Slade went to his room. It was directly above that of Waters. He swept it for bugs and wireless signals; it was clean. Then he unpacked. First he opened the company briefcase. It contained the normal inventory of things: a 9mm Glock with a silencer and three clips of ammunition. Several knives. A broken down sniper’s rifle. Two smoke grenades. A garrote. Two small charges of C-4 with a remote and a set of binoculars.
Slade holstered the Glock in his concealed carry shirt beneath his suit. The silencer went in the suit pocket the extra clips went into the other side of his shirt.
His shaving kit included a compact yet efficient surveillance system tied to his laptop.
As Waters was out, Slade took advantage of the opportunity to go downstairs and case the “Motorcycle Man’s” room. Getting in was as easy as swiping his CIA ‘skeleton key’ card over the lock. The catch opened with a light snick! Slade was in.
Waters was a slob. He was also careless. His laptop was open and it took only a generic password to gain access to his files. Slade inserted a key fob into the USB port and began downloading everything on the computer. That took only a minute. In another minute he had the ability to access Freddy’s laptop through his own wireless. That would allow him to use Freddy’s own camera and microphone to monitor the room.
In case Freddy powered down his computer or put it in its case, Slade planted two camera bugs with microphones. That done, he left the room and returned upstairs. Sitting down at the hotel desk Slade fired up his own laptop and plugged in the fob. The first thing he looked for was Freddy’s schedule.
“Well, well, well, Freddy, you’re a busy man. You’ve got a meeting right now with the Iranians, Colonel Nikahd to be specific.”
While he didn’t appear particularly organized Freddy was fastidious about his schedule. Not only did he have his full day planned out but Freddy cross referenced files and notes with his activities.
He’d been in Turkey and there was a short, terse note describing Freddy’s dissatisfaction with the visit. “Met with P. Ataturk — stuck up bastard — completely unaware of what a big present we gave him.”
The “present” was a cross-referenced jpg file. Slade promptly opened it and found himself staring at the group photo from the ISIS Cobra mission.
“So this is how we were fingered, but how the Hell did Freddy get this and why did he want the President of Turkey to have it?” He forwarded the file to CIA headquarters, the director’s office.
Ten minutes later his phone rang. It was the director himself.
“Slade?”
“Yes sir.”
“The photo isn’t an original, it’s a photo taken by Water’s iPhone of the president’s iPad, so there’s no way to prove the president gave him the information; Waters could have just stolen it and gone off on his own,” he snapped, and then he went on without so much as taking a breath. “Now listen and listen good. You’ve just connected a terrorist act with the White House — do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” he replied cautiously.
“I cannot, repeat, I cannot delve into this further at this time. The Company cannot start an investigation on the White House. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Slade wanted to say no but he knew the only answer the director wanted to hear was, “Yes.”
“Freddy Waters is off limits — do you understand?”
“You’re certain, sir?”
“You are not to lay a hand on Freddy Waters. I know Paris is a dangerous place, but there are to be no accidents — do you understand?”
“Absolutely sir,” he growled.
“Good, now listen closely,” the director said and he paused.
That meant Slade still had a shot at Freddy and the director was going to tell him how.
“We need to keep an eye on Waters. He has stolen sensitive information and possibly — I say possibly — compromised a covert operation. If he has done so then we will catch up to him. Hopefully, we’ll get to him before his friends do. We’ve raided dozens of mosques and taken a couple hundred jihadists into custody. If they think Waters set them up they’ll be after his hide.”
“Yes sir,” Slade replied. “I will keep Waters under surveillance. I’ll keep you informed on my progress.”
“Good!” the director said.
Slade smiled wolfishly. The green light for Freddy Waters was on, only the method changed. All he had to do was to tip off the bad guys that Freddy set them up and then it was run Freddy, run.
The buzzer on his text went off.
Digging out his phone he perused the text. It was a simple line, “Monsieur on his way up to his room.”
Waters was back in the hotel.
There were only two things Slade had to do: activate Freddy’s camera, and click the icon attached to his own two bugs. On the screen of the laptop he got an immediate feed for all three cameras. The room and bath were empty. A few minutes later Freddy appeared through the door. He was a bedraggled man, scruffy looking and scrawny. Slade would be almost embarrassed to take him out in a fight, excepting the malignant power of Freddy’s brain; that’s what made the terrorist dangerous.
He had another man with him. A shorter paunchier man than the heroin chic thin Freddy. Slade sat down at the hotel desk, screwing the top off his bottle of water.
“That Nikahd, I just can’t gauge him,” said the shorter man.
“What does it matter Alfie,” Freddie asked without any interest in the question. “The ragheads are children, their tribal; they don’t think beyond that. They want their nukes — fine — let them have them. They’ll use them on the Israelis and the Israelis will retaliate. Boom — problem solved.”
“That’ll mess up the planet for sure,” Alfie sighed, digging in the minibar for a beer. He handed one to Freddy. “It’ll piss off the environmentalists.”
“The environmentalists? Don’t make me laugh,” Freddy said, popping the top on the beer and taking a swig. “You know that’s one of the ironies of this whole deal. The environmentalists worship the president. They think he’s a huge supporter. They’ve never realized that the whole movement was based on telling them what they wanted to hear and not what the truth was. Oetari is screwing the environmentalists worse than Reagan ever did. The only difference was that Reagan told them the truth and Oetari told them what they wanted to hear.”
“Is that what we’re telling the Iranians or is that what the Iranians are telling us?”
Freddy shook his wiry haired head, a vulture’s skull that looked like grey mold or moss spouted from a blotched old rock. His grin showed teeth yellowed from nicotine. “Does it matter?” he laughed. Then he answered his own question. “Either way it works for us. If the Iranians are sincere and get rid of half their enriched Uranium — great. If it’s all a scam then they’ll use it on the Israelis, again — great. It’s a win-win scenario.”
Alfie shrugged. “It might be nice to lose the Middle East entirely. There would be no oil and no religion. Christianity, Judaism and Islam would be gone — poof!”
Freddy shrugged, and said, “Islam maybe, I mean if Mecca went away what would be the reason they’d stick with it? I mean really. But Christians, they can be stubborn bastards. They seem to put a lot more stock in Faith than the rest.”
“Careful Freddy, you’re almost sounding empathetic,” Alfie laughed.
Freddy turned on him with surprising angst. “No! They’re just stupid; too stupid to be re-educated. That’s why Stalin took care of the priests first. He knew there was no hope for them — good old Uncle Joe!”
That seemed to end that vein of the conversation. They talked of dinner, arguing whether they should eat at the hotel or in town. Alfie suggested they hop on one of the barges for a dinner cruise. Freddy was against it. “I’ve got to meet with Eva Accompando from Soekarno tomorrow on a dinner cruise. Do you really think I want to see this damn city twice from the river? No thank you.”