Coughs.
Progress is slow but after several minutes the park appears, the entrance on the other side. The light pole next to the large tree where Amanda Lane told him her phone is buried under a rock becomes visible. The park and parking lot had been checked for CCTVs previously. There are a few. However, Black knows where the blind spots are.
‘Round the block,’ Black says reaching over to once more help turn. ‘You’ve done well.’ Cranes his head for other cars. ‘Mooney thinks I’m stupid.’ Twirls a finger in jest. ‘But I’m in charge of keeping time and rhythm.’ Looks to Tony who’s struggling. His head flops with increasing regularity, eyes half closed. ‘I approached him with the idea of stealing the technology and now he wants full ownership. Who cares if he has Nash. I have the data.’
As they turn into the park, the car jerks over the concrete verge and glides over loose gravel. ‘Stop,’ Black says as they approach the path. Tony’s head slumps on the horn, unconscious and barely alive. Black deflects his head and leans across his chest, opens the door and pushes him out. He thuds to the ground.
The car rolls to a stop as the music finishes.
Black is out of the car about to walk over to the tree to retrieve Lane’s phone when his cell phone rings. He answers in mock shock and sits back down with the door open, feet anchored to the ground hearing the CIA Director’s news about Nash’s unscheduled swim. Eases back into the seat. He reassures him DUST will be housed securely at the Barn despite the events that have plagued the program: Nash’s team killed; one CIA agent shot and killed at Kennedy Space Center; Pascal’s suicide—blew his brains out in front of the Director.
‘It’s getting beyond a question of security,’ the Director says. ‘Just had the Secretary of State and the Vice President threaten to pull the Company’s involvement if there’s any more unsanctioned activities.’
Black had Nash’s team eliminated to flush out any shadow team Mooney might have lined up. To force his hand. It was a calculated risk because if Mooney hadn’t, the tests would have been delayed. But it worked. The army had to bring in their own team to finish the tests which told him Mooney was planning to keep the technology for himself.
‘Mooney’s just flexing his—’
‘Mooney doesn’t interest me,’ the Director snaps. ‘Tell me about Pascal. I’m still finding bits of his fucking skull in my hair. Jesus, the President was fond of Professor Nash.’
Off to the side, Black hears Tony moan.
‘What’s that?’ the Director asks as if trying to see past an obstacle.
Black stands and walks around the car, bends down with one knee on the ground and pinches the cell between chin and shoulder and says, ‘Nothing…’ Smothers Tony’s mouth with both hands. ‘It’s not my job to hold politicians hands.’ Winces, surprised by the struggle. A hand grabs at his forehand as Black places a knee into his throat and twists pressing down with increasing force.
‘Don’t toy with me,’ the Director says. ‘I’ll duck when the can gets kicked down the line. You won’t survive…One of our own.’ More statement than question. More acquisition than statement.
‘Success takes a big broom to failures,’ Black says. ‘Pascal’s a speed hump.’ Takes his hands away once those big blues stop shining, and wipes bloody hands on Tony’s shirt. ‘Not our man. One of his own dressed up as CIA is my guess.’
Not all of it comes off.
‘The army in charge of this technology. Imagine it,’ the Director says exhaling loudly. ‘I’ll be a laughing stock.’
‘He’s got a tight collar around his neck,’ Black says. ‘The Barn holds all the data. Let me do my job.’
‘You think it was the Chinese working Pascal?’
‘Does it matter who?’ Black studies the blood on his hands. He doesn’t remember killing being so bloody. Then again, many things have only started flooding back.
‘No, I suppose it doesn’t…and this…John Masen?’
‘Better for all if he disappears,’ Black is quick to say.
The Director grunts his indifference and hangs up. Some details are best not to know, for others to handle.
A breeze brings a chill. Black stands looking up at the tree, shuffles his feet, and immediately calls General Sloan Mooney. Leans in and grabs the towel from the back seat and cleans the blood from his face and hands.
‘You snake eyes sure now how to fall off the perch early,’ Mooney says answering without a hint of concern. ‘Tell me this is just a coincidence. Pascal, now Nash.’
Pascal’s suicide was unforeseen, but a present wrapped in Black getting handed the keys to the Barn nonetheless. A loose thread had conveniently burnt itself clean. Luck favors the prepared.
Black throws the towel on the body then leans across to the glove box and gives two squirts of hand sanitizer into his palm and rubs liberally.
‘In front of the Director.’ Black’s face cracks full smile. ‘I never thought he had it in him. Though Pascal did have a flare for the dramatic. This helps us immensely.’ Black stretches his hand in front of his face watching fingers twitch with the thought of personally cleaning things up. ‘It makes the possession of the technology that much easier.’ More exhilarating than 50 arms curls and 50 squats.
‘Never had you pegged as a glass half full man,’ Mooney says. ‘In my experience it all hits the fan as soon as you think it’s all neatly tied in a bow. Right now you’re picturing yourself in Pascal’s fish-tank of an office itching for all that data zipping over the wires, imaging how you’ll spend your days as some zeros bounce back into those offshore bank accounts of yours. But I’m telling you, we ain’t there yet. We haven’t secured squat, only guaranteed increased security and interest around the technology… So the Director put you in charge?’
Right now Black wants to search Lane’s cell for photos that will prove she followed his instructions and searched Masen’s room for any evidence how he found out about Lane and whether he was behind Jessica Bradbury’s escape. It’s an unanswered question, a risk, so therefore a problem. And if nothing else, he is a manager of problems.
‘Just got off the phone,’ Black says. ‘Reassured him it will all go smoothly from now on.’ Then tethering an ever increasing anger from exploding: ‘I thought Nash was with you.’ The accusing tone not lost on Mooney.
Black knows Mooney’s squirreling away some of the chess pieces for himself, but two can play that game. Two of his men are nicely tucked away on an oriental assignment.
‘Obviously he never showed for the test,’ Mooney lies ‘Like I said, it should have been my guys keeping an eye on him, not local thugs for hire. Good thing I had a backup team ready months ago, otherwise this project might be gathering dust, just like my fishing rod.’
‘Soon you won’t have to catch your own food,’ Black says looking down at the body.
‘This isn’t about the money,’ Mooney says. ‘Was never about money. Though, it is hard to ignore all those zeros.’
Black doesn’t feel like getting into a competition of who can piss higher up the bathroom wall. What he does agree with is that with money comes power. Not that he was going to give Mooney the satisfaction of saying so. Not while they’re sizing each other up.
‘Byzantine Candor still needs to be operational for the next phase,’ Black says changing the subject.
‘You’re a ruthless bastard, Zane,’ Mooney says. ‘But I agree, we need the diversion. Masen will make a good patsy. Just don’t screw it up.’
‘Let me remind you that everything is going to plan.’ Looks down and pulses the body with his foot. ‘I will not fail. I’m in charge of the Barn. It’s a matter of days before we have everything we need. And the final test, it’s going ahead as scheduled?’
‘I’ll deliver,’ Mooney says.
‘Good. Just remember our agreement.’
‘You sound different,’ Mooney notes.
The statement throws Black.
‘Just rememb
er who put this complicated Meccano set together,’ Mooney continues. ‘I babysat this thing long before I ever had a need for you.’
Black does feel different, a resurgence, charged, alive.
‘And you remember that without the data we don’t have a buyer.’
‘Instructions still in Chinese?’ Mooney asks.
‘Nothing’s changed.’ Bored, Black turns up the radio then pops the trunk.
‘Still the same number of pages?’ Mooney sounding like he’s two steps ahead.
Black grunts his answer wondering if Masen would be making preparations to leave work right about now. He doesn’t need Masen but can’t tell Mooney of his plans for the technology.
‘So we bring Masen in, shower him with gratitude and grease him up for the fall,’ Mooney says, his voice searching for the listener. ‘I’m sure you’ll like to oversee things.’
‘He’ll get what’s coming to him,’ Black says. ‘Pity he doesn’t have a middle name. Harvey would be ideal.’
Black hangs up, taps the cell on his chin, then calls Masen.
4
The Barn
As the elevator doors open to the parking lot, a bright golden light reflecting from the building across the lane illuminates the concrete floor. Long shadows creep all the way to the doors. Masen squints then raises a hand as a visor. The stagnant and fumed air has some kick to it which he feels as a green monster swimming in his stomach. He is resolute to go back to the apartment, his apartment—the one De Luca left him in her will. Thinks of Macy from Giorgiana’s when she asked him about what’s going to happen to the building. He said he didn’t know. Lying was easy at the time, but now is the time to face some truths. He is still coming to terms with all that happened.
He passes Pascal’s car. He must have hitched a ride to the airport with the Director. Wonders what they discussed on the way to the airport and pauses at small marbles of light reflecting off the ground up ahead. And as his view creeps past a black Prius, he spots it.
‘Argh! You kidding me!’ Grits teeth and cranes his head. A foot swivels on crumbs of glass. The passenger’s window of his car is smashed. Remnants of veined glass hang like broken teeth in the passenger door. Hands wave in disbelief looking for the person responsible. ‘In a secure building…are…you…’
Walks around the car, searching, but can’t see any other damage. Glass peppers the passenger’s seat which he carefully picks up large chunks, then combs for smaller pieces, swipes carefully towards him and let fall to the ground.
Can’t see anything’s been taken or vandalized.
Nothing.
Then remembers. The laptop. He reaches over and pulls the lever to pop the hood and fails to see a corner of a white envelope jutting out from behind the sun visor. The envelope with his name handwritten on the front from Pascal. He crawls out only to remember he put the laptop under the passenger seat. Sitting unopened and unmoved as best as he can tell, feels it pressing against his fingers. Takes a second to compose himself.
Driving up the ramp, even at this low speed the air buffers. Unexpectedly, a tall slender guard steps out from the hut with outstretched hands gesturing to slow. Walks cautiously studying towards the car. ‘Stop,’ he says. The instructions clearly audible through the gaping hole. Not having bothered to put on his seatbelt, Masen manages one foot on the ground and has the door open.
‘Damn straight I’ll stop. Look at my window.’
The man ignores the comment. ‘Please, get back in your car,’ he orders, a hand reaches towards a holstered sidearm, the other helping close the car door.
‘What’s happened?’ They’ve found out it’s me that sent the instructions.
Standing a foot from the car, the guard bends down to be eye level and looks inside the car. ‘There’s been a shooting at the airport. Lockdown protocols are in place. No one leaves or enters without authorization.’
‘Who?’ Masen asks. But the pitting in his stomach says he already knows.
‘The chatter’s saying.’
Masen mouths the name at the same time as the guard speaks it. ‘Supervisor Paul Pascal.’
‘…Right.’ Masen grabs the steering wheel with both hands. ‘Dead?’
The man nods.
The boom gates and anti-ram barriers are deployed across both lanes.
Masen looks across to the passenger seat. He hears a phone ringing. Must have dropped out of my pocket. Searching for the muffled sound he finds it wedged between the passenger’s door and seat and quickly runs his thumb over and places it to his ear.
‘John Masen.’
‘It’s Zane Black. We need to talk.’
‘Go ahead, I’m not going anywhere,’ Masen says resting an elbow on the door and averting his eyes from the building. ‘Does it have anything to do with Pascal’s death?’
‘We don’t know everything that happened,’ Black says. ‘Some of the details are sketchy, but yes, unfortunately Paul Pascal is dead. Killed himself. That much we know.’
Suicide.
He must have been a double agent. Maybe he did it out of guilt because Black had something on him and confronted him about it? Maybe there’s someone else?
Lane?
‘You accused Pascal of being a double agent,’ Masen says. ‘You asked me to get back to you if I found anything suspicious. Now he’s dead.’
Masen doesn’t know to play this. He’s still at the mercy of Black who knows about his illicit activities of playing online games at work. Black asked and he agreed to keep an eye on Pascal, to report any suspicious behavior.
‘I think the recent events prove that’s the case. He shot himself in front of the Director on the way to the airport. He might have said “I’m sorry” just before pulling the trigger,’ Black explains. ‘I need you to do something for—’
‘Who controlled him?’ Masen says wanting to stay on topic. ‘He must have been answering to someone.’
‘At this stage our knowledge is limited,’ Black says. ‘Likely his handler will go to ground. Additional protocols have been triggered with regards to data handling inside the Barn.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘There’s been another incident, Kennedy Space Center,’ Black says. ‘A shooting. This time involving a CIA agent and a four star general.’
Masen remembers Nash mentioning Kennedy. It must be connected to Nash’s program: DUST. He wants to ask if it’s General Mooney—the general that forced the navy to act and save Jessica, but decides to keep the fact that he knows the name to himself, in case it puts him and Nash in danger.
‘John…did you hear me?’
‘Yes…I’m stuck in a car with a testy guard. I was about to leave when the lockdown protocols were triggered,’ Masen says thinking there’s too many maybes when it comes to Pascal and Black. Masen initially thought the idea of Pascal being a double agent was ludicrous. Now he’s not sure of anything.
‘You said something about Professor Nash?’ Black asks.
‘No…no I didn’t,’ Masen quizzes himself.
Suicide.
He can’t believe the man who has photos of family on his desk would kill himself. He didn’t think him capable.
‘Kennedy, a shooting, you mentioned another shooting,’ Masen prompts trying to clarify his point.
‘Give the guard the phone,’ Black orders.
Masen holds the phone to the guard. ‘Assistant Director Zane Black wants a word.’ The guard takes the phone. After a brief discussion the guard hands it back, walks to the hut and raises the boom gate and lowers the anti-ram barrier.
Waves Masen through.
The wind starts to blow in the car as it picks up speed towards the intersection. Masen blinks and notices the phone is glowing and picks it up surprised to hear Black is still connected.
‘I need you to do something for me, John.’
Masen listens carefully with the phone glued to his ear.
‘The incident
at Kennedy and the suicide of Pascal is too much of a coincidence. We’re treating them as somehow connected.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘The Director has tasked me to take over supervision of the Barn. I need you to be my right hand man on this.’
‘Disconnect all connections to the mainframe immediately,’ Masen says raising his voice. ‘Full lockdown. This sort of attack is unusual.’
‘We can’t,’ Black says. ‘Data from all government programs is going to be collected and secured in the database over the next couple of days. We can disconnect after that. The Director was quite specific that all intel should be secured at the Barn, and I agree with him.’
Black hangs up.
I have to get in contact with Nash. But there’s another question plaguing Masen. The program Pascal mentioned to him connecting General Mooney to Nash. What’s DUST? And why is it so important?
Holding the trunk open with one hand, Black struggles sending a text to the cleaner with instructions to fix up the mess on Milford. The one he’s currently making he’ll clean up himself. Pauses staring down at the body.
With both hands he heaves out a heavy plastic container using a straight back and bending the knees—his dark-haired twenty-something gym instructor had demonstrated the correct posture. Prude’s her name. Skin as smooth as a new leather lounge, and a back of sculptured marble. Liquid swishes hitting the ground and scrawls drag marks as it’s pulled over, and left to fall next to the body. Kicks off the cap and stands back watching gas making a glugging sound as it pools and runs glossy-black under tires and the car. When the flow slows and the container mostly empty, he picks it up and sprinkles gas on the roof, a good dose inside, drizzles some down the windscreen, over the hood and throws the container inside.
Wipes his brow.
So far he’s been lucky. The only company he’s noticed are a few birds and rats scrimmaging near a large graffitied industrial bin and wooden pallets stacked against it. But luck has a tendency to run out. Best he be off.
Iris Rising Page 2
