Politics & Patriotism: The Fisk Conspiracy
by Justin Oldham

Contents:
Foreword
Part One/Inception
Part Two/Execution
Part Three/Evolution
Appendix: Dissecting the conspiracy

Foreword

I am flattered to be portrayed in these pages. That doesn't change the fact that this is still just a story. Mr. Oldham has clearly done his homework. It is unfortunate that his research and background materials were destroyed in an unexplained fire. I would have liked to see for myself how he constructed this fast-paced plot. His very fertile imagination has conjured up the sort of tale that could only spring from today's headlines.

We live in a world where civic-minded politicians are called upon to wield increasingly larger amounts of power in service to the people who elected them. The rise of militant terror groups has made much of this growth in government necessary. As the threat to our nation continues to expand, so too will the need of our public protectors to take ever greater degrees of action. It was only a matter of time before somebody put a new spin on this trend.

As entertaining as this conspiracy is, I did have a hard time reading about the deaths of people that I had known. To see their lives re-interpreted and spun in to the fabric of this story took some getting used to. I forgive the author for his inaccurate depiction of my home life. Readers can look forward to many healthy debates about the motives of this fictional conspiracy, and the people who allegedly made it possible.

--Larry Hodgekiss,
White House Chief of Staff
2012-2016

Part One Inception:

Saturday
September 27, 1997
Peaceful Rest Cemetery
Fredericksburg, Virginia
10:40 A.M. EST

The funeral was over. The mourners had gone. Low-hanging clouds promised rain. Standing next to his wife's grave, Jason Cutter held his daughter's hand in silence while she cried. Nearby, a dark blue pavilion flapped in the breeze. Observant bodyguards were stationed at each corner of the low-slung tent. Jason's "unofficial" guests waited for him patiently.

Approaching from the road, Harry Oswald returned from seeing off the last of the "official" mourners. Dressed in somber grey, he peeled off the false clerical collar with some relief. Jason separated from his daughter and went to speak with his friend.

"Thanks again, Harry. Great job. You'd make a good priest."

"Sure. I'm just sorry I'm not a real priest. Might be nice to get a little absolution for some of the things we've done over the years. You know?" Cutter gripped his friend. The two men stepped back.

"I'm going to send a check to the archdiocese. Sophie would be rolling if she knew this funeral wasn't legit." The fake priest bit had been necessary.

"I'm sure the nuns back at the academy would have my hide," Harry quipped as the wind whipped his thinning hair into a brown-grey frenzy. This wasn't the first time he had impersonated a man of the cloth.

Cutter snorted as the two men started to walk. Harry nodded to unseen protectors as he received a message through the comm tucked inside his right ear. Touching Jason's elbow, he looked his old friend in the eye.

"Time to round up the kid and hit the road." Harry cast a concerned look at his watch.

"Screw 'em." Cutter couldn't help the bitter retort. His lean, aggressive face was framed by salt-and-pepper hair. Grey-green eyes flashed with the heat of his internal conflict as he started to walk away. This funeral wasn't just for his wife, and he knew it.

"C'mon. We shouldn't be here when they arrive. Too much to explain." Harry laid a consoling hand on Cutter's shoulder. Cutter's grief was real. Anyone could see that.

"Say your goodbyes and let's get outta here," Harry persisted. Grief had a way of slowing down even the most hardened and worldly professionals. Cutter ignored Harry as he took a half-step toward the pavilion.

"What's the matter with you, Jason? Say good-by to whoever those people are, and--"

"Yeah, yeah." Jason struggled to control his emotions. The need to unburden his soul was very strong. Looking sidelong at Harry, he knew that would never happen. Both men had secrets they couldn't share with each other, despite their long association. Harry worked for Central Intelligence, while Jason worked for National Security.

"Harry, I'm sorry. I've just got a lot on my mind. Tell Doris to collapse the perimter, will ya? Give Angel another five minutes. I've got to have a quick word with these people, too. Then we're outta here."

Harry didn't know the people in the tent, but he had his suspicions about who and what they were. "Right. Are we still on for dinner?" Jason would never talk about it. Harry knew that. He had his secrets, too. It was in the nature of what they did.

"Usual place?" Jason started walking toward the tent.

"Right. See you at eight." Harry waved before trotting off to find Doris. Years ago, the two had been colleagues. Personality conflicts had caused Jason to leave the CIA for the National Security Agency. Their friendship survived everything from Watergate to the present.

The men and women observing the funeral from the guarded shelter watched Cutter approach. Harry Oswold was known to them. They appreciated his participation in today's funeral, but they had no further interest in him. As the godfather to Jason's one and only child, they accorded him the respect he was due.

"He's damned good, he is. I wonder if he'd be willin' to speak at my wake." The Irishman's remark drew a few chuckles and one polite cough.

One of the East Coasters summed up the thoughts of many. "I've seen his file. He's got a real future with the CIA if he can get past his involvement with Jason. That, and he's not your type." The inside joke was greeted with silent nods. The diverse gathering of cohorts had many things in common, to include an intimate knowledge of each other's private lives.

Jason Cutter wasn't just a grieving widower. He was their friend and savior . They owed him their lives. Watching him approach the gravesite through the cold rain was hard for the French operative who sat near the front of the group.

"If there had been a more effective cancer treatment, I would have stolen it," she declared with a small invective. Nobody said anything to that.

Some in the group understood better than others. A handful of them were cancer survivors. Sophie Cutter's short but brutal war with the illness had been fought with all the Cold War skill that these old spies could muster. State secrets had been pilfered, wonder drugs had been stolen from high-tech corporate labs, and a whole host of other misdemeanors -- and felonies -- committed in an attempt to pay back the man who had brought them in from the cold.

"Looks like death warmed over," somebody else remarked with a Midwestern accent. "Reminds me of that night in Belgrade. I can still see the Chinese embassy in flames. Geez, but that was a mess."

Contemporary NSA evaluators attributed Cutter's obsolescence to a deep-seated sense of patriotic loyalty and political guilt that was at times incompatible with Agency objectives. In an increasingly unstable world, Jason Cutter and the very few like him were classified as 'inflexible'.

Even as he walked across the damp lawn with the stormy sky overhead, Jason knew that he was acting out his alleged obsolescence. Approaching the pavilion, he watched the clandestine group chat among themselves. Clamping down on his emotions, Jason was embarrassed by the sudden silence as he entered the pavilion. Folding his chilled hands over the front of his coat, he look back at them for a moment.

These men and women had been recruited to fight on the Cold War's shadow fronts, against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Some had been sacrificed to America's enemies for the sake of the missions they were on. Others had simply been forgotten as the decades passed and national security needs changed. Most, if not all, were in their eighties.

While he had never been sacrificed, Jason Cutter knew that he had long since outlived his usefulness. His disaffection could be traced back to the failed 1961 Cuban revolution. The fallout from the aborted mission changed the way he looked at his work. This, in turn, changed him. In the decades that followed, he kept quiet about his patriotic beliefs while working to reclaim a handful of the Cold War casualties that he himself caused.

"Sophie would be glad you were here. I know she'd be grateful for everything you've done." Cutter turned to look back at his daughter, who knelt by the graveside, speaking her final goodbyes.

"Harry said they were coming," Jason told the group.

The NSA had, at first, put up with his covert repatriations. They were no longer so tolerant. It was only a matter of time before they fired him for insubordination. NSA capture teams now worked harder than ever to reach disavowed assets before people like Cutter got to them. These 'deactivations' were made in the interest of national security.

"They were coming," a tall, alabaster-skinned woman quipped with some delight. Her distinctive red hair made her stand out from the rest. Like the others, she knew true safety would only come in the grave. They knew too much. Modern politicians felt vulnerable.

"Were coming, Enola?" Her customary "old school" brass made Jason grin.

The woman smiled wickedly while raising a cell phone with her free hand. "They're good, but they're not that good. It'll be a few more years before the Federal government has a truly centralized intelligence agency. Until then, they'll have to go on with their secret envy of the old Stasi," she sneered, making reference to the defunct East German Secret Police. Some nodded, while others laughed with genuine mirth. The break in tension had its effect on Cutter, who relaxed even more.

"I'm not sure who is protecting who just now. But it really is time to go. I just have one thing to say. I've read your proposal, and I accept." His very direct statement took them all by surprise.

"That's marvelous news, darling." Enola smiled as she stood to hug Jason.

"Don't thank me just yet." Cutter raised a hand as he looked back at his daughter.

"My career is over with. My wife is dead, and I'm on borrowed time. The new NSA leadership won't tolerate me anymore. Honestly, I'm fed up with their 'use 'em and lose 'em' attitude. I'm all for national security, but I do draw the line at the betrayals we've been inflicting on our patriots for the last fifty years." Talking about it in such bold and open terms made him feel better. Harry didn't need to hear this. He had his own problems.

"My daughter doesn't need to know about this. She's been through enough. I could never explain to her that we're going to accelerate the decay of our government by helping more corrupt politicians get in to office. She's only fifteen, for cryin' out loud. No. It's better for her to think that I'm dead."

"It may come to that." Enola spoke for the others. The conspiracy they proposed required the leadership of a person who did not exist. Cutter's unflagging conscience, courage, and conviction were simply not enough. They would have to be augmented.

"I know. I'm prepared for that. Harry will take good care of Angel. There is one thing. I am going to need some of my own people. If Doctor Hathaway's analysis is correct, the personality programming will last longer if I have Griff and Doris looking out for me."

The plan called for Jason to undergo an intense mental and physical transformation. The personality programming they intended to embed in Cutter's psyche would make him in to the leader they needed him to be.

"Oui. You will be tres invincible." Jason gave an embarrassed nod to the French woman.

Cold War psychiatric experts had taken the art of mental programming to new levels. Despite their successes, the field remained limited. Morality and ethics could be 'trained' out of a subject, but they could not be instilled. Subjects could be taught virtually any skill they had a natural aptitude for. False memories could be imposed, so long as they did not conflict with the subject's sense of right and wrong. Jason's alter ego would be able to deceive, betray, or manipulate at will because 'he' would know that 'it' was lying for a purpose.

"Are you certain that your cohorts will cooperate?" Enola's question had been troubling Jason for some time. Griff and Doris were ten years younger than he. They both had promising careers to look forward to, assuming they could get past the stigma of being associated with him.

"Doris will come over. I don't know about Griff."

Jason was aware that Doris held him in high regard. She admired him covertly, though. He wasn't sure if her feelings were physical or professional. The only certainty was her absolute loyalty. Griff, on the other hand, was more complicated. He routinely argued with Jason over agency policy, departmental process, and bureaucratic procedure. Most of the time, he was right -- a fact that Jason now worried over.

"I was under the impression that they don't get along well," somebody spoke up from inside the group. Jason shrugged.

"Yin and yang. They balance each other out. Doris can be a little too off-the-cuff, but Griff keeps her in check." Laughter fluttered through the tent at the understatement.

Sunday December 31, 2000
Secured Site One
Undisclosed Location
11:59 P.M. Local Time

Alone in the committee room, Doris stared up at the monitors. Nine large projection screens flickered with news feed from around the world. The recent presidential election was still generating fallout. George W. Bush beat his rival, Al Gore, by winning a hotly contested recount in the state of Florida, despite all projections to the contrary. Doris paid careful attention to the screen showing the feed from WNN.

Griff's familiar face popped up on the largest monitor . "Hey. How was your first treatment?" Doris gave no hint that she resented the intrusion.

"I'm not looking forward to the full body treatment." She looked up at the monitor. Raising her hands, she let Griff see for himself.

"Can you tell the difference?" Griff squinted. In her early forties, Doris was exceptionally fit. She could have passed for thirty-five.

"It hurts. A lot. Hathaway said the pain would go away over the next few hours."

"I think you're nuts for doing it. I wouldn't feel right with that kind of super-science in my veins. No thanks. I'll grow old and die just like I'm supposed to."

Doris wiggled her fingers at eye level, then looked back to Griff. "From what I hear, every member of the committee has had some form of this treatment. If it works like it's advertised, I should have no problem keeping up with the job."

Griff snorted. 'The job' was giving him fits. He didn't understand how she could be so accepting.

"Haven't you heard? They've got a new name. Some of the old fossils are so pumped for this project that they insisted on it. They're calling themselves The Founders."

Doris shrugged. "I don't care what they call themselves, so long as they don't meddle. Jason's put a lot of himself in to this thing, and I'd like to see it succeed."

Griff hesitated. In her eyes, Jason could do no wrong. Arguing with Doris had always been futile. "Speaking of Jason, he wants to see you in the personal effects room. He's only got another hour or so before they put him under."

"Right." She nodded without looking up at the monitor. This might be the last time she spoke with him. Once programmed and physically altered, he would be inaccessible to her. Being clear on the concepts did not make the reality any easier to cope with. The very idea of 'making' somebody who had all the necessary attributes to lead them successfully struck her as being desperate.

Heading for the door, she passed row upon row of empty seating, doing her best to ignore the padded chairs and wide tabletops. Jason trusted the Founders for reasons that she could not comprehend. Only time would tell if her feelings of apprehension were justified. Over her head, Griff ran tense fingers through thick hair and sighed as he cut the connection.

Leaving the room, Doris gave a nod to the plainclothes guard who sat casually nearby. As she walked away, he stood up to close the door to the meeting room. A small light over the door changed from red to green.

Striding with purpose, Doris made her way into the medical wing. She stopped at two separate checkpoints to show her mag-card I.D. This is it. We're really going to do this.

Pausing in an empty stretch of corridor, she looked down at her hands. Doctor Hathaway's regeneration process had truly turned back the clock. The fingers that she wiggled experimentally were those of a woman ten years younger. Rubbing her index finger and thumb together, she nodded with approval. As each minute passed, the pain in her digits lessened. Strange, but I just can't see him being that young.

"I know what you mean." Jason Cutter's deep voice stopped her cold.

"What?" She started when she realized he was actually standing directly in front of her. Deep blue eyes framed by silver temples showed off his broad smile. It was altogether too easy to overlook the fact that she was a full inch taller than he was.

"It's impressive, isn't it?" Cutter nodded, pointing at his eyes. His craggy features contrasted starkly with the tight skin that now covered her fingers. Lowering her hand, Doris flashed a tiny smile of embarrassment that was gone in an instant.

"From green to blue. Very good. That's going to be very popular when it becomes commercially available."

"Can you believe it? They did this before breakfast." Jason rubbed at his eyes experimentally, as if he expected the new color to come off in his hand. "Adkins told me that this hade of blue is calibrated to be 'emotively appealing' I don't pretend to understand it all. Griff kept going on about the--"

"I don't care what Griff thinks. They look good on you. All you need now is some blond hair, and you're in business."

He gave Doris an appraising look. Her long blond hair framed very serious blue eyes. Shaking his head, he motioned for her to follow him down the hall.

"They're working off a profile matrix. Everything about this guy will be made to order. All the best features. Add the mental to the physical and we've got ourselves a fearless package that won't stop. No matter what."

Doris nodded as a pair of medical technicians passed by. "Do they have a name for him, yet?"

"Preston Duquesne Fisk. You can read the background profile off the secured network. Griff's best work, and I mean that. He's got agents in the field now, seeding documents and hacking relevant databases. Give it two years, and Mr. Fisk will be as real as anyone else."

"Parents? Relatives?" Doris asked as they turned a corner.

"The Founders are dredging up some of their old contacts to act as people from his past. Naturally, his parents died in accident of some kind. I'm thinking car crash, but Griff leaning towards a house fire. Fewer loose ends."

Talking about the personality profile as if it were an actual person was hard for Doris. "Doctor Adkins assured me that the deprogramming would only be hard if you stayed under for more than--"

Jason stopped to console her. "It's okay, Really. I know the risks. Trust me. This guy is gonna be so slick that Phase One of the plan will go down smooth as silk. It'll be like taking a ten year nap. And it's not like I don't get anything out of the deal. A new face, and a new body." Patting the slight paunch that rode up over his belt, Jason grinned broadly.

"I'm glad you are so confident. It's already too late to turn back now."

"Yeah. That's what I wanted to talk to you about." He led the way deeper into the medical unit. Doris followed at his side as they passed a trio of lab technicians busy with a stack of computers. "I understand that Harry is still not buying in to my disappearance. What happened to the body that he was supposed to find?"" Jason brushed at the sleeve of his shirt as he walked.

"The NSA got to it before he did. They had more than enough time to test the DNA and cremate. They're going along with the 'Cutter is dead' line only because they want to. As long as you stay gone, they could care less. Which is more than we can say for Harry," she explained as they waited for a trio of men in white lab coats to pass.

"Harry's not on profile. Again. I begin to see what Montague meant about him. It's a good thing we didn't try to bring him in. Damn, but I wish we had some kind of bone to throw him. We only need to slow him down for a few weeks. After that, my trail will be so cold that not even he will stick with it." Jason had known that his old friend would not let his alleged disappearance go without a full accounting.

"There is another problem. Your daughter. She's being a real handful." Doris couldn't help but admire the teenager's pluck. Angel Cutter was taking her father's "mission-related loss" as a personal challenge.

"Yeah," Jason snorted while flashing his mag-card I.D. to get them past a check point. "I can just imagine how that's playing out. She's a lot like her mother. Every time they told her that I was gone, Sophie made a joke out of it because I always came back. Angel once told me that I was way cooler than that spy-guy they make all those movies about."

"No arguments here," Doris kidded.

"Watch her for me, will you Doris? She's egging him on. Harry wants to find me, and so does she. They are their own support group. I regret having to lie to my own kid, but it had to be done. If I hadn't gone out like this, there's no telling what my old bosses would have arranged for me. This way, it's clean. You know?"

Doris did know. Her introduction in to the world of espionage had been messy. Parents and friends alike had to be convinced that she was dead. It was the only way to shield them from her very dangerous line of work.

"I can't afford to be seen with her. None of us can. The break was clean, and it needs to stay that way." He paused. "Have we made contacts in Social Services yet?" He became decisive as he walked.

"No. We can't do that kind of recruiting until we get the Fisk persona in place. What have you got in mind?"

Cutter paused to tap a six-digit security code in to a secured door. "Try this. Get somebody to hack their system. Send a letter to the house addressed to me. Angel is bound to 'intercept' it. The Federal government is pushing the adoption thing a lot harder these days."

"Ah," Doris nodded with a gleam in her eye as she followed him in to the room. "The letter implies that Angel will be sent to a foster home. She goes to Harry, whom she knows and trusts." Even as he elaborated, Doris found herself watching Jason's every move with considerable interest. He shut the door behind her.

"Exactly. My will makes Harry the executor, and it authorizes him, as godfather to Angel, to adopt her. He will feel threatened by 'the state'. I know Harry. He'll sidetrack for at least a week to deal with this."

"Is that going to be enough time?" Doris felt at ease as she admitted her concern. "He's got Keats and Pickering in his back pocket, you know. Those two have followed colder trails than yours. I'd feel better if we weren't relying on a fifteen-year-old   "

"She's sixteen now," Cutter interrupted with fatherly pride.

"You get my point," Doris countered, unable to deny Jason's.

"Pickering's a computer nozzle. Keats worked with us twice, and as much as Harry talks him up, I'm not impressed. No, scratch that. He's good, but sometimes he doesn't know what he's looking for. Harry is the brains of their operation. Fool Harry, and you fool them. Eventually, he will figure out that the NSA 'buried' me. Then, he'll go back to his regularly scheduled life. Angel gains a new father figure, and we get the week we need."

"Do I handle this personally?" Doris couldn't help the impulse to cut Griff out of the loop.

"Work it out with Griff. Let him handle the letter and any other records that have to be manipulated. He's got the touch for that sort of thing. No reason you should bother with it."

"Where does that leave me?" Doris knew better, but couldn't resist asking.

"Whether he knows it or not, Harry might need some backup. The NSA is patient. They will keep looking for my personal files until they are certain there are none. When they don't find 'em, they might come looking for Angel."

Doris understood. Jason and many of his confederates did not trust computers. Keeping sensitive information in off-site caches was common. The practice was as old as the profession itself.

"We'll handle it."

Cooperating with Griff had always been hard. She was amazed that, even now, Cutter could still find ways to make them work together.

"You, I trust. I'm just a little thrown over this election. How did we miss that?" he said with a meaningful glance as he deftly moved to change the subject. He reached for a remote to turn on a nearby television set. The screen came alive with WNN coverage.

"Let it go. We're good, but we're not that good. We've only been recruiting for three months. The Six-Two sims gave George W. a one-percent chance to win in Florida, and he did. Come on, now. Why did you ask to see me?"

Cutter stopped his pretend rant. Leaning against a nearby bookshelf, he vented his real concerns. "Right. You know, Fisk's not going to have the luxury of making a mistake like that. Everything he does will have to be near-perfect. If Griff and his boys are right, we've got no more than twenty years before the government promotes some sort of 'homeland security' initiative. Once that happens, it'll only take the political parties two or three years to co-opt it. The Fisk persona will be so thoroughly investigated and watched -- if we get our President in -- that if they decide to use it against us, we could be found out in short order."

Doris straightened and spoke sharply. "Stop it. Just stop it. You're scared, and so am I. It's only natural to be second-guessing everything at this point. It's all going to work out."

"I know." Cutter turned his back on her, stepping away from the shelf. Even he couldn't help talking about Fisk as he were an 'it.' "We've covered all our bases. He's going to have a small army backing him up. He can't lose. I just wish that I..." He stopped. Admitting his fear was harder than he'd imagined. Even now, Doris seemed like the most logical person to confide in. Doctors Adkins and Hathaway had been quite specific about the need for him to unburden before the transformation.

"I promise. As long as I live, nobody will hurt you or your daughter. I've never known anyone else like you. I know you can do this." The depth of his convictions and the strength of his loyalties had been scary and attractive at the same time, allowing her to enjoy his company. His very presence was empowering to her. His marriage, when it came, allowed her to avoid revealing her feelings to anyone.

"Thanks. that means a lot to me." He could feel the lump rise in his throat.

Hearing the catch in his voice, Doris was hard-pressed to stay composed. In all their years of association, Jason Cutter had never been so open with her. The implications made her uneasy. Even if he intended to let the mission consume him in one last act of foolish macho bravado, she would not allow it.

"It should." Doris hesitated as her mind raced to find a way to change the subject.

Jason reached for a long black leather trenchcoat that hung on a nearby peg. "Do me a favor. As long as you're going to make the trip to the Fountain of Youth with me, you might as well hold on to this until I get back." Holding up the coat, Jason turned slowly, offering to let her try it on. The act was enough to prevent full eye contact.

"What's that?" Doris pointed at the label inside the collar of the big coat in an effort to break free of the moment. In red thread, the initials 'J.C.' had been sewn sloppily on to the label.

"Angel gave this to me before we went to Yemen." He regarded the coat fondly as he stepped closer to wrap it around Doris, who accepted it with hesitation.

"She sewed my initials on the label so that I wouldn't lose it. All the cool spies wear black leather, or didn't you know?"

"Yes." Doris found herself accepting the long coat with nervous hands. "I think I recall hearing about that somewhere." The mention of Yemen made her stiffen. Cutter could not help but notice.

"We could have stopped the attack on that destroyer. We should have --"

Jason tried to be sympathetic. "I know." He resisted the urge to take Doris by the shoulders. "I know. We got the stand-down order straight from the White House. That's a fact that I'm not going to forget any time soon. The Middle Eastern thing is only going to get worse. The people in power know more about it that you or I ever will. If the Founders are right, our political elites are just waiting for the threat to grow large enough to help them achieve even greater power. From where I sit, it's just one more reason for us to do this."

Jason Cutter was a very self-contained man. As generous as he was known to be, Doris could not recall seeing this side of him before. The realization made her grow bold. She looked down at the floor to avoid eye contact. "I had them. I would have taken then down if you had just given the order."

"From all the way across the harbor? You sure you could have made a shot like that?" He preyed on her secret vanity in an effort to bring Doris out of her depression.

"Depending on what I have to go through to keep you out of trouble. You might not get this back." His change of tack had been clumsy, and obvious, for which she was grateful.

"I'm just going to have to take your word for that." Cutter gave her the once-over. "Doctor Adkins says that I won't remember any of it. Besides, they're supposed to jack me up by about four inches. That coat might end up too short for me."

"It's better that way." Doris put an exploratory hand in to a coat pocket. "These dusters, when they're too long, they drag on the ground and get all ratted out."

"Mm." Cutter pulled a chair over and sat.

"Yes?" Doris hid her disappointment as her fingers told her that the pocket was empty.

"I met with the..." He licked his lips, suddenly speechless.

"I'm listening." Doris eased herself onto the edge of a nearby table.

"If I'm compromised, I could be killed." He knew he was stating the obvious.

"I won't let that happen." She shook her head tersely.

"The Founders have convinced me that it might be necessary for them to pull the plug on me if I lose control of the situation, or..."

"I   " Doris bolted to her feet, nostrils flaring with outrage.

"Or, if it looks like my programming is going to fail. Now. No matter how it turns out, I want you to be the one to do it, if and only if...it has to be done."

"But..." She felt her heart sinking.

"I won't," she interjected bitterly.

"The Founders mean well. I see their point. If I need to be taken out for the sake of the mission, then so be it. I'm calling the shots, and what I say goes. However, I'm afraid that they might sacrifice me prematurely. Kinda like they were. They are getting on in years, and most of them will not live to see this thing through, even with a little help from their doctor friends. Their age may affect their judgment. These people are 'old school', and that means they won't   "

"I understand. I get it now. That's why you want me to go through with the full treatment." She blushed with obvious relief. He really did intend to come back.

"I knew you'd get it." He favored her with what could have been an admiring glance.

"I   " Doris began.

"No. Don't. Just let me have this, will you?" Cutter got to his feet.

"Yes," Doris finally managed to say after a long moment.

Jason reached out to pick up an old photo from the table near Doris. "Remember this?" The crisp black-and-white image depicted Cutter and a handful of men and women dressed in mottled camouflage. In the background, Doris could be seen cradling a long black sniper rifle. Behind all of them, on a backdrop of weeds and bushes, a pair of bulky instruments sat on black metal tripods. Doris craned her neck for a better look.

"Belgrade. Just before the Chinese embassy thing. You're not supposed to have this in here, you know?" She pointed at the photo while spearing him with accusing eyes.

"Any regrets?" he asked, offering her the photograph.

"No comment. Get rid of that." She stepped back with raised hands.

"All right." He picked up a convenient pair of scissors. "See?" he demurred, making a show of cutting up the photo. "All gone." Tossing the fragments in to a garbage can, he was careful about his pandering. Just enough to be irritating.

"The only things that are supposed to be in this room   " Doris began to look around.

"Are things that will belong to him. Well, you know. I saw the photo..."

"Is there anything else?" She slowly turned.

"Just the coat." He pointed at Doris to get her mind off the photo. She gripped the lapels the of the leather trenchcoat and pursed her lips. Glancing around the room, she took in the bookshelves which flanked a large armoire. Several tables around the room held a mixed assortment of personal possessions that had been selected to reflect the tastes and background of the man they were about to create.

Looking down at her young, pert hands, she raised one of them to the blond hair on her forehead. The image of her own face suddenly flashed in to her mind's eye. In a sudden whirl of emotion, she found herself conflicted. The strangeness of having younger hands had finally caught up with her. The stubborn hand that refused to let go of the coat lapel finally got her attention.

"Right. I..." She managed to say.

"You'd better go." He tapped at his wristwatch. "I've got to have one last look around this place to make sure that all this stuff is imprinted. Wouldn't do to have him mistrustful of his 'stuff,' would it?"

"Right." She turned to leave.

"Doris?" Jason put down the scissors and took a step towards her.

"Yes?" She found herself slowing, but not stopping as she went for the door.

"I don't know how well you're going to get along with Fisk. I'm not sure I'd like him if I met him. If you're around when they deprogram me, I'd like to get together. We could talk."

Doris nodded. Another positive sign. "I'd like that." She was careful to close the door without looking over her shoulder.

Jason waited for three heartbeats to pass before reaching in to the garbage can. He picked up a single piece of the ruined photo. It was a small fragment, just as he had planned. Taking the time to square off the image with the scissors, Jason held it in the palm of his hand. Reaching for the wallet that lay close by, Jason was not sure of his motives. Hiding the photo fragment seemed necessary and irresponsible at the same time. The impulse to save even a small piece of himself felt like the right thing to do.

Opening the wallet, he peeled back an inside layer of fabric. Working carefully, he slid the image into the hiding place. Feelings of guilt overwhelmed him as he closed the wallet and laid it down. The moment he had just shared with Doris loomed large in his mind. Looking down at the garbage can, he stared at the pieces of the photo until the lab technicians came for him.

Monday December 9, 2002
Secured Site One
Undisclosed Location
2:45 P.M. Local Time

Sitting by himself in the observation lounge, Griff rubbed his stubbled chin. Accepting what he saw through the large bay window was still difficult. In the lab, Doctor Hathaway supervised the medical technicians. They worked in near silence at a variety of computer terminals and monitoring stations. In the center of the room, shrouded in deliberate darkness, the patient remained sedated. Pacing around a separate work station, Doctor Adkins busied himself with multiple readouts. A knock at the lounge door made Griff turned his head. Doris entered the room dressed in athletic gear.

"You wanted to see me?" she stated without apparent interest as she used the towel wrapped around her neck to wipe sweat from her glistening forehead. Griff motioned for her to take a seat.

"I have news." He explained as Doris flopped in to a chair. Hathaway's process had worked as advertised. Griff looked back at the laboratory with a sigh.

"Give." Doris finished wiping sweat from her brow. Being ten years younger was a biological fact now, but it did take some getting used to.

"Harry signed the adoption papers this morning. He's even got Angel enrolled in that boarding school over by Quantico." Doris nodded as she wrapped the towel around her neck.

"Yeah. Our people have confirmed that he's going to be tapped for Homeland Security." Griff sat up to shake off his malaise. Doris shrugged.

"Don't sweat it. Keeping him out was the right thing to do."

"How can you sit there and tell me that? He almost found us!" Griff threw up his hands. Doris plucked at a small piece of fuzz on her sweatshirt. Harry Oswald really had come close to finding Jason and the other members of the conspiracy. Still, that wasn't the only thing bothering him, and she knew it.

"You're still freaked over the Trade Center thing. We're out of the business now. Deal with it. Stay on task. Nobody is more upset about the situation than I am. It never had to come to this. Jason was right. Anyone with half a brain and better than B12 clearance could have put a stop to the rise of these terror groups. It's not our fault that things have gone down this way. It's wha the people in power wanted.

The conspirators suffered from the same frustration that was running through the American intelligence community. Time and again, they and their colleagues had been prevented from unmasking or otherwise defeating the terrorist network that had succeeded in using its operatives to fly hijacked passenger planes into the World Trade Center in New York City, and the Pentagon in Washington, D.C.

"Okay. You're right. I give. I just   "

"We all 'just'. You know what he would say. " Doris found herself pulling the punch. In the privacy of her own home, she had wrestled with this very conflict.

"He'd tell us that we shouldn't be distracted. He knew this 'war on terror' would be used, in part, by the politicos to feather their own nests. It changes nothing. If I could, I'd go all the way back to Yemen and just say 'screw it' and pull the trigger, but I can't. It wouldn't change anything, even if I could."

Sunday March 2, 2003
Secured Site One
Undisclosed Location
11:45 A.M. Local Time

"Here he comes." Griff stepped back in to the conference room.

"What do you think?" Doctor Adkins asked Doris from where he sat.

"Amazing." Doris couldn't take her eyes off the closed-circuit t.v. The man now known as Fisk strode through the halls like he owned the place. Griff took his seat at the long table.

"More than amazing. He's the real deal. Everybody remember that. Jason Cutter does not exist. He never did. You got me?" The assembled group stayed silent. The enourmity of what they had done was still overpowering. Doctor Hathaway broke the tension of the moment with his customary self promotion.

"I am very pleased with the bone and skin grafts. Generating new bone to add height was really the hardest part. As you can see, the new facial structure is flawless. It's a good thing that the programming regimen kept him unconscious for the worst of it. I, for one, couldn't imagine submitting to that kind of pain."

"How much did he suffer?" Doris leaned over to ask Doctor Adkins. If her own experience was any indication, Jason would be glad to not remember any of the Fisk experience.

"You, and a few others only had ten years taken off your biological age. No other modifications were made. He, on the other hand, was rebuilt from the ground up. So to speak. " Adkins nodded in the direction of the black and white monitor. Hathaway butted in to Adkins' conversation.

"As good as it is, we must never allow him to be closely examined. A routine physical might turn up any number of the modifications. His packagin is flawless, but a first year medical student would take just one look---"

"Will you keep it down? Here he comes." Griff glared at the bellicose doctor. Adkins and Hathaway had been given enough money to start their own private clinic. For the life of the conspiracy, it would ensure proper medical support for the Fisk persona and the other members of the conspiracy. Griff took a last look around the room.

"Everyone knows the drill. Think of this meeting as a shakedown cruise. Your questions and reactions have been pre-scripted to gage his reactions. He thinks he knows us. We're old and trusted friends. He runs the show. Do not---" Griff shut up as Preston Duquesne Fisk entered the room. Checking his tie, the tall and handsome man readiated confidence.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. The finance committee went long." Sitting at the head of the table, he passed around a stack of copied pages. Doris took her copy and passed the stack on. Everyone watched Fisk with too much interest. A fact that even he seemed to notice and ignore.

"We got the land. Construction will start as soon as the permits are in. When it's up and running, the telecom company will be the perfect front. In addition to being a legitimate business that might turn a profit, we will have a fully secure installation from which to run all of our primary comms and data." Holding up a one page document, Fisk seemed genuinely pleased with himself.

Adkins gave Hathaway a smug nod. The Fisk persona was built on Jason Cutter's morale and ethical foundations. It also borrowed heavily from his persistence and ambition. Hathaway ignored the silent dig. Fisk's metal programming would be useless without superior physical attributes. Anyone could see that.

"That was fast." One of the advisors spoke on cue. Fisk reacted with what would become his customary blunt but honest way.

"We've had a few setbacks. The Founders have been vetoing a lot of my recommendations lately. Some times, I get the feeling they know something I don't. Still, this telecom thing puts us one step closer to implementation. Can we move on to the next item?" Papers shuffled as the advisors consutled agendas and crib notes.

"I've got a question about your choice of presidential candidate." One of the advisors read from an index card. Adkins and Hathaway glared at the man for such an obvious mistake. Doris and Griff looked at each other. The silent understanding passed between them. The offender would be transfered to other duties. Fisk reacted as anticipated.

"Take another look at her profile. This isn't a snap decision. Nobody else has those numbers. Her ambition index pegs the meter. If you look at the summary panel, she's a shoo-in for the Senate. If we can keep her out of trouble for ten years, her ambition and our background work will get us the White House. We spin things a little during her first term, and she does the rest for us." His confidence and magnetism enveloped the room, causing everyone to pay attention to him as if he were more important than he really was. The strength of his will came through in each word and gesture. Even Doris had to admit that he was everything they hoped he would be.

"I think we're all on board with you. It's only natural for us to have misgivings at this point. Let's just stick to the agenda, and see if we can be finished by dinner. Okay?"

Monday April 20, 2014
22,000 Ft. Over the Atlantic
3:55 P.M. EST

Snug in her seat, Doris nodded as Preston Fisk completed his explanation. Around them, the executive jet's soft interior lighting cast a surreal twilight as nearby staffers attended to their own affairs. The soft glow from holographic computer monitors lent a sense of purpose to the relaxed atmosphere.

"When Argentina defaulted on it's debts in 2004, the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund merged out of necessity. It was the only way to contain the damage. Antonio Ramirez and his people have been rebuilding economies as they fail. Along the way, he's managed to strengthen the U.N.'s position, and to write his name in the history books in very large letters."

"I understand." Doris nodded appreciatively. Fisk smiled with an affable grin that set off his big blue eyes. She had gotten used to Fisk's tendancy to lecture. Over the years, she had come to rely on it as a means of access. She hoped that by paying attention to Fisk, Jason Cutter might know, on some level, that she was paying attention to him, too. Fisk inclined his head in a small gesture of reconciliation.

"I wish I could have told you more before we left for Spain. Now that we're headed home, I didn't see any reason to hold back." Doris nodded silently. Fisk was not aware that she was fully plugged in to his world. What he knew, she knew.

"I gather that Ramirez was pleased with the advanced package you had to offer him?" Doris played her part without bitterness or complaint. Acting out her supposed lack of knowledge was the price she paid for full access.

"That, and the extra briefcase." Fisk grinned wolfishly.

"So. What comes next?" Doris was careful to radiate only casual interest.

"The national debt crisis will boil over in roughly twelve months. Maybe less. The deal we cut with Ramirez will give the impression that President Hill struggled for, and got, decent terms to settle the various debts with our overseas credtors."

"Amazing what a briefcase full of money will buy these days." Doris quipped. People and events were not what they appeared. Only the truth kept her confident and able to joke about what Fisk and his fellow conspirators had been doing for the last fourteen years.

"We're not in the clear yet. The World Bank isn't that easy to buy. Every time Ramirez performs one of his economic miralces, money always moves under the table. The negotiating teams still have to meet. All we bought was a promise to go easy on us. The media will still need a spectacle to report on, and the politicians will need something contraversial to comment on."

"What was it they used to say about bread and circuses?" Doris posed rhetorically. Fisk appreciated the indirect comparison.

"When the United Nations General Assembly voted to merge the International Monetary Fund with the World Bank, they created a whole new kind of greed. Politics and economics taken to a whole new level. It's one step closer to that one world government everyone keeps expecting." Fisk nodded as he recalled the ten year old event.

"As long as it gets us what we want, I don't mind greasing a few palms. Is there anything else we can do to stack the deck in our favor?" Nodding as she spoke, Doris raised a hand to sweep long blonde hair from her piercing blue eyes -- eyes that closely resembled Fisk's, which was no accident.

"No. Not really. It's taken us more than fourteen years to put it together. We have our president, and she's got her Congress. The only thing left to do is play the hand we built." Doris drew strength from Fisk's pragmatism. Jason's pragmatism. The urge to press Fisk about other matters helped her change the subject.

"I have heard that the Treasury Secretary is not fully on board with the plan."

"An oversight." Fisk nodded and looked away.

"I've seen it before. Secretary Brown was just what we wanted him to be. An agressive banker with a taste for money. The job changed him. Once he saw just how bad the situation was, he got religion. So to speak. We've just got to accept that and go on. With luck, the second phase of our plan will never have to be put into motion." The mention of phase two reminded Doris that the Fisk persona thrived on challenge. It was part of the glue that held him together.

"I'm still not sure that Mr. Garrison is the correct choice to lead phase two."

"Our President has workable majorities in both the House and the Senate, and she's got good popularity numbers. She can't help but stick to the script we've written for her. As for Mr. Garrison, I picked him myself. He doesn't know it yet, but he is definitely our man. Speaking of Garrison --" Doris pointed at the overhead chronometer.

"Roughly two hours. After he makes his departing speech, he will download our eraser program into their database. When we receive confirmation, our Phase Two candidates will be in the clear." Fisk's approval of the operation she had personally arranged meant more to her than she admitted to herself. She adored both parts of him.

Continuing to play the part of the pessimistic body guard, she reminded herself that they were being watched for any hint that Fisk was off profile. Jason Cutter had consented to become Fisk, but he could never truely be Fisk. Trapped below the surface, he would eventually reasert himself. Fisk's programming would unravel under the weight of an unclean conscience. The Founders knew this, and they waited for Fisk to exhibit enough dangerous behavior to warrant his termination.

There was a certain inevitability to it that Doris refused to accept. Jason had all but promised her that he would come back. He always came back. This time would be no different.

The last ten years had involved tumultuous relationships with some of the country'sleading public figures. Fisk's carefully groomed background positioned him to be a top-notch policy and election strategists. Working through his network of unseen advisors, Fisk helped many of the most notorious politicians in to high office. Over the course of a decade, he influenced the careers of more than two dozen corrupt Senators and Representatives. In 2012, he succeeded in getting 'his' president in to office. That's when the trouble started.

Fisk's programming began to fail some time after the inauguration. The burden to Jason's underlying conscience grew with each deceit. Doris began to notice small changes in Fisk's behavior that could only be attributed to Jason. She was thankful that he was not acting out now. The Spanish mission, and the flight home, were proceeding as they should. Considering the consequences, Doris was grateful for small favors.

Now that she had the Presidency, Madeline Hill didn't need him any more. During her rise to power, she and other American politicians had been strongly influenced by foreign and domestic events. Terrorism at home and abroad was now more common than ever, despite the actions of Federal officials to monitor, contain, and control. Under these circumstances, President Hill felt compelled to be rid of the only person whom she could not effectively control.

Political parties now vied for power using extreme tactics that would have been unthinkable in the previous century. Fisk and his conspirators had been capitalizing on this trend.

"Well?" Fisk Jarred Doris out of her worry.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat the question?"

"I asked you to call him at some point during his window of action. Don't harass him. Just be supportive. Can you do that?" Before she could respond, a feminine laugh intruded from the aisle.

"Sorry to interrupt." Looking up, Fisk and Doris both laid eyes on the slender figure of Jasmine, Fisk's senior administrative assistant. Smiling easily, Jasmine handed Fisk a manila folder and a fountain pen.

"What's this?" Fisk raised an eyebrow as he reached past Doris for the folder.

"More of the usual. There's a letter to your new driver, who starts tomorrow, and a few other run-of-the-mill things. And my pay raise." Jasmine's Polynesian features remained half hidden in shadow as she joked.

"I see." Fisk unscrewed the cap on the fountain pen with a thoughtful expression. His legitimate consulting business employed many of the conspirators. It was not unusual for the paperwork of one to mingle with the administration of the other.

"You're cheap at twice the price, Jaz." He grinned. Flipping through the folder, Fisk slashed out his trademark moniker on each page with a signature tab.

He looks like he's just signing without reading. Doris allowed herself to feel a surge of possessive pride. I know better. There was only one spoiler. She could not guarantee the success of his covert mission, or his safety. That's what bothers me the most. Handing the folder back to Jasmine, Fisk capped the pen and passed it over.

"I expect Madeline to be calling at any time."

"The line is already routed to your station. Enjoy." Jasmine smiled with a wave. Fisk turned his attention back to Doris as Jasmine went away.

"Enough about me and my diabolical plans. Tell me about this new driver." Adjusting the fold of his tie, Fisk wished he'd bothered to take off his suit coat before the plane took off. Doris ran her hands over the black leather trenchcoat folded in her lap.

"His credentials are good. He has no Federal connections, and he's not political. Not even registered to vote. After six years on the job, he has only had trouble with one employer, and that wasn't his fault."

"What happened?" Fisk paused to sip from a drink that rested in a nearby cup holder.

"Hostile takeover." Doris shrugged as if that were all there was. Christopher's boss wouldn't sell his share of the company, so his fellow shareholders cashed him out by having him killed. Nothing like the time-honored technique of a fake suicide.

"So what makes this new guy such the valuable commodity?" Fisk thought he already knew the answer. 'Small talk' came effortlessly when he allowed himself to be carried along by it. His deep and abiding trust of Doris helped him to relax even further.

"He demonstrates the kind of loyalty and ethics we're screening for." Doris chose her words carefully. Fisk was on the verge of uncharacteristic interest in an underling. Jason's inclusive personality made him care about anyone who worked for him, or with him. Fisk had been trained to be more distant, as befitted the sterotype on which he was based.

"Does Griff know that you hired this paragon of virtue?" Fisk cocked his head to one side with a gleam in his eye. He preferred to regard her as something more than just his personal body guard. There was something about her that had nothing to do with trust. There were moments when he could talk to her about almost anything.

"As if it matters." Doris warmed with a wolf's grin of her own.

"You just signed Christopher's confirmation letter, so now I don't care what Griff thinks." Her smile widened as she shared the inside barb with the man who meant so much to her.

"Don't drag me in to this. Some day, you two are going to be forced to make nice." Doris sank back in her seat.

"Nothing has changed on that score. Doesn't matter. We're almost done. I have never compromised your safety, and I won't start now just for the sake of offering that bureaucrat the olive branch. People like Christopher are hard to find. He's good for the mission. If his holiness doesn't like that, he can take a hike."

"Can we bring him in?" Fisk tried once more to get comfortable.

"Why should we? If your estimate holds true, we can close down some time in July. With phase one of the plan complete, you and I are out to pasture. There won't be any need to bother him with the details of our agenda." Fisk liked the sound of that.

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him." As much as he believed in the plan, Fisk knew he was being dragged down by the weight of his burdened conscience. The chance to tell the truth came along so infrequently that he relished small moments like this where only minor deception was called for.

"I'll handle him personally. He won't know any more than he has to." Trying once again to find a comfortable sitting position, Fisk did not think to question his trust in Doris. He never did. He also didn't question the fact that he seemed to know what she was thinking.

"The next two months will be a piece of cake."

Sitting back in her own chair, Doris tried hard not to scan the interior of the aircraft for hidden surveillance equipment. He had been too casual. Too relaxed and easy-going. Too much like Jason. They know. They have to know. If it was me, I'd know.

Monday April 20, 2014
Cosmopolitan Systems, Inc.
Potomac Heights, Maryland
3:56 P.M. EST

"What is this ? How do you lose a whole S.W.A.T. team?" Griff stared at the report in his hand.as he marched down the fourth floor hallway. Running nervous fingers through salt and pepper hair that had gone thin from stress, he shook hish ead in dusgust.

"The plane is ninety minutes out, and we've got Garrison one floor down giving the new Tier Five contacts a pep talk. Something about this feels wrong. Put the helicopter up and hustle Garrison out of here just as soon as he's done. I don't want Fisk travelling overland until we find out where these jokers are." Blustering at his entourage, Griff came to a sudden halt.

"Is there any chance that this is a Homeland Security thing?"

The Cabinet-level agency had initially been tasked with coordinating anti-terrorist programs run by the nation's law enforcement and intelligence gathering agencies. Formed by Presidential Order in the aftermath of terrorist attacks in 2001, the Department of Homeland Security had become a power unto itself.

When nobody responded, Griff moved on. The last fourteen years of his life had been governed by the dictates of the Fisk conspiracy. Griff no longer believed in coincidences. Now that she had the presidency, Fisk's chief employer didn't need him anymore. That, too, was part of the plan. Griff easily suppressed his turmoil. His faith in the man behind the mask remained intact.

If she knew what his real agenda was, she'd be embarrassed about trying to kill him. Pulling at his tie, Griff resisted the urge to yank on it, even as he smiled at his own joke. I suppose I should be grateful.

Stopping at the end of the hallway, he ignored the man on guard while punching his ten digit access code into a wall terminal. Hard to believe I've followed that woman through her state legislature and the Senate. Seems like forever.

"The civilian helicopter is down for repairs. You signed off on that five days ago." The speaker was clearly reluctant to bring this up. Griff huffed as they entered the secured room.

"Yeah, I remember. It was a seventy-two hour down time for upgrades. What's   "

"The parts didn't arrive on time, and the maintenance was necessary." Griff stopped next to a low-slung chair.

"If this is a coincidence, I'll eat my hat."

"You want to send up the military bird?" somebody asked hesitantly.

"Not just yet." Griff waited for the door to close behind them.

"Sit. Let's be sure that we act positively." Inside his belly, Griff's ulcer muttered pensively. Griff nodded at the dire premonition as the man next to him suffled a large stack of paper.

"I have the sim on that. Here it is. Aegis One-One. This one's just five hours old. Looks like we've got a fifty-fifty chance of mission success, assuming that we are dealing with a special weapons and tactics team. If the threat is mercenary, we lose ten percent. Intercept is going to be a problem. I can tell you that right now."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Do we have confirmation?" Griff shifted in his chair as a hand went up across the table.

"We've got solid confirmation that the tactical van and the alert crew for the city's number two S.W.A.T. are not at their assigned station." The Hispanic man explained as he passed a hald held computer around. Each member of the committee glanced at it and passed it on until it reach Griff.

"A source in the Metro Detective's unit noticed it. He called us, and I sent someone in to have a look. Pictures and everything."

"This is Kinsey's work," Another man said, admiring the photo images.

"He's patient and thorough. If he says that S.W.A.T. team is gone, then that means he looked for it before coming in to make this report." The observation underscored the limitations of Fisk's protective infrastructure. The need for discretion and camouflage had forced Griff to develop a small, but flexible, team that would canvas all of Fisk's security needs without coming to the attention of anyone he associated with. In the last year, Fisk's organization had been probed by several intelligence agencies. The intrusions were expected, and planned for. Fisk's rise to prominence as the country's most successful political strategist brought with it a whole host of disadvantages.

"Clue me in. How is this a problem?" A red haired man seated across from Griff shuffled papers in his nervous hands as he thought out loud. Pausing to rub the bridge of his nose, Griff summoned his inner calm. Lord, save me from the dragons of ignorance, or just let 'em eat me and get it over with.

"As the senior advisor and chief political strategist to this country's first female president, Preston D. Fisk isn't your usual contract protection. This wouldn't the first time somebody tried to take him out. If I have to explain the rest of it to you, then somebody screwed up when the let you in here."

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Sorry, didn't think." The man blushed and shrank back in his chair. The mistake was genuine, most likely brought on by fatigue. Fisk was returning from a three day trip to Spain, where he had quietly met with the World Bank's president to pave the way for upcoming debt negotiations. The expected attempt on Fisk's life had not come on Spanish soil. Advanced projections determined a high probability that Fisk's enemies might try to masquerade as Basque separatists. Nobody spoke for a long moment.

"We're all dead on our feet. She didn't have her people try for him in Spain. We have to assume that they'll try for him as soon as he comes back into the country. Once we have him on the ground, and back inside our safe zone, we can all get some sleep. Until then, we assume that anything and everything is a threat." President Hill was ruthless to a fault. Everyone in the secured room was brief. They knew she wanted to be rid of Fisk. The red-faced man raised both hands in submission.

"Please. I got it. My specialty is visual identification. I crunch numbers with digital enhancements. I'm sorry. I've been up for the last two days. I'll shut up now."

"Apology accepted." Griff laid his hands flat on the table surface.

"We were all hoping for some down-time once the plane landed. Our sims tell us otherwise. Let's be pros and work through this new wrinkle, okay? Next question." A serious man on Griff's left sat back in his chair.

"How do we know that S.W.A.T. isn't off at some Homeland Security round-up or something like that? Nothing we have so far indicates the D.C. P.D. is after our man." Griff nodded curtly. More than once, Fisk's protectors had prepared contingencies to battle threats that never materialized. Tonight's perceived threat could turn out to be just as false.

"You know the drill. It's our job to be paranoid so the man doesn't have to." The cliché got a few chuckles from around the table.

"The report I have here says that a search of all known law enforcement functions and ceremonies in a seven-hundred mile radius came up negative. Other searches also came up negative. There are no police emergencies going on just now that require S.W.A.T. intervention."

"Looks like Doris was right. This fits right in with her post-mission profile. Contingency files, you know? Did you want to   "

"Just getting to it." Griff raised a finger to stall further comment.

"The President has some new guy running her under-the-table stuff. Everybody here should have seen the new sims by now. In the last hour, we've got new plots. Since we can't get a lock on who the mystery brain is, we could be in trouble." He had forgotten about the real reason he had called this meeting. Cursing his own fatigue, he reached clumsily for the remote.

"In the last four months, somebody has been shadowing our assets. We have partial sightings and some extrapolated data from comm intercepts." The image on the wall monitor showed an aerial view of the District of Columbia. Griff forced himself to focus on the image before he spoke.

"I've been working on this with a handful of part-timers, and Ivan here." Each red marker you are about to see on the map indicates where we think we've seen our shadows." Griff touched a stud on the remote to bring the seemingly random pattern of red dots onto the image. "We've simmed it with all three primary threat filters, and the probability is that Madeline's new operator is working out Fisk's travel boundaries and in-house ground route plan. Add in the fact that our good President likes to make a try for Fisk every six months, and hey, she's about due." The red-haired man clasped his hands in his lap.

"I don't have any new faces in my database that would tell us who her new coordinator is."

"Our plane is eighty-five minutes out. We have people at Reagan and Dulles. If there is any real threat value to this, we need to act now. Can we cover him if we switch airports at the last minute?" The solemn faced man rifled his papers again.

"It will take us two hours to move our own tactical. We can option Logan if we move in the next five to ten, but that's only an option. Over land will also be a problem if we're being watched. We move, they move." another stern voice rumbled from across the table.

"We're heavily invested at Reagan. If we're being watched, that means our own tactical is under surveillance. He's right. We move, they move. Frankly, I don't see any point in risking a change in airports." Griff marshalled his scattering thoughts.

"Until we get a lock on the situation, we've got to be one step ahead. Anyone care to braisntorm?" Spreading his hands apart, he looked around the table.

"Check it," a slender black man reacted to the challenge.

"Your pattern is dispersed like a recon. When I was in the Navy, we used to process some of the intell from JSTARS, and the plots you have here looks like a recon job. If this is me, I'm looking for something specific. With coverage like that, I'm probably gonna be ready to jump on it when I find it." Clearing his dry throat, Griff summed it up.

"The new guy is on the ball. He, she, or they, are looking for our hidden assets. They want to know if we have tactical capability and if so, how much." Parks dipped his head.

"Yeah, and you know what that means."

"You think the President's got Homeland in her back pocket?" somebody asked. Parks shook his head.

"No way. It's taken everything she's got to co-opt the Secret Service. Homeland Security is out of her league for at least another year." Griff put down the remote and reached for a telephone handset. Keying in his six digit access code, Griff waited for the line to connect. Damn her, but she was right again.

Monday April 20, 2014
22,000 Ft. Over the Atlantic
4:00 P.M. EST

Doris blinked as the wireless phone in her coat pocket beeped.

"I was wondering when we were going to get to that." Fisk sat up, reaching for his drink. Something in the way Doris reacted to the phone's intrusion told him that it was bad news. A small voice in the back of his mind insisted that the call was from Griff. Sipping his drink, Fisk turned away from Doris as he tried deliberately to snatch the rest of his fleeting thought.

"That's not funny." Doris graced him with a stern look.

"Every time your phone rings, it means that something bad is about to happen." Fisk turned to face her. Rolling his eyes in mock terror, he settled back with a laugh.

Doris got up and moved silently to the rear of the jet as the phone continued to beep. Shrugging into the supple black leather trenchcoat, she maneuvered past shadowy figures who ignored her. Fisk's display was out of character, and she knew it. I saw it. They saw it.

Coming to a stop in the galley, she turned her back on the flight attendant who was busy preparing drinks. Flipping the halves of the slim black phone open, Doris grinned wickedly. I never could hide anything from Griff. How bad it is this time? She didn't consult with Griff, if she could help it. He wouldn't coordinate with Doris until things had reached crisis proportions. Fisk was right. When Griff did call, it was bad news.

"Shadow. The line is secure. Talk to me." Doris spoke loudly over the jet roar as she eyed the tiny green light on the lower lip of her phone.

"It's me. We've got a situation." Griff sounded tired.

"Outline it." Doris cradled the phone between her neck and shoulder as she put her hands into the deep pockets of her coat. She had seen Fisk do it a hundred times, and she took comfort in knowing that it was a mimic of her own behavior.

"A D.C. metro S.W.A.T. unit is missing. We can't account for it."

"Wasn't there a sim that dealt with that?"

"It's part of the Gemini series. You wrote it."

"The Gemini series was mine. Which permutation are you following?"" Doris closed her eyes to recall the details.

Like so many protective specialists in the modern world, Fisk's guardians used computer models to play out possible scenarios. Each sim not only helped them to develop solutions to a whole host of problems, it also pinpointed potential weakness in their own organization. As valuable as the computed results were, each sim was still limited by the intellect and creativity of its programmer.

"You can look the numbers up later. It looks like we have a hunter scenario, and we are the target."" Griff tried, and failed, to contain his irritation.

"We, meaning the Overwatch?" Doris felt her blood surge at the possibility. Fisk had made a lot of enemies over the last ten years. A play this big suggested that President Hill's minions might be getting too smart for their own good. Griff's embarrassment passed quickly as he got down to business.

"I'm looking at shadow plots right now. The sightings are marginal, but everything is in synch with an observation and surveillance profile. Somebody's watching us protect our man."

"What is the projected accuracy rating?" Doris wanted to know. She had always dreaded the possibility that someone might learn the full extent of Fisk's protective infrastructure.

"Thirty percent and change. And that's not all. I've just been told that the civilian helicopter is down for maintenance, and we only have about three minutes to option a new airport."

"Which would show our hand if they are on the ground waiting for us," Doris followed Griff's line of reasoning to it's grim conclusion.

"How do you want to play it? If we follow through like normal, we land him, limo him, and take him home. If they want to take him at the airport, they'll probably have some kind of trumped up warrant to search the plane so that they can get to him without making a scene."

Doris remained silent for a moment. The Methamphetamine Reduction Act of 2001 had suspended the police requirement for notification of search and seizure when they thought illegal drugs were involved. This legislation, combined with increased security at all the nation's major airports as a result of stepped-up terrorist attacks in the last decade, had perverted the good intentions of Congress. The media had given wide coverage to a number of unfortunate incidents in which Federal workers in charge of airport security had unjustly shot and killed panicked travellers who were alleged to be resisting arrest. Modern conspiracy theorists continued to speculate about those killings. In her mind's eye, Doris could see the deadly scenario played out. Griff may be a bureaucrat, but he does know his business.

"They meet us at the plane. We react to them---" Doris reached up to grasp the phone. Griff knew here she was headed.

"They call it a drug bust gone bad, and whack everybody. All they'd have to do is make sure that a few kilos of dope turned up in the luggage or something."

"I told you   " Doris started in. Griff bristled over the connection.

"Don't. Just don't. Let's divert to Logan. This could be nothing, but I'm gonna need time to work out the details." Griff's conservatism was too much for Doris.

"Oh, come on. There's only one way this situation could have cropped up. Madeline's new operator has been watching you and he's finally got your number." Griff shifted the phone to his other hand.

"You don't know that. We don't even know who he or she is. Besides, we may be looking at Agency involvement." The admission forced Griff's stomach ulcer to roar in agony. Created with good intentions, the Department of Homeland Security was evolving in to something other than what its founders had intended.

"Haven't we got a Keyhole window coming up?" Doris checked her watch, referring to the network of U.S.-owned spy satellites that orbited the Earth. The conspirators had tapped in to that secured system for various reasons in the past five years. Griff looked over at one of his aides, who made hand signals.

"Keyhole? Looks like eighteen minutes and then we have to wait for two and a half."

"What is the current coverage?" Doris heard Griff swear as he fumbled with the remote.

"Two of the Mark-Fourteens doing blanket coverage right now."

"One for business, one for pleasure." Griff knew what she meant.

"One for the regualr work, and one for us. Great. Just great. Okay. We go with Logan, and see what happens. If we're too clever, and there is nothing to this, we all go to bed late. If things get sticky, we shoot and schoot. I'll handle the tactical teams, you deal with Fisk as you see fit." Doris broke the connection. She snapped the phone closed and crammed it back into her coat pocket. The possibility of a firefight with a trained and experienced force sent a surge of adrenaline through her body.

Doris quickly reviewed what she new about the last three attempts on Fisk's life. Two car bombs, and one close range shooter. Not very creative. The encounters had been easily dealt with by Fisk's protectors. Investigation after the fact had uncovered circumstantial proof that somebody important had paid the would-be assassins to kill Fisk and make it look like an ccident.

Pausing to focis her thoughts, Doris closed the front of her coat and knotted the belt. Slipping her hands back into the warm pockets, she closed her eyes. The move was habitual, since she always felt better when fully wrapped in the black leather. The coat showed its age only in that it was out of style, and cut for a man. It was both shelter and keepsake, a reminder of better days and a talisman of luck for the future.

Walking back to the middle of the plane, she found an unused work station and sat down.

Monday April 20, 2014
Cosmopolitan Systems, Inc.
Potomac Heights, Maryland
4:00 P.M. EST

"I'd like to thank you all for coming. Please take a seat and we'll get started." Adjusting his tie, William Garrison looked down at the small control panel on the conference table. Touching a small key, he adjusted the room's lighting to take away some of the gloom. The phone flashed a small red light to get his attention.

"Garrison." He raised the slim receiver.

"Make it short." Griff told him.

"Right." Garrison hung up the phone. Looking up, he saw the last member of the scheduled briefing enter the room. She closed the door and walked to her seat.

"O-okay, before we get started, is there anyone who doesn't know why we are here?" The question was rhetorical, delivered only as an ice-breaker. It raised a few chuckles. Garrison touched the knot of his tie and pulled back his own chair. Sitting down, he glanced at the phone one last time.

"Mr. Fisk is still in the air, which is why I'm here. I know that everyone was expecting to hear from him, but hey, you know how it is." Smiling, Garrison could feel his confidence rising. Public speaking came naturally to him despite his outward show of hesitation.

"It has been said that all nations rise and fall. The Cold War has been over for twenty five years. New threats have emerged which should have united us. Instead, we find ourselves at the mercy of elected leaders who have divided and segregated us. They preyed on our fears in order to gain more power for themselves. It's been going on for so long that we, as a nation, have gotten used to it. It might already be too late to do anything about it, but we are obliged to try."

"What we started ten years ago, you are about to help us finish in the next twelve months." Garrison paused to scan the room in greater detail. The sixteen-person group was equally split between men and women, blacks, whites, and Asians. In the middle of the group,

"I know that Fisk would have liked to be here tonight. He would congratulated you all on making it this far. He'd thank you for your time and effort. I can't hold a candle to the man, but I hope you will accept my own thanks. I don't think any of us ever expected to get involed in something like this."

"You all know the story. After the Argentine crash of 2008, it was only a matter of time before things caught up with us." On cue, the projector flashed a new picture, showing a newspaper headline that read 'U.S. Debt Crisis Threatens World Economy'.

"When she pulls this off, it will alter the course of our destiny, but it won't change all of the dark predictions." Giving in to his urge to stand, Garrison rose from his chair and moved to stand behind it. Gripping the high leather backing, he went on.

"Settling with our foreign creditors is not going to be enough for us to clear the slate. If we really want our country to survive through the rest of this century and on into the next, we need to change the way our leaders look at the people who elected them. We need to change the way people look at politicians, too." Silently, the image behind Garrison morphed into a magazine cover that asked the question 'What Are the Politics of Patriotism?'

"We could wait for these changes, but they might never come. That's why we're giving the whole mess a nudge in the right direction." Around the room, more heads nodded. Some held more radical opinions about what needed to be done. Others felt that Fisk's plan went too far. All of then had their doubts about the outcome of the decade-long conspiracy. Garrison began ticking off a series of well-known events as corresponding images flashed behind him.

"In the last forty years, we have seen Congress move to impeach two presidents. We have seen government troops used against our citizens. We have seen fraud and tampering at all levels of the Federal elections process. We have also seen the accumulation of the world's largest and most irresponsible government debt. This says nothing about the various anti-terrorist wars we've been fighting in the last ten years. We could just wait. Our leaders might wake up in time to save us, but they might not. As I look around this room, I don't see anyone here who really thinks that this will happen." Nobody spoke. Most of these men and women had been members of Fisk's organization for not less than five years. Garrison steadied himself.

"This president and her Congress have been a long time in coming. For the last decade, our organization has given a boost to every corrupt Federal official that we've been able to reach. Without a doubt, the current administration is the most corrupt and self-serving that anyone has ever seen. All that remains is for them to play out the hand that we dealt them. They can't resist the forces that will compel them to resolve the national debt; or to make their grab for ultimate power, which we sincerely hope will fail."

Ten years of behind-the-scenes manipulation had resulted in the nation's first female president sweeping into office with solid congressional majorities in her favor. The House and Senate had been carefully groomed to be open to the issue of debt reduction so that this president could achieve the public relations coup necessary to ensure her second term.

"If we're right, this president will be unable to resist the temptation to stay in power after her Constitutionally allowed terms are up. When this happens, we will be faced with a new era of reforms or revolution." Garrison licked his lips after making the prediction. Overhead, images of the last three wars flashed by, mingled with newspaper headlines that told the tale of terrorism and conflict that had done so much damage to the world economy.

"Okay. Let's review committee assignments. We need to be done and out of here in five minutes." Touching a control on the table top, Garrison looked to his left as a series of graphics lit up the wall.

Monday April 20, 2014
21,000 Ft. Over the Atlantic
4:13 P.M. EST

Doris looked at the holographic display one more time. The display glowed with the scrolling lattice of the sim-calc. The model changed every three seconds as the program compiled and calculated each variable programmed into it. Mentally commanding the program to increase the simulation's variable range, she watched with relief as the numbers at the bottom of the screen flashed green.

"Phone. Call Griff, now." She commanded.

"Yeah?" Griff was on the line instantly.

"Do you see it?" Doris closed her eyes as she waited for Griff to review her solution to the problem. It was quick and dirty, but Doris felt she could pull it off.

"We're looking at it now." Griff paused to speak to somebody out of earshot.

"Well?" Doris was ready for an argument.

"Damn." Griff choked on his anger as he saw the background plot from her sim.

"If you've got a better idea   " Doris prodded as she reached for the disconnect button.

"I..." Griff began.

"Didn't think so. Check the margins. You've got my timetable. Better hurry." Stabbing the disconnect key, she cut all the datalinks to her work station.

"Computer, reboot, then dial this number. Unsecured line." Tapping Christopher's home phone number onto the work station's universal key pad, Doris could feel her adrenaline surge.

Long dormant job skills fed her intuition. In her mind's eye, the unseen enemy began to take shape. It's a 'he,' and he works directly for her. This has nothing to do with Homeland Security. She's a control freak and she's not fond of men in general.

Doris got to her feet as the work station complied. Despite her adversarial relationship with Griff, she gave him the credit he deserved. He is a jerk, but he isn't wrong very often. He was right about that missing S.W.A.T. team. He's right about a possible attempt on Fisk's life, I can feel it. He's wrong about agency involvement. I can feel that, too. Two out of three.