Wet Work

by Dayton Ward

  Most of all, Baldwin decided, Shawn looked tired.

  Offering a firm handshake, he reached up with his free hand to clasp his nephew’s right shoulder. “Hey, Shawn,” Baldwin said. “Thanks for taking the time to see us. I know you’re busy.” He knew that was something of an understatement. Since Jordan Collier’s assassination, Shawn had found himself hurled into a position of leadership, overseeing the Center and trying to put a good public face on the 4400 as rumors and questions about them continued to mount. It would be a large enough burden for anyone, doubly so for a man barely twenty-two years of age—or even nineteen, if one were to take into account Shawn’s “missing time.”

  Nodding before shaking hands with Skouris, Shawn said, “No, it’s okay. I’m actually glad you called. This…all the stuff that’s going on has a lot of people rattled, you know?” Gesturing for the agents to follow him, he set off back down the large curving hallway leading from the expansive lobby toward the Center’s administrative offices. “Anything new on whoever shot Jordan?”

  Baldwin felt a twinge of guilt as he offered the only truthful answer. “Not yet. We’re still following a few leads, and there may be some new tips coming from the sketch that’s gone out, but so far we’re not having much luck.”

  Shaking his head, Shawn released a disapproving sigh. “I can’t believe somebody murders Jordan in broad daylight in front of hundreds of people and then just disappears into thin air. How does that happen?” Baldwin’s teeth gritted in response to the unspoken accusation.

  Yes, I know. I let him get away.

  “We’re not talking about an amateur here, Shawn,” Skouris said, her tone calm and composed. “They knew what they were doing. It was only by sheer luck that Tom got as close as he did. Other people saw him, too. We’ll find him.”

  Now away from the lobby and into one of the corridors designated as off-limits to Center visitors, Shawn stopped and turned to face the agents. “And you’re sure this other person you’re after didn’t have anything to do with it?”

  “So far as we can tell,” Baldwin replied, “whoever shot Collier was acting alone, and between me and the janitor who provided the details for the sketch, we’re looking for a male suspect.” Seeing Shawn’s mouth pressing into a tight line, a sure sign of his nephew trying to keep a handle on his mounting irritation, he added, “Shawn, NTAC and the FBI have hundreds of people on this. We’ll catch this guy.”

  Appeased if not satisfied with this answer, Shawn nodded. “Okay. Sorry, Uncle Tommy. It’s just…it’s been rough around here since he died.”

  Baldwin patted him again on the arm. “It’s okay. I get it, Shawn. I really do.” In the time since his nephew’s return, their relationship had been strained, and Baldwin knew it was due in no small part to his own words and actions. That tension certainly had contributed to Shawn’s leaving home and eventually joining Jordan Collier at The 4400 Center, where the older man had taken him under his wing. While Baldwin always had his suspicions about Collier and his true motives, whatever those might have been, he understood that the 4400’s controversial figurehead had been uniquely suited to helping Shawn understand and develop the wondrous ability he now possessed.

  “You look like you could use a vacation,” Baldwin said after a moment.

  That actually made Shawn laugh. “Tell me about it.” He paused, and all three of them turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. “In fact, why don’t you tell him about it?” Gesturing toward the new arrival, Shawn made introductions. “Uncle Tommy, this is Matthew Ross. He’s been helping me with the transition. Matthew, this is my uncle, Tom Baldwin, and his partner, Diana Skouris.”

  “Yes, of course,” Ross said, smiling as he extended his hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you both in person.”

  Everyone shook hands, with Baldwin taking the opportunity to size up this new addition to the Center. Ross was a slim man, wearing an impeccably tailored tan suit with a black dress shirt and pale yellow tie. His brown hair was styled with gel, and a glance at his hands revealed manicured fingernails. The loafers he wore probably cost more than a typical NTAC agent’s monthly salary.

  Baldwin distrusted him on the spot.

  “Thank you again for helping us to find Jean Baker,” Skouris said. “I know our two groups don’t always get along, but your decision to share information with us was greatly appreciated.”

  “I’m only sorry things couldn’t have turned out better,” Ross replied, speaking in a measured cadence that to Baldwin’s ear sounded almost lyrical, “for her and everyone she affected. It’s a tragedy, of course, and something of a mystery to boot. We’re at a loss as to what role an ability such as hers might have played in…well, in whatever it is the 4400 are here to do.” Shrugging, he added, “Still, it’s nice to know we can work together when we have to.”

  “Funny you should mention that,” Skouris said. “We’re actually here about Lona Callahan. Two of the four people she’s believed to have killed are 4400s, and she’s a returnee herself. We’re hoping the Center’s database might have information we can use to find a connection or a pattern as to why she chose them. If so, we may be able to narrow a list of possible targets among the 4400 community.”

  Shawn frowned. “But, what about the other people she killed?”

  “Callahan knew them,” Baldwin replied. “Both men were part of her former life.” He could not go into specifics, of course—at least, not if he wanted to keep the entire CIA from having a collective hissy fit. “There may be some connection to them, too.” So far, all attempts by NTAC and FBI investigators to link the four deaths currently attributed to the nebulous Callahan had proven fruitless. Other than the obvious relationship between Frederick Morehouse and her apparent latest target, Lynn Norton, the victims appeared to have nothing in common.

  Baldwin saw the uncertainty on Shawn’s face, and Ross appeared to recognize it as well. “What is it, Shawn?” the other man asked.

  “You know a lot of the returnees don’t trust NTAC,” Shawn replied, “especially since word about different 4400 abilities got out.” He held his hands out, gesturing around him. “This place is supposed to be a sanctuary for 4400s, Uncle Tommy. They won’t come here if they think we’re just going to sell them out to the government, and that just makes it harder to figure out whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing, and how each 4400 is supposed to contribute.”

  Even if he did not agree with such assertions, Baldwin could at least understand where his nephew was coming from. Relations between NTAC and The 4400 Center had been less than cordial, particularly while Jordan Collier was still alive. Though the agency’s mission was to investigate the returnees and to learn as much as possible about their abduction and why they had been returned to this point in time, there were those in power who did not believe that mandate went far enough. There already had been calls for greater control on the 4400, perhaps even going so far as to return them to quarantined status until more could be learned about them. Baldwin disagreed with such proposals, certain that the best way to solve the mystery behind the returnees was to work with them, through the Center, with Shawn Farrell and those who followed him.

  “We’re not going to sell out anyone, Shawn,” Ross said, his tone gentle yet firm. “We’d be taking action to protect them, taking advantage of resources not normally available to us.” He turned back to Baldwin and Skouris. “Jordan didn’t listen to your warnings, and he paid for that mistake with his life. I don’t want that to ever happen again. We don’t always have to agree on everything, but we should be able to trust each other.”

  Smooth, Baldwin thought. Very smooth.

  Shawn nodded in agreement. “You’re right, Matthew. We’ll try to give you everything you need, Uncle Tommy.”

  “Thank you,” Skouris said. “I’ll have someone from NTAC contact the Center so that we can coordinate an information exchange. We’ll give you as much information as we’re authorized to release. Your people might be able to find a connecti
on we overlook, after all.” She started to say something else, but was interrupted by the sound of her cell phone ringing. “Excuse me,” she said as she stepped away to answer it.

  “Thank you, Shawn,” Baldwin said. “Both of you.” It was a small victory, but success nonetheless. With time, effort, and good fortune, this one accord might be the first step toward a longer-lasting rapport between NTAC and The 4400 Center.

  Ross replied, “I only hope your superiors don’t misuse the trust we’re placing in you, Agent Baldwin.”

  Well, that was nice while it lasted.

  “Tom,” Skouris said from behind him, and Baldwin turned to see the concerned expression clouding her features. “That was Nina. We need to get back.”

  “What’s up?” Baldwin asked.

  Skouris shook her head. “She wouldn’t say. All I got was for us to get back ASAP.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  NTAC

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  DIANA SKOURIS KNEW who Nicholas McFarland was, of course. She had seen him several times, as a guest on news programs or during congressional reviews or hearings televised by C-SPAN, always dressed in designer suits, tanned and lean-muscled—excellent condition for a man nearing sixty years of age—and with hair impeccably styled. On those occasions, the deputy director presented the very epitome of calm and control, a man confident in his position, authority, and abilities.

  Not so today. Sitting in Nina Jarvis’s office, Nicholas McFarland seemed to be anything except in control. Skouris saw the fatigue and fear in the man’s eyes, noted the slight tremble in his left hand as he held a half-full glass of water. His composure was nothing like what she had seen on television, with his tie loosened, his hair combed but looking as though it could stand washing, and the day’s growth of beard stubble darkening his cheeks and jawline. Why was he here, now, like this?

  Take a wild guess.

  Sitting behind her desk, Jarvis indicated McFarland with a hand gesture and Skouris and Baldwin stepped into the room. “Agents Tom Baldwin and Diana Skouris, allow me to introduce you to Deputy Director Nicholas McFarland, Central Intelligence Agency. He’s very happy to see you.”

  Frowning as he shook hands with the other man, Baldwin said, “You’re a long way from Langley, Director.”

  “Don’t I know it,” McFarland replied before shaking hands with Skouris.

  “NTAC’s gone to a lot of trouble to get him out here,” Jarvis said. “Officially, Mr. McFarland has taken a leave of absence for personal reasons, and is on his way to a remote fishing cabin in Minnesota. Unofficially, he’s in our protective custody until such time as Lona Callahan is captured or killed.”

  Adjusting himself in the chair as though seeking a more comfortable position, McFarland said, “Ordinarily, I’d trust my own people to oversee security for something like this, but given your experience dealing with these 4400, coming here seemed the smart move.” He paused to drink from his water glass before adding, “I’ll admit it, I’m scared. Lona Callahan was a formidable operator when she was working for us. Now that she has this…power…of hers, I just don’t know.” Shaking his head, he released a tired laugh. “You know, for as long as the Agency’s been around, we’ve had rooms full of science types—computer nerds, theoretical physicists, you name it—just sitting around dreaming up the kinds of things these people can do, hoping to find some way to make super soldiers or special agents or whatever. A lot of it was crap, the kind of stuff science-fiction writers might even pass over because it sounded so ridiculous.”

  Skouris could sympathize with the sentiment. Throughout her life and career, she had considered herself a strict follower of scientific principles. Even as the incredible events unfolded in the aftermath of the return of the 4400, she had held on to her ingrained beliefs and need to find plausible, provable explanations for everything she and indeed the world had witnessed. Even now, nearly a year after that fateful day at Mount Rainier and in the face of astonishing events and even more remarkable people, including her own adopted daughter, her beloved Maia, Skouris knew that none of this was due to elements of the fantastic. Rather, all that had transpired was because of things not yet understood, and she longed for the day when those answers were revealed.

  Be careful what you wish for, and all that.

  “Have you had any contact with Lona Callahan since her return?” Baldwin asked.

  McFarland shook his head, his gaze cast downward at the office carpet. “No. We tried to make contact, of course, once we realized that she was one of the 4400 and that you were holding her in quarantine. At the time, I proceeded like we would if we were trying to bring in any covert agent from the field. Hell, we had no reason to believe that she wouldn’t want us to bring her in.” He shrugged. “Anyway, you all know how that went. We lost track of her after that, well, for a while anyway.” Draining the remaining water from his glass, he looked up at Baldwin and Skouris. “Have you learned anything new?”

  Baldwin replied, “We’re still waiting on a full report from San Antonio. NTAC and the FBI both have teams on-site, collecting whatever evidence there might be, but white phosphorus doesn’t leave much to work with.”

  “I had our data analysts do a search on similar incidents dating back to 1980,” Skouris added. “They found one. It was in Benghazi, Libya, in 1987. The known leader of a terror cell with suspected ties to Muammar Gaddafi was killed by a white phosphorus grenade planted in an elevator at a downtown hotel. The incident was later attributed to ‘the Wraith’ after months of investigation.” Studying McFarland with a disapproving eye, she added, “I’m guessing that was your handiwork.”

  McFarland nodded. “An Agency-sanctioned operation. We paid Callahan three million dollars for that one, and Lynn Norton was her handler. Morehouse oversaw her actions against Miraj al-Diladi in Baltimore in 1992, so I suppose that explains why she killed him the way she did. I can only imagine what she has in store for me.”

  “She’s definitely not shy about pulling out her bag of tricks,” Jarvis said, tapping one finger on her desk. “It’s like she wants us to know it’s her.”

  “Not you,” McFarland countered. “Me. I was the officer in charge of most of her operations from the late 1980s until her disappearance. My predecessor died years ago, so I’m guessing Lona’s saving her best trick for me. Needless to say, I’d just as soon avoid that happening.”

  Pausing to clear his throat, he placed the empty glass on Jarvis’s desk. “Look, we’re not used to sharing this kind of information with other agencies. Damn near every mission we assigned to Callahan was black bag, and I quit counting the violations to domestic and international laws about a year after I took over as her handler. Whatever paperwork exists to prove I was acting under orders from higher up the food chain is offset by layers of plausible deniability up to and including the Oval Office. If Callahan’s mission history is ever made public, I’ll be the one to fall on my sword, mostly because I’m the only one still alive. So, the way I see it, I’ve got nothing to lose by offering you anything you think you need to know if it’ll help catch her.”

  Skouris folded her arms across her chest. “We’ve been considering the idea that Callahan was taken because she already possessed these skills, with the intention of putting them to use for whatever it is the 4400 are supposed to be doing.” Marco, along with the other members of his team, was currently working to factor this notion into his always-evolving “Ripple Effect” theory, trying to discern if and how Callahan’s actions might be playing into the larger mystery of the 4400. As always, such efforts begat even more questions, rather than answers.

  “Well, that’s going to be keeping me up nights,” McFarland said, releasing a humorless chuckle.

  Skouris shrugged. “Don’t mention it.”

  Rising from her seat, Jarvis said, “Okay, not to be too heartless about this, Mr. McFarland, but if Callahan gets to you, whatever trail she leaves is going to go cold pretty damned fast, so here’s what’s going to happen.
We’ll be taking you up on your offer to give us as much info on Callahan as you have, and I suspect that’s going to take a while. Therefore, I’m having you moved to a safe house for the duration.” Looking to Baldwin and Skouris, she added, “Hopefully, you two can take what he gives us and find a way to get out in front of Callahan.”

  Sure thing, Skouris mused. Anything else?

  The conference ended with Jarvis calling for a transport team to prepare for McFarland’s relocation. Once she and Baldwin were away from their superior’s office and out of earshot, Skouris stopped her partner with a touch on his arm.

  “Tom,” she said, “there’s something else. Maia’s been having visions again, and I think they’re about Callahan.”

  Frowning at this revelation, Baldwin looked around to verify that they weren’t being overheard. “What has she seen?”

  “Nothing specific. She just gets these sensations of a woman tasked with something important; the descriptions seem to match Callahan. Short red hair, weapons like rifles and knives, that sort of thing. Who else could it be?”

  “A girl I dated in college?” Baldwin shrugged off his attempt at humor. “I take it you haven’t told Jarvis.”

  “Not yet,” Skouris replied. “This is the first vision she’s had since I gave Maia’s diary to Nina last week.” Even as she spoke the words, she reminded herself that—at some point—she needed to tell Baldwin that the diary she had surrendered to Jarvis was a fake. Deciding that now was not the appropriate time to reveal she had defied NTAC directives, she said, “Whatever it is she’s seeing, the images have intensified during the last day or so. She sees this woman as being on some kind of crusade.”

  “Any chance she knows how this is going to play out?” Baldwin asked.