The Excoms Read online

  Table of Contents

  THE EXCOMS

  To Jill Fulkerson Marnell,

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  Thank you for reading The Excoms!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY BRETT BATTLES

  THE EXCOMS NO. 1 Copyright © 2016 by Brett Battles

  THE EXCOMS

  Brett Battles

  The Excoms • No. 1

  To Jill Fulkerson Marnell,

  not only a dear friend,

  but also a much appreciated set of eyes

  in my writing process

  1

  FEBRUARY 5

  CROATIA

  IN THE FUTURE, all meetings of the Committee would take place virtually. On this, the day of their inaugural conclave, however, the members would be convening in person.

  Though there were many differences between the seven voting Committee members, they had at least one very important thing in common. Each had experienced a personal loss in which forces that could have prevented the tragedies had not lifted a finger. These scars ideologically aligned them and made them well suited for the work the Committee had been created to undertake.

  Like the members themselves, the gathering’s location had been meticulously chosen. A place grand enough to honor what was about to take place, but one that would make it nearly impossible for anyone to eavesdrop on the Committee’s proceedings.

  Though built under a different name, the ancient fortress overlooking the Mediterranean Sea had been known as the Angel’s Keep for most of its existence. The oldest parts of the castle had protected the Balkan coast since the time of the Romans.

  The armory room, buried deep beneath what was known as the old saints’ tower, had only one way in and out.

  A circular table filled the middle of the room, eight chairs spaced evenly around it. Behind the chairs were eight flat-screen monitors, positioned so that no matter where someone was sitting, a screen would be visible.

  Placards sat at seven of the places, but instead of displaying members’ names, on each tag was written a different day of the week. At each of the seven spots were also a glass of water, a pen, and an envelope containing a single sheet of paper.

  Nothing sat at the eighth place.

  The Committee members arrived with their personal security details via prearranged SUVs that dropped off each party in a scheduled order that saw no two members arriving at the same time. Though bodyguards were welcomed on the castle grounds, they were not allowed in the meeting room. A waiting area with comfortable seating, food, drinks, and entertainment was provided for them in the caretakers’ lodge along the castle’s north wall.

  Upon entering the armory, each member silently took one of the placard places and waited, some more patiently than others. This was the first time any of them learned who else would be serving on the Committee, so each new arrival was scrutinized by those already in attendance. Given the lofty world the members traveled in, it was inevitable several knew each other from elsewhere. In these cases, a nod was exchanged but no words were spoken.

  Two minutes after the seventh member arrived and took her seat, the acting Administrator entered the room, locked the door, and sat in the eighth chair. Unlike the others, who had all come empty handed, he carried a leather portfolio that he laid on the table, unzipped, and opened like a book. Inside was a short stack of papers, topped by the meeting agenda. He studied the rundown for several seconds before looking at the others.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  The members returned the greeting.

  “It is my honor to call to order the first meeting of the Committee.”

  In the weeks prior to the meeting, the acting Administrator had made personal visits to each member so there was no need to introduce himself. He glanced at the agenda again. He knew every word on it, but the pause would provide a sense of order he knew the others were expecting.

  When the appropriate amount of time had passed, he said, “Your transfers have all been received, so I am therefore able to certify that the Committee is fully funded and ready to begin its work. The first item of business is member designations. With the exception of critical votes, these names are what will be used in meetings and communications. Are there questions?”

  This was one of the things he’d discussed in detail during his personal visits. No one spoke up.

  “Written on the placards in front of you is the name you will be known as from this day forward.”

  The members looked at the cards with little expression, and then returned their attention to the acting Administrator, who worked through a handful of other housekeeping tasks before reaching the more important matters.

  “The bylaws dictate that day-to-day operations of Committee-sanctioned activities will be overseen by the Administrator. It is the Committee’s responsibility to choose the person who will fill that role. Nominees may be presented now.”

  “Isn’t that your job?” Saturday asked. As a child, she had witnessed her twelve-year-old cousin married off to a man four times the girl’s age, and had attended the same cousin’s funeral a year later when the girl had been beaten to death for burning her husband’s dinner. The man had moved on and married someone else, never paying for his crime. Saturday had used her rage at this injustice to rise far above her station, amassing a communications empire that spread into fifteen countries and was worth several billion dollars. And yet, even with all that power, she hadn’t been able to stop atrocities like what befell her cousin.

  “I am the acting Administrator. My job has been to shepherd the organization to this point. When this meeting adjourns my term is over. It is the responsibility of the Committee to decide who will hold the position going forward.”

  “Do you not want the job?”

  He bowed his head slightly. “It would be my great pleasure to serve if the Committee so desires.”

  “Then I see no reason to make a change at this point.” Saturday looked around at the others. “Does anyone have an objection?”

  A few members shook their heads.

  Saturday turned back. “Acting Administrator, please take the vote.”

  The tally was 7-0.

  “Thank you,” the Administrator said. “I am honored by your trust in me.”

  Though pleased by the ease of his permanent appointment, he was not the least surprised. The real power behind the Committee—a man sitting in one of the chairs around the table—would not have had it any other way.

  “Next on the agenda is the field team,” he said.

  From a pocket of his portfolio, he removed a thin remote control. When he pushed the power button, all eight television screens came to life. In quick succession, he relayed to the Committee the particulars of the five primary field-team targets, and the ten alternates. As he described each candidate’s attributes and how he or she would function on the team, pictures of the individual appeared on the screens.

  When he was through, he said, “The floor is open for de
bate.”

  Wednesday, one of the growing class of Chinese billionaires and sole surviving family member of the Cultural Revolution, leaned forward and said, “In regards to your suggestion for team leader, would it not be best if the position were filled by someone with more…operational experience?”

  “An excellent question,” the Administrator said. “Naturally, given her profession, one would think she would be more suited for solo work. That is definitely true of others who do what she does, but our candidate has considerable operational experience and possesses both the temperament and the leadership qualities we require.” He cited a dozen examples that illustrated the candidate’s qualification.

  Tuesday, a nouveau riche Silicon Valley tycoon whose first wife fell victim to a suicide bomber in Tel Aviv when she was on vacation with her sister, said, “If you’re convinced, Administrator, I’d say we give it a go. After all, isn’t the idea that we can change pieces of the team as necessary? If she doesn’t live up to our expectations, we move on.”

  The back and forth continued for nearly a quarter hour before a vote was taken and the full team as presented was approved.

  “Our final matter today is the choice of our initial mission. If you will open your envelopes, please.”

  The members did so.

  The piece of paper they pulled out was a ballot containing two numbered boxes. The Administrator described both potential missions, once more utilizing the video screens to help illustrate the specific problem that needed righting. Since this would be the Committee’s first operation, the options involved issues that were not overly time dependent. “As a critical vote, please mark the ballot with your choice and sign your legal name at the bottom.”

  There was no missing the apprehension in the room. Making decisions on trivial matters by verbal vote was one thing, but putting their signatures on a vote for a job that could easily go awry was something else altogether. But this had also been part of the agreement they had to accept before being allowed into the Committee.

  “This is how we succeed or fail,” the Administrator’s true boss had told him when they had been drawing up the plans for the Committee. “Everyone involved needs to feel responsible. The field team. The Committee. You.”

  The Administrator waited until he’d collected all the votes before he tabulated the results. The decision was a close one, 4 to 3. Both missions were worthy, but the winner had the added benefit of being in a remote location. If things went wrong, there would be no undue attention.

  He set the ballots down and said, “The Lambert matter in Alaska.”

  “How long until we begin?” Saturday asked.

  “The candidates will have to be put into positions where they will be primed to accept our job offers first. That will take a bit of time. These efforts will also need to be coordinated so that all five are ready at the same time.”

  “How long?” she repeated.

  “Two months should be enough.”

  The meeting was adjourned.

  2

  THREE HOURS LATER

  ELSEWHERE

  THE KNOCK ON the door echoed through the cavernous office.

  “Come in,” Avanti growled from behind his desk.

  Warren, his chief spook, entered and walked across the room, the hardwood floor creaking. He stopped in front of the desk but did not take one of the guest seats.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Avanti.”

  “Well?” Avanti asked.

  “Cassidy just reported in. He’s flying home now.”

  “The meeting. I want to know about the meeting.”

  “As expected.”

  “So they’ve officially begun.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Avanti folded his arms across his chest and grinned. “I knew it. I knew that son of a bitch couldn’t resist. After all these years, he’s finally got his Committee.” He looked back at his spook. “And their first mission? Did Cassidy say anything about that?”

  Warren relayed the information their mole on the Committee had given him.

  When he finished, Avanti said, “You’re keeping an eye on these field-team targets?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the disruption?”

  “Ready to go. As soon as the Committee has collected its team and is on the brink of activating the mission, the disruption will commence. As soon as the first phase is complete, Cassidy will anonymously feed our Committee member target the information that will trigger a change.”

  The disruption was designed to test both the abilities of the field team and the resilience of the Committee. In the worst case, Avanti and Warren would learn where the organization’s flaws were, and in the best, the whole Committee would come crashing down while still in its infancy.

  “What if they don’t make the change?”

  “Then there will be one very bitter Committee member who Cassidy can manipulate even more in the future.”

  “The first option would be preferable,” Avanti said, and then returned his attention to the file on his desk, signaling the meeting was over.

  3

  APRIL 3

  MANILA, REPUBLIC OF THE PHILIPPINES

  ANANKE CARRIED A tray through the ballroom, a ghost among the event attendees.

  Like the rest of the serving staff, she wore a white shirt, black bow tie, and black pants. Her shoes, also black, were killing her. Whosever idea it was for the female servers to wear heels should have been shot. Something she might do herself once the job was over.

  The shoes wouldn’t have been as much of an issue if she’d been allowed to show up right before the target arrived at the event, do her business, and split. But the client had been terrified of something going awry, and had insisted the utmost care be taken.

  Noah Perkins, the op leader, translated this to mean Ananke needed to be serving the guests from the moment the party started in order to sell her cover. She’d already been handing out champagne to members of the Philippine elite for over an hour and a half, helping them get sufficiently lubricated before the guest of honor arrived.

  According to the brief, Fernando Alonzo, candidate for the Philippine presidency, had two other stops to make before his arrival in the ballroom for his final campaign speech of the night.

  Alonzo, the current governor of one of the northern provinces, was running on an antiestablishment platform and billing himself as the People’s Candidate. Given the enthusiasm of the crowd, Ananke seemed to be the only one present who found it hilarious he was in Manila courting that very same establishment.

  Funny or not, his attempt to gain more votes wasn’t going to matter. She was there to put a stop to his campaign.

  A ripple of excitement rushed through the crowd.

  “He’s on his way.”

  “He’s almost here.”

  “He’s coming.”

  “He’s coming.”

  This wasn’t the first rumor of Alonzo’s arrival that night, but this time it was true. A moment before the nervous chatter began, Ananke had heard two beeps through her undetectable earpiece, alerting her that the target’s car had entered the hotel driveway. She eased through a gap in the mob and headed back toward the kitchen.

  Perkins had arranged for her to win the lottery that Mr. Reyes, the catering coordinator, had held that afternoon to choose who would present Alonzo and his wife with their drinks.

  The moment Ananke entered the kitchen, Reyes shouted, “Jessica, over here.” Jessica Santos was her cover name.

  As she weaved her way toward him, he set an ornate tray on the prep table and placed two beautiful crystal flutes on it. “They’re here,” he said, barely glancing at her as he filled each glass with champagne.

  “Why do you think I’m here, asshole,” is what she wanted to say, but she just smiled and nodded and picked up the tray.

  Reyes put a hand on each of her arms and looked her over. She’d seen the same unhappy expression on his face when she’d won the honor of serving the Alonzos
. She was giant for a Filipina, over six feet in her heels. Clearly she didn’t fit his image of what a woman from his country should look like.

  Again, she couldn’t help but see the humor.

  She wasn’t Filipino. According to the DNA test she’d taken a few years earlier, she had no Asian heritage whatsoever.

  What she did have, however, were excellent facial prosthetics and highly effective makeup. If Reyes or anyone else at the party had seen her without her disguise, they wouldn’t have looked at her twice. Well, they might have looked twice, but they wouldn’t have connected her to Jessica Santos in a million years.

  “You remember what to do,” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Are you to say anything to them?”

  “No.”

  “And if they say something to you?”

  “I smile and act like I can’t hear them above the crowd noise.”

  He straightened her bow tie and took another look at her. “All right. Just…whatever you do, do not spill anything on them.”

  “I promise,” she said, then turned and walked toward the exit.

  In a well practiced move, she used her back to pass through the swinging door into the ballroom, steadied the glasses with her free hand, and rubbed the bottom pad of her index finger across the flute destined for Alonzo. From a pouch designed to look like her skin, several dozen microscopic R-ToFF pellets dropped into the glass. As soon as they plunged into the champagne, the pellets dissolved.

  The false skin was off her finger before she finished her first step into the ballroom. With a subtle flick, she dropped it onto the floor and stepped on it, her specially treated sole starting a chemical reaction that dissolved the drug pouch into a small spot of harmless liquid.

  In the time she’d been in the kitchen, the crowd had surged toward the dais where Alonzo would soon be speaking. Sticking near the wall, Ananke worked her way around until she reached the security guards blocking access to the area behind the stage.

  She flashed the special card she’d been given for the occasion.

  After a quick pat down, the guards let her enter, and the older one said, “Follow me.”

  The crowd was nearly as thick behind the platform as out front. Ananke had to shield her cargo with her free arm as she made her way to the stairs. Twice, revelers tried to take one of the glasses, but her escort was there each time with a glare and a “Not for you” that was more than enough to scare everyone off.