Boyd Morrison: The Midas Code

He readied himself for questions, but the majors went back to their discussion, ignoring him. Gaul didn’t know if he’d have to use his prepared backstory, but he was ready in case anyone asked. He would say that he was a liaison officer to a Washington think tank called Weaver Solutions, one of hundreds in the city. He was attending the summit to learn about the newest technologies and tactics that might be used against military or civilian objectives. These kinds of military conferences were held virtually every week in the nation’s capital, but this was the only one his target was scheduled to address.

The elevator opened, and Gaul got on with the majors. At the first stop, the door opened to a buzz of activity. It was just after 11:30, the morning sessions over, including his target’s keynote speech. The participants would be breaking for lunch. The majors got off, and two men in civilian attire entered. Gaul glanced sideways at their name tags, which said Aiden MacKenna and Miles Benson.

Both of them seemed to be enhanced by technology out of a science-fiction movie. A black disk was attached to MacKenna’s skull with a wire connected to his ear, as if it were a hearing aid with a direct pipeline to his brain. MacKenna was walking, while Benson was driving a motorized wheelchair like nothing Gaul had ever seen. The chair was balanced on two wheels, apparently in defiance of the laws of physics, so that the eyes of the man in the chair were almost even with his own.

Though Benson wore a suit, Gaul could see that the man had the upper torso of someone who spent time at the gym. He had the intense gaze and close-cropped hair of a former Army officer, so Gaul guessed that he’d been injured in Iraq or Afghanistan. MacKenna looked more like Gaul’s idea of a research analyst, with tortoiseshell glasses and a physique that suggested nothing more strenuous than typing in his daily routine.

“Think he’ll take you up on your offer?” MacKenna said with an Irish brogue.

“I don’t know,” Benson said. “Depends how good my sales pitch is.”

“It was a good keynote.”

“That’s exactly why I want him.”

The elevator door opened at the mezzanine.

“Where is the Capital Club?” Benson said as he drove out of the elevator.

“To the left, I believe,” MacKenna said.

“Okay, we should have a table reserved. We’ll save a seat between us for the general.”

Gaul trailed them around the corner. MacKenna and Benson went through the restaurant’s glass doors, but Gaul didn’t follow. He stopped abruptly, as if he’d gone in the wrong direction, and turned back toward the mezzanine’s conference rooms.

Attendees were streaming from the conference seminars to their lunch destinations or milling about in the hall to chat after the sessions. The dress was a fifty-fifty mix of military and civilian clothes. Gaul blended right in.

Gaul wandered down the hall, pretending to study a conference program. He passed by the glass doors of the Capital Club but didn’t see his target. He found a spot near the elevators and had to remind himself not to lean against the wall so that he would stay in character as a ramrod-straight military officer.

His cell phone buzzed. The text message was from Orr.

We’re under way here. You? Gaul texted back, Everything’s in place . Have you spotted him? Not yet. But he’s here and scheduled to attend the lunch. Good. We’ll know in 20 minutes. Be ready. K.

With nothing more to do but wait while keeping an eye on the elevators and stairs, Gaul went back to scanning the program. He smiled when he saw the title of the keynote address by his target, the former military leader of the Defense Threat Reduction Agency. The speech was called “The Dangers of Asymmetric Threat and Response: How to Combat Improvised Weapons of Mass Destruction.” Gaul thought the speaker would be surprised by how personal that danger would become.

The elevator emptied three times before Gaul saw who he had come for. The newly retired major general looked a little grayer than in the photo he’d memorized, but the intense gaze and the wrought-iron jaw were still the same. All eyes followed the general as he strode toward the restaurant.

Gaul took out his cell phone to text Orr with the confirmation that he now had Sherman Locke in his sights.

T yler liked the sense of duty, purpose, and camaraderie of the military, but he could do without the threat-of-death part, which was one of the reasons he’d left for civilian life. He took calculated risks, as when he raced cars or worked with explosives on a demolition project, but that was because he was in control. This situation was definitely not under his control.

“I’m back,” the man on the other end of the phone said. “Had other business to attend to. You there, Locke?”

“I’m here,” Tyler said as he descended the ferry’s stairs to the vehicle deck. “Why do you want me to disarm a bomb you put on the ferry?”

“I need someone with your skills for a special job, but before we get started, I need to make sure you can handle it.”

“A job?” Tyler said. “Why didn’t you just hire me?”

“Consider this task your interview. The clock is ticking, so you better get moving. Before you go to the truck, put the keys in the glove box of that little red sports car of yours. Leave it unlocked.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so, and I’m the one with the bomb. Just do it.”

“I’m on my way,” Tyler said. “So if we’re going to be talking to each other on this job, what should I call you?”

“You might be getting ahead of yourself. We could be working together for just the next twenty-two minutes.”

Tyler set his watch to synchronize with the time he had left. “I’m the confident type,” he said, though he felt anything but. Bombs were tricky in the best of conditions. Tyler didn’t know what this guy’s game was, but he didn’t sound stupid.

“I think you’re more cocky than confident,” the man said. “You’ll know what to call me as soon as you get in the truck.”

I already have some ideas about what to call you, Tyler thought. Why do I attract all the crazy people?

He reached the vehicle deck and went to his Viper, tucking the keys in the glove box as ordered. Looking forward from his position at the stern, he could make out several trucks, which were usually boarded first. He trotted in that direction.

Tyler saw the truck marked SILVERLAKE TRANSPORT and angled toward it.

“So what do I have to do?” he asked.

“The instructions are taped to the fridge. It’s all written down for you. Well, not you, but you’ll see what I mean. And remember, no police. I have my eyes and ears on you, and I’ve got a remote detonator, so get busy and behave yourself. Ferry goes boom if SWAT arrives or life rafts start popping over the side.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll know if you’re successful. If you are, I’ll give you a call back. If not, you’ll go down with the ship.”

The man hung up.

Tyler reached the back of the truck and ran his hand under the left wheel well. The key was there, just as the guy had said it was.

He looked around, but apart from an elderly woman walking her dog he was alone.

The key fit the padlock, and Tyler slid the door up carefully. He didn’t think the guy was planning to have the bomb triggered by this, but he checked just in case. Nothing.

Tyler pushed the door just high enough to squeeze in. If there really was a bomb in here, he didn’t want one of the deckhands to see it and sound the alarm.

He thought he was going to have to leave the door open for light, but two lanterns were lashed to the sides of the interior. He switched them both on and closed the door.