by Jack Bowie
“Okay so far, Macon,” Dalton replied. “I’m lookin’ at seven cells from Montgomery, Atlanta, and Pensacola. Probably about sixty guys. Here’s a list of who we expect and where they can set up.” He passed a stack of handwritten papers around the table. “I tried to spread ‘em out as much as I could. Less chance anybody’ll get in pissin’ contests before we get started.”
Holly quickly scanned the sheets. “Looks good, Ricky,” he said. “Cal, have you gone over this to make sure we know who’s comin’ and how to check ‘em out?”
“Sure, Macon.” Napes squinted down at the paper. “Sure.”
“Good. We’ll all give you a hand.”
“Yeah,” Wicks added. “Just give me a call the next time a Fed comes in.”
The others froze and waited for Holly’s response. How would the old man handle it?
“Didn’t see you helpin’ out on that one, Tommy,” Holly replied. “It only shows how careful we need to be.”
Weak response. Something else he needs to learn.
Gary watched the discussions with a well-practiced detachment: evaluating each exchange, noting each response, and analyzing the reactions around the room. It was what he had been trained to do—a life spent in the background.
All through school he had sat in the back of the classrooms, always watching the other students, hardly ever the teacher. The assignments were so easy; it was the other students that fascinated him. How they reacted, how they worked, or didn’t work, together. Even college hadn’t been that different, although his subjects were more interesting by then: flirtatious coeds, propeller-headed nerds, brain-challenged athletes. He had occasionally picked up some useful bits of information, and turned them into some extra income, but this aspect of his personality hardly had seemed a marketable skill. Not until he had met Professor Bullock.
“What did happen with the Fed, Macon?” O’Grady asked.
Holly walked over to the huge hearth, then turned back to the table. “Gary’s people took him. That’s all anyone needs to know. Let’s get back on the schedule. We’ve got specialists comin’ in for the weapons and hand-to-hand training, so we’ve got to keep up. Tommy, what about arrangements for ‘em?”
“No sweat, Macon. I’m meeting the pros when they come in. They’ll stay here in the house with us. As long as Sean comes up with the weapons, we’ll be fine.”
“What do you mean, you . . .” O’Grady blurted out.
“Calm down, Sean. Tommy was just kidding. Right, Tommy?” Wicks gave a condescending nod. “Since you seem to be doing all the house arrangements, Tommy. What about food? We got enough?”
“Food? I thought Ricky was handling that. He’s got all the connections.”
“You said you were taking care of everything with the guests,” Dalton accused. “I’m damn tired of your complaining, Tommy. So’s everybody else around here.”
“I can’t friggin’ do everything you little . . .”
“Shut the hell up!” Holly finally yelled.
The tension was getting to all of them now. It was time to find out who had the staying power. “Staying power”—the phrase had been one of Bullock’s favorites.
Edwin Bullock, Earnhardt Professor of Political Science at Princeton University, was an enigma. Was he the gruff, crusty old teacher that berated his students in class? Or the kind, thoughtful mentor to those who sought him out? Or the hard, war-weary veteran telling tales of excitement and danger? Gary had never been able to decide.
The professor had seemed to take a liking to the quiet student. He had taken him under his wing, shown him how to hone his “gift.” He had taught him to see things differently. The young man had thought he had known so much, but Bullock had shown him a whole new world of knowledge. Things that others avoided, or simply ignored. A world of secrets and intrigue.
After graduation, he had continued to take Bullock’s direction. He couldn’t really remember when he had made the commitment, but soon he was sharpening his skills at the Farm, and applying them in the back alleys of Beirut and the deserts of the Middle East. As the years passed, Bullock faded into the shadows; the teacher had others to lead. So he again had been alone, but now he had accepted his fate.
Others had tried to use him, even his trainers; but they had always failed. Now he was his own man, serving the highest bidder, doing the only thing he knew how to do. Observe and react.
“We got too much to do for you assholes to argue all the time,” Holly continued. “Ricky, work with Tommy to make sure we got enough supplies for everybody. Call in some scores if you have to. Give me a yell if the suppliers give you any shit. We’ll find a way to move ‘em along.”
“I’ll get it done, Macon,” Dalton said.
Wicks sat back silently, sulking.
“Okay, Sean. I guess that leaves you with our materiel. Everything ready?”
“Will be. I’ve got all the conversion kits and most everything is fixed. Had a problem with the 12 gauges but that’s resolved. I’ll have everything ready in time. Got the delivery of the ammo boxes last night. I saved half, like you said. We’ll keep the rest down in the bunker beside the equipment house.”
“Will they be safe there?” Dalton asked.
“Yeah. It’s away from all the exercises, but I’ll make sure nobody gets near it.”
Holly looked down at his scribbled notes. “Okay. That looks like it. You know what you need to do. Get to it. I’ll be here all day with Cal if you need anything. Everybody else is here by dinnertime. Now, y’all get out.”
The members broke from the room and made their way back to their vehicles. Holly stood frozen at the end of the table. The old soldier knew what was about to come. The question was how he would take it.
Gary waited until the roars of the engines faded into the distance, then rose and approached the table.
“Relax, Macon,” he said. “Your boys are getting it together.”
Holly collapsed into the seat by his side.
“We’ll have everything ready, Gary. Sure will.”
“I know, Macon. I know you will.” He held the moment before continuing. “It was a mistake letting the Fed in, though.”
“We took care of that! Just like you said! He never told nobody.”
“But he could have. This reflects on the whole cell, Macon. And your leadership. I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression. Especially the Commander.”
He could see the fear swell behind Holly’s eyes. It was eating at his insides like the borers in the corn stalks outside. The old man was in over his head, and didn’t have a clue as to what to do about it.
“I can fix it, Gary. Show ‘em. Tell me what we need to do.”
“I think you already know, Macon. You’ve got to show them you’re in charge, that you can enforce the rules.”
“Take charge. Yeah. Someone has to pay.”
So far so good. “That’s good, Macon. That would show everyone how serious you are.”
“But who, Gary?”
“It was a security issue, right?”
“Yeah, I guess. You mean Cal?” Holly’s eyes pleaded for a reprieve, but there was no retreat. “Okay. He is security. I’ll bounce him down. Take away his authority.”
“I don’t think that’s enough, Macon. This is serious. That Fed could have hurt all of us. Badly. Hurt the Covenant. You’ve got to send a message they can’t ignore. That Macon Holly is committed to the Covenant. With his life.”
Holly’s face went ashen. “You want me to kill him?”
“It’s your decision. You remember Tennessee?”
“The Volunteer Cell? Shepard killed that man’s family! Every single one of them!”
“No one questions his commitment now. He’s a legend.”
“I can’t do that. Cal’s married to my daughter. He’s my son-in-law!” Holly’s whole body was shaking. He dug his fingernails into the soft wood of the table to keep his hands steady.
What was wrong with this stupid old man?
Can’t he hear?
Gary could feel the squeezing at his temples. He tried to push it back, but it wouldn’t yield. Growing, tightening. Suddenly he jumped to his feet and drove his face at Holly.
“What do you think this is?” he screamed. “We’re not running a nursery school! This is a revolution, you whimpering faggot. If you can’t handle this I’ll get somebody who can. Do you understand me?”
Holly was twice Gary’s size but cowered in his chair before the assault. “Okay, Gary. I understand. I’ll take care of it.”
That was better. Gary pulled back from across the table and let the tension wash away like a receding tide.
“Good,” Gary said softly. “I knew you were the right man for us, Macon. But I wouldn’t wait too long. People are watching.”
Gary walked to the other side of the table and put his arm around the broken man. He raised him up and led him to the door.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Macon said as he walked into the darkness.
“I’m afraid not. I’m leaving tonight.” The panic showed clearly on Holly’s face even in the moonlight.
“But . . .”
“Don’t worry, Macon. I know you’ll do the right thing.”
“Uh, thanks, Gary.”
He watched as Holly limped down the stairs, crawled into his dirty red pickup, and drove slowly down the gravel access road. Another man returning to his family, pushing the night’s terrors into the shadows of his normal life. All except him, for this was his life, to sit just beyond the light and pull the strings that would change the face of the world.
He really did hope Holly could pull it off. It was too late to change the plan.
Chapter 20
Cerberus Consulting, Tysons Corner, Virginia
Saturday, 11:00 a.m.
Braxton had learned early on in his new career that the only thing special about Saturdays was that he got to sleep in before starting work. His Friday meeting with Takagawa Communications had dragged on all afternoon and then they had invited him to a marathon dinner at an elegant Japanese restaurant. He hadn’t gotten home until 11:00, only slightly inebriated from the endless river of sake that had been proffered.
The meeting itself had gone well. He had given the executives a briefing on Internet security with special emphasis on the reliability and security of their existing infrastructure. Security seemed to be the most important concern. Could an adolescent hacker break through the firewall between the public and private networks and wreak havoc in their critical databases? Could a competitor secretly steal pricing policies, marketing plans, or vehicle designs without their knowledge? Could an investigative journalist find a trail of incriminating memos discussing a previously-unknown product flaw? These were the questions the executives had paid Braxton to answer.
When he gave his presentation, they had nodded appropriately at his security review and analysis of current technology. His recommendations had been clear and concise, including a periodic security audit that would be performed by Cerberus. Maybe he was getting the hang of this consulting thing; they had bought the package hook, line, and inflated price tag.
Still, the effort had wiped him out. He had collapsed in his bed and had had to drag himself back to the office to prepare the report and new proposal.
He tossed his black nylon bag on the old sofa and flopped in his desk chair. On top of a tall pile of mail was a prominent yellow sticky that read:
Hope Takagawa went well.
Sam called, said he’d leave a message.
Karen
Braxton considered checking the mail, but the sake still pounded in his head and he couldn’t bring himself to plough through the words. As he pushed the pile to the side of his desk, the flashing message light on his telephone caught his attention. He hesitated, but his curiosity got the better of him. Grabbing the handset, he pushed the button labeled “Virna.”
VIRNA stood for Voice Interactive Response something-or-other. It was a stupid name but easier to say than “my voice mail system.”
He punched in his access codes and listened to the summary. Two messages, not too bad.
One last push and he waited for the recorded voice. The first was a comfortable, friendly one.
“Hey, Adam. It’s Sam. How the hell are you? Heard you had a visitor today. From Karen’s description it could be Roger. Give me a call.”
Roger? Oh yeah, Roger Slattery, Fowler’s CIA friend. That would explain how he knew about the Incident. At least now he had a name to put to the face. He saw John Smith’s card sitting on the desktop and scribbled “Roger Slattery” on the back. But that still didn’t explain what the CIA wanted with him.
He waited for the next message. This voice was equally recognizable, but brought shivers down his back.
“Adam, it’s Megan. I’m at Logan and figured you’d be at work. Sorry to call you so early, but . . . well, I need to talk to someone.”
Her voice shook.
“I’ve been looking into the European operation. Something’s wrong. Something about Ben. I don’t know who to talk to. Can you call me? Please? Oh, and Adam? I love you.”
Silence.
He replayed the message twice. It still didn’t make any more sense.
Ben? Who was Ben? Oh, yes. Ben Lawson. Her friend who had died in Europe. What about him?
What had she said at dinner? Something about the staff at Vision One.
And her goodbye. It tore at him, bringing back memories of other places and other times. Things he dared not hope for.
He checked his watch. It was 11:10. She would still be on the plane to SFO. He scrolled to her home number and hit “Call.” It rang three times and a much calmer voice came on the line.
“This is 555-5953. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.”
“Megan. It’s Adam. I’m sorry I didn’t get back earlier. I got in to work late. I’ll be here or at home all day. Call me as soon as you get in. Anytime.” He didn’t know whether he had the courage to say the words. But then they just flowed out so easily. “And I love you too.”
He put down the phone feeling very unsettled. He still couldn’t understand her tone. What was it?
A chill of fear ran down his spine as he realized he knew. She had sounded scared.
* * *
His room was dark as a cave and had a matching dank, subterranean smell. Apparently the concept of fresh air hadn’t occurred to the proprietors of the Providence View Motel.
Gary was hunched over the cardboard desk trying to maintain a cell connection long enough to send his message. This decrepit motel was the closest one to the farm that had a serviceable cell signal. And that was giving it a lot of credit. Real life in the field wasn’t ever like they showed it in the spy movies.
He pecked out the message and sent it off.
The pain in his stomach had been getting worse ever since the trip from Tennessee. Shepard’s first mold had been a piece of crap. He had gone over the design for three hours to fix the details.
Then Holly’s incompetence. He had had to blow up at the redneck to get the man to do his job.
Why can’t people just do what they are told?
Damned if he was going to have any more doctors check him out. The Percodans took the edge off, and that was all a real soldier needed.
So far the Commander’s plan was proceeding well. It required a little more hand-holding than he would have liked, but these were hardly the professionals he was used to dealing with. Really just a bunch of farmers. But then it was probably better this way. He might have felt some trepidation if they had been real soldiers. Civilians always did have trouble seeing the big picture.
A knife of pain sliced across his abdomen and he doubled over in the chair. He would have laid down on the bed, but he was more afraid of that piece of furniture than he was of the demon eating inside him. His legs still burned from his last night on that infested rack.
He went into the
bathroom, popped two of the dark brown pills and stuck his mouth under the faucet. He returned to the desk chair, closed his eyes, and softly repeated the mantra he had learned from his sensei at the Farm. His body immediately responded, reacting automatically as it had for over twenty years. His heart rate slowed, fatigued muscles relaxed, and unwanted sensory disturbances were silenced. More than once, this meditative state had saved the man’s life: giving him a rejuvenation from his job’s physical punishments. Tonight, all he needed was a few moments of relaxation before the numbing narcotic would enable him to continue his assignment.
Slowly his face lost its tension, bathed in the glow of the cell’s last message:
Georgia sanction initiated.
BRAVO on schedule.
Preparations continue for HALFTIME.
* * *
Beep.
Braxton bolted up in his bed at the electronic disturbance. He glanced over at his alarm clock. 1:00 a.m. Much too early for his alarm.
Beep.
The phone. Where’s the goddamn phone? He groped for the handset and pulled it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Adam Braxton?”
“Yes. Who is this?” he barked.
“Lt. Richard Cassidy, sir. From the San Francisco Police Department. There’s been an accident. It’s your ex-wife.”
“An accident? Megan? What happened?”
“It was a mugging, sir.”
The room turned ice cold. He could barely voice the question. “How is she?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this way, Mr. Braxton. She’s dead.”
Chapter 21
Tyler, Georgia
Sunday, 7:00 a.m.
Holly had tossed and turned all night, finally getting up at 5:00 a.m. The evening exercises had kept his mind distracted, but once he had settled into the small upstairs bedroom of the farmhouse, the previous morning’s conversation with Gary ate away at him.
What the hell am I supposed to do? Kill my own son-in-law?
He had paced the floor until his legs had cried in pain, then headed downstairs. It had still been dark, a condition that had matched his mood, and he had sat on the porch, watching the sun come up over the fields and praying for some kind of revelation that would free him from his pact with the devil.
