Operation Blackout
Page 38
Of course, he could not divulge the genuine story to his lawyer—aside from appearing fantastical, it would also admit his guilt, and he did not intend to be convicted—so he lied. He fabricated a sequence of events in which Amanda had propositioned him for sex, citing that she had helped fund his gallery’s new wing, and he’d refused her. Although he knew that it thinly stretched his credibility—the mayor was a popular, attractive woman, and he was only a “newcomer,” as Nelson had established—it was still within the realm of possibility. While she had not been publicly seen with a male suitor since her husband’s death, she had occasionally attended closed meetings, and his had been the first during which she hadn’t been accompanied by a bodyguard. His narrative generated enough doubt to be plausible. He asserted that the current fracas, from the assault in his apartment to the charges that had been pressed, was reprisal for his rejection of her.
Nelson nodded as he listened, taking notes in chicken scratch, and he furrowed his brow as he leaned back. “That’s a hard angle to play, son, and she’s likely to turn that around and say you propositioned her,” he cautioned him. He twirled his reading glasses in his left hand, wiggling a loose temple tip. “The jury is more likely to believe that no matter the truth.” He breathed deeply while shaking his head regretfully. “You got the short end of the stick here.”
Moise snorted, wondering why he’d bothered to employ Wolfram and Murdock; they clearly weren’t the rivals that Kevin Chadwick had proclaimed them to be if this man was the best they could provide him. “The woman must have drugged me,” he declared. “How else do you explain a woman knocking out a man twice her size?” Thinking back to the moment, he could not remember anything except fear—no details, no inkling how it had gone wrong. “She assaulted me!”
His lawyer cradled his chin in his hand, tapped his cheek a few times, and leaned forward abruptly, jamming his glasses back onto his chubby face so he could take more notes. “When they took you to the hospital, did they draw any blood?” he asked, scribbling furiously; it appeared he was recording references to scrutinize later in greater detail. “Right, no hospital,” he remembered. “We can still have them draw blood now since it’s been less than twenty-four hours. See if we get a result that’ll support your side of the story.”
Moise had difficulty remembering the evening, believing for a moment that he might have gone to the hospital after all. Aside from the fear and unexpected unconsciousness, he had few solid memories; everything was a blur. He had been treated by the paramedics and dosed with some sort of pain reliever. He’d also been escorted to the back of a police cruiser instead of the hospital because the wounds hadn’t been deemed too serious, despite the fact that he believed that he had a concussion, and he realized that he’d mistaken the sudden brightness of his overhead kitchen lights for those of the emergency room.
Nelson cleared his throat as he put down his pen and folded his hands in front of him. “Now, son, I’ll try my best because I believe you’re innocent, but the situation here is more complicated than just criminal proceedings,” he declared gravely, scowling over his glasses. “As I said, she’s got politics on her side, so she’s desperate to make her narrative work because it gives her more public sympathy,” he said, alluding not only to her original mayoral campaign but also to her rumored upcoming bid for the presidency.
“Now, if you lose on these charges…” He indicated the original list that the detective had surrendered before he’d left them alone, and though it was not a long list, all four charges were felonies. “… you’ll be deported back to the Democratic Republic of the Congo.” Nelson explained that even though Moise had never been a citizen of DRC—it had only come into existence after he’d lived in America for several years—he could still be deported there because it was Zaire’s successor. Once convicted of a felony, Moise could never return to the United States, and it was likely he’d be barred from entering other countries once they checked his criminal background.
However, due to Moise’s reason for departing Zaire, Nelson suggested that he take a plea bargain for lesser charges from the New York District Attorney. While he would still be convicted of a crime and, therefore, subject to deportation, they wouldn’t waste effort on a trial, and Nelson could instead focus on the subsequent immigration court held by the Department of Justice. In his appeal, he would explain the complicated political situation leading up to Moise’s conviction, and citing fear of deportation and the unpopularity of Moise’s family with Mobutu, he could make a case for wrongful conviction and request asylum. Nelson admitted that it was a gamble, but he believed it was his client’s best bet for a favorable outcome under the dismal circumstances.
Alternatively, Moise could go to trial and try his luck with a possibly hostile jury. He could conceivably win, and if he did not, he could petition to be deported to the United Kingdom or the European Union, citing a failure to secure asylum in the United States. Despite the present refugee crisis, both entities had previously been amenable to accepting Congolese refugees rather than allowing them to return to their motherland. Regardless, Nelson cautioned against this plan, as a felony conviction almost guaranteed a decline of his application.
Moise was miserable; he had to choose between a bad option and a worse one, and while it was possible that he could build a life in his former country—after all, he had no living links to his family—he desired the familiarity of America, where he had been raised and had experienced the most memories. He weighed his options, taking into consideration what Amanda might be able to prove and what his word was worth, and he decided on the least risky choice: the plea bargain, which represented his best chance of staying in the United States.
- - -
The evening’s excursions had not proven fruitful, and Johnson’s thoughts kept him awake as the clock began its final countdown on the night. After departing Little Italy, they’d headed to the gallery for a follow-up investigation, and while he didn’t believe that they’d discover anything new, he’d needed to occupy his charge for a few hours or she might have blown a fuse. Antithesis was a delicate instrument, fine-tuned for a single function, and she was permitted to leave Plum Island for only that purpose, so she consequently became distressed and even choleric when she did not perform it. The visit to Félicité had not helped to improve her mood: Johnson had insisted that they examine every display for clues, particularly those by Moise Kabamba, and she’d become increasingly exasperated by the combined lack of progress and her own incomprehension of art; the latter seemed to have agitated a memory of the deficiencies of her sheltered childhood. Nevertheless, he’d shepherded her onward until she had become exhausted and her patience had worn thin.
While they could have surveilled Moise’s residence, Johnson had believed it to be more prudent to feed his charge, and he’d reluctantly released Antithesis to her hotel room when he hadn’t been contacted by Connor at the end of dinner.
Accountability was a deceitful process. Two of their instruments—Angel and Antithesis—had been raised and kept in controlled environments, so the original procedures had been simple, as neither subject had known more about the modern world than the BSI had necessitated. As technology had evolved, so had the BSI’s ability to track their assets; last year, the two had been allowed to possess simple flip phones during their missions. Each had been equipped with GPS capability—something neither of them had recognized—but the phones had also been misdirection from the true tracking devices, which had been sewn into their pants and had been charged between missions. However, the agency was currently in the process of developing new procedures, as Echo—who was due to enter the field within the next year—was far more technologically savvy and did not need to rely financially on the bureau, so she would be a verifiable flight risk if she ever became disenchanted with their mission. Orion Starr had served as their testbed for a new protocol, and Johnson despised it because it functioned pri
marily on trust; trust might have worked with Connor, who’d had the motivation to cooperate, but Connor had also been unaware of his true nature, and Johnson doubted the two additions would become as amenable to the agency’s draconian culling processes. It would be better to keep them under constant surveillance—like all identified and controlled Others—than to pull back and entrust them to return on a daily basis. At least they still had leverage over Starr if he fled because he could not abscond easily with his sister.
The current accountability process was simple: A handler would inspect the phone for its charge level and to ensure that all the important numbers were still in the phonebook; aside from assigning misdirected importance to the device, it also provided a distraction while the handler used his or her smartphone to check the functionality of the GPS tag in the subject’s clothes. This happened in the field nightly, regardless of how many handlers were available, but it was imperative tonight, as Johnson had made a critical oversight: In his enthusiasm to collar another Other, he hadn’t accounted for an overnight trip, and therefore, no support team was available to watch Antithesis while he slept. Normal government guidelines dictated separate quarters for different genders, and especially for Others, and he didn’t feel particularly comfortable about them bedding down in the same room.
However, this was not the reason Johnson was still awake. Johnson was still awake because Connor had not called the whole night, and while it did not appear this would change, he still held out hope that he might and that they would subsequently execute a late-night apprehension. If Connor was circling Moise Kabamba, then he was an Other, even if there was currently no proof, and Johnson was anxious to detain him. While all agents foundationally believed in the mission—protect the civilian population against supernatural threats at all costs—Johnson’s enthusiasm had grown into zeal when he’d delved deeper into the archives and uncovered pre-Dane incidents that had been suppressed or rewritten in the public record to eliminate widespread panic.
In particular, the true account of the Tunguska Event disturbed him: Cheko, then an insular hundred-year-old village, and the surrounding taiga had been mysteriously leveled and the town’s existence erased from public record to keep the peace when the destruction had been traced back to a strange, bluish column of light that had momentarily outshone the sun. Decades later, scientific testing of the area had detected incredible levels of background radiation, and researchers had determined that Cheko had been destroyed by a nuclear explosion, though not by a bomb that predated the first official use in WWII; the culprit had been an unidentified Other, and worse yet, the BSI had categorized a Vanguard called Fission as his or her spiritual descendant. While the BSI might believe that a percentage of Others could live safely among the population, Johnson’s passion was to terminate the most threatening of them before eliminating the ones who were deemed harmless and then the very last ones—their assets, even Angel and Antithesis.
Given the notoriety of Connor’s track record, which included his instrument-partner, he doubted Moise Kabamba fell into the harmless category.
With his unexpended energy building uselessly and serving only to keep him awake, he decided to suffer through some late-night television in an effort to stupefy himself to sleep with infomercials. Instead, he was greeted by the midnight review of the top headlines, the foremost of which was the arrest of celebrated artist Moise Kabamba for the sensational attempted murder of the city’s beloved mayor. It was perfect news: Since Moise was only a permanent resident and, consequently, still subject to immigration laws, federal jurisdiction for the case could be established under the DHS, and Johnson could, therefore, escort him to headquarters, where they could better scrutinize him with impunity. Once secured on Plum Island, abilities could be manufactured and delivered to Connor to avoid arousing his suspicion, and Johnson could revise the final report when Moise’s true skill was determined. Eagerly, he grabbed his coat and set off to collect Antithesis from her room.
- - -
The cell in which Moise waited was cleaner and afforded more privacy than he would have expected, and he wondered whether he’d been purposely placed into isolation or if the precinct in which he’d been detained experienced a lower arrest level than the rest of the city. His lawyer, Nelson Wright, was negotiating with the judge over his bail amount. The amount would already be significant with four felony counts, but the additional factors of his supposed victim and the fact that he was facing possible deportation apparently caused the judge to consider him a flight risk and deny him bail. Nelson was trying to demonstrate his client’s close ties to the community and his lack of a criminal past in order to convince the judge to reconsider and set his bail at a reasonable rate.
It was possible for Moise to leave the country as soon as bail was posted and flee to a non-extradition country, but he was not desperate enough to ruin his chances of continued American residency. He had faith in the legal system, which had helped him stay in the country so far—after all, his application for a green card hadn’t drudged up his lack of legal status, nor had the original student visa he’d filed; his asylum had been granted with the incomplete data that he and his family had provided. With that kind of luck, he should be able to stay in the country indefinitely, especially when Nelson used his fear of deportation as part of his defense: No man fearing a return to a war-torn country would risk committing a crime that would certainly send him back there.
Moise used his previous run of good luck to bolster his belief in the American legal system. He couldn’t return to the DRC, even if it was no longer Zaire. His legal guardians had kept apprised of their former country’s situation, and he knew that the corruption and instability still remained, even if the country had taken steps to recover. While he had retained the ability to speak French, he doubted he remained competent enough to communicate effectively with his fellow countrymen, let alone make connections with a land to which he no longer had any emotional ties. He was an American by assimilation, if not by birth.
His concerns addressed the practicality of returning to the DRC, but they failed to capture the true root of his reluctance. The country was a den of superstition that had nearly killed him. If crops failed, if financial ruin visited, or even if general bad luck struck, children became labeled as enfants sorciers and were violently exorcised, killed, or cast out of the village to fend for themselves. The surviving children collected in the larger cities, where they were exploited—sometimes sexually—and nearly all of them died in the streets from malnutrition, disease, or violence at a young age.
When the old Okoumé tree in the central square had suddenly petrified overnight, it had been a clear sign of witchcraft and a herald of disaster to come. Moise’s friend Eshele had been the first person to be accused, and Moise’s father had quietly spirited his son away from the square before the forming mob had been able to place their focus on him as well. His father and mother had argued that night over what was best for Moise and the family and whether to shun him or risk an exorcism, and his father had stood his ground: Moise would leave the country because his father had feared what would happen to him when the exorcism didn’t work. In the early light of the next morning, his father had revealed that he had also shared the burden of being a “witch,” and he’d instructed Moise to conceal his gift from Mobutu and his government, who would have used him for their own gain; his father had learned this the hard way and had escaped servitude in Mobutu’s army, though his freedom had come at great personal cost.
It was the fear that Moise remembered—the intense pain of separation from his parents coupled with uncertainty about his future. Even if Mobutu was no longer in power and no one alive knew that Moise was a witch, he wouldn’t be able to walk down the streets without onerous anxiety that someone would discover his secret.
He had faith in the American legal system because the alternative was to face the depressive possibility of returnin
g to that corrupted, fearful land.
- - -
The Hudson River itself was a New York landmark. It was home to Bannerman’s Castle and the Sing Sing Correctional Facility and provided a backdrop for Poughkeepsie and Hyde Park. It had cultivated its own fame over the years, from its importance as a major transportation canal to the daring landing of a jet on its surface. As long as one didn’t examine the water’s hue or depth too closely, the river also provided many scenic views, from Riverside Park to Paulus Hook and the Empty Sky Memorial, and some might even claim that Liberty Island owed its beauty to the river.
But this spot was not one of them.
The two of them stood at the end of a random pier in Greenwich Village. The sun was setting over the estuary, briefly painting the sky red and orange to create the only pleasant portion of their evening. People, including families, dog walkers, and couples on romantic walks, passed them on the boardwalk, but no one paid them any special mind. They might as well be alone, isolated in their moment.
Orion gave Cassie the honor, as she had fewer memories and a lesser connection with their parents. She held the box aloft and dumped it over the railing, barely catching the empty cardboard before it, too, fell into the water. The wind caught the ashes and whipped the lighter particles into the air, but the majority fell into the river and sank or mixed with the steel-gray water. She tossed the box to the side, where it fell on the cement with a thud, and though he should have scolded her about littering, he refrained because her carelessness with their parents’ funeral container created the appropriate ambience for the two of them.