by Kyle Mills
The implication was obvious: The United States had a small, beyond-top-secret team who had been involved in some early tests that wouldn’t look good in the newspapers.
“Understood,” Klein said. “I’ll speak with the president and make sure this particular dark corner isn’t one he wants to remain dark. Until then, you’re not to continue any inquiries into the matter.”
“I assume you’re going to tell Randi the same thing?”
“I am. And I expect you to make sure she complies.”
Smith let out a short laugh at the idea that he could control Randi Russell. “In that case, sooner might be better than later for your conversation with Castilla. Randi’s not the most patient woman in the world.”
31
Upstate New York
USA
THE RAIN CAME DOWN HARDER—not quite in solid sheets but in a disorienting rush that blurred the people around him and turned the lake to mist. The words of the priest were overcome by the impact of the drops against umbrellas and Christian Dresner considered it a blessing.
Of course he could use his Merge to compensate for the visual and audio chaos, but why? To hear a stream of meaningless platitudes about a God and a soul that he now knew didn’t exist? To hear passages from a two-thousand-year-old book written by ignorant men who needed a deity to explain every clap of thunder and burning bush?
What was left of Craig Bailer’s body had been cremated after a cursory autopsy, but it had taken months for the family to put together this modest ceremony. He looked at their faces—the stoic wife, the supportive children, impatient business associates—and wondered about the delay. Was it because no one cared enough to shuffle their schedules? Perhaps they had seen Bailer for what he was: a man obsessed with money and the illusion of personal value it could be used to create. A man eminently replaceable as a business partner, parent, or friend by the thousands just like him.
The priest stepped down and a young man Dresner didn’t know took his place. Not that he would have expected to recognize him. He knew very little about Bailer personally. The man had been a convenient tool but, beyond that, of little interest. Not that their impersonal relationship had made killing him—murdering him—any easier. But then, it had been an act of no real importance. Bailer would have died later with all the others anyway. For his sins.
“My father loved it here,” the young man said, his voice cutting through the rain in a way that the priest’s had not. “When I was a boy, this piece of land only had a little cabin on it and there were other houses surrounding the lake. Over the years, he bought them all up and removed them. He loved the quiet. The beauty of nature.”
Dresner frowned imperceptibly. The “cabin” was now a thousand-square-meter monstrosity and the dock they were standing on held a massive speedboat painted a garish red and yellow. The truth was that Bailer had never shown any interest in nature. This was just another trophy.
The family walked in a silent procession to the end of the pier and turned an urn upside down over the water. The wind whipped at the ashes for a moment before they were soaked through and dropped unceremoniously into the lake.
A fitting end to Craig Bailer.
The crowd began to disperse, about half checking their email on cell phones and the other half doing the same with the subtle pupil jerks that people had taken to calling the Dresner Stare.
He moved against the exodus, people shuffling out of his way with nervous glances as he approached Bailer’s wife.
“I’m so sorry, Lori,” he said, feeling her tense under his embrace. He was less human than symbol now and people often didn’t know how to react to his physical presence.
“I want to thank you for coming,” she said as he took her hand. “It would have meant a lot to Craig.”
“I considered him one of my closest friends and owe him a great deal. I can’t imagine how you and your family must be feeling, but I want you to know that it was a devastating loss for me, too.”
She gripped her umbrella tighter, seemingly unsure what to say. “We still don’t know what happened, Mr. Dresner. I suppose we never will.”
He held out a business card, blank except a single phone number centered on it. “This comes directly to me. If there’s anything you need—anything I can help you with—please call.”
She accepted the card and this time seemed a bit more relaxed when they embraced. Dresner stood by respectfully as she retreated to the fold of her family and then started up the slope toward the house. A limousine appeared along the muddy road and glided to a stop in front of him.
Dresner pulled the door open, freezing for a moment when he saw a figure sitting next to the heavily tinted window on the opposite side.
“Hello, Christian.”
The voice was immediately recognizable and Dresner slipped inside, dropping his dripping umbrella on the floor in front of him. “Very dramatic, James. I’ve always admired a good entrance.”
“You said you wanted to talk and that it was important. I thought I’d take advantage of your rare presence in our country.”
The limousine weaved through the people still gathered in front of Bailer’s house and Dresner took a seat opposite the man. He had retired years ago as a major in an area of U.S. military intelligence where rank was not necessarily well correlated with power. Now he was in his early seventies, with gray hair still cut in an efficient military style and a gaunt, sun-damaged face that meshed perfectly with a body that was a product of a lifetime in the Marine Corps. The scar that ran from the edge of his starched collar to the underside of his chin completed the image but, ironically, was not a souvenir from combat. According to Dresner’s investigators, it was actually the result of a childhood accident.
“Sorry to hear about your CEO. Can I assume that it won’t affect the production of military-specific Merges?”
“Your concern is heartwarming.”
“Everyone dies, Christian. Even you and me one day.”
Dresner looked at the glass separating them from the driver and security man in the passenger seat. It was soundproof, but he still would prefer to have this conversation elsewhere.
“We’ve run into some cash-flow problems that need to be dealt with in order to keep manufacturing at capacity.”
“Cash-flow problems? What kind of cash-flow problems?”
“Nothing that fifty billion dollars won’t resolve.”
Major James Whitfield sat in silence, nothing registering on his face. It never did.
“It’s a temporary shortfall,” Dresner continued. “The rollout is actually ahead of projections.”
“Whether it’s temporary or not is irrelevant. The amount isn’t though. We’ve already given more than a hundred billion to this project.”
“And in return, I’ve agreed to provide America with a number of critical exclusive technologies. Certainly the Merge is more useful than obsolete aircraft carriers and fighter jet prototypes that have trouble getting into the air.”
“Do you think I just call the Pentagon and tell them to write a check?” Whitfield said, his voice turning menacing. “Making this kind of money disappear from the defense budget isn’t trivial. Even for me.”
“Obviously, I could go looking for the money on the open market. I imagine the Chinese government would be interested.
When Whitfield spoke again it was through clenched teeth. “Anything else?”
“In fact, yes.”
Dresner pulled up a photo on his Merge and was about to securely transfer it to Whitfield but then remembered the old soldier still refused to adopt the technology. Instead, he was forced to use a laptop lying on the seat next to him.
“What am I looking at?” Whitfield said, accepting the computer and examining the enhanced image.
“The two people sitting in the booth are Randi Russell from the CIA and Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, whom you’re familiar with.”
“What’s he holding?” Whitfield asked.
“A severed he
ad that Russell found in Afghanistan.”
“Why do I care?”
“Because that particular Afghan was involved in an experiment you paid for almost four months ago. The skull has Merge studs in it.”
Still, nothing registered on the former marine’s face, but the rise and fall of his chest increased noticeably. “Where did you get this?”
In fact, he had quite a bit more—including photos of Russell actually retrieving the head. He couldn’t reveal that, though, without compromising his view into Whitfield’s world.
“Smith is in charge of the military’s adoption of my technology. It makes sense for me to watch him to the degree practical.”
“Why wasn’t I told about this experiment?”
“You never seemed interested in this level of detail.”
“Christ…” Whitfield said under his breath. “Does anyone at Central Intelligence know about this?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I don’t think so. She and Smith have a personal relationship—he was engaged to her sister when she became one of the first victims of the Hades virus. It appears that Russell came straight to him because of that history and his position as the director of Merge development. I take it you haven’t heard anything through military channels?”
Whitfield shook his head. “If Smith is concerned about this, he hasn’t gone up the chain of command with it.”
“Then there’s still time. Watching Smith is one thing, but dealing with him and a CIA operative is obviously beyond my experience.”
“Dealing with? Why the hell were you even following him? This isn’t your sphere of influence. If you feel people need watching—and goddamn well if they need ‘dealing with’—you come to me.”
“I have come to you, Major. And I’m expecting you to handle it.”
32
Washington, DC
USA
FRED KLEIN FOLLOWED an unconcerned Secret Service man toward the president’s executive residence. The reason for the casual attitude was that this was a regular occurrence. Klein and the president had been roommates in college and the friendship they’d formed there transcended the world of politics and intelligence that they now lived in. Sam Adams Castilla surrounded himself with the same political creatures that every president was forced to, but he only really trusted the people he’d known before his rise to power. It’s how Klein had ended up heading Covert-One and why his virtually unlimited access to America’s leader would be the envy of everyone—if they knew about it.
While the two men occasionally met publicly in the Oval Office under the completely reasonable assumption that Castilla would periodically ask his old friend’s advice on matters of national security, it was better to keep those meetings to a minimum. Klein, to the degree that it was possible in the information age, felt most comfortable when working from the shadows.
Castilla was sitting on a threadbare sofa that had come with him from the governor’s mansion in Santa Fe when his old friend entered. He started to rise, but didn’t seem to have the strength. Instead, he grabbed a can of Coors off the coffee table and raised it in greeting.
“Even you wouldn’t believe the day I just had, Fred.”
Klein had always been suspicious that American presidents started slowly dyeing their hair gray the day they took office—a transition from the youth and energy expected of a candidate to the maturity and gravitas expected of a president. Now he knew. It wasn’t dye.
“For me?” Klein said, taking a seat across from him and pointing to a glass of scotch on the table.
“Ardbeg 1975. A gift from the Thai ambassador.”
“Is Cassie still out of the country?”
“Touring sugar plantations and eating too much island food. That’s the job you want, Fred. First Lady.”
Castilla was a brilliant man with an honest streak much wider than most and a reassuring aura of calm that tended to slip when his wife was gone for long periods of time. With so few people he trusted implicitly, he liked to keep them close.
“I’m not sure I’m qualified.”
Castilla grinned and drained his beer, pulling another from a dignified-looking oak chest that had been converted to hold ice. “These days it’s hard not to start looking forward to building my library, writing a self-serving autobiography, and hitting golf balls. What do you think, Fred? Will you be ready to join me in the pasture when my term’s up?”
“I don’t play golf,” he responded, evading the question.
Castilla let him get away with it. “I assume you aren’t here to make sure I’m eating right while my wife is gone. What do you have for me?”
Klein pulled a tablet computer from his portfolio and punched in a password, bringing up a photo of the severed head Randi Russell had found. Castilla looked at it, blanched visibly, and then went back to working on his beer.
“Someone I know?”
“An Afghan from a rural village called Sarabat. Did you see the places on the skull that were circled?”
Castilla nodded. “Dresner’s Merge is getting around. We originally thought that Islam’s prohibitions against body modification would pretty much shut down adoption in that part of the world, but the effect hasn’t been as strong as we thought. Hats off to Dresner’s marketing director.”
“There’s more.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“It appears that the studs in this man’s skull were installed more than four months ago.”
Castilla’s eyes narrowed as he made a few mental calculations. “That was before the Merge was released. Well before.”
“That’s right.”
“Where did you get this, Fred? Is the intel solid?”
“I had Randi Russell looking into a lead on the Pentagon issue. This just fell in her lap. And while I haven’t been working directly with her for long, I have a great deal of admiration for her. Also, Jon Smith has corroborated most of her story. I think you and I hold the same opinion of Jon.”
“This really isn’t what I needed today.”
“Sorry, Sam.”
“What else do we know?”
“Basically nothing. And that’s why I’m here. I need some direction from you as to whether this is something Covert-One should pursue.”
“Hell yes, it’s something you should pursue. Why wouldn’t—” He caught himself and fell silent for a moment. “You think I had something to do with this.”
“I’m not here to pass judgment, Sam. You know that. But if this is a government-run test I’m not aware of, it’d be better if we steer clear of it.”
“I found out about the Merge the same time the rest of the world did and I found out about the military version the same way you did—from Smith’s meeting with Craig Bailer. After I got his report, I met with the CIA and Joint Chiefs to discuss it. They didn’t know any more than I did.”
“Okay,” Klein said in a measured tone. “Then the question we need to answer is how this should be handled. It might make sense to hand it over to the CIA and military intelligence. Keep us out of it.”
Castilla settled back in the sofa and stared silently down at the beer in his hand. With Covert-One’s involvement always came the risk of exposure.
“I’m telling you straight that I didn’t know anything about this, Fred. But there’s no guarantee that someone in the military or intelligence community didn’t find out before me and decide to do a quiet trial.”
Klein nodded. It was a possibility that he himself had considered. Sometimes things had to be done that the country’s politicians didn’t want or need to know about.
“If that’s the case,” Castilla continued. “I have two problems. First, I can’t trust the CIA or military to look into this. And second, if it turns out that one of those organizations was involved, I don’t need a leak before I make a decision about what to do.”
“So what I’m hearing is that we should pursue this.”
The president nodded. “But we’re just gathering informatio
n at this point. No action is to be taken without my direct authorization.”
33
Near Harpers Ferry, West Virginia
USA
JON SMITH EASED UP on the accelerator and gave in to his compulsion to confirm on his iPhone that he was still on the right road. He wasn’t sure why, though. The asphalt in front of him glowed dim yellow and a translucent ETA floated in his peripheral vision. One of the strange things about the Merge was that the more accustomed you got to it, the more it faded into the background. Sometimes it was easy to forget it was even there.
The mist was getting worse, hanging in the trees and threatening to condense into rain. The men he was on his way to meet were probably gleefully praying for a deluge—anything to increase the morning’s suffering.
Smith had been tagging along with a group of former and current special forces operatives on their weekend trail run for years now. The terrain was always brutal, the pace superhuman, and the competitiveness on the verge of psychotic.
Two and a half hours of misery that he’d hoped to avoid by retreating to Nevada, but now his return had been delayed by Klein’s green light. There were no excuses—no kids’ birthdays, sick parents, or flooded basements. Even injuries better be backed up with an ugly, emailed X-ray. If you were in town, you showed up.
He flipped off the radio and his thoughts immediately turned to Randi’s discovery and what the hell he was going to do about it.
Dresner was the obvious place to start, but access to the great man was extremely limited and U.S. leverage against him virtually non-existent.
Of course, there was Afghanistan, but that would probably turn out to be an even bigger dead end. The locals in question were all in the ground and the region wasn’t exactly known for its meticulous record keeping.
Maybe the mercs who had wiped out Kot’eh? Sure, he might be able to find them, but what were they going to say? In all likelihood they had no idea who’d hired them. As long as the price was right, they tended not to worry about those kinds of details.
That left the technology itself. While he was far from convinced that the Afghans’ reported odd behavior had anything to do with the Merge—or for that matter even existed—it was an intriguing theory. His team had been so focused on exploiting the Merge’s hundreds of obvious capabilities, they hadn’t had much time to investigate what they didn’t know about it.
