Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Nick’s carefully constructed defenses were crumbling. “It can’t be done,” he said. “Not by me, not by anyone, except Kaiser or Ott or one of that group. And even if I did get you the info, it’s illegal for me to turn it over. I’d go to jail.”

“We can get you to America on the next plane.”

“So you told me. And then what? I hear whistleblowers are warmly welcomed by corporate America.”

“We’d keep your name secret.”

“Bullshit!”

“Dammit, this is about more than your career at the bank.”

Thorne had never spoken truer words. “And what about Mevlevi himself, or his cohorts?” Nick asked. “You think they’re going to just let me go? If he’s as bad as you say, he’s not going to let me walk away, free and easy. If you want this guy so badly, why don’t you just get out there and arrest him?”

“I’ll tell you why. Because Mr. Mevlevi lives in Beirut and never comes out. Because we can’t crawl within ten miles of the Lebanese border without violating a dozen treaties. Because he’s got himself holed up in a compound with more firepower than the First Marine Division. That’s why! It’s a shitty situation. The only way we can get him is by freezing his money. We need your help to do that.”

Nick had already decided what needed to be done, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to invite Thorne along for the ride. Thorne was his cover. Nick didn’t want to be treated like one of the good guys. “Sorry, no go. I am not ruining my life so you can nail one of ten thousand bad guys out there. Now excuse me, I have to go.”

“Dammit, Neumann, I’m giving you the word of the United States government. We will protect you.”

The word of the United States government.

Nick tried to find an answer that would put off Thorne once and for all. But he had lost his concentration. He couldn’t stop Thorne’s pledge from reverberating in his head.

The word of the United States government. We will protect you.

He stared at Sterling Thorne and for just a second, he swore he was looking into the slack-jowled face of Jack Keely.

“Neumann, it’s good to see you here,” says Jack Keely. He is nervous, fidgeting on the balls of his feet. “Colonel Andersen called my superiors, said something about you augmenting. You want to be a lifer, eh? Congratulations. Said you’re interested in Intelligence? Maybe a liaison position between Quantico and Langley?”

First Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann sits at a table in the visitors’ entry hall at the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia. It is a large room with a high ceiling and fluorescent lighting. On this hot June day, the air conditioners labor to keep the building cool. Nick wears his class A “alpha” dress greens. Two new ribbons adorn his breast—one for duty in the Pacific theater of operations, the other for meritorious service. The second is a surrogate for the Bronze Star awarded for valor in combat during an operation that never officially took place. He balances a black cane in his right hand. The cane is a step up from the crutches he wore out during his four-month stay at Walter Reed Hospital. The truth is that he has been declared NPQ—not physically qualified—for further duty. He cannot become a career officer, even if he wanted to. In ten days he will be discharged from the United States Marine Corps. Colonel Sigurd Andersen, of course, knows this. As he knows about all of Keely’s intrigues.

“Thanks for finding the time to see me,” says Nick, motioning as if to stand.

Keely waves him down. “So your wounds have healed?” he asks lightly, as if a quarter pound of shrapnel, like a bad haircut, is only a temporary nuisance.

“Getting there,” says Nick. He rubs his leg gingerly to show that there is still a long way to go.

Keely relaxes, now that he has assessed Neumann and found him not to be a physical threat. “Any specific posting you have in mind?”

“I’m interested in assuming the type of role you played aboard the Guam,” says Nick. “Coordinating incursions onto foreign soil. Marines are more comfortable having one of their own run an operation. I thought maybe you could talk to me about what it takes to do that kind of a job. I mean, since you did such a fine job with my team.”

Keely grimaces. “Boy, that was a screwup. I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you about it more aboard ship. Regulations. Of course, you were hardly in a condition to speak with anyone when they hauled you aboard.”

“Sure,” says Nick, squinting his eyes, remembering.

“Radio malfunction,” continues Keely. “I’m sure Colonel Andersen told you. We didn’t pick up your distress signals until you were patched through the open airport communications channel. In the future, remember to guard that as a last resort. Not a secure com link.”

Nick swallows his hatred of this man. His anticipation grows. He tells himself it won’t be long now. “We had a man down,” he says evenly. “We were being pursued by a superior enemy force. Operations command had not responded to our signals in over seven hours. Does that count as enough of a last resort?”

Keely rummages in his breast pocket for a cigarette. He slumps in his chair, assuming his usual arrogant posture. “Look, Lieutenant, no one likes to dredge up the past. The basic intel was on the money. You took out Enrile. We achieved the mission goal. We still don’t have a clue as to who set up the ambush. Anyway, your boys fucked the extraction. It was a navy job to maintain the ship’s communications equipment in proper working order. If one of your radios was on the fritz, what was I supposed to do about it?”

Nick smiles and says that he understands. Behind the smile, he maps out the progress of his assault. He plans every blow that he will deliver to this man’s lying body. He has chosen Langley for an express purpose—so that Keely will never feel safe again, so that for the rest of his life he’ll cower before turning a corner and hesitate before opening a door, so that he’ll always wonder who’ll be there to meet him and pray it won’t be Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann.

“What’s past is past,” Nick says amicably. “The reason I came, Mr. Keely, is to get a tour of the navy liaison facility. I’m sure Colonel Andersen mentioned it. I thought maybe you’d give me some pointers about which channels would be most receptive to my requests for duty.”

“Sure thing, Neumann. Follow me.” Keely throws the butt of his cigarette into a cold cup of coffee, which had been left on the table. He stands up and tucks his creeping belly into his pants. “You okay on that leg?”

Nick follows Keely down a featureless corridor: linoleum floor, eggshell walls, all strictly government issue. They are returning to the visitor center after having visited the Satellite Imaging Department—run by a former marine named Bill Stackpole, a close friend of Colonel Andersen’s.

“Jack, I’ve got to use the head,” says Nick as they approach a rest room. “I might need a hand.” The visit has gone well. Nick and Keely are now friends. Keely insists he be called by his first name.

“A hand?” asks Keely, and when Nick offers an embarrassed grin, Keely obliges. “Sure thing… Nick.”

Nick waits until Keely is inside the rest room, then moves quickly. He drops the cane, then turns and grasps the unsuspecting man by the shoulders, spinning him around while throwing an arm around his neck to pin him in a headlock. Keely yelps in fear. Nick seeks the carotid artery, and with his free hand, blocks the flow of blood to the brain for five seconds. Keely collapses to the floor, temporarily unconscious. Nick removes a rubber doorstop from his pocket and wedges it under the door. He knocks twice and hears the same signal given in return. A sign stating that the rest room is out of order has been placed on the door. Stackpole has delivered.