MJ-12

by Michael J. Martinez

  “No, but I imagine you’ll be on the lookout for some unusual ones from here on out,” Truman said, his friendly face masking his anger. Maggie thought the President might be an even better poker player.

  “You never know where an investigation will take you, Mr. President.”

  Truman finally let the mask slip. “I can tell you this, Director. Your agency will immediately alert Director Hillenkoetter here the moment you have information on any individuals exhibiting unusual characteristics. And then you will remove your agency from that investigation. Are we clear?”

  Hoover remained steady. “Mr. President, the CIA has no jurisdiction over criminal cases within the United States.”

  Truman looked over at Hillenkoetter. “Hilly, can you and the ladies step out for a moment?”

  Maggie quickly stood and followed Hillenkoetter and Mrs. Stevens out the door, closing it behind her. Curious, she reached back to scan the emotions of the two men left in the Oval Office. Truman was triumphant. Hoover quickly went from mildly nervous to absolutely terrified in the space of about twenty seconds.

  Moments later, Hoover barged through the door and hustled through the anteroom as if his ass were on fire. Hillenkoetter smiled. “Let’s go back in.”

  The President had one of his patented grins on his face. “Well, that was fun.”

  Maggie couldn’t help herself. “What did you say to him, sir?” she asked once the door was closed.

  Truman shook his head side to side. “Miss Dubinsky, some matters should remain private. In fact, that’s exactly what I told Director Hoover just now.”

  Hillenkoetter folded his lanky body back onto the couch. “He’ll hate you for this, sir.”

  “Aw, he hates me already, Hilly. That’s fine. Honestly, I wouldn’t want to do it—God knows he’s not the only one in this town with those kinds of skeletons in his closet. But if it’s a choice between his private life and a global panic about Variants, well … I think even he knows that I won’t hesitate to make the right decision for this country.”

  Maggie thought about that for a moment while the two men chatted further. The kind of panic and fear she’d felt out of Hoover was existential in every sense of the word. She’d only felt that from people facing death or the loss of a loved one. Or …

  “He’s gay,” she blurted out.

  “Excuse me?” the President said.

  Maggie realized what she’d said, and felt her face go red. “Sorry, sir. Never mind.”

  Truman frowned. “Whatever you may think you know about the director is just a rumor, nothing more. J. Edgar Hoover has served for years with distinction. Understood?”

  Maggie nodded but was surprised at her distaste for such a tactic. “Yes, Mr. President.” Maybe he’s not getting my vote after all. “But why not just fire him?”

  “Because J. Edgar Hoover has dirt on everybody in this town,” Hillenkoetter responded. “He’s been at this for twenty-some years now. Cut him down completely, he’ll spill on everyone. But he who lives by the sword—”

  Truman held up his hand to stop Hillenkoetter from saying more. “All right, now, where are we with this shadow business?”

  Hillenkoetter opened a folder from his briefcase. “From what we’ve been able to determine from interviews and the like, the description these two provided regarding their encounter at Bethesda is materially different from what Wallace mentally received during his encounter with the vortex, and also different from the eyewitness accounts reported before Dr. Schreiber’s escape. However, we have identified potential similarities with what Wallace believes he observed in Damascus back in March.”

  Truman looked disgusted. “Christ, Hilly, let me try to get this straight. You’re suggesting that now we got, what, three or four different kinds of shadowy bullshit going on?”

  “Appears to be, sir. I’m hoping to send my best agents to look into it ASAP.”

  “You mean your best people aren’t already on this?” Truman snapped.

  Hillenkoetter looked over to Maggie and Mrs. Stevens, and smiled. “My best people are sitting right in front of you, and you’ve kept them pretty busy, sir. But if it’s all right with you, I’d like ’em back.”

  Truman relented and even offered the two women a tired smile of his own. “Permission granted. Ladies, thank you for your service.”

  Maggie and Mrs. Stevens nodded and, taking their cue, rose as Hillenkoetter walked them to the door. “Mrs. Stevens, have my secretary back at the shop get you on the next flight to you-know-where to assist Wallace in his investigations. Maggie, you’re heading back to Damascus to check on something for Wallace. I’ll brief you later this afternoon.”

  Maggie nodded and followed Mrs. Stevens out the door. To her surprise, she turned and gave Maggie a big hug, right there in front of the President’s secretary.

  “We did it,” she said quietly. “I’m gonna miss you.”

  Maggie felt the genuine emotions pouring out of Mrs. Stevens—pride, a little sorrow, and real affection. She broke off the hug and managed to give Mrs. Stevens a smile. “I’m gonna miss you too, Rose. I will. Now go fix Danny’s mess. I need to see about Frank and Cal.”

  Mrs. Stevens smiled and headed off, leaving Maggie standing there a moment, wishing she could feel as vibrantly and intensely as Rose Stevens did about … anything at all, really.

  August 14, 1949

  Frank was just about ready to pack it in—for the night, for the week, for the mission, you name it. It was 2 a.m. and sleep wasn’t happening. The week had been fruitless and frustrating; Copeland had been fretting endlessly about Za’im’s increasing … eccentricities … but refused to allow Frank, Cal, or even Meade to investigate. The last time Frank had seen the President, only al-Hinnawi was with him; rumor had it al-Shishakli was on the outs. Even Zippy was starting to get frozen out of Za’im’s increasingly small circle; her fears about the Syrian president’s mental fitness were starting to make more sense.

  Over the past few weeks, Za’im had taken to wearing a far more ostentatious marshal’s uniform, decking himself out with everything from a feathered fez to gold-buckled riding boots. He’d thrown a couple of really over-the-top parties, too; Copeland had snagged an invitation to one and reported a scene right out of a bad Arabian Nights knock-off, complete with belly dancers, that would’ve felt right at home at a burlesque, and enough alcohol—a taboo for many Muslims in Syria, let alone many of those in attendance—to drown the Fifth Fleet.

  The biggest issue, though, was Za’im’s public announcement of negotiations with Israel, which were definitely more taboo than any amount of Scotch around these parts. Without warning or any kind of discussion beforehand, he just up and talked about it on one of his radio addresses, a series of increasingly rambling, nonsensical homilies about the greatness of the Syrian people, the need for a united Middle East, the shiftless youth of the souks, the cleanliness of the streets, and the necessity of no longer wearing the fez because of its Ottoman legacy.

  Which made it all the more confusing that he’d shown up with the feathered fez the next day, but Frank had stopped trying to make sense of Za’im after he had Saadeh sent back to Beirut. Frank, Cal, and Meade had risked a whole lot to get Saadeh to Damascus, and ultimately Za’im used the guy’s life to score political points with Lebanon. Frank could see the logic in it—if Saadeh had succeeded, then sure, maybe he’d have wanted a united Greater Syria under his rule instead of Za’im’s—but it was a cold, hard thing to accept. And that bullshit about Saadeh being a Middle Eastern Hitler? Please.

  Frank ran a hand over his face and, grabbing a bathrobe, headed out to the Copelands’ courtyard. That was one thing Frank felt American houses needed—courtyards, with fountains in them. Shady and cool during the day, inviting and quiet at night. Frank idly thought about where a house with a courtyard might make sense—Nevada, for one. He’d heard nice things about Albuquerque, or maybe Phoenix. Maybe his time in Syria had given him a taste for the desert—or maybe he was j
ust hankering to be alone with his thoughts, without the voices in his head chiming in about every little thing.

  Odd noises coming from the street, said the former O.S.S. officer in his mind. Multiple bogeys, clustered near the door.

  “Christ, it’s probably just some toughs out there,” Frank muttered, plopping down on a chair near the fountain. “Gimme a break.”

  You should check the door.

  “No, goddamn it!” Frank hissed, a little louder than he wanted to. “Shut the fuck up!”

  Frank leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Maybe he was wrong and being alone would be the absolute worst thing for him. Without stimuli, maybe the voices would get antsy, start telling him how to cook his meals, trim the hedges, maybe even offer ideas for hobbies. Model trains, maybe, or collecting commemorative souvenir teaspoons. Maybe Damascus had a shop for those.

  The sound of splintering wood shook him out of his rut, and fast. The door! Multiple bogeys entering the building!

  Frank immediately dashed toward the staircase leading up to the second floor. His first priority was supposed to be Cal—the safety and security of Variants was always mission number one—but he found himself at the door to the kids’ room instead. Security be damned; there was a baby in there.

  Only three ways down from here, all with line of sight to the front door, said one of the many voices in Frank’s head; it was getting hard to tell who was who anymore. Grab the kids and get them to Copeland’s room.

  Frank entered the room and did his best to gently lift the baby from the crib, then woke little Miles as gentle as he could. “C’mon, kid. Wake up. Your dad needs to see you,” he whispered.

  Young Miles rubbed his eyes. “Daddy?”

  No time! Grab him! Jim said, practically shouting inside Frank’s skull. With one arm, Frank scooped the boy and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of flour, then did his best to run down the hallway toward Copeland’s room.

  Thankfully, the break-in had awakened Lorraine, who was just opening the door. “Frank! What is it?” Then she saw her children in his arms and her eyes grew wide.

  “Take the baby,” Frank whispered. Lorraine, however, was already scooping the child out of the crook of his arm. He put little Miles down at the door. “Lock this door. Put all the furniture in the room in front of it. Then call the office for help. You understand? Lock the door, move the furniture. Call for help.”

  Lorraine looked dazed, but nodded. “Door … furniture … help. Come on, Miles. Come with Mommy, then? Come on.”

  Little Miles walked into the room, while Lorraine gave Frank one last, panicked glance. He waited until she shut the door and he heard the click of a lock before turning back to the hallway. “OK, guys, tell me everything,” he muttered as he started moving back down the hall.

  The voices came all in a rush.

  At least six different people inside, telling from their voices.

  With that many inside, high probability of backup on the street.

  They’re speaking Arabic, and one of them addressed the other as “Captain.” Police or military, likely the latter.

  If they’re Syrian regulars, expect bolt-action repeating rifles, revolvers as sidearms, and a short, curved dagger for each of them.

  Sounds like they’re moving through the courtyard now.

  Moving in twos. Smart.

  Get your firearm. Use the suppressor. Only chance of picking off enough of them to escape.

  Behind you!

  Frank hit the deck immediately, a rifle butt missing his head by inches. He kicked upward, entangling the legs of his assailant, then grabbed the man’s belt and pulled him down. The soldier—or at least someone wearing a Syrian Army uniform—fell squarely on his ass and lost his grip on his rifle, which Frank then scrambled for.

  “Stop!”

  Moving in twos, remember?

  The second soldier had his bolt-action trained on Frank’s forehead from a range of about a yard. Frank froze in place, hoping for any great ideas to come bubbling up.

  Surrender for now.

  Hands up.

  Try to start a dialogue.

  You’re fucked.

  “Very funny,” Frank muttered as the first man got to his feet and angrily grabbed his weapon off the floor.

  This time, the rifle butt landed squarely on the side of his head, and all the voices went quiet.

  * * *

  “There you go, Frank. There you go. Come on now.”

  Frank opened his eyes and saw Cal hovering over him, looking mostly like the late-twenties young man he’d been lately, though maybe a little worse for wear. Frank braced himself for one hell of a headache, but it never came.

  “What happened?” Frank asked, slowly sitting up. He’d been lying on a stone floor, and when he noticed the bars on the window, he figured he was back at Mezze Prison. Given what had happened to Saadeh, Frank figured their odds weren’t so great.

  “They woke me up, grabbed me, pulled me out of Mr. Copeland’s house. You they carried out. Then they drove us here, tossed us in the cell, and that’s it. Soon as they were gone, I figured I’d heal you up and get you awake,” Cal said. “Probably just knocked you out some. Didn’t take much to get you going.”

  “Copeland? The family?”

  “They weren’t taken. Other than that, don’t know.”

  “Recognize anybody?” Frank said as he looked around.

  Cal shook his head. “No, just a bunch of soldiers, young fellows, led by a captain. Though I did hear someone mention Hinnawi.”

  Za’im’s right-hand man, came the political scientist. Likely acting on his orders.

  “No shit,” Frank muttered, then looked up at Cal’s confused face. “Sorry. Someone was stating the obvious. Anyway, good ears, Cal. Anything else?”

  “Just that it’s been busy here. Lots of folks moving about. Everybody looks worried as hell. And I sure wish they’d give us some clothes.”

  Frank did a double take at that, realizing that Cal had been taken in his undershorts. Frank at least had a T-shirt on.

  “All right, we need a plan,” Frank said quietly. “Guard patterns?”

  “Ain’t been here long enough,” Cal said. “But when we got here, they put us in a cell block with guards at either end of the hall, by the two doors. Plus the guards that brought us in.”

  “Assume six minimum, all armed. Not good. Maybe if we …”

  Frank’s idea died off as keys clanked against the metal door. A moment later, it opened to reveal two guards. “Get up. Move it,” one said in Arabic.

  “We are diplomatic representatives of the United States government and entitled to fair treatment,” Frank replied in the same language. “We will not accompany you until the leader of our delegation, Mr. Keeley, is called.”

  The guard laughed and pulled his revolver. “I was told you might try that, spy. Get up or I will kill you where you sit.”

  Frank sighed and hauled himself to his feet. “Well, at least we know this all isn’t some innocent mistake,” he told Cal. “Play nice for now.”

  The two were led out of the cell—there were actually eight guards in the hallway—and marched out one of the doors and right out of the building. It was still pitch-black outside, and Frank figured there were at least two hours before sunrise. They headed toward one of the soldiers’ barracks—the same barracks, Frank remembered, where Za’im had taken the former president to kill him in the shower, before Cal had talked him out of it.

  He looked over at his partner, who’d clearly put two and two together as well. Frank imagined it’d be tough for even Cal to survive a shot to the head, but he hoped and prayed he’d make it out somehow. He was the one with a family, after all.

  The two Americans were marched inside the barracks and, as Frank feared, taken directly to the soldiers’ shower room. “Guess Za’im went and got antsy again,” Cal whispered. It was gallows humor, but Frank couldn’t help but crack a smile.

  The voices in his he
ad were silent, and for once, Frank missed the chatter. Perhaps they knew a lost cause when they saw one. Or maybe they were just still thinking. He hoped they’d hurry up with something, anything, because Frank himself was drawing a blank.

  Za’im was already in the shower room, waiting for them.

  But he was in casual clothes, kneeling on the floor with his hands on his head, looking terrified. Next to him, pointing a gun at his head, was Colonel al-Hinnawi.

  And next to al-Hinnawi was Karilov, the Russian.

  “Mr. Lodge,” Karilov said with a smile. “I knew we’d meet again. Hello, Mr. Hooks.”

  Frank’s stomach turned slightly; Karilov knew his real name.

  Cal gave the man a confused nod. “Don’t know if this is the best thing for anybody to be doing right now,” he said. “Seems like it could cause a real big fuss for everyone.”

  Frank admired Cal’s attempt at diplomacy but figured it for what it was—a fool’s errand. And both al-Hinnawi and Karilov ignored him, with the latter turning to the former. “Where is the third one?” Karilov asked in Arabic.

  “She’s coming,” the colonel replied. “We have her.”

  Frank and Cal traded a look. Zippy.

  “What’s going on, Comrade Karilov?” Frank asked in perfect Russian.

  Karilov smiled. “Ah, finally. The tongue of Tolstoy and Lenin! I cannot tell you how it pains me to speak in churlish Arabic. Tell me, Comrade Lodge, where did you study Russian?”

  Frank ignored him. “You do realize that the United States government isn’t going to let this stand.”

  “They will, because to contest your capture carries great risk, does it not?” Karilov replied. “Better to lose three than to risk the world knowing what you are, what you can do.”

  Frank calmly turned to Cal. “Cover’s blown,” he said in English. “You, me, and Zippy. He knows. All of it.”

  Cal’s face showed a sad resolve. “Always figured this job was more trouble than it’s worth.”

  Suddenly, Zippy was shoved into the room, dressed in an ill-fitting Syrian Army uniform, probably a spare given to her to cover up. She looked shellshocked, and her expression changed to outright fearful when she saw Za’im and al-Hinnawi.