Burning Angels

‘Will, my boy, I’m here. And as I’m sure your friends have told you, it’s over. It really is over. Not that any of this should ever have been necessary.’

Jaeger reached up with his bound hands and clasped the old man’s arm tightly.

Uncle Joe squeezed his shoulder. ‘It’s over, my boy. Trust me. But now the real work begins.’

22

The President sniffed the air appreciatively. Washington in springtime. Very soon the cherry trees would be in bloom, the city streets lined with pink blossoms and the air thick with their heady scent.

It was a favourite time of year for President Joseph Byrne; a time when the bleak winter’s chill lifted from the eastern seaboard, ushering in the long, balmy months of summer. But of course, for those who knew their history, those cherry trees also embodied a dark and inconvenient truth.

The commonest were a strain called the Yoshino cherry — descendants of some three thousand saplings shipped to the USA in the 1920s, as a gift of eternal friendship from Japan. In 1927, the city had hosted its first ever Cherry Blossom Festival, which quickly became a regular date on the Washington DC calendar.

And then, in 1942, the massed ranks of Japanese warplanes had descended on Pearl Harbor, and overnight the Cherry Blossom Festival had come to an end. Sadly the Japanese promise of friendship hadn’t turned out to be quite as eternal as had been first suggested.

For three years the USA and Japan had been locked in the bitterest of conflicts. But post-war, the two nations had rekindled their friendship. Necessity certainly made for strange bedfellows. By 1947, the Cherry Blossom Festival had been resurrected, and the rest, as the President was fond of saying, was history.

He turned to the two figures beside him, gesturing at the sweeping view, the first touch of pink lighting up the distant treetops, those closest to the waters of the city’s tidal basin.

‘A fine sight, gentlemen. Each year I worry that the blooms might fail to materialise. Each year they prove me wrong.’

Daniel Brooks, the director of the CIA, uttered a few suitably appreciative remarks. He knew that the President hadn’t summoned them here to admire the view, striking though it might be. He’d prefer to get down to the business of the day.

Beside him, the Agency’s deputy director, Hank Kammler, shielded his eyes from the sunlight. It was clear from their body language that the two CIA men couldn’t bear each other’s presence. Other than a presidential summons like this, they endeavoured to spend as little time as humanly possible in each other’s company.

The fact that Hank Kammler was slated to be the next director of the Agency — once Brooks was forced to stand down — made the older man shudder. He could think of no worse a figure to take over command of the world’s most powerful intelligence agency.

The trouble was, for some inexplicable reason, the President seemed to trust Kammler; to put his faith in his dubious abilities. Brooks couldn’t understand it. Kammler seemed to have a peculiar hold over Byrne; an unfathomable hold.

‘So, gentlemen, to business.’ The President waved them towards some comfy chairs. ‘It seems there has been some trouble in what I like to think of as our backyard. South America. Brazil. The Amazon, to be specific.’

‘What’s it concerning, Mr President?’ Brooks asked.

‘Two months ago, seven individuals were killed in the Amazon. Mixed nationals, but mostly Brazilians; none were American citizens.’ Byrne spread his hands. ‘Why does it concern us? Well, the Brazilians seem convinced that those doing the killing were Americans, or at least under the control of an American agency. When I shake hands with the Brazilian president and get asked about this, I don’t like feeling I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about.’

The President left a weighty pause. ‘Those seven individuals were part of an international expedition, the purpose of which was to recover a Second World War warplane. It seems that when they got close to their objective, a mystery force started to hunt them down. It’s the make-up of that force that has brought this to my office.’

Byrne eyed the two CIA men. ‘That hunter force had significant assets at its command, assets that only an American agency could bring to bear — or so the Brazilian president argues. They included Predator UAVs, Black Hawk stealth helicopters, and a fairly impressive array of weaponry.

‘So, gentlemen, is this something that either of you might be aware of? Is there any way it could be the work of a US agency, as the Brazilians seem to be suggesting?’

Brooks shrugged. ‘It’s not beyond the realms of possibility, Mr President. But put it this way, sir: it’s not something I have any knowledge of. I can check and we can reload in forty-eight hours, but I know nothing about it right now. I can’t speak for my colleague.’ He turned to the figure beside him.