Pray for the Innocent

by Alan Orloff

  The driver didn’t speak as he pulled away. King got only a profile view, but the guy had the squarest jaw King had seen outside of an animated Disney film. He wore a uniform as generic as his expression.

  King turned to Gosberg. “Okay, so where are we going?”

  “Task force meeting. You’re part of the team now.”

  Part of the team? He wasn’t much of a team player. “What if I don’t want to be on your team? Hell, I don’t even want to play in the game.”

  “Yet here you are. You won’t be sorry. Welcome aboard.” Gosberg held out his hand, and King was reminded of when he bought his first car, from a no-name used car lot, and the salesman had said those exact words as he’d extended his hand. You won’t be sorry. This time, however, the stakes were infinitely higher. King ignored Gosberg’s outstretched hand.

  “Before I agree to anything, I have a few questions for you.”

  Gosberg withdrew his hand and faced King, wary. “Okay.”

  “Who are you with? CIA? FBI? DoD?”

  “I’m a research contractor, but I’m working closely with all of them. What difference does it make? As I said before, I’m one of the good guys.”

  “Aren’t members of the same team supposed to be straight with one another? Otherwise . . . I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you out. And based on this personal escort, I have a feeling you really, really want my help.”

  Gosberg tried to maintain a poker face, but King detected a few cracks around the edges. “Are you implying that I’m stringing you along?”

  “Actually, I’m implying that you’re fucking withholding information from me. And in my book, not telling me stuff is tantamount to lying.”

  Gosberg turned and gazed out the window. While King waited for a response, he sized up the man. He was dressed much as before, in typical government researcher garb, although now his sport coat was a bit wrinkled from sitting in the car. No chic brand names, everything off the rack. In that respect, Gosberg could very well have been a writer or college professor.

  A full minute passed before Gosberg faced King again, and he seemed to have aged five years. “People’s lives are at stake, and as hard as this may be to fathom, our national security is in jeopardy, too. So this is what I can promise. I’ll tell you everything I can, within reason. Normally you’d need top secret clearance. But extenuating circumstances are in play here. Of course, I’ll deny everything if you start leaking sensitive information.”

  “Of course.”

  “So what would you like to start with?”

  King concentrated on Gosberg’s face as he spoke, ready to gauge his reactions. “Here’s what I can’t figure out. Yesterday, James Connelly was murdered, quite gruesomely, by the fugitive who thinks he’s Dragunov. Yet there was no mention of his death in the paper today.”

  “We had to keep it quiet. If news of Dragunov’s exploits were made public, we’re liable to have widespread panic.”

  “What else has he done?”

  “In addition to killing Connelly and Feinbaum, he—”

  “So he murdered Fred Feinbaum?”

  “We believe so, yes. And he blew up a bus. Killed innocent tourists.”

  “I didn’t hear anything about a bus explosion.”

  “We squelched that news, too—blamed it on an engine malfunction.”

  “How can you be sure it was him?”

  “According to the preliminary investigation, the explosive device used in the recent incident is very, very similar to an explosive device a 1980s-era Russian operative would have used.”

  King drew in a sharp breath. “Are you sure?”

  “We feel confident in our assessment.”

  King shifted in his seat. “But there weren’t any bus explosions in my book.”

  “No, there weren’t. We believe our Dragunov has internalized the mission of the fictional Dragunov but is implementing that mission how he sees fit, based upon his circumstances and opportunities. Just today, he attacked random citizens on the street, not four blocks from the White House. And I wouldn’t be surprised if there were other events we haven’t connected yet. He wants there to be panic, and right now, we can’t let that happen.”

  King wiped his brow. This was like some thriller he might have written. Fiction begets reality. Nightmare feeds nightmare. “Where do the murders of Feinbaum and Connelly fit in? They can’t have much to do with destroying America or creating panic.”

  “I have no idea. Obviously, there’s a connection to you, but we can’t figure out how their deaths relate to your book. And that’s where Dragunov’s world springs from. Your book.” Gosberg’s jaw rippled. “We’ve taken steps to protect every place and every person we can identify. From all of the Nick Nolan books. And the movies, too. But I have a feeling our guy isn’t going to stick to the scripts. It’s the other possibilities that have me petrified. With our guy’s impaired mental state, there’s no telling where he might strike next.”

  “If that’s true—that it’s mostly random—then what chance do we really have?” King asked.

  “That’s where you come in. You’re the one who can provide us with keys to Dragunov’s personality. What makes him tick. Where he might go next. After all, you’re the man who created him.”

  “My Dragunov is fictional.”

  “People’s lives are at stake, Dr. King. And . . .” Gosberg closed his mouth and exhaled through his nose.

  “What?”

  “Don’t underestimate the importance of your insight here. After all, Dragunov sprouted from your imagination.”

  “I’ve been trying to forget that for thirty years.” Attack on America had already claimed the life of Rina. Now, more lives had been lost, with the potential for more still. All because of his wild imagination and Neanderthal thirst for violence. King slumped in his seat, watching the wonderful sights of the nation’s capital whiz by, wishing for the millionth time he’d never dreamed up Nick Nolan in the first place.

  #

  The fold-down seats, each row slightly higher than the one in front. A white board on the wall at the back of a small stage. A lectern and a microphone. King sat in the fourth row of a small auditorium, very similar to the ones he lectured in three days a week.

  Except instead of fresh-faced kids hanging on his every word—at least those who wanted good grades—a crusty guy in a starched uniform with a flattop stood at the podium facing a collection of grim-faced men and women. Most wore uniforms of one sort or another; a few were clad in the dark suits favored by the CIA, FBI, NSA, or one of a thousand other secretive organizations inhabiting governmental enclaves inside the Beltway.

  King sat next to Gosberg, who had spent a good portion of the ride over reassuring him everybody there was “on the same side.” He’d said it so often, though, that King got a definite “thou doth protest too much” vibe. King knew they all wanted to catch Dragunov—that much was obvious from their expressions—but he blanched at being included in the group, having lost any admiration for the military-industrial complex decades ago.

  King was certain of one thing: he was the only novelist in the bunch.

  “Let’s begin,” Colonel Hanson Locraft said, and it sounded more like the growl of a caged big cat than a man. “In short, we need to reacquire our ‘person of interest.’ This briefing will endeavor to bring everyone up to speed so we’re all on the same page of the playbook. We’ve got ourselves a potential national security disaster here, and it’s up to us to defuse the situation as quickly and as efficiently as possible.” He scanned the room, seeming to make eye contact, however briefly, with every person.

  When it was King’s turn for the stare down, Locraft squinted even tighter and glared more menacingly. So piercing was the stare that King broke contact and faked a cough. When he looked back at Locraft, he thought he detected a smirk.

  “First, we’ll hear from Will Slattery, the project liaison, who will summarize our current working hypothesis about Subject Foxtrot’s apparent
psychosis.” He stepped aside briskly and claimed a seat in the front row while Slattery took his place at the lectern.

  King sized him up. Although Slattery wore a white lab coat over his suit—completely for show, in King’s opinion—it didn’t hide the man’s muscular physique. He wasn’t any taller than King, but he was wider, and it wasn’t flab. Probably wasn’t a sucker for apple pie à la mode like King was. When Slattery opened his mouth, though, his voice was a lot higher pitched than King would have guessed.

  “Good morning, everyone.” Slattery nodded at Locraft. “Colonel. Our subject is forty-six years old and in top physical shape. Unfortunately, he is psychologically impaired to the point where he poses a dire threat. He’s delusional and violent and unstable. You see, he believes he’s a Russian operative, planted in our country, among our citizens, striving to complete his mission.” Slattery paused and licked his lips. “And his mission is to destroy America.”

  About half of those gathered gasped, and for a moment, King was reminded of the premiere of the movie Attack on America, when Nick Nolan delivered a similar line to the vice president in the war room. Only this time, the dire stakes were real.

  “We’re not sure, of course, but we believe his basic reasoning, the part of the brain that makes logical decisions, has been affected. The result? He’s confused, impulsive, irrational. He seems to be fixated on his mission, but we don’t think he’s taking logical steps to accomplish it. His actions seem muddled and random. Which is actually bad news for us. If he were behaving rationally, we would have a better chance of apprehending him. As it is, well . . .” Slattery held out his hands, palms up.

  Someone shouted out. “Do we know what caused this delusion? What was the trigger? Accident? Trauma? Latent mental disease?”

  Gosberg squirmed next to King.

  “Actually, we believe it’s a combination of things. PTSD, severe depression, a physical injury to the brain. But again, since we haven’t had the chance to examine the subject directly, these are all guesses. Essentially, something inside of his brain snapped, causing him to believe he is this operative.”

  Another question. “A specific operative? How do you know that?”

  This time, King found himself squirming.

  “Based upon a signature method of, uh, killing and some other classified information, we believe he’s patterned himself after the character Viktor Dragunov, from the thriller novel Attack on America. I’m sure you remember that book. Despite a few inaccuracies and implausibilities, it was a bestseller that was subsequently made into a blockbuster movie. And there were sequels, too.”

  Now the gasps were interspersed with a few chuckles. If they knew more of the details, King knew they wouldn’t be chuckling. Evidently, Locraft got the same read, and he practically leaped from his seat.

  “Goddamn it, this is not some fucking joke. People’s lives are at stake here, and it doesn’t matter if our subject thinks he’s Dragunov or Jack the fucking Ripper or Mickey Mouse. He’s killing people, for God’s sake. Our national security hangs in the balance, and every one of our asses is on the line here.” He stopped yelling and replicated his laser stare-down. King felt sure that would be the last of the chuckling.

  Locraft continued, calmly, as if the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened. “Thank you, Will. If anyone has any more detailed questions about our subject’s behavior or motivation, please contact Dr. Slattery directly.” He shifted his attention toward King, who felt everyone else also shift their attention his way. “We’re fortunate the author of Attack on America could join us, not only for this briefing, but for the duration. Mathias King is part of our team.”

  King held up his hand to acknowledge Locraft’s introduction, but when he realized no one was applauding, he quickly brought it down and tried to melt into his chair. When he was atop the bestseller lists, he was used to being a headliner or keynote speaker at writing conferences, not a newbie at national security briefings. Of course, he didn’t really have to acknowledge his presence; if anyone there couldn’t tell he was an outsider, dressed in khakis and a clearance rack short-sleeved polo shirt, with two days of stubble going, they were as crazy as the new Dragunov.

  His role on the “team” would be as a consultant only and as short-term as he could make it. All this military protocol and official briefings and saluting wasn’t his style. He’d had the briefest taste of it thirty years ago when he conducted his research, but that had been in another, and more unpleasant, lifetime. If people’s lives weren’t at stake here, he wouldn’t even be—

  “Dr. King?”

  Gosberg’s elbow caught him in the ribs.

  “What?” King asked.

  Gosberg nodded at Locraft, who had been the one to call his name. “Professor King? Would you please come up here?” Locraft phrased it as a question, politely, but King recognized it for what it was. A command. “And Peter, why don’t you come up and help the good professor field questions?”

  King stood slowly and followed Gosberg to the stage, accompanied by murmurs from the audience. As a lecturer, King was accustomed to this type of forum, to being the focus of a room’s attention. Usually he was quite prepared for whatever questions his students lobbed at him. From behind the lectern, he looked out at the crowd, all staring at him expectantly, and he had his doubts.

  Gosberg spoke first. “Most of you already know me. I’m Dr. Peter Gosberg, lab director. I think Dr. Slattery laid it out pretty well, but I’ll add a few things. One: unfortunately, forensics won’t be of much help to us here. We have identified the target, but because of his delusions, waiting for him at his usual haunts would be fruitless. So I believe our efforts will be best spent trying to predict his next move. Where he’ll strike next. As Dr. Slattery mentioned, that will be doubly difficult because of his irrational thought patterns.”

  Gosberg paused to catch his breath, and the silence was immediately filled as someone called out a question. Whatever happened to raising one’s hand?

  “How do you plan to predict where he’ll strike next?”

  Locraft popped out of his seat. “I’ll take that one.” He strode back up to the lectern, forcing King and Gosberg aside. “We’ll be using a tool we developed as part of another project. Right now, it’s still in beta testing, but I have a team of mathematicians adapting the model as we speak.”

  “What kind of model is it?” someone called out.

  “It’s a predictive analytical model. PAM, for short. We’ll enter all the actual data points—the victims, the locations—and overlay extrapolated events. You know, those possibilities gleaned from King’s book, the movies, his personality profile, and the like. We’ll weight them based on number of mentions and amplitude, as determined by word count devoted to those scenarios and a host of other variables, both dynamic and static. Where possible, of course.” He paused, and from the shine on his face, King could tell how clever Locraft thought this program was.

  Locraft turned to King. “I believe that’s your cue, Professor. Why don’t you give everyone a brief overview of who Dragunov is and offer any ideas about where he might strike next?” He stepped to one side and gestured toward the lectern.

  For a moment, King remained planted. Then he slid to his right and adjusted the microphone. “I, uh, I created Dragunov about thirty years ago, and I, uh . . . I described him as a sleeper operative whose mission was to destroy America. His first goal was to foment terror among the people. Then he went on to attack some high-profile targets. Basically, I made him an extremely intelligent, highly capable killing machine, able to outfox all of his adversaries, with the exception of Nick Nolan. I don’t really know what else I can tell you. You see, I really have nothing to do with what’s going on . . .” He stopped midsentence and glanced at the rest of his team. Eye rolls, blank stares, expressions of incredulity.

  King wanted to shout that it wasn’t his idea to get up before them and presume that he could somehow help them—a room full of experts—locate a rogue killer
. “As for where he might strike next, I’m afraid I have absolutely no idea.”

  He clammed up and glanced at Locraft, but it was too late. From his scowl, King realized he’d already gotten on the Colonel’s bad side. Which seemed to be every side.

  The silence was deafening, but at this point, King had nothing to add. He didn’t have a clue where Dragunov might show his face next. Not a freaking clue. Gosberg stepped closer and patted King on the shoulder, a gentle prod, but King remained mum. His idea—their idea—sounded ridiculous. A thriller writer helping to catch a psycho terrorist? He might have simply claimed to be a clairvoyant and forgone any cloak of legitimacy.

  Locraft strode to the front and waved his hand, dismissing King and Gosberg. They returned to their seats, Gosberg walking tall, King slinking along behind.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Locraft said, then addressed the group. “If you have any questions for Professor King, please contact Dr. Gosberg, and he’ll forward them.”

  King started to get offended, then realized Locraft was probably protecting him, a soft ivory-tower academic. All these people undoubtedly had top secret clearances, were used to getting their way, and sucked at the teat of the DoD. King, on the other hand, was practically a member of the ACLU.

  Strange bedfellows, indeed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Later that evening, Gosberg met Slattery at a Denny’s on Lee Jackson Highway in Chantilly. They took a back booth, and although other diners were scattered about, Gosberg wasn’t afraid of being overheard. If they were, so what? Denny’s customers cared about their Grand Slam breakfasts, not about scientific experiments gone bad.