by Lisa Shearin
“You know that man’s deep water,” she added.
“I know.” Rees caught my confused look. “In the ocean, light can only reach down to two hundred meters. From there, it gets darker and colder until it reaches a depth where humans can’t survive.”
“You’re losing me.”
“We’re saying Gabriel Marshall has a lot of layers, each one darker than the last. He can set his humanity aside when the need calls for it. Have you touched him yet—other than grabbing his ankle the other night?”
“No.”
“I think you might need to.” Rees reached for the door handle. “Ready?”
He stood on one side of the door, Berta and I on the other.
When he opened it, the small loading dock was empty.
Berta’s left gun was in her hand. “Son of a bitch.”
“That’s not fair, Agent Pike,” a familiar voice called out. “You’ve never met my mother.”
Gabriel Marshall stood on the edge of the woods beyond the parking lot. He had taken off the priest’s collar, put on a black leather jacket, and secret agent man was back.
“May I come in?” he asked. “I’m rather exposed here.”
“Is inviting a CIA assassin inside the same as giving a vampire permission to cross your threshold?” I wondered.
“This isn’t our threshold,” Berta replied.
“Good point.”
Rees gestured Marshall to the loading dock, and Berta lowered her gun, which was about as much as we could expect from her at this point.
Berta planted herself in front of me—and Rees.
Marshall sighed. “We can have a staring contest or wrestle, or we can go inside and I’ll tell you what you’re looking for. We’re on the same side, Berta. You can keep your gun on me if you like.”
She didn’t budge. “I’d definitely like.”
“I’m here alone. As Sam can attest, I don’t work and play well with others—except in dire emergencies, which is what we have now.”
“Let’s go inside,” Rees said.
He led us to the small conference room, with Gabriel Marshall getting his fair share of interested glances and a few openly hostile stares along the way. Apparently, Berta wasn’t alone in the “I hate Gabriel Marshall” club.
As Rees closed the door, Marshall gave the room a visual once-over. “Has it been swept?”
“Twice,” Rees told him.
“Thorough. Good. Then you won’t mind a third.”
“Not at all. Be my guest.”
Marshall took out a device the size of a lighter and quickly moved around the room. The gadget didn’t make any screechy noises, so I assumed it was satisfied with our techs’ work.
He took a seat at the table. “I take it I can I count on your discretion?”
“Can we count on you to tell us the truth?” Berta shot back.
“Yes. I’ll even keep both hands on the table.”
I took the chair next to him. “One will do.” I extended my hand, palm up. “I want the other one.”
Marshall smiled. “But we just met.”
“And now it’s time to get intimate. I don’t have time or patience for anything else.”
Gabriel Marshall met my eyes and put his hand in mine. I closed my fingers around it.
His skin was cool, his hand strong. The heel of my hand rested against the pulse in his wrist.
When I touch someone, I get a glimpse of the kind of person they are. Children are exceptional at it. They instinctively know bad or untrustworthy people when they meet them, no touching necessary. Since they haven’t been conditioned to “be nice,” they tell it like they see it. Don’t get me started on parents who make their kids hug or, even worse, kiss people. When neither children nor dogs like or trust someone, pay attention. That’s a big, red flag. Unfortunately, as we get older, we’re less honest with ourselves, trying to convince ourselves that any unease is just our imagination, or we feel compelled by our upbringing to be polite.
Gabriel Marshall was a complicated man, but not an evil one. Yes, he’d killed, and he would kill again. It was his job. Much like a soldier, he derived no pleasure from either the act or the result. He killed those whose deaths he felt would make the world a safer place. I couldn’t condemn him for that. There was an honesty to it, a forthrightness. I didn’t think he would lie. He might not tell us everything, and I’d be surprised if he did, but he wouldn’t lie to us.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to ask for it.
“Now tell us everything you know,” I told him.
“David Barrington developed an implant to boost PK. That’s psychokinesis,” he said as an aside to Berta.
“I know what it is.”
“They tried to recruit me,” he continued. “I told them no. I like my brain the way it is.”
“Who tried to recruit you?” Rees asked.
“Barton Renwick was brought in to run the program.”
At the mention of the name, Rees’s mouth twisted in distaste. “By whom?”
“I’ve asked and not been given an answer. Barrington might know, but he’s not here to ask.”
“That’s probably the only reason he’s alive.”
“Who’s Barton Renwick?” I asked.
“He went to medical school with David Barrington,” Marshall told us. “He’s built his entire career from riding on Barrington’s lab coattails. After school, they joined the CIA together. Barrington went into R and D, and Renwick managed the department Barrington was in.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “If you’re not talented enough to develop new tech, manage those who are. Renwick was the one who got the CIA to pay attention to Barrington’s implant. Barrington is the only one who can perform the operation. The two senators who could blow the whistle or pull the plug on the project are dead, Barrington is in hiding, and Barton Renwick is in the wind along with their psychotic lab rat.”
I was stunned. “He went from helping paralyzed people walk again to creating a psychic assassin?”
“He thinks he’s still helping people. He believes psychic enhancement is the next step in evolution for the human species. It’s called the Entity Project.”
“Entity?”
“A thing with a distinct and independent existence. In this case, an assassin who can work independent of any external weapons, including his own fists and feet. His mind is the weapon. The Entity was created to kill dictators, warlords, oligarchs, any individual deemed to be a danger to world peace.” He barked a laugh. “Like there’s ever been such a thing as world peace. The deaths would look natural, so no country could be blamed, thereby lessening or eliminating any retaliation. In theory, it could help end wars before they started. Instead, we have multiple people dead, and a man in ICCU because he got too close to the truth. No one besides Barrington and Renwick thought it would even work. They convinced higher-ups in the CIA and Julian Pierce that it was worth the investment. Mark Dalton weaseled his way into the information and set himself up to work both sides. He wanted to blame Pierce and destroy him politically if the project failed or went off the rails, or take credit and be the hero for saving the US from its enemies if it succeeded as planned.”
“Instead he was deemed a loose end and died on the toilet with his pants around his ankles,” I said.
The corner of Marshall’s mouth twitched in a quick smile. “I wondered if the location of the hit was chosen or was simply an exploited opportunity too good to pass up.” He looked to Rees. “You need my help and I need yours. I’ve been asked to clean up this mess, but I’m starting to feel like I’ve been dropped in the middle of Chernobyl. I don’t know who to trust among my own people. They’re not telling me everything, and what they have told me is more than enough to get me killed.”
I realized something. “The pigs.”
Marshall grinned. “I agree with the sentiment. My colleagues—”
I shot him a look. “I mean they kept pigs in
pens out there next to the loading dock. A pig heart is similar enough to a human heart that parts, like valves, can be used in replacement surgeries. The Entity practiced here by killing pigs.”
“What is this Entity’s name?” Rees asked Marshall.
“Elias Halverson. And before you ask, no, I’d never seen or heard of him until a week ago. I thought I was black-ops, but this guy’s subterranean. You can look, but there’s no record of him that I could find. If it’s there, it’s buried deep. If you hit pay dirt, great. I’d love to see it.”
Rees steepled his hands in front of his face. “And the CIA wants you to find Barrington.”
“And I will.” Marshall gave us a grim smile. “I’ll find him, but I’m not telling anyone in Langley where he is. Not until I untangle this mess and know where everyone’s loyalties lie.” He glanced at Berta. “I’m going to reach in my pocket for a photo. Don’t go Han Solo on me.”
Berta’s smile almost reached her eyes. “Greedo shot first.”
“You keep believing that.” He gave the photo to me.
I took it. “So, this is him.”
Marshall nodded. “The man who tried to kill your grandfather.”
“He’s as generic-looking as this building.”
“The best assassins don’t attract attention.”
I passed the photo to Rees. “Is that why you got out of the program?” I asked Marshall.
“I didn’t agree with some of the targets I was being given.”
“What’s your mission?” Rees asked him.
“Find and protect Barrington. Find and kill Halverson. That’s a target I can agree with. He’s had two surgeries. Three, if you count implanting that chip in his head. He might not look too much like that photo, but it’s the best I have.” He paused. “I want to know why two of the top people in the CIA want Elias Halverson dead, and the other two want him kept alive at all costs.”
Rees leaned forward in his chair. “Two want him alive, but you’re hunting him.”
“I don’t take my orders from them.”
“Have they sent people to stop you?”
Gabriel Marshall’s smile was chilling. “If they have, they’re going to lose those people.”
“How about the two that want Halverson dead?” Berta asked. “They’re embarrassed their shiny new assassin went rogue?”
“No,” Marshall said quietly. “They’re terrified that he didn’t.”
Rees went utterly still. “And that he’s following orders.”
Marshall lightly tapped his nose twice. “And what are those orders? And who is his target?”
“If we want answers, we need to go to the source,” I said. “The man who made the monster. David Barrington.”
CHAPTER 30
Rees got a phone call and stepped out in the hall to take it, leaving me and Berta in the conference room with Gabriel Marshall. None of us were in the mood for small talk, and Marshall was intent on his phone’s screen, reading an incoming text. I’d dropped his hand when he’d gotten it, but I was still sitting next to him.
I sat back and crossed my arms. “You drugged our cat.”
Marshall didn’t so much as glance up from his phone. “I wasn’t attacked, and he enjoyed himself. A win-win.”
“How did you know he’d attack you?”
“Your grandfather has worked with the FBI Art Crime team as well as others in the intelligence community. He’s occasionally hosted those meetings in his office. Word gets around.”
I wasn’t finished. “You threw me across the yard.”
“I detached you from my leg, and you were lighter than I anticipated. My apologies.”
A compliment and an apology. Nice try, Mr. Secret Agent Man. I wasn’t buying it. “And you—”
Rees opened the door and stuck his head inside. “Agent Pike, Ms. Donati, we need to leave. Marshall, this meeting is over.”
The CIA officer dropped his phone in his front jacket pocket. “I’m going with you. Barrington will talk to me. He doesn’t know you.”
Silence.
Marshall tapped his breast pocket. “I couldn’t depend on you to share information, so I took steps. I apologize, but it’s necessary. I got the text version of your phone call with Elaine Pierce as you were speaking to her. She knows where Barrington is. Shall I continue?”
Berta was instantly on her feet. “You bastard!”
“That’s your opinion. I call it doing my job.” Marshall swiveled his chair to face Rees. I thought he was crazy to turn his back on Berta. “You need me.”
“That’s your opinion,” Rees said mildly.
“David Barrington knows and trusts me,” Marshall said. “I was his first choice for the project. He had no other candidates. I don’t know how Elias Halverson was ultimately chosen, but Barton Renwick would’ve had everything to do with it.” He smiled. “Barrington is career CIA. You’re FBI. With me there, you at least have a chance he’ll tell you what went wrong and who was behind it.”
I hated it when jerks were right—especially when those jerks were assassins who might be looking to put a bullet between the eyes of the man we absolutely had to find.
“How do we know you won’t kill him?” Berta asked.
Sounded like I wasn’t the only one who doubted Marshall’s motives.
“I’m equally adept at protecting,” he replied. “David Barrington is a brilliant scientist and a good man. The world needs more like him, not less. Any more questions? If not, we’re wasting time, unless you want Renwick or Halverson to get to him first.”
Go fish.
Julian Pierce’s last text to David Barrington was telling him to run.
It also told him where to run.
Not merely to one of the lakes or rivers where they used to vacation together with friends, but to a specific place, the exact cabin.
A cabin named Go Fish.
The owner had built it as a place for his family to spend summers together. A grandson, now grown, had insisted they play Go Fish on the front porch every night before bed in lieu of a bedtime story. Thus, the cabin had been named Go Fish, complete with a woodcut sign of a cartoon fish that looked like one of those Goldfish crackers.
Elaine Pierce had found a photo of her grandfather and his friends posing in front of the cabin with their catches of the day. After seeing the photo, she remembered the story of how the cabin had gotten its name.
We had a destination.
Go Fish in the Pharaoh Lake Wilderness in the Adirondacks, about a hundred miles north of Albany, NY.
“Another hundred miles north would put him in Canada,” I noted.
“He wouldn’t be safe there, either,” Marshall said.
SAC Roger Hudson had arranged a jet to take us to Albany, and a helicopter to get us within two miles of the cabin’s coordinates. That was the closest landing site. Rees told us we’d have to hike in from there. Normally, it’d be impassible this time of year, but the winter so far had been too warm for the snow to be measured in feet.
I hadn’t been dressed for a winter hike, but Rees had taken care of gear for the three of us. Naturally, Gabriel Marshall had his own gear in his car’s trunk, including winter camo and more weapons than most men would need in ten lifetimes.
Hudson had also arranged to have a few heavily armed friends accompany us to Pharaoh Lake. We were in two helicopters, one of which was as heavily armed as its occupants. Berta carried a bag similar to Marshall’s that I was sure didn’t contain mittens and a thermos of hot chocolate, though the latter would’ve been nice right about now.
“Does the cabin have a phone?” I asked anyone who might know.
“It doesn’t even have electricity,” Rees said. “Though Elaine thinks it has a generator.”
“I’ve heard of the owner,” Marshall said. “Carter Perry is retired CIA. A legend. The closest comparison would be James Bond’s Q. His specialty was surveillance equipment. Barrington will pro
bably know we’re there before we land. No wonder Pierce told him to go there.”
We landed and began our hike in. Snow concealed the ground, and ground tended to be uneven, especially in the mountains. I quickly learned that at least in this instance, it was better to follow in the footsteps of others than to lead. Two of Hudson’s commandos led the way, with the other two bringing up the rear. If being surrounded by that much FBI firepower made Gabriel Marshall uneasy, he didn’t show it, and I couldn’t sense it.
We crested a rise and saw the cabin in a shallow valley below.
Go Fish was an actual, honest-to-God log cabin. It was one story with a front porch running its length. There were windows on the two sides that we could see, but they were shuttered tight for the winter. There were no lights, and no sign of Barrington’s rented white Land Rover, though with all the snow and underbrush, it wouldn’t have been difficult to hide.
It looked like no one was there, and no one had been there since fall.
Which was exactly how it was supposed to look.
David Barrington was here—or someone was. I could feel it.
“We’re being watched,” I murmured.
“And probably scanned,” Marshall said.
“So, we just wait?”
Rees was calmly watching the cabin’s two doors. “We’re the guests. We wait.”
Berta snorted. “To be shot?”
“It won’t be long.”
“That’s good. I’d hate to have to wait to—”
“You are trespassing on private property. Identify yourselves immediately.”
The computerized voice came from every direction.
“Sounds like HAL 9000 on steroids,” I said.
Rees stepped forward. “Special Agent Samuel Rees and Alberta Pike, FBI.”
Silence.
“Is HAL going to open fire?” I wondered.
“We’re probably being scanned for facial recognition,” Marshall said. He was grinning. “Gabriel Marshall, CIA.”
“Now we’re gonna get shot,” Berta muttered.
A few seconds later the cabin’s front door opened, and a smiling Dr. David Barrington eagerly waved us in.
