by Greg Bear
‘What kind of project?’ William asked.
Farrow looked aside and waved his hand at Levine.
‘Some of this is rumor and surmise,’ Levine said. ‘Starting eight years ago, Southern Poverty Law Center lost track of some pretty major players in the old bigot ballgame. They just vanished. Nobody knew where they went. I had a lunch with three Bureau of Domestic Intelligence types and they were licking canary feathers off their chops, so I asked a friend of a friend who knew someone. Nothing is completely secure in the Beltway. Back then, apparently, the Attorney General had decided that what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander and it was time to exercise a little preemptive caution against lily-white Americans. He didn’t want another Murrow Federal Building—it would take the focus off foreign terror. Some were saying that even with the National Security Service, the FBI wasn’t willing to get its hands dirty enough to protect America. So they created BDI—the Bureau of Domestic Intelligence. The AG then instituted a special role for his new agency—they would work collections.’
Farrow said, ‘Starting six or seven years ago, BDI came to Quantico and started interviewing agents. Word came down from the AG—cooperate or get your butts kicked. I voiced strong objections, so I was taken out of the loop. A couple of years after that, I started hearing rumors about disappearances. I didn’t know what to believe.
‘At headquarters, some senior executives were being replaced or reassigned—you remember—I presume because they didn’t cooperate with the administration and BDI. Later, it became clear that an unknown number of our agents had become involved in pre-emptive arrests. You never heard?’
‘I’m little people,’ Rebecca said. Her cheeks were pink. ‘So you just sat on your thumbs?’
‘Yes and no,’ Farrow said, shifting his shoulders. ‘Some senior agents—me among them—just happened to make a special visit to the Southern Poverty Law Center. I worked with Jacob to cross-reference the disappeared. In the interests of balanced government, you understand—these were all major assholes and otherwise I say good riddance. But there were at least two hundred of them, maybe a lot more. And there wasn’t a damned thing we could do. Whenever we went to the top, we were shot down. Real eyes of steel. I should have asked more questions, but it just wasn’t the right climate.’
‘We all turned our heads,’ Levine said. ‘They were rounding up the Jew-haters and the KKK. It was like a dream. They just vanished. Sometimes, BDI even arranged for a plausible crime scene to explain why they disappeared.’
‘Then Winter shows up to talk, and he’s obviously a broken man,’ Farrow said. ‘I tell myself, maybe here’s a way in. Maybe he’s what I need to keep the FBI from sliding deeper into this pile of manure.’ Farrow held up a digital recorder. ‘It was about here that I pressed the on-button.’
Winter’s voice came out of the tiny speaker with remarkable clarity, soft and regular and certainly lacking in shrillness or sarcasm.
‘…What I heard from everybody we dealt with sounded pretty much the same to me. KKK and Aryan Nations guys spoke of their hatred for Jews and Catholics and blacks. Jewish extremists talked about killing Muslims. Muslims spoke of how much they loathed Jews and Christians. The religious wars never ended, Pete. We’ve been fighting for thousands of years. We’re still fighting, still trying to drag everyone in. It’s a sickness. And things are different now. You can’t believe what I’ve seen, Pete. Some smart little fanatic with a grudge can unleash something that will kill us all.’
Farrow paused the recorder. ‘“Smart little fanatic.” That makes me wonder if Winter had already tracked down Tommy Juarez, and if so, why he wasn’t turning him in.’ Farrow switched the recorder back on.
‘Back in the fifties, it became obvious that nations with nuclear weapons could wipe life off the face of the Earth. Now, it could be five or ten teenagers in a high school biology lab…Or one driven monster. And who’s going to set them off? The big boys build their political careers on suspicion and fear and hatred…But where the rubber hits the road, it always comes down to the crazy little runts and the monsters—you know that, Pete. We have the profiles memorized. The big boys rant against the evils of government for years and then act all shocked when McVeigh and Nichols blow up a federal building. We squeeze the Middle East, and the monsters blow themselves up and squeeze back. But what if the runts and monsters get hold of things worse than fertilizer bombs—worse than atom bombs? Who’s going to be responsible?’
The recorder beeped and shut off. ‘The last of my memory card was used up,’ Farrow said. ‘But I remember where the conversation went. Winter had volunteered to work with a clandestine BDI team. He told them he was uniquely qualified to do field work—meaning eliminations, I suppose—because of the way he was born.’
‘Chimeric,’ Rebecca said.
William felt utterly lost. Kidnappings. Murders. Cold cases.
Farrow nodded. ‘Genetically stealthy. That was the phrase he used. Eventually, we got around to talking about 10-4. That’s when he fell apart. He actually started to cry. I was ashamed for him.’
‘Tough guy, Pete,’ Rebecca said.
‘Yeah, well, Winter said just rounding up the monsters and even killing them wasn’t enough. There would always be more—an endless supply. He mentioned a plan he was working on. Jujitsu, he called it. Using the money behind hate to destroy hate.’
‘Why didn’t you turn him in?’ Rebecca said.
‘I did,’ Farrow said, watching her closely. ‘I handed it up to Hiram Newsome, along with a copy of this recording. News was the only one I thought I could trust.’
Rebecca looked between Levine and Farrow. Levine would not meet her gaze. ‘When?’
‘That would be what, three years ago. The wave was cresting. The congressional elections were going the wrong way. BDI was scrambling for cover.’
Rebecca stood. Her chair scraped. ‘You’re a liar.’
Farrow rose and went chest to chin with her. ‘News had it three years ago,’ he said.
‘That’s your story and you’re sticking to it,’ Rebecca said.
‘Screw you, little miss.’
Rebecca backed off a few inches and cocked her head to one side.
William took Rebecca’s arm and held on as she tried to shrug lose. ‘We’re going,’ he told her.
‘Right. Let’s climb out of this cesspool,’ Rebecca said.
‘Take your puppy with you,’ Farrow said. ‘Ask News how it happened. I’ve got the paper trail. I made duplicates.’ His face was red and even his blond-furred forearms were the color of Bing cherries. ‘Watch out for her, Griffin,’ he said, his tone ice and mud. ‘Think about your career. She and Hiram Newsome could get you fried.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Rebecca said, and shrugged in just such a way that William let go. She stared straight up at Farrow. ‘You seem to know everything. Tell me about BuDark—just for old time’s sake.’
Farrow pulled back, ashamed that he had lost his cool. He brushed his hand through his hair. ‘Fuck it. I’ll tell you what little I know. BuDark is presidential black ops, black budget. Larsen put it into play. They’re out to bring us down by gathering international evidence to prosecute BDI, FBI, anyone who opposes the liberals. It’s payback time. BuDark is anti-FBI.’
‘Pete’s dirty,’ Rebecca said as they walked down the long hall filled with art prints of nature serene.
‘He’s the straightest agent I ever met,’ William said coolly. ‘Present company excepted.’
‘Hiram Newsome is the straightest agent I’ve ever met.’
‘What reason does Farrow have to lie? He’s still confessing to knowing dangerous stuff.’ William swung his clenched fists in a half-circle and hammered the railing. Rebecca stepped back in surprise. The study lounge was empty. ‘If any of this is true, what the hell can we do—by ourselves?’
‘Nothing,’ Rebecca said. ‘We need to reach out and ask questions. But we need to be extremely careful. Some people would kill to keep
this big an albatross off their necks.’
‘Back to Newsome?’ William asked.
‘Not yet. We need to poke through the cracks in the bricks. Outside confirmation. I know just the guy.’
‘The one who pissed you off,’ William said. ‘What was his name—Grange, from DS. You thought he might be BuDark.’
Rebecca looked at William, her eyes both sad and bright. ‘Simpatico,’ she said.
They walked past security and through the swinging glass doors to the car. William drove and Rebecca did not object. As they approached the inner gate, they saw several lines of black SUVs and Crown Victorias arranged in zig-zag patterns, marked off with orange traffic cones and blocking the gatehouses and the road beyond.
‘Uh-oh,’ Rebecca said.
William slowed to a stop, then rolled down his window as a man with short-cropped hair and a linebacker’s build approached. He wore a dark blue suit and suspiciously thick sunglasses.
‘Secret Service,’ he announced, leaning to peer into the open window. His gaze wavered minutely back and forth; he was comparing their faces to ID photos popping up on the inside of his lenses.
William and Rebecca kept a tense silence.
‘We have a match,’ the agent said. Two other agents in dark suits approached the other side. ‘William Griffin, Rebecca Rose, step out of the car and keep your hands in plain sight.’
‘What’s going on?’ William asked.
‘Are you carrying weapons? Irritants? Are you on a grid?’
William and Rebecca answered yes and no and again no, slowly exited the car, and held up their arms. The agents kicked their legs apart and pushed them up against the hood and trunk, bending them over until their cheeks were pressed hard on the painted metal. Their weapons were taken and deactivated. There were no niceties—the agent frisking Rebecca was male. She was cuffed and led away to one car and William to another. She gave him a backward glance, lips tight, dimples etched deep.
Through a long, long evening and into the early morning, they both did exactly as they were told.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Turkey, Iraq
‘Get your Janny boys up and ready to ship out. Let’s do it, now!’
Fouad jerked up from a light doze and stared at the bald colonel leaning through the open metal door. The colonel pulled back and Fouad wondered if he had been dreaming, but then he heard the sirens wailing throughout the base.
He quickly slipped into his flak vest and camouflage uniform, then checked his pack.
In the NCO mess hall, he spoke quickly with the twentytwo Jannies under his command. He did not like that name and they did not use it among themselves, but at Incirlik that was what they had been called, and it was now just below the level of official—Jannies or Janissaries.
Outside the barracks, on the runways, dozens of transport aircraft were roaring and fanning thin clouds of sand and dirt as if trying to imitate the recent dust storms.
Another colonel pointed them across the cracked asphalt runway to a truck. They climbed in with what gear they carried. Another truck arrived and soldiers threw some boxes in after them. Nobody knew what was happening. It was six in the morning and dawn gleamed like a sleep-folded eye in the eastern sky.
As they approached their aircraft, another colonel in flight gear ran alongside, pulled himself into the rear of the truck, and called out to Fouad. ‘They have Turkish troops circling the base. They don’t seem to like us right now, so we’re pulling out all mobile commands. That includes Jannies and BuDark teams. We’ll reconnoiter at a site yet to be determined but way the hell away from here. Questions?’
They had none—for this colonel. They were a tight-knit group now, having trained together for weeks, friendly enough but suspicious of the soldiers, airmen, and officers around them. They were wide awake but not too curious. Life thus far had been boring. Something new was welcome even on such short notice.
The young men around Fouad shook hands and clapped shoulders. Then they passed around a thermos of hot coffee.
‘What are they going to do with us?’ they asked him, as if he might know.
‘Just a guess,’ Fouad said. ‘I think the fighting around Mecca is going badly. Wahhabi insurgents are coming in with pilgrims to the Hajj. Someone is losing control.’
‘Are we?’ they asked. By which they meant, ‘Muslims?’
‘We, Americans,’ Fouad countered softly, ‘and the people we supply, more likely. Anger among the faithful is burning like a fever. It must be getting particularly bad for Turkey to want us out. Hajj is almost upon us. It is a delicate time.’
‘When will they brief us? Why don’t we fight? What are they saving us for?’
‘God only knows,’ Fouad said. ‘Living near the heart of the world takes patience.’
Early in the morning, their plane landed at another nameless forward mobile air base, a patch of flat rocky terrain, nothing more than a bare airstrip carved from the desert. There were few guards and only light air support so they remained near the aircraft, five transports arranged in a pentacle, and took turns running and timing each other until the breezes subsided and the day became too hot.
Later that afternoon, more sandstorms moved in and they slept and played cards and watched videos inside the hot cargo holds.
After the evening repast of MREs—some containing pork ribs, which they quietly set aside—an Air Force military intelligence officer approached Fouad. ‘Can we talk?’ the older man asked. He was short, gray-haired and big-shouldered, with just the slightest gut which he tried to hide by tightening his belt. ‘Do you know anything about OWL?’ the officer asked. He pulled out a secure slate and calling up a display tagged Quantum Confirm ACCESS Only. This ACCESS is remotely logged.
Fouad shook his head. ‘Owl, O-W-L. No. It is not familiar.’
‘I have been instructed to give you a tactical briefing on how to call down an OWL strike. Don’t ask me why. Neither system has been fully tested, and personally, I wouldn’t rely on them, but orders are orders.’
OWL, Fouad learned, stood for Orbital Warhead Lancet, an enhanced self-guided kinetic kill weapon designed to pierce deep bunkers. As he listened, Fouad’s eyes watered with a hot combination of anger, fear, and exaltation.
Perhaps there would be no bloodshed after all. Blood would not have time to flow.
And there would be no bodies left to bury.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Mecca
Mr. John Brown had moved most of the settlers’ sons into the tent city in Mina. They had kept the hotel room, and two of the young men were staying there to maintain their vigil over the garage where the trucks were stored.
Opening the sealed walls and privileges of the house of Saud had brought chaos and death to the Hajj, as in the times of old, but nothing could stop the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims; their accumulated power and passion had sobered even these sons of Zion, of Eretz Israel, and had turned them inward as they rested in their tent through the long night.
The enormity of what they were about to do had finally subdued Winter’s boys.
Once again after decades of tight Saudi control Mecca was dangerous. Thieves and rogue police and soldiers like lost ants worked the outskirts of the crowds. There had been beatings and rapes—of men and women, some said—and even murders. Yet around them now, in a bubble of enterprise and faith maintained by vigilance and a bond between the local merchants and pilgrims, they saw little but brotherhood and joy and a shared passion for God.
The entire city was drunk with God.
The settlers’ sons prayed in small groups, seeking a renewal of their strength. Yet not one of his young men asked for forgiveness. They had been raised with equal passion and focus, confirmed in a blood religion rooted in sacred land. They had long since grown inured to the sting of hate, like scorpions immune to their own poison.
The tall American hardly knew what name to use now. John Brown, Sam Bedford, Larry Winter—he could feel his past falling of
f behind him like the slats of a cartoon suspension bridge. Soon the final slat would drop and he would tumble into a deep chasm of forgetting and all would be peaceful. His grief lost, his reason reduced to a simple matter of day to day, hunger and sustenance…should he live to see out the week, which was also doubtful.
I’ll return to them their first memory of a blue sky seen by an innocent child. All of them, victims and killers, equal under God.
The only problem was, now that the intense and constant memory of his grief was fading, Winter was less and less convinced any of this was necessary. He had assumed he was acting out of conviction and not hate. Unlike Tommy, he had reason, he had an achievable goal. Now, however, he was like a bullet. Gunpowder spent, the slug moved forward on momentum alone, impeded by the thickening air, slowed by the scent of hundreds of thousands of fellow human beings trying to talk to God.
Trying earnestly, desperately, submissively, to hear His words.
Listening.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Federal Correction Institution Cumberland, Maryland Domestic Security Wing
As Rebecca had commented earlier, no prison was beautiful, but at least they hadn’t incarcerated William in a Virginia Department of Corrections hell-hole or in the Marine Corps brig on the base at Quantico.
But then, neither had they told him why he was being held or where they had taken Rebecca or what the hell was going on in the outside world that could explain why two special agents would be treated this way.
After eight hours, guards escorted William to the end of the yellow hall and across a small courtyard with one thin tree to a windowless room on the second floor of a windowless concrete building. The room had a table and two chairs and it was smaller than his cell. Its only other features were a round grill in the wall—some sort of speaker—and higher up two air vents with red ribbons. The ribbons rippled as the two men sat him in the northern chair. William had made sure to keep his sense of direction, if only to have this small bit of knowledge. The rest was a nightmare puzzle.