by Debbi Mack
We drove out to a brick rancher on a tree-lined rollercoaster of a street called Dale Drive in the Maryland suburbs. As I emerged from the car, Liz came running out to meet me.
We hugged so hard, I thought she’d squeeze the tears right out of me.
“I’m so sorry,” Liz said. “I didn’t want to tell you for fear of worrying you.”
Tell me what? my mind shrieked. But I was too tired for hysterics.
“Liz, please tell me what this is about.” I sounded pathetic.
Liz insisted we go inside to discuss it. Once inside, Liz put some coffee on and produced some deli sandwiches. I nearly pounced on them, since I hadn’t eaten a thing in almost 24 hours.
I unwrapped and tore into a turkey sandwich. “This is delicious,” I said, around a mouthful of sandwich.
“Got ’em at Ertter’s, right down the road,” Liz said.
I chewed and swallowed, holding off on the next bite out of sheer force of will. “It’s been too long since we last saw each other, Liz. But this is one fucked up reunion.”
Liz’s lips compressed into a wry smile. “You’re telling me.”
“So, just what is going on?”
Liz sighed. “Homeland Security contacted me. They knew about the extremist group, because of a mole.”
“Selby?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. They don’t tell me everything. They’re very good at telling me just enough, without telling it all.”
She poured two cups of coffee and brought them to the table, along with some milk and sugar, then sat across from me.
“All I know is that they heard from their source that the group was planning a big incident. Something so catastrophic, it could surpass 9/11.”
I stopped eating and peered at her. She was dead serious.
“The mole found out that the fellow who was doing research for you was giving you information,” she continued. “They assumed it was for your book.”
“Yes,” I said, my voice weighted with guilt. “I think he died trying to help me out. So, is the group really working on a weapon more powerful than an atom bomb?”
Liz frowned and her eyebrows dueled briefly with one another. “Is that what your book is about?”
“Well, yes, it’s a thriller about a scientist who’s researching a theory that Einstein was wrong, that the speed of light is variable, and that under his new theory, it’s possible to build a weapon many times stronger than the H-bomb. The scientist dies under suspicious circumstances. It’s supposed to be an accident. Blah, blah, blah. Never mind all that. Is that what the group is doing?”
Liz raised a finger. “That’s the thing, Jess. We don’t know. Homeland Security only knows this radical group is worried about you. The group must have killed Fred, thinking he was passing you information about their plans.”
“Well, the cops haven’t gotten that memo, have they? They think I did it.”
She shook her head. “No, they were told to issue that statement. They wanted to take you into protective custody without revealing their plans to the group.”
I opened my mouth, but only a guttural sound of disbelief came out, at first. “So all this time, I thought I was a murder suspect and I wasn’t?” Those assholes!
Liz looked ready to cry. “I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. Attorney-client privilege. I’m only telling you this now, because the Feds want your cooperation.”
My jaw dropped and, for a moment, I stared at her. “What?”
“Jessica, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t essential. And we’re talking about a huge catastrophe. Who knows how big.”
I managed to close my mouth and gather my wits. “Does this have anything to do with the situation at the Golden Gate Bridge?”
“Possibly.”
“That’s it? That’s all you can say?”
“It’s all we know, Jess. Really!” Liz stared off, looking almost as dazed as I was. But that wasn’t going to deter me from probing further, because the whole thing smelled fishy to me.
“If it affects the Bay Area and it’s that catastrophic, how come they aren’t evacuating San Francisco?”
Liz reared up and glared at me, as if I’d hurled an insult at her. “I told you it was only a possibility. We can’t go causing a general panic based on a mere possibility. That’s why the Feds need your help.”
I sighed and asked, “What do they want from me?”
Liz hesitated and then said, “They want to use you in a sting operation.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jessica
I stared at Liz in disbelief. “You must be joking, right? Tell me you’re joking. I mean you can’t possibly be serious. No way, no way. You can’t be serious!” The more I spoke, the faster my words came and the more hysterical I sounded.
Liz wouldn’t return my look. She propped her elbows on the table and kneaded her temples with both hands. “None of this is my idea, Jess. I don’t like it any more than you do. I haven’t liked any of this.” Her voice dripped with disgust.
“Oh, yeah. Well, I’ve been enjoying it even less, okay? So you and your goddamned federal government can just kiss my ass!”
Liz stopped kneading long enough to venture a look my way. Her eyes were tired, pleading with me for understanding. “It’s your government, too, Jessica. And this catastrophe could kill hundreds of millions of innocent people.”
“Hundreds of millions?”
Liz leaned toward me. “Would you believe entire countries?”
I was silent for a beat. “What kind of catastrophe could do that?”
“One involving a bomb like the one in your book maybe?”
I nodded. “Okay, but I don’t go into all the scientific details. I don’t even talk about how the bomb could be built. It’s all theory, and it’s not even accepted theory in the real world. Are you sure this catastrophe relates to my novel?”
“Well, Fred was killed helping you research it. Then Selby was killed and he knew Fred.”
I tried to think back to my meeting with Selby. Something he’d said. He’d told me Fred was killed because of something related to the novel, but he also said the group was relying on something he knew.
“What was Selby’s major?” I muttered aloud.
“Hmm?”
“I’m trying to remember what Selby studied. I wonder if Fred ever mentioned it.”
“Was it physics? Or chemistry?”
“I . . . I don’t know. It had to be a science of some sort, now that I think about it. I remember when we met on campus, Selby mentioned his research. But if it was physics, I would remember that because I was so interested in finding out more about João Magueijo’s theory. I’m sure I would have asked him about it. If I could just remember . . . .”
A dark-haired man in a dark suit, blinding white shirt, and dark glasses glided into the kitchen, quiet as a church mouse. A woman who could have been his sister in a nearly matching skirted version of his suit stood just behind him, also wearing dark glasses. The Bobbsey Twins of the FBI. Or CIA. Or Homeland Security. Or whatever.
“Decision time,” the man said, looking at me. At least his face was pointed my way.
“Who the hell are you guys?” I asked the well-dressed eavesdroppers.
“Agent Owen.” He whipped out a badge, then waved a hand toward his female counterpart. “My associate and I work for Homeland Security.”
“How nice for you.” The response seemed ludicrous, but then so did the situation.
Liz looked defeated. “Jess, they want you to wear a wire and try to confirm our theories about these people. Will you do it?”
The word “no” was poised on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. If hundreds of millions (and maybe billions) of lives were at stake, how could I say no to this? How could I just refuse and walk away?
“You see,” Agent Owen said, as if the matter needed further elucidation. “You’re in a unique position. They think you may have information abo
ut their plans. If we let them capture you and you can confirm exactly what they’re up to, it could prevent the worst from happening.”
He removed his dark glasses and I was surprised to see such friendly brown eyes behind them.
“If you pretend to help them, we don’t think they’ll hurt you. Pretend to be on their side, even, and try to draw them out. Meanwhile, we’ll be monitoring everything that’s said. And we won’t let them harm you. I can assure you of that.”
I opened my mouth, but the words seem to stick in my throat. I swallowed and tried again. “Two guys just tried to rape me. Then, I kicked them in the face. How will I convince them that I’m on their side? And how do I know they won’t hurt me?”
Agent Owen took a deep breath, as if the inhalation could clarify his thought processes. He pursed his lips and nodded. “I think it can be arranged.”
“Arranged how?”
“We have our ways.” He made a placating, palms-down gesture with both hands. “The main thing is to try to get any information that could give us a better idea of their true intentions. Anything that will help us prevent a catastrophe and keep our operative safe.”
“Operative?” My brows drew together. Even Liz looked at the man in alarm. “Wait a second. If you have an operative in the group, what the hell do you need me for?”
“Our operative has come under scrutiny. This operative could be completely compromised by asking the wrong questions. If that happened, the operative would be killed and months of work would be wasted. We’d be completely screwed.”
“Who is this operative?” I asked. Liz’s ears seemed to perk up, too.
Owen shook his head. “Need to know only.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jessica
“Oh, really?” I said, rising from my seat. “Well, guess what, buddy? I need to know and I need to know fucking now!”
Agent Owen looked at me askance and his female counterpart lurched to attention. Liz jumped up and placed herself between me and the man, as if to protect him from a physical attack.
“Sorry,” the man said from behind Liz. “We aren’t allowed to reveal that information.”
I placed my hands on the table and leaned on them, taking deep breaths and counting to ten. Then twenty.
“Call us if you need us,” Owen said to Liz. “We’ll be in the other room.” He started to go, and then stopped. “You need to decide quickly, Ms. Evans. Time is of the essence. And there’s a lot at stake.” With that, he and his twin partner high-tailed it out of there.
I sat back down and put my face in my hands.
“Why, Liz? Why did I have to write a thriller?”
I could hear Liz resume her seat across from me.
“Why couldn’t I have just written, I don’t know, romantic suspense?” I continued. “You know, one of those silly stories where Colonel Peacock gets killed in the garden with a hoe or a pitchfork and the heroine gets her man? Terrorist groups don’t give a shit about those stories, do they?”
“Jessica, I’m so sorry. About everything.” Liz sighed before continuing. “You have no idea how I’ve worried since Homeland Security told me all this. That’s why I hired those guards. I wanted to protect you, and I hoped it wouldn’t come to this. But, you do need to decide. And he’s right. This could happen any time. So the sooner you decide, the more likely we are to prevent what may be the worst catastrophe in modern history.”
“Shit.” I stared into my hands, wishing I would wake up from this horrible dream. I briefly thought of all the films I’d seen in which the needs of one were outweighed by the needs of many. Casablanca, Star Trek: Wrath of Khan. Ugh, why do I watch movies or care about anything? My heart felt like a lead weight in my chest as I finally spoke. “What choice do I have? If they absolutely need me, I’ll do it.”
Even as I said it, I couldn’t believe those words were coming from me.
Liz put her hand on my arm. “I . . . ” She couldn’t go on. After a few moments, she steeled herself and rose. “I’ll go tell them.” She turned and left the room. I almost shouted for her to wait, that I’d changed my mind, but the words wouldn’t come. So I simply stared at her retreating back.
I had one night at the safe house, while plans were prepared for me to be kidnapped. Super, I thought. I wondered what delightful method they’d use. Would I be forced into a car at gunpoint or simply bashed over the head?
Agent Owen (whom I’d mentally dubbed George Clooney, because Owen and Clooney could’ve been brothers) told me not to worry, because the operative would do everything possible to make sure my capture was swift and painless. “Swift and painless”—words that could also apply to someone’s death. Coming from good old George, I wasn’t taking much comfort in them.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Kevin
Kevin snapped out of his latest drug-induced haze and tried to focus on the problems at hand.
So the writer had gotten away and grievously wounded two of the group’s men. But he knew it was just a matter of time before they flushed her out again. Then, they could ask her how much Fred had told her.
Fred’s research for this woman had made him far too curious about other matters. Matters the woman could definitely confirm by talking to Selby.
While Selby was no longer a threat, the question was how much had he told her at their meeting?
The group’s plans hinged on Selby’s knowledge of a risk so little known, yet so potentially lethal, it was astonishing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Jessica
That night at the safe house, I thrashed around in bed, unable to sleep. Couldn’t imagine why.
The room was hot and dusty, little-used, and unkempt with only a bed, a desk, a computer, and a bookshelf along one wall. The musty smell of old books made me feel like I was trying to sleep in the back room of a used book warehouse.
After 1:00 in the morning, I threw off the covers and got up. I peered through the Venetian blinds at the quiet, dark neighborhood. Everyone tucked safely in bed and sound asleep, no doubt. Or curled up in front of a television watching a late night movie and munching on popcorn or drinking cocoa.
If any of them had insomnia, it wasn’t because they’d been called upon to be kidnapped by terrorists in order to help authorities save the world from its biggest catastrophe ever. Nor had they seen a nice guy like Fred lying on the floor with a bullet through his head. Or witnessed a man keel over dead—probably poisoned. And Cynthia of all people was involved with this group. Jesus!
All of this had started on Monday. Only a few days ago. Talk about your bad weeks. And it was just barely Friday.
I turned away from the window. Sleep was hopeless at this point. I could read a book. I scanned the titles. Moby Dick? The Sound and the Fury? I shook my head. No, thank you, limited edition or not. Desperate to keep my mind busy, I turned to my laptop. I sat at the desk and booted it up. No Internet access—something told me that was no accident.
My thoughts wandered to the story. Mel’s appearance (plus the doorman’s duplicity) had put a new wrinkle in things. I originally hadn’t planned on Mel doing much, but now I decided to write a version in which he stepped to the fore.
This made me ponder the nature of choice. The many choices we’re faced with every day. How do we choose what to do? Can we choose who we are? Or is that choice already made for us? Are our choices shaped by who we are? Or are we defined by our choices?
Here I was sitting in a dark bedroom, in a dark neighborhood, unable to sleep because of my choices. I’d chosen to serve my country rather than run away. Now, all I had to do was make a choice about my story. Or have my characters make their choices, because that’s what it came down to.
The eerie similarities between my life and Alexis’ life made me wonder if I’d subconsciously created my own situation. Perhaps the answers to why I was in my situation were right there in the words of my book. If a terrorist group was after me because my manuscript threatened them, maybe reviewing
it would give me a clue as to how to extricate myself.
With that faint hope in mind, I plugged in the flash drive and opened the document again.
Alexis
Alexis was barely able to catch her breath by the time the car squealed out of the garage.
“Who are you?” she gasped.
“A friend.” Mel seemed disinclined to say more, which was completely consistent with their dealings so far, but Alexis was too curious to leave it at that.
“Care to explain? Are you Katie’s friend or what?”
“I’m what you’d call an interested party.”
Alexis noticed his thick New York accent had lightened. It was still there, just not quite as heavy. “Interested in what?” she asked, fearful at what he might answer.
“Alexis, when you called Katie and told her you were coming, we intercepted your call.”
“What?”
Mel paused, as if gathering the strength to go on. “The federal government has been aware of the research done by your fiancé and Alan Sweetser for some time now. We’ve been watching them to see what they did with it.”
Alexis nodded. “So, those guys Swede was talking about. They’re with the Feds?”
“No.” The word landed between them like a ten-ton anvil. “Terrorists groups have been interested in their research, too. The people who first approached them weren’t with us.”
“And who would you be with? FBI? CIA? What?”
“Ever hear of the NSA?”
The National Security Agency. Or, as it was once known, No Such Agency. Kind of a joke at one time, when a person who worked there couldn’t even admit their own employer existed. But now everyone knew about the NSA, even if its employees couldn’t talk about what they did. Even if they answered their phones with extension numbers instead of names. However, Alexis couldn’t help but notice he hadn’t actually answered her question.
