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Selected excerpts from The Weaver Conspiracy (No plot-spoilers included.)
From the Prologue: Henri Marchaund focused his telescope on the naked woman sunbathing on the deck of the sailboat as it cruised serenely in front of his Mediterranean villa. At eighty-two, Henri no longer became aroused while watching the young women on the boats, but he would be damned if he’d give up looking. Hearing the new-mail “bing” from his computer, Henri looked up from the eyepiece to see who had sent the message. It was from the Bank of Zurich. Picking up his cane, he crossed the few steps to his desk, and dropped down heavily into his old leather chair. The message was a confirmation of the transfer of funds into one of his numerous accounts. No sooner had he read the communication when a second e-mail popped up.
Dear Henri:
I hope this note finds you well and enjoying your splendid view of the sea. I wish that I could be there with you, but alas, business before pleasure. As you are probably aware by now, the funds have been moved into your account, and the wheels on this end are in motion. I apologize for the delay in getting the project started, but I only recently received confirmation regarding the date and location where the action must take place. As we speculated, our best opportunity will come during his class-reunion trip at the end of October. I realize that that does not allow much time to bring the pieces of such a project together, but that is why I have turned to you, old friend. If anyone can do it, that person is you! I know that you will have much to do, so I won’t keep you any longer.
Yours faithfully, Leland
Henri smiled at Leland’s flattery, but it was true. Few people in the world had the connections and resources that Henri Marchaund had culled over his many years in the business. But it was also true that this project—perhaps his last—would be more complex, higher risk, and unlike anything he had ever orchestrated before. And if he managed to make it all come together, it would be a fitting end to his career; his pièce de résistance. As with all such projects, Henri needed to give this one a simple, nondescript name to make communication on the matter easier, and somewhat secure. He settled on the name “Weaver,” after one of his mother’s favorite sayings; “O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.”
As Gants, Katherine, and Claire stepped into the dim light of the cargo bay of the giant C5 Galaxy, they quickly realized how well insulated the passenger compartment had been, both against the cold and the noise. Gants led them between the rows of cars until he got to the rear door of the presidential limo. He opened it and gestured for the two women to get in. Inside there was instant and complete silence. The hand-built cars were so thick with bullet-proof glass, armor, and insulation that there was actually a reverse public-address system that allowed the president to hear the cheers of the crowds over speakers inside the car. As Gants settled opposite them on a rear-facing jump-seat he said, “This is about as private as it gets. And now, ma’am, if you don’t mind, will you please tell me what’s going on?” Gants’ tone with the First Lady made Claire feel even more uncomfortable than she had before. This was shaping up to be a battle of the Titans in which Claire felt very out of place. “Agent Bradley and I would like to go shopping in Newburyport and we’d rather not have a battalion of your agents surrounding us—calling attention to us.” Claire’s heart almost stopped. Oh, great! she thought, She’s making it sound like this is something we cooked up together! Gants shot Claire a look that would have sent a rookie looking for a parachute. “Mr. Gants,” the first Lady began in an almost reproachful tone, “This is my idea. Agent Bradley had nothing to do with it. She is here only because I feel that she will be the best agent you have to act as my single bodyguard, and ...” “Single bodyguard!” Gants interrupted. “Absolutely not! I’m sorry, Mrs. McClure, but the answer is no!” “It wasn’t a request, Mr. Gants,” Katherine replied calmly. “I’m explaining what we’re going to do when we get to Newburyport. That is what you wanted to know, isn’t it?” Gants took a deep breath. “Mrs. McClure, please,” he said. “There will be thousands of people on those streets, some local, but many of them in town because of your husband’s visit tomorrow. How can I keep you safe in crowds like that with just one agent—no matter who she may be?” He accompanied his last remark with a chilling look at Claire. She could tell that he felt certain that the two women had conspired against him, despite the First Lady’s assurance to the contrary. “I intend to be incognito, Mr. Gants,” Katherine told him. “No one will know the First Lady is even among them, so I won’t be in any danger at all.” “Incognito?” he repeated doubtfully.
“Who, exactly, are you?” Frank asked the photo of Claire that the TV was showing. He turned to his laptop and composed an email in French.
My Good Friend, Henri, I will make the assumption that you are, by now, aware of the latest details of the Weaver project, so I won’t go into that. Suffice is to say that I regret the outcome, but your client had been warned of the possibility of failure. Regardless, we must continue the plan. If you have not already seen the video from the high school, please avail yourself, paying particular attention to the actions of the president’s security agent, Claire Bradley. The footage is both interesting and disconcerting, and I believe it will explain the request that follows. As you will see, this Bradley woman seems to be reacting to events before they have taken place, which, I fear, suggests a security breach. If that is so, I will need to deal swiftly and definitively with those involved, and likely with Bradley, as well. To that end, I wonder if you can obtain and provide me with more detailed information on Agent Bradley. I remember her name from the early project research, but as I recall, the only thing outstanding was that she was the solitary woman on the President’s security detail. She was not seen by any of us as a threat to the project, at the time. But now, I am not so sure. You know my dislike of surprises, and Bradley’s actions this morning were certainly that. I look forward to your earliest reply.
Yours, François
Frank checked that his encoding software was set to its highest level, and then sent the email over his “skip” network. Skipping, which took its name from skipping a stone across the water, used hidden repeater programs hacked into thousands of poorly-secured computers all over the world to send and resend the email hundreds of times before it finally reached its destination. Since the email and the hidden “botnet” program were automatically deleted from their host computer after forwarding the message, it was virtually impossible to trace the email to its true origin in any practical timeframe.
Three hours later, Frank received a skipped and encoded reply from Henri. Attached was a scanned copy of Claire Bradley’s Secret Service personnel file. It was the entire file, including even her FBI background checks, assignment records, performance reviews, and a long list of friends, acquaintances, and family members. Frank marveled at its completeness. The contacts that Henri was able to tap into never failed to amaze Frank. It was the reason that he had agreed to become involved in “Weaver” in the first place. He would not have taken on a project like this one for anyone else in the world.
“Why are you so frigging dumb, Bradley?” the Colonel snapped. “I am not taking America’s celebrity du jour on an operation into unfriendly territory where she could very easily get killed. How hard is that for you to comprehend? The people we’re going after—not even counting your Dunham—are psychopaths. They’ve blown up women and children on buses, and bragged about it, for God sake!” Claire hadn’t expected an explanation from the Colonel, just an argument, and she found herself a bit off guard. “And they would love to brag that when the USA—the Great Satan—foolishly sent a woman to apprehend them, they killed her, too. Just drop it, Bradley. You’re not going on the operation, so there’s no point in you cluttering up any more run-throughs. End of discussion.” As he turned to walk away, Claire threw out her trump card. “With all due respect, sir, my President and your Prime Minister have ...” “Screw your President and my Prime Minister!” the Colonel growled through clinched teeth as he spun back toward her. “I have made it clear to everyone above me, including the Prime Minister, that I do not want you on this mission. It is a stupid frigging idea to have civilian observers on a military operation of any kind, much less one as unpredictable as this. “Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t convince my superiors of that, so, because I am able to follow orders—unlike some people—I’m stuck with you. “As field commander, however, what I do with you is entirely up to me. You may consider me a hard-ass, but I am trying to accommodate a whole raft of people who want to stick their noses into my job, and still accomplish my objective without getting anyone killed. To that end, and in deference to my Prime Minister, and not to you, my current plan calls for you to be sitting in our tactical-communications van and keeping your mouth shut while the operation takes place tomorrow night. That part of the plan is very flexible, however, so if I have any more crap out of you between now and then, I’ll classify you as a security risk, and have you thrown the hell out of Israel. Am I getting through, Bradley?” Though her heart was slamming in her chest, she managed to control her voice and reply, “Yes, sir. I guess I misunderstood my role in all this, sir.” “That’s the difference between you and us, Bradley,” he said. “You feel the need to understand an order before you agree to follow it. If the men defending this country acted that way, our neighbors would have pushed us into the sea decades ago.” With that, he turned to Captain Myer, and said, “We ready to go?” |
