The Shadow Protocol

by Andy McDermott

  “We have to try, damn it!” He turned and glared at Kyle, who was being escorted away by a pair of guards. “Wait, don’t take him to holding. Take him to my office. And bring Voss and James, too. I want to know what the hell’s going on here. Tony, come with me.” He started toward an exit, then stopped as he realized the Bullpen’s staff were staring at him in confusion. “Well? You’ve got your orders—get on with them! Find that car! Find Adam Gray!”

  “Put your head down,” said Adam as he saw a police car approaching from the other direction. “They’re looking for two people, not one.”

  Bianca squirmed lower in her seat, dropping below the window line. The MPD cruiser drew closer, the driver’s eyes flicking toward the Mustang—then it passed. Adam checked the mirror. The cops disappeared into the distance. “Okay, they’re gone. They’re not looking for this car.”

  She cautiously lifted her head. “What now?”

  “Go somewhere quiet, then use the PERSONA to see what’s on that disk.” He glanced at the bag in her lap. “Find out what was in my mind.”

  He looked ahead. An alley led between some run-down commercial buildings. He slowed and turned into it. “The neighborhood’s a bit grotty,” said Bianca.

  “We’re not going to get carjacked by drug dealers in broad daylight.” He slowed the Mustang. “This should do.”

  It was a brick structure with a small loading dock set into its rear, real estate signs proclaiming that the property was available to rent. The windows were boarded up. Adam turned the car into the space and stopped. They were completely hidden from the main street; anyone looking for them would have to come down the alley to find them.

  If someone did do that, the Mustang would be blocked in by their vehicle. But it was a chance he had to take.

  He twisted to get the cases from the backseat—and let out a grunt of pain. “Stay still, I’ll do that,” Bianca told him. “Let me see.” He reluctantly shifted position. “Oh God. You’re still bleeding—it’s all over your back!” A blotchy dark patch had swollen outward from the wound, soaking his clothing.

  “It’ll look worse than it is,” he said, trying to reassure her—and himself. “It’s just spread because I’ve been pressed against the seat.”

  “Are you sure? How do you feel?”

  “I’m feeling … that I wish I’d used anesthetic. But I’m okay. Really.” He managed a small, strained smile. “Get the PERSONA set up.”

  It was awkward doing so in the confines of the coupe, but after a few minutes Bianca had connected both units of the PERSONA device and switched them on. Despite its rough treatment since leaving the STS building, the system appeared to be in working order. She took out the memory module. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Adam finished donning the skullcap. “I don’t know if I’m going to like what I find out. But I’ve got to find out.” He faced her. “Is this on okay?”

  She reached up to adjust the electrodes. “There. You’re good.” Her hand stayed against his skin for an extra moment as she regarded him with concern. “What are you going to do if it really is something bad?”

  “I don’t know,” he said in a quiet voice. Then, more firmly: “Give me the shot and start the transfer. Let’s get this over with. However it turns out.”

  “Okay.” She took the jet injector from the medical case. “Are you ready?”

  “Do it.”

  “Good luck.” She positioned the nozzle against his neck and pulled the trigger, then watched the now unsettlingly familiar sight of all expression fading from his face. Thirty seconds passed. “I’m going to start the transfer,” she whispered. Adam’s only response was a slight nod.

  She touched the controls. The PERSONA’s screen came to life, beginning to feed the recorded memories back into their owner’s mind.

  Morgan’s mood had not improved by the time he reached his office.

  “Right,” he said, glowering at the three young specialists lined up before his desk. “I want answers, and I want them now. All three of you were working to help Adam get away. Why?”

  Holly Jo, Levon, and Kyle exchanged unhappy looks, none wanting to be the first to speak. “Let me spell it out for you,” Morgan continued. “You deliberately impeded an operation to capture a rogue agent who had stolen highly classified information—and assaulted a senior STS official in the process, in case you’d forgotten. That means you can be charged under the Espionage Act! We’re talking a good thirty years in federal prison here—assuming you aren’t all packed off to Guantánamo. So this is your last chance. Why did you help Adam?”

  Tony spoke before any of them could answer. “Because I told them to.”

  It took Morgan a moment to fully process what he had heard. When he did, his tone was calmer, yet more dangerous than ever. “Would you care to explain that?”

  “I ordered”—Tony placed emphasis on the word—“them to help Adam evade capture. They were acting under my instructions as their superior, so the responsibility for everything they did is mine.”

  “Very noble of you,” said Morgan. He looked at the trio. “And would you all back up that statement?”

  “Yeah, totally,” Kyle gabbled. “I mean, it’s Tony—he’s our boss, we all trust him, and we do what he says, right?”

  He took in the disapproving expressions of his companions. “What?”

  “He’s right,” said Tony, before Holly Jo or Levon could add anything. “They were following my orders.”

  “While disobeying mine,” Morgan replied. He regarded Tony in silence for several tense seconds. “All right, if that’s how you want to play it … You three,” he snapped, turning back to the specialists. “You’re all relieved of duty pending further investigation. Report to the security office and turn in your IDs, then get out of my agency. I’ll deal with you later.”

  They mumbled shamed affirmations, then left the room. “You asshole,” Holly Jo hissed at Kyle.

  “What?” he protested. “That’s what Tony wanted!”

  Morgan waited for the door to close behind them. “So, what do you want, Tony? Why have you decided to risk your career—your freedom—for Adam?”

  “Because he deserves to know the truth about himself,” Tony answered.

  “But you don’t know what that truth is.”

  “Do you?”

  “No,” Morgan admitted. “But the admiral vouched for him as an ideal candidate to replace you—and whatever the reasons Adam had for wanting to forget his past, he asked to forget it.”

  “But he’s changed his mind. Now he wants to remember—or at least to find out why he wanted to forget. He wants to learn who he really is, and what we took away from him. I think he has a right to know.”

  “You don’t have the authority to give him that information,” Morgan said sternly. “And neither do I, for that matter.”

  “You’re saying it’s entirely Harper’s call?”

  “It is.”

  “You can’t tell me you agree with that.”

  “Whether I do or not is irrelevant. And for God’s sake, Tony, even if I sympathize with Adam’s motives, he’s gone about this in the wrong way. He assaulted Kiddrick, stole classified data, sabotaged a government facility, and wreaked havoc in the capital! You know we can’t tolerate that. And I can’t tolerate insubordination.”

  Tony took a deep breath, then nodded. “I understand. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. For now, you can wait in holding until I figure that out.” The phone on his desk rang. “Yes?” He listened, expression hardening. “Right.” He put it down and regarded Tony grimly. “Speak of the devil. Harper is here.”

  The director of national intelligence was in Morgan’s office barely a minute later. “I want to know what in the name of the good Christ is going on,” he snarled. “How the hell did Gray get away?”

  “I helped him,” Tony said.

  Harper seemed about to explode. “What?”

  “Tony just ad
mitted to me that he was passing information to Adam that allowed him to evade capture,” explained Morgan—the truth, but not in its entirety. Tony gave him a brief look of gratitude on behalf of his three co-conspirators. “I put him under arrest just before you arrived.”

  Harper stared angrily at Tony. “Then why is he still here and not in a cell?”

  Morgan picked up the phone. “Get security to my office,” he ordered.

  The white-haired man marched up to Tony, almost nose-to-nose with him. “What the fuck are you playing at, Carpenter?”

  Tony didn’t blink. “Why is it so important that Adam doesn’t remember his past, Admiral?”

  Harper’s fury rose at being challenged. “That’s not your goddamn concern!”

  “My concern is the people under my command—and Adam is one of them.”

  “And my concern is the security of the United States! By taking that disk, Gray is a direct threat to that security. If it gets into the wrong hands—”

  “It’s in Adam’s hands,” Tony cut in, raising Harper’s ire still higher. “They’re his own memories! How can finding out about his past be a threat to national security?”

  Before Harper could reply, there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Morgan barked. Two security officers entered. “Take Mr. Carpenter to holding and keep him there until further orders.”

  “What did Adam know?” Tony demanded. “What’s on that disk, Admiral?”

  “Get him out of my sight,” Harper growled.

  “And what about Adam?” asked Tony as the two men ushered him to the door.

  “We’ll catch him,” replied Morgan.

  “And if he’s used the PERSONA to re-imprint his own memories?”

  Harper said nothing—but the concern clearly visible even through his mask of anger was an answer in itself.

  Bianca watched the rush of data on the PERSONA’s screen subside. She checked that the diagnostic readings were in order, then turned to Adam. “Are you okay?”

  He opened his eyes. “Yeah. I think.”

  “I’ll try to do a memory check. What’s your full name?”

  “Adam Peter Gray.”

  “So you are really you, then.” She remembered something he had said a few days earlier. “What was your dog called?”

  “Grover,” Adam replied, a smile breaking. “I did have a dog, I remember him! He was an Irish setter.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “Crescent City, Florida.”

  “Your parents’ names?”

  “Steven and Lucia.” Brief gloom crossed his face. “My dad passed away in 2004—but my mom’s still alive! She’s still in Florida, she moved to Fort Lauderdale.” His downcast look was completely swept away by delight. “My God, I can remember her! I can remember everything, my fam—”

  He flinched as if he had taken a physical blow. His exhilaration instantly vanished, replaced by horror. “What is it?” Bianca said, alarmed.

  “I have a brother,” he mumbled. “I—I had a brother, a twin. He looked just like me. The dream, it wasn’t—oh God.” He fumbled at the door handle, trying to get out of the car. The cord attached to the skullcap pulled tight. He clawed at it, tearing it off. “Oh God, no!”

  He staggered from the Mustang, almost collapsing against the wall of the loading dock. Now genuinely scared, Bianca jumped out and ran to him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “The dream’s not a dream,” he gasped. “My brother, Michael—he worked for the State Department, he was one of Secretary Easton’s staff. He was with her in Islamabad when—when al-Qaeda blew up her convoy. I was waiting to meet him, we were going to catch up …” He tried to stand, but reeled again, overpowered by the rush of memories pummeling his mind. “I heard the explosion—I ran down the street to help, but I found him, I found him …” He slumped to his knees, retching.

  “Oh God,” whispered Bianca, a hand covering her mouth in dismay as she realized the truth. Adam’s recurring “dream” had been reality, an image so shocking and traumatic that it had resisted the purge of his memory, searing itself into his subconscious.

  But now it had been brought back into the open. And Adam was feeling the pain of that moment all over again.

  She crouched beside him, a hand on his back. “Adam, I’m here for you. What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing, there’s nothing you can do,” he replied, stricken. “Oh God! It’s all my fault!”

  “No it isn’t,” she said, trying to reassure him. “You couldn’t have—”

  “But I did!” He raised his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I really did sell the information to Qasid. I gave al-Qaeda the secretary’s route—and I killed my own brother!”

  Bianca stared at Adam in disbelief. “You mean … everything you found out from Qasid’s persona was true?”

  He struggled to regain control over his emotions as he answered. “Some of it. I was—I was on a CIA–SOCOM joint op. It was meant to be a sting operation. The idea was that I’d pose as a disaffected embassy worker. My grandfather was Syrian, so I looked the part enough for it to be plausible that I’d have local sympathies. They wouldn’t have bought it if I’d been blond-haired and blue-eyed like Tony.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I had to establish myself as a credible source, so I gave them classified information. It was all part of the plan,” he quickly clarified. “It caused some diplomatic blow-back, but it did its job.”

  “It got Qasid to trust you.”

  “Yes. So the next stage of the plan was to give him information about the secretary of state’s secret visit to Pakistan.”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean your bosses deliberately told al-Qaeda about it?”

  “No! That’s not what happened—not what was supposed to happen,” he replied, correcting himself. “I was supposed to give them misinformation. They wouldn’t get the real itinerary. They’d get a fake route, one we’d be watching. There were only a couple of places along it where they’d be able to carry out an effective attack—and we’d cover them. When they showed themselves, we’d take them out all at once—captured or killed, either way would be a win.”

  “But it didn’t work out like that …”

  “No. And I don’t know why.” The anguish returned. “I did everything I was supposed to. I followed my orders to the letter, gave Qasid the fake information—but somehow they saw through it. I wasn’t good enough to convince them. So they found a way to attack the real convoy. And they murdered over a hundred people. They killed the secretary, and … and …” His voice cracked. “And Michael. They killed my brother. I killed him—I gave them what they needed to do it!”

  He slumped again, head buried in his hands, shaking as he wept uncontrollably. Bianca tried to comfort him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?” She looked back at the car. The door was open, the medical case visible inside. “I could give you another injection of Neutharsine. It’d wipe the memories, take the pain away—”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I don’t want it to go away.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t deserve it to. It’s my fault, it’s all my fault …”

  He curled into a tighter ball, shuddering.

  “It’s not your fault,” Bianca insisted. “You were on a mission—you did exactly what you were ordered to do. There’s no way you could have known what would happen. And,” she went on, more forcefully, “I’m not going to let you torture yourself over it out of some sort of misplaced guilt. I’m getting the injector.” She stood.

  Adam’s hand snapped up and gripped her wrist. He raised his head. “Don’t,” he said. “Please. It hurts, but … it’s all I’ve got left of him. If you wipe it, some of the memories will still be there, but … none of the feelings.”

  “Then don’t just think about what happened in Pakistan,” she pleaded. “Think about all the other times with him—with your parents. With your dog! Try to remember the good st
uff, the times when you were happy.” His hand was still around her arm; she wrapped her other hand over it as she crouched again. “Get all the other memories while you can—and all the feelings that go with them too. Tell me about them.”

  Despair returned to his face. “I want to, but … it’s too hard. All I can see is Michael lying in the street. I can’t—I can’t get back past it.”

  “Then go forward,” she said. “What happened afterward? How did you join the Persona Project?”

  His shivering subsided as he focused on recalling the memories. “I was taken back to the US embassy. I … I had to identify Michael’s body. But I couldn’t even phone my mom to tell her what had happened, because I was on a classified operation—officially I wasn’t even in Pakistan.”

  “I’m so sorry. It must have been terrible. I’m sorry.”

  He wiped his eyes, and sighed. “Thank you. After that … Harper came to see me.”

  “What, at the embassy?”

  “Yeah. And …” He frowned, puzzled. “Baxter was with him.”

  “What was he doing there?” Bianca asked, surprised.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t speak to him, but he arrived with Harper—I’m certain it was him.”

  “What did Harper say to you? That what happened wasn’t your fault?”

  A pause. “No. The opposite.”

  “What?”

  “He blamed me for it. He said …” Adam’s tendons tightened, in a mixture of resurgent guilt, and anger. “He said I must have done something wrong. I made Qasid and his cell suspicious, so they realized the information I gave them was a trap. He said everything was my fault.”

  “That—that bastard!” Bianca cried. “What did you do?”

  “I believed him. He’s the director of national intelligence—the only person above him in the chain of command is the president. If he says you’ve screwed up …”

  “But did you screw up? Did you do anything wrong?”

  “No—not that I can remember. But …” He fell silent, deep in thought. “Qasid wasn’t suspicious of me. He believed my cover story—and he believed that the information I gave him about the secretary’s visit was genuine. He and al-Rais used it to plan the attack.”