COVERT WRITERS TAKEDOWN by Joe Bergeron (best beach reads txt) 📕

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