by James, Mark
At ten, the light restarted.
“You saw it stop for ten seconds, correct?”
She looked back up at the monument.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Sorry for the drama, detective. To be blunt, we don’t have much time. Hopefully, we can meet soon, when this is resolved. In the meantime, we can only ask that you trust us – Jack, myself and Mac.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said and hung up, dazed.
The next fifteen minutes were a blur: throwing her clothes into the suitcases, approaching the elevator, the men in the suits telling her to stop at the hall corner as they spoke into nearly invisible headsets. All in hushed voices, a coordinated operation.
What was happening to her?
She wondered what her father was doing at that moment. He would miss her call later that day and would begin to wonder. She never missed their calls.
It was the middle of the night in Kauai and her father would be asleep, alone. When she visited him, she could still see on his bed the shallow indentation on her mother’s side – a memory of weight – like a ghost lying there. Lani wondered if, sometimes, in the middle of the night her father would reach over and touch it, where his wife had once been. Each time she came back, the indentation seemed smaller, falling away from them like their memories.
The car stopped suddenly and it snapped her back. She thought back on the phone call – had that really been the president, or simply a ruse? Jack wouldn’t discuss it further, but he’d made vague references to a dark organization embedded within the federal government, telling her that the world was not always what we thought it was. She’d kidded with him at the time, but, looking back, she realized that Jack had also declined to talk about his work for Osborne. Was he somehow involved in this phantom organization? Had he been pulled into a situation that was now out of control?
She began wondering who would be on the other side of that car door. The men in the suits had packed her gun and holster into her bags and put them in the trunk. If she were going to meet Jack, why wouldn’t they let her have her own weapon?
The car locks clicked up. She quickly reached for the door handle and paused. Slowly, she opened the door.
She saw no one. Directly ahead she could see a cottage, only ocean beyond. It was a shoreline, north of Washington, D.C., definitely not to the south.
Stepping away from the vehicle, she heard a sound to her right and pivoted. The men in the suits had followed in their own car and were walking towards her. She observed their reactions: casually checking their surroundings, telling her that they weren’t expected anything. She also noted their car: government-issued, stripped of add-ons and with two small antennae hiding off the trunk. Their weapons were holstered.
The men’s eyes shifted towards the house.
“Lani,” Jack called, rounding the cottage from the back.
She felt a pull of opposite emotions; relieved to see him and tensed like a coil. It froze her in place.
“Jack, this better be good,” she said, straining a smile.
Jack knew that she’d be upset – anybody would. She being a police officer made the impact that much worse, as the prospect of losing control is what every officer abhorred.
“I know, Lani, not my idea. Come on inside, we’ll talk it through.”
She stood her ground.
“Here,” he said, walking to the back of the limo. “Gentlemen, the trunk.”
He saw her questioning look. “They’re working for Mac. Well, not officially – old FBI Agents. John here makes a pretty good cup of coffee. John, if you would.”
Fitzpatrick hit the remote and the trunk popped open.
Jack pulled out Lani’s bags and suitcases and looked over at Fitzpatrick.
“The larger one,” Fitzpatrick said, nodding towards the bag. “Outside compartment.”
Jack unzipped the outer pouch and removed Lani’s weapon and holster, a standard-issue Glock model 25.
He handed it to her. “Feel better?”
“Actually, I do. Thank you.”
“Well, don’t get too reattached – I don’t think you’ll have it for long.”
“What do you mean?”
He put his hands on his hips, holding her gaze. He could feel the hunt escalating, as if wolves were in the woods, a scent in the wind. Best to pull the thorn out.
“Because,” he said, “you can’t take a hot gun through international customs.”
Her eyes recoiled. Every muscle in her body tensed.
He took her hand. He’d never been this close to her.
“We’re in something together, Lani. It’s serious. And it’s my fault, not yours. Let’s go inside.”
There was nothing for her to say. She’d lost control.
†
Aisha searched the darkened room. She’d been drugged twice, perhaps more.
Jack had left with Osborne in a rush. As they’d moved through the door, Jack had turned and told her not to worry, that he’d be back. “Remember your promise!” she’d called after him. From the hallway, she caught the tail end of their conversation, Osborne saying that more men were on the way and that she would be moved, to somewhere in Virginia. They shut the door, locking her inside.
Why had Osborne been so afraid?
What did Osborne mean, Jack, you have to leave? Was Jack in trouble? What would happen to her without him?
She huddled in the corner as she had in that small town jail, coming full circle, back to a corner.
She watched as the latch turned.
Two white silhouettes stood in the doorway. They split and moved around opposite sides of the table, coming from opposite directions. Coming closer, she saw they were wearing white lab dress, their faces covered in white masks. They came down towards her and she kicked out, catching one in the shins, feeling the protective pads. They pushed her down and placed a cloth over her mouth and she passed out.
She awoke into a different room – grey concrete, as if it was some type of warehouse. The massive latches appeared as if from a commercial cooler. But it wasn’t cold.
Her head throbbed at the temples.
She found another corner and a cot and blanket there. There were no identifying markers or tags on the blanket, and no marks on the door or the walls, as she moved her hands over them.
The latch clicked loudly and three tall, sinewy men entered. They were dressed in all black, the black of a cottonmouth. Not soldier’s uniforms, something else, like a diver’s suit. Their mouths were covered by mesh, their eyes by thermal-sensitive goggles. The people in the white lab suits had seemed as if they belonged here, but not these; they moved furtively, in tension with the surroundings. In unison, they glanced at each other and moved upon her. Faster than the men before, they pulled her up and spun her. With her reduced weight, she flew like clattering bones, a paper kite. She felt a pad pushed over her mouth and a flash of silver followed by darkness.
She awoke on this table, another room, different again.
Her wrists were secured with wide nylon bands. There were no clasps, the bands emerging from slits in the table, also ones on her ankles. Turning, she could see no metal at all, the room featureless, futuristic. She smelled fresh paint, the scents of plastic.
She remembered the first three needles, not the last.
She swam in a liquid hallucinogenic haze, the world reduced to an aura. Later, she would recall only seeing her own mouth move, vague sounds coming out.
From somewhere, a southern-accented voice droned out an elongated word, “ S-a-n-c-t-i-o-n-e-d.”
After approving the procedure, Agent Jessup sat back and began his required observation period under Protocol 13.
The table began to hum, moving her head downward and leaving her feet above. She felt the soft hydraulic humming as her weight moved against the bands, then a blindfold.
Forms loomed over and reached out as her nose was roughly closed and cold water streamed into her mouth.
As it fl
ooded into her, she stiffened, convulsing as if an eel were boring into her nostrils. Morphing, the eel became a snake, a part of her that she had never felt before. The snake jerked back, uncoiling in violence. Then into a serpent, taking her over, shaking her body violently.
The part of her mind that was still her soul trembled in a corner. Slowly, it rose, summoning its last strength and trying to find the safe room, the room where her child’s self had once gone when her father had come to her late at night. When his breath had poured over her small body and he’d flooded into her, just as the water.
She couldn’t find the room! Doors and doors, opening doors, each dark, each shaking with the serpent’s scream!
And then she saw the light. It was the same star that had been coming to her, strangely, at the end of each of her white water dreams – a star of the brightest light that never hurt the eyes.
The star shone steady, washing over and calming the serpent, returning it to a snake, an eel, out of her nostrils, even as the water continued to flood her body.
She remembered nothing else.
†
“We recovered Aisha this morning, barely alive,” Mac apprised President Walker from his car.
“Present condition?”
“Unknown. She had water in her lungs – waterboarded. We received an anonymous tip around 5:00 a.m. on her drop location. She was dumped in a field outside of D.C. Dr. Takamura is conducting tests as we speak. We’ll have better information later today.”
“Mac, I want satisfaction on this.”
“Yes, Mr. President, we’re pouring over the Virginia NSA facility. Forensics will tell us more – water composition, any DNA, etc. Sir, I personally apologize on the behalf of the NSA. It’s not a formal detention facility and we simply didn’t anticipate anything like this. They came in from the sea, cut the razor wire.”
“It’s not that, Mac, you’re fine. And, you’ll recall, we both stood here and decided on Virginia. Sometimes, this is what happens when you’re forced to make snap decisions. I’ve learned it comes with the territory. No, what I’m holy pissed about is this torture. Torturing anyone – and I don’t care who it is – it’s not only a violation of the law, of our values, it’s a sin before God.”
There was a pause. Osborne could feel the tension.
“God watches, you know?” the president whispered, almost to himself.
Mac had never been a religious man and his position had always been that the president had his ways and he kept to his. Mac’s prayers, if one could call them that, occurred on mountains during his hikes, unspoken but breathed in. That said, he still respected the president’s deep feelings on religious faith. For the president, “faith” wasn’t simply a doctrinal convenience to be pulled out on a whim.
“I hear you, Mr. President. I sometimes feel those eyes over my shoulder. Many times, actually.”
“Thanks, Mac, I appreciate that. Alright, let’s get to it. Are we still focusing on the GMA?”
“It was a professional insertion operation, no doubt. And not many organizations are capable of that level of execution. We know it wasn’t the CIA and no private group would be stupid enough. Besides, who would know about that facility, it’s only been operational for three weeks. We have an internal problem, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ll go farther. I’ll say that the GMA constitutes a domestic terrorist operation.”
“Well, that might be a hard sell, given this Congress.”
The president became deadly serious. “Mac, you’re not quite hearing me. As the President of the United States, I’m officially notifying the Director of the National Security Agency, pursuant to the Revised Patriot Act, paragraph A(2), that I’m designating the GMA as a potential domestic insurgent organization, subject to investigation and sanction by the judicial and executive branches.”
“Bold move, no doubt,” Mac said, somewhat nervously.
“Hey, screw those congressmen,” the president fumed. “The GMA has directly challenged the authority of this office. Besides, it’s better to stop them now, rather than later. Those are always your words, right? What do you think about Brett Shore for special prosecutor?”
“Yes, sir, understood. Shore? Sure, he’s a fair man, respected by nearly everyone – always a plus. Right now, he’s on diplomatic travel in Indonesia. I’ll check. Wherever he’s at, we’ll have him recalled.”
“And the rest?”
“A clandestine grand jury will be convened immediately.”
“Good. Let’s get those bastards.”
16
Lani and Jack sat at the kitchen table looking out towards the ocean. They’d finished taking the sheets off the furniture and putting on a pot of coffee, not saying a word. He was allowing her the time to prepare; she was taking the time to settle. If anyone had looked in, they would have seen a couple settling in for a vacation, looking forward to being away.
She took a long sip and set her cup down, looking into the cream.
“Ready?”
She tried to smile. “Sure.”
“Alright, I can’t tell you everything…”
“Jack, please, stop there. I’m sorry, I truly am, but look at where I’m at: I’m AWOL from my job and separated from my family, who must think by now that I’ve been kidnapped, or worse, and my weapon is essentially irradiated. And which means that I’m in so much trouble that the FBI and Interpol are tracking my weapon. At this point, don’t you think I’m entitled to know what’s going on, all of it?”
She was trying to regain control.
He looked at her, considering his options. He would have felt the same, but he had a responsibility. He’d told Mac he would only disclose the information that was required, avoiding any mention of Aisha and the theater bombings.
“The why-part is problematic. Are you entitled? Of course. But hear me, Lani, I can’t discuss some things. There’s no other way to say it. Simply know that there’s a good reason – a very good reason. Let me begin and then you decide, okay?”
She didn’t answer.
“Alright, here it is: we have no idea why you’re involved.”
He then explained the Croatian accounts and the fund transfers, the GMA and the president’s pledge to stand by them.
“So, what exactly are you doing in D.C.?” she asked, bearing down on the deeper truth.
“That’s the classified part. And, trust me, simply be happy that you’re out of the loop.”
She smiled, “Or what, you’ll have to kill me?”
“Not me, but maybe someone, somewhere. These people think that way.”
“Like these GMA goons?”
“Well, either Mac won’t say it, or he can’t quite admit it, but this GMA organization is out of control. Too much unchecked power.”
“And what’s Mac’s sage advice?”
“The same as I would say: lay low and give them the time they need to resolve this. Above all else, don’t get caught.”
“And what if they can’t fix it?”
“Not an option,” Jack said emphatically. “If we let ourselves think that way, we’ll never get there. Bad karma.”
“Row harder, huh?”
He gave her his best Bogart-from-Casablanca smile. “You got it, lady. Grab an oar, ramming speed.”
He had the knack of making her smile. She wasn’t quite sure how he did it so often. Unfortunately, it didn’t last long this time. She looked out the window, wondering how she’d arrived at this place.
“I still don’t understand, why target me? Regardless of what kind of spook-fest we’re caught up in, I’m certainly not a part of it. What’s more, how could anyone possibly conclude that I have been? I ask myself: Did Jack say something of a classified nature at dinner? Clear answer: no. Or, at the Cerrano bar, did you say anything sensitive, even if a bug had been listening in? Ditto, no. It makes no sense.”
“Agreed. In fact, I’ve been running it around in my head since yesterday. You’re right – there’s someth
ing else here, some puzzle piece.”
For the remainder of the day they tried to act normal, waiting for Mac to arrive with the news on their next move. They couldn’t stay. Eventually the GMA would track them to the cottage.
Towards evening, they walked down to the wide beach, the surf having quieted since the morning storms and leaving the air clean. He pointed to a tern stitching over the water, she pointed out an interesting shell. At first, she’d asked if their walk down the beach was even safe. Weren’t they exposed? No, he said, better to be out in the open where they could spot pursuers running across open sand, as opposed to being trapped and out-armed in an unfamiliar house. Then why stay in the house at all, she’d asked. Jack said nothing and instead pointed to a ship on the horizon, not seeing that she saw what he was doing. As they walked, she saw the outline of a handgun tucked into his shorts under his shirt. She could feel hers.
Nothing was normal.
†
Dan Huff was a congenial sort: beloved by his family and admired by his friends and coworkers. His wife, Jenny, still stole glances at him when he worked in the yard. He did the same to her all the time. She’d developed crow’s feet and he told her it made her blue eyes even bluer, more beautiful. When she would continue to frown, he’d hug her and tell her that she’d earned her lines with her smiles.
Summer barbecues overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge in the foggy distance, nights laughing together with their children over old sitcoms, dragging each other out of bed each morning – this was their life. In New Zealand, a trip they’d saved for years, they’d skied Mount Cook, kayaked Milford Sound and walked the wide beaches at Te Arai.
Dan never felt the cause of his own quiet death. The children had been put to bed and Jenny was already asleep, trying to wait for him but too exhausted from the day. He was turning the lights off and checking the locks when he remembered that the mortgage was due tomorrow and tomorrow was another busy day.
He sat down in his recliner, the one that Jenny always wanted to throw out, turned on the TV for company and set the volume low. He opened his laptop and began paying the bills and then had to stop, blinking himself awake. His hands went down again and stayed there, his head lolling over.
