Friday December 1 2006
11:45 Hours Mountain Time
Central HQ, Boulder
From the shotgun seat of the customized Suburban that was Director Colby's personal vehicle, Gordon Philips asked, "Sure you're ready for this? PT, and a day in the office?"
Colby sat in his wheelchair in the empty area that replaced the second and third rows of seating. "I won't be any more ready tomorrow, Gord." The road they were traveling was a two-lane mountain highway, snow-walled from a recent plowing. Through the windshield, he watched the car swing off it onto the unmarked and easily-missed road leading to IO Central. "It'll be okay. I'm sure Beth and Cher won't push me too hard."
"She's at the office already?"
Colby said, "She's been at the office all week. We've been talking on the phone. But I don't think she wants to come to the house right now."
Passing the high embankment that separated the public road from IO property and hid the above-ground portion of the complex from casual observation, the car traveled briefly through the dead ground surrounding the perimeter fence, which in summertime was tilled regularly to keep the soil loose and reveal tracks. The fence looked worthy of a Supermax, heavy stainless-steel chainlink topped with a double row of razor wire. A second and third fence, newly constructed, ran ten and twenty yards inside the first, the ground between covered in concertina. Though there were no warning signs, Colby was certain that the middle fence was electrified. Ivana had taken seriously Dixie's threat to 'clean out the rat's nest at Boulder.' The portcullis-like gatehouse, already formidable, had been extended and reinforced, and a row of retractable steel bollards spanned the road where it pierced the building, in case someone tried to crash a vehicle through the swing arm and rolling gate. Colby suspected that the no-man's-land outside the fence had been mined as well.
The vehicle eased to a stop at the gate. A uniformed guard came out of the little guard shack outside the fence, checking the vehicle against his data pad. Though he and Colby knew each other by name, he requested ID from everyone in the car, and inspected them carefully, making notes in his pad. Two other men walked around the car, examining it carefully; one of them carried a mirror on an extendable wand, and used it to check the undercarriage. Finished, the men returned to their posts. The steel posts sank into the pavement, and the swingarm lifted.
"They really don't learn, do they?" The driver said conversationally as he rolled the car through. "A chainlink fence and embassy-level security at the gate. To protect them from people who can melt steel, summon hurricanes, and control gravity."
Colby thought of the cancellation fields in the Chula Vista warehouse, and imagined Lethe dispensers the size of cannons. "I'm sure they have other measures in place that aren't obvious, Gerick."
From the underground parking garage, Colby and Phillips took the elevator to the higher levels. Boulder was a big place, but almost all of it was two, three and even four stories underground; people who imagined they were being funny sometimes referred to it as 'The Hive.' Colby smiled politely at such remarks, knowing that there were things hidden in the complex that were far more threatening than a zombie virus.
Like all the facilities at International Operations' new headquarters, the Medical section was ultramodern, its functionality enhanced by beyond-cutting-edge tech, and staffed by people who were the best in their fields. Miles Craven had believed that money alone was insufficient to inspire loyalty and dedication in the sort of people he needed and to keep them working at peak performance; he needed them to believe that they had a value to the Agency, and to him, that couldn't be quantified with a paycheck. Under his leadership, Craven's subordinates felt valued and cared for, part of a great and worthwhile project. He provided a great many perks and privileges, from all-expense-paid vacations to interest-free loans and phenomenal investment counseling. And of course, first-rate medical care.
Ivana Baiul lacked her predecessor's sure hand with people. Her blunt carrot-and-stick approach to personnel management tended to divide the membership rather than unite it. But the Executive Director kept all the bennies in place and funded, partly to mute any grumbling, and partly because IO was so rich, and its operating budgets so large, that pay and benefit costs, generous though they were, were insignificant.
The Employee Health and Medical department, though not a large part of IO's operations, was the size of a metropolitan hospital, offering a full range of services to IO personnel. It was presently being expanded further; the mayhem inflicted on IO's paramilitary at Chula Vista had swamped the emergency clinic, leaving wounded men waiting in the hallways for anyone passing by to see. Ivana was determined that IO would never be made to look so outclassed and overwhelmed ever again.
The treatment center got anything it asked for, regardless of cost. IO was a chronically understaffed agency, and Ivana was determined to keep her people healthy and productive – not from sentiment, but from pragmatism. It was far too large for a facility the size of Central, but it also serviced every IO employee in the world on a walk-in basis – even, on occasion, personnel assigned to Santini's satrapy in McLean. Its treatment portfolio included delicate surgeries, meticulous long-term care, and stellar outpatient treatment. One of the Clinic's regular outpatients was Director Francis Colby.
When the doors opened on the Clinic's floor, Gordon asked, "Push you?" The entrance to the emergency clinic was right around the corner, but the physical therapy and rehab section was at least a hundred yards away. If Cheryl had been with him, he would have let her roll him down the corridor, both to humor her and to hide the extent of his recovery from her – or whoever she reported to, rather. But Gordon was someone from whom he kept fewer secrets.
"No thanks," he said, rolling the wheelchair out of the elevator. "Think I'll start my PT a little early. Maybe I can convince Beth to cut the session a little short." It was an effort to keep the chair traveling at a walking pace, especially today, but he didn't want his companion to have to dawdle on his account. "Heard Mike and Castro went out on a double date last Tuesday."
"Yeah," the head bodyguard replied. "Went surprisingly well, I heard." The details and true purpose of that 'date' were known to both men; their conversation was more for the cameras and microphones all over the complex, as well as anyone passing by.
"Whose idea to double up? One of the girls?"
"Mike, actually, I think. He heard Ernesto was stepping out with someone, and decided they needed some chaperonage."
"Who were the girls? Anyone I know?"
"Can't say." The chief bodyguard gave him a smile. "Frankly, I'm at a loss to figure what kind of girl would accept a date from the antisocial sumbitch. She must be new here." Gordon cleared his throat. "I, uh, talked with Nicole the other day. The morning after, actually."
"Oh?" Colby pushed at the wheels a little harder. "I trust you weren't too hard on her."
The chief bodyguard scoffed. "Let's just say that the conversation didn't go quite the way I'd intended. But it was all right."
Trying to sound politely disinterested, Colby said, "How was she?"
"She was as mellow as I've ever seen her. And… strangely quiet. I don't mean that she didn't talk. But you know how she sort of fills up a room. There was none of that. She seemed almost… normal." He added, "She seems to like you." The last statement was delivered in a tone more suited to a warning than congratulations.
"We talked on the phone that afternoon," Colby said. "She gave me her number. Said I'd be calling her."
"That's confident."
"That's Nicole. She's used to getting what she wants."
A few steps later, Phillips said, "So, will you?"
"I barely escaped with my life the last time, Gord."
"I'm not sure that was an answer."
"If that's what she really wants, I don't know if I'll have a choice. But she knows better than anybody what a second round would be like. She's never done it with anyone else. Maybe she's just playing with me, seeing if I'll call even at risk of my life."
They reached the doors, stopping just short of the sensor that would open them. Phillips said, "She left this morning, early. An assignment. She's supposed to be gone all weekend."
"I know," Colby said. "It's why I picked today to come back."
"If you're going to call," the security man said carefully, "maybe this would be a good time."
"Not if she's working. I'll text her." He rolled forward, and the doors opened. "After an hour or so of physical torment. Just to get me in the mood."
At checkin, the scrub-clad girl behind the desk raised her eyebrows at the approach of the wheelchair-bound man and his escort. "Director. This isn't your usual day. Or time."
He smiled. "I missed my appointment earlier in the week," he said. "I'm just trying to get back in sync. Cher did make an appointment, right?"
"Yes." She nodded at her terminal. "I'm afraid you're going to have to work with someone besides Beth today, though."
"Really? I thought she worked Monday through Friday."
"She does." She gave an odd little head-shrug. "But she's scheduled off the workout floor this time of day."
A young man in scrubs came into the workspace and tapped the girl on the shoulder. "Got this. Take off."
Colby glanced past the pair to see a patient hauling himself up on the parallel bars, assisted by a man in scrubs. The reason for the evacuation of all the female therapists and staffers became clear. "I see."
The young woman hesitated. "Would you rather reschedule? I'm sure I could work you in later today."
By bumping another patient? The Directors always get what they want around here, don't they? "No. this is fine."
"You heard the man," her coworker said. "Go make coffee up front or something." To Colby he said, "Seth will be here in just a minute, Director."
Seth was a slender man, with a youthful face that contrasted oddly with his bald crown; Colby guessed him to be no more than thirty. He wondered if, somewhere in IO's proscribed tech vaults, there was a cure for male-pattern baldness. He huffed. Properly marketed, such a product might be worth more to the Shop than the blackmail payments from OPEC.
"Something funny?" Seth rolled him to the short row of recumbent bikes.
"Just reflecting on the human condition."
He nodded absently as he studied his pad. "You usually start on the bike, yeah?"
"Right," he said. "Just for a warmup. Maybe half an hour."
The young man eyed the therapy room's other patient. "Mike'll be over here before you're done then."
"That'll be fine," Colby said. "Maybe we can talk. After all, we have a lot in common."
Seth settled him into the machine, adjusting the seat and handlebars by his hips, then programmed it, setting the difficulty and duration according to the notes on his pad. "I'll be back in fifteen to check on you," he said. "If you want to stop sooner, if you're in pain or have trouble breathing, just call me. The button-"
"Seth," Colby said, "I've been coming here for six months."
"Oh, right, sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about. I'll call you when I'm done."
Colby began pumping the pedals, feeling his tendons stretch, alert for awakening pain. Oddly, there was none, despite having felt beaten nearly to death just four days before. Usually, as soon as Beth's attention was off him, he would reprogram the machine to a more challenging setting – hiding his true progress from his therapists, admittedly, but also from anyone reading their reports. But today, he felt a little unsure of his strength and stamina, and decided to take things easy, at least at first.
Ten minutes into the routine, the therapy room's other patient approached the bike row, hobbling by on cane crutches, the sort that braced your forearms instead of going under your armpits. The young man's cheek was bandaged, the eyes bruised-looking from the kid's last bit of cosmetic surgery. He glanced at Colby and started to go past before Colby said, "Mike. Take the one next to me, if you wouldn't mind some company."
"Thank you, sir." Michael Hale dropped into the seat. Colby noted that his therapist left without programming Mike's machine. Leaving his patient to do it himself – rather clumsily, since the last three fingers of each hand were taped together.
Once Hale's machine was running, Colby said, "How are you coming along?"
"Pretty well, I guess. The work on the hands and knees is finally done. A little touch-up work to my face, and all that's left is healing up. Thank you for asking, Director."
"My name is Frank, Mike. How about we skip the 'sir' and 'Director' stuff while we're grunting in the workout room? We're here for the same reason, right?" He realized a moment too late that his last statement might be taken more than one way.
"Right." The young Security trooper shifted his attention from his console to Colby's. "Damn. That's your regular set? You're way ahead of me, man. I heard you're even back to work." His gaze shifted to the wheelchair beside the bike.
"Well, it's all office work. I'd be spending most of my time sitting down anyway."
They pedaled in silence for a little while, then Hale said, "How do you do it? They said she busted you up even worse than me. How can you just… shrug that off and keep going?"
"It wasn't the same one, Mike."
"You're sure?"
"Dead sure. And what they did to us wasn't the same." He pedaled silently for a moment, marshaling his thoughts. "Our injuries were similar. But I was busted up to make a point, nothing more. There was no interrogation, no attempt to break me. That made it easier to come back from." The machine beeped, signaling the end of the set; Colby slowed but kept pedaling for a little longer. "That, and knowing that it was for a good reason." He stopped finally and removed himself carefully from the machine, and stood with a hand on the console as Seth came hustling up. "What happened to you was worse, Mike. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And what she did to you left scars that surgery won't fix. But it'll get better, Mike. I'm sure of it."
Mike stopped pedaling; the machine beeped several times, warning him that the set wasn't finished, but he ignored it, and a moment later the display went dark. "She smiled at me," he said quietly. "All the time, like she was having fun. I knew she'd still be smiling like that if she beat me to death, because she thought I deserved it."
Seth turned the chair for Colby to sit down; he ignored it. He remembered the feel of Anne's hand under his coat, soft and warm against his shirt, and how it had stirred him. That same hand, just days earlier, had broken this boy's legs and hands and face, and reduced him to a bloody lump on the floor of a public restroom in Westminster Mall. "That was what you were supposed to think," he said. "Mine went to work on me like she was doing an unpleasant chore. Painting a fence, or pulling weeds. I wouldn't be surprised that yours felt the same way about it."
"I'm not sure that would make it better. Knowing that what she did was just another day on the job." Mike stared at the blank console. "I can't be alone in a room with a woman, even one this big. If one gets on the elevator with me, I can't breathe, and the world goes dark until the doors open again and one of us gets off. I had a girlfriend, here at the complex. She quit coming to see me months ago, after the third visit." He looked at Seth, standing with his hands on the wheelchair's handles, as if eager to whisk his patient away. "They treat me like a leper here. Not just the women. The men too. They must think what I've got is catching."
"Mike, no," the therapist said. He looked at Colby, then at the young man's feet. "We just… don't know what to do with you. How to make you better. You quit counseling. I can't judge you for that. It just… We feel so helpless. Like we're failing you. We're not used to that."
"So I am contagious." He leaned forward, punched some keys on the console, and began pedaling again.
Even though Colby felt more confident, he didn't deviate from the program when he shifted to strength training. It was harder to cheat at the resistance stations: Seth hovered, setting the seat and weight stacks at every machine, and marking his progress. But that was okay; as Nicole had remarked, his upper body was visibly improved since Chula Vista. He usually feigned more difficulty than he felt on the lower-body exercises, since he practiced his own workout routine at home, hopefully out of sight of curious eyes.
Afterward, as he headed for the locker room, Colby sent a brief message to Cheryl, who waited for him in his office. They exchanged a few more, detailing his plans for the day. Nothing remotely personal, not even an inquiry about how he was feeling, just an impersonal 'Welcome back.' Cher had been strangely reserved since Monday, and actually seemed to have been avoiding him, staying away from the house and speaking to him only on the phone from the office. God knew what must be going through her head since finding him Monday morning.
He held the phone in his hand, thinking, then called up Nicole's number and sent a text: Back at work. He listened for an 'incoming message' chime as he undressed for a shower. Nothing came. He shoved the phone into his coat pocket and shut the locker door.
She could be busy, he thought as he wet down under the showerhead. Or she might be asleep. He didn't know where her assignment had taken her; it might be in the middle of the night where she was at. Hell, she might still be on a plane, she'd only left seven or eight hours ago…
Or maybe she's with someone, a little voice said to him. It's been four days since you spoke. Maybe her little obsession has played itself out, and you're safe.
"Director?" One of the locker room attendants, just outside the frosted glass door. "Your phone is ringing."
He opened the door without shutting off the water, snatched a towel from the attendant, and hustled into the locker room. The room was silent. He huffed, pressed his thumb to the lock, and opened the door. The phone lay quiet in his jacket pocket. His finger was on the callback button before something froze him before he could press it.
He heard the shower hissing in the next room. He looked back at the trail of wet footprints behind him, to the wheelchair beside the shower door and the wide-eyed attendant beside it, staring at him, and finally down at himself, clad only in a sloppily-wrapped towel. Why the hell didn't you just finish your shower and call back? Or not call back?
The 'incoming message' signal chimed: Nicole. The message read, call you in an hour or so. Tell Cheryl I said hi.
Atlanta Georgia USA
11:15 EST
Nicole smiled at the phone and put it back in her vest pocket. "Now, where were we?"
Lying on the patterned carpet at her feet were two large men in dark suits. The jacket of one gaped open to reveal a pistol in a shoulder holster. Their hands were wrapped around each other's throats, arms straining, teeth bared, eyes bulging.
She stepped over them to another man, dressed in a rather more expensive suit, standing with his back pressed against the wall. His eyes, locked to hers, were dark-ringed in his shocky face, sweat trickling down his forehead and cheeks. He shivered, panting around the barrel of the automatic in his mouth.
"No," she said gently, "I told you, you can't do that." She laid a hand on the weapon and guided it out of his mouth. She took it from his unresisting fingers and uncocked it, then used his tie to wipe it of prints before returning it to its holster under his jacket. Tears spilled from his eyes to mix with the sweat. He sobbed.
"It's all right," she said, as if gentling a frightened animal. "It's going to be fine." She produced a notebook and pen. She wrote a name on it and turned it to him. "Where is he hiding? Give me an address. A phone number. Whatever you have."
He took the pen in shaking fingers and scrawled five lines below the name: a second name, probably her quarry's alias; a street address in a town she'd never heard of in Alabama, and two phone numbers. It took a bit of puzzling over to decipher the unsteady handwriting, but it would serve. She nodded. "Good." She removed his phone from inside his jacket. "Unlock this, please?"
He showed her the pattern of finger-swipes required to activate the phone – taking three tries to get it right. She smiled at him as she pocketed the device. "You can go now. Up to the roof and over, anywhere you like."
A nervous smile touched the corners of his mouth, and he shuddered with relief. Without looking back, he left the room, and a moment later she heard him hurrying up the stairs.
The men strangling each other were now still. She sensed that one was still alive, barely, and gave him a nudge to send him on.
Nicole exited the old mansion through the ornate front door. She paused on the broad shaded veranda, admiring the dense green lawn and the planting beds, colorful even in early December, the work of generations of careful gardening. Somewhere not too far away, she heard a heavy wet whump. She nodded and continued on to the wide front steps.
Going down the granite steps to the drive, she passed two more guards, sitting on the treads with their backs against the stone railing, submachine guns in their laps. Their faces were serene, and they were quite dead.
At the bottom of the steps, she turned and looked back at the structure, three stories tall, ornately decorated, possibly ten thousand square feet. None of the new-rich staffers at IO had a home half so beautiful. Kind of a shame, really. It will probably be sold by the heirs and bulldozed flat a year from now. God knows what will go up in its place. Maybe I should buy it, it wouldn't need much fixing…
Her rented car was at the bottom of the steps. She got in, and went half around the circular drive to the open wrought-iron gate, where she passed two more armed guards lying faceup on the macadam. She could see the face of one of the men, frozen in an expression of utter amazement; the other, lying in a pool of blood, was curled up on his side with both hands covering his bloody crotch. "Good grief, Nikki," she said to herself. "Letting off a little back pressure, are we?" Well, he had been quite rude, and she was only human…
The drive was a quarter of a mile long, walled in with evergreens, with a gentle curve that hid the inner gate from the street. The outer gate stood open as well, with no one in the little guard shack beside it. Directly across the two-lane street, a row of two-story walkups lined the broad sidewalk. Skyscrapers rose in the distance behind them. The estate, an antebellum country home swallowed over the years by the expanding city, was situated on a walled five-acre parcel worth tens of millions, with ten thousand people living within hearing of a gunshot.
She waited for a police cruiser to roll by, then turned onto the busy two-lane and headed for her hotel. Her next target could wait until she had dealt with more important matters. Though it was not yet noon by local time, her Colorado-adjusted stomach was telling her that she had missed lunch as well as breakfast – fasting amped up her power, though hunger did make it a bit harder to control – and the hotel restaurant was supposed to be excellent. Then she would take a quick shower, to wash off the city grime. Finally, refreshed and comfortable, she would make her promised phone call.
Boulder
1340 hours Mountain Time
After exchanging a few words with Will in the anteroom of his office and a farewell to Gordon, Colby rolled through the door to find Cheryl standing beside his desk at the other end of the room. Usually, on the occasions that he entered the office when she was already there, he could scarcely get ten feet inside the door before she was at his side; today, she simply said, "Hi," and waited for him to come to her. The way she stood watching him told him she was uneasy, as if she'd been caught at something and was trying to cover up.
Get a grip, he told himself. It's the first time she's seen you since she found you at the house. She's just looking you over.
"Coffee's fresh," she said quietly.
"Great." He rolled behind the desk. As she moved toward the pot he said, "Anything else of note?"
"Some," she said as she poured into two mugs. "The runaways' trail has gone cold, according to Mister Ruche. The operations in Mannheim and Vientiane are underway, under Mister Santini's eye. The Fort Worth business is waiting for your go-ahead."
"My go-ahead?"
"You said you wanted to review the details." She turned his way, eyes on the full mugs as she brought them to the desk. "Last Saturday."
"Ah, right."
She set the mugs down. "Heard from her?" She asked, too casually.
He sipped, keeping the mug to his lips. "Since Monday? Just a short exchange of texts this morning. She's on an assignment somewhere. Said she'd call later." He added, "She told me to tell you hello." He watched carefully, and saw the girl's unease deepen. Had Nicole or Ivana requested a report on him? Was that why she'd been avoiding him, so that she could tell them she had nothing to report? He set the mug down. "Where's the summary for Fort Worth?"
Colby spent the rest of the afternoon in his office. The workload was light; he spent most of his time taking calls. Some, like the ones from Gerry Ruche and Benito Santini, were at least partly business-related; others, like Ivana and Mike Diehl, were social calls. Everyone welcomed him back to work without mentioning why he had been off, though a few alluded to it in a sort of sideways manner. Colby reflected on the efficiency of Central's grapevine; he had only told Cheryl, his security detail, and the therapy center that he would be back today. Why did Ivana even need a spy in his office?
His assistant eyed the phone every time it rang, as if was a bomb that had just begun ticking until he answered it.
He was about to suggest a break for dinner in the dining hall when the phone rang – not the office phone this time, but his personal one. He looked at the display, and his eyes rose to meet Cheryl's. She said, "I'm sure you want some privacy for this."
"No," he said. "Stay." He connected the call. "Hello, Nicole."
"Well. You seem a little less hostile than last time we talked. You must be feeling better."
"Somewhat."
"I'm glad. Have you been thinking about me?"
"Off and on."
"You're still angry with me, aren't you? I can tell."
"You don't think I've got a right?"
"Do you want an apology?" At his silence she went on, "Well, then, what do you want from me, Frank?"
He huffed. "I'll let you know."
"Looking forward to it. Is it good to be back to work?"
"It's comfortable. It seems longer than four days, but I don't like being idle. And it's good to reconnect with people."
"Yeah, I like being around people too. Are they working you hard, catching up?"
"My backlog of work is so light, it makes me wonder why they pay me at all."
I'll bet that's Cheryl's doing. Is she there with you?"
Colby met his assistant's eyes again. "Yeah. She's right here. Why?"
"Ask her if she packed yet. I bet she's still on the fence about it."
"Packed? Why would she be packing?" Cher's face turned scarlet. "What's this about?"
"Oh, dear, I thought you'd know by now. You probably should ask her, not me."
"I'm asking you," he said.
"She told me you suggested she leave some things in one of your spare bedrooms. Just for the occasional overnighter, she said. I told her that was silly, she should just move in. Just so long as she doesn't put her stuff in your room," she amended. "That might be awkward."
His assistant was headed to the sink, mugs in hand, though he knew hers was still nearly full. He said into the phone, "We don't have that kind of relationship, Nicole."
"Oh, I know," she said, amused. "But not for lack of trying on her part." In a different voice she went on, "She's good for you, Frank. It wouldn't hurt you to give her a little in return. You certainly proved you're capable. And you need somebody with you. Even if I didn't spend so much time away, God knows, I'm not the caretaker type."
"Definitely not."
"If it's her reports you're worried about, don't. Ivana quit reading them months ago. Gerry skims through them, but he doesn't really read them either, because they irritate him – make him feel threatened, really. I've read them all. They uniformly describe you as a hardworking, dedicated employee, an asset to the firm, loyal to the organization and its goals. Not the slightest hint of questionable activity. Does she know that you know?"
"How did you know?"
"Because you're smart, Frank. And you might be loyal to IO, in your way, but you don't trust Gerry and Ivana as far as you could throw them. Sitting in your chair. I've told them as much, more than once."
"Apparently discretion isn't one of your talents, either."
A moment of dead air. "Are you really still angry with me, or are you just playing hard to get?"
"I have no reason to play at anything with you," he said. "And every reason to stay the hell away from you." He almost hung up then, but something stopped him. He sat listening to the silent phone until he began to wonder if she had disconnected.
Finally, she spoke, her voice low, all the honey in it gone. "If we weren't on an unsecure line, Mister Colby, I could prove to you right now how discreet I can be. As it is, it will just have to wait until we're face to face." The line clicked as she disconnected.
"That was creepy," Cheryl murmured, standing beside him.
"Don't let her get under your skin."
"Not her." Her face was blank and unreadable. "The way you were smiling into the phone, right up until she asked if I was moving in."
McLean Virginia
1540 hours Eastern
Christie's return flight to McLean touched down at Reagan National Airport, across the Potomac from the capital and just south of Arlington Cemetery. National was rather small for a terminal serving the capital city of one of the greatest nations on earth, but real estate was at a premium in DC, and most of its air traffic went through Dulles, twenty miles to the west of the city and several times larger. National was closer to IO Headquarters East, and better-connected, transport wise: from the terminal, she could board the metro for a fifteen-minute ride past Arlington, and a vehicle would pick her up at the closest station and deliver her to the Black Tower.
But convenience wasn't the real reason she chose National. Christie avoided big airports. Not just because of the noise and bother and confusion. Big airports made her vaguely melancholy, ever since her last trip with Jack.
She remembered that trip too well. They had spent the night in guest accommodations at Wiesbaden, prior to her morning flight. There had been a strange fervor to their lovemaking, without any of their usual playfulness. She had thought at the time that it was because he, like her, was burdened by the knowledge that it would be many weeks before they saw each other again. She had learned different the next day.
She remembered how Jack had risen next morning without offering her a kiss and headed to the bathroom. How he had loaded their scant luggage into the back seat of their rented car, seeming more like a cab driver than a man delivering his lover to the airport. They'd exited through the base's main gate and headed east toward Flughafen, the city-sized air hub on the outskirts of Frankfurt. The drive had been less than ten miles, but she had watched with unease and a strange gnawing fear as he seemed to become cooler and more distant with each mile they traveled.
At the departure terminal, she had gotten out of the car and gained the sidewalk before she realized he hadn't shut off the motor. With his hands tight on the wheel, he had told her that he wouldn't be there when she got back, that they were over, and she should move on. He had reached back and grabbed the straps of her bag and swung it through the door to her. She had taken it numbly, holding it to her chest as she asked questions he had refused to answer, only shaking his head. Then he had pulled the passenger door shut and driven away, leaving her at the curb, surrounded by ten thousand busy uncaring strangers.
She brooded over it as the little train carried her northward. I was trying to make it easy for you, he had said on their only meeting since. She had known by then that he'd given up more than his girlfriend that day. He'd cleaned out his condo in Boulder. He'd walked away from his job as Director of Operations, and the CEO-level compensation that had gone with it. He'd raided a secret IO facility, killing most of its personnel, making an enemy of his former employer and nearly everyone who worked there. But her first impulsive answer to his statement, the one she had choked back, had been, Easier for me, or you?
At her first meeting with Colby, the start of her second career as a conspirator, she had learned the reason for Jack's defection. She understood now why he had turned his back on almost everything he had valued; the man she loved could have made no other decision with his child's life at stake. She even understood his rationale for his abrupt abandonment: it was the only way that Jack Lynch's girlfriend could possibly have salvaged her career at International Operations after his defection.
Damn him.
Why hadn't he asked her to come with him? Did he really think her career had meant more to her than he did? Was it all just because he didn't want to share his danger?
Or did he shut her out because he was afraid she'd be a liability? An impediment? A weak spot in his defenses?
The train slowed to a stop at Arlington, to pick up passengers finished with their visit to the cemetery. She felt a momentary urge to get off and explore the expansive grounds. The site was beautiful, with its various markers and memorials, and the changing of the guard at the Tomb always stirred her. But she had already called for a car and driver to meet her at the station, and it wouldn't be right to keep the man waiting while she wandered around playing tourist.
Besides, Director Santini was expecting her, and he was a busy man.
Differences between IO's original headquarters and its successor began to show themselves immediately. McLean was sited on thousands of acres of Virginia forest, and the main building, the twenty-story structure known as the Black Tower, rose high above the bare branches of the trees, a mile from the gate. Just inside was a small parking lot and visitor center, where her and her driver's IDs and vehicle were inspected before they were sent on.
It all seemed very routine and pedestrian, typical of a government agency whose responsibilities didn't require a public image, though its perimeter security seemed perfunctory for a counterterrorism agency. Christie knew, however, that a drone helicopter was following high above them, ready to report suspicious activity and put a forcible stop to it on command. Heavily armed men watched from hiding among the trees as the car rolled through. And like all cars and trucks that ever got past the visitors' center, their ride was an Agency vehicle, fitted with a remote disabler that would shut off the engine and lock the steering if it tried to depart from its approved route.
The Boulder complex had no reception area to speak of. All traffic entered through the underground parking and entered the rest of the facility via a bank of elevators. The doors to the elevators were enclosed in a small glass-doored lobby where a pair of terminals provided floor plans and directions, the facility's office and phone directory, and other pertinent information. It was a functional arrangement, suited to a facility with almost no visitors, its halls traveled by regulars who knew their way around – the areas where they were authorized to go, at least – and needed directions only when traveling to a part of the complex where they had never been.
McLean's parking structure was above ground, though fully enclosed. It had several ground-floor exits, but the only one connecting it to the Black Tower led through its reception area. Thus, everyone who entered the McLean complex passed through it on every visit.
The reception area, Christie thought, was not too dissimilar from that of a wealthy business, or the lobby of a high-end hotel. The fifty-foot-square room was floored and walled with glowing white marble from a Maryland quarry that had once supplied panels for the Washington Monument. At the far end was an ornate marble counter, behind which sat a live receptionist to welcome arrivals and answer questions. Lining the route from the door to the desk stood tall glass cases, lighted by ceiling-mounted spots, displaying photos and awards.
McLean got nearly as few visitors as Boulder. This magnificent room, designed by Miles Craven almost thirty years earlier, had been intended to impress IO's members with the worth and success of their organization, and of themselves as a part of it.
One of those dozen trophy cases was devoted entirely to Jack Lynch, former Director of Operations. At Boulder, Jack was drawn as a villain and traitor who had deserted the organization with a billion dollars of its money, wrecking an important research station and murdering its personnel to create a diversion as he committed his other crimes. Everything at Boulder that presented a different view of the man had been removed or altered – the only pictures of him that she knew still remained at the complex were in his file and in Director Colby's trophy case. In McLean, his old friend Benito's satrapy, there was a shrine to the man, one that every staffer and trooper passed on their way into the building.
Christie paused, looking into the case, full of awards and plaques, certificates and photographs. She recognized all of them and knew the stories behind them, just as clearly as she remembered every scar on his body under her fingertips. She was carrying her travel bag in one hand; she laid the palm of the other on the glass, chest tightening. She took a quick breath and stepped away. God, I need to get laid or something. We haven't spoken in two and a half years, and the last time we met, I told him we were done, and to stay the hell away from me. He's probably bedded a dozen women since then. And I haven't been a nun either, I've been with other men, for a night or a week, and they've been good for me, mostly. I-
"Welcome back, Chris," said the uniformed young man behind the reception desk; she realized she was standing at it, almost leaning over the counter. "Looking for the boss?"
"He's not in the office?"
"Just went out. Not off-grounds. He's headed for the O-course. You can probably catch him. Somebody almost always stops him to talk about something."
"Is he free after?"
"Don't think so," the young man said. "He mentioned that this is the only chance for some exercise he'll get today."
If she wanted to talk with Santini on the course, she'd have to run it with him. She looked down at her clothing: crosstrainers, slacks, zip-front hoodie, quilted vest. The shoes were all right, but the rest would be ruined by the end of the course. "If I change in the bathroom, can you hold my bag behind the counter?"
Six minutes later, dressed in more appropriate clothing, she was trotting toward the hilly wooded area to the southwest of the Tower. Being in a hurry, she took the shorter and easier of the two trails to the start of the course, hoping to catch the Director before he started.
Halfway down the trail, she began to question her decision. If she arrived at the timber wall even thirty seconds after Santini, she wouldn't see him, and would end up standing there waiting for him to arrive while he ran the course. If he had chosen the shorter trail, she would know he was on the course because she hadn't caught up with him, but what if he had chosen the more challenging alternate? If he had, she decided, it was unlikely that he would arrive at the start of the course ahead of her, at least if she hustled. She nodded to herself and picked up her pace.
She arrived at the timber wall just in time to see a leg disappearing over the top. "Director?"
"Blaze?" The man grunted. A thump as his feet hit the ground, and the Associate Director of IO's Operations Directorate rounded the wall.
Benito Santini was remarkably well-preserved for a sixty-odd year-old man, Christie thought: not overly muscular, but trim and athletic, a man who looked like he enjoyed being active. His hair was full and dark, with a hairline only beginning to recede, and his smooth-shaven face sported only a thin web of lines at his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Clean living, she thought.
"How long have you been back?"
"About fifteen minutes."
"You couldn't wait to report?"
"I was told you probably wouldn't be free to see me any other time today." She went on, "There's nothing urgent to report, but it's interesting. I thought you'd want to know right away."
"I do." He turned down the more difficult of the two trails.
"Sir, we can run the course, if you like."
He scoffed, still walking. "With you? You'd run my wrinkly ass into the ground before we reached the rope bridge."
She smiled. "I don't know about that."
"I do. And if you let me set the pace, it would feel like being babysat." He started up the sloping trail. "I'd rather talk out here anyway. The Tower is proof against anybody's snooping tech but the Shop's, and we sweep all the time regardless, but I still wouldn't put it past that bitch to have found a way to bug my office." After a few steps he said, "So?"
She fell in beside him on the wide trail, matching his stride. "Alicia says, 'Don't call us, we'll call you,'" she said, and was surprised by his sudden grin. She went on, "They're working on a couple ways to pry the tech out of Boulder's hands. But they're both risky, so they're moving cautiously."
"Such as?"
"Such as a back-door exploit that will let them send a datadump to the researchers in lockdown. But they have to be sure that whoever they send it to will work with them and not just turn it over to their bosses. Also, they need someone on this side of the wire who can slip it in past IO's firewall setup."
"That won't be easy," he said. "Do they have someone in mind?"
"Yes," she said. "Jack."
Santini stopped, bringing her up short. "How?" Which could have been a lot of questions, but she knew which one: How do you know how to contact him?
"A crazy sort of 'six degrees' connection," she said. "It seems that one of the girls Jack took under his wing has been dating an SS guy on her capture team. If that's not strange enough, he also happens to be friends with some of Colby's bodyguards, the ones who are in on this with us."
He scowled. "How old are those girls? Fourteen, sixteen?"
"This one's twenty. And even if she was sixteen, she'd be big for her age," Christie said, "Really big."
He nodded once and started walking again. "Alex Fairchild's kid. He knows about her, then?"
"Yeah. He's not working with us, but I get the impression he's done things to keep them out of Ivana's claws."
"Does Jack know?"
"I don't know," she said. "But it seems like it'd be a hard thing to keep from him."
"I'm more than a little surprised he's letting this go on. Not just because of the age difference."
"Well," she said slowly, "there's some uncertainty about whether they're still seeing each other. But he may still be able to contact her. He goes out with Colby's boys regular. They're going to sound him out next time they're off campus."
A stream appeared, just a few feet across and not deep, but swift-flowing. A ford of sorts had been created by dropping a few large stones across its width. In time, however, the water flowing over had turned them mossy, and quite slippery. Christie usually just splashed on through the calf-deep water. The man walking beside her crossed carefully, using the stones. Halfway across, he turned and presented a hand to her, palm up.
Christie reminded herself that Ben Santini's first date had probably worn a girdle, and kept a hope chest in her bedroom. She shook her head. "No offense, boss. I'd rather cross on my own."
He dropped his hand, the corner of his mouth twisting, and continued across. "Must have forgot who I'm with for a second."
She crossed using the stones, noting that her shoes got soaked anyway, and joined him on the other side. "Director. Why am I still the only female Expeditionary? It's been years now. Haven't I proven myself?"
"Over and over," he said, returning to the trail. "You're a credit to the team, and the Expeditionary Force. It's one reason you're here right now. I'm glad Jack pried open my eyes about you. But I don't have his talent for spotting exceptional people on intuition. I don't think much of my chances of picking another Christie Blaze."
"That sounds like bullshit." Her step faltered when she realized she had spoken aloud.
Two steps later, Santini said. "It is. The truth is that I'm making no effort to recruit women into the X-Teams. And it's not because I'm an old fossil who still handles women's chairs for them at the dinner table." He turned his head to her. "You're a credit to the force, Christie. That wasn't bullshit. You can hold your own with any man on your team. And all the liabilities I originally thought that a woman would bring to the X-teams turned out to be smoke. But you being a woman doesn't bring anything extra to the mix, either. I already have a waiting list of prospects for the Teams, all male. I won't push a woman to the top of the list just to be inclusive." He added, "Even if any women expressed an interest. Which they haven't. Can't blame them for that. The percentage of women in the Razors is about the same as the percentage among the office workers at Boulder. They're good troops. But ninety-nine percent of them wouldn't survive a week of Expeditionary training."
"Neither would ninety-five percent of the men."
"Ninety-eight," he said, smiling. "But all the X-teams together don't amount to more than about a hundred troops. And I'm not going to be expanding the Force any time soon. So, for the foreseeable future, I'm going to continue to be able to count my female Expeditionaries on the thumbs of one hand."
They were approaching a rougher part of the trail, a narrow ledge cut into the hillside, strewn with imbedded rocks and tree roots that could turn and ankle, or cause a slip that would send an unwary traveler rolling down the hill. To the right, the Tower loomed over the treetops. They walked single file, Santini in the lead. Christie said, "Somebody told me that you can see CIA headquarters from our roof."
"Not worth the climb," he said as he picked his way along. "Place looks like a fooking penitentiary."
And Central looks kind of like an ICBM site, she thought. Or a place to sit out the end of the world. "We do have a pretty building. What are we doing with all the extra space, now that the other Directorates have moved to Boulder?"
"Nothing much right now," he said. "I'm sure it'll come in handy sooner or later." The path rounded the hill and flattened out, broadening, and they were walking side by side again. "Okay. Frank and Alicia are looking at two options, you said. You've laid out the first one. What's Plan B?"
"How much time do you have?" At his raised eyebrows, she said, "I heard your schedule is crowded today."
He glanced at his watch, then at the Tower. "The Reader's Digest version, for now. If I require more detail, I'll call on you later."
"Okay." The trail was arrow-straight now, and the end of the trees was in sight a hundred yards ahead. "It's about the storage facilities, the secure ones where Research keeps the prototypes, working models, proofs-of-concept. Documentation too. Info regarding those sites is need-to-know, but a lot of people need to know. Access is severely restricted, but the number and approximate location of those sites is fairly common knowledge at Boulder." They approached the edge of the trees, and she slowed. "But Alicia thinks there may be another site, of which IO keeps no official record."
He stopped. "Where?"
"She doesn't know, not exactly, but she's working on it."
"What's in it?"
"She doesn't know that either. She has only inferred evidence that it exists. Nobody on IO's payroll is guarding or maintaining it."
"IO doesn't just lose track of proscribed technology." He turned toward the treeline. "Sounds like Alicia's grasping at straws."
He's sure to be skeptical, Alicia had warned her. Wait till he's about to dismiss you, then drop the last part on him. "The same evidence she has that it exists," she said, "indicates that nothing has gone in or out of it since nineteen ninety-eight."
He stopped, staring out into the clearing. He scoffed. "That sneaky bastard." After a moment, he said, "I assume she's also looking for a research facility, also off the books? One that closed down about the same time?"
"She is, but that's tougher, and she doubts we'd get much from it. If the researchers were reassigned to mainstream facilities, it was done very carefully."
He turned to look at her. "No," he said. "Miles was ruthless and underhanded, and he manipulated his subordinates shamelessly, but he wasn't Ivana. He wouldn't have had his people killed just to keep a secret." He thought. "If the stuff coming out of that lab was as good as I suspect, then his best researchers must have been working there. And probably some pretty senior ones. When he closed it all down, he likely retired them. Research Directorate keeps a close eye on all the pensioners, to make sure they keep their lips zipped."
"She could compile a list of researchers who were retired about that time, I'm sure. We'd have to be super discreet about approaching them – for their sake and ours."
"Tell her to add truck drivers, maintenance staffers and security personnel to that list," he said. "They might be less closely watched."
She huffed. "That would probably lengthen our contact list tenfold."
"It would also reduce your chances of ending up zip-tied naked to a chair." He waved back down the trail. "Run the course, Blaze, I know you're itching to. When you report to the duty officer, tell him I said to keep you loose. Expect a call from me sometime today, after I've cleared my docket."