Plot counterplot, p.27
Plot/Counterplot, page 27
And he hoped they were right. He had failed. Again. He had not anticipated every contingenCy. He had not escaped. Even as he cursed and despised Mr. X, he knew deep within him she was right. He had been an egomaniac. He had thought he was smarter than everyone else. Yes, his writing skills had proven to have some real-world usefulness. But they hadn’t been enough to escape. They hadn’t been enough to prevent being forced to pull a trigger on his own brother.
Dylan lay fitfully in the bed where they placed him, eyes open wide, all through the night. He was certain that if he closed his eyes he would die.
Despite the dire predictions, he did not die. But neither could he move. They pushed and carried him through the day. Mr. X forced him to attend all meetings, even though he drooped sideways like a Dali watch.Mikala and the others avoided his gaze.
Kalifa and Marco were his personal detail. They pushed him from one appointment to another. They fed him mashed foods like a baby. They even put him on the toilet and waited until he “finished his business.”
But he did not die.
The next night he slept. And when he woke in the morning—he could wiggle his big toes.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Gradually, one muscle at a time, his brain reasserted itself. The medical staff theorized that other parts of his brain were compensating for the damaged areas, much in the way the brain of a handicapped person will reroute commands to circumvent nonfunctioning cells. At the end of the week, he took his first tentative steps. He returned to his office.
Eventually, he regained most of his motor functions, though he still didn’t feel right. His body moved awkwardly. He felt at times as if an alien skeleton had invaded, one he could not altogether master. He was not the same as before, and he knew he never would be. Body and mind, inside and out, everything had changed. But he could move. And most importantly, he could think.
A new Dylan Taggart entered the conference room this morning. One that even Xavier trusted. Because he had been broken. So utterly destroyed that he could no longer resist. Especially since Xavier still had that detonator in his pocket. No one thought Dylan could survive another nanite blast.
At long last, they had the idea man they wanted.
Or so they believed.
He’d known the deletion of the eighth file would be detected. He knew the escape plan would probably not work and he would have to tell them about the true location of the weapon. Those were all diversions. Level one and level two bluffs. He knew they would punish him afterward and he had an idea what the punishment would be, too.
They had no clue what else he planned. And that gave him the edge he needed. That gave him a fighting chance.
Dylan had made mistakes. He saw that now. The only upside of total immobility was that it gave you time to think. A good novel had three critical elements: plot, structure, and character. When he first tried to outwit Mr. X, all he had was plot, a series of old Fargo Cody tricks. The second round, he added structure, concocting an elaborate sequence of events that anticipated everything—except character nuance.
The key to any good story was character. If he hoped to come up with a winning tale, he would have to understand who he was dealing with and how he could use them. He had to arrange not only events, but people.
Act One and Act Two had gone to Mr. X. But this story was not over yet.
* * *
“Character development?” Mr. X narrowed her eyes. “Any characters in particular?”
“Sonics expert,” Dylan replied.
“I know someone who will do whatever you want for the right price,” Mr. X replied. “What other characters would you like to develop?”
“I need a helicopter pilot. And a copter.”
“Xavier is an excellent pilot. Anyone else?”
“Yes. One absolutely critical character who requires additional research. A character not even Xavier could recruit, but one we need working for us just the same.”
“And who would that be?”
“The head of PACOM. Admiral Charles “Swifty” Stewart.” He slid a photo across the table. “Find him. Then watch me do the impossible.”
Chapter 57
Mr. X joined the Supervisor in what she liked to call the Aerie, an attic-like room with an expansive window jutting up from the third floor of the complex. The door was locked and guarded at all times and only a few had clearance to enter. A special keyed side entrance and spiral staircase allowed the Supervisor to come here without being detected.
From here, they could see all the way to the Pacific Ocean, the most gloriously blue water found anywhere, just off the jagged volcanic coast. They’d spent a good deal of money ensuring that this installation, built on the ruins of an abandoned WWII Navy post, was not visible from land or air. It was camouflaged with visual and radar interference signals to blend into the surrounding brush. They employed high-tech imaging technology to ensure there was no accidental detection.
Mr. X always met the Supervisor in the Aerie. This allowed the Supervisor to give her instructions in person without risking identification. So far as Mr. X knew, everyone else was asleep, or at least in their personal quarters.
She looked forward to these talks. They helped her keep the operation on track. Xavier might be in charge of field operations—anything that required guilt-free brutality—but she was in charge of more. And the Supervisor was in charge of her. The Supervisor supplied the money, seemingly infinite amounts of it. The Supervisor recruited Mr. X and Xavier, then gave them instructions on who else to obtain and how to recruit them. As they approached the final stage of the operation, the Supervisor was understandably concerned about the details.
She refilled both their glasses. She didn’t know enough about brandy to fully appreciate what they were drinking, but she knew it was good, probably the finest in the world. The Supervisor was not one to settle for second best.
“So,” the Supervisor said, “you think Dylan is totally ours now?”
“I do,” Mr. X replied “I’ve watched him carefully these past two weeks. I think watching his brother die, coupled with the loss of his own body, made a decisive impact.”
“That was a nasty business. The execution. Right in front of him. Brutal.”
“But effective. Totally effective.”
The Supervisor nodded. “You had no choice. We need him planning this finishing stroke. We need him one hundred percent.”
“I agree. Unpleasant though it may have been.” She gazed out at the palm trees, swaying in the gentle tropical breeze. Somewhere, she heard a gecko making its distinctive call. She loved life here in paradise. She never missed home. All it held for her were unpleasant memories.
“How are you liking the new face?” the Supervisor asked.
“I preferred the old one.”
“Don’t be absurd. Dylan did you a great favor.”
“He did nothing.” She drank in the night air. “My previous face showed people who I really am.”
“If you say so. Did someone take care of Bakersfield and Giep?”
“Of course. We couldn’t allow them to return to their normal lives. Not after all they’d seen.”
“Indeed. Despite your confidence that Dylan is ours, I assume you still have all the protocols in place?”
“I do. Every fundamental brainwashing procedure has been systematically implemented.”
“His food is treated?”
“Every meal.”
“Gas pumped into his cell at night?”
“Synthetic oxytocin. Leads to feelings of bonding.”
“Temperature modulation?”
“We induce mood swings and use them to our benefit.”
“Hypnotherapy.”
“Every night. Sometimes twice a night.”
“He has a strong mind, you know. You can’t expect these techniques to manipulate him as easily as they might your average street thug.”
“I have no reason to believe he’s resisting. Honestly, I don’t even think it’s possible.”
“Good.” The Supervisor took another sip. “He has a creative mind. And a considerable ego, like all artists. Too big to believe he couldn’t trick us, couldn’t outsmart us. At first.”
“He’s lost his cape. He knows he’s not invulnerable.”
“That’s a tough nut for anyone to swallow.”
“He’s already outlined how we get the Key. He’s requisitioning equipment. Has Xavier researching an admiral. I expect him to submit a full-fledged plan soon.”
“I expect him to be carrying a gun and leading the charge. That’s what I’ve wanted all along.”
“You won’t be disappointed.” She paused. “I would do anything for you.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” The Supervisor leaned forward and kissed her. She returned the kiss, pressing as hard as she could—but it was never enough.
“I won’t let you down,” she gasped.
“I know you won’t.” The Supervisor unsnapped her jeans and yanked them down.
“I will never ever ever let you down,” she murmured, pulling her blouse over her head.
“You need to let go of the pain of the past.” The Supervisor snapped a handcuff around her wrist, then snapped the other end to the arm of her chair.
“What is that for?”
“A new sensation. A pain borne not from guilt and recrimination but from love.”
The first blow caught her on the side of the face, knocking her head to one side. The next hit her on the other side, knocking her head back with such force that it crackled.
“Without pain, the heart becomes hollow. And the flesh becomes weak. But we are not weak, are we? Every revolution requires sacrifice.”
“Yes,” Mr. X said. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
“We are united in a common purpose. There’s no room for slackers. We will make the world a better place, together, you and I.”
“Yes,” she said, her chest heaving. “Yes, we will.”
Their bodies pressed together, churning. “I love you,” the Supervisor said. “And our love will transform the world.”
“Yes!” she replied, her hips thrusting. “Oh God, Oh God, yes! I love you! Yessss!” She cried out, her words echoing through the Aerie, delirious, ecstatic.
That night she slept soundly for the first time in as long as she could remember.
Chapter 58
Seamus and Leilani hunched over Dr. Kurosaki’s shoulders.
“Why is this taking so long?” Leilani asked, tapping her foot impatiently.
The forensic scientist exhaled. “Normally I work without an audience.”
“But this is important!”
Seamus laid his hand on her arm and nodded the unspoken message. Give the doctor a moment of peace. We’ll both get out of here sooner.
“All he’s doing is watching the computer process data,” she whispered.
“This isn’t my field of expertise,” Seamus whispered back, “but I believe there’s a little more to it.” In truth, seeing Leilani tap her toes gave him a good deal of pleasure. She was walking as well as anyone. There was a trace of a limp, if you watched carefully, but she had no trouble moving about and had even started going for short runs in the morning. He’d seen other people recover much less successfully from gunshot wounds—including himself. He was impressed.
“Getting some matches,” Kurasagi said, gazing intently at his computer monitor. He ran his fingers over the keyboard at breakneck speed. “Things are definitely lining up...”
“Matching?” Leilani said. “What does that mean? Is it him or isn’t it?”
“I’m sure he’ll tell us as soon as he knows,” Seamus replied.
“But I want to know now!”
She was like a kid on Christmas Eve, but she’d earned the right. She’d been waiting for this for a long time.
A chiming sound emerged from the computer. The images on the screen flashed red.
“What does it mean?” Leilani asked.
“It means the computer is certain. The DNA in the blood sample from the lab matches the blood sample on the bedsheet you gave me.”
“It’s Dylan!” Leilani shouted.
Kurasagi nodded. “Indeed.”
She grabbed Seamus by both arms. “You were right. He must’ve cut himself when all the lab equipment was damaged. And that was Dylan you saw flying off the roof.”
“I thought so. But that leaves two big questions. What was he doing atop the science building on PFD? And where is he now?”
Kurasagi swiveled around in his chair. “I may be able to help you with that last one.”
Seamus tucked in his chin. “How?”
“This blood sample you brought me has some unique properties.”
“Such as?”
His eyebrows danced. “It’s alive.”
* * *
Two weeks before, in the immediate aftermath of the parade, university officials had refused to allow Seamus into the highly guarded Harrison Elliot physics lab. And since Eustace had ordered him to drop the investigation, he couldn’t call for help. Fortunately, he still had friends at the CIA who not only owed him a debt but knew how to do things discreetly. They brought him two important bits of information. First, no, they wouldn’t let him interrogate the lab scientists, and second, the reason they wouldn’t is that the lab was the nerve center of an ongoing top secret research project being conducted by the US Navy.
The same people who accosted Leilani when she spoke to her old scientist chum. The same people who were conducting research at the Cartwright Institute.
Suspicions confirmed.
Since the official channels weren’t working for him, Seamus resorted to another standby from his intelligence gathering days: subterfuge. Although going to the top was often more expedient—going to the bottom was often more productive.
Around nightfall on PFD, he found the lab security guard, Detwiler, taking his dinner in the Student Union. Seamus introduced himself, flashed his badge, and launched into a conversation.
“Was anyone in the lab today who shouldn’t be?”
“I’m afraid I can’t talk about my work.” Detwiler took a swig from his coffee and grimaced. “Worst java on the island.”
Seamus removed a flask from his coat pocket and poured something into the coffee. “See if this helps any.”
Detwiler sniffed it, then took a sip. “Definitely an improvement. But I have to go back on duty in ten minutes.”
“I won’t tell anyone.” And he wouldn’t. That would defeat the point of bringing the flask. Which he’d done because he found it more useful than a rubber hose in some situations. “So you didn’t see anyone inside the lab?”
“Not at all,” Detwiler replied. He was eating a pastrami and rye, with salt-and-vinegar chips. Apparently the gift was mellowing him, or he’d decided Seamus was not a threat to the lab or his livelihood. “A little activity on the front lawn. Drunks who’d lost their way. A wayward float. Par for the course on PFD.”
“But no intruders?”
“I’m stationed at the only entrance and we have video cameras monitoring the interior corridor at all times. You can’t get anywhere without being seen.”
Seamus noodled that over for a few moments. “Nothing unusual occurred?”
“We had a power outage, but we corrected it quickly.”
“What caused that?”
“Can’t say for certain. But our resident mad scientist was in a bad way, so anything’s possible. He’s run experiments before that shut down half the campus.”
“You’re talking about Louis Scheimer?”
“The one and only.” Detwiler took another bite of his sandwich.
“And when you say he was in a bad way...”
Detwiler made a drinking gesture with his hand.
“Started the cocktail hour a little early?”
“Hates the ruckus. Probably told himself a drink would be medicinal. He’s fond of the sour mash. Washes down egg-salad sandwiches with it. Disgusting, I know. By mid-afternoon, he’d trashed his lab and passed out.”
Seamus’s eyes narrowed. “He trashed his own lab?”
“Yup. Did a good job, too. Hundreds of dollars in damage. And created cleanup detail for several work-study students to tackle.”
“Could I see the lab? Before it gets cleaned.”
“I’m afraid it’s off limits to anyone who doesn’t have clearance.”
“I have clearance. I’m with the NCTC.” He poured a little more from flask to mug. “I promise to be fast.”
Detwiler picked up the mug and tilted it toward Seamus. “Fifteen minutes.”
“Done.”
* * *
Seamus knew fifteen seconds after entering that the trashing of Scheimer’s lab had been staged. The job was probably sufficient to fool the casual observer. It gave no one any reason to look harder. But it was much too deliberate. Even a violent, sloshy, staggering drunk would not do so much damage or rearrange so much furniture.
And then there was the matter of the chair on the lab table. That just made Detwiler roll his eyes. But then, he hadn’t seen a man fly off the roof.
He climbed up on the table, then the chair, and pressed the ceiling panels.
As he suspected. Access to the roof.
Did Dylan plan to leave that way? Or was he improvising? Either way, Seamus was impressed. And baffled.
What was Dylan doing here? According to everyone he’d interviewed, nothing was taken. So what was the point?
For the answer to that, he suspected he needed to speak to Scheimer, the man around whom so much attention was focused.
Seamus searched the room as carefully as was possible in fifteen minutes, but he found no clue as to what Dylan had been doing there. When he climbed down from the lab table, however, he noticed something he had not spotted before.
Blood. Partly on the table, partly on a shard of broken glass.
And he had a hunch it did not belong to the scientist. It belonged to whoever had been setting the stage.
