Chapter 42
Six Days, Two Hours, Twenty-Four Minutes
*** At the same time ***
It was easy, Donovan thought.
Technology never ceased to amaze him. It could keep a dying man alive. It could target a missile fired from hundreds of miles away to the precision of finding a needle in a haystack. It could launch satellites into space, and those satellites could take pictures of the head of Chinese intelligence, pictures so precise one could count the number of ice cubes in his glass of afternoon tea. Of course, knowing that the United States had and used the technology to send a man back in time perhaps gave Donovan an excuse to 'be surprised,' but he rarely was.
The screen capture Marty Guerrero provided from Essential Capital Storage wasn't perfect: part of the suspect's image – the left side of his head – was blurred, but Donovan ran the file through a pixel reconstruction program. It cleaned up nicely enough for him to get an excellence black- and-white photograph off his printer. Next, he accessed the International Criminal Recognition Database – a prototype software designed by the NSA – and uploaded the culprit's visage into the filter. He sat back in his chair, watching the hundreds upon hundreds of flickering images – faces scrolling along faster than any witness could ever plumb through a photo album of collected mug shots – scroll alongside the wanted man's picture ... and Donovan found himself pulled back to the man's eyes. They were fixed, purposeful. He knew, without a second guess, that this man – his features showed a strong hint of international background, perhaps Spanish or slight Asian – was serious about whatever he committed himself to. The dark eyes held secrets galore, an ability to see past the trappings of every day life to a purpose, to a principle, to a shockingly horrific dream. What scared Donovan the most was that he had seen such eyes before ... on his deceased friend, Frank Parker ... and that probably meant the usual.
These two men were on a collision course with destiny.
The computer chirped, and Donovan woke from his trance. He tapped the 'enter' key and glanced at the screen. The ICRD found a match. With the mouse, he pointed at the file and clicked. The screen blanked for a moment, and then a blue background with a wealth of black text appeared on the screen.
"Richard DeMarco," Donovan read.
He had heard the name before, though it had been some time back.
What was it?
There had been some operation, a secret incursion into a foreign land – was it Syria? A troop of Navy SEALs had gone in under the cover of night to rescue the kidnapped daughter of a man conducting intelligence reviews with the Syrian government – Donovan realized it was coming back to him very quickly – and they had come under some heavy gunfire. From what he recalled, there were no American casualties. The young woman – the one who had been held captive for eighteen days – had been rescued, and the loss of life was on the side of the abductors.
What was it?
He closed his eyes, lowered his head, and surrendered to the process of thought. He tried to remember the name of the mission. The mission would not be mentioned openly in the NSA files. It was highly classified ... but Donovan remembered discussing it with a senator at a Washington fundraiser. 'Leave it to a senator to open his mouth at a fundraiser,' he thought to himself ... but it was there – the nameless operation had a moniker – buried somewhere deep in the recesses of his memory.
Operation ... something?
DeMarco was there – he was a friend, a confidante, someone apparently visiting the Syrian abductors and inadvertently caught in the firefight that ensued. From what Donovan recalled, intelligence reports had placed DeMarco – not one of the abductors but rather a friend to one of the commandos – at the hot spot. Reports indicated that, when the gunfire broke out, he picked up a weapon – would he really have had any other choice? – and traded shots with the Americans. It was believed – reported, actually – that he had been wounded in the skirmish, but it was believed that he had survived, escaping toward the servants' area of the raided compound.
Operation ... something?
DeMarco had fallen on NSA reports before. In 1991, he had been captured selling illegal arms in the Ukraine, helping to fund a resistance to the blossoming central Soviet government, hoping for a return to the days of old when communism ruled much of the Eastern continent. He escaped sentencing and disappeared for a short while, but he resurfaced in 1993, engaged in guerilla fighting in the streets of Iran. However, his history found favor with the leading regime at the time, and he was quickly released so long as he agreed to leave the country. In 1994, DeMarco had been linked to the bombing of several embassies through Africa. His efforts confused the authorities as he seemed to be acting of his own accord and not in collaboration with any group or cause. In 1997, he escaped capture – his friends weren't so lucky – when a group was uncovered plotting the assassination of the British Prime Minister. From what Donovan read, there were many, many more reports of his involvement in terrorist activities – several of which could not be substantiated – but, regardless, Richard DeMarco was not a man to be taken lightly.
He was a wanted fugitive to several countries around the world, but, through appearances, it didn't look as if he was on the United States' listing of 'most wanted.' Much of what DeMarco indicated that he was extremely dangerous, but he had never attacked American interests ... and that probably kept him low on the pole of terrorists to watch.
What was he doing here?
Donovan closed his eyes again, trying desperately to remember the name of the covert mission. For some reason – an intuitive inkling – he trusted that the name posed some significance to someone ... he only wasn't sure to whom it would matter.
Operation ...?
Operation ...?
"Quagmire," he said.
End of Chapter 42
Six Days, Two Hours, Twenty-Four Minutes
*** At the same time ***
It was easy, Donovan thought.
Technology never ceased to amaze him. It could keep a dying man alive. It could target a missile fired from hundreds of miles away to the precision of finding a needle in a haystack. It could launch satellites into space, and those satellites could take pictures of the head of Chinese intelligence, pictures so precise one could count the number of ice cubes in his glass of afternoon tea. Of course, knowing that the United States had and used the technology to send a man back in time perhaps gave Donovan an excuse to 'be surprised,' but he rarely was.
The screen capture Marty Guerrero provided from Essential Capital Storage wasn't perfect: part of the suspect's image – the left side of his head – was blurred, but Donovan ran the file through a pixel reconstruction program. It cleaned up nicely enough for him to get an excellence black- and-white photograph off his printer. Next, he accessed the International Criminal Recognition Database – a prototype software designed by the NSA – and uploaded the culprit's visage into the filter. He sat back in his chair, watching the hundreds upon hundreds of flickering images – faces scrolling along faster than any witness could ever plumb through a photo album of collected mug shots – scroll alongside the wanted man's picture ... and Donovan found himself pulled back to the man's eyes. They were fixed, purposeful. He knew, without a second guess, that this man – his features showed a strong hint of international background, perhaps Spanish or slight Asian – was serious about whatever he committed himself to. The dark eyes held secrets galore, an ability to see past the trappings of every day life to a purpose, to a principle, to a shockingly horrific dream. What scared Donovan the most was that he had seen such eyes before ... on his deceased friend, Frank Parker ... and that probably meant the usual.
These two men were on a collision course with destiny.
The computer chirped, and Donovan woke from his trance. He tapped the 'enter' key and glanced at the screen. The ICRD found a match. With the mouse, he pointed at the file and clicked. The screen blanked for a moment, and then a blue background with a wealth of black text appeared on the screen.
"Richard DeMarco," Donovan read.
He had heard the name before, though it had been some time back.
What was it?
There had been some operation, a secret incursion into a foreign land – was it Syria? A troop of Navy SEALs had gone in under the cover of night to rescue the kidnapped daughter of a man conducting intelligence reviews with the Syrian government – Donovan realized it was coming back to him very quickly – and they had come under some heavy gunfire. From what he recalled, there were no American casualties. The young woman – the one who had been held captive for eighteen days – had been rescued, and the loss of life was on the side of the abductors.
What was it?
He closed his eyes, lowered his head, and surrendered to the process of thought. He tried to remember the name of the mission. The mission would not be mentioned openly in the NSA files. It was highly classified ... but Donovan remembered discussing it with a senator at a Washington fundraiser. 'Leave it to a senator to open his mouth at a fundraiser,' he thought to himself ... but it was there – the nameless operation had a moniker – buried somewhere deep in the recesses of his memory.
Operation ... something?
DeMarco was there – he was a friend, a confidante, someone apparently visiting the Syrian abductors and inadvertently caught in the firefight that ensued. From what Donovan recalled, intelligence reports had placed DeMarco – not one of the abductors but rather a friend to one of the commandos – at the hot spot. Reports indicated that, when the gunfire broke out, he picked up a weapon – would he really have had any other choice? – and traded shots with the Americans. It was believed – reported, actually – that he had been wounded in the skirmish, but it was believed that he had survived, escaping toward the servants' area of the raided compound.
Operation ... something?
DeMarco had fallen on NSA reports before. In 1991, he had been captured selling illegal arms in the Ukraine, helping to fund a resistance to the blossoming central Soviet government, hoping for a return to the days of old when communism ruled much of the Eastern continent. He escaped sentencing and disappeared for a short while, but he resurfaced in 1993, engaged in guerilla fighting in the streets of Iran. However, his history found favor with the leading regime at the time, and he was quickly released so long as he agreed to leave the country. In 1994, DeMarco had been linked to the bombing of several embassies through Africa. His efforts confused the authorities as he seemed to be acting of his own accord and not in collaboration with any group or cause. In 1997, he escaped capture – his friends weren't so lucky – when a group was uncovered plotting the assassination of the British Prime Minister. From what Donovan read, there were many, many more reports of his involvement in terrorist activities – several of which could not be substantiated – but, regardless, Richard DeMarco was not a man to be taken lightly.
He was a wanted fugitive to several countries around the world, but, through appearances, it didn't look as if he was on the United States' listing of 'most wanted.' Much of what DeMarco indicated that he was extremely dangerous, but he had never attacked American interests ... and that probably kept him low on the pole of terrorists to watch.
What was he doing here?
Donovan closed his eyes again, trying desperately to remember the name of the covert mission. For some reason – an intuitive inkling – he trusted that the name posed some significance to someone ... he only wasn't sure to whom it would matter.
Operation ...?
Operation ...?
"Quagmire," he said.
End of Chapter 42