The Perfect Weapon

by Christopher Metcalf

  “Do you believe in angels?” Preacher ended the silence, opened his eyes and looked up at Lance. The question was for Stuart Braden, CIA psychologist and resident Lance Priest psycho-agent expert. Braden sat across from Preacher.

  “We’ve talked about my religious beliefs several times. I don’t think we need to revisit that.” The psychologist was patient. He was also extremely pleased to have Lance, or at least the person he believed to be Lance Priest, with him. It had been more than 18 months since their last session. Lance, or Preacher, had been around the world several times since then. He'd found Marta, nearly been killed in the Philippines, disappeared, and most likely blew up a good portion of Russia back in April. He returned to the U.S. several months ago to track Anwar.

  “No Stu, I don’t want to discuss your religious or philosophical paradigms. I just want to know your thoughts on angels, ghosts maybe.” Preacher turned from a ghostly smiling Lance to an unsmiling and very pale Braden. “Just your opinion.”

  “I don’t really have one. I’ve not thought much about it. Can I ask why you want to know?” Braden had a hundred or so questions for Preacher but was willing to bide his time. This session would stretch well past an hour. Seibel had ordered Lance to come in, now that Papa and Lance were talking at least.

  “No opinion at all?”

  “Nope. None.”

  “Okay. What about just ghosts, forget angels." Preacher insisted.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts, but I know the foundation for belief in apparitions lies in trauma, stress, fear. There has been extensive research into belief in afterlife beings. I have not read much on it, but I did have a patient who believed his deceased mother had come to live with him and his wife. It led to divorce. I think it might have been a scheme to bring about a desired result.”

  “You said trauma, stress and fear. What about death?” Preacher kept at it.

  “What about death?”

  “Couldn’t it be the foundation for belief in apparitions?”

  “No. Death is only the foundation for being dead. You know, gone, passed away, shuffled off this mortal coil and all.” Braden smiled.

  “Did you hear about my little incident last year?”

  “In the Philippines?”

  “Yes, that one.”

  “Yes, I heard it was serious. You were lucky.”

  “No, you were lucky," Preacher nodded. "You got to keep me around. I just have to be the freak show for the circus.”

  “So am I to understand from your line of questioning, that you believe you may have had some form of extra-perceptual experience after nearly dying?” Braden smiled as he asked this.

  “Something like that.” Preacher closed his eyes again and went back to Tapul and being shot, and Fuchs carrying him and Lance just floating up there looking down at him. Maybe that was it. Maybe Lance did die that day. Maybe this was all an afterlife, a screwed-up afterlife. No, that was crazy. He opened his eyes to look at Lance. The ghost just shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know anything more than Preacher did. “Something happened out there. It changed me, no doubt about it.”

  Braden let that sit and simmer for a few moments. He was waiting for this opportunity. “From what I hear from the field, it wasn’t just nearly being killed that changed you. Some people are under the impression that a significant relationship changed you before that. It changed your priorities. Your actions took on a significantly different element, a different direction. That’s all he’ll tell me.”

  Preacher was waiting for this as well. “So you want to talk about Marta?”

  Braden was surprised, but stayed calm, professional at the mention of her name. “Only if you do.”

  “As you know, and as you mentioned, I came here because he ordered me to. He's nagged me for months. Being here takes me off task. I'm kind of tracking a terrorist bomber, you know." Preacher smiled at that. "I didn’t come to talk about her, but I know that’s what he wants you to get out of me. But before we do, I want you to put your hand behind your back and hold up some fingers.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Please, just do it and then we’ll talk about Marta and me, and whatever else turns you on.”

  “Fine.” Braden put his right arm behind his chair and held up two fingers. Lance moved over into the corner over Braden’s shoulder to look.

  “Two. Do it again.” Preacher commanded.

  Braden furrowed his brow and held out his forefinger and pinky, commonly known in Oklahoma as the dreaded Hookem’ Horns symbol.

  “Two again. Go Texas.” Preacher smiled at him with eyes closed. “One more time, please.”

  Braden shook his head, as he often did in Preacher or Lance’s presence. He opened his hand behind his chair to hold out all fingers and thumb.

  “Gimme five baby.”

  Now Braden was freaked out. Not only was Preacher getting the numbers right, he was doing it as soon as he flashed them and with eyes closed. “How the hell are you doing that?” Braden sat up in his chair and looked around the room for a camera or other device allowing this little show to take place.

  Preacher opened his eyes. The smile was gone from his face. “Ghosts, I guess.” He looked away and then up into the corner. Lance wasn’t smiling either. Neither of them had an answer for how they were doing this. He hadn’t planned on freaking Braden out with a parlor trick. It just came to him in the moments of clarity being with the psychologist brought. Instead of perfecting his lying with Braden, his screwed up mind and extrasensory angel chose to take over. He was a little embarrassed by it all and decided to sit up and treat the man with the respect he deserved. That meant nothing but the very best, most detailed lies.

  But, just for a moment, Preacher and Lance looked at each other and shared a sensation they had felt every time with Braden. For some undetectable reason, the whole situation – the room, the air, the quiet – it all felt Asian. Maybe oriental. It was nothing either of them could pinpoint, but this sensation always came to Lance or Preacher when sitting in Braden's office. Maybe it was the feng shui of the room. For some reason, maybe because there were two of them with Braden this time, it was more acute, more obvious somehow. Strange.

  Hours after their session in Braden’s Fairfax, Virginia office, the two of them walked along a trail beside a small lake not far from the office building. It was pleasant and peaceful. Preacher was cryptic in his description of details, feelings, emotions. He glanced around constantly, feeding data to his angel. Lance was doing the same from about 500 feet. They spotted two surveillance operatives, one with a directional mic pointed out the window of a Chevy Blazer.

  “… And she told me about her extensive covert operations, very extensive.” Preacher said.

  “What kind of details did she share?” Braden asked.

  “Everything. She told me everything from the beginning through last week.”

  “Last week? You were in touch with her last week?” Braden was either very good or simply unaware that Seibel listened to every word spoken between him and Preacher.

  “I spoke with her this morning. We update each other almost every day on progress.”

  “How do you keep these communications secret? It drives Seibel crazy, as you surely know.” Braden smiled at the thought of frustrating the unshakable Seibel.

  “I can’t give you any details, of course. We have worked out a nice system, very efficient.” Preacher smiled as well. He could see Seibel’s face as he listened to this from some hidden location. “Technology just keeps advancing every day.”

  “Indeed.” Braden stopped and reached out a hand to halt Preacher. “I need to ask you one thing. I still have a thousand things to ask you, but one aspect for sure I need to address.”

  “Shoot.” Preacher stopped and turned to face Braden.

  “Are you planning to kill Seibel?” Braden was serious. His face was a little ashen, like he didn’t really want to talk about this.

  “Why would I answer a question like that?” He didn�
��t miss a beat.

  “It is a simple question. I’m not asking it as a professional. It's really more personal in nature.”

  “And what led you to this simple question?” Preacher tilted his head slightly.

  “Things I’ve heard from him and others. Your evasiveness this past year. Your involvement with this Marta, and her history with Seibel. And I can completely understand it.”

  Preacher broadened his smile. He enjoyed this, really enjoyed this stuff. “No. I’m not planning on killing Papa.” Then he leaned in close to Braden’s ear, close enough to kiss him, and whispered. “But she is.” He put an arm around Braden’s shoulder and took things to another level. He whispered with no trace of emotion in the words. “Everything is in motion now. It is amazing what can happen in five months. One can learn about a man, his wife Eileen, their three children Peter, Lou and Cinda. Bank account numbers at four institutions, investment property in Rhode Island, bankruptcy filings by a brother-in-law in Maryland. It is amazing how all this comes together.”

  He kept the lock on Braden’s shoulders and kept them walking forward. He continued to tick off detail after detail of Stuart Braden’s personal life. It was surreal and unpleasant. When he finished, Braden had moved well past simmer to boiling. But the painful squeeze Preacher kept on the psychologist’s upper body kept him tethered.

  “Are you done?” Braden exhaled as he spoke. “Will you let me go?”

  “Unfortunately, I am just getting started.” Preacher again brought his lips to within a whisker of Braden’s ear. “It is challenging keeping up with her.”

  “She is really something. She has changed you, made you stranger than you were. How did she do it?” Braden was still pissed at Preacher's in-depth knowledge of his family.

  Preacher suddenly released his grasp. Braden breathed in deeply. “Ask her yourself.” They had walked from beside the lake over to a parking area. A red Chevy sedan pulled up and the passenger door opened. Marta smiled at Braden from behind the wheel. “Stuart, I hope he hasn’t been scaring you with his stories. Let’s go for a ride. Come on.”

  Preacher gently shoved Braden into the car and closed the door behind him. Marta peeled out and pulled away. Preacher turned back to look at the Blazer about 300 yards away. It started up and pulled out into traffic. Lance noticed another car starting up 250 yards away to the east. Both Preacher and Lance laughed. The drivers of those vehicles stood no chance keeping up with her. No chance.

  Preacher turned back toward the building where Braden’s office sits on the second floor. Something had caught Lance’s eye, so he zoomed down from 1,000 feet to look in the window of Braden’s office. Tough to make him out, but it had to be Seibel.

  On the other side of the tinted glass, Seibel stood looking right through Lance at Preacher 250 yards away. A radio on the desk beside him was mostly quiet now. The primary noise coming across was the fountain in the center of the small lake Preacher stood next to. Seibel took a tiny step forward and more light from outside illuminated his face. Lance laughed and turned back to Preacher.

  “How long is this going to go on?” The spirit asked the one on the ground.

  “Don’t know. It’s getting old. Seems like real paranoia.” Preacher’s response was to his alternate self, but the words reached Seibel in the office. “At some point he is either going to need to kill me or drop this crap. We’ve got a friggin terrorist to catch.”

  Lance turned back to Seibel. He pressed up against the glass. He would have liked to go through it and see what Seibel was doing, what he was feeling. But since Preacher couldn’t see past the glass from this far, Lance was limited. “You know what I’d really like to do?”

  “What?” Preacher answered Lance.

  “I’d like to float in there and pee on him so he’d think it was raining inside.”

  Preacher laughed at that image. Seibel didn’t laugh. He just watched and wondered if Lance had lost it.

  “Does he have a gun on me?” Preacher looked around for evidence. Lance shot back up to 800 feet and used the visual data Preacher supplied to look around.

  “Two.”

  “Where?”

  “Top of the building he’s in and fifth floor of the office building to the east. It’s the only window that’s cracked.”

  “What about a mic? See anything?” Preacher continued peering around. He knew that Lance would see things he missed, but he needed to supply the data.

  “One left to chase Marta, but another one is in a van in the lot south of the building.”

  “Is he listening?” Preacher asked himself.

  “Can’t say. But I would say it’s likely.” Lance came down to about 150 feet. Preacher looked up at him. Seibel glanced up to see what Lance was looking at.

  Preacher brought his sightline back to Braden’s window where Seibel stood. “I just told you last week you need to drop the Spanish Inquisition. You’re looking for something that’s not there. Anwar is very likely right here, less than 20 miles from us and you keep watching me. Why old man?”

  Most people would be surprised being found out like this and probably take a step back into the room to become obscured. Seibel stayed where he was and answered, even though his young prize couldn’t hear him. “Because I didn’t bring you this far just to track a killer. I need you to become the killer. Become the terrorist, so you can think like him, act like him. Be him, then kill him.” He didn’t add what he’d been thinking for sometime. He needed her to help Lance become the killer Seibel knew he could be. Seibel's heart had nearly jumped out of his chest a minute earlier when the car swung up next to Lance and Braden. He knew it was her. She was back in her native land. She wasn’t here for a visit. Marta never made any unnecessary movements. More than likely, she wanted to kill him. No telling what she would do with a kidnapped Braden. They had quite a bit to talk about.

  Preacher turned away and walked across the grass. It was a cool fall day. He crunched leaves beneath his shoes as he made his way. Lance provided him a beautiful view of the changing leaves of the urban forest of trees as he walked.

  Chapter 35

  Marta Illena Sidorova was reborn in October 1992.

  For her, it was a fourth birth. She was born the first time in Cheektowaga, New York, just outside Buffalo. Her second birth occurred when Seibel left her alone near Moscow just outside an orphanage. Her third beginning was 18months ago in Baghdad when a young man walked into her life and shot her. Twice.

  A month earlier, Preacher shoved Stuart Braden in the car ostensibly to kidnap and interrogate the psychologist. There was no interrogation. No torture. No threats against Braden or his wife and children. Preacher just wanted to bring Braden and Marta together. He knew fate would do the rest. Driving at a ferocious speed, leaving the park next to Braden’s office, Marta smiled at the psychologist gripping the armrest built into the door beside him. Speed and frenetic activity were second nature for her. Driving a little fast to evade three cars was nothing, literally.

  “How do you do?” She had to shout over the car’s radio that blared a new tune from U2. Marta didn’t have the benefit of a built-in cranial soundtrack like Lance and Preacher.

  Braden looked at her and then back over his shoulder at the chase vehicles being left rapidly behind. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know who I am?” She glanced at him as she made an unannounced left turn just inches from the bumper of an oncoming pickup truck.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Good.” She smiled and patted his left leg. “I’m Marta.”

  “I guessed that. I’m Stuart, Stuart Braden.”

  “Nice to meet you Stu. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.” Only Lance and Preacher called him Stu.

  “From Lance or from Seibel?” He turned to watch her reaction.

  “Preacher, I mean Lance. He enjoys his time with you, his relationship with you. He feels really bad about the little threat to your family he implied a few minutes ago. He would never hurt them, neve
r hurt you. Unless you betrayed him, of course.”

  “Of course.” Braden turned back to look at the road. “He’s always made that clear. He is very seldom transparent. But he was very clear on the subject of betraying him. And you don’t have to apologize for his threats. Nothing he does really surprises me.”

  Marta laughed at that and turned the radio volume down. “Then it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he told me to put a gun to your head and see what you were willing to say to keep me from pulling the trigger?”

  Braden was silent. He shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like Lance.”

  “He’s changed. Not the same as he used to be.” She was matter of fact.

  “I could see that earlier. He’s different. Like something is missing. I guess I attributed it to his being shot.”

  “I thought that may have been it initially, but I don’t really have the background with him that you and Seibel do. So the change in him was not as easy for me to see.” With that, their first session had begun.

  Braden turned to look at Marta as she checked the rearview and side-view mirrors and expertly maneuvered the vehicle. He knew next to nothing about this human, but he knew he wasn’t put in this car with her to be her prisoner. Lance had brought them together. He had lied to both. That was evident, and only natural for Preacher.

  During the next four weeks, Marta Sidorova opened up to a stranger, a trained professional of a stranger who was mesmerized by her stories, her life. At least three times per week, Braden left his office and walked or drove to an appointed location where a different person met him each time. These different people were Preacher decked out in all variety of disguises. He was practicing roles and stayed in character as he “met” Braden on street corners, in restaurants, behind stores, in waiting rooms and on train cars. Braden tried to keep a straight face, but sometimes couldn’t help himself. Especially when Preacher sat down next to him on a bar stool dressed as a hooker, a damn good-looking transvestite hooker, named Sharyce, with a “y.”