by Mark Alpert
“TAMARA! I’M A FRIEND OF KEATING! WE NEED TO TALK!”
A third-floor window opened. Jenna couldn’t see who was behind it, but she heard a woman’s voice, sharp and wary.
“What is it? Who are you?”
“Please, can I come up to your apartment? I saw Keating last night, the reporter from your newspaper.” She refrained from mentioning what had happened to him. She couldn’t shout that kind of news from the sidewalk. “He asked me to give you something.”
The street fell silent. Then the woman on the third floor said, “Wait a minute,” and closed the window.
Thirty seconds later, the building’s door opened. A tall black woman in jeans and a tank top stood in the doorway. She was slender and very beautiful, with hair so close-cropped it looked like a light shadow on her scalp. In her left hand she held a flashlight, and in her right was a revolver, which she pointed at Jenna’s chest.
“Come over here. Where I can see you.”
Tamara didn’t seem frightened. Her voice was calm and she held the gun steady. And strangely enough, Jenna wasn’t frightened either. So many people had pointed guns at her in the past twenty-four hours that she was getting used to it.
Jenna approached the doorway, moving slowly and raising her hands above her head. She tried to look Tamara in the eye, but she couldn’t see the woman’s face so well because the flashlight was blinding her. “I’m so sorry about bothering you like this. My name is Jenna Khan and I—”
“Get inside.” Tamara backed up, but didn’t lower her gun. She retreated to the foot of the building’s stairs as Jenna stepped through the doorway. At the same time, she trained her flashlight on Jenna’s sneakers and sweatpants, which were caked with mud. “Jesus Christ. Did you sleep in the park?”
Jenna shook her head. She kept her hands in the air. “No, but I was hiding there. The Federal Service cops are after me. But I swear, I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Where did you see Allen? No one at the Times knows where he is. Are the cops after him too?”
Her voice rose when she said “Allen,” which Jenna guessed was Keating’s first name. Tamara’s composure was cracking a bit, showing how scared she really was. Jenna panicked for a moment, unsure how to say this.
“I saw him at Bay Parkway, at one of the checkpoints for the South Brooklyn District. The cops, they … they hurt him very badly.”
“Hurt him? What did they did do? Did they beat him?”
“I didn’t see it happen, but yeah, it looked like they beat him up bad. I only saw him afterward, and he gave me his phone because he’d shot some video of—”
“Just say it. Is he dead?”
Jenna couldn’t speak. But she nodded.
Tamara lowered the revolver. She lowered the flashlight too, shining it on the floor, and for the first time Jenna got a good look at her face. She wore deep purple lipstick and a bright gold nose ring. Her eyelashes were long and thick, and her eyes were gorgeous. And they were filling with tears.
Jenna dropped her arms to her sides. She wanted to say something else, maybe add a few words of explanation, but Keating’s death was so horrible that she couldn’t think of anything that would console Tamara. So the two women just stared at each other.
Finally, Jenna broke the silence. “I’m … I’m so sorry. Are you also a reporter for the Times? Or an editor?”
Tamara shook her head. “No. I work for the city. For the New York City mayor’s office.” She uncocked her revolver and tucked it into the waistband of her jeans. “Come upstairs. I’ll get you some clean clothes.”
She turned around and started climbing the apartment building’s stairway. After a moment of hesitation, Jenna followed her. “So you know Allen how…?”
Tamara didn’t say anything until she reached the second floor. Then she looked over her shoulder at Jenna.
“He was my boyfriend.”
* * *
Jenna asked if she could use the shower, and Tamara said yes. It was a good idea for two reasons, the first being that Jenna stank to high heaven. But more important, she sensed that Tamara needed some time alone. The poor woman was struggling. She just barely managed to hold it together while she handed Jenna a towel and led her to the bathroom and lit a candle on the windowsill. But as Jenna stepped into the shower and turned the faucet handle, she heard a low, anguished wail coming from the other side of the bathroom door.
The water in the shower wasn’t hot—the blackout must’ve shut down the building’s water heater—but Jenna didn’t care. It was a pleasure just to wash the dirt and sweat off her skin. She watched the dissolved filth stream down her legs and pool around her feet and funnel into the drain. After a few minutes, she began to shiver, partly because the water was so cold and partly because she’d been so tense and frightened for so long. She’d finally reached a safe haven, a place where she could let down her guard for a little while, and now she was overcome by all the worry and distress she hadn’t allowed herself to feel before. She turned off the water and started crying. She reached for the towel and buried her face in it.
Jenna wept into the towel until she stopped shivering. Then she dried herself off and stepped out of the shower. She noticed that Tamara had taken away her grimy sweatpants and nightshirt and laid out some clean clothes for her on the bathroom countertop. The jeans were too long, but they fit her nicely once she rolled up the cuffs. And the T-shirt—black and seamless, with a scoop neckline—was actually quite attractive. Tamara, apparently, had a sense of style. She was one of those hip, fashionable New York women whom Jenna had always envied from afar.
But right now she didn’t envy what Tamara was going through. In fact, Jenna felt guilty for crying in the shower. Yes, her fear and anxiety were terrible, but Tamara’s grief had to be worse.
Jenna stalled for another five minutes. She picked up the bead necklace that Hector had given her and put it back on. She adjusted the necklace and looked at herself in the mirror above the sink. Then she left the bathroom and walked back to the apartment’s tastefully decorated living room, which overlooked Prospect Park West.
Tamara sat on a beautiful blue couch in the middle of the room. In front of her was an equally beautiful mahogany table, on which stood a tall, flickering candle in a crystal holder. Spoiling the picture, though, were Jenna’s soiled sweatpants, which lay on a pile of old newspapers on the floor. And in Tamara’s right hand was Keating’s iPhone, which she’d removed from the pocket of the sweatpants.
She was watching the video of the massacre. She held the phone close to her face, just a couple of inches from her nose, but the sound of gunfire was clearly audible across the room. Jenna’s stomach twisted when she heard it. She remembered the rattle of the machine gun in the sentry tower, the people running and screaming and dropping into the floodwaters. She froze on the living-room carpet, feeling the terror all over again.
After a minute or so, the screams subsided, but the rattling gunfire grew even more intense. Jenna guessed the video had reached the point where Derek commandeered the Stryker vehicle and started firing back at Frazier. It amazed her now that Keating had been able to record the whole thing, even as he lay dying on the floor of the sentry tower. And Jenna saw the same amazement on Tamara’s face as she watched the video. Her purple lips parted and she gaped at the footage. She took a deep breath and whispered, “Allen. Jesus Christ.”
Then the gunfire ceased and the video ended. After several seconds, Tamara raised her head and looked Jenna in the eye. “Thank you for bringing this. It means a lot to me, just knowing what Allen was trying to do.”
Jenna felt awkward. She didn’t know what to say. “Yes, it was very brave. I haven’t watched the video—I didn’t know the password for his phone—but it sounds like he … like he recorded everything that happened on…” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t talk about it. “I’m sorry. I’m just glad you knew the password. Because everyone needs to see this.”
Tamara nodded and somehow managed to smile. She w
as obviously hurting, but she was also pretty tough. “There’s a funny story about that password. A few weeks ago Allen changed it to ‘Tammy’ because he knew how much I hated that nickname. We weren’t dating for very long, only since last June. But I had high hopes for that boy.” She raised her hand to her face and wiped her eyes. Then she turned off the power on the iPhone and rested it on her lap. “So where were you when all this shooting was going on?”
Tamara gave her a brave look, and that made Jenna brave too. She stepped forward and sat down in an armchair on the other side of the coffee table. “I was in the armored vehicle with Derek. He’s the guy who fired back at the FSU cop in the sentry tower. You saw that cop in the video, right? The one who murdered all those people?”
“Yeah, the cop who jumped out of the tower at the end. That’s one scary motherfucker.” Tamara shook her head. “I sure as hell hope he broke his neck when he jumped.”
Jenna frowned. “No, he didn’t. He’s enhanced. He’s a former Special Forces soldier who received a gene-editing therapy. It’s part of an experiment called Palindrome. I know about it because I used to work at a genetics lab that was involved in the project.”
Tamara’s reaction was surprising. She didn’t cock her head or narrow her eyes. She didn’t look at Jenna in astonishment or disbelief. She simply nodded. “Okay. Now I think I know who that motherfucker is. His name is Lieutenant Rick Frazier, right?”
“What? How do you know that?”
“I told you, I work in the mayor’s office. And I see all the reports the mayor gets.” Tamara shrugged. “The New York Police Department has its own intelligence division. Those are cops who usually gather information about terrorist plots, that kind of thing. But since the FSU came to town, the intelligence division has been watching the Feds, monitoring their abuses, all the brutality against innocent civilians in Brooklyn. And Frazier is definitely the worst.”
Jenna was dumbstruck. “You mean you already know what he’s done during the immigration raids? The beatings?”
“Yeah, we were collecting evidence, hoping to get enough to file charges against him. We’ve also received reports of abusive FSU officers in the other Federal Service Districts. Judging from their behavior, the NYPD suspected the leaders of the federal squads were jacked up on steroids or some other kind of performance-enhancing drug.”
“So why isn’t this in the news? Why didn’t Allen put it in the Times?”
The question seemed to agitate Tamara. She leaned forward, perching on the edge of the couch cushions. “Believe me, he tried. But his editors wouldn’t run the story. They were getting pressure from the newspaper’s owners.” She bent over the coffee table and pointed at the old newspapers on the floor. “The owners of the Times are scared shitless, because no one’s on their side anymore. The president hates them, and so do all the new judges on the Supreme Court. So now the Times won’t print anything unless they have irrefutable evidence.” She picked up the iPhone from her lap and waved it in the air. “That’s why Allen went to Bay Parkway. He was trying to get video of what the FSU is doing, photographic evidence that no one could dispute.”
Tamara was breathing hard. She looked distraught and disgusted. Scowling, she slipped Keating’s phone into the pocket of her jeans.
Jenna gave her some time, letting her seethe. But all the while she kept her eyes on the iPhone, which poked out of Tamara’s pocket. Allen Keating had been right: the video was the key. It would redeem the sacrifice he’d made.
After waiting a few more seconds, Jenna pointed at the phone. “So are you going to show that video to the Times? That’s what Allen would’ve wanted, right?”
Tamara thought it over for a moment. Then she shook her head. “Allen was an optimist. The situation is worse than he thought. You know what would happen if I showed this video to one of Allen’s editors at the Times? The guy would call the newspaper’s publisher, and the publisher would alert the FSU. Then the cops would show up here and arrest both of us. Because the newspaper’s owners would rather cooperate with the government than lose their whole business.”
“Then why don’t we put it up on the Web ourselves? We can upload the video on YouTube, maybe one of their activist channels. We can also publicize the information about Palindrome, put it on Facebook and some other sites.”
“No, that would be just as dangerous. The Feds use all kinds of software to monitor the internet. They’d take down the video in minutes, and then they’d figure out where it came from.”
Jenna was getting frustrated. “Well, what the hell should we do? We can’t let the FSU get away with this. They also arrested my father and brother, you know. My brother is paralyzed and can’t even move his arms, but they threw him down and put handcuffs on him anyway.”
“Jesus.”
“Yes, it’s disgusting. And horrible and evil. And I want them to pay for it.”
Tamara grimaced, wrinkling the bridge of her nose. Clearly, she was disgusted too. “Don’t worry. They’re gonna pay. No doubt about that.” She’d lowered her voice, making it deep and forbidding. Then she rose from the couch and stepped around the coffee table. “Come on. My car is parked on the street. It’s a big SUV, so it should be able to get through the flooded areas.”
Now that Tamara stood in front of her, Jenna could see the revolver still tucked into the woman’s jeans. She felt a pang of dread as she stared at it. They were about to leave the safe haven. “Wait, where are we going?”
“To Manhattan. Gracie Mansion.” Tamara tugged her shirt down so that the black fabric covered the handle of her gun. “We’re gonna talk to the mayor.”
SEVENTEEN
Colonel Grant sat in the tiered observers’ gallery of the operating theater, looking down at the surgical team. Behind the big sheet of glass that separated the gallery from the operating room, three surgeons, two anesthesiologists, and six nurses were hard at work. They were all trying to save Derek Powell’s life.
Grant looked at his watch. The operation had started at six o’clock in the evening and now it was almost ten. At first, the doctors had been optimistic about Powell’s chances. Although he’d lost a lot of blood, the paramedics were able to stabilize him at Green-Wood Cemetery and load him into the FSU’s medevac helicopter. But soon after he arrived at the Research Center on Rikers Island, Powell had a seizure and went into cardiac arrest. They had to shock him with the defibrillator half a dozen times to get his heart going again. The anesthesiologists yelled at each other and the nurses scrambled around the room and the surgeons cut into Powell’s chest and abdomen. They split open his torso, revealing the soupy red mess inside.
Grant watched it all through the glass. He was no medical expert, but he could see that things were going to hell. Powell was dying.
But was that such a catastrophe? Until seventeen hours ago, Grant had thought Powell had died in Afghanistan. And it wasn’t like they were losing an American hero. The guy was a deserter and a traitor. He’d single-handedly destroyed the Bay Parkway checkpoint and killed a dozen FSU officers. Worst of all, he was a threat to Palindrome. Why did he run off with that geneticist, the Pakistani bitch who was still on the loose? He and the Khan girl must’ve been planning to sabotage the project, maybe because they didn’t like how the research had turned out. It was vindictiveness, pure and simple. Death was too good for someone like that.
And yet … and yet …
Personally, Grant had always liked Powell. He’d noticed the young soldier for the first time seven years ago, when Powell was a lieutenant fresh out of West Point and Grant was still the commander of the Army Rangers’ Third Battalion. Lieutenant Powell had excelled at the Ranger selection program, showing extraordinary combat skills and endurance. His performance was equally remarkable after he went to Afghanistan and led his platoon into battle against the Taliban. Powell was tough as nails, but he also had a brain. And he had the warrior spirit, always ready for action.
Six years later, when Grant was working for the W
hite House and trying to recruit test subjects for the Palindrome Project, he wasn’t surprised when Powell—now a captain—became one of the first volunteers. The injections turned him into an even better soldier, smarter at training his men and more skilled at killing the enemy. Grant was so impressed, in fact, that during one of his visits to Afghanistan he took Captain Powell aside and had a long conversation with him about Palindrome and all the amazing things it made possible. He even told Powell about the New America Initiative, Keller’s plan to reestablish law and order in the country. The K-Man had promised to put Grant in charge of the effort, and the colonel was going to need several outstanding officers to serve under him. He’d hoped that Powell would become one of his deputies, part of the team that would make America great again.
Now Grant couldn’t believe how badly he’d misjudged the man. Frowning, he stared at the surgical team on the other side of the glass and forced himself to look at the doctors cutting into Powell’s body. Then Grant heard a door open and turned his head.
A young man in a white lab coat entered the gallery and headed toward him. He was one of the Palindrome scientists, a lab director at the Rikers Island Research Center. He had short black hair and wore a red T-shirt under his lab coat, which made him look a little ridiculous. More than half of the Palindrome researchers were either Asian or Jewish, and this guy belonged to the latter category. He was smart and dedicated, and Grant had promoted him to the director position a few weeks ago when a spot opened up. But soon after promoting the guy, Grant discovered how annoying he could be. He was too intense. He talked a mile a minute.
His name was David Weinberg.
He approached Grant and leaned over his chair. “Uh, Colonel? Can I talk to you for a second?”
“You’re already talking to me. What do you want?”
Weinberg nodded. He was so eager to start yapping, he didn’t take offense. “Well, I just wanted to give you an update from the molecular genetics team. The operation on Powell has given us the opportunity to collect samples of his body tissues.” He pointed superfluously at the operating room. “Over the past three hours, we’ve analyzed the DNA from the samples and compared them with the records we have for this test subject. And the results have been intriguing. His body is changing in ways that none of us anticipated. Most of the changes are maladaptive, but a few are—”