Chimera

by Sonny Whitelaw

  Jordan Spinner had been a fellow traveller on a journey that had once been his alone. He had hoped she would leave without regret. But as he stood there, he saw the tears in her eyes. For the first time since he'd known her, he was unable to conjure up some glib remark. He clasped her shoulders, and turned her to face him. "I would never have made it without you, Jordan."

  Surprised at his rare use of her first name, she blinked. Then her eyes softened and she brought her hand to his face. "Nor I without you."

  At the touch of her hand, the smell of her familiar warmth, he faltered in his resolve. Just once, to hold her and kiss her goodbye, to-

  Her face creased into an uncertain frown. Dropping her hand, she looked out the window. He followed the direction of her gaze, and his eyes widened as the impossible, the unthinkable unfolded before them in appalling slow motion.

  " No !" she screamed in denial.

  McCabe did not hear his own cry of disbelief and rage as he threw himself against her, pushing her away from the window and onto the floor. The shockwave blasted through the windows, showering the room with heat and glass and dust. The entire hotel shuddered and groaned. And then came the screams.

  -Epilogue-

  Washington, D.C. December 12, 2001

  "Nate Sturgess once told me," said Jordan, "that the quick capture of Timothy McVeigh was like having the Holy Grail handed to you on a platter. It was too easy, creating a sense of dissatisfaction amongst the victim's families. Perhaps that's why I feel robbed. Day after day I search the remnants of a thousand shredded lives, trying to give closure to loved ones, vainly seeking closure for…hated ones."

  She was standing in Assistant Director Brant's office in Washington, DC, looking out the window. Through the drizzle, the dome of the Capitol building appeared smudged and streaky. The US Constitution was beginning to look much the same. "The hardest thing to stomach is knowing that the Consortium was right. An attack on US soil by an extremist fundamentalist group would kill thousands-just not in the way they predicted." Jordan let out a short, hard sound of disgust, and turned to face Brant. "Is it too hackneyed to call their deaths poetic justice?"

  Peter Brant stood from his chair, put his hands in his pockets, and joined her at the window. "We know who went into the South Tower. We know-and I can't tell you how-who was in the room when the first plane hit. We know that some, but not all, survived the initial impact, and that many of them chose to jump rather than…" He shook his head and met her eyes.

  "I take no pleasure in that knowledge, sir."

  "No one does. But with the files destroyed in the Pentagon, it is over, Jordan. There's no one left to prosecute. The small fry, the support personnel, either worked under the assumption that they were employed by the US Government on a top secret project, or were petty criminals who had no knowledge of the overall picture."

  He took a deep breath, pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "We want you to stay. Now, more than ever before, we need your expertise. Not," he added hastily, "to identify victims or build the case against bin Laden-we have that-but to continue working with the FBI, in the field of forensic science."

  "Two months ago you accepted my resignation."

  "To protect you until this was over." He replaced his glasses and stared at her. "It was never intended to be permanent."

  "Of course a great deal has changed since then," she said. Outside, the rain had stopped. The streets glistened dully in the wetness. "I suppose the real question is, do I want to be around to dodge the flak now that the FBI is under investigation for failing to prevent 9-11?"

  Brant's lips thinned. "We need you. We need your expertise, but not unless you're prepared to come back to work."

  Smiling sadly, Jordan lifted her hands and examined the now faded scars. It seemed a lifetime ago that he'd said those words to her.

  "Take a few weeks off, go home to Australia and think about it," he added.

  Home. Even Brant saw her as someone who didn't quite belong here. "Exactly what sort of job did you have in mind?"

  "How do you feel about working with McCabe again?"

  "We've just spent six years together, sir." And in the end I discovered that he was sleeping with the enemy. Could she work with him again? More to the point, could she ever trust him again?

  "We both know that Afghanistan is just the beginning."

  "Pandora's Box," she whispered.

  Brant went to the door; the meeting was over. "You can walk away and hope, or you can stay and try to make a difference. In the short term, we need you at Quantico."

  She thought for a moment, then joined him at the door and accepted his outstretched hand. "As you said, sir, the world has changed."

  In an office upstairs, Joshua McCabe was sitting in Assistant Director Reynold's office. The last time he'd been there had been over a year ago. A photograph of Bush now replaced Clinton's.

  "The shit is flying in every direction," Reynold said. "Mostly from the top down." His gaze slid to the photograph, and he all but sneered.

  "You expected less?" McCabe said. "Did anyone have the guts to remind the White House of the Hart-Rudman Commission's report? Or that it was the White House that ordered our investigations of bin Laden to be downsized ? Did anyone think to remind them of the number of planned attacks we successfully foiled-until they came to power, that is?" He abruptly leaped from the chair. "I know; a hundred successes don't outweigh one failure. I know that one well," he added bitterly. "You asked me once if I could postpone my…early retirement plan. Guess you want me to wait a little longer, huh?"

  Reynold looked uncomfortable. "If you wouldn't mind. Brant's asking Dr Spinner to stay on."

  Now it was McCabe's turn to look uncomfortable. "You going to tell her the truth?"

  "Which one?" Reynold shook his head, picked up his pen and looked down at the report on his desk. "You tell her whatever you want, McCabe," he said dismissively.

  "If I tell her, you'll lose her." He walked to the door.

  "Your call." Reynold began writing. "And McCabe? Close the door on your way out."