4 Rainy Days and Monday Page 6

  The metallic click of a lock sounded beside her and brought her out of her trance. She did not open her eyes. Someone shuffled in. Giselle could feel the eyes in the room leave her for a moment.

  “How is she responding?” a gruff voice asked.

  “She is still unresponsive,” the short man said.

  A hesitation. The tension in the air was thick.

  “I do not see any visible signs of interrogation, men. Are we afraid to hit a woman?”

  “Dr. Forsythe said that physical contact would only drive the memories and consciousness deeper. It would be counter-productive,” the taller man explained.

  “Poor excuse.”

  Giselle wanted desperately to open her eyes. She knew that voice. She had heard it once. She wanted to hear the voice say the word. The word that meant it was all right to hide within herself.

  “Dr. Forsythe no longer is in charge here. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  She felt as much as heard him come forward, closing the gap toward her. She resisted the temptation to cringe in preparation for the physical contact she knew would come. He would be interested in setting an example. It was going to hurt. She remained still.

  Pain would be all right. She could deal with pain. She could lose herself there in the place where the needs of her body overruled the need of her mind to think.

  Rough, thick hands grabbed her beneath her chin and brought her face up to the light.

  “Open your eyes, Giselle.” His breath was hot on her face. It smelled like butterscotch.

  Giselle inhaled quickly and obeyed.

  “Such beautiful eyes,” Lars said.

  She swallowed. He would know the word. She prayed silently that her eyes did not give her away.

  In the glaring light of the bulb, the shadows of Lars’ face were pronounced. They made him seem even more intimidating than usual. Her father had orchestrated his position at Galbraith. Only, Clarence had discovered his duplicity. Had also offered to help, it seemed.

  Ah, treachery knew no bounds.

  The thread of truth was slippery with the oil of deceit. It was like those pictures that changed the closer you inspected them, revealing patterns and images that were hidden in plain sight. Galbraith. Sinegem. ViVeri. The Mystery Man. Jake. Her mother. Eiliff. The faces and images melded, swirled and coalesced into a different image.

  Her programming had rendered her powerless, had assisted in the delusion. The depth of the betrayal, the extent of the deception, was monumental. She could not breathe.

  Above her, Lars blinked slowly.

  Behind him, just outside the ring of light, Giselle noted the form of his assistant, Violet. Of course she was there. It all made sense.

  Where was the coin? If only they can give it to me, I can escape this, Giselle thought, desperate.

  “I know you recognize me. Perhaps you are hoping I will say the word.” He smirked at her, his eyes twinkling with malicious mirth. He turned his head back to Violet. “That was Calvin’s idea, you know?”

  Giselle said nothing.

  He squeezed the base of her chin hard. She blinked once. It felt like he could crush the delicate bones there with his bare hands. He was so strong. Like a Russian bear.

  “Your mother would be disappointed, I am sure. She thought you were her secret weapon. You have been used, Giselle. Used by your father. Used by your employer. Used even by your own mother. You were her hidden queen, a chess piece she hoped to use to create an historical checkmate when the time came. It is a shame, really.”

  She blinked, a tear running down her cheek. Giselle felt her breathing get shallow as she succumbed to sadness.

  Madness or great pain shone in Lars’ eyes.

  “So you can process what we are saying. Good. Know this: we are not just here to retrieve our hardware. We are here for a much greater purpose. We need to know that you are ready to play a new role.”

  She steeled herself, knowing that she could not resist. He knew. He knew all her secrets.

  “What do you want?” she asked through her teeth. His grip rendered the delivery of her question more bluntly than she had intended.

  Lars smiled. In his eyes, Giselle could see the fires of the dragon, the truth behind its three heads, and the hopelessness of the brave knight.

  “Dear, we want you to destroy ViVeri,” he said. “You are our Trojan Horse.”

  Chapter Eight

  Born to Rage for My Father’s Pain

  The television was a distraction. The new President of the United States was speaking. Jake listened, but his mind was wandering. He had spoken with her just moments ago. It seemed surreal to see her at her desk in a secure location.

  Vivian Walker seemed composed. Focused. Pissed off.

  From what he understood, the Democrats were grooming her for the ticket in the next election. The DNC was scheduled for the following September. After talking to Vivian, Jake would be surprised if she ran for office again.

  It was not that she was scared. She was disgusted.

  Jake sighed.

  He wondered for the hundredth time why he had distrusted his father. Was it a sixth sense? Was it something instilled by his mother? Instinct?

  According to Vivian, his suspicions had been accurate. Yet, she respected Gabriel. Mourned his passing. Expressed her regrets. Paid her respects to Jake and his family. Said she understood how hard this would be on his family. She would do all in her ability to protect Jake, Hallie, and Macy.

  He had nodded numbly.

  Then, she had handed him the manila folder that he held in his hand now.

  He did not want to look at it. The contents of the folder were explosive. Poisonous. Destructive. They could tear down his perceptions of his family. They could confirm all of his fears about his past. His legacy.

  To know that he was a pawn in all the evil that gripped the world at the moment made Jake feel as though he would vomit. Against his will, against his conscience, he had killed in cold blood. On the other hand, had he?

  Doubt was perhaps the most corrosive of the emotions that the folder evoked.

  “This country will stand strong in our grief. We are committed to protecting the citizens of this great nation from the terror of those who wish to harm our leaders, ravage our communities, and destroy our way of life. We will not stand for it. We will fight back,” Vivian was saying. “Corruption, treason, and treachery will not be tolerated. We must all come together in these trying times. We must hold firm to our values of freedom, equality, and moral behavior. It is time for those who believe in the guiding light of liberty to hold her torch high.”

  A stirring speech delivered from a secure bunker underground with a green-screen. On the television, President Walker appeared seated in the Oval Office. The desk was a replica. The view out to the gardens from a stock film. It was actually raining in Washington right now. Jake wondered who would note these things first.

  He flicked the edges of the folder, contemplating opening the contents, and dumping them in the bin at the end of the hall.

  A door opened with a click. Senator Robert Swane leaned out with a quick appraisal.

  “You should get some sleep. You look awful,” he said.

  “Can’t sleep, Robert. Have you heard from Hallie?”

  Robert smiled.

  “Playing ‘house’ with one of our best field agents. Last I checked, they are fine, Jake.” He sat heavily into the chair beside Jake.

  “I miss her.”

  Swane leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

  “Me, too.”

  They sat like that for several minutes. Jake held the folder, hoping Robert would ask about it. He seemed to ignore it.

  “Tell me about China,” Jake said.

  Swane scoffed.

  “What’s to say? Two team members dead. Our first mission failed right out of the gate. Team chemistry was wrong. We rushed it. The only good news is that we know where Lin-Xia is now.”

  “G
ood,” Jake said.

  “Don’t take the mission too hard, Jake. It was a failure from the start. We suspect that Fin Zhou was murdered by the head of his security team the moment the helicopters crested the mountain range. We have some more ops lined up in the next few weeks. Better intel. Closer to home. Less variables.”

  Jake shook his head. Pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I’m not concerned about the mission, Robert.”

  Swane turned and looked him in the face.

  “What’s wrong, Jake?”

  He furrowed his brow.

  “I prefer to work alone.”

  Robert nodded.

  “Of course. Less chance of collateral damage. I get that. One thing you learn in politics is that if the country would just leave it all up to you, cut out all the committees, the incessant voting on things, all the back-door deals, et cetera, the country would run much smoother. It makes it messy to be part of something larger.”

  “You are mocking me.”

  Swane smiled thinly.

  “A little. There is some truth in it, though. An idealism that sounds altruistic. It is just arrogance. Selfishness. And in the end, it is an ingredient for terrible dictatorship.”

  “I don’t play well with others.”

  “Not true. You and Hallie seem to make a good team.”

  Jake bowed his head, wanting more than ever to throw the folder away.

  “I suppose. I just feel like a failure.”

  Swane did not speak for moment.

  “Is that why you are holding Gabriel’s ViVeri folder in a death grip?”

  He glanced up.

  “What do you know about it, Robert?”

  Swane looked down the hall.

  “Nothing I can repeat here.”

  “You can’t even reveal it here at CIA Headquarters.”

  Swane made a face.

  “Are we actually having this discussion? After the NSA witch-hunt in 2013? They almost dismantled the entire internet, for crying out loud.”

  “Do I even want to open it?”

  Swane shrugged.

  “Depends on your constitution, I suppose. Depends on how clouded your judgment is towards your father.”

  Jake swallowed.

  “Is it safe with me?”

  “Vivian seems to think so,” Swane remarked.

  “Isn’t this a matter of national security?”

  “Isn’t this a matter of trust?”

  Jake wanted to hate him for that.

  “Is this the only copy?”

  “You should have asked Vivian that.”

  “Stop playing with me, Robert. I am not a child.”

  Swane nodded.

  “You’re right. I’ll tell you what. Come to my house this weekend. We can drink some Tennessee whiskey out on the porch and discuss the contents of the folder. I have one of my own we can go through as well.”

  Jake smirked.

  “Whiskey, huh?”

  “Blanton’s, straight-from-the-barrel bourbon. Costs less than eighty bucks, but it is one of the best bourbons in the world.”

  “My dad liked whiskey. He drank a lot of Jim Beam.”

  “Jim made a mighty pure whiskey before his kin sold to the Japanese.”

  “Has your front porch been cleared by national security?”

  “Son, my front porch is about as secure as you can get.”

  Jake looked at the folder in his hand. He reached out and handed it to Senator Swane.

  “Here, you keep it until we can meet.”

  Swane did not take the folder. He met Jake’s eyes. Jake saw there a deep fear.

  “Don’t ask me to take this, Jake. It is too volatile.”

  Jake felt a chill run up his spine.

  “If you already know what is in there, then why do you fear keeping it?”

  Swane pushed the folder back at Jake.

  “Knowing is not knowing, Jake. Plus, possessing is ownership. I do not wish to own this. These demons are not mine. I do not want to inherit them. Or their master’s wrath.”

  Jake felt a hot lump in his throat. Anger and resentment gathered in his chest.

  “Should I trust you?”

  Swane shook his head.

  “You should not trust anyone. I want to be your friend. I want to help you. Everyone has their limits, Jake. Please understand.”

  “But we can talk about it?” Jake asked. He could not understand the mixed message.

  “Talking about it and having it as a temptation and a reminder are two different things. Just keep it safe. No one knows you have it but the President and me. Keep it that way.”

  “Who does this implicate?”

  A pall of shame joined the look of fear on Senator Swane’s face.

  “Everyone.”

  Chapter Nine

  As Flies to Wanton Boys

  The room was bright.

  The windows across from the room’s secure entrance opened out into a large courtyard. The sun spilled through into the expansive two-story room. Unlike most homes, no dust motes hovered in the light, swirling in the air.

  The air in the room was sanitized, filtered, and repackaged as almost pure oxygen. A habitual smoker, Andronicus felt almost high.

  Along with the considerable sunlight beaming into the room, the glare of dozens of backlit glass computer terminals suspended around the room made him squint. A group of men and women sat huddled around tables and inspected massive instruments.

  Frankenstein, reborn, Andronicus thought, amused.

  Modern technology and science was outstripping centuries of ignorance and fear fomented by religious zealots and charlatans. Andronicus believed God existed: he just found him to be humorless and lacking creativity. Mankind could be so...predictable. If Man was made in God’s image, then, Andronicus believed that equality with Him could be mastered. Science was the tool, the great equalizer that would elevate humanity. A modern Tower of Babel.

  Science enabled him to remain relatively young. Viveri had not discovered De Leon’s fountain of youth, but had invented the next best thing. Along with drugs like Sychol and most of modern technology, Viveri was on the cutting edge of science.

  As Andronicus strolled along the heavily carpeted outer ring around the room, he noted stares that washed over him. He was used to that. He wanted to draw their attention and keep them wondering. Several conversations dropped to a hush as they observed his entrance. A quiet buzz persisted.

  Dr. Matt Bernhard Spreckles worked alongside several other scientists. His group seemed particularly entranced with their work. They continued to talk. A young blonde-haired woman spoke boldly in argument to a point. Spreckles smiled warmly and patted the shoulder of the recipient of her sharp tongue in consolation. He bent down and mouthed a few words Andronicus could not catch.

  Andronicus took a moment to observe the man. Late fifties. Tall. Slender. Steady hands. Quick smile. Severe widow’s peak with a shock of silver hair on his left, swept back in a German style out of date for near a century. In his white lab coat and dark suit, he appeared to be a doctor straight out of a Sherlock Holmes novel. Andronicus would have to contain himself. Part of him wanted to tease the poor doctor about appearing as a famous magician.

  He kept his composure, his face set in a mask of dark displeasure and judgment. People behaved differently if they felt judged by a superior. He found this to be an effective way to manipulate common people to his will. God would do the same thing, he convinced himself. It also helped that he was physically imposing.

  Andronicus understood deep down that he was overcompensating for his brush with shame and ridicule. Whatever it took to retrieve his status.

  He cleared his throat.

  All eyes snapped to him. He held his cigar aloft with one meaty hand, motioning them to continue.

  “I presume you are the representative from our benefactor?” Spreckles asked in German, his nose wrinkling at the sight of the offending cigar.

  “Is there somewhere
we might speak in private?” he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest.

  Spreckles glanced at his blonde aid and she nodded to a small room in a nearby alcove. It was filled with cabinets and sported a thick, solid door.

  “Follow me, please,” he said in English.

  “My pleasure,” he returned in Portuguese.

  The doctor smiled appreciatively and nodded.

  Andronicus followed the doctor, ignoring the stares he received. He pressed his cigar into the metal worktable where the blonde assistant had been working.

  He glanced at her and gave her a knowing smile.

  She did not return it.

  It was just as well, really. He had no time for pleasure.

  The doctor closed the door behind him. The room was normally spacious. It was stuffed full of equipment, a table, and several cabinets. It offered a windowed view into the lab. It seemed to be someone’s office, perhaps.

  A leather armchair was propped against a filing cabinet. A box of leftover Chinese food sat open on the table and a pair of chopsticks left perched on the edge of the box. The smell of MSG wafted over to him, making his stomach clench.

  He caught the doctor’s eyes.

  “Exquisite creature you have there,” he noted.

  Spreckles seemed taken aback.

  “Veronica?” He looked back out the window into the makeshift lab. “She’s been my assistant since she was a child. She is my niece,” he said. He sounded mildly offended.

  Andronicus smiled wickedly.

  “A family affair, then. Are you related to any of the others?” he asked, staring out into the room with mild interest.

  “No. Of course not.”

  Andronicus looked back at him. Doctor Spreckles continued to stand.

  “You know why I am here?” Andronicus asked.

  Spreckles frowned.

  “No more than I know who you are.”

  “We will keep that a mystery for now.”

  “Money buys anonymity,” he said, a bitter tinge in his German accent. His English was masterful.

  “It has nothing to do with your compensation, doctor. It is a matter of respect and your personal protection.”

  “That sounds ominous. It was supposed to sound ominous, wasn’t it?”

  Andronicus allowed a genuine smile creep up his face. Meanwhile, he gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to make the wood creak beneath his massive hands.