Exile Endgame (Kamas Trilogy Book 4), page 6
Yet, if the trade representative aimed to squirrel away hefty sums during his London tenure, he would need accomplices. And since bribery, kickbacks, self-dealing and the like were forbidden to state officials, he couldn’t turn for help to anyone loyal to the Unionist regime.
What he needed was someone with no qualms about cheating or stealing from the regime and the skill to pull it off. Now, who in London, Linder thought, fit that description better than he?
The Unionist trade official removed his coat and draped it across a chair before urging Linder to take a seat at the table. He did the same.
“I’m sorry I can’t stay long. But the moment I learned you were back in London, I knew I had to see you.” He gave Linder the once-over before offering him an approving smile. “You’ve done remarkably well for yourself, Warren, considering all you’ve been through. I must say, I thought your arrest was most unfair.”
“An odd claim, coming from a senior Party member like you, Irwin.”
“Come, now, Warren. Yes, you suffered for a while, but look at your remarkable career since you escaped! Who would have guessed that we’d be meeting again under such agreeable circumstances?”
“I’ve been following your, career, too,” Linder replied. “And I imagine you’ve also faced your share of risks, having been a protégé of Ted Terzian, who is one step away from being purged. You must have done some fancy footwork to land where you are. But then, you were never a revolutionary like Terzian. More of a survivalist, I’d say.”
“If, by that, you mean I like to take a long view of things, that would be correct. And with both of us having endured what we have, perhaps we’ve come to think alike to a degree. Who knows, perhaps the time has come to cooperate again.”
Linder feigned surprise.
“Surely you must know by now that I would never collaborate with the Unionist regime. So what’s your angle?”
“What if I were to make a proposal that would benefit the two of us, as well as your oppositionist friends, all at the expense of the ruling party? Would you be interested in hearing more?”
“Sure, why not? I suppose you could report me to the DSS, but then they already know who I am.”
Kreutzer leaned in toward Linder, his elbows on the table.
“Do you remember General Secretary Twitchell’s speech, delivered just after he launched the NEP, announcing the unilateral withdrawal of U.S. forces from our overseas bases? The so-called ‘Speech Heard Round the World’?”
“How could I not?” Linder replied in an acid tone. “In one fell swoop, he declared victory in the global war on terror, renounced the role of world policeman, and promised a huge peace dividend from America’s exit on the world stage.”
“Did you ever wonder what was going to happen with all those overseas bases after we abandoned them?”
“Of course I did. In my past life, I’d been to many of them, both in the U.K. and in Europe. These days they’re empty and falling to pieces.”
“That’s about to change,” Kreutzer declared. “U.S. trade representatives in the various host countries have been tasked with selling those properties. There’s a tremendous amount of money to be made if things are handled right. Something in it for everyone.”
Kreutzer cast a meaningful glance at his guest.
“So how might that apply to me?” Linder replied with narrowed eyes.
“Would your clients be interested in picking up any of the U.K. properties—at a substantial discount?”
Linder laughed. “How much of a discount? How would your scheme work?”
“It’s quite simple. You and I would fix the bidding. Once an award was made, most of the payment price would go into the U.S. Treasury. But a certain part would go elsewhere. A little for you, a little for me. Everybody walks away happy.”
“You’re taking quite a risk in telling me this, Irwin.”
The boldness of the scheme took Linder by surprise. It must have shown in his face, because now it was Kreutzer’s turn to laugh.
“Not really,” he explained. “Everybody knows you’re a sworn enemy of the Unionist Party. If you went to the press and claimed the property sales were rigged, I’d deny it, and everyone would chalk it up to sour grapes. But you’d be blowing the opportunity of a lifetime if you did.”
“And you’d trust me not to rat on you later? You wouldn’t be able to deny it once I had my hands on the receipts.”
“I think I know you well enough to believe you wouldn’t take that step, Warren. It would be a case of mutually assured destruction. Neither of us would escape unscathed.”
Kreutzer inched up his sleeve to consult his wafer-thin gold watch.
“Damn. I’m already late for dinner down the hall and I’m the guest of honor. Listen, why don’t you sleep on it and get back to me via encrypted email. If you decide to come in, you can do anything you want with your share of the money. Use it for your propaganda crusade, for all I care. By the time the DSS figures out what we did, I’ll be outside their grasp.”
CHAPTER SEVEN: QUIST
“Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.”
—Voltaire
TUESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 2031
Owen Quist arrived at Washington’s Dulles Airport in the early afternoon. He stood in the immigration queue set aside for U.S. citizens and used the passport control kiosk to scan his passport and answer the routine questions presented. But shortly after completing his interview with a uniformed immigration inspector, two scowling plainclothes federal agents intercepted him.
“Passport, please,” one of them demanded.
This was not good. Quist felt an immediate jolt of adrenaline, as if a snarling grizzly had just crossed his path. He handed over the passport and the agent opened it to the photograph page. After a quick look, the man closed the document but didn’t return it.
“Mr. Quist, please come with us.”
Quist suppressed an urge to bolt. This had to be a mistake. He hadn’t done anything wrong.
The agent beckoned toward a nearby door, which his partner held open. Quist followed them a short distance down a narrow corridor before reaching a walk-through metal detector. The uniformed policeman who manned the detector held out a plastic bin for Quist to deposit his wallet, cell phone, belt, keys, and other metallic objects. Then he handed the bin to one of the two plainclothes agents, who carried it into a nearby interview room.
“You can leave your roller bag here. We won’t be long,” the second agent said. Once inside the interview room, he closed the door behind them.
“Please identify yourself and state the reasons for your travel,” the agent ordered.
“My name is Owen Quist.” Quist felt a twinge of shame that his voice quavered as he spoke. He took a deep breath and did his best to pull himself together before continuing. “I was traveling with a delegation from the State Oil Company to sell American petroleum products in Europe. Now, may I ask you a question? What agency are you with and why have you singled me out for questioning?”
“We’re with State Security and we need some more information about your trip, Mr. Quist. Please, wait here while I invite my colleague to join us. It’ll just be a moment.” The tone was polite but distant.
The agent gestured toward a pair of straight-backed aluminum chairs on opposite sides of a metal table. Then he left the room while his partner remained standing at the door. But it wasn’t just a moment. No one appeared for ten minutes, then fifteen. Quist tried to empty his mind to avoid panic, but he couldn’t stop his thoughts from racing out of control. After twenty minutes, the agent returned alone.
“My colleague can’t come right now. I’m afraid we’ll have to go to him. Follow me, please.”
But this time Quist stood his ground.
“Wait a second, officer. I was traveling on official government business. You can see that from my red official passport. Please return it to me now and let me go on my way.”
“You’ll get it back after we finish our business together.”
“This has gone far enough,” Quist protested, his anger rising. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you hand me my cell phone so that I can call my supervisor at the oil company. I’m sure he’ll be able to address whatever concerns you might have about my travels.”
“All in due time, sir. But the sooner we go see my colleague, the sooner we can get this resolved. Bear with us a moment longer.”
Without another word, the federal agent opened the door and gestured for Quist to follow him to the end of the corridor. It happened so fast that Quist was at a loss to do anything else. So he went along while the second agent trailed behind, pulling Quist’s roller bag. At the corridor’s end they turned left, soon reaching another door, which opened onto an alley. There a black SUV stood waiting with its engine idling and its trunk and passenger doors flung open.
“Climb in. We’re not going far,” the first agent directed, while the second loaded the roller bag into the trunk. Quist hesitated before recognizing that he’d been duped. The time to resist had passed.
As they drove away, Quist’s anxiety level rose the further they traveled from the arrival hall. At last the SUV rolled through a barricaded gate into a fenced compound and halted outside a nondescript three-story building that looked more like a warehouse than any government office Quist had seen.
Once inside, they proceeded to a security desk manned by a solitary uniformed guard, who stowed Quist’s roller bag in a corner and buzzed the three visitors into an antiseptic corridor. Along each wall was a row of metal doors, each featuring a small glass window at head height, a horizontal feed slot just above the knee, and two odd-looking round keyholes. The lead agent opened the nearest door and gestured for Quist to enter.
For the first time, Quist noticed the scowl leave the agent’s face. And when he spoke, Quist detected a note of sympathy. Was it because there was no longer any possibility of escape?
“Go ahead and rest until my colleague is ready for you,” the agent told Quist. “There’s a sink and toilet inside for you to freshen up. Someone will fetch you when it’s time.”
As Quist entered the cell, its heavy metal door clanked shut behind him. Only then did he realize what a fool he’d been to follow these men blindly into a DSS interrogation facility. What could he possibly have done to deserve this? Panic seized him as he racked his brain to recall any act on his European trip that might be considered illegal or even improper. He certainly hadn’t taken bribes or engaged in any illicit dealings. Nor had he taken drugs, gone whoring with his customers, or gotten wasted in any seedy dive where he might have rubbed elbows with shady characters.
At last Quist’s thoughts settled on his weekend in Bristol with Harold Acker. To be sure, he had consumed far too much alcohol and spoken loosely with his old friend. But how could the DSS possibly know what the two had discussed, unless they’d learned it from Acker? But Acker despised the DSS even more than he did and had nothing to gain from informing against him. On the contrary, the two men had gotten along perfectly all weekend. Acker had even acquiesced to his wife’s filing for divorce so Quist could marry her. So what motive could the engineer possibly have for ratting on him to the DSS?
All at once a fresh wave of dread swept over Quist. Acker had said he belonged to an anti-Unionist exile group and asked if he might share Quist’s comments with his politically active friends. How foolish he had been to agree! What if one of Acker’s friends were a DSS informant?
When a pair of black-uniformed prison guards finally came for Quist, the two bound him in handcuffs and leg irons before leading him down the hall to an interrogation room furnished with a wooden table, four chairs, and a one-way mirror that filled an entire wall. Once inside, the guards clipped his leg shackles to a steel ground anchor and sat behind him, just beyond his field of view.
Less than a minute later, a black man entered the room wearing a gray cotton jumpsuit and carrying a hardbound laboratory notebook and a slender manila file folder. The man was of middle height, with a rotund build, pudgy hands and face, and a café au lait complexion. His was a deceptively benign appearance. Yet Quist, having heard dreadful tales about what occurred inside DSS interrogation prisons, expected the worst. He felt the grip of fear seize him while cold sweat trickled down his spine.
The man in the jumpsuit took a seat opposite Quist, opened the file folder, and began to read it silently. For a moment, the prisoner felt not relief, but anger, with confusion not far behind.
“Who are you? And why have you brought me here? I haven’t done anything wrong!”
The interrogator ignored him, flipped the page, and read to the bottom before closing the file.
“My name is Darrell Otis,” the man declared. “And you’re here because you’ve been charged with disclosure of classified information, membership in a subversive organization, and seditious conspiracy to overthrow the U.S. government. All are serious felonies, punishable by long sentences at hard labor.”
Quist’s eyes opened wide with horror.
“What? But none of that is true!” he objected.
“If that’s so, then why did you tell your co-conspirator, Harold Acker, that the U.S. economy was ‘circling the drain’ and that America was experiencing food shortages, power outages, labor strikes and violent unrest among the military and the police? We also have conclusive evidence that you passed classified information about U.S. energy production to an enemy of the state, knowing that he would deliver it to a foreign subversive organization. And we have evidence that you are in clandestine contact with secret insurgent cells operating in or near the nation’s capital.”
Quist gasped. While he remembered bad-mouthing the condition of the U.S. economy to Acker, at the time he certainly hadn’t thought of it as rising to the level of treason. And the information he had shared about U.S. oil and gas production was hardly of the kind whose disclosure could cause the country serious damage. As for his throwaway comment about secret dissident cells in Washington, it was mere puffery. He had never belonged to such a cell. It was all intended to make himself look important in Acker’s eyes.
But before Quist could deny the charges, the interrogator began reading aloud from a letter addressed to one Benjamin Payne, chairman of the Free American Patriots, located in Berlin. The text quoted Quist’s boasting in embarrassing detail, and now he remembered just how far out on a limb he had climbed that night. After reeling off three or four paragraphs to Quist, Otis laid the letter down and fixed the prisoner with a stare that left no doubt who was in control.
“Listen, I had no idea Harold was going to put me on the spot like that,” Quist complained.
“Do you mean to say your friend was lying?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“In that case, we’re going to have to take whatever time is required to sift through your statements and weigh the charges against you,” Otis replied. “I hope you weren’t in any hurry to get back to your job at StatOil.”
“As a matter of fact, I…”
“That is, assuming your job still exists, once your superiors learn that you abused your foreign travel privilege to meet secretly with our nation’s enemies.”
“But that’s not at all what happened!” Quist exclaimed. “The only reason I visited Harold was to get his consent for his wife to divorce him so that she and I could get married. You can confirm that with Mrs. Acker. She’s a senior lawyer at the Department of…”
“Treasury,” the interrogator cut in. “We’ve already spoken to her. She’s in custody, too, charged with aiding and abetting your conspiracy with the FAP. And she’s not very happy about it. Quite a scrapper, that woman.”
Quist could only imagine Denise Acker’s fury at the accusation. Her entire legal career reduced to ashes merely because the man she had married refused to give up his grudge toward the Unionist Party and her new fiancé was a naïve fool. Even if they got out of this mess somehow, he was sure Denise would never forgive him for dragging her into it.
“If you’ve spoken to Denise, then you must know she couldn’t possibly be guilty of a political crime. She’s a loyal Party member and has been from the start.”
“You’d be surprised, Mr. Quist, how Party members with otherwise immaculate credentials can get themselves entangled in rebel conspiracies. You see, traitors and counter-revolutionaries are like ants. Where you find one, there’s generally a whole nest of them. And if you don’t root them out all at once, the infestation will spread like wildfire.”
“But Denise and I are not traitors!” Quist argued. “Surely you must see that! How can I prove it to you?”
Otis offered his prisoner a condescending smile as he picked up the file to leave.
“I’m afraid you’ll just have to let the investigation run its course, Mr. Quist.”
Upon exiting the interrogation center, the officer who called himself Darrell Otis returned to his parked car, drove out the compound’s security gate and headed east on the Dulles Access Road. Less than a half hour later, at an office park near the Tyson’s Corner Mall, he parked beside the mirror-faced DSS Annex. It was already late in the afternoon when he arrived to find a stream of workers on their way out to the parking lot under the slanting rays of an orange-tinged sun.
Otis wasted no time after clearing security and made a beeline for the elevators. On the sixth floor, he went to his boss’s office, knocked twice, and walked in.
“Just came from seeing Quist,” he said, taking a seat without being invited.
Victor Barbosa, chief of the DSS’s Exile Division, was a big, square-shouldered man with a somber gaze who carried his head stubbornly bent, as if nothing in the world was to his liking. He generally uttered as few words as possible and, when he spoke, was inclined toward irony. Yet, in an organization where trust was rare and friendships paper-thin, Barbosa had a reputation for fairness and not letting his men down. Otis, whose real name was James Jenkins, revered his boss. And though, at thirty-five, Jenkins was only five years younger than Barbosa, he modeled himself after the older man.
