by Dayton Ward
“Dennis,” Baldwin said by way of greeting, smiling at the sight of his longtime friend. Ryland was sitting in a high-backed leather chair, has hands clasped in his lap. He was dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and a muted blue tie, and there was more gray around the man’s temples than the last time Baldwin had seen him. New creases were visible along his forehead and there were bags under his eyes. “Don’t they let you sleep in Washington?”
“I get by. Good to see you again. How’re things on the front lines?”
“As well as could probably be expected,” Skouris replied, glancing to Tom as she settled into her chair. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
On the screen, Ryland said, “I wish this was a social call, but the truth is I need you two, and I need you now. Nina’s already told you that we’ve got a situation here. What she doesn’t know yet is that it’s high visibility and high security, and it’s coming at us from none other than the CIA.”
“What?” Baldwin asked, hardly believing his ears. From experience, he knew that while the Central Intelligence Agency was many things, flattering adjectives typically did not include “cooperative” or “forthcoming” when it came to dealing with other agencies. “They’re coming to us?”
“Don’t worry, I checked,” Ryland said, holding up a hand. “Hell hasn’t frozen over. Not yet, anyway. Before we go any further, you all need to understand that this operation is classified. The case doesn’t exist, so far as anyone else is concerned. Chances are we’d never have heard anything about it, but the Agency is coming to us because it looks like it involves a 4400. You’re on this because you’re still our best investigative team, but the big reason is because of what Tom can bring to the case.”
Baldwin frowned at that. “I don’t understand.”
“You know that a retired CIA officer, Frederick Morehouse, was killed this past weekend in Atlanta, right? Shot by a sniper, and that the killer remains at large?”
“Of course,” Skouris replied. “We even wondered if that case and Collier’s might be related, but the MO’s are different enough that we’re not giving it serious consideration. Are you telling us that they are related?”
Ryland shook his head. “Not so far as we know. The CIA believes that Morehouse was killed by a former freelance operator they used to contract for various covert assignments. We’re talking real dirty work here, people, things the Agency would prefer never see the light of day.”
“Assassination, obviously,” Jarvis said. “What does this have to do with us? Are they thinking Morehouse’s killer is a 4400?”
“They don’t have any hard evidence as to the killer’s identity, but they’re absolutely certain that their prime suspect is a returnee.”
Ryland reached for something on his desk that was not in the camera’s view, and Baldwin heard a clicking sound before the image on the monitor split into two windows, one containing the feed from Ryland’s office and the other what Baldwin recognized as an extract from a government employee’s personnel record. A photograph dominated the image’s upper-right-hand quadrant, depicting a woman in her early to middle thirties, with dark red hair cut in what experience told him was a short yet outdated style. Something about the woman was familiar, he decided. Glancing at the dates accompanying the photo, he noted that her file—or at least the version released by the CIA—had not been updated since 1992.
“NTAC’s database on the 4400 lists her as Alicia Colbern,” Ryland said, “though the CIA has since told us that’s an alias, one they didn’t have on file from when she was still an active asset. According to them, her real name is Lona Callahan.”
“Alicia Colbern,” Baldwin said again. “I know that name.”
“The day the returnees were released,” Skouris replied. “Remember, that incident near the bank? A 4400 was attacked, but disappeared?” Looking to Ryland, she asked, “This is who we’re talking about?”
Ryland nodded. “That’s her. Long story short, she did wet work for the CIA for more than a decade. She’s responsible for dozens of assassinations—political leaders, heads of business, known and suspected terrorists—every one sanctioned by the Agency, and she was the target of a global, interagency manhunt in the ’80s and ’90s. Her last known authorized assignment took place on June 23, 1992.”
Hearing the date spoken aloud jolted Baldwin as though he had just touched a live wire. “You can’t be serious.”
“Tom?” Skouris asked, her expression one of concern. “What is it?”
Ignoring her question, Baldwin leaned forward in his seat, closer to the monitor. “Dennis, are you telling us that this woman is, I mean was…?”
“Yes,” Ryland replied before Baldwin could complete the question. “According to the CIA, Lona Callahan was the Wraith.”
“Jesus,” Jarvis said, her expression of shock mirroring Baldwin’s. “I haven’t heard that name in years.” She looked to Tom. “Wait, you were involved in that case when you were with the FBI?”
Nodding, Baldwin said, “I was in Baltimore when Miraj al-Diladi was shot. I was a junior agent, one of hundreds working the case all over the country. It’d been going on for years before I even got there.” Feeling anger beginning to boil in his gut, he rose from his chair and began to pace the office’s narrow width.
“Dennis,” Skouris said, “all this time, it was a CIA freelancer?”
Shaking his head as though unwilling to believe what he was saying, Ryland answered, “The whole Wraith persona was a smoke screen put out by the Agency, to keep everyone else busy and throw them off the scent of it being one of their own people. They leaked information to the media to fuel the fire, and even left bogus evidence at some of the scenes to control the situation. Chances are, whatever leads the Bureau was following from case to case, it was thanks to something the CIA fed them.”
They played us for chumps, Baldwin groused, and the thought only furthered his mounting irritation.
Still pacing, he shook his head. “At least now we know how she got away. Damn it.” He released a frustrated sigh as he recalled the events of that day. “The Bureau spent months working with the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico, drawing up a profile. We researched every high-visibility event on U.S. soil, looking for targets that might fall into what we knew about the Wraith’s MO, but the only patterns we’d ever established were incomplete, because details changed from victim to victim. He…she…used different methods—sniper rifles, car bombs, all sorts of IEDs, even poison. She killed a Middle Eastern arms dealer with a black mamba she tossed into his Jacuzzi while he was in it.”
“I read about that one,” Jarvis said. “Very stylish.”
Baldwin grunted. “Yeah. Anyway, al-Diladi’s visit to Baltimore was determined to be a high-percentage target.” He and the senior agents who had invested far more time and sweat had come closer than they knew, and he still felt a degree of guilt with regard to his role in the failure to capture her.
Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?
“Remember,” Ryland said, “pretty much every assignment they gave Callahan was illegal. You can bet that, somewhere in a drawer at Langley, is a file with copies of all the paperwork necessary to exonerate them and her. As for the assassinations she carried out, you could maybe argue that everyone she killed deserved it, but that’s not our concern. The fact that she’s a 4400 puts her in our wheelhouse.”
“Has she demonstrated an ability yet?” Skouris asked.
Shaking his head, Ryland replied, “Not so far as we know, but that’s just one more thing to worry about. The idea of a trained assassin with a 4400 ability has a lot of folks running scared. They want us to find her, fast, and they’re willing to provide whatever resources and support we need.”
“Of course they will,” Jarvis countered, shaking her head. “If this ever gets out, heads will roll, no matter what sort of Get Out of Jail Free cards the Agency has in its pocket. And that doesn’t even take into consideration terrorist organizations or other governmen
ts who might be pissed that we put hits on their leaders.”
Ryland leaned forward, resting his clasped hands atop his desk. “Give the lady a cigar.”
“What about Morehouse?” Skouris asked. “Obviously they’re saying he wasn’t an authorized target. So what’s their story? Has she gone rogue?”
“That’s the current theory,” Ryland replied. “They tried to make contact with her after she was released from quarantine, but their efforts were unsuccessful.”
Baldwin and Skouris exchanged looks. “Yeah, we saw.” He recalled the steps taken in the days following the incident at the bank. Alerts had been posted, warning other returnees that they might be targeted by persons or parties unknown, and to be watchful. Attempts to contact “Alicia Colbern” in the hopes of learning more about what she encountered were unsuccessful, and as the case turned cold it eventually was put in the inactive queue as Baldwin and Skouris’s attention was drawn to some of the higher-profile cases involving other returnees.
Yeah, like saving humanity from the great future catastrophe, and so on.
“So, what do they want us to do?” he asked.
“Callahan’s dropped off the grid,” Ryland said. “The address she gave for where she was planning to settle after she left quarantine was a dead end, and she’s never reported to an NTAC office for weekly check-ins.”
Skouris said, “After we logged the incident at the bank, the southeast regional office picked up the ball and tried to track her down based on the address she gave us. I don’t remember the details, but we did get a report saying they never found her.” Shrugging, she added, “After that, well you know what it’s been like. We’ve had our hands full with the 4400s in this part of the country.”
“What’s the CIA’s take on this?” Jarvis asked. “What do they think she’s up to?”
Ryland replied, “Current thinking is that she’s tying up loose ends from her former life, wanting to disappear and retire.” He shrugged. “If what I was told about the money she was paid is true, she’d have a pretty nice life on a beach somewhere. Anyway, the Agency is keeping the lead on this, of course, but now you know why they want you, Tom. In addition to you and Diana being our foremost investigators on the 4400, you’re also one of the few assets still on active duty with an in-depth knowledge of the Wraith case file.”
“In-depth?” Baldwin repeated. “Dennis, it’s been twelve years since I even looked at that stuff, and the evidence we collected wasn’t exactly earth-shattering, and now you’re saying at least some of that was crap fed to us by the Agency.”
“The Bureau’s already sending everything they’ve got,” Ryland replied, “and it’s being run through the Agency to filter out anything generated by whatever false leads were followed. You’ll have it by the end of the day. Most of the profile information created by the BAU is still valid, and we’ll have access to their people, as well. The CIA will also make available their own information on Callahan, though I’d count on a lot of the usual interagency stick-fighting before we start to see anything useful.” He paused, reaching up to stroke his chin as he regarded Baldwin through the screen. “What do you say, Tom? A chance to catch the one that got away?”
Despite his mood, Baldwin could not help the small, humorless chuckle that escaped his lips. Of the cases he had worked during his time with the FBI, “the Wraith” was the lone unsolved mystery. Still, there was something about this new wrinkle that troubled him, something he could not bring into focus. The CIA’s apparent readiness to work so openly with another organization was odd enough, of course, but then there was Ryland’s seeming willingness to subordinate NTAC to them. Was something more going on here than met the eye?
There always is, he reminded himself, and it’s way over your head. Dennis knows what he’s doing. Just do your own job.
Turning to Skouris, he asked, “You in?”
She answered without hesitation. “Absolutely.”
Nodding with new conviction, Baldwin looked first to Jarvis and then to Ryland. “Okay, then. Let’s go.” Then, as he and Diana moved toward the door, he held up a hand. “But first, I get my coffee.”
FOURTEEN
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
“WHEN YOU SIGH loud enough that I can hear you in here, I think that means you can use a break.”
Alana Mareva’s gently maternal tone made Baldwin smile, even as he removed his reading glasses and closed his eyes, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose. He could feel the headache coming on but just the sound of Alana’s voice was enough to chase away the discomfort, even if only for a short while.
Hunched over his dining room table, he sighed as he regarded the disheveled mess arrayed before him. FBI and CIA case files, some of them dating back nearly twenty years, littered the tabletop. Reports detailing scenes of the Wraith’s numerous alleged victims sat alongside psychological profiles supplied by the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit—only some of which had proven to be off the mark by varying degrees. He recognized his own handwriting in some of the files, but none of it offered anything he did not already know about Lona Callahan or her media-supplied moniker. Indeed, Baldwin decided as he leaned back in his chair and ran one hand through his hair, he was certain that the disorganized papers might even be mocking his efforts to glean any helpful information from them. His tired mind offered taunting imagery of the files conspiring with one another to continue hiding any useful data from him—like some twisted game of Keep Away—so long as he insisted on sifting through them and disturbing the slumber they likely had enjoyed for more than a decade.
Okay, he commanded himself. Definitely break time.
“How about something to eat?” Alana said from behind him, at the same time he heard her making her way from the kitchen.
Raising his arms over his head and interlocking his fingers, he stretched the muscles in his back, emitting a groan of satisfaction around which he fashioned a reply. “Sounds great. How about one of your famous meat loaf san—”
The words died in his throat as Alana stepped into his line of sight, long dark hair framing her elegant features and highlighting her ever-present knowing smile as she stepped up to the table and set down a steaming mug of coffee and a small plate containing a sandwich, cut in half.
“Why do I even bother asking?” Baldwin tilted his head to greet her with a kiss before she took a seat in the chair to his right. Reaching for the sandwich, he peeked under one slice of bread and laughed. “Damn, it is meat loaf.”
Alana replied, “With lettuce, two thin slices of tomato, and not too much mayonnaise.” With a teasing smile, she added, “After eight years, I think I know by now how you like them.”
Baldwin could not help the small chuckle that escaped his lips as he took a bite of the sandwich. In moments such as these, he seemed almost surprised by his own ability to rationalize and accept what his life had become since the return of the 4400, particularly in regard to the woman who now reached over to stroke his cheek. Sure, she would know how he liked his sandwiches. She knew a damned sight more about him than that, thanks to the unique nature of their relationship.
Herself a 4400, Alana had been given the extraordinary ability to construct a complete “virtual reality” within her own mind. More than a daydream or fantasy, this imaginary existence could be tailored to her most stringent specification and in accordance with her most far-flung desire. She could create or re-create surroundings and events, conjure people from true existence or the depths of her imagination. Further, with a simple touch she was able to bring another person’s consciousness into the virtual world she had created, manipulating every aspect of that person’s physical and emotional reactions. The illusion could be so convincing that while under her influence, a person might become lost within this new life to the point of losing their mental grip on actual reality, accumulating years’ worth of manufactured memories and experiences that did not truly exist apart from Alana’s projected reality.
Tom Baldwin had spent eigh
t years there.
In reality it had only been a handful of minutes, during which Alana immersed Baldwin into a life of utter happiness. She had created a world in which there never were 4,400 people abducted from different points in time and returned to Seattle in 2004. As a consequence, his son, Kyle, never lapsed into a three-year coma but instead was accepted to medical school. Baldwin’s reputation with NTAC was of a scope approaching heroic proportions. Topping it all, he found himself married to a beautiful woman he was convinced he had never met—Alana herself. As time passed within this imaginary world, Kyle would realize his dreams of a career in medicine, and Baldwin himself would fall completely in love with Alana.
Eventually, Baldwin was able to figure out that it was all an illusion created by her, and return them both to the real world. As Alana explained it, her connection to him was as designed by the people responsible for creating the 4400. She had been sent to provide him support, her abilities offering sanctuary; a temporary respite from the stresses of trials and obstacles he would face as the reasons for the 4400’s presence here became clear, along with the truth behind the fight they were to wage.
Was Alana Mareva his destiny? His reward for future challenges he had no means of foreseeing? Did she represent nothing more than further manipulation of the past by those from the future? If all of that was true, Baldwin did not especially care. The reality of what he felt for her lay in these small moments of just-right sandwiches and smiles hinting at how much she knew about him, inside and out. For these and so many other reasons, Baldwin was secure in his decision to pursue a relationship with Alana here and now, despite the initial confusion and skepticism of those around him.
