The Pressure of Darkness

by Harry Shannon

  "Okay, but stay on the line."

  Moments later Burke was at the computer, typing code sequences. He removed the small camera from its plastic case. The piece was designed for a one-time use and had been encoded to a specific frequency. Burke lined it up, rolled the office chair backwards on the hard plastic sheet. The monitor flickered and rolled, then burst into white static. After a few seconds he saw a split screen with his face on one side and Cary's features on the other. The images ran together and then resolved. Cary sat alone, in some nondescript office. He was holding a sheaf of papers. He looked exhausted.

  "Well, it works, anyway," Cary said. "I always wondered if it would, or if it was more high-tech bullshit from people with nothing better to do."

  "The lady I've been seeing just disappeared," Burke said, quickly, "probably kidnapped by a cult headed by a man named Mohandas Hasari Pal. I think it factors into your troubles in Mexico."

  "I wouldn't be surprised. And catch this, the sheet of formulas you faxed me?" Cary raised the paper. "It's got the kids at the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta pretty excited. One of them actually called me on an open line to tell me what it is."

  "Tell me, make it quick."

  Cary read from the page. "This is a direct quote, Burke. The guy from CDC said 'this is the cure for a disease that doesn't exist.'"

  Burke leaned closer. "What the hell does that mean?"

  "It means that if a certain super strong influenza virus just happened to be manufactured somewhere, a bug that would have a mortality rate nastier than Ebola and one hell of a long life in the open air, then this sheet of equations Stryker sent his daughter would offer the chance of a cure."

  "The note at the bottom, in Stryker's handwriting? It said 'for the government, when the end begins.'" He was trying to save his daughter's life. "Jesus Christ, Cary, is that what I think it is?"

  "I don't believe in coincidences. We have a lot of bits and pieces coming together. I'm just not sure what they mean yet."

  "That's because it's time to factor in Mexico, Cary."

  It took Ryan a second to catch up. "Buey?"

  "That's right, and now my girlfriend Indira, too. Hang on." Burke raised the cell phone. "Gina, what have you got now?"

  "I hope you're sitting down," Gina said. "Doc just sent us an e-mail."

  "What?"

  "He must have mailed it on time delay from his office computer, Burke. It's a file. I forwarded it to Cary's private e-mail because you both need to see this. I mean right fucking now."

  Burke to Cary: "You get something from Gina? Open it."

  "Got it."

  Burke bristled. "You're the geek, Gina. I can't do it and talk to Cary online. One of you tell me what it is."

  "Oh, shit." On the monitor, Cary's jaw fell open at the hinges. "Looks like Doc was doing some extracurricular lab work on a homeless lady brought into the morgue. It's the start of a report on the fact that there was something odd about the virus in her body. He never finished it." Cary looked up. "What do you want to bet?"

  Poor Doc. "That's all the confirmation I need," Burke said. "The only missing piece was Mexico. Not anymore."

  "The pile of dead bodies underground at Los Gatos. Shit. And now someone took your girlfriend down there?"

  "Cary, you need to do all the workup you can on Dr. Mohandas Hasari Pal. Gina has a leg up and she will send you what she's gotten together. Like I said, he runs a cult of some kind, very secretive, a perversion of Tantra. I can tell you that he has a preoccupation with death and he's just found out he's terminally ill, also that he and Stryker knew each other. So the virus must originate in Mexico. And Cary?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I want that mission you offered."

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The young woman awakens with a soft moan, and her head rolls sideways on the pillow. She reaches out for her lover, can almost smell the tang of his sweaty chest hair, but her fingers grasp empty air. She lowers her hand to the pillow and discovers it is wrapped in clear plastic.

  She opens her eyes. Her heart sinks.

  Indira Pal finds herself in some kind of a hospital room, or perhaps a prison cell. Her surroundings are made of mirrored glass, shiny metal, and clean porcelain that reeks of cleanser. Everything is sanitized to a fault and the recessed lights are painfully bright. She tries to sit up, but her head pounds. She notices an unpleasant taste in her mouth.

  "She might be waking up."

  The voice is muffled and tinny and comes from somewhere in the wall above her. Indira rolls onto her side. One light rustling sound tells her she is wearing a paper gown that is backless; she can feel a slight breath of air flowing over the skin of her buttocks. The air smells of disinfectant and polished metal. Embarrassed, she rolls onto her back to cover her nakedness. She keeps one arm over her eyes and pretends to fall asleep again in order to buy herself time to think.

  Indira remembers that terrifying old couple, the Farnsworth woman dancing madly through the house. Now she understands that the woman was making sure no one else was on the premises. She recalls the senility routine, the old man striking the woman, how abhorrent his action seemed at the time. The way the old woman skillfully disarmed her, the old man's eerie calm. The injection that followed. Her arm still feels sore. It has not been long, probably less than a day.

  But where is she? Have they taken her to a local hospital? Why, what sense would that make?

  "Good afternoon. Are you hungry?"

  Indira feels her flesh swarm with goose bumps. There is no sense continuing to pretend she is not yet awake. She removes her sore arm and opens her eyes. The bright light hurts. "What the hell have you done to me?" Her attempt to sound brave is feeble and she knows it.

  "All in good time, Mrs. Pal," the voice soothes. Indira remembers: they told me Mo sent them. "I have permission to offer you some yogurt if you are hungry. Although you have ample water in your cell, there is no food at present. This may be your last opportunity to eat."

  "Before what?"

  No answer.

  Indira uses her hands to brace herself against the mirrored wall. She pulls herself upright. Her temples throb. Buy some time. "Yes. I would like to eat something. Thank you."

  "Of course."

  "And may I have some aspirin, please?"

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Pal. No medicinal items are allowed."

  Indira looks around the sterile room. She is sophisticated enough to sense that the mirrored walls are two-way. She is being observed. She becomes even more conscious of her naked behind, and pushes her back against the pillow. She hugs herself against the cool air.

  Something rattles and rumbles in the wall behind the tiny sink. After a ludicrous amount of whirring, a panel opens to reveal a lightweight plastic container about the size of a cigar box. The container extends into the room on a shelf made of thick paper, which then drops to the floor. The container, which is clear, contains a small, sealed package of store-bought yogurt and a white picnic spoon.

  The surface of the wall is completely flat mere seconds later, and the mechanical noises fade away.

  "Hello?"

  Indira feels tightness in her chest and her breathing becomes ever more shallow and rapid. The extensive medical precautions and cold, impersonal treatment are working to create a stark, lonely terror. She wonders what has been done to her, and what is to come.

  "I know you're watching me," she ventures. "Can't we talk about this?"

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Biff Gerber is a sour-faced condo of a man who is easily twice as athletic as he seems. Thick arms strain the fabric of his blue uniform. He raises the cigarette to his veal-colored lips, jerks his head, indicating the passenger door of the patrol car. "Get in."

  Scott Bowden goes around behind the back of the car. He gives a few seconds of serious thought to pulling his throw down and putting two in the back of Gerber's head, but the man's piggy eyes watch him too carefully in the rearview mirror.

  Bowden takes a quick look around the
quiet Van Nuys neighborhood. An ancient Oriental man is mowing a yellowing yard four doors down. He doesn't look up. The street seems virtually deserted. Bowden reluctantly opens the door, gets in. The first thing he notices is that Gerber has a cocked Colt MK4 series .45 sitting in his lap. The handle and trigger are taped to obscure fingerprints.

  "You wanted to see me."

  Gerber takes a deep drag on the cigarette and throws it out into the street. He exhales a plume of smoky bad breath heavy with garlic and onions, then rolls over onto one immense ham and farts.

  Bowden waves his hand in the air. "Thanks for sharing."

  Gerber slaps a broad hand against Bowden's chest. He runs it up and down, gropes his crotch. Bowden allows the search because of the .45 but his temper is close to flaring. He fantasizes about cutting off one of the fat man's ears just to hear him scream. "I'm taking over for Grace where you're concerned," Gerber says, finally. "You take orders from me from now on."

  "How come?"

  Gerber shrugs to indicate his lack of enthusiasm for the topic. "Grace did himself."

  Bowden, hesitantly: "Anybody know why?"

  "Maybe his wife finally found out he was laying pipe in them gay bars or something. I don't know and I don't give a shit."

  "You always were a caring individual, Biff."

  "Save the smartass routine."

  Bowden looks down at the gun. "You going to use that on me or yourself, Biff?"

  Gerber does not smile. "Depends."

  Bowden sees a pack of unfiltered Camels on the dash. He takes one and lights up. The radio squawks for a second, but is turned down so low it sounds like static. Bowden inhales deeply, feels the nicotine rush to his brain. Meanwhile, Biff Gerber sits perfectly still except for the slow lift and fall of his huge chest. His mind seems far away.

  Bowden exhales. "What they got on you, if you don't mind me asking?"

  Gerber grunts. "I mind you asking." But then, after a pause, he speaks quietly through tightly compressed teeth. "Hey, I have a thing for the horses. I got in over my head. Borrowed from guys I shouldn't have."

  "Yeah, the bent nose bunch."

  "No, the Russian version."

  "Damn."

  "Grace came and bailed me out, so long as I worked for him. It was no biggie at first, a little bag detail here and there or some enforcement. I was still a good cop."

  There is genuine pain in the man's gruff voice. A new silence hangs heavy as fog. "Yeah," Bowden replies. "So was I."

  Gerber warms to it, the words bumping together like a five-car pileup on the freeway, spilling out of his mouth in a pressured whisper. "Somewhere along the way I lost track of what I was doing and why I was doing it." He looked down at the gun. "Now, I've done some things I wouldn't tell a priest about. Here comes another one."

  Bowden wonders if he is about to die, eyes the gun nervously, knows he could never reach his own in time. "What are we talking about, here?"

  Biff Gerber sighs dramatically. The stench of garlic and onions permeates the car. "I ever tell you about my ex-wife, Bowden?"

  "Can't say you have."

  "Name is Betty. She's a little redheaded twist with big tits, man. You know the kind, a real spinner. We split up maybe eight years ago, before I put on all this weight. I never got over her."

  Completely lost, Bowden takes another drag on his Camel. He lets his other hand slide a little closer to the holster clipped on his belt. "I'm listening."

  "So Betty had this kid, a real looker herself, kind of a stepdaughter to me, you know? One day last fall I tell Paul Grace I don't want to do this shit no more. He can stick it up his ass, take my badge, whatever. You want to know what happened the very next day?"

  Bowden is shocked to see one solitary tear roll down Gerber's pudgy cheek. He edges his hand closer his own gun, takes another drag on the cigarette, and waits things out.

  Gerber finally continues. "Kelly, the stepdaughter, she's walking home from school. Three gang bangers pull over and yank her into the car. They shoot her up with dope and do her six ways from Sunday, but they finally let her go." Gerber looks up, eyes black with rage. "They tell her to say hello to her mom's ex, the cop."

  "Jesus," Bowden murmurs. He is picturing his own daughter now, and his stomach churns. "I'm sorry, man."

  "That's who we're working for, you see." Gerber forces a chipper quality into his voice, and somehow that makes his statement all the more chilling. "All we have to do is play ball and do what we're told and things are cool. We get little bundles of cash and promotions and things roll our way. Just don't ask too many questions, and never turn them down." He looks away. "Never."

  Bowden feels the cool, reassuring metal of the gun beneath his fingers. He flips the cigarette out through the passenger window. He changes position in the car so he will have quicker access to the weapon. "Can I ask you something, Gerber?"

  "Sure."

  "Who the fuck are we working for? Who are 'they'?"

  Gerber picks his teeth with a yellowing fingernail. "Bowden, if you try to pull that weapon I will blow your guts to ribbons. Just so we're on the same page."

  "Okay." Bowden lets his hand slide back into plain view. "Like I said before, I'm listening."

  "The people we work for are rich and well-connected," Gerber says, quite calmly. "They all know each other, but none of us know who they are. One time I got curious and tried to find out."

  "And?"

  "I followed one broad, a woman I saw leaving Grace's house one night. She goes into the ladies room of a bar with a small suitcase, okay? So I'm standing down the hall pretending to be on the pay phone. A couple of minutes later the door opens and a fucking man walks out, plain as day. I only know it's her because this guy is carrying the same suitcase."

  "You followed him."

  "Damn straight I did. All the way across town and up into the hills. Something about him looked familiar, but I couldn't place him. So I make a note of the address. Know who it was?"

  "This a fucking game show? Tell me."

  "It was a big, hot-shot writer name of Peter Stryker. You know that dude who wrote all those horror novels. I tailed him a couple other times, always the same story. He meets somebody in drag and goes home as a man."

  "So?

  "Hey, I'd write it off as kinky sex, but I know a couple of the people he's meeting, and they ain't into trannies."

  "Then it was just to keep things cool. And now Stryker is dead."

  "Very badly dead, man. Anyway, so Peter Stryker and Grace I knew about, of course, and as best I can tell, Grace was the biggest swinging dick in city government, other than a fucking councilman or two."

  "Any idea how many there are in the whole group?"

  "I don't think it's all that large, but they have balls like watermelons. There are some people in the government involved, but I think they're mostly spooks."

  "Spooks? You're kidding."

  "Most likely CIA or Homeland Security dudes, you know? The ones who never show up on anybody's payroll but still seem to be involved in all the heavy shit."

  "So we're working for the government?"

  Gerber chuckles in a dirge. "No government you or I would recognize. Jesus, man, they've had me knock around guys who work for the FBI. Whatever they are, it's not that simple." He turns to his right, looks straight at Bowden, who does not like the expression on his face. "I have your next assignment."

  Bowden nods carefully. "Okay."

  Gerber raises the gun, aims it at Bowden's belly. "Do I need to spell out what's going to happen to your daughter if you don't follow orders?"

  "No." Bowden grimaces. He grinds his teeth.

  Gerber shrugs. "They told me I should."

  Bowden feels flush with rage but cannot move. His daughter's life is on the line, hanging on the way he responds. He shakes his head. "No need for the rough stuff." He forces himself to sound confident. "I hear you loud and clear."

  "I've been told a guy name of Jack Burke is your asshole buddy and
that you can get next to him pretty easily."

  "I suppose so."

  "Well, some out of town talent got assigned to take him out but still hasn't gotten the job done. So now it's yours."

  "He's my friend," Bowden says, weakly.

  "We don't have friends."

  "Christ, Biff, he was a cop in Vegas. He's one of us."

  Biff Gerber nods quietly. "Well, then this really sucks." He almost seems sympathetic. Almost. "But from now on, think of it this way. It's him or your kid."

  FIFTY-SIX

  SATURDAY

  "I-I-I don't fucking believe this," Cary Ryan sputtered. His chiseled features were engorged and frustration rendered him nearly inarticulate. He already knew he would lose the argument, but could not let it rest. "Rising international tension? Threats of terrorism?"

  "That's what the man said."

  Cary slapped his hand on the computer keyboard and spilled hot coffee on a case file. "What the hell are we talking about?"

  "What are we talking about?" The balding case officer, Garth Burwell, outranked Cary. He was annoyingly calm, even a bit smug. The fact that he was on a video conference and not in the room was almost as irritating as his message. "I don't know about you, Major Ryan, but I'm talking about the government of a sovereign nation having asked us to stay out of the way for the next few days."

  "Sovereign nation? Who's kidding who? This is Mexico for Chrissakes!"

  Burwell fought down a smile. "You have a point there."

  "Back me on this, Garth. Please."

  "Sorry, Major. No can do."

  Ryan rubbed his face. "What about an overland op, maybe with a tour bus or something? I might have time to get it together that way."

  A shrug, a tilt of the head. "'Stay out of the way' indicates that there are to be no ops at all until they get things straightened out down there."

  "This is a set-up. Whatever or whoever we're after must have some people in Mexico in their pocket. This is the property of a drug lord, for Chrissakes, you know that!"