Deadly Exchange

Deadly Exchange

Deadly Exchange A Novel

Geoffrey M. Gluckman

iUniverse, Inc. New York Lincoln Shanghai

Deadly Exchange Copyright © 2007 by Geoffrey M. Gluckman All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting: iUniverse 2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100 Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com 1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677) ISBN: 978-0-595-42046-9 (pbk) ISBN: 978-0-595-86391-4 (ebk) Printed in the United States of America

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Author’s Note: While this is a work of fiction, the technology described is real. I have taken the liberty to enhance its capabilities. Please see the technology section at the back of the book. Cover design by Melissa Gilbert Author photo by David Hartig

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A special and sincere thank you to all those who helped bring this novel to life. Although a work of fiction, some of the aspects were drawn from the real world, thus some people cannot be mentioned. You know who you are and are assured of my sincere gratitude. I am ever thankful to several authors, who helped transform this work, including Suzi Herrera (Mango Elephants in the Sun) and Judy Bernstein (They Poured Fire Upon Us From the Sky). Also, all those in my writing group at Asilomar deserve a big, warm hug, especially Jerry Hannah, our leader. I am greatly indebted to my friend Barry Heggstad, may he rest in peace. He opened the door to the organization in my brain, which allowed this story to be told. Also, a thank you goes to Thomas LeWinn, MD for his book Neurological Organization (C.C. Thomas, IL, 1977). Dr LeWinn’s work in the field of the human brain and its development has been woven into this story. I am greatly indebted to my parents, who set me on the path of martial arts at age ten that ultimately led to the study of the art of Aikido. And without them, this book wouldn’t have happened. My deepest appreciation goes to Sara, whose inspiration and support has been boundless. I am greatly indebted to Melissa and her tremendous talents. And last, but not least, my deepest gratitude to Iva, moje stesti.

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PART ONE “Many things can be proven that are not true.” —Anonymous—

C H A P T E R ▼

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Suburbs of Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 4:01 A.M. Near a forest green telephone relay box on a narrow side street shrouded in the darkness of a moonless night, three figures wearing caps and clad in black stepped from the side doorway of a gray van. The idling engine offered a low rumble in the early morning silence. The team leader, the only one knowledgeable about the operation, opened the box with a key. He hooked an object the size of a pen cap onto the main line that dispersed phone service to the surrounding oversize single-family homes. The other two men maintained strict vigilance from the shadows. “Damn,” the leader whispered into a miniature microphone clipped to his shirt collar. “The wire coding’s different than our schematic. Get me updated info and quick.” A deep voice came through his earpiece, “Sorry, forgot to update the codes.” “Yeah, nation’s capital—security. Just hurry!” The man at the box tapped his fingers in the seconds that passed like hours. “It’s blue to green, pink to yellow, and red to black.” In minutes the man’s practiced fingers completed the last of five hundred installations. The device’s intended function began immediately, receiving signal by satellite. All three men returned to the van. The leader checked his watch. Total stationary time: ten minutes, twenty-five seconds, an acceptable performance despite the delay.

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Hotel Room, San Diego, California Tuesday, 7:55 A.M. Hand trembling, Jennifer Chance hung up the phone—the reminder call from Charles, her assistant. Time to go. Wanting to check her look one last time, she hesitated, afraid of what the mirror may reflect back. Just before the call it had happened again, the other image. As usual, the double take revealed nothing. That other face came only with glimpses. The kind one gets of things too transient to behold, like a familiar visage on a stranger’s body. Standing before the door that led out into the suite, the vanity mirror just off to the right, she took a deep breath. She’d just have to trust that she looked the part for the performance, the job, and the company. With manicured fingers, nails the color of pink roses, she stroked the nickel-sized gold circle pendant, tracing the raven etched into the translucent material. It was a gift from her boss, the Director of Lectures And More, Inc, upon completion of eighteen months training for presenters. That was three years ago. Since then, she had risen to the top of the motivational speaker circuit. All of a sudden the room began to sway. She clutched at the door’s edge, simultaneously fighting the nausea that swam in her belly. The thought of calling Charles and canceling the keynote address enticed like a siren song. Breathe, she coached herself. After several deep breaths, she gathered strength despite the deep exhaustion that had clung to her like a heavy overcoat since early spring. If she could only slow down for a few days and rest a bit. Winking at the mirror, she grabbed a small purse and left the room. Bypassing the elevators she descended the nine flights of white-walled stairs, her two-inch heels barely whispering a sound. Exiting at the lobby level, she saw Charles, dressed in the perennial blue jacket and tan slacks, tapping a foot and watching the elevator lights. “Boo!” she said, poking him in the ribs from behind. He jumped at least a foot, boyish face flushing a few shades lighter than a beet. “Pleased with yourself?” he asked, watching her double over in laughter. “Another trip to the hairdresser after that convulsion.”

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Erect again, with hair restored to primped perfection, she smiled with sweet confidence. “How many times have I used the elevator in the last three years that we’ve been on the road together?” “Uh, I don’t know. Why do you take the stairs?” “It feels good. Stimulates the senses. Come on.” Placing a hand just above the elbow she guided him to the hotel restaurant. “See the goal is to descend as fast as you can, but without making any noise. I don’t remember where I learned that, but you should try it.” “The exerciser, I’m not.” He eased his plump five-foot eight-inch frame into a booth that overlooked the sparkling San Diego Bay. Straightening a red necktie with faint blue specks that matched his jacket, he said, “Now listen, here’s the itinerary, we.…” Jennifer tried to appear attentive while gazing out the long, tall windows at boats in the harbor locked by their moorings. Her thoughts drifted, trying to recall the fleeting image from the mirror. Is something wrong with me? Maybe I should see a doctor? But I see the company doctor every three months. Jolted back to reality by her assistant’s insistent voice, she gave him an apologetic look. “Yeah, sure Charles, Washington, D.C. and.…” Putting a hand up, she stifled a yawn. He droned on about the impending travel schedule, pausing only to check his look in a thin strip of smoky reflective glass that decorated all four sides of a post, which rose to the sixteen-foot ceiling. Without any of the usual politeness, she suddenly interrupted him. “Charles, have you ever looked in the mirror and seen …?” She stopped as the waitress approached, holding a coffee carafe. “Go on, you’ve got my interest now. Besides, we’re like … like.…” He tapped a chubby finger to his lip, searching for a word that she would accept and further endear him to her. “Close. We’re close, so you can tell me anything.” “Well, I haven’t said anything lately, but for the last four months or so, something hasn’t felt right … inside. It’s as if there’s.… No, it sounds too crazy.” She paused. “It all seemed to start when I read the line in that book.” “You mean that joke book?” “Not that one. In the English translation the book is titled, The Immoralist. Anyway, I’m confused. I’m not even sure who I am anymore. Maybe a break from LAM and the speaker’s circuit would be good.” She didn’t notice the sudden whitening of Charles’s knuckles around the coffee cup. He took a steady sip, ears at full alert.

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“How can you say that? You’re Jennifer Chance, big headliner for Lectures And More. And … and look at all they’ve done for you-the clothes, the parties, the fame, the success.” “Yes, the success. What is success, really? To wear yourself out for the purposes of another?” “I can’t believe you!” Charles glanced at his designer watch. “That’s … we’d better go.” He got up, smoothing his tie and flashing a weak smile. “Don’t be angry. I know LAM gives me security and stability. And the programs we offer are worthwhile.” In the pastel-colored hallway, music reverberated beneath their feet as they neared the two-thousand capacity conference hall. Through the doors Jennifer observed the usual laser lights dancing around the crowd. “Your fans await,” said Charles, fixed smile still in place. “By the way, that dress fits you like a pampered hand in a satin glove. It really matches your—hey, you’re not wearing the colored contacts.” She put a finger to her lips then eyed the outfit, smoothing a wrinkle from the midnight blue dress that shimmered with her every movement. All perfectly tailored to sell the product: Jennifer Chance. She glanced at the large Lectures And More welcome banner that spanned the doors. It listed her name followed by T. Harv Eker, Zig Ziglar, and Samuel Caravell. Through a forced smile, she said, “Time to talk about the keys to unlock one’s deep potentials through one’s beliefs.” Trying to cover agitation about the conversation over coffee, Charles rubbed her shoulder as he spoke. “Show time, super sparker, knock ’em dead.” With a nod she entered the nearby prep room. She took the mini-microphone from the waiting sound engineer. Clearing her mind, she settled into the role of master motivational speaker, at once exuding calmness and confidence. She winked at Charles, and turned toward the soundman. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Charles cast a furtive glance in her direction, then take a cell phone from his inside jacket pocket. He pressed a speed dial key on the phone and adjusted his tie again with the other hand. Just about to speak he shut the door to the green room. Jennifer turned her head and stared at the light brown door, wondering, while the engineer completed the sound check.

Geoffrey M. Gluckman

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Near Coit Tower, San Francisco, California Wednesday, 5:15 A.M. In the bedroom of his seventh floor condo, Frank Revere fought the sweat-soaked top sheet of his queen size futon atop a solid wooden frame. The light blue sheet entwined his right leg as a nightmare played out: … a not-so-distant screech of tires on asphalt pierced the permeating silence of early morning. He swung an arm around a blonde-haired girl in her middle twenties as they leisurely jaywalked across Powell Street just north of Sutter, a stone’s throw from Union Square. Another spontaneous Sunday. She pulled his head closer and kissed a stubbly cheek. Halfway across the street, he looked at her—the most tender woman he had ever known. Joy abounded, warmth flowing between them. All of a sudden, his companion tensed as the screech of tires came once more. A black Buick with tinted windows careened around the corner of Pine and Powell, just missing a woman with a twin baby carriage. The car barreled down upon them. Despite instincts and reflexes honed from intense government training, he couldn’t get her out of the way. The sun’s brightness became obscured. He flew skyward. Slow motion, the sign for the Double Rainbow Cafe turning upside down. Maybe the car had missed her … if only. Relaxed, he rolled off the hood of a new red sports car—broken windshield. He smacked the concrete with a resounding thud. Then it hit—pain, sucking all the oxygen from his body. It emanated from somewhere below his right hip and more severe than anything he could have ever imagined. But the pain told him he was still alive. Sarah! Sarah! Oh Sarah! He screamed, but no sound escaped as a deep, dark, cylindrical hole closed in.… Awakened in an instant, Frank sat bolt upright in bed, heart like a trip-hammer, breathing rapid and shallow. He shook his head, trying to rid it of haunting images not seen in six months. On the wall opposite the bed, faint illumination from the city lights filtered through the heavy dark blue window shade. He ran a hand through damp hair and pressed a fist into the muscles of a reconstructed right leg. This was not an ordinary nightmare that one simply for-

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gets, or that one puts aside with sips of water and then returns to sleep. The ache in his hip reminded him it wasn’t a dream at all. It had really happened. He switched on the light atop the heavy oak night stand next to the bed and looked at the smooth, though raised, quarter-inch wide line of skin that started just below the right hip bone and ran eight inches down his thigh. Tracing the sickle shaped scar, images of the incident that matched the nightmare flooded his memory. With a deep breath, he picked up a small-framed photograph which showed a handsome couple. The woman’s blond hair fell about her shoulders in soft curls and a natural complexion surrounded captivating blue eyes that accented her high cheekbones. Her smile, inviting, radiated warmth and charm. A shiver ran through his body whenever he looked at her lips, such deep sensuality. Their slight bell-shape still moved him even from a photograph. He gazed at the other figure in the picture: a young man of twenty-eight with windblown, dark brown hair, piercing eyes, and tanned face. A wry smile turned up on the right side. He always recognized the woman and the accompanying ache of emptiness in his chest. But the man—the man—a figure he would have liked to say he didn’t know. Yet that would have been a lie. He regarded the empty space next to him on the bed. She was gone. Despite years of clandestine field operations and counterintelligence, he hadn’t been able to avoid a simple moving vehicle, even when the most cherished aspect of his life was at stake. For years, the weight of remorse had hung on him with the force of a ship’s anchor. He could feel the tug. “All right!” he said to himself. “Get grounded again. Center, like Sensei says. Self-criticism won’t help anybody.” After a few minutes of prana breathing, and a gulp of water, new clarity arose. For the first time in years, he knew what must be done. He slipped on some jeans and a blue sweatshirt that read ‘Cherish the Wild’ in red letters. Down the short hallway to the second bedroom, the unused bedroom, he paused. It had been shut for the better part of five years. Now, the doorknob beckoned him. He took a decisive deep breath and entered the tidy eight-by-ten-foot office. An old wooden roll-top desk, part of Sarah’s family heritage, sat off to one side. He hadn’t had the heart to throw it away, along with the rest of her belongings. The timing hadn’t been right. He surveyed the room. An outdated calendar still hung on the wall with markings made by her to keep track of yearly travel plans for her business. He smiled

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at the framed poster that read: ‘In order to know others, one must know oneself. In order to know oneself, one must know others’. Such was Sarah’s profoundness. He believed her irreplaceable, so he had stopped trying, and stopped living. He looked at the closed doors of the bedroom closet. He knew her scent-filled clothes that hung there by heart. After the hit and run, he had spent the first five months in recuperation. The next two, after quitting the government, he searched for a trace of her whereabouts—hospital stay, surgeon’s records, anything. He never saw her body, the body of the woman he loved. At nine months, in resignation, he had moved the clothes. His right hip began to ache again. It signaled time for movement. He kneaded the area a bit, knowing enough was enough. Rummaging through the desk drawers, intending to pack things up, he found a set of gold plated pens, a folder. Each item triggered memories—a lawyer placing a brass urn into his hands. The urn—hard, bronze, metallic, devoid of breath and life—had replaced the vibrant, living silk-and-honey skin that surrounded the beautiful essence of Sarah. He laid her last will and testament on the desk, muttering. “Flesh to ash, papers to money.” He pulled out a small, black velvet-covered box and stopped. More fragments started to come: his cane, a limp, and the dark-suited man calling to him with outstretched hand holding a key. “The key!” he exclaimed aloud. He opened the box and a small, silvery metal key lay atop more velvet, right where he’d left it, almost five years ago. He had thought Sarah had shared everything with him—desires, pains, passions—but not the safe deposit box. Grabbing the key he checked his black, steel, diving watch. Too early for the bank. He pocketed it and limped into the kitchen, the leg always stiffer in the morning. Half an hour later, steaming black tea in hand, he stared at a black kevlar-lined briefcase on the coffee table. Opening the case he hefted the Browning .45 caliber automatic—perfect fit, as always. Next, he inspected a set of perfectly balanced throwing knives, then some of the more arcane weapons collected during those counterintelligence years with the National Security Agency: a thin piece of wire with sturdy rubber handles, a ball-point pen that housed no ink, only three inches of surgical-grade steel. Images resurrected in his mind, moving limbs flickering under the cover of darkness. Too many nights, too much danger, too many deaths.

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He shut the case and locked it. Shouldering a black nylon backpack, he grabbed the bulletproof weapons-case and left the apartment. Filled with resolve, he strode toward the Aikido dojo eight blocks away, trying to catch Sensei before the first morning class. As Frank entered the three-story brownstone, he bowed and slipped off his shoes. An older gentleman, whose nimbleness and fluidity belied his age, approached with a modest smile and eyed the black case. “Konichi wa, Frank san. What brings you for visit so early?” Frank bowed to his master, explaining that he had a favor to ask. He followed the older man to a back office, the formal gi swishing about his legs. As always, to his eye, the man seemed to glide, rather than walk. “We talk here, no one ’round.” “I wish to entrust you with this case, Sensei. The contents are very dangerous, as you know my history.” Frank bowed and put the case on the desk. “Hai, wise choice. Water way of harmony better than weapons of survival.” Sensei took the case with a bow and disappeared behind a shoji screen. He returned, led Frank to the mat, placing a long hard wooden staff, a jo, in his hands. “Words not enough.” Immediately, the master attacked with a hard wooden samurai sword, a bokken. The two commenced fighting over the entire area of the mat, each strike matched by an appropriate countermeasure. The air soon filled with clicks from heavy wood on wood, and swooshes from weapons moving at blinding speed through empty space. Then, sensing an opening, Frank struck hard at his teacher who held the ground until the last second when he surrendered his stance. With inches to spare, Sensei glided out of the way of the attack and grabbed the handle of Frank’s weapon as it sliced the air in front of his face. With a flick of his wrist, Sensei flipped his student into the air. Frank landed with a resounding slap, lessening the impact with a practiced break-fall. In a flash, Sensei placed the sword tip into Frank’s right shoulder socket, pinning him. “You have progressed much in last four years, but true strength of vulnerability surpasses aggression. It is eternal.” After the impromptu lesson, and moving with much more ease, Frank ambled over to the Bank of America at Union Square. Within minutes what had remained hidden for five years came to light—the location of Sarah’s safe deposit box. Now it was a matter of opening it. That would require a visit to San Diego—old stomping ground.

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Back in his top floor condo, Frank made the appropriate arrangements with the office and had his secretary order a ticket for the next morning. He stood in front of the living room bay window as mid-morning sun flooded in, though mist still shrouded the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. He tapped the pocket of his jeans, the one that held the key. Regardless of outcome, the key in the lock of that bank box offered a certain degree of finality to the mystery of his former life.

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ENOCH Corporation HQ, Reston, Virginia Thursday, 12:15 P.M. In a suburb outside Washington, D.C., on a dead-end street, inside a red brick three-story office building situated amidst a gathering of dogwood and maple trees, a meeting progressed. Peter Wellington, disguised in a wig of black hair and matching mustache that made him look ten years younger, glanced around the second story plush auditorium. It was filled with a group of distinguished international visitors as well as Fortune 500 entrepreneurs, invitation only. He returned to the booklet that each attendee had received for today’s demonstration, and read:

ENOCH CORPORATION: Bio-Energetic Tensiometer By W. J. Jones, Ph.D. History Various governments have been exploring the effects of different electronic frequencies on the human being since Nikola Tesla discovered a method to control Electromagnetic Force Fields (EMFF) in the early twentieth century. Today, numerous radio frequencies are commonly employed by governments and businesses for location and tracking of objects, including humans.

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This is achieved by miniature computer chips attached with tiny antennae, called radio frequency identification devices (RFID) and ‘smart’ or radio tags, which broadcast their data wirelessly to anyone with an RFID reader (see diagram). There are two types of RFID: active and passive. Passive systems are the most prevalent, employing three types of frequencies: ultra high (300MHz to 3GHz), high (10-15MHz), and low (125-500kHz). However, there is a secret category of frequency, called ultra low, that we will see demonstrated today. Briefly, through years of research, as part of the US government’s psychogenic warfare program begun in the 1970’s, a specific frequency, 121.7 kilohertz, was identified as able to penetrate the human subconscious. A secret group within the US government operated out of Long Island’s Montauk Air Force Base for ten years after that base officially closed in the 1980’s. During this time-period it became referred to as Sensory Destabilization and Deactivation (SDD) technology. Designed and perfected for military warfare, it was demonstrated in the Gulf War, Afghanistan, and other global hotspots in need of quick domination. The towers erected on the borders of the United States also utilize this tracking technology. Soon.… Peter looked up as a large, well-dressed woman sat down next to him. She nodded. He touched the fake mustache lining his upper lip and smiled, then returned to the report.

The Birth of the Bio-Energetic Tensiometer (BET) In the eighties, in preparation for the space station, NASA conducted in-depth studies to explore the effect of inactivity on the human body in terms of basal metabolic rate, blood flow, and sensory-motor abilities, such as fine motor acuity, postural sensory signals, among others. The studies showed dramatic changes in a person’s sensory and motor functions as well as central nervous system function in the absence of purposeful physical activity. The research concluded that a decrease in the central nervous system causes a decrease of functioning in virtually all systems of the body, including the immune system, organs, and autonomic nervous system. Over the last five years the Research and Development Division of ENOCH Corporation have improved the SDD technology. Previously, the frequency passed through the brain and the desired behavior of the subject was created with subliminal neuro-messages. Based on the NASA studies, we chose to create the loss of homeostasis in the subjects by destabilizing the center of gravity within

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each individual. This produces a more subtle degeneration of the person’s proprioceptive abilities inherent within the body. Through such means.… Peter put the booklet down as the lights dimmed in the auditorium and others illuminated a stage. He adjusted his fake silver-rimmed glasses, and looked at the stage, which consisted of a platform divided in half by a solid wall. On each side of the stage stood a man and a woman behind podiums, each with a cordless phone. A couple of feet above each podium hung a boom microphone. Two camera operators prepared to film the event. A man of average height in a gray suit with slicked back jet-black hair and hawk-like features directed crewmembers from the left side of the stage, clipboard in hand. He stroked his closely trimmed goatee-mustache and beckoned to a young man, who instantly scurried off through thick black curtains backstage. The couple nearest the man-in-charge stood with submissive smiles plastered on their faces. The man, in his early forties, looked as if he could lift an ox. He dwarfed the man with the clipboard. In her late thirties, the woman, a head shorter, adjusted her dirty blond hair. Something about the way that the man in the gray suit moved struck Peter as odd, but he couldn’t get a handle on it. He watched the man skirt the wall downstage and greet the second couple. He shook the hand of a lanky man wearing a pair of old style plastic-framed glasses, held in place by an aquiline nose. Next to him stood a woman with mousy brown hair. She hid some of her girth beneath a long, loose, pink dress. The man with the clipboard left the stage after cueing both camerapersons. Within seconds, he appeared as if by magic in the rear of the auditorium much to the surprise of the audience, except Peter, who had noticed an almost seamless doorway off to the right. The man strode to the front of the theater seats and spoke in a warm, though crisp, voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Dr. Walter Jones. On behalf of ENOCH, I welcome you to our research facility and our demonstration of the Bio-Energetic Tensiometer device, a refined version of the Sensory Destabilization and Deactivation technology developed by the U.S. government. Our advances allow us to operate through simple landlines as well as satellite linkages for cellular communication. As stated in the handout we have even put the device into microchip form. Note the plastic glasses worn by the man on set ‘B’ and the pendant on the woman next to him.” Peter removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

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“Today,” continued Jones, “we are going to show you the device’s ability to destabilize a person’s sensory-motor system by the simple application of an electromagnetic frequency amplified through the phone line. Our gracious guests have volunteered to be subjects. We have selected two couples who have been happily married for ten years or more and intentionally split them up to illustrate the effect our device can have on physical and emotional stability, among other things.” He surveyed those in attendance with a congenial smile, and placed hands on hips as he went on. “In the last forty-eight hours, each volunteer has been exposed to continual stimulus from a Bio-Energetic Tensiometer microchip worn on their person. We call it the BET for short. I’m certain the information packet you received answered most of your questions. Now, let’s meet the participants. On set ‘A,’ Phil Dibbs and Gail Bland. On set ‘B,’ we have Eileen Dibbs and Jerry Bland. Let’s give them a big hand as we turn on the microphones and roll cameras.” ✶

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Seaport Village, San Diego, California Thursday, 9:45 A.M. At an outside table of an adobe-styled coffeehouse Jennifer basked in brilliant rays from the sun, trying to relax. Seagulls screeched and swooped overhead as she contemplated the tranquil bay water before her, feeling relieved to be done with her conference obligations. Only one glitch remained: Charles. He hovered a few feet from the table, like a mongrel dog waiting for scraps from its master. She jotted some notes into the Blackberry provided by LAM, Inc. Well-trained to solidify all goals in writing, she wrote: >Break from LAM—an issue of sanity maintenance. >Go to the top! See Director. Submit sabbatical request. After finalizing the entry she turned the device off with a resounding tap. “Oh Jennifer,” said Charles. “I hate to bother you but what’s the plan for the rest of the day? I know we spoke of a bit of a break for you before we fly to D.C. on Tuesday. But Channel 10 called and wants to do a segment on you, pronto. Of course, the head office is all for it. Whaddya say?” “Nope, sorry, no can do. I made a promise to myself and I’m sticking to it, for once.” “Well, I.… What about your contract with LAM?” Slightly amused, she watched his pacing increase.

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He flashed a quick glance at her neck. The raven pendant still hung in place. “You can’t ignore your duties to the organization like some rebellious teenager. Yesterday, I almost called the head office to … to.…” “To what Charles? To tell them that I feel overworked, that I need a break from LAM, from this life?” “May I remind you, we have protocols in this organization. Try to run a business without protocols and you will not be in business very long. LAM has been like a family to you and this is how you treat them. What is wrong with you anyway? You seem so different, so scattered.” Jennifer realized an outwardly aggressive posture wouldn’t produce the desired result: to be left alone. She was about to feign fatigue when notes of the latest pop single filled the air. Charles flipped open his cellular phone and answered with proper etiquette. Listening for a moment, a grin crossed his face before he spoke. “Yes sir, she turned her phone off.” Another pause. “Why of course, sir.” With one hand on a hip, teeth glinting in the sunshine, he handed the phone to Jennifer. “It’s for you—the Director.” Taking the phone, she turned away. “Hello Ulrich, so nice to hear from you. I hope all’s well. How’s the weather?” “The usual for here,” said a deep baritone voice, which usually soothed her, but not today. “You know the islands. But I didn’t call to chat about cloud formations in our respective locations. How do you feel about the convention?” “I think my two sessions went really well. Now, you didn’t take time out of your busy schedule just to check on li’l ol’ me, did you?” “Actually I did. We’ve known each other a long time, through thick and thin, and I’m a bit concerned. I caught some of your presentation coverage on the television yesterday and you appeared a bit strained. Everything okay?” “Funny you should ask, I was just saying to Charles that I feel a bit drained. To be honest, I need a few days to recharge my batteries. I would greatly appreciate some peace and quiet—alone. I mean, if that’s all right with you, sir?” “I don’t think that would be uncalled for. You’ve been on the road for a number of months straight.” “Too true. Thank you for understanding. I’ve tried to hint to Charles to give me a breather for a few days so I can enjoy the wonderful sun, surf, and sand. I just need some time to rest.” She looked hard at Charles, who had edged closer, appearing to look at a nearby plant. “Would you mind giving my dear assistant orders to occupy himself for a few days. I don’t want any contact from him, the office, or even you, sir. If that’s not too much to ask.”

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She held her breath through what seemed an interminable silence, unconsciously biting a cuticle as a knot developed in the upper part of her stomach. She tried to think pleasant thoughts—sunbathing, relaxing, and just being alone—all of which brought a smile. “Why not. I think we can do without contact from the motivational world’s top performer for a few days. Have some fun. Take in the sights. I’ll see you in Washington next week. Get some rest. Before I speak with Charles, I heard about an opportunity for an exclusive on a local station there. Is that true?” “Yes.” “If you don’t mind, arrange to do it before you leave San Diego. Publicity is all important, as you know.” “Uh … all right, sir.” Jennifer felt her stomach constrict as she handed the phone over. Charles moved away from her, head bobbing as he listened further. He glanced back over his shoulder at her. She pretended not to listen. “Yes, sir. Just one thing though, she’s been acting a bit strange. I don’t know how to put it. She’s been like … uh … a rebellious.…” Jennifer saw that Charles had stopped pacing. He was listening intently. Then, his head performed another series of bobs before he pocketed the phone, and walked back to where she sat. “Forgive me,” he said. “I shoulda realized you were so frazzled. I’ve been so caught up in the success you’ve generated, especially in the past year. I’ll arrange the spot with Channel 10 and let you know. Tell you what, I’ll also arrange a car for the next couple of days to give you a bit more mobility and less visibility than with the limo and … and what else can I do?” “Try: anything not in my presence.” She almost spat the words at him, disgusted with herself and at his kissing up to the Director. Wanting to be rid of him, she glanced toward the cafe entrance and noticed an attractive dark-haired man with a strong jaw-line seated at a nearby table. He was about to bite into a muffin. Something about him drew her attention, yet she felt cautious. “Jenneeey, please.” “If you could leave me now so I can be alone and enjoy this beautiful day. The hotel is close, so I can walk or grab a cab.” Feigning exhaustion, she went on. “Charles, you’ve been such a dear, just have the rental car left at the hotel.” Sensing agreement with his offer, he got up to go. “Oh Charley, other than the Channel 10 thing, no contact for a day or two?” He hesitated, then gave his best smile accompanied by a thumbs up sign.

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Deadly Exchange

“Thanks so much, you’re so good to me. See ya!” She gave a little wave and watched to make sure he had left the area. As soon as he was out of sight, she flung her arms into the air, and headed to the coffeehouse entrance. She walked past the man she had observed. Aware that eyes of other male patrons followed her, she wondered if his had, too. After several minutes, she re-emerged with a latte in hand. She slowed passing the man’s table and flashed a warm, winning smile as he looked up. Their eyes met. She stopped, noticing that his hazel eyes didn’t stray from hers. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” The man didn’t respond, or even smile right away. Then, in a voice suitable for radio, he said, “Uh, yeah, really nice. I admired the way you handled the uptight, pretty boy, promoter-type guy.” “Mhmm. My associate has a tendency to be a bit clingy, like a young child with its mother or something.” “I see. Excuse me, I’m Frank, nice to meet you.” Warmth radiated through her palm as they shook hands. “Jennifer. Jennifer Chance, pleasure to see you, too.” “You’re Jennifer Chance. Of course. That explains it.” “Explains what? Have we met before? Forgive me, I’m usually really good with names, but Frank doesn’t give me much to go on.” “Across the distance, I sort of felt that I knew you and couldn’t figure it out as I didn’t recognize you. Usually I’m very good at faces, an old habit. I must have seen your work in a catalog: Nightingale Conant, right? You do seminars on ‘Following Your Dreams’ or something?” “Actually it’s called, ‘Your Beliefs and You’, part of Lectures And More’s education platform.” She relaxed and smiled again. “Oh, that is funny. You gave me a bit of a shock there.” “Really, I would’ve thought you’d be used to such one-way recognitions.” “I’m a bit out of it today. From across the courtyard you seemed familiar to me, too. I thought we’d met somewhere before.” “Are you here on business or vacation?” “Honestly,” she glanced at her watch. “Business finished about a second after my associate left. I’ve needed a break, so the next couple of days are mine. A vacation of sorts, a time to check in with me, if I can. Like Zig Ziglar says, ‘A check up from the neck up.’” “Maybe I can help.” He closed one eye and inspected her head. “Everything seems in order from the outside. You sparkle like a diamond.”

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“Thank you, but you needn’t be bothered with this. I … I better.…” “No, really, it’s fine.” He paused. “Hey look, I have to do an errand, but … uh … would you like to spend some time together, maybe a lunch or dinner?” All of a sudden, an image of a person flying through the air flashed through her mind. Jennifer blinked and it was gone. “Frank, I’d love to take you up on that for tomorrow or the next day.” “Great! I’m just staying at a small B and B up the coast. But here’s my cell number.” She took his card, barely glancing at it. She set her drink on his table and scribbled on a napkin. “Here’s mine. Call me mid-morning. We’ll be spontaneous.” “Maybe rent some bikes and cycle along the coast or something” “Sounds like fun.” “Until tomorrow.” “I look forward to your call.” Jennifer walked a few steps and looked back. She gave a little wave as Frank nodded. After a few more paces, unable to resist, she glanced over her shoulder again. The table was vacant.

C H A P T E R ▼

3

Shopping Center, San Diego, California Thursday, 10:45 A.M. At the north end of a shopping center in a region known as North County Inland, Rafael Mendoza crossed the crowded parking lot. He spotted a wiry-framed, swarthy-complexioned man with unruly, curly, black hair, who appeared to be engrossed in the USA Today while enjoying a cappuccino. In reality, the man, Pierre Logon, was one of Mendoza’s team of four operatives. Trained as a behind-the-lines infiltration specialist by the Foreign Legion, he had spent the last five weeks doing in-depth recon in the area, mingling with local denizens and observing movements of private security personnel and local police. Mendoza, a former Special Forces soldier, scratched the left shoulder of his tan blazer—the standard ‘go’ signal for the operation. Pierre slipped on a pair of skin-toned latex gloves and began to move toward the target location. Passing a red and white Brink’s armored security truck stationed in front of the large grocery store, the two men, seemingly independent of each other, entered the bustling atmosphere of the store. With the precision of a Swiss watch, each went to pre-determined posts. A third man, Carlos Barrera, dressed in a blue track suit and sporting a single ponytail to shoulder blade level, caught Mendoza’s signal and maneuvered a full shopping cart to the pre-set location. Beneath the groceries lay a small caliber sniper’s pistol fitted with a special adapter, which allowed the weapon to be fired without actually being held. Pierre sauntered down the aisle toward the cart. Without a word, Carlos spun around and exited the aisle from the far end.

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Hidden by his palm, Pierre looked through a miniature scope, noting the Brink’s badge on the guard’s uniform and a holstered 9mm Glock. The muscular Filipino guard stood with hands on hips and surveyed the shoppers through dark sunglasses, an odd habit duly noted by the team. Pierre situated the shopping cart in Aisle 12 to perfectly align with the guard’s position. Close to the checkout counters, basket in hand, Carlos now sauntered past the guard, to the left of an ATM machine. Appearing to inspect various items on a shelf at the front of the store, he blocked access to and from the stairs that led up to in-store bank offices. Off to the right of the ATM machine Mendoza pretended to wait, though checking the guard, who stood twenty feet from the Brinks transfer person, backs to each other. Next, off to the left, he scrutinized all bank personnel as they handled a small queue of customers. At last, the unarmed transfer person kneeled before the open machine. The routine was the same every week. Any excess moneys were loaded into the waiting Brinks vehicle. Everything was set. Carlos closed in on the transfer person and in an exaggerated Mexican accent asked, “‘Scuse me, ma’am. Ya knowa how much dis bag of food cost?” “I’m sorry sir, I don’t work for the grocery store,” replied the woman. Ever so slightly, her heavyset frame shifted away from the center of the machine as if drawn in by the question. Simultaneously, on her opposite side, keeping his back to the bank cameras, Mendoza produced a lightweight, folded, black carry bag from underneath his blazer. With it close to his body, it remained unseen by others. “Lo siento, por favor senora. I coun’na ‘ear you.” Carlos dropped to one knee and plunged a miniature graphite stiletto between the woman’s ninth and tenth ribs with the precision of a skilled surgeon. Instantaneous death. He put an arm around the woman, giving the outward appearance of support. Not a sound escaped her lips. A mere pinprick of blood served as the only evidence of foul play. In perfect synchronization with Carlos’s disposal of the woman, the bullet from Pierre’s silenced pistol ploughed into the chest of the security guard, expanding upon impact within the body. The man crumpled to the floor. No exit wound. A small patch of blood flowered on his shirtfront. At precisely the same time as the second target fell, Mendoza dropped down, the bag expanding in descent. He scooped the money into the bag. Leaving the shopping cart, Pierre exited the aisle at the rear of the store and headed toward the store entrance by an adjacent aisle.

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Deadly Exchange

Calls for an ambulance erupted as Carlos and Mendoza passed calmly, but quickly through the store’s exit. Behind the Brink’s security truck idled a late model European sedan, Mendoza slid into the back seat next to Pierre, a Frenchman’s beret now casting a shadow over his face as he tuned a police scanner. The driver, a heavyset man with a boxer’s nose and thick bushy black eyebrows, put the car in motion as both passenger doors shut. His large, capable, and gloved hands steered the vehicle out the rear exit of the shopping center onto a back street. He drove north as Mendoza and Carlos changed clothes. Mendoza patted the shoulders of the two front men in silent appreciation. Pierre turned up the volume of the police scanner. A man’s voice barked a report in progress, “… please be alert, these men are armed and dangerous. I repeat: these men are armed and dangerous. They are believed to be highly professional and thought to be heading south for the border. Descriptions are as follows: two men, both Latin descent, one approximately five eight, one hundred sixty pounds, black hair, possibly with a pony tail. The second man, between five-ten and six-two, heavier set with closely trimmed brown hair and well-dressed. A third man is suspected—no description yet. Getaway vehicle is unknown at this time. All suspect information and queries should be directed to Lieutenant Peabody—Officer-en-Route.” After the report finished, all four men in the northbound sedan laughed, releasing some of the adrenaline. “All right,” said Mendoza to the driver, “head to Rancho Bernardo Road, then travel west until the dead end at a dirt road. Looks like the cops are hot on our trail, huh? Good job guys, only five minutes in and out. “Es la verdad, amigo.” Carlos laughed, pulling on a gray hooded sweatshirt. He freed his long brown, braided ponytail, and added, “See how I stuck la mujer?” Pierre eyed him. “That shit fascinates you, no? You one twisted.…” “Chu know what is, man. The passing of another’s life makes me feel more alive,” said Carlos, enjoying the thrill of a successful mission. Mendoza gazed out the window at the desolate, sparsely treed landscape until Pierre tapped him with a disposable cell phone. “I think we have a new M.O. for bank heists. That’s three in four months. The stinkin’ cops don’t even have a clue.” Mendoza held up a hand, then texted a message to an email address: ‘Dr Suess, cat in hat. Joseph has donned coat. He stands on corner.’

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The car jounced along the dirt road as an intermittent chain link fence ran along the driver’s side. Bordering a natural preserve, hillocks of dirt rose to small hills in the distance as chaparral foliage thickened. The driver parked just past the transfer vehicle—a dark gray Mitsubishi sedan with out-of-state plates. With expedience derived from strict training, they switched to the new vehicle, leaving the original spotless. Mendoza instructed the driver to take the interstate north toward Glendale. He turned to Pierre, and said, “When we arrive on site, take the money to the safe but leave out the usual bonuses and driver’s fee.” Mendoza pulled out a PDA to log in some notes as the men fell silent. For all but Carlos, the newest member of the group, this operation was routine, an assignment toward a higher goal. Mendoza had only told him that it was a high-tech robbery ring and Pierre was his right hand man. Observing the stillness of the San Gorgonio and San Jacinto mountain ranges in the distance he rubbed his chin, awed by how easy it was to make pawns of simple minds. In truth, all of them were dispensable, even him. Years ago he had been sucked into the sensuality of skillful slaughter like Carlos. But now, the satisfaction of such action was gone. All that remained was a rotting carcass covered with olive toned flesh. As this life had conditioned him, he set aside his thoughts and relaxed into the seat. A smile crossed his face. Now, he worked as the head of Special Ops Division within a corporation. The money-for-blood mercenary days were over. This position had a higher purpose: global peace or so he was told. ✶

✶

✶

✶

ENOCH Corporation HQ, Reston, Virginia Thursday, 2:03 P.M. In front of the rows of theater seats in the auditorium, his back to the stage, Jones surveyed the demonstration attendees. The moment he had waited ten years for was here: unveiling the project. He rubbed his hands together and motioned to his assistant, Kelly, a petite, blonde-headed, green-eyed woman in her middle twenties, who had just appeared in the auditorium. Before he could cue the cameramen, Peter Wellington raised a hand and spoke, effectively hiding a British accent. “Excuse me. Is the frequency of the signal passed through the various devices susceptible to interception?”

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“I’m sorry, you are?” “Smith.” Peter gave the alias printed on the invitation. “Peter Smith.” “The truth, Mr. Smith, is that most wireless frequencies are susceptible to pirating, but our devices come with state of the art filters, unlike the Bluetooth technology.” Peter nodded, eyeing a heavyset man with a beard two rows in front of him, hand upraised. In a gruff voice the man asked, “Doesn’t this just do the same thing as those RFID things?” “Mr. Densmore, Radio Frequency Identification Devices are designed for tracking assets, human or otherwise, while our device influences behavior,” said Jones, then reluctantly motioned to the woman next to Peter, who held up her hand. “As a business owner with a scientific background, I’m curious as to the external validity of your demonstration with only four subjects. What could it possibly show us that could be extrapolated to larger populations?” Jones regarded her with a warm smile, despite the further delay. “Ms. Christie, today is a demonstration of the effectiveness of the device, not a research study to prove the validity of it. Now, we’re behind schedule. Let’s begin.” Then, in a hushed tone, as if an evangelist to a congregation, he added, “Pay attention to the auditory and visual cues displayed by our volunteers and see the power of the sensory-motor destabilization device.” The cameraman for set ‘A’ pointed to the large muscular man, who reached for the phone in front of him as it rang. “Hel … hello,” said Eileen, the large woman on set ‘B’. Her eyes darted around the set as if expecting something to happen. She shifted her feet, causing her pink dress to dance. “Eileen, it’s me, Phil. How are you?” Her husband tried to appear relaxed, though he shifted his body as if uncomfortable. “Oh, fine I guess. Have you enjoyed our time with the ENOCH folks?” Eileen fidgeted with a pencil and paper on the podium. As Phil and his wife conversed, the man’s muscular body trembled. He grabbed hold of the podium for stability. All of sudden, he exclaimed, “Uh, oh … soometh … ing is happen … ning.…” Hearing irregular breathing from the man she had known for over fifteen years, Eileen’s face registered dismay. Her eyes jumped from the phone to the audience where she thought Dr. Jones might be. She would have been more hor-

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rified had she been able to see the contorted postural changes taking place throughout her husband’s capable frame. Peter watched the man’s shoulders elevate and roll forward, while the chest cavity sank and the hips pushed forward. The previously sturdy stance with solid legs beneath the upper body had now transformed into the look of an overworked bartender—legs spread, leaning into a bar. The trembling ceased, leaving the image of a man, unsteady and unsure. Phil reassured his wife that everything was fine, sounding less than confident. “You sound really odd, dear. Are you sure you’re okay?” “Yeah, no problem. You know me, strong as an uh.…” Phil’s eyebrows rose then descended into a frown. He gripped the podium tighter. “What’s the … how’s that saying go?” Peter leaned forward in his seat as Eileen’s posture underwent changes. Her head now tilted to the left with the left shoulder lower and the left hip in an elevated position, causing her weight to shift to the right leg. She pursed her lips and took hold of the podium for balance. “Ox, honey. Strong as an ox is how it goes. I’m surprised at you. You use that cliché for yourself all the time.” Phil indicated that other than the tremors and forgetting that saying, nothing had changed. Gail, the small-boned woman next to him, stared in disbelief. Peter remained silent as a murmur of comments ran through the audience. “All right, thank you,” said Jones, voice thundering through the loudspeakers. “Stop your conversation and allow the other pair to begin.” “Thank you Phil and Eileen for your cooperation,” said Kelly, who stood at the front and off to the side of the auditorium. She offered a wonderful smile, displaying small, straight, white teeth. Phil and Eileen handed over the phones to their stage counterparts. Each gave that rather lost smile displayed by a stranger in a foreign city trying to be friendly to all while hiding the terror at feeling utterly alone. Gail dialed a number that rang the phone in her husband’s hand on set ‘B’. “Hello, my sweet, how ya doing?” “I feel … quite pleasant actually. And you?” Jerry pushed the black plastic framed glasses onto his nose. His tall frame stood erect and his eyes focused on a spot on the floor in front of the podium. “I feel sort of tingly all over.” “Wow, that sounds wonderful. Did Dr. Jones give you something that we didn’t get?” “Oh stop,” Gail said, eyes glittering. Her voice evoked warmth.

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To Peter, she appeared encapsulated in her own little world and oblivious to the unstable bulk of the man perched beside her. On the other set, Jerry shifted his gaze to the right as if taking an internal inventory. When he spoke, his voice sounded calm, even melodious. “If I hold still for a moment, I sort of feel it too, but you’re much more in tune with those things. That is one of the things I cherish most about you, your deep sensibilities.” “Oh Jerry, that’s so nice. It’s so unlike you to be so forthright in front of all these people.” “See honey, during the time with our nice hosts at ENOCH, I’ve been thinking. That whole thing I have about public displays of affection is a bit ridiculous. I feel like turning over a new leaf. And what better place than here, in front of all these fine people? If I want to express how much I love you, I will. Damn anyone who doesn’t like it.” Smoothing his mustache with a finger, Peter noted that this couple exhibited confidence and focus, unlike the previous couple. It was obvious the devices could create both positive and negative changes. Just then, Jones stopped the couple. The lights came up on the audience and dimmed on the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen of the audience,” Kelly said, “please give our volunteers a nice round of applause.” Enthusiastic clapping rolled through the audience as the wall on stage between the sets retracted backstage, allowing the couples to reunite. Jerry and Gail both bowed while Phil and Eileen held onto each other, more for stability. Jones clapped as he inspected the audience. He gave a nod of approval to Kelly. At that moment, behind them, Phil’s entire frame shuddered, stronger than before. He clutched at his chest. In seconds, he crumpled to the floor with a resounding thud. Jones whirled around and grabbed the cell phone on his belt. Recognizing an emergency, he called for a crash cart and medical personnel. From the stage, Eileen screamed for help, dropping to her knees and cradling her husband’s head. A cameraman dropped down beside her and began to check Phil’s vital signs. “Please be calm, ladies and gentlemen. We have emergency medical personnel on staff to handle such a scenario.” Jones began moving to a side door, and added, “Everyone, remain seated. Stay in your seats! I will return shortly to answer any questions you may have.”

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From the auditorium, Peter watched Jones take command on stage, giving the appearance of a competent, concerned businessman. At that precise moment, he decided to reach his contact in the Nation’s Capitol as soon as possible. The new information gleaned must be passed on. On the stage the medical team removed Phil’s lifeless body.

C H A P T E R ▼

4

U.S. Senate Offices, Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:15 P.M. Back from a run around the Washington Monument and Reflecting Pool, Senator Cymbone entered his office and took stock of the surroundings. The dark wood paneling, matching coat rack, and heavy oak desk exuded a subtle power. The high ceiling gave breadth to the room, his home for the last six years. As one of Arizona’s two Senators, and a leading advocate for protecting the rights of individuals, Cymbone viewed his posture in the full-length mirror behind the door. Despite his shoulders looking a bit rounded, he stood firmly upon the ground, all six feet two inches with barrel-chest, face tanned from summer sun. His sweatshirt hid a well-muscled upper body, supplying physical stamina and strength that were legendary on Capitol Hill, despite being a relative newcomer. The only aspect more legendary was his view on returning the power to the people through the Bill of Rights and the Declaration of Independence. Such a stance would have prevented him from re-election or even election in most states, but Arizona was just the place for such a representative. He glanced toward the east wall and beheld an eight-by-ten-inch piece of decorative tile. A magnificent bald eagle with wings fully spread soared before majestic snow-covered mountains in the background. Whenever in need of inspiration, in need of hope, he looked at this picture to help stay the course he had chosen to walk. It took him back to his childhood roaming the desert with his boyhood companion, Silver Bear, a member of the Navajo tribe. Most afternoons, playing hooky from school, the two had explored ancient caves high in the canyon wall, former dwellings of Silver Bear’s ancestors. From those excursions he received an education not found between the covers of bound pages. Through time spent with various American Indian tribes, primarily the - 28 -

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Navajo and Hopi, he had discovered a deep connection to the ‘truly wise ones’, which kindled a fire in him to live in harmony with the Earth. He gazed at the eagle again. It symbolized his deep respect for this sacred planet and its hovering represented mankind’s function as a protector of the Earth and its species. Once elected to Congress, he tried to pass along some of these values. Now, he just hoped to survive, to remain in office. His cell phone bleeped. He scooped it off the desk and answered in a cheerful voice. “May I speak with Paulette?” said an odd-sounding, unrecognizable voice. Releasing the puzzled look on his face, Cymbone recalled the code words and gave the proper response. “I’m sorry she’s gone to the central office.” “I have a donation to give,” said the scrambled voice, indicating an urgent meeting to convey time-sensitive information. “I can accept the check myself.” After giving the appropriate response the line went dead. Protocol. Now, he had two hours before the rendezvous. He itemized what he needed to accomplish—shower, dinner, and meeting. Within minutes, he gathered his clothes and briefcase, and then did a last minute check of the office. The usual butterflies flitted in his stomach, the same as three years ago at the first meeting. It had taken place on the Virginia side of the Potomac River. He had eased his Mercedes sedan into a scenic overlook off the George Washington Parkway and found out the importance of that road: not heavily trafficked in the late evening and very open, little chance of having a conversation being bugged, even from a distance. Cloaked in the cover of darkness, he had met the Englishman, Peter Wellington, who had complimented him on being one of only a few conscientious Congresspersons. That night, Peter had continued to espouse a strong anti-authoritarian view about government, not just the one seated in Washington, D.C. but those in the Western world. All of them purported to have the taxpayers’ interests at heart, but the reality was far different—the main concern being control over the citizenry. The Englishman had revealed volumes about secret circles of individuals having a vested interest in maintaining the monetary flow generated by the American public through various means. Of course, other governments were no exception. The lecture had concluded with Peter’s view of the public’s introduction to Internet technology, designed by the U.S. military, which made the ‘global community’ a veritable reality. As a result, the control of the U.S. population or rather the retention of the average citizen’s money was at stake. The war on terror had helped ease the government’s fear of loss of control.

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Smiling, Cymbone locked the office and headed to the changing rooms. The meeting location was different but the precautions were the same. ✶

✶

✶

✶

Seaport Village, San Diego, California Thursday, 1:35 P.M. In an outdoor ground level terrace of an Italian restaurant that catered to tourists visiting San Diego, Jennifer sat back and delighted at the flowery tranquility of the wine that matched the ambiance of the bay. Savoring the recommended glass of Chardonnay, sip by sip, she let her mind drift. It had been a long time since spending time alone like this. People often thought public personalities were eager to be in the spotlight, but not always. Relaxing further, she imagined fairies dancing upon the rays of light spread across the endless horizon. The various buildings and structures of civilization before her faded as glimpses drifted before her eyes. She entered another world of senses.… A subtle breeze blows through my hair as I lounge on a multi-colored blanket supported by a wicker basket. Tugging on my black jean cutoffs, I glance at my scuffed brown sandals. The sun’s brilliance feels so warm on my skin. A man sits next to me, his image blurry, like an artist’s early sketch of a model. I know him, a comforting presence. We share intimacy without touching.… Jennifer tensed, her body rebelling at the image. Her eyes flew open and searched the calm waters of San Diego Bay, trying to regain her bearings. It was the longest, clearest view of that other reality only glimpsed in the mirror. Who was that man? Was it me with him? It must be. But I don’t even own any clothes like that. Unconsciously, her hand drifted to the raven medallion around her neck. Feeling the cool texture of the circle she gripped it tightly as if to tear it off, then dropped her hand. Recalling the images, she longed to feel comfort and closeness like that with someone. Sensing movement beside her, she turned to see the tall blond waiter, the image of a pop band singer, grinning at her. She liked his attentiveness. “Everything okay? Balsamic vinegar and olive oil?” he asked, placing a basket of warm bread on the table. “Your penne pasta should be up soon. Would you care for another glass of wine?” “Yes, that would be wonderful.”

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He placed a coral linen napkin on her lap and left. Aside from the chatter of the other patrons, she reveled in the newfound isolation. She breathed easier since considering options about life at LAM. Perhaps her time there was over. She took out the Blackberry and tapped her lips with the entry stick. What to do? She wondered, figuring the next three days would be enough time to perfect a viable and efficient plan to hand to the Director for approval when they met in Washington. Just the prospect of change, of something new filled her whole body with an eagerness she hadn’t felt since beginning the training with LAM. She raised her glass in toast and sipped the wine as the sun cast wondrous rays across becalmed waters. All that remained was to take action.

C H A P T E R ▼

5

University Avenue, San Diego, California Thursday, 1:45 P.M. With ingrained vigilance Frank scanned the parked cars nearby and the street. Inside the bank, he approached the nearest teller, a petite brunette, no more than thirty, with deep blue eyes beneath well-attended brows. The nameplate on the teller counter read: Valerie. She tilted her head to the side and smiled warmly as he spoke. “An affiliated branch in the Bay area told me that this key belongs to one of your safe deposit boxes and I wanted to retrieve the contents. I called ahead and made an appointment.” “Yes, Mr. Revere, I’ve been expecting you. Is the box yours, sir?” Frank placed the proper documents and identification in front of the teller for inspection. She disappeared into a back office, needing to check with a supervisor. While waiting, he took a few rhythmic breaths. His nerves had never quite recovered since the accident. Finally, the woman returned and had him sign and initial a standard form. He followed her across the gray industrial grade carpet, noticing her shapely figure beneath a skirt that matched the color of her eyes. Descending stairs in the middle of the building, she led him to a linoleum-tiled room. “Your box is over there, number twenty five. Let me know if you need anything else. OK?” Surrounded by a couple of hundred metal boxes, he said, “A magnet’s paradise.” She laughed, gave a coquettish wink, and then closed the door. He placed the drawer on the two-foot by four-foot hip-height counter in the center of the room, heart pounding with anticipation. The first item: a poem - 32 -

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written with Sarah’s own distinct artistic penmanship. A dramatic flair laced each letter with the passion from her soul. Softly, he began to read aloud the lines of the poem: “Oh, Sweet Surrender* October Twenty Third Peace pervades the purple moonlight Penetrating the tranquility of our room. Fearful shadows no longer cast As we pray at each other’s altar …” He gulped as a thin stream of electricity ran through him from throat to sacrum. Memories of the day she had read it to him surfaced. It had been the first year anniversary of the day they had met. They had sipped red wine and watched the sun sink into the Pacific Ocean like a huge ball of gold ready for smelting. “Mr. Revere? Sir? Are you okay?” asked Valerie, her head poking through the doorway. “Uh, yeah, fine. Thanks.” “I heard voices and I thought someone was bothering you. I didn’t mean to disturb you, please excuse me.” A sweet smile creased delicate lips as she tilted her head to the left. She started to go, then pushed a strand of hair from her face. “I don’t mean to be pushy or anything, but you seem like someone I’d like to get to know better. Would you be interested in getting a drink or something later? If you don’t have any plans, that is.” Startled, Frank stepped back, still somewhat lost in reverie. “Uh … I.… Tonight? No plans.” “Great! How about seven o’clock? Do you eat vegetarian fare?” “Yes and yes. Where should we meet?” “I’ll give you directions when you finish here.” She glanced at her watch. “Oops, they’ll be wondering what happened to me.” Frank returned to the poem, but decided to save it for later. He sifted through the contents, an odd assortment of items: an address book that only listed one name: Peter Wellington; an expired passport of Sarah Darnell; a sample bottle of her favorite perfume, Tuscany; four small one ounce gold bars; and a smooth black stone in the shape of a heart. He held the last item in the palm of his hand. It measured one and half inches by one and half inches. With eyes shut he felt

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warmth emanate up the right arm into his chest, like a shimmering glow of unseen light, as if the stone was alive with some form of earth energy. He dropped it into his right front jean pocket. Having seen enough, he emptied the contents of the box into a small overnight bag. Upstairs, he caught Valerie’s eye at her station behind the long teller counter. “Was everything satisfactory for you, sir?” “Yes, thank you so much for your help. How has the box been paid for, since it’s been five years or more?” With raised eyebrows she perused the account file on the computer screen. “It seems the funds have been drawn on an account under the name of John Wilde.” Frank hid his alarm at not recognizing the name, knowing it could be a National Security Agency cover, in which case any access to the account would trigger an ‘exploration’ team. Once again, the intrusiveness of the NSA repulsed him. Even before 9-11, the agency had monitored citizens within the country’s borders. They ‘listened’ to phone calls and emails, looking for potential threats to national security. Adrenaline seeped into his veins, like the days of old, but he kept his voice steady. “Is that unusual? I mean for an account to be under one name and the funds be drawn from another person’s account.” Before she could respond, he added, “Do you have an address on this John Wilde? There may be some items of interest to him from the box.” She glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then said, “Since you’re the rather tardy beneficiary, essentially the box is your property. Here, I’ll write the address down for you.” He pocketed the paper with practiced sleight of hand. It bore her phone number and the restaurant address, also. He confirmed the time for dinner, glancing into her eyes. “Yes. Have a great day sir?” She winked the eye farthest from her co-workers and smiled with that tilt of her head and hair caressing a shoulder with a tantalizing effect. Once inside the rental car, Frank glanced at the address for John Wilde. It was oddly familiar. Flipping through the pages of Sarah’s address book, he found the entry that read: ‘Peter Wellington c/o The Natural Path Import/Export Company 123 Solana Beach Ave Solana Beach, CA 92045

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619-481-5700’ The two addresses were the identical, but neither name was familiar. Time to pay them a surprise visit. He punched the accelerator, and within minutes entered the interstate, driving north. ✶

✶

✶

✶

Solana Beach, California Thursday, 2:45 P.M. Jennifer strolled along a quiet stretch of beach, glad to have given up her iPod addiction, as she called it. She enjoyed the sound of nearby crashing waves and the smell of the sea. She focused on the coarse feel of the sand between her toes, trying not to think of work. Yet, all she had known or done in the last five years centered on Lectures And More, Inc. and the people there. Determined to ‘be on a break’ she watched the sky as seagulls screeched, soared, and swooped above the ocean in search of sustenance. Just as her mind was letting go, the first notes of Beethoven’s Fifth sounded, jolting her back to reality. She reflexively grabbed the phone, answering without the usual trained decorum. “Hey there, Jenny! Hope you’re havin’ fun.” “Yes, Charles, what is it?” “Aren’t we testy. I just thought I’d let you know I reserved a car for you with Hertz.” After giving her the details for the television exclusive, he added, “So how ya doing anyway? I bet.…” “Charles, thank you and good-bye.” “But.…” “Remember, we had an agreement. No contact and I mean it.” She viciously pressed the END button and said aloud, “Damn, that felt good. I shoulda done that a long time ago.” ✶

✶

✶

✶

Not more than a mile away, Frank leapt from the car with the overnight bag in hand and jogged across the street to a quaint gray, wooden shack-like building with a wooden sign that read: Natural Path Import/Export Company. He peered inside the front window. Items hung from every part of the building’s interior

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structure. At first glance, it appeared completely chaotic, yet as he looked further into the forest of miscellaneous hand crafted works a harmony pervaded, revealing a peculiar balance. Upon entering the front door, he spotted a well-concealed infrared signal device, out of date in today’s terms, but still effective. Without a sound, a grinning, solidly built, six-foot four-inch, dreadlocked African-American appeared from a back room. He placed large hands atop the counter and nodded. When he spoke his deep voice carried the rhythmic resonance of the Caribbean. “Welcome,” he said. “Hav’ look ’round da place, if ya like, nuh? John’s wha’ da people calls meh.” Frank glanced around, unsure if the man was an NSA operative. Instincts on full, he positioned his body in the one foot forward, equally balanced kamae position of Aikido, a street stance of readiness that appeared as nothing to the untrained. He took a step closer to the counter and noted the man’s presence, powerful and calm. “Right. They call me Frank. Good to see you.” “Well, da place like ‘dis, see,” said John, meandering through the front room, hands waving at various objects. “Da rugs come from da West Indies. Dis be fine craft, I kin tell ya. An’ da drums, on da wall, from Tanzania, ‘anmade, mon.” “As nice as they are, John, I didn’t come for any objects. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.” “What ya wanna know, mon?” “First, are you John Wilde of the Natural Path Import/Export Company?” The man returned to the position behind the abdomen-level cash register counter at the back of the front room. Above him, a decorative cloth draped from the ceiling like an inverted canopy, hiding a state of the art digital camera beneath it. “Jah mon, dat be trooed. But why ya wanna know dat? You sum kin’ a cop?” “No, no. Don’t worry. It’s a personal matter. You see I’m the beneficiary—it’s a long story.” Sensing the man’s wariness, Frank tried to sum up the accident and Sarah’s disappearance as quickly as possible. Finally, gazing into the Rastaman’s eyes, he pointed to his head, and said, “I’m just trying to put it rest in here.” “Ah, I t’ink I know wha’ dis ’bout, den. Wha’ da name be of dis ‘ere dead girl.” “Sarah Darnell. She lived in San Francisco, but.…” The Rasta raised one eyebrow as he rustled some papers beneath the counter. “Did you say, Sarah Darnell?”

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“Yes, that’s right. You know her?” Frank stepped back, noticing the change in the Jamaican’s speech pattern. “Listen, I mean no harm, I just want to get to the bottom of this and move on.” “You must be Frank Revere. Trooed?” “That’s me. You’ve heard of me then?” “My partner told me a little ’bout dis funny business with Miss Darnell. We wondered when you were gonna show up. Actually, it’d been so long that we thought you was dead or worse. What took you so long, huh?” “I had to—never mind that, another long story. I need to know what you know. This guy, your partner, is it Peter Wellington?” He noticed the man relax, coinciding with a return to dialect. “Yes, mon. Me no wanna disappoint you, but ’im not ‘ere. I t’ink he back tomorrow or da next day.” “What do you know of Sarah then?” “Yes mon, she and Peetah used to spend time together.” John craned his neck to look out the window behind Frank. Satisfied, he went on. “Somethin’ secret like, but not a sex kinda t’ing. Peetah drop out of work with da government and we opened dis place, ’bout five years past. Now, my part is retail and on-site operation. Dat sort o’ t’ing. Peetah runs a consultation business as well as doin’ a lot of purchasin’ abroad for dis business. Peetah is a very well connected man. Ya overstand?” He winked at Frank, offering a big friendly grin. “It sounds like a nice setup, but what about Sarah? Look, when I went to the bank they told me the funds that paid for the safe deposit box in the last five years came from you, residing at this address.” In haste, Frank shuffled through the papers in the overnight bag looking for the one that Valerie had given him. “Obviously, Sarah trusted him, or you, enough to maintain the box if anything ever happened to her. Right?” “Don’ know, mon. Ya gonna hafta talk wid Peetah ’bout dat. I kin tell ya dat if Sarah had faith in ’im, den so kin you.” Frank ceased leafing through the papers as John continued. “At one point, I know Sarah had communicated to Peetah that she felt her life was in danger, but I don’ know why dat was. Dis was ‘while ago, now. Probably about two months after we had our Grand Opening. I remember because this beautiful blond-haired woman showed up demanding to speak with Peetah. Ya know, she was one of dem ladies, soft as buttah, but don’ ta’ no shit, mon.” “Yeah, I know.” The right corner of Frank’s mouth rose in a wry smile, a lump forming in his throat.

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“Before that day, I never saw Peetah move so fast. Anyway, they went ‘way and talked somewhere for some time and I never saw her again. A few years later, Peetah come to me and tell me dat we need to talk. He had just escaped an attempt on his life. He was afraid that he would not fulfill the duty Sarah had requested of him, and more importantly, the one her father had requested. At that point the box was put into my name and he told me what she had asked, so I could carry on if need be. A simple task, mon—keep funds supplied to this special account to pay for the box. The money was held in a different account and was to be transferred every six months, cash only. No traces, mon. Also, I was to keep an ear out for a guy named Frank Revere, or anyone asking about Sarah. An’ den dis fine, bright day, ‘ere ya be. Now I’m to let Peetah know right ‘way. That’s about it, mon.” “Do you need to see some ID or anything?” “Nah, I got ta inside info from Peetah. As soon as you ask about Sarah, I check da picture Peetah has of you two. Besides, I could tell you was sincere, from da heart, mon.” He pointed to his thick chest with a big grin. “Some t’ings don’ need no identitee, ya know dat, eh mon?” “True enough. Did Peter say anything about Sarah being dead? Did he ever mention anybody who might have set it up as an ‘accident’?” “Ya gonna hafta talk wid ’im ’bout dat. I’ll get da word to him and you two can arrange somet’ing when he return. Okaaay?” Frank thanked him and placed his card on the counter. “You don’t know how much this means to me.” He grasped John’s outstretched hand, their thumbs interlocked and fingers wrapped around the back of each other’s hand. The Rasta winked at him and offered a knowing grin. “Ya mon. Any friend of Peetah’s is a frien’ of mine.” Frank almost ran to the car. Behind the wheel, he gave the dashboard a triumphant thump then glanced at the car clock—3: 45. Enough time to get a run in along the water’s edge before meeting Valerie. With body tingling, as if descending a huge hill in a rollercoaster, he put the car in drive.

C H A P T E R ▼

6

ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Thursday, 7:34 P.M. At a large oak conference table in the main non-secure meeting room on the second floor Walter Jones closed the manila folder for the demonstration attendees, then eyed Kelly, slumped in a chair. Her long, slim legs revealed a color that only someone with an appreciation of the sun or a tanning salon membership could have. Over the last three months he had not been secretive about his advances towards her. Despite the long day, today was no exception. He watched how she fidgeted with a pen, averting her eyes beneath long lashes and sideways glances at the doorway. She tugged on the lower edge of her tan skirt that draped her mid-thigh. “So, shall we call it a day?” asked Jones. “The sales of the BET were phenomenal.” “Yes, despite what happened.” “True, it was unfortunate, but that just added to the effect.” Unsure whether his concern over Mr. Dibbs was genuine, which she wanted to believe, she stood up, and said, “So, I can go now? I’d love to get out and take a walk along the bike path or something. Get the bod moving, y’know.” She reached for her things in haste, though finally meeting his gaze. “Exercise is important. I was hoping to interest you in taking my dogs for a walk followed by a nice meal.” “Would I be getting Alpo for dinner, too?” She smiled at him and smoothed her skirt. “I’d forgotten that you had pets. Two German Shepherds, right?” “Yes, Casi and Zeus. I love all animals, and nature. How does …?” Without warning a young man in his early twenties rushed into the room holding out an interdepartmental folder sealed with a high security clearance tag. - 39 -

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“Please excuse me, Dr. Jones, urgent message from the Director, sir.” Jones accepted the envelope. Both the company messenger and Kelly waited while he reviewed the documents. Then with a wave of his hand he dismissed the young man. To Kelly, he said, “Please excuse me. Maybe tomorrow you will consider my offer. Enjoy your evening.” Alone, Jones descended further into the innards of the building down a small ramped corridor, which ended at what appeared to be a brick wall. He reached up to the upper right corner and put his five fingertips on a slate colored plaque, which read his fingerprints. Barely audible, a slight click, the brick wall slid open to reveal a forty-foot-by-forty-foot room with two tables surrounded by twelve chairs, and an eight-by-ten-foot viewing screen on the far wall. He entered the room and turned on only half of the inset lighting with a remote from his pocket as he crossed the plush carpet. Rougher tan-colored carpet covered the walls and ceiling, hiding soundproofing beneath it. The sliding door ‘swished’ shut. He connected a laptop to the screen projector and activated the line, which allowed for both secure audio and video communication. He pressed a speed dial key and heard the numbers being sent through additional tabletop speakers located centrally on the nearby oak meeting table. Simultaneously, the screen displayed a beautiful image of a three story coral-colored building, Lectures And More, Inc. headquarters, in the downtown section of a Caribbean Island. Jones beamed at the screen, his admiration for the wonders of modern technology ever deepening. To him, it was the most powerful aphrodisiac on earth, except for the knowledge that could be derived. It was assisting him in reaching his dream. He considered the image that appeared on the screen. His boss’s chubby face topped with reddish blonde, thinning hair, and gold-rimmed glasses were the same along with the blue and white polo shirt, the bottom button fastened. He always appeared as the quintessential American on holiday in the Caribbean. Despite the Director’s two hundred-pound, square frame squeezed into a fine leather office chair, he looked quite relaxed. Outwardly, he looked to be in his early fifties, though his actual age exceeded that by at least a decade. “Hello Walter,” said the Director, his deep baritone voice echoing in the cavernous room. Only the Director addressed him as such. “What do you suppose this Revere fellow is up to by digging into the past?” “So far, sir, he has gone to the bank, retrieved the safe deposit box items, and visited Mr. Wilde. We are now keeping a close eye on him, despite his usage of standard evasion techniques.”

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“Do we need to consider him as a ‘candidate of peril’, as the term goes?” “A ‘COP’ sir? To answer your question, I don’t believe he poses a threat to our operations at this time. He’s been out of circulation for five years and is presently running a not-for-profit outfit that raises money for endangered species and the environment.” “Wasn’t he an associate of yours? And are there any challenges posed by his contact with Mr. Wilde?” “We knew each other, but.…” Jones considered the man on the screen then continued onto the second question. Two decades ago John Wilde was a topnotch troubleshooter for the CIA in numerous regions requiring an African cover. Ten years ago, his growing religious beliefs in Rastafarianism and the Twelve Tribes began to create huge conflicts in the ability to carry out assignments for the U.S. government. He was offered a quick exit with a comfortable retirement package. About five years ago, he opened an import/export operation out of southern California. Jones assured the Director that the operation checked out. It was harmless. However, there was one loose end: how he received some merchandise. Wilde, of course, made some of the buying trips, but there were certain regions that seemed to be covered by another person. “Probably some Caucasian, accountant-looking American who knows nothing of Wilde’s past,” added Jones. “Any other questions, sir?” “Walter, the wealth of information stored in that brain of yours never ceases to astound. Next issue: since Jennifer hasn’t any recollection of her former past due to the memory drugs and the constant BET stimulus, our little secret is safe. However, with that said, what are the chances of Mr. Revere trying to find his old flame?” “He didn’t succeed years ago, so now it is doubtful, especially with the simple transformations we have made in her appearance. Besides, he believes she is dead. In other words, as far as searching for her, let me put it this way: if a person has a choice between two options, ‘A’ and ‘B’, said person will not search for an option ‘C’, which doesn’t seem to exist.” Jones stared at the screen, seeming attentive, yet fingers drumming the tabletop. The Director scratched an eyebrow and thanked his second in command, then asked about the latest developments with the device installations, especially those connected to major decision-makers within Congress. “Within that esteemed … group the items are in place and we’re moving forward per the schedule of the prime directive. In a little less than eight weeks the effects of the BET devices will begin to show among our nation’s leaders. In a

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week we will have the two-month report on the effect of the pilot BET devices located within each of the fifty states. You will be the first to know, after me, sir.” “Fabulous. Our subtle plan is fully underway. In a couple of hundred of years, Walter, people will look back on us as the world’s most benevolent leaders ever. We will shine as an example of how to apply technology for the good of all people as well as the planet.” The cherubic-faced man on the screen prattled on about leading humanity to global peace, possibly garnering a Nobel Prize along the way. Jones patiently smiled, though not listening, having heard it all before. “Besides the BET devices are relatively harmless,” said the Director, at last. “Enough said, I await your report. Oh Walter, just one other thing.” Still smiling at the screen, Jones ignored his boss’s look of condescension, which would have thrown him into a fit years ago, but not now. He drew himself up to full height and waited for the issue. “What’s this about a confrontation between you and Samuel Caravel?” “Seems he’s getting a bit too full of himself and talking too openly about some confidential items, especially alluding to the BET device with media personnel. When I questioned him by phone, he said it was strictly off the record. I told him, we know that ‘off-the-record’ with the media has never really existed. I warned him that he was in violation of the confidentiality agreement he signed and it was his only warning.” “How long ago was this incident? A few weeks?” “Yes. Since which time an article appeared in the Reno Gazette. Though not a large publication, it is still syndicated press. Anyway, the article was supposed to be an interview with Samuel Caravel to help promote his ‘Four Keys …’ lecture in that town, but the reporter was definitely digging for information on the BET device and hinted at subversive operating procedures. Too close to home, sir. We cannot afford a breach of security, especially this close to project completion.” “What, may I ask, is your suggestion then?” “A Raven Team is on alert status. They are prepared to act.” Jones paused, noting the blink of his boss’s eyes, a habit common when under stress. “However, I thought a proper sit-down business chat would clear it up.” “I’m glad to hear that, as you know how I feel about any sort of more permanent arrangement, so to speak. I’ll leave it to your discretion.” Jones nodded, accepting the approval. He returned his boss’s farewell and disconnected the line, the screen reverting to the LAM building back-dropped by the blue Caribbean sky. In haste, he strode to a console in the far corner of the room, which gave access to all the remote control cameras throughout the build-

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ing. It also offered the ability to monitor sound in most areas. He checked the video monitors closest to the secure meeting room. They only revealed vacant corridors and offices. The noise sensors were silent as well. Satisfied, he dialed the number for former General Mikhail Sidorov in Moscow. A minute passed. The screen flickered and then revealed a hefty, stone-faced man wearing a black and tan uniform. At a stout five feet ten inches, two hundred twenty pounds with grayish black hair and mustache, the jowl-faced man stood in a large room beside a long conference table. His barrel-chested frame nearly blocked the fine maroon drapery with the hammer and sickle embroidered in yellow that hung behind him. The top of the curtain, a relic of days gone by, was lost to the camera’s lens. The Russian took off his gold-rimmed glasses, wiped his brow, and spoke in deliberate English with a thick Russian accent. “Good evening, Dr. Jones. I hope you are well. Good to see you again, thank you for the technology of this,” he pointed to the camera projecting him. “How are things, how do you say, progressing?” “Very well, General. How is the former Soviet Republic holding up?” “Ah well, who can say, it changes from this day to next, except for us. We are solid, like old Mother Russia. Not to worry, Dr. Jones. When shall we expect the shipment so we may begin installing the … devices?” Jones assumed command. Gone were the conciliatory smiles for a boss or public audience as he outlined the schedule for the next few weeks. Then he added, “The calling card planned for the world leaders should be playable in about six-to-seven weeks.” “Ah yes. Dreams do come together after so much time, no? Your Mister Director knows our plan?” The general’s bushy eyebrows arched with the last words. “No, he’s in the dark, more like his own fantasy world.” “Very well. Have you the results of your test models? I mean to say, did they work as you had planned?” “Hopefully, tomorrow. I will contact you again in two weeks from today to further discuss our plans.” Jones leaned on the table with both hands and looked askance at the screen. “General, your assistance is greatly appreciated.” “My pleasure to be in business together, comrade Dr. Jones. Shall we say … good bye then?” “Yes, General. Das vedanya.” Jones switched off the screen projector and slung his black laptop briefcase over his shoulder. Out in the corridor, he walked beneath emergency lighting

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that cast weird, convoluted shadows upon the walls at irregular intervals, like those from an ancient castle whose inhabitants had fled centuries before. He didn’t notice. As he passed one of the four concrete pillars situated in the main entry hall, the guard on duty jumped to attention. There was a soft plop as the latest Stephen King novel fell to the floor. Looking a bit guilty, the guard said, “Nother late night, sir?” “Look alive, son. This ain’t no lax military installation.” “Yes suh. Y’all have a good night, suh.” As the guard saluted in crisp fashion, Jones skirted the extensive security system, which included x-ray equipment and chemical residue detection machines. He was the only employee not subject to routine security checks. He left the building through the bulletproof glass double doors. Outside, the waning fullness of the moon illuminated the surrounding Virginia forest. Solemnly, the dogwood trees stood in mute observance, while silence traversed the grounds surrounding the ENOCH building. A smile crossed Jones’s lips, for two reasons. Nature’s tranquility and tomorrow, test pilot report in hand, results would be revealed.

C H A P T E R ▼

7

Tidal Basin, Washington, D.C. Thursday, 8:24 P.M. A late model black Mercedes sedan slid into an open space alongside the curb across from the Roosevelt Memorial. Senator Cymbone stepped onto the grassy area next to the car. The staleness of the tepid air caused his dress shirt to stick to his skin beneath a lightweight blue pinstripe suit as he followed a dirt path that led to the memorial entrance. Each meeting site was different, a precaution against surveillance. As instructed by Peter, he stopped at a perimeter location and watched for any sign of interest in his activity, or anything out of ordinary. Couples strolled along the water edges of both the Tidal Basin and the Potomac. Not noticing anything, he moved to the pre-determined bench that sat facing the Tidal Basin. Off to the southeast lay one of his favorite attractions, the Jefferson Memorial, which glowed beneath constant spotlights. After several minutes, a man clad in black cowboy boots and hat, big silver Harley Davidson belt buckle, and faded black jeans appeared out of the night as if by magic. A light gray mustache adorned the somewhat withered, lightly tanned face. The man spoke in a loud Texan-flavored voice. “Ah say there, pardnuh. Is thisahere seat taken?” “Actually, I’m expecting a friend. Sorry.” To the Senator’s surprise the man leaned dangerously close to him and spoke in a hushed voice that revealed a faint British accent. “It’s me! I am the friend.” The man quickly slid onto the bench next to the Senator. Cymbone pinched his thigh hard to keep from bursting out laughing at Peter’s imitation of Johnny Cash visiting the nation’s capitol. All he lacked was

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the guitar. Through controlled breath, he asked, “What the hell are you doing? I thought we were supposed to be subtle?” “Never mind the disguise, I’ve got some important stuff for you.” Peter glanced about, “Not followed?” “No, used standard protocol.” From inside a grocery store plastic bag Peter produced a sealed, legal size manila envelope and handed it to the Senator. “Let’s take a walk, shall we?” “What’s the urgent news?” The two mismatched men entered the light flow of strollers along the basin path that led to the Jefferson Memorial. “I’ve just come from a very interesting product review in the suburbs of Virginia put on by a company called ENOCH. They’re the R&D subsidiary of Lectures And More, also known as LAM, Inc., a quite well-respected international company that represents some of the top motivational speakers in the world.” “Like that guy Robbins, who does those infomercials on late night television?” “Quite, except that Mr. Firewalker, Anthony Robbins, is not one of the people LAM represents. Mr. Robbins, it seems, is too big for the likes of them. In fact, those two could be considered rivals, in a way. Anyway, the engineers at LAM have figured out how to tap into a person’s kinesthetic system through the subconscious and create an open gateway to effect proprioceptive changes within the targeted individual. And the upshot is.…” “Wait! What the hell does all that mean in English?” “A bit slower then, shall we?” Peter gave a brief summary of the material handed out at ENOCH. “In essence, my good man, in a dark room you are able to touch your index finger to your nose due to sensory-motor abilities. However, with the help of early research and funding by the U.S. government, the crafty folks at LAM have cleverly designed a device that transmits a signal through phone lines, mobile phones, microchips, and other mediums to alter these senses. Used constructively or destructively, it affects a person’s disposition towards all external stimuli in every day life. Evidently, the Bio-Energetic Tensiometer, the device they call a BET, leaves the person vulnerable to subconscious manipulation. Thus, a conditioning stimulus may be applied to the targeted person’s central nervous system by persons or organizations that have a transmitter.” “Yes, I recall that from the preliminary report you sent. It works very quickly, in as little as six-to-eight hours in some subjects. This loss of feeling causes a deadened state, right?”

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“Good show, Senator. Done your homework, I see. The loss of proprioception, ability to feel, increases an individual’s susceptibility to programming, such as from one’s employer. Nifty piece of work, if you ask me. However, it reduces one’s employees to automatons who don’t ask for raises, benefits, promotions, if you get my meaning.” Cymbone touched a finger to the graying black hair at his temple, as if making a mental note. “Must violate some sort of FCC laws or at least OSHA mandates, doesn’t it? It certainly violates the First Amendment.” “I suppose it would if it were marketed as such. However, they cleverly sought and obtained government approval for the devices under the guise of measuring the tension or stress experienced by an employee in a work-site environment. In fact, not only do they have approval to install the device in the workplace it’s even being considered for work-site standardization. If approved, it would be placed in a category along with bathrooms for physically disadvantaged persons.” “They’ve really covered all the angles. What was the reason for the private demonstration?” Peter glanced around and shared that those invited to the demonstration were allowed to pre-purchase the device before it went to mass market, giving these companies a competitive edge. It also gave ENOCH the ability to do an even broader real world test. He eyed the Senator a moment then suggested that something else was afoot. “Go on.” “Recently, ENOCH’s funding sources were reduced, if not severed. So they’ve resorted to unconventional means of raising capital, none too legal. The pre-sale will provide necessary capital and enhance their legitimacy. That’s my speculation.” Cymbone gazed at the floodlit marbled columns of the Jefferson Memorial as they passed by. He wanted to know who was behind this organization. “The report listed only a W.J. Jones, Ph.D., the head of ENOCH Corporation. However, Ulrich Rogers, also known as ‘The Director’, is the man who’s in charge of the entire LAM, Inc. operation, including ENOCH.” Noticing the Senator’s lack of reaction to the Director’s name, Peter added, “You don’t remember the Rogers affair from fifteen years ago?” “I wasn’t in office then.” “Quite right. Well it was kept very quiet, even among Intelligence circles. I put abbreviated dossiers on both men and their organization in your envelope. Here’s the short of it. Ulrich Rogers is a different sort of chap. In his mid-sixties, he looks fifteen years younger. Quite amazing really, especially since he was

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involved in the mayhem and murder business for over forty years. Inducted into ‘the Company,’ meaning CIA, in its early years, a bit before me, he rose quickly and quietly to become the head of operations not listed on any official government documents.” “Like the Phoenix Program, the Viet Cong leader assassination program run by the CIA, right?” Peter nodded and continued the description in a hushed tone. Rogers was very results-oriented. Aptly put, driven to achieve, especially those things in which he believed to be important to himself as well as the rest of mankind. This personality trait worked well in covert operations, especially during a nebulous conflict like Vietnam. However, in the post-Cold War era, before the war on terrorism, this approach to covert activities produced some embarrassment, a bit like being caught with your knickers down. He and Jones, his Special Ops sidekick, were a bit too efficient in ‘wetwork’, the old covert-speak term for killing people, specifically those that were in the way of a desired result by an individual, an organization, or a government. Such was the case with ‘Operation Spitfire’, a high level operation to assassinate the King of Spain. “Certainly,” Peter added, “you recall the conflict with the Spanish government in trying to place nuclear weapons in or near Spain as part of the NATO Early Strike capabilities. Under the guise of the Red Brigade, The Director and his henchmen got a bit carried away. The CIA’s Italian Station Chief, Raymond Darnell, tried to reel them in but by that time things had gotten too sticky and someone had to take the fall.” “So Rogers and Jones were framed and publicly swept from the Company as an effort to appease relations with Spain as well as other European holdout countries.” “You’re not as much in the dark as I thought. Anyway, Rogers and Jones were kicked out that summer. Rogers, a very wise chap, had monetary holdings in the Caribbean and expatriated himself to the island of Saint Kitts where he fumed for several months, I suppose. Then Jones sought out his old boss, Rogers, with the idea of utilizing and perfecting some of the technology that the government had been working on since the forties: electromagnetic force field manipulation through radiographic communication. Rogers jumped at the chance and established several international business corporations housed in neutral, but non-U.S.-friendly countries. Of course, the appropriate personnel and equipment were not hard to come by. Your government had auctioned it off after the project had been officially shutdown a decade prior. During his exile, Rogers foreswore his life of death and destruction and set-up a positive thought company

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to represent motivational speakers. In essence, he wanted to help the people of the world, not hurt them. So in the last decade, as you know, he has become a worldwide advocate for global peace. And Jones has re-invented himself into a respectable businessman. So much so, that I almost missed the signs.” “What signs? “People trained for covert ops have a way of moving differently, shall we say? Any way.…” “How did you get an invite? You’re a freelancer. Didn’t you stand out?” “I haven’t been in the business this long without learning a thing or two, wouldn’t you know. Besides, a third party hired me to spy on their competitors, one of which was invited to this special sneak preview. Most importantly, I determined that it’s my duty to humanity to leak this information to you, a man whom I trust to be in a position to do something about it. Am I correct?” “It would appear so. However, I’ll be able to give a better answer after reviewing all the information more fully. If nothing else, it certainly has been enlightening, though a bit dismaying.” “Yes, expect so, you being a man who has sought to bring back some sort of integrity to public office. I don’t envy you. In fact, I applaud you quite heartily, though silently. You must be the only one of honor among all Congresspersons. Not an easy position to hold.” Peter stopped and looked at the reflection of memorial lights shimmering on the water, then peered at the Senator’s face. “Shall we turn back? I return to the West Coast in the morning. Let me know what can be done to subvert The Director’s plan. Not only driven to achieve results at any cost, I suspect he is also completely motivated by revenge upon the U.S. government for making him a scapegoat. He certainly is not the first to seek such revenge, however he is one of the few, in my opinion, who actually could pull it off. A number of people in the government are partial to him because of his ‘public disgrace’.” “Well, Pe … Johnny,” Cymbone caught himself before breaking a cardinal rule. “You’ll be hearing from me soon. Thanks for keeping my secret cause in mind.” Peter nodded and handed him a small envelope. “New code key for the next month’s encrypted email. Perhaps you’re a part of my own revenge plan. I say, don’t we all secretly hold grudges whether we want to admit it or not?” Cymbone smiled and glanced away. Something beneath a tree by the water’s edge had caught his eye. When he looked back to give a final ‘so long’, Peter had vanished into the darkness. He tried to spot the self-styled Texan, but failed. Amused, he shook his head.

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In the shadows, Peter handed the cowboy hat and boots to a street person before reaching a nearby avenue. From the shopping bag, he donned black loafers and a lightweight gray windbreaker. He tossed the fake mustache into a garbage receptacle and looked for a taxi. Inside the cab, he eyed the international symbol for ‘No Smoking’, noting a heavy odor of burned tobacco. Fatigue weighed heavy upon his eyes. He longed for the feel of soft wet sand squishing between his toes. One of the many times with his wife, Rachel, resurrected. They would stroll on the beach just north of Del Mar, California. No matter the location or the weather, her presence had always brightened the day and lightened his heart. With her gone, he now filled the days with some semblance of re-establishing honor, or at least creating a foothold for those to come. The car lurched to a stop in front of his hotel. Eager to return home to the southern California sun, he entered the hotel lobby at a brisk pace. The front desk clerk handed him a message from his business partner. It indicated an intriguing stranger had paid him a visit at the Import/Export Company.

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The View Cafe, Del Mar, California Thursday, 7:30 P.M. Atop a veranda edged by restaurants and stores that looked onto the main street below and the Pacific in the distance, Jennifer sat back in a padded chair and watched the last edge of the sun sink below the horizon. Unconsciously she fingered the raven medallion that reflected the twilight on the empty plate before her. Satiated, she pushed her dinner plate away and took a sip of red wine. Not bad, she thought. My first dinner alone in almost twelve months. I could get used to this. At a bar across the small plaza two surfer-looking types, both with unkempt sandy blond-hair, clad in faded blue and gold San Diego Charger t-shirts and swim trunks, clinked bottles of beer, smoked cigarettes, and spoke of the stoke from the waves of the day. Despite authentic tans, at all times they kept a close eye on every move Jennifer made, per the order received just five hours before. Their surveillance was redundant since the necklace also provided instant location through global positioning. However, it did not reveal what she did, which is what command operations wanted to know. After paying the bill, she headed slowly to the ladies room, neither noticing the sandy blond-haired man picking up the handset of a nearby payphone, nor the other man descending the stairs to the underground parking. A little shyly, she strolled back towards the black limo, which remained parked on a side street that led into the upper level plaza. Upon seeing her, the chauffeur stood with the door open. Earlier, she had internally battled about using the car left by Charles or taking the attention-magnet limo. Now, she dallied, gazing in shop windows, unaware that the man at the phone had not made a call.

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At the limo, she smiled at the driver, who offered to help her in, and asked where she wanted to go. She cringed, despising the special treatment. But it came with the position. She would have liked to say to the driver, to everyone, ‘I’m just a regular girl! I don’t need to be chauffeured or pampered.’ Instead, she stayed quiet and played her part. She thanked the driver and told him to drive up the coast slowly. With the ocean surface shimmering in the near distance, she decided that tomorrow she would rent her own car. Anonymity appealed at this point in her life. Neither she nor the driver noticed the old model sedan that followed behind the limo as it drove north on the Coast highway. ✶

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Balboa Park, San Diego, California Thursday, 8:42 P.M. Despite the perennial lack of rain the surrounding park areas near the once world-famous San Diego Zoo displayed substantial greenery accented by various fragrant flowers. Frank looked toward the clear, black sky, the brightest stars just appearing. He watched Valerie dance across a small grassy area amongst the trees just west of the zoo. It was as if she floated across the blades, ever receptive to her surroundings, like water flowing around river rocks. “You truly are amazing, balancing the opposites of being a citified bank teller by day and an alluring temptress by night.” “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now come on, I have something to show you.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him down a small, dirt path, her eyes twinkling beneath the moonlight. “So, how have you eluded the grasp of some beautiful, young, available female?” “Special training,” said Frank, a wry smile crossed his face, all too aware of past truths. “How ’bout you?” “Oh, I see, dodging my question with a question. Well to be honest, I’m not very good in traditional relationships.” She ran a wistful hand across the bark of a large tree. Then, with a laugh, she told him a short version of her life, which included many brief relationships after a college love affair ended in disaster. Finally, she added, “Enough about me. Have relationships been hard for you?” “Hard to say, really. I haven’t had many lately. I lost someone that meant the world to me and I’m still—where do you draw your strength to live so openly?”

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“Dodging again?” she said, but taking it in stride. “I suppose from just accepting my whole self, not just the feminine part of me, or the masculine spark within, but all of it.” She paused to look skyward. “I wasn’t always that way, but the heartbreak from that one relationship and doing destructive things to myself eventually gave way to that place. Y’know, acceptance of all my bullshit, whether I got falling down drunk or meditated myself into a different blissful escape, I finally came to know me and be okay with it.” At that moment, an old, yet familiar warning sign occurred to Frank: the back of his neck tingled. It had always signaled that danger lurked nearby. His night alertness skills clicked in full force. His gait changed to a more flat-footed pace with a slight crouch. He settled into total body readiness, feeling the calmness that came with old responses. “Frank, look!” Valerie placed a hand on the gnarled bark of an immense maple with an eight-foot trunk circumference. The branches, full of broad leaves, were so thick that it all but obliterated the night sky. Like living logs burrowing into the depths of the earth with relentless perseverance, the roots made for a wonderful little bench. The two rested against the natural backrest. “This is what you were talking about during dinner? The ‘wisdom tree’?” “Yup, can you feel the energy of the tree? It’s so awesome! If I’m ever feeling low or troubled by a situation, you know, the sort of thing that just hangs on you like ill-fitting clothes, I come here, night or day, and ask the tree.” “And it gives you the answer?” “If I listen.” Under the cover of darkness, the furrowing of Frank’s brow remained unseen by her. A voice of self-criticism spoke in his head. Consoling himself rarely helped, just time. Slowly, he said, “Yes, listening is important.” “And being still. The tree acts like a catalyst for clarity. I mean the questions I referred to are not really questions, just blockages to clear intention. You know, when the voices in your head are talking so loud that you can’t even think straight.” She paused. “So tell me, after the hit and run incident and repairing your body in the first year, what’d you do next?” Her warm caresses on his arm did not ease his wariness. He much preferred observation and listening to others than talking, especially about himself. So, he said, “The loss of Sarah really struck me a heavy blow. So for many months, I stayed in my apartment and read. I read things in hopes that they would reveal something … a truth. I wandered, alone, through various parts of San Francisco. It was all.…” His voice trailed off.

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“Distraction, so that you wouldn’t feel the loss of Sarah. I bet that emptiness remained, even during sex with another woman.” Frank nodded, a bit surprised at Valerie’s insight. “You were like a dry lakebed, purely seeking moisture that would trickle through your chapped and silted chasms.” “That sounds too poetic,” he said. “I did begin to practice Aikido, trying to alter the deadly instincts learned in the government, trying to regain a sense of myself.” “Have you ever stopped and felt how lucky Sarah and you were? From what you’ve told me, the two of you shared what most people don’t even know exists: true love. No wonder it hit you so hard.” She sighed. “I’ve only dreamed of having that with someone.” Frank leaned back into the solidity of the tree trunk behind him and stroked the rough bark of the large root upon which he sat. He didn’t feel like talking about it anymore, so he remained silent. Besides, she couldn’t possibly understand why people had been killed, lives destroyed, and countries demolished, like a child’s sandcastle by unaware beach-goers. “You don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to.” “Thank you Valerie, for listening.” “A new world awaits you.” She put her arms around him from the side. “Hey, would you like to come to my place for some tea? I live just a few blocks away and I’m getting a bit chilled.” “Sure, love to.” He rose from the root and offered his hand. She accepted it with a tilt of the head that perhaps intimated something secret. In silence, they shuffled along the path, a sparse bit of wilderness within the city. Leaving the small forest they began to cross another grassy area. Valerie released Frank’s hand and spun around, her head thrown back, laughing in delight. As he approached to pull her close, the back of his neck tingled again, stronger than before. He pushed Valerie aside. “Frank!” she screamed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of a fast moving object about sixteen inches long attached to a man, who completed the swing as Frank pivoted into a one-knee-down triangle stance, ending with his back to the attacker. From underneath the man, out of the line of attack, he guided the attacker’s hand towards the ground. At the same time, he grabbed the man’s well-worn denim jacket, propelling him into a clumsy forward flip. The attacker landed spread-eagle with a resounding thud six feet away.

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Frank shifted to receive the second attacker. This man, shorter and stockier than the first, advanced like a wary bull to a matador. He held a liquor bottle in his left hand. Valerie yelled that the fallen man was up again. Without taking eyes off the man before him, Frank held his position and yelled, “Valerie, get out of here!” Then to the bottle-wielding attacker, he said, “What do you guys want? Money? Drugs? What?” “Fuck you, asshole,” said the man in a gruff voice, as he closed the distance and swung as if throwing a sidearm pitch. With adrenaline building, Frank forced himself to not use instant kill techniques. He slid forward but off the line of attack, catching the attacker’s hand with both of his, like a ball into a mitt. The force of the strike allowed him to direct the bottled hand down, positioning his right foot to perform a controlled spin. Then, he led the arc motion of the attacker’s hand over the man’s head and applied a strong wristlock, effectively keeping the man in a de-stabilized position, hovering on the verge of collapse. With total control over the shorter man’s center, Frank prepared for the man he had thrown before. Over six feet tall, the first man held the bat over his head like a sword. He brought it down hard, striking for the head. At the last second, Frank shifted out of the way, letting the bat slam into the second man’s skull, sending him to the ground in a heap. In a flash, now holding the liquor bottle, Frank struck a blow to the head of the tall attacker, who still stared at his fallen partner. Glass shattered, pieces tinkling on the nearby sidewalk. The man dropped on top of his accomplice. A pencil-wide gash appeared just below the man’s hairline. Blood began to trickle down onto the worn jacket of the man below. Frank crouched down by the two bodies as the rich redness turned black in the dark fabric. The bottom man’s skull looked fractured. He checked the carotid pulses of both men. The lower man had none. He glanced around, spotting Valerie behind a tree. He dashed across the hundred feet of grass as a siren wailed in the distance. “Should we wait for the police to arrive?” With jaw set firmly, he shook his head and put an arm around her as they hurried away from the grassy battle scene, trying to not appear in a hurry. “My place is just around the corner at the end of this block.” At a wrought iron gate that filled a red-bricked archway Valerie fumbled with the key. She uttered a gasp when the latch clicked. The door swung free. Up a broad staircase that surrounded an inner, tiled courtyard, Frank eyed the surroundings with honed alertness.

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“Frank.…” said Valerie, but stopped seeing him put a finger to his lips. He indicated for her to unlock the apartment door and nudged it open with his foot and stepped back. Once inside the apartment, with a rush of adrenaline, she said, “What do you think those guys wanted? Money? In all the years I’ve lived here I’ve never seen an attack. So bizarre … glad you were here. You were so calm … I’ve never seen anything like that except in the movies … I didn’t know what to do … I’ve never seen a dead person, well of course in a coffin, but that’s totally different from a fresh, um.…” “Kill,” he said, and took hold of her arms, stroking gently. “It’s okay, now. Let’s get you settled on the sofa and we can go over it if you want.” She nodded and he led her to a small, rose-colored loveseat sofa that faced the north wall and a curtained window. With a hand on her shoulder, he eased her back into the billowy comfort of the cushions. She placed a hand on his, her breathing slowed. “What do you think those bums wanted?” “I don’t know.” He had thought they were bums at first too. But upon checking their pulses, he saw that both men wore high dollar Nikes. Also, both were relatively clean-shaven, particularly the guy with the bat who seemed to be a few months shy of a crew cut. Sensing Frank’s reticence, Valerie jumped up. “Would you like some tea? I do.” “Sure. Need help?” She didn’t reply. While she tinkered in the kitchen, Frank surveyed the room. An L-shaped desk stood in one corner. He got up and peered at the computer at one end of the desk. At the other end, lay an array of metal figurines and tools for metal work. He noted a pair of small needle nose pliers, a set of tiny screwdrivers, a power drill, and various sorts of twisted metals. He glanced at some examples of her handiwork that hung on the wall behind the desk, and fondled a pendant in the shape of a griffin. “Did you create all these?” he asked, as a particular item caught his eye: a gold chain with a winged unicorn etched inside a heart shaped black pendant. He hefted it. “I love this unicorn necklace.” “Oh you like that one? That makes sense, you seem like the unicorn type o’ guy. Were you scared out there tonight?” He ventured to his right and peeked through a door that stood ajar, her bedroom. A high four-poster bed stood with multi-colored sarongs serving as the

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canopy. He smiled at a photograph hung on the wall above the bed. It showed a pack of gray wolves blending with the snow and trees. Satisfied she was genuine and not a NSA plant, he returned to the couch. “In situations like that there’s no time to be scared. Maybe those guys were hired to pose as bums and attack you or me. But, of course, that’s just a guess. Do you have many enemies? Stalker boyfriends? Just kidding. Everything okay in there?” “I’m fine.” She entered from the kitchen with a teakettle and two flowered cups on a small tray. As she placed the tray on a small chest serving as a coffee table the hem of her short, peach-colored cotton dress rose up to reveal smooth delicate honey-colored skin leading to the curve of a well-formed buttock. She appeared much less shaken now. “I’ve made the perfect tea for us, some nice chamomile. It’ll return us to a more romantic sense of ourselves. Whaddaya say there, my champ?” With a tantalizing smile, she drew even closer to him. Frank stroked her silky hair with a deft hand. With eyes closed, she leaned her head back and received the caresses. Then, she looked at his face, snaking arms around his neck. With eyes shut, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead, an unconscious gesture for being alive. He wanted to succumb to a deeper embrace, but.… “I have to know something,” he said. “Not to dwell on the incident but how come you’re so calm and collected? I’ve been in some situations with experienced people who weren’t as relaxed as you.” “I … I never really felt threatened. I felt really protected by you. I still do.” “You haven’t experienced any physical violence before. Isn’t that what you said?” “A little suspicious, are we? Remember, I said I hadn’t seen anything like it here in San Diego. Anyway, I had a couple of brothers growing up, both older and both wrestlers. I certainly didn’t miss out on any roughhousin’, y’know. I got to be a pretty good scrapper or at least not put up with any shit from anyone. That’s how our parents raised us.” “They must be very special folks.” “To me, and I loved them dearly. They passed away a few years ago.” He received a steaming cup of tea from her. “I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing unusual was it?” “No, just old age. They were quite old when I was born.” He leaned over and nuzzled her hair. He could almost taste the roses, lilacs, and tulips that emanated from her skin. Finally reassured, he leaned his head

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back and closed his eyes as her fingers crept through his hair. Nurturance, a world he longed to remember, to re-enter. Then, as if by sonar, their lips found each other.

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Jones’s Residence, Reston, Virginia Friday, 1:58 A.M. Unable to sleep again, Jones resorted to one of his favorite past-times, gathering information. Followed by Zeus, the black and grey younger dog, he took the second whiskey of the night to the computer room. He patted the dog’s head, glad that he had kept him when the litter was born. He was good company for his mother, kept her more active, too. He reviewed the computer file on Frank Revere and Sarah Darnell, re-assessing if the former posed a threat. He had told the Director he wasn’t, which was one thing, but he had to be sure. He knew Revere well enough to not want to make a mistake. A chirp from the computer indicated incoming messages. Jones opened the electronic mail server and scanned the Inbox. Two items caught his attention. Both were coded: the first read ‘252TAC’, and the second read ‘497TAC’. The message tags indicated reports on assignment outcomes from different personnel. He swigged a bit of Chivas Regal and opened the ‘252’ text message, which read: ‘Dr Suess, the cat is in hat. Joseph has donned coat. He is standing on corner.’ In standard code, the message relayed the success of Rafael Mendoza and his men in another grocery store bank heist, more funds for ENOCH’s use, part of Jones’s ingenious plan to supplement ENOCH’s revenue. “To the Director, your welcome,” he said aloud, raising the glass. Despite a bloody past with the CIA’s black bag division, the Director would not approve of Jones’s illegal money acquisitions, especially those that involved injury to innocents. With another swig of whiskey he brought up the second message. After the de-scrambling process, it read: ‘Tron, San Diego student approached for schooling, but lessons reversed. Student left uneducated. Further note: class was not private. Additional, assistant - 59 -

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instructor did not make it, lead instructor on medical leave. Will advise on condition. Please forward next step. Raven Team Three.’ “Damnit!” He thumped a fist onto the computer desk. Zeus jumped to attention at his side. The message informed him about the attempt to eliminate Frank Revere. The message alluded to an additional witness. The latter detail needed clarification and Raven would also need a new assistant. Jones prepared a reply: Raven Three: Most unfortunate about failed education. Need ID of uninvited student, asap. Further lessons may be indicated for first student. Please standby. Will forward course outline soon. Send your injury status. Will call with new instructor information. Tron He punched the RETURN key to scramble and clicked on SEND. With the last swallow of whiskey, he looked at his watch: half an hour had passed. He stretched a bit, disconnected the Internet connection from the laptop, and then walked down the hallway toward the kitchen and dining room. Zeus followed at his heels. After placing the glass in a spotless sink, Jones drummed his fingers on the counter, wondering what Revere was up to. He rinsed the glass thoroughly and placed it in a nearly empty dishwasher. With sponge in hand, he wiped around the sink, before letting Zeus out in the backyard for late night bladder relief. Then, the two mounted the stairs to the master bedroom. Casi, Zeus’s mother, lifted her head as Jones and Zeus entered the room. She lay in one of two dog beds at the foot of the bed. Jones patted her head with genuine affection and she relaxed again. After undressing and folding his clothes, Jones petted Zeus and directed him to his bed. Jones lay on the bed with a sigh of satisfaction, the desire for knowledge satiated. It was time to rest. Yet sleep didn’t come despite the want. An agitation wormed through his body, the sort of feeling that simulates restlessness but with deeper roots. Since the work with the Director was reaching its peak, the bouts had become more frequent. Familiar images of himself as a boy of ten years old arose: the coffin, the roses, mother. Atop the bed covers muscles in his body began to tense. The scene played on in his head. Frantic, the boy ran up the stairs—a glance over his shoulder—a man lumbered after him. An eerie disfigured shadow on the stairwell wall—miniature bat looming enormous—a half-empty whiskey bottle dangling in the other hand.

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Involuntarily, Jones’s body contracted into a ball. The boy cowered in a corner of the closet, eyes closed and desperate. He prayed not to be found. The scrape of sliding wheels in metal tracks crushed unanswered prayers. The door opened. A huge hand reached in, groping blindly, then pulled the boy from the closet by the arm, hair, or shirt. The blows began— excruciating pain wracked the boy’s body. No screams. The boy remained aware. Fighting tears, the wallpaper pattern of dancing elephants blurred—uncontrollable rage. Over and over, he heard the compact wooden bat thud into his body as if a piece of dead flesh. The next memory: the aftermath. Vile revenge seethed through the boy’s blood. He lay on his bed in a crumpled heap, bruised and battered. Yet, deep inside he had won. He was still alive. Each beating he endured added strength. More images filled Jones’s mind. In the schoolyard, his face was an emotionless mask as he thrashed his schoolmates without remorse, perfecting his meanness, and practicing for the true tormentor. The final straw came when his father, in a drunken stupor, began to beat their dog. Even at fifteen Jones couldn’t stand to see animals hurt, so he had tackled his father and spared the dog further anguish. Jones received two rewards, a massive beating by his father, and unwavering loyalty from the dog. That day had marked the beginning of the end. He had endured. He knew he could endure anything. He also knew that flawless retribution was required. Lying supine on the bed again, Jones prepared himself. Exhilaration, the thrill of power coursed through him, filling his frame with the memory of that day. Exalted in an orgasmic rush, it subsided and he fell into a deep sleep. ✶

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Hotel Room, San Diego, California Friday, 8:52 A.M. Jennifer awoke and sat bolt upright as if something were terribly wrong. Rays of sunlight streamed in through the opening in the heavy brown curtains. She scanned her surroundings, black television screen, toiletries on the vanity sink. Everything seemed to be all right. Catching her breath, she lay back down and stared at the ceiling, struck by the realization of having nothing to do. Sliding her fingers along the tops of her thighs onto her belly, she toyed with the idea of a few days of freedom. A vibration rippled down the spine into her toes.

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I can’t remember the last time I felt this good, she thought. My whole body is tingling, like … like an orgasm. All of sudden, the phone rang and jolted her from the sentience. It was not Charles, only the rental car personnel dropping off the vehicle she had requested the night before. With the tingles gone, a gnawing in the belly beckoned for food. She opened the door to the balcony. A cool breeze flowed through the room carrying the scent of the sea. After a hot shower she selected the outfit her friend, Kelly, called, ‘genie pants’. Made of thin, bronze-colored cotton, it was designed in two parts. She tied the front half around the waist in the small of her back and tied the back half in front. She added a cream cotton top. Out of habit, she approached the vanity sink in preparation for being among the public. Gazing into the mirror—a smile, nothing more. Perhaps the lines around her eyes had softened, almost faded. On a whim, she decided to forego the makeup ritual and colored contacts. The dyed hair would have to stay the same. I’ll be the real Jennifer Chance, au naturelle. She eyed the raven etched into the 14-carat gold pendant that hung just below her throat. With a wave of dismissal, as if to the person in the mirror, she gathered a small purse and left the room. In the lobby, she passed by a man in casual business attire, appearing to read the paper. Within earshot of the man, she said to the bellman, “Excuse me. Do you know of a nice place nearby to have a leisurely breakfast?” “Sure ma’am. Cafe 222. I think it’s on Third and Market. You know it?” “No,” she said, listening carefully to directions. She slipped a bill into the young man’s hand as he held the door open for her. Heading to the rental car in the hotel’s parking lot, she didn’t notice the businessman from the lobby, who sauntered through the lobby doors soon after her. ✶

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Friday, 12:30 P.M. In a black leather chair at the far end of a spacious office, Jones’s fingers drummed the top of his desk while listening to a report recorded from an all news station that morning.

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“This just in from the Coroner’s Corner, fifty deaths reported in the Nation’s Capitol over the last five days in what appears to be a completely random loss of life due to cessation of bodily function that resulted in myocardial infarction. That is to say, the victims suffered a heart attack. Any further cause remains unknown for now. Maryland also reported thirty people dead and forty others in the state of Virginia, all from similar bodily reactions. Evidently, the Washington, D.C. coroner’s office was not concerned until contacted by officials in the surrounding states. Causal suppositions point to some sort of chemical exposure in the Washington area’s water system. A possible terrorist attack is implicated. Officials are debating on raising the code to orange. Those of us here at KLTZ 1390AM will keep you up-to-date on the latest.…” A soft knock on the office door grabbed Jones’s attention. Clicking the mouse and stopping the audio file playback, he considered the short, frumpy, gray-haired woman in the doorway, his secretary, who spoke in a raspy, smoker’s voice. “You buzzed me, sir.” “Yes Mrs. Weeks, get me Donaldson from Med-Lab, right away.” She nodded, and left without a word. During the wait for Donaldson, Jones gazed at an old fashioned corkboard on the wall to his left that held a map of the world within a polished, dark wooden frame, giving it a Napoleonic look. Clusters of different colored plastic topped tacks held positions throughout the map surface. Though antiquated, the tacks tracked the five hundred BET units strategically installed around the U.S. and it’s territories. He focused on a cluster of green tacks, newly positioned in Virginia, Maryland, and Washington, D.C. Officially, a computer handled all installation location monitoring. He stood up and ran a hand over the tack heads, and said, “Those were the days, before the wall came down, before political correctness intervened with.…” He stopped, suddenly aware that he was not alone. Without moving his head, he eyed the man framed by the office doorway. The man coughed, pushing gold-rimmed spectacles onto a lined, thin face with pursed pale lips beneath a stubby nose. He ran a hand through prematurely thinning golden red hair. “Donaldson, come in. I have a matter to discuss with you.” The man walked toward the oversized desk as if the carpeted floor might contain a hidden trapdoor. “Doctor, sir. Need I remind you, I hold both a medical degree in neuro-surgery with a specialization in the human brain and a second in sport-psychology.”

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“Both from Ivy League schools, right?” said Jones, not waiting for an answer. “Doctor, what is your take on the deaths reported in the Nation’s capitol and surrounding areas? I assume you’ve heard this morning’s newscast.” “Yes, sir. Each time BET devices become active in a new location the same thing has occurred, thus I was not overly surprised. In fact, if you remember, it concurs with my preliminary in-house report ‘Incidence of Sudden Death from Sensory-Motor Overstimulation (SMO) in the General Population.’” “Refresh my memory.” Donaldson gave a brief overview of the report, describing the two groups in the population most susceptible to SMO and the possibility of death. The first consisted of those previously under-stimulated, the second those over sensitized. SMO stimuli exposure resulted in a meltdown of the central nervous system. Persons in the former category acted like an overloaded electrical circuit and short-circuit, while those in the latter were similar to a processor unable to sort the volume of sensory input, and again short-circuited. Just as predicted, death was almost instantaneous, and under normal autopsy virtually undetectable. When finished, he clasped his hands in front of his hips, blond eyebrows arching. “I recall reading that, however, one aspect puzzles me. The two types of persons you describe seem to be quite common, yet we are not having more deaths.” “Would you want that, sir?” “No, of course not. It’s just that the deaths are occurring more among the white collar or more educated segments, rather than the less educated or blue-collar workers. Can you explain that?” Hiding exasperation, Donaldson exhaled and began to explain that the human organism resembled a battery, though far more advanced than those in a flashlight. A continual current flowed through each person at varying intensities, much like the differing frequencies of radio station transmissions. The source of the current was the same but the vibration level can be modulated by numerous aspects within the individual’s makeup, including genetics, environment, and lifestyle factors such as intake of food and drink, activity level, and present belief systems. He paused, hands stopping their movement in time with his lips. Then, trying not to sound condescending, he spoke about the key aspect relating to Nicola Tesla’s work in the early twentieth century combined with the NASA studies in the eighties that revealed the importance of proper body alignment in relation to the force of gravity. Research had proven that those segments of the human frame perpendicularly aligned to the earth’s surface and to one another allow the body to act as a very efficient sensory-motor processing unit. Of course,

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assuming the neurological organization of the brain was intact, properly developed, and maintained. “Get to the point, please.” “Sorry, sir. I don’t mean to digress, but I know how much you enjoy detailed information and my answer would not make much sense without the appropriate background. I’ll hurry, sir. Where was I … ah yes, electrical impulses follow the path of least resistance, always, much like a river over land. So, the more blockages to the flow of the current through a body, the more likely for an uncontrollable buildup of stimuli, thus resulting in a circuitry overload, simply, death, sir.” “What about the demographics on the casualties in the population?” “You see, sir, the average middle-income earner is comforted with all the conveniences of modern society, especially televisions, computers and so on. Typically, lower-income persons haven’t had the means to purchase such items and are more often employed in more physically intensive jobs. Furthermore, groups within the monetarily disadvantaged populations opt to participate in more active functional recreational activities, like basketball, street ball, etcetera.” Donaldson took a long purposeful pause, wanting to ensure an impressive delivery. “Go on.” “To put it simply, sir: persons among low-income populations are typically more active and physically more grounded. Often, this relates to their more functional activity level during the childhood upbringing years as well. In other words, their central nervous system functions more optimally than your average office professional, regardless of ethnicity. In sum, the implementation of the BET device for the two aforementioned groups acts to supersede their tolerance for processing stimuli. Thus, it would seem Darwin might have been correct after all, though maybe not in the way scientists have interpreted his work.” Jones eyed Donaldson as kindly as possible then began to shuffle papers, distracted by what he had to do. Finally, he said, “Thank you, Doctor. That’ll be all.” “Certainly, sir.” The researcher fidgeted with his fingers, but remained in place. “Doesn’t the Director’s plan for the BET device involve helping to stabilize and balance the collective human organism, sorry sir, humankind?” “In a manner of speaking, yes.” About to exit the office, Donaldson turned, and said, “One other thing, sir. I will have the final report on the pilot BET devices implemented eight weeks ago. I’m sure you’re eagerly awaiting these results.” “Excellent. Bring them as soon as you finish.”

66

Deadly Exchange

Jones turned toward the computer screen and clicked on the MAIL icon. He read the updates from the hospitalized leader of Raven Team Three, Petrovich. Disgusted, he typed a revised plan of action, which read: “Raven Three: Two harvests required. The first is to be carried out with extreme prejudice. See attached file. The second is a bonus and a precautionary measure, to be carried out according to action code. See file two. Fee payments will occur in usual manner. Tron.” He then attached: File One: Name: Samuel Caravel

Age: 32

SSN: 561-45-9873

Wt: 180 Ht: 5'11"

Address: 321 Water Street

(H) 603-973-8118

Chicago, Illinois 87435

(W) 800-4SEMINAR

Employer:

Lectures And More, Inc

Address:

LAM, Inc, US HQ 1525 Washington Ave Wilmington, DE 10098

Occupation: Motivational Speaker

Known Habits: Well-dressed, usually suit and tie. Often in the company of women typically in early to mid twenties. Attends public functions such as symphony, plays, concerts, etc. Travels considerably for work. Does a thirty-minute workout in the local gym approx 6:30 am, five days per week. Eats a light breakfast, heavier lunch, medium-sized dinner. Has been known to overindulge in alcohol, but not considered a problem drinker. As of this report, target is not under the influence of other narcotics or other pharmaceutical drugs, prescription or otherwise. Very amiable and approachable by strangers. Known Medical Condition: Good to excellent health, however, reportedly has a slight heart murmur. No other conditions. Present Whereabouts: Hilton West, San Diego, CA, finished presenting at local conference today (Friday). His lecture is called: The Four Keys to Secure Your Future in the Present

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Action: EH The initials stood for Extreme Harvest—to be carried out immediately. Jones checked over the first file, making sure it contained all pertinent information. He then typed a short note to Petrovich. “Raven. You and your new partner, Damio, better not screw up these assignments, or you will be looking down the wrong end of that Glock of yours. Payments will be made as usual—upon completion. Tron.” He attached the second file and rubbed his chin before depressing the RETURN key to start encryption, knowing the Director would not approve of this action. He glanced at the map of the world, soon to be filled with colored tacks, and pressed SEND. This next step was a minor risk, but one he had to take toward the completion of his goal.

C H A P T E R ▼

10

La Jolla, California Friday, 1:05 P.M. Near the famous La Jolla Cove, a small inlet of water adjacent to some of the most expensive real estate in the world, Jennifer left the rental car and, for the first time in months, truly walked alone. In a new pair of culottes and a white cotton top, she soaked up the warmth of the sun as she strolled to the water’s edge, passing grassy beachside areas where children played as parents lounged on blankets. The Pacific Ocean sparkled beneath the sun’s rays. Standing at a seaside railing, next to a woman clad in typical southern California active wear, Jennifer watched the seals frolic, bark, and bask on the rocks that littered the Cove and nearby waters. “Only if we could be more like them and live what we feel,” said the woman. “Yes, too true,” said Jennifer, vowing to do so. She watched the woman jog away. A little further up, on a cobblestone side street that overlooked another inlet, she saw a café built into the side of a large granite rock. Reminiscent of those she had frequented during a tour of Cinqueterre, Italy, she took a seat outside on a wooden platform that leveled the slope of the hill. Backdropped by white French doors that allowed fresh air to flow into the café, she absorbed the spectacular view of rugged coastline to the north that rose out of the ocean. The sea shimmered and offered a scant onshore breeze that wafted over her body as the sun strolled in and out of cloud formations. At last, no Charles, no public appearances for a few days, she thought. I’m anonymous, just a person on vacation or out for a stroll, a nobody taking the day off.

- 68 -

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Smiling, she took a sip of her latte while tourists traversed the cobblestones a few feet away. Out of nowhere a man approached and said something. So adrift in bliss, Jennifer stared blankly at him for a moment as if he had spoken a foreign tongue. “Sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you knew the time?” “About one thirty,” she said, noting the man’s cold gray eyes beneath short-cropped hair. He looked like a golfer who had wandered too far from the course. He still hovered a few feet away. She looked the opposite direction to avoid being recognized from some Nightingale-Conant ad, like with Frank. This thought jarred her memory. She said, “Oh no!” “Something the matter?” asked the man. “Hey, that’s an unusual necklace you’re wearing. Where did you get it?” Without thinking, she put a hand to her neck. “A dear friend gave it to me as a sort of graduation present.” “May I take a closer look? It’s quite exquisite, I mean, the etching of the bird.” The man inspected it. “Is that real gold? What type of bird is it anyway?” “A raven, specially handcrafted or so he told me at the time. You know, I hate to be rude, but I just remembered I need to check my messages at my hotel.” “So you’re not from San Diego. Where’s home then?” “Well, not to be evasive, I travel a lot, but I live in the outskirts of Washington, D.C.” “I hope I haven’t offended you. I’m here on a conference. You know the routine, playing hooky this afternoon. I’m Jack. Maybe you’d like to stroll around the shops together or get a bite of lunch?” With a reluctant, almost robot-like movement, Jennifer shook the offered hand. “Look Jack, I’m sure you’re a very nice guy, but I came here to have some time alone, so if you don’t mind I’m going to make that call.” The man raised both arms as if surrendering and began backing away, smiling. With the phone to her ear, Jennifer heard a female front desk attendant give a welcome greeting to the hotel. “Yes, I’m in room 945 and I wanted to know if I had received any messages?” The woman told her there were two messages, one from Charles, the other from Frank. She ignored the first and jotted down the number Frank had left. She pressed END and dialed Frank’s number. Gleefulness grew into butterflies in her stomach. She listened to the rings, unable to recall the last time she felt so excited about talking with someone.

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Deadly Exchange

A little ways down the street, still visible to Jennifer if she had bothered to look, the man called Jack dialed a contact number on a payphone. He was neither a conference attendee nor on vacation, rather a member of Raven Team Four on surveillance. He relayed the target’s activities, which the GPS device did not tell. Then, by operations command, he was directed to maintain surveillance and report in every four hours, per protocol. ✶

✶

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Friday, 4:40 P.M. Jones swiveled his chair to face the white phone on the desk next to the secure red one and depressed the flashing button. On the other end of the receiver he heard the voice of the ENOCH chief physician, Dr. Foster. “Dr. Jones, remember the gentleman brought in after the demonstration a couple of days ago? Well … he didn’t make it, sir.” “A Mr. Stubbs, right?” “Sir, his name was Phil Dibbs. Anyway, he never regained consciousness after his collapse, just thought you should know. Also, his wife has been here the whole time and as you can expect is quite upset. I thought you’d want to make an appearance, offer your condolences, that sort of thing.” “Thank you for the call. Tell her I’ll be down shortly.” Jones disconnected the line with a flick of a finger and dialed an extension within the ENOCH building. The Public Relations secretary answered on the first ring. “This is Dr. Jones. I need to speak with Lawrence Howe immediately.” “Uh sir, he is in a staff meeting. Shall I.…” “Not to be pushy, but could you get him for me? Now!” Within seconds a deep, soothing voice, befitting a radio announcer, came on the line. “Hello, this is Larry. How are you, sir?” Jones brought him up-to-date on the situation and indicated that a whitewashed timely media statement may be necessary. “I’m going to speak with the widow in a few moments,” he said. “I’ll remind her of the confidentiality agreement that they both signed.”

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“Certainly, sir. I’ll see to it that a benign press release is prepared and ready to go.” Jones re-cradled the phone, disconnected the computer from the satellite uplink for the Internet, and gathered the volunteers’ signed liability releases. Stoic, he passed Mrs. Weeks at her desk just outside his office door. He told her to have Kelly meet him in med-bay immediately. ✶

✶

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✶

San Diego, California, Friday, 2:45 P.M. In the passenger seat of a rental car, Charles watched the other rising star of LAM, Inc., Samuel Caravell, fiddle with the tuning buttons for the radio. The car jounced across the train tracks as they traveled the streets of downtown, returning to the hotel after Caravell’s presentation. In Jennifer’s absence Charles had linked up with him, a guy he admired in the extreme. He eyed Caravell, whose classic male runway model looks—five feet ten inches, blue eyes beneath brown locks, perfect Coppertone tan—garnered him much attention. As the radio descended into the lower frequencies of FM a newscaster’s voice caught Caravell’s ear. He adjusted the volume as he pulled into the circular hotel driveway. “Just in from the AP news service. A trilateral commission has been formed between Maryland, Virginia, and Washington, D.C. to investigate a hundred or more deaths that appear to have unknown causes other than.…” “Are we goin’ in?” asked Charles. “Shut up, I want to hear the … oh shit, never mind. More airport delays if the alert goes to orange again. Damn terrorists!” A young man opened the driver side door and offered to park the car. Caravell handed over the keys, but didn’t tip him. Inside the lobby, Charles followed him into the elevator. On the way to the ninth floor, Caravell outlined the plan for the busy evening, which included an interview with the reporter from the San Diego paper and mingling on Market Street. “Her name is Roberta Bennett,” reminded Charles. “Yeah, whatever, then, a couple of drinks and time to let loose. I was smokin’ in that lecture today, wasn’t I Charley? Makin’ waves, I’ll be able to take over Jennifer’s spot in the limo, maybe even dump LAM.”

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Deadly Exchange

“What’d you say?” Caravell waved a hand at him then flashed a suave smile at a hallway mirror, oblivious to the rounding of his shoulders and sunken chest. As he inserted the plastic key card into the door, a sharp pain shot down his left leg. He shook the leg, ignoring the stabbing pain. ✶

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Natural Path Company, Solana Beach, California Friday, 3:13 P.M. Frank strode into the store, passing the handmade items on display. The main room appeared empty, though a murmur of voices rumbled from a back room. He began to explore various items. In rhythm, he thumped an hourglass-shaped wooden drum from Tanzania. “Ya wan’ be African tribesman, nuh?” He turned to see the Rastaman’s broad, radiant smile. “Ah, it’s you. How ya feeling, mon? I bet ya ‘ere to see Peetah, nuh?” “That’s right, Mr. Wilde. Is he here?” “Yes, but ya canna see ’im ‘less ya drop the formality. Da name’s John, good to see ya ‘gin. Ya much more relaxed dis aftanoon. He’s expecting yuh, mon.” Directed to the back room, Frank entered through a curtain of hanging red, green, and yellow beads. Against the far wall was a sagging forest-green fabric couch. The white walls of the small room were covered with items belonging to the two men, a Jamaican national flag, a large picture of Bob Marley in concert with dreadlocks flying about his head, personal photographs of family or friends of John and a white man in his fifties. The man had a compact stature within average height, topped with black hair and specks of gray. A lined face showed experience earned the hard way, but the brown eyes, like almonds, revealed a deep wisdom. Next to that hung a picture of the same man, though younger, in full British SAS uniform. Frank assumed both were Peter since he looked like the man who sat at a computer terminal before him, though the hair was more gray than black. The man looked Frank up and down as if comparing to a mental photograph. Satisfied, he stood up, offered a hand, and said, “You must be the famous Frank Revere.”

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“Frank I am, not sure about the famous part. You must be the intrepid Peter Wellington from England.” He smiled, surprised by the strength of the older man’s grip. “True enough, my boy. And you are famous. I heard about you a long time ago from Sarah. She said to me once, ‘Peter, I can’t express to you in words the feeling this man generates within my soul.’ I should think that is an accurate.…” Frank’s eyes dropped and his hand rose to shield his eyes as if in bright sunlight. A minute passed in silence. “I say, laddie, forgive me. I should have known the intensity of her loss to you, even after so many years.” Frank waved a hand, jaw tightening. “I really thought I was through with this. I’ll be all right. Thanks.” “Quite all right, ol’ chap. She was quite a gal.” “Yeah, but she sure could be stubborn at times.” “A strong independent streak. It probably came from her father, if I know old Raymond. I recall one stormy day when she was a teen and Raymond told her not to go surfing because the water was too rough, especially for a girl.” “And she went out and did it anyway. I remember her telling me about that,” said Frank, the tension around his eyes softening. “She made it back, but I think she got grounded for a week.” “That’s right, m’boy. Ah, but she was a sweetheart, despite all her faults.” The two had a laugh about how organized she was, even down to the sweaters in the closet. It felt good to Frank to connect with someone else about the one person that had meant so much to him. “Enough reminiscing, John tells me that you’ve some new evidence concerning Sarah’s disappearance or should I say, circumstances. How can I be of assistance to you?” He told Peter of the safety deposit box contents and that it appeared to be a loose end. He watched the man carefully as he spoke. “Most importantly, do you know for sure if she’s dead? I mean, that is the purpose of my trip, to put closure on … on the whole Sarah thing. It still haunts me.” Peter confirmed what John had told him the day before about the arrangement for maintaining the box, per Sarah’s instructions. Then, he scratched his clean-shaven chin, and added,” As far as I know she disappeared after the accident. Five years ago, my contacts informed me that the case was closed. I know that’s not very clear, but I hope it helps.”

74

Deadly Exchange

“You see, that’s the problem I’ve struggled with all these years. There was no record of anyone named Sarah Darnell in any of the hospitals around the Bay Area. Though completely out of it for several weeks after the accident, when I regained consciousness I asked the hospital staff what room Sarah was in. They told me I had come in alone. Very peculiar, you must admit, unless clandestine forces were at work. Peter, you know the business better than I do. What do you think?” “Quite right. A covert ops cover-up is possible. One thing of interest, Raymond Darnell was a pretty high level intelligence operative and may have been eliminated for some socio-economic-political leverage point. You may recall that her parents were killed in a car accident years ago, quite a suspicious affair, if I do say.” “Yeah, an automobile accident in December a decade ago. As the story goes, her parents, Raymond and Emily, were on holiday in Banff and drove off the road in an ice storm.” “Quite, however what you may not know is that he had just finished testifying before the Senate Select Committee on Covert Intelligence Operations.” “Do you think his death was connected to that?” Peter told him how an entire counterintelligence operation had been canceled because of that testimony. The man in charge of the operation was Ulrich Rogers, who took an early retirement amid the scandal, which involved the misuse of confidential information resulting in unwarranted ‘harvests’. When he mentioned Walter Jones, Roger’s second in command at the Italian CIA station, Frank’s eyebrows raised as he rubbed his knuckles. “Those two were very clever chaps, and very dangerous, especially Rogers’s accomplice. But he’s re-invented himself, I’d say. If seen on the street, you wouldn’t know he was anything but a regular businessman.” “Jones and I had a couple of run-ins, years ago,” Frank said. “Back when I was with NSA, my team had to do an off-the-books rescue of what was left of his team.” There was no need to say more than that. “You don’t say. You were a smart chap to get out when you did.” “No choice, really. The accident put me out of commission. Of course, they offered me the desk jockey position, but I’d had enough. That accident was one hell of a wake-up call.” Frank paused. “Grief often brings much introspection. I know the desolation from the loss of a person who has blessed your life with so much joy.” Peter squeezed one of Frank’s shoulders. “I must admit I feel somewhat responsible where Sarah’s …”

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Frank brushed off the man’s hand. Instinctively, his center of gravity lowered, eyes glinting, like cold steel in clear sunlight. “Were you involved?” “Easy, laddie. Sarah’s father entrusted me with her protection. He felt there might be repercussions from the testimony or from the life he led. When the hit and run happened I felt I had failed him … and her too.” “Sorry for jumping on you, but.…” “No, no, quite understandable. As I said I’m not altogether unfamiliar with that sort of loss. I say, was there any information in the safe deposit box that foretold of the accident or her disappearance?” “I thought of that too, but so far as I can tell, no. Listen, I appreciate you seeing me so soon after your trip. I won’t take up anymore of your time.” Frank turned to go but stopped as Peter began to speak. “Slow down, my boy. What line of work are you in these days? Still keeping a hand in the ol’ game, eh?” Frank shook his head and told him that he had used the money from Sarah’s life insurance to set up Cherish the Wild Foundation, a San Francisco-based non-profit organization focused on connecting humans to nature. “Sounds vaguely familiar, perhaps I read a write up in an airline magazine a couple of years ago. Sarah would have liked that, I should imagine.” “Why’d you ask about my work now?” “I thought if you were still in the covert ops game, I might be able to employ your expertise on something upcoming.” “Doubtful. My expertise was not in things you’d probably find useful, unless you want some people eliminated behind enemy lines, and even then, I’m not for hire.” “How do you feel about large companies or governments gaining control over your will power and beliefs?” “Sort of out of my area, besides hasn’t that been happening for a while through the media?” A wry smile crossed Frank’s lips. “What can you tell me?” Peter gave him a brief outline, though less detail than to the Senator. “I’m not at liberty to say much more than that, but I thought if you were still in the game, it might be of interest. Rogers and Jones are at the top of the organization.” “Sorry, but thanks for asking. Sounds interesting. If you come up with anything on Sarah, let me know.” He handed Peter a business card. “I put my mobile number on there so you can reach me anytime. If you can, keep me posted on what develops with that device. I’m still for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for everyone. Something this country seems to have forgotten.”

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Deadly Exchange

“Quite all right. Keep what I told you under your hat. A pleasure to finally have met you. I can see what Sarah saw in you. Take care and I’ll be in touch.” Frank walked through the main room toward the exit and waved to John who was helping a customer with a handmade rug from Ghana interwoven with jade, gold, and mauve blended into a rich chocolate background. “Come back again, okay mon.” Frank smiled at the Rasta. “Thanks John, for all your help. I’ll be in touch. Look me up if you come to the City.” With the image of the smiling Rastafarian’s face and clear black eyes beneath dreadlocks implanted in the brain, he walked to the car, knowing that what he had come to do was complete. He felt a weight lift from his frame. Now, he could let Sarah be a warm memory, not a ghost.

C H A P T E R ▼

11

La Jolla, California, Friday, 5:35 P.M. Seated outside the same cafe, Jennifer paused in writing the sabbatical proposal from LAM. Hours had passed since leaving the message for Frank. Glancing at the words written down, she felt a twinge in her abdomen, a stab of fear, of insecurity. Unconsciously, she bit a nail. A seesaw of emotion from elation to self-doubt rippled through her body. She considered the three years since completing the training. They had flown by, as if she was in a trance or some hypnotic state. What the hell have I been doing? Why has it taken me so long to wake up? Doesn’t matter, she thought. Now is the time to act on these new feelings, no matter how uncertain my future is and how drastic the changes are. She watched the sunlight dance upon the cobblestones as the sun slowly headed toward its meeting with the calm waters of the Pacific in the distance. She tried to release all fears into the ocean’s unending splendor, with the greenish, blue-gray waves undulating toward break point. The light brown cliffs of Del Mar stood solid and tangible a few miles to the north. Closing her eyes, she allowed the ocean’s rhythm to flow through her. Pulsing and vibrating, it rocked her with a serenity that only nature could provide. Beethoven’s Fifth sounded from her phone. She jumped. Her heart leapt with the thought of Frank. She picked it up, hands fumbling. “Hello, this is Jennifer.” The baritone voice on the other end was familiar, but not the one she wanted. “Jennifer, my star,” said a tranquil Ulrich Rogers. “How are you feeling? I thought I’d check-in and see how your vacation is going.”

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78

Deadly Exchange

Good! Until you called, she thought, feeling the knot in her stomach return. Then, she said, “Oh fine, just relaxing, watching the sea, y’know the usual. No need to bother yourself about me, I’m fine. Really.” “Splendid. Listen, the other day I forgot to remind you of the Lectures And More’s Gala event planned for all of our friends and partners and, as you know, you’re the big star.” “Right. When is it again?” She glanced at her goal-planning sheet in dismay. “Precisely two Saturdays from now, nine days, my dear. Please mark your calendar. And it is not a casual affair either.” “Thanks for the reminder. Is that it?” After the call ended her body slumped in the chair. All the life drained out and the waves of serenity faded. The dates marking the beginning of the break from LAM loomed up from the page. She took the pencil, erased the proposed date, and replaced it with another that occurred after the Gala event. Knowing that she couldn’t let the company down in front of the whole world, she would have to postpone her departure. When the phone rang again, she grabbed it, ready to tell whomever to leave her alone. Then, as if programmed, she said sweetly, “Hello, Jennifer Chance speaking.” “Hi Jennifer, this is Frank. We met at the coffee shop.…” “Don’t be silly. I remember. Thank you for phoning me back. How are you?” As he apologized for the delay in returning the call, Jennifer heard his voice as a subtle caress of tenderness that erased any anger and frustration in an instant. She tingled all over like a human sparkler. Caught up in the experience, a few seconds elapsed before she realized he had stopped speaking. “Frank, where are you? You haven’t left San Diego yet?” “I’m at my hotel, just back from a stroll along the coast. I’m hoping we can get together.” “How about tonight? Oh wait, I can’t.” “That’s all right. I’ve another engagement this evening. How’s tomorrow?” “That would be fantastic! I’d love a chance to spend time together before we both have to depart. Did your meetings go well? You sound more relaxed than the other day.” “Wonderful, thank you. A big weight has been lifted from me, one that I’ve carried far too long. I can’t believe you noticed. Actually, I’m running a bit late for this evening. Shall we meet at Seaport Village tomorrow at noon?” “Great. Same spot, the Upstart Crow Cafe, wasn’t it? Look forward to seeing you then.”

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She turned the phone off, feeling electrified and light as a feather, despite the delay in her plans. ✶

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Gaslamp District, San Diego, California Friday, 9:40 P.M. Beneath a blackened sky the cool night air surrounded Jennifer as she walked the streets of the city with a throng of LAM employees, including Samuel Caravell, Charles, and a few other production crew members. Passing many new businesses that thrived from the constant stream of convention-goers seeking entertainment and nourishment, she wondered what tomorrow would bring. Despite the city’s efforts at re-gentrification, or because of it, she noticed the dozens of homeless persons, all with longing in their eyes, yet shadowed by an eerie detachment. She gave away coins freely, feeling compelled to help. With some reluctance, she had agreed to the post-production celebration. Though attendance was mandatory, she had considered rebelling, but couldn’t quite bring herself to go against company policy, despite internal yearnings. Hip hop music spilled out into the streets from an upbeat Spanish Euro club on Market Street. Once inside, Jennifer watched with disinterested amusement as Samuel begin the usual attention-getting antics. Loosening his tie, he stepped from the dance floor. At the table he grabbed the nearest beer and downed half of it in one gulp. It mattered little that it was not his. He threw a wolfish grin at Jennifer, then another to three young girls nearby, all part of the production crew. Standing next to Jennifer, Charles, an avid regular at these gatherings, studied the Adonis-like figure with envious eyes. A dirty-blond haired girl in her early twenties clad in a black one-piece jumpsuit and looking like a nurse from a gothic hospital, slunk up to Caravell. “Sammy, get me a shot, Cuervo—1800,” she said, clutching his drinking arm. “Ever done a Body Shot?” He winked at Charles in secret, hinting at prevarication. “No, I’ve never had a Body Shot. How’s it go?” “Ooh noo, I can’t tell you. I’ll show you. Now we need the Cuervo, some salt, and a lime. Where’s the damn waitress when you need her?”

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From atop a high stool Jennifer glanced at the time on her cellphone. She had seen all of this many times before. Different city, different girls, but the same result. She turned to Charles, and shouted, “I’m gonna go soon.” “What? The fun’s just gettin’ started.” “I know, but I just want some time alone.” Charles nodded, only half listening, and took another swig of whiskey sour. The tequila shot arrived and jumpsuit girl set about creating the Body Shot. She attempted to place the shot of Cuervo in Caravell’s waistband above the zipper, but first had to stop his pelvic gyrations. With both hands on his buttocks, she squeezed, pleading with him. With the shot in place and onlookers pointing, she stuck the lime between his teeth, flesh side out. She placed a handful of salt in her hand and eyed him with a not so subtle lascivious look. “Are you ready for your shot, Mister? I’m just the girl to give it to you.” “Fire away baby!” Onlookers cheered as the girl licked the side of his neck, threw salt onto the wet spot then licked his neck clean of salt. With a hand on his crotch, in preparation, she dropped to the knees, face in front of his groin. Surrounding the shot glass with luscious lips, she extracted it from the pants, and tossed the liquid back into the deepest region of her throat. She put the glass down on the table and gently sucked the flesh of the lime from between his teeth. With the performance over, Caravell took her further into his arms for a longer kiss, then pushed her away as the crowd whooped and applauded. Seizing the limelight, he looked around the dance floor, and yelled, “Who’s next? Come on! Which of you sexy ladies out there want some?” “You glutton,” said the Body Shot giver. “You’re never satisfied, always want more, more, more. Don’t ya? I’m goin’ to the powder room. When I get back, you and I are gonna dance, okay wild man?” She slapped his butt and spun on a spiked heel, hips pumping like two pistons. Jennifer watched Caravell nudge Charles, who almost drooled with envy. Then, Caravell downed the rest of someone else’s beer. Jennifer got up, said her goodbyes, and tried to not think of what the others would say about her early departure.

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Saturday, 1:03 A.M. Hunched over a composite topped, gray metal desk in a clinically clean, white laboratory room, Dr. Donaldson’s face glowed yellow from light cast by a small desk lamp. Immersed in calculating statistics for the pilot BET devices report, an hour had passed since he phoned home and told his wife not to wait up. The reports had to be finished, as Dr. Jones was not a man he wanted to disappoint. Entering the last figure into the computer’s statistical analysis program Donaldson hit RETURN. As the report began to print Donaldson got up to boil water for tea in an electric hotpot. Standing at a side counter he tapped a finger to his lips. Something in the calculations appeared off. Cup in hand, he fetched the completed report pages from the nearby printer and sat down to review them. Operational for eight weeks, the fifty locations, each one in a select city of the United States with a mean population of sixty thousand, represented roughly one percent of the country’s total population. The report outlined the city and state, the start date of the BET device transmission, the total population as of the transmission start date, and the total number of hospitalizations and fatalities reported for the region. Donaldson frowned as the figures revealed a higher number of fatalities than expected, all with the apparent cause as myocardial infarction or unknown. After figuring the ratios between the total population of each region and reported fatalities, he penciled the percentage next to each city. Once completed, the numbers showed a mortality rate between three and ten percent. Until now, the former number represented the projected high-end range while the latter figure was considered an extreme. Pushing back from the desk, he began to pace the linoleum floor behind the desk. With his mind whirring like a steam engine, he grabbed the phone, about to call Dr. Jones, who was waiting in his third floor office despite the hour. He stopped and steepled his fingers, then tapped his lips. After a minute of weighing options he returned to the chair and the figures. All of a sudden his jaw dropped as he realized what would happen in about six weeks when the additional four hundred and fifty BET device sites completed eight weeks of full operation. Frantic, he scribbled figures, trying to get a possible

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death toll from the remaining four hundred and fifty sites. Reeling at the enormous figure staring up at him from the scratch paper, the pencil dropped from his hand. He got up and began pacing the floor once more, like a caged leopard. Then the answer came. He grabbed a spare CD and placed it in the computer. He began to burn the report and all the statistical data onto the disk. At that moment, he heard a noise outside the lab door. Without glancing up, he trashed the hard drive copy of the report, ejected the completed CD and was labeling it, ‘Classical Music’, when the opaque glass-paned door to the lab opened. The distinct image of Walter Jones filled the doorway. “That report finished, yet?” “There was a glitch running the program, sir.” Donaldson slipped the disk into a lab coat pocket. “I see. When will it be finished?” Donaldson watched his boss cross the lab floor with surprising speed. He watched Jones reach for a pair of long, thin surgical steel scissors that lay on a rectangular table next to his thigh. “Just re-running the calculations now, sir,” said Donaldson, fidgeting with some papers on the desk. “I thought I could bring the print out to you in the morning. If that’s all right.” He noticed an unusual look in his boss’s eyes. The shearing noise of the scissor blades opening and closing filled the lab room as Jones stood an arm’s length away. ✶

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Jennifer’s Hotel Room, San Diego, California Saturday, 7:04 A.M. On her stomach with one arm overhead and a knee bent on the same side of the body, Jennifer resembled a soldier crawling beneath barbed wire. The telephone rang, jarring her from unusually deep sleep. She rubbed her eyes and groped for the handset, “Hello?” A familiar baritone voice said her name. “I’m trying to reach Ms. Jennifer Chance.” “Ulrich?” She thought his voice sounded less relaxed. “Is everything all right?”

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“Something terrible has happened. Samuel Caravell’s dead. They found him in a back alley in San Diego with his throat cut. Do you know anything about this? How could this happen?” “Slow down Ulrich,” she said, now bolt upright in bed, knuckles white around the phone. The mist of sleep gone for good. “Sam’s dead? Is that what you said?” “Yes, it’s … it’s horrible. There was a woman’s body, too. They told me her name but she was not a LAM employee. You know how he was with women. Has Charles contacted you?” “No he hasn’t.” “As soon as I received the information I called Bill Flaherty to go identify the body and to officially represent Lectures And More to the police. However, they do have your cell phone number. I told them you’re the highest-level LAM employee in San Diego at present. I’m so sorry to disturb you. I told you we would give you a few days on your own, but.…” “Ulrich, that can wait. This is an emergency. What do you think happened? Did the police say anything?” “According to the police, both bodies were stripped of all items of any value, indicating a monetarily motivated crime. They are beginning an investigation as we speak. That’s all I know. I’ll be in touch. I’ll call Charles. Be safe, Jennifer.” “Okay, but keep me posted, please. Call if you need anything.” Jennifer slumped against the wooden headboard, head resting on the wall. Dazed, not because Sam was a close friend, but from the shock of the news. As it sunk in, another realization struck her. What if I had stayed with them last night? That could have been me in the alley. The question ricocheted though her brain, bringing a barrage of voices and confusion. “Arrrhhhggg!” she screamed. Her entire body began to tremble, mostly from the adrenaline that flooded her system. Trying to breathe, like in yoga class, to calm down, she reached for the phone to call someone, but stopped. The only person that came to mind was Frank.

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Seaport Village, San Diego, California Saturday, 12:05 P.M. Following one of the meandering paths lined with flowers that led to shops, Jennifer breathed in the fresh sea air and smiled at the clear blue sky overhead, trying to put the morning’s call behind her. She could feel that her legs were a bit shaky upon nearing the same café as the other day, the Upstart Crow Café. There he sat at the same table as before, appearing to watch the throngs of milling tourists. She paused, watching him fidget with his hair, trying to keep it in place amidst a gentle sea breeze flowing off the bay. “Frank, have I kept you waiting?” she said softly, as he turned to look in her direction. She felt his hazel eyes dance over her, guessing that he was not the type of man to miss many details. She took a seat in the chair he pulled out for her. “So good to see you Jennifer. Look at you, like a garden in bloom.” She glanced down at the brilliant yellow cotton top with hibiscus flowers down the left side, the white mid-thigh length shorts, and sandals to match that she had selected for the outing. Smiling, hands clasped in her lap, she said, “So glad to get together, finally.” “I like the more casual you.” “I needed to shed those professional clothes from the other day. I’m so tired of having to maintain an ‘appearance’, you know, for the public. It’s so cumbersome, worrying about whether you will look a certain way to others. Do you have to be concerned with that in your line of work?” “Some.” He paused, debating how much to say. “Despite being the co-founder and a Vice President of the organization, I try to stay in the shadows. Just suits me better.”

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“The organization is called Cherish the Wild Foundation, right? To be honest, I took a peek at the website last night. If I read it correctly, the goal is to return to the wilderness and its denizens the protection and cherishing it deserves from mankind. Right?” “Yeah. We’re unlike the Sierra Club, a great organization, by the way. We stay focused on real world solutions along with reviving the love of wilderness through active participation by our members. Shall I invite you to a coffee, as they say in Europe, or would you prefer to stroll around?” “A chance to sit and chat would be nice. That luxury comes so rarely. I want to hear more about your work. Sounds fascinating! It’s always been a dream of mine to work with wildlife. Shall we order?” She smiled as Frank let her enter the cafe first. “So, if working with wildlife is such a true heart’s desire,” he said, as they stood in line to order, “how did you get into motivational speaking?” “I don’t know, maybe I just thought dreams were simply meant to be that and not something to live. Now that you ask, it does make me wonder … Of course, I don’t have any skills pertaining to your work.” “You’ve got to be kidding me. With your charisma, presence, and last but not least, radiant beauty, you’ve got it made. We could use a person like you to help present our issue to the world at large. I’d say you’re uniquely qualified to take such a position.” “Hmm, maybe. Tell me more about your view of the whole wildlife thing.” She listened intently as Frank spoke briefly about the importance of wilderness preservation, especially the parts about not instilling fear into people, rather inspiring caring for the planet and its inhabitants. He paused so they could order, and added, “As far as I know, and I don’t mean to come off too harsh, this is the only inhabitable planet in our solar system.” Back at the table Jennifer moved her chair closer to Frank’s, allowing them both to view the bay through a small grove of palm trees surrounded by several orange-beaked bird of paradise flowers. A small wooden bridge bisected the grove and a tiny pond where egrets nested. After a minute, she excused herself to go to the washroom, aware that Frank watched her walk away, and not minding the attention for a change. Washing her hands at the sink, she wondered whether to mention Sam’s death, but decided against it. On her return, she noticed how his gaze didn’t veer from her as she approached. She liked that. “You’re one of the headliners at your company, right? How did you come to be there?” asked Frank.

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She told him of her recruitment by the Director of Lectures And More five years ago, and the training that followed. With the Director she developed a series of workshops. The one called, ‘Your Beliefs and You’, garnered much success both professionally and commercially, propelling her to the top of the motivational speaking world. Finally, she added, “Now, I’m supposed to help promote the new education platforms, directing people to greater unity and togetherness.” “You don’t sound too happy about that.” She paused and took a deep breath, unsure of how much to reveal. After all, she didn’t really know him. “It’s not that. It’s … just.… I’m having some doubts. I mean positive thinking and belief cultivation certainly have value but there seems to be something else, perhaps more important. I’m probably not being very clear.” Frank nodded. “How ’bout we walk and talk. It’s so relaxing through the park by the water’s edge.” “Sure.” They strolled between the San Diego Bay and stretches of green grass of a small park. Jennifer didn’t notice Frank skillfully scanning the passersby and people picnicking or napping in the grass. Instead, she watched the kites flouncing beneath sparse, billowy white clouds backdropped by a pristine blue sky. The news about Samuel still lingered in her thoughts. A faint image of someone flying through the air again flashed through her mind. She pushed it away, too. Feeling bold, she grabbed Frank’s hand. With flesh upon flesh, ever so delicate, a spark of energy surged through her like a lightning bolt. She stopped and they faced each other, smiling. She felt the luminescence of his eyes penetrate to the core of her. I can’t take my eyes off him, she realized, enveloped by warmth. My heart! It’s pounding just being next to him. Everything feels so timeless, so.… My God! I wonder if Samuel ever felt anything like this before he left this world? The thought exploded in her brain. Involuntarily, her hand contracted a bit. “Jennifer, you okay?” “Maybe not.” She put a hand to her chest and shared with him about the early morning phone call. “You ‘re still in shock. Come.” He led her to a place on a grassy embankment. Unconsciously she bit her nail while looking at Coronado Island across the calm bay waters. At that moment she became aware of Frank’s watchfulness, but resisted saying anything. “I had no idea. You hid it well. Were you two really close?”

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“I have a knack for putting up a good front and no, we weren’t close. Thank you, Frank, you’re very sweet.” She paused, putting a hand on his forearm. The spark returned. “News of Sam’s death plunged me into a barrage of questions: Is this life I’m living what I truly want? Strange, huh? It’s … hard to explain. Oh Frank, I’m sorry to unload all of this on you in the first couple hours of getting to know each other. I guess Sam’s death really threw me.… Really, I’m not like this, though the last couple of months have been … unsettling.” “It’s all right. I’ve been through tough times. We all have. Can’t you talk with your friends, family, even your associates?” “I tried with my assistant, the one you saw the other day, and that failed miserably. My parents are dead and have been for a while. My travel schedule doesn’t leave much room for friends, just my colleagues.…” “That’s unfortunate. Friends are so important.” A silence passed between them that no words could have filled. The sound of the bay waters lapping the rocks filled the air as time slid by, like a sailboat in a summer breeze. Jennifer closed her eyes as they sat close. For some reason, she felt safer with his arm around her shoulders. After a while, Frank stirred, glancing around unobtrusively. “Something wrong, Frank?” “As odd as it may sound, I feel like we’re being watched,” he said, not wanting to tell her about the tingling at the back of his neck or last night’s attack, especially the result: a dead man. “Shall we try to find some bikes or Rollerblades to rent, like you suggested? If you don’t feel like it, I understand. Maybe an easy walk in the Torrey Pines State Park would be better?” “The second option sounds perfect. Is it far from here?” “Just up the coast about twenty-five minutes. We can take my car, if you like.” She nodded as they began to walk again, hand in hand, passing a small marina upon leaving the park area. In the car, she kept silent as Frank took forever just to get on the freeway, making quick sudden turns, then doubling back, but he did seem to know his way around the area. She imagined that he was the type of man that reread the safety information card stuffed in airplane seatback pockets, despite having flown thousands of times. Some might call it obsessive. She called it prepared, and it was comforting.

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Saturday, 8:10 P.M. With arms crossed Jones stood at his office window watching the tumultuous gray storm clouds that rumbled like a heavenly locomotive. He truly enjoyed nature in all its forms, from stormy to sunny. He had just returned from exercising the dogs and feeding them. He worried that these long days were unfair for them. A few more weeks and it would all be over. Then, back to routine, long romps in the nearby forests. Behind him an all news radio announcer advised of a hurricane warning for the next forty-eight hours in the metropolitan Washington, D.C. area. Half listening, he started to rock to and fro, heel to toe, which helped him think. He contemplated upcoming strategy. Fairly soon, it became clear in his mind. He returned to the desk and rattled the computer keys with a message: “Director: SCaravell harvest was necessary. No complications. Authorities are proceeding as normal street offense. No need for concern. Tron.” After encoding and sending it he glanced up at the pin-stuck world map, each pin a soon-to-be calling card to the rest of the world. He began to type a message to Raven Team Three, concerning the second target. He stopped, his hand clutching the mouse hard as he weighed the options. Hours earlier, Team Four reported that Frank had shaken the surveillance team with expert evasive tactics. Thoughts of Frank being with Jennifer raced through his mind, which led to Sarah Darnell, then to Raymond Darnell, her father. He slammed a fist onto the desk. “That betraying bastard, Darnell,” he hissed aloud. With that he typed: “Raven Three: Second crop needs to be harvested as soon as skies clear on the farm. Deposits will be made accordingly. This harvest must look like an accident. Please report, Tron.” With the message encoded and sent, he grabbed a black, hard-sided briefcase. Several minutes later, outside the building, he pulled a black trench coat tighter to ward off the ravaging wind. Overhead the clouds conspired into a raging mass of gray-blackness. Drops of rain began to pelt the pavement as trees swayed with the force of a tempest.

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Leaves torn from branches fell to the ground around him. He glanced at the sky and entered the comfort of his German sedan. The engine sprang to life. ✶

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North County of San Diego, California Saturday, 7:15 P.M. Jennifer and Frank dined at a restaurant atop a high bluff that offered an expansive view of the Pacific Ocean from their table. Soft Italian melodies drifted toward them from a pianist at the bar. The clink of cutlery mingled with the murmur of patron voices as the cloak of night began to creep into the last remnants of the sunset. Jennifer took a sip of sparkling Chardonnay and snuck a wistful glance at the man across the table, wondering if he liked her. Their conversation through the day had been pleasant, but he tended to be more observant than verbally expressive. “Frank, you’re so warm and gentle, yet I sense something else underneath.” He inclined his head, a faint smile on his lips. “Okay Mr. Mysterious, ready to go? I know a special place.…” “Not so fast. Thank you for sharing this wonderful day with me. It’s been so long since I’ve enjoyed this level of comfort with another person.” “Oh stop.” She admitted to herself that it felt rare, even magical. She smiled and said, “Glad you finally spoke up. I was afraid you weren’t enjoying yourself. I must tell you something: when we initially met the other day, I had a strong feeling that I knew you before. It felt like, not to be cliché, déjà vu.” As he settled the bill with the waiter, she paused, debating whether to say more. For a minute a debate began in her head. In the end, she reached across the table for his hands, which felt warm and inviting. “Do you mind if I share a secret with you? You must promise not to say anything to anyone?” “To be held in your confidence would be an honor. Besides, whom would I tell?” “I know, but lately, as I mentioned, I’ve been experiencing some odd feelings that are shaking the foundations of my views. After teaching others about the positive powers of beliefs, I find my own faltering. I’m even questioning the validity of what I share with others. For me, this is tremendously scary.”

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She told him about her plans for a sabbatical from LAM and that she no longer wanted to live life on the surface. A barrage of self-doubt descended upon her after speaking, which she covered with a smile. “God, listen to me, I sound like an escapee from an insane asylum. I’m told that I’m one of the top motivational speakers in the world, and I sound so lost.” “That is a bit ironic.” “I want to hear more of your thoughts,” she said, pulling on his hands as she stood, “but let’s do it on the way.” They left the restaurant hand in hand. Sparsely, he told of the confusion that the accident and recovery had caused. And how in that other job, that other life, he had been trained to do things that didn’t necessarily agree with his sensibilities. He didn’t mention specifics, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “I can’t believe it. You’re so confident, so genuine. What were you like before?” “If I tell you, it will lessen some of the mystery.” His eyes searched for a sign in hers, especially fear. “All mysteries are solved eventually.” While driving under her direction to the spot along the coast he spoke cryptically of his time as an operative in counterintelligence for the U.S. government, some would say the largest misinformation, propaganda machine ever. She smiled and leaned closer to him across the console between the seats as he talked about leaving the NSA and needing to learn to discriminate between the conditioned beliefs of the organization and those belonging to him, personally. For the first time, or for as long as memory served, she truly felt understood. A calm excitement spread throughout her body, realizing he could be a close friend, perhaps more. Her heart revealed how much the latter appealed. “Frank, I’d never have guessed this about you. You don’t seem like a spy, though you are better looking than any 007 in those silly movies.” “Technically I wasn’t a spy. Those are usually indigenous people within a country who supply information to a case officer, someone holding an official position within an embassy of a foreign country, a clandestine technicality.” “Boy, my story pales in comparison.” “I don’t know. Our stories could be shades of the same color.” “How could you possibly say that?” “Well, I always knew who I was in my heart, but didn’t live it. Self-destructive. Right? Whereas, you don’t seem to know who you are, but exhibit purity of heart.”

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She nodded, absorbing the statement. His words opened a doorway that revealed a new and secret place inside her. With green eyes sparkling amidst small swells of liquid, she said, “That was profound. I … I.… Are you sure you don’t want to be a motivational speaker?” “Ha-ha. I don’t really know anything, except that I like working to preserve nature. Funny, though, you’re the second person within twenty-four hours to ask me about a job. Yesterday I met this guy, a Peter Wellington, who was trying to coax me back into the old stuff, the intelligence game. I turned him down, of course.” “Like Samuel, may he rest in peace, used to say, ‘It’d be like putting leaded fuel into an unleaded car. The car would run but at what cost to the engine.’ That’s how I feel about doing my courses on beliefs now. I can keep doing it, but at what cost to myself.” “I know that one.” “I’ve never shared this with anyone. Only recently did I realize that my work with LAM was not my dream. Are you sure you’re okay with me blabbing at you?” Seeing him smile, she shared how wildlife had always drawn her. Then, she told him about her other dream, a connection to another person, a man. For as long as she could remember, she yearned for a heart-to-heart union that would link them no matter the distance or time between interactions. Despite the depth of connection, the sense of individual identity would not be hindered. A unique cooperation continually re-balancing, like the eternal rhythm of the tides. She stopped, seeing his eyes drop. Had she said something wrong? Finally, he looked up, and said, “Nice. So what stops you?” “Uh, doubt, I guess. The battle rages.” She pointed to her head. “I don’t seem to be able to trust myself too well. On the one side there’s what I’ve been told by LAM, society, and others. Then, on the other, there’s just me.” Frank nodded, all too familiar and knowing things weren’t that simple. At least, not for him. “Here’s the spot, just park there.” He pulled the car up onto a dirt embankment near some scrub brush. She waited for him to come around the car and took his hand. Beneath a star-studded night, they walked to a cliff edge, where the waves crashed onto the beach far below.

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Sixth Avenue, San Diego, California Saturday, 8:25 P.M. A white paneled van with Truly Wired Cable Services on the side idled a few blocks north of several apartment complexes on Sixth Avenue, which bordered the western side of Balboa Park. Inside the vehicle, amid electrical and video equipment, the leader of Raven Team Three and his new partner prepared for the next operation. A bandaged Petrovich watched his stocky associate, Damio, clad in a Charger’s cap, fiddle with the video monitoring equipment that was linked to several micro-cameras within the building, offering key views of the target. “The one in the hallway focuses on the door to the target’s apartment, while the one inside shows the main living area,” said Damio, through a plume of cigarette smoke. The former Navy underwater demolition team member had installed an explosive device in the apartment earlier, the timer activated when the door opened, breaking the contact connection. A ten-second-timer delay allowed enough time for the target to enter. The device was rigged to look like a gas leak explosion, common in older buildings. “Is that the target?” asked Petrovich, as a petite female came into view on the eight by ten, black-framed monitor screen. Damio glanced at the target description sheet. The woman standing before the apartment door seemed to fit the description. With her back to the camera, hair in a bun, the low-lit hallway failed to reveal the woman’s hair color. At full alert, Damio alternated glimpses between the counter on the monitor and the screen, trying to anticipate the apartment door opening and the ten-second delay.

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Both men watched the woman search a pocket, right hand pausing, then object found. Appearing tentative, she inserted a single key into the upper lock of the brown wooden door. Like films from the early 1900’s, the visual played on the screen in silence. The interior of the small van became an eerie silent theater, portraying the last scenes. As the woman entered, Damio hit an unlit button next to one illuminated on the video monitor console. The screen switched to the interior view: the woman headed for the kitchen, passing a rose colored loveseat couch, then pausing to stroke a cat. Damio studied the second hand on his Navy diver’s watch. The tick of the hand moved as if in suspended motion. He raised his right hand as the second hand on the watch hit the eighth tick. On the ninth the hand dropped, signaling the explosion. Both men averted their eyes from the screen. A brief flash of blinding light, then the picture on the monitor vanished. ✶

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Ritz Carlton, Brussels, Belgium Sunday 6:25 A.M., GMT Standing at the window of his penthouse suite the Director viewed the spire of Grand Place in the near distance as he listened to the ring on his cell phone. With the time change accounted for it was very late to be calling, but the man had sent an urgent email. Finally, a man answered in a voice that revealed he had not been asleep. “This is Ulrich Rogers, the Director of Lectures And More. Sorry to bother you so late. Is this Dr. Donaldson?” “Yes, it is. I’m glad to hear from you, sir.” “I felt it prudent to contact you immediately considering the content of your coded email message. I hope I’m coming through clearly. I’m in Brussels—looks like it will be a gorgeous day in this splendid city. Have you been here?” “No, I haven’t but I’ve heard much about it. Sir, about my message, is this a secure line?” “It is all arranged. Now, if I understand correctly, other than Dr. Jones I’m the only other person to know the preliminary findings of the BET reports for the initial fifty test sites. Correct?” “Right, sir.”

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“You reported that the death tolls in the test areas are exceeding our projected percentages by as much as seven percent. Hundreds of fatalities in each location, is that true?” “Yes, sir. It would appear the signal is accumulating within the human organism and causing more deaths than anticipated. The signal must be too strong. If we don’t alter it in the other 450 installations, we’ll be looking at mass murder.” “All right, now let’s keep our heads. If what you say is true, how come the large number of deaths hasn’t been in the media or picked up by the NIH or some such group?” “Sir, the people didn’t all drop dead on the same day or even the same week. These fifty test devices have been operating for eight weeks per the protocol. At this juncture, the monitoring agencies aren’t going to have any hard figures yet. Also, remember these are reported deaths. The actual numbers could be higher.” “Dr. Donaldson, please remain calm. The reverse could be true. There may not be any further deaths. Nevertheless, these figures are too high and, as you say, an adjustment must be made. May I ask why you chose to contact me directly about this matter in addition to your immediate superior, Dr. Jones?” The Director looked down at the street far below while he waited for an answer. People filled the sidewalks heading to work, drivers aggressively maneuvering through the circle at Place de Stephanie. Few smiled, but it was Europe after all. “Sir, the truth is I’m aware of your humanitarian stance. You’re reputation as a vocal advocate of global peace is well known, so I felt you would receive the findings with due concern. I just felt, this time, that Dr. Jones’s response less than satisfying.” “Interestingly put, Doctor. Perhaps Dr. Jones had other matters on his mind. We are approaching the culmination of our ten years of work.” “Yes, sir.” “Nevertheless, you have nothing to worry about. I am in complete control of this operation. I will review these results with him promptly.” He paused, considering his next comment. “I cannot guarantee that he will be pleased that you went over his head. A short vacation might be good for you right now. You’ve been working very hard anyway. Agreed?” “Thank you, sir. With your permission, of course, my wife and I were planning an extended weekend starting Wednesday.” “Certainly. Dr. Jones can be a real bear at times, but rest assured I know how to deal with him. We’ll get the signal strength adjusted so we don’t eliminate a third of the U.S. population. All right?”

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“Thank you sir. I feel much more relieved. Enjoy Brussels, sir.” “Thank you for your efforts in helping improve the well-being of all mankind.” The Director ended the call. From the suite window, he gazed across the top of Brussels, the gilt-topped Old World architecture glistening in the morning light. He checked his Rolex watch, the gold hands displaying six thirty. It was time to move forward with the next step of the plan. After all, sheep needed guidance to and from the pasture, like mankind toward peace. He gathered items for the breakfast meeting with the bankers and departed the hotel room. ✶

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Del Mar, California Saturday, 10:42 P.M. Several feet back, ensconced in the safety of a small divot on the top of the cliff, Jennifer watched as Frank perilously peered over the edge of the one hundred-foot drop to the broad beach below. Like a movie set backdrop, the moon’s muted yellow light reflected off the black ocean surface in the distance behind him. The reflection created a finger of light that trailed across the water and appeared to point directly at them. “Please be careful.” “How’d you find this spot?” said Frank, taking a seat next to her on the crumbly limestone. “Look at the stars! Inspiring aren’t they?” He looked up as they huddled close together, faces just inches apart. The muffled sound of crashing waves far below whispered secrets, for any who cared to listen. “Frank, I have to know something.” “Shoot.” “That woman, you mentioned before, where is she now?” She held her breath in the silence that followed. “She’s dead,” he said, at last. “Oh Frank, I … I.…” “It’s all right.”

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Jennifer let out a long breath and put her arm around Frank’s waist. He held her other hand with both of his. For a time they continued to gaze at the seemingly never-ending black expanse of the Pacific. At last, with her confidence built up, Jennifer broke the silence. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here. I want you to be completely honest. Okay? “All right.” “I feel an incredible connection between us. And I know we hardly know each other, but I want to … give a chance for things to develop.…” Her voice trailed off, becoming unsure. “Go on.” “But the distance, opposite coasts.” “Could be a cause for doubt.” “I probably seem so strange and now I’ve put this out there and you might feel pressured to agree even though you don’t feel that way.” She put a hand to her forehead. “Listen to me! You’d think I was a fifteen year-old school girl with her first heartthrob.” “Relax. It’s been wonderful day. And you’re right we do seem to click on so many different levels. That doesn’t happen every day, at least not for me. To answer your question, yes, I’d welcome an opportunity to develop our relationship.” “Great, once the Director approves my leave of absence, I could come to the Bay Area or nearby and get a place. We could spend time together and explore.” “Sounds good to me.” “Oh Frank, I’m so glad you agree.” Relieved by her self-expression, she flung her arms around him. As she did a finger caught in her necklace, breaking the chain. The Raven medallion and necklace sailed out into the emptiness as she kissed him with soft, full lips. At once a tremulous ripple like unending liquid silver poured through her in an undulating stream. She pulled him closer into deeper embrace, her fingers exploring his muscular back. Minutes passed before they parted from the embrace. With hands still entwined Jennifer stared deep into his eyes, still unwavering. She knew he was not afraid, which comforted her. After a moment, she burst into laughter, as joy surfaced beneath the new night. He smiled at her. “There may be some problems with my planned departure from LAM.” “Really?” “The original departure date had been sooner, but I have to delay it. We have this big Gala event coming up, the debut of Lectures And More to the world.

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Y’know, a hob-nob with the wheelers and dealers of the business arena. The Director wants me to be there because I’m the ‘big star’. Anyway, I plan to leave the Monday after the party, ten days from now.” “Where’s the problem?” “Oh, well yes, that is the problem, I don’t foresee any but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.” She paused, then a profound insight surfaced. “If you came as my escort to the Gala event that would give us more time together as well as a grand opportunity for you to promote your wildlife organization among the international clientele of our company. Is that fantastic or what?” “That’s an awesome idea. I could fly in next Friday. But when should I leave?” “Hmmm. What if we arranged to fly back together, say, Wednesday. I could have all my stuff together and off I go to the Bay Area. How’s that sound?” “What about your furniture and other things?” “The apartment is provided by the company, so I just have my clothes, books, and such. I’ll just bring the essentials and ship the other stuff.” “Great! Are you sure that’s what you want?” She nodded as excitement filled her. Unable to contain herself, she kissed him again. After several minutes, placing a finger to his lips, she looked at him, and said, “Something’s strange. Remember at the restaurant when you mentioned that man you met with yesterday? What was his name?” “Peter Wellington. You know him?” “Sounds familiar. But why would I know anyone in espionage?” With raised eyebrows she shrugged, though still searching her memory. “Maybe he took one of your courses. He struck me as an extremely organized and competent individual. Maybe this will help.” Frank then gave a description of Peter and John Wilde and their company in precise detail. “That doesn’t really help, but what an impressive memory you have. Did you do an interview and take photos?” “Just observant, that’s all.” “I’ve noticed.” She shook her head and stood up. “Let’s go! It’s getting chilly. Besides this cloak and dagger talk gives me the creeps.” “Hey, if you get bored during your sabbatical, you could always join my company.” She reached for his hand and pulled him close. “Perhaps, but for now I can look forward to the Gala with enthusiasm. I can’t wait! It’ll be such fun to have you there.”

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As they walked the dirt path through scrub brush and chaparral back to the car their hands came together like magnets.

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Canyon de Chelly, Arizona Sunday, 3:39 P.M. On a sparsely marked, dusty trail on the canyon floor Senator Cymbone, clad in trekking apparel and new hiking boots, trudged beside Silver Bear, his best friend from childhood. In the distance, off to the left, high canyon walls rose, the site of ancient Navajo dwellings. He followed his friend along the path that led to an ancient spiritual site of the tribe. Mopping his brow, he glanced at his friend’s dry, brown leathery face surrounded by a waterfall of straight black hair that cascaded half the length of the torso. Despite the years, his friend hadn’t changed much, perhaps the lines of his face etched deeper. “Silver Bear, I can’t offer you and the tribal elders enough gratitude for making time for my visit.” Silver Bear pulled his hair back into a ponytail. “Great Spirit smiles upon you, my friend. Your pro-Indian rights stance through the years eased the way with the council. If the trip had been for business reasons or anything to do with the Bureau of Land Management, the story would have been different. Besides many of the elders remember you from the old days here.” Cymbone smiled at him. “Many years passed since you have sought my counsel. What is the reason for change, my friend?” “Peculiar forces appear to be gathering on Capitol Hill, so I wanted to seek advice from a source outside the system, one firmly rooted in the ways of the Earth, the world, the universe. And with us growing up almost as brothers among your nation I knew I could trust you.”

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“I am glad you have come. From the looks of the heavens above, so are Father Sky and Mother Earth. In your letter, I sensed some deep conflicts brewing both in your inner realm as well as your outer world. The matter is urgent?” “How do you always know so much from so little?” Cymbone eyed his companion, noting the absence of gray in his hair, though they were the same age. The heat bore down upon him, bringing weariness and lethargy. He scanned the horizon for any sign of the boulder outcropping and the sacred tribal chamber. To dispel some of his fatigue, he relayed his concern about the state of affairs in the Nation’s Capitol. For him, the most pressing issue was the continuing disregard by elected public officials of their duty to serve the people rather than themselves or their interest groups and big business. He had always put service to his constituency, the people of Arizona, first. Perhaps, he conceded, the confines imposed by the monolithic structure of government prevented anyone from honoring the sanctity of their office. “Maybe I’m getting too old for all the crap,” he added. “I hear anger and frustration in your voice. I’ve never known you to be so. Are things well with you and Julie? Is she still the light of your life? And the girls, Kristie and Vanessa?” He filled his friend in on the welfare of his wife and kids, pleased to stop talking about work. After a pause, he added, “If it weren’t for Julie’s presence and strength, I wouldn’t have lasted as long as I have with those piranhas in Washington. Look, Silver Bear, I suspect something is happening on the Hill or within me, but … I can’t put my finger on it. It’s as if something has gotten underneath my skin and is crawling around affecting my thoughts. If it weren’t for my regular regimen of daily exercise, they’d have probably locked me up already.” Cymbone took a deep breath as Silver Bear ceased his relentless pace and offered him a canteen. Beneath the shade of a boulder he took a long drink, then mopped his brow again, barely diminishing the flood of sweat. “The elders have watched your efforts for education reform. Why has it not had much success?” “Good question. I’m trying to infuse education with inspiration. Children aren’t motivated by rote learning of facts, which may not have any bearing on their practical lives. But if we inspire them to seek what they love to do, then the pursuit of knowledge and experience becomes self-generating.” As they continued on, Cymbone watched his friend’s legs pump tirelessly. He told him of the difficulties he faced, including certain members of Congress holding grudges against the programs. One such man, Senator Gallidette, the Chairman of the Education Sub-Committee and an institution on the Hill, appeared

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intent on eliminating him from Congress. On the surface and to the media, Gallidette acknowledged the value of his education reform, yet shunned its implementation. “Who gets the short end of the stick?” he asked. “The common citizen that pays the salaries of Congress members. Doesn’t that violate the edict ‘government by the people, for the people’? The fact is government power is power seized from the people, as you know, often through trickery and deception.” “To know so much and be stifled by the authorities is not unknown to me or my people.” Cymbone shook his head and pointed at ancient dwellings midway up the canyon wall. “Here we have the remains of a simpler civilization, one uncomplicated by a ruling body so large that it no longer serves its function. Instead, the tribes worked in harmony with the Earth and produced a peaceful co-existence among all living creatures. Am I right?” “For the most part it is true, though tribal wars were common. The ancient ways are not lost, my friend, just hidden. For now, with the bitterness I hear in your voice, maybe it is time for you to get out.” “But if I leave who will defend the rights of the citizens? There are so few of us left within government, especially in elected positions.” Cymbone saw the gentle nod of his friend’s head and mopped his brow again. He searched the nearby landscape, mostly stunted cacti and small rocks, for the large outcropping of boulders that hid their destination. “Fear not, my friend. Despite the oppression and continued mistreatment of my people, such as trying another Indian for murders he didn’t commit, we are still here. The white man has forgotten that we believe all who are born on this land are natives.” “By now, you would think we could learn from our sordid past, but no, instead we turn our attention to the injustices in the rest of the world. Such hypocrisy! Now, it’s terrorism this, terrorism that. False ruses to mislead the masses!” “On behalf of all tribal nations in this region, I extend the deepest respect for your efforts over the last six years. We know the reasons the government continues to oppress our liberty and happiness. It is time for the Native peoples of this great land to take our destiny back with a cooperative, loving spirit, yet remain firm with Great Spirit within our nations.” “What is the vision of the elders for this time period? Maybe I can gain insight into the proper course of action for me.”

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“I assumed that is the reason you requested a visit to the Great Chamber. The white man’s narrow-mindedness persists even today, not only towards the red man but all citizens, especially those of the Middle East. Many centuries ago, the white man would have done far better to learn from the Native peoples, to learn to co-exist with us, instead of trying to eradicate or corral us. But they feared our power, clarity, and harmony with Earth. They still do. Most Native peoples played a hand in our own demise, though not until much later, after many treaties between Native peoples and the white man’s government were violated. Ancient history, my friend. We must accept the past so we can better the future, our children’s future, and their children’s future.” Cymbone stopped beside his friend, who looked to the sky as if calling upon prodigious ancestral forces. “Are we close to the sacred site?” “Good to see your boyhood impatience still thrives. Listen, Great Spirit speaks of a complex time of change. That time is now. The forces in power cannot be so in the world to come. Old forces are going to try to hold their ground even though they lose power as we speak. Old is always replaced by new. The choice is to either embrace the ever-changing forces of Great Spirit or resist. The latter may seem a battle to be won, but it is really futility. Survival must surrender to acceptance, not even the U.S. government can stop change. Mankind must evolve.” “I don’t think that’s too likely, Silver Bear.” “The solution belongs to the people of each nation, not just the U.S. but all nations to the best of their abilities.” “What do you mean?” “The citizens of the West, especially of this country, need to take a stand. They must reclaim the integral heritage that founded their nation. Though not fully knowledgeable of its contents, I’m wise enough to know the intent of the U.S. Constitution was similar to those principles guiding the Native peoples of this land. When the American people recover their innate rights, the peoples of all other nations will notice and try to follow.” “Just like the Japanese hunger for anything Western.” “At present, the example shown by America is one of uncontrolled consumption, aggression, and disregard for Mother Earth.” Silver Bear paused and directed his companion toward a cluster of rocks that appeared strewn haphazardly, yet a pathway led to an outcropping of huge boulders. Eucalypti and suguaro cacti camouflaged the entrance to the sacred tribal cave. Cymbone stopped as Silver Bear’s hand reached out to his chest.

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“We must not speak of these things beyond this point. The processes of change may take another 500 years, so to you, my friend, stay true to your heart. Remember, Father Sky and Mother Earth are one, just as all people are one nation on Earth.” “Isn’t there a way to speed up the process or bring awareness to these issues?” “The forces of nature cannot be hurried by any process of mankind. Each individual can choose to awaken to the voice of Great Spirit heard within the heart and then be responsible to it or not.” Cymbone followed Silver Bear into the recesses of the cave. He welcomed the coolness that accompanied the shade and dampness. The two friends traveled deeper still, the darkness increasing. Silver Bear retrieved a headlamp from his pack. Once switched on he smiled, and said, “Spirituality must be practical. Great Spirit guides me to offer you a warning about your current position.” “If you mean in this cave, I know, at my size, a spelunker I’m not. It was fine when we were kids, but …” He laughed, trying to squeeze his six-foot four, two hundred thirty-pound, barrel-chested frame through another tight spot. “Laughter makes good medicine for a weakened spirit, my friend.” After a quarter of an hour of clambering through cold rock formations, they entered a clearing within the recesses of the cave. A group of small stones circled a pit in the sandy floor. Blackened and charred remnants of recent fires lay next to black stones in the pit. Feeling a draft from above, Cymbone looked up and observed a break in the contour of the high-ceilinged rock chamber, an opening to the outside. He pulled on a lightweight waterproof jacket to ward off the chill. Just then, Silver Bear motioned for him to sit on a well-worn flat rock inside the circle of small stones while he took a similar place a few feet to the left. Light from the headlamp cast shadows that danced on the chamber wall. “If you remember from when a boy, this chamber affords greater clarity to look within and determine the path with heart. The message I deliver only comes through my mouth into your ear from Great Spirit. Are you prepared?” “I am ready to begin at your voice, though I feel wary of the images I may encounter here.” “The forces surrounding you in Washington have weakened you and your health. I fear for you, my friend. We must begin.” With that pronouncement Silver Bear fell silent. Cymbone breathed deeply and tried to quiet the voices in his head. After some time Silver Bear began to

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speak, though his voice took on a more disembodied tone. Soft, yet firm it echoed through the darkened chamber. “Many obstacles in path. Eyes see clearly. Voice that speaks suffers from deaf ears. A dark shadow approaches from a foreign land, carrying mutilated carcasses and burned bodies. Its presence is avoidable: act quickly. A force around you, within you, is natural, but not of you. Dark clouds conspire with black crow high on red hill. The moon hides and vultures circle new prey. A hawk shrieks, a child cries. Fair flesh reeks, a nation dies.” A faint glimmer of light trickled in from above through the smoke hole. He watched as Silver Bear began to twitch and sway. After a long silence, his friend continued, speaking of much chaos, of death and destruction. He heard the disembodied voice coming through his friend say that danger was imminent. A brief pause followed, then the voice said, “Unite spirit with Father Sky. Unite body with Mother Earth. Stand upon ground with inner firmness. Let love and wisdom flow through heart.” Then, Silver Bear’s body slumped on the platform. He spoke no more. The two men remained in darkness. A half an hour passed before Cymbone broke the silence. “Silver Bear, you all right?” “I am here, my friend.” “What do you know of the message? It’s been some time since I interpreted messages from Great Spirit.” “If you stay in the place that you are, great harm may come to you or your family. Great Spirit warns that the intent you came to Washington with is valid but possibly foolish. Like a medicine man with clear vision but an impure spirit, he only ends up hurting his own people. Who are your people, John?” “My family—Julie, the girls. I’d never do anything to cause them harm. Oh dear God! I fear the thing I can’t see.” “Often that is the hardest of all fears. It may take more contemplation on your part. As you know, council with Great Spirit opens the inner gates to deeper wisdom. Trust what you find there, my friend.” Cymbone nodded, rising from the flat rock, as did his friend. “There are many ways to grow a tree, my friend, and remember not many grow in the desert.” Silver Bear switched on the headlamp. “Come, we make camp. I know a good spot out beneath the eyes of Father Sky and in the arms of Mother Earth.”

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En route to Washington, D.C. Sunday, 6:01 P.M. Asleep in a first class window seat, exhausted from the late night with Frank, Jennifer’s head rested on a pillow. She dreamed.… … atop a huge sand dune hill, peering at the tranquil expanse of the Pacific Ocean, the seascape shimmers beneath the clear sky, mirrors of each other, blue to blue. The white sand shifts mirage-like under the full force of the midday sun. A subtle breeze of warmth blows. I smile at my companion. He smiles back. Pulling my legs up towards my chest, I grab his hand and we watch the waves crash and recede in steady rhythm. It’s almost musical. Familiarity, like returning to the place of my childhood, flows freely within. Unencumbered by time and place, no sense of duty, I am light and free. I reach for a small brown, hand-woven purse made from twisted cord with a shoulder strap and a simple flap. On impulse, I get up and say, ‘Just going to the water. Be back in a little bit.’ Down the steep embankment, the deep, soft sand absorbs my every step. Seagulls fly overhead, diving like miniature planes into the brine. At the water’s edge, cool, frothy, seawater swirls about my legs as I sink into part of the earth’s crust, like a tree taking root. A deep comfort sweeps through me. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy a rock and pick it up. Its surface is smooth, black, and dense. The stone is shaped like a heart. I look up the sand dune to where the man basks on the crisp white blanket. I pocket the stone and kick at the water in chorus line fashion. In and out of the water I stroll along. When I return to the blanket, the man asks, ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ - 105 -

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‘Yes, but it’s a secret. Now close your eyes so I can put it away without you seeing it.’ I place the stone inside my purse then advance on him. Straddling his hips I push him down onto the blanket. A shadow passes across his body. I can almost see his face. We kiss ever so.… Making erotic lip movements Jennifer awoke with a start and glanced around the first class cabin to see if anyone noticed. She smoothed her tan slacks, reminding herself that it was still Sunday. She was on a return flight to Washington Dulles Airport. Drawn to the peculiarity of the dream, she contemplated images that could be recalled. It felt so real. Couldn’t be. My hair was blond. And that man reminds me of Frank, but.… She placed a finger to each temple, and mumbled aloud, “Ugh, dreams.” “I’m sorry, Ms. Chance,” asked a passing flight attendant. “What did you say, ma’am?” “‘All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream,’” she said, recalling Poe’s line. “Sounds familiar. Would you like a complimentary glass of wine, a beer, or cocktail?” Jennifer requested juice, as alcohol and flying didn’t mix well for her. Uncrossing her legs, she slid the tray out of the armrest in preparation for the drink. Then an idea popped into her head. Maybe the dream wasn’t a dream at all? What if it was something else … but what? She sipped the juice, weighing the thought. Unable to determine the answer, she accepted the uncertainty. Her eyes wandered to the window. A bay of clouds stretched without end. She smiled at her faint reflection in the window, recalling the feeling of contentment and freedom within the dream, and the connection with the man. ✶

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Peter’s House, Solana Beach, California Sunday, 4:35 P.M. An envelope dangled from Peter’s hand. In his favorite recliner he surveyed the living room. On the west wall hung pictures of his wife, Karen, and himself dating back twenty years. One photo showed them standing together in swimsuits

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outside the Royal Colonial Hotel in Bermuda. He tried to force a smile as longing rippled through him. Sweet memories flooded back like a returning tide, until her last night—the all too familiar images of Karen lying on the off-white Mexican tile in a pool of her own blood. It hadn’t been in this house. No, he had sold the other one soon after her death. “How could she have fallen?” he said to the empty room, not expecting an answer. One had never come. Anger welled up as images of the inept crime scene investigators scurried about the old house. He could still hear the man’s voice, ‘A simple case of her falling off the stepladder and hittin’ the edge of the fridge door. I’d say, the head split open rendering her unconscious. She bled to death.’ Peter clenched his fists in defiance, crumpling the envelope. The sound reminded him that the conversation with Frank had triggered the memories. Silent remorse tugged at him and he succumbed. He extracted the letter, a single sheet of paper, for the thousandth time. The contents, carefully written in that ever-familiar scrawl, passed through his brain. “From the desk of Raymond J. Darnell December Fifteenth Dear Peter, I hope this letter finds you well and safe, especially for the holidays. As you know, I have just finished testifying in front of Congress. I fear repercussions against me, or my daughter, Sarah. Thus, I have sent this to you by the old drop we used so long ago. Emily and I are currently on a bit of a holiday. We are both well, but in need of rest as well as a chance to let the fires cool down in the ‘Company’. The public firing of Rogers, obviously a convenience, could possibly cause some problems for those of us still in the business. You were wise to get out when you did. None too soon, you ol’ rat. But then again you always were adept at subtle perceptions, and staying one step ahead. Not to beat around the bush too much, I want to entrust you with Sarah’s safety in the event anything should happen to Emily or me. I’m not trying to be too pessimistic, but I feel this precaution necessary. You are the only person I trust in the world, especially with my daughter. If she questions you about this, do not mention this letter. I do not want her to become unnecessarily alarmed. Though only eighteen, she is quite levelheaded and very capable of taking care of herself. Takes after me, though Emily would disagree. Anyway, you know how

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the ‘Company’ people can be. In other words, this letter remains solely between you and me. As you know, in the event of my death or disappearance, you and Emily are the executors of my will and have access to the bank accounts or are able to obtain them from the attorney. I’m sure all will be fine, so thank you in advance. My best wishes for the upcoming year. I’ll be in touch soon. Deepest respect, your friend,

Raymond J. Darnell As Peter’s hands trembled, the words that always came afterwards escaped his lips: “I’m so sorry Raymond. I tried to protect her. Please forgive me. I thought she was safe with Frank. I failed you.” The letter dropped as if its weight were too heavy to hold any longer. He leaned forward, eyes to palms and elbows on thighs. Dry, silent sobs wracked his frame. The telephone rang. Though too well trained to jump physically, his head jerked up. With the effort of an aged dog, he retrieved the phone from the dining room table and heard the amiable voice of his best friend. “Hey mon, not feelin’ low are ya? Glad you’re in. I’m comin’ ta get ya. Some da brethren ‘ave dis t’ing goin’ on and you, mon, are comin’.” “No John, not …” “Tonight, yes mon. Can’t ‘ave ya sittin’ ‘ome, dredgin’ up ol’ memories.” “Quite right. I could do with a spot of ‘livity’ tonight.” “Dat’s it, mon, you gettin’ da lingo down. Gonna mek ya rasta, sure. Seen.” “Perhaps. See you in about twenty minutes?” “Yes, mon.” He clicked the phone off and walked into the kitchen, a little jaunt in the step. A faint smile creased his lips, as the dark recollections receded. ✶

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Frank’s Condo, San Francisco, California Sunday, 5:07 P.M. After sweeping the apartment for bugging devices, a daily practice, Frank brought the take-out food from a local Thai restaurant into the living room. With light

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streaming in through the bay window, he opened the cartons, the aroma and flavor flooding his senses. The combination of spices, a favorite of Sarah’s, and eating on the sofa triggered memories of how her business all started. Ten years ago, while hiking through the John P. Tilden National Forest in Washington State, Sarah encountered a physical confrontation between protesting environmentalists and subcontracted loggers. Somehow, caught in the middle, she had negotiated a more peaceful arrangement. Part of it had been captured by a local television network and picked up nationally. From that, her consulting firm, Right to Life on Earth, developed from money that flooded in from around the country. Almost overnight she became a sought after environmental mediator. Spurred by the memory, he found the taped coverage of the incident and put the cassette into the VCR. He settled back on the couch, had a bite of food, and pressed PLAY on the remote. At a part that showed Sarah walking beside the television reporter, he reversed the tape and played it in slow motion. Drawn to her gait, which seemed familiar, he stopped the tape and shut his eyes. An idea hovered on the tip of his tongue, like a forgotten word, but wouldn’t come. He let it go and played the tape, trying not to ponder the observation. Fast forwarding, he spotted Sarah, clad in jeans, hiking boots, and a green fleece vest, next to a shapely, gray pant-suited blond-haired female television reporter. He pressed PLAY and watched his favorite part, Sarah’s closing comments with the television reporter. “Sarah, can you sum up your view of the conflict here?” asked the reporter, who flashed a set of white teeth and a flirtatious glance at the camera. “Maybe Blake summed it up best about nature: ‘The tree, which moves some to tears of joy, is in the Eyes of others, only a Green thing which stands in the way. Some see Nature all Ridicule and Deformity, and by these I shall not regulate my proportions.’” She smiled at the reporter, then for the camera, and added, “For me, it’s simple. All things have a right to their life by the nature of the privilege of being alive. If that is the foundation of our respect, then we can all live in harmony with each other. If the Native Americans lived in harmony with the Earth, I’m sure we can choose to do the same, sooner or later.” Frank stopped the tape and stared at the blue television screen, then reached for the phone and dialed Jennifer’s number, hoping she’d be back by now.

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LAM, Inc. HQ, St. Kitts, Caribbean Sunday, 8:15 P.M. In one corner of a spacious office that overlooked the clear blue Caribbean waters Ulrich Rogers’s hands rested on the edge of a mahogany desk, one of several prized possessions left over from perks with the Central Intelligence Agency. Reports and file folders covered much of the available desk space as he reviewed the pages Dr. Donaldson had faxed. The computer chimed, indicating an incoming call, both audio and visual. He hit a button under the desktop that lowered heavy shades on the surrounding windows, even though the sun had set. Reclining in the padded leather chair, he smiled upon seeing Jones’s familiar figure in the middle of ENOCH’s conference room. He noted the usual emotionless expression. Like many who had spent years in covert operations such a face hid much beneath the surface. He wondered what lurked beneath that of his second-in-command’s. “Hello Walter. How are things around the Nation’s capitol?” “Good evening sir, any news for me?” The Director quickly recapped the information passed from the medical researcher, without mentioning his name. “Donaldson. Sorry he had to bother you, sir. Personally, I don’t trust him. I’ll, uh, have a talk with him about protocol and chain of command. As for the signal strength, I assumed it was accurate, though I haven’t checked it. I haven’t completed going over the report. I’ll correct the mistake, if there is one.” “Ah yes, I knew I could count on you.” The Director reminded him that they had come too far to blow it. “The BET will be our peace offering to the world. The success of LAM and our programs will set the future for us. Listen, Donaldson’s not important. Besides, I gave him some time off, a few extra days for his diligence with these reports. Go easy with him. He sounded overworked.” “Director, you know how it goes, just like a dog when you’re teaching it to heel, each slip up must be corrected immediately or disobedience results.” “True Walter, but I insist. Now, any other news to report?” “Just to keep you up-to-date sir, the woman at the bank has been harvested. My gut tells.…” “Walter, this … use of elimination must stop.” He looked sternly at the screen.

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“All the same, we should do the same with Revere. He seems to be too much of a risk.” I know, but the chances of him ever reconnecting with Jennifer are a million to.… “It’s already happened, sir.” The Director leaned forward, before responding. He massaged his temple, feeling a headache come on. “Really, how interesting. Well, no matter; she doesn’t know who she was anyway. Let’s leave Revere alone for the moment. That is a directive from me.” He observed Jones’s tight-lipped nod, sensing something, antagonism, perhaps. While he had known Jones for twenty years, bringing him under his wing at the Company, some aspects of the man’s life remained a mystery. “Our day of glory is upon us. Remember, we have the Gala event in six days. We will be the theater company performing for the world, presenting our wares, our prowess in motivational acumen and technological genius. Our finest hour and we’ve earned it with ten years of hard work.” “We can’t forget Italy.” “Yes, but there comes a time when one must let go of the past.” He paused. “So, who are you bringing to the Gala Ball?” “Kelly, one of my assistants, has agreed to accompany me. We’re having dinner tonight, too. She has great communication skills and her looks are a good distraction. She was instrumental in smoothing things over with the family of the volunteer who died at the BET device demo.” “What? Who died? Why wasn’t I informed about this right away?” “Relax, things are under control here. I handled it and we are in the clear. Let’s just leave it at that.” The Director noticed the clenching of Walter’s jaw, again sensing that certain something seeping to the surface. “Do we have a problem here?” “No, sir.” “What about the bank jobs your special ops guys have been pulling? And the bodies?” “Oh, so you found that out?” “Neatly done, from what I’ve heard, but still more carnage. We can’t risk that. Besides, what is the money for?” “It funds ENOCH projects so as to not put a drain on LAM or you. I thought you’d appreciate that.” “Yes, I do. Forgive me, Walter. Unlike the old days, I get a bit edgy with too much ‘wetwork’. It’s exactly the sort of thing I wanted to move away from when

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I left the Company. It’s a new millennium for Christ’s sake. If you have nothing else to discuss, then I’ll sign off. I’m bushed from the flight. Also, Bailey needs a romp on the beach. And this body is telling me I need to get some exercise, too.” “When does Jennifer return from the West?” “I believe today. Listen, if I haven’t said it in a while, thanks for your undying commitment and service to our cause over the years. Just think we have what the world has been clamoring for and it’s our baby. History, here we come! Over and out.” Rogers pressed the button that retracted the thick blinds over the windows. For a brief moment he relaxed in the chair behind the desk, surveying the gentle sway of palm trees above the tranquil, empty beach below. Breaking waves crashed upon the white sand. Everything appeared in order; even the headache hadn’t come.

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Jefferson Memorial, Washington, D.C. Sunday, 8:30 P.M. Clad in an Oakland Raider’s cap and black jeans, Jennifer ascended the west side stairs of her favorite memorial as romantic strollers circled the Tidal Basin. The floodlights for the memorial lit up the surrounding area and shimmered off the basin water. The meeting place and the attire had been her idea after speaking with the Senator, who had left a cryptic message on her answering machine. While waiting at Jefferson’s feet, the designated spot, she looked up at the Declaration of Independence. To her pleasure, the man next to her began to read aloud. “‘… Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.’” “Pretty amazing basis for the foundation of a country,” she said, turning to look at the man, who was over six-feet tall with slightly graying hair. He wore an expensive blue tracksuit that hugged his powerful frame. Then, she added, “Too bad that foundation has been greatly eroded by the hands of those in power.” “Sad, but very true.” Slowly, the man’s gaze shifted from the wall and met her eyes. The man jumped a bit and spoke in a hushed tone. “Ms. Chance? It’s you, right?” “Pleased to see you, Senator Cymbone, sir.” She offered a hand then motioned for them to walk. He followed her down the steps that led to a path circling the Tidal Basin. Neither said anything as they entered the flow of early evening strollers. “About your comment at the statue, I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “I’m so glad to see we agree. A pleasure to meet you, I’ve heard really positive things about your courses.”

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She nodded, noticing that he glanced around as they walked, like Frank had in San Diego. Perhaps, he wasn’t what he claimed to be. Once in a darker section of the path, he continued. “But that’s not what I wanted to meet about. It’s something equally serious having to do with the organization you work for, Lectures And More, Inc.” “What do you want to know?” “Are you familiar with a device known as the Bio-Energetic Tensiometer, or the BET?” “Doesn’t sound familiar. Should I? Does it solve all of one’s challenges in life and produce instant bliss?” “Funny you should say that because I think your boss would state just that about it. However, my information reveals a far bleaker picture: a potentially harmful one. One that you may unknowingly have a hand in delivering, Ms. Chance.” As a strong breeze picked up she pulled the cap a little more snugly. “Are you implying that the Director of LAM is involved with this … this BET whatchamacallit? Because that just doesn’t sound like something he’d have a hand in. He feels that world peace is the most important issue facing mankind. He is the poster child for benevolence, a top candidate for a Nobel Peace prize, not something harmful.” “I can understand your resistance and unless my source is wrong, somebody is pulling the wool over your eyes. You seem quite close to your boss. Please understand I’m just trying to avoid something that would harm any citizen of the U.S., or the world for that matter. Are you related to your boss or …?” “Senator, stop right there.” Jennifer came to a standstill on the path, arms crossed. “No, we are not related, nor am I sleeping with him. He’s been an important figure in my life. That’s all. But you probably know everything about my past. You seem to have done your homework, haven’t you?” “Ms. Chance, forgive me if I offended you. Actually, I don’t know much. Remember I’m just a Senator, not the FBI, CIA or NSA. The truth of the matter is that I’m in a real bind.” He gave her a brief overview from Peter’s report about the device and the demonstration, wondering if she had heard of a company named ENOCH. “Mhmm, I think they’re related to LAM. A friend of mine works there.” “Right. They are the research and development part of LAM and the ones who have pioneered this device. Do you know a man named Dr. Walter Jones?” “Sounds familiar. The Director has mentioned him, but just in passing. I didn’t really pay attention. Never met him, though we’re having a big Gala event

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this Saturday night, I’m sure I’ll get the opportunity. What is this all about, Senator?” Cymbone glanced around again, despite the fact that they had progressed two-thirds of the way around the basin and no one was near them. “As I understand it, you’re one of the top motivational speakers in North America, if not the world. Correct me if I misspeak, but your courses are designed to provide others with tools to reprogram their beliefs to achieve what they want in life. Right? A perfect complement for people who are sensorially disoriented and in need of righting their sails, so to speak. I can only guess that the BET device would provide a way to boost enrollment in LAM courses. But Ms. Chance, what really concerns me is the background of the two men we’ve talked about, your boss, Mr. Rogers, and Dr. Jones. Are you aware of your boss’s history?” She shook her head, so he relayed in brief what he knew of the two men from the dossiers passed by Peter. “But Jones is the one I’m worried about,” he added. “When I said that he’s a highly trained field operative with a long list of skills, I should have clarified that the most critical one is assassination.” “Oh my God!” Jennifer’s hand flew to her mouth then dropped. She took off the cap and ran fingers through her hair. She looked from the still Tidal Basin water to the Jefferson Memorial on the other side. Grabbing the Senator’s arm she spoke in a hushed voice. “Wait! Do you mean that I could potentially be working for a deep cover, sort of assassination group? I knew it! All along something hasn’t felt right at LAM, but I doubted my instincts, overriding them with.…” “Now, don’t get all up in arms about your boss or beat yourself up about working there. From what I’ve heard, from highly respectable people, your seminars are absolutely fantastic. Let’s not throw it all away. Besides I don’t have any confirmation as to what these men are up to. What have your instincts told you, Ms. Chance?” She stared at the faint light from the distant memorial barely reflecting off the surface of the water, glimmering in an eerie dance. Then, she looked at the man before her. A smile broke the furrow of her brow. “Please call me Jennifer. I’m not that formal. All I know is the Director always talks about his plan to create world peace, but he never explained how. Could the … that device be used for such a purpose, Senator?”

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“I suppose so. I’ll have to check into it. Also, please call me John. I’m not so formal either—public office doesn’t make the man. Are you up to doing some investigation for me and for the greater good?” “Sure, I need to talk with Ulrich anyway, so it’ll be a perfect segue into the deeper aspects of LAM.” “Please be careful, these men are professional undercover agents, trained to deceive, manipulate, and kill. Questions may arouse suspicion.” “Thank you, John, but I’ll be all right. I’ve been on my own since I was nineteen, so I can handle myself. Besides, like I said, Ulrich’s been like a father to me. I’ll get the information you need. How should I reach you? By phone? In person?” “Here, I’ll give you my card with my home number on it. It’s unlisted. Call me there. My wife’s name is Julie. I’ll tell her you may be calling.” She pocketed the card and they walked in silence for several minutes. As they neared the memorial, the number of strollers increased again. “Where’d you park, Jennifer? I should walk you to your car.” “Actually, I’m gonna go back to the memorial. I want to read more of the walls. We’ll talk soon.” She paused then added, “Nice to get to know you a bit. I’m always eager to meet kindred spirits, especially in the Nation’s Capitol. I truly admire your fortitude and commitment to your principles. I feel I can learn from your example.” “Thank you, though I’m not sure I deserve such praise. Let’s hope we’re not too late.” She looked up and saw billowing, gray clouds rolling in, obliterating the stars. “A storm’s coming, looks like a mean one.” She smiled and winked at him just as a tremendous thunderclap resounded above. Huge raindrops cascaded down. She dashed down the path toward the memorial just as a bolt of lightning lit the sky, followed by another clap of thunder. Entering the tall marble-columned circle that held the standing figure of the third president of the United States, she shook her body of water and returned to the spot of the meeting. She gazed up at the marble wall etched before her and read: When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

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We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights Governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.… Reflecting on the passage, something clicked inside. Having been there a hundred times, this time felt different. Biting a cuticle, she pondered the deeper message, trying to bring it into focus, but it wouldn’t come. Despite the rain she ventured along the path and crossed a small bridge that led toward the nearby Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial. As if in a trance, she did not hurry as raindrops pelted her. She entered the memorial with its gently cascading waterfalls intermingled with quotations from the President. The first read: Men and nature must work hand in hand. The throwing out of balance of the resources of nature throws out of balance also the lives of men. This added fuel to the spark ignited at the Jefferson Memorial. Then, it came to her that maybe the whole belief business was relatively unimportant in the big picture. She moved to next plaque and read: Unless the peace that follows recognizes that the whole world is one neighborhood and does justice to the whole human race, the germs of another world war will remain as a constant threat to mankind. Her mind raced. No censoring, just letting insights tumble in, some too fast to comprehend. The precious Earth supports all living things, including humans, but not just people. True peace within and between people can’t be programmed. This thought shot through her like a bullet. Awestruck, she stared at the wall. Who does the Director think he is that he can have his way with the Earth or its inhabitants? Anger began to boil in her blood. Then tears mixed with rain rolled down her face. She wrapped her arms around her stomach. She turned to go, but stopped short and glanced toward the Lincoln Memorial, glimmering beneath floodlights. To the south rose the Washington Monument, its spire illuminated as it pierced the thick storm clouds. It was time to get to the car.

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Inside, she watched raindrops the size of ping-pong balls pummel the windshield. The storm broke: trees swayed, wind howled, and leaves fell to the ground like dead soldiers. A smile crossed her face. She knew that just like the citizens of the American colonies in 1776 she could move forward. Emancipation from LAM was not just a possibility. It was a choice, one that she wanted to make. She picked up her cell phone.

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Jones’s House, Reston, Virginia Monday, 6:43 A.M. At a small table, in a nook off the kitchen decorated with wildlife images, sat Jones, eating breakfast and ingesting the early morning edition of The Washington Post. When finished with the bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice, he promptly rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. He flipped open his cell phone, searched the directory until he found the name and pressed the CALL button. After the third ring a sleepy voice answered. “Charles Cryer?” Jones said, voice firm and crisp. “Speakin’, who’s this?” “Dr. Jones, with the research and development arm of LAM, the Director’s right hand man. You probably haven’t heard of me. I have an assignment from the Director. Are you listening?” “Yes, sir. I’m listening, sir.” “Are you still the assistant to Jennifer Chance?” “Yes, sir. I’ve been at her side almost every step of her illustrious rise to stardom on the motivational circuit.” “I thought so. The Director seems to think she may be a little unstable and in need of being kept under watch. Would you agree?” “He got that from me, sir. I conveyed that to him while Jennifer and I were in San Diego.” “Did you? What is your view of the situation?” Jones listened to Charles relay several ‘rebellious’ incidences, as he called them. Then he told the eager assistant what he wanted him to do. “Like a Raven Team, sir?”

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“You know about those, do you? You would replace them in this case. This is not a joke assignment. You’re the closest to her. We will need feedback.” “Certainly, anything to be of assistance to the company, sir.” “Meet me at the Town Center in Reston tomorrow at noon. It’s just off the Dulles Toll road at Reston Parkway north.” “Yes, sir. I’ve been there a few times, neat little shops, though …” “Remember: noon. Now, listen carefully. Meet in front of the fountain. I’ll be carrying a USA Today folded up under my left arm with the ‘Today’ part visible. Got it?” Jones hung up without waiting for a reply. ✶

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Monday, 10:03 A.M. Jones entered Kelly’s new office, stepping over boxes that littered the floor. He passed a small round meeting table with four chairs, all laden with boxes, to get to a large desk. He saw Kelly, eyes closed, wearing t-shirt and khaki shorts, in a high-backed leather chair behind the desk. “Exhausted from unpacking,” he said. She jumped a little, eyes flying open. “At last I have a view, a nice chair, and privacy.” “And an oak meeting table, clean white walls, real walls,” he added, face expressionless. His eyes settled on the computer on her desk, then on the envelope leaning against the monitor. “Have you read my little note?” With hesitation Kelly picked up the plain white envelope. Her name was written in block letters. From inside she extracted a short, hand written note in the same block letters. She read aloud: “KELLY, DO YOU LIKE YOUR NEW VIEW? AS YOU SETTLE IN, CONSIDER ACCOMPANYING ME TO THE GALA ON SATURDAY. ATTENDANCE IS MANDATORY. WHY NOT GO TOGETHER? LET ME KNOW SOON, TRON” Her eyebrows rose at the use of his codename, something he had just told her the other night. With a wolfish grin and eyeing the shape of her breasts beneath the stretched cotton fabric of her shirt, he tapped the desk with a finger to draw her attention. “So, what’s your answer?”

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“Uh, sure, Tron?” “Dr. Jones, here. We need to maintain the professional relationship illusion between us for the sake of the others.” “People saw us having dinner last week, I’m sure. Besides, don’t you think someone will notice this?” Her hand swept over the office. “Good point. I’ll have Mrs. Weeks send out an official memo indicating the changes in your responsibilities.” He turned to go, then stopped. With hands in pockets, he looked over his shoulder. “Dinner tomorrow night? Something nicer than the last time, say The Capitol Grill?” “Um, okay. I’ll just do my workout tonight instead.” She broke from his gaze and swiveled the chair to face the window. Outside, the gray sky grew angrier, huge holes of white wove in and out as the wind whipped through the trees. Remnants of last night’s storm still lingered. “Kelly,” he said, pausing at the office door. “Can you get the number where Dr. Donaldson will be staying on his vacation? Oh, and burn that note, would you?” She turned her head towards him, batted her eyelids and smiled, perhaps too sweetly. ✶

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Jennifer’s Apartment, Alexandria, Virginia Monday, 6:05 P.M. With the first day at the office since San Diego behind her, Jennifer flung the front door to the apartment open. Halfway down the wood-floored hall that led to the living room, she dropped her small rust-colored satchel that served as a briefcase. Having not heard from Frank all day, she rushed to the phone atop the small, square antique table, hoping he had called her at home. She dialed in her code and a voice indicated three messages. Stock-still in the dark wood hall, she listened. She deleted the first message, Charles asking if she wanted to have dinner, without a thought. Next, her friend Kelly spoke of man troubles and wanted to talk. Then, carrying the phone to the living room, a sweet voice filled her ear. She fell onto the black leather couch, beaming from ear to ear, and replayed the message soaking up the soft, deep resonance of his voice, music to her heart. Finally, she dialed the number he had left. “Cherish the Wild Foundation, this is Frank.” “Oh, you’re there. I so needed to talk with you. How are you?”

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“Jennifer, good to hear you’re voice. Sorry I missed your call last night. I had a meeting that ran late.” “It’s okay, though I had hoped to hear from you earlier. It feels so strange to be back here. Listen, some things have happened and I’m not sure what to do about them. First, I’ve just spent the day trying to fit into something, a box, more like a prison, my old life … it’s not working. I can’t get comfortable, y’know?” After his prompting she continued, though hesitant to reveal what she had learned from the Senator, she spoke about her eagerness to come out West and explore what she truly wanted to do. And that it would give them a chance to get to know each other better. “I miss you,” she added. “So unreal! I never thought I could feel this way about someone I’ve known for such a short time. I guess when you know, you know, as they say.” “At least, you know one thing. Have you talked to your boss?” “The meeting is scheduled for Wednesday afternoon. I’m a bit fearful to confront him with it.” She paused, still pondering whether to tell him about LAM and the BET device. “Jen, something wrong?” “No, no, I’m fine, just tired. It’s Ulrich. He’s been such a friend to me in the last five years. I’m afraid of his disapproval. The company created this superstar position and while I’ve enjoyed it, the spark isn’t there for me anymore. Ugh, I’m confused. In the last five years … maybe my whole life, I’ve just done what people told me. I’m not sure of anything anymore.” “Don’t worry, it’ll all work out.” “I could barely sleep last night after visiting the Jefferson Memorial. That’s why I called you. I’ve come up with some new ideas on the true meaning of liberty, peace, and freedom.” “Wow! Really?” “Yes, after rereading some of the quotes there, it got me thinking, especially those lines: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.…’ It struck me that we’ve been looking at that document and the Constitution all wrong. The rights and freedoms they contain are not given to the people of this country by the government, but the people must embody these basic human rights in their being and in their living. Then, and only then, can the government assume the role of protecting these rights and certainly not abuse them. After all, it’s

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‘… government for the people, by the people.…’ Right? Yet it can’t be that unless the citizens themselves claim these rights for themselves, instead of waiting around for the government to inject them with it. I particularly keyed in on the part about the right to Life being inalienable because I feel in some way it applies to me. Also, Frank, these documents aren’t just true for the citizens of the U.S., but for all people on the planet. The words, ‘… all men are created equal …’ of course women included, seem so universal. We, as individuals, allow governments to dictate our rights to us instead of we, the people, telling the government what we need. And we, in the U.S., have done such a poor job of representing something so profound to the rest of the world. Look at the last election, and the war on terrorism.” “That’s amazing. A Constitutional scholar I’m not, but you’re right, it makes so much sense. If I remember my history lessons, the founders of the nation wanted to create a government structured upon universal principles and applicable to a country.” “Exactly! It’s so refreshing to talk about something a bit deeper than the weather, or who got drunk last night, or who screwed whom. The last couple of months have shown me something about beliefs.” “Like what?” “Not quite sure yet, but I realized that altering one’s beliefs is not enough.” She paused, feeling a small knot develop in her stomach. “I think I’m afraid, even though I want a change.” “Sure, everyone is, but that doesn’t mean you should give up what you feel inside. Remember the immortal words of Shakespeare’s character Polonius to his son, Laertes, in the Tragedy of Hamlet: ‘This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man …’” “Frank, how do you remember that? I love Shakespeare but I can’t quote him.” “But you can quote the Declaration of Independence. Look, after the accident and months of contemplation, I realized that all I know is what I feel inside, including knowledge that I can’t prove. And that is infinitely more real than anything else, even beliefs.” Jennifer stayed quiet a moment, thinking about what he said. Then, she said, “Did you make flight reservations?” She swung her feet to the floor in front of a rectangular glass coffee table and reached for a nearby pad of paper and pen to write down the information. She

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assured him that she would be waiting at the baggage claim. She smiled at knowing one true feeling inside. “Uh,” he said, “how to put this? Do I need to keep my hotel reservation in D.C. or …?” “Oh, you’re so.…” She stopped, flushing with excitement, her body tingling with the thought of him staying over. “Hmm. You could stay with me. I’ve got two rooms if that becomes necessary.” After bittersweet goodbyes, she sank back into the sofa filled with extra pillows and closed her eyes. Delicious tingles raced through her body as she inhaled deeply. Finally, someone had come along that had potential. Everything seemed to be falling into place.

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Washington Hotel, Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 3:45 P.M. Jennifer walked on the shiny marble floor toward the café entrance. Just inside the elegantly carved, dark, wooden doorway, she surveyed groups of well-dressed patrons mingling at the long bar that matched the entrance design. She spied the Director at a table for two on the outdoor patio that overlooked the White House grounds. Smoothing her light-gray, mid-length skirt she glided past tables filled with Washington’s movers and shakers, a winning smile gracing her face. Exuding warmth and congeniality in one quick flash of white teeth and generous lips, she slipped into the chair opposite her boss. He wore the usual dark blue pinstriped suit with crisp white shirt and sipped a cup of tea, both perennials when among Washington’s power elite. “So how is the star of LAM doing these days?” Ulrich asked, smiling. “Fine, wait! Scratch that. Truthfully, I feel confused, tired, and uncomfortable. And you?” He leaned toward her, hands clasped, brow now furrowed. She smiled at his studious gaze that seemed to traverse her being, as if taking inventory. “Charles alluded to some of this. What the devil is going on, Jennifer? And where is your necklace?” “I lost it in San Diego. Sorry. Look, I’ve been discovering some new things about myself, my life. Not that it’s crystal clear, mind you, and I don’t want to cause any problems or offend you or the company, but some things are going to have to change.” “Please, how can I be of assistance?” She launched into the revelations gleaned from the night at the memorials. Then, reassured of his attention, she handed over the outline for her sabbatical. - 125 -

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After perusing the single sheet, he said, “Jennifer, what exactly is the meaning of this?” “I think it is pretty clear. I need some time off.” “You can’t leave us now. Just as our ship is about to sail. Our flag poised for hoisting for all to see our prowess. Come, come, lets be rational, shall we?” “Rational! Did you say rational?” Her eyebrows matched the flare in her tone. “You asked me how I was doing and I’m telling you—uncomfortable. I spent the last three days wandering the corridors of a building in which I feel no connection. I felt totally empty. It made me wonder what I’m doing here. Why should I stay somewhere that doesn’t match my sensibilities? Would you rather I just take it in stride? Smile outwardly and feel self-disgust inwardly as I shove down my feelings” “What about our goal? Educating the masses?” “I know the rhetoric, but it seems to be lacking something. I can’t quite put my finger on it yet.” She paused as a waitress appeared. “Forgive me Jennifer, let’s order you something, a glass of wine, tea. What will it be, dear?” She asked for white wine then refocused back on the Director, who smiled faintly. “Jennifer, we all become confused and waiver on what is right and wrong. We doubt the truth of the mind, but that’s where having a clear goal before you can be a salvation, a guiding light in the darkness of indecision.” His smile broadened. She watched him flatten his hands on the table and felt repulsed for some reason. Doubts began to cloud her thoughts. She felt indebted to him, for all that he had done. She looked over the nearby balustrade at the White House barricaded for blocks around in case of possible terrorist attack. Then, her mind drifted to what it would be like to work for Frank’s organization. Warmth glowed beneath her breast. “Look, Ulrich, I’m just asking for some time to sort some things out.” “Yes, I understand, but one can’t ignore timing. And our debut to the world on Saturday is perfect.” “Really? It doesn’t seem so. Look at all the fighting going on. We may be on the brink of the next World War, if not a nuclear war.” “And what better time for all that we have to offer. If not now, when?” “What about choice? Which reminds me, what is this Bio-energetic transmitter device thingy? Why was I kept in the dark, Ulrich? I should’ve been told so I could decide if I felt comfortable with the idea.”

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The Director glanced around and lowered his voice. “How did you hear about that?” “I have my sources. I want to know what’s going on. Because, right now as I sit here, I don’t like the sound of it.” “Let’s just calm down. I was going to fill you in on all of this. I wanted to do it in person. With your travel schedule and mine, this was the earliest moment. As usual, you pre-empted my debut of it to you.” She just stared at him as he began to relay information on the device; most of it she had heard from the Senator. With hands in animated excitement he painted a Utopian picture, where people of all nations, religions, and creeds joined together to share their cultural differences, while remaining tolerant of the practices of others. “And you, my dear, are just the person to lead the way,” said Ulrich, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped across his stomach. “Sounds wonderful.” “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.” “Ulrich, this idea, this device you have.… I … I totally disagree but I can’t say why. I feel there is an inherent human injustice here.” She ignored his look of frustration, and continued. “Maybe, in order to have world peace, mankind must come into balance and peace within each one of us first. But it’s not just this device. As I told you earlier, I’ve been thinking, feeling, whatever—I want a break.” “Certainly, I understand. But what about helping others? What of the ‘… pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness …’?” “Do yourself a favor, don’t bring that up right now.” Part of her felt like caving in, but another part rebelled. “At the moment the real question is what good would serving the people do if I can’t even serve my own needs because I don’t know what I want?” “I see.” Ulrich looked away, surveying the patrons filling the bar and restaurant. He refocused on her, and added, “It seems a bit selfish.” She recoiled into the chair as Ulrich’s face flushed. Several moments passed between them. She forced herself to stay seated and not walk out, right then and there. “I’m sorry Jennifer, that was uncalled for. This is such a crucial time for LAM—for us. With the loss of Samuel, if you go.…” “I know.” She fiddled with a cocktail napkin, trying to calm the thoughts waging war in her head. Finally, she said, “Listen, I’ll be at the Gala Event, then I want my time. Okay?”

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“I’m all for it, but I’ll have to talk with the board about this. I appreciate you sticking it out through the Gala.” “When will the board let you know?” “Soon, my dear.” “So you’ll make sure my time off is approved?” She searched his eyes. As he nodded in affirmation the knot in her stomach released. “What else could I do? After all you’ve been through with the loss.… Say, since you’ve lost the graduation present I gave you, I have a surprise for you.” He raised a hand before she could object and rummaged in the pocket of his suit jacket with the other. He extracted a small black box and placed it on the table in front of her. She glanced at the velvet box with a dubious eye, not reaching for it. “Go ahead, just a little something I picked up for you a number of weeks ago in Spain, the city of Toledo. Open it.” Jennifer’s hand crept across the table as if approaching a dangerous animal. Inside, a beautiful gold bracelet inlaid with black stone shimmered at her. She slipped it over her left hand. “Ulrich, you shouldn’t have. It’s so beautiful! It’s not real gold, is it?” “Certainly, only the best for you. It’s made with high compressed ash to give the appearance of black onyx. If I remember correctly, it’s called Demasquillado. Do you like it?” “It’s wonderful! Thank you. I’ll be more careful with this.” “It was time to replace that silly necklace anyway.” She returned the Director’s warm smile, unaware that his real mission had been accomplished. The chip in the bracelet began its function once out of the box. Accepting an invitation to dinner at his favorite restaurant, just a few blocks down the street, she caught the Director’s arm as he stood up. ✶

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Jones’s House, Reston, Virginia Thursday, 12:33 A.M. On the second floor, in the spacious master bedroom, Jones pretended to sleep, as Kelly tossed and turned in bed beside him. He knew she was awake, after initially falling asleep after sex. The pressure in the mattress changed as she slid her one hundred-twenty pound frame off it, trying not to wake him. She made cau-

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tious footfalls on the carpeted floor over to her dress draped over the chair in front of the vanity. For fun, he pretended to stir—Kelly froze. Then feigning light snoring, he lay still, wanting to see what she would do. With honed senses and eyes slit, he watched as she pulled the dress over her head and walked through the bedroom door onto the landing. She descended the stairs, not avoiding the creaks too well. As soon as she was downstairs, he got up and donned the neatly folded slacks from last night and slipped a pistol into the waistband at the small of his back. He gave a silent command to both dogs to stay. Then, quiet as a cat, he went to the top of the stairs and heard Kelly in the kitchen, filling a glass of water. Crouching down behind a solid half-wall at the top of the landing, he watched as she wandered into the family room area. From a small bookshelf next to the television and DVD player Kelly selected a DVD about nature from the voluminous collection, organized alphabetically by title. Smiling at the cover, she put it down on the television. Then she turned and walked through the living room, disappearing from sight. In a few minutes, he heard the clicking of computer keys. Suspicion arose in an instant. But, like a practiced predator, he waited to pounce. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he descended the stairs in perfect stealth. He continued toward the office, pausing at the door to glance at the filled gun cabinet—none were missing. For a second longer he observed Kelly’s hands fly over the keys. In seconds, he closed the distance between the door and where she sat at the computer. Before she could turn he laid strong hands upon her shoulders and held her down. She craned her neck around and stared into piercing eyes. She had not seen this look in his eyes before. He clamped a firm hand over her mouth as it dropped open. Her body tensed and a huge lump developed in her throat. Then Jones made the sign for silence. She gave a nod. “What are you doing?” he said, through clenched teeth, releasing her mouth. “Uh … I … you.…” She gulped. “I was just … I couldn’t sleep, so I came and got some water. Then, wandering around I found your computer on and the internet open, so I thought I’d catch up on some communication to friends.” He nodded, staring at the text on the screen. “Tron … Dr. Jones, I … I’m sorry if I’ve done anything wrong. I didn’t want to disturb you by tossing and turning.” Still glaring at her with heat that could melt a glacier, his eyes flicked toward the screen. “Finish that.”

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Kelly faced the screen, seeing the reflection of her boss standing behind her, arms crossed, almost monolithic. She canceled the message with a quick click. Quickly, Jones hit a few buttons and the computer shut down. He grabbed her by the arm, twisting it behind her back. She winced with pain.Pulling her into the living room, he thrust her onto the brown fabric sofa. She curled up in a ball. Uncertain and afraid, she remained silent, waiting, casting a furtive glance at the front door. He called Zeus, who came instantly from the bedroom. The dog stood alert at the front door as commanded, allowing his master to go to the kitchen. Cabinet doors slammed. Jones returned with a glass of juice and sat down in one of the armchairs that matched the sofa. His gaze penetrated like an arrow. Kelly shifted uncomfortably on the couch, opened her mouth then shut it. She looked down at her bare feet resting on the pine wood coffee table in front of her. Her toes flexed back. At last Jones spoke, voice soft, but not warm. “So, do you want to tell me what you were really doing?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Come on, out with it. The truth will win out in the long run. Look, you can have it the easy way or the hard way. The choice is yours.” “I … I haven’t done anything. Couldn’t sleep is all. Is that a crime?” “All right, the hard way it is.” Jones flexed the fingers of both hands and balled them into fists, which he used to push off the chair to stand up. With a face like granite, he took several steps in her direction, coming perilously close. Kelly cringed, trying to sink further into the sofa cushions. “Who ya working for?” he said. “You!” He reached one hand to the small of his back and began to pace back and forth in front of the coffee table. Every now and then, he shot a sharp glance in Kelly’s direction. Then, stopping in front of her, he whipped out the small automatic pistol and chambered a round. Kelly jumped, recoiling her legs tight to her chest. Her lower lip quivered. “Don’t think I’m some kind of fool! I know what the hell’s goin’ on here. It’s the oldest game in the business. Once more, what is the target of your mission and who is your employer?” “Oh shit.” “Uh huh, out with it!” He took a step closer, the nose of the gun inches from her face.

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“No … I … I … we’ve got a big misunderstanding here. All I know is I work for ENOCH Corporation, the research and development part of LAM, a larger non-U.S. based company.” He scraped the tip of the muzzle against her cheek. “We’ve been working to perfect some work-site enhancement technology. The device is called the Bio-Energetic Tensiometer. Uh … we conducted a private preview of the device for potential customers that didn’t go so well since a volunteer di … uh, suffered a heart attack. That’s all I know. I’m very sorry I messed with your computer. Please Tron, don’t hurt me.” As tears began to roll down flushed cheeks she covered her face with her hands and muttered something under her breath. “What was that, Kelly?” “Nothing, just sorry I ever got involved … with … you.” Jones replaced the gun in his waistband and began rocking back and forth from heel to toe, further assessing the situation. He had her where he wanted her, so he shifted tactics. “Listen Kelly, I had to be sure you were on the level. I can see you are and I hope the gun didn’t scare you too much. We really need you at ENOCH, right now. The Director would never forgive me if you left our employ, especially before the Gala on Saturday. What do you say?” She wiped her face with a bare arm, perplexed by the change in his manner. “Except for this little misunderstanding, tonight wasn’t all bad, was it? Will you still accompany me on Saturday?” “I … I don’t know.” “Take twenty-four hours and let me know?” “Yeah, okay.” Her eyes strayed to her purse by the front door. “Am I free to go now?” “Of course.” At the front door, heart pounding, hand on the doorknob, Kelly heard her name called. Her upper back muscles went rigid, though not from expecting a bullet in the back. “Thanks for your company earlier.” She nodded and then dashed out the door to her car. For a moment, Jones and Zeus stood framed in the front doorway, both watching her drive away with a squeal of tires. Then, Jones flicked the safety on, securing the pistol.

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LAM, Incorporated, Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:53 P.M. On the top floor, sitting in the small reading nook in her spacious office suite, which featured a wet bar that she never used and an espresso machine, Jennifer’s eyes drifted over the partly cloudy sky, thinking of the next day when she would pick up Frank from the airport. Suddenly, a voice came through the headset earpiece hooked to her cell phone. “Jennifer!” “Uh huh, Kelly, I’m here.” “I asked you a question. Should I go to the Gala with my boss just for the company’s appearance sake or not?” “I’m sorry, just thinking of Frank’s.…” “Oh great! It’s the worldwide debut of our parent company to the movers and shakers in the business and political world, and all you can do is daydream ’bout your new honey. Jennifer, I need some help here. Walter, I mean, Dr. Jones is going to be hounding me for an answer any minute.” “Did you say Dr. Jones?” “Yes, Dr. Walter Jones, my boss.” “Kelly.…” “Wait! I know what you’re gonna say: How could I be so foolish as to get involved with another boss again after what happened three years ago at Centech. But up until last night, he’s been warm and considerate. He loves nature and even has two wonderful German Shepherds.” “So what happened?” Jennifer listened to Kelly’s story of the night before, feeling truly sorry for her. “After all that he still wants me to go to the Gala with him.” - 132 -

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“Kelly, you gotta be careful. I just found out that your boss and The Director were former secret agents.” “Like on the those shows? Yeah, well that might explain his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde act last night, and that long thin scar across his chest. He said it was from a back alley brawl in Turkey, years ago. He has other ones, too, but.… They talked back and forth, covering the pros and cons of what Kelly should do. Neither gave a thought as to whether the line was tapped. Yet, Jennifer decided not to mention what the Senator had said. “Kelly, maybe you should say yes but then suddenly get sick on Saturday.” This idea led into further discussion back and forth. Finally, Jennifer grew tired of the indecision. “Seriously, I’m not getting a good feeling about this. He threatened you with a gun. Is there anyone in personnel you can talk to?” “Can’t. We’d already had sex. I think I better go with him, just to ensure my safety.” “I’ll keep an eye on you. Anyway, I said he was a former government agent. I don’t think he is anymore, but he’s still dangerous.” “What do you mean?” Then Kelly whispered, “Oh, gotta go, he’s here.” The line went dead. Tired all of a sudden, Jennifer glanced at the bracelet from Ulrich and attempted a smile. About to depart the office, Charles filled her office doorway, rapping softly on the frosted glass pane that displayed her name. All smiles, as usual, he said, “Hey, there she is, wondergirl of LAM. Ooh, nice bracelet.” “Not really my style, but it’s a gift from the Director. I feel horrible about losing the necklace.” “As you should. Have time to grab a quick bite together?” Jennifer rolled her eyes. Charles held up a hand before she could complain further. According to him the Director wanted them to meet and discuss Gala event strategy. “Ahhhggg! All right, but let’s make it quick. I really want to get a workout in.” With slumped shoulders, Jennifer trudged behind him, trying to ignore the frustration welling up inside. “So … I hear you’re bringing somebody special to the Gala. Do I know him?” “I don’t think that it’s any of your concern.” “Ah, secrets between pals aren’t necessary,” said Charles, hiding his hurt.

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Dulles International Airport, Virginia Friday, 4:59 P.M. “Frank, it’s so wonderful to see you,” Jennifer whispered, holding him close. “That seemed like the longest five days of my life.” They stood near one of several baggage claim carousels amidst a crowd of weary travelers. The black conveyor belt turned but as yet no bags had arrived. “I was eager to see you, too” he said, “and a little anxious.” “How come?” “Unsure of how I’d be received, I guess.” The corners of his mouth turned up a fraction at first then grew into a full-blown grin. “But here we are.” Jennifer guided his lips to hers, feeling electricity ignite throughout her body. The kiss lasted for several seconds, as time slipped from them. “How’s that, mister?” She touched a finger to his lips. “How many bags do you have? I’m afraid we’ve got a bit of a hectic schedule at first.” After retrieving Frank’s one bag, she took his hand, passing through the ground level terminal doors that led to short-term parking. She bit her nail, wondering whether to divulge the information about LAM. Was it a betrayal to LAM? Yet, she thought he might be able to help. “Frank, I hate to talk about work right off, but something’s come up and it concerns me.” “Sure, what is it?” “Since my return, I’ve been contacted by someone who has inside information on LAM which I’ve confirmed with my boss.” Jennifer filled him in on details about the BET device, the meeting with the Senator, though not mentioning him by name, and Kelly’s incident as they walked through the parking lot. At the

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car she looked at him, wondering if he had truly listened because he had been so quiet. “Does all that make sense?” “I got it.” Frank placed a hand on the trunk of the car, preventing her from opening it. “Hold on, your car could be bugged. Let’s finish this out here. Do you feel your life is in danger? Or that of your friend, Kelly?” “I’ve been wondering that myself. I doubt it … but this man, Dr. Jones, Kelly’s boss, is evidently.…” “Did you say Doctor Jones? That wouldn’t be Walter Jones, would it?” She nodded as Frank put the bag on the ground and with a napkin from the plane mopped his brow, not used to the humidity. He seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Frank? Why that odd smile?” “Sorry, it’s just amusing. He must have gotten his doctorate after being ousted from government service.” “Oh, so you know about his dismissal?” “Yes, and your informant,” said Frank, chuckling over the use of the vague nature of the word, “is quite right. He’s very dangerous. I don’t want to tell you what to do, but this man is way out of your league. He’s out of the league of most.” “What league? What do you know?” “First, is your informant friend in the business?” “Business? Sure, he has a very esteemed position in the government in fact.” “Espionage business.” “Oops! Oh, that’s funny.” She giggled. “Can we go?” “Sure, but no specific references about any of what you told me. Okay?” Once through the pay gate, Frank swept a hand over the well-kept tan leather seat. “Nice ride. Yours?” “Ha-ha, it was chosen for me, a perk, part of the exec package.” Jennifer directed the car down the airport access road as Frank settled in with his back against the door, left knee against the seatback. Facing her, he reached over and stroked her cheek. She smiled and caught a glimmer of his magnetic hazel eyes sparkling in the sunlight. Because of Frank’s warning they spoke in generalities about possible options. He admitted to being out of circulation in the espionage world, so that created a challenge. “But I know someone who is still connected,” he said. “Who?”

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“It’s uh.…” Frank began then shook his head. His index finger danced over the car’s interior. “I can’t think of his name at the moment. I have it my bag.” “When we get to my apartment I think you should contact him. You know, get some expert advice before the Gala tomorrow night.” “Is your friend’s boss going to be there?” “Is that a problem?” “It’ll be interesting.” On a scrap piece of paper, Frank wrote: ‘He’ll definitely know me. But we have the edge of surprise.’ He showed it to Jennifer. The right corner of his mouth rose higher as a smile crossed his face again. Jennifer took Route 29, trying to avoid the Washington area’s infamous Beltway at prime rush hour. She placed a hand on his, glad to have him close. ✶

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Senator Cymbone’s House, Reston, Virginia Friday, 5:43 P.M. Cymbone poured black coffee into a mug, kissed his wife, Julie, and slid into the chair next to her at the wooden kitchen table. Late afternoon sun poured in through the greenhouse window above the sink. He relaxed into the chair, fingers intertwined in Julie’s long, soft black hair that flowed over her shoulder and accented her ochre skin, part of her Navajo heritage. Her thin black eyebrows scrunched a bit as his brown eyes met hers. Warmth flowed between them. He took a deliberate sip from his mug, the steam still rising. “Coffee this late and home so early,” Julie said. “Everything okay on the Hill today, honey?” “More or less. The waters have gotten stormier as far as my education reform proposal. I have three things to discuss with you, though—actually seeking your consent.” “I’m listening.” “You remember we have the LAM Gala tomorrow night. A black tie affair. I’m sure you have something absolutely stunning to wear. Right?” “I hadn’t forgotten. What time does it begin?” “Eight, though we can be fashionably late. I thought a candlelight dinner down by the river first would be nice.” “Okay John, stop stalling, I can tell you’re just bursting.” “You know me too well. All right, how does ten days in Paris sound to you?”

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Julie’s mouth dropped open then closed. She swallowed and said, “Oh, honey, don’t kid me about something like that! Are you serious? That would be fabulous! Tell me more!” “I was asked to represent the United States at the International Coalition for the Enhancement of Economic Relations. That’s the official name. It’s an attempt to improve the image of the U.S. among our European neighbors, so to speak. Anyway, I jumped at the chance to return to the place of our honeymoon almost twenty years ago. Revisit all our old favorites.” “Okay, okay, I’m sold! To be in Paris again … sounds enchanting. When is the meeting? Oh, honey, what about the girls?” “Two weeks from tomorrow. Due to official government business all of the arrangements are done. I thought Kristie and Vanessa could stay with the Bernards while we’re gone. It would be great to take them too, but it would be good to have time to ourselves, kind of reconnect with ‘us’ a bit. We can take the girls another time when they are a little older and will appreciate it more. Does that meet with your approval?” “Yeah, you’re right. They’ll probably enjoy the freedom from us more than Paris. I’ll give Mary a call and see if it’s all right with her. How come this came up so suddenly?” Cymbone shared with her that the person slotted to attend had fallen ill, so of all people, Senator Gallidette had chosen him. She nodded, but her brow furrowed. She crossed her arms and sat still for a moment. She glanced out the window at the sun’s rays breaking through the trees causing streaks of light on the lemon colored walls. She looked at the light oak cabinets and sighed. Recognizing her posture of troubled intuition, he asked, “What is it?” “Doesn’t it strike you as peculiar that your arch rival selected you to attend? Such a last minute switch, I don’t like it … maybe we shouldn’t go.” “What are you saying? This is our chance to recoup something from the last six years of toiling away up on that Godforsaken Hill. I thought.…” “Honey, just hold on, don’t get down on yourself. You’ve contributed so much there, standing up for the rights of the people when no one else would.” He placed a hand on hers, knowing as she did that he couldn’t have done it without her strength. He took a deep breath to prepare for what he was about to say. As he spoke his voice wavered. “I … I’m not going to run again next November. I can’t do it any more. I’m sorry. I can’t live without integrity to my heart and Great Spirit any longer. My dream hasn’t changed, just the path to it.”

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Julie placed her other hand over his, a gesture that perfectly mingled relief and regret. It was also a gesture that showed her support for his decision. She listened as he told her about the trip to the canyon with Silver Bear and the message imparted. She asked about the meeting with Jennifer Chance. He had reflected on it throughout the week and suggested that he wasn’t giving up on his dreams, just shifting focus. “So I thought the trip to Paris would be our way of saying good-bye to government and all of that frustration. See?” “Yes, but I don’t trust that Gallidette man. He’s had it in for you since day one in the Senate. I have a funny feeling about this.” “You know I trust your ‘feelings’, honey. I was suspicious at first, too. I checked and there are no votes coming up, nothing, so I let it go. A perfect example of how politics corrupts us: when presented with a gift, we react with trepidation. What could happen over there? We’re more out of their reach there than here. All right?” “Promise me that if anything doesn’t feel right then we won’t go?” Cymbone held Julie’s face gently in his hands and gave his word on it. Then, he looked at the kitchen clock, and suggested they fetch the girls. To celebrate the end of enslavement to the U.S. government he wanted to take everyone to pizza and a movie, the new animation picture. “The girls will love that—Daddy being so spontaneous. I love it too. Let’s go!” The sun slid behind a neighbor’s house. Its illumination faded from the kitchen as Julie placed their mugs in the sink, unwashed. Heaviness still clung to her insides, like clothes worn in a downpour. ✶

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Friday, 11:51 P.M. At his desk, Jones deftly pin-wheeled a steel-cased pen through his fingers, while waiting for Charles to answer his cell phone. Everyone else in the office had left hours ago for the weekend, but he had last minute preparations to take care of before the Gala event. Finally, he heard a voice, sounding somewhat inebriated, and music blaring in the background. “Hello, Charles here.” “Let’s make this brief. What did you find out from the target?” “Oh, it’s you, Dr. Jones … sir. Just a minute, let me step outside.”

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When Charles spoke again, all traces of inebriation were gone. “Well sir, I was planning on giving you a formal report on Monday after the Gala.” “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but just tell me what you know?” “Not much to report, sir. She’s bringing that guy friend she met in San Diego during the convention. She’s acting very irritable with me. In fact, it was all I could do to get her to talk about it.” “Does Mr. San Diego have a name?” “Oh yeah, it’s Frank, sir. I believe he’s just a regular businessman, not sure if he’s from San Diego. I think Jennifer told me he was from somewhere else. Yes, I’m sure of it.” “Does our regular businessman from somewhere else have a last name?” “Uh, no. I mean, of course he does, sir. It’s just that I sort of didn’t catch that part. She told me, but we were at a cafe and the waitress brought the menus and.…” “Listen, I’m not interested in your bullshit excuses. Remember our meeting? I said, ‘Detail, detail, detail.’ The three most important things in the intelligence field and they stem from being aware. You’re worse than the rookies straight out of the Farm.” “Yes, sir. How could I have been so stupid? I’ll do better next time.” “All right. It’s done. But if that brain of yours should happen to suddenly flare up with any other details, let me know right away. I can be reached around the clock at this number, 703-474-6543. I’ll see you tomorrow at the Gala. And remember our plan.” Jones hung up forcefully, causing the Inbox on the right corner of the desk to jump. Grabbing a new folder that fell out, he scanned the note from his secretary attached to the file. It read: ‘Dr. Donaldson asked that I give this to you today since he will be away for a few days.’ He opened the manila folder and stared at revised versions of the BET reports from the other day. He flicked through a few pages and came to another item he hadn’t seen before. The memo read:

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OFFICE OF THE BIRMINGHAM COUNTY CORONER STATE OF ALABAMA (205) 453-6262 Date:

July 21st

From:

Gerald D. Munroe

To:

Frederick P. Johnson, Mayor

Re:

Mortalities

Dear Mayor Johnson, This is to inform you that we have logged more hours recently due to a higher death toll thus far this summer season. Per standard procedure, we conducted random autopsies. However, there appeared no abnormal circumstances in any of the corpses. The majority of cases have suffered either myocardial infarctions (heart attacks) or excessive heatstroke symptoms. The latter can cause death if left untreated. We attribute the higher than normal rate to an increase in physical environment exposure during dangerous air quality index ratings. (Perhaps global warming has a new effect.) Please direct any inquiries to our offices. A pleasure to be of service, Gerald D. Munroe Jones flipped back to the report page that showed the numbers for Birmingham. Five hundred deaths were reported in the county coroner’s office over the last two months. The report also listed the installation date of the BET devices within the community telephone system: May twenty-first. “Dammit!” he said aloud, and throwing open the bottom drawer of his desk. He pushed aside the Uzi and extra clips, and grabbed a Glock 9mm. He jumped up and shoved the gun into his waistband and left for Donaldson’s office. Through the darkened corridors of the building, he descended the stairs two at a time to the ground level laboratory. Nearing the research lab, he pulled out the gun and chambered a round as quietly as possible. At the door marked, Dr. James Donaldson, he burst through only to find an empty office. Below a single emergency light on an almost clean desk, lay a typed note that read:

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“To All, I have taken a short vacation. Will return on Monday. Enjoy the Gala! Sincerely, James Donaldson, MD” “Shit!” Jones’s voice echoed through the vacant lab space. He paced a moment, hitting the palm of his hand with the butt of the gun. He grabbed the note and tore it up. Back in his office, at the computer, he quickly accessed the JonesSpy program, which tracked all email traffic in and out of ENOCH. It turned up nothing. Then he thoroughly searched the call log file for the office, especially from Medical Research in the last five days—again nothing unusual. It appeared that Donaldson knew about the phones being tapped and the BET transmission through them. Jones’s finger itched the trigger on the gun that lay on the desk.

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Jennifer’s Apartment, Alexandria, Virginia Saturday, 6:01 P.M. Eyeing her image in the mirror as she always did before a public appearance, Jennifer smoothed the slight wrinkles on the black, sleeveless dress that accentuated her hips and revealed her slim, yet toned, upper back. The feel of the sheer fabric over her figure reminded her that she was a woman, no matter the requirements of the corporate world. She twirled and grimaced, and straightened one of the spaghetti straps that traced her shoulder blade. She tried several more poses with hair pulled back then down. She dropped her arms, hair falling about her shoulders. The bracelet from Ulrich slid down to her wrist, causing her to frown at it. Hearing a faint footfall, she glanced up as Frank entered the bedroom, dressed in an immaculate black tuxedo. Her heart raced as she recalled last night, the candles, the spicy Cuban food, and the stroll by the Potomac. Seeing the look on his face, she knew he sensed her displeasure. “Something wrong?” “The bracelet, it just doesn’t go. The outfit calls out for something silver, not gold.” “So change it.” “But Ulrich, he’ll be so disappointed.” “Jennifer, wear what you want. It’s your life.” “Easy for you to say, Mr. Independent … and very handsome.” She unfastened the gold safety clasp and placed the bracelet on the dresser, then slipped on a set of silver bangles. She raised her arm up and down, testing it. “Absolutely radiant,” said Frank, catching her eye in the mirror.

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She bit her lip and turned away from the mirror, fearing what might appear. She stopped him as he drew close, her hands resting on the sleeves of his tuxedo. She could feel the tension in her body, despite wanting to relax. She wondered if he felt it too. “This whole thing with LAM, especially the waiting, just throws me off center. And the responsibility to my commitments, but my heart isn’t in it anymore.” “It’s okay. If you don’t want to do it, don’t do it.” “I know, but I’m afraid of letting myself down, of making the wrong choice.” She knew that staying with the company was no longer an option. She needed to live differently. All that had been crystal-clear at the Memorial the other night. Yet, she still struggled with letting go. She glanced over his shoulder at the queen-size bed, the two matching nightstands with matching lamps. None of it was hers, just supplied by LAM. She took in the framed picture on the wall above the bed, an Ansel Adams print that captured a beautiful lake below a snow-capped mountain. That was hers, and somehow it signified a deeper, truer part of herself. She drew confidence from it. “Given the gift of life, I have a right to choose how I live,” she said, at last. “Right?” “Absolutely.” She gave him a peck on the cheek, grateful for his support and lack of criticism. Heaven knew she had enough of that on her own. In the living room she grabbed his arm. “Patience,” she said. “That’s a tough one, especially for me, one who has pushed herself too hard. Thank you for being here with me.” “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.” She tugged on his sleeve, pulling him close. Feeling more relaxed, her lips connected with his. A tear rolled down her cheek. After a minute, as if in slow motion, they separated, a teardrop split in two. “To the Gala we go, Frank.” ✶

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Washington Hotel, Washington, D.C. Saturday, 6:45 P.M. In a black tuxedo, a maroon bow tie, and a matching satin handkerchief in his breast pocket, the Director stepped from the black, stretch limousine and offered

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a hand to Kelly. Once on the red-carpeted sidewalk she smoothed her vee-backed rose-colored full-length dress and looked both directions on Pennsylvania Avenue. At last, Jones got out of the car, joining the other two. The Director smiled, taking Kelly and Walter by the arm. Beneath the strobe light of cameras, they walked up the short flight of steps into the lavish lobby. Archways of dark hardwood towered above heavy furniture and a monstrous reception desk. With supreme delight The Director strode down the hall and turned into an expansive ballroom. He beamed upon seeing a huge banner that read: ‘Lectures And More Welcomes You to the New Millennium: Global Peace is at Hand.’ “This is my mistress, Kelly,” said the Director, with an upraised hand in triumph. “I have secretly courted the world and tonight is my debutante ball of sorts.” “It must be very exciting for you. Congratulations, sir.” “Thank you, my dear, but it’s not just for me. It’s for you, for Walter, for all of us at LAM and ENOCH. We’ve labored for almost ten years and now it’s upon us. This is a momentous night for all. Wouldn’t you say Walter?” “Of course, sir,” said Jones, while scanning the layout of the room. “Come now, smiles all around. Nothing is more important than enthusiasm and a well-defined sense of purpose when one is trying to sell something, especially something so positive. By the way, I want to commend you both on your exquisite organization of the details for this extravaganza.” The Director clapped a heavy hand on Jones’s upper back. A young female caterer in a red skirt and white blouse carrying a tray of champagne approached. The Director grabbed two glasses, handing one each to Kelly and her boss. He grabbed another glass from another passing tray. “A toast to our accomplishment!” Jones raised his glass, though not feeling quite as comfortable as The Director, who glanced around to see if any others would join them. Not seeing anyone, he commenced, “To the health of the world’s population, which will be soon forever enhanced with our help. Salud.” The glasses clinked and Kelly downed hers. A loud, gravelly voice called out to the Director. “There he is, the man of the evening! How are you, my good sir?” A corpulent, gray haired man, in his late fifties with bushy eyebrows, flanked by two other gentlemen, approached with hand outstretched. One of the sidekicks was a thin, wiry man in his late twenties with curly brown hair and gold-rimmed glasses. The other was a short, crew-cut, and stocky man, built like a fireplug. The short man’s small beady eyes darted in numerous directions, his tuxedo stretching to thread around upper body musculature. Chomping an unlit

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cigar the central man, who moved with the awkwardness of a beached whale, pumped the Director’s hand. “Senator Gallidette, so nice you could join us this evening,” said the Director. “Been quite awhile for us, hasn’t it? Please Senator, this is my right hand man, whom you must remember, Dr. Walter Jones, and his lovely assistant, Miss Kelly Namara. Dr. Jones, Miss Namara, this is Senator Gallidette, Chairman of the Education Sub-Committee as well as some others.” “So the buzz is that you and your boys have something that the rest of the world will want as soon as they learn of it. Is that right?” “Precisely, Senator.” Not one to miss a sales opportunity the Director launched into a lengthy discourse on the educational offerings of the company, but keeping the revelation of the BET device as a trump card. Meanwhile, Jones smiled outwardly, but sized up the men beside the Senator. From his data, he knew the thin man on the left was a personal assistant and the other, a recently acquired bodyguard, a necessity due to numerous death threats. He glanced away, knowing Gallidette had made some enemies among organized crime syndicates and the only thing saving his ass from assassination was the security of political office, the luxury of a spoon fed society. Jones watched Kelly finish a second glass of champagne. Then, his eyes traversed the scene to observe people pouring into the ballroom through the arched doorway. All the men wore black tuxedos, and the women looked as if they had stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. To him, the entire spectacle looked like a night at the Academy Awards, one for those in positions of power and prestige in world politics or international business. With the eye of a hawk, he spied Senator Cymbone. Instantly, details from his file came to mind, though they had only met once. “Excuse me, Senator Gallidette,” said Jones, purposefully interrupting. “Isn’t that one of your close friends there, just passing by the second plant pot, Senator Cymbone?” “I guess my information on you was wrong. You haven’t changed a bit since your forced departure from government service.” Gallidette’s tone was just shy of acid. The Director quickly intervened with polished diplomacy. Then he turned to greet Senator Cymbone and Julie, her hand in the crook of his elbow. The Director introduced the newcomers to everyone present, offering a congenial smile all around. He reminded Cymbone that they had met briefly at a fund-raiser for Native Americans last year. “Nice of you to make time for our little world debut, Senator Cymbone.”

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Senator Gallidette stepped forward, throwing a glance at his Congressional colleague. “I see you’ve met. Did you know Senator Cymbone is on my Education Sub-Committee? He has some very interesting views on educational reform. Whether the country is ready for them is another matter. But let’s not quibble. Instead, a toast. Senator Cymbone has just been selected to be one of two United States representatives at the International Coalition for the Enhancement of Economic Relations. In a few weeks he and his lovely wife will be enjoying the sights of Paris.” As Gallidette boasted, Cymbone scanned the thickening crowd, seeking Jennifer. Halfway through a third glass, Kelly looked at Julie, and said, “Such a wonderful city, Paris. Though I felt Vienna much more welcoming of foreigners, maybe even a bit more cosmopolitan. Have you two been there before, Mrs. Cymbone?” “We’ve been to Paris, not Vienna.” Julie smiled at the young woman, welcoming her sincerity, tipsy or not. “It’s been almost twenty years since we honeymooned there. I imagine a lot has changed. What did you like most about Paris, Miss Namara?” “Oh Director,” said Gallidette, dividing the two ladies with his girth. “Isn’t that one of your featured people? There, with that dark-haired gentleman with the slight limp. What’s her name, Ms. Lucky, or …?” Everyone in the group surrounding the Director turned to look at Jennifer and her male companion, except Jones who caught the keenness on Senator Cymbone’s face. “Those two stand out, don’t they?” said Gallidette’s personal assistant. “Such calmness and grace among all this glitz,” Julie added. ✶

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Despite attending many large functions with the company over the last five years, the opulence of the current affair took Jennifer by surprise. She felt comforted by the firmness of Frank’s hand as she took in the LAM banner and the small clusters of people that filled the ballroom, most nursing a drink. She recognized many faces, though failing to put a name to some. An estrangement overcame her as they neared the center of the room. Part of her wished she and Frank could fly away to a remote island in the Caribbean. Frank leaned close, whispering in her ear. The warmth of his breath on her neck sent tingles down her spine.

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“When we came into the hotel I got a funny deja vu experience. Holding your hand re-triggered this feeling I used to have with my girlfriend in the fourth grade. We would always hold hands in class. This,” he motioned between them, “feels the same, even here with all this hype.” “The fourth grade, huh, early starter, I’d say.” Jennifer gave a nervous laugh. She leaned forward, breaking a major company rule, and placed a small kiss on his lips. From somewhere close behind them a deep baritone voice called out to her. She turned to see the Director, surrounded by an entourage of people, waving at her. She waved and turned back to Frank. “It starts now. Shall we?” He nodded. They still held hands. With the presence of a ringmaster The Director assumed control and introduced Jennifer to everyone, including Senator Gallidette’s henchmen. Senator Cymbone pretended not to know her, which she mirrored. While Senator Gallidette began an amusing story about one of Jennifer’s courses attended by some Washington dignitaries, Frank and Jones’s eyes locked: two Rottweilers meeting again on questionable turf. “If it isn’t Frank Revere in the flesh. Long time,” said Jones. “I thought you were dead. What are you doing these days?” “I was sure you knew. Isn’t knowing everything about everyone your specialty?” “I usually don’t research the dead.” “As you can see, I’m alive and thriving.” Despite the festive surroundings and Jones’s apparent nonchalance, Frank could feel the old vigilance return. He slipped into a state of combat readiness, wary of the potential for animosity with Jones, just like the old days. Images of Malta resurrected again, the bullet wound, the blood. He glanced at Jones’s left thigh then looked away with annoyance. Eventually, he relayed the essence of Cherish the Wild Foundation, certain that Jones had already fully researched it and probably cared less. To his surprise, Jones expressed genuine admiration, professing himself to be a lover of nature. Frank decided to switch topics. “Still with Rogers, I see.” “Yeah, Ulie and I are trying to help the world, too, as you can see.” Jones gestured toward the banner. “What does a man with your peculiar talents offer to a group like Lectures And More?” “R and D. How’d you and Jennifer meet?”

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The words probed like the thrust of a saber. Frank stepped sideways to stand next to Jones and let several waitresses pass. Memories of previous encounters with this man rumbled from relic recesses. Then, with an off-hand air, he gave a very brief answer before asking what the big night was about, feigning ignorance. “Better talk to the Director about that; he’s the salesman. Hate to cut this short, but I’ve just seen someone I need to talk to.” Jennifer took Frank’s hand again when he rejoined the others. She gave a demure smile, though noticing that he seemed ill at ease. In midstream of his salesmanship, the Director gave a slight nod to Frank and continued. “And Jennifer, here, is a big part of it. Jennifer, tell us something we can all believe in—hah, no pun intended.” She hesitated a moment, then, as if programmed, began. “We have the opportunity to make the world a better place by creating a more balanced self through shaping our beliefs to reflect our truly positive natures, rather than continuing with self-destructive tendencies. LAM is here to help people reorganize their lives to that end. As the Director will unveil tonight our new device will certainly move everyone closer to greater harmony. It could be the most revolutionary problem-solver of the.…” She stopped, seeing Senator Cymbone’s eyes widen. She bit her lip, puzzling over her endorsement of something she knew very little about, and agreed with even less. For several moments the conversation around her faded as she berated herself for speaking such nonsense. She didn’t raise her eyes until Kelly stepped forward and spoke with a slight slur. “Works quite well, I can vouch for that. In fact, in our preview of it, a man.…” “That’s quite all right, Miss Namara,” said the Director. “I’m sure the Senators can wait for my presentation, which is about to begin. Please excuse me gentlemen, duty calls. Shall we?” In no uncertain terms the Director took hold of Kelly’s slim arm and guided her from the group. Over his shoulder, he said, “Jennifer, a word, if I may.” She nodded, then looked at Senator Cymbone, and said, “I’d like to talk with you further, Senator. Let’s try to find each other soon.” The Senator nodded, giving a look of complete understanding. Then, he made excuses to leave the group, urging his wife to accompany him. Frank stood in an ivory-walled hallway behind the great ballroom as Jennifer followed the Director into the green room.

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The windowless room contained the usual comfortable chairs, magazines, water dispenser, and a table for the use of those waiting. In one corner stood a five-foot plant with long thin leaves that sprouted up like a fountain. Standing with arms crossed, still angry with herself, Jennifer faced the Director, listening to him effusively thank her for the endorsement of the device in front of the Senators. She sensed he was stalling, which further annoyed her. “What did you want to see me about? I assume it wasn’t to simply offer lavish praise.” “Of course, you’re right. I needed to speak with you about the response from the Board of Directors meeting. They’ve reviewed your request for a sabbatical and … I’m afraid it’s been denied. Untimeliness was the reason, if I recall. Deepest apologies, they truly appreciate how hard you’ve worked for LAM. I hope you understand.” She nodded, lips pursed. An awkward silence passed before she spoke. “So I’m trapped in this organization, this life that’s been handed me, maybe, even forced upon me.” “Please don’t be upset. I know you were really counting on this break. You deserve it. But, sometimes, we all have to make sacrifices. Give up what we want for the greater good.” “I believe I’ve done that. If not, what have the last three years of lecturing been, Ulrich?” “True, but LAM is at a critical point. We need you right now. Look at how you handled those Senators. They ate it up! That is the kind of public presence we need to make this whole project happen. Just like I’ve always said, you’re perfect for the position.” “Great, just great!” With face flushed and hands trembling, she turned away and stared at the plant in the corner of the room, realizing it wasn’t real. She wondered what else about this scenario was not genuine. She sensed Ulrich step closer, but he remained silent. After another moment, she turned to look at him again, searching his face, his eyes for some sign of truth and honesty. Despite a knot the size of a grapefruit in her stomach, she agreed to stay for another six months as he suggested. “Just so you know, Ulrich, I don’t feel like doing it. And after that, I get my break, regardless of any increased demand for LAM’s services. Right?” “Absolutely.” “What sort of assurance do I have that you’ll honor this agreement? I want it in writing.”

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“Jennifer, you can trust me. Have I ever let you down or betrayed you?” She simply stared at him. “So, we have a deal?” She nodded. “Thank you. Believe me, all of us at LAM are most appreciative of your efforts. Shall we knock ’em dead out there, or should I say knock’em alive?” “Go for it, Ulrich. If anyone can, you can.” A weak smile hid the creeping uneasiness she felt. They departed the room, The Director heading toward the main ballroom, and Jennifer standing beside Frank. She told him to go to their seats and that she would be there soon. She watched him walk down the hall toward the ballroom, the knot in her belly turning into nausea. Inside the immaculate bathroom with swirled Italian marble floor and countertops, Jennifer washed her hands, trying to ease the barrage of judgment in her head. She felt pulled in two directions, one for self, one for loyalty to the company or Ulrich. Guilt and shame flooded her body. The clarity she craved on what was the best choice eluded her. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a disheveled figure coming out of one of the stalls. With a sideways glance she saw a familiar face and spun around. “Kelly? Are you all right?” Her friend jumped a bit and turned unsteadily toward the voice. Upon recognizing the speaker, she stumbled forward, clinging to the counter for support. “Oh, iths you. Niceth to see you. I’m … uh … feeling … not tho good.” Realizing Kelly’s condition, Jennifer came alongside and guided her to a small divan against one wall. Kelly plopped down and began to babble about being fine, except for what happened. “What happened?” “Bad jokes … wine … empty fucking … fuckin’ emptiness. I thought he was a nice guy.… Can’t seem to learn anything. I’m tho.…” “Oh Kelly, stop being so hard on yourself.” Kelly nodded and her face saddened. A few tears rolled down her cheeks, causing her mascara to run. Jennifer hugged and rocked her for a few minutes. Then, she took hold of Kelly’s face and said, “Everyone makes mistakes. It’s okay.” Kelly’s body swayed, eyes fluttering. She appeared on the verge of passing out. Jennifer spied glasses stacked in neat rows on top a pink cotton cloth at the far end of the counter. She propped her friend against the wall, fetched a glass of water, and gave it to Kelly, who grasped the glass like a toddler, two hands.

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Jennifer fetched another glass of water after Kelly finished the first. She knew she had to get out to the ballroom, or Frank would worry. She gently held her friend’s face again. “Just take care of yourself, Kelly. I’m going back to the ballroom in case someone is looking for us. Stay in here. Keep drinking water. I’ll come back to check on you in a bit. All right, sweetie?” With another bob-nod from Kelly, Jennifer left the bathroom and headed to the ballroom. As she neared the back entrance to the main room, a hushed voice called to her. She glanced around and saw a hand beckon her. Her stomach tightened, but with caution she advanced toward the alcove where the hand had appeared. Just as she reached the corner, a head poked out. She jumped. Senator Cymbone placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her into the alcove for public telephones. “You trying to scare me?” “Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking all over the place for you.” “Why, something happen?” “No, well, honestly I’m confused after hearing your rousing support for LAM.” She apologized for appearing so two-faced, explaining that she felt obligated to show support, despite not really feeling that way. For some time, in hushed voices, they discussed the additional information that both had gathered, which didn’t amount to much. “I tried to find out what the whole plan is, but the Director was quite evasive. He told me to talk with Dr. Jones, who is even more elusive. I can’t even find him. Have you seen him?” Jennifer shook her head, feeling nervous about being gone so long. She glanced over her shoulder, but the hall was empty. Nevertheless, she felt as if they were being watched. Putting a hand on his arm, she told the Senator that her sabbatical plans had been delayed. “What do you mean?” “Long story, but my plan to take a break for six months is put on hold.” “I know what it’s like to feel something is right for you and for someone else to inhibit you from exercising that freedom.” “I may not be so powerless.” He gave her a quizzical look. “If I have to move fast, can I reach you at the number you gave me?” She listened to his upcoming travel to Paris and his planned departure from public office. She took his card, on the back of which he had written a neighbor’s

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number, as a precaution against any phone monitoring, illegal or otherwise. He tapped the pen to his lips then suggested code words to leave if she had to depart quickly. “All right. Listen, I’ve been gone awhile, better get back in there and make an appearance. Good luck in France. I look forward to working together soon.” She smiled as they shook hands. Then they both left the alcove, Jennifer heading to the rear doors of the ballroom, the Senator going the opposite direction. With the hallway empty, a third figure emerged from hiding, an emotionless expression hiding the satisfaction he felt. Having heard only bits of the conversation, he’d seen enough. Jones stole towards the restrooms and entered the door that read: Women.

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Vietnam War Memorial, Washington, D.C. Sunday, 12:15 A.M. Several hours after the Gala, still dressed in their tuxedos, the Director and Jones walked the path along the ominous black wall etched with names of the dead from a war that few liked to remember. In the distance, the Washington Monument, floodlit from below, pointed to the heavens. The Director halted a moment and extracted a cigar, an El Rey del Mundo, which had been hidden behind the satin handkerchief in his breast pocket all evening. Though conscientious of his health, he allowed himself the luxury of fine Cuban tobacco several times per year. He struck a match and coaxed the cigar to life with measured puffs. He ignored the look of disdain from his second-in-command and continued to share vignettes of success from the evening. “What about Jennifer?” Jones said, waving a hand at the smoke. “And don’t give me that shit about being her surrogate father. I saw her talking with Senator Cymbone under very suspicious circumstances—I don’t like it. We’ve got too much at stake here to blow this. Isn’t that what you told me?” “I meant with sloppy wetwork, you know that.” “Maybe you can forget the events in Italy, but I’m not going to let it happen again, especially by some puppet of a motivational speaker and some off-the-wall Senator. Now, from what I understand, the Senator is taken care of, so all we have to do is tie up the loose end with Jennifer, especially now that she’s back with her old flame.” “I’ve already spoken to her.…” The Director cut himself off, the hair on the back his neck standing on end. He stopped Jones mid-stride. “What did you say? Old flame?”

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“Don’t tell me you didn’t recognize him. It’s the same fuckin’ guy, Frank Revere!” Jones used the opportunity to chide the Director, who thought that Frank was an old CIA buddy. He reminded him that Revere used to be black ops for NSA. Then, he briefed him on what he had learned from numerous sources during the course of the evening. “I thought you took care of all that in San Diego?” asked the Director, rubbing the bridge of his nose, suddenly feeling the length of the day. “Sort of; we got the bank girl, but the guys I sent to scare Revere didn’t succeed. One ended up in the hospital, the other in the morgue. He’s an unknown quantity since departing the business, and he’s reconnected with Jennifer. We have to do something as soon as possible.” “Don’t we have the BET signaling his apartment?” “For a few days, not long enough to create any disorientation, especially not in someone in top physical condition and who’s not there. The same is true with Senator Cymbone. What do you want to do?” “Walter, Samuel was enough. I’ve got Jennifer under control.” The Director motioned for them to walk again as he outlined the new arrangement with Jennifer, the new BET device in the bracelet, and the reworked memory drugs arriving Monday. He did agree, however, that it was far too dangerous to have Revere around. He massaged his temple in resignation, and spoke in a hushed voice. “I’ll leave the harvest up to you, but it needs to look like an accident. If Jennifer were to think anything else, we’re lost. Wait until he leaves town. Okay?” Jones nodded, giving a wry smile. “No further harvests should be required for the success of this operation.” The Director looked wistfully at his diminishing cigar. Beneath the cover of darkness, the two men stopped walking. With face impassive, Jones merely looked at the man before him, a formidable opponent to anyone in the espionage world. But that was years ago. Nevertheless, he still needed the Director’s influence and contacts, for now. Jones squeezed the older man’s upper arm and the two men parted, each going different ways.

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Constitution Avenue, Washington, D.C. Sunday, 12:30 A.M. With both hands on the wheel, Jennifer gripped it tighter than usual, her jaw set, lips drawn taut. The car sped along the deserted avenue. She had not spoken a word since getting in. She glanced at Frank, who stared out the window, perhaps lost in thought or not wanting to disturb her. She bit her lip with more fervor than usual. The sights of the city flowed past. For Frank, a funny nostalgia swept through him as memories of days with the NSA traversed his mind. A smile creased his lips, knowing that those days were gone. He recalled the attacker in San Diego. He hadn’t meant for him to die, but those instincts learned long ago were too ingrained. “Frank, sorry I’m so tense, but.…” “What’s wrong?” “It’s Kelly,” she said, and described the incident in the bathroom. Because of the incredible surge of interest in LAM and the device after the Director’s speech, she forgot to check on her as promised. Her knuckles turned whiter on the wheel. “I hope she’s okay.” “She probably took a cab home. No need to worry.” “I know, but I didn’t warn her about Jones. I feel terrible. And.…” She bit her lip, fighting back tears. His warm hand stroking her neck and shoulder was too much. She pulled into a parking area near the Jefferson Memorial and began to cry. Frank pulled her into his arms, though not fully understanding. After a few moments, a bout of nose blowing, and some tender caresses shared, she began to explain. It was the first opportunity since the conversation in the green room to tell him what had happened. She felt so ashamed, for not standing up for herself and just quitting, right then and there. “Then, with the thing with Kelly, I feel so overwhelmed. I’m a mess in here, Frank.” She pointed to her head and her chest as ears began to roll down her cheek. She cupped his hand that stroked her cheek. “You made a choice, just like wearing that bracelet or not. You don’t have to stay, if you really don’t want to.”

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“But I made a commitment and I keep my promises.” She paused, dabbing at a lingering tear. “But if I didn’t choose from the right place, or if I don’t agree with the Director, then.… I gotta think or feel it out. Let’s take a walk by the memorial.” Hand in hand, they crossed a small bridge over a canal and walked along the path. On the left the tidal basin water appeared as smooth, black ice. In front of the nineteen-foot statue of Thomas Jefferson, beneath the domed ceiling of Indiana limestone, Frank grinned and pointed to the words finely etched into the surface of the wall. “‘When in the Course of human events …’” began Jennifer, reading aloud. She paused to look at Frank’s eyes that twinkled beneath the powerful floodlights. Not a soul was around, so she continued reading the entire text. When done she gazed at him again. “Really inspiring!” Frank encircled his arms around her from behind. “How do you feel now?” “Better. More relaxed. I just need to be gentler with myself.” She smiled at the feel of Frank’s chin resting on her shoulder. She felt renewed strength and resolve returning, running through her body. It was the same feeling she had had after the meeting with the Senator. Something had blocked it, but now a giddiness stirred from depths deep within as greater certainty filled her. But now wasn’t the time to speak about it. And there was more to consider. For now, another matter required her attention. Turning to face Frank, she sought his lips. Their tongues explored each other’s amidst a tight embrace. A spellbound suspension of space and time pervaded the dome, the night. After some time, their bodies separated slightly, each gazing at the other. Then, Jennifer looked up at the statue that towered above them. “Thank you, Mister Jefferson. Your brilliance, along with the other founders, may be buried, but not lost.” Then to Frank, she said, “Now how about a romantic stroll around the basin, handsome?”

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Jennifer’s Apartment, Alexandria, Virginia Sunday, 8:14 A.M. The quiet morning sun peeked through off-white curtains into the bedroom. An upside down triangular pattern shone upon Jennifer and Frank’s shapes beneath a lightweight blue coverlet. Beethoven’s Fifth sounded from the cell phone atop the nightstand. She reached over, knocking her copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover off the table, and answered in a voice filled with sleep. “Jennifer, sorry to bother you but it’s important,” Charles said, his tone unusually somber. “It better be.” “It’s about your friend, Kelly?” “Well, what?” “The police found her about an hour ago down by the Potomac. She’s dead. I hate to break this to you over the phone, but the Director made me call. He said he’ll call you later.” June’s stomach knotted instantly as she gulped. Silent for a minute, her thoughts raced wildly. Taking a few breaths, she calmed down enough to say goodbye to Charles and slumped against the headboard, still clutching the phone. Realizing something was wrong, Frank sat next to her. “What is it?” “She’s dead. Dead … dead … dead.” “Who? Kelly?” She nodded and collapsed into his arms, her body heaving with sobs. He held her tight as his mind clicked into analysis mode. After a while, the tears ceased and she began to berate herself for not going back to check on Kelly. “I should have warned her. I sensed she was in danger, but.…” “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.” - 157 -

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“First one of our top speakers is killed in a supposed robbery homicide in San Diego while I was out there. Remember? I thought it was just bad luck, and now this. I’m starting to wonder. Am I next? Frank, I’m scared.” “I understand,” he said, touching her chin lightly, and motioned for silence, indicating bugging devices. She nodded and went to the master bathroom, splashing water on her face. She gazed into the mirror above the sink, too shaken to worry about that other image. That was nothing compared to this. No matter the commitment she had given last night, this changed everything. She now saw her choices more clearly, despite the return of uneasiness from last night. She knew it was time to act, regardless of consequences. A lump grew in her throat. A metallic taste filled her mouth, the taste of fear. From all that she’d learned so far, she sensed real danger if she tried to leave the company before the agreed time was up. With fingers trembling slightly, she applied some face cream and light make-up, enough to cover the signs of crying. Renewed as much as possible, she emerged from the bathroom. She didn’t smile at Frank, who still waited patiently on the bed. She slipped on a powder blue silk robe. “What a terrible host I am. Let me make us some breakfast.” “Jennifer, really.…” “No Frank, I need the distraction—something to do. What would you like? Coffee, omelet, cereal, all of the above?” “Coffee and omelet sound good. I’ll get dressed and come help. Be there in a minute.” Jennifer entered the kitchen and quickly set to work, chopping and grating, though Kelly’s sweet smiling face lingered on her mind. When Frank arrived, the aroma of grilled onions, peppers and mushrooms filled the kitchen. He came up behind her, gentle hands stroking her arms. She looked at him over a shoulder then added whipped eggs to the skillet. She pointed to the coffee and told him to take a seat at the table, which was in an adjacent dining area. She followed him, placing a glass of juice on the table before him then touched his cheek. Afraid of burning the food, she gave a nervous laugh and returned to the stove in time to add the cheese and flip half the omelet over. With the food on the table they ate in silence, but not the kind that follows a night of romance. It was Frank who spoke first, trying to keep the conversation light. “How did you sleep last night?” “Being next to you felt so … so comforting and, oddly enough, very familiar.” She paused, not avoiding his warm gaze. “Did it bother you that I didn’t want us to make love yet? I’m just.…”

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“No, not at all, especially in light of things. Besides, in a way we did make love, just another kind.” “Don’t think I’m a prude—I love sex, too. It’s just.…” She stopped herself, looking down at her plate, which she then pushed away, her appetite suddenly gone. She reached a hand over to Frank’s, stroking the back warmly. “I’m so glad you’re here with me during this time.” She got up abruptly and fetched a piece of paper. She scribbled something, but did not show it to him. “I think I’d like a latte. There’s a nice coffeehouse around the corner.” She slid the paper across the table. Glancing at the note, Frank read: we need to talk. He looked at her and nodded. In ten minutes, with the dishes left in the sink, they left the apartment. Once outside, Jennifer began to describe her realizations from the two times at the Jefferson Memorial. Her fear had become anger. Waiting at a crosswalk, she stomped her foot. In simple terms, it came down to living by what feels right, and not what her beliefs or anyone else might tell her. Kelly’s death had confirmed the little voice that had been nagging at her for months. It also wiped away the illusion that she and the Director wanted the same thing. Maybe at one time they did, global unity, but she could see that all he cared about was the result. Finally, she said, “I need to take a stand. If I don’t look after me, who will?” Frank remained silent as she told him she wanted to leave LAM, as soon as possible. She didn’t want to stay there, especially out of fear. She admitted that maybe she didn’t know exactly what she wanted, but she did know what she didn’t want, for her life to be in danger. Then she added, “I have the right to live from my heart, especially over any imposed authority.” “It’s not going to be easy, you know. And it’s a risk.” She nodded. It required unshakeable faith, confidence, and trust, no matter the danger. There would be no turning back. “How do you want to leave since your sabbatical was denied?” “I don’t know.” She stopped him outside the coffeehouse, and asked, “Any suggestions? What about that guy you mentioned? “I was going to call him anyway. I sense the need to act fast, don’t you?” “Yes, call him.” Frank opened the café door for her.

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Forty-five minutes later, leaving Jennifer at the apartment door, Frank slipped into basic ‘tradecraft’ training, scanning nearby parked cars and making a circuit around the block, stopping erratically. Seeing no evidence of being watched, he checked his watch and hailed a cab, which he took to a public payphone several blocks away. He dialed a number and a groggy voice answered on the other end. He apologized for the early call and reminded Peter of their meeting the week prior. He confirmed with him that the call was on a public landline, before giving a ‘quick and dirty’ on Jennifer’s situation. Then, still being ever vigilant of the surroundings, Frank waited for Peter’s assessment. “Ulrich Rogers, you say? That chap keeps popping up. Remember when we met I asked if you were interested in a little work in the Nation’s Capitol? I’d say this fits nicely with that operation, but no time to explain the details. Extraction should be immediate, I should think. I’ll arrange that but you need to prepare your friend for what ‘total extraction’ means and have her ready within the week. All right, laddy? Call me at sixteen hundred hours sharp, pacific standard. Follow protocol, please. Here’s the secure number.” With low-level adrenaline flooding his body Frank hung up and rechecked the time, knowing a trace was highly unlikely on such short notice. Before entering the apartment, he glanced around, making sure there was no sign of high-powered scopes or listening devices aimed in his direction or out of place strangers lurking around. Inside, Jennifer appeared clad in khaki shorts, hiking boots, and a tank top. She forced a smile beneath still swollen eyes. “We’re in business. Don’t you look wonderful? Last night, you’re a queen, now Sheila, princess of the desert. Where are we going?” “For a hike in Southwest Virginia, I want to surround myself, us, with nature considering all that’s happened. Okay?” “Sure. I’ll fill you in on the way.” Frank’s tone was casual, but his eyes were not. With a finger he pointed to the apartment, then aloud, he said, “Maybe we should go to Annapolis instead. It’s such a warm, sunny day. Being by the water would be nice.” She winked at him, catching the signal. She grabbed a red and gray backpack already filled with snacks and water. “Let’s get in the car and decide on the way.”

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Interstate 495, Virginia Sunday, 6:24 P.M. Reclining in the passenger seat of her sedan, Jennifer relaxed as wooded acres of land whipped by, alternating with wide open pastures. She relished the thorough exhaustion from the day’s physical exertion, exploring in the Blue Ridge Mountains. She tipped back the water bottle for a gulp. She smiled at Frank as he drove, a well of warmth filtering through her from head to toe. While on the hike he had filled her in on the planned ‘total extraction’. What Peter proposed seemed highly efficient, methodical, even easy, yet she felt resistant, her body tense. Going with the complete extraction meant a complete dissolution of herself, of Jennifer Chance, the woman she had been for the last thirty years. She unconsciously bit a cuticle. “Whatcha thinking?” asked Frank, giving her thigh a gentle squeeze. “Wishin’ I could cut off my head. But then what would a body be without a mind, a mind without a body? There must be integration of this tangle of opposites. It’s just a process of pulling the wires together.” “Remember, patience.” She took several deep breaths. All of a sudden a revelation struck: there was no need to decide anything. The answer would come if she simply trusted. She recalled the words from a typical lecture: ‘Often our interpretations, formed in childhood, are distortions of a greater truth that lies within each of us.’ It was ironic how many times she had said it, yet had not listened to the words herself. A calm suffused her being. Smiling, she reached over and took Frank’s hand. Their eyes locked for a second. At the apartment, while Frank unpacked items from the trip, Jennifer turned on her cell phone and listened to the voice messages. The Director’s deep voice boomed from the tiny speaker, requesting a call back as soon as possible. Instantly, her gut felt like a twisted towel. Jennifer came up behind Frank in the kitchen and hugged him. He had put water on to boil. The stove clock read: 6:45. On a pad of paper hanging on the refrigerator door, he wrote: ‘Gotta call Peter in a few minutes.’ She nodded, and said, “Time to have a chat with Ulrich.”

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Frank tore up the note and the sheet beneath it. He held her face gently in his hands, sensing her stress. For the benefit of possible listening devices, he said, “I’ll go get those items you wanted.” After he left, a wave of determination rushed through Jennifer. She dialed Ulrich’s number, mentally prepared. “Ulrich? This is Jennifer. Is this a good time to talk?” “Certainly. I’m glad you called. I assume you’ve heard the terrible news. I tried to reach you earlier.” “These deaths within the company make me feel like I’m in a Grisham novel. What’s going on?” Too agitated to sit, Jennifer paced the dark wood boards of the living room in front of the sofa as he told her that the coroner had not returned his call with more information on Kelly. “All right. Even though I saw your presentation at the Gala on the BET device, I’m still puzzled. How is it going to produce the result we’ve spoken of so many times?” “Simple: it allows us to redirect the programming of humanity that has existed for thousands of years—the deception of mankind into following external authorities, like powerful governments and educational institutions. With such pre-conditioning in place, mankind is ripe for redirection into something more positive. Why try to fight the gifts of conditioning already in place?” “That’s a bit self-righteous. Don’t people have the right to choose how they wish to live or are they just mere cattle meant to be forever corralled?” “My dear, I can’t help it if most people can’t think for themselves. Look at what a little fear properly applied through the media did for some recent presidents. Many large governments and institutions have wielded this effective leash—look at the churches. I’m just using it to our advantage, but one that will help everyone.” Quiet for a moment, Jennifer’s mind whirred, trying to accept what was shared. She walked to the kitchen and poured hot water over a teabag in a mug. “Does this have anything to do with you being kicked out of your prestigious government job?” “Well, well, done some checking, I see. Look Jennifer, it’s too late to try and educate the masses to find their own answers. Time and time again people have shown that they are only interested in the quick fix, not in the process required to reach them. Why not just cater to the current mentality? Don’t you see: through the offerings of LAM and the BET device, people will be able to achieve … whatever they want.” “Honestly, I’m not so sure I agree.”

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“The BET device will alter the beliefs of people through,” he paused, “Jennifer Chance’s wonderful lectures and workshops. It’s a win-win situation. Nobody has to work too hard and the globe achieves greater harmony.” “Maybe there’s something else, something that’s more important than just what we think, especially if that thinking is induced?” “What in the world do you mean? I thought you and I were on the same page. Let’s not take this ‘New Age’ nonsense about ‘something deeper lurking’, too seriously. Is that West Coast guy you met infecting your mind?” With that comment the steam rising from the mug matched her feeling. She tried to get him to see her view, part of her self-discovery, especially of late. She tried to convey how, though not entirely clear, her means and his seemed completely opposite. The Director remained silent even though she stopped speaking. “Look Ulrich, I’ve been given the gifts of life and freedom of choice. We all have them. It is my right to preserve … no … honor these gifts by living the real me, not some contrived externally conditioned construct, programmed by God knows who.” “No need to get testy, dear. It is true what you say, and I know the potential risks of the device being used as a tool for manipulation, even destruction, in the wrong hands. But you’re talking to me, not some maniacal genocidal freak. Be reasonable!” He obviously hadn’t understood her point. Annoyed, she said, “Let me put it another way, if I don’t feel hungry, then for that moment, hunger does not exist for me. Lots of people simply eat because it’s ‘lunchtime’, without any awareness of feeling hungry. That sort of conditioning lacks any real foundation of knowledge, substance, or intent for living. Life, then, becomes a series of actions performed by a smiling automaton, all the while leading oneself deeper and deeper into disconnection from the senses, the inner essence. Look at you! Despite the embarrassment of being used as a scapegoat and publicly fired, which I just found out about, you’ve achieved what you have by breaking out of the institutional conditioning, following your dream, intuition, or whatever. Sure, initially you lost faith in yourself and sold out to the authorities, but.…” “All right, enough. I think you’ve been reading one too many of Marianne Williamson’s books or some such thing. But if you believe for a second that the average Kentucky housewife is going to understand all that ‘real self’ rhetoric, you’re sorely mistaken.”

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“Actually Ulrich, I intend to offer that wonderful Kentucky housewife a choice of how she wishes to live, rather than a pre-prepared existence, ‘a la cuisine de Rogers’.” He fell silent. Feeling more confident, Jennifer sat down on the sofa with the mug of tea, and took a sip. Then, she suggested that all he intended to do was offer people a different yet equally shallow box in exchange for the one they existed in now. “Where is the true freedom in that?” The Director gave no response, but applauded the fortitude and temerity of her comeback. It was just the thing needed by the person who would face the leaders of the world. “Thanks, but I’m not sure I want the job. Besides, I’m just getting started. Next question: why bother to be alive if I can’t feel the sensations that go with the experiences?” “What on Earth are you rambling on about now?” “Here, I’ll clear it up for you. It seems ludicrous for a person to have reached some pre-ordained end and not have felt nor enjoyed the experiences that led there—sounds more like death than living. Someone once asked, ‘If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?’ I don’t know the answer, but I know if I’m not present to hear the tree fall, then for me, it certainly didn’t make a sound. In other words, it isn’t within my reality at my present level of awareness.” “I must say, you’ve got me there. I hadn’t realized you were such a philosopher.” Hearing the front door open, Jennifer craned her neck to look down the long hallway. She gave a little wave to Frank then told the Director that she didn’t want to exist solely in a world of the mind and beliefs, or be told what and how to be. To which, he wanted to know where she stood in relation to what they had agreed upon at the Gala. “I don’t know. What’s important is that you know where I stand and that you heard me. Have you?” “Absolutely. As always, I think you have some incredible things to share. I have tremendous respect for you.” He suggested that they make some format changes within the courses. Unfortunately, he needed to take a quick trip somewhere, so they arranged to meet in ten days time, at three o’clock, same place as before. The time frame would give her time to throw a rough outline together.

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Jennifer paused a moment, eyeing Frank, then agreed to the meeting. She ended the call and sat for a moment, shoulders slumped, unaware that all she thought was true was about to change.

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Rooftop Café, Washington Hotel, Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 7:05 P.M. An assortment of patrons, mostly well dressed and a bit weary from the day, filled the restaurant. The nearby hum of conversations prevented the voice of a pokerfaced Jones from being overheard. He set a tumbler of whiskey down on the table shared with The Director, who sipped tea from a cup. “For an ex-spook, you’re getting to be very predictable. When in town, always here every Wednesday night, even the same table. And you think I’m the careless one.” “Thank you for your input on my social habits, Walter. Can we get on with more pressing matters? You raised a concern about Jennifer?” “Ever since the San Diego incident, we’ve been keeping a low surveillance on her.” “Why? The GPS tracks her. Besides, I specifically told you that I had her under control.” “I thought you wouldn’t mind since you had so much to handle with the upcoming Gala. Nothing more, nothing less.” “All right, but from now on an order is an order. Just because we’re not with,” Ulrich glanced around and lowered his voice, “‘The Company’, doesn’t mean the ship runs any less tight. Understood?” “No harm intended, chief.” The Director informed Jones of the conversation with Jennifer. He also confirmed that the new memory drugs had been delivered to her apartment. To him, everything was under control. “Except she’s spending a lot of time with Revere—he’s still here. Doesn’t that worry you in the least bit?” - 166 -

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“Yes and no. First of all, we need her. Second, you said the tapes of their conversations from the apartment and the car don’t reveal either of them recognizes the other. Even if Revere suspected something, think how ludicrous he would sound trying to explain to Jennifer Chance, motivational speaker extraordinaire, that she is really his ex-girlfriend from five years ago. Besides, I have complete confidence in our reprogramming, don’t you?” Jones just glared at his boss, taking another swig of whiskey to soothe the fire in his blood. He told the Director about catching Donaldson snooping around in Kelly’s old desk. A surveillance team had been assigned. The Director’s face registered dissatisfaction, though he expressed gratitude. He gazed at the south lawn of the White House, shimmering in the fading light. He longed to walk those grounds again, commanding respect and authority. He cast his eyes down as if considering the polish on his shoes, then asked, “Any more surprises I should know about?” “Just one, but you’ll know about it soon enough and besides, we’re not directly involved. However, we will reap the benefit. Are you sure you don’t want me to harvest Frank while he’s here? I could personally see to it. It’d be easy, y’know.” “Dammit, Walter!” Ulrich said, aware of the proximity of others. “If Frank is taken out now, Jennifer will split from us. We can’t risk that—leave them be. Elimination is not the only answer anymore. Now, please.…” He got up, his face grim. He gave a curt wave and weaved through the crowds at the bar. ✶

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Payphone, Solana Beach, California Wednesday, 8:21 P.M. With a laptop in a slim, black briefcase, Peter took one last glance up and down the straight, flat stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway then stepped into a nearby phone booth. Never using the same public phone twice in the same month, he connected a pair of rubber cups from the laptop to the handset. With a pair of headphones over his ears linked to the computer, he dialed a number retrieved earlier from his secure voicemail and recently committed to memory. The call took longer as it went through the secure, voice scrambler.

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Finally, a man’s voice answered on the other end. After reassuring the man of who he was without saying a name, he ascertained that the man had found his number in a dead co-worker’s desk at Enoch Corporation. Within seconds Peter instructed the man, who had left his home number for contact, to go to a payphone and call a secure phone number in two hours. Without a second to lose, he disconnected. ✶

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Wednesday, 11:24 P.M. Despite the late hour, Jones returned to the office. Descending the corridors beneath emergency lighting, he entered the secure conference room and dialed the number for General Sidorov. While waiting for the connection, he checked the video and sound monitors for the building. All were silent, even the guard at the front desk had returned to snoring. The bulky form of the renegade Russian commander appeared on the screen, clad in a dark gray uniform and bearing a proud smile, like a dutiful son to his father. He spoke in a thick accent, laughing whenever he used Americanisms. “Good evening, Dr. Jones, though it is morning here. How are the plans … rolling?” “Very well, the results are exactly as I expected. The devices are producing death tolls in expected percentages and are going unnoticed by those in power. Have you received the devices and begun installation over there yet?” Upon hearing that all of the installations had been completed, most under the Russian’s direct supervision, Jones applauded the general and his men for their tremendous competence. Keeping an eye on the screen, and drumming his fingers on the tabletop, he told the Russian that in approximately four weeks the rest of the five hundred U.S. devices would begin to produce similar effects as the test group. He stood up, faced the screen, and said, “A clear message for world compliance, especially in Europe.” “This … er … domination … how does it come?” “Our projections estimate one third of the U.S. population will be wiped out by the devices, which will be more than enough to capture the attention of the G-8 leaders, among others.” “Even the intelligence community, your CIA, NSA, and Defense Department will be most impressed.” The general’s eyes gleamed.

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Jones reminded him that obtaining compliance from the former Soviet states was critical, either through force, negotiation, or both. He confirmed the combat readiness of the Russian’s forces, encouraging the use of a military offensive if necessary, especially in the Chechnya region where much resistance was expected. Like a good poker player with a weaker hand, he did not let on that the Russian’s assistance was indispensable. Always maintaining the upper hand, he spoke with utmost confidence. Then he added, “Once your devices are activated, we should see results in six weeks, two weeks after the ones here. Perfect timing.” “I must warn you, Comrade Jones, if military force is required, we could maintain an offensive for two weeks, three at most.” “When is your meeting with the faction leaders?” “Two weeks from this moment. Your special advisors have instructed us and will assist in the demonstration of the device as you have done there, no?” “Correct. One other item, I received word from The Director that we have our funding. I personally spoke with the CEO of the corporation, so our link is set. Our next call will be two Saturday evenings from now, two Sunday mornings for you. Understood, General?” Upon hearing the general’s affirmation Jones disconnected the line and stared at the opaque video screen, realizing that within four short weeks, the leaders of the world would be his to command. He thrust a triumphant fist into the air and exited the conference room.

PART TWO “Many things are true that cannot be proven.” —Anonymous—

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Hilton Hotel, Reston, Virginia Sunday, 6:30 A.M. Jennifer stared out the twelfth story window at the tops of the evergreen trees in the distance. Below, cars meandered the hotel parking lot looking for a space to come to rest. The voices of John Wilde and Frank drifted towards her from the kitchen. She looked at her red and gray backpack on the other end of the earth-tone fabric sofa in the sitting room of the suite. It contained minimal clothing, items that would not be noticed from her LAM apartment, just as Peter’s associate had instructed. Scanning the dark wood coffee table to her left, she gazed at the magazine covers with the sort of vacant attention that comes after a trauma. Then, a shape approached. She looked up to see Frank, clad in green dress shorts and black t-shirt that showed a map of the Paris Metro. She reached for his hand, wanting something familiar to hold. “How ya feelin’?” he said, his voice sounding far away. “Wondering what’s to come. I’ve ordered my own death. I’m a woman without a home or a name, at the moment. According to Peter, I’m supposed to assume some other identity.” “Must feel weird, leaving your stuff.” Jennifer shrugged then slumped further into the sofa pillows. She knew that the belongings, the apartment, those ‘things’ weren’t hers, much less defined her as a person, a woman. Nevertheless, the attachment lingered. She had put a lot of effort into her life, into being a motivational speaker. It was the only life she knew. And now, it would soon all be gone. She glanced at a clock on a nearby end table. “Do you think I’m dead, yet? I mean, Jennifer Chance. Guess by now the car is gone.” - 173 -

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“A few more minutes,” said Frank, checking his watch. “Who’s helping Peter with this?” “Two crack experts, Willem Tasker and Toliver Cramden. You’ll meet them soon.” Jennifer patted the sofa next to her and Frank sat down, putting an arm around her. ✶

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Just a few miles away, a disguised Peter sat inside a gray Lincoln Town car, parked on the side of Hunter Mill Road beneath an overpass of the Dulles Toll Road. The hood of the vehicle was up and the chauffeur pretended to tinker with the engine. Methodically, through a mini-microphone clipped to his shirt collar, Peter communicated with each field operative handling the Jennifer Chance extraction. Through the earpiece, he heard Toliver Cramden’s calm, cool voice, and the whine of a car engine in the background. “This is Op Two, target is approximately two and one half minutes from Green junction. All systems go. Over.” Peter watched the laptop screen that received images from a series of miniature cameras mounted along the route to be taken. It displayed June’s red Lexus sedan traveling north on a reputedly dangerous section of Hunter Mill Road. He could just see Toliver’s competent hands commanding the wheel, having driven the route six times since receiving Peter’s call, each nuance of the road ingrained in his reflexes. In the passenger seat were some of Jennifer’s clothes and personal items, including a gold bracelet. The early morning light bathed a field of uncut tall grass swaying in a trickling breeze, just north of the sharp curve. Peter hit a function key and the next camera picked up the car upon entering a straightaway that led into the sharp turn. “Op One, target is approximately one mile and closing,” he said. “All systems go. Seventy seconds. All stations, alert status. Check in, in sequence. Over.” Each operative reported in through Peter’s earpiece. A part of him wished he could watch it unfold in person, but too many people would attract attention. ✶

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At the site, Green Junction, in a camouflage outfit, hidden behind a large maple tree that grew next to an abandoned farmhouse, Willem Tasker, Op One, crouched down. His thumb hovered over a small remote control detonation

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device about the size and look of a micro cassette recorder. He had run thousands of demolition jobs both in and out of government service. Regardless of employer he prided himself on meticulous preparations and perfect executions. Checking the Navy Seal’s regulation dive watch on his wrist, the larger hand pointed at the six, the smaller just past. He took a last glance at the grass field as the sound of a car engine grew louder, more acceleration. At fifteen seconds, Willem hunkered down, the roar of the engine seemingly almost on top of him. He watched the second hand tick past each mark. Then he hit the first button and looked up to where the car would be. At the steepest part of the curve, the explosion rocked the frame of the car, lifting it skyward. He saw Toliver’s body held in place by the airbags as the car spun in the air laterally. Then, the roof edge of the driver-side hit the ground. The car rolled two more times and came to rest on its roof well into the grassy field, twenty yards from Willem’s position. He bolted to the car just as Toliver unhooked the seatbelt and emerged wild-eye in a padded black fire retardant jumpsuit. “You all right? No broken bones?” Willem asked, making a visual inspection for any obvious cuts or blood. The one hundred-sixty-pound frame of the ex-Hollywood stuntman appeared to be unscathed. “What a blast! No pun intended. We set for the next series?” They glanced at the partially flattened car with hissing broken hoses. With a quick glance at his watch Willem nodded. The two men started off on the planned escape route towards the Northwest, where the pick-up car waited. After about one hundred feet, Willem stopped and tapped Toliver’s elbow. “Second blast.” Facing the direction of the car, he held up the detonator and depressed a second button, then pulled Toliver down. A second silence-shattering explosion ripped through the morning air. Intense incendiary flames engulfed Jennifer’s car, reaching 2000 degrees in seconds and leaving minimal evidence. A few moments later the gas tank combusted. Willem stood up, surveyed the wreckage with a mono-scope, and tapped Toliver on the shoulder. He pointed at flames that spread through the high grass then jerked his thumb backward. After jogging a half-mile, they came to a small road and scanned up and down. A gray Lincoln Town car idled with its hood up. They quickened their pace and covered the short distance. As they came within twenty-five feet of the car, a man emerged from beneath the hood and raised a black, leather gloved hand. The burly man spoke in a deep voice, using the pre-arranged code.

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“If we are to make ten o’clock mass, we should hurry.” “Is today Bach’s Mass in B Minor?” said Willem, giving the corresponding response. The chauffeur nodded and opened the driver’s side rear passenger door. In seconds, he was behind the wheel, heading west on the Dulles Toll road, away from the Nation’s Capitol. ✶

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As the car sped along the highway, Peter turned in the front seat and greeted the two men. “From the monitoring cameras, it seems you chaps have started a bit of a brush fire. The fire department has gotten a call, I can assure you. They’ll arrive on the scene in about ten minutes, I should think. Toliver, enjoyed your little stunt, I’d wager?” “Nothing too fancy. Let me tell ya, this guy’s one helluva demo man.” “So was this it or is there another op to do, chief?” Willem asked. “Actually, I would like you chaps to remain on alert status, if your schedules permit. I’m not sure but I would venture something big is in the works and I’m going to need your help.” Peter looked at Willem, and asked, “Do you still know that computer hacker, Nathan Wong, the ex-Foreign Legion oriental fellow?” “Yup, know him. Haven’t worked with him in a good while, but I think I could round him up for you. You need him?” “Could be. Let’s at least initiate contact. Give him my secure number.” “Affirmative. I’ll send him your way.” Peter handed over two sealed white envelopes, one to each man, and said, “Cash payment, operation complete. Good show, lads.” Each man accepted his envelope with a nod and put it away. Neither man bothered to count the contents, both had worked with Peter numerous times. He was a man of honor, a man of his word. “Don’t get too settled, gentlemen. Time to meet the woman you’ve just eliminated, shall we?” Peter directed the driver to the back parking lot of the hotel.

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Hilton Hotel, Reston, Virginia Sunday, 7:02 A.M. Still pacing the living room area of the suite Jennifer looked at her watch for the fifteenth time in as many minutes. Biting a cuticle, she wondered if something had gone wrong for Peter and his men. They were supposed to have been back already. Out of the corner of her eye she saw John approach, dreadlocks bouncing on a white t-shirt that pictured a seated, reflective Bob Marley. “Not’ing ta worry ’bout, little lady,” he said. At that moment, a distinctive knock followed by three short knocks resounded on the door. John turned toward the suite door, an upside down, spring-loaded brown leather holster flapped against his thick torso. Instead of opening the door, he rapped three times while his right hand rested on the butt of the Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum. After a short pause, he repeated the knock three more times. A single knock returned from the other side. Letting go of the gun, he unchained the door, released the deadbolt, and opened it. In the hallway stood Peter, Toliver, and Willem. John moved aside and the three men entered and moved toward the living room. “Gentlemen and lady, the first stage is a success,” said Peter, handing the laptop briefcase to John. “Now we must move fairly quickly. The longer we remain on this coast, the more our advantage gained by surprise dissipates. First, let’s get acquainted, shall we?” He turned toward Jennifer and made the introductions. “Despite your recent demise, Ms. Chance, I’m pleased to see you looking so well. I have something for you.” From a black leather briefcase resting in one of the armchairs, Peter pulled out a blue covered passport with a small rough leather case and handed them over. - 177 -

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He eyed her with a distinct look of recognition, though showing nothing outwardly. He motioned for the others to gather around, especially Frank, who had been lingering by the kitchen entrance. “Gentlemen, may I introduce to you, Sara Nardell. That’s Sara without the ‘h’.” Peter shook her hand and gave a warm smile. Willem and Toliver followed suit. Just for fun, the Rasta took her hand as well. “John Wilde, good ta see ya. Might ya be free dis evenin’?” Jennifer, now to be known as Sara, laughed and put her hands to her face, little pools forming in her eyes. Her chest swelled as tears made tracks down her cheeks. She threw Frank a look that contained both joy and bewilderment. She noticed that he looked a bit stunned, with jaw dropped. After a moment, he offered a faint smile then scratched his head. Peter took Sara’s arm, guiding her to the sofa. He looked at Frank and asked for assistance, while the others prepared to depart. “You think that name, the new name, is the best one?” said Frank, kneeling down in front of Peter and Sara, sitting on the sofa. “It’s so close to.…” “Your former Sarah’s name? Quite right, laddy, I considered that and that is exactly why I chose it. This may be a bit hard for you to handle, my boy, but I ask you, what is the best place to hide a book?” “Look, I’m in no mood for riddles. Besides you said yourself time is of the essence.” “Quite so, and I need your full cooperation for the success of the extraction and the full re-integration process for this young woman. Whom, I would venture to say, you care for more than just a little. Correct?” Sara eyed the two men with puzzlement. The tears had stopped. “No buts, my good man. It’s evident you’ve been out of the action for a while. Remember: success of the mission is priority, the only priority. Now, answer the question.” “A book case or a library.” “Precisely. We employ the obvious to conceal the treasure. I doubt our friends, as clever as they seem, would ever think of looking for Jennifer under this new name. Even so, just in case, I exchanged the ‘D’ for the ‘N’, making Darnell into Nardell, and spelled the first name without the ‘H’. I thought it quite good myself.” Frank grimaced and was about to speak, but Sara interrupted. “What’s all this about? Seems as if you’re talking about me. I think I should know what’s going on. It is my life, you know.”

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“You’re quite right, my dear. Frank shall tell you all about it in due time. But first we need to finish outfitting the new you.” Peter acquainted her with the basic forms of identification. A California driver’s license showed that she was Sara Nardell, living a healthy and enjoyable life in San Francisco, an adequate size metropolis for anyone to have resided in without much notice. He had also arranged for records to reflect the usual data, such as, employment for the last five years. He opened a nearby black nylon overnight bag and handed her a file with her new name on it, which he urged her to study. Then he passed along a couple of credit cards, though warning her not to use them, an insurance card, and a check card attached to a Bank of America checking account, which he said had an ample balance. Sara picked up the passport and flipped through a few pages noticing stamps from a few European countries. She glanced at the photo and her mouth dropped. “Peter, wait! This woman’s hair is blond and shoulder length. How’s this going to work?” From the nylon bag, he extracted a professional blond wig with a smile. “Voila, mademoiselle. Shall we? The bathroom awaits.” He stood up and offered a hand, which she took with the grace of a princess. To the others, he told them to be ready to leave in fifteen minutes. He followed her into the bathroom. A few minutes later, looking at her reflection, Sara saw a new woman with straight blond hair, a few inches below the earlobes. She laughed and pulled out the passport to look at the photo again, then eyed Peter. “This woman and I are very similar in facial features except that her hair is longer. And I think my nose is different. How did you do this, Peter?” “Seems familiar to you, does it?” “I guess, I don’t know. My hair is naturally blond, but the Director wanted it brown. He said it lent more of an air of intelligence and respect. In a couple months we can drop the wig as my true hair color will have returned.” She made a few adjustments, then turned to Peter, her expression serious. “What about fingerprints? Isn’t that going to be a dead giveaway? If I go to a bank and try to cash a check, they won’t match.” “It’s all been arranged. Someone owed me a favor and your old file as Jennifer Chance has been deleted. As for DNA, not much we can do about that. Now, listen carefully, for the time being, if Frank tells you some information about a woman named Sarah Darnell, just listen and don’t repeat anything we discuss right now. Is that agreed?”

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“Peter, you’re scaring me. Is there something …?” She listened as he explained his theory about her true identity. She stood limply, arms hanging at her sides. She felt her eyes well up again as her lower lip began to tremble. “That can’t.…” “Please, just hear me out, and I daresay you don’t have to take my word for it.” She nodded with eyes cast down. Without looking up, she said, “Is there more to the story?” He continued at length, giving greater detail of what he thought had happened. Then, holding her arms gently, he reminded her that the contents of their conversation should not be shared with others, ever. “Is that understood, Sara?” After a moment’s reflection, she said, “You know, my parents were killed in an auto accident in Canada as well.” “Not surprising at all, often when people are reprogrammed the original life history is not changed too much—complications with the brain and all that.” Seeing a quizzical look on her face he launched into an explanation of how the brain stores memories in millions of locations. As a result, in reprogramming a new identity, these tended to come into conflict. It was like trying to train a person with a multiple personality disorder to be a spy, which already required at least a dual existence. “I say, were you, or have you been on any medication in the last five years?” “The company doctor told me it was some sort of allergy medicine. That was when I first came into the employ of LAM.” She frowned, the weight of Peter’s words sinking in. She gazed at the blond image in the mirror, recalling those she had seen over the last few months. “I feel … so exposed, so raw. I … need to be with it for awhile.” She began to tremble again, eyes searching Peter’s face. He stroked her arms, saying that he had to have a few words with Frank. She nodded at the suggestion to take a few minutes to pull herself together. “Remember, not a word to Frank. It’s in his best interest right now, perhaps for all of us I should say.” She watched him reach for the doorknob, feeling something familiar in his touch. But it didn’t feel right to mention it, yet. Instead, she said, “Peter, thank you for all of your help and support.” After the door closed, Sara eyed the new visage that reflected back. There was something very calming about this new look.

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3

Airplane over the United States Sunday, 1:05 P.M., MST En route to San Francisco on a private jet retained by Peter, Frank stared out the window at a bay of white clouds that filled the sky to the horizon. He tried to relax in the plush, overstuffed seats but the shock of his companion’s new name still nagged at him. He looked at Sara, asleep in the seat next to him, as if seeing her would help resolve the angst. With the wig of blond hair, she looked more like his former true love than ever. But he didn’t want that to influence the feelings he truly had for this Sara. Besides, looks could be deceiving. Just then, she stirred and woke with a start, a confused look in her eyes. After glancing around and a sip of apple juice, she offered a sleepy smile to Frank. “Have a nice nap?” “Yes. How come Peter and the other guys stayed behind?” “To monitor the response at LAM after your death, and Peter has another project that he’s working on. They’ll return to California on this jet in four days.” Using a compact mirror, Sara applied lipstick and checked her wig all the while listening as Frank shared the arrangement for the next week, in which they played tourists in San Francisco. They were registered at a hotel under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Peter had seen to all the details. “According to Peter, a friend of mine in San Diego has been killed when her apartment blew up from a gas leak. Very odd,” Frank said. “Oh no! Do you suspect anything other than an accident?” “Peter implied something to that effect. He said he’d look into it, as well as that little incident with those thugs I told you about before. Valerie, that same friend, was with me then, too.” “He’s such a nice man. You’ve known him long, huh?” - 181 -

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“No, though he knew the former Sarah well, so I understand.” Remembering Peter’s words of caution, Sara unbuckled her seatbelt and got up, grabbing her glass. “Want anything from the kitchen?” ✶

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Washington Monument, Washington, D.C. Sunday, 10:14 P.M. At the edge of the Reflecting Pool nearest the floodlit monument, the Director waited, the night sky clear above. Despite the still air, and increased humidity, he wore a finely tailored, tan, linen suit with a bright red tie. As if from nowhere a hand touched his shoulder. He jumped and spun around to see Jones, a smirk creasing his lips. Recovering quickly, he immediately probed his second-in-command on what his men had found at Jennifer’s apartment. He truly wanted to know if Jennifer had died in the car accident reported earlier that day. He heard the restrained anger in Jones’s voice as he relayed the facts. Her clothes and luggage were still there, as was the new bottle of medicine. The bracelet was missing. His men had not been given access to the vehicle. That would happen tomorrow morning. However, according to state police, the heat intensity was too high to leave much of anything. At the crash site, it appeared the car was traveling at an unusually high rate of speed for that road. Upon hearing that fact the Director massaged his brow, knowing that Jennifer didn’t have any substance abuse problems. “Whatever it is, the reality is she’s gone—dead or disappeared. Ulrich I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen.” “Do you think it could be a snatch and clean job like we pulled with her five years ago? Damn, I was sure that I had turned her around.” “More likely an extraction. I’ve ordered all Raven Teams to be on full alert, especially those in San Fran, San Diego, and here in Washington, D.C. We’re checking flight rosters. Revere’s name’ll turn up. If it’s an extraction, you can bet Jennifer has a new ID, a new look, everything, just like we gave her.” Jones paused before delivering the next pronouncement. “I gave the order to harvest on sight.” “You did what?” “Dammit Ulrich, if the disappearance is real, then these two are back together again and are far too dangerous to be kept alive. Also, it means the programming

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failed or lapsed. By the way, I checked the bottle of pills, not touched despite almost a week gone by.” “All right, all right! Such a damn waste!” The Director clenched his fist, lamenting that the last five years of careful planning, strategizing, and implementing were down the drain. Without her they would have to revamp the whole approach. He recalled all the effort that went into her preparation, all the direction he had given after the death of her parents. He had created a path for her, one with real purpose and meaning. “If she is alive, what does she think she’s doing? Who does she think she is with this right to living crap? Walter, no one has respect for proper authority any more.” “Regardless of Jennifer’s whereabouts, dead or alive, we need to speed up the timetable of the implementation. Agreed?” Ulrich nodded, distracted by thoughts of Jennifer, and not noticing Jones’s sly smile. With a carefully placed hand on the Director’s slumped shoulder, Jones reassured him that the BET signal had been adjusted. The sites in Europe were being installed at that very moment. They would begin transmission immediately. After a moment, Ulrich urged Jones to keep him posted on reports from the Raven Teams. If anything turned up, he wanted to know. The goal of Lectures And More could not be blocked. The people of the planet were counting on them. “I hear you, sir. If Jennifer’s disappearance turns out to be an extraction, which I suspect, then there’s a very short list of people who could’ve pulled it off. And that means big trouble. Our whole cover could be blown.” “Who? Tell me who’s responsible?” “I’m not certain, yet. More checking is.…” Without warning, Ulrich grabbed Jones by the shirtfront, a specter of his former self, his voice thick with venom. “Give me a name! What do you know, Walter? All I want is a name.” “For starters, Peter Wellington.” “Then get the sonofabitch!” “The trick is, he’s so slippery and difficult to find, even for me. Also, we have to make sure he’s the right one. “I don’t care. Find him and take him out!” Ulrich released Jones, still simmering, eager to be alone. He needed to clear his head, to get back on track. Deep down he knew the Jennifer situation was a minor obstacle.

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“Enough of this,” he said. “You know what you need to do. We can still triumph.” Absorbed in thought, he didn’t even notice Jones melt into the darkness.

C H A P T E R ▼

4

ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Tuesday, 2:21 P.M. In his office, drumming fingers on the desk, Jones reviewed the preliminary reports from the Raven Teams. Nothing had been found. No one had seen Jennifer Chance, or Frank Revere. He hated waiting. He picked up the secure phone and called Team One, whose post overlooked the front entrance of Frank’s condominium in San Francisco. It was equipped to record all incoming calls to both Frank’s home and office at Cherish the Wild Foundation. One ring, then Jones heard the raspy voice of Pierre Logon. “Command here,” Jones said. “Give me an update.” “Well, it’s my shift and Carlos is sleeping.” “Pierre, don’t fuck around.” “No sign of any man or woman. Just drinking shitty cold coffee. I hate these.…” “Listen, this surveillance is the most important assignment going right now. Anything come through on the phone taps?” “Lookin’ at the list, I got a couple friends calling his home, and routine business contacts at work. Nothing out of the ordinary.” “All right, if anything unusual comes up, report in to Central Operations. They will contact me immediately.” “Are we still H.O.S. for the two targets?” The initials stood for ‘Harvest On Sight’. “That is correct. And don’t fuck this up, like Team Three did in San Diego. Command, out.” Jones slowly returned the handset to the cradle, an idea forming in his mind. Swiveling in his chair to the right, he stared at the framed picture of a grey wolf peering out from behind a tree amidst a snow-covered landscape. - 185 -

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Jefferson Street, San Francisco, California Tuesday, 2:41 P.M. Several miles west of Frank’s apartment, at a small outdoor courtyard café, Sara and Frank sipped coffee and listened to the sounds of an Andean Indian band. The music drifted into the various corners of the shopping area, stopping the milling tourists, some for a few minutes, others for an hour. The swarms of summer tourists crowded the streets allowing them to blend in without a trace. With eyes closed Sara absorbed the sun’s rays that played on her body. The last few days had been spent exploring various parts of San Francisco. Barely having time to absorb the loss of her former identity she floundered in the sea of names and dates and places in the dossier Peter had given her. It was all too much, and then there was Frank, ever protective, but ever-present. One could say smothering. She had noticed a change in him, more silent, more watchful, more remote, too. The closeness she had felt in San Diego had dwindled in the last two days. Maybe I was wrong about him, she thought. Could my feelings be that out of whack? She looked at him in the chair next to her. His swarthy angular features still attracted her, especially those eyes. He tapped his feet in time with the beat of the music, yet still maintained what he had told her was a strict vigilance. Suddenly irritated, she looked away. Then, sweetly, she said, “Is our hotel close to the hit and run site that damaged your leg?” “Yeah, how’d you know?” “I read it in the papers that Peter gave me. It’s all so strange, y’know. There are a lot of similarities between Sarah Darnell’s background and mine as Jennifer. “Je … Sara, I don’t want to talk about it. Do you feel like taking a stroll?” “Not just yet, I’m so enjoying the peace.” She paused, shocked by her lie. The irritation growing, she could hear it in her voice. “I’m still reeling from losing the only identity I’ve had for twenty-nine years, and having it suddenly replaced with another. To make matters worse, the new identity turns out to be some possible configuration of someone else.” “Yeah, I know how that is. It’s hell.” She threw him a glance, feeling frustrated. That was not the response she had wanted. Her voice constricted as she spoke. “Do you really? Oh yes, I’m sure,

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Mister Ex-agent, you’ve done it all. Well, this is all new to me and I need some time to adjust. Don’t just think because my new name is Sara, that I’m the same woman who was taken from your side five years ago.” It took all of Frank’s training to not react. Exerting great restraint he placed his hands on the edge of the table, prepared, and then glanced around to see if anyone noticed the outburst. Everything seemed okay. No neck tingles. Sara stood up, looked around, and smoothed her white cotton shorts. “I need to take a walk—alone, if you don’t mind. I’ll return in a bit.” Frank nodded and took a measured sip of coffee, eyes roving the crowds for movement, for interest. Sara wandered through the crowds, seeking something, tranquility perhaps. Eventually she came to a small strip of sand below Ghiradelli Square. In an attempt at distraction from the internal dialogue that consumed her mind she marveled at the surroundings and those around her. In the distance, solitary and foreboding, stood the stark rigidity of the island of Alcatraz. She gazed at the massive stonewalls and took a deep breath. She had escaped her prison, or so it seemed. Nearby, off to the left, children played in the sand with reckless abandon. A yearning for that sense of selflessness came over her. She sighed, watching them let their imaginations run free, not hindered by imposed belief structures. Up ahead, she spied a gnarled ten-foot log lying on its side. An older couple sat staring at the ocean, holding hands. As she approached, the couple got up and began to walk away. Perfect, she thought, and took a seat on the log. It’s rough, gouged bark felt comforting, as if giving her roots to the earth. Her mind wandered to LAM and the people there. What were they doing right now? The Director? How was he taking her supposed death? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t go back. Then, she realized she didn’t want to go back. She breathed deep, taking in the salty sea air, and watched gentle ripples of the tide as it ebbed and flowed into the bay. A seagull hovered with the wind: motionless and yet in flight. Swooping to the ground, it landed and pecked at some seaweed. Then stopping, the white bird stood erect, completely still. Fascinated by the entire process, Sara remained motionless as well. After fifteen minutes in that state, something profound welled up inside her. At first the feeling eluded her, then pulsating within, it became more distinct. Beneath her chest, she felt a sensation, like a flower unfolding its petals in spring. A realization struck her, one that surprised her, both in its clarity and calming effect. “Oh God, I.…” she gasped.

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Her mind went blank as a huge sensation pulsated up her spine from the pelvis and jolted her body numerous times. Not even caring if anyone else observed this strange phenomenon, she absorbed each new undulation that rippled through the core of her body. Each new vibration brought more insights and memories, spiked full of lucidity. They came in torrents, like water released from a dam. Mesmerized by the flood of feelings resurfacing, she remained on the log a while longer. Unable to process them consciously, she simply surrendered. She realized what Peter had revealed to her was correct. But, why did he not want her to tell Frank? What could the harm be? The thought of Frank sparked another revelation, less pleasant than the first. She jumped up, rushing back to the courtyard. In minutes, she saw him sitting in the same place, eyes constantly searching the crowds. Upon reaching their table, she sat in the seat next to his. “Frank, I’m so sorry I snapped at you. I was angry, and beating myself up. But I realized something—well a lot of things, but a key one—that we aren’t done with LAM by any means.” “Whoa, what are you saying?” “We must get a group together and dismantle Ulrich’s plan. I don’t know how, but Peter would, right? Anyway, we must reach him. Right now! C’mon!” As fast as possible they began to make their way by foot back to the hotel. At the top of Lombard Street, they stopped amidst a handful of picture-taking tourists. Looking across toward Coit Tower, toward his apartment, Frank felt a twinge of longing. He wanted to be home, with Sara, if possible. Then, Sara tugged on his arm and they descended the most curvy road in the world. She told him about how wonderful things appeared, even Alcatraz, now that she was seeing with new eyes. The restrictions of her former life had been lifted. Yet, she chose not to disclose the deeper revelations that had come to her. Unaware they were being hunted, for the moment, all was well.

C H A P T E R ▼

5

Orly International Airport, Paris, France Friday, 7:02 A.M. Senator Cymbone stepped into the back of the limousine outside the international arrival area, taking a seat next to his wife. Across from them, in the expansive black interior, sat the American Embassy representative, Jay Sherman, a man in his thirties with short black hair and gold wire-rim glasses on his thin face. As the chauffeur closed the door and sat behind the wheel, Cymbone noted the muscular build and close cut black hair of a man in the front passenger seat. With the pleasantries out of the way, he conveyed to Sherman that they had made some changes to the arrangements, and indicated that Julie had the details. The embassy man gave the faint smile of a polished diplomat and directed his gaze in her direction. The vehicle began to move. “I know all the other dignitaries are lodging at the much higher-class establishment in the Eighth Arrondissement, but John and I wanted to stay at Les Argonauts in the Saint Michel area.” The representative nodded and instructed the driver in French to proceed to the alternate hotel, then asked them for the reason. “Twenty years ago, John and I honeymooned in Paris and stayed at this little hotel. Since the conference meeting is tomorrow we wanted to recapture the ambiance of our previous trip. The following seven days can be spent on leisure and romance.” “As you want. For your extended stay, I can arrange for the bodyguard to be of service for the entire duration, if you wish. Otherwise, the protection is only for the Conference weekend.” Cymbone looked again at the bulky form in the passenger seat and said it wouldn’t be necessary. He then renewed gazing out the window as early morning - 189 -

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light began to peek into the nooks and crannies of the City of Light. The squeeze of his hand caused him to turn and look at Julie. Her eyes held fear and worry. “Don’t we want the extra protection?” “I’m sure we’ll be fine.” “If you change your mind, please let me know.” Sherman handed over his card. “If I’m not there, I will be contacted immediately by mobile phone.” Cymbone pocketed the card and thanked him. Then to Julie, he whispered, “No one knows we’re here. Besides we’ll be simple tourists after tomorrow.” Julie looked away, lips pursed, knowing he would not talk about any concern he might have in front of the other man. Out the tinted side window the mud-colored Seine flowed alongside. As the vehicle crossed the river, Cymbone saw the island of Ile de la Cité off to the left, home of Notre Dame Cathedral with its famous flying gargoyle buttresses. The car made a quick left off Saint Michel du Palais Change and entered a narrow cobblestone street filled with pedestrians strolling by restaurants offering a variety of ethnic cuisine. The embassy man announced their arrival at the requested quaint hotel with raised eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to stay here? Things have changed a lot in Paris from twenty years ago, as you can see.” Cymbone gave him a reassuring smile as the bodyguard slung a small overnight bag over a shoulder and hefted one of the couple’s suitcases with the other hand. Cymbone followed Julie up a narrow staircase. ✶

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Sara’s Suite, San Francisco, California Friday, 8:45 A.M. Through the bedroom doorway at the Suites of Nob Hill, Sara watched as Frank rose from an overstuffed maroon chair in the plush sitting area. There was a matching full sofa across from where he sat. He dropped the front page of the morning Chronicle into the chair and entered the bedroom. With eyes slit, she admired how he traipsed silently on the plush carpeting, passing the vanity, and stepped onto the cool tile floor of the bathroom. About to shut the white door, she let out a strange exclamation. He peered around the doorframe at her, now sitting upright.

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“Aha, you’re awake. Remember we have the meeting you requested with Peter and the rest of the team this morning.” She nodded. “Something the matter?” “I’ve been awake for the last hour trying to get a handle on what I feel. Part of me is overcome with giddiness, like a child at a carnival. Yet, at the same time, another part, the exterior, is constricted.” “I thought, the other day, you said you were all done with that.” She gave him one of those looks that said, ‘Are you really that stupid?’ Then, after a big yawn, she said, “You hungry? I’m famished. What’s for breakfast? No wait! Let me guess—room service again.” “Actually, I thought we’d go out to eat. I know a little place near the meeting place. They have the best homemade jelly and their apple pancakes are absolutely amazing. It’s a good eight blocks from my condo.” “So it’s safe?” Seeing him nod, and not wanting to miss the opportunity, Sara threw the covers off. After showering, towel atop her head and clad in a silk robe with the hotel insignia, she stood in front of the vanity mirror, promising to be quick. Behind her Frank practiced some basic Aikido movements with smooth and balanced footwork. Sara watched in the mirror, and then gave a shrug. The movements looked more like a dance than anything that could keep either of them from harm. ✶

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Outside the lobby doors, a nauseating déjà vu flushed through Frank’s body as he stepped onto the same street with a woman who looked similar to the old Sarah. Though a different day of the week, it was still nearly the same time as that Sunday five years ago. He felt his scars begin to itch as he glanced at the sign for the Double Rainbow Café across the street. His ears were alert for squealing tires and roaring engines. Since the extraction, he had noticed that Sara seemed distant. Now, at his side, she tensed, probably sensing his discomfort. She crossed her arms, remaining silent. The four blocks to the restaurant passed quickly despite the heavy flow of pedestrians heading to work. “Here we are,” said Frank, opening the door for her.

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The restaurant was L-shaped with some of the tables next to long windows, while others were next to a brick wall with a long window above. A waitress showed them to a table in the rear corner next to a window that looked out at just above street level, giving a peculiar view of ankles passing by without visible bodies attached. Seeing that the apple pancakes were still offered, Frank surveyed the customers while Sara perused the menu. A gathering of elderly ladies sat at a long table near the full windows. In front of them sat a man wearing a lightweight, black nylon jacket, and faded blue jeans. He looked to be of Mediterranean descent. As soon as Frank looked in his direction, the man averted his eyes, which drew Frank’s attention. It was then that he felt the tingling on his neck. He shifted in the seat, placing his weight evenly through the pelvis. He spread his knees and feet apart a little wider than hip width. Maintaining awareness, he looked away from the man as the waitress came to take their order. After she departed and without direct observation, Frank noticed the man staring at them. By the hang of the man’s left arm, he deduced that he carried a weapon. Assuming the best—an undercover officer—he took a sip of water. The meal passed in silence except for Sara’s comment on how good the homemade jelly tasted on the toast. She ate with small delicate movements. Sliding his empty plate away, Frank glanced over at the table where the man had sat—vacant. He relaxed a bit and noticed that Sara was looking at him. “Everything’ll be okay,” he said. “This transition period is.…” In mid-sentence, Frank heard the sound of a zipper and caught sight of something black and blue out of the corner of his eye. The man was next to the table in an instant, his right hand inside the jacket. The man spoke with a raspy voice, desperately trying to hide a European accent. “If it isn’t Frank Revere. And who is this pretty lady?” “Who are you?” asked Sara, glaring at him. The man looked at her long enough to allow Frank to shift his body. “That’s not important right now. Is it Revere?” The man’s black eyes flicked back to Frank as he pulled the butt of the gun into view. “Let’s go very quietly,” he said in a hushed voice. “Now!” “Sure, whatever you say,” said Frank, nodding for Sara to go first. Then, shifting as if to get up, he leaned back. The man relaxed a fraction. Frank kicked hard from under the table, a direct hit to the groin. As the man doubled over he grabbed his head and slammed his face into the table full of dishes.

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“Go! I’ll catch you,” he yelled to Sara, her mouth gaping. She bolted for the door as other customers, aware of the fight, rose from their seats. None advanced toward the men. Holding the man by the hair, Frank saw through a bloodied face that the attacker remained conscious. He landed a precise strike to the larynx. The man sprawled onto a table behind him. Immediately, Frank lunged for the door, shoving a twenty-dollar bill into the waitress’s hand and telling her to call the police. The man was armed and dangerous. Then he vanished. Chasing after Sara, who had just turned the corner onto Powell from Pine, he pushed the reconstructed right hip to the limit. He rounded the corner, passed the hotel, and sprinted for the Double Rainbow Café—and a public phone. Breathless, he burst through the door, noting the old diner style décor was unchanged, and saw the phone sign in the back hallway near the restrooms. He dialed Peter’s secure line. Slowing his breathing in seconds, he recorded a simple message: “Friday, ten hundred hours. Smiths need relocation, asap.” At the front door of the cafe, he paused, surveying the street. Not seeing anyone suspicious and hearing sirens in the distance, he crossed to the hotel and entered the lobby. Inside the room, he saw Sara on the bed, knees pulled tight to her chest with arms wrapped around her lower legs. He came over to her. She studied him with wary eyes then received his warm embrace. She trembled all over as he held her close, whispering in her ear. “It’s okay. We got away clean and I’ve alerted Peter. They’ll be moving us in minutes.” “It’s starting, huh?” she said, voice shaky, lips trembling.

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Near L’Avenue des Champs Élysées, Paris, France Friday, 7:01 P.M. A man hunched over a small hand-carved wooden table situated next to a better-than-average size window for a single room in the three-star hotel. Dressed in black jeans that matched his hair and eyebrows, he wore a tight fitting dark gray, summer weight sweater and black athletic shoes. He focused on a partially disassembled computer with parts spread out on the table. A black, streamlined cordura laptop computer case rested nearby. Next to the case a small hand-held remote control device remained untouched for the moment. The man secured wiring to a digital counter. Then grasping the remote detonator device housed in a cellular phone casing, he turned it on. Gray numbers flashed on the small screen at the top. He punched in some random figures and pressed the ENTER key. As he did, the numbers also appeared on the digital counter inside the computer. He pressed the CLEAR button erasing the numbers on both screens. A smile crossed his swarthy face as he reassembled the computer, eyes glistening in the fading natural light. Finished, he zipped the case up and placed it on a small wooden dresser set against the wall opposite the foot of the bed. He grabbed a lightweight, black sport coat and slung the computer case by the strap over his shoulder. At the last minute, he picked up the copy of an Algerian newspaper he had bought, slipping it into a side-zippered pocket of the case. On the street, cutting through on Rue Balzac, he stood on L’Avenue des Champs Élysées, bustling with people from all over the world. Some sat at outdoor cafes engrossed in conversation, or read, or simply watched while others flitted in and out of the various shops. - 194 -

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He glanced up and down the broad avenue with L’Arc de Triomphe at one end and Place de la Concorde at the other. Full of purpose, the man walked toward L’Arc de Triomphe, one hand swinging free, and the other firm upon the black strap of the case. Past the Metro stop, he descended into another tunnel that led to the Arc. Low-lit dirty yellow lamps recessed into the ceiling revealed the brownish gray concrete tunnel walls. Throngs of people traversed the tunnel in order to reach the center of Charles de Gaulle Étoile. But he strolled, studying the unremarkable architecture, observing numerous small niches, depositories for soda cans, coffee cups, and other garbage. On this first pass through the tunnel he refreshed his memory of the blueprint studied in Algeria a few weeks prior. On the second pass through the tunnel, he took note of staff personnel, especially security. He checked off the positions: street level—three guards, one standing next to the tombs beneath the Arc, two others patrolling the perimeter of the circle. Circular barrier—three-foot concrete pillars placed four feet apart, connected with a thick chain, guards watching tourists and observing traffic circling the structure. Below ground—entrance to the stairs leading up into the actual Arc structure—one guard, offset from the tunnel, next to the ticket cubicle. Critical: tunnel guard unable to see tunnel traffic, only those entering the innards of the Arc. For the third pass through the tunnel, he took off the jacket and walked even slower. He hugged the wall, despite the oncoming flow of pedestrians, until reaching an observed small niche. It was about eight feet from the fifteen-foot break in the wall that allowed access to the ticket cubicle, the stairs, and the security person. Out of sight of the guard, he unslung the case and slotted it into the fourteen-inch indentation in the wall. A perfect fit, it rested on the little cleft that jutted out at about hip height and went all the way to the floor. The man perched his buttocks on the cleft as if a tourist taking a rest. He observed the passersby without seeming to, watching to see if anyone paid him any attention. After fifteen minutes in which very few people took much notice, he re-shouldered the computer and exited the tunnel. Phase one accomplished. Of greater importance, the guard had not come out to observe tunnel traffic at all, not just during the rest against the wall, but in the entire hour spent exploring the tunnel dynamics. On the street, twilight descended. In the distance, floodlights illuminated the Eiffel Tower.

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The man lit a cigarette then ambled toward a small cafe to review the schedules of security personnel over a pint of ale before dining out. ✶

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One Point Aikido, San Francisco, California Friday, 11:05 A.M. Double-parked, engine running, Frank left Sara in the rental car arranged by Peter and dashed into a two-storied brown building that housed the dojo. At the entrance to the mat room, he bowed towards the shomen, the front wall that featured a picture of Morihei Ueshiba, the founder of Aikido. About to head to the locker area, he heard a soft voice. He stopped and saw Sensei emerge from behind a shoji screen. He bowed and the man, clad in the traditional uniform of high rank, beckoned him onto the mat. “You have come for the items you left in my care, Frank-san?” They bowed again in greeting, Frank’s bow lower. The older gentleman laid a hand upon his upper arm, its gentleness belying the strength and power hidden within. “Hai Sensei, to my regret, I must retrieve them one last time. Plans have altered. Are they intact?” “Hai. Follow please.” The short man led Frank to an area with a couple of desks and file cabinets hidden behind the shoji screens. He extracted the black kevlar case from beneath a jade colored cloth that hung from a desk. Frank grabbed it. Time was of the essence. But Sensei held it immovable, studying the pupil before him. “You have gift, Frank-san. It would sadden me to hear of your demise. Remember waterway of harmony even in jaws of death. Be like water to rock in river: flow around obstacle. To be rigid like old branch on tree is to die. Be like new bough, sway with warm breeze and grow. Vulnerability—greatest strength.” He tapped the center of Frank’s chest and added, “These weapons not save you if heart not joined with Great Void.” He released his grip and the case swung into place along Frank’s side. They bowed again and Frank crossed the mats, stopping only to bow to the shomen before exiting. Adrenaline surged through him like dammed water unleashed. He slid behind the wheel and put the car into gear. He employed evasive tactics, making continual direction changes, including driving the wrong way on a

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one-way street. Satisfied that no one tailed them, he rested a hand atop the steering wheel as they sped south along Highway 280. Sensing diminished tension, Sara asked, “Get what you needed?” He nodded, but did not look at her. “Well, what was it?” “Just a case of personal items I’d left with Sensei.” “Oh, well, that explains it.” She turned her head to stare out the window then shot him a hard glance. “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?” “A small beach community, Avila Beach, another safehouse. The others will join us … soon. Lucky Peter had this car waiting, but he said he’d expected it. Anyway, sorry about being so cryptic, I just don’t want to discuss the case right now.” “All right. Can I ask you something else? Back in the restaurant, did you, I mean, is that guy …?” “Dead?” Speaking without emotion, he gave the details of what happened after she left, leaving out the death strike he had used. Seeing the worry lines between her brows caused him to soften his tone and glance her direction. “These guys will just keep coming, assuming they find us. Deadly force may be the only option to keep us safe.” “Is that what you were trained for by the government?” “Yup, and I did it very well. But Sensei, whom you will meet with any luck, is teaching me new ways to handle those situations. I’m still learning.” He paused. “Are you okay?” “Just a bit stunned. And I feel my life changes are creating danger for you unnecessarily. You don’t have to do this, you know. You’ve done enough already, with Peter and all. I don’t want you to go back into something you’ve worked so hard to leave behind.” “Sara, I chose to be here and I am still choosing to be here.” He reached over, risking a firm squeeze of her thigh just above the knee. She giggled and wriggled. He reflected a moment then shared that sometimes life presented us with second chances at things. And if we decide to take that chance, because of our prior experience, we get to live it from a different place. “I see. And our meeting with Peter and the group?” “The word I got was … soon. Maybe a day or two.” Sara gazed out the window, country had replaced city. This was the scenic highway to San Jose. Without turning her head, she began to speak. “Frank, I need to be honest with you about the last week. I’ve been under tremendous pressure, mostly internal. I feel the need to have everything all figured out and settled.

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But things aren’t falling into place like I thought and then this morning … the guy, the getaway. It’s more than … these guys are really serious and I’m … I’m so angry … that Ulrich. I could scream. Who does he think he is anyway? Going around manipulating people’s minds, behaviors, and God knows what else.” She slammed a fist into the dashboard, then grabbed her hand and rubbed it. “You feel duped by him?” “It’s just that I feel somewhat indebted to him for the opportunity he gave me.” Then she rambled on about her experiences at LAM, the highly paid position, and the public recognition without too much flaky, Hollywood glamour. Finally, she looked at Frank, grateful that he just listened without any criticism. She closed her eyes, trying to find peace. Frank focused on the road. A half an hour or so passed in silence. Finally, with eyes open again, Sara said, “I guess I only have myself to blame, for not knowing better, for not trusting my heart. I just blindly followed those people like a neophyte in some cult.” “After this morning, it’s probably good that you left LAM,” said Frank, glancing at her. She nodded, enjoying the warmth that radiated from his eyes, and then there was that smile. More at ease, she changed the subject, asking what he thought about her ideas for the future. They discussed the possibility of her joining Cherish the Wild, this time more seriously. After all, she loved being involved with nature, something she had forsaken in the last five years, mostly from being too busy. Then, Frank pointed to a mileage sign that indicated only thirty more miles to Avila Beach. Deep inside, Sara secretly hoped it would be a safe haven, one where she could pull herself together. She looked at the man driving, feeling closer than before. She recalled the sharing at the café and the beautiful San Diego bay, and the sensuous kiss that had ignited something unknown. Where were those feelings now? Why do I feel resistant? She wondered. She sighed, all of a sudden feeling exhausted.

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Friday, 6:12 P.M. Jones replaced the phone and resisted pounding the desk with his fist. He had just received word from Pierre, of Raven Team One, that Revere had not only escaped, but had killed Pierre’s partner, who had happened to be in the same place for breakfast. He eyed the world map filled with colored tacks. It calmed him. At least, he knew that Jennifer was alive and on the run with Revere. Now he could tell the Director in no uncertain terms that his wonder girl had defected to the other side. “Problem solved soon enough,” he said aloud, “even if I have to do it my-fu.…” “Sir, did you call?” His secretary popped her head through the doorway. At his request, she was staying late. “No, no, just talkin’ to myself. Mrs. Weeks, did you pull that file I asked about?” “Yes sir, it’s in your In-Box.” Jones nodded and began leafing through the file on Charles Cryer. At the meeting with him that morning, he had dangled numerous carrots about pay increases and advancement within the LAM organization. He smiled, recalling how reciting some of the Director’s rhetoric about creating world peace had drawn Charles further to his side. Putting the file away, he pulled out the BET timeline, labeled, ‘WJ copy’. It showed that only three weeks remained before the full effect of the devices hit the U.S. Leaning back in the chair, hands behind his head, he glanced again at the pushpin map with satisfaction. To him, with continued discipline and determi-

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nation, his dreams would come true. All that remained was the final part of the plan before he assumed command. The secure red phone on the desk rang. He reached for the old fashioned corded phone. “Ulrich, I was just thinking about you.” “Yes, well, no need to bother with the visual for this call, since I’m local.” “Of course. In fact, I have news for you about your favorite speaker and her old flame.” He relayed what had transpired, relishing the opportunity to remind his boss that it was he that had ignored the suggestion of eliminating Revere five years ago. If they had done it at the same time that they had snatched Jennifer, then there would be no problem now. Hearing the Director’s disgusted acknowledgment, he told him that they were running checks for common aliases in area hotels. “Don’t worry, Ulrich, we’ll get ’em.” After a short silence on the other end of the line, Ulrich relayed the news that full funding had come through from Quad Com, Inc., headed by Ms. Christie. A full launch of the LAM educational programs was underway, as well as the necessary hiring and training of new staff. Encouraged by Jones’s interest in the administrative aspects of the company, he passed along her contact information. Then they arranged to meet on the following Thursday at the same time and location. “Do you want notification of Jennifer’s harvest when it happens, sir?” Jones knew that killing her would weigh heavily on his boss, despite any appearances otherwise. He waited for at least a minute. Finally, the Director spoke, his voice somber. “I suppose that is necessary. Such a shame, I hate wasting investments.” “Anything less and the risk is too great—she’s a liability. Also, turns out the only operative in the country at the time of Jennifer’s accident would be your man Wellington. I’ve got a team tracking him and his wild-haired Jamaican friend. The latter man is easy.” After hanging up, Jones walked through the space where an oak meeting table had been. He had ordered new furniture, but it had not arrived. He stood in the large open space, gazing out the large window to the west. A small forest of trees stood motionless, as if in silent witness. An eager tension ran through him. He needed action. The gun club came to mind, a little target and obstacle practice. He went to the oversized right hand

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drawer, clicked on the spring-loaded false bottom, pushed aside an Uzi submachine gun, and retrieved a Glock and a box of pre-loaded magazines. He placed them inside his laptop case, careful to maintain the corporate image he had perfected. ✶

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Safehouse, Avila Beach, California Sunday, 11:45 A.M. Inside the new location, Sara sat on a barstool, her back to the kitchen counter, and took sips from a mug of hot tea. She gazed at the ocean through coral-colored French doors that led onto the deck from the living room. She spun on the seat towards the hall off to the left that led to three bedrooms and a hall bath as Frank sauntered into the kitchen with its slightly outdated floral patterned wallpaper. He poured a second mug of coffee and slid the front page of the newspaper across the counter to Sara. She read: International Economic Conference in Paris Being Touted as a Global Success. Beneath, a picture showed European diplomats, American officials and British dignitaries all shaking hands. One of the officials pictured was Senator Cymbone, his enormous frame dwarfing those around him. A huge smiled plastered his face as he shook hands with a French dignitary. Sara jumped as the doorbell chimed. She shot a worried glance at Frank. He motioned for her to go to the bedroom then placed a hand on the .45 automatic at the small of his back and tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Keeping his right hand on the gun butt, he peered through the front door peephole. On the stoop stood Peter, Toliver, and Willem. He unlatched the door. “Sara,” Frank called. “It’s Peter and the gang.” She entered the foyer from the hall and stared at Peter. He greeted her with outstretched hands then led her to the living room sofa, followed by the others. Everyone settled themselves around the living room, either in the matching beige, soft-fabric armchairs or on the barstools at the kitchen counter. Standing in front of the French doors, mug in hand, Frank spoke first, catching Peter’s eye. “You can’t think Sara has a good idea about going after these guys and taking them down? A better idea would be to lose ourselves in the jungles of Costa Rica for a couple of months and let the whole thing blow over.” “No time for small talk, eh laddie? And you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

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Peter surveyed all those present and explained that whatever was said in that room did not leave it. He also reminded them that privacy among the major countries in financial control of global economics, the G-8, was virtually nonexistent. Daily monitoring of the citizenry through the use of electronic transactions, satellite surveillance, and other insidious means helped to control the flow of global money. He paused, giving a look of disdain, making it obvious where he stood on the issue. Then he offered a caveat: use cash and public phones or a secure line—no credit cards. Stay off the Internet, even if encrypted. “Can anyone think of anything else?” Peter glanced at Willem, who remained silent, so he continued by describing safehouse protocols. The house would be swept twice daily for listening devices. His sources informed him that LAM’s network was extensive. Evidently, through Dr. Jones, they had access to information files from most major governments, and the U.S. Defense Department, though no one quite knew how that was accomplished. He stood up, motioning Frank to sit next to Sara. With hands in front, fingers in steeple formation, he told them how a man calling himself Dr. Donaldson and supposedly the lead researcher for ENOCH’s medical division had contacted him a few days ago. From his briefcase he laid out several copies of the report on the BET device received at the ENOCH demonstration. He urged everyone to read it. Then, he eyed Toliver lounging with a leg over the arm of a chair, and looked at Willem, hands loosely overlapped in front of his hips, propped against a barstool. When he spoke again, his voice sounded much graver. “More importantly, Donaldson feels the device has gone haywire and can’t be fixed. Of greatest concern, especially for us, four hundred fifty other sites became active as of three-and-a-half weeks ago. According to Donaldson, this puts possible projected deaths across America as high as one third of the population in as little as two-and-a-half weeks. That is the reason for this meeting. Questions?” “Yes, two,” said Frank leaning forward. “What are we supposed to do about it? And why would we want to become involved anyway? It sounds like a job for the FBI and FCC, not a group of private individuals, with at least one member wanting to be as far away from that organization as possible.” “My, my, someone’s on the ball. However, that one person, the former Jennifer Chance, happens to be a previous key employee of the company. This places us in a unique position with insider knowledge not available to those other organizations you mentioned. Furthermore, the short time frame of two-and-a-half weeks, assuming the doctor is right, means that action by governmental authorities is out of the question since they move at the rate of an extinct dinosaur, need

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I say more. If that’s not enough, with the BET device already approved by OSHA as a valid work-site installation, government intervention is unlikely.” “Doesn’t Donaldson’s call seem a bit too convenient? Maybe this is a setup by LAM or ENOCH since we just extracted Jennifer?” “Good show, Frank, I must say I quite agree with you. Evidently, after Sara’s friend was killed, Dr. Donaldson, at great risk, found a list of participants from the demonstration and selected my number. Good instincts, I should think. Finally, we, meaning my company, have been hired by a third party, who wishes to remain anonymous, to put a stop to this nonsense. That same third party was responsible for sending me to the demonstration in the first place. Hence, funding issues are not a problem. Actually, they provided the plane and have been covering all your bills, Frank.” “What’s the plan of attack?” Willem said. “And our respective roles?” “That’s the spirit, Willem! Always ready for action, eh? I’ll get to the plan in a moment. First, I’ve just heard from Nathan Wong, one of the world’s leading computer hackers gone straight. He’s agreed to work with us. According to him, the critical first phase is already in progress. He has designed a relay station to collect all the signals being sent out and reroute them to a remote cache in order to render them ineffective. Also, for safety reasons, Dr. Donaldson and his wife are to depart on a protracted leave of absence and join us in a week, assuming his story checks out.” “All right, so how do we start?” asked Toliver, offering a casual grin. With that Peter described assignments for the next two weeks. The proposed plan gave the team a three-day grace period, in case of emergencies. After he finished, Sara set her mug on the light oak coffee table in front of the sofa and stood up, hands on hips. “Wait! Every one here has a duty, but me. I want to contribute, too.” She noticed Frank look at her, one eyebrow raised. “Hmm, that presents a problem,” said Peter, smiling. “You see, my dear, everyone here has training and you haven’t. But, I’ll consider it. Now then, because this mission will involve some ‘behind the lines’ action, I suggest brushing up on invisibility practice. Some of you may not be aware, but that was one of the courses I taught at The Farm for the CIA, too many years ago. I’m certain everyone here received this training at some point in their career, except for Sara and Toliver. In some circles of the trade, espionage that is, individuals adept at this technique are known as ghosts.” Frank looked over a shoulder at Willem, a knowing gaze passing between them.

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As if lecturing to budding agents, Peter launched into the art of invisibility, a tradition dating back almost five thousand years to the Egyptian King Thutmosis and his Great White Brotherhood, a secret group of mystics, which despite the name had nothing to do with racist groups in Europe or America. The techniques could not be mastered by merely hearing someone speak about them. The essence of invisibility was to move through three-dimensional space without really being seen by others. First, he explained, one must develop an increased awareness of the surrounding environment at all times. In psychogenic warfare, a secret operations group within most governments, this was known as ambiance: the change of energy from one location to another. In order to do this, it required focusing oneself within the five senses and not allowing any distraction, as well as keeping one’s feelings and emotions within, not denied, just quiet. This practice allowed for tight control of one’s energetic field. Next, he described the attire. Clothing should be of shades of gray, which did not project much energy. Also, rubber soled shoes were essential, though many a skilled operative was able to descend stairs rapidly and silently wearing hard soled shoes. The vision must be passive, not actively seeking contact with others. In other words, he stated, be aware, but not wanting to attract attention. Also, an attitude of non-judgment was helpful. Most important to invisibility was not forming an opinion about the perceived surroundings. Receptivity without attachment; respond, not react, when needed. In summation, he stressed the need for practice, whether new to it or just rusty. Finally, he added, “Frank, I want you to help Sara, and Willem assist Toliver.” “Do we know where the devices are planted and can we destroy them at their locations?” asked Toliver, no longer lounging. “And who are the prime targets of the devices?” Peter shook his head, admitting that the device locations were unknown, though Donaldson had indicated he liberated ENOCH data, which might help locate them. As more intelligence came in, it would allow them to formulate a more detailed plan of action. He paused and looked in Sara’s direction. “One other item, especially for Frank and Sara, my sources tell me that there are teams of operatives looking for you two, sent out by Jones. Without doubt, the pursuit will be increased now that you’re cover has been exposed. Rumor has it, they are on shoot-to-kill orders.” Sara’s eyes widened, but said nothing. She looked at Frank as he spoke, seemingly unperturbed by the news.

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“One thing, Peter, I can understand Sara’s desires, and the monetary motivation of these two guys, and most of all I know my reasons for helping rid the planet of the device. But, what is your motivation? Money, prestige …?” “I have a number of concerns, some I am at liberty to share, and some I am not. I dare say I’ve been operating as an independent agent in the corporate information and access arena with the specific mission to maintain the equilibrium of capitalism and fair trade throughout the world. As I see it, this assignment is my service to the people of this country, if not the globe. Does that suit you, Mr. Revere?” His eyes locked on Frank’s. Then, as if by unconscious communication of respect, they both released their gaze. “Can I have a minute with you, Peter?” Sara asked, a hushed urgency to her voice. He nodded and led her down the hall into one of the bedrooms. “How can I help, my dear? Everything quite all right?” Her gaze dropped as she expressed the realization that the ‘education and programming’ at LAM was to maintain obedience to the company, the Director. It appeared that the device acted as a hindrance to innate intuition. “It was in fact used to control or manipulate you. I suspect that Jennifer Chance was a fabricated personality. My hunch is the Director conducted market research and then designed your former identity to fulfill the mission of LAM.” He paused. “But that’s not what you wanted to speak to me about, is it?” She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling her eyes well up. “Look, I know I don’t have the skills of those guys out there, but I want in on the operation. How would you feel if something very sacred were stripped from you? Would you want a chance at redemption?” “There’s no need for shame, my dear. You trusted Rogers. Listen, once the other members arrive, we’ll put it to the whole team for approval. Quite all right?” She hugged Peter tightly, and said, “Thanks for all you’ve done.” After he’d gone, she noticed her heart beating faster, wondering what she was getting herself into.

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8

Paris, France Monday, 11:30 A.M. Neither Senator Cymbone nor Julie noticed the man who shadowed them as they departed the dead at Cimetière du Père Lachaise and made their way through the Marais district of Paris. The sun wove in and out of patches of silver clouds as they walked along Rue du Chemin with buildings of mismatched heights crammed together. The man followed on the opposite side of the street, mirroring their pace. Though not a professional agent, the Algerian had trained at a CIA outpost in North Africa years ago. They passed the Musée Picasso, a rather small building for an artist of such large canvasses and fame. Just past the Centre d’Art et de Culture with its many tourists, shops, eateries, and cafes, they settled at a small white marble table in a quaint cafe with an outdoor courtyard that fronted onto Rue du Pont Neuf. A glass partition separated the patrons from road noise and exhaust. While waiting for their sandwiches, Cymbone touched Julie’s elbow and pointed out the Pont Neuf Bridge, famous for many rendezvous des amours. Then, with a change in tone, he said, “Jules, do you think what the papers reported is true?” “About what, honey?” He reminded her about the New York Times article from Sunday that reported the death of Jennifer Chance. As usual, numerous quotes of praise from well-known people from all walks of life had been printed. “You said she was going to disappear for awhile, but maybe she had an accident.”

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Cymbone nodded, trying to not think about it, like he had for the last twenty-four hours. He reached for his wife’s hand, touching the back of it to his lips. She glowed at the gesture. Yet, he sensed tension lingering behind those almond eyes. “Are you feeling nervous about not having the bodyguard anymore?” “No, it’ll be fine. I know I’ve been a little more edgy this trip, maybe because twenty years ago we didn’t have any responsibilities at home. I’ll loosen up, don’t worry,” she said, eyeing the waitress, who approached with their food. After lunch they walked along Le Seine. The chocolate-colored water flowed past carrying cruise boats full of tourists. Back on street level they passed La Pyramide at the plaza of La Louvre, the never-ending line for entrance snaking its way around the building. All of a sudden, Cymbone felt a strong pull on the arm. One of Julie’s hands tugged, while the other pointed at a gray mass in the distant sky. “Let’s go see Le Jardin des Tuileries before those storm clouds arrive.” Together they meandered through the gardens, her eyes soaking up the splendid fountains, statues, flowers, and trees throughout the grounds that extended from La Louvre to Place de la Concorde. The shadow kept his distance, blending with the crowds. He checked his watch, debating whether to make the call. Cymbone turned and scanned the crowd, feeling as if eyes were on him. Not seeing any suspicious persons, he shrugged. “Honey, look at this statue.” He turned and looked at the sculpture that Julie pointed to, which depicted a female lion carrying prey for her cubs with two cubs already trying to chew on the catch. After a few moments, she urged him on to another statue on the opposite side of the white gravel walkway. A half-man carved from white stone in the upper portion with a horse’s lower half held a swooning naked woman by one of his human arms. Her body lay over the horse’s back, head thrown back. “I like this one even better. Do you, John?” He nodded, somewhat distracted by those around him. He glanced around trying to practice the few techniques Peter had taught him. After an hour of such sightseeing, he followed Julie down one of a dozen little walkways that led into trees and foliage. She had spied a small pond with two statues on either side of the water. The figures, a man and a woman, possibly Hermes and Aphrodite, gazed at each other, despite being poised in full flight. At the far end of the pond stood another statue of a woman with one arm crossed in

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front of her abdomen and the other over her head, perhaps a personification of the Egyptian Nuit. They took a table at a café amid the trees. Neither noticed the solitary figure clad in black jeans and gray sweater that took a table thirty feet away. In a woeful French accent, Cymbone spoke a few words to his wife as a waiter strode to the table. “Un cafe, mademoiselle? Avec moi?” Julie smiled, and then with practiced pronunciation ordered two coffees and a pastry from the waiter. While they waited, Cymbone reached across the table and took both of her hands in his. He thanked her for the last twenty wonderful years together, for all her strength, support, and respect. “And most of all your courage to be vulnerable.” “Oh honey, you know how many times you have shared the depth of your love with me? You’re the most wonderful man I’ve ever known. I’m the luckiest woman in the world because you truly cherish the essence of me. I adore you so much.” The waiter delivered the coffees. Julie added a cube of sugar to the strong espresso. Each sipped from the tiny cups as their eyes exchanged intimacy. “Shall we go to L’Arc de Triomphe?” Cymbone asked. “Il fait beau, n’est pas?” said Julie, glancing at the blue-sky overhead. Neither noticed the Algerian get up and stride out of the small forest. Near a bench on the main path, he pulled out a cellular phone and speed-dialed a contact, passing what he had heard. Shortly, Cymbone and his wife left the wooded cafe, passing the man, who laced a boot near the bench. Julie placed a hand in the crook of her husband’s elbow and pointed at the famed arch of Paris looming in the distance, a portal for memories past. The man carefully tailed the American couple. He knew his accomplice would spot him on L’Avenue des Champs Élysées and go to the destination, one that was a desired target by Salamano. The fact that the couple was going there merely killed two birds with one stone. He smiled to himself at that Americanism. He watched from a safe distance as the couple viewed all four sides of the dark gray stone Obelisk at Place de la Concorde. Checking his watch he eyed the target and his wife as they strolled the tree-lined path to L’Avenue. Hand in hand they entered the commercial section where throngs of people milled about in shops and cafes. From the snatches of conversation he had overheard, the woman was absorbed in the feeling of being transported back in time to their honeymoon

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in Paris. She seemed to be content, except for the clouds that began to fill the afternoon sky bringing a chill to the air. Just then, a man bumped him, passing by briskly without uttering a word. He noted the man’s black slacks and a gray button-down short sleeve shirt. It could have been anybody, except that the man also carried a slim black computer case slung over his shoulder. He watched the man with the case pass the target, now needing to be in front. ✶

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Methodically, the man with the case followed the steps for the plan, the same as three days prior. A few yards ahead of the couple he entered the tunnel that led from L’Avenue des Champs Élysées to the circle containing the famed monument. He paused at the niche in the wall. It mattered little if they changed plans for the day, as another opportunity would always arise. That was the advantage of terrorism. That was the true power over the Western imperialists. Relaxing against the wall, the case behind him, he watched the man and woman descend the ramp into the dim light of the passageway. They discussed whether to go to the top of the Arc or not. It was decided a jaunt around the base would be enough for honeymoon reminiscence “Besides, it looks like a storm’s coming,” the woman said, “and I really want to sit outside on the Avenue for a bit.” As usual, shuffling crowds of tourists passed the man leaning against the left sidewall. None noticed the computer case in the crevice behind him. Beneath overlapped hands, he held the remote detonator and a small pair of theater binoculars. He checked his watch: 4:30. With one last look around, and without the case, he sauntered toward the exit onto L’Avenue des Champs Élysées. Once out of the tunnel, he quickened the pace, following the circular road surrounding the Arc away from L’Avenue, and crossed L’Avenue de Friedland and L’Avenue de Hoche pausing just enough to keep an eye on the tunnel entrance from the circle of the Arc. As if a tourist, he took a position on top of a small concrete wall and lifted the binoculars to his eyes to wait for the couple to return to the tunnel entrance, the only way back to L’Avenue des Champs Élysées. Fifteen minutes passed. The man kept a close vigil. In the palm of his hand, he depressed the ON button on the remote control, preset for five minutes: the time gauged to walk from the circle stairs descending into the tunnel to the computer case.

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The calculations did not need to be exact. The man observed the target and his wife near the perimeter of the circle, next to the concrete pylons nearest L’Avenue des Champs Élysées. The woman looked up at the sky and tugged on the target’s arm tucked into his jacket pocket. The target smiled at her. A kiss on the lips led to a deeper embrace. The couple then turned to look down the famed French street before strolling further around the perimeter, ultimately moving toward the stairs to the tunnel. When their heads disappeared below the level of the stair entrance the man depressed the SEND button, which activated the timer. He watched the seconds descend. The first minute passed as an eternity. At two and half minutes remaining, satisfied that the targets were deep in the tunnel, the man left the place of surveillance, crossed L’Avenue de Wagram and angled away from the Charles de Gaulle Étoile. He descended into a below-street-level courtyard surrounded by a six-foot concrete wall between the circular road around L’Arc de Triomphe. One minute remained. Seconds ticked off. All of a sudden, a huge explosion of both light and sound erupted. Debris spewed in all directions like a small volcano. Smoke rose skyward adding to the gray clouds that now covered the city. Screams filled the air. People ran in every direction as smoke billowed out of both ends of the tunnel and a large jagged hole in the middle of the road around L’Arc. Asphalt mixed with bloody body parts littered the road, the sidewalks, and the pillared circle. Close to the hole in the road, a Citroën lay overturned on the driver’s side, engine on fire. People stumbled from both ends of the tunnel. The wail of French police sirens, like a herd of sick donkeys, ricocheted through the twelve avenues leading to the intersection at L’Etoile. Several mangled bodies lay in the street and on the sidewalk, attended by others. A woman in blood-stained clothes staggered around the base of L’Arc de Triomphe. She covered a blood-oozing left ear with one hand; the other held the hand of a crying child of about five years old wearing a tiny Winny the Pooh backpack. The woman’s face was a mask of unspeakable horror and pain, etched as if stone. Other wounded, staggering or sitting, head in hands, seemed oblivious to the chaos that whirled around them. The man emerged from the courtyard as the police arrived and began to reestablish a sense of order, except for the traffic jam. They cordoned off the area as the ambulances screeched to a halt. Personnel jumped out to minister the wounded and bag the dead. The man pocketed the binoculars as he approached

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the crowd behind the police cordon. Edging to the front of the crowd, he peered onto the scene with hundreds of others. With no sign either of the target or his wife and by the size of the hole in the ground, he turned and walked away. Mission accomplished. Soon, a wire would go out to the news services reporting the bombing as renewed terrorist activity against French oppression and support of anti-Muslim policies. Passing by Café Leffe, the man lit a cigarette and dropped the cell phone detonator into a street trashcan.

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Safehouse, Avila Beach, California Wednesday, 7:22 A.M. A black Lincoln Town Car maneuvered down the narrow streets of the quaint town. Not unaccustomed to such vehicles, the sleepy little beach town served as a retreat for many of Hollywood’s famous in need of tranquility. The driver eased the car into a semi-circular driveway at the end of a cul-de-sac behind a late model gray Thunderbird. Hearing the car, Frank peered through the peephole of the front door. A middle-aged couple and a short, though compact, Oriental man stood in front of a lean, thick-chested man in a well-tailored all-black suit with a black cap: Toliver. Frank ventured outside in only blue jeans, no shirt, hair still tousled. Offering a hand to Toliver, he smirked and said, “Nice outfit!” “Right on with your right on baby! As the esteemed chauffeur, I’ve brought three more guests.” “Nathan Wong,” said Frank, offering a hand to the Hong Kong native. “I’ve heard good things about you.” “And this is Dr. James Donaldson and his wife, Holly,” Toliver said. James and Holly went into the house with some of their bags while Frank, Nathan, and Toliver fetched the rest. They dumped the bags in the hallway that led to the bedrooms, where the others still slept. A gentle breeze wafted through the rear screen door. While Frank went to fetch the others, Holly began to make coffee. After introductions, Peter met with Dr. Donaldson and Nathan in private. An hour later, Sara, Frank, Peter, Toliver, Nathan and Holly all sat in the living room and listened to Dr. Donaldson. Pacing as usual, he made an effort to simplify some of the technical language. - 212 -

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“That’s the basics on how the BET device works and how the OSHA approval was gained by the Director. However, the results garnered so far that I’ve just shared are not known to anyone other than those in this room, The Director of LAM, Dr. Jones, and Kelly, bless her heart.” “Uh Dr. Donaldson,” Sara said, “you mentioned that there were some exceptions to the effects of the device. What are they?” “Of course, let’s see.” He explained that the research, conducted by NASA and some done by him, showed that physical activity stimulated the usual aspects of the body associated with exercise, like hormones, adrenaline, immune system, heart function, blood flow and the like. It also kept the overall central nervous system more active, which was crucial as the central nervous system played a major role in almost every bodily system and function of the human organism. It appeared that those who regularly exercised, especially with regimens that returned the body to proper function and a neutral center of gravity, would be less affected by the BET signal transmissions, even possibly immune, depending on the level of exposure. He took a sip of coffee and scratched his head. “Where was I? Yes, the second and more important concern is the high death toll that the reports from the initial test sites revealed. This means we don’t have very much time to stop the same thing from occurring on a much grander scale since the remainder of the sites in the U.S. will be fully active in just under three weeks.” “It’s odd the death toll is so high if this Director guy is interested in creating global peace,” said Toliver, tossing back the last of his coffee. “Don’t you think, doc?” “I wondered that very same thing. Peter, you want to take over from here?” Peter replaced Donaldson in front of the fireplace. He surveyed the group, mug in hand. “To be honest, we’re not sure of the Director’s specific intention. Let’s examine the facts, shall we? Our plan to surprise the targets has been blown as they definitely know Sara, or Jennifer to them, is not dead. Second, they are actively seeking her. This means they may accelerate their time frame, though not certain. Now, for the good news, Nathan has informed me that the computer interception program for the BET signal is almost complete. Before he explains that, let me just say, don’t be fooled by his short stature and amicable demeanor. He’s served with the Foreign Legion and has black belts in three schools of martial art. All right, my boy.”

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“Uh, hello,” said Nathan, who remained sitting in the armchair to the right of the fireplace. He smoothed his straight black hair, pushed gold wire-rimmed glasses onto his face, and spoke in a soft voice, explaining the operation of the program he had designed. Once the collection house was in place, a computer program would redirect only the signals sent through the phone lines to this false cache or holding area where they would be trashed. He expected the program to be fully operational within a few days. All that remained was to do a localized test run. The information from Dr. Donaldson on the fifty test site locations narrowed down some of the guesswork. “But it does leave the other four hundred fifty sites unknown,” he added, eyeing Peter. “Yes, quite. We shall sort that out—plenty of time.” “Peter, wouldn’t devising a virus to disable the devices be a more efficient way to render them non-functional?” asked Toliver, raising an eyebrow. Peter lifted a hand toward the computer expert. “That’s a good suggestion,” said Nathan, typing on the computer as he spoke. “I can easily explore that and turn over the rest of the other project to one of my colleagues. Whoever put it together definitely knows what they’re doing. Do we know who it was?” Peter shook his head and looked around the room. “I know it wasn’t Ulrich,” Sara said. “He’s not very computer savvy. But Dr. Jones and his team of people could have done it. Dr. Donaldson, you know anything?” “Well, now that you mention it, I remember Dr. Jones being quite adept on the computer. Somehow he had access to top-secret files in the government, even able to get any information he wanted—on anybody. He boasted about it to me one day.” “Yeah,” Frank said, “that sounds like Jones.” “Wait!” Donaldson exclaimed. “I remember he used an encryption program on his computer for his emails and a spying program running in the background of every computer in the company. The head computer guy, Primo, told me that Jones had programmed the computer to burn a new CD every night—a hard copy of the email traffic.” “My friend, Kelly,” Sara said, “found encrypted stuff on his computer at his house, too. She told me she had seen something about entities named Raven and Tron. Whatever those are?”

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“The name Tron sounds familiar,” Frank added. “Wasn’t there a movie or game out by that name?” “Damn,” muttered Nathan, then looked hard at Sara. “Did you say your friend saw the name Tron?” Sara gave a slow nod as Nathan scratched an eyebrow with a troubled look. “I say Nathan, what is it?” asked Peter. “If a guy named Tron is involved in this project, we’re in deeeeep shit.” Then, Nathan relayed a story from his past. Twenty years ago, federal agents busted a lot of hackers for telecommunication B&E’s, breaking and entering, violations. One of the agents was nicknamed Tron, a real wiz with programming. He loved the fact that he was able to bust a secret group, which had prided itself on being untouchable. But he got them, so to him it meant that he was unstoppable. Later, some of the group members formed an association of hackers in San Francisco, but this time they wore white hats, and found flaws in computer products on the market. “I guess that Tron guy left the government or at least dropped out of the hacker roundup, because five years later another buddy of mine got busted for stealing thousands of credit card numbers, and I asked him if it was Tron and he said no. Whoever that Tron guy was, he was a real computer genius. If this is his program, it may not be as easy as I thought.” “What about the name Raven, that mean anything to you?” Sara asked. Nathan shook his head. “Anyone ever hear of Dr. Jones referred to as Tron?” Peter asked, squeezing Nathan’s shoulder. When no one responded, he called for everyone’s attention. “Whether it’s Tron or John Wayne, we have a job to do and we’ll get it done. Dare I repeat: the clock is ticking. This is where the talents of our former intelligence people come into play. So far, my sources tell me that the equipment for the BET devices is housed in the underground floors of the ENOCH building, though this needs confirmation. The two targets for destruction are the research facility in Virginia, ENOCH, and the Saint Kitts headquarters location of LAM, Inc., the Director’s facility. Fortunately, we shall retain the use of the jet from our employer.” “With this new info has the plan changed?” Toliver asked. Peter motioned everyone closer and outlined the scenario for the next two and a half weeks. The first task would be to infiltrate the ENOCH premises, set explosives, and bring the entire building down. The party that had hired Peter did not want any personnel injured unless they obstructed the completion of the

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job, which meant that the strike would occur on Sunday in two weeks. Afterward, the same team would fly to Saint Kitts the next day, coordinate with advance reconnaissance and demolish LAM HQ on the following Sunday. He paused and looked at each member of the team. With all agreed he added, “Remember, let’s stay off anything electronic, unless you know it’s secure. For all we know Jones may have accessed Echelon, the NSA’s surveillance network for North America. Stay undercover to avoid being seen or heard. From now on, at this house, we post a sentry around the clock. In here is a safe zone. Out there is not.” “Who’s ‘The Team’?” asked Sara, biting a nail. “I was coming to that. Willem is team leader because he has the most experience and is the demolition expert. He will return on Saturday with John Wilde. Frank and John are second because of their counter-insurgency background. Nathan and I will handle communications and computers. Toliver is just all-around capable. The rest of you will be support staff. If we need more assistance I have some other people in D.C. on alert status. Any questions?” “What about the explosives and firepower?” Frank asked. “All taken care of, m’lad. The explosives have been arranged for us upon our arrival into Virginia. The firepower we bring with us. Here’s a smattering, shall we say.” Peter kicked a duffel bag at his feet. “Frank check through these and account for our ammunition. We’ve got training to start.” Frank began exploring the bag filled with an assortment of weapons from grenade launchers to machine pistols. “Peter,” said Sara, a quiver in her voice, “remember what we talked about?” “Quite right, time for a vote. Those in favor of Sara joining the strike force team, raise you hands.” All hands rose, except one. “Frank!” Sara stared at him. “I object,” said Frank, as if a lawyer defending a client. “And it’s not just a fear of losing her, either. She’s totally untrained. I’m even a little unsure of my skills after five years.” “I’m sure there’s something I can do. This isn’t about revenge. It’s about my right to life. These guys really violated it. It’s my responsibility to be a part of the resolution.” Sara stood up, hands on hips and added, “I could drive the vehicle, operate the communications thingy, or … anything.” “The more the merrier,” Toliver said. “I agree with Sara, it’s her life. She can do as she pleases with it, Frank.”

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“I know, I know. It’s not that. I’m certainly not one to prevent her from doing what she wishes, but is it necessary? We can handle this job, right?” She glared at him a moment. “I know why you don’t want me to go. But staying here while you’re all facing danger.… It’s not fair. Besides, we have more of a chance of keeping each other alive if we’re together then apart. I can’t explain why, but something inside tells me it’s the right thing to do.” Her eyes came back to rest on Frank’s, as the others sat in silence. Holly and Dr. Donaldson exchanged a hidden glance, hands coming together—grateful. Peter looked at Sara and Frank, then at Holly and the doctor. An ache gripped his chest having shared similar looks with his wife. For years he had longed for just one more glimpse into her beautiful sea green eyes. Dr. Donaldson broke the silence. “Frank, you’d better listen to her. If I can tell you anything after twenty years of marriage, listen to the woman you’re with when she says her intuition is telling her something. Holly has never been wrong in all the time I’ve known her. More than likely, I wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t listened to her.” “I’ll tell you what,” said Peter. “I’ll run it by Willem and John, if they say it’s fine and dandy, then you’re on the strike force.” Sara smiled as everyone nodded approval, except Frank. “Very well then, Sara,” said Peter. “To prepare, you need to do some work with these two gentlemen for now, and Willem when he arrives.” He turned to Frank, instructing him to begin giving Sara and the others, except Holly, skill-training exercises. This included elementary ‘Farm’ conditioning, field trade-craft, especially focusing on basic weapon usage and practice. With Nathan she would begin learning basic street fighting self-defense techniques. “As we only have a couple of weeks, it’ll have to be intense.” Peter paused, looking around the room, then added, “Now then, with that settled.…” “I vote for breakfast,” said Holly, with a laugh. Toliver stood up, pulled the lapels of his chauffeur outfit and offered to drive everyone in the Town Car. In light of the doctor’s presentation, Sara suggested they walk into the center of town for exercise.

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Streets of Washington, D.C. Thursday, 10:41 A.M. The sun glinted off the front windshield of the stolen black BMW sedan with tinted windows. Behind the wheel, Rafael Mendoza steered with black leather driving gloves. He scanned the usual politicians, bureaucrats, and businesspersons of various persuasions that populated this part of the nation’s capitol. In the backseat, two men in their late twenties wore charcoal gray lightweight warm-up suits with two red stripes down the sides of the pants and arms. They could have been white wannabe hip-hop stars, until Mendoza signaled them. Then, they pulled black ski masks into place and checked the machine pistols each held in one hand while the other held two extra magazines taped together, butt to butt. If everything went according to plan, they would be in and out in no time. The two sinewy shooters, Jason and Tommy, looked at each other, then slapped hands together as if arm wrestling, an old pre-mission signal. They had used it since the streets of boyhood in South Boston through Foreign Legion service where they had met Mendoza. Nearing the wide steps leading to the Department of Justice, Mendoza spotted the target at the top and braked. “Shit, there he is. Go, go, go!” Just before the steps, he slowed the car to a crawl. The two men leapt out and ran at full tilt, weaving through the well-dressed crowd, like urban panthers. At first glance, they could have been jogging buddies, except for the masks and the weapons at their sides. In a matter of seconds they were almost on top of the target: a trio of men descending the steps.

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Chomping on a cigar, Senator Gallidette chattered to his assistant, who attempted to take notes as they descended the stairs. On the Senator’s other side, the stocky bodyguard caught sight of the approaching men out of the corner of his eye. Too late. Only five feet away, slowing the pace, the shooters raised the machine pistols close to their sides and emptied the fifteen round magazines into the three men. The assistant crumpled first into a bloody heap of flesh and shattered bone. The bodyguard followed falling backward, right hand still in his jacket, weapon un-drawn. Onlookers screamed. Business suits dove to the ground while others panicked and ran. Unfazed by the chaos erupting around them, the two men stood their ground, firing. Dead with blood-soaked frame, Senator Gallidette still stood, swaying, his massive size anchoring him to the ground. Security guards emerged from the Justice building with weapons drawn. The shooters bolted for the car, but Tommy stopped—the main target had not fallen. He lined up his pistol—eight feet away—a bullet straight into the Senator’s forehead, sending him backward into a pool of blood with red rivulets running down white steps. In a flash, Tommy spun around and raced for the moving car where Jason was beckoning to him. Ten feet from the car, in mid-stride, Tommy’s body twisted sideways and crumpled to the ground. His weapon slid from his grasp. Blood spurted from a gaping wound in his thigh as he pulled himself up. Despite a hand clamped over the hole, blood still shot out in a thick arterial spray. One-handed he dragged himself toward the vehicle, trying to reach the open rear door. From the backseat Jason fired at the closing guards, holding them at bay. In the distance, sirens wailed. It was now or never. The code was not to be taken alive. Helpless to do more, Jason looked at his boyhood friend, now limping with ungainly strides toward the vehicle, the distance increasing. He shook his head in silent resignation. He could only imagine the pain in Tommy’s blue eyes. Jason refocused the automatic weapon and fired three shots in standard Foreign Legion style: two to the chest, one to the head. Tommy crumpled to the sidewalk, the guards just fifteen feet away. Mendoza floored the accelerator as bullets thudded into metal. The BMW zigzagged and careened around the corner. With the door closed, Jason lay on the backseat, machine gun at ready.

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Despite two Federal cars in pursuit, Mendoza eluded them with the mastery of a racecar driver, following the pre-determined escape route across Constitution Avenue. Calm and professional, he weaved in and out of traffic, crossing the Fourteenth Street Bridge. Then, all of a sudden, he swerved across four lanes of traffic and exited onto George Washington Parkway. The unmarked pursuit vehicles flew past the exit ramp. In the backseat, Jason pulled off the mask to reveal a close cut blond head of hair. He stripped and donned the clothes from a backpack on the floor. He glanced at Tommy’s untouched clothes. Though still vigilant, Mendoza relaxed a bit and pulled into the car exchange location, a tourist overlook along the river. In seconds, the two men left the getaway car, as clean as possible. In the late model Ford Explorer with heavily tinted windows, Mendoza turned on a scrambler and spoke the speed-dial number. “Yes,” said a disembodied voice on the other end. “The target’s meter has run out, sir,” said Mendoza into the speakerphone, “for one of ours, too. He had to be quit-claimed, sir.” There was a pause as the person on the other end absorbed the information. “Return to base, Raven Two. Command out.” “We goin’ to ENOCH HQ,” said Mendoza, looking at Jason light a cigarette in the passenger seat. “Lotta loose ends to tie up and the big man wants to see us.” Neither spoke for several moments. The sole shooter slumped in the seat as trees flew past. All of a sudden, he pummeled the dash with his fists. Then, grabbing another smoke from the pack, he put his forehead in the palm of the smoking hand. Mendoza remained silent and lit a cigarette. “For what it’s worth, you did good out there.” Then he added, “This’ll show ’em that no one is out of the reach of the boss. And, believe me, when he says its time to start the real show, you can bet there’ll be fireworks. He’s a fuckin’ nut, but a very smart one.”

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Safehouse, Avila Beach, California Friday, 9:52 A.M. Sara collapsed on the couch, exhausted. It had only been two intensive days of training with Nathan and Frank. In an odd sort of way it had been exhilarating, but something still gnawed at her. After downing a glass of water, she decided to take a leisurely stroll on the beach. Outside, she waved to Toliver and Frank, who continued to practice Aikido and Jiu Jitsu techniques. Walking barefoot in the deep soft sand that absorbed her feet, she noticed her footprints, disappearing quickly as if swallowed by the Earth. She marveled at how the textures of sand changed simply by adding water, just like preparing brownies. The sound of breaking waves washed away some of the discomfort, though not all. The stillness she had felt on the tiny beach in San Francisco eluded her. Her mind kept returning to the coverage of the Senator’s death. The paper reported the terrorist group, Salamano, claimed responsibility for the act. But something didn’t seem right. She rubbed her arms and looked at the waves. Her thoughts turned to Frank, feeling warm inside. Then voices of doubt entered her mind. She wrapped her arms around herself and walked closer to the surf. Why do I resist being closer to him? What am I afraid of? Out of nowhere, a low, thick marine layer, bringing only fifteen feet of visibility, forced her to sense the atmosphere. Dense moisture enveloped her as if she were swimming through the air. Waves crashed like nature’s metronome. Nearby seagulls dotted the water assuming various poses. Each aspect of nature seems fully content with its essence, thought Sara, except for me. A little further on she stopped near a driftwood stump nestled into the sand about five feet from the watermark. She plunked down, allowing whatever feelings to surface. At first, frustration welled up at her self-doubt. She knew that without clarity, like Frank had said, a person became a quagmire of indecision. She didn’t want to live in that place anymore. Sadness replaced frustration. The loss of the Senator, Kelly, but not Jennifer Chance, sunk in. Yet, the loss of self weighed the heaviest. How could the lost

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years, months, days, and hours be found? The acceptance of that violation of her right to life and liberty was all that lingered. Taking a deep breath, she knew it required trust, especially in her feelings, with which she didn’t have a lot of experience. The fog began to dissipate from the beach as quickly as it had come. She recalled the restaurant incident, the present danger sinking in. Things really were life and death. Something she had never dealt with before. She certainly didn’t want to end up like Kelly. Then her mind shifted to Frank, either from fear or avoidance. He seemed different since the restaurant. What had really happened? She watched gulls dive into the brine, and things started to make more sense. From deep inside, a clear voice whispered to her. She listened, the anxiety subsiding as the voice’s wisdom flowed through her, gentle and nurturing, like waves lapping the shore. With definite power and subtle assurance to its resonance, sensations flowed up and down her body like lines of electricity. Finally, with her mind quiet and clear, she knew it was time to return to the safehouse. With the fog gone, she gazed across the expanse of the Pacific to the distant horizon. Nearing the safehouse she observed Holly and Dr. Donaldson on the back patio watching Frank and Toliver, still moving like two dancers in a strange sand ballet. With a new sense of self, at least more certainty, she broke into a run. As she neared the two guys, without warning, she tackled Frank. The two tumbled onto soft sand, her on top. Before he could say a word she pinned his arms with her knees. “There’s a move we didn’t practice,” said Toliver, chuckling and turning toward the house. Sara gazed down at Frank, wanting to be close, to trust. Thoughts of his mysterious black case and the restaurant rolled through her mind. Then, she said, “I’m putting you on notice: no secrets. I want to know the truth. Understand?” Silent, he gazed into her eyes, and nodded.

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The Natural Path, Solana Beach, California Friday, 10:49 A.M. In the back office John Wilde, clad in a pair of faded blue jeans and a white v-neck tee shirt, pushed aside the flimsy curtain to peer at a ten-year-old two-toned, tan Oldsmobile parked a little way down the street, the same two men inside. Willem sat on the low stool in front of the computer. “Still there?” he asked. The Rastafarian nodded, his dreadlocks hanging like snakes. He turned up the volume on the CD player. Bob Marley and the Wailers sung ‘Three O’clock Roadblock’. The music would distort their conversation for any unfound bugging devices, having removed one from the phone earlier. “Been tailin’ me ever since Frank and Sara’s restaurant t’ing. Two days ago I led ’em on a wild goose chase just for da fun of it. Today, we gotta be in Avila Beach by t’ree o’clock—no stragglers.” “Gotta shake these goons, then.” “How ya wanna do’t?” The former SEAL cracked his knuckles. “Just itchin’ for some action, huh?” The Rasta laughed. “I could easily sneak around and take ’em out. But they’re probably just a front team. Since they haven’t tried to kill us they must be waiting for you or me to lead them to either Sara or Peter.” “Got an idea, mon. I call up some of da brethren and we have dem create a little diversion for our evasion. I no wanna kill no one ‘less dey try an’ interrupt me privilege of livin’ on dis Earth, eh mon?” Willem looked the Rasta straight in the eye. “Yeah, I gotcha, but you ain’t fooling me any with this talk. I heard about you when you were with the Company’s Directorate of Operations. You were one helluva troubleshooting bad-ass.” John smiled back, but said nothing. Then, Willem agreed to do it the non-violent way first. The Rasta put up his left fist, which was met, knuckles to knuckles, by the former SEAL’s. John dialed and spoke in patois to ensure that the conversation would take a bit to decode, just in case. After thirty seconds, he hung up and reached for a large black cotton tam. He stuffed his dreads into it, securing it on his head. The

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Bob Marley anthem, ‘Top Rankin’, blared from the small stereo. Then, he bent close to Willem and explained the plan. They synchronized watches. After a few minutes John watched Willem saunter up the sidewalk. A quick glance at the surveillance team showed no movement. They were not drawn off by his departure. Just then a black Lincoln Continental with tinted windows pulled up to the curb a short distance from the storefront, diagonal to the Oldsmobile. The driver remained in the car talking with another man in the front passenger seat, while two Rastas got out of the back seat. Jah B walked beside a solidly built Rastafarian, who stood six feet tall and wore tan shorts overlapped by a button-down green and black, checkered, long sleeve cotton shirt, a black cotton tam, and leather harachis. John heard the chime when the two men entered The Natural Path. He met them and ushered them into the backroom, where he and the younger Rasta exchanged clothes in silence. The two were often mistaken for twins. Just as they finished, the deep-throated rumble of an engine vibrated the walls of the store. John knew it was the blue Chevy Van of another of the brethren. Time to go. With Jah B at his side, John strolled outside, moving toward the Lincoln. The van had pulled up alongside the Lincoln, facing the opposite direction. The two drivers conversed, while the height of the van blocked the line of sight of the surveillance team. John slipped into the backseat just as one of the men from the Olds jumped out, gun in hand. The driver of the Lincoln put the car into gear and roared away, just missing the man as he squinted at the tinted windows. Out the back window, John saw the blue van pull in front of the surveillance vehicle as the man raced back to it. A mile down the road, the driver slowed enough for a moving pick up of Willem, then the car quickly sped along Interstate 5 heading north. John relayed the evasion story to the former SEAL and winked. “See, no one killed. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Yes mon, Jah Rastafari!” A chorus of praises to the Almighty circled inside the car along with a spliff lit by Jah B. Willem declined the offered herb. John knew the story would have been different if the men in the Olds had wanted to take him or Willem out. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a wizened smirk grace Willem’s lips as he spoke. “I can just see those two guys still waiting for you to emerge from the store.”

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Exhaling a plume of smoke, John relaxed further into the comfortable seat. He knew the former SEAL had read his mind. “T’ings gonna get lot more deadly ‘fore they get easier, nuh.”

C H A P T E R ▼

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Saturday, 7:35 A.M. Alongside the large oak table in the videoconference room, Jones conversed with the Russian General whose bulk filled the video screen. Stroking the hairs on his chin, he listened to the general outline the outcome of the BET demonstration to the Soviet faction leaders. Overall, the presentation went well, but some of the hard-line leaders, especially in Chechnya, weren’t convinced to cooperate. According to them, having finally attained a certain degree of autonomy, they weren’t interested in relinquishing it, certainly not to another federation or large ruling entity. “General,” Jones said. “These people must be brought into line or eliminated. No time to waste!” “Yes, comrade Dr. Jones, I understand the … er … time. We are prepared to take more … definite action as required.” Jones heard a noise. He glanced toward the door, which he had left open, as it was the weekend. Listening, nothing further came to his ears, so he turned back to the screen. The general asked about further aspects of the plan, those that he knew of. Jones confirmed certain details that still had to be handled. Then, he thanked the general for his assistance. “Glad to be of service to you comrade, Dr. Jones.” The Russian chose his words with caution, not from any difficulty with the English language. “I look forward to working together for … much time.” “General, we need to stay in closer contact now. In four days we’ll talk and determine whether military action against the holdout faction leaders is called for or if we have compliance.” - 226 -

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“Very good, comrade Dr. Jones. Until then, I bid you farewell.” After switching off the monitor Jones sat in silence for a few moments. Everything was falling into place. Then, a faint sound emanated from the corridor again. Swift as a cheetah he dashed around the conference table and through the open door. A somewhat familiar blond-headed figure skulked up the narrow hallway. “Stop!” he boomed. The man obeyed and returned when commanded. Upon seeing whom it was, Jones smiled, noticing the young man’s rigid movement and lack of color in his face. He figured that he had been in the hallway long enough to have overheard things he shouldn’t know. “Charles, what brings you here so early on a Saturday morning?” “I, uh, came to see if there was anything more.…” Trying to put him at ease, Jones placed a hand on his shoulder. “Come into the conference room. We can talk in private.” Charles gulped and entered the room first. He stopped at the oak table, while Jones walked to a board of switches and casually turned off the three video cameras for the conference room. Then, in absentminded fashion, he picked up a black metal-encased pen. Adeptly, he transferred it back and forth between the fingers on his right hand, eyeing the plump figure before him. “I appreciated your help while Jennifer was still around, but she still slipped out of our grasp. What could you possibly offer now, Charlie?” “Well, I received a call from the Director a few days ago and he told me that she wasn’t killed in the car crash after all and that she just split with that guy from California. I got pissed. I worked as her assistant for three years, helped make her what she is today, or was. Who does she think she is just taking off like that?” He forced a weak smile and added, “We need her, y’know. If we could just get rid of that Frank guy, then maybe she’d come back to us. Then I got here and.…” “And what, Charles? What did you hear?” Charles’s blue eyes darted around the room to any object, or surface, other than the man in front of him. He took a step backwards. Jones advanced on him, as if an unspoken reiteration of the question. “Well, I wa … wa … was wond’ring why you want to eliminate the Director?” Charles’s entire body shook. His heart pounded as if he had just run a hundred-yard dash. Beads of sweat clung to his forehead just below the hairline. He inched back further as Jones advanced, still rolling the pen from one finger to the next without even looking. “Oh, I see. So you over heard that, did you?”

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“You don’t like the Director’s plan? For world harmony?” Charles passed the end of the conference table, only four feet remained between him and the wall. “You bought all that nonsense?” said Jones, ceasing his advance. “The problem is that the world’s population wouldn’t know how to handle it.” “Wha … what about all you said at the plaza?” “Charlie, Charlie, you’re so naïve. People think they want peace and freedom, but why? Look at the U.S. for example: we have more personal freedom than any other country and people frivolously waste their lives away doing what? Watching TV, working dead-end jobs. The poor slobs. The freedom they have is taken for granted, abused, or simply pissed away—no self-discipline.” “I … I.…” “Do you realize that we haven’t progressed very far from the circumstances that brought about our separation from the British Empire? Remember ‘taxation without representation’? What do we have now? A representative democracy! Yeah, and how easy is it for a president to steal an election, right under the very noses of the public, and an ignorant Congress. All of them hoodwinked by fear, the greatest motivator and paralyzer. Don’t you know, Charlie?” Charles eyed the pen wielded like an orchestra baton as Jones thundered on. “I ask you, an average U.S. citizen, what sort of oxymoronic society do we live in?” “I … I don’t know.” “That’s right! You’re as ignorant as the rest. What citizen would pay taxes if he knew that the IRS exists as an illegal corporation originally designed to collect money during World War II, and was never dismantled? Or how a meeting on Jekyll Island in the early 1900s turns all citizens into pawns? Yet, the people really hold the power. While the economic theory of Karl Marx was flawed, the overthrow of a government by the millions of destitute workers is definitely a reality, but not if the people are kept in fear.” Jones took a breath. “I’m tired of it. So is the Director, but his plan is horseshit and really a personal vendetta against the U.S. government, a way for him to join the monetary families that run the globe. My plan is a real solution.” Stunned, Charles stared at the man before him. He had never seen him like this, especially the glazed look in the eyes. He was both taken in and scared to death. He took another step back, and asked, “Wha … what’s your plan?” Shaking his head in absolute disgust, Jones moved closer to Charles, whose back touched the wall. “I will liberate the people from their burden of pain, lack of integrity, and freedom of choice. You know the saying: if you don’t use it, you lose it. Right?

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So, now we do it my way.” Jones’s glared at Charles, and asked, “What do you say?” Overwhelmed by fear, Charles gulped. His palms were coated with sweat. His shirt clung to him. Frantic, he looked for something outside himself to stabilize the inner turmoil. Then in the dizzying stillness an odd sensation overcame him—simultaneous clarity and joy. It was clear he had to get away from this maniacal freak, and exhilarated at feeling so alive. Jones managed a twisted grin and raised his arms up above his head. Then he took another step toward the trembling man. Holding the pen like a screwdriver, he said, “Well, Charles, if you don’t know, then you’re not with me, so I don’t need you around taking up space.” He brought both arms down at the same time. The left pinned Charles to the wall through the right shoulder, as the right flashed in an arc, like a fast softball pitch. The pen pierced the fleshy chest between the ninth and tenth ribs at a slight upward angle. With eyes bulging, Charles’s body went rigid, then slumped, and only remained erect by Jones’s hands and the wall. Jones released and the body fell in a crumpled heap at his feet, pen still protruding from the chest. A small bloom of blood around the pen redecorated the yellow button-down shirt. With complete satisfaction, he turned away and rang security. “Henry, we’ve had an accident up here. I need your help, pronto. Seal the doors and bring a delivery cart with you. I’m in the secure conference room.” Jones stared at the lifeless body, feeling no remorse. He knew that war always brought casualties.

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12

Northwest Washington, D.C. Sunday, 10:14 P.M. Exiting the Metro station Ulrich tried to calm the uneasiness he felt about both the last minute meeting requested by Jones and the change in venue. He assumed it pertained to the assassination of Senator Gallidette. At street level he reread the address he had scribbled on a piece of paper: Brickskeller 1523 22nd Street, NW. Getting bearings from a nearby street sign, he walked the few short blocks through a rundown business district on 21st Street. Hushed voices emanated from darkened alleyways. Six Harley Davidson motorcycles with black leather clad riders thundered past. Groups caroused the streets, going from club to club. The entire scene reminded him of many areas he had explored for assignments during field operations with the ‘Company’, often ending up in some side-street ‘locals only’ bar in a foreign city. He had vowed not to re-enter that life again. He knew a better fate awaited him, public dismissal or not. He straightened up his stature as a pack of college students spilled out of an establishment, the one bearing the name he sought. Bitterness lingered on his lips as he pulled open the lower level door to the tavern. He climbed another set of stairs and entered a red brick room with a hard wood floor and wooden tables. Reminiscent of the large drinking halls scattered throughout Europe, he smiled, feeling more at home. The lower room contained smaller tables for more intimate drinking and dining, while the upper had longer tables, dartboards, dance floor, and a fireplace. He scanned the two levels, looking for his second in command. Upon seeing him at a small table against a brick wall on the lower level, he approached. Jones remained seated, a pint of dark beer in front of him. - 230 -

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Taking the wooden seat opposite, Ulrich peered at the hardwood cane with the golden raven’s head handle, leaning against the middle chair. A thin black line encircled the wood five inches below the handle. “What’s with the assistive device, not getting old on me already?” “You should talk, old man. I sprained my ankle the other day on a run through the woods and it flared up that old achilles injury from the operation in Malta. Remember?” “No. I wasn’t with you on that one. Didn’t an off-the-books group from NSA pull you out?” “Yeah, whatever,” said Jones, his hand touching the exit wound divot on his left thigh. “Anyway, I thought it’d be good to keep some weight off of it. How are things moving along?” Settling in, Ulrich flipped through the menu, which consisted of over 1000 brands of beer from all over the world. A smaller less important section listed typical pub food, as well. “Busy,” he said. “I’ve been supervising the in-house seminar schedule generated by the Gala event. LAM, Inc. is well on its way to becoming a household name, at least within corporate and governmental worlds. However, about the assassination of Senator Gallidette.…” “He had to be replaced. He would’ve been a detriment to us down the road. Trust me. He was a totally superficial excuse for a human being. In a world with harsher elements he’d have floundered. Be thankful he’s gone.” “I’m not sure I like your tone nor your insinuation, Walter.” The waitress set down the beer Jones had suggested, one of the strongest ales in the world. Ulrich took a gulp and eyed the man across from him. He spoke in a quiet tone, despite the bar noise. “Were you, thus us, responsible for that gun-down? And what about the death of Senator Cymbone in Paris?” “To the first question: yes. To the second, the answer is, not directly. I warned you about it. It was a productive arrangement on many fronts, not just for us, but also for Salamano.” “The Algerian terrorist group, I see. Do you know the ramifications if Lectures And More or ENOCH are linked with a terrorist organization? I thought you understood the leadership of this operation, and that I have final approval.” “I’m acutely aware of that fact. I see you’ve forgotten that I observed Cymbone and Jennifer talking at the Gala. If she had passed any information to him that was suspicious, then he could have made life very uncomfortable for us. So, I saw fit to have them removed—one of them.” He paused, ignoring the Director’s

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hard stare. “Oddly enough, Senator Gallidette was instrumental in providing information for the Paris bombing. If I’d asked you for approval it would have been denied or you would have hemmed and hawed. I’ve had enough of that weak-livered bullshit.” Ulrich sat back in the chair with hands splayed on the table top, and observed the smirk on Jones’s face. “All right,” he said, “what’s done is done. From now on, I want to move away from that sort of M.O. We must be able to come up with a different standard than to snuff the life of anyone you think is in our way.” “If you’re trying to regain a sense of honor, I got bad news. It’s too late, especially with your past. Let me tell you something: when I was a boy growing up in South Jersey I would come home and tremble in fear for the beating that my father was sure to give me. He was an angry man, a drunkard, forced to care for me after my mother died when I was ten. The result: I took the brunt of his temper. By the time I was fifteen I’d had enough of that crap and decided to do something about and it sure as hell wasn’t sitting down to have a nice chat with him. I had to take survival into my own hands—do or die. One Friday night, I waited until he got good and drunk; then I took my Louisville Slugger baseball bat and beat the shit out of him. I didn’t stop until he was just a bloody mass of flesh on the bed. Then I took gasoline, spread it all around the house and blew that fuckin’ place up. After that, I disappeared.” Jones released the grip on his glass. A gleam of terror, like a shark gone mad, lay in his eyes. “That day,” he continued, “I swore I’d never let myself be beaten again. Then ten years ago the biggest bully of all attacked, not just me, but you too. We got our asses kicked by Uncle Sam to cover up their hand being caught in the cookie jar. Remember? We were wronged! And it’s time to right the scales of justice. As far as I am concerned, they have it coming. Big time. I’ve waited too long to fuck around with any sort of high and mighty honor crap. There’s no room for failure, so I’m not interested in what you’re talking about when you say ‘a different standard’. The only way is survival. And when it comes to that, it’s kill or be killed.” Trying to hide his shock, Ulrich looked away for several moments, trying to absorb the details. He knew Walter had been in juvenile detention for arson, but the murder of his father was news. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed Jones’s jaw clench and unclench. “I had no idea,” he said. “You never told me anything about your father. It wasn’t in your file.”

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“The difference between you and me is that I grew up scrapin’ it out on the streets of South Jersey and you grew up in the posh lifestyle of upstate New York, surrounded by nature and fine educational opportunities. The Company trained you to kill, probably intriguing your mind at the time, but not really to your liking. Right? For me, their training just honed my skills, adding to my natural abilities. It’s what I know best, other than computers. I gotta take a piss.” Ulrich watched him walk away. For the first time, he wondered what this man was capable of. He thought of Donaldson and the BET signals. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off another headache, one that sat behind his eyes for days. When Jones returned, Ulrich said, “What about Jennifer and Frank? Any lead on that and does it matter?” “Not sure. If we had done like I said and put the sub-dermal chip on Jennifer, you wouldn’t be asking me that.” He paused. “I suspect they’re around the L.A. area somewhere because we saw some movement by Peter’s cohort, the Rastafarian. He used E and E tactics on our surveillance team. Another man was with him, a former SEAL named Willem Tasker, a real pro and demo expert. I’m bettin’ they’re up to something. As for Jennifer and Frank, it definitely matters. She’s not under the influence of the BET anymore. We found a fragment of that bracelet in the wreckage. Another thing, being so well-known and well-connected in the business and media world she poses a threat. If she went public with allegations against us, it would hamper our success.” He finished off the last of the beer. “What amuses me most about her recent disappearance is its similarity to our operation five years ago. Ironic, don’t you think?” “Very, but I’m failing to find the humor in it at the moment.” “Don’t worry. We’ll get ’em sooner or later. What’s more important, we have a new problem: the doctor, whatshisname, have you heard from him?” “Not since a few weeks ago. Is he missing?” “Yup, hasn’t been seen since he left the office late Tuesday evening. I think that fucker has stolen some of our data. If that gets into the wrong hands, we’re in big trouble, though it will probably be too late for anyone to do anything.” “Do you have people out looking for this doctor, Donaldson?” asked Ulrich, taking a furtive glance around the bar. “Yes, but he sneaked out somehow. His wife’s gone too, and my men tell me the house looks like it’s closed up. We know he didn’t fly, at least on a commercial carrier, and he didn’t go by train. The car was gone from the garage, so they may be on the road. We’re monitoring electronic transactions and all of his known relatives. What’s your next move, Ulrich?”

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“Keep fostering our contacts in the business world and in three-and-a-half weeks the effect of the devices will begin to steer the masses into our hands. We have done it, my man.” He reached across the small table and clapped Jones on the shoulder, beginning to feel the effect of the beer. Almost gleeful, he added, “My dreams are coming true.” “Let’s go,” said Jones, feigning a game right ankle as he stood. Ulrich watched him reach for the cane. On the street, the sounds of the city filled the air. “What dreams would those be?” Jones asked. “Come now, my man. Creating a unified globe and world peace. We’re so close. Just as Nostradamus predicted: a man would rise to world prominence and bring peace.” Ulrich saw the same group of leather-clad motorcycle riders about three blocks away, now walking toward the bar. “It’s so exciting to know that we have a chance to right the wrongs in so many ways with the BET, and effect positive changes on so many people, like those biker guys.” Jones didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. Instead, he glanced into a darkened alleyway and chose his words for certain effect. “It seems to me that you merely intend to use the masses so you can join the rest of the moneyed families of the world? Isn’t that the real truth?” Ulrich stiffened, turning his upper body toward his second in command. “Walter, how could you? What do you mean? Are you accusing me of purely seeking to advance my own interests with this device? Are you implying the altruistic intentions we have are merely a facade for my own personal gain?” Indignant, he looked straight ahead again and picked up his pace as they passed a brick wall that led into another darkened alley. From the corner of his eye he saw Jones falter with the injured leg, stumbling a little into the alley. Ulrich’s arm was tugged as Jones fell. Then, he tripped over Jones’s fallen form. Before he could catch himself his legs were swept out from underneath him. His shoulder slammed into the concrete. With lightning precision, Jones spun his body and applied a chokehold with his legs, pinning Ulrich to the ground. In the darkness of the alley, the next sound Ulrich heard sent a chill down his spine. The unmistakable scrape of metal upon metal, a sword being drawn from its sheath. He saw a flash of steel arcing towards him. He struggled to get free as Jones brandished the raven’s head of the cane in one hand, while applying a lock on Ulrich’s wrist with the lower half of the cane.

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“What are you doing?” said Ulrich, in a hoarse whisper. Jones increased the pressure on his windpipe. Asphyxiation was only a matter of minutes. Just then, Ulrich heard voices on the street. It was now or never. With his foot he struck at Jones’s stiletto wielding hand as he yelled for help. The weapon clattered to the ground, just out of Jones’s reach. Released from the chokehold, Ulrich began to crawl away, while Jones fetched the stiletto. Deeper into the darkness of the alley, Ulrich got to one knee, but was immediately driven back to the ground as Jones pounced on him, twisting his body. The blade penetrated above the shoulder blade, just missing the heart. Ulrich screamed. All of a sudden weight lifted from him as he heard gruff voices nearby. With the palm of his left hand he tried to staunch the heavy flow of blood. Slowly, picking himself up, he moved away from the sounds of scuffle. In a bare shimmer of light from a streetlamp he saw two stocky assailants fighting with Jones. A fist caught Jones in the jaw, not even fazing him, though he grunted as if hurt, drawing in the attacker. The other man rushed Jones and was impaled on the waiting stiletto. The man cried out, falling to the ground. Jones looked over his shoulder as more voices approached. A second smaller man tackled him from the other side. Using the tackler’s force, they tumbled to the ground in a controlled semi-roll. Jones flipped the man off at the apex of the roll, the attacker landing in the darkness with a thud. Up in a flash, using the darkness for evasion and realizing that he wouldn’t be able to accomplish what he had intended, Jones ran toward the alley entrance, slipping the stiletto into its sheath. He rounded the corner and disappeared. Seeing Jones flee, Ulrich staggered out of the darkness, left arm crossed in front of his body, palm covering the hole in his shoulder. The right side of his shirt, front and back, was soaked with blood. Fifteen feet away, a biker emerged from the alley, holding his gut as blood seeped between wet fingers. A leather vest had spared him a deep wound. His leather-clad buddies surrounded him, some bending over to look at the wound, others scanning the street. Then, a bearded biker pointed at Ulrich and yelled in a gruff voice. “Is that the guy?” Ulrich saw the wounded biker look in his direction. Another biker started toward him. He groaned, feebly raising his right hand, pain striating his face. “Wait!” he exclaimed. “I was attacked, too.”

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The whole group, including the wounded biker, moved toward him. He now realized it was the group of motorcycle guys he had seen. A laugh became a cough and he fell against a lamppost. A heavier set man in his late forties with a gray-speckled black goatee caught him in time and set him down easy. He applied a bandana to the wound as a wiry-framed biker with abrasions on his arm looked on. “Shit man, you hurt bad,” the burly biker said. “We gotta get an ambulance.” Then, the wiry man told another to call 911. “I … want … to … thank you … gentlemen,” Ulrich gasped, “… for saving … my life.” “No sweat, pal. You got as much right to be here as anybody,” said the wiry biker. “Who was that other guy anyway? Jackie Chan’s cousin! He totally surprised me with that flip move. Threw my ass, like five feet. I’m lucky I didn’t break nothin’.” “Aw stop your whinin’. This guy got the worst of da shit,” said the burly biker, punching the smaller man in the arm. Then to Ulrich, he said, “Ya know that guy, or what?” Ulrich shook his head. He thought it better to feign ignorance. After all, it was a private matter. The loss of blood began to take its toll. He felt light-headed and dizzy. He began to shiver. The biggest biker covered him with a leather jacket while they waited for the ambulance. The other three bikers sat their bleeding companion next to Ulrich. A small ring of onlookers had begun to form, but the bikers created an enclave of protection around the two wounded men. While the men bantered back and forth, Ulrich tried to focus his mind. Stay conscious. Ideas tumbled into his mind—going back to hotel, not an option. He knew Walter would have it staked out with men to finish the job. Elimination. He reeled at the thought … Walter … in control … my dream.… Then everything went black. His body slumped against the post.

C H A P T E R ▼

13

Safehouse, Avila Beach, California Monday, 6:41 P.M. Back from target practice in a nearby canyon, Sara and Frank sat on the deck at the back of the team’s hideout, sipping glasses of wine. Willem leaned against the deck railing, looking at the ocean and sipping a beer. The last four days had been filled with intense counter-insurgency training, especially for Sara. Willem turned to face them, his eyes resting on Frank. “You haven’t lost a thing with your ol’ fave, the Browning,” he said. “You whipped through the double motion target practice like a pro. Well, I guess you are. And Sara, you really handled the firepower out there today. Those Uzi’s can be a bit jumpy at first. Personally, I like a Mac 10.” “I can’t say I really want to be on a first name basis with them, if you know what I mean.” “Sure. You two comin’ to dinner with the team?” “No thanks, Willem. See ya,” said Frank. A moment of silence passed as Willem entered through the French doors. Then Sara shifted in her seat and looked Frank’s direction. “Don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted,” she said. “My body is a sea of soreness. The calisthenics and close-quarters combat stuff isn’t so bad, but the weapons are killing me—no pun intended.” “Yeah, me too. It’ll pass.” “Oh quiet you, like Willem said, you’re a natural.” He winced at her words. That was the last thing he wanted to be, but he couldn’t deny the truth of it. “The real test comes in two days.” “The simulated fire-fight thingy.”

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“With real ammo. There is nothing like being fired upon to get the blood pumpin’.” She fell silent, listening to the crash of the waves. “You afraid, Sara?” She nodded and rubbed her legs. She gazed at the three long-stem, red roses on the nearby table, and said, “Such a nice idea. How’d you arrange it with the others?” “Simple, really. I sensed you’d be a wreck from firing the weapons. I thought a little romantic sunset with all the proper accouterments would … soften you up.” Frank’s eyebrows raised a little. She looked at him as the sun dipped below the horizon with a glorious gold aura that spread out along the coastline, a subtle orange turning a yellowish green, then melting into faint rouge. Something stirred inside her. It wasn’t just the wine easing into her bloodstream. The resistance, the wall, seemed to fall away. Warmth surged through her. She placed a hand on his arm then slid it into his hand. Frank looked at her knitted eyebrows, though her eyes glowed. “You okay?” Another nod, but tears rolled down her cheeks. A tremor filled her voice. “I just hope we get to enjoy more evenings like this. I’m not used to this type of thing, the weapons and all. I’m sure for you it’s easy. You’ve faced life or death situations before and while I shoot well in the training exercises, I don’t feel confident if it gets … real.” “You don’t have to go.” “I know. I chose this. I gotta see it through.” She looked at him. “In truth, I’m scared to death. I’m also scared for everyone else. What if we don’t succeed?” “There’s always a risk. All we can do is to be true to ourselves. If we are, then we’ll be guaranteed success on the mission.” “I hope so. I know in my heart what’s right for me, despite having been so removed from it for so long. I just need to trust in it. That reminds me of a chat I had with John the other day. He’s so cool and wise—always got that radiant smile. Anyway, he said that how he lives doesn’t stem from a belief, rather from a foundation, a knowledge that he feels within. And this knowledge is supported by faith in a connection, a love, with all living things: the rocks, trees, animals, and people. He then rests his beliefs on that one foundation.” “Sounds good, but probably very hard to do.” Pensive, Sara gazed out over the Pacific for several minutes. She wondered what would happen to the world with Ulrich in charge. It was challenging to let go of the belief she had in him. Part of her thought if she could just talk with

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him, then he would come around. Then, she remembered the conversation they’d already had. She had to let go. Stop trying to change other people, she thought; just be true to who I want to be. “That’s it!” she said. “Whenever I begin to doubt, I force myself to remember that faith in myself and my integrity are the key and the reason I’m on this mission. But I’m still afraid. But then life is meeting fear and passing through it. Right?” “Yup, that’s the spirit.” She got up and sat in his lap, putting an arm around his shoulders. She gazed into his eyes, and said, “Most importantly, I gotta be true to my dreams, no matter what.” Resting her head against his, she felt a distinct and deep warmth blossom in her chest. She knew she wanted to be with him, to tell him the whole truth, which would allow her to be true to herself. Soon, it would come soon. She stroked his face, soft lips brushing his. “If we can just get through the next couple of weeks,” she said. Frank nodded. ✶

✶

✶

✶

Hospital Room, Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 12:30 P.M. Propped up on pillows like an exiled king, Ulrich rested in bed. A dull ache throbbed from the right shoulder and chest region out to the rest of his body. During periods of wakefulness he attempted to reevaluate his plans, himself, the situation. On a pad of paper the nurse had given him, he listed his options: ‘Call contacts in the business—all funding stopped. No FBI or other law enforcement.’ Then he scratched it all out, certain that such an action would alert Jones to his whereabouts. He clenched his right fist, partly wanting to test the strength. Pain shot down the arm. He gritted his teeth and tossed his head from side to side. Just then, an African-American nurse of some girth entered the private room. She bustled with competence and came alongside the bed. “How we feeling, Mr. Roth? Is someone’s pride a bit wounded?” He nodded, remembering the false identity he had used. The only one Jones didn’t know about, or so he hoped.

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Smiling warmly, she checked his vitals and the intravenous connection. “I don’t know what mess you got yo’self into, but remember honey, ya can’t change the past. What’s done is done.” “Thank you, I’ll try and think clearly in the present.” “There ya go, honey.” As soon as she left the answer struck him: Peter Wellington—the one man who could help him. He dialed a few numbers direct from the room to avoid any monitoring by Jones on electronic based cards or telephones in his name or aliases. An hour later, after cashing in favors owed by friends placed high in the ‘Company’, he left a message for the Englishman at an import/export business in San Diego. Exhausted, he closed his eyes. Four hours later, another sharp sensation shot down his arm, waking him from a fitful sleep. He glanced around the bare white walls then out the window, which offered a view of a small tree-lined park. He gave a sad laugh. Either the sleep or the pain had cleared his mind. He realized how ludicrous it was to kill people in order to achieve world peace. Now the task was to get out of the hospital fast. As soon as the call came from Wellington, if it came. ✶

✶

✶

✶

ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Tuesday, 4:00 P.M. At the same desk, Jones took the helm, now Director of LAM, Inc. and ENOCH. The last two days had been filled with making contacts and arrangements left unfinished by Ulrich’s sudden absence. The changeover in power structure was going well. To any who questioned the disappearance he told them that the former Director had taken severely ill and could not be reached. At that moment the secure red phone rang. He answered with a crisp tone. “Mendoza, sir,” said the voice of his second in command. “We’ve arrived per instructions and await further assignment.” “Excellent. Is everyone with you?” “Affirmative sir—the heist team and the remaining shooter from the Gallidette affair.” “Go to Reston Ops. I will advise. We are at D-minus eleven and counting. Command out.”

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Jones re-cradled the receiver and turned to the computer. The screen showed all satellite functions on-line and synchronous. A small on-screen counter displayed descending hours, minutes, and seconds, indicating the eleven days remaining before he announced his blackmail to the world. He closed the satellite window and opened another that scanned bank account records searching for any activity by Ulrich Rogers. Nothing. He closed that screen and leaned back in the chair with hands behind his head. From a news report, he had learned that it had been the motorcycle guys who attacked him in the alley, saving The Director’s life. He wracked his brain about the whereabouts of Jennifer, Frank, and Donaldson, as well as Ulrich. He went and stood in front of the window, rocking back and forth from heels to toes. After a few minutes an idea struck him. He returned to the computer and in no time he gained access to the private airfields around the Washington area. In a few minutes, he located a circumspect listing of a Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and an unidentified passenger on a private jet that landed at Santa Barbara International airfield, almost one week ago. “That’s fuckin’ it!” He exclaimed as his secretary entered the office. “Excuse me, sir?” “Nothing, just … nevermind.” She raised her eyebrows and placed a report in his In-Box. “What have you brought me?” “Just a progress report on the seminar schedule for the corporations. Everything’s fine, though some of the company representatives have asked who will be the replacement for Ms. Chance. What should I tell them and Sally, who’s supervising the project?” “Tell them we’ll notify them as soon as it is arranged. Probably somebody big, Tony Robbins or something. Check with Mr. Howe in Public Relations. He’ll know what to do.” “Yes sir. I’ll take care of it. I can see you’re busy.” Just then the computer chimed, indicating a match to the search for The Director under his aliases, Jones’s eyes snapped to the screen. A listing flashed: Washington General Hospital, Harry Roth, emergency patient. Without a second to lose he called Mendoza back and instructed him to take a team to the hospital. He gave an H.O.S. order. He hung up and dialed Raven Team Three’s cellular number. When Petrovich answered, he filled him in on the details of various team operations, and directed him to depart with Damio for Santa Barbara immediately. “At the time of action,” he said. “Priorities are Jennifer, Frank, Peter, Donaldson. And no fucking mistakes this time.”

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“Yes sir, understood. Raven Three out.” Jones returned the phone to its cradle with a smug grimace, envisioning Mendoza and his man ascending the stairs to the room of one Harry Roth, soon to be no more.

C H A P T E R ▼

14

LAX, Los Angeles, California Wednesday, 8:32 A.M. As the plane taxied to the gate, Ulrich shifted restlessly in the first class seat, wincing again as pain shot through the arm hidden beneath his new Baltimore Orioles jacket. The call from Peter had come. Despite the wrath of the doctors and nurses for his self-dismissal, he had caught a flight from Reagan National Airport late Tuesday afternoon, only to have an extended layover in Chicago’s O’Hare. He knew Jones would be tracking the flight. It was a risk that had to be taken. Down the jetway, he carried a small overnight bag in his left hand and wore a matching Orioles cap as Peter had instructed. He also recalled the specific code word sequence Peter had given him. Passing a man leaning against a pillar near the gate entrance, he joined the flood of passengers deplaning from other gates. Suddenly, from behind, a voice said, “So you’re a Tigers fan?” Hearing the code words, Ulrich replied, “Yes. Isn’t Zurich wonderful this time of year?” “Just like La Brea here in LA,” said the man from the pillar, giving the correct response. “Mr. Rogers, name’s Toliver, good to see you. Here let me take your bag at least.” He handed the bag over with his functional arm, and asked, “Are we expecting trouble?” “Hard to say. This is it, right?” Toliver hefted the overnight bag over a shoulder. Ulrich nodded and glanced around as they passed the incoming security checkpoint. A little ways down the corridor, without warning, Toliver was jerked away from Ulrich by a short stocky man in a San Diego Chargers cap who latched onto the bag. A firm grip averted the theft attempt. - 243 -

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All of a sudden, Ulrich felt the nose of a pistol dig into his ribs beneath the jacket. The lanky man gave the outward appearance of helping a wounded friend. “Don’t move or I’ll do ya right here. Tell your friend to be cool, Rogers. Now!” Ulrich saw that the bag snatcher held Toliver’s left arm. “Toliver, remain calm. Let’s just do as they say.” Then, as subtly as possible he scanned for a backup man. No one appeared obvious. Peter was a professional. He couldn’t have made that grave a mistake. The four men exited to the short-term parking lot, crossing the hot tarmac. They approached a two-toned brown Olds. The stocky man opened the car, slid behind the wheel, and grabbed a pistol from beneath a map on the front seat. Under threat of the gun Toliver got into the front seat as the lanky man deposited Ulrich into the back seat from the passenger side. He was about to follow when he cried out and grabbed his right knee, then fell to the ground. Despite the injured arm, Ulrich dove onto the floor behind the front bench seat. Toliver landed a hard left on the other man’s jaw as he reached for the gun. With the stocky man dazed, he leapt from the car and saw Willem in a dark business suit pointing a large handgun at him. In the other hand, he held a black briefcase. “Let’s go! Move! Move!” yelled Willem, then pressed a button on the briefcase’s handle. Toliver shoved Petrovich hard as he struggled to get up, sending him sprawling into the middle of the aisle between the rows of parked cars. Then, he grabbed the collar of Ulrich’s baseball jacket and hauled him out of the backseat. Willem fired at the man behind the wheel, shattering the back window. Then, he tossed the briefcase under the car as the stocky man emerged from the driver’s side. Willem rushed forward and hit him with the gun butt. The man’s body went limp and wedged between the door and the frame of the car, gun clattering to the ground. “We’re clear. Come on!” yelled Toliver, trying to run and pulling Ulrich with him. “This way,” shouted Willem, pointing in the direction of a gray limo. A shot rang out and Toliver stumbled, the bullet clipping his left thigh. He let Ulrich go and clutched at the wound, still trying to run. His face twisted in a mask of pain. Ulrich zagged right and saw the lanky attacker lying prone on the ground, lining up another shot. Then the ground shook, as if an earthquake struck. The Oldsmobile exploded, engulfing the shooter in a ball of flame. The man screamed

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as his fiery body rolled on the tarmac. A huge cloud of gray-black smoke billowed up adding to the Los Angeles smog. Willem put the rented limousine in motion as the other two men dove into the spacious back seats. The engine roared as he floored the accelerator. One-handed, Ulrich wrapped his jacket sleeves around Toliver’s leg. Despite the bullet missing both the femoral artery and the bone, blood oozed from the wound. Willem maneuvered the long vehicle through varying lanes on the 405 freeway. “Everyone okay?” he asked. “Should be at the safehouse in less than two hours. We’ve got a doctor there. Toliver can you make it?” “Yeah, just drive—fast!” he said through clenched teeth. “So you and Jones had a falling out?” asked Willem, eyeing the rearview mirror, just able to see Ulrich’s sweaty face. “You could say that. I should’ve seen it coming, but.…” “Don’t worry, with your help we can bring him down. How’s the patient?” “He just passed out. Put the heat on back here, if you would. Pretty tough character, though not a professional man is he?” “Nope, just special ops for Mr. Wellington.” “How is Peter these days? I haven’t seen the old Mr. Elusive for …” Ulrich tapped his lips with a finger. “My Lord, it’s been almost twenty years.” “That’s right, you and he go back to the old ‘Company’ days, don’t ya. Well, he’s the same, I guess, but I’ve only known him in the last ten” “Uh, forgive me, I didn’t get your name.” “Never said. It’s Tasker, Willem Tasker.” “I guess you know mine. I must congratulate you on your expertise and for saving our lives single handedly. I haven’t seen timing like that in a long time. You’re not CIA, are you?” “Your thanks goes to the United States Navy, SEALs to be exact.” “Ah yes, some of the best counter-insurgency people in the world. You must speak three or four languages, right?” “Five, actually.” They continued to converse, trading operation stories. Ninety minutes later Willem parked the limo behind the gray Thunderbird. He picked Toliver up in a fireman’s carry and headed toward the door, which opened by an attendant Peter, whose smile vanished as he saw Toliver’s limp form. Peter barked orders for immediate emergency care. Then he turned and nodded to Ulrich.

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The two men stood in the foyer and stared hard at each other for a minute. Always the diplomat, Ulrich offered a hand. “Peter, so good to see you. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? You look well. Thank you for allowing me to join your small enclave and giving me sanctuary. I guess I’m in exile again.” Peter continued to stare at the man, who was almost ten years his senior, but looked ten years his junior. Bitterness rippled beneath his skin as he couldn’t help but attribute his wife’s demise to him, either directly or otherwise. To shake the offered hand was the utmost challenge. “Quite, it has been a long time. Welcome,” said Peter, taking his hand and stepping aside. “It appears we have a common adversary.” Across the living room, buzzing with attention to Toliver, Sara stared at Ulrich as if trying to bore a hole through him. Almost meekly, Ulrich took a seat on the couch, avoiding her gaze. ✶

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Safehouse, Avila Beach, California Friday, 6:03 A.M. On the last hour of sentry watch, Ulrich entered the kitchen and looked at the ocean beyond the French doors. A new dawn stirred. His entire body ached and his arm throbbed. He poured a glass of juice and took a sip. The encounter with Jones had awakened something in him, something that wasn’t comfortable, but that he had to face. He swallowed the sip of grapefruit juice. It was tart. Pacing the room, his mind hopped from one topic to another. He saw a small radio on the pass-through counter between the kitchen and living room and turned it on. Hearing the familiar voice of a National Public Radio announcer, he adjusted the volume. The announcer’s words caught his attention: “… shocking report from the API news service. According to state and local officials, a larger number of deaths have occurred this summer in comparison to years past. The deaths have been attributed to a variety of natural causes, including peculiar weather patterns in certain regions across the country. While state and local officials are beginning to investigate further, federal officials have been notified. Terrorist biological weapons are suspected. The government is considering raising the alert to.…” Alarmed, Ulrich recalled the phone conversation with Dr. Donaldson. To gain clarity on what to do, he performed a few exercises that didn’t involve the

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use of his arm. They helped to release tension from his body. All of a sudden a thought came to him. He had to speak with Peter immediately. ✶

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Friday, 9:45 A.M. In the secure conference room at the center of the building, Jones paced the carpeting in front of the long meeting table. He scowled at the twenty men around the table and slammed a fist on the table, sending his cane tumbling to the floor. “It’s a good thing Petrovich and Damio are dead,” he said, “because if they weren’t I’d kill ’em myself. Because of their fuck-up Ulrich slipped out of our hands, not to mention the location of the target. Anymore fuck-ups like that and I promise you, I will personally see to it that it’s your last. You got that! And I hold all the team leaders responsible for their men. Next, we need increased security around here. It begins right after this meeting. We must be prepared for whatever attack may come against us.” Returning to a more sedate business demeanor he laid a hand on the shoulder of Rafael Mendoza, his olive-complexioned face impassive. He introduced him as the second in command. “If I am unreachable for some reason, this is the man to speak with. Is that clear?” A chorus of silent nods traversed the table. “Considering recent events I’ve decided to move our timetable for implementation forward.” Jones scanned the group as he spoke, his voice calm, yet his eyes held a different sheen. A young blond-headed man next to Mendoza looked at Jones. “I’m new to this operation and like, I’m in the dark. What’s my assignment?” “You’re Jason Kendrick?” Jones said, laying eyes on him, then sidestepping over to him. “Good job at the Capital the other day. Sorry to hear we lost your friend, we could’ve used a guy like him. Also, I appreciate your and Cat’s effort at the hospital. Cat, here, is going to lay out assignments for everyone.” With a nod from Jones, Mendoza stood up, exuding an understated firmness. He glanced at the piece of paper in his hand. “All right, I need to see all of the team leaders to hand out assignments. Disperse these to your men. We have four teams of four not including the Team leader. The Teams have been assigned call signs and each member will receive two-way communication gear so that contact is maintained as needed. Remember, everyone here is sworn to confidentiality

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and if that is broken, that man shall have me to deal with.” He paused, surveying the nineteen men around the table. “Gentlemen, the teams are, Raven One, under my command. Raven Two is under Pierre’s command. Raven Three will be commanded by Carlos, and the fourth team is Raven Four, commanded by Jason.” Before the initial hustle of following orders he informed the men that it was imperative for each person to become extremely familiar with the face of everyone in the room, as additional personnel would arrive on Sunday. Those present were considered the elite core members. Then, he outlined the security protocol for the operation, indicating that any leak, especially before the next Friday morning, would not be tolerated. Finally, to insure security in off-limit areas, aside from the issued ID tags, he explained the verbal security code that was to be repeated upon exiting a secure area. Failure to do so by exiting personnel would result in being held captive or eliminated. “The code is similar to goodbye,” he added, “except it’s a number. That number is 92.” A murmur of voices traveled the table. Then Carlos, with shoulder length hair in a single braided ponytail, asked the question most were thinking. “Why do we have the code given as they leave? I don’t get it, Cat.” “Let me explain this ingenuity,” Mendoza said. “Essentially, it allows any impostors to enter the facility, maybe gain access to information. But if they do not know the exit code, they will not escape. The origins of such a system stem from the Knights Templar, right?” A nod from Jones confirmed his statement, so he continued. “Though this operation is in no way a military one, nor of an offensive nature, we will be assigning weapons to everyone. The visible one will be an Uzi, one with which I’m sure everyone is well acquainted. The concealed one will be a Smith and Wesson Bodyguard revolver, unless any of you have a different preference. Also, Primo Taglio, head computer tech, will be going over the communications equipment.” While Mendoza continued to outline duties Jones dragged out two military issue dufflebags containing the weapons and ammo clips. Primo, a skinny, black-haired Italian, pulled out two small cardboard boxes that held micro-communication devices, all of which contained BET microchips to maintain personnel adherence. These chips were adjusted to provide optimum performance with maximum compliance, unlike the ones in the public domain. “All right people, let’s begin,” Mendoza said.

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The three team leaders approached, each taking a personnel list. Each team leader took a position at one of the four corners of the table and began calling out team member names. Jones tucked the cane beneath his arm and observed the proceedings. ✶

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Safehouse, Avila Beach, California Friday, 10:01 A.M. After a grueling beach run, Sara, Frank, Willem, and John stood joking on the deck when Peter called an impromptu meeting. The furrow between his eyebrows betrayed the strain that his soothing voice hid. “I’d like to formally introduce you to Ulrich Rogers, former Director of Lectures And More, Inc. He has decided to join our operation under unusual circumstances, of which most of you are aware. However, after meeting with him and Dr. Donaldson early this morning new information has come to light that alters our plan.” “Tell me the whole problem is solved and we can all go home,” Frank said, refilling his coffee mug. “Wouldn’t that be a nice bit of cheer? But such is not the case. With Dr. Jones in the driver’s seat things have gone from bad to worse. Also, Ulrich has graciously confirmed that Tron and Jones are one and the same. In fact, after the raids on the hackers that Nathan spoke of, Tron was recruited by the CIA and posted to the Italian station under Ulrich.” To Ulrich, he said, “Would you mind bringing the team up to speed?” With his right arm still in a sling across the abdomen, he shuffled to the place where Peter had stood. “Hello, I think I’ve met most of you or already knew you before. I’m probably not the most popular guy in the room right now since it was some of my efforts that have brought us together.” Sara glared at him as he continued, apologizing for being blinded by his own vision and not seeing Jones’s deception. He paused, appearing to study the carpet in depth. Then he explained that Nathan’s plan to create a false cache site for the signal transmission wouldn’t be effective because the BET devices were activated by satellite instead of landline communication. However, he thought the plan to use a virus held some promise, but time was a factor. “Finally, I hate to be the bearer of any more bad news, but the massive death toll that Dr. Donaldson projected may have already begun, according to a

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news report I heard this morning on NPR radio. That’s all I have to say. This wasn’t my plan at all.” “Is there anything else we can do to stop this Jones guy?” asked Donaldson’s wife, her voice shaky. “I wish there was, but I don’t know what.” “I don’t get it. What would be Jones’s point in rigging the device to kill so many people?” asked Toliver, bandaged leg stretched out straight on an ottoman. “I don’t know,” replied Ulrich with a shrug. “Despite how he may appear on the surface, I fear that what lies beneath is far more grim. Though a super-patriot, he wants revenge on the government for making a fool of him. That’s all I know, really.” “Perhaps I have the answer,” said Peter, rising with the sureness that only a man accustomed to dealing with complicated international matters could. “Killing a substantial number of U.S. citizens will do two things for Jones.” He outlined them as briefly as possible, and added, “A very effective tactic to bring the strongest military presence in the world to its knees without any show of violence. Look at what a well-aimed terrorist attack has accomplished.” He took a sip of water, letting his words sink in. Others exchanged worried glances. Then he outlined the changes to the previous plan. First, they would depart tomorrow mid-morning for Washington, D.C. to destroy the ENOCH operation, which Ulrich had confirmed as the location of the BET resources and satellite uplink. Second, with Ulrich on their side, they were relieved of the second mission to the Caribbean. More than ever, time was of the essence. Finally, he said, “Combat practice will take place this afternoon in the canyon as scheduled. Remember, we’ve been hired to do a job and we will complete it. Any questions or problems, please inform me now.” “Do you still want me on the team, Peter?” asked Toliver. “Yes, if you feel you can be mobile. You and Sara will switch roles. Toliver, you will handle communications relay.” Focusing on Sara, he said, “I know you haven’t had much time to practice, but from what I hear, you’re doing extremely well. You are now officially on the strike force, whether you like it or not. All right then?” She nodded. “Nathan, you will be on the strike force to handle data transfer and whatever else.” “Been awhile since I’ve used those skills, I’d better go to the canyon, too.” “Good show. Like I said before, we have extra help arranged in Washington, colleagues of Willem’s. Though I need not remind you, everyone in this room

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plays a critical function, so it’s important that we work together. Anyone not interested in a spirit of cooperation, speak now” Somber faces stared back at him. “Sara and Ulrich, I need to speak with both of you. Let’s get moving, shall we?” The group broke up as Sara and Ulrich followed Peter out onto the sun deck. “Sara,” he said, “you have your history with Ulrich as do I, but I need you two to sort out your differences. This is not a place for personal contempt or bias. The operation is far too important for that.” He cast an imploring eye at each of them and waited. “Peter, how am I supposed to trust this man, no less work beside him after all that’s happened?” Peter raised a hand, stopping Ulrich’s protest. “I fully understand. I could kill this man as look at him, but we need him if we’re going to bring down this Jones fellow. I don’t care what has to be done to resolve this for the next week, but you better do it and quickly.” He tugged the rims of his glasses down, looked at them both, and added, “Agreed?” Ulrich nodded, then Sara followed with greater reluctance.

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Friday, 2:25 P.M. Alone in the secure conference room, Jones viewed the morning’s local news from Channel Four recorded onto DVD by one of the technicians. With the show already in progress, the screen displayed a typical newscaster set: channel emblem, circular desk with weather station off to the right side. The sports newscaster sat on the left and two newspersons were in the center. The anchorperson, a man in his early fifties with neatly trimmed salt and pepper hair conversed with the female co-anchorperson, an attractive woman in her thirties with perfect teeth. They were all laughing at some joke. Then to the co-anchor, the anchorman said, “Renee, tell us about that special interest story we’ve hinted about to our viewers.” Tapping the table with the same pen used on Charles, Jones observed the co-anchorwoman. “Sure Sam,” she began. “The reports of random deaths for no apparent reason continue to increase around the country in the last week. Though unnoticed in the larger cities, such as New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, San Francisco, and even here in the Washington metropolitan area, smaller cities express concern at the sudden rise, capturing the attention of some state and local officials. One of these officials, Senator John Murphy of the Alabama state legislature, has been petitioning the president to order an official investigation. Here is our exclusive, a taped interview from last night via our affiliated station, Channel Two, in Mobile.” Renee swiveled her chair to face the large screen between herself and the anchorman as a tape reel began.

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The Channel Four camera moved in on the inset screen to show a partially balding, round-faced, silver-haired man in his late fifties with silver-rimmed glasses. A young television reporter stood next to the man with a microphone as cars passed behind them. A light rain began to fall. The interviewer brought the microphone to her mouth and introduced the State Senator to the viewers. “Sir, in your opinion, what is the cause of these peculiar deaths that seem to be plaguing the tranquility of your town?’ ‘I don’t reckon I know the ansah, else I wouldn’t be callin’ the President of this great nation or coming down here this time o’ night and rousin’ the judge. I can tell ya, when I arrived home this ev’nin’ to find my wife’s lifeless body on the kitchen flo’ and the phone danglin’ from the wall, I became real concerned for the welfare of this country.’ ‘What was the determined cause of death for your wife, sir?’ ‘The cor’ner told me it was a heart attack of some sort, but I fin’ that mighty peculiar as she was in fine health. As I held her in my arms waiting for the ambulance to arrive, I thought to myself, ‘Lawd, I must do somethin’ ’bout this.’ ‘Sir, have there been other deaths like this in Mobile recently?’ ‘Yes. And if that man in Washington knows what’s good for him, he’ll get us some federal help in thisahere investigation.’ The taped coverage shut off and the Channel 4 camera withdrew to refocus on Renee, a winning smile across her face. “Well, Sam, we can see something peculiar is happening. We, here, at Channel 4, have begun to do a little investigating into the increased death rate around the D.C. metro area but as of yet, nothing has been revealed.” She faced the side camera and added, “That’s all we have so far. Sam, have you been feeling okay, lately?” “Thanks for asking Renee, I feel fine, maybe a few effects from our upcoming eclipse. We’ll here more about that from Les with the weather when we return.” Jones stopped the recording and smiled with satisfaction. The door swished as he approached. With the DVD in hand, he walked up the corridor. A meeting with Ms. Christie of Quad Com waited.

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Safehouse, Avila Beach, California Friday, 11:55 A.M. After Peter left, Sara went to the sky-blue, wooden railing and looked out at the ocean. She felt Ulrich’s presence as he came along beside her. Her fingers tightened on the railing. She didn’t bother to look at him. “Do you want to take a walk?” he asked. “Like I have a choice.” “Now listen Jenn.…” “Sara, dammit!” “Okay, Je … uh, Sara, by your manner, I can see you found out about the reprogramming.” They made their way across the sand closer to the water’s edge. Sara’s head tilted forward, eyes sweeping the sand a few feet in front of her footfalls. She began to speak, slowly, almost without inflection. “So is that what you call it? And yes, Peter lent me a file on someone named Sarah Darnell. Funny thing is she seems a lot like me. Forgive me if I don’t laugh.” She paused and took a breath. “Why did you and your cohorts so kindly decide to usurp my body and mind for your own purposes?” “I think usurp is a bit harsh.” “How can you say that, you arrogant … ugh? You mean to say that you don’t see anything wrong with what you did?” “I don’t know if right or wrong plays a part in the equation. I see it more as justified. It was a means to an end. The plan I had, on paper, was a good one. I just should have known Walter was up to something. The signs were there, but I didn’t want to confront the issue. I thought I could handle him. It was me after all that showed him how to fit into the corporate world.” He paused, pinching an eyebrow, trying to ward off a headache. “What I’m about to say, Jennifer—I’m sorry, Sara—is that I picked you because I wanted to get back at your father, your real father, and not the one I programmed you with. Your father was the station chief at the Italian office for the ‘Company’ and he was the one that exposed the bombing that Walter and I set up. By rights, your father had nothing to do with it, but he broke the code, and we ended up getting the big shaft.” “That’s the reason you felt justified in stealing my life? And what is this code business? Why didn’t you just go after him, if you wanted to get even?”

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“The code is: the team stays together, no matter what. But he didn’t want to take the heat for our ‘off the books’ special ops project. Going in, we knew the ‘Company’ wouldn’t back us if anything went wrong. Standard procedure on a job like that, but they had sanctioned it. Your father’s actions got us into deeper trouble than we would have had otherwise. I was angry. I wanted to get even.” He quit massaging his brow, the good arm falling to his side. “I don’t know if this is a good time to tell you, but we did go after your father.” The words struck her chest, like a well-aimed arrow. She didn’t want to believe them. Her eyes swept the surroundings. Waves crashed onto the sand in a thunderous roar as seagulls screeched overhead. They walked in silence. Then, grabbing Ulrich’s good arm, Sara looked him straight in the eyes. “Are you trying to tell me that you are guilty of the murder of my parents, my real parents, Raymond and Emily?” He nodded, dropping his gaze. “I read a file on Sarah Darnell—the hit and run, everything. Bastard!” She watched his head drop, restraining the urge to strike him. She turned away and faced the ocean. A few moments passed before she heard him speak. “What can I … I’m sorry, Sara, really sorry. I felt so guilty, so when Walter proposed the plan to use you as one of the lead speakers after he saw you on national television, I quickly agreed. You had natural charisma. Despite Walter’s other shortcomings, he always had good instincts. I sensed there was another reason he wanted to use you, but I could never find it out. Anyway, I jumped at the idea because I thought it would be a way to at least make it up to you. To try and make it up to you for the loss of your parents.…” “By taking my … my life. By making me someone else! You thought that would make it up to me!” She screamed at him then stormed off. Before he could answer, she turned around and put up her hands to stop his advance. “Wait! Don’t say anything. I know the answer. Besides nothing can bring them back and nothing you say will bring back the five years I’ve lost. I hear your regret and that is enough of an apology. I can’t make you responsible for bringing me back to who I was before. That’s my job, even if you were responsible for the loss. I just want to know one thing: who do you think you are, or were, that you had the right to violate another person’s right to life—to strip me of my identity? Who? Come on! Tell me! Do you think you’re a god or what?” “Violate another person’s right … to … life? I’m not sure I understand.” “I’ll put it in your terms. It’s a code. One I’ve been working on after all my experiences and rediscovering my true self. As equal creatures on this planet, we

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all have the privilege of life. It’s a gift, a divine right perhaps. And no one has the right to take that away. I have the freedom to live as I wish without causing harm to another. I’m also free from the dictation or orchestration by any external authority. You understand that?” “Yes, though I’ll probably need some time with it, if you don’t mind.” “Take all the time you need. I’m not the one you need to respond back to about it. I have another question for you about your plan and that device. Are you now able to see the fault in your plan to achieve world peace the way you intended?” “I suppose you’ve heard enough of the rhetoric of service to others and the gold sheen of achievement bullshit. My near elimination by Walter and the few days in the hospital gave me some time to reflect on what I was trying to do. If I really look deeply at my motivations I was just trying to meet the needs of the world’s population. But in truth I was trying to redeem myself, both in the eyes of my family and those in power. Those pieces of truth, I couldn’t see, or didn’t want to, and Walter took advantage of that flaw.” He shook his head. The headache had come. “I was just too damn focused on the achievement of the plan at any cost. I had a clear vision of what I wanted. I should’ve listened more to you.” “Come on, let’s walk back.” She glanced at Ulrich, walking awkwardly in the sand next to her, and said, “Just one more thing. What does peace mean to you?” “Everyone getting along. Cooperation, you know, the usual.” “Do you get the sense that most people get along with themselves pretty well?” A puzzled look crossed his face. “I don’t know. I mean down there on the island, it seems so. What are you getting at?” “Well, if a person can’t get along peaceably with himself and may not even know he isn’t at peace with himself, because he covers over discomfort or anxiety with an array of superficial escapes, then how do you expect him to be peaceable with others?” “This is getting complicated and that’s exactly what I wanted to avoid. The BET was a simple way to provide a little direction for everyone.” “Perhaps you would agree with Krishnamurti’s idea of cooperation: ‘… it stems from the joy of people being together and united, not from obligation or because we are told this is a good Utopian concept to reach …’? If we do the latter, then it’s merely the idea that holds us together, not something deeper that stems from our innate essence. Does that make sense to you?” “Certainly, whoever that guy is, but it’s a high order for this day and age. I’m afraid we may be running out of time as a species on this planet, so I thought

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BET would be a great boost for all humanity. Sara, do you see, I’m not a person with bad intentions?” “I always knew that. You just wandered off the path.” “What path?” he asked, then waved a hand in dismissal. “I gotta say one more thing. I was right, you do have what it takes to go up against the best, kid. Thank you for talking with me.” “Sure, any time, assuming I make it back alive.” “I’ve been meaning to ask you, how did all this discovery stuff start? “About six months before the faked car crash.…” “Such a copycat that Peter.” “Anyway, I read this book by André Gide and I came across a line that struck me intensely: ‘It is not possible to seem sincere and be sincere’.” “And that statement started all the questioning of your beliefs?” “That’s when I began to recognize that what I felt inside didn’t match with what I believed.” She paused and looked at him. “It terrified me.” Ulrich gave what seemed like a contemplative nod as they neared the safehouse. Then, in a serious tone, he said, “I guess you could thank me, at least, for bringing you and Frank back together again.” “Don’t even!” Sara gasped, pushing him away just before mounting the steps to the back deck. “Just kidding,” he said, giving his first smile since the Jones attack. “Oh, please don’t breathe a word of this to Frank.”

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Desolate canyon near Avila Beach, California Friday, 3:53 P.M. With heart pounding, adrenaline coursed through Sara’s body. It reminded her of the energy from speaking to a large audience, except the only things to be killed there were illusions. Now, pinned down behind a boulder the size of a Volkswagen Bug, she clicked another magazine clip into the Uzi submachine gun and prepared for a different type of battle. Bullets plowed into the dirt on either side of the boulder. Despite the natural ability Willem said she had, she gripped the Uzi with uncertainty. The training by seasoned professionals had helped to smooth over the common errors made by beginners when first handling automatic weapons, but she still felt nervous. She glanced toward Frank, who seemed calm, in his element, perhaps. He was hunkered down with Nathan a few boulders to the right. To the left, John hid behind a smaller outcropping of rocks, Uzi at the ready. Their mission was to capture the yellow flag from the ‘enemy encampment’ of Willem and Toliver, who held the high ground from a ridge about thirty feet above the canyon floor. The base of the ridge was fifty yards away. A rope hung down the right side of the canyon wall for Sara and John to use, if they could reach it. Live rounds continued to pepper the desert floor as Frank loaded a grenade launcher, a surprise from Peter to combat Willem and Toliver’s greater firepower and superior position. Wiping sweat from her brow, Sara caught Frank’s silent finger countdown and mirrored the same for John, who adjusted the large tan-colored tam that held his dreads. Time to go.

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On three, Sara and John unleashed bursts of gunfire at the ridge. Frank fired a grenade, which cleared the ridge wall like a mini-rocket. It hit the sheer rock face behind the ‘enemy camp’ and exploded. John, Sara, and Nathan bolted for their designated positions as a big plume of gray smoke ascended from the ridge. Sara hit the wall first and grabbed the rope. She began to climb, hand over hand, walking her feet up the wall. John followed on her heels. Nathan scrambled up an incline to the right of the ridge. Frank stayed back and monitored the ridge wall ready to give cover fire for the attack. Up on the ridge, manning a tripod-mounted machine gun, Toliver recovered and began firing on the same area around the boulders. Frank returned fire from different boulders, giving the impression they were still pinned down. Hidden by a curve in the ridge Sara slid over the top of the wall and crouched in the dirt. John joined her. On her belly, Sara crawled forward. She saw Willem, working with something on the ground out of sight. Then, she crept back to John, who tapped his watch and raised two fingers: two minutes. Sara nodded, then shrugged with palms up. John hefted a rock and imitated a throwing motion. He counted down in fifteen-second increments. At thirty seconds remaining before launching their surprise attack Sara checked the ‘enemy’ position and saw Willem emerge from behind a boulder at the other end of the ridge with Nathan at gunpoint. The plan for a two-sided flank attack had been foiled. Fortunately, Frank’s fire at the ridge wall kept Toliver occupied. Sara spun around, knocked the rock from John’s hand and motioned plan change. They jumped from their hiding place. Sara trained her Uzi on Toliver while John approached Willem. Seeing the attack, Willem slipped behind Nathan with the gun jammed into Nathan’s neck and said, “Not another move Rasta, or he gets it. That goes for you too, blondie.” Sara kept her weapon on Toliver, who held his hands high. Wedged into a crack the yellow bandana waved behind her. A standoff. “Now what, John?” Sara’s voice quivered as Toliver gave a wry smile. “Sara, look to your right,” said Willem, inching closer with Nathan as a shield. “On the floor you’ll see a nifty little pressure sensitive explosive device that is wired to Toliver’s chair. If he’s dislodged from his position, say by being shot, it will explode immediately. Quite a predicament, huh?”

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All of a sudden a terror gripped Sara. This was not covered in the minimal training she had received. Not knowing what to do, she glanced sideways at John. “It be all right, little lady. Dis sort of t’ing happen, ‘specially with experts like Willem ‘ere.” “Okay, enough chit chat, drop your weapons, slide ’em over to Toliver,” Willem said. “We won this round.” John and Sara did as instructed. Then, at gunpoint wielded by Willem, they stood against the wall with Nathan. The yellow bandana fluttered just to the right of Sara’s face. Toliver scanned the desert floor through the slit in the rocks. “Willem, one last problem: Frank. He’s gone from the canyon floor, at least I can’t see anything and no gunfire.” “Keep checkin’, he’s out there somewhere.” Willem kept an Uzi focused on the prisoners. “Better call out to him that we got the rest of his crew.” Just then a soft whistle floated through the air from somewhere near him. He glanced around, but saw nothing. Sara looked up to Willem’s left as Frank said his name in a soft, though no-nonsense tone. Above the left ridge trail, barely visible behind an outcropping of rock, he hung suspended with his feet securely planted on the wall, Uzi pointing at Willem’s head. “Your turn with the weapon. Slide it to Nathan,” he said. “Toliver no sudden moves or I drill Willem. John, any traps?” “Yes mon. Anti-Personnel Mine wired to Toliver’s chair. If he moves, we gone.” “Okay. John hit the breaker on that while Nathan keeps Willem here company. Then bring Toliver over to join the party once the explosive is secured.” Sara watched, wide-eyed and mouth open, body vibrating with adrenaline. She noticed Frank’s sweat-soaked shirt and the grimace on his face, guessing his right hip ached under the strain. All of a sudden she felt an overwhelming urge to hold him tightly and cover him with kisses. Within a few minutes, all stood around smiling, slapping each other on the back and joking. Sara looked relieved as Willem approached, asking if she was all right. “Yes, I think so. You really had me there with the gun to Nathan’s neck and the bomb thing. I thought you’d flipped or.…” “We tried to make it as real-life as possible, though the situation we’re tackling won’t be an outdoor setting like this. This was to get you used to being fired

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upon, timing, and working as a team.” He gave her a reassuring hug and added, “Just so you know, the bomb was a dummy.” She sighed deeply then smiled as Frank came to stand by her side. He offered a hand to Willem. “So Peter set you up with that smoker, huh?” Willem said. “Good surprise.” “Yeah, effective. You guys had a hell of a position on us.” “How did you get to the top of the cliff?” Willem looked up, surveying the cliff top. “This place is an old NSA training ground. I knew the back way up. These guys,” pointing at the other three, “were the diversion. ‘Sides I figured you had something up your sleeve.” “Well done, well done. You haven’t lost a thing in your five-year absence.” Willem put an arm around Frank’s shoulders. “Excellent. Everyone ready for a beer? Let’s clear outta here! It’s gettin’ too damn hot for me.” Though a success, Sara was glad to be done with it. While gathering equipment, she began to worry, and her body felt sore and tired. ✶

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Safehouse, Avila Beach, California Friday, 7:10 P.M. With the others out for dinner, Sara sat in front of Frank on the same chaise lounge as they watched the sunset from the deck. She stroked his forearm with her fingers, enjoying the chance to relax, though only partially succeeding. The worry from earlier still lingered. “Willem was so serious. I’d hate to come up against him in real combat.” “True, but you were great out there.” Her eyes gleamed with the appreciation. She turned her head and kissed his stubbly cheek. “You stunned me coming out from behind the rock, almost floating in thin air, and taking control. You were amazing!” “Actually, I surprised myself. I felt pretty comfortable out there. “You looked it, Frank,” she said, still feeling the joy in her heart. Tempted to tell him the truth about herself, she hesitated. Self-doubt arose again, as did the words of caution from Peter. She looked at the display of molten red lava-like clouds erupting upward, flowing out through the sky. He kissed her cheek and held her tighter. She didn’t resist.

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“That training exercise really helped me release the pent-up emotions I had bottled up inside, especially toward Ulrich, and myself.” “I noticed you seemed much less, uh.…” “Resistant?” She smiled, and added, “My little chat with John earlier helped, too.” “Oh yeah, what’d he say?” “He talked about the danger of not grounding one’s beliefs in some deeper, inner sense of one’s self. And that cerebral understanding pales in comparison to the wisdom of what one feels inside. A powerful mind, or any mind for that matter, not anchored to the gift of the senses becomes very susceptible to external programming.” “Wow, that’s pretty deep.” “He’s like that, y’know, profound. He helped me see more clearly. Now I know what I don’t want and how I don’t want to be. I’m just truly grateful to be alive, to have a chance to do it differently, like you.” Gently, she grabbed his chin and kissed his lips. “Promise me, we will make it back together. Right?” He nodded, and said, “Better cherish each moment together. It’s a gift.” As they kissed again an ancient spark ignited within and between them. Cradling his face, she gazed into his eyes and felt again, just like the first time they had met in San Diego, a familiar, soft glow shimmer between them. She placed a small kiss to his lips, a nibble. He responded in kind, delicate and tender. A surge of passion, desire, and love impelled them into a deeper embrace. They moved inside to the living room couch. Sara straddled him, pressing herself into his thigh. Hips mirrored lips. She reached for his buttocks, gaining leverage as he stroked the back of her thighs. She peeled off her tank top, freeing the round, vibrant breasts beneath. She inhaled sharply as he took an engorged nipple into his mouth, sucking, licking, and nibbling. A fire within her leapt and she stripped off his tee shirt. Kisses flowed as more and more clothes were shed. With a hand over her sex, outside the soaked cotton, Frank paused, heat pulsating beneath his palm. She slid a hand over his and whispered. “Don’t move your hand, just cover me.” A tingling ran through her body from head to toe, filling the space beneath her breast. She removed her underwear and moved to the carpeting in front of the fireplace, drawing Frank by the hand. She placed him inside her, passion penetrating like a flaming arrow. They rolled over. She again straddled his body, flesh to flesh, and began to glide. She sought his lips, completing the connection from groin to head. Her soft tongue

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swiped his while tender lips surrendered caresses to each other. All of a sudden her whole body ignited in a series of tremulous vibrations that cascaded down through her legs. In a flash her insides rippled and fluttered. Passion, desire, and love converged. She gasped in utter pleasure and amazement. Another explosion of ecstasy rocked deep within her, a river over-running the banks during spring. She felt Frank’s body respond to these surges. He hovered at the edge then plunged over, body convulsing deep inside her. Another series of spasms spiraled through her. Then, she collapsed in exhaustion, their mouths continuing to express love. In this stillness crept a unity, a surrender, to something greater than their hearts. Truth’s purity, perhaps.

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Anteroom of the Oval Office, White House, Washington, D.C. Sunday, 11:14 A.M. The President strode into the office holding up the head of a tennis racket as if ready to return serve. A young, freckled, redheaded female personal aide followed at his heels. At six-foot, one hundred ninety pounds and fitting snugly into white tennis shorts and sport shirt, he looked like the aged former All American quarterback from Stanford, which he was. He observed the two men who sat waiting for him on a loveseat sofa. The first man, Tyler Wilson, his National Security Advisor, held a sheaf of paper in his hand. He wore the usual blue pin-striped, Bill Blass, designer suit, which complemented his salt and pepper hair and silver-rimmed glasses. The young male aide beside him could have been the brother of the female aide. Freckles only sprinkled the bridge of his nose with red locks cut short. They both stood upon the President’s arrival. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. President,” Wilson said. “I know this is your one morning for tennis.” Always the consummate diplomat the President pumped the Security Advisor’s hand and nodded to the aide. “Tyler, good to see you. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait a few hours or at least after my shower? My serve was just kicking in, too.” “It’s these reports, sir. I thought you should see them since they’ll be public via the media very shortly.” “Sum it up for me, would you?” The President ran a hand through sweat-soaked, gray hair, and before getting an answer, asked the female aide for some ice water. Wilson adjusted his glasses and reminded the President of the taped coverage with the Alabama State Senator whose wife died mysteriously. - 264 -

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“We’ve been delaying him, sir. However, these reports have come to our attention in the last few days. It appears several hundred deaths have occurred in over a hundred cities across the nation. It’s completely catastrophic and sudden. We have no clues as to the cause. Of course, we’re getting panic calls everyday, people crying everything from bio-terrorism to a sacred curse of Allah to Biblical prophecy.” The President looked through some of the morgue reports at random. He stopped to peruse the Los Angeles County coroner’s report. “This amount of mortality, while horrendous, does not surprise us, does it? I mean, the gang violence alone.…” “Sorry to interrupt, sir. Initially I thought the same thing, but look at the specific stats on the corpses.” The President read aloud: “The peculiarity in the demographics among the current fatalities, aside from the sheer volume, is that they are predominantly middle-to upper income corporate workers, showing no signs of visible, violent trauma or biological or systemic malfunction beyond the standard signs and symptoms of myocardial infarction.” The President took a grateful sip of water and faced his most trusted Cabinet member. “What the hell does this mean?” “I’m not sure myself, but each of the reports state similar findings as well as almost identical demographics. I had Citrine over at NSA put some of his people on it in the last two days to see if they could come up with any sort of pattern to the deaths, the cities, anything.” Eyes wide, he shrugged and added, “Nothing. As far as they could ascertain the deaths are completely random.” “What do you suggest?” “Call an emergency meeting of some of the Cabinet and respected medical professionals from around the country. I think we could have it arranged for Wednesday morning at the earliest. Tomorrow is a holiday, which gives us a break with the media, as this information will not hit the public until Tuesday morning. We can be ready with a press conference and announce the meeting to show you’re handling this national emergency with due promptness. Sir?” “All right, Wednesday it is. Do you think we need to declare a national emergency?” “No, I’d say that would be premature and indicate that it’s beyond our control which would be worse. Think of it: something that leaves no visible marks, causes massive death and we don’t have a clue what it is—a perfect catalyst for widespread panic. Let’s get to the bottom of this first. It is imperative for the public to feel safe.”

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“I agree. Other than the tape from the Alabama State Senator, this is the first we knew, right?” The President eyed the National Security Advisor. He then instructed both aides to leave them alone. “Not exactly, about four weeks ago, we received a few peculiar reports of high incidences of death in a couple of isolated cities, smaller cities at that. These came through the NSA and were dismissed by everyone as related to the peculiar weather phenomena. I didn’t bring it to your attention or even look into it until the video from Alabama arrived the other day.” “You don’t think it is related to GW?” “GW, sir? What would the university have to.…” “Global warming. You said weather peculiarities.” “I was referring to those projects, something to do with that substance … uh.…” “Orgone,” said the President in a hushed tone, though the room was empty. “Yes, that’s it. We better get some ‘Company’ and NSA representatives in on this meeting. I’ll have a talk with them first. We need answers and we need them fast.” The President squeezed Wilson’s shoulder and thanked him for getting him off the court. ✶

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Reston, Virginia Monday, 10:10 P.M. On the third reconnaissance in less than forty-eight hours since arriving ‘The Team’, as Peter liked to refer to Willem, John, Frank, Sara, Nathan, and Toliver, traveled one of a half a dozen routes to the ENOCH building, located about ten miles from their safehouse. With extensive contacts across the globe after thirty years in the espionage arena, Peter had access to an untraceable vehicle wherever an operation happened to be. While John drove a new black Lincoln Town Car Peter glanced past Willem and Frank in the backseat to see that Toliver and Nathan followed in a charcoal gray-paneled Chevy van. The third car at the team’s disposal, though still at the safehouse, was a late model Volvo wagon, also charcoal gray. One person in each vehicle watched for the previously outlined escape and evasion routes on the map from Peter.

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Beneath the moonless, though clear night, John eased the Town Car over to the curb about two hundred yards from a short side street that led to the target site. Toliver mirrored John’s lead with the van but parked it past the side street. Willem slipped out of the Lincoln and ducked into the back portion of the van where Sara sat next to an assortment of electronic surveillance equipment and two laptop computers. Toliver squeezed between the two front bucket seats and limped back to the monitoring console. Encased in skintight, black, two-piece lycra and nylon suits, Willem and Sara smeared black out on their faces, and put on a pair of night vision goggles. “Damn, Peter’s got all the nifty gadgets, huh?” said Toliver. “That’s affirmative. Every mission I’ve ever done with him has been clean, efficient, and very well paid. He’s a good man, last of the honorables, in this field anyway.” Willem slipped a small revolver into an ankle holster on his right leg. “All right, recon time. Run a check on our earphones, will ya?” Toliver picked up a headset and spoke into the microphone. Sara grinned while Willem gave the thumbs up signal. He then pulled the mini-microphone on, the goggles to his mouth, and ran a check. With an ‘OK’ sign from Toliver, Sara followed Willem out of the van’s side door. They headed for a grove of trees that created an enclave around the ENOCH building where the others would be waiting. To Sara’s amazement, the former SEAL threaded through the dogwoods, maples, and light underbrush without a sound. She tried to mirror his footsteps as best she could, but just struggled to keep up. As they approached the grove, about fifty yards ahead, through the green of her night vision goggles, she saw the rest of the team crouched down. Without the special lenses, they would have been invisible. Sara and Willem joined the others as Peter beckoned everyone closer. “All right then,” he said. “Tonight we’re going to perfect our entrance and exit to the target site as well as get a feel for their security. John and Sara, I want you to bring up the rear and finish clearing the path through the underbrush. Frank and Willem will survey the perimeter security, the initial front entrance security, and compare it with what Ulrich told us. I suspect it has been boosted since Ulrich’s removal. Nathan and I will review the communications wiring and systems associated with the physical structure. Righto, watch sync check: 2220 hours, please adjust if need be.” Five blackened faces nodded as he continued. “Remember, Toliver in the van is the relay for everyone to contact anyone else on the team. Second, if there is any trouble, return to this spot unless that’s not possible. Otherwise we shall meet here at 2350 hours.”

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Sara returned the thumbs up signal along with the others. She watched Willem and Frank move ahead of the group, needing more time for their task. Bringing up the rear, she and John began their task of clearing the underbrush. ✶

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After two hundred yards, where the landscaped grass around the ENOCH building met the woods, Willem held up a fist, stopping Frank. The two took cover and surveyed the closest corner of a red-bricked building that lay ninety yards from the woods. Frank observed a parking lot on the far side of the structure. The rectangular building had ample window space on the rear side, none on the sidewall. The same pattern turned out to be true for the other side and the front. At each end of the landscaped field, situated about half the distance to the structure from the edge of the woods stood two thirty-foot trees with a healthy amount of leafy branches that partly obstructed their view of the back of the building. Willem held up a lightweight four-inch monocular scope to his night vision goggles. Panning the structure, he relayed the security measures to Frank. “Posterior side: three surveillance cameras, one at each end of the building; both on a slow forty-five degree rotational path. Another in the center of the building rotates on a one-hundred-eighty degree path.” This pattern turned out to be true on all four sides of the building. Frank made note of the synchronization with each of the other sides. After an hour they returned to the original recon spot, where Willem identified a small void of non-coverage by the cameras, which occurred in almost every mechanical system of surveillance. The window of non-coverage allowed forty-five seconds for scaling the wall and reaching the roof undetected. “The rear wall offers the greatest cover in darkness,” whispered Frank, watching Willem remove a backpack and extract wall-climbing claws for the hands and feet. He only attached the hand claws. The ones for the feet would wait until after the sprint to the wall. “I’ll recon the roof, stay here and cover me,” he said. Another two-and-one-half minutes passed until the cameras created the window. Frank dropped his hand on the mark and noted the former SEAL’s speed and fluidity. He reached the wall in just under ten seconds. With the claws on his feet, a real-life spider man, he scaled the brick wall, racing the central camera on the posterior wall. Frank’s eyes alternated between Willem, the camera, and the watch.

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Willem paused, only three quarters of the way to the roof. The camera was forty-five degrees from the side of the wall where he clung. Another click and the former SEAL would be in full view. Just in time, he slipped around the corner beneath the surveillance camera and avoided observation by the central camera on the back wall. Frank released a breath. ✶

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With five seconds remaining, Willem placed a hand on the roof edge and peered over, looking for roof-top cameras and intrusion-sensor devices. Not seeing any, he spied two eight-foot satellite dishes at the far end and a green, central, vent casing, just as Dr. Donaldson had described. The latter roof-top object protruded four feet from the floor of the roof and just ten feet from the corner of the roof wall where Willem perched. Clipping the climber claws to his camouflage jacket, he crossed the roof in a crouch. At the vent casing, he took out a small screwdriver. In a few minutes, with the casing detached, he took out a flexible monocular scope, formed it into an L-shape, and scanned the airshaft. With the aid of a mini-light attached to the scope, he observed a large shaft, big enough for a human, which ran horizontal for as much as he could view. He brought the scope up, flipped a cap over the viewing lens to check for infrared security sensors. He saw none. After replacing the casing, he traversed the forty feet and stopped next to the base of the reception dish. It was a typical satellite setup: one dish for receiving signals, another for transmitting. On gray square bases, the dishes performed rotation and angle adjustment by computer. He followed the cable lines for the transmissions dish that fed into a junction box. He made a mental note to check with Peter and Nathan if the dishes hooked into the mainstream communications system. Without a sound, he returned to the entry corner of the roof and peered over the wall in the direction of Frank’s wooded position. He flashed the light on top of the scope twice, signaling his return to base. With claws on, he waited for the signal from Frank. The triple flash came and he slipped over the roof wall. ✶

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Back at the clearing, Sara crouched down with Nathan and John as Peter checked the work done on the underbrush. It was clear but not overly manhan-

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dled. He gave Sara a sign of approval. She couldn’t help feeling apprehensive while waiting for Frank and Willem. Fidgeting with a twig, she thought. What if they’ve been caught? Within a few minutes, before anyone heard them, she saw two figures advancing toward the clearing. Then, in groups of two, all six members traversed the wooded distance to the vehicles. One last reconnaissance task remained. In the back of the van, Willem slipped blue slacks and a sport shirt over the black night-suit. He put on a lightweight tan blazer and black loafers. On the sport coat he affixed a decorative pin that contained a live feed micro-camera. He smoothed his newly adopted black mustache, and said to Toliver, “Auf wiedersehen”. Sara sat in the passenger seat of the Lincoln with Willem behind the wheel. She wore a lightweight, flowered top over her black suit, just in case, though she wasn’t getting out of the car. She could feel the adrenaline building again. In the back seat Frank and Nathan flanked Peter, all nearly invisible in their night suits, except for the glow from the wireless digital video display unit in Peter’s hands, which showed everything the micro camera on Willem’s lapel captured. At the word from Peter, Willem turned onto the street that led to the ENOCH building, proceeding slowly, and entered the parking lot. With the motor running, he positioned the car to not be in the line of sight of the front door. As if a lost tourist, he glanced around as he walked to the front doors. Per the objective, he absorbed as much information as possible: two sets of doors with bulletproof glass, metal detection and x-ray equipment similar to an airport terminal. At the entrance, he tried to open one of the outer front doors—locked. He saw a guard inside advance toward the inner set of doors, noting the Uzi submachine gun slung over the man’s right shoulder and a 9mm holstered pistol on the left hip. The guard, complete with a very short crew cut, reached for an intercom box on the doorframe. Willem heard the man’s southern accent come through an identical box to his right. “We’re closed, suh.” Willem feigned bewilderment, so the guard pointed to the box. Purposely not pressing the intercom button, Willem leaned toward the box that had vent slats in the shape of a circle below a keypad of numbers and a place

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to slide an ID card on the right side. Then, in German, he said, “Sprechen zie deutsch?” With his best lost-boy face, he looked at the guard, who put a hand to his ear and repeated the pointing gesture to the box. Then, realizing he could tell the visitor, the guard said, “You hafta’ press the talk button when ya talk into the box, mistah.” Willem leaned toward the box again, depressed the button and repeated, “Sprechen zie deutsch?” The guard shook his head. Assessing that the situation was going to be more complicated, he held up a hand to Willem. Then entered a code sequence that unlocked the doors. Both men stepped into the area between the two sets of doors. “Halloo, excuse please, my English not so gute, ya.” “What … is … the problem, suh,” asked the guard as if talking to a small child. As Willem conversed in broken English, he looked around at the layout under the pretext of searching for words. “Uh, ya, vhere is Gerber Strasse … excuse … Gerber Street?” he said, stepping to his left, allowing the micro-camera to relay more information. “Ist close, ya?” “Um, sorry suh, I don’t know that street. Do you know any other street?” “Ya, no, no odder street, just street number. Thank you, good evenin.” Willem turned to go, then stopped. “Ist dis building for government?” The young guard shook his head without answering at first, then said, “Private.” “Ya, I see. Vy de big weapons, no?” Willem pointed to the Uzi. Hesitant at first, but having deemed the man harmless, the guard said, “We have very secret information here. That’s really all I can say, suh.” “Ya, okay, I go. Thank you, auf wiedersehen.” Willem waved and tried to open the door. “Wait, I gotta unlock it,” said the guard, and punched in the code. Willem crossed the distance to the waiting Lincoln, got in and drove back out to the main road where Toliver and John waited in the van.

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Northern Virginia Monday, 11:55 P.M. Nearing the townhouse, Peter instructed Willem to drop him off at the corner service station. He told them not to wait, saying he would walk. Outside the car, black briefcase in hand, he watched both cars drive toward the safehouse Inside the phone booth, Peter took the portable voice scrambler out of the briefcase and connected it to his laptop. With gloved hands he positioned the soft slate-gray, foam covered earphones of the headset over his ears. He fixed the small microphone in front of his mouth, then looked at his watch: quarter past two. His call was fifteen minutes late. He listened as the private line rang. It bypassed the main switchboard, though all were taped. A man’s hushed voice answered. “Is this the lost and found?” said Peter, his voice altered by the machine. “Have you lost something?” The man gave the correct code words. “Yes. Can you help?” Peter’s answer to the challenge indicated the security and secrecy of the mission was intact. Any other reply and the man on the other end would have disconnected. “We only have live animals here,” said the man. This line signaled all was in order to proceed at his end. Peter reverted to informational speech. “Your order has arrived, sir. Everything is set.” “Excellent. What is the timeframe for delivery?” “One week, sir. At 2200 hours.” “Very good. Is it true that the previous leader-bird has left the nest and taken flight?” “Roger that. He is safe, now. A wing was clipped, but he’ll survive.” “I see. So the nest is filled by whom?” “A crazy bird. Time to go.” “If anything changes, what is the arrangement?” “Will call you, ten hundred hours,” said Peter, abruptly ending the call to prevent a trace or satellite triangulation. Breathing in the warm night air he walked the half-mile back into the cluster of townhouses. He entered the safehouse, silent as a cat.

C H A P T E R ▼

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Jones’s House, Reston, Virginia Tuesday 6:30 A.M. At the kitchen table, Jones scanned the early edition front pages of both the Washington Post and USA Today. The corners of his mouth rose as he read one of the lead stories in the Post, titled, ‘Mystery Deaths Rock the Nation’. After breakfast and a good thirty-minute jaunt for Casi and Zeus, he drove the few short miles to ENOCH. Upon entering the executive office on the second floor, Mrs. Weeks handed him the most important messages. He told her that he had a conference call first. On the way to the conference room, the acting Director of Technical Field Ops halted his progress, informing him that the new security personnel had arrived. Jones instructed the man to recent plan changes for orientation and security. First, he wanted infrared and heat sensors installed in the airshafts, as well as pressure-sensitive security equipment for the roof. Finally, he asked the man to ensure the satellite uplink systems were operating correctly. A quizzical look crossed the technician’s ruddy face. “What is the priority item, sir?” “I want the airshafts done by Friday close of business or work through the weekend. Have one of your techs do the satellite check. Let’s have the roof done in two weeks, no later.” Jones turned to go, tapping the raven-headed cane against his leg, then stopped. “Let’s also begin around the clock armed double sentry perimeter patrols. That starts today at 1200 hours.” “Yes, sir,” said the man, stiffening with the orders. “Did you see the paper this morning, sir? The President is doing a news conference at eleven this morning. Thought you’d want to see it.”

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Jones nodded and disappeared down the narrow corridor to the secure conference room. Once inside, with the door secured, he hooked his laptop to the projector and dialed the number, noting the time: 8:05. He was late for the pre-arranged call. Within seconds a bulky frame behind a large desk filled the large video monitor. The man held a formal white china cup in his right hand, the saucer in the upturned palm of his left. He took a sip of the steaming liquid, with eyes glowing. “Good morning, Dr. Jones. How are you today?” “Improving your English, eh General? But let’s skip the chit-chat. Are the installation inspections complete?” “The installations have completion. We add devices close to key government sectors. We are ready for next … er … I have lost word.…” The General put the cup and saucer down, frowning. “I understand, General. Very good, now we begin satellite transmission immediately. Have you heard the news there yet?” “I suspect you refer to the death toll in your country. Yes, such news has reached us by Internet.” “It is very good General, in fact, better than I’d hoped.” Jones outlined what would happen next. “After that, in two weeks, similar communication will be sent to the leaders of the European Common Market. By that point, signal transmission to the devices installed in Western Europe will have been operational for six weeks. Will we have compliance on your side, General?” “We vill, though force may be necessary. I am sorry to report. Chechnya, you understand.” He paused and took a sip of tea. “Excuse ignorance, but how will those persons who have, how you say, hand phones be affected?” “The satellite automatically transmits a signal to the various frequencies used in the telecommunications industry. Those persons are the most affected. So we can see the BET signal will be a silent disease of the wealthy, corporate, deadened masses, not the poor. Irony, my Russian friend. We will not be swayed.” “Ya, comrade Dr. Jones, you are correct.” The General rubbed his hands together, invigorated by the other man’s resolve that mirrored his own. He continued with matched ferocity. “It is … time … ours … now! Death to old authorities! Death to old regimes! Armed forces prepare for action!” “Excellent, General. We shall talk again in five days at the same hour. Agreed?” “Yes, Dr. Jones, vonderful. Good bye.”

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Jones exited the conference room, cane beneath one arm. Approaching his office on the second floor, he saw the acting Director of Technical Field Ops patiently waiting. He strode past the man, motioning him to follow. “Yes, what is it?” “Well sir, the man I sent to check the satellite operations has reported that everything is fine, except that the vent shaft casing on the roof was loose. He retightened the screws, but I thought you would want to know.” “All right, and the satellite dishes are okay? That reminds me, tell Primo in computer ops to begin transmission on the third designated frequency immediately.” Jones placed the cane on the low filing cabinet along the wall opposite the window. “As far as the casing, it’s probably left over from the high winds last week. Let’s just get those security measures in place.” With a nod the man shuffled out, shoulders slumped, unaware of the BET affect on him. Jones hit the intercom button and asked Mrs. Weeks to track down Mendoza. Also, he told her to arrange for the special messenger service to pick up the package Thursday morning. He wandered into the large vacant space between his desk and the office door, wondering what happened to the new furniture. Then he looked out the large window at the landscaped grounds. A leafy tree stood thirty feet from his office window, obstructing part of the view of the small forest beyond the grass. He started to rock back and forth. Two more weeks, that was all. He could almost taste victory on his lips. ✶

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Press Room, White House, Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 10:48 A.M. Packed with the usual ensemble of media personnel from television reporters to major newspaper correspondents, everyone awaited the President’s arrival. The stage at the front of the room supported the presidential podium back-dropped by the official seal of the Office of the President of the United States. At either side of the stage stood a Secret Service agent, dressed in the standard service outfit, specially tailored black suit to conceal the holstered weapon beneath the jacket. Each man wore a wireless ear microphone. Two other Secret Service agents stood at the back of the room while one stood at the side door that led outside. The man at the door held a small square briefcase that held an Uzi and extra magazines. All maintained the highest degree of vigilance upon the

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activity in the room and spoke at regular intervals into a mini-microphone attached to the collar. The room resembled a discordant chorus of church voices, each singing a different version of the same tune. A reporter from the Post spoke to a correspondent from the New York Times, “… telling you, the source of the mystery deaths that prowls this nation is the biggest issue this President has had to deal with since 9/11.” Another reporter from a local television station said to her cameraman, “… better have some answers. I mean this thing could kill all of us—whatever it is.” At that moment, National Security Advisor Wilson approached the podium in his blue, pinstripe suit, tapped the attached microphone, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, may I present to you the President of the United States.” He began to clap as he faced left to receive the President, striding out onto the platform in a sharp, charcoal-gray, designer suit with a rich, red tie. The reporters burst into a volley of questions like a group of impatient school children touring a museum. As the flashes of cameras went off creating a semi-strobe effect, the President surveyed the packed pressroom, making eye contact with familiar faces. “Please, please,” he said. “I’m sure you’re all anxious to have some answers, but let us hold the questions until the end. Thank you. Let me first offer condolences to all of those across this great country of ours who have lost loved ones. Let’s take a moment to honor those who have passed from us.” The leader of the nation bowed his head with eyes shut. The room fell silent. After a sufficient pause, he began in a voice that had been once described as melodious. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press and citizens of the United States, as you may know, we have suffered many deaths among our population in the last four days. The press has indicated that we do not know the cause of this ‘Mystery Killer’, as it has been dubbed, but I am here to assure you that we have the top medical personnel in the country working on it as I speak. Tomorrow morning we will convene a meeting of these persons and begin to generate some answers. As soon as a cause is determined, we will have it available to the members of the press and the citizens of this great nation. For the time being I am raising the terrorist alert to red, until further notice. That is all we have for now. Thank you very much. I only have time for five questions.” Ignoring the ensuing mayhem of calls for, ‘Mr. President’, he pointed to a reporter he recognized.

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“Sally Withers, New York Times. Mr. President, have the medical experts come up with anything to help to determine how people can avoid being affected?” “I’m sorry we do not have any such information at this time.” He moved on. “Hank Wallace, Associated Press. Mr. President, do these deaths have anything to do with a secret government project that has gone awry? The people need to know if they are safe, sir.” “That is definitely not the case here, I assure you and the rest of the public. The safety of the citizenry is our number one priority. Look at this administrations record on terrorism.” Not based on any facts, the answer satisfied the questioner. He pointed to an attractive female television reporter. “Renee Fournier, Channel Four. Mr. President, exactly when did your office know about the situation in light of the contact made by the Alabama State Senator?” She directed her microphone toward the podium while her cameraman recorded the scene. “We were aware of the Alabama situation as soon as the State Senator notified us. However, at that juncture, we weren’t able to do any more than we did.” He smiled, belying the awkwardness of the question and sidestepping it at the same time. The National Security Advisor joined him from the right and tapped his arm. The President stepped back from the microphone to be replaced by Wilson. “I’m sorry the President and I must depart for another urgent meeting. Thank you for your attention, ladies and gentlemen.” Flanked by Secret Service personnel, the two men exited the platform to the left, despite a barrage of questions and grumbling about the lack of answers from the crowd. ✶

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Safehouse, Northern Virginia Tuesday, 11:36 A.M. From the second floor, Sara descended the stairs that led straight to the front door of the townhouse. She passed through the living room, entering the kitchen from the small dining room. She approached John as he hung up a landline phone, his face a little less bright than normal.

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“Everything all right?” “Yes little lady, jus’ got off wid mi brethren who watchin’ da store. I tell ’em dat dey should get da Rasta community together and tell ’em to stay ‘way from da ‘lectronics, da phones. Dem say, t’anks and praises to the Almighty, Jah Rastafari, for our team and success ‘gainst da bad man.” “That’s so nice. We’ll be all right. Won’t we?” He took her under his arm, and said softly, “So Jah say. Anyway, time will tell, nuh.” They decided to take a walk. Something about his presence always helped quell her fears and see things more clearly.

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Conference Room, White House, Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 8:15 A.M. At one end of a large oval table a group of seven medical experts from around the country huddled together and discussed the findings of the reports from each state. Having labored over the information for the last two days, fatigue showed on their faces and their clothes looked rumpled. At the other end of the table sat three men, immersed in their own private discussion of the situation. The youngest, Bill Dunn, from the National Security Agency, had short black hair, a thick nose, and bushy eyebrows. Next to him was Sam Cartwright, in his fifties, with a mild tan beneath thinning, dyed, brown hair. He represented the Central Intelligence Agency. To their left, Philip Muller, the Secretary of Defense, leaned intensely on the table, his demeanor, jowly face, and squat body resembling a bulldog. At a separate, small desk a presidential secretary prepared to take notes of the proceedings. Security Advisor Wilson hurried into the room, pushing silver glasses onto his nose before addressing the group. “Ladies and gentlemen, excuse me for a moment. I’ve just heard from the President. He apologizes for his delay. He will be here shortly. Please help yourself to coffee or tea in the meantime.” He walked over to the refreshment table and poured a cup of coffee before settling into the chair next to the Secretary of Defense. Others ventured to the side table, clinking spoons upon stirring in sugar or milk. After a few minutes, the President entered the room with a warm, welcoming smile. He scanned the occupants, smoothed hands over his gray, pinstripe, suit jacket, and centered himself at the oval table. - 279 -

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“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “let me extend my gratitude for your attendance at this most urgent meeting, especially to those of you who have traveled great distances. Dr. Estes and Dr. Pilfer have joined us from California, Dr. Compton, from Chicago, and Dr. Pillory from New York. I also welcome those of you who are local to the metropolitan area, Drs. Foo and Straggle, at Georgetown University, and Dr. Ball, who is at a private research facility in Virginia.” He turned to the government employees at the other end. “Gentlemen, glad you could join us this morning. Most of you have had time to study the results, read the reports by various coroners, and even view a few bodies, so I’ve been told. All of you are aware of the press conference yesterday morning. I gave the American public my word to get to the bottom of this, whatever it is, and I need your help to deliver on that promise. So, let us discuss this matter. First, let me remind you that the proceedings in this room, though tape recorded, are strictly confidential and not for public record. If you please.” “Mr. President, I’ve been appointed spokesperson for our medical group here,” said Shirley Compton, ringlets of blond hair draping her shoulders. The signs of middle age were beginning to intrude upon her pale face. She gave the basic statistics first. Overall, the research group agreed with the observations of analysts at the National Security Agency. No identifiable pattern was discernible for the deaths, except for the peculiarity of the demographics. The majority of the deaths occurred within middle-to-upper middle-income corporate workers or, at least those working in an office setting. The statistics also showed an increased mortality rate at the higher and lower age brackets, but the mean age was about thirty-seven-and-one-half years. After looking through the multitude of coroner’s reports, only a fraction of the nearly twenty thousand deaths reported, nothing appeared unusual. For the most part, myocardial infarction was the indicated cause of death. The President listened, hands on the table with fingers interlaced. “However,” she added, “thanks to Drs. Foo and Straggle, we’ve been able to access actual cadavers from the local surrounding communities. Obviously, unable to do full autopsies on each, we looked at a representative sample. That’s it. Any questions?” Wilson glanced at the President and grimaced. He then looked back at Dr. Compton. “With all of the years of medical experience among the seven of you, all you can come up with is the absence of a pattern is indeed a pattern?” “In short, yes,” she said, her body stiffening. “It’s only been two days of investigation. Further study is definitely needed to more fully explore this matter.”

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“Excuse me,” said the President. “Explain the part about the ‘uniformity of pathology’. I think that’s what you called it. That seems to be important to understand.” “Certainly, Mr. President.” She was glad to escape the Security Adviser’s scrutiny. “You see, sir, normally when a person suffers a myocardial infarction there are certain other pathologies, such as blocked arteries, or signs and symptoms present. However, in the cases we’ve looked at this wasn’t true.” “May I?” asked Dr. Pilfer, who looked every part a Californian, in his thirties, tanned, and fit. “Mr. President, what we are trying to say is there seems to be an absence of correlation between the cause of death, heart failure, and the state of the body that suffered the attack or failure. Liken it to a street bum that had no visible signs of income, yet a million dollars in the bank. It doesn’t make sense.” “Do you think there could be some virus that is causing this sort of reaction? One that is undetectable, if that is the correct term? Many people are assuming it is a terrorist biological weapon.” “We thought of that too, Mr. President,” said Dr. Estes, an elderly, white-haired man with watery eyes next to Dr. Pilfer. “But the statistics don’t support it. However, we wondered if there have been any governmental mishaps or experiments gone awry, sir?” “No, definitely not,” said Wilson. “Just as I suspected, you haven’t a damn clue, do you?” Dr. Compton’s mouth dropped open in mute outrage, while Dr. Estes sat back in his chair as if struck a physical blow. A few of the others shifted in their chairs. However, the youngest researcher, Dr. Ball, remained poised, elbows on the table surface, fingers interlaced, face expressionless. Before any of the other medical experts could rebut, Defense Secretary Muller said, “Just a minute, Tyler. We can’t rule out the possibility that these cities were targeted with some sort of bacteria-releasing missile, either air to ground or ground-to-ground. Is that correct?” “Wouldn’t you know that, sir?” asked Dr. Estes, a wan smile creasing his lips. Muller looked at the representative from the NSA. “Bill, can your boys check out the pictures from the satellites to see if we have had any sort of projectiles in these specific cities? ’Cause I’m guessing that would be just like the Arabs, trying to bring down this great nation from internal terrorist acts, just like New York and the Pentagon.” “Sure, Phil, we’ll look into it, but we ran a preliminary check on a few of the cities already and turned up nothing.” He stopped there, under orders from his boss. He was not at liberty to say more, yet.

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“Well,” said the President, rising to his feet. “I can see more time is needed to find our answer. Would that suit our researchers?” Dr. Compton nodded and gave a little sigh of relief. The researchers began to talk amongst themselves again. Dr. Ball looked at the NSA man as the government men huddled together, speaking in hushed tones. The President walked to a window that looked onto White House grounds.

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Safehouse, Northern Virginia Wednesday, 9:23 P.M. In an unfamiliar, sparsely furnished bedroom, in a strange townhouse, Sara did not feel at all at home. And ever since the President’s press conference and Peter’s advancement of the mission timetable, she felt much more tense. She had noticed all the team members were on edge, except for Willem, for whom it was simply routine. The talk with John had helped, for a while. Then, a half an hour ago, she tried to do some exercises to release the knot in her belly, but she couldn’t concentrate. Something nagged at her. Overcome with trembling and sick to her stomach, she lowered herself to the bed and curled up on a quilt decorated with images of roses in various stages of bloom, and began to cry. Silent sobs wracked her whole body. That word kept coming to mind. Truth. Yet, fear gnawed at her. She couldn’t let go of the thought that either she or Frank would die on the mission, and the truth would die too. A quarter of an hour passed, though it seemed like hours, before she heard a soft knock at the door and Frank entered. She could sense he had been battling his own demons, especially the return to a world he so desperately wanted no part of, though he didn’t let it show. Her heart went out to him. Upon seeing Sara on the bed, he rushed over and stroked her head. “You okay?” “Just having a … uh, I don’t know.” She sniffled, trying to hide her tears. Sitting up, joining Frank on the edge of the bed, she reached for a tissue. “You worried about tomorrow night? “Uh huh. Terrified more like it. I don’t know if I can go through with it. I mean who do I think I am? Going on some midnight raid to save the world with - 283 -

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a bunch of spies or spooks or whatever you call yourselves. I’m gonna get killed. You’re gonna get killed.” “Okay, okay, calm down. “What if I kidnap you and run as far away as we can from this place, these people. Oh!” Her head fell into her hands. She felt exhausted from the battle raging inside her head. That word, five basic letters, entered her mind again. It would break my word to Peter. But what about the promise to myself? she thought., recalling that she vowed to listen to her heart and then choose the right course of action from that voice. And for Frank, what a thing to have to deal with right before the mission? “That’s one option,” said Frank with a chuckle. “Certainly one I’ve entertained a few times. Remember right after the faked car wreck and we met in the hotel outside of Dulles airport? I thought we could make a break for it in the airport and re-route our flight out of the country. But I didn’t go with it.” “Why? What stopped you?” “I didn’t want to act from that place.” “What place?” “Fear. That’s the worst place to make a decision from. Besides, I didn’t come this far in restructuring my life to give up now, especially to a guy like Jones.” Somehow, his words resonated with her. “What if we don’t make it, or worse, if one of us gets killed and the other doesn’t? We’ve just begun this.…” She motioned a finger between them. “I know. There are so many ‘what ifs’, but you can’t get caught up in that. Just be true to yourself.” Sara opened her mouth as if to speak, but stopped and just looked at him. He continued talking about how so many of us are encouraged to give our power away to some external authority. She nodded in agreement, knowing that deception all too well. “Listen,” he said. “I’m afraid about tomorrow night too, but if I’m to look myself in the mirror the morning after, if we are to have a chance at sharing time in the future, then I gotta do this mission. I’m not doing it to save the world. I’m doing it for me, because it feels right in my gut. The world may fall apart anyway, but I don’t have to go along with it. That is the power of choice.” The words rang true in her ears. “That is the gift of life,” she said, finally knowing what she must do. She placed a hand on his, her voice quivering as she spoke. “Frank, I … I don’t know how to tell you this other than to just say it. Peter told me not to tell you and I agreed for a while, as I wanted to feel the truth

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of it within me first. And I have, for a few weeks now, since that day I stormed away from you in San Francisco.” His brow furrowed with anxious anticipation. “I am Sarah.” As the words passed her lips, she felt a huge release—a cork shot from a bottle of champagne. Looking deep into his hazel eyes she felt more love in her heart than ever. She waited, heart about to burst. It was all she could do to contain herself. “Uh, I know, I was there when Peter gave you the new identity, passport, driver’s license.” “No Frank, not that Sara, I mean, the original Sarah, Sarah Darnell. She’s me, I’m her.” Beaming, she felt as if her face would tear in two as tears streamed down her cheeks. A huge surge of energy flowed through her. She knew that this had been the right thing to do, no matter what Frank’s response or the protest from Peter. Still waiting, she watched the man she loved with all her heart, the man whom she had always loved. His mouth closed as his head and torso jerked backward. After several minutes he said, “Oh, wow! You too! You know that! I knew it, but I was afraid to say, because I didn’t want to plant any seeds. But the other night, while making love, I was so sure.” A tear streamed down each cheek and he collapsed into her arms. She enveloped him with the strength of the completeness of her being, feeling more powerful than ever. The minutes passed, each nestled in the comfort of the other’s arms, like two travelers having returned home after long separate journeys. “So you knew, for sure, the other night?” whispered Sara. He nodded a fraction, his chin on her shoulder. Then, like water breaking through a dam, she gushed the whole process of discovery from Peter’s initial suspicions, the stark clarity received on the beach in San Francisco, to the confirmation by Ulrich a few days ago. “This has been quite the rollercoaster ride,” she added. “But I’m ready to get off. A gentle cruise with you on calmer waters would be nice.” She felt Frank’s body shake. All of a sudden, he sprang from the bed and began to pace like a caged panther. “I … I … I feel so incredible,” he said. “Yet a part of me seethes. I’m filled with elation and fury. I feel wronged. We were wronged, you especially, Sara.” She watched unsure what to do or say. “Now I know why you were so moody all those times. But you seem so calm now.” He slammed a fist onto the top of the oak dresser. “Dammit!”

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Sara recoiled, suddenly afraid. What had she unleashed? She watched this man that she loved, and yet didn’t really know, anymore. Out of nowhere a memory floated up from the fathoms of her mind, like an air bubble rising to the ocean surface. She came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled close to his frame. She hoped it would work, just like it had so many years ago. Faintly, she recalled that he used to be angrier in those days. She whispered calming words, holding him tighter. She snuggled her lips closer to his ear. “Haven’t been able to say this to you for far too long: I love you, Frank. I want you to be calm and centered tomorrow in order for me to be able to say that to you many more times.” Shivers went through his entire spine as images flashed before his mind. Things long forgotten, or denied, began to surface. He remembered the morning, that fateful morning, when she had held him from behind, one of his tee shirts falling to her mid-thighs. She had implored him to come back to bed, to be lazy, and defy the routine of their Sundays. She had called it a non-convention applied to unconventionality. Now, his head dropped, body relaxing. “I resisted your coaxing once before,” he said. “But now, I know better than to not listen to you, based on how things turned out.” He turned around, having waited five long years to feel this embrace. This was the warmth he had missed all those years. Even with eyes closed her lips found his. The kiss filled what remained of the soul chasm created by their separation. Several minutes passed before they drew apart, a little. Her eyes glowed like rays of sunlight as he spoke. “I guess we’ve got some making up to do.” “Yes, but for now we need to focus on getting through tomorrow, alive.” “Too true. And it is the most unwise warrior who enters into battle from a less than balanced stance.” She smiled at him and again pulled him into a tight embrace, not wanting to let go. Then, she said, “Guess us warriors should get some sleep?” “Just one thing,” he said and pulled the black hard-shelled case from beneath the bed. “I’ve got to check these real quick.” “Ah, the infamous case.” “Relics of my past, tools of the trade—tools of survival. I’m calling upon them one last time.” He pulled out the Browning automatic, checking the slide and magazines. He scanned a few other weapons, pausing at a set of throwing knives. He took the knives and the gun and placed them on top of the bureau, then shut the case and slid it under the bed. He reached for Sara’s hands and looked into her blue eyes. “I hope I live to retire them.”

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She nodded, elated at having been true to herself, and yet dreading what tomorrow would bring.

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Streets of Washington, D.C. Thursday, 8:00 A.M. With legs pumping madly the bicycle messenger weaved in and out of morning traffic on Constitution Avenue. In black cycling shorts and a red and yellow nylon-lycra cycling jersey, he veered onto Fourteenth Street, turning left on Pennsylvania Avenue. The White House loomed in the near distance, though no longer accessible to unauthorized vehicles. At the east guard hut, he dismounted and handed the uniformed attendant an eight-inch padded manila envelope. The guard removed his hand from the butt of a holstered revolver, and checked the package through the x-ray scanner. Next, the guard wiped it with a chemical cloth that detected bomb residue and the presence of bio-toxins. The messenger smiled as the package labeled, “The President”, was approved for acceptance. In a flash he disappeared into the flow of traffic. ✶

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White House, Washington D.C. Thursday, 9:07 A.M. The President leaned on one end of a long meeting table. Beneath one hand was an opened, padded envelope, containing a DVD, on which only he knew the contents. He gazed around the table surrounded by the medical researchers and the representatives from the CIA and NSA, as well as Secretary of Defense Muller. To the President’s left sat Security Adviser Wilson, wearing the usual blue pinstripe.

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Prior to the meeting, the President had met with the NSA man, who voiced his boss’s concerns about what they suspected. The information was highly classified. It was up to the President to allow open discussion of it in front of the medical researchers. After giving the medical researchers another chance, the President turned to the NSA man, and said, “What do you have for us, Bill?” That was his cue. He smoothed a bushy black brow, looked at the Defense Secretary, and said, “In the last twenty four hours, after more consideration, our thinking is that the source of these deaths came from the ground, possibly electronic, like the experiments the.…” “That’s enough Bill,” said Cartwright, the CIA man, who then looked at the President. “Sir, without going into specifics, Bill has a valid point about an electronic connection, based on our knowledge of the results of certain experiments we conducted, years ago, of course.” “It’s all right, Sam,” The President said. He looked toward the researchers, perhaps hesitating a moment. “Do you have any comments on electromagnetics as a possible cause?” Dr. Compton waved a hand in the direction of Dr. Ball, a man with short blond hair and dressed more casually than his colleagues. He looked more like a recent college graduate than a doctor. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, offering background on the privately funded research group he operated that specifically studied the brain, brain trauma, and related subjects. Though not disagreeing with the findings of the other members of the team, he stated that his conclusions were general and drawn on insufficient data. However, he had taken the opportunity to explore the brain and the cranium cavities of several cadavers, which revealed more information. “Nevertheless, what I am about to say is totally specific to the specimens I studied,” he added, tapping a pen on his lips. He then explained that portions of the examined brains showed some edema while other portions showed significant atrophy. The atrophied parts were found in the lower brain regions—the spinal cord, brain stem, pons, medulla, and the mid-brain. All of which came under the control of the autonomic nervous system and linked to the reflexes and the subconscious elements within overall body functions. “Could you put it in layman’s terms,” said Wilson. “Let’s say,” continued Dr. Ball, “for the sake of simplicity, the primary role of these areas is organization and maintenance of our sensory-motor system, allowing each individual to know where he or she is in three-dimensional space. A loss

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of function in these areas has been shown, by data collected at an institute in Philadelphia, to be extremely detrimental for the maintenance of normal human functioning. Atrophy in these regions is unusual for a person with an average age of thirty-seven in North America, though I have encountered it with stroke sufferers, para—and quadriplegics. What the significance is here, I’m not sure. I concur that further investigation is definitely called for.” He waved a hand at the other researchers then scratched a temple. “Of additional interest is the swelling of the cerebral cortex, which I haven’t observed in other cases I’ve studied. For the record, the cerebral cortex extends into almost every system of the body and plays a critical role in human function. In short, it allows you to understand what I am saying, think other thoughts as I talk, ask questions about the information I have relayed to you, and allows you to move your body in a coordinated pattern. However, if it’s not anchored to the lower brain regions, then our brain as a whole becomes imbalanced.” “Excuse me, Dr. Ball,” said the President. “How does what you say relate to the electronics issue raised by our intelligence liaisons? And, how does it relate to our current situation?” “Excellent questions, Mr. President,” said the young doctor, his eyes wandering over all those present. He began with a little background, in that for centuries, possibly thousands of years, the brain had been thought of as the seat of intelligence. While true to a certain extent, it was also discovered that the human being was in fact like a walking battery with some extraordinary attributes. First, the cerebral cortex acted as a receiver and transmitter of information from the sensory-motor system. However, if the cerebral cortex was disconnected from the lower brain, then it was like having a huge stereo transceiver, capable of tremendous watt output, but not wired to the speakers. Moreover, the transceiver itself would not even be plugged into the wall socket, rendering it more or less useless for the designed purpose. He paused and observed heads nodding around the table, taking it to mean comprehension. “So,” he added, “an electromagnetic force could easily have the ability to disrupt human function, hence the electrical companies providing information to their customers on ‘Electromagnetic Force Fields’, also referred to as EMFF’s. If the gentlemen from the NSA and CIA are correct, then we may be looking for some sort of device that emits an electromagnetic frequency.” “What would be the effect of a situation like that?” asked the President. Everyone in the room remained silent and gazed in Dr. Ball’s direction. “The effect would be a person who is overwhelmed by stimuli without the assistance of any grounding in the sensory reality of the body to process it.”

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Observing the bewildered looks at the table, Dr. Ball took a different tack. “Let me demonstrate. Mr. President, if you would be so kind as to close your eyes for a moment.” The ever-protective Security Advisor jumped up from his seat, but a look from the President reassured him. Unperturbed Dr. Ball explained what he wanted the leader of the nation to do. As instructed, with eyes closed, the President took the pen that Dr. Ball handed him. He began to explore it, using fingertips of both hands. All eyes watched as the leader of the United States fondled this simple object. “Mr. President,” asked Dr. Ball, “what can you tell us about the object?” “I’m not sure I follow.” “Describe the object you’re holding.” “It has a plastic casing with a metallic clip for securing it into a pocket. There is a small metallic piece at both ends. One end clicks in or out when depressed, the other has a small hole in it. It’s lightweight and the casing seems to have some scratches or roughness to it. What is the point here, Dr. Ball?” “Sir, you have given us a physical description of something that each of us hasn’t a feel for. You’ve used your sense of touch to bring the pen alive in our minds through your words, much like a writer does with a character. Since we’ve all held pens before, we can imagine what it feels like to hold this one, even though we have not done so. One last thing, what color is the pen?” “How can I know that? I haven’t ever seen it,” said the President with a hint of annoyance. “I’m aware of that, sir, but you have seen other pens, so take an educated guess. What color do you believe the pen to be?” “Ah, I see your point. Having no actual visual reference for the pen color, my mind will believe whatever it wants, even though that belief may be completely false.” The President’s face glowed with admiration as he sat still for a moment, cradling the pen in his hands as if trying to get a feel for the color. Then, almost triumphant and full of conviction, he proclaimed that the pen was green. His eyes snapped open. A few of the medical experts gave hesitant chuckle-coughs. Dr. Ball smiled at the crestfallen face of the President as his eyes looked at the rainbow-colored pen in his hands. The President looked at him, then the others. “I really believed the pen was green. I would have sworn that it was, but yet here is the proof. Well done, Dr. Ball. Let me see if I can sum this up. If there is a machine sending out this sort of

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disruptive ‘force field’, one that can alter one’s beliefs, or worse one’s consciousness, then we’re in big trouble. Right?” “Correct, Mr. President. In essence, the senses balance out the strength of the mind in creating beliefs, which allows us to differentiate between what is true and what is not. Without that ability we are lost, like a rudderless ship adrift on the ocean. Excuse the cliché.” Dr. Ball looked at each person present, ending on the country’s leader. “Thank you all, Mr. President, for indulging me.” “This has been quite informative. However, we still don’t know if there are devices out there creating this sort of havoc.” The President turned to his Security Advisor. “Tyler, see to it that Dr. Ball and his medical team have all our resources at their disposal.” Then to the men from the CIA and NSA, in a tone that left no room for question, he added, “I will personally call the directors of both your agencies and explain the situation. You will personally see to it that they have whatever is needed.” With rainbow-colored pen in hand, the President stood up and looked at Dr. Ball. “May I keep this as a reminder?” The researcher nodded. Then, the President spread his arms wide, one hand clutching the padded envelope, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for your contributions. I cannot stress the importance of the task before us, nor can I express the utmost expediency with which we must act. Time is of the essence. Please excuse me, I must depart for another meeting.” ✶

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Channel Four Station, Alexandria, Virginia Thursday, 9: 49 A.M. Renee Fournier, the co-anchor newsperson, sat alone in front of one of two television monitors in the screening room. She extracted a DVD from a padded envelope that had been delivered by courier service a half an hour ago. She watched with mild interest as the disc began with a replay of the interview with the Alabama State Senator. Next, the Channel Four coverage of the President’s press conference followed. She took a sip of coffee, noting the professionalism of the editing, complete with smooth transitions between sections. Then, a still screen containing generic computer generated white lettering on an aesthetic blue background appeared. She read the words. Renee, Good job on your coverage so far. Please get

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this information to your viewers as soon as possible as we are sure they will be VERY interested. We are in control of the cause of the thousands of deaths sweeping the country. Our reasons for applying such drastic measures are: 1) The citizens of this nation have failed to exercise their rights for living on this planet. Instead, they gave their power up to the supposed authority of the U.S. government. 2) The U.S. government has overstepped its authority to oversee the people of this nation by violating our civil rights through unnecessary controls and preaching fear. This activity has degraded into pure avarice by the entity designed to protect the liberties of the governed. The Declaration of Independence specifically states: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.…’ If our demands are not met, hundreds of thousands citizens will die in the next two weeks.

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A copy of this tape has been sent to the President of the United States. In shock, Renee sat motionless as the screen changed, showing the same lettering. She read on. Our Demands: 1) The United States of America will relinquish the sum of one hundred billion dollars of taxpayers money to our organization to establish the People’s New Government of the United States. A bank number will be furnished. 2) The Government of the United States of America will turn over legislative and congressional control to our organization with the President remaining in office in order to perform the public relations duties during the transition. 3) The President shall present to the United Nations our plans for the People’s New Government of the United States and for the conveyance of all intact international agreements with other nations. These demands must be met within the next five days. Be advised: the deaths have targeted, and will continue to target, the most susceptible elements within our borders. We will contact you again very shortly. Thank you for you attention, Renee. Share this message with the people. They have a right to know the truth about their existence, and their fate. Stunned, Renee did not move a muscle as the television continued showing a blue screen with a computerized digital image of the American flag perpetually waving. As initial shock subsided, she reached over and depressed the ‘STOP’ button on the DVD player. She picked up the phone and dialed the station man-

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ager’s extension. She explained the situation as concisely as possible, though it took several tries to convince her boss it was not a joke. She put the phone down and grabbed her mug of cold coffee, aching for a cigarette, even though she had quit five months ago. She took a stiff gulp and waited for the station manager. ✶

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Near Safehouse, Northern Virginia Thursday, 9:59 A.M. Peter entered the payphone booth near the service station at the entrance to the cluster of townhouses. He hooked up the laptop, secure voice scrambler, and headset then checked his watch. It read: 10:00. He waited five minutes then the phone rang. On the second ring, with voice scrambled, he answered. After security protocols, he informed the caller that the mission had been moved forward. It would begin that night at 2200 hours. “Very good,” said the man, who then relayed brief details of the DVD. “I’ll hold my people off as long as I can, probably until six, uh, 1800 hours. Our friend so kindly sent the same disc to a local television station. Things could be in a huge mess by tomorrow.” “Not to worry, sir. We will take care of the situation.” “With your reputation preceding you and as your friend, I trust you. But if you fail, we never spoke.” “Yes, sir. I know we are on our own. But then, aren’t we all?” Quickly, Peter added, “With any luck, we shall chat tomorrow. Use the alternate number.” Peter disconnected before the caller could thank him. He left the phone booth and walked back to the safehouse. It was time to put the operation in motion.

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Thursday, 12:10 P.M. In the secure conference room, at the head of the long table, dressed in tan slacks and blue sport coat, Jones’s eyes roved from Mendoza to Pierre, Carlos, and Jason, the four team leaders. His left hand rested on the raven-headed cane as he spoke, his voice even and controlled. “These next two weeks are critical for the first stage of success in reaching our objective. It’s of utmost importance that you have your people strictly in line with our procedures and let them know that any disloyalty will not be tolerated.” He paused as a guard with an Uzi assault rifle slung over his shoulder entered, leading another guard by the arm. The two men advanced to the front of the conference room, just off to the side of the large projector screen. Ignoring them, he went on. “All of you seated here I trust implicitly. However, it’s up to you to ensure that we have no more screw-ups. Let me demonstrate.” He pressed a button on the remote control device, the lights dimmed and footage from one of the front lobby cameras began to play on the wall screen. The short clip showed the exchange between a night sentry and a mustached man dressed in sport coat and slacks. As it played the man next to the armed guard began to grimace. If not for the tight grip of the armed sentry he would have tried to run. Jones stopped the film and the lights came back up. He threw a menacing glance at the man in question then addressed the others. “Anyone tell me what was wrong on the footage?” The four men looked at one another. “Quickly! I don’t have all fucking day.”

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“The lost visitor was checking out the security measures of the facility,” said Mendoza. “Whether he was truly foreign and lost is hard to say, but he definitely was stalling the guard to gain observational time. Also, his disarming manner got the guard to unlock the door which left the guard and the building open to attack.” “Excellent, Cat!” Jones exclaimed. “He’s exactly right and this means somebody’s onto us. Pass this message on to your people: extremely tight security.” Placing the cane on the conference table, he leaned onto the table with balled fists, glancing at each man. A glaze began to form in his eyes. The air thickened with apprehension from those present, except for Mendoza, all too familiar with his boss’s tactics. “What are we to do about this little slip up, I wonder? Let’s see what the offender has to say about it.” Jones beckoned to the guard from the taped footage. The man looked pale and green at the same time. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead as Jones placed his left arm around the shoulders of the night sentry and ruffled the man’s crew cut spikes. “What do you think should be done?” said Jones, as if a headmaster to a pupil. Unable to talk, the man just blinked his eyes. “Not so chatty as you were the other night? What’s the matter?” He grabbed the man by the nape of the neck. “Speak! Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” With that, Jones flexed his right hand into a kung fu grip and hit the man’s throat, easily breaking the windpipe—instant death. He let go and the body dropped to the carpet. He sauntered back to the conference table, retrieving the cane and the remote control. He eyed the four-team leaders with a cold sheen. “Any questions, gentlemen?” He dimmed the lights again and another scene began. Shorter than the first, it depicted a stationary black Lincoln Town car with black tinted windows. The surveillance camera only picked up an image of someone in the front seat. He froze the frame on the car’s exit from the ENOCH parking lot. “The lab guys were able to determine the license plate and we’ve traced it to a private financing group. It all seems legit on the surface, but I have a hunch that something else is behind this. Gentlemen, security must be impeccable. One more thing, who is in charge of the guards inside and out? Is that you, Pierre?” Hesitantly, he nodded, wondering if he would be called up front. “As I requested before, exterior guards must have the M-16 rifles while the interior guards have the Uzis. We need the heavier fire power outside.”

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“Yes, sir. It’s just that some of the men complained of the weight difference and.…” “I don’t give a damn what the men think about the weight!” said Jones. “Ask them if they know the weight difference between a dead body and a live one. Understand? No more fuckin’ around, Pierre.” “Yes sir.” Pierre would have saluted if he had been standing. “Should we be expecting an attack soon? If so, I can alert the guards, sir.” “Clearly, the film clips show that somebody is interested in our operation. Who, I’m not sure, but since the White House is now informed of our demands, I suggest we hunker down and prepare for anything.” Jones smiled, the sparkle returning to his eyes. He slapped the head of the cane into his palm. “We all need to be very alert from now on. All right, get outta here! Keep your phones on at all times. Also, somebody get this piece of shit off my floor.” He tapped the corpse with his cane then twirled it up to lodge under his left arm. He watched two guards drag the body out, knowing the word would spread faster to the others than any orders from team leaders. He looked at his watch. Time to contact General Sidorov. ✶

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Oval Office, White House, Washington, D.C. Thursday, 1:11 P.M. The President stood at a long draped window, staring out onto the back lawn as his closest advisors attempted to reach a solution after viewing the DVD. Less of a debate, than a controlled free-for-all, the discussion had lasted for two hours. Cartwright, the CIA man battled Dunn, the NSA liaison while Muller, the Defense Secretary opposed Wilson, the National Security Advisor. Only Dr. Ball, whom the President had invited, sat at the table in silence, simply observing. The President had listened to all sides, all the while not revealing anything. He needed to buy as much time as possible for he had given his word. Security Advisor Wilson handed the President a facsimile with an account number to a Belgian bank. He informed him that Secret Service agents had traced the landline to a Mail Boxes Etc location in Herndon, Virginia. Two agents were now en-route to the location. With his hair appearing a tinge grayer, the President approached the group. “Gentlemen, a moment please. I know this is a difficult time but it won’t help to descend into chaos. Now, as I informed you earlier, we know the local televi-

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sion station has a copy of the disc as well. They will probably broadcast it to the world relatively soon, so we need to be prepared. First, suggestions with the media. Philip, why don’t you start.” “Thank you, Mr. President,” said the Defense Secretary. “Unfortunately, a pre-emptive first strike is not possible since we don’t know who or where these people are. I suggest we limit all media exposure.” “Before we get to that Phil,” Cartright said, “rumor has it that the group responsible is run by one of our old boys, Ulrich Rogers.” “Well Sam, not to one up your people,” said Dunn, “but my sources tell me he’s been ousted by his right hand man, one Walter Jones, a man trained by us before he went over to you guys. A chorus of ‘oh shit’ traveled the table. The President tapped a finger on the table. He eyed Dr. Ball, wondering when he would contribute something. He valued the young doctor’s intelligence and insight. “Until you intelligence boys figure out the exact target,” said the Defense Secretary, “we need to focus on what is known fact: the media problem.” “Excuse me, Mr. President, gentlemen,” Dr. Ball said. “It seems risky to undertake any course of destructive action—a black bag job is the term, I believe—until we know how they are creating the fatalities. For all we know we could destroy the physical location and the deaths could continue.” “Good point, Doctor,” said the President and nodded to Security Advisor Wilson. “Sir, I suggest sending a couple of agents over to Channel Four right away. I’ve already notified them we have White House Staff coming. We’ve asked them to hold off on any newscast until six o’clock. That gives us a little over four hours. As you know, this sort of thing is tricky as they cloak themselves in the First Amendment. Now that we’re going to do the press conference at eight, maybe we can give them an exclusive interview and postpone any special report until afterwards.” “Mr. President, why be so cooperative?” asked the Defense Secretary, pushing back from the table, his bulk bristling. “Let’s go in there, tell them it’s a matter of national security and threaten to have the FCC revoke their license if they proceed.” “Phil, this isn’t a war,” Wilson said. “The President has re-election to think about. He can’t come down on one of the big three network affiliates like that with little more than a year to re-election.” The President gave a nod, confirming the Security Advisor’s comment.

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“Excuse me for saying so, Mr. President, if the current situation doesn’t change, you may not have as much of a constituency to preside over.” “Point well taken, Dr. Ball,” said the President. “It seems the best course will be a combination of cooperative, yet firm action. Agreed?” Everyone nodded. The President looked toward his Security Advisor. “Tyler, send the appropriate personnel over to Channel Four.” He nodded and jotted some notes. “With that issue settled,” said the President, waving the facsimile. “Only forty-eight hours remain before the initial transfer of one hundred billion dollars is required.” Just then one of the telephones on his desk rang. Wilson answered it and spoke in a hushed tone. After hanging up, he handed the President a slip of paper. The President waved it away. “Share it with everyone here.” “Yes, sir. That was one of the agents calling from the Mail Boxes Etc in Herndon, Virginia. Regarding the person who sent the fax, the young clerk who took the order doesn’t remember much about the person. She thinks the man was an ungroomed, bearded, middle-aged guy who smelled of alcohol. He paid cash and left no other number. She said he seemed in good spirits. The message was in block letters on paper from the store with a pen from the store. Evidently, someone wrote it before and then sent in this other guy to have it faxed. The only prints on it are from the girl and the man who handed it to her.” “All right that’s enough, next topic. What is the best approach to the American people? As the unknown author of the demands has so aptly put it, ‘the people have a right to know.’” The President looked from face to face, hoping no one knew he was stalling. “The tables have turned from the Reagan era when the question was, ‘What did he know and when did he know it?’ Now it seems to be, ‘Do the people have a right to know and how much do we dare tell them?’” “I like that, Mr. President,” said Cartwright, rubbing his chin. “Yes, there could be some good campaign stuff there,” said Wilson, scribbling more notes. “Just a minute,” said Defense Secretary Muller. “I’ve just been looking over some coordinates. If we assume our unknown adversary’s operation is near where the fax was sent, meaning the Washington, DC area, then we must remember the Nation’s Capital is an azimuthal equidistant projection to numerous major cities, including London, Moscow, Tokyo, and Algiers as well as some others. This may not be an accident.” “What’s your point Muller?”

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“I’m surprised you don’t know Cartwright,” said Dunn, the NSA man. “Maybe the training over at Langley is slipping? Let’s see, I’ll try to put it simply for you. An azimuthal equidistant projection is a map coordinate on the earth’s surface, which is centered so that a straight line radiating from that point to any other point represents the shortest distance.” “Very good, Bill,” Muller said. “Now, the significance is that our discussion of possible sources for an electronic signal at our meeting on Wednesday were focused on projectiles that might drop contaminants or something like that. But I think that is incorrect. Anyway, we may need to look a little higher.” “You mean, like a satellite?” said Cartwright, smoothing back his graying hair. “Well?” The President scanned those present. All remained silent for a moment. ✶

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Safehouse, Northern Virginia Thursday, 4:00 P.M. The ‘Team’ lounged in the living room, waiting for Peter. Toliver occupied the armchair and ottoman with his bandaged thigh while Nathan Wong, a computer at his feet, relaxed in the other armchair. Frank sat on a brown leather couch, talking with John Wilde. He had found, like Sara, that the Rasta was full of wisdom, which helped to dispel Frank’s worries. John was also a lover of nature. In the last few days the two men had formed a bond, one born of kindred sensibilities. At that moment the bolt in the lock slid open. Peter and Willem entered, followed by two husky men. Peter greeted the others and introduced Willem’s associates as Mitch Sampson and Terrance Williams. The former was a well-muscled six-foot, two hundred pound man in his late thirties, sporting a crew cut with spiky blond hair. The other man was a thirty-two year old African American with black piercing eyes and a firm angular jaw. Though not as tall as Mitch he was just as powerfully built. As former SEALs, they exuded competence and understated confidence from years of counter-insurgency operations. As the two newcomers grabbed seats, Sara entered the room from the hallway and looked at the collection of men, feeling distinctly out of place amidst such sinew steeped in years of secrecy and combat. She saw Frank and joined him on the couch.

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“Lady and gentlemen,” said Peter. “I want to make this brief. As you can see, I decided to bring in extra help because of the loss of Toliver’s full abilities as well as a concern about being shorthanded.” He outlined the intelligence garnered from his sources, relaying the news of DVDs sent by Jones. Nevertheless, the assignment remained unchanged. He reminded them that they were operating on their own. If they failed or got caught, no one would come to bail them out. Then, he added, “We are solely responsible for what happens to ourselves. Any questions?” “Do we have any sort of contingency plan in case of emergency?” asked Mitch, rubbing his knuckles. Peter nodded and reassured everyone that all monies promised had been deposited in numbered Swiss accounts, which he had given to each member. He also stated that resource funds were available for any emergency that may arise, and that Willem had the number and code words for his funds manager, who was also his solicitor. The funds were only to be accessed in a crisis situation, which included incapacitation of communication. “In the event of both our deaths, a sealed envelope with the information will be here at the safehouse,” he added. “What are the assignments for Mitch and myself?” asked Terrance, in a soft, deep resonant voice. “Quite right, down to business. Based on what I said before, my sense about our objective—the destruction of ENOCH’s operation and Dr. Jones—is that they will have boosted security immensely since our reconnaissance the other night. So, initially you’re both on sniperfire.” Peter unfolded the blueprint of the ENOCH building and a map of the surrounding grounds. All drew closer, despite knowing the plan by memory. He pointed to the wooded area that adjoined the grass behind the building and outlined the operation. “Weapons? We’re gonna need two different types for what you outlined.” “Don’t worry, Mitch, you’ll have all you need,” said Willem, slapping his buddy on the back. “Willem, after this briefing, give out weapons, electronic communication, and demolition devices to the appropriate people as well as run checks on all the equipment, again.” Peter eyed each one in the circle. “Everyone else clear on his or her assignments?” “Tonight’s the night then?” Sara asked. “Yes, I feel they may not be expecting an attack, yet. The element of surprise has won more battles than I care to remember. It must be tonight. Willem, would you?”

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“Sure,” he said, after getting up. “I’d just like to share with those of you who haven’t been part a SEAL team. When a team, usually six members, goes on a mission, we go as one completely synchronized unit. It is essential for survival that we all stay together.” Willem grinned at everyone. “That’s my pep talk. All right people, we move out by twenty-two-hundred hours.” “As we said in the SAS, my regiment from the old country,” said Peter. “‘Who Dares, Wins’, so let’s be daring, shall we?” All put a hand in and a chorus of ‘Yeahs’ and ‘All rights’ emanated from the tight knit group. Seeing worry in her face, Frank clasped Sara’s other hand.

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Channel Four Station, Alexandria, Virginia Thursday, 5:54 P.M. In a red brick warehouse, the television studio set featured a backdrop facade, the appropriate furniture, and a multitude of wires, cables, and electronic equipment. Though busier than usual, the newsroom bustled with activity preparing for the evening broadcast. A little self-conscious from all the attention, Renee sat behind the news desk in the center of the set, trying to focus on the broadcast. Top network executives stood off to the left. From the right side three gentlemen observed the proceedings. All wore identical black suits, white shirts, and standard issue Secret Service clip-on ties. They were monitoring the broadcast to ensure nothing was said that had not been agreed upon earlier. Anxious for the lead anchorman to join her at six o’clock, Renee fidgeted with papers in front of her as she read from the teleprompter. “That’s all for our early newscast. Please join us at six for full coverage of the local and national news. Also tonight we will offer special coverage of the President’s press conference at eight o’clock and Channel Four has secured an exclusive interview with the President immediately following the press conference.” She only managed a faint smile for the central camera, lines of fatigue showing on her face. After the cameraman signaled the cut, she collapsed with her head down on the desk. An assistant rushed out and conversed with her as others just watched. Just then, the station manager hollered, “Renee. Phone for you. Some guy with a voice that sounds like he’s talking from the bottom of a toilet bowl.” The Secret Service agents escorted her to a room set up with wiretap equipment. The plan was to record someone’s voice involved in the extortion of the

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U.S. government, which could lead to identification and strengthen their case in court, if need be. The oldest agent, a muscularly compact man in his fifties with a slight paunch, led her to a dual phone setup, where the light for the active line blinked like an emergency flasher on a disabled car. He placed a hand on the cradled phone as he spoke. “Renee, please try and keep him on the line as long as you can so we can trace it. Stay calm.” He looked to the other agent in front of a computer screen that displayed frequency modulation graphs. “You ready Mike?’ He nodded and the oldest agent held up three fingers and let them fall. Renee and he picked up the phones simultaneously. “Hello, this is Renee Fournier with Channel Four.” She focused on the phone light, afraid to blow it for the agents. “What happened, Renee? We had a deal. Didn’t you get my disc?” asked the distorted voice. “The American people are anxious for the truth. Why didn’t you air it?” The senior agent grimaced, realizing the caller was using a sophisticated scrambler. The tape would be worthless. Nonetheless, he smiled at Renee for encouragement. “I got your package. Very impressive. I’m not in charge of programming. I only report what they tell me to, though I agree with you. The public has the right to know the truth.” “Why did your superiors disallow the broadcast of the disc?” “There was intervention from a higher authority. I guess you sent a copy to the President and his people interceded in our broadcast.” The agent next to her rotated his hand to indicate, ‘keep him going’, then looked at his watch—only twenty seconds more for a trace. “A higher authority! That’s a joke. If you believe that, then you are as foolish as the public you broadcast to. What about the First Amendment, the right to free speech?” “Limited by the need for national security. What the hell are you bothering me for? I don’t have control over anything.” “But you do, Renee. You’re the gateway to the minds of the American public, if not the world. Use your power to emancipate the masses from their enslavement to false and unjust authority. Come on, Renee, wake up and live!” Then the disembodied voice changed tone, evident even through the distortion of the scrambler. “Renee, time’s up. If you don’t broadcast the information by seven o’clock, it will be your last broadcast.”

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The line went dead. The phone clattered to the floor as Renee stood trembling all over. The older agent turned to his associate at the computer, who then held up an index finger, listening to his headphones then gave the thumbs up sign. The senior agent motioned to the third agent standing guard outside the door. “Let’s get her a chair, not in here. Renee, go with Agent Snyder and don’t worry about what he said. We’ve got you protected. You did great. We got the trace!” The senior agent joined the agent at the computer while the third agent helped Renee into the hallway. The young agent removed the headphones from one ear and pointed to the computer screen, which displayed a portion of the earth as a grid at the bottom and a black space above it, pinpointed by numerous white dots. One of the dots flashed with a combination of letters and numbers. “What are you showing me, Mike? You know I don’t understand all this computer wizardry. Just explain it to me.” “That flashing code sequence is the call origination point,” said the junior agent, with a wry smile. “Either our guy is truly in outer space or he is one smart dude. That flashing designation is a satellite. That’s as far as we could trace the call.” “That’s great! We can find out whom it belongs to, then track it back to the phone user. It’s a great lead.” The young agent looked at the screen a moment longer, then chuckled. “I know who it belongs to. It’s one of ours.” “What the hell are you talking about? The Secret Service doesn’t have any satellites.” “No, but the National Security Agency does and that code designation is one of theirs. Remember, I laterally transferred from the NSA.” “Is this guy some kind of extraterrestrial genius come to bug the shit out of us or what? Dammit, how’d he do that? I thought those things were highly classified?” “They are, but I guess not outta this guy’s reach. He definitely knows what he’s doing, because he didn’t just use one satellite relay, he used two. Better call the President, huh?” The younger agent placed the headphones on the table next to the computer keyboard. The senior agent extracted a cellular phone and pressed a speed dial key.

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Thursday, 7:15 P.M. Smacking the palm of his hand with the head of the cane Jones paced the empty space in front of his desk, seething with anger. The last broadcast on Channel Four aired and Renee had not played the disc. In fact, a substitute co-anchor person had replaced her. Gripping the cane shaft tightly in one hand he spoke into the cellular phone, using the two-way function. “Cat, in my office right away.” He began to rock heel to toe, looking out the window, only the outline of the tree visible in the darkness. Suddenly, the solution to the message broadcast came to him. He flipped open the phone again and ordered ENOCH’s computer and satellite expert, Primo Taglio, to the office, too. At that moment Cat entered the office, wearing a blue tracksuit with yellow strips down the sleeves and pants. The jacket hid the gun tucked into his waistband at the small of his back. “What’s up, Dr. J?” “Besides yourself and the other team leaders, do we have any men capable of a disguised harvest mission?” “Yeah, sure. There’s Bob Wyatt and Jason Kendrick, you know the one that lost his buddy on the Gallidette thing.” “No, this job requires more finesse and subtlety.” “What’s the job?” “A hit on this woman,” said Jones, handing him a photo printed from the Internet. “It’s tonight at the White House.” “Oh shit, you can’t be serious!” “You bet your fuckin’ ass. I gave my word that if she didn’t broadcast the disc I sent her then it would be her last. She’s covering the Presidential press conference tonight plus an exclusive interview that her station got by makin’ a deal with the White House at my expense.” As his tone became hushed and tight, his eyes glinted cold in the office light. “Cat, you know me. I can’t say some thing and then not do it, not at a critical juncture when I am representing the new government of the people. I would be no better than the slugs we’re trying to oust on Capitol Hill. As direct disobedience to my authority and power, it needs to be nipped in the bud—immediately. The plan’s all set. I need two smaller, wiry guys with the skills and the balls to pull it off.”

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Mendoza looked hard at his boss for a moment. He knew that look in his eyes. He at once respected and hated him. To disobey would mean death. “Shit man, you got cajones,” he said. “And, we got the guys. One’ll have to be Carlos. He’s a team leader, but he’s your man. The other guy’s Eduardo, his cousin. They’re almost like twins.” He paused, sensing something wasn’t right. “Look, keeping your word is important; you know I live by that code, but I got a bad feeling about tonight, y’know, gut instinct. This is a big fuckin’ threat to the powers that be.” “Don’t give me that. They wouldn’t dare touch us right now. They don’t know how the BET operates. That’s one of our aces in the hole. Besides, with the plan I have for the hit, these guys will be back before midnight.” Jones slapped the special ops commander on the back and went on. “How many of these things have we done together, huh? Trust me, this action will show we mean business. Now, listen.” He outlined the hit in specific, yet simple detail. Mendoza listened, took a few notes, and smiled. It was brilliant. In those few short minutes, putting aside his deeper intuition, he once again became enchanted with the other man’s obscure genius and determination. Primo arrived and let Mendoza’s burly form pass through the office door first. Then, the slim, hairy Italian sauntered in, wearing t-shirt, faded black denims, and well-worn sneakers. He was the only member of Jones’s core cadre that could get away with being unconventional and aloof. The reason why such an attitude was allowed, only Jones knew. The Italian pointed to his t-shirt that pictured the video game and movie Tron, then brushed back his unruly black mop. “Y’know, normally I wouldda been gone already. But fa you, I’m a here. Whatcha need, boss?” Jones let a smile crease his lips. “Can we patch into a prime television station frequency, like Channel Four, and replace their broadcast with our own?” The computer expert tilted his head up to the ceiling and thought, body swaying as if to some unheard music. “Sure, Dr. J. We could do it. If I play with things a little bit and adjust one of the satellite transmitters. That is assuming we can get the correct frequency. You realize this is a direct violation of the FCC. But I know you don’t give a shit about that—me neither. They’re such a bunch of high and mighty bureaucrats anyway. Besides the airwaves belong to the people, right? So, when do you want this to happen? And what are we broadcasting?” Jones handed him a DVD.

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“I want the contents of this to air by no later than seven tomorrow morning. Make it an emergency broadcast from the People’s New Government of the United States of America. Also, can you put it into an infinite play loop?” “Probably for about three hours before they catch on,” said Primo, grinning and posturing like a street hustler. “Just one thing, what is the reason I would want to stay here overnight without my beauty rest to do dis thing fa you?” Jones stared at the little Italian for a second, hand rubbing the heavy metal raven head on the cane. Then he chuckled, again amazed at the man’s audacity. “If you weren’t such a computer genius, I’d have gotten rid of you long ago. What do you want for your efforts, Primo?” “Lessee, I think a nice trip to the Caribbean would suit me. Sun, bikinis, fun, and little drink umbrellas, yeah, two weeks oughta do me right. Of course, all expenses paid.” “Done. But you’re gonna have to wait for about a month though; just depends. And to show you I mean it, I’ll leave a note for Mrs. Weeks to order the ticket through our travel agent first thing tomorrow morning. All right?” “I’m already on it, chief.” Primo gave the thumbs up sign, spun on his heel, and strutted out. Jones shook his head, watching him go. ✶

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Northern Virginia Thursday, 10:15 P.M. Fifteen minutes from the target site, spaced apart, in single file, three cars drove toward the ENOCH building. Nathan led in the Town Car, followed by the unmarked van driven by Toliver. In the back of the van, Willem made last minute preparations with weapons, communication equipment, and explosives. The Volvo, driven by Mitch with Terrance next to him, was last in line. In the plush backseat of the Town Car, Sara sat between Frank and John. Peter turned to face them from the front seat. “Everyone set?” he said, eyeing Sara. “Don’t worry, we’ll be in and out in a jiffy.” She nodded, too nervous to speak. She felt a lump in her throat. She swallowed, the full weight of what was to come, sinking in. Frank squeezed her thigh—she jumped.

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John put his dreadlocks into a tight fitting sock, like something used for a wind tunnel. Then, on top of that, he pulled on a black tam. Looking out the tinted window, the trees rushing by beneath dark gray clouds that obscured the stars from sight, he muttered something under his breath. “What did you just say?” asked Sara. “A prayer to the Almighty, Jah Rastafari, for all of us.” Sara smiled at him, immediately feeling safer and calmer with his presence. “Hope to God Jones doesn’t have any more tricks up his sleeve,” Peter said. “Be careful out there tonight, shall we? Frank, keep a close eye on her. You two watch each other’s backs for me. Promise me that, won’t you?” They both nodded. Sara reached for Frank’s hand and looked at him as he spoke softly. “It’s wonderful to have you back. I just want it to last a little longer than the last time. I love you, Sara.” She smiled and gave him a kiss. He reached up and cradled her face, their foreheads touching as she rested her palms against his chest. Watching them, John smiled, feeling the warmth they radiated. “All right,” Peter said, “we’re close. Let’s look very alive, if we’re to remain so.” Nathan slowed the car just past the side street that led to ENOCH. They arranged the cars as before, except the Volvo parked behind the van. Again dressed in black nylon-lycra night suits and black rubber-soled shoes, the team went into well-rehearsed preparation. Each member carried a surprise weapon somewhere on the body, most using Peter’s favorite, the Walther PPK. Sara watched Frank strap the set of all black carbonite throwing knives onto the inner part of his left forearm, handles pointing toward the palm. He carried the Walther in an ankle holster and the Browning .45 automatic at the small of the back. Sara checked her ankle holster and selected an Uzi and a rucksack, as did the others. ✶

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Outside The White House, Washington, D.C. Thursday, 10:25 P.M. Two average-sized men, dressed in hooded mauve monk robes tied with a tan rope at the waist, strolled along the sidewalk across from the rear lawn of the President’s residence. Beneath the hoods, their heads gleamed with the sheen of

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recent shaving, though one of them, Carlos, retained a ponytail that fell to just between the shoulder blades. Keeping their eyes averted from presidential guards, they passed by, hands clasped in front of the sternum as if in adoration. A few other passersby wandered around them on the street. The two monks paused and pretended to look at the lighted spectacle of the Washington Monument that filled the southern sky beneath dark gray clouds. With sideways glances, both observed a white Channel Four-television van with red lettering. It was parked just outside the East Guard House next to a telephone pole. The robed men waited for the woman whose picture they had memorized. Upon seeing the cameraman for Channel Four amble toward the van, the second monk, Eduardo, tapped Carlos on the arm once. Carlos’s arms fell from the prayer position, his actions shielded by his cousin’s body. A thin, small-handled spring-loaded stiletto dropped from the wrist holster beneath Carlos’s sleeve. He cupped it into natural-colored, latex-gloved hands and returned them to prayer position. Eduardo tapped Carlos twice, indicating the target was in sight. In unison, the two closed in on the van. A sensual fluidity emanated from the harmony of motion as they passed the cameraman, who loaded equipment into the back of the van. No one paid attention to the shrouded figures near the telephone pole close to the passenger side door of the van. The second monk bent forward as if enchanted by a leaf on a nearby shrub. Both men listened to the conversation of the television crew as Renee Fournier trudged to the front passenger door, oblivious to the robed men. As she opened the door to the van Carlos dropped his right hand and the spring-loaded four-inch blade ejected without a sound. He stepped from behind the pole and with practiced stealth came up behind her. A quick thrust and the blade pierced her torso just underneath the tenth rib. It penetrated her heart, allowing only a short, almost inaudible gasp. Then he placed her onto the bucket seat of the vehicle and vanished, ditching the knife into the nearby bushes. His hands returned to the position of supernal adoration, mimicked by his cousin. Side by side, faster than before, they glided toward the front entrance of the nearby Washington Hotel. Inside the lobby, they passed the registration desk and descended the stairs with its finely hand-carved dark wood railing. Once inside the men’s room Carlos discarded the latex gloves into the garbage and both shed their robes. Seconds later they emerged as matched nighttime joggers, wearing light green singlets and plain white tank tops.

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From the main hall, exiting the hotel’s rear entrance, they spotted the getaway car. Once inside, the car sped along Pennsylvania Avenue as ambulance sirens screamed in the distance. Carlos punched his cousin in the shoulder, mission completed. The extra bonus would be welcome as well. It was time to return to ENOCH Headquarters.

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South of the ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Thursday, 10:45 P.M. Noiselessly, Sara followed Frank as they made a beeline for the wooded path. Within five minutes the entire group crouched down and listened to Peter at the first clearing. “All right then, ‘quickly’ and ‘quietly’ are the key words tonight. Remember: we are all able to communicate with each other through Toliver in the van if anything goes wrong. Use your call-sign when communicating and keep words to a minimum. Stay to your assignments and work as a team.” He looked at Willem. “Anything you want to add? This is your op.” “I know I said it before, but I’m gonna say it again anyway. This is not a drill like the canyon practices. If you are fired upon, it is real. Take cover and defend yourself. If hurt beyond the ability to do your assignment, then notify Toliver in the van. He will relay to me. Then, get out as fast as possible and return to the van via the wooded path. Okay, sync watches: it is 2250 hours.” Everyone checked watches as he continued. “The building will be wired to blow by 0130 hours. Everyone needs to be back at the first clearing near the building or this one by 0115 hours to be safe from the blast. One last thing: to those of you who have been out of the action for a bit, if you must shoot—shoot to kill. It’s either you or them. You get to choose. Listen to your instincts and stay alert. All right, let’s move.” Sara slipped the night vision goggles into place, following Willem’s lead. In a crouch, the eight figures traipsed single file down the path led by Willem, followed by Terrance and Mitch. In no time they reached the edge of the grassy area that abutted the woods.

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Willem motioned everyone down. Both he and Terrance scoped the grounds and the building with a slow scan. Just as Peter suspected, armed guards marched the perimeter of the building, each with an M-16 assault rifle slung over one shoulder. Willem confirmed the man covering the rear of the building and the man on the side visible to him. He motioned with hand signals for Terrance to take out the rear guard and the one on the non-visible side of the structure. Terrance took off, threading through the woods like a panther. Amazed, Sara watched him vanish. Then looking at the building, she saw most of the lights out except for one in an office on the second floor at the rear. To her, the structure looked like a huge megalithic beast, half asleep with only one eye open. All of a sudden, panic seized her—chest tightened, shallow breath. She felt dizzy and leaned back against a nearby tree. She forced a breath, filling the belly, then the upper abdomen, then chest. Exhale, repeat. As oxygen flooded her blood stream, she felt the terror subside. Observing her actions, Frank crept over and gave the okay signal. She nodded, raising an index finger. She needed a minute. Meanwhile, Willem watched another guard pause to light a cigarette at the front corner of the building. The man then turned around and disappeared from sight. He motioned for Mitch to take out the closest side sentry and the front one. Mitch nodded and unslung a sniper rifle fitted with a noise suppressor on the muzzle. With a short tripod fitted to the rifle, he lay prone on the ground just inside the covering of the woods. He pulled loose brush in front of and over the rifle to prevent any reflection off the night scope, then pushed the night vision goggles onto his forehead. He made adjustments for target distance and looked at his watch: three minutes until he commenced firing. Peter and Nathan stole off to the left through the woods. Once the external guards were down, they would disable the power supply and communication lines to the building. A soft plop emitted from the sniper rifle as Mitch fired the first shot. The guard on the side of the building dropped to the ground in a heap. A split second later the guard at the rear of the building was dropped by Terrance’s shot. Mitch adjusted for the new distance and waited to dispose of the front guard—a more complicated shot with a narrower window of opportunity. Another plop from his weapon and the front guard fell into the shadows with perfect precision.

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With the guards down, Willem and John gauged the surveillance cameras. When clear they sprinted across the grassy field to the southeast corner just as the former SEAL had done on the reconnaissance. Frank assumed cover position, holding the Uzi steady in one hand and motioning for Sara to come close behind him. Then, they bolted across the field, reaching the rear brick wall just as the light in the second story office went out. Frank looked at the surveillance camera. It had ceased moving—power cut. Sara looked up to see Willem and John climbing the wall, both about two thirds of the way to the top. On guard, she stood with her back to Frank as he focused a miniature blowtorch on the metal emergency door lock. She saw a figure dash across the field toward the other emergency door where Mitch performed the same task as Frank. In a minute both doors swung open. Frank and Sara entered the bottom floor, weapons at ready. ✶

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On the roof, Willem and John raced over to the satellite dishes at the far end. Each man pulled a detonation device from his rucksack and affixed plastique to the base of each dish. After setting a miniature remote device, they retreated forty feet, taking cover behind the large vent shaft casing previously explored by Willem. ✶

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At the opposite end of the building from Mitch and Terrance one floor below the main entrance Sara and Frank hunkered down behind a wall. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, but Frank’s calmness helped to keep it in check. He was back in his element. Their tenuous cover consisted of a turn in the hallway that led to a group of lower meeting rooms, one of which they had come through upon entering. Frank had already returned fire in the direction of at least three armed persons, in various nooks or doorways down the curved hall, opposed them. They had to do something, fast, or it would be a short night. ✶

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Inside the building, at the table in the secure conference room, Jones studied the papers for the People’s New Government of the United States. He glanced at

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the diminished lighting overhead, knowing that power outages were not uncommon. It had been reported to him that the internal security guard force still patrolled the corridors. His cell phone bleeped and he heard Primo’s voice. “Uh, Dr. Jones, we gots a little problem here. I can’t work on that little project you wanted by tomorrow morning, despite my enormous genius, without electricity. Even with the computers on a separate generator.” “All right Primo, probably just a power grid outage. I was just about to call the electric comp.…” Two explosions resounded, rocking the building to its foundation. “Shit, we’re being attacked! Primo get off the line. All team leaders, we are under attack! This is not a drill! I repeat: this is not a drill. Red Alert! Report in immediately and begin defense protocols.” He stuffed the papers into a folder and grabbed his cane. He grabbed the .45 automatic at the small of his back and chambered a round. On the way up the corridor, the phone cackled. “Cat here, sir. The two men on special assignment are still absent. I repeat White House team has not returned. I’m just leaving the kitchen, I’ll check the rest of … ugh.…” The sound of automatic weapon fire crackled through Jones’s cell phone. He heard the strain in Mendoza’s voice. “I’m … hit … bad. Can’t see the number of.…” Two more shots from a machine gun echoed through the speaker and then plastic clattered on linoleum. “Goddammit! I’ll kill those motherfuckers!” Gun in hand, Jones raced to his office, back to heavier firepower. ✶

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Just after the explosions rocked the building, Sara saw the answer to their dilemma as Frank returned fire again. Tapping him, she pointed to a red EXIT sign above a solid wooden fire door with a single central wire meshed window at head height. It was at the end of the hallway, opposite the direction of the attackers. He looked at it and gauged the distance at twenty feet. He nodded and whispered the plan. When the attackers fired, he raised three fingers. As the last finger fell, he let off a series of short bursts. Sara dashed to the door and went through, 9mm slugs thudding into the wood. Behind the door, she saw it was a stairwell that only led up. She climbed a few steps to gain distance from the door and

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blasted the small window with a spray of bullets. Then, placing her body against the door, she peered through the window with the nose of the Uzi. Two men came into view. Recalling Willem’s instruction she squeezed the trigger, letting off a horizontal spray of bullets to ensure maximum coverage. The first man went down, writhing on the floor—a successful body shot. She immediately spun right from the door to the protection of the cinder block wall. The image of the man in a pool of blood clung to her memory. More bullets pounded the door, but it held, just as Frank had said. She heard closer gunfire—Frank’s return volley. Now it was her turn. Back at the door, peering through the mesh, she waited for the return of fire. A man sprinted for a closer niche as another fired some rounds. She let off another spray and cut the man down in full stride. She could feel her body vibrating with adrenaline. The adrenaline in the canyon was nothing compared to this. Off the door again, she calculated that there was definitely another man, possibly two. She heard Frank fire again. Through the glass-less mesh of the window, she watched—nothing moved. Thoughts of doubt began to creep into her mind. Then something shiny flashed and it was gone. It was to the left of the emergency light. A watch face! She thought, and fired a long burst. Just off the door, Frank burst through, tossing a smoke grenade backward down the hall out of his left hand. As it exploded gunfire erupted from down the hall. A bullet whined through just before the door shut, grazing Frank’s left upper arm. He lunged right as the fire door shut. Seeing a crease of blood on his night suit, Sara said, “Frank, you’re hit!” Barely feeling the wound’s sting, he glanced at the thin line of blood forming on the ragged edges of his night suit. “It’s nothing. Go up two flights and find Jones’s office. It’s should be right above us. I’ll be right there.” “But …” She paused, not wanting to leave Frank. He pointed to the stairs with the Uzi’s barrel. She almost balked as her insides knotted, more than ever before. But she knew he was right. The mission came first. She looked over her shoulder at Frank as she ascended each step slowly. ✶

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Having left the dead man in the kitchen, Terrance and Mitch followed the memorized layout and hurried toward the next assignment: secure the front

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entrance and escort Peter and Nathan to the computer room. They had come up the stairs at the opposite end of the hallway that Frank and Sara were using. With practiced stealth, they neared the columnar expanse of the lobby, hearing the chatter of automatic gunfire. At fifty feet from the rear of the lobby, Terrance gave the slow pace signal. Passing beneath a sign that read: LADIES, they hugged the wall and inched closer—shadows danced up ahead. All of a sudden, shots fired behind them. “Shit, I’m hit,” said Mitch, sliding to the floor. Terrance let off a burst from his Uzi toward the rear attackers as he dove into the restroom. Into the mini-microphone, he said, “Base, this is Tango-seven. Mary-eight is down. What is status of Peter-three? Over.” Waiting for a response, he stuck the nose of the Uzi into the hallway and fired a waist high strafing pattern. He heard a scream and the clatter of metal on concrete resounded through the hallway. In front of him lay Mitch, who had dragged himself to the door. He hauled the wounded SEAL into the bathroom and checked his wounds—two bullets—one through the lower left back, the other in the thigh. By the amount of blood on the concrete, it appeared the one in the leg had snagged an artery, most likely femoral. He placed a tourniquet on the thigh, though he knew Mitch didn’t have long. Mitch motioned to Terrance, who leaned closer putting an ear close to his mouth. “Three … in … hall, four … meters. Got one. Young punks … their yours … no problem.” Exhausted from the effort of speech, his body went limp, breath labored. Through the earpiece, Terrance heard Toliver’s report. “Base to Tango-seven. Peter-three and Nancy-four pinned down in lobby. Need assistance, asap. What is status? Over.” “Tango-seven to base, on my way. Mary-eight is gone. Out.” With that Terrance pulled the pin on a hand grenade, paused, then flung it down the hall from around the doorframe. He crouched down with his back to the restroom door, fingers in his ears. The blast reverberated through the enclosed space of the corridor. He opened the door and tucked into a full roll across the hall floor, landing with the Uzi pointed toward the attackers. All were dead. He spun on his belly to see that the previous shadows near the lobby had become real figures attracted by the blast. He opened fire—reprieve for Peter and Nathan and room to advance.

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After sprinting up two flights Sara stared at another fire door similar to the one below. She darted to the cinder block wall to the left of the doorknob, Uzi at the ready, and then peered out the intact mesh window. The night vision goggles illuminated an empty carpeted hallway in a lime colored hue. Opening the door, she scampered in a crouch to the nearest office and read the plastic placard held in place by a metal frame on the door: Dr. Walter Jones, Director. That was easy, she thought, and entered. Empty of furniture she was able to observe the expansive room with a huge window that looked out onto a large tree and grassy field. Along the hallway wall, a mid-thigh level oak credenza stretched the length of the office. At the far end of the spacious office was a sturdy oak desk with a computer monitor. She crept across the carpet and crouched behind the desk. A hard drive computer tower rested on the floor in the leg well. There were several other peripherals attached, but she didn’t know what they were for. Besides, the power was out. Unable to download any files, she sat for a moment in the leather high back chair and observed a world map on the wall to the left with pins stuck in it. She dismissed it and looked at the nicely framed picture on the opposite wall, a wolf peering out from behind a tree. Something nagged at her. She looked again at the world map. Oh my God! Pins in the former USSR, she thought, mindlessly putting her weapon down on the desk. Alarms sounded in her head as she noted pins in the United Kingdom, France, Italy, Belgium, and the rest of Western Europe. The United States contained the bulk of them. She thought Peter would want to see this, so she scanned the desktop for paper to make a quick sketch. It was annoyingly clean. She began to check the desk drawers. The top one was locked. The second contained papers, barely readable through the goggles. In the third drawer, lay an Uzi, like she had, except newer. Hitting the release button on the handgrip, the magazine ejected into her other hand. She added it to her own ammunition belt then looked around for a place to hide the gun. In the corner a heavily constructed cardboard file box was stamped: U.S. SENATE. She opened it and shoved the Uzi into the two-thirds full box. Hearing a noise behind her, she spun around in the chair, hoping to see Frank. But halfway to the desk, stood a man in casual attire holding a black cane

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in one hand. A large gun pointed at her from his other. A sly grin crossed his face then he spoke in a mocking tone. “Well, look what we have here, an intruder. In fact, it was a burglar, Mr. Officer. Must have been, all dressed in black, the middle of the night, with the power out, I panicked and fired my weapon.” Sara glanced at her Uzi on the desk, then back to the man, who tilted his head sideways a fraction, observing her outfit. She knew that he could tell she was a woman, but the goggles obscured enough of her features to prevent recognition. “Enough fun and games,” he said. “Knock that Uzi over here—butt first, bitch. Put the safety on first.” She did as ordered. The gun bounced on the carpet without firing. He secured it with his foot, then said, “Now, off with the goggles. Let’s see who you are, maybe the Lone Rangeress.” At that precise moment, despite the worthiness of the cause, Sara realized this was not where she wanted to be, nor was it how she wanted to live—or die. Her vision descended into darkness as the goggles came off. Don’t panic, she reassured herself, shutting her eyes for five seconds to help the eyes adjust, just like Willem had told her. She recalled his words: ‘Listen to your instincts and stay alert.’ The words played over and over in her head as she tossed the goggles with microphone attached onto the desk. Able to see better she assumed the combat-ready stance Nathan had taught her. The man took a step closer. ✶

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On the landing between the basement and first floors, Frank was about to ascend to the first floor when a guard burst through the exit door, escaping Terrance’s onslaught. Frank ducked behind the stairs ascending to the second floor, but the man had seen him. The guard, armed with only a pistol, stood on the landing just inside the first floor door, protected by the same stairs that served Frank. It was a standoff. Adrenaline pumped through Frank’s body. He could feel his pulse rate increase as he thought of Sara by herself. He took several deep breaths, about to formulate a plan when the last man from the basement burst through the bullet-ridden fire door, machine gun blazing, the bullets thudding into the cinder block next to Frank. He crouched and fired three shots—two to the chest, one to

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the head. A look of surprise shadowed the lower guard’s eyes as he slid down the cinder block wall, leaving a bloody smear. The gunfire drew the attention of the man above forcing Frank to descend and take cover beneath the stairwell at basement level. He sensed Sara needed him, but all he could do was wait. Let the prey come to him. ✶

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In Jones’s office, now just a few paces apart, Sara stood still next to the desk as the man peered at her face. “Okay,” he said, “you have me. Who the fuck are you?” “What’s it to you? You’re just gonna kill me anyway, right Mr. Jones?” “Wait, I know that voice. No shit, it’s the one and only, Jennifer Chance. Or shall I call you Sarah Darnell. Who the hell are you these days, other than being alive and surprisingly well? Though that will end shortly.” “It’s Sara and I’m back from the dead. Twice.” She glared back as strong loathing welled up inside. She could just make out Jones’s eyes, oddly seeming to gleam and be cold at the same time. A chill shook her frame. She knew she had to buy time. But how? “So you found out about our little incident five years ago. Separating you from your honey and screwin’ up your whole life. I thought it was a stroke of genius by your old pal, Rogers.” Jones laughed. “I told him you weren’t cut out for the plan he had, but who was? I never bought that plan. He was just a puppet to move everything along until now. Enough of that, you, little lady, are of no use to me dead or alive. Actually, you’re in the damn way.” Keep him talking. That’s the trick. Then she said, “Yeah, Ulrich’s plan was idiotic, but I’m sure yours is far worse.” “You have no clue who I am or what I’m about. I love animals and nature as much as you, or Frank. But things have to change,” he said, taking another step closer—the business end of his gun inches from her face. Her comment had struck a cord. She heard his words, but what she saw in his eyes didn’t match. ✶

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Having descended through the vent shaft to the basement, Willem and John traipsed through the carnage and set explosives to the major load bearing walls.

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Each timer would detonate a quarter of an hour apart, which would stagger the effect and give the team members time to escape. Willem spoke into his microphone, “Team leader to base. Give stats. Over.” After a moment, Toliver’s voice came through the earpiece. “Base to team leader, Peter-three in computer room with Tango-seven, Nancy-four. Mary-eight is gone. Frank-five requests assistance, south stairwell. Sara-six, no response, but mic is active. Over.” Willem told him to relay to Frank that they were on their way. “Frank and Sara all right?” asked John, as he set the timer on the fourth and last explosive. “They’re not together. Better hurry. Somethin’s wrong. We set?” “Jah, mon.” From the north end of the building, they traversed the maze of basement hallways as quick as they could. All of a sudden a lone figure in a black beret appeared in the hallway fifty feet ahead of them, just in front of the south stairwell. A bloody crease showed on his forehead. The lone survivor of his squad, Pierre Logon couldn’t make out the figures— friend or foe. Then he remembered the code. “What’s the password?” Realizing the predicament, Willem bluffed. “Just checked that way, sir. All clear.” Not hearing the proper code numbers, Pierre opened fire. John responded quicker than Willem and dove into an open office. One of the 9mm slugs tore through Willem’s left shoulder and spun him across the hallway towards the office where John had disappeared. John returned fire, but Pierre had vanished. Willem scrambled into the office and checked the wound. The bullet just missed the shoulder joint, passing clean through. With a bandana, he stemmed the blood while John kept watch for the lone gunman. Resting against the side of a desk, Willem radioed Toliver and gave an update on their status. ✶

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Just two floors above, standing behind Jones’s desk, Sara tried to be defiant, despite the barrel of Jones’s weapon six inches from her face. “If you’re such a nature lover, why are you killing all these people with the device?” she said.

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“Of course, you know about that. But there’s so much you don’t know, just like the rest of the citizens, in every country. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time to explain, just now.” Fearing her time was up, Sara said, “I’d rather die free than live imprisoned by the codes or laws of some society that your heartless brain could dream up.” She knew it was a dangerous game to play, but she had nothing else. Hitting another button in him, Jones dropped the cane, grabbed her by the hair, and jammed the muzzle of the gun into her neck. “I’ve had about enough of your talk. I think your third death will be the charm.” Sara’s eyes widened as the rough round edge ground into the side of her neck. With a sideways glance she could see the enlarged whites of his eyes, the gleam replaced by glassy detachment. This is it, she thought.

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White House, Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:55 P.M. In the Oval Office, the President looked up from his desk as he heard the helicopter land on the back lawn. He returned to reviewing the papers on new environmental legislation to be presented to Congress tomorrow. Just then, a Secret Service agent in a black suit entered the room, index finger pressing on his earpiece. “Excuse me, Mr. President,” he said. There’s been an explosion of unknown origin in the suburbs of Virginia. I’ve come to escort you to the chopper, then to Air Force One, sir.” “What’s going on? Another terrorist attack?” “We’re not sure, sir. A helicopter is doing a search pattern, but until we know we have to get you to safety. The chopper’s waiting, sir. Your wife and children are already on board.” “All right, just a minute.” The President gathered some papers, placing them in a hard-sided briefcase. He put on his suit jacket and followed the agent out. ✶

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ENOCH Building, Reston, Virginia Friday, 12:05 A.M. Standing behind Jones’s desk, Sara could feel the heat of his body inches from her right side. Her mind tried to think of a plan, but nothing came, so she said, “You may kill me right now, but at least I finally know my true identity. What about you, huh?” - 324 -

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“I’d say he’s a dead man,” said a familiar voice from the far end of the office. It was the one sound Sara had longed to hear. Her body relaxed just a fraction. Jones slipped behind her body using it as a shield. She could barely make out Frank’s shape. He stood a few feet from the credenza just inside the office door, an Uzi firmly braced at hip height. “Looks like we have a bit of a standoff,” said Jones, his turn to stall for time. “Let’s examine the situation, Franky boy. I’ve got the love of your life at gunpoint. Let me be more specific, I have the old and new love of your life at gunpoint. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to blow her head off right in front of your eyes. How ’bout that, pal?” “Don’t give into him!” Sara said, by no means feeling as strong as she wanted. Jones shoved the gun barrel harder into her neck. “Shut the fuck up. I won’t tell you again.” “Jones, you forgot the other half of the scenario,” Frank said, inching closer. “You shoot her and I shoot you. I go free, maybe heart-broken, but thanks to you I’ve already got that down. You on the other hand would never get to see your dreams come true. That’s option one. Next choice: I shoot you first and risk whether your finger pulls the trigger in death reflex. Basically, same result as option one. Third option: you let her go, I take you in, unharmed, and you get to spend the rest of your meager life in a maximum-security correctional facility paid for by the taxpayers of this nation you’re so eagerly trying to eliminate.” He glanced at his watch and, more for Sara’s knowledge, added, “One other thing. This entire place is going up in twenty-five minutes. So, we can stand here, enjoy our time together, maybe reminisce about the old days before dying, or choose another location. It’s up to you, chief.” “Thanks for playin’ host on my personal ‘This Is Your Life’ show.” Jones shifted closer to Sara, unable to tell whether Frank was bluffing. “Unfortunately, Franky, there is no other way. This is it. Kill or be killed.” Even though terrified, Sara mouthed, ‘I love you’. She hoped Frank could see it through his goggles. Then she heard the worst sound in her life, Jones cocking the hammer back, ensuring her death if a gun battle broke out. Frank stood poised, Uzi braced at his side. At that moment, she saw a flash of green and white burst into the office. It was a man, and he tackled Frank, twisting his body and gun to the right. His finger fired the Uzi, spraying bullets, shattering the huge office window. A rush of warm, humid, natural air flooded in, distilling the false air-conditioned environment of the building.

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At the same time, Sara felt Jones drop the gun from her neck, perhaps to defend against the intruder. She grabbed his other hand that still held her hair and torqued her body forward as she stepped back. His hand slammed onto the desk, flipping the gun onto the floor. She kneed him in the butt, sending him head first into the computer monitor, shattering the screen. He slumped to the floor—dazed. Blood dripped down his face. Sara raced around the desk and grabbed Jones’s gun from the floor with a yell to Frank. “I’ll get help.” Forgetting the microphone attached to the goggles still on the desk, she dashed into the darkness of the hallway, paused to get her bearings, then bolted toward the south stairwell. ✶

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On the floor, Frank grappled with his assailant, who countered each attack with matched ferocity. The man swiveled his legs around and pinned Frank’s right arm along the throat. The attacker quickly began to increase pressure. Frank knew he had little time left, feeling it harder to breathe. He turned his head left to stop his windpipe from being crushed. Then he heard movement in the office. He could see Jones, a long, thin object in hand, stumbling about, as if drunk. “Carlos,” he said, “take care of that piece o’ shit for me. Then get outta here. The building’s wired to blow. I’m goin’ after that bitch.” He staggered past the two men and disappeared into the hallway. Struggling to get free of the deadly chokehold, Frank felt the strap of the throwing knives rub his cheek. If he could just get one free, but the room was going gray, or was it the carpeting. He gasped for air. ✶

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At last, in the basement, Sara ran toward the door where she and Frank had entered. Without the night vision goggles, it had been much harder to find the way. With a gasp, she burst through the rear emergency door, just as a huge explosion rocked the ground, knocking her down. Looking back, she saw a large portion of the southern end of the building collapse. She got up, shook her head and bolted for the woods. A familiar voice called to her from the edge of the forest. “M’on wid ya, girl. No time ta waste, seen!”

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Frank knew he had little time left. Finally, he coaxed a knife into his free hand and plunged it into Carlos’s lower thigh. The man screamed in agony, releasing the chokehold. He rolled away clutching the handle of the knife protruding from his leg. In seconds, oxygen pouring into his lungs, Frank grabbed the .45 from the small of his back and jumped up. He readjusted his night vision goggles and stepped into the hallway, scanning up and down for Jones. Hearing a movement behind, he whirled around as Carlos brought an Uzi to bear. Without hesitation, Frank fired two shots. The man slumped back to the floor, dropping the Uzi. Frank checked his watch: ten minutes to detonation. He raced toward the south stairs. ✶

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Exhausted and shaken, Sara fell into the Rasta’s arms. In the safety of the woods, she saw Terrance standing back a little ways, keeping guard, an Uzi in each hand. Neither man appeared to have suffered any wounds. “Where’s everybody?” she gasped. “Willem be at da van—gunshot wound. Nathan and Peter were rescued by Terrance, ‘ere, and got da information off the computer with some battery generator t’ing. They back at da van, too. Mitch didn’t make it. Terrance and I be da roundup team.” “What about Frank? Have you seen him?” Her gut knotted instantly. “Frank’s still in there!” She struggled to free herself from John’s strong grasp to no avail. He looked at Terrance, who shook his head. John led her deeper into the woods. Before he could say anything, the ground shook with another earthquake-like tremor. Sara watched as the east side of the building collapsed, spewing brick, mortar, glass, and debris up and outward. The door she had just come through disappeared in a pile of rubble. A certain dismay pierced her heart. John pulled her down into a crouch behind the cover of underbrush, while Terrance stood guard, night vision goggles in place. “Look!” Terrance pointed with one of the Uzi barrels at two figures rounding the corner at the north end of the building.

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The first ran with legs and arms pumping, a long thin object in his hand. He kept looking over the shoulder at the pursuer, who had a distinctive limp to his gait. The second figure was losing ground. “Frank!” Sara screamed, trying to get free again, but John held tight. He eased his grip as she ceased to struggle. Seeing Terrance take a step toward the grassy field, he said, “Wait! Give ’im a chance, mon.” ✶

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Just then the west and north portions of the structure exploded in synchronization creating a huge shock wave effect through the ground. Both men fell down, their bodies still for a moment. Behind them, the ENOCH building collapsed in a heap of rubble and dust. Frank regained his senses and began to army crawl towards Jones as he began to move. He grabbed him by the ankle and held fast. Then a flash of light exploded in his head as the raven head struck the side of his face. He rolled with blow and got onto all fours. Immediately, his head ached. Jones closed the distance and kicked him in the stomach. Again he rolled with it, minimizing the blow. Then, staying close to the ground and spinning his legs, he swept Jones’s legs out from under him. He heard his breath exhale with the force of the impact. Both seasoned fighters, they jumped up and squared off. Frank stayed in an open, relaxed kamae stance. Jones held a tighter, more defensive posture. “I shoulda killed you five years ago,” he said, “but I listened to that pussy Ulrich.” Brandishing the cane, he slashed at Frank, but missed. “You’ll have to do better than those two buffoons you sent in San Diego.” Frank evaded another slicing attack. “What do you have against me? I plugged the hole in your leg when you got hit in Malta. I saved your life, for God’s sake!” “Well, there it is.” Jones’s eyes lost their sheen as he separated the cane, holding the short sword attached to the raven’s head in his right and the scabbard in the other. Faking a strike with the left he slashed with the blade. It connected with the sleeve of Frank’s night suit. He felt wetness form on the edges of the cut. The pain would come later. They continued to circle, like animals in the wild. Frank looked for an opportunity to strike, but the weapons kept him at bay. Jones faked left, sliced right again. Frank ducked the swipe of the sword and kicked his knee. Jones fell to one knee and struck back with the lower part of the cane.

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Frank stepped in, his knee met Jones’s wrist and the scabbard flew across the grass. With an opening at Frank’s back Jones sliced with the blade and connected. Searing pain emanated from the back of his thigh, but Frank still countered with a back kick to Jones’s chest, knocking him backwards. Frank grabbed his thigh, a deeper cut than on his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jones charge, full of determination, sword back and out to the side. He stayed crouched, back to his attacker, pretending to check his leg. Wait for the prey to come. Poised for a lethal side torso strike, Jones was almost on top of him. At the last second Frank spun around and caught the hand with the sword, like a softball. Before Jones could resist, he used the strike’s momentum to guide the sword hand between their bodies, the blade slicing the grass. He allowed the weapon arm to come back up until high overhead. Then he stepped beneath it and pulled Jones’s wrist behind his shoulder. The two men faced opposite directions, shoulder to shoulder. With the wristlock, Frank had the edge on balance. But Jones was strong, and a capable fighter. The sword dangled overhead, just awaiting a victor. Slowly, Frank’s wristlock caused Jones’s grip on the sword handle to lessen. Jones cursed as he teetered on the verge of falling over backwards, still controlled by the wristlock. In a flash Frank snatched the weapon with his free hand and thrust it straight down through Jones’s exposed chest. Still upright, Jones’s body convulsed in a dis-rhythmic dance of death. Frank released the raven head and the body collapsed in a heap of flesh, knees bent beneath hips, head on the grass. He watched Jones’s cream-colored shirt turn crimson. He shook his head, hating to see waste and knowing Jones had died by his own code. He looked around him as small fires from the explosion burst out of control. He began to limp up the grassy incline toward the woods. As he neared the location, Sara rushed out and threw arms around him. Almost collapsing, he surrendered to the embrace, head lolling on her shoulder. She hugged tight, whispering in his ear. “I love you, Frank. You scared me for a moment. I thought you.…” She stopped, noticing the feebleness of his grasp. She wiped blood from the cut on his face. “Are you hurt badly?” He shook his head, though unseen in the darkness the lower leg of the night suit was drenched in blood. He winced with every step. She put her arm around

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his waist and John assisted on the other side. They wrapped the leg wound to minimize the blood trail. “Why didn’t you help, John?” said Frank, who then looked over his shoulder, just making out the fallen figure on the grassy slope. “I would’ve, if I’d felt you needed it. But I sensed your nature would prevail over his power, jus’ like nature always remain true to ‘erself despite the transgressions of mankind. Jah mon!” Smiling and tapping his goggles, still in place, he added, “You looked great, mon.” Just as they neared the second clearing, an approaching helicopter sounded, and all of them could see the sweep of the searchlight. Frank felt comforted beneath the cover of trees. Once the helicopter passed, John smiled at him. “In Rastafari, we ‘ave saying, part of it go like dis: ‘Ever faithful, ever sure.’ Dat is how you felt when you battled dat mon. Trood?” Looking up at the cloudless, black night full of shining stars, Frank laughed. “It was probably more like, ever shakin’, ever quakin’.” They all laughed. Sirens wailed in the close distance. Arriving at the two closest vehicles next to the curb, Peter offered a warm greeting and observed Frank’s pale face and ragged condition. “If we’re set, we’d better disappear before the police arrive.” “Yes, mon. The doctor be dead. The structure is in ruins. The job be done.” “Quite a night, I’d say. We’re packed and ready. Sara put Frank in the van and start patching that leg.” In haste, each of the three cars returned by a different route to the safehouse.

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Safehouse, Northern Virginia Friday, 10:11 A.M. While Frank and Willem still slept, the others ate a late breakfast at the dining room table. With a grand smile, wearing a tan blazer and navy slacks, Peter stood up and addressed those present. “Sara, John, Terrance, Toliver, good show everyone. One announcement: Ulrich, as an apology to all those interested, has graciously offered an unlimited time of rest and relaxation on the beautiful island of Saint Kitts. In his words, ‘My home is your home.’” “Wonderful,” said Sara, munching on a blueberry muffin. Other heads bobbed around the table. Before anyone could say anything, the muffled ring of a cellular phone sounded. Noting the look of surprise on the faces around him, Peter reached into a sport coat pocket, withdrew a small phone and smirked. After all, he had banned them. He turned from the group, hearing a familiar voice. “Peter, good to hear your normal voice. I want to congratulate you personally on a successful solution to our problem. Please tell me that the source of the transmission to the satellite that caused the deaths is finished.” “Quite so, Mr. President. I gather you’ve received the good news then. The ENOCH building is demolished.” “Are you quite sure the effect of the transmission on the populace is over?” Peter looked over his shoulder to see all the team members, mouths gaping, staring at him. “The satellite dish that supplied the frequencies is in a million pieces, I’d say. Thus, no signal, no more deaths.”

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“Wonderful. It turns out that a General Siderov from the former Soviet Republic was involved with Jones’s attempted coup of the world. The General has been apprehended,” said the President. “Please accept my most humble gratitude and pass that along to your people as well. I’m sorry we cannot offer some sort of commendation on this, but you know how it is. And I do have one request. Would you and your team leave the country for a little bit until this blows over?” “We planned to do just that, sir. Some of our people need a day or so to heal then we’re off. Thank you for the plane, I should say. And I assume the rest of the payment will be transferred?” The others continued to stare at him. “Without question, I believe it’s already done. I am greatly indebted to you. The people of this country are greatly indebted to you, probably the world, based on what we now know. Anything else I can offer you, Peter?” “Something to think about I daresay, but that Jones fellow did have a point about the government. Perhaps governments in general are abusing the power vested in them by the people. Might be worth a look into some changes, what with terrorism on the rise, sir. Hate to have to go through this lot again in another couple of years.” “I’ll think about it and get back to you. Get some rest and again, my most sincere gratitude. So long, for now.” Before anyone could speak, Peter held up a hand. “I must convey this to you first, before all hell breaks loose. The President of the United States commanded me to thank all of you. He is most grateful.” “Willem was right! You are very well connected.” Toliver almost yelled. “You mean we were working for Uncle Sam all this time?” Sara said, eyes wide. “Not exactly, and there shall never be any official record of it. In fact, until this very moment, only he and I knew of our arrangement. Let’s finish breakfast before it becomes afternoon, shall we?” “But, Peter,” Sara began. “Let’s just say, even the President of the United States has to go outside of the system in order to solve a problem or two. Not unlike that famous quote by Einstein, if I remember correctly. Besides, he and I are old chums. And I daresay, it was for the highest good.” He winked at Sara.

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Oval Office, White House, Washington, D.C. Friday, 7:05 P.M. Bathed in faint shadows from a fading sunset that crept through the tall windows, the President relaxed in a high-backed chair behind his desk, interlaced fingers resting on his stomach. The turning blades of the waiting helicopter echoed from the lawn. It would take him to join his family at Camp David, where they had gone last night. But one small loose end lingered. He stared at the opened padded envelope on the desk. Just then the white door to the office eased open. Bill Dunn, the National Security Agency liaison, entered carrying a small black leather briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. The President nodded and held up an index finger. The man waited as the nation’s leader arose from his chair. He motioned the man to the conference table. It was completely vacant except for a small, portable stereo. The President depressed the PLAY button on the machine and Tchaikovsky’s Fantasy Overture to Romeo and Juliet began to play. He adjusted the volume louder, and invited Bill to sit. Side by side, the President leaned close to the other man’s ear and spoke in a whisper. “The whole place is bugged as you know. This will cover us. Did you get it?” The man nodded, unlocked the briefcase, and extracted a DVD in a thin CD casing. The President held it between thumb and forefinger. “Channel Four didn’t copy it, did they?” “No, that’s the only other copy … unless the outsiders you hired have one. That is possible, sir, since they were the last ones in the ENOCH building. Do we need to have them taken care of, sir?” “No, for once that is completely secure as I know the operative. Of all the men in the world I know he is one of the few men of true honor. I trust him implicitly.” The President spread his hands out on the table, a gesture of confidence and completion.

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“Very good, sir,” said Bill, pausing, considering whether to speak or not. “Mr. President, from what I could tell of the information we gathered on the ENOCH operation, it seems that Ulrich Rogers or Dr. Jones, whomever, further perfected the project that our government experimented with on Long Island in the seventies and eighties. Which, by the way, was effectively used to create a surrender of enemy troops during the Gulf War. The people at ENOCH just upped the ante and used it to kill.” “I’m aware of that, Bill, but you just forget that you know that. And I’ll forget that you know it as well.” The President looked the man square in the eye. “Deal?” “Certainly, Mr. President, sir.” “Very well. Good job. A shame about that anchorwoman, I always liked her. I’ll be in touch, Bill.” The President got up, signaling the end of the meeting. The NSA man closed the now empty briefcase, and left the office with a nod. While the music played, the President grabbed some papers from his desk, putting them inside of a small soft-sided, brown, leather briefcase. Then he placed the two DVDs inside the case and strapped it shut. He walked over to the little stereo and turned it off. He scanned the spacious office, which had grown almost dark, and exited. ✶

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Safehouse, Northern, Virginia Sunday, 9:30 P.M. After eighteen hours of sleep Frank finally felt rested. Bringing meals to him in bed, Sara had roused him only once to watch the President, who reassured the public that the cause of the fatalities had been solved. Safety and security had been restored within the U.S. borders. Now, he limped heavily around the room, packing for the trip to the Caribbean. He opened the black kevlar case and checked that all the weapons were neatly packed away. Debating what to do with them, he heard a noise behind him and spun around to see Sara. He smiled, slipping the piece of paper from the bank into his back jeans pocket. “Planning to use those again sometime soon?” She nodded to the case, running a hand down his back. “How are you feeling? How’s the leg?” “I’m doing pretty good. Alive, that’s the most important thing. We’re back together again. That’s the next most important.” He kissed her cheek, eyeing the

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case. “As for these means of survival, they served their purpose, but I’m putting them away.” “Good. Awareness and compassion are much better strategies for our new life.” She cradled his face. “You sure you’re all right?” “How are you and Ulrich getting along?” “Oh, we have a date for breakfast tomorrow, before we all depart for the islands. He wants to talk. You okay with the trip?” “Well, y’know, when the President of the United States orders you to take a vacation, I, for one, will not disobey.” A big smile lit up his face as he imitated the Rasta. “Jah mon!” ✶

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An airplane somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean Monday, 1:11 P.M. Sara and Frank sat side by side, holding hands, in the plush seats of the indirect gift from the President that now shuttled all of the team members to the island of Saint Kitts. She looked back and saw Toliver and Willem, looking like a pair of war veterans, stretched out on a couple of seats in the back. Toward the front, Ulrich wrote in a journal, the one he had begun the day after Jones had attacked him. Peter and John relaxed on the opposite side of the plane a couple of rows back from Ulrich, talking animatedly about upcoming changes they wanted to make in the Import/Export Company. Sara felt the fullness of the reunion with Frank deepening with every second since their embrace after the battle. Yet, she knew that the trauma from the missing years would need to be healed, for both of them. But, it could wait. It was enough to be alive and safe. Frank’s mouth nuzzled her ear and whispered. “All right, close your eyes now and hold out your left hand, palm up.” She looked at him for a moment then did as requested. She felt a hard, smooth, warm object weigh down her hand. It was all she could do to keep from opening her eyes. “Okay, take a look.” She opened her eyes and stared at a black heart-shaped stone. Her jaw dropped as disbelief covered her face. “Where’d you get this?” “It was in your safe deposit box at the bank in San Diego. The one I told you about.”

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“Wait, Frank. You mean this stone was in a box that belonged to me?” He nodded in an exaggerated fashion, his playful side beginning to return. Sara hefted the stone so it flipped over in her hand, and said, “Unbelievable.” “What? You don’t remember?” She relayed the dream she had had on the plane after spending time together in San Diego. “But in the dream, I just didn’t trust my feelings enough to give it to you then, so I hid it.” “Sara, that wasn’t a dream. It was real. I was there with you at Carmel by the Sea. We sat on the big sand dune and you went to the water and I saw you pick something up, but I never knew what it was.” “Oh my God, then maybe all those dreams I had weren’t dreams at all but glimpses into my life before Ulrich’s manipulations. That makes so much sense.” She turned to Frank as if to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. “How ’bout I give you the stone as a symbol of my heart surrendered to you?” He closed her fingers over the cool, smooth surface of the rock. She nodded as her eyes welled up, knowing her dreams had become reality. “You know, honey, I’m gonna need some time to ease back into this.” She wagged a finger between the two of them. Frank nodded. “Me too.” He relaxed back into the seat, then added, “Oh, I almost forgot.” From behind him on the seat he produced a piece of paper, which he unfolded and handed to her. “Now, read this.” Sara looked at the single sheet and began to read aloud, softly. “Oh, Sweet Surrender* October Twenty Third Peace pervades the purple moonlight Penetrating the tranquility of our room. Fearful shadows no longer cast As we pray at each other’s altar. This languorous journey amidst worlds Of difference has transiently terminated, Yet still ships forever sway Within the distance of another’s harbor. And the serene fog hovers as a river’s Blanket, offering ceaseless comfort

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In the deep swirling unknown cauldron. Yet in this moment with hue of blue, Breathes a time without seconds, Shaped by the divinity of your presence And the unwavering eternal essence. Leading us to conjure and conspire At the core of our unfathomable heart’s desire. Mere vessels for love’s healing and wisdom, We receive the rarity and enter the kingdom. *For being Frank, Love always, Sarah” Frank eased back in the seat and closed his eyes, letting her words sink in. His right hand rested on top of the stone in her left hand. When she finished, he said, “Simple, but beautiful. You always did have a way with words.” She placed the paper on the drink tray. Then, with the assistance of her right hand, she turned his right and her left over so her hand with the stone was over his right palm. She released the stone. It fell the short distance into his palm. She closed his fingers around the stone as he had just done. “What are you doing?” “I’m surrendering my heart to you, again.” She gazed into his eyes, the gleam reflected back, mirrored her own, both inside and out. “You trust the feelings in your heart, now?” “Definitely,” she said, with a radiant smile and brought his head closer to hers. “Beyond that—I know.” She leaned toward his face, joining lips with his in a soft, passionate, vibrant union. At that moment, the magical balance was restored within each of them.

THE END

Real Technology

The device in this work, the Bio-Energetic Tensiometer, doesn’t exist, though it is extrapolated from real devices in use by the U.S. military and other governments around the globe. These electromagnetic devices were initially developed in 1970 as part of the U.S. government’s exploration into “psychotronic warfare”, a subject the Soviets had also been studying for some time. This type of warfare effort was three-pronged: a) psychotronic weapons—the use of electronic weapons to affect the minds of target persons, or animals; b) hypnosis at a distance—the use of psychokinetic mental abilities to influence and/or control the thoughts and actions of others; c) mind control—the use of chemical, psychological, and other means to manipulate the thoughts and activities of others. The electromagnetic devices were eventually perfected and deployed in the Gulf War, Afghanistan, and Iraq. The proliferation of Radio Frequency Identification (RFID) chips has been on the rise for the last fifteen years, especially in the last decade. It allows businesses to easily track their assets in all phases of commerce, from production to shipping to delivery. Since 2000, several companies began testing sub-dermal microchips for humans. By early 2002, Applied Digital Solutions of Palm Beach, Florida unveiled an injectable RFID chip, the size of a grain of rice, called “Verichip”. This was a transceiver, capable of sending and receiving data and being tracked by Global Positioning Systems. In February 2006, the Cincinnati, Ohio company, CityWatcher.com, implanted two employees with such a device.

More information can be found on both of these topics (and more) in previously published articles available at: www.geoffreygluckman.com. (See: Controlled Remote Viewing and The Business of Asset Tracking) - 339 -