by Jack Mars
Just another bonding experience.
Then he put his hands in his pockets, and as casually as possible he began to walk back toward Mischa’s position. He didn’t walk too quickly, to avoid getting there before it was time; he didn’t walk too slowly to make anyone suspicious. He just walked as if he was out for a morning stroll.
The trees were still full and lush and green. In another few weeks they would start to change color as the weather cooled. He couldn’t help but hope he got to see that, instead of being in a prison cell, or dead from one thing or another. If it wasn’t Krauss or the CIA it would be his own brain.
He didn’t even have the slightest clue of how much time he had. And given how often he found himself in spots like this one, it hardly seemed to matter anyhow.
The radio crackled in his ear. “The eagle has left the building,” Reidigger said. “Over.”
“You’re mixing metaphors,” Zero said flatly.
“He left the house, okay? Silver Cadillac. Bright and shiny and obnoxious. Can’t miss it. Over.”
“Confirmed,” Mischa said through the radio.
At that same moment, Alan was in the Buick, parked a block away from Shaw’s house and facing the opposite direction. Mischa was hidden up the road a short ways, waiting to spring. And Zero, he was just walking. Complex plans got people killed.
There was one more thing that he knew about Shaw. Despite claiming to be such a stickler for the rules—the main reason that Zero had been such a thorn in his side—the director would do just about anything to keep himself out of hot water.
*
Mischa hid behind a particularly wide oak tree and waited. She was confident no one could see her; there was just a field behind her that eventually segued into thin woods. The nearest house was cater-corner to her position by at least eighty yards (a term that Sara insisted was “catty-corner” until Mischa pointed out that it was based on the French word quatre, meaning “four,” and that Americans had so bastardized their own language that none of them even knew why they would call something diagonally across from them “catty”). Trees on the opposite side of the road further obscured any would-be viewers; it would be difficult to spot someone from there.
She waited. She was, as Alan put it, the “bait” in this plan. She would have much preferred being called the decoy, but it seemed that she was democratically outvoted by her elders who insisted bait was more appropriate in this situation.
An engine was approaching. She peered out from behind her tree to see a dark red SUV pass by. Not her target.
Her position was between two and three minutes from his home. Alan had given the signal. Any time now…
Mischa heard another sound and peered out, and this time she saw it. A silver car with boxy headlights approached. The car meandered, going seemingly under the speed limit. Casual, taking its time.
She waited. This had to be timed just right.
The car neared her position. Almost there…
Mischa darted out from between the trees and into the street. If anyone had been watching, they would have seen the Cadillac hit her right around the left hip. They would have seen the small girl roll up the hood, strike the windshield with a shoulder, and then roll off the car and onto the pavement.
It hurt. But no more than a good body slam would. She’d jumped at the last second; the car had never actually struck her, but the act of rolling up and over it while it was doing at least thirty miles an hour was still painful.
And she couldn’t imagine how it would have looked to Shaw when a small body suddenly flew over his hood and off his car.
The tires squealed to a stop. The door of the Cadillac flew open and a tall man stepped out in one quick stride. Director Shaw was lanky, and moved as if his spine was a steel rod. His mouth, it seemed, was good only for grimacing, but at least his eyes were wide and alert in concern.
Mischa rolled onto her back and faked a groan of pain.
“My god,” Shaw breathed. “I-I didn’t even see you… came out of nowhere…” He took a cautious step toward her, as if she was a wounded animal. “Are you all right?”
“Hurts,” Mischa murmured.
For a moment she worried that Shaw would recognize her. But they had met only once ever, when she’d first been arrested at the Calvert Cliffs reactor, just after Samara had been killed.
This man had only kept her imprisoned in underground isolation for three months. Why should he recognize her?
“Can you… can you stand?” he asked. As he did he looked all around. Looking for witnesses.
She slowly and melodramatically got to her feet, making sure to grunt and wince appropriately.
The director was visibly relieved. “Good. Good. Nothing broken? You’re okay?”
“Think so,” Mischa said. “But I should probably go to the hospital…” She trailed off and looked past him.
He turned, following her gaze, and saw a man trotting toward them at a slow clip about a hundred yards out. “Oh god,” he murmured. When he turned back to Mischa, Shaw’s face was noticeably paler.
At this distance, he couldn’t see that the man approaching them was Zero. All he saw was a possible eyewitness to a CIA director hitting a kid with his car.
“The hospital,” Shaw said suddenly. “Yes, come, get in the car and I’ll take you, and we can talk on the way about what you might say when we get there…”
Mischa resisted the urge to scowl and instead stuck out her bottom lip. “I’m not supposed to get in cars with strangers.”
“Right. Of course not. Good girl.” Shaw’s teeth were gritted as he said it. “Um, where are your parents? Do you live close?”
“Yes. Can I use your phone? I’ll call them. They can come get me.”
“Phone. Yes.” Shaw pulled his cell from his pocket and handed it to her. “Just… let’s maybe keep names out of this, yeah?”
“You should probably get your car off the street,” she suggested.
“Right. Yes. Good idea.” Shaw didn’t even seem to question the suggestion, stunned as he was. He got back in the car, and for a moment Mischa realized the fatal flaw in the plan; he could have sped off, right then. And for a moment it seemed like he might, as the Cadillac lurched suddenly forward. But then he swerved to the shoulder and parked it. He jumped out again and trotted back to her.
“There. Now, we can agree this was an accident, yes? I wasn’t speeding, or—or texting, or any such thing, and you came out of nowhere, I imagine you didn’t even look both ways, if we’re being honest…”
“Shaw,” she snapped. “Shut up.”
“Excuse me?” He frowned deeply. “Hey—what is that you’re doing?!”
Mischa already had the phone open, two halves in her hands. She slid out the SIM card and snapped it in half. They’d separated him from his home, his car, and his phone; now they just needed the man himself.
“What on earth—” Shaw started, but by that time Zero had reached them. He didn’t break his stride, but simply linked his arm in Shaw’s and tugged him forward, as if they were going for a pleasant walk.
“Hi, Shaw,” said Zero. “We’re going to need you to come with us.”
“You!” The director’s jaw dropped. He spun to look at Mischa even as Zero forced him forward. “And you… you’re that girl… this was a setup!”
“Come on, we don’t want to hurt you,” Zero told him. The Buick rolled past them and pulled over to the side of the road. “I mean, we do want to hurt you, but we won’t if you come quietly.”
“Do you have any idea how many crimes you’re committing right now?!” Shaw protested.
Mischa thought for a moment. “Four? Unless we’re also counting misdemeanors.”
They reached the Buick and Zero opened the door for Shaw. It was clear the director did not want to get in (and for good reason) but Zero leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. The blood drained from Shaw’s face, and his throat flexed with a gulp, and then he climbed into the backs
eat.
With any luck, there were no witnesses, no prying eyes from nearby homes. If there was, it would look like there had been an accident, but everyone was okay, and the driver was helped by a good Samaritan to take him and the girl to the hospital.
Zero sat in back with Shaw and Mischa slid into the passenger seat. Alan nodded to the director in the rearview as Zero searched his pockets, finding only his wallet and car keys. The wallet he passed to Mischa, who stowed it in the glove box. About a quarter-mile up the road, Zero threw the keys out the window.
“What are you going to do to me?” Shaw demanded, though his voice was tremulous. “What do you want?”
“We just want to talk, Shaw,” Zero said. “And you will talk.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Zero knew they couldn’t go back to the safe house. Not just because of its distance from Langley, but also because they wanted to keep it safe, to have a place to go if need be, and bringing a kidnapped CIA director to it would make it decidedly unsafe.
But in typical fashion, Alan had a place.
They drove in silence toward the location—relative silence, since twice Shaw tried to protest. The first time it was an overt threat about the charges they would face for their actions. The second was a piteous plea for clemency in return for letting him go now, no questions asked.
After the second protest went ignored, Shaw opened his mouth a third time, but then shut it again just as quickly when Mischa calmly and quietly pulled a paring knife from her pocket and passed it over the seat to Zero.
Stunned as Zero was by the presence of the weapon, he couldn’t show it in the moment, so he took it and held it as unthreateningly as a knife could be while still being visible. He assumed she took it from the kitchen of the safe house.
The location Alan had in mind used to be a pharmacy but had gone out of business. The vacant building had been up for lease for seven months; Alan knew the owner and also knew that no one had been by to look at it in more than a month, so it was a safe bet they’d be undisturbed there for a little while.
Zero wouldn’t need long with the CIA director.
Alan parked the Buick in the back. Zero guarded Shaw while Mischa picked the lock on the steel rear door. It took her about forty seconds to get in. No alarm went off; there was nothing to steal anyway and no reason for the owner to pay for the security.
The shelving units were still there, five long rows of gray steel forming the ghosts of aisles, empty and gathering dust. Aside from that there were vacant counters at the front, an area in the rear for filling prescriptions, a lot of floor space. The windows had brown paper taped up over them; likely to deter looters or vandals, he imagined, though Zero didn’t see how that would be very effective against either. It did, however, make it an effective place for an interrogation.
The whole place had a silent, eerie, post-apocalyptic sort of vibe. If he was being honest, it probably creeped him out just as much as it did Shaw.
“Bring him up front,” Alan told them. “I’ll be right back.”
Zero frowned but didn’t ask. He and Mischa marched the director of the CIA to the front of the former store, to the counter where registers would be if there had been any registers.
“Sit,” Zero commanded.
Shaw did so, lowering himself slowly to the counter’s surface. He was tall enough that his feet still reached the floor. He stared at the thin blade in Zero’s hand.
“You’re going to go to jail for a very long time for this,” he muttered.
“Maybe,” Zero conceded. “But by the time we’re done here, you might be joining me.”
Shaw frowned at that, but didn’t get the chance to ask. Reidigger returned, pushing something into Zero’s hands.
It was a black Glock 17.
“Got it from the garage before it exploded,” he said. “Almost forgot I had ’em.”
“Thanks.” Zero tucked the pistol into the back of his pants. He wouldn’t need it to interrogate Shaw.
“And now guns?” The director scoffed. “Hey, girl, how many felonies are we up to now?”
“Don’t talk to her,” Zero told him. “Talk to me. We have questions, and you’re going to answer. As the director of the CIA, you’re privy to certain information that not even the president knows.”
“Like certain research and development projects,” Alan chimed in.
“Like what?” Shaw asked caustically.
“Like an experimental memory suppressor,” Zero told him outright. “A tiny chip, the size of a grain of rice, implanted near the base of the skull that affects the limbic system, the amygdala, parts of the hypothalamus…”
“Hinders the regulation of endocrine function in response to familiar stimuli,” Reidigger added, regurgitating things they’d learned from the late Dr. Guyer.
“An agent named Seth Connors volunteered to test it, to be the first to have it implanted,” Zero said. “But it failed. Memories of his former life started coming back. Leaking through. He went insane and eventually committed suicide.”
“A few years ago,” Alan picked up, “someone stole the latest suppressor prototype from R&D. The program was supposedly shut down, deleted.”
“Or so we thought. Until today. When I came face-to-face with the assassin who killed Maria, and he had no idea who he was. He had one implanted recently. No more than a few days ago, it would seem. A week, tops.” Zero leaned toward the director, who stared wide-eyed between the two of them. Despite how dangerous it was for them to know what they knew, he was enjoying the look of shock on Shaw’s face at just how much they knew. “So, Director. Why did the CIA implant a suppressor in Stefan Krauss, and why is he helping to kill people who knew about the program? Dr. Guyer in Switzerland. Bliss, in New York.” Zero leaned in and added, in a low voice, “Their wives.”
Despite his obvious fear, Shaw shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about! We didn’t implant anything into anyone. And even if I did know something, I won’t divulge information that could jeopardize national security.”
Zero had hoped it wouldn’t come down to anything more than threats. But he also hadn’t expected the director of the CIA to just roll over, either. “You will.”
“Or what?” Shaw dared to challenge. “You’ll hurt me? Torture me, like you would some insurgent at H-6? No. You’re the good guys. It’s not your style.”
Zero exchanged a glance with Alan. “He’s right. Not our style.”
“We’re the good guys,” Alan admitted.
“That’s why we brought her.” Zero handed the small knife to Mischa.
Quick as a flash, she swiped out at Shaw’s face, faster than he could pull away. He yelped as a thin red line opened on his cheek. It was a small cut, superficial, shallow, but cheeks had the habit of bleeding a lot. Both of Shaw’s hands flew to his face and came back with blood on them.
“You—you cut me!” he gasped. “Do you have any idea what’s going to happen to you?! Mark my words—”
“Mark mine,” Zero grabbed Shaw’s lapels in both fists and shook him. “My life, and the lives of my family and friends are in jeopardy right now, all because of that chip. You’d better start talking, and fast, because she’s quick with a knife and is just itching to cut some small pieces off of you. Understand?”
Shaw’s gaze flitted from Zero to Mischa, who played with the thin knife between her small fingers. He nodded quickly.
“I-I don’t know much. But—yes. The CIA never stopped working on the program. We moved it, to a facility in New Mexico. Destroyed all evidence of it at Langley. They developed a new one. I don’t know the details, just that the trials were successful, and that it can be controlled remotely…”
Mischa scoffed, evidently dismayed by how easily Shaw folded, but Zero wasn’t surprised. The man had never served in the field, had probably never been threatened like this before.
“Controlled?” Zero demanded. “How do you mean, controlled?”
“Meaning that the
subject’s brain can be continuously manipulated,” Shaw said rapidly. “New things they learn or discover can be erased. Old memories, skills, experiences can be returned. Uh, given back, I suppose.”
Zero scoffed. The suppressor had been dangerous enough; they had to go and make it worse? “So why Krauss?”
“We didn’t!” Shaw insisted. “It was stolen. The facility was compromised—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Zero shouted in his face. “You expect me to believe that the suppressor was stolen and then just happened to end up in the brain of the assassin that killed Maria? Try again.” He pulled Shaw close, so their faces were only a few inches apart. “And do better.”
The director trembled, but still he shook his head. “I can’t,” he said quietly, almost a whimper. “I can’t. There are people out there more dangerous than you.”
“Currently? There’s not.” He let go of Shaw, and nodded to Mischa.
Her free left hand darted out and clamped onto Shaw’s ear. Her right hand readied the knife for a quick slice. Zero’s stomach turned; he was certain she would do it, and he was certain he’d let her, and equally certain he didn’t want to watch.
“Wait!” Shaw screeched. “Wait, please! It was given to an asset. A CIA asset—”
“A name, Shaw!” Zero warned. “We need a name, or you lose the ear.”
“Bright! He’s called Bright!”
He didn’t have to wave Mischa off. At the shout of the name, she released Shaw and looked over at Zero in alarm.
Even he wasn’t sure he’d heard Shaw right.
“Bright?” Zero repeated. “The CIA gave the memory suppressor technology to Mr. Bright?”
Shaw panted, his narrow chest heaving up and down, but he nodded. “You… know him?”
“Christ,” Alan sighed.
“Let me get this straight,” Zero said slowly. “The CIA gave some of the most dangerous technology on the planet to a man that funds terrorism? You call him an ‘asset’? What sort of counterintuitive, backwards thinking is that?”
