Triangle Of Terror. Don Pendleton

this is what we tell the Russians to make it look like we’re honoring the treaty to ban biochem weapons. Number eight plant, Wolfe-Binder, just popped up on the radar screen. This classified plant in New Orleans is purported to be an armed camp, guys in HAZMAT suits, clandestine flights leaving in the middle of the night, loaded down with more, I suspect, than just agricultural pesticide, though that’s the claim as to what they’re processing. I’m sure you know insecticide is a main precursor for nerve gas.”

      “Among nonflammable retardants and other precursors, but I don’t have the recipe at my fingertips,” Rubin said, sounding bored.

      Brolinsky ignored the brush-off. “How do I know all this about Wolfe-Binder, you ask? The plant’s assistant manager became suspicious when men in black fatigues wouldn’t allow a manifest or any record of these midnight runs to be recorded. So he does his civic duty, puts in a call to the FBI. FBI and Justice Department agents go down there to take a look, but the whistle-blower has disappeared. The story they get is the man was a drunk, had a habit of disappearing for days, or calling in sick. Utter bullshit, since anyone with common sense would have fired him in the first place.” Brolinsky paused, saw the Pink Man’s dark eyes flicker.

      “Never mind I think the guy was dumped in the bayou as gator bait, the plant was a one-eighty picture of what the FBI was told. No armed guards. No spacesuits. Every drum and vat that was tested turned out to be pesticide and other industrial chemicals. Spotless as a saint. However, most of the manifests indicated the bulk of the pesticide was being flown to Brasilia. When questioned, the manager claimed it had something to do with the recent foreign aid package to Brazil that Congress passed.”

      “Once more…”

      “Your Special Countermeasure Task Force is an off-the-record supersecret service for the President. Which puts them, in my opinion, too close to the President, with too much power and authority in the White House,” Brolinsky said.

      “They—we—are more than that.”

      “Right. You plan foreign itineraries, map out logistics for overseas jaunts, specifically Mideast countries, you handle threats to the President directly. You handle foreign agendas for the VP, diplomats, cabinet members, supposedly plugging up security holes against assassinations, suicide bombers and such.” Brolinsky smiled, shook his head.

      “How did you do it? How did you manage to get the President to approve of what is essentially an unofficial secret government enforcement, maybe even a black ops arm right inside the White House? I can only imagine the bitter rivalries it’s created. The Secret Service for one thing, taking a back seat, step and fetch it for you people. I can only picture the scandal that would threaten to topple the administration if news of this reached the public.”

      “Not your concern. What is your point with all this conspiracy conjecture?”

      Brolinsky looked Rubin dead in the eye. “I can’t prove it, not yet, but I suspect the leaks came from someone in the SCTF.”

      There was a pause, then Rubin said, “Are you done?”

      “You have the floor.”

      “We know where the leaks were coming from. If I tell you—”

      “You’ll have to shoot me?”

      “Nothing quite so melodramatic.”

      Why wasn’t he so sure about that? Brolinsky wondered. He tensed as Rubin’s hand disappeared beneath the table. The Pink Man dug into his coat pocket, then flipped three one-hundred-dollar bills on the table. Tribute for the bartender’s accommodation confirmed, Brolinsky figured the parking garage attendant was treated to the same favor. What the hell was going on?

      Rubin slid out of the booth. “Let’s finish this talk in your vehicle. Unless you don’t think you can handle the truth. In that case, stay and enjoy the show.”

      Brolinsky hesitated, watching as Rubin walked away, then rose to follow. He fixed his stare on Rubin’s back, warning bells clanging in his head as he climbed the steps. Suddenly the Pink Man didn’t want to talk in public? In his profession, paranoia did not destroy, he thought, as he cut the gap, out the door, falling in lockstep beside the Pink Man as they navigated their course through the sparse sidewalk crowd. He was tempted to look over his shoulder, check every passing face for any sign of a threat, but didn’t want to tip Rubin he was on edge, ready to go for broke.

      “Perhaps I state the obvious, but we live in very strange, dangerous and volatile times, my friend,” Rubin said, rounding the corner, picking up his march a notch as they closed on the garage.

      “The worst, however, is on the horizon. And my task force knows this for a fact. We have garnered the complete trust of the President because we have delivered intelligence that has saved untold innocent lives, even prevented a third world war. Like the late Storm Trackers, we search out and predict the future, know what the opposition is going to do before they do. For example, take Pakistan. Say militants or sympathizers in the military take—or seize—control of the country, armed thus with the keys and access codes to their nuclear arsenal. Meaning they have the ultimate suicide bomber in charge. Could it happen? Well, my friend, we brought intelligence to the Oval Office that had already thwarted just such a palace coup, but who is to say there won’t be another attempt? So, you see, certain, uh, extreme measures were necessary in order to insure that the President stays breathing and the world remains safe from nuclear blackmail.

      “The Man, for your information, sees us as his personal intelligence gurus, what some tabloid press hound, were one to catch a whiff, might call necromancers, seers. Bottom line, we deliver the goods. The Man took note of our astonishing successes where others could not perform. It took some long hours, brainstorming about the creation of SCTF, but he gave the nod.”

      Brolinsky saw the attendant was gone as they hit the mouth of the garage. The gate was down on both sides. Rubin crouched and slipped to the other side. Brolinsky did the same, the Pink Man informing him the pass he received earlier would let him out.

      In silence, Brolinsky strained his ears for any sound that might alert him to a waiting presence, as he descended beside Rubin into the gloomy bowels. Feeling the hackles rise on the back of his neck, he spotted his SUV, parked against the far wall, no other vehicles in sight.

      “His name was Jason Lind,” Rubin suddenly said. “His official title was chief deputy of counter intelligence. CIA. He was always present at the President’s daily national security briefs. Turns out he had a nasty little hobby involving Internet porn, creating his own lurid Websites—I’ll skip the particulars. Anyway, he was found in his home about an hour ago. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, a suicide note stating he was behind the leaks. It’s been verified.”

      How convenient, Brolinsky thought, there seemed to be an epidemic of suicide lately by those who counted the most, taking any dark truths with them to the beyond.

      “There you have it,” Rubin said.

      Sensing a presence lurking in the garage, thinking he spotted a shadow darting behind a pillar to his nine, Brolinsky began scouring his flanks, then glimpsed Rubin tug on a pair of black gloves. His heart was racing to meteoric levels.

      And then it happened.

      The Glock .45 looked almost comical in the Pink Man’s hand, but the dark eyes, alive with murderous intent, froze Brolinsky. In the next instant he recognized the bittersweet quasi-gasoline stink swarming his nose, but the arm was locked around his neck, the rag smothering his face before he could react. It was strange, he thought, the fumes swelling his brain, the lights fading. The Marine, the plant whistle-blower and Jason Lind flashed through his mind. He found himself wishing he could tell the Pink Man somehow, some way the last bitter laugh would land on his head. He had contacted a former mission controller at the NSA and clued her in to his suspicions. That hopeful thought trailed to a fading anger and sorrow that he would never again see his family as he succumbed to warm swaddling blackness.

      3

      Major