“Mikhail Arsenyev,” Arthur said, as though musing to himself. “You lead a charmed life.” He stepped into the light, flipping through a thick manila folder, pausing to study a page here and there. “You know, there’s one thing I like about good, old-fashioned paper files. No matter how good you are with a computer, Mikhail, you can’t delete them.”
Michael waited until Arthur finally closed the folder and looked down at him.
“My name is Michael,” he said evenly.
“Right.” Arthur smiled. “And my name’s Arthur. Really. You like your chair?”
“You’ve confused me with someone else.”
“Uh-huh. Mikhail Arsenyev.” He opened the folder again and flipped through it, stopped on one page and flipped back. “So your family had ties to the KGB, back in the day. Guess this sort of thing comes natural to you. You ever tell your girlfriend about that?”
“She’s gone. You won’t find her.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t be too sure about that. And don’t worry. If she does decide to come along quietly, and not get herself killed, she’s going to open up to me. She’ll tell me everything I want to know. She trusts me. After all,” Arthur said, shrugging, “I’m just a harmless copy boy.”
“You can’t lie to her for long. She’ll see through you.”
“You know, that’s not what my gut is telling me right now. She ate that whole thing up. Not a professional, like you. That’s too bad. Maybe you should have given her a little more credit, brought her into the fold.”
Michael deliberately looked bored. “This is pointless. You’re wasting your time.”
“I’m just getting started.” Arthur pulled a chair out of the shadows and sat down, shifting in the seat to get comfortable. “So here’s a question that’s been burning me up ever since you put a gun to my head. What possessed you to chase the Archangel all the way to America? I mean, it wasn’t in your back yard anymore. What do you care? Why go through all this trouble?”
Michael stared him down. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.” Arthur leaned back. “Explain to me how it is you’ve chased it all these years, using stolen tech so advanced it would make most world leaders wet their pants, and yet you still can’t even touch the thing. Takes a certain amount of boneheaded determination to keep going after the Archangel like that, doesn’t it?”
“What makes you think I’m after the Archangel?”
“Oh, come on, Mikhail. You don’t play footsie with this thing unless you mean business. It eats people like you for breakfast.”
“You think I’m after what? Revenge? You think I want to hunt it down and kill it?”
Arthur shook his head. “Obviously, your gal pal holds a grudge. But not you, no. You’re acting like you’re trying to capture it. But that doesn’t make any sense. You don’t have the resources to contain it. You don’t have the contacts to sell it.”
“Sell it?”
“On the black market. Come on, Mikhail, in the right hands it’s the perfect weapon. Reverse-engineer the technology, re-create the experiment—”
“No.”
“—figure out where your Russian comrades screwed up—”
“You’re insane.”
Arthur stopped short. “I’m the only sane person in this conversation. Like it or not, Mikhail, the technology behind the Archangel project is the biggest game-changer since the A-bomb. You want to get religious about it or not, it’s still a weapon. The United States will gain control of it. And deploy it. Because whether or not the rest of the free world agrees with us, we are their best line of defense against people like you.”
Michael closed his eyes and let his chin sink down toward his chest. “You don’t understand why it’s here, do you?”
“The Archangel? It doesn’t have a why, Mikhail. It’s just a killing machine.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Look at the pattern. The people it kills all know about its existence. It won’t stop until it’s wiped them out. Them, and every trace of the technology that brought it here. You, me, all of us are targets. When we’re dead, there won’t be anyone left to stop the Archangel. It will re-open the portal back to where it came from.”
“And where do you think it came from?”
Michael stared straight into his eyes. “From the other side of death.”
A slow smile perked up one side of Arthur’s mouth. “You think … you think this thing literally is an angel. An angel of death?”
“An angel, a demon, it doesn’t matter what you call it. It’s here because the human race made a terrible mistake. We broke through the barrier between this world and the next. We broke a seal that we can’t repair. Our only chance is to trap the Archangel and find a way to communicate with it, reason with it. Convince it to leave us in peace.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then it will break down the barrier between worlds. And that could mean the end of the human race.”
“That’s an interesting theory.” Arthur tapped a finger against his lips, thoughtfully. “Pretty impressed with yourself, aren’t you, Mikhail? Tell me, if you’re so chock-full of cosmic insight, why do you think you’re the one strapped down to the chair this time?”
“You have to stop this. Your people believe in you. You can save them. They trust you.”
“They believe in this country. Our country.”
“This is bigger than that.” Michael met his gaze. “If you fail to stop the Archangel, you doom us all.”
Arthur leaned close. “We are going to win, Mikhail. Not you. Us. And the Archangel will enable us to do that. This nation is going to come out on top, any way we have to. No matter what the cost.”
“Where I come from, they call that kind of talk fascism.”
“I’m not a fascist, Mikhail,” Arthur said. “I’m an American.” He scooted his chair back and turned to someone standing beyond the light. “We’re done here. Juice him.”
The muscles in Michael’s arms coiled tight against the straps even before they brought out the needle.
*
They zip-tied Mitch’s wrists together in front of him and walked him to the back of a big truck, a ten-wheeler with a dirty white cargo box separate from the cab. One of the Feds, if that’s what they were, unlatched the back door and rolled it up.
Mitch planted his feet. “Who are you people?”
The guy pointed to someone behind him. “Get him in.”
Mitch threw an elbow behind him, hard. He connected, and someone huffed out a lungful of air. He fought his way free of the blond guy holding his arm and head-butted the other guy in the face.
Mitch turned around. A heavyset guy ten feet away aimed a submachine gun at him with expert precision. Mitch stopped. They were in the far corner of the parking lot from the motel, chain link fence blocking off his escape to the road. He had nowhere to go.
The heavyset guy didn’t blink. He had Mitch cold.
Mitch swore as the guys around him got back up off the ground and grabbed his arms again.
“If you’re thinking about trying that again, Mr. Turner,” said the guy waiting at the back of the truck, “I wouldn’t advise it.” He sniffed up the blood running from his nose.
“You got a lot of balls saying that, when it’s your lap dog over here with the gun.”
The guy pointed. “Just get into the truck. You’ll be taken to a safe location.”
“Yeah? Safe for who?”
“Get him inside.”
“All right.” Mitch held up his hands. As best he could, anyway. “All right. I’m getting in.” He climbed up and into the stale-smelling darkness. They rolled the door down and locked it.
The ride took a while. Lots of stops and starts. Didn’t sound like they ever got onto the highway. It was still dark outside, so the only light Mitch had was the murky glow of passing streetlights coming through the dirty fiberglass roof. Wasn’t much to see, anyway. The back of the truck was empty, except for dust and the smell
of damp cardboard.
They finally parked somewhere and the engine shut off. Mitch thought about whether he’d be better off standing at the back of the truck, near the door, or staying as far from the door as possible. He figured they’d just come get him either way. So he hunkered down near the door, in the corner, just in case he had a chance to make a break for it.
Metal clanked as they unlocked the door and rolled it open.
A dozen people, men and women in business suits, stood around the back of the truck with guns aimed at him. The truck was parked inside some kind of warehouse, with bright fluorescent lights high overhead. Rows of forty-foot cargo containers, all of them white, stretched out as far as he could see. The only markings on their corrugated steel sides were big six-digit numbers stenciled in black.
A portly guy came out from behind one of the cargo containers, and a guard swung the door shut behind him. The guy hustled up behind the row of guns, straightening his tie. He was a short, round guy with glasses and a receding hairline. He had a scar that ran through one eyebrow.
Mitch recognized him. He’d been on the ground in the yard where the van crashed. Holding the black box. Of course, the guy, being unconscious at the time, wouldn’t know Mitch.
Funny, Mitch thought. Small world.
“Mr. Turner, my name is Arthur Givens. Givens with an ‘s’. I’m a federal agent.”
“Huh.” Mitch looked around at all the guns pointed at him. “Think you got enough guys here?”
“That depends.” Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets and hiked up his pants. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that you can be a difficult man to talk to.”
“I want to see some credentials. Who’re you with?” He waited. “I want to see a badge.”
“Sorry, I can’t do that.”
“Huh. So I’ll just take your word for it, is that it?”
“We don’t have a lot of time for chitchat. Got people tied up here while there’s work to be done. So, why don’t you look at it this way. The easier you make this, the faster it’ll go. You’re not under arrest, in case you’re wondering. But this is a matter of national security. So what say you come on down from there nice and quiet so we can talk?”
“Looks like I got a lot of choice about it.”
“We aim to please.”
They got him out of the truck and led him down an aisle between two rows of shipping containers. They came to a spot where a bunch of containers were jammed together, with a central ventilation system rigged up on scaffolding, thrumming away.
Arthur opened up the double doors at the end of one of the containers. Inside, it had been rigged up as a wood-paneled office. Dark blue carpet covered the floor. A framed picture of the president hung at the other end, flanked by a pair of American flags on poles.
Arthur went in first. “Come on in. Don’t be shy.”
The guards closed the door behind Mitch, leaving him alone in the office with Arthur. The silence boxed him in. No echoes, like there were in the warehouse outside. Just the plush silence and the hush of the ventilation system.
Mitch followed Arthur past a long row of filing cabinets to a little conference table. A desk sat at the end, under a portrait of the president. “You’re in charge of all this, huh?”
Arthur pulled open the desk drawer, took out a pair of cutters and snipped the zip-ties off of Mitch’s wrists. They’d left an angry purplish mark across his skin. “Here, have a seat. You want some coffee? There’s good coffee here.”
Mitch flexed his hands. “How about a badge instead?”
Arthur sat down and smiled. “Well, Mitch, I admire a man who gets right down to it. You’re thinking about what that little girl told you. That there’s some kind of big, bad conspiracy in the American government. Am I right?” He waited, still smiling. “You know, people have been saying that since before Vietnam. They also say we never landed on the Moon. And the Earth is flat. Oh, and by the way, Elvis is working at Wal-Mart.” Arthur leaned back in his chair, sighing. “Come on, Mitch. This is the twenty-first century. There are no conspiracies anymore.”
Slowly, Mitch sat down.
“Look, I’m not going to pussyfoot around,” Arthur said. “We need to know where we can find that little sweetheart. Geneva. We need to help her. She’s in a whole heap of trouble right now.”
“Thanks for the hot tip.”
“You think this is a joke? You don’t have any idea what’s on her trail right now. We need to find her, Mitch. Get her to safety. We need to find out where she would go, right now. We just want to talk.”
“You mean you just want the black box.”
Arthur looked away for a second and let out a long breath. “Mitch, you might find this hard to believe, but I actually know Geneva. Spent some time with her. And I am impressed. I really am. She is a very resourceful young woman. And she’s sweet, to boot. I don’t want to see her get hurt, any more than you do. The sooner we get her into protective custody, the safer she’ll be.”
Here it comes, Mitch thought. He folded his arms. “And let me guess. You got only her best interests in mind, right? This sweet, innocent girl that maybe an hour ago you were shooting at.”
“This is a matter of national security, Mitch. You want to risk letting cutting-edge technology fall into the hands of terrorists? I’ll be honest with you, I really don’t know how you stepped into this mess. But one thing I can do is help you get out of it.”
“That’s what you think, huh?”
“I know you want to protect Geneva. I can understand that. And I empathize with you. I really do. If I were in your shoes, Mitch, I’d have a tough time making the right choice. But I know you will.” He settled his arms onto the table, laced his fingers together. “You and I both want the same thing. We want all this madness to stop. What do we need to do so we can find Geneva together?”
Mitch studied him for a second. He realized what it was about this guy that had been bothering him all along. “You know what your problem is?”
“Ooh, I like this part.” Arthur rubbed his hands together. “What’s my problem, Mitch?”
“Even you don’t believe what you’re telling me.”
Arthur sighed, took off his glasses, squinted at them, and put them back on. “You want to be a hard-ass, Mitch? Okay. I’ve got solid evidence connecting you to the guys in that parking lot yesterday. During your little shoot-out with Michael.”
Mitch felt a flash of cold run through him. He tried to shake it off, but he couldn’t. It felt just like the moment before he’d been sentenced, the seconds before he learned how long he was going to prison. He cleared his throat. “That supposed to be a threat? You going to try to pin me with a homicide charge, and I’m not even under arrest? You know how fast this would get thrown out of court?”
“We have your weapon, Mitch. We have your fingerprints. Your shoe prints. All the trace evidence we could ever want. We have contacts in the Denver P.D. We could pass along everything they need. Hell, Mitch, we could even advise the D.A. How would you like that? A man with your record, they could put you away for, what? Life? What do you think? You miss prison a whole bunch, I bet.”
Mitch didn’t say anything. But he could feel the walls closing in around him.
“Now, we don’t have to do it that way. Matter of fact, I don’t want to. Because there’s a better way. An easier way.”
“Easier how?” The words came out before he meant to say them.
“Wait. Not yet. We’re just getting to the good stuff.” Arthur pulled a little steel key out of his pocket, turned around in his chair and unlocked the file cabinet behind him. He pulled the top drawer open a few inches and got out a thick manila file folder. “Now, think hard on this one. The name Mikhail Arsenyev mean anything to you?”
“No.” Mitch leaned back in the chair. “Why, he got a talk show?”
Arthur set the folder down on his desk and opened it up. It was full of handwritten notes, copies of forms with government seals at the t
op. He pulled out a wrinkled yellow envelope and closed the folder. Pushed it aside.
Slowly, he reached into the envelope and pulled out a stack of black-and-white photos. He skimmed the top one across the table to Mitch. “Now you recognize him?”
It took Mitch a second. The photo showed a serious-faced kid in a formal portrait, maybe eight years old. A Boy Scout of some kind, wearing a camouflage uniform with patterns of autumn leaves on it. Two straps across his thin chest. But what caught Mitch’s eye, what he couldn’t stop staring at, was the flag in the background. It was Russian.
And then it hit him. The kid in the photo was Michael.
“Here,” Arthur said. “Try this one.” He skimmed another photo across the table.
This one showed a row of guys standing shoulder to shoulder in a winter forest, wearing ski jackets and pull-over caps. Michael, all grown up now, stood in the center of the group, looking stone serious, with a medal hung around his neck.
Next to him stood a guy with a face Mitch recognized. The guy who had come running out of the alley, shooting at him. Gabe. In the photo, he was smiling.
“Mikhail here is a bronze medalist cross-country skier. You know that? Also speaks five languages fluently. And for the Russian special forces, he was a sniper. Here, take a look at this.”
The third photo showed three guys and a grim-looking woman in military uniforms and mountain-climbing harnesses hiking up a hillside. They were surrounded by scrub brush and patchy sand. All of them had rifles with curving magazines slung over their shoulders. Mitch wasn’t sure if they were AK-47s or what, but they sure looked Russian. Michael was frowning at some kind of handheld computer. The second guy, with his head turned away from the camera, was pointing and saying something to the woman and the third guy, who had a close-trimmed beard. Mitch recognized him, too.
Arthur leaned over the table and pointed to each of the three guys. “Arsenyev. Yegorov. Nadezhda. Three highly-trained Russian spooks. They came to America a few years back and started going by the names Michael, Gabe, and Raph.”
“Who’s the lady?”
“Not important right now. You want to hear the funny part?”
Conspiracy of Angels Page 17
