True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(27)
There were gasps of surprise from the senators and a look of barely restrained fury from Healy, who knew that his career at the CIA was over. He not only stood zero chance of being nominated as the actual director but now it would be impossible for him to keep his position as deputy director, too. Even so, he knew the shit had only begun to land on his corpse. He braced himself for a herd of elephants to empty their bowels on him.
“I will start at the beginning,” Cross said. “Two Syrian Americans, Ayoub Darwish and Habib Ebrahimi, were employed on the 877 assembly lines at Gordon-Ganza Aviation in Long Beach, California.”
The senators opened the files in front of them and saw the photos of the two Syrians. The pictures were the only items in the file that weren’t complete fiction. The men’s names weren’t real and although they genuinely worked at Gordon-Ganza Aviation, they were recruited and employed by Blackthorn to do so. The men were both Syrian Americans and thought they were on a covert mission for the US government, installing vital surveillance equipment in commercial jets, unaware that they were actually being set up as fall guys for something much bigger.
“They both have familial ties to Harakat Ahrar al-Sham al-Islamiyya, the umbrella for multiple terrorists that are dedicated to establishing an Islamic state under strict Sharia law,” Cross said. “The two men worked at Gordon-Ganza for one year before quitting their jobs and leaving the United States for Turkey. We believe they installed devices on two or more aircraft that allowed the autopilot system to be hacked by anyone with a wireless connection.”
“Holy shit,” Tolan said.
“You mentioned two aircraft,” said Bradley Hazeltine, the honorable senator from North Carolina. “What is the other one?”
“We believe the Indonesian Air flight that went missing a year ago, which was also a Gordon-Ganza 877 manufactured while Darwish and Ebrahimi were working on the assembly line, was crashed in the first use of the device,” Cross said. “A practice run, so to speak.”
Healy spoke, trying to keep his voice flat and emotionless. He was furious at Cross on a personal level but, as acting director of the CIA, his priority was resolving this crisis. So, on that level, he was thankful for the intel, assuming it was solid. “What evidence do you have for the existence of this device?”
It was a fair question and Cross took it that way, answering Healy with a respectful, collegial tone.
“It began with something the captain said in the cockpit voice recording from the black box—”
Tolan interrupted him. “You got the recording?”
“The transcript is in your packet.” Cross made the comment as if it were a minor detail but the intelligence acquisition was huge and represented another head shot to Healy’s career. “The captain was convinced the plane was under the control of an outside party. He shut off all the computer systems to kill the autopilot, but not in time to save the plane.”
Stowe closed the file and regarded Cross with undisguised disdain, though it looked more like he’d eaten a bad clam. “How did you get all of this information so fast and from so many sources?”
The senator knew the answer, and so did everybody else in the chamber, but Stowe wanted Cross’ actions on the record, not that anyone was actually keeping one.
“We accessed the computers at Gordon-Ganza Aviation to obtain the names of all their employees and cross-referenced them against known members of terrorist groups,” Cross answered without the slightest hesitation. “We also accessed US Customs, the NTSB, the TSA, and numerous other public and private databases.”
“You mean you hacked them,” Stowe said, as if Cross were feeding the senator a rancid meal that was making him sick. Healy understood the tone because he was feeling the same way. “What you did is illegal. Any evidence you acquired is tainted and inadmissible in court.”
“This is not a case that will ever get to a courtroom. We both know that, Senator,” Cross said. “This is about resolution and retribution.”
“Damn straight,” Holbrook said. “Where are these bastards now?”
“Belgium. They came across with a wave of Syrian refugees. We believe they are in a farmhouse outside of Antwerp.”
In fact, he knew for certain that they were there. Both men were sedated and under guard by Blackthorn operatives who were staging the scene and stocking it with incriminating evidence as he was speaking.
Holbrook turned to Healy, who was trying to channel Mr. Spock and appear as objective and emotionless as he could, considering he was undergoing a political castration. “Can you get them?”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” Healy said. “We’ll coordinate with our Belgian counterparts and arrange—”
Holbrook cut him off with a wave of his hand and a scowl of disgust. He turned his head, and multiple chins, to Cross. “How quickly can your people do it?”
“Within the next three hours.”
Holbrook shared glances with his fellow senators. They were all in silent agreement, even Stowe. He fixed his gaze back on Cross.
“Do it using your men but you’ve got to run the operation out of the CIA so there’s no hint of private sector involvement. I’ll clear it with the White House.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Cross said and glanced at Healy, who nodded his consent, not that it mattered anymore.