Wet Work

by Dayton Ward

  “We’ll just have to deal with that when it comes up,” McFarland said, dragging on his cigarette. The presence of his agents on the security camera footage was inconvenient, but not alarming. That could be handled, or simply ignored. Without actual evidence, NTAC would have no claim to another agency interfering with their admittedly unusual mission. “Where’s NTAC on locating her?”

  Wright replied, “She’s good at covering her tracks, that’s for damned sure. They put in requests to their Southeast Region office to check out the Tampa address she left, but even if it’s not a fake, she’s been gone twelve years. Whatever’s there has probably been sold a couple of times since she was…abducted.” She shook her head, exhaling between pursed lips. “I still can’t bring myself to buy that story.”

  “Even if NTAC follows Alicia Colbern far enough to learn it’s an alias,” added Malick, “there’s nothing beyond that for them to examine without outside assistance.”

  If and when NTAC came to the CIA asking for such aid, McFarland would be able to handle the situation without attracting undue attention from his superiors and all while keeping the other, upstart organization at arm’s length. “The question now is: What do we do about Callahan?”

  He had squandered the one opportunity to make contact with her. Any further attempts would have to be initiated from her end, assuming she was interested in such discourse. Had the uncertainty surrounding her disappearance and return unnerved her to the point that she felt she needed to retreat to a safe haven? Even if only long enough to get her bearings in a world that had passed her by? Perhaps while in quarantine, Callahan had decided not to return to her former life, choosing instead to fade into obscurity, if indeed such a thing existed for her or any of “the 4400.”

  It would not be so simple, McFarland decided. Unlike the futile efforts to locate her in 1992, now he knew she was out there, somewhere. Technology and intelligence resources had advanced tenfold in the time since her original disappearance, and would play a large role in tracking her down, no matter how far she ran or how deep she tried to hide.

  It might take time, but one way or another, Lona Callahan would be found.

  TEN

  LA GRANDE, OREGON

  AS IT HAD uncounted times before, the intense light washed over her, warming her skin. Wind howled in her ears, drowning out her cries for help. Only as the light faded could she discern the clouds parting beneath her, and as she plummeted through she saw the brown-green matte of the earth hurtling toward her. She flailed but found nothing to arrest her headlong descent, and when she screamed she heard nothing as the ground raced up to meet her.

  Lona awoke, her body snapping to a sitting position. Her right arm, extending from the bed so that her hand rested on the nightstand, swept away a water glass and the cheap digital alarm clock positioned near her head. She flinched as water pelted the side of her face and the glass fell to the carpeted floor. The clock landed on one edge, hitting its power switch and flooding the room with the staccato beats of a hard rock ballad she vaguely remembered from her days in college.

  Cursing, Lona reached for the clock’s power cord and yanked it free of the outlet behind the nightstand, returning the room to blissful silence. Blinking, she cleared her sleep-blurred vision and took in her surroundings, realizing she was alone in a king-sized bed. Though the suite’s furnishings were opulent, their color and arrangement as well as the generic artwork hanging on the walls reminded her that she was in a high-end hotel rather than an apartment or house. An ornate, cherry wood armoire was positioned across the room at the foot of the bed, its doors opened to reveal a dormant television as well as a small refrigerator. The door to the bathroom was closed, muffling the sounds of the shower. A thin slice of daylight streamed between the curtains on the far wall, promising a sunny morning, and Lona relaxed as the memories of the previous day returned.

  I wonder what McFarland’s thinking now, she mused, pulling aside the sheets and rising from the bed.

  It had been a simple matter to evade the pathetic attempt at pursuit. Assuming the people Lona had put down were actual CIA agents, she supposed it made sense that there would not have been a stronger Agency presence. So far as they and McFarland were concerned and despite the passage of time, she would still be considered an operative in need of retrieval and debriefing. They would have no way of knowing that returning to her former life was now the furthest thing from her mind.

  Sorry about that.

  The journey to their current and very temporary safe house had taken until well after dark the previous evening, owing to Reiko’s choice to avoid the direct interstate route and instead utilize secondary roads and other off-beaten paths. Upon their arrival, Lona learned that Reiko already had booked the room for several days and had checked in two days earlier under an alias, one Lona did not recognize from their years working together. She saw no need to question Reiko’s decisions, trusting that her friend had developed her own approach to stealth as well as a requisite support network in the years since Lona’s disappearance.

  Moving to a freestanding mirror situated in the corner of the room, Lona stood before it and examined herself. Dressed in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms as provided by Reiko from one of two suitcases sitting in the closet, Lona noted the dark circles beneath her eyes. Though she had slept for nearly eleven hours since arriving at the hotel, she still felt some lingering vestiges of the fatigue that had gripped her the previous day, following her fight with the CIA agents.

  What did I do?

  That question had gnawed at her throughout the ride from Seattle. She had replayed the encounter in her mind over and over, each time coming away with more questions than answers. Was what she experienced nothing more than illusion, or perhaps even hallucination brought about by something given to her while in quarantine? Lona had not once received any sort of inoculation while in NTAC’s care, but that did not rule out something in her food or drink. Though she was familiar with various effects of psychotropic drugs—either from recreational use or deliberate instances during early training so that she could become familiar with the sensations and learn how to operate despite an impaired condition—she could not discount the possibility of new substances that produced no noticeable effects.

  No, Lona decided. It could not be that simple. The expressions on the faces of the agents she had fought were of shock, confusion, and fear. Whatever it was she had done, they had witnessed it. If that were truly the case, then how had she done it, and what were the effects on her body?

  Behind her, she heard the water shut off in the bathroom, and a moment later the door opened to admit a billowing cloud of steam. Lona smiled at that, recalling how Reiko always had preferred showers that seemed on the verge of scalding her skin. She smiled again when Reiko herself stepped into the room, wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe and drying her long brown hair with a large towel.

  “You’re awake,” she said, returning the smile as she made eye contact. “How did you sleep?”

  “Like a baby,” Lona replied. “Best sleep I’ve had in weeks. Sure beats the army bunks they gave us.”

  Once again, she felt the familiar tug of desire upon seeing her longtime friend and lover. Though there had been warm embraces and kisses of reunion as soon as opportunity presented itself during the trip from Seattle, Lona had sensed Reiko’s discomfort. It was understandable, of course. From Lona’s point of view, only seven weeks had passed since she last had seen Reiko—one week spent in Baltimore in preparation for the Miraj al-Diladi assassination and then the time spent in NTAC quarantine. For Reiko, it had been twelve years, and it was obvious that she had moved on after enough time passed and it became apparent that Lona would not be returning. Though Reiko had not said as much, Lona was certain that there was someone else and she had taken steps to respect Reiko’s situation.

  As if sensing Lona’s own uneasiness, Reiko said, “I still can’t believe you’re here.” Continuing to work on her damp hair with the towel, she moved to
sit at the edge of the bed. “When you didn’t come back after Baltimore, I was sure you’d been captured or killed. For a while I just laid low and waited for someone to kick down my door.”

  It was more hyperbole than anything else, Lona knew. During her employ with the CIA, she had taken steps to insulate her partner from anything to do with the Agency. So far as the United States intelligence apparatus was concerned, Reiko Vandeberg had never existed, and from everything Lona had been able to determine, that was still the case.

  “For a while,” Reiko added after a moment, “I even thought there might have been someone else. Eventually, though, I decided that you’d never do something like that without telling me. So, that left you either being dead or in prison somewhere.” That was when the smile returned. “I was stunned when I got the message via that old phone number. I was sure it had to be a setup, the CIA or someone else you’d pissed off having finally found a connection to me.” She dropped the towel to her lap and reached out to clasp Lona’s left hand in both of her own. “By then the news channels were going day and night about you and the others, and I sat there for days until I saw your picture on the screen. Even then I was scared to call.” With one hand, she reached to stroke the side of Lona’s face. “My God, you haven’t aged a day since the last time I saw you.”

  Lona covered Reiko’s hand with her own, sighing at the intimate touch as she nodded in understanding. The story of the 4400 would be a remarkable notion to absorb, with thousands of people across the world being reunited with friends and family members believed missing or dead. She still had occasion to doubt what had happened to her, despite all the evidence with which she and the rest of the returnees had been inundated since their return.

  “And yet you came,” Lona said, feeling Reiko squeeze the hand in her lap. Still, Lona could sense the other woman’s anxiety.

  “I’ve done more than that,” Reiko replied. “After you disappeared, I took care of your assets, at least the ones I knew about. I’m sure there was more that you kept secret, for your own protection or to insulate me.” Shaking her head, she used one hand to offer a dismissive wave. “Anyway, the house in Wyoming is waiting for you. I even had your Mustang in for a tune-up.”

  Laughing at that, Lona said, “Would you believe that the entire time I spent in quarantine, I never once worried about the house or any of those other things?” It was odd, she knew, but something had told her not to concern herself with such things as whatever material possessions she might have owned prior to her disappearance. There were more important subjects to ponder.

  The brief moment of quiet was shattered at the sound of a cell phone ringing somewhere on the other side of the room. Reiko blinked at the summons before lurching from the bed and crossing to where a pile of her clothes lay strewn across a chair. She retrieved the phone, looking at its digital display as it continued to ring before she glanced back toward Lona. “It’s…I mean…I have to take this,” she said, moving toward the suite’s other room. Lona sat on the bed, listening to the bits and fragments of Reiko’s half of the muted conversation filtering back into the room. It was not hard to guess who was on the other end of the line.

  “No,” she heard Reiko snap after a moment, the single word delivered with more force than anything she had said to that point. “It’s not anything you did. I told you why I had to do this. Yes, I do love you, but this is…look, I can’t do this now. No, you can’t…I’m not coming back. Good-bye, Carmen.”

  Lona felt her heart jump as she heard Reiko sever the conversation, waiting the additional moments until the other woman appeared in the doorway, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Reiko?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  Wiping tears from her eyes, Reiko drew a deep breath. “It’s okay. I do love her, but the truth is that I never stopped loving you.”

  The odd warmth Lona had felt the previous day in Seattle once more washed over her body as she rose from the bed. In scarcely the blink of an eye she was across the room, her pulse racing and again feeling perspiration moisten her skin.

  Her eyes widening in shock and confusion, Reiko gasped at what Lona knew she must have seen. “How did you…?”

  Lona shook her head, pushing aside the question and instead focusing her attention on the woman who had not allowed the years to diminish the love or desire that had guided her to Seattle. Her hands found their way through the folds of the robe and to the bare skin concealed beneath, and her lips sought out Reiko’s, reveling in the contact for which she had yearned these many weeks.

  For now, the questions could wait.

  REEMERGENCE

  JULY 2005

  ELEVEN

  CIA HEADQUARTERS LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  BRIAN HICKS KNEW that in the wars against terrorism, drugs, and various other flavors of tyranny, some of those fronts were fraught with danger and even more than a touch of mystery and intrigue. Around the world, soldiers equipped with state-of-the-art battlefield armaments and training were engaging America’s enemies and fighting the good fight. Elsewhere, covert agents wielding the latest gadgets and weapons as well as wits honed through hard-won experience were hunting evil masterminds bent on destroying his country’s way of life.

  Then there was him, Brian Hicks, who like everyone else on this floor made his contributions from the supposed comfort of a drab gray cubicle. His arsenal consisted of an ergonomically designed office chair, a computer, a phone, a desk, and cabinets crammed with reports, charts, and maps he was certain no other human being would ever read.

  Anything to support the “war effort,” blah, blah, blah.

  This was not the career Brian had envisioned when he was first approached by a recruiter for the Central Intelligence Agency while still a student at Florida State University. Until that fateful day, he had anticipated continuing with his studies and earning his degree in computer information systems, eventually going on to earn obscene amounts of money at some big IT company. This, of course, was before the reality of outsourcing such jobs to overseas companies or just those U.S. firms with a significant global presence that could afford to transfer that kind of work to employees in countries earning a fraction of the “bloated” salaries paid to their American counterparts. While still in college, Brian had believed a lucrative career in the private sector awaited him.

  All of that had changed the day the quiet man in the dark suit arrived on campus, bringing with him a surprisingly thick file that seemed to hold every byte of information pertaining to the life of Brian Hicks. Contained within the file were statements from all manner of people in his life, including his parents, friends from high school, teachers he had long since forgotten, and former employers. The recruiter appeared to know the most mundane details, such as the books he read, the movies he liked, or the porn he downloaded from the Internet. He even knew about the spring break weekend in Daytona Beach during his junior year culminating in the night spent with that crazy redhead from Michigan State who had ended up in a bunch of those Girls Gone Wild videos. The Agency man had a statement from her, too.

  Long story short, the guy in the suit knew everything.

  He also had been aware of Brian’s love and apparent gift for computers. He had visited the websites Brian created, first as school projects and later as a means of helping to defray the cost of his college tuition. The recruiter also had recounted a few shady incidents from Brian’s past, such as the occasions he hacked online retailers in order to secure assorted electronics and video games while making sure that those purchases were recorded on other customers’ invoices.

  Interestingly, the Agency had seemed not at all interested in those dealings, except to the extent that they showcased Brian’s technical prowess. The recruiter’s pitch for his employer was enticing, filled with examples of how Brian could utilize his talents to contribute to America’s ongoing battles with old as well as emerging enemies. With computers permeating nearly every aspect of modern civilization—including intelligence
gathering as well as crime and terrorism—the need for specialists who could navigate and even wage war within the “virtual” world created and supported by these machines continued to grow. It all seemed so exciting when Brian entered the service of the CIA two years ago, the ink still fresh on his college diploma, but reality had wasted little time in asserting itself into his choice of career.

  Sucker.

  The bulk of Brian’s days were spent tracking computer transactions of various types—electronic mail, online purchases, funds transfers—as assigned to him by case officers and other upper-level supervisors within the Agency’s ever-expanding Directorate of Science and Technology. Most of the information he sought was routine and unexciting, so far as he was concerned. He also knew that somewhere else in the building, other analysts sifted through the data he and his peers collected, searching for patterns and commonalities that might point to individuals deemed worthy of further scrutiny for one reason or another and about which Brian never learned anything. If ever the tired, threadbare cliché of “Need to Know” applied, it did to Brian Hicks and others at his level.

  However, on rare occasions during the course of his seemingly endless games of virtual hide and seek, something interesting reared its ugly head. Like today, for example.

  Brian was eight or nine screens deep into a series of transactions from New York to a bank in the Cayman Islands, with many of those transfers believed to be part of a larger effort to funnel money to several groups suspected of planning acts of domestic terrorism. He had traced through more than half of the fifty-six transfers he was assigned as part of a larger case file when an alert-window abruptly popped up on his screen. Frowning at the small gray box, which displayed a status message regarding a funds transfer unrelated to his current search, Brian’s confusion only deepened as he read the case number appended to the message. It was one he did not recognize.