by Adam Hiatt
“Your comrade is already dead,” Reddic said. “I suggest you make better decisions than he did.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said at last. There was no trace of an accent. He sounded like an American. The Russians always assimilated their agents better than the rest. They took great pride in their attention to detail.
“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Reddic calmly stated. “I was in this very chapel watching your friend leave that message for you. I wondered who would turn up to retrieve it.” It was an outrageous bluff on his part, but he needed to see how this man would respond.
“I really think you’re mistaking me for someone else. I found this hymnal in its current condition lying on the bench. I was just trying to repair it.”
“Look, I’m losing patience with all of your lies. This is your last chance. What's your name?”
“Mickey Mouse,” he said sardonically. “Are you happy? I keep telling you, you’ve got the wrong guy.”
Reddic kept quiet as he contemplated his next move. He felt like he was in the middle of a game of chess. For every move he made this man had an equal countermove. He was good, there was no disputing that. The ease at which the lies flowed out of his mouth was remarkable, to the point that Reddic began to have doubt. He knew he couldn’t continue to engage him like this. The man was too comfortable. The only way he was going to get the truth out of him was to rattle his cage and make him uncomfortable. There could be no second-guessing what he was about to do. It was the only truly effective option he had left. Desperate times required desperate measures.
He jumped to his feet and fired a round at the man's right thigh. He howled in pain as he clutched at his bleeding leg. It was an overreaction, as the wound was just a graze, easily treated and would heal in a short period of time, but it had its intended impact.
“Put your hands in your pockets,” Reddic demanded. This time the man complied without hesitation.
“The next one goes in your ankle, then your knee, then your elbow until every limb is worthless. Nod if you understand.” The man nodded.
“Good. I'll repeat my first question. What's your name?”
“Steve,” he said.
Reddic flew out of the pew and took aim at his ankle.
“Wait!” the man pleaded. “That is my name.” He winced as he spoke. His leg was twitching spasmodically. “Steve Anderson is how everyone knows me. I'm a professor here at Harvard.”
Slowly taking his seat, Reddic digested the information. He kept his gun trained on Anderson as he considered his line of questioning. American universities were crawling with Russian sleeper agents during the Cold War. That practice was thought to have become extinct. Obviously, it hadn't.
“How long have you been in America?” Reddic asked.
“Almost fifteen years.”
“What was in the book?” Reddic signaled with his gun so there was no mistaking what he spoke of.
“Nothing. I found it empty,” Anderson said.
Reddic immediately fired a shot into the floor only millimeters from Anderson's foot. “I am so sick of your lies,” he said. “I'm going to chop you down one shot at a time.”
“Stop, please,” Anderson said. “It was a microfilm. Pavlov, that was my contact, he discovered the identity of an American professor who has created a new energy source. That is all, I swear.”
Tears of pain rolled down Anderson's cheeks. Truth be told Reddic hated doing this. Inflicting traumatic pain on any human being seemed so barbaric. It had taken Reddic a great amount of introspection to accept the fact that in matters of national security the ends sometimes justified the means. However, unlike others, he had his limits. He would not dismember or maul another human no matter what was at stake. His own conscience wouldn't allow it. In most cases the threat of extreme violence was just as effective, if not more so, if the person truly believed his life was in grave danger. Sometimes a bullet in the leg was necessary.
“Who is your Moscow superior?” Reddic asked.
“General Travnikov.”
Reddic knew the name. He was a deputy minister of foreign affairs in the Russian Federation. “We're going to make a little call now,” Reddic said. Anderson's face registered an admixture of confusion and dread.
“You're going to call Travnikov and tell him that the alleged energy source is not credible, that the Americans have already tested the theory and have discredited it.”
Anderson was shaking his head vigorously. “I cannot do that,” he said. “There are protocols I must follow. I cannot just call the general.”
The Russian slowly removed his hands from his pockets, placing the right hand over the wound in the leg. He groaned as he placed his palm over the hole to stem the bleeding. It was at that moment that Reddic realized that Anderson's left hand was inside his jacket.
Reddic sprung backward and took aim at Anderson's head. Before he could verbally warn the Russian, he too had a gun out, aiming in Reddic's direction.
“Put it down,” Reddic cautioned. “You may get a shot off, but that will be your last. I have the better position.”
Reddic stood behind him at an angle. In order to get off a mortal shot he would have to pivot his hips a few degrees. In his physical state it would be impossible to do so without Reddic having the advantage. Anderson slowly lifted his left hand in the air. Reddic seemed to relax. The man was backing down.
“This is bigger than me,” Anderson said. The statement had a sobering effect on Reddic. There was something ominous about his choice of words. Reddic was about to reply when the unexpected happened.
Anderson placed the tip of the gun beneath his jaw and fired.
22
The shot was deafening inside the chapel, causing Reddic's ears to ring. Harvard Yard was generally a place of serenity inside the urban sprawl of Cambridge. The gun shot would most definitely be heard immediately and would create panic and curiosity. He knew he had to flee the church quickly. It would only be a matter of minutes before somebody came to investigate.
Anderson's body laid lifelessly on the floor in between pews. Blood poured out of a hole on the top of his head where the bullet exited. Reddic was inclined to search his pockets, but ultimately decided against the idea. If anybody happened to see him close to the body his whole livelihood would be compromised. Instead, he reached down to the bench and snatched up the hymnal that held the coded message.
He hit the eastern doors in stride and slid outside. He closed the door quietly behind him and scanned the grounds in front of him. Nobody seemed to be closing in on Harvard's Memorial Church from that direction. Jaxon's building was a straight shot in front of him to the east. He decided to head north into the science quad and make his way around to his brother's office.
As he walked, he replayed in his mind the events he just witnessed inside the chapel. Frustration swelled within him. He knew he should've searched the Russian agent. That frustration turned to anger as he scolded himself for not foreseeing that the man would kill himself before betraying his country. There was no other alternative, Reddic supposed. The Russian would've surely been tortured and eventually killed if his superiors ever discovered that he had disclosed so much information to Reddic.
The other reason was more disconcerting. The man surely had much more to reveal, and certainly would have with the threat of additional pain. Pulling that trigger silenced his knowledge forever. Reddic spat on sidewalk in disgust. He may have just squandered a game changing opportunity.
At least he now had a name to give to Jenkins. That was a consolation prize, he reasoned. He also had confirmation that the Russians were the principle players involved. Jenkins could now take General Travnikov's name to the president as proof of the Russian's involvement. Brooke could then be put in federal witness protection until she finalized her research.
But Reddic still couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was missing something. Brooke's colleague, William Feldman, was set
to send an image to her in a text to warn her about who was after their research moments before he was killed. Jaxon linked the image to a man named Jacques de Molay, who was the last Templar Grand Master. So far as Reddic could surmise, there was no Russian connection there.
He arrived at Robinson Hall and approached Jaxon's office door. He reached for the doorknob and turned, finding it locked. He felt a sense of relief that his brother was wise enough to secure themselves inside. Reddic knocked three times and pressed his back against the wall waiting for the door to be opened. He grabbed the stock of the weapon he carried as a precautionary measure. Better safe than sorry.
Jaxon pulled open the door a crack to see who was there. When he saw his brother, he opened it wider. Reddic walked in and stood next to Brooke. He needed to ask her a few questions, but that would have to wait until they were on their way out of Boston.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
“I decided to go to church where I had a revelation of sorts,” he said.
“What happened at the church?” Jaxon asked. “You didn't deface it did you? That chapel is historic.”
“I had an unexpected confrontation,” Reddic said cryptically. “But I found out who’s after you. I’ll fill you in on the road. We need to get moving right now. Jaxon, grab your bag, we're taking my car.”
Reddic reached for his backpack and stuffed the hymnal inside. He then took Brooke by the elbow and leading her to the door. They hurried out of Robinson Hall and jumped into the Charger parked in the back.
“You're lucky the dean is out of town,” Jaxon said. “You're parked in his spot.” Reddic simply nodded as he backed the car out and entered traffic. Soon they were traveling north on I-93.
“Where are we going?” Jaxon asked.
“We have a plane waiting for us in Manchester.” They rode in silence as Reddic constantly checked his mirrors for any sign of a tail. As they left the metropolitan area he finally spoke.
“The Russians are after you Brooke.”
“I know,” she replied.
“What do you mean you know?” Reddic asked forcefully. “You mean to tell me you knew this whole time and kept it to yourself.”
“That's not what I said,” she protested. “When we started this project, William made it clear that opposition would arise as we got closer to finalizing our research. We knew that countries dependent on fossil fuels to drive their economies would be stirred up into a frenzy. Russia is obviously one of those countries, but...” She paused to gather her thoughts. “Why would it go this far? I don't understand,” she finally said.
“Brooke, you need to tell us about your research,” Reddic said. “I didn't care before, but things have changed. It may help to shed light on why your life is in danger, and more importantly, help me to find a way to keep you safe.”
Brooke looked back at Jaxon, asking with her eyes what she should do. Jaxon smiled at her and nodded his head. “You can trust us,” he said. Brooke returned the smile before facing forward again.
“The first thing you should know is that the rules of quantum mechanics are pretty dogmatic in the sense that they were established almost seventy years ago and haven't changed. These rules basically preside over the behavior of atoms. For instance, under the rules of quantum mechanics electrons must exist in an atom in firmly prescribed orbits with the distance between the proton and electron being fixed, particularly in hydrogen.
“What that means is that these two particles are not allowed to move any closer, at least according to our rules. Well, those rules didn't sit well with me. I began looking into another form of hydrogen. I wondered if it was possible to manipulate the electron to sit closer to the proton. I discovered a way to isolate a single proton and circle it with a single electron at close proximity. This created a new atom capable of generating one thousand times more heat than what we have with conventional fuel.”
“Why have we not heard of this by now?” Jaxon asked. “This sounds incredible.”
“It's funny you use the word incredible,” Brooke said. “The physics community was quite incredulous when I floated the theory. That is why I approached William. His reputation was immaculate. I knew that if I could convince him that my theory was sound, he would help sway my colleagues.”
“He obviously bought in to what you were selling then,” Reddic stated.
“He did. As a matter of fact, he was the tip of the spear in defending me. While my peers were deriding my theory as academic heresy, William put his reputation on the line. Several journals published damning reviews of me as a researcher, claiming that I had made elementary mathematical mistakes. William found other physicists and shared portions of what I discovered. They helped to validate what I was trying to achieve.
“Through it all I worked to iron out the wrinkles and get it ready to bring to market. I was poised to unveil it to a group of physicists and potential investors at the National Science and Technology Symposium when William was killed.”
She looked out the passenger window, staring aimlessly at the passing trees. Reddic wanted to say something but thought it better to let her gather her thoughts. What she had revealed so far was mind-boggling, to say the least. He could understand why the Russians would want to get a hold of her research. It also made sense that they waited until now, when it was on the verge of being launched as a commercial enterprise.
What he couldn't figure out was how they knew it was in its final stages and was, in fact, prime to become a legitimate prototype. From what he had heard from Brooke, her theory made her a virtual pariah in the physics community. The only way they could've known was if somebody on the inside leaked it. That was one question that he had to ask.
“Brooke,” Reddic called out, bringing her thoughts into focus. “Could Feldman have betrayed you?”
The question hit her like a well-placed punch. She inhaled sharply and looked at him with surprisingly soft eyes. She placed her face in her hands and rubbed her eyelids with her fingertips.
“There is something I haven't told you,” she said. Again, she turned in her seat and looked at Jaxon. “What you said about secret oaths and groups…I think William might have been part of it.”
23
Shifts at the NSA were unlike any other in the American workplace. Since threats to the United States of America never found time to sleep, rest, or vacation, neither could the NSA with its vast array of surveillance methods. Employees typically found themselves working nights, days, and random swing shifts to cover an entire twenty-four-hour window every day of the week, every week of the year. Having already accessed Peter Ellis' personnel file, Jenkins was aware that he was due to end his shift at any moment.
The drive to Fort Meade took Jenkins just under an hour to travel less than thirty miles. Traffic on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway was never light, but during rush hour the same drive would be closer to two hours’ time. Jenkins parked her SUV on the shoulder of the on-ramp less than a mile from the NSA with the hazards flashing. She pulled a pair of high-powered binoculars from her purse and pointed them toward the northernmost parking lots.
Jenkins considered using her old CIA credentials to gain entrance to the secure grounds, but ultimately decided against it. She wanted to keep her name off the official visitors list. She knew that Ellis drove a blue Acura, a car that was quite typical at any of the intelligence agencies. Yet having the make and model of Ellis' car was not nearly enough information to mark him. The National Security Administration at Fort Meade was built like a large college campus. There were multiple buildings surrounded by immense parking lots. There were literally thousands of vehicles parked on the NSA's campus on any given workday. Fortunately, Jenkins was able to ascertain what parking lot Ellis' permit was assigned to.
There were six roads that led to the NSA, and all six were equipped with security checkpoints. It was a relatively easy task for Jenkins to identify the checkpoint that Ellis would use, as it was the nearest to his building. Holding th
e binoculars firm, she glanced down at her watch. Any time now he would emerge. Like clockwork the blue Acura passed through the security gate and headed for the parkway. Jenkins zoomed in for a better look. She confirmed it was Ellis. And he was heading right for her.
Jenkins pulled her Tahoe back onto the parkway and drove at a slow pace in northbound traffic. Ellis lived just outside of Baltimore, so the logical conclusion would be for him to head in that direction after work. Through her rearview mirror Jenkins verified that her hunch was right as Ellis' Acura merged into traffic. She waited for him to pass her before falling in behind at a safe one-hundred-yard cushion.
After ten minutes of driving Ellis turned his blinker on and exited the parkway. He was nowhere near his home, but Jenkins had an idea what he was up to. Having been an analyst herself and having worked some awkward shifts in her time at the CIA, it was quite normal to run errands or grab a bite to eat before heading directly home. Plus, Ellis was divorced, and his two kids were with the mother. He had nobody to go home to.
The Acura pulled into a near empty parking lot of a small diner. Ellis got out of the car and went inside. Jenkins drove around the block and entered the parking lot from the other side. She spotted Ellis through the establishment's windows sipping on a hot cup of coffee. Jenkins walked in and bought a bottle of water. She turned and scanned the sitting area. Other than Ellis there was nobody else there. He had his head down reading a newspaper. She walked straight toward his table.
“May I join you?” she asked pleasantly. Ellis looked up and gave her the once over. A smile creased his lips.
“Of course,” he replied, jumping to his feet to pull her chair out. “I'm Peter,” he said, unable to wipe the silly grin off his face.
“I'm Madison. Nice to meet you.” She shook his hand and smiled. She sat quietly looking into his eyes.