“Is it or is it not?” Special Agent in Charge Marcus Emero of IDSD’s Office of Special Investigations approached behind them.
The engineer nodded reluctantly. “The residual recognition signal is the same as the one detectable when we use our technology. Whatever did this, it’s ours. This is ours.”
Emero’s eyes hardened. He turned to one of his agents, standing silently in the otherwise empty lab. “Get me a list of everyone involved in this project. And track them down, find them all.” He took his phone out and put in a call to the man he answered to directly in this investigation, the head of IDSD HQ Intelligence.
Chapter Eight
Lara put the car on autodrive. She loved to drive, but not this car, it wasn’t her choice. She moved uncomfortably in the driver’s seat and huffed in frustration. There had to be a way to convince Frank to let her choose another one herself, something she would actually like. The problem was that her new security status meant IDSD had now limited her choice to models approved for the high-clearance ranks. The result was cars too big, too heavy and too cumbersome for her taste—one of which she was in now—and she hated pretty much all of them. She had loved her convertible, that classy, elegant car, and had bought it herself, it was hers, even if she did have to let IDSD install some security measures in it. She would have liked to replace it, but it was no longer a viable choice, considering what had happened to her last one.
As the car made its way to the IDSD complex, she busied herself with calling Donna, placing the call through the car’s communications system but routing it through her home to keep it private. The interior decorator came on-screen immediately. She was in her studio, Lara could tell by the level of noise around her, and her image wobbled as she walked to her office.
“Are you okay?” Donna asked before Lara managed to say anything.
“Morning.”
“Morning? Your morning is, like, hours ago!” Donna looked at her quizzically. “You look good, by the way.”
Lara raised her eyebrows, saying nothing.
“I know, I’m sorry, I had to tell him.”
“I understand, I do. You did the right thing, Don.”
Donna scrutinized her. “You really do look good, sweetie. I mean good good. Rested. Different.”
“I slept. Anyway, Donovan said he called you, but I wanted to call you myself, too, to let you know everything is okay.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“Donna!”
“Sorry.” Donna had the grace to look ashamed for about half a second. “Did you?”
“Yes. We slept very well, thank you. We were both exhausted.”
Donna’s eyes narrowed.
Lara smiled, relented. “Yes.”
“Once?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“Come on!”
“We spent the night together, okay? And that’s that.”
Donna sighed. Finally.
“He came for me, Don. He just came and took me home, and he stayed with me. I told him everything, and he still stayed.” Lara shook her head. “No matter what he finds out about me, he stays.”
“He’s in love with you.”
“I know. He has never hidden it. I just didn’t expect . . .”
“To love him back.”
“Well, I was going to say that I didn’t expect him to accept all of it, all of me. But yes, that too, I guess.” That too, she was still thinking as the car passed through the massive main gate of IDSD US, the security system identifying her and not stopping the car for a further check.
Vice Admiral Frank Scholes was waiting for her in the lobby of IDSD Missions. As she walked toward him he scrutinized her face, and she saw the relief on his.
“I’m fine,” she said before he had a chance to say anything. “I really am. Frank, I’m sorry I left that way yesterday.”
He shook his head. “I’m the last person you need to explain that to, Lara. I’m sorry you had to go through it.” He contemplated this for a moment. “I’m just glad Donovan is okay. That you two are okay. I mean, I assume . . .”
“We are.” She gave his arm an affectionate pat as they entered the elevator. “Don’t worry,” she said, but knew that he would, this man who had taken her under his wing on that fateful day her world came crushing down and had been a close friend to her since. “Were you waiting for me?”
“I had security inform me when you arrive. I just came from Jim’s office, he’s back from Brussels.” The office of the head of IDSD US, Admiral James Helios, was at the IDSD Diplomacy building.
“What’s up?”
“It seems we have a rather problematic situation on our hands.” He gave her a brief rundown of what was known about Ambassador George Sendor’s disappearance. Which wasn’t much, but he had long ago learned it paid to keep Lara updated. She was that rare combination, a trusted friend with a security clearance equal to his and a unique mind, a great recipe for brainstorming.
And then there was his gut feeling. He didn’t personally know Sendor, but he was more than aware of the situation the ambassador had been trying to untangle, and of the likely implications of his disappearance. Especially in light of the news Helios and he had just been given by the head of IDSD HQ Intelligence. Updating her was a good idea.
Still, Oracle wasn’t directly involved in this, nor would she be.
Unless all hell broke loose.
The man had been dead no more than several hours, USFID’s medical examiner would determine exactly how long. He would, Donovan thought, have been discovered sooner, but the room he was found in had prevented that. As for the cause of death, that was immediately determinable. The guy had been shot in the back of his head. A single, clean shot.
Donovan took a look around him. A large subbasement room with equipment of all sizes lining the walls, all covered with opaque protective sheets. All except one machine, evidently an old one. This one stood on top of another in an inner corner, uncovered. A closer look showed that it had no traces of dust on it. In fact, it looked like it had been in use. Donovan crouched down near the body. No signs of struggle, no obvious marks other than the bullet wound. No matter. If there were any hidden clues that might help find out what happened to this man, the medical examiner would find them.
He stood up as behind him his people swarmed into the room. They were the only ones he would allow in here, trusted not to destroy any evidence. A few brief orders and the crime scene was being canvassed and imaged, the machine in the corner pounced on by his techs. One of his lead investigators and the one who would be heading the team that would work this case with him, Supervisory Agent Emma Quinn, quickly took charge, and he walked out, knowing the evidence part of the investigation would be properly handled.
Outside, the head of ARPA’s Internal Security and Intelligence Directorate stood quietly, looking into the room with a grim expression.
“What can you tell me about him?” Donovan positioned himself between the man and the crime scene.
“Major Joseph Berman, liaison for ARPA level five projects,” the man said quietly. Which meant, Donovan knew, that Berman had been in charge of interagency and intermilitary relations in joint projects at the highest confidentiality level. And that would explain why he himself had been tagged to investigate his murder.
“I’ll need to know what he was working on, and who with. I also want his complete service file and his attendance and travel data going back one year. To begin with. And my people will require access to the major’s office and his computer.”
“His computer? I’m not sure I can provide you with this type of access without the permission . . .”
“I believe I can make sure you receive the more classified information about Major Berman. Provided, of course, that your security clearance allows it.” The deep voice, with a trace of accent that Donovan placed in Boston, belonged to an authoritative man in his mid-fifties who was approaching them.
“Special Agent in Charge
Pierce, I presume?” He offered his hand and introduced himself as Richard Bourne, ARPA’s director. “This agency and I will provide you with all the assistance we can. However,” he added, “I’m afraid you and I will have to continue this conversation in a more private setting.” His expression was somber even before his eyes flickered to the dead man laying not far from them.
“I apologize for the theatrics,” he said when they were in his office on the main administrative floor of the building, “but we try to compartmentalize project-related information to the extent possible. Strict procedures have proven to be highly effective, and quite necessary, you understand, as many of our projects often involve sensitive collaborations.”
“What projects was Major Berman involved in?” Donovan came straight to the point. Experience had taught him that the people holding the most access to information in this type of investigations, his type of investigations, were usually guarded, careful with what they said. Which had, of course, everything to do with the type of organizations they were part of and the information they tended to be privy to. The director, the extent to which he was forthcoming, offering his help, presented a rather unique opportunity for Donovan to obtain valuable information at an early stage of the investigation, and it was an opportunity the seasoned agent wasn’t prepared to miss. Still, the question lingered in the back of his mind—just why was ARPA’s director so ready to jump in and offer his help? Normally, he might not have been involved in the investigation at all.
“Allow me to check.” Bourne called up the information on a screen he kept carefully averted from Donovan. “Ah. Yes. He is . . . I’m sorry, was affiliated with aviation projects. Most recently, and for more than a year, two years almost, I see, he has been assigned as the liaison to one specific project named Sirion, under our Tactical Technology Office. Unfortunately, other than to tell you what entities were involved in it, there is not much else I can disclose. I believe your USFID clearance is not high enough to provide you with the specifics of the project itself. If you would like, I can approach your director and the head of the project, and once we clear you I’m sure I can provide you with—”
“Entities, meaning it’s an interagency project?” Donovan interjected. Interesting, he thought, how the man’s readiness to provide information seemed to have cooled down, now that he had placed himself as Donovan’s direct source for it. Was he stalling? Surely he knew that if Berman’s work was so important, Donovan would eventually be cleared for more information, not only because it could hold the motive for his murder, but also to ensure the project was not at risk.
“And international too. Let me see”—Bourne consulted the screen—“yes, ARPA and IDSD United States’ Advanced Technologies Research, IDSDATR, and both air forces, ours and the Internationals’, are involved.”
Donovan’s face remained impassive, not showing his interest at what he’d heard. This was also an IDSD project.
As he was about to ask Bourne for the identity of the project managers, the director’s phone emitted a quiet, classical tune.
“I apologize,” Bourne said, glancing at the phone. “I must take this call. I assure you it would not have been transferred to me if it were not a priority.”
Donovan was still wondering what took precedence over the life of a man, when he saw Bourne’s face pale.
On the other end of the line, Paul Evans, the recently appointed director of the US Global Intelligence Agency, explained that at the request of IDSD’s main intelligence division at its Brussels headquarters, made directly to him, ARPA’s employees involved in the Sirion aviation project needed to be tracked down. As attempts to reach the project liaison, Major Joseph Berman, any other way had failed, Evans was contacting Bourne himself directly. This was, he reiterated, a matter of the utmost urgency.
“I’m afraid I can’t,” Bourne said, and in response to Evans’s agitated protest he added, “Yes, I understand. But, you see, Major Berman is dead.”
“What?” This, Evans did not expect.
“He was found here, in ARPA’s main building, earlier this morning. USFID-SIRT is down here right now—”
“USFID’s SIRT?” In his office, Evans sat up. “Who’s the investigator?”
“An Agent Pierce. He’s here with me now, I—”
“Give him any information he needs. I’ll call him now, speak to him myself.”
Bourne hesitated. “But surely his clearance—”
“He’s got clearance.”
“How could he have clearance? Our projects—”
“Give him what he needs.” And with that, Evans ended the call. He wasn’t about to be argued with, nor was he about to explain. Ironically, it was Bourne who wasn’t cleared for that information.
Bourne was still staring at his phone when Donovan’s signaled an incoming call.
“That’s . . .” Clearly unsure of himself, Bourne looked up at Donovan, who didn’t take his eyes off ARPA’s director as he took the call. Was that a glimmer of panic he saw in the man’s eyes?
“Pierce here.”
“Donovan, it’s Paul Evans, I was the one who just spoke with Bourne. This guy, Berman, you’re positive it’s him? How did he die?”
Normally Donovan would refrain from answering this last question before receiving the medical examiner’s findings, but this one he took straight. Obviously, something else was happening here, and he knew Evans was a no-nonsense man. The fact that he would bypass Bourne for Donovan said a lot. It meant he needed to speak to someone he could trust, and Donovan knew Evans well enough to go with that.
“Visibly, looks like a shot to the back of the head,” he said.
Evans, who’d been updated by his counterpart at IDSD HQ Intelligence in Brussels about the details of Ambassador Sendor’s disappearance and was all too aware of why Berman was being sought, was silent for a long moment. “Donovan, your victim is part of a larger, international investigation,” he finally said. “I’d like you to stay on top of it at our end.” He sighed. The complications here were stacking up. “I guess you’re right where you’re supposed to be, eh? Good thing. I’ll call Leland, I’m taking you to us on this, you and whoever else you need. IDSD HQ Intelligence did the same with their agent in charge of this thing at their Office of Special Investigations, so that’s a full team. You’ll work directly with me, I can use an investigator I can bloody well trust in this mess, and you’re the only one who can freely work all related agencies. Okay with you? We’re meeting at IDSD later today. In Missions, it’s a secure three-way conference, three countries.”
Donovan consented without hesitation. For Evans to bring him into whatever was going on when he had his own agents, he must have a good reason. And anything IDSD was automatically connected in Donovan’s mind to Lara. If there was a chance she would be involved in whatever was going on, he wanted to be there. Even though he’d been readily added to Oracle’s security protocol by Scholes himself, his and Lara’s recent history together and his proximity to her considering, Donovan still wasn’t anywhere near trusting IDSD, or anyone else, for that matter, with her security. Not after their screw-up the last time.
Evans didn’t provide him with any other information before he ended the call, other than the time of the meeting and another warning to keep a lid on all the details of his investigation. Bourne was bursting with curiosity, but Donovan wasn’t about to satisfy it, and not only because Evans obviously chose not to bring ARPA’s director into this. Whatever this was all about, Donovan still had a victim and an investigation to see to. And around here, everyone was a suspect.
Going back to his investigative team, he worked the crime scene with them and joined in on the initial on-site interviews. This also gave him a chance to already have a look at the dead man’s service file, provided to him personally by a helpful Bourne, who hovered around for the duration.
Donovan didn’t leave the scene until the last of his investigators and techs did, taking everything they had so far to work on at USF
ID. And once he did leave ARPA, his destination was IDSD.
Ambassador George Sendor opened his eyes, then closed them again against the bright light. His head was pounding.
“I do apologize, Ambassador.”
Sendor started and sat up in apprehension. The man the voice belonged to stood up and walked to the wall, and used a small, manual switch to dim the light in the room. Sendor could now look around him more comfortably, albeit with increasing confusion. They were in a smallish bedroom. He himself was sitting on a single bed, a bedside table beside it with a glass of water on it and a tall water pitcher. A desk with a chair beside it stood in the corner, shelves filled with print books hanging on the wall above them. The room had two doors. One stood open, and led, he could see, to a small bathroom. The other, heavier looking, was shut, and must, he thought, lead outside. The room had no windows, and the subtle hum of air came from shafts in the plain low ceiling overhead.
The man came back to sit on the only couch in the room, which stood with its back to the far wall, not far from the closed door. He leaned back, crossing his legs, and resumed watching the older man with an expression of quiet, and subtly arrogant, interest. He was short, sturdily built. Clad in black, all black, and his clothes were, while seemingly simple, rather expensive, Sendor could tell.
“What happened? Where am I?” He felt dizzy, disoriented. The last he remembered he had begun feeling lightheaded moments after those shudders went through the jet. Nothing since.
“Take it easy, Ambassador. You are feeling the effects of falling unconscious after pressure in the jet you were on dropped, and of the sedative you were administered subsequently.” The words, spoken in English with an accent Sendor could not place, were uttered pleasantly, belying their menacing meaning.
Sendor reached for the glass of water beside the bed, then hesitated.
“I assure you there is nothing in the water. We no longer have reason to sedate you, nor do we wish you any harm. You will find that while you are our guest, you will be well cared for and treated with the utmost respect.”
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