I make us some gnocchi from the market and tea. She asks many questions. About her life. About how she was recruited. About the real world. About families. About love. About vengeance. Sometimes, her hands shake as she listens to me speak. Other times, she is silent and does not ask anything. Once, she even smiles. It is the most amazing thing I have seen this year.
If one good thing comes of my dark existence, it will be Sophia.
She turned to the next page. It was blank. She flipped back to the previous entry, only to find it written in German. Was he trying to conceal something? She rushed to the shelf of dictionaries and picked out an Italian–German dictionary. It would be nice if there was an English–German one, but she was in Tuscany after all. Instead, she found an Italian–English dictionary. It would have to do.
Sitting at the desk she’d moved into the Pacciani Room, she scanned the German entries for anything that might catch her attention. She didn’t know what she was looking for, so she decided to just pick a paragraph with her name in it and work through it with the dictionary, translating from German to Italian and—if her basic Italian wasn’t sufficient—Italian to English. It was painfully slow, but she moved as quickly as she could, scribbling her translations on a loose sheet of paper.
Sophia has stitches . . . right eye and bruises . . . arms and face . . . unharmed. I . . . injuries but . . . to see her. I have the Schlüssel.
She checked the Italian–German dictionary for the word Schlüssel. The Italian equivalent was chiave. She checked the Italian–English dictionary: it meant key. Leoncjusz had the key.
This was going to take some time. She’d give anything for Google Translate right now. She skimmed through the rest of the page. Its contents seemed mundane. She turned to the previous page and found a word right after her name that she didn’t recognize: defekt. Did it mean to defect, to work for the other side? She checked the Italian–German dictionary. It meant difettoso. She checked for the English translation. Defective.
She continued with the rest of the paragraph. On her sheet of paper, the meaning was beginning to take shape.
Another operative became defective . . . field . . . night and . . . killed. Denton dismisses me . . . service. Just as we planned. I am relieved, but I do not show it.
She turned to the previous page. If Adamicz had mentioned his true intentions anywhere, it might be in an earlier entry. With both dictionaries open, she got to work translating.
Sophia . . . operation . . . routine assessment. Precise changes. Sophia’s behavior . . . normal . . . tampered . . . neopsyche . . . under stress Sophia . . . shift to archeopsyche . . . performance . . . and I . . . held responsible. Cecilia McLoughlin stages . . . death. And . . . part of our plan.
Sophia checked her watch. She had another thirty minutes. It wasn’t enough time to translate the whole journal. And it would be a while before she would get another chance. She had to translate what she needed now. She flipped to the previous page.
I am scared . . . sleep . . . not wake up. Denton . . . is he waiting . . . us out? Or will . . . and torture . . . answers? I realize . . . belly of the beast . . . stay brave.
Trials . . . operative . . . routine assessment. Possible . . . suggest . . . Cecilia McLoughlin . . . Benito Montoya . . . operative . . . in mind. She . . . six on . . .
One string of words caught her interest. Posthypnotischen Suggestibilität Index. The German was so close to English she didn’t need the dictionaries.
She continued translating the rest of the sentence.
Easier to deprogram . . . our cause due to . . . betrayal . . . violation . . . Fifth Column.
She licked her finger, then thought again and wiped her saliva away before turning to the previous page, where she saw Chimäre Vektors written three times.
McLoughlin . . . confident. I fear . . . get caught . . . thought everything . . . well. Benito Montoya . . . Chimera vectors . . . impossible . . . circumstance . . . high security and of course Denton’s . . . Chimera vectors. McLoughlin . . . lock it up for now . . . back later . . . lower security. She . . . encrypt the Chimera vectors . . . encryption key.
Sophia froze on the word Schlüssel. She checked the dictionary, translated the complete sentence.
She plans to encrypt the Chimera vectors and use part of her DNA as the encryption key.
Sophia realized she was holding her breath. Inhaling quickly, she continued translating.
But . . . Cecilia McLoughlin . . . back to the facility . . . very risky. I cannot . . . how we do this. Cecilia McLoughlin . . . of this too. She asked me . . . operative as the key instead.
This had to be important. Backtracking, she translated every missing word.
She asked me today if we could use an operative as the key instead.
Sophia leaned back in her chair. ‘I am the key.’
Back another page. She had to translate faster if she was going to get anywhere.
My . . . offering . . . to me. I suggest to Cecilia McLoughlin . . . destroy the Chimera vectors. But she . . . idea. She wants to . . . against the Fifth Column. She . . . resistance called the Akhana . . .
There was no entry for Akhana in the dictionary. Perhaps it was an English word. She continued reading.
. . . nothing about. This . . . more complicated. Does . . . really exist . . . Belize. If there . . . need the Chimera vectors . . . destroy the Fifth Column.
She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes to go.
If she was, somehow, the key to the Chimera vectors, then the first thing she needed to figure out was what they were and what Leoncjusz and his resistance pals were planning on doing with them.
She continued reading.
I do not . . . Cecilia McLoughlin for many days. Our next . . . rushed. She tells . . . the Chimera vectors out . . . Fifth Column . . . safe. Before . . . I want to help. McLoughlin . . . and leaves. I have purpose again. Yet . . . burn these pages.
The entry ended. She turned to the previous page and started reading. No more mention of McLoughlin, of the Chimera vectors, of the Akhana. Just his research on programming. She turned back further. A poem in Polish. Another page. The Fifth Column and its imperfections, its flaws, morals, evil, test subjects, more programming. She continued, skimming for any words that would jump out at her. The further back she looked, the more introspective and vague the entries became. One on mind-programming research, one on his education, and several going further back to his university years.
She closed the book, checked her watch. Eight minutes. Her estimate had been conservative; it was likely he wouldn’t be back for a further half-hour. It was risky, but she couldn’t stop now.
Returning the dictionaries to their exact places on the shelves—her translations slipped into the middle of the Italian–German dictionary—she returned the journal to where she’d found it, and decided to go through his desk again, paying more attention to the papers she’d previously thought to be diversions.
The office door creaked.
She’d been so busy throwing papers around that she hadn’t heard him return. Her face warmed with embarrassment, then burned with anger.
‘You have some explaining to do,’ she said.
Leoncjusz frowned. ‘I imagined it was only matter of time before I caught you here.’
She dumped the papers she was holding onto his desk. ‘I’m your prisoner, after all.’
He hung his coat on the coat stand. ‘That is not true.’
‘Not true?’ she yelled. ‘You’ve had me cooped up in this shitty old place for how many months now? And to what end?’ Her saliva sprayed onto her arm. She didn’t bother wiping it away. ‘To keep me safe?’
She swiped at a stack of books, sending them crashing to the floor. ‘Why did you have to choose me? Of all the operatives running around playing terrorist dress-up, why pick me? Being kidnapped once is enough!’
‘Your post-hypnotic suggestibility index is lowest of all operatives,’ Leoncjusz said. ‘It makes you most di
fficult test subject to program.’
Sophia’s hands clenched into fists. ‘Then why did you program me in the first place?’
‘Most difficult to program means easiest to deprogram. Also, you make better decision than every other operative in every training exercise we make for you,’ he said. ‘You are least ruthless operative, but this is precisely what makes you best Denton has ever seen.’
‘I . . . I thought Denton kept testing me so I would fail,’ Sophia said. ‘And I eventually did.’
‘No. He keep testing to find your limits,’ Leoncjusz said. ‘You are both greatest threat and greatest promise to him.’
Sophia let her fists relax. ‘What does that mean?’
‘First time your programming break is on operation in Jordan,’ he said. ‘In your report you accurately describe every terrorist in hotel ballroom. But you also mention a girl, who you don’t describe at all. When I question you afterwards, you admit there is no girl, that it is an error on your behalf. That is when I know your programming has been compromised.’
Leoncjusz cleared his throat. ‘Your second break—Iran. The operation I rescue you from. I knew you are capable of this. Of all operatives, you are unique. But I did not know when and where you would break again.’ He shook his head. ‘We were running out of time, so we had to induce break. We are, how you say, rolling with the punches.’
She turned to his bookcase and pulled out his journal. ‘When were you going to tell me all of this?’
Leoncjusz took a tentative step forward. He opened his mouth to reply but she cut him off.
‘Why did this Cecilia McLoughlin person put a key inside me? What gives her the right to do that? What gives any of them the right to do anything like that to me?’ She shook her head. ‘You’re all the same. The lot of you.’
‘The key is provirus. A harmless carrier,’ he said.
‘Harmless? What’s it carrying?’ she shouted.
‘An encryption key. A key to Fifth Column’s greatest success and greatest failure.’
‘And why make me the key?’ Sophia said. ‘Am I supposed to go back and steal the code for you? When exactly were you planning on filling me in?’
He exhaled slowly. ‘I wasn’t. Yet. Because I think is too dangerous. This is why I tell her I do not want you to do it. And I do not care what she says. As long as I am here, you will not do this. It is suicide.’
Chapter Eleven
The subsonic round from Damien’s MP5SD6 struck the guard under his nose. A burst of red and he was gone.
‘You’re clear,’ Damien said.
Jay ran. Without moonlight, the Algerian desert was ink black. But his vision was sharp enough that he could manage to weave among the palm trees without too much trouble. After that, it took him twenty long, anxious seconds to cover the flat, mostly open ground and reach the back wall of the two-story house.
Pressed against the white bricks, he slowed his breathing and lowered himself silently into a crouch. A helicopter insertion would’ve been easier than crossing the freezing desert at night, but everyone in the small town of Djanet would have known they were there before they’d even zip-lined out. This wasn’t Hollywood; they had to do it properly. That meant less glamor and more hard work.
He extended the retractable stock on his MP5 and wedged it in the soft muscle between his shoulder and chest, then took a moment to scratch his two-month beard.
‘When you’re ready,’ he said into his throat mike.
Damien broke into a run, slower than Jay as he moved around the palm trees with only a night-vision monocle to aid him. Jay didn’t have a particular arc to cover, so he raised his MP5 halfway. If anyone spotted Damien, they’d likely be on the roof, and he didn’t have line of sight for that.
Damien reached the wall, at the other end. Between them, the blue door. Jay waited for Damien to lower his breathing and remove his lock-picking kit. He looked hilarious, the whites of his eyes contrasting with the camo paint used to darken his skin color. He was darker than Jay.
Jay moved closer to his side of the blue door and kept his MP5 ready. Damien switched his to safe and let it hang from a tactical sling, then tested the door handle as quietly as possible. No point starting picking only to discover the door’s already unlocked, Jay thought. Damien inserted a wide pick into the keyhole. His enhanced hearing made him especially adept at lock picking. Jay simply didn’t have the patience for it.
Damien turned the lock with a tension wrench—a tool that reminded Jay of a miniature golf club—and withdrew the pick quickly, bouncing the pins. Jay hoped he’d get lucky and lodge all the pins with a quick rake or two. Otherwise he’d have to get more precise and pick the lock pin by pin. But the longer they could hold off going loud, the better their chances of nailing their target.
Jay held his MP5 with his other hand, supported by a tactical sling, and shoved the cold fingertips of his firing hand under his armpit to warm them. He didn’t want slow fingers when it came to shooting. He couldn’t wear gloves because they made firing a weapon clumsy and slow. Both he and Damien had removed their thick gloves before reaching the town, just keeping the fingerless gloves they wore underneath, which were mostly concealed by their traditional, dusty Arab robes. Under the dishdasha, they wore para-aramid vests loaded with their radios, flashbangs, smoke grenades and ammunition. Lacking pouches on their belts, they’d instead holstered their SIG pistols under their arms. Not the easiest place to get to, but as good as it got while dressed like a local. Never mind the fact that half the people he’d seen here tonight were dressed in khaki or black leather jackets. On the upside, the robes made it easy to conceal their MP5s.
Damien paused. He looked tense. Had he heard something? Jay checked the safety catch on his MP5. It was off. He focused on the door.
He could hear it too. Voices from inside. Arabic. He couldn’t make out the words, they were too muffled. Damien probably could. Problem was, Damien couldn’t speak much Arabic.
The voices were louder. Closer to the door.
Jay indicated with his MP5 barrel for Damien to move away. Carefully withdrawing the tension wrench with a soft click, Damien crawled back. Jay hoped they hadn’t heard that. He aimed at the door, ready to shoot anyone who opened it.
Damien packed away the wrench and pick, then took the safety off his MP5.
A chill ran through Jay. Whether it was from the cool night or the situation, he wasn’t sure. How long should they wait before Damien started picking the lock all over again? What if the men had heard them and were at this moment rallying their forces to ambush them? What if they were just sitting there inside, AK-47s ready to shoot?
The longer they waited, the greater the risk of being discovered—if they hadn’t been already. Their choices were to pick the lock or risk going loud. Damien wouldn’t like this. Jay tapped his MP5, then pointed at the door.
Damien gave him a reluctant nod.
They were both in position at a forty-five degree angle from the doorway, giving them the widest view possible once the door was open. Damien was standing, legs slightly bent; Jay was crouching.
Jay fired a suppressed three-round burst into the handle of the blue door. He heard the wood splinter, moved in quickly and gave the door as soft a kick as he could manage. It creaked open. Chunks of wood clattered to the floor.
Jay sliced the pie first, moving low from the left, entering the room diagonally. He focused on the right side, knowing Damien had the left covered. Damien moved silently behind him, crossing from right to left. It took only seconds to clear the room.
There was a flight of stairs leading to the second level. The bedrooms were upstairs. But there was also a passage that curved around the first level, connecting the rooms together in a loop.
Damien seemed to have already made the decision. He pointed to the passage. He would clear the second floor, quickly.
Jay couldn’t support him; he had to go up the stairs or risk losing the target—if, in fact, he was here.
/> Jay was halfway up the stairs, finger resting lightly on the trigger, when he heard the soft thump of a body falling. Then another. He pictured Damien taking out the enemy one by one. He hoped that was the case. His instinct was to rush down to Damien and make sure he was OK. But he reminded himself that Damien was capable of taking care of himself.
No more thumps.
‘You OK?’ Jay said softly into the mike, running the risk of being heard on the second floor.
One click response. Yes.
Good, he thought. Let’s do this.
The first doorway was on the left, two more beyond. Jay moved to the right side of the stairs as he climbed. There wasn’t a wall but a landing, looking out onto the floor below. More exposure than he would’ve liked. And Damien hadn’t cleared that floor yet either.
The house smelled faintly of tobacco, gunpowder and motor oil. The oil was most likely used to clean the AKMs—updated versions of the AK-47. He noticed movement in the first doorway. A robed man dropped into a crouch, rifle aimed. Jay shot him in mid-crouch. Blood smeared the doorway as the man collapsed into a seated position.
Jay reached the top of the stairs and surveyed the level below. He saw Damien move silently past two bodies lying in pools of viscous liquid. A moment later, he was at the bottom of the stairs.
‘The middle door’s closed,’ Jay said into his mike. ‘Check it last.’
There were three rooms. It was up to Jay to clear the first. Damien couldn’t cross to the other side without exposing himself.
While Damien kept watch over the landing, Jay moved in a wide arc, keeping as far away from the doorway as possible. It was clear.
He moved step by step, testing the floorboards for creaks as he made his way to the third room.
Walking past the doorway, he cleared eighty percent of it. But there was an unseen corner tucked away on the far right. He needed to enter the room to check it. If anyone was hiding in there, that’s where they’d be. He didn’t want to use a flashbang yet. There was no other way to do this except make himself a small target and go in fast.
The Chimera Vector Page 9
