Trap the Devil

by Ben Coes

  The driver stopped at the outskirts of the commercial area. She climbed out of the cab, muttering “Merci” as she stepped onto the shoulder of the empty road.

  She walked in the dark gray dawn off the highway as the rain continued to fall. She came to a clean-looking motel, but the lobby door was locked. She kept walking, hiding when she saw oncoming lights from a vehicle. The gray of dawn had changed to light yellow, though it was cloudy and shrouded in miserable fog. After a few miles of walking, she came to another motel, a seedy place, but it was open. A small, grubby ATM was in the lobby. She used Courtemanche’s credit card and withdrew €500, then got a room.

  In her room, she dialed the only person who she knew would believe her, a woman who might be able to help.

  The phone rang. A woman answered. Romy’s heart raced, and she felt warmth.

  “Hello?” came the woman’s voice. She was older now; her voice was fragile and soft with age.

  Romy had met Hillary Bartholomew walking one day in the small hamlet where she and Kyrie lived. Hillary was a professor in the United States who owned the adjoining farm, where she came every year for the summer. She and Romy became very close, but the day came when Bartholomew was too old to travel overseas, and she sold the estate to a British couple.

  “Hillary, it’s Romy Banker. Do you remember me? From Ruswil.”

  There was a long moment of silence. “Romy?”

  “Yes, Hillary.”

  “Oh, my gosh, Romy! How could I be so forgetful?”

  Romy started to cry.

  “Dear girl, what’s wrong? It’s been so long. How are you? Is everything all right?”

  “No,” said Romy, as tears coursed down her cheeks.

  “How is your husband? The great soldier. I can never remember his name.”

  “Kyrie.”

  “Yes, that’s it. Kyrie. Are you calling from Ruswil?”

  “No, I’m in … in…” Something told her not to say more than she had to. “I’m sorry for calling. I’m sorry for losing touch. I’m sorry for so many things. Most of all I’m sorry for what I’ve done, for the man … the monster I married.”

  “Monster? What are you talking about?”

  “I need your help.”

  “Sweet, beautiful Romy. I don’t know what I can do, but if there’s anything, you know I’m here. Do you need money?”

  “No. I need … I need you to listen to me. To believe me.”

  Romy told her everything that happened, everything she heard, even what she’d done at the sanitarium. Everything. She spoke for nearly an hour. When she was done, Professor Hillary Bartholomew, retired professor of Asian Studies at Harvard University, was silent.

  “Do you believe me, Hillary?”

  The phone remained quiet.

  “I don’t know what to say. It’s all so unbelievable, and now a phone call from someone I haven’t spoken to in years. These men are so well protected. I don’t think you need to worry. Nobody could just walk up and kill the president of the United States, or the vice president, or even the Speaker of the House, much less all three. Oh, dear, what has happened to you? What did you say the name of the institution was where you were staying? Where are you calling me from? I have friends in Paris. I think you need help. I say that as someone who cares about you. Romy, please let me send someone for you…”

  Romy quickly hung up and stood in the small, musty-smelling motel room staring at the phone. She felt her legs become weak and then she fainted.

  19

  NSA

  SIGNALS INTELLIGENCE DIRECTORATE

  With the assistance of an NSA satellite expert, June was soon able to track the precise use of the rogue satellite. The high-frequency signals being generated by the satellite were indeed heretofore unseen, but it didn’t mean they were new. Only that they were of a specific wavelength and telemetry not commercially available and, up to now, unknown to the NSA.

  That was of little help in determining the owners of the satellite. In order to do this, June would have to use a little advanced geometric theory called triangulation. To see activity running through the device in real time, all he needed was for three activities to occur simultaneously. This would enable him to pinpoint the location of the satellite. If he was then able to photograph the device with one of NSA’s own satellites, capable of reading a fingerprint from outer space, he could, in theory, get a photo of the satellite’s serial number. The frequency may have been novel, but June knew that there was no way to avoid certain such identification markings—unless its owner also happened to be able to manufacture, and launch, its own satellites. Only the Chinese and Russian governments had this capability.

  The challenge June faced was twofold. Not only did he need three phone calls or other transmissions to be crossing the satellite during the same period of time, he needed them to continue long enough for the NSA satellite to lock on to the location and start “filming.” Depending on the location of the satellite and the speed at which it was traveling, this moving and retargeting by the NSA computers could take as little as one minute and as long as five.

  Thus far, June had spent several hours waiting.

  The mystery satellite sat unused. It was, he assumed, used by a very small group of people. There were many times when one instance of activity—a phone call, for example—occurred. A few times there were two calls. There had been seven instances in which three transmissions were on simultaneously. But they weren’t long enough for June to triangulate the satellite.

  The eighth time, he finally got lucky. He was able to successfully locate the satellite. It was orbiting at twenty-two thousand miles above the Indian Ocean. Two powerful NSA satellites snapped thousands of photos per second, until one particular photo captured the small manufacturer’s serial number on one side of it. Once this occurred, June quickly determined that the satellite was a Lockheed Martin A2100X, built in 1982 and launched into geostationary orbit in 1994. Furthermore, he was able to determine that the device was owned jointly by the U.S. State Department and the CIA under a program called Order 6. The problem was, every time June attempted to look farther into what Order 6 was, his computer came back with the same message:

  ERROR

  PROGRAM ACCESS PROHIBITED

  June got up from his desk and walked down the hall to his boss. Jim Bruckheimer was on the phone. June stood in the door. Bruckheimer gave him a look as if to say, “I can’t talk—this is really important.” June returned the look with one that responded, “I don’t care who you’re talking to—this takes priority.”

  After eight years of working together, June’s message was clear.

  “I’ll call you back,” said Bruckheimer, hanging up.

  He looked at June. “What is it?”

  “Have you ever heard of a joint CIA–State Department program called Order 6?”

  Bruckheimer thought for a minute, then shook his head. “No, why?”

  “The satellite is owned by the program,” said June. “They launched it in 1994. I can’t get into the database. I’ve used every access key I know. I can’t get in.”

  “You tried Warrant B?”

  “Yes. Redburn. Total-Two-Four. Exegesis. I was turned away.”

  Bruckheimer leaned back, a confused look on his face.

  “I’ll call Hector.”

  20

  4436 PARKRIDGE BOULEVARD

  RESTON, VIRGINIA

  Flaherty’s phone rang.

  “What is it?”

  “You better get down here,” said Kopitar.

  Kopitar’s office was adjacent to the Situation Room. It was windowless and three times the size of the Situation Room. It was hot and stuffy, despite air-conditioning, the heat caused by several tall stacks of high-powered servers that stood in the center of the room as well as a wall full of sophisticated signals intelligence equipment. On one side of the room were tables and computers. Against the opposite wall, several cabinets with glass doors were lined up neatly. The cabinets held a va
riety of signals-gathering and -dissemination equipment. Kopitar was a former Air Force contractor, an early member of a large team of technologists, hackers, signals experts, and engineers charged with creating America’s first ever capability set in the area of cyberwar. He was responsible for creating, maintaining, and protecting the powerful and anonymous system that enabled Bruner and his shadow government to communicate without being caught.

  When Flaherty opened the door, Kopitar turned from his computer screen and looked at him with a blank expression that both men knew meant: There’s a problem.

  “What is it?” asked Flaherty.

  “I was able to generate activity logs off Courtemanche’s cell phone and credit cards,” said Kopitar. “I tracked Romy’s movements by looking at purchase records and calls. It appears she’s headed for Paris. She made a phone call to someone in the United States.”

  “Who?”

  “A number in Cambridge, Massachusetts. A former Harvard professor. Dr. Hillary Bartholomew.”

  Flaherty’s eyes went wide.

  “I don’t imagine there’s more than one Hillary Bartholomew?” he asked.

  “One and the same,” said Kopitar. “Professor of Asian Studies. An expert on China and Vietnam. A confidante of every secretary of state since Henry Kissinger. She used to spend her summers in Switzerland. The same town as Kyrie.”

  “How long did the call last?”

  “Eleven minutes,” said Kopitar.

  “Do you know if Bartholomew called anyone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We need to get someone up there,” said Flaherty, turning to leave.

  “There’s something else,” said Kopitar.

  Flaherty stopped. He turned and looked at Kopitar.

  “Someone at NSA is trying to dig into Order Six.”

  Flaherty’s eyes blinked rapidly as his face took on a look of high anxiety.

  “Everything is gone from the files, right, Hans?” said Flaherty.

  “Yes, of course. That doesn’t mean there aren’t tiny fingerprints. Everything leaves a fingerprint, Andrew. Even the act of erasing fingerprints leaves a fingerprint.”

  “How long do we have until they find something?” said Flaherty urgently. “We need a few days, that’s all.”

  “Chances are they’ll never find anything,” said Kopitar. “Most of the people at NSA are worthless. If I had to bet, they ran into Order Six and kept right on going. If you need to worry, worry about Kyrie’s wife.”

  21

  BRATTLE STREET

  CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

  A light blue police cruiser pulled up in front of a large shingle-style home on Brattle Street. A uniformed officer climbed out and walked to the front door.

  It was early afternoon.

  The officer rang the doorbell. He heard the faint ding-dong inside. A minute later, the door opened. A short, elderly-looking woman slowly opened the door. As she did so, the officer politely removed his visored police cap.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said, showing her his badge. “I’m Special Detective Stearns from the State Police. Are you Hillary Bartholomew?”

  She looked at the badge for a few seconds and nodded.

  “Have I done something wrong?”

  “No, ma’am, you haven’t. But I’d like to ask you a few questions. I’m acting as part of a joint task force between the FBI and Swiss authorities. They’re investigating a homicide and requisitioned me to ask you a few questions.”

  Bartholomew gasped. “My word. What would I know about that?”

  “Perhaps nothing. It occurred in Switzerland.”

  Bartholomew placed her hand over her mouth in shock.

  “Are you all right?” asked the man who called himself Detective Stearns.

  “Yes. It’s just that … It’s nothing. Yes, I’m quite all right.”

  “This shouldn’t take long. May I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  Bartholomew opened the door wider and Stearns entered.

  “Please,” she said, “in the kitchen, if you don’t mind.”

  “If you have guests, ma’am, I could return later.”

  “No, nothing like that. I was in the middle of eating my lunch.”

  “My apologies,” he said.

  They sat down at a large round table. Classical music was playing in the background.

  “Two days ago, three individuals were murdered at a hospital in Lauterbrunnen, Switzerland,” Stearns explained. “One of the victims was a man named Courtemanche. He was the hospital administrator. According to records, his cell phone was used to call you sometime after the murders were committed.”

  Bartholomew had a sad expression on her face. Both of her hands moved to the top of the table, pressing down as if holding her steady.

  “French authorities believe they know who did it,” Stearns continued. “The reason I’m here is because of that phone call. Did someone call you?”

  Bartholomew’s hand went to her chest.

  “I believe I should get my lawyer?”

  “That would be fine, Professor Bartholomew. But please know, this conversation is on background. It cannot be used to incriminate you and can only be used to help find the suspect and perhaps prevent further attacks. We simply want to find her.”

  “Her?”

  “Romy Banker, the patient who escaped.”

  Bartholomew closed her eyes and started crying.

  “She called me,” said Bartholomew, as tears moistened her cheeks. “I should have called someone.”

  “She was in a mental institution,” said Stearns, reaching his hand out and placing it gently on hers.

  “She said they put her there against her will,” said Bartholomew.

  “I don’t know why she was there, ma’am. Perhaps that’s true.”

  “She told me so many things,” said Bartholomew. “I wrote them down. She told me about the men she killed.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes. She also said there was a plot to overthrow the United States government.”

  Stearns’s eyes went wide. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that might help to explain why she was in a mental institution,” he said.

  “She sounded very rational, Officer.”

  “I apologize,” he said. “It’s just … well, it’s not every day you hear someone talk about a plot to overthrow the government, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh, I know,” Bartholomew said. “I thought it sounded rather fantastical.”

  “Did you report it to the authorities?”

  “I didn’t. I was going to call a former colleague of mine, but I didn’t.”

  “If they find her, my guess is they will ask you that in a more formal setting,” said Stearns. “If you could please think hard, Professor Bartholomew. Any help you can provide now will go a long way toward making sure that any discussion of abetting the crime by not turning her in will be just that—discussion.”

  “You said this was for background.”

  “And it is. But there will be an investigation. All I’m saying is, nothing we talk about today can hurt you. It can only help. Later, if there are questions as to why you didn’t call someone immediately, your complete transparency now can only help. Does that make sense?”

  Bartholomew nodded.

  “I … I didn’t call anyone.”

  “What about e-mail?”

  “No. I don’t use e-mail anymore. I hate it. After I retired, it was my first luxury, never having to look at another computer screen again for the rest of my life.”

  Stearns laughed. “I hear you. I feel the same way.”

  “But I did tell someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Margita, my housekeeper.”

  Stearns nodded. “Well, that’s okay. Is she here?”

  Bartholomew shook her head, but as she did she shot Stearns a suspicious look.

  “What does it matter if Margita
knows? Come to think of it, what does it matter if I told anyone?”

  Stearns smiled as, beneath the table, he removed a thin black plastic bag from his pocket, just as Bartholomew’s eyes went to his chest, trying to focus on his name tag: Lancaster.

  A fear-stricken look whitened her face as her eyes grew large. “Didn’t you say your name was Stearns?”

  She started to push away from the table. The killer stood and held the black bag in both hands. He lurched for her just as she stood, dropping the bag over her head, then cinching it tightly in back. He clutched it with one hand as she swung feebly at him. The sound of choking was soft and lasted just a few seconds. He held tight for a few more moments, wrapping his free hand behind her back as she crumpled. He carried her into the adjacent living room and lowered the old woman’s body to the carpet, arranging it to look like she’d been suddenly stricken by some sort of heart attack and making sure she was near the kitchen and visible from it.

  His eyes darted methodically around the room. He went to the front door. Seeing no one, he methodically swept through all three floors of the large house, looking for anyone else who might be there. Margita. He found no one.

  In a room off the kitchen was Bartholomew’s desk. He found a page of handwritten notes labeled CONVERSATION WITH ROMY. He took the page as well as the page beneath it and went to the fireplace, lighting them.

  For the next two hours, he sat on a chair in the kitchen, watching the front door.

  Just after four in the afternoon, he heard a car pull into the driveway. He put on a pair of leather gloves and went to the front door and opened it, making it look like he’d just gotten there. On the way, he took the receiver from the phone on the wall and dropped it so that it dangled down at Bartholomew’s feet. He took a walkie-talkie from his belt and held it up to the side of his head. He didn’t turn it on.

  “Hillary?” came a soft female voice with a Hispanic accent. “I’m here! Why are the police here?”

  The killer knelt next to the corpse as he listened to the footsteps on the kitchen floor.

  “This is Detective Rick Stearns,” he pretended to say into the walkie-talkie. “I’m at the Bartholomew residence—”

  The housekeeper let out a gasp as she saw Bartholomew’s body. He turned.