True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(63)
By then, flames had engulfed the media wall, the fire alarm was wailing, the sprinklers on the ceiling were spraying, and there were people outside in the hallway pounding on the door. She wasn’t concerned by the water or the people trying to get in. The water wouldn’t douse the thermite-fed blaze, and the situation room door was designed to withstand explosives. She had plenty of time to make sure all the evidence was destroyed before she removed the last piece, which was herself.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia. July 22. 1:47 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.
The naked woman on the metal exam table in the center of the windowless room looked like a burned mannequin. The contrast of her blackened body against the white walls and harsh light intensified for Healy the visual impact of her horrific charring. There was little about her that identified her as human except for her mewling and, as Healy stepped closer, the few patches of skin that he could see on her face, neck, and shoulders that had been spared the touch of flame. The countless tubes entering her body kept her alive and conscious but were doing very little to reduce her agony. Those were Healy’s orders. He wanted her alert and in misery.
She was the only surviving operative from Blackthorn’s situation room. She’d been shot in the kneecaps and left to burn by Victoria Takahara, who’d subsequently blown her own head off. But this operative had managed to drag herself through the flames into the utility closet where the trash bin and burn bags had been kept. The firefighters found her barely alive, but just enough for Healy’s needs. He’d had her brought back to the CIA’s secret medical facility at Langley for a little chat, though she’d already been declared among the Blackthorn dead as far as the public and her family were concerned.
He pulled up a metal chair beside her. She smelled like a burned steak marinated in piss. Her eyes were open and locked on him. He had no sympathy for her because he suspected what she’d been a part of. Healy had given a lot of thought to what might have motivated Cross to take his own life on the verge of attaining total control of all of the CIA’s covert operations, an unbelievable coup that wouldn’t have happened if not for the crash of TransAmerican 976. The sequence of events was not lost on him. But he needed proof.
“The body is like a water balloon,” Healy whispered into her toasted ear. “Your skin is the only thing holding in all the fluid and, let’s face it, most of your skin is gone. The life is oozing out of you. And since you’re basically skinless, you’ve got no protection against infection. Your exposed organs are being ravaged by germs. We haven’t bothered removing the bullets from your knees because there’s no point. You’re never getting off this table, except to be put into a body bag. All of these tubes in your body will extend your life to the last possible second and keep you conscious, and in a constant state of unbearable, excruciating agony, until massive organ failure finally kills you. It might only be a day, or perhaps two, but for you it will feel like an eternity. That might seem cruel, perhaps even inhuman, but we both know that you deserve it, don’t we?”
Tears ran out of the woman’s eyes, which Healy found surprising, given how little moisture she had to spare.
“Or we can pump you so full of painkillers and other drugs that you’ll believe you’re living in Candyland until the end comes and you’ll die a peaceful, painless death,” Healy said. “It’s your choice. Give me a reason to show you some mercy. Tell us what Takahara was trying to cover up and you get Candyland. Keep quiet and you experience the worst death imaginable.”
“You don’t have to threaten me.” Her voice was weak and raspy. It sounded like each word that she spoke was serrated and cut the back of her throat on the way out. She wouldn’t be able to talk for long. “Victoria killed us all to hide what we did. I want to look that bitch in the eye in hell and tell her that she failed.”
“What did Blackthorn do?”
“We crashed an airplane into Waikiki,” she said.
Capitol Hill, Washington, DC. July 24. 10:00 a.m. Eastern Standard Time.
Acting CIA director Michael Healy sat at the table in front of the seven stony-faced senators in the hearing room and, having verbally shared the details of his investigation into the Blackthorn matter, was about to deliver the conclusion of his classified report. There would be no written copies, for obvious reasons, and he would be destroying his notes at the end of his unrecorded testimony.
“There was no foreign terrorist conspiracy behind the crash of TransAmerican 976 and Ayoub Darwish and Habib Ebrahimi were both innocent of any crimes. Those aren’t even their real names. It was all an elaborate ruse created and executed by Wilton Cross. The truth is that Blackthorn operatives, under his direction, hacked the jet and crashed it into Waikiki. The intent was to use that manufactured terrorist event to convince you, and the president, to outsource the CIA’s covert operations to Blackthorn. In my opinion, this was not only an act of homegrown, domestic terrorism but the most heinous act of treason in our nation’s history.”
“Unbelievable,” Senator Holbrook muttered. “Unconscionable.”
Seven heads nodded in somber agreement.
“Cross is dead and beyond our reach,” Senator Tolan said. “But what about the operatives who collaborated with him to plan and carry out the attack?”