, they rose and
returned to the room, both noticing the advanced tape
counter.
“Play it back, Michael.”
Sunday, May 21, 9:01 p.m.
They’d parked the Cadillac in his driveway
almost as if they were invited guests.
Inside Dan Bellcamp’s house, Miguel Belize’s
two hand-picked agents were performing a very
thorough search and seizure operation. They knew
what to look for and what to take - note pads,
computers, discs, fax machine, three ring binders,
telephone bills.
138
Most of the information contained in the
software and in the binders was already in the
possession of their employer, but every intelligence
operation in the world understands the value of
redundancy.
They’d load the car, drive to a marina in the
Florida Keys, and reload their miscellaneous collection
onto a twin diesel powered, and stripped thirty-five foot
Trojan.
The crossing to the island ninety miles offshore
was set for midnight.
While attending the United States Naval
Academy, Andrew St, Croix excelled Academically. One
of the top Law candidates in his class, he’d been
recruited by a small organization within the
Department of The Navy following his commissioning
as a Naval officer.
‘Zero’ is a code name for one of the Navy’s
deepest secrets, an organization formed into teams of
experts with disciplines in maritime law, intelligence,
weapons, metaphysics, and close-contact warfare.
This elite group is commanded by an Admiral
reporting directly to the Chief of Naval Operations, the
principle naval advisor to the President, to the
Secretary of Defense, and the Secretary of the Navy.
The Chief is also the Naval member of the Joint Chiefs
of Staff.
Zero’s primary function is to provide landbased
support operations for the Naval Systems
Command, and the Naval Intelligence Command. Most
of what Zero does is illegal - in any country. However,
the illegality of the organization is philosophically
rationalized as necessary security action against
opposing forces - even on friendly soil.
Zero means nothing, but is an absolute.
Therefore the motto of Zero is ‘absolutely nothing’.
139
Officially, it doesn’t exist. But if it did exist,
there would be absolutely nothing Zero couldn’t do.
Any U.S. commanding naval officer, in any port
in the world, could tell you he or she has seen Zero
operate - but they could tell you nothing more.
Zero has available to it any U.S. intelligence,
equipment, and weaponry in existence, including
ordnance from other service branches. Every Zero
officer is skilled in dual disciplines. They learn their
primary aptitude and secondary regulation after
acceptance into the elite group.
Andy St. Croix’s acute ability to bring
metaphysical logic to strategic plans was his primary
aptitude. Close-contact warfare was his secondary
regulation. The fact that he could choke a rattlesnake -
and it was so noted on his Zero recruitment form -
allowed the Admiral commanding Zero to easily identify
his second discipline.
For two years, St. Croix had supplied the
metaphysical logic for naval systems and naval
intelligence operations in Vietnam. It was during his
fifteenth month in Saigon at a senior staff meeting of
the Navy’s Tactical Air Wing Command, TAWC, when
he told a Fleet Command Admiral…
“…if y’all don’t start using the firepower on
those tubs out there, y’all might just as well as kiss this
conflict good night and go home before any more of our
boys and girls get hurt. If the intention is to sit, then
hell, let’s sit. If our intention is to win this thing, then
we better start kickin some serious ass, because all
ah’ve seen to date is a bunch of wobbly indecision.”
St. Croix had a way of defining the logic of The
Laws like no one else. However, it’s obvious that the
logic of The Laws, no matter how fluently expressed, do
not always find welcome ears.
140
His tour of duty complete, Andy St. Croix was
subsequently introduced to Robert Wirtham and
Patrick McKenzie. Soon thereafter, following several
discussions, he was offered, and accepted, the position
of Director of Internal Security for JGM Exports, or,
Yankee Echo.
He’s only been told as much about the
organization as Courtney.
The Rattlesnake Slayer now sat in a rented
Lincoln Town Car sixty feet south of Dan Bellcamp’s
house, and fifty feet north of the nearest street lamp.
He needed no spotlight on his presence.
Raised to his eyes were a pair of Nikon
binoculars outfitted with Zeitz infrared night vision
detecting systems. The darkness of the moonless night
actually aided the sight pattern of the hi-tech specs as
he peered through Dan Bellcamp’s windows, curtains
still drawn apart.
Twice he’d watch two men pack their vehicle
with the former Managing Editor’s hardware, software,
binders and folders.
Satisfied there were no more than the two
operatives, St. Croix placed the binoculars on the seat
beside him and checked a schematic floor plan and
property layout he’d drawn the day before.
Two wires he’d pulled in the Lincoln’s engine
compartment allowed no lights to illuminate its interior
as he opened, and half-closed the driver’s door.
Andy St. Croix’s plan was to conduct a rear
assault on the one he targeted as ‘Cardinal’, the larger
of the two. He’d take the ‘Bishop’ in the kitchen.
Calculating a fifteen second approach to the
deep mauve-lavender climbing roses on Bellcamp’s
trellis just outside the garage, his silent count was now
at twelve seconds as he maneuvered to position.
Hearing footsteps, the Zero negated a feeling to
investigate, choosing instead to maintain a course to
the rose trellis without challenge.
141
Reaching to his back pocket, an oversized
handkerchief and an electricians wire tie were checked
for duty. His concentration shifted from footsteps to
Law Nineteen
‘This sucker’s goin down once, and he ain’t
comin back up for air.’
Arms full of binders, books and papers,
Cardinal balanced the load on his right thigh while
opening the rear driver’s side door of the Cadillac.
Reassembling the stolen accumulation of data,
he leaned into the car’s interior to place them on the
back seat.
Cardinal had just completed a normal
breathing pattern when a closed fist, feeling to him like
a baseball bat, crashed on the middle of his spine.
The force, intentionally directed to fall between
his fourth and fifth thoracic vertebrae caused him to
expel in a whisper, almost all his breath.
A second strike landing immediately thereafter
found the third and fourth cervical vertebrae, the blow
motivating spinal cartilage to press against, but not
through, the foramen housing his spinal cord.
The shock of the combined jolts produced both
temporary immobility and paralysis, an acceptable
condition to the Zero Commander.
His hands summarily gathered behind his
back, Cardinal was wire-tied with the strip of plastic.
Not that he could yell without the benefit of
breath, but as a separate precaution, his mouth was
filled with the oversized handkerchief.
Shoving the aching Cuban onto the car floor,
St. Croix turned his attention to the one he’d targeted
as ‘Bishop.’
Footsteps again - again not anticipated.
“Carlos?”
Cardinal was called - no answer.
“Carlos?”
142
A bit louder - still no answer.
“Carlos?”
Now anxiously questioning - the thief,
ironically, sensed impropriety.
The next sound St. Croix heard was an easilyidentifiable
steel click. Bishop had locked and loaded.
“Shit,” an unheard whisper from a prepared
Zero already locked and loaded, his nine millimeter
Beretta held in both hands.
St. Croix quickly glanced at his watch - 9:05
p.m. - data flooded his mind.
‘Neighbors will be watching prime time TV -
won’t hear one round.’
A mental review of the kitchen beyond the side
door recalled open space with only one shelter, a
refrigerator on the west wall.
‘He won’t hide - he needs information.’
Zero was right.
‘He’s probably having a cigarette.’
Bishop, trying to have a reassuring positive
thought, was wrong.
The oldest trick in the book is still one of the
most useful.
His Beretta in his right hand, St. Croix bent to
his knees feeling the ground behind him with his left. A
stone found, he tossed it against the left front wheel of
the Cadillac. The sound of the mineral against the
tire’s custom rim was translated by Bishop as a relaxing
Carlos allowing his subordinate to clean up.
Shoulder holstering his weapon, he opened the
side door to bemoan his contemporary’s attitude.
St. Croix’s weapon crushed Bishop’s nasal
cartilage spewing blood on the Beretta as well as the
deliverer and the Receiver of the forced action.
Forcing a knee into Bishop’s groin caused the
Cuban to emit a louder laryngeal noise than would have
been created had the Zero simply shot him.
143
The tradeoff was OK. The philosophy of a
Beretta is quite simple. small bullet - large hole. Andy
St. Croix wanted an answer, not a dead Cuban.
Bishop, now backside down on the kitchen floor
found both the taste of blood and steel in his mouth, as
well as five very strong fingers seemingly trying to
rearrange his larynx.
St. Croix had identified their nationality on
initial review. He also felt strongly that, because they
were on U.S. soil, they were not linguistically
handicapped.
“Ah know y’all speak English, and y’all got
about three seconds to tell me who sent you, or your ass
is goin to Hell.”
He pulled the Beretta’s machined steel
hammer to its firing position.
Even though Bishop had never studied
deductive logic, he intuitively felt a sense of mission in
this man.
It didn’t take him three seconds to respond.
“Belize.”
One second later, in retrospect, Bishop couldn’t
believe he’d said it.
St. Croix searched the Cuban’s eyes - truth was
found.
“Where’s Patrick McKenzie?”
Bishop’s brow wrinkled, his eyes squinted.
Shaking his head from left to right several
times, St. Croix could see the Cuban did not know.
Removing Bishop’s revolver from its holster, he
released the clip putting it in his pocket. Then, with his
left hand, he threw the chrome-plated revolver twenty
feet north of its owner.
Inductive reasoning is based on fundamental
truths.
One truth seemed to be that Yankee Echo had
been compromised by the Managing Editor.
144
Therefore the breachers probably already had
the information Cardinal and Bishop were presently
stealing.
Another truth was Bellcamp was missing, and
deductive logic suggested there would be multiple
parties involved in the remediation of that mystery.
A third truth which was very probable, was
that both Cardinal and Bishop would not want to reveal
the fact that they’d been compromised while on their
mission.
They could, and would return to their island on
time, but would most likely say their beat-up conditions
had either been the result of an auto accident, or
injuries incurred in deck accidents on the Trojan.
Belize would believe they’d accomplished their
mission - they might enjoy life for several more decades.
Zero addressed the prone Cuban.
“Have a nice ride home, Bishop.”
Standing, St Croix had a new name planted in
his memory bank.
He completed the distance between the former
M.E.’s ranch dwelling and the Town Car in fourteen
seconds, and was a mile and a half from Dan Bellcamp’s
tawdry trellis before Bishop finished rescuing Cardinal.
‘Belize - Catalina - Belcamp - ah’d best get
back to Mick.’
145
Sunday, May 21, 1:46 p.m.
Eddie Dalger’s wife, Ellen, had just finished
mixing a fresh bowl of lemonade when the phone rang.
Picking up the wall-mounted device close to
her, she held it in her left hand and continued to stir
the tart concoction.
“Hello?”
The voice she heard was familiar, and although
apologetic, it contained an executive appeal. The caller
had also recognized her voice.
“Hello, Ellen, this is Kathleen McKenzie
calling. I’m sorry to bother you during your picnic, but
may I please speak with Eddie.”
Ellen Dalger had the intuitive instinct of a
woman.. This call was urgent.
“Hello, Kathleen, it’s good to hear your voice.
Hang on honey, he’s out back with a hot dog in his
mouth. I’ll make him chew fast.”
Leaving the silver ladle in the crystal, she
moved to the screened kitchen door facing the back yard
scanning their lawn’s assemblage of family and friends.
Her husband was talking to two of his quality
control engineers.
His side vision, catching sight of the door
opening, but not closing, caused him to turn in its
direction noticing his wife indicating by pantomime a
telephone held to her ear.
“Excuse me, Al, Jim, I have a phone call.
She pushed the door full open when he was
approximately ten feet from its frame.
Watching his wife’s lips form a whispered
name, he passed into his kitchen picking up the
receiver.
“Kathleen?”
“Hi, Eddie - Michael needs to speak to you.
Can you hold for a minute?”
“Sure.”
146
She placed the Marriott’s phone on the bed.
In the suite’s parlor Courtney was reviewing
the tape’s magnetic contents for the fifteenth time when
Kay addressed him.
“Michael, I have Eddie on the phone.”
He flipped the Wollensak’s stop lever.
Reaching the phone on the bed, he began.
“Eddie, we’ve had a caller to JGM. No one
answered because no one was here, or there, and there’s
little identifiable audio on the tape.”
Dalger new his equipment.
“Maybe not to us, but the machine got it. How
much tape?”
The image of the counter came to the analyst’s
mind.
“Zero one eight - about fifty seconds.”
“Fifty-four, Michael. Pull the whole reel. I left
you an extra one you can use. Send it up overnight,
FedEx. I’ll have it in the lab before eleven tomorrow
morning.”
Courtney appreciated the engineer’s sense of
urgency.
“OK, sorry to bust in on your picnic.”
Dalger displayed his corporate loyalty without
thinking.
“You guys call anytime, Michael.”
Courtney replaced the receiver.
A small victory was at hand.
Sunday, May 21, 11:58 p.m.
Approaching them, United States President
Randall Taylor Benson silently reviewed the two Secret
Service agents standing beside the interior north door
of the oval office.
The senior of the two ritually acknowledged the
Commander in Chief.
“Good evening, Mister President.”
147
His strong, sixty-eight year old eyes exchanged
glances with each of his protectors while he nodded
awareness of the greeting.
Although the topic of his thoughts was
unknown to either of the agents, its burden was clearly
evident to both.
Within the confines of the world’s most
powerful room, the top of his walnut desk displayed
only two items; a King James Bible, and a red CIA
secure document stamped ‘VISION 1 ONLY.’
The Bible, his mother’s, had been a gift to him
from the spry ninety year old who was affectionately
call the ‘First Mother’ by the staff at her exclusive
retirement home in Greenwich, Connecticut.
Mrs. Anna Benson had bookmarked The Book
of Wisdom, Chapter 6, verses 1-4.
Randall Benson opened The Scriptures and
began reading.
Wisdom is better than strength: and a wise
man is better than a strong man.
Hear therefore, ye kings, and understand:
learn, ye that are judges of the ends of the earth.
Give ear, you that rule the people, and that
please yourselves in multitudes of nations:
For power is given you by the Lord, and
strength by the most High, who will examine your
works, and search out your thoughts.
Gently closing his mother’s benefaction, he
allowed his hands to rest on its well-worn fabric cover.
A side desk drawer was opened, provisionally
becoming home for his legacy.
His immediate past thoughts were
incorporated with his present ones as he opened the
‘VISION 1 ONLY’ portfolio.
He reviewed the date: April 15, 1942.
Two pages were turned revealing a
topographical map with intersecting lines of longitude
and latitude.
148
North Longitude 20 22.29 East Latitude 121
56.15 The Batan Island, Ivana, Phillippines.
Three pages later, a biographical sketch of
another Commander lay before his eyes. As he read the
document, a cold, shivering sensation bleached his
spine.
Two more pages flipped - the aged photograph.
This time there were no tears, not that the
searing heat of the emotional pain was gone, but that
both time and resolve had strengthened him,
temporarily creating an asbestos-like cover on his
emotional content.
Turning to his credenza, he un-cradled the red
phone and speed-dialed two digits.
A satellite link, instantly picking up the
transmission, now forwarded the same to a very secure
aircraft flying over the North Pacific Ocean headed due
west.
The transmission found its way to the middle
phone of a bank of five phones mounted on the wall in
the only office on the plane.
The Director of The Central Intelligence
Agency, now at thirty-five thousand feet over the largest
ocean in the world, was professionally calm as he
retrieved the receiver.
He knew who would call.
He also knew the conversation would be brief.
“Scott Orefice.”
“Scotty, I’m prepared on this end.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll contact you immediately following
the meeting.”
“Is Pat McKenzie safe?”
“We believe so.”
“Where do they have him?”
“We’re quite sure he’s in Belize’s villa.”
“Do you think Courtney and St. Croix will be
able to figure that out?”
149
“I’m almost certain of it, but I can’t give you a
time frame, Sir.”
“Scotty, we need Pat McKenzie. I don’t want
him hurt.”
“If Courtney can’t get to him soon, our
intention is to pull him out. Will we have President
Santiago’s cooperation if necessary?”
“Yes, he’s agreed to help.”
“Then I think we should continue with our plan
as laid out. Let’s give Courtney and St. Croix an
opportunity. We need to finish up the business at
hand.”
“I agree, but I don’t want to give them too much
leverage.”
“Yes, Sir. I understand.”
“I’ll speak with you later, Scotty.”
“Good night, Sir.”
Phones were returned to appropriate cradles.
The President rose and exited the same door
he’d previously entered addressing the two agents still
at their posts.
“Good night, gentlemen. Thank you for being
here.
Both men noticed the resolution in both his
eyes and his demeanor.
Some men carry burdens better than others.
150
Chapter 6
Under Duress
Monday, May 22, 10:02 a.m.
His scanner, set to receive conversations from
Courtney’s Jeep was set to channel 6.
It was also connected to a voice-activated tape
recorder.
He’d overheard so many private conversations
before in his job at the NSA, that the concept of privacy
itself had almost become nonexistent to him. As a
result of this mental numbness, he never thought to
close his office door.
Yesterday, unknown to him, that was a serious
mistake.
The counter, at zero, was ready to begin when
cued.
He pressed the play button to listen to any
taped content.
“When, when, when, when, when, when,
Michael, Michael, Michael, Michael, Michael, Michael,
…
The compact Sony received the full impact of
his right fist.
“DAMN…DAMN!”
Unlocking the side drawer, and retrieving the
message Tollman had written, he briefly reviewed the
short note before dialing.
The Secretary would be back tomorrow. He
had to get the message to them today.
The numbers he pushed reached JGM’s main
trunk line.
A very pleasant greeting followed.
“Good morning, JGM.”
His dialog sounded both commanding and
demanding. 151
“I need to speak to either Robert Wirtham or
Michael Courtney.”
Geraldine Allison, JGM’s long time receptionist
had been briefed at 8:00 a.m. about to handle incoming
calls for either or both men.
“Mister Wirtham is in a meeting at the
moment, I’ll find Mister Courtney for you. Please hold.”
Removing her headset, she walked thirty feet
to a conference room.
It’s door open, she stood just far enough inside
to make eye contact with its occupants.
Her raised finger indicated he had a call.
Courtney understood what the simple gesture
meant.
“Put it through, please, Gerry.”
She’d already anticipated what he would say.
“It’s on the secure line, Michael.”
A display light on the conference room Merlin
verified her statement.
He hit the speaker button so both he and Kay
could hear the conversation.
Every Merlin phone set in JGM’s offices had
been fitted with a McKenzie engineered device that
made a speakerphone conversation lose its normal
distortion.
It would sound like only Courtney could hear
the exchanged words.
“This is Michael Courtney.”
“Your receptionist didn’t answer correctly, she
should have said Yankee Echo.”
He exchanged a glance with Kay.
“What do you want?”
Although the statement was made under
duress, it was without apparent trepidation.
The associate began reading the note.
“We know about your organization, Mister
Courtney, and we intend to use it for a special project.
152
If you’re wise, you’ll listen to our request, and
do what we ask. I want to know how many writers you
have, and what newspapers they work for. Once I have
that information, I’ll detail the position I want these
writers to take over the next ninety days regarding the
President’s Economic Reform Package for Cuba. I want
you to break out a list for me and leave it with the
garage attendant at the Radisson Hotel on Connecticut
Avenue no later than 5:00 p.m. today. Do you
understand these instructions?”
Tollman’s note had the word ‘pause’ written it.
Courtney complied to the letter.
“Yes - I understand.”
The note had continued assuming there would
be a positive response.
“Then I’ll expect your list by the end of the day
today.”
The positive assumption was correct, but
Courtney’s next response was unexpected.
The analyst leaned directly over the phone.
“I said I understood, I didn’t say I’d comply.”
Tripping the speaker button, he disconnected
the call.
The familiar tone of the hum on the line
indicated the termination.
He knew the question was coming from Kay.
“Michael…why did you do that?”
He didn’t answer, instead remaining resolutely
purposeful, his eyes cast on the communication system.
As he expected would happen, Gerry Allison
appeared again, finger raised.
Again, he hit the speakerphone button.
“This is Michael Courtney.”
“DON’T YOU EVER HANG UP ON ME
AGAIN. WE’RE IN CHARGE HERE COURTNEY,
NOT YOU. WE’RE THE ONES WHO HAVE
MCKENZIE!”
153
The associate’s statement verified their fears.
“That’s very evident, but I still expect your
demands to be reasonable; you’re dealing with
reasonable people. There’s things we want too.”
The truth of the statement put the NSA
associate in an awkward position. He couldn’t fulfill his
mission without Courtney’s cooperation.
He felt he still had control. It wasn’t a question
of submission.
“What do you want.”
“I want Miss McKenzie to speak with her
father, then you’ll get your list, and if that happens
soon, you may still get it by your deadline.”
He’d need to check out that possibility.
“You stay close to that phone. I’ll call you
back.”
This time, the disconnection came from the
other end.
“I think you made your point, Michael.”
“Kay, I’m not trying to put your father in
jeopardy, but I can’t let them think they’ve gained too
much control.”
She didn’t have a lot of choiices.
She knew her father trusted him.
“It’s your ballgame, Michael.”
He got back to business.
“What did you find in that Cuban data?”
She thought for a moment, recalling details off
the top of her head.
“It was pretty detailed, largest island in the
West Indies, ten million people, lots of sugar, significant
mineral reserves - nickel, chrome, manganese - all
subsurface deposits are still government property.”
Courtney needed the rest.
“What about politics, education, government -
that stuff?”
154
Flipping back the pages of a legal pad she’d
brought in with her, she continued, a pen in her right
hand lightly tapping the top of the conference room
table.
“They’re still provincial, but the new
government will change that. School is compulsory, and
free. The culture is a combination of Spanish and
African traditions. The old government - the one that
came into power in nineteen fifty-nine nationalized
about ninety percent of the production industries.
Their national annual budget was about twelve billion
for revenue and expenses - and guess what - it
balanced. But they’re really in hock to Russia - about
thirty eight billion. Their annual sugarcane harvest is
close to seventy-five million metric tons. Most of their
markets are still in the Soviet bloc. The economy’s
going to be decimated without Mother Russia. The new
government is run by Juan Ramos Santiago, a returned
exile, and Miguel Carlos Belize, a holdover from the old
government. Santiago is trying to establish democratic
reform. Belize holds the purse strings, and will make
that happen.”
She lay both hands flat on the table leaning
slightly forward over its smooth top.
“Michael, this may be coincidental, but Belize
has an Administrative Aid named Catalina Salazar.
She’s his financial advisor - has a B.S. in Accounting,
and an M.S. in Finance from the University of Miami.
Remember Dan Bellcamp’s love note that Andy found?”
He recollected.
“Yeah, when Andy comes in, he’s going to check
that out with Robert. The police report from June
Olson is here too.”
She feigned surprise at the use of personal
familiarity.
“June? Not Officer?”
He picked up her remark, noting a return to
what was a more familiar relationship between them.
155
I read her name plate. I can’t help it if she put
the thing over her heart?”
“Her heart‘s below that, Courtney, and only her
last name was on it.”
They both smiled, not taking lightly the
seriousness of the situation at hand, but acting
spontaneously in relief.
She wished she’d told him everything.
He continued, unaware of her thought.
“Kay - will you be able to handle the call from
your father?”
Her voice trailed slightly.
“I don’t know.”
Courtney expressed a prior thought.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s given something
prepared to read. The guy who just called wasn’t
Mister eloquent.”
She assessed herself with unsure purpose.”
“I think I can handle it - I have to.”
She reached for his hand - he covering it with
both of his.
Monday, May 22, 11:48 a.m.
McKenzie Industries, Old Saybrook, Connecticut
Eddie Dalger played the entire fifty-four
seconds of the tape at max volume through two sets of
high-torque speakers.
Human breathing, the closest sound to the
phone at the time of the recording, aside from the
unanswered ringing, was distinctly noticeable.
However, additionally coming out of the
background was a very clear conversation that had
been picked up by the Wollensak’s anti-static system.
156
He rewound the tape.
Walking to a steel shelving unit in the
McKenzie lab, he secured a
10-band equalizer with an expander and 90-LED
spectrum display. It had been boosted with a precise,
sound shaping circuit board designed by McKenzie
engineers.
This was a turbocharged edition, not available
for either personal or commercial consumption.
Unplugging the output lead on the tape
recorder, he electronically fitted the small box between
the tape and the speaker system.
Dalger rewound the tape, and, satisfied with
his connections, hit the play button again.
Breathing could be heard.
Making three adjustments in the soundshaping
bands brought up the level of sound that had
occurred from several feet beyond the origination of the
taped call.
It was totally clear, an almost too clear
conversation in a foreign language - neither European
nor Oriental, he thought.
He listened to it three times before calling for
assistance.
The Chief Engineer dialed the extension of
McKenzie’s Vice President For International Sales, Paul
Turbiak.
“Mister Turbiak’s Office.”
“Florence, this is Eddie Dalger, is Paul
available, please?”
“He just came back from the cafeteria, Eddie,
hold on.”
The tape was rewound a fourth time during the
wait.”
Equalizer adjustments remained in place.
A voice greeted the engineer.
“Eddie - what can I do for you?’
157
“Paul, I’d like you to listen to something - a
conversation. Tell me if you recognize the language.
“OK”
Dalger rolled the tape. The conversation
began, continued - and ended.”
A fifth rewind was completed.
Dalger spoke first.
“What do you think? Any ideas on what they’re
saying?
“It’s people in the Easter Mediterranean, Eddie
- Syria, Jordan, Iraq, Saudi Arabia. There was a
reference in there to Ramadi. That’s about a hundred
miles west of Baghdad. We shipped a few dozen oilfusion
transformers there two months ago. Where’d you
pick this up?”
“It’s a special project I’m working on for Pat.”
“If you want it translated, call Sully Kirkuk.
He handles that area for us. Do you know him?”
“No - I don’t, Paul.”
“Hang on - I can get him on with us.”
Sixty seconds later there were phone
introductions being made in a three-way conversation.
Sulay Kirkuk was McKenzie’s Mideast Sales
Manager.
A native of Abadam, Iran, he was fluent in
most of the Mideast Arabic dialects.
The fifty-four seconds of the tape were played
again.
He understood.
Those are Iraqi soldiers. They talking about a
mechanized unit of troops and equipment being sent to
Ramadi. One wants to put sixty howitzers with it, the
other thinks they should send a larger contingent of
Republican Guards. Pretty high-up conversation too.
One of them mentioned a meeting with the Defense
Minister. That’s usually reserved for General Staff.”
Dalger needed certainty.
“Are you sure?”
158
The man was positive.
“Yes, no doubt. Those are two high-ranking
Iraqi field officers.”
The V.P. broke in.
“Sully, thanks, we appreciate it. I’ll talk to you
later.”
Paul Turbiak remained on the line.
“Well, Eddie - what else can the Sales
Department do for the Engineering Department today?”
“You did a lot, Paul, thanks. Stop by the lab
someday and we’ll grab lunch.”
“Will do.”
His eyes stared at the machine.
There was only one possible reason this
conversation was so extraordinarily audible.
The thought made him shiver.
Dialing JGM, he was soon patched to the
conference room.
Courtney sat with Kay, both still waiting for a
return call from someone he’d labeled ‘Breacher One.’
Dalger had initially identified himself to Gerry
Allison.
She, in turn, relayed the information to
Courtney.
He, not choosing the speaker, pulled the
receiver from its cradle.
“Eddie, what do you have?”
“That depends on your perspective, son. The
call you recorded at the hotel may have gone
unanswered, but the caller hung in there for fifty-four
seconds listening to nothing but ringing. I was able to
eliminate the foreground and pump up the recorded
background sounds that came through the anti-static
system in the recorder.”
“Then you have a clear orientation of the
background?”
“It’s not just clear, Michael - it’s super clear.”
159
“What do you mean?”
“The out-sounds on your tape are an
inordinately distinct conversation between two Iraqi
Generals.”
“What!”
“Listen carefully to me. It doesn’t matter what
they’re talking about. It’s just army chatter. What’s
more important is how we identified who they were,
how we were able to obtain this information.”
“Eddie - you’re losing me.”
“When we built the anti-static system, we
super-cooled sound. Remember? You were there. The
conversation on the tape isn’t just
super-cooled - it’s freeze dried. There’s only one way
that could have happened. The recorded sound of the
conversation was fed through a separate anti-static
system into the one in the tape recorder. The second
system had to be as close as thirty to eighty feet of the
caller to be so clear.”
He took a breath, thinking about the reality he
was about to expose.
“Michael, outside of the Air Force, there’s only
two other customers we sell the anti-static system to…
The Central Intelligence Agency, and The National
Security Agency. The call on the tape didn’t come from
an F-15E Strike Eagle pilot, so it had to come from one
of the other two, because those are the only other places
where anti-static systems exist.”
He was genuinely concerned.
“Michael - are you and Kathleen alright?”
There was a temporary imbalance in his
thoughts.
He looked at Kay - she at him.- he refocused.
“Eddie, I know you weren’t able to get all this
information by yourself.”
160
He was deliberate.
“I want you to swear to confidence anyone you
spoke to about this. I‘ll brief you when I can. This
comes from the top, Eddie.”
The engineer accepted.
“I understand. I’m here when you need me,
kid. Give Kathleen my best, Michael.”
“I will, Eddie - thanks.”
They disconnected.
Turning, he looked at her, their eyes flush - his
as intense as his voice.
“We’re getting closer, Kay.”
Monday, May 22, 1:45 p.m.
He’d reached George Tollman at the Vice
President’s villa in Cuba.
“Courtney’s playing hardball with you. Do you
still think he’s just a philosopher?”
“I can handle Courtney.”
“You’ve done a masterful job so far.”
“I found out where they’re staying - they have a
suite at the Marriott. I can have it bugged today.”
“Why, so you can listen to more echoes? Don’t
bother.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Just keep an eye on them, and send someone
else to follow them this time. Keep yourself available.
I’m going to have her father talk to her. You’re going to
patch this call through your lines. Can you rig a time
delay system on your phone?”
“Of course.”
“It’s one-fifty now. I’ll call you back at twothirty.”
“I’ll be ready.”
161
Monday, May 21, 2:24 p.m.
Pat McKenzie had been blindfolded and
brought to another room. Also without windows.
The blindfold was removed.
Catalina Salazar’s approach was all business.
Two plainclothes Agents were only steps behind
her.
“Mister McKenzie, You’re going to speak with
your daughter. I have a prepared statement for you.”
She handed him a sheet of paper and continued
while indicating a telephone on a small table five feet to
the left of him.
“That phone will ring in approximately six
minutes. You’ll have that much time to review the
message you’ll deliver.”
He’d already read most of it.
“You’ll be on speakerphone. There’s going to be
a time delay of five seconds between what you say, and
what she hears. If you attempt any conversation other
than what’s there, I can stop it before it reaches her
ears.”
Holding up her right hand before him, it
contained what looked like a remote TV control.
She finished.
“Do you understand me?”
He didn’t want anything to interfere with the
call.
“Yes, I understand.”
She accepted his response as capitulation.
Her womanly intuition told her something else.
It didn’t matter - he would accede to the order.
“Good, then we’ll wait for the call.”
162
Monday, May 22, 2:30 p.m.
Gerry Allison appeared again.
Courtney nodded, and tripped the speaker
button.
“This is Michael Courtney.”
“Is Katherine McKenzie with you?”
He recognized the voice of Breacher One.
“Her name is Kathleen…”
“Don’t get me pissed, Courtney - is she there?”
“Yes.”
“Her father will be on the phone in a minute.”
The analyst thought of Law Eight. This wasn’t
what he wanted, but it also wasn’t time to do any
pushing.
He moved his chair closer to Kay’s.
The next voice they heard was her father’s.
It was a bittersweet sound as he read from the
prepared statement.
“Kay…”
He hadn’t used the improperly spelled first
name in the note.
Salazar recognized it as her father simply
using a nickname.
No harm done.
“I’m alright. But the people I’m with are very
serious about their plans. If you comply with their
demands, they’ll release me in ninety days. I won’t be
able to speak with you again. Please do as they ask.”
The phones were disconnected from the Cuban
side.
Salazar spoke softly.
“Congratulations, Mister McKenzie - you did
well.”
The contingent of three left him immured.
163
Monday, May 22, 3:05 p.m.
Breacher One had called back.
“OK, Courtney, the ball’s in your court. Get the
list to the Radisson garage attendant by five.”
“It’ll be there.”
He needed more information.
“When will you call back with the position you
want us to take?”
“When I’m damn good and ready. I know
where to reach you.”
He hung up, his statement confirming
Courtney’s previous certainty their hotel would be
identified.
Eddie Dalger had left an electronic sweeper
that would detect any transmitters.
He’d used it and found none.
Kay had left the room immediately following
her father’s call.
Although filled with emotion, her sense of
purpose allowed her to brief Wirtham coherently. She
knew Michael had control of the strategy, but she also
knew the truth about Yankee Echo’s silent partners.
She wanted assurances from Wirtham that the
CIA was keeping their eyes on everything.
Wirtham told her he’d been in constant contact
with David Eisenberg, a Deputy Director, and Yankee
Echo Liaison at the CIA.
Courtney and St. Croix would be given latitude
to remediate the breach and locate her father.
Should they show any faltering, the
government clandestine organization would step in.
They walked to the conference room together.
Courtney began speaking as they entered the
room.
“Robert, Let’s fire up the computer - we need to
see how this thing is going to shake out.
164
I think we should identify three hundred
writers for this guy.”
He’d evaluated the possibility of injurious
consequences to his people.
“I don’t think were putting our writers in any
danger here. He’s probably going to just verify a few off
the list.”
Wirtham agreed.
In the computer room, the Metaphysician
turned Director.
Wirtham took notes.
“I want to break out Standard Metropolitan
Statistical Areas by marginal income. Wherever you
find a fifty thousand dollar average household or better,
let’s hold back our guys. Include in that every U.S.
major metro pocket, and add those newspapers to the
list.”
He gave his old professor enough time to write
it all down and continued.
“Every zoned-edition staff writer in the major
metropolitan areas will have their fax designations
cued to TAC 1. That will keep their stories localized,
and off the ‘A’ sections of their papers.”
He paused - insuring a thought, left hand on
hip, right hand on chin.
Now both hands were on his hips.
“Our disposition to the negative writers will be
based on the decrease in the availability of capital to
supply world demand. Bring in Eastern Europe, Africa,
and Latin America. Let the neg writers have their
reins. We won’t write their leads, and keep a loose
frequency schedule on their stories. We need a perfect
balance - three hundred to three hundred.”
He thought about the possibility of coming up
short on the negative writer side.
“If we come up short on the neg side, let’s
remediate the balance by density pockets.
165
We’ll sequence the positive writers in three day
increments - Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I’ll write
the leads for the pos guys.”
This had required some prior thought.
“I’m going to leverage the renewed threat of
Russia, and the possibility of a Sino/Soviet Alliance -
but it won’t be base on political ideology - it’ll be based
on economic necessity. We’re also going to market the
expansion of world trade, and the deficit balance in
favor of the U.S.. I don’t think the breachers will make
the connection. I just hope there’s no subsequent
ground swell because of the neg writers.”
Finally, Courtney had only concluding remarks
left.
“No matter how we cut this up, Robert, our
guys are good, and they’ll produce some compelling
stories - and some of those are going to get picked up by
the wire services.”
Lifting both palms face up, his mouth opened,
eyes wide.
“For the time being, that has to be an
acceptable risk. Can you get the logistical part of this
printed out for me in an hour and a half?”
Wirtham was certain of it.
“Yep - I have my two best ops people standing
by.”
“OK, let’s go.”
Monday, May 22, 4:49 p.m.
The automatic ticket dispenser at the
Radisson’s garage kicked out its two hundred fifty-sixth
voucher of the day.
Courtney pulled the pass from the
electromechanical machine and headed for the West
ramp for one loop of the ground floor.
166
Approaching the garage attendant’s booth,
there were two cars in front of him waiting to pay their
toll, and exit.
A quick glance in his rear view mirror
indicated no one behind him, an opportunity for a brief
conversation.
She was outfitted in a mahogany-red uniform,
the Radisson emblem emblazoned on her blazer. No
more than twenty, her auburn hair was bobbed in a
pony tail - obviously a hair style designated in some
procedural manual for garage attendants at the hotel.
Cute and petite, his intuition told him she was no more
than a drop.
He touched the envelope on the seat next to
him.
When it was his turn to remit - he handed her
the ticket.
She, reviewing it, gave him a look that was
somewhere between a pout and a laugh.
“You don’t have to pay for this, Sir. There’s not
enough time on it.”
Retrieving the envelop on the seat next to him,
he extended it through the driver’s window in her
direction.
“I have something for you.”
Miss auburn pony tail glanced at her time
clock.
“Oh yeah - I’m expecting a delivery. They
called.
An associate of the associate had ascertained
the number for the telephone in her booth.
Courtney thought it pragmatic to at least try to
secure some additional information.
“When you give it to Mister Donovan, tell him I
need it back.”
“Who?”
“Aren’t you delivering it?”
167
“Of course not. I’m not going to Colorado, I’m just going
to mail it to the post office box.”
It was a moot point, not worth any further
investigation. She was not connected - would never
know what was sent - or who it went to - and didn’t
really care.
Just a nice kid making a few extra bucks.
He noticed a Land Rover had pulled up behind
him.
Time to leave.
“Thanks - handle it carefully.”
She smiled, not looking at him, but beyond him
at her next toll payer.
“I will - bye.”
He had a feeling she’d been given enough
money to send it U.S Postal Service - Express
Overnight Delivery.
He was right.
Monday, May 22, 5:36 p.m.
The elevator stopped at the third floor.
As Courtney exited, he was greeted by Andy St.
Croix.
He’d arrived just after the analyst left.
Both Robert and Kay had debriefed him.
“Hey, Mick - how y’all doin.”
Each shook the others hand. Both exchanged
friendly slaps on the arm - Courtney extending words of
real sincerity.
“Am I glad to see you.”
St. Croix expressed what he’d received in the
debriefing.
“Ah got your plan by summary from Miss
McKenzie and Bobby, but ah need the whole thing,
Mick.”
“Where’s Kay and Robert, Andy?”
“In his office.”
168
Courtney wanted to get away from JGM - not
because he felt there was any chance of compromise -
He just wanted a break.
“I’m going to have her stay with him while you
and I go out.”
Explanations set in order, the two men left the
building together on foot.
In close-contact warfare training, a Zero is
taught reconnaissance and recognition theory - how to
look for an adversary - and how to identify him.
For someone with his ability and training, the
spot wasn’t difficult.
One man, clean cut, well dressed, no apparent
pressing obligations, eyes alternately looking up then
down, lips moving when eyes cast to the ground.
“Mick - we got us a follower across the street.
He isn’t holdin a listening device, so he can’t hear us.
But he sure as hell will be trailin our backside. Ah just
wanted to let you know. If he becomes a problem, Ah’ll
fix it.”
Without turning to review the now new party
to their walk, Courtney solicited more information from
his friend.
“Does he fit any profile to you - like CIA, NSA,
FBI…?”
He’d done this so many times before, he was
certain of his next response.
“Hell, yeah. He might as well be wearin his ID
on his forehead. Either CIA, NSA, or State
Department INTEL. He’s about one hundred steps to
our rear, and he’s jabberin into his tie.”
Courtney selected a venue for their
conversation.
“There’s a lounge on the next block. We’ll go in
there.”
169
They sat at a table near the end of the Capitol
Lounge’s fifty foot dark oak and brass appointed bar.
Their tail opted for something close to the door;
a stool at the bar in front of a wall-mounted television
set.
St. Croix assured Courtney he could not hear
them, and was really no threat given their proximity
from him.
“He’s receiving and transmitting, Mick, but ah
have to believe it’s just to identify our location.”
Satisfied, the analyst began detaining his
thoughts.
“Andy, did Robert and Kay tell you how the
organization has been split up for the time being?”
“Yeah - fifty, fifty, negative and positive
positions.”
“I think I can play one side against the other -
with more leverage on the positive side.”
“Ah’d have to see how y’all laid it out, but that’s
not an area of expertise with which this old Navy boy
has dealt. Ah’m sure y’all have it covered.”
St Croix reviewed the trail once again. He’d
ordered a dark soft drink and was glued to the
television set. He returned to the conversation.
“We need to do some reviewing, buddy. Ah was
goin over some of this with Bobby - like the card our boy
in Miami wrote but never delivered to his Catalina.
Miss McKenzie showed me the same name pulled off
the Cuban report. There’s more than coincidence here,
Mick. Ah ran into two foreigners at Bellcamp’s doin
some unauthorized housecleanin for him. One of them
was kind enough to give me another name - The name
of the guy who sent them. It’s Belize.”
An employee of the Capitol Lounge’s wait staff
approached the table. Halting their conversation
momentarily, they ordered two coffees.
170
The Howard University Senior, now walking
away from them with their order, thought to himself,
’this tip sure isn’t going to pay for grad school.’
The waiter’s egress from the table completed,
they continued.
“Ah let them go with their booty, figured the
breachers had all the info anyway - but that gives us
three of a kind. Ah guarantee we have a Cuban
connection here.”
Courtney wasn’t surprised, but he needed more
answers. A bigger stage had been set.
“Andy, don’t forget about the guy at the end of
the bar. I think there’s also a U.S. Government
connection here.”
It hadn’t escaped the Zero.
“Either that, or he’s got a leg on something, and
wants to follow the action. That little island’s really a
hot piece of property right now.”
“You should see the list of multi-national corps
waiting to get their shovels in the sand down there.”
“Ah can imagine. Mick, have we done many
writes on Cuba?”
“No - everything’s gone along pretty smoothly
with their transition so far. Pat never gave the word to
help them along, or to help Benson’s plan.”
“OK, so tell me what we have, Mick.”
“Well…someone takes a shot at me…Robert
and I agree that it was probably just an attention
grabber to introduce some fear into the beginning of
this game. Then, they throw a rock through Kay’s
window with their note attached to it…and guessed I’d
be running to her, and they probably grabbed Pat
because of my association with Kay. If they only knew
what they were holding, and that he runs this whole
operation, we’d probably have a very different set of
circumstances going on.”
Courtney paused to take a sip of his coffee
while further reflecting.
171
“Bellcamp’s gone, he was writing to this
Catalina chick, and that name is popping up
everywhere it seems - the Vice President of Cuba has
Bellcamp’s house searched - and, to me, that’s the
biggest piece of information we have right now..”
St. Croix indicated agreement with a nod of his
head.
“…and Tom Griffin, one of our youngest writers
who’s a reporter at THE WALL STREET JOURNAL,
gets an exclusive interview with The United States
Secretary of Commerce, compliments of Miss Catalina.”
“What was under Griffin’s by-line?”
“Pretty typical Commerce political talk.
Should we be in Cuba now? What about cultivating our
own resources first? For someone who’s supposed to be
pretty smart, George Tollman is one wobbly son-of-abitch.”
“OK, Mick, so we got Belize, Catalina,
Bellcamp, Tollman, Griffin, they guy who’s calling you,
and that dude sittin at the end of the bar. Where do we
start?”
“Everywhere. We also have a missing Pat
McKenzie, and that situation needs to be fixed as soon
as possible. Did Robert and Kay tell you about the
unanswered call that got recorded through an antistatic
system.?
“Yeah, interesting little piece of equipment.
That would negate State INTEL to me since McKenzie
only sells that little air conditioner to the fly boys, CIA
and NSA. Let’s say we got a CIA spook or an NSA cat
at the end of the bar. Ah think we should play to their
hand, Mick, and do our own thing. It that your
contingency?
“I’ve always had several contingencies for when
the breach would occur, Andy. I can remediate any
damage to the organization - but I never anticipated a
kidnapping along with the breach. I’m going to need a
lot of help from you to get Pat back.”
172
St Croix appreciated his friends confidence in
him. He also respected his knowledge of The Laws, and
his ability to bring them to practical application.
“A’hm with y’all Mick, but listen to me -
depending on the situation, we may need to apply some
serious firepower to secure Pat.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“You know a little about Zero’s, Mick. What
you may not know is that, once you’re in, you’re in for
good. Ah never had to go active again because they
have some pretty bright boys and girls in there, and
they can handle the world just fine right now. But ah
still have friends active, and, should we need it, ah can
put together a Zero team complete with a retrofit Huey.”
“A what?”
“Helicopter, with hellfire missiles, thirty
millimeter canon, and hydra rockets. If we get into a
match with someone other than the U.S. Army, whoever
we’re bumpin up against is gonna wish their mommas
never blinked her eyes at their daddy’s.”
“Let’s keep that piece of information to
ourselves for now, Andy. I don’t need Kay to be
worrying about a possible firefight somewhere. Oh,
man, hellfire missiles?”
St. Croix formed a slight smile.
Courtney finished his coffee and added closure.
“Listen, Andy, I want to go over the Cuban data
again. I also want to pull together anything we can find
on every name we talked about. What should we do
with the turkey at the end of the bar?”
“You leave - ah’ll stay. Ah want to see if he’s
gonna tail you, or wait for me. You’ll be OK - ah’ll be
right behind him if he follows you.”
“Courtney pulled his wallet from his pants
pocket. Securing a twenty dollar bill - he passed it
across the table to the Zero.
“Take care of the tab, Andy. Leave the kid the
change. He could probably use it.”
173
“See you at the ranch.”
Without looking directly at Courtney, St. Croix
watched him leave.
He also noticed the well-dressed stranger leave
immediately thereafter.
Finishing the last of his coffee, he did the same
- leaving the twenty behind, slightly under his saucer.
Outside on the sidewalk, his eyes followed both
men, one fifty feet behind the other.
It was a typical recon - no big deal - just report
where Courtney was, what he did, who he was with -
and where he was headed.
What was important, he thought, was the
person, or persons, and the organization receiving the
messages spoken into the tie.
He thought to himself.
‘Damn, Mick, we may have gotten ourselves
into one hell of a snake pit. Ah got a feelin we’re gonna
need the Snake, and a few other buddies to help get us
out.’
Sunday, May 22, 4:38 p.m.
Although he’d crossed the International Date
Line, he felt little jet lag. Not because he’d flown
dozens of thousands of miles every year, but because he
had a mission, and non-intervention of outside
influences were easily controlled by this man.
Scott Orefice, Director of The United States
Central Intelligence Agency was presumably in Tokyo to
discuss the design of one of the electronic components of
a super computer chip with Mister Saito Kushima,
Chairman Of The Board of Kushima Electronics.
A world leader in the field of electronics,
Kushima was a major international competitor of
McKenzie Industries. The two companies had been
working on the same technological development for
months.
174
There were multi-million dollar contracts
waiting at the end of each production line, and both
companies were working twenty-four hour research and
development shifts to complete their respective designs.
Orefice was, in fact, in Japan to discuss the
electronic component and the chip - it’s possible uses in
rapid information storage and retrieval, and possible
subsequent uses in hand-held hardware.
He had met seven weeks earlier with Patrick
McKenzie to discuss the same topic - but not the
addendum topic he would address with Kushima.
At sixty-nine, The Director possessed a
physical constitution envied by many men in their late
thirties and early forties. A faithful swimmer, he logged
five miles a week at the CIA indoor pool.
His appointment to The Directorship,
confirmed by the United States Senate on its first vote
was testimony to the confidence and respect he had
from almost every man and woman sitting on Capitol
Hill.
Following service as an Army Field Officer in
World War II, he had returned to Rochester Institute Of
Technology in Rochester, New York, and completed both
undergraduate and graduate studies leading to a
Master Of Science degree in Management Engineering.
He understood that engines drive people
systems, and because of his talent and education, had
been able to bring a prestigious sense of order to the
world’s most secret organization.
Although there are Congressional committees
and Senate
sub-committees with authoritative powers that affect
the structure and form of the CIA, there is no
committee that can direct its inner substance.
That - is controlled by The Director.
It is an absolutely necessary organization of
almost unlimited power, access, and unaccountability.
175
‘ Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts
absolutely’ is not only proverbial, it is a fundamental
truth.
Scott Orefice, although a dedicated public
servant, could not be separated from a universal truth.
He was corrupt, but not maliciously corrupt. While this
was a contradiction in terms, it was not without
attending essence.
Orefice constantly lied to Congressmen and
Congresswomen, United States Senators, press
reporters, and to anyone else who asked him about his
job or his agency.
He also routinely allowed special favors in
exchange for information from Arab oil sheiks, Eastern
European Government officials, African Heads of State
- and, if he needed information, and it was available,
from Japanese businessmen.
It would be impossible for a man in his position
not be apparently corrupt. Were it not the case, he
would have no base of power.
The world of authority is sometimes as
confusing as authority itself.
Admitted to the Chairman’s office immediately
upon arriving, he greeted the seventy-two year old
founder of the electronics giant.
“Mister Kushima - it’s a pleasure to see you
again, Sir.”
Extending his hand, he was summarily greeted
by the Oriental, who spoke perfect English, as well as
French, and German.
“The pleasure is mine, Mister Orefice. May I
offer you something?”
“Thank you, no, not right now.”
“As you wish - are you staying at the embassy?”
“Yes - there’s always pressing issues.”
“Absolutely, a man in your position has many
communications to complete that I’m sure are most
sensitive.
176
You are still welcome, whenever you wish, to be my
house guest. You may one day, find it a welcome
change.”
He motioned to a set of black walnut chairs
sitting on a red and blue-lioned pattern oriental carpet.
Each took seats opposite the other.
The Director, not without purpose, and
missioned, began.
“Mister Kushima, as we speak, an unexpected
event is unfolding which will allow us to conduct our
business to fruition. In a bizarre twist of fate, Patrick
McKenzie has been seized from his vacation in the
Bahamas, and has been taken to the island of Cuba
where he is being held for ransom by a terrorist
organization.”
The Japanese businessman’s eyes didn’t
evidence incredulity at the statement, but rather
suspicion of The Director’s motive for bringing up this
piece of information.
Orefice thought it best to continue.
My agency has the situation under control, and
would be able to free him, but not without a struggle.
The President feels that, for the time being, we should
leave this alone. Other people are working on it, and it
certainly does work to our advantage.
Kushima felt compelled to respond.
“I concur with Mister Benson’s judgment,
Mister Orefice. Patrick McKenzie has been a thorn in
my side for many years. Although I highly regard his
corporation, he has, by commission, held back
Kushima’s expansion in the Western Hemisphere…this
is most fortuitous.”
Orefice knew he’d like it.
“We should have the Cuban initiative for
Kushima through the U.S. government process by late
June, or early July.
177
President Benson’s recently had additional
conversations with President Santiago confirming the
positive position a company such as yours would bring
to the island - and to all of Latin America. He’s also
informed the new Cuban leader of the addendum
industries that would follow an electronics firm onto
their soil. The injection molding companies, the
software brain trusts, and rail, air and ground
transportation industries will all follow Kushima into
the new world. I’m sure both you, and your senior staff,
know that from Cuba your empire can build south
through Honduras and Nicaragua, then into Columbia,
Venezuela, Peru, Brazil, Argentina, and the balance of
South America. Your existing product line is perfectly
matched for the developing counries.”
Shifting in his chair, he continued.
“Their manufacturing bases, communications
systems, medical institutions, and their military
infrastructures are all prime candidates for
technologies you would consider antiquated. You could,
and will be the controlling and dominating electronics
influence through the Latin corridor into South
America. Your markets are driven by people in political
systems presently watching the success or failure of the
Cuban initiative, and we, Mister Kushima, control that
system. You have a failsafe procedural task, and
nothing more before you.”
The Director paused - knowing a response was
imminent.
“You have a unique business perspective,
Mister Orefice. You’ve just outlined a plan of action
that is rooted in the fundamental development pattern
we have established at Kushima.
The former World War II Japanese army
Lieutenant continued his train of thought.
“Kushima’s decision to expand through the
Latin-American countries into South America will of
course be relative to costs, Mister Orefice.”
178
The Director, nodding silent affirmation,
encouraged more dialogue.
“What do you suppose, Mister Orefice, it would
cost Kushima in American dollars for the obvious
advantages both you and President Benson can offer my
humble company?”
“We’ve worked out a spread sheet based on the
industries I’ve identified, Mister Kushima. Our
projections show a possible gross revenue increase to
Kushima of between one point five to two billion dollars
during the first five years of full operation from plants
on the Cuban island. Because this initial thrust will be
basically low-intensity, high-output manufacturing,
your return on investment should realize margins of at
lease thirty-two percent. By anyone’s standards, that’s
considerable.”
The Eastern businessman had actually
calculated thirty-five percent.
It doesn’t become inconceivable that the
leverage offered to guarantee this return should have a
value of worthy of the investment. To propel safe
passage through the democratic process, and also to
discourage the investment of McKenzie, we’d ask a
management fee of ten percent of the most conservative
estimate of the first two years gross sales.”
The statement was made as if one hundred
fifty million dollars was possible to take in one bank
draft.
It was…and both men knew it.
The Oriental rose from his chair.
Walking slowly to a teak-paneled wall, his
approach over three floor sensors caused the paneling to
split, revealing a fully-stocked wet bar.
“Mister Orefice, please join me. I will not offer
a traditional Japanese toast, but rather something I
know you will enjoy.”
179
Opening a refrigerator panel, he produced two
long-neck bottles of Michelob from its innards, the CIA
Director’s choice of beverage when alcohol was offered.
“I see my reputation precedes me, Mister
Kushima. At the agency they say real Agents only
drink scotch. I disappoint my people at every company
function.”
“Better to disappoint them at a social function,
Mister Orefice, than in the streets of Moscow or
Beijing.”
Filling two eight ounce twenty-four karat gold
appointed glasses with the classic brew, he offered his
guest a toast - and a remunerated exit.
“To our understanding, Mister Orefice. On
your way out, you shall receive several Panamanian
and Puerto Rican bank account numbers with their
corresponding institutions listed next to them on plain
white paper. I’m sure you will find everything in order
with a few phone calls. I will await the result of the
Cuban government’s decision on who shall have
contracted rights to build a facility on their island.
Once I have a contract, your accounts will be activated,
and you may then retire from public service.”
“I’ll meet with the President to relay all this
information. I don’t see any problem for you, only
prosperity.”
He raised his glass of beer to the
businessman’s, the thought of his actions perfectly
balanced with a Presidential order he understood
completely.
Money is one of the great motivators, but not
the greatest, by far.
180
Monday, May 22, 8:30 a.m. Washington D.C. Time
From his chair in the Oval Office, he could see
the green light blinking on the telephone set. The two
U.S. Senators sitting before him were the Chairman
and Vice Chairman of the Committee on
Appropriations. They’d asked for this meeting to brief
him with a preliminary outline on a proposal. They
were unaware of the telephone signal because it
produced no sound, only an alternating green glow.
“Gentlemen, I’ll seriously consider the proposal
from the other side of the aisle, but I won’t make you
any promises.”
The senior of the two committee members took
the hint. This meeting was over.
“That’s fair Mister President, and all that we
ask.”
Looking at his peer, he nodded the evident
conclusion and rose, as did Randal Benson.
“I’ll have the Chief of Staff contact you on
Thursday.”
This was euphemistic for, ‘don’t get your hopes
up.’
Exiting the Oval Office, they both understood.
Returning to his chair, he pushed the
appropriate button, the only line his caller would use.
“Scotty, I’m sorry I held you up.”
“That’s no problem, Mister President. I’m back
at the embassy. The meeting was brief, and to the
point. Everything I’ve discussed with him to date is in
order. He’s arranged for a transfer of funds through
several Panamanian and Puerto Rican banks. I’ll check
out the availability, but I’m sure I’ll find everything in
order.”
“What does he expect next? I’ll have to speak
to Santiago.”
181
“He’s looking for an instrument, as we agreed.
I told him about Patrick McKenzie.”
“What was his reaction, Scotty?”
“Understated suspicion, tempered with equally
understated elation.”
“Scotty, I know David Eisenberg is talking to
Wirtham about the McKenzie situation. Is it under
control?”
“For now, yes. We’re keeping a close watch on
it.”
“What’s the status on Kushima’s window? Will
it work?”
“The fax machine is on a table in the northwest
corner of the office. The windows are strong, and the
angle is tricky, but the shot’s not beyond our capability.
We’ll use a double operative for redundancy.”
“Almost doesn’t work here, Scotty, if it’s not
perfect, we need another plan.”
“I’ll guarantee it Mister President. I have
extreme confidence in our people.”
“If you say so, it’s your line of work. I’m going
to contact Santiago, and set the wheels in motion.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll speak with you soon.”
An alternate plan would be necessary,
and it would work just as well.
Randall Benson opened the side drawer in his
desk containing a single book, and an envelope.
It was the envelope he withdrew VISION 1
ONLY, the old photo was pulled and reviewed again.
“God rest your soul Johnathon, and may He
forgive me for my actions.”
Standing, he turned to review the r
Rose Garden, it’s peaceful beauty always a sedative for
him during extreme and sensitive procedures. He was
resolved and deliberate.
The Madman of Battan, Lieutenant Saito
Kushima would finally pay for his war crimes.
182
Chapter 7
Review and Implementation
Thursday, May 23, 1035 a.m.
The décor of the inner sanctum at the highest
level of the Commerce Department rivaled the best
design of any CEO’s office in corporate America -
testimony to Commerce Secretary George Tollman’s
accustomed lifestyle.
It’s carpeting, plush blue, was inlaid with the
insignia of Office. Half-back, glove leather waiting
chairs surrounded a trio of white Italian marble coffee
tables displaying the most current issues of FORBES,
THE HARVARD BUSINESS REVIEW, and six other
national business publications on their perfectlymachined
and polished surfaces.
Down the corridor, in another office, Tollman’s
associate sat idly, flipping through a copy of FORTUNE.
There was no need to further review the contents in his
briefcase. Tollman would tell him what to do with the
information, he having received it by special courier the
day prior.
An article on the development of recycled
plastic resins had just caught his attention when she
called him..
“The Secretary is free now.”
The Commerce Secretary’s Administrative
Assistant motioned with her right arm toward the
beginning of a corridor leading to the opulent, Cabinet-
Level Secretary’s office.
“Can I get you another coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
Tollman didn’t get up. His only greeting was a
motion to sit.
183
Before him lay a copy of the computer printout
supplied by Michael Courtney via a pony tailed garage
attendant, and a blind P.O. Box at the main Denver,
Colorado Post Office.”
His first statement was a question.
“Tell me what you think of the list and the
organization.”
He’d done his homework, and did not need to
review the two pages of notes he’d written.
“Tell me what you think of the list and the
organization.”
“He’s apparently got three hundred writers
across the country. He hasn’t accessed the largest
metropolitan newspapers yet, but he does have a lot of
minor, and some medium-sized circulation papers.
There aren’t too many high income readers in the
circulations of the papers he has, but I suppose he’s
working on developing the bigger media. I’d say it’s a
good list.”
Tollman’s associate scratched his head.
“The thing I don’t understand is why this
organization exists. Our information on both Wirtham
and Courtney doesn’t tell us anything; they’re both
clean as a whistle. No tight political affiliations with
either party - no union contacts - no underworld
relations - no drug culture. They have a power base
with no revealing payoff. There’s got to be more than
we know about right now. Courtney obviously runs the
show, but Wirtham sets the directon. They both believe
in all that philosophical crap…”
Tollman quick interrupted, voice raised.
“For the third time, it’s not crap. Courtney is a
Tao Xia Master. The people who gave him that
designation are the same people corporate America calls
on to help develop new products, do their research, and
advise them on management policy. We’re not dealing
with lightweights, and the sooner you realize that, the
easier it’ll be for you to get your job done.”
184
He could see an uneasiness in his NSA
associate, but he knew it was related to the tone of his
voice, and not the content of his dialogue.
“Just accept it that we have an adversary who’s
as smart as we think we are. Did you check out Yankee
Echo with your contacts at the CIA and FBI?”
“I didn’t divulge the name, but if I’d hit
something sensitive, I’d have been told to keep hands
off, which I wasn’t. I even asked a few people in G-2
spots at the military desks if they knew of any covert
ops being run in the private sector. No one has any
information on Yankee Echo, or they’re just not telling
me about it if they do.”
“Then apparently they have their own reason
for existence. It’s not as important right now as it is
that we have their attention, and they’re cooperating. “
“Here’s a one page summary of how I want
their writers to direct their stories. I also put together
a schedule of release dates.”
Leaning forward, the Secretary handed copies
of both to his associate.
“I’m meeting with the President tomorrow to
review my trip to Cuba. He’s gone along with my plans
to date and I’m not going to throw any big surprises on
him. Benson still has U.S. public support, and
Santiago’s commitment, but we’re going to change all
that in the next ninety days. Once his support drops
off, it’ll be hard for him to pick up the pace again. If we
can get the Cuban military behind Belize, Santiago’s
going to be in a jam, with, or without Benson.”
“What do you want me to do now?”
“Contact Courtney this afternoon.”
185
Tuesday, May 13, 1:17 p.m.
Sitting in JGM’s conference room, the Analyst
continued to write notes to himself.
‘Belize, Catalina Salazar, Bellcamp, to guys at
Bellcamp’s, Griffin, Tollman, Mister Eloquent, Pat, Me,
Kay, Robert, Shooter, Rock Thrower, Andy, Y.E.,
Writers’
Her question interrupted his thoughts.
“Michael, what are the odds that Dan
Bellcamp’s Catalina, and the Catalina that called Tom
Griffin, and the Catalina that showed up in the Cuban
data, are the same person?”
There was no need for him to ponder this
inquiry.
“I’d say it’s a sure thing.”
“Robert’s getting me background data on
Tollman, Griffin and Belize. Do you think Tom Griffin’s
tied up in this?”
“I think it’s too early to tell. We probably
shouldn’t throw anything out until we’re convinced
beyond a doubt.”
He’d penned an objective at the top of his notes.
‘Keep American corporations from investing in
Cuba.’
“The breachers want to dismantle public
support for the President’s trade program with Cuba.
Ultimately that means they want to keep corporate
America from investing U.S. dollars on the island.
Bellcamp obviously gave Catalina Salazar our address,
among other things, I’m sure, and he’s gone. So she’s
got to have the remaining partners.”
He drew, and released, a deep breath.
“Why would she and her partners want to keep
something so valuable away from their country?
Santiago wants support, so I don’t think she’s involved
with him. We can’t guess at Belize’s position until
Robert gets us more data, but I’d guess he was Pro-
American also.” 186
She followed, but questioned.
Why do you say that?”
“Because Santiago wouldn’t keep him around if
he wasn’t.”
“What if President Santiago didn’t know
everything his Vice President was doing?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think you can make
that assumption right now.”
“OK…what if we…”
Gerry Allison had appeared, right index finger
raised.
“Thanks Gerry.”
He hit the speaker button.
“This is Michael Courtney.”
“Listen up, philosopher. I have your
instructions. Do you have a pad and pen to write this
down?”
“Sure.”
“We want stories across the country by all
three hundred writers to articulate different messages,
but everyone will write negatively regarding the Cuban
Economic Reform Plan. In all your eastern newspapers,
wherever a state touches the Atlantic, your writers will
composite the negative effects of the money supply, and
the decrease in new building permits. Through
Minnesota, Illinois, Michigan, Ohio, Oklahoma,
Pennsylvania, Texas, and Tennessee, they’ll play off the
lack of orders for new plants and equipment, and fasts
vendor deliveries. In the rest of your papers, they’ll
work with lower prices for sensitive materials, and the
low trading volumes currently on the New York Stock
Exchange and NASDAQ. Are you with me so far?”
“I have it.”
“We want each of your writers to place twelve
stories in the next ninety days. Remember, we have the
list, and we’ll be looking for the bylines. That’s all for
now. Get your people mobilized, and make sure they
understand. 187
I’ll get you your release dates, the first one will
be next week. Then you’ll hear from me again as we
move along.”
“That’s it? That’s all you want? Do you know
what the hell you’re asking? You want me to
compromise this whole organization for your benefit.
You want me to tell all my people to produce stories
they know I would never ask them to write. How the
hell do you suggest I go about this.”
“Use the Economic Indicators I just gave you,
Courtney. I keep getting told you’re the bright one.”
“You’re looking for bylines as early as next
week. I need some time to put this together.”
“Well, then get your ass in gear. I’ll call you
again.”
The phone clicked, and hummed
“Seems like he’s got it now, doesn’t it, Michael?”
“Yeah, and he’s also got a friend telling him
we’re smart.”
He made a mental note.
‘Breacher’s friend.’
“Are you going to do what he’s asking?”
“Yes, we’ll follow his plan, but our own way..”
Tuesday, May 23, 2:05 p.m.
The printouts were generated through an
access code system that had reached into the data bases
at The Central Intelligence Agency. It was an allowed
breach available to the organization that neither
Michael Courtney nor Andy St. Croix new the whole
truth about.
Robert Wirtham, sitting behind a pile of
computer paper, began his debriefing for Courtney.
“Belize is a holdover from the old government,
Michael. He was a Senior Government Official with no
tight title. Castro kept him as an advisor on all sorts of
projects, but mostly financial initiatives.
188
He’s a Harvard alumnus, very bright, degreed in
economics and finance. He never officially joined the
Communist Party, but he was a loyal troop to the Old
Man. Santiago picked him for the number two spot
because he needed a transitional figure from the old
government with a flair for Economics. It’s Belize who’s
doing all the negotiating with our Secretary of
Commerce regarding the American Corps and their
presence on the island.”
JGM’s President turned a page.
“Belize also holds the purse strings of Cuba
acting as Chief of The Treasury, and can flip millions
around with the stroke of a pen. Santiago seems to
have a lot of faith in his judgment, although he hasn’t
signed any big checks yet. OK, that’s him.”
Another page was turned.
Catalina Salazar is Belize’s Administrative
Assistant. She came out of Havana’s slums and got an
education for herself at The University of Miami. She
has a B.S. in Accounting, and an MBA in Finance. She
returned to the island to work in the government
despite the fact that she had offers from corps like
Prudential-Bache, and Arthur Anderson. Belize took
her under his wing, and she’s been working for him ever
since.
Another page was turned.
Dan Bellcamp is a Laws Candidate out of
Arizona State. He’s a prolific writer with great
communication skills, which helped him become M.E of
THE MIAMI HERALD at the age of thirty-six. He’s
been known to be a pain in the butt, and he can be
obstinate as hell, but he’s a smart man that knows how
to put words together to move people. Right now, no
one has a clue as to where he is, and because he doesn’t
have any relatives that miss him, there’s no public
officials out looking for him.”
Wirtham looked up from his stack of pages.
189
“ Andy’s brought back enough data to convince
me that Bellcamp’s tied up in the breach with Belize
and Salazar. There’s no apparent power struggle
between Belize and Santiago. We know from people
inside THE HERALD that Bellcamp was working on a
story with both Salazar and Belize, so that while it
might have appeared coincidental that he be associated
with their names, the two goons Andy met at Bellcamp’s
house negated that. One of them gave Andy Belize’s
name rather than face the unfriendly side of Mister St.
Croix.”
He returned to his pages.
Tom Griffin’s only been with us a short time,
but he’s a good writer, and he has great potential. The
kid’s always on time with his writes, and expresses our
point of view very dramatically through every TAC.
Another page was turned.
“George Tollman is a Harvard MBA, and a
former President of Beechman Aircraft. He lives well,
and he’s a good deal maker. While he hasn’t stopped
American corps from becoming involved in Cuba, he’s
also not a champion of the idea. He thinks we need to
evaluate our capital and labor resources, and our needs
at home before we invest in the island.”
Wirtham looked up with concluding remarks.
“He also cites a renewed Russian threat, or a
possible Sino/Soviet return to Cuba, but that argument
is losing its validity daily.”
Wirtham released his hands from the
computer-generated workouts.
His face serious, his attention and eye direction
turned to the woman sitting beside his former student.
He addressed her.
“Kathleen, George Tollman was also your brother John’s
Company Commander in Vietnam. I’m only putting
that on the table because it’s a fact, but I think it might
be something worth reviewing.”
190
She carried a photo of him - not the marine, not
the soldier - but the brother; the older brother she never
knew, never touched, never spoke to, but always loved.
She didn’t need to respond.
Wirtham concluded.
“Let me know what your next step is Michael.
Andy is putting some tactical data together he wants
me to review - I’ll brief you later.”
He turned to face her.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, just feeling very sensitive about my
brother, John, and the fact that George Tollman was his
Commanding Officer. I’d like to go to the library and do
some work on that. Will you come with me?”
“Of course. I need to talk to Robert about some
time sequences. Just give me a few minutes with him.”
“OK.”
She seemed both lost and found.
When she’d left the room, he returned to
Wirtham.
“Where’d we get all that information on these
people?”
“What do you mean? Off our system.”
“I knew we had the economic stuff, but I didn’t
think we could get that detailed on people.”
“We cross reference with some government
computers.”
“Whose?”
Wirtham got up, not wanting to continue the
conversation.
“It’s simple, they’re just data banks available to
anyone. Aren’t you going with Kay?”
Courtney’s intuition told him an impropriety
had just been commissioned by his former professor.
Something wasn’t right.
He mentally filed the moment.
“OK, I was just wondering.”
Wirtham didn’t look at him as he left the room.
191
He also knew it wouldn’t be long before his
student got to the truth.
Tuesday, May 23, 5:15 p.m.
The District of Columbia library and its
attending branches house over two million bound
volumes of literature.
None of these volumes was of any consequence
to them this afternoon.
What was more important was the newspaper
microfilm files stored in the cavernous vaults of D.C.’s
cultural residence.
Prior, in an earlier time, she’d reviewed with
Robert, the time sequences, Asian geography, and
combat unit designations pertinent to her brother’s
case. She knew them by heart.
She and Courtney sat side by side reviewing
newspaper pages photographically engraved on silver
halides.
In one chronological series of stories, she’d
counted over sixty newspapers carrying accounts of the
‘Massacre at La Dang,’ and had read through sixteen of
those accounts.
Kathleen McKenzie was a fast researcher, and
a good mental detective. In a little over two hours she’d
found several sensational descriptions of the cause of
the events.
Beneath each photo of the La Dang atrocity
was something even trained observers might overlook
because of its commonality to every photo reproduced in
a newspaper - the photographic credit.
In every shot she reviewed, there was only one
credit.
‘Photo Courtesy of CBS NEWS, Inc.’
Courtney, reviewing the same photos, hadn’t
missed the credit either, and, in fact, had noted it
several times.
192
“Michael, How many photos have you seen.”
He made a quick mental calculation.
“Twelve or so.”
“All the one’s I’ve seen have the same credit,
CBS NEWS”
“Let me check my notes.”
Flipping through six pages, he numbered his
writings.
“I have fourteen - all CBS NEWS. What are
you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that CBS would probably still
have the film or videotape, and I’d like to see it.
“Are you sure you want to do that, Kay?”
“Yes…I am. Tell me what you got out of this.”
“There’s not one shred of evidence in
everything I’ve read that could tie John to the events of
that day - everything is conjecture. In all the articles,
there’s very few mentions of Tollman. He never
defended John - didn’t even bother to give an account of
what type of marine he was, or wasn’t. He just threw
his hands up in the air and chalked it all up to the
consequences of war.”
He squared his body to hers.
“How the hell can somebody be that undefined
about something like this? Consider this too. How can
a guy who becomes President of a major aircraft
manufacturing company, who takes that company from
a medium sized corporation to become one of the
industry giants, act so wobbly about the Cuban
initiatives, and act just as wobbly as a Marine Corps
Commander? You don’t become what Tollman became
by being indecisive. He’s bright, Kay, he has a Harvard
MBA. Everything he did after John died, and
everything he’s doing now just don’t fit the profile of
who he really has to be to have become what he’s
become.”
193
He touched her gently on the arm.
“Come on. Let’s go back to the hotel and call
Eddie Dalger. If anyone knows someone at CBS, it will
be him.”
After making several photo copies, they left.
Tuesday, May 23, 7:16 p.m.
“Hello, Ellen - this is Kathleen McKenzie. I’m
sorry to bother you, but may I please speak with Eddie?
“Hold on, Kathleen, he just flew by me. - I’ll get
him for you.”
Preparing to replace the brake light on his car,
Eddie Dalger rearranged his priorities following his
wife’s request to answer the call.
“Hello, Kathleen.”
“Hi Eddie - I need a favor.”
“Whatever I can do.”
“Eddie - I’m sure you remember the events
around my brother John’s death…”
“Yes…I do.”
“I’ve been doing some research with Michael,
and was wondering if we could get a copy of the video
footage the CBS crew shot at the scene. Do you know if
that’s possible? Do you know anyone at CBS that we
could get it from?”
“Well - first of all, I’m pretty sure they’d still
have it, and yes, a good friend of Ellen’s and mine is
Chief of Program Engineering there. If anyone could
place his hands on it, he could. Let me give him a call
at home, and I’ll call you back. Are you guys at the
hotel?”
“Yes, we’ll be here the rest of the evening.”
“OK, give me a little time. I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks, Eddie.”
Arms folded across her chest, she crossed the
room stopping only after her thighs met the arm of the
overstuffed chair where he sat. 194
It was he who addressed her.
“Kay, the shit is going to start hitting the fan
tomorrow with Yankee Echo. Your father’s in trouble;
we have our backs up against the wall; three hundred of
our writers are going to think I’m weaving on this issue;
can you handle all of this?”
Leaning forward, and bending at the waist, she
put her face six inches from his, looked him square in
the eyes, and gave him a low, passionate response.
“I may kill someone before this is over.”
The thought wasn’t lost.
Tuesday, May 23, 9:31 p.m.
He’d put a blanket over her on the couch. She
was half asleep when the phone rang.
Courtney, writing a TAC he hoped would
convince what he believed to be half his writing team
that he wasn’t crazy, secured the communication device.
“Michael Courtney.”
“Michael - it’s Eddie. I have some information
for Kathleen.”
He glanced sideways at her.
“She’s resting, Eddie - what’s up?”
“I just got off the phone with a friend who
works at CBS. You can tell her that he’s certain the
tape is in their archives, and that he’ll go into their
library tomorrow and pull it out. He’s going to transfer
it to VCR format for you. I gave him your address at
the hotel. He said he’d Fed Express it to you.”
“We’ll be looking for it. What do you want me
to do with it when we’re done?”
“Get rid of it at JGM.”
“I understand. Eddie, thanks for all the help.”
“Keep in touch, Michael.”
Returning to the table, it’s surface covered with
papers - his thoughts were directed on several agendas.
195
‘What’s with Tollman and Cuba? How does
Griffin get his information? Where’s Bellcamp? Why
did Belize send two men to search Belcamp’s house?
Who’s Catalina working with besides Belize? Where
are they holding Pat? Catalina Salazar set up the
Tollman-Griffin interview. Where was that call coming
from when we picked up the Iraqi Generals - was it the
CIA, or NSA? Is our own government trying to squash
Cuban development - or just part of the government?
The President publicly declared he wants to invest.
Why doesn’t Benson just fire Tollman and put someone
more supportive in that position? The breachers have a
power base in their anonymity, and also with Pat as
their hostage. We have the writers…..THAT’S IT.
THAT’S PART OF IT. Without public support, they go
nowhere. They have no leverage in Congress, the
Senate, in the White House, or in Cuba.’
He massaged his eyes and let out a deep sigh.
‘They had to come to us for national exposure.
The only way they could have found us would have
been through Belcamp - but why would he betray us?
Money? That would probably cost a lot. Who has
money? Belize - he has the money. If Bellcamp
betrayed us - he must also have betrayed them too -
either that, or they eliminated him, and we’re covering
their tracks for them. They don’t just need a few
articles from us - they absolutely can’t succeed without
us. We’re too much a part of their plan. We have to
make this work for them…can’t split the writers, I have
to play the game their way. OK, their driving, but I’m
holding the road map - Law Thirty. I have to assume
Belize, Salazar and Bellcamp are the breachers for now.
So, how do I get the rest of them to identify themselves?
If the President wants this program so bad, maybe he’s
the guy I have to talk to. He’s the one who’s going to
feel the impact from the writers.’
196
“Michael?”
She startled him.
His sudden unexpected movement, in turn,
causing concern.
“Michael - are you OK?”
“I’m sorry - I was thinking.”
“What were you so engrossed with - not that
you don’t have a few things to think about.”
“I have to go see the President on this.”
Her witty reaction was typical of a personality
trait he hadn’t seen in her in what seemed like a very
long time. It was refreshing to see it again.
“OH, really! Shall I get a new dress? What
Law are you working this off of Professor?”
“Thirty.”
Her response was immediate.
“You’re going to make the President of The
United States conform to something?”
“He’s going to give me an answer either directly
or indirectly - or both. I don’t know if I can make him
conform. I need to know what he knows.”
He yawned.
“This is a very important time for him. If
Benson succeeds in Cuba, all of Central America will
fall in line with his plans. This could be an enormous
political coup for him, and it should be a piece of cake.
Why he’s giving Tollman so much control is beyond me,
but he has a reason.”
He stretched.
“If I confront him with the fact that someone’s
going to blow public support for his program out of the
water, he’ll have to do one of two things. Either talk to
me, or send someone to investigate me. If he sends the
CIA or the FBI, we’re in more trouble than we are right
now because that response will tell me he may be
connected with them in destroying his own plan - which
doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
197
He stretched again.
“If he agrees with me, it’s because he either
believes my story, or because he’s already aware of some
of the things I’ll tell him about in a letter I‘m going to
send him. He should find my letter preposterous, but
he should also send it on the proper authorities for
investigation. If he agrees to see me after he reads my
letter, without calling in any spooks, then he knows
something we don’t know, but maybe he’ll share it with
us.’
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Kay - the breachers can’t succeed without us,
but the President could. Simple logic tells us he can’t
be involved with them.”
“I would hope not.”
She sat on his lap, putting her arms around his
neck.
He continued.
“So - if he’s not one of them, and if he has
public support for his program, and Cuba should be a
cakewalk, then why keep Tollman? I can understand
part of his labor argument - but this Sino/Soviet crap is
full of holes. Benson could make his plan fly with ten
phone calls to the CEO’s of our largest industrials. Why
hasn’t he?”
“Maybe there’s something Santiago wants that
the President’s not willing to give him.”
“I doubt it. He’d give him Texas if he wanted it.
He has a hidden agenda, Kay. Think of Law Thirteen.
The President has two agendas going, and until he
completes one he can’t do the other. You and I both
know that even if we whack the hell out of his plan with
out writers, it would be just a matter of revising the
pattern later on, and all that public support would come
right back.”
Her hand was gently stroking through his hair.
It felt good
198
“He’s no fool, Kay. He understands, better than
anyone in the country, the power of the press. So, if I
tell him there’s an organization that can destroy his
Cuban Plan, and he doesn’t believe me, I could prove
our existence with the TAC’s we write.”
She continued stroking his hair.
“If he takes me seriously, but doesn’t try to stop
us, it confirms his second agenda, and also confirms
that for the time being, his second agenda is more
important to him than the Cuban one. His reaction to
my letter is going to give us answers, one way or
another.”
“How are you going to be sure he gets the
letter, and reads it.”
“Through Andy. I’m sure there’s a high-up
Navy guy who can get to see the President, and I’d bet
my last dollar he owes Andy a favor.”
“Michael - aren’t we taking a risk with Dad?”
“If I’m wrong about all of this, maybe. If I’m
right, no. It’s going to lead us to him. Kay, someone in
either the Central Intelligence Agency or the National
Security Agency has been calling us. I can’t believe
either one of them as branches of government would
want to destroy the President’s Plan. But someone
inside one of those agencies has set this up, or is a part
of it, and that scares the hell out of me. The only
person who has more resources than either one of those
organizations is the President, and I have to get to see
him.”
Tuesday, May 23, 8:35 a.m.
The soft green light blinked. Sitting alone, he
expected the call.
“Scotty - what do you have?”
“I checked the Puerto Rican and Panamanian
banks, Sir. Its all in order, one hundred fifty million in
American dollars.”
199
“What about Pat McKenzie?”
“We believe he’s alright for now. Can President
Santiago hold off his Vice President from getting control
of the military?”
“I think so.”
“Are you prepared for the Secretary’s meeting?
Do you have enough information to keep the Press at
arm’s length?”
“He’s a smart man, Scotty. He may be the
worst mistake I’ve ever made, but he’ll convince me to
postpone any serious calls to corporate America. If I get
pressure from the Press, I’m just going to sick them on
him. What’s going on at the NSA?”
“We’re not sure who Tollman’s man is, but he’s
had several contacts with Courtney. He’s been
instructed to write negatively against your Plan.
Wirtham told David Eisenberg it will begin in one to
two weeks, and continue to last eleven to fifteen weeks.”
“How many writers does he have on it? “
“Several hundred in various papers. They
could cause considerable damage to public support.
We’re lucky he doesn’t have the whole organization on
it.”
“We’re going to need to work fast, Scotty. Keep
me informed on Pat McKenzie.”
“I will, Mister President.”
Returning his phone to its cradle, Randall
Benson stood and looked beyond the Rose Garden to the
sky. He thought about the awesome power of the free
Press, and what could be done to a nation should that
power be concentrated in the wrong hands. He thought
it incredible that an organization such as Yankee Echo
could exist, but he also knew that there are men and
women in this world with both the ability and resources
to create and control such an organization.
200
While he’d never studied The Universal
Physical Laws, he was aware there were analysts who
used them all the time. And for those who practiced
them, there was opportunity to control agendas, move
people to action, and cause enemies to commit errors.
He’d been briefed on Michael Courtney by two
close friends in Academia. From the first: ‘A thorough
mind, intuitive, capable of deep insight.’ The second,
more verbose, paraphrased the other: ‘This man can
cause things to happen through the written word. He’s
a Master of TAO XIA living by the fundamental truths.
He creates situations by using ultimate realities. He’s
one of a handful of humans who knows how to interpret
and use this set of Laws in practical applications. In
Western culture, we don’t fully comprehend people like
Courtney, but in the Orient, these people are highly
regarded as gifted.’
Speaking to himself, he repeated the words of
Andrew Jackson.
“One man with courage makes a majority.”
Walking across the Oval Office, he addressed a
question to the metaphysician across town.
“Do you have courage, Mister Courtney?”
Tuesday, May 23, 11;32 p.m.
She lay in his arms, head resting on his chest
while he caressed her back with her fingertips.
He’d given her all the logic, and all the
analysis. He knew she needed to hear one more
statement, something her father would have said in the
vernacular.
“Starting tomorrow Kay, we’re going to have to
kick some ass.”
201
Her response was silent, a thought to herself.
‘Starting tomorrow Michael, you’re going to
make some discoveries. I hope you do the right thing
with them.’
202
Part II
Action
Chapter 8
Fundamentals in Logic
Wednesday, May 24, 10:01 a.m.
From the podium, Pete Radler, Press Secretary
to the President of The United States pointed to the
Business Editor of THE HARTFORD COURANT, the
nations oldest daily.
He was one of thirty-eight Press personnel
allowed to attend this conference. He wasn’t a part of
Yankee Echo. The COURANT’s Editorial Editor was.
“Mister Winters?”
“Mister Radler, is our Secretary of Commerce
meeting with the President regularly, and has he
brought back any substantive contractual agreements
from his meetings with Vice President Belize?”
“I can tell you, Mister Winters, that, at this
moment, our Secretary of Commerce is meeting with
the President. I can also tell you that he’s returned
from Cuba with an option package that won’t be as
substantive as our American corporations would like at
this time, but it’s a package that the President believes
will finally open the economic doors of Cuba to
American interests. I’m sure you’re well aware that the
entire economic initiative supported by the President
needs approval by both the Congress and the Senate,
and that the appropriate Committee Chairman will
receive Mister Belize’s option package this week. I’m
sure you’re also aware of the fact that the United States
isn’t the only country interested in the new Cuban
democracy. Mister Belize is a very intelligent man, as is
Mister Santiago. They have interests to protect, and
I’m sure they are reviewing all the avenues available to
them in their pursuit of these interests.” 203
Press kits had been distributed following the Commerce
Secretary’s meetings on the island nation. Their
contents, all the same, were standard fare. Availability
of capital, interest rates, leveraged investments,
research reports on productivity, mineral rights,
shipping, distribution.
It was all a smoke screen, a clever
manipulation of words and figures to buy time.
Tollman needed ninety days. He had an amalgamation
of material that would take sixty to pigeon-hole in
committee, and another one hundred to receive action
from the political process. These same ideas, because
they’d been played out in the Press, and were now part
of the political consciousness, would receive intense
scrutiny and inspection by both the Congress and the
U.S. Senate.
Pete Radler fielded four more questions. In
capsulation they were, ‘how long’ - ‘how much’ - ‘when’ -
and ‘who’. He concluded by giving the attending Press
corps a set of stock answers, that, although were
contrived, we’re predetermined.
Editors and reporters hurried to the phones,
computer keyboards were punched, type was set,
galleys were laid out in newspaper composing rooms,
wire services were notified, presses were stopped and
restarted, and America had its dinner tables stories
that said little, mean even less, but filled space.
Wednesday, May 24, 9:54 a.m.
He dialed the Director’s private line
“Scott Orefice.”
“Scotty, I’m opening this line before he comes in
here. Stay on the other end. It’s on the speaker system
one way.”
“Yes, Sir. Have you been briefed on the
morning papers yet?’
204
“No, Pete Radler’s not coming in until I’m done
with our Secretary of Commerce. Why?”
“Because my people have shown me over thirty
morning editions from around the country - all very
positive stories regarding the Cuban Plan. Wirtham’s
told David Eisenberg more will come out as evening
editions.”
“What’s going on?”
“Wirtham said Courtney wanted to give the
plan a boost before he was forced to write the negative
articles. He’s eliminated a lot of newspapers based on
high circulations and demographic data hoping the
breachers won’t see the stories because he figures
they’re in a large metro area.”
“Scotty, this is going to put a lot of pressure on
me to be more assertive with my program, and I can’t,
not yet.”
“I understand, Sir. I’ve thought about that and
I’ve called Wirtham myself. I told him I’m going to send
someone to make contact with Courtney. He can’t slow
him down without revealing the size and scope of the
organization. Maybe we can. We need to direct him
away from Yankee Echo to focus on rescuing Pat
McKenzie.”
“How do we do that?”
“JGM’s Director of Internal Security is a man
named Andrew St. Croix. He’s a graduate of Annapolis
and a former member of a Navy Zero team. He served
two years as a Metaphysical Logistician for Naval
Systems and Naval Intelligence operations in Vietnam.
St. Croix has a lot of high-ranking connections in the
Navy. Wirtham says Courtney will use him to help as
soon as he identifies Pat McKenzie’s location.”
“Can they do it without your help?”
“Let me say this, Sir. I would create
Special Ops positions for either Courtney or St. Croix,
and I’d hire them tomorrow if I could. Yes, they can do
it.”
205
“If you think he needs to be contacted, do so,
Scotty. In the meantime, stay on the line while I visit
with George Tollman. There’s some kind of system in
this phone that I can turn on - in fact, I think McKenzie
industries made it - you’ll hear everything.”
Orefice knew the system - ‘anti-static’ - there
wasn’t one on his phone. He wouldn’t allow it.
“Yes, Sir.”
Wednesday, May 24, 10:00 a.m.
Very few people get to sit alone with The
President of The United States. Agendas are too broad
- situations too complex for one-on-one meetings.
This meeting was different. It was solitary by
design. In George Tollman’s mind, the fact that such an
important political issue be discussed privately with the
President, was interpreted as an indication of trust and
confidence.
The meeting lasted one hour and five minutes.
Most of what was discussed was spoken by the
Secretary. He not only thought he needed to convince
the President that he was right about immediate
involvement, but also thought he should reassure
Benson that any American investment at this time
would prove to be politically disadvantageous later on,
especially with the unions.
Benson listened patiently, as did an unseen
CIA Director, to a report on figures representing drops
in the index measuring U.S. consumer confidence. In
addition, Tollman produced reports clearly indicating
fewer orders for plants and equipment, certainly an
unequivocal argument that if American corporations
were not investing themselves on their own soil, they
should not do so on Cuban soil
Tollman cited faster vendor deliveries, which
indicated declining demand, once again supporting his
data on consumer confidence.
206
His series of evidence was well documented
with Commerce Department research data, white
papers, and economic reports.
He’d been logical, analytical, and empirical.
In any other set of ears, he might have made
convincing arguments. He would, in fact, deliver the
same message to Congressional and U.S. Senate
committee chairmen in his own offices on the following
day.
The President understood everything he heard,
but logic doesn’t always find its place in either business
or political decisions. He did, however, need to feign an
argument.
“George, your assertions are thorough and
complete, but I still question your conclusions. There’s
enough capital in U.S. industry right now to at least
begin the process of investment in Cuba. If we don’t do
it, the Germans and the Japanese will. I know you’re
telling me about our own economic situation, and I
know that politically it could be risky, but damn it, the
opportunities down there are far greater than the
risks.”
He sat back in his Oval Office chair.
“I’m going to continue to support and defend
my program, but I’m also going to take your advice for
the time being. I want you to see Pete Radler and go
over all of this with him. Tell him I want to low-key
this whole thing for at least ninety days. If the
economic indicators don’t show any appreciable gains in
the next three months, I’ll consider other options.”
He’d done it - he bought it.
“Thank you Mister President - I’ll see Pete
Radler as soon as possible.”
The President rose, signifying the meeting’s
termination.
The emotion of their parting handshake was
conventional.
Tollman left.
207
“Scotty?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What do you think?”
“I think he believes he sold you.”
“So do I. We’re going let him keep believing
that. You know what you have to do.”
“Yes, Sir - I’ll be in touch Mister President.”
Wednesday, May 24, 10:28 a.m.
Law Fifteen
His left hand on a sheet of JGM letterhead, he
took the pen in his right.
The President
The White House
Washington, D.C. 20500
Dear Mister President,
This letter will find you by special envoy. He
will be unaware of its contents. I am approaching you
through this channel to make a presentation of both
scale and urgency.
It is imperative I speak privately with you
regarding your plan to establish a United States
economic base in the new Democratic State of Cuba.
Presently, there is a highly-structured organization at
work which could destroy this initiative through the
power of the Press.
I know this may seem incredulous to you, but it
is, however, true. I would hope my ability to access you
establishes my credibility, and demonstrates the gravity
of this request.
May I meet with you soon?
Sincerely,
Michael J. Courtney 208
Letter in hand, he walked to the bedroom
where Kay had been studying photocopies of several
newspaper stories written long ago about horrible death
in the jungle.
“Kay?”
Her head lifted.
“Tell me what you think about this letter.”
She accepted the sheet of paper.
“It’s going to get a reaction, but I’m not sure
what kind.”
“I’m about out of ideas, Kay. We need a break
in this thing.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes straight, his
mind searching for answers to questions he knew he
hadn’t yet asked himself.
He knew every problem had an answer, every
riddle a solution, and that every search for truth
required time.
Time had now become a pivotal component of
his inquiry.
Wednesday, May 24, 12:05 p.m.
In the 1960’s, Marshall McLuhan, Professor,
and Director of the Center for Culture and Technology
at The University of Toronto, developed a philosophical
theory in which he integrated the components of
deductive logic and inductive reasoning with electronic
communication systems.
He inferred that the acceptance of data was
made more relevant and more credible through the
medium used in its delivery. McLuhan said that if we
accept a proposition because we believe the premises, or
basic assumptions that created it, then we would be
inclined to be influenced by the proposition in direct
proportion to the number of sensory perceptions we use
to accept its delivery.
209
News delivered through the medium of
television has more impact on us than the same news
broadcast on radio or read in a newspaper simply
because we use more senses to receive this news.
If we accept McLuhan’s theory, we can conclude
that we are most subject to the acceptance of a
proposition when it is delivered to us by another human
being face to face.
Michael Courtney both accepted, and
challenged McLuhan’s theory. He felt that ideas and
propositions themselves contained both weight and
dimension, and he believed those with esoteric value
could best be communicated and completely understood
through the written word.
Facts, assumed facts, and declarations fit the
profile of McLuhan’s theory, but theory itself needed the
format of writing because he felt it required both
intuitive and analytical analysis. It needed review
other than through a physical sense.
For Courtney, Like McLuhan, the medium
would be the massage, but his message would be the
prevailing agent causing Presidential movement.
Arriving at JGM about noon, he pushed on the
clear, glass-panel door, allowing Kay to precede him into
the corporate reception area. She had the letter, and
would enter its handwritten contents onto a hard disc
drive, and finally formatting it on one of the company’s
laser printers.
He lightly touched her elbow as they walked
the short distance to the executive offices.
“I’m going to meet with Andy and Robert while
you type the letter. Could you bring it in when it’s
done?”
She responded with a slight smile, created
more with her eyes than with her mouth.
“Sure.”
210
Andy St. Croix sat in one of two chairs facing
Wirtham’s desk. JGM’s President motioned to the other
as Courtney entered the office.
Seated, he turned to the Zero team member.
“Andy, I need to contact the President.”
Eyes raised.
“He’s letting his Secretary of Commerce dump
all over his Cuban Economic Reform Plan, and it
doesn’t make sense. Tollman’s reasons for noninvolvement
don’t hold water, but Benson refuses to
challenge him. I believe the President has a second
agenda, and I’m beginning to think Tollman has one
too. We’re being accessed by someone in either the CIA
or NSA, and I would guess it’s at a pretty high level.
The breachers have Pat…”
He looked at the office door; seeing it vacant,
he continued.
“…and I don’t believe they’re intentions are to
release him when Yankee Echo’s done knocking the crap
out of the Cuban Reform Plan.
He turned to the Zero again.
“You brought Belize into the picture, Andy. We
know Catalina Salazar works for him, and it sure as
hell is apparent to me that Bellcamp was the one who
sold us out. I would have to think that if we can get to
Salazar or Belize, we’d find Pat.”
He squared himself once again to Wirtham.
“The response from the President could tell us
if Tollman’s got a part in this too because I can’t see any
logic coming from either Benson or his Secretary.”
His eyes met Andy St’ Croix’s.
“I need someone with authority to hand-carry a
letter to Benson, someone who won’t ask any
questions.”
Courtney let the statement hang in the air, a
question made by declaration of necessity.
Andy St. Croix didn’t move, eyes remaining
fixed, brow wrinkled in thought.
211
“Mick, have y’all got a proposition from your
premises?”
“Sort of, but most of what I have are
assumptions based on Laws.”
“Y’all been givin this some real heavy rightbrain
work, but you only make one side of an equation.
Ah ain’t the metaphysician of this group, but ah can’t
make a connection yet between the CIA, NSA, or
anybody else. Ah know you wouldn’t work without a
prop, Mick. What’s your bottom line?”
“A paradox. We have a situation that’s both
true and false at the same time. The President’s being
both real and unreal, and so is Tollman. There has to
be multiple agendas coming from both sides. They’re
both being truthful, and they’re both being liars at the
same time, and the reason, I think, is because they both
know there’s an equalizer…us. If I can get a letter to
the President through a channel he’d respect, he’ll have
to give me some kind of an answer. No matter what he
tells me, he’s going to prove my theory.”
St. Croix’s mouth and eyes formed a smile.
“OK, Mick, you finished up the equation. Now
tell me how he’ll prove your theory.”
The analyst continued.
“The CIA or the NSA, or maybe just a couple of
people in one of those organizations is working either
with the President, or against the President. If they’re
working with the President, he knows all about us, and
he also knows about Belize, Salazar, and Bellcamp. If
they’re working against the President, then they’re
working with someone else, and my instincts say it’s
Tollman. Any way the President responds to me, we’re
going to get an answer…I need a delivery vehicle, Andy.
His eyes connected with the Zero again.
“Ah’ll need a little time, Mick, but there’s some
people who owe me, and they have the kind of leverage
you need to get in that office.”
“Andy…there’s more.”
212
Courtney rose, walked to the office door, and
pushed it closed. Turning, he moved deliberately to the
window facing East.
“I need you to pull together a Zero Team. I’m
certain if we can get to Belize, we’ll find Pat. If that
means the use of firepower, we use it. You tell me how
to set it up, JGM will provide the funding.”
He addressed Wirtham.
“Robert, you’ll be right in the middle of all this.
Are you OK with this decision?”
JGM’s President stood - drew and released a
deep breath.
“I think I knew this situation could have that
conclusion, so I’ll approve it, Michael - but I’ll want
Andy to have logistical control through the whole
operation.
He squared to St. Croix.
“Andy, I know you’ve worked these operations
in Nam, but we’re dealing with a lot of different
variables here. We’re screwing around with the Vice
President of a free nation.”
It was St. Croix’s turn to stand.
“Ah’ll get the team, Mick. We’re probably
looking at close to two hundred thousand dollars to pull
this off, Bobby.”
Wirtham accepted.
“That’s the least of our problems right now.
We’ll work with cash.”
“Mick, ah hope y’all know what’s goin down
here for you.“
Courtney remained steadfast.
“I’m working with everything I know that’s
true, Andy. Lies don’t stand up to truth.”
He addressed them both.
“Are we agreed?”
Wirtham and St. Croix nodded simultaneously,
and affirmatively, each knowing their respective jobs
and responsibilities.
213
“Robert, Andy, one more thing…Kay doesn’t get
involved.”
That was understood. Even though Wirtham
knew she was more involved than he was.
Wednesday, May 24, 1:35 p.m.
In JGM’s conference room his shoeless feet
were on one chair, his body in a second. She knew his
degree of concentration. Although he knew she would
know he had an agenda, he hoped she wouldn’t
recognize it as anything new.
He also knew this was ridiculous.
“Michael, what is it?”
“Oh, hi…did you get the letter done?”
“It’s right here - I dumped it off the disc - and
I’m going to tear it up of you don’t tell me.”
“it’s nothing, Kay. I’m just trying to fit all the
pieces together.”
“You’re full of it, Courtney.”
She walked around the table.
Picking up his feet, she sat, placing them in her
lap.
Their eyes met.
“You’re the worst liar in the world, Michael.”
“Kay, you’re not getting involved from here on
in.”
“How big is it?”
“Bigger than a breadbox.”
“Stop being a shithead.”
“Stop asking questions.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, I just have a lot of stuff to consider.
We’re really in a lousy position, Kay.”
“No fooling, Professor. Why don’t you let me
work on a few pieces of your puzzle with all the
intelligence you’ve told me I have.”
214
“According to you, I should be able to balance
Metaphysics and the Federal Budget at the same time.
What’s on your plate, Courtney, and don’t blow smoke
up my skirt.”
He didn’t respond.
“Michael, what’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you. Things are going to escalate.
You won’t be a part of it.”
“Shouldn’t that be my decision?”
“Not this time, Kay. Please - leave it alone.”
“You’re pissing me off Michael. I thought we
were a team.”
He removed his feet from her lap. Placing
them flat on the floor, he leaned toward her.
“Kay, trust me, you don’t want to get involved
in the next part of this.”
Handing him the letter, she stood to leave the
room.
“No, you have to trust me, Michael. I’m in this
more than you are. I’m going out. I’ll meet you back at
the hotel.”
He jumped to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
“OUT!”
“I don’t think you should go anywhere by
yourself.”
“You’re not running my life, I am. Just make
sure you get your part of the job done.”
Wednesday, May 24, 6:15 p.m.
During the formative years of Yankee Echo,
Patrick McKenzie knew that, in order to financially
support the organization, he’d require more than his
own resources.
Fifty American multi-national corporations, In
addition to his own had access to Yankee Echo writers
through Robert Wirtham’s office.
215
A telecommunications company, an international public
relations agency, a conglomerate jet engine
manufacturer, an oil and chemical processor, and a
pharmaceutical manufacturer were all part of the
system, and, along with other 45 other companies,
contributed the monetary support required to run the
operation.
Courtney and St. Croix were unaware of these
companies and their involvement in Yankee Echo.
Kathleen McKenzie was not unaware.
That wasn’t all.
Directions came from Wirtham, a man who
knew if the organization were ever breached, it wouldn’t
be for long. His belief was founded on the safety that
existed in another dimension of Yankee Echo.
With his financial support in place, McKenzie
also knew the organization would need protection. St.
Croix saw to internal security. But outside, in the very
vulnerable real world, Yankee Echo was protected by
one of the country’s leading security agencies - the
Central Intelligence Agency.
Because Patrick McKenzie provided much of
the technology for the U.S. intelligence bureaucracy, he
had ample opportunity to meet at high levels with the
people who controlled the agencies that made up this
community. One of these people was the Director of
Central Intelligence.
It is not well known that the CIA supports its
own domestic divisions. This public side of the CIA in
the U.S. is known as the National Collection Division.
In order to effectively run this part of their
operation, the CIA needs money. And it always falls
short of the funding required to run this division which
is allocated by Congress.
McKenzie’s group made up for the shortfall
every year in exchange for its freedom to operate
Yankee Echo, and also for protection from any
subversive elements.
216
A special Deputy Director at the CIA oversaw
the operation of Yankee Echo. David Eisenberg.
Kathleen McKenzie about knew him too.
His phone rang only once.
“Yes?”
“David, he’s written the letter to the President,
but he’s also planning something else..”
“What is it?”
“He’s going after Pat with St. Croix.”
“How soon?”
“I’m not sure yet. If I know him, it will have an
urgency. Probably very soon.”
“Well, we both know St. Croix’s capable of
getting tough.”
“Have your people found out anything new?”
“We’ve been working off the information you’ve
been feeding us. We’re certain Pat’s in Cuba and he’s
being held at Belize’s villa. We profiled Belize
emotionally. He’s a man who consumes wealth and
power, and apparently wants to take control of
something, maybe the Presidency, or he’s looking to
someone for a payoff. If Courtney wants to go down
there and get Pat, then we’re going to let him go. It’ll
keep The Agency out of it, and that’s what Orefice
wants, at least right now.”
“David - do you think St. Croix can do it?”
“You have to be kidding, yes, we believe so. But
he would only resolve the hostage situation. The
Yankee Echo part will still be open. I’m not diminishing
the fact that we want Pat brought back safely, but the
issues around Yankee Echo are very serious. It’s going
to depend on how much Courtney and St. Croix find
out. How do you think they’re going to react if and
when they find out they’ve been deceived?”
“I don’t know. We’re going to have to deal with
that.”
217
Wednesday, May 24, 6:25 p.m.
Entering the hotel room, he found her sitting
on the bed, hands folded in her lap.
“Kay?”
No response.
Depositing his briefcase on top of the yellow
oak low-profile double chest of drawers, he moved to her
side.
“Kay…”
Taking her hands in his, their eyes met - hers
forming tears.
It was he who spoke.
“I’m sorry about the way I spoke in the offices.
I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Throwing her arms around him, she wept
freely.
“Oh, Michael, you have no idea what you’re
involved in.”
He’d heard something similar from her before.
He made another mental note.
It certainly wasn’t time to discuss it now.
Wednesday, May 24, 8:22 p.m.
David Eisenberg had majored in International
Economics, and had additionally been a Laws candidate
at Amherst College in Amherst, Massachusetts.
He was recruited by the Central Intelligence
Agency following graduation from Yale School of Law.
The ancient philosopher Herodotus told us:
‘Of all men’s miseries the bitterest is this, to
know so much, and to have control over nothing,’
This twenty-four hundred year old thought was
not lost on him right now.
The excitement of working for this
organization captivated him.
218
It was the insights he’d applied from his Laws
background that allowed him to move into the Deputy
Director’s position.
He pushed the digits on his phone to reach his
Chief in Miami.
“Yes?”
“Courtney and St. Croix are preparing to pull
something off on the island. It may involve an active
Zero team.”
“Zeros? From where? Do we know when?”
“Wirtham will try to find out, it’ll probably be
soon. Orefice doesn’t want to send in any of our people.
I’ve got JGM covered. If I have to, I’m going to blow it.
Be prepared for that too.”
“Won’t you lose contact with the network?”
“Only temporarily. Wirtham’s implemented
redundancy at McKenzie in Connecticut. We could
reestablish in three weeks in D.C.”
“This could get messy if Zero’s get involved. We
have no idea where they’re located.”
“This whole damn thing’s a mess. Try to stay
on top of this. Call me tomorrow.”
“What about McKenzie’s daughter?”
“I’ll take care of her.”
He would.
Thursday, May 25, 7:05 a.m.
She’d been dressed since 6:00 a.m..
In the bathroom furthest from the bedroom,
she sat on the floor against the wall alternately hugging
a pillow to her chest then laying it on her lap to beat it
with every sense of severity in her body.
“damn it, damn it, damn it,…damn it.”
Through whispered cursing she hoped she
could mentally prepare herself to view the tape coming
in the Federal Express package due into the hotel
before 10:30 a.m..
219
She knew it would contain a revelation, an
answer, a piece of the puzzle.
The knock on the door was an interruption she
knew would come eventually.
“Kay - are you alright?”
The cold water she was now splashing on her
face wouldn’t hide the anguish.
Actually - she wanted him to see it - to heal it.
He was standing with his back against the wall
when she emerged.
Their eyes connected.
“Kay - come here.”
He pulled her close.
“Is it about your brother?”
She drew a breath.
“Yes.”
“The tape that’s coming?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll review it first if you like.”
“No…but I want you here while I watch it.”
“I will be.”
Thursday, May 25, 10:15 a.m.
Courtney, one again reviewing his notes, took
the call.
“Yes”
“Sir, this is the front desk calling - we have a
Federal Express package for you. It’s on the way up.”
“Thank you.”
Accepting the package from the bellboy, he
handed him two one-dollar bills. The red and white
Federal Express envelope contained the tape, and a
note from Eddie Dalger. Placing the tape under his left
arm, he opened and read the letter.
220
Michael and Kathleen.
Enclosed is the CBS tape. It contains more
footage than was reviewed by the Military Review
Board during the investigation. What you have is
everything shot by the cameraman from beginning to
end. Let me know if I can do anything else.
Eddie.
In the parlor, the television appeared to be
broadcasting a snowstorm. Without conversation, he
pushed the tape into the machine, and hit the ‘play’
button on the hand-held remote control unit.
Backing away, he moved to sit beside her.
The beginning was formatted with a sequenced
numerical countdown of patterned drawings.
10...9...8..7...6...5...4...,
She reached for his hand when the steamy
jungle appeared on the screen. Two microphones, one
on the camera, one hand-held, picked up the whispering
male voices of the CBS cameraman and the reporter.
“You’re crazy, Jack. That’s a fucking firefight
up there.”
“They’re only fifty yards ahead of us. C’mon, I
want this on tonight.”
The exploding hand grenade impacted their
central nervous systems sending both of them to the
damp jungle ground. The mini cam, on automatic feed
kept rolling footage - now only showing local foliage on
the suite’s TV screen.
The reporter’s voice was hushed.
“Get up - zoom in on that.”
Numb from the violence - the cameraman had
returned to his feet while pressing the button to extend
the lens on the mini cam.
They moved closer.
221
Rifle fire pierced the air.
The sun’s reflection off the Lieutenant’s bar on
his helmet was thought to be anything other than what
it was.
The muzzle flash of an M-16 was followed by
the muzzle flash of another.
Courtney thought it appeared to be cross fire,
but it looked like the distance between the spread of the
flashes was too close for cross fire. It was so close, it
looked more like hand-to-hand combat.
Something else was strange. The muzzle
flashes on the right side of the screen were lateral, from
right to left. The muzzle flashes on the left side of the
screen were vertical, from bottom to top.
Suddenly, she released his hand.
A woman’s body lay in two directions, a small
detached head at her feet.
“OK - get that camera on me.”
“We have just come upon what seems to be the
aftermath of a massacre. The marine corporal at my
feet has apparently taken out several women and
children who were under what’s left of a tarpaulin
behind me.. Both my cameraman and I are sick at the
sight of what we see here. There was an explosion,
obviously from one of his hand grenades that has done
incredible devastation. He must have been killed in the
cross fire exchange of the fire fight. We think his unit is
about two hundred yards to the south of us. We’re
going to try and make our way…”
“Turn it off, Michael.”
Courtney clicked the remote control, the TV
was now blank.
“I’m going for a walk.”
It took everything he had to keep from
reaching for her.
“I’ll be here when you get back.”
She stopped at the door and turned, her voice
calm, yet demanding.”
222
“Analyze it, Michael. There’s something there.”
She turned again, and left.
Analysis is a science. It’s also an art. The
challenge of this analytical procedure would be to bring
together inductive reasoning with deductive logic. It
would almost be like trying to reach a destination by
driving to it from two points at the same time.
He’d take what was known and work
backwards confirming the premises making the
conclusion, and would infer from known specifics to
reach general propositions. Throughout the process, an
intuitive balance would be required to control one
procedure from dominating the other.
In this analysis, he wouldn’t know what to look
for. He only knew he needed an answer, the truth. The
most accurate way to find the truth is to begin an
analysis with things we know to be true - axioms.
The papers spread on the coffee table contained
The Universal Physical Laws
Pressing the rewind button on the remote
control, Courtney reviewed Number One.
He hit ‘play’ and reviewed the entire tape
again.
Nothing came to him. His thoughts reflected
his mood.
“Damn, that was a key.”
He worked through Number Two. It was
proven, but proved nothing.
Three…nothing.
Four…nothing.
Five…Someone broke it. There had to be a
reason.
Six
The tape rolled.
Countdown - jungle green - swearing -
explosion - foliage close up - sun’s reflection - muzzle
flashes - more of the same.
223
‘ What the Hell…?’
He read Law Six again, even though he knew it
by heart.
The tape rewound. He kept the control unit in
his hand - it was time to freeze frame.
Countdown.
He held the thought of Law Six.
‘Nothing escapes it.’
Jungle green.
Large leafed plants - footsteps - bouncing
camera.
He held the frame, taking pen to paper.
Courtney noticed the shadows made by solid
objects.
The sun was coming out of the left side of the
screen. He made a note that left was South.
The tape rolled.
Swearing.
Explosion - men falling - close up foliage -
camera kept running.
He froze the frame again.
Shadows were still created out of the left side
of the screen. The picture wasn’t disturbed. He
inferred the camera lens had remained clear.
The tape rolled.
Most everything metallic will reflect sunlight.
When conditions are perfect, even the smallest piece of
metal directing the rays of the sun away from its
surface toward a convex lens can create an instant of
total blindness within the lens.
The VCR unit housing the tape had a playback
feature that allowed for slow motion, frame by-frame
viewing. Courtney pressed the appropriate button
putting the machine in this mode.
It took about thirty frames to appear.
‘THERE!’
224
He froze the frame - the TV screen showing
only a brilliant white light even though the camera was
pointed at lush tropical greenery.
He let the frame go - the jungle reappeared.
Muzzle flashes out of the North - laterally
directed.
Muzzle flashes out of the South - vertically
directed.
He checked the tape counter and backed up
seven digits.
Placing the control unit and pen on the coffee
table, he walked to the bathroom on the bedroom side of
the suite. Kay’s lipstick was on the counter. Grabbing
it, he returned to the TV.
The tape ran frame by frame.
Using the lipstick to draw a small circle on the
screen, he noted the point of reflection.
Backing up the digits, he froze it again.
The lipstick circle was now superimposed on
dense foliage.
Picking up his pad and pen, he began to write.
‘Sunlight had hit everything uncovered…
something’s reflecting sunlight…it must be uncovered.’
Forward - four digits.
Frame-by-frame again.
The blindness disappeared, followed by the
first set of muzzle flashes.
‘FREEZE!’
He used Kay’s lipstick to draw a circle around
the fire created by the release of bullets from the end of
a gun, noticing that it was only about one inch below
and to the left of the first circle.
More analysis.
‘Whoever fired had the reflective object
attached to his head. Who would be crazy enough to
wear something reflective in the jungle?’
The tape rolled.
Muzzle flashes to the left - vertical.
225
He noted their position on the screen with his
lipstick.
It was coming together.
Courtney rewound to the blind spot and froze
the frame.
He didn’t want to review it again, but needed a
white surface to draw on.
Holding the lipstick against the screen, he
created a likeness of a head where he’d made the first
circle. He then drew a gun, a horizontally-held rifle
where he’d put his second mark.
Finally, he drew another rifle, vertically-held,
where he’d made his last mark.
Deductive logic.
‘These two guys were pretty close. There’s an
explosion, then one of them fires in the other’s
direction. The guy on the left fires up in the
air….DAMN, he got shot by the guy on the right - he’s
reflexing his trigger after he’s been hit. How did he let
himself get so close to danger without firing first?’
Nothing came to him.
He walked to the bathroom replacing a lipstick
tube with a now flattened tip on the counter.
Inductive reasoning.
‘Why did she tell me I didn’t know what I was
involved in? Maybe I should call Andy. When’s
Breacher One going to call again? Who the hell wears
metal on their head during a war? Who said it was
metal? What if it is…an Officer!…a Lieutenant, a
Captain, A Major…No - they all wore subdued rank
designations in Nam. They wouldn’t reflect.’
He’d returned to the couch. Sitting, he
continued his thoughts.
226
‘ How did they get so close?…they KNEW each
other…they were on the same side…the guy on the left
ended up on the bad side of this…Oh No, John! Who
was the guy on the right - the guy with the metal on his
head. Why wasn’t he there when the TV crew got
there? He bailed out…of course…he took off after he
shot John. Where are those newspaper articles?’
She’d left them on the night table beside the
bed. Retrieving them, he went to sit on the couch.
He started reading.
‘Tollman - Commanding Officer of John
McKenzie’s unit - Lieutenant - decorated for bravery at
La Dang…’
Nothing came until he’d read seven stories.
One reporter had done a lot of background
research through his own sources on the Commanding
Officer at La Dang. It was noted, from anonymous
sources, in his article that First Lieutenant George
Tollman had been reprimanded twice by his Battalion
Commanding Officer for wearing brass insignia on his
fatigues and steel helmet rather than regular-issue
subdued rank designation.
Courtney had finished.
‘It was Tollman.’
227
Chapter 9
Zero Time
Thursday, May 25, 4:15 p.m.
A weapon for a Navy Zero could be anything
from a pistol, to a machine gun, to an attack helicopter.
Duel disciplines are required learning. Each Zero team
is composed of members complimenting each other in
all the functional roles. Zeros are all Naval
Commissioned Officers who, with the exception of their
white dress uniforms, wear no rank designations on
their uniforms, which can be varied depending on the
operation they are engaged in.
Most Zeros serve an average of four to six years
in the Navy, but are never decommissioned from either
rank, or from the organization.
There are Zeros who choose to make a career of
clandestine operations with this elite group.
Anthony ‘Snake’ Coverty was one of them.
St. Croix had arrived in Miami at 1:00 p.m.
Wirtham knew he was there, but didn’t know where
specifically.
Cash was available at St. Croix’s request. Two
hundred thousand dollars could be wired through any of
seven banks in Miami twenty-four hours a day.
He knew he’d need most, if not all of it.
Although he had received several JGM credit cards he
could have used at The Hyatt Regency, The DuPont
Plaza, or any of the better hotels, he chose instead to
take a small room in a small motel adjacent to the
North end of Runway 66 at Miami International
airport.
Within the perimeter of the airport, on the far
side of Runway 66, there were two buildings.
228
One was all metal, two hundred feet long,
sixty feet wide, and officially belonged to the
Department of The Navy.
It was off limits to airport management staff,
including security personnel. The smaller building, also
off limits, was made of wood, was windowless, and most
usually had three vehicles parked on its east side. All
were turbo-charged, four wheel drive GMC Jimmys.
Five men called this smaller building home
base.
Four of them would change every three years,
and one stayed all the time.
There were two phones. One was red, the
other black. Many people had the number of the black
one, although it wasn’t listed in any phone book or
military directory.
Only ten people had the number of the red one,
and one of them was dialing it now
A compact, very dark, muscular and serious
man who was studying maps on Mediterranean
shipping lanes pushed himself away from a drafting
table to answer.
“Snake here.”
“Hey, you little rascal, where ah come from ah
ain’t never seen a snake friendlier than y’all.”
Recognition was instant, laughter spontaneous.
“That’s because you’re always choking the poor
bastards before you get to know them. What the Hell
are you doing, Andy?”
“Ah was in the neighborhood, and ah decided
ah’d reacquaint myself with the good life.”
“Where are you?”
“If y’all had a window in that shack, y’all could
look out and see me.”
“If I had a window, you could shoot me too.”
“Hell, when did we ever need a window to take
care of a little detail like that?’
“You’re right…why the red phone, Andy?”
229
“Ah need to talk to you…real private.”
“I know where you are, I’ll pick you up…are
you in trouble?”
“No, but ah got a good buddy who is…big time.”
“Where is he?”
“Short hop over the water where they speak
Spanish.”
“Oh great…I’ll be right there.”
“Snake.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s spooks around here, don’t be followed.”
“OK, better give me a half hour - what room?”
“Twelve.”
“See you, Buddy.”
He took the Jimmy nearest the door. It’s black
tinted windows allowing no one to see in from the
outside, but allowing clear, unrestricted vision from the
interior of the vehicle.
The Cobra tattooed on his left bicep seemed to
open its already large mouth even wider when his arm
extended clockwise to back out of the parking space.
Andrew St. Croix was never too far from his
mind. They’d spent twenty months together as part of a
primary Zero team in Vietnam.
When he and Lee Doc, the delicate and
beautiful daughter of a South Vietnamese Army
General decided to marry, it was St. Croix who stood up
for him. It was also his friend, Andy, who stood by his
side when he buried his bride three months later after
her car had been riddled with ninety rounds from AK-
47’s in an infiltration ambush just outside five clicks to
the West of Saigon.
Snake flew choppers, did weapons, and
maritime law, then, and now. He was one of the best,
and he was career.
Approaching the motel following a roundabout
route, the recalled pain of Lee Doc’s memory lessened,
replaced with the thought of his friend.
230
He didn’t need to knock - St. Croix saw him
coming.
“How y’all doin, Snake?”
“Better - now.”
They embraced, two men who could kill ten
allowed each other their emotions.
“What time did you get in?”
“About one…want a beer?”
“Sure…what’s the deal.”
Pulling two Buds out of an icy Styrofoam chest,
he formed his thoughts. Snake would want to know it
all, he could be trusted, and he deserved the truth.
He’d tell him all the truth he knew.
St. Croix started with the organization as he
knew it, continuing with names and character
descriptions; Yankee Echo, Bellcamp, Salazar, Belize,
Courtney, Wirtham, McKenzie, Benson, Tollman,
Breacher One.
He worked through the reasons and the logic,
taking an hour to profile the mission.
Finishing, he waited for a comment.
It wasn’t long coming.
“Your crazy.”
“That ain’t the first time y’all told me that, but
you can believe all of it.”
“Andy, you’re messing around with the Vice
President of Cuba because some asshole was robbing a
house and gave you his name.”
“Don’t forget all the wobbly stuff goin down
with the Heavies.”
“You still haven’t convinced me McKenzie is
where Belize will be.”
“Courtney’s real good with this stuff, Snake.
Ah wouldn’t ask Y’all if ah wasn’t comfortable with his
call.”
“We’d be doing a night op, could he handle a
weapon?”
“Nope, probably shoot himself in the foot.”
231
“OK, so let’s say we do this; he’s the
philosopher, you’re close contact, and I’m weapons. We
still need intelligence and a flight man.”
“Ah’ll get the intelligence work done, we just
need a chopper, and a damn good driver.”
“I have a kid on my team - he’s just as whacky
as you are. He’ll do it. The rest of the team’s off until
next weekend anyway.”
“This ain’t just escape and evade, Snake. Ah
think Courtney’s gonna logic out to shit can both
buildings and personnel.”
“Well then just make sure the intel’s right. I
don’t want to walk up and knock on the wrong door.”
“How much lead time do you need?”
“Give me two days. The fly out and back will
require bribes. I’ll have to pay off some radar jocks on
the coast to look the other way when they pick us up.
There’s also guys here in Miami I’ll need to reach. We
can get out and back without anyone knowing we’re
gone, but we could run into a load of problems on the
island. If we do, we’ll be prepared. They won’t know
what hit them, but they’ll probably know it came from
stateside. If we screw up, we’re going to need every
medal owner you know in the military to get us out of
this.”
“Ah thought about that. This has to be done.
Yankee Echo’s a force, Snake, and it’s gonna blow the
hell out of Benson’s Reform Plan. If we get known over
there, the President himself is gonna be dragged into
this.”
“OK, I’m in. I’ll brief the pilot, but I’ll tell him
he can only know about the mission, not the
background stuff. I think he’ll still be with us. You
take care of Courtney. We’ll need at least a hundred
fifty G’s to pull this off - cash. You’d better have two
hundred available.”
“Ah’ll get you fifty to start. Ah can get it all, no
problem.”
232
The career man flipped open another beer, sat
back in his chair, and looked through his friend’s eyes.
A smile broke.
“You’re crazy, Andy. A clandestine writing
organization?”
Thursday, May 25, 4:32 p.m.
He didn’t expect the call.
“This is Courtney.”
“Get your pen going, Courtney. We want the
first set of stories in the newspapers by next Friday.”
His emotional platform wasn’t ready for
Breacher One. He caught the word ‘we’, it registered,
analysis would come later…no, it wouldn’t, ‘focus…pay
attention…use presence……damn…focus’
It seemed like the words would never come,
and when they did, they were delivered almost in
surrender.
“I understand.”
“We’ll be watching for the bylines.”
Thursday, May 25, 5:15 p.m.
“Kay, where have you been…what’s wrong?”
Her eyes were hollow - hair wind blown and
disheveled by
slightly-warmed cool Spring breezes.
Walking with her hands straight to her sides,
she approached him with little sense of purpose.
“I went for a walk.”
That was half the truth.
“You’ve been gone seven hours…what
happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Kay?”
Her eyes fell to his chest.
233
“You’re into something that may be way over
your head, Michael.”
The statement, less than rhetorical, had an
emotional truth attached to its brevity. It was subtle,
an effect demonstrated to cause an action.
“I’m not bailing out, Kathleen.”
Less hollowed, her eyes seriously focused.
“Don’t do it to be a hero, Michael.”
Breacher One returned to his thoughts.
“I had a call from our friend who likes
newspaper stories. He’s expecting to see quite a few
next Friday.”
“You changed the subject.”
“So did you. I’m telling you what’s going on -
you’re not. You look like you’ve been through Hell.”
She held the thought for a moment.
“Michael - sit down.”
He complied.
Kneeling - hands placed on his thighs, she
drew a breath.
“I’m going to tell you some things, not
everything, but some things you need to think about.”
Adjusting her legs on the carpet, she once
again drew a deep breath.
He didn’t speak, his mind reconciling itself to
logic, and analysis. His eyes assumed a non purposeful
set, an instinctive action less to meet the requirements
of what was to come, than to allow her into his being.
His presence, hardly demonstrated, was
internally demonstrative.
Her lips parted.
“When you were recruited into Yankee Echo by
Robert, the organization was already established. It
was running just fine. You were brought in for a special
purpose. You also weren’t told the whole truth.”
Her hands pressed on his legs.
234
“Think about the information you get. Where
do you suppose it all comes from. Do you think our
computers are generating all that stuff? How many
research analysts to you see at JGM exports - maybe
half a dozen? I know you understand the power of
Yankee Echo - but you don’t know where the power
behind the power comes from. Trust me when I tell you
it’s big.”
She paused before giving him the next part.
“You’re working for people who have incredible
power and money for their operations. It’s not just my
father or McKenzie Industries. Yankee Echo isn’t run
by just my father or Robert. It’s controlled by some of
the smartest, best qualified people in the world with
resources that are almost endless.”
“If you continue with your plans, and I already
know what they are, there could be a lot of danger in it
for you. I want you to know that there’s a force behind
you that will back up every move you make, but if these
people feel threatened by what you’re working against,
or if they feel the organization’s been compromised too
much, they’ll destroy it themselves and set it up
somewhere else in a couple of weeks.”
She pressed even harder on his legs.
“You can walk away from this any time you
want…these people know how to take care of trouble.
At the same time, I also want you to know I’m glad
you’re directing it. That may seem paradoxical to you,
and I’m not going to get into all the philosophy behind
it. I know you’ve got a plan going with Andy. You may
think you’re in charge, but you’re not in the driver’s
seat. I just wanted to make you aware of all this. I told
you from the beginning Yankee Echo was too
manipulative. I just didn’t tell you everything. Maybe
it would have made a difference.”
She laid her head on his knees knowing he’d
need time to think before responding.
She was right.
235
‘Endless resources? A back up force that would
destroy Yankee Echo and set it up somewhere else?’
She was identifying a covert operation running
an already covert operation.
He had to start with the last part first. He
needed to be careful. She had a hidden agenda, so she
also had reasons for keeping it hidden until now.
She was innocent - no, she wasn’t.
“Kay - how long were you going to keep this
from me?”
She spoke softly as if her response was both
anticipated and expected.
“I don’t know - I hoped you’d get out…maybe
forever.”
Things were crumbling.
“Why are you telling me now?”
“Because…I love you.”
“You loved me before but never told me.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”
‘Controlling - use Seven.’
He hated acting like this with her, but he
needed an answer.
“Kay…your brother, John, was shot by
Tollman.”
Immediately standing - she backed up five feet,
arms folded across her chest.
Her voice shook.
“What was on the tape?”
He spent the next fifteen minutes
describing what he saw, and how he came to his
conclusion. The Sixth Law.
“Michael - what do we do?”
Control had changed.
“We can do one of three things.”
He rose, walking away from her and speaking
at the same time.”
“We can ignore it; we can ask the Military
Review Board to reopen the case…”
236
Turning to face her, he made direct eye contact.
“…or, we can make him come to us.”
She was weakening.
Seven worked. She’d been neutralized.
He acted quickly.
“Who’s controlling Yankee Echo?”
Kathleen McKenzie had promised her father
she’d always keep the information to herself. But she
knew this man. She knew he’d eventually find out.
And when he did…would he hate her for not telling
him?”
“…fifty corporations, and the CIA.”
Although she’d spoken just above a whisper, it
felt like her words had been thrown at him rather than
spoken to him.
‘Holy shit.’
“Who’s the Controller you told me about?”
“A man - David Eisenberg, he’s a Deputy
Director at the CIA.”
“Who knows this.”
“My father - Robert - and me.”
“What about Andy?”
“No.”
He stared straight at her. She knew he could
mentally and emotionally crush her.
‘Not now, maybe later, no, I love her.’
“Kay, go lie down - you’re exhausted.”
She walked to the bedroom, aware she’d given
away the big secret.
She wanted to, had to - and didn’t care.
There was more to be told - he’d find out.
‘Fifty corporations and the CIA? What the hell
else don’t I know?’
237
Friday, May 26, 5:45 a.m.
He’d spent the evening editing and finishing
the TAC he’d written on Tuesday.
AYE WRTS 5/26
MICHAEL - MICHAEL
PREP CBA WRT
CHNG DIRECT
IMP WRT NEG
SHRT TERM
RPT WRT NEG
USE TACS TO FLW
ST TO ST
INSDT6/2
DTL ECON ACT LEAD INDS AS DIR
AMER INVEST IMPROPER
RPT SHRT TERM
NO QUEST
MICHAEL - MICHAEL
The directions to Yankee Echo writers were
specific. Prepare Cuban writes, change direction,
imperative to write negative. This is a short term
directive, state by state, TACS would follow. Insertion
date would be June 2nd. Detail economic activity by
leading economic indicators. American investment at
this time would be improper. There would be no
questions.
‘I hope Breacher One and his friends aren’t
going to count the number of stories, but they sure are
going to like the results. By Monday, half the country
will be scratching their heads on the Reform Plan.’
238
His thoughts returned to Kay.
‘Why now? Why did she hold this information for so
long - would she have ever told me? God damn it, Kay.
What the hell, Courtney, you’re just involved with the
President of The United States, The President and Vice
President of Cuba, the CIA, a secret organization that
manipulates millions, a murder that happened years
ago in a war. Hell, what’s the big deal, you can handle
this - you’ve got forty Laws to fight half the freakin
world.’
Pen in hand, he drafted a brief note. She’d be
fine alone. The CIA was probably all over the hotel.
Went to see Robert
Take a cab over when you get up.
Friday, May 24, 9:41 a.m.
The manila envelope in the center of Fleet
Admiral Bruce Turner’s desk contained a personal,
hand-written letter, and another sealed envelope. The
Chairman of The Joint Chiefs of Staff had expected it.
A brief alerting phone call from the Best Navy Zero he’d
ever known told him to be watchful of its arrival.
Pulling out the contents, he read one and held
the other.
Bruce,
I need a favor. The enclosed, sealed envelope,
needs to be delivered to the President as soon as
possible. This can’t go by courier. It has to be hand
delivered. Believe me, you’re indemnified in this issue.
I need a credible deliverer, and you are the most
credible I have. If you have any questions, please call
me.
Thank you,
Andy 239
There would be no questions. St. Croix had
established his credibility years earlier.
How easily he’d described to him the essence of
any command position.
From a side drawer in his desk, he pulled a
well worn piece of paper. On it his friend’s handwriting
Keep nothing to yourself. Give everything
away. By constantly evolving, you will become
constant. By constantly renewing yourself, you will
endure.
Applied metaphysics had not only aided Turner
in earning his rank, but also had assisted him in every
command authority he held.
Andy St. Croix was a trusted friend.
The letter would get delivered today.
Friday, May 26, 12:01 p.m.
He only had a fifteen minute window of time.
Normally, Randall Benson would have told any
military man who approached his office to use the
Chain of Command, and go through the Secretary of
Defense. Bruce Turner was a friend though, and the
highest ranking military officer constantly made him
look good.
He only needed five minutes with the President
and Benson didn’t understand what could be
accomplished in such a short time frame.
He’d granted the request for the visit.
Turner was to be shown in on his arrival.
He now walked the red carpeted hallway
leading to the oval office.
Service Dress Blue and Service Dress White
uniforms, are worn for official functions not rising to
the level of full or dinner dress. It is commonly worn
when traveling in official capacity, or when reporting to
a command.
240
Fleet Admiral Turner cut an impressive figure
in he Service Dress Blues complete with campaign
ribbons.
A number ten envelope, unopened was carried
in a plain manila folder.
As he reached the outer door of the Oval Office,
two secret service agents, previously alerted to his
arrival, greeted him cordially, the senior of the two
addressing him.
“Admiral Turner, good afternoon, Sir. The
President is expecting you, please go right in.
Military courtesy is one of the defining features
of a professional military force. These courtesies form
a strict, and sometimes elaborate code of conduct. Fleet
Admiral Bruce Turner was well aware of the protocol.
Two steps into the sanctum of power, he halted,
brought his feet together, and raised his right hand in a
perfectly formed salute.
“Mister President, thank you for seeing me.”
Benson, returning the military
acknowledgement much less formally, gestured to one of
two chairs in front of his desk.
“Sit down, Bruce, what can I do for you?’
Turner got right to business.
“Mister President, I have an envelope in this
folder. Its contents are intended for your eyes only. I
was asked to courier this to you by someone I trust
implicitly…”
While retrieving the letter whose contents were
unknown to him, he continued.
“…I don’t know what’s inside, but I’m certain
it’s urgent by virtue of its sender.”
He shifted in the chair.
“I really have no other business here, Mister
President.”
Turner placed the unmarked white envelope on
Randall Benson’s desk.
The President eyed it, and stood. 241
“Bruce, I’ve trusted your judgment many times
before, and have a lot of respect for you, so I won’t ask
who gave this to you.”
Benson, now tapping his fingers on the
envelope continued, looking straight into the Admiral‘s
eyes.
“I’m sure whatever is in this envelope is
important, but the fact that it’s sealed and you don’t
know what’s in it probably means you never will. Are
you comfortable with that, Bruce?”
The inflection in his voice was serious.
“Yes, Sir, I am. I trust the sender. If he said it
was important, it is. You should know, however, that
the contents of the envelope may not have been written
by whom I am a courier for. He may be acting on behalf
of another party.”
The President place both hands on his hips.
“Well then, Bruce, this could get very
interesting, couldn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I understand you’ll be addressing the
graduating class at Annapolis this year. Give them
wisdom, Bruce, they’ve earned it.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll do my best.”
“Very well, thank you for bringing this over.”
“Yes, Sir.”
They understood one another.
Turner stood, saluted, turned, and left.
Benson’s next appointment wasn’t actually an
appointment in the Oval Office. It was a photo
opportunity for six Freshman Congressmen, and two
Congresswomen scheduled to take place in the Rose
Garden.
They might have to wait a few minutes. The
demands on the President of The United States are
great.
Pete Radler and the President’s Social
Secretary would keep them entertained.
242
Besides, there was a nice spicy punch they
were all enjoying, along with some hor dourves.
They wouldn’t mind a wait at all.
Unsealing the white envelope he reviewed the
letter.
It was short and to the point, the signature on
it from a
Michael J. Courtney.
Benson’s right hand pressed the necessary
digits on his phone system to engage his secure line and
dial a short number.
The phone in his left hand, he heard one ring.
“Scott Orefice.”
“Scotty, I have a letter in my hand from
Michael Courtney, just delivered to me by the Chairman
of The Joint Chiefs of Staff who was unaware of its
contents when it was given to me. I’d say Courtney and
his gang have some authority, wouldn’t you?”
It didn’t take him long to figure this one out.
“Yes, Sir. I’d bet that contact was made
through Andy St. Croix. He probably made a lot of
friends in Vietnam, Including Admiral Turner.”
“Courtney’s asking for a meeting with me. He
told me in the letter that there’s an organization at
work trying to destroy my Economic Reform Plan for
Cuba.”
The CIA Director gave the President’s
statement some thought for a moment. His next
statement would be a question. He knew there would
need to be some kind of involvement.
There would be.
“Mister President, how do you want me to
handle this?”
He’d already predetermined a response.
“Contact him like you said you would. By
accessing this office through the channel he used,
Courtney demonstrated his weight.
243
He’s working with good people, Scotty. I feel
confident he and St. Croix have a solid plan in place to
find and rescue Pat McKenzie. Find out what you can.
Let’s keep a close eye on them.”
He expected the response he’d just received.
“Yes, Sir.”
The Director also knew it was time to set a
planned operation into action.
“Mister President, Yankee Echo is gearing up
to answer a directive, and it’s going to be very negative.
It’s going to cause some damage to your Reform Plan. I
think we should push President Santiago into that
contract with Kushima as soon as possible. Once we
have the money secured, I’ll be able to take care of the
prejudice.”
The thought of extreme prejudice caused
Benson to close his eyes for a moment. Wars have no
victors, there are only casualties, and the memories of
its attendants never fade.
He placed the Director’s thoughts in a
temporary memory bin.
“Yes, Scotty.”
That was all that needed to be discussed on
that subject for the time being.
“Do you know where St. Croix is right now?”
“No, Sir. He constantly loses our details. His
escape and evade tactics are no match for us. Wirtham
told us he’s putting together a Zero team with Courtney,
but we don’t know where. All we know is he’s in Miami
somewhere. We hope to make contact when Courtney
joins him.”
“Give them a lot of slack - and keep me
informed.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Phones were cradled.
The President picked his up again, this time to
speak with his secretary.
“I want to speak to President Santiago as soon
as possible.” 244
He heard an affirmative response
…Time for a photo opportunity.
The Director of Central Intelligence stood and
walked to the bank of windows in his office. Now, arms
folded, he returned to his desk picking up a portable
cellular phone next to the main unit.
Two digits of pressure connected him with one
of his agents.
“Martin - where’s Courtney?”
“He’s in the JGM offices, Sir.”
Returning the portable phone to its original
resting place, he connected with his secretary on the
main system.
“Beverly, get me Michael Courtney at JGM
Exports, please.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Friday, May 26, 12:22 p.m.
Heliocentric Theory was first applied by
Aristarchus of Samos, a Greek astronomer and
mathematician who lived (310-230 BC).
His Theory held that the earth and planets
revolve around a fixed sun, and that the earth rotates
on its own axis throughout this orbit.
Nicolaus Copernicus, a Renaissance
astronomer, revived this theory in refuting the
Ptolemain system.
It was upheld again by Galileo Galilei, an
Italian physicist, mathematician, astronomer and
philosopher who played a major role in the Scientific
Revolution.
The idea that the earth could not be at the
center of the universe was just as opposed at the time of
Aristarchus, as it was in 16th and 17th century Europe,
on the basis that it subordinated man’s place in the
Universe.
245
Michael Courtney had thought he worked from
the center of the universe within Yankee Echo.
In fact, he was told he was the center.
But it was unreal. He’d fooled himself, and
they’d fooled him.
For ten years now, unaware to him, his work
had been strategic development of issues the Central
Intelligence Agency wanted developed.
In retrospect, he couldn’t ever remember
working on anything related to a corporate entity. With
fifty corporations involved, there must have been
hundreds of issues needing attention, remediation,
public sympathy, support.
He guessed those must have been handled by
Robert Wirtham.
‘How could I have been so stupid? How often
did these companies and the CIA press The Laws into
action through me? Shit, I never worked on any
corporate issues. Robert must have handled those. So
what do I do now? Damn it, Kay, why didn’t you tell
me? Why didn’t Robert level with me when we were at
UVM? Would I have taken this position back then if I
knew the power behind it? How many other lies were
there…are there?’
Pushing back his chair, he stood, grabbed the
three pages he’d written, and walked into Wirtham’s
office.
“Here’s the TAC. I’ve worked out details for
states by regions. I want this in the fax system by three
this afternoon. Can we handle that?”
There was a tone in his voice Wirtham had
never heard. He decided to leave it alone.
“Sure…have you heard from Andy yet?”
“No. I thought you might hear from him first.
I know he’s going to need some money.”
“It’s available…what’s your gut on Pat being
near Belize?”
246
“I’d say it’s certain.”
He’d expected a lot more.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all for now, Robert. Let’s get the TAC
going.”
His teacher studied the pupil, eyes connected.
It felt confrontational.
The former UVM professor backed down.
“Consider it done.”
Wirtham knew his TAO XIA Master was either
close to the truth, or he knew it already.
Friday, May 26, 12:24 p.m.
Geraldine Allison stepped into the conference
room.
“You have a call on line three…it’s the Director
of The Central Intelligence Agency, Scott Orefice.”
His first instincts told him not to accept the
call.
Logic overruled. What he hell, he had to talk
to him someday.
“Thanks, Gerry.”
He pushed the appropriate button on the
Merlin set.
“This is Michael Courtney.”
“Mister Courtney - you sent a letter to the
President - he’s asked me to respond. I’d like to send
one of my Deputy Directors to speak with you.”
The analyst didn’t answer.
“Mister Courtney - I suggest you talk with us
on this matter.”
…He finally responded. He wanted to see the
President. He also needed to neutralize the current
situation and take control.
247
‘What the hell can they do, shoot me?’
“I don’t know you, Mister Orefice, and I didn’t
write that letter to you. If the President wants an
explanation, I’ll give it to him. I’m sure you can set up
a meeting.”
“The President is a very busy man, Mister
Courtney. I have…”
“I would think that the CIA Director has a
pretty busy agenda too, Mister Orefice. Your
appointment in this matter gives it both scale and
urgency. Set up the meeting and maybe I’ll be there.
Have someone contact me. I’m getting tired of being
jerked around.”
He returned the receiver to its cradle with
enough force to make one final unspoken comment the
Director would hear.
She stood in the doorway, legs crossed, her
head and shoulder resting on its frame.
“I had a great cab ride over.”
He looked up without raising his head and
offered no response.
She remained in the same position.
“I should have told you everything, Michael.”
Still no answer. Instead, he rose and
approached her, gently placing his hand on her lower
back providing enough pressure to begin moving her
into the room. When she was several steps forward, he
closed the conference room door behind her.
Pulling a chair away from the table, he
motioned with his left hand.
“Please, sit.”
She complied, placing her purse on the table
top and removing her blazer.
Courtney moved to the edge of the conference
table and half sat on its edge.
“Kathleen, you can yell and scream about
manipulation, but you allow yourself to remain in a
manipulative position, and you’re just as governing as
the rest of us. 248
You assume innocence and vulnerability.
You’re soft and gentle in every instance where it fits
your agenda. But you’re also capable of being cold and
calculating.”
Removing his eyes from hers, he left the table
and began walking around its perimeter. Her thoughts
returned to a Boston College classroom where she’d
seen him so many times in class do the same thing from
his desk. When he was in this mode, he didn’t just tell
you something, he flooded you with the truth.
“You have great intuition, wonderful
perception, and a face and body that won’t quit…”
She had to allow herself a Mona Lisa type
smile.
“…None of this is ever very distant from you.
They’ve become tools you use to take what you want.
You’re psychokinetic, Kay, you can make things move
without having any physical contact with them…but
you’re also translucent. You let people get close enough
to see an image, but not the real thing. I loved you for
the image, Kay, but recently you’ve become very
transparent, and I don’t like the image I see.”
He continued his journey around the table.
“I rationalized you, so I’m not without fault
myself. I probably manipulated you, your father and
Robert as much as I’ve been manipulated over the
years. We’re seemingly stuck in paradox, Kathleen -
something’s both true and false at the same time.
Emotions are true, but a lot of the premises those
emotions are built on are probably false, so its possible
the emotions themselves could be false.”
Halting his perimeter navigation, he once
again assumed a half seated position on the table.
“Right now, I hate all this shit, but I’m still
going to find your father. I’m also going to find and
break Breacher One and his friends, and I might end up
breaking this whole fucking place apart. People wanted
my application of the Laws - they’re going to get it.”
249
Looking through her eyes again, he saw an
emptiness reflected there as if it were coming from a
rear view mirror.
One thing had been left unsaid.
“Tell your friend, David Eisenberg, I’m taking
control of the organization.”
He got off the table and left.
Friday, May 26, 3:35 p.m.
Murray Herold, his wife, and two children
enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle in a Contemporary Cape
located on the northwest corner of Akron, Ohio. He was
also very comfortable in, and loved, his job as Business
Editor at THE AKRON BEACON JOURNAL.
It was the third, and largest paper he’d worked
at, and he had no desire to matriculate further into any
of the major metropolitan dailies.
The kids had a lot of nice friends, they were
both doing well in school, and his wife had taken a job
as the Business Manager at an Akron orthopedic
surgical group.
He had no qualms about working for Yankee
Echo. While he understood its clandestine and
manipulative aspects, he also felt the organization did
exactly what he was told it was doing - bringing
information to a nation in matters that needed
concentrated attention.
Subjects always fit the flow of the news as it
was being made, so it was easy to justify his stories in
editorial staff meetings.
His deadlines met for the day, he now sat in a
meeting unaware that the retrofitted fax machine
sitting on the desk in his den at home was printing a
‘write negative’ TAC on the Cuban Economic Reform
Plan.
250
Last Sunday, he’d written positive on the plan.
His first thought when he saw the new TAC would be
that Michael Courtney had a game plan he didn’t
understand, but he wouldn’t question it because the
cryptic message stated this was only a short-term
directive.
The hardest part would be to explain his turnaround
to his Managing Editor. He wouldn’t worry
about it, newspaper editors change their minds every
day. It came with the territory - it was his prerogative -
the First Amendment guaranteed it.
While he didn’t know the exact number of
writers Yankee Echo had across the country, he knew
the TAC would set in motion a negative public feeling
towards the President’s plan. If further TAC’s followed,
the effect would be compounded, and, if Courtney
continued to press the issue for any length of time,
there could be a national public outcry against any
investment in Cuba.
Maybe it was for the best, and maybe it wasn’t.
Courtney had been right too many times. His
track record was impressive.
He would think about how much power
Michael Courtney controlled, as would several hundred
other writers around the country, but they all wouldn’t
questioned it.
Murray Herald’s ‘write-neg’ story would appear
in the BEACON JOURNAL on June 2nd as directed.
Friday, May 26, 4:05 p.m.
Wirtham’s Director of Computer operations
stepped into his office
Placing a sheet of paper on his desk, she would
make one brief statement. Although he could quickly
tell who it came from, she felt a responsibility to tell
him.
251
“It’s from Andy.”
He looked up.
“Thanks.”
Although the chalky fax paper contained few
words, the message was clear to him.
ANDY - ANDY
ND50M T STRT
WLND 200M TTL
CNTME PORCEL 1
6:00 TD
MC NDD HRE
WLADV
ANDY - ANDY
St. Croix needed fifty thousand dollars to get
started, and would require two hundred thousand
dollars total. Some for Coverty, and some for him and
Courtney for unexpected contingencies.
He’d asked Wirtham to contact him on the
portable cellular telephone he was carrying - time of
contact 6:00 p.m. today.
In the last two lines of his message he told him
that Courtney was needed in Miami, St. Croix to advise
when.
Their operation was beginning to take form.
Wirtham glanced at his watch wanting to make
sure he had enough time left today to transfer the cash
St. Croix would need. That disclosure during his
upcoming 6:00 p.m. phone conversation would let St.
Croix know he was doing everything in his power to
help activate, and complete the operation.
He only needed a moment of thought to tell
him this was possible.
‘Two hours before I talk to Andy. Banks are
open later on Friday nights. I’ll transfer it to Sunbank.
Andy can get what he needs to get rolling tomorrow
morning, in cash.’ 252
He tapped his intercom.
Gerry, do you know where Michael is?”
She knew there would be a second question
after this one, so she gave him a response to save him
the trouble of asking both.
“He left at twelve-thirty - Kathleen left about
fifteen minutes later.”
“If you hear from either of them, tell them to
call me, please.”
“Will do.”
Turning to the credenza behind his desk, he
opened six folders on his computer before coming to a
password-protected file named TF, which was
appropriate for Transfer Funds.
Within it, he found the JGM Exports checking
account numbers and routing numbers for several
Chevy Chase Bank accounts in the D.C. area. The
corresponding numbers of several appropriate Sunbank
branches in Miami would also be used to route the
funds. He would additionally flag each of these
accounts in Miami to correspond with St. Croix’s JGM
corporate Identification.
He’d completed this procedure many times
before to surreptitiously route JGM funds to many bank
accounts that could only be accessed by The Director of
The Central Intelligence Agency.
The transfer took approximately forty minutes
to complete.
Waiting an additional fifteen minutes, he
identified the availability of funds and was satisfied the
transactions were within the reach of a Zero.
He’d call Andy St. Croix at approximately 6:00
p.m.
253
Friday, May 26, 4:50 p.m.
“I’ll speak with you again soon, Mister
President.”
The telephone connection between Washington,
DC and Havana, Cuba, totally secured, had lasted fiftyfour
minutes. For the Presidents of two nations
speaking together on sensitive subjects, this amount of
time was not unusual.
Juan Ramos Santiago, President of Cuba,
finishing a conversation with Randal Benson, President
of The United States of America, was prepared to sign a
contract with Saito Kushima, now a Japanese
industrialist, and prior, an inflictor of war crimes.
It would be an agreement for Kushima to build
a low-intensity,
high-output manufacturing plant just outside the center
of the capitol of Cuba.
The Plant, initially to be built out to seventy
five thousand square feet of manufacturing space and
offices, would have the capability to expand to two
hundred thousand square feet with attending buildings.
The buildings would belong to Kushima, while
the land beneath them would remain leased Cuban
property.
Additionally, and addendum to the contract
would be the availability of expansion into other areas
of manufacturing in related industrial fields to be
agreed upon in the future.
Kushima would prepare documentation from
its end, and its founder would fly to Cuba to meet
secretly with the new democracy’s President.
Just prior to the contract signing, because he
would have a good-faith document in hand, Saito
Kushima would activate bank accounts in several
Panamanian and Puerto Rican financial institutions
making seventy five million American dollars available
to Randall Benson and Scott Orefice. The other half of
their consulting fee to come later. 254
Benson dialed his CIA Director.
“Scott Orefice.”
“I just spoke with President Santiago, Scotty,
we have a green light to finalize the contract process
with Kushima.”
“I’ll start on that right away, Sir. I wouldn’t be
surprised if Kushima already had his first part
completed.”
“Did you contact Courtney?”
“Yes, Sir. He told me he’d only discuss the
letter with you, and he was very emphatic about it. I’ve
briefed David Eisenberg.”
“He’s not a man we want to alienate, Scotty.
Bring him in Monday at noon. I have some time.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll arrange it.”
Phones were cradled.
Once again, the aged photo came out of the
drawer.
Holding it with both hands, he addressed it for
what he hoped would be the final time.
“Soon, Jonathan, soon.”
Friday, May 26, 6:00 p.m.
Wirtham closed his office door.
Although there was no one left this Friday
afternoon at JGM Exports, the demonstration of
privacy, even if only for himself, was important.
Eight digits were pressed on his desk system
while hilltop satellite dishes responded by bouncing the
electronic request to a cellular phone in Miami.
Two rings
“This is St. Croix.”
“Andy, it’s Robert.”
“Y’all get the TAC, Bobby?”
“Yes, the money’s been transferred. I’ll fax you
the list of Sunbank branches and also the amount of
cash in each one. You’ll also get their corresponding
checking account and routing numbers. 255
Use your corporate ID, the accounts have been
flagged to your number. That‘s your password for
access at all of them.”
There would be no need to appear in person to
collect the cash. Doing so could cause detection.
Instead, the funds would be converted into twenty-two
certified bank checks, each for nine thousand dollars,
with instructions for them to be mailed to a P.O box at
Miami’s smallest post office. The name appearing on
each check would be Matthew Borden, a false
identification St.Croix kept that no one knew about.
Retrieved, the checks could be converted to cash at any
bank of his choosing.
The Zero felt comfortable with that in place.
“OK, where’s Mick, ah need him here.”
“I don’t know, I’m trying to locate him. Do you
think he‘s up for this kind of operation?”
Wirtham understood the potential dangers that
lie ahead. Courtney was invaluable as a Master of
Laws to Yankee Echo. It would be difficult to replace
him should anything go wrong.
“He’s certainly not up for some of the
spontaneity we may have to process, but ah can’t do
this op without a metaphysical component. Ah need a
strong left brain on this that can think quickly. That’s
Mick.”
The former UVM professor knew all too well
how true this was. The most important element right
now was to secure Pat McKenzie.
“I’ll have him contact you as soon as I locate
him.”
The reality of it was St. Croix couldn’t wait for
someone else to contact Courtney. He’d do it himself. It
would probably be as easy as calling him at his hotel.
Wirtham needed information for David
Eisenberg.
256
He wouldn’t get it.
“Andy, when and how are you doing this
operation?”
“Can’t say, Bobby, Zero Intel - sit tight.”
Friday, May 26, 6:17 p.m.
The bellhop couldn’t help but notice her legs.
A sophomore at George Washington University,
he felt like asking her out - but she seemed really flaked
out about something.
Besides, she was leaving.
“Can I call down and get you a cab?”
“No…thank you. I’ve already called for one.
Indicating her luggage, he relayed their future
position.
“These will be at the front door with the
Concierge, Miss.”
From her jeans, she produced a five dollar bill.
He looked in her eyes while accepting the
gratuity.
She was different - like she was thinking about
two things at once.
‘She’s probably going out with a grad student.’
In the hotel lobby, Kay walked to the
registration counter, handing the evening clerk a white
envelope with Courtney’s name on it.
Seeking out the Concierge, he indicated her cab
ride.
Outside, under the glass portico, the cabby was placing
her luggage in the trunk of his vehicle, a yellow, fuelinjected,
turbocharged Chevy.
She approached his vehicle, giving him
instructions in two words while he opened the rear door.
“Dulles - Private.”
257
Friday, May 26, 7:05 p.m.
He’d spent almost seven hours roaming the
city. In all the times he’d come here, he had never
climbed to the top of the Washington Monument -
thought about visiting the Lincoln Memorial - or taken
a tour of The White House - or stood and stared at
Charles Lindbergh’s plane at The Smithsonian Institute
- or even cared to see what was inside The United
States Department of Commerce.
Washington, DC, this afternoon and early
evening, felt all out of perspective to him. The real
power wasn’t here. It wasn’t in a building, or in any
seat of political privilege:
The real power was in forty Laws, written on
three pieces of paper.
He was never more sure of it, never more
certain he could take the power in The Laws and
channel it to fix a lot of things that were wrong.
Abe’s Bar and Grill was a favorite for locals,
the Claire’s and the Henry’s who kept the wheels of
democracy turning every day. It wasn’t in their job
descriptions to make the big decisions that are a
necessary component of every government. But without
the keystrokes on their keyboards that entered data
into a mountain of computers, absolutely nothing would
get done.
The analyst had chosen a bar stool smack in
the middle of Abe’s.
There were two baseball games on the bank of
TV’s at the top of the bar. He didn’t care who was
playing. He was concentrating on the
pitcher-batter confrontations taking place in each game.
Simultaneously, he concentrated on Decision
and Game Theory.
He knew that the subsequent and consequent
result of action was reaction.
258
He also knew that he was about to be
confronted with many variables and components of
individual subject matter, and that, within each of these
situations decision problems would arise. He knew he
would be faced with his own alternative actions and the
uncertainty regarding the consequences of either all, or
some of these actions.
When it became necessary to take action, he’d
need to know which one to utilize based on what was
most rational relative to the information available.
He’d assign probabilities to the occurrence of the
consequences of each action, estimate utilities such as
safety, detection and fulfillment associated with each
consequence, and he’d select as most rational, the
action with the maximum expected utility.
In most instances, all of this would need to be
done within seconds, and this metaphysician and
analyst had the capability to do it.
Michael Courtney was not a student of the
conservative philosophical concept of the ‘Minimax
Principle’ which recommended choices of action that
had as their outcome a consequence which was better
than the worst consequence of any alternative action.
Courtney felt this theory might work well in ‘Zero Sum
Games’ in which one’s opponents were rational - but not
here - not now.
There were lies, duplicity, and deceit to deal
with. He considered himself a game participant, with
other players having interests either parallel to, or
opposed to his own, and some players with parallel
interests had formed coalitions. There would be friends
and enemies, and some of both disguised as the other.
He needed a real friend. He’d thought he had
it in Kay, but now he didn’t know if he trusted her.
Robert was a liar. He had been deceived by his old
professor.
259
The man with whom he’d had the least contact
during his ten years with Yankee Echo, but with whom
he’d early-on formed an alliance of integrity, was a
walking, breathing piece of philosophy out of the South.
He’d return to the hotel, contact Andy St.
Croix, and begin to implement the contingencies he’d
worked out.
Yankee Echo was an organization controlled by
interests too big, and too powerful.
It had to be stopped, and he had to bring that
to resolution.
Picking up the ten dollar bill on the bar, he left
the loose change and two ones for a tip.
Outside Abe’s he hailed a cab, having left the
Jeep at JGM. Conveniently, there was one waiting two
spaces from the entrance.
He couldn’t know it, but the driver had refused
several fares before accepting his. A forty-ish, well
groomed man, he acknowledged Courtney’s destination
and swung the yellow, fuel-injected, turbocharged
Chevy into Washington’s traffic.
The driver’s permit card identified him as
Timothy Metcaff.
Inside ’The Company’ he was known as ‘The
Wanderer’ by his peers, a nickname given to him
because of the many world-wide assignments he’d
covered.
Beneath his jacket in a shoulder holster, was a
Browning 9-mm automatic pistol ready to come to life,
should it be required, in defense of the metaphysician
It would not.
The Wanderer would have only one fare this
evening.
260
Chapter 10
Decision Theory - Game Theory
Friday, May 26, 8:04 p.m.
Both the CIA and the FBI can post operatives
in just about any position they want - in any industry,
in any sociological format or venue, and at any level.
Disguises are unlimited - wardrobe consultants,
cosmeticians, and even pet groomers are all available to
both organizations within a moment’s notice. If
regional accents are a required part of speech, they can
both produce the necessary trained personnel for the
task
It’s a necessary component of surveillance at
which both organizations excel.
Posing as an evening clerk, she recognized him
from the photo given her by Scott Orefice. She had, in
fact been waiting for him to appear.
Courtney, now passing just fifteen feet from the
registration desk, was the subject of her alert.
“Mister Courtney, I have a message for you.”
Walking to the counter, he accepted the
envelope with his name on it.
The woman approximately his age with
shoulder length, straight, jet black hair who handed it
to him didn’t engage him in any conversation save what
she’d already expressed during the courtesy of delivery.
Elizabeth Hendricks could see he was intense.
A seriousness on his face reflecting strong emotions.
He’d never noticed her before, and he wondered
how she knew him on sight.
Almost as quickly as that thought came to
mind, he provided for its dismissal:
‘What the fuck - it’s probably Eisenberg’s
girlfriend. I’ll deal with it later.’
261
He recognized Kay’s writing.
It was always neat, but never pretty.
Now in the suite, he un-creased her handwritten
tri-folded sheet.
The letter wasn’t long, but it was long enough.
Dear Michael,
I’m returning to Connecticut. Please don’t be
concerned for my safety, I’ll be protected.
I never said anything to you about the other
corporations and the CIA simply because I was told it
was a secret for just Dad, Robert, and me. I don’t know
the reasons why they didn’t want you to know, and I’m
sure you’ll want to speak to my Dad about that when
you find him.
I left because I have something to do. Someday
I hope we will be together again, and all of this will be
behind us. I don’t know what you will do with the
organization, but maybe you’ve heard me about it being
manipulative.
You are in my prayers.
I Love You,
Kay
Eyes closed, he sent a crumpled piece of paper
across the room.
Pacing the suite’s parlor, his thoughts rumbled
through Decision Theory. The analyst finally put
together enough presence to elevate Yankee Echo’s plan
to a higher priority status than the thought of a young
woman who’d kept a trust to her father, but had
deceived him.
He’d deal with it later - absolutely.
‘Damn it.’
262
The telephone interrupted his thoughts.
Five rings…he shook his head vigorously.
Running his fingers through his hair as if its
follicles were in his way, he drew a deep breath and
released it.
“This is Michael Courtney.”
“Hey Mick.”
He felt relief, like someone had just saved him
from drowning.
“God, do you have good timing.”
“Say again?”
“Nothing, it’s just good to hear from you. Andy,
are we secure on this line”
“Yes, got the black coder on it.”
“OK, I have some news. I’ve been contacted by
the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“Orefice?”
“Yes, the President put him on my case after he
got my letter. Who did you have deliver it?”
“Admiral Bruce Turner. We got to know one
another in Nam. Ah gave him a few philosophical
lessons in how to get people to swing a boat around.”
“Andy, Bruce Turner is the Chairman of The
Joint Chiefs of Staff. You know him?”
“Hell, Mick, the guy puts his pants on the same
way we do.”
“No wonder the President saw him. Listen, I
need to tell you some things about the CIA. But what’s
the story in Miami?”
“Ah got us a Zero delegation to visit our
southern neighbor, but ah need a metaphysical
component, the left side of your brain. When can Y’all
get down here?”
“Are you sure you want me to go out with
trained commandos on a rescue mission?”
263
“Hell, Mick, there ain’t no other way to do this.
Do y’all think Belize is just gonna hand over Pat
because I quote him Law Five. There’s gonna be
decisions to be made, and you have to make those.”
He was resolute, he’d be there.
“There’s also something else I have to tell you.
It’s about Pat.”
“What about him?”
“He’s lied to you and me. So have Robert and
Kay.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll catch a flight out tomorrow, can you pick
me up at the airport?”
“Sure thing, buddy. There’s a Delta eight
o’clock out of Dulles. Ah’ll meet you…Mick…You OK.”
“No…I will be - yeah, I’m fine. I’m going to
work on strategy.”
“Michael” - it was the first time he’d ever used
his proper forename.”
It felt like his father had addressed him.
“Yes?”
“Let it go with Kathleen. If it’s real, it will be
there for both of you.”
Simple philosophy from an insightful man.
“Thank you, Andy……I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Phones disconnected.
He picked up the letter ball from the floor and
carefully unraveled its awkward geometric shape.
Refolding it in half three times, he delivered it to his
right pocket - a first step toward reconciliation.
He also mentally traced the letter to its
deliverer.
Black hair, brown eyes, five foot five or six,
appealing smile - he’d never seen her before - how did
she know who he was?
‘Be careful, Courtney.’
264
He was hungry, in fact, he’d hardly eaten all
day. Deciding to have something sent up, he located the
Hotel’s plastic laminated phone directory next to the
phone. Finding the appropriate extension, he dialed
room service.
His call was automatically forwarded to the
front desk, specifically to the phone system closest to
Liz Hendricks. She noticed the call coming in. It was
out of sequence on the roll-over lines.
She knew who was calling.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, this is Mister Courtney in the McKenzie
suite. I’d like to have dinner delivered.
“Do you have a room menu, Mister Courtney?”
“Actually, I know what I’d like to order.”
“What can we get for you this evening?”
“A prime rib, medium rare, baked potato with
sour cream, and a large pot of coffee, no sugars, but
some extra creamers, please.”
“Very well, that will be about thirty minutes.
We’re short of room service help this evening, so I’ll
send this up from the front desk. There won’t be any
need for a gratuity, Mister Courtney.”
“OK, thanks for your help.”
Placing the order through the hotel’s phone
system directly into the kitchen of its best restaurant,
she requested front desk attention five minutes before
delivery. “This is a special guest, management will
deliver the meal.”
Replacing the receiver, she retrieved a small
notebook from her pocketbook. On page one, in code,
were his five numbers; office direct line, mobile,
portable cellular, home, and aircraft.
Liz Hendricks glanced at her watch, CIA issue
- he’d said he would be at the office until eight thirty.
All his lines were secure from any outside trunk.
Dialing the number, it ring twice, she then
pressed star-six-two-three.
265
“Scott Orefice.”
“Mister Orefice, he’s having dinner sent up to
him. I’ll deliver it.”
“Good, as we discussed, Liz, the President
wants to see him on Monday. Can you set it up?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Liz, Courtney and St. Croix are planning
something for Cuba soon. Just be aware of that, and
remember everything else you’ve learned about him.”
“Yes, Sir, I will. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“I’ll be mobile until nine thirty, then you can
reach me at home. Call me before you call David. He
has his hands full right now.”
“I’ll call you later.”
Courtney had left the suite, and was now
exiting the elevator on the ground floor in search of
room service quarters.
It was in a late Spring class during his Senior
year at UVM when Wirtham had taught his students a
little trick in analysis.
If you want to remember a voice, always listen
intently to how someone speaks your name…the
inflections on vowels, and the beginning of syllables will
always contain the same repetition.
She’d said his name three times now. He didn’t
know how she knew it in the first place. One minute
she’s a registration clerk, now she’s taking room service
orders from the front desk.
Finding room service quarters, he knocked and
entered without waiting for an answer.
Inside, two uniformed women, both
approximately in their mid forties, were detailing five
uniformed men to dispatch items throughout the hotel.
One of the women turned as he entered.
She addressed him as if he were lost.
“May I help you?”
266
“Actually, I’m embarrassed, I probably should
stop by on Monday and see the people in the personnel
office.”
She smiled, but didn’t respond, hoping he’d
have something more to say than that.
He did.
“I’m trying to get my younger brother a job for
the summer, and someone told me there’s always a lot
of turnover in room service in the hotels, so I thought
I’d go right to the source and find out. Do you know if
the Marriott is hiring college students?”
“They might be, but not in this department -
we have more people than we can handle - they like the
tips. In fact, I had to send one person home tonight
because we’re slow this weekend. I think they might be
looking for a couple of bellhops, though. Why don’t you
try that for your brother.”
“Thanks, I will - hope I didn’t trouble you.”
“No bother - good luck.”
Returning to the elevator, he began working a
Game Theory equation, but hadn’t concluded much as
he reentered the suite.
‘A registration clerk taking room service
orders? Never saw her, but she knows me on sight.
Lied to me about help - why? What happens next? Was
the letter really from Kay - or was it written under
duress? No way, I know the CIA has her covered ten
ways to hell.’
An expected knock at the door made him turn.
Peering through the convex glass insert in all
hotel doors, he saw her standing beside a room service
cart, stainless steel covers over the food.
He was certain she also knew she was being
watched.
Withdrawing the door’s dead bolt, he greeted
her facetiously.
“Hi, thanks for bring this up. I hope you left
someone to cover the front desk.”
267
Chuckling, she pushed the cart ahead of her
into the suite.
“It’s no problem, Mister Courtney, and yes, I
did leave someone to cover for me.”
The door closed behind her.
Although she thought that was going to
happen, she felt momentarily insecure.
He’d just used both his First Law Corollary and
Law Seven against her - and to his advantage.
“You should develop a better working
relationship with your other departments.”
She bumped the cover on the meal with the
coffee pot.
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’d know which ones need help,
and which ones didn’t.”
Liz Hendricks had been bending over the cart,
preparing to serve the dinner on the Parlor’s center
table.
Standing straight up, she turned to face
Courtney, her arms folded.
“We have some matters to discuss, Mister
Courtney.”
He, now with his hands on his hips retorted.
“No kidding, lady, how about a name for
openers.”
“It’s Hendricks…Elizabeth.”
No response.
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Like the room service truth?”
“Mister Courtney…”
“Please - call me Michael, I’m going to call you
Liz.”
“Listen to me, Michael - I work for Scott
Orefice - he wants me to talk to you.”
“No fooling? Your agenda, or mine? Who‘s
first?”
268
“The meeting you want with the President - it’s
been arranged for Monday at noon. I’m sure you’ll want
to make it. We also know you and Mister St. Croix are
preparing for an operation in Cuba, and it would be
wise if you told me about that plan, and gave me some
of those details. We don’t intend to stop you, but we can
give you help if you need it.”
“So what do you do at the CIA, Liz, I mean
besides making believe you’re a registration clerk at a
hotel, Do they send you out as an Operative to convince
people to betray their countries?”
“I think you better listen to me, Michael.”
“Really? You work for one of the best
structured organizations in the world, and you’re
delivering dinner on pushcarts. You have access to the
Top Dog so you must be in some kind of special
operations position. I also haven’t missed the
European make up or the mascara either, Liz. What’s
the perfume for?”
“I don’t care for your insinuations.”
“They’re not insinuations. I want you out of
here right now. Tell your boss I’ll make the meeting
with the President.”
He began moving toward the door.
“I also want you to tell him to call off his
details on me with the exception of you. Call me
Monday morning at eight, I’ll be ready.”
Pulling a pen from the breast pocket of her
uniformed blazer, she moved to the desk where a piece
of Marriott stationery lay on its surface. The
agent/hotel clerk wrote two numbers in the middle of
the page, identifying each one. Below them she wrote
her name.
“The top number is my apartment, the other
one is the office. If you feel like talking, call me.”
Taking hold of his arm, she deposited the paper
in his hand while looking through his eyes.
269
“You may think you have all the cards right
now, Michael, but sooner or later you’re going to have to
play by some of our rules.”
Trying not to reveal it, he somehow new there
might be a lot of truth to that statement.
She left.
He had no intention of making the meeting
with the President - and he knew the results of his nonaction
would be reaction.
In his Game Theory, he was working opposites,
understanding them to be absolute concepts in the
realm of thought, and therefore to be related.
Subsequently, by focusing attention on any one
concept, he could create its opposite.
The ancient Chinese Philosopher Lao Tzu said,
“When all the world understands beauty to be beautiful,
then ugliness exists; when all understand goodness to
be good, then evil exists.”
He knew opposites to be polar, that good and
evil, victory and defeat, love and hate, were simply
different aspects of the same phenomena.
He knew that all opposites were
interdependent, that their conflict could never result in
complete and final victory for one side or the other, but
that symptoms of both would be revealed in the
demonstration of either.
The Tao Xia notion of ‘Dynamic Balance’ would
not be demonstratively employed by his opponents, and
therefore would work for him as an act of omission on
their part.
Their inability to relate to their own offensive
and defensive patterns as connected components of
strategy would be significant enough to cause them to
respond to his own plans.
He’d set the game, he’d make the rules, and he
would coach both sides.
270
He assigned probabilities of occurrence to the
consequences of missing the meeting with the
President. Maximum expected utility was anticipated
to be an intensive search, a renewed interest in his
mission, and no ramifications. They couldn’t afford it.
For them it was like playing poker with their cards up.
He was dealing for now. He also knew she was right,
but as long as he could read their hands, he could
remain the dealer.
She did make a good point as he thought about
it once again. At some future time, all of this would
change again.
Friday, May 26, 9:16 p.m.
There were three phone systems and a short
wave radio in his Cadillac. Although he had available
to him a number of anti-terrorist drivers, he preferred
to be alone driving to and from work, never being far
from the protection of several highly trained people on a
minutes notice.
She reached him as he left the main stream of
highway traffic taking the exit toward home.
“Scott Orefice.”
“It’s Liz.”
“Go ahead.”
“I spoke with Courtney - he’s being very
obstinate right now. He asked me to tell you to remove
all personnel tracking him with the exception of me.
He’s agreed to meet with the President at noon, and
wants me to call him at eight. He knows we have a lot
to talk about and that we both have agendas. I don’t
know where he’s coming from with that statement. He
could be making implications without grounds for
reference trying to create a bluff. Either that, or he
knows more about us than we think he does. I don’t
know your intentions, Sir, but I’d feel more comfortable
if you didn’t call off all our people. He doesn’t seem
irrational, but somehow I feel like we could end up on
the short end of his training.” 271
“I’m still going to keep our people on him
around the clock. We need our finger on his pulse, but
he’s not the one making the Cuban plan, that’s St.
Croix. Courtney and Kathleen McKenzie have
separated. She’s either going to stay at her condo, or
she’s picking up her car to drive to her home on Old
Saybrook.”
He glanced at his watch.
“David has dispatched someone to see where
she ends up. This means Courtney will have some time
alone. See what you can do with that. Keep your
appointment with him on Monday, in fact, you bring
him to the White House at noon. I’ll make
arrangements for access and entrance through the main
gate. I’ll speak with the President over the weekend
and brief him.”
He paused, his moment of silence not an
indication for her to reply, but rather a stage to set his
final comments.
“Stay close to him, Liz. Find out what you can.
This is important.”
Friday, May 26, 9:18 p.m.
He fingered the last digit of the Commerce
Secretary’s secure line.
“Secretary Tollman.”
“It’s all set.”
He’d heard those words before. His intuition
told him to question the tempered remark.
“Did he give you a hard time?”
“Not this time. I told him I want the stories in
next Friday - he agreed.
The answer indicated that either he was
becoming more adroit with people, which the Secretary
doubted, or that Courtney was beginning to feel the
pressure. He chose the latter.
“Good, I’ll call Belize.”
272
No further conversation was necessary - the
NSA man understood.
George Tollman dialed another secure line from
his own.
“Belize.”
“Senor Belize, we’ll have our first round of
stories circulated through the American press one week
from today.”
“That is wonderful news, Mister Secretary.”
“Is Mister McKenzie comfortable?”
“He is more comfortable than any prisoner in
Cuba. Were you able to convince President Benson to
delay action on his initiative?”
“Yes. He questioned my conclusions because he
believes there’s enough U.S. capital available to begin
investment now, and he’s also concerned the Germans
and the Japanese will gain a foothold before we do.”
Tollman stood and stretched.
“He’ll continue to support his program publicly,
but he’s also taking ninety days to review the American
economic indicators. If they don’t show any significant
growth pattern, he’ll consider other options. I believe
when public support is destroyed through Yankee Echo,
he’ll have no choice but to abandon the plan.”
“You’ve done well Mister Secretary. I admire
your ability to manipulate a man like Randall Benson.”
He took the compliment, something he’d been
doing for a long time in many positions.
“Mister Vice President, what did you find at
Bellcamp’s home?”
“Only confirmation of what he’d already given
us. My agents returned after a difficult boat crossing
with his computer and data bases. Everything Mister
Bellcamp told us is true. It was almost worth the two
million dollars he took from us for his information.”
“He’s still an intolerable loose end, Mister Vice
President.”
273
“I understand. We are continuing our search
for him.”
“Very well, I’ll keep you informed on the Yankee
Echo stories and their effect.”
“Yes, please do, Mister Secretary. Good night,
my friend.”
In narcissistic self indulgence, he not only
knew his plan was working, but he also felt Courtney
was frightened.
Stories would come out next Friday.
The President would eventually have to
capitulate.
Negation: Law Five and Thirty-Two
Saturday, May 27, 6:04 a.m.
In Newtonian Mechanics, all physical events
are reduced to the motion of material points in space
caused by their natural attraction, i.e., by the force of
gravity.
To put what would be the effect of gravity on a
mass point into a precise equation, it was necessary for
Newton to create concepts and mathematical
techniques that had never existed before.
Thus, we were given Differential Calculus.
Equations of motion developed by Newton are
the basis of classical mechanics
Because they were considered to be fixed laws
according to which material points move, they were
believed to be related to all the changes in the physical
world.
The entire world was originally set in motion
by the highest spiritual authority, and it has continued
to run ever since governed by Physical Laws.
If we apply a mechanistic thought process to
the universe, and to all its natural orders, we come to
understand that every cause gives rise to a definite
effect.
274
This is Law One. Therefore, and in addition,
the future of any of the natural orders could, in
principle, be predicted with absolute certainty if its
state of existence at any given point in time were
known in all details.
Courtney’s Game Theory called for an escape,
and he’d use some of the concepts in Newtonian
Mechanics to make this happen.
He felt the CIA was watching him. He didn’t
think Orefice would call off his spooks
In fact, agents trained in surveillance were
only yards away from the walls of the suite, twenty-four
hours a day.
He’d been up since 4:30 a.m., having showered,
shaved, and packed.
There’d be no way he could bring a suitcase,
and wait for it at the Miami airport turnstile. His red,
nylon gym bag, sporting the Boston College Crest,
tightly housed a few changes of underwear and socks,
three sports shirts, a change of shoes, a light nylon
jacket, a pair of jeans, and his toiletries.
Everything and anything else he needed, he’d
buy in Florida.
In between the pants and the jacket, he packed
his Yankee Echo code book and about twenty pages of
notes he’d written since his arrival in the Capitol.
Working a simplified version of Newtonian
Mechanics and the Theory of Opposites, he’d be able to
predict the events that would take place when he left
his suite if he knew what physically existed from
outside it to the front entrance to the hotel.
His actions would cause reactions.
He knew speed wasn’t as necessary as
manipulation, that, for now, presence was more
important than analysis.
It was time.
He dialed room service.
275
A woman answered. It wasn’t Hendricks.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, would you please send a pot of coffee to
the McKenzie suite?”
“Certainly, we’ll have that up to you in about
five minutes.”
It actually took eight minutes for the attendant
and her cart to get there.
A look through the convex lens confirmed a
wish. The lower part of the cart was draped with a
linen cloth, a curtain to hide dirty dishes, utensils, and
other ware that guests shouldn’t have to observe. It’s
emptied every time the cart is returned, so, on every
returning trip to a room, there is a vacancy behind the
linen.
Opening the door, he exchanged a pleasantry
intended to establish a rapport.
“Hey, come on in, you guys are fast.”
“No problem, Sir.”
She transferred the brew from stainless steel to
wood.
Courtney, making eye contact moved to within
two feet of her.
“Would you do me a favor when you leave?”
The question had attached to it an urgency
that not only seemed difficult to refuse, but also seemed
to suggest a larger tip. That made the answer easy.
“I guess so, what is it?”
“Put this bag on the bottom of your cart. Take
it to any cabby out front, and send it to the Delta
counter at Dulles. Can you do that?”
He extended five twenty dollar bills.
“Give the cabby two of these, and you keep the
other three.”
She took the money and the bag. There was
plenty for the fare and cabby’s tip - and even more for
her.
276
“It’ll be done, Mister, and anything else you
need done, just call down and ask for Marcie.”
“OK, Marcie, thanks.”
She left, the linen obscuring her cargo from the
view of two people in the hallway outside the suite.
A maintenance man was repairing the
baseboard molding thirty feet to the north of the suite.
Another man, tall, wearing glasses, walked the hallway,
his dress blazer exhibiting a patch on its left breast
pocket identifying him as a member of the hotel
security staff.
A third man, unseen, was in the room kittycorner
to the bank of elevators. He sat on his bed
watching a television screen displaying nothing but the
other two men in the hallway, a miniature remote
control camera he’d mounted at the top of the wall
outside his room providing the picture.
All three worked for Deputy Director David
Eisenberg.
Courtney pulled open the center drawer of the
desk retrieving the black encoding device. Slipping it
into the left pocket of his jacket, he pulled his wallet
from left rear pocket of his jeans. In it were ten one
hundred dollar bills, five twenties, and two fives. In
addition, he had ten credit cards including American
Express, both Gold and Corporate, Citibank Master
Card and Visa, and five miscellaneous gas cards, all
with max limits.
Law Seventeen
It was time to move - slowly - create an
opposite - be momentarily static - they would move
quickly believing he would also.
He opened the door, appearing in the hallway
to the surprise of both agents in eyesight, in addition to
the agent unseen.
It was 6:45 a.m. He was fully clothed. Where
was he going? To breakfast, out for a walk or jog? It
wouldn’t matter, they’d pick him up in the lobby.
277
At the bank of elevators, he summoned both
cars to his floor, the car on the left arriving first.
Stepping inside, he pressed the buttons for
every floor below his, then backed out of the car.
He had some temporary luck he didn’t know
about.
The wall-mounted camera didn’t pick up that
side of the corridor.
When the second car arrived, he entered and
repeated the button pushing procedure. This time he
stayed in the car.
Getting off on the floor below the suite, he
headed West down the hallway.
In the lobby, two empty elevator cars that had
stopped at every floor below his revealed themselves to
a man dressed in jogging attire, as well as to another in
slacks and a sports shirt.
The jogger quickly pulled a two-way radio from
the pouch in his sweat shirt. He was walking fast
toward the main entrance.
The man in slacks pulled a same-brand radio
from his pants pocket.
Their similar remarks, although one not an
echo of the other, contained equal content and gravity.
“He’s not on the elevator.”
“No one got off.”
Courtney had found an open banquet room.
The facility was being dressed out for a noon
wedding reception.
A tent sign outside the entrance would reveal
its location to attendees who would come later.
Six men and three women moved briskly but in
organized fashion preparing the room for the event.
Approaching two males finalizing the location
of a table, he addressed the eldest.
“Hi, I’m with the groom - mind if I look
around.”
278
“Be my guest.”
It was almost seven. He needed fifteen
minutes to be immobilized.
He knew they were following him, and he knew
they’d move fast, would follow the rules, and be
conventional.
More conversations were taking place via twoway
radios.
“We lost him.”
“I don’t know where he went.”
“Get outside.”
“I’ll take the restaurant.”
Thirteen minutes later, after reviewing the
entire wedding reception hall, Courtney sought out,
found, and approached the elder again.
He produced a twenty dollar bill.
“I need a favor, I’ll be escorting a guest who
doesn’t want to be seen in the lobby, can you show me a
back way in and out of here?”
It really wasn’t all that unusual a request for
this City
He took the twenty.
“Follow me.”
A rear elevator door opened to a short hallway
leading to a parking lot furthest from the main
entrance. No one was in sight.
Beyond the lot, a strip plaza with no customers
at this early hour would become a pick up point.
He needed one more favor, and produced
another twenty to get it.
“Go out front and send a cab to that pizza joint
over there to pick me up.”
The elder nodded his head.
“OK.”
Eight minutes later, Courtney, now in the rear
seat of a yellow Chevy, gave the driver his destination.
His permit card did not identify him as Timothy
Metcalff.
279
“ Dulles - Delta terminal.”
The cabby got his fare, a one hundred dollar
tip, and a request to forget what he looked like should
anyone ask him to describe his early morning
passenger.
“You never saw me before, OK?”
“You don’t look nothing like yourself in my
memory, buddy.”
At the Delta counter, his bag waited on the
bottom of a shelf behind two ticket agents. It was seven
fifty-nine.
“That’s my bag, my name’s Michael Courtney -
can I still get on the eight o’clock flight to Miami?”
The fact that the plane was almost empty made
his request easy to fill.
“We’ll hold the plane for you, Mister Courtney.”
She was kidding, but also serious.
Nine minutes later he inclined a window seat
over the port wing while voices continued to crackle
from CIA radios both within and outside of the
Marriott.
“We have four more people on the way, stay at
the entrance.”
“Check the restaurants around the lobby
again.”
One more radio transmission
“You’d better call Hendricks.”
Saturday, May 27, 8:15 a.m.
Delta flight 412 from Washington to Miami was
approaching eleven thousand feet when she got the call
at her apartment.
“Hello?”
“Liz - it’s Marty - we lost him.”
“What the hell happened? How could you lose
him? Where is he?”
280
“He played a game with the elevators. We
underestimated him. We have six people here now. He
may still be at the hotel.”
“Damn - do Scott and David know?”
“Not yet… I’d rather you call one of them.”
“Sure - let me take the heat. Alright, listen, get
into his suite and go over the whole thing. See if he left
anything. Have someone talk to all the cabbies coming
back from anywhere - is someone at JGM?”
“Yeah - I was there, but we have someone else
watching it now.”
“OK, Marty, find me when you have something
- I’ll do your dirty laundry for you.”
She called him at home.
The Director wasn’t as disturbed as she
thought he should be.
He listened to the whole story but held her at
arms length, something she didn’t enjoy.
In this business she’d learned to live with
reservation.
He had another agenda, maybe several - she’d
never know.
“Liz - get over to the hotel and take charge over
there. I’ll speak to you later.”
His call to the President found the Chief
Executive at breakfast.
“Yes, Scotty?”
“Sir, Michael Courtney’s escaped out
surveillance.”
“Is that so?”
“Were almost certain he’ll resurface in Miami.
Wirtham’s told us he and St. Croix are going into Cuba
with Navy Zero armaments , and either a full or partial
Zero team. If they run into problems on the island, they
could, and I’m certain they would, cause some extensive
physical damage. I think we should alert President
Santiago that they’re coming.”
281
“Can you find out where Courtney will connect
with the Zero team?”
“Probably, but only on your directive. They
keep their secrets better than we do.”
He thought for a moment.
“No, let them go. I’ll speak with Juan
Santiago. They’ll be invading a free nation with
American military personnel, but it won’t be under any
Executive Order. If they’re caught, it will appear to be
just be a rogue operation, but I’d still like to keep it out
of the Press if that occurs, and if we can. If they fail,
you and your people can go in and secure Pat McKenzie.
At all costs, we need him back on American soil. Try to
keep up with them in Miami”
“Yes, Sir. I understand.”
“Scotty, I know what are Navy Zeros are
trained to do…but can Courtney be dangerous?”
Orefice drew a breath, his voice deep, serious.
“Mister President, I’ve worked with
metaphysicians in Singapore, Lisbon, and Jakarta.
These people have an intuitive sense of the most basic
laws of the universe. When they use these laws in
practical applications, they can manipulate and control
you - and you don’t even know they’re doing it.
Wirtham’s told me Courtney’s one of the best. He’s a
TAO XIA Master…it makes him extremely capable, and
if he requires it…dangerous.”
Executive thoughts filled the silence on the
line.
“Do what you have to do. We may have no
choice but to wait it out and pick them up when, and if,
they get back.”
“If we can control Courtney, then we’ll have the
biggest piece.”
“Then let’s keep tabs on him, but don’t let any
of this get near the Press.”
“If it gets to the Press, we’ll be able to control
it, Sir.”
282
“Maybe the situation, but not necessarily
Courtney - stay in touch.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Truth and Realism
A philosophical definition of truth would
encapsulate the Common Sense Theory Of Factuality,
sometimes also known as the Correspondence Theory,
which claims that something is true if it corresponds to
the facts of its being.
Within the science and art of TAO-XIA, an
absolute idealist like Michael Courtney would put
forward a coherent theory of truth, in which he would
define absolute truths as only ‘The Whole’, and
anything less than that merely aspiring to degrees of
truth; therefore, he’d always establish a relationship
between truth and reality as it related to any entity.
‘The Whole’, as it would exist for him in Law
Fourteen, would have to be the same as that between a
picture and what it represents, even if ‘The Whole’
seemed to represent itself in paradox.
Courtney’s truth of an entity would actually be
relative to the awareness, instincts, and intuitive
responses of himself as an individual. He understood
through observation, tempered with instincts and
experience, and additionally through ultimate realities.
An analogy he used in teaching TAO XIA to his
students was that if something looks like a duck,
waddles like a duck, and quacks like a duck, there is a
strong possibility it will be a duck, but this is also only
true for those who want it to be a duck. If someone
wanted the entity to be a chicken, then it would be a
chicken, even though the damn thing went around
quacking like a duck.
283
For years, Courtney had prepared the
philosophical game plan for what he believed to be six
hundred writers placed strategically throughout the
United States in the nation’s daily newspapers.
The reality of Yankee Echo was three thousand
writers, news directors, bureau chiefs, trade, union
publication, and lobby journal editors, and even fifty
publishers of children’s school weeklies. The
organization was actually five times larger than he
thought it was, and ten times more powerful.
Fifty corporations, including McKenzie
Industries, controlled enormous information
capabilities through the clandestine use of United
States print media.
The thought patterns of dozens of millions of
people were regularly channeled into directions thought
to be most advantageous to their agendas.
Through the always-available, and expeditious
use of the organization, and further through the
application of The Universal Laws as interpreted and
applied by Courtney, the system, with its tremendous
power, needed only minor, albeit judicious adjustments
to accomplish its philosophical objectives.
But there was more, it was greater than just a
multiple corporate issue.
By controlling a great majority of the delivery
system affecting the American conscience, and by
creating perceived needs in the minds of both the U.S.
public and union memberships, lobbyists would be
geared toward influencing the development of
legislation that satisfied those needs, spurred by the
corporate giants who needed to keep control of their
own interests.
The insurance policy keeping that support in
place was The Central Intelligence Agency. The
American public, and its elected officials were
controlled without overt malice. The question of the
CIA’s domestic survival was answered, quite simply, by
payoff. 284
Saturday, May 27, 9:55 a.m.
Approaching Miami International, the pilot
worked the trim tabs on the airliner, his air speed
reducing dramatically as they approached runway sixsix.
Seven minutes later, a perfect landing was
history.
Courtney had unfastened his seat belt before
the light went on behind the screened display telling
him it was OK to do so. St. Croix would be waiting, and
probably the CIA also.
He was right about both. One man, besides
Andy St. Croix would be watching for his arrival, a
faxed photo held in a folded newspaper would assist the
agent in identifying him.
St. Croix maneuvered as close to the gate ramp
as he could.
Courtney, his bag slung over his left shoulder,
reviewed the man he had come to trust, but also
assessed everyone behind him in the waiting area.
There were men, women and children paired
off in twos, threes, and fours. Additionally, there were
four solitary women, and seven solitary men.
Two of the men wore jackets and ties. Five of them had
on casual attire, one reading a newspaper with no sign
of baggage or of intent to purposely receive anyone
departing Delta flight 412.
He approached his friend with a smile and an
extended right hand.
“Good to see you, Andy.”
“You too, Mick.”
“We need to talk - I need some tactical advice.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I’m sure we’re being watched, and we’re going
to be followed. I have some stories to tell you, and I
want to do some of that here.”
285
The Southerner motioned to two seats at a
vacant high-top table outside of a twenty-four hour
snack bar.
“Let’s go over there, Mick.”
Twenty minutes later, Courtney had finished
detailing as best he could, the events that had taken
place since they last saw one another. Kay had gone
home to Connecticut, Pat McKenzie had lied to both of
them about Yankee Echo and who controlled it, the
encounter with Elizabeth Hendrecks, the meeting that
had been set up with the President, the assumed
urgency, and finally, the ‘writes’ that would be
published next Friday.
“This thing gets more interesting by the hour,
Mick…sit tight for a minute.
The Zero produced a portable telephone from
his jacket.
Pushing two digits on its keypad, he received
an almost immediate response.
“Snake here.
“Ah got m’ah friend Mick with me here in the
Delta terminal. We need a safe route outta here. Looks
like we got trackers.”
Six seconds of silence - it was anticipated.
“Meet me at the Oceanscape Tours heliport
office. It’s just North of the Delta terminal outside.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Got it.”
Pocketing the phone, he slapped his friend’s
arm.
“Let’s go, Mick. Y’all gonna get your first
lesson in cowboys.”
It took twelve minutes on foot to reach the
office of Oceanscape Tours.
286
It’s owner, a former Vietnam Huey Jock, and a
former All-American half back out of Michigan State
who’d turned down a pro contract to do what he loved,
stood chatting with a smaller man, but of equal stature,
who also was doing what he loved. Both men, friends
for years, had each other’s total confidence and respect.
St. Croix and Courtney approached the two as
the Snake was handing the former running back, now
chopper pilot, fifteen one-hundred dollar bills.
St. Croix made the first introduction.
“Mick, this here’s Anthony Snake Coverty.
Snake - meet Michael Courtney.”
While shaking hands with Courtney, the active
Zero made further introductions.
“Chuck Redding, meet Andy St. Croix and
Michael Courtney, Chuck owns Oceanscape, we‘re
taking one of his birds for a short ride.”
The Snake now spoke directly to St. Croix
“I gave Chuck a flight plan for the Keys, Andy,
but we’re going out to an off island. My jockey’s
meeting us there in our Huey. We’ll switch aircraft.
He’ll fly Oceanscape’s twenty miles north of here, park
it at a private airport, and take a cab back. Chuck will
take a cab up to the airport and retrieve his property.
I’ll fly us back from the island.”
St. Croix turned to Courtney.
“How’s that sound to y’all, Mick?”
“Sounds great - where’s the Huey take us?”
The Snake and St. Croix exchanged smiles. It
was the active Zero who answered the question.
“About one mile from where we stand - just
down the East-West runway - let’s get moving.”
Coverty reved Oceanscape’s four-seat Bell
Ranger to 3000 RPM’s over its takeoff minimum with
its current load, gently lifting off the heliport’s concrete
as the man from the terminal with the newspaper, and
photograph of an analyst, spoke into his CIA-issued
radio.
287
“They’re leaving in a helicopter from
Oceanscape Tours. I’ll check out the flight plan and call
you back.”
It would be an exercise in futility.
One hour and thirty six minutes later,
Courtney, St. Croix and Coverty stepped off the reworked
Huey.
A military helicopter is a functional flying
instrument that is either specifically built, or converted
for use by military forces. A military helicopter's
mission is a function of its design or conversion.
A Vietnam relic, this specific bird had been
retrofitted specifically for Zero use with a souped-up
Lycoming engine, radar-jamming electronics, laser
target designators, Hellfire anti-tank missiles, a 30mm
Gatling cannon, and Hydra rockets. It had the
capability to lock on to, and destroy, multiple targets
from two to four miles above and away from designated
goals.
Walking to the Zero-secured hangar, St. Croix
excused both himself and Courtney from Coverty, the
latter understanding their need to exchange critical
information.
Both would brief the active Zero later.
Coverty knew St. Croix trusted Courtney.
He also knew he’d have to trust him with the
plan, time for implementation, retreat, reunion, and
disposition of resources. In his gut - he also had a
feeling there would be force involved.
Zero’s, by nature, are exceptionally insightful.
288
Chapter 11
Syllogism and Opposition
Aristotle, the founder of traditional formal logic
defined syllogism as a discourse in which, certain things
being stated, something other than what is stated
follows of necessity from their being so.
Although a syllogism relates to every kind of
valid deduction, Aristotle, and almost all of his
successors usually, if not always, dealt with syllogisms
that linked propositions which could be expressed in
subject-predicate form.
The simplest of what are known as the Atomic
Syllogisms consists of three propositions, the first two
being the premises which convey the third.
Some syllogisms in traditional logic denote
phrases that, although able to stand on their own,
contain syncategorematic words that, were they not
linked to categorematic terms, would be
incomprehensible as wholes.
The word ‘big’ has no specific dimension until
joined with an explicit term such as ‘as a house.”
Something can simply be blue, but cannot be big
without attachment to something else.
Saturday, May 27, 12:31 p.m.
Courtney spend an hour alone. Using
syllogism and the theory of opposites, he created
syncategorematic, and opposing syllogisms.
Pat McKenzie was a liar.
A liar hides something.
Pat McKenzie was hiding something.
Pat McKenzie also told the truth.
Truth does not exist in phenomena without its
opposite, Lies.
289
Yankee Echo was, at the same time, both a truth, and a
lie. But How big a lie?
Control of Yankee Echo was big, but was it big
enough to lie about and hide from him? Maybe. There
was another possible theory. The organization wasn’t
what he thought it was. It wasn’t just control. There
were hidden elements, parts no one knew about. Why
else the lie? If there were secret parts, how many? It
had, by syllogistic logic to be big.
Courtney re-entered their presence as Coverty
and St. Croix reviewed flight charts at the drafting
table.
Noticing his friend’s approach, the inactive
Zero thought this might be a good time to relax for a bit.
“C’mon, Mick, let’s you and me go get a couple
of beers. Snake, y’all hold down the fort.”
The active Navy Zero thought it might be soon,
maybe twenty-four, forty-eight hours.
There was a lot to do.
Courtney’s forearms rested on the stained oak
counter at the Gator Grille, his right hand around a
cold, long-neck Bud. A half-dozen or so construction
workers, completing the design on a new entrance to
Miami International, sat during their lunch break at
three black and white
tile-topped tables discussing the early beginning
standings and schedules of various pro baseball teams,
the shapely legs and behind of their female Production
Supervisor, and the great hot dogs at this place.
The rest of the compliment of people at this
hour were at the bar. A retired banker named Steve
from Brooklyn, New York, two teenage boys and girls
using false ID’s, and the bar’s three regulars, Allen,
Leo, and Herden Mitchell, two brothers and a cousin
who’d just retired from the food and beverage industry
elsewhere. The analyst did not see a threat anywhere.
290
A squeaky bar stool squealed every time he
turned to the Southerner.
It squealed again.
“Andy, think about this. I’m pretty sure our
Secretary of Commerce shot and killed John McKenzie
in Vietnam, and then allowed him to be blamed for the
massacre at La Dang. The President is refusing to
make a strong commitment to a reform plan he knows
will almost guarantee his reelection. He also puts his
chief spook on my tail, who then lays a bodyguard on
me, which, to me, suggests he has another agenda going
because he’s not working on what should be done for the
first one.”
He took a sip of his refreshing beverage.
“The people who breached Yankee Echo have no
idea how big it is, and to tell you the truth, I’m
beginning to wonder if I know how big it is myself.
We’ve got a lot going on here Trooper, you have any
ideas?
“Ah always go to Law Forty, than back to one,
and now, your Corollary, Mick.”
“OK, so let’s do what we have to do. We know
we’re in the dark and that we’re going nowhere until we
get some honest answers. Right now, I have to assume
that Belize, Bellcamp, and Salazar are part of the
breachers. One way I can find out for sure if they’re the
breachers is to put them on the defensive, then confront
them with power. Bellcamp’s gone, that leaves the
other two. Did you finish the reconnaissance on Belize’s
place?”
“Sure did. We got work ups all the way to
Belize’s front door. Night fly-in under radar - which
we’re gonna jam anyway. The control tower here will
avoid us, both when we leave, and when we come
home..”
“We’re not coming home, Andy.”
It took a few seconds.
“Where we goin, Mick?”
291
“Too many people know we’re out right now.
Does Robert know your location?”
“No. Zero Intel plans every op in secret. The
only people who know about all of this are the team
members, you included. Bobby only knows Ah’m in
Miami with you.”
“We need a safe place to take Pat, if we find
him. I’m not letting him go until he solves some riddles
for me.”
“You been doin some syncategorematic props,
my friend?”
It helped dull the emotional edge - the analyst
smiled.
“With Pat back, the breachers lose; but that’s
just the beginning. I want the real answers on Yankee
Echo.”
He tasted his Bud again.
“Mick, think of Thirty-Eight. It’s Deductive
Logic. Work backward from your conclusions.”
“I don’t know for certain if they’re true.”
“You also don’t know for certain if they’re false.
When all ya got is a pile of dog shit, y’all have to
assume some dogs passed through.”
“I need to be inductive to get inside their
heads.”
“Yeah, but y’all can’t go forward before takin
ten steps back. Hell, Mick, induction begins at the ass
end and comes forward, you know that.”
“There’s also something in my gut telling me to
blow the Laws to Hell when we find Pat.”
“OK, Kid, y’all got he helm - where do we
start.”
“We find Pat - let’s go see Coverty.”
292
Saturday, May 27, 2:50 p.m.
Alan Bates was degreed in Mechanical
Engineering from Annapolis. A Naval Commissioned
Officer holding the rank of Lieutenant Commander, he
had logged over fifteen thousand hours in helicopters
since matriculation from flight school at The Naval Air
Station in Pensacola, Florida.
Bates didn’t just have normal, traditional
flying hours under his wings. At speeds approaching
three hundred miles per hour, he could maneuver the
four bladed Zero Huey under bridges, between
buildings, night-fly at treetop level, and pull one and a
half more ‘G’ force out of the rotary aircraft than the
design-build book said he could.
He’d been asked to join the Zero’s by no less an
authority than the Commandant of the Naval Academy.
Scholastically, he wasn’t at the top of the grade-point
average in his graduating class - but he did hold one
unique distinction. In his four years at The Academy,
he’d become the only graduate who’d ever gone
undefeated in intercollegiate chess competitions. His
uncanny ability to develop strategic offensive patterns
of war (And a chess game is a war) had not gone
unnoticed by the upper echelon of Navy Brass.
He was an excellent compliment to a Navy Zero
team. A pilot who could fly spontaneous offensive
sequences of attack, while creating forward patterns of
strategy in the process.
He and Snake stood at the flight prep table
reviewing the nylon matte-black pants, black
camouflage, black pinpoint cotton ‘T’ shirts black ragg
nylon socks, and black vented boots laid out on its
surface.
293
Additionally on the table top there was the
weaponry chosen specifically for this mission: Two Uzi
machine guns, Snake and St. Croix’s primary resource,
four, fifteen shot, Colt forty-two automatic pistols with
three extra clips for each, every member, including
Courtney, carrying this complement, and one, twenty
inch piece of titanium filament secured on each end to a
two inch steel ball - Snake’s Silencer.
They’d checked, and rechecked the radios -
twelve ounce Motorola open-line, frequency-modulated
units with mini head sets. Every team member would
click into the communication system in the hangar, and
would be in constant conference contact with every
other member until the operation was concluded.
Snake coded the sets - himself first, designation ‘one’,
St. Croix, ‘two’, Bates, ‘three’, Courtney, ‘four’; simple,
efficient, clean.
The final item on the table was a plain manila
folder, the op orders and mission standards between its
front and back covers.
It was a simple, but structured game plan; fly
in, retrieve resources, fly out. Time lines were
designated in seconds, ops and standards set in
maximums and minimums - categories - what was
acceptable, what not. All the elements were set on two
planes - op in, op out. Maximums were increased in the
op out - more fire being directed in a Zero drawback
than in an assault.
One page of the orders and standards titled
‘Metaphysical Analysis’ remained blank - Courtney
would detail this part of the mission statement either
verbally, or in writing; not the plan of attack or the
egress, but the philosophical base of the operation.
He’d already worked out its components and was
mentally reviewing them as he and St. Croix
approached the two active naval officers. They’d all met
one another, each at earlier times. Acknowledgement
and acceptance of individual operational expertise were
felt by all four. 294
Coverty, concluding the launch of the team,
acquiesced to the table, detailing the clothing first, and
addressing the only team member who’d never worn
them.
“We’ll be in these throughout the mission.
Everything on us goes black. We carry no ID’s, no
wallets, no money, and no jewelry. The weapons are
loaded. We’re shot-conscious - don’t use rounds unless
absolutely necessary. We’d rather use our brains than
our weapons to complete the mission. Andy will teach
you how to fire the forty-two this afternoon - there’s a
small firing range at the other end of this building. The
radios are simple - we strap into them, and talk.
Everyone hears what everyone else says, and we’ll be
on-frequency until we’re pulled back far enough from
the major point of engagement. If we find Mister
McKenzie there, he stays silent until that time.”
With one hand, Snake tapped the index finger
and then the middle finger of the other to make the
next point.
“Mission personnel are primary, hardware
resources are secondary. The last thing is the
operation orders, and the mission standards. We need
the metaphysical statement. I know Andy’s briefed you
on Zero ops, so I think you already have a good idea on
what we’ll do.”
Courtney moved toward the table, his right
hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“Thanks for the introduction to the gear. I
hope I don’t have to fire that thing.”
Coverty, his mind set now into the mission, was
all business.
“If you do, aim for the middle of the body, it’s
your biggest target. The forty-twos are loaded with
hollow points, they fragment on impact. Hit a man in
the chest, and you’ll remove three quarters of his back.”
That truth didn’t sit comfortably.
295
He had a single purpose, and he needed to
remain focused. He’d prepared his metaphysical
statement. He would verbalize it, and implement its
strategy with their help. He knew Andy had briefed
everyone on names, places and locations.
“I have good reason to believe Pat McKenzie
will be in the same place we find Belize and Salazar.
Law Two - they’re unbalanced. They’ve committed a
crime, and they know it, so they’ll cling to each other,
and they’ll want to keep their hostage close. The last
thing they want is for Pat to escape. The safest place to
hold him would be in the Vice President’s villa…Andy,
when you found those two guys going through
Bellcamp’s house, they told you Belize sent them. We
know they weren’t just a couple of low-life hoods. They
were trained agents; the kind of guys who work for VP’s
and Presidents. They’re probably prepared for a fight.
They have us in a defensive pattern, and we have to
change that. I need the Vice President’s personal
number. Someone at JGM, maybe Gerry could get that
for us.”
The three Zeros, familiar with manipulation of
enemies by philosophical logic held fast any response.
Zero metaphysicians always detailed their reasoning,
they hoped the civilian philosopher would also.
He did.
“We’re going to call Belize and tell him we’re
coming for Pat.”
Although they’d told him they wouldn’t
question his philosophy, their expressions indicated a
willingness to listen should he want to elaborate.
Courtney, knowing he’d just laid a big chunk of
offensive-defensive logic on them complied.
296
“We can’t win unless we’re on total offense, and
we can’t do that unless they’re playing total defense.
They won’t move Pat. They probably won’t believe we
called, but it’s going to shake the hell out of them.
They’ll gather together even tighter, put up a perimeter,
and wait. They’ll think we’ll be coming in with a show
of force, and they’ll be right. We hit early tomorrow
morning, four a.m.. Snake, you detail the point of entry
- I just have one request. I stay close to Andy - no more
than ten feet between us. I’m not Wyatt Earp, and I’m
sure as hell not going to pretend I am. They’ll be
prepared for us, but they’ll be fearful - even more
reason to cling to one another. We also need a place to
come back to other than here.”
He searched the team leader - Coverty
responding.
“We have a drop facility that falls in my
territory. We come in over water and won’t be noticed.”
“Good - a few more points. They’ve used force,
and they might regret that. If need be, we use all our
firepower to complete the mission. I know it’s smarter
to use our brains than our guns, Snake, but I also want
to come back with Pat McKenzie. If we have to shoot - I
think we should shoot big. Nothing’s going to get done
unless we make it get done. We move on offense, and
we stay on offense, even in retreat. Allen, when we
draw back, I want to leave a message behind; is that
OK with all of you?”
Team members One, Two, and Three had all
heard metaphysical ops statements many times before.
Each of them was surprised that a civilian could detail
a military operation this coherently and fluently. He
was calculating, reserved in no way. He’d defended his
offensive pattern with a logic that was easy to
comprehend, and reinforced an unspoken rule to never
underestimate your enemy. Even his retreat was set to
an offensive strategy.
297
Three heads nodded affirmatively.
He turned to St. Croix.
“That’s it from my end, Andy. Can we get that
number?”
“Ah’ll ring up Washington right now.”
Forty-six minutes later, he had it.”
Saturday, May 27, 3:46 p.m.
Coverty’s office more closely resembled an
armament locker than a place of work. Bayonets,
pistols, hand grenades, and other assortments of
weapons and military manuals all seemed to be laid out
by categories he didn’t understand. Every item looked
too functional to Courtney, and he made sure none of it
was disturbed while sitting at The Snake’s desk to
make his phone call. Although he’d been told all Zero
operation lines were untraceable, he placed the black
encoding device against the receiver.
Entering the Cuban VP’s number into the
keypad, he waited for an answer.
“Buenas Tardes,” The long-legged Latin had
answered.
Corollary - make an assumption.
“Miss Salazar.”
“She wasn’t prepared - in fact, a voice she’d
never heard before coming over this private number,
caused her to be perplexed.
“Yes…” Not just an answer - a search.
He, hearing low-level trepidation, acted.
“This is Michael Courtney calling. I’m coming
to get Pat McKenzie.”
He nestled the receiver to its point of origin.
Law Seven - you neutralize extremes by using
an opposing force against them.
The Cuban had been neutralized, his soft, sure
tone now sitting in her brain as an inimical comment.
298
Courtney was a participant in Game Theory
maximizing a property
(offensive strategy) from a position of uncertainty, not
only with respect to the nature of her being, but also
with regard to the actions of the other player, Belize,
whose interests were diametrically opposed to his own.
Typically, when a decision has to be made, the
one making the decision has to predict the course of
action others will follow, knowing that they themselves,
when deciding their own actions, will predict the
actions of others.
She did everything he wanted her to do.
She got frightened and ran to her boss.
The Cuban VP stood facing the window behind
his desk when she broke his solitude. His head turned
over his right shoulder upon hearing the door opening.
Her facial expression was revealing.
He squared to his mistress.
“Catalina?”
“He’s coming.”
“Who’s coming?”
“Courtney.”
“What?”
“He just called on your private line. He said he
was coming to get Patrick McKenzie.”
“Alone?”
The question suggested there was no answer.
There wasn’t.
“I don’t know - he didn’t say.”
“How does he know we have him?
“I don’t know - someone must have told him?”
“When is he coming?”
“He didn’t tell me, Miguel. What should we
do?”
The defensive pattern Courtney wanted to be
in place began forming.
299
“Send Carlos to me, now.”
Seven minutes later a tall, muscular Cuban
Secret Service Agent stood before him. Belize
addressed him from a seated position behind his desk.
“Carlos, I’ve been informed we will soon have
an American visitor who will try and take Mister
McKenzie away from us, most likely by using force. I’m
not certain what route he will take to get here. Or how
many people he will bring with him, but I wish to be
prepared for all occurrences. I want you to detail seven
men to the beach, another seven to the grounds, and
you and your five best men to the insides of these walls.
Both you and your Guard Sergeant will stay in the
room, and the anti-room next to Mister McKenzie for
the next seventy-two hours.”
The Agent sneered. He’d been waiting for an
opportunity to have contact with the Americans again.
Carlos, known to Andy St. Croix as ‘Cardinal’ felt the
back of his neck, remembering the night at Bellcamp’s
home when his lights were put out by a Navy Zero.
“Si, my Vice President. I will detail my men
immediately.”
Saturday, May 27, 9:17 a.m. Tokyo Time
The Japanese business executive toweled
himself briskly. Forty laps in his private pool was a full
workout for a man half his age.
His personal philosophy on life was that we
were all just put here to rot, to be born helpless, to
advance in years, and then die helpless. Wouldn’t it
make more sense, he thought, to live forever, or to have
unending life after life, where each subsequent one
could be enjoyed with all of its rewards, especially the
material and physical marvels of life. He didn’t care
about fairness in life, or in business. If you don’t eat,
you get eaten. If you don’t take where there is
opportunity to take, you become controlled by others.
300
The bastard American President and his weak
CIA Director, they, like all the others he’d manipulated
and controlled, were worthless, soft human beings. In
their next life, he would deceive and repel them again,
he the strongest, and most wise of the three.
Saito Kushima, a great man of business, would
pay them for their ability to open Cuba to his
corporation. He’d need to invest one hundred fifty
million American dollars, but he’d regain it in billions.
They’d never live to spend their bribe, and his
investment could be recovered later through smaller
bribes and manipulations. His multi-million dollar deal
with the Americans would become the deal of his
lifetime, the greatest coup of his business career.
Walking from the pool’s edge, he sat at a glasstop
table, in its center, an ancient hand-painted
porcelain bowl filled with Florida oranges. To the side,
a cellular phone linked to a personal satellite
connection was direct-dialed as he continued his final
thoughts on his next move. It was 6:00 p.m. in the
States.
“Scott Orefice.”
“Mister Orefice, I have made arrangements for
the transfer of half the funds. You will find them
available to you when the contract with President
Santiago is completed and ready for signing. I trust you
and Randall Benson will be concluding the deal soon.”
Although he wasn’t expecting the call, he was
ready with answers.
“As we speak, Mister Kushima, the papers are
being drafted. Mister Benson has had several
conversations with President Santiago, and we’ve been
assured of his full cooperation through the conclusion of
the process.”
“Mister Orefice, when we conclude the contract,
it would be an honor for me if both you and Mister
Benson would be my guests at a small social function in
Havana following the signing. I’m sure we will have
much to discuss.” 301
“It would be my pleasure to be there, Mister
Kushima, and, in fact, I will. However, there is a
problem with the President attending. He’s advocating
U.S. corporate involvement in Cuba, and to meet
publicly with a foreign giant in the electronics industry
would not appear as an act in the best interests of his
program. The Press follows his every move, he’d receive
a great deal of negative publicity.”
“Of course, I understand, Mister Orefice. I will
be honored that you are attending.”
“I’ll call you when we have the preliminary
Cuban draft completed on the program. I’m sure you’re
detailing your own draft now.”
“Yes, I am. You’ll have it soon, and I’ll wait
most anxiously for our next telephone conversation.
Thank you Mister Orefice, and good evening to you.”
He hung up and redialed.
A deep, strong, forty year old voice took his call.
“The Director of Central Intelligence will meet
me in Cuba for the contract signing. Make sure you
and your team have all the component parts in place for
his untimely accident.”
A seasoned veteran who’d made many of these
arrangements before, he knew this call would be coming
soon.
“We’ll be prepared.”
302
Saturday, May 27, 8:05 p.m.
The CIA looked the other way on the legalities
of Yankee Echo. They knew it existed, and they used it,
but also remained purposefully blind.
For this, the U.S. covert organization was
rewarded. Millions of dollars were annually allocated
to support the Agency’s domestic operations through
special bank accounts controlled by fifty corporations.
Each year, by law, The CIA Director makes an
appeal to the joint houses of Congress for funding, and
is almost always allocated less than what he asked for
to maintain the operation of the Service.
There are committee members in both the
House of Representatives and in the United States
Senate who believe they control the extent of CIA
operations through the allocation of monies for specific
programs.
It’s a moot point.
Every year, the CIA received almost as much
funding from Yankee Echo companies as it received
from The United States Government.
The Director turns his head, and allows three
thousand Yankee Echo editors and reporters, direct
access to the American mind set.
It’s manipulation at its best, and control at its
worst. The CIA looked the other way on Yankee Echo,
not only because they found no un-comfort with it, but
also because the Agency itself had access to its writers
on demand.
Money speaks a language all its own.
The phone rang twice.
“Scott Orefice.”
“Scott, it’s David.”
“I was expecting a call from you - what do you
have?”
303
“Not much. We know Courtney’s headed for
Florida, and we have someone in every terminal in
Miami. There’s another possibility he may end up in
the Keys, and we’re working on that. We know
Kathleen McKenzie arrived at Logan last night, and
went straight to he condo, and we think she’ll probably
leave for her home in Connecticut tomorrow. I don’t see
her as any threat.”
“Neither do I. We still have Courtney on the
outside though, and we’ve also lost touch with St, Croix.
The two of them together could cause some problems if
they‘re unsuccessful.”
“How do you want me to handle it when we
locate them?”
“We need Pat McKenzie healthy. If at all
possible, I also want to hang on to both Courtney and
St. Croix. They’ve been manipulated, and it’s certain to
me they’re going to find that out. I want all of them
safe, and in control. Make sure your people use good
judgment. Call me when you have more information”
“Of course.”
Both men hung up their phones, stood, and
paced.
Thinking is the act of directing a personal
deliberation toward something with the purpose of
reaching a decision to act. For Descartes, the process
meant advancing ideas in the mind. For Hume, it was
a process made up of a sequential series of images in
the mind. For Hobbs, it was an activity of verbal
images in the form of inner speech. Thinking is a
disposition to act intelligently. Whether or not our
thoughts are spoken is of no consequence on the act of
thought itself.
304
David Eisenberg’s thoughts revolved around
the Universal Laws.
Scott Orefice’s thoughts were a combination of
empirical knowledge, and a savvy ability to relate data.
One had a philosophical base, the other had
years of experience.
Behind both of them were the best covert resources the
world has ever known.
Before them was a task.
Find Courtney and St. Croix and plug the leak
in Yankee Echo.
Remediate.
Whatever it took - fix it.
Saturday, May 27, 8:30 p.m.
The window had been replaced, the telephone
repaired, and the mess inside her condo cleaned up.
Kathleen McKenzie understood the Universal
Physical Laws as well as any student who’d passed
through one of Michael Courtney’s courses. In fact, she
had had plenty of private tutoring in both their
meaning and application.
Law Ten crossed her mind when the phone
rang.
She considered not answering it, but thought it
could be David or Robert calling with news about her
father.
It was neither.
“Hello”
“Kay - it’s me.”
“….I guess you got my note.”
“I did, and I need to talk to you about that. I
tried your house in Connecticut - you weren’t there.”
“Well - I’m glad you found me.”
“Kay, we’re going after your father. I wanted to
speak to you before I leave.”
305
“Where are you going?”
“To get him - we think we know where he is.”
“Where?”
“I can’t get into it - Kay, I need an explanation.
You said in your letter you have something to do - what
did you mean?”
“I meant I’m tired of people shitting all over the
McKenzie family. I need to find something out for
certain, and I have to do it all by myself.”
“What? What are you planning?”
“I’m going to visit someone, Michael - and I’m
very capable of taking care of myself.”
“Kay - please - do something for me. Contact
Robert and stay with him and Helen until I can come
and get you.”
“Michael - I’m not a child - I don’t need a
babysitter.”
He had more to say, but there wasn’t time.
“Kay - I have to go. I’ll try to call you on
Monday - will you be in Connecticut?”
“Probably…maybe - I’m leaving tomorrow,
early.”
“Kay.”
He had to manufacture his thought, and he
didn’t like that.
“I love you.”
She didn’t need to think about hers, but she
wondered if she knew what it meant
“I love you too, Michael.”
The ops plan was set, they’d roll out at zero
three hundred.
306
Sunday, May 28, 3:01 a.m.
Three professionals were initiating a military
procedure.
Allen Bates carried out his preflight check in
the Zero hangar. Coverty reviewed the weapons and
helicopter firing systems. St. Croix studied
navigational charts and points of entry over the island
nation.
Michael Courtney was a few things -
Philosopher - Consultant - Teacher - but he wasn’t a
soldier. One hour with Andy St. Croix showing him how
to use the recoil of a forty-two Colt to his advantage
didn’t qualify him for this discipline. In the world of
academics, he’d come to understand some of the
concepts of a military campaign, its component parts,
its strategy, its action. But only Law Thirty-Five stuck
in his mind right now.
It was time to act and react - there could be no
wobbling.
Utilitarianism is just about the most well
known ethical doctrine in the world where English is
spoken. It’s a moral philosophy we use to interpret
whether actions are right or wrong.
The principle holds that actions are generally
considered right in proportion to how much happiness
they promote, and wrong by virtue of how much of the
reverse of happiness they promote. By producing
happiness, we intend two things, to create pleasure,
and to further create the absence of pain.
Therefore, actions are most often judged by
their consequences, not as they affect an individual
singularly, but by the amount of pleasure everyone
receives from their consequences.
The ideal is to give the most happiness to the
most people.
307
Courtney thought of utility, of Yankee Echo.
He’d been told the organization was designed
to create the absence of pain, to help a nation of people
who sometimes didn’t know as a unit what was good for
them, or how much hardship they had to endure before
they were engaged with happiness.
The organization changed that. It took care of
dirty politicians, aided the needy, helped preserve the
environment, brought to light all the good things we
should know about ourselves. It was manipulative in
essence, but essential in application.
He’d believed it, he’d bought the idea from
Robert Wirtham.
But who’s organization was it? Which fifty
corporations? Why the CIA?
His thoughts brought him into a Law.
‘It’s Six. Damn, it’s Law Six. They can’t
tolerate vacuums, empty spaces. What do they need to
survive? They need to control information to control
thought. We give them control, they give us what?
They have to fill a void, just like nature would. They
can’t leave anything unaffected. So why Yankee Echo?
Why this resource? Are we big enough to do the….
…How big are we?’
Sunday, May 28, 3:17 a.m.
He didn’t look like a soldier, but he didn’t look
like a teacher either. Dressed in black, like the rest of
the team, he only needed the camouflage paint applied
to his cheekbones, forehead, bridge of nose, chin, jaw
line, elbows, and knuckles - all possible of creating a
subtle reflection, in turn capable of producing an
unwanted glance and recognition.
St. Croix noticed him approach from the North
side of the hangar.
“Mornin, Mick, come over here and get your
paint.”
308
He sat ready on a stool, St. Croix now the
cosmetician.
“Andy, if we find Pat at Belize’s place, I’m going
to hammer him with questions.”
“Ah’m with y’all, Mick. Ah don’t take too well
bein lied to, especially by someone Ah trusted.”
“I don’t want to get into it right now, Andy, but
I’m almost certain Yankee Echo is a lot bigger and more
powerful than we know.”
“Law Forty, then back to One, Mick - remember
that. Be deductive - you already have an idea on the
ending.”
“I know you’re right, I keep wanting to change
that, and I’m chasing my wish, not going after reality.”
“Something like that, buddy. Just keep
working on it.”
The paint job was completed.
“Y’all almost look like a Zero. Did y’all leave
everything behind? Wallet, money, jewelry?”
“Yeah - they’ll have to use my teeth for an ID.”
A warm smile changed into a secure business
look.
“It’s time to rock and roll, Mick…let’s go.”
The team strapped into radios and weapons.
3:56 a.m.
Three air traffic controllers in the Miami
International tower gave no attention to the chopper,
each ten thousand dollars wealthier.
No flight plan - no return.
Zero was out.
309
Saturday, May 27, 8:45 p.m.
When you grow up knowing you have big-time
money, you learn that you have clout. This fact never
escaped Kathleen McKenzie, and although she
infrequently needed to use it, she always new it was
readily available, and at her disposal. McKenzie
Industries’ capital assets included two executive jet
aircraft with flight crews kept on a stand-by basis
around the clock. The larger of the two was a
Gulfstream II, its pilot notified by Kay McKenzie before
she’d left Washington to file a flight plan from Kennedy
to Logan, then Logan to Dulles. Arrival time at Logan -
approximately 10:15 p.m. Saturday night.
She’d exercised her position of authority in
McKenzie Industries to secure the use of the aircraft.
She hadn’t requested the size of the Gulfstream for its
roominess, but rather, its speed, wanting to be in
Washington before midnight. The Gulfstream crew,
paid well for their responsibilities, now ground traveled
to the New York airport.
Two other perquisites of money are power and
authority. Most people who have it understand this,
and usually just accept these facts as advantageous,
without using them maliciously.
Kathleen McKenzie had malicious intent.
Her brother had been murdered.
It was time to bring justice to bear on whom
she believed to be the killer. Any vision or thought of
criminal action was absent from her thinking.
Although clearly focused, she was temporarily, but
distinctively insane.
The Gulfstream bore the McKenzie logo on its
tailfin. Its pilot knew his passenger both by her
birthright, and also by corporate association. It was
also both facts that made her one of the most important
people he transported.
310
“Good evening, Miss McKenzie, we’ll be leaving
in just a few minutes. The refrigerator’s stocked, and
there’s some microwaveable meals in the freezer if you
haven’t had dinner.”
“That’s fine, Charlie - thanks.”
Fifteen minutes later they were three thousand
feet above and beyond Logan’s east-west runway.
She’d only carried on an over-the-shoulder
midnight blue nylon bag. In it were a black summer
jacket, a personal telephone directory, a set of keys to
JGM Exports, a bottle of Tylenol, and a 38 Smith and
Wesson.
Kay McKenzie had learned to use a handgun
years before Michael Courtney had - in fact, when she
was sixteen. One of the problems of being rich is you
need to know how to protect yourself. Patrick
McKenzie had seen to it his daughter did.
Charlie touched down the Gulfstream at
Dulles, using three quarters of the runway to give his
passenger a smooth landing.
It was almost midnight.
Waiting in her name at the Hertz counter
inside the terminal was a rental car, a black Buick
Electra station wagon, and a predetermined selection.
Throwing her bag on the front passenger seat,
she accelerated out of the airport parking lot onto the
north-south freeway, destination Mclean, Virginia - a
pretty Washington suburb.
The amenities in the wagon included a cellular
phone.
With her left hand on the wheel, she used her
right to secure her directory from its nylon residence.
Alternately watching the road and viewing the booklet,
she flipped the index tab to ‘T’.
His personal, unlisted phone number was the
last entry in the section - a number acquired through
JGM resources.
311
The gift of evolved thinking allowed her to use
Law Seven to balance her anger, while at the same time
applying Law Twenty-One to keep her calm.
She hit the appropriate buttons on the Buick’s
cellular phone.
His phone rang only once. Sitting in his
library, he’d been reviewing a Presidential economic
initiative.
“Secretary Tollman.”
“This is Kathleen McKenzie, I’m going to call
you again in ten minutes.”
She pressed the disconnect button.
312
Chapter 12
Sunday, May 28, 4:06 a.m.
Beginning an Ending
Miguel Belize’s wife was in Bogota attending
The Latin Nation Food Conference. She was often gone
on such trips, but not alone. A stately woman, she was
always accompanied by her personal male secretary, a
man her age who filled multiple roles. Miguel knew
about the extra roles, she knew he knew, and she knew
about Catalina in his life.
The political process had been good to both of
them, and neither wanted to rock the boat with public
scandal. He had his mistress, she had her lover, and
everyone had enough power and money to keep them
happy.
After the coup, it wouldn’t matter. She would
disappear into South America with ten million dollars,
where she would live out her life in a quiet, yet very
comfortable lifestyle. Miguel and Catalina would rule
Cuba together, a strong team with intelligence and
charisma.
Miguel Belize slept, as did his mistress next to
him. He was not a father figure, but a singular man to
this woman. Although he certainly took liberal
advantage of her shapely body, he also trusted her
financial judgment. The young beauty had a capability
of detailing international economic plans that could
eventually make Cuba the financial star in Central and
South America. They admired, needed, and wanted one
another.
Checking his artificial horizon, compass and
fuel status, Allen Bates slightly adjusted his course.
Coverty and St. Croix had agreed on a circuitous entry
onto the island nation.
313
They would fly at five hundred feet altitude
South, Southwest, circling the Western-most part of the
island to enter its airspace from a Southern position
below Havana.
Still at low altitude, Bates would fly direct
toward the villa, dropping off team members One, Two
and Four, three miles to the villa’s southern exposure.
From an aerial reconnaissance photo, they’d
been able to identify an area just to the south of the
villa where they would commandeer a vehicle, and
proceed toward the VP’s residence.
Completing the drop, Bates would pull up and
away to fly low-level circles over a deserted beach to the
North. Radio contact would be held on an open, but
private cellular channel, the pilot hearing every
conversation between team members on the ground,
while they would be able to freely communicate with
him. The Huey would be used as the optimum power
resource, but only if required.
Approaching the Tropic of Cancer, Bates
relayed position and time sequences to the team.
“We’ll cross twenty-three degrees latitude in
about thirty minutes, One. Are we still a go for the
Southwest entry?”
Coverty’s eyes met with St. Croix’s and
Courtneys.
“That’s a positive, Three.”
“I picked up some Coast Guard chatter a few
minutes ago, are we settled out of their systems?”
“Three, Two, that’s a positive.”
It was St. Croix’s response. A Southern U.S.
Commander with three children in college had accepted
thirty thousand dollars to instruct his small fleet to
ignore the chopper, which would not have been picked
up by radar because they were flying too low, but
certainly might be visualized.
St. Croix turned to Courtney.
“Mick, y’all got any add-ons to the op?”
314
“I have one I’m thinking of, give me the ground
procedure again.”
St. Croix looked at Coverty. He was listening
too, as he thought he’d be. He also wanted to make
sure Bates was in attendance.
“Three, Y’all got ears on this?”
“I’m with you.”
The pilot set his mind to an imaginary chess
game. Pulling a small-scale map from his breast
pocket, St. Croix placed it on the chopper floor and
moved slightly backward so both his flanking team
members could review its surface.
“We’re flying just off the water under radar on
almost a straight line from Miami to Cancun. At about
twenty-three degrees latitude, Three is gonna pull a
left-hand turn and change course from South,
Southwest to South, southeast. This is where we
jettison our extra fuel tanks. Three will need the speed
and maneuverability at that point. We come up the
coast about eight miles out until we turn Northeast for
land entry.”
He looked at both Coverty and Courtney. Both
seemed to be adequately informed so far.
“Most of the route’s over water so we ain’t
gonna wake up a lot of people. We’ll only have a few
minutes over the island before we land. One, Two, and
Four exit the chopper on this bluff. We reviewed some
aerial photos and saw there were a few shacks around
here with vehicles parked next to them. We’ll pick one
out, get it jump-started and drive toward the villa.
There’s a back road into Belize’s estate. We’ll have
about a three mile drive to the villa. When Three let’s
us off, he pulls back to circle this beach. If we need
Three’s firepower, we call him back in. Once we’re
inside the house, we move in two directions. One
immobilizes anything on the first floor while Two and
Four do the same thing on the second until we either
find Pat, or Belize. One joins us when he’s finished
with his end.” 315
Two turned quickly to One.
One nodded affirmation.
Two alternately faced Four, he, deep into Game
Theory, had more to say.
“Two things - Three, when we call you in, I
don’t know if we’ll need firepower, or just a method of
egress. I think we all should assume it would be for
both. I want to leave Belize with a message. I also need
to know when we can un-strap from these radios on the
fly-out.”
He looked toward Coverty, the Zero, in turn,
took the map in his hands indicating an answer with
his right index finger.
“Right about here. We’ll be over the Gulf about
twenty-five miles Northeast of Havana.”
Courtney nodded.
He had one final thought.
“They’re on defense, they’re prepared, but they
don’t know what for. If they change that to offense,
we’ll need to adapt. We’re coming in on the wind, and
we’ll leave like lightening.”
Bates thought to himself.
‘Checkmate, Mister Courtney.’
Sunday, May 28, 12:42 a.m.
There was more traffic on the freeway than
she’d expected. That was alright, she needed to blend,
and kept the Buick at a steady fifty-five, hoping to
avoid any legal confrontations. Retrieving the car
phone from its mount, she hit the redial button. The
phone’s tiny computer, recognizing the command, rang
George Tollman’s private line.
He’d been anticipating the call.
“Yes.”
The answer sounded like an attempt to
establish an offense, and it changed immediately.
316
“Don’t be curt, George, it doesn’t become
someone with so much power.”
It threw him off balance.
“I’m at a disadvantage, is it ‘Miss’ McKenzie?”
“You know my father, I’m sure. He’s part of the
U.S. industrial scenery you review every day.”
“Of course - McKenzie Industries - Connecticut,
right? Are you calling from there?”
“No, in fact I’m just a few miles from your
house.”
He glanced toward the window.
“So, what can I do for you Miss McKenzie?”
“You can tell me why you killed my brother,
John.”
He remembered the file folder - he remembered
the day.
“Your brother was killed in a firefight - in
crossfire, Miss McKenzie.”
“Don’t tell me that. You wouldn’t stay on the
phone with me if I hadn’t struck a nerve.”
“Alright, Miss McKenzie, let’s…”
“Please, call me Kay - we’re going to get
familiar.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to let me in your house when I get
there, it should be in about ten minutes.”
She disconnected.
He thought about calling the police.
No - he could handle any McKenzie.
Sunday, May 28, 12:51 a.m.
The wagon’s headlights splashed his library
wall as she swung the Buick into his driveway. He
stood inside, behind the front door, ready to receive her,
almost as if he’d invited her. Approaching the door, she
was momentarily startled when it was opened by its
owner.
317
Tollman stood much taller than she, an imposing figure
confronting her with non-confrontation. His left hand
on the door handle, he made a sweeping motion with
his right as if he was pulling a spirit into the house
from outside.
His voice was cool, yet cordial.
“Please, come in.”
She accepted his gesture to enter, cautiously
surveying the immediate area. Her right hand, buried
in a pocketbook slung over shoulder grasped the Smith
and Wesson.
Closing the door, he motioned once again, this
time to the library where he’d been reading. Her buried
hand hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Please, come in so we can talk.”
“You go first - I’ll follow.”
He obliged.
She was surprised at how comfortable the room
felt. Four, large, red leather, brass appointed
wingbacks sat on the inside edges of a huge, green and
white patterned Persian Mashad rug. In the middle of
the carpet a four foot square mahogany coffee table
supported current issues of FORBES, THE WALL
STREET JOURNAL, THE HARVARD BUSINESS
REVIEW, and a folder containing an outline of
President Randal Benson’s Cuban Economic Reform
Plan.
The walls of the room were completely lined
with dark Zenda solid oak bookcases, all neatly filled
with an assortment of both hard covers and paperbacks.
To her left she noticed a fieldstone fireplace,
the fire brick blackened from many previous
engagements. To her right, a small wet bar revealed an
expensive taste in liquor.
They stood four feet from one another.
It was he who spoke again, noticing she’d
abandoned her right hand from its hiding place.
“Miss McKenzie, I told…” 318
“You can call me Kay.”
“Alright, Kay, I’m going to tell you once again,
your brother was killed in a crossfire exchange in
Vietnam. That was confirmed by a military review
board.”
“Well, I think they’re full of shit. I have my
own resources, George, and my resources say a
company commander who used to wear brass on his
helmet in the jungle shot John McKenzie.”
A simple truth sometimes carries tremendous
weight.
He recalled the reprimands for wearing
unauthorized insignias.
“So what do you want, Kay?”
Her response was swift.
“I don’t want anything from you. I just wanted
to look in your eyes. Do you remember the CBS film
footage of the La Dang massacre, George? Did you
know the film crew actually had their camera turned on
before they got to the site? Do you know they captured
muzzle flashes from two guns, one fired horizontally,
and one fired vertically from only a few feet away? Do
you know they caught the reflection of the sun coming
off someone’s rank insignia on a helmet?”
She adjusted herself slightly - he noticing.
“Who told you all this?”
“Like I said, I have resources.”
“If you don’t want anything from me then why
are you here.”
“I just wanted to look in your eyes. I have my
answer.”
“And what would that be?”
“That you killed my brother.”
Her unzipped purse received her right hand
again, a sightless probe finding the 38.
Producing the same, its business end was now
pointing at The Secretary.
319
“Don’t worry, George, I’m not about to kill you.
I’m just covering myself a little better than my brother
did.”
“I’d like to discuss this more with you, Kay.”
“I’m leaving. I want you to think about what
I’m going to do next.”
“What if I’ve alerted the police?”
“I’d be very surprised if you did that, and the
fact that they’re not here yet tells me that you wanted
to meet with me, and didn’t call them.”
He couldn’t let her go.
“You’re very bright, Kay. I think you should
stay and talk.”
“No way.”
She backed to the door. He, moving to the wet
bar, pulling the top off a crystal decanter, began pouring
a clear liquid into one of a set of eight gold-rimmed
cocktail glasses. He spoke while continuing to pour.
“Your brother, John, disobeyed my order.”
Eyes widening, she grasped the Smith and
Wesson with both hands like she’d been taught, arms
extended, the weapon now at chest level.
“You don’t think I’m going to let you leave here,
do you, Kay?
Holding the decanter in mid air, his head
turned slightly, his eyes now engaging hers.
The blast from the Smith and Wesson would
have awakened the whole house were there anyone else
in it.
Her round, finding its mark in the middle of
the half-filled cocktail glass, sent shards of glass and
liquid in every direction, two small pieces embedding in
his right cheek.
Rather than frightening The United States
Secretary of Commerce, she’d enraged a maniac. Blood
rushed to his face and brain, his eyes now flared with
madness.
320
In a singular move of his own, he swept his
right hand across the bar flaying broken glass, the
decanter, and two cocktail glasses in her direction.
Most everything brushed her clothes, or went
by her, save one of the cocktail glasses which hit the
bridge of her nose, tearing cartilage and causing
internal bleeding into her throat and through the right
nostril. Her head, tilted back by the force, gave him
time to cover the short distance between them and
pounce on her.
She was beneath him on the floor, his legs
straddling her stomach, his hands pinning down her
arms, the pistol was now ten feet away from both of
them.
His eyes, glazed, seemed to breath fire. His
voice deep and menacing, penetrated all her senses.
“You’re a McKenzie - it was almost assured
we’d end up like this.”
Struggling beneath his weight, she realized the
terror he was capable of producing. Her first scream
was subsequently followed by his right fist crashing
into her left cheekbone, the force of the blow producing
in her a temporary state of complete unawareness.
Having torn off her blouse, he’d unbuckled the
belt on her jeans, and was now pulling on the zipper
with both hands.
She coughed out blood onto her chest,
screaming again.
The noise was summarily met by two more
blows, one to the jaw, and one to the stomach, the latter
causing her to expel all the air in her lungs, produced
even more blood.
Her arms felt like weights that couldn’t be
moved, and remained immobilized over her head. Her
body was being ravaged as if she were the prey of a
large animal.
His hands continued ripping the clothes off her
torso.
321
The next words she heard smashed her
emotions.
“Time to have another McKenzie.”
His head moved violently, up, and then down.
She felt a splash of warm liquid on her face.
He was lying prostate on top of her now, calm,
without movement. His left cheek, flat to her chest, she
saw what appeared to be a large volume of liquid near
his mouth. She was pinned beneath him, a mass she
couldn’t move. There was no more struggle, no more
tearing at her body. He just lay on her. Through tears,
she could see a pool of blood forming on the floor. Still,
no movement on top of her.
Summoning every muscle tissue within her,
she was able to move her hips to the right, the act
causing his limp form to fall into its own blood.
The back of his head was missing, brain tissue
exposed, small chunks of it on her chest and face. His
eyes remained open - caught in disbelief.
Rolling to her stomach, she began dragging
herself away from him.
Having moved no more than twelve inches, she
felt hands on her shoulders.
“Don’t’ move, Kathleen.”
The voice, firm and quiet was recognizable by
the way he pronounced the vowels in her name, and
also by the inflection on both syllables.
The warmth of an afghan, pulled from a couch
in an adjacent room, was now covering her while two
strong arms pulled her to her feet.
David Eisenberg turned her toward himself
engulfing her in the blanket. Two men behind him
were searching the lifeless form.
“Kathleen, come with me.”
The high-ranking CIA man, retrieving her
jeans from the
blood-soaked floor, led her into another room, sitting
her on an overstuffed chair.
322
His men would bag the rest of her clothes for
removal from the premises. Her pocketbook, revolver,
and all other traces of her presence would also be
removed.
He held her head in both hands, speaking
softly.
“Can you stay here for one minute while I get a
warm towel?”
Through vacant eyes she just stared at him.
He left.
Returning in two minutes, he held her summer
jacket and two towels. One was dry. The other, which
he’d soaked in hot water, was warm and moist.
Gently stroking her cheeks, he cleaned the
blood and brain parts from her face.
“Kathleen, take the towels - I’ll be back in five
minutes, and we’ll leave.”
She was coming around.
“David - thank you.”
He left again.
In the outer room, one of his men was
pocketing an empty rifle shell casing he’d retrieved
from the ground outside - ejected only minutes ago from
his weapon. A broken window through which the round
had traveled would be fixed later.
The other agent stood reviewing a piece of
paper no larger than a standard business card. He
extended it to his boss.
“This was in his wallet.”
The Deputy Director reviewed the paper
momentarily, then deposited it in his shirt’s breast
pocket. Orders were issued.
“Let’s go.”
The agent with the rifle acknowledged the dead
Secretary.
“What about him?”
“Leave him.”
Lights were shut off. The front door was
closed, but not locked. 323
Kay sat in the front seat of his Lincoln,
alternately shivering and trembling.
Dr. Steven Burns would get a call from the
Deputy’s cellular radio. He’d examine and release her
with enough sedatives for three days.
Eisenberg would drive her to Robert and Ellen
Wirtham’s home.
Wirtham would be told the truth. His wife
would hear a story about a traffic accident.
Sunday, May 28, 4:30 a.m.
David Eisenberg pulled into his driveway. He
needed time to think. He’d call Orefice in two hours.
Sunday, May 28, 4:42 a.m.
The Huey’s rotors held the chopper steady four
feet off the sandy Cuban soil. Two Zeros and one civilian
exited the aircraft through the open side door, weapons
locked and loaded
Coverty cleared the team.
“One, Two and Four on the deck and away.”
The pilot acknowledged.
“Four pulling out.”
The helicopter drifted slowly upward and
turned southeast. The entire ingress had taken less
than a minute.
One, Two and Four now moved through tall,
dewed grasses heading northeast.
Locating the road, One and Two
simultaneously sighted the cluster of shacks identified
from the aerial recon photos. Parked on the east side of
the smallest of the structures, a beat-up red Ford
pickup became an object of interest. The active Zero
had the point lead.
“Two, do you see the truck.”
“Copy that.” 324
“Four - keep walking up the road - stay to the
right side - we’ll pick you up.”
Approaching the vehicle, One pulled a tubular
steed instrument from his black nylon backpack.
“Two, check this thing for noise.”
Two, crawling beneath the rusting antique,
inspected the muffler system for holes. Although worn,
it didn’t look like a noise maker.
“One, noise looks acceptable.”
One used the tubular instrument to punch out
the ignition. Two crossed wires overrode the need for a
key to start the engine. The Ford came to life.
Sixty yards up the sandy road One and Two
retrieved Four, he, jumping in the truck’s bed.
“Four, y’all get our your weapon and release
the safety.”
Four, perspiring in the early morning Cuban
humidity, acknowledged.”
“How much further.”
“About two and a half miles.”
“One adjusted the firmness of his headset.”
“Three, status?”
“Three’s at two hundred feet. No life out here.”
Seven minutes later, the light illuminating
both the villa and its grounds, confirmed its isolation.
Located on a bluff, its front porch facing north, the
beauty of the residence of Cuba’s Vice President
provided sharp contrast to the shacks only a few miles
to the south.
One queried Four.
“That’s it, Four - any comments?”
“He’ll have multiple personnel - I’d prefer to
avoid them.”
“We’ll try.”
Leaving the truck in a ditch, they approached
the villa from the west. Two reviewed the grounds
through binoculars fitted with a nighttime vision
system
325
“Near as ah can tell, One, he’s got five to seven
men on the lawns.”
“What’s the nearest ingress to the house?”
Two scanned the dwelling.
“Side window - first floor. Probably has an
alarm system.”
From their protection in a stand of trees, the
distance to the front veranda over the lawn was
approximately ninety meters.
Two guards patrolled the side of the villa.
Right now, they were standing midway on the lawn,
talking and smoking.
Two un-holstered his Colt 42, attaching a
silencer to its muzzle.
At this time, two additional patrols approached
the pair who’d been in their sight. The Cubans had
their own communication system. Hand-held radios
squawked periodically at low volume.
One, Two and Four plotted Decision and Game
Theory.
Four took command.
The subsequent and consequent reaction to any
of their actions would be reaction. Action was
necessary, but what was most rational?
The consequence of taking out the men on the
lawn would be a lack of communication from them to a
more than likely command figure inside the villa. It
would trigger an adverse reaction.
It seemed the most rational action - the one
that would provide maximum utility would be to gather
as many of the guards as possible in one area - then
eliminate the threat of their reaction to the initial
action they’d decided to commission.
Four decided to change the plan.
Whispering the name of Cuba’s Vice President
to One and Two, Four made them aware of his intention
with his actions.
326
From his pants pocket, he retrieved a cellular
phone. Unfolding the device, he raised its tiny antenna.
The number he needed to dial had already been coded
into the phone’s computer.
Speed dialing, Four now became part of life
inside the villa.
Four rings - a sleepy voice answered.
“Belize.”
“This is Michael Courtney. I’m two hundred
feet from your front door. You have men outside, all in
dark blue uniforms carrying automatic weapons. I
want you and Mister McKenzie on the veranda in sixty
seconds, or we’ll eliminate your men and come in for
him.”
He disconnected.
Checking his watch, he alternately looked at
One and Two while contacting Three through the
mouthpiece on his headset.
“Three, we need your resources immediately.”
Three threw full power to his Huey.”
Four glanced at his watch while speaking to
One.
“How far back can he stay and be accurate with
his rockets.”
One raised two fingers.
“Two miles.”
Four played out Game Theory.
“Three, come to the front of the target - stay
two miles out - are you with me?”
“Affirmative - two miles out - square to target.”
Three engaged the Huey’s firing systems.
Four checked his watch - ninety seconds had
elapsed since his abbreviated conversation with the
Cuban Vice President. With a closed fist, he lightly
struck his knee.
“Damn - where the hell are you, Pat.”
The main door of the villa opened. Four men,
all uniformed and heavily armed, poured onto the
veranda. 327
One of them, shouting in Spanish, caused the
four standing on the side lawn, plus three others who’d
appeared from the back side of the villa, to join their
counterparts on the porch. They stood together
protecting the front entrance.
One checked his airborne firepower.
“Three - status?”
Three responded.
“Twenty seconds ETA - two miles out - square
to front.”
“Are you engaged?”
“Affirmative - fire system are positive.”
Four turned to, and turned over the plan to
One.
“I want the front porch removed.”
One nodded.
“Three, we have enemy vectored due east our
position, ninety meters - copy that?”
“One, Affirmative - ninety meters - your vector
- east your position.”
“Three - follow my vector.”
From a web belt around his waist, One
produced an electronic device that looked like a
compass. Laying it on the palm of his right hand, he
stretched his arm toward the veranda.
A red blinking light in the center of the
instrument began pulsating rapidly.
He checked with his pilot.
“Three - I have vector activation - how do you
read?”
Three scanned a guidance system locked into
One’s instrument.
“One - I’m vector Positive.“
“Three - lock on.”
“One - locked.”
One raised his eyes to Two. He could see the
inactive Zero understood what would happen next and
knew what to do to prepare for it. One would need to
verbalize it to the Analyst. 328
He tugged at his shirt.
“Get as flat on the ground as you can, cover
your head, close your eyes, and open your mouth so the
concussion doesn’t blow out your eardrums.”
The metaphysician shivered.
All three assumed the position.
One gave the order
“Three - I want twin Hell Fire in seven, six,
five, four, three, two, one, Zero.”
In the predawn darkness, the eleven guards on
the Vice President’s veranda would initially hold the
thought that the screaming Hellfire missiles were low,
twin shooting stars.
Coming toward them at fifteen hundred miles
an hour, the recognition of reality allowed them about
one and one half seconds to react.
Five of the Cubans had enough time to drop
their weapons. Three others were able to take two
steps sideways, and three just stood frozen.
The explosion of the impacting missiles lifted
the villa off its foundation.
One, Two and Four were thrown a foot into the
air.
What was left of the eleven men on the porch
was now being consumed in flames.
Inside the villa on the first floor, three troops
who’d remained inside were knocked unconscious by the
concussion. The oak floor in the foyer was on fire, as
was the staircase leading to the second floor.
On the second floor of the villa, five people
standing in one room were thrown against, and on top
of various pieces of furniture. A gaping hole had
appeared in the southeast corner of the room revealing
through its emptiness the library below. Patrick
McKenzie, his two Cuban bodyguards, Miguel Belize
and Catalina Salazar were all bleeding from either the
mouth or nose.
329
One reviewed the team.
“Three - you’re strike positive - hold your
position.”
“Three - roger.”
“Two - status?”
“Two’s alert.”
“Four - status?”
“Damn - yeah - OK - shit.”
One and Two un-shouldered their Uzi’s, flipped
off the safeties, and kicked first rounds into the firing
chambers.
Two addressed Four. His words, not only
reassuring, but also unequivocally accepted.
“Stay close to me.”
One informed Three of their intended
movements
“Three, One, we’re going in - stand by.”
“One, Three - copy that.”
One looked at Two.
“Let’s go.”
Raising themselves, the two commandos and
one civilian dashed toward a rear entrance door that
had been blown off its hinges. Inside, they realized
they were in the villas kitchen. Pots, dishes, glasses
and silverware lay scattered and broken on the counters
and floor.
A hallway led from the kitchen to the front part
of the villa.
Sliding with their backs against the walls,
Uzi’s held in firing position, One and Two moved along
the corridor with Four close in tow.
The library appeared to their left. It was
smoke-filled, books and wall decorations appeared to
have been randomly tossed to the floor. A large hole
had been ripped in its ceiling.
Having reached the end of the hallway, they
noticed the three guards laying unconscious. Two,
retrieving their weapons, threw them onto the front
veranda, now burning out of control. 330
One had checked the remaining downstairs
rooms. He’d seen no sign of any remaining threat, and
had noticed a back access to the second floor off a
servants’ dining room.
One addressed Two and Four.
“We got about six minutes to find our cargo.
There’s a stairway back here, c’mon.”
No chatter followed.
At the top landing of the back stairway,
another hallway appeared. Very wide, they could count
six rooms leading onto and off it.
Heat was building throughout the villa.
Smoke drifting from the staircase at its far end
was filling the unoccupied space. Pieces of the ceiling
were scattered on the carpet runner. Two large
paintings thrown to the floor, had had their glass
protection shattered. All the trash would make noise as
they stepped on it while making their way to each room.
From about halfway down the hall a door
opened.
A man, uniformed, drifted into the open space,
one hand holding an automatic rifle, the other a radio.
One, Two and Four stood motionless. Although
they were clearly visible, he hadn’t seen them yet.
The guard raised his radio to his mouth.
He queried eleven dead, and three unconscious
troops.
“Where are you?”
One made the next decision.
In one move, he dropped his weapon and began
a charge toward the guard. His right hand was
swinging the wire line secured at both ends by two inch
steel balls.
Although hazy from the explosion of the
missiles, the guard could not help but hear the Zero
only thirty feet away. Dropping his radio, he turned to
address, and fire on the form approaching him. It was
too late.
331
One had released the steel ball from his hand.
The spinning projectile reached the guard’s neck in two
seconds, wrapping itself around his throat, severing
both his jugular veins.
In a fit of frenzy, the Cuban grasped at what
would inevitably cause his death. One, throwing
himself on his target, produced a formerly sheathed
knife, burying it into his chest cavity.
Two pushed off the wall moving rapidly toward
One. He knew his lead man was out of weapons, and
there would probably be more confrontation. Holding
his own Uzi in his right hand, he recovered One’s with
his left.
Twenty feet - twenty five feet.
Another guard appeared.
This one had his arm wrapped around Patrick
McKenzie’s neck, and a pistol jammed against his ear.
One was closest - his assessment was extreme
danger for the team.
He had to let the Cuban set the agenda.
Two, thinking the same thing, halted his
movement, dropping one weapon. Four - thirty feet
behind couldn’t believe he was looking at Pat McKenzie.
Two recognized the guard and thought to
himself.
‘Cardinal.’
Backing away from the three Americans,
McKenzie still in his grasp, Cardinal soon realized the
impossibility of retreating by the main staircase. He
felt he had control by virtue of his hostage.
“Drop your weapons.”
His English surprised Four.
There were few choices. One, Two, and Four
complied.
Moving toward them again, Cardinal turned to
speak toward the open door where he’d just appeared.
“Come.”
Miguel Belize and Catalina Salazar appeared
in the hallway. 332
The VP held a pistol in his right hand, his left
holding the right hand of his mistress. Perusing the
three stationery Americans, the Cubans and their
hostage inched their way toward the enemy.
One and Two both knew what they would do
were the tables turned.
Eliminate and escape.
The situation was unacceptable to both.
Although they had no weapons in hand - they did have
firepower available. One decided to use his resource to
call in friendly fire on their own position. The filmy
smoke in the hallway would obscure his lip movements.
He’d only need to whisper.
“Three, One, need single hydra support, same
vector – now.”
The chopper commander replied.
“Roger - Hydra - same vector in six, five, four,
three, two, one, Zero.”
Two and Four, having heard the call braced
themselves, mouths open.
One’s assessment of the forming hallway
confrontation had been correct. Cardinal, still retaining
McKenzie in a choke hold had straightened his arm and
was now aiming his weapon at One’s head.
The active Zero didn’t move, hoping he had at
least one second before the Cuban pulled the trigger.
He did.
The Hydra rocket screamed onto the burning
porch just a half meter to the right of where the Hell
Fire missiles had struck.
The rocket’s impact threw the seven live people
in the hallway against its walls and into the air.
The two Zeros, having expected the explosion,
were first up.
They both covered the distance between them
and the Cubans in three seconds.
333
One passed Cardinal, his attention focused on
Belize. Two, directly behind him, took the guard, his
fist crashing into the bridge of Cardinal’s nose, and
shortly thereafter, his boot finding the Cuban’s
stomach.
Belize was overpowered easily. One had
jammed the VP’s right arm behind his back causing his
shoulder to dislocate.
Salazar stood against the wall eyeing the
various weapons on the hallway’s floor. Four had been
moving toward her but was unable to reach her before
she dove to secure one of the pistols. She came up firing
wildly.
Her first round struck the wall across from her
about six feet off the floor. Continuing to fire, her next
round found a target, Four. She’d blown a hole through
his shirt, the round digging a quarter inch trench along
his bicep.
Four, frightened by the firings, but acting on
instinct, continued his lunge at the Cuban beauty.
The last round she got off was lethal.
She’d delivered a nine millimeter hollow point
into the back of Cardinal’s neck, its exit tearing out his
throat.
Four, grabbing her gun hand threw his body
against the woman’s sending both of them crashing into
the wall. She’d dropped the weapon during the
struggle.
One and Two hustled to kick any weapons out
of everyone’s range of reach.
Two secured McKenzie and addressed Four.
“Follow me.”
One moved to collect Belize and Salazar.
He indicated the far staircase.
“Go.”
Outside, on the northern end of the front lawn,
One was hand tying Belize and Salazar back to back
with electrical wire ties.
334
The flames engulfing the villa brought Three back into
the picture.
“One, Three - do you need assistance?”
“Three, One - copy that - come to fire site -
North lawn.”
“Copy that - ETA fifty seconds.”
The entire ground operation, thought to be
complete, was not over.
Three truckloads of Cuban Elite Guards were
rushing toward the villa, their Commander having been
contacted at his barracks by Belize following his
abbreviated conversation with Courtney.
From the air, Three caught sight of their
headlights approaching the villa.
“One, Three - I have three bogeys coming at
you from the East - looks like deuce and a halfs.”
“Three, One - what’s the timing?”
“Close.”
“Keep coming.”
“I can eat their lunch right now.”
“Negative - keep coming.”
“Copy that.”
One, having secured the VP and Salazar,
motioned to his two team members and McKenzie to
follow him away from the landing pattern of the
approaching Huey.
Four grabbed One’s arm and indicated Belize
and Salazar.
“I need one minute with them.”
“Sixty seconds, we leave.”
One joined Two and McKenzie.
Courtney pulled the Colt from its holster and
cocked the hammer. Shoving it into Catalina Salazar’s
mouth, he addressed the VP.
“You heard him - give me a name in the states
and I let you go. Take more than five seconds and I
blow her brains out, and then yours.
335
Eyes widened, he only needed three of the five seconds.
“George Tollman.”
Courtney, un-cocking the 42, holstered his
weapon.
Securing a knife from his leg sheath, he cut
their bonds and scrambled to join his team members.
The sound of the Huey’s rotors filled the air.
Three landed on the lawn seventy feet from
where Four had just released the VP and his mistress
who were now running to join the approaching soldiers.
The open sides of the chopper presented an
inviting refuge for the three Americans. One and Two
loaded Four and McKenzie first.
Two jumped in pulling the team leader behind
him. Hitting the floor plate, One alerted the chopper
Commander.
“Three - Go!”
Three drifted up and back trying to keep both a
low profile, and an angle advantage over the
approaching trucks. He thought they would have
rocket propelled grenade support, RPG’s, and he didn’t
want to have to tangle with that.
Their egress would be North - the trucks were
coming out of the East.
It was too late, One had miscalculated their
time of arrival.
He should have taken them out in the air.
The Huey’s powerful bow light illuminated the
dismounting troops - some of whom were firing
automatic weapons - others preparing their RPG’s.
Small arms ricocheted off the chopper’s steel-plated
underbelly and its super high-tempered windshield.
Bates broke code and cursed the team leader.
“Damn it, Snake.”
Coverty knew this was no time to have
multiple leaders shouting orders. He gave the mission
to Bates.
“Your op - your way.”
336
Allen Bates assessed the situation. He was in
the chess game of his life. They were too close for his
rockets. The concussion would knock out his own
power. There were too many for his gatling guns,
someone would still get off an RPG.. That was it - the
RPS’s - they were the only thing he had to fear. They
would need time to assemble and load.
He had a move.
Using full power, he maneuvered into their line
of fire, placing the Huey directly over their heads, the
troops beneath him all huddled from the wind
generated by the awesome prop wash of his bird.
Reaching for a set of toggle switches, the
commander released 90 gallons of aviation fuel from his
tanks. Spread out by the draft of the rotors, the liquid
drenched the soldiers’ uniforms, as well as Belize and
Salazar’s clothing.
In a tight maneuver, Bates brought the chopper
to a point southwest, directly behind the conflagration
in the villa. Putting the Huey’s tail toward the ground,
he pushed the rotors to max torque. He was at almost a
forty-five degree angle to the ground.
With full power at this angle, his rotors were
blowing on the fire like a bellows, throwing thousands
of white-hot embers on everything in front of him,
including the troops, the Cuban VP, and his mistress.
The fuel he’d dropped ignited immediately creating a
fireball of burning clothing and flesh.
Coverty looked at Courtney and decided he
wouldn’t ask why he’d set them free.
Feeling the threat eliminated, Bates set the
Huey for a straight out egress. At five hundred feet
altitude, he pointed the nose northeast and began his
flight to a Zero drop facility.
337
Sunday, May 28, 6:43 a.m.
David Eisenberg pressed the keys on his phone
that would connect him with the Director of the United
States Central Intelligence Agency. He wasn’t looking
forward to breaking this news to his boss.
The connection made after two rings, the
Director sounded like he’d been up for hours.
“Scott Orefice.”
“It’s David.”
The tone in his voice suggested something very
serious. Orefice, calm, prepared himself for hard news.
“What is it, David?”
“George Tollman is dead, Scott.”
An audible drawing and release of breath, and
then a five second period of silence, didn’t suggest any
type of bereavement, but rather that the Director was
forming a logistic plan. That assumption would be
correct - he needed information.
“Give me the details.”
For the next ten minutes, David Eisenberg
would tell him a story about tracking Kathleen
McKenzie from Boston to Washington. How their
agents had lost her temporarily, but had picked up her
trail again after she’d left Dulles airport. In the
meantime, she’d been able to contact Tollman, confront
him, and also get herself in a position of extreme
danger. When they finally caught up to her, it was in
his best judgment to take out the Secretary.
There was silence on the line again.
The fact that Orefice was not chastising him
led him to believe something he’d thought all along -
that Tollman was a liability.
Had Kathleen McKenzie been able to, she could
have told him that.
338
What Eisenberg didn’t know was that Tollman
played an important role in another agenda with a
Japanese businessman that was now blown to hell,
unless a remedial act could be put into place.
Orefice had to act quickly.
“David, keep your people away from Tollman’s
house. I’ll take charge of this. Have we gotten any
closer to the Yankee Echo people?”
“No, we lost them in Miami, but we’re almost
certain they’ve entered Cuba.”
“Alright - I need Yankee Echo at high profile for
now - what’s Wirtham doing?”
“He’s supposedly under Courtney’s supervision
right now. The organization’s anti-Cuban writes will be
out next Friday.”
Tell Wirtham to halt those writers. You and I
are going to dedicate ourselves to bringing in Courtney,
St. Croix, and anyone else they come back with, but we
want Courtney first. We have an extreme situation,
David. We need to use whatever it takes, but I want
them in good shape.”
“I understand, Scott. I’ll make it my priority.”
Sunday, May 28, 7:04 a.m.
Robert Wirtham, still in his bathrobe, stood in
his kitchen spooning milk into his third cup of coffee
when the wall-mounted phone to his left rang. He felt
both relief and inquiry.
“Yes.”
“Robert, it’s David.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I spoke with the Director - he wants the
Cuban writes stopped.”
“When, why?”
“He and I both feel that Courtney and St. Croix
will be able to secure Pat - and with him back, the
breachers have no authority.”
339
“But we don’t know that for sure.”
“We will soon.”
“David, I don’t know how much Michael’s found
out about how we’ve manipulated him over the past ten
years, but I guarantee you he’ll put the whole thing
together.”
“I know that. Until I secure him, I won’t know
how much he knows. When I find him, I’ll handle the
situation.”
Sunday, May 28, 7:11 a.m.
Allen Bates held the Huey on a bee-line to the
Florida Keys, his destination an unmanned Zero
outpost established years ago as a final origination
point for access to Central America.
Nothing more than three quarters of a square
mile of fenced compound, it contained only one building,
two satellite-connected telephones, and an aviation fuel
pumping system.
Bates didn’t care about the phones - he needed
fuel.
Pat McKenzie sat on the starboard side of the
Huey’s back seat, directly across from Michael
Courtney. St. Croix was portside to McKenzie, Coverty
next to Courtney.
The senior Zero had applied a salve to
Courtney’s wound, and had dressed it with a bandage.
Although no one was talking, everyone was still
strapped into their communication systems.
The warmth and brightness of the morning sun
had fallen across Courtney’s face alerting a numbed
mental state. His first words after mounting the
chopper were directed at Coverty.
He pointed to his head set. “Can I take this off
now?”
Coverty nodded affirmatively.
340
There was something else he wanted to do, but he need
to know if he had permission for it also.
“Can I change seats with Andy?”
Another nod of affirmation.
St Croix, hearing both communications
acquiesced, both he and the analyst now carefully
exchanging seating arrangements.
Courtney, now seated next to Pat McKenzie
would set Law Fifteen into motion for himself.
The exploding missiles striking the villa had
thrown McKenzie against a wooden bureau causing a
hairline cheekbone fracture. His face, slightly swollen
and bruised made him look more weak and tired than
he actually felt. His eyes, now cast in Courtney’s
direction, suggested good mental alertness. He wanted
answers.
“Who were they, Michael?”
“The guy I let go on the lawn was the Vice
President of Cuba.”
McKenzie’s eyes narrowed.
Courtney continued.
“They broke the organization, Pat. We’re
pretty sure we were compromised by a writer in Miami.
Someone else in the states is pressuring us to write
negative against the President’s reform plan for Cuba.
We still have that to take care of.”
The CEO said nothing.
“As far as I know, with you back, we’re stable
again. The USA contact has been through me, but I
think we’re going to be hearing from some other people
about cleaning this thing up.”
“Where’s Kay.”
“The last time I spoke with her she told me she
was driving from Massachusetts to Connecticut. I’m
sure Robert and Eisenberg are taking care of her.”
The mention of the second name didn’t go
unnoticed.
341
“Who?”
Courtney, slipping his head set back on, used
the action to make it clear he was terminating the
conversation for now. He’d given his boss enough to let
him know he’d want to continue it later.
“David Eisenberg, Deputy Director.”
Their eyes met - it was McKenzie who
abandoned contact.
Andy St. Croix, hearing the conversation
through his sensitive microphone, allowed himself a
slight smile, and a thought.
‘You’re the fucking best at this shit, Courtney.’
Sunday, May 28, 8:05 a.m.
Randall Benson had also been up early this
morning.
There were two people who had access to him
at any time, his wife, and Scott Orefice.
The CIA Director has spent the last hour
developing a plan to dispose of the body of the United
States Secretary of Commerce while at the same time
taking care of the Kushima agenda.
Reaching for his phone, he fingered the digits
to connect himself with the President of The United
States, who happened to be in the Oval Office alone.
Had he not been there, he would have been found easily
for this caller by the White House staff.
Looking at the lights on the phone alerted him
to who was calling.
“Yes, Scotty.”
“Mister President, we’ve had an urgent
situation develop.”
The tone in the Director’s voice indicated as
much.
Benson drew a breath.
“Tell me.”
342
“George Tollman is dead, Sir.”
“Oh God. What happened? How many people
know about this?”
Orefice answered the questions in the order
they were presented.
“Kathleen McKenzie went to his house last
night, there was a confrontation, and he attacked her.
Eisenberg and two of our agents had been following her
and arrived on the scene during an ugly moment. They
used extreme prejudice. I have two agents there now.
More people know about this than I would like, but it’s
a tight group.”
“He’s dead? What the hell do we do now?”
“We dispose and cover, Sir.”
“Dispose and cover? How do we handle that?”
“It can work out well with your approval, but
let me tell you something first, Randall.”
He infrequently addressed him by his first
name, but this moment was too emotional to stand on
formality.
“George Tollman wasn’t just a political liability.
He was a human being capable of inhuman actions. He
and Kushima were cut from the same mold, and the
same prejudice we’re going to use on Kushima was used
on Tollman. It’s terrifying, Randall, that we act like
this, but I believe sometimes a Higher Authority puts
absolute power in our hands when there’s justifiable
cause.”
The words weren’t as calming as they were
realistic, and he still needed an answer.
“What’s your plan, Scotty?”
It took ten minutes to detail.
The President concurred.
“Alright, I’ll have Pete Radler release a
statement. Call me as soon as it’s done.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Lines were closed.
343
He dialed another of his Deputy Directors at home.
“I need a Boeing dressed out to look official,
U.S. Presidential.”
His next call connected him with Elizabeth Hendrecks.
“Forget Courtney’s meeting with the President,
I need you for something else.”
344
Chapter 13
Endings
Sunday, May 28, 8:31 a.m.
Randall Benson pulled the ‘Vision 1 Only’
portfolio from his side desk drawer for the last time. It
would be destroyed after this final review.
Moisture formed on his top lip. His palms
sweat. The acid in his stomach reacted.
The document detailed the events that had
occurred on April 15, 1942 in a Japanese prisoner of
war camp on the Batan Islands in the Philippines.
Two captured Americans had been causing
trouble for the Camp Commander, First Lieutenant
Saito Kushima.
Twin brothers, Randall and Johnathon Benson,
both officers with the Army Engineers, had been
encouraging their fellow prisoners to withhold
information regarding American troop strengths on the
island. Additionally, both had tried to escape twice,
their plan being foiled each time. Kushima had called
for a camp formation at noon, and had directed his men
to erect a platform which would act as a stage.
At 12:15 p.m., the camp was called to attention.
The Benson brothers were pulled from formation to
stand with Kushima and his staff on the platform.
Both were shackled at the wrists and ankles.
The Japanese Commander had a photographer
taking pictures of the assembly which would later be
hung in strategic positions around the camp.
Randall and Johnathon Benson, like all the
other prisoners had had their dog tags removed, and
were stripped of all other identification.
The brothers were told to kneel and bow before
the Camp Commander who would make a speech about
discipline, finishing with the remark that those who
were undisciplined would be severely punished. 345
Concluding his remarks, and drawing his
sword, the Commander established his type of
discipline with a savage down-stroke beheading
Johnathon Benson. His brother was made to haul away
the body, dig a grave, and bury it.
The President lay his head on his desk,
sobbing.
Sunday, May 28, 8:55 a.m.
Eisenberg, changing to the passing lane on the
Beltway responded to the shrill ring of his car
telephone.
“Yes.”
It was The Wanderer, his ‘cabby’.
“We have a report from some friends about a
fire on the Cuban island. It’s the Vice President’s villa.
It happened several hours ago, and there’s nothing left
of the house. Patrick McKenzie’s been rescued. Belize
and his mistress are dead. There’s a lot of troops
around the area.”
“Belize is dead?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Courtney and St. Croix?”
“Yes, and probably with the help of a Navy Zero
team.”
“Where will they show up?”
“Not sure right now. We think most likely in
the Keys, or somewhere on the lower Gulf coast.”
“How are they traveling?”
“By air - most likely helicopter. We’ll catch up
with them, or they’ll catch up with us.”
“We want Courtney - and don’t forget, he’s got
McKenzie.”
“I understand.”
“Keep me informed with updates.”
“I will.”
346
Eisenberg called his boss to inform him of the
latest news. The Director would need to tell the
President some of it in an early evening briefing, but
he’d also withhold some of it until morning. He was
sure the Cubans wouldn’t let it get out.
Sunday, May 28, 9:03 a.m.
Allen Bates checked his artificial horizon. At
one hundred feet off the water, and with minimum fuel
reserve, he needed hard ground.
The Zero compound was two miles ahead.
They’d passed over only two small sailing craft on entry,
and no vehicles or personnel on land could be seen
which would notice their approach.
Speaking into his mouth piece, he alerted the
team.
“ETA, one minute.”
Coverty addressed Courtney.
“We’re going to refuel - we’ll need to talk.”
Courtney acknowledged.
“We will.”
Bates, settling the Huey in the compound,
disengaged the rotors.
Courtney made one final communication
through his headset.
“Andy, Pat, come with me.”
Stepping from the chopper, the three men
headed toward the small wooden structure two hundred
feet to their south.
Bates and Coverty would refuel and check the
Huey for any possible damages occurred during the
engagement with the Cubans.
Inside the building, they found three rooms
and a full bathroom. One of the rooms contained
various camouflage clothing in assorted sizes, and two
tables with huge maps on their surfaces.
347
Another room had three sets of bunk beds, a
small refrigerator, and equally small stove, sink, with
cabinets above and to its left, and a small dining table
surrounded by four wooden chairs. The room they’d
entered contained a few chairs, radio equipment, TV, a
desk with two telephones on its top, and what appeared
to be a small conference table with six wooden chairs
around its perimeter.
The absence of dust anywhere led Courtney to
believe this outpost had people coming in and out of it
frequently. The phones gave him an opportunity to
begin a conversation. He spoke to St. Croix, but his
message was subtly intended for McKenzie.
“I wonder who we’d get if we picked up one of
those receivers.”
“Y’all wouldn’t get an AT&T operator, Mick.”
Courtney turned to McKenzie.
“So, Pat, you’ve had quite a journey for
yourself. Aside from a few bumps and bruises, you look
OK. You, me, and Andy have a few things to square
away, Pat. And before we tell anyone where we are,
Andy and I want the whole story on Yankee Echo. We
also have a couple things to tell you that you’re going to
find revealing.”
McKenzie, taking short steps, walked away
from the other two men, summarily taking a seat at the
apparent conference table. Courtney and St. Croix
remained standing.
Taking a minute to review his thoughts, he
decided they knew enough about the truth to recognize
it as a falsehood.
“Michael, Andy - please, sit.”
Both accepted the invitation, and were now
sitting next to each other, and opposite the founder of
Yankee Echo.
348
He began.
“Neither of you were ever lied to, but you also
weren’t told everything about the organization……”
For an hour, he detailed the size and scope of
the organization; number of writers, who controlled it,
why he’d formed it years ago with Wirtham.
He gave them almost all of it.
Courtney gave him his thoughts.
“Pat, I won’t ask you why you couldn’t trust me
with the truth, and I think I speak for Andy here too.
Actually, it’s pretty evident. It was safer to keep it just
between you, Kay and Robert. But I’m going to tell you
something else. I thought we did a lot of good - hell, I
know we did. What I don’t know is what I did to Protect
CIA and corporate interests, and I don’t want to know.
It isn’t a real neat idea, Pat, to give a U.S. intelligence
organization, and a bunch of corporations, control over
the content of this country’s newspapers. Actually, I
think it’s pretty damned stupid to be involved with this
at any level now.”
McKenzie reminded him of the facts.
“That’s the way it is, Michael. We can’t give it
up. It’s too important to us.”
Courtney turned to St. Croix.
“How do you feel, Andy.”
The Zero, hands folded on the table, gave a
brief confirming answer.
“A’hm in line with Y’all, Mick.”
McKenzie nodded at the two of them.
Courtney was still McKenzie’s employee, and
he felt a strange loyalty to detail everything for him
that had occurred since May 19’th.
Telling him he was certain it was George
Tollman who killed his son, John, he saw both anger
and sorrow in the older man’s eyes. He wouldn’t tell
him Tollman was part of the breach. He was saving
that piece for Eisenberg.
349
Continuing, he told the CEO the writers had
been instructed to develop negative stories regarding
the Cuban reform plan, but the TAC could be pulled
now that he was safe.
He also told him he and Kay had split up.
She’d left Washington on her own, and he wasn’t sure
where she was.
McKenzie knew Eisenberg would cover her.
When Courtney finished, he asked St. Croix to
join him outside. Leaving their boss behind, the two
exited the structure.
The analyst was beginning implementation on
a Decision Theory plan that had actually existed in his
mind from the day he’d joined the organization. He
never expected to have to implement it.
“Andy, give me your best guess on what’s going
to happen next?”
“Pretty clear to me, Mick. Eisenberg’s gonna
track our butts until he’s got us.”
“What happens then?”
“He talks to us. Asks us to stay on. Ah don’t
know, Mick. These people don’t want us to walk away
from Yankee Echo. Don’t forget, they still have the big
breacher to deal with.”
“The big breacher, besides Bellcamp, was
Tollman, Andy”
“Huh?”
“Belize told me on his lawn when I threatened
to blow his friend’s brains out.”
“Well then, with Pat back, hell, we should get a
damn medal.”
“They don’t know it yet.”
“So, why keep it a secret?”
“Because that’s our only Ace right now.”
“So, what’s the plan, Mick?”
“We shut down Yankee Echo…at least for a
while.”
“Ah don’t think so friend. The CIA won’t like
us doin that.” 350
“They won’t know we did it.”
Sunday, May 28, 9:18 a.m. Tokyo Time
Saito Kushima had just finished his final draft
on the contract to build a manufacturing plant in the
Democratic State of Cuba.
The telephone ringing on the table behind him
was answered in another room by a legal assistant
called to his home to review the plan. His knock on the
door was recognized.
“Yes.”
Entering, the assistant informed him there was
a call from the United States - a Mister Orefice.
Two taps on his phone’s keypad made the call
totally private, and secure.
“This is Kushima.”
“Mister Kushima, this is Scott Orefice - good
morning, Sir.”
“Yes, Mister Orefice, I was just finishing my
final edits on the contract, and am now reviewing them
with my top legal aide.”
“That’s fine, Mister Kushima. There’s some
events which have occurred that will require we act
immediately on this matter.”
“What would those events be, my friend?”
“Patrick McKenzie has been rescued from the
island of Cuba.”
“Is that so - when did this happen?”
“In a daring raid within the last twenty-four
hours. Two of his people, with the aid of some others
were able to successfully extricate him from the island.”
“And where is he now?”
“He’s back on American soil - but he isn’t the
only reason we need to be urgent. The President feels
immediate action is necessary because interests in the
power systems industry are beginning to pressure both
his office and some of our Senators.
351
As I’m sure you know, once those types of industries are
operational in Cube, the State will then be calling in
the electronics and other support industries. The
President and I both want your contract to precede the
power systems people so there’s no political fallout later
on.”
It made sense.
“Very well, my friend. I will make
arrangements to fly to Cuba. How long will you need to
establish a date with President Santiago?”
“It’s being done as we speak, Mister Kushima.
The President has instructed me to personally escort
you, and I’ll be leaving this evening to pick you up in
Japan with one of the President’s aircraft. Of course,
you realize we’ll need one half the payment before we
leave.”
‘A private escort by the Director of The Central
Intelligence Agency?’
“Mister Orefice, I’m sure you are aware
Kushima has its own aircraft, and we are quite capable
of transporting ourselves around the world.”
“Yes, but there was a development in Cuba
during Patrick McKenzie’s rescue that would make your
entrance and appearance on the island less of a threat
to anyone if you were accompanied by me. We’ve been
told by our people in on the island, that during the raid
to rescue McKenzie, the Vice President’s villa was
completely destroyed by fire. It was all cause by
exploding rockets. We don’t know at this time what the
Vice President’s association was with the terrorists
holding McKenzie, but the political situation is cause
for some concern by President Santiago. He needs
outside support. Your contract will be something he can
hold up to help insure stability. Coming onto the island
with me, You’ll get a quick contract signing.”
But Kushima didn’t want a quick signing - he
wanted to stick the contract in the face of American
businessmen, especially the likes of Patrick McKenzie.
352
But he also wanted Orefice on the island so he
could silently dispose of him after it had occurred.
It was alright, there would still be time. He
could transfer one-half of the funds, still take out the
American official, and then recover his money. The
contract was most important now.
“Very well, Mister Orefice, I will make one half
the funds available to you immediately, and I will meet
you at the airport - just tell me when.”
“Thank you, Sir. We leave at ten tonight and
arrive at nine fifteen this same day, your time. We will
refuel in the Philippines, so when we land in Japan, we
will be able to leave immediately for Cuba. I suggest
you keep the people you bring to a minimum.”
“I will be traveling with two personals.”
“That’s fine, Mister Kushima - I’ll see you at
nine fifteen.”
“Thank you Mister Orefice - I look forward to
it.”
They disconnected.
Kushima redialed.
“Put one half the funds for the Cuban plan in
the Caribbean banks.”
Orefice redialed - he waited a little longer.
“Yes, Scotty.”
“He’s meeting me tonight - his time, about
nine, Sir.”
“Is the plane all set? What about the pilot, copilot
and flight attendant?”
“We’re using our own people. They’re highly
trained. They’ll be picked up.”
“And what do we tell the Press about these
people when they supposedly don’t come back?”
“They were government employees, lived alone
in large apartment complexes. People come and go all
the time. We used Tollman‘s personal computer at his
house to email his secretary telling her he wouldn‘t be
into work - was taking a short vacation.”
353
It all sounded well planned - he wanted
closure. “Let me know when it’s over.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Sunday, May 28, 12:00 noon
Allen Bates settled the Huey next to its hangar at the
far end of the Miami International airport. At Coverty’s
request, McKenzie had been blindfolded for reasons
most obvious to the Zero team. They didn’t care if he
knew what they looked like, but they didn’t want him to
know where they lived. Courtney had told the Snake
everything.
On the ground, they disembarked, guiding the
CEO to one of the GMC Jimmys where he’d sit in the
back alone. Coverty and Bates would drive him to a
small motel twenty miles North of the city on Route
1A. He’d be given five hundred dollars in fifties, and a
roll of ten dollars in quarters. Courtney and St. Croix
would wait at the compound. They’d shave, shower,
eat, and rest.
McKenzie would eventually call Wirtham and
make his way to Washington,
Wirtham would call Eisenberg.
Sunday, May 28, 9:08 p.m.
The huge Boeing banked from its base leg to a
final approach five miles out from Japan’s largest
airport, an air traffic controller identifying the flight as
diplomatic, U.S.A. coming in from Clark Air Force Base
in the Philippines where it had refueled.
Directed to a southeast to northwest landing
pattern, the pilot and co-pilot went to full flaps,
touching down just sixty meters from the edge of the
runway.
354
They were cowboys, trained to make short field
landings in jungles and on mountain tops.
Setting reverse thrusters, the jet came to taxi
speed in a distance that would normally be more
appropriate for a much smaller aircraft.
The plane settled into a holding area in the
northwest corner of the airport, its Pratt and Whitney
engines at idle speed.
Diplomatic meant secure. That meant no
customs, no inquiry regarding cargo, and no questions.
Arriving by private limousine, Kushima and
his guards could see the red, rotating beacon on the
plane’s underbelly turning slowly. They also noted the
tail fin, dressed out with a small official seal of The
President of The United States.
The front entrance stairwell was down - a
welcoming sign. In the plane’s doorway, a black-haired
woman waited to take on her passengers.
Kushima’s limo door opened electronically, a
small, electro mechanical system performing the simple
operation. Stepping to the tarmac, the Japanese
executive carried only his briefcase as he and his two
personals, each carrying two tan, leather suitcases,
mounted the plane’s aluminum stairwell. At the
aircraft door, they were greeted by the American
woman.
“Mister Kushima, I am Elizabeth Hendricks -
welcome aboard.”
Gesturing aft of their current position inside
the Boeing, she gave them initial instructions.
“ We’ll be leaving shortly, please, make
yourselves comfortable in the forward lounge while I
notify Mr. Orefice you’re on board.”
Kushima nodded, the three Japanese now
moving aft through the plane’s corridor.
Three minutes after the plane’s stairwell was
retrieved and doorway secured, the Boeing taxied to the
main runway.
355
Directed into the wind for takeoff, they were
airborne once again, heading southeast towards the
Pacific Ocean.
She appeared in the lounge.
“Mister Orefice is in the rear cabin on a call
with his office. He should be available shortly. If you
like, I can fix you a drink from the bar, or you can help
yourselves.
Kushima preferred the latter.
“Thank you Miss Hendrecks, we will entertain
ourselves until Mister Orefice is ready.”
“I’ll call you as soon as he’s available - it should
only be about five minutes.”
Five minutes turned into twenty-five.
Although the Japanese executive understood how easily
that could happen, especially in the arena where
Orefice performed, he didn’t like it.
There was something else bothering him. The
plane had taken off, but had not seemed to climb
appreciably. Kushima had thousands of flight miles in
his history, and he knew that, on takeoff, the plane’s
angle of climb in relation to the ground was quite steep.
The Boeing had not achieved an angle anywhere near
what it should have to accomplish a climb to thirty
thousand feet, where the most economical flight path
would take place. He’d ask Orefice about this
immediately when he saw him.
Fifteen more minutes passed.
She appeared again.
“Mister Orefice is finished with his call, and
he’ll see you now. If you’ll walk straight back, you’ll
find him in the last cabin.”
Closing the curtain to the lounge behind her,
she calmly walked to the refrigerator in the planes
forward kitchen.
Opening its door, she reviewed the placement
of C2 explosives set in place near the door’s hinges by
counterparts in the states.
356
Her hands moved deftly, taking hold of two
copper wires that terminated inside two blasting caps.
Inserting them into each pack of the clay-like material,
she continued her procedure by opening a small black
box and setting a timing device which would send
twenty-volts of electricity to the caps in four minutes
and thirty seconds. Closing the appliance, she checked
its position, and moved quickly to the cockpit door.
Two knocks - short pause - two more.
The door was opened.
Inside, a man dressed more like a Navy
frogman than a pilot stepped aside to allow her entry.
She gave him a critical piece of information.
“All set - about four minutes.”
“Let’s move.”
He closed and locked the entrance.
In the middle of the cockpit floor, a metal
hatchway had been left open. Climbing down a ladder,
she was greeted by the co-pilot, he also was dressed
like someone who would soon be in the water. Holding
out a wet suit and goggles, his three words expressed
speed.
“Dress fast, Liz.”
Helping each other into short-jump parachutes,
the three CIA agents fastened harnesses and headed aft
to the Boeing’s open cargo hatch.
At the doorway, the pilot pulled a preset radio
transmitter from the door’s trim section.
“Delta Water, Bright Beacon - we’re out.”
A response came from a radioman on a CIA allweather
chase and recon boat five thousand feet below.
“Bright Beacon, Delta Water, we have you
visual and electronic, fax will send in sixty-five
seconds.”
Signaling a thumbs up, the pilot swung his arm
toward the hatch indicating the jump. She went first,
the draft from the aircraft sending her into a rapid
descent.
357
The pilot and co-pilot threw out a rubber raft
attached to its own chute, and followed their already
exited counterpart. All parachutes, equipped with
altimeter-controlled opening devices, deployed
successfully at forty-five hundred feet.
Kushima’s mood was just short of totally pissed
off.
He and his two bodyguards had come to the
last cabin noticing its door slightly ajar.
Knocking, he announced his intention to enter.
“Mister Orefice, we have many items to discuss
before reaching Cuba.”
It was immediately apparent there was
something wrong. A strong odor hung in the air, almost
like sulfur, but worse. The cabin, at first glance was
apparently empty. On its starboard and port sides,
bookcases held an assortment of electronic gear, fax
machines, books, manuals, newspapers and periodicals.
Recessed lighting in the ceiling had been set at max,
and brightly illuminated the entire room.
A black, leather high-back chair behind a desk
was turned around. Kushima could see a left arm of
someone sitting in it from his angle, but could see no
more of the person occupying the chair’s space.
Walking around the back, he turned the chair
toward him.
George Tollman had been packed in ice in the
states and then shipped to Clark Air Force Base in the
Philippines where he was later transferred to the chair
just after refueling.
His head was decaying faster than his torso.
The sight of the corpse caused the Japanese
executive to step quickly back, his hand reaching for a
handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth. Both of his
personals immediately drew weapons from their
shoulder holsters.
358
One of the fax machines in a bookcase on the
plane’s starboard side began its warbling sound,
indicating an incoming fax. The three men moved
closer to the sound and the machine.
Coming out, a faxed photo clearly indicated the
sun reflecting off the end of a young Japanese
Lieutenant’s sword as it met the neck of an American
soldier. Written across the bottom of the photo were
seven words,
He rests in peace
You will not
Kushima’s eyes were on fire.
Crumbling the paper and throwing it to the
floor, the CEO began a sprint to the front of the aircraft,
his two men following, weapons still drawn.
Nine hundred feet over the Pacific, the moon’s
reflected light illuminated the calm sea below. An
altimeter in a homing device connected to one of her
chute straps kicked into place, causing the tiny radio to
send out a tracking and positioning signal that agents
on the chase and recon boat would use to locate her, the
pilot and co-pilot when they touched down.
It wasn’t necessary. Their final descent was
being visualized by agents on the boat using highpowered
night scope binoculars. They would be in the
water no longer than two minutes.
As Liz Hendrecks passed through eight
hundred feet, Kushima was just reaching the cockpit
door. To his right, and unknown to him, the timing
device connected to the blasting caps was passing
through its final ten seconds.
Finding the cockpit door locked, the former
Japanese Lieutenant turned to his men glaring. He
was about to issue an order for them to fire into the
door’s handle assembly just as two contacts were
meeting in a small black box that sent a charge of
electricity to two blasting caps. 359
The explosion blew off the refrigerator door,
propelling parts of it through the skin of the aircraft.
All three men were tossed against the opposite wall.
The Boeing was not at a high enough altitude,
nor was it traveling at a great enough speed to cause an
implosion which would have sucked every loose item,
including the three men, through the holes.
The refrigerator had been located so its flying
door parts would rupture critical stabilizing lines when
they broke through the planes wall, thus disallowing
any turning maneuvers.
Although the aircraft had been refueled in the
Philippines, it had only been partially refueled. The
plane’s fuel supply was now almost gone. It would
travel at a height of five thousand feet for another
twelve minutes before its engines would shut down.
Even with access to the cockpit and its radios, Kushima
could not call for help because the dual communication
devices had been rendered inoperative.
Twelve minutes later the aircraft began a nose
dive for the Pacific Ocean.
Saito Kushima and his two bodyguards fled to
the last aft cabin to be as far away from the plane’s nose
when the aircraft hit the water.
It wouldn’t matter.
The impact of the water against the metal
frame of the plane threw all three men against the
walls of the room they once again shared with the
former United States Secretary of Commerce. In an
ironic twist of fate, George Tollman’s body was flung
from the high-back leather chair, landing on top of the
Japanese businessman.
The three men went down with both the
aircraft and The Secretary to the bottom of the Pacific.
There would be no attempt at recovery per Presidential
order.
360
Monday, May 29, 7:15 a.m. Washington Time
Randall Benson would hold open the
appointment he’d scheduled for Michael Courtney, even
though he knew he wasn’t coming. He also knew he
was only going to take one call before noon. It came at
7:21, the blinking light on his communication system
indicating its source.
“Yes, Scotty.”
“I have quite a bit of news for you, Mister
President. First, both Kushima and Tollman are
finished and confirmed.”
“Are your people alright?”
“They’ve all been recovered safely, Sir. The
operation was a success. There are no loose ends.”
“Scotty, we still have Courtney, St. Croix and
Pat McKenzie unaccounted for.”
“That’s the next part, Mister President.
McKenzie showed up at Robert Wirtham’s home last
night. I have people working on Courtney and
St, Croix.”
“They found Pat McKenzie and pulled him out
of Cuba?”
“They not only pulled him out, they also burned
the Vice President’s villa to the ground, and the VP and
a couple of dozen Cuban troops died in a firefight.”
“What!? When! Why haven’t we heard from
Santiago about that? I can’t believe that the Vice
President of a democratic nation has died, and I don’t
know about it..”
“Probably because Belize was his liability and
he’s going to cover it up. I’m sure we’ll get the real
story, but the Press will hear another one. It happened
yesterday morning.”
“Why did you withhold that from me?”
“I’m telling you now, Sir. We had Kushima and
Tollman to take care of first. It was my best judgment.”
“Let me be the judge of that in the future,
Scotty.” 361
The President knew there was little he could do
to control that, but he still needed to say it.
Orefice complied for the moment.
“Yes, Sir.”
His reply meant little, both knew it, and both
would let it go.
There was a pause in the conversation before
Benson picked it up again.
He understood that real power doesn’t always
exist with the highest authority.
“I’ll speak with Santiago later. Where are
Courtney and St. Croix?”
“Right now all we know is that they’re on the
East Coast.”
“How the hell did they pull it off?”
“We’re not sure at this point, but we know they
would have needed help, and we’re almost certain they
used military ordnance. We think that came from St.
Croix’s contacts.”
“Do you think the ordnance is worth tracking?”
“Only to help us find them. They did us a big
favor but don’t know that.”
He’d heard enough for now.
“Scotty, I know you’re going to stay on top of
this situation. The wife and I will be going to Camp
David this afternoon for some R and R. If you need me
for anything, or if you have any more developments, you
know how to reach me.”
“Yes, Sir, Mister President.”
They disconnected.
Monday, May 29, 8:10 a.m.
Pat McKenzie had phoned Wirtham
immediately after being dropped off at the motel by
Coverty and Bates. Finding his daughter was safe with
his old friend was a pleasant surprise until he was told
the circumstances of how she’d come to be there.
362
He’d taken a taxi to Miami International and
had rented a private Lear which had flown him to
Dulles. He and Kay had stayed at the Wirtham home
that night where they’d talked well into the night
before retiring. She’d told her father about the terrible
scene at Tollman’s home, how David Eisenberg and his
men had rescued her, and how the Secretary of
Commerce was shot. During their hours of
conversation, there were tears mixed with some levity -
ironic opposites in the same phenomena.
Wirtham had explained the breach in Yankee
Echo, the fact that some of the breachers were still
unaccounted for, and how he thought Courtney’s help
would be necessary to put the organization back in
working order.
McKenzie had told them he didn’t think that
was possible based on his conversation with Michael
and Andy in the Zero compound. After hearing the
details on how Yankee Echo was organized, who
controlled it, its size and scope, they’d both bailed out.
He also said all of this would have to be relayed
to Eisenberbg.
Before they’d gone to bed, the Deputy Director
had been contacted, and he’d agreed to meet with the
three of them at 8:00 a.m.
The black Ford Crown Victoria in front of
Robert Wirtham’s home was occupied by two CIA
Special Ops personnel. David Eisenberg’s Lincoln,
immediately behind the Ford, sat unoccupied.
Inside the home, four people sat in Wirtham’s
living room. Wirtham’s wife had left for work thirty
minutes earlier.
Pat McKenzie and his daughter sat on a couch.
Wirtham and Eisenberg sat in arm chairs in front of
them, a glass-topped coffee table between the two pair.
There had been initial greeting and welcoming
statements and wishes for recoveries, followed by
introductions of the subject matter of this gathering.
363
Kay McKenzie addressed the youngest of the
three men.
“David, Michael is going to contact me. Why
don’t you call off your people?”
“Because we need him now, Kathleen. He has
all the answers.”
“What answers, David? My father’s back.
Whoever breached the organization doesn’t have a
hostage anymore. Why don‘t your people concentrate
on finding the breachers, and leave Michael alone?”
Her father provided part of the answer.
“Kay, Michael and Andy know everything about
Yankee Echo, we need to know their intentions.”
“Dad, do you think he’s going to go to the NEW
YORK TIMES? For God sake, he’ll let it go. I know
him. He’s not going to take on the CIA.”
It was Wirtham’s turn.
“Kathleen, please try and understand how
important the organization is to everyone involved.
Michael’s been a big part of this, and we just want to
talk to him.”
Eisenberg could see there was no point in
detailing a possible recovery scenario of Courtney and
St. Croix in front of her and decided to terminate the
meeting among the four, to take it up again later with
just three people present.
“Look, I know you people must be anxious to
get back to Connecticut, let’s pick up on this later.”
Kay McKenzie and Robert Wirtham understood
this to mean, ‘I’m not going to give out the details of our
next moves in front of Kathleen because she’ll give
them to Courtney if he calls her.’
Pat McKenzie just thought it was a good idea
to meet later.
The answers he, and a lot of other people were
looking for from Michael Courtney, were going to come
sooner than expected.
364
Monday, May 29, 1:15 p.m.
Courtney and St. Croix walked the twenty
meters across the inside of the Zero building to speak
with Coverty. Number One sat at a drafting table
reviewing maritime charts. Above the tilted table, a
small television set on a steel stand was channeled to
receive a military news station. Although at low
volume, it still could still be heard.
Finally reaching him, it was St. Croix who
spoke.
“Snake?”
He turned from viewing the drafting table’s
contents.
“Me and Mick will be leaving soon. We wanted
to thank you and Allen for all the help. We couldn’t
have done this without you guys.”
The active Zero chuckled.
“No need for thanks Andy, we took out some
bad people, and probably did a favor for more people
than we know about.”
He addressed both of them.
“There’s something you guys should know
about.”
Indicating the television, he continued.
“I’ve been catching the news - George Tollman
is dead. He went down in a plane crash in the Pacific
off Japan last night. It’s been broadcast for about an
hour now.”
Courtney thought for a second - somehow this
news didn’t surprise him.
“Who released that information, Snake?”
“The White House Press Secretary, Radler. He
said Tollman was on vacation in Japan. His plane took
off from Tokyo and went down with engine trouble. The
pilot contacted Clark Air Base in the Philippines, but
there was nothing those guys could do. It should be in
the papers too.”
365
Courtney couldn’t believe it. How fortunate,
how poetic, how fucking lucky for the President, the
Director of the CIA, Pat McKenzie and Yankee Echo.
He addressed Coverty with a statement meant
to be a question.
“Snake, I need to make a phone call.”
“Go ahead - you can use my office.”
“Andy, excuse me.”
“Sure, Mick - go.”
Thoughts bounced through his mind:
‘Tollman’s dead? President’s meeting - Orefice
calls me, sets it up. On vacation? What a crock. Why?
He wouldn’t get dusted because he opposed the Cuban
Plan - Hell, Benson could have just fired the jerk. -
President’s second agenda.’
The door to the Zero’s office was open. He
closed it.
Sitting at the desk, he held his face in his
hands, thinking.
‘Kay, Kathleen, Kay, Oh God, where are you?’
He dialed her condominium. Six rings - no
answer.
Redialing, he tried Connecticut. Two rings -
someone connected - a man.
“McKenzie residence, may I help you?”
“May I speak with Kathleen, please?”
“I’m sorry, Miss McKenzie is out of town. If
you’d like to leave your name and number, I’ll deliver a
message to her when she returns tomorrow.”
“No, no thank you…I’ll try reaching her when
she comes back”
He went back to his thoughts.
Yankee Echo was huge, much larger than he’d
known. All the strategy he’d planned seemed so logical.
Good things got done. He couldn’t even remember a
time he’d designed a plan that would have a direct
benefit on any corporation, not even McKenzie
Industries. 366
Wirtham set direction for ‘writes’, but who gave
it to him - Pat - the CIA - a committee of corporations -
all of them? Did he just do the CIA stuff
Monday, May 29, 1:25 p.m.
McKenzie, Wirtham and Eisenberg were all in
agreement. Find Courtney and St. Croix and debrief
them - then fix the organization. They would both be
invited to keep their jobs, even though that possibility
remained remote at this time. They’d both been under
a lot of stress, and had a right to be angry. If they
wanted out, they could leave, but they had to be
controlled, and Eisenberg would speak with Scott
Orefice about how that would be accomplished.
Whatever it took, Yankee Echo had 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 was that the natural
occurrence of the Laws themselves was affecting the
outcome of everything.
374
Part III
Closure
Chapter 14
Yin and Yang
The Eighth Physical law
Tuesday, May 30, 1:00 p.m.
Sitting on the bed, Michael Courtney reviewed
a contingency plan he’d set up long ago. There were
elements to consider, and because of these elements,
this was the contingency he needed to implement.
Yankee Echo
Power - control
Fill - overflow
Yin - Yang
The last reference was his key.
He knew that when anything became too full,
too complete, it would retreat in favor of its opposite.
Yin and Yang - the two polar forces in Chinese
thought, would be assigned to Yankee Echo, and its
opposite.
He’d characterize the organization as Yang, the
part associated with power, movement and creativity.
Its polar opposite, Yin, would be the same organization,
but one that was static, resting and lacking authority.
It existed simply because of the actuality of its own
opposite, where the power presently stood.
He’d need to create, and cause to come to life,
an opposition to Yankee Echo - its Yin.
375
Once it existed, the organization, because of its
own weight, power, and authority, would transform
itself into its opposite - a non-effective, nonauthoritarian
entity.
The process was simple - to make something
change, interrupt its pattern, create its mirror image.
No drastic overt action on the organization would be
necessary to effect the transformation - it would happen
naturally.
Technology would be involved, but that part
was easy. In fact, he couldn’t believe how simple some
solutions are to problems we consider major.
It was time to act on the contingency.
He’d need Kay.
Picking up the phone and holding the encoder
against the receiver, he was flushed with guarded
anticipation as he dialed her number.
There was a voice at the other end - female.
“McKenzie residence, may I help you?”
“May I speak with Kathleen, please?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Michael Courtney.”
What took twenty-five seconds seemed like an
hour.
“Michael!?”
Her voice washed him.
“Oh God, Kay, it’s good to hear you. Are you
OK?”
“Yes, are you? Where are you? Are you coming
here?”
“I’m with Andy, and I can’t tell you where we
are, but yes, we’re coming there - soon.”
“Michael - nothing’s happened that can’t be
worked out.”
“I don’t agree with that, Kay. It was you who
finally convinced me that Yankee Echo was
manipulative and wrong. Do you remember?”
“Of course - I’ve been trying to tell you that for
months.” 376
“Well I don’t like what I see. I don’t like being
a part of this now, and I need to meet with your father,
but I wanted to make you were safe, and available.”
Her voice quieted.
“I understand - thank you - and I am.”
“I’m going to come to you - stay in Connecticut.”
“I will.”
“We need to talk about a lot of things.”
“I know…can’t you come here now?”
“Please, Kay - it has to be like this for the time
being - It’ll be soon.”
“…..I love you.”
“…..Thank you…I love you too.”
Did he love her? Did she love him? Was it
love, or need, or both? Did it matter?
Arms folded across her chest, she leaned
against the doorframe leading into the den. Her father
sat on a leather couch reviewing corporate papers.
“That was Michael.”
“I thought so.”
“Will you tell David he called?”
“I have to, but he’s probably already figured
that out.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
He motioned for her to sit beside him.
“Kay, Michael will be able to take care of
himself. I’m concerned about you. Tell me how you feel
about your relationship with him.”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know - I think I
love him.”
She turned to him.
“Dad, Michael found out it was George Tollman
who killed John. He went to Cuba and risked his life to
get you out of there. He’s been loyal to you all these
years. How can you just let him go?”
“I’m not - he walked away.”
“He walked away from a lie.”
“Kathleen, some things are…”
377
She held up her hand.
“Dad, stop, please. I’ve heard it all before. The
greater good - the larger picture - the keeping things
balanced. I don’t buy it. I never really did, even though
sometimes I said I did. Yankee Echo is deceiving and
wrong. I wish I’d never been allowed to know it
existed.”
He spoke softly.
“Kay, it’s too big to stop.”
Her voice was also calm and quiet.
“What you’re really saying is it’s out of control
and can’t be stopped.”
The elder McKenzie stood.
“You should try to convince Michael to leave it
alone - let it go.”
“What makes you think he’ll do anything else?”
“His attitude.”
“What’s his attitude?”
“He’s hostile. We think he knows who the
breacher was stateside
“Hostile? He probably thinks David wants to
tie him to a chair and shove a light in his face to
interrogate him.”
“Both he and Andy can come back. David and I
have agreed on that.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“I’m not, but I still need to see him. I need -
David needs to know who the breacher is, and what
Michael’s going to do.”
“I think you’re going to find out soon, Dad. I’m
going for a walk on the beach.”
“I’ll be here when you get back. Kay - it’s going
to work out.”
Looking at him like only a daughter can, she
silently nodded her head.
McKenzie picked up his phone dialing
Washington.
“David Eisenberg.”
“Michael just called.” 378
“I thought it was him. He has an encoder. We
couldn’t trace it. Did he talk to you?”
“No, Kathleen. She wasn’t on that long.”
“I would think he’d want to see her.”
“He’s got to make some first moves. Have your
people come up with anything?”
“We think he and St. Croix are still in South
Florida. I have an idea we’ll be hearing from them
soon.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he’ll want to start an offensive
pattern - put us on defense.”
“How will you handle that?”
“I’ll try to turn it back on him. He’ll be a
challenge on the outside. I’m feeding information on
whatever he does to two Physical Laws Professors at
Georgetown. We’re sure he has answers on the
breachers and we want to know his intentions.”
“Well - I’ll keep you up to date from here.”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
Eisenberg made a call. It was answered by a
Professor of Physical Laws and Metaphysics sitting in
his office in the middle of Georgetown University’s
campus.
“This is David. Courtney’s contacted Kathleen
McKenzie.
“Then you’ll be next - he has his plan set. You’ll
hear from him within twenty-four hours, maybe
sooner.”
“We still put the defense back on him, right?”
“That’s right - it’s also assuming you can.”
“What would you guess his intentions are?”
“He’s working from deductive logic, he has a
conclusion. We’re working from inductive reasoning -
we need to build theories that will make his conclusion -
then we’ll know what he’s doing. We still have a piece,
though. His call to the girl probably means he’s
finished all his brain-intensive work. 379
He’ll be moving toward you, very fast - you
have to be a part of his plan.”
“He has the advantage.”
“That’s true.”
“I don’t like waiting games. I need to know
who Bellcamp and Belize were working with.”
“If he knows who it is, you’ll have it sooner
than you realize. Don’t forget, it’s been Courtney and
St. Croix who’ve solved this whole puzzle for you to
date. They’ll continue to do so. Courtney’s not going to
withhold information. He’s just waiting for the right
time to deliver it. We re-read his Law One Corollary
Paper. As a Philosopher, he likes primary movement.
He’ll make something happen, and in order to do that
he needs everyone to be aware of all the parts,
otherwise no one knows he’s done anything. If I were
you, I’d be more concerned about what his intentions
are toward the organization. He may try to dismantle
it, and he may have worked out a contingency plan for
that years ago.”
“That’s an impossibility. Even if all our
computers were destroyed, we’re redundant. We could
set up again in two weeks.”
“He probably wouldn’t even consider physical
destruction, David.”
“So how could he do it - he’s out. He doesn’t
have access anymore.”
“Good question, and we don’t have an answer
for that. He’s changed his philosophical concept of the
organization from positive to negative. He’s
resourceful, and pretty much a straight pragmatist. He
needs to practice his science, and he’ll find a way and a
place to do that. What would make sense is for you is to
find him a new job where he could use the tools of his
trade. We think he’d be well placed in the CIA in a
Special Operations Division where he could work with
St. Croix on U.S. economic security. What we’d suggest
to you is that you have a talk with Scott Orefice, and
see if this would work for him. 380
If it does, and they accept the positions, you’ll know
where they are, and you can watch then through the
Director. Give Courtney a one year option. He can
leave after that. He knows Yankee Echo can’t be
physically destroyed, and if he has any other plans, he
may just opt for another job and let them go.”
“So you think he’ll contact us.”
“He won’t just contact you, he’ll come to you -
he’ll want this resolved quickly.”
“I’ll be waiting, stay close.”
“We will.”
Eisenberg punched another number into his
keypad.
“Wirtham answered.
“Yes.”
“Have you changed the satellite codes to the
writers?”
“Yes, we’re finishing it up now. David, if you’re
worried about Michael, he’s not going to come here.”
“How can you be sure about that? How do you
know he and St. Croix won’t borrow a Zero explosives
kit and come in and level the place?”
“Because he won’t want to destroy what’s here,
and he knows he can’t make it go away. He wants
justice, but we don’t know what that means for him
right now.”
“You don’t think he’ll seek retribution?”
“Yes, but he may feel he’s already accomplished
it by leaving the organization. He has a lot of respect
for himself and for what he does - and to tell you the
truth, David, we’re really in a lousy position without
him - he knows that.”
“We’ll get a replacement.”
“I know we will - but think about the change in
philosophy, in analytical procedure. Look at what he
and Andy St. Croix have managed to do. We’re going to
miss these people.”
381
The man was right. He hadn’t even thought about
replacements yet. The organization had run so well,
been so well managed and executed that it seemed like
it would never be any way but that.
He needed to see him - talk to him and St.
Croix
He was nervous, not knowing what to expect -
and expecting the worse.
Signing off, each promised to contact the other
with any subsequent news.
Tuesday, May 30, 2:14 p.m.
Andy St. Croix had returned from renting a
car.
“Got us a Bronco, Mick. It’s got a cellular
phone.”
Courtney slid off the bed.
“Sounds good to me, want to leave?”
“Yep.”
They left - heading North.
Tuesday, May 30, 4:05 p.m.
Courtney waited two hours before dialing.
“David Eisenberg.”
“This is Michael Courtney.”
It was their first introduction.
Eisenberg was immediately on defense.
“Courtney…Michael…I’m in the middle of
something right now - let me call you right back.
“You hang up on me and we don’t talk for two
more days.”
That was unacceptable - or was it? Was
defense worse?
“What do you want - you know we need to
debrief you.”
“Debrief? What the hell is this? I don’t work
for you.” 382
“You know damn well you do.”
“Well, I’m sure you know by now I’ve cancelled
my contract.”
“I’ve heard - I still…”
“Listen, David, I’m going to save both you and
me a lot of time and trouble. It was Tollman, our
former Secretary of Commerce. He was acting with
Belize, Bellcamp, and someone else in either the CIA or
NSA. I doubt if the last guy could or would hurt you.
He’s probably scared as hell right now and covering all
his tracks. You’re probably never going to find him. If
you want to look for him, that’s up to you. I’m not
interested.”
“What are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you Yankee Echo is safe - unless
Dan Bellcamp decides to come back and blackmail you.
But I’m sure you’re working on that. I don’t know if
you’re surprised about Tollman, but you’re a lucky man
and so is the President because he got himself
eliminated. Your breach is closed and you can resume
your game.”
“I’m…it’s not a game…we need to meet with
you and St. Croix”
“You will, David…soon.”
He replaced the cellular phone in its holder.
St. Croix had heard one end of the
conversation.
“Ah don’t believe he’s too happy with Y’all right
now.”
Courtney cracked a smile.
“I just gave him the truth. If he’s having a
hard time with that, it’s only because he’s unfamiliar
with the concept.”
“What’s next, Mick?”
“I guess we go to Old Saybrook and say hello to
everyone.”
383
The only reunion he was worried about was the
one with the woman he’d taught, and had come to love.
Was it love? He’d know - She’d know - They’d know.
Tuesday, May 30, 4:20 p.m.
The last meeting of the day was just concluding
for the CIA Director - a strategy session on the
development of an expanded field operation in Turkey.
The blinking light on his phone indicated the caller.
“David?”
“Scott - Michael Courtney called me fifteen
minutes ago.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He said George Tollman was responsible for
the breach in Yankee Echo, and that he had a partner
in either the CIA, or NSA. He thinks this guy will be
going into a closet, and I agree with him.”
He continued with everything he knew, or had
been told.
“…Scott, with the exception of the last man,
and like I said, I think Courtney’s right - he won’t be a
problem - this issue is closed. Once Courtney and St.
Croix surface, we can finish this up. We’re hoping
they’ll be reasonable. Something I’ve been thinking
about, and its been recommended to my by others, is
that we offer them jobs in Special Ops positions in the
Agency. We can control them that way. What do you
think?”
“I’ve already had a brief conversation on that
matter at a very high level. Yes, I’m hoping that’ll
work. I have some things to do on my part right now.
Call me back with any developments.”
“I will.”
The Director immediately hit two numbers.
There was a quick answer.
“Yes, Scotty?”
“Mister President, I need to see you right
away.” 384
Tuesday, May 30, 5:31 p.m.
Scott Orefice was probably more familiar with
the Oval Office than anyone else who worked in the
Benson Administration, with the possible exception of
Pete Radler.
Entering the egg-shaped room, he
acknowledged the man with whom he’d conspired to
dispose of the body of their Secretary of Commerce
while eliminating another man who’d terrorized G.I.s
years earlier.
“Mister President.”
“Scotty, come in - please, sit,”
He wasted no time.
“Michael Courtney has contacted my Deputy
Director. He told him it was George Tollman who
breached Yankee Echo, and that he was involved with
Miguel Belize and his mistress in a plot to use that
organization to dismantle support for your Cuban
Economic Reform Plan. I don’t know why I’m not more
surprised than I am.”
There was more to say, but he waited for a
response.
It was short.
“Go on.”
“This means the breach is closed with the
exception of two people. Someone in the CIA, or the
NSA was working with Tollman - probably as a bag
man. We believe this man will be hiding, and we don’t
feel he’d be worth the effort to track down.”
“And the other one?”
“Belcamp - that’s where this whole thing began.
He gave the information to Belize’s mistress, and it
grew from there. He disappeared with two million
dollars from the Cuban Treasury, but Eisenberg and his
people recently caught up to him. David is excellent at
taking care of situations like that, and I’m sure he won’t
be a problem either.”
385
Randall Benson didn’t care about Bellcamp, or
the CIA or NSA connection. Tollman was finally
validated for what he was.
“I’m not surprised it was Tollman. He was
bound to end up like this.
“We’re not finished with all of this yet, Sir.”
The same short reply to his statement came
next. “Go on.”
He shifted in his chair, arranging his thoughts.
“Eisenberg still has to bring in Courtney and
St. Croix - to debrief them. I know we talked about this
before - we may be offering them jobs in Special
Operations.”
“I think that might be a good idea, Scotty - but
don’t you think they’ll see through it? Don’t you think
they’ll know why they’re getting jobs with the CIA?”
“Yes, Sir - but we can also give them the option
to leave in a year if they want to. They should know
they’ll have to be controlled for at least that long.”
“I suppose in your type of business - for that
matter in their’s too - you expect these things.”
The Director’s response was appropriate for the
remark.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Do you think Courtney’s going to tie us in with
Tollman and Kushima?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. One other think he
said to Eisenberg was that he and you were both lucky
because of what happened to Tollman. I also know
Kathleen McKenzie will tell him all about the incident
with Tollman at his house.. But we can’t forget - George
Tollman did a lot of damage to the McKenzie family,
and we believe Courtney’s in love with Pat McKenzie’s
daughter. He’s going to want things to settle down.”
“Scotty - when you locate him, or he locates
you, I want to meet with him. I’m very interested in
this young man, and his partner. There may be other
places for them besides Special Operations at your
Agency.” 386
Orefice felt a sudden sense of loss - a loss of
something he didn’t have yet.
The President noticed.
“It’s OK, Scotty, you’re still my number one
man - and they’d have to interface with you.”
A sense of well being returned
Tuesday, May 30, 6:58 p.m.
They’d stopped for dinner and had been talking
over a coffee.
Courtney continued to unfold the plan to his
partner.
“……Robert recruited you and me into Yankee
Echo because we each had a particular expertise. I
know Pat McKenzie was in the background of my
selection, and probably in yours too. I don’t know if
Eisenberg was around at that time, but either he, or
someone else in the CIA, was probably a part of both of
our initial employments.”
He sipped his coffee.
“We were lied to right from the beginning.
They held all their secrets in a nice little group to keep
their exposure minimal. So when they got breached,
only twenty percent of the organization was at risk.
Hell, that’s brilliant.”
“Why do you suppose Pat spilled the whole
thing to us after Cuba?”
“He was in a tough spot, Andy. I think he may
have felt we’d probably figure it out once we got back,
and he doesn’t want us to leave. He must have thought
we’d earned out stripes, so why not trust us with the
truth?
“Do y’all really believe that?”
“No.”
“Mick?”
“He wants us back so we’re controlled. They
have to close out everything in the breach. That
includes you and me.” 387
“How do we leave and still convince them we’re
not a threat?”
“That would be more difficult for us than it
would be for them. They’ll come up with their own
answer, and I’m thinking maybe we should just play
into it. But I’ll tell you what - we are going to stop them
- at least for a while.
“You got me goin again, partner.”
“I don’t mean to keep you in the dark, Andy -
and I’m going to tell you everything - I promise. But
some of it’s going to come later. If I give you the whole
thing at once, I could put you at risk, and I don’t want
to do that. You’re going to have to continue to trust
me.”
“Y’all have m’ah trust, Mick. Keep goin. Ah’m
with you to the conclusion.”
Drawing a breath, he continued.
“They know there’s no way we could physically
access the organization even if we wanted to.”
“But we’re going to put a stop to it?”
“It won’t cease to exist, but it won’t be able to
operate for some time. When Robert recruited me back
at UVM, I told him I’d want to make contingency plans
for every type of breach. He gave me that latitude, and
I gave him all my plans - all but one. Something I
thought a lot about was what if Yankee Echo became a
rogue all on its own - what if we lost total control over
everything? There had to be a way to stop it, without
destroying it at the same time.”
“So how do we shut it down?”
“There’s two ways it could be done. First, Pat
or Robert could do it from McKenzie Industries, and
now that I know Eisenberg’s involved, I guess he could
do it too. They could just voluntarily close it out.”
St. Croix shifted his eyes.
Courtney noticed, and continued.
“I know, those were the long shots, but they
were still possibilities.”
388
“The second part’s the contingency you never
told Bobby about?”
“That’s right.”
Courtney looked around the room. No one he
saw, even if they overheard him, seemed to be a threat.
He continued - speaking about a plan of action
he created many years ago.
“What it all comes down to is Law Eight, Andy.
In order to stop the system from doing what it does, all
you’d need to do is keep feeding it full of itself - Yin and
Yang. Keep making it more of what it is, and it turns
itself into its opposite - and that’s what we’re going to
do. I can’t tell you how I’m going to do this right away,
and it probably isn’t going to be done for a couple of
months - but I promise you, I’ll have you there when it’s
done - if you want to be there.”
“Y’all got to be kiddin, Mick - ah’ll be there.
“OK, what we need to do now is get to Pat’s
house. We have to try and convince these people we’re
ready to compromise.”
They left the restaurant. Their journey would
take two days.
Andy St, Croix would arrive at Patrick
McKenzie’s home in Old Saybrook on Tursday, June 1st
at 11:58 a.m.. The Zero would exit their vehicle off I-95
in Clinton, two towns before Old Saybrook where
Courtney would reunion with Kay.
Thursday, June 1, 11:15 a.m.
Taking the right-hand exit for Clinton off
Connecticut’s I-95, the Interstate disappeared behind
them. At the end of the exit ramp, St. Croix made a left
hand turn.
389
About two hundred feet ahead, parked on the
right shoulder, Michael saw the Chevy station wagon
she’d rented only an hour earlier, a decision that had
been made in a telephone conversation the day prior to
lease a vehicle, thinking her own car may have been
bugged.
As it was, two blue Ford Crown Victoria
sedans, each containing two CIA personnel were close
enough to be able to keep both vehicles in sight. A third
Ford with the same number of people would follow St.
Croix to the McKenzie residence.
The Zero spotted two of the vehicles as they
approached the wagon.
“Mick, y’all got company from that blue Ford
down the street, and from another one over there by
that pizza house. Four guys…might have a video goin,
and ah’m sure they’ll have some kind of listening
device.
“Will they be able to hear me and Kay in the
car?”
“Not with the radio on.”
While pulling the Bronco directly behind the
wagon, Kay caught sight of the vehicle in her rear-view
mirror.
Turning - her eyes met his.
The most meaningful connection two humans
can make is eye-to-eye contact. The eyes reveal the
soul, and communicate the feelings of the heart. In this
one instant of corneal contact, each revealed their love
for the other.
Lifting the door handle, he addressed his
partner.
“I’ll see you at Pat’s?”
St. Croix had seen the look he’d communicated
to her.
“Yep…Mick - if it feels right - it probably is.”
The two men shook hands and smiled.
“Thanks, Andy.”
390
Courtney left the Bronco.
A secured radio in the Ford on the street began
transmitting again, prompted to do so by the car’s
driver.
“Courtney’s entering the wagon. He’s in…
they’re…hugging each other.
David Eisenberg, on the receiving end of the
transmission, listened from the McKenzie home.
“Where’s St. Croix.”
“He’s leaving the scene. Three will stop him.”
“Tell Three that won’t be necessary.”
“Sir?”
“Just have him followed - he’ll be coming here.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What’s Courtney doing now?
“……the same.”
“Do you have any audio?”
“Garbled - the radio’s on.”
“Stay with them.”
“They’ll be coming here after a while too.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He’d gently placed his left hand on the back of
her head. With his right, he caressed her left cheek.
Looking through her eyes, his voice had that soft
strength she’d come to know only from this man.
“Kay, I love you.”
Burying his head between her neck and
shoulder, he sobbed. His hands gripped her shoulders -
searching for her strength.
She’d begun to cry in the same moment. To an
observer, it wouldn’t be clear who was comforting who.
To them, it was perfectly clear.
They remained embraced, weeping for five
minutes. The crying ended with her giggle, and a brief,
unsolicited rejoinder for the moment.
“Hey, Michael - Law Nineteen if really true…and I love
you too.”
391
Filling their arms with each other, they
laughed uncontrollably, cried again, laughed again, and
finally met eye-to-eye again.
Her full lips felt soft barely touching his.
Intense eyes swept her face.
In a single motion, he drew her body to his.
The passion they’d felt many times before returned with
a newness neither one had ever experienced. It was
passion with peace, boldness attached to security,
physical joy filled with emotional harmony.
There’d be many times - later - to relive every
part of this reunion - this new beginning for them.
She had to tell him about Tollman.
“Michael……”
The pain of those moments returned
temporarily.
Through tears she related the incident at
Tollman’s house. She’d gone there to find out the truth
about her brother, John.
He’d been right about John being executed by
his Company Commander in the jungles of Vietnam.
The Secretary had raged and overpowered her.
She’d been brutally attacked by this man, who in turn
was summarily met with retaliation by Eisenberg’s
men.. Robert and Helen Wirtham had nurtured, cared
for, and sheltered her until her father had returned.
She’d had time to review her relationship with
her teacher and lover. They’d need to talk about issues,
but there was time. She loved him, wanted him, and
needed him, and all three of these were OK with her.
Courtney’s mind ran through anger at her, at
Tollman, at Eisenberg. He’d need to put part of it in
perspective, now, not later. This woman was a victim.
His woman. What had happened was over. She was
safe. He loved her, and she needed comfort. Tollman
was gone, and Eisenberg had risen from an adversary
to a non-entity. Tollman hadn’t died in the airplane
crash. What was that all about?
392
He’d deal with it later. She had to come first
right now. He offered her his handkerchief, pulled from
his right rear pocket.
“Kay…”
He lifted her chin to look in her eyes.
“…I’m sorry that happened to you - it must
have been very frightening. It’s over, Kay, you’re safe.”
They held each other again. She cried - he
cried.
Tuesday, June 1, 12:10 p.m.
The radio in the Ford came alive.
“What’s happening?”
“They’re still just…talking.”
“OK, if they’re not on their way in five
minutes…”
“Hold on - they’re moving. Courtney’s driving.”
“Follow them here.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Courtney saw them make the U-turn in the
mirror.
Everyone knew where everyone was going.
Temporarily.
Tuesday, June 1, 12:38 p.m.
He maneuvered the wagon right behind the
Bronco. Andy had left it on the street, even though
there was ample room in the driveway. The lead Ford
had pulled up to within sixty feet behind the wagon.
The other Ford, passing both vehicles, stopped about
fifty yards down the road and on the shoulder.
The day was unusually warm for this time of
year on Long Island Sound. It was almost eighty-seven
degrees and heading for a high of ninety-three. Kay
had worn a pair of tan Abercrombie climbing shorts,
sling back sandals, and an embroidered white cotton
pullover top.
393
Her blond bangs touched just above her
eyebrows. The rest of her hair was pulled up and back.
A ponytail beginning almost in the middle of the top of
her head just reached the back of her neck.
For him the whole package came together with
charismatic, girlish womanliness. To him, she was
totally charming and cute, and elegantly beautiful at
the same time.
They would promise each other a rigorous
search of themselves, and a commitment to always
place each other as the first priority in their lives.
The moment between them now was filled with
both trust and healthy needs.
It was time to find out what was waiting in the
house.
They would enter by a side veranda to use a
bathroom off a guest bedroom to freshen up. Kay would
change into a blue and white polka dot sundress and
white flats. Her hair would be let down and combed
straight, her makeup would be modest.
The screen door on the veranda was opened for
them from the inside. On the porch, two men were
dressed casually for the weather, a third wore a
summer suit. Courtney took notice that all three were
wearing small ear receivers. He knew these had to be
tied into a central processing unit somewhere, probably
close by.
Additionally, each of them wore hip-mounted
firearms - nine millimeter Berettas.
No one’s holster had a cover flap which would
have encumbered quick access to their firearms. He
thought all of this to be odd since the meeting wasn’t
really that big. There wasn’t anyone here, he thought,
who would need to have men who were in constant
contact with each other.
They’d quickly frisked him and found him
unarmed. He’d left the Colt Coverty had given him in
the Bronco.
394
Maybe Andy had gone in with his Colt. So
what, he was in charge of Yankee Echo security.
Kay entered the bathroom first, to wash her
face, and to fix her hair and makeup. Courtney sat on
the end of the bed waiting.
Five minutes later she appeared.
“Your turn - I need to change into something
more appropriate.”
“More appropriate? You look fine. Were just
going to talk to your dad and probably Robert and
Eisenberg.”
“Go freshen up - you’ll see.”
He needed only two minutes to wash his face.
Exiting, he noticed her putting on a final touch
of lip gloss in a mirror mounted on the back of a small
white makeup table. She could see his reflection in the
same.
“Ready, Michael?”
“Yes, you look summerly formal.”
Her wide smile was accompanied by a subtle
nod.
Approaching him, she squeezed both his hands.
“Michael…there’s some surprises in there you
don’t know about.”
“What surprises? Nothing will surprise me the
rest of my life.”
“It’s OK - trust me - you’ll see.”
It was his turn to nod - he did trust her.
395
Tuesday, June 1, 12:55 p.m.
Leaving the guest bedroom, they proceeded
down a hallway leading to McKenzie’s very large formal
living room.
Entering it, Courtney now understood what
‘surprises’ meant, and why she had changed her clothes
to become summerly formal.
There were six people present.
Randall Benson, President of the United States
sat on a wide, floral patterned couch, a middle cushion
separating him and Scott Orefice.
Directly across from them on a matching couch
sat Pat McKenzie and Robert Wirtham. A large inlaid
multi-colored tile coffee table separated the two pieces
of furniture.
Two overstuffed club chairs in close proximity,
and on either side of a huge antique red brick fireplace
were occupied by David Eisenberg and Andy St. Croix.
He knew four of the men by sight. Although
he’d never met President Benson, he was easily
recognizable from the mountain of media coverage he
received.
His introduction to the CIA brass was supposed
to have come from David Eisenberg, who’d risen, and
was now approaching him and Kay.
Courtney took a short, lateral step toward her.
She felt the movement, and understood that it was
meant for her, not for him. She also knew the playing
field was about to be set, and decided it was time to
move herself to a love seat that had been repositioned
for her, and for the only other person in the room who
wouldn’t have a seat if he didn’t sit next to her.
Just prior to taking this action, she’d reached
across Courtney’s back with her left hand. A gentle rub
gave him a very clear emotional message.
Eisenberg now stood a foot away from him. At
least three inches taller than the analyst, the Deputy
Director sensed some nervousness. 396
The fact that he had him in height was self
evident.
Courtney’s anxiety level was somewhat visible,
but not because he wasn’t trying to use everything he’d
ever learned to hide it.
He finally decided on offense-defense.
Not waiting for an introduction, he made a
guess, and took charge.
“You must be David Eisenberg.”
“Yes…I’d like to..”
Courtney extended his hand, and finalized this
introduction.
“Nice to finally meet you.”
Moving toward the couches, he stood before the
President and CIA Director, creating a situation totally
out of protocol.
He’d gained emotional control of the room.
He couldn’t believe he was in the same room
with the President of The United States. Thoughts
were racing back and forth through his mind. ‘What the
hell is so important that he be here? Is it because of
Tollman? Pat McKenzie? Was the President involved
all along? Who’s this other guy? Probably Orefice.’
Eisenberg had been left fifteen feet behind.
Neither the President nor the CIA Director had
had a chance to react to Courtney’s move. They were
still sitting, and because Courtney wasn’t speaking,
they did the only thing that seemed logical - they stood.
Convention dictates that someone of lesser
prestige or rank be introduced by someone else to
another person of greater esteem or grade.
Courtney skipped the rules and introduced
himself, once again extending his hand.
“I’m Michael Courtney.”
Although clearly demonstrated, his disregard
for tradition lacked malice, and became only a matter of
his own self esteem.
It worked. While they had control of the arena,
he’d seized the moment. 397
The President accepted his hand and made the
introductions.
“Randall Benson, Michael - and this is the
Director of The Central Intelligence Agency, Scott
Orefice.”
Another greeting, this one without
communication.
Courtney turned and walked over to join Kay
on the love seat. Benson and Orefice sat. Eisenberg
returned to his chair.
To someone watching this event, it would have
looked like they’d just tossed a coin at the beginning of
a football game, and everyone was waiting for someone
to handle the kickoff.
That job was Wirtham’s. Without getting up,
he addressed his former student who was sitting close
enough to Kay to hear her breathing.
“Michael, you must be wondering why the
President and The CIA Director are with us today.”
It was a worthy statement, and intended to put
him on defense. But he’d been well taught by this man
and he looked at him as if the question would be selffulfilling.
Wirtham waited momentarily for a response -
none came.
The non-action hadn’t caused a shift.
Pushing himself off the couch, and moving to
the center of the room, the former University Professor
decided to make the case rather than spar with his
former student.
This was a wise decision, and totally
appropriate for the use of Law Five.
Courtney was back on defense.
Wirtham, once an alley, was now an adversary.
He had both the floor, and the offense.
398
“Yankee Echo was exactly what you always
thought it was, Michael. It was just larger than you
knew, and had a broader base than you’d been led to
believe. There was no point in telling you everything,
because to do your job, you only needed a certain
amount of information. We weren’t really trying to hide
anything. We were only interested in protecting the
organization, and for that matter, you.”
He gestured toward the President.
Mister Benson isn’t the only President who’s
used the power of the media through the organization
to help the American public understand complex issues.
The immediate past two presidents both received
generous support from Yankee Echo.”
He moved two steps toward his former student.
In a knee-jerk reaction, Courtney shifted himself on the
love seat. His professor didn’t lose sight of the fact.
“In closing out the breach, you and Andy have
done all of us a great favor, Michael. We owe you a debt
of gratitude, but we’ve come to understand that both of
you are no longer interested in employment with us.
I’m not sure I could change your minds, but I know
you’re aware this creates a situation on our part that
needs to be justified and resolved. If you are indeed
leaving, we need to close out a TOA XIA Master, and a
Director of Security, and find others. It won’t be easy
replacing either of you.”
Turning away, he continued.
“In addition to being a Presidential resource,
Michael, the organization has a responsibility to fifty
corporations, including, of course, McKenzie Industries.
These companies employ millions of people, and most
are publicly owned by millions more. Many of them are
tied to the nation’s defense industries, so we can’t let
the capabilities of these companies become
compromised.”
He gestured toward Orefice.
Courtney shifted again. It was noticed again.
399
“And then there’s the CIA. I don’t know how
much you know about that organization, and how it
gets funded, but I can tell you that every year it is
terribly under-funded by The Congress. The companies
in Yankee Echo make up that funding, and that enables
us and the CIA to be able to protect the interests of the
entire U.S. economy. Right now the Cuban initiative is
in the hands of our writers. The positive ‘write’ we
worked on will be in the Press next week. Soon,
McKenzie Industries, and dozens of other U.S.
businesses will be investing in the Western
Hemisphere’s newest democracy. We intend to have the
advantage economically into all of Latin America, and
finally South America. These things are planned,
Michael, because they’re too big and too important to
lose to other countries - and Yankee Echo is a very large
component of making all this happen. In modern times,
the tools of the past no longer allow us to keep pace
with a changing world. So we create and use new tools.
That’s all Yankee Echo is, Michael - it’s a tool - an
instrument we need to keep America safe and
prosperous. You were in agreement with all of this a
few weeks ago. You drew paychecks for ten years while
you were acknowledging what Yankee Echo was all
about. You know we need to use The Laws to control
many of the complex…”
She couldn’t believe it.
He was on his feet.
‘What the hell is Michael doing?’.
Courtney walked right past Wirtham and was
standing in front of the President.
“Tell me about George Tollman, Mister
President. Tell me why he was going to Tokyo as a
corpse. ”
He addressed the CIA Director.
“Tell me about Cuba, Mister Orefice. You must
have known where Pat was all along. Why didn’t you
send in your people to get him?”
400
He faced Eisenberg and pointed at Kay.
“Tell me why she was allowed to be put at risk
during a breach. I don’t get the logic of that, David.”
He didn’t get any answers - just a comment
from Wirtham.
“Michael -calm down…”
Courtney was moving around the room -
deliberately.
He picked up where Wirtham had left off.
“Calm down? OK, you brought up control - let’s
discuss it, Professor. You know that most of the general
public doesn’t understand the theory and logic behind
philosophical concepts, and their application to human
realities. Some people have read all the books, but they
still don’t have a clue how to apply it in everyday living.
We should be teaching these principles to kids at all
grade levels in every school in this country. Kids -
people, need heroes like Socrates, Plato, and Einstein.
All three of them were teachers. They gave their
knowledge away freely. But we don’t do this. We keep
it to ourselves to control, to translate complex events for
people so they can think like we do. Sure we make
things happen, but they might have happened that way
anyway. And so what if they don’t? How long do we
keep up? How much longer before Yankee Echo
becomes a cesspool? Metaphysics is as dangerous as it
is wonderful. You’re the one who told me Adolph Hitler
was a Master Metaphysician. He didn’t need any
plaque on the wall to tell himself that. And there’s a
few dozen million people missing who became testimony
to that fact.
Courtney looked at Benson.
“I’m sure you remember Senator Joe McCarthy,
Mister President. He did a bang up job all by himself
with the use of the media. It was like a Piranha feeding
frenzy if I remember my history right. Edward R.
Murrow finally got the message and took him down.
401
McCarthy died at forty-eight because he rotted from the
inside out. You’re going to see the same thing
happen to this organization if it isn’t shut down.”
Returning to be beside Kay, he sat on the edge
of the love seat, and reached backward for her hand.
His voice was calm.
“Law Eleven, Professor - good to evil.”
Wirtham had retreated, and was sitting beside
Pat McKenzie. The agenda for this meeting was out of
control. That worked in Courtney’s favor. The power in
the meeting, however, was still unbalanced - and they
had it.
The President stood - this caught everyone’s
undivided attentio
Randall Benson hadn’t gotten to be where he
was by being unaware of how to be in control.
He’d seen situations like this develop hundreds
of times in back rooms, at political meetings, and in
conventions. He knew by weight of authority he could
gain control at any moment.
He felt a kinship with Courtney. This man had
guts and principles.
In his own disregard for protocol, rather than
have someone else answer Courtney’s questions,
thereby distancing himself from responsibility, he gave
the man what he thought he was due. His motive was
self-serving. He wanted this man and his partner
working for him.
Approaching Michael and Kay on the love seat,
he moved slowly back and forth in front of them.
“You have questions you need answered,
Michael. I don’t blame you for asking them. You feel
like you’ve been lied to and cheated, and in some
respects you have been. I want you to listen to me
carefully. You’re going to get some answers, but they
won’t be complete, and for now you’re going to have to
be satisfied with that. You’re also going to be given an
opportunity - and I hope you take advantage of it.”
402
A sweep of Benson’s arm was meant to indicate
everyone in the room.
“We all have jobs and responsibilities, and
there’s plenty of times when all of us don’t like what we
have to do. I understand your feelings about Yankee
Echo, and as far as I’m concerned, you can leave the
organization as long as you have no intention of doing it
any harm. If you really feel like it’s going to selfdestruct,
as you’ve indicated, then you won’t have to do
anything anyway. But over the last ten years, you’ve
evidenced by your job performance, that you enjoy
working in these types of arenas. I’m going to play a
hunch and say that’s true, and I’m going to go even
further and offer both you and Mister St. Croix an
opportunity to work for me in the White House…I’ll get
back to that in just a minute.
Courtney looked at Kay - there was some
evidence of acceptance in his eyes.
Benson continued.
“You want to know what George Tollman was
doing going to Tokyo in his condition. He was part of a
Presidential Directive carried out by the CIA that
involved U.S. economic security…and also something
that occurred during World War II - which has now
been taken care of…and that’s as much as you’re going
to get on that subject. With what I just gave you, I’m
sure if you did enough research, you’d come up with the
answer. What good it would do you, I don’t know.”
The President’s voice raised slightly.
“Why didn’t the CIA go into Cuba and get
Mister McKenzie? If you and Mister St. Croix had
failed, they would have gone in for him, and also the
two of you. It wasn’t just about a rescue operation,
don’t forget. There was a breach to close, and you had
more answers to that than anyone. You solved a lot of
mysteries over the last few days - you should be very
proud of yourself.”
403
Indicating Kay, he resumed his set of answers.
“Why was Kathleen McKenzie put at risk
during the breach? It was because she knew everything
about the organization. That was a decision made by
her father, and accepted by her. I don’t have any other
answers to that question other than you’ll probably
come to understand it better when, and it, you have
children of your own..…stand up, Michael.
It was an order.
Courtney immediately complied.
They stood face to face.
“I want you to come to work for me. Forget
about Yankee Echo. There’s nothing you can do about
it. In the White House, you and Andy St. Croix would
be working as Special Advisors to the President, and be
reporting directly to me. You’ll have clearance with
every arm of the Government to do your jobs.
Specifically, you’ll be adopting the Laws you know so
well to all kinds of interests - military - economic -
social. In addition, I’ll give you your wish. You think
we should teach these concepts in our schools. I agree
with you. You set up the curriculum, and I’ll see that it
gets implemented wherever you want. You and Andy
St. Croix are valuable resources. We need you.”
Benson put his hand on Courtneys forearm.
“I’ll give you a month to think about it. You’ve
been through a lot. You need some rest. You’ll be
visiting here for a while.”
Releasing his hand from Courtney, he moved to
the coffee table to pick up a loose sheet of paper.
Pulling a pen from his shirt pocket, he wrote a number
on it and handed it to the analyst.
“That’s a number where you can reach me
directly any time of day. Don’t call at night, though,
unless it’s absolutely necessary. Mrs. Benson needs my
time too.”
404
He turned to Orefice.
“Let’s get going, Scotty - we have work to do.”
Facing Courtney again, and smiling sincerely,
he extended his hand.
“Good luck, Michael. I hope you take my offer
seriously.”
“I will, Mister President - thank you for your
answers.”
They shook hands.
Moving in front of Kay, he cordially bid her
good bye.
Her upbringing showed as she stood up.
“Miss McKenzie - thank you for all you’ve
done.”
She, very politely, “Yes, Sir.”
Everyone in the room rose.
Benson acknowledged each man.
When he and Orefice had departed, it was left
to Eisenberg to tell Courtney and St. Croix that they
would both be expected to be house guests of Pat
McKenzie for the next thirty days. They could come
and go as they pleased, but they should not leave the
State of Connecitcut.
At the end of that time, they’d need to give the
President an answer on his job offer.
It was decision time again.
405
Epilogue
The concepts in the Universal Physical Laws
are immutable, and therefore enduring. They come
from observation, tempered with instinct and
experience. If the same type of situation is observed
long enough, even if the characters and locations
change, and if someone has lived long enough to
accumulate some experience with life, they’ll come to
understand these truths, and will be able to practice
them in every event of life.
The Laws can be used to both harm and to
heal. They have changed people’s lives for the better
and for the worse. It all depends on how they’re
applied.
Teaching the Laws can be as frustrating as it is
rewarding. On first introduction to these principles, it’s
like telling someone to jump into an invisible boat with
a teacher and start rowing. Anyone must have faith to
believe in their magic and power, and few who’ve been
introduced to the axioms have the patience to keep on
practicing them.
While many are simple concepts, some others
can be difficult to understand. But, under the guidance
of a good teacher, in a supportive scholastic atmosphere,
most anyone can come to use them to help guide and
direct all their affairs.
Courtney wanted the opportunity to be able to
make the teaching of the Laws to younger children as
universal as it was to college students. The President
had offered him this chance, and following some lengthy
conversations with Kay and Andy St. Croix, he decided
to accept the position he’d been offered in the White
House.
St. Croix additionally had agreed to work for
the President.
Having the gift for applying the Laws to
military maneuvers, he would handle their application
in that arena for all branches of the military. 406
While Courtney would work them into
scholastic formats for the Administration, both he and
St. Croix would combine their skills to develop them in
economic agendas. They’d begin their new jobs right
after Labor Day.
Courtney never got an answer to his question
about George Tollman going on vacation as a dead man.
He didn’t think it would have taken a lot to figure it
out, but he also didn’t think it was worth the effort.
They’d been debriefed as Eisenberg wanted.
Holding nothing back, they gave him everything they
knew following the operation in Cuba. About Belize, his
mistress, Bellcamp, Tollman, and the mystery man in
either the CIA or NSA.
The breach was closed. Robert Wirtham, Scott
Orefice, Pat McKenzie, and Randall Benson were
convinced Courtney’s and St. Croix’s cooperation in the
debriefing also meant they were no threat to the
organization.
Almost everyone thought business for Yankee
Echo could resume as usual.
Eisenberg reserved both judgment and
decision.
He had reason, but no logic to support his
intuition.
Friday, July 2, 10:11 a.m.
With Kay at the helm, McKenzie’s Grady
White, a thirty-three foot twin outboard planed the
waters heading toward Buoy 54, a floating steel
structure in the middle of Long Island Sound.
407
Courtney explained his contingency to St. Croix.
“…Here’s what’s going on, partner. When
McKenzie designed the electronics system for Yankee
Echo, he made sure it would be complex enough so data
couldn’t be interrupted or retrieved by any outside
source. All the fax machines on the Yankee Echo
network are accessed by regular phone lines, but the
origination of their messages doesn’t come directly from
another phone. They’re delivered on a radio signal from
JGM Exports that get’s sent up to space where it’s
bounced off a satellite. All the ‘writes’ are scrambled
and coded by a cryptic software program. The actual
coding isn’t really complex, but the electronics from the
satellite to the fax machines would blow your mind.”
Approaching the buoy, Courtney reached out to
tether the Grady to one of its tie downs.
He continued his explanation.
“…Here’s how it works. Even though it’s a
sophisticated system of delivery from the satellite to
Yankee Echo writers. The delivery up to the satellite is
simple. Data is transmitted on a regular radio
frequency, but the signal’s electronically scrambled and
broken in half when it’s sent out.”
St. Croix thought he misunderstood.
“Broken in half?”
“Yeah, nobody in the world would break a
frequency to transmit anything - nobody except Yankee
Echo.”
“Doesn’t that make it kind of a weak signal?”
“Very, so no one ever pays any attention to it.
But it doesn’t matter - the magic’s in the satellite - in its
receiver. All we need to do is duplicate the signal, and
transmit something while the organization’s off the air.
Whatever we’re transmitting, no one can override. As
long as we’re using that one-half a frequency, no one
else can use it, including Yankee Echo.”
“How do you keep on transmitting something
so they can’t get back on the system” 408
“Good question.”
Courtney, unlocking and opening a water-tight
hatch on the buoy, invited his friend to look inside.
There was enough light to see a black metal box about
the size of a conventional microwave oven. Another
horizontally-laid smaller white box was attached to one
of its sides.
“That thing is its own energy source - a
perpetual motion gyro. McKenzie Industries came up
with it years ago. It runs off a quarter ounce of high
particle mercury in a vacuum tube inside the white box.
All you have to do is maintain the motion of the
mercury - the friction it creates keeps the gyro
spinning, and generating enough electricity to produce
half a radio signal.”
“How do you keep the mercury moving?”
Courtney held out both arms indicating the
body of water surrounding them.
“Waves - water current. The water here’s
always moving, which keeps old 54 moving. It doesn’t
have to move a lot to move a glob of mercury.
Friday, July 2, 10:29 a.m.
Reaching inside the buoy, Courtney opened the
black box and activated the system.
Closing the hatch, he relocked the small door
and dropped the key into Long Island Sound.
St. Croix asked the question.
“OK, it’s turned on?”
“Yep.”
Pointing skyward, he questioned again.
“What’s being sent up there?”
Courtney’s response wasn’t even close to what
he expected to hear.
“The Encyclopedia Britannica.”
“Huh!?”
409
“The transmitter’s hooked to a computer
powered by a thirty-six month lithium battery. It’s
programmed to send out the whole thing - twenty times.
That’s going to take about three years.”
“That’s what it’s doing right now?”
“Yep - and will continue to do so every second of
every day. Yankee Echo’s going to go through a lot of
fax paper.”
“Mick, won’t they be able to trace that signal to
where it’s comin from? You don‘t need rocket science to
track a radio signal.”
“No, remember what I said? When they set up
the system, they never figured anyone but themselves
would transmit to the satellite. Just like any other
computer, that satellite is a moron until you tell it what
to do - and there’s no logic board in it that can look back
and tell you what you’re doing to it. The only thing it
can do is what it’s programmed to do - and that’s
transmit a scrambled electronics signal. Conventional
methods of tracking won’t work because you have an
unconventional transmitter. It would take McKenzie
two years to build a tracing unit to find their own
signal.”
“Well, hell, once they fix it, they could just
replace it.”
“Probably, but that’ll take time. They’ll spend
half a year trying to figure out what to do, and when
they realize there’s nothing they can do, they’ll need
two years to build another one. At least we’ll let them
know that someone can access their science.”
He turned to Kay.
“We’d better get going.”
She was smiling.
Courtney and St. Croix decided to split up for a
while and catch each other again after Labor Day. St.
Croix would visit and relax with his friend, the Snake.
Courtney would stay with Kay in Old Saybrook until
two weeks before his new job began, taking that time to
find a place to live. 410
They’d told her father they’d be moving in together
when he went to work in Washington, probably around
Alexandria.
Friday, July 2, 10:32 a.m.
Murray Herald had decided to take the day off.
He had time coming, and the Business Editor of the
AKRON BEACON JOURNAL didn’t think there would
be a lot of hot business news he’d need to attend to this
day.
Sitting in his den, he was catching up on some
old Fortune 500 reports when he heard the warble of
his Yankee Echo fax machine.
Slowly getting out of his chair, he wondered if
he wasn’t getting another ‘write positive’ on Cuban
investment. ‘Probably not’, he thought. It was too close
to the first ‘write’ that he’d just completed and
published. At the machine, he pulled the first
coded sheet of paper noticing there was no heading or
opening.
His reaction would be paralleled across the
country by other organization writers.
“What the hell is this?”
411
A-AK
ANCT EASAN
MSC
S GAGAKU
ACAPLA
ITLN
I T CHCH
STL
PFRMCE O
A PLYSNC
MLTPT
SXCI WRK
BY UNCCMPND
VCS
ORGN RFFE
T SCRD CHRL
MSC T TRM N
RFFES T SCULR
MSC A WL………..
It continued…and continued.
Grabbing his code book from the desk drawer,
he began decrypting.
A-ak ancient East Asian music: see gagaku
Acappella (Italian: in the church style).
Performance of a polyphonic multipart musical work by
unaccompanied voices. Originally referring to sacred
choral music. The term now refers to secular music as
well………..
The machine kept kicking out paper.
Every thing made sense, and yet, made no
sense at all. What was he supposed to do with this?
He decided to let it run - maybe they were
performing some kind of test? If it didn’t stop in an
hour, he’d call his Managing Agent and ask him what
was going on.
412
The fax continued to spew out coded words that
meant something, and nothing.
Friday, July 2, 10:36 a.m.
David Eisenberg’s fax was producing the same
material, and he was getting the same results from his
translations. He also needed to contact someone.
It was a speed dial.
Robert Wirtham, sitting in his executive chair
with a translation of ‘acappella’ on his desk accepted the
call.
“David?”
“Robert - what’s this communication all about?”
“I don’t know - we’re getting the same thing
internally.”
“What is it?”
“It appears that, somehow, someone’s crossed
our radio signal. We can’t transmit until they get off.
We’ve never had a glitch like this before. The chance of
this happening are one in ten million.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Wait - I guess. It’s probably some kid fooling
around with a homemade transmitter.”
“Can you identify where it’s coming from.”
“No, - he could be in Hong Kong, Moscow, or
right down the street. We use an unconventional
transmitter. This is highly unusual. It’s a freak
accident. Give it a little time, I’m sure it’ll stop. We’re
going to change the transmission signal. As soon as
this one cuts out, our new one will kick in.”
A - CHNG A-Ch’eng
PN YN Pinyin
A - CHNG ACHENG
FRMLY Formerly
UTL 1909 ASHIHO Until 1909 ASHIHHO
CTY…… City……
413
Wednesday, July 7, 8:55 a.m.
Yankee Echo Managing Agents in the South,
West Coast, and East and West Central sections of the
USA had been besieged with phone calls for days.
What were the writers supposed to do with the
messages coming over their fax machines? Why was
the release of this information constant? Why didn’t
someone just shut it off? Some were running short on
fax paper. Others were just holding an endless stream
of coded material until they saw a sheet that made
sense. Seven machines had overheated and would need
to be sent to McKenzie Industries for repair.
Friday, July 9, 2:55 p.m.
McKenzie Industries - Old Saybrook, CT
David Eisenberg had called for the early
morning meeting which had now run into midafternoon.
The satellite blueprints all over McKenzie’s
executive conference room table had been explained by
the Information Protocol Director at JGM Exports to
him, Pat McKenzie and Robert Wirtham several times
from different perspectives.
The end result was always the same. There
was nothing in the satellite’s system that would allow
either it, or them, to trace the freak, broken radio signal
to its point of origination - and Yankee Echo could not
transmit until the signal was interrupted.
Eisenberg addressed the IP Director.
“Are we still on standby with a new signal?”
“Yes, we’re actually transmitting from JGM
right now. The instant the anomaly is broken, the
satellite will get the new signal, and the frequency will
be changed.”
“But we don’t have any idea how long that will
take?”
414
“That’s right. It’s totally up to whoever, or
whatever is sending the other signal.”
From the moment the freak signal had
appeared, Eisenberg hadn’t left it alone. It was the only
thing he’d thought about for a week.
He’d heard all the scientific theories, and he
was convinced that because this occurrence was such an
impossibility, it couldn’t possibly be what it appeared to
be.
He was thinking of Law Twenty. An intuitive
calmness had given him his answer.
He’d heard everything he needed to hear from
the scientists and engineers. Right now he was walking
toward the conference room door.
Looking backward over his shoulder, he
addressed Pat McKenzie.
“Is Courtney still at your place?”
McKenzie knew he’d be staying until mid
August.”
“Yes. David, Michael already told….”
He was out the door, and heading down the
hallway toward the exit.
Friday, July 9, 3:11 p.m.
The McKenzie Home - Old Saybrook, CT
It took him about fifteen minutes to get from
McKenzie’s corporate offices to the McKenzie residence.
Parking in the driveway - he reviewed his
thoughts.
During the short walk to the main entrance -
he affirmed his feelings.
The sound of the doorbell interrupted a
conversation Courtney had been having with Kay.
He offered to answer.
Walking through the foyer, he noticed
Eisenberg through the paneled glass windows on either
side of the door. 415
Calmly, he greeted the guest.
“David.”
“Michael…we need to talk.”
Courtney acted graciously.
“Come in, sit down.”
Entering the room, he noticed Kathleen
McKenzie sitting on one of the large, floral patterned
couches where his boss had recently sat next to the
President of The United States.
The furniture had been rearranged since the
last time he was in the room. Things looked more
relaxed - at ease - the chairs and couches were spread
apart more tastefully. A twelve foot bay window, seven
feet behind the couch she was sitting on looked out over
a manicured lawn sweeping down to the beach and the
Sound. The afternoon sun, hitting the room from a
position high in the Southwestern sky, randomly
bounced off reflecting objects in the room.
Courtney, taking a seat next to Kay, offered
Eisenberg the couch opposite them.
The CIA man consented to the offer.
Leaning forward, forearms resting on his
thighs, his fingers were interlocked.
This was his agenda.
“I want to bring the both of you up to date on
something. Your transmitter’s working fine. Yankee
Echo’s shut down until you get off our radio signal.”
No response came from either of them,
although Kay slightly wrinkled her brow as if showing
some interest.
Courtney remained in the same position.
The Deputy director continued.
“I’ve been told by the IP Director at JGM that
there’s no way to trace this transmitter’s signal to its
origin, so we can’t find it to stop it. People also told me
they believe this is just some type of freak occurrence -
that the chances of this happening are one in millions.
But I’ve had a hard time accepting their theory of an
aberration.” 416
He stood - pacing in front of his couch.
“We’ve got fax machines all over the country
running night and day. They’re starting to overload,
and break down. The Managing Agents can’t keep up
with the calls they’re getting.”
Again, no response from the analyst or his
former student.
“You know, Michael, periodically you and I are
going to have to deal with one another once you go to
work in the White House. I’ve come to the conclusion
that I’d rather have you as an alley than an adversary.
I just wanted you to know that you didn’t get away with
anything.”
He hoped Courtney would respond this time.
He did, from the couch.
“David, I wouldn’t mind working with you on
economic agendas as they’re set by the President - but
I’m done with Yankee Echo. You just made some strong
rationalizations, and I really think you believe
everything you just said. I’m not going to deny or
confirm anything for you, and I don’t think you really
want me to either…”
Eisenberg held up both palms indicating a
signal for him to halt.
“There’s more you need to know. When you
were doing your tenure with the organization as its
Laws Philosopher, I read every paper you wrote. I paid
special attention to the one you did for Robert where
you said the Leverage Effect would eventually catch up
to Yankee Echo - that we’d become an unbalanced
energy at some point in time, and therefore become very
unstable, and capable of being breached. I believed
that, and as part of a contingency plan of my own, I had
the Agency build another satellite for redundancy in
case we had a worst-case scenario. I can launch this
satellite in two months, but it’s going to take at least
twelve months to get new equipment to the writers, and
another six to twelve months before they’re comfortable
with the new system. 417
So, effectively, you’ve closed up our shop for a
while. I also know that even with the new satellite, you
could find a way to interrupt us if you wanted to - and I
don’t want that to happen. You asked for a release from
the organization, and you got it. But it’s conditional.
You keep out of its agenda, and the CIA will keep out of
your work, and your personal agenda, when you get to
the White House…I need a response to this, Michael.”
He had a few things he wanted to make clear
also. “OK, David - we have a deal. I won’t come near
you unless the President puts us together. I’ll also stay
away from Yankee Echo - but I have some conditions of
my own.” He stood and moved to within three feet of
Eisenberg. Their height differential was negated by the
calm sincerity in his voice.
“My life, and Kathleen McKenzie’s life, and any
future life of our jointly is beyond your reach….agreed”
That was acceptable.
“Yes.”
Courtney felt there was a possibility all of this
could work - but he wanted to be sure he and Kay would
be left alone. There was a final contingency, and never
told anyone about.
“David, if I wanted to make an impact on
Yankee Echo, I wouldn’t use interruption - I’d use
duplication. The system could easily be cloned by
Japanese interests - Israeli interests - East European
interests - think of Yankee Echo II, and Yankee Echo
III…we wouldn’t know what to believe coming out of
the media, would we?”
The possibilities in the message hit home.
“Michael, we don’t need…”
“David - don’t lose sleep over it. I have a lot to
do, and none of it has to do with Yankee Echo. I have to
trust you, and you have to trust me. Let’s leave this in
this room, and get on with our business.”
Eisenberg extended his right hand. “We both
understand one another. I’ll purge both your files as
soon as I get back to Washington.” 418
“Thanks - good bye, David.”
“Good bye, Michael - Kay.”
She felt less hostile toward him - he had been
her friend, and he had saved her life. Rising from the
couch, she approached him and gave him a hug. “Good
bye, David - thank you.”
Eisenberg picked up the cellular phone in his
car. “One - Leader.”
“Copy.”
“We’re going back to Washington.”
“Yes, Sir, - copy that.”
She held him around the waist looking into his
eyes.
“I have a question for you.”
“OK.”
“What did you mean when you said ‘our future
joint life’ to David?”
“Well…you know…I mean what if we..what if
we decided to…”
She gently placed two fingers on his lips.
“I love you, Michael - will you marry me?”
“Kay…I’m supposed to ask you that.”
“Who said?”
“I don’t know?”
“Then answer the question.”
“Of course - you know I’d do anything for you.”
“That’s your answer?”
“No…I mean - yes.”
“We’re in big trouble, Michael.”
“I know, we better work on it.”
“Yes - let’s practice right now.”
“Talking?”
“You can talk if you like.”
“Oh.”
“That’s good.”
THY EMBRCD, HLDNG ECH OTH TGTLY,
KSSNG, THY FL I LV ….AGN.
419
Murray Herold’s fax continued.
BLK MX Black, Max
BFB 241909 Born, February 24, 1909
BKURSSA Baku, Russia
AMR ANY PHL American Analytical
Philosopher
WO WS CONCR Who Was Concerned
W T NAT O With The Nature Of
CLRY A MNG Clarity And Meaning
I LNG….. In Language…..
…BLK ANALZD …Black Analyzed
MNG I LNG Meaning In language
I SV VLS In Several Volumes
O ESYS Of Essays
MST NOTBLY Most Notably
T IMPC O LNG… The Importance Of
language…
420

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