Where Death Meets the Devil

by L. J. Hayward

  As Lewis droned on, Jack’s gaze wandered in the direction of the main floor beyond the glass wall of his current prison.

  They were on the eighth floor of the Neville Crawley Building in Darling Harbour. On public record, the building housed a federal financial services department, and while the first three floors were stocked with fiscal analysts, accountants, and economists, the upper nine floors were full of data analysts, spies, and handlers. The latter groups made up the Sydney branch of the Office of Counterterrorism and Intelligence—known simply as the Office—created and run by the Meta-State.

  On the main floor, his fellow Internal Threat Assessment assets were busy with their jobs, bustling between cubicles, staring intently at screens of information, flicking through reports from field operatives or technicians. They were productive. Useful. Making a difference. And here Jack was, listening to someone else’s report on a job he was barely a part of.

  He might as well still be tied to that chair in the torture shack.

  Wish you were here?

  Shaking off the clinging tendrils of that old memory, Jack focused long enough to hear Lewis ask his second, Lydia Cowper, for clarification on a certain point. Letting the woman’s soothing voice roll over him, Jack hauled himself out of the mire inside his own head and back into the present.

  “. . . photographic evidence,” Lydia was saying, flicking a series of shots from the screen in front of her to the big one hanging on the wall at the end of the table. The images showed two men in a car, leaning towards each other. One was clearly the deputy secretary. The other one was the mystery. “These are the best photos we’ve managed to obtain of Alpha Subject so far. Our operative delivered the raw footage and recordings to Technical for analysis this morning. Hopefully we’ll get a positive biometric match to a known subject in the next couple of hours.”

  Which wouldn’t stand up as irrefutable evidence in any court of law, but it would at least confirm the deputy secretary of a government department was dealing with shady unknowns so Lewis’s investigation could move to the second stage. It was good progress, but not enough.

  “Good.” ITA Director Donna McIntosh tapped her tablet. “Keep me apprised of any developments. We can’t afford to drop the ball on this one. It’s already taken far too long to get even this paltry amount of information.” Her tone was the not-angry-just-very-disappointed one she used so effectively.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lewis began gathering up his folders and tablets, then paused. After a moment, he nodded to himself with a determined expression. “Ma’am, things would be easier if we could just get more cooperation from Intelligence. I’m getting a lot of excuses whenever I request something. A lot of bounce-back of things marked urgent. Someone needs to put a bloody bomb under them or—”

  All it took was one of McIntosh’s looks to stop him in his tracks.

  Lewis had worked for ASIO, the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation, before sidestepping into the Office. He’d faced down Defence Force generals and two different prime ministers and walked away with his career intact. Still, Jack had been subjected to McIntosh’s glacial stares enough to sympathise with Lewis’s involuntary flinch.

  “If you’re making an official complaint, Lewis, I will expect the correct paperwork on my desk before close of business today.” McIntosh didn’t let up on the cool look.

  For a moment it appeared as if Lewis might argue. Interdepartmental politics were murky enough most asset-level staff steered well clear of them. An official complaint and investigation could take years, and in that time, resentment would soar, cooperation would plummet—even further—and everyone would suffer. Thankfully, Lewis backed down with a shake of his head.

  As they all stood, ready to leave, McIntosh said, “I’ll talk to Director Harraway, Lewis. See if we can speed up the flow of information from Intelligence.”

  Tension falling from his shoulders like a heavy cloak, Lewis smiled gratefully at her. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She returned the smile, then motioned him and Lydia towards the door. Jack, too, beelined for the exit.

  “Jack,” McIntosh said. “Stay back.”

  Groaning inwardly, Jack turned to face the director. “Ma’am?”

  McIntosh was beautiful—long blonde hair he wasn’t certain was natural, blue eyes that could go from warm summer sky to stark glacial ice in a blink, and a trim figure with what he would have called killer curves on anyone other than his superior. No one in their office knew her age; Jack guessed she was old enough to be his mother, but the pregnancy would have been a mildly scandalous one.

  Overall, Jack had always got on well with his director. She was tough but fair and, on the rare occasion she took an interest in one of her assets’ personal lives, sympathetic and accommodating. Things had been a little strained between them since Jack’s return, but that was at least half Jack’s fault. Still, as she gestured for him to resume his seat, the distant, chilly cast to her eyes reminded him of the few meetings they’d had before he was inserted into Valadian’s group. Those objective discussions with McIntosh and his handler, along with the entire preparation for the job, had felt rushed. No sooner had Valadian appeared on their radar than Jack was being hastily debriefed and sent on his way. And no one, most especially not McIntosh, had bothered to tell Jack why they were moving so dangerously fast on this one.

  No wonder the whole operation had gone tits up. Maybe if McIntosh had been upfront from the start, Jack wouldn’t be in limbo right now.

  Sitting, Jack braced himself for whatever was coming.

  “I read your latest psych eval this morning.” Leaning back in her chair, hands clasped over her stomach, she regarded him steadily. “You’re a good asset, Jack. One of the best. It’s been tough having you grounded these past months. I’m sure Lewis wouldn’t be in quite the mess he’s in right now if you’d been cleared for field work in his investigation.”

  Shit. This didn’t have the sound of good news.

  “Ma’am, I’m good to go. No flashbacks for nearly eight months. No nightmares, either. I know I passed my psych eval.”

  “You did. Dr. Granger notes marked improvement in both conscious and subconscious reactions. Your threat response has come down to an acceptable level. Your cognitive modelling is back up to par. Once you requalify at the range, you’ll be fine to be reinstated as a full field operative.”

  “Great.” Jack felt lighter than he had in a long, long time. “Glad we had this talk.”

  McIntosh pinned him with her gaze. “I’m keeping you grounded, Jack.”

  His first thought was, So this is the flavour of torture this year. Eleven months he’d spent convincing them he was fine, that he was back and whole and ready. Eleven months breaking free of the torture shack and the desert and . . .

  Jack threw himself out of his chair and took a couple of steps away from the table. Away from those thoughts, away from everything that had happened back then. He put his hands behind his head, fingers laced together, to keep them from doing something stupid.

  The director waited him out, undoubtedly judging his reaction. Passing a psych evaluation was piss easy compared to actually going back into the field. No matter how layered the questions or how deeply the psychologist dissected the answers, a test could never, ever, replace real life.

  Several deep breaths later, Jack asked, “Why, ma’am?”

  Not resorting to a simple answer like Because you nearly flipped out just now, McIntosh said, “Frankly, Jack, it’s because I’m worried about you. Dr. Granger is willing to put you back in the field, and if it were just a matter of your mental stability, then I’d be happy to throw you out amongst the lions once more. But it’s more than that.”

  Maybe she had learned a lesson from the hasty prep for the Valadian op, but her apparent caution wasn’t something Jack could appreciate right now.

  “What more is there?” Trying for restraint and missing it as it flew right past him, Jack flung out a hand to indicate the re
st of the office beyond the glass walls of the conference room. “I’m going crazy out there. Cooped up in these walls, advising on operations I should have been working on, or leading. You promised me Field Leader after the Valadian operation.”

  McIntosh stood and looked at Jack until he stopped pacing. “Everything you’ve said is true, but the fact remains, you were fifteen months in deep undercover with Valadian. By your own report, you began to sympathise with the subject of your operation.”

  “I didn’t turn, ma’am. Yeah, he was a charming bastard and I guess I liked him, sort of. But he was a criminal. Terrorist wannabe. You know I would never have gone over.”

  With an almost sympathetic expression, McIntosh said, “I want to believe that, but honestly, Jack, I just don’t feel as if you’re here with the rest of us. You’re a good operative; I don’t want to lose you. But until I’m one hundred and ten percent convinced you’re still loyal to the Meta-State, I’m keeping you grounded.”

  “Jesus. How am I supposed to convince you if you don’t let me do anything?”

  “I’m still working on that.” McIntosh slipped her screen into a pocket. “I didn’t expect you to pass your psych evals this quickly. Don’t get me wrong, it’s good progress, but you still have a ways to travel before I’m convinced. Why don’t you take some time off? Wind down.”

  “Is that an order, ma’am?”

  “No. Just a suggestion.” Her eyes warmed a touch. “At least go home early today. Do you have plans tonight?”

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Jack shook his head.

  “You should. It’s your birthday.”

  As if he had forgotten. “Yes, ma’am. One drunken revelry coming right up.”

  “Stop by the tearoom on your way out. We got you a cake. Happy birthday, Jack.”

  McIntosh left, taking the shortest route through the maze of desks on the main floor. In her wake, Lewis turned to look back at the conference room, clearly wondering what had happened after he’d left.

  Jack and Lewis had joined the Office at the same time, trained together, and worked several investigations together in the early years. Their paths had diverged when Lewis proved better at the administration side of operations and Jack had excelled in the field. Lewis directed a sympathetic grimace in Jack’s direction and then, with a theatrical heave of his shoulders, tucked himself into his desk and kept working.

  “Screw it,” Jack muttered and pushed through the doors.

  The hum of the office surrounded him, either the comforting sound of good work being done or pointless thumb-twiddling. Jack hadn’t worked out which since he’d come back. It was one thing to tell Dr. Granger what she wanted to hear, another thing entirely to believe it. Sometimes, Jack found himself wondering if Ethan’s views on bureaucracy had more merit than not, and that wasn’t something he could exactly chat to Granger or McIntosh about.

  Jack retreated to his desk and picked up his jacket. Then he hesitated.

  Despite McIntosh’s permission, and his general grumpiness with his role as advisor, Jack experienced a twinge of guilt for leaving Lewis’s operation when it needed all hands to keep it from derailing completely. Working with too little information and too many variables, the operation had been languishing for some time. Jack should stay. He wanted to stay and do his job, even if he couldn’t be in the field. In here or out there, red tape or no, Jack believed what the Office did was important. Vital. He should stay . . .

  However, the very thought of being here right now, barely contributing, weighed on his shoulders. Wallowing wouldn’t be good, but neither would sticking around and potentially getting pissed off enough to do something stupid.

  Decided, Jack slung on his jacket and swung around the end of his little cubicle. Opposite him was Lewis’s desk. The unit leader slumped in his chair, tapping idly at his touchpad, flicking through images, a worried frown creasing his forehead.

  Jack almost changed his mind. Before he could decide, though, Lewis looked up and smiled tiredly.

  “Going home?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Birthday treat from McIntosh. If you need me, though . . .”

  Lewis shoved dark-blond hair out of his face. “Nah, we should be sweet. Not expecting much action tonight. Not if the data from Intel keeps trickling in like it has been.” There was a bitter twist to his words his outburst in the conference room had only hinted at. “Fingers crossed McIntosh can get Harraway to make things happen. Sorry I can’t get away. Maybe we can have a belated birthday drink at the watering hole tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Jack tapped his right temple. “If you decide you need me, I’m switched on.”

  As far as he knew, Jack was the only local Office asset with a neural implant. They didn’t advertise the matter. Only those he’d worked closely with knew about it, or that he’d been SAS. It was an old tradition of the service—the only people claiming they were SAS, weren’t.

  “Thanks, man,” Lewis said with feeling. “At least there’s cake to keep me company tonight.”

  Forcing a chuckle, Jack left. Before he even reached the stairwell, his implant pinged.

  Half convinced it was Lewis, Jack said, “Need your hand held already, Thom-ass?” He could have only thought the reply, but that required a bit too much concentration at the moment.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Reardon.” McIntosh’s icy tone cut through his head.

  The chill combined with his surname meant he’d managed to somehow royally piss her off. And he didn’t think it was just his unconventional answer to the call.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said contritely. “I was just on my way out. As you suggested.”

  “Not any longer, I’m afraid. Something’s come up. You have a visitor. In the public foyer.”

  Jack’s stomach dropped. Officially, he was employed as a Specialist Security Advisor to the International Security Office, which provided protection details for Australian dignitaries overseas. ISO HQ was in Canberra, and while being a fully functional organisation on its own, it was also the cover for a lot of Office assets. No one knew to look for him here.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “He gave his name as Paul St. Clair.”

  Jack went cold. Twelve months since he’d first heard the name. Eleven since he’d come back, hoping to never hear it again. Six since he’d stopped waiting for it and resigned himself to never hearing it again.

  After swallowing a hard lump of panic, Jack whispered, “Happy fucking birthday, me.” Then, all the tedium of the past months suddenly shattered, he said, “Code black. Lock down the building and get a security team to the foyer, now.”

  The instant Mr. Valadian’s thumb shifted over the button, Jack closed his eyes and slid sideways. It had to be the fastest transition to a trance state ever. Definitely a personal best.

  Before Jack’s inner eyes, the overlay for the neural implant grafted to his right temporal lobe appeared. His mission parameters and reports were filed in neat rows. Under them were his health stats, delivered via a subdermal device that monitored his blood components. There was an acute inflammatory response, the biochemical markers indicative of a broken bone, likely his right wrist, and the growing white cell count of a possible infection.

  While equivalent to a smart phone, all the implant had done for the past fifteen months was ping home base on a randomised schedule. No one had picked up the signal—or so he’d believed.

  In the lower corner of the overlay was a red dot. A kill switch for the implant, because they couldn’t risk valuable intel falling into the wrong hands.

  All this Jack surmised in the split second before Mr. Valadian’s thumb depressed the button on the jammer. There was an instant of lightning between the jammer turning on and Jack flicking the kill switch, but that was all. No crippling static burning through his head, nothing to cause his limbs to spasm or make him scream. Nothing to rip away his cover of lies.

  Jack opened his eyes. Mr. Valadian was pushing the button on the jammer over a
nd over. He kept glancing between it and Jack, clearly looking for, and not finding, a response.

  “What was supposed to happen again?” Jack asked.

  Mr. Valadian glared at him, then he half turned and tossed the jammer to the other man. “This thing doesn’t work. Or the information was wrong.”

  Pretty Boy caught the small box and tucked it away again. “The information isn’t wrong.” His voice was surprisingly low and husky, and British.

  Mr. Valadian sneered at Pretty Boy. “You said he’s military.”

  Was military. Their info was six years out of date, which meant they weren’t looking at ISO or the Office for his handlers.

  “I said it was highly probable, not definite,” Pretty Boy said. “We had to test it.”

  Scowling, Mr. Valadian fished his phone from a pocket and tapped at it, cursing under his breath when he apparently couldn’t get a signal. The jammer was working, just not on Jack.

  Jack continued to look contrite and confused. No matter what The Man thought about his supposed loyalty, Mr. Valadian couldn’t let him go now. Still, Jaidev Reed would keep insisting on his innocence.

  “Come on, boss, you know I’m good. Didn’t I deal with Rindone exactly how you asked?” Executions didn’t sit well with Jack, but ridding the world of psychopaths like Link Rindone had its own brand of justification. Still, the sight of Rindone sprawled on the carpet of Mr. Valadian’s Hong Kong office, back of his head blown outwards by a bullet from Jack’s gun, took up a drawer in his mental filing cabinet. “Let me go and I’ll do anything you say, no questions.” Feeling the timing was right, Jack added in a level of desperation. “Anything you want, sir, I’m your man.”

  Swinging back to face him, Mr. Valadian managed to calm his expression into a bland nothingness that could see him vanish in a crowd. “What I want, Mr. Reed, is to know what you’ve passed on to your real employer.”

  “How many times can I say it? Nothing! I swear!”