Brains

  She shot him a look. “FBI, remember?”

  “You're a doctor, not an agent,” he said in his best Dr. McCoy voice.

  She shook her head. “I'm actually both. Where did you get this, anyway? One of yours?”

  “Illegal guns are easy to get in New York. It's only legal ones that are hard. Let's say I picked it up in my travels. Sometimes a clean gun is less, uh, complicated.” She looked at him thoughtfully, then stowed it in her handbag. She did not mention her service piece that was in the small of her back.

  He changed into warm winter clothes and boots, then donned ragged pants and an enormous coat over the top. He stank. Mitzi fanned her hand. “Where did you get those?”

  “There was this giant homeless guy who was more than happy to sell his clothes for a trip into Goodwill and an extra twenty.”

  He took the train back downtown, and walked slowly to a vantage point across and down the street from his apartment, with a good view of the entry. He made a nest for himself in a pile of the ubiquitous trash bags, and settled down to wait.

  He was chilled, despite his many layers, when he finally saw two men approach the doorway around three a.m. He was well aware that his entry door was a joke, and indeed, they were into the building in short order. Cameron waited a minute, then threw off the outer clothes and hustled across the street. What the entry lacked in security, it made up for with silence. He slipped in, and started up the stairs to the third floor.

  His apartment door, unlike the entry downstairs, would be a challenge. A good Medco deadbolt on a metal door, secure in the metal frame. As expected, the intruders were still in the corridor, trying in vain to pick the lock. He drew his gun and pulled back the slide, a sound which froze them, even before he spoke a word.

  What happened next came as a complete surprise. The larger of the two men, who was holding a short crow bar, suddenly pivoted at the waist and swung it into the side of the smaller man's head. Cameron heard the crack of the skull, and the man collapsed in a heap against his door, as the larger man sprinted down the hall away from him. Cameron could hardly shoot him in the back, so he gave chase, awkwardly hurdling the downed man’s legs. The fleeing man crashed through the window at the end of the corridor onto the fire escape. Except that he didn't. His foot had caught on the radiator under the window, and instead of going clear through, he shattered the glass, and his neck came down violently onto the shards. He pulled back, flailing and gurgling, as his strong heart pumped a good share of his six quarts of blood in crazy, swirling arcs, until the man fell, first to his knees, and then onto his face.

  Cameron considered his options, and decided to simply leave. Despite the noise, he realized that, in all likelihood, no one would have awakened. It was a very solid, pre-war building, one unit to each floor, and the downstairs occupant was deaf as a stone. The upstairs neighbor was an early jogger, and would likely be walking down the stairs in a couple of hours, where the chill from the broken window would cause him to look down the hall. That sort of thing could ruin the start of your day.

  After his circuitous route back to the Bronx, he walked into the rooming house at about six, to find Mitzi watching the news on the grainy TV in the corner. There had been a report of a burglary gone bad in Cameron's part of Manhattan, with one man dead on the scene, the other taken to St Luke's in a coma. The police had no other information.

  “So, the goons came for you,” she stated. “I'm guessing you did not get much information from them.” Cameron told her the story. She shook her head. “I think maybe I'll have to call in sick today.”

  Chapter 23

  Thursday October 27

  New York

  Cabrera had initially felt pretty good about himself. Jorge had actually woken up, and was even talking to his mother, who had not left from the moment she was allowed to be at his bedside. Neither had Santiago. About eleven, however, the whimpering increased, and the skin over the top of the boy's head started to bulge upward, straining against the staples. Finally, the strain was too much, and with an almost audible “whoosh,” a stream of clear yellow fluid shot out of the incision, spraying over Marta, who screamed.

  Cabrera was shaking. The cerebrospinal fluid was leaking from the skull under the skin flap. His closure had failed. The same thing had happened with some of the dogs. All of them had died from meningitis, usually within a week.

  “What is that?” asked Santiago. Cabrera was slow to respond, so Santiago grabbed a handful of hair and lifted the small man off of his feet and hauled him out of the room. “I asked you a question.”

  Cabrera stuttered, and squirmed, then told him. “The seal failed. I have no way to prevent a massive infection. He has a few days at best.”

  Santiago made a phone call, then turned back to Cabrera. “Do whatever it takes to keep him alive and conscious. If he lasts a week, that will be enough. But get us that week.”

  ◆◆◆

  Santiago was uncomfortable. In addition to giving his instructions regarding Cabrera, Perez had requested that Santiago come upstairs for a discussion. Given the fiasco at Hansen's apartment, he knew he was once again at risk. He walked into the third-floor conference room. Perez was staring out the window, watching a plane take off from LaGuardia. He did not turn as Santiago entered.

  “What,” he asked evenly, “happened with Hansen? I understand there is police involvement. Which we don't need. Not at all.”

  Santiago tried to match his tone. “We gave the assignment to Ruiz. His instructions were to use one of the local runners, and to make sure that, if there was a problem, there was to be no chance of him talking to the cops. From what we are getting from our police contact, he bashed in the kid's skull, and then botched his own escape out the window. Unfortunately, although the kid is in a coma, he survived.”

  “And Hansen?”

  “We actually have no information about whether he was even there, or if something else spooked Ruiz. The police have not spoken to Hansen yet.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Her apartment was entered. She was not there. Nor was there anything to indicate where she has gone. In fact, there was not much there at all. No computer, no phone, no papers.”

  Perez continued to stare out the window. “My orders were flawed. I should have allowed you to go. What is our potential exposure with Ruiz?”

  “We should be safe. He has no record here, and was instructed to go in clean, no papers, no phone.”

  “And his weapon?”

  “From our Argentine military stash, serial numbers filed off completely. No chance of it being traced.”

  “Take care of the kid at St. Lukes. He must not wake up.”

  “Of course.” Perez said no more, and after a silence, Santiago left the room.

  ◆◆◆

  Dr. Overbridge stunned the Neuro ICU staff for a second time that week by walking into the unit just after noon. He went straight into Jamie Wilson's room. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  Pierre looked up, smiling broadly. “Awesome. Hardly hurts at all.”

  Overbridge checked the incision, which, of course, was perfect. He then had Pierre go through a series of tests of coordination and arm strength, all of which he passed.

  “You are doing very well,” he nodded. “I will check you again tonight, and plan on you being able to go home in the morning, as scheduled.”

  “I don't know how to even start to thank you,” started Pierre, but Overbridge raised his hand.

  “Just get better. I want this to work as much as you do.” He turned and walked past the slack-jawed nurse on his way out of the ICU. He walked down the corridor to the elevator, almost buoyant, and realized that for the first time in years, he had not counted the steps down that hall.

  ◆◆◆

  “We can't just sit here all day,” Mitzi grumbled as she paced back and forth in the grimy apartment.

  “What do you propose?” Cameron sat up. He had been sleeping for the past several hours. “We're not g
oing to have that list until morning, and I think it is best if I can say I've been out of town. Any ideas for that?”

  She nodded. “Way ahead of you. Okay, we took off yesterday, went up to the Berkshires to a cabin, where we have been making feverish love. You were off, I called in sick. Sorry, Boss, but a girl has needs. We show up at our offices tomorrow, fresh in from Massachusetts with smiles on our faces.”

  “That story could be checked. Easily.”

  “True. Fortunately I have an address for you, and I happen to know that there happens to be a couple up there. Unless they go to the trouble of pulling prints and DNA from the cabin, the neighbors, such as they are, should corroborate.”

  “What about the people who are really there?” Cameron asked, impressed that Mitzi had this worked out already.

  “They won't be saying anything. Both married. To other people. I let them use the place from time to time. They just happened to need it this week.”

  “It's YOUR place?” He had never heard her mention anything about a place in the Berkshires. “Since when do you have a secret love nest?”

  “Since about five years ago. Sorry, you never made the cut.” She gave him detailed directions to the place, complete with tourist info about the nearest convenience stores, etc.

  “I think we should actually drive up and back. I need to be completely convincing.”

  Mitzi could not think of a counter argument, so she just shrugged and grabbed her bag.

  Chapter 24

  Friday, October 28

  Queens

  Perez called in Cabrera early on Friday. “What is the status?”

  Cabrera swallowed. “He is awake, complains of some headache, but definitely awake.”

  “What about the leak?”

  “I have put in a drain under the scalp so he does not build up pressure, but I have to keep an IV running full speed to make up for the fluid loss. We are keeping up for now, and there is no sign yet of infection. I'm pumping in antibiotics round the clock.”

  Blaylock was standing by the window. “We don't really need cooperation for the sensory programming. As long as he's conscious. Everything is set up downstairs.”

  “Let's get it started,” Perez ordered.

  ◆◆◆

  An hour later, he took the elevator down to the basement and rolled into the observation room behind the one-way glass. Jorge was naked, lying on his back on what appeared to be a form-fitting mold on a table in the center of the room. An array of three robotic arms were rapidly touching the boy, first on one arm, then the other, then on the chest, the legs, the face. The child was squirming a little, but did not seem to be too uncomfortable. Blaylock was at a console, and turned towards the glass. “If you're there, Boss, you are just in time for us to turn him over.” He tapped the keyboard, and the mold appeared to soften.

  Two men walked over and started to peel first his fingers, then his arms, legs, and finally his torso off of the gel. The gel flattened out, losing the indentation where the boy had been. There was a round hole at one end of the table. The boy was flipped over, and his face was pressed into the hole, then his body was lowered down onto the gel. Blaylock tapped a few commands on the keyboard, and the gel appeared to soften again, as the boy's struggling body settled into the surface, where he soon was unable to move.

  “Like a mouse on a glue trap,” Blaylock grinned.

  The robotic arms started their work again, as Blaylock studied the monitor intensely. “The analysis is improving as we go. I have an artificial intelligence neural network that is learning. This side should only take about twenty minutes.”

  “Then what?” asked Perez over the intercom.

  “Then I think we should give the skin a rest and do auditory and visual.”

  When it finished, Blaylock released the gel and had the men turn him onto his back again. As the little body was sinking back into the gel, Blaylock placed a set of earphones on him.

  “There's nothing really to see here. I first will put in simple tonal stimuli, then progress to more complex sounds, like music, and then to speech. That is where the home videos start to be really useful. We have extracted his mother's voice to start, then after we have fully mapped his hearing and receptive speech processing, we'll add new voices, unknown to the boy. The brain is really good at recognizing speech, which is processed in a completely different area than music or, say, forest noise.”

  Perez was fascinated. “And for vision?”

  “First we tape the eyelids open, then put an artificial tear irrigation system on to prevent drying out. Then the virtual reality goggles, and away we go. First colors, then simple shapes, then recognizable objects, on through to faces. Once again, we start with familiar faces, then move on to random faces. Finally, when we have all of that data, we play movies, lots of action, and correlate sound and vision together. Should take about nine or ten hours for all that. Then back to the skin.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, what we are doing now is simple touch. That gives some excellent mapping, but we need the full range of sensation. After we finish with audio and visual, we need to do cold. And pain. And heat.” Blaylock grimaced. “We want to get as much info processed from the touch as we can, as it is likely that his ability to tolerate the pain and heat will be limited. I'm hoping we can get it done in an hour on each side. Come back around seven if you want to watch. Or maybe you don't. Considering.”

  Perez did not answer, just watched silently for another few minutes, then wheeled around and back to the elevator.

  ◆◆◆

  Cameron jogged up the steps into the building housing the Anti-Terrorism Unit just after ten. He flashed his ID, then strode purposefully down to his cubicle, where he booted up his desktop to check for email. He pumped his fist as he saw that it was there in his inbox. The attachment was a list of addresses and electrical grid usage for over three hundred locations in the Tri-State area. He spooled it to the printer, and had just picked it up and started for the door when Kevin Crawley, the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the ATU, came out of his office holding a coffee mug and spotted him.

  “Hansen!” he called, “a word, if you please.” He stepped back to his door, and made a theatrical sweeping movement, inviting him in.

  Cameron had no option but to follow him in and sit down.

  “I thought the DDO said you were off for a while,” Crawley started.

  Cameron shifted a little. “Yes, he told me to check back in a couple of weeks. That will be Monday. I just stepped in to check my email, you know, in case there was anything interesting.”

  “And was there?”

  “No,” Cameron replied, conscious of the thick wad of paper in his back pocket.

  “Traffic bad from the West Side this morning, Hansen?” The SAC was peering over the top of his reading glasses.

  “I wouldn't know sir. I've been out of town. Just got back this morning from the Berkshires.”

  “So you wouldn't know anything about a burglary attempt at your place night before last?”

  “What!” Cameron jumped up. “I don't know anything about that! At my place? I haven't been home yet!”

  “Yes, we tried to call you yesterday, but got nothing but voice mail. One guy dead at the scene, another taken comatose to St Lukes. Right outside your door. Doesn't look like they got in. The manager let the cops in, just a quick peek to make sure you weren't in there dead. They said nothing looked disturbed. Also said it looked like you hadn't been there for a few days.” He scribbled a name and number on a notebook page and handed it to him. “This is the detective on the case. He wants to talk to you. Obviously. Give him a call.”

  “Will do.” He got up to leave.

  “No, I meant now,” Crawley punched in the number, and put it on speaker.

  “Terrence,” a voice said. Crawley poked a finger at Cameron.

  “Uh, this is Cameron Hansen. My SAC gave me a message to call.”

  “Ah, yes, Agent Hansen.
We need to have a chat. Just routine. How about I come by the ATU at noon? Or would you rather come to me? We could meet at your place. Actually, I think that might be best. Let's say noon.” He hung up.

  “Great,” the SAC smiled. “got that guy off my back. Thinks he's Columbo. Raincoat, false exits, the whole bit. You'll love him.” He laughed mirthlessly.

  ◆◆◆

  Cameron was worried about getting to his apartment. He knew there was more than a small chance that the place was being watched. In the end, he decided that a cab dropping him right in front was safer than walking up. He had not seen anyone watching as he entered the ATU, but he waited in the lobby until a couple of agents he knew came down and headed out. “Hey guys,” he called, “can you drop me at Grand Central?”

  “Sure, thing, let’s go,” came the reply.

  At Grand Central Station, he stood in line, watching the cabs carefully to make sure no cabbies tried to jump the line. He laughed a little to himself. That would have caused an immediate riot. He hadn’t seen anyone watching or following, but that did not stop him from keeping his gun in hand in the pocket of his overcoat all the way there. He called Mitzi.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Perfect. Like I said, the FBI offices are about as safe as they come.”

  He explained where he was going.

  “You're clear on all the details?”

  “Yeah, no problem.” He hung up.

  He arrived in front of his building about three minutes late, and scurried quickly through the front door, flashing his ID at the uniformed cop stationed there, who jerked his head in the direction of the elevator. Cameron chose the stairs.

  Detective Arthur Terrence was a smallish man in a crumpled tan raincoat, with a mass of unruly graying hair and a mustache. He was leaning against the banister on Cameron's landing. “Agent Hansen, I presume?”

  Cameron stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Detective. Should we go in and sit down? You said they did not get in, right?” Terrence nodded, waving him forward in an “after you” gesture. Cameron unlocked the door, and they went in and sat down.