Plot counterplot, p.20
Plot/Counterplot, page 20
“How was he as a father?”
“He was...strict. Controlling. Never hesitant to punish. Believed humiliation could be character-building.”
“Are we talking about spankings?”
“We’re talking about being forced to strip down to your underwear and stand on a table—he called it the Shame Table—for hours. Holding a heavy rock.”
“And this would be a punishment for...?”
“Weakness. Any form of weakness. I can still hear his voice. ‘Weakness is cowardice. And the only cure for cowardice is shame.’ So he’d make us stand on the table in our skivvies, even with other people walking in and out. If we tried to sit, he’d whip the back of our legs with a riding crop. He did a lot of other things, too. Stuff I don’t even want to talk about.” Taggart’s eyes seemed to recede. “But he did it for a reason. He wanted us to be strong. Resilient. Ready to deal with anything. He approached parenting just as he did foreign poliCy. Carry the big stick and you get what you want.”
“Sounds demanding.”
“He did tend to believe the whole world should think and be just like him. And if you didn’t—you weren’t as good.”
“I’ve known people like that,” Seamus said. “Egoists. They justify their constant criticism by saying they’re trying to help you. But they’re intolerant of anyone who’s different from themselves.”
“That’s about right. Our dad was never satisfied with anything we did. Especially not anything Dylan did. He was too much like his mother. That’s what the old man always said. As generous as he could be at work, or with friends, Dad could be very...cold with his children.”
So you, Seamus thought, being the oldest child, dealt with the iCy withholding by following in his footsteps, doing everything imaginable to become the man he wanted you to be. A duplicate of the original. And Dylan, the youngest, dealt by rebelling against everything his father represented. “Thank you for talking with me.”
“Not at all. I hope you find Dylan.”
Seamus started out of the briefing room. Just before he reached the door, Taggart spoke again. “Mr. McKay—what’s going to happen if you don’t find Dylan? And don’t pull any punches just because he’s my brother.”
Seamus exhaled heavily. “Dylan is mixed up with some seriously nasty characters. I don’t know what they want, but if he refuses, or he screws it up—they’ll kill him.”
“And if he complies?”
“They’ll still kill him. After they’re done with him.”
Chapter 41
Dylan held the photograph beside Mr. X’s face. “The resemblance is remarkable,” he said. “You look just like her.”
“And I suppose that makes you proud.”
“It makes my plan feasible. I like that.” They sat opposite one another at a small side table in the cafeteria. He knew he was taking major risks just being near her, but he did it anyway.
“No, you’re thinking of much more than your plan. This is your Pygmalion moment.”
“I never cared for My Fair Lady. Too much singing.”
Mr. X swatted the photo down. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Every artist wants to create something new, right? Just as Pygmalion created Galatea. In your mind, I’m your Galatea. A woman you created. In your image. Or an image of your choice.”
“You’re making far too much of this. I’m just trying to bring off the impossible.”
“I suspect you could’ve concocted any one of a hundred schemes to accomplish that. For your plan, you chose the one that stroked your ego.”
“I chose the one I thought had the greatest chance of success.”
She pushed her tray away. All she’d eaten was a green salad, and not much of that. “Let me make something plain to you, Dylan. I’m not your creation. Even though you’ve selected how my new face should look, you have not remade me in your image. I am my own woman and I always will be.”
“As you say.”
“So if you possess some deluded notion that you’ll win me over by transforming me physically, forget it. You’re not that talented an artist. You have severe limitations.”
Certainly I’ve become more aware of my limitations of late, Dylan mused. “Aren’t I the one you always accuse of playing amateur psychologist? Sounds like you’re doing it now.”
“It’s an easy game. For the smug egomaniac.”
“Tell you what. Now that we’re both in the game, why don’t we establish some rules?” Dylan had no idea how far he could push this before she lost her temper. And he didn’t want to do anything that might cause her to cancel the operation. “You tell me something about yourself,” he ventured, “then I’ll tell you something about me.”
“I think you should go first.”
“Of course you do.”
“How do I know you won’t feed me a pack of lies?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking that question?”
“I’m not the fiction writer. What do you want? The traumatic childhood incident that explains all? Real life doesn’t work that way.”
“Sometimes it does. Sometimes the incident isn’t even all that dramatic. But it still hurts.”
“What’s your inner pain, Dylan? Your mother died early? Your father was cruel to you?”
“Both true.”
“But which one scarred you for life?”
“I didn’t know I was scarred.”
“Trust me, you are. Deeply. So what’s your secret?”
“My father was more than cruel. He was a complete sadist. Made my brother and me do things...deliberately designed to induce shame.”
“That’s how he got his jollies?”
“He justified it. Said he was instilling discipline. Making us strong. I think that was rationalization. He had some kind of demon inside him. One he couldn’t exorcise. So he took it out on his children.”
“You left home as soon as you could and built a life opposing everything he represented.”
“That sums it up concisely. Okay, your turn. Inner trauma.”
Her eyes scanned the cafeteria. It was well past one and no one else sat anywhere near them. She could talk freely. The question was—would she?
When she finally spoke, her voice seemed astonishingly quiet. “I was in love once.”
Dylan watched as her eyes darted into the distance. “And since this is your inner trauma, I’m guessing it didn’t work out well.”
“Not at first. And not at the end. But there was some wonderful middle.”
Dylan found himself smiling. This was a beautiful thing to say—from the most unlikely source imaginable.
“The embarrassing part,” she continued, “is how willing I was to change myself, to change anything, to win his love.”
Dylan’s lips parted. “You didn’t join the IRA out of political zealotry. You were chasing a guy.”
She bit down on her lower lip. “Embarrassing. But true.”
“Did it work?”
“For a time. What I discovered to my surprise was—I was good at this. And versatile. When they needed an explosives expert, I filled in.” She paused. “Ultimately, that part did not end well.”
Dylan wanted to ask a follow-up question, but Xavier entered the room. “I look for you everywhere.”
“Sorry,” Mr. X said. “Dylan and I were having another of our stimulating chats.”
“Not you. Writer.” Xavier grunted in Dylan’s direction. “Need to conduct final inspection. Make sure everything ready.”
Mr. X rose. Dylan realized the conversation would not be continued. He would have to wait for another opportunity to delve deeper into her past.
“I did my final check already. But you can’t be too careful. Lead on.”
As they left the cafeteria, it dawned on Dylan. They were really going to do this. It was going to happen. His plan would no longer exist only on paper. For the first time ever, one of his plots was coming to life. His storytelling ability would be put to the ultimate test.
And may God have merCy on their souls.
* * *
Dr. Scheimer approached the janitor with caution. “Joe?”
The skinny man with bad teeth set down his broom. “Something I can do for you, Doc? Need your lab cleaned up again?”
“No. I just wanted to talk.” He wondered if Joe could smell the alcohol on his breath. Didn’t matter. They all knew he drank. It was none of their business. “I’m concerned about security.”
“Want me to get Bukowski? He’s in the guardhouse outside.”
“No, I’d rather talk to you.”
“Sir, I’m just the janitor.”
“No, you’re not, so don’t argue with me. I’ve been watching you for weeks. The government planted you here. I know it. You are much too observant for a mere janitor. Every time there’s a noise, or a sudden movement, I see your head bob upward. You’re watching out for me.”
Joe apparently didn’t care to argue. “You’re very observant. But I’m not watching you.” He paused. “I’m watching your laptop.”
Scheimer nodded. “That makes sense.”
“They fixed it so no one could get information out of you. But they’re concerned about your notes. So I monitor that laptop at all times.”
“Smart. Very smart.”
“So what’s bothering you, Doc?”
“I met with a man from the NCTC. A determined man. A smart man.”
“Did he pry anything out of you?”
“No. But he did not strike me as the sort to give up easily. I was concerned that amidst the chaos of PFD...”
“Don’t worry. You’re safe here. Guards outside and inside. Video cameras. And me. You and your work wouldn’t be safer in the White House.”
“That is good to know.” He could see that Joe thought he was worried about intruders. What he didn’t realize was that he was actually wondering if, during all the revelry, he might escape. Cease performing this work that had become so repugnant to him. But of course it was impossible. He was stuck here. Till the day he died.
“You must be proud of all you’ve accomplished, Doc.”
“Yes. Proud.”
“I don’t know much about it, but I know the brass hats put a high value on you. Must make your heart swell to see all you’ve accomplished.”
“Something like that.”
“Pardon me for saying so, Doc, but—you seem a little down. Is there anything I can do?”
“No, it’s nothing. I—I hate PFD. Universities should be places of advanced research and learning. Not...loud drunken celebrations of...nothing much.”
Joe chuckled. “I know what you’re saying. But I think you need to get out more. Got a friend you can call?”
“No time.”
“Or better yet, a woman?”
His eyes misted. “I had a woman. Once. But that was long ago. And I’m afraid she cannot be replaced.”
“Sorry to hear that, Doc.”
“And I am sorry to have bothered you. Thank you for your time.”
“You betcha.”
Scheimer wandered back to the lab. He couldn’t pour his next shot fast enough. Why couldn’t he shake this sense of foreboding? It wasn’t just the interview with the NCTC agent. Ever since Johann’s death—his murder, in all likelihood—he had felt with inescapable certainty that he’d erred in coming to the United States, sinned in working with the military, and debased himself for an unworthy cause. But he could do nothing about it now.
Kronos had been unleashed, thanks to him. Now the lightning would strike and the world would never be the same.
Chapter 42
Seamus logged into yet another database and prepared himself for more hours of slow-scan boredom. So this was life at a desk job. Hard to make the adjustment. Even harder to keep himself motivated. To convince himself he was doing this for a noble cause. To help those in need. To defend this great nation.
Not for revenge.
He appreciated the modern miracle that was the computer. And CCTV. He appreciated the fact that he had access to some of the best law enforcement research materials on earth. This new collaborative integration software was extraordinary. Not only did it allow him to search numerous databases with increasingly targeted search parameters, it also provided alerts in real time, an invaluable asset when processing related data fields. Information junkies loved it. They could set it up so they received a constant flurry of data about potential threats.
That would drive Seamus mad. When he was working, he didn’t like distractions.
Where are you, Xavier? What rock have you crawled under this time, you son-of-a-bitch?
Americans already had precious little privaCy, and the combination of increased tech and increased government paranoia would soon eliminate what remained. That was fine with Seamus. In his experience, when people were excessively concerned about privaCy, there was usually a reason.
He set the playback speed faster than normal. He had quick eyes and still felt reasonably alert, even though he’d been doing this for hours. He’d already run scans on Johann Karelis and his buddy Scheimer, but he hadn’t found anything he couldn’t learn from the newspaper morgue or Wikipedia. He knew more than enough about Xavier’s past. What he needed was information about where the man was hiding.
“You’re really taxing the server, Seamus.”
Eustace. As smoothly as possible, Seamus dimmed the computer screen.
“Got a call from the Pentagon. Said someone here made an unauthorized breach of their intelligence interface.”
“It wasn’t unauthorized. I used a password.”
“Yes. But it wasn’t yours.”
“You mean currently.”
“If it isn’t current, it isn’t yours.”
“If the Pentagon isn’t smart enough to change their passwords periodically, am I to blame?” In fact, the Pentagon did change their passwords and command codes almost every day, but unbeknownst to most, there were back doors that were always open. Maybe he was the only one who still remembered they existed.
“How am I going to square this with the military brass?” Eustace asked, reminding Seamus why his colleagues called the man “Eustace the Useless.”
“We’re supposed to share information, aren’t we? What’s their problem?”
“They don’t like people hacking onto their server.”
“Maybe now they’ll tighten security. I’ve done them a service. Better I show them the loopholes than the Taliban.”
Eustace grimaced but dropped the subject. “What are you working on?”
“That Cartwright/Taggart business.”
“You’ve devoted a great deal of time to that, but you haven’t produced much. Maybe you should leave it to Homeland Security, now that they’re involved.”
“I’m pursuing leads they don’t have.”
Eustace folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to produce something concrete. Failing that, I want you to move on.”
Seamus knew there was no point in arguing. “Understood.”
“Saw Ingrid at the club the other night. She looked ravishing.”
“She always does.”
“Who’s that man she’s running around with?”
Seamus felt his stomach tighten. “I have no idea.”
“Do you care?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“I can see how you might be bitter.”
“I’m not bitter. I’m indifferent. I’ve moved on.”
“I see. Interesting that she turns up in Hawaii not long after you do.”
Interesting was not the word Seamus would’ve used.
“I suppose she always had to work to get your attention,” Eustace continued. “A super-patriot like you can be so focused. Difficult to distract with the more...human emotions.”
Seamus understood that Eustace was his supervisor, but he felt certain that didn’t mean he had to endure this. “Don’t mean to be rude, but if I don’t concentrate on these images, I might miss something.”
“Right, right.” Eustace gave him a patronizing look he would’ve loved to have wiped away with a baseball bat. “I gave Ingrid my card. I don’t suppose you would mind if—”
“No, of course not,” Seamus said, knowing Eustace didn’t have the slightest chance.
Eustace edged toward the door, suddenly uncomfortable. “Let me know if you get something.”
“Of course.”
He waited until Eustace left the office, then resumed his search. Super-patriot? Had he really said that? Many moons had passed since Seamus had thought of himself in anything resembling those terms. He didn’t know what he believed in any more. Except he believed Dylan Taggart was involved with some seriously evil people. And he believed in Leilani Kahale. He’d rarely witnessed such strength. She was fighting to preserve...what Seamus had abandoned.
Ingrid called the first night she was in town. Seamus hadn’t taken the call.
Forty-five more tedious minutes passed before Seamus saw something that looked like Xavier. A stray CCTV image snapped the day Dylan was taken from his condo. In fact, the time-date stamp suggested this was only a few minutes after the attack occurred. Xavier was speeding, so the camera automatically took a pic of his Hummer as he blasted through the intersection.
Seamus froze the image just before the Hummer left camera range. Placing his finger on the touch screen, he brought the crosshairs down until they focused on the back bumper of the car. He hit the Magnify button. Then he hit it again. Then again, until he could make out the license plate number.
And something else. Someone sat in the passenger seat. Someone who wasn’t Dylan.
Seamus focused on the blurry face and brought it up to the maximum magnification, which only made the blurring worse.
A woman. He was certain of that. Long blonde hair. No wait. He used the color translation tool to make a best guess at the hair color.
