He kissed her again and left, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him. He went straight to his home office and placed the envelope by his desk phone. Then took his briefcase and car keys and left.
In his DCBI office, on the 6th floor, Robert watched the early morning sky and recapped the day’s agenda. First, he would sign off on the offshore software, marking the end of this contract. Then he would release the payment to the Indian offshoring company and send them the confirmation. The Agency had insisted this step had to be taken; there was no way around it. The thought of paying them still made him very angry, considering everything they had done. But it just had to be done, so he would do it. Then he would swap the Indian software received by FTP from ERamSys with the one Louie Blake had sent him on a DVD. Very easy. He’d load the DVD onto the lab’s machine and transfer the software onto an encrypted hard disc, which he would then send to InfraTech using the NSA appointed courier. A senior NSA agent was scheduled to pick up the encrypted HDD and then head out to Utah where he would take things over. He would replace all employees with NSA agents for the few days remaining and ensure all hardware was clean. Everything made sense and everything was doable. He could be done with all this by lunch.
Robert picked up his office phone and dialed an internal extension.
“Eddie Campbell,” a man answered in seconds.
“Eddie? Robert Wilton. Eddie, I think you should cancel your afternoon agenda and see me right after lunch. This is important.”
...91
...Wednesday, September 21, 10:09AM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)
...Capitol Skyline Hotel
...Washington, DC
Warren Helms liked open views and elevated vantage points. They made him feel in control. His room overlooked the hotel pool, and the distant noises of children laughing and splashing were barely noticeable from his top floor room.
He was irritated this morning, bothered by his inability to deliver on his task, which had never happened before. He had been given a month to bring Doug Krassner’s ratings lower than Bobby Johnson’s. A month and a half later, he had to admit he had failed.
This acknowledgement bruised his ego and put a blemish on his spotless record of achievement as a private contractor. In his line of business, failure was not an option. Failure could be lethal. His clients weren’t exactly forgiving, understanding people. But he was much better at eliminating unwanted people than he was at discrediting them in the eyes of the public; that was a fact. He was not a PR specialist; he was a contractor. The best one there was. He should be allowed to do his job, the job he was good at.
Helms grabbed his encrypted cell phone and called his client. It was early afternoon in Greece; the Russian should be awake, his hangover well dissipated by now.
“Yes?” The familiar raspy voice picked up.
“This is Helms.”
“Yes . . . The man who will not give me results, right? The man who is putting our entire operation at risk, da?”
“Sir, I recommend a different approach. This one is not working. No matter what I try, he manages to fix it.” He swallowed hard and continued. “Sir, this is not what I do, not what I’m good at. Let’s try a different approach, one that would have the guaranteed results you’re looking for. It’s time he stops being a problem. There’s only a month and a half left.”
The Russian was silent. Not a good sign. Finally, he spoke. “Yes, not much time left, that is true. OK, do it, but be very careful. He cannot be a martyr, or linked to us in any way. No Russian connection. No Islamic connection, either. The circumstances must be above any suspicion. It needs to be clean, natural, and in the public’s eye. Can you do that?”
“Absolutely,” Helms answered, relieved.
“Good. Make sure it happens just a few days before Election Day, you understand? I do not want them to have time to regroup. And do not fail me again.”
“I won’t.”
“You better not,” the Russian answered and hung up.
It was going to be challenging. It wasn’t that easy to get anywhere near the presidential candidates, when their Secret Service detail was already in place watching their every move. A precisely timed heart attack, his signature hit, would work best for the annoying Mr. Krassner. It required unrestricted access to what his target ingested,