Imminent Threat

by Jeff Gunhus

  Like today, Mara thought. There would be no headline about the work done to avert disaster. The world would continue to spin as if nothing had happened. But the men and women involved knew how close they’d come. And that knowledge took a toll.

  “What we do can create a bond,” Anna said. “Or it can create walls if you have the wrong expectation. If you’re looking for a normal relationship, regular Wednesday date nights, coffee together every morning before work, pillow talk about the events of the day, and all that, then you’re going to be disappointed.”

  “What if that’s what I want?” Mara asked.

  “Then I’d say I know you better than you know yourself,” Anna said. “Or at least I know I thought the same thing more than once. Even tried it more than once.”

  “And?”

  “I’m standing here with you, aren’t I?” she said. “Having played my part in saving the world from itself once again. The rush is intoxicating. And it’s addictive.”

  “And it’s never-ending,” Mara pointed out.

  “That’s true. You might even say that world-saving is a growth business. Men with ill intent will always rise up to do evil. And people like us will meet them on the field and do battle.”

  “Do you ever feel like it’s not worth it?” Mara said. “That it’s just inevitable that one day the bad guys are going to win? Whether that’s a mushroom cloud over New York City, or a global pandemic of a man-made weaponized virus, with technology, isn’t it just a matter of time? And if it is, shouldn’t we try to have an actual life until it happens?”

  Anna finally took her eyes off the monitors and looked at her. “Maybe you’re right. But if there is a mushroom cloud over New York or Paris or Prague, I need to look at myself in the mirror and know I did everything I could to prevent it. Knowing there are evil men planning the destruction of society, and knowing I possess some unique skills and experience to help stop them, I don’t think a regular life is possible. For me, anyway. Everyone must make their own path.”

  She nodded at Rick walking toward them.

  “But you also must choose carefully the people to walk that path with,” she said.

  Rick slowed his approach a few feet from them. “Am I interrupting?”

  “No,” Anna said. “I was about go to the Czech embassy. I’m attending the gala tonight. I’m told there’s a dress waiting for me that will make me look ravishing. Will I see you both there?”

  “Hawthorn asked me to attend,” Mara said. “Another set of eyes. We may have stopped Scarvan, but a congregation of world leaders is still a plum target for any one of dozens of terrorist groups in the world.”

  Anna looked to Rick. “How about you, young man? Will I see you there?”

  “I’ll be there,” Rick said. “But I doubt you’ll see me. Dreslan’s on the warpath. Last I heard, I’ll be patrolling the stacks under Bryant Park during the event.”

  “That’s a shame,” Anna said, sliding past him. “I would have loved to see you in a tuxedo. I’ll leave you two to chat.”

  Rick feigned interest in the wall of video monitors. Most heads of state had left the building, so there wasn’t much to see.

  “Is it bad?” Mara asked.

  “It isn’t good,” Rick said. “The fact it all ended well helps. Maybe a demotion instead of jail time.”

  “I don’t think it would have come to that,” Mara said. “There was a credible threat to the president if you shared the information. You didn’t want it to leak and put the president at risk.”

  “Which, to my boss, implies he couldn’t be trusted with the information,” Rick said. Some staffers for the security team walked past and Rick paused until they were gone. “But you told your dad after we agreed to tell no one.”

  “Which implies you can’t trust me?” Mara said.

  Rick glanced around, checking that they were alone. “Yeah, if you want the truth. That thought had crossed my mind. I’m not even saying it was the wrong move to tell him. But why hide it from me?”

  “Because this was bigger than us,” Mara said. “You know that.”

  “See, that’s the problem,” Rick said. “The direction we were headed, where I thought we were going, there wasn’t anything bigger than us.”

  “Guess you were wrong about that,” Mara said, hating the words as they came out of her mouth. God, she didn’t feel that way. She wanted to be with him. She wanted to share everything with him. But she was too damn stubborn, and she knew it.

  Rick maintained his composure, either because of the other people in the room with them, or because he’d expected as much from her. He made a show of looking at his watch. “I’ve got to go. Let’s get through the gala tonight and the Scarvan debrief over the next couple of days. Professional only. Some time apart would be good, I think.”

  She wanted to say she was sorry, but the words stuck in her throat. This was the part of relationships she always sucked at. Offense was her best defense, and the vulnerability she felt kicked that instinct into high gear. It took everything she had to not make some smart-ass remark. Instead, she swallowed hard and said, “I agree.”

  Rick seemed put off-balance by the response. He hesitated, checked his watch again, then turned and left.

  Mara blew out a deep breath. She ought to go after him. Grab a room and talk things out. Time apart could defuse the situation, but most likely just deepen the divide she felt gaping between them.

  But when she moved, it was in the opposite direction. As she walked away, she had a gnawing sense she was also walking away from her best chance to fix her relationship.

  She had a job to do. And if she was going to be undercover at a gala of world leaders, she had to look the part. As she left the command center, she caught sight of her reflection in a window. Three days of little sleep and maybe one shower in between had her looking a mess. Maybe postponing the talk with Rick wasn’t the worst thing. A shower, a little makeup, maybe even a brush through her hair would make a world of difference. The dress that had been purchased for her wouldn’t hurt, either.

  Mara decided she’d give Rick some space. Right until the gala was over and the security team stood down. Then she’d get over her asshole ways, find him, and have a real conversation about how she felt about him. She’d done her part to save the world. It was time for her to spend a little time saving herself.

  As she left the command center, she felt a surge of confidence she could actually pull it off. Not because of her ability to manipulate people, but because she was ready to come clean and have an honest conversation. If it wasn’t enough, then nothing would be. But the relationship wouldn’t end because she wrapped herself in a hard shell like she normally did. She was going to get out of her own way and see where the path took her.

  It was a giddy feeling and she found herself smiling like a fool as she walked the halls of the United Nations building. She just had to get through the gala dinner at the New York Public Library first. How hard could that be?

  CHAPTER 57

  Scott couldn’t remember the last time another man intimidated him. Could have been his drill instructor at Quantico. Or maybe the Navy SEAL commander who hadn’t wanted a CIA puke in his unit on his first deployment overseas.

  Those men hadn’t wanted to kill him, but they both could have done so without breaking a sweat or even breathing hard.

  Scarvan not only had those same skills, but his eyes burned with an unmistakable desire.

  Given a few seconds with his wrists unbound from the metal ring embedded into the table in front of him, with his legs unshackled from the irons that were attached to the floor, Scott knew Scarvan would try to do the worst imaginable things to him.

  And, even in his old age, Scott wondered whether he’d survive such an attack.

  Hawthorn stood next to him at the one-way mirror, watching their prisoner. Scarvan sat with his head tilted back, eyes open, staring at the fluorescent lights strung above him. His mouth moved, minutely, almost impossible to see.<
br />
  “What do you think he’s doing?” Hawthorn asked.

  “Praying,” Scott said. “He’s been doing it since he regained consciousness.”

  “Jacobslav Scarvan the Penitent. I never would have imagined it.”

  Scott looked around them. There was a room built up around them, but a few windows showed the unique location. Deep under Grand Central Station were a series of unused areas: storage yards for subway cars that hadn’t been used in decades, old offices for the maintenance teams that were left to rust and gather dust when they’d been moved above ground. Even an old subway platform with shiny tiles and archways leading to stairs that were bricked up.

  After 9/11, the CIA had sought out black sites to have “conversations” with people of interest in terrorist plots. Sometimes those conversations had an urgency to them given the information required was about an active attack in progress or something imminent.

  The subterranean tunnels right under Grand Central Station had served that purpose well over the years. It was accessible via a specialized train or a heavily guarded service elevator in the basement of an office building right above them. From this spot, after interrogations were done, prisoners could be transported anywhere in the country by train.

  It was a perfect spot for Scarvan. If the man was going to talk, Scott thought it might be in the sudden aftermath of his plan being thwarted. Once Scarvan was locked up, he guessed the old man would clam up and just wither away in his old age.

  “Are you ready?” Hawthorn asked him.

  “Sure. What kind of question is that?”

  “You look a little on edge is all,” Hawthorn said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good,” Hawthorn said, slapping him on the back. “Because the guy scares the piss out of me. Have fun.”

  Scott crossed over to the door and let himself in.

  Scarvan didn’t shift his eyes. He continued to stare at the light above, lips moving in near silent prayer. A soft whisper came from the old man, unintelligible.

  Scott pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down heavily. He leaned back, consciously working to appear in control. He waited in silence as Scarvan continued to pray.

  “We found the bomb,” Scott finally said. Scarvan stopped his prayer and slowly lowered his gaze until he met Scott’s eyes. “Crude work, but the bomb guys tell me it would have done the job.”

  In fact, the FBI’s bomb unit had been impressed with the sophistication of the device. As Jordi had predicted, there were two pathways to detonation, cellular and long-wave radio frequency.

  “Smart encasing the device in a lead framework to avoid detection,” Scott said. “Would have been easy enough to set off in the middle of Times Square. But you had a more specific group you wanted to kill today, didn’t you?”

  “I was like you once,” Scarvan said, startling Scott with his clear English. “Dedicated to my country. Sacrificing for her. Giving my life.” Scarvan leaned his head to his left, indicating the shoulder where Scott had shot him on the boat so many years before. “You saw the thanks men like us get once our usefulness is gone. That will be your fate one day. You’ll see.”

  “Maybe,” Scott said. “I don’t think I’ll become a mass murderer, though, and hide behind God when I do it.”

  Scarvan said nothing at first. He shook his head as if he were dealing with a child. Finally, he leaned forward, his voice a low, husky whisper.

  “You are a murderer, Scott Roberts. The gods you hide behind take the form of an eagle and the stars and stripes of your flag. Tell me, do the dead come to you at night? Do they demand things of you? Answers? Penance? Do they offer forgiveness? Or only damnation?”

  The dead did come for Scott, ready to insert themselves into a dream, or even a waking thought.

  “That’s how we’re different. My conscience is clean,” Scott said. “But you’re right, I do hear the dead. The ones who were killed by bombs in public places. The kids torn apart by shrapnel for some political purpose. If there’s any guilt, it’s that I didn’t do enough to save them. For you, I expect you get pleasure from the screams. The more terror, the more you enjoyed it.”

  Scarvan let out a deep laugh.

  “You think that’s funny?” Scott asked.

  “No,” the old man said. “I think you’re full of shit.”

  “Really? How’s that?”

  Scarvan looked like he might not take the bait, but it was too much for him to pass up.

  “You and your government like to drape ideals around you like a cape, like it will be an invisibility cloak masking your own evil. How many innocents have been killed in the name of freedom? In Iraq? In Afghanistan? Your CIA runs operations the same as everyone else. Don’t tell me about the innocent. There are no innocents. Only sinners who deserve punishment.”

  “Punished by who? You?” Scott said. “Is that from that brain of yours getting a little scrambled from your swim in the Aegean? Too many weird mushrooms with the Greek monks?”

  “Joking. That’s the way it is with you,” Scarvan said. “It’s your defense. It shows great weakness. I didn’t know that about you before.”

  “There you go casting judgment again. But that’s your new gig, right? Deciding what’s right and wrong. Who lives and dies?”

  “Not me,” Scarvan said. “Judgment. Retribution. And, yes, punishment, all will come from a God displeased with His creation.”

  “Where did all this God stuff come from?” Scott said. “Is that what you were doing for all those years you were missing? Going to Sunday school? Reading your Bible? Mostly Old Testament by the sound of it. Angry, vengeful God and all that.”

  Scarvan leaned back in his chair as far as his chains would allow. Perhaps he’d caught something in Scott’s voice, sensed a confidence that Scott knew he had a card to play. And he did. A good one.

  The old man suddenly grew cautious.

  “You know where I spent those years,” he said.

  “That’s right, I do,” Scott said, like they were two friends having a beer and discussing their summer travel. Scott pulled his phone out of his pocket, idly scrolling through his photos as he spoke. “Beautiful place. The bars aren’t very good, but you can’t have everything.” He looked up suddenly. “Want to see some pictures from my trip?”

  Scarvan glared at him. He didn’t like the direction things were going.

  “No need, I’m aware of what it looks like,” Scarvan said. Scott smiled as he turned the phone toward the old man. He was enjoying this probably more than he ought to. But there was a point to it. He needed Scarvan off-balance. Needed to shake him from this smug confidence. If he could do that, then he just might make a mistake. Give him something, anything, to help lead him to who helped him get inside the UN.

  He had just the thing that might do the trick.

  He forced the phone into Scarvan’s line of sight. “You’re going to want to see this.” He put a finger on the screen. “Or maybe you don’t. But you know what?” He flicked to the next image. “That’s too fucking bad.”

  CHAPTER 58

  The Stephen A. Schwarzman Building, the main branch of the New York Public Library that stretched from Fortieth to Forty-second Streets on Fifth Avenue, always left Mara in awe. She’d come to New York with her mom and Lucy when she was thirteen. A girls’ weekend that made her and her sister feel like adults. Nice dinners, two Broadway shows, a carriage ride through Central Park, and a stay at the Plaza Hotel. But it was the trip to the NYPL that left the greatest impression of the trip.

  As much as Mara spent her early years as a tomboy ready to take on any boy in any sport, or in any playground fight for that matter, she was also a full-on book worm. She’d blown through the books deemed age-appropriate for her, Nancy Drew and the like, before discovering Neil Gaiman’s book Coraline. From there she’d jumped into his books for adults, hiding them once she discovered there were words in them that she wasn’t supposed to say in good company. Once, her dad had found her w
ell past her bedtime with a copy of American Gods. He’d read it before and knew exactly what was in it. He left the room and came back with a pen flashlight, suggesting she read under the covers so she wouldn’t get caught.

  From there she consumed everything. She discovered Tolkien and C. S. Lewis, Frank Herbert’s Dune series, the horror of Stephen King, the lyrical voice of Michael Chabon, the beauty of Toni Morrison, the boldness of Hemingway.

  So, when New York was still in the planning stages, she’d begged her mom to add the library to their schedule. Lucy complained and called her a big nerdo, but she didn’t care. And neither did her mom. Not only did she put it on the schedule, but she signed them up for a tour of the building. This addition cut into their free shopping time, which made Lucy pout for two days, but she got over it.

  The visit was everything she’d hoped for, but in a surprising way.

  The architecture of the building was awe-inspiring. From the massive stone lions standing guard at the stairs leading to the front entrance, to the edifice of the majestic Beaux-Arts building—a term she’d learned in her research before the trip—everything signaled that literature was something special. Something to be revered, honored, treasured.

  Walking inside felt the same as any one of the cathedrals she’d been to around the world. Astor Hall, named after John Astor, the original benefactor of the library, was a soaring space of marble archways, grand staircases, and elaborate lighting fixtures. A temple to books. A solemn space designed to make clear that what lay within was something worth protecting, worth wrapping with the most beautiful and permanent building that could be imagined. Even Lucy stood openmouthed in that entrance lobby, amazed by the scale of the building.

  They’d joined the tour in the lobby and spent the next hour walking through the hallowed halls, up and down wide stone staircases that look like they ought to be in a royal palace instead of on the corner of Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue.

  They were about twenty minutes into the tour when Mara asked the question most of the adults had thought but were too afraid of looking stupid to ask: