Agent Out

by Francine Pascal

  “That wasn’t very smart,” Marsh told Gaia, grunting as he pulled Kinney’s large frame into the shadows by the wall. “He’ll be out for, what, twenty minutes?”

  “Long enough to get away,” Gaia said, rubbing the side of her hand. She had acted very fast, without consciously thinking it through beyond on some level that any FBI agent she encountered was going to try to take her into custody and prevent her from finding Catherine. Now, looking down at the unconscious blond agent, Gaia wished that she’d come up with a better plan. “Come on—”

  Marsh shook his head, pointing at the ceiling.

  Gaia understood. The other agent, she realized. Kinney’s partner—he’s got to be on the roof.

  “When I say so,” Marsh said, stepping closer, “I want you to follow me and do exactly what I say.”

  “But—”

  “Please don’t give me a hard time about this,” Marsh said impatiently. “I was a field agent before you were born.”

  Fair enough, Gaia thought. “What’s your plan?”

  RECOGNIZING FEAR

  With a sudden, loud squeal of brakes a blue Ford sedan gunned its engine. The car lurched forward out of its parking space beneath the revolving Clavarak Motel sign. Brakes squealed as the Ford accelerated purposefully toward the highway. Behind the wheel was a man in a dark raincoat with a hat pulled low over his eyes. Beside him a young woman with long blond hair hunched down against the passenger seat, as if trying to disappear from view.

  As the blue Ford sped away, the Clavarak Motel’s office door crashed open and two men in suits and sunglasses hurried out, heading for their own Chevrolet sedan. One of the men—the blond one—was limping and groggy, holding on to his partner’s shoulder for support.

  The men in suits got into their sedan and gunned the engine. Just as the blue Ford disappeared completely from view, the government-issue sedan emerged from the motel parking lot and began to pick up speed.

  Gaia leaned against the edge of the window, bending back the curtain and peering out at the darkening parking lot. Marsh stood beside her with his jacket off and his tie loosened, watching the results of his handiwork.

  “How much did you pay that guy?” Gaia asked.

  “Fifty bucks.” Marsh shrugged. “But he gets to keep my car.”

  “When will they pick him up?”

  “Oh, they’ll follow at a distance all night,” Marsh said confidently, moving to one of the motel’s vinyl-covered chairs. “Remember, they think they’re tracking Gaia Moore and ‘unidentified male suspect’ or whatever that kid’s field report will call me.”

  Pretty clever, Gaia had to admit to herself. Sneaking them through the weeds behind the building, Marsh knocked on just three motel room windows before he had the good fortune to come across a man and his blond teenage daughter, who were willing to make some money and get a free car in the bargain. The man looked nothing like Marsh, but the hat and raincoat had fixed that. And now Agent Kinney and his partner were getting farther away by the minute.

  “That guy is gunning for a promotion,” Marsh said critically. “He jumped you too soon and you got away. Not to mention actually warning you that the whole bureau’s after you. Agent Kinney didn’t exactly help the FBI with that maneuver.”

  “Wait—‘jumped me too soon’?” Gaia frowned at Marsh. “You won’t give me any credit for the takedown?”

  “You’re still embarrassed about Rossiter,” Marsh said, smiling slightly. “Get over it. Happens to everyone.”

  Gaia looked at Marsh, caught in the fading light from the curtained window of her cheap motel room, and in that moment she felt like she could see what must have been hundreds and hundreds of cases. How many fistfights, arrests; how many times was Marsh primary through a door? How many injuries had he sustained, bullets had he taken?

  He’s certainly got the moves, Gaia told herself. She seemed to be able to see twenty-odd years of field experience in the flawless way he carried himself. It made her feel like a clumsy, lumbering novice in comparison.

  But that’s not fair, she told herself. You’ve only just started. This is your first time in the field. Soon you’ll be as good as him.

  If she got that far.

  “What is this, some kind of secure chat?” Marsh said behind her.

  Gaia turned around. Marsh stood at the tiny laminated desk where she had set up her laptop. Its screen glowed like a miniature billboard, showing green lines of text.

  “A hidden IRC channel for hackers?” Marsh whistled, impressed. He’d gathered the nature of the site in seconds. “Not bad. Your generation’s got a whole new bunch of tricks.”

  “Don’t read that!” Gaia yelled out sharply. “That’s none of your b—”

  “Medal of Valor,” Marsh said. “I didn’t know they’d put that there.”

  Gaia had stalked over and grabbed the laptop’s screen/lid, ready to slam it shut—when she stopped. On the screen were several lines of bold green text:

  WILL22: Gaia? Are you there?

  WILL22: Gaia?

  WILL22: OK, I’m going to assume you’re still connected. Here’s the 411 on that ex-agent: FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION PERSONNEL FILES WINSTON ELIAS MARSH ID #45199-ED0-5 AGENT IN GOOD STANDING 1979-2002 CONGRESSIONAL MEDAL OF VALOR, 04.13.81 SECURITY OPERATIONS, BOSTON OFFICE, 1985-1993 DISTINGUISHED ORDER OF SERVICE, 08.12.93 COUNTERTERRORISM TASK FORCE, 1994-2001

  “Checking my story,” Marsh said, nodding in appreciation. The glow of the laptop screen shone up in their faces as they stood there. Marsh didn’t seem remotely offended or annoyed. “Very good.”

  “You were on the counterterrorism task force?” Gaia asked, impressed. She had heard about that elite Boston program and how notoriously difficult it was to get oneself assigned to it. Marsh had managed, apparently. “And now you’re doing—what did you say—‘skip traces’? Spying on cheating husbands?”

  “And finding your friend,” Marsh said tightly. He turned to move toward one of the orange vinyl-covered chairs. “Don’t forget that little detail.”

  “But basically I’m right, aren’t I? One of a hundred people in the whole country who could actually achieve something in counterterrorism and you’re working for bail bondsmen in Philadelphia.”

  “Today,” Marsh said quietly, “I’m finding your friend. Shall we get back to it, or do you want to make more clever remarks about me?”

  He’s right—that was unfair, Gaia reprimanded herself. Why are you picking on him? He’s trying to help.

  Was it just that she felt competitive—overshadowed by a more experienced and more skilled FBI agent? Why did Marsh’s midlife career change bother her? He was done with it, that’s all, she told himself. He was tired of saving the world. Someday it’ll happen to me.

  Gaia suddenly broke off that train of thought, staring at the laptop screen. She had missed something.

  Below the reprinted lines from Marsh’s FBI service record, Will had typed something else:

  WILL22: Gaia (if you’re still there): Ran the name James

  Rossiter. All data RESTRICTED. Rossiter is connected to a terrorist organization called “Socorro.” This is no joke, Gaia … you are dealing with some very dangerous people here. PLEASE be careful and PLEASE ask yourself if you are 100 percent sure of what you’re doing.

  WILL 22: Gaia, are you there? I searched just now for the word Socorro. Nothing’s available except a single FBI briefing memo—a worldwide terror alert. Here it is: FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION ALERT STATUS—FOR IMMEDIATE GLOBAL RELEASEALERT STATUS

  This FBI memorandum is hereby marked for mandatory distribution to all field offices and law enforcement communications networks throughout the continental United States….

  There was more. Gaia and Marsh stood side by side, reading the memo in unison. They didn’t move, except when Gaia had to reach forward and scroll the screen down to read the rest. Major terrorist action … brainwash … reprogram … disruption of all free societies and their way of life … The wo
rds and phrases echoed in Gaia’s head like gunshots.

  “Very interesting,” Marsh said. He was frowning at the screen, concentrating.

  He’s seen these before, Gaia remembered. Marsh had spent seven years on the elite counterterrorism task force—documents like this one must have passed through his hands dozens of times. He can explain what it means.

  “This is from yesterday,” Gaia said, pointing at the date on the screen. She was struggling to make sense of what she was looking at. “’Completed preparations for a major terrorist action …’”

  “Yes. This is basically really bad news,” Marsh said grimly. He was staring past Gaia, the laptop screen reflected in his eyes. Gaia could see an intensity on his face that hadn’t been there before. She assumed it was fear—although recognizing fear was difficult for her. “Your friend’s right—you are dealing with some dangerous people.”

  “I’ve never heard of ‘Socorro’ in my life.”

  “An FBI agent hasn’t heard of a particular terror organization.” Marsh smiled humorlessly. “What a shock. The bureau’s extremely careful about the security ‘pyramid.’ A lot more than you know. Very strict rules govern who has access to what information.”

  “But—” Gaia was thinking furiously as she stared at the briefing memo.

  It’s Catherine, she realized helplessly. Of course—that’s what’s going on.

  “Catherine’s the recruit,” Gaia said. She went over and collapsed weakly into one of the room’s ugly orange vinyl chairs. “Socorro’s captured Catherine and they’re going to try to deploy her against the FBI.”

  “Now you’ve got it.” Marsh sighed heavily.

  His nerves are going, Gaia realized, seeing Marsh’s drawn, pale face in the dim lamplight. One too many shocks and he’ll be finished—ready for genuine retirement.

  The idea was horrifying, but it made all kinds of sense. If Socorro was in the business of turning FBI agents to their will, as the memo claimed, why not a young recruit? Why not Catherine? Abduct her, keep her prisoner in a basement while you force her to do whatever dirty work you need done on a computer …

  The motel room was dim and quiet. She could hear the interstate traffic rumbling past outside.

  “And they want to use her for something they’re doing two days from now,” Gaia remembered. “For ‘El Dia’—what the hell does that mean?”

  “It’s worse than you think,” Marsh said. He was walking toward her, holding out something—Gaia suddenly realized it was a hotel glass full of iced drinking water. She hadn’t seen him fill it.

  “Thanks,” Gaia said, reaching to take the glass. Gaia took a sip of ice water and then, before she realized what she was doing, drank it all down.

  “More?” Marsh said, holding out his hand politely.

  “Maybe later.” Gaia wiped her mouth, handing the glass back. “Why is it worse?”

  “Okay, I’m going to tell you a secret,” Marsh said, sitting on the edge of the bed. Gaia saw the cheap mattress and box spring sag under his weight. “Something that nobody at your security clearance level knows. There’s an FBI procedure called a ‘gray operation.’ Gray ops aren’t outlined in any regulation book or mentioned in any briefing or directive. Officially there is no such thing as a gray op, and the FBI has never and will never acknowledge otherwise. They never will because gray ops are … well, they’re pretty bad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A gray op,” Marsh said, “is when the bureau has no choice but to make an agent disappear.”

  What?

  “You’re saying,” Gaia repeated slowly, “that the FBI is responsible for murdering agents. I heard you clearly, right? That is what you’re saying? You’re saying this happens all the time?”

  “Yes,” Marsh said quietly. “It’s not a very attractive story, but it’s true. I would estimate it’s been done about thirty times in the last ten years, as the war on terror has heated up. When an agent or ex-agent gets too close to the enemy, is drawn into contact with terrorists somehow, the bureau has to weigh its risks very carefully. They have to consider the knowledge in the agent’s head, the knowledge that could conceivably fall into an enemy’s hands if the agent or ex-agent was somehow forced to reveal it. Sometimes they have no choice but to neutralize the agent.”

  Gaia was watching Marsh, feeling an emotional confusion wash over her. She was trying to picture an FBI that could work the way Marsh was explaining—a bureau that made the bureau she thought she was working for look like a fairy tale in comparison. A bureau that would kill to protect its secrets.

  Is that true? Could that possibly be true?

  Gaia didn’t have time to pursue this unpleasant line of thought. “The FBI’s going to kill Catherine,” she said weakly. “I get it—that’s what you’re saying.”

  “And you too,” Marsh said. “Make no mistake, Gaia—the sole purpose you’re serving right now is to lead the FBI to Catherine, if she’s still alive. Once you’ve done that for them, then you’ll be terminated, too.”

  Terminated?

  “There won’t be an order,” Marsh continued. “Word will come down from Washington, but officially nobody will hear a thing. And then one day you’ll be dead, Sanders will be dead, and to keep things nice and clean, I’ll be dead, too. With the three of us removed from the game board, the bureau’s precious tactical secrets are safe from Socorro and all the rest, and their war on terror can go on.”

  Gaia leaned back in the ugly fake-leather chair, stretching her legs out and arching her back. Her fatigue was really overcoming her now. It was a tremendous relief to have someone on her side—she had to admit that to herself.

  “It’s very disillusioning,” Marsh said gently. “I know. Generally agents are a little older when they find out. But this is a war, and sometimes you’ve got to play dirty to win. It’s not nice, but it’s true.”

  Gaia nodded. The cold feeling—the feeling that wasn’t fear, but in many ways was just as bad—lingered in her body like a winter chill. She felt disoriented. Less than an hour ago she’d been driving into the edges of Baltimore with half a clue about a phone trace. Now she was in over her head, and it had happened very fast. Gaia’s concern about her roommate was doubling and tripling in her mind.

  “Listen, you look exhausted.” Marsh stood up, glancing at his watch. “Time to get some rest. You need ammo? I’ve got steeljacket .22 calibers for a Walther like yours if you want.”

  “Um—sure,” Gaia said. Standing made her feel light-headed.

  “Tomorrow we’ll keep looking for Catherine,” Marsh said, taking his room key out of his pocket. “Just pick up the trail wherever we can find it.”

  “That’s right,” Gaia confirmed.

  “I don’t know if you’ve got a toothbrush or anything like that,” Marsh said awkwardly. He had gotten up from the chair and was moving toward the motel room door. “I can go buy you whatever, um, toiletries you need.” Marsh paused as he stared at Gaia a moment longer. “You’re going to be a good agent,” he said quietly. “If you live that long.”

  “Thanks.”

  Marsh shook his head, his hand on the doorknob. “Just calling it as I see it. Come on—time to get some shut-eye. I don’t have to tell you not to make any phone calls. You’re on the run now, Gaia—better get used to it fast.”

  Night was falling. It was dark and cool outside, Gaia saw as Marsh pulled the door open. Outside, the air smelled like evening dew and gasoline. The 7-Eleven’s emerald signs and windows were blindingly bright; Gaia could hear an Usher song playing on a car radio somewhere nearby. Cars droned past on the interstate, far in the distance.

  Someday, Gaia thought weakly. Jesus, where am I and what am I doing?

  She was too tired to think about it anymore.

  “Morning comes early,” Marsh said. “Sleep well, Gaia.”

  “You too,” she answered.

  Then the door closed and Gaia was all alone in an empty motel room, far from anyplace she’d ever c
alled home.

  kiss them goodbye

  A WHOLE DAY’S WORTH OF LUCK

  Bright white light—sunlight—

  Gaia was in her Quantico dorm, dreaming that she was floating down a wide river. The water was calm and smooth, and the boat she rode glided gendy with the current toward the sun. The sun was too bright, hurting her eyes, but the current was taking her in the right direction: she had to follow the river.

  In her dream Gaia knew she was on a long journey. The sunlight dazzled her, made it hard to see where she was going. She knew that the current was strong and that her voyage would take her through deep and rapid water, beyond the sunset, into darker and darker territory. Somewhere far ahead the water led into the night, and there, in the darkness at the river’s end, she would arrive—

  Where?

  To meet—

  Who?

  The dream was fading now as the light on her eyes got brighter. The damn dorm windows faced east; she should have asked Catherine if they could switch beds halfway through the semester or something.

  Morning sunlight. Too bright—roll over—sleep some more—

  Gaia knew that was a losing battle. If the sun was up, that meant there was probably less than a half hour before the alarm clock, and then she and Catherine would be doing their usual routine, stumbling to the closets, not yet awake, their bare feet slapping the cold linoleum floor as they wordlessly dressed for morning calisthenics, side by side, not even trying to speak to each other. They had the routine down, joining the bathroom line in sequence, taking turns, pulling on FBI sweatshirts as the Virginia sunlight flooded their dorm room, the same light that was blasting in Gaia’s eyes now.

  Wait—

  The light was wrong. Too pale, too weak. The bedsheets were rough, not her own well-worn, beloved blue cotton sheets from Stanford. The sound was all wrong: too quiet, with no birdsong and no wind, just the hum of traffic and honking horns nearby and a droning machine sound she couldn’t identify. And there was a mild ache in her lower back, like the ghost of a fading bruise—