The nameless dead mw-4

by Paul Johnson

  The FBI man raised his hand. ‘Good to see you, too, Matt.’ He gave me a tight smile. ‘Don’t worry, she’s lying down in the bedroom.’

  I took a deep breath. I had got to the stage that anything to do with Karen provoked unease, or, rather, blind panic.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, going over to shake his hand. ‘Though I don’t know why. You’re the reason we’re still stuck here. Karen should be in a proper hospital.’

  Sebastian raised an eyebrow. ‘Where Sara Robbins could get to her?’

  I wasn’t letting him get away with that. ‘I guess I assumed the mighty FBI would be able to protect us outside of the camp.’

  ‘Cool it, Matt,’ he said, closing the laptop. ‘You know she’ll get excellent care here.’

  I circled the table, unwilling to sit down with him.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘Have you got kids?’

  ‘Sure. They’re both at college now.’

  ‘You remember what it was like when they were born?’

  Sebastian smiled weakly. ‘Not much. I was on duty both times. That was when I was working undercover in L.A.’

  ‘Really?’ I was interested because he’d never said much about his past. ‘What were you pretending to be? A junkie?’

  ‘Nice,’ he said, with a subdued chuckle. ‘Actually, I was supposed to have a coke habit. No, the Bureau was investigating links between a Hollywood studio and organized crime. I was a writer with a hot script about the Mob.’

  ‘Who wrote it?’

  ‘Not me, obviously. We found some washed-up script editor and kept him in booze for a month.’

  ‘The romance of the writing life.’

  He looked up at me. ‘Why aren’t you spending your days writing a book about your experiences?’

  Further proof that we were being watched around the clock. I let it go. ‘Because they haven’t ended yet, Peter.’ I sat down opposite him. ‘When are you going to let us go from this shit-hole?’

  He looked around the room. ‘I’ve seen worse.’ He put his hand on the computer. ‘What do you think of this? I haven’t heard any thank-yous.’

  ‘Screw you. When we can walk out the gates of this concentration camp, I might consider thanking you. Until then, you can swivel.’ I raised my leg and pointed at the tracking unit. ‘What am I? A common criminal?’

  Sebastian’s expression was blank. ‘Many Americans would say you’re something a lot worse than that if they knew. Going after the President wasn’t the best move you ever made.’

  ‘So put us on trial. You know any decent lawyer will argue we didn’t know what we were doing.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to risk that? Karen will be nursing your son. Do you want her to do that in court, with the TV cameras running? Do you really think you can win a trial against the President? Even my word wouldn’t be enough.’

  ‘Of course not.’ I looked away. ‘I appreciate the computer and the combat training.’

  ‘How’s that going? Sergeant Jerome comes highly recommended.’ He smiled. ‘Shame you can’t get him to smash the tracking unit on your ankle for you.’

  I’d made a few unsuccessful attempts to put my leg in the way of Quincy’s unrestrained kicks. He’d always managed to pull out in time.

  ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do than watch me all day long?’

  ‘I do. So Special Agent Simms and her team watch for me.’

  ‘Oh, great.’ I wondered if there was a camera in the bathroom-I hadn’t been able to spot one. The idea of the asexual Simms watching me in there was strangely disturbing. ‘So what’s going on, Peter? You’re getting me back to full fitness, you’re letting us communicate with the outside world. Are we going to get out soon?’

  He stared at me. ‘I don’t know, Matt. There may be some movement in Justice’s position. The birth should help.’

  ‘How about Doc Rivers’s reports? He says I’m making good progress with the deconditioning.’

  ‘Why do you think I’m down here, Matt? I’ll be talking to him later. I might even look in on a session.’

  That didn’t fill me with hope. If another trigger kicked in…

  ‘How about some firearms practice?’ I asked, putting the pressure back on him. ‘You know I’ll need it if we get out.’

  ‘Will you? Whatever you think, I reckon the Bureau’s quite capable of protecting you and yours from the so-called Soul Collector.’

  ‘Touche,’ I said, shaking my head. Getting round Sebastian was about as easy as spearing mosquitoes.

  ‘I’m working on things.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll see you again before I go back to D.C.’

  ‘Hey,’ I said, as he walked to the door. ‘You never told me what happened when you were undercover in L.A.’

  The FBI man looked round. ‘That’s classified.’ He paused. ‘What the hell? You’re almost family now. Put it this way-the studio went out of business and the Mob lost five soldiers.’

  ‘You’re some tough guy,’ I said. ‘How many special agents breathed their last?’

  ‘That really is classified,’ Sebastian said, slamming the door behind him.

  Arthur Bimsdale was watching Sergeant Quincy Jerome instruct some very raw-looking army recruits in the basics of self-defense. There were regular thuds as they hit the padded floor of the dojo; none of them managed to lay a hand on the big man.

  ‘Why don’t you give it a shot?’

  The special agent turned and saw that his boss had sat down behind him on the tiered benches. ‘Em, I don’t think that would be a good idea, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Peter Sebastian gave the tight smile that always appeared when he wanted to put the squeeze on a subordinate. ‘What’s the matter? Forgotten everything you learned at Quantico?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s just that I wouldn’t like to put him in the hospital.’

  Sebastian’s eyes opened wide. ‘Very good, Arthur. Maybe you have got a spine after all.’ He frowned. ‘I’d still like you to challenge the sergeant.’

  Bimsdale knew there was no point in further resistance. He’d already taken a chance by answering his boss back. He waited patiently till the squad was dismissed, then made his way over to the mat without looking at Sebastian.

  ‘Excuse me, Sergeant, could I challenge you?’

  Quincy Jerome looked at him dubiously. ‘Who exactly are you, son?’

  Bimsdale explained.

  ‘Okay, Arthur. How do you want to do this?’

  Bimsdale had taken off his suit jacket and shoes, and placed his pistol and shoulder holster carefully on the floor. ‘I don’t suppose you’d let me throw you and then pretend you got concussed?’

  ‘You don’t suppose right,’ the sergeant said, with a laugh. ‘You FBI dudes are really something.’ He stepped back quickly as Bimsdale launched a high kick at his throat.

  The contest lasted longer than Sebastian had expected. He knew from his assistant’s file that the young man had done well on every module at Quantico, but he assumed he’d been putting on a show for the examiners. After twenty minutes, during which Bimsdale almost put Jerome down several times, he walked over to the dojo.

  ‘All right, gentlemen,’ he said, clapping his hands.

  Both combatants were breathing heavily and Arthur Bimsdale’s tie had come undone.

  ‘You’ve made your point,’ Sebastian said to his assistant. ‘Go and have a shower, then meet me at the science block.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Bimsdale said, voice louder than usual.

  ‘So, Sergeant,’ Peter Sebastian said when they were alone, ‘what do you think?’

  Quincy Jerome wiped his forehead with his forearm. ‘Not bad for a Bureau guy.’

  ‘Not Bimsdale. How’s Matt Wells coming along?’

  The sergeant grinned. ‘Sorry,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘Yeah, Wells is in pretty good shape. Someone taught him some useful moves.’

  ‘Any sign of him losing control of himself?’

  ‘You mean like so
me kind of robotic fighting machine?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean, Sergeant.’

  ‘Nope. He gets into the zone well and stays pretty cool.’

  Sebastian considered the reply. ‘All right. Give him daily sessions at the range from tomorrow.’

  ‘Just pistol, or rifle, too?’

  ‘Both. And Sergeant? Make sure he knows that at least two weapons will be trained on him all the time he’s armed.’

  As Sebastian walked away, Quincy Jerome wondered, not for the first time, exactly what kind of game was being played around him.

  Bimsdale was alone in Rivers’s office when his boss arrived.

  ‘Impressive, Arthur,’ Sebastian said. ‘You’re wasted working for me. You should be in a field office, leading the charge.’

  ‘Not me, sir,’ the young man replied. ‘I can learn so much from you.’

  His superior gave him a questioning look. ‘Tell me, how does fighting square with your Episcopalian principles? Your file says you shot a man in Montana.’

  Bimsdale nodded. ‘He was threatening to execute a hostage.’

  ‘So you killed him and got a reprimand for excessive use of your weapon.’

  ‘The hostage was an eight-year-old boy, sir. He’d been…’

  Sebastian raised his hand. ‘I read the file, remember. I asked about your religious beliefs.’

  The young agent held his superior’s gaze. ‘So did the recruitment board. I told them that being an Episcopalian would affect my performance only in positive ways.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Sebastian asked, as the door opened.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ Rivers said. His glasses were perched on his bald head and he had a sheaf of papers under his arm. ‘All’s well in Washington, I hope.’

  Sebastian nodded, glancing back at his assistant as if to say that their discussion would be resumed. ‘Bring us up to speed on the subject Matt Wells, please, Doctor.’

  The scientist sat down at his untidy desk and tried to find a space for the papers he was carrying. ‘Matt Wells,’ he said, as if the name was unfamiliar. ‘Yes, yes, Matt Wells.’ He dug out a laptop and opened it, then pulled his glasses down. ‘Indeed,’ he said, peering at the screen. ‘Response to the latest trigger was good, definitely improved on the previous one. Evidence of deep conditioning minimal.’ The doctor looked up. ‘Of course, you realize that the very nature of such conditioning militates against us finding traces of its presence.’

  Sebastian nodded. ‘And your drug regime?’

  ‘Substantially curtailed now. The effects became counterproductive as the subject gained more conscious control over his reactions to triggers.’

  ‘So Wells is functioning like a normal human being again?’

  Rivers considered that. ‘What is normal, I wonder? According to the report you provided, the subject’s behavior prior to what happened in the cathedral was largely rational.’

  ‘That was what made the attacks on the President by him and Karen Oaten so disturbing. They were impossible to predict.’

  ‘And you are wondering whether they still have it in them to behave like that.’

  ‘Of course. That’s what all this is about, no?’

  The scientist pursed his lips. ‘To be frank, I don’t know. I’d say it was unlikely, given the treatment both have received, but I can give no guarantee. Of course, we have treated the female subject less intensively because of the pregnancy.’

  ‘Would you say allowing Matt Wells to shoot on the range was a risk?’ Sebastian asked.

  ‘Undoubtedly, but probably a small one.’

  ‘Just as well. I’ve already authorized it.’

  Arthur Bimsdale looked shocked. ‘Did you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I did, Special Agent. I’m sorry, should I have asked your permission?’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘All right, Doctor,’ Sebastian continued. ‘Two final questions. Has your treatment in any way compromised Karen Oaten’s chances of giving birth successfully?’

  Rivers sniffed. ‘Considering the state she was in when she arrived, I’d say it’s remarkable that she’s done as well as she has.’

  ‘Which is hardly an answer, but never mind. Two, is Matt Wells capable of functioning reliably outside the camp?’

  This time the scientist was taken aback. ‘I was led to understand that the therapy was open-ended.’

  ‘Nothing’s forever, Doctor,’ Sebastian said, getting to his feet. ‘This time I’ll need a clear answer.’

  Rivers pushed his glasses back onto his cranium and stared at the two men. ‘I’ll give you your answer. No, I do not think he would be reliable in the outside world and I will take every possible step to see that he remains here.’

  With that, Peter Sebastian headed for the door.

  Seven

  One had a Mossberg shotgun and the other a Smith amp; Wesson Sigma pistol, but I tried to blank them out, the soldiers who were covering me. Quincy Jerome was standing behind them, carrying an M4 carbine. There was only one thing to do. I pulled down my ear protectors.

  I took aim at the target that had started to move toward me up the lane of the range. It had been nearly two months since I’d fired a shot, but I remembered the training Dave had given me. I had taken up the correct stance, feet apart and legs bent at the knee, and was holding the Glock 17 in a doublehanded grip. I took a breath and fired off nine shots, a second between each one.

  The target kept on coming, stopping a yard in front of me.

  ‘Suck on that, Quincy,’ I said, looking over my shoulder.

  The big man strode up. ‘Shee-it. You’re even better with a moving target. Everything in the inner head ring and five, no, six, nose shots.’ He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘You don’t need no refresher course, man.’

  He didn’t know about Sara. She was a better shot than I.

  ‘How about some rifle shooting?’ I asked. When he’d showed up at our place earlier on and told me that the range had been approved, he hadn’t specified which weapons I’d be able to use. I hadn’t pressed him, but had tried to find out who had given the okay. He didn’t say Sebastian’s name, but he did nod when I mentioned the Bureau. Although it hadn’t struck me at the time, I wondered about that now. Did the army take orders from the FBI? It didn’t seem likely, even though they shared the camp. Presumably Sebastian had gone to a senior officer.

  ‘All right, Mr. Wells,’ Quincy said, the formality for the benefit of the two other soldiers. ‘Let’s go see what we can find you.’

  What we found was a Colt M16A4. As it happened, I had fired an M16 after I escaped from the Rothmanns’ camp, but I wasn’t going to bring that up. I reckoned the better I performed, the more likely Peter Sebastian would be to sanction our release, though that raised another question. If I was expected to use pistols and rifles, it was unlikely we’d be sent back to the U.K. Surely we weren’t going to be cut loose in the U.S.? Sara would have a field day.

  Quincy took me and the others to the open-air range. ‘All right, Mr. Wells,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a thousand-yard lane in front of you.’ He checked with his binoculars. ‘The target is currently at 500 yards. Give me five shots there. Then we’ll go back a hundred yards each time till we hit 1000. Five shots at each stop, okay?’ He handed me a thirty-round magazine.

  As soon as I slapped it home, I felt the other soldiers tense. I grinned at them and got down on the ground, resting the rifle on a sandbag. There were no telescopic sights, but I’d trained without them so I wasn’t worried. I pulled down my ear protectors again and got into the zone, breathing steadily.

  Before I knew it, the magazine was empty and there was a dull ache in my right shoulder. By the time I got to my feet, Quincy had scoped the target.

  ‘Very funny, motherfucker,’ he said, this time paying no attention to the men behind him.

  I tried not to laugh. ‘I thought you’d like it.’

  He handed me the binoculars. I was impressed. Although
the legs were a bit uneven, I’d managed to shoot a decent outline of the human form around the charging infantryman image on the target. The oversize heart that I’d put on the chest was unmistakable.

  ‘What was that Woody Allen film?’ I asked. ‘There was a loudmouthed black sergeant in that, too.’

  Quincy Jerome gave me the eye big-time.

  ‘I remember. Love and Death.’

  ‘Asshole,’ said the big man.

  The other soldiers only just succeeded in keeping their faces straight.

  I decided to move things along. ‘Can I have a go with the shotgun now?’ I asked, pointing at the Mossberg.

  ‘No, Mr. Wells, you cannot,’ Quincy said, relieving me of the M16. ‘That isn’t included in your program.’ He turned away. ‘I just decided.’

  I found Karen on the sofa, the laptop on her chest.

  ‘Guess what?’ I said, after I’d kissed her.

  She gave me a languid glance. ‘You shot a perfect score?’

  ‘More or less,’ I replied, deflated. Then I had a worrying thought. Could my ability with the firearms have something to do with the Rothmanns’ conditioning? I had been a reasonable shot in the past, but I’d never done anything like I had on the range today. Maybe the same went for my unarmed combat skills. It wasn’t unlikely. The Rothmanns had trained people to become top-class warriors, as the mayhem in the cathedral in Washington had shown. Then an even worse idea came to me. What if the combat skills, lurking deep in my subconscious, actually freed up more trigger words formerly hidden? I decided not to share those fears with Karen.

  Her due date was still a few days away, but the obstetrician had told us the baby could come any time. She preferred to be horizontal, even though the doctor recommended that she keep active, and she lost her breath easily. She hadn’t said anything, but I knew she was wishing things would get underway. Still, first babies were often latecomers-I remembered that from my daughter Lucy, nearly a week overdue.

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Have you read about these murders?’

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. Karen was a homicide detective at heart, despite the fact that she’d been working on financial crime before the kidnapping, and she wouldn’t let a little thing like childbirth distract her from her calling. I had seen the stories, which had become a lot more high profile with the poor woman in Boston, who had been stripped naked, defenestrated and daubed with the title of Adolf Hitler’s repulsive book.