The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

  Rand sat paralyzed, drifting through space, begging desperately for his instincts to guide him. After a long pause, he checked the clock on the wall and closed his eyes. The human in him had overrun the agent in him.

  “When does our flight leave?”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The two thugs frogmarched Michael, his face bloodied and swollen, out of the bathroom, through the corridor and down the escalator. They shuffled to the end of the platform and turned left to the DART lines. Chances were he’d simply be thrown out in front of the next train and left for dead. No cuffs. No weapon. No identification. The locals would simply chalk him up as an American drifter who fell onto the tracks.

  Minutes later, the first train barreled down the track toward them. This was it. Michael closed his eyes and filled his lungs with the last taste of life he’d ever know.

  He heard the brakes squeal through the air. Then they stopped. He was quickly shoved through the doors and safely onto the train, relieved to be alive.

  As the DART pulled away, he continued to observe, to formulate a solution—any opportunity for escape that may present itself.

  His mind drifted to Cam. If they already have my brother, then they probably have the artifacts. In which case, I’ll simply be executed, he guessed. Otherwise, I’ll be tortured and interrogated.

  Neither scenario sat well with Michael. He had a high tolerance for pain and Cam had coached him in counter-interrogation techniques. But in this moment, Michael couldn’t recall any of it. Fear had taken over.

  They rode for three more stops and got off at Ashtown, where a black van awaited them in a nearby parking deck. Once inside, Michael was handcuffed and blindfolded.

  As they pulled out of the deck, one of the thugs spoke sharply into a hidden mic on his wrist. “Target in possession. We’re moving on to Birch Phase.”

  “Good,” Carson replied through the tiny speaker. “I’ll be waiting.”

  After a two-hour drive, the van wove through the small town of Kilcloon, where they soon pulled up in front of a stone house hidden deep within the forest. The estate had been used as a CIA black site for as long as Carson could remember. It would be the perfect place to carry out the next phase.

  . . .

  American Airlines 751 taxied the runway and began picking up speed for liftoff. Rand and Cameron sat uncomfortably in the fourth row of business class. The non-stop flight would have them in Paris by sunrise.

  Rand had put zip ties back on Cam’s wrists prior to boarding—another small element of their cover. Now in the air, Cam leaned his head against the seat as the plane leveled-off, then banked to the north. He gazed out the window at the lights of Philadelphia gleaming below.

  As a boy in Hockessin, his parents often brought he and his brothers into the city for Flyers games, visits to the museums and the zoo. But his favorite sights to explore were the ones that held Philadelphia’s rich history. The imprint of a nation rising to its feet blanketed the city. It was something he was proud of, it made him want to fight for the very freedom that so many others had sacrificed for. It was in his DNA—to be a shining light in the face of evil. Throughout his adult life, he’d fought for that very freedom on the battlefield and at home.

  He now wondered if he would ever get to call the USA “home” again. If so, he worried, it would be from the inside of a maximum-security prison. The thought of it crushed him.

  If he could somehow lose Kershaw in Paris, he’d be able to complete his objective.

  Rand, however, was toiling with plans of his own. For a fleeting moment, as the 747 glided over the Atlantic, he considered wishing Cam a simple “Good luck” when they land in Paris, then boarding the next flight home. Alone.

  I lost him at the airport, he’d tell them. The CIA wasn’t to be trusted and when we arrived in Paris he escaped.

  Just then, the lights dimmed in the cabin as the crew prepared for a long flight. Many of the passengers were now asleep, others were lost in a book beneath their overhead lights.

  “You ever been?” asked Rand, breaking the extended silence.

  “What?”

  “Paris. You ever been?”

  “Yeah, once,” Cam replied.

  “What are you hoping to get out of this Marco Damion?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe ask him why he’s in a bunch of weird photos and hope that he has some sort of explanation as to what the device is.”

  Rand took a moment to reflect. He’d come so far to capture his ghosts, only to get caught up in their outlandish escape.

  “What about Michael?” the agent asked.

  “It’s better that we’re split up right now. He’s fine.”

  “I’ve studied the security footage from Wynn so many times I can replay it in my head,” Rand noted. “You guys were in and out so fast. And the movement—very intentional, zero hesitation. I thought for sure you all had military training.”

  “By any chance, do you have a Master’s Degree in Stating The Obvious?” Cam asked with a sarcastic grin. “What are you trying to do, warm me up? An interrogation technique or something?”

  “I guess you could say I’m your biggest fan. But I’m still confused.”

  “About what?”

  “You’re not the kind of criminals I normally run across. Why give the money away? I mean, people steal things to improve their station in life, not to just hand it off to the needy. That’s the stuff of fairy tales. I don’t get it.”

  “Most people don’t,” Cam replied. “The world outside is a lot different than the bubble most people live in. There’s a completely different set of rules out there. Priorities are rearranged. And when your life is at risk, or you see anguish and innocence in the eyes of dying civilians…it changes your perspective on what’s important in life. It changes you in ways that people in ‘the bubble’ can’t understand.” He took a moment and shifted his gaze downward. “The bubble means getting stressed out if you’re a few minutes late to a meeting, or upsetting yourself over a scratch on your new sports car. There are children dying from cancer who don’t give a shit about your sports car. There are homeless vets starving in the street that don’t have a job to be late to. Villages that don’t have access to clean water, whose people live in constant fear of rape and murder. It’s not everyone’s job to fix it, but I’ve chosen to help fix it. So did Michael…and Trip.”

  “It’s admirable—what you guys do.”

  Cam smirked. “Then why were you trying to arrest me for it?”

  “As admirable as I find it, it’s still illegal. My job is to catch people who do illegal things.”

  “Maybe you need a new job.”

  “I might not have a choice.”

  The hours passed with little more conversation. Cam was now resting against the window with his eyes shut.

  Remembering that his FBI-issued cellphone had been shut off and stuffed into the backpack, Rand slowly reached down and slid the bag to his feet. Quietly unzipping the front pocket, he pulled the phone out and held it in his hand. He checked on Cam again—still sleeping—and slipped it into his jacket.

  Rand quietly got up from his seat and pushed up the aisle to the bathroom in the back of the plane. Standing above the urinal, he powered up the mobile. It felt like the process went on forever—a seemingly endless graphic of spinning logos. Finally, the home screen appeared. As suspected, he had multiple messages. Most of the comments were threats from Steve Brodsky.

  He dialed a number and anxiously pulled the phone to his ear, then checked his watch. It was almost midnight in Las Vegas.

  “Hello?”

  “Steve, it’s Rand, listen—”<
br />
  “Oh Rand, what the hell have you done? You really fucked this up!”

  “I know, Steve,” he pleaded. “But the CIA has a bounty on this guy’s head, he’s a goddamn war hero who’s been giving stolen money to dying kids, for Christ’s sake. I can’t just hand him over to the CIA. They’ll kill him.”

  “Rand, it’s official now. There’s no turning back, the boys at the CIA have taken over. Hell, the Director of National Intelligence is involved. It’s not our case anymore!”

  “Fine!” Rand shot back under his breath. “But I’m making a stand, this guy is not going to be dragged to some top-secret black site and tortured. Last I checked this is America, not North fucking Korea.”

  “You’re making a huge mistake, Agent Kershaw. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. Bring the Lyle kid back and maybe, just maybe, I can save your ass.”

  “I’m bringing him to the field office in Atlanta,” Rand explained, now unwilling to give up his location.

  “Atlanta? Where the hell are you?” Brodsky demanded.

  Rand swallowed hard. “After that I’m calling the press. They’ll have cameras and reporters all over him, and I’ll watch DOJ scramble for weeks trying to explain to the American people why the CIA is trying to assassinate American civilians. There’s no way I’m letting this guy disappear into the shadows of the intelligence community.”

  “Look, I know you’re upset over the investigation. You wanted this, I know how much it meant to you and how hard you’ve worked, we all do. But you gotta let this go, Rand.”

  “I’m bringing him home—alive.” Rand hung up and pressed his forehead against the wall.

  Unable to find a shred of serenity, he returned to his aisle seat, debating his next move.

  Another hour passed and Rand fidgeted in his seat as the 747 began its approach on Charles de Gaulle Airport. He pondered how he could get himself out of this mess unscathed. But with each passing minute, that hope drifted further and further away.

  Just then his cellphone beeped. He’d forgotten to shut it down. He darted a glance at Cam—sound asleep. Rand quickly pulled the phone from his pocket, and there, sitting ominously at the top, was a text message from Melissa. He clicked it.

  Melissa Dagan: They’ve tracked your flight, ur a fugitive now…teams in place to apprehend u at de gaulle. RUN!

  Rand’s mind raced with fear. His whole world had been upended in a matter of seconds. He tried to think of the proper authorities to call. He needed help. Department of Justice? The FBI Director? The French Police?

  None of his thoughts made sense—everything in his mind was spinning out of control. It suddenly dawned on him that he was no longer an official member of the FBI. He’d been setup and now struggled to come up with a logical response. The CIA had framed him as a rogue agent, and the fact that he was helping a federal criminal flee the country meant he was aiding and abetting.

  Surely Steve would’ve sorted it out with the CIA to spare my career? he tried to convince himself. It wasn’t working. The reality was that Brodsky had sold him up river to save his own ass. Who could blame him? Whatever Cameron Lyle was involved in went well above the FBI. Rand’s eyes narrowed, his pulse quickened.

  The screeching of tires against the runway woke Cam from his sleep. He blinked his eyes and released a deep sigh, then peered over at Rand. Something was up.

  “Agent Kershaw, you don’t look so good. You okay?” he asked.

  “Rand.”

  “Huh?”

  “For the last time, it’s Rand. Just Rand,” he said in a zombie-like tone.

  Cam looked him over with concern. He checked the zip ties on his hands and suddenly felt uneasy. Frustrated, he turned and grimaced at the window.

  “I don’t blame you,” Cam muttered. “You’re turning me in when we land, aren’t you?”

  Rand wasn’t listening. He was in a deep trance, the wheels in his head spinning at blistering speeds. He reached between his legs and pulled the backpack into his lap and retrieved a small switchblade. He held the weapon close to his body, trying not to alarm any of the other passengers. Cam watched with confusion.

  The two locked eyes as Rand grabbed Cam’s wrists and pulled them close, then slashed the zip ties away. Cam yanked at the heavy-plastic bands and flicked them to the floor.

  As the plane taxied to the gate, Rand discreetly pulled the 9mm from the bag, locked the clip into place and handed it to Cam.

  “It’s a setup. There’s a CIA team waiting for us at the gate,” he said hurriedly. “You’re gonna need that.”

  “What about you?”

  “They’re waiting for me, too,” he confided with a look of deep concern. “Congratulations, we’re in this shit together now.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Michael sat in a cheap metal folding chair in the middle of a sprawling white room. Large halogen lights blasted from the ceiling, bleaching out the entire space. The wall to his left was a floor-to-ceiling mirror—a two-way with a viewing room on the other side, Michael assumed.

  It had been six hours since he was brought in and tied to the chair. Not a single agent had walked through the door in that time. Surely, the idea was to disorientate him.

  For Carson, six hours seemed optimal. He sent in the first operative.

  Michael had been placed—by design—with his back to the door. When it finally opened, a young agent in dark slacks and a gray t-shirt walked in and circled around to face his prisoner.

  “Tell me where Cameron Lyle is,” the operative sternly demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Michael mumbled, now feeling the effects of sleep deprivation.

  “Tell me where the ossuary is.”

  “Ossuary? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ll explain it.” The man spoke with intent and a noticeable lack of emotion. “The items you and your brother stole from the Maersk Burgundy. The items we killed your friend for. The items that we’re going to kill your entire family for. Ring a bell now, hotshot?”

  Michael smiled. He wasn’t going to be rattled by threats. “You’re going too fast.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You walk in and go straight to threatening my family? Slow down, you sound like a fucking rookie…hotshot.”

  “Threats? You think I’m just making empty threats?”

  The bruiser threw a hard right across Michael’s jaw. It was a perfect shot and hurt like hell. He winced in pain, then spit one of his molars out onto the clean, white floor.

  After shaking his face to get the feeling back, Michael looked his interrogator in the eyes.

  “You’re just a military washout whose only job is to tie people to chairs and beat them up. You’re a pussy…and my grandmother hits harder than that.”

  A steady stream of jabs followed. Michael was beginning to fade to unconsciousness, but quickly regained his strength and awaited the next round of punches. They came in volume.

  . . .

  The sun ascended over Dublin as the city came to life. It was Saturday morning and Corin Baker would normally have gone to his favorite café for a relaxing cup of coffee and a pastry. But the recent visit by Michael had ruined that for him. Today was as good as any to try the new spot up the road.

  Corin snatched his keys from the counter and threw on a denim jacket. But before he could reach the door, a hard knock froze him in motion.

  He quietly placed his eye against the peephole, but before he could make out anyone on the other side, the entire apartment came crashing down on him. He was thrown to the floor in a white flash.

  Corin
lay on the carpet as three men plunged into his apartment and slammed the door behind them. The clicking of door locks sealed his fate.

  The young philologist was grabbed by the collar and pulled to his feet.

  “Corin Baker?”

  With a deep gash across his face, Corin struggled to regain his vision. “What do you pricks want?”

  A quick punch to the gut stripped him of whatever air was left in his lungs.

  “A man named Michael Lyle was here. He asked you to decipher a tablet.”

  “Michael who?” Corin asked, trying to sound confused. “Never heard of her.”

  “You may think this is funny, little man, but I’ll carve you up so bad pieces of you will be turning up all over Europe,” the American threatened. “What did you decipher?”

  “Has anyone ever told you that your face looks like a foot?”

  “The joke didn’t land, but the next punch to your face will—real hard.”

  A shout from the back room suddenly broke the tension. “We got nothing!”

  “This is your last chance, dipshit. What did the tablet say?”

  Corin had had his fun. The pistol tucked into the man’s waistline assured him that his lack of cooperation would eventually wear thin. He wasn’t willing to die for the abrasive stranger that had slept on his couch for the last three days, or the stone tablet he had been asked to decipher.

  Just as Corin predicted, the pistol was swiftly pulled from the waistline and placed against his forehead. Playtime was over.

  “Instructions,” he finally confessed. “It was instructions of some kind.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I copied it down on a notepad. Check my office, a purple binder on the second shelf above my desk. Just fuckin’ take it.”