EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum

by Shane Stadler

  The reason for their interest in the area was elusive. Every time a report converged on a crucial piece of information it was blacked out. And some documents were missing pages. Both were extremely unusual, and he was concerned that the missing information might be irretrievable; there were no documents with a higher order of secrecy. He didn’t know who had the authority to redact such information. Maybe the CIA director could do such a thing, but he dismissed it – it was irrational. Information was power.

  Daniel twitched in reaction to a sound coming from his desk and spilled tea on his hand. It was his office phone. It almost never rang – only the CIA director had the number. And it was late. He answered.

  “Parsons?” a man said.

  “Yes, sir,” Daniel replied. He recognized the voice as that of CIA Director James Thackett.

  His heart raced. He’d never spoken with the man.

  “Your current project has become high priority, so we’re going to have to do something somewhat unusual,” Thackett explained. “Report to Room 713 tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.”

  “Okay,” Daniel said. The phone went dead, and Daniel hung up.

  It was more than just somewhat unusual. Other than Sandy, and the receptionist that had preceded her, Daniel had not met in person with any CIA personnel in over 20 years. He worried that the new director, being relatively new to the position, didn’t grasp the importance of Omniscients’ anonymity.

  Now that his concentration was blown, he decided to go home. He packed his things and prepared for the thorough search he was about to endure before his departure from the Space Systems building.

  10

  Thursday, 7 May (9:44 p.m. CST – Chicago)

  Will maneuvered around a dessert cart and approached his stalker. The man maintained direct eye contact with him. Will stopped squarely in front of him.

  “Do we know each other?” Will asked. He tried to place the dark complexioned man, but couldn’t. He was slightly taller than Will, slender but not skinny, and had black hair with occasional strands of white.

  “Most definitely not, Dr. Thompson,” the man replied.

  Will flinched at mention of his name. He detected an accent. Israeli? “Who are you?”

  “A friend,” the man replied. The man reached out and touched Will’s shoulder to turn him towards the door. “Can we talk?”

  Will backed away, and the man put his arm down.

  “Please, Dr. Thompson, there’s a bench just outside,” the man said. “I just need a few minutes and then you can get back to dinner with your lady friend. It will be worth your while.”

  Will looked across the dining room and made contact with a wide-eyed Denise. He lifted his finger to indicate that he’d be back shortly.

  He followed the man outside to a bench that faced the street. It was a bus stop bracketed by a garbage can on one side and a newspaper dispenser on the other. The man sat first and, with his left hand, patted the seat next to him.

  Will looked to check the area for others, and then sat.

  “My country is taking a risk by approaching you,” the man explained.

  “What is your country?”

  “Israel,” the man said. “Call me Avi.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “You’re in danger,” Avi said with an expression that amplified the gravity of the statement.

  Will shuddered as the cold Chicago air seeped into his flesh. “Explain.”

  “Your secret is out,” Avi said. “Your files have been leaked. The videos, in particular, are quite revealing.”

  The FBI had warned him that he’d be exposed eventually, but he didn’t expect things to be set into motion so quickly. Despite his training, he suddenly felt ill prepared for life on the run.

  Avi continued, “We have known about you since your rather spectacular release from the Red Box, and we’d hoped the American government could keep a lid on it. A month ago, the Collections arm of our Mossad obtained documents indicating that Russia is now aware of your existence. Two weeks ago the same was discovered about China. And, yesterday, Iran.”

  Will was convinced that the man had some information, but he was aware of how one could bluff with limited knowledge in order to obtain more. “Tell me, why am I in danger?” Will asked.

  Avi’s expression revealed frustration. “You know why, and I know why, and now the rest of the world knows why,” he said. “They will kidnap you. Or kill you.”

  “Why?” Will was aware of his value, but couldn’t understand the reason for such urgency.

  Avi’s expression changed as if he’d just realized something. “There are the obvious reasons – your use as an intelligence asset, for instance. But you already know that.”

  Will shrugged.

  “But perhaps you are unaware of the other reasons,” Avi said.

  The man seemed to be looking for recognition in Will’s eyes. He had no idea what Avi was talking about. “Other reasons?”

  “Things that run deeper than geopolitical motivations,” Avi replied.

  “I don’t know you mean.”

  “We believe that there is some other purpose for you – for the program – other than espionage and war.”

  “What is it?”

  Avi shook his head. “We don’t know.”

  Will’s phone rang. It was Agent Perry calling back, as promised. Will turned to the Israeli. “I have to take this.”

  “Take precautions,” Avi said, and then stood and disappeared around the corner.

  Will answered the phone. “Agent Perry, everything’s okay.” Will quickly explained what had just happened, but omitted the details that Perry wasn’t supposed to know.

  “I’ll inform the agent heading your case,” Perry said. “In the meantime, get off the streets, and don’t stay in your apartment for a few days.”

  Will ended the call and sat motionless in the cold. What the hell did the Israeli mean by things that "run deeper than geopolitical motivations”? What else was there?

  He stood from the bench and went back into the restaurant. He’d explain it all to Denise over dessert. She was in danger just by being involved with him. But he knew it would be okay – he’d be gone soon.

  11

  Thursday, 7 May (10:52 p.m. EST – Detroit, Michigan)

  Lenny Butrolsky pulled his baseball cap down low on his forehead, lifted his collar, and directed his face away from the camera in the elevator. He caught himself rubbing his right shoulder, a reaction he figured that was triggered by the sterile odor that permeated the hospital. For weeks, he’d been wearing antiseptic as if it were cologne. That phase was over now that the bullet wound in his shooting arm was mostly healed. He wouldn’t need it tonight anyway. This one had to look like natural causes.

  He’d made three hits in the Detroit area in the past month. This would be the fourth. The latest target had been a psychiatrist: a Dr. Herbert Cole. Lenny had taken him down in the man’s own driveway – double-tap to the head. Cole’s car was still running when Lenny had vacated the scene. Even though a few extra murders in Detroit would hardly be noticed, he had to mix up his methods so the kills wouldn’t be connected.

  He got out on the eleventh floor, walked past a nurses’ station, and headed for Room 907. The door was propped open and he glanced in as he walked by. A female nurse was inside the room, picking up dishes and cleaning.

  He walked into a small waiting room at the end of the hall, pulled out his phone, and pretended to check his messages as he kept an eye on 907.

  After a few minutes, the nurse exited the room with a cart and headed his way. He put his phone to his ear, walked towards the woman, and passed by without making eye contact. He turned left into 907, and closed the door quietly.

  The woman was in bad shape. Her blonde hair was short – quarter inch at the most. It made it easy to see the jagged scars that patterned her skull like tectonic plates. He looked at her chart and confirmed the name: Kelly Hatley. She was on a large dose of intrav
enous pain meds and barely awake, which was good. He had no sympathy for the woman, but he wasn’t interested in causing suffering for no reason. He was a professional – it was only business.

  He pulled a syringe out of his coat and uncapped it. He pierced the top of the IV bag with the needle and injected the clear contents of the syringe. He pulled out the needle, shook the bag gently, and then capped the empty syringe and put it in his pocket.

  He started towards the exit but then turned back and looked at his victim. Shooting was so much easier – pull the trigger and it was over. Using a slow method always gave one time to change his mind, and hesitation could be fatal in this business. The woman was young and had obviously struggled hard to recover from her hellacious injuries. It looked to him like she might have survived them. But not now. She was the latest on what he knew was going to be a long list.

  Lenny exited the room and headed for the elevators. This one was over. The next ones wouldn’t be so easy.

  12

  Friday, 8 May (7:56 a.m. EST – Washington)

  Daniel was still groggy from the restless night. Sleep was intermittent at best, and his eyes burned.

  He dropped off his lunch in his office and then rode the elevator down to the seventh floor. The reception desk was identical to that on his floor, and he approached the man behind the desk whose eyes focused in on the ID clipped to his breast pocket.

  The man pointed to Daniel’s right and said, “713.”

  He walked down a carpeted corridor and knocked on the last door on the right. It creaked open, and a man he recognized as CIA Director James Thackett appeared.

  “Come in, Daniel,” Thackett instructed as he removed Daniel’s security badge and handed it to him. “Put this in your pocket for now.”

  Daniel pocketed the I.D. and entered. The room was larger than he’d anticipated, and the scents of leather, light perfume, and what he guessed was pipe tobacco gave it a comfortable ambience. On the left side of the room was a large wooden table, well illuminated with inset lights mounted in the high, coffered ceiling. Ceiling-to-floor windows lined the entire wall opposite the entrance, providing a view of the pine forest similar to that from his office, but wider and not as elevated.

  Sunlight illuminated the textured, beige tiles that covered the entire floor of the enormous room. A compact collection of furniture was arranged on a large, square-patterned area rug 50 feet to his right. At the center of the rug was a round coffee table, surrounded by a leather couch on the side nearest the windows, and two matching chairs on the other. A man occupied the far chair, and a woman the far end of the couch.

  “Let’s join them,” Thackett said, leading the way. He pointed Daniel to the couch.

  Daniel took a seat next to the woman. He sat on the edge of the couch and leaned forward with his hands on his knees. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to introduce himself or remain quiet. He did the latter.

  The woman to his left had reddish-black hair and looked to be in her mid to late thirties. She wore square, black-rimmed glasses. In the chair across from her was a tall, bald man that he thought might be 100.

  Thackett, still standing, grabbed one of two ceramic mugs from the middle of the table, placed it in front of Daniel, and then did the same for himself. “Thank you all for coming,” he said as he poured coffee for Daniel and himself, and then topped off the cups of the others. “I realize this is highly unusual. Certainly it’s a breach of our security protocols, but the situation calls for it.”

  It was an irreversible breach, Daniel thought. He was to avoid contact with all CIA personnel.

  “Please introduce yourselves – first names only – and state the topic of your current projects,” Thackett instructed, and gestured to Daniel to start.

  Daniel cleared his throat. After a few seconds he managed to say, “I’m Daniel.” After an awkward ten more seconds he continued, “I’m researching a mission carried out in Antarctica by the British during World War II called Operation Tabarin.” His shoulders twitched upward, tensing his neck muscles and making his head tilt backward for an instant. He made an effort to relax and grabbed the coffee mug from the table. His hand trembled as he took a sip.

  Thackett nodded and motioned to the woman.

  She shifted in her seat, making the leather couch squeak, and pulled a red strand of her mostly dark hair out of her face. She looked as awkward as Daniel felt.

  “I’m Sylvia,” she finally said as she pushed her glasses closer to her eyes. “I’m currently investigating the escape of Nazi war criminals from Europe to Latin America, and the underground network they’d set up which remained active until the 1980’s.”

  The old man set his mug down on the table with a shaky hand. He closed his eyes for a second and then spoke. “My name is Horace,” he said in a nearly undetectable British accent. His voice was strikingly clear, and did not seem to fit his aged appearance. “I am the most senior Omniscient.”

  Daniel believed he had to be.

  “I do not have a specific project,” Horace continued, “And haven’t for the past 20 years. However, you both have seen some of my reports. For instance, the Japanese atomic bomb monograph is mine.”

  “You’re 5-12-1945?” Daniel asked. He recalled the “signature” from that particular monograph. It was the oldest signature that he’d seen.

  Horace nodded. “Now I study the work of the other Omniscients and assess the big picture.”

  “Horace is our most valuable intelligence resource,” Thackett interjected.

  “I started in the Office of Strategic Services, or the OSS, during World War II,” Horace continued. “Of course, the OSS became the CIA after the war, and I continued on as a case officer – collecting human intelligence in Eastern Europe during the Cold War. I then became a reports officer.”

  Thackett chimed in, “Like you, Daniel, he’d managed a dozen case officers, directed their efforts, and collected and analyzed their intelligence products. He’s a big picture person – he can see connections between seemingly unrelated bits of intelligence.”

  “What I do now is similar to the work of a reports officer, but on a grander scale,” Horace explained, “I manage the Omnis. I assign your projects, study your results, and look for connections.”

  Daniel wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve: it was the ultimate of all intelligence jobs. Although he had access to everything Horace did, he didn’t have the time to read it all; his hours were spent creating new material – creating levels of the intelligence pyramid. Horace was on the top of that pyramid.

  “Now, the reason why you are all here,” Thackett said, directing his words to Daniel and Sylvia. “As you know, it’s highly unusual – forbidden – for Omnis to ever meet each other. And, more so, to meet Horace, or to even know that he exists.”

  Daniel set his coffee mug on the table and leaned toward Thackett.

  Thackett, sensing Daniel’s anxiety, raised a finger to him and then nodded back to Horace.

  “My brain is nearly 100 years old,” Horace explained, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly in either a grin, or a wince. “It has made associations that depended on decades of experience and vast knowledge. Revealing these connections has been of great benefit to the intelligence community, national defense, and so on.”

  Horace halted and reached again for his coffee cup. Daniel could tell that, like himself, the old man didn’t want to divulge information. It wasn’t natural.

  “Please, tell them, Horace,” Thackett prodded in a gentle voice.

  Daniel twisted in his seat, laced his fingers together and tightened them until they hurt.

  “You see,” Horace finally continued, “I’ve recently made the most disturbing connection. And your reassigned projects reflect this.”

  Daniel glanced down at his white knuckles and released them.

  “Omnis’ projects are usually focused on events of the past – mostly the far past,” Horace said and looked at Daniel and then to Sylvia.
“Your current projects both have origins in the far past, but they’re linked to events of the present, and are connected to each other.”

  “Are they important enough to bring us together like this?” Daniel asked spontaneously. His face heated as he flushed with embarrassment for blurting out the question.

  Horace answered without hesitation. “There are existential implications.”

  13

  Friday, 8 May (7:15 a.m. CST – Chicago)

  The final meeting started with a debriefing that seemed more like an interrogation. The room layout reflected the same, as did the stench of years of cigarette residue infused into the scant furniture. Until now, Will had been pleased with his treatment by the FBI. He turned his gaze back to the older man sitting across the table from him, the fluorescent light glinting off his hairless head.

  “I’m not saying you’re lying, Dr. Thompson,” Agent Hank Fordham explained as he twisted a tuft of his thick gray mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s just that all of these things can be described by less uh … magical … means.”

  Will flinched. Magical? What were they trying to do – make him look crazy? He squirmed in his seat as the prickly sensation of annoyance tingled in his fingertips. The man was supposed to have been briefed on what had actually happened to him – the actual transformation. He’d supposedly seen all of the information – written, audio, and video. Will had been under the impression that the FBI believed his account of events; it was the reason they had trained him for relocation. It seemed now that they were trying to debunk his story.

  “Then explain how thousands of flies can spontaneously ignite into flames in midflight,” Will argued, referring to one of the more spectacular events that had occurred during his treatment. “You have that on video.”