Sigma Division

by Steve Richer

  The director of Sigma made eye contact with Clara who shook her head.

  “I would advise against it, sir.”

  “If he wanted to kill us, we’d already be dead. Isn’t it right, Mr. Spicer?”

  The order was clear. Clara shrugged and went to Spicer to remove the cuffs. He rubbed the pain in his wrists away.

  Ford said, “Answer the man’s question now.”

  “I wanted to let you guys know that I…” He glanced over at his friends. “We know what your agenda is.”

  “Is that right?” Dr. Michaels asked with a snort.

  “The Anchises Project is about developing methods and technologies that will allow you to mindfuck the masses. Brainwashing on a global scale.”

  “You have no proof of that. You don’t even have proof that we exist.”

  “But I also know that Sigma is funding Ford’s campaign. That can be checked.”

  Ford moved over to the bar – a full bar – and he poured himself two inches of scotch. Spicer liked having this effect on people. He waited until he had begun drinking before saying more.

  “With Ford in the White House, you’ll get all the money you’ll ever need to finish your project. And then you’ll sedate Congress into signing the laws that the two of you will have agreed on. A few amendments to the Constitution, a trip to the shredder with the Bill of Rights, and all of a sudden we wind up with Regis the First, American Emperor.”

  Ford slammed his last down on the bar. “Shut him up. Shut him the fuck up!”

  Calm as ever, Houseman turned to him.

  “No reason for panic, Regis. We’re all civilized here.”

  “Are we?” Weller mumbled.

  Houseman smiled. “Put out of context, you’ve painted me as a madman.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Would you prefer the term degenerate fucking lunatic?” Spicer asked.

  “If we could control what people think, we could do magic for society. We could suppress violent tendencies. Think about it, no more hatred, no racism, no crime. Wars would be a thing of the past. We’d have peace at last.”

  From the way he was beaming, from the way his voice soared, Spicer realized that the man was truly believing this.

  “But at what price, a world full of zombies?”

  “Happy zombies, Mr. Spicer.”

  “Then what?” Ned inquired. “What happens when a few people start rebelling against you? Before you know it, society becomes a huge slave ship.”

  “It will work. It has been a dream of mine for the last fifty years and I’ll be damned if someone like you ruins it.”

  Spicer spat, “You just watch me.”

  Dr. Michaels came forward. “Okay, I don’t think anyone’s gonna agree with the other on this one. Why don’t you tell us what the hell you’re really doing here, Spicer. You came to assassinate Mr. Ford?”

  “I came to offer Ford the chance to quit the race?”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind? I’m ahead in every state. I’ll be President in a few hours!”

  “We’ve already called the Federal Election Commission. Once they know what to look for, it won’t take long to find out how well-funded you were.”

  “Then again, you have no proof.”

  Esther raised her head proudly. “They’re a paranoid bunch over at the FEC. All they need to investigate is a tip.”

  “If you win, you resign. No harm, no foul.”

  Clara opened her jacket and reached inside for her weapon. There was a time to talk and there was a time to kill. At last she saw an opportunity to do what she did best.

  Ending things.

  Chapter 31

  Spicer had been in her position before so he was able to anticipate it. The moment her arm moved, he jumped over the empty couch next to her. His hands found his wooly gun case and as he rolled onto his back he kicked her in the chest.

  “Ugh!”

  She was thrown back and crashed to the floor. While she was still struggling to get her bearings, Ned pounced on her and removed the weapon that was now in her hand.

  “Don’t move!” he barked at Michaels and Ford, pointing the pistol at them.

  Spicer got up, now holding his own gun though he didn’t feel the need to aim it at anyone except Clara.

  “I used to kill people for a living, Mr. Ford. I could kill all of you and this conversation would be unnecessary. But you’re in luck, I don’t kill anymore. I’d rather let the media destroy you. And I’m gonna enjoy watching that too.”

  “You son of a bitch…”

  Spicer’s eyes hardened. “If you become President, I will personally make sure the public gets brainwashed into thinking you’re a genuine ogre. And I can guarantee you Congress will steamroll Sigma.”

  He pulled it down and headed for the exit. In a flash, Weller, Esther, and Ned were following him.

  * * *

  The Grand Ballroom was packed. There was a sea of people with Styrofoam hats and small American flags and colorful banners. They were loud and enthusiastic as they partied and watched the Fox News returns projected on a wall-sized screen. Things were looking good, very good. The United States was about to make history by electing a third-party candidate to the White House.

  Spicer was confident he could blend in adequately but he remained on the outskirts, near the door. His heart skipped a beat when Esther took his hand into hers and he smiled to her. Nothing needed to be said.

  All the while, Spicer kept his eyes on the stage. Curtains had been put up and in the corner Michaels was arguing with party officials. A woman burst into tears. Another one shook her head. After several minutes of back and forth, Michaels walked past the curtains and went to the podium.

  The crowd went wild. They were cheering as much for him as for the reporter on TV who announced that they’d just won New York.

  “Excuse me, excuse me!”

  It took all of a minute for people to quiet down.

  “There’s been a terrible tragedy.” This time everybody shut up and a technician turned down the volume of the news broadcast. “A few minutes ago, Regis Ford was taken to the hospital, they think it was a heart attack.”

  Incredulous, people started chattering. Michaels himself looked despondent. He was a good actor, Spicer had to give him that.

  “It’s bad, really bad. I’ll keep you folks posted as we get news of his condition.”

  He disappeared back where he’d come from and Spicer smirked, relief washing over him. They had seen reason. What was the alternative? Kill them? Have them ship away to Guantanamo Bay or some black site in the Middle East? And then what?

  The Federal Election Commission had indeed been contacted, and Ned and Weller had each given instructions to friends to release information they had gathered in the event of their vanishing. Spicer had survived for so long because he’d worked alone. This time having friends is what had saved him.

  He chuckled while imagining Houseman and Clara sneaking a very healthy Regis Ford out of the hotel. Abandoning the presidency – he would probably fake his death – had to be worse than death itself for him. The poetic justice was sublime.

  They walked out of the hotel and across the street to the parking garage. For the first time in a long time they weren’t in a hurry.

  “You think that’ll be enough, Spicer?” Weller asked.

  “Right after we get back to my place, we’ll mail copies of our notes. We’ll send them to the New York Times, USA Today, some newspapers in Europe, Wikileaks, and to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Then we’ll really be safe, they won’t be able to touch us.”

  Ned started laughing. “Good thing they fired me first, uh?”

  They joined in the laughter. It was over at last.

  Chapter 32

  Dr. Michaels had bought his Georgetown brownstone because it was elegant. It was more of a status symbol than a house to him. It was great to entertain, to hold parties, and to show off his wife, but other than that it was just a place where he slept at
night.

  After the elections, he had figured he would spend even less time here. He surely would have spent most of his time at the White House working with the new President to harmonize national policy with Sigma’s real objective. It had been in the works for so long that it was a blow to the head that it hadn’t worked out this way.

  It was the first time in years that he had crashed on the basement couch in his pajamas and bathrobe. His feet were on the table, ankles crossed, and his coffee was heavily spiked with bourbon. He surfed through the stations until he hit CNN. The pretty reporter on the screen was only one of a thousand covering the story.

  “Having been elected an hour after having suffered a massive heart attack, the family confirmed that Regis Ford died today after spending more than a week in a coma. We spoke to…”

  He changed the channel again. He didn’t need any more information about Regis Ford’s death. He had taken care of the whole damn thing himself, for Christ sakes.

  After driving out of Miami, they had brought Ford to Georgia where a Learjet registered to a dummy corporation, a CIA front usually reserved for extraordinary renditions, flew him out of the country. The plane took him to Rabat, Morocco where he laid low for two days, and then another covert flight brought him to Indonesia.

  Houseman promised him that he would prepare for his triumphant return, somehow, but Michaels knew that it was bullshit. They had wagered big on this, came close, but they’d eventually fallen short. They had to write off Ford. If he ever came out of hiding he would have to be eliminated.

  In the meantime, they would have to work with the new President and pray that they could steer his views so they aligned with Sigma. At his age, Houseman would surely retire so it was up to Michaels to take over. He decided he would take another week’s vacation and then get back to work.

  And speaking of the new President, everything was hazy. It was generally assumed that the Vice President-elect would take over but the media was putting more and more credibility in the outrageous revelations concerning Sigma Division and claims of election fraud. People were demanding an investigation and some pundits believed there would be a do-over election. The Supreme Court was currently juggling with these issues.

  With a sigh, he landed on a show about some bearded guys trying to haul an alligator into their boat. He gave it a few scenes, realized he couldn’t understand half of what they were saying, and changed stations again.

  His wife came down the stairs, her shoes resounding loudly on the hardwood.

  “Honey, there are people from the FBI and FEC here to see you.”

  As he turned around to face her, three dour men wearing dark suits followed her down. He didn’t have time to put his drink down that one of the guys, definitely FBI, went past his wife over to him.

  “Dr. Michaels, can you explain why your signature was on money transfers to non- research related accounts?”

  He looked at his perplexed wife. He suddenly realized he was staring at a long prison sentence.

  * * *

  In his candy striper uniform, Houseman pushed 95-year-old Mr. Lyman in his wheelchair along the corridors of the hospital.

  “Mr. Lyman, can I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, Viagra does work.” The old man laughed which led to a coughing fit. Once he’d recovered, he continued. “And at my age, it’s a pickup line that works too. You show them your prescription and you wake up in a strange lady’s bed.”

  He laughed again and Houseman smiled. Volunteering at the hospital never failed to lift his spirits. And he definitely needed to be cheered up these days. His life’s work had dissolved right before his eyes. He had dreamed about this project for 50 years, had engineered the research for 30.

  In a matter of weeks, some nosy bastard had destroyed everything.

  Now he had to accept reality. He was too old to start again. There was public scrutiny. Michaels had called him to say that the FBI had paid him a visit. Half an hour’s worth of phone calls to his contacts was sufficient to verify that he would be arrested in a matter of days. The Select Committee on Intelligence was set to investigate. The blowback was simply awful. A clusterfuck.

  “I was wondering about regret,” Houseman said. “Is there anything you regret not having done?”

  Mr. Lyman half closed his eyes while he considered the question.

  “I don’t think so. I’ve worked hard all my life, I married a nice woman, we had good children. I can’t complain. But I suppose that if I’d had only one goal in my entire life and I’d never reached it, I’d probably have trouble living with myself. Regret’s never a good thing.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re correct.”

  He led the patient back to the common room where people were watching a John Wayne movie. He said goodbye to Mr. Lyman and walked out, going toward the nurses station. This hospital required candy stripers to fill out forms after every interaction with patients and although Houseman could have skipped this – he’d certainly done much worse offenses – he leaned against the counter and got to work.

  Focusing on inane busywork was a good way to keep his mind off regret. He tried thinking about the good times he’d had with his wife before she passed away. He thought about the hopeful days 30 years ago when he’d set his plan in motion. Back then, everything was possible, the future had looked so bright.

  Now it was over. There was no more future for him. It was only a matter of time before the FBI turned its attention on him. How could hope morph into regret in such a short time span?

  He chased these thoughts from his mind and tried to ignore the nurse next to him who was preparing a tray of pills for her round. He was surrounded by the idle chatter of the hospital and he wondered how long it would be before he was on the other side of the counter, becoming a patient himself. Probably not long. What did he have to live for anyway?

  Spontaneously, a machine pierced the relative silence with a loud alarm. A nearby patient was flatlining. A nurse rushed into the room down the hall.

  “We got a code blue!” she shouted.

  The woman who was standing next to Houseman abandoned her task and rushed to the patient in critical condition, as did a young doctor, his white smock billowing behind him like a cape. Houseman was alone at the desk.

  He was somewhat glad for the excitement, a reminder of his youth in combat, but quickly he realized he wasn’t involved. He was useless, no one needed him. He straightened up and from the corner of his eye glimpsed a cabinet which had been left ajar, the keys still in the lock. It was the medicine cabinet.

  His destiny was clear. He actually smirked at how easy the decision came to him. He went to the cabinet and opened the door wider. He still had his reading glasses on and he scanned the medications until he came across one that was labeled Dilaudid.

  Without hesitation, he emptied the white container into his shirt pocket. Then he stole a bottle of water which he’d seen a nurse sipping and walked away.

  He waited until he was behind the wheel of his car in the parking lot before swallowing all the pills. He didn’t want the medical staff to resuscitate him. And they didn’t.

  Chapter 33

  Esther did her best to hold back tears. Watching Spicer holding his suitcase in one hand and is little red gym bag in the other made the situation concrete. More than a week had passed and she now understood how much he’d done to avoid her country turning into a dictatorship. He’d gotten nothing in return.

  For this part, he was used to it. He’d been trained to work in the shadows. He was a master of guerrilla tactics, of hit-and-runs. You didn’t do this job for the accolades, although this time the stakes had been much higher and a little recognition would have been nice.

  Then again, he supposed still being alive was an adequate benefit.

  “You know you’re welcome to stay here until they fix the leak in your apartment.”

  Spicer smiled. “Yeah, I know, Esther.” The leak has been fixed but it remained a safe method of talking a
bout what they didn’t want to talk about. “There’ve been too many drastic turns in my life in the past weeks. I need some time to think about all of it. I need to reassess my place in the world.”

  Esther snorted. “I know what you mean. I’m gonna give politics a rest for a while.”

  He nodded and looked beyond her. On the refrigerator was a picture she had printed out. Ned was back in his Navy uniform and holding his newborn. Spicer had made some phone calls on his behalf and his friend was set to return to active duty on an aircraft carrier in the coming weeks.

  “I just hope I can put it all behind me,” he said. “It’s all over but I still can’t breathe. I do plan on seeing you again. And I hope when this moment comes, we can start all over again with a clean slate.”

  She nodded and this time she couldn’t fight back the tears. “I’d like that, Gene.”

  She fell into his arms, making him drop his bags, and they hugged passionately. Maybe he was doing the wrong thing, maybe he shouldn’t leave her. But he had to. He needed to put his life back on track, to find some sort of balance and stability before getting involved with someone.

  He couldn’t make the same mistake he’d made when he was married. He liked Esther a lot and she deserved better. More precisely, she deserved him to be better if they were ever to enter into a serious relationship together. He kissed her tenderly so he would remember everything about her.

  * * *

  Walking through the parking garage, Spicer smirked when he realized his car was a Chevrolet. He would have pitched a fit if it had been a Ford, which would only have reminded him of the man who’d wanted him dead. Anyway, it was beside the point since he was about to ditch this car forever.

  While he still had his properties in Florida, his plan was to lay low for a few months at least while things settled down. He would travel on fake passports, find some small beach house in Mexico or maybe El Salvador, and evaluate his options.

  He hit the fob to unlock the car and remotely popped the trunk open. He threw in the suitcase but he kept the red gym bag with him. It was a habit to keep it within reach. He climbed into the driver’s seat.