Web of Lies

by Michael Cross

  I take a seat in the chair and begin to sift through the collection of passports and accompanying ID packs that are all rubber-banded together. I unband the first one and open up the passport. It’s a photo of me, but with the name Aaron Reed. The second one is also me with the name Daniel Watkins. There’s more, too: Victor Addison, Charles Ross, and even Adam Holman, the name I gave to Father Mike. All of the packs contain credit and ATM cards. I make a mental note to check on those accounts later.

  “These might just come in handy.”

  I rebundle the packs and slip them all back into the envelope. After that, I go through the rest of the safe, taking the bundles of cash and leaving the other assorted paperwork I don’t need. I close up the safe and look around the basement for a couple of minutes, trying to recall putting this safe house together.

  But nothing comes to me. It’s still just as blank and empty as the house above me. I grit my teeth and slam my fist down on the desk. Every time I think I have answers, it’s like more obstacles are placed in front of me, and I’m sick of it.

  I just want to know who I am.

  I take a breath and calm myself down. I’d love to beat the shit out of something right now, but I know getting pissed off isn’t going to help. Knowing I’ve got a safe house is a good bit of intel. But I don’t want to tip my hand and let Delta or the Tower know I have it, so I should probably get out of here before they track me to it.

  I take one last sweep through the house but don’t find anything overtly interesting. I have a feeling there are more false walls and hidden caches in the house, but I’ll come back and make a more thorough search later. I’m curious to see what else I’ve secreted away.

  I back out of the house and lock it up behind me. As I walk out to my car, I look around at the neighborhood again. It’s quiet, and very few are people out. Like my safe house, the neighborhood itself is pretty unremarkable. Nothing about it stands out. Which is probably why I chose it.

  I fire up my car and drive away. Nothing in the safe house provided me with any answers to my questions. Some interesting information, like all of my alternate IDs, but nothing that points me to my actual identity or anything about my former life. Once again, I’ve come up empty. I’m no closer to finding the truth than I was when I started.

  “Goddammit!”

  I bang my fist on the steering wheel as I drive out of the neighborhood and head for downtown.

  Chapter Seven

  One thing that’s amazed me about this entire situation is the fact that although I can’t remember my own name, while elements of my tradecraft—my training—come back to me without any real effort on my part. Whether it’s rigging traps in my motel room, finding secret caches of money and IDs in a safe house, or effortlessly finding workarounds to sneak past surveillance measures, it’s all coming back to me like second nature.

  Though—I guess if I really was the kind of super-spy everyone says I am, it would have to be second nature.

  I pick up my tail less than five minutes after I get out of my car. It started as a prickling on the back of my neck—a tingling that made the hairs stand on end, like a sixth sense warning me that there are eyes on me. I walk down the crowded sidewalk, surreptitiously taking quick, deep glances into the crowd, but don’t see anybody that stands out immediately.

  I stop at a newsstand and pick up the day’s paper. I hold it out in front of me, using it as cover as I study the throngs of people on the sidewalk. I can feel somebody out there. Feel them watching me. But they’re clever enough to stay hidden. At least for the moment.

  “Come on, come on,” I mutter. “Show yourself.”

  Men and women, housewives and businessmen, teenagers and the elderly, all hustling and bustling to get to wherever it is they need to go. Just ordinary people doing ordinary things. Sheep. But there’s a wolf out there among them. And that wolf is watching me. It’s a good thing I’m a lion.

  “Damn shame, ain’t it?”

  The man’s deep, gruff voice cuts into my thoughts. I look up to find a large black man with hair that’s mostly gray. He’s got dark eyes and a salt-and-pepper colored goatee. He’s broad through the shoulders and chest. It’s obvious the man used to be strong and athletic. But time has taken a toll on him, and he’s grown thicker through the midsection. Even still, he stands tall and formidable looking.

  “Sorry?” I ask.

  He points to the paper in my hand, and I look down, actually seeing it for the first time. On the front page is a story about an eight-year-old girl who was killed in the crossfire of a gang shootout.

  “Yeah, that’s really tragic,” I say and mean it.

  “Goddamn cops ain’t doin’ shit about it neither,” he sighs. “Guarantee if she was a little white girl, the entire Chicago PD would be crackin’ skulls around town. Probably have the damn National Guard out here by now.”

  The bitterness in his voice is as plain as day. I can’t say I blame him. I won’t patronize him by telling him how I feel. I’m a white guy who seems to have done pretty well for himself—what the hell do I know about being black or dealing with gang violence in the city?

  “So, what do you think’s going to happen?” I ask.

  He scoffs. “Same thing that always happens when a black kid gets killed in this town,” he says. “Nothin’. Been this way since the dawn of time. Ain’t likely changing anytime soon.”

  The man’s face is etched with both anger and a sense of helplessness. He frowns, and the lines that the hard, bitter experience of social and racial injustice have worn into his face seem to deepen before my eyes. I won’t waste my pity on a man like this—he is not a man who wants pity. So I choose to be angry for him instead. For all the good that will do him.

  “Maybe this time will be different,” I offer. “Maybe this time, somebody will do something about it.”

  His laugh is hard and bitter. “Believe it when I see it.”

  I dig a couple of bucks out of my pocket and hand it to him for the paper. I give him a nod and melt back into the throng of people, weaving my way through the crowd. I know my tail is still back there. I can feel them back there, lurking.

  I turn a corner and step quicker down a side street, putting a little more distance between me and my tail. This street is less traveled, and there are far fewer people on it, making it more difficult for my tail to remain invisible. I cut a glance at the plate glass window, trying to pick up my follower in the reflection. No luck. The crowd is thinner, but not thin enough to be able to pick one person out of the mob.

  I turn and start down the sidewalk again, trying to figure out how to shake my tail. I turn another corner and see a public library ahead of me. I duck into it and quickly head into the stacks, turning into the periodicals, and cut a glance back at the main door.

  A grin crosses my face when I see her come through the main doors. She’s about five-four, thin, and has dark hair. Dressed in yoga pants, an oversized hoodie, and a ballcap that’s pulled low, she’s average in just about every way. But I can see that it’s a calculated effect. She’s meant to be unremarkable. Nobody who saw her would remember her five minutes later.

  Her entry is casual, and as she crosses the lobby, she’s ostensibly staring at her phone. Just another bookworm looking for the latest read for her book club. She’s good, I’ll give her that. If I hadn’t been looking for a tail, I probably wouldn’t have noticed her.

  But hidden from view and watching her between the shelves, I can see the tells. Though she’s got her face in her phone, her eyes are in constant motion as she looks for me. It’s subtle as hell, and most people wouldn’t notice it. But I’m not most people. I know what I’m looking for.

  I follow her through the stacks, careful to stay out of sight. And when she turns down the reference aisle, I slip up behind her and press my phone into the small of her back. She instantly stops moving, and her entire body tenses.

  “You’re good,” she whispers.

  “Better than you.”
r />   “Debatable.”

  “That’s my gun in your back,” I tell her. “I’d say the debate’s over.”

  She chuckles softly. “That’s your phone,” she replies. “Do you think I’m some rube fresh off the farm?”

  It’s an odd saying. Not one I hear all that often. At least, not that I recall. But it seems quirky enough to tell me that she might be from the Midwest. Maybe even grew up on a farm. But hell, who knows with these people?

  “Debatable.”

  I slip my phone back into my pocket but remain standing directly behind her. We remain still as statues for a moment, the air between us crackling with tension. My muscles are tensed, my body coiled as I wait for her to make a move. When—and if—she does, I’m ready for it.

  But she doesn’t. Instead, she holds her hands out to her sides to show me they’re empty and turns around slowly. She’s younger than my first impression of her—too young to be doing serious fieldwork—and far from unremarkable. With olive colored skin, dark eyes that sparkle with intelligence, and a small grin on her face, she’s a pretty woman—although she does her best to downplay her attractiveness.

  “You with the Tower?” I ask. “Or the Hellfire Club?”

  “What makes you think I’m with either?”

  “Got no overdue books, so I’m pretty sure it’s not the librarian’s guild following me around,” I respond.

  She cocks her head and smiles. “Do the librarians even have a guild?”

  “You’ll never see ‘em coming until it’s too late.”

  “Wow. They take overdue books seriously around here.”

  I stare into her eyes for a long moment. “Not that I’m not enjoying this banter and all, but who are you with?”

  Never taking her eyes off mine, she slowly slips her hand into the pouch on her hoodie, takes out a tarot card, and hands it to me. I turn it over and see it’s the Tower. I roll my eyes.

  “Can’t you people introduce yourselves like a normal human being?” I ask. “Maybe just try calling me?”

  She grins at me. “Where would the fun in that be?”

  “Do I look like the kind of guy who thinks this is fun?”

  She shrugs and steps closer to me. We’re standing so close to each other I can feel the heat coming off her body and smell the citrusy scent of her shampoo. She has to crane her neck to look me in the eye, and when our gazes lock, a feral smile stretches across her face.

  “You look like the kinda guy who gets off on this kinda stuff, yeah,” she says.

  Her tone is flirtatious, but there’s a dangerous gleam in her eye. It’s at that moment I realize that although she looks unassuming, this is a woman who should not be taken lightly. I have a feeling that many people have underestimated her and have paid the price for it.

  “Got a name?” I ask.

  “You can call me Justice,” she replies.

  I chuckle softly. “Right. I almost forgot, we don’t use real names,” I say. “Just these hokey code names.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t make the rules,” she states. “So what should I call you? The Hanged Man doesn’t quite roll off the tongue very smoothly.”

  I give her a wry grin. “I guess you can just call me Echo.”

  “Better,” she notes. “Less of a mouthful.”

  “Glad you approve,” I comment. “So why are you following me around? Bored?”

  “Call it professional curiosity,” she says. “People talk about you like you’re some sort of legend. A god. So forgive me, I was curious. I wanted to see if you lived up to the hype.”

  “People shouldn’t be talking about me at all.”

  “No. But people do,” she shoots back. “And I have to say, I’m impressed. You almost lived up to the hype.”

  “Almost?”

  “Be grateful. I don’t heap that sort of praise on just anybody, you know.”

  A grin curls my lips upward, and I shake my head. “Noted. So what do you want—Justice?”

  She slips the small backpack off her shoulders and opens it. She pulls a large manila envelope out and hands it to me. I take it from her and look down, chuckling to myself at the imprint of a Tower in the black wax.

  “The wax seal is a nice touch,” I comment. “Not too theatrical at all.”

  “Give me your phone,” she says.

  I hand it over and watch as she programs a number in then hands it back to me with a smile.

  “Isn’t that against the rules?” I frown. “I thought our strength was anonymity.”

  “It’s a stupid rule,” she waves me off. “We need support when we’re out in the field. We should have it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She beams at me. “Well, gotta fly,” she says. “I’ve got a spin class to get to.”

  “Guess I’ll see you around.”

  “Count on it,” she chirps and tips me a wink.

  I watch as she turns and heads out of the library, not sure what to make of the whole scene. Was I being tested? And if so, why? I thought eliminating Blankenship would have proven my skills. Or was Justice freelancing and doing her own thing? And again, if so, why? What did she want or stand to gain by pulling a stunt like that?

  None of it makes sense to me. But then, very little has since I was welcomed back into the land of the living. For now, all I should concern myself with is what’s in the envelope I’m holding.

  Chapter Eight

  Surprisingly, nobody had tripped the traps I’d set to alert me to unwanted visitors—though, it still doesn’t make me feel secure enough to leave anything of value in here. I’m sitting at the table in the motel room with my personal laptop fired up and the contents of the envelope I was given spread out before me. The first thing I see is the tarot card. I set down the bottle of beer in my hand, pick it up, and turn it over.

  “The Empress,” I mutter.

  I do a quick Google search and call up the meaning of the card.

  “Action, initiative, the clandestine. Also, doubt and the unknown,” I read. “Yeah, that clears it all right up.”

  The card shows a woman in a white gown adorned with what could be stylized red roses. She wears a crown of stars and holds a scepter as she sits upon a well-padded throne in a field of what looks like wheat.

  I open the file folder next, and the first page in the stack of papers is an eight-by-ten full color glossy of an attractive older woman. I’ve got to say she’s striking. Definitely giving me Mrs. Robinson vibes for sure. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she’s left a trail of heartbroken college boys in her wake.

  She’s got a rich auburn hair and dark eyes that certainly look like they hold plenty of secrets. She’s got long eyelashes, high cheekbones, full scarlet lips, and just exudes an air of aristocracy even through the photograph. I don’t need to look at her dossier to see that she’s a blue blood. Old Chicago money, most likely.

  Just to be as thorough as I always am though, I pick up the first sheet of her dossier and start to scan the document. The name on the file rings a bell in my head. It’s faint, but there’s some small trace of recognition there, and I drum my fingers on the file, trying to make the connection. But I just can’t put my finger on it.

  “Eleanor Vogel,” I read aloud. “Fifty-six years old, only daughter of former U.S. Senator Alvin Vogel. Founder and CEO of Vogel Technologies.”

  I was right about her being a blue blood. The Vogel family is one of Chicago’s oldest and wealthiest families. They made their name in steel back in the day, but somewhere along the line, they branched out into commercial and then residential real estate, where they’ve padded their fortune—which I gather redefines substantial.

  Eleanor, though, blazed her own trail in life. She was apparently better than good with computers—like Bill Gates level good with computers. Using the foresight the Vogel clan was renowned for, Eleanor applied that aptitude for technology to making things that go boom. Vogel Technologies is one of the leading manufacturers of missiles, bombs, and high-tech e
xperimental weapons. They specialize in ways to kill people. And these days, it’s a bull market, to be sure.

  Her bio’s impressive. She’s a self-made woman whose company’s profits have outstripped even those of her storied family. Yeah, she had a ton of advantages normal people don’t have—the benefit of being born into a legacy of wealth. But she made her own way. She charted her own course and built something of her own.

  “So, what did you do to get on the naughty list?” I ask.

  I flip through the rest of the dossier, but nothing overtly evil or Hellfire Club-ish stands out to me. She was educated at MIT, so there’s no connection to Yale and the club itself. Though I suppose it’s possible, if not likely, that not all of the members of this cabal went to Yale.

  She’s a single woman who sacrificed the idea of marriage and children in favor of her career. And I see that in addition to overseeing a defense technology empire, she sits on the board of half a dozen different cultural and artistic organizations, and does a ton of philanthropic work both here and overseas.

  “Some would undoubtedly say it’s penance for making toys that have killed thousands of people,” I muse to myself. “It’s the price of war, unfortunately.”

  I read through the rest of the file. Nothing stands out to me worthy of a kill order. Sure, she has probably done all sorts of corrupt stuff, but why her? It’s not like the Tower to straighten out defense contracts—otherwise, the Blankenship case would have gone very differently. And just like that case, I have no idea what exactly it is that’s drawn the Tower’s ire. I’m sure if they were some organization devoted to shutting down the defense contracting industry, that would have come up by now. And the methods would be very different. As I take a pull of my beer, the computer I was issued by the Tower chirps.

  “Right on time,” I mutter.

  It’s time for the second half of the briefing. As I’ve learned, the handlers at the Tower issue assignments in two stages. Paper and verbal. The dossier is always issued on paper in an anonymous file and delivered in person. It gives all the particulars of a target. After that, the handler contacts the operator on a secure, encrypted line to discuss the specifics of the assignment.