Mitch swallowed. Every database? “I understand.”
“Go to the Fedex office in South Street, Baltimore. What you need will be waiting for you there.” EB hung up.
Christa was standing beside the flight attendant as the last of the passengers boarded. Mitch waved for her to come to him. The look on his face left her in no doubt they were not boarding the plane.
When she was close, Mitch took her arm and started them toward the exit, whispering, “We’re out of here.”
“Who was it?”
“Deep frog in your Throat,” Mitch said as he led Christa to the airport entrance where they hailed a cab to take them into Baltimore.
* * * *
Mitch collected the package waiting for him at the FedEx office. It contained two envelopes from a major bank with offices in Baltimore and a small box. One envelope was addressed to a man Mitch had never heard of, the other addressed to a woman. Mitch handed the female addressed envelope to Christa, tearing open the other. Inside was a credit card and a printed form with a security number for automatic teller cash advances. Christa’s envelope also contained a credit card and a security number. Mitch opened the small box, finding a brand new 9mm pistol and several ammo clips.
“Very thoughtful,” he said, pocketing the gun, before examining the cards. “These aren’t forgeries. Somehow Frog Throat got these things issued and couriered to the FedEx office in just a few hours. Even Mouse would be impressed by that.”
“Could it be a trap?”
“Only one way to tell.”
They walked a block until they found an automatic teller machine. Mitch slid his card into the slot, typed in the identification number and checked the balance.
“Whew, fifty grand!” Mitch exclaimed, surprised at the size of the balance.
Mitch withdrew a thousand dollars, then the auto teller screen went blank before his card was returned. A message typed across the teller screen.
THE CREDIT CARDS CANNOT BE TRACED TO YOUR TRUE IDENTITY.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, then pressed the OK button.
I WILL KNOW WHERE YOU ARE ANY TIME YOU USE THIS CARD.
Mitch wanted to ask a question, but this was a one way communication. He pressed the OK button again.
LOOK AT THE SECURITY CAMERA.
Mitch stepped back from the automatic teller and looked around until he saw the small camera high on the wall aimed at him. The camera zoomed in on his face.
I NOW KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE. NOW MISS MALLESON.
Mitch pressed OK and turned to Christa. “Princess, look at the camera up there. Smile.”
Christa turned away, putting her hand to the side of her face, masking it from the camera. “Are you crazy? There are no pictures of me anywhere.”
Mitch glanced uncertainly at the security camera. “He wants to know what we look like.”
Christa stepped out of the camera’s field of view. “Who does?”
“EB. Frog Throat. He’s talking to me through this teller machine.”
Christa glanced at the auto teller uncertainly. “We’ve no way of knowing if we can trust him. This whole thing could be a set up.”
Mitch nodded. “Yeah, it could. But he got us out of the hotel before the goon squad caught us. If it was a set up, why would he do that? Why warn us at the airport?”
“We don’t know if the warning at the airport was real, or a way of keeping us here.”
“Well, he’s gone to a lot of trouble to get us money and false names. If he’s setting us up, he’s doing it the hard way.
I REQUIRE MISS MALLESON’S PHOTOGRAPH TO PREPARE FALSE IDENTIFICATION PAPERS.
Mitch read aloud the message on the auto teller screen. “Christa, if McNamara was watching the hotel, they’ve got plenty of surveillance photographs of us already.”
She thought for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right.” She stepped out into the camera’s field of view and let the security camera zoom in on her face.
I HAVE DIGITIZED BOTH YOUR FACES.
WHEN YOU BOOK INTO A HOTEL, USE THE CREDIT CARD SO I CAN LOCATE YOU.
I WILL SEND THE IDENTIFICATION PAPERS TO YOU.
Mitch looked at the camera and mouthed the words, “Who are you?”
I CANNOT READ LIPS.
The screen went blank, then the normal transaction screen returned. “He’s gone,” Mitch said, retrieving his card.
Christa inserted her card and found she was also fifty thousand dollars richer. She withdrew a thousand. “Now what?”
“Contact Mouse, but first, I need to buy a few things.”
“You’re not planning on using that credit card to signal where we’re staying I hope?”
“Not sure,” Mitch said thoughtfully.
“I’ve gotten through life without identity papers so far. I see no reason to start now.”
“It’s not the identity papers I’m interested in. It’s EB himself. He could be a big fish, and I want to reel him in.”
“A shark is a big fish,” Christa observed dryly.
Mitch smiled. “Then I’ll be careful not to put my hand in his mouth.”
* * * *
Christa watched the three rows of thirty different types of television sets in the electronics store, while a salesmen set up Mitch’s replacement cell phone account under the false name on his EB supplied credit card. The thirty televisions were all tuned to the same local channel, providing shoppers with an immediate sense of the picture quality of each set. The late afternoon program was replaced by a news flash. Helicopters were circling smoking wreckage on a charred landscape. Christa stepped forward and turned up the volume enough to hear the commentary.
“. . . from Baltimore to Los Angeles crashed in northern Arizona just fifteen minutes ago. The pilots reported smoke in the cockpit and widespread electrical failures just moments before the aircraft disappeared off radar screens. It's believed there were more than three hundred passengers on the 747, which had been delayed leaving Baltimore by twenty minutes due to engine problems. Initial reports indicate there were no survivors . . .”
Christa waved Mitch toward her. As he approached her, he glanced at the rows of television sets, all showing the same shocking pictures of furiously burning wreckage consumed in acrid black smoke.
“That’s our flight!” she whispered, trembling. “They shot it down! They thought we were on that plane, so they shot it down.”
Mitch watched the screens for a moment uncertainly. “It could have been an accident. They were having engine problems.”
Christa shook her head. “No, it was an electrical failure. They used the directed energy weapon to short out the plane’s electrical systems, just like they did to your cell phone. They murdered over three hundred innocent people, just to kill us!”
Mitch watched the screen until the report ended. “This means we can trust EB. We’ll use one of the credit cards when we book into the hotel.”
Mitch walked slowly back to the salesman to collect the cell phone and several small electronic devices he'd selected. He put his cash away and paid for it with his new credit card.
* * * *
“Please hold.” The computer’s prerecorded voice answered the call Mitch made with his new cell phone from his hotel room. He'd assembled a scrambler from the electronic components he'd purchased and keyed it to match the scrambler used by the computer in London. They had all memorized the scrambler key and the components Mouse had identified for just such an emergency.
Eventually Gunter answered. “We saw the plane crash on television. We thought you were dead,” the normally taciturn German said with a hint of emotion.
“They thought we were on board.”
“Why were you not?”
“It’s a long story,” Mitch said, not wanting to mention EB, even on the scrambled line. “Someone took out Rayborne. Find out who he spoke to in the twenty four hours after we met. He said he talked with one of the senators on the committee, but there must have been others as wel
l.”
“Okay.”
“There’s a bunch of ex-NSA spooks on the other side, all from something called Secondment 721. Find out what it is. And that sound you recorded is something called an AM-X particle accelerator. It’s experimental, so there can’t be too many of them. That’s about it, anything your end?”
“Ya. They know about Mouse and me. All our bank accounts inside the US are gone. Every form of identification stored digitally has also been erased. Clearly, they do not want us leaving the country.”
“What about the extras?” Mitch asked, meaning the accounts outside the US under false names.
“They have not found them yet, so we can still function. All three of our houses have been emptied, furniture, clothing, carpets, everything has been removed. I saw it on the hidden cameras we left behind, until they found them too. Removal vans arrived at each house at the same time and stripped them clean.”
“They’re profiling us,” Mitch said. “So they can predict our movements. They’ll have our fingerprints and DNA by now, everything down to the color of our socks and type of toothpaste we use.”
“Ya, we think so too.”
“Okay, keep your head down.” Mitch hung up, and started dialing another number when the door bell rang. He went to the door and made the hotel steward identify himself, before he opened the door to receive a parcel couriered to the hotel. Inside were two driver’s licenses, complete with photo ID’s. The photographs were digitally enhanced images of the pictures taken by EB using the bank security camera outside the automatic teller.
Impressive.
He pocketed both ID’s and called Prescott again. The same answering machine began its prerecorded message, then Prescott picked up the phone.
“Mat, I know I’m not supposed to call, but I had to warn you. You were probably spotted when we met outside the hotel this morning. We had unwelcome visitors right after you left.”
“I got your message,” Prescott said a little sleepily. “No sign of trouble so far.”
“Did I wake you?” Mitch asked.
“Nah, just catching a bit of shut eye. I got a God awful headache. Too many late nights and fast women I guess. Listen Mitch, I got something for you, a lead on Siren. And some documents you need to see. Where are you?”
“In Baltimore.”
“I’ll drive up. Where can we meet?”
Mitch hesitated. “I can’t trust the line, Mat, it could be bugged.”
“If they did see me, it’ll take them at least twenty four hours to figure out who I am, where I live and then get a wire tap set up.”
“I don’t know, Mat, these guys move fast. Real fast.”
“I’ll watch for tails. If I see anything suspicious, I’ll take them on a scenic tour of the nation’s capital.” Prescott chuckled confidently.
“Okay, but if you’re so much as ten minutes late, I’ll assume they’re onto you.”
“Deal. Make it five minutes late.”
“Meet us for dinner, eight o’clock sharp.” Mitch gave him the address of a nearby restaurant, one he could watch safely from a distance without revealing himself.
“Got it buddy. I’m on my way.” Prescott said, then hung up.
* * * *
Prescott arrived at the restaurant dead on eight o’clock, just as Mitch and Christa were preparing to order the first course.
Mitch indicated the menu. “You want something to eat?”
“No thanks.” Prescott rubbed his temple, exhaling slowly. “Been fighting off a damn migraine all afternoon.” He signaled the waiter. “Could I have a glass of water?” He took out a white capsule, revealing a slight tremor in his hands. “Damned hangover.” The waiter returned with a glass of water, which he used to wash down the headache pill with.
“So what have you got for us, Mat?” Mitch said, noticing Christa's eyes had taken on a faraway look.
Prescott opened his briefcase. “I know what the Siren Project is.”
Christa, seemingly lost in a private inner reflection, gently projected her mental touch toward Prescott. She sensed a rigid, unnatural, imprisoning structure enveloping a torn and damaged mind, then she recoiled as a wave of sadness broke her concentration.
Another one! She thought guiltily. Our fault.
Unseen beneath the table, Christa squeezed Mitch’s thigh firmly. Mitch glanced at her, surprised by the sudden physical contact. She indicated Prescott with her eyes, then slowly shook her head, once. Mitch gave her a confused look.
“Mat,” Christa said slowly. “How long have you had that headache?”
Prescott was looking through papers in his briefcase, apparently searching for something. “I don’t remember. Damnedest thing, I can’t shake it.”
Mitch noticed the tremor in Prescott’s left hand continued as he held the briefcase open. Prescott looked up to see Mitch watching his hand, then self consciously placed it out of sight under the table.
“When I had a broken leg,” Christa said, her eyes on Mitch. “The splints on my leg caused headaches. It was the rigid pressure that caused the pain.”
Mitch’s expression hardened as he realized what she meant.
Prescott looked puzzled. “Is that so?”
Mitch crossed his arms on the table and leaned towards Prescott, sliding his right hand under his coat as he did. “Mat, have you seen any of those ex-NSA goons since I saw you this morning?”
“No. I told you, I’ve had no trouble.” He stopped rummaging about in his briefcase and started to withdraw his hand.
Mitch slammed his left hand on Prescott’s arm, driving it back into his briefcase as he drew his gun out and aimed it under the table at his old friend. “Don’t do it, Mat.” He eased his gun sideways, so Prescott could see he was covered. “Now, let’s see your hand, nice and easy.”
Prescott’s jaw clenched. He winced as a sharp pain wracked his brain. “I can’t . . . do that . . . Mitch.”
“We’ve been friends a long time, Mat. Killing you isn’t something I want to do. Let’s see both hands on the table.”
Prescott shuddered, his private torment raging within. He brought his empty left hand to his head, as sharp pain pulsed within.
Christa composed herself to sense the fabric of Prescott’s mind. She found a complex weave of feelings and thoughts, partly restrained by rigid strictures and driven by streaks of blind pain. Yet other parts of his mind had escaped the conditioning process, and functioned normally. Those splinters of free will fought in vain against the conditioning. It was a struggle she'd seen before, and knew he couldn't win.
“He’s a partial,” she whispered.
“A what?”
“They’ve got him, but not completely. He’s fighting it.”
Prescott tried to draw his hand out of the briefcase, but Mitch had a firm grip on his forearm. Mitch caught a glimpse of a gun in the briefcase.
“Let it go, Mat. We’ll help you.”
Prescott shook his head, sweat beading across his tortured forehead. “I can’t . . . I . . . I . . .” He looked at Mitch, his face contorted with confusion. “I’m . . . sorry.” He jerked his arm away from Mitch’s grip, breaking free and pulling the gun out of the briefcase. For a moment he spun and aimed at Mitch, a clean shot, but he didn't fire. The tremor in his hand grew into uncontrollable shaking, the gun wobbling in mid air. He drew in a deep breath, then pulled the gun toward his own forehead.
“No!” Mitch yelled, slamming his own gun on the table and throwing himself at Prescott.
He caught Prescott’s gun hand, pushing it high as he fired. The bullet grazed Prescott’s skull, opening a gash that immediately became awash with blood. Prescott’s chair fell backwards as Mitch’s body hit him, then they both crashed onto the floor. Mitch landed on top as customers in the restaurant screamed and ducked for cover. He slammed Prescott’s hand against the floor, jarring the gun free. Prescott threw a wild punch, glancing off Mitch's chin harmlessly, then Mitch drove his fist into Prescott’s face, reboundin
g the other man's head into the floor. The impact left Prescott dazed, but conscious.
Christa scooped up Mitch’s gun from the table and slid it into her hand bag, as Mitch hauled Prescott groggily to his feet.
“What are you doing?” Christa demanded.
“Getting him out of here!” He said as he dragged Prescott toward the restaurant's rear exit, through the kitchen.
“He’s one of theirs now. We can’t take him with us,” she whispered as she hurried after him.
“You said he was a partial. I don’t know what that means, but I know he could have killed me, and he didn’t. He needs help.”
“It means he’s unstable and dangerous. There’s nothing we can do for him.”
Mitch dragged Prescott past several cooks in the small steaming kitchen, then yelled at a surprised chef who blocked the back door. “Out of the way!” He kicked the back door open and hauled Prescott outside.
Christa followed close behind, pulling her gun from her hand bag. “Mitch, let him go! He’s a danger to both of us!” She raised her gun, looking for a clean shot.
“I’m not leaving him!” Mitch said, glancing back, seeing the gun. “Put that away before you shoot me.”
Her aim was unwavering. “I’ve seen this before, Mitch. If he’s programmed to kill us, he won’t stop until he succeeds, or he’s dead.” She drew in a breath as she released the safety. “Now get out of the way.”
“No! Don’t shoot him.”
Christa took several steps to the side to get a clean shot at Prescott’s head.
Mitch dropped Prescott onto the narrow pathway at the back of the restaurant, and stepped in front of Christa, blocking the shot. “Put the gun away.”
“Whatever he was before, however good your friendship was, he’s gone. The Mathew Prescott you knew doesn’t exist anymore. Do you understand? He’s dead! That man there is an assassin, whether he wants to be or not. He won’t rest until both of us are dead.”
Mitch looked at her with a mixture of anger and uncertainty. “Give me my gun.”
She pulled his gun from her hand bag and passed it to him. Prescott got to his knees, seemingly ready to charge at Mitch, but the sight of the gun in Mitch’s hand made him hesitate.
The Siren Project Page 10
