by Ed Miracle
“Well, if there’s activism in his American projects, we haven’t seen it.”
“Maybe so,” Nick said, “but his foundation is just another social-activist stunt—who builds free schools and hospitals in foreign countries, not-for-profit condos here at home? And that’s who Philip Machen is. He is social. He is active. And he is subversive as hell.
“He gave those people everything they need to secede from the Union. Free Makers tucked away inside gated communities. Those places are his sleeper cells. Starting overseas in those countries like Nigeria, ripe for social upheaval. The weakest fall first, encouraging their neighbors to follow them, down a line of nation-state dominoes that tip straight back toward us. All they need is a nudge, and over they go. Let’s not forget, every one of Philip Machen’s gifts has come with a hidden agenda.”
Intel interrupted him. “Sir, they are moving.”
Nick shoved the STU-5 onto his desk and got up. “You done good, Majers,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t go away.”
He rushed to the worktable where Intel swiveled her screen for him to see. Her satellite feed was fast-scan, not real-time, and the MD-11 twitched from point-to-point like a bug on a skillet until it aligned with the end of the narrow runway. Then it hopped half-way down the strip and disappeared. A brilliant streak of white light flashed where the plane had been, igniting a needle-thin line of orange flames that extended off-screen to the right.
“Ho!” Nick jerked. “What was that? Play that again.”
Intel cut the feed, replayed the segments and aligned the frames side-by-side, in stop-action sequence. Nick jabbed the screen.
“What is that? What’s happening there?”
“Dunno, sir. Bright light burns a stripe. Catches fire. Length of the runway, plus . . .” She called up a scale “. . . three kilometers past the fence. Could be a rocket burn.”
He shook his head. “Too skinny. That’s not an exhaust plume. It’s a focused beam. He’s got a weapon there.” He leaned over her shoulder. “Go live again. Show me the runway. Highest resolution.”
She clicked four times. On-screen, the pavement no longer burned, but a knife-cut ran midline down the runway and into the fields. Tendrils of smoke curled from its dark crease.
“Is that concrete or asphalt?”
“Checking.” Intel looped her cursor, but Nick changed his mind.
“Later,” he said. “Pull back, pull back. See if they crashed.”
She widened the view and scanned the area. No plane, no wreckage. Just a vacant strip of pavement, a sprinkle of rust-red roofs, and thousands of empty green acres. Nick cuffed her shoulder.
“Track him, damn it, track him.”
“Yes, sir. This feed is optical, sir. We can see him with high-res, but the magnification cuts our field-of-view. We need radar to pick him out of the ground clutter. Without it, I can only guess where to look.”
“So your bosses can track him, but I can’t?” He meant the Pentagon with their satellites.
She averted her eyes.
“All right,” he said through gritted teeth. He turned away, clutched his bald scalp with both hands, and reviewed the situation.
“Eighty-three minutes from Sao Paulo to Ibadan. Beam weapon. Makes our lasers look like flashlights. Doubles as a propulsion unit. Matter-to-energy. E=mc2. That son of a bitch has done it again. He’s disappeared and left us with another problem.”
Nick returned to his desk, gathered the STU-5, and shook it.
“Wake up, Majers. Machen has flown the coop. We don’t know which direction, but he’s flying an MD-11. Where did he get that plane? And where did he get that beam engine?”
“Beam engine?”
“Never mind. Tell me where he keeps the plane, I’ll show you the engine. Same hidey-hole.”
“Agent Parker may have a lead on that, sir, down in Victorville.”
“Where the hell is Victorville? Never mind. Call me as soon as you get something on that plane.” He lowered the STU-5, broke the connection, and keyed a different number.
Guardhouse eyes gazed back at him from the screen.
“Get me the Secretary of Defense,” Nick said.
The young Army officer came alert. “Yes, sir.”
Nick sat heavily, oppressed by his belly and by his many years. A lieutenant colonel returned to the screen.
“Sir, Secretary Reynolds asked me to tell you he has the situation under control. He will call you within the hour.”
“Right.”
Nick jabbed the disconnect and swore. He swiveled to his intel kid. She was Navy, he remembered. No wonder she couldn’t do shit.
“That will be all,” he said and turned his back.
As soon as her boney butt was gone, Nick pounded the desk. He eyed the Cambiar, lurking at his elbow. Another Trojan horse? He swept the contraption to the floor. Then he punched a familiar code on his STU-5. The fourth buzz yielded a doe-eyed floozy who cleared her throat.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation, Director Vinckel’s office.”
“Tell Hambone his paycheck is calling.” At least the FBI couldn’t put him on hold.
“Mr. Attorney General.” Doe-eyes blinked. “Yes, sir. I’m sure Director Vinckel is available.”
Momentarily, Harold Vinckel, whose face always reminded Nick of a water-damaged cello, hove into view and tried unconvincingly to smile.
“Nicholas. Good morning. How are you?”
“Update me on Our Lady of Powerpods.”
Vinckel coughed. “Ms. Lavery arrived last night at our Maryland facility.”
“You put her in a safe house? Get her out of there. No pampering. I want her in a hard cell before sunset. Take that skank out to the brig at Quantico. Tell those Marines I want her loosened up.”
“Uh, yes, sir. I understand. In that case, I’ll need to call—”
“Just tell SECDEF he owes me one. And if he hasn’t heard yet, tell him Philip Machen has a thousand Freemaker enclaves right here in the U. S. of A. Sleeper cells. Then tell him the ones in Africa and South America are already moving into stage four of Machen’s social degeneration plan. That’s the part where they tell their governments to go fly a kite.”
Vinckel recoiled. Nick reeled him back.
“Hambone, I want this Lavery bitch motivated. I want to know everything she knows. And I want to know it before she goes up to The Hill next week to lie to our Congress-critters.”
“Yessir. I’ll get right on—”
Nick disconnected him. At least that secular messiah diary had opened a few eyes. Half the country was outraged, and the other half could only doubt Machen’s sanity. What a great day that was. When you toss a skunk into the jury box, its odor cannot be dismissed. No matter what they believed before, everyone got a strong whiff that day of Philip Machen, the lurking atheist. That should have been enough, but too many were saying, “So what?” And half the anti-Machen protesters were quietly squirreling away a few Makers, just in case.
Nick pounded his desk and reached for his phone. No. He put it down and strode to the door. Flung it open, to the surprise of his office manager.
“Get me ten minutes with the President this afternoon,” he told her.
To his legal-beagle staffers, he said, “Prepare a brief to shut down every Maker enclave in the country, and make it quick.”
They stared, uncertain.
“Now,” he shouted, which made them jump.
Next year, when I’m President, you’d better not act so dumb.
THIRTY-THREE
Quantico, Virginia. Monday, May 25
Day Thirty-eight
Tiffany where are you?
Karen Lavery paced her narrow cell and stretched to relieve her stiff back. A row of glass bricks near the ceiling randomly warped the afternoon sun into bright shards of light. She wore starchy orange coveralls and green prison sandals. The waxed concrete floor seemed to flow away beneath the bars and drift down the corridor toward freedom. Touch those bars and d
ie was her sense of them, though the guards banged them often enough. Metal sink, metal toilet, a steel bench on which to sleep. Every night, the bench installed new agonies that her morning stretches could not relieve. Apart from cold-water splashes, she had neither bathed nor left this cell for three days.
Didn’t her keepers believe her? She was cooperating, telling them the ten thousand things she knew about Philip and Powerpods. About Makers, she knew less than they did. She was a witness and a victim, not an accomplice. Yet here she was, imprisoned like a criminal. And her gentleman friend, the attorney, had not yet persuaded anyone to release her. Hurry, Terry. Hurry.
In three days she would appear before a Congressional committee to explain herself. She needed to organize, to plan her testimony with Terry, but the Marines allowed her no phone, no visitors, no records, not even a pencil and paper. She didn’t know what was happening outside these walls. She hadn’t seen a scrap of news since they took her into custody, over a month ago. How could she prepare? Seven more nights on this bench would render her stinky, arthritic, and incoherent.
Which must be their plan. She was beginning not to care. While the hours seeped through the walls, a deeper worry engaged her. Tiffany, where are you? What are you doing?
At mealtimes, the guards brought food on a steel tray, collected it afterward, and answered no questions. Except for the sergeant who had booked her, they were all scrub-faced privates and corporals, young Marine hard-bodies, doing their tight-lipped duty. If her notoriety counted for anything among them, they betrayed no hints.
A shadow swept the wall and interrupted her ruminations. Agent Parker, wearing a pristine white raincoat, posed at her door, stiff as a mannequin.
“Excuse me, Ms. Lavery.”
The novelty of his voice perked her. Someone had come at last, even if he was a crocodile offering sympathy-eyes.
“You could have knocked,” she said.
Parker waved to the overhead camera, and the gate between them clattered aside.
“May I come in?”
“No.” She turned her back, defending the sovereignty of her bench. She inspected the farthest corner for spiders. “What do you want?”
“I need your help, Ms. Lavery.”
“Helping you is what put me here.”
“I can get you out.”
“Before or after Congress blames me for everything?” She glanced to the left, trying to toss her helplessness into the toilet.
“Tiffany has run away from your mother’s.”
Karen caught her breath as an image flashed before her, of Tiffany running alone and frightened down a dark suburban street.
“She’s in danger,” he added.
“Of not meeting you? Good for her.” Anger forced her to breathe.
“She’s trying to reach Philip.”
Karen shook her head and faced him. “She has no idea where he is.”
“Yes, but he knows where she is.”
Karen snorted. “Philip doesn’t care about—”
“You’re wrong.” Lines of exhaustion marred his perfect face as if he wasn’t sleeping well either. “May I come in?”
She resumed her spider search. She needed to talk, yearned to know about Tiffany, just not with him. When no spiders materialized to save her, she nodded. The crocodile and his cologne entered and sat beside her.
“What do you want, Parker?”
He unbuttoned his suit coat.
“Before somebody gets hurt, I want Philip bloody Machen.”
“Humph.”
“I realize you view this differently, Ms. Lavery, but hear me out. You and your daughter are the loves of his life. He adores you.”
Ridiculous.
“Especially Tiffany.” His voice softened. “That diary of his? The one you gave me? That chip could have held a hundred diaries, yet the one he gave us stopped precisely on the day you came into his life. Why? Two reasons. He didn’t want to reveal his Trojan horse Makers prematurely. But he also didn’t want to expose his feelings for you or Tiffany. That’s what’s missing, Ms. Lavery, what should have been there but isn’t. He’s boasted he’s giving away his life’s treasures—Pods and Makers. He even gave away the diary. But he’s keeping you and Tiffany. You are his secret treasures, to be shared with no one.
“But—”
“He taught her to fly, didn’t he? In his little red airplane? Gave her pride and confidence when she needed it. Helped her grow up. Helped her for six years, Ms. Lavery.”
“He could be very sweet,” Karen conceded, “but—”
“Where did he take her during those flying lessons? Two, three hours at a time. Did she tell you they sometimes landed on the fire roads out in the hills? They made picnics in the grass. How many hours were they out there? Do you know?”
Karen glared. “She would have told me, right away, if he had tried . . . anything.”
“Okay, but what about him? Let’s say he’s done nothing improper. Have you noticed how close they are? She calls him almost daily. They’ve talked for years. Father-to-daughter doesn’t begin to—”
“She loves him. So what? It’s not physical.”
“He loves her, too, Ms. Lavery. He watches her. He put a sleeper program in her Cambiar, to monitor her movements and forward her connections, all relayed to him.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugged. “We found his bug when we installed ours.”
“Humph.”
“He’s been flying over Pleasanton, over your mother’s house, and probably over Tiffany’s newest hideout. He’s watching her.”
“Philip’s not a pervert, and Tiff is not having an affair with him.”
“Okay.” Parker sniffed.
“What are you saying?”
“That his interest, his proximity—his love for her, if you will—still puts her in great danger. She begs to join him, did you know that? We fear they could meet before we intercept them. That would be very dangerous.”
“So go get her, Parker, since you know where she is.”
“That’s why I’m here. She’s staying on a ranch between Pleasanton and Livermore with people who may be Freemakers.”
“What’s a—”
“Freemakers want to keep their Makers. Often as not, they have guns too. If we rush the ranch, they might resist, take your daughter hostage. She could be hurt or killed. But if you and I approach them together . . .”
Karen shook her head. The bastard had her. She yearned to denounce him, to tell him to go to hell, but how could she?
“So it’s a trap for Philip,” she said. “With Tiffany as bait.”
“We want her safe. We want Philip in custody to answer for what he’s done. That’s our job.” He rubbed his nose. “You need to understand that a great many people want him dead, Ms. Lavery. They’ve lost their jobs, their businesses, their ways of life. They’re frightened, they’re mad as hell, and they’re making guns as fast as they can. We are closing in on him, but if Tory vigilantes find Tiffany with Philip before we get there?” He clenched a fist where she could see it. “Help us, Ms. Lavery.”
She slumped. He might be lying. Or mistaken. It didn’t matter. She hated him for using her, as Philip had used her. She hated them both, although Parker’s treachery offered to repay Philip in his own currency. But that didn’t matter either. She could not abandon Tiffany to strangers, no matter who they were. Nothing mattered except getting her daughter back.
“You were supposed to protect her.”
“We did. We are. We need your help.”
Karen shut her eyes, opened them. “Go to hell, Parker.”
He stood and buttoned his jacket.
“I don’t know how long it will take to put you back in my custody. A few hours, I hope.” He reached into his London Fog raincoat, withdrew a Cambiar. “Call her,” he said.
He left it on the bench and stepped to the door. “You can speed dial her but no others.”
She picked it up. “It’s bugged, is
n’t it?”
He inhaled deeply and released the jailhouse air. “Thank you, Karen.”
It was the first time he had used her given name, a warm, personal touch. How sweet of him. She aimed a finger-pistol at his face.
“If anything happens to her, Parker, I’ll make it my life’s work to destroy you. Your career, your pension, your smarmy sanity.”
“I know,” he said.
He buttoned his spotless raincoat, waved four fingers at the camera, and steel bars shuddered home between them.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said.
Then he strode down the hall and out of range of her loathing.
THIRTY-FOUR
Oakland, California. Thursday, May 28
Day Forty
Agent Parker swung his overnight bag into the hired car and slipped into the front seat with the driver. When he stated his destination, she cocked her head in recognition.
“Short ride,” she said.
Prospect Shores’ twelve blue-and-white stories rose directly across San Leandro Bay from Oakland International Airport. From Terminal Two he could see his own balcony, though he didn’t dwell on it. Instead, he sat back, shut his eyes, and massaged the bridge of his nose. Let his driver steer the universe for a while.
Tuesday, he had taken his proposal to FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C., to an assistant director who surprised him by liking the idea. Before lunch, the two of them presented his plan to Director Vinckel, who informed them that until further notice Ms. Lavery’s availability was controlled by Senator Gilmar and her sub-committee. But Vinckel liked the plan, too, and promised to plead for interim custody. The three of them shook on it.
At lunch, however, the assistant director took a call midway through his chicken salad. By the third uh-huh, the A.D. was no longer smiling, and by the sixth, he seemed to have acquired an ulcer.
“No can do,” he told Parker when he hung up. “The A.G. stomped on Vinckel for suggesting it. Said he’s already taken you off the case, personally. That you are freelancing, and if Gilmar’s committee finds out about your Quantico foray, they will come down on the Bureau for witness tampering.”
