by Alan Orloff
Gosberg had told Slattery to meet at the office as soon as he could get there, and he waited patiently for him to arrive. During the four years they’d worked together, Gosberg had come to know—and admire—Slattery’s strengths. Detail oriented and efficient, which contrasted with Gosberg’s big-picture, creative personality. They both were pragmatic, but Slattery seemed to take practicality to a new level. Never one to dwell on the past, Slattery always was thinking two—or three—steps ahead.
Without Slattery’s “get-it-done” manner, Gosberg knew their project wouldn’t be as far along as it was. Despite the disastrous turn of events, from a strictly scientific point of view, their experiment was a resounding success.
And they could write that on their epitaphs.
The outer office door opened, and Slattery burst in, talking on his cell. He clicked off without saying goodbye, as far as Gosberg could tell, and nodded once in greeting. “Hell of a thing, Peter. Hell of a thing.”
Gosberg held his finger up to his lips, signaling Slattery to be quiet. “Let’s go for a walk. I could use some fresh air.”
Slattery nodded, and they left the office in silence. They remained quiet as they walked two blocks to a nearby pedestrian plaza, a spot they’d come to before when they wanted to converse without the threat of being overheard by Locraft’s electronic gizmos. They didn’t know for sure their office was bugged, but Gosberg would wager a few mortgage payments it was.
If he’d been in Locraft’s army boots, he’d have done the same thing.
#
The Washington metro area was home to many parks and areas of lush greenery, but this wasn’t one of them. Concrete as far as they could see, a small fountain the only thing remotely natural within sight. They commandeered their usual bench, not too far from the fountain. It shot water into the air about ten feet, and when the wind blew just right, they could feel the cool spray on their faces.
But not today. Too calm. Gosberg smiled at that thought. Only the weather was calm. Everything else was in utter turmoil.
Finally, Slattery broke the silence, seemingly stuck on one sentiment. “Hell of a thing about Robinson.”
“Yeah.” Gosberg had been the one to hire Robinson. Met his wife at a picnic once. Her life would never be the same. Unfortunately, there was a lot of that going around.
Slattery didn’t waste any more time with sympathy. “Here’s what we know. Robinson was killed with a military-style knife. Dragunov broke into Robinson’s house and did the deed quickly, efficiently, stealthily. Not surprisingly, there were no witnesses.”
“Probably a good thing. If there were any witnesses, they’d be dead, too.” Gosberg kept his eyes on the fountain, seeking some solace from the shooting spray. No such luck. “What’s your theory?”
“Somehow, Robinson’s identity registered in Dragunov’s mind. It wasn’t what we expected, but this is all virgin territory. We don’t really know what’s going on in his damaged brain.”
“Give me your best guess,” Gosberg said.
“Well, let’s look at this. He’s killed random people in DC. He’s also killed two of King’s friends, and now he’s killed a lab tech. Actually, two lab techs, if you count Imprezza. I can’t figure out the connection.”
“And there’s another component to his behavior. Based upon his visit to my sister, there’s some Cole Tanner still in him. Somewhere,” Gosberg said.
Slattery nodded. “Agreed. One man, multiple personas. No single sane entity.”
“Robinson’s dead.” Gosberg paused, watched two squirrels chase each other for a moment. “Does that mean he’s coming after us next?”
“I don’t know. But it would certainly be prudent to assume so.”
“What I figured. Call me a chicken, but when this thing first broke, I sent Sheryl and the kids away. To the beach. For an extended vacation. They didn’t complain too much, getting to spend the Fourth of July down there,” Gosberg said. He wished he could have piled into the car with the rest of his family, his biggest worry how to cover the middle of his back with sunscreen.
“Nothing’s leaked out yet.”
“Just a matter of time.”
Slattery shifted on the bench, turning to face Gosberg while scooting farther away. One arm went up along the back of the bench. “Listen, Peter. We both know why we left the office for this conversation. Might as well talk about it.”
Gosberg nodded. He’d been waiting for Slattery to broach the subject. And his friend was right; ever since Locraft and his troops kicked the operation into DEFCON one mode, the topic had been paramount on both their minds. “What’s our endgame strategy here?”
“Despite all the heinous things Dragunov has done, and will do before we catch him, we need to keep him intact. The fact our experiment succeeded is enormous. But . . . I think you’ll agree, it’s become secondary. We need Dragunov in the lab so we can examine him to see how we succeeded in reanimating him from a vegetative state. I mean, we practically brought a man back to life, Peter. Back to life. And gave him a brain filled with an unheard amount of information.”
Gosberg gazed at the fountain. A little boy had toddled over to it, and he was being tailed by a vigilant young woman. Mother or nanny, he couldn’t tell. They had brought a brain-dead man back to life. His brother-in-law, at least physically. And if their conclusions were right about some small part of Cole Tanner still being alive, then maybe, with some counseling and drug therapy, they could resurrect his brother-in-law.
Who was he kidding? Tanner or Dragunov or whoever you wanted to call him had killed innocent people and was attempting to destroy the entire country. No one was going to let Gosberg try to rehabilitate him. Quite the opposite, in fact. Locraft, and those like Locraft, would shoot him on sight.
“Peter?”
Gosberg felt Slattery’s hand on his shoulder. “Huh? Oh, sorry.”
“We need to get to Dragunov before Locraft destroys him, and you know he will. The first chance he gets.”
“And would that be so wrong?” Gosberg asked.
“This is the scientific breakthrough of the millennium. The Holy Grail. We can’t let Locraft, or anyone else, wreck it for us. We need Dragunov. Alive. So we can figure out what we did right. I know it, and you know it.”
“You seem awfully sure of yourself.”
“We owe it to mankind. It would be criminal of us not to.”
“What’s our part in this? Our responsibility? Innocent people are dead. And who knows how many more will die? Because of our hubris. Trying to play God. Screwing around with the human brain. Maybe we should go to the media, lay our souls bare. Maybe that would prevent any other fools from messing with the natural order of things.”
“You’re upset, Peter. You have to trust me. Progress can’t be stopped. Do you remember our discussion two days after I accepted this job? We talked about this, in general terms. We were on the same page then. And nothing’s changed, except the realization of our goals. We can’t stop now. We’re on the right track.”
“Our goal is to help mankind, Will. Not facilitate death.” At an overflowing trash can twenty yards away, two crows fought over a piece of hot dog.
“As crass as this may sound, this is only a temporary blip. We will improve people’s lives. In a big way. Other scientists, building on our research, will take this even further. There’s no telling where all of this might lead. We have to keep going. We have to.”
Gosberg sighed. “First things first. We need to catch Dragunov.”
“About that.” Slattery opened a black portfolio and removed a sheaf of papers.
“What?” Gosberg sat a little straighter. Had Slattery been holding out on him, waiting to deliver the good news?
“I’ve got the latest projections from PAM.”
“Oh, not you too.” Gosberg shook his head. “That’s Locraft’s wet dream. Surely you don’t put any stock in that, do you?”
Slattery simply stared at him, giving Gosberg his answer. “Well, with all that anal
ysis, you must know where Dragunov is right now. Having a Big Mac at the K Street McDonald’s?”
Slattery’s face reddened. “Of course, it isn’t perfect. Too many variables unaccounted for.”
“You think? Trying to predict what an unpredictable terrorist is going to do by counting the number of times a word appears in a novel or by entering King’s responses to a Rorschach test seems a bit . . . what’s the word I’m looking for? Ludicrous? Insane?” Thinking that victims’ deaths had been translated into one-dimensional data points infuriated him. When had science lost touch with humanity?
“Just trying to be thorough. At this stage, I don’t think we can afford to disregard any possible assistance. No matter how ludicrous you think it might be.” Slattery waved his printouts, and the blush disappeared from his face. “I’ve got the results, if you want to see them.”
“I don’t,” Gosberg said, feeling his blood pressure rise. “I don’t want computerized guesses. I want facts. I want Dragunov.”
#
The two men returned to their office, but Slattery left shortly thereafter to check in with Locraft, leaving Gosberg in peace. On his desk was a stack of printouts, the results of a dozen—or more—PAM simulations. For some reason, Locraft insisted on running it every hour and forwarding everyone on the task force a copy, whether or not they’d received new substantive information. A geek like Slattery might be deluded into thinking he was making progress, but Gosberg knew it for what it was—an excuse, an illusion. Something to grasp at, if only because the alternative—sitting around and waiting for the next attack—was so unpalatable. In military circles, passivity was tantamount to surrender.
And surrender was unthinkable.
So Locraft played with his computer program, and Slattery followed orders and stirred the pot, and Gosberg was left to count up the dead bodies. They all knew the futility of their actions, yet they still dove in headfirst. Good little soldiers.
Gosberg was reminded of the saying “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results.”
He needed a break. But knowing a true break wasn’t possible until this thing was over, he decided to settle for a change in venue. Screw Locraft’s insistence that he work from his coat closet of an office. He was going home to a quiet house where the pall of failure wasn’t hanging in the air. Maybe some sort of inspired solution would strike him there, in comfortable surroundings.
He turned off the lights on his way out.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Most of the time, Gosberg missed the general state of mild chaos when his family was around. His two boys were perpetually roughhousing, oblivious to the level of noise and mess they generated. His daughter was prone to periodic bouts of dramatic expression and wasn’t afraid to voice her displeasure with everything—and everyone—around her. He and his wife, Sheryl, had become pretty adept at ignoring all but the most serious of escapades, and having a private sanctuary to which he could escape and lock the door—in his case, a room in the basement—was invaluable.
When he’d gotten home last night, though, the house was silent. Which, with everything going on at the moment, wasn’t such a bad thing. He’d gotten an update from Slattery at about eleven p.m., then he’d watched part of Die Hard and gone to sleep, enjoying the ability to sleep right smack in the middle of the bed.
Now he sat alone in the kitchen, still in his robe—the cotton one Sheryl had given him on their second anniversary—enjoying a cup of coffee and reading the sports section, again not complaining one iota about having the place to himself.
He could get used to the quiet, all right.
His fleeting moment of good spirits disappeared the second his phone rang and he realized he needed to return to the real world. The real world where a monster he’d help create ran amok.
He rose, dumped his coffee cup into the sink, and grabbed his phone off the kitchen counter where he kept it next to his wallet. “Good morning, Will.” Gosberg knew who it was without even having to look.
“Morning. Where are you?” Slattery asked.
“At home. In my kitchen. Enjoying a cup of coffee in peace.” The sour smell of spoiling food—from the trash can under the kitchen sink—captured Gosberg’s attention. Had he forgotten trash day? He opened the cabinet door and pulled the kitchen trash can out of its hiding place. He put the phone on speaker, set it down, and tied the bag up as he spoke. Will wasn’t the only one adept at multitasking.
“You left early yesterday. You sure you’re okay?”
“Are you okay? Is anybody okay with this?” Gosberg picked up his phone and headed out the garage door holding the smelly bag of trash at arm’s length.
“You know what I mean,” Slattery said, then softened his voice. “At least you can stop worrying about your family. They’re away on vacation, right?”
“Soaking up the sun, not a care in the world.” Gosberg opened the lid of his Toter and dumped the trash bag inside.
“Good.” Slattery paused. “Look, Peter, this has been hard on everyone. It’s taking its toll on us physically, as well as emotionally. But we’ve got to hang in there, see it through. When we’ve stopped the terror, then we can relax.”
Gosberg was getting tired of Slattery’s needling disguised as pep talks. “I’m on my way. Is Locraft still coming in at nine?”
“Yep. Put on your asbestos boxers. I’ll see you shortly.”
“Sure,” Gosberg said, hanging up. What would Slattery do if, instead of going in and getting reamed by Locraft, Gosberg hopped back into bed, pulled the covers over his head, and slept the day away? Shit, who was he kidding? If Gosberg didn’t show up for their meeting, Slattery—on orders from Locraft—would have the SWAT team there within the hour.
As Gosberg was about to step into the house from the garage, he was lifted into the air by a tremendous explosion.
His last thought was of his family sitting under a giant multicolored beach umbrella. Then his world went black.
#
King hated his motel room. No one to talk to. Nothing to do. He’d been awake for a few hours after another fitful night of sleep. Between what sounded like a frat party going on in the hallway at three a.m. and his own crazy dreams, he might have eked out four hours of sleep. Now, still exhausted, he lay on the bed, thinking about Emily’s theory. He’d mentioned each of the dead, by name, in his acknowledgments. But according to Gosberg, Dragunov hadn’t gotten past chapter 6. So how could there be a connection?
There couldn’t be, but Emily had to be on the right track. The answer had to be in the book.
King sat up, looking for a copy of the book. It wasn’t on the other bed where Emily had camped out, and it wasn’t on the nightstand, either. Or on the floor, at least the part of it he could see. Had Emily taken it back with her? He rolled off the bed, conducted a thorough tour of the room, then got down on his knees and searched underneath both beds.
Nothing but dust bunnies.
If King had the book, he could take another look. Maybe something would come to him. He thought about calling Emily, seeing if she wouldn’t mind returning with her copy, but he knew that if he asked, she’d hop in her little Prius and drive right over.
And he didn’t want her involved if he could help it.
Of course, he could get off his butt and try to find a nearby bookstore and buy his own copy.
Or . . . King laughed at himself and his dinosaur ways. He didn’t have to leave his motel room to access a bookstore. He had his laptop.
It took him a few minutes—and a credit card—but he managed to download a digital copy of Attack on America. He readjusted his pillows and leaned back, ready to do a little research. These e-book stores were amazing. Within seconds, you could be reading one of a million books in the universe. No longer would books go out of print. People, ordinary people, could put their work in front of the masses, cheaply and efficiently. As an author, though, King knew some of the drawbacks, too. But at this moment, he
relished the convenience.
First up was a page titled Praise for Attack on America. There were pull quotes from a few of the big review services, along with several from big-city newspapers, and beneath those was the blurb from James Connelly: “One hell of a ride from one hell of a writer. Chock full of thrills, chills, and outrageous kills.”
Powerful words. At the time he got the endorsement, Connelly was fresh off a streak of six New York Times number ones, and he was one of the hottest properties around. Although it was nearly impossible to quantify its effects, King figured having Connelly’s name attached—in whatever fashion—had been good for sales of at least ten thousand copies. A fact Connelly would bring up every time they were at the bar together and the check arrived.
After the praise page, there was his bibliography. Eleven other books, most thrillers, most had dwindling sales. It was a good thing those numbers didn’t get printed along with the titles. At around book seven, the drop-off had become precipitous.
Next came the title page, Attack on America by Mathias King, followed by the copyright page. A bunch of legalese, including the name and city of the publishing house. When the book first came out, back in the eighties, there was no such thing as e-books or e-rights, so a few years ago Lanny had negotiated the sale of the book’s e-rights. Haddon Heights had argued that they already owned the rights, and there was some drawn-out legal wrangling, but Lanny had prevailed. In fact, not only had he prevailed, he’d put them through the wringer, demanding a higher royalty than was typical, along with a few other, more symbolic concessions. King hadn’t wanted to offer the e-rights at all, but Lanny had persuaded him.
Given enough time, King wondered if Lanny would also have persuaded him to sell his rights to that graphic novel concern. His tenacity was one of his agent’s best qualities, at least for being an agent. Lanny could persuade just about anyone to do just about anything.
King returned to Attack on America and advanced to the next page: acknowledgments. There it was, right at the front. Something must have gotten mixed up. In Emily’s paperback edition, he’d seen it at the back of the book. King tapped the screen to get a menu, then navigated his way to the end of the e-book. The book ended, but instead of an acknowledgments page, there was an excerpt from the second book in the series, Chaos in the US.
