World Without End

by Chris Mooney

  Pasha's eyes were impossible to read.

  "My father still refused to sell the business. Pride," she said, shaking her head.

  "The next time Misha came, not only did he fuck me again in front of my father, when he was done, he placed my head on the wood stove and burnt my ear off." The final words came out dry, matter-of-factly.

  "That's when I saw it in my father's eyes, that sense of relief," Pasha said.

  "He was secretly hoping that they would kill me. I always sensed he blamed me for my mother's death, that he was angry that he had to support me. When I told him I was pregnant, he threw me out of the house. Standing out in the cold, I realized that I was totally alone, that I would have to take care of myself. It is what you would call a defining moment."

  What do you say to something like this? Conway asked himself. Sorry?

  He decided to say nothing.

  "Aren't you going to ask me what happened to the baby?" she asked.

  "What matters to me is that you're alive."

  "I aborted it. The doctor didn't use sterilized equipment. I had a massive infection and almost died. I can never have kids." Conway heard what sounded like, what, a hint of regret?

  "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

  Pasha looked out the window, her face dim in the light as her eyes searched downtown Austin.

  "Misha's here in Austin," she said and looked back at him.

  "Misha's the one who left you that package."

  "How do you " "I saw him."

  "Saw him? How?"

  "All the rooms inside our condo have well-concealed surveillance cameras. Only two people have access to them. Myself and Raymond.

  I've been watching you from here, in my office. I've had you under surveillance since you left the hospital. And to answer your next question, yes, I'm sure it was Misha. You don't forget someone like him. I know it sounds odd, him involved in this case after all these years, but it was him. Did you talk to Detective Rombardo?"

  "He came to the hospital."

  "I need to know what you told him."

  "I've never met the guy before. I thought he might be connected with Angel Eyes. What do you think I told him?"

  "But he told you he was with our group."

  "Rombardo was missing some key facts."

  "Like what?"

  "For one, he thinks Bouchard is alive."

  "He is."

  "How do you " "I'll get to that later. Tell me more about your meeting with Rombardo."

  "Rombardo said a fireman came inside the lab and picked me up off the floor. That was impossible. I was glued to the floor by this thick, rubbery foam the stuff Jonathan King developed. There's no way anyone could have come in and picked me up."

  Pasha shook her head and sighed.

  "The gray powder."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "When you were brought in, Rombardo confiscated your clothes and found a gray, powdery substance. He told me about it. I didn't know what it was. But from what you just told me, it must be the residue from the sticky foam. The heat from the fire must have broken the foam down.

  Rombardo wasn't lying to you. He didn't know."

  "Rombardo hasn't stopped by or called since that day at the hospital."

  "That's because he's missing."

  Conway felt a cold, hollow knocking inside his chest.

  "Rombardo was supposed to report back to me after he saw you at the hospital. He never did," Pasha said.

  "The Austin police are looking into his disappearance. Didn't you read today's paper?"

  "No."

  "Stephen, I need you to tell me what happened that day. All of it."

  Conway pinched his temples between his thumb and middle finger and stared at the carpet for a moment. He was bone-tired, his eyes so exhausted they wanted to shut. What he needed was some time to process all of this, some time to sleep.

  For the next hour, he explained to Pasha in detail everything that had happened that day. When he was done, she moved next to him and opened up the box top. Her hands moved over the tissue paper and then stopped.

  "My guess is that it belongs to Dixon," Conway said.

  Her Palm Pilot was clipped to her belt. Pasha removed it with one hand, the other reaching inside the box and coming back with the severed pinkie finger. She pressed the fingertip against the Palm's screen, holding it there for a moment, and then moved it away.

  "It's Dixon's finger," Pasha said. She dropped the finger back inside the box.

  "Have you viewed the CD?"

  "Not yet."

  Pasha grabbed the CD and limped her way inside the conference room.

  Conway followed. The shades were drawn, the area almost completely black, but Pasha knew her way around. She fed the CD into the computer and then grabbed a remote control and turned on the wall-mounted TV. A light hiss of static on the small speakers as the CD started to play and then, bright and vivid on the flat-screen TV, came the recorded image of Major Dixon screaming.

  Dixon is nude, leaning back in the kind of surgical chair found in a dentist's office. His legs are bound to the stirrups by leather straps; his arms are fastened to the chair's pale blue armrests and his hands dangle off the end, his fingers wriggling as if searching for the key that will unlock him from this nightmare. His boyish, haggard body is bathed in a spotlight so intense it makes his skin glow white.

  From somewhere in the dungeon of gray walls comes the sound of heels clicking across the floor. Dixon wants to lift his head but can't; two leather straps one fastened across his forehead, the other around his neck have his head pinned against the headrest.

  A small metal can with a stainless steel tray moves into the frame and is placed near Dixon's left hand. He tries to turn his head and can't, and then he struggles to free himself and can't because he is trapped.

  His wild, frightened eyes are only able to see the shadows of the predators moving across the ceiling.

  The camera lens pulls back, stops. Standing slightly behind Dixon's chair is a man dressed in black pants and a white tank top undershirt that swells with a hard, wide belly. The man's hands are thick and meaty with fingers like sausages, his brown forearms popping with veins and covered with coarse black hair. His face is out of view. He reaches out of the camera's lens and then starts plunking down surgical instruments on top of the can's stainless-steel table.

  Clink, a scalpel.

  Clink, a vial of clear fluid.

  Clink, a meat cleaver.

  Dixon can't see the tray or the instruments, but he can hear the clink-clink sound, and his imagination goes into overdrive. He has an idea what is coming. His eyes clamp shut and he starts sobbing, his thin, boyish body convulsing.

  The man finishes plunking down the instruments and turns his body toward Dixon, his face still out of view. His left arm looks like a telephone pole; a panther and a dragon have been tattooed on the meat of his upper bicep.

  "Dixon." The torturer's voice is Russian, deep, with a wheeze.

  "That," Pasha said, "is Misha. I'd recognize that voice anywhere. And the tattoo. He's a veteran of the Gulag."

  "Open your eyes and look at me," Misha says. His English is remarkable.

  Dixon's eyes shoot wide open, as if God Himself has spoken.

  "I told you what would happen if you lied to me, yes?"

  "I haven't lied to you." Dixon's voice sounds like the rattle of china about to break.

  "I've answered every question you had about the suit, about the cloaking technology, about Steve Conway " "Yes, I know you were being honest about Mr. Conway. How do I know this? I saw the hurt in your eyes. Don't blame yourself, Dix. Conway is a professional liar by trade. He uses people and throws them away like toilet paper."

  Dixon closes his eyes again and clenches his teeth and mumbles something under his breath.

  "Please," Misha says.

  "Share."

  "I hope he rots in hell." The words came out seething.

  "He will.
But to get there, he'll have to pass through me first,"

  Misha says.

  "Back to business: I have questions that need answers. You're tired, I'll give you a practice one to get you in the mood. What hand do you write with?"

  "My right."

  "Good. See, that was easy. Now for the second question. As you know, the wrist-mounted computer on the suit engages the cloaking technology.

  The computer is asking for a key or a password. Without the password, the suit won't work."

  "I already gave it to you."

  "It doesn't work. The new version of the software you told us to download into the combat suit, it was encrypted."

  Dixon's mouth opens, shuts, and opens again, as if swallowing words.

  "But I didn't encrypt it. It must have been Randy. He booted us off the servers and when you brought him into the lab he must have encrypted the software. Find Randy and ask him. He'll know the code."

  A long pause follows. Then Misha leans forward and grabs Dixon's left hand and pins it against the steel tray. Dixon tries to move his hand away and can't. It's pinned against the tray, wiggling, like a fish impaled on a spear.

  "I swear to God I didn't encrypt the software, I don't know anything about it!" Dixon screams.

  "If I had it I would give it to you, please oh dear Jesus, please, you've got to believe me!"

  Misha's other hand, his right, grabs the meat cleaver. Dixon is staring at the ceiling, eyes wide in terror. His mouth is working but no sound comes out.

  The Russian's fingers tighten around the cleaver's handle, the muscles in his forearms flexing, he is raising the cleaver slowly, up past Dixon's eyes, Dixon is shaking his head, no, please no.

  "Last time, Dix: What is the decryption key?"

  "Please. Please. I'm begging you. Please listen to NO!"

  The cleaver comes down, who mp and chops off Dixon's pinkie finger.

  Blood sprays against Misha's white tank top. Dixon's eyes bulge and then roll back up to the ceiling, his body convulsing against the straps, spittle flying out of his mouth as he roars with pain.

  "What is the decryption key?" Misha screams, rising the cleaver again.

  "MOTHER OF GOD I DON'T KNOW, I SWEAR TO GOD I DON'T "

  The cleaver came down again and Conway jerked his head away from the screen. Behind him came the sound of the cleaver striking against the metal, who mp followed by a fresh roar of pain.

  "Don't worry, Dix, I won't let you bleed to death. Now just hold still why I seal those stumps for you with my blowtorch," Misha says.

  Pasha shut the monitor off. The screen went dark and with the shades drawn the conference room plunged back into darkness. She stared at the screen, her face as remote and cold as a stone soldier overlooking a field of graves. In the silence Conway could still hear Dixon's screaming, could still see the terror in his eyes.

  Conway couldn't stand still; it was like his whole body was vibrating.

  He started pacing.

  Pasha said, "How did you manage to encrypt the software?"

  "I didn't. It had to have been Randy."

  "So you don't know the decryption code."

  "I know the one Dixon does."

  "Which appears to be incorrect."

  "My guess is that when they had Randy bring the server back online, they made him finish the software download. That must have been when he changed the decryption key."

  "You said Randy told you something inside the lab."

  "I remember Randy saying the word mittens."

  "Maybe that's the decryption code."

  "Or maybe Randy was delirious." Conway thought back to that moment. It was still hazy. The more he tried to concentrate, the hazier it got.

  The events of that day were hiding, being stubborn, refusing to come out and show themselves.

  "They won't kill him," Pasha said.

  "They need him to show them how to operate the suit. That buys us some time."

  "Wait. The suit has a transponder locked inside the wrist computer. In case a man is down, the army could locate him using a satellite."

  Conway picked up the phone, hit the button for an outside line and started dialing.

  "Who are you calling?"

  "Bouchard."

  Pasha reached down and planted her thumb on the button to kill the call.

  Conway stared at her.

  "What are you doing?"

  "We can't call Raymond," she said.

  "Why the hell not?"

  "Because he's the reason why this operation failed," Pasha said.

  "Raymond Bouchard sold us out."

  Conway was about to ask the obvious question and then stopped. Pasha was not given to flights of fancy. If what she was saying was true (it can't be) then she would have some evidence to back it up. Conway placed the phone back down on its cradle and waited.

  "I want to show you something," Pasha said.

  Conway followed Pasha out of the conference room and back into the main area of the company. She walked in the semidarkness, moved behind the desk, and made her way to the second conference room. The door was already open. She moved her hand inside and turned on the lights.

  Blood screamed from the carpet and white walls where it was splattered in odd angles. Conway looked at the spray patterns and knew exactly what had happened even before Pasha said the words.

  "The six remaining members of our team were led in here and shot,"

  Pasha said.

  "You find the bodies?"

  "Someone removed them."

  "Someone being Angel Eyes and his Russian friends."

  "This bloodshed Angel Eyes wouldn't do this. It's not his style."

  "Killing everyone would be the only way to overtake this place.

  Besides, we don't know what his style is. Christ, we don't even know his real name."

  "So you think he did this."

  "I think he would have done anything to get that suit. And he did.

  Mission accomplished."

  Pasha clicked off the lights. Back to darkness. She moved away from the door, staying away from the window, then folded her hands behind her back and leaned against the wall, her broken face covered by the shadows.

  "At the airport, I saw a small, furry man seated at the terminal where Dixon was to make the exchange with Angel Eyes," she said.

  "I didn't know who this man was, but he looked familiar. I went outside for a walk. Then our two trucks started blowing up, and the next thing I knew my head was split open on the back bumper of a car."

  Pasha gimped over to the desk and then leaned against the window.

  "I finally remembered the man's name. Mark Alves. Short guy with lots of hair, Raymond called him the Elf. He's a black-op specialist."

  "So?"

  "So why was this person sitting at the airport?"

  "Maybe this guy Alves was part of the Hazard Team Bouchard brought in,"

  Conway said.

  "He told me you knew about it."

  "Yes, he told me."

  "And you know about McFadden."

  "Yes."

  "So what happened to Bouchard's Hazard Team?"

  Pasha paused, then said, "I don't know."

  "What did Bouchard say?"

  She didn't answer.

  "Pasha?"

  "I haven't talked with him."

  "So he doesn't know you're alive."

  "Correct."

  That surprised him. No, more like shocked him. Pasha held the man in high regard.

  Pasha said, "When you drove to the gas station, you called Del-burn and they patched you through to Raymond."

  "That's right."

  "I checked the call logs. Bouchard wasn't at Delburn when he talked to you."

  "He was talking from a phone inside his car," Conway said and filled her in on his conversation with Bouchard at the gas station.

  "You don't find that awfully convenient?"

  "I find it lucky."

  "This man from Raymond's Hazard Team w
ho called you, Keith Harring. He instructed you to go inside Praxis. Guided you through the company, told you to make your way inside the lab."

  "That's right."

  "Don't you see it, Stephen? They were waiting for you inside the lab.

  They knew you were coming. They staged the scene and used Harring to lure you inside. You were supposed to have died in there, and I was supposed to have died at the airport. It was only by a stroke of luck that we both survived."

  "Angel Eyes used his men to impersonate the people at the skydiving school. He " "The idea to go skydiving was Dixon's idea. Nobody put him up to it. Angel Eyes didn't know we did. We had advance notice.

  In that time, Raymond could have easily handpicked a team to impersonate the skydiving instructors and doctored the files so they looked legit which they did."

  "Jesus Christ."

  "And Raymond knew all the specifics of the lab's security knew how to turn it off. Raymond had the inside line all this time, Stephen."

  "Don't say it." Conway could feel his anger reaching the boiling level. He was tired and didn't feel like pulling it back.

  "Why are you being so stubborn, Stephen?"

  "Because you're standing there and telling me with a straight face that our boss sold us out. This is Raymond Bouchard we're talking about, Pasha. He took a bullet for you once, remember? We were setting up the command post and you were inside the truck, about to hand him a box when he heard gunfire and shoved you back inside the truck. Took one right in the arm."

  "I'm familiar with the incident."

  Familiar with the incident. Jesus Christ. Conway said, "The problem is that we have a leak. Someone who had access to classified information on us and our team and sold us out. That much I do know."

  Pasha crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the floor.

  "Have you read the front page of the New York Times'?" Conway asked.

  "You're referring to John McFadden," she said.

  "Raymond said he talked with you about this on the morning of the operation. My guess is that you both decided not to tell me. Didn't want to fuel my paranoia."

  "Correct."

  "So in the week you decided not to call me, did you spend any time investigating McFadden?"