Plot counterplot, p.14
Plot/Counterplot, page 14
“Not rider. Wri-ter.”
“Oh. What’s he write?”
“Novels. Thrillers. Big action stuff. Apocalyptic, world on the brink of disaster. Except his hero, Fargo Cody, always swoops in and sets things right at the last possible moment.”
“Huh.” Eustace was beginning to look bored. “I don’t have much time for fiction. Is this guy famous?”
“Compared to whom? He’s a writer, not something really important, like a Beverly Hills heiress or an American Idol finalist. Look, I’ll get right on this.”
“Good. But remember—the focus is on Cartwright, not this writer. The military brass are concerned about that. Lots of top secret stuff going on there, apparently.” He started toward the door, then stopped. “Oh, by the way—hear anything from Ingrid?”
“Oddly enough, we haven’t stayed in touch.”
“Shame.”
“I prefer it that way.”
“I can see where you might be bitter. But even after all that happened, you have to admit—she’s a hell of a woman.”
“She is that.”
“Everybody loves Ingrid,” Eustace said, as he left the office.
Yeah. That was the problem.
As soon as Eustace was gone, Seamus opened his desk, removed the legal pad and placed it in the silver metallic trimline attaché he carried with him at all times. He kept his desk locked, but given his experience in the world of secrets, he wouldn’t leave anything this important to the protection of a flimsy desk drawer lock. It would stay with him. Always.
Taggart’s behavior prior to the break-in suggested someone was out to get him and the people close to him. And now Taggart was gone. Maybe he was dead. But if so, where was the body? And why go after a writer? Seamus didn’t have the answers, but given the connection to the Cartwright Institute, he suspected he should. And the only way to get those answers would be to find Taggart. Immediately.
If he could track down Osama bin Laden, how hard could it be to find some writer?
Chapter 27
“You have the information about university security Xavier provided,” Mr. X said, swiveling around in her chair at the conference table. “Did you get everything else you needed?”
“Yes,” Dylan replied. Xavier’s intelligence-gathering assignment verged on the impossible—and the Russian had completed it in fewer than twenty-four hours. He’d always known the man was a brute, but the report he received made him aware of another dangerous fact. He had a gift for perceiving what scared people most—and using it to get what he wanted. Whatever he took to pump up those enormous muscles hadn’t addled his brain. Dylan couldn’t let himself be fooled by Xavier’s broken English and his Boris-and-Natasha accent. He was a formidable man.
“When will we be ready to proceed?”
“Soon. But I want to take this one step at a time.”
“Sod that,” she said levelly. “I want to move within the week. So that’s what we’re going to do.”
“Of course,” Dylan replied, as always giving the appearance of compliance. She didn’t believe it, but she expected it. Kept her from detecting where the real resistance lie. “But we still need to recruit the other specialists. And I will need specialized equipment. Specialized and expensive.”
“We’ll get it.” Mr. X’s lids fluttered. “Have we not given you everything you desire?”
In some respects, that was true. Dylan had his own office with an excellent support staff. They brought him meals and offered him tea at midday. The food was excellent. There was a gym for exercise. There was a masseuse available in the afternoons. He could requisition anything he needed and had never yet been turned down. They treated him like a prince.
He was a prisoner.
The guards maintained a discreet distance, but Dylan knew he was being watched every second. During every meeting, there were four armed thugs in the room. Two were posted outside his room at all times, even when he was sleeping.
After Xavier drove him away from the cabin, three weeks ago, he’d squirted an aerosol anesthetic in Dylan’s face. He had no idea how long he was out. He woke up here, at their headquarters hidden away in the dense rain forest of—someplace. He thought he was still in the Hawaiian islands, judging from the vegetation and climate. But he couldn’t be certain. And it really didn’t matter. He could be in the heart of Waikiki and it wouldn’t make any difference. They weren’t letting him go anywhere.
On the outside, the compound looked like a dilapidated old warehouse overgrown with vegetation. That was the disguise. On the inside it was a networked control center rivaling NORAD. They had well-furnished offices with the latest and greatest technological devices, computers, wi-fi, satellite links, the works. He knew there was a scientific laboratory and an armory, though he didn’t have access to those areas. There were at least two dozen people on staff, including a medical team. They’d even given him a tetanus shot. It was like working in a corporate office. It had the same ant colony feel, everyone moving in their orbits accomplishing their specialized tasks. Except this office was in the business of creating terror.
Once he asked her. “What gave you the idea of targeting me? Why do you think I can help you?”
Finally, she offered him a clue.
“In 1995, an uneducated jackal executes a bombing plan that destroys a federal installation in Oklahoma City and kills 168 people. Where did this backwoods moron get his inspiration? Do you know?”
Dylan searched his memory...
“From a book. A novel, to be specific. A poorly written piece of shite called The Turner Diaries. It wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on, but it was popular on the underground militia circuit. Timothy McVeigh read it—and the result was written in blood.”
“That’s an isolated example.”
“Skyjacking. Who came up with that idea? Rod Serling, the Twilight Zone creator, for a television drama. He regretted it the rest of his life. 9/11. Where was the idea for that derived?”
“Al Qaeda operatives—”
“No. Tom ClanCy wrote a book called Debt of Honor that portrayed a terrorist flying a jumbo jet into Capitol Hill. Sound familiar? What’s more, in March of 2001, the pilot episode of a television program called The Lone Gunmen featured a plot to hijack a commercial airliner and fly it into the World Trade Center. That television program was concocted by a writer—but six months later, Al Qaeda did it for real.”
Dylan had no reply.
“The government understands this,” she continued. “Hence, Analytic Code Red. A government program initiated by Homeland Security. They contacted Brad Thor and other writers to brainstorm about how terrorists might next attack the country. They were searching for ideas, Dylan. And if they can do it, why can’t we?”
Dylan hadn’t forgotten what she said they were planning. Whether he believed it or not, she wanted this so-called super-weapon for a reason, and it wasn’t to satisfy her intellectual curiosity. They planned to use it. And when they did, people would die.
“Did we get the university schematics?”
“I had to work my butt off,” Felix replied. He was always present at these meetings. He seemed to be Mr. X’s top assistant. “Tightly restricted. The IP was masked, but I ran a traceroute to get a list of the network devices—all the routers and switches that connected their machine—”
“We really don’t need all the details,” Dylan said. “Did you get the schematics?”
“Of course.” Felix never looked up. His eyes were glued to his laptop screen. Felix was at best twenty-five, possibly younger, with a shaved head, a butterfly tattoo on the back of his neck, a soul patch, and a silver ring through one ear. He had an off-the-charts IQ and a hacking ability that could bring down third-world nations. And if that didn’t provide Dylan all the character detail he needed to understand this young man—Felix wore a T-shirt that read: OBI-WAN FOR PRESIDENT. HE’S OUR ONLY HOPE.
“Can you get me dossiers on the people working security? Both the campus cops and the government ones.”
Felix clicked a few keys. “No problem. I’m linked to the big boy in their computer room.” He smiled like a man in love. “I could conquer the world with our IBM Blue Gene/L. Processing speed 12.18 petaFLOPS. I didn’t think anyone but the government could afford these babies.”
Dylan wondered if Felix had surrendered to the dark side for political purposes, money, or just so he could play on Mr. X’s big cool computer.
“Please have the files sent to my office. Here’s the list of equipment my team will need.’
Mr. X picked it up, glanced over it once. “Dylan...you’re expensive.”
“You want a Wal-Mart plan or a Tiffany’s plan? You people don’t seem to be hurting for cash.”
“If it will get us Scheimer’s files—consider it done.”
Xavier looked over her shoulder at the list. “Plastic heads? Fake vomit? Is this infiltration or practical joke?”
A little of both, Dylan thought. But he didn’t grin. Xavier was constantly hovering over his shoulder. So were Xavier’s two primary accomplices. Dylan didn’t like any of these people, but he found it hard to be in the same room with Marco without ripping his eyes out.
He closed his eyes, blotting out the memory of when he had seen Leilani last, the plaintive cry of her final words. She’d called out his name—as he walked away.
He’d had no choice. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.
He’d asked them for status reports. Did she make it to the hospital? Was she still alive? Was she able to walk? They refused to answer. Said it wouldn’t be good for morale.
They were probably right about that.
“You’ll need to rent some space near the university,” Dylan reminded her. “Best to get started on it now.”
“As you say. And we need—a chemist?”
“I’m going to require some drugs.”
“I hope you don’t imagine that truth serum will persuade Scheimer to talk. Even if he’s drugged, as soon as we start interrogating him, the post-hypnotic suggestion will be triggered.”
“I understand. No, that’s not part of the plan.”
She stared at the list. “A contortionist?”
“Someone extremely flexible. And small. And an encryption expert.”
“Is that it?”
“No. I also need...you.”
Mr. X’s eyes squinted slightly. “I’m the leader. I don’t go into the field.”
“Your participation is essential.”
“We have many operatives.”
“For this job, you are uniquely qualified.”
“How so?”
“You speak fluent German.”
“As do millions of other people. I...attract too much attention.”
“Please don’t take this personally...but I wondered if you’d ever considered seeing a plastic surgeon?”
“I haven’t,” she said, raising her chin. “I don’t need one. I like my scars. I earned my scars.”
“No one deserves...that.”
“You’re not taking them from me.”
“Because you earned them in pursuit of a noble cause?”
“Stop fishing.”
“Because that’s how you punish yourself? How you remind yourself to experience guilt on a daily basis?”
“I didn’t do this to myself.”
“I understand that.”
“And it could have been much worse.”
“And for someone—it was. Right?”
“He—” She stopped short. Her lids lowered to such an extent that her eyes were almost imperceptible. “Very good, Dylan. Well played. But your job is to get information from Scheimer. Not me.”
Which told him he was definitely on the trail of something useful. “Whether you want surgery or not, I need a German-speaking female about your size, and all things considered, you’re the best choice. I’ve selected a doctor. My research indicates that he is adept in the use of several invaluable new techniques and chemical agents—some of them not yet approved for use in the United States.”
“This is becoming increasingly complicated. I do hope you’re not just busting my balls.” Her voice deepened, and her hand flexed open and shut, as if she were squeezing invisible genitals. “I can’t be put at risk.”
“You didn’t recruit me to give you anything ordinary.”
She pushed herself to her feet. “Indeed not. Let me think about it. In the meantime, proceed with your plan.”
As soon as she left the room, Xavier strode over and pressed his hands down on Dylan’s shoulders.
“I hope you take this serious.”
“Believe me, I do.”
“This my home now. Do not want to lose.”
What did that mean? Dylan filed it away for future use.
“I have news,” Xavier continued. “Your woman. Bitch that squeals like pig.”
Dylan contained his emotions. Poker face. “Yes?”
“She lived.”
Dylan felt a surge of adrenaline course through his body. “Is she...well?”
“Dead below waist. Will be in wheelchair all life. Squealing days are done.”
Dylan nodded. “Thank you for the update. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Dylan rose from the table, but Xavier shoved him back down. “This mission must be accomplished. Soon.”
“I understand. And I will do my level best to—”
Xavier squeezed his shoulders with bone-crushing intensity. “If you fail, I will kill girl. I will let Marco have way with her. Then I will strangle her slowly with bare hands.” He leaned in close. “Your idea better work.”
“It will, Xavier. Trust me.” His eyes drifted to the side as he added, “It will work exactly as I’ve planned.”
Chapter 28
The police had already worked the Mahoe Center with every crime scene tech they had and the reports were reasonably thorough. Dobie Bellinger died from asphyxiation, wet sand blocking his windpipe. Attributed to dementia and a sudden tide. The only part Seamus found of interest was the ME’s report. There were slight bruise marks on both sides of the victim’s neck. The ME assumed he ran into something, slipped, fell, couldn’t get up, and was killed when the tide rushed in.
But Seamus wasn’t buying it. That fire had been set for a reason, and given that only one person was harmed, he had to believe they wanted to create an opportunity to get to the target. The victim was found on his back, face up. If he had fallen, any bruises would be on the back, not the front.
Someone had pushed him down. Held him down. It wouldn’t take much. The man was eighty-nine years old, infirm, barely able to walk. A child could’ve restrained him—while his accomplice shoveled sand into the man’s mouth.
And this all happened just a few hours after Dylan Taggart bribed the manager to ramp up security.
Seamus wondered if Taggart had taken any legal actions or precautions to protect Bellinger or himself. So he called Taggart’s publisher and got the name of his lawyer. Tried to call him, but there was a problem.
The lawyer had been murdered three weeks ago. Same day the old man died. Same day Taggart’s girlfriend was attacked.
This plot was thickening, in a way that only made it appear darker and more dangerous than Seamus had imagined.
After Mahoe, Seamus went somewhere the police hadn’t been—Dylan Taggart’s penthouse condo. None of his neighbors had seen him for weeks, not since that memorable night when he was apparently arrested, the retirement home burned, his girlfriend was assaulted, and he disappeared.
There was another intriguing detail Seamus uncovered. The night security guard at the condo had disappeared the night before all this excitement occurred. He still hadn’t turned up.
Curiouser and curiouser.
After he broke in with his lockpick, Seamus spent almost an hour examining the condo. It was spacious but sparsely furnished. A bachelor pad, Seamus thought. A place that lacked a woman’s touch. The kind of place a single man who has experienced great success buys—and then doesn’t know what to do with it. Reminded Seamus of his own place, except he didn’t have any of the expensive toys. Looked as if he and Taggart had the same taste in books, though. Robert Louis Stevenson, John Buchan, Conan Doyle, Baroness Orczy, Rider Haggard. The adventure classics of a previous century. The heroes of a bygone era.
Seamus was about to abandon the search when, up in the window beside the bed, he found the trace of a distinctive oval outline. Something had been affixed to the edge by suction cup.
He pulled a digital camera out of his pocket, removed the infrared filter, and took a picture. A tiny red dot was apparent in the digital display. That was the sign of an optical listening device, probably a Digitel XL-5. It transmitted a pulsing signal through a pane of glass that converted sound vibrations in the glass into speech. The suction cup probably held a fiber optic camera.
Someone had been spying on Dylan Taggart, even in his bedroom. Someone sophisticated. They watched, waited, and then at the moment when he was most vulnerable, they used stormtrooper shock-and-awe tactics to crush resistance before it began. That writer probably never stood a chance.
Except...
If they were watching this condo, and they grabbed Taggart here—why did the medics find the girlfriend at a cabin out in Pupukea?
Seamus needed to talk to the girlfriend.
* * *
Mr. X was fuming.
“I am not happy about this part you’ve written for me, Dylan.”
“If you’ll recall, I didn’t choose my role in this drama, either.”
“I told you I don’t wish to lose my scars. I earned them.”
“Sort of like an IRA merit badge?”
“Would you believe me if I told you that my injury had nothing to do with the IRA?”
“Jilted lover?”
“Don’t be preposterous.”
“Is it preposterous to suggest that you once had a lover?”
She drummed her fingertips on the conference table.
“To answer your question,” he said, filling the gap, “of course I would believe you. I believe everything you tell me.”
