Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  “You know you’re not Cristina Silva.”

  “Yes.” She swallowed hard. “Did you know? When you met me?”

  “Not at first. I knew Jorge had a daughter Cristina, but I never met her.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “I assume dead.”

  Her throat constricted. What kind of people was she dealing with? “Do you know my real name?”

  “No. I have no idea who you are, but it’s obvious you’re important to Quinn. I heard about the attacks. I’ve been keeping tabs on you.”

  “Because you care so much about me, right?” Tears wet her cheeks. “So much you made me believe you were dead?”

  “Cristina, I fell in love with you.” His fingers clenched the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I know that’s hard to believe, but it’s true. A Zero Dark agent found out about me. To protect you, I had to disappear.”

  Trust your heart, the voice said in her mind. Do you believe him?

  Even as Cristina tried to block out the words, she realized that—despite everything—she wanted to believe him. After all, didn’t he just save her life? “What happened to the real Mitchell Parker?”

  “Another Zero Dark agent pretended to be FBI and recruited him. When Parker found out the truth, he called us.” He grunted as he changed lanes. “So, we took him in for protection.”

  “And then you pretended to be him?”

  “It’s easier to assume an established identity than to create one from scratch. Plus, it made it look like he was still active. For a couple of months, it threw off Zero Dark.”

  “But then they found out.”

  “Mitchell Parker disappeared during the transfer to an FBI safehouse.” He jammed the stick shift to high gear. “Quinn was Green Beret Special Ops. Most of his operatives are turncoats he recruited through Special Operations allies, including our own agencies. He’s got at least two FBI field agents under his thumb.”

  Cristina’s cheeks cooled.

  He glanced at her and then did a double take. “What’s wrong?”

  “Two FBI agents interrogated me in Boston. They asked me what I knew about Quinn.”

  His jaw clenched. “What were their names?”

  “I don’t—I don’t remember.”

  “Think.”

  Cristina drew back. His face had turned crimson, eyes bulging.

  He inhaled through his nose, relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. “This is important. What do you remember?”

  “There was a woman named . . . Vasquez, and a man named Forest. No, Forrester.”

  After a silent moment, he asked, “Do they know you’re here?”

  “I don’t think so. Do you know them?”

  He stamped on the gas pedal. The car shot down the expressway.

  “Where are we going? The airport’s the other way.”

  “Who booked your flight?”

  Her skin prickled. “ReMind.”

  “Right. I’ll warn TSA to check your plane, but you won’t be on it. I need to get you somewhere safe.” He met her gaze, his eyes haunted. “You can’t go back to Boston.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “Where is Dr. Silva?” Agent Vasquez shouted into Devi Patel’s face. She leaned over the wooden interrogation table, inching her nose closer to Devi’s. “Answer me.”

  Devi stared back; eyes cold, expressionless. “I want to speak to a lawyer.”

  “Oh, we can get you a lawyer. Or we can make a deal that benefits both of us.”

  “What deal?”

  “Did you recruit Carl Franklin and Jerry Peterman to Dr. Silva’s practice?”

  “I’m her office manager. I schedule her appointments.”

  “But did you know those men before they began seeing her?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know they were terrorists?”

  “No.”

  Vasquez held up a slim black phone. “Who gave you this?”

  “I told you, it’s mine.”

  “It’s unregistered. We call it a burner phone.”

  Devi shrugged. “My phone is in the shop. I needed something temporary.”

  “Right.” Vasquez turned on the phone and faced the screen toward Devi. “Read that message aloud.”

  Devi glared silently.

  “Read it or I’m charging you with obstruction of justice.”

  Eyes smoldering, Devi held the agent’s gaze another moment before reading the text. “Take everything and get out.”

  “Who sent that?”

  “I don’t know. Probably a wrong number.”

  “You may have deleted your other messages, but our tech guys can still find them. We can reduce your charges if you come clean now.”

  Jaw clenched, Devi hesitated, seeming to study every pore on the agent’s face. She looked down at the table. “I want my lawyer.”

  Vasquez clenched her fists. Slowly, she lowered them. “If you don’t start cooperating, we might charge you with accessory to murder. Think about it.” She turned and left the interrogation room.

  As Vasquez burst into the observation room, Detective Wilson glanced at Devi through the one-way mirror. The diminutive office manager sat erect, hands folded, staring straight ahead. Hawkins had been unable to keep the feds from starting their interrogation, but Ms. Patel seemed capable of defying them on her own. Wilson didn’t know whether to be impressed or worried.

  “She’s tough.” Vasquez leaned against a wall. “We need to request a warrant to search her phone and email.”

  “We don’t have that kind of time.” Forrester studied Devi through the window. He turned to Vasquez. “Dr. Silva’s missing, and she’s implicated in Gomes’s death.”

  “Wait a minute,” Wilson said. “Implicated how?”

  “A vagrant claims to have seen a woman follow Gomes into the alley where they found him. She left ten minutes later, alone.”

  Wilson’s stomach fluttered. “And you think it was Cristina?”

  “The woman had tan skin, possibly Latina.”

  “Did he give any other description?”

  “She was wearing a brown hat and overcoat,” Vasquez said. “Taller side. He didn’t get a good enough look at her face to create a composite.”

  “That describes a quarter of the Boston population,” Wilson said. “And, anyway, Cristina’s average height.”

  “She could’ve been wearing heels. The witness couldn’t recall.”

  Wilson pushed the hair off his forehead. “Did this witness hear the gunshot?”

  “No.” Vasquez dipped her chin. “There’s construction in the area. Too much noise.”

  “Ballistics on the gun we found match the slug in Gomes’s chest,” Forrester said. “She killed him with his own weapon.”

  “But there were no signs of a struggle, which means Gomes allowed the killer to get close. Why would he do that to someone like Silva, who he had attacked twice?”

  Forrester shrugged. “Maybe they were working together.”

  “That makes no sense. Besides, she has an alibi.”

  “Well, Gomes was killed two blocks from Dr. Silva’s home, and she’s our only lead. I want a BOLO and no-fly on her yesterday.”

  Wilson bit his inner cheek. If Cristina was in trouble, a BOLO was in her best interest. He’d have to trust she wouldn’t divulge his role in her escape. “Fine. Let’s do it. But we’ve got a bigger problem. I’ve got a witness here who says Gomes threatened her, claiming to be FBI.”

  Vasquez and Forrester exchanged glances.

  “You knew?” Wilson said.

  “Gomes’s dental records matched a special agent who’s been missing for nearly two years,” Vasquez said. “But his prints belong to an ex-ABI.”

  “ABI?”

  “Agência
Brasileira de Inteligência,” Forrester said. “Brazil’s CIA.”

  “So which is he?” Wilson asked.

  “We’re trying to figure that out,” said Vasquez. “But we need to discover who sent Devi Patel that message.”

  “It has to be Silva,” Forrester said.

  “I don’t think so.” Vasquez ticked off the points on her fingers. “The number doesn’t match Silva’s. And phone logs show Patel called Silva twice from the office—the last was only a few minutes before we arrived.”

  “Did you try calling Silva’s phone?” Forrester asked.

  “It goes straight to voicemail,” Vasquez said.

  Forrester grunted. “Keep grilling the secretary. If it wasn’t Silva, someone else arranged for Pickens and Peterman to be her clients. I want to know why.”

  He stormed off, leaving Vasquez and Wilson uncomfortably alone.

  After another moment of awkward silence, Vasquez said, “Well, I better get back to work.”

  “Hold on.” Wilson grabbed her arm.

  Vasquez’s hair flipped over her forehead as she turned to him. Her lips parted expectantly.

  Wilson flushed and released her arm. “I wanted to talk to you about Forrester.”

  “Oh.” Vasquez pouted briefly. “I know. He’s on the hunt again.”

  “No, that’s not it.” He checked to make sure they were alone. “I think he planted that gun at the Gomes crime scene.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s done it before. And if Gomes was working for both the FBI and Zero Dark—”

  “You don’t trust him.”

  Wilson shook his head.

  She sighed. “Thank you for coming to me. I’ll keep my eye out for anything suspicious. Who’s that witness you mentioned?”

  “The wife of Mitchell Parker. Did you know him?”

  Vasquez stared blankly. “Nope. Who was he?”

  “A detective investigating Francisco Martins a few years ago. His wife Miranda says he was working with the Bureau.”

  “Strange. I didn’t see his name mentioned in the files. Maybe Charles knew him.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Wilson rubbed his chin. Forrester knew him, all right. And probably what really happened to him. “She’s pretty shaken. I’m going to recommend she be put in witness protection.”

  “Good idea. I’ll set up that BOLO on Silva.” Vasquez turned to leave and then stopped. She lightly squeezed his arm. “I know you think the pretty doctor is innocent, but we need to protect the public. There’s a good chance she’s crazy or playing a deadly game. Maybe both.”

  “But if she is innocent,” Wilson said, “we have a duty to protect her too.”

  Vasquez’s smile faltered. She released his arm and left without another word.

  Wilson pressed his fist against the wall, leaned his forehead against it. Vasquez was right. After all, Cristina was treating two terrorists and having clandestine meetings with a third. But he still believed her. And now she’d disappeared. Which meant she could be in trouble and he was powerless to help.

  No, not powerless. Wilson straightened his shirt, then glanced at Devi Patel who still staring straight ahead. Forrester was right about one thing. Devi knew more than she was telling. He just needed to ask the right questions.

  Cristina twisted the pay phone’s cord between her fingers. “Andrea, it’s me.”

  “Where are you? I’ve been calling you for hours. And what number is this?”

  The cacophony of travelers rushing through the Dulles Airport international terminal made Andrea’s voice hard to hear.

  Cristina touched her forehead. “It’s a long story.”

  “I hope it’s a good one,” said Andrea. “I’m already at Reagan Airport.”

  “I’m not going back to Boston. You have to leave without me.”

  “What? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Cristina swallowed hard and glanced over her shoulder at her rescuer, who stood watch a few feet away. “I’m with Mitchell.”

  The silence on the other end of the phone deafened her. Cristina braced herself for the imminent onslaught of questions.

  “Mitchell Parker? Are you seeing dead people now?”

  “He’s not dead. It’s hard to explain.”

  “Oh, I bet it’s hard. What I’m hearing is either he lied to you or you lied to me about his death. And neither possibility makes me happy.”

  Cristina cringed. “I know, and I promise I’ll tell you everything, but I can’t do it now.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  Cristina glanced at Mitchell, who was typing something on his phone. “I’m handling it. But I have to disappear for a little while.”

  “You once told me that if you feed delusions, like superhero fantasies, you disconnect from reality entirely. You see everyone, even your friends, as enemies. Promise me that won’t happen.”

  Andrea’s words struck like a knife to Cristina’s chest. “I’m not delusional.”

  Andrea sighed. “Fine. I believe you. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Can you please take care of Grizabella? The landlord has a standing order to let you into my apartment in emergencies.”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Thank you.” Cristina fought the urge to sob. “Stay alert. And don’t talk to anyone, especially the FBI.”

  “FBI? Jesus, Cristina, what’ve you gotten yourself into?”

  “I don’t know.”

  After she hung up, Mitchell said to Cristina, “Do you have a passport?”

  “Yes. I used it to board the flight here since I never renewed my driver’s license. You want me to leave the country?”

  “Quinn’s operatives can find you anywhere within US borders. Your best bet is off-grid.”

  “But what about my patients? I can’t disappear—”

  “Your life is in danger and you’re worried about your patients?” He chuckled. “You’re something special, Cristina.”

  They held each other’s gaze for a breathless moment.

  She turned away and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Let’s go.”

  “Right.” Mitchell tucked his hand under his elbow and nudged Cristina forward. “We’ve got a private jet waiting at the special departure gate. They’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

  “You’re not coming with?”

  “If I disappear, Quinn will figure out I’m a mole.” Mitchell withdrew a squat black device from his pocket. “Keep this safe. Use it when you find something against him.”

  “Is it a weapon?” She studied it. “What does it do?”

  He flipped it open to reveal a keypad. “When you push these numbers, it sends your voice through the air to my phone.”

  Cristina fought the urge to slap him. “You’re still an arrogant jerk.”

  “Part of my charm.” He handed her the phone. “It’s a satellite phone with a GPS ghost. Use it anywhere in the word and anyone not using a special decoder will think you’re five thousand miles away.”

  Cristina pocketed the phone. “Clever.”

  “Don’t contact anyone but me, including that detective.”

  “Gary Wilson? But he’s been helping me.”

  “If he’s working with those FBI agents, you can’t trust him. You know nothing about him.”

  Cristina clucked her tongue. “I could say the same about you.”

  “I’m sorry I misled you, but others will do much worse.” Mitchell clasped his hands around hers. “Promise to be careful.”

  An uncomfortable thrill ran up Cristina’s arms, recalling the same feeling when they’d first touched. She studied the fine wrinkles around Mitchell’s eyes. He seemed sincere. And he had saved her life.

  Softly, she said, “I promise.”<
br />
  “Good.” He released her hands. “We better get you to the gate.”

  “Wait. My pills were in my backpack.”

  “Forget them.”

  “I can’t. There’s an extra bottle in my desk. If we call Devi—”

  “There’s no time.” He held her elbow again and ushered her forward.

  “But I could lose everything. I’ll forget who I am.”

  Mitchell stopped short. Grabbed her shoulders. Looked in her eyes. “No pills can define who you are. Okay?” His lip trembled, almost imperceptibly. “You’re the woman I fell in love with.”

  “Oh, Mitchell—”

  He waved her off. “I know, it’s bad timing. But when we get through this, I want to make it up to you. Maybe we can start again?”

  For just a moment, Cristina wanted to forgive him, to start again, or maybe hold onto something from her past that wasn’t a complete lie. Then she remembered how he had used her, the hell he had put her through when she thought he was dead. And despite his warning, she trusted Detective Wilson, maybe more than she did Mitchell.

  After a glance at the security line, Cristina adjusted her coat. “Let’s get through this madness and see what happens.”

  “All right,” Mitchell said, disappointment tugging at the corners of his eyes even as he tried to remain unflappable. “We have safehouses everywhere. Have you figured out where you want to go?”

  With her life unraveling, her only hope was to find a clue about what Quinn wanted from her, something she could use against him. Or maybe someone. Her fingers brushed over the locket under her blouse.

  “Brazil, of course.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  “Bem-vindo ao Rio de Janeiro,” the pilot said over the intercom after the sleek Lear jet touched down at Antônio Carlos Jobim / Galeão International Airport. “Welcome to Rio, Dr. Silva. Please remain in your seat until Jimmy gives you the okay.”

  Cristina fought to remain calm as she placed her declaration card inside her passport and clutched it against her chest. Jimmy, the copilot, had already briefed her on the customs process. While it wouldn’t be as simple as they made it seem in spy movies, it would be faster than going through the main terminal.

  “It’s Carnival. They’re used to celebrities and diplomats coming by private jet.” He laughed. “They’ll assume you’re a supermodel.”