Valen understood how silly that seemed. Even he did not understand it. By now his crimes had to place him in the highest levels of mass murderers throughout history. Much as he wanted to, Valen could no longer count the dead.
The flat-screen TV mounted over the dresser was black and he did not dare to turn it on. He’d seen enough.
Enough.
More than enough.
Valen poured himself another vodka, sat facing the door, and waited.
But Ari never came.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
THE WHITE HOUSE
Jennifer VanOwen checked in with her staff, with the senior advisors, with the chief of staff, and with the president himself. They were all in various degrees of stress, ranging from moderate freak-out to complete panic. That was fine. That was exactly right.
She was the voice of reason, and people throughout the West Wing would remember that. History would remember that Jennifer VanOwen kept her cool. That would play well when she made her move out of the shadows and onto the radar of the power players who were looking for the next face of the party. It was time for a woman to ascend to the American throne.
Such as it was.
For as long as it lasted.
Her contact assured her that there would be six or eight good years before the red, white, and blue lost its value as the currency of global economic power. That was good. She only wanted four years. Not the last four, but the ones coming up. Let someone else sit behind the big desk when it all turned to shit. People would be tripping over themselves to say that it wouldn’t have happened on her watch.
VanOwen told her secretary that she was going to go out to see how things were being handled in the streets. The president hadn’t budged from the bunker, and frankly everyone seemed okay with that. This wasn’t something he was equipped for or capable of handling. The less he got involved and the more he allowed actual experts to make decisions, the better he would look in tomorrow’s news cycle. At least that’s what VanOwen told him.
For her part, VanOwen needed to be visible. Very visible. She picked the right places to be seen huddled in earnest conversation with firefighters, police officials, doctors, aid workers, and ordinary citizens who had come out of the woodwork to lend willing hands and strong backs. Picking those spots had required a few hours of careful monitoring of reports, and some tips from her spies. Her employer’s people had given her some leads, too.
VanOwen spent hours in the field, and she contrived to get smudges of dirt and blood on her expensive suit, her hands, and even her pretty face. Her hair was carefully mussed and she knew that she would look amazing on Fox, CNN, and the BBC news. Her actions were orchestrated to emphasize the power of “us,” but it would drive iron rivets into her campaign once it launched. News reporters would make career jumps off their coverage of her, and that was good. When one cable news show ran different pictures of her—holding an IV bag of blood, working with a black teen to pull a Latina from beneath a collapsed storefront, handing coffee to weary EMTs, standing with a hand to her shocked mouth and tears in her eyes as she viewed a long row of sheet-covered corpses, yelling fiercely to direct an impromptu rescue crew to make a human ladder to pull a child from a sinkhole—the anchor dubbed her Hurricane VanOwen. In that instant she went from a relative Beltway nobody to a force of nature.
And then she withdrew, telling reporters that she was going back to fight this on a different front—the donations of money, food, and clothing pouring in from the “wonderful Americans who want to do their part even if they’re hundreds of miles away.” It was a great sound bite, and once more she contrived to have tears—this time of pride—in her eyes.
She made her way to her car and was driven out of D.C.
During the trip, she made over forty phone calls, doing a lot of what she had just promised to do. Then, when the broken city was behind her and the green of Virginia wrapped itself around her, she told her driver to take her to the Barn. It was the code name for a division of DARPA that had ostensibly been closed down. The official story of its current use was testing flight simulators for a proposed virtual reality training center for drone pilots. Intriguing enough to convince the right people to keep the facility’s top-secret clearance in place, but boring enough to keep congressional spooks from nosing around.
The guards at the Barn were repurposed military. Not MPs or anyone who had a propensity for problem-solving or investigation. These were the kind of soldiers who could stand post all day, never ask a question, and be content with that. There were plenty of them in any branch of the service anywhere in the world.
Her driver presented the credentials for someone other than VanOwen. The soldiers barely looked in the back, and if they did, they saw a woman with curly black hair, garish lipstick, and horn-rimmed glasses. Later, when investigators checked this all out, they would match the description and the ID with Gloria Paley, a seasoned representative from Iowa. Ms. Paley would never afterward be found, and any blame would land solidly on her. Her credit card would be used in Guatemala over the next couple of days and then never again. VanOwen did not know, nor care, what would happen to the body. Her employer had people to handle those kinds of details.
The driver parked near the eighth in a row of sixteen Quonset huts that stretched down between stands of trees. VanOwen got out and went inside quickly. Her driver stayed outside. His ID was fake, too, as were the plates on the car.
VanOwen used Paley’s ID to access an elevator that went down two levels to a lab that actually ran beneath all of the Quonset huts. The guards did not question her at all, because it was Paley’s job to oversee this project. They never looked closer than the wig and glasses and lipstick.
In the rear corner of the massive lab was a row of small aircraft. Eight of them, each with a slightly different configuration, but all following a similar design philosophy. Only three people were in the lab, the rest having gone upstairs to the staff lounges to watch the news. Or home to be with family; or to D.C. in the hopes that they did not have to think about grief and funerals and loss.
The three remaining staff members were in white lab coats. Two were senior techs and one was the project manager. They all turned as VanOwen approached. The techs nodded and turned back to their work. The scientist rose from a chair and came to meet VanOwen, but nearly missed a step as she closed. Confusion clouded her face, and it was clear she realized who it was behind the glasses and fake hair.
“I—” she began, but VanOwen touched a finger to her lips, then took the scientist by the elbow and led her a few paces away.
“I’ll explain later,” said VanOwen, touching her wig. “Did you prepare everything?”
“Yes,” said Yuina Hoshino.
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure? We will index everything.”
Hoshino looked pained. “I told you from the beginning that I will do anything and everything you want. I have all of the designs, the metallurgy, the chemistry, the complete genomes of over forty candidates, everything. It’s a complete copy.”
“Good.”
“But it’s still a waste of time,” she said. “Without tissue samples from host pilots, none of these will fly. Ever.”
They turned and looked at the line of craft. Each of them was much smaller than the machine that Howard Shelton had sent to try and destroy China. They were similar, though. Triangular hulls with no obvious front, a central dome, and round white lights on the undersides of each point. They stood on metal platforms, but VanOwen knew that under the right circumstances they would not need landing struts. They would hover, floating on a cushion of charged air, defying gravity as if it was irrelevant. These T-craft were not intended for combat use, but were instead scaled prototypes that allowed for redesign and modification more quickly than full-sized machines.
“Get the files,” ordered VanOwen. Hoshino nodded and went over to her desk, where an oversized metal briefcase stood. VanOwen followed and
told her to open it. Hoshino did, revealing that it was crammed with ultra-high-capacity storage drives. “Close and lock it.”
As Hoshino did, VanOwen beckoned to the technicians to come over. They obeyed at once, and as soon as they were within range, VanOwen drew a Glock 19 from inside her coat. It was fitted with a sound suppressor. She shot each of the technicians in the face. They dropped at once, and as a horrified Hoshino watched, VanOwen walked over and shot them each again. Three shots in head and heart.
“What … what…?” gasped Hoshino.
VanOwen gave her a radiant smile. “Thank you for all of your loyalty and hard work, Doctor. You are really quite amazing.”
“But I…?”
VanOwen shot her through the heart and then put two rounds in her head. Brass tinkled and she did not bother to pick it up. There were no prints on the spent cartridges and the gun was unregistered. The driver, stone-faced, walked between the corpses and picked up the case. He took the gun from VanOwen and they left the lab, the building, and the base together without saying a word.
On a deserted road, VanOwen got out of the car, leaving the disguise behind. Her own Lexus GS was parked in the dense shadows of a side road. The driver put the heavy case in the trunk, turned, got back in his car, and drove away. Except for a brief exchange with the gate guards, he had not spoken a word since D.C. Likely he would vanish from all public records and be reassigned by their employer to some other work.
VanOwen got behind the wheel but did not start the engine. Instead she turned on the inside lights and stared at her face in the rearview mirror. The murders in the Barn were easy. Very easy, and she knew it should frighten her. Or sicken her. But there was nothing in her eyes and nothing in her heart.
The lack of feeling was what frightened her. She licked her lips, tasting the last of the garish lipstick.
“Christ,” she said. She switched off the light but did not start the car for nearly half an hour, preferring instead to sit in total darkness. Without, and within.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Church closed the door to the solarium, shook hands with us both, allowed Ghost to sniff his black-gloved hand, and then sat.
“Before you start,” he said, “I spoke with the doctors. Sam Imura will be in surgery for several hours yet. The injuries he sustained in the explosion are considerable. He has multiple fractures, including his left humerus, both femurs, several ribs, and right cheek; and they’ve identified forty-three separate pieces of shrapnel. Beyond that he has burns and surface lacerations. He is in critical condition, and the doctors have confided that they are only cautiously optimistic that he will survive the surgery.”
“Ay dios mío,” breathed Rudy. “I will call his parents. They’re in California, I believe.”
“Yes. Brick can supply you with their information. And I understand you’ve already spoken with Agent Ming’s family. Thank you for that.”
“D.J. and his partner have two adopted children,” said Rudy heavily. “Four and seven.”
I said nothing but there was a big hollow cavern opening inside my chest.
“Aunt Sallie is another matter,” said Church. “She suffered a massive stroke and it is too early for a prognosis. She is alive, and they are working to keep her stable.”
“Damn,” I said. “Maybe I should have taken her somewhere closer and—”
Church leaned over and clamped a hand around my wrist. He looked me in the eyes, and even through the tinted lenses I could see the intensity of his stare.
“Listen to me and hear me, Captain,” he said. “You saved her life. You defended her and then did exactly what you needed to do in order to get her to the best available medical treatment. There were no better options, and I want that to sink in. Even if she dies, there was nothing else you could have done. For that, I will always be indebted to you. More than you can know. I am not a sentimental man, as you are eminently aware, so this is my truth. Hear me.”
I looked into those eyes for as long as I could, then I nodded. He gave me a final squeeze and sat back, brushing invisible lint from his immaculate trouser leg.
“Now,” he said calmly, “tell me what it is you think I need to know.”
“It’s only a theory,” I began. “There’s a whole bunch of supposition, wild guesses, and maybe just me being crazy.”
Church leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. “Please, Captain, don’t pull your punches with me. Believe me when I tell you that I’ve probably heard stranger things.”
We studied each other for a moment, then I launched in.
“It’s the God Machine that made me think of this,” I said. “We know that when it’s in idle, it messes with your head. It allows some people to step into the heads of other people and take them over. We know that because they used it on us. Top and Bunny on the gas dock in Oceanside. That wasn’t them killing people, it was assassins hijacking their minds and bodies to do that. Same with me. Harcourt Bolton and Rafael Santoro were both inside my skull. They got Rudy, too, made him attack me. So, there’s no way we can dismiss mind control as part of this, because we suddenly have hundreds of people going bugfuck nuts and attacking each other or committing suicide. If I hadn’t seen a small God Machine firsthand I might have thought this was more of the nanite stuff from last year. Or some kind of rage virus. Or something, but now I’m landing pretty hard on this being those devices. With me so far?”
Church made a twirling motion with a finger, telling me to get on with it. He likes to be informed, not schooled.
“Okay, so we have the Speaker of the House kill himself in a big, flamboyant way. What’s the immediate upshot? Suddenly all eyes are on D.C. Bam. Just like that. Everyone is tuned in to TV, Sirius, their online news services, and social media. The bad guys had used that to draw the eyes of the whole country, and as soon as we’ve all been brought to point, there’s an earthquake. And before you say anything, boss, there is nothing you can say that is ever going to convince me that the earthquake was a coincidence.”
Church gave me another of his microsmiles. “When have you ever known me to err on the side of coincidence, Captain?”
I grinned. “Fair enough. So, the earthquake hits, and hits hard. Just as everyone is watching D.C., the earthquake destroys the Capitol Building, damages the White House, and fills the streets with what amounts to a riot. Rudy is the expert here, but I’m pretty sure that once the shock wears off we’re going to see a nationwide dramatic drop in confidence in the government. It’s like what happens when a head of state is assassinated—people panic because there’s no mommy or daddy in the room. Have you checked the stock markets? I bet they’ve dropped like a son of a bitch.”
“They have.”
“Has POTUS suspended trading?”
“He has not.”
Rudy cursed under his breath.
“He should have done that already,” I said.
“And I, along with a number of others, have tried to advise him on that point. Our requests have gone unanswered.”
“Crap. Okay, getting back to my theory. The government is going to take a credibility hit bigger than what happened with FEMA after Katrina. If POTUS has made a public statement to try and reassure the people, I sure as hell haven’t heard it.”
“He has not,” said Church. “The silence is telling.”
“And damaging,” added Rudy.
“Okay, whatever. All politicians blow. Back to this crap,” I said. “The Secret Service tried to pick me up before the earthquake. Twice. Why? My guess is that someone thought I was in the area for some reason other than why I was actually there.”
“And why would they do that, Captain?” asked Church, though I suspected he already knew.
“Because I was the point man for the Kill Switch op, and I was the point man for Extinction Machine. We now know that tech from Kill Switch is in play; and as you pointed out, boss, the two guys
Top, Bunny, and I danced with were not rent-a-Closer. They were the real deal. Actual men in black. Maybe that makes them aliens, or weirdos working for E.T., I don’t know. But they bugged out of there in a frigging T-craft, and that means that whatever’s going on ties in with what we were into during the Extinction Machine case. Two of my biggest cases overlapping, and suddenly the Feds want to put a black bag over my head and whisk me off for some water sports. I don’t buy Brierley’s theory that this was POTUS flexing his muscles and just screwing with us. The timing is wrong. How would they know I was coming to Baltimore? It wasn’t a long-range plan. I grabbed an open spot in my calendar and just went. So, I think someone spotted me in town and thought I was there investigating whatever hinky shit they were planning. And if POTUS isn’t being mind-controlled, then there’s someone in his circle who is.”
“Or,” countered Church, “there is someone in his circle of influence who is involved in whatever conspiracy is in play behind the scenes.”
“I can buy that, too,” I conceded. “Maybe even more so.”
“Who would we suspect of that?” asked Rudy.
“I’ll put our analysts on it,” said Church. “We’ll make a list.”
“That brings up my next thing,” I said, “and it’s as obvious as it is scary. If these real-deal Closers are back on the case, then we have to accept the possibility that someone inside our government has gotten their hands on some of what was in the Majestic Black Book.”
“That seems likely,” admitted Church, and he did not look happy about it.
“Wait for a moment,” interrupted Rudy. “The last time that happened, the aliens or whatever they are threatened to cause a mega-tsunami. Could the earthquake be a warning from them? Or a punishment?”
We considered that, then Church and I began shaking our heads at the same time.
“No,” I said. “The earthquake thing works too well with a more political agenda.”
“Whose politics, though?” asked Rudy. “I can’t see any American political agenda being supported by this kind of damage. It would be like setting fire to a house you wanted to rob.”
Deep Silence Page 26
