Infiltrator

by Bob Blink

  The sidewalks were also covered with drifted snow, but for the most part there was a narrow path that was only a few inches deep up close to the building. They had to walk single file, but were able to move forward. Pam was already leading the way, followed by Glen and the others. Mark set off after them, grateful for the streetlights. This would be an impossible task without the illumination they provided. Shivering briefly, more from the situation than the cold, he hurried to catch up.

  Several times they had to push through spots where the snow had drifted deeper, and Mark felt the cold snow inside his boots. The intersections were the major problem, when they had to make their way across the streets, working around the deep drifts, and then circling back to get back on track. Mark hoped that Pam knew what she was talking about, because they were at considerable risk here, being out in the open with no way to get inside any of these buildings. None were apartment complexes with people likely to be inside to help them. They turned left at the next intersection, and Mark was relieved to see a car move past at the far end of the block. The street was open down there and at least some people were up and about.

  "One more block," trailblazer Pam announced to encourage those who were showing signs of falling back. "It's just around the corner up ahead."

  Everyone pushed onward, focused on the end point and not thinking about much else. That's why the voice was so startling when it came.

  "Well, lookit here," a rough voice said as three armed individuals stepped out of the small dark courtyard they were passing. One had a gun, and the others had knives, open and ready.

  "What the hell?" Bud exclaimed, as he jumped back a couple of steps, stopping as he backed into a large snowdrift.

  "We're trying to get to a major street so we can get home," Jerry explained, hoping to defuse the situation. "We got left after a late meeting."

  The one with the gun nodded understandingly.

  "That's fine, but this is our street. There will be a charge for passing through. A toll, if you will."

  "This is ridiculous," Bud said, as he pushed past Jessie who had been in front of him, and headed toward Glen and Pam who were farthest ahead.

  "Hold on asshole!" one of the three hoods warned.

  "Bud, I don't think . . ." Mark tried to warn, but just then Bud slipped and appeared to lunge toward the three armed assailants.

  The sharp bark of the gunshot was startling in the muffled surroundings provided by the mounds of snow. They were all shocked, and it was immediately clear that Bud had been hit. He groaned and collapsed in the snow. All of them were shocked, and while she wasn't the closest, Jessie was the only one not rooted in place. She moved remarkably swiftly, closing on the shooter, who also appeared surprised his weapon had been fired. She stripped the gun from him, causing it to fly through the air disappearing in one of the large mounds of snow. He was knocked back into his companions, and as Jessie turned to briefly check on Bud, the three of them turned and fled into the darkness. She seemed to consider going after them, then the tenseness left her body and she turned to their fallen companion.

  Mark went after the gun, digging through the snow finding it nearly impossible to find. It had sunk deeper than he would have expected.

  "Let it go," Jessie commanded. "I have one of my own."

  Mark looked and she had already unzipped and pulled out a small Glock 27.

  "Homeland Security," she explained before anyone could ask.

  Mark's searching hands found the weapon he'd been about to abandon, and he pulled it out of the deep drift. The barrel and cylinder's chambers were plugged with cold melting snow.

  "He needs an ambulance," Glen said unnecessarily as they all looked down on the pool of blood rapidly forming under Bud.

  "No service," Pam said desperately as she tried to get a signal for her phone. "I think the buildings are blocking what little signal I had earlier.

  "I wouldn't count on quick response even if you get through," Jerry warned, looking at Bud, whose movements were slowing.

  Then Bud opened his eyes. He looked surprisingly calm given his condition. His mouth opened, and the sounds that came out weren't in English or any language known, yet all of them understood what he said.

  "Don't tell anyone about this. It will be dealt with. Please stand back a bit."

  Then, to the surprise of all of them, his body flashed into a weird greenish flame. The flame wasn't intense, but clearly energy was being given off as the snow under and around Johnson sublimated and disappeared, perhaps absorbing much of the heat that might have been there. The body was nearly transparent as it burned. Clearly the source of the weird flame was Johnson himself, and a moment later there was nothing left. Even his bones were gone, everything consumed in that strange fire.

  "Shit!" someone muttered.

  Mark looked at the spot where Bud had been a moment before. Even the blood was gone. He saw Jessie looking carefully as well.

  "What do we do?" Pam asked nervously.

  "Press on to the restaurant," Mark suggested. "We can talk about this there. Staying here accomplishes nothing. We can't call for help, and it could be hours before anyone arrives even if we could get through."

  Mark ran his boot along the spot where Johnson had been only moments before. There was nothing to indicate he had been there. The bare concrete was smooth under his foot, the snow taken from the spot by whatever energies had consumed the man. The ground wasn't more than warm, and already small sprinkles of snow blown by the faint breeze were settling on the spot. Mark looked and knew he wouldn't be able to relocate the spot without some reference. He lined up on the lettering of a building off to one side, and used that with a street lamp to fix the position should he need to describe it to a policeman later, although for some reason he had a strong urge to avoid the whole matter.

  "Let's go," Jessie said, but she didn't put the gun away.

  Chapter 2

  "What in hell happened back there?" Monica asked.

  She had just taken a healthy swig of her drink, a straight scotch on the rocks. She was clearly badly shaken by both the attack and the mysterious fiery consumption of Bud Johnson's body. The fact that he seemed to have somehow triggered the event himself was even more unsettling.

  They were seated at a large table in the back of the restaurant that Pam had brought them to. It was open as promised, but other than themselves, only one couple was seated in the large dining area, which meant choosing a table that suited their needs had been easy enough. They had placed a dinner order with the waiter who seemed relieved to have something to do, and had already received the first round of drinks. From the rate at which these were being consumed, refills all around were soon going to be required.

  The taxi company had been contacted and their new location passed to the dispatcher, who indicated that the cabs were even more behind than he had indicated earlier. They would have plenty of time to finish their meal and talk over the strange situation in which they found themselves. At least the street in front of the restaurant was open, as the occasional vehicle made its way slowly along the slippery street.

  Tossing down the rest of her scotch and signaling one of the bored waiters for another, Monica turned toward Jessie.

  "You really saved the day back there," she said. "More of us could have been hurt if you hadn't disarmed that guy, but what prompted you to go after an armed assailant anyway?"

  "And why are you carrying a concealed weapon?" Jerry Marshal asked.

  Jessie pushed back a lock of blond hair that had worked its way loose from behind her ear and examined the other members of the group.

  "I'm Homeland Security," she explained after a brief hesitation. "I've been trained to deal with threats like that. Actually, I slipped up. I'm never supposed to be caught by surprise, or with my gun in such an inaccessible location. My lack of attention cost Mr. Johnson his life."

  "This has been an unusual situation," Glen Taylor suggested soothingly. "I wouldn't be quick to blame yourself. I ca
n't see how you could have reasonably done much differently, and clearly things would have deteriorated if you hadn't acted. I was closer to the three, and was frozen. With the weather and strangeness of everything, an attack was totally unexpected."

  Mark listened to the exchange with interest. He couldn't see where Jessie had hid the weapon she carried, and was intrigued that she was an active operative from a sister intelligence organization. He felt a little odd that she was an armed agent, and he was generally not authorized to carry a weapon. He had put the gunman's weapon in his attaché case for the moment, but that wasn't the same thing. He was uncertain why, but he wished at the moment that he had a familiar weapon of his own that he could turn to.

  "What happened to Mr. Johnson?" Pam asked suddenly, changing the direction of the discussion back to Monica's original question. "How could he burn up like that?"

  "He triggered it himself," Mark said, speaking before he thought. He'd been playing back Johnson's final words in his mind for some time. "Some kind of spontaneous combustion. He warned us to stand back, as if he knew what was about to happen."

  "That's what I thought also," Jerry Marshal agreed. "But how can that be. What could cause a person to simply vanish like that? It takes a very intense fire and some time to burn bones, yet all of him was gone in seconds. Who was he exactly?"

  "He was an investment specialist from New York City. He worked for Goldman on Wall Street," Stephanie Brewer explained. "I had a chance to talk with him while we were waiting for Mark."

  "Then that makes it even more strange that he would have the ability to do that to himself," Jerry replied. "And the big question remains is why would he do it?"

  "He was clearly dying," Glen suggested.

  "Even so, why?" Monica argued.

  "What about the words he used," Glen asked. "That also makes no sense to me."

  Jessie nodded slowly and somehow repeated the strange sounding phrase that Bud Johnson had uttered just before going up in flames.

  "Yeah, that's it," Pam said. "How did you recall it? And how come I can understand it? It isn't English, and that's the only language I speak."

  "I have a knack for languages and a bit of a trick memory. I don't forget much," Jessie explained. She looked around. "Just to confirm, all of us understood what I just said, right?"

  Everyone nodded slowly.

  "I was farther away than most when it happened," Jerry said. "I didn't catch it when Johnson spoke, but I understood you just now perfectly."

  "What language is it?" Jerry asked, guessing that Jessie, who had recalled the phase, might know."

  "None that I've ever heard before," she replied. "It's also kind of tricky to pronounce. The sounds don't come at all naturally. But the fact that all of us understand it is curious. It says that we all have something more in common than appearing for these strange debriefing session every six months."

  She paused and let that thought settle in for a moment.

  "And you think Johnson knew we would. But we would have also understood him in English, so why the switch to this mysterious language? It's as though something more was associated with the strange phrase," Mark said.

  "He also told us not to tell anyone about the shooting," Glen said. "At least that is how I interpreted his words."

  Pam took the opportunity to raise the obvious question of what to do next.

  "Aren't we going to report this?" she asked. She glanced around the table from face to face to see what people were thinking. A man had been attacked and died. It was normal to inform the police.

  "What do we tell them?" Jessie asked.

  "We explain what happened," Pam replied. "We show them where Johnson died and disappeared."

  "We were there and saw it, and don't really believe it. What do you think they are going to think?" Jessie asked.

  "I don't know," Pam said, "but that's what we are supposed to do."

  "Do you want to?" Mark asked slowly.

  Pam turned and looked at him.

  "Actually no. I have this incredible desire to walk away and say nothing. I don't know why, because I know that's not right."

  "Let's see where this goes for a bit," Glen suggested, obviously also reluctant to bring the matter to the attention of the authorities. "Johnson is gone, and we'll be lucky to even find the spot where he vanished. As for the hoods, they are gone, and I couldn't identify them if they were here with us now. I don't know about anyone else."

  Several of the others nodded, but before they could speak, the waiters arrived with their food. That stopped any further conversation until everyone had been served and the restaurant staff had withdrawn again.

  "I'm not sure where we start," Glen said through a mouthful of food.

  "Let's think this through a bit," Mark suggested. "We can always contact the police later. There's something here we don't understand, and links all of us together. I've wondered why some of you have been present at what I've always assumed was an NSA facility. Now I'm not so sure my assumptions about that place we go to are at all correct. I've also been sitting here and trying to think through exactly what I did and who I talked with while there today, and you know what? I haven't a clue. My mind keeps telling me I went through the usual debrief, whatever that means, and that all was normal, but when I reach for specifics, there are none. From the time I entered that room on the fourth floor when they called my name, to the time I stepped back out where all of you were waiting, there is nothing. Nothing at all!"

  "That's ridiculous!" Glen exclaimed.

  "Good," Mark countered. "Then how about you tell us what you did there today, and describe the people you interacted with?"

  "I'm not supposed to divulge anything about those meetings," Glen said, but even as he spoke Mark could see the confusion forming in his eyes.

  "Can't recall, can you?" he said smugly.

  "Of course I can," Glen replied defiantly.

  "That's good," Mark replied. "Tell me about the people you interacted with. Describe them. You don't need to discuss the subject matter. That should be a start."

  Glen tried. They all could see him searching his memory for the images of those he had supposedly been with just a few hours earlier. Finally he slumped.

  "I can't," he finally admitted.

  Mark nodded as if something had been answered for him. He looked around the table at the others.

  "Anyone here who can?" he asked.

  After a few moments of silence there were no takers.

  "How can this be?" Jessie asked. She was trained to recall minor details, yet she realized she had no memory of the day's events, even though up to a few moments ago she felt she was just not interested in reviewing the stressful day. "Have we been drugged?"

  "Hypnotized," Stephanie suggested, bothered as much by the hole in her memories as the others.

  "This is weird," Pam added. "Now I feel uncomfortable having even been in that place. How do I know I didn't reveal something confidential. Is that why my memories have been blocked?"

  "I don't know," Mark admitted, "but all of us are linked in whatever this is in some important way. And whoever is controlling this doesn't want us thinking about it. I've tried to think back to earlier sessions, and there is nothing there either. I'm betting it will be the same for the rest of you."

  "I have no idea what was discussed at any previous sessions," Jerry Marshal admitted. "In fact I can barely recall the sessions, and if you hadn't pointed out the matter, I might have said I've never done this before. I can't even recall clearly if we met in the same place, yet upon seeing you this morning I recalled us being together before, and in fact was very confident I was in the right place. I was of the belief my superiors directed me to attend the session today, but now I'm wondering if that is so."

  "What do we do? Monica asked, uncomfortable with the discussion.

  "And we still haven't decided what to do about contacting the police?" Pam reminded them.

  "I think the police can wait," Jessie warned. "Th
ere is something going on that might warrant us taking action that doesn't involve the police." She was as anxious as the others to do some checking with her home office, but didn't think doing so with the night duty officer over a cell phone was the best idea. In fact, she was suddenly wondering just how secure her phone might actually be.

  "I suggest we get to know one another," Mark suggested. "Maybe we should each provide a bit of a summary about who we are, what we do, our families and current lifestyle. I'm curious what we can each come up with. I have an uneasy feeling as to what we will find."

  "You first," Jessie suggested.

  Mark nodded.

  "Of course," he replied, having expected the demand.

  It took Mark roughly ten minutes to provide a summary of himself, his background, and his work, skipping only specific details that were classified. When he was done, he glanced around the table of the other diners.

  "That's about it," I guess," he said.

  "Somewhat superficial," Monica replied, but when she gave her own summary, it wasn't much more detailed.

  One by one, they each described themselves. When they were finished, there was a long silence before Jessie spoke.

  "We are quite a group," she said finally.

  It was true. The forced summaries had made each of them think about themselves more deeply than they normally might have. Each of them was a bit of an introvert. None had a true significant other, making only transient and casual relationships. None retained strong family ties, living well away from the parts of the country where they had been raised, and while Mark could recall the crib sheet descriptions of parents and siblings, he couldn't visualize any of them, and in fact felt somehow that he had never actually laid eyes on these people who should have been the closest to him.