The lack of support often left them at odds with regular society, and it remained a huge problem as to what would happen. However, that was Europe and they had to handle their own. North America—specifically, the United States—had to come first.
“All right,” he said after thinking things through. “I’ll go.” To Blanchard, who’d been waiting patiently, he added, “Please watch over her.”
She bowed her head in acquiescence. “I will.”
Overton had parked his car outside, and as they drove off, Harry, fidgeting in the passenger seat, asked the obvious question. “Is this Ulbricht a person we can trust?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Not much of an answer, but it spoke volumes. Considering the events of the last few months, there weren’t many people out there to trust. It remained an intangible and elusive concept. Harry had trusted his previous handler, Miles Farrell. Farrell had initially proved hostile, but over the months had mellowed, and Harry had come to consider him a mentor and also a friend.
Unfortunately, life got in the way, or in that situation, death. Farrell had contracted cancer, it was terminal, he’d refused treatment save painkillers, and he’d passed away only a few days before. Another light, in addition to his parents, had disappeared from Harry’s life. There was no other choice but to go on.
Traffic on the highway was light, and he passed the time looking out the window at the bright lights. Another car pulled up beside theirs, filled with young people, perhaps in their twenties. One of the young men gave him the finger.
In return, Harry flipped him a middle claw and the passengers in the other car howled with laughter. At least they’d gotten some fun out of it, he thought. Same deal, different matter—it always boiled down to acceptance, and that seemed a most elusive concept.
After arriving in Manhattan and parking in the underground garage, they took the stairs to the basement level where two of the best trackers in the business, Jason Parham and Maze—real name, Tina—Mazerowski, were situated. As consultants to the FBI, they had their own room, and they were allowed to do their own thing most of the time.
As Harry opened the door, his friends were in the process of playing a game on one of the three computers in the room. “Harry!” Jason exclaimed as he arose from his chair.
A tall, skinny and sort of geeky looking guy with long black hair, Jason wore a t-shirt with a mermaid on it. He’d been Harry’s best friend in junior high school before Harry had switched to home-schooling. Regular school and a genius IQ couldn’t really mesh.
Jason’s girlfriend, Maze, also the same age, was roughly his height and had the same aura of geekiness he did. She was, however, far prettier, and she stood up alongside him. “We heard about Anastasia from Overton,” Maze said with a look of concern in her eyes. “Is she going to be okay?”
“The doctor thinks so,” he answered, eschewing any sort of formal greeting. Right now, friendliness wasn’t on the menu. Results were. “What have you got?”
Immediately, Jason switched off his game and tapped in a few buttons. Maze took the other computer and lifted a paper bag into her lap. “I got my stash,” she said.
Serious situation or not, it was an amusing moment. Maze was a chocoholic to the nth degree and couldn’t go a day without cramming the equivalent of half a kilo of the sweet stuff in her mouth. “You’re going to get diabetes,” he said.
“It’s an occupational hazard.”
Formerly high school students with the smarts and genius of the greatest computer hackers around, Maze and Jason now went to university, but worked on a consultation basis for the FBI.
In simple terms, it meant they worked three days a week playing games in their downtime, but usually hacking into databases when necessary, tracking unusual power emissions, and hunting for information on people who didn’t want to be found. And the biggest target around—Allenby—most definitely didn’t want to be found.
Tap-tap-tap went the keys. Jason’s face remained a study in concentration, while Maze’s resembled a chipmunk’s, cheeks bulging with chocolate. “I got something,” Jason said.
A first—Maze usually came up with the information faster. She shot him a dirty look and demanded, “What is it?”
Overton, who’d been leaning against the wall, came over to look. “It isn’t clones, is it?”
“No sir,” Jason said. “See for yourself.”
Leaning over to peer at the screen, Overton gave a nod of approval. “Smart, very smart... you tracked the shipping records. Allenby hid them, but he left a trail. We might be able to use these to pinpoint a location. Do you have anything, Maze?”
She shook her head and swallowed the lump in her mouth. “I thought I did. It was a small power spike, but it turned out to be nothing.”
A snicker came from Jason. “Yeah, I checked on that, too. Seems Tina found—”
“Jason!”
She preferred to be called Maze and hated when anyone called her by her birth name. He audibly gulped when she speared him with an angry stare. “Sorry,” he said with a rueful look. “Anyway, it turned out to be a false lead.”
Overton rubbed his jaw. “Well, keep checking. Anything else I should know about?”
His cellphone beeped and he whipped it out, excusing himself to go outside and take the call. Reentering the room a few seconds later and putting his cellphone away, he seemed more upbeat. “I think we caught a break.”
“And that means...” Harry left the question hanging.
Overton wore a rare smile. “It means the police have a transgenic in their custody. A real nasty case, they said. We have to go the forty-seventh precinct right now.”
Taking his leave, Harry was halfway out the door when Jason caught up to him. “Man, you’re leaving again?”
“Duty calls.”
Maze came over to ask, “When is Anastasia going to have the baby?”
“Soon,” he said. It was the best answer he could offer.
“When she does, call us,” Maze insisted.
Harry promised and followed Overton back to his car.
Cutting through midday traffic, they drove to the precinct, where they met Chief of Police Tolliver outside. A tall, stern-looking man with a permanent scowl, he greeted them both with “Glad you could make it. We got us a real monster on our hands.”
Instantly, Harry got on the defensive due to the remark and started to say something, but Tolliver put his hands up in a placating gesture. “Before you turn on me, let me show you.”
A curious crowd had gathered along with the ubiquitous reporters. Some of them held up signs in favor of transgenic rights. About thirty others standing ten feet across from them held up signs saying Mutants leave! Harsh words passed between both groups, but no violence seemed imminent, at least for the moment.
Tolliver’s men kept the two groups back. The chief escorted Harry inside, with Overton bringing up the rear. “Those groups,” Tolliver muttered, jerking his thumb behind him. “They’re a pain in the butt to control.”
“You mean the pro-or anti-groups?” Harry asked.
“Both of them...”
The chief kept up a running commentary as they walked along. “We didn’t actually capture this... individual. He found his way in, he said, through the bottom level and the service elevator. According to the arresting officers, he sat down in the lobby and offered no trouble when we put him in a cell.”
“Name,” Overton wanted to know.
“He gave his name as Pavel.”
Pavel... it was obviously Russian. “Was that it?”
Tolliver nodded. “That was it. He said he wanted to speak to Harry Goldman and no one else. We had to sequester him away from the other prisoners. You’ll see why.”
Going down the stairs, they entered a holding room containing the usual street scum. A few of them yelled epithets, daring the chief to let them out so they could exact some retribution. Tolliver ignored them and went to the back door. Opening it, he pointed to a
cell straight ahead where someone was standing. “He’s all yours.”
Pavel turned out to be unlike any transgenic Harry had ever seen. Roughly five-ten, he resembled a demon mixed with a dog, with a long snout, beady red eyes, and a pronounced brow. He had a hyper-muscular, lightly black-furred body clad only in a pair of torn-up jeans and a nondescript t-shirt easily a size too small. Lumps dotted his face, almost as if something inside was straining to come out.
He seemed quiescent enough, but exuded a raw, animal strength. Unlike a dog, though, he did not have paws. His hands, though, were abnormally large and thick-fingered, almost as if they’d been designed to tear through something—or someone.
With a look of curiosity on his face, he walked over to the door. “You are Harry Goldman?” he asked in a thick Russian accent. The voice came out muffled and somewhat indistinct, probably due to the snout and the construction of the creature’s jaw.
“Yes, that’s me,” Harry answered.
The dog-man gave a brief nod. “We shall talk.”
Tolliver had the keys in his hand. “Are you sure you want me to let him out?”
An expression of exasperation flitted across Overton’s face. “Tolliver, remind me again who has jurisdiction here?”
“Fine, it’s your problem.”
As Pavel walked out of the cell, rubbing his wrists, Overton had already drawn his pistol. The creature turned to him, a semblance of a smile on his face. In spite of having formerly been chained up, he sounded most good-natured. “You no need pistol, chubby man. I cause you no trouble. I am not person you must worry about.”
As they walked out, one of the prisoners, a giant redhead, perhaps six-eight and in the realm of three hundred pounds of almost pure muscle reached through the bars and grabbed Pavel’s shirt. “Who let the dogs out?”
While the other prisoners howled with laughter, Pavel didn’t react, at least, not at first. After a second, though, he reached around and effortlessly removed the man’s ham hock. He then proceeded to crush the hand slowly. The sound of each bone snapping echoed throughout the room and the laughter from the other prisoners abruptly died away. The redhead screamed in agony and fell to his knees.
A hush fell over the room, only broken by Overton saying, “Nice doing business with you, Tolliver.”
Making their way to the underground garage, they piled into Overton’s car and he drove up the ramp. Traffic had come to a standstill with a crowd of onlookers and reporters clogging up the main thoroughfare, and a group of police officers was trying to restore order. Flashes went off and Pavel slunk down in his seat.
That didn’t help, as two women followed by three men passed out. “What is wrong here?” Pavel wanted to know. He sounded aggrieved, and he had good reason to be. “Have they never seen dog before?”
“Let’s get going,” Overton said, and his voice contained more than a hint of impatience. “We’ve got a schedule to keep and you, new guy, we need to know all about you.”
“Sure, no problem,” muttered Pavel. “What you want to know?”
Chapter Two: Questions and Answers
Before leaving headquarters, Overton took them both upstairs to the fifth floor to the director’s office. They took the service elevator, and fortunately, it was unoccupied. “This is something the chief should know,” Overton whispered as they stood outside his door. “He’s working late, and we have to go through proper channels.”
By “chief” he meant Bartholomew Holliman, the director of the New York’s FBI branch. Harry had met him only once. A short, stocky man in his mid-fifties with a head of thinning blond hair, he had a reputation of never smiling at anything or for anyone. He ran the office with a simple, almost brutal efficiency. Never mean or bullying, he asked for the facts at hand and always got them.
This time, however, he’d be faced with an entirely different problem. Overton knocked on the door and a high-pitched voice said, “Come in.”
Entering, they found Holliman sitting behind his desk, sifting through some papers. He looked up, noted Pavel’s appearance with a nod and a bland expression, and went back to his papers. Nothing seemed to faze him. Then again, Harry and Anastasia had been in the public eye, so perhaps the director was used to it. “Take a seat,” he said. “The time is past seven-thirty, and I know you’re probably tired, but we have a lot of things to discuss.”
What else to do but to take their seats, and Harry sat down, listening to the silence build. A feeling of discomfort assailed him, a little voice in his head urging him to go back to the hospital and visit his wife. However, certain matters had to be attended to first.
The director took his time, murmuring as he read through each document. Once done, he dropped them in a neatly arranged pile. “So, we have a foreign visitor,” he stated, looking at Pavel. “Overton tells me you’re a Russian citizen.”
“That is right,” Pavel answered. “My name is Pavel Andreyevich Romanoff, and I am here for—”
“For purposes of giving up information, correct?”
He got a nod in return and Holliman grunted softly. “This... is going to prove difficult. We can’t keep a lid on this man forever. It was bad enough when two transgenics started coming around. Then we had the attacks.”
Holliman was referring to the recent attacks by Allenby’s thugs as well as those of Szabo, a Hungarian shark-man who’d also sent transgenics to attack Americans on their own home turf a few months back. Since then, the transgenic problem had stayed in Europe for the most part, but now...
“If the Russians find out about your presence here, then this could cause another international incident, which is something I do not want,” Holliman continued, his eyes flicking back and forth between his papers and the new arrival. “And should they want one of their own back—”
“They no want me back,” Pavel interjected, his eyes flashing like warning signals. “The government, they no want me back. I look like monster. They treat me as such.”
Holliman scrutinized him as a scientist would a rare species. “You’re not asking for asylum, are you? If you are—”
Pavel waved off his suggestion. “I no need asylum. I am here to talk to Harry Goldman and his wife. I am here to help them. That is all. After that,” he hesitated, “I go back to Russia, anyhow. I got my own reason.”
“Uh-huh.”
The director didn’t seem to be overly impressed with the answer. In fact, he seemed more displeased than anything else, as his mouth briefly twisted into the shape of an angry pretzel. “This whole thing since that girl showed up has spiraled out of control. Before, we only had to worry about domestic terrorists, hate groups and drug rings.
“Now we have to worry about transgenic people running around, asking for human rights, and the main man in Washington—my boss—is on my case to do something about it and I don’t have any answers. My predecessor didn’t, either.”
By “girl” he meant Anastasia, and Harry wondered what the big deal was. “Sir,” he said in an attempt to set things straight, “that girl happens to be my wife. As for the other transgenics, if there are any here, that makes them Americans, doesn’t it?”
It was hard not to sound naïve and he didn’t mean to, but as soon as he uttered those words he realized it all sounded simple-minded. Asking for human rights shouldn’t have been on the menu, anyway. He’d been born here. Anastasia was a naturalized citizen. They had passports.
What they needed was work, and so far they’d had to make do with the FBI subsidizing their existence, something Harry didn’t want. He felt as though he had something to offer to the world, but so far, the world had turned its collective head away.
Holliman’s reaction was to offer his usual bland look. “Goldman, I want you to understand something. I sympathize with you. From what Agent Overton has told me, the situation with your wife, I mean, it’s hard for you. I sympathize with your wife being in the hospital as well. But I don’t think you realize the big picture here.”
“And t
hat is...”
Holliman then proceeded to lay out the details one by one. The public didn’t understand, not entirely. The government didn’t know how to handle the arrivals. Would there be more? Were there safety issues?
Safety issues predominated. What with the attacks on American soil, people were understandably nervous. They wanted security, and so far the authorities had failed to provide it. “I’m being squeezed here,” Holliman added. “The public does have a right to security. That’s what we’re here for, and when someone pops up, fresh off the boat”—he cast a look at Pavel who shrugged—”people get jumpier.”
And then there’d been the trouble overseas. Harry had been caught right in the middle of it, along with Anastasia. They’d almost been killed at least three times, and each time they’d survived. Reflecting on his feline DNA counterpart, Harry figured he’d already used up a third of his lives. He was in no hurry to lose the rest.
“Can you guarantee no one else will show up?” Holliman was still speaking. “You have to realize how serious a matter this is.” Picking up one of the reports, he proceeded to read out the numbers of dead and injured over the last six months. “We’ve had fifty-nine policeman killed, twice that number wounded. Civilian casualties were minimal, thank heaven.
“However, we also lost the former branch director in the last raid. I’m still getting used to this position and no, it’s not easy for me. We’ve suffered losses, and you have to get that through your head.”
And whose fault was that, Harry thought, trying to keep the bitterness from intruding and not succeeding very well. “Sir, I had no idea any other transgenics would come.”
Reunion Page 2