Finally, Cade said, “Is it that important to you?”
“Yes, son. Yes, it’s that important. How about I come over your way Friday after you’re off work?”
“I can’t do it on Friday,” said Cade. “I’m headed up to see Kyle’s graduation.”
“Kyle? You mean that friend of yours in college? Graduation? I thought he graduated a few years before you did?”
“He did, yeah, from undergrad. He’s graduating from Quantico this weekend,” said Cade.
“Quantico? You mean the FBI academy? Wow. He’s in the FBI? That’s great. Man, I bet his parents are so proud of him . . .” Cal stopped, realizing how that must have sounded. “I mean, Cade, listen, I didn’t mean that what he is doing is any more important than what you do. Look, I’m amazed at what you do. Hell, I don’t even understand it.”
But it was too late. Cade’s eyes rolled. His dad had always wanted him to apply to the Naval Academy or at least go through ROTC and then do something big, something important. But the interest was never there. Cade had seen enough “service” in his childhood to last a lifetime.
“I’m not back until late Sunday night. Call me next week.” Cade hung up the phone, shook his head, and raised a hand to flag down a waitress. He needed a beer. The four waitresses, however, appeared to be engrossed with topping off a tray full of salt shakers. The radio was on, and they were listening to a news report, which was out of Cade’s earshot.
“. . . appears that the final death toll in that tragic blast at the Morris K. Udall Little League Park in the SabinoCanyon area of Tucson is now listed at thirty-one. We’ve confirmed further that the original report of four dead and twenty-seven injured was accurate. The initial blast killed four, and many of the wounded were treated and released with minor injuries from shrapnel. Reports are coming in that many of the wounded, previously discharged from treatment, have died in their homes of causes unknown. A medical mystery unfolding now . . . wait, hold on, okay, I’m getting word now that we’re going live to a press conference at the Tucson Medical Center, where the largest number of victims was originally transported; the news conference is already in progress.”
“Let me introduce Dr. Charles Ramirez of the Tucson Medical Center as well as Special Agent in Charge Stephen Bolz of the FBI’s counterterrorism task force.”
Dr. Ramirez began, “Let me just say that in thirty-five years of practicing medicine, I’ve never seen anything like this. Our heartfelt sorrow is extended to each and every family member of the thirty-one lost souls.” The doctor’s voice shook as he cleared his throat. “Of the thirty-one people that were injured in the blast, seventeen were brought here, eleven of them children. Four were pronounced dead upon arrival.” The doctor spoke mechanically now, devoid of emotion. “One was admitted in critical condition. His condition was later upgraded to stable. Approximately two-and-one-half hours later, his condition deteriorated, and he went into cardiac arrest. We were unable to resuscitate him.” There was silence; the doctor was struggling to maintain his composure. “Our triage staff responded swiftly to all injuries. The rest of the injuries were non-life threatening. The remaining eleven victims were treated for minor lacerations and contusions. All were later released.” The silence began again, this one protracted. Through the radio, sounds of snapping camera lenses were audible. The doctor mustered enough courage to continue. “Then, beginning at approximately 1:15 p.m., emergency calls began pouring into the 911 service and into our hospital. Our service was once again flooded with patients. As they arrived by ambulance, all eleven of the originally discharged patients were declared dead upon arrival. At this time, the cause of death is unknown. We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report, but in my estimation, there must have been some kind of toxin involved in that explosion.”
Reporters all spoke at once, clamoring to ask a question, but then Agent Bolz interrupted. “Let me assure you that all available resources are being employed by the FBI, other federal agencies, and with cooperation from the Tucson Sheriff’s Department. Forensic evidence is being gathered as we speak. We’ll let you know more as we find out.” He quickly left.
The radio newscast switched from the news conference in Phoenix, back to the WBS anchors in Atlanta. “Well, that’s what we know from the scene in Arizona. To recap, of the thirty-one known dead, seventeen were rushed to the Tucson Medical Center. Of those, eleven were treated and released, but later died of unknown causes. There was possibly a toxin of some type used in the explosive device. We’ll stay on top of this story and bring you the news as it happens. For now, in for Mike Slayden, I’m John Carden, reporting live. You’re listening to Newstalk 780, WBS.”
13
After eating what turned out to be a quiet lunch, Cade headed back out Fado’s heavy oak doors and onto the street. He felt more at ease now that he’d had a break. The cobalt blue sky was bright and clear as he walked down the hill towards the office. Behind him, a man also exited Fado, crossed to the opposite side of the street and walked in the same direction as Cade. A slight gust of wind flapped his un-tucked shirt tails. The man put his right hand to his ear. “Secure channel,” he said softly.
“Channel secure,” came a crisp reply into his earpiece.
“Subject en route.”
“Roger, subject en route. Distance?”
“Distance, three hundred meters.” The blowing breeze caused a slight rustling sound across the mic. “Be in view in zero-two minutes.”
“Roger that, zero-two minutes.”
Cade waited a moment for a MARTA bus to clear and then crossed Peachtree Road towards his office. Behind him shone the black mirrored glass of the sprawling Atlanta Financial Center building. In a vacant office on the sixth floor, a tripod-mounted camera with a high-powered lens recorded with intent.
Once inside the building, Cade rode up to the sixteenth floor and sat down in his cube. Whitmore stood up and walked around. If he ever wanted to talk to Cade, Whitmore walked all the way around the cube; standing up to talk over the cube wall was pointless, as his height created only a view of the top of Cade’s head that way.
“Where’d you go for lunch? I was going to see if you wanted to grab something at Fado.”
“Aw man, sorry,” said Cade. “That’s where I went. Sorry, I just needed to get out of here and take a breather.”
Whitmore didn’t hide his disappointment very well.
“Oh no, that’s cool. We’ll do it again soon.” He paused and said, “Hey, what was the big hubbub with them calling you upstairs? Everything cool?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, no big deal. Some guy who normally works up there was out today or something. They just had a server that needed a little medi-Cade,” Cade said, trying to cover up what had happened.
“Medi-Cade?”
“You caught that? See what I did there? My name is Cade . . .”
“Cade, dude, now that’s just gay,” joked Whitmore.
“Gay? You’re gay.”
“Yes, I’m gay. We all know I’m gay. But damn, I’m not that gay.”
Cade looked at him then laughed. For the first time that day he felt good.
Whitmore’s demeanor shifted. “Hey, can you believe it about those kids? Thirty-one people, man, unbelievable.”
Cade replied, “Wait, what? What thirty-one people? You mean the Tucson thing? They said there were four.”
“Dude, no. It’s unreal—every single one of the survivors are now dead. It’s like the bomb fragments were poisoned or something. No one knows.”
Cade flopped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Thirty-one? Holy crap.” Cade wanted to search the news on his browser but thought better of it, knowing the company logged website visits. Then, another thought crossed his mind. He remembered the incident when he placed masking tape over the lens of the laptop webcam, and it was gone the next day. Did that have anything to do with those guys on seventeen? Cade’s mind raced. Maybe he wasn’t being so paranoid after all. Maybe there was somethi
ng to it. He glanced at the little lens of the webcam. What if they’re watching me right now? he wondered. The thought gave him the willies.
Down here, it seemed like a typical day. People in a conference room, others moving in that direction. Others on the phone, several banging away at their keyboards. But Cade didn’t feel comfortable anymore.
The desk phone rang again. “202 area code? Who the hell is calling me from New York?”
“No, nimrod. 202 is DC,” replied an amused Whitmore.
The phone rang again. “DC? Who do I know . . . holy crap!” Cade answered the call, “Cade Williams.”
“Hey, man!”
“Kyle! Hell yeah. I knew it must be you,” he said, glancing back at Whitmore who smirked at him. “Man, how’s it going?!” Cade said as he walked toward the break room.
“God, it’s almost over! I’m stoked, but damn I’m tired,” said Kyle.
Kyle MacKerron had taken Cade under his wing in college. Cade had been just a green freshman pledging the fraternity when Kyle was a senior. Cade always looked up to him like the big brother he never had.
Cade cut in with his trademark sarcasm, “So you’re telling me you’re about ready to graduate? Those suckers in the FBI want to give you a badge and a gun!” Cade knew the FBI had literally recruited Kyle. They were after him. Kyle’s subtle southern drawl was pure coastal Georgia, but bespoke nothing of what talents lay underneath. Kyle possessed everything the bureau was looking for—a graduate degree in forensic accounting, fluency in Farsi, a private pilot’s license, and letters of commendation for distinguished service in the Gulf War.
Kyle jabbed back, “Hey, when you get up here on Friday, I’ll let you hold it.”
“Hey, man, I don’t even want to speculate on what ‘it’ you’re talking about.”
“The gun, nimbleweed, the gun. If you promise not to shoot your toe off, I’ll let you hold the handgun. Just don’t tell anybody. I don’t want to get kicked out of here because of some pencil-neck.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Cade. “I’m taking Friday off and driving up. What happens when I get to the gate and some military dude asks me what the hell I’m doing on his base?”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re officially on the invite list. They’ll have your name at the guard gate. But whatever you do, don’t forget your driver’s license. You’ll never get in here without that.”
“Hey, now don’t forget, you promised me you’d take me on the Jodie Foster tour. I expect to see anywhere they filmed The Silence of the Lambs,” said Cade.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got your lamb right here. Just have the Marine guard point you over to the dorms. I’m in the middle building, on the fourth floor. Room 463.”
Thursday came quickly, and once home, Cade realized how much crap he had yet to pack for the weekend. The plan was to leave early to avoid the traffic and to get a start on the ten-and-a-half-hour drive. Not that he minded it—the drive would give him some time to decompress and see a bit of the country he hadn’t seen. The last time he’d been in DC was in the seventh grade. All the school safety patrols from the county piled onto a train, with a mass of parent-chaperones in tow, and struck out to see the capital. That was four years before the 9/11 attacks. Now security was tighter. I bet they don’t show up at the White House with a ton of kids and ask to see the President anymore. He laughed. He was really looking forward to seeing Kyle.
Kyle had been like a guide his freshman year, steering him through all the boneheaded mistakes he was walking into. Cade thought back about going to Kyle’s home in Savannah that first year. They had some good times. Kyle, though, was a bit of a dichotomy. He could just about party anybody under the table, yet there was a serious side to him. Even being just a college kid, anywhere he was, Kyle always studied the situation. He had a sixth sense. He’d walk into a room, stop, turn around, and pull Cade out. It was like Kyle could smell trouble before it happened. His sense of smell for trouble didn’t cause him to avoid it himself though. If ever there was a drunken asshole at one of the frat parties, Kyle would position himself close enough to pound the guy if needed. And pound he did. Cade saw him tangle with a belligerent redneck at a sorority social one time. It was like watching a cat with fists made of bricks. His quickness was amazing. Kyle was everything Cade was not. That’s why one of them was in the FBI and the other was working a server room. The truth though was that Kyle was very proud of Cade. Cade had been just a scared little kid that first day of freshman year, and today he had made something of himself.
14
Cade was pretty pleased with himself for getting out of town so early that Friday morning. He woke up much earlier than his alarm, probably due to the anticipation, and spent no time stuck in traffic. He didn’t really mind the driving. The truth was, he was really excited to be seeing Kyle. He and “Cool Mac” had become even better friends after undergrad. In the past year though, they didn’t get much time together, and Cade hoped this would be one last weekend of fun before Kyle headed out to his duty station. Kyle had been assigned to the San Diego field office—a prime assignment, to say the least. Lots of new agents instead find themselves assigned to Detroit or Jersey City or some place that looked like a desert wasteland near the border with Mexico.
No, Kyle had really lucked out. Come to think of it, thought Cade, I doubt he lucked out. I bet he won that placement like he’s won out so many other things in his life. Kyle was the kind of guy that always had a plan. Even back in school, Kyle mapped out his future. He knew where he wanted to go from the time he was a teenager. Cade, on the other hand, more or less bumbled his way into wherever he ended up. Not that he was complaining. It was a good thing he’d never wanted to be a doctor or an FBI agent or anything like that, because that takes years of planning and Kyle was just that type of planner.
Cade crossed into Virginia, glanced down at the GPS to see how far away his exit would be. Kyle was busy today, his last day of training before graduation, so Cade easily had time to check into his hotel in the Aquia Harbor area, not far from the Marine base at Quantico.
The phone’s generic ringtone went off, and he glanced down at the incoming number; it was not a number he recognized. “A 678 exchange? But that’s the same exchange as the office. Crap, what the hell do they want? I’m on vacation.”
“Hello, this is Cade.”
“Williams? Rupert Johnston.”
The car swerved. “Ah, yes, sir, Mr. Johnston.” Cade had no idea what this was about. His mind scrambled back to the screaming sirens and popping strobe lights. Yes, he was sure he had booked today on his calendar as being out of office.
“Williams, look, know you’re out today but wanted to let you know of a change that hits you on Mundee mornin’.” Johnston’s accent came through clearer than ever. Perhaps it surfaced when his guard was down, or perhaps in talking to Cade, he had no one to impress. “See, you’ll be workin’ up here on seventeen from now on. Just didn’ wan’ you comin’ to the wrong floor come Mundee.”
Cade was shocked. “Ah, well, okay . . . ah, sir? Um, what, I mean, ah, how did this come up? I didn’t know I’d be transferred anywhere.”
“Well, don’t worry about it, son. We need someone up here with skills like you got, and since you already been up here and know the lay o’ the land and all. Well, we figured you would be the best. Congratulations, this is a step up,” finished Johnston.
Cade was trying to wrap his head around this. “Oh, ah, thank you, sir. Um, sir? Are you sure I’m the right guy—I mean man—for the job? I mean, um, I was a little uncomfortable up there, what with all the sirens and flashing lights and stuff.”
“Oh them? Oh don’ worry yourself too much about them. We hardly ever have nothin’ like that happen. And don’ worry about those assholes none neither. They’s a bunch a blowhards. You just git on up here come Mundee, and we’ll be just fine.”
Johnston hung up. Cade lowered the phone to his side and stared straight ahead, his face vacant. It was a moment bef
ore he realized he hadn’t even hung up the call. He shook his head. “Great, I move from the Disney World of server farms over to a nuclear submarine at DEFCON 4. Wonderful.”
He drew in some deep breaths to try to relax. He wasn’t supposed to have to do deep breathing exercises or yoga or anything on vacation. Vacations were supposed to induce the relaxation without all the effort. A short time later, he pulled off the little back road of Highway 1 and followed the signs for Quantico Marine Corps Base. He was a little hungry and checked his phone, looking for a restaurant that had customer reviews that were slightly above death sentences. He followed the map up to a little house-looking place called Bella Café. There were several cars in the parking lot, which stood right next to a tacky place that sold outdoor pools. Inside though, the restaurant was lively. A guy playing guitar sat in the far corner and faded photos of customers littered the wood plank walls. Cade needed to wake up after all that driving. Mixed into the middle of the chalkboard menu full of gyro sandwiches, burgers, and chicken wraps, Cade’s eye stopped. Lobster Bisque.
“Well, there it is. The reviews raved about the Lobster Bisque. How good could lobster bisque be in a place like this?” he laughed. “Ah, yes, ma’am, I’ll have a cup of the bisque, and a large coffee please.” She tilted her head at him for just a second, thinking it to be an odd combination of bisque and beverage.
“I’ve been on the road,” he said, “just need a little caffeine.” She smiled and disappeared into the back. Cade stood for a minute waiting to pay. The guy on the guitar wasn’t half bad. The soft sounds were familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. He shut his eyes and tried to concentrate.
The Indigo Girls. Cade sometimes caught hell from his guy friends over how much he loved their music, but he always made it to their outdoor shows when they were in Atlanta. Sometimes it was at Chastain Park and other times at the Atlanta Botanical Gardens. It was always a good time though.
The Fourteenth Protocol_A Thriller Page 6
