“Uh. Well, I don’t know what to tell you about that.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll figure out something.”
We pulled up to a curb to drop Zander. He got out and squatted by my window, so I rolled it down and waited for him to speak. Must have been hard for him to address Kathy Sawyer and act like it was me, but he managed.
“Listen, Gemma. Things are crazy right now. I get that,” he said. “But when Dr. Bickel is safe and things calm down, you and are going to talk.”
I turned my face away, but Zander wasn’t done. “Just talk, Gemma. So I can understand.”
Sighing, I faced him again. “All right.”
When Zander stepped away, I pointed the car toward the parking garage. I slipped the Escape into my slot, then Gamble, Dr. Bickel, and I walked down three levels to Gamble’s vehicle. He climbed into the driver’s seat, which was fine with me. The mites made sure Gamble was the car’s only visible occupant.
As we pulled out of the garage, I asked, “Hey, Agent Gamble, may I use your phone for a few minutes while we’re on the way?”
“Sure.”
We headed back toward the FBI office. On the way, the nanomites and I used Gamble’s cell phone’s Internet service to hack into local news organizations’ servers and plant the information I wanted them to see. By the time we arrived at the field office, we’d completed our tasks.
Managing or manipulating data online was nearly effortless for us now. All we needed was a connection to the Internet.
Gamble parked two blocks from the facility.
“Ready?” I asked Dr. Bickel.
“More than you can imagine.”
I wondered how many times Dr. Bickel had pictured this day, how many times he had envisioned himself testifying against Cushing.
With the mites covering the three of us, we walked to the field office and through the employee entrance in the rear.
“I’d like to check the front lobby before we go up.”
“What for?”
“See who the early responders are.”
“Early responders for what?”
“For Dr. Bickel’s 5:30 press conference.”
Gamble actually got flustered. “His . . . You? You scheduled . . . you . . . how . . .”
That was before he barked at me. “I said I would schedule it, Gemma! Shouldn’t you have let me make the arrangements as to time and date with the knowledge and approval of the SAC and the office’s PR rep?”
“Oh, they’ve coordinated the event.”
“What? How?”
“Via emails.”
“What emails?”
“The ones I sent.”
Gamble ground his fingers into his eyes, but I kept us moving toward the front lobby. A frazzled woman was directing the FBI’s facility workers where to place a lectern, portable sound system, and rows of chairs—and through the glass panes that formed the front wall of the lobby, I spotted two vans pulling into the distant front lot.
Big, bold lettering and satellite dishes mounted on the vehicle roofs identified the vans as belonging to two Albuquerque television stations. Crew members piled out of the vehicles and began unloading cameras and light booms.
“Good. Things are moving right along.”
“No, not good! Oh, man. Wallace is gonna have my skin.”
“Nah, don’t fret, Gamble. Everything’s on the up-and-up. Special Agent in Charge Wallace himself gave the orders for this event.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“Well, according to the email your media liaison received, he did. And that same email is sitting in Mr. Wallace’s ‘Sent’ folder, so it looks legit to me.”
“You’re killin’ me, Keyes.”
We huddled off to the side, the business of setting up swirling around us.
After a long pause, Dr. Bickel murmured, “I’m not exactly my most photogenic at the moment, Gemma. When did you say this circus commences?”
I glanced at a wall clock. “About twenty minutes. Need to spruce up a bit?”
“If you don’t want video of a homeless old man going out on the ten o’clock news, then yes.”
“Gamble?”
He sighed. “I have a shaving kit upstairs—if Cushing’s goons didn’t trash it with the rest of my office.” He eyed Dr. Bickel’s hair, thin but straggling past his collar. “Maybe take a little off the sides and back?”
“Haven’t had a trim since the last one Gemma gave me, maybe late August.”
We went up to Gamble’s floor. Apparently, most of the staff had already left for the day; the offices we passed, bar one or two, were empty. I left Gamble and Dr. Bickel alone in Gamble’s office to make Dr. Bickel presentable.
It was okay for them to be out from under my “cover,” but it felt wrong. Dangerous, in fact. I would have to get used to it, though. Dr. Bickel was about to fly solo and, if I could trust this God I had just become reacquainted with and stop worrying, Dr. Bickel’s reemergence into the public eye would be a terrific load off my mind.
I wandered back downstairs, gratified to see a bustling crowd of about twenty reporters, photographers, and videographers setting up in the lobby. Arms folded, stance rigid, the young guard at the security desk kept his watchful eyes roving about the lobby.
I was just as watchful, and I had to remind myself that the nanomites were “only” tiny electromechanical devices. Not omniscient; not omnipotent. Not able to read minds or discern what Cushing might do next. The nanocloud was powerful and the mites had tremendous abilities—but they had their limits, too.
“Nano, stay in the FBI’s security system and keep tabs on the perimeter of this facility.”
Just in case.
We will, Gemma Keyes.
A news anchor posed off to the side for some stand-up background tape. When I hovered nearby, I heard him say to the camera, “Our station was astounded to hear that Dr. Daniel Bickel, world-renowned scientist and former employee of Sandia National Laboratories, has been found alive. We say the news is astounding because Bickel was reported to have died in the explosion and resulting fire that burned his laboratory on Kirtland Air Force Base last March.
“This is what we know: Just prior to 4 p.m. this afternoon, our newsroom received word that Dr. Bickel would be giving a statement today at the FBI Albuquerque field office. I am standing in the FBI’s lobby now, waiting for the press conference to begin.
“Aside from the obvious questions, such as, how did Dr. Bickel survive the explosion, and where has he been the past nine months, our reporting staff asks, why here. Why the offices of the FBI? Stand by as we deliver live coverage of this event, scheduled to begin in the next few minutes.”
By the time the anchor wrapped up his background tape, I was grinning. The coverage would be perfect. I had no idea how Dr. Bickel planned to address the press, but I wasn’t too concerned: The main goal had been achieved. The world had been told—and would soon see for themselves—that Dr. Bickel was alive.
I waited at the top of the lobby where the lectern sat and where I could watch the press and be close enough to support Dr. Bickel should he need me. I didn’t wait long. Wallace, Gamble, and Dr. Bickel emerged from the elevator.
Gamble had done wonders with Dr. Bickel’s appearance in the little time he’d had. My friend was fresh-shaven, wore a reasonable haircut, and sported a shirt, tie, and jacket over his baggy jeans. I wondered which agent or staff member Gamble had coerced into lending his clothes to Dr. Bickel.
The woman who had been supervising the lobby setup approached the lectern. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats.” When the group settled, she gestured Wallace forward and introduced him. “Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Albuquerque field office, Terry Wallace.”
Wallace, also spiffed up for his appearance before cameras, stood in front of the microphones. I thought he held his mouth in a tight, pinched line—like maybe he wasn’t entirely pleased or something. Okay, possibly a little irate? Well, I had sprung t
he news conference on him, but the man was a pro, and he was ready.
Like I’d counted on him being.
Cushing, on the other hand, I couldn’t trust not to make her move before tomorrow, which is why I had made sure the news would break today.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, thank you for coming. This afternoon, Dr. Daniel Bickel entered our facility and requested sanctuary. As you are probably aware, it was widely reported last March that Dr. Bickel, at that time a Sandia National Laboratories employee, perished when an explosion occurred in his laboratory in the,” Wallace looked at his notes, “in the Advanced Microelectromechanical Systems department.
“Dr. Bickel will speak for himself in a moment and provide an explanation as to how he survived the event that destroyed his laboratory, and he will detail where he has been the last nine months. Afterward, he will entertain a few questions. Dr. Bickel?”
My dear friend, looking a little worn for his ordeal despite Gamble’s efforts, took the lectern. “Thank you all for coming. My name is Daniel Jerome Bickel. I hold dual doctoral degrees in physics and material sciences. My area of expertise is nanotechnology; ergo, I have often been referred to as a nanophysicist.
“Last year I achieved a breakthrough of historic proportions in my research and development. I cannot, at this time, provide details nor answer questions on the exact nature and scope of that breakthrough. What I can tell you is that my contract with SNL stipulated that no part or portion of my work would ever be weaponized by the U.S. Military or employed for surveillance on the American people—even in a legal capacity.
“Unfortunately, certain parties within the government determined that they would appropriate my work for military and ‘national security’ purposes. Despite my protests and unequivocal rejection of this attempt, a military liaison appeared at Sandia and was given executive oversight of my program.”
I already knew the sordid details, but Dr. Bickel’s clear, concise recitation of the events sucked me right back into the department where I had worked—and took me back to the perilous moments when I had overheard Cushing and Dr. Prochanski determine to kill Dr. Bickel.
“When this breach of contract occurred, I took steps to ensure that my research would be removed from the reach of those who would misuse it. I had, however, logged enough data on the Sandia servers to ensure that my immediate . . . supervisor, Petrel Prochanski, would believe himself to be in possession of my entire body of work.”
Knowing the disdain with which Dr. Bickel had held Dr. Prochanski, it wasn’t lost on me that he had first hesitated and then refused to use the term “immediate superior” when speaking of Dr. P.—nor had Dr. Bickel conferred upon him the honorific of “doctor.”
I silently begged Dr. Bickel not to go off on a tangent. My sigh of relief was heartfelt when he cleared his throat and continued in the same reasonable tone with which he had begun—although he went straight to the knockout punch with this next sentence.
“I was well acquainted with the officer placed in charge of my work: Air Force Brigadier General Imogene Cushing. She and I had attended university together during our undergrad years and had, for a brief period, engaged in a romantic relationship.”
I knew about that, too, but figured spitting details of his personal life into the public eye had to sting Dr. Bickel’s ego—particularly when it was a mistake that had come back to haunt him.
“Even those many years ago, while earning my undergrad degree, I was theorizing my life’s work, and Imogene Cushing was privy to my earliest research. It was during this period that I became aware of and concerned with the nature of her character. I learned that Cushing possessed uninhibited ambition and a ruthless determination to fulfill her goals.
“Fast forward to March of this year. Since I showed myself unwilling to deliver my nanotechnology to Cushing and Prochanski and as they believed themselves to be in possession of my complete data, the two of them decided to remove me from the equation.”
Dr. Bickel looked up from his statement straight into the eyes of the cameras. “Yes, I am saying that Cushing and Prochanski formed a plan to kill me. That plan was an explosive device set to detonate when I and the two technicians most familiar with my work would be the only personnel within the laboratory. However, I discovered the explosive device and removed myself and my technicians from the laboratory.”
The hush within the lobby was palpable. No one whispered or shuffled.
“Therefore, when the explosion occurred, only one individual was present and perished: Petrel Prochanski.”
What Dr. Bickel left out was essential to his tale but possibly self-incriminating: When he had discovered the explosive device, he had changed the timer on the detonator, moving it up an hour. Dr. Prochanski, unaware of the time change, had lingered in the lab, thinking himself safe. Because Dr. Bickel had reset the timer on the bomb, he could, in point of fact, be accused of causing Dr. P’s death.
Dr. Bickel was prudent not to provide too many details.
He continued. “I will reveal where I went when I left the lab prior to the explosion, but I first wish to put forth one means of verifying this portion of my statement: General Cushing took charge of the investigation into the explosion. Her results have been well-documented. She asserted that two individuals perished in the explosion, myself and Prochanski.
“With the world’s most accurate forensic science support available to her, General Cushing announced and publicized my death—and yet here I stand. Subsequently, two funerals and burials were conducted—and yet here I stand. Exhumation of my ‘body’ from the plot where my remains were supposedly interred should yield either an empty casket or the remains of someone other than myself. More importantly, either result will prove, categorically, that General Cushing lied to cover up my escape.”
Now members of the press pool were moving, some surreptitiously sending text messages, others whispering instructions to lackeys who ran for the front doors. I envisioned the excited phone calls and rushed instructions to hold air and print time for Dr. Bickel’s story.
I was convinced of one fact: Tonight’s headlines would set hair on fire across the nation.
Despite the restless fever of his audience, Dr. Bickel continued, “I must make it clear that General Cushing could not have acted alone in this cover-up or on her own authority. She could not have pulled off such an egregious deception of the public’s trust without the political power of individuals high above her.”
A voice shouted a question. “Where have you been the past nine months, Dr. Bickel?”
He nodded. “Very well; I’ll advance my narrative to the day of the explosion. I left the lab an hour before the lab exploded, but I did not go far. I entered the old Manzano Weapons Storage Facility on Kirtland Air Force Base. I had previously located an abandoned devolution cavern within the mountain, one that had been sealed at the time it was abandoned and had not been entered since the 1960s.”
He went on to describe how he had prepared the cavern as a hiding place, a facility where he could conduct his work in safety and without interference.
The evening had darkened, and the barrier at the top of the parking lot was far from the front entrance, so I didn’t notice the military-like vehicles when they pulled up. My first clue that something was amiss was when the nanomites chimed a furious alarm.
Gemma Keyes! Gemma Keyes! Armed men are approaching!
The nanomites sent the security system’s video feed to me. I recognized the threat mere seconds before a half-dozen black-garbed troops, their M4s up, burst into the lobby.
~~**~~
Chapter 5
The assault was surreal, so unexpected and blatantly wrong, that, for several heartbeats, no one reacted. Dr. Bickel froze at the lectern; the small crowd did not move. Two seconds later, as though all of our reflexes kicked in at the same instant, chaos ensued.
Amid screams, overturned chairs, and scattering reporters, the soldiers drove a path through the press: Their
objective was Dr. Bickel. He stumbled toward Gamble. Gamble drew his sidearm. I ran to his side and pushed his arm down.
“Don’t. They will kill you. Get Dr. Bickel away and let me handle it.”
In response, Gamble shouted, “Wallace! Get Bickel out of here!”
Wallace had already acted. I pivoted and saw him dragging Dr. Bickel to the elevator.
“I’ll send help!” he shouted to Gamble as the elevator doors opened and he shoved Dr. Bickel inside.
No, I didn’t want that. I gestured toward the elevator and the door to the stairs.
“Seal the building, Nano,” I whispered. “In particular, don’t allow anyone already in the building to enter the lobby.”
Gemma Keyes, shall we cut the media’s live video feed?
“Yes. Do it!”
Gamble stood to my left, his sidearm drawn but pointed at an oblique angle toward the floor rather than at the soldiers. The young security guard joined him. He was trembling but, with weapon drawn, he stood with Gamble.
I raised my hands.
The lights in the lobby dimmed and sparked as the building’s power jetted into my body. The pulsing electricity shot down my arms. I thrust my hands toward the soldiers and a wall of arcing current burst from my fingers.
As though they had rushed into powerful, oncoming breakers, the soldiers flew backwards, tossed and tumbled across the room. I advanced on them, bolts from my fingers flinging their weapons from their reach.
Two attackers had missed the full impact of the blast; they dropped into a crouch and leveled their guns, looking for a target. Looking for me. Finding Gamble instead.
I rotated my wrist; a fireball of electricity spun within the breadth of my palm. I hurled the ball of fire; a thick column of nanomites shot from my hand and propelled the pulsing sphere forward. The soldiers flew apart, one crashing into a wall, the other into a camera and tripod. Neither got up.
Two or three members of the media had fled the lobby before the nanomites sealed the building; the rest were prone, hands over their heads. One adventurous reporter had taken refuge behind the guard’s station and was directing his shaking cameraman. I would deal with them later; my more urgent attention was focused on the soldiers—and their reinforcements.
Stealth Retribution Page 5
