The Dark Trail

by Will Mosley

  “Wait, what?” Lucus held his hand above his head, his face contorted in confusion. “Hunt? Brunstrum? In a debriefing?”

  Heather nodded. “You're understanding now, Brian. There was never any debriefing!”

  Chapter 17.

  “We lost her.” The voice said over the cell phone. The gears of a car changed in the background along with another voice that argued with the first, “We didn't lose her, Okay? Don't tell him that!”

  “What? Who – Wa – why are you calling me?” After a moment, Thomas Kimble recognized the voice and spat the question out as firm statement, a question that did not need to be answered. “We have procedures, son, and you're not following them! Call your immediate, not me.”

  “But sir!”

  “What?”

  “We called him already. He's not picking up.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “We tried. We would've called Heather instead, but...”

  “He's not picking up, you say?”

  “No! We tried six times. Nothing. I hate to bother him, or you with this. I wish I could have just called Hea –,”

  “I get what you're implying, Linus, now shut up about it! You wouldn't be tailing her if you could simply call her, now would you?”

  “No.”

  “She's done. Now, let me try Philip. I will tell him to call you.” Thomas hung up before Linus could speak. Then he dialed Phil. The phone rang four times and went to voice mail.

  “Hey there! You've reached Philip Kirby. I'm not available to take –,”

  Dismayed, because Philip always answered his phone even when he was not at work, Thomas hung up slowly not bothering to call a second time. An unsettling turbulence pushed against his abdomen and created a bubble of gas – and desperation. He knew that Philip and Heather were as close as any two long time co-workers could be, probably closer, and there could be only one reason Philip was not picking up his phone: defection. If Philip and Heather were working together on something, maybe the transmission, they could effectively –

  Thomas chose not to entertain that notion. Even thinking about bad news sometimes seemed to manifest it. He grabbed his office phone and dialed his secretary.

  “Christina!”

  “Yes, Mr. Kimble?”

  “Have someone find Philip immediately!”

  “Philip Kirby?”

  “Yes, Christina.” He said, bothered. “Now rather than later would be great.”

  “Is he missing or something?”

  “Christina!” Kimble yelled.

  “Because about thirty minutes to an hour ago, I saw him escort Ms. Luzader to the bathroom. She's since left, but Philip hasn't been seen. He's probably got the runs or something, with all that health food he eats.”

  A momentary relief settled over Thomas. He felt like releasing a great exhalation, but not quite yet. There was still the possibility of a two headed conspiracy unraveling the operations and WhiteWash LLC. “Please Christina, could you get one of those lazy IT goons to go make sure he's okay? Now, if possible?”

  “Sure thing, sir. Oh, By the way, I just got a call from Harris Marchment from Intelligence.”

  “Harris?” Kimble said in a coy voice, as if God himself had called and had some questions that needed answering.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Uh, did he say what he wanted?”

  “No, sir. He just said call him back as soon as possible. I told him you were busy.”

  “You didn't call me right away?” Kimble barked.

  “I would have, but you called me. This just happened seconds ago, sir.”

  “Oh! Right. Well, I'll return his call. Find Philip first!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harris Marchment was not a man that called to chew any sort of fat. He chewed asses. Thomas' first thought was that Heather might have called him in a vain attempt at reestablishing her position with the company. But even she knew that the contract stated that employees of WhiteWash LLC were not governed by, or in any way employees of the Central Intelligence Agency, and that their employment could be rescinded by WhiteWash at any time. Thomas had wanted that to be the reason for the call. At least then he would be prepared for the onslaught. Heather's separation papers were still within reach. But that wasn't what the call was about. “As soon as possible.” Thomas mumbled, replaying Christina's interpretation of the phone call back in his head. “If it were something of little importance, he may have said 'When he gets time.' or, 'There's no rush on this.' As soon as poss –,” A revelation froze Thomas. His breath stuck in his windpipe like dry sand and his mouth hung slack. Two pieces of history – one recent, one long ago, reached up from his subconscious and slapped the two lobes of his brain at the same time. “Pennsylvania.” He whispered, daring not to speak any louder and admit to the empty room, or a bug in his phone, that he knew and was responsible for the danger that the company hid there. “Hunt mining.” He said. A company that existed on paper, a company that produced such a tiny amount of coal that it perpetually operated at a loss and could be written off for its expenses. “Heather. The transmission. Shit!”

  He knew that there was more to the transmission than he would have ever let on. He listened to it repeatedly. He had even talked to the five giggling men during 'debriefing', all of them intensely wild eyed and about to explode like little boys high on sugar, ready for adventure. But it was only after the debriefing that he listened the transmission and knew immediately that they had made an error, an error that wasn't permanent, but would take many years to recover information. He just wanted Heather to back off, but he also knew she would not do that. The time wasn't right to explore Pennsylvania with the intention of mining minds, not coal, not yet.

  “Sir!” Christina opened his office door, blushing, a snickering smile on her small face. Phil Kirby lept through the threshold from behind her.

  “Forget what you saw, Christina!” Phil said angrily fumbling with the belt at his waist. She nodded, but held the door open, not immediately going back to her desk.

  “Tom, Heather is nuts!”

  “Nuts, you say?” Thomas smiled. “Why, just this morning –,”

  “I know, I know! Spare me, okay? She stunned me and tied me to the bathroom toilet! I don't know how long I've been out or how far she's gotten!”

  “About an hour.” Christina said.

  “Wha?” Phil turned, surprised to still see her standing there. “You still here?” Phil crudely asked.

  “Yes. I have to talk to Mr. Kimble.”

  “Then talk!” Thomas said to Christina.

  “You told me to go find an IT guy to get Phil. I went looking for Lucus Haskert...”

  She didn't to need finish the sentence as Thomas glowered at the girl. So mistaken he was to believe Heather would have ever asked Philip for assistance in whatever she was planning. Phil was a company man now. And he didn't know the first thing about computers, or data mining, or searching for five nameless men in a sea of documents and files. But Lucus Haskert knew.

  “...and I can't find him anywhere. Is he working today?” She asked.

  “He was here.” Thomas stroked his broad forehead in his hand as if he were removing sweat at its inception. “Christina, thank you.” He said trying to keep his nearly perfect and well crafted panache of a 1940's German intellectual and shooed her away with the back of his hand.

  Phil shut the door and remained beside it with his head down, fixing his belt and smoothing out the wrinkles of his tucked shirt. “I saw him this morning just before this happened.” He nodded to his belt. “My guys were ready to follow Heather even without my order, so I'm just waiting for their call to confirm –,”

  “They called me, Philip.” Kimble mumbled.

  “And?”

  Thomas looked up at Phil as to say, 'Are you really that dense? Do I really need tell you the rest?'. He dropped his head back to his hand. “She's gone.”

  “Shit!”

  “Exactly. She can't be too far. You ha
ve her home address, right?”

  “Well, Tom –,”

  “Do you have it or not, Philip?”

  Phil huffed. “That data is not reliable. She has an address on file, but she's never there. In fact, according to the owners of that home, she's never lived there. As far as I know, she’s homeless.”

  Thomas's eyes drooped behind his round glasses as a dread of something new and terrible materialized in his mind. “This day is nose-diving.”

  “Philip, could you bring me Heather Luzader's file, please? Put it on a flash drive or something.” Phil scanned the floor beside Thomas's desk. “I don't have my laptop with me today. Just see if you can pull the files up.”

  “But, don't you have it? From this morning? The manila folder?”

  “I do. But I have a strange feeling about that computer file.”

  Phil left the office and brushed against Christina, who stood too close to the office door for his liking, on his way into the hallway. When he reached the den of cubicles, which intersected with another hallway, he was surprised to see many of the employees either standing, or getting up. One of the forensics members, Paul Lockhart, pressed keys on his keyboard with great force and kept repeating to himself, “Control, Atl, delete... Control, Atl, Delete...”. Finally, Paul tossed his hands into the air in surrender. The phrase meant nothing to Phil, and he pressed on toward Lucus's office, pulling the 'V' of his collar over his nose once he broke the threshold. Phil grabbed the mouse and rolled it across a landscape of muffin crumbs and the sleeping monitor came alive. Disgusted, he used the mouse to attack the crumbs, sweeping them to the floor as if it were some slightly effective napkin. The Microsoft Windows logo and the words XP Professional against a black background appeared on the screen for a moment. Phil clicked the mouse several times, assuming that rapidly clicking the mouse would spurn the computer into quick recovery, with no satisfaction. After a few seconds, the desktop appeared. Phil clicked on the start menu, scrolled over to the My Computer button and pressed it. A game of Solitaire opened up and cards were dealt from an invisible hand into eight stacks. Baffled, Phil closed the screen and repeated the same action. Solitaire. He then clicked the control panel button. Solitaire. He closed the screen again and clicked on a desktop icon named 'USHALNOTPAS'. Another game of Solitaire opened, but a strange similarity about the desktop icons sprinted across his mind. He closed this new game of solitaire and when that window disappeared, he saw that under each icon was typed the word, 'USHALNOTPASS'. Phil knew enough about computers to create and retrieve files, but that was all. He did know, however, that when you pressed the control panel button, you were supposed to get the control panel, not solitaire. A tiny nag entered into his mind that something terrible was taking place, or had already taken place and that he was one step behind – a position he knew very little about.

  His attention was jolted when, in another office, he heard someone say the word, 'solitaire'. Then, “All I get is solitaire! What the hell is wrong with these computers?”

  “Oh shit!” Phil left Lucus's office and rounded the corner, running almost full speed into office workers lined up at Thomas's door all complaining to Christina that whenever they open up any file, all they get is Solitaire.

  Chapter 18.

  Like a boom of thunder the landscaping crew's lawn mowers came alive outside – their noise, erratic like swift moving chainsaws with a rapid succession of sounds fading and then drawing near- causing the only window in the room to rattle. Easily heard through the paper thin walls was studio audience laughter from 'I Love Lucy'. Both noises, stark in contrast, took Brian's attention away from the conversation.

  Lucus Haskert's jaw pulsated, his eyes fixed on Heather, determined and less polite than normal, as if what she had just said was not possible. Maybe she had bumped her head before deciding to meet here. After all, her choice was an old folk’s home.

  “I don't understand, Heady. Every soldier is debriefed. I've been at Whitewash almost as long as you have and I don't like that Stu Hunt asshole either, but they do follow protocol.” Brian nodded.

  The look on Lucas's face momentarily depressed Heather and reminded her of some sad triumph in a teen's eyes when they find – or think – they know more than their parents. Heather lowered and shook her head, communicating on a level that only she and Lucus knew.

  “This is why we do what we do.” Heather mumbled, then looked at Lucus. “That's exactly the reason why these operations exist. We can't simply tell the American people the real reasons we kept a troop presence in Kosovo, or Germany.”

  “So I've learned.” Lucus said.

  “First, the media will get involved as they did in the first gulf war, and depending on their leanings, will try to sway American opinion from or toward the war effort. You convince the public and your political superiors that all is well, that there are no strings attached to the puppets. The lie becomes so pervasive that soon you'll have people ready to die for you to prove that there are no strings. Then comes the day when you have to actually show them the strings and put their hands on them, because they won't believe it otherwise. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

  “Uh, No.” His face was blank. Then, his eyelids stretched relieving fine pink lines coursing through the whites. “Wait a second, Heady. Are you saying that not holding debriefings was common place?”

  “What I'm saying is that other things took place.”

  “Like what?”

  Heather sighed, still wondering whether now was the right time to take a sledge hammer to the dam of his mind and flood Luke with information about her world. He knew a lot and he was a brilliant computer scientist, but his expertise compared with covert operations, intelligence gathering and counter intelligence, were as far apart as his battleship floating on the surface of the ocean, to her deep sea submersible silently lurking in the murky unknown.

  “I – I won't, Luke. Now's not the time or the place.” She condescendingly moved her eyes around the room. “It's not a great place for that.”

  “You picked it.” Luke said.

  “I did.”

  “I was wondering about that.” Brian said.

  “I will say this. Central Intelligence experimented with certain types of... manipulation for years. Their research made many advances and established boundaries for what their capabilities were. We were privy to some of that information, and with their help, used it. Using it wasn't the problem. Our timing upon using it, was. I won't go into specifics,” She nodded to Brian. “Because of our guest.”

  “Oh! Don't mind me. Please continue.” Brian eagerly slid to the edge of his seat, hoping that Heather would slip and spill a nugget of classified knowledge that he could share on his tech blog. But as with everyone, Heather had done her homework on Brian Lawrence Goldman, changed to Brian Lawrence Chatham when he was six years old and his father gave up his parental rights to the boy and left the family. Soon after, Greta Chatham Goldman reverted to her maiden name and changed Brian's as well.

  “No, Brian. That's not something we can do right now.” Heather said. The 'right now' part brought an expectant grin to Brian's face.

  Lucas pointed to the bed. “So, Miss Enigma, what's with these pictures you wanted me to bring? Who are these guys?”

  Heather picked up the 8x10 photos, shuffled through them slowly and allowed a faint smile when memories occasioned, a determined scowl when they didn't – or we're not fond. After she flipped through all of them, she laid them back on the bed and spread them out so that they all could be viewed.

  “They were in the exact folder in your old office that you said they'd be in, but there was no other information about them. Just the photos.” Lucas said.

  “They were part of the project.”

  “And they didn't have files or names attached to them?”

  “They have names, Luke, but these are not men whose names you want to go around shouting. It could get you hurt, to say the least. The reason I want your help is because we need to f
ind them –,”

  “And find out what Eral is?” Brian asked.

  “Yes. But getting that information will not be easy. We haven't been in direct contact with these men in a while and,” Heather cleared her throat. “they probably won't remember.”

  “Probably?” Luke asked.

  “Most likely.” Heather returned with a nod.

  “So they could remember – maybe if they wanted to?”

  “Probably not.” Heather emphasized.

  “There's that probably again. How likely is it they will know about Eral?”

  “Luke! Please!” Heather exclaimed. “Until I talk to PK, I consider this to be very sensitive information. They all know about Eral. Ascertaining what they know is the goal.”

  “I just need to know what we're working with here, Heady. If these guys have some knowledge, if they've been out so long that they've just forgotten, then that can be remedied. We have drugs for that.”

  “Then, that's not the case. Don't expect drugs to work. And that's another thing, don't expect to get them settled enough to use those drugs. Don't expect to stalk them with high powered dart guns and tranquilize them either, they'll know you're coming.” Heather shook her head and scooted forward in her seat, hands on her knees. “Gentlemen, you will simply be combing through the files that you obtained from Whitewash to find these men. They exist only in those files and nowhere else. Once you locate them, I will take it from there.”

  “And they have no names?” Luke said.

  “Correct.”

  “Piece of cake.” Lucus slapped Brain on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “What we can do is cross reference their ages and dates of employment to the time when the 'project' started. That shouldn't be too difficult.”

  “They do not have birth certificates to check, let alone employee files.” Heather lightly chuckled at the notion. “No, Luke. Whitewash made absolutely sure that they covered their asses on this one. My guess is that they are keeping the guys hidden somewhere, maybe for some future mission, who knows, but I just don't know where. However, their training was so intensive, that if one of these men were to get out into society and kill fifty or sixty people –,”