Julia stood up and made to leave, but Danny glanced over and saw that Frank had taken a seat at the end of the pew and was looking hard at the woman. On the other side, Cal had just taken his place, effectively blocking her in.
“We’re not here to arrest you, Julia, but we’re not going to let you go, either. Your best option is to come with us and we’ll get everything ironed out for you,” Danny said as he stood. “Let’s not make a scene.”
She turned to face him directly for the first time. “There won’t be any scene.”
And with that, she fell straight through the floor.
Danny quickly punched his radio key four times, then bent over to quickly pick up all her clothes. “I hate it when they run,” he muttered.
Praise for the MAJESTIC-12 Series
“A smart look at a Cold War in many ways even colder and scarier and deadlier than the one we barely survived.”
—New York Times bestselling author Harry Turtledove
“A heady blend of super-spies and superpowers, MJ-12: Inception is Cold War-era science fiction done right. A taut thriller, and skillfully evocative.”
—New York Times bestselling author Chris Roberson
“X-Men meets Mission: Impossible. Martinez takes a concept as simple as ‘Super spies that are actually super’ and comes away with a hit. Filled with compelling, well-rounded characters, MJ-12 is my new favorite spy series.”
—Michael R. Underwood, author of Geekomancy and the Genrenauts series
“The Cold War becomes even more chilling as super-powered Americans are trained to become super-spies in Martinez’s new alternate-history thriller. It’s morally complex, intense, and so steeped in the 1940s, you can smell the cigarette smoke.”
—Beth Cato, author of Breath of Earth and The Clockwork Dagger
“MJ-12: Inception is a thriller that blends the best elements of Cold War-era spy stories, supernatural fantasy, and splashy pulp comics.”
—B&N Sci-Fi & Fantasy Blog
“MJ-12: Inception is Michael J. Martinez doing what he does best: taking a selection of great genres and mashing them up into something fresh and exciting, and quite unlike anything you’ve read before …. Or to put it another way, it’s like the X-Files and Heroes went back in time, dressed up in dinner jackets, lit a fuse, and jumped through a window to the theme from Mission: Impossible. Absolutely loved it.”
—Fantasy Faction
“Martinez made a point to recognize the sacrifices made by those in the intelligence community to protect their nation…. the characters were all well-developed, their powers were imaginative, the twists weren’t obvious and Martinez did a good job capturing the setting…. MJ-12: Inception was an enjoyable twist on the superhero genre and I look forward to seeing what happens next.”
—Amazing Stories
“With MJ-12: Inception, Martinez weaves an intense tale of patriotism, Cold War politics, the US spy network, and the nuances of human relationships which I simply couldn’t put down.”
—The Qwillery
“Martinez has me hooked, and I’m anxiously awaiting the next book in the trilogy; I imagine more Variants, more subterfuge, and more world-ending risks are to be revealed. It’s good stuff.”
—GeekDad
“MJ-12: Inception is both a complete stand-alone adventure and a thrilling introduction to a richly reimagined Cold War spy-fi series. I eagerly await Michael J. Martinez’s next novel featuring the Majestic 12.”
—Mutt Café
Books by Michael J. Martinez
The Daedalus Series
The Daedalus Incident
The Enceladus Crisis
The Venusian Gambit
The Gravity of the Affair (novella)
MAJESTIC-12
MJ-12: Inception
MJ-12: Shadows
Copyright © 2017 by Michael J. Martinez
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Night Shade Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Martinez, Michael J., author.
Title: MJ-12: shadows: a Majestic-12 thriller / by Michael J. Martinez.
Other titles: MJ-twelve | Shadows
Description: New York: Night Shade Books, [2017]
Identifiers: LCCN 2017006717| ISBN 9781597809269 (hardback: alk. paper) | ISBN 9781597809283 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Paranormal fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3613.A78647 M56 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017006717
ISBN: 978-1-59780-926-9
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-59780-928-3
Cover design by Lesley Worrell
Printed in Canada
In memory of Joanie.
Author’s Note
Throughout the years, the Central Intelligence Agency and the other organizations within the U.S. Intelligence Community have been dedicated to helping keep this nation safe. That said, CIA in particular has a rather blemished track record when it comes to regime change and various dirty deeds. The events in 1949 Syria you’ll read about here are, for the most part, historically accurate—without the superpowered covert agents, of course. The United States has a long history of covert action and intervention in the Middle East, and the events in Syria described here are perhaps some of the strangest and, in some ways, most egregious. I chose to write about this time and place because it made for a compelling story, first and foremost—but as we think about the ongoing tragedies in Syria today, one can’t help but wonder if we were setting the stage for the events of today back in 1949.
The MAJESTIC-12 series is set in the late 1940s, and as such, the characters have some decidedly un-modern views with regard to race, class, and gender. These views were not included merely for historical accuracy but to recognize how far we’ve come since then—and perhaps highlight how much further we have to go.
December 24, 1948
Lt. Rudolf Schmidt of the Vienna Polizei had seen many things over the course of his short but eventful career. From the Anschluss to liberation to occupation, crime continued no matter who was in charge in the city of Mozart, Beethoven, and Freud. There had been crimes when the Turks were at the gate, he was sure, or when the Romans fought off the barbarians.
But he was pretty certain there was no crime quite like this one.
“I tell you, it is impossible,” said Josef Franz, director of security for the Österreichische Postsparkasse, the Austrian Postal Savings Bank. “These vaults are ten meters below the subbasement, and the walls are lined with foot-thick steel. The elevator is manned at the top and at the bottom, and the stairwell is right next to it. All the exits are covered twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. There is no way this could have happened!”
Schmidt looked around the bank’s main vault, where only Vienna’s wealthiest could afford to keep their valuables—for all the good it did them. Money and valuables were strewn about haphazardly—jewels, bank notes, coins. It looked for all the world like someone had thrown a surprise party in the vaul
t, but used gold and jewelry for confetti.
“Well, HerrDirektor, it did happen, so we must figure out how that is. You say that this happened today? Between when and when?”
“Noon and two p.m. We check the vault itself every two hours,” Franz said. He was short and altogether too fat for his position, Schmidt thought. Likely a retired police officer, or even an old Austrian Army veteran who retired before the Nazis came to power. He didn’t look like he could secure a shopping bag, let alone a bank. Perhaps he was smart and had others do his bidding. It didn’t seem likely, though.
“We are searching the guards’ homes, but you say they never left,” Schmidt mused, half to himself. “Top-to-bottom search of the bank building itself, of course. Rooftops. Neighboring buildings. All employees and their vehicles.” He turned to face the director. “This is no way to spend Christmas Eve. Though perhaps it was the best time to try such a thing. Minds are elsewhere.”
“My guards are among the best in all the country,” Franz protested. “And I personally performed the noon check of the vault. All was in order. No one was inside.”
Schmidt walked gingerly around the looted vault as bank employees attempted to sort through the scattered treasures, pairing them with their private security boxes.
Adding to the mystery was the fact that either the thieves had carefully closed all the looted security boxes before leaving, or had somehow gained entry to them without opening the locks.
“Who would go to the trouble to re-lock all the boxes, yet scatter everything around?” Schmidt wondered aloud. “Takes far too much time.”
A different voice answered him. “Perhaps someone who didn’t need a key.”
Schmidt turned to see two smartly dressed people walking toward him with intent. The man was tall and broad, wearing a suit with a severe, American-style cut. He had short-cropped brown hair and a slight smile, and his dark brown eyes looked as though they’d seen quite a lot—not uncommon after the War, of course. The woman with him—a rarity in and of itself—was thin and pale, with intense green eyes and a mouth that seemed like it might never smile at all. A very dark dress suit with a white blouse added to her funereal aura. She walked right past them into the vault, her heels clicking on the concrete floor, while the man stopped and held out his hand.
“Special Agent Stanley Harper, United States Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said. “We heard this was a crime of … particular interest. We’re helping out the occupation authority with similar incidents.”
Schmidt’s eyebrows rose. “Lieutenant Schmidt, Vienna police. A G-man? You have seen other crimes like this?” he asked as he shook the proffered hand.
The FBI man looked around. “Secure room, locked containers … yes, we have,” he said, his German accent nearly perfect to Schmidt’s ears. “Though not on this scale. Whoever is doing this, it seems they have found a new level of ambition.”
“Where else?” Schmidt asked.
Harper gave an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I really can’t say. Some very interesting places, though. I assume nothing large was taken?”
Schmidt couldn’t help but do a double take. “You are very well informed, Agent Harper. Nothing large is missing. There is a Gustav Klimt here worth millions. Vases and urns and other valuables. Only things that are small, easily palmed; those are the ones missing.”
“Palmed …” the American said, his eyes suddenly lost in thought. He then stooped down to pick up a few coins from the floor, wrapping them completely in his meaty fist. “Huh.”
“You have an idea?” Schmidt asked.
Harper smiled and made a show of dropping all the coins—as if he didn’t want to be accused of taking anything. “Just an idle thought, Herr Leutnant.”
Schmidt turned around to see the man’s partner—it was strange; he didn’t know of any police agency who had women investigators—running her hands across the various safe deposit boxes. She finally stopped and turned back to Harper, giving him a nod.
Harper held out a business card. “Once you’re done here, if you wouldn’t mind keeping us informed as you proceed?”
“Of course,” Schmidt said, taking the card. “You do not wish to look any further?”
“When you’ve seen what we’ve seen, you get a lot from one look,” the agent replied. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
The two turned to leave, but Schmidt hurried after them. “Can you at least give me an idea of what I’m looking for?” he asked, almost plaintively. “The diamonds taken here are worth several million marks.”
The woman turned and, to Schmidt’s great surprise, did actually smile. “You wouldn’t believe us if we told you.”
* * *
The two FBI agents walked out of the Austrian Postal Savings Bank—a beautiful, marble-clad Modernist ode to money itself—and onto the evening hustle and bustle of Biberstrasse. “Well? What’d you get?” the man who’d called himself Harper said in English, a slight Boston accent breaking through.
“It’s her,” the woman replied, stopping to look up at the bank building itself. “Thick walls, small girl. She didn’t even need to enter the front door. Only question I have is where she put her clothes.”
The bank occupied an entire block in Vienna’s historic core. There were no alleys, no place to really hide. If the bank really was hit between noon and two p.m., like the cops said, their suspect’s M. O. definitely would’ve been noticed.
Unless …
“She parked,” the man said, looking at the cars lining the block. He quickly walked around the corner and saw that there were several cars angled in, with just a couple feet between the fenders and the building’s facade. “Here,” he said. “She parked here, got ready, and probably just went straight down.”
The woman next to him frowned. “There’s got to be thirty cars here, Frank.”
“Just on this side, too,” he replied. “Let’s get to work, Zip.”
Zipporah Silverman smiled wanly, pulled her coat tight around her, and started walking down the street, running her fingertips idly along the hoods of the parked cars. Zippy was a unique individual—a Variant. Like the very few other Variants in the world, she possessed a paranormal ability. In her case, she could gain a psychic impression of past activities by touching an object, an ability called psychometry. So, she went down the row of cars, looking for the image of the woman she’d seen when she touched the safety deposit boxes in the vault. She stopped at the sixth car in the row. “This one wasn’t here until late afternoon,” she said. She then crouched to the ground, placing her palm on the asphalt beneath the fender.
Ten seconds later, she stood. “Not here.”
They walked farther down the street, finding two others potential candidates, but with the same result. It was only when they turned onto Dominikanerbastei that Zippy found something. She stayed crouched beneath the front hood of a Tatra T87, a beastly V8 luxury sedan with a Deco body and enough wear and tear to place it as a pre-war model.
“She was here,” she said softly, both hands pressed to the pavement. “And she didn’t go in through the side. She went under.”
Frank Lodge swore under his breath. “That’s new,” he muttered. “You get a look at her face?”
Zippy stood and smiled. “Yep. She’s a real looker, too. You’d like her.”
“Yeah, I go in for the thieving types,” Frank cracked. “Let’s get moving. Maybe now we can finally track her down.”
* * *
The choir at Vienna’s St. Stephen’s Cathedral sounded truly Heaven-sent. Voices of angels, raised in praise of God Almighty, and with a harmony that Calvin Hooks had never even thought possible, his time in the churches of Tennessee notwithstanding.
He supposed they could use a little rhythm, if he was going to be picky about it, but almost immediately chided himself. He was sure God would be plenty pleased with such a hymn.
The church itself had just reopened a couple weeks prior; fires set during the Soviet takeover of the c
ity had severely damaged the ancient church’s roof. And with it being Christmas Eve, there was a fair amount of folks taking refuge against the chill outside. Even the hardest hearts, Cal knew, would find solace in a beautiful old church like this on Christmas.
Then a woman walked by, her heels snapping sharply on the checkerboard marble floor, and Cal’s mind immediately shifted. He held a small cigarette case to his mouth. “Got eyes on her, I think,” he whispered. “Walking in now, center aisle, right side.”
The case vibrated twice in acknowledgement. A few seconds later, a slight blond man wearing glasses brushed past him to follow. Cal watched him go briefly … until he realized that the couple across the aisle were staring at him in something akin to shock.
He knew it had nothing to do with his whispering and everything to do with the fact that he was probably one of maybe a half dozen black people in all of Vienna. And it wasn’t like German folk—and Austria, Germany … they were kind of all the same to him—were exactly keen on Negroes.
Cal sighed and put his eyes back on the target, the blond man, who had taken a seat one row behind the woman. He had to keep his eyes on the target. His ears, though, he’d save for that Christmas carol the choir was singing. Always good to keep a little bit of the Lord in mind, he thought.
* * *
Danny Wallace reached down for the kneeler, then got on his knees and folded his hands in front of him, leaning his arms on the back of the pew in front of him. The woman was less than three feet away. She immediately flinched and shifted, and Danny knew then they had the right target—as if the sensation in his mind wasn’t confirmation enough. She was a flaring beacon now that he’d been able to finally get close enough.
“Nice trick at the vault today,” he said quietly, trying to suppress a smile. “You’re getting pretty daring. You’re also starting to develop a pattern, though, and that’s a problem.”
To her credit, the woman kept herself composed, sitting stock-still with her arms folded and staring straight ahead. “Excuse me?” she said, sounding incongruously pleasant. She was petite and dressed conservatively but quite fashionably for church. Danny knew she could afford it.
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