by Kyle Mills
My father came in and announced that he’d quit his job and joined the FBI—something my mother didn’t even know he was interested in. We were shipped off to her parents while he trained in Quantico and then quickly found ourselves in Salt Lake City, one of our many homes over the years.
As it turns out, this wasn’t as impulsive as it first seemed. My father grew up in a small cotton-farming town in southeast Missouri, and on a visit to his family when I was a teenager, my grandmother told me the story of his first encounter with the Bureau. It was 1953 and there had been a bank robbery in the area, prompting an FBI agent to interview the owner of the local general store. My father, then twelve years old, wandered in for supplies and hid behind a shelf to listen. When he got home, he told his mother about the experience—that the man had been “dressed real fine and talked real good.” And that one day he, too, would be a G-man. She just smiled.
Growing up in a Bureau family is about as interesting as it gets, but also a bit challenging. Of course, there are the constant moves that can be tough on a kid trying to fit in. Even stranger, though, is the sense of secrecy. It may be that my early training as a novelist came from filling in imaginary details to circumspect conversations I overheard. The need-to-know attitude is oddly pervasive, as anyone who has watched my father and me move a ladder will attest. It’s always teetering upright with him yelling “Left! Right! Not that far right, for Christ’s sake!” Now that he’s retired, I aspire to get him to just tell me the ladder’s final destination before we pick it up. I’m not hopeful, though.
Whatever the negatives, it was all worth it. How many kids get to have dinner with a man who, by law, cannot be photographed? Or drink a beer with the SAS? Or discuss Northern Ireland with the head of the Royal Ulster Constabulary? And then there was the time I came home from my summer job and was told that we were having dinner with an insurance salesman who needed help with the FBI-related sections of his third novel. He was nice enough to bring us a copy of his first effort. It had been published by the Naval Institute Press under the title The Hunt for Red October.
And how many people get to read about their college graduation dinner in history books? It was 1988 and my family was at a restaurant in London where my father was the legal attaché. About halfway through the hors d’oeuvres, someone from the embassy came in and told us that a Pan Am flight had gone down in a little town called Lockerbie. That was the last I saw of my father for months.
With all this cloak and dagger, it was hard not to be a huge fan of thriller novels. The first I can remember reading was Shogun, still vivid in my mind because I was supposed to do my seventh-grade book report on it and was a little shocked to find out there was a second volume. I wasn’t only a fan, though, I was also a critic. Authors who made factual errors or failed to faithfully capture the operatives they wrote about drove me crazy. And that led me to focus on the masters of the genre—people like Jack Higgins, John le Carré, and Robert Ludlum.
So it’s a great honor for my eleventh novel to be part of the Covert-One series. Hopefully, you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Kyle Mills
May 12, 2011
About the Authors
ROBERT LUDLUM was the author of twenty-six international best-selling novels, published in thirty-two languages and forty countries. He is perhaps best known as the creator and author of three novels featuring Jason Bourne: The Bourne Identity, The Bourne Supremacy, and The Bourne Ultimatum. Ludlum passed away in March 2001.
KYLE MILLS is a New York Times best-selling author of more than ten novels, including Rising Phoenix and Lords of Corruption. He lives with his wife in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where they spend their off-hours skiing, rock climbing, and mountain biking.
Continuing Robert Ludlum’s™ COVERT-ONE Series
Dresner Industries unveils the Merge, a revolutionary device that can make the computer obsolete. Assigned to assess its military potential, Covert-One operative Colonel Jon Smith discovers a lethal technology that will change the face of warfare forever…
Please turn this page for a preview of
The Utopia Experiment
Written by Kyle Mills
Prologue
Erfurt
East Germany
December 1972
WE’RE RUNNING BEHIND SCHEDULE. I can’t be responsible for the weather.”
Christian Dresner nodded and continued to gaze through the Trabant’s dirty windshield. Outside, everything was hung with ice. Decayed houses glistened on either side of the narrow road, tangled power lines sagged with the weight, and the cobblestones glared blindingly in their headlights.
“We should go directly to the rendezvous,” the driver continued nervously. “It’s almost midnight.”
“You took our money,” Dresner said. “Now you’ll do the job according to our agreement.”
The man leaned over the greasy steering wheel, scowling as he tried to coax a little more speed from the car without losing traction.
A quiet rustle came from the backseat, followed by a voice barely audible over the sickly, communist-made engine. “Christian?”
Dresner twisted around and looked at the thin man clutching a briefcase to his chest. At twenty-six, Gerhard Eichmann was two years his senior, but his physique and manner made him seem perpetually trapped between adolescence and adulthood. Despite that impression, though, he was a brilliant psychologist—something highly valued by Soviet politicians obsessed with controlling every aspect of their people’s lives. More important, though, Eichmann was a true friend—a rare treasure in a world full of zealous apparatchiks, secret police, and desperate informants. Perhaps the frail man would be the only friend he would ever have. But it didn’t matter. One like him was enough. More than most people could hope for.
“Don’t worry, Gerd. Soon, we’ll wake up in a warm bed in the West. We’ll be free to do what we wish. To become what we wish. I promise you.”
Eichmann gave him a weak smile and held the briefcase tighter. It was the only thing they were taking with them, the only thing they possessed of value. It contained records of the research done at a remote facility they’d been all but imprisoned in for the past four years. The currency they would use to start their new lives.
The vehicle slowed and Dresner faced forward again as they started up a winding road, the moderate slope of which quickly proved too steep for the car’s bald tires.
He stepped out before they fully stopped, finding his footing on the ice and starting forward as the falling snow swallowed up Eichmann’s panicked entreaties.
The building began to reveal itself as the slope leveled—the cracked and faded arches clinging precariously to the facade, the peeling tower that sagged like everything and everyone around it.
A dim light coming from the upper window looked exactly as it had the day he’d been taken away but he averted his gaze, afraid that it would pull him into the past. That the frightened, desperate child he’d been would return and overwhelm him.
The gate he remembered was gone now and he felt his breathing turn shallow as he passed through the empty space where it had been. The swing set still stood, trapped in the frozen mud of the yard along with a teeter-totter snapped in the middle and a set of climbing bars. In his childhood, they’d still had paint clinging to them—patches of bright red and yellow that recalled the days before the war. Before the Soviets. On rare clear afternoons he’d lose himself in their glow, trying to transport himself to a time when children with homes and families clambered over them laughing.
Now even that was gone, swallowed by rust or obscured by the soot from coal fires people used to beat back the cold.
He pulled his coat closer around his neck and walked across the silent yard, stopping at the front door and pounding on it with a bare fist. When there was no reaction, he grabbed the shovel leaning against the railing and used the handle to hammer the unyielding wood. The fog of his breath obscured his vision as he continued to attack th
e entrance, years of repressed anger, helplessness, and hate resurfacing so easily.
A light came on inside and he stepped back, gripping the shovel in a shaking hand.
But when the door opened, it wasn’t the man he’d come for. It was the woman who had seen him off more than fifteen years ago. Her bowl-cut hair and puritan style of dress were unchanged, but now the skin hung loose from her chin and her eyes had trouble focusing.
“Hello Marta.”
The recognition came quickly, followed immediately by the fear he had been too consumed to anticipate. Dresner had no desire to inspire that in her and he suddenly felt ashamed. She had never been an evil woman. Just weak. And numb.
He brushed by her, the cold not dissipating at all as he passed in front of a broad staircase leading to the second floor. At its top, the orphans imprisoned there would be hiding in the shadows, just as he had every time an unexpected visitor came. They would be perfectly still, holding their breaths, telling themselves that this time it would be a long-lost parent or cousin or sibling. That it would be someone who would take them away.
He plunged into the darkness, avoiding scattered furniture by memory and starting quietly up the spiral stairs that wound their way up the tower. The door at the top was framed by gray light flickering from the gap around the jamb and he stood in front of it for a few moments, trying to separate the sensation of being there at that moment from being there before.
“What do you want?” he heard from the other side of the door. “You’ll get out of here if you know what’s good for you!”
Instead, Dresner reached for the knob and went through, feeling the warmth of the kerosene heater that they had all known about and dreamed of. At first, he ignored the bulky, half-dressed man on the sofa and looked around at the room illuminated by the glow of a small black-and-white television. He’d never been inside—none of them had—and their imaginations had built it into a palace of gold and jewels and candy. In reality, it was just another disintegrating relic of a Germany that no longer existed.
Finally, Dresner’s eyes fell on a cane in the corner, still black in places, worn down to bare wood in others. He wondered how much his own back was responsible for the polished gleam of it. And if the broken tip was a relic of the eight-year-old girl who had slipped away in her bed, a victim of a beating she’d received for knocking over an old lamp that had never worked.
“Who—” the man said, pushing himself to his feet with the same anger he’d had so many years ago, but not the same speed or vigor. Recognition wasn’t as quick as with Marta.
It was understandable. Dresner’s eyes, slightly magnified by thick glasses, were the only things that remained unchanged. The other researchers at the facility had been perplexed when he’d insisted on subjecting himself to many of the same protocols as the athletes they trained. He’d told them it was in the interest of science, but it was a lie. It had been entirely in the interest of this moment. His frail, half-starved body had been replaced with something more fitting for the occasion.
“Christian?” the man said, wet eyes widening as much as the half-empty bottle of vodka sitting on the table would allow.
Dresner nodded silently. Despite so many years planning for this day, he couldn’t remember what he was supposed to say.
“You’ve grown strong.” The man thumped his drooping chest. “I made you that way. I made you strong.”
For the first time, fear was clearly visible in him. And why not? He was just a broken-down soldier drinking himself to death in a forgotten orphanage. But Dresner had been embraced by the party. He was one of the generation who would show the world the superiority of communism and the Soviet system. He was the future and this old man was part of a distant, irrelevant past.
“Don’t worry,” Dresner said, walking to the corner where the cane leaned. “I’m not sending the Stasi for you.”
“With what your parents did…” the man stammered. “I had to make you ready for the world. To be able to resist the people who would be against you.” He paused for a moment and then quickly added. “For something that wasn’t your fault.”
“And is that what you’re still doing?” Dresner said, picking up the worn piece of wood. As with the playground outside, he remembered photographically the condition it had been in when he’d left, and now he ran his hand along every new scratch and gouge, every place where there had been paint that was now polished away. “Making them ready for the world?”
The old man saw it coming, but the years and alcohol had made him slow. The cane cracked across his cheek, causing him to spin and collapse against the grimy arm of the sofa. When it came down again, this time across his back, a low groan escaped him.
Dresner’s mind lost its ability to track what his body was doing and he struck again and again. The man slipped to the floor and tried to raise an arm in defense, but the brittle bones in it snapped with the next blow. He soon went motionless, but it didn’t matter. Dresner continued to beat him.
Only when his shoulder became too exhausted to rise and fall did he stop, staring blankly down at the body and trying to will his strength to return.
But, in truth, there was nothing left to do. The blood was pooling around the soles of his boots and the man’s dead eyes were staring into him as though they could see the terrified child he’d once been.
Dresner dropped the cane and staggered down the stairs, stopping at the bottom where the children had dared to come out of hiding.
He blinked hard, bringing their faces into focus and trying to control his breathing, once again visible in the absence of the kerosene heater.
“I wish I could do more,” he said finally. “I will someday. I promise you that.”
1
Khost Province
Afghanistan
ADITYA ZAHID LAY FLAT on his stomach behind the long-abandoned stone building, easing past its crumbling edge to scan the village of Sarabat.
The collection of square, dust-colored dwellings was small, even by the standards of this part of rural Afghanistan, and he felt the same shame that his father and his father before him had felt for allowing it to exist. The feud between these people and his own had burned for longer than anyone could remember, though the reason for it had faded with the years. Some said it was over stolen livestock and others a broken promise of marriage. Now it just was.
In truth, it no longer mattered. What did matter, though, was that despite outnumbering these people almost two to one, the fighting always ended in a bloody stalemate that resolved nothing. It was an ongoing humiliation that the elders of his village believed was about to be resolved. Zahid was less certain.
He retreated under cover and closed his eyes, picturing what he’d seen. Seven people in total were visible: two women, a child, and four men watering their goats at a well built by their good friends the Americans.
The sun was directly overhead and he squinted against it as he searched the walls of the shallow canyon. By now his companions would have completely surrounded the village, but he could find no sign of them. They had become part of the desert.
The anonymous foreigners who had made this moment possible insisted that the raid come now—not under the cover of darkness or even in the shade the cliffs would provide in only a few hours. And it was for this reason that Zahid didn’t share the elation of his people at the prospect of wiping these dogs off the face of their land. All he felt was fear and suspicion.
Still, the faceless men had lived up to every agreement they had made. Zahid was holding a new AK-47 they had provided as well as a silenced American hunting rifle that he had used to take down the sentry now lying next to him.
He looked down at the dead man and then propped him against a shattered section of wall. His head easily cleared the top and would offer a reassuring silhouette, keeping the unsuspecting men in the village complacent.
The digital watch on his wrist—also newly provided—didn’t read out the time, but a countdown. It would be less th
an two minutes before it reached zero. Before what could be their final victory began.
Again, Zahid closed his eyes. He had spoken against this. He didn’t trust faceless men or their weapons or their money. It smelled like a trap—a CIA trick. But the elders didn’t fully understand the new world they lived in. And their hated for the people of Sarabat burned much hotter than their hatred for an invader that would soon leave in defeat and be forgotten. Like all the others.
He wrapped his hand around his new assault rifle and prayed to Allah for success until he heard the quiet click of his countdown timer reaching zero. His men would be moving now, the younger ones too quickly—driven by adrenaline and the stories of glory they had heard from the day they were born. He was slower to rise, staying low as he approached the village, watching the ridgeline for American soldiers and the sky for attack helicopters. But there was nothing.
The silence was finally broken by the high-pitched scream of a child followed by the familiar roar of automatic rifle fire. A woman was hit from behind as she tried to escape, thrown forward with her arms spread wide, landing in the dirt with the unmistakable stillness of death. One of his own men appeared from behind a building, attempting to sight in on a running villager before a boy of eight on nine knocked his barrel aside. Zahid accelerated to a full run, putting himself on a path to intercept the fleeing man as the boy’s skull was crushed by a rifle butt.
His quarry was probably in his mid-twenties, straight and strong, but also seemingly confused as to what to do. He sprinted and then slowed. He looked forward toward his escape route and then back at the massacre taking place in his village. He reached behind him for the ancient rifle on his back but then seemed unable to close his fingers around it.
Zahid stopped and knelt, bringing his AK-47 to his shoulder and squeezing off a careful volley. The disoriented man wavered and then dropped to his knees, staring blankly at the sky. But still he didn’t reach for his weapon.
