by Chris Mooney
Rene'e. Shit. Renee was waiting for him; he had forgotten all about her. She'd have to wait a little longer.
"There's been an accident," Bouchard said.
Riley nodded and braced himself.
"A fire. Stephen was caught inside the lab."
Riley's mouth went dry. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat before he spoke.
"So Steve is… you're telling me Steve is " "Alive but unconscious.
He almost burned to death."
Riley's mind filled with an image of a burn victim he had seen on those emergency room cable shows. The dude's skin was all red and bloated and peeled back Mother of God. He looked up from the fire and on the mantel saw the picture of himself and Booker and Steve taken on Booker's boat down at Falmouth, about five years ago? Had it been that long? Riley stared at Steve's face but the picture kept going in and out of focus.
"How bad is it?" Riley asked.
"Miraculously, one of the firemen pulled Stephen out just in time. A few more minutes and he would have been dead. He's still unconscious, and I'm told there may be some brain damage. It's just too early to say, Mr. Riley."
"John. Call me John." You're old enough to be my pops, Riley added privately.
Bouchard nodded, reached inside his jacket pocket, and removed a spiral notebook and a Mont Blanc fountain pen. He crossed his legs and got himself settled in the chair.
"I need to ask you some questions, John."
"Sure, anything I can do to help Steve out, ask away. I'm sorry, how do you know Steve?"
"He worked for me."
"You're his boss?"
"You could say that." Bouchard paused, tapped his pen against the notebook. What's with the look? Riley wondered. If it was as if the guy was deciding just how much to tell him. Then Bouchard broke his gaze, reached inside his jacket again, produced a small black tape recorder, and placed it on the coffee table. A green light was on.
Wait. It wasn't a tape recorder at all. It was… Riley didn't know what it was. He leaned forward and studied it.
"It's a jamming unit," Bouchard said.
"A jamming unit," Riley repeated, half-smiling.
Bouchard's face remained serious.
"I can't afford to have this conversation picked up. John, what I'm about to tell you is confidential. This conversation has to stay between you and me. If it doesn't, there could be severe legal ramifications for you. Do you understand?"
I understand that you're starting to give me the fucking creeps. Riley was sweating.
"Sure," he said.
"I understand."
"Don't take this the wrong way, but you have a less than stellar background."
Riley sat upright.
"I'm not sure what you're referring to."
"Your drug problems."
Riley's face drained of color. He stared at Bouchard for a long moment, the dude sitting there all confident, maybe even a little smug, and then he thought, Who the fuck do you think you are? And where the fuck do you get off coming in here and asking questions that are none of your fucking business?
And then, under his anger, another voice said, How the hell does he know about your drug problem? This guy a cop?
"I'm sorry," Bouchard said.
"I don't mean to be forward. But my experience with people with drug problems is " "That they're all liars," Riley finished for him.
"Well, I'm not. Now that we've got that out of the way, how about you tell me what your connection with Steve is."
"Steve worked for me. For the CIA."
Riley started laughing.
Bouchard's face was dead serious.
"Steve's been working for me since he got out of college. That's one of the reasons why he moved around so much. I can't get into the specifics, so please, don't ask."
"Wait. Wait a second, back up." This was… Riley didn't know what the fuck this was. This conversation was taking on this bizzaro aspect that he didn't care for at all. Let's hit rewind and start over, shall -we?
"I'm sure this seems unbelievable, but you have to trust me when I say I'm telling you the truth. That's why this has to stay confidential.
Now tell me, what do you know about Praxis?"
"I know…" Riley stopped. He took a moment to regroup and refocus.
"Praxis is the company Steve works for. They're based out of Austin."
"That's right. Did he tell you about the company?"
"I know they make fiber-optic cameras. Steve mentioned something about digital… replication."
"Digital pixel replication," Bouchard said.
"Right. Steve was their network-security specialist. Microsoft certified and all that stuff."
"That's correct. The technology you just mentioned, Praxis was developing an application for the military called optical camouflage, or cloaking."
"Cloaking. Like the stuff they do on Star Trek?"
"Similar, only Praxis was developing the technology for a very high-tech military suit. How it works is that you climb inside the suit, press a few buttons on the wrist-mounted computer and in the blink of an eye you're invisible."
Riley's mother had been a major Star Trek addict, so he had seen the show multiple times. He conjured up the image of one of those Klingon Birds of Prey warships vanishing.
Cloaking. Jesus. Could they actually do that? It seemed unbelievable.
"I'm sure you can see the implications if this technology ended up in the wrong hands," Bouchard said.
"No one would be safe."
Riley listened, rubbing his palms together. They felt damp and cold.
"Last Friday, a bomb threat was called into Praxis," Bouchard said.
"The company was evacuated, only the firemen and bomb technicians who arrived at the scene weren't who they appeared to be. They were members of a terrorist group. Have you been following the news?"
"Outside of football, no. I've been cooped up in here, working."
"We're certain of two things, John. The military suit with its optical camouflage technology was stolen, and Stephen went back inside the lab and tried to shut the terrorist group down."
By himself" Riley had an image of Steve rushing inside like James Bond.
Steve? The guy who almost passed out the day they went skydiving?
Bouchard said, "We don't know what went down in there, but we do know he tried to call you from inside the lab."
"And you're here because you want to know why Steve called me."
"Stephen's trapped inside the lab, about to burn to death, and instead of calling me or the police or fire department he calls you.
You have to admit, it's a little odd." Bouchard added a smile, and his tone had changed, congenial now, like they shared a common interest.
"The truth is that I wasn't sure it was Steve on the phone."
"You didn't recognize your friend's voice?"
"This guy on the phone was screaming about it being an inside job."
Riley watched as Bouchard started writing.
"The voice… it did sound like Steve, but the problem was all this noise in the background."
"Explosions," Bouchard said.
"Jellied gasoline in the floor, under the tiles."
Jesus Christ on a pop side stick, someone call Tom Clancy. Riley took a deep breath and held it for a moment. Okay. Then he said, "The guy Steve he kept screaming. I tried to talk to him, but there was all this stuff going on in the background, like stuff crashing against the floor, and then the line went dead."
"What did you do?"
"I had a hard time believing it was Steve. I didn't have his work number, so I tried his home number and got an answering machine with a woman's voice on it."
"Did you leave a message?"
"No. I thought I had the wrong number. Is he living with someone?"
"He was." Bouchard stopped writing; he looked upset, as if he knew the woman.
"They were quite intimate."
"And Steve doesn't know she's dead."
"Not yet."
John thought of Renee, thought of the times they had shared, memories so vivid and real and a part of his life that if something ever happened to her This isn't about her, it's about Steve, so focus, okay?
"You didn't know he was involved with someone?" Bouchard asked.
"No."
"You don't seem surprised."
"Steve's a very private guy, even with his close friends. We used to call him The Vault because stuff would go in and never come out. He was always secretive about who he was dating. Actually, he doesn't date that much. He always had women. He just didn't hang onto them that long."
"Pasha was different." The dude tapped his pen along his pad, preoccupied, as if the dead woman lay at his feet.
"John, do you remember anything specific that Stephen said?" he asked and looked up.
"I do remember him saying, "It was an inside job. We were set up.
Angel Eyes knew we were coming, we've got a leak."
" "He used that name, Angel Eyes?"
"Yes. What does that mean?"
"Angel Eyes is the code name we've given to the leader of this terrorist unit. Somehow, the press has picked it up."
Riley nodded, his attention turned inward on the specifics of the phone call. His eyes narrowed in thought.
"What is it?" Bouchard asked, pen ready.
"The conversation I had was brief. Maybe fifteen seconds. But I thought I heard the sound of another voice. He was screaming something about… I know this is going to sound whacked, but this guy, this other voice screamed out "Mittens! Mittens!" That mean anything to you?"
"No. Did you hear anything else?"
"I'm afraid that's all I know."
"Would you be willing to undergo hypnosis?"
"Absolutely. Anything you need."
"John, one last question. You have a girlfriend by the name of Renee Kaufmann."
"What about her?"
"Did you tell her about the phone call?"
"No."
"You're sure."
"Of course I'm sure." Riley saw the look of doubt flash across the man's eyes.
"I may have had a drug problem, Mr. Bouchard emphasis on the word had but that doesn't automatically make me a liar."
"When two people are intimate " "Renee's been in Amsterdam for the past week running around, and I've been stuck at home working on sales presentations. I haven't told her anything. I haven't told anyone, in fact, not even our other friend, Book. To be honest, I thought the call was a crank or a wrong number and forgot about it."
"Do you have the address and phone number of where your girlfriend is staying in Amsterdam?"
"Why do you need it?"
"John, I want to post some people on you, your girlfriend, Booker and his family."
"Wait. How do you know all these people?"
"It's my job to know," Bouchard said.
"The terrorist, Angel Eyes, he's very dangerous."
"Are you trying to tell me we're in " "Relax. This is just a precaution. We don't know if Angel Eyes knows about the phone call or not. We want to make sure you're protected. It's standard procedure.
Go about your life. We doubt Angel Eyes would try to take you out."
Take me out?
"I need to talk to Renee," Riley said.
"Tell her what's going on."
"And you will. Where is she staying?"
"It's the Renaissance Hotel, room number 409."
"John, I cannot stress to you the importance of keeping this matter private. This situation is very delicate. Do you understand?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do." He blew a long stream of air and thought, What the fuck?
"Do you mind if I use your phone for a moment?"
"It's in the kitchen. Help yourself," Riley said, dazed.
"I know I've hit you with a lot. Give me a minute, and I'll sit back down and answer any questions you might have." Bouchard stood up and walked behind the couch.
Riley leaned back in his chair, propped his elbow on the armrest and leaned his forehead against his palm. Steve, a CIA guy? Just when you thought you knew someone, boom, you find out that one of your best friends a guy you thought you knew inside and out not only worked for the CIA, he pulled some James Bond shit and tried to stop this military suit with this cloaking technology from being stolen. And right now he was lying unconscious in a hospital bed, oblivious to the fact that he was being hunted by a goddamn terrorist with the spooky name of Angel Eyes. The CIA. Jesus. And now the CIA was going to follow him and Renee and Book? This was… it was like Riley was living a real life Tom Clancy novel, it all seemed so unreal, so Riley felt a sharp sting on his neck. He slapped at it with his left hand and when he moved his hand away he saw a small drop of blood smeared against his palm.
Riley bolted upright, turned around, and saw Raymond Bouchard standing right behind the couch, holding the fountain pen in his gloved hand like a dagger. Extended between the pen's gold nib was a two-inch needle.
He shot me up with something.
Riley's heart hammered inside his chest. What… what the hell is… what's going on?
Bouchard capped the pen and fitted it into his coat pocket and came back with a cell phone. He dialed a number and pressed it up to his ear.
"Move into position. I'll buzz you in," he said and walked to the door.
What the fuck? Just a second ago, Riley had been sitting here answering questions, and now this guy Steve's fucking boss had just injected something into his neck. What the fuck was going on?
Don't panic. If you panic, you can't think, so The phone was in the kitchen, mounted on the wall, just a few steps away.
Hurry up and go for it.
It was like shards of glass had entered his heart. John Riley clutched his chest, wanting to claw through his skin and bone. His heart was burning. He reached out to grab hold of something, lost his balance and fell backward. The back of his head hit the corner of the glass coffee table, slicing off a flap of skin. But he didn't feel the pain.
His heart had already stopped beating. He lay there on his back and stared up at the ceiling. His mind was still alive, it was still screaming at him to stand up, come on, John, you can do it.
He couldn't move.
I'm dying, he thought. Am I dying?
His mind had become eerily silent.
Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name… John Riley said the prayer in his mind while his imagination flashed forward to next week, seeing the look of surprise and joy on Renee Kaufmann's face when he got down on one knee and proposed to her at the Public Garden, how beautiful she would look on their wedding day, here she came walking down the aisle and later that night, they would stay at the Four Seasons. Not bad for a punk from Lynn.
Wait. What was this? It was Renee. She was here with him. She held his hand, and he listened to her voice comfort him: We'll have beautiful children. You'll be a good father and a good husband. We'll have a great life together, just you wait and see. She kept talking to him as the violent convulsions racked his body, his mouth opening and closing without sound, his arms and legs flailing like a man trying to reach out and save himself from drowning. Raymond Bouchard looked down at him with his hands in his pockets, his face calm and detached, watching him die with the patient energy of a man waiting for his train to come in and take him home.
The front door swung open and in walked a thin, wiry man wearing a blue North Face down parka, designer glasses with thick black frames. A blue Red Sox baseball cap covered his recently dyed hair. The twenty-eight-year-old Owen Lee no longer looked the part of Chris Evans, the Texan skydiver.
Twenty-eight and he looks like a boy, Raymond Bouchard thought. At that age, you were a boy, but computers were a young man's game, and these boys not only ruled the computer world, they could keep up with the overwhelming expanse of technology and all of its mind-numbing minutiae.
Lee shut the door behind him, moved into the living room and stopped dead in his tracks.
"Jesus," he said.
"I didn't know you were going to kill him."
Bouchard leaned over John Riley's body, picked up the jamming unit from the floor and turned it off.
"Does the word mittens mean anything to you?"
"No. Why?"
"According to John Riley, another person was screaming this word inside the lab."
"Randy Scott."
Bouchard nodded.
"He was the only person in the lab. As for Stephen calling Mr. Riley, it looks like it was an accident."
"This word mittens. You think it's decryption code?"
"Possible. Only Randy Scott would know, and he's dead."
"If Misha had stuck to the script, we wouldn't be in this mess," Lee said.
"He's the one who decided to fuck with the tapes at Delburn."
Bouchard didn't say anything. He didn't want to get into it with Owen.
"Any word on Stephen's condition?"
"The word came down when you were in here. Conway's awake." Lee took off his cap and rubbed back his hair.
"The security on that suit is locked tighter than a flea's ass. I can't hack my way past it. I tried. I might have a fighting chance if you gave me access to the NSA computers " "Out of the question,"
Bouchard said. He could keep them off the radar screen, but some things were simply out of the question.
"Then I hope the word mittens is the decryption code, because Dixon sure doesn't know it." Lee chewed his gum, his eyes reflective.
"Our Russian partners are getting worked up. Misha, he's a fucking loon."
"Put him out of your mind."
"Easy for you to say. You weren't there when he did his… thing with Dixon."
"Can't stomach this?" Bouchard said.
"This isn't a normal gig and you know it. Look, I explained to Misha that we didn't encrypt the software they downloaded into the suit. That Randy did it at the last second and changed the code without our knowledge. The dude stood there and looked at me as if I was something stuck to his shoes. Those eyes… It was like I was throwing rocks down into a well that had no bottom. The guy's not a good listener.
And he's not big on patience either."
"You have the drugs?"