THE EIGHTH PHYSICAL LAW

COVERT WRITERS TAKEDOWN

Copyright 1991
Joseph M. Bergeron

ISBN 978-1-257-09487-5




THE UNIVERSAL LAWS


Although it may not always appear so, there is order in our universe. Every plant, animal, mineral, human, or any other entity that ever was, or ever will be, is not only governed by this order, but is also a part of it.
The universal order, through the science of metaphysics, is revealed to us in a set of Laws or Axioms. They are known as The Fundamental Truths. These forty Laws are guidelines for life, principles upon which we can rely to base our decisions causing ourselves to be moved, to feel, and to be felt.
While the power in the Laws has been demonstrated throughout time, their explanations and interpretations have only been the subject of intense work for the past two thousand years. These studies have come to us from the minds of Plato, Aristotle, Lao Tzu and others in the fields of physics, metaphysics and philosophy.
The Universal Laws are studied by metaphysicians in our nation’s colleges and universities. The metaphysician is an analyst, a strategic planner and thinker who uses the Laws to complete practical applications from their meaning.
The Metaphysician practices TAO XIA, the martial art of the mind.


TAO XIA
The Universal Physical Laws

1. Nothing can happen until something else first happens.
1.a. Courtney’s Corollary:
Nothing will happen until you cause something else to happen.

2. Unbalanced energies are unstable, and their time as such will pass;
“The Leverage Effect.”

3. Everything is made of Energy, Matter, Space and Time.
“The Differentiation Principle.”

4. Nature keeps nothing to itself. It gives everything away. By constantly evolving, it becomes constant. By constantly renewing itself, nature endures. You cannot step into the same river twice.

5. In the presence of conflict, it is the responsibility of the most powerful individual to avoid conflict.

6. Nothing escapes the laws of nature, and nothing escapes nature’s notice and reaction.

7. Neutralize extremes by using an opposite force against them.

8. Never push anything to an extreme state, not even positive achievement. When things are too full, they become useless.

9. When action is necessary, the most subtle effect will gain the most effective result.

10. The use of force enhances power only to the extent that it is regrettable.

11. Everything will cycle towards its opposite. Opposites exist in every phenomena.

12. What one believes, one becomes, the more of a “mind” one has to believe with, the more profound the transformation.

13. Velocity can only be measured in relation to another object.

14. Truth about reality neither comes from observation, nor experiment, but from observation tempered with instinct and experience.

15. The less obvious you make your advantage, the more obvious your power becomes.

16. A void will always be filled by its nearest source.

17. Nothing is static in nature.

18. Time is elastic, and rapid motion slows it. “The Twins Effect.”

19. The quantity of any event can never substitute for the quality of a single event.

20. Intuitive calmness will make complex events appear simple.

21. Fear can be reduced to lack of preparation.

22. Every show of strength suggests an insecurity.

23. High velocity yields low pressure, low velocity yields high pressure.

24. Any amount of prosperity depends on twice the amount of generosity.

25. Power is achieved through cooperation, no well-built house is well-built by one man.

26. The accumulation of defenses will not protect an entity, but rather will diminish its worth.

27. Offer an enemy as many opportunities as possible to make self defeating errors.

28. Advance like wind, leave like lightning.

29. You become invincible in defense, but victorious only in offense.

30. To make anything move, create a situation to which it must conform.

31. Even the ocean is but many drops. Everything is built, or dismantled piece by piece.

32. No one will make more mistakes than the man who negates intuition and acts only on reflection.

33. While we search for knowledge in books, we find it in things themselves through the empirical and axiomatic orders.

34. In order to simplify, eliminate the unnecessary, and the necessary is revealed.

35. If you intend to walk, then walk. If you intend to sit, then sit. Do not wobble.

36. In the mind of the beginner, there are many possibilities. In the mind of the expert, there are few.

37. The innocent and vulnerable mind is the mind that sees without distortion.

38. To understand reality, concentrate more on how something happened, and less on what happened.

39. We too often seek from without us the wonders of the universe within us.

40. Know you are ignorant, and you know much.


Introduction

THE EIGHTH PHYSICAL LAW

The written word is the greatest, and strongest form of communication ever devised. It always will be. While dynamic orators in all their eloquence can spellbind an audience during the course of their deliveries, the impression left by the spoken word is usually one of the speaker’s personality more than their message, and the image of the personality soon fades as our proximity to the speaker becomes greater and greater.
Writing exists forever. It may be read, reviewed, and reread for further observation. The author as an artist, has a capacity far beyond the speaker that, when used properly, can cause an outpouring of emotions in thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, and even millions of people The writer’s asset is not diction, nor presence, but rather time. The best writing in its final form has been surgically manipulated many times. The great writers will draft, edit, and re-edit until a final communication represents their deepest feelings. Great and insightful writings are not spontaneous, they are rather reflections of thought processes spanning days, months, and sometime years.
The ability to form words if inspiration, love, terror, and all other feelings, gives an author a channel of power unequaled by any size armaments or divisions of forces. The author becomes the former of opinion, and can be a driving force behind revolution, rebellion, war, or peace and tranquility. A good writer can escalate conflict, move governments, and turn human emotion to fit his desire.
Isn’t it possible then, that the clandestine manipulation of our population could be a routine activity for a secret organization of writers across the United States?
Isn’t it conceivable that much of what we read in our newspapers is really what the leaders of an organization code named ‘Yankee Echo’ want us to read?
Could it be that many of our opinions are based on stories developed by this group to fit the requirements of greater initiatives they’ve fabricated?
In the United States, the team of writers that belonged to Yankee Echo would be a source of extreme power. While our government exists under a constitution, our leaders are swayed by public constituencies, and their opinions and feelings. Given access to the printed communication channels in the U.S., Yankee Echo writers would have tremendous indirect leverage with public officials, and would have similar controls on the economic, financial, production, and management functions of the nation. In addition, they could control the emotional banks of millions through these same channels.
In the U.S., the government tries to control any domination of print media with antitrust laws interpreted by U.S. District Court Judges. These laws serve a vital function in protecting us from any one owner’s opinion; but forming public opinion through the printed media in the U.S. could remain well controlled by a group of writers inside these institutions.
For the purpose of this particular communication, I suppose it would be wise to assume this is a fantasy - a piece of fiction. This may only be a story about what could be happening, or, is it really happening every day?
Wasn’t it Lord Byron, a great writer and manipulator himself who told us, that truth is stranger than fiction?


Prologue

The Sixth Physical Law
Friday, May 19, 9:10 p.m.

Michael Courtney sat patiently, but apprehensively, alone in his small, cramped office on Boston College’s north campus. He’d been waiting for a call from his superior, not the Dean of Academics, but another man who had more influence in his life.

‘Something’s wrong’ the teacher of physical laws thought to himself. ‘He should have called an hour ago.’
It had been an exhausting week, and unknown to him this evening, it wasn’t over yet. It would get worse before it got better.
Courtney reached across his desk to retrieve the stack of accumulating WALL STREET JOURNALS sitting in exactly the same spot for the last five days. Grading his students’ final exams right now would take more energy than he had. It also wouldn’t be fair to them - and besides, his intuition was telling him Robert would be calling shortly. Scanning the papers, his clear, wide, green eyes noticed the front page article on the most recent, in fact, today’s issue. COMMERCE SECRETARY TO VISIT CUBA ON TRADE. The by-line hadn’t escaped his notice, Thomas Griffin, Staff Writer, a good, solid kid he thought, young and eager to please. But he also wondered how a staff writer got to get an interview with the United States Secretary of Commerce. That was usually reserved for higher ups.

His sharp Irish heritage and choir boy round face were an expression of coolness and calmness when it happened. Almost simultaneously as his phone began ringing, the window to his right exploded in a million pieces of flying debris.

A lead projectile the size of the tip of his index finger crossing his right shoulder created a burning sensation which made him instinctively dive to the floor. Crawling to the wall where the room’s light switch was located, a glass-covered telephone continued ringing as he reached for the switch. In one motion he flipped off and dove to the floor again.
The telephone’s sound continued to pierce the darkness while moonlight beaming through his now empty window reflected off the myriad pieces of glass scattered everywhere.
With a deliberate effort, the thirty two year old moved his five foot eight inch muscular frame along the floor to his desk, and picked up the receiver.
“Yes!” His voice was understandably urgent.
“Michael, the phone must have rung fifteen times.” His superior was sitting at his own desk in a Washington D.C office building.
“Hang on, Robert. I’m going to put it on the floor, I have a problem. Don’t hang up.”
As quickly as he could, withdrawing a set of keys from his left pants pocket, he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. Leaving the keys in the lock, and reaching to the back of the drawer, he retrieved a small electronic black encoding device used to scramble telephone conversations. He put it in his right pocket, rolled toward the wall that used to contain his window and reviewed the darkness outside.
‘He’s gone.’ The thought caused little relief.
Reaching with his left hand to his right shoulder, he could feel his own warm blood. He couldn’t tell how badly he’d been wounded, but he did notice he still had full use of his right arm and hand.
Returning to the phone laying on the aged oak floor, now strewn with glass particles, he pulled the encoding device from his pants and placed it against the receiver.
“Robert, someone just tried to blow my head off. What the hell’s going on?”
“Damn….we’ve been compromised Michael.”
“Yankee Echo has a leak; we think it’s in Miami. St Croix’s leaving in twenty minutes to check it out. I was calling to tell you to get out, and to take Kathleen with you. Are you alright?”
“Shit, no. Yes! What? Kay!” He pushed his back against his desk.
“No one knows she’s involved except us; what are you talking about?” His mind raced: he’d thought she was going out to celebrate with the rest of the laws class.
“Get her Michael, I’ll have two passes waiting at Eastern’s ticket counter in Logan for a midnight flight to D. C.. I’ll meet you at Dulles, and bring you both in while we resolve this.”
“Are you kidding? I’m laying here with a room full of glass and a bloody shoulder. I’ll drive down with her as soon as I can find her. I don’t even know where she is.” He squinted.
“ OK, just be careful. I’ll have someone over there in thirty minutes to clean up your office and bring your work back to Washington.”
“Robert, we have a lot to talk about if we’ve been compromised. I need to know what’s going on. How can you get someone here in thirty minutes? How do you know someone isn’t trying to kill me?”
“Trust me - just leave.”
“I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”
The teacher winced, replacing the receiver.

‘Yankee Echo compromised? Everyone’s hand picked. Did someone discover us? We’d be hard to infiltrate the way we’re set up. Would someone have turned? Who?…..it’s happening.’
Retrieving the phone again, and placing the encoding device against the handle, he dialed her number, planning to leave a message.
After three rings, he heard the voice of someone he hadn’t expected to be home.
“Hello”, Kathleen McKenzie answered in a clear, even voice.
“Kay, are you alright? I thought you might be out.”
“Yes…Michael? What’s the matter? She could feel his tone.
“Listen to me. Turn your lights off. Lock your door, and stay away from your windows.” Although he tried not to be frightening, it was easy for her to sense his urgency. “Please Kay, do what I’m asking. I’m coming over. You’d better pack some clothes, we’re going to D.C.”
“What are you talking about Michael, what’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you on the way.”

Before the phone went dead on her end, he clearly heard her scream.
“MICHAEL!”



Part I

Discovery

Chapter 1
Friday, May 19, 9:22 p.m.

1991

The First Physical Law
Nothing Can Happen
Until Something Else First Happens

The sound of breaking glass can be heard almost as distinctly over the telephone as it can be heard if you’re standing fifteen feet from a shattering window pane.
Sitting with a disconnected phone on the other end of his line, he felt the helplessness of someone without recourse, and the anger of a man in torment.
Kay was in trouble. She was also six miles North and West of him in a Waltham condominium. His instincts told him to run, fly to her side, be there, protect her, pull her away from this problem, but his training prevailed.
He secured another outbound line. Facing the door for what would be a hurried exit, the time span of two short rings caused by his three digits of pressure seemed to be an eternity.
“Newton, Sergeant Wilkes.” The voice came from two miles to his West.
“Sergeant, my name is Michael Courtney, I’m a teacher at B.C.. I was just speaking to…a friend in Waltham when her phone went dead. I thought I heard glass shattering just before she was cut off, so I think she may have a problem at her place. Could you ask Waltham to get someone to respond to her address? She lives in the Pine Glen condominium project,
unit 6C.”
His tone expressed desperation.
“What was your name again, sir?” The by-the-book sergeant’s pen created scribblings to be later translated into his log book.
“Courtney, Michael Courtney.”
“OK, I’ll contact Waltham and get some response units over right away - you said it was 6C in Pine Glen, right?”
“Yes.”
Sergeant Daniel Wilkes, a former 82nd Airborne communications specialist in Vietnam understood desperation. Twenty six months of calling in air strikes from Kontum to dong Hoi had developed a cool mental attitude in the former paratrooper allowing him to make quick evaluations while securing the assignment of appropriate resources to a situation.
Within two minutes, three Waltham patrol units had wheeled their Ford Crown Victorias into violent turns - the smoking Michelin ZR’s beneath them screeching against the lateral force of applied acceleration. Officers touched the nine-millimeter Colts at their sides and adjusted their seat belts for a short ride to an encounter now forming in their minds.
He didn’t hear the phone hit the desk blotter when he dropped the
no-longer useful too from his hand, nor did he feel the pain in his bleeding right shoulder. Instead, both his vision, and sense of touch became acutely defined. He could feel the fingers of his right hand pulling the set of keys from an unlocked drawer, and he chose to ignore the release of the tumblers in the very secure Schlage lock.
He could feel his left hand putting an encoding device into his pant’s pocket, but he didn’t hear his own footsteps carrying him toward the door while broken glass cracked beneath his feet.
Running, Courtney laid out a mental road map with alternative routes to a condominium unit that seemed very far away right now.
'Nine twenty-five, too much traffic on Waverly - could be problems on the Pike too - something’s in the Garden tonight - I’ll take Commonwealth to 95 - five, maybe six traffic lights - should be able to run two and make the rest.’
Taking three stairs at a time, he caught sight of his black, Jeep Cherokee through the glass wire mesh doors on the landing, but he didn’t hear them open or close.
Nor were they closed by the time the 4.0 liter Power Trac roared to life. He did hear the engine - wanting to hear that sound, but he didn’t pick up the sound of his own heart pounding as an image of Kathleen McKenzie entered his mind.
Her long-lashed, round, moist, blue green eyes could look through and behind his, but it wasn’t just her beauty that attracted him.
She was an anomaly, a deviation from the rule - having the capability to virtually at one and the same time use both hemispheres of her brain. An evolved thinker, she belonged to a group of human beings comprising less than two percent of the world’s population. It was something she never thought about, and Courtney could never forget. She was his student, now his lover, and the daughter of the man he worked for.
Driving on, he recalled the conversation they’d had at the college just prior to Thanksgiving break.
“Pardon me?” She’d never heard the term before.
“I want you to know you’re an evolved thinker. You can use both sides of your brain, almost simultaneously - it’s genetic, but doesn’t necessarily appear in every generation. You inherited this ability from one of your ancestors.”
His then student responded quizzically. “Mister Courtney, I don’t understand,”
“If you have a few minutes, I’ll explain it to you.”
Although he’d only known her for a few weeks, he thought her to be a very sensitive individual - a girl - woman - who wouldn’t take readily to being told either what, or who she was.
“I’m not leaving for home until six - I have some time.”
He hit the first light on Commonwealth green.
‘That’s one - maybe I’ll get lucky.’
The Jeep continued to propel the analyst toward a five-foot, seven inch ash blond with light wispy bangs who usually wore her hair bobbed to just above her shoulders. Her simple, straight nose, without flair ended just above lips which were not unusual until she smiled revealing behind them a set of perfect white teeth.
“Kathleen…” he continued, his thoughts on a conversation held six month ago - not wanting to think about the possibilities he could find confronting him within the next twenty minutes.
“…people think in two ways - deductively, or inductively, and I’ll explain those terms to you. The problem is - ninety eight percent of us can’t do both at the same time. You happen to be someone who can think both ways - almost at the same time. Deductive thinking is a process used on the left side of the brain - it’s logical and analytical. Most everyone in the Western hemisphere thinks with the left side of their brain almost all the time. This type of thinking is called linear, it involves using words and numbers to explain conclusions that already exist. It’s sort of like the vanilla ice cream of thought, something has either happened, or we know the result of something that’s going to happen, and we have to respond to it. With inductive thinking, we create premises leading up to conclusions that don’t already exist. Consciously or unconsciously, most people consider inductive thinking too risky, or too hard, simply because it’s harder to create something than it is to respond to something.

Because most people are deductive thinkers, they’re usually measuring and analyzing their lives rather than creating and directing newness for themselves. Ultimately, people who think deductively all the time can only accomplish so much because they put themselves in a closed learning format. If there’s nothing existing for them to act on, in other words, some thing, or situation created by someone else, they just keep re-measuring and re-analyzing, which, over a long period of time creates a sort of mental stagnation.”
“Mister Courtney, I don’t think you…”
‘Wait - let me finish.” Her eyes remained focused on his.
She nodded.
“American culture actually teaches people to ignore their intuitive, and sometimes irrational feelings, or what we’d call gut feelings - so - these feelings get repressed, along with inductive thinking. When this happens over and over again, people lose touch with their intuitions, and any insights they might have.”

Two vehicles were waiting to cross the intersection, one a pick up truck. His light was red - theirs green. The Jeep covered one hundred feet more. The first car crossed. The pick up, second in line hadn’t moved.

“Fifty feet, c’mon buddy - what’s your move gonna be?”
It looked like a Chevy half-ton. The fog lamps across the roof line, oversized Goodyears, and front end grill spoiler all suggested one other thing - manual transmission and clutch - two mechanical actions requiring at least three seconds to complete from a standing positio

Releasing pressure from the brake pedal, Courtney pushed the Jeep’s accelerator to the floorboard - its electronic fuel injection responding, the lurch pressed his back into the bucket seat.
Speeding beneath the red light, he quickly scanned the still unmoved pick up. A teenage boy and girl were embracing, the last thing on their minds the light before them. His chest heaved as much with relief as the thought of Kay and similar embraces.
“Nine forty Eight…” he whispered to no one while noticing the LED display on his dashboard.
Courtney swung the Jeep from Commonwealth Avenue onto the I-95 northbound entrance ramp toward Waltham. Two and a half miles left to travel.
“I know you’re an evolved thinker because of the processes you use to react to, deliberate, and answer questions that require both inductive reasoning and deductive logic. In this Physical Laws class, I’ve had a chance to observe all twelve of you for about seven weeks now.”
It felt like she was looking straight into his soul.
“I suppose I should be flattered, but I don’t feel any different from anyone else. I think there’s a lot of people smarter than me in this class.”
Without losing eye contact, she released the straps of her pocketbook from her left shoulder, allowing the dark brown Italian leather bag to slide down her forearm coming to rest on the floor.
“You’ve aroused my curiosity, and I am flattered, but I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about…”
She smiled, manipulatively.
“…not even with my evolved mind.”
He spent, and she spent the next six seconds in silent eye-to-eye union - considering, contemplating, examining, reviewing one another.
They could each sense the other - both feeling an equanimity - a consciousness neither had ever before experienced.
A gentle smile crosses his face. Now wasn’t the time to continue.
His voice was soft, yet manly.
“We need more time on this - why don’t we finish up when you get back from Thanksgiving break.”
She smiled - again manipulatively.
“I’d like that.”

Nine fifty two. The Waltham exit was lit not only by street lamps, but also from the reflection of a strip plaza’s lights bouncing off the all-glass facade of the Hilton Vista International Hotel sitting on the hillside Courtney made a right hand turn at the ramp’s end, the Jeep’s stabilizer bars performing well under duress.
Climbing the hill - five hundred feet ahead to his left he could see the soft yellow glow created by lights pushing through closed drapes and curtains in the Pine Glen condominium complex. The thought of a disjointed phone connection lingered. He negotiated the entrance with a quick counterclockwise turn.
Two - no, three Waltham police cruisers were parked laterally in front of her unit, their final, skewed positions indicating a hasty egress by the officers responding.
Twenty, maybe twenty-five people stood in the parking area - randomly in pairs, arms folded, amongst the cruisers, their red and blue strobes enhancing an aura of fear.
He felt sick - ‘hang on.’
Pushing the shifting lever to the park position, he pivoted to grab the navy blue LANDS’ END jacket laying on the back seat. He’d recollected his shoulder, and he didn’t want anyone, especially a police officer, to notice.

His right arm was already through the appropriate sleeve when his left foot hit the asphalt. Closing the driver’s door, Courtney ran past the cruisers toward the door of unit 6C.
Two uniformed officers stood on the landing in front of the closed door.
“Is she OK?” The gravity of the request from the jacketed stranger was compelling.
The senior of the two spoke for the pair.
“Are you a relative?”
“No…I’m a friend - IS SHE ALL RIGHT?” His voice precise, it contained a bearing noted by both men.
“She’s pretty shook up, but she’s not physically hurt - who are you?”
“Could you please tell her Michael Courtney’s here.”
It sounded reasonable.
Retreating through the door, and carrying only a first name, officer Hale promptly returned - his interior conversation brief.
“You can go in, she’s in the…”
“Thanks.”
He crossed a small foyer. Turning to his left, pausing, he made an evaluation of the living room - of both its living and inanimate contents.
A policewoman sat with Kay on the couch, both were facing him - three other officers were in various parts of the room. He made a mental record of her unnerved appearance.
His thoughts didn’t need tattooing on his forehead, she could read them in his eyes.
“I’m alright, Michael.”
She was lying.
He saw that.
The rock thrown through Kathleen McKenzie’s window was now in the possession of Waltham police sergeant June Olson. She still couldn’t understand why three units were committed to what seemed to be such an elementary crime - but you don’t question the dispatch, you just do your job.
She’d take the rock in as evidence, write a report, and give it to the detective assigned to the case.
‘Probably just some kids out being wild,’ thought the department veteran. She finished up. McKenzie seemed alright - with her friend.
Speaking to Kay, now standing next to her teacher, her right arm through his left, the officer was informative.
“The maintenance people for the complex will be over to fix the window. My report will be at headquarters if you need it for insurance.”
Courtney addressed her.
“Officer?”
Releasing himself from Kay’s hold, he walked slowly toward the foyer, an unspoken invitation for Olson to follow. She complied.
“We’re leaving for Washington tonight. Could you have a copy of that report sent to this address?” He pulled a card from his wallet handing it to her.
“JGM Exports…do you work there?”
“I teach at B.C., but I do consulting at JGM.”
“Is that alright with you Miss McKenzie?”
She’d turned to face her.
“That’s fine.”
“OK, we’ll send a copy down.”
“Thanks, good night, officer.”
“Good night.” The policemen, and woman, left together.
Closing the door, he returned to the archway dividing the foyer and the living room. Kay, her back to him, was across the room.
“What is it Kay?”
Turning without speaking, she extended a piece of crumbled white stationery in his directio
He crossed the room to accept it.
“It was attached to the rock. The police didn’t see it.” Courtney carefully unfolded the cotton bond sheet.

WE KNOW ABOUT YANKEE ECHO
WE HAVE DEMANDS
YOU’LL BE CONTACTED

Dropping the paper on her coffee table, he folded his arms over her shoulders, her head coming to rest against him. They felt each other breathing, eyes closed, hers moist with emotion.

The First Physical Law, while seemingly very basic, is actually quite complex, and eternal.
It was a twenty-one year old Michael Courtney who had proposed its corollary to his Laws professor, Robert Wirtham, while in his Senior year at The University of Vermont. The corollary had been subsequently approved and adopted the National Collegiate Committee of Laws professors.
He’d apply it tonight.
‘The ball is in their court’ he thought.
Remaining in his embrace, she spoke quietly.
“What are you thinking?”
“I have to contact Robert. He told me Yankee Echo’s been compromised. He thinks the leak came out of Miami. Andy St. Croix is on his way there now. I don’t know how they could know you’re involved. They may have done this because of your relationship with me.”
Pushing herself slightly away from his hold, she kept hold of his forearms while speaking with more force than she’d used previously.
“Compromised? Michael, how? We have to call Dad.”
“I’m sure Robert’s taking care of that, Kay. We have to get going.”
He removed his jacket, throwing it on the chair opposite the couch, the action revealing his wound.
“Michael - your shoulder! What happened? Stay right there.”
She left him.

Courtney began an analysis:
‘They’ll make contact - with whom - where? Who are they? Why send her this message and cut her phone off and not mine? Did they know Robert would be calling? He was delivered a similar message - most likely a lot more civilized. How could they know she’s involved? Have they located our physical plant in D.C.? Why was Tom Griffin interviewing the Secretary of Commerce on his position with Cuban trade? Did that have anything to do with what happened tonight? Is Robert OK? What about Pat McKenzie - Oh shit, he’s in the Bahamas.’
She returned.
“Here, take off your shirt - how did you do this?”
“ I didn’t. Someone did it for me.”
“Oh, great, are we going to keep this a secret? Who compromised us?
“Someone used a gun and took a shot at me in my office tonight.”
“”WHAT! Does my father know about this?”
“I told you - Yankee Echo has a leak and I would bet someone’s serious about using it for their own purposes - according to your rock note.”
“Oh God, you knew this was going to happen.”
“Yeah - but we’re not unprepared - you know that.”
“Well I’m not prepared for people shooting at you - or me.”
“There won’t be any more of this. They wanted to make a statement and deliver a message - and they did.”
He suggested packing enough clothes for a month
“I not going to stay in Washington for a month.”
“You may be right. One, or both of us, might be in Miami in a few days.”
“Oh, shit, Michael. I can’t believe all this.”
Twenty minutes later, she produced three suitcases and two carry-all bags into the living room.
“Kay, a month - not a year.”
“I’ll need to change.”
“We’re going to the VISTA to make a phone call. Do you have your checkbook - credit cards?”
“Yes, I’ve got everything.”

In the lobby of the Waltham Hilton Vista International, he used a pay phone near the main entrance - wanting a clear line of vision on anyone entering or leaving, or just hanging around - even though he didn’t know who, or what he was looking for. It was also easier for him to keep a line of sight on Kay, who was now sitting in the bar just off the lobby, a Perrier in front of her.
Dialing the number for JGM Exports, he followed it with another that a remote AT&T computer interpreted as JGM’s credit card. Subsequently, the call was allowed to go through. Before he heard the first ring, he recovered the black encoding device from his pocket and held it against the phone. Any taps on either line would hear only gibberish.
“JGM”, the company, named from the initials of Patrick and Laura McKenzie’s only son, contained only one employee tonight, its President, and, according to any legal records, its owner, Robert Wirtham.
“Robert, we’re safe. I have Kay with me.”
“She’s OK?”
“Yeah, someone threw a rock through her window - there was a note attached to it about Yankee Echo - I have it with me.” He turned his head again to look at her.
“Robert, how did they make contact with you?”
“I had two phone calls. In the first one, I was told to wait for the second. I got that one just before calling you
“Are you closing down the office?”
“No, they don’t want blood, Michael.”
“They’ve already got some of mine - but I think you’re right. What do they want?”
“Ink.”
“In the second call, they told me they intended to use the organization to dismantle public support for the President’s proposed trade program with Cuba - and that we’d better comply.”
Courtney allowed the statement to sink in.
While speaking, he turned again to study Kay.
“Have you made contact with South, West Coast, and East and West Central?”
“Yes - everything in the network is normal. I’m trying to reach Pat. How soon can you get here?”
“We’re going to my place now to pick up some clothes. It’s going to be at least eight or nine hours.”
“OK…this is your ballgame now, Michael.”
He thought about that for a second.
“I know…we’ll see you in the morning, can you get our TAC 5 ready?”
“It’s in the computer, all set to go out. Be careful.”
Returning the receiver to its hook, he walked across the lobby and into the bar, pulling out a stool next to her.
Something and everything about him consumed her. She loved his complexity. She also knew she’d fallen in love with her teacher.
Michael Courtney was the Group Head of Yankee Echo, and had five managing Agents working for him - controlling what he’d been told was an organization of six hundred newspaper writers placed strategically in newspapers around the country.
She looked at him, speaking with a ragged sincerity.
“I hate this organization.”
He’d heard it before.
“I know - but your father runs it - maybe that’s what makes you feel that way.”
He’d squared himself sideways on the bar stool to face her.
“Did Robert contact my father?”
“He hasn’t yet - he’s trying.”
She rested her and on his forearm.
“Yankee Echo is wrong, Michael.”
He reaffirmed his belief in the organization, as much for her as for himself.
“It’s done a lot of good over the years, Kay. Think about the incidence of drug abuse in kids in this country. It’s decreased by fifteen percent with our help. Yankee Echo helped instigate the first Earth Day. The twenty-sixth Amendment got House approval by a four hundred to nineteen vote because of the organization. Don’t forget Watergate, and the White House Plumbers - we helped keep that alive.”
Turning to sit straight to the bar, he folded his hands on its oak surface and declined an offer from the bartender for a beverage.
….. “It’s still manipulation, Michael. People should be able to decide for themselves what they want and don’t want.”
She wanted to tell him all the things he didn’t know about the organization, but couldn’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.
His head bowed slightly.
“They do. All we do is give the public more information - and more accurate information than they get from some of the brain-dead desk jockeys that sit in the editorial offices of this country’s newspapers. Our people don’t write material to meet deadlines.
They have enough time t write the truth - without a stopwatch in their faces. You know yourself - they’re all hand picked - they’ve been through Laws classes - they’re honest, and their protecting the best interest of everyone.”
Her eyes fixed on his.
“There’s a lot of good people in the newspaper industry besides ours.”
“That’s true, but there’s still too many screw-ups with too much power. Maybe there’s no malicious intent on the part of an Editor, or a staff writer, but because they have to get a story out, a lot of times they skew the truth. Besides, as a group, they’re not organized like us. Even when they want to do some good, they can’t act simultaneously across the country. They don’t have a network - we do.”
She knew it was a moot point - until he was told the whole truth.
“What else did Robert say?”
He hesitated for a moment, sometimes forgetting it was her father who ran this operation, and thinking she probably knew more about it than he did…he was right.
“The people who did this tonight want to use the network to dismantle President Benson’s proposed trade program with Cuba.”
Her thoughts jumped back on the crusade.
“What’s the the Tenth Law, Michael?”
“You know what it is.”
“I want you to say it.”
He felt more like the student.
“The use of force enhances power only to the extent that it is regrettable.”
The argument was going to continue - briefly.
“Don’t you think that Yankee Echo is a force - a powerful force?”
“Yes - but you know there’s no subsequent enhancement of power.”

We don’t write to gain - we write to reveal truth - and to implement the development of greater initiatives.”
“Then explain to me why my clothes are in your car and we’re leaving for Washington. The Laws work, and you believe they help us translate and understand a complex world, but sometimes they can work against us. You put yourself at risk by continually using the Laws in Yankee Echo to develop your greater initiatives. The odds say you’re going to lose sometimes. There’s bad people out there who know how to use the Laws too.”
“That’s right, but without risk, without ever trying, without applying the Laws, there would never be any necessary gains. We might never beat the bad guys, Kay. Think about it. The media isn’t full of inductive thinkers. It’s Yankee Echo creating the first moves, or beginnings, or newness, or whatever you want to call it. And to do that, we need to think and act past challenges. You can’t succeed if you don’t take risks - you know that. Right now we have a bad apple in the system. We’re going to fix the problem. You know there’s contingency plans.”
“You also have a worm, someone who’s letting power become their goal, and who’s sold us out because greed or ego became their truth.”
“It happens in every organization, at every level.”
“Yankee Echo’s my fathers vendetta - for what the newspapers did to his father, and for the lousy deal my brother John got after he died in Vietnam. Don’t you understand that?”
“You’re right, and I do understand, and out of the ashes of his despair came some good.”
Drawing a deep breath, she finished her drink. Placing one hand on his shoulder, she moved her other to his face. She was so close to telling him. Maybe Robert would.
“You’re a good philosopher, and you’re a damn loyal one.”
“We have to leave, Kay. I need to pick up some clothes. Do me a favor while I bring the car up front? Pick up a copy of the WALL STREET JOURNAL in the gift shop.”
“Are you going to read and drive at the same time?”
He chuckled. “Of course not, I’m going to read while you drive.”
He kissed the backs of her hands.

There were two copies of the WALL STREET JOURNAL left. Taking one, she paid with a five dollar bill, putting the change in her purse. Walking toward the lobby, she caught sight of his Jeep through the glass facade. He was in the passenger’s seat. Looking at him, she thought -‘You’ve got some real surprises coming Michael Courtney. I hope you and everyone else is ready when you discover them.’
Opening the driver’s door, she handed him the paper while somewhat nervously asking, “do you think anyone will be following us?” Outside the shelter of the hotel, it was a logical question.
“No - they got out attention tonight, and now they have us moving. They’ll contact us again.”
She turned to look at him while pulling the shifting lever to the drive position, her foot still on the brake.
“Do you think Robert will get to talk to Dad?”
“I’m sure he will, Kay. We can also try to reach him from my place. Where’s he staying?”
“Same place he always stays - The Grand Bahamian Hotel.”
Unfolding the paper, he turned on the reading lamp and glanced at her. She felt his question before he could ask.
“The light won’t bother me…you can read.”

Thomas Griffin, staff writer for THE WALL STREET JOURNAL was a one-year member of the clandestine organization known as Yankee Echo. A cum lade economics major, with a Laws minor out of Georgetown University, he’d accepted a position with the prestigious business publication immediately following graduation, and was subsequently assigned to its Economics Desk.
As such, he had daily access to over two million subscribers. With pass-along readership, his total possible daily audience was in excess of three million.
Griffin was an eager, energetic young man. Responsible and serious, he had accepted the invitation of Robert Wirtham to join Yankee Echo after a series of meetings with the former Laws Professor, and was considered one of its brightest young writers.
His interview, although documenting the Cabinet-level Executive’s attitude on the President’s proposed trade program with Cuba, also demonstrated an attitude that neither Courtney nor Wirtham wanted publicized.

The sudden death of Fidel Castro had left the door open for democracy in the Latin American nation. While democratic elections had taken place, the Cuban economy was still in shambles.
Juan Ramos Santiago, the island nation’s newly-elected President, had asked U.S. President Randall Benson for help in rebuilding his country’s economic system. Benson agreed to assist providing the U.S. was given authority to help keep Cuba democratic. He was given his assurance by Santiago, a proven democratic idealist.
Patrick McKenzie III, Chairman of McKenzie Industries, one of the world’s largest manufacturers, and privately held, had, at the President’s request pledged his support for the Cuban reform plan.
Both Benson, and his Director of The Central Intelligence Agency were well aware of the support McKenzie could bring to the program through the use of the clandestine organization the man had founded. Instructions had been delivered in February to McKenzie’s Yankee Echo network to prepare for possible positive press initiatives on the Cuban economic reform plan, but because public support was already in Benson’s favor, only a stand by alert had been issued.
Tom Griffin had personally interviewed Commerce Secretary George Tollman. With regard the Cuban situation, he’d come away from the interview expressing the Secretary’s mixed feelings
The story mentioned such companies as Caterpillar in Peoria, Dana in Toledo, Cummins in Columbus, Indiana, and Borg-Warner in Chicago.
In each case, the Secretary had relayed to Griffin that the development of Cuban assets by these companies could be counter productive to United States interests.
“Shouldn’t we employ our own people to manufacture products for foreign markets before we employ an unskilled foreign work force in Cuba with American Assets,” the Secretary had been quoted.
In addition, Tollman believed that past Russian interests in Cuba could remain a hidden priority, and, if the new democracy failed, the seizure of American assets as some point in the future was a distinct possibility.
Courtney had noted the young writer closed his article with an open-ended statement.
“It may, or may not be in the best interest of American industry to support the restructuring of Cuba’s economy. The Secretary of Commerce will have his work cut out for him over the next few months as it appears he is the authority to decide the scope of U.S. business involvement in our for-now democratic neighbor ninety miles off our Southern coast.”
“This guy’s amazing.” He was folding the newspaper as she was turning off the Mass. Pike heading south on Waverly toward his apartment.
“Who?’
“Guy who wrote an article on Cuban economic reform.”
“Why’s he so amazing?”
“He got himself an exclusive interview with the United States Secretary of Commerce.”
“What’s so amazing about that?”
“He’s a staff writer. An interview at that level is usually handled by a Managing Editor. He’s also one of our writers.”
“Maybe he’s very aggressive.”
“Maybe he’s got some friends.”
They’d arrived at his apartment complex.
He had two locks on his door - a dead bolt and a keyed door handle. There appeared to no evidence of tampering with either.
The apartment itself had the same cluttered appearance it always had. Books were everywhere in what seemed to be a haphazard, but was actually a highly-structured disarray. Shirts and sweaters were draped over a couch and two chairs. The front hall closet was open revealing a winter jacket on the floor.
“Michael, you’d never be able to tell if someone broke in - your apartment is always a mess.
“I don’t think anyone’s been in here, it doesn’t look like anything’s been touched.”
“How can you tell?”
The question drifted away.
“Kay - do you want to try your father while I pack?”
The switchboard operator at the Grand Bahamian allowed the four telephones in its Caribbean Presidential Suite to ring ten times before returning to her caller.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but it appears that mister McKenzie is not in his suite at this time.”
Kay looked at her watch, it was ten past midnight. Releasing a sigh, she bought some time - thinking.
“Operator, please leave a message for him? Tell him Kathleen called, and that she, Michael and young Edward are fine, and we’ll see him soon.”
“Certainly, I’ll leave it in his mail box.”
Replacing the receiver, she noticed he’d entered the room with his suitcases, slightly smiling.
“Young Edward?”
“Yeah, it’s a little thing he and I worked out.”
She studied the intensity in his eyes.
“Do you think he’s alright?”
He gave her a questioning look.
“Of course he is - let’s get to the Capitol.”
She was asleep before they passed the last Rhode Island exit heading South on I-95.

Since the day Robert Wirtham had asked him to come to work for the organization, he’d always been aware this day would come; when Yankee Echo would either be discovered, or revealed to sources outside its intangible boundaries. He’d also felt that disclosure could, and probably would, come from within.
During the last ten years, he’d prepared contingencies for a breach. His strategies had all been approved by Wirtham and Pat McKenzie. All except two, which he’d set up, but kept to himself.
Michael Courtney held the title ‘Master Of Laws’ - an honor bestowed on him while still in college. The title got him his job with the organization. It also meant he had the responsibility of developing and implementing a strategic plan if, and when disclosure occurred.
He’d begun a battle plan, forming it with the intent of using the only weapons he understood - The Universal Physical Laws.
But he also knew these Laws wouldn’t be just for his use, that any opposing force, even one within the organization would also have their interpretation and application available. He just had to hope he’d be better at it than they were.
Colloquially, he knew Law Two as The Leverage Effect.
He understood that the application of the Second Law to natural phenomena was quite simple. Occurrences such as tornadoes, hurricanes, and thunderstorms were all easily identifiable as unbalanced energies, and although they could be extremely violent - they always passed.
In metaphysical terms, or in the world of human realities, the Second Law was more complex than it was in nature.
He continued thinking as he drove.

‘Yankee Echo never had a counter-balance’, he thought. ‘it wasn’t set up to be balanced. It was intended to be an unequal force, a powerful force, and a big risk, but the risk is still worth the investment. It took the Second Law a long time to catch up to the organization, but it’s also going to affect the breachers. They have to be an unbalanced force, and we need that to work against them. We need to know how much they’ve learned about us.’

He kept thinking.
‘Fifteen - we’re not only clandestine, we’re hidden from each other. Our writers only know Robert, me, and the Managing Agents. Robert said the network is stable, no one else has been contacted. That means whoever breached us only has Echo information on Robert and me right now, and Kay by association.’

He glanced at her, almost as if to draw some evolved inspiration.

‘They can’t have much of an idea of how extensive we are, or which newspapers we’ve infiltrated. They want to manipulate the manipulators, but they have no idea of how many manipulators exist - we have advantage on Fifteen.’

He paused, wondering how much he really knew.
‘Thirty-Five - the breachers used a greater force to get my attention than they used to get Kay’s. Whoever took a shot at me was damn good. They must have had my phone tapped thinking I’d call her, and cut hers off to get me out of my office. I have the encoder - it would take Robert a half hour to get someone over to the office - time enough to search it, but they couldn’t hear our conversation - why didn’t they search my apartment - or did they and I overlooked it? There was nothing to find there - it’s all in Washington. They have something we don’t know about yet. I’ll give them half of Thirty-Five. We won’t wobble.’

Courtney would weigh all forty Laws in the eight hour journey to JGM Exports in Washington, D.C.

He felt an uneasiness with everything.


Chapter 2

Reasons Why

On September 25, 1798, The First Congress, at its first session in the City of New York submitted to the states, twelve amendments to the Constitution of The United States that were intended to clarify certain individual and state rights not named in the Constitution. Ten of these amendments were ratified.
These are most frequently called The Bill of Rights

Amendment 1: Congress shall make no laws respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press, or the right of people to peaceably assemble, and to petition the government for the redress of grievances.
Newspapers in the United States enjoy tremendous power under First Amendment protection. At national, regional, and local levels, they have emerged from thousands of court cases over the years with their First Amendment rights in place. America, as a nation, has fought bitter wars, not only for ourselves, but for others to protect these rights. They are a precious cornerstone of democracy.
There are times in the newspaper industry, however, when the First Amendment is used more as a shield for sloppy work, than as a guardian of our rights.

In January, 1950, Alger Hiss, former American public official in the Departments of Agriculture, Justice and State, was convicted of perjury as the result of his prior testimony before the Committee on Un- American activities of the U.S. House of Representatives. The Hiss case was part of an investigation led by Senator Joseph R, McCarthy into Communist activity in the U.S.
Hiss was accused of turning over classified documents over to Whittaker Chambers, an editor for several years of TIME magazine, for transmittal to Soviet Agents.
In testimony before the Committee on Un-American activities, an associate of Hiss testified that part of the classified information Hiss had passed on to the Soviets involved top-secret work on bipolar transistors as they applied to covert electronic technology. Although his evidence was totally circumstantial, and was written into the court record as such, the associate was allowed to present oral testimony against McKenzie Industries of Old Saybrook, Connecticut, and its Chairman, Patrick Gaffey McKenzie Jr. whom the associate accused of delivering his company’s technology to Hiss in exchange for lucrative government contracts.
Almost every newspaper in the country was either covering this event, or was retrieving it from the wire services at the time. In a period of six months, McKenzie’s chairman had spoken with dozens of editors and staff writers in newspapers around the country.
It was said Patrick McKenzie Jr. never refused a telephone call or a personal interview, this against the advice of the best attorneys and public relations agencies representing the electronics manufacturer. The Press continually challenged his plea of innocence against the circumstantial evidence presented at the Hiss hearings.
The celebrated case, in concert with the McCarthy investigation, combined to create a national mood of sensationalism, and an almost unquenchable public thirst for more, which editors and reporters were only too happy to supply.
It appeared no one wanted to believe that either McKenzie or his corporation were guiltless. Both had become victims of the Press, publishing at its discretion, and without concrete reference, words that were half-truths, here-say, and innuendo.
If reporters and editors injected opinion into a story and based it on presented testimony from the trial, then whatever they wrote was protected by the shield of the First Amendment
In January, 1950, at the second trial of Alger Hiss, it was revealed that the McKenzie Industries part of the case, along with several other parts, was completely fabricated by Hiss’ associate to divert attention away from the major issues.
Patrick McKenzie Jr. died of heart seizure shortly following the exoneration of himself and his company. His only child, Patrick Gaffey McKenzie III was eighteen years old at the time.
McKenzie’s son understood that in the U.S. legal system, when there is uncertainty, acquittal prevails over conviction. He found it incredible that in the minds of people who had read newspaper accounts of the case that a degree of guilt had still attached itself to the uncertainty surrounding the proceedings.
The loss of his father created a void in Patrick’s life that seemed impossible to remedy. Turing to his high school sweetheart for support and comfort, he and she decided to elope, and were married by a Justice of The Peace on New Year’s Eve, three weeks after his father’s death. That same night, Laura Worthington McKenzie would become pregnant with the first of her two children. Only a teenager, she would bear a son, John Gaffey in September.
Even though he had married, Patrick’s mother thought her son should attend the University of Pennsylvania where he had been accepted for the following academic year. She, as well as Laura’s parents, were disturbed over the children’s matrimonial decision, but she saw in her son the same determined qualities that she loved and respected in her husband. Patrick had gumption and intelligence like his father. The young man, however, decided not to enter the structured academic life of college.
He was being neither defiant, nor radical; he simply felt he could learn more in the practical world of business if he taught himself.
His mother resigned herself to this decision thinking formal education could always come later - he would succeed, she thought, with, or without a college education.
She was a woman of great insight.
The young man threw himself into a learning curve. Working daily in the McKenzie plant, he assumed over time, positions in production, finance, and management. His nights were filled with readings - Samuelson’s Economics, Stockton’s Business Statistics, Donaldson and Pfhal’s Corporate Finance, Bethel and Atwater’s Industrial Organization, and the metaphysics his father had been teaching him since he was twelve.
Within four years, he was made President of McKenzie Industries by its Board of Directors of which his mother was Chairman due to principle stock ownership. His move to the CEO’s position was clearly an inside family move, but it was not a mistake.
The company flourished under his direction and leadership. He sought out and hired the best minds, not only in the electronics field, but also in the field of Applied Physics. McKenzie technocrats created and developed products far superior to its competition which placed the corporation in a solid growth pattern. Although he'd never had formal training in the Application of The Universal Physical Laws, Patrick McKenzie III engaged Law Forty as his own personal philosophy.
During the ensuing years, McKenzie would have many philosophical discussions with Robert Wirtham, his best friend. Wirtham had attended The University of Michigan, and eventually became a corporate consultant, and also Professor of Physical Laws at the University of Vermont.
It was Wirtham who first broached the possibility of media control to McKenzie during one of these conversations.
The corporate President hadn't forgotten what he considered the unjust and malicious treatment of his father at the hands of the Press. Captivated by the idea of clandestine media control, he reserved any implementation of this concept until the next trauma in his life place him once again at the mercy of the newspapers.
John McKenzie, his only son, had enlisted in the United States Marine Corps at the age of seventeen. An adventurer, he told his father he would eventually finish high school and college, but he didn't want to miss the opportunity of missing a real war. Following military occupational specialty training at the Marine Corps facility on Paris Island, South Carolina, John, and the rest of Bravo Company were assigned to duty in the Republic of Vietnam
It was in the La Dang Valley during the Tet Offensive when Corporal McKenzie refused a direct order from his Company Commander.
They'd stumbled upon a group of six women and three children during a fierce firefight with the Vietcong. McKenzie and his Lieutenant were alone on the Northwest perimeter of a battle line, separated by two hundred meters from the rest of their unit. The young marine had discovered the group huddled under a tarpaulin after he’d heard a child cough. The Lieutenant, feeling the women were part of the Vietcong, and possibly concealing Russian AK-47 Kalashnikov rifles, ordered McKenzie to terminate the group. Refusing the order, he told his commanding officer he was returning to the point position on the perimeter.
In the next thirty seconds, the Lieutenant completed his own order with one hand grenade and a rapid fire volley from an M-16 rifle
McKenzie, now fifteen meters from the atrocity, turned in horror to see body parts spread in every direction and a deranged superior facing him. The Corporal directed his weapon toward the Lieutenant with the intention of taking him down. Before he could fire, however, he was himself shot five times by the maniacal officer. As he fell, mortally wounded, an involuntary muscle system caused his hand to close, the one on his rifle releasing several rounds into a clear blue sky.
The Lieutenant disappeared into the jungle.

The Vietnam experience allowed Americans to see a live war for the first time from the comfort of their living rooms. Advanced electronics, some manufactured by McKenzie Industries, made film camera more compact, and therefore more portable. All the major television networks had several crews carrying new mini-cams throughout Southeast Asia.
A CBS crew had been filming the Northeast perimeter of the firefight from a position only thirty meters to the south of McKenzie and his Lieutenant
As the network reporter and his camera man advanced, they came upon the scene of the massacre, capturing all of its completed horror on film. No one was left alive. It appeared McKenzie had acted alone, and had subsequently killed by cross fire.
The monstrous aftermath of the massacre was displayed on the television sets of millions of American homes. Newspaper editors and reporters from around the country scrambled to acquire additional information about the marine corporal who was apparently responsible for this carnage.
What type of person was this? What in his background could make him commit such an act? Where did he live? Who were his friends? Did he have a police record for assault?
His parents spoke with every editor and reporter that called their home. They were sure a mistake had been made. Their son was not the war-mad soldier the newspapers portrayed. John was an outstanding, courageous, and moral individual with a strong sense of human values. Nevertheless, according to the newspapers he’d become a vicious killing machine in the short time he’d been in Vietnam.
The newspaper investigations of the atrocity were base solely on film footage of the massacre. No one ever questioned the camera crew who happened to be on the scene. No one ever reviewed the filming that occurred just before the shots that killed McKenzie were fired.
Patrick McKenzie knew the devastation of his son’s character was based on inconclusive evidence, and was unable to secure from the Pentagon the full findings of the Military Review Board. He was, however, allowed to speak to his son’s Commanding Officer.
On three separate occasions he’d spoken with the Captain, a man promoted and decorated for his bravery during the La Dang Offensive. On each occasion he’d heard a slightly different variation of the firefight. There was nothing left to either prove or disprove according to the officer. McKenzie’s intuition and paternal instincts told him the officer wasn’t revealing everything, but he could not prove it. In his grief, he too had never thought to review the full CBS film footage.
Bravo Company’s Commanding Officer entered the corporate arena following duty in Southeast Asia. He became well known for his perceived bravery in the jungles of Vietnam, and through a combination of political patronage and savvy, eventually became President of a major mid west aircraft manufacturing company. He would subsequently be asked by a President of The United States, Randall Benson, to become his Secretary of Commerce.
Former United States Marine Corps Captain George Tollman would accept the position.
After the newspapers had taken as much as they could out of the McKenzie story, they shut down their Old Saybrook operations and turned their attention elsewhere.
Patrick McKenzie’s family had once again been devastated by the newspaper industry. It was enough. Phoning Robert Wirtham in Burlington, Vermont, he told his friend he wished to renew a discussion they’d once had on the idea of forming a clandestine organization capable of controlling issues through the country’s newspapers. The wheels were set in motion to form Yankee Echo. It could not be done alone, there would need to be partners. The organization would also need protection, and Wirtham had friends whom he thought could affect that outcome.
They eventually did.
Trauma did not end for McKenzie - he had one more to live through. Laura McKenzie would bear a daughter, Kathleen, in nine months. Twelve weeks after her daughter’s birth, Laura McKenzie would die in an automobile accident.

Saturday, May 20, 4:03 a.m.

Courtney had been driving for three hours before he allowed his concentration to shift from the Laws to the highway signs. Right now he needed a rest room, a coffee, and some gas. He found all three of his requirements at a rest stop two miles over the George Washington Bridge. Kay slept through the pit stop, adjusting her position only once while he filled the tank.
Returning to the highway with a sixteen ounce coffee, he forced his mind to relax.
His thoughts returned to the second day following Thanksgiving break - his morning Laws class.
“Today, we’re going to discuss Law Nine.”
Twelve very bright young adults had assumed seated positions in his class, and now listened intently to their teacher.
“When Action is Necessary, The Most Subtle Effect Will Gain The Most Effective Result.”
Writing the Law on the blackboard, he turned to face his class, arms folded.
“This Law is the keystone of presence, something we’ll begin today, and spend some time discussing over the next two weeks.”
His mouth straight, eyes moving among all twelve of his students - they stopped on Kay’s for an instant, she looking back.
“Right now you have a presence, a state of posture and being. In every moment of your life, whether you’re conscious or unconscious, you have a presence - even when you’re alone. Consider this for a few moments.”
Twelve sets of eyes followed their teacher who moved laterally no more than ten feet in either direction from his original position.
“I’m noticing you, and you’re watching me. If we were adversaries, your presence would tell me how nervous you are. I could look in your eyes to see how much confidence you had. You could review me and consider a train of thought and your next movement. By being aware of your own presence, you’ll also be aware of how people see you. The best presence is one without pretense - just being yourself…”
He noticed her head turn slightly to the left, then right, observing her peers. The teacher turned again, reviewing the board.
“Miss McKenzie,” his voice had lifted, intentionally, startling not only her, but also the rest of the class. She bumped her knee on the bottom of the desk.
He pivoted, facing them. During every class he would choose a student with whom he’d discuss a particular metaphysical effect, or Law. The practice was an exercise in spontaneous intuition and analysis.
“What would you question about this Law”
Their eyes had joined, seeing into each other again. The feeling had become familiar, and was pleasant for both of them.
She’d done her homework. He knew she would have.
Adjusting quickly, she rose from her seat, walked to the blackboard, and addressed his chalk marks.
Grabbing the chalk, she added two words to the beginning of the Law, “If And”.
Law Nine now read, “If And When Action is Necessary, The Most Subtle Effect Will Gain The Most Effective Result.”
Replacing the chalk in the blackboard tray, she faced her teacher.
“I think there’s two questions we need to ask about this Law. The first is, how do we define necessary action? I might think action is required in a situation when you wouldn’t The end result of any meeting could be the same with, or without action.”
Her eyes watched his, searching for a sign of approval.
None yet.
“We also need to ask, what’s an effective result? If I’m looking for a date, should I use subtlety to get one, or wait until I’m asked by the person I want to go out with?
Still no sign of his approval.
Three male students had made a mental note.
“If I’m enraged, how can I be subtle? If I’m sorrowful, should I be subtle at all? Do both of these situations call for subtle effects? Isn’t it up to me to determine if an action is necessary?”
Her logic was strong, and although she was right about everything she’d said, she had been timid and unsure of her answers.
He sensed this.
“Your corollary’s insightful, Kathleen. You used both inductive and deductive reasoning to form it. You can go back to your seat and we’ll talk about your ideas.
They spent the remainder of the period analyzing her theory.
He explained to both her and the class that while the Laws were immutable truths, they were also flexible axioms capable of being interpreted to fit practical applications. She’d done a good job in using this Law to fit her own criteria.
At the end of the session, he asked her if she had time to stay for a for a few minutes.
“Yes,” she’d hoped he’d ask her. In fact, she used quite a bit of subtlety during the class to make it happen.
“Please, sit down.”
She took a seat in the front row of the classroom as he came around to the front of the desk. The same, deep penetrating eye contact remained.
“I want you to know your logic is excellent. I also believe you have strong intuitive capabilities - you just demonstrated them. You’re doing good in this course, but I think you feel intimidated by the fact t hat someday you’ll have to apply all of this. Am I right?”
She didn’t speak.
“I’m sorry, maybe I’m pushing you because your Pat’s daughter. You may feel that’s unfair, but I’m stuck in a tough position here. Your father wants you to learn to apply this material. Give me a chance, and give yourself a chance too.”
She lowered her head, raised it, and looked around the room.
“I know how much these Laws mean to my father, and how often they’re used by you and Robert in the organization. I also know I have a responsibility to learn them…Look, I feel awkward in here because you and I know something no one else in the class knows. I’m uncomfortable with Yankee Echo…in fact, I think it stinks.”
She turned her head away from him.
“How much do you know about Yankee Echo?”
She knew a lot more than she could tell him.
Her head came around again - their eyes met.
“I know the work you do is important. But that doesn’t mean I think the means you use are right - I feel sorry for my father, he’s lost a lot in his life and he’s very vindictive.”
“Towards newspapers?”
“Yes.”
“Kathleen, we write to improve things in this country, not make them worse” He could see she needed time.
“Maybe we should talk about this more often.”
She felt that was an invitation to spend some time together, away from school. She was attracted to this man, and liked the thought of having time alone with him. Smiling, she decided to accept. An instinct told her to be both subtle, and mysterious.”
“OK, call me…I’m sure you already have my number.
Getting up from her seat, she swept her hair back. Holding her notebook against her chest, she continued eye contact.
He tried giving her a little confidence. “You might surprise yourself.”
She turned to leave - leaving him with a subtle remark.
“I might surprise you too.”
The result was effectiv


Saturday, May 20, 5:05 a.m.

The Jeep and its passengers were half way between New York City and Washington, D.C. when directional signs for Philadelphia began appearing.
A conversation with Robert Wirtham was two and one half hours away in the nation’s Capitol on the third floor of the Rand Building in the offices of JGM exports. Wirtham was a man he respected, and mistakenly trusted.

It was in Burlington, Vermont, on the campus of the University of Vermont where Courtney studied his metaphysical major and had learned the application of The Laws under Wirtham’s tutelage. In his senior year, five days prior to graduation, his professor had asked him to lunch following the final Laws exam.

While passing one of the exits toward the city that was home to Independence Hall, he let his mind retrace that day eleven ears ago.
His professor smiled slightly as they walked toward the student union along UVM’s maple-covered south campus.
“How did you feel about the exam?”
“You embarrassed me by putting my corollary on it.”
In five days, Courtney would become the youngest American ever to earn the honor and designation of ‘Master of Physical Laws’ due to not only a four point zero cumulative grade point average, but also because his First Law corollary had been accepted a year earlier by the National Collegiate Committee of Laws Professors, and the following year had become part of the National Physical Laws curriculum.
“Then you should get at least one question right.” They laughed climbing the steps to Bennington Hall housing the student union.
Courtney sat opposite Wirthim at one of the seventeen round, oak tables in the snack bar. The professor, a tall, lanky man reminded him of Abraham Lincoln without a beard. Wirthim noticed Courtney’s preoccupation as he randomly allowed his right index finger to trace the myriad chronicles carved in the table top by lovers, idealists, and people who liked to see four letter words in print.
“Everyone wants to be immortal, don’t they Michael.”
He indicated his tracing finger with strong brown eyes.
“This was all done by the journalism majors, professor, they’re always looking for a format.”
He was relaxed, and glad his exams were over.
“That’s an interesting comment, because journalism is what I needed to speak with you about.”
The professor’s eyes were plumb with his student’s. Courtney could see he was serious. He’d been taught by this man to recognize and analyze a person’s presence. He made no comment, however, because he knew that the professor understood he was being analyzed - it was an intellectual standoff - and neither of them felt uncomfortable with it. What he didn’t know at the time was that Wirtham was better at it than he was.
Wirtham continued as he opened a plain manila folder he’d brought from class.
“Michael, I have here a copy of the supporting statement you wrote to support your First Law Corollary last year. Would you mind if I read part of it to you?”
The question was asked as if the answer were already known.
Courtney acknowledged affirmatively.
“Your Corollary reads, ‘Nothing Will Happen Until You Cause Something Else To Happen.’ You make the case that in the original Law, one could apply it either inductively or deductively to gain an advantage, to stabilize a situation, or to improve something that already exists. In your Corollary you state, and I’ll quote you…’But it’s only through intuitive analysis with inductive reasoning that real newness is created. Any analytical process in induction is never an afterthought to intuition, but the application of the First Law is too broad to allow this. There is opportunity for deductive logic and personal opinion to become woven together with facts in the First Law. When personal opinions are expressed, or even alluded to as part of the facts, there exists the possibility for erroneous assumption, and more dangerously, false, or unrealistic conclusions. Therefore, we must create for the First Law an inductive Corollary, a model that gives us a straight line to pure creativity by separating inductive reasoning from personal opinion and facts.’ I’m sure you remember all this, Michael.”
Carefully replacing the profound document in the folder, he folded his hands on top of it.
Courtney shifted in his chair.
“Do you want me to apply the Corollary to journalism and give you an opinion?”
“Yes, I want your opinion.”
“I think journalism is too protected. The First Amendment allows editors and reporters to write almost whatever they want without reprimand. I don’t know of any other industry that more flagrantly abuses the First Law more than the newspaper industry. Editors and reporters constantly weave deductive logic with their personal opinions - so they end up letting their readership draw conclusions from information with little substance in a lot of cases. Radical groups love this stuff. They can turn and twist articles to fit their needs, imposing someone else’s supposed endorsement on their cause.
That’s how they gain followers - it’s almost like having a triple-A feeding system in baseball - and they get it for free.”
He hesitated - he’d made his point but he could tell the man seated across from him was looking for more.
“I guess I have to say though that newspapers like THE WASHINGTONN POST, THE WALL STREET JOURNAL, and THE NEW YORK TIMES have some staff writers and editors that are extremely precise, and don’t inject personal opinion into deductive logic. I’ve read some great articles in these papers that have a strong sense of purpose and meaningfulness. I think the newspaper industry would consume itself without writers like these.”
Pausing, he hoped he’d begun striking a responsive chord.
“Professor Wirthim…”
“Michael, in five days you’ll graduate - we’ll be peers - even though I consider you one now - you can begin addressing me as a friend.
“…Do you want me to call you Bob?”
He chuckled… “whatever you feel comfortable with - my friends call me Robert.”
“OK, Robert. I just gave you my brief on the newspaper industry. Now, can you tell me why we’re discussing this topic?”
Wirtham considered the young man before him. He’d have to be careful. Courtney was the best he’d every taught, a student with great intuition and insight.
A year earlier, he’d accompanied Courtney when he’d made his proposal of his First Law Corollary before the National Collegiate Committee. Twelve professors of Metaphysics sat silently for one hour while the undergraduate defined and defended his statements. Acceptance of any Corollary, or amendment to the Physical Laws by this Body was rare.
Most new proposals in the form of either corollaries or amendments were presented by experienced philosophers twice his age. In addition, the aggregate of new knowledge presented in these hearings was usually addresses in the form of deduction, or intuition and deduction, but seldom, if ever, as pure induction.
Following the handsome student’s discourse, the committee Chairman had asked Wirtham to approach him.
“How long has this young man been with you, professor?”
“Three years now, sir.”
“Do you realize he’s asking us to accept a purely inductive model of the most basic Law?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
The Chairman, removing his glasses, had placed them on the closed document before him, and had glanced left and right at his fellow committee members.
Each of the additional eleven scholars had simply shook their heads from side to side.
“Mister Courtney, would you please stand before this committee?”
The formal address and request wasn’t usually made in an initial meeting.
“Young man, at this time you’re theory for a corollary to the First Law has no refutable testimony from either myself, or any of my colleagues. I can speak for all of us, and tell you, that today, we believe you have added a new dimension to the body of metaphysical knowledge…we salute you, Mister Courtney - you’ll hear from us further on this.”
Wirtham returned to the present hearing Courtney’s voice.
“Robert, why did you ask me about the First Law Corollary and journalism?”
“I’m sorry, Michael - I was lost in thought for a moment.”
He understood - having had many similar experiences.
“You recognize the name McKenzie Industries, don’t you?”
He thought for a second…
“Aren’t they an OEM? They manufacture electronic equipment.”
“Yes - McKenzie’s Chairman, Patrick McKenzie, is a close friend of mine. He and I have been involved in an undertaking for the last eleven years…”
Over the next hour, Wirtham described to his student an organization known as Yankee Echo - why it supported certain causes, and it’s present need for a Master of Physical Laws as the number three man in its ranks. He gave him as much as he thought he needed to know to get him to take the position. He also withheld more than he told him.
Courtney listened intently, hardly moving during Wirtham’s elaboration.
He finished with a request, asking Courtney to join the organization.
He’d work out of Boston College where he’d be a teacher of Physical Laws, and teaching only The Laws three days a week.
His salary, paid by JGM Exports, was a lot more than he thought he’d make following graduation.
“That’s it, Michael. Yankee Echo needs a TAO XIA Master, and we want you to take the job. I’m going to get us a couple of cheeseburgers and Cokes. Think about what I’ve told you for a few moments.”
Backing his chair out, he left his student alone. When he returned, he found him writing on the back of the manila folder.
As Wirtham approached the table with their lunch, Courtney sensed his return.
“Robert, I’ve thought about what you’ve told me, and I’m writing a response. I’ve agreed to accept your proposal, but I want you, and Mister McKenzie to understand I’ll have one condition of acceptance and I’ll need both of you to agree on it. I also have a couple of questions.”
He looked up at his professor
“That depends on the condition, what is it?”
He pushed a well-done cheeseburger and a medium sized Coke in his direction.
Wirtham, although Courtney’s Senior by twenty-six years, allowed himself to become a subordinated listener.
“Because I know you, Robert, I’m not surprised you’re a part of this organization. I think it’s brilliant, and challenging. You have it structured so you’re only at very serious risk of exposure by five people - your Managing Agents. However, at some point in time, Yankee Echo is going to meet an injurious occurrence from risks you might not have considered. At least I didn’t hear any sustaining argument to support the consideration of these risks.”
Lifting the cheeseburger for a bite, he held it in one hand, and used the other to sip the Coke.
“From what you’ve told me, there’s three systems in your organization. The original system is just you, and Mister McKenzie - this is fine. Your first sub-system is composed of you, five Managing Agents - and now me. Your risk has increased by six hundred percent, but it’s still a low risk. Your second sub-system has six hundred writers, and even though they don’t know each other, your risk in this system is unjustifiably, and exponentially compounded. A risk analysis would tell you you’ll have a breach in your system in the next eight to twelve years. The Leverage Effect, and the Second Law have to catch up to you at some point in time. Also, the breach will likely come from within the organization.
Actually, this will work to your advantage, because you’ll be able to identify it more easily. OK, here’s my condition, Robert. When the breach occurs, and it will, I would want control of the organization until we have remediation. My intention would be to develop contingencies estimating the probability of occurrence for all the unacceptable results of any breach. I’ll also detail a plan to either eliminate or discredit the breach, and then to reestablish control of the organization. That’s it…if and when there’s a breach, I would want control until it’s fixed.”
Wirtham studied him - the preppie, dark haired, green eyed student who still looked like a kid, but thought like an aged and experienced philosopher.
“I think that would be acceptable. At least it would be from me. I’ll have to run it by Mister McKenzie, but I’m quite sure he’ll agree. I’d like you to meet him next week if you can. He’s coming up for Commencement with his daughter - Kathleen.
“Sure, Robert - tell me, how did you swing the teaching job at Boston College? I don’t have a doctorate?”
“Connections - it comes as a bonus working for Pat McKenzie.”
“Courtney made a mental note - ‘ Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a contingency plan of my own.’
They left the canteen together, Courtney with a job following graduation, and Wirtham with a mission accomplished. Five days later, Wirtham introduced Michael Courtney to Patrick McKenzie and the three of them spent two hours reviewing Yankee Echo in Wirtham’s study overlooking Lake Champlain. The third man was in, the organization had its Master of Laws, and all conditions were met.
Everything but he whole truth was on the table
Just before he left, Courtney was introduced to Pat McKenzie’s daughter, Kathleen.

The breach would occur in nine years - almost to the day.

Saturday, May 20, 5:50 a.m.

WILMINGTON - the glass-white reflectors on the green highway sign overhead revealed their geographic location as the Jeep passed beneath its message. One quarter mile later another appeared - WILMINGTON TRUCK STOP 1 MILE. His requirements were the same as they’d been one hundred forty miles ago. Leaving I-95, he noticed the mercury vapor lights in the parking lot reflecting off at least a dozen of aluminum-skinned tanker trucks, most probably either bound for, or leaving from the giant Maloney & Marcom chemical plant. Courtney briefly thought how McKenzie Industries was to electronics what Maloney & Marcom was to chemicals - both large corporations, both well run.
What he didn’t know was they were connected through Yankee Echo.
Also without knowing it, over the next nine years he’d indirectly help keep both of them, and many other corporate giants out of harms way.

The Jeep stopped in the farthest parking space from the truck stop’s restaurant. He hoped the walk to its coffee counter in the clear, brisk air, would help clear his mind, and keep him awake. Turning off the ignition, the sudden lack of movement awakened his passenger from a dream, she was a bit disoriented, but recollected.
“Michael, where are we? What time is it? How’s your shoulder?”
The words were expressed with most emphasis on the last three. She leaned toward him, her head gently resting on his arm.
“We’re at a truck stop in Wilmington, it’s five thirty, and my shoulder’s pretty good, thanks.”
“I don’t know about you, but I could eat a horse.”
Walking arm in arm toward the glass facade of the restaurant, the aroma of bacon and flapjacks escaping the kitchen’s vents heightened both their appetites. Kay, a small bag of necessary woman’s essentials in hand gave him a breakfast order before heading to the lady’s room.
“Three pancakes, four strips of bacon, a blueberry muffin, a glass of OJ, and a cup of coffee - I’ll be back in about ten minutes.”
Releasing her arm, he kissed her cheek, two dozen truckers silently wishing they were standing in his pair of shoes.
The corridor wall heading to he men’s room supported a bank of six pay phones. Courtney thought of Pat - actually, the absence of Pat McKenzie. Pulling the encoding device from his pocket, he dialed for an operator.
Taking the call, she cleared a line the Grand Bahamian hotel as he’d asked.
The hotel operator allowed the Grand Caribbean Suite’s phones to ring seven times.
“I’m sorry, there is no answer in Mister McKenzie’s suite, would you care to leave a message?”
“No operator, would you please connect me with the hotel’s Assistant Manager?”
“Certainly - hold just a moment.”
A pleasant, aristocratic voice was his next human contact.
“This is Mrs. LaChance, how may I help you?”
“Thank you ma’am - my name is Michael Courtney, I’m an associate of Mister Patrick McKenzie.
His daughter, Kathleen, and I have been trying to reach him in his suite, but he doesn’t answer, and apparently hasn’t received our messages.
It was a statement made to sound like the hotel had over-sighted - certainly requiring investigation by its on-duty Administrator.
“Can you hold the line for a minute, Mister Courtney?”
She needed only forty seconds.
“Mister Courtney?”
“Yes.”
“He does have several hotel operator’s messages but hasn’t retrieved them as yet - would you like to leave another message for him?”
“No - thank you Mrs. LaChance - I’ll try later on.”
They disconnected.
He’d lost his appetite.
His gut feelings were battling his logic.
‘Think - slow down.’
Staring straight ahead, he walked toward the door marked with a graphic design of a stick man.
Analysis wasn’t working - nothing was working.
‘Where the hell is he?’
Courtney thought of calling Wirtham while splashing cold water against his face from one of the washroom taps.
‘No time now, Kay will be out. I don’t want her upset. Shit, she’ll see right through me.’
He was right.
Emerging from the lady’s room, she saw him standing by the restaurant’s double glass doors holding a egg tray carton supporting two cups of coffee and a bag obviously housing pastries, donuts, or muffins.
He look worried - and he didn’t look like that when he walked in.
She felt him look at her, not in her. There was a wall behind his eyes. They’d spent too much time together for her to miss it.
“Michael, what’s wrong?”
“I tried your father’s suite again, he still wasn’t in.”
Her mind searched for a rational explanation. Finding none, she made a statement, almost in childish arrogance.
“He probably went jogging, he’s usually up this early.”
Courtney put his arm over his shoulder.
Spinning toward him, she refused his embrace pushing both his arms as far away from hers as possible. As two sixteen ounce coffees washed the truck stop restaurant’s glass doors, Kathleen McKenzie allowed her frustration to vent.
“DON’T PATRONIZE ME, MICHAEL, I’M NOT A CHILD.”
Twelve truckers thought the sight of her long legs, even covered in jeans, plus the form filling her black, scoop necked sweater were evident testimony to this fact.
In another motion, sweeping her hair behind her ears, she took two steps toward him. Leaning her face into his - hands now on both hips.
“YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE SO DAMNED SMART, MICHAEL COURTNEY, WHY DON’T YOU JUST ANALYZE THIS LIKE YOU DO EVERYTHING ELSE AND GIVE ME SOME WISDOM!”
The wrath of womanhood may sometimes seem illogical, but it is seldom understated.
He had no answer, no questions, no statement.
Turning, she pushed the glass doors apart, entering the pre-dawn Delaware morning to walk alone.
While searching for something to clean the floor, he found a sympathetic cashier has appeared with two fresh coffees in her hands.
“You’d better take care of her, Michael.”
Everyone within one hundred feet of him now knew his name.
He received further advice.
“That girl’s eyes were filled with both love and hate, honey. If I were you, I’d be real careful what I say to her. Don’t worry about the floor, I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks….”
He found her leaning against one of the parking lot’s dozens of galvanized light standards, the illumination from above accenting her figure in shadows.
Courtney extended a coffee to her.
“Take it, Kathleen.”
He seldom used her proper name. Most often when he was serious.
“Michael…”
“Kay, listen to me…”
Bending to place their breakfast on the asphalt, he rose to hold her.
She accepted his embrace this time burying her face deep in his shoulder and pressing her body firmly against his.
“Michael…I’m scared.”
“I know, Kay.”
“How much longer before we get to Washington.”
“About two hours.”
He bent to retrieve the first meal of the day.
Placing her arm through his, her conviction was evident.
“You tell me what you want, and I’ll either do it, or I’ll be damn sure you get it. I know you’re in charge of Yankee Echo now, Michael.”
That thought had crossed his mind before.
Stopping at the Jeep, she squared herself to him.
“My father’s lost too much in one lifetime. The bastards behind this don’t know the power we control.”

They didn’t know all of it - and neither did Courtney - but she did.



Chapter 3

Greed and Breach

The United States Department of Commerce is a Cabinet-level Executive Department. Its responsibilities include establishing and administering federal programs promoting economic growth and international trade. International economic and commercial programs are developed by The International Trade Administration (ITA) which encourages the expansion of world markets for U.S. goods.

Friday, May 19, 8:33 p.m.

United States Secretary of Commerce, George Edward Tollman, was not only a skilled bureaucrat, but also an astute businessman. A Harvard economics graduate, he’d served as a Marine Corps officer commanding a rifle company in Vietnam. Although Tollman had lost many of his men in jungle warfare, he himself was decorated twice with the Silver Star for meritorious service, once for his bravery in a firefight in the La Dang Valley during the Tet Offensive. Following his tour of duty, a meteoric rise through corporate America culminated with the Presidency of Beechman Aircraft in Kansas City, Kansas. George Tollman knew how to manipulate people. His greedy and self-serving character, disguised as ambition and confidence, helped him create substantial personal wealth through
well-concealed bribery and corruption.
Anticipating a phone call, he paced his luxuriously-appointed office in the nation’s capitol, a six foot four inch frame, clad in a Brooks Brothers Spring Tweed creating an impressive figure. One that intimidated many people in corporate America, as well as in Washington, D.C.
He had incredible economic power - and where there’s that great a concentration of power, there’s usually corruption.
Passing his desk, he pulled the day’s WALL STREET JOURNAL from beneath a leather-bound presentation book destined for the Chairman of a congressional sub-committee on exports. Tollman understood the power of the Press and his thoughts on it now caused his mind to calculate his risks while simultaneously abstracting a large-scale, forced, and clandestine media campaign.
He wondered to himself if Thomas Griffin might be a member of Yankee Echo, but it didn’t matter. Tomorrow he’d begin to know everything he needed about the covert operation; a phone call would be made to JGM Exports two miles across town - but not by him.
As he read about himself, an electric current caused the secure line on his desk phone to emit two rapid beeps. Dropping the paper, he reached across his desk and retrieved the receiver.
“Secretary Tollman.”
“It’s me.”
The call came from a desk at The National Security Agency.
“Is everything set?”
“Yes, Wirtham has his first call, I’ll get back to him again at twenty one hundred zero five. Courtney will get his message at twenty one hundred ten hours. I expect he’ll call the girl right away. He uses an encoding device, so we’ll have to make some assumptions.”
“Who’s the shooter?”
“An operative I’ve used before, he’s all set for five grand.”
“Is he good? I don’t want any traumatic injury, I need Courtney very functional.”
“He could put a round in a chopper pilot’s ear from a mountain top.”
“Does he know anything?”
“No, it’s just another job for him. He’ll disappear. He doesn’t even know the target’s name.”
“What about Kathleen McKenzie’s apartment?”
“We’ll give Courtney ten minutes to call her. I have a tap on her line. My man’s carrying a mobile phone. I’ll call him while Courtney’s talking to her and the rock will go through the window.”
Again, his timing would be perfect.
“Is your rock thrower secure?”
“Same thing - I’ve used him before - he’ll be gone tomorrow.”
“I think you’re right about Courtney, he’ll run to McKenzie when her phone goes dead.”
“Courtney’s not suspecting anything - this is going to shake him up. Right now he’s just sitting in his office reading. Are you sure you don’t want them followed if they clear out?”
“I’m sure.”
“This guy’s just a philosopher and a writer.”
The comment implied a lack of understanding.
“He’s a Master of Laws, there’s a big difference. He analyzes situations for a living - don’t underestimate him. - Courtney and his girlfriend have to meet up with Wirtham at JGM. You can make contact again after they arrive, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were tomorrow - you have the message.”
“Whatever you say.”
Tollman glanced at his Rolex thinking to himself as he hung up the phone.
‘Risks seem alright, we’re on schedule.’
Collecting the JOURNAL from the floor, he quickly glanced again at the article on the front page and thinking to himself, ‘Griffin, if you write for them, then next week, you write for me.’
He had one more conversation before leaving the office.
A speed dial allowed him to circumvent any local or overseas operators - a perquisite of his position. Two rings on a phone ninety miles off the Florida coast were all that was necessary to alert the new Vice President of Cuba, and an old Harvard acquaintance, to personally answer his phone.
His Administrative Assistant would normally have stayed late and have answered, however, a final meeting with a U.S. newspaper Editor in Miami had caused her to leave the island yesterday.
“Miguel Belize.”
“My good friend.”
“Yes, Mister Secretary.”
“Our plan is secure. Are you prepared to deal with Mister Bellcamp?”
“Tonight, as we speak, he is with Catalina. She knows what must be done. If the plan does not work, she has a back up.”
“Will she return to the island?”
“Of course. I will soon give you some of my assets, Mister Secretary, but not that one.”
“Are you sure he has no additional information on this organization?”
“I’m certain of that. Once she has the final codes, she will have taken from him all he knows.”
“What about McKenzie?”
“He’s comfortable. When you tell me, I will allow him to speak with his daughter.”
“That’s fine, I’ll call you over the weekend.”
“Good night, Mister Secretary.”
Tollman left his office, taking a private elevator to a secure garage.
It was 9:10 p.m.. Michael Courtney would soon be on his office floor bleeding, and Daniel Bellcamp would soon be terminated.
The MIAMI HERALD ranks about nineteenth in circulation among the nation’s top one hundred newspapers. A morning print media, it publishes approximately 435,000 copies a day.
Daniel William Bellcamp had become The Managing Editor of THE HERALD at the young age of thirty-six. His ability to write prolifically, and with great presence had captured the attention of Robert Wirtham eleven years before his promotion to M.E.. Bellcamp had joined Yankee Echo while a staff writer for the same publication. A Physical Laws candidate from Arizona State, he’d won many awards for journalism, all of which helped him rise through the ranks of Staff Reporter, Editor, Suburban Editor, City Editor, and finally to the position of Managing Editor.
Heavy set and balding, he was a fast track, smooth communicator with the written word. However, his egocentric bearing, and two hundred fifty pound waddly frame caused him the thing he wanted most - attention from the opposite sex. His erudite manners and conversation were simply not enough to attract the type of female companionship he desired. The M.E. couldn’t put into his personal life what he longed for, and frequently purchased.
Subsequently, and consequently, he allocated a portion of his weekly pay to subsidize his addiction to women. Behind closed doors in fourth floor walk ups, and in some of Miami’s finer hotels, his whores created for him a life he craved.
It was on an exceptionally warm February morning in Miami when his dream of associating with a beautiful woman who needed him for more than one night’s pay began to materialize.


Tuesday, February 14, 10:50 a.m.

Fidel Castro, Prime Minister of Cuba since 1959, and President since 1976, had died in September, a massive stroke claiming his life. Degreed on Law from The University of Havana in 1950, Castro had become leader of an underground organization known as the July 26th Movement which eventually overthrew the Cuban government of Fulgencio Batista in 1959.
Castro proceeded to nationalize Cuban industry, collectivize agriculture, and establish a one-party socialist state, moves that drove thousands of middle and upper class Cubans into exile. His seizure of American-owned companies was one of the reasons for the unsuccessful Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961. His sudden death opened the door for a CIA contingency plan code named ETHAN’S ENTRY that would place Juan Ramos Santiago, a Cuban exile and banker living in Miami, into the position of President.
A democratic idealist, Santiago and his Vice President, Miguel Carlos Belize, a government official, were elected in a landslide victory. Although their country’s economy was in shambles, both Santiago and Belize were determined to rebuild their Latin American nation through the democratic process - at least that was Santiago’s belief. Belize’s acceptance of democracy was dissembled - his love of power was not.
For five months, Belize, and his Administrative Assistant, had been planning with George Tollman, The United States Secretary of Commerce, a method of utilizing U.S. media to dismantle support for the U.S. President’s proposed trade program with Cuba.
Belize, as Vice President, was directly responsible for the Cuban treasury which, even though it was decimated, still contained a few hundred million dollars in American currency and liquid securities.

With Russia now attending its own economic problems at home, Belize figured to create his own brand of Communism, not only for Cuba, but for all of Latin America. With his old friend’s assistance, American industrial and financial investment in the island nation would be dissuaded long enough to move Santiago out of office. For George Tollman’s efforts, Belize would deposit from his treasury thirty million dollars into two of the Commerce Secretary’s three Swiss bank accounts.
Tollman would pay his NSA associate two million dollars for his assistance in the plan, and Miguel Belize would take care of his Administrative Aid.
But the dissuasion would not be easy, and presently neither Belize and his assistant, nor Tollman and his associate had been able to conceive through their planning a significant use of the media that would cause the President’s program to fail. The Cuban people wanted American support, both houses of Congress were backing Santiago and the U.S. President, and corporate America saw opportunity waiting ninety miles off the Florida Keys.
The only way the rebuilding of Cuba could fail was if the American voting populace did not support the plan. In the U.S. politicians lend patronage to their constituencies.
A grass roots media effort that would destroy public support in the United States would be an incredible task, and the question of how to devastate this support through the media was one which neither Belize nr Tollman could answer - until Daniel Bellcamp, writer for Yankee Echo, betrayed a trust, and gave them part of the answer they needed.
Bellcamp had been tied up in budget and management meetings for six weeks, and, as a writer was itching to get his pen in hand again.
Standing at the easterly window in his sixth floor office, he silently reviewed potentials for an editorial.
Local politics, education, municipal solid waste, corruption in collegiate sports - nothing moved him.
Returning to his desk, he noticed a cryptic facsimile message sitting on top of his latest personnel budget. It was a fax he’d received on a specially retrofitted fax machine in his home - a message that should have been committed to memory, and then destroyed.
D.B. 2/13 9:03 A.M.
ROBERT, ROBERT
PREP
CBA
CPTUS
SUPTUS
NOOP - USEDL
FLWC’SLYBS
2CME - POSSIBLE - STNDBY
ROBERT, ROBERT

It would have appeared as a nonsensical message to anyone reading it without knowing its point or origination, or its reason for existence.
Translated, this particular message regarded support of the President’s Cuban economic initiative.
To: Dan Bellcamp
From: ROBERT WIRTHAM
Prepare for writing
On Cuba
Corporate United States involvement
Support President’s program
No personal opinions - use deductive logic
Follow Courtney’s lead - you’ll be sent
Possibility it will come - Stand by
ROBERT WIRTHAM

Bellcamp, and every other Yankee Echo reporter and Editor or writer across the country had received the same fax.
Neither he, nor any of the other writers or Managing Agents knew the exact size of the organization - a decision to keep size confidential was made many years ago by Wirtham, McKenzie, and the then sitting Director of The Central Intelligence Agency. The writers only knew their recruiter, Wirtham, their geographic Managing Agent, and Courtney - the guy who wrote their leads. Their extra paychecks came from subsidiary companies of JGM Exports with local bank affiliations in each state.
All had received the message on fax machines in their homes, and alal were prepared to follow Courtney’s lead, should it come.
Any wavering of public support for the President’s Cuban economic reform package could be met immediately by a blitz of organization-written articles and editorials published throughout the country. If necessary, several articles would follow the first. The fax was simply an alert.
BE AWARE - WE MAY ACT
Bellcamp understood, having received both by Federal Express, and by fax, several hundred of these messages I his eleven years with the covert group.
The idea of the Cuban initiative piqued the robust editor’s interest. The Latin population in THE HERALD’s primary market had increased dramatically over the last five years. He wondered how many Cuban exiles would be returning, or had already returned to their homeland.
How would this egress from America onto the beaches of Cuba affect both economies? There were considerable monies in the greater Miami area controlled by Cuban exiles. How would the potential exodus of these funds affect the local economy? Would the sudden impact of democracy rumble through the entire infrastructure of Cuba, or would it spurt and decline, and ebb and swell like most other start-up democracies.
Bellcamp picked up his phone to speak to his Business Editor, a man sitting only thirty-five feet beyond his own office. Marshall Chamberlain was past his first deadline, waiting for the results of the initial blocks of trading on the New York Stock Exchange. Nonchalantly taking the call, he could tell the boss was excited.
“Marshall, who in the new Cuban government will be handling the day-to-day logistical effort on their economy?”
A blank, yellow legal pad sat ready to accept his notes.
The Business Editor, not expecting the question, thought silently for a moment.
“That’s probably going to be Belize, Dan. I know he’s got all the money under his control - why?”
“I’m thinking of interviewing him.”
He wrote the name.
“Good idea. There’s been a lot of talk and speculation but I don’t think anyone has a real handle on how the whole thing’s going to shake out over there. I can get you a phone number from downstairs.”
“Do that for me, please, Marsh.”
His mind was already formatting headlines.
Twelve minutes later, THE HERALD’s receptionist, a former AT&T overseas operator, had the private number of Miguel Belize, Vice President of Cuba. It was passed on to the M.E.
He dialed, not knowing what he would say, but feeling a rush of adrenalin from the possibilities that could emerge from the story.
“Buenos Dias.” Belize’s Administrative Assistant answered the private line thinking the call might be coming from someone within the new government.
“Good morning, Miss, my name is Daniel Bellcamp. I’m Managing Editor at THE MIAMI HERALD. And was wondering if you would allow me to speak with the new Vice President of Cuba, Senor Belize.”
He didn’t even know if she spoke English - she sounded young.
There are times when luck becomes the most important part of a successful bid to secure a goal. Such was the case in his first attempt to speak with the new Vice President of Cuba.
Catalina Salizar was not only Miguel Belize’s assistant, but also his financial advisor, and mistress. Holding a Masters degree in finance from The University of Miami, she believed, as he did, that the wealth of a nation belonged in the hands of the masses, as long as a good portion of that wealth belonged to her. She was as greedy as Belize, and until Juan Ramos Santiago fell from power, both she and the Vice President would remain greedy without power.
She knew all about his plans, all about George Tollman, and all about the problems both men faced. Bellcamp’s call triggered in her the thought process they all had been considering, the potential use of the media to subvert the proposed U.S trade program with Cuba. The M.E.’s call was unsolicited - could it be converted into opportunity, for Miguel, for Tollman, and, of course, for herself? Although she had good intuitive instincts, she had no way of knowing the degree of opportunity this caller would lay before them. Although she’d been surprised by the call, she responded without hesitation to the polite voice in Miami.
“Yes, Sir, the Vice President is available.”
She played the patron.
Two minutes later, Bellcamp would hear the voice of the Vice President of Cuba.
During the wait, Belize had been quickly briefed by his assistant.
They both thought it would be worth the effort to investigate his intentions.
He took the call.
“Mister Bellcamp, this is Miguel Belize, what may I do for you, sir?”
“Thank you for taking my call, Mister Vice President.” He used the English formal title.
“I recently been reviewing pieces of information relative to your new democracy, and I’d appreciate the opportunity to personally interview you regarding your country’s economic plans. As you are aware, there’s still a large contingency of your fellow nationalists in the greater Miami area, and your reforms will affect them, as well as your own population. I believe you might have a need to communicate with this exiled community. My newspaper could become the vehicle for that communication.”
Belize shook his head, thinking to himself, ‘you certainly can help solve my problems with your newspaper.’
“It would be my pleasure, Mister Bellcamp. Perhaps you could spend Friday and Saturday this weekend as my guest?”
Glancing at his calendar, the Managing Editor noticed a scribbling he’d written - a not regarding a rendezvous with a cocktail waitress.
He struck through the note with his pencil.
“Thank you Mister Vice President. I am free this weekend. I can arrive on your island - say Friday evening sometime?”
“That will be fine. My assistant, Miss Salazar will assist you with an arrangement for an escort from the airport.”
“Thank you again sir, I look forward to seeing you on Friday evening.”
All two hundred fifty pounds of him bounded toward his office door.
Throwing it open, he produced a sweeping gesture with his right arm.
“MARSHALL, COME IN HERE, AND BRING YOUR PAD.”

The Dow was down sixty points with mild trading. Were it not for IBM moving up a point and a half, Marshall Chamberlain would almost have been asleep. He’d seldom heard his boss so excited, and moved in proportion to the apparent urgency of the call. Now seated in the M.E.’s office, he wrote furiously on a small pad while Bellcamp gave orders.
“I want everything you’ve got on the Cuban economy. I need agricultural output for the last five years, gross national product, degree of indebtedness, stability of the currency, and every forecast you can get your hands on. I’ll be on the island this weekend having a personal interview with their new Vice President.”
“How the hell did you swing that in ten minutes?
“Law Eleven, Marsh. These people haven’t talked openly to the American media in years. I’m about to open the floodgates of journalism in the world’s newest democracy.”
He wondered if Chamberlain had understood his reference to the Physical Law - it didn’t matter.
“Get me that information before tomorrow noon, Marsh.”
Without any additional comment, he was out the door, moving his portly form to a private celebration at his favorite watering holes with one of his whores. He would have the beginnings of an international story this weekend. He thought of Joseph Pulitzer, and the annual awards presented in his name for outstanding achievement in letters and journalism.
‘Would the Advisory Board of The Columbia School of Journalism see this story as a potential? They’d have to consider it, wouldn’t they?’
Friday, February 17, 7:37 p.m.

Miami Airways flight 223 touched down at Havana airport carrying twenty five passengers. The Fairchild’s variable-pitch propellers rotated counter clockwise thirty degrees creating air brakes as they pushed against the plane’s forward thrust. The pilot and copilot applied wheel brakes fro inside the cockpit.
Catalina Salazar had been previously notified. A black Mercedes 560SEL now pulled to within seventy feet of the plane’s port wingtip.
The little luggage that Bellcamp needed for a short visit would not reach the Havana terminal, nor would he pass through customs. He’d been thoroughly checked out by Police security, and was receiving VIP treatment usually reserved for visiting diplomats and dignitaries. When flight 223’s self-contained stairwell came to rest just above the Cuban soil, two national secret police agents were waiting to escort the Managing Editor to the Vice President’s private villa.
During the ride, he thought of Wirtham and Courtney. He new both men would have disapproved of this interview.
However, they weren’t important to him now, the possibility of a Pulitzer nomination, and the money that would come from it mattered more.
Both secret police agents accompanied the M.E. to the front entrance of the Vice President’s villa. One opened the door, allowing Bellcamp to enter alone. When a hidden metal detector remained silent, both agents left without speaking.
“Welcome to Cuba Mister Bellcamp…please join me, the Vice President will be with us shortly.”
She was stunning.
Catalina Salazar had appeared to his right in the open doorway of a mahogany-walled room. Just five days short of her thirtieth birthday, she was wearing a plunging black evening dress hemmed at mid thigh.
Her long, shapely legs revealed both youth and physical prowess, She was a black haired, brown eyed, silky Morena colored Latin American beauty.
The fat M.E. absentmindedly straightened his coffee-stained blue and white tie while she gracefully took his arm leading him into Miguel Belize’s library, a considerable resource of reading with a diversity of authors - Tolstoy, Poe, Virgil, Yeats, Sinclair.
Releasing his arm, the comely, almost thirty year old turned to face him. It was such a smooth movement, it was almost if she were in a waltz.
“I am Catalina Salazar, Senor Belize’s Administrative Assistant, would you join me for a cocktail, Mister Bellcamp?”
“Continuing her waltz movements, she took four steps to a Brazilian teak wet bar where she lifted a cut Waterford crystal decanter, her jet black hair falling half over her face due to the sexy tilt of her head in his direction.
“It’s Kauffman Vodka from Russia - rocks?”
Her words were phrased more as an invitation than a question.
“Yes, please, that would be fine, thank you.”
His staccato response was to a question, not an invitation.
She noticed.
Pivoting, she swept her hair with a twist of her long neck, arm extended offering the libation. He began to feel more at ease, accepting the drink more graciously than he’d responded to its proposal.
Bellcamp raised his glass, an offering for her to follow.
“To the success of your new democracy, Senorita Salazar.”
The toast was sincere, and quite evident to her. She responded without hesitation and moved closer to the fat man.
“To you, Mister Bellcamp, and your kind words.”
Her toast was patronizing. He didn’t miss it, she’d just blown Law Nine.
As they sipped their Kauffman, the Vice President appeared in the library’s doorway. Belize was a handsome, mustached, muscular, average sized man who looked aptly intelligent enough to be able to handle and interpret the volumes gracing his favorite retreat.
She played hostess.
“Senor Vice President, this is your houseguest from Miami, Mister Bellcamp.”
He felt an awkwardness standing next to this woman, a drink in his hand. Shuffling, he moved three feet.
Walking briskly toward them, the Vice President extended his right hand, reaching for the Managing Editor’s.
“Welcome to our country Mister Bellcamp. Please, make yourself comfortable, we have much to discuss.“
The VP motioned to a couch and two red leather wingbacks sitting on a blue Persian oriental in the middle of the room.
“Something for you?”
Her voice indicated not only a willingness to fix her boss a drink, but also a comprehension indicating she knew what it would be.
‘Yes, Catalina, a tequila, please.”
For the next two hours, Miguel Belize demonstrated what the M.E. had anticipated in the Eleventh Law, a willingness not only to speak with the U.S. media, but also to cooperatively respond to any questions. The new democratic nation was in its infancy, it would need to walk before it could run. There would be at least a three year transition period required to rebuild reliable production, service, and distribution system, among others. Belize told him the government had not yet decided which direction Cuba’s new economic policy would follow.
There were opportunities in finance, tourism, agriculture, and industry. To pursue all of these at once with limited capital available would not be practical. To pick a niche would require many months of diligent analysis and planning.
The Vice President was buying political time. He disguised his economic hesitation as pragmatism, but Bellcamp was no fool.
His many awards for journalism were bestowed for his intellectual insight. His training in the Physical Laws, and their applied application, led him to believe that before him there was a planner who was not planning, a comptroller with a hidden agenda.
The M.E. had ten pages of notes at the end of two hours. Beside him on a red leather, brass appointed couch sat Salazar, her position erotically emblematic.
She was willing to assume any posture necessary to secure the type of editorial commentary THE MIAMI HERALD could provide that would help subvert U.S. economic development in Cuba, and therefore, indirectly provide for her future.
Three intelligent people, sitting less than six feet away from each other were playing games. Bellcamp, feeling he was the brightest of the three, decided at the end of the second hour to shift the game to his rules.
Both of them had been cooperative, but he felt they were too anxious, too prepared with pat answers. It appeared they had orchestrated and rehearsed both their conversations, as well as their responses to his anticipated questions. He had scrupulously reviewed the data provided to him by Marshall Chamberlain.
“Mister Vice President, please excuse me if my naïve knowledge in government is showing, but wouldn’t it be wise for you to accept the offers of American corporations willing to provide the economic expertise and capital you need to rebuild your economy?”
He saw a diminishing glance cast from Belize to Salazar.
It was she who spoke next.
“Mister Bellcamp, with my Vice President’s permission, I’ll answer your question, if I may speak …off the record.”
Both looked toward Belize, he making a simple gesture of approval by slightly raising his cocktail while moving deep into his chair.
The M.E. obligingly agreed to the ‘off the record’ request by simply depositing his pad and pen on the Italian marble coffee table between all of them.
She moved closer to him, right leg crossed over left, her right knee slightly touching his right thigh. Her cocktail evening dress shifted accordingly, the hem line now about three inches higher on her leg than where it was intended to be when the dress was made.
She engaged the M.E.
“There’s still very much poverty and deprivation in Cube, Mister Bellcamp. Before any macro economic development plan is developed, we have to feed every man, woman and child. Hungry people cannot build factories and manufacturing equipment. The proposed U.S. aid is unilateral, and we don’t think it’s properly prioritized.”
Leaning toward him, she gently touched his hand.
“We need food and clothing right now, not bricks and steel.”
The M.E. knew he was being delivered a cop-out story. Cuba was in no way going hungry or naked. He listened politely, however, until she’d finished her attempt at just plain bullshitting him.
At 11:30 the Vice President excused himself - an early morning appointment with Cuba’s Agricultural Minister required two hours of preparation.
Bellcamp stood to shake the VP’s hand once again and thanked him for the interview.
“Mister Bellcamp, perhaps while I’m attending my agricultural meeting, you will allow Catalina to show you our island. I will be able to meet with you again tomorrow afternoon. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Sir, please, make yourself at home in my residence.”
“Thank you, Mister Vice President.”
The V.P. acknowledged his Administrative Assistant, and with no further words left them alone.
“Vodka rocks, Mister Bellcamp?”
She was pouring before he had a chance to answer.
“Miss Salazar, while we’re touring your island tomorrow, I’d feel more comfortable if you’d call me by my first name.”
“Of course…Dan, and I am Catalina.”
They chatted idly for another hour. She’d kicked off her shoes and had drawn her legs up and under her on the leather couch cushions. Her left arm extending along its top, she was nearly touching his hair.
The right side of his brain told him he was being misdirected. What the hell was so necessary in what she said to keep ‘off the record’ The left side of his brain told him it was of no consequence, he could write whatever he wanted.
At 12:45 a.m., she suggested they have breakfast together on the north veranda. She was also staying the night, and would meet him at
8:00.
Directing him to his room, she held his arm as she had when he first arrived. At the bedroom door, she leaned against the dark walnut trim, hands behind her back.
“Cuba desperately needs help, and your newspaper can play an important role in our development.”
He detected a pretense - why? What was it she and Belize really wanted?
“Good night, Dan.” He didn’t return her words with his own.

Saturday, February 18, 8:04 a.m.

The view from beyond the north veranda’s French glass doors was straight across the Archipelago de Sabana toward the Straights of Florida. Its deep blue-green waters had been crossed by many exiles both in yachts and on homemade rafts.
‘What price will people pay for democracy’ he thought.
“Good morning, Dan!”
Turning, he watched her move toward him in a tight, Egyptian cotton Liz Claiborne, its blue and white floral pattern, as her evening dress, stopped at mid thigh.
“Good morning, Catalina.”
He wore an open collard, green Izod and white chinos.
They were totally out of synch. He knew it, and she knew it.
Eating breakfast with accompanying small talk, he thought through the notes his Business Editor had given him to review.
The Soviet Union had been spending eight million dollars a day in Cuba when it abandoned its only Western Hemisphere Satellite. While the Russian presence had provided a ninety-six percent literacy rate, it’s efforts to diversify the economy had failed. Cuba remained one of the world’s leading sugar producers, but its markets were still primarily in the Soviet Bloc. The island was strategic to the U.S. in terms of its geographic venue, and whatever U.S. President Randall Benson needed to do to keep it democratic would receive top priority in his administration.
Cuba’s per-capita income was a dismal fourteen hundred dollars per year. A better communist economic system would boost total PCI, and would geometrically improve the living standards of the masses in equal proportion, however, a democratic system would exponentially increase the PCI, but would leave a residual core of depravity. Such is the price of a free society.
Supposedly, the rich will care for the poor, but the translation of that idea never seems to reach maturity. In a democracy, there will always be economic, and subsequently and consequently, sociologic stratums.
Sipping her dark coffee from a Belleek cup, she returned the china to its identically patterned saucer.
“Dan, I grew up in the lowest layer of society in Havana. My mother tailored for the Military Officers Corps, and spent a good deal of her earnings each month to buy me books that would help me learn English. When I was eighteen, a little-known exchange program allowed me to attend The University of Miami where I received a Bachelor’s degree in Accounting, and a Master’s degree in finance. When I finished, I entered government service as a financial analyst. I was Miguel’s protégé at the time, and I’ve been with him ever since.”
What she didn’t tell him was that both her great beauty, and her intelligence had captivated the senior government official who would eventually become Vice President, and who would subsequently reward his assistant; rewards she perceived as deserving.
“The first part of my life was not easy, Dan. I know what it’s like to be poor, and if I can help it, I’ll remove poverty from my country.”
She finished her personal, and partial political platform. He’d heard a lot of sob stories in his journalism career.
Normally, to him, this just would have been another. But the storyteller captivated him, caught his emotional attention. He knew his feelings were displaced, but they overruled his logic.
They decided to go for a ride.
A four door, silver 700 series BMW cruised the Cuban landscape driven by a woman, who as a child, could only dream of owning such an extravagance. Beside her sat the Managing Editor of a major U.S. daily, his head swimming with questions and doubt.
“Catalina, pull over.”
“What…do you feel alright?”
“I need to speak with you.”
She swung the car off the coastal highway onto a dusty, seventy foot wide patch of dry dirt and pebbles. The high torque pride of the BMW fleet negotiated perfectly over several rain-washed ruts, finally coming to rest beneath a shady palm.
“What is it?” She’d shifted her left leg to meet her right as she leaned in his direction.
Stroking his closed eyes with the left thumb and forefinger, he suddenly released his hand from its corneal massage, using his hand now to slap his left thigh.
“Damn it, Catalina, you know as well as I do that Juan Santiago has met with Randall Benson, and they’ve agreed to develop an economic reform plan for your country. So what’s all this bullshit about feeding the masses? Your people are not starving. You’ve been talking like a Third World Socialist. Miguel Belize says he can’t decide which economic policy to implement - he wants to be pragmatic - that’s a lot of crap. If you want me to write your story, then give me the truth. I didn’t come over here to get jerked around.”
The last part of his statement was directed more toward the arm holding and leg flashing than any fiscal or monetary crisis or policies.
His former remarks were based on an analysis of a deceptive presence demonstrated by the Vice President and his Administrative Assistant the night prior.
Dan Bellcamp, a man who paid women to love him, cast a glance at her shapely legs, and then her eyes.
Pulling the door handle, he escaped the air-conditioned comfort of the Bimmer to enter the mid morning heat settled on the Cuban landscape.
Walking fifty feet to the north, he stood arms placed on hips and reviewed a calm sea.
He hoped he’d temporarily abandoned a now remorseful woman. He knew, however, he’d only left alone a calculating bitch.
She came to his side.
“I’m sorry, my people really do need your help. Your newspaper - you - can write the story of today’s Cuba the way it should be told.
This woman had a mission.
He thought about Law Twenty Four. In order for him to successfully determine both Belize’s and Catalina’s intentions, he’d need to offer them more than they expected. It appeared that right now, however, they needed him more than he needed them.
“Catalina, just tell me what you and Miguel Belize want. You and I both know my newspaper is very influential in the state of Florida - I can help you.”
A decision had to be made.
She decided to tell him half the truth.
“Dan, walk with me.”
Her request was followed by low level seduction, her right arm through his left, his bicep pulled to her breast, she led him across the dusty Cuban landscape.
Her tone was even.
“I am very familiar, and comfortable with the world of corporate and government finance.
I was recruited by United Technologies, Arthur Anderson and Prudential-Bache, but I turned down their offers to return here and work in our government. I have an affinity for my country and my people. I know what it’s like to be without. I’m on my own, and I intend to have the life I’ve dreamed about. Miguel and I can, and will lead our people.”
He came to understand that she and Belize shared more than an Executive and Assistant relationship. He stopped, making her face him.
“What are you talking about?”
She looked at him without speaking, waiting for an affirmation of confidentiality.
He didn’t miss the point.
“I won’t print any of this conversation.”
He knew what that could do to the Pulitzer.
“Dan, how much money do you make a year?”
He’d been asked that question twice before, once by a commercial real estate developer with an asbestos problem, and once by a large auto dealer accused of odometer tampering. In both instances, he’d walked away from the conversation. He didn’t now, however.
“I make enough to keep me well fed…obviously.”
She continued, feeling a sense of security.
“If I could make available to you a substantial amount of money, would you consider working with me to help develop in Florida a more proper perspective of Cuba’s priorities without the U.S. reform plan as the main one?”
They both regarded one another following her solicitous comment. She had no fear, feeling this man was approachable.
It was he who was wrestling with the implications of her statement.
‘Did she and Belize want to dismantle the economic plan approved by Santiago and Benson
The warm, gentle trade winds brushed over them as he considered for the moment the fact that he could deliver to this woman not just the most prominent newspaper in Florida, but maybe access to the entire system of a clandestine organization known as Yankee Echo. Were she and Belize able to access the covert operation, there was no question they could destroy all U.S. public support for Randall Benson Cuban economic reform plan.
His position of power escalated exponentially. His emotional needs now overwhelmed, he decided to create a monetary opportunity for himself that would be unparalleled in his lifetime.
Although he didn’t know the actual number of writers in Yankee Echo, he did know whom he thought were its two main players - Robert Wirtham and Michael Courtney.
He also knew that Wirtham and Courtney wouldn’t just hand over the reigns of the organization to Belize and Salazar for their initiative. In fact, there plan was diametrically opposed to the information contained in a fax message he’d received regarding support for the President’s program. Once again, he felt the pulsations of greed and power rippling through him. He would need time to organize, to prove his worth, to establish his conditions, to plan for a method of payment to him as well as its schedule.
He hardly believed his own thoughts. How many beautiful women would he have if he could get his price from her? He would become a valuable commodity among the fraternity of single females with…say two million dollars in the bank.
He decided to breach his trust. No more fourth-floor walk-up whores for him.
“Catalina…I have a special fax machine in my home……”
The cloudless Cuban morning allowed a February sun to heat, not only the day, but also two of its participants sitting on a bluff overlooking the ninety miles of water between them and the USA. Catalina Salazar now had two million reasons not to believe his amazing story about a clandestine writing organization in America.
Having listened to a one hour narration on Yankee Echo’s ability to crush U.S. public support for the Cuban economic reform package, she considered both his terms, and his story.
“You want two million dollars to give me two names?”
“Catalina, you’ve just finished telling me you’d provide me with a substantial amount of money if I gave you the media coverage in Florida, and I’m telling you that you can have the whole country. If you want the economic reform plan subverted, and you’ve neither denied nor confirmed that yet, then the only hope you have is me.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth, Dan?”
“You don’t.”
“Then how do Miguel and I know we can trust you?”
“You don’t know that either, but give me two weeks, and I’ll produce enough evidence to convince you.”
She rose to her feet, Claiborne clinging to her ample form.
“Okay, Mister Bellcamp, let’s go tell this story to my Vice President.”
“No, you go see him. I’m going back to Miami to prepare the documentation you need.”
His eyes were cast all over her, sweat beads from the morning sun forming on his brow cascaded into his optic sockets, their saline content causing him to squint. Bellcamp was using Law Twenty Eight - a rapid departure would leave open questions only he could answer, question he preferred to answer on American soil, on his turf.
“What about the story you came here for? What will you tell your publisher?”
“He’ll understand. That story can’t be written after one interview. I’ll need you to come to the U.S. to give me more details. When you come to visit, I’m sure you’ll have a diplomatic passport, and be able to deliver my two million dollars - in American currency, please. I’ll disappear once I have the money - Marshall Chamberlain can have the Pulitzer.”
“Who…What!?”
“Never mind.”
“Dan, Miguel’s going to require a lot of convincing.”
“Then we’ll need to spend some serious time together to make that happen, won’t we?”
With a smile full of lust, he wiped the sweat from his eyes. She took advantage of an opportunity taking his arm, and, once again pulling it tight against her body.
“Maybe we can spend some time very close together, Dan.”
Deductive logic told him to be cautious, but emotions overruled.

Friday, March 17, 11:15 a.m.

Miguel Belize left his meeting with Juan Ramos Santiago feeling auspicious relief. He believed his report on the state of the Cuban economic reform plan had caused his President to believe each targeted initiative of the plan was on schedule, and receiving his full attention.
He’d told Santiago that the United States Secretary of Commerce would be on the island during the third week of May to discuss the possibility of developing several manufacturing plants with American assets - tractors and large-format diesel engines were the most distinct possibilities.
Santiago knew the U.S. Commerce Secretary was skeptical about American assets being committed in Cuba, but he agreed to leave the American in his V.P.’s hands.
He had an understanding with Randall Benson who had three more years in office, and he trusted the U.S. President implicitly. There were also others interested in Cuba - from other countries.
Tollman’s meeting with Belize would actually be a planning session, but it would be the antithesis of what they thought Santiago expected. Their discussions would revolve around the forced exploitation of a clandestine writing organization, and also around the two people revealed to them by a Managing Editor of a major U.S. daily to be the leaders of that operation, Robert Wirtham and Michael Courtney.
Tollman, through the NSA had complete dossiers no both men. In Wirtham’s folder, records indicated he was the legal owner of JGM Exports. His business consulting background, and the Physical Laws component of his education, led the Secretary to believe he was very capable of both forming, and operating a multi-million dollar company.
Records indicated Wirtham had formed the company while teaching at The University of Vermont. An authorized electronic check into Internal Revenue Service records evidenced no abnormal asses or capital behavior at JGM - the company was solid.
On paper, and in the IRS computers, Wirtham was a responsible corporate president making money for his company.
Had Tollman not been briefed by Belize, he wouldn’t have known that the great majority of monies spent by JGM were going to Yankee Echo writers. In addition, what was not in the former UVM professor’s folder was the ‘why’ Why had Wirtham formed Yankee Echo? There were no records to indicate payoffs for favorable press from large corporations, foundations, or political organizations.
Why the need for a covert organization with such power? Where was the utility of the operation? That part didn’t make sense to the Secretary. However, an adversarial commonality actually made him admire the organization and its composition.

Michael Courtney had been a straight ‘A’ student through the four years of his metaphysical major at UVM. In his junior year, the acceptance of his Physical Laws corollary earned him a title he never used, even though the bequeathing of he title had made him a nationally recognized figure in his field.
Courtney was paid one hundred twenty thousand dollars a year by JGM Exports, and another fifteen thousand by Boston College where he taught The Physical Laws albeit just a few days a week. His income taxes were in order, and he didn’t live extravagantly. A casual, well-dressed and clean shaven individual, he had dated several women, but had never been married.
It was in the last paragraph on the final page of the dossier for Michael Courtney where George Tollman found the link he needed to convince the analyst, and either his partner or boss, to provide under duress, the power behind the organization known as Yankee Echo.

Courtney was seriously involved with one of his students, a Kathleen McKenzie, daughter of Patrick Gaffe McKenzie III, Chairman of McKenzie Industries. There was only one other McKenzie child, John Gaffe McKenzie, mortally wounded in a firefight in the La Dang Valley of Vietnam.
Tollman would meet the McKenzie family once again - what was left of them. An addendum sheet to Courtney’s folder indicated Patrick McKenzie III would be vacationing alone in the Bahamas during the second and third weeks of May.
Tollman jotted a note to himself:

Take K. McKenzie’s father to Cuba.
Let Courtney know through Wirtham
Operation begins 5/19


Saturday, May 20, 7:34 a.m.

There are approximately ten thousand people per square mile in Washington D.C.’s sixty-three square miles. The city with forty three hospitals, sixty-one radio stations, and six universities and colleges, was remarkably quiet considering its potential to make noise.
Courtney appreciated the calm.
Passing the final light, another with an electromechanical switch manufactured by Greencastle Manufacturing, he saw the Rand building two blocks ahead.
The granite structure, headquarters of JGM Exports, was also home base for Yankee Echo. She notice the lights on the third floor where all the square footage was assumed by the export company and the writing organization.
She thought out loud. “I wonder if Robert got any sleep last night.”
Courtney, knowing she needed no confirmation, responded with a request, the first part of the first contingency plan he’d formed, and was now developing through its first phase of implementation.
“Kay, after we see Robert, could you call the Marriott and get us a suite with two separate phone numbers? And also, could you call Eddie Dalger, either at McKenzie, or at his home on Old Lyme? Ask him for a Wallensak reel-to-reel tape recorder with an encoder and also an anti-static system. Either he, or a McKenzie technician is going to have to get it delivered to the hotel today.
She nodded affirmatively without speaking.
Courtney wheeled the Jeep into the Rand’s private garage. The new parking attendant, reviewing his license plate, and checking it against his log, waive the wagon through a now opening steel-grilled gate. Locating a space next to one of the building’s three elevators, he breathed a temporary sigh of relief shutting down the V-6.
“It’ll be nice to take a shower upstairs. Which bag do you need for a change of clothes?”
“All of them.”
She finally settled for her largest bag, the carrying strap of which was now slung over his left shoulder. She carried one of his, half as large in the same fashion.
Behind the closed door of the elevator, he regarded this girl, woman. In a physical statement they had come to accept as a private demonstration of passion, he gently stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, both looking deep into each other’s soul through the passageways behind their eyes. Allowing each other their vulnerability, they had now walls between them right now.
The Rand’s entire third floor, to the casual observer, appeared to be occupied by the export company. Etched in its glass door were the scripted initials JGM. They’d been engraved in memory of a son.
Pushing on the three hundred pound clear panel, it swung freely and easily on it fulcrum brushed-steel hinges. He allowed her first entry.
A call from the garage attendant following a prior briefing by Courtney had alerted JGM’s President to the fact his visitors had arrived. He now entered the unattended reception area where his two tired, one slightly wounded friends deposited their luggage.
“KATHLEEN, MICHAEL!”
Robert Wirtham was promptly and affectionately embraced by a young woman he’d known since her childhood.
“Oh, Robert, it’s so good to see you - have you heard from Dad?”
A somber reflected moan signified he had no answer, but it wouldn’t be what she wanted to hear. Courtney, two feet behind her, reacted with a straight stare while almost imperceptibly shaking his head, not an indication for Wirtham to lie, but to tell a half truth.
“Not yet, Kathleen. I’ve been trying. Don’t worry, Hon, your dad can take care of himself.”
The latter part of Wirtham’s brief report cause a release of hydrochloric acid into the innermost layer of Courtney’s stomach.
“Kay, why don’t you take a shower and freshen up, then you can call the Marriott and Eddie Dalger.”
She looked through him knowing he’d need time to speak to Wirtham.
She also believed he’d tell her everything when he finished analyzing whatever it was he needed to analyze.
“Robert, I think my teacher’s going to ask you some questions. I hope you have answers - he can get cranky.”
She kissed her father’s friend on the cheek.
“I’m glad we’re with you.”
Retrieving her bag, she moved to JGM’s executive suite, three rooms and two bathrooms that would easily flatter any five star hotel guest.
Courtney exchanged a deliberate with his mentor.
“Where’s Pat?”
“I don’t know…but he’s in their hands.”


Chapter 4

The Eighteenth Physical Law
Time Is Elastic, And Rapid Motion Slows It


Saturday, May 20, 11:37 a.m.

Albert Einstein’s Special General Theory of Relativity is considered by many learned men and women to be the single most important thought of humankind.
In part of his theory, Einstein proved that the effect of motion and gravity on time caused it to become dilated, or expanded. Time dilation in relativity confirmed that the faster you move, the more time you have to complete something.
In metaphysical terms, the theory of the Eighteenth Law has more philosophical than physical properties. In the world of human realities, advantages are gained by rapid motion, thinking and acting before an adversary can act, causes a negative effect on any offense posture established by an opponent.
A pitcher in baseball always has the advantage of a batter because of the Eighteenth Law, but a runner on first base has the advantage over the pitcher. A Special Forces British commando unit who’s slogan is “Who Dares, Wins” is an example of the practical application of Law Eighteen.

Courtney, sitting opposite JGM’s President following a shave, shower, and three hour rest, subconsciously brought Law Eighteen to bear on the breach in Yankee Echo. In his contingency plan, it would become a remediation priority. Act first, and act quickly.
“How’s Kathleen, Michael?”
“She’s still sleeping.”
Wirtham’s voice was soft - “When are you going to tell her about Pat?”
Courtney’s was equally soft - “Soon, before she figures it out on her own. When was the last time they made contact with you?”
“It was about forty-five minutes before you got here. - the message was - We Have Mister McKenzie, And We’re Serious.
“It was a man’s voice, mature, clear, no accent. Apparently, they don’t know Pat’s involved with Yankee Echo. I think they took him because of your relationship with Kathleen.”
Wirtham had no sooner finished his statement when he realized he may have phrased it imprudently.
“Michael, I didn’t…”
“Don’t worry, I understand. They want me. They probably think you own Yankee Echo and run it, that’s the appearance we give them. I’m worried about Pat, but at the same time, I’m thankful they didn’t go after Kay. Pat can handle himself. She’d kick someone in the balls and would have been in a world of trouble.”
Sitting deeper in his chair, he began tapping the tips of his fingers together in front of his chest, finally bringing each hand’s opposite digits to rest against their counterparts.
“Robert, is our TAC 5 ready?”
A ‘TAC‘, or Tactical Advantage Communication, was a coded organization message which would alert the Yankee Echo network regarding the stories, and the number of stories they would write, what position to take on their stories, and when to publish.
“Yes, it’s all loaded for a Cuban write.”
“When did the breacher say he’d contact us again?”
“He wasn’t specific - but he sounded urgent.”
Courtney sat up straight in his chair, his hands coming to rest on his knees.
“OK, let’s roll the TAC this afternoon, but I want to exclude any newspaper with a circulation base greater than two hundred thousand. I’m guessing the breachers are probably metropolitan based, so I want to keep the stories in the smaller format papers. Maybe we can give grass-roots America a shot in the arm.”
“How many writes do you want?”
“Just one - I don’t want to make too many changes right now.
“Michael soon were going to be working for them, they want negative press.”
“They’re going to get it. Remember, they don’t know how big we are - at least we don’t think they do. I don’t intend to turn the whole organization over to them. Only half of it.
Courtney had no idea he’d only be turning over one-tenth of the writers in the clandestine operation for the breachers’ purpose.
“What’s your occurrence plan?
“Three hundred writers will go pro-active on the Cuban Reform Plan, and the other three hundred will write anti-package. We’ll work off population, income, and demographic bases.”
Wirtham began taking notes.
“In areas where there’s a high concentration of above average marginal incomes, we’ll be pro-package. I want to use the anti-package writers in our rural zones, and in the SMSA’s that have a diversity of ethnic inner city pockets. One half of our editorials and articles should negate the effect of the other half. Until we locate the breachers, and Pat, and take control of this situation for good, that’s going to be the procedure, unless we run into any unplanned contingencies. Right now, I’d like to know more about Florida - what’s happening down there?”
The former professor would answer his question, understanding that his former student, who was now in charge of Yankee Echo would want a full comprehension of the arena in which he was working.
“Andy St. Croix left for Miami last night to check out Dan Bellcamp, our writer at THE MIAMI HERALD. Bellcamp’s called me at least twenty times over the past twelve or thirteen weeks asking for clarifications, checking codes, verifying identification procedures - it was like he’d lost his manual. Then, last week, he sent an exchange editorial to THE SAVANNAH MORNING NEWS about the exploitation of the labor force in Cuba. I don’t know if he faxed it anywhere else, but I haven’t heard of anyone else using it. I checked with West Coast, East and West Central, and none of the M.A.’s have seen it in print either. One other thing, he asked me if Tom Griffin was an Echo writer, and if he was, would I mind if he exchanged some writes with him. You know I didn‘t answer that question.”
“That guys a loose cannon, Robert.”
“Andy should be calling in soon, we’ll have the details on whatever he finds. He was going right to Bellcamp’s house.”
The now-in-charge metaphysician had another question.
“Where’s Griffin located? I should have a conversation with him about his article yesterday in the JOURNAL. Did you see it?
“That was something I wanted to ask you about. Where does a staff writer get the leverage to have an exclusive with a Cabinet-Level
Secretary?” “Someone was behind that, we need to know who.”


Friday, May 19, 8:29 p.m.

The short, jacquered-pattern kimono, appropriately packaged in a black Frederic’s box rested in the center of his living room coffee table, it’s contents awaiting transfer of ownership.
It was going to be a surprise for her.
Although Catalina Salazar also had a surprise in store for Dan Bellcamp, the kimono was not the only thing he had prepared for the Cuban V.P.’s mistress tonight.
Dan Bellcamp was expecting a visitor - a Latin with shapely legs who had promised him tonight would be the most everlasting evening he would ever experience.
Splashing on his after shave, he thought about the message he’d written for her on the card he’d purchased at CVS, two blocks east of his house.
On three prior visits, they’d only talked - about a clandestine writing organization and its codes, security clearances, and the top two men in the organization. One who owned and ran it, and one who was it’s analyst. Tonight was the night they had agreed to exchange two million American dollars for the information he’d previously provided, plus the final list of Yankee Echo security codes.

The concept of the organization seemed incredible to both Miguel Belize and George Tollman. But the coded and translated facsimile messages sent from JGM Exports, arriving on request to a fax machine in Bellcamp’s suburban Miami two bedroom ranch, plus the realities that his in-house fax could not be accessed by any other fax, and that its number was unlisted anywhere, led the two men to believe his story could be real.
The investigation of his breached trust, however, had come to several dead ends. How many writers were actually involved? Which media had Yankee Echo infiltrated?
His preliminary inquiries satisfied, the Secretary of Commerce had decided to press the issue, and eliminate the loose end. He and Belize had enough information to begin their operation, and all the information they were going to get from the Managing Editor.
He hadn’t heard her come in. On her last visit, he’d given her a key to the domicile he would never see again after tonight.
“Dan, where are you?”
He heard her voice, his first thought was the card. He’d finished writing the message, but hadn’t yet put it in the envelope.
Hurrying, the Hallmark with painted flowers on its cover was thrown into his upper nightstand drawer while he quickly joined her in his living room.
“Catalina, I wasn’t expecting you until nine.”
The sight of her in her black silk Emporio Armani jump suit caused him to forget the card even existed.
She’d brought with her a rather large pull-along piece of leather luggage.
“Can I fix you a drink? We need to celebrate. I bought a new bottle of Smirnoff.”
Slithering toward the center of the room, Salazar deposited the luggage next to his couch noticing the unmarked envelope on his southern pine coffee table.
Releasing one more button on the bloused part of her already revealing Armani, she accepted the invitation.
“Yes, that would be fine.”
“I have a gift for you, Catalina.”
Waddling to his living room dry bar, he filled two old-fashioned glasses with ice, THE MIAMI HERALD’s masthead and anniversary date on them providing point of origination. The vodka followed, trickling over and down the frozen water in each.
Turning, he noticed she had assumed a seated position on the couch, right arm over its crest, left leg crossed over right, left hand on left thigh.
The Fredric’s box remained in its original position unopened.
“Dan, come, sit next to me.”
His pulse quickened as he shuffled toward her, a newspaper anniversary glass in each hand.
She stood to meet him, reaching for the tumbler extended in her direction.
Grasping it insecurely, its topmost circumference was caused to tip backwards spilling most of its contents on his new Levi chinos, while the rest of the masthead anniversary edition’s liquor and ice fell to his gray rayon carpet.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, let me clean it up.”
“It’s OK, maybe you could get the paper towels under the sink. Let me go change, I’ll be right back.”
Unbuckling his belt, he moved toward his bedroom.
It would take no longer than two or three minutes to change the chinos, a time limitation held in both his mind as well as hers.

She had no intention of cleaning the carpet, although she would cause it to appear an attempt had been made.
A small, glass vial in her right pocket had her full attention while returning from the kitchen and throwing a pull of five paper towels to the carpet.
A quick glance toward the bedroom assured her she had time.
The flask was removed from its silk hiding place next to her equally silk Latin skin. A small, tan cork was pulled from one end.
Pouring the vials clear liquid contents into his masthead edition glass, she replaced the tube in her sleek apparel.
The M.E. returned to the living room.
“There, good as new.”
He moved toward the bar to make her another drink and reviewed the seductress sitting in her original position, a wad of Bounty beneath her soaking up some of the spilled cocktail from his carpet.
Presenting her with the new mix, the breacher deposited himself on the cushion closest to her.
He offered her both a toast, and a question.
“Catalina, I’ve dreamed of tonight - here’s to you and to success - did you bring the money?”
Leaning toward him while taking a heavy sip of her vodka, both silk lapels on her jump suit were caused to fall away from her chest exposing ample breasts, sans bra. The black haired beauty was well aware of her position, as well as the cast of his vision.
“This a night you’ll never forget, Dan. And yes, I brought the money. It’s in the leather luggage. Do you have the final Yankee Echo security codes?”
“They’re right here.” Reaching to the table, he lifted the unmarked envelope on its surface and handed it to her.
Placing his drink in the now empty space where the envelope had been, Bellcamp reached for the Fredric’s box and, in another clumsy gesture, struck his glass with the box’s edge while lifting it for presentation. This caused his MIAMI HERALD anniversary edition to empty itself on the already wet carpet.
The Cuban beauty’s dark brown eyes closed, and summarily slowly opened.
She would need to implement the alternative plan with the assistance of two Cuban secret police presently sitting idle in a black Cadillac Seville parked across the road outside his house.
It would be messy.
“Oh, shit, I’ll get another one.”
Sipping her beverage once again, Salazar thought of the lamp she needed to illuminate sitting on a table across the living room in front of a window - a signal for two agents to lock and load their silenced revolvers. Enough rounds from each would be deposited into the body of one Managing Editor until that body no longer functioned.
The agents were now on standby. When she left the ranch, they would enter and complete a night’s work. She would not have to witness it - just accept it.
Uncrossing her legs, Salazar rose to complete the indicator, but found her long, lower left limb buckle beneath her weight. Tumbling to the deep, gray rayon, her own, and second drink splashed to a radius of ten feet while a blurred, spinning vision of soft light, accompanied by a generous warmth, consumed her nervous system. When she resumed consciousness two hours later, she would remember the words of the bulky man in white chinos perched over her numb form.
“Catalina, you and Miguel neglected Law Twenty-Nine because you never studied it. You never assumed I would take an initiative of my own.”
He prepared to leave with two pieces of luggage, one containing a compensation the jump-suited Cuban never expected him to own, the other holding enough clothes for three days in California where he’d replace his wardrobe.
Dan Bellcamp was a fool for women, but he was also an intelligent fool; and tonight, he was a lucky fool.
The now former Managing Editor had no idea she’d put enough poison in his drink to kill two horses.
His own plan to drug the Cuban was aided by a ‘friend’, a classy uptown whore with access to every drug known to mankind. His instincts had told him Miguel Belize had no intention of allocating two million dollars to his asset balance, no matter how much the Vice President needed the information he could supply. He also felt that, once the money was in his possession, there would be an immediate desire to have it returned, by one method or another.
Bellcamp also had no idea how lucky he would be to put two hours between himself and the two men still in their parked Cadillac waiting for the return of one Catalina Salazar, they absent the signal to prepare for an alternative elimination plan.
He’d left his house by the side door next to the garage, a rose trellis sheltering him from recognition. Finally, because he’d mowed his lawn earlier in the day, the door facing the front of his car was still open in his drive-through garage, allowing him to leave his home from the rear, undetected.

Dan Bellcamp was on his way to sunny Avalon on Santa Catalina Island off the California coast, a weight reduction health spa, and a new identity.


Saturday, May 20, 11:45 a.m.

“Michael, should we call the FBI?”
Robert Wirtham’s voice was low and seemed serious. It was a plan he’d never execute, but he needed to understand Courtney’s intentions. He never got the chance. The question was answered by Kathleen McKenzie as she entered the room.
“NO.”
Her eyes, clear, were filled with purpose.
Quarter-turning a conference chair next to his, he expressed a silent communication to accept a seat in the strategy session.
Her hands now folded on the rosewood conference table, she looked at Wirtham knowing it was he who would have the most information.
“Robert - where’s my father?”
Over the next half hour Wirtham would explain to both of them everything that had happened. He didn’t know how much she could take, and he hoped Courtney would be able to hold her together.
She addressed the same man again.
“Robert, I know he’s not going to be with us again until we go and get him. What are we doing about that?”
He didn’t want her to take it any further while Courtney was there.
“Kathleen, you know we’ll use all of our resources.”
Her knowledge of the scope of the organization, along with accompanying knowledge of its alliances with other organizations allowed his statement to settle her for the time being.
Courtney sensed her for-now resignation.
“Did you have a chance to call the Marriott - Eddie Dalger?”
“He’ll meet us at the hotel this afternoon, at four.”
He looked at Wirtham.
“Let’s send the TAC.”

JGM’s computer room easily handled the daily transactions of the export company. While the company did broker exports for a number of food and kindred product manufacturers, its banks of IBM’s were set up to control an additional product; an information system and network of tremendous proportion.
Inside the room’s soundproof wall were Eleven IBM CL45 class computers with enough stored data on specific topics to rival the United States Census Bureau and the U.S. Commerce Department combined.
Forty computer data specialists daily entered changes into the system with regard to marginal or spend-able income levels in three thousand U.S cities, age and population demographics, political party affiliations by city, U.S. Senate and U.S. Congressional statistics including voting histories on all bills, multi-national business statistics, and information on world-wide standard industrial classification indexes broken out into seventy-two financial and product criteria.
One of the computers housed a transmitter which would deliver the cryptic message to the writers’ fax machines via a radio signal sent out to a satellite.
Wirtham, followed by Courtney and McKenzie approached the main console and keyboard of the complex data center. Taking a seat in a black leather executive chair, JGM’s president tapped out a simple code.
HOTEL - JULIET - TANGO
Almost instantly the computer monitor responded.

CBA 1 WRT
MCTNYLDD
ACC
TTLWRTS
STATS
The computer banks were ready to accept input.
“It’s ready, give me the stats.”
“First, delete all papers with greater than two hundred thousand circulations.”
Wirtham pressed nine keys.
“Now, let’s add an addendum to the lead.”
Twelve more keystrokes.
“The lead’s up.”
“Last line.”
“Got it.”
“Suggest to readers written contact with Congressional Reps and U.S. Senators.”
More keystrokes were tapped.
“It’s in.”
Courtney continued.
“I want to exclude New York City, Los Angeles, Washington, Boston, Miami, and Chicago.”
More keystrokes.
“All set.”
“Let it go - send it TAC five.”
Five additional keystrokes.
“Robert, we’re going…”
The telephone’s ring interrupted the analyst.
Wirtham contemplated the Merlin communication system sitting to his right at the keyboard.
“Is the TAC complete, Robert?”
“Yes - it’s through.”
Courtney breathed deeply
He indicated a telephone on a vacant Assistant Communication’s Director’s desk.
“Kay, pick up the extension over there.”
“Robert, put this one on the speaker.”
Wirtham was slightly apprehensive - both the metaphysician and his girlfriend notice.
The export company’s president picked up the receiver knowing the caller had identified him as the recipient of the communication, and the receptionist had directed the call to the appropriate phone.
“This is Robert Wirtham.”
“Bobby, it’s Andy.”
Andrew St. Croix was Director of Internal Security at JGM Exports. A veteran of the Vietnam conflict, former Naval Deep Cover Operative, and Physical Laws candidate out of Annapolis. He was a somewhat irreverent, however loyal organization man who only knew as much about the clandestine writing group as Courtney did.”
Wirtham exhaled.
“Go ahead, Andy - I have Michael and Kathleen McKenzie on the lines with me.”
The Southern born Naval Academy graduate acknowledged the latter two.
“Hey, Mick, Miss McKenzie, ma’am.”
Wirtham relaxed.
“What’s going on?”
“Well, Bellcamp’s not here. Looks like the man had a Smirnoff party and decided his rug needed a shampoo with it.”
“Are his clothes gone?”
“Not all of them, but by the looks of how their spread out on the hangers seems like a few are missing. There‘s also a couple dresser drawers open”
He continued to report his findings thus far.
“Ah also found the ugliest card ah ever did see in his nightstand drawer, had a message on it that was interesting, dated yesterday - written to a Catalina - Listen to this…”
‘Let your dream begin, not in vain did you come, you return to hold another - ah know. If ah’m betrayed, it is because ah have betrayed.’
“This boy has a real case on some belle. Ah think you were right about him, Mick - he’s apparently a problem.”
Courtney spoke next.
“Andy, bring the card back with you.”
“Yes, sir. You want me to stay, kind of keep an eye on the place?”
“Stay through Sunday, Andy, check out the rest of the house. If he shows up, talk to him.”
“Yes, sir, Ah’ll get a flight out on Monday and let you know when ah‘m in. Mick, you and Miss McKenzie staying in town?”
“I thought we’d be going to Miami - it depends on what else you find out down there, but it sounds like you have it under control.”
“Ah need to go over your plan. Ah don’t want to be shooting in the dark.”
“OK, Andy. I’ll brief you either Monday or Tuesday.”
“Miss McKenzie, you keep him down on Earth, sometimes his head goes spinning off in space.”
Kay felt a moment of relief.
“He’s a little weird sometimes, Andy, but I can handle him. You be careful down there.”
“Yes ma’am. So far it’s a walk in a pine forest.”

Phones were cradled following final regards.
Courtney thought out loud.
“If I’m betrayed, it’s because I’ve betrayed? Sounds like we have our breacher, doesn‘t it?”
Wirtham had the first part of the puzzle and speculated on the second.
“We may have the worm, but we don’t know who’s holding the pole, and right now he’s apparently a double worm.”
She had the perspective.

Robert, we have a suite at the Marriott…”
He faced Kay for a confirmation.
She nodded affirmatively.
“I’m taking Kay over there now. I need some cash, and a favor.”
Wirtham was prepared to provide both.
“Tell me what you need.”
Courtney continued, detailing his requirements.
“I’d like you to download everything you have on Cuba; economics, financial status, government stats with names - then get me a list on Cuban writes for the last two years. I also need a report on the multi-nationals that have expressed interest in the President’s Reform Package. I’ll need it all by tomorrow afternoon.”
It was all within the realm of possibility.
“I’ll have to bring some people in, but you’ll have it.”
There were two additional requisites.
“I’m also expecting a police report from Waltham. It probably won’t be here until Monday, but I’d like to see it as soon as it comes in. I also need my students’ exam papers, and I have to call the Dean and tell him why I’m not around. Who’d you get to fix my office window?”
“We have friends in Boston. B.C.’s in order as far as your office is concerned, and I‘e already notified your Dean. I’ll arrange for your exam papers to get here.
Courtney didn’t question who Wirtham’s ‘friends’ were in Boston, or who would gather up his students’ exam papers. He knew this man to be someone with tremendous human resources available to him, and the subsequent actions of those resources had always worked in the analyst’s favor.
Gently placing his hand on the lower part of her back, Courtney made eye contact and addressed her.
“Kay, are you ready to leave?”
“Yes.”
“Robert, one last thing - I’m going to need Tom Griffin’s number. I’ll call you for it when we get to the hotel.”

They took the elevator down, but got off in the lobby instead of the garage.
She knew there must be a reason, but still had to ask the question.
“Aren’t we taking the Jeep?”
He knew the question would be coming.
“Not until Eddie Dalger gets here and does a sweep on it. We’ll grab a cab to the hotel and have Robert arrange for the rest of the luggage to be delivered.

At every point of egress from Yankee Echo headquarters, and approximately fifty yards away from each point of egress, stood men, each holding a high-frequency Motorola portable radio. The one covering the front entrance now toggled his to establish communication.
“They’re walking out the front door.”
The radioed response was brief.
“Follow them.”


Saturday, May 20, 12:33 p.m.

George Tollman slammed his fist on his mahogany desk.
“HE WHAT? I’LL KILL THAT FAT SHIT!”
“I’m afraid, my good friend, that has already been surmised by our recent Managing Editor. He was not the complete fool we thought.”
Were the Vice President of Cuba not missing two million American dollars, he would almost have admired Bellcamp’s initiative.
“Do you have anyone looking for him?”
“My two best men are in your country as we speak.
They will be going back to his house tonight. They will complete a thorough investigation.”
“They’d better be good - this is a loose end I won’t tolerate - damn!”
“The Secretary thought of his other property now in Cuba.
“Where’s McKenzie?”
“He was brought to my villa, blindfolded of course. He is now in an upstairs room with no windows.”
“What have you told him?”
“He has been told he is being held for a monetary ransom by the Revolutionists, Las Quienientos.”
“Keep him in that room, feed him and make sure he stays healthy.”
“When should I have him speak with his daughter?”
“Not until I tell you. She just left JGM Exports with Michael Courtney. They’re being followed. I’ll call you when I find out where they’re staying.”
“Very well, my friend.”
Forsaking closing remarks, the former Marine Corps Captain hung up his phone. His mind continued to analyze the process he’d use to destroy a Presidential plan, and in so doing, receive a purse of thirty million dollars. He turned his thoughts to his associate, hoping he’d taken him seriously when he explained Courtney’s capability as a foe.

The National Security Agency feeds interpreted covert information derived from sophisticated electronic instrumentation in a network of spy satellites and planes, and from other electronic instrumentation placed around the world, directly to The Central Intelligence Agency, The Defense Mapping Agency, and to the Intelligence Desks of the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corps.
All this data will eventually find its way to The Chairman of The Joint Chiefs of Staff, The Secretary of Defense, and finally, in management briefs, to the President of The United States.
One of NSA’s employees, a curator of much of this information, and working on this Saturday morning, was studying a note transmitted to him from a cellular fax machine in a Black Ford Sedan.

Jeep has been wired.
Transmitting on 6

This man had seen and reviewed hundreds of clandestine messages at jobs in both The Central Intelligence Agency as well as The National Security Agency.
But this particular note was part of a chain, another link that would earn him the payoff he’d always known was available to government officials in positions of authority and trust. Two million dollars to keep three amateurs under surveillance.
Tollman had said it could be a difficult assignment, and had also told him not to underestimate the metaphysician.
Underestimation of Michael Courtney was also mentioned in the NSA brief on him.
Walking to the document shredding room, he thought to himself, ‘What the hell is the big deal about this guy? He’s a philosophy teacher, he doesn’t know the first thing about undercover operations.’
The memo properly disposed, he returned to the office to await a radioed call. It would tell him the destination of two people now in a Washington Yellow Cab, and being followed by one man with a portable Motorola radio in a black Ford sedan.
Courtney handed the cab driver a one hundred dollar bill.
“I want you to do me a favor.”
The cabbie didn’t blink. This had happened before, and he was quite comfortable with it. Nothing needed to be said, just take the Benjamin, and do what he was about to be told.
“Bring us to the Hyatt Regency, and help us carry our bags inside. The lady and I will go to the bar. You go to the restroom, and stay there for five minutes. When you come out, put he bags back in your cab, take them over to the Marriott, and leave them at the front desk. Tell the clerk they should be delivered to…”
He looked at Kay, she understood and finished his sentence for him.
“The McKenzie suite.”
Courtney continued.
“Will the hundred cover it?”
“Hell Boss, I’ll tell them for my grandmother for a hundred. Yeah, I got it.”
The ride to the Hyatt’s main entrance took fourteen minutes.
The black Ford pulling into a Hyatt parking space was now perpendicular to, and two hundred feet away from, the Yellow Chevrolet.
He spoke into his hand-held radio.
“They’re at The Hyatt Regency.”
The response was instantaneous.
“Stay with them.”
The NSA counterpart who’d received the communication wrote a hotel name on a yellow legal pad.
Their luggage deposited just inside the Hyatt‘s lobby, it now rested behind three green Yucca trees in separate royal blue floor planters.
Michael and Kay walked toward the hotel’s Embassy Lounge while a one-hundred dollar wealthier D.C cab driver headed for the men’s restroom.
He knew the question was coming.
“OK, why are we here?”
As usual, his response had been well thought out.
“They don’t know where we’re staying. If they don’t have a base in Washington, I would assume that they at least have people here watching us. They’re smart, and they’ve demonstrated themselves as pros, so we can’t underestimate them.”
“But won’t they find where we’re staying eventually?”
“I’m sure they will, but we’ll make them commit some errors first. I want them to start questioning themselves.”
‘So, what do we do now, Professor Courtney?”
“You go into the lounge and order us something. I’m going up to the front desk for a minute.”
Reviewing the lobby as he slowly walked, he noticed eleven people. A mother was disciplining her son for chasing his younger sister around a tall rubber plant. Two business men were checking either in, or out. A thirty-fiveish looking woman with long, straight auburn hair sat in a lounge chair glancing through a copy of WOMANS DAY magazine. An elderly couple had just come through the front entrance accompanied by a Bell Hop. A teenage boy stood against a pillar looking entirely bored; and a man about forty was approaching him. They passed within four feet of one another, the well-dressed, brown haired stranger entering the Embassy Lounge.
Once at the desk, Courtney requested a Washington D.C. street map. Receiving a combination map and sightseeing guide, he unfolded it, and stood so his peripheral vision caught sight of the brown-haired stranger, now standing in the doorway of the lounge. Courtney additionally noticed a cabby who had exited a washroom, and was picking up some luggage that had been sitting next some Yucca trees.
His thoughts, and his sight line, returned to the brown-haired stranger.
‘Why didn’t stay in there? Why’s he standing next to the door?’
Finishing what appeared to be a serious perusal of his street directory, he began moving toward the Embassy’s entrance.
Courtney approached the entrance to the Hyatt lounge.
The stranger had entered the lounge once again, and was now pulling a high-backed, swiveling yellow oak bar stool away from the brass foot rail near its base.
Kay was seated at a round, dark brown oak table in an overstuffed chair, legs crossed.
He sat down in a similar one directly across from her, his back to the stranger. He had two other chairs he could have chosen at the same table.
“ I got us a sparkling water, Michael.”
She leaned into the table between them.
“How long are we going to stay here?”
His answer was appropriate for the moment.
“I guess until I can figure out how to get us out of here without them seeing us go - if they’re even watching us at all.”
She said the first thing that came to mind.
“Do you want to split up?”
He said the only possible thing that could have come to his mind.
“No way.”
She appreciated the two words.
One-half hour later, he decided to test the stranger still sitting at the bar, apparently engrossed in the Yankee, Red Sox game on the television near his end.
“Kay - there’s a guy down the end of the bar.”
She leaned her head slight to the left to see past Courtney’s.
104
“Dark brown hair?”
“Yeah, he’s been here as long as we have - came in just behind us. I’m going back to the front desk, you watch him; I want to know what he does when I leave.”
It seemed like a simple enough assignment.
“OK.”
Courtney backed his chair out, rose, and reached for his wallet in his left rear pocket. As he exited the lounge, he pulled a credit card from its contents. It looked like a logical procedure as he once again proceeded to the registration desk. It was close to 3:00 p.m., normal check-in time. At the desk, he registered a room with a King-sized bed for May 29th, a reservation that could easily be canceled later. The transaction complete, he returned to the lounge.
Returning to their table, she gave him her report before he asked for it, but had assumed his previous position across from her.
“He came to the door and watched you all the time you were gone.”
His instincts had told that was exactly what was going to happen.
“Then he’s probably one of them.”
Courtney had formed a plan for an occurrence during the time he and Kay had already spent in the Hyatt’s oak-furnished lobby lounge. He knew he would lose some or all of the effectiveness of it if he told her what it was. So he simply decided to put it into action.
“Kay, we’re going to have a loud argument..”
This time the tilt of her head was slightly to the right, eyes somewhat squinting.
“What!?”
“DON’T ASK ME THAT, YOU’RE SUCH A PAIN IN THE ASS!”
“Michael, what the…”
He was on his feet now, interrupting her.
“IS THAT THE ONLY WORD YOU HAVE IN YOUR VOCABULARY! WHEN THE HELL ARE YOU GOING TO BE ABLE TO THINK FOR YOURSELF!”
Besides the dark haired stranger, there were about two dozen other people in the lounge. The room was large enough to accommodate one hundred, an presently small enough for everyone to bear witness to a very loud argument between and man and a young woman, the latter, still seated, now poised with half a glass of sparkling water in her right hand.
Kay caused the remaining beverage in her glass to spread through an arc to a radius of about ten feet. Within that radius stood a teacher of Physical Laws, his black Izod pull-over now soaked with a portion of her Saratoga. Sprinting from her comfortable seated position, she moved to no more than six inches from him, both hands on appropriate hips.
Hers was a very loud indulged request.
“HAVE YOU GONE WHACKY!”
“His was just a continuation of an occurrence plan now in action.”
“I’M NOT THE ONE WHO’S WHACKED OUT! I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING IN THE DAMNED WORLD FOR YOU! I’M SURPRISED YOU CAN EVEN WIPE YOUR OWN NOSE!”
Kathleen McKenzie was a woman you always wanted as an ally, and never a foe.
“I’M GOING TO WIPE MY HAND ACROSS YOUR FACE IN ABOUT TWO SECONDS!”
Behind the bar, Lillian Torres, known affectionately as Lil to everyone on The Hyatt Regency staff, had pressed what would have appeared to be a doorbell were it able to be seen on the underside of the dark oak trim bordering a shelf of assorted liquor bottles. Although no audible sound was heard in the lounge itself following its depression, the button had alerted the hotel’s security staff to a problem they needed to address in the Embassy Lounge.
Presently, two, six-foot six inch Georgetown University varsity basketball players just beginning their summer employment were within earshot of Courtney’s next words, their forward-moving position just beyond the lounge doorway.
“I DIDN’T KNOW THAT PEA BRAIN OF YOURS COULD SEND A MESSAGE TO YOUR HAND THAT FAST.!”
Her right arm, drawn back to its furthest position before beginning its forward thrust found itself captured there by the largest black hand she had ever seen. Marven Devon, a Junior point guard for the Hoyas towered over her. James Mitchell, Devon’s teammate and a Senior forward at Georgetown was standing behind her teacher with equal towering status. It was Mitchell who made the request of the two arguers.
“Would you please come with us, Sir, Ma’am. The bar will take care of your tab.”
There was no hesitation. Walking from the room, the Senior forward to his immediate right, Courtney noticed the dark-haired stranger near the end of the bar slapping a twenty on its highly polished smooth solid oak surface.
The stranger, now half turned on his stool, was still in a line of sight for Courtney - he would obviously follow them, but would not be allowed entry into the Hyatt’s security offices.
Another occurrence plan almost completed.

The short walk to the Regency’s security offices took only two minutes. Inside, two black pillars stood with backs to the doorframe requesting their charges be seated.
Five minutes later, The Regency’s Chief of Security appeared from an alternative entrance to the room. Courtney took notice. A possible egress.
Steve Fortunato, a retired New York City Detective with multiple awards for meritorious service addressed Courtney and McKenzie just prior to seating himself behind his desk.
“May I see some identification?”
He’d asked the same question hundreds of times before.
Courtney pulled his driver’s license and Boston College ID from his wallet, politely handing them across the desk.
His in hand, Fortunato requested the same of the young lady.
“And you, Miss?”
She, in turn, retrieved a driver’s license and her McKenzie Industries Senior Executive ID from her purse. Her intention was not without logic.
The corporate identification didn’t escape the Security Director’s notice. McKenzie Industries maintained hospitality accounts, not only with the Hyatt, but also with several other international hotel chains. Pat McKenzie was well known for very generously taking care of the security staff at all the hotels.
“Miss McKenzie, are you related…”
“Yes, he’s my father. I‘m very sorry about all of this.”
“Are you folks staying with us now?”
“Not this week, we just stopped in for a drink.”
“Do you think you could work out your problem somewhere else?”
Courtney had taken notice of the engraved brass nameplate on his desk.
“Mister Fortunato, this has been very embarrassing, I apologize. We’ve been traveling all night, and we’re both pretty edgy.”
The former detective wanted closure.
“Well, aside from putting on a show, I suppose there was no harm done.
Mister Courtney, would you excuse us while I speak with Miss McKenzie?”
She put her hand on Courtney’s arm before he could move.
“That won’t be necessary, Mister Fortunato. Mister Courtney and I have McKenzie Industry business in Washington. We had a major disagreement in you lounge, but that’s not uncommon for us. This man is under contract with my father’s company, and he sometimes allows his loyalty to become confused with authority. I appreciate your concern, and I know it’s for my well being, but this man is no threat to me. In fact, I trust him with exclusivity. If it wouldn’t be inconvenient, and if we may, I’d appreciate it if we could leave by a door other than the one we came in.”
Neither ball player/security guard had ever heard a girl approximately their age speak with such disarming fluency. The both sensed her brief speech had caused their boss enough satisfaction to feel that, although she was irritated with him, he posed no threat to her.
The Chief of Security stood addressing his two charges.
“Very well, James, Marvin, would you please show these people through the kitchen to the outer doors?”
He looked at Courtney.
“You’re welcome here anytime, but we can’t disturb our guests.”
Courtney’s answer was brief.
“I understand. It won’t happen again.”

There were three chefs in the Hyatt’s kitchen preparing for the evening meal. As the strange entourage passed through, two of them turned, not only to enjoy the pleasant appearance of a long-legged blond, but also because they’d heard her make reference to a black-eyed vegetable to be served with dinner.

“Pea brain, Michael? You’re going to take that back.”
He thought it best to offer no response. It didn’t take a lot of any kind of thinking.

He sat disconsolate in the black Ford reporting to a senior.
“I lost them.”
He already knew the response he’d hear.
“How the hell could you lose them?”
“They got into a fight in a lounge, some security guys took them into an office, and they never came out. I checked with the front desk, they’re registered to by here on the twenty-ninth.”
“This is incredible, get your ass back here.”
“Yes, sir.”


Saturday, May 20, 4:15 p.m.

The United States government is the world’s largest purchaser of high-tech electronics systems. Each year, hundreds of millions of U.S. tax dollars are allocated to procure the best available computers, guidance devices, electromechanical systems, and electronic control systems. In addition, millions more are spent on research and development to insure, and to maintain, superiority in weapons technology and covert surveillance equipment.
No one, including Japan, Germany, France, England, and Russia, has developed anything close to the electronic technology and complexities found onboard U.S. fighter jets and other military aircraft. The U.S. has an ability to defend itself, and to engage war, that is incomparable in the annals of human history.
Ninety-five percent of the electronics systems developed for either the U.S. military, or for surveillance use, are manufactured by private industry.
In the field of covert and military electronics, McKenzie Industries was one of the U.S. Government’s major research and development, as well as production vendors. McKenzie’s anti-static system was created to give U.S. Air Force F-15E Strike Eagle fighter pilots absolute hearing ability while flying at the speed of sound. At close to fifteen hundred miles per hour, an F-15 fighter commander can switch to an enemy aircraft’s radio frequency and hear the pilot of that aircraft breathing.

Eddy Dalger, McKenzie’s Chief Electrical Engineer, was a small, thin man with salt and pepper hair and an engaging smile. The son, and only child of German immigrants, his parents had both worked tirelessly to provide him with a good American education. A electrical engineering cum laude undergraduate of Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, New York, he earned his Masters Degree in the same discipline while at The California Institute of Technology in Pasadena, California.
He was now sitting and finishing the encryption of a modified anti-static system into a German made Wollensak reel to reel tape recorder. The encryption was being made into a telephone line at the Washington D.C. Marriott hotel.
She addressed him again.
“Eddie, thanks for coming down here on such short notice.”
He looked up from his work.
“No problem, Kathleen. Your dad’s orders are pretty clear to us -when he’s out, you’re the boss.”
“Let’s keep that our little secret, Eddie. I think some of our Executive V.P.’s might not take to it as well as you do.”
“They all know about it, and they all respect your dad.”
He finished tightening a screw.
“There, you’re not only going to record your calls, you’re also going to hear everything within two hundred feet of the caller.:
Setting the tape, he noticed Courtney entering the suite’s living area.
“All set, Michael, you’ve got the best set of ears in the world here.”
The metaphysician, finishing his traverse of the room, took a chair next to the engineer.
“I need another favor, Eddie. My car - I think it may be wired with a transmitter. It’s in the parking garage at the Rand building. Do you have anything in your black bag that could detect it?”
Dalger spoke without hesitation.
“Sure do. What do you want me to do if I find something.”
“Leave it there, but put some kind of distortion device on it.”
He picked up a bag containing electronic testing equipment.
“Let’s go check it out, I’ll need to stop in the lobby and get some chewing gum.”

While Dalger was securing a McKenzie manufactured transmitter detector from his bag, Kay pulled Michael aside for a brief and whispered conversation.
“Michael, do you think they’re watching your car?”
He’d already thought about the possibility.
“I don’t think so Kay. They probably think we’re just going to cab it for awhile.”
It didn’t matter - he would use evasion techniques on his way back to the hotel.
There were actually two transmitters in the Jeep. One beneath the dash on the passenger’s side, another under the rear bench seat.
Dalger had been chewing a major-league wad of gum from the time they had left the Marriott. He now took from his right pants pocket the foil that had formerly wrapped his Wrigley Spearmint sticks while additionally securing the soft, gummy contents of his mouth.
Pulling the gum apart in two equal halves, he flattened both of them like miniature pancakes and placed a foil strip on each. Rolling the little spearmint flapjacks into balls, he stuck each of the two pieces over the transmitters.
The engineer addressed Courtney.
“Looks kind of crude, Michael, but it works better than anything. Whoever put these here will hear you talking, but the foil will cause repeatability. It’ll be like trying to hear a conversation in an echo chamber. They’ll only be able to make out every seventh or eighth word you say.”
Standing alongside the Jeep now, Courtney opened the passenger door allowing Kay entry.
Once she was seated, he closed it and turned to Dalger.
“Eddie, can you join us for dinner? I’m sure you have some questions about all this. I’ll tell you as much as I can.”

“Michael, my marching orders come from the top. Pat isn’t messing around when he says Kathleen’s the boss in his absence. But he also knows she’s got you to rely on. I’ve been with Pat a long time, Kid. If he trusts you, so do I. When you think I need to know something, tell me. Otherwise, I’m here on McKenzie business, and that’s all anyone needs to know.”
“Thanks, Eddie, I can see why you have Pat’s confidence. Let’s go, I have to go and make some phone calls.”
The first call was made from the second line in the suite - the exchange now wired into the Wollensak. Courtney knew there was a high probability the breachers would eventually find their hotel. The probability of them searching the suite once they were found was even higher. He needed the recorder for just one incoming conversation.
Wirtham was finishing a review of the Cuban information he’d requested. One final piece would arrive on his desk shortly.
The sound on his Merlin indicated a call.
“Robert Wirtham.”
“Robert, it’s Michael. I’m patched through on the reel to reel. We haven’t had the next call yet, have we?”
“No, it hasn’t come through.”
“I’m going to leave this line open here, Robert. Put this call through JGM’s secure line to McKenzie. We’re encrypted here to record on that activation.”
Wirtham understood.
“I got it.”
Courtney needed something else.
“Can you give me Griffin’s number”
“Yes - hold on a minute.”
JGM’s President tapped twenty-one keystrokes on the keyboard to his left, a JGM computer immediately responded with a detailed portfolio on the WALL SSTREET JOURNAL staff writer, which included his home phone number.
He relayed the finding.
“Here it is, five five five, seven eight six zero.”
“Thanks - how are you making out with the Cuban information?”
“We’re just about through.”
“Hang on to it. Break off for the evening and send it over tomorrow.”
“OK - be safe.”
Wirtham’s phone was cradled, Courtney’s line remained open.

The aromatic fragrance, and the sweet, tart tang of McIintosh apples have been enjoyed by people since 1811 when John McIntosh discovered the first seedling. McIntosh apples grow particularly well in New York’s cool climate and are available September through June.
Tom Griffin had just finished his McIntosh, throwing its skinny core into the trash compactor of his Washington apartment. Express mailed each week by his parents from upstate Cortland, New York orchards, a McIntosh was his choice of supplement following a workout.
He hadn’t received the urgent TAC 5 prepared by an organization he felt was the most dominant force in the USA.
Because his newspaper’s circulation was over two million, he’d missed the cutoff mark of writers instructed to prepare positive Cuban Reform Plan press.
Had he received the TAC, the young staff writer would have already been half way through his story, and would have had it completed for editorial review by Monday morning.
Griffin was considered by both Wirtham and Courtney to be one of the best candidates ever recruited into Yankee Echo.
The twenty-four year old was relaxing on his couch when his phone rang.
Picking up the receiver, he acknowledged with a traditional ‘hello’.
“Tom, this is Michael Courtney calling.”
Griffin sat up straight
“Oh - Mister Courtney - hi - how are you - what can I do for you?”
Courtney relayed his communication.
“Tom, I read the article you wrote on the Cuban Economic Plan - your interview with the Secretary of Commerce. I thought it was interesting that he called you for an exclusive.”
Griffin sat up even straighter.
“That didn’t come from him, Mister Courtney. I got a letter through the Cuban Embassy about six weeks ago, pretty high-up signature on it - a Catalina Salazar, Special Administrative Assistant to Cuba’s Vice President, Miguel Belize.”
Courtney recalled Andy St. Croix’s telephone conversation and the card he’d found in Dan Bellcamp’s nightstand.
“Who did you say signed it?”
“Salazar - Catalina - it’s Spanish for Kathleen.”
“Can you describe the contents of the letter, Tom.”
“Yes, in fact I still have it. I did my research on this project, I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. My Managing Editor was kind of put out that I got the call on this, so I took a lot of extra care to be thorough.”
“The write was fine, Tom, we’re just very sensitive to the Presidential initiative, and we’re checking out all the stories we see. We haven’t decided which way we’re going with this. I know you received a standby fax on this that was write positive, but things may change, and we haven’t produced a final TAC yet. How about the letter?”
“It came courier class, embassy status, monarch letterhead with the Vice President’s designation. I checked it out with their embassy. They acknowledged positively. If you can hang on a second, I’ll go get it and read it to you.”
“Go ahead.”
Courtney lifted the phone off the nightstand by the bed. Placing it on the bedspread next to him, he grabbed a pen and yellow legal pad off the same surface. Resting the receiver on his lap, and fluffing the two pillows behind his back, he assumed an upright seated position. Receiver retrieved, he poised himself to write highlights.
Griffin indicated his return.
“Here it is - are you there?”
Courtney indicated he was still present.
“I’m here, go ahead and read it”
“OK, here it is…”
“Dear Mister Griffin. The Vice President of Cuba has asked me to contact you regarding Mister Randall Benson’s Economic Reform Plan. You come highly recommended to us by an associate of ours in Miami. Your publication’s reputation would benefit the common interests of our countries with an unbiased story on the reform package. Diplomatic channels have been cleared, and we have been able to arrange for you an exclusive interview with the United States Secretary of Commerce. If you will call his office, you will find him available. The Secretary’s number is attached as an addendum herewith. Thank you for your consideration.”
“That’s it Mister Courtney - it sounded almost too good to be true.’
The metaphysician hesitated for a moment - he was still writing.
Griffin accepted the in-between silence - having done the same thing many times himself - he knew what was going on.
When Courtney finished his scriblings, he continued.
“Tom, do you know who this associate of theirs was in Miami?”
“No, sir - I didn’t think to ask Mister Tollman, it wasn’t relative to the story. In fact, I didn‘t even know if he knew himself.”
Courtney adjusted himself and kicked his legs over the side of the bed.
“OK, Tom, I appreciate your time today. You’ll be seeing some TACS coming your way soon on this whole issue. If you’re contacted again by Miss Salazar, please give me a shout.”
Griffin understood - and also thought his boss should have one more piece of information, if he didn’t already have it.
“Mister Courtney, did you know the Secretary of Commerce was leaving for Cuba tomorrow to discuss the economic plan with Miguel Belize?”
“Yes, I did. How much did he mention about that visit when you interviewed him?”
“I found him very closed mouth about it. I did bring it up in the interview, but the only thing he said was that the talks would be substantive, and that for this meeting, it would involve just him and Belize. There was no talk about program development, or anything like that.”
Courtney was now off the bed and standing.
“Did you find that unusual, Tom?
“Sure - there’s some heavy duty corporations involved in this plan. Procedurally, they’re ready to build down there. One of the Executive Vice President’s I talked to at Cummins said he has blueprints drawn for his facility but he’s being held at arms length by the government - ours.”
“Mister Courtney, I was planning a follow-up when the Commerce Secretary returns - should I hold off on that?
The analyst did not hesitate with his answer.
“Yes, when he returns, stay away from him.”
“I understand.”
It was time for conclusion.
“Tom, I’ll speak with you soon, thanks for your help.
Griffin didn’t know what kind of help he’d given him, but he acknowledged.
“Yes, sir.”
Phones disconnected.

Courtney reviewed part of what he’d written on the legal pad.

Salazar - Catalina - VP - Adm. Asst? Belize?
Sec of Comm. - Tollman - Miami
Andy - Bellcamp - Card – Catalina

Kay had accompanied Eddie Dalger to the Hyatt’s lobby for a cup of coffee. He was leaving for home, there was a family picnic on Sunday. The Wollensak and its reels would be taken to JGM upon completion of its
one-call mission. Should he be needed for anything else, he would be available by car, or McKenzie Industries helicopter or one of its two executive jets.
Courtney, now on his back and in a prone position, had replaced the phone on the nightstand. He held the yellow tablet and tore off the top page, and reached over to place it on the nightstand. Laying both the pen and the remainder of the pad on his lap his crossed arms now covered closed eyes. He was in concentrated thought.
‘Why do these people want to destroy a plan both governments want? Who’s Catalina, where does she fit in? Is Bellcamp’s Catalina the same one? Where’s Bellcamp now? Where’s Pat being held?’

Kay McKenzie hugged the engineer.
“Thanks so much Eddie. Michael and I really appreciated your coming down on such short notice, and on a weekend.”
Dalger was very loyal to McKenzie industries, it had taken good care of both him, and his family.
“You stay close to Michael, Kathleen. If you need anything, just call.”
She would need to call him again.
“I will.”
As the engineer walked away, she focused her mind once again on a man who’d come to trust her.
‘He’d like a cup of coffee - cream, no sugar.’
The thought was spontaneous, without regard for reciprocity. It was one more simple gesture of real friendship, something she’d never realized in any male companion until she met, and befriended him.
She always felt terrible that he hadn’t been told the whole truth about her father’s clandestine organization. He should have been told everything - who was involved - how many writers - everything.
But would he have taken the position of its Master of Laws? Would she have ever met him? She released the thought from her mind.
‘Coffee.’
Entering the suite from the bedroom door, her eyes met his
“You’ve got your thinking cap on, don’t you Professor?”
He smiled - no answer was necessary to an obvious truth.
“Thanks - come over here.”
Placing the beverage on the bureau, she kicked off her shoes, first at on its edge, then swung her long legs onto the king bed ending up in his arms with her head laying on his chest.
They didn’t speak as he idly traced his hand through her blond hair.

Fifteen minutes later, the coffee was untouched, and now only lukewarm.

And two people were fast asleep in their original embrace.


Chapter 5

Push To An Extreme State
Sunday, May 21, 8:46 a.m.

General Telecom, the world’s largest producer of telecommunications equipment, and one of the thirty corporate components of the Dow Jones Industrial Average, had flown one of its Gulfstreams from Ohare International Airport in Chicago directly to Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C. where a flight plan had been filed for a trip from Washington to Havana.
Although The wide, roomy cabin on the plane could comfortably accommodate up to 12 passengers, onboard would be a solitary traveler, The Secretary of Commerce for the United States - one George Tollman.
G.T. was a major contractor for the U.S. Government, and knew it made good business sense to take care of this man when he called on them. It was not unusual for Tollman to travel by means of private business aircraft from the fleets of America’s corporate giants.
His luggage loaded into the Commander’s belly, the Secretary stepped into the jet’s interior, and proceeded down a plush Mohawk ocean blue carpet. The tastefully appointed cabin had abundant natural light streaming through its signature oval windows, and 100 percent fresh air constantly circulated throughout its interior. Should he require something from his luggage, the aircraft had a large, fully accessible baggage area, and retrieving a file, or anything else would present no problem at all.
Selecting a seat over the port wing, Tollman was greeted by a five foot nine inch strawberry blond in a sharp General Telecom blue blazer.
“Mister Secretary, my name is Carole and I’ll be your hostess during your trip. May I get you a beverage?” 121
General Telecom didn’t actually have hostesses on their fleet of private aircraft. The executives at the telecommunications company were used to getting up and getting their own drinks or snacks. Carole Martino was actually the Executive Assistant to G.T.’s Executive Vice President for government relations. Her boss had asked her to take the plane ride.
Tollman responded without looking up.
“A water would be fine.”

Estimated time of arrival on the Cuban island was 11:00 a.m.

Sunday, May 21, 9:15 a.m.

Catalina Salazar approached the door on the second floor of the Vice President’s villa where two armed secret police loyal to Miguel Belize stood silently. Neither of them escaped noticing her shapely legs, nor her cotton denim mini, and black, scoop neck lycra tee.
She addressed them during her approach.
“Has he finished breakfast?”
“Si Senorita Salazar.”
“Let me in, and stay by your posts.”
A key turned in a deadbolt lock.

Pat McKenzie sat in a gray stripped low-back chair, a day-old NEW YORK TIMES on the floor beside him. As requested by Tollman, they were keeping him comfortable.
The turning deadbolt had attracted his attention.
He rose as she entered.
She commented on the gesture.
“Are you standing because a woman has entered the room, or to defend yourself, Mister McKenzie?”
McKenzie gave her the truth.
“I’m standing because an emissary has approached me. I meet my enemies as I do my friends - face to face.”
“I’m not your enemy, Mister McKenzie.”
“You’re either one of the two.”
He moved toward her.
“Los Quinientos, I’m told, are my abductors. You’re revolutionists in need of money. How much for my freedom”
“That is being decided. For the time being we need to address your absence from work. I’ll arrange for you to speak to your daughter - she’ll make your excuse.”
As he took two more steps toward her, she felt a subjection.
“If my daughter’s harmed, you’ll have to kill me, and when I die, I’ll come back from the grave and drag you to Hell.”
She sensed a terrifying truth in both his words and eyes.
“GUARD!”
Two agents quickly entered, quickly assessing the room.
The Sergeant noticed her paleness. Momentarily a bit shaken, she felt a sense of command comfort return.
“No, I’m fine.”
McKenzie’s bearing was straight, honest, and unaffectedly confirmed.”
She told him both a lie and a truth.
“We could use a man like you in our cause, Mister McKenzie.”
He gave her the straight truth.
“Your fucking cause can go to Hell.”
With the same stroke he’d used during a different regime on defenseless Panamanians, the Sergeant brought the steel plated butt of his automatic to the right temple of McKenzie’s head.
As he fell to the floor bleeding, a white hot flash seized his body.
Raising the weapon for a down stroke, her hand placed on the Sergeant’s arm caused him to cease his action.
Looking down, she offered him her final remarks.
“These men are dedicated, Mister McKenzie. I hope for your sake you’re a quick learner. You’ll speak to your precious daughter soon.”

Sunday, May 21, 10:58 a.m.

The Gulfstream touched down two minutes before its estimated time of arrival.
During the flight, Tollmam had assembled and detailed the information the U.S. public would see and hear regarding his private meeting with Miguel Belize.
The Cuban Press, as well as the three American television networks, and a few dozen Major metropolitan U,S. newspapers had been told they would all receive official press kits detailing the talks, which were described as preliminary to comprehensive review procedures, or, ‘I’ll tell you what I want to when I want to tell you.’

The black Mercedes moved to within twenty feet of the plane’s stairwell. It’s two occupants had simple instructions.
‘Deliver the Secretary through the front gate to the portico entrance of the Vice President’s villa.’


Sunday, May 21, 9:25 a.m.
Akron, Ohio

Murray Herold, Managing Editor for the ACRON BEACON JOURNAL sat at the computer desk in his den, a glazed donut in his left hand, a coffee in his right while reading his TAC 5, and Michael Courtney’s lead.
With a circulation of 160,000 THE BEACON was not part of the cutoff for the ‘write positive’ Cuban program.
Herold, a Laws candidate out of Ohio State, had been writing for Yankee Echo for eleven years at two different newspapers. He’d joined the organization one year before the man who’s lead he now read.

M.H. 5/20 11:53 a.m.
ROBERT - ROBERT
CBA 1 WRT PROSPRS SUP PRES PLN
MCLEAD FOLLOWS
INS DT 5/24-29

This part of the TAC told him who the communication was from, what the write was about, the fact that he was to take a positive position supporting the President’s Cuban Reform Plan, how many articles to write, and when to publish.

DTL NEEDS
ECON MFG HVYEQ
C CORPS 6, 12, 37, 40, 41
SPT W/DTA FOLLOWS
SGST RDRS C/W CONG RPS A/O USSENS

The last five lines of the cryptic Tactical Advance Communication instructed Herold to detail the needs of the Cuban economy with regard to manufacturing, and especially to the requirements geared toward heavy equipment. 125
It additionally requested readers contact their Representatives.

Taking the final bite on his donut, and licking his fingers like any good glazed donut eater does, he sipped his coffee one more time before placing it on the desk top.
Pulling a three ring binder from his desk’s lower right drawer, he flipped to the corporate section and corresponded numbers to names.

(6) Cummins, (12) Caterpillar, (37) Dana, (40) Borg-Warner, (41) GM

The fax sheet detailing Courtney’s lead expressed the desperate need for the Cuban nation to remain democratic. In addition it paralleled President Benson’s thought that only through free and democratic capital enterprise would the island nation be able to maintain its present, albeit frail status, as an independent and free country.

Herold spread his data around him while speaking to himself.
“Here we go Courtney, one Cuban positive coming up.”

Greenville, South Carolina

Julie Mathaeis, Business Editor for the SAN BERNADINO SUN lit a Marlboro - a habit she’d acquired while at Bates College in Lewiston, Maine. While at the school, the distance from home in California, combined with her struggle in Laws class, had caused he to worry incessantly, and cigarettes helped calm her nerves.
Although not at the top of her class, she was a fluid, pragmatic, and resourceful writer.
Because she wasted no words, her readers found her stories easy to comprehend and remember. She was a good choice for Yankee Echo.
Tapping the keyboard of her Apple Mac, the Cuban editorial would appear in Wednesday’s edition.
‘President Benson’s Cuban Economic Reform Plan deserves a chance…’


Albuqerque, New Mexico

Ron Collins, Editorial Page Editor for the ALBUQUERQUE TRIBUNE was the oldest member of the clandestine writing organization. At sixty-seven, he’d taken up residency in New Mexico after retiring from a senior editorial position with the NEW YORK TIMES. A personal friend of Pat McKenzie’s for years, they’d spent many afternoons chatting by phone about national and international events.
McKenzie trusted Collins, he having been one of the few writers who’d supported his son John’s position, while chastising members of his industry for their shoddy investigative procedures. Collins, sitting on his porch with his Commodore laptop began his ‘write positive.’
‘I’ve been around a long time. Long enough to remember The Bay of Pigs, the Cuban Riot Police death squads, and all the other horrors suffered directly or indirectly by the Cuban people under the Castro regime. Juan Ramos Santiago is a democratic idealist who needs help - we can neither turn our back on him, nor on his people as they struggle to breathe the air of freedom.’

There are approximately sixty newspapers in the United States with circulation bases greater than two hundred thousand.
Together they represent an incredible power base, a force that, when united, can cause tremendous damage or good simply because of the large number of people who read them, and are influenced by either the truth or fiction within their pages. The very real possibility existed that the breachers, wherever they were located, would be subscribers of one or more of these publications.
By Courtney’s design, these newspapers had been excluded from the ‘positive write’.
His first contingency plan had called for this probable occurrence, and the risks were unacceptable.
There were still three hundred newspapers in the U.S. where the ‘positive writes’ would see type hit newsprint, and their pro-active effect on The Reform Plan.
It was a one shot deal, and it was one of the few balances Courtney had on the asset side of his analytical equation.
Soon, half of Yankee Echo writers, at least what Courtney thought was half, would be authoring ‘write negatives’.

He had to find Pat, free him, eliminate, or discredit the breach, and remediate any damages to the organization, and to the President’s Reform Plan that would occur during the elapsed time.
What Courtney thought was a worst case scenario for Yankee Echo would bring to bear on the organization the truth in the famous quote from the English Restoration’s leading poet, John Dryden, that…

‘Even Victors Are By Victory Undone’

Sunday, May 21, 11:40 a.m.

George Tollman’s luggage was carried from the Mercedes up a back entrance stairway to the second floor of the villa. During his official visit, although separated by walls, he would oftentimes stand no more than fifty feet from Patrick McKenzie, the man whose son he killed in a fit of rage years before.
Although the Secretary of Commerce was well aware of the relationship, the thought would not cross his mind. It was in another time, another place, simply a moment when he was disobeyed, and subsequently threatened with revealment.
The logic of his warped mind had sent a message to his trigger finger, a thought with no regard for either life, or emotion.
He stood in the library where Dan Bellcamp had first met, fell in love with, and then betrayed the same woman standing there now.

Catalina Salazar was more appropriately dressed for this visitor. Although nothing, save a tent, could hide her exquisite Cuban figure, her white, draping, V-neckline cotton blouse over a black skirt did not evidence her womanhood as much as some of the other clothing in her extensive wardrobe.

“May I offer you something, Mister Secretary?
There was no tilt of the head, no broad, encompassing smile - only businesslike professionalism.
“No”
She was on his shit list, having allowed Bellcamp to escape his death.
She sensed the contempt.
Had she not had a conversation with Miguel twelve hours earlier, she would have told him what he could do with his contumely manner.
“We need him,” her Vice President and lover had told her.
“When he helps us turn American public opinion away from investment in Cuba, we will have the Presidency within out grasp. Santiago will not be able to hold the government together.”

It was to important to allow egos to become a variable in the plan; they shared a common goal for the same reasons - money and power.
“George - welcome to Cuba.”
The Vice President had entered the library not a moment too soon for her. There was little conversation left between its prior two occupants, one of the latter now shaking hands with Belize.
He got right to the point.
“Miguel, good to see you - let’s go to work.”

The Secretary seated himself where Bellcamp’s ghost remained.
Salazar allowed herself a smug grin.
She wondered how many women were a part of the Secretary’s highest level discussions in the United States. Her intuition told her zero - she was right.
Tollman had a question.
“Is Mister McKenzie being cooperative?”
Belize had an answer.
“He has no choice, my friend. Yes, he is behaving as a normal prisoner.”
Tollman had an order.
“We need him to speak with his daughter. I want her to know he’s not harmed, and I also want her to make his explanation for being away from the office. Everything must appear normal in the United States. Remember, we don‘t know how long this will take.
Belize had a question.
“Do you think they will contact the FBI”
“I doubt it. Wirtham and Courtney have too much to lose, and they haven’t heard all our demands yet. They would at least wait until we call them.”
“Very well, when you tell me, I will arrange for him to speak with her.”
“I’ve written down what I want him to say - nothing more.”
Opening his leather briefcase, the Secretary retrieved a piece of plain white paper, no embossed emblem of office on its mast.
The Vice President quickly scanned the sheet, and handed it to Salazar, a silent demonstration of confidence in her ability to carry out a mission.
Tollman didn’t question Belize’s decision to hand over the instrument to his assistant.
He thought there was more to the expressed trust than an official consignment of liability. Sometimes faith is blind - and sometimes placed to create illusions. In this case, for Belize, it was neither. Every risk with her was worth the reward.
“I’ll call you when I want him to speak with her. It’ll be early in the week.”
Tollman’s reluctance to be specific about an exact date was not based on any masterful plan, but rather on the present inability of an associate to locate the party to be called.
The venue would be made. It was just a matter of time.
Unknown to him, Michael Courtney was also aware of that reality. The Leverage Effect might claim the location of their temporary residence, but not before the analyst had claimed a small victory.

Tollman continued.
“We need to discuss the Reform Package. I have an outline Randall Benson’s given me to follow. If I can make a presentation to congressional leaders that will hang the President up on two points, I’ll gain ninety days.
That could be enough time for Yankee Echo to turn U.S. public opinion in our favor. Will that be enough time on your end to secure the militia?”
“Si. Santiago now has their confidence, but I believe it to be weak. He has yet to define their role in the new democracy.”
“Good - use that as a base of strength. I want to discuss these points and set a policy procedure that depends on the two positions we have in our favor.”
During his emissary visit, The Secretary had made judicious use of his ability to create and set in motion the effort required to develop the Cuban recovery. It was, however, a covertly cumbersome initiative relying on the probability that Congress would not be able to quickly work through his plan, the effect of the multiple logistic complexities of the eleven leading economic indicators, while at the same time analyzing the possibility of a renewed Russian threat.

Within the halls of Congress, it would be translated as ‘business as usual’ and would be designated to linger in committee
The Secretary often thought how simple it would be to run The United States if only businessmen were allowed to run it. The chances of either the U.S. Congress, or the Senate approving his plan in committee were remote. It would take months before they reacted.
In the elapsed time, a clandestine organization would develop a negative public attitude toward the plan, but not its originator.
Tollman would stand in the background and watch the freedom of ten million Cubans become as distant to them as the fifteenth sun from Jupiter.
It was thirty million dollars from the Cuban treasury that formed the keystone in the arch he’d use to complete the rest of his life.


Sunday, May 21, 12:31 p.m.

He glared at the man standing in front of his desk.
“Did you say the Jeep was wired for six?”
The voice responding was tenuous.
“Yes. There‘s two transmitters. One under the passenger‘s side of the dash, and one under the rear seat.”
“Set my scanner. Have you found them yet?”
He tried to be reassuring,
“No. We only have a few more hotels to check. We’ll find them.”
Sitting back, he scratched his jawbone.
“Call me as soon as you do.”
The dark haired man finished setting the scanner and left. No closing remarks were required.
Rising from his seat, Tollman’s NSA associate walked toward the fourth floor outer offices of the National Security Agency. Thirty people were at various posts processing data, tapping keyboards, reviewing satellite imagery, and listening through earphones to conversations thousands of miles away.
Tomorrow, a contingent of fifty others would join these staff members on this floor. A rotating shift meant the office was always covered.
The security of the United States has been, but never again will be, without constant attention.
Satisfied no one was close enough to hear a phone conversation, he decided to try calling the offices of JGM.

When Patrick McKenzie’s company, and its compliment of engineers, were retained by the United States Air Force to develop the most powerful listening system in the world for the F-15E Strike Eagle, they’d solicited Courtney’s attendance at their meetings.
He’d consulted before on many projects for the company.
Patrick McKenzie understood the advantages of weaving the world of ultimate realities through the sphere of accumulated scientific data.
The order of intuitive logic is a primary ingredient in any scientific, or other research. In order to form a consistent mathematical model, both empirical knowledge and inductive reasoning must merge in the research agenda. The scientist brings empiricism, the metaphysician brings intuitive reasoning and inductive order, and together, they build mathematical theories.
Eddie Dalger and Michael Courtney had discussed sound energy, which is mainly the back-and-forth motion of molecules. They’d also talked about the fact that when the amount of energy in sound diminishes, the amount that it becomes as another form of energy increases by an equivalent amount.
Voice-activated sound energy emitted from a jet fighter traveling at fifteen hundred miles per hour toward another jet fighter simultaneously moving at the same speed (toward the first fighter), is distorted in both its transmission and reception because of heat transfers in the molecules that constitute its sound waves. There was never a way to eliminate the defined ‘static’ because the transfer of sound energy to heat energy could never be prevented.
Courtney suggested to the group of engineers that part of their problem could be solved by investigating Law Thirty-Four.
34. In order to simplify, eliminate the unnecessary, and the necessary is revealed.
He explained that while it would be impossible for the team to rewrite the Laws of thermodynamics, it would not be impossible to borrow from one to improve another.
Using Law Thirty-Four as a fundamental tool, the engineers eventually developed an anti-static system model. The idea itself was quite simple.
If they could not stop sound from becoming heat, why not super cool sound for only the moment you need to hear it, and let it become heat after you’d listened to it.
A subcontracted group of cooling experts from United Technologies Carrier Corporation in Syracuse New York, were brought in to develop the world’s tiniest are conditioner.
Retrofitted into the F-15E pilots ear phones, the system super cooled the fighter commander’s incoming voice-activated sound waves for one and one-half seconds, allowing no transfer of energy, and subsequently no distortion in the waves themselves for that period of time, just enough time to hear what was needed.
This same system, now assigned to a Wollensak reel-to-reel tape recorder on the sixth floor of the Washington Marriott waited to super cool the sound waves in a telephone call from the breachers. The phone connection from the JGM Exports to the Marriott suite would silently activate the recorder. Every sound wave being transmitted within two hundred feet of the caller’s phone would enter that phones transmitter, and would be recorded.
Dialing JGM’s seven digits on his secure, and untraceable line, he laid before him the text prepared by George Tollman.
His initial failure to locate the teacher and his girlfriend did not sit well with The U.S. Secretary of Commerce, and he was both anxious and determined to make amends. The thought of two million dollars lingered in his brain.
Seated thirty feet outside his door, an Iranian national, positioned as a Maps Analyst, had come to work today to fill in for an ailing translation specialist. His ability to understand sever Arabic dialects allowed him to be used for dual purposes, and it was worth the overtime to him.
At the same time JGM’s number was being dialed by Tollman’s associate, the Iranian map specialist decided to get a coffee, and had placed his earphones, complete with anti-static systems manufactured by McKenzie Industries on his desk.
He was out of his traditional professional environment, and therefore had not read the new procedural manual for this particular section that made it imperative for translation specialists to turn down their incoming transmissions whenever they left their post
The sound waves created by a conversation between two Iraqi Generals were now being fed through the improperly placed anti-static earphones, traveling through the air into the associate’s phone transmitter, and being recorded by the anti-static system in the Wollensak. The caller’s human ear heard nothing but unanswered ringing.
The Wollensak, set in record mode by the activation of JGM’s secure line, taped the caller’s breathing, the Iraqi Generals conversation, and everything else within two hundred feet that made noise. The tape recorder’s digital counter, originally set at zero, now read 018 - not a lot of recording tape used, about one minute, but enough used to reveal a truth.


Sunday, May 21, 12:46 p.m.

“Corn Flakes?”
“Yep, two boxes.”
Kay smiled, elbows resting on the table, chin in her hands.
“Do you want them with milk?’
“Of course, it’s good for my bone development.”
They’d left the suite to have lunch in the Marriott’s Diplomat restaurant just two minutes before an unanswered call was placed.
Courtney had been correcting exam papers, she perusing the Cuban information delivered by Wirtham’s courier an hour earlier.
Although Wirtham had already called the Dean, Michael thought it only polite to call the man himself. He apologized for leaving quickly, but sometimes consultants need to be available on a moment’s notice.
The Dean, also a part-time management consultant understood.
The Dean was also a close associate of Robert Wirtham, whom he respected as a former professor.
“Fax us your grades when you finish correcting your exams, Michael.”
He knew Courtney, not only by national reputation, but also as a friend.
“Did you correct my exam yet, Professor?”
“Not yet - I’m waiting for you to offer me a bribe.”
“How about I let you keep your job at McKenzie?”
He chuckled for the first time in what seemed a long time.
“OK, you aced it. I can’t find a better job, It comes with too many perks.”
He reached across the table and touched the back of her hand with his.
“Kay, what’s in the info Robert sent over?”
“I didn’t get too far into it, looks like - economic data - agricultural stuff - population demographics - government organization.”
He needed the information, but more importantly, he needed to keep her occupied.
Her thoughts, however, weren’t far from the realities.
“Michael, aren’t you frightened by all this?”
“Yes…but I’m trying to stay more pissed than frightened, and I need to keep telling myself that. Whoever shot at me, if he wanted, probably could have done a lot more damage. They need us to be frightened. When we get their next call, they’ll probably tell us their terms. Time’s on our side. We also have Robert, Andy St. Croix, and McKenzie Industries behind us. It’s not like we don’t have assets.”
He had no idea of the breadth and depth of the additional assets that could be set in motion for him.
She did.
Leaving a tip on the check, they rose and returned to the room, both noticing the advanced tape counter.
“Play it back, Michael.”

Sunday, May 21, 9:01 p.m.

They’d parked the Cadillac in his driveway almost as if they were invited guests.
Inside Dan Bellcamp’s house, Miguel Belize’s two hand-picked agents were performing a very thorough search and seizure operation. They knew what to look for and what to take - note pads, computers, discs, fax machine, three ring binders, telephone bills.
Most of the information contained in the software and in the binders was already in the possession of their employer, but every intelligence operation in the world understands the value of redundancy.
They’d load the car, drive to a marina in the Florida Keys, and reload their miscellaneous collection onto a twin diesel powered, and stripped thirty-five foot Trojan.
The crossing to the island ninety miles offshore was set for midnight.


While attending the United States Naval Academy, Andrew St, Croix excelled Academically. One of the top Law candidates in his class, he’d been recruited by a small organization within the Department of The Navy following his commissioning as a Naval officer.
‘Zero’ is a code name for one of the Navy’s deepest secrets, an organization formed into teams of experts with disciplines in maritime law, intelligence, weapons, metaphysics, and close-contact warfare.
This elite group is commanded by an Admiral reporting directly to the Chief of Naval Operations, the principle naval advisor to the President, to the Secretary of Defense, and the Secretary of the Navy. The Chief is also the Naval member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
Zero’s primary function is to provide land-based support operations for the Naval Systems Command, and the Naval Intelligence Command. Most of what Zero does is illegal - in any country. However, the illegality of the organization is philosophically rationalized as necessary security action against opposing forces - even on friendly soil.
Zero means nothing, but is an absolute. Therefore the motto of Zero is ‘absolutely nothing’.
Officially, it doesn’t exist. But if it did exist, there would be absolutely nothing Zero couldn’t do.
Any U.S. commanding naval officer, in any port in the world, could tell you he or she has seen Zero operate - but they could tell you nothing more.
Zero has available to it any U.S. intelligence, equipment, and weaponry in existence, including ordnance from other service branches. Every Zero officer is skilled in dual disciplines. They learn their primary aptitude and secondary regulation after acceptance into the elite group.
Andy St. Croix’s acute ability to bring metaphysical logic to strategic plans was his primary aptitude. Close-contact warfare was his secondary regulation. The fact that he could choke a rattlesnake - and it was so noted on his Zero recruitment form - allowed the Admiral commanding Zero to easily identify his second discipline.
For two years, St. Croix had supplied the metaphysical logic for naval systems and naval intelligence operations in Vietnam. It was during his fifteenth month in Saigon at a senior staff meeting of the Navy’s Tactical Air Wing Command, TAWC, when he told a Fleet Command Admiral…
“…if y’all don’t start using the firepower on those tubs out there, y’all might just as well as kiss this conflict good night and go home before any more of our boys and girls get hurt. If the intention is to sit, then hell, let’s sit. If our intention is to win this thing, then we better start kickin some serious ass, because all ah’ve seen to date is a bunch of wobbly indecision.”
St. Croix had a way of defining the logic of The Laws like no one else. However, it’s obvious that the logic of The Laws, no matter how fluently expressed, do not always find welcome ears.
His tour of duty complete, Andy St. Croix was subsequently introduced to Robert Wirtham and Patrick McKenzie. Soon thereafter, following several discussions, he was offered, and accepted, the position of Director of Internal Security for JGM Exports, or, Yankee Echo.
He’s only been told as much about the organization as Courtney.
The Rattlesnake Slayer now sat in a rented Lincoln Town Car sixty feet south of Dan Bellcamp’s house, and fifty feet north of the nearest street lamp. He needed no spotlight on his presence.
Raised to his eyes were a pair of Nikon binoculars outfitted with Zeitz infrared night vision detecting systems. The darkness of the moonless night actually aided the sight pattern of the hi-tech specs as he peered through Dan Bellcamp’s windows, curtains still drawn apart.
Twice he’d watch two men pack their vehicle with the former Managing Editor’s hardware, software, binders and folders.
Satisfied there were no more than the two operatives, St. Croix placed the binoculars on the seat beside him and checked a schematic floor plan and property layout he’d drawn the day before.
Two wires he’d pulled in the Lincoln’s engine compartment allowed no lights to illuminate its interior as he opened, and half-closed the driver’s door.
Andy St. Croix’s plan was to conduct a rear assault on the one he targeted as ‘Cardinal’, the larger of the two. He’d take the ‘Bishop’ in the kitchen.
Calculating a fifteen second approach to the deep mauve-lavender climbing roses on Bellcamp’s trellis just outside the garage, his silent count was now at twelve seconds as he maneuvered to position.
Hearing footsteps, the Zero negated a feeling to investigate, choosing instead to maintain a course to the rose trellis without challenge.
Reaching to his back pocket, an oversized handkerchief and an electricians wire tie were checked for duty. His concentration shifted from footsteps to Law Nineteen
‘This sucker’s goin down once, and he ain’t comin back up for air.’
Arms full of binders, books and papers, Cardinal balanced the load on his right thigh while opening the rear driver’s side door of the Cadillac.
Reassembling the stolen accumulation of data, he leaned into the car’s interior to place them on the back seat.
Cardinal had just completed a normal breathing pattern when a closed fist, feeling to him like a baseball bat, crashed on the middle of his spine.
The force, intentionally directed to fall between his fourth and fifth thoracic vertebrae caused him to expel in a whisper, almost all his breath.
A second strike landing immediately thereafter found the third and fourth cervical vertebrae, the blow motivating spinal cartilage to press against, but not through, the foramen housing his spinal cord.
The shock of the combined jolts produced both temporary immobility and paralysis, an acceptable condition to the Zero Commander.
His hands summarily gathered behind his back, Cardinal was wire-tied with the strip of plastic.
Not that he could yell without the benefit of breath, but as a separate precaution, his mouth was filled with the oversized handkerchief.
Shoving the aching Cuban onto the car floor, St. Croix turned his attention to the one he’d targeted as ‘Bishop.’

Footsteps again - again not anticipated.
“Carlos?”
Cardinal was called - no answer.
“Carlos?
A bit louder - still no answer.
“Carlos?”
Now anxiously questioning - the thief, ironically, sensed impropriety.
The next sound St. Croix heard was an easily-identifiable steel click. Bishop had locked and loaded.
“Shit,” an unheard whisper from a prepared Zero already locked and loaded, his nine millimeter Beretta held in both hands.
St. Croix quickly glanced at his watch - 9:05 p.m. - data flooded his mind.
‘Neighbors will be watching prime time TV - won’t hear one round.’
A mental review of the kitchen beyond the side door recalled open space with only one shelter, a refrigerator on the west wall.
‘He won’t hide - he needs information.’
Zero was right.
‘He’s probably having a cigarette.’
Bishop, trying to have a reassuring positive thought, was wrong.
The oldest trick in the book is still one of the most useful.
His Beretta in his right hand, St. Croix bent to his knees feeling the ground behind him with his left. A stone found, he tossed it against the left front wheel of the Cadillac. The sound of the mineral against the tire’s custom rim was translated by Bishop as a relaxing Carlos allowing his subordinate to clean up.
Shoulder holstering his weapon, he opened the side door to bemoan his contemporary’s attitude.
St. Croix’s weapon crushed Bishop’s nasal cartilage spewing blood on the Beretta as well as the deliverer and the Receiver of the forced action.
Forcing a knee into Bishop’s groin caused the Cuban to emit a louder laryngeal noise than would have been created had the Zero simply shot him.
The tradeoff was OK. The philosophy of a Beretta is quite simple, small bullet - large hole. Andy St. Croix wanted an answer, not a dead Cuban.
Bishop, now backside down on the kitchen floor found both the taste of blood and steel in his mouth, as well as five very strong fingers seemingly trying to rearrange his larynx.
St. Croix had identified their nationality on initial review. He also felt strongly that, because they were on U.S. soil, they were not linguistically handicapped.
“Ah know y’all speak English, and y’all got about three seconds to tell me who sent you, or your ass is goin to Hell.”
He pulled the Beretta’s machined steel hammer to its firing position.
Even though Bishop had never studied deductive logic, he intuitively felt a sense of mission in this man.
It didn’t take him three seconds to respond.
“Belize.”
One second later, in retrospect, Bishop couldn’t believe he’d said it.
St. Croix searched the Cuban’s eyes - truth was found.
“Where’s Patrick McKenzie?”
Bishop’s brow wrinkled, his eyes squinted.
Shaking his head from left to right several times, St. Croix could see the Cuban did not know.
Removing Bishop’s revolver from its holster, he released the clip putting it in his pocket. Then, with his left hand, he threw the chrome-plated revolver twenty feet north of its owner.
Inductive reasoning is based on fundamental truths.
One truth seemed to be that Yankee Echo had been compromised by the Managing Editor.
Therefore the breachers probably already had the information Cardinal and Bishop were presently stealing.
Another truth was Bellcamp was missing, and deductive logic suggested there would be multiple parties involved in the remediation of that mystery.
A third truth which was very probable, was that both Cardinal and Bishop would not want to reveal the fact that they’d been compromised while on their mission.
They could, and would return to their island on time, but would most likely say their beat-up conditions had either been the result of an auto accident, or injuries incurred in deck accidents on the Trojan.
Belize would believe they’d accomplished their mission - they might enjoy life for several more decades.

Zero addressed the prone Cuban.
“Have a nice ride home, Bishop.”
Standing, St Croix had a new name planted in his memory bank.

He completed the distance between the former M.E.’s ranch dwelling and the Town Car in fourteen seconds, and was a mile and a half from Dan Bellcamp’s tawdry trellis before Bishop finished rescuing Cardinal.

‘Belize - Catalina - Belcamp - ah’d best get back to Mick.’



Sunday, May 21, 1:46 p.m.

Eddie Dalger’s wife, Ellen, had just finished mixing a fresh bowl of lemonade when the phone rang.
Picking up the wall-mounted device close to her, she held it in her left hand and continued to stir the tart concoction.
“Hello?”
The voice she heard was familiar, and although apologetic, it contained an executive appeal. The caller had also recognized her voice.
“Hello, Ellen, this is Kathleen McKenzie calling. I’m sorry to bother you during your picnic, but may I please speak with Eddie.”
Ellen Dalger had the intuitive instinct of a woman.. This call was urgent.
“Hello, Kathleen, it’s good to hear your voice. Hang on honey, he’s out back with a hot dog in his mouth. I’ll make him chew fast.”
Leaving the silver ladle in the crystal, she moved to the screened kitchen door facing the back yard scanning their lawn’s assemblage of family and friends.
Her husband was talking to two of his quality control engineers.
His side vision, catching sight of the door opening, but not closing, caused him to turn in its direction noticing his wife indicating by pantomime a telephone held to her ear.
“Excuse me, Al, Jim, I have a phone call.
She pushed the door full open when he was approximately ten feet from its frame.
Watching his wife’s lips form a whispered name, he passed into his kitchen picking up the receiver.
“Kathleen?”
“Hi, Eddie - Michael needs to speak to you. Can you hold for a minute?”
“Sure.”
She placed the Marriott’s phone on the bed.
In the suite’s parlor Courtney was reviewing the tape’s magnetic contents for the fifteenth time when Kay addressed him.
“Michael, I have Eddie on the phone.”
He flipped the Wollensak’s stop lever.
Reaching the phone on the bed, he began.
“Eddie, we’ve had a caller to JGM. No one answered because no one was here, or there, and there’s little identifiable audio on the tape.”
Dalger new his equipment.
“Maybe not to us, but the machine got it. How much tape?”
The image of the counter came to the analyst’s mind.
“Zero one eight - about fifty seconds.”
“Fifty-four, Michael. Pull the whole reel. I left you an extra one you can use. Send it up overnight, FedEx. I’ll have it in the lab before eleven tomorrow morning.”
Courtney appreciated the engineer’s sense of urgency.
“OK, sorry to bust in on your picnic.”
Dalger displayed his corporate loyalty without thinking.
“You guys call anytime, Michael.”
Courtney replaced the receiver.
A small victory was at hand.


Sunday, May 21, 11:58 p.m.

Approaching them, United States President Randall Taylor Benson silently reviewed the two Secret Service agents standing beside the interior north door of the oval office.
The senior of the two ritually acknowledged the Commander in Chief.
“Good evening, Mister President.
His strong, sixty-eight year old eyes exchanged glances with each of his protectors while he nodded awareness of the greeting.
Although the topic of his thoughts was unknown to either of the agents, its burden was clearly evident to both.
Within the confines of the world’s most powerful room, the top of his walnut desk displayed only two items; a King James Bible, and a red CIA secure document stamped ‘VISION 1 ONLY.’
The Bible, his mother’s, had been a gift to him from the spry ninety year old who was affectionately call the ‘First Mother’ by the staff at her exclusive retirement home in Greenwich, Connecticut.
Mrs. Anna Benson had bookmarked The Book of Wisdom, Chapter 6, verses 1-4.
Randall Benson opened The Scriptures and began reading.
Wisdom is better than strength: and a wise man is better than a strong man.
Hear therefore, ye kings, and understand: learn, ye that are judges of the ends of the earth.
Give ear, you that rule the people, and that please yourselves in multitudes of nations:
For power is given you by the Lord, and strength by the most High, who will examine your works, and search out your thoughts.
Gently closing his mother’s benefaction, he allowed his hands to rest on its well-worn fabric cover.
A side desk drawer was opened, provisionally becoming home for his legacy.
His immediate past thoughts were incorporated with his present ones as he opened the ‘VISION 1 ONLY’ portfolio.
He reviewed the date: April 15, 1942.
Two pages were turned revealing a topographical map with intersecting lines of longitude and latitude.
North Longitude 20 22.29 East Latitude 121 56.15 The Batan Island, Ivana, Phillippines.
Three pages later, a biographical sketch of another Commander lay before his eyes. As he read the document, a cold, shivering sensation bleached his spine.
Two more pages flipped - the aged photograph.
This time there were no tears, not that the searing heat of the emotional pain was gone, but that both time and resolve had strengthened him, temporarily creating an asbestos-like cover on his emotional content.
Turning to his credenza, he un-cradled the red phone and speed-dialed two digits.
A satellite link, instantly picking up the transmission, now forwarded the same to a very secure aircraft flying over the North Pacific Ocean headed due west.
The transmission found its way to the middle phone of a bank of five phones mounted on the wall in the only office on the plane.

The Director of The Central Intelligence Agency, now at thirty-five thousand feet over the largest ocean in the world, was professionally calm as he retrieved the receiver.
He knew who would call.
He also knew the conversation would be brief.
“Scott Orefice.”
“Scotty, I’m prepared on this end.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll contact you immediately following the meeting.”
“Is Pat McKenzie safe?”
“We believe so.”
“Where do they have him?”
“We’re quite sure he’s in Belize’s villa.”
“Do you think Courtney and St. Croix will be able to figure that out?”
“I’m almost certain of it, but I can’t give you a time frame, Sir.”
“Scotty, we need Pat McKenzie. I don’t want him hurt.”
“If Courtney can’t get to him soon, our intention is to pull him out. Will we have President Santiago’s cooperation if necessary?”
“Yes, he’s agreed to help.”
“Then I think we should continue with our plan as laid out. Let’s give Courtney and St. Croix an opportunity. We need to finish up the business at hand.”
“I agree, but I don’t want to give them too much leverage.”
“Yes, Sir. I understand.”
“I’ll speak with you later, Scotty.”
“Good night, Sir.”
Phones were returned to appropriate cradles.

The President rose and exited the same door he’d previously entered addressing the two agents still at their posts.
“Good night, gentlemen. Thank you for being here.
Both men noticed the resolution in both his eyes and his demeanor.

Some men carry burdens better than others.



Chapter 6

Under Duress

Monday, May 22, 10:02 a.m.

His scanner, set to receive conversations from Courtney’s Jeep was set to channel 6.
It was also connected to a voice-activated tape recorder.
He’d overheard so many private conversations before in his job at the NSA, that the concept of privacy itself had almost become nonexistent to him. As a result of this mental numbness, he never thought to close his office door.
Yesterday, unknown to him, that was a serious mistake.
The counter, at zero, was ready to begin when cued.
He pressed the play button to listen to any taped content.
“When, when, when, when, when, when, Michael, Michael, Michael, Michael, Michael, Michael, …
The compact Sony received the full impact of his right fist.
“DAMN…DAMN!”

Unlocking the side drawer, and retrieving the message Tollman had written, he briefly reviewed the short note before dialing.
The Secretary would be back tomorrow. He had to get the message to them today.
The numbers he pushed reached JGM’s main trunk line.
A very pleasant greeting followed.
“Good morning, JGM.”
His dialog sounded both commanding and demanding.
“I need to speak to either Robert Wirtham or Michael Courtney.”
Geraldine Allison, JGM’s long time receptionist had been briefed at 8:00 a.m. about to handle incoming calls for either or both men.
“Mister Wirtham is in a meeting at the moment, I’ll find Mister Courtney for you. Please hold.”
Removing her headset, she walked thirty feet to a conference room.
It’s door open, she stood just far enough inside to make eye contact with its occupants.
Her raised finger indicated he had a call.
Courtney understood what the simple gesture meant.
“Put it through, please, Gerry.”
She’d already anticipated what he would say.
“It’s on the secure line, Michael.”
A display light on the conference room Merlin verified her statement.
He hit the speaker button so both he and Kay could hear the conversation.
Every Merlin phone set in JGM’s offices had been fitted with a McKenzie engineered device that made a speakerphone conversation lose its normal distortion.
It would sound like only Courtney could hear the exchanged words.

“This is Michael Courtney.”
“Your receptionist didn’t answer correctly, she should have said Yankee Echo.”
He exchanged a glance with Kay.
“What do you want?”
Although the statement was made under duress, it was without apparent trepidation.
The associate began reading the note.
“We know about your organization, Mister Courtney, and we intend to use it for a special project.
If you’re wise, you’ll listen to our request, and do what we ask. I want to know how many writers you have, and what newspapers they work for. Once I have that information, I’ll detail the position I want these writers to take over the next ninety days regarding the President’s Economic Reform Package for Cuba. I want you to break out a list for me and leave it with the garage attendant at the Radisson Hotel on Connecticut Avenue no later than 5:00 p.m. today. Do you understand these instructions?”
Tollman’s note had the word ‘pause’ written it.
Courtney complied to the letter.
“Yes - I understand.”
The note had continued assuming there would be a positive response.
“Then I’ll expect your list by the end of the day today.”
The positive assumption was correct, but Courtney’s next response was unexpected.
The analyst leaned directly over the phone.
“I said I understood, I didn’t say I’d comply.”
Tripping the speaker button, he disconnected the call.
The familiar tone of the hum on the line indicated the termination.
He knew the question was coming from Kay.
“Michael…why did you do that?”

He didn’t answer, instead remaining resolutely purposeful, his eyes cast on the communication system.
As he expected would happen, Gerry Allison appeared again, finger raised.
Again, he hit the speakerphone button.
“This is Michael Courtney.”
“DON’T YOU EVER HANG UP ON ME AGAIN. WE’RE IN CHARGE HERE COURTNEY, NOT YOU. WE’RE THE ONES WHO HAVE MCKENZIE!”
The associate’s statement verified their fears.
“That’s very evident, but I still expect your demands to be reasonable; you’re dealing with reasonable people. There’s things we want too.”
The truth of the statement put the NSA associate in an awkward position. He couldn’t fulfill his mission without Courtney’s cooperation.
He felt he still had control. It wasn’t a question of submission.
“What do you want.”
“I want Miss McKenzie to speak with her father, then you’ll get your list, and if that happens soon, you may still get it by your deadline.”
He’d need to check out that possibility.
“You stay close to that phone. I’ll call you back.”
This time, the disconnection came from the other end.
“I think you made your point, Michael.”
“Kay, I’m not trying to put your father in jeopardy, but I can’t let them think they’ve gained too much control.”
She didn’t have a lot of choiices.
She knew her father trusted him.
“It’s your ballgame, Michael.”
He got back to business.
“What did you find in that Cuban data?”
She thought for a moment, recalling details off the top of her head.
“It was pretty detailed, largest island in the West Indies, ten million people, lots of sugar, significant mineral reserves - nickel, chrome, manganese - all subsurface deposits are still government property.”
Courtney needed the rest.
“What about politics, education, government - that stuff?”
Flipping back the pages of a legal pad she’d brought in with her, she continued, a pen in her right hand lightly tapping the top of the conference room table.
“They’re still provincial, but the new government will change that. School is compulsory, and free. The culture is a combination of Spanish and African traditions. The old government - the one that came into power in nineteen fifty-nine nationalized about ninety percent of the production industries. Their national annual budget was about twelve billion for revenue and expenses - and guess what - it balanced. But they’re really in hock to Russia - about thirty eight billion. Their annual sugarcane harvest is close to seventy-five million metric tons. Most of their markets are still in the Soviet bloc. The economy’s going to be decimated without Mother Russia. The new government is run by Juan Ramos Santiago, a returned exile, and Miguel Carlos Belize, a holdover from the old government. Santiago is trying to establish democratic reform. Belize holds the purse strings, and will make that happen.”
She lay both hands flat on the table leaning slightly forward over its smooth top.
“Michael, this may be coincidental, but Belize has an Administrative Aid named Catalina Salazar. She’s his financial advisor - has a B.S. in Accounting, and an M.S. in Finance from the University of Miami. Remember Dan Bellcamp’s love note that Andy found?”
He recollected.
“Yeah, when Andy comes in, he’s going to check that out with Robert. The police report from June Olson is here too.”
She feigned surprise at the use of personal familiarity.
“June? Not Officer?”
He picked up her remark, noting a return to what was a more familiar relationship between them.
I read her name plate. I can’t help it if she put the thing over her heart?”
“Her heart‘s below that, Courtney, and only her last name was on it.”
They both smiled, not taking lightly the seriousness of the situation at hand, but acting spontaneously in relief.

She wished she’d told him everything.

He continued, unaware of her thought.
“Kay - will you be able to handle the call from your father?”
Her voice trailed slightly.
“I don’t know.”
Courtney expressed a prior thought.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s given something prepared to read. The guy who just called wasn’t Mister eloquent.”
She assessed herself with unsure purpose.”
“I think I can handle it - I have to.”
She reached for his hand - he covering it with both of his.


Monday, May 22, 11:48 a.m.
McKenzie Industries, Old Saybrook, Connecticut

Eddie Dalger played the entire fifty-four seconds of the tape at max volume through two sets of high-torque speakers.
Human breathing, the closest sound to the phone at the time of the recording, aside from the unanswered ringing, was distinctly noticeable.
However, additionally coming out of the background was a very clear conversation that had been picked up by the Wollensak’s anti-static system.
He rewound the tape.
Walking to a steel shelving unit in the McKenzie lab, he secured a
10-band equalizer with an expander and 90-LED spectrum display. It had been boosted with a precise, sound shaping circuit board designed by McKenzie engineers.
This was a turbocharged edition, not available for either personal or commercial consumption.
Unplugging the output lead on the tape recorder, he electronically fitted the small box between the tape and the speaker system.
Dalger rewound the tape, and, satisfied with his connections, hit the play button again.
Breathing could be heard.
Making three adjustments in the sound-shaping bands brought up the level of sound that had occurred from several feet beyond the origination of the taped call.
It was totally clear, an almost too clear conversation in a foreign language - neither European nor Oriental, he thought.
He listened to it three times before calling for assistance.
The Chief Engineer dialed the extension of McKenzie’s Vice President For International Sales, Paul Turbiak.
“Mister Turbiak’s Office.”
“Florence, this is Eddie Dalger, is Paul available, please?”
“He just came back from the cafeteria, Eddie, hold on.”
The tape was rewound a fourth time during the wait.”
Equalizer adjustments remained in place.
A voice greeted the engineer.
“Eddie - what can I do for you?’
“Paul, I’d like you to listen to something - a conversation. Tell me if you recognize the language.
“OK”
Dalger rolled the tape. The conversation began, continued - and ended.”
A fifth rewind was completed.
Dalger spoke first.
“What do you think? Any ideas on what they’re saying?
“It’s people in the Easter Mediterranean, Eddie - Syria, Jordan, Iraq, Saudi Arabia. There was a reference in there to Ramadi. That’s about a hundred miles west of Baghdad. We shipped a few dozen oil-fusion transformers there two months ago. Where’d you pick this up?”
“It’s a special project I’m working on for Pat.”
“If you want it translated, call Sully Kirkuk. He handles that area for us. Do you know him?”
“No - I don’t, Paul.”
“Hang on - I can get him on with us.”
Sixty seconds later there were phone introductions being made in a three-way conversation.
Sulay Kirkuk was McKenzie’s Mideast Sales Manager.
A native of Abadam, Iran, he was fluent in most of the Mideast Arabic dialects.
The fifty-four seconds of the tape were played again.
He understood.
Those are Iraqi soldiers. They talking about a mechanized unit of troops and equipment being sent to Ramadi. One wants to put sixty howitzers with it, the other thinks they should send a larger contingent of Republican Guards. Pretty high-up conversation too. One of them mentioned a meeting with the Defense Minister. That’s usually reserved for General Staff.”
Dalger needed certainty.
“Are you sure?”
The man was positive.
“Yes, no doubt. Those are two high-ranking Iraqi field officers.”
The V.P. broke in.
“Sully, thanks, we appreciate it. I’ll talk to you later.”
Paul Turbiak remained on the line.
“Well, Eddie - what else can the Sales Department do for the Engineering Department today?”
“You did a lot, Paul, thanks. Stop by the lab someday and we’ll grab lunch.”
“Will do.”

His eyes stared at the machine.
There was only one possible reason this conversation was so extraordinarily audible.
The thought made him shiver.
Dialing JGM, he was soon patched to the conference room.
Courtney sat with Kay, both still waiting for a return call from someone he’d labeled ‘Breacher One.’
Dalger had initially identified himself to Gerry Allison.
She, in turn, relayed the information to Courtney.
He, not choosing the speaker, pulled the receiver from its cradle.
“Eddie, what do you have?”
“That depends on your perspective, son. The call you recorded at the hotel may have gone unanswered, but the caller hung in there for fifty-four seconds listening to nothing but ringing. I was able to eliminate the foreground and pump up the recorded background sounds that came through the anti-static system in the recorder.”
“Then you have a clear orientation of the background?”
“It’s not just clear, Michael - it’s super clear.”
“What do you mean?”
“The out-sounds on your tape are an inordinately distinct conversation between two Iraqi Generals.”
“What!”
“Listen carefully to me. It doesn’t matter what they’re talking about. It’s just army chatter. What’s more important is how we identified who they were, how we were able to obtain this information.”
“Eddie - you’re losing me.”
“When we built the anti-static system, we super-cooled sound. Remember? You were there. The conversation on the tape isn’t just
super-cooled - it’s freeze dried. There’s only one way that could have happened. The recorded sound of the conversation was fed through a separate anti-static system into the one in the tape recorder. The second system had to be as close as thirty to eighty feet of the caller to be so clear.”

He took a breath, thinking about the reality he was about to expose.
“Michael, outside of the Air Force, there’s only two other customers we sell the anti-static system to…The Central Intelligence Agency, and The National Security Agency. The call on the tape didn’t come from an F-15E Strike Eagle pilot, so it had to come from one of the other two, because those are the only other places where anti-static systems exist.”

He was genuinely concerned.
“Michael - are you and Kathleen alright?”

There was a temporary imbalance in his thoughts.
He looked at Kay - she at him.- he refocused.
“Eddie, I know you weren’t able to get all this information by yourself.”
He was deliberate.
“I want you to swear to confidence anyone you spoke to about this. I‘ll brief you when I can. This comes from the top, Eddie.”
The engineer accepted.
“I understand. I’m here when you need me, kid. Give Kathleen my best, Michael.”
“I will, Eddie - thanks.”
They disconnected.
Turning, he looked at her, their eyes flush - his as intense as his voice.
“We’re getting closer, Kay.”


Monday, May 22, 1:45 p.m.

He’d reached George Tollman at the Vice President’s villa in Cuba.
“Courtney’s playing hardball with you. Do you still think he’s just a philosopher?”
“I can handle Courtney.”
“You’ve done a masterful job so far.”
“I found out where they’re staying - they have a suite at the Marriott. I can have it bugged today.”
“Why, so you can listen to more echoes? Don’t bother.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Just keep an eye on them, and send someone else to follow them this time. Keep yourself available. I’m going to have her father talk to her. You’re going to patch this call through your lines. Can you rig a time delay system on your phone?”
“Of course.”
“It’s one-fifty now. I’ll call you back at two-thirty.”
“I’ll be ready.”


Monday, May 21, 2:24 p.m.

Pat McKenzie had been blindfolded and brought to another room. Also without windows.
The blindfold was removed.
Catalina Salazar’s approach was all business.
Two plainclothes Agents were only steps behind her.
“Mister McKenzie, You’re going to speak with your daughter. I have a prepared statement for you.”
She handed him a sheet of paper and continued while indicating a telephone on a small table five feet to the left of him.
“That phone will ring in approximately six minutes. You’ll have that much time to review the message you’ll deliver.”
He’d already read most of it.
“You’ll be on speakerphone. There’s going to be a time delay of five seconds between what you say, and what she hears. If you attempt any conversation other than what’s there, I can stop it before it reaches her ears.”
Holding up her right hand before him, it contained what looked like a remote TV control.
She finished.
“Do you understand me?”
He didn’t want anything to interfere with the call.
“Yes, I understand.”
She accepted his response as capitulation.
Her womanly intuition told her something else.
It didn’t matter - he would accede to the order.
“Good, then we’ll wait for the call.”


Monday, May 22, 2:30 p.m.

Gerry Allison appeared again.
Courtney nodded, and tripped the speaker button.
“This is Michael Courtney.”
“Is Katherine McKenzie with you?”
He recognized the voice of Breacher One.
“Her name is Kathleen…”
“Don’t get me pissed, Courtney - is she there?”
“Yes.”
“Her father will be on the phone in a minute.”
The analyst thought of Law Eight. This wasn’t what he wanted, but it also wasn’t time to do any pushing.
He moved his chair closer to Kay’s.
The next voice they heard was her father’s.
It was a bittersweet sound as he read from the prepared statement.
“Kay…”
He hadn’t used the improperly spelled first name in the note.
Salazar recognized it as her father simply using a nickname.
No harm done.
“I’m alright. But the people I’m with are very serious about their plans. If you comply with their demands, they’ll release me in ninety days. I won’t be able to speak with you again. Please do as they ask.”
The phones were disconnected from the Cuban side.
Salazar spoke softly.
“Congratulations, Mister McKenzie - you did well.”
The contingent of three left him immured.


Monday, May 22, 3:05 p.m.

Breacher One had called back.
“OK, Courtney, the ball’s in your court. Get the list to the Radisson garage attendant by five.”
“It’ll be there.”
He needed more information.
“When will you call back with the position you want us to take?”
“When I’m damn good and ready. I know where to reach you.”

He hung up, his statement confirming Courtney’s previous certainty their hotel would be identified.
Eddie Dalger had left an electronic sweeper that would detect any transmitters.
He’d used it and found none.
Kay had left the room immediately following her father’s call.
Although filled with emotion, her sense of purpose allowed her to brief Wirtham coherently. She knew Michael had control of the strategy, but she also knew the truth about Yankee Echo’s silent partners.
She wanted assurances from Wirtham that the CIA was keeping their eyes on everything.
Wirtham told her he’d been in constant contact with David Eisenberg, a Deputy Director, and Yankee Echo Liaison at the CIA.
Courtney and St. Croix would be given latitude to remediate the breach and locate her father.
Should they show any faltering, the government clandestine organization would step in.
They walked to the conference room together.
Courtney began speaking as they entered the room.
“Robert, Let’s fire up the computer - we need to see how this thing is going to shake out.
I think we should identify three hundred writers for this guy.”
He’d evaluated the possibility of injurious consequences to his people.
“I don’t think were putting our writers in any danger here. He’s probably going to just verify a few off the list.”
Wirtham agreed.
In the computer room, the Metaphysician turned Director.
Wirtham took notes.
“I want to break out Standard Metropolitan Statistical Areas by marginal income. Wherever you find a fifty thousand dollar average household or better, let’s hold back our guys. Include in that every U.S. major metro pocket, and add those newspapers to the list.”
He gave his old professor enough time to write it all down and continued.
“Every zoned-edition staff writer in the major metropolitan areas will have their fax designations cued to TAC 1. That will keep their stories localized, and off the ‘A’ sections of their papers.”
He paused - insuring a thought, left hand on hip, right hand on chin.
Now both hands were on his hips.
“Our disposition to the negative writers will be based on the decrease in the availability of capital to supply world demand. Bring in Eastern Europe, Africa, and Latin America. Let the neg writers have their reins. We won’t write their leads, and keep a loose frequency schedule on their stories. We need a perfect balance - three hundred to three hundred.”
He thought about the possibility of coming up short on the negative writer side.
“If we come up short on the neg side, let’s remediate the balance by density pockets.
We’ll sequence the positive writers in three day increments - Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I’ll write the leads for the pos guys.”
This had required some prior thought.
“I’m going to leverage the renewed threat of Russia, and the possibility of a Sino/Soviet Alliance - but it won’t be base on political ideology - it’ll be based on economic necessity. We’re also going to market the expansion of world trade, and the deficit balance in favor of the U.S.. I don’t think the breachers will make the connection. I just hope there’s no subsequent ground swell because of the neg writers.”
Finally, Courtney had only concluding remarks left.
“No matter how we cut this up, Robert, our guys are good, and they’ll produce some compelling stories - and some of those are going to get picked up by the wire services.”
Lifting both palms face up, his mouth opened, eyes wide.
“For the time being, that has to be an acceptable risk. Can you get the logistical part of this printed out for me in an hour and a half?”
Wirtham was certain of it.
“Yep - I have my two best ops people standing by.”
“OK, let’s go.”


Monday, May 22, 4:49 p.m.

The automatic ticket dispenser at the Radisson’s garage kicked out its two hundred fifty-sixth voucher of the day.
Courtney pulled the pass from the electromechanical machine and headed for the West ramp for one loop of the ground floor.
Approaching the garage attendant’s booth, there were two cars in front of him waiting to pay their toll, and exit.
A quick glance in his rear view mirror indicated no one behind him, an opportunity for a brief conversation.
She was outfitted in a mahogany-red uniform, the Radisson emblem emblazoned on her blazer. No more than twenty, her auburn hair was bobbed in a pony tail - obviously a hair style designated in some procedural manual for garage attendants at the hotel. Cute and petite, his intuition told him she was no more than a drop.
He touched the envelope on the seat next to him.
When it was his turn to remit - he handed her the ticket.
She, reviewing it, gave him a look that was somewhere between a pout and a laugh.
“You don’t have to pay for this, Sir. There’s not enough time on it.”
Retrieving the envelop on the seat next to him, he extended it through the driver’s window in her direction.
“I have something for you.”
Miss auburn pony tail glanced at her time clock.
“Oh yeah - I’m expecting a delivery. They called.
An associate of the associate had ascertained the number for the telephone in her booth.
Courtney thought it pragmatic to at least try to secure some additional information.
“When you give it to Mister Donovan, tell him I need it back.”
“Who?”
“Aren’t you delivering it?”
“Of course not. I’m not going to Colorado, I’m just going to mail it to the post office box.”
It was a moot point, not worth any further investigation. She was not connected - would never know what was sent - or who it went to - and didn’t really care.
Just a nice kid making a few extra bucks.
He noticed a Land Rover had pulled up behind him.
Time to leave.
“Thanks - handle it carefully.”
She smiled, not looking at him, but beyond him at her next toll payer.
“I will - bye.”
He had a feeling she’d been given enough money to send it U.S Postal Service - Express Overnight Delivery.
He was right.

Monday, May 22, 5:36 p.m.

The elevator stopped at the third floor.
As Courtney exited, he was greeted by Andy St. Croix.
He’d arrived just after the analyst left.
Both Robert and Kay had debriefed him.
“Hey, Mick - how y’all doin.”
Each shook the others hand. Both exchanged friendly slaps on the arm - Courtney extending words of real sincerity.
“Am I glad to see you.”
St. Croix expressed what he’d received in the debriefing.
“Ah got your plan by summary from Miss McKenzie and Bobby, but ah need the whole thing, Mick.”
“Where’s Kay and Robert, Andy?”
“In his office.”
Courtney wanted to get away from JGM - not because he felt there was any chance of compromise - He just wanted a break.
“I’m going to have her stay with him while you and I go out.”
Explanations set in order, the two men left the building together on foot.

In close-contact warfare training, a Zero is taught reconnaissance and recognition theory - how to look for an adversary - and how to identify him.
For someone with his ability and training, the spot wasn’t difficult.
One man, clean cut, well dressed, no apparent pressing obligations, eyes alternately looking up then down, lips moving when eyes cast to the ground.
“Mick - we got us a follower across the street. He isn’t holdin a listening device, so he can’t hear us. But he sure as hell will be trailin our backside. Ah just wanted to let you know. If he becomes a problem, Ah’ll fix it.”
Without turning to review the now new party to their walk, Courtney solicited more information from his friend.
“Does he fit any profile to you - like CIA, NSA, FBI…?”
He’d done this so many times before, he was certain of his next response.
“Hell, yeah. He might as well be wearin his ID on his forehead. Either CIA, NSA, or State Department INTEL. He’s about one hundred steps to our rear, and he’s jabberin into his tie.”
Courtney selected a venue for their conversation.
“There’s a lounge on the next block. We’ll go in there.”
They sat at a table near the end of the Capitol Lounge’s fifty foot dark oak and brass appointed bar.
Their tail opted for something close to the door; a stool at the bar in front of a wall-mounted television set.
St. Croix assured Courtney he could not hear them, and was really no threat given their proximity from him.
“He’s receiving and transmitting, Mick, but ah have to believe it’s just to identify our location.”
Satisfied, the analyst began detaining his thoughts.
“Andy, did Robert and Kay tell you how the organization has been split up for the time being?”
“Yeah - fifty, fifty, negative and positive positions.”
“I think I can play one side against the other - with more leverage on the positive side.”
“Ah’d have to see how y’all laid it out, but that’s not an area of expertise with which this old Navy boy has dealt. Ah’m sure y’all have it covered.”
St Croix reviewed the trail once again. He’d ordered a dark soft drink and was glued to the television set. He returned to the conversation.
“We need to do some reviewing, buddy. Ah was goin over some of this with Bobby - like the card our boy in Miami wrote but never delivered to his Catalina. Miss McKenzie showed me the same name pulled off the Cuban report. There’s more than coincidence here, Mick. Ah ran into two foreigners at Bellcamp’s doin some unauthorized housecleanin for him. One of them was kind enough to give me another name - The name of the guy who sent them. It’s Belize.”
An employee of the Capitol Lounge’s wait staff approached the table. Halting their conversation momentarily, they ordered two coffees.
The Howard University Senior, now walking away from them with their order, thought to himself, ’this tip sure isn’t going to pay for grad school.’
The waiter’s egress from the table completed, they continued.
“Ah let them go with their booty, figured the breachers had all the info anyway - but that gives us three of a kind. Ah guarantee we have a Cuban connection here.”
Courtney wasn’t surprised, but he needed more answers. A bigger stage had been set.
“Andy, don’t forget about the guy at the end of the bar. I think there’s also a U.S. Government connection here.”
It hadn’t escaped the Zero.
“Either that, or he’s got a leg on something, and wants to follow the action. That little island’s really a hot piece of property right now.”
“You should see the list of multi-national corps waiting to get their shovels in the sand down there.”
“Ah can imagine. Mick, have we done many writes on Cuba?”
“No - everything’s gone along pretty smoothly with their transition so far. Pat never gave the word to help them along, or to help Benson’s plan.”
“OK, so tell me what we have, Mick.”
“Well…someone takes a shot at me…Robert and I agree that it was probably just an attention grabber to introduce some fear into the beginning of this game. Then, they throw a rock through Kay’s window with their note attached to it…and guessed I’d be running to her, and they probably grabbed Pat because of my association with Kay. If they only knew what they were holding, and that he runs this whole operation, we’d probably have a very different set of circumstances going on.”
Courtney paused to take a sip of his coffee while further reflecting.
“Bellcamp’s gone, he was writing to this Catalina chick, and that name is popping up everywhere it seems - the Vice President of Cuba has Bellcamp’s house searched - and, to me, that’s the biggest piece of information we have right now..”
St. Croix indicated agreement with a nod of his head.
“…and Tom Griffin, one of our youngest writers who’s a reporter at THE WALL STREET JOURNAL, gets an exclusive interview with The United States Secretary of Commerce, compliments of Miss Catalina.”
“What was under Griffin’s by-line?”
“Pretty typical Commerce political talk. Should we be in Cuba now? What about cultivating our own resources first? For someone who’s supposed to be pretty smart, George Tollman is one wobbly son-of-a-bitch.”
“OK, Mick, so we got Belize, Catalina, Bellcamp, Tollman, Griffin, they guy who’s calling you, and that dude sittin at the end of the bar. Where do we start?”
“Everywhere. We also have a missing Pat McKenzie, and that situation needs to be fixed as soon as possible. Did Robert and Kay tell you about the unanswered call that got recorded through an anti-static system.?
“Yeah, interesting little piece of equipment. That would negate State INTEL to me since McKenzie only sells that little air conditioner to the fly boys, CIA and NSA. Let’s say we got a CIA spook or an NSA cat at the end of the bar. Ah think we should play to their hand, Mick, and do our own thing. It that your contingency?
“I’ve always had several contingencies for when the breach would occur, Andy. I can remediate any damage to the organization - but I never anticipated a kidnapping along with the breach. I’m going to need a lot of help from you to get Pat back.”
St Croix appreciated his friends confidence in him. He also respected his knowledge of The Laws, and his ability to bring them to practical application.
“A’hm with y’all Mick, but listen to me - depending on the situation, we may need to apply some serious firepower to secure Pat.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“You know a little about Zero’s, Mick. What you may not know is that, once you’re in, you’re in for good. Ah never had to go active again because they have some pretty bright boys and girls in there, and they can handle the world just fine right now. But ah still have friends active, and, should we need it, ah can put together a Zero team complete with a retrofit Huey.”
“A what?”
“Helicopter, with hellfire missiles, thirty millimeter canon, and hydra rockets. If we get into a match with someone other than the U.S. Army, whoever we’re bumpin up against is gonna wish their mommas never blinked her eyes at their daddy’s.”
“Let’s keep that piece of information to ourselves for now, Andy. I don’t need Kay to be worrying about a possible firefight somewhere. Oh, man, hellfire missiles?”
St. Croix formed a slight smile.
Courtney finished his coffee and added closure.
“Listen, Andy, I want to go over the Cuban data again. I also want to pull together anything we can find on every name we talked about. What should we do with the turkey at the end of the bar?”
“You leave - ah’ll stay. Ah want to see if he’s gonna tail you, or wait for me. You’ll be OK - ah’ll be right behind him if he follows you.”
“Courtney pulled his wallet from his pants pocket. Securing a twenty dollar bill - he passed it across the table to the Zero.
“Take care of the tab, Andy. Leave the kid the change. He could probably use it.”
“See you at the ranch.”
Without looking directly at Courtney, St. Croix watched him leave.
He also noticed the well-dressed stranger leave immediately thereafter.
Finishing the last of his coffee, he did the same - leaving the twenty behind, slightly under his saucer.
Outside on the sidewalk, his eyes followed both men, one fifty feet behind the other.
It was a typical recon - no big deal - just report where Courtney was, what he did, who he was with - and where he was headed.
What was important, he thought, was the person, or persons, and the organization receiving the messages spoken into the tie.
He thought to himself.
‘Damn, Mick, we may have gotten ourselves into one hell of a snake pit. Ah got a feelin we’re gonna need the Snake, and a few other buddies to help get us out.’


Sunday, May 22, 4:38 p.m.

Although he’d crossed the International Date Line, he felt little jet lag. Not because he’d flown dozens of thousands of miles every year, but because he had a mission, and non-intervention of outside influences were easily controlled by this man.
Scott Orefice, Director of The United States Central Intelligence Agency was presumably in Tokyo to discuss the design of one of the electronic components of a super computer chip with Mister Saito Kushima, Chairman Of The Board of Kushima Electronics.
A world leader in the field of electronics, Kushima was a major international competitor of McKenzie Industries. The two companies had been working on the same technological development for months.
There were multi-million dollar contracts waiting at the end of each production line, and both companies were working twenty-four hour research and development shifts to complete their respective designs.
Orefice was, in fact, in Japan to discuss the electronic component and the chip - it’s possible uses in rapid information storage and retrieval, and possible subsequent uses in hand-held hardware.
He had met seven weeks earlier with Patrick McKenzie to discuss the same topic - but not the addendum topic he would address with Kushima.
At sixty-nine, The Director possessed a physical constitution envied by many men in their late thirties and early forties. A faithful swimmer, he logged five miles a week at the CIA indoor pool.
His appointment to The Directorship, confirmed by the United States Senate on its first vote was testimony to the confidence and respect he had from almost every man and woman sitting on Capitol Hill.
Following service as an Army Field Officer in World War II, he had returned to Rochester Institute Of Technology in Rochester, New York, and completed both undergraduate and graduate studies leading to a Master Of Science degree in Management Engineering.
He understood that engines drive people systems, and because of his talent and education, had been able to bring a prestigious sense of order to the world’s most secret organization.
Although there are Congressional committees and Senate
sub-committees with authoritative powers that affect the structure and form of the CIA, there is no committee that can direct its inner substance.
That - is controlled by The Director.
It is an absolutely necessary organization of almost unlimited power, access, and unaccountability.
Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely’ is not only proverbial, it is a fundamental truth.
Scott Orefice, although a dedicated public servant, could not be separated from a universal truth. He was corrupt, but not maliciously corrupt. While this was a contradiction in terms, it was not without attending essence.
Orefice constantly lied to Congressmen and Congresswomen, United States Senators, press reporters, and to anyone else who asked him about his job or his agency.
He also routinely allowed special favors in exchange for information from Arab oil sheiks, Eastern European Government officials, African Heads of State - and, if he needed information, and it was available, from Japanese businessmen.
It would be impossible for a man in his position not be apparently corrupt. Were it not the case, he would have no base of power.
The world of authority is sometimes as confusing as authority itself.
Admitted to the Chairman’s office immediately upon arriving, he greeted the seventy-two year old founder of the electronics giant.
“Mister Kushima - it’s a pleasure to see you again, Sir.”
Extending his hand, he was summarily greeted by the Oriental, who spoke perfect English, as well as French, and German.
“The pleasure is mine, Mister Orefice. May I offer you something?”
“Thank you, no, not right now.”
“As you wish - are you staying at the embassy?”
“Yes - there’s always pressing issues.”
“Absolutely, a man in your position has many communications to complete that I’m sure are most sensitive. You are still welcome, whenever you wish, to be my house guest. You may one day, find it a welcome change.”
He motioned to a set of black walnut chairs sitting on a red and blue-lioned pattern oriental carpet.
Each took seats opposite the other.
The Director, not without purpose, and missioned, began.
“Mister Kushima, as we speak, an unexpected event is unfolding which will allow us to conduct our business to fruition. In a bizarre twist of fate, Patrick McKenzie has been seized from his vacation in the Bahamas, and has been taken to the island of Cuba where he is being held for ransom by a terrorist organization.”
The Japanese businessman’s eyes didn’t evidence incredulity at the statement, but rather suspicion of The Director’s motive for bringing up this piece of information.
Orefice thought it best to continue.
My agency has the situation under control, and would be able to free him, but not without a struggle. The President feels that, for the time being, we should leave this alone. Other people are working on it, and it certainly does work to our advantage.
Kushima felt compelled to respond.
“I concur with Mister Benson’s judgment, Mister Orefice. Patrick McKenzie has been a thorn in my side for many years. Although I highly regard his corporation, he has, by commission, held back Kushima’s expansion in the Western Hemisphere…this is most fortuitous.”
Orefice knew he’d like it.
“We should have the Cuban initiative for Kushima through the U.S. government process by late June, or early July.
President Benson’s recently had additional conversations with President Santiago confirming the positive position a company such as yours would bring to the island - and to all of Latin America. He’s also informed the new Cuban leader of the addendum industries that would follow an electronics firm onto their soil. The injection molding companies, the software brain trusts, and rail, air and ground transportation industries will all follow Kushima into the new world. I’m sure both you, and your senior staff, know that from Cuba your empire can build south through Honduras and Nicaragua, then into Columbia, Venezuela, Peru, Brazil, Argentina, and the balance of South America. Your existing product line is perfectly matched for the developing counries.”
Shifting in his chair, he continued.
“Their manufacturing bases, communications systems, medical institutions, and their military infrastructures are all prime candidates for technologies you would consider antiquated. You could, and will be the controlling and dominating electronics influence through the Latin corridor into South America. Your markets are driven by people in political systems presently watching the success or failure of the Cuban initiative, and we, Mister Kushima, control that system. You have a failsafe procedural task, and nothing more before you.”
The Director paused - knowing a response was imminent.
“You have a unique business perspective, Mister Orefice. You’ve just outlined a plan of action that is rooted in the fundamental development pattern we have established at Kushima.
The former World War II Japanese army Lieutenant continued his train of thought.
“Kushima’s decision to expand through the Latin-American countries into South America will of course be relative to costs, Mister Orefice.”
The Director, nodding silent affirmation, encouraged more dialogue.
“What do you suppose, Mister Orefice, it would cost Kushima in American dollars for the obvious advantages both you and President Benson can offer my humble company?”
“We’ve worked out a spread sheet based on the industries I’ve identified, Mister Kushima. Our projections show a possible gross revenue increase to Kushima of between one point five to two billion dollars during the first five years of full operation from plants on the Cuban island. Because this initial thrust will be basically low-intensity, high-output manufacturing, your return on investment should realize margins of at lease thirty-two percent. By anyone’s standards, that’s considerable.”
The Eastern businessman had actually calculated thirty-five percent.
It doesn’t become inconceivable that the leverage offered to guarantee this return should have a value of worthy of the investment. To propel safe passage through the democratic process, and also to discourage the investment of McKenzie, we’d ask a management fee of ten percent of the most conservative estimate of the first two years gross sales.”
The statement was made as if one hundred fifty million dollars was possible to take in one bank draft.
It was…and both men knew it.
The Oriental rose from his chair.
Walking slowly to a teak-paneled wall, his approach over three floor sensors caused the paneling to split, revealing a fully-stocked wet bar.
“Mister Orefice, please join me. I will not offer a traditional Japanese toast, but rather something I know you will enjoy.”
Opening a refrigerator panel, he produced two long-neck bottles of Michelob from its innards, the CIA Director’s choice of beverage when alcohol was offered.
“I see my reputation precedes me, Mister Kushima. At the agency they say real Agents only drink scotch. I disappoint my people at every company function.”
“Better to disappoint them at a social function, Mister Orefice, than in the streets of Moscow or Beijing.”
Filling two eight ounce twenty-four karat gold appointed glasses with the classic brew, he offered his guest a toast - and a remunerated exit.

“To our understanding, Mister Orefice. On your way out, you shall receive several Panamanian and Puerto Rican bank account numbers with their corresponding institutions listed next to them on plain white paper. I’m sure you will find everything in order with a few phone calls. I will await the result of the Cuban government’s decision on who shall have contracted rights to build a facility on their island. Once I have a contract, your accounts will be activated, and you may then retire from public service.”
“I’ll meet with the President to relay all this information. I don’t see any problem for you, only prosperity.”
He raised his glass of beer to the businessman’s, the thought of his actions perfectly balanced with a Presidential order he understood completely.

Money is one of the great motivators, but not the greatest, by far.


Monday, May 22, 8:30 a.m. Washington D.C. Time

From his chair in the Oval Office, he could see the green light blinking on the telephone set. The two U.S. Senators sitting before him were the Chairman and Vice Chairman of the Committee on Appropriations. They’d asked for this meeting to brief him with a preliminary outline on a proposal. They were unaware of the telephone signal because it produced no sound, only an alternating green glow.

“Gentlemen, I’ll seriously consider the proposal from the other side of the aisle, but I won’t make you any promises.”
The senior of the two committee members took the hint. This meeting was over.
“That’s fair Mister President, and all that we ask.”
Looking at his peer, he nodded the evident conclusion and rose, as did Randal Benson.
“I’ll have the Chief of Staff contact you on Thursday.”
This was euphemistic for, ‘don’t get your hopes up.’
Exiting the Oval Office, they both understood.

Returning to his chair, he pushed the appropriate button, the only line his caller would use.
“Scotty, I’m sorry I held you up.”
“That’s no problem, Mister President. I’m back at the embassy. The meeting was brief, and to the point. Everything I’ve discussed with him to date is in order. He’s arranged for a transfer of funds through several Panamanian and Puerto Rican banks. I’ll check out the availability, but I’m sure I’ll find everything in order.”
“What does he expect next? I’ll have to speak to Santiago.”
“He’s looking for an instrument, as we agreed. I told him about Patrick McKenzie.”
“What was his reaction, Scotty?”
“Understated suspicion, tempered with equally understated elation.”
“Scotty, I know David Eisenberg is talking to Wirtham about the McKenzie situation. Is it under control?”
“For now, yes. We’re keeping a close watch on it.”
“What’s the status on Kushima’s window? Will it work?”
“The fax machine is on a table in the northwest corner of the office. The windows are strong, and the angle is tricky, but the shot’s not beyond our capability. We’ll use a double operative for redundancy.”
“Almost doesn’t work here, Scotty, if it’s not perfect, we need another plan.”
“I’ll guarantee it Mister President. I have extreme confidence in our people.”
“If you say so, it’s your line of work. I’m going to contact Santiago, and set the wheels in motion.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll speak with you soon.”
An alternate plan would be necessary, and it would work just as well.
Randall Benson opened the side drawer in his desk containing a single book, and an envelope.
It was the envelope he withdrew VISION 1 ONLY, the old photo was pulled and reviewed again.
“God rest your soul Johnathon, and may He forgive me for my actions.”
Standing, he turned to review the r
Rose Garden, it’s peaceful beauty always a sedative for him during extreme and sensitive procedures. He was resolved and deliberate.
The Madman of Battan, Lieutenant Saito Kushima would finally pay for his war crimes.


Chapter 7

Review and Implementation

Thursday, May 23, 1035 a.m.

The décor of the inner sanctum at the highest level of the Commerce Department rivaled the best design of any CEO’s office in corporate America - testimony to Commerce Secretary George Tollman’s accustomed lifestyle.
It’s carpeting, plush blue, was inlaid with the insignia of Office. Half-back, glove leather waiting chairs surrounded a trio of white Italian marble coffee tables displaying the most current issues of FORBES, THE HARVARD BUSINESS REVIEW, and six other national business publications on their perfectly-machined and polished surfaces.
Down the corridor, in another office, Tollman’s associate sat idly, flipping through a copy of FORTUNE. There was no need to further review the contents in his briefcase. Tollman would tell him what to do with the information, he having received it by special courier the day prior.
An article on the development of recycled plastic resins had just caught his attention when she called him..
“The Secretary is free now.”
The Commerce Secretary’s Administrative Assistant motioned with her right arm toward the beginning of a corridor leading to the opulent, Cabinet-Level Secretary’s office.
“Can I get you another coffee?”
“No, thank you.”

Tollman didn’t get up. His only greeting was a motion to sit.
Before him lay a copy of the computer printout supplied by Michael Courtney via a pony tailed garage attendant, and a blind P.O. Box at the main Denver, Colorado Post Office.”
His first statement was a question.
“Tell me what you think of the list and the organization.”
He’d done his homework, and did not need to review the two pages of notes he’d written.
“Tell me what you think of the list and the organization.”
“He’s apparently got three hundred writers across the country. He hasn’t accessed the largest metropolitan newspapers yet, but he does have a lot of minor, and some medium-sized circulation papers. There aren’t too many high income readers in the circulations of the papers he has, but I suppose he’s working on developing the bigger media. I’d say it’s a good list.”
Tollman’s associate scratched his head.
“The thing I don’t understand is why this organization exists. Our information on both Wirtham and Courtney doesn’t tell us anything; they’re both clean as a whistle. No tight political affiliations with either party - no union contacts - no underworld relations - no drug culture. They have a power base with no revealing payoff. There’s got to be more than we know about right now. Courtney obviously runs the show, but Wirtham sets the directon. They both believe in all that philosophical crap…”
Tollman quick interrupted, voice raised.
“For the third time, it’s not crap. Courtney is a Tao Xia Master. The people who gave him that designation are the same people corporate America calls on to help develop new products, do their research, and advise them on management policy. We’re not dealing with lightweights, and the sooner you realize that, the easier it’ll be for you to get your job done.”
He could see an uneasiness in his NSA associate, but he knew it was related to the tone of his voice, and not the content of his dialogue.
“Just accept it that we have an adversary who’s as smart as we think we are. Did you check out Yankee Echo with your contacts at the CIA and FBI?”
“I didn’t divulge the name, but if I’d hit something sensitive, I’d have been told to keep hands off, which I wasn’t. I even asked a few people in G-2 spots at the military desks if they knew of any covert ops being run in the private sector. No one has any information on Yankee Echo, or they’re just not telling me about it if they do.”
“Then apparently they have their own reason for existence. It’s not as important right now as it is that we have their attention, and they’re cooperating. “
“Here’s a one page summary of how I want their writers to direct their stories. I also put together a schedule of release dates.”
Leaning forward, the Secretary handed copies of both to his associate.
“I’m meeting with the President tomorrow to review my trip to Cuba. He’s gone along with my plans to date and I’m not going to throw any big surprises on him. Benson still has U.S. public support, and Santiago’s commitment, but we’re going to change all that in the next ninety days. Once his support drops off, it’ll be hard for him to pick up the pace again. If we can get the Cuban military behind Belize, Santiago’s going to be in a jam, with, or without Benson.”
“What do you want me to do now?”
“Contact Courtney this afternoon.”


Tuesday, May 13, 1:17 p.m.

Sitting in JGM’s conference room, the Analyst continued to write notes to himself.
‘Belize, Catalina Salazar, Bellcamp, to guys at Bellcamp’s, Griffin, Tollman, Mister Eloquent, Pat, Me, Kay, Robert, Shooter, Rock Thrower, Andy, Y.E., Writers’
Her question interrupted his thoughts.
“Michael, what are the odds that Dan Bellcamp’s Catalina, and the Catalina that called Tom Griffin, and the Catalina that showed up in the Cuban data, are the same person?”
There was no need for him to ponder this inquiry.
“I’d say it’s a sure thing.”
“Robert’s getting me background data on Tollman, Griffin and Belize. Do you think Tom Griffin’s tied up in this?”
“I think it’s too early to tell. We probably shouldn’t throw anything out until we’re convinced beyond a doubt.”
He’d penned an objective at the top of his notes.
‘Keep American corporations from investing in Cuba.’
“The breachers want to dismantle public support for the President’s trade program with Cuba. Ultimately that means they want to keep corporate America from investing U.S. dollars on the island. Bellcamp obviously gave Catalina Salazar our address, among other things, I’m sure, and he’s gone. So she’s got to have the remaining partners.”
He drew, and released, a deep breath.
“Why would she and her partners want to keep something so valuable away from their country? Santiago wants support, so I don’t think she’s involved with him. We can’t guess at Belize’s position until Robert gets us more data, but I’d guess he was Pro-American also.”
She followed, but questioned.
Why do you say that?”
“Because Santiago wouldn’t keep him around if he wasn’t.”
“What if President Santiago didn’t know everything his Vice President was doing?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think you can make that assumption right now.”
“OK…what if we…”
Gerry Allison had appeared, right index finger raised.
“Thanks Gerry.”
He hit the speaker button.
“This is Michael Courtney.”
“Listen up, philosopher. I have your instructions. Do you have a pad and pen to write this down?”
“Sure.”
“We want stories across the country by all three hundred writers to articulate different messages, but everyone will write negatively regarding the Cuban Economic Reform Plan. In all your eastern newspapers, wherever a state touches the Atlantic, your writers will composite the negative effects of the money supply, and the decrease in new building permits. Through Minnesota, Illinois, Michigan, Ohio, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, Texas, and Tennessee, they’ll play off the lack of orders for new plants and equipment, and fasts vendor deliveries. In the rest of your papers, they’ll work with lower prices for sensitive materials, and the low trading volumes currently on the New York Stock Exchange and NASDAQ. Are you with me so far?”
“I have it.”
“We want each of your writers to place twelve stories in the next ninety days. Remember, we have the list, and we’ll be looking for the bylines. That’s all for now. Get your people mobilized, and make sure they understand.
I’ll get you your release dates, the first one will be next week. Then you’ll hear from me again as we move along.”
“That’s it? That’s all you want? Do you know what the hell you’re asking? You want me to compromise this whole organization for your benefit. You want me to tell all my people to produce stories they know I would never ask them to write. How the hell do you suggest I go about this.”
“Use the Economic Indicators I just gave you, Courtney. I keep getting told you’re the bright one.”
“You’re looking for bylines as early as next week. I need some time to put this together.”
“Well, then get your ass in gear. I’ll call you again.”
The phone clicked, and hummed
“Seems like he’s got it now, doesn’t it, Michael?”
“Yeah, and he’s also got a friend telling him we’re smart.”
He made a mental note.
‘Breacher’s friend.’
“Are you going to do what he’s asking?”
“Yes, we’ll follow his plan, but our own way..”


Tuesday, May 23, 2:05 p.m.

The printouts were generated through an access code system that had reached into the data bases at The Central Intelligence Agency. It was an allowed breach available to the organization that neither Michael Courtney nor Andy St. Croix new the whole truth about.
Robert Wirtham, sitting behind a pile of computer paper, began his debriefing for Courtney.
“Belize is a holdover from the old government, Michael. He was a Senior Government Official with no tight title. Castro kept him as an advisor on all sorts of projects, but mostly financial initiatives.
He’s a Harvard alumnus, very bright, degreed in economics and finance. He never officially joined the Communist Party, but he was a loyal troop to the Old Man. Santiago picked him for the number two spot because he needed a transitional figure from the old government with a flair for Economics. It’s Belize who’s doing all the negotiating with our Secretary of Commerce regarding the American Corps and their presence on the island.”
JGM’s President turned a page.
“Belize also holds the purse strings of Cuba acting as Chief of The Treasury, and can flip millions around with the stroke of a pen. Santiago seems to have a lot of faith in his judgment, although he hasn’t signed any big checks yet. OK, that’s him.”
Another page was turned.
Catalina Salazar is Belize’s Administrative Assistant. She came out of Havana’s slums and got an education for herself at The University of Miami. She has a B.S. in Accounting, and an MBA in Finance. She returned to the island to work in the government despite the fact that she had offers from corps like Prudential-Bache, and Arthur Anderson. Belize took her under his wing, and she’s been working for him ever since.
Another page was turned.
Dan Bellcamp is a Laws Candidate out of Arizona State. He’s a prolific writer with great communication skills, which helped him become M.E of THE MIAMI HERALD at the age of thirty-six. He’s been known to be a pain in the butt, and he can be obstinate as hell, but he’s a smart man that knows how to put words together to move people. Right now, no one has a clue as to where he is, and because he doesn’t have any relatives that miss him, there’s no public officials out looking for him.”
Wirtham looked up from his stack of pages.
“Andy’s brought back enough data to convince me that Bellcamp’s tied up in the breach with Belize and Salazar. There’s no apparent power struggle between Belize and Santiago. We know from people inside THE HERALD that Bellcamp was working on a story with both Salazar and Belize, so that while it might have appeared coincidental that he be associated with their names, the two goons Andy met at Bellcamp’s house negated that. One of them gave Andy Belize’s name rather than face the unfriendly side of Mister St. Croix.”
He returned to his pages.
Tom Griffin’s only been with us a short time, but he’s a good writer, and he has great potential. The kid’s always on time with his writes, and expresses our point of view very dramatically through every TAC.
Another page was turned.
“George Tollman is a Harvard MBA, and a former President of Beechman Aircraft. He lives well, and he’s a good deal maker. While he hasn’t stopped American corps from becoming involved in Cuba, he’s also not a champion of the idea. He thinks we need to evaluate our capital and labor resources, and our needs at home before we invest in the island.”
Wirtham looked up with concluding remarks.
“He also cites a renewed Russian threat, or a possible Sino/Soviet return to Cuba, but that argument is losing its validity daily.”
Wirtham released his hands from the computer-generated workouts.
His face serious, his attention and eye direction turned to the woman sitting beside his former student.
He addressed her.
“Kathleen, George Tollman was also your brother John’s Company Commander in Vietnam. I’m only putting that on the table because it’s a fact, but I think it might be something worth reviewing.”
She carried a photo of him - not the marine, not the soldier - but the brother; the older brother she never knew, never touched, never spoke to, but always loved.
She didn’t need to respond.
Wirtham concluded.
“Let me know what your next step is Michael. Andy is putting some tactical data together he wants me to review - I’ll brief you later.”
He turned to face her.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, just feeling very sensitive about my brother, John, and the fact that George Tollman was his Commanding Officer. I’d like to go to the library and do some work on that. Will you come with me?”
“Of course. I need to talk to Robert about some time sequences. Just give me a few minutes with him.”
“OK.”
She seemed both lost and found.
When she’d left the room, he returned to Wirtham.
“Where’d we get all that information on these people?”
“What do you mean? Off our system.”
“I knew we had the economic stuff, but I didn’t think we could get that detailed on people.”
“We cross reference with some government computers.”
“Whose?”
Wirtham got up, not wanting to continue the conversation.
“It’s simple, they’re just data banks available to anyone. Aren’t you going with Kay?”
Courtney’s intuition told him an impropriety had just been commissioned by his former professor. Something wasn’t right.
He mentally filed the moment.
“OK, I was just wondering.”
Wirtham didn’t look at him as he left the room.
He also knew it wouldn’t be long before his student got to the truth.


Tuesday, May 23, 5:15 p.m.

The District of Columbia library and its attending branches house over two million bound volumes of literature.
None of these volumes was of any consequence to them this afternoon.
What was more important was the newspaper microfilm files stored in the cavernous vaults of D.C.’s cultural residence.
Prior, in an earlier time, she’d reviewed with Robert, the time sequences, Asian geography, and combat unit designations pertinent to her brother’s case. She knew them by heart.
She and Courtney sat side by side reviewing newspaper pages photographically engraved on silver halides.
In one chronological series of stories, she’d counted over sixty newspapers carrying accounts of the ‘Massacre at La Dang,’ and had read through sixteen of those accounts.
Kathleen McKenzie was a fast researcher, and a good mental detective. In a little over two hours she’d found several sensational descriptions of the cause of the events.
Beneath each photo of the La Dang atrocity was something even trained observers might overlook because of its commonality to every photo reproduced in a newspaper - the photographic credit.
In every shot she reviewed, there was only one credit.
‘Photo Courtesy of CBS NEWS, Inc.’
Courtney, reviewing the same photos, hadn’t missed the credit either, and, in fact, had noted it several times.
“Michael, How many photos have you seen.”
He made a quick mental calculation.
“Twelve or so.”
“All the one’s I’ve seen have the same credit, CBS NEWS”
“Let me check my notes.”
Flipping through six pages, he numbered his writings.
“I have fourteen - all CBS NEWS. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that CBS would probably still have the film or videotape, and I’d like to see it.
“Are you sure you want to do that, Kay?”
“Yes…I am. Tell me what you got out of this.”
“There’s not one shred of evidence in everything I’ve read that could tie John to the events of that day - everything is conjecture. In all the articles, there’s very few mentions of Tollman. He never defended John - didn’t even bother to give an account of what type of marine he was, or wasn’t. He just threw his hands up in the air and chalked it all up to the consequences of war.”
He squared his body to hers.
“How the hell can somebody be that undefined about something like this? Consider this too. How can a guy who becomes President of a major aircraft manufacturing company, who takes that company from a medium sized corporation to become one of the industry giants, act so wobbly about the Cuban initiatives, and act just as wobbly as a Marine Corps Commander? You don’t become what Tollman became by being indecisive. He’s bright, Kay, he has a Harvard MBA. Everything he did after John died, and everything he’s doing now just don’t fit the profile of who he really has to be to have become what he’s become.”
He touched her gently on the arm.
“Come on. Let’s go back to the hotel and call Eddie Dalger. If anyone knows someone at CBS, it will be him.”
After making several photo copies, they left.


Tuesday, May 23, 7:16 p.m.

“Hello, Ellen - this is Kathleen McKenzie. I’m sorry to bother you, but may I please speak with Eddie?
“Hold on, Kathleen, he just flew by me. - I’ll get him for you.”
Preparing to replace the brake light on his car, Eddie Dalger rearranged his priorities following his wife’s request to answer the call.
“Hello, Kathleen.”
“Hi Eddie - I need a favor.”
“Whatever I can do.”
“Eddie - I’m sure you remember the events around my brother John’s death…”
“Yes…I do.”
“I’ve been doing some research with Michael, and was wondering if we could get a copy of the video footage the CBS crew shot at the scene. Do you know if that’s possible? Do you know anyone at CBS that we could get it from?”
“Well - first of all, I’m pretty sure they’d still have it, and yes, a good friend of Ellen’s and mine is Chief of Program Engineering there. If anyone could place his hands on it, he could. Let me give him a call at home, and I’ll call you back. Are you guys at the hotel?”
“Yes, we’ll be here the rest of the evening.”
“OK, give me a little time. I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks, Eddie.”

Arms folded across her chest, she crossed the room stopping only after her thighs met the arm of the overstuffed chair where he sat.
It was he who addressed her.
“Kay, the shit is going to start hitting the fan tomorrow with Yankee Echo. Your father’s in trouble; we have our backs up against the wall; three hundred of our writers are going to think I’m weaving on this issue; can you handle all of this?”
Leaning forward, and bending at the waist, she put her face six inches from his, looked him square in the eyes, and gave him a low, passionate response.
“I may kill someone before this is over.”
The thought wasn’t lost.


Tuesday, May 23, 9:31 p.m.

He’d put a blanket over her on the couch. She was half asleep when the phone rang.
Courtney, writing a TAC he hoped would convince what he believed to be half his writing team that he wasn’t crazy, secured the communication device.
“Michael Courtney.”
“Michael - it’s Eddie. I have some information for Kathleen.”
He glanced sideways at her.
“She’s resting, Eddie - what’s up?”
“I just got off the phone with a friend who works at CBS. You can tell her that he’s certain the tape is in their archives, and that he’ll go into their library tomorrow and pull it out. He’s going to transfer it to VCR format for you. I gave him your address at the hotel. He said he’d Fed Express it to you.”
“We’ll be looking for it. What do you want me to do with it when we’re done?”
“Get rid of it at JGM.”
“I understand. Eddie, thanks for all the help.”
“Keep in touch, Michael.”
Returning to the table, it’s surface covered with papers - his thoughts were directed on several agendas.
‘What’s with Tollman and Cuba? How does Griffin get his information? Where’s Bellcamp? Why did Belize send two men to search Belcamp’s house? Who’s Catalina working with besides Belize? Where are they holding Pat? Catalina Salazar set up the Tollman-Griffin interview. Where was that call coming from when we picked up the Iraqi Generals - was it the CIA, or NSA? Is our own government trying to squash Cuban development - or just part of the government? The President publicly declared he wants to invest. Why doesn’t Benson just fire Tollman and put someone more supportive in that position? The breachers have a power base in their anonymity, and also with Pat as their hostage. We have the writers…..THAT’S IT. THAT’S PART OF IT. Without public support, they go nowhere. They have no leverage in Congress, the Senate, in the White House, or in Cuba.’
He massaged his eyes and let out a deep sigh.
‘They had to come to us for national exposure. The only way they could have found us would have been through Belcamp - but why would he betray us? Money? That would probably cost a lot. Who has money? Belize - he has the money. If Bellcamp betrayed us - he must also have betrayed them too - either that, or they eliminated him, and we’re covering their tracks for them. They don’t just need a few articles from us - they absolutely can’t succeed without us. We’re too much a part of their plan. We have to make this work for them…can’t split the writers, I have to play the game their way. OK, their driving, but I’m holding the road map - Law Thirty. I have to assume Belize, Salazar and Bellcamp are the breachers for now. So, how do I get the rest of them to identify themselves? If the President wants this program so bad, maybe he’s the guy I have to talk to. He’s the one who’s going to feel the impact from the writers.’
“Michael?”
She startled him.
His sudden unexpected movement, in turn, causing concern.
“Michael - are you OK?”
“I’m sorry - I was thinking.”
“What were you so engrossed with - not that you don’t have a few things to think about.”
“I have to go see the President on this.”
Her witty reaction was typical of a personality trait he hadn’t seen in her in what seemed like a very long time. It was refreshing to see it again.
“OH, really! Shall I get a new dress? What Law are you working this off of Professor?”
“Thirty.”
Her response was immediate.
“You’re going to make the President of The United States conform to something?”
“He’s going to give me an answer either directly or indirectly - or both. I don’t know if I can make him conform. I need to know what he knows.”
He yawned.
“This is a very important time for him. If Benson succeeds in Cuba, all of Central America will fall in line with his plans. This could be an enormous political coup for him, and it should be a piece of cake. Why he’s giving Tollman so much control is beyond me, but he has a reason.”
He stretched.
“If I confront him with the fact that someone’s going to blow public support for his program out of the water, he’ll have to do one of two things. Either talk to me, or send someone to investigate me. If he sends the CIA or the FBI, we’re in more trouble than we are right now because that response will tell me he may be connected with them in destroying his own plan - which doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
He stretched again.
“If he agrees with me, it’s because he either believes my story, or because he’s already aware of some of the things I’ll tell him about in a letter I‘m going to send him. He should find my letter preposterous, but he should also send it on the proper authorities for investigation. If he agrees to see me after he reads my letter, without calling in any spooks, then he knows something we don’t know, but maybe he’ll share it with us.’
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Kay - the breachers can’t succeed without us, but the President could. Simple logic tells us he can’t be involved with them.”
“I would hope not.”
She sat on his lap, putting her arms around his neck.
He continued.
“So - if he’s not one of them, and if he has public support for his program, and Cuba should be a cakewalk, then why keep Tollman? I can understand part of his labor argument - but this Sino/Soviet crap is full of holes. Benson could make his plan fly with ten phone calls to the CEO’s of our largest industrials. Why hasn’t he?”
“Maybe there’s something Santiago wants that the President’s not willing to give him.”
“I doubt it. He’d give him Texas if he wanted it. He has a hidden agenda, Kay. Think of Law Thirteen. The President has two agendas going, and until he completes one he can’t do the other. You and I both know that even if we whack the hell out of his plan with out writers, it would be just a matter of revising the pattern later on, and all that public support would come right back.”
Her hand was gently stroking through his hair.
It felt good.
“He’s no fool, Kay. He understands, better than anyone in the country, the power of the press. So, if I tell him there’s an organization that can destroy his Cuban Plan, and he doesn’t believe me, I could prove our existence with the TAC’s we write.”
She continued stroking his hair.
“If he takes me seriously, but doesn’t try to stop us, it confirms his second agenda, and also confirms that for the time being, his second agenda is more important to him than the Cuban one. His reaction to my letter is going to give us answers, one way or another.”
“How are you going to be sure he gets the letter, and reads it.”
“Through Andy. I’m sure there’s a high-up Navy guy who can get to see the President, and I’d bet my last dollar he owes Andy a favor.”
“Michael - aren’t we taking a risk with Dad?”
“If I’m wrong about all of this, maybe. If I’m right, no. It’s going to lead us to him. Kay, someone in either the Central Intelligence Agency or the National Security Agency has been calling us. I can’t believe either one of them as branches of government would want to destroy the President’s Plan. But someone inside one of those agencies has set this up, or is a part of it, and that scares the hell out of me. The only person who has more resources than either one of those organizations is the President, and I have to get to see him.”


Tuesday, May 23, 8:35 a.m.

The soft green light blinked. Sitting alone, he expected the call.
“Scotty - what do you have?”
“I checked the Puerto Rican and Panamanian banks, Sir. Its all in order, one hundred fifty million in American dollars.”
“What about Pat McKenzie?”
“We believe he’s alright for now. Can President Santiago hold off his Vice President from getting control of the military?”
“I think so.”
“Are you prepared for the Secretary’s meeting? Do you have enough information to keep the Press at arm’s length?”
“He’s a smart man, Scotty. He may be the worst mistake I’ve ever made, but he’ll convince me to postpone any serious calls to corporate America. If I get pressure from the Press, I’m just going to sick them on him. What’s going on at the NSA?”
“We’re not sure who Tollman’s man is, but he’s had several contacts with Courtney. He’s been instructed to write negatively against your Plan. Wirtham told David Eisenberg it will begin in one to two weeks, and continue to last eleven to fifteen weeks.”
“How many writers does he have on it? “
“Several hundred in various papers. They could cause considerable damage to public support. We’re lucky he doesn’t have the whole organization on it.”
“We’re going to need to work fast, Scotty. Keep me informed on Pat McKenzie.”
“I will, Mister President.”
Returning his phone to its cradle, Randall Benson stood and looked beyond the Rose Garden to the sky. He thought about the awesome power of the free Press, and what could be done to a nation should that power be concentrated in the wrong hands. He thought it incredible that an organization such as Yankee Echo could exist, but he also knew that there are men and women in this world with both the ability and resources to create and control such an organization.
While he’d never studied The Universal Physical Laws, he was aware there were analysts who used them all the time. And for those who practiced them, there was opportunity to control agendas, move people to action, and cause enemies to commit errors.
He’d been briefed on Michael Courtney by two close friends in Academia. From the first: ‘A thorough mind, intuitive, capable of deep insight.’ The second, more verbose, paraphrased the other: ‘This man can cause things to happen through the written word. He’s a Master of TAO XIA living by the fundamental truths. He creates situations by using ultimate realities. He’s one of a handful of humans who knows how to interpret and use this set of Laws in practical applications. In Western culture, we don’t fully comprehend people like Courtney, but in the Orient, these people are highly regarded as gifted.’

Speaking to himself, he repeated the words of Andrew Jackson.
“One man with courage makes a majority.”
Walking across the Oval Office, he addressed a question to the metaphysician across town.
“Do you have courage, Mister Courtney?”

Tuesday, May 23, 11;32 p.m.

She lay in his arms, head resting on his chest while he caressed her back with her fingertips.
He’d given her all the logic, and all the analysis. He knew she needed to hear one more statement, something her father would have said in the vernacular.
“Starting tomorrow Kay, we’re going to have to kick some ass.”
Her response was silent, a thought to herself.
‘Starting tomorrow Michael, you’re going to make some discoveries. I hope you do the right thing with them.’

































202
Part II

Action

Chapter 8
Fundamentals in Logic

Wednesday, May 24, 10:01 a.m.

From the podium, Pete Radler, Press Secretary to the President of The United States pointed to the Business Editor of THE HARTFORD COURANT, the nations oldest daily.
He was one of thirty-eight Press personnel allowed to attend this conference. He wasn’t a part of Yankee Echo. The COURANT’s Editorial Editor was.
“Mister Winters?”
“Mister Radler, is our Secretary of Commerce meeting with the President regularly, and has he brought back any substantive contractual agreements from his meetings with Vice President Belize?”
“I can tell you, Mister Winters, that, at this moment, our Secretary of Commerce is meeting with the President. I can also tell you that he’s returned from Cuba with an option package that won’t be as substantive as our American corporations would like at this time, but it’s a package that the President believes will finally open the economic doors of Cuba to American interests. I’m sure you’re well aware that the entire economic initiative supported by the President needs approval by both the Congress and the Senate, and that the appropriate Committee Chairman will receive Mister Belize’s option package this week. I’m sure you’re also aware of the fact that the United States isn’t the only country interested in the new Cuban democracy. Mister Belize is a very intelligent man, as is Mister Santiago. They have interests to protect, and I’m sure they are reviewing all the avenues available to them in their pursuit of these interests.” 203
Press kits had been distributed following the Commerce Secretary’s meetings on the island nation. Their contents, all the same, were standard fare. Availability of capital, interest rates, leveraged investments, research reports on productivity, mineral rights, shipping, distribution.
It was all a smoke screen, a clever manipulation of words and figures to buy time. Tollman needed ninety days. He had an amalgamation of material that would take sixty to pigeon-hole in committee, and another one hundred to receive action from the political process. These same ideas, because they’d been played out in the Press, and were now part of the political consciousness, would receive intense scrutiny and inspection by both the Congress and the U.S. Senate.
Pete Radler fielded four more questions. In capsulation they were, ‘how long’ - ‘how much’ - ‘when’ - and ‘who’. He concluded by giving the attending Press corps a set of stock answers, that, although were contrived, we’re predetermined.

Editors and reporters hurried to the phones, computer keyboards were punched, type was set, galleys were laid out in newspaper composing rooms, wire services were notified, presses were stopped and restarted, and America had its dinner tables stories that said little, mean even less, but filled space.

Wednesday, May 24, 9:54 a.m.

He dialed the Director’s private line
“Scott Orefice.”
“Scotty, I’m opening this line before he comes in here. Stay on the other end. It’s on the speaker system one way.”
“Yes, Sir. Have you been briefed on the morning papers yet?’
204
“No, Pete Radler’s not coming in until I’m done with our Secretary of Commerce. Why?”
“Because my people have shown me over thirty morning editions from around the country - all very positive stories regarding the Cuban Plan. Wirtham’s told David Eisenberg more will come out as evening editions.”
“What’s going on?”
“Wirtham said Courtney wanted to give the plan a boost before he was forced to write the negative articles. He’s eliminated a lot of newspapers based on high circulations and demographic data hoping the breachers won’t see the stories because he figures they’re in a large metro area.”
“Scotty, this is going to put a lot of pressure on me to be more assertive with my program, and I can’t, not yet.”
“I understand, Sir. I’ve thought about that and I’ve called Wirtham myself. I told him I’m going to send someone to make contact with Courtney. He can’t slow him down without revealing the size and scope of the organization. Maybe we can. We need to direct him away from Yankee Echo to focus on rescuing Pat McKenzie.”
“How do we do that?”
“JGM’s Director of Internal Security is a man named Andrew St. Croix. He’s a graduate of Annapolis and a former member of a Navy Zero team. He served two years as a Metaphysical Logistician for Naval Systems and Naval Intelligence operations in Vietnam. St. Croix has a lot of high-ranking connections in the Navy. Wirtham says Courtney will use him to help as soon as he identifies Pat McKenzie’s location.”
“Can they do it without your help?”
“Let me say this, Sir. I would create Special Ops positions for either Courtney or St. Croix, and I’d hire them tomorrow if I could. Yes, they can do it.”
205
“If you think he needs to be contacted, do so, Scotty. In the meantime, stay on the line while I visit with George Tollman. There’s some kind of system in this phone that I can turn on - in fact, I think McKenzie industries made it - you’ll hear everything.”
Orefice knew the system - ‘anti-static’ - there wasn’t one on his phone. He wouldn’t allow it.
“Yes, Sir.”

Wednesday, May 24, 10:00 a.m.

Very few people get to sit alone with The President of The United States. Agendas are too broad - situations too complex for one-on-one meetings.
This meeting was different. It was solitary by design. In George Tollman’s mind, the fact that such an important political issue be discussed privately with the President, was interpreted as an indication of trust and confidence.
The meeting lasted one hour and five minutes. Most of what was discussed was spoken by the Secretary. He not only thought he needed to convince the President that he was right about immediate involvement, but also thought he should reassure Benson that any American investment at this time would prove to be politically disadvantageous later on, especially with the unions.
Benson listened patiently, as did an unseen CIA Director, to a report on figures representing drops in the index measuring U.S. consumer confidence. In addition, Tollman produced reports clearly indicating fewer orders for plants and equipment, certainly an unequivocal argument that if American corporations were not investing themselves on their own soil, they should not do so on Cuban soil
Tollman cited faster vendor deliveries, which indicated declining demand, once again supporting his data on consumer confidence.
206
His series of evidence was well documented with Commerce Department research data, white papers, and economic reports.
He’d been logical, analytical, and empirical.
In any other set of ears, he might have made convincing arguments. He would, in fact, deliver the same message to Congressional and U.S. Senate committee chairmen in his own offices on the following day.
The President understood everything he heard, but logic doesn’t always find its place in either business or political decisions. He did, however, need to feign an argument.
“George, your assertions are thorough and complete, but I still question your conclusions. There’s enough capital in U.S. industry right now to at least begin the process of investment in Cuba. If we don’t do it, the Germans and the Japanese will. I know you’re telling me about our own economic situation, and I know that politically it could be risky, but damn it, the opportunities down there are far greater than the risks.”
He sat back in his Oval Office chair.
“I’m going to continue to support and defend my program, but I’m also going to take your advice for the time being. I want you to see Pete Radler and go over all of this with him. Tell him I want to low-key this whole thing for at least ninety days. If the economic indicators don’t show any appreciable gains in the next three months, I’ll consider other options.”
He’d done it - he bought it.
“Thank you Mister President - I’ll see Pete Radler as soon as possible.”
The President rose, signifying the meeting’s termination.
The emotion of their parting handshake was conventional.
Tollman left.
207
“Scotty?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What do you think?”
“I think he believes he sold you.”
“So do I. We’re going let him keep believing that. You know what you have to do.”
“Yes, Sir - I’ll be in touch Mister President.”

Wednesday, May 24, 10:28 a.m.
Law Fifteen
His left hand on a sheet of JGM letterhead, he took the pen in his right.

The President
The White House
Washington, D.C. 20500

Dear Mister President,

This letter will find you by special envoy. He will be unaware of its contents. I am approaching you through this channel to make a presentation of both scale and urgency.
It is imperative I speak privately with you regarding your plan to establish a United States economic base in the new Democratic State of Cuba. Presently, there is a highly-structured organization at work which could destroy this initiative through the power of the Press.
I know this may seem incredulous to you, but it is, however, true. I would hope my ability to access you establishes my credibility, and demonstrates the gravity of this request.

May I meet with you soon?

Sincerely,

Michael J. Courtney 208
Letter in hand, he walked to the bedroom where Kay had been studying photocopies of several newspaper stories written long ago about horrible death in the jungle.
“Kay?”
Her head lifted.
“Tell me what you think about this letter.”
She accepted the sheet of paper.
“It’s going to get a reaction, but I’m not sure what kind.”
“I’m about out of ideas, Kay. We need a break in this thing.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes straight, his mind searching for answers to questions he knew he hadn’t yet asked himself.
He knew every problem had an answer, every riddle a solution, and that every search for truth required time.
Time had now become a pivotal component of his inquiry.

Wednesday, May 24, 12:05 p.m.

In the 1960’s, Marshall McLuhan, Professor, and Director of the Center for Culture and Technology at The University of Toronto, developed a philosophical theory in which he integrated the components of deductive logic and inductive reasoning with electronic communication systems.
He inferred that the acceptance of data was made more relevant and more credible through the medium used in its delivery. McLuhan said that if we accept a proposition because we believe the premises, or basic assumptions that created it, then we would be inclined to be influenced by the proposition in direct proportion to the number of sensory perceptions we use to accept its delivery.

209
News delivered through the medium of television has more impact on us than the same news broadcast on radio or read in a newspaper simply because we use more senses to receive this news.
If we accept McLuhan’s theory, we can conclude that we are most subject to the acceptance of a proposition when it is delivered to us by another human being face to face.
Michael Courtney both accepted, and challenged McLuhan’s theory. He felt that ideas and propositions themselves contained both weight and dimension, and he believed those with esoteric value could best be communicated and completely understood through the written word.
Facts, assumed facts, and declarations fit the profile of McLuhan’s theory, but theory itself needed the format of writing because he felt it required both intuitive and analytical analysis. It needed review other than through a physical sense.
For Courtney, Like McLuhan, the medium would be the massage, but his message would be the prevailing agent causing Presidential movement.
Arriving at JGM about noon, he pushed on the clear, glass-panel door, allowing Kay to precede him into the corporate reception area. She had the letter, and would enter its handwritten contents onto a hard disc drive, and finally formatting it on one of the company’s laser printers.
He lightly touched her elbow as they walked the short distance to the executive offices.
“I’m going to meet with Andy and Robert while you type the letter. Could you bring it in when it’s done?”
She responded with a slight smile, created more with her eyes than with her mouth.
“Sure.”


210
Andy St. Croix sat in one of two chairs facing Wirtham’s desk. JGM’s President motioned to the other as Courtney entered the office.
Seated, he turned to the Zero team member.
“Andy, I need to contact the President.”
Eyes raised.
“He’s letting his Secretary of Commerce dump all over his Cuban Economic Reform Plan, and it doesn’t make sense. Tollman’s reasons for non-involvement don’t hold water, but Benson refuses to challenge him. I believe the President has a second agenda, and I’m beginning to think Tollman has one too. We’re being accessed by someone in either the CIA or NSA, and I would guess it’s at a pretty high level. The breachers have Pat…”
He looked at the office door; seeing it vacant, he continued.
“…and I don’t believe they’re intentions are to release him when Yankee Echo’s done knocking the crap out of the Cuban Reform Plan.
He turned to the Zero again.
“You brought Belize into the picture, Andy. We know Catalina Salazar works for him, and it sure as hell is apparent to me that Bellcamp was the one who sold us out. I would have to think that if we can get to Salazar or Belize, we’d find Pat.”
He squared himself once again to Wirtham.
“The response from the President could tell us if Tollman’s got a part in this too because I can’t see any logic coming from either Benson or his Secretary.”
His eyes met Andy St’ Croix’s.
“I need someone with authority to hand-carry a letter to Benson, someone who won’t ask any questions.”
Courtney let the statement hang in the air, a question made by declaration of necessity.
Andy St. Croix didn’t move, eyes remaining fixed, brow wrinkled in thought.
211
“Mick, have y’all got a proposition from your premises?”
“Sort of, but most of what I have are assumptions based on Laws.”
“Y’all been givin this some real heavy right-brain work, but you only make one side of an equation. Ah ain’t the metaphysician of this group, but ah can’t make a connection yet between the CIA, NSA, or anybody else. Ah know you wouldn’t work without a prop, Mick. What’s your bottom line?”
“A paradox. We have a situation that’s both true and false at the same time. The President’s being both real and unreal, and so is Tollman. There has to be multiple agendas coming from both sides. They’re both being truthful, and they’re both being liars at the same time, and the reason, I think, is because they both know there’s an equalizer…us. If I can get a letter to the President through a channel he’d respect, he’ll have to give me some kind of an answer. No matter what he tells me, he’s going to prove my theory.”
St. Croix’s mouth and eyes formed a smile.
“OK, Mick, you finished up the equation. Now tell me how he’ll prove your theory.”
The analyst continued.
“The CIA or the NSA, or maybe just a couple of people in one of those organizations is working either with the President, or against the President. If they’re working with the President, he knows all about us, and he also knows about Belize, Salazar, and Bellcamp. If they’re working against the President, then they’re working with someone else, and my instincts say it’s Tollman. Any way the President responds to me, we’re going to get an answer…I need a delivery vehicle, Andy.
His eyes connected with the Zero again.
“Ah’ll need a little time, Mick, but there’s some people who owe me, and they have the kind of leverage you need to get in that office.”
“Andy…there’s more.”
212
Courtney rose, walked to the office door, and pushed it closed. Turning, he moved deliberately to the window facing East.
“I need you to pull together a Zero Team. I’m certain if we can get to Belize, we’ll find Pat. If that means the use of firepower, we use it. You tell me how to set it up, JGM will provide the funding.”
He addressed Wirtham.
“Robert, you’ll be right in the middle of all this. Are you OK with this decision?”
JGM’s President stood - drew and released a deep breath.
“I think I knew this situation could have that conclusion, so I’ll approve it, Michael - but I’ll want Andy to have logistical control through the whole operation.
He squared to St. Croix.
“Andy, I know you’ve worked these operations in Nam, but we’re dealing with a lot of different variables here. We’re screwing around with the Vice President of a free nation.”
It was St. Croix’s turn to stand.
“Ah’ll get the team, Mick. We’re probably looking at close to two hundred thousand dollars to pull this off, Bobby.”
Wirtham accepted.
“That’s the least of our problems right now. We’ll work with cash.”
“Mick, ah hope y’all know what’s goin down here for you.“
Courtney remained steadfast.
“I’m working with everything I know that’s true, Andy. Lies don’t stand up to truth.”
He addressed them both.
“Are we agreed?”
Wirtham and St. Croix nodded simultaneously, and affirmatively, each knowing their respective jobs and responsibilities.
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“Robert, Andy, one more thing…Kay doesn’t get involved.”

That was understood. Even though Wirtham knew she was more involved than he was.

Wednesday, May 24, 1:35 p.m.

In JGM’s conference room his shoeless feet were on one chair, his body in a second. She knew his degree of concentration. Although he knew she would know he had an agenda, he hoped she wouldn’t recognize it as anything new.
He also knew this was ridiculous.
“Michael, what is it?”
“Oh, hi…did you get the letter done?”
“It’s right here - I dumped it off the disc - and I’m going to tear it up of you don’t tell me.”
“it’s nothing, Kay. I’m just trying to fit all the pieces together.”
“You’re full of it, Courtney.”
She walked around the table.
Picking up his feet, she sat, placing them in her lap.
Their eyes met.
“You’re the worst liar in the world, Michael.”
“Kay, you’re not getting involved from here on in.”
“How big is it?”
“Bigger than a breadbox.”
“Stop being a shithead.”
“Stop asking questions.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, I just have a lot of stuff to consider. We’re really in a lousy position, Kay.”
“No fooling, Professor. Why don’t you let me work on a few pieces of your puzzle with all the intelligence you’ve told me I have.”
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“According to you, I should be able to balance Metaphysics and the Federal Budget at the same time. What’s on your plate, Courtney, and don’t blow smoke up my skirt.”
He didn’t respond.
“Michael, what’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you. Things are going to escalate. You won’t be a part of it.”
“Shouldn’t that be my decision?”
“Not this time, Kay. Please - leave it alone.”
“You’re pissing me off Michael. I thought we were a team.”
He removed his feet from her lap. Placing them flat on the floor, he leaned toward her.
“Kay, trust me, you don’t want to get involved in the next part of this.”
Handing him the letter, she stood to leave the room.
“No, you have to trust me, Michael. I’m in this more than you are. I’m going out. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”
He jumped to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
“OUT!”
“I don’t think you should go anywhere by yourself.”
“You’re not running my life, I am. Just make sure you get your part of the job done.”

Wednesday, May 24, 6:15 p.m.

During the formative years of Yankee Echo, Patrick McKenzie knew that, in order to financially support the organization, he’d require more than his own resources.
Fifty American multi-national corporations, In addition to his own had access to Yankee Echo writers through Robert Wirtham’s office.
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A telecommunications company, an international public relations agency, a conglomerate jet engine manufacturer, an oil and chemical processor, and a pharmaceutical manufacturer were all part of the system, and, along with other 45 other companies, contributed the monetary support required to run the operation.
Courtney and St. Croix were unaware of these companies and their involvement in Yankee Echo. Kathleen McKenzie was not unaware.
That wasn’t all.
Directions came from Wirtham, a man who knew if the organization were ever breached, it wouldn’t be for long. His belief was founded on the safety that existed in another dimension of Yankee Echo.
With his financial support in place, McKenzie also knew the organization would need protection. St. Croix saw to internal security. But outside, in the very vulnerable real world, Yankee Echo was protected by one of the country’s leading security agencies - the Central Intelligence Agency.
Because Patrick McKenzie provided much of the technology for the U.S. intelligence bureaucracy, he had ample opportunity to meet at high levels with the people who controlled the agencies that made up this community. One of these people was the Director of Central Intelligence.
It is not well known that the CIA supports its own domestic divisions. This public side of the CIA in the U.S. is known as the National Collection Division.
In order to effectively run this part of their operation, the CIA needs money. And it always falls short of the funding required to run this division which is allocated by Congress.
McKenzie’s group made up for the shortfall every year in exchange for its freedom to operate Yankee Echo, and also for protection from any subversive elements.
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A special Deputy Director at the CIA oversaw the operation of Yankee Echo. David Eisenberg. Kathleen McKenzie about knew him too.
His phone rang only once.
“Yes?”
“David, he’s written the letter to the President, but he’s also planning something else..”
“What is it?”
“He’s going after Pat with St. Croix.”
“How soon?”
“I’m not sure yet. If I know him, it will have an urgency. Probably very soon.”
“Well, we both know St. Croix’s capable of getting tough.”
“Have your people found out anything new?”
“We’ve been working off the information you’ve been feeding us. We’re certain Pat’s in Cuba and he’s being held at Belize’s villa. We profiled Belize emotionally. He’s a man who consumes wealth and power, and apparently wants to take control of something, maybe the Presidency, or he’s looking to someone for a payoff. If Courtney wants to go down there and get Pat, then we’re going to let him go. It’ll keep The Agency out of it, and that’s what Orefice wants, at least right now.”
“David - do you think St. Croix can do it?”
“You have to be kidding, yes, we believe so. But he would only resolve the hostage situation. The Yankee Echo part will still be open. I’m not diminishing the fact that we want Pat brought back safely, but the issues around Yankee Echo are very serious. It’s going to depend on how much Courtney and St. Croix find out. How do you think they’re going to react if and when they find out they’ve been deceived?”
“I don’t know. We’re going to have to deal with that.”


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Wednesday, May 24, 6:25 p.m.

Entering the hotel room, he found her sitting on the bed, hands folded in her lap.
“Kay?”
No response.
Depositing his briefcase on top of the yellow oak low-profile double chest of drawers, he moved to her side.
“Kay…”
Taking her hands in his, their eyes met - hers forming tears.
It was he who spoke.
“I’m sorry about the way I spoke in the offices. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Throwing her arms around him, she wept freely.
“Oh, Michael, you have no idea what you’re involved in.”
He’d heard something similar from her before.
He made another mental note.
It certainly wasn’t time to discuss it now.

Wednesday, May 24, 8:22 p.m.

David Eisenberg had majored in International Economics, and had additionally been a Laws candidate at Amherst College in Amherst, Massachusetts.
He was recruited by the Central Intelligence Agency following graduation from Yale School of Law.
The ancient philosopher Herodotus told us:
‘Of all men’s miseries the bitterest is this, to know so much, and to have control over nothing,’
This twenty-four hundred year old thought was not lost on him right now.
The excitement of working for this organization captivated him.

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It was the insights he’d applied from his Laws background that allowed him to move into the Deputy Director’s position.
He pushed the digits on his phone to reach his Chief in Miami.
“Yes?”
“Courtney and St. Croix are preparing to pull something off on the island. It may involve an active Zero team.”
“Zeros? From where? Do we know when?”
“Wirtham will try to find out, it’ll probably be soon. Orefice doesn’t want to send in any of our people. I’ve got JGM covered. If I have to, I’m going to blow it. Be prepared for that too.”
“Won’t you lose contact with the network?”
“Only temporarily. Wirtham’s implemented redundancy at McKenzie in Connecticut. We could reestablish in three weeks in D.C.”
“This could get messy if Zero’s get involved. We have no idea where they’re located.”
“This whole damn thing’s a mess. Try to stay on top of this. Call me tomorrow.”
“What about McKenzie’s daughter?”
“I’ll take care of her.”
He would.

Thursday, May 25, 7:05 a.m.

She’d been dressed since 6:00 a.m..
In the bathroom furthest from the bedroom, she sat on the floor against the wall alternately hugging a pillow to her chest then laying it on her lap to beat it with every sense of severity in her body.
“damn it, damn it, damn it,…damn it.”
Through whispered cursing she hoped she could mentally prepare herself to view the tape coming in the Federal Express package due into the hotel before 10:30 a.m..
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She knew it would contain a revelation, an answer, a piece of the puzzle.

The knock on the door was an interruption she knew would come eventually.
“Kay - are you alright?”
The cold water she was now splashing on her face wouldn’t hide the anguish.
Actually - she wanted him to see it - to heal it.
He was standing with his back against the wall when she emerged.
Their eyes connected.
“Kay - come here.”
He pulled her close.
“Is it about your brother?”
She drew a breath.
“Yes.”
“The tape that’s coming?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll review it first if you like.”
“No…but I want you here while I watch it.”
“I will be.”

Thursday, May 25, 10:15 a.m.

Courtney, one again reviewing his notes, took the call.
“Yes”
“Sir, this is the front desk calling - we have a Federal Express package for you. It’s on the way up.”
“Thank you.”
Accepting the package from the bellboy, he handed him two one-dollar bills. The red and white Federal Express envelope contained the tape, and a note from Eddie Dalger. Placing the tape under his left arm, he opened and read the letter.


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Michael and Kathleen.

Enclosed is the CBS tape. It contains more footage than was reviewed by the Military Review Board during the investigation. What you have is everything shot by the cameraman from beginning to end. Let me know if I can do anything else.

Eddie.

In the parlor, the television appeared to be broadcasting a snowstorm. Without conversation, he pushed the tape into the machine, and hit the ‘play’ button on the hand-held remote control unit.
Backing away, he moved to sit beside her.
The beginning was formatted with a sequenced numerical countdown of patterned drawings. 10...9...8..7...6...5...4...,
She reached for his hand when the steamy jungle appeared on the screen. Two microphones, one on the camera, one hand-held, picked up the whispering male voices of the CBS cameraman and the reporter.
“You’re crazy, Jack. That’s a fucking firefight up there.”
“They’re only fifty yards ahead of us. C’mon, I want this on tonight.”
The exploding hand grenade impacted their central nervous systems sending both of them to the damp jungle ground. The mini cam, on automatic feed kept rolling footage - now only showing local foliage on the suite’s TV screen.
The reporter’s voice was hushed.
“Get up - zoom in on that.”
Numb from the violence - the cameraman had returned to his feet while pressing the button to extend the lens on the mini cam.
They moved closer.

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Rifle fire pierced the air.
The sun’s reflection off the Lieutenant’s bar on his helmet was thought to be anything other than what it was.
The muzzle flash of an M-16 was followed by the muzzle flash of another.
Courtney thought it appeared to be cross fire, but it looked like the distance between the spread of the flashes was too close for cross fire. It was so close, it looked more like hand-to-hand combat.
Something else was strange. The muzzle flashes on the right side of the screen were lateral, from right to left. The muzzle flashes on the left side of the screen were vertical, from bottom to top.
Suddenly, she released his hand.
A woman’s body lay in two directions, a small detached head at her feet.
“OK - get that camera on me.”
“We have just come upon what seems to be the aftermath of a massacre. The marine corporal at my feet has apparently taken out several women and children who were under what’s left of a tarpaulin behind me.. Both my cameraman and I are sick at the sight of what we see here. There was an explosion, obviously from one of his hand grenades that has done incredible devastation. He must have been killed in the cross fire exchange of the fire fight. We think his unit is about two hundred yards to the south of us. We’re going to try and make our way…”
“Turn it off, Michael.”
Courtney clicked the remote control, the TV was now blank.
“I’m going for a walk.”
It took everything he had to keep from reaching for her.
“I’ll be here when you get back.”
She stopped at the door and turned, her voice calm, yet demanding.”
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“Analyze it, Michael. There’s something there.”
She turned again, and left.
Analysis is a science. It’s also an art. The challenge of this analytical procedure would be to bring together inductive reasoning with deductive logic. It would almost be like trying to reach a destination by driving to it from two points at the same time.
He’d take what was known and work backwards confirming the premises making the conclusion, and would infer from known specifics to reach general propositions. Throughout the process, an intuitive balance would be required to control one procedure from dominating the other.
In this analysis, he wouldn’t know what to look for. He only knew he needed an answer, the truth. The most accurate way to find the truth is to begin an analysis with things we know to be true - axioms.
The papers spread on the coffee table contained The Universal Physical Laws
Pressing the rewind button on the remote control, Courtney reviewed Number One.
He hit ‘play’ and reviewed the entire tape again.
Nothing came to him. His thoughts reflected his mood.
“Damn, that was a key.”
He worked through Number Two. It was proven, but proved nothing.
Three…nothing.
Four…nothing.
Five…Someone broke it. There had to be a reason.
Six
The tape rolled.
Countdown - jungle green - swearing - explosion - foliage close up - sun’s reflection - muzzle flashes - more of the same.

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‘ What the Hell…?’
He read Law Six again, even though he knew it by heart.
The tape rewound. He kept the control unit in his hand - it was time to freeze frame.
Countdown.
He held the thought of Law Six.
‘Nothing escapes it.’
Jungle green.
Large leafed plants - footsteps - bouncing camera.
He held the frame, taking pen to paper.
Courtney noticed the shadows made by solid objects.
The sun was coming out of the left side of the screen. He made a note that left was South.
The tape rolled.
Swearing.
Explosion - men falling - close up foliage - camera kept running.
He froze the frame again.
Shadows were still created out of the left side of the screen. The picture wasn’t disturbed. He inferred the camera lens had remained clear.
The tape rolled.
Most everything metallic will reflect sunlight. When conditions are perfect, even the smallest piece of metal directing the rays of the sun away from its surface toward a convex lens can create an instant of total blindness within the lens.
The VCR unit housing the tape had a playback feature that allowed for slow motion, frame by-frame viewing. Courtney pressed the appropriate button putting the machine in this mode.
It took about thirty frames to appear.
‘THERE!’


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He froze the frame - the TV screen showing only a brilliant white light even though the camera was pointed at lush tropical greenery.
He let the frame go - the jungle reappeared.
Muzzle flashes out of the North - laterally directed.
Muzzle flashes out of the South - vertically directed.
He checked the tape counter and backed up seven digits.
Placing the control unit and pen on the coffee table, he walked to the bathroom on the bedroom side of the suite. Kay’s lipstick was on the counter. Grabbing it, he returned to the TV.
The tape ran frame by frame.
Using the lipstick to draw a small circle on the screen, he noted the point of reflection.
Backing up the digits, he froze it again.
The lipstick circle was now superimposed on dense foliage.
Picking up his pad and pen, he began to write.
‘Sunlight had hit everything uncovered…something’s reflecting sunlight…it must be uncovered.’
Forward - four digits.
Frame-by-frame again.
The blindness disappeared, followed by the first set of muzzle flashes.
‘FREEZE!’
He used Kay’s lipstick to draw a circle around the fire created by the release of bullets from the end of a gun, noticing that it was only about one inch below and to the left of the first circle.
More analysis.
‘Whoever fired had the reflective object attached to his head. Who would be crazy enough to wear something reflective in the jungle?’
The tape rolled.
Muzzle flashes to the left - vertical.
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He noted their position on the screen with his lipstick.
It was coming together.
Courtney rewound to the blind spot and froze the frame.
He didn’t want to review it again, but needed a white surface to draw on.
Holding the lipstick against the screen, he created a likeness of a head where he’d made the first circle. He then drew a gun, a horizontally-held rifle where he’d put his second mark.
Finally, he drew another rifle, vertically-held, where he’d made his last mark.
Deductive logic.
‘These two guys were pretty close. There’s an explosion, then one of them fires in the other’s direction. The guy on the left fires up in the air….DAMN, he got shot by the guy on the right - he’s reflexing his trigger after he’s been hit. How did he let himself get so close to danger without firing first?’
Nothing came to him.
He walked to the bathroom replacing a lipstick tube with a now flattened tip on the counter.
Inductive reasoning.
‘Why did she tell me I didn’t know what I was involved in? Maybe I should call Andy. When’s Breacher One going to call again? Who the hell wears metal on their head during a war? Who said it was metal? What if it is…an Officer!…a Lieutenant, a Captain, A Major…No - they all wore subdued rank designations in Nam. They wouldn’t reflect.’
He’d returned to the couch. Sitting, he continued his thoughts.





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‘ How did they get so close?…they KNEW each other…they were on the same side…the guy on the left ended up on the bad side of this…Oh No, John! Who was the guy on the right - the guy with the metal on his head. Why wasn’t he there when the TV crew got there? He bailed out…of course…he took off after he shot John. Where are those newspaper articles?’
She’d left them on the night table beside the bed. Retrieving them, he went to sit on the couch.
He started reading.
‘Tollman - Commanding Officer of John McKenzie’s unit - Lieutenant - decorated for bravery at La Dang…’
Nothing came until he’d read seven stories.
One reporter had done a lot of background research through his own sources on the Commanding Officer at La Dang. It was noted, from anonymous sources, in his article that First Lieutenant George Tollman had been reprimanded twice by his Battalion Commanding Officer for wearing brass insignia on his fatigues and steel helmet rather than regular-issue subdued rank designation.

Courtney had finished.
‘It was Tollman.’













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Chapter 9

Zero Time

Thursday, May 25, 4:15 p.m.

A weapon for a Navy Zero could be anything from a pistol, to a machine gun, to an attack helicopter. Duel disciplines are required learning. Each Zero team is composed of members complimenting each other in all the functional roles. Zeros are all Naval Commissioned Officers who, with the exception of their white dress uniforms, wear no rank designations on their uniforms, which can be varied depending on the operation they are engaged in.
Most Zeros serve an average of four to six years in the Navy, but are never decommissioned from either rank, or from the organization.
There are Zeros who choose to make a career of clandestine operations with this elite group.

Anthony ‘Snake’ Coverty was one of them.

St. Croix had arrived in Miami at 1:00 p.m. Wirtham knew he was there, but didn’t know where specifically.
Cash was available at St. Croix’s request. Two hundred thousand dollars could be wired through any of seven banks in Miami twenty-four hours a day.
He knew he’d need most, if not all of it. Although he had received several JGM credit cards he could have used at The Hyatt Regency, The DuPont Plaza, or any of the better hotels, he chose instead to take a small room in a small motel adjacent to the North end of Runway 66 at Miami International airport.
Within the perimeter of the airport, on the far side of Runway 66, there were two buildings.
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One was all metal, two hundred feet long, sixty feet wide, and officially belonged to the Department of The Navy.
It was off limits to airport management staff, including security personnel. The smaller building, also off limits, was made of wood, was windowless, and most usually had three vehicles parked on its east side. All were turbo-charged, four wheel drive GMC Jimmys.
Five men called this smaller building home base.
Four of them would change every three years, and one stayed all the time.
There were two phones. One was red, the other black. Many people had the number of the black one, although it wasn’t listed in any phone book or military directory.
Only ten people had the number of the red one, and one of them was dialing it now
A compact, very dark, muscular and serious man who was studying maps on Mediterranean shipping lanes pushed himself away from a drafting table to answer.
“Snake here.”
“Hey, you little rascal, where ah come from ah ain’t never seen a snake friendlier than y’all.”
Recognition was instant, laughter spontaneous.
“That’s because you’re always choking the poor bastards before you get to know them. What the Hell are you doing, Andy?”
“Ah was in the neighborhood, and ah decided ah’d reacquaint myself with the good life.”
“Where are you?”
“If y’all had a window in that shack, y’all could look out and see me.”
“If I had a window, you could shoot me too.”
“Hell, when did we ever need a window to take care of a little detail like that?’
“You’re right…why the red phone, Andy?”
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“Ah need to talk to you…real private.”
“I know where you are, I’ll pick you up…are you in trouble?”
“No, but ah got a good buddy who is…big time.”
“Where is he?”
“Short hop over the water where they speak Spanish.”
“Oh great…I’ll be right there.”
“Snake.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s spooks around here, don’t be followed.”
“OK, better give me a half hour - what room?”
“Twelve.”
“See you, Buddy.”
He took the Jimmy nearest the door. It’s black tinted windows allowing no one to see in from the outside, but allowing clear, unrestricted vision from the interior of the vehicle.
The Cobra tattooed on his left bicep seemed to open its already large mouth even wider when his arm extended clockwise to back out of the parking space.
Andrew St. Croix was never too far from his mind. They’d spent twenty months together as part of a primary Zero team in Vietnam.
When he and Lee Doc, the delicate and beautiful daughter of a South Vietnamese Army General decided to marry, it was St. Croix who stood up for him. It was also his friend, Andy, who stood by his side when he buried his bride three months later after her car had been riddled with ninety rounds from AK-47’s in an infiltration ambush just outside five clicks to the West of Saigon.
Snake flew choppers, did weapons, and maritime law, then, and now. He was one of the best, and he was career.
Approaching the motel following a roundabout route, the recalled pain of Lee Doc’s memory lessened, replaced with the thought of his friend.
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He didn’t need to knock - St. Croix saw him coming.
“How y’all doin, Snake?”
“Better - now.”
They embraced, two men who could kill ten allowed each other their emotions.
“What time did you get in?”
“About one…want a beer?”
“Sure…what’s the deal.”
Pulling two Buds out of an icy Styrofoam chest, he formed his thoughts. Snake would want to know it all, he could be trusted, and he deserved the truth.
He’d tell him all the truth he knew.
St. Croix started with the organization as he knew it, continuing with names and character descriptions; Yankee Echo, Bellcamp, Salazar, Belize, Courtney, Wirtham, McKenzie, Benson, Tollman, Breacher One.
He worked through the reasons and the logic, taking an hour to profile the mission.
Finishing, he waited for a comment.
It wasn’t long coming.
“Your crazy.”
“That ain’t the first time y’all told me that, but you can believe all of it.”
“Andy, you’re messing around with the Vice President of Cuba because some asshole was robbing a house and gave you his name.”
“Don’t forget all the wobbly stuff goin down with the Heavies.”
“You still haven’t convinced me McKenzie is where Belize will be.”
“Courtney’s real good with this stuff, Snake. Ah wouldn’t ask Y’all if ah wasn’t comfortable with his call.”
“We’d be doing a night op, could he handle a weapon?”
“Nope, probably shoot himself in the foot.”
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“OK, so let’s say we do this; he’s the philosopher, you’re close contact, and I’m weapons. We still need intelligence and a flight man.”
“Ah’ll get the intelligence work done, we just need a chopper, and a damn good driver.”
“I have a kid on my team - he’s just as whacky as you are. He’ll do it. The rest of the team’s off until next weekend anyway.”
“This ain’t just escape and evade, Snake. Ah think Courtney’s gonna logic out to shit can both buildings and personnel.”
“Well then just make sure the intel’s right. I don’t want to walk up and knock on the wrong door.”
“How much lead time do you need?”
“Give me two days. The fly out and back will require bribes. I’ll have to pay off some radar jocks on the coast to look the other way when they pick us up. There’s also guys here in Miami I’ll need to reach. We can get out and back without anyone knowing we’re gone, but we could run into a load of problems on the island. If we do, we’ll be prepared. They won’t know what hit them, but they’ll probably know it came from stateside. If we screw up, we’re going to need every medal owner you know in the military to get us out of this.”
“Ah thought about that. This has to be done. Yankee Echo’s a force, Snake, and it’s gonna blow the hell out of Benson’s Reform Plan. If we get known over there, the President himself is gonna be dragged into this.”
“OK, I’m in. I’ll brief the pilot, but I’ll tell him he can only know about the mission, not the background stuff. I think he’ll still be with us. You take care of Courtney. We’ll need at least a hundred fifty G’s to pull this off - cash. You’d better have two hundred available.”
“Ah’ll get you fifty to start. Ah can get it all, no problem.”
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The career man flipped open another beer, sat back in his chair, and looked through his friend’s eyes.
A smile broke.
“You’re crazy, Andy. A clandestine writing organization?”

Thursday, May 25, 4:32 p.m.

He didn’t expect the call.
“This is Courtney.”
“Get your pen going, Courtney. We want the first set of stories in the newspapers by next Friday.”
His emotional platform wasn’t ready for Breacher One. He caught the word ‘we’, it registered, analysis would come later…no, it wouldn’t, ‘focus…pay attention…use presence……damn…focus’
It seemed like the words would never come, and when they did, they were delivered almost in surrender.
“I understand.”
“We’ll be watching for the bylines.”

Thursday, May 25, 5:15 p.m.

“Kay, where have you been…what’s wrong?”
Her eyes were hollow - hair wind blown and disheveled by
slightly-warmed cool Spring breezes.
Walking with her hands straight to her sides, she approached him with little sense of purpose.
“I went for a walk.”
That was half the truth.
“You’ve been gone seven hours…what happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Kay?”
Her eyes fell to his chest.

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“You’re into something that may be way over your head, Michael.”
The statement, less than rhetorical, had an emotional truth attached to its brevity. It was subtle, an effect demonstrated to cause an action.
“I’m not bailing out, Kathleen.”
Less hollowed, her eyes seriously focused.
“Don’t do it to be a hero, Michael.”
Breacher One returned to his thoughts.
“I had a call from our friend who likes newspaper stories. He’s expecting to see quite a few next Friday.”
“You changed the subject.”
“So did you. I’m telling you what’s going on - you’re not. You look like you’ve been through Hell.”
She held the thought for a moment.
“Michael - sit down.”
He complied.
Kneeling - hands placed on his thighs, she drew a breath.
“I’m going to tell you some things, not everything, but some things you need to think about.”
Adjusting her legs on the carpet, she once again drew a deep breath.
He didn’t speak, his mind reconciling itself to logic, and analysis. His eyes assumed a non purposeful set, an instinctive action less to meet the requirements of what was to come, than to allow her into his being.
His presence, hardly demonstrated, was internally demonstrative.
Her lips parted.
“When you were recruited into Yankee Echo by Robert, the organization was already established. It was running just fine. You were brought in for a special purpose. You also weren’t told the whole truth.”
Her hands pressed on his legs.


234
“Think about the information you get. Where do you suppose it all comes from. Do you think our computers are generating all that stuff? How many research analysts to you see at JGM exports - maybe half a dozen? I know you understand the power of Yankee Echo - but you don’t know where the power behind the power comes from. Trust me when I tell you it’s big.”
She paused before giving him the next part.
“You’re working for people who have incredible power and money for their operations. It’s not just my father or McKenzie Industries. Yankee Echo isn’t run by just my father or Robert. It’s controlled by some of the smartest, best qualified people in the world with resources that are almost endless.”
“If you continue with your plans, and I already know what they are, there could be a lot of danger in it for you. I want you to know that there’s a force behind you that will back up every move you make, but if these people feel threatened by what you’re working against, or if they feel the organization’s been compromised too much, they’ll destroy it themselves and set it up somewhere else in a couple of weeks.”
She pressed even harder on his legs.
“You can walk away from this any time you want…these people know how to take care of trouble. At the same time, I also want you to know I’m glad you’re directing it. That may seem paradoxical to you, and I’m not going to get into all the philosophy behind it. I know you’ve got a plan going with Andy. You may think you’re in charge, but you’re not in the driver’s seat. I just wanted to make you aware of all this. I told you from the beginning Yankee Echo was too manipulative. I just didn’t tell you everything. Maybe it would have made a difference.”
She laid her head on his knees knowing he’d need time to think before responding.
She was right.
235
‘Endless resources? A back up force that would destroy Yankee Echo and set it up somewhere else?’
She was identifying a covert operation running an already covert operation.
He had to start with the last part first. He needed to be careful. She had a hidden agenda, so she also had reasons for keeping it hidden until now.
She was innocent - no, she wasn’t.
“Kay - how long were you going to keep this from me?”
She spoke softly as if her response was both anticipated and expected.
“I don’t know - I hoped you’d get out…maybe forever.”
Things were crumbling.
“Why are you telling me now?”
“Because…I love you.”
“You loved me before but never told me.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”
‘Controlling - use Seven.’
He hated acting like this with her, but he needed an answer.
“Kay…your brother, John, was shot by Tollman.”
Immediately standing - she backed up five feet, arms folded across her chest.
Her voice shook.
“What was on the tape?”
He spent the next fifteen minutes describing what he saw, and how he came to his conclusion. The Sixth Law.
“Michael - what do we do?”
Control had changed.
“We can do one of three things.”
He rose, walking away from her and speaking at the same time.”
“We can ignore it; we can ask the Military Review Board to reopen the case…”
236 Turning to face her, he made direct eye contact.
“…or, we can make him come to us.”
She was weakening.
Seven worked. She’d been neutralized.
He acted quickly.
“Who’s controlling Yankee Echo?”
Kathleen McKenzie had promised her father she’d always keep the information to herself. But she knew this man. She knew he’d eventually find out. And when he did…would he hate her for not telling him?”
“…fifty corporations, and the CIA.”
Although she’d spoken just above a whisper, it felt like her words had been thrown at him rather than spoken to him.
‘Holy shit.’
“Who’s the Controller you told me about?”
“A man - David Eisenberg, he’s a Deputy Director at the CIA.”
“Who knows this.”
“My father - Robert - and me.”
“What about Andy?”
“No.”
He stared straight at her. She knew he could mentally and emotionally crush her.
‘Not now, maybe later, no, I love her.’
“Kay, go lie down - you’re exhausted.”
She walked to the bedroom, aware she’d given away the big secret.
She wanted to, had to - and didn’t care.
There was more to be told - he’d find out.

‘Fifty corporations and the CIA? What the hell else don’t I know?’




237
Friday, May 26, 5:45 a.m.

He’d spent the evening editing and finishing the TAC he’d written on Tuesday.

AYE WRTS 5/26
MICHAEL - MICHAEL
PREP CBA WRT
CHNG DIRECT
IMP WRT NEG
SHRT TERM
RPT WRT NEG
USE TACS TO FLW
ST TO ST
INSDT6/2
DTL ECON ACT LEAD INDS AS DIR
AMER INVEST IMPROPER
RPT SHRT TERM
NO QUEST
MICHAEL - MICHAEL

The directions to Yankee Echo writers were specific. Prepare Cuban writes, change direction, imperative to write negative. This is a short term directive, state by state, TACS would follow. Insertion date would be June 2nd. Detail economic activity by leading economic indicators. American investment at this time would be improper. There would be no questions.
‘I hope Breacher One and his friends aren’t going to count the number of stories, but they sure are going to like the results. By Monday, half the country will be scratching their heads on the Reform Plan.’





238
His thoughts returned to Kay.
‘Why now? Why did she hold this information for so long - would she have ever told me? God damn it, Kay. What the hell, Courtney, you’re just involved with the President of The United States, The President and Vice President of Cuba, the CIA, a secret organization that manipulates millions, a murder that happened years ago in a war. Hell, what’s the big deal, you can handle this - you’ve got forty Laws to fight half the freakin world.’
Pen in hand, he drafted a brief note. She’d be fine alone. The CIA was probably all over the hotel.
Went to see Robert
Take a cab over when you get up.

Friday, May 24, 9:41 a.m.

The manila envelope in the center of Fleet Admiral Bruce Turner’s desk contained a personal, hand-written letter, and another sealed envelope. The Chairman of The Joint Chiefs of Staff had expected it. A brief alerting phone call from the Best Navy Zero he’d ever known told him to be watchful of its arrival.
Pulling out the contents, he read one and held the other.

Bruce,

I need a favor. The enclosed, sealed envelope, needs to be delivered to the President as soon as possible. This can’t go by courier. It has to be hand delivered. Believe me, you’re indemnified in this issue. I need a credible deliverer, and you are the most credible I have. If you have any questions, please call me.

Thank you,

Andy 239
There would be no questions. St. Croix had established his credibility years earlier.
How easily he’d described to him the essence of any command position.
From a side drawer in his desk, he pulled a well worn piece of paper. On it his friend’s handwriting
Keep nothing to yourself. Give everything away. By constantly evolving, you will become constant. By constantly renewing yourself, you will endure.
Applied metaphysics had not only aided Turner in earning his rank, but also had assisted him in every command authority he held.
Andy St. Croix was a trusted friend.
The letter would get delivered today.

Friday, May 26, 12:01 p.m.

He only had a fifteen minute window of time.
Normally, Randall Benson would have told any military man who approached his office to use the Chain of Command, and go through the Secretary of Defense. Bruce Turner was a friend though, and the highest ranking military officer constantly made him look good.
He only needed five minutes with the President and Benson didn’t understand what could be accomplished in such a short time frame.
He’d granted the request for the visit.
Turner was to be shown in on his arrival.
He now walked the red carpeted hallway leading to the oval office.
Service Dress Blue and Service Dress White uniforms, are worn for official functions not rising to the level of full or dinner dress. It is commonly worn when traveling in official capacity, or when reporting to a command.

240
Fleet Admiral Turner cut an impressive figure in he Service Dress Blues complete with campaign ribbons.
A number ten envelope, unopened was carried in a plain manila folder.
As he reached the outer door of the Oval Office, two secret service agents, previously alerted to his arrival, greeted him cordially, the senior of the two addressing him.
“Admiral Turner, good afternoon, Sir. The President is expecting you, please go right in.
Military courtesy is one of the defining features of a professional military force. These courtesies form a strict, and sometimes elaborate code of conduct. Fleet Admiral Bruce Turner was well aware of the protocol.
Two steps into the sanctum of power, he halted, brought his feet together, and raised his right hand in a perfectly formed salute.
“Mister President, thank you for seeing me.”
Benson, returning the military acknowledgement much less formally, gestured to one of two chairs in front of his desk.
“Sit down, Bruce, what can I do for you?’
Turner got right to business.
“Mister President, I have an envelope in this folder. Its contents are intended for your eyes only. I was asked to courier this to you by someone I trust implicitly…”
While retrieving the letter whose contents were unknown to him, he continued.
“…I don’t know what’s inside, but I’m certain it’s urgent by virtue of its sender.”
He shifted in the chair.
“I really have no other business here, Mister President.”
Turner placed the unmarked white envelope on Randall Benson’s desk.
The President eyed it, and stood. 241
“Bruce, I’ve trusted your judgment many times before, and have a lot of respect for you, so I won’t ask who gave this to you.”
Benson, now tapping his fingers on the envelope continued, looking straight into the Admiral‘s eyes.
“I’m sure whatever is in this envelope is important, but the fact that it’s sealed and you don’t know what’s in it probably means you never will. Are you comfortable with that, Bruce?”
The inflection in his voice was serious.
“Yes, Sir, I am. I trust the sender. If he said it was important, it is. You should know, however, that the contents of the envelope may not have been written by whom I am a courier for. He may be acting on behalf of another party.”
The President place both hands on his hips.
“Well then, Bruce, this could get very interesting, couldn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I understand you’ll be addressing the graduating class at Annapolis this year. Give them wisdom, Bruce, they’ve earned it.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll do my best.”
“Very well, thank you for bringing this over.”
“Yes, Sir.”
They understood one another.
Turner stood, saluted, turned, and left.
Benson’s next appointment wasn’t actually an appointment in the Oval Office. It was a photo opportunity for six Freshman Congressmen, and two Congresswomen scheduled to take place in the Rose Garden.
They might have to wait a few minutes. The demands on the President of The United States are great.
Pete Radler and the President’s Social Secretary would keep them entertained.
242
Besides, there was a nice spicy punch they were all enjoying, along with some hor dourves.
They wouldn’t mind a wait at all.
Unsealing the white envelope he reviewed the letter.
It was short and to the point, the signature on it from a
Michael J. Courtney.

Benson’s right hand pressed the necessary digits on his phone system to engage his secure line and dial a short number.
The phone in his left hand, he heard one ring.
“Scott Orefice.”
“Scotty, I have a letter in my hand from Michael Courtney, just delivered to me by the Chairman of The Joint Chiefs of Staff who was unaware of its contents when it was given to me. I’d say Courtney and his gang have some authority, wouldn’t you?”
It didn’t take him long to figure this one out.
“Yes, Sir. I’d bet that contact was made through Andy St. Croix. He probably made a lot of friends in Vietnam, Including Admiral Turner.”
“Courtney’s asking for a meeting with me. He told me in the letter that there’s an organization at work trying to destroy my Economic Reform Plan for Cuba.”
The CIA Director gave the President’s statement some thought for a moment. His next statement would be a question. He knew there would need to be some kind of involvement.
There would be.
“Mister President, how do you want me to handle this?”
He’d already predetermined a response.
“Contact him like you said you would. By accessing this office through the channel he used, Courtney demonstrated his weight.
243
He’s working with good people, Scotty. I feel confident he and St. Croix have a solid plan in place to find and rescue Pat McKenzie. Find out what you can. Let’s keep a close eye on them.”
He expected the response he’d just received.
“Yes, Sir.”
The Director also knew it was time to set a planned operation into action.
“Mister President, Yankee Echo is gearing up to answer a directive, and it’s going to be very negative. It’s going to cause some damage to your Reform Plan. I think we should push President Santiago into that contract with Kushima as soon as possible. Once we have the money secured, I’ll be able to take care of the prejudice.”
The thought of extreme prejudice caused Benson to close his eyes for a moment. Wars have no victors, there are only casualties, and the memories of its attendants never fade.
He placed the Director’s thoughts in a temporary memory bin.
“Yes, Scotty.”
That was all that needed to be discussed on that subject for the time being.
“Do you know where St. Croix is right now?”
“No, Sir. He constantly loses our details. His escape and evade tactics are no match for us. Wirtham told us he’s putting together a Zero team with Courtney, but we don’t know where. All we know is he’s in Miami somewhere. We hope to make contact when Courtney joins him.”
“Give them a lot of slack - and keep me informed.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Phones were cradled.
The President picked his up again, this time to speak with his secretary.
“I want to speak to President Santiago as soon as possible.” 244
He heard an affirmative response
…Time for a photo opportunity.

The Director of Central Intelligence stood and walked to the bank of windows in his office. Now, arms folded, he returned to his desk picking up a portable cellular phone next to the main unit.
Two digits of pressure connected him with one of his agents.
“Martin - where’s Courtney?”
“He’s in the JGM offices, Sir.”
Returning the portable phone to its original resting place, he connected with his secretary on the main system.
“Beverly, get me Michael Courtney at JGM Exports, please.”
“Yes, Sir.”

Friday, May 26, 12:22 p.m.

Heliocentric Theory was first applied by Aristarchus of Samos, a Greek astronomer and mathematician who lived (310-230 BC).
His Theory held that the earth and planets revolve around a fixed sun, and that the earth rotates on its own axis throughout this orbit.
Nicolaus Copernicus, a Renaissance astronomer, revived this theory in refuting the Ptolemain system.
It was upheld again by Galileo Galilei, an Italian physicist, mathematician, astronomer and philosopher who played a major role in the Scientific Revolution.
The idea that the earth could not be at the center of the universe was just as opposed at the time of Aristarchus, as it was in 16th and 17th century Europe, on the basis that it subordinated man’s place in the Universe.
245
Michael Courtney had thought he worked from the center of the universe within Yankee Echo.
In fact, he was told he was the center.
But it was unreal. He’d fooled himself, and they’d fooled him.
For ten years now, unaware to him, his work had been strategic development of issues the Central Intelligence Agency wanted developed.
In retrospect, he couldn’t ever remember working on anything related to a corporate entity. With fifty corporations involved, there must have been hundreds of issues needing attention, remediation, public sympathy, support.
He guessed those must have been handled by Robert Wirtham.
‘How could I have been so stupid? How often did these companies and the CIA press The Laws into action through me? Shit, I never worked on any corporate issues. Robert must have handled those. So what do I do now? Damn it, Kay, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t Robert level with me when we were at UVM? Would I have taken this position back then if I knew the power behind it? How many other lies were there…are there?’
Pushing back his chair, he stood, grabbed the three pages he’d written, and walked into Wirtham’s office.
“Here’s the TAC. I’ve worked out details for states by regions. I want this in the fax system by three this afternoon. Can we handle that?”
There was a tone in his voice Wirtham had never heard. He decided to leave it alone.
“Sure…have you heard from Andy yet?”
“No. I thought you might hear from him first. I know he’s going to need some money.”
“It’s available…what’s your gut on Pat being near Belize?”

246
“I’d say it’s certain.”
He’d expected a lot more.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all for now, Robert. Let’s get the TAC going.”
His teacher studied the pupil, eyes connected. It felt confrontational.
The former UVM professor backed down.
“Consider it done.”
Wirtham knew his TAO XIA Master was either close to the truth, or he knew it already.

Friday, May 26, 12:24 p.m.

Geraldine Allison stepped into the conference room.
“You have a call on line three…it’s the Director of The Central Intelligence Agency, Scott Orefice.”
His first instincts told him not to accept the call.
Logic overruled. What he hell, he had to talk to him someday.
“Thanks, Gerry.”
He pushed the appropriate button on the Merlin set.
“This is Michael Courtney.”
“Mister Courtney - you sent a letter to the President - he’s asked me to respond. I’d like to send one of my Deputy Directors to speak with you.”
The analyst didn’t answer.
“Mister Courtney - I suggest you talk with us on this matter.”
…He finally responded. He wanted to see the President. He also needed to neutralize the current situation and take control.



247
‘What the hell can they do, shoot me?’
“I don’t know you, Mister Orefice, and I didn’t write that letter to you. If the President wants an explanation, I’ll give it to him. I’m sure you can set up a meeting.”
“The President is a very busy man, Mister Courtney. I have…”
“I would think that the CIA Director has a pretty busy agenda too, Mister Orefice. Your appointment in this matter gives it both scale and urgency. Set up the meeting and maybe I’ll be there. Have someone contact me. I’m getting tired of being jerked around.”
He returned the receiver to its cradle with enough force to make one final unspoken comment the Director would hear.
She stood in the doorway, legs crossed, her head and shoulder resting on its frame.
“I had a great cab ride over.”
He looked up without raising his head and offered no response.
She remained in the same position.
“I should have told you everything, Michael.”
Still no answer. Instead, he rose and approached her, gently placing his hand on her lower back providing enough pressure to begin moving her into the room. When she was several steps forward, he closed the conference room door behind her.
Pulling a chair away from the table, he motioned with his left hand.
“Please, sit.”
She complied, placing her purse on the table top and removing her blazer.
Courtney moved to the edge of the conference table and half sat on its edge.
“Kathleen, you can yell and scream about manipulation, but you allow yourself to remain in a manipulative position, and you’re just as governing as the rest of us. 248
You assume innocence and vulnerability. You’re soft and gentle in every instance where it fits your agenda. But you’re also capable of being cold and calculating.”
Removing his eyes from hers, he left the table and began walking around its perimeter. Her thoughts returned to a Boston College classroom where she’d seen him so many times in class do the same thing from his desk. When he was in this mode, he didn’t just tell you something, he flooded you with the truth.
“You have great intuition, wonderful perception, and a face and body that won’t quit…”
She had to allow herself a Mona Lisa type smile.
“…None of this is ever very distant from you. They’ve become tools you use to take what you want. You’re psychokinetic, Kay, you can make things move without having any physical contact with them…but you’re also translucent. You let people get close enough to see an image, but not the real thing. I loved you for the image, Kay, but recently you’ve become very transparent, and I don’t like the image I see.”
He continued his journey around the table.
“I rationalized you, so I’m not without fault myself. I probably manipulated you, your father and Robert as much as I’ve been manipulated over the years. We’re seemingly stuck in paradox, Kathleen - something’s both true and false at the same time. Emotions are true, but a lot of the premises those emotions are built on are probably false, so its possible the emotions themselves could be false.”
Halting his perimeter navigation, he once again assumed a half seated position on the table.
“Right now, I hate all this shit, but I’m still going to find your father. I’m also going to find and break Breacher One and his friends, and I might end up breaking this whole fucking place apart. People wanted my application of the Laws - they’re going to get it.”
249
Looking through her eyes again, he saw an emptiness reflected there as if it were coming from a rear view mirror.
One thing had been left unsaid.
“Tell your friend, David Eisenberg, I’m taking control of the organization.”
He got off the table and left.

Friday, May 26, 3:35 p.m.

Murray Herold, his wife, and two children enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle in a Contemporary Cape located on the northwest corner of Akron, Ohio. He was also very comfortable in, and loved, his job as Business Editor at THE AKRON BEACON JOURNAL.
It was the third, and largest paper he’d worked at, and he had no desire to matriculate further into any of the major metropolitan dailies.
The kids had a lot of nice friends, they were both doing well in school, and his wife had taken a job as the Business Manager at an Akron orthopedic surgical group.
He had no qualms about working for Yankee Echo. While he understood its clandestine and manipulative aspects, he also felt the organization did exactly what he was told it was doing - bringing information to a nation in matters that needed concentrated attention.
Subjects always fit the flow of the news as it was being made, so it was easy to justify his stories in editorial staff meetings.

His deadlines met for the day, he now sat in a meeting unaware that the retrofitted fax machine sitting on the desk in his den at home was printing a ‘write negative’ TAC on the Cuban Economic Reform Plan.

250
Last Sunday, he’d written positive on the plan. His first thought when he saw the new TAC would be that Michael Courtney had a game plan he didn’t understand, but he wouldn’t question it because the cryptic message stated this was only a short-term directive.
The hardest part would be to explain his turn-around to his Managing Editor. He wouldn’t worry about it, newspaper editors change their minds every day. It came with the territory - it was his prerogative - the First Amendment guaranteed it.
While he didn’t know the exact number of writers Yankee Echo had across the country, he knew the TAC would set in motion a negative public feeling towards the President’s plan. If further TAC’s followed, the effect would be compounded, and, if Courtney continued to press the issue for any length of time, there could be a national public outcry against any investment in Cuba.
Maybe it was for the best, and maybe it wasn’t.
Courtney had been right too many times. His track record was impressive.
He would think about how much power Michael Courtney controlled, as would several hundred other writers around the country, but they all wouldn’t questioned it.
Murray Herald’s ‘write-neg’ story would appear in the BEACON JOURNAL on June 2nd as directed.

Friday, May 26, 4:05 p.m.

Wirtham’s Director of Computer operations stepped into his office
Placing a sheet of paper on his desk, she would make one brief statement. Although he could quickly tell who it came from, she felt a responsibility to tell him.

251
“It’s from Andy.”
He looked up.
“Thanks.”
Although the chalky fax paper contained few words, the message was clear to him.

ANDY - ANDY
ND50M T STRT
WLND 200M TTL
CNTME PORCEL 1
6:00 TD
MC NDD HRE
WLADV
ANDY - ANDY

St. Croix needed fifty thousand dollars to get started, and would require two hundred thousand dollars total. Some for Coverty, and some for him and Courtney for unexpected contingencies.
He’d asked Wirtham to contact him on the portable cellular telephone he was carrying - time of contact 6:00 p.m. today.
In the last two lines of his message he told him that Courtney was needed in Miami, St. Croix to advise when.
Their operation was beginning to take form.

Wirtham glanced at his watch wanting to make sure he had enough time left today to transfer the cash St. Croix would need. That disclosure during his upcoming 6:00 p.m. phone conversation would let St. Croix know he was doing everything in his power to help activate, and complete the operation.
He only needed a moment of thought to tell him this was possible.
‘Two hours before I talk to Andy. Banks are open later on Friday nights. I’ll transfer it to Sunbank. Andy can get what he needs to get rolling tomorrow morning, in cash.’ 252
He tapped his intercom.
Gerry, do you know where Michael is?”
She knew there would be a second question after this one, so she gave him a response to save him the trouble of asking both.
“He left at twelve-thirty - Kathleen left about fifteen minutes later.”
“If you hear from either of them, tell them to call me, please.”
“Will do.”
Turning to the credenza behind his desk, he opened six folders on his computer before coming to a password-protected file named TF, which was appropriate for Transfer Funds.
Within it, he found the JGM Exports checking account numbers and routing numbers for several Chevy Chase Bank accounts in the D.C. area. The corresponding numbers of several appropriate Sunbank branches in Miami would also be used to route the funds. He would additionally flag each of these accounts in Miami to correspond with St. Croix’s JGM corporate Identification.
He’d completed this procedure many times before to surreptitiously route JGM funds to many bank accounts that could only be accessed by The Director of The Central Intelligence Agency.
The transfer took approximately forty minutes to complete.
Waiting an additional fifteen minutes, he identified the availability of funds and was satisfied the transactions were within the reach of a Zero.
He’d call Andy St. Croix at approximately 6:00 p.m.




253
Friday, May 26, 4:50 p.m.

“I’ll speak with you again soon, Mister President.”
The telephone connection between Washington, DC and Havana, Cuba, totally secured, had lasted fifty-four minutes. For the Presidents of two nations speaking together on sensitive subjects, this amount of time was not unusual.
Juan Ramos Santiago, President of Cuba, finishing a conversation with Randal Benson, President of The United States of America, was prepared to sign a contract with Saito Kushima, now a Japanese industrialist, and prior, an inflictor of war crimes.
It would be an agreement for Kushima to build a low-intensity,
high-output manufacturing plant just outside the center of the capitol of Cuba.
The Plant, initially to be built out to seventy five thousand square feet of manufacturing space and offices, would have the capability to expand to two hundred thousand square feet with attending buildings.
The buildings would belong to Kushima, while the land beneath them would remain leased Cuban property.
Additionally, and addendum to the contract would be the availability of expansion into other areas of manufacturing in related industrial fields to be agreed upon in the future.
Kushima would prepare documentation from its end, and its founder would fly to Cuba to meet secretly with the new democracy’s President.
Just prior to the contract signing, because he would have a good-faith document in hand, Saito Kushima would activate bank accounts in several Panamanian and Puerto Rican financial institutions making seventy five million American dollars available to Randall Benson and Scott Orefice. The other half of their consulting fee to come later. 254
Benson dialed his CIA Director.
“Scott Orefice.”
“I just spoke with President Santiago, Scotty, we have a green light to finalize the contract process with Kushima.”
“I’ll start on that right away, Sir. I wouldn’t be surprised if Kushima already had his first part completed.”
“Did you contact Courtney?”
“Yes, Sir. He told me he’d only discuss the letter with you, and he was very emphatic about it. I’ve briefed David Eisenberg.”
“He’s not a man we want to alienate, Scotty. Bring him in Monday at noon. I have some time.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll arrange it.”
Phones were cradled.
Once again, the aged photo came out of the drawer.
Holding it with both hands, he addressed it for what he hoped would be the final time.
“Soon, Jonathan, soon.”

Friday, May 26, 6:00 p.m.

Wirtham closed his office door.
Although there was no one left this Friday afternoon at JGM Exports, the demonstration of privacy, even if only for himself, was important.
Eight digits were pressed on his desk system while hilltop satellite dishes responded by bouncing the electronic request to a cellular phone in Miami.
Two rings
“This is St. Croix.”
“Andy, it’s Robert.”
“Y’all get the TAC, Bobby?”
“Yes, the money’s been transferred. I’ll fax you the list of Sunbank branches and also the amount of cash in each one. You’ll also get their corresponding checking account and routing numbers. 255
Use your corporate ID, the accounts have been flagged to your number. That‘s your password for access at all of them.”
There would be no need to appear in person to collect the cash. Doing so could cause detection. Instead, the funds would be converted into twenty-two certified bank checks, each for nine thousand dollars, with instructions for them to be mailed to a P.O box at Miami’s smallest post office. The name appearing on each check would be Matthew Borden, a false identification St.Croix kept that no one knew about. Retrieved, the checks could be converted to cash at any bank of his choosing.
The Zero felt comfortable with that in place.
“OK, where’s Mick, ah need him here.”
“I don’t know, I’m trying to locate him. Do you think he‘s up for this kind of operation?”
Wirtham understood the potential dangers that lie ahead. Courtney was invaluable as a Master of Laws to Yankee Echo. It would be difficult to replace him should anything go wrong.
“He’s certainly not up for some of the spontaneity we may have to process, but ah can’t do this op without a metaphysical component. Ah need a strong left brain on this that can think quickly. That’s Mick.”
The former UVM professor knew all too well how true this was. The most important element right now was to secure Pat McKenzie.
“I’ll have him contact you as soon as I locate him.”
The reality of it was St. Croix couldn’t wait for someone else to contact Courtney. He’d do it himself. It would probably be as easy as calling him at his hotel.

Wirtham needed information for David Eisenberg.

256
He wouldn’t get it.
“Andy, when and how are you doing this operation?”
“Can’t say, Bobby, Zero Intel - sit tight.”

Friday, May 26, 6:17 p.m.

The bellhop couldn’t help but notice her legs.
A sophomore at George Washington University, he felt like asking her out - but she seemed really flaked out about something.
Besides, she was leaving.
“Can I call down and get you a cab?”
“No…thank you. I’ve already called for one.
Indicating her luggage, he relayed their future position.
“These will be at the front door with the Concierge, Miss.”
From her jeans, she produced a five dollar bill.
He looked in her eyes while accepting the gratuity.
She was different - like she was thinking about two things at once.
‘She’s probably going out with a grad student.’
In the hotel lobby, Kay walked to the registration counter, handing the evening clerk a white envelope with Courtney’s name on it.
Seeking out the Concierge, he indicated her cab ride.
Outside, under the glass portico, the cabby was placing her luggage in the trunk of his vehicle, a yellow, fuel-injected, turbocharged Chevy.
She approached his vehicle, giving him instructions in two words while he opened the rear door.
“Dulles - Private.”



257
Friday, May 26, 7:05 p.m.

He’d spent almost seven hours roaming the city. In all the times he’d come here, he had never climbed to the top of the Washington Monument - thought about visiting the Lincoln Memorial - or taken a tour of The White House - or stood and stared at Charles Lindbergh’s plane at The Smithsonian Institute - or even cared to see what was inside The United States Department of Commerce.
Washington, DC, this afternoon and early evening, felt all out of perspective to him. The real power wasn’t here. It wasn’t in a building, or in any seat of political privilege:
The real power was in forty Laws, written on three pieces of paper.
He was never more sure of it, never more certain he could take the power in The Laws and channel it to fix a lot of things that were wrong.

Abe’s Bar and Grill was a favorite for locals, the Claire’s and the Henry’s who kept the wheels of democracy turning every day. It wasn’t in their job descriptions to make the big decisions that are a necessary component of every government. But without the keystrokes on their keyboards that entered data into a mountain of computers, absolutely nothing would get done.
The analyst had chosen a bar stool smack in the middle of Abe’s.
There were two baseball games on the bank of TV’s at the top of the bar. He didn’t care who was playing. He was concentrating on the
pitcher-batter confrontations taking place in each game.
Simultaneously, he concentrated on Decision and Game Theory.
He knew that the subsequent and consequent result of action was reaction.
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He also knew that he was about to be confronted with many variables and components of individual subject matter, and that, within each of these situations decision problems would arise. He knew he would be faced with his own alternative actions and the uncertainty regarding the consequences of either all, or some of these actions.
When it became necessary to take action, he’d need to know which one to utilize based on what was most rational relative to the information available. He’d assign probabilities to the occurrence of the consequences of each action, estimate utilities such as safety, detection and fulfillment associated with each consequence, and he’d select as most rational, the action with the maximum expected utility.
In most instances, all of this would need to be done within seconds, and this metaphysician and analyst had the capability to do it.
Michael Courtney was not a student of the conservative philosophical concept of the ‘Minimax Principle’ which recommended choices of action that had as their outcome a consequence which was better than the worst consequence of any alternative action. Courtney felt this theory might work well in ‘Zero Sum Games’ in which one’s opponents were rational - but not here - not now.
There were lies, duplicity, and deceit to deal with. He considered himself a game participant, with other players having interests either parallel to, or opposed to his own, and some players with parallel interests had formed coalitions. There would be friends and enemies, and some of both disguised as the other.
He needed a real friend. He’d thought he had it in Kay, but now he didn’t know if he trusted her. Robert was a liar. He had been deceived by his old professor.


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The man with whom he’d had the least contact during his ten years with Yankee Echo, but with whom he’d early-on formed an alliance of integrity, was a walking, breathing piece of philosophy out of the South.
He’d return to the hotel, contact Andy St. Croix, and begin to implement the contingencies he’d worked out.
Yankee Echo was an organization controlled by interests too big, and too powerful.
It had to be stopped, and he had to bring that to resolution.
Picking up the ten dollar bill on the bar, he left the loose change and two ones for a tip.
Outside Abe’s he hailed a cab, having left the Jeep at JGM. Conveniently, there was one waiting two spaces from the entrance.
He couldn’t know it, but the driver had refused several fares before accepting his. A forty-ish, well groomed man, he acknowledged Courtney’s destination and swung the yellow, fuel-injected, turbocharged Chevy into Washington’s traffic.
The driver’s permit card identified him as Timothy Metcaff.
Inside ’The Company’ he was known as ‘The Wanderer’ by his peers, a nickname given to him because of the many world-wide assignments he’d covered.
Beneath his jacket in a shoulder holster, was a Browning 9-mm automatic pistol ready to come to life, should it be required, in defense of the metaphysician
It would not.

The Wanderer would have only one fare this evening.




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Chapter 10

Decision Theory - Game Theory

Friday, May 26, 8:04 p.m.

Both the CIA and the FBI can post operatives in just about any position they want - in any industry, in any sociological format or venue, and at any level. Disguises are unlimited - wardrobe consultants, cosmeticians, and even pet groomers are all available to both organizations within a moment’s notice. If regional accents are a required part of speech, they can both produce the necessary trained personnel for the task
It’s a necessary component of surveillance at which both organizations excel.
Posing as an evening clerk, she recognized him from the photo given her by Scott Orefice. She had, in fact been waiting for him to appear.
Courtney, now passing just fifteen feet from the registration desk, was the subject of her alert.
“Mister Courtney, I have a message for you.”
Walking to the counter, he accepted the envelope with his name on it.
The woman approximately his age with shoulder length, straight, jet black hair who handed it to him didn’t engage him in any conversation save what she’d already expressed during the courtesy of delivery.
Elizabeth Hendricks could see he was intense. A seriousness on his face reflecting strong emotions.
He’d never noticed her before, and he wondered how she knew him on sight.
Almost as quickly as that thought came to mind, he provided for its dismissal:
‘What the fuck - it’s probably Eisenberg’s girlfriend. I’ll deal with it later.’

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He recognized Kay’s writing.
It was always neat, but never pretty.
Now in the suite, he un-creased her hand-written tri-folded sheet.
The letter wasn’t long, but it was long enough.

Dear Michael,

I’m returning to Connecticut. Please don’t be concerned for my safety, I’ll be protected.
I never said anything to you about the other corporations and the CIA simply because I was told it was a secret for just Dad, Robert, and me. I don’t know the reasons why they didn’t want you to know, and I’m sure you’ll want to speak to my Dad about that when you find him.
I left because I have something to do. Someday I hope we will be together again, and all of this will be behind us. I don’t know what you will do with the organization, but maybe you’ve heard me about it being manipulative.

You are in my prayers.
I Love You,

Kay

Eyes closed, he sent a crumpled piece of paper across the room.
Pacing the suite’s parlor, his thoughts rumbled through Decision Theory. The analyst finally put together enough presence to elevate Yankee Echo’s plan to a higher priority status than the thought of a young woman who’d kept a trust to her father, but had deceived him.
He’d deal with it later - absolutely.
‘Damn it.’

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The telephone interrupted his thoughts.
Five rings…he shook his head vigorously.
Running his fingers through his hair as if its follicles were in his way, he drew a deep breath and released it.
“This is Michael Courtney.”
“Hey Mick.”
He felt relief, like someone had just saved him from drowning.
“God, do you have good timing.”
“Say again?”
“Nothing, it’s just good to hear from you. Andy, are we secure on this line”
“Yes, got the black coder on it.”
“OK, I have some news. I’ve been contacted by the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“Orefice?”
“Yes, the President put him on my case after he got my letter. Who did you have deliver it?”
“Admiral Bruce Turner. We got to know one another in Nam. Ah gave him a few philosophical lessons in how to get people to swing a boat around.”
“Andy, Bruce Turner is the Chairman of The Joint Chiefs of Staff. You know him?”
“Hell, Mick, the guy puts his pants on the same way we do.”
“No wonder the President saw him. Listen, I need to tell you some things about the CIA. But what’s the story in Miami?”
“Ah got us a Zero delegation to visit our southern neighbor, but ah need a metaphysical component, the left side of your brain. When can Y’all get down here?”
“Are you sure you want me to go out with trained commandos on a rescue mission?”



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“Hell, Mick, there ain’t no other way to do this. Do y’all think Belize is just gonna hand over Pat because I quote him Law Five. There’s gonna be decisions to be made, and you have to make those.”
He was resolute, he’d be there.
“There’s also something else I have to tell you. It’s about Pat.”
“What about him?”
“He’s lied to you and me. So have Robert and Kay.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll catch a flight out tomorrow, can you pick me up at the airport?”
“Sure thing, buddy. There’s a Delta eight o’clock out of Dulles. Ah’ll meet you…Mick…You OK.”
“No…I will be - yeah, I’m fine. I’m going to work on strategy.”
“Michael” - it was the first time he’d ever used his proper forename.”
It felt like his father had addressed him.
“Yes?”
“Let it go with Kathleen. If it’s real, it will be there for both of you.”
Simple philosophy from an insightful man.
“Thank you, Andy……I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Phones disconnected.
He picked up the letter ball from the floor and carefully unraveled its awkward geometric shape. Refolding it in half three times, he delivered it to his right pocket - a first step toward reconciliation.
He also mentally traced the letter to its deliverer.
Black hair, brown eyes, five foot five or six, appealing smile - he’d never seen her before - how did she know who he was?

‘Be careful, Courtney.’

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He was hungry, in fact, he’d hardly eaten all day. Deciding to have something sent up, he located the Hotel’s plastic laminated phone directory next to the phone. Finding the appropriate extension, he dialed room service.
His call was automatically forwarded to the front desk, specifically to the phone system closest to Liz Hendricks. She noticed the call coming in. It was out of sequence on the roll-over lines.
She knew who was calling.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, this is Mister Courtney in the McKenzie suite. I’d like to have dinner delivered.
“Do you have a room menu, Mister Courtney?”
“Actually, I know what I’d like to order.”
“What can we get for you this evening?”
“A prime rib, medium rare, baked potato with sour cream, and a large pot of coffee, no sugars, but some extra creamers, please.”
“Very well, that will be about thirty minutes. We’re short of room service help this evening, so I’ll send this up from the front desk. There won’t be any need for a gratuity, Mister Courtney.”
“OK, thanks for your help.”
Placing the order through the hotel’s phone system directly into the kitchen of its best restaurant, she requested front desk attention five minutes before delivery. “This is a special guest, management will deliver the meal.”
Replacing the receiver, she retrieved a small notebook from her pocketbook. On page one, in code, were his five numbers; office direct line, mobile, portable cellular, home, and aircraft.
Liz Hendricks glanced at her watch, CIA issue - he’d said he would be at the office until eight thirty. All his lines were secure from any outside trunk.
Dialing the number, it ring twice, she then pressed star-six-two-three.
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“Scott Orefice.”
“Mister Orefice, he’s having dinner sent up to him. I’ll deliver it.”
“Good, as we discussed, Liz, the President wants to see him on Monday. Can you set it up?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Liz, Courtney and St. Croix are planning something for Cuba soon. Just be aware of that, and remember everything else you’ve learned about him.”
“Yes, Sir, I will. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“I’ll be mobile until nine thirty, then you can reach me at home. Call me before you call David. He has his hands full right now.”
“I’ll call you later.”
Courtney had left the suite, and was now exiting the elevator on the ground floor in search of room service quarters.
It was in a late Spring class during his Senior year at UVM when Wirtham had taught his students a little trick in analysis.
If you want to remember a voice, always listen intently to how someone speaks your name…the inflections on vowels, and the beginning of syllables will always contain the same repetition.
She’d said his name three times now. He didn’t know how she knew it in the first place. One minute she’s a registration clerk, now she’s taking room service orders from the front desk.
Finding room service quarters, he knocked and entered without waiting for an answer.
Inside, two uniformed women, both approximately in their mid forties, were detailing five uniformed men to dispatch items throughout the hotel.
One of the women turned as he entered.
She addressed him as if he were lost.
“May I help you?”


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“Actually, I’m embarrassed, I probably should stop by on Monday and see the people in the personnel office.”
She smiled, but didn’t respond, hoping he’d have something more to say than that.
He did.
“I’m trying to get my younger brother a job for the summer, and someone told me there’s always a lot of turnover in room service in the hotels, so I thought I’d go right to the source and find out. Do you know if the Marriott is hiring college students?”
“They might be, but not in this department - we have more people than we can handle - they like the tips. In fact, I had to send one person home tonight because we’re slow this weekend. I think they might be looking for a couple of bellhops, though. Why don’t you try that for your brother.”
“Thanks, I will - hope I didn’t trouble you.”
“No bother - good luck.”
Returning to the elevator, he began working a Game Theory equation, but hadn’t concluded much as he reentered the suite.
‘A registration clerk taking room service orders? Never saw her, but she knows me on sight. Lied to me about help - why? What happens next? Was the letter really from Kay - or was it written under duress? No way, I know the CIA has her covered ten ways to hell.’
An expected knock at the door made him turn.
Peering through the convex glass insert in all hotel doors, he saw her standing beside a room service cart, stainless steel covers over the food.
He was certain she also knew she was being watched.
Withdrawing the door’s dead bolt, he greeted her facetiously.
“Hi, thanks for bring this up. I hope you left someone to cover the front desk.”
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Chuckling, she pushed the cart ahead of her into the suite.
“It’s no problem, Mister Courtney, and yes, I did leave someone to cover for me.”
The door closed behind her.
Although she thought that was going to happen, she felt momentarily insecure.
He’d just used both his First Law Corollary and Law Seven against her - and to his advantage.
“You should develop a better working relationship with your other departments.”
She bumped the cover on the meal with the coffee pot.
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’d know which ones need help, and which ones didn’t.”
Liz Hendricks had been bending over the cart, preparing to serve the dinner on the Parlor’s center table.
Standing straight up, she turned to face Courtney, her arms folded.
“We have some matters to discuss, Mister Courtney.”
He, now with his hands on his hips retorted.
“No kidding, lady, how about a name for openers.”
“It’s Hendricks…Elizabeth.”
No response.
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Like the room service truth?”
“Mister Courtney…”
“Please - call me Michael, I’m going to call you Liz.”
“Listen to me, Michael - I work for Scott Orefice - he wants me to talk to you.”
“No fooling? Your agenda, or mine? Who‘s first?”

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“The meeting you want with the President - it’s been arranged for Monday at noon. I’m sure you’ll want to make it. We also know you and Mister St. Croix are preparing for an operation in Cuba, and it would be wise if you told me about that plan, and gave me some of those details. We don’t intend to stop you, but we can give you help if you need it.”
“So what do you do at the CIA, Liz, I mean besides making believe you’re a registration clerk at a hotel, Do they send you out as an Operative to convince people to betray their countries?”
“I think you better listen to me, Michael.”
“Really? You work for one of the best structured organizations in the world, and you’re delivering dinner on pushcarts. You have access to the Top Dog so you must be in some kind of special operations position. I also haven’t missed the European make up or the mascara either, Liz. What’s the perfume for?”
“I don’t care for your insinuations.”
“They’re not insinuations. I want you out of here right now. Tell your boss I’ll make the meeting with the President.”
He began moving toward the door.
“I also want you to tell him to call off his details on me with the exception of you. Call me Monday morning at eight, I’ll be ready.”
Pulling a pen from the breast pocket of her uniformed blazer, she moved to the desk where a piece of Marriott stationery lay on its surface. The agent/hotel clerk wrote two numbers in the middle of the page, identifying each one. Below them she wrote her name.
“The top number is my apartment, the other one is the office. If you feel like talking, call me.”
Taking hold of his arm, she deposited the paper in his hand while looking through his eyes.

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“You may think you have all the cards right now, Michael, but sooner or later you’re going to have to play by some of our rules.”
Trying not to reveal it, he somehow new there might be a lot of truth to that statement.
She left.
He had no intention of making the meeting with the President - and he knew the results of his non-action would be reaction.
In his Game Theory, he was working opposites, understanding them to be absolute concepts in the realm of thought, and therefore to be related.
Subsequently, by focusing attention on any one concept, he could create its opposite.
The ancient Chinese Philosopher Lao Tzu said, “When all the world understands beauty to be beautiful, then ugliness exists; when all understand goodness to be good, then evil exists.”
He knew opposites to be polar, that good and evil, victory and defeat, love and hate, were simply different aspects of the same phenomena.
He knew that all opposites were interdependent, that their conflict could never result in complete and final victory for one side or the other, but that symptoms of both would be revealed in the demonstration of either.
The Tao Xia notion of ‘Dynamic Balance’ would not be demonstratively employed by his opponents, and therefore would work for him as an act of omission on their part.
Their inability to relate to their own offensive and defensive patterns as connected components of strategy would be significant enough to cause them to respond to his own plans.
He’d set the game, he’d make the rules, and he would coach both sides.

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He assigned probabilities of occurrence to the consequences of missing the meeting with the President. Maximum expected utility was anticipated to be an intensive search, a renewed interest in his mission, and no ramifications. They couldn’t afford it. For them it was like playing poker with their cards up. He was dealing for now. He also knew she was right, but as long as he could read their hands, he could remain the dealer.
She did make a good point as he thought about it once again. At some future time, all of this would change again.
Friday, May 26, 9:16 p.m.

There were three phone systems and a short wave radio in his Cadillac. Although he had available to him a number of anti-terrorist drivers, he preferred to be alone driving to and from work, never being far from the protection of several highly trained people on a minutes notice.
She reached him as he left the main stream of highway traffic taking the exit toward home.
“Scott Orefice.”
“It’s Liz.”
“Go ahead.”
“I spoke with Courtney - he’s being very obstinate right now. He asked me to tell you to remove all personnel tracking him with the exception of me. He’s agreed to meet with the President at noon, and wants me to call him at eight. He knows we have a lot to talk about and that we both have agendas. I don’t know where he’s coming from with that statement. He could be making implications without grounds for reference trying to create a bluff. Either that, or he knows more about us than we think he does. I don’t know your intentions, Sir, but I’d feel more comfortable if you didn’t call off all our people. He doesn’t seem irrational, but somehow I feel like we could end up on the short end of his training.” 271
“I’m still going to keep our people on him around the clock. We need our finger on his pulse, but he’s not the one making the Cuban plan, that’s St. Croix. Courtney and Kathleen McKenzie have separated. She’s either going to stay at her condo, or she’s picking up her car to drive to her home on Old Saybrook.”
He glanced at his watch.
“David has dispatched someone to see where she ends up. This means Courtney will have some time alone. See what you can do with that. Keep your appointment with him on Monday, in fact, you bring him to the White House at noon. I’ll make arrangements for access and entrance through the main gate. I’ll speak with the President over the weekend and brief him.”
He paused, his moment of silence not an indication for her to reply, but rather a stage to set his final comments.
“Stay close to him, Liz. Find out what you can. This is important.”

Friday, May 26, 9:18 p.m.

He fingered the last digit of the Commerce Secretary’s secure line.
“Secretary Tollman.”
“It’s all set.”
He’d heard those words before. His intuition told him to question the tempered remark.
“Did he give you a hard time?”
“Not this time. I told him I want the stories in next Friday - he agreed.
The answer indicated that either he was becoming more adroit with people, which the Secretary doubted, or that Courtney was beginning to feel the pressure. He chose the latter.
“Good, I’ll call Belize.”
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No further conversation was necessary - the NSA man understood.
George Tollman dialed another secure line from his own.
“Belize.”
“Senor Belize, we’ll have our first round of stories circulated through the American press one week from today.”
“That is wonderful news, Mister Secretary.”
“Is Mister McKenzie comfortable?”
“He is more comfortable than any prisoner in Cuba. Were you able to convince President Benson to delay action on his initiative?”
“Yes. He questioned my conclusions because he believes there’s enough U.S. capital available to begin investment now, and he’s also concerned the Germans and the Japanese will gain a foothold before we do.”
Tollman stood and stretched.
“He’ll continue to support his program publicly, but he’s also taking ninety days to review the American economic indicators. If they don’t show any significant growth pattern, he’ll consider other options. I believe when public support is destroyed through Yankee Echo, he’ll have no choice but to abandon the plan.”
“You’ve done well Mister Secretary. I admire your ability to manipulate a man like Randall Benson.”
He took the compliment, something he’d been doing for a long time in many positions.
“Mister Vice President, what did you find at Bellcamp’s home?”
“Only confirmation of what he’d already given us. My agents returned after a difficult boat crossing with his computer and data bases. Everything Mister Bellcamp told us is true. It was almost worth the two million dollars he took from us for his information.”
“He’s still an intolerable loose end, Mister Vice President.”

273
“I understand. We are continuing our search for him.”
“Very well, I’ll keep you informed on the Yankee Echo stories and their effect.”
“Yes, please do, Mister Secretary. Good night, my friend.”
In narcissistic self indulgence, he not only knew his plan was working, but he also felt Courtney was frightened.
Stories would come out next Friday.
The President would eventually have to capitulate.
Negation: Law Five and Thirty-Two

Saturday, May 27, 6:04 a.m.

In Newtonian Mechanics, all physical events are reduced to the motion of material points in space caused by their natural attraction, i.e., by the force of gravity.
To put what would be the effect of gravity on a mass point into a precise equation, it was necessary for Newton to create concepts and mathematical techniques that had never existed before.
Thus, we were given Differential Calculus.
Equations of motion developed by Newton are the basis of classical mechanics
Because they were considered to be fixed laws according to which material points move, they were believed to be related to all the changes in the physical world.
The entire world was originally set in motion by the highest spiritual authority, and it has continued to run ever since governed by Physical Laws.
If we apply a mechanistic thought process to the universe, and to all its natural orders, we come to understand that every cause gives rise to a definite effect.
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This is Law One. Therefore, and in addition, the future of any of the natural orders could, in principle, be predicted with absolute certainty if its state of existence at any given point in time were known in all details.
Courtney’s Game Theory called for an escape, and he’d use some of the concepts in Newtonian Mechanics to make this happen.
He felt the CIA was watching him. He didn’t think Orefice would call off his spooks
In fact, agents trained in surveillance were only yards away from the walls of the suite, twenty-four hours a day.
He’d been up since 4:30 a.m., having showered, shaved, and packed.
There’d be no way he could bring a suitcase, and wait for it at the Miami airport turnstile. His red, nylon gym bag, sporting the Boston College Crest, tightly housed a few changes of underwear and socks, three sports shirts, a change of shoes, a light nylon jacket, a pair of jeans, and his toiletries.
Everything and anything else he needed, he’d buy in Florida.
In between the pants and the jacket, he packed his Yankee Echo code book and about twenty pages of notes he’d written since his arrival in the Capitol.
Working a simplified version of Newtonian Mechanics and the Theory of Opposites, he’d be able to predict the events that would take place when he left his suite if he knew what physically existed from outside it to the front entrance to the hotel.
His actions would cause reactions.
He knew speed wasn’t as necessary as manipulation, that, for now, presence was more important than analysis.
It was time.
He dialed room service.

275
A woman answered. It wasn’t Hendricks.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, would you please send a pot of coffee to the McKenzie suite?”
“Certainly, we’ll have that up to you in about five minutes.”
It actually took eight minutes for the attendant and her cart to get there.
A look through the convex lens confirmed a wish. The lower part of the cart was draped with a linen cloth, a curtain to hide dirty dishes, utensils, and other ware that guests shouldn’t have to observe. It’s emptied every time the cart is returned, so, on every returning trip to a room, there is a vacancy behind the linen.
Opening the door, he exchanged a pleasantry intended to establish a rapport.
“Hey, come on in, you guys are fast.”
“No problem, Sir.”
She transferred the brew from stainless steel to wood.
Courtney, making eye contact moved to within two feet of her.
“Would you do me a favor when you leave?”
The question had attached to it an urgency that not only seemed difficult to refuse, but also seemed to suggest a larger tip. That made the answer easy.
“I guess so, what is it?”
“Put this bag on the bottom of your cart. Take it to any cabby out front, and send it to the Delta counter at Dulles. Can you do that?”
He extended five twenty dollar bills.
“Give the cabby two of these, and you keep the other three.”
She took the money and the bag. There was plenty for the fare and cabby’s tip - and even more for her.

276
“It’ll be done, Mister, and anything else you need done, just call down and ask for Marcie.”
“OK, Marcie, thanks.”
She left, the linen obscuring her cargo from the view of two people in the hallway outside the suite.
A maintenance man was repairing the baseboard molding thirty feet to the north of the suite. Another man, tall, wearing glasses, walked the hallway, his dress blazer exhibiting a patch on its left breast pocket identifying him as a member of the hotel security staff.
A third man, unseen, was in the room kitty-corner to the bank of elevators. He sat on his bed watching a television screen displaying nothing but the other two men in the hallway, a miniature remote control camera he’d mounted at the top of the wall outside his room providing the picture.
All three worked for Deputy Director David Eisenberg.
Courtney pulled open the center drawer of the desk retrieving the black encoding device. Slipping it into the left pocket of his jacket, he pulled his wallet from left rear pocket of his jeans. In it were ten one hundred dollar bills, five twenties, and two fives. In addition, he had ten credit cards including American Express, both Gold and Corporate, Citibank Master Card and Visa, and five miscellaneous gas cards, all with max limits.
Law Seventeen
It was time to move - slowly - create an opposite - be momentarily static - they would move quickly believing he would also.
He opened the door, appearing in the hallway to the surprise of both agents in eyesight, in addition to the agent unseen.
It was 6:45 a.m. He was fully clothed. Where was he going? To breakfast, out for a walk or jog? It wouldn’t matter, they’d pick him up in the lobby.
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At the bank of elevators, he summoned both cars to his floor, the car on the left arriving first.
Stepping inside, he pressed the buttons for every floor below his, then backed out of the car.
He had some temporary luck he didn’t know about.
The wall-mounted camera didn’t pick up that side of the corridor.
When the second car arrived, he entered and repeated the button pushing procedure. This time he stayed in the car.
Getting off on the floor below the suite, he headed West down the hallway.
In the lobby, two empty elevator cars that had stopped at every floor below his revealed themselves to a man dressed in jogging attire, as well as to another in slacks and a sports shirt.
The jogger quickly pulled a two-way radio from the pouch in his sweat shirt. He was walking fast toward the main entrance.
The man in slacks pulled a same-brand radio from his pants pocket.
Their similar remarks, although one not an echo of the other, contained equal content and gravity.
“He’s not on the elevator.”
“No one got off.”
Courtney had found an open banquet room.
The facility was being dressed out for a noon wedding reception.
A tent sign outside the entrance would reveal its location to attendees who would come later.
Six men and three women moved briskly but in organized fashion preparing the room for the event.
Approaching two males finalizing the location of a table, he addressed the eldest.
“Hi, I’m with the groom - mind if I look around.”

278
“Be my guest.”
It was almost seven. He needed fifteen minutes to be immobilized.
He knew they were following him, and he knew they’d move fast, would follow the rules, and be conventional.
More conversations were taking place via two-way radios.
“We lost him.”
“I don’t know where he went.”
“Get outside.”
“I’ll take the restaurant.”
Thirteen minutes later, after reviewing the entire wedding reception hall, Courtney sought out, found, and approached the elder again.
He produced a twenty dollar bill.
“I need a favor, I’ll be escorting a guest who doesn’t want to be seen in the lobby, can you show me a back way in and out of here?”
It really wasn’t all that unusual a request for this City
He took the twenty.
“Follow me.”
A rear elevator door opened to a short hallway leading to a parking lot furthest from the main entrance. No one was in sight.
Beyond the lot, a strip plaza with no customers at this early hour would become a pick up point.
He needed one more favor, and produced another twenty to get it.
“Go out front and send a cab to that pizza joint over there to pick me up.”
The elder nodded his head.
“OK.”
Eight minutes later, Courtney, now in the rear seat of a yellow Chevy, gave the driver his destination. His permit card did not identify him as Timothy Metcalff.
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“ Dulles - Delta terminal.”
The cabby got his fare, a one hundred dollar tip, and a request to forget what he looked like should anyone ask him to describe his early morning passenger.
“You never saw me before, OK?”
“You don’t look nothing like yourself in my memory, buddy.”
At the Delta counter, his bag waited on the bottom of a shelf behind two ticket agents. It was seven fifty-nine.
“That’s my bag, my name’s Michael Courtney - can I still get on the eight o’clock flight to Miami?”
The fact that the plane was almost empty made his request easy to fill.
“We’ll hold the plane for you, Mister Courtney.”
She was kidding, but also serious.
Nine minutes later he inclined a window seat over the port wing while voices continued to crackle from CIA radios both within and outside of the Marriott.
“We have four more people on the way, stay at the entrance.”
“Check the restaurants around the lobby again.”
One more radio transmission
“You’d better call Hendricks.”

Saturday, May 27, 8:15 a.m.

Delta flight 412 from Washington to Miami was approaching eleven thousand feet when she got the call at her apartment.
“Hello?”
“Liz - it’s Marty - we lost him.”
“What the hell happened? How could you lose him? Where is he?”

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“He played a game with the elevators. We underestimated him. We have six people here now. He may still be at the hotel.”
“Damn - do Scott and David know?”
“Not yet… I’d rather you call one of them.”
“Sure - let me take the heat. Alright, listen, get into his suite and go over the whole thing. See if he left anything. Have someone talk to all the cabbies coming back from anywhere - is someone at JGM?”
“Yeah - I was there, but we have someone else watching it now.”
“OK, Marty, find me when you have something - I’ll do your dirty laundry for you.”
She called him at home.
The Director wasn’t as disturbed as she thought he should be.
He listened to the whole story but held her at arms length, something she didn’t enjoy.
In this business she’d learned to live with reservation.
He had another agenda, maybe several - she’d never know.
“Liz - get over to the hotel and take charge over there. I’ll speak to you later.”
His call to the President found the Chief Executive at breakfast.
“Yes, Scotty?”
“Sir, Michael Courtney’s escaped out surveillance.”
“Is that so?”
“Were almost certain he’ll resurface in Miami. Wirtham’s told us he and St. Croix are going into Cuba with Navy Zero armaments , and either a full or partial Zero team. If they run into problems on the island, they could, and I’m certain they would, cause some extensive physical damage. I think we should alert President Santiago that they’re coming.”

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“Can you find out where Courtney will connect with the Zero team?”
“Probably, but only on your directive. They keep their secrets better than we do.”
He thought for a moment.
“No, let them go. I’ll speak with Juan Santiago. They’ll be invading a free nation with American military personnel, but it won’t be under any Executive Order. If they’re caught, it will appear to be just be a rogue operation, but I’d still like to keep it out of the Press if that occurs, and if we can. If they fail, you and your people can go in and secure Pat McKenzie. At all costs, we need him back on American soil. Try to keep up with them in Miami”
“Yes, Sir. I understand.”
“Scotty, I know what are Navy Zeros are trained to do…but can Courtney be dangerous?”
Orefice drew a breath, his voice deep, serious.
“Mister President, I’ve worked with metaphysicians in Singapore, Lisbon, and Jakarta. These people have an intuitive sense of the most basic laws of the universe. When they use these laws in practical applications, they can manipulate and control you - and you don’t even know they’re doing it. Wirtham’s told me Courtney’s one of the best. He’s a TAO XIA Master…it makes him extremely capable, and if he requires it…dangerous.”
Executive thoughts filled the silence on the line.
“Do what you have to do. We may have no choice but to wait it out and pick them up when, and if, they get back.”
“If we can control Courtney, then we’ll have the biggest piece.”
“Then let’s keep tabs on him, but don’t let any of this get near the Press.”
“If it gets to the Press, we’ll be able to control it, Sir.”
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“Maybe the situation, but not necessarily Courtney - stay in touch.”
“Yes, Sir.”

Truth and Realism

A philosophical definition of truth would encapsulate the Common Sense Theory Of Factuality, sometimes also known as the Correspondence Theory, which claims that something is true if it corresponds to the facts of its being.
Within the science and art of TAO-XIA, an absolute idealist like Michael Courtney would put forward a coherent theory of truth, in which he would define absolute truths as only ‘The Whole’, and anything less than that merely aspiring to degrees of truth; therefore, he’d always establish a relationship between truth and reality as it related to any entity.
‘The Whole’, as it would exist for him in Law Fourteen, would have to be the same as that between a picture and what it represents, even if ‘The Whole’ seemed to represent itself in paradox.
Courtney’s truth of an entity would actually be relative to the awareness, instincts, and intuitive responses of himself as an individual. He understood through observation, tempered with instincts and experience, and additionally through ultimate realities.
An analogy he used in teaching TAO XIA to his students was that if something looks like a duck, waddles like a duck, and quacks like a duck, there is a strong possibility it will be a duck, but this is also only true for those who want it to be a duck. If someone wanted the entity to be a chicken, then it would be a chicken, even though the damn thing went around quacking like a duck.



283
For years, Courtney had prepared the philosophical game plan for what he believed to be six hundred writers placed strategically throughout the United States in the nation’s daily newspapers.
The reality of Yankee Echo was three thousand writers, news directors, bureau chiefs, trade, union publication, and lobby journal editors, and even fifty publishers of children’s school weeklies. The organization was actually five times larger than he thought it was, and ten times more powerful.
Fifty corporations, including McKenzie Industries, controlled enormous information capabilities through the clandestine use of United States print media.
The thought patterns of dozens of millions of people were regularly channeled into directions thought to be most advantageous to their agendas.
Through the always-available, and expeditious use of the organization, and further through the application of The Universal Laws as interpreted and applied by Courtney, the system, with its tremendous power, needed only minor, albeit judicious adjustments to accomplish its philosophical objectives.
But there was more, it was greater than just a multiple corporate issue.
By controlling a great majority of the delivery system affecting the American conscience, and by creating perceived needs in the minds of both the U.S. public and union memberships, lobbyists would be geared toward influencing the development of legislation that satisfied those needs, spurred by the corporate giants who needed to keep control of their own interests.
The insurance policy keeping that support in place was The Central Intelligence Agency. The American public, and its elected officials were controlled without overt malice. The question of the CIA’s domestic survival was answered, quite simply, by payoff. 284
Saturday, May 27, 9:55 a.m.

Approaching Miami International, the pilot worked the trim tabs on the airliner, his air speed reducing dramatically as they approached runway six-six.
Seven minutes later, a perfect landing was history.
Courtney had unfastened his seat belt before the light went on behind the screened display telling him it was OK to do so. St. Croix would be waiting, and probably the CIA also.
He was right about both. One man, besides Andy St. Croix would be watching for his arrival, a faxed photo held in a folded newspaper would assist the agent in identifying him.
St. Croix maneuvered as close to the gate ramp as he could.
Courtney, his bag slung over his left shoulder, reviewed the man he had come to trust, but also assessed everyone behind him in the waiting area.
There were men, women and children paired off in twos, threes, and fours. Additionally, there were four solitary women, and seven solitary men.
Two of the men wore jackets and ties. Five of them had on casual attire, one reading a newspaper with no sign of baggage or of intent to purposely receive anyone departing Delta flight 412.
He approached his friend with a smile and an extended right hand.
“Good to see you, Andy.”
“You too, Mick.”
“We need to talk - I need some tactical advice.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I’m sure we’re being watched, and we’re going to be followed. I have some stories to tell you, and I want to do some of that here.”

285
The Southerner motioned to two seats at a vacant high-top table outside of a twenty-four hour snack bar.
“Let’s go over there, Mick.”
Twenty minutes later, Courtney had finished detailing as best he could, the events that had taken place since they last saw one another. Kay had gone home to Connecticut, Pat McKenzie had lied to both of them about Yankee Echo and who controlled it, the encounter with Elizabeth Hendrecks, the meeting that had been set up with the President, the assumed urgency, and finally, the ‘writes’ that would be published next Friday.
“This thing gets more interesting by the hour, Mick…sit tight for a minute.
The Zero produced a portable telephone from his jacket.
Pushing two digits on its keypad, he received an almost immediate response.
“Snake here.
“Ah got m’ah friend Mick with me here in the Delta terminal. We need a safe route outta here. Looks like we got trackers.”
Six seconds of silence - it was anticipated.
“Meet me at the Oceanscape Tours heliport office. It’s just North of the Delta terminal outside.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Got it.”
Pocketing the phone, he slapped his friend’s arm.
“Let’s go, Mick. Y’all gonna get your first lesson in cowboys.”
It took twelve minutes on foot to reach the office of Oceanscape Tours.



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It’s owner, a former Vietnam Huey Jock, and a former All-American half back out of Michigan State who’d turned down a pro contract to do what he loved, stood chatting with a smaller man, but of equal stature, who also was doing what he loved. Both men, friends for years, had each other’s total confidence and respect.
St. Croix and Courtney approached the two as the Snake was handing the former running back, now chopper pilot, fifteen one-hundred dollar bills.
St. Croix made the first introduction.
“Mick, this here’s Anthony Snake Coverty. Snake - meet Michael Courtney.”
While shaking hands with Courtney, the active Zero made further introductions.
“Chuck Redding, meet Andy St. Croix and Michael Courtney, Chuck owns Oceanscape, we‘re taking one of his birds for a short ride.”
The Snake now spoke directly to St. Croix
“I gave Chuck a flight plan for the Keys, Andy, but we’re going out to an off island. My jockey’s meeting us there in our Huey. We’ll switch aircraft. He’ll fly Oceanscape’s twenty miles north of here, park it at a private airport, and take a cab back. Chuck will take a cab up to the airport and retrieve his property. I’ll fly us back from the island.”
St. Croix turned to Courtney.
“How’s that sound to y’all, Mick?”
“Sounds great - where’s the Huey take us?”
The Snake and St. Croix exchanged smiles. It was the active Zero who answered the question.
“About one mile from where we stand - just down the East-West runway - let’s get moving.”
Coverty reved Oceanscape’s four-seat Bell Ranger to 3000 RPM’s over its takeoff minimum with its current load, gently lifting off the heliport’s concrete as the man from the terminal with the newspaper, and photograph of an analyst, spoke into his CIA-issued radio.
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“They’re leaving in a helicopter from Oceanscape Tours. I’ll check out the flight plan and call you back.”
It would be an exercise in futility.
One hour and thirty six minutes later, Courtney, St. Croix and Coverty stepped off the re-worked Huey.
A military helicopter is a functional flying instrument that is either specifically built, or converted for use by military forces. A military helicopter's mission is a function of its design or conversion.
A Vietnam relic, this specific bird had been retrofitted specifically for Zero use with a souped-up Lycoming engine, radar-jamming electronics, laser target designators, Hellfire anti-tank missiles, a 30mm Gatling cannon, and Hydra rockets. It had the capability to lock on to, and destroy, multiple targets from two to four miles above and away from designated goals.
Walking to the Zero-secured hangar, St. Croix excused both himself and Courtney from Coverty, the latter understanding their need to exchange critical information.
Both would brief the active Zero later.
Coverty knew St. Croix trusted Courtney.
He also knew he’d have to trust him with the plan, time for implementation, retreat, reunion, and disposition of resources. In his gut - he also had a feeling there would be force involved.


Zero’s, by nature, are exceptionally insightful.






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Chapter 11

Syllogism and Opposition

Aristotle, the founder of traditional formal logic defined syllogism as a discourse in which, certain things being stated, something other than what is stated follows of necessity from their being so.
Although a syllogism relates to every kind of valid deduction, Aristotle, and almost all of his successors usually, if not always, dealt with syllogisms that linked propositions which could be expressed in
subject-predicate form.
The simplest of what are known as the Atomic Syllogisms consists of three propositions, the first two being the premises which convey the third. Some syllogisms in traditional logic denote phrases that, although able to stand on their own, contain syncategorematic words that, were they not linked to categorematic terms, would be incomprehensible as wholes.
The word ‘big’ has no specific dimension until joined with an explicit term such as ‘as a house.” Something can simply be blue, but cannot be big without attachment to something else.

Saturday, May 27, 12:31 p.m.

Courtney spend an hour alone. Using syllogism and the theory of opposites, he created syncategorematic, and opposing syllogisms.

Pat McKenzie was a liar.
A liar hides something.
Pat McKenzie was hiding something.
Pat McKenzie also told the truth.
Truth does not exist in phenomena without its opposite, Lies.
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Yankee Echo was, at the same time, both a truth, and a lie. But How big a lie?
Control of Yankee Echo was big, but was it big enough to lie about and hide from him? Maybe. There was another possible theory. The organization wasn’t what he thought it was. It wasn’t just control. There were hidden elements, parts no one knew about. Why else the lie? If there were secret parts, how many? It had, by syllogistic logic to be big.
Courtney re-entered their presence as Coverty and St. Croix reviewed flight charts at the drafting table.
Noticing his friend’s approach, the inactive Zero thought this might be a good time to relax for a bit.
“C’mon, Mick, let’s you and me go get a couple of beers. Snake, y’all hold down the fort.”
The active Navy Zero thought it might be soon, maybe twenty-four, forty-eight hours.
There was a lot to do.
Courtney’s forearms rested on the stained oak counter at the Gator Grille, his right hand around a cold, long-neck Bud. A half-dozen or so construction workers, completing the design on a new entrance to Miami International, sat during their lunch break at three black and white
tile-topped tables discussing the early beginning standings and schedules of various pro baseball teams, the shapely legs and behind of their female Production Supervisor, and the great hot dogs at this place.
The rest of the compliment of people at this hour were at the bar. A retired banker named Steve from Brooklyn, New York, two teenage boys and girls using false ID’s, and the bar’s three regulars, Allen, Leo, and Herden Mitchell, two brothers and a cousin who’d just retired from the food and beverage industry elsewhere. The analyst did not see a threat anywhere.


290
A squeaky bar stool squealed every time he turned to the Southerner.
It squealed again.
“Andy, think about this. I’m pretty sure our Secretary of Commerce shot and killed John McKenzie in Vietnam, and then allowed him to be blamed for the massacre at La Dang. The President is refusing to make a strong commitment to a reform plan he knows will almost guarantee his reelection. He also puts his chief spook on my tail, who then lays a bodyguard on me, which, to me, suggests he has another agenda going because he’s not working on what should be done for the first one.”
He took a sip of his refreshing beverage.
“The people who breached Yankee Echo have no idea how big it is, and to tell you the truth, I’m beginning to wonder if I know how big it is myself. We’ve got a lot going on here Trooper, you have any ideas?
“Ah always go to Law Forty, than back to one, and now, your Corollary, Mick.”
“OK, so let’s do what we have to do. We know we’re in the dark and that we’re going nowhere until we get some honest answers. Right now, I have to assume that Belize, Bellcamp, and Salazar are part of the breachers. One way I can find out for sure if they’re the breachers is to put them on the defensive, then confront them with power. Bellcamp’s gone, that leaves the other two. Did you finish the reconnaissance on Belize’s place?”
“Sure did. We got work ups all the way to Belize’s front door. Night fly-in under radar - which we’re gonna jam anyway. The control tower here will avoid us, both when we leave, and when we come home..”
“We’re not coming home, Andy.”
It took a few seconds.
“Where we goin, Mick?”
291
“Too many people know we’re out right now. Does Robert know your location?”
“No. Zero Intel plans every op in secret. The only people who know about all of this are the team members, you included. Bobby only knows Ah’m in Miami with you.”
“We need a safe place to take Pat, if we find him. I’m not letting him go until he solves some riddles for me.”
“You been doin some syncategorematic props, my friend?”
It helped dull the emotional edge - the analyst smiled.
“With Pat back, the breachers lose; but that’s just the beginning. I want the real answers on Yankee Echo.”
He tasted his Bud again.
“Mick, think of Thirty-Eight. It’s Deductive Logic. Work backward from your conclusions.”
“I don’t know for certain if they’re true.”
“You also don’t know for certain if they’re false. When all ya got is a pile of dog shit, y’all have to assume some dogs passed through.”
“I need to be inductive to get inside their heads.”
“Yeah, but y’all can’t go forward before takin ten steps back. Hell, Mick, induction begins at the ass end and comes forward, you know that.”
“There’s also something in my gut telling me to blow the Laws to Hell when we find Pat.”
“OK, Kid, y’all got he helm - where do we start.”
“We find Pat - let’s go see Coverty.”





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Saturday, May 27, 2:50 p.m.

Alan Bates was degreed in Mechanical Engineering from Annapolis. A Naval Commissioned Officer holding the rank of Lieutenant Commander, he had logged over fifteen thousand hours in helicopters since matriculation from flight school at The Naval Air Station in Pensacola, Florida.
Bates didn’t just have normal, traditional flying hours under his wings. At speeds approaching three hundred miles per hour, he could maneuver the four bladed Zero Huey under bridges, between buildings, night-fly at treetop level, and pull one and a half more ‘G’ force out of the rotary aircraft than the design-build book said he could.
He’d been asked to join the Zero’s by no less an authority than the Commandant of the Naval Academy. Scholastically, he wasn’t at the top of the grade-point average in his graduating class - but he did hold one unique distinction. In his four years at The Academy, he’d become the only graduate who’d ever gone undefeated in intercollegiate chess competitions. His uncanny ability to develop strategic offensive patterns of war (And a chess game is a war) had not gone unnoticed by the upper echelon of Navy Brass.
He was an excellent compliment to a Navy Zero team. A pilot who could fly spontaneous offensive sequences of attack, while creating forward patterns of strategy in the process.
He and Snake stood at the flight prep table reviewing the nylon matte-black pants, black camouflage, black pinpoint cotton ‘T’ shirts black ragg nylon socks, and black vented boots laid out on its surface.




293
Additionally on the table top there was the weaponry chosen specifically for this mission: Two Uzi machine guns, Snake and St. Croix’s primary resource, four, fifteen shot, Colt forty-two automatic pistols with three extra clips for each, every member, including Courtney, carrying this complement, and one, twenty inch piece of titanium filament secured on each end to a two inch steel ball - Snake’s Silencer.
They’d checked, and rechecked the radios - twelve ounce Motorola open-line, frequency-modulated units with mini head sets. Every team member would click into the communication system in the hangar, and would be in constant conference contact with every other member until the operation was concluded. Snake coded the sets - himself first, designation ‘one’, St. Croix, ‘two’, Bates, ‘three’, Courtney, ‘four’; simple, efficient, clean.
The final item on the table was a plain manila folder, the op orders and mission standards between its front and back covers.
It was a simple, but structured game plan; fly in, retrieve resources, fly out. Time lines were designated in seconds, ops and standards set in maximums and minimums - categories - what was acceptable, what not. All the elements were set on two planes - op in, op out. Maximums were increased in the op out - more fire being directed in a Zero drawback than in an assault.
One page of the orders and standards titled ‘Metaphysical Analysis’ remained blank - Courtney would detail this part of the mission statement either verbally, or in writing; not the plan of attack or the egress, but the philosophical base of the operation. He’d already worked out its components and was mentally reviewing them as he and St. Croix approached the two active naval officers. They’d all met one another, each at earlier times. Acknowledgement and acceptance of individual operational expertise were felt by all four. 294
Coverty, concluding the launch of the team, acquiesced to the table, detailing the clothing first, and addressing the only team member who’d never worn them.
“We’ll be in these throughout the mission. Everything on us goes black. We carry no ID’s, no wallets, no money, and no jewelry. The weapons are loaded. We’re shot-conscious - don’t use rounds unless absolutely necessary. We’d rather use our brains than our weapons to complete the mission. Andy will teach you how to fire the forty-two this afternoon - there’s a small firing range at the other end of this building. The radios are simple - we strap into them, and talk. Everyone hears what everyone else says, and we’ll be on-frequency until we’re pulled back far enough from the major point of engagement. If we find Mister McKenzie there, he stays silent until that time.”
With one hand, Snake tapped the index finger and then the middle finger of the other to make the next point.
“Mission personnel are primary, hardware resources are secondary. The last thing is the operation orders, and the mission standards. We need the metaphysical statement. I know Andy’s briefed you on Zero ops, so I think you already have a good idea on what we’ll do.”
Courtney moved toward the table, his right hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“Thanks for the introduction to the gear. I hope I don’t have to fire that thing.”
Coverty, his mind set now into the mission, was all business.
“If you do, aim for the middle of the body, it’s your biggest target. The forty-twos are loaded with hollow points, they fragment on impact. Hit a man in the chest, and you’ll remove three quarters of his back.”
That truth didn’t sit comfortably.

295
He had a single purpose, and he needed to remain focused. He’d prepared his metaphysical statement. He would verbalize it, and implement its strategy with their help. He knew Andy had briefed everyone on names, places and locations.
“I have good reason to believe Pat McKenzie will be in the same place we find Belize and Salazar. Law Two - they’re unbalanced. They’ve committed a crime, and they know it, so they’ll cling to each other, and they’ll want to keep their hostage close. The last thing they want is for Pat to escape. The safest place to hold him would be in the Vice President’s villa…Andy, when you found those two guys going through Bellcamp’s house, they told you Belize sent them. We know they weren’t just a couple of low-life hoods. They were trained agents; the kind of guys who work for VP’s and Presidents. They’re probably prepared for a fight. They have us in a defensive pattern, and we have to change that. I need the Vice President’s personal number. Someone at JGM, maybe Gerry could get that for us.”
The three Zeros, familiar with manipulation of enemies by philosophical logic held fast any response. Zero metaphysicians always detailed their reasoning, they hoped the civilian philosopher would also.
He did.
“We’re going to call Belize and tell him we’re coming for Pat.”
Although they’d told him they wouldn’t question his philosophy, their expressions indicated a willingness to listen should he want to elaborate. Courtney, knowing he’d just laid a big chunk of offensive-defensive logic on them complied.





296
“We can’t win unless we’re on total offense, and we can’t do that unless they’re playing total defense. They won’t move Pat. They probably won’t believe we called, but it’s going to shake the hell out of them. They’ll gather together even tighter, put up a perimeter, and wait. They’ll think we’ll be coming in with a show of force, and they’ll be right. We hit early tomorrow morning, four a.m.. Snake, you detail the point of entry - I just have one request. I stay close to Andy - no more than ten feet between us. I’m not Wyatt Earp, and I’m sure as hell not going to pretend I am. They’ll be prepared for us, but they’ll be fearful - even more reason to cling to one another. We also need a place to come back to other than here.”
He searched the team leader - Coverty responding.
“We have a drop facility that falls in my territory. We come in over water and won’t be noticed.”
“Good - a few more points. They’ve used force, and they might regret that. If need be, we use all our firepower to complete the mission. I know it’s smarter to use our brains than our guns, Snake, but I also want to come back with Pat McKenzie. If we have to shoot - I think we should shoot big. Nothing’s going to get done unless we make it get done. We move on offense, and we stay on offense, even in retreat. Allen, when we draw back, I want to leave a message behind; is that OK with all of you?”
Team members One, Two, and Three had all heard metaphysical ops statements many times before. Each of them was surprised that a civilian could detail a military operation this coherently and fluently. He was calculating, reserved in no way. He’d defended his offensive pattern with a logic that was easy to comprehend, and reinforced an unspoken rule to never underestimate your enemy. Even his retreat was set to an offensive strategy.

297
Three heads nodded affirmatively.
He turned to St. Croix.
“That’s it from my end, Andy. Can we get that number?”
“Ah’ll ring up Washington right now.”
Forty-six minutes later, he had it.”

Saturday, May 27, 3:46 p.m.

Coverty’s office more closely resembled an armament locker than a place of work. Bayonets, pistols, hand grenades, and other assortments of weapons and military manuals all seemed to be laid out by categories he didn’t understand. Every item looked too functional to Courtney, and he made sure none of it was disturbed while sitting at The Snake’s desk to make his phone call. Although he’d been told all Zero operation lines were untraceable, he placed the black encoding device against the receiver.
Entering the Cuban VP’s number into the keypad, he waited for an answer.
“Buenas Tardes,” The long-legged Latin had answered.
Corollary - make an assumption.
“Miss Salazar.”
“She wasn’t prepared - in fact, a voice she’d never heard before coming over this private number, caused her to be perplexed.
“Yes…” Not just an answer - a search.
He, hearing low-level trepidation, acted.
“This is Michael Courtney calling. I’m coming to get Pat McKenzie.”
He nestled the receiver to its point of origin.
Law Seven - you neutralize extremes by using an opposing force against them.
The Cuban had been neutralized, his soft, sure tone now sitting in her brain as an inimical comment.

298
Courtney was a participant in Game Theory maximizing a property
(offensive strategy) from a position of uncertainty, not only with respect to the nature of her being, but also with regard to the actions of the other player, Belize, whose interests were diametrically opposed to his own.
Typically, when a decision has to be made, the one making the decision has to predict the course of action others will follow, knowing that they themselves, when deciding their own actions, will predict the actions of others.
She did everything he wanted her to do.
She got frightened and ran to her boss.

The Cuban VP stood facing the window behind his desk when she broke his solitude. His head turned over his right shoulder upon hearing the door opening.
Her facial expression was revealing.
He squared to his mistress.
“Catalina?”
“He’s coming.”
“Who’s coming?”
“Courtney.”
“What?”
“He just called on your private line. He said he was coming to get Patrick McKenzie.”
“Alone?”
The question suggested there was no answer. There wasn’t.
“I don’t know - he didn’t say.”
“How does he know we have him?
“I don’t know - someone must have told him?”
“When is he coming?”
“He didn’t tell me, Miguel. What should we do?”
The defensive pattern Courtney wanted to be in place began forming.

299
“Send Carlos to me, now.”
Seven minutes later a tall, muscular Cuban Secret Service Agent stood before him. Belize addressed him from a seated position behind his desk.
“Carlos, I’ve been informed we will soon have an American visitor who will try and take Mister McKenzie away from us, most likely by using force. I’m not certain what route he will take to get here. Or how many people he will bring with him, but I wish to be prepared for all occurrences. I want you to detail seven men to the beach, another seven to the grounds, and you and your five best men to the insides of these walls. Both you and your Guard Sergeant will stay in the room, and the anti-room next to Mister McKenzie for the next seventy-two hours.”
The Agent sneered. He’d been waiting for an opportunity to have contact with the Americans again. Carlos, known to Andy St. Croix as ‘Cardinal’ felt the back of his neck, remembering the night at Bellcamp’s home when his lights were put out by a Navy Zero.
“Si, my Vice President. I will detail my men immediately.”

Saturday, May 27, 9:17 a.m. Tokyo Time

The Japanese business executive toweled himself briskly. Forty laps in his private pool was a full workout for a man half his age.
His personal philosophy on life was that we were all just put here to rot, to be born helpless, to advance in years, and then die helpless. Wouldn’t it make more sense, he thought, to live forever, or to have unending life after life, where each subsequent one could be enjoyed with all of its rewards, especially the material and physical marvels of life. He didn’t care about fairness in life, or in business. If you don’t eat, you get eaten. If you don’t take where there is opportunity to take, you become controlled by others.
300
The bastard American President and his weak CIA Director, they, like all the others he’d manipulated and controlled, were worthless, soft human beings. In their next life, he would deceive and repel them again, he the strongest, and most wise of the three.
Saito Kushima, a great man of business, would pay them for their ability to open Cuba to his corporation. He’d need to invest one hundred fifty million American dollars, but he’d regain it in billions. They’d never live to spend their bribe, and his investment could be recovered later through smaller bribes and manipulations. His multi-million dollar deal with the Americans would become the deal of his lifetime, the greatest coup of his business career.
Walking from the pool’s edge, he sat at a glass-top table, in its center, an ancient hand-painted porcelain bowl filled with Florida oranges. To the side, a cellular phone linked to a personal satellite connection was direct-dialed as he continued his final thoughts on his next move. It was 6:00 p.m. in the States.
“Scott Orefice.”
“Mister Orefice, I have made arrangements for the transfer of half the funds. You will find them available to you when the contract with President Santiago is completed and ready for signing. I trust you and Randall Benson will be concluding the deal soon.”
Although he wasn’t expecting the call, he was ready with answers.
“As we speak, Mister Kushima, the papers are being drafted. Mister Benson has had several conversations with President Santiago, and we’ve been assured of his full cooperation through the conclusion of the process.”
“Mister Orefice, when we conclude the contract, it would be an honor for me if both you and Mister Benson would be my guests at a small social function in Havana following the signing. I’m sure we will have much to discuss.” 301
“It would be my pleasure to be there, Mister Kushima, and, in fact, I will. However, there is a problem with the President attending. He’s advocating U.S. corporate involvement in Cuba, and to meet publicly with a foreign giant in the electronics industry would not appear as an act in the best interests of his program. The Press follows his every move, he’d receive a great deal of negative publicity.”
“Of course, I understand, Mister Orefice. I will be honored that you are attending.”
“I’ll call you when we have the preliminary Cuban draft completed on the program. I’m sure you’re detailing your own draft now.”
“Yes, I am. You’ll have it soon, and I’ll wait most anxiously for our next telephone conversation. Thank you Mister Orefice, and good evening to you.”
He hung up and redialed.
A deep, strong, forty year old voice took his call.
“The Director of Central Intelligence will meet me in Cuba for the contract signing. Make sure you and your team have all the component parts in place for his untimely accident.”
A seasoned veteran who’d made many of these arrangements before, he knew this call would be coming soon.
“We’ll be prepared.”












302
Saturday, May 27, 8:05 p.m.

The CIA looked the other way on the legalities of Yankee Echo. They knew it existed, and they used it, but also remained purposefully blind.
For this, the U.S. covert organization was rewarded. Millions of dollars were annually allocated to support the Agency’s domestic operations through special bank accounts controlled by fifty corporations.
Each year, by law, The CIA Director makes an appeal to the joint houses of Congress for funding, and is almost always allocated less than what he asked for to maintain the operation of the Service.
There are committee members in both the House of Representatives and in the United States Senate who believe they control the extent of CIA operations through the allocation of monies for specific programs.
It’s a moot point.
Every year, the CIA received almost as much funding from Yankee Echo companies as it received from The United States Government.
The Director turns his head, and allows three thousand Yankee Echo editors and reporters, direct access to the American mind set.
It’s manipulation at its best, and control at its worst. The CIA looked the other way on Yankee Echo, not only because they found no un-comfort with it, but also because the Agency itself had access to its writers on demand.
Money speaks a language all its own.

The phone rang twice.
“Scott Orefice.”
“Scott, it’s David.”
“I was expecting a call from you - what do you have?”

303
“Not much. We know Courtney’s headed for Florida, and we have someone in every terminal in Miami. There’s another possibility he may end up in the Keys, and we’re working on that. We know Kathleen McKenzie arrived at Logan last night, and went straight to he condo, and we think she’ll probably leave for her home in Connecticut tomorrow. I don’t see her as any threat.”
“Neither do I. We still have Courtney on the outside though, and we’ve also lost touch with St, Croix. The two of them together could cause some problems if they‘re unsuccessful.”
“How do you want me to handle it when we locate them?”
“We need Pat McKenzie healthy. If at all possible, I also want to hang on to both Courtney and St. Croix. They’ve been manipulated, and it’s certain to me they’re going to find that out. I want all of them safe, and in control. Make sure your people use good judgment. Call me when you have more information”
“Of course.”
Both men hung up their phones, stood, and paced.

Thinking is the act of directing a personal deliberation toward something with the purpose of reaching a decision to act. For Descartes, the process meant advancing ideas in the mind. For Hume, it was a process made up of a sequential series of images in the mind. For Hobbs, it was an activity of verbal images in the form of inner speech. Thinking is a disposition to act intelligently. Whether or not our thoughts are spoken is of no consequence on the act of thought itself.




304
David Eisenberg’s thoughts revolved around the Universal Laws.
Scott Orefice’s thoughts were a combination of empirical knowledge, and a savvy ability to relate data.
One had a philosophical base, the other had years of experience.
Behind both of them were the best covert resources the world has ever known.
Before them was a task.
Find Courtney and St. Croix and plug the leak in Yankee Echo.

Remediate.
Whatever it took - fix it.

Saturday, May 27, 8:30 p.m.

The window had been replaced, the telephone repaired, and the mess inside her condo cleaned up.
Kathleen McKenzie understood the Universal Physical Laws as well as any student who’d passed through one of Michael Courtney’s courses. In fact, she had had plenty of private tutoring in both their meaning and application.
Law Ten crossed her mind when the phone rang.
She considered not answering it, but thought it could be David or Robert calling with news about her father.
It was neither.
“Hello”
“Kay - it’s me.”
“….I guess you got my note.”
“I did, and I need to talk to you about that. I tried your house in Connecticut - you weren’t there.”
“Well - I’m glad you found me.”
“Kay, we’re going after your father. I wanted to speak to you before I leave.”
305
“Where are you going?”
“To get him - we think we know where he is.”
“Where?”
“I can’t get into it - Kay, I need an explanation. You said in your letter you have something to do - what did you mean?”
“I meant I’m tired of people shitting all over the McKenzie family. I need to find something out for certain, and I have to do it all by myself.”
“What? What are you planning?”
“I’m going to visit someone, Michael - and I’m very capable of taking care of myself.”
“Kay - please - do something for me. Contact Robert and stay with him and Helen until I can come and get you.”
“Michael - I’m not a child - I don’t need a babysitter.”
He had more to say, but there wasn’t time.
“Kay - I have to go. I’ll try to call you on Monday - will you be in Connecticut?”
“Probably…maybe - I’m leaving tomorrow, early.”
“Kay.”
He had to manufacture his thought, and he didn’t like that.
“I love you.”
She didn’t need to think about hers, but she wondered if she knew what it meant
“I love you too, Michael.”

The ops plan was set, they’d roll out at zero three hundred.






306
Sunday, May 28, 3:01 a.m.

Three professionals were initiating a military procedure.
Allen Bates carried out his preflight check in the Zero hangar. Coverty reviewed the weapons and helicopter firing systems. St. Croix studied navigational charts and points of entry over the island nation.
Michael Courtney was a few things - Philosopher - Consultant - Teacher - but he wasn’t a soldier. One hour with Andy St. Croix showing him how to use the recoil of a forty-two Colt to his advantage didn’t qualify him for this discipline. In the world of academics, he’d come to understand some of the concepts of a military campaign, its component parts, its strategy, its action. But only Law Thirty-Five stuck in his mind right now.
It was time to act and react - there could be no wobbling.
Utilitarianism is just about the most well known ethical doctrine in the world where English is spoken. It’s a moral philosophy we use to interpret whether actions are right or wrong.
The principle holds that actions are generally considered right in proportion to how much happiness they promote, and wrong by virtue of how much of the reverse of happiness they promote. By producing happiness, we intend two things, to create pleasure, and to further create the absence of pain.
Therefore, actions are most often judged by their consequences, not as they affect an individual singularly, but by the amount of pleasure everyone receives from their consequences.
The ideal is to give the most happiness to the most people.

307
Courtney thought of utility, of Yankee Echo.
He’d been told the organization was designed to create the absence of pain, to help a nation of people who sometimes didn’t know as a unit what was good for them, or how much hardship they had to endure before they were engaged with happiness.
The organization changed that. It took care of dirty politicians, aided the needy, helped preserve the environment, brought to light all the good things we should know about ourselves. It was manipulative in essence, but essential in application.
He’d believed it, he’d bought the idea from Robert Wirtham.
But who’s organization was it? Which fifty corporations? Why the CIA?
His thoughts brought him into a Law.
‘It’s Six. Damn, it’s Law Six. They can’t tolerate vacuums, empty spaces. What do they need to survive? They need to control information to control thought. We give them control, they give us what? They have to fill a void, just like nature would. They can’t leave anything unaffected. So why Yankee Echo? Why this resource? Are we big enough to do the….
…How big are we?’

Sunday, May 28, 3:17 a.m.

He didn’t look like a soldier, but he didn’t look like a teacher either. Dressed in black, like the rest of the team, he only needed the camouflage paint applied to his cheekbones, forehead, bridge of nose, chin, jaw line, elbows, and knuckles - all possible of creating a subtle reflection, in turn capable of producing an unwanted glance and recognition.
St. Croix noticed him approach from the North side of the hangar.
“Mornin, Mick, come over here and get your paint.”
308
He sat ready on a stool, St. Croix now the cosmetician.
“Andy, if we find Pat at Belize’s place, I’m going to hammer him with questions.”
“Ah’m with y’all, Mick. Ah don’t take too well bein lied to, especially by someone Ah trusted.”
“I don’t want to get into it right now, Andy, but I’m almost certain Yankee Echo is a lot bigger and more powerful than we know.”
“Law Forty, then back to One, Mick - remember that. Be deductive - you already have an idea on the ending.”
“I know you’re right, I keep wanting to change that, and I’m chasing my wish, not going after reality.”
“Something like that, buddy. Just keep working on it.”
The paint job was completed.
“Y’all almost look like a Zero. Did y’all leave everything behind? Wallet, money, jewelry?”
“Yeah - they’ll have to use my teeth for an ID.”
A warm smile changed into a secure business look.
“It’s time to rock and roll, Mick…let’s go.”
The team strapped into radios and weapons.
3:56 a.m.
Three air traffic controllers in the Miami International tower gave no attention to the chopper, each ten thousand dollars wealthier.

No flight plan - no return.

Zero was out.






309
Saturday, May 27, 8:45 p.m.

When you grow up knowing you have big-time money, you learn that you have clout. This fact never escaped Kathleen McKenzie, and although she infrequently needed to use it, she always new it was readily available, and at her disposal. McKenzie Industries’ capital assets included two executive jet aircraft with flight crews kept on a stand-by basis around the clock. The larger of the two was a Gulfstream II, its pilot notified by Kay McKenzie before she’d left Washington to file a flight plan from Kennedy to Logan, then Logan to Dulles. Arrival time at Logan - approximately 10:15 p.m. Saturday night.
She’d exercised her position of authority in McKenzie Industries to secure the use of the aircraft. She hadn’t requested the size of the Gulfstream for its roominess, but rather, its speed, wanting to be in Washington before midnight. The Gulfstream crew, paid well for their responsibilities, now ground traveled to the New York airport.
Two other perquisites of money are power and authority. Most people who have it understand this, and usually just accept these facts as advantageous, without using them maliciously.
Kathleen McKenzie had malicious intent.
Her brother had been murdered.
It was time to bring justice to bear on whom she believed to be the killer. Any vision or thought of criminal action was absent from her thinking. Although clearly focused, she was temporarily, but distinctively insane.
The Gulfstream bore the McKenzie logo on its tailfin. Its pilot knew his passenger both by her birthright, and also by corporate association. It was also both facts that made her one of the most important people he transported.

310
“Good evening, Miss McKenzie, we’ll be leaving in just a few minutes. The refrigerator’s stocked, and there’s some microwaveable meals in the freezer if you haven’t had dinner.”
“That’s fine, Charlie - thanks.”
Fifteen minutes later they were three thousand feet above and beyond Logan’s east-west runway.
She’d only carried on an over-the-shoulder midnight blue nylon bag. In it were a black summer jacket, a personal telephone directory, a set of keys to JGM Exports, a bottle of Tylenol, and a 38 Smith and Wesson.
Kay McKenzie had learned to use a handgun years before Michael Courtney had - in fact, when she was sixteen. One of the problems of being rich is you need to know how to protect yourself. Patrick McKenzie had seen to it his daughter did.

Charlie touched down the Gulfstream at Dulles, using three quarters of the runway to give his passenger a smooth landing.
It was almost midnight.
Waiting in her name at the Hertz counter inside the terminal was a rental car, a black Buick Electra station wagon, and a predetermined selection.
Throwing her bag on the front passenger seat, she accelerated out of the airport parking lot onto the north-south freeway, destination Mclean, Virginia - a pretty Washington suburb.
The amenities in the wagon included a cellular phone.
With her left hand on the wheel, she used her right to secure her directory from its nylon residence. Alternately watching the road and viewing the booklet, she flipped the index tab to ‘T’.
His personal, unlisted phone number was the last entry in the section - a number acquired through JGM resources.
311
The gift of evolved thinking allowed her to use Law Seven to balance her anger, while at the same time applying Law Twenty-One to keep her calm.
She hit the appropriate buttons on the Buick’s cellular phone.
His phone rang only once. Sitting in his library, he’d been reviewing a Presidential economic initiative.
“Secretary Tollman.”
“This is Kathleen McKenzie, I’m going to call you again in ten minutes.”
She pressed the disconnect button.

























312
Chapter 12

Sunday, May 28, 4:06 a.m.

Beginning an Ending

Miguel Belize’s wife was in Bogota attending The Latin Nation Food Conference. She was often gone on such trips, but not alone. A stately woman, she was always accompanied by her personal male secretary, a man her age who filled multiple roles. Miguel knew about the extra roles, she knew he knew, and she knew about Catalina in his life.
The political process had been good to both of them, and neither wanted to rock the boat with public scandal. He had his mistress, she had her lover, and everyone had enough power and money to keep them happy.
After the coup, it wouldn’t matter. She would disappear into South America with ten million dollars, where she would live out her life in a quiet, yet very comfortable lifestyle. Miguel and Catalina would rule Cuba together, a strong team with intelligence and charisma.
Miguel Belize slept, as did his mistress next to him. He was not a father figure, but a singular man to this woman. Although he certainly took liberal advantage of her shapely body, he also trusted her financial judgment. The young beauty had a capability of detailing international economic plans that could eventually make Cuba the financial star in Central and South America. They admired, needed, and wanted one another.
Checking his artificial horizon, compass and fuel status, Allen Bates slightly adjusted his course. Coverty and St. Croix had agreed on a circuitous entry onto the island nation.

313
They would fly at five hundred feet altitude South, Southwest, circling the Western-most part of the island to enter its airspace from a Southern position below Havana.
Still at low altitude, Bates would fly direct toward the villa, dropping off team members One, Two and Four, three miles to the villa’s southern exposure.
From an aerial reconnaissance photo, they’d been able to identify an area just to the south of the villa where they would commandeer a vehicle, and proceed toward the VP’s residence.
Completing the drop, Bates would pull up and away to fly low-level circles over a deserted beach to the North. Radio contact would be held on an open, but private cellular channel, the pilot hearing every conversation between team members on the ground, while they would be able to freely communicate with him. The Huey would be used as the optimum power resource, but only if required.
Approaching the Tropic of Cancer, Bates relayed position and time sequences to the team.
“We’ll cross twenty-three degrees latitude in about thirty minutes, One. Are we still a go for the Southwest entry?”
Coverty’s eyes met with St. Croix’s and Courtneys.
“That’s a positive, Three.”
“I picked up some Coast Guard chatter a few minutes ago, are we settled out of their systems?”
“Three, Two, that’s a positive.”
It was St. Croix’s response. A Southern U.S. Commander with three children in college had accepted thirty thousand dollars to instruct his small fleet to ignore the chopper, which would not have been picked up by radar because they were flying too low, but certainly might be visualized.
St. Croix turned to Courtney.
“Mick, y’all got any add-ons to the op?”
314
“I have one I’m thinking of, give me the ground procedure again.”
St. Croix looked at Coverty. He was listening too, as he thought he’d be. He also wanted to make sure Bates was in attendance.
“Three, Y’all got ears on this?”
“I’m with you.”
The pilot set his mind to an imaginary chess game. Pulling a small-scale map from his breast pocket, St. Croix placed it on the chopper floor and moved slightly backward so both his flanking team members could review its surface.
“We’re flying just off the water under radar on almost a straight line from Miami to Cancun. At about twenty-three degrees latitude, Three is gonna pull a left-hand turn and change course from South, Southwest to South, southeast. This is where we jettison our extra fuel tanks. Three will need the speed and maneuverability at that point. We come up the coast about eight miles out until we turn Northeast for land entry.”
He looked at both Coverty and Courtney. Both seemed to be adequately informed so far.
“Most of the route’s over water so we ain’t gonna wake up a lot of people. We’ll only have a few minutes over the island before we land. One, Two, and Four exit the chopper on this bluff. We reviewed some aerial photos and saw there were a few shacks around here with vehicles parked next to them. We’ll pick one out, get it jump-started and drive toward the villa. There’s a back road into Belize’s estate. We’ll have about a three mile drive to the villa. When Three let’s us off, he pulls back to circle this beach. If we need Three’s firepower, we call him back in. Once we’re inside the house, we move in two directions. One immobilizes anything on the first floor while Two and Four do the same thing on the second until we either find Pat, or Belize. One joins us when he’s finished with his end.” 315
Two turned quickly to One.
One nodded affirmation.
Two alternately faced Four, he, deep into Game Theory, had more to say.
“Two things - Three, when we call you in, I don’t know if we’ll need firepower, or just a method of egress. I think we all should assume it would be for both. I want to leave Belize with a message. I also need to know when we can un-strap from these radios on the fly-out.”
He looked toward Coverty, the Zero, in turn, took the map in his hands indicating an answer with his right index finger.
“Right about here. We’ll be over the Gulf about twenty-five miles Northeast of Havana.”
Courtney nodded.
He had one final thought.
“They’re on defense, they’re prepared, but they don’t know what for. If they change that to offense, we’ll need to adapt. We’re coming in on the wind, and we’ll leave like lightening.”

Bates thought to himself.
‘Checkmate, Mister Courtney.’

Sunday, May 28, 12:42 a.m.

There was more traffic on the freeway than she’d expected. That was alright, she needed to blend, and kept the Buick at a steady fifty-five, hoping to avoid any legal confrontations. Retrieving the car phone from its mount, she hit the redial button. The phone’s tiny computer, recognizing the command, rang George Tollman’s private line.
He’d been anticipating the call.
“Yes.”
The answer sounded like an attempt to establish an offense, and it changed immediately.
316
“Don’t be curt, George, it doesn’t become someone with so much power.”
It threw him off balance.
“I’m at a disadvantage, is it ‘Miss’ McKenzie?”
“You know my father, I’m sure. He’s part of the U.S. industrial scenery you review every day.”
“Of course - McKenzie Industries - Connecticut, right? Are you calling from there?”
“No, in fact I’m just a few miles from your house.”
He glanced toward the window.
“So, what can I do for you Miss McKenzie?”
“You can tell me why you killed my brother, John.”
He remembered the file folder - he remembered the day.
“Your brother was killed in a firefight - in crossfire, Miss McKenzie.”
“Don’t tell me that. You wouldn’t stay on the phone with me if I hadn’t struck a nerve.”
“Alright, Miss McKenzie, let’s…”
“Please, call me Kay - we’re going to get familiar.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to let me in your house when I get there, it should be in about ten minutes.”
She disconnected.
He thought about calling the police.
No - he could handle any McKenzie.

Sunday, May 28, 12:51 a.m.

The wagon’s headlights splashed his library wall as she swung the Buick into his driveway. He stood inside, behind the front door, ready to receive her, almost as if he’d invited her. Approaching the door, she was momentarily startled when it was opened by its owner.
317
Tollman stood much taller than she, an imposing figure confronting her with non-confrontation. His left hand on the door handle, he made a sweeping motion with his right as if he was pulling a spirit into the house from outside.
His voice was cool, yet cordial.
“Please, come in.”
She accepted his gesture to enter, cautiously surveying the immediate area. Her right hand, buried in a pocketbook slung over shoulder grasped the Smith and Wesson.
Closing the door, he motioned once again, this time to the library where he’d been reading. Her buried hand hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Please, come in so we can talk.”
“You go first - I’ll follow.”
He obliged.

She was surprised at how comfortable the room felt. Four, large, red leather, brass appointed wingbacks sat on the inside edges of a huge, green and white patterned Persian Mashad rug. In the middle of the carpet a four foot square mahogany coffee table supported current issues of FORBES, THE WALL STREET JOURNAL, THE HARVARD BUSINESS REVIEW, and a folder containing an outline of President Randal Benson’s Cuban Economic Reform Plan.
The walls of the room were completely lined with dark Zenda solid oak bookcases, all neatly filled with an assortment of both hard covers and paperbacks.
To her left she noticed a fieldstone fireplace, the fire brick blackened from many previous engagements. To her right, a small wet bar revealed an expensive taste in liquor.
They stood four feet from one another.
It was he who spoke again, noticing she’d abandoned her right hand from its hiding place.
“Miss McKenzie, I told…” 318
“You can call me Kay.”
“Alright, Kay, I’m going to tell you once again, your brother was killed in a crossfire exchange in Vietnam. That was confirmed by a military review board.”
“Well, I think they’re full of shit. I have my own resources, George, and my resources say a company commander who used to wear brass on his helmet in the jungle shot John McKenzie.”
A simple truth sometimes carries tremendous weight.
He recalled the reprimands for wearing unauthorized insignias.
“So what do you want, Kay?”
Her response was swift.
“I don’t want anything from you. I just wanted to look in your eyes. Do you remember the CBS film footage of the La Dang massacre, George? Did you know the film crew actually had their camera turned on before they got to the site? Do you know they captured muzzle flashes from two guns, one fired horizontally, and one fired vertically from only a few feet away? Do you know they caught the reflection of the sun coming off someone’s rank insignia on a helmet?”
She adjusted herself slightly - he noticing.
“Who told you all this?”
“Like I said, I have resources.”
“If you don’t want anything from me then why are you here.”
“I just wanted to look in your eyes. I have my answer.”
“And what would that be?”
“That you killed my brother.”
Her unzipped purse received her right hand again, a sightless probe finding the 38.
Producing the same, its business end was now pointing at The Secretary.

319
“Don’t worry, George, I’m not about to kill you. I’m just covering myself a little better than my brother did.”
“I’d like to discuss this more with you, Kay.”
“I’m leaving. I want you to think about what I’m going to do next.”
“What if I’ve alerted the police?”
“I’d be very surprised if you did that, and the fact that they’re not here yet tells me that you wanted to meet with me, and didn’t call them.”
He couldn’t let her go.
“You’re very bright, Kay. I think you should stay and talk.”
“No way.”
She backed to the door. He, moving to the wet bar, pulling the top off a crystal decanter, began pouring a clear liquid into one of a set of eight gold-rimmed cocktail glasses. He spoke while continuing to pour.
“Your brother, John, disobeyed my order.”
Eyes widening, she grasped the Smith and Wesson with both hands like she’d been taught, arms extended, the weapon now at chest level.
“You don’t think I’m going to let you leave here, do you, Kay?
Holding the decanter in mid air, his head turned slightly, his eyes now engaging hers.
The blast from the Smith and Wesson would have awakened the whole house were there anyone else in it.
Her round, finding its mark in the middle of the half-filled cocktail glass, sent shards of glass and liquid in every direction, two small pieces embedding in his right cheek.
Rather than frightening The United States Secretary of Commerce, she’d enraged a maniac. Blood rushed to his face and brain, his eyes now flared with madness.

320
In a singular move of his own, he swept his right hand across the bar flaying broken glass, the decanter, and two cocktail glasses in her direction.
Most everything brushed her clothes, or went by her, save one of the cocktail glasses which hit the bridge of her nose, tearing cartilage and causing internal bleeding into her throat and through the right nostril. Her head, tilted back by the force, gave him time to cover the short distance between them and pounce on her.
She was beneath him on the floor, his legs straddling her stomach, his hands pinning down her arms, the pistol was now ten feet away from both of them.
His eyes, glazed, seemed to breath fire. His voice deep and menacing, penetrated all her senses.
“You’re a McKenzie - it was almost assured we’d end up like this.”
Struggling beneath his weight, she realized the terror he was capable of producing. Her first scream was subsequently followed by his right fist crashing into her left cheekbone, the force of the blow producing in her a temporary state of complete unawareness.
Having torn off her blouse, he’d unbuckled the belt on her jeans, and was now pulling on the zipper with both hands.
She coughed out blood onto her chest, screaming again.
The noise was summarily met by two more blows, one to the jaw, and one to the stomach, the latter causing her to expel all the air in her lungs, produced even more blood.
Her arms felt like weights that couldn’t be moved, and remained immobilized over her head. Her body was being ravaged as if she were the prey of a large animal.
His hands continued ripping the clothes off her torso.
321
The next words she heard smashed her emotions.
“Time to have another McKenzie.”
His head moved violently, up, and then down.
She felt a splash of warm liquid on her face.
He was lying prostate on top of her now, calm, without movement. His left cheek, flat to her chest, she saw what appeared to be a large volume of liquid near his mouth. She was pinned beneath him, a mass she couldn’t move. There was no more struggle, no more tearing at her body. He just lay on her. Through tears, she could see a pool of blood forming on the floor. Still, no movement on top of her.
Summoning every muscle tissue within her, she was able to move her hips to the right, the act causing his limp form to fall into its own blood.
The back of his head was missing, brain tissue exposed, small chunks of it on her chest and face. His eyes remained open - caught in disbelief.
Rolling to her stomach, she began dragging herself away from him.
Having moved no more than twelve inches, she felt hands on her shoulders.
“Don’t’ move, Kathleen.”
The voice, firm and quiet was recognizable by the way he pronounced the vowels in her name, and also by the inflection on both syllables.
The warmth of an afghan, pulled from a couch in an adjacent room, was now covering her while two strong arms pulled her to her feet.
David Eisenberg turned her toward himself engulfing her in the blanket. Two men behind him were searching the lifeless form.
“Kathleen, come with me.”
The high-ranking CIA man, retrieving her jeans from the
blood-soaked floor, led her into another room, sitting her on an overstuffed chair.
322
His men would bag the rest of her clothes for removal from the premises. Her pocketbook, revolver, and all other traces of her presence would also be removed.
He held her head in both hands, speaking softly.
“Can you stay here for one minute while I get a warm towel?”
Through vacant eyes she just stared at him.
He left.
Returning in two minutes, he held her summer jacket and two towels. One was dry. The other, which he’d soaked in hot water, was warm and moist.
Gently stroking her cheeks, he cleaned the blood and brain parts from her face.
“Kathleen, take the towels - I’ll be back in five minutes, and we’ll leave.”
She was coming around.
“David - thank you.”
He left again.
In the outer room, one of his men was pocketing an empty rifle shell casing he’d retrieved from the ground outside - ejected only minutes ago from his weapon. A broken window through which the round had traveled would be fixed later.
The other agent stood reviewing a piece of paper no larger than a standard business card. He extended it to his boss.
“This was in his wallet.”
The Deputy Director reviewed the paper momentarily, then deposited it in his shirt’s breast pocket. Orders were issued.
“Let’s go.”
The agent with the rifle acknowledged the dead Secretary.
“What about him?”
“Leave him.”
Lights were shut off. The front door was closed, but not locked. 323
Kay sat in the front seat of his Lincoln, alternately shivering and trembling.
Dr. Steven Burns would get a call from the Deputy’s cellular radio. He’d examine and release her with enough sedatives for three days.

Eisenberg would drive her to Robert and Ellen Wirtham’s home.
Wirtham would be told the truth. His wife would hear a story about a traffic accident.

Sunday, May 28, 4:30 a.m.

David Eisenberg pulled into his driveway. He needed time to think. He’d call Orefice in two hours.

Sunday, May 28, 4:42 a.m.

The Huey’s rotors held the chopper steady four feet off the sandy Cuban soil. Two Zeros and one civilian exited the aircraft through the open side door, weapons locked and loaded
Coverty cleared the team.
“One, Two and Four on the deck and away.”
The pilot acknowledged.
“Four pulling out.”
The helicopter drifted slowly upward and turned southeast. The entire ingress had taken less than a minute.
One, Two and Four now moved through tall, dewed grasses heading northeast.
Locating the road, One and Two simultaneously sighted the cluster of shacks identified from the aerial recon photos. Parked on the east side of the smallest of the structures, a beat-up red Ford pickup became an object of interest. The active Zero had the point lead.
“Two, do you see the truck.”
“Copy that.” 324
“Four - keep walking up the road - stay to the right side - we’ll pick you up.”
Approaching the vehicle, One pulled a tubular steed instrument from his black nylon backpack.
“Two, check this thing for noise.”
Two, crawling beneath the rusting antique, inspected the muffler system for holes. Although worn, it didn’t look like a noise maker.
“One, noise looks acceptable.”
One used the tubular instrument to punch out the ignition. Two crossed wires overrode the need for a key to start the engine. The Ford came to life.
Sixty yards up the sandy road One and Two retrieved Four, he, jumping in the truck’s bed.
“Four, y’all get our your weapon and release the safety.”
Four, perspiring in the early morning Cuban humidity, acknowledged.”
“How much further.”
“About two and a half miles.”
“One adjusted the firmness of his headset.”
“Three, status?”
“Three’s at two hundred feet. No life out here.”
Seven minutes later, the light illuminating both the villa and its grounds, confirmed its isolation. Located on a bluff, its front porch facing north, the beauty of the residence of Cuba’s Vice President provided sharp contrast to the shacks only a few miles to the south.
One queried Four.
“That’s it, Four - any comments?”
“He’ll have multiple personnel - I’d prefer to avoid them.”
“We’ll try.”
Leaving the truck in a ditch, they approached the villa from the west. Two reviewed the grounds through binoculars fitted with a nighttime vision system
325
“Near as ah can tell, One, he’s got five to seven men on the lawns.”
“What’s the nearest ingress to the house?”
Two scanned the dwelling.
“Side window - first floor. Probably has an alarm system.”
From their protection in a stand of trees, the distance to the front veranda over the lawn was approximately ninety meters.
Two guards patrolled the side of the villa. Right now, they were standing midway on the lawn, talking and smoking.
Two un-holstered his Colt 42, attaching a silencer to its muzzle.
At this time, two additional patrols approached the pair who’d been in their sight. The Cubans had their own communication system. Hand-held radios squawked periodically at low volume.
One, Two and Four plotted Decision and Game Theory.
Four took command.
The subsequent and consequent reaction to any of their actions would be reaction. Action was necessary, but what was most rational?
The consequence of taking out the men on the lawn would be a lack of communication from them to a more than likely command figure inside the villa. It would trigger an adverse reaction.
It seemed the most rational action - the one that would provide maximum utility would be to gather as many of the guards as possible in one area - then eliminate the threat of their reaction to the initial action they’d decided to commission.
Four decided to change the plan.
Whispering the name of Cuba’s Vice President to One and Two, Four made them aware of his intention with his actions.

326
From his pants pocket, he retrieved a cellular phone. Unfolding the device, he raised its tiny antenna. The number he needed to dial had already been coded into the phone’s computer.
Speed dialing, Four now became part of life inside the villa.
Four rings - a sleepy voice answered.
“Belize.”
“This is Michael Courtney. I’m two hundred feet from your front door. You have men outside, all in dark blue uniforms carrying automatic weapons. I want you and Mister McKenzie on the veranda in sixty seconds, or we’ll eliminate your men and come in for him.”
He disconnected.
Checking his watch, he alternately looked at One and Two while contacting Three through the mouthpiece on his headset.
“Three, we need your resources immediately.”
Three threw full power to his Huey.”
Four glanced at his watch while speaking to One.
“How far back can he stay and be accurate with his rockets.”
One raised two fingers.
“Two miles.”
Four played out Game Theory.
“Three, come to the front of the target - stay two miles out - are you with me?”
“Affirmative - two miles out - square to target.”
Three engaged the Huey’s firing systems.
Four checked his watch - ninety seconds had elapsed since his abbreviated conversation with the Cuban Vice President. With a closed fist, he lightly struck his knee.
“Damn - where the hell are you, Pat.”
The main door of the villa opened. Four men, all uniformed and heavily armed, poured onto the veranda. 327
One of them, shouting in Spanish, caused the four standing on the side lawn, plus three others who’d appeared from the back side of the villa, to join their counterparts on the porch. They stood together protecting the front entrance.
One checked his airborne firepower.
“Three - status?”
Three responded.
“Twenty seconds ETA - two miles out - square to front.”
“Are you engaged?”
“Affirmative - fire system are positive.”
Four turned to, and turned over the plan to One.
“I want the front porch removed.”
One nodded.
“Three, we have enemy vectored due east our position, ninety meters - copy that?”
“One, Affirmative - ninety meters - your vector - east your position.”
“Three - follow my vector.”
From a web belt around his waist, One produced an electronic device that looked like a compass. Laying it on the palm of his right hand, he stretched his arm toward the veranda.
A red blinking light in the center of the instrument began pulsating rapidly.
He checked with his pilot.
“Three - I have vector activation - how do you read?”
Three scanned a guidance system locked into One’s instrument.
“One - I’m vector Positive.“
“Three - lock on.”
“One - locked.”
One raised his eyes to Two. He could see the inactive Zero understood what would happen next and knew what to do to prepare for it. One would need to verbalize it to the Analyst. 328
He tugged at his shirt.
“Get as flat on the ground as you can, cover your head, close your eyes, and open your mouth so the concussion doesn’t blow out your eardrums.”
The metaphysician shivered.
All three assumed the position.
One gave the order
“Three - I want twin Hell Fire in seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, Zero.”
In the predawn darkness, the eleven guards on the Vice President’s veranda would initially hold the thought that the screaming Hellfire missiles were low, twin shooting stars.
Coming toward them at fifteen hundred miles an hour, the recognition of reality allowed them about one and one half seconds to react.
Five of the Cubans had enough time to drop their weapons. Three others were able to take two steps sideways, and three just stood frozen.
The explosion of the impacting missiles lifted the villa off its foundation.
One, Two and Four were thrown a foot into the air.
What was left of the eleven men on the porch was now being consumed in flames.
Inside the villa on the first floor, three troops who’d remained inside were knocked unconscious by the concussion. The oak floor in the foyer was on fire, as was the staircase leading to the second floor.
On the second floor of the villa, five people standing in one room were thrown against, and on top of various pieces of furniture. A gaping hole had appeared in the southeast corner of the room revealing through its emptiness the library below. Patrick McKenzie, his two Cuban bodyguards, Miguel Belize and Catalina Salazar were all bleeding from either the mouth or nose.

329
One reviewed the team.
“Three - you’re strike positive - hold your position.”
“Three - roger.”
“Two - status?”
“Two’s alert.”
“Four - status?”
“Damn - yeah - OK - shit.”
One and Two un-shouldered their Uzi’s, flipped off the safeties, and kicked first rounds into the firing chambers.
Two addressed Four. His words, not only reassuring, but also unequivocally accepted.
“Stay close to me.”
One informed Three of their intended movements
“Three, One, we’re going in - stand by.”
“One, Three - copy that.”
One looked at Two.
“Let’s go.”
Raising themselves, the two commandos and one civilian dashed toward a rear entrance door that had been blown off its hinges. Inside, they realized they were in the villas kitchen. Pots, dishes, glasses and silverware lay scattered and broken on the counters and floor.
A hallway led from the kitchen to the front part of the villa.
Sliding with their backs against the walls, Uzi’s held in firing position, One and Two moved along the corridor with Four close in tow.
The library appeared to their left. It was smoke-filled, books and wall decorations appeared to have been randomly tossed to the floor. A large hole had been ripped in its ceiling.
Having reached the end of the hallway, they noticed the three guards laying unconscious. Two, retrieving their weapons, threw them onto the front veranda, now burning out of control. 330
One had checked the remaining downstairs rooms. He’d seen no sign of any remaining threat, and had noticed a back access to the second floor off a servants’ dining room.
One addressed Two and Four.
“We got about six minutes to find our cargo. There’s a stairway back here, c’mon.”
No chatter followed.
At the top landing of the back stairway, another hallway appeared. Very wide, they could count six rooms leading onto and off it.
Heat was building throughout the villa.
Smoke drifting from the staircase at its far end was filling the unoccupied space. Pieces of the ceiling were scattered on the carpet runner. Two large paintings thrown to the floor, had had their glass protection shattered. All the trash would make noise as they stepped on it while making their way to each room.
From about halfway down the hall a door opened.
A man, uniformed, drifted into the open space, one hand holding an automatic rifle, the other a radio.
One, Two and Four stood motionless. Although they were clearly visible, he hadn’t seen them yet.
The guard raised his radio to his mouth.
He queried eleven dead, and three unconscious troops.
“Where are you?”
One made the next decision.
In one move, he dropped his weapon and began a charge toward the guard. His right hand was swinging the wire line secured at both ends by two inch steel balls.
Although hazy from the explosion of the missiles, the guard could not help but hear the Zero only thirty feet away. Dropping his radio, he turned to address, and fire on the form approaching him. It was too late.
331
One had released the steel ball from his hand. The spinning projectile reached the guard’s neck in two seconds, wrapping itself around his throat, severing both his jugular veins.
In a fit of frenzy, the Cuban grasped at what would inevitably cause his death. One, throwing himself on his target, produced a formerly sheathed knife, burying it into his chest cavity.
Two pushed off the wall moving rapidly toward One. He knew his lead man was out of weapons, and there would probably be more confrontation. Holding his own Uzi in his right hand, he recovered One’s with his left.
Twenty feet - twenty five feet.
Another guard appeared.
This one had his arm wrapped around Patrick McKenzie’s neck, and a pistol jammed against his ear.
One was closest - his assessment was extreme danger for the team.
He had to let the Cuban set the agenda.
Two, thinking the same thing, halted his movement, dropping one weapon. Four - thirty feet behind couldn’t believe he was looking at Pat McKenzie.
Two recognized the guard and thought to himself.
‘Cardinal.’
Backing away from the three Americans, McKenzie still in his grasp, Cardinal soon realized the impossibility of retreating by the main staircase. He felt he had control by virtue of his hostage.
“Drop your weapons.”
His English surprised Four.
There were few choices. One, Two, and Four complied.
Moving toward them again, Cardinal turned to speak toward the open door where he’d just appeared.
“Come.”
Miguel Belize and Catalina Salazar appeared in the hallway. 332
The VP held a pistol in his right hand, his left holding the right hand of his mistress. Perusing the three stationery Americans, the Cubans and their hostage inched their way toward the enemy.
One and Two both knew what they would do were the tables turned.
Eliminate and escape.
The situation was unacceptable to both. Although they had no weapons in hand - they did have firepower available. One decided to use his resource to call in friendly fire on their own position. The filmy smoke in the hallway would obscure his lip movements. He’d only need to whisper.
“Three, One, need single hydra support, same vector – now.”
The chopper commander replied.
“Roger - Hydra - same vector in six, five, four, three, two, one, Zero.”
Two and Four, having heard the call braced themselves, mouths open.
One’s assessment of the forming hallway confrontation had been correct. Cardinal, still retaining McKenzie in a choke hold had straightened his arm and was now aiming his weapon at One’s head.
The active Zero didn’t move, hoping he had at least one second before the Cuban pulled the trigger.
He did.
The Hydra rocket screamed onto the burning porch just a half meter to the right of where the Hell Fire missiles had struck.
The rocket’s impact threw the seven live people in the hallway against its walls and into the air.
The two Zeros, having expected the explosion, were first up.
They both covered the distance between them and the Cubans in three seconds.


333
One passed Cardinal, his attention focused on Belize. Two, directly behind him, took the guard, his fist crashing into the bridge of Cardinal’s nose, and shortly thereafter, his boot finding the Cuban’s stomach.
Belize was overpowered easily. One had jammed the VP’s right arm behind his back causing his shoulder to dislocate.
Salazar stood against the wall eyeing the various weapons on the hallway’s floor. Four had been moving toward her but was unable to reach her before she dove to secure one of the pistols. She came up firing wildly.
Her first round struck the wall across from her about six feet off the floor. Continuing to fire, her next round found a target, Four. She’d blown a hole through his shirt, the round digging a quarter inch trench along his bicep.
Four, frightened by the firings, but acting on instinct, continued his lunge at the Cuban beauty.
The last round she got off was lethal.
She’d delivered a nine millimeter hollow point into the back of Cardinal’s neck, its exit tearing out his throat.
Four, grabbing her gun hand threw his body against the woman’s sending both of them crashing into the wall. She’d dropped the weapon during the struggle.
One and Two hustled to kick any weapons out of everyone’s range of reach.
Two secured McKenzie and addressed Four.
“Follow me.”
One moved to collect Belize and Salazar.
He indicated the far staircase.
“Go.”
Outside, on the northern end of the front lawn, One was hand tying Belize and Salazar back to back with electrical wire ties.
334
The flames engulfing the villa brought Three back into the picture.
“One, Three - do you need assistance?”
“Three, One - copy that - come to fire site - North lawn.”
“Copy that - ETA fifty seconds.”
The entire ground operation, thought to be complete, was not over.
Three truckloads of Cuban Elite Guards were rushing toward the villa, their Commander having been contacted at his barracks by Belize following his abbreviated conversation with Courtney.
From the air, Three caught sight of their headlights approaching the villa.
“One, Three - I have three bogeys coming at you from the East - looks like deuce and a halfs.”
“Three, One - what’s the timing?”
“Close.”
“Keep coming.”
“I can eat their lunch right now.”
“Negative - keep coming.”
“Copy that.”
One, having secured the VP and Salazar, motioned to his two team members and McKenzie to follow him away from the landing pattern of the approaching Huey.
Four grabbed One’s arm and indicated Belize and Salazar.
“I need one minute with them.”
“Sixty seconds, we leave.”
One joined Two and McKenzie.
Courtney pulled the Colt from its holster and cocked the hammer. Shoving it into Catalina Salazar’s mouth, he addressed the VP.
“You heard him - give me a name in the states and I let you go. Take more than five seconds and I blow her brains out, and then yours.

335
Eyes widened, he only needed three of the five seconds.
“George Tollman.”
Courtney, un-cocking the 42, holstered his weapon.
Securing a knife from his leg sheath, he cut their bonds and scrambled to join his team members.
The sound of the Huey’s rotors filled the air.
Three landed on the lawn seventy feet from where Four had just released the VP and his mistress who were now running to join the approaching soldiers.
The open sides of the chopper presented an inviting refuge for the three Americans. One and Two loaded Four and McKenzie first.
Two jumped in pulling the team leader behind him. Hitting the floor plate, One alerted the chopper Commander.
“Three - Go!”
Three drifted up and back trying to keep both a low profile, and an angle advantage over the approaching trucks. He thought they would have rocket propelled grenade support, RPG’s, and he didn’t want to have to tangle with that.
Their egress would be North - the trucks were coming out of the East.
It was too late, One had miscalculated their time of arrival.
He should have taken them out in the air.
The Huey’s powerful bow light illuminated the dismounting troops - some of whom were firing automatic weapons - others preparing their RPG’s. Small arms ricocheted off the chopper’s steel-plated underbelly and its super high-tempered windshield.
Bates broke code and cursed the team leader.
“Damn it, Snake.”
Coverty knew this was no time to have multiple leaders shouting orders. He gave the mission to Bates.
“Your op - your way.”
336
Allen Bates assessed the situation. He was in the chess game of his life. They were too close for his rockets. The concussion would knock out his own power. There were too many for his gatling guns, someone would still get off an RPG.. That was it - the RPS’s - they were the only thing he had to fear. They would need time to assemble and load.
He had a move.
Using full power, he maneuvered into their line of fire, placing the Huey directly over their heads, the troops beneath him all huddled from the wind generated by the awesome prop wash of his bird.
Reaching for a set of toggle switches, the commander released 90 gallons of aviation fuel from his tanks. Spread out by the draft of the rotors, the liquid drenched the soldiers’ uniforms, as well as Belize and Salazar’s clothing.
In a tight maneuver, Bates brought the chopper to a point southwest, directly behind the conflagration in the villa. Putting the Huey’s tail toward the ground, he pushed the rotors to max torque. He was at almost a forty-five degree angle to the ground.
With full power at this angle, his rotors were blowing on the fire like a bellows, throwing thousands of white-hot embers on everything in front of him, including the troops, the Cuban VP, and his mistress. The fuel he’d dropped ignited immediately creating a fireball of burning clothing and flesh.
Coverty looked at Courtney and decided he wouldn’t ask why he’d set them free.
Feeling the threat eliminated, Bates set the Huey for a straight out egress. At five hundred feet altitude, he pointed the nose northeast and began his flight to a Zero drop facility.




337
Sunday, May 28, 6:43 a.m.

David Eisenberg pressed the keys on his phone that would connect him with the Director of the United States Central Intelligence Agency. He wasn’t looking forward to breaking this news to his boss.
The connection made after two rings, the Director sounded like he’d been up for hours.
“Scott Orefice.”
“It’s David.”
The tone in his voice suggested something very serious. Orefice, calm, prepared himself for hard news.
“What is it, David?”
“George Tollman is dead, Scott.”
An audible drawing and release of breath, and then a five second period of silence, didn’t suggest any type of bereavement, but rather that the Director was forming a logistic plan. That assumption would be correct - he needed information.
“Give me the details.”
For the next ten minutes, David Eisenberg would tell him a story about tracking Kathleen McKenzie from Boston to Washington. How their agents had lost her temporarily, but had picked up her trail again after she’d left Dulles airport. In the meantime, she’d been able to contact Tollman, confront him, and also get herself in a position of extreme danger. When they finally caught up to her, it was in his best judgment to take out the Secretary.
There was silence on the line again.
The fact that Orefice was not chastising him led him to believe something he’d thought all along - that Tollman was a liability.

Had Kathleen McKenzie been able to, she could have told him that.

338
What Eisenberg didn’t know was that Tollman played an important role in another agenda with a Japanese businessman that was now blown to hell, unless a remedial act could be put into place.
Orefice had to act quickly.
“David, keep your people away from Tollman’s house. I’ll take charge of this. Have we gotten any closer to the Yankee Echo people?”
“No, we lost them in Miami, but we’re almost certain they’ve entered Cuba.”
“Alright - I need Yankee Echo at high profile for now - what’s Wirtham doing?”
“He’s supposedly under Courtney’s supervision right now. The organization’s anti-Cuban writes will be out next Friday.”
Tell Wirtham to halt those writers. You and I are going to dedicate ourselves to bringing in Courtney, St. Croix, and anyone else they come back with, but we want Courtney first. We have an extreme situation, David. We need to use whatever it takes, but I want them in good shape.”
“I understand, Scott. I’ll make it my priority.”

Sunday, May 28, 7:04 a.m.

Robert Wirtham, still in his bathrobe, stood in his kitchen spooning milk into his third cup of coffee when the wall-mounted phone to his left rang. He felt both relief and inquiry.
“Yes.”
“Robert, it’s David.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I spoke with the Director - he wants the Cuban writes stopped.”
“When, why?”
“He and I both feel that Courtney and St. Croix will be able to secure Pat - and with him back, the breachers have no authority.”
339
“But we don’t know that for sure.”
“We will soon.”
“David, I don’t know how much Michael’s found out about how we’ve manipulated him over the past ten years, but I guarantee you he’ll put the whole thing together.”
“I know that. Until I secure him, I won’t know how much he knows. When I find him, I’ll handle the situation.”

Sunday, May 28, 7:11 a.m.

Allen Bates held the Huey on a bee-line to the Florida Keys, his destination an unmanned Zero outpost established years ago as a final origination point for access to Central America.
Nothing more than three quarters of a square mile of fenced compound, it contained only one building, two satellite-connected telephones, and an aviation fuel pumping system.
Bates didn’t care about the phones - he needed fuel.
Pat McKenzie sat on the starboard side of the Huey’s back seat, directly across from Michael Courtney. St. Croix was portside to McKenzie, Coverty next to Courtney.
The senior Zero had applied a salve to Courtney’s wound, and had dressed it with a bandage. Although no one was talking, everyone was still strapped into their communication systems.
The warmth and brightness of the morning sun had fallen across Courtney’s face alerting a numbed mental state. His first words after mounting the chopper were directed at Coverty.
He pointed to his head set. “Can I take this off now?”
Coverty nodded affirmatively.

340
There was something else he wanted to do, but he need to know if he had permission for it also.
“Can I change seats with Andy?”
Another nod of affirmation.
St Croix, hearing both communications acquiesced, both he and the analyst now carefully exchanging seating arrangements.
Courtney, now seated next to Pat McKenzie would set Law Fifteen into motion for himself.
The exploding missiles striking the villa had thrown McKenzie against a wooden bureau causing a hairline cheekbone fracture. His face, slightly swollen and bruised made him look more weak and tired than he actually felt. His eyes, now cast in Courtney’s direction, suggested good mental alertness. He wanted answers.
“Who were they, Michael?”
“The guy I let go on the lawn was the Vice President of Cuba.”
McKenzie’s eyes narrowed.
Courtney continued.
“They broke the organization, Pat. We’re pretty sure we were compromised by a writer in Miami. Someone else in the states is pressuring us to write negative against the President’s reform plan for Cuba. We still have that to take care of.”
The CEO said nothing.
“As far as I know, with you back, we’re stable again. The USA contact has been through me, but I think we’re going to be hearing from some other people about cleaning this thing up.”
“Where’s Kay.”
“The last time I spoke with her she told me she was driving from Massachusetts to Connecticut. I’m sure Robert and Eisenberg are taking care of her.”
The mention of the second name didn’t go unnoticed.

341
“Who?”
Courtney, slipping his head set back on, used the action to make it clear he was terminating the conversation for now. He’d given his boss enough to let him know he’d want to continue it later.
“David Eisenberg, Deputy Director.”
Their eyes met - it was McKenzie who abandoned contact.
Andy St. Croix, hearing the conversation through his sensitive microphone, allowed himself a slight smile, and a thought.
‘You’re the fucking best at this shit, Courtney.’

Sunday, May 28, 8:05 a.m.

Randall Benson had also been up early this morning.
There were two people who had access to him at any time, his wife, and Scott Orefice.
The CIA Director has spent the last hour developing a plan to dispose of the body of the United States Secretary of Commerce while at the same time taking care of the Kushima agenda.
Reaching for his phone, he fingered the digits to connect himself with the President of The United States, who happened to be in the Oval Office alone. Had he not been there, he would have been found easily for this caller by the White House staff.
Looking at the lights on the phone alerted him to who was calling.
“Yes, Scotty.”
“Mister President, we’ve had an urgent situation develop.”
The tone in the Director’s voice indicated as much.
Benson drew a breath.
“Tell me.”

342
“George Tollman is dead, Sir.”
“Oh God. What happened? How many people know about this?”
Orefice answered the questions in the order they were presented.
“Kathleen McKenzie went to his house last night, there was a confrontation, and he attacked her. Eisenberg and two of our agents had been following her and arrived on the scene during an ugly moment. They used extreme prejudice. I have two agents there now. More people know about this than I would like, but it’s a tight group.”
“He’s dead? What the hell do we do now?”
“We dispose and cover, Sir.”
“Dispose and cover? How do we handle that?”
“It can work out well with your approval, but let me tell you something first, Randall.”
He infrequently addressed him by his first name, but this moment was too emotional to stand on formality.
“George Tollman wasn’t just a political liability. He was a human being capable of inhuman actions. He and Kushima were cut from the same mold, and the same prejudice we’re going to use on Kushima was used on Tollman. It’s terrifying, Randall, that we act like this, but I believe sometimes a Higher Authority puts absolute power in our hands when there’s justifiable cause.”
The words weren’t as calming as they were realistic, and he still needed an answer.
“What’s your plan, Scotty?”
It took ten minutes to detail.
The President concurred.
“Alright, I’ll have Pete Radler release a statement. Call me as soon as it’s done.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Lines were closed.

343
He dialed another of his Deputy Directors at home.
“I need a Boeing dressed out to look official, U.S. Presidential.”
His next call connected him with Elizabeth Hendrecks.
“Forget Courtney’s meeting with the President, I need you for something else.”
































344
Chapter 13

Endings

Sunday, May 28, 8:31 a.m.

Randall Benson pulled the ‘Vision 1 Only’ portfolio from his side desk drawer for the last time. It would be destroyed after this final review.
Moisture formed on his top lip. His palms sweat. The acid in his stomach reacted.
The document detailed the events that had occurred on April 15, 1942 in a Japanese prisoner of war camp on the Batan Islands in the Philippines.
Two captured Americans had been causing trouble for the Camp Commander, First Lieutenant Saito Kushima.
Twin brothers, Randall and Johnathon Benson, both officers with the Army Engineers, had been encouraging their fellow prisoners to withhold information regarding American troop strengths on the island. Additionally, both had tried to escape twice, their plan being foiled each time. Kushima had called for a camp formation at noon, and had directed his men to erect a platform which would act as a stage.
At 12:15 p.m., the camp was called to attention. The Benson brothers were pulled from formation to stand with Kushima and his staff on the platform. Both were shackled at the wrists and ankles.
The Japanese Commander had a photographer taking pictures of the assembly which would later be hung in strategic positions around the camp.
Randall and Johnathon Benson, like all the other prisoners had had their dog tags removed, and were stripped of all other identification.
The brothers were told to kneel and bow before the Camp Commander who would make a speech about discipline, finishing with the remark that those who were undisciplined would be severely punished. 345
Concluding his remarks, and drawing his sword, the Commander established his type of discipline with a savage down-stroke beheading Johnathon Benson. His brother was made to haul away the body, dig a grave, and bury it.
The President lay his head on his desk, sobbing.

Sunday, May 28, 8:55 a.m.

Eisenberg, changing to the passing lane on the Beltway responded to the shrill ring of his car telephone.
“Yes.”
It was The Wanderer, his ‘cabby’.
“We have a report from some friends about a fire on the Cuban island. It’s the Vice President’s villa. It happened several hours ago, and there’s nothing left of the house. Patrick McKenzie’s been rescued. Belize and his mistress are dead. There’s a lot of troops around the area.”
“Belize is dead?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Courtney and St. Croix?”
“Yes, and probably with the help of a Navy Zero team.”
“Where will they show up?”
“Not sure right now. We think most likely in the Keys, or somewhere on the lower Gulf coast.”
“How are they traveling?”
“By air - most likely helicopter. We’ll catch up with them, or they’ll catch up with us.”
“We want Courtney - and don’t forget, he’s got McKenzie.”
“I understand.”
“Keep me informed with updates.”
“I will.”

346
Eisenberg called his boss to inform him of the latest news. The Director would need to tell the President some of it in an early evening briefing, but he’d also withhold some of it until morning. He was sure the Cubans wouldn’t let it get out.

Sunday, May 28, 9:03 a.m.

Allen Bates checked his artificial horizon. At one hundred feet off the water, and with minimum fuel reserve, he needed hard ground.
The Zero compound was two miles ahead. They’d passed over only two small sailing craft on entry, and no vehicles or personnel on land could be seen which would notice their approach.
Speaking into his mouth piece, he alerted the team.
“ETA, one minute.”
Coverty addressed Courtney.
“We’re going to refuel - we’ll need to talk.”
Courtney acknowledged.
“We will.”
Bates, settling the Huey in the compound, disengaged the rotors.
Courtney made one final communication through his headset.
“Andy, Pat, come with me.”
Stepping from the chopper, the three men headed toward the small wooden structure two hundred feet to their south.
Bates and Coverty would refuel and check the Huey for any possible damages occurred during the engagement with the Cubans.

Inside the building, they found three rooms and a full bathroom. One of the rooms contained various camouflage clothing in assorted sizes, and two tables with huge maps on their surfaces.
347
Another room had three sets of bunk beds, a small refrigerator, and equally small stove, sink, with cabinets above and to its left, and a small dining table surrounded by four wooden chairs. The room they’d entered contained a few chairs, radio equipment, TV, a desk with two telephones on its top, and what appeared to be a small conference table with six wooden chairs around its perimeter.
The absence of dust anywhere led Courtney to believe this outpost had people coming in and out of it frequently. The phones gave him an opportunity to begin a conversation. He spoke to St. Croix, but his message was subtly intended for McKenzie.
“I wonder who we’d get if we picked up one of those receivers.”
“Y’all wouldn’t get an AT&T operator, Mick.”
Courtney turned to McKenzie.
“So, Pat, you’ve had quite a journey for yourself. Aside from a few bumps and bruises, you look OK. You, me, and Andy have a few things to square away, Pat. And before we tell anyone where we are, Andy and I want the whole story on Yankee Echo. We also have a couple things to tell you that you’re going to find revealing.”
McKenzie, taking short steps, walked away from the other two men, summarily taking a seat at the apparent conference table. Courtney and St. Croix remained standing.
Taking a minute to review his thoughts, he decided they knew enough about the truth to recognize it as a falsehood.
“Michael, Andy - please, sit.”
Both accepted the invitation, and were now sitting next to each other, and opposite the founder of Yankee Echo.



348
He began.
“Neither of you were ever lied to, but you also weren’t told everything about the organization……”
For an hour, he detailed the size and scope of the organization; number of writers, who controlled it, why he’d formed it years ago with Wirtham.
He gave them almost all of it.
Courtney gave him his thoughts.
“Pat, I won’t ask you why you couldn’t trust me with the truth, and I think I speak for Andy here too. Actually, it’s pretty evident. It was safer to keep it just between you, Kay and Robert. But I’m going to tell you something else. I thought we did a lot of good - hell, I know we did. What I don’t know is what I did to Protect CIA and corporate interests, and I don’t want to know. It isn’t a real neat idea, Pat, to give a U.S. intelligence organization, and a bunch of corporations, control over the content of this country’s newspapers. Actually, I think it’s pretty damned stupid to be involved with this at any level now.”
McKenzie reminded him of the facts.
“That’s the way it is, Michael. We can’t give it up. It’s too important to us.”
Courtney turned to St. Croix.
“How do you feel, Andy.”
The Zero, hands folded on the table, gave a brief confirming answer.
“A’hm in line with Y’all, Mick.”
McKenzie nodded at the two of them.
Courtney was still McKenzie’s employee, and he felt a strange loyalty to detail everything for him that had occurred since May 19’th.
Telling him he was certain it was George Tollman who killed his son, John, he saw both anger and sorrow in the older man’s eyes. He wouldn’t tell him Tollman was part of the breach. He was saving that piece for Eisenberg.

349
Continuing, he told the CEO the writers had been instructed to develop negative stories regarding the Cuban reform plan, but the TAC could be pulled now that he was safe.
He also told him he and Kay had split up. She’d left Washington on her own, and he wasn’t sure where she was.
McKenzie knew Eisenberg would cover her.
When Courtney finished, he asked St. Croix to join him outside. Leaving their boss behind, the two exited the structure.
The analyst was beginning implementation on a Decision Theory plan that had actually existed in his mind from the day he’d joined the organization. He never expected to have to implement it.
“Andy, give me your best guess on what’s going to happen next?”
“Pretty clear to me, Mick. Eisenberg’s gonna track our butts until he’s got us.”
“What happens then?”
“He talks to us. Asks us to stay on. Ah don’t know, Mick. These people don’t want us to walk away from Yankee Echo. Don’t forget, they still have the big breacher to deal with.”
“The big breacher, besides Bellcamp, was Tollman, Andy”
“Huh?”
“Belize told me on his lawn when I threatened to blow his friend’s brains out.”
“Well then, with Pat back, hell, we should get a damn medal.”
“They don’t know it yet.”
“So, why keep it a secret?”
“Because that’s our only Ace right now.”
“So, what’s the plan, Mick?”
“We shut down Yankee Echo…at least for a while.”
“Ah don’t think so friend. The CIA won’t like us doin that.” 350
“They won’t know we did it.”

Sunday, May 28, 9:18 a.m. Tokyo Time

Saito Kushima had just finished his final draft on the contract to build a manufacturing plant in the Democratic State of Cuba.
The telephone ringing on the table behind him was answered in another room by a legal assistant called to his home to review the plan. His knock on the door was recognized.
“Yes.”
Entering, the assistant informed him there was a call from the United States - a Mister Orefice.
Two taps on his phone’s keypad made the call totally private, and secure.
“This is Kushima.”
“Mister Kushima, this is Scott Orefice - good morning, Sir.”
“Yes, Mister Orefice, I was just finishing my final edits on the contract, and am now reviewing them with my top legal aide.”
“That’s fine, Mister Kushima. There’s some events which have occurred that will require we act immediately on this matter.”
“What would those events be, my friend?”
“Patrick McKenzie has been rescued from the island of Cuba.”
“Is that so - when did this happen?”
“In a daring raid within the last twenty-four hours. Two of his people, with the aid of some others were able to successfully extricate him from the island.”
“And where is he now?”
“He’s back on American soil - but he isn’t the only reason we need to be urgent. The President feels immediate action is necessary because interests in the power systems industry are beginning to pressure both his office and some of our Senators.
351
As I’m sure you know, once those types of industries are operational in Cube, the State will then be calling in the electronics and other support industries. The President and I both want your contract to precede the power systems people so there’s no political fallout later on.”
It made sense.
“Very well, my friend. I will make arrangements to fly to Cuba. How long will you need to establish a date with President Santiago?”
“It’s being done as we speak, Mister Kushima. The President has instructed me to personally escort you, and I’ll be leaving this evening to pick you up in Japan with one of the President’s aircraft. Of course, you realize we’ll need one half the payment before we leave.”
‘A private escort by the Director of The Central Intelligence Agency?’
“Mister Orefice, I’m sure you are aware Kushima has its own aircraft, and we are quite capable of transporting ourselves around the world.”
“Yes, but there was a development in Cuba during Patrick McKenzie’s rescue that would make your entrance and appearance on the island less of a threat to anyone if you were accompanied by me. We’ve been told by our people in on the island, that during the raid to rescue McKenzie, the Vice President’s villa was completely destroyed by fire. It was all cause by exploding rockets. We don’t know at this time what the Vice President’s association was with the terrorists holding McKenzie, but the political situation is cause for some concern by President Santiago. He needs outside support. Your contract will be something he can hold up to help insure stability. Coming onto the island with me, You’ll get a quick contract signing.”
But Kushima didn’t want a quick signing - he wanted to stick the contract in the face of American businessmen, especially the likes of Patrick McKenzie.
352
But he also wanted Orefice on the island so he could silently dispose of him after it had occurred.
It was alright, there would still be time. He could transfer one-half of the funds, still take out the American official, and then recover his money. The contract was most important now.
“Very well, Mister Orefice, I will make one half the funds available to you immediately, and I will meet you at the airport - just tell me when.”
“Thank you, Sir. We leave at ten tonight and arrive at nine fifteen this same day, your time. We will refuel in the Philippines, so when we land in Japan, we will be able to leave immediately for Cuba. I suggest you keep the people you bring to a minimum.”
“I will be traveling with two personals.”
“That’s fine, Mister Kushima - I’ll see you at nine fifteen.”
“Thank you Mister Orefice - I look forward to it.”
They disconnected.
Kushima redialed.
“Put one half the funds for the Cuban plan in the Caribbean banks.”
Orefice redialed - he waited a little longer.
“Yes, Scotty.”
“He’s meeting me tonight - his time, about nine, Sir.”
“Is the plane all set? What about the pilot, co-pilot and flight attendant?”
“We’re using our own people. They’re highly trained. They’ll be picked up.”
“And what do we tell the Press about these people when they supposedly don’t come back?”
“They were government employees, lived alone in large apartment complexes. People come and go all the time. We used Tollman‘s personal computer at his house to email his secretary telling her he wouldn‘t be into work - was taking a short vacation.”
353
It all sounded well planned - he wanted closure. “Let me know when it’s over.”
“Yes, Sir.”

Sunday, May 28, 12:00 noon

Allen Bates settled the Huey next to its hangar at the far end of the Miami International airport. At Coverty’s request, McKenzie had been blindfolded for reasons most obvious to the Zero team. They didn’t care if he knew what they looked like, but they didn’t want him to know where they lived. Courtney had told the Snake everything.
On the ground, they disembarked, guiding the CEO to one of the GMC Jimmys where he’d sit in the back alone. Coverty and Bates would drive him to a small motel twenty miles North of the city on Route 1A. He’d be given five hundred dollars in fifties, and a roll of ten dollars in quarters. Courtney and St. Croix would wait at the compound. They’d shave, shower, eat, and rest.
McKenzie would eventually call Wirtham and make his way to Washington,
Wirtham would call Eisenberg.


Sunday, May 28, 9:08 p.m.

The huge Boeing banked from its base leg to a final approach five miles out from Japan’s largest airport, an air traffic controller identifying the flight as diplomatic, U.S.A. coming in from Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines where it had refueled.
Directed to a southeast to northwest landing pattern, the pilot and co-pilot went to full flaps, touching down just sixty meters from the edge of the runway.
354
They were cowboys, trained to make short field landings in jungles and on mountain tops.
Setting reverse thrusters, the jet came to taxi speed in a distance that would normally be more appropriate for a much smaller aircraft.
The plane settled into a holding area in the northwest corner of the airport, its Pratt and Whitney engines at idle speed.
Diplomatic meant secure. That meant no customs, no inquiry regarding cargo, and no questions.
Arriving by private limousine, Kushima and his guards could see the red, rotating beacon on the plane’s underbelly turning slowly. They also noted the tail fin, dressed out with a small official seal of The President of The United States.
The front entrance stairwell was down - a welcoming sign. In the plane’s doorway, a black-haired woman waited to take on her passengers.
Kushima’s limo door opened electronically, a small, electro mechanical system performing the simple operation. Stepping to the tarmac, the Japanese executive carried only his briefcase as he and his two personals, each carrying two tan, leather suitcases, mounted the plane’s aluminum stairwell. At the aircraft door, they were greeted by the American woman.
“Mister Kushima, I am Elizabeth Hendricks - welcome aboard.”
Gesturing aft of their current position inside the Boeing, she gave them initial instructions.
“ We’ll be leaving shortly, please, make yourselves comfortable in the forward lounge while I notify Mr. Orefice you’re on board.”
Kushima nodded, the three Japanese now moving aft through the plane’s corridor.
Three minutes after the plane’s stairwell was retrieved and doorway secured, the Boeing taxied to the main runway.
355
Directed into the wind for takeoff, they were airborne once again, heading southeast towards the Pacific Ocean.
She appeared in the lounge.
“Mister Orefice is in the rear cabin on a call with his office. He should be available shortly. If you like, I can fix you a drink from the bar, or you can help yourselves.
Kushima preferred the latter.
“Thank you Miss Hendrecks, we will entertain ourselves until Mister Orefice is ready.”
“I’ll call you as soon as he’s available - it should only be about five minutes.”
Five minutes turned into twenty-five. Although the Japanese executive understood how easily that could happen, especially in the arena where Orefice performed, he didn’t like it.
There was something else bothering him. The plane had taken off, but had not seemed to climb appreciably. Kushima had thousands of flight miles in his history, and he knew that, on takeoff, the plane’s angle of climb in relation to the ground was quite steep. The Boeing had not achieved an angle anywhere near what it should have to accomplish a climb to thirty thousand feet, where the most economical flight path would take place. He’d ask Orefice about this immediately when he saw him.
Fifteen more minutes passed.
She appeared again.
“Mister Orefice is finished with his call, and he’ll see you now. If you’ll walk straight back, you’ll find him in the last cabin.”
Closing the curtain to the lounge behind her, she calmly walked to the refrigerator in the planes forward kitchen.
Opening its door, she reviewed the placement of C2 explosives set in place near the door’s hinges by counterparts in the states.
356
Her hands moved deftly, taking hold of two copper wires that terminated inside two blasting caps. Inserting them into each pack of the clay-like material, she continued her procedure by opening a small black box and setting a timing device which would send twenty-volts of electricity to the caps in four minutes and thirty seconds. Closing the appliance, she checked its position, and moved quickly to the cockpit door.
Two knocks - short pause - two more.
The door was opened.
Inside, a man dressed more like a Navy frogman than a pilot stepped aside to allow her entry.
She gave him a critical piece of information.
“All set - about four minutes.”
“Let’s move.”
He closed and locked the entrance.
In the middle of the cockpit floor, a metal hatchway had been left open. Climbing down a ladder, she was greeted by the co-pilot, he also was dressed like someone who would soon be in the water. Holding out a wet suit and goggles, his three words expressed speed.
“Dress fast, Liz.”
Helping each other into short-jump parachutes, the three CIA agents fastened harnesses and headed aft to the Boeing’s open cargo hatch.
At the doorway, the pilot pulled a preset radio transmitter from the door’s trim section.
“Delta Water, Bright Beacon - we’re out.”
A response came from a radioman on a CIA all-weather chase and recon boat five thousand feet below.
“Bright Beacon, Delta Water, we have you visual and electronic, fax will send in sixty-five seconds.”
Signaling a thumbs up, the pilot swung his arm toward the hatch indicating the jump. She went first, the draft from the aircraft sending her into a rapid descent.
357
The pilot and co-pilot threw out a rubber raft attached to its own chute, and followed their already exited counterpart. All parachutes, equipped with altimeter-controlled opening devices, deployed successfully at forty-five hundred feet.
Kushima’s mood was just short of totally pissed off.
He and his two bodyguards had come to the last cabin noticing its door slightly ajar.
Knocking, he announced his intention to enter.
“Mister Orefice, we have many items to discuss before reaching Cuba.”
It was immediately apparent there was something wrong. A strong odor hung in the air, almost like sulfur, but worse. The cabin, at first glance was apparently empty. On its starboard and port sides, bookcases held an assortment of electronic gear, fax machines, books, manuals, newspapers and periodicals. Recessed lighting in the ceiling had been set at max, and brightly illuminated the entire room.
A black, leather high-back chair behind a desk was turned around. Kushima could see a left arm of someone sitting in it from his angle, but could see no more of the person occupying the chair’s space.
Walking around the back, he turned the chair toward him.
George Tollman had been packed in ice in the states and then shipped to Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines where he was later transferred to the chair just after refueling.
His head was decaying faster than his torso.
The sight of the corpse caused the Japanese executive to step quickly back, his hand reaching for a handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth. Both of his personals immediately drew weapons from their shoulder holsters.


358
One of the fax machines in a bookcase on the plane’s starboard side began its warbling sound, indicating an incoming fax. The three men moved closer to the sound and the machine.
Coming out, a faxed photo clearly indicated the sun reflecting off the end of a young Japanese Lieutenant’s sword as it met the neck of an American soldier. Written across the bottom of the photo were seven words,

He rests in peace
You will not

Kushima’s eyes were on fire.
Crumbling the paper and throwing it to the floor, the CEO began a sprint to the front of the aircraft, his two men following, weapons still drawn.
Nine hundred feet over the Pacific, the moon’s reflected light illuminated the calm sea below. An altimeter in a homing device connected to one of her chute straps kicked into place, causing the tiny radio to send out a tracking and positioning signal that agents on the chase and recon boat would use to locate her, the pilot and co-pilot when they touched down.
It wasn’t necessary. Their final descent was being visualized by agents on the boat using high-powered night scope binoculars. They would be in the water no longer than two minutes.
As Liz Hendrecks passed through eight hundred feet, Kushima was just reaching the cockpit door. To his right, and unknown to him, the timing device connected to the blasting caps was passing through its final ten seconds.
Finding the cockpit door locked, the former Japanese Lieutenant turned to his men glaring. He was about to issue an order for them to fire into the door’s handle assembly just as two contacts were meeting in a small black box that sent a charge of electricity to two blasting caps. 359
The explosion blew off the refrigerator door, propelling parts of it through the skin of the aircraft. All three men were tossed against the opposite wall.
The Boeing was not at a high enough altitude, nor was it traveling at a great enough speed to cause an implosion which would have sucked every loose item, including the three men, through the holes.
The refrigerator had been located so its flying door parts would rupture critical stabilizing lines when they broke through the planes wall, thus disallowing any turning maneuvers.
Although the aircraft had been refueled in the Philippines, it had only been partially refueled. The plane’s fuel supply was now almost gone. It would travel at a height of five thousand feet for another twelve minutes before its engines would shut down. Even with access to the cockpit and its radios, Kushima could not call for help because the dual communication devices had been rendered inoperative.
Twelve minutes later the aircraft began a nose dive for the Pacific Ocean.
Saito Kushima and his two bodyguards fled to the last aft cabin to be as far away from the plane’s nose when the aircraft hit the water.
It wouldn’t matter.
The impact of the water against the metal frame of the plane threw all three men against the walls of the room they once again shared with the former United States Secretary of Commerce. In an ironic twist of fate, George Tollman’s body was flung from the high-back leather chair, landing on top of the Japanese businessman.
The three men went down with both the aircraft and The Secretary to the bottom of the Pacific.


There would be no attempt at recovery per Presidential order.
360
Monday, May 29, 7:15 a.m. Washington Time

Randall Benson would hold open the appointment he’d scheduled for Michael Courtney, even though he knew he wasn’t coming. He also knew he was only going to take one call before noon. It came at 7:21, the blinking light on his communication system indicating its source.
“Yes, Scotty.”
“I have quite a bit of news for you, Mister President. First, both Kushima and Tollman are finished and confirmed.”
“Are your people alright?”
“They’ve all been recovered safely, Sir. The operation was a success. There are no loose ends.”
“Scotty, we still have Courtney, St. Croix and Pat McKenzie unaccounted for.”
“That’s the next part, Mister President. McKenzie showed up at Robert Wirtham’s home last night. I have people working on Courtney and
St, Croix.”
“They found Pat McKenzie and pulled him out of Cuba?”
“They not only pulled him out, they also burned the Vice President’s villa to the ground, and the VP and a couple of dozen Cuban troops died in a firefight.”
“What!? When! Why haven’t we heard from Santiago about that? I can’t believe that the Vice President of a democratic nation has died, and I don’t know about it..”
“Probably because Belize was his liability and he’s going to cover it up. I’m sure we’ll get the real story, but the Press will hear another one. It happened yesterday morning.”
“Why did you withhold that from me?”
“I’m telling you now, Sir. We had Kushima and Tollman to take care of first. It was my best judgment.”
“Let me be the judge of that in the future, Scotty.” 361
The President knew there was little he could do to control that, but he still needed to say it.
Orefice complied for the moment.
“Yes, Sir.”
His reply meant little, both knew it, and both would let it go.
There was a pause in the conversation before Benson picked it up again.
He understood that real power doesn’t always exist with the highest authority.
“I’ll speak with Santiago later. Where are Courtney and St. Croix?”
“Right now all we know is that they’re on the East Coast.”
“How the hell did they pull it off?”
“We’re not sure at this point, but we know they would have needed help, and we’re almost certain they used military ordnance. We think that came from St. Croix’s contacts.”
“Do you think the ordnance is worth tracking?”
“Only to help us find them. They did us a big favor but don’t know that.”
He’d heard enough for now.
“Scotty, I know you’re going to stay on top of this situation. The wife and I will be going to Camp David this afternoon for some R and R. If you need me for anything, or if you have any more developments, you know how to reach me.”
“Yes, Sir, Mister President.”
They disconnected.

Monday, May 29, 8:10 a.m.

Pat McKenzie had phoned Wirtham immediately after being dropped off at the motel by Coverty and Bates. Finding his daughter was safe with his old friend was a pleasant surprise until he was told the circumstances of how she’d come to be there.
362
He’d taken a taxi to Miami International and had rented a private Lear which had flown him to Dulles. He and Kay had stayed at the Wirtham home that night where they’d talked well into the night before retiring. She’d told her father about the terrible scene at Tollman’s home, how David Eisenberg and his men had rescued her, and how the Secretary of Commerce was shot. During their hours of conversation, there were tears mixed with some levity - ironic opposites in the same phenomena.
Wirtham had explained the breach in Yankee Echo, the fact that some of the breachers were still unaccounted for, and how he thought Courtney’s help would be necessary to put the organization back in working order.
McKenzie had told them he didn’t think that was possible based on his conversation with Michael and Andy in the Zero compound. After hearing the details on how Yankee Echo was organized, who controlled it, its size and scope, they’d both bailed out.
He also said all of this would have to be relayed to Eisenberbg.
Before they’d gone to bed, the Deputy Director had been contacted, and he’d agreed to meet with the three of them at 8:00 a.m.
The black Ford Crown Victoria in front of Robert Wirtham’s home was occupied by two CIA Special Ops personnel. David Eisenberg’s Lincoln, immediately behind the Ford, sat unoccupied.
Inside the home, four people sat in Wirtham’s living room. Wirtham’s wife had left for work thirty minutes earlier.
Pat McKenzie and his daughter sat on a couch. Wirtham and Eisenberg sat in arm chairs in front of them, a glass-topped coffee table between the two pair.
There had been initial greeting and welcoming statements and wishes for recoveries, followed by introductions of the subject matter of this gathering.
363
Kay McKenzie addressed the youngest of the three men.
“David, Michael is going to contact me. Why don’t you call off your people?”
“Because we need him now, Kathleen. He has all the answers.”
“What answers, David? My father’s back. Whoever breached the organization doesn’t have a hostage anymore. Why don‘t your people concentrate on finding the breachers, and leave Michael alone?”
Her father provided part of the answer.
“Kay, Michael and Andy know everything about Yankee Echo, we need to know their intentions.”
“Dad, do you think he’s going to go to the NEW YORK TIMES? For God sake, he’ll let it go. I know him. He’s not going to take on the CIA.”
It was Wirtham’s turn.
“Kathleen, please try and understand how important the organization is to everyone involved. Michael’s been a big part of this, and we just want to talk to him.”
Eisenberg could see there was no point in detailing a possible recovery scenario of Courtney and St. Croix in front of her and decided to terminate the meeting among the four, to take it up again later with just three people present.
“Look, I know you people must be anxious to get back to Connecticut, let’s pick up on this later.”
Kay McKenzie and Robert Wirtham understood this to mean, ‘I’m not going to give out the details of our next moves in front of Kathleen because she’ll give them to Courtney if he calls her.’
Pat McKenzie just thought it was a good idea to meet later.
The answers he, and a lot of other people were looking for from Michael Courtney, were going to come sooner than expected.

364
Monday, May 29, 1:15 p.m.

Courtney and St. Croix walked the twenty meters across the inside of the Zero building to speak with Coverty. Number One sat at a drafting table reviewing maritime charts. Above the tilted table, a small television set on a steel stand was channeled to receive a military news station. Although at low volume, it still could still be heard.
Finally reaching him, it was St. Croix who spoke.
“Snake?”
He turned from viewing the drafting table’s contents.
“Me and Mick will be leaving soon. We wanted to thank you and Allen for all the help. We couldn’t have done this without you guys.”
The active Zero chuckled.
“No need for thanks Andy, we took out some bad people, and probably did a favor for more people than we know about.”
He addressed both of them.
“There’s something you guys should know about.”
Indicating the television, he continued.
“I’ve been catching the news - George Tollman is dead. He went down in a plane crash in the Pacific off Japan last night. It’s been broadcast for about an hour now.”
Courtney thought for a second - somehow this news didn’t surprise him.
“Who released that information, Snake?”
“The White House Press Secretary, Radler. He said Tollman was on vacation in Japan. His plane took off from Tokyo and went down with engine trouble. The pilot contacted Clark Air Base in the Philippines, but there was nothing those guys could do. It should be in the papers too.”
365
Courtney couldn’t believe it. How fortunate, how poetic, how fucking lucky for the President, the Director of the CIA, Pat McKenzie and Yankee Echo.
He addressed Coverty with a statement meant to be a question.
“Snake, I need to make a phone call.”
“Go ahead - you can use my office.”
“Andy, excuse me.”
“Sure, Mick - go.”

Thoughts bounced through his mind:
‘Tollman’s dead? President’s meeting - Orefice calls me, sets it up. On vacation? What a crock. Why? He wouldn’t get dusted because he opposed the Cuban Plan - Hell, Benson could have just fired the jerk. - President’s second agenda.’
The door to the Zero’s office was open. He closed it.
Sitting at the desk, he held his face in his hands, thinking.
‘Kay, Kathleen, Kay, Oh God, where are you?’
He dialed her condominium. Six rings - no answer.
Redialing, he tried Connecticut. Two rings - someone connected - a man.
“McKenzie residence, may I help you?”
“May I speak with Kathleen, please?”
“I’m sorry, Miss McKenzie is out of town. If you’d like to leave your name and number, I’ll deliver a message to her when she returns tomorrow.”
“No, no thank you…I’ll try reaching her when she comes back”
He went back to his thoughts.
Yankee Echo was huge, much larger than he’d known. All the strategy he’d planned seemed so logical. Good things got done. He couldn’t even remember a time he’d designed a plan that would have a direct benefit on any corporation, not even McKenzie Industries. 366
Wirtham set direction for ‘writes’, but who gave it to him - Pat - the CIA - a committee of corporations - all of them? Did he just do the CIA stuff

Monday, May 29, 1:25 p.m.

McKenzie, Wirtham and Eisenberg were all in agreement. Find Courtney and St. Croix and debrief them - then fix the organization. They would both be invited to keep their jobs, even though that possibility remained remote at this time. They’d both been under a lot of stress, and had a right to be angry. If they wanted out, they could leave, but they had to be controlled, and Eisenberg would speak with Scott Orefice about how that would be accomplished. Whatever it took, Yankee Echo had to keep running.

Monday, May 29, 3:18 p.m.

“Mister Santiago, I understand we have had a problem on your island.”
“The problem we had Mister Benson, has been resolved.”
“Why didn’t you make me aware of what had happened?”
“I would have thought you had known. It was Americans who caused the situation. Miguel Belize and his mistress have died. We will deal with this as if it were a tragic fire. I‘m appointing a new Vice President - a good man, and we will continue to break from the past. Some things we must do on our own, Randall, if we are to succeed as a democratic nation.”
Benson paused for a moment, then let a comment go once again.
“Juan, Have you heard the news about our Secretary of Commerce?”
“I did.”

367
“I’ll be appointing a new Secretary - also a good man. I’m sure he’ll be a greater proponent of American business support in Cuba.”
“And Mister Kushima?”
“He won’t be involved in any contracts. He’s gone, but he did leave a trust fund that I am having turned over to your treasury. I’m sure it will be used well on American capital expansion projects.”
“You can be absolutely certain of that, Randall. Thank you for your assistance.”
“Thank you for your patience, Juan.”
“I’ll speak with you soon.”

Monday, May 29, 4:25 p.m.

Santa Catalina Island agreed with Dan Bellcamp. The warm, sunny climate was perfect for sunbathing, swimming, and of course it was conducive to meeting beautiful women.
He’d registered at the Athina Health Spa after completing his cross-country drive. The suitcase containing two million dollars American currency was in the closet of his private apartment , now less twenty-five thousand dollars he’d used for the journey, and to pay in advance for a one month’s stay at the exclusive resort.
For the first few days after his departure from Miami, he often wondered what would become of Catalina Salazar. ‘Would she marry the Vice President? She was probably in a relationship with him.’ . Right now, he didn’t care. He’d met a woman just last night - a newcomer who didn’t look like she needed to lose weight. They’d met at a dance, and in fact, she’d asked him to dance first. All evening they talked about only him. She was fascinated with his knowledge of The Universal Physical laws, and how easily he could relate them to everyday events.

368
Dan Bellcamp was trimming down, and was determined to lose enough weight to alter his appearance. He’d also had his hair styled straight back, even though there was little of it to push in that direction. His clothes were brand new - open collared multi-colored shirts made of the best cottons - Abercrombie shorts and Eastland deck shoes. His new friend thought they were perfect, and gave him extravagant compliments on his choices.
Tonight, he wore his blue and green, tropical patterned shirt with white Bermuda shorts.
Brushing back his thinning hair, he stood in the oversized bathroom off his bedroom thinking about his date tonight, when another thought crossed his mind. He hadn’t changed his identity yet, and he’d better do it soon because they were bound to be looking for him. But it could wait until he was finished at the Athenian. They weren’t able to track him yet, and he’d put a few thousand miles between himself and them.
He didn’t expect the knock at the door.
Walking from the bathroom, he slapped his face with the after-shave he’d poured into his palms. A quick gaze through the door’s peephole allowed him to see Pat Malley on the other side of the wooden closure.
She was a lovely woman, about five feet six, brown, shoulder-length hair, thirty-four years old, hazel eyes, with an almost perfectly-formed oval face and full lips - just his type.
He wasn’t supposed to meet her until six. She looked like she’d just come back from a swim in one of the Athenian’s two pools. Dressed in blue shorts covering a full white bathing suit, she held a canvas beach bag topped off with one of the Athenian’s terrycloth towels.
Unlocking the door, his greeting was enthusiastic.
“Pat - this is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t think we were meeting until six.”
369
Shifting her weight, she allowed him a bright smile.
“Well, I was on my way back to my apartment, and I had something for you - for us - so I thought I’d drop by with it.”
Pulling the door all the way open, he gestured toward the living room.
“Well then, please come in.”
“If you want to wait until later, that’s OK with me.”
“No, no, c’mon in, I’m all ready. I was just going for a walk before I picked you up, but now that you’re here, we can get the evening started early.”
Moving to the couch, she chose to sit on its middle cushion. Bellcamp, following, joined her on her left.
Producing a sly facial expression, she reached into her bag and produced a quart of Absolut Citron Vodka.
“I know this is probably against all the rules here, but I wanted to put a little kick in our evening…I hope I’m not being too forward.”
Although a bit stunned, he gladly accepted the concept.
“Hell, no. Hey, I think it’s a great idea. Let me get a couple of glasses and some ice.”
His gait was still the same as it was in Miami as he left the couch, and returned shortly thereafter holding two cocktail glasses.
She half-filled each with the clear liquid, and raised hers in a toast.
“Here’s to us, Dan.”
The thoughts going through his brain tickled every part of his body.
Clicking his glass against hers, he reciprocated.
“Here’s to tonight, Pat.”
She sipped - he gulped, and then spoke.

370
“So, tell me about yourself, who do you work for, what do you do for a living? All I know is you come from Washington D.C. I’ve got some acquaintances there…or at least I used to have some.”
He refilled, waiting for a response.
“Well, actually, Dan, I work for a man in Washington. He’s part of an organization. His name’s David Eisenberg.
“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him. What kind of an organization is it?”
“Oh, it’s all very hush hush, but he’s very smart, and very good at what he does.”
“I used to know a guy who ran something like that, in fact I used to work for him outside of the paper, but I don’t anymore. What do you do for him?”
“I’m what you might call a Tracker’s Assistant.”
It sounded slightly ominous. His voice was slightly higher.
“What do you track?”
“it’s mostly communications coming into and going out of the organization. We work with a lot of people, and we have to be very careful.”
“Communications - you mean like corporate data?”
“Sort of - We work for a lot of companies and have a whole network of people across the country. What we do if very important to the welfare of these companies, so we need a lot of people and we send them a lot of communications.”
“Sounds a little clandestine to me.”
“Oh very, in fact every message that goes out is coded. They’re all sent and received over special fax machines.”
Beads of sweat began forming on his forehead. Her eyes no longer joined her smile, but were cast straight through his. Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, he realized she was very in tune with who he was and what he’d done.
371
“Listen, Pat, I only have a few ice cubes…there’s an ice machine downstairs, let me go get some more. Why don’t you see if there’s some music on the radio?”
Her eyes remained fixed on his - not even a blink.
Moving quickly to the door, he turned once to make sure she’d stayed put. In the hallway, he began a gallop to the stairwell. Down two flights and through the exit door, he ran to his recently-rented vehicle.
Safe in the car, he glanced up at the window of his apartment. Standing there, he could see her holding to her ear what appeared to be a portable telephone.
The engine came to life.
Turning his head so he could see while backing out of his assigned space, his face contorted when his eyes met those of a bearded man no more than six inches from his own.
The man spoke in a deep monotone.
“Mister Bellcamp, we know where you are. We want you to know that we will always be able to find you. You can keep what the Cubans gave you, but don’t ever speak, or even allude to, the name Yankee Echo again. If you do, they’ll be your final words. Do you understand me completely?”
His voice was sheepish, lamblike.
“Yes.”
The CIA agent exited the vehicle leaving Dan Bellcamp with soaking pants.
The former editor would return to his room to find his friend, Pat, gone, along with the bottle of Absolut






372
Tuesday, May 30, 8:35 a.m.

In his office at the National Security Agency, George Tollman’s associate was taking no calls. Right now he wanted to review the newspaper articles on the former Commerce Secretary and Miguel Belize.
He’d been in clandestine operations in positions at both the CIA and NSA long enough long enough to know that a lot of what is released to the media by the government is flooded with misinformation designed to throw off investigation. The media knew it too, and subsequently were relentless in their search for the truth, even though many times they settled for only half of it.
He also knew something else, and right now he thought he was the only one in the world outside of an organization known as Yankee Echo who knew it.
There was a possibility that much of what was reported and editorialized in the U.S. newspaper industry could be fabrications prepared by that organization. Whether it was misinformation or Yankee Echo didn’t matter to him.
What mattered was that someone had gotten to George Tollman and Miguel Belize. He doubted a philosophy teacher could have pulled off anything of that scale, so it had to have been someone else, maybe another firm operating under the direction of a higher up. Whatever it was, if they could get to Tollman and Belize, they could also trace back to him.
He knew both the FBI and the CIA would go trough Tollman’s office and home, seize his computers and records, and examine the same thoroughly. Someone would see his name on an appointment calendar, or an assistant to Tollman, under questioning, would relay that he’d been in the Secretary’s office recently. A lot of it was legwork for those guys, but if either of those organizations were involved with Yankee Echo, they’d eventually be looking for him.
373
He’d taken too big a chance. Tollman and Belize had been amateurs. They didn’t know anything about this business, and they paid the price. He’d been involved with them, and his fate would probably be the same as theirs. He had no alternatives, he had to get out of town - out of the country.
His immediate supervisor was out of town. He could leave a resignation letter with his secretary.
At 10:45 he headed straight for Dulles. When his plane landed in Rome later that day, he rented a car and began a solitary drive to his ancestral home in Palermo.
Maybe he’d be alright. Maybe they’d give up on him. He could never mention Yankee Echo to anyone, and he never intended to.
What he didn’t know was that the man he thought least capable of undoing him was the one who actually brought him down.
Michael Courtney, through inaction, would keep him defeated through Law Twenty-Seven.

An even greater irony was that the natural occurrence of the Laws themselves was affecting the outcome of everything.













374
Part III

Closure

Chapter 14

Yin and Yang
The Eighth Physical law


Tuesday, May 30, 1:00 p.m.

Sitting on the bed, Michael Courtney reviewed a contingency plan he’d set up long ago. There were elements to consider, and because of these elements, this was the contingency he needed to implement.

Yankee Echo
Power - control
Fill - overflow
Yin - Yang

The last reference was his key.

He knew that when anything became too full, too complete, it would retreat in favor of its opposite.
Yin and Yang - the two polar forces in Chinese thought, would be assigned to Yankee Echo, and its opposite.
He’d characterize the organization as Yang, the part associated with power, movement and creativity. Its polar opposite, Yin, would be the same organization, but one that was static, resting and lacking authority. It existed simply because of the actuality of its own opposite, where the power presently stood.
He’d need to create, and cause to come to life, an opposition to Yankee Echo - its Yin.

375
Once it existed, the organization, because of its own weight, power, and authority, would transform itself into its opposite - a non-effective, non-authoritarian entity.
The process was simple - to make something change, interrupt its pattern, create its mirror image. No drastic overt action on the organization would be necessary to effect the transformation - it would happen naturally.
Technology would be involved, but that part was easy. In fact, he couldn’t believe how simple some solutions are to problems we consider major.
It was time to act on the contingency.
He’d need Kay.
Picking up the phone and holding the encoder against the receiver, he was flushed with guarded anticipation as he dialed her number.
There was a voice at the other end - female.
“McKenzie residence, may I help you?”
“May I speak with Kathleen, please?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Michael Courtney.”
What took twenty-five seconds seemed like an hour.
“Michael!?”
Her voice washed him.
“Oh God, Kay, it’s good to hear you. Are you OK?”
“Yes, are you? Where are you? Are you coming here?”
“I’m with Andy, and I can’t tell you where we are, but yes, we’re coming there - soon.”
“Michael - nothing’s happened that can’t be worked out.”
“I don’t agree with that, Kay. It was you who finally convinced me that Yankee Echo was manipulative and wrong. Do you remember?”
“Of course - I’ve been trying to tell you that for months.” 376
“Well I don’t like what I see. I don’t like being a part of this now, and I need to meet with your father, but I wanted to make you were safe, and available.”
Her voice quieted.
“I understand - thank you - and I am.”
“I’m going to come to you - stay in Connecticut.”
“I will.”
“We need to talk about a lot of things.”
“I know…can’t you come here now?”
“Please, Kay - it has to be like this for the time being - It’ll be soon.”
“…..I love you.”
“…..Thank you…I love you too.”
Did he love her? Did she love him? Was it love, or need, or both? Did it matter?
Arms folded across her chest, she leaned against the doorframe leading into the den. Her father sat on a leather couch reviewing corporate papers.
“That was Michael.”
“I thought so.”
“Will you tell David he called?”
“I have to, but he’s probably already figured that out.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
He motioned for her to sit beside him.
“Kay, Michael will be able to take care of himself. I’m concerned about you. Tell me how you feel about your relationship with him.”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know - I think I love him.”
She turned to him.
“Dad, Michael found out it was George Tollman who killed John. He went to Cuba and risked his life to get you out of there. He’s been loyal to you all these years. How can you just let him go?”
“I’m not - he walked away.”
“He walked away from a lie.”
“Kathleen, some things are…”
377
She held up her hand.
“Dad, stop, please. I’ve heard it all before. The greater good - the larger picture - the keeping things balanced. I don’t buy it. I never really did, even though sometimes I said I did. Yankee Echo is deceiving and wrong. I wish I’d never been allowed to know it existed.”
He spoke softly.
“Kay, it’s too big to stop.”
Her voice was also calm and quiet.
“What you’re really saying is it’s out of control and can’t be stopped.”
The elder McKenzie stood.
“You should try to convince Michael to leave it alone - let it go.”
“What makes you think he’ll do anything else?”
“His attitude.”
“What’s his attitude?”
“He’s hostile. We think he knows who the breacher was stateside
“Hostile? He probably thinks David wants to tie him to a chair and shove a light in his face to interrogate him.”
“Both he and Andy can come back. David and I have agreed on that.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“I’m not, but I still need to see him. I need - David needs to know who the breacher is, and what Michael’s going to do.”
“I think you’re going to find out soon, Dad. I’m going for a walk on the beach.”
“I’ll be here when you get back. Kay - it’s going to work out.”
Looking at him like only a daughter can, she silently nodded her head.
McKenzie picked up his phone dialing Washington.
“David Eisenberg.”
“Michael just called.” 378
“I thought it was him. He has an encoder. We couldn’t trace it. Did he talk to you?”
“No, Kathleen. She wasn’t on that long.”
“I would think he’d want to see her.”
“He’s got to make some first moves. Have your people come up with anything?”
“We think he and St. Croix are still in South Florida. I have an idea we’ll be hearing from them soon.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he’ll want to start an offensive pattern - put us on defense.”
“How will you handle that?”
“I’ll try to turn it back on him. He’ll be a challenge on the outside. I’m feeding information on whatever he does to two Physical Laws Professors at Georgetown. We’re sure he has answers on the breachers and we want to know his intentions.”
“Well - I’ll keep you up to date from here.”
“I’ll talk to you later.”

Eisenberg made a call. It was answered by a Professor of Physical Laws and Metaphysics sitting in his office in the middle of Georgetown University’s campus.
“This is David. Courtney’s contacted Kathleen McKenzie.
“Then you’ll be next - he has his plan set. You’ll hear from him within twenty-four hours, maybe sooner.”
“We still put the defense back on him, right?”
“That’s right - it’s also assuming you can.”
“What would you guess his intentions are?”
“He’s working from deductive logic, he has a conclusion. We’re working from inductive reasoning - we need to build theories that will make his conclusion - then we’ll know what he’s doing. We still have a piece, though. His call to the girl probably means he’s finished all his brain-intensive work. 379
He’ll be moving toward you, very fast - you have to be a part of his plan.”
“He has the advantage.”
“That’s true.”
“I don’t like waiting games. I need to know who Bellcamp and Belize were working with.”
“If he knows who it is, you’ll have it sooner than you realize. Don’t forget, it’s been Courtney and St. Croix who’ve solved this whole puzzle for you to date. They’ll continue to do so. Courtney’s not going to withhold information. He’s just waiting for the right time to deliver it. We re-read his Law One Corollary Paper. As a Philosopher, he likes primary movement. He’ll make something happen, and in order to do that he needs everyone to be aware of all the parts, otherwise no one knows he’s done anything. If I were you, I’d be more concerned about what his intentions are toward the organization. He may try to dismantle it, and he may have worked out a contingency plan for that years ago.”
“That’s an impossibility. Even if all our computers were destroyed, we’re redundant. We could set up again in two weeks.”
“He probably wouldn’t even consider physical destruction, David.”
“So how could he do it - he’s out. He doesn’t have access anymore.”
“Good question, and we don’t have an answer for that. He’s changed his philosophical concept of the organization from positive to negative. He’s resourceful, and pretty much a straight pragmatist. He needs to practice his science, and he’ll find a way and a place to do that. What would make sense is for you is to find him a new job where he could use the tools of his trade. We think he’d be well placed in the CIA in a Special Operations Division where he could work with St. Croix on U.S. economic security. What we’d suggest to you is that you have a talk with Scott Orefice, and see if this would work for him. 380
If it does, and they accept the positions, you’ll know where they are, and you can watch then through the Director. Give Courtney a one year option. He can leave after that. He knows Yankee Echo can’t be physically destroyed, and if he has any other plans, he may just opt for another job and let them go.”
“So you think he’ll contact us.”
“He won’t just contact you, he’ll come to you - he’ll want this resolved quickly.”
“I’ll be waiting, stay close.”
“We will.”
Eisenberg punched another number into his keypad.
“Wirtham answered.
“Yes.”
“Have you changed the satellite codes to the writers?”
“Yes, we’re finishing it up now. David, if you’re worried about Michael, he’s not going to come here.”
“How can you be sure about that? How do you know he and St. Croix won’t borrow a Zero explosives kit and come in and level the place?”
“Because he won’t want to destroy what’s here, and he knows he can’t make it go away. He wants justice, but we don’t know what that means for him right now.”
“You don’t think he’ll seek retribution?”
“Yes, but he may feel he’s already accomplished it by leaving the organization. He has a lot of respect for himself and for what he does - and to tell you the truth, David, we’re really in a lousy position without him - he knows that.”
“We’ll get a replacement.”
“I know we will - but think about the change in philosophy, in analytical procedure. Look at what he and Andy St. Croix have managed to do. We’re going to miss these people.”

381
The man was right. He hadn’t even thought about replacements yet. The organization had run so well, been so well managed and executed that it seemed like it would never be any way but that.
He needed to see him - talk to him and St. Croix
He was nervous, not knowing what to expect - and expecting the worse.
Signing off, each promised to contact the other with any subsequent news.

Tuesday, May 30, 2:14 p.m.

Andy St. Croix had returned from renting a car.
“Got us a Bronco, Mick. It’s got a cellular phone.”
Courtney slid off the bed.
“Sounds good to me, want to leave?”
“Yep.”
They left - heading North.

Tuesday, May 30, 4:05 p.m.

Courtney waited two hours before dialing.
“David Eisenberg.”
“This is Michael Courtney.”
It was their first introduction.
Eisenberg was immediately on defense.
“Courtney…Michael…I’m in the middle of something right now - let me call you right back.
“You hang up on me and we don’t talk for two more days.”
That was unacceptable - or was it? Was defense worse?
“What do you want - you know we need to debrief you.”
“Debrief? What the hell is this? I don’t work for you.” 382
“You know damn well you do.”
“Well, I’m sure you know by now I’ve cancelled my contract.”
“I’ve heard - I still…”
“Listen, David, I’m going to save both you and me a lot of time and trouble. It was Tollman, our former Secretary of Commerce. He was acting with Belize, Bellcamp, and someone else in either the CIA or NSA. I doubt if the last guy could or would hurt you. He’s probably scared as hell right now and covering all his tracks. You’re probably never going to find him. If you want to look for him, that’s up to you. I’m not interested.”
“What are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you Yankee Echo is safe - unless Dan Bellcamp decides to come back and blackmail you. But I’m sure you’re working on that. I don’t know if you’re surprised about Tollman, but you’re a lucky man and so is the President because he got himself eliminated. Your breach is closed and you can resume your game.”
“I’m…it’s not a game…we need to meet with you and St. Croix”
“You will, David…soon.”
He replaced the cellular phone in its holder.
St. Croix had heard one end of the conversation.
“Ah don’t believe he’s too happy with Y’all right now.”
Courtney cracked a smile.
“I just gave him the truth. If he’s having a hard time with that, it’s only because he’s unfamiliar with the concept.”
“What’s next, Mick?”
“I guess we go to Old Saybrook and say hello to everyone.”


383
The only reunion he was worried about was the one with the woman he’d taught, and had come to love. Was it love? He’d know - She’d know - They’d know.

Tuesday, May 30, 4:20 p.m.

The last meeting of the day was just concluding for the CIA Director - a strategy session on the development of an expanded field operation in Turkey. The blinking light on his phone indicated the caller.
“David?”
“Scott - Michael Courtney called me fifteen minutes ago.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He said George Tollman was responsible for the breach in Yankee Echo, and that he had a partner in either the CIA, or NSA. He thinks this guy will be going into a closet, and I agree with him.”
He continued with everything he knew, or had been told.
“…Scott, with the exception of the last man, and like I said, I think Courtney’s right - he won’t be a problem - this issue is closed. Once Courtney and St. Croix surface, we can finish this up. We’re hoping they’ll be reasonable. Something I’ve been thinking about, and its been recommended to my by others, is that we offer them jobs in Special Ops positions in the Agency. We can control them that way. What do you think?”
“I’ve already had a brief conversation on that matter at a very high level. Yes, I’m hoping that’ll work. I have some things to do on my part right now. Call me back with any developments.”
“I will.”
The Director immediately hit two numbers.
There was a quick answer.
“Yes, Scotty?”
“Mister President, I need to see you right away.” 384
Tuesday, May 30, 5:31 p.m.

Scott Orefice was probably more familiar with the Oval Office than anyone else who worked in the Benson Administration, with the possible exception of Pete Radler.
Entering the egg-shaped room, he acknowledged the man with whom he’d conspired to dispose of the body of their Secretary of Commerce while eliminating another man who’d terrorized G.I.s years earlier.
“Mister President.”
“Scotty, come in - please, sit,”
He wasted no time.
“Michael Courtney has contacted my Deputy Director. He told him it was George Tollman who breached Yankee Echo, and that he was involved with Miguel Belize and his mistress in a plot to use that organization to dismantle support for your Cuban Economic Reform Plan. I don’t know why I’m not more surprised than I am.”
There was more to say, but he waited for a response.
It was short.
“Go on.”
“This means the breach is closed with the exception of two people. Someone in the CIA, or the NSA was working with Tollman - probably as a bag man. We believe this man will be hiding, and we don’t feel he’d be worth the effort to track down.”
“And the other one?”
“Belcamp - that’s where this whole thing began. He gave the information to Belize’s mistress, and it grew from there. He disappeared with two million dollars from the Cuban Treasury, but Eisenberg and his people recently caught up to him. David is excellent at taking care of situations like that, and I’m sure he won’t be a problem either.”
385
Randall Benson didn’t care about Bellcamp, or the CIA or NSA connection. Tollman was finally validated for what he was.
“I’m not surprised it was Tollman. He was bound to end up like this.
“We’re not finished with all of this yet, Sir.”
The same short reply to his statement came next. “Go on.”
He shifted in his chair, arranging his thoughts.
“Eisenberg still has to bring in Courtney and St. Croix - to debrief them. I know we talked about this before - we may be offering them jobs in Special Operations.”
“I think that might be a good idea, Scotty - but don’t you think they’ll see through it? Don’t you think they’ll know why they’re getting jobs with the CIA?”
“Yes, Sir - but we can also give them the option to leave in a year if they want to. They should know they’ll have to be controlled for at least that long.”
“I suppose in your type of business - for that matter in their’s too - you expect these things.”
The Director’s response was appropriate for the remark.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Do you think Courtney’s going to tie us in with Tollman and Kushima?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. One other think he said to Eisenberg was that he and you were both lucky because of what happened to Tollman. I also know Kathleen McKenzie will tell him all about the incident with Tollman at his house.. But we can’t forget - George Tollman did a lot of damage to the McKenzie family, and we believe Courtney’s in love with Pat McKenzie’s daughter. He’s going to want things to settle down.”
“Scotty - when you locate him, or he locates you, I want to meet with him. I’m very interested in this young man, and his partner. There may be other places for them besides Special Operations at your Agency.” 386
Orefice felt a sudden sense of loss - a loss of something he didn’t have yet.
The President noticed.
“It’s OK, Scotty, you’re still my number one man - and they’d have to interface with you.”
A sense of well being returned

Tuesday, May 30, 6:58 p.m.

They’d stopped for dinner and had been talking over a coffee.
Courtney continued to unfold the plan to his partner.
“……Robert recruited you and me into Yankee Echo because we each had a particular expertise. I know Pat McKenzie was in the background of my selection, and probably in yours too. I don’t know if Eisenberg was around at that time, but either he, or someone else in the CIA, was probably a part of both of our initial employments.”
He sipped his coffee.
“We were lied to right from the beginning. They held all their secrets in a nice little group to keep their exposure minimal. So when they got breached, only twenty percent of the organization was at risk. Hell, that’s brilliant.”
“Why do you suppose Pat spilled the whole thing to us after Cuba?”
“He was in a tough spot, Andy. I think he may have felt we’d probably figure it out once we got back, and he doesn’t want us to leave. He must have thought we’d earned out stripes, so why not trust us with the truth?
“Do y’all really believe that?”
“No.”
“Mick?”
“He wants us back so we’re controlled. They have to close out everything in the breach. That includes you and me.” 387
“How do we leave and still convince them we’re not a threat?”
“That would be more difficult for us than it would be for them. They’ll come up with their own answer, and I’m thinking maybe we should just play into it. But I’ll tell you what - we are going to stop them - at least for a while.
“You got me goin again, partner.”
“I don’t mean to keep you in the dark, Andy - and I’m going to tell you everything - I promise. But some of it’s going to come later. If I give you the whole thing at once, I could put you at risk, and I don’t want to do that. You’re going to have to continue to trust me.”
“Y’all have m’ah trust, Mick. Keep goin. Ah’m with you to the conclusion.”
Drawing a breath, he continued.
“They know there’s no way we could physically access the organization even if we wanted to.”
“But we’re going to put a stop to it?”
“It won’t cease to exist, but it won’t be able to operate for some time. When Robert recruited me back at UVM, I told him I’d want to make contingency plans for every type of breach. He gave me that latitude, and I gave him all my plans - all but one. Something I thought a lot about was what if Yankee Echo became a rogue all on its own - what if we lost total control over everything? There had to be a way to stop it, without destroying it at the same time.”
“So how do we shut it down?”
“There’s two ways it could be done. First, Pat or Robert could do it from McKenzie Industries, and now that I know Eisenberg’s involved, I guess he could do it too. They could just voluntarily close it out.”
St. Croix shifted his eyes.
Courtney noticed, and continued.
“I know, those were the long shots, but they were still possibilities.”
388
“The second part’s the contingency you never told Bobby about?”
“That’s right.”
Courtney looked around the room. No one he saw, even if they overheard him, seemed to be a threat.
He continued - speaking about a plan of action he created many years ago.
“What it all comes down to is Law Eight, Andy. In order to stop the system from doing what it does, all you’d need to do is keep feeding it full of itself - Yin and Yang. Keep making it more of what it is, and it turns itself into its opposite - and that’s what we’re going to do. I can’t tell you how I’m going to do this right away, and it probably isn’t going to be done for a couple of months - but I promise you, I’ll have you there when it’s done - if you want to be there.”
“Y’all got to be kiddin, Mick - ah’ll be there.
“OK, what we need to do now is get to Pat’s house. We have to try and convince these people we’re ready to compromise.”
They left the restaurant. Their journey would take two days.
Andy St, Croix would arrive at Patrick McKenzie’s home in Old Saybrook on Tursday, June 1st at 11:58 a.m.. The Zero would exit their vehicle off I-95 in Clinton, two towns before Old Saybrook where Courtney would reunion with Kay.

Thursday, June 1, 11:15 a.m.

Taking the right-hand exit for Clinton off Connecticut’s I-95, the Interstate disappeared behind them. At the end of the exit ramp, St. Croix made a left hand turn.




389
About two hundred feet ahead, parked on the right shoulder, Michael saw the Chevy station wagon she’d rented only an hour earlier, a decision that had been made in a telephone conversation the day prior to lease a vehicle, thinking her own car may have been bugged.
As it was, two blue Ford Crown Victoria sedans, each containing two CIA personnel were close enough to be able to keep both vehicles in sight. A third Ford with the same number of people would follow St. Croix to the McKenzie residence.
The Zero spotted two of the vehicles as they approached the wagon.
“Mick, y’all got company from that blue Ford down the street, and from another one over there by that pizza house. Four guys…might have a video goin, and ah’m sure they’ll have some kind of listening device.
“Will they be able to hear me and Kay in the car?”
“Not with the radio on.”
While pulling the Bronco directly behind the wagon, Kay caught sight of the vehicle in her rear-view mirror.
Turning - her eyes met his.
The most meaningful connection two humans can make is eye-to-eye contact. The eyes reveal the soul, and communicate the feelings of the heart. In this one instant of corneal contact, each revealed their love for the other.
Lifting the door handle, he addressed his partner.
“I’ll see you at Pat’s?”
St. Croix had seen the look he’d communicated to her.
“Yep…Mick - if it feels right - it probably is.”
The two men shook hands and smiled.
“Thanks, Andy.”
390
Courtney left the Bronco.
A secured radio in the Ford on the street began transmitting again, prompted to do so by the car’s driver.
“Courtney’s entering the wagon. He’s in…they’re…hugging each other.
David Eisenberg, on the receiving end of the transmission, listened from the McKenzie home.
“Where’s St. Croix.”
“He’s leaving the scene. Three will stop him.”
“Tell Three that won’t be necessary.”
“Sir?”
“Just have him followed - he’ll be coming here.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What’s Courtney doing now?
“……the same.”
“Do you have any audio?”
“Garbled - the radio’s on.”
“Stay with them.”
“They’ll be coming here after a while too.”
“Yes, Sir.”

He’d gently placed his left hand on the back of her head. With his right, he caressed her left cheek. Looking through her eyes, his voice had that soft strength she’d come to know only from this man.
“Kay, I love you.”
Burying his head between her neck and shoulder, he sobbed. His hands gripped her shoulders - searching for her strength.
She’d begun to cry in the same moment. To an observer, it wouldn’t be clear who was comforting who.
To them, it was perfectly clear.
They remained embraced, weeping for five minutes. The crying ended with her giggle, and a brief, unsolicited rejoinder for the moment.
“Hey, Michael - Law Nineteen if really true…and I love you too.”
391
Filling their arms with each other, they laughed uncontrollably, cried again, laughed again, and finally met eye-to-eye again.
Her full lips felt soft barely touching his. Intense eyes swept her face.
In a single motion, he drew her body to his. The passion they’d felt many times before returned with a newness neither one had ever experienced. It was passion with peace, boldness attached to security, physical joy filled with emotional harmony.
There’d be many times - later - to relive every part of this reunion - this new beginning for them.
She had to tell him about Tollman.
“Michael……”
The pain of those moments returned temporarily.
Through tears she related the incident at Tollman’s house. She’d gone there to find out the truth about her brother, John.
He’d been right about John being executed by his Company Commander in the jungles of Vietnam.
The Secretary had raged and overpowered her. She’d been brutally attacked by this man, who in turn was summarily met with retaliation by Eisenberg’s men.. Robert and Helen Wirtham had nurtured, cared for, and sheltered her until her father had returned.
She’d had time to review her relationship with her teacher and lover. They’d need to talk about issues, but there was time. She loved him, wanted him, and needed him, and all three of these were OK with her.
Courtney’s mind ran through anger at her, at Tollman, at Eisenberg. He’d need to put part of it in perspective, now, not later. This woman was a victim. His woman. What had happened was over. She was safe. He loved her, and she needed comfort. Tollman was gone, and Eisenberg had risen from an adversary to a non-entity. Tollman hadn’t died in the airplane crash. What was that all about?
392
He’d deal with it later. She had to come first right now. He offered her his handkerchief, pulled from his right rear pocket.
“Kay…”
He lifted her chin to look in her eyes.
“…I’m sorry that happened to you - it must have been very frightening. It’s over, Kay, you’re safe.”
They held each other again. She cried - he cried.
Tuesday, June 1, 12:10 p.m.

The radio in the Ford came alive.
“What’s happening?”
“They’re still just…talking.”
“OK, if they’re not on their way in five minutes…”
“Hold on - they’re moving. Courtney’s driving.”
“Follow them here.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Courtney saw them make the U-turn in the mirror.
Everyone knew where everyone was going.
Temporarily.

Tuesday, June 1, 12:38 p.m.

He maneuvered the wagon right behind the Bronco. Andy had left it on the street, even though there was ample room in the driveway. The lead Ford had pulled up to within sixty feet behind the wagon. The other Ford, passing both vehicles, stopped about fifty yards down the road and on the shoulder.
The day was unusually warm for this time of year on Long Island Sound. It was almost eighty-seven degrees and heading for a high of ninety-three. Kay had worn a pair of tan Abercrombie climbing shorts, sling back sandals, and an embroidered white cotton pullover top.
393
Her blond bangs touched just above her eyebrows. The rest of her hair was pulled up and back. A ponytail beginning almost in the middle of the top of her head just reached the back of her neck.
For him the whole package came together with charismatic, girlish womanliness. To him, she was totally charming and cute, and elegantly beautiful at the same time.
They would promise each other a rigorous search of themselves, and a commitment to always place each other as the first priority in their lives.
The moment between them now was filled with both trust and healthy needs.
It was time to find out what was waiting in the house.
They would enter by a side veranda to use a bathroom off a guest bedroom to freshen up. Kay would change into a blue and white polka dot sundress and white flats. Her hair would be let down and combed straight, her makeup would be modest.
The screen door on the veranda was opened for them from the inside. On the porch, two men were dressed casually for the weather, a third wore a summer suit. Courtney took notice that all three were wearing small ear receivers. He knew these had to be tied into a central processing unit somewhere, probably close by.
Additionally, each of them wore hip-mounted firearms - nine millimeter Berettas.
No one’s holster had a cover flap which would have encumbered quick access to their firearms. He thought all of this to be odd since the meeting wasn’t really that big. There wasn’t anyone here, he thought, who would need to have men who were in constant contact with each other.
They’d quickly frisked him and found him unarmed. He’d left the Colt Coverty had given him in the Bronco.
394
Maybe Andy had gone in with his Colt. So what, he was in charge of Yankee Echo security.
Kay entered the bathroom first, to wash her face, and to fix her hair and makeup. Courtney sat on the end of the bed waiting.
Five minutes later she appeared.
“Your turn - I need to change into something more appropriate.”
“More appropriate? You look fine. Were just going to talk to your dad and probably Robert and Eisenberg.”
“Go freshen up - you’ll see.”
He needed only two minutes to wash his face.
Exiting, he noticed her putting on a final touch of lip gloss in a mirror mounted on the back of a small white makeup table. She could see his reflection in the same.
“Ready, Michael?”
“Yes, you look summerly formal.”
Her wide smile was accompanied by a subtle nod.
Approaching him, she squeezed both his hands.
“Michael…there’s some surprises in there you don’t know about.”
“What surprises? Nothing will surprise me the rest of my life.”
“It’s OK - trust me - you’ll see.”
It was his turn to nod - he did trust her.










395
Tuesday, June 1, 12:55 p.m.

Leaving the guest bedroom, they proceeded down a hallway leading to McKenzie’s very large formal living room.
Entering it, Courtney now understood what ‘surprises’ meant, and why she had changed her clothes to become summerly formal.
There were six people present.
Randall Benson, President of the United States sat on a wide, floral patterned couch, a middle cushion separating him and Scott Orefice.
Directly across from them on a matching couch sat Pat McKenzie and Robert Wirtham. A large inlaid multi-colored tile coffee table separated the two pieces of furniture.
Two overstuffed club chairs in close proximity, and on either side of a huge antique red brick fireplace were occupied by David Eisenberg and Andy St. Croix.
He knew four of the men by sight. Although he’d never met President Benson, he was easily recognizable from the mountain of media coverage he received.
His introduction to the CIA brass was supposed to have come from David Eisenberg, who’d risen, and was now approaching him and Kay.
Courtney took a short, lateral step toward her. She felt the movement, and understood that it was meant for her, not for him. She also knew the playing field was about to be set, and decided it was time to move herself to a love seat that had been repositioned for her, and for the only other person in the room who wouldn’t have a seat if he didn’t sit next to her.
Just prior to taking this action, she’d reached across Courtney’s back with her left hand. A gentle rub gave him a very clear emotional message.
Eisenberg now stood a foot away from him. At least three inches taller than the analyst, the Deputy Director sensed some nervousness. 396
The fact that he had him in height was self evident.
Courtney’s anxiety level was somewhat visible, but not because he wasn’t trying to use everything he’d ever learned to hide it.
He finally decided on offense-defense.
Not waiting for an introduction, he made a guess, and took charge.
“You must be David Eisenberg.”
“Yes…I’d like to..”
Courtney extended his hand, and finalized this introduction.
“Nice to finally meet you.”
Moving toward the couches, he stood before the President and CIA Director, creating a situation totally out of protocol.
He’d gained emotional control of the room.
He couldn’t believe he was in the same room with the President of The United States. Thoughts were racing back and forth through his mind. ‘What the hell is so important that he be here? Is it because of Tollman? Pat McKenzie? Was the President involved all along? Who’s this other guy? Probably Orefice.’
Eisenberg had been left fifteen feet behind.
Neither the President nor the CIA Director had had a chance to react to Courtney’s move. They were still sitting, and because Courtney wasn’t speaking, they did the only thing that seemed logical - they stood.
Convention dictates that someone of lesser prestige or rank be introduced by someone else to another person of greater esteem or grade.
Courtney skipped the rules and introduced himself, once again extending his hand.
“I’m Michael Courtney.”
Although clearly demonstrated, his disregard for tradition lacked malice, and became only a matter of his own self esteem.
It worked. While they had control of the arena, he’d seized the moment. 397
The President accepted his hand and made the introductions.
“Randall Benson, Michael - and this is the Director of The Central Intelligence Agency, Scott Orefice.”
Another greeting, this one without communication.
Courtney turned and walked over to join Kay on the love seat. Benson and Orefice sat. Eisenberg returned to his chair.
To someone watching this event, it would have looked like they’d just tossed a coin at the beginning of a football game, and everyone was waiting for someone to handle the kickoff.
That job was Wirtham’s. Without getting up, he addressed his former student who was sitting close enough to Kay to hear her breathing.
“Michael, you must be wondering why the President and The CIA Director are with us today.”
It was a worthy statement, and intended to put him on defense. But he’d been well taught by this man and he looked at him as if the question would be self-fulfilling.
Wirtham waited momentarily for a response - none came.
The non-action hadn’t caused a shift.
Pushing himself off the couch, and moving to the center of the room, the former University Professor decided to make the case rather than spar with his former student.
This was a wise decision, and totally appropriate for the use of Law Five.
Courtney was back on defense.
Wirtham, once an alley, was now an adversary. He had both the floor, and the offense.



398
“Yankee Echo was exactly what you always thought it was, Michael. It was just larger than you knew, and had a broader base than you’d been led to believe. There was no point in telling you everything, because to do your job, you only needed a certain amount of information. We weren’t really trying to hide anything. We were only interested in protecting the organization, and for that matter, you.”
He gestured toward the President.
Mister Benson isn’t the only President who’s used the power of the media through the organization to help the American public understand complex issues. The immediate past two presidents both received generous support from Yankee Echo.”
He moved two steps toward his former student. In a knee-jerk reaction, Courtney shifted himself on the love seat. His professor didn’t lose sight of the fact.
“In closing out the breach, you and Andy have done all of us a great favor, Michael. We owe you a debt of gratitude, but we’ve come to understand that both of you are no longer interested in employment with us. I’m not sure I could change your minds, but I know you’re aware this creates a situation on our part that needs to be justified and resolved. If you are indeed leaving, we need to close out a TOA XIA Master, and a Director of Security, and find others. It won’t be easy replacing either of you.”
Turning away, he continued.
“In addition to being a Presidential resource, Michael, the organization has a responsibility to fifty corporations, including, of course, McKenzie Industries. These companies employ millions of people, and most are publicly owned by millions more. Many of them are tied to the nation’s defense industries, so we can’t let the capabilities of these companies become compromised.”
He gestured toward Orefice.
Courtney shifted again. It was noticed again.
399
“And then there’s the CIA. I don’t know how much you know about that organization, and how it gets funded, but I can tell you that every year it is terribly under-funded by The Congress. The companies in Yankee Echo make up that funding, and that enables us and the CIA to be able to protect the interests of the entire U.S. economy. Right now the Cuban initiative is in the hands of our writers. The positive ‘write’ we worked on will be in the Press next week. Soon, McKenzie Industries, and dozens of other U.S. businesses will be investing in the Western Hemisphere’s newest democracy. We intend to have the advantage economically into all of Latin America, and finally South America. These things are planned, Michael, because they’re too big and too important to lose to other countries - and Yankee Echo is a very large component of making all this happen. In modern times, the tools of the past no longer allow us to keep pace with a changing world. So we create and use new tools. That’s all Yankee Echo is, Michael - it’s a tool - an instrument we need to keep America safe and prosperous. You were in agreement with all of this a few weeks ago. You drew paychecks for ten years while you were acknowledging what Yankee Echo was all about. You know we need to use The Laws to control many of the complex…”
She couldn’t believe it.
He was on his feet.
‘What the hell is Michael doing?’.
Courtney walked right past Wirtham and was standing in front of the President.
“Tell me about George Tollman, Mister President. Tell me why he was going to Tokyo as a corpse. ”
He addressed the CIA Director.
“Tell me about Cuba, Mister Orefice. You must have known where Pat was all along. Why didn’t you send in your people to get him?”
400
He faced Eisenberg and pointed at Kay.
“Tell me why she was allowed to be put at risk during a breach. I don’t get the logic of that, David.”
He didn’t get any answers - just a comment from Wirtham.
“Michael -calm down…”
Courtney was moving around the room - deliberately.
He picked up where Wirtham had left off.
“Calm down? OK, you brought up control - let’s discuss it, Professor. You know that most of the general public doesn’t understand the theory and logic behind philosophical concepts, and their application to human realities. Some people have read all the books, but they still don’t have a clue how to apply it in everyday living. We should be teaching these principles to kids at all grade levels in every school in this country. Kids - people, need heroes like Socrates, Plato, and Einstein. All three of them were teachers. They gave their knowledge away freely. But we don’t do this. We keep it to ourselves to control, to translate complex events for people so they can think like we do. Sure we make things happen, but they might have happened that way anyway. And so what if they don’t? How long do we keep up? How much longer before Yankee Echo becomes a cesspool? Metaphysics is as dangerous as it is wonderful. You’re the one who told me Adolph Hitler was a Master Metaphysician. He didn’t need any plaque on the wall to tell himself that. And there’s a few dozen million people missing who became testimony to that fact.
Courtney looked at Benson.
“I’m sure you remember Senator Joe McCarthy, Mister President. He did a bang up job all by himself with the use of the media. It was like a Piranha feeding frenzy if I remember my history right. Edward R. Murrow finally got the message and took him down.

401
McCarthy died at forty-eight because he rotted from the inside out. You’re going to see the same thing
happen to this organization if it isn’t shut down.”
Returning to be beside Kay, he sat on the edge of the love seat, and reached backward for her hand.
His voice was calm.
“Law Eleven, Professor - good to evil.”
Wirtham had retreated, and was sitting beside Pat McKenzie. The agenda for this meeting was out of control. That worked in Courtney’s favor. The power in the meeting, however, was still unbalanced - and they had it.
The President stood - this caught everyone’s undivided attentio
Randall Benson hadn’t gotten to be where he was by being unaware of how to be in control.
He’d seen situations like this develop hundreds of times in back rooms, at political meetings, and in conventions. He knew by weight of authority he could gain control at any moment.
He felt a kinship with Courtney. This man had guts and principles.
In his own disregard for protocol, rather than have someone else answer Courtney’s questions, thereby distancing himself from responsibility, he gave the man what he thought he was due. His motive was self-serving. He wanted this man and his partner working for him.
Approaching Michael and Kay on the love seat, he moved slowly back and forth in front of them.
“You have questions you need answered, Michael. I don’t blame you for asking them. You feel like you’ve been lied to and cheated, and in some respects you have been. I want you to listen to me carefully. You’re going to get some answers, but they won’t be complete, and for now you’re going to have to be satisfied with that. You’re also going to be given an opportunity - and I hope you take advantage of it.”
402
A sweep of Benson’s arm was meant to indicate everyone in the room.
“We all have jobs and responsibilities, and there’s plenty of times when all of us don’t like what we have to do. I understand your feelings about Yankee Echo, and as far as I’m concerned, you can leave the organization as long as you have no intention of doing it any harm. If you really feel like it’s going to self-destruct, as you’ve indicated, then you won’t have to do anything anyway. But over the last ten years, you’ve evidenced by your job performance, that you enjoy working in these types of arenas. I’m going to play a hunch and say that’s true, and I’m going to go even further and offer both you and Mister St. Croix an opportunity to work for me in the White House…I’ll get back to that in just a minute.
Courtney looked at Kay - there was some evidence of acceptance in his eyes.
Benson continued.
“You want to know what George Tollman was doing going to Tokyo in his condition. He was part of a Presidential Directive carried out by the CIA that involved U.S. economic security…and also something that occurred during World War II - which has now been taken care of…and that’s as much as you’re going to get on that subject. With what I just gave you, I’m sure if you did enough research, you’d come up with the answer. What good it would do you, I don’t know.”
The President’s voice raised slightly.
“Why didn’t the CIA go into Cuba and get Mister McKenzie? If you and Mister St. Croix had failed, they would have gone in for him, and also the two of you. It wasn’t just about a rescue operation, don’t forget. There was a breach to close, and you had more answers to that than anyone. You solved a lot of mysteries over the last few days - you should be very proud of yourself.”

403
Indicating Kay, he resumed his set of answers.
“Why was Kathleen McKenzie put at risk during the breach? It was because she knew everything about the organization. That was a decision made by her father, and accepted by her. I don’t have any other answers to that question other than you’ll probably come to understand it better when, and it, you have children of your own..…stand up, Michael.
It was an order.
Courtney immediately complied.
They stood face to face.
“I want you to come to work for me. Forget about Yankee Echo. There’s nothing you can do about it. In the White House, you and Andy St. Croix would be working as Special Advisors to the President, and be reporting directly to me. You’ll have clearance with every arm of the Government to do your jobs. Specifically, you’ll be adopting the Laws you know so well to all kinds of interests - military - economic - social. In addition, I’ll give you your wish. You think we should teach these concepts in our schools. I agree with you. You set up the curriculum, and I’ll see that it gets implemented wherever you want. You and Andy St. Croix are valuable resources. We need you.”
Benson put his hand on Courtneys forearm.
“I’ll give you a month to think about it. You’ve been through a lot. You need some rest. You’ll be visiting here for a while.”
Releasing his hand from Courtney, he moved to the coffee table to pick up a loose sheet of paper. Pulling a pen from his shirt pocket, he wrote a number on it and handed it to the analyst.
“That’s a number where you can reach me directly any time of day. Don’t call at night, though, unless it’s absolutely necessary. Mrs. Benson needs my time too.”


404
He turned to Orefice.
“Let’s get going, Scotty - we have work to do.”
Facing Courtney again, and smiling sincerely, he extended his hand.
“Good luck, Michael. I hope you take my offer seriously.”
“I will, Mister President - thank you for your answers.”
They shook hands.
Moving in front of Kay, he cordially bid her good bye.
Her upbringing showed as she stood up.
“Miss McKenzie - thank you for all you’ve done.”
She, very politely, “Yes, Sir.”

Everyone in the room rose.
Benson acknowledged each man.
When he and Orefice had departed, it was left to Eisenberg to tell Courtney and St. Croix that they would both be expected to be house guests of Pat McKenzie for the next thirty days. They could come and go as they pleased, but they should not leave the State of Connecitcut.
At the end of that time, they’d need to give the President an answer on his job offer.


It was decision time again.









405
Epilogue

The concepts in the Universal Physical Laws are immutable, and therefore enduring. They come from observation, tempered with instinct and experience. If the same type of situation is observed long enough, even if the characters and locations change, and if someone has lived long enough to accumulate some experience with life, they’ll come to understand these truths, and will be able to practice them in every event of life.
The Laws can be used to both harm and to heal. They have changed people’s lives for the better and for the worse. It all depends on how they’re applied.
Teaching the Laws can be as frustrating as it is rewarding. On first introduction to these principles, it’s like telling someone to jump into an invisible boat with a teacher and start rowing. Anyone must have faith to believe in their magic and power, and few who’ve been introduced to the axioms have the patience to keep on practicing them.
While many are simple concepts, some others can be difficult to understand. But, under the guidance of a good teacher, in a supportive scholastic atmosphere, most anyone can come to use them to help guide and direct all their affairs.
Courtney wanted the opportunity to be able to make the teaching of the Laws to younger children as universal as it was to college students. The President had offered him this chance, and following some lengthy conversations with Kay and Andy St. Croix, he decided to accept the position he’d been offered in the White House.
St. Croix additionally had agreed to work for the President.
Having the gift for applying the Laws to military maneuvers, he would handle their application in that arena for all branches of the military. 406
While Courtney would work them into scholastic formats for the Administration, both he and St. Croix would combine their skills to develop them in economic agendas. They’d begin their new jobs right after Labor Day.

Courtney never got an answer to his question about George Tollman going on vacation as a dead man. He didn’t think it would have taken a lot to figure it out, but he also didn’t think it was worth the effort.

They’d been debriefed as Eisenberg wanted. Holding nothing back, they gave him everything they knew following the operation in Cuba. About Belize, his mistress, Bellcamp, Tollman, and the mystery man in either the CIA or NSA.

The breach was closed. Robert Wirtham, Scott Orefice, Pat McKenzie, and Randall Benson were convinced Courtney’s and St. Croix’s cooperation in the debriefing also meant they were no threat to the organization.
Almost everyone thought business for Yankee Echo could resume as usual.
Eisenberg reserved both judgment and decision.
He had reason, but no logic to support his intuition.

Friday, July 2, 10:11 a.m.

With Kay at the helm, McKenzie’s Grady White, a thirty-three foot twin outboard planed the waters heading toward Buoy 54, a floating steel structure in the middle of Long Island Sound.



407
Courtney explained his contingency to St. Croix.

“…Here’s what’s going on, partner. When McKenzie designed the electronics system for Yankee Echo, he made sure it would be complex enough so data couldn’t be interrupted or retrieved by any outside source. All the fax machines on the Yankee Echo network are accessed by regular phone lines, but the origination of their messages doesn’t come directly from another phone. They’re delivered on a radio signal from JGM Exports that get’s sent up to space where it’s bounced off a satellite. All the ‘writes’ are scrambled and coded by a cryptic software program. The actual coding isn’t really complex, but the electronics from the satellite to the fax machines would blow your mind.”
Approaching the buoy, Courtney reached out to tether the Grady to one of its tie downs.
He continued his explanation.
“…Here’s how it works. Even though it’s a sophisticated system of delivery from the satellite to Yankee Echo writers. The delivery up to the satellite is simple. Data is transmitted on a regular radio frequency, but the signal’s electronically scrambled and broken in half when it’s sent out.”
St. Croix thought he misunderstood.
“Broken in half?”
“Yeah, nobody in the world would break a frequency to transmit anything - nobody except Yankee Echo.”
“Doesn’t that make it kind of a weak signal?”
“Very, so no one ever pays any attention to it. But it doesn’t matter - the magic’s in the satellite - in its receiver. All we need to do is duplicate the signal, and transmit something while the organization’s off the air. Whatever we’re transmitting, no one can override. As long as we’re using that one-half a frequency, no one else can use it, including Yankee Echo.”
“How do you keep on transmitting something so they can’t get back on the system” 408
“Good question.”
Courtney, unlocking and opening a water-tight hatch on the buoy, invited his friend to look inside. There was enough light to see a black metal box about the size of a conventional microwave oven. Another horizontally-laid smaller white box was attached to one of its sides.
“That thing is its own energy source - a perpetual motion gyro. McKenzie Industries came up with it years ago. It runs off a quarter ounce of high particle mercury in a vacuum tube inside the white box. All you have to do is maintain the motion of the mercury - the friction it creates keeps the gyro spinning, and generating enough electricity to produce half a radio signal.”
“How do you keep the mercury moving?”
Courtney held out both arms indicating the body of water surrounding them.
“Waves - water current. The water here’s always moving, which keeps old 54 moving. It doesn’t have to move a lot to move a glob of mercury.

Friday, July 2, 10:29 a.m.

Reaching inside the buoy, Courtney opened the black box and activated the system.
Closing the hatch, he relocked the small door and dropped the key into Long Island Sound.
St. Croix asked the question.
“OK, it’s turned on?”
“Yep.”
Pointing skyward, he questioned again.
“What’s being sent up there?”
Courtney’s response wasn’t even close to what he expected to hear.
“The Encyclopedia Britannica.”
“Huh!?”

409
“The transmitter’s hooked to a computer powered by a thirty-six month lithium battery. It’s programmed to send out the whole thing - twenty times. That’s going to take about three years.”
“That’s what it’s doing right now?”
“Yep - and will continue to do so every second of every day. Yankee Echo’s going to go through a lot of fax paper.”
“Mick, won’t they be able to trace that signal to where it’s comin from? You don‘t need rocket science to track a radio signal.”
“No, remember what I said? When they set up the system, they never figured anyone but themselves would transmit to the satellite. Just like any other computer, that satellite is a moron until you tell it what to do - and there’s no logic board in it that can look back and tell you what you’re doing to it. The only thing it can do is what it’s programmed to do - and that’s transmit a scrambled electronics signal. Conventional methods of tracking won’t work because you have an unconventional transmitter. It would take McKenzie two years to build a tracing unit to find their own signal.”
“Well, hell, once they fix it, they could just replace it.”
“Probably, but that’ll take time. They’ll spend half a year trying to figure out what to do, and when they realize there’s nothing they can do, they’ll need two years to build another one. At least we’ll let them know that someone can access their science.”
He turned to Kay.
“We’d better get going.”
She was smiling.
Courtney and St. Croix decided to split up for a while and catch each other again after Labor Day. St. Croix would visit and relax with his friend, the Snake. Courtney would stay with Kay in Old Saybrook until two weeks before his new job began, taking that time to find a place to live. 410
They’d told her father they’d be moving in together when he went to work in Washington, probably around Alexandria.

Friday, July 2, 10:32 a.m.

Murray Herald had decided to take the day off. He had time coming, and the Business Editor of the AKRON BEACON JOURNAL didn’t think there would be a lot of hot business news he’d need to attend to this day.
Sitting in his den, he was catching up on some old Fortune 500 reports when he heard the warble of his Yankee Echo fax machine.
Slowly getting out of his chair, he wondered if he wasn’t getting another ‘write positive’ on Cuban investment. ‘Probably not’, he thought. It was too close to the first ‘write’ that he’d just completed and published. At the machine, he pulled the first coded sheet of paper noticing there was no heading or opening.

His reaction would be paralleled across the country by other organization writers.


“What the hell is this?”











411
A-AK
ANCT EASAN
MSC
S GAGAKU
ACAPLA
ITLN
I T CHCH
STL
PFRMCE O
A PLYSNC
MLTPT
SXCI WRK
BY UNCCMPND
VCS
ORGN RFFE
T SCRD CHRL
MSC T TRM N
RFFES T SCULR
MSC A WL………..

It continued…and continued.
Grabbing his code book from the desk drawer, he began decrypting.
A-ak ancient East Asian music: see gagaku
Acappella (Italian: in the church style). Performance of a polyphonic multipart musical work by unaccompanied voices. Originally referring to sacred choral music. The term now refers to secular music as well………..

The machine kept kicking out paper.
Every thing made sense, and yet, made no sense at all. What was he supposed to do with this?
He decided to let it run - maybe they were performing some kind of test? If it didn’t stop in an hour, he’d call his Managing Agent and ask him what was going on.

412
The fax continued to spew out coded words that meant something, and nothing.

Friday, July 2, 10:36 a.m.

David Eisenberg’s fax was producing the same material, and he was getting the same results from his translations. He also needed to contact someone.
It was a speed dial.
Robert Wirtham, sitting in his executive chair with a translation of ‘acappella’ on his desk accepted the call.
“David?”
“Robert - what’s this communication all about?”
“I don’t know - we’re getting the same thing internally.”
“What is it?”
“It appears that, somehow, someone’s crossed our radio signal. We can’t transmit until they get off. We’ve never had a glitch like this before. The chance of this happening are one in ten million.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Wait - I guess. It’s probably some kid fooling around with a homemade transmitter.”
“Can you identify where it’s coming from.”
“No, - he could be in Hong Kong, Moscow, or right down the street. We use an unconventional transmitter. This is highly unusual. It’s a freak accident. Give it a little time, I’m sure it’ll stop. We’re going to change the transmission signal. As soon as this one cuts out, our new one will kick in.”

A - CHNG A-Ch’eng
PN YN Pinyin
A - CHNG ACHENG
FRMLY Formerly
UTL 1909 ASHIHO Until 1909 ASHIHHO
CTY…… City……
413
Wednesday, July 7, 8:55 a.m.

Yankee Echo Managing Agents in the South, West Coast, and East and West Central sections of the USA had been besieged with phone calls for days.
What were the writers supposed to do with the messages coming over their fax machines? Why was the release of this information constant? Why didn’t someone just shut it off? Some were running short on fax paper. Others were just holding an endless stream of coded material until they saw a sheet that made sense. Seven machines had overheated and would need to be sent to McKenzie Industries for repair.

Friday, July 9, 2:55 p.m.
McKenzie Industries - Old Saybrook, CT

David Eisenberg had called for the early morning meeting which had now run into mid-afternoon. The satellite blueprints all over McKenzie’s executive conference room table had been explained by the Information Protocol Director at JGM Exports to him, Pat McKenzie and Robert Wirtham several times from different perspectives.
The end result was always the same. There was nothing in the satellite’s system that would allow either it, or them, to trace the freak, broken radio signal to its point of origination - and Yankee Echo could not transmit until the signal was interrupted.
Eisenberg addressed the IP Director.
“Are we still on standby with a new signal?”
“Yes, we’re actually transmitting from JGM right now. The instant the anomaly is broken, the satellite will get the new signal, and the frequency will be changed.”
“But we don’t have any idea how long that will take?”

414
“That’s right. It’s totally up to whoever, or whatever is sending the other signal.”
From the moment the freak signal had appeared, Eisenberg hadn’t left it alone. It was the only thing he’d thought about for a week.
He’d heard all the scientific theories, and he was convinced that because this occurrence was such an impossibility, it couldn’t possibly be what it appeared to be.
He was thinking of Law Twenty. An intuitive calmness had given him his answer.
He’d heard everything he needed to hear from the scientists and engineers. Right now he was walking toward the conference room door.
Looking backward over his shoulder, he addressed Pat McKenzie.
“Is Courtney still at your place?”
McKenzie knew he’d be staying until mid August.”
“Yes. David, Michael already told….”
He was out the door, and heading down the hallway toward the exit.

Friday, July 9, 3:11 p.m.
The McKenzie Home - Old Saybrook, CT

It took him about fifteen minutes to get from McKenzie’s corporate offices to the McKenzie residence.
Parking in the driveway - he reviewed his thoughts.
During the short walk to the main entrance - he affirmed his feelings.

The sound of the doorbell interrupted a conversation Courtney had been having with Kay.
He offered to answer.
Walking through the foyer, he noticed Eisenberg through the paneled glass windows on either side of the door. 415
Calmly, he greeted the guest.
“David.”
“Michael…we need to talk.”
Courtney acted graciously.
“Come in, sit down.”
Entering the room, he noticed Kathleen McKenzie sitting on one of the large, floral patterned couches where his boss had recently sat next to the President of The United States.
The furniture had been rearranged since the last time he was in the room. Things looked more relaxed - at ease - the chairs and couches were spread apart more tastefully. A twelve foot bay window, seven feet behind the couch she was sitting on looked out over a manicured lawn sweeping down to the beach and the Sound. The afternoon sun, hitting the room from a position high in the Southwestern sky, randomly bounced off reflecting objects in the room.
Courtney, taking a seat next to Kay, offered Eisenberg the couch opposite them.
The CIA man consented to the offer.
Leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs, his fingers were interlocked.
This was his agenda.
“I want to bring the both of you up to date on something. Your transmitter’s working fine. Yankee Echo’s shut down until you get off our radio signal.”
No response came from either of them, although Kay slightly wrinkled her brow as if showing some interest.
Courtney remained in the same position.
The Deputy director continued.
“I’ve been told by the IP Director at JGM that there’s no way to trace this transmitter’s signal to its origin, so we can’t find it to stop it. People also told me they believe this is just some type of freak occurrence - that the chances of this happening are one in millions. But I’ve had a hard time accepting their theory of an aberration.” 416
He stood - pacing in front of his couch.
“We’ve got fax machines all over the country running night and day. They’re starting to overload, and break down. The Managing Agents can’t keep up with the calls they’re getting.”
Again, no response from the analyst or his former student.
“You know, Michael, periodically you and I are going to have to deal with one another once you go to work in the White House. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d rather have you as an alley than an adversary. I just wanted you to know that you didn’t get away with anything.”
He hoped Courtney would respond this time.
He did, from the couch.
“David, I wouldn’t mind working with you on economic agendas as they’re set by the President - but I’m done with Yankee Echo. You just made some strong rationalizations, and I really think you believe everything you just said. I’m not going to deny or confirm anything for you, and I don’t think you really want me to either…”
Eisenberg held up both palms indicating a signal for him to halt.
“There’s more you need to know. When you were doing your tenure with the organization as its Laws Philosopher, I read every paper you wrote. I paid special attention to the one you did for Robert where you said the Leverage Effect would eventually catch up to Yankee Echo - that we’d become an unbalanced energy at some point in time, and therefore become very unstable, and capable of being breached. I believed that, and as part of a contingency plan of my own, I had the Agency build another satellite for redundancy in case we had a worst-case scenario. I can launch this satellite in two months, but it’s going to take at least twelve months to get new equipment to the writers, and another six to twelve months before they’re comfortable with the new system. 417
So, effectively, you’ve closed up our shop for a while. I also know that even with the new satellite, you could find a way to interrupt us if you wanted to - and I don’t want that to happen. You asked for a release from the organization, and you got it. But it’s conditional. You keep out of its agenda, and the CIA will keep out of your work, and your personal agenda, when you get to the White House…I need a response to this, Michael.”
He had a few things he wanted to make clear also. “OK, David - we have a deal. I won’t come near you unless the President puts us together. I’ll also stay away from Yankee Echo - but I have some conditions of my own.” He stood and moved to within three feet of Eisenberg. Their height differential was negated by the calm sincerity in his voice.
“My life, and Kathleen McKenzie’s life, and any future life of our jointly is beyond your reach….agreed”
That was acceptable.
“Yes.”
Courtney felt there was a possibility all of this could work - but he wanted to be sure he and Kay would be left alone. There was a final contingency, and never told anyone about.
“David, if I wanted to make an impact on Yankee Echo, I wouldn’t use interruption - I’d use duplication. The system could easily be cloned by Japanese interests - Israeli interests - East European interests - think of Yankee Echo II, and Yankee Echo III…we wouldn’t know what to believe coming out of the media, would we?”
The possibilities in the message hit home.
“Michael, we don’t need…”
“David - don’t lose sleep over it. I have a lot to do, and none of it has to do with Yankee Echo. I have to trust you, and you have to trust me. Let’s leave this in this room, and get on with our business.”
Eisenberg extended his right hand.
“We both understand one another. I’ll purge both your files as soon as I get back to Washington.”
“Thanks - good bye, David.”
“Good bye, Michael - Kay.”
She felt less hostile toward him - he had been her friend, and he had saved her life. Rising from the couch, she approached him and gave him a hug. “Good bye, David - thank you.”
Eisenberg picked up the cellular phone in his car. “One - Leader.”
“Copy.”
“We’re going back to Washington.”
“Yes, Sir, - copy that.”
She held him around the waist looking into his eyes.
“I have a question for you.”
“OK.”
“What did you mean when you said ‘our future joint life’ to David?”
“Well…you know…I mean what if we..what if we decided to…”
She gently placed two fingers on his lips.
“I love you, Michael - will you marry me?”
“Kay…I’m supposed to ask you that.”
“Who said?”
“I don’t know?”
“Then answer the question.”
“Of course - you know I’d do anything for you.”
“That’s your answer?”
“No…I mean - yes.”
“We’re in big trouble, Michael.”
“I know, we better work on it.”
“Yes - let’s practice right now.”
“Talking?”
“You can talk if you like.”
“Oh.”
“That’s good.”

THY EMBRCD, HLDNG ECH OTH TGTLY, KSSNG, THY FL I LV ….AGN.
419
Murray Herold’s fax continued.

BLK MX Black, Max
BFB 241909 Born, February 24, 1909
BKURSSA Baku, Russia
AMR ANY PHL American Analytical Philosopher
WO WS CONCR Who Was Concerned
W T NAT O With The Nature Of
CLRY A MNG Clarity And Meaning
I LNG….. In Language…..
…BLK ANALZD …Black Analyzed
MNG I LNG Meaning In language
I SV VLS In Several Volumes
O ESYS Of Essays
MST NOTBLY Most Notably
T IMPC O LNG… The Importance Of language…




















420























THE UNIVERSAL LAWS


Although it may not always appear so, there is order in our universe. Every plant, animal, mineral, human, or any other entity that ever was, or ever will be, is not only governed by this order, but is also a part of it.
The universal order, through the science of metaphysics, is revealed to us in a set of Laws or Axioms. They are known as The Fundamental Truths. These forty Laws are guidelines for life, principles upon which we can rely to base our decisions causing ourselves to be moved, to feel, and to be felt.
While the power in the Laws has been demonstrated throughout time, their explanations and interpretations have only been the subject of intense work for the past two thousand years. These studies have come to us from the minds of Plato, Aristotle, Lao Tzu and others in the fields of physics, metaphysics and philosophy.
The Universal Laws are studied by metaphysicians in our nation’s colleges and universities. The metaphysician is an analyst, a strategic planner and thinker who uses the Laws to complete practical applications from their meaning.
The Metaphysician practices TAO XIA, the martial art of the mind.










III
TAO XIA
The Universal Physical Laws

1. Nothing can happen until something else first happens.
1.a. Courtney’s Corollary:
Nothing will happen until you cause something else to happen.

2. Unbalanced energies are unstable, and their time as such will pass;
“The Leverage Effect.”

3. Everything is made of Energy, Matter, Space and Time.
“The Differentiation Principle.”

4. Nature keeps nothing to itself. It gives everything away. By constantly evolving, it becomes constant. By constantly renewing itself, nature endures. You cannot step into the same river twice.

5. In the presence of conflict, it is the responsibility of the most powerful individual to avoid conflict.

6. Nothing escapes the laws of nature, and nothing escapes nature’s notice and reaction.

7. Neutralize extremes by using an opposite force against them.

8. Never push anything to an extreme state, not even positive achievement. When things are too full, they become useless.

9. When action is necessary, the most subtle effect will gain the most effective result.

IV
10. The use of force enhances power only to the extent that it is regrettable.

11. Everything will cycle towards its opposite. Opposites exist in every phenomena.

12. What one believes, one becomes, the more of a “mind” one has to believe with, the more profound the transformation.

13. Velocity can only be measured in relation to another object.

14. Truth about reality neither comes from observation, nor experiment, but from observation tempered with instinct and experience.

15. The less obvious you make your advantage, the more obvious your power becomes.

16. A void will always be filled by its nearest source.

17. Nothing is static in nature.

18. Time is elastic, and rapid motion slows it. “The Twins Effect.”

19. The quantity of any event can never substitute for the quality of a single event.

20. Intuitive calmness will make complex events appear simple.

21. Fear can be reduced to lack of preparation.

22. Every show of strength suggests an insecurity.


V
23. High velocity yields low pressure, low velocity yields high pressure.

24. Any amount of prosperity depends on twice the amount of generosity.

25. Power is achieved through cooperation, no well-built house is well-built by one man.

26. The accumulation of defenses will not protect an entity, but rather will diminish its worth.

27. Offer an enemy as many opportunities as possible to make self defeating errors.

28. Advance like wind, leave like lightning.

29. You become invincible in defense, but victorious only in offense.

30. To make anything move, create a situation to which it must conform.

31. Even the ocean is but many drops. Everything is built, or dismantled piece by piece.

32. No one will make more mistakes than the man who negates intuition and acts only on reflection.

33. While we search for knowledge in books, we find it in things themselves through the empirical and axiomatic orders.

34. In order to simplify, eliminate the unnecessary, and the necessary is revealed.

35. If you intend to walk, then walk. If you intend to sit, then sit. Do not wobble.
VI
36. In the mind of the beginner, there are many possibilities. In the mind of the expert, there are few.

37. The innocent and vulnerable mind is the mind that sees without distortion.

38. To understand reality, concentrate more on how something happened, and less on what happened.

39. We too often seek from without us the wonders of the universe within us.

40. Know you are ignorant, and you know much.

























VII
Introduction

THE EIGHTH PHYSICAL LAW

The written word is the greatest, and strongest form of communication ever devised. It always will be. While dynamic orators in all their eloquence can spellbind an audience during the course of their deliveries, the impression left by the spoken word is usually one of the speaker’s personality more than their message, and the image of the personality soon fades as our proximity to the speaker becomes greater and greater.
Writing exists forever. It may be read, reviewed, and reread for further observation. The author as an artist, has a capacity far beyond the speaker that, when used properly, can cause an outpouring of emotions in thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, and even millions of people The writer’s asset is not diction, nor presence, but rather time. The best writing in its final form has been surgically manipulated many times. The great writers will draft, edit, and re-edit until a final communication represents their deepest feelings. Great and insightful writings are not spontaneous, they are rather reflections of thought processes spanning days, months, and sometime years.
The ability to form words if inspiration, love, terror, and all other feelings, gives an author a channel of power unequaled by any size armaments or divisions of forces. The author becomes the former of opinion, and can be a driving force behind revolution, rebellion, war, or peace and tranquility. A good writer can escalate conflict, move governments, and turn human emotion to fit his desire.
Isn’t it possible then, that the clandestine manipulation of our population could be a routine activity for a secret organization of writers across the United States? VIII
Isn’t it conceivable that much of what we read in our newspapers is really what the leaders of an organization code named ‘Yankee Echo’ want us to read?
Could it be that many of our opinions are based on stories developed by this group to fit the requirements of greater initiatives they’ve fabricated?
In the United States, the team of writers that belonged to Yankee Echo would be a source of extreme power. While our government exists under a constitution, our leaders are swayed by public constituencies, and their opinions and feelings. Given access to the printed communication channels in the U.S., Yankee Echo writers would have tremendous indirect leverage with public officials, and would have similar controls on the economic, financial, production, and management functions of the nation. In addition, they could control the emotional banks of millions through these same channels.
In the U.S., the government tries to control any domination of print media with antitrust laws interpreted by U.S. District Court Judges. These laws serve a vital function in protecting us from any one owner’s opinion; but forming public opinion through the printed media in the U.S. could remain well controlled by a group of writers inside these institutions.
For the purpose of this particular communication, I suppose it would be wise to assume this is a fantasy - a piece of fiction. This may only be a story about what could be happening, or, is it really happening every day?
Wasn’t it Lord Byron, a great writer and manipulator himself who told us, that truth is stranger than fiction?





IX
Prologue

The Sixth Physical Law
Friday, May 19, 9:10 p.m.

Michael Courtney sat patiently, but apprehensively, alone in his small, cramped office on Boston College’s north campus. He’d been waiting for a call from his superior, not the Dean of Academics, but another man who had more influence in his life.

‘Something’s wrong’ the teacher of physical laws thought to himself. ‘He should have called an hour ago.’
It had been an exhausting week, and unknown to him this evening, it wasn’t over yet. It would get worse before it got better.
Courtney reached across his desk to retrieve the stack of accumulating WALL STREET JOURNALS sitting in exactly the same spot for the last five days. Grading his students’ final exams right now would take more energy than he had. It also wouldn’t be fair to them - and besides, his intuition was telling him Robert would be calling shortly. Scanning the papers, his clear, wide, green eyes noticed the front page article on the most recent, in fact, today’s issue. COMMERCE SECRETARY TO VISIT CUBA ON TRADE. The by-line hadn’t escaped his notice, Thomas Griffin, Staff Writer, a good, solid kid he thought, young and eager to please. But he also wondered how a staff writer got to get an interview with the United States Secretary of Commerce. That was usually reserved for higher ups.

His sharp Irish heritage and choir boy round face were an expression of coolness and calmness when it happened. Almost simultaneously as his phone began ringing, the window to his right exploded in a million pieces of flying debris.
X
A lead projectile the size of the tip of his index finger crossing his right shoulder created a burning sensation which made him instinctively dive to the floor. Crawling to the wall where the room’s light switch was located, a glass-covered telephone continued ringing as he reached for the switch. In one motion he flipped off and dove to the floor again.
The telephone’s sound continued to pierce the darkness while moonlight beaming through his now empty window reflected off the myriad pieces of glass scattered everywhere.
With a deliberate effort, the thirty two year old moved his five foot eight inch muscular frame along the floor to his desk, and picked up the receiver.
“Yes!” His voice was understandably urgent.
“Michael, the phone must have rung fifteen times.” His superior was sitting at his own desk in a Washington D.C office building.
“Hang on, Robert. I’m going to put it on the floor, I have a problem. Don’t hang up.”
As quickly as he could, withdrawing a set of keys from his left pants pocket, he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. Leaving the keys in the lock, and reaching to the back of the drawer, he retrieved a small electronic black encoding device used to scramble telephone conversations. He put it in his right pocket, rolled toward the wall that used to contain his window and reviewed the darkness outside.
‘He’s gone.’ The thought caused little relief.
Reaching with his left hand to his right shoulder, he could feel his own warm blood. He couldn’t tell how badly he’d been wounded, but he did notice he still had full use of his right arm and hand.
Returning to the phone laying on the aged oak floor, now strewn with glass particles, he pulled the encoding device from his pants and placed it against the receiver.
“Robert, someone just tried to blow my head off. What the hell’s going on?”
XI
“Damn….we’ve been compromised Michael.”
“Yankee Echo has a leak; we think it’s in Miami. St Croix’s leaving in twenty minutes to check it out. I was calling to tell you to get out, and to take Kathleen with you. Are you alright?”
“Shit, no. Yes! What? Kay!” He pushed his back against his desk.
“No one knows she’s involved except us; what are you talking about?” His mind raced: he’d thought she was going out to celebrate with the rest of the laws class.
“Get her Michael, I’ll have two passes waiting at Eastern’s ticket counter in Logan for a midnight flight to D. C.. I’ll meet you at Dulles, and bring you both in while we resolve this.”
“Are you kidding? I’m laying here with a room full of glass and a bloody shoulder. I’ll drive down with her as soon as I can find her. I don’t even know where she is.” He squinted.
“ OK, just be careful. I’ll have someone over there in thirty minutes to clean up your office and bring your work back to Washington.”
“Robert, we have a lot to talk about if we’ve been compromised. I need to know what’s going on. How can you get someone here in thirty minutes? How do you know someone isn’t trying to kill me?”
“Trust me - just leave.”
“I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”
The teacher winced, replacing the receiver.

‘Yankee Echo compromised? Everyone’s hand picked. Did someone discover us? We’d be hard to infiltrate the way we’re set up. Would someone have turned? Who?…..it’s happening.’
Retrieving the phone again, and placing the encoding device against the handle, he dialed her number, planning to leave a message.

XII
After three rings, he heard the voice of someone he hadn’t expected to be home.
“Hello”, Kathleen McKenzie answered in a clear, even voice.
“Kay, are you alright? I thought you might be out.”
“Yes…Michael? What’s the matter? She could feel his tone.
“Listen to me. Turn your lights off. Lock your door, and stay away from your windows.” Although he tried not to be frightening, it was easy for her to sense his urgency. “Please Kay, do what I’m asking. I’m coming over. You’d better pack some clothes, we’re going to D.C.”
“What are you talking about Michael, what’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you on the way.”

Before the phone went dead on her end, he clearly heard her scream.
“MICHAEL!”

















XIII
Part I

Discovery

Chapter 1
Friday, May 19, 9:22 p.m.

1991

The First Physical Law
Nothing Can Happen
Until Something Else First Happens

The sound of breaking glass can be heard almost as distinctly over the telephone as it can be heard if you’re standing fifteen feet from a shattering window pane.
Sitting with a disconnected phone on the other end of his line, he felt the helplessness of someone without recourse, and the anger of a man in torment.
Kay was in trouble. She was also six miles North and West of him in a Waltham condominium. His instincts told him to run, fly to her side, be there, protect her, pull her away from this problem, but his training prevailed.
He secured another outbound line. Facing the door for what would be a hurried exit, the time span of two short rings caused by his three digits of pressure seemed to be an eternity.
“Newton, Sergeant Wilkes.” The voice came from two miles to his West.
“Sergeant, my name is Michael Courtney, I’m a teacher at B.C.. I was just speaking to…a friend in Waltham when her phone went dead. I thought I heard glass shattering just before she was cut off, so I think she may have a problem at her place. Could you ask Waltham to get someone to respond to her address? She lives in the Pine Glen condominium project,
unit 6C.” 1
His tone expressed desperation.
“What was your name again, sir?” The by-the-book sergeant’s pen created scribblings to be later translated into his log book.
“Courtney, Michael Courtney.”
“OK, I’ll contact Waltham and get some response units over right away - you said it was 6C in Pine Glen, right?”
“Yes.”
Sergeant Daniel Wilkes, a former 82nd Airborne communications specialist in Vietnam understood desperation. Twenty six months of calling in air strikes from Kontum to dong Hoi had developed a cool mental attitude in the former paratrooper allowing him to make quick evaluations while securing the assignment of appropriate resources to a situation.
Within two minutes, three Waltham patrol units had wheeled their Ford Crown Victorias into violent turns - the smoking Michelin ZR’s beneath them screeching against the lateral force of applied acceleration. Officers touched the nine-millimeter Colts at their sides and adjusted their seat belts for a short ride to an encounter now forming in their minds.
He didn’t hear the phone hit the desk blotter when he dropped the
no-longer useful too from his hand, nor did he feel the pain in his bleeding right shoulder. Instead, both his vision, and sense of touch became acutely defined. He could feel the fingers of his right hand pulling the set of keys from an unlocked drawer, and he chose to ignore the release of the tumblers in the very secure Schlage lock.
He could feel his left hand putting an encoding device into his pant’s pocket, but he didn’t hear his own footsteps carrying him toward the door while broken glass cracked beneath his feet.
Running, Courtney laid out a mental road map with alternative routes to a condominium unit that seemed very far away right now. 2
'Nine twenty-five, too much traffic on Waverly - could be problems on the Pike too - something’s in the Garden tonight - I’ll take Commonwealth to 95 - five, maybe six traffic lights - should be able to run two and make the rest.’
Taking three stairs at a time, he caught sight of his black, Jeep Cherokee through the glass wire mesh doors on the landing, but he didn’t hear them open or close.
Nor were they closed by the time the 4.0 liter Power Trac roared to life. He did hear the engine - wanting to hear that sound, but he didn’t pick up the sound of his own heart pounding as an image of Kathleen McKenzie entered his mind.
Her long-lashed, round, moist, blue green eyes could look through and behind his, but it wasn’t just her beauty that attracted him.
She was an anomaly, a deviation from the rule - having the capability to virtually at one and the same time use both hemispheres of her brain. An evolved thinker, she belonged to a group of human beings comprising less than two percent of the world’s population. It was something she never thought about, and Courtney could never forget. She was his student, now his lover, and the daughter of the man he worked for.
Driving on, he recalled the conversation they’d had at the college just prior to Thanksgiving break.
“Pardon me?” She’d never heard the term before.
“I want you to know you’re an evolved thinker. You can use both sides of your brain, almost simultaneously - it’s genetic, but doesn’t necessarily appear in every generation. You inherited this ability from one of your ancestors.”
His then student responded quizzically. “Mister Courtney, I don’t understand,”
“If you have a few minutes, I’ll explain it to you.” 3
Although he’d only known her for a few weeks, he thought her to be a very sensitive individual - a girl - woman - who wouldn’t take readily to being told either what, or who she was.
“I’m not leaving for home until six - I have some time.”
He hit the first light on Commonwealth green.
‘That’s one - maybe I’ll get lucky.’
The Jeep continued to propel the analyst toward a five-foot, seven inch ash blond with light wispy bangs who usually wore her hair bobbed to just above her shoulders. Her simple, straight nose, without flair ended just above lips which were not unusual until she smiled revealing behind them a set of perfect white teeth.
“Kathleen…” he continued, his thoughts on a conversation held six month ago - not wanting to think about the possibilities he could find confronting him within the next twenty minutes.
“…people think in two ways - deductively, or inductively, and I’ll explain those terms to you. The problem is - ninety eight percent of us can’t do both at the same time. You happen to be someone who can think both ways - almost at the same time. Deductive thinking is a process used on the left side of the brain - it’s logical and analytical. Most everyone in the Western hemisphere thinks with the left side of their brain almost all the time. This type of thinking is called linear, it involves using words and numbers to explain conclusions that already exist. It’s sort of like the vanilla ice cream of thought, something has either happened, or we know the result of something that’s going to happen, and we have to respond to it. With inductive thinking, we create premises leading up to conclusions that don’t already exist. Consciously or unconsciously, most people consider inductive thinking too risky, or too hard, simply because it’s harder to create something than it is to respond to something.
4
Because most people are deductive thinkers, they’re usually measuring and analyzing their lives rather than creating and directing newness for themselves. Ultimately, people who think deductively all the time can only accomplish so much because they put themselves in a closed learning format. If there’s nothing existing for them to act on, in other words, some thing, or situation created by someone else, they just keep re-measuring and re-analyzing, which, over a long period of time creates a sort of mental stagnation.”
“Mister Courtney, I don’t think you…”
‘Wait - let me finish.” Her eyes remained focused on his.
She nodded.
“American culture actually teaches people to ignore their intuitive, and sometimes irrational feelings, or what we’d call gut feelings - so - these feelings get repressed, along with inductive thinking. When this happens over and over again, people lose touch with their intuitions, and any insights they might have.”

Two vehicles were waiting to cross the intersection, one a pick up truck. His light was red - theirs green. The Jeep covered one hundred feet more. The first car crossed. The pick up, second in line hadn’t moved.

“Fifty feet, c’mon buddy - what’s your move gonna be?”
It looked like a Chevy half-ton. The fog lamps across the roof line, oversized Goodyears, and front end grill spoiler all suggested one other thing - manual transmission and clutch - two mechanical actions requiring at least three seconds to complete from a standing position.


5
Releasing pressure from the brake pedal, Courtney pushed the Jeep’s accelerator to the floorboard - its electronic fuel injection responding, the lurch pressed his back into the bucket seat.
Speeding beneath the red light, he quickly scanned the still unmoved pick up. A teenage boy and girl were embracing, the last thing on their minds the light before them. His chest heaved as much with relief as the thought of Kay and similar embraces.
“Nine forty Eight…” he whispered to no one while noticing the LED display on his dashboard.
Courtney swung the Jeep from Commonwealth Avenue onto the I-95 northbound entrance ramp toward Waltham. Two and a half miles left to travel.
“I know you’re an evolved thinker because of the processes you use to react to, deliberate, and answer questions that require both inductive reasoning and deductive logic. In this Physical Laws class, I’ve had a chance to observe all twelve of you for about seven weeks now.”
It felt like she was looking straight into his soul.
“I suppose I should be flattered, but I don’t feel any different from anyone else. I think there’s a lot of people smarter than me in this class.”
Without losing eye contact, she released the straps of her pocketbook from her left shoulder, allowing the dark brown Italian leather bag to slide down her forearm coming to rest on the floor.
“You’ve aroused my curiosity, and I am flattered, but I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about…”
She smiled, manipulatively.
“…not even with my evolved mind.”
He spent, and she spent the next six seconds in silent eye-to-eye union - considering, contemplating, examining, reviewing one another.

6
They could each sense the other - both feeling an equanimity - a consciousness neither had ever before experienced.
A gentle smile crosses his face. Now wasn’t the time to continue.
His voice was soft, yet manly.
“We need more time on this - why don’t we finish up when you get back from Thanksgiving break.”
She smiled - again manipulatively.
“I’d like that.”

Nine fifty two. The Waltham exit was lit not only by street lamps, but also from the reflection of a strip plaza’s lights bouncing off the all-glass facade of the Hilton Vista International Hotel sitting on the hillside Courtney made a right hand turn at the ramp’s end, the Jeep’s stabilizer bars performing well under duress.
Climbing the hill - five hundred feet ahead to his left he could see the soft yellow glow created by lights pushing through closed drapes and curtains in the Pine Glen condominium complex. The thought of a disjointed phone connection lingered. He negotiated the entrance with a quick counterclockwise turn.
Two - no, three Waltham police cruisers were parked laterally in front of her unit, their final, skewed positions indicating a hasty egress by the officers responding.
Twenty, maybe twenty-five people stood in the parking area - randomly in pairs, arms folded, amongst the cruisers, their red and blue strobes enhancing an aura of fear.
He felt sick - ‘hang on.’
Pushing the shifting lever to the park position, he pivoted to grab the navy blue LANDS’ END jacket laying on the back seat. He’d recollected his shoulder, and he didn’t want anyone, especially a police officer, to notice.
7
His right arm was already through the appropriate sleeve when his left foot hit the asphalt. Closing the driver’s door, Courtney ran past the cruisers toward the door of unit 6C.
Two uniformed officers stood on the landing in front of the closed door.
“Is she OK?” The gravity of the request from the jacketed stranger was compelling.
The senior of the two spoke for the pair.
“Are you a relative?”
“No…I’m a friend - IS SHE ALL RIGHT?” His voice precise, it contained a bearing noted by both men.
“She’s pretty shook up, but she’s not physically hurt - who are you?”
“Could you please tell her Michael Courtney’s here.”
It sounded reasonable.
Retreating through the door, and carrying only a first name, officer Hale promptly returned - his interior conversation brief.
“You can go in, she’s in the…”
“Thanks.”
He crossed a small foyer. Turning to his left, pausing, he made an evaluation of the living room - of both its living and inanimate contents.
A policewoman sat with Kay on the couch, both were facing him - three other officers were in various parts of the room. He made a mental record of her unnerved appearance.
His thoughts didn’t need tattooing on his forehead, she could read them in his eyes.
“I’m alright, Michael.”
She was lying.
He saw that.
The rock thrown through Kathleen McKenzie’s window was now in the possession of Waltham police sergeant June Olson.

8
She still couldn’t understand why three units were committed to what seemed to be such an elementary crime - but you don’t question the dispatch, you just do your job.
She’d take the rock in as evidence, write a report, and give it to the detective assigned to the case.
‘Probably just some kids out being wild,’ thought the department veteran. She finished up. McKenzie seemed alright - with her friend.
Speaking to Kay, now standing next to her teacher, her right arm through his left, the officer was informative.
“The maintenance people for the complex will be over to fix the window. My report will be at headquarters if you need it for insurance.”
Courtney addressed her.
“Officer?”
Releasing himself from Kay’s hold, he walked slowly toward the foyer, an unspoken invitation for Olson to follow. She complied.
“We’re leaving for Washington tonight. Could you have a copy of that report sent to this address?” He pulled a card from his wallet handing it to her.
“JGM Exports…do you work there?”
“I teach at B.C., but I do consulting at JGM.”
“Is that alright with you Miss McKenzie?”
She’d turned to face her.
“That’s fine.”
“OK, we’ll send a copy down.”
“Thanks, good night, officer.”
“Good night.” The policemen, and woman, left together.
Closing the door, he returned to the archway dividing the foyer and the living room. Kay, her back to him, was across the room.
“What is it Kay?”
Turning without speaking, she extended a piece of crumbled white stationery in his direction.
9
He crossed the room to accept it.
“It was attached to the rock. The police didn’t see it.” Courtney carefully unfolded the cotton bond sheet.

WE KNOW ABOUT YANKEE ECHO
WE HAVE DEMANDS
YOU’LL BE CONTACTED

Dropping the paper on her coffee table, he folded his arms over her shoulders, her head coming to rest against him. They felt each other breathing, eyes closed, hers moist with emotion.

The First Physical Law, while seemingly very basic, is actually quite complex, and eternal.
It was a twenty-one year old Michael Courtney who had proposed its corollary to his Laws professor, Robert Wirtham, while in his Senior year at The University of Vermont. The corollary had been subsequently approved and adopted the National Collegiate Committee of Laws professors.
He’d apply it tonight.
‘The ball is in their court’ he thought.
Remaining in his embrace, she spoke quietly.
“What are you thinking?”
“I have to contact Robert. He told me Yankee Echo’s been compromised. He thinks the leak came out of Miami. Andy St. Croix is on his way there now. I don’t know how they could know you’re involved. They may have done this because of your relationship with me.”
Pushing herself slightly away from his hold, she kept hold of his forearms while speaking with more force than she’d used previously.
“Compromised? Michael, how? We have to call Dad.”
“I’m sure Robert’s taking care of that, Kay. We have to get going.” 10
He removed his jacket, throwing it on the chair opposite the couch, the action revealing his wound.
“Michael - your shoulder! What happened? Stay right there.”
She left him.

Courtney began an analysis:
‘They’ll make contact - with whom - where? Who are they? Why send her this message and cut her phone off and not mine? Did they know Robert would be calling? He was delivered a similar message - most likely a lot more civilized. How could they know she’s involved? Have they located our physical plant in D.C.? Why was Tom Griffin interviewing the Secretary of Commerce on his position with Cuban trade? Did that have anything to do with what happened tonight? Is Robert OK? What about Pat McKenzie - Oh shit, he’s in the Bahamas.’
She returned.
“Here, take off your shirt - how did you do this?”
“ I didn’t. Someone did it for me.”
“Oh, great, are we going to keep this a secret? Who compromised us?
“Someone used a gun and took a shot at me in my office tonight.”
“”WHAT! Does my father know about this?”
“I told you - Yankee Echo has a leak and I would bet someone’s serious about using it for their own purposes - according to your rock note.”
“Oh God, you knew this was going to happen.”
“Yeah - but we’re not unprepared - you know that.”
“Well I’m not prepared for people shooting at you - or me.”
“There won’t be any more of this. They wanted to make a statement and deliver a message - and they did.”
11
He suggested packing enough clothes for a month
“I not going to stay in Washington for a month.”
“You may be right. One, or both of us, might be in Miami in a few days.”
“Oh, shit, Michael. I can’t believe all this.”
Twenty minutes later, she produced three suitcases and two carry-all bags into the living room.
“Kay, a month - not a year.”
“I’ll need to change.”
“We’re going to the VISTA to make a phone call. Do you have your checkbook - credit cards?”
“Yes, I’ve got everything.”

In the lobby of the Waltham Hilton Vista International, he used a pay phone near the main entrance - wanting a clear line of vision on anyone entering or leaving, or just hanging around - even though he didn’t know who, or what he was looking for. It was also easier for him to keep a line of sight on Kay, who was now sitting in the bar just off the lobby, a Perrier in front of her.
Dialing the number for JGM Exports, he followed it with another that a remote AT&T computer interpreted as JGM’s credit card. Subsequently, the call was allowed to go through. Before he heard the first ring, he recovered the black encoding device from his pocket and held it against the phone. Any taps on either line would hear only gibberish.
“JGM”, the company, named from the initials of Patrick and Laura McKenzie’s only son, contained only one employee tonight, its President, and, according to any legal records, its owner, Robert Wirtham.
“Robert, we’re safe. I have Kay with me.”
“She’s OK?”
“Yeah, someone threw a rock through her window - there was a note attached to it about Yankee Echo - I have it with me.” He turned his head again to look at her. 12
“Robert, how did they make contact with you?”
“I had two phone calls. In the first one, I was told to wait for the second. I got that one just before calling you
“Are you closing down the office?”
“No, they don’t want blood, Michael.”
“They’ve already got some of mine - but I think you’re right. What do they want?”
“Ink.”
“In the second call, they told me they intended to use the organization to dismantle public support for the President’s proposed trade program with Cuba - and that we’d better comply.”
Courtney allowed the statement to sink in.
While speaking, he turned again to study Kay.
“Have you made contact with South, West Coast, and East and West Central?”
“Yes - everything in the network is normal. I’m trying to reach Pat. How soon can you get here?”
“We’re going to my place now to pick up some clothes. It’s going to be at least eight or nine hours.”
“OK…this is your ballgame now, Michael.”
He thought about that for a second.
“I know…we’ll see you in the morning, can you get our TAC 5 ready?”
“It’s in the computer, all set to go out. Be careful.”
Returning the receiver to its hook, he walked across the lobby and into the bar, pulling out a stool next to her.
Something and everything about him consumed her. She loved his complexity. She also knew she’d fallen in love with her teacher.
Michael Courtney was the Group Head of Yankee Echo, and had five managing Agents working for him - controlling what he’d been told was an organization of six hundred newspaper writers placed strategically in newspapers around the country.
13
She looked at him, speaking with a ragged sincerity.
“I hate this organization.”
He’d heard it before.
“I know - but your father runs it - maybe that’s what makes you feel that way.”
He’d squared himself sideways on the bar stool to face her.
“Did Robert contact my father?”
“He hasn’t yet - he’s trying.”
She rested her and on his forearm.
“Yankee Echo is wrong, Michael.”
He reaffirmed his belief in the organization, as much for her as for himself.
“It’s done a lot of good over the years, Kay. Think about the incidence of drug abuse in kids in this country. It’s decreased by fifteen percent with our help. Yankee Echo helped instigate the first Earth Day. The twenty-sixth Amendment got House approval by a four hundred to nineteen vote because of the organization. Don’t forget Watergate, and the White House Plumbers - we helped keep that alive.”
Turning to sit straight to the bar, he folded his hands on its oak surface and declined an offer from the bartender for a beverage.
….. “It’s still manipulation, Michael. People should be able to decide for themselves what they want and don’t want.”
She wanted to tell him all the things he didn’t know about the organization, but couldn’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.
His head bowed slightly.
“They do. All we do is give the public more information - and more accurate information than they get from some of the brain-dead desk jockeys that sit in the editorial offices of this country’s newspapers. Our people don’t write material to meet deadlines.

14
They have enough time t write the truth - without a stopwatch in their faces. You know yourself - they’re all hand picked - they’ve been through Laws classes - they’re honest, and their protecting the best interest of everyone.”
Her eyes fixed on his.
“There’s a lot of good people in the newspaper industry besides ours.”
“That’s true, but there’s still too many screw-ups with too much power. Maybe there’s no malicious intent on the part of an Editor, or a staff writer, but because they have to get a story out, a lot of times they skew the truth. Besides, as a group, they’re not organized like us. Even when they want to do some good, they can’t act simultaneously across the country. They don’t have a network - we do.”
She knew it was a moot point - until he was told the whole truth.
“What else did Robert say?”
He hesitated for a moment, sometimes forgetting it was her father who ran this operation, and thinking she probably knew more about it than he did…he was right.
“The people who did this tonight want to use the network to dismantle President Benson’s proposed trade program with Cuba.”
Her thoughts jumped back on the crusade.
“What’s the the Tenth Law, Michael?”
“You know what it is.”
“I want you to say it.”
He felt more like the student.
“The use of force enhances power only to the extent that it is regrettable.”
The argument was going to continue - briefly.
“Don’t you think that Yankee Echo is a force - a powerful force?”
“Yes - but you know there’s no subsequent enhancement of power.” 15

We don’t write to gain - we write to reveal truth - and to implement the development of greater initiatives.”
“Then explain to me why my clothes are in your car and we’re leaving for Washington. The Laws work, and you believe they help us translate and understand a complex world, but sometimes they can work against us. You put yourself at risk by continually using the Laws in Yankee Echo to develop your greater initiatives. The odds say you’re going to lose sometimes. There’s bad people out there who know how to use the Laws too.”
“That’s right, but without risk, without ever trying, without applying the Laws, there would never be any necessary gains. We might never beat the bad guys, Kay. Think about it. The media isn’t full of inductive thinkers. It’s Yankee Echo creating the first moves, or beginnings, or newness, or whatever you want to call it. And to do that, we need to think and act past challenges. You can’t succeed if you don’t take risks - you know that. Right now we have a bad apple in the system. We’re going to fix the problem. You know there’s contingency plans.”
“You also have a worm, someone who’s letting power become their goal, and who’s sold us out because greed or ego became their truth.”
“It happens in every organization, at every level.”
“Yankee Echo’s my fathers vendetta - for what the newspapers did to his father, and for the lousy deal my brother John got after he died in Vietnam. Don’t you understand that?”
“You’re right, and I do understand, and out of the ashes of his despair came some good.”
Drawing a deep breath, she finished her drink. Placing one hand on his shoulder, she moved her other to his face. She was so close to telling him. Maybe Robert would.
16
“You’re a good philosopher, and you’re a damn loyal one.”
“We have to leave, Kay. I need to pick up some clothes. Do me a favor while I bring the car up front? Pick up a copy of the WALL STREET JOURNAL in the gift shop.”
“Are you going to read and drive at the same time?”
He chuckled. “Of course not, I’m going to read while you drive.”
He kissed the backs of her hands.

There were two copies of the WALL STREET JOURNAL left. Taking one, she paid with a five dollar bill, putting the change in her purse. Walking toward the lobby, she caught sight of his Jeep through the glass facade. He was in the passenger’s seat. Looking at him, she thought -‘You’ve got some real surprises coming Michael Courtney. I hope you and everyone else is ready when you discover them.’
Opening the driver’s door, she handed him the paper while somewhat nervously asking, “do you think anyone will be following us?” Outside the shelter of the hotel, it was a logical question.
“No - they got out attention tonight, and now they have us moving. They’ll contact us again.”
She turned to look at him while pulling the shifting lever to the drive position, her foot still on the brake.
“Do you think Robert will get to talk to Dad?”
“I’m sure he will, Kay. We can also try to reach him from my place. Where’s he staying?”
“Same place he always stays - The Grand Bahamian Hotel.”
Unfolding the paper, he turned on the reading lamp and glanced at her. She felt his question before he could ask.
“The light won’t bother me…you can read.”
17
Thomas Griffin, staff writer for THE WALL STREET JOURNAL was a one-year member of the clandestine organization known as Yankee Echo. A cum lade economics major, with a Laws minor out of Georgetown University, he’d accepted a position with the prestigious business publication immediately following graduation, and was subsequently assigned to its Economics Desk.
As such, he had daily access to over two million subscribers. With pass-along readership, his total possible daily audience was in excess of three million.
Griffin was an eager, energetic young man. Responsible and serious, he had accepted the invitation of Robert Wirtham to join Yankee Echo after a series of meetings with the former Laws Professor, and was considered one of its brightest young writers.
His interview, although documenting the Cabinet-level Executive’s attitude on the President’s proposed trade program with Cuba, also demonstrated an attitude that neither Courtney nor Wirtham wanted publicized.

The sudden death of Fidel Castro had left the door open for democracy in the Latin American nation. While democratic elections had taken place, the Cuban economy was still in shambles.
Juan Ramos Santiago, the island nation’s newly-elected President, had asked U.S. President Randall Benson for help in rebuilding his country’s economic system. Benson agreed to assist providing the U.S. was given authority to help keep Cuba democratic. He was given his assurance by Santiago, a proven democratic idealist.
Patrick McKenzie III, Chairman of McKenzie Industries, one of the world’s largest manufacturers, and privately held, had, at the President’s request pledged his support for the Cuban reform plan.

18
Both Benson, and his Director of The Central Intelligence Agency were well aware of the support McKenzie could bring to the program through the use of the clandestine organization the man had founded. Instructions had been delivered in February to McKenzie’s Yankee Echo network to prepare for possible positive press initiatives on the Cuban economic reform plan, but because public support was already in Benson’s favor, only a stand by alert had been issued.
Tom Griffin had personally interviewed Commerce Secretary George Tollman. With regard the Cuban situation, he’d come away from the interview expressing the Secretary’s mixed feelings
The story mentioned such companies as Caterpillar in Peoria, Dana in Toledo, Cummins in Columbus, Indiana, and Borg-Warner in Chicago.
In each case, the Secretary had relayed to Griffin that the development of Cuban assets by these companies could be counter productive to United States interests.
“Shouldn’t we employ our own people to manufacture products for foreign markets before we employ an unskilled foreign work force in Cuba with American Assets,” the Secretary had been quoted.
In addition, Tollman believed that past Russian interests in Cuba could remain a hidden priority, and, if the new democracy failed, the seizure of American assets as some point in the future was a distinct possibility.
Courtney had noted the young writer closed his article with an open-ended statement.
“It may, or may not be in the best interest of American industry to support the restructuring of Cuba’s economy. The Secretary of Commerce will have his work cut out for him over the next few months as it appears he is the authority to decide the scope of U.S. business involvement in our for-now democratic neighbor ninety miles off our Southern coast.”
19
“This guy’s amazing.” He was folding the newspaper as she was turning off the Mass. Pike heading south on Waverly toward his apartment.
“Who?’
“Guy who wrote an article on Cuban economic reform.”
“Why’s he so amazing?”
“He got himself an exclusive interview with the United States Secretary of Commerce.”
“What’s so amazing about that?”
“He’s a staff writer. An interview at that level is usually handled by a Managing Editor. He’s also one of our writers.”
“Maybe he’s very aggressive.”
“Maybe he’s got some friends.”
They’d arrived at his apartment complex.
He had two locks on his door - a dead bolt and a keyed door handle. There appeared to no evidence of tampering with either.
The apartment itself had the same cluttered appearance it always had. Books were everywhere in what seemed to be a haphazard, but was actually a highly-structured disarray. Shirts and sweaters were draped over a couch and two chairs. The front hall closet was open revealing a winter jacket on the floor.
“Michael, you’d never be able to tell if someone broke in - your apartment is always a mess.
“I don’t think anyone’s been in here, it doesn’t look like anything’s been touched.”
“How can you tell?”
The question drifted away.
“Kay - do you want to try your father while I pack?”
The switchboard operator at the Grand Bahamian allowed the four telephones in its Caribbean Presidential Suite to ring ten times before returning to her caller.

20
“I’m sorry ma’am, but it appears that mister McKenzie is not in his suite at this time.”
Kay looked at her watch, it was ten past midnight. Releasing a sigh, she bought some time - thinking.
“Operator, please leave a message for him? Tell him Kathleen called, and that she, Michael and young Edward are fine, and we’ll see him soon.”
“Certainly, I’ll leave it in his mail box.”
Replacing the receiver, she noticed he’d entered the room with his suitcases, slightly smiling.
“Young Edward?”
“Yeah, it’s a little thing he and I worked out.”
She studied the intensity in his eyes.
“Do you think he’s alright?”
He gave her a questioning look.
“Of course he is - let’s get to the Capitol.”
She was asleep before they passed the last Rhode Island exit heading South on I-95.

Since the day Robert Wirtham had asked him to come to work for the organization, he’d always been aware this day would come; when Yankee Echo would either be discovered, or revealed to sources outside its intangible boundaries. He’d also felt that disclosure could, and probably would, come from within.
During the last ten years, he’d prepared contingencies for a breach. His strategies had all been approved by Wirtham and Pat McKenzie. All except two, which he’d set up, but kept to himself.
Michael Courtney held the title ‘Master Of Laws’ - an honor bestowed on him while still in college. The title got him his job with the organization. It also meant he had the responsibility of developing and implementing a strategic plan if, and when disclosure occurred.
He’d begun a battle plan, forming it with the intent of using the only weapons he understood - The Universal Physical Laws. 21
But he also knew these Laws wouldn’t be just for his use, that any opposing force, even one within the organization would also have their interpretation and application available. He just had to hope he’d be better at it than they were.
Colloquially, he knew Law Two as The Leverage Effect.
He understood that the application of the Second Law to natural phenomena was quite simple. Occurrences such as tornadoes, hurricanes, and thunderstorms were all easily identifiable as unbalanced energies, and although they could be extremely violent - they always passed.
In metaphysical terms, or in the world of human realities, the Second Law was more complex than it was in nature.
He continued thinking as he drove.

‘Yankee Echo never had a counter-balance’, he thought. ‘it wasn’t set up to be balanced. It was intended to be an unequal force, a powerful force, and a big risk, but the risk is still worth the investment. It took the Second Law a long time to catch up to the organization, but it’s also going to affect the breachers. They have to be an unbalanced force, and we need that to work against them. We need to know how much they’ve learned about us.’

He kept thinking.
‘Fifteen - we’re not only clandestine, we’re hidden from each other. Our writers only know Robert, me, and the Managing Agents. Robert said the network is stable, no one else has been contacted. That means whoever breached us only has Echo information on Robert and me right now, and Kay by association.’

He glanced at her, almost as if to draw some evolved inspiration.
22
‘They can’t have much of an idea of how extensive we are, or which newspapers we’ve infiltrated. They want to manipulate the manipulators, but they have no idea of how many manipulators exist - we have advantage on Fifteen.’

He paused, wondering how much he really knew.
‘Thirty-Five - the breachers used a greater force to get my attention than they used to get Kay’s. Whoever took a shot at me was damn good. They must have had my phone tapped thinking I’d call her, and cut hers off to get me out of my office. I have the encoder - it would take Robert a half hour to get someone over to the office - time enough to search it, but they couldn’t hear our conversation - why didn’t they search my apartment - or did they and I overlooked it? There was nothing to find there - it’s all in Washington. They have something we don’t know about yet. I’ll give them half of Thirty-Five. We won’t wobble.’

Courtney would weigh all forty Laws in the eight hour journey to JGM Exports in Washington, D.C.

He felt an uneasiness with everything.













23
Chapter 2

Reasons Why

On September 25, 1798, The First Congress, at its first session in the City of New York submitted to the states, twelve amendments to the Constitution of The United States that were intended to clarify certain individual and state rights not named in the Constitution. Ten of these amendments were ratified.
These are most frequently called The Bill of Rights

Amendment 1: Congress shall make no laws respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press, or the right of people to peaceably assemble, and to petition the government for the redress of grievances.
Newspapers in the United States enjoy tremendous power under First Amendment protection. At national, regional, and local levels, they have emerged from thousands of court cases over the years with their First Amendment rights in place. America, as a nation, has fought bitter wars, not only for ourselves, but for others to protect these rights. They are a precious cornerstone of democracy.
There are times in the newspaper industry, however, when the First Amendment is used more as a shield for sloppy work, than as a guardian of our rights.

In January, 1950, Alger Hiss, former American public official in the Departments of Agriculture, Justice and State, was convicted of perjury as the result of his prior testimony before the Committee on Un- American activities of the U.S. House of Representatives. The Hiss case was part of an investigation led by Senator Joseph R, McCarthy into Communist activity in the U.S.
24
Hiss was accused of turning over classified documents over to Whittaker Chambers, an editor for several years of TIME magazine, for transmittal to Soviet Agents.
In testimony before the Committee on Un-American activities, an associate of Hiss testified that part of the classified information Hiss had passed on to the Soviets involved top-secret work on bipolar transistors as they applied to covert electronic technology. Although his evidence was totally circumstantial, and was written into the court record as such, the associate was allowed to present oral testimony against McKenzie Industries of Old Saybrook, Connecticut, and its Chairman, Patrick Gaffey McKenzie Jr. whom the associate accused of delivering his company’s technology to Hiss in exchange for lucrative government contracts.
Almost every newspaper in the country was either covering this event, or was retrieving it from the wire services at the time. In a period of six months, McKenzie’s chairman had spoken with dozens of editors and staff writers in newspapers around the country.
It was said Patrick McKenzie Jr. never refused a telephone call or a personal interview, this against the advice of the best attorneys and public relations agencies representing the electronics manufacturer. The Press continually challenged his plea of innocence against the circumstantial evidence presented at the Hiss hearings.
The celebrated case, in concert with the McCarthy investigation, combined to create a national mood of sensationalism, and an almost unquenchable public thirst for more, which editors and reporters were only too happy to supply.
It appeared no one wanted to believe that either McKenzie or his corporation were guiltless. Both had become victims of the Press, publishing at its discretion, and without concrete reference, words that were half-truths, here-say, and innuendo. 25
If reporters and editors injected opinion into a story and based it on presented testimony from the trial, then whatever they wrote was protected by the shield of the First Amendment
In January, 1950, at the second trial of Alger Hiss, it was revealed that the McKenzie Industries part of the case, along with several other parts, was completely fabricated by Hiss’ associate to divert attention away from the major issues.
Patrick McKenzie Jr. died of heart seizure shortly following the exoneration of himself and his company. His only child, Patrick Gaffey McKenzie III was eighteen years old at the time.
McKenzie’s son understood that in the U.S. legal system, when there is uncertainty, acquittal prevails over conviction. He found it incredible that in the minds of people who had read newspaper accounts of the case that a degree of guilt had still attached itself to the uncertainty surrounding the proceedings.
The loss of his father created a void in Patrick’s life that seemed impossible to remedy. Turing to his high school sweetheart for support and comfort, he and she decided to elope, and were married by a Justice of The Peace on New Year’s Eve, three weeks after his father’s death. That same night, Laura Worthington McKenzie would become pregnant with the first of her two children. Only a teenager, she would bear a son, John Gaffey in September.
Even though he had married, Patrick’s mother thought her son should attend the University of Pennsylvania where he had been accepted for the following academic year. She, as well as Laura’s parents, were disturbed over the children’s matrimonial decision, but she saw in her son the same determined qualities that she loved and respected in her husband. Patrick had gumption and intelligence like his father. The young man, however, decided not to enter the structured academic life of college.
26
He was being neither defiant, nor radical; he simply felt he could learn more in the practical world of business if he taught himself.
His mother resigned herself to this decision thinking formal education could always come later - he would succeed, she thought, with, or without a college education.
She was a woman of great insight.
The young man threw himself into a learning curve. Working daily in the McKenzie plant, he assumed over time, positions in production, finance, and management. His nights were filled with readings - Samuelson’s Economics, Stockton’s Business Statistics, Donaldson and Pfhal’s Corporate Finance, Bethel and Atwater’s Industrial Organization, and the metaphysics his father had been teaching him since he was twelve.
Within four years, he was made President of McKenzie Industries by its Board of Directors of which his mother was Chairman due to principle stock ownership. His move to the CEO’s position was clearly an inside family move, but it was not a mistake.
The company flourished under his direction and leadership. He sought out and hired the best minds, not only in the electronics field, but also in the field of Applied Physics. McKenzie technocrats created and developed products far superior to its competition which placed the corporation in a solid growth pattern. Although he'd never had formal training in the Application of The Universal Physical Laws, Patrick McKenzie III engaged Law Forty as his own personal philosophy.
During the ensuing years, McKenzie would have many philosophical discussions with Robert Wirtham, his best friend. Wirtham had attended The University of Michigan, and eventually became a corporate consultant, and also Professor of Physical Laws at the University of Vermont.
27
It was Wirtham who first broached the possibility of media control to McKenzie during one of these conversations.
The corporate President hadn't forgotten what he considered the unjust and malicious treatment of his father at the hands of the Press. Captivated by the idea of clandestine media control, he reserved any implementation of this concept until the next trauma in his life place him once again at the mercy of the newspapers.
John McKenzie, his only son, had enlisted in the United States Marine Corps at the age of seventeen. An adventurer, he told his father he would eventually finish high school and college, but he didn't want to miss the opportunity of missing a real war. Following military occupational specialty training at the Marine Corps facility on Paris Island, South Carolina, John, and the rest of Bravo Company were assigned to duty in the Republic of Vietnam
It was in the La Dang Valley during the Tet Offensive when Corporal McKenzie refused a direct order from his Company Commander.
They'd stumbled upon a group of six women and three children during a fierce firefight with the Vietcong. McKenzie and his Lieutenant were alone on the Northwest perimeter of a battle line, separated by two hundred meters from the rest of their unit. The young marine had discovered the group huddled under a tarpaulin after he’d heard a child cough. The Lieutenant, feeling the women were part of the Vietcong, and possibly concealing Russian AK-47 Kalashnikov rifles, ordered McKenzie to terminate the group. Refusing the order, he told his commanding officer he was returning to the point position on the perimeter.
In the next thirty seconds, the Lieutenant completed his own order with one hand grenade and a rapid fire volley from an M-16 rifle.
28
McKenzie, now fifteen meters from the atrocity, turned in horror to see body parts spread in every direction and a deranged superior facing him. The Corporal directed his weapon toward the Lieutenant with the intention of taking him down. Before he could fire, however, he was himself shot five times by the maniacal officer. As he fell, mortally wounded, an involuntary muscle system caused his hand to close, the one on his rifle releasing several rounds into a clear blue sky.
The Lieutenant disappeared into the jungle.

The Vietnam experience allowed Americans to see a live war for the first time from the comfort of their living rooms. Advanced electronics, some manufactured by McKenzie Industries, made film camera more compact, and therefore more portable. All the major television networks had several crews carrying new mini-cams throughout Southeast Asia.
A CBS crew had been filming the Northeast perimeter of the firefight from a position only thirty meters to the south of McKenzie and his Lieutenant
As the network reporter and his camera man advanced, they came upon the scene of the massacre, capturing all of its completed horror on film. No one was left alive. It appeared McKenzie had acted alone, and had subsequently killed by cross fire.
The monstrous aftermath of the massacre was displayed on the television sets of millions of American homes. Newspaper editors and reporters from around the country scrambled to acquire additional information about the marine corporal who was apparently responsible for this carnage.
What type of person was this? What in his background could make him commit such an act? Where did he live? Who were his friends? Did he have a police record for assault?

29
His parents spoke with every editor and reporter that called their home. They were sure a mistake had been made. Their son was not the war-mad soldier the newspapers portrayed. John was an outstanding, courageous, and moral individual with a strong sense of human values. Nevertheless, according to the newspapers he’d become a vicious killing machine in the short time he’d been in Vietnam.
The newspaper investigations of the atrocity were base solely on film footage of the massacre. No one ever questioned the camera crew who happened to be on the scene. No one ever reviewed the filming that occurred just before the shots that killed McKenzie were fired.
Patrick McKenzie knew the devastation of his son’s character was based on inconclusive evidence, and was unable to secure from the Pentagon the full findings of the Military Review Board. He was, however, allowed to speak to his son’s Commanding Officer.
On three separate occasions he’d spoken with the Captain, a man promoted and decorated for his bravery during the La Dang Offensive. On each occasion he’d heard a slightly different variation of the firefight. There was nothing left to either prove or disprove according to the officer. McKenzie’s intuition and paternal instincts told him the officer wasn’t revealing everything, but he could not prove it. In his grief, he too had never thought to review the full CBS film footage.
Bravo Company’s Commanding Officer entered the corporate arena following duty in Southeast Asia. He became well known for his perceived bravery in the jungles of Vietnam, and through a combination of political patronage and savvy, eventually became President of a major mid west aircraft manufacturing company. He would subsequently be asked by a President of The United States, Randall Benson, to become his Secretary of Commerce. 30
Former United States Marine Corps Captain George Tollman would accept the position.
After the newspapers had taken as much as they could out of the McKenzie story, they shut down their Old Saybrook operations and turned their attention elsewhere.
Patrick McKenzie’s family had once again been devastated by the newspaper industry. It was enough. Phoning Robert Wirtham in Burlington, Vermont, he told his friend he wished to renew a discussion they’d once had on the idea of forming a clandestine organization capable of controlling issues through the country’s newspapers. The wheels were set in motion to form Yankee Echo. It could not be done alone, there would need to be partners. The organization would also need protection, and Wirtham had friends whom he thought could affect that outcome.
They eventually did.
Trauma did not end for McKenzie - he had one more to live through. Laura McKenzie would bear a daughter, Kathleen, in nine months. Twelve weeks after her daughter’s birth, Laura McKenzie would die in an automobile accident.

Saturday, May 20, 4:03 a.m.

Courtney had been driving for three hours before he allowed his concentration to shift from the Laws to the highway signs. Right now he needed a rest room, a coffee, and some gas. He found all three of his requirements at a rest stop two miles over the George Washington Bridge. Kay slept through the pit stop, adjusting her position only once while he filled the tank.
Returning to the highway with a sixteen ounce coffee, he forced his mind to relax.
His thoughts returned to the second day following Thanksgiving break - his morning Laws class.

31
“Today, we’re going to discuss Law Nine.”
Twelve very bright young adults had assumed seated positions in his class, and now listened intently to their teacher.
“When Action is Necessary, The Most Subtle Effect Will Gain The Most Effective Result.”
Writing the Law on the blackboard, he turned to face his class, arms folded.
“This Law is the keystone of presence, something we’ll begin today, and spend some time discussing over the next two weeks.”
His mouth straight, eyes moving among all twelve of his students - they stopped on Kay’s for an instant, she looking back.
“Right now you have a presence, a state of posture and being. In every moment of your life, whether you’re conscious or unconscious, you have a presence - even when you’re alone. Consider this for a few moments.”
Twelve sets of eyes followed their teacher who moved laterally no more than ten feet in either direction from his original position.
“I’m noticing you, and you’re watching me. If we were adversaries, your presence would tell me how nervous you are. I could look in your eyes to see how much confidence you had. You could review me and consider a train of thought and your next movement. By being aware of your own presence, you’ll also be aware of how people see you. The best presence is one without pretense - just being yourself…”
He noticed her head turn slightly to the left, then right, observing her peers. The teacher turned again, reviewing the board.
“Miss McKenzie,” his voice had lifted, intentionally, startling not only her, but also the rest of the class. She bumped her knee on the bottom of the desk.
He pivoted, facing them.
32
During every class he would choose a student with whom he’d discuss a particular metaphysical effect, or Law. The practice was an exercise in spontaneous intuition and analysis.
“What would you question about this Law”
Their eyes had joined, seeing into each other again. The feeling had become familiar, and was pleasant for both of them.
She’d done her homework. He knew she would have.
Adjusting quickly, she rose from her seat, walked to the blackboard, and addressed his chalk marks.
Grabbing the chalk, she added two words to the beginning of the Law, “If And”.
Law Nine now read, “If And When Action is Necessary, The Most Subtle Effect Will Gain The Most Effective Result.”
Replacing the chalk in the blackboard tray, she faced her teacher.
“I think there’s two questions we need to ask about this Law. The first is, how do we define necessary action? I might think action is required in a situation when you wouldn’t The end result of any meeting could be the same with, or without action.”
Her eyes watched his, searching for a sign of approval.
None yet.
“We also need to ask, what’s an effective result? If I’m looking for a date, should I use subtlety to get one, or wait until I’m asked by the person I want to go out with?
Still no sign of his approval.
Three male students had made a mental note.
“If I’m enraged, how can I be subtle? If I’m sorrowful, should I be subtle at all? Do both of these situations call for subtle effects? Isn’t it up to me to determine if an action is necessary?”
33
Her logic was strong, and although she was right about everything she’d said, she had been timid and unsure of her answers.
He sensed this.
“Your corollary’s insightful, Kathleen. You used both inductive and deductive reasoning to form it. You can go back to your seat and we’ll talk about your ideas.
They spent the remainder of the period analyzing her theory.
He explained to both her and the class that while the Laws were immutable truths, they were also flexible axioms capable of being interpreted to fit practical applications. She’d done a good job in using this Law to fit her own criteria.
At the end of the session, he asked her if she had time to stay for a for a few minutes.
“Yes,” she’d hoped he’d ask her. In fact, she used quite a bit of subtlety during the class to make it happen.
“Please, sit down.”
She took a seat in the front row of the classroom as he came around to the front of the desk. The same, deep penetrating eye contact remained.
“I want you to know your logic is excellent. I also believe you have strong intuitive capabilities - you just demonstrated them. You’re doing good in this course, but I think you feel intimidated by the fact t hat someday you’ll have to apply all of this. Am I right?”
She didn’t speak.
“I’m sorry, maybe I’m pushing you because your Pat’s daughter. You may feel that’s unfair, but I’m stuck in a tough position here. Your father wants you to learn to apply this material. Give me a chance, and give yourself a chance too.”
She lowered her head, raised it, and looked around the room.


34
“I know how much these Laws mean to my father, and how often they’re used by you and Robert in the organization. I also know I have a responsibility to learn them…Look, I feel awkward in here because you and I know something no one else in the class knows. I’m uncomfortable with Yankee Echo…in fact, I think it stinks.”
She turned her head away from him.
“How much do you know about Yankee Echo?”
She knew a lot more than she could tell him.
Her head came around again - their eyes met.
“I know the work you do is important. But that doesn’t mean I think the means you use are right - I feel sorry for my father, he’s lost a lot in his life and he’s very vindictive.”
“Towards newspapers?”
“Yes.”
“Kathleen, we write to improve things in this country, not make them worse” He could see she needed time.
“Maybe we should talk about this more often.”
She felt that was an invitation to spend some time together, away from school. She was attracted to this man, and liked the thought of having time alone with him. Smiling, she decided to accept. An instinct told her to be both subtle, and mysterious.”
“OK, call me…I’m sure you already have my number.
Getting up from her seat, she swept her hair back. Holding her notebook against her chest, she continued eye contact.
He tried giving her a little confidence. “You might surprise yourself.”
She turned to leave - leaving him with a subtle remark.
“I might surprise you too.”
The result was effective.

35
Saturday, May 20, 5:05 a.m.

The Jeep and its passengers were half way between New York City and Washington, D.C. when directional signs for Philadelphia began appearing.
A conversation with Robert Wirtham was two and one half hours away in the nation’s Capitol on the third floor of the Rand Building in the offices of JGM exports. Wirtham was a man he respected, and mistakenly trusted.

It was in Burlington, Vermont, on the campus of the University of Vermont where Courtney studied his metaphysical major and had learned the application of The Laws under Wirtham’s tutelage. In his senior year, five days prior to graduation, his professor had asked him to lunch following the final Laws exam.

While passing one of the exits toward the city that was home to Independence Hall, he let his mind retrace that day eleven ears ago.
His professor smiled slightly as they walked toward the student union along UVM’s maple-covered south campus.
“How did you feel about the exam?”
“You embarrassed me by putting my corollary on it.”
In five days, Courtney would become the youngest American ever to earn the honor and designation of ‘Master of Physical Laws’ due to not only a four point zero cumulative grade point average, but also because his First Law corollary had been accepted a year earlier by the National Collegiate Committee of Laws Professors, and the following year had become part of the National Physical Laws curriculum.
“Then you should get at least one question right.” They laughed climbing the steps to Bennington Hall housing the student union.
36
Courtney sat opposite Wirthim at one of the seventeen round, oak tables in the snack bar. The professor, a tall, lanky man reminded him of Abraham Lincoln without a beard. Wirthim noticed Courtney’s preoccupation as he randomly allowed his right index finger to trace the myriad chronicles carved in the table top by lovers, idealists, and people who liked to see four letter words in print.
“Everyone wants to be immortal, don’t they Michael.”
He indicated his tracing finger with strong brown eyes.
“This was all done by the journalism majors, professor, they’re always looking for a format.”
He was relaxed, and glad his exams were over.
“That’s an interesting comment, because journalism is what I needed to speak with you about.”
The professor’s eyes were plumb with his student’s. Courtney could see he was serious. He’d been taught by this man to recognize and analyze a person’s presence. He made no comment, however, because he knew that the professor understood he was being analyzed - it was an intellectual standoff - and neither of them felt uncomfortable with it. What he didn’t know at the time was that Wirtham was better at it than he was.
Wirtham continued as he opened a plain manila folder he’d brought from class.
“Michael, I have here a copy of the supporting statement you wrote to support your First Law Corollary last year. Would you mind if I read part of it to you?”
The question was asked as if the answer were already known.
Courtney acknowledged affirmatively.



37
“Your Corollary reads, ‘Nothing Will Happen Until You Cause Something Else To Happen.’ You make the case that in the original Law, one could apply it either inductively or deductively to gain an advantage, to stabilize a situation, or to improve something that already exists. In your Corollary you state, and I’ll quote you…’But it’s only through intuitive analysis with inductive reasoning that real newness is created. Any analytical process in induction is never an afterthought to intuition, but the application of the First Law is too broad to allow this. There is opportunity for deductive logic and personal opinion to become woven together with facts in the First Law. When personal opinions are expressed, or even alluded to as part of the facts, there exists the possibility for erroneous assumption, and more dangerously, false, or unrealistic conclusions. Therefore, we must create for the First Law an inductive Corollary, a model that gives us a straight line to pure creativity by separating inductive reasoning from personal opinion and facts.’ I’m sure you remember all this, Michael.”
Carefully replacing the profound document in the folder, he folded his hands on top of it.
Courtney shifted in his chair.
“Do you want me to apply the Corollary to journalism and give you an opinion?”
“Yes, I want your opinion.”
“I think journalism is too protected. The First Amendment allows editors and reporters to write almost whatever they want without reprimand. I don’t know of any other industry that more flagrantly abuses the First Law more than the newspaper industry. Editors and reporters constantly weave deductive logic with their personal opinions - so they end up letting their readership draw conclusions from information with little substance in a lot of cases. Radical groups love this stuff. They can turn and twist articles to fit their needs, imposing someone else’s supposed endorsement on their cause. 38
That’s how they gain followers - it’s almost like having a triple-A feeding system in baseball - and they get it for free.”
He hesitated - he’d made his point but he could tell the man seated across from him was looking for more.
“I guess I have to say though that newspapers like THE WASHINGTONN POST, THE WALL STREET JOURNAL, and THE NEW YORK TIMES have some staff writers and editors that are extremely precise, and don’t inject personal opinion into deductive logic. I’ve read some great articles in these papers that have a strong sense of purpose and meaningfulness. I think the newspaper industry would consume itself without writers like these.”
Pausing, he hoped he’d begun striking a responsive chord.
“Professor Wirthim…”
“Michael, in five days you’ll graduate - we’ll be peers - even though I consider you one now - you can begin addressing me as a friend.
“…Do you want me to call you Bob?”
He chuckled… “whatever you feel comfortable with - my friends call me Robert.”
“OK, Robert. I just gave you my brief on the newspaper industry. Now, can you tell me why we’re discussing this topic?”
Wirtham considered the young man before him. He’d have to be careful. Courtney was the best he’d every taught, a student with great intuition and insight.
A year earlier, he’d accompanied Courtney when he’d made his proposal of his First Law Corollary before the National Collegiate Committee. Twelve professors of Metaphysics sat silently for one hour while the undergraduate defined and defended his statements. Acceptance of any Corollary, or amendment to the Physical Laws by this Body was rare.
39
Most new proposals in the form of either corollaries or amendments were presented by experienced philosophers twice his age. In addition, the aggregate of new knowledge presented in these hearings was usually addresses in the form of deduction, or intuition and deduction, but seldom, if ever, as pure induction.
Following the handsome student’s discourse, the committee Chairman had asked Wirtham to approach him.
“How long has this young man been with you, professor?”
“Three years now, sir.”
“Do you realize he’s asking us to accept a purely inductive model of the most basic Law?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
The Chairman, removing his glasses, had placed them on the closed document before him, and had glanced left and right at his fellow committee members.
Each of the additional eleven scholars had simply shook their heads from side to side.
“Mister Courtney, would you please stand before this committee?”
The formal address and request wasn’t usually made in an initial meeting.
“Young man, at this time you’re theory for a corollary to the First Law has no refutable testimony from either myself, or any of my colleagues. I can speak for all of us, and tell you, that today, we believe you have added a new dimension to the body of metaphysical knowledge…we salute you, Mister Courtney - you’ll hear from us further on this.”
Wirtham returned to the present hearing Courtney’s voice.
“Robert, why did you ask me about the First Law Corollary and journalism?”

40
“I’m sorry, Michael - I was lost in thought for a moment.”
He understood - having had many similar experiences.
“You recognize the name McKenzie Industries, don’t you?”
He thought for a second…
“Aren’t they an OEM? They manufacture electronic equipment.”
“Yes - McKenzie’s Chairman, Patrick McKenzie, is a close friend of mine. He and I have been involved in an undertaking for the last eleven years…”
Over the next hour, Wirtham described to his student an organization known as Yankee Echo - why it supported certain causes, and it’s present need for a Master of Physical Laws as the number three man in its ranks. He gave him as much as he thought he needed to know to get him to take the position. He also withheld more than he told him.
Courtney listened intently, hardly moving during Wirtham’s elaboration.
He finished with a request, asking Courtney to join the organization.
He’d work out of Boston College where he’d be a teacher of Physical Laws, and teaching only The Laws three days a week.
His salary, paid by JGM Exports, was a lot more than he thought he’d make following graduation.
“That’s it, Michael. Yankee Echo needs a TAO XIA Master, and we want you to take the job. I’m going to get us a couple of cheeseburgers and Cokes. Think about what I’ve told you for a few moments.”
Backing his chair out, he left his student alone. When he returned, he found him writing on the back of the manila folder.
As Wirtham approached the table with their lunch, Courtney sensed his return.

41
“Robert, I’ve thought about what you’ve told me, and I’m writing a response. I’ve agreed to accept your proposal, but I want you, and Mister McKenzie to understand I’ll have one condition of acceptance and I’ll need both of you to agree on it. I also have a couple of questions.”
He looked up at his professor
“That depends on the condition, what is it?”
He pushed a well-done cheeseburger and a medium sized Coke in his direction.
Wirtham, although Courtney’s Senior by twenty-six years, allowed himself to become a subordinated listener.
“Because I know you, Robert, I’m not surprised you’re a part of this organization. I think it’s brilliant, and challenging. You have it structured so you’re only at very serious risk of exposure by five people - your Managing Agents. However, at some point in time, Yankee Echo is going to meet an injurious occurrence from risks you might not have considered. At least I didn’t hear any sustaining argument to support the consideration of these risks.”
Lifting the cheeseburger for a bite, he held it in one hand, and used the other to sip the Coke.
“From what you’ve told me, there’s three systems in your organization. The original system is just you, and Mister McKenzie - this is fine. Your first sub-system is composed of you, five Managing Agents - and now me. Your risk has increased by six hundred percent, but it’s still a low risk. Your second sub-system has six hundred writers, and even though they don’t know each other, your risk in this system is unjustifiably, and exponentially compounded. A risk analysis would tell you you’ll have a breach in your system in the next eight to twelve years. The Leverage Effect, and the Second Law have to catch up to you at some point in time. Also, the breach will likely come from within the organization.
42
Actually, this will work to your advantage, because you’ll be able to identify it more easily. OK, here’s my condition, Robert. When the breach occurs, and it will, I would want control of the organization until we have remediation. My intention would be to develop contingencies estimating the probability of occurrence for all the unacceptable results of any breach. I’ll also detail a plan to either eliminate or discredit the breach, and then to reestablish control of the organization. That’s it…if and when there’s a breach, I would want control until it’s fixed.”
Wirtham studied him - the preppie, dark haired, green eyed student who still looked like a kid, but thought like an aged and experienced philosopher.
“I think that would be acceptable. At least it would be from me. I’ll have to run it by Mister McKenzie, but I’m quite sure he’ll agree. I’d like you to meet him next week if you can. He’s coming up for Commencement with his daughter - Kathleen.
“Sure, Robert - tell me, how did you swing the teaching job at Boston College? I don’t have a doctorate?”
“Connections - it comes as a bonus working for Pat McKenzie.”
“Courtney made a mental note - ‘ Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a contingency plan of my own.’
They left the canteen together, Courtney with a job following graduation, and Wirtham with a mission accomplished. Five days later, Wirtham introduced Michael Courtney to Patrick McKenzie and the three of them spent two hours reviewing Yankee Echo in Wirtham’s study overlooking Lake Champlain. The third man was in, the organization had its Master of Laws, and all conditions were met.
Everything but he whole truth was on the table.

43
Just before he left, Courtney was introduced to Pat McKenzie’s daughter, Kathleen.

The breach would occur in nine years - almost to the day.

Saturday, May 20, 5:50 a.m.

WILMINGTON - the glass-white reflectors on the green highway sign overhead revealed their geographic location as the Jeep passed beneath its message. One quarter mile later another appeared - WILMINGTON TRUCK STOP 1 MILE. His requirements were the same as they’d been one hundred forty miles ago. Leaving I-95, he noticed the mercury vapor lights in the parking lot reflecting off at least a dozen of aluminum-skinned tanker trucks, most probably either bound for, or leaving from the giant Maloney & Marcom chemical plant. Courtney briefly thought how McKenzie Industries was to electronics what Maloney & Marcom was to chemicals - both large corporations, both well run.
What he didn’t know was they were connected through Yankee Echo.
Also without knowing it, over the next nine years he’d indirectly help keep both of them, and many other corporate giants out of harms way.

The Jeep stopped in the farthest parking space from the truck stop’s restaurant. He hoped the walk to its coffee counter in the clear, brisk air, would help clear his mind, and keep him awake. Turning off the ignition, the sudden lack of movement awakened his passenger from a dream, she was a bit disoriented, but recollected.
“Michael, where are we? What time is it? How’s your shoulder?”

44
The words were expressed with most emphasis on the last three. She leaned toward him, her head gently resting on his arm.
“We’re at a truck stop in Wilmington, it’s five thirty, and my shoulder’s pretty good, thanks.”
“I don’t know about you, but I could eat a horse.”
Walking arm in arm toward the glass facade of the restaurant, the aroma of bacon and flapjacks escaping the kitchen’s vents heightened both their appetites. Kay, a small bag of necessary woman’s essentials in hand gave him a breakfast order before heading to the lady’s room.
“Three pancakes, four strips of bacon, a blueberry muffin, a glass of OJ, and a cup of coffee - I’ll be back in about ten minutes.”
Releasing her arm, he kissed her cheek, two dozen truckers silently wishing they were standing in his pair of shoes.
The corridor wall heading to he men’s room supported a bank of six pay phones. Courtney thought of Pat - actually, the absence of Pat McKenzie. Pulling the encoding device from his pocket, he dialed for an operator.
Taking the call, she cleared a line the Grand Bahamian hotel as he’d asked.
The hotel operator allowed the Grand Caribbean Suite’s phones to ring seven times.
“I’m sorry, there is no answer in Mister McKenzie’s suite, would you care to leave a message?”
“No operator, would you please connect me with the hotel’s Assistant Manager?”
“Certainly - hold just a moment.”
A pleasant, aristocratic voice was his next human contact.
“This is Mrs. LaChance, how may I help you?”
“Thank you ma’am - my name is Michael Courtney, I’m an associate of Mister Patrick McKenzie.
45
His daughter, Kathleen, and I have been trying to reach him in his suite, but he doesn’t answer, and apparently hasn’t received our messages.
It was a statement made to sound like the hotel had over-sighted - certainly requiring investigation by its on-duty Administrator.
“Can you hold the line for a minute, Mister Courtney?”
She needed only forty seconds.
“Mister Courtney?”
“Yes.”
“He does have several hotel operator’s messages but hasn’t retrieved them as yet - would you like to leave another message for him?”
“No - thank you Mrs. LaChance - I’ll try later on.”
They disconnected.
He’d lost his appetite.
His gut feelings were battling his logic.
‘Think - slow down.’
Staring straight ahead, he walked toward the door marked with a graphic design of a stick man.
Analysis wasn’t working - nothing was working.
‘Where the hell is he?’
Courtney thought of calling Wirtham while splashing cold water against his face from one of the washroom taps.
‘No time now, Kay will be out. I don’t want her upset. Shit, she’ll see right through me.’
He was right.
Emerging from the lady’s room, she saw him standing by the restaurant’s double glass doors holding a egg tray carton supporting two cups of coffee and a bag obviously housing pastries, donuts, or muffins.
He look worried - and he didn’t look like that when he walked in.

46
She felt him look at her, not in her. There was a wall behind his eyes. They’d spent too much time together for her to miss it.
“Michael, what’s wrong?”
“I tried your father’s suite again, he still wasn’t in.”
Her mind searched for a rational explanation. Finding none, she made a statement, almost in childish arrogance.
“He probably went jogging, he’s usually up this early.”
Courtney put his arm over his shoulder.
Spinning toward him, she refused his embrace pushing both his arms as far away from hers as possible. As two sixteen ounce coffees washed the truck stop restaurant’s glass doors, Kathleen McKenzie allowed her frustration to vent.
“DON’T PATRONIZE ME, MICHAEL, I’M NOT A CHILD.”
Twelve truckers thought the sight of her long legs, even covered in jeans, plus the form filling her black, scoop necked sweater were evident testimony to this fact.
In another motion, sweeping her hair behind her ears, she took two steps toward him. Leaning her face into his - hands now on both hips.
“YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE SO DAMNED SMART, MICHAEL COURTNEY, WHY DON’T YOU JUST ANALYZE THIS LIKE YOU DO EVERYTHING ELSE AND GIVE ME SOME WISDOM!”
The wrath of womanhood may sometimes seem illogical, but it is seldom understated.
He had no answer, no questions, no statement.
Turning, she pushed the glass doors apart, entering the pre-dawn Delaware morning to walk alone.
While searching for something to clean the floor, he found a sympathetic cashier has appeared with two fresh coffees in her hands.
47
“You’d better take care of her, Michael.”
Everyone within one hundred feet of him now knew his name.
He received further advice.
“That girl’s eyes were filled with both love and hate, honey. If I were you, I’d be real careful what I say to her. Don’t worry about the floor, I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks….”
He found her leaning against one of the parking lot’s dozens of galvanized light standards, the illumination from above accenting her figure in shadows.
Courtney extended a coffee to her.
“Take it, Kathleen.”
He seldom used her proper name. Most often when he was serious.
“Michael…”
“Kay, listen to me…”
Bending to place their breakfast on the asphalt, he rose to hold her.
She accepted his embrace this time burying her face deep in his shoulder and pressing her body firmly against his.
“Michael…I’m scared.”
“I know, Kay.”
“How much longer before we get to Washington.”
“About two hours.”
He bent to retrieve the first meal of the day.
Placing her arm through his, her conviction was evident.
“You tell me what you want, and I’ll either do it, or I’ll be damn sure you get it. I know you’re in charge of Yankee Echo now, Michael.”
That thought had crossed his mind before.



48
Stopping at the Jeep, she squared herself to him.
“My father’s lost too much in one lifetime. The bastards behind this don’t know the power we control.”

They didn’t know all of it - and neither did Courtney - but she did.































49
Chapter 3

Greed and Breach

The United States Department of Commerce is a Cabinet-level Executive Department. Its responsibilities include establishing and administering federal programs promoting economic growth and international trade. International economic and commercial programs are developed by The International Trade Administration (ITA) which encourages the expansion of world markets for U.S. goods.

Friday, May 19, 8:33 p.m.

United States Secretary of Commerce, George Edward Tollman, was not only a skilled bureaucrat, but also an astute businessman. A Harvard economics graduate, he’d served as a Marine Corps officer commanding a rifle company in Vietnam. Although Tollman had lost many of his men in jungle warfare, he himself was decorated twice with the Silver Star for meritorious service, once for his bravery in a firefight in the La Dang Valley during the Tet Offensive. Following his tour of duty, a meteoric rise through corporate America culminated with the Presidency of Beechman Aircraft in Kansas City, Kansas. George Tollman knew how to manipulate people. His greedy and self-serving character, disguised as ambition and confidence, helped him create substantial personal wealth through
well-concealed bribery and corruption.
Anticipating a phone call, he paced his luxuriously-appointed office in the nation’s capitol, a six foot four inch frame, clad in a Brooks Brothers Spring Tweed creating an impressive figure. One that intimidated many people in corporate America, as well as in Washington, D.C.
50
He had incredible economic power - and where there’s that great a concentration of power, there’s usually corruption.
Passing his desk, he pulled the day’s WALL STREET JOURNAL from beneath a leather-bound presentation book destined for the Chairman of a congressional sub-committee on exports. Tollman understood the power of the Press and his thoughts on it now caused his mind to calculate his risks while simultaneously abstracting a large-scale, forced, and clandestine media campaign.
He wondered to himself if Thomas Griffin might be a member of Yankee Echo, but it didn’t matter. Tomorrow he’d begin to know everything he needed about the covert operation; a phone call would be made to JGM Exports two miles across town - but not by him.
As he read about himself, an electric current caused the secure line on his desk phone to emit two rapid beeps. Dropping the paper, he reached across his desk and retrieved the receiver.
“Secretary Tollman.”
“It’s me.”
The call came from a desk at The National Security Agency.
“Is everything set?”
“Yes, Wirtham has his first call, I’ll get back to him again at twenty one hundred zero five. Courtney will get his message at twenty one hundred ten hours. I expect he’ll call the girl right away. He uses an encoding device, so we’ll have to make some assumptions.”
“Who’s the shooter?”
“An operative I’ve used before, he’s all set for five grand.”
“Is he good? I don’t want any traumatic injury, I need Courtney very functional.”
“He could put a round in a chopper pilot’s ear from a mountain top.”
51
“Does he know anything?”
“No, it’s just another job for him. He’ll disappear. He doesn’t even know the target’s name.”
“What about Kathleen McKenzie’s apartment?”
“We’ll give Courtney ten minutes to call her. I have a tap on her line. My man’s carrying a mobile phone. I’ll call him while Courtney’s talking to her and the rock will go through the window.”
Again, his timing would be perfect.
“Is your rock thrower secure?”
“Same thing - I’ve used him before - he’ll be gone tomorrow.”
“I think you’re right about Courtney, he’ll run to McKenzie when her phone goes dead.”
“Courtney’s not suspecting anything - this is going to shake him up. Right now he’s just sitting in his office reading. Are you sure you don’t want them followed if they clear out?”
“I’m sure.”
“This guy’s just a philosopher and a writer.”
The comment implied a lack of understanding.
“He’s a Master of Laws, there’s a big difference. He analyzes situations for a living - don’t underestimate him. - Courtney and his girlfriend have to meet up with Wirtham at JGM. You can make contact again after they arrive, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were tomorrow - you have the message.”
“Whatever you say.”
Tollman glanced at his Rolex thinking to himself as he hung up the phone.
‘Risks seem alright, we’re on schedule.’
Collecting the JOURNAL from the floor, he quickly glanced again at the article on the front page and thinking to himself, ‘Griffin, if you write for them, then next week, you write for me.’
He had one more conversation before leaving the office.

52
A speed dial allowed him to circumvent any local or overseas operators - a perquisite of his position. Two rings on a phone ninety miles off the Florida coast were all that was necessary to alert the new Vice President of Cuba, and an old Harvard acquaintance, to personally answer his phone.
His Administrative Assistant would normally have stayed late and have answered, however, a final meeting with a U.S. newspaper Editor in Miami had caused her to leave the island yesterday.
“Miguel Belize.”
“My good friend.”
“Yes, Mister Secretary.”
“Our plan is secure. Are you prepared to deal with Mister Bellcamp?”
“Tonight, as we speak, he is with Catalina. She knows what must be done. If the plan does not work, she has a back up.”
“Will she return to the island?”
“Of course. I will soon give you some of my assets, Mister Secretary, but not that one.”
“Are you sure he has no additional information on this organization?”
“I’m certain of that. Once she has the final codes, she will have taken from him all he knows.”
“What about McKenzie?”
“He’s comfortable. When you tell me, I will allow him to speak with his daughter.”
“That’s fine, I’ll call you over the weekend.”
“Good night, Mister Secretary.”
Tollman left his office, taking a private elevator to a secure garage.
It was 9:10 p.m.. Michael Courtney would soon be on his office floor bleeding, and Daniel Bellcamp would soon be terminated.



53
The MIAMI HERALD ranks about nineteenth in circulation among the nation’s top one hundred newspapers. A morning print media, it publishes approximately 435,000 copies a day.
Daniel William Bellcamp had become The Managing Editor of THE HERALD at the young age of thirty-six. His ability to write prolifically, and with great presence had captured the attention of Robert Wirtham eleven years before his promotion to M.E.. Bellcamp had joined Yankee Echo while a staff writer for the same publication. A Physical Laws candidate from Arizona State, he’d won many awards for journalism, all of which helped him rise through the ranks of Staff Reporter, Editor, Suburban Editor, City Editor, and finally to the position of Managing Editor.
Heavy set and balding, he was a fast track, smooth communicator with the written word. However, his egocentric bearing, and two hundred fifty pound waddly frame caused him the thing he wanted most - attention from the opposite sex. His erudite manners and conversation were simply not enough to attract the type of female companionship he desired. The M.E. couldn’t put into his personal life what he longed for, and frequently purchased.
Subsequently, and consequently, he allocated a portion of his weekly pay to subsidize his addiction to women. Behind closed doors in fourth floor walk ups, and in some of Miami’s finer hotels, his whores created for him a life he craved.
It was on an exceptionally warm February morning in Miami when his dream of associating with a beautiful woman who needed him for more than one night’s pay began to materialize.





54
Tuesday, February 14, 10:50 a.m.

Fidel Castro, Prime Minister of Cuba since 1959, and President since 1976, had died in September, a massive stroke claiming his life. Degreed on Law from The University of Havana in 1950, Castro had become leader of an underground organization known as the July 26th Movement which eventually overthrew the Cuban government of Fulgencio Batista in 1959.
Castro proceeded to nationalize Cuban industry, collectivize agriculture, and establish a one-party socialist state, moves that drove thousands of middle and upper class Cubans into exile. His seizure of American-owned companies was one of the reasons for the unsuccessful Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961. His sudden death opened the door for a CIA contingency plan code named ETHAN’S ENTRY that would place Juan Ramos Santiago, a Cuban exile and banker living in Miami, into the position of President.
A democratic idealist, Santiago and his Vice President, Miguel Carlos Belize, a government official, were elected in a landslide victory. Although their country’s economy was in shambles, both Santiago and Belize were determined to rebuild their Latin American nation through the democratic process - at least that was Santiago’s belief. Belize’s acceptance of democracy was dissembled - his love of power was not.
For five months, Belize, and his Administrative Assistant, had been planning with George Tollman, The United States Secretary of Commerce, a method of utilizing U.S. media to dismantle support for the U.S. President’s proposed trade program with Cuba.
Belize, as Vice President, was directly responsible for the Cuban treasury which, even though it was decimated, still contained a few hundred million dollars in American currency and liquid securities.


55
With Russia now attending its own economic problems at home, Belize figured to create his own brand of Communism, not only for Cuba, but for all of Latin America. With his old friend’s assistance, American industrial and financial investment in the island nation would be dissuaded long enough to move Santiago out of office. For George Tollman’s efforts, Belize would deposit from his treasury thirty million dollars into two of the Commerce Secretary’s three Swiss bank accounts.
Tollman would pay his NSA associate two million dollars for his assistance in the plan, and Miguel Belize would take care of his Administrative Aid.
But the dissuasion would not be easy, and presently neither Belize and his assistant, nor Tollman and his associate had been able to conceive through their planning a significant use of the media that would cause the President’s program to fail. The Cuban people wanted American support, both houses of Congress were backing Santiago and the U.S. President, and corporate America saw opportunity waiting ninety miles off the Florida Keys.
The only way the rebuilding of Cuba could fail was if the American voting populace did not support the plan. In the U.S. politicians lend patronage to their constituencies.
A grass roots media effort that would destroy public support in the United States would be an incredible task, and the question of how to devastate this support through the media was one which neither Belize nr Tollman could answer - until Daniel Bellcamp, writer for Yankee Echo, betrayed a trust, and gave them part of the answer they needed.
Bellcamp had been tied up in budget and management meetings for six weeks, and, as a writer was itching to get his pen in hand again.
Standing at the easterly window in his sixth floor office, he silently reviewed potentials for an editorial. 56
Local politics, education, municipal solid waste, corruption in collegiate sports - nothing moved him.
Returning to his desk, he noticed a cryptic facsimile message sitting on top of his latest personnel budget. It was a fax he’d received on a specially retrofitted fax machine in his home - a message that should have been committed to memory, and then destroyed.
D.B. 2/13 9:03 A.M.
ROBERT, ROBERT
PREP
CBA
CPTUS
SUPTUS
NOOP - USEDL
FLWC’SLYBS
2CME - POSSIBLE - STNDBY
ROBERT, ROBERT

It would have appeared as a nonsensical message to anyone reading it without knowing its point or origination, or its reason for existence.
Translated, this particular message regarded support of the President’s Cuban economic initiative.
To: Dan Bellcamp
From: ROBERT WIRTHAM
Prepare for writing
On Cuba
Corporate United States involvement
Support President’s program
No personal opinions - use deductive logic
Follow Courtney’s lead - you’ll be sent
Possibility it will come - Stand by
ROBERT WIRTHAM

Bellcamp, and every other Yankee Echo reporter and Editor or writer across the country had received the same fax.
57
Neither he, nor any of the other writers or Managing Agents knew the exact size of the organization - a decision to keep size confidential was made many years ago by Wirtham, McKenzie, and the then sitting Director of The Central Intelligence Agency. The writers only knew their recruiter, Wirtham, their geographic Managing Agent, and Courtney - the guy who wrote their leads. Their extra paychecks came from subsidiary companies of JGM Exports with local bank affiliations in each state.
All had received the message on fax machines in their homes, and alal were prepared to follow Courtney’s lead, should it come.
Any wavering of public support for the President’s Cuban economic reform package could be met immediately by a blitz of organization-written articles and editorials published throughout the country. If necessary, several articles would follow the first. The fax was simply an alert.
BE AWARE - WE MAY ACT
Bellcamp understood, having received both by Federal Express, and by fax, several hundred of these messages I his eleven years with the covert group.
The idea of the Cuban initiative piqued the robust editor’s interest. The Latin population in THE HERALD’s primary market had increased dramatically over the last five years. He wondered how many Cuban exiles would be returning, or had already returned to their homeland.
How would this egress from America onto the beaches of Cuba affect both economies? There were considerable monies in the greater Miami area controlled by Cuban exiles. How would the potential exodus of these funds affect the local economy? Would the sudden impact of democracy rumble through the entire infrastructure of Cuba, or would it spurt and decline, and ebb and swell like most other start-up democracies?
58
Bellcamp picked up his phone to speak to his Business Editor, a man sitting only thirty-five feet beyond his own office. Marshall Chamberlain was past his first deadline, waiting for the results of the initial blocks of trading on the New York Stock Exchange. Nonchalantly taking the call, he could tell the boss was excited.
“Marshall, who in the new Cuban government will be handling the day-to-day logistical effort on their economy?”
A blank, yellow legal pad sat ready to accept his notes.
The Business Editor, not expecting the question, thought silently for a moment.
“That’s probably going to be Belize, Dan. I know he’s got all the money under his control - why?”
“I’m thinking of interviewing him.”
He wrote the name.
“Good idea. There’s been a lot of talk and speculation but I don’t think anyone has a real handle on how the whole thing’s going to shake out over there. I can get you a phone number from downstairs.”
“Do that for me, please, Marsh.”
His mind was already formatting headlines.
Twelve minutes later, THE HERALD’s receptionist, a former AT&T overseas operator, had the private number of Miguel Belize, Vice President of Cuba. It was passed on to the M.E.
He dialed, not knowing what he would say, but feeling a rush of adrenalin from the possibilities that could emerge from the story.
“Buenos Dias.” Belize’s Administrative Assistant answered the private line thinking the call might be coming from someone within the new government.



59
“Good morning, Miss, my name is Daniel Bellcamp. I’m Managing Editor at THE MIAMI HERALD. And was wondering if you would allow me to speak with the new Vice President of Cuba, Senor Belize.”
He didn’t even know if she spoke English - she sounded young.
There are times when luck becomes the most important part of a successful bid to secure a goal. Such was the case in his first attempt to speak with the new Vice President of Cuba.
Catalina Salizar was not only Miguel Belize’s assistant, but also his financial advisor, and mistress. Holding a Masters degree in finance from The University of Miami, she believed, as he did, that the wealth of a nation belonged in the hands of the masses, as long as a good portion of that wealth belonged to her. She was as greedy as Belize, and until Juan Ramos Santiago fell from power, both she and the Vice President would remain greedy without power.
She knew all about his plans, all about George Tollman, and all about the problems both men faced. Bellcamp’s call triggered in her the thought process they all had been considering, the potential use of the media to subvert the proposed U.S trade program with Cuba. The M.E.’s call was unsolicited - could it be converted into opportunity, for Miguel, for Tollman, and, of course, for herself? Although she had good intuitive instincts, she had no way of knowing the degree of opportunity this caller would lay before them. Although she’d been surprised by the call, she responded without hesitation to the polite voice in Miami.
“Yes, Sir, the Vice President is available.”
She played the patron.
Two minutes later, Bellcamp would hear the voice of the Vice President of Cuba.
During the wait, Belize had been quickly briefed by his assistant.
60
They both thought it would be worth the effort to investigate his intentions.
He took the call.
“Mister Bellcamp, this is Miguel Belize, what may I do for you, sir?”
“Thank you for taking my call, Mister Vice President.” He used the English formal title.
“I recently been reviewing pieces of information relative to your new democracy, and I’d appreciate the opportunity to personally interview you regarding your country’s economic plans. As you are aware, there’s still a large contingency of your fellow nationalists in the greater Miami area, and your reforms will affect them, as well as your own population. I believe you might have a need to communicate with this exiled community. My newspaper could become the vehicle for that communication.”
Belize shook his head, thinking to himself, ‘you certainly can help solve my problems with your newspaper.’
“It would be my pleasure, Mister Bellcamp. Perhaps you could spend Friday and Saturday this weekend as my guest?”
Glancing at his calendar, the Managing Editor noticed a scribbling he’d written - a not regarding a rendezvous with a cocktail waitress.
He struck through the note with his pencil.
“Thank you Mister Vice President. I am free this weekend. I can arrive on your island - say Friday evening sometime?”
“That will be fine. My assistant, Miss Salazar will assist you with an arrangement for an escort from the airport.”
“Thank you again sir, I look forward to seeing you on Friday evening.”
All two hundred fifty pounds of him bounded toward his office door.

61
Throwing it open, he produced a sweeping gesture with his right arm.
“MARSHALL, COME IN HERE, AND BRING YOUR PAD.”

The Dow was down sixty points with mild trading. Were it not for IBM moving up a point and a half, Marshall Chamberlain would almost have been asleep. He’d seldom heard his boss so excited, and moved in proportion to the apparent urgency of the call. Now seated in the M.E.’s office, he wrote furiously on a small pad while Bellcamp gave orders.
“I want everything you’ve got on the Cuban economy. I need agricultural output for the last five years, gross national product, degree of indebtedness, stability of the currency, and every forecast you can get your hands on. I’ll be on the island this weekend having a personal interview with their new Vice President.”
“How the hell did you swing that in ten minutes?
“Law Eleven, Marsh. These people haven’t talked openly to the American media in years. I’m about to open the floodgates of journalism in the world’s newest democracy.”
He wondered if Chamberlain had understood his reference to the Physical Law - it didn’t matter.
“Get me that information before tomorrow noon, Marsh.”
Without any additional comment, he was out the door, moving his portly form to a private celebration at his favorite watering holes with one of his whores. He would have the beginnings of an international story this weekend. He thought of Joseph Pulitzer, and the annual awards presented in his name for outstanding achievement in letters and journalism.
‘Would the Advisory Board of The Columbia School of Journalism see this story as a potential? They’d have to consider it, wouldn’t they?’ 62
Friday, February 17, 7:37 p.m.

Miami Airways flight 223 touched down at Havana airport carrying twenty five passengers. The Fairchild’s variable-pitch propellers rotated counter clockwise thirty degrees creating air brakes as they pushed against the plane’s forward thrust. The pilot and copilot applied wheel brakes fro inside the cockpit.
Catalina Salazar had been previously notified. A black Mercedes 560SEL now pulled to within seventy feet of the plane’s port wingtip.
The little luggage that Bellcamp needed for a short visit would not reach the Havana terminal, nor would he pass through customs. He’d been thoroughly checked out by Police security, and was receiving VIP treatment usually reserved for visiting diplomats and dignitaries. When flight 223’s self-contained stairwell came to rest just above the Cuban soil, two national secret police agents were waiting to escort the Managing Editor to the Vice President’s private villa.
During the ride, he thought of Wirtham and Courtney. He new both men would have disapproved of this interview.
However, they weren’t important to him now, the possibility of a Pulitzer nomination, and the money that would come from it mattered more.
Both secret police agents accompanied the M.E. to the front entrance of the Vice President’s villa. One opened the door, allowing Bellcamp to enter alone. When a hidden metal detector remained silent, both agents left without speaking.
“Welcome to Cuba Mister Bellcamp…please join me, the Vice President will be with us shortly.”
She was stunning.
Catalina Salazar had appeared to his right in the open doorway of a mahogany-walled room. Just five days short of her thirtieth birthday, she was wearing a plunging black evening dress hemmed at mid thigh.
63
Her long, shapely legs revealed both youth and physical prowess, She was a black haired, brown eyed, silky Morena colored Latin American beauty.
The fat M.E. absentmindedly straightened his coffee-stained blue and white tie while she gracefully took his arm leading him into Miguel Belize’s library, a considerable resource of reading with a diversity of authors - Tolstoy, Poe, Virgil, Yeats, Sinclair.
Releasing his arm, the comely, almost thirty year old turned to face him. It was such a smooth movement, it was almost if she were in a waltz.
“I am Catalina Salazar, Senor Belize’s Administrative Assistant, would you join me for a cocktail, Mister Bellcamp?”
“Continuing her waltz movements, she took four steps to a Brazilian teak wet bar where she lifted a cut Waterford crystal decanter, her jet black hair falling half over her face due to the sexy tilt of her head in his direction.
“It’s Kauffman Vodka from Russia - rocks?”
Her words were phrased more as an invitation than a question.
“Yes, please, that would be fine, thank you.”
His staccato response was to a question, not an invitation.
She noticed.
Pivoting, she swept her hair with a twist of her long neck, arm extended offering the libation. He began to feel more at ease, accepting the drink more graciously than he’d responded to its proposal.
Bellcamp raised his glass, an offering for her to follow.
“To the success of your new democracy, Senorita Salazar.”
The toast was sincere, and quite evident to her. She responded without hesitation and moved closer to the fat man.
“To you, Mister Bellcamp, and your kind words.” 64
Her toast was patronizing. He didn’t miss it, she’d just blown Law Nine.
As they sipped their Kauffman, the Vice President appeared in the library’s doorway. Belize was a handsome, mustached, muscular, average sized man who looked aptly intelligent enough to be able to handle and interpret the volumes gracing his favorite retreat.
She played hostess.
“Senor Vice President, this is your houseguest from Miami, Mister Bellcamp.”
He felt an awkwardness standing next to this woman, a drink in his hand. Shuffling, he moved three feet.
Walking briskly toward them, the Vice President extended his right hand, reaching for the Managing Editor’s.
“Welcome to our country Mister Bellcamp. Please, make yourself comfortable, we have much to discuss.“
The VP motioned to a couch and two red leather wingbacks sitting on a blue Persian oriental in the middle of the room.
“Something for you?”
Her voice indicated not only a willingness to fix her boss a drink, but also a comprehension indicating she knew what it would be.
‘Yes, Catalina, a tequila, please.”
For the next two hours, Miguel Belize demonstrated what the M.E. had anticipated in the Eleventh Law, a willingness not only to speak with the U.S. media, but also to cooperatively respond to any questions. The new democratic nation was in its infancy, it would need to walk before it could run. There would be at least a three year transition period required to rebuild reliable production, service, and distribution system, among others. Belize told him the government had not yet decided which direction Cuba’s new economic policy would follow.
65
There were opportunities in finance, tourism, agriculture, and industry. To pursue all of these at once with limited capital available would not be practical. To pick a niche would require many months of diligent analysis and planning.
The Vice President was buying political time. He disguised his economic hesitation as pragmatism, but Bellcamp was no fool.
His many awards for journalism were bestowed for his intellectual insight. His training in the Physical Laws, and their applied application, led him to believe that before him there was a planner who was not planning, a comptroller with a hidden agenda.
The M.E. had ten pages of notes at the end of two hours. Beside him on a red leather, brass appointed couch sat Salazar, her position erotically emblematic.
She was willing to assume any posture necessary to secure the type of editorial commentary THE MIAMI HERALD could provide that would help subvert U.S. economic development in Cuba, and therefore, indirectly provide for her future.
Three intelligent people, sitting less than six feet away from each other were playing games. Bellcamp, feeling he was the brightest of the three, decided at the end of the second hour to shift the game to his rules.
Both of them had been cooperative, but he felt they were too anxious, too prepared with pat answers. It appeared they had orchestrated and rehearsed both their conversations, as well as their responses to his anticipated questions. He had scrupulously reviewed the data provided to him by Marshall Chamberlain.
“Mister Vice President, please excuse me if my naïve knowledge in government is showing, but wouldn’t it be wise for you to accept the offers of American corporations willing to provide the economic expertise and capital you need to rebuild your economy?” 66
He saw a diminishing glance cast from Belize to Salazar.
It was she who spoke next.
“Mister Bellcamp, with my Vice President’s permission, I’ll answer your question, if I may speak …off the record.”
Both looked toward Belize, he making a simple gesture of approval by slightly raising his cocktail while moving deep into his chair.
The M.E. obligingly agreed to the ‘off the record’ request by simply depositing his pad and pen on the Italian marble coffee table between all of them.
She moved closer to him, right leg crossed over left, her right knee slightly touching his right thigh. Her cocktail evening dress shifted accordingly, the hem line now about three inches higher on her leg than where it was intended to be when the dress was made.
She engaged the M.E.
“There’s still very much poverty and deprivation in Cube, Mister Bellcamp. Before any macro economic development plan is developed, we have to feed every man, woman and child. Hungry people cannot build factories and manufacturing equipment. The proposed U.S. aid is unilateral, and we don’t think it’s properly prioritized.”
Leaning toward him, she gently touched his hand.
“We need food and clothing right now, not bricks and steel.”
The M.E. knew he was being delivered a cop-out story. Cuba was in no way going hungry or naked. He listened politely, however, until she’d finished her attempt at just plain bullshitting him.
At 11:30 the Vice President excused himself - an early morning appointment with Cuba’s Agricultural Minister required two hours of preparation.
Bellcamp stood to shake the VP’s hand once again and thanked him for the interview.
67
“Mister Bellcamp, perhaps while I’m attending my agricultural meeting, you will allow Catalina to show you our island. I will be able to meet with you again tomorrow afternoon. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Sir, please, make yourself at home in my residence.”
“Thank you, Mister Vice President.”
The V.P. acknowledged his Administrative Assistant, and with no further words left them alone.
“Vodka rocks, Mister Bellcamp?”
She was pouring before he had a chance to answer.
“Miss Salazar, while we’re touring your island tomorrow, I’d feel more comfortable if you’d call me by my first name.”
“Of course…Dan, and I am Catalina.”
They chatted idly for another hour. She’d kicked off her shoes and had drawn her legs up and under her on the leather couch cushions. Her left arm extending along its top, she was nearly touching his hair.
The right side of his brain told him he was being misdirected. What the hell was so necessary in what she said to keep ‘off the record’ The left side of his brain told him it was of no consequence, he could write whatever he wanted.
At 12:45 a.m., she suggested they have breakfast together on the north veranda. She was also staying the night, and would meet him at
8:00.
Directing him to his room, she held his arm as she had when he first arrived. At the bedroom door, she leaned against the dark walnut trim, hands behind her back.
“Cuba desperately needs help, and your newspaper can play an important role in our development.”

68
He detected a pretense - why? What was it she and Belize really wanted?
“Good night, Dan.” He didn’t return her words with his own.

Saturday, February 18, 8:04 a.m.

The view from beyond the north veranda’s French glass doors was straight across the Archipelago de Sabana toward the Straights of Florida. Its deep blue-green waters had been crossed by many exiles both in yachts and on homemade rafts.
‘What price will people pay for democracy’ he thought.
“Good morning, Dan!”
Turning, he watched her move toward him in a tight, Egyptian cotton Liz Claiborne, its blue and white floral pattern, as her evening dress, stopped at mid thigh.
“Good morning, Catalina.”
He wore an open collard, green Izod and white chinos.
They were totally out of synch. He knew it, and she knew it.
Eating breakfast with accompanying small talk, he thought through the notes his Business Editor had given him to review.
The Soviet Union had been spending eight million dollars a day in Cuba when it abandoned its only Western Hemisphere Satellite. While the Russian presence had provided a ninety-six percent literacy rate, it’s efforts to diversify the economy had failed. Cuba remained one of the world’s leading sugar producers, but its markets were still primarily in the Soviet Bloc. The island was strategic to the U.S. in terms of its geographic venue, and whatever U.S. President Randall Benson needed to do to keep it democratic would receive top priority in his administration. 69
Cuba’s per-capita income was a dismal fourteen hundred dollars per year. A better communist economic system would boost total PCI, and would geometrically improve the living standards of the masses in equal proportion, however, a democratic system would exponentially increase the PCI, but would leave a residual core of depravity. Such is the price of a free society.
Supposedly, the rich will care for the poor, but the translation of that idea never seems to reach maturity. In a democracy, there will always be economic, and subsequently and consequently, sociologic stratums.
Sipping her dark coffee from a Belleek cup, she returned the china to its identically patterned saucer.
“Dan, I grew up in the lowest layer of society in Havana. My mother tailored for the Military Officers Corps, and spent a good deal of her earnings each month to buy me books that would help me learn English. When I was eighteen, a little-known exchange program allowed me to attend The University of Miami where I received a Bachelor’s degree in Accounting, and a Master’s degree in finance. When I finished, I entered government service as a financial analyst. I was Miguel’s protégé at the time, and I’ve been with him ever since.”
What she didn’t tell him was that both her great beauty, and her intelligence had captivated the senior government official who would eventually become Vice President, and who would subsequently reward his assistant; rewards she perceived as deserving.
“The first part of my life was not easy, Dan. I know what it’s like to be poor, and if I can help it, I’ll remove poverty from my country.”
She finished her personal, and partial political platform. He’d heard a lot of sob stories in his journalism career.
70
Normally, to him, this just would have been another. But the storyteller captivated him, caught his emotional attention. He knew his feelings were displaced, but they overruled his logic.
They decided to go for a ride.
A four door, silver 700 series BMW cruised the Cuban landscape driven by a woman, who as a child, could only dream of owning such an extravagance. Beside her sat the Managing Editor of a major U.S. daily, his head swimming with questions and doubt.
“Catalina, pull over.”
“What…do you feel alright?”
“I need to speak with you.”
She swung the car off the coastal highway onto a dusty, seventy foot wide patch of dry dirt and pebbles. The high torque pride of the BMW fleet negotiated perfectly over several rain-washed ruts, finally coming to rest beneath a shady palm.
“What is it?” She’d shifted her left leg to meet her right as she leaned in his direction.
Stroking his closed eyes with the left thumb and forefinger, he suddenly released his hand from its corneal massage, using his hand now to slap his left thigh.
“Damn it, Catalina, you know as well as I do that Juan Santiago has met with Randall Benson, and they’ve agreed to develop an economic reform plan for your country. So what’s all this bullshit about feeding the masses? Your people are not starving. You’ve been talking like a Third World Socialist. Miguel Belize says he can’t decide which economic policy to implement - he wants to be pragmatic - that’s a lot of crap. If you want me to write your story, then give me the truth. I didn’t come over here to get jerked around.”
The last part of his statement was directed more toward the arm holding and leg flashing than any fiscal or monetary crisis or policies.

71
His former remarks were based on an analysis of a deceptive presence demonstrated by the Vice President and his Administrative Assistant the night prior.
Dan Bellcamp, a man who paid women to love him, cast a glance at her shapely legs, and then her eyes.
Pulling the door handle, he escaped the air-conditioned comfort of the Bimmer to enter the mid morning heat settled on the Cuban landscape.
Walking fifty feet to the north, he stood arms placed on hips and reviewed a calm sea.
He hoped he’d temporarily abandoned a now remorseful woman. He knew, however, he’d only left alone a calculating bitch.
She came to his side.
“I’m sorry, my people really do need your help. Your newspaper - you - can write the story of today’s Cuba the way it should be told.
This woman had a mission.
He thought about Law Twenty Four. In order for him to successfully determine both Belize’s and Catalina’s intentions, he’d need to offer them more than they expected. It appeared that right now, however, they needed him more than he needed them.
“Catalina, just tell me what you and Miguel Belize want. You and I both know my newspaper is very influential in the state of Florida - I can help you.”
A decision had to be made.
She decided to tell him half the truth.
“Dan, walk with me.”
Her request was followed by low level seduction, her right arm through his left, his bicep pulled to her breast, she led him across the dusty Cuban landscape.
Her tone was even.
“I am very familiar, and comfortable with the world of corporate and government finance.
72
I was recruited by United Technologies, Arthur Anderson and Prudential-Bache, but I turned down their offers to return here and work in our government. I have an affinity for my country and my people. I know what it’s like to be without. I’m on my own, and I intend to have the life I’ve dreamed about. Miguel and I can, and will lead our people.”
He came to understand that she and Belize shared more than an Executive and Assistant relationship. He stopped, making her face him.
“What are you talking about?”
She looked at him without speaking, waiting for an affirmation of confidentiality.
He didn’t miss the point.
“I won’t print any of this conversation.”
He knew what that could do to the Pulitzer.
“Dan, how much money do you make a year?”
He’d been asked that question twice before, once by a commercial real estate developer with an asbestos problem, and once by a large auto dealer accused of odometer tampering. In both instances, he’d walked away from the conversation. He didn’t now, however.
“I make enough to keep me well fed…obviously.”
She continued, feeling a sense of security.
“If I could make available to you a substantial amount of money, would you consider working with me to help develop in Florida a more proper perspective of Cuba’s priorities without the U.S. reform plan as the main one?”
They both regarded one another following her solicitous comment. She had no fear, feeling this man was approachable.
It was he who was wrestling with the implications of her statement.
‘Did she and Belize want to dismantle the economic plan approved by Santiago and Benson?’
73
The warm, gentle trade winds brushed over them as he considered for the moment the fact that he could deliver to this woman not just the most prominent newspaper in Florida, but maybe access to the entire system of a clandestine organization known as Yankee Echo. Were she and Belize able to access the covert operation, there was no question they could destroy all U.S. public support for Randall Benson Cuban economic reform plan.
His position of power escalated exponentially. His emotional needs now overwhelmed, he decided to create a monetary opportunity for himself that would be unparalleled in his lifetime.
Although he didn’t know the actual number of writers in Yankee Echo, he did know whom he thought were its two main players - Robert Wirtham and Michael Courtney.
He also knew that Wirtham and Courtney wouldn’t just hand over the reigns of the organization to Belize and Salazar for their initiative. In fact, there plan was diametrically opposed to the information contained in a fax message he’d received regarding support for the President’s program. Once again, he felt the pulsations of greed and power rippling through him. He would need time to organize, to prove his worth, to establish his conditions, to plan for a method of payment to him as well as its schedule.
He hardly believed his own thoughts. How many beautiful women would he have if he could get his price from her? He would become a valuable commodity among the fraternity of single females with…say two million dollars in the bank.
He decided to breach his trust. No more fourth-floor walk-up whores for him.
“Catalina…I have a special fax machine in my home……”


74
The cloudless Cuban morning allowed a February sun to heat, not only the day, but also two of its participants sitting on a bluff overlooking the ninety miles of water between them and the USA. Catalina Salazar now had two million reasons not to believe his amazing story about a clandestine writing organization in America.
Having listened to a one hour narration on Yankee Echo’s ability to crush U.S. public support for the Cuban economic reform package, she considered both his terms, and his story.
“You want two million dollars to give me two names?”
“Catalina, you’ve just finished telling me you’d provide me with a substantial amount of money if I gave you the media coverage in Florida, and I’m telling you that you can have the whole country. If you want the economic reform plan subverted, and you’ve neither denied nor confirmed that yet, then the only hope you have is me.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth, Dan?”
“You don’t.”
“Then how do Miguel and I know we can trust you?”
“You don’t know that either, but give me two weeks, and I’ll produce enough evidence to convince you.”
She rose to her feet, Claiborne clinging to her ample form.
“Okay, Mister Bellcamp, let’s go tell this story to my Vice President.”
“No, you go see him. I’m going back to Miami to prepare the documentation you need.”
His eyes were cast all over her, sweat beads from the morning sun forming on his brow cascaded into his optic sockets, their saline content causing him to squint.

75
Bellcamp was using Law Twenty Eight - a rapid departure would leave open questions only he could answer, question he preferred to answer on American soil, on his turf.

“What about the story you came here for? What will you tell your publisher?”
“He’ll understand. That story can’t be written after one interview. I’ll need you to come to the U.S. to give me more details. When you come to visit, I’m sure you’ll have a diplomatic passport, and be able to deliver my two million dollars - in American currency, please. I’ll disappear once I have the money - Marshall Chamberlain can have the Pulitzer.”
“Who…What!?”
“Never mind.”
“Dan, Miguel’s going to require a lot of convincing.”
“Then we’ll need to spend some serious time together to make that happen, won’t we?”
With a smile full of lust, he wiped the sweat from his eyes. She took advantage of an opportunity taking his arm, and, once again pulling it tight against her body.
“Maybe we can spend some time very close together, Dan.”
Deductive logic told him to be cautious, but emotions overruled.

Friday, March 17, 11:15 a.m.

Miguel Belize left his meeting with Juan Ramos Santiago feeling auspicious relief. He believed his report on the state of the Cuban economic reform plan had caused his President to believe each targeted initiative of the plan was on schedule, and receiving his full attention.

76
He’d told Santiago that the United States Secretary of Commerce would be on the island during the third week of May to discuss the possibility of developing several manufacturing plants with American assets - tractors and large-format diesel engines were the most distinct possibilities.
Santiago knew the U.S. Commerce Secretary was skeptical about American assets being committed in Cuba, but he agreed to leave the American in his V.P.’s hands.
He had an understanding with Randall Benson who had three more years in office, and he trusted the U.S. President implicitly. There were also others interested in Cuba - from other countries.
Tollman’s meeting with Belize would actually be a planning session, but it would be the antithesis of what they thought Santiago expected. Their discussions would revolve around the forced exploitation of a clandestine writing organization, and also around the two people revealed to them by a Managing Editor of a major U.S. daily to be the leaders of that operation, Robert Wirtham and Michael Courtney.
Tollman, through the NSA had complete dossiers no both men. In Wirtham’s folder, records indicated he was the legal owner of JGM Exports. His business consulting background, and the Physical Laws component of his education, led the Secretary to believe he was very capable of both forming, and operating a multi-million dollar company.
Records indicated Wirtham had formed the company while teaching at The University of Vermont. An authorized electronic check into Internal Revenue Service records evidenced no abnormal asses or capital behavior at JGM - the company was solid.
On paper, and in the IRS computers, Wirtham was a responsible corporate president making money for his company.
77
Had Tollman not been briefed by Belize, he wouldn’t have known that the great majority of monies spent by JGM were going to Yankee Echo writers. In addition, what was not in the former UVM professor’s folder was the ‘why’ Why had Wirtham formed Yankee Echo? There were no records to indicate payoffs for favorable press from large corporations, foundations, or political organizations.
Why the need for a covert organization with such power? Where was the utility of the operation? That part didn’t make sense to the Secretary. However, an adversarial commonality actually made him admire the organization and its composition.

Michael Courtney had been a straight ‘A’ student through the four years of his metaphysical major at UVM. In his junior year, the acceptance of his Physical Laws corollary earned him a title he never used, even though the bequeathing of he title had made him a nationally recognized figure in his field.
Courtney was paid one hundred twenty thousand dollars a year by JGM Exports, and another fifteen thousand by Boston College where he taught The Physical Laws albeit just a few days a week. His income taxes were in order, and he didn’t live extravagantly. A casual, well-dressed and clean shaven individual, he had dated several women, but had never been married.
It was in the last paragraph on the final page of the dossier for Michael Courtney where George Tollman found the link he needed to convince the analyst, and either his partner or boss, to provide under duress, the power behind the organization known as Yankee Echo.




78
Courtney was seriously involved with one of his students, a Kathleen McKenzie, daughter of Patrick Gaffe McKenzie III, Chairman of McKenzie Industries. There was only one other McKenzie child, John Gaffe McKenzie, mortally wounded in a firefight in the La Dang Valley of Vietnam.
Tollman would meet the McKenzie family once again - what was left of them. An addendum sheet to Courtney’s folder indicated Patrick McKenzie III would be vacationing alone in the Bahamas during the second and third weeks of May.
Tollman jotted a note to himself:

Take K. McKenzie’s father to Cuba.
Let Courtney know through Wirtham
Operation begins 5/19


Saturday, May 20, 7:34 a.m.

There are approximately ten thousand people per square mile in Washington D.C.’s sixty-three square miles. The city with forty three hospitals, sixty-one radio stations, and six universities and colleges, was remarkably quiet considering its potential to make noise.
Courtney appreciated the calm.
Passing the final light, another with an electromechanical switch manufactured by Greencastle Manufacturing, he saw the Rand building two blocks ahead.
The granite structure, headquarters of JGM Exports, was also home base for Yankee Echo. She notice the lights on the third floor where all the square footage was assumed by the export company and the writing organization.
She thought out loud. “I wonder if Robert got any sleep last night.”
79
Courtney, knowing she needed no confirmation, responded with a request, the first part of the first contingency plan he’d formed, and was now developing through its first phase of implementation.
“Kay, after we see Robert, could you call the Marriott and get us a suite with two separate phone numbers? And also, could you call Eddie Dalger, either at McKenzie, or at his home on Old Lyme? Ask him for a Wallensak reel-to-reel tape recorder with an encoder and also an anti-static system. Either he, or a McKenzie technician is going to have to get it delivered to the hotel today.
She nodded affirmatively without speaking.
Courtney wheeled the Jeep into the Rand’s private garage. The new parking attendant, reviewing his license plate, and checking it against his log, waive the wagon through a now opening steel-grilled gate. Locating a space next to one of the building’s three elevators, he breathed a temporary sigh of relief shutting down the V-6.
“It’ll be nice to take a shower upstairs. Which bag do you need for a change of clothes?”
“All of them.”
She finally settled for her largest bag, the carrying strap of which was now slung over his left shoulder. She carried one of his, half as large in the same fashion.
Behind the closed door of the elevator, he regarded this girl, woman. In a physical statement they had come to accept as a private demonstration of passion, he gently stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, both looking deep into each other’s soul through the passageways behind their eyes. Allowing each other their vulnerability, they had now walls between them right now.



80
The Rand’s entire third floor, to the casual observer, appeared to be occupied by the export company. Etched in its glass door were the scripted initials JGM. They’d been engraved in memory of a son.
Pushing on the three hundred pound clear panel, it swung freely and easily on it fulcrum brushed-steel hinges. He allowed her first entry.
A call from the garage attendant following a prior briefing by Courtney had alerted JGM’s President to the fact his visitors had arrived. He now entered the unattended reception area where his two tired, one slightly wounded friends deposited their luggage.
“KATHLEEN, MICHAEL!”
Robert Wirtham was promptly and affectionately embraced by a young woman he’d known since her childhood.
“Oh, Robert, it’s so good to see you - have you heard from Dad?”
A somber reflected moan signified he had no answer, but it wouldn’t be what she wanted to hear. Courtney, two feet behind her, reacted with a straight stare while almost imperceptibly shaking his head, not an indication for Wirtham to lie, but to tell a half truth.
“Not yet, Kathleen. I’ve been trying. Don’t worry, Hon, your dad can take care of himself.”
The latter part of Wirtham’s brief report cause a release of hydrochloric acid into the innermost layer of Courtney’s stomach.
“Kay, why don’t you take a shower and freshen up, then you can call the Marriott and Eddie Dalger.”
She looked through him knowing he’d need time to speak to Wirtham.
She also believed he’d tell her everything when he finished analyzing whatever it was he needed to analyze.


81
“Robert, I think my teacher’s going to ask you some questions. I hope you have answers - he can get cranky.”
She kissed her father’s friend on the cheek.
“I’m glad we’re with you.”
Retrieving her bag, she moved to JGM’s executive suite, three rooms and two bathrooms that would easily flatter any five star hotel guest.
Courtney exchanged a deliberate with his mentor.
“Where’s Pat?”
“I don’t know…but he’s in their hands.”


























82
Chapter 4

The Eighteenth Physical Law
Time Is Elastic, And Rapid Motion Slows It


Saturday, May 20, 11:37 a.m.

Albert Einstein’s Special General Theory of Relativity is considered by many learned men and women to be the single most important thought of humankind.
In part of his theory, Einstein proved that the effect of motion and gravity on time caused it to become dilated, or expanded. Time dilation in relativity confirmed that the faster you move, the more time you have to complete something.
In metaphysical terms, the theory of the Eighteenth Law has more philosophical than physical properties. In the world of human realities, advantages are gained by rapid motion, thinking and acting before an adversary can act, causes a negative effect on any offense posture established by an opponent.
A pitcher in baseball always has the advantage of a batter because of the Eighteenth Law, but a runner on first base has the advantage over the pitcher. A Special Forces British commando unit who’s slogan is “Who Dares, Wins” is an example of the practical application of Law Eighteen.

Courtney, sitting opposite JGM’s President following a shave, shower, and three hour rest, subconsciously brought Law Eighteen to bear on the breach in Yankee Echo. In his contingency plan, it would become a remediation priority. Act first, and act quickly.


83
“How’s Kathleen, Michael?”
“She’s still sleeping.”
Wirtham’s voice was soft - “When are you going to tell her about Pat?”
Courtney’s was equally soft - “Soon, before she figures it out on her own. When was the last time they made contact with you?”
“It was about forty-five minutes before you got here. - the message was - We Have Mister McKenzie, And We’re Serious.
“It was a man’s voice, mature, clear, no accent. Apparently, they don’t know Pat’s involved with Yankee Echo. I think they took him because of your relationship with Kathleen.”
Wirtham had no sooner finished his statement when he realized he may have phrased it imprudently.
“Michael, I didn’t…”
“Don’t worry, I understand. They want me. They probably think you own Yankee Echo and run it, that’s the appearance we give them. I’m worried about Pat, but at the same time, I’m thankful they didn’t go after Kay. Pat can handle himself. She’d kick someone in the balls and would have been in a world of trouble.”
Sitting deeper in his chair, he began tapping the tips of his fingers together in front of his chest, finally bringing each hand’s opposite digits to rest against their counterparts.
“Robert, is our TAC 5 ready?”
A ‘TAC‘, or Tactical Advantage Communication, was a coded organization message which would alert the Yankee Echo network regarding the stories, and the number of stories they would write, what position to take on their stories, and when to publish.
“Yes, it’s all loaded for a Cuban write.”
“When did the breacher say he’d contact us again?”
“He wasn’t specific - but he sounded urgent.”

84
Courtney sat up straight in his chair, his hands coming to rest on his knees.
“OK, let’s roll the TAC this afternoon, but I want to exclude any newspaper with a circulation base greater than two hundred thousand. I’m guessing the breachers are probably metropolitan based, so I want to keep the stories in the smaller format papers. Maybe we can give grass-roots America a shot in the arm.”
“How many writes do you want?”
“Just one - I don’t want to make too many changes right now.
“Michael soon were going to be working for them, they want negative press.”
“They’re going to get it. Remember, they don’t know how big we are - at least we don’t think they do. I don’t intend to turn the whole organization over to them. Only half of it.
Courtney had no idea he’d only be turning over one-tenth of the writers in the clandestine operation for the breachers’ purpose.
“What’s your occurrence plan?
“Three hundred writers will go pro-active on the Cuban Reform Plan, and the other three hundred will write anti-package. We’ll work off population, income, and demographic bases.”
Wirtham began taking notes.
“In areas where there’s a high concentration of above average marginal incomes, we’ll be pro-package. I want to use the anti-package writers in our rural zones, and in the SMSA’s that have a diversity of ethnic inner city pockets. One half of our editorials and articles should negate the effect of the other half. Until we locate the breachers, and Pat, and take control of this situation for good, that’s going to be the procedure, unless we run into any unplanned contingencies. Right now, I’d like to know more about Florida - what’s happening down there?”

85
The former professor would answer his question, understanding that his former student, who was now in charge of Yankee Echo would want a full comprehension of the arena in which he was working.
“Andy St. Croix left for Miami last night to check out Dan Bellcamp, our writer at THE MIAMI HERALD. Bellcamp’s called me at least twenty times over the past twelve or thirteen weeks asking for clarifications, checking codes, verifying identification procedures - it was like he’d lost his manual. Then, last week, he sent an exchange editorial to THE SAVANNAH MORNING NEWS about the exploitation of the labor force in Cuba. I don’t know if he faxed it anywhere else, but I haven’t heard of anyone else using it. I checked with West Coast, East and West Central, and none of the M.A.’s have seen it in print either. One other thing, he asked me if Tom Griffin was an Echo writer, and if he was, would I mind if he exchanged some writes with him. You know I didn‘t answer that question.”
“That guys a loose cannon, Robert.”
“Andy should be calling in soon, we’ll have the details on whatever he finds. He was going right to Bellcamp’s house.”
The now-in-charge metaphysician had another question.
“Where’s Griffin located? I should have a conversation with him about his article yesterday in the JOURNAL. Did you see it?
“That was something I wanted to ask you about. Where does a staff writer get the leverage to have an exclusive with a Cabinet-Level
Secretary?” “Someone was behind that, we need to know who.”




86
Friday, May 19, 8:29 p.m.

The short, jacquered-pattern kimono, appropriately packaged in a black Frederic’s box rested in the center of his living room coffee table, it’s contents awaiting transfer of ownership.
It was going to be a surprise for her.
Although Catalina Salazar also had a surprise in store for Dan Bellcamp, the kimono was not the only thing he had prepared for the Cuban V.P.’s mistress tonight.
Dan Bellcamp was expecting a visitor - a Latin with shapely legs who had promised him tonight would be the most everlasting evening he would ever experience.
Splashing on his after shave, he thought about the message he’d written for her on the card he’d purchased at CVS, two blocks east of his house.
On three prior visits, they’d only talked - about a clandestine writing organization and its codes, security clearances, and the top two men in the organization. One who owned and ran it, and one who was it’s analyst. Tonight was the night they had agreed to exchange two million American dollars for the information he’d previously provided, plus the final list of Yankee Echo security codes.

The concept of the organization seemed incredible to both Miguel Belize and George Tollman. But the coded and translated facsimile messages sent from JGM Exports, arriving on request to a fax machine in Bellcamp’s suburban Miami two bedroom ranch, plus the realities that his in-house fax could not be accessed by any other fax, and that its number was unlisted anywhere, led the two men to believe his story could be real.


87
The investigation of his breached trust, however, had come to several dead ends. How many writers were actually involved? Which media had Yankee Echo infiltrated?
His preliminary inquiries satisfied, the Secretary of Commerce had decided to press the issue, and eliminate the loose end. He and Belize had enough information to begin their operation, and all the information they were going to get from the Managing Editor.
He hadn’t heard her come in. On her last visit, he’d given her a key to the domicile he would never see again after tonight.
“Dan, where are you?”
He heard her voice, his first thought was the card. He’d finished writing the message, but hadn’t yet put it in the envelope.
Hurrying, the Hallmark with painted flowers on its cover was thrown into his upper nightstand drawer while he quickly joined her in his living room.
“Catalina, I wasn’t expecting you until nine.”
The sight of her in her black silk Emporio Armani jump suit caused him to forget the card even existed.
She’d brought with her a rather large pull-along piece of leather luggage.
“Can I fix you a drink? We need to celebrate. I bought a new bottle of Smirnoff.”
Slithering toward the center of the room, Salazar deposited the luggage next to his couch noticing the unmarked envelope on his southern pine coffee table.
Releasing one more button on the bloused part of her already revealing Armani, she accepted the invitation.
“Yes, that would be fine.”


88
“I have a gift for you, Catalina.”
Waddling to his living room dry bar, he filled two old-fashioned glasses with ice, THE MIAMI HERALD’s masthead and anniversary date on them providing point of origination. The vodka followed, trickling over and down the frozen water in each.
Turning, he noticed she had assumed a seated position on the couch, right arm over its crest, left leg crossed over right, left hand on left thigh.
The Fredric’s box remained in its original position unopened.
“Dan, come, sit next to me.”
His pulse quickened as he shuffled toward her, a newspaper anniversary glass in each hand.
She stood to meet him, reaching for the tumbler extended in her direction.
Grasping it insecurely, its topmost circumference was caused to tip backwards spilling most of its contents on his new Levi chinos, while the rest of the masthead anniversary edition’s liquor and ice fell to his gray rayon carpet.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, let me clean it up.”
“It’s OK, maybe you could get the paper towels under the sink. Let me go change, I’ll be right back.”
Unbuckling his belt, he moved toward his bedroom.
It would take no longer than two or three minutes to change the chinos, a time limitation held in both his mind as well as hers.

She had no intention of cleaning the carpet, although she would cause it to appear an attempt had been made.
A small, glass vial in her right pocket had her full attention while returning from the kitchen and throwing a pull of five paper towels to the carpet.
A quick glance toward the bedroom assured her she had time.
89
The flask was removed from its silk hiding place next to her equally silk Latin skin. A small, tan cork was pulled from one end.
Pouring the vials clear liquid contents into his masthead edition glass, she replaced the tube in her sleek apparel.
The M.E. returned to the living room.
“There, good as new.”
He moved toward the bar to make her another drink and reviewed the seductress sitting in her original position, a wad of Bounty beneath her soaking up some of the spilled cocktail from his carpet.
Presenting her with the new mix, the breacher deposited himself on the cushion closest to her.
He offered her both a toast, and a question.
“Catalina, I’ve dreamed of tonight - here’s to you and to success - did you bring the money?”
Leaning toward him while taking a heavy sip of her vodka, both silk lapels on her jump suit were caused to fall away from her chest exposing ample breasts, sans bra. The black haired beauty was well aware of her position, as well as the cast of his vision.
“This a night you’ll never forget, Dan. And yes, I brought the money. It’s in the leather luggage. Do you have the final Yankee Echo security codes?”
“They’re right here.” Reaching to the table, he lifted the unmarked envelope on its surface and handed it to her.
Placing his drink in the now empty space where the envelope had been, Bellcamp reached for the Fredric’s box and, in another clumsy gesture, struck his glass with the box’s edge while lifting it for presentation. This caused his MIAMI HERALD anniversary edition to empty itself on the already wet carpet.
The Cuban beauty’s dark brown eyes closed, and summarily slowly opened.

90
She would need to implement the alternative plan with the assistance of two Cuban secret police presently sitting idle in a black Cadillac Seville parked across the road outside his house.
It would be messy.
“Oh, shit, I’ll get another one.”
Sipping her beverage once again, Salazar thought of the lamp she needed to illuminate sitting on a table across the living room in front of a window - a signal for two agents to lock and load their silenced revolvers. Enough rounds from each would be deposited into the body of one Managing Editor until that body no longer functioned.
The agents were now on standby. When she left the ranch, they would enter and complete a night’s work. She would not have to witness it - just accept it.
Uncrossing her legs, Salazar rose to complete the indicator, but found her long, lower left limb buckle beneath her weight. Tumbling to the deep, gray rayon, her own, and second drink splashed to a radius of ten feet while a blurred, spinning vision of soft light, accompanied by a generous warmth, consumed her nervous system. When she resumed consciousness two hours later, she would remember the words of the bulky man in white chinos perched over her numb form.
“Catalina, you and Miguel neglected Law Twenty-Nine because you never studied it. You never assumed I would take an initiative of my own.”
He prepared to leave with two pieces of luggage, one containing a compensation the jump-suited Cuban never expected him to own, the other holding enough clothes for three days in California where he’d replace his wardrobe.
Dan Bellcamp was a fool for women, but he was also an intelligent fool; and tonight, he was a lucky fool.
The now former Managing Editor had no idea she’d put enough poison in his drink to kill two horses.

91
His own plan to drug the Cuban was aided by a ‘friend’, a classy uptown whore with access to every drug known to mankind. His instincts had told him Miguel Belize had no intention of allocating two million dollars to his asset balance, no matter how much the Vice President needed the information he could supply. He also felt that, once the money was in his possession, there would be an immediate desire to have it returned, by one method or another.
Bellcamp also had no idea how lucky he would be to put two hours between himself and the two men still in their parked Cadillac waiting for the return of one Catalina Salazar, they absent the signal to prepare for an alternative elimination plan.
He’d left his house by the side door next to the garage, a rose trellis sheltering him from recognition. Finally, because he’d mowed his lawn earlier in the day, the door facing the front of his car was still open in his drive-through garage, allowing him to leave his home from the rear, undetected.

Dan Bellcamp was on his way to sunny Avalon on Santa Catalina Island off the California coast, a weight reduction health spa, and a new identity.














92
Saturday, May 20, 11:45 a.m.

“Michael, should we call the FBI?”
Robert Wirtham’s voice was low and seemed serious. It was a plan he’d never execute, but he needed to understand Courtney’s intentions. He never got the chance. The question was answered by Kathleen McKenzie as she entered the room.
“NO.”
Her eyes, clear, were filled with purpose.
Quarter-turning a conference chair next to his, he expressed a silent communication to accept a seat in the strategy session.
Her hands now folded on the rosewood conference table, she looked at Wirtham knowing it was he who would have the most information.
“Robert - where’s my father?”
Over the next half hour Wirtham would explain to both of them everything that had happened. He didn’t know how much she could take, and he hoped Courtney would be able to hold her together.
She addressed the same man again.
“Robert, I know he’s not going to be with us again until we go and get him. What are we doing about that?”
He didn’t want her to take it any further while Courtney was there.
“Kathleen, you know we’ll use all of our resources.”
Her knowledge of the scope of the organization, along with accompanying knowledge of its alliances with other organizations allowed his statement to settle her for the time being.
Courtney sensed her for-now resignation.
“Did you have a chance to call the Marriott - Eddie Dalger?”
“He’ll meet us at the hotel this afternoon, at four.”
93
He looked at Wirtham.
“Let’s send the TAC.”

JGM’s computer room easily handled the daily transactions of the export company. While the company did broker exports for a number of food and kindred product manufacturers, its banks of IBM’s were set up to control an additional product; an information system and network of tremendous proportion.
Inside the room’s soundproof wall were Eleven IBM CL45 class computers with enough stored data on specific topics to rival the United States Census Bureau and the U.S. Commerce Department combined.
Forty computer data specialists daily entered changes into the system with regard to marginal or spend-able income levels in three thousand U.S cities, age and population demographics, political party affiliations by city, U.S. Senate and U.S. Congressional statistics including voting histories on all bills, multi-national business statistics, and information on world-wide standard industrial classification indexes broken out into seventy-two financial and product criteria.
One of the computers housed a transmitter which would deliver the cryptic message to the writers’ fax machines via a radio signal sent out to a satellite.
Wirtham, followed by Courtney and McKenzie approached the main console and keyboard of the complex data center. Taking a seat in a black leather executive chair, JGM’s president tapped out a simple code.
HOTEL - JULIET - TANGO
Almost instantly the computer monitor responded.

CBA 1 WRT
MCTNYLDD
ACC
TTLWRTS
STATS 94
The computer banks were ready to accept input.
“It’s ready, give me the stats.”
“First, delete all papers with greater than two hundred thousand circulations.”
Wirtham pressed nine keys.
“Now, let’s add an addendum to the lead.”
Twelve more keystrokes.
“The lead’s up.”
“Last line.”
“Got it.”
“Suggest to readers written contact with Congressional Reps and U.S. Senators.”
More keystrokes were tapped.
“It’s in.”
Courtney continued.
“I want to exclude New York City, Los Angeles, Washington, Boston, Miami, and Chicago.”
More keystrokes.
“All set.”
“Let it go - send it TAC five.”
Five additional keystrokes.
“Robert, we’re going…”
The telephone’s ring interrupted the analyst.
Wirtham contemplated the Merlin communication system sitting to his right at the keyboard.
“Is the TAC complete, Robert?”
“Yes - it’s through.”
Courtney breathed deeply
He indicated a telephone on a vacant Assistant Communication’s Director’s desk.
“Kay, pick up the extension over there.”
“Robert, put this one on the speaker.”
Wirtham was slightly apprehensive - both the metaphysician and his girlfriend noticed.


95
The export company’s president picked up the receiver knowing the caller had identified him as the recipient of the communication, and the receptionist had directed the call to the appropriate phone.
“This is Robert Wirtham.”
“Bobby, it’s Andy.”
Andrew St. Croix was Director of Internal Security at JGM Exports. A veteran of the Vietnam conflict, former Naval Deep Cover Operative, and Physical Laws candidate out of Annapolis. He was a somewhat irreverent, however loyal organization man who only knew as much about the clandestine writing group as Courtney did.”
Wirtham exhaled.
“Go ahead, Andy - I have Michael and Kathleen McKenzie on the lines with me.”
The Southern born Naval Academy graduate acknowledged the latter two.
“Hey, Mick, Miss McKenzie, ma’am.”
Wirtham relaxed.
“What’s going on?”
“Well, Bellcamp’s not here. Looks like the man had a Smirnoff party and decided his rug needed a shampoo with it.”
“Are his clothes gone?”
“Not all of them, but by the looks of how their spread out on the hangers seems like a few are missing. There‘s also a couple dresser drawers open”
He continued to report his findings thus far.
“Ah also found the ugliest card ah ever did see in his nightstand drawer, had a message on it that was interesting, dated yesterday - written to a Catalina - Listen to this…”
‘Let your dream begin, not in vain did you come, you return to hold another - ah know. If ah’m betrayed, it is because ah have betrayed.’
“This boy has a real case on some belle. Ah think you were right about him, Mick - he’s apparently a problem.” 96
Courtney spoke next.
“Andy, bring the card back with you.”
“Yes, sir. You want me to stay, kind of keep an eye on the place?”
“Stay through Sunday, Andy, check out the rest of the house. If he shows up, talk to him.”
“Yes, sir, Ah’ll get a flight out on Monday and let you know when ah‘m in. Mick, you and Miss McKenzie staying in town?”
“I thought we’d be going to Miami - it depends on what else you find out down there, but it sounds like you have it under control.”
“Ah need to go over your plan. Ah don’t want to be shooting in the dark.”
“OK, Andy. I’ll brief you either Monday or Tuesday.”
“Miss McKenzie, you keep him down on Earth, sometimes his head goes spinning off in space.”
Kay felt a moment of relief.
“He’s a little weird sometimes, Andy, but I can handle him. You be careful down there.”
“Yes ma’am. So far it’s a walk in a pine forest.”

Phones were cradled following final regards.
Courtney thought out loud.
“If I’m betrayed, it’s because I’ve betrayed? Sounds like we have our breacher, doesn‘t it?”
Wirtham had the first part of the puzzle and speculated on the second.
“We may have the worm, but we don’t know who’s holding the pole, and right now he’s apparently a double worm.”
She had the perspective.

Robert, we have a suite at the Marriott…”
He faced Kay for a confirmation.
She nodded affirmatively.

97
“I’m taking Kay over there now. I need some cash, and a favor.”
Wirtham was prepared to provide both.
“Tell me what you need.”
Courtney continued, detailing his requirements.
“I’d like you to download everything you have on Cuba; economics, financial status, government stats with names - then get me a list on Cuban writes for the last two years. I also need a report on the multi-nationals that have expressed interest in the President’s Reform Package. I’ll need it all by tomorrow afternoon.”
It was all within the realm of possibility.
“I’ll have to bring some people in, but you’ll have it.”
There were two additional requisites.
“I’m also expecting a police report from Waltham. It probably won’t be here until Monday, but I’d like to see it as soon as it comes in. I also need my students’ exam papers, and I have to call the Dean and tell him why I’m not around. Who’d you get to fix my office window?”
“We have friends in Boston. B.C.’s in order as far as your office is concerned, and I‘e already notified your Dean. I’ll arrange for your exam papers to get here.
Courtney didn’t question who Wirtham’s ‘friends’ were in Boston, or who would gather up his students’ exam papers. He knew this man to be someone with tremendous human resources available to him, and the subsequent actions of those resources had always worked in the analyst’s favor.
Gently placing his hand on the lower part of her back, Courtney made eye contact and addressed her.
“Kay, are you ready to leave?”
“Yes.”