by Tom Abrahams
Barçes had an infection. He was dying. Custos had seen it before. If he couldn’t keep the old man alive another twenty-four hours, the plot would fail. The new world was in jeopardy.
CHAPTER 38
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Dillinger Holt was at once brilliant and blind. He knew he’d figured out what was unfolding, yet he was disgusted with himself for not having seen it sooner.
“It’s about the SECURITY Act,” he said, the phone pressed against his face. “It has to be.”
“How so?” Matti asked.
“The Act gives governments, namely the United States, unprecedented authority to engage in previously illegal electronic intelligence.”
“We call it SIGINT,” Matti said. “Signal intelligence. It’s basically everything but human intelligence.”
“SIGINT, then. Regardless, we’re talking about the single biggest change in data collection since the PATRIOT Act. And this makes that look like a cracked kaleidoscope as far as what it allows the government to see and catalog.”
“I know what it does,” said Matti. “I’m part of the team selling it to Congress. I worked for the NSA.”
“Then you know this goes far beyond AT&T helping the NSA wiretap all of the Internet communications at the United Nations for a decade, spying on billions of Americans’ emails and more than a billion of their phone calls.”
“I’m aware,” Matti said. “That partnership was run through the agency’s Special Source Operations. It handles eighty percent of the agency’s SIGINT. What’s your point?”
“My point is,” Holt stressed, “the SECURITY Act is invasive enough as it is. When you throw in a treaty, a multilateral agreement for a collection of foreign governments to share this information amongst themselves, it’s frightening. There’s tremendous pushback from Congress, as you know, and from some of the other governments.”
“What does that have to do with the plot here? Why would they kill—” The line fell silent.
“Matti? You there?”
“Yes.” She sounded as if she’d been gut punched. “I get it now. Just as the Bush administration pushed through the PATRIOT Act in the wake of 9/11, President Jackson is using the Capitol bombing to do the same thing with the SECURITY Act.”
“It wasn’t enough,” said Holt. “She, and whoever she’s working with, didn’t get enough of a sympathetic bounce. People aren’t so willing to give up their privacy anymore. Not after what the PATRIOT Act did. Not after Edward Snowden.”
“Snowden’s a traitor,” Matti snapped.
“Is he?” Holt posed. “Probably. Regardless, the stuff he dragged out into the light made people question what it is our government is really doing with this information and how far they’ll go in the name of securing the homeland.”
“So they need another attack,” Matti suggested. “They need that final nudge to get everyone on board. What better place to do it than at the very place where the SECURITY agreement is being discussed?”
“Yes. That’s what I think.” Holt knew he was right. “The easiest way to take away people’s liberty is when they ask you to do it.”
“We need to stop it.”
“We?”
“Yes. We.”
“I’m in Houston,” Holt explained. “What can I do?”
“You can write about it,” Matti said. “I’ll figure out what I need to do here, and then I’ll get you information. You have a big voice. We can stop this.”
“The attack or the legislation?”
“Both.”
“How are you going to stop a terrorist attack? You don’t know where to begin.”
“I think I do,” Matti said. “I’ll email you when I have something new.”
“Sounds good. I’ve got some calls to make.”
CHAPTER 39
WORLD TRADE CENTER
BARCELONA, SPAIN
The last place Matti wanted to be was a formal dinner, but she needed to make an appearance. If she didn’t show up, given the tension and mutual suspicion between herself and President Jackson, it would fly too many red flags.
She cranked on the shower and let the bathroom fill with steam before stepping underneath the powerful, pulsating stream of water. Matti closed her eyes and ran her hands through her hair, drenching it.
She knew Holt was right. Deep down, she’d known for a while the SECURITY Act was too far-reaching and impinged too much on the Fourth Amendment. Despite that, she’d tried to be a good soldier and rationalize the importance of SIGINT in the wake of the Capitol attacks.
It was a gray area, she convinced herself, and she’d gone along to get along. She’d put blinders on and marched back and forth to Capitol Hill, trying to sell the merits of legislation she knew was unconstitutional.
Now she was in hot water, mere hours away from failing again. If it weren’t for Holt, she might never have opened her eyes. Now they had to work together, a continent apart, to prevent bloodshed and the foundation of what Matti understood would become the new order of things.
Her boss, Sir Spencer, and the Brethren all wanted a one world government. They wanted the global suppression of the people for the benefit of the enlightened few. There was nothing benevolent about that goal. It was dark without a hint of gray.
Matti found the bottle of shampoo and squeezed out a generous amount of the lemon-scented liquid. Rubbing it onto her scalp and through her hair, she wondered how she’d ended up here.
She never thought to ask herself that question before. She was so focused on where she’d been, or hadn’t been, she couldn’t look at where she was.
The lather spilled into her eyes, stinging them, and she turned around to rinse her face.
Her addiction was keeping her in the past. She knew it, her father knew it, even her coworkers knew it. She was chained to a past she could not change, from her mother’s death to those at the Capitol.
Matti rinsed the shampoo from her hair and wiped her hand in a large arc across the condensation on the glass shower door. She looked through the glass to the mirror and stared at her reflection.
Beneath the ribbon of fog on the glass, she stood naked, her soul as bare as her body, and she lost herself in her own reflection. She hardly recognized herself, pale and waify. She had the appearance of someone who exercised too much and ate too little.
She embodied the worry and stress of an addict, a self-pitying narcissist who couldn’t save herself, let alone the world. Matti swiped at the glass again, clearing the stubborn fog between her eyes and the mirror.
She’d told herself she could quit when she was ready. She’d promised herself the bennies she bought from C-Dunk were a temporary fix. Looking in the mirror at what she’d done to herself, she knew it was a lie. She needed real help.
However, now wasn’t the time. She’d have to wash herself clean of the past, of the demons with which she currently struggled, and formulate a plan.
She couldn’t dwell on where she’d been or how she’d gotten here. Matti knew her focus needed to be on what was to come and how she could stop it.
Her body clean, she turned off the water and grabbed a thick towel, burying her face in its commercial detergent smell and drying herself.
She’d go to the party, say hello to key people, shake a few hands. Then she’d get to work. She knew it would be a bomb and who would detonate it.
She just had to find him and his device before it was too late.
*
PASEO DE TAULAT
BARCELONA, SPAIN
Jon Custos slammed his fist into the wall, his knuckles leaving an impression in the thick drywall. He followed the punch with a kick that only managed to deliver a shooting pain into his foot.
“Antibiotics!” He grabbed his hair, leaning into the bedroom wall. “How could I forget the antibiotics?”
He’d remembered so many of the fatal mistakes he’d made the last time he operated on a mark. He was so careful with his preoperative procedure, the way in which he moved with
in Barçes’s body before sewing him shut.
But as with his impulsive decision to kill the flight attendant, he’d not thought through the entirety of his actions. With his patient melting in front of him, Custos’s mind whirled. He didn’t need the man to live much longer, but he needed him conscious, coherent, and strong enough to stand upright.
Custos rifled through the old man’s bathroom medicine cabinet, looking for anything that would suffice, any antibiotic or prescription anti-inflammatory that might provide temporary relief. There was nothing but a half-empty bottle of cholesterol medication. Custos gripped the bottle in his hand and squeezed. He was about to throw it across the room when he noticed the address for the prescribing pharmacy typed onto the label.
The pharmacy was next door. He’d seen it both times he’d come to the flat. Custos dropped the bottle into the sink and ran from the apartment, bounding down the steps and bursting out into the street.
He caught his breath and tucked in his shirt before walking into the pharmacy. He approached the back counter, smiling at the young woman pharmacist.
“Lupe?” he drew from her name tag. “How are you today?
“I’m fine,” she replied in Catalan. “How may I help you? We’re just a few minutes from closing.”
“You look beautiful today,” he said, noting the absence of a ring. “Your eyes…”
The woman looked away, blushing and working hard to hide a smile. She cleared her throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning across the counter that separated them. “Should I not compliment you?”
“It’s very kind,” she said, her eyelashes fluttering as she spoke. “I don’t know you, sir.”
“Yes, you do.” Custos feigned offense. “We’ve met twice before. The last time, you were wearing that sundress. I’m Felipe, Fernando Barçes’s nephew.”
“Oh.” Lupe paused, studying the stranger’s face. She put her hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize you. It’s the…”
“It’s the hair.” Custos laughed, knowing she was lying. “I shaved it off. I think it’s more masculine. What do you think?”
“It’s nice,” she said. “What can I do for you, Felipe?”
“My uncle isn’t feeling well, and his doctor is on vacation,” Custos said. “I think he’s running a high fever. Maybe he has an infection or something. I don’t know. He needs something strong.”
“What about the hospital?”
“He’s being stubborn,” Custos said ruefully. “You know my uncle, Lupe, he won’t listen to me. And he doesn’t want to leave the house. Is there anything you can do? Anything you can prescribe?”
“Oh, now. I cannot prescribe anything. I’m not a doctor.”
“Of course.” Custos lowered his voice. “I wasn’t suggesting you do anything illegal. I just thought…”
“Well—” Lupe pursed her lips and stared into Custos’s eyes “—I could look to see if he has any open refills? If he does, I could give you that. Would that work?”
“Of course,” Custos said, noticing Lupe eye the cut of his biceps peeking out from underneath his short-sleeved shirt. “Anything would be helpful.”
Lupe clicked on a few keys, her eyes scanning the computer monitor in front of her. She clicked her teeth and she searched.
“I see he has a couple of refills for the cholesterol drug Repatha,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t see anything else that’s refillable. I’m so sorry. The hospital really would be your—”
“Is there anyone else I could ask?” Custos’s flirtation soured. “A manager?”
“I am the manager.” Lupe tilted her head for a moment. Custos wondered if she realized he wasn’t who he claimed to be.
“So nobody else?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m the only one here. And we’re closing, so—”
Custos leapt over the counter and grabbed Lupe by her shoulders before she could react. He spun her around, wrapping one arm across her chest and the other hand over her mouth.
She struggled against him, her feet kicking and stomping, her teeth trying to find the meat of his palm. Her fight was brief.
Custos gripped his hand more tightly over her mouth, his enormous hand stretching from cheekbone to cheekbone, and he yanked Lupe’s head to one side with a snap.
With a sickening cascade of cracks, her body instantly went limp, and Custos dropped her to the floor behind the counter in a heap. He jumped the counter again and went to the entry, locking the door and drawing the louvered blinds. Next to the door was a light switch for the neon pharmacy sign out front. He flipped it off and moved behind the counter again.
He moved amongst the rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves, searching for something that might work, something that would temporarily raise the old man from the dead. He found pills, lots of pills, and ointments, too many ointments.
Then he found a familiar-sounding drug: ceftriaxone. He picked up the white bottle with the flat blue cap and read the label. This was it. It was an injectable antibiotic he’d used years ago for a nasty case of gonorrhea. It was what his doctor called a “wide-spectrum antibiotic” that was great at fighting bacterial infections anywhere in the body.
He grabbed two bottles and a handful of syringes and dropped them into the paper prescription bag hanging on the end of the shelf. Then he searched for a steroid. Two shelves from the ceftriaxone he saw the generic methylprednisolone. It was perfect. He could inject it to help with any localized swelling or pain.
The combination of the two drugs should drastically help Barçes. Together, they’d give him a jolt strong enough to get him to the Trade Center.
He stuffed a couple of bottles of the steroid into the bag, tucked it under his arm, and made his way back out to the street. He locked the pharmacy door behind him and tossed the keys into a curbside gutter. Custos quickened his pace back to Barçes’s flat.
CHAPTER 40
WORLD TRADE CENTER
BARCELONA, SPAIN
Brandon Goodman approached Matti as she walked into the ballroom. “You look nice and well rested.” He smiled and gave her a friendly hug.
“I’m just clean.” Matti laughed, returning the platonic affection with a kiss on his cheek. “It makes a difference.”
The room was set with two dozen round tables, ten chairs each, adorned with elaborate floral displays featuring large red carnations, the official flower of Spain.
The room was filling up quickly with delegations from each of the invited nations. Matti noticed women admiring, or silently judging, the women around them as they sipped their sangria.
The men stood with their chests out, one hand in their pockets and the other gripped around their hard liquor of choice. Matti could tell the men were equally duplicitous in their conversations with other men, measuring each other as they name-dropped.
Formal dinners were just one aspect of the job to which Matti couldn’t become accustomed. She wasn’t much for small talk, dresses, or diplomatic protocol. Thankfully, in the wake of the Capitol explosion and the resulting economic downturn, the president was smart enough to limit the number of expensive bone-china soirees.
“Shall we find our seats?” Brandon led Matti toward a white linen table in the far corner of the room.
“Shouldn’t you be near the front and center?” Matti looked over her shoulder toward the tables reserved for the heads of state. She caught a glimpse of President Jackson speaking with the prime minister of Japan.
“I should be,” he admitted, walking a step ahead of her. “I asked to be in the back so I could better observe the room. Plus, I’m so focused on these negotiations, I’d rather not deal with the stress of putting on airs.”
“I’m not much for it either,” she said, finding a place card with her name embossed on it. The appetizer was already at her seat, along with glasses of iceless water and white sangria. There was also a white cloth napkin shaped into a swan.
“I ha
ve to be honest,” she whispered to Brandon as he took his seat. “I’m not staying long.” Matti paused and tried to gauge his reaction.
“How long?” He half-smiled. “Past…whatever it is that’s on your plate now?” He referenced the salmorejo.
“It’s a tomato and bread soup.” Matti giggled. “Yes. I’ll stay past the first couple of courses, but don’t count me in for coffee and dessert.”
“Gotcha,” he said.
“So how was the meeting?”
“Long but constructive,” Brandon said. “I think we’re in a good position. The Spanish are still the stumbling block. The latest is that they don’t think they can pass their version of the bill, so they’re reluctant to sign anything.”
“What are they afraid of?” Matti leaned on her chair, crossing her legs at her ankles; she wanted to appear relaxed.
“They don’t necessarily like the idea of having to share their intelligence with us or any of the other parties,” he explained. “They’re wary of how foreign powers could use damaging intelligence against their citizens. It’s about sovereignty.”
“And the British?’
“They have security cameras on every corner in London.” He laughed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “They’re not concerned about privacy. Even the liberal parties there are okay with it. Plus, they know where their bread is buttered. They need to be in lockstep with us. The optics of defying the US don’t play well.”
“The others are on board? The French and the Italians?”
Brandon nodded. He rocked back and forth in his shoes. “We believe so. The French are getting some pressure from the Germans to defect. They’re listening now, but we feel confident they’ll come around.”
Matti took a step closer to Brandon and looked over her shoulders in both directions before she spoke in a hushed tone.
