"Don't push me, man, I'm already wounded," Jibril protested, glaring at me. He complied with the officer's demands. "Yeah. Don't you people need a warrant or something?"
An FBI agent frisked Michael and took his badge and gun. "Down on the ground."
"And you wanted to cooperate," I sneered at Michael. I slowly pulled the gun out butt first, ready to surrender it. So far, however, the cops and the agents were ignoring me. They concentrated their testosterone-hyped bullying on the men. I scanned the uniforms for a woman. Without one, I might be spared the humiliating process of being frisked until we reached wherever they intended to take us. With luck, I could secrete the mysterious object somewhere before then.
"Get down on the ground," the FBI agent growled, infuriated that Michael continued to stand there – blatantly disobeying his order.
"Not until I know what's this is all about," Michael said, his tone perfectly reasonable. "I'm not going anywhere until I get a little explanation here."
"Yeah," I piped up, finding my voice. "What exactly are the charges? What's the Bureau's business here, anyway?"
"Conspiracy to commit terrorism," a uniformed cop explained, since the FBI agent's eyes were locked on Michael. "The Bureau is always called in on terrorist charges."
A cold fear settled in my stomach. Conspiracy to terrorism was the same damn charges they'd tried to pin on me. Conspiracy was an impossible rap to evade because hearsay was admissible in court. America has always hated terrorists. I knew from my days in the department that when terrorism got pinned on some poor sap, he was going down, even if it meant doctoring a little of the evidence. I looked at Michael and saw a shadow of Daniel's face flit through my mind. We were completely screwed.
I held my breath. The fluorescent yellow on black of the FBI uniforms burned into my eyes. The apartment was filled with movement. Somewhere behind me, a bookcase was overturned with a crash.
"Get down!" The agent raged. I saw his grip shift, readying to strike Michael with the butt of the rifle.
"No!" I switched the Magnum in my hand, and my feet suddenly carried me forward. Michael twisted at my sound. The agent's swing whizzed inches from his jaw. Anger flashed in Michael's eyes, and he pivoted with enhanced speed. In one fluid motion, he backhanded the agent. Still in the follow-through of the missed punch, the agent's face collided with Michael's fist with a crack.
Someone tackled me from behind. I felt my legs swept out from under me. The nubby carpeting softened the impact of my chin on the floor. My body went limp. I didn't resist as the gun was pried out of my numb fingers. Turning my head, I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn't want to see the rest. I could hear Michael's shouts of protest mingling with Daniel's ghostly cries.
* * *
New Jersey State Penitentiary Feb. 12, 2076
Dee,
I know it's been a month or more, but my head got really peeked with after the Moral Officer got ahold of the last letter. Guess suggesting their office was full of crap wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done. You know me, though, huh? Bullheaded as ever.
All the same, I don't know how many more of these I'm going to get a chance to write. I've got to tell you, every day I'm more convinced we were set up. But, listen, don't get me wrong. I'm guilty as sin. You know, I heard you don't think so. I got this new cellmate in here who tells me in your last interview you claimed you still felt I still could be innocent somehow. I appreciate the sentiment. It's essentially true, you know. Problem is, I was holding the smoking gun – literally.
This is going to sound like the Morality Officer knocked something loose upstairs, but ... I know I did it. I killed the Pope. I didn't want to, but I did it. They made me.
Dee, you're the only one I trust to really listen. I notice you haven't written back, but I'm sure you've got things on your mind. Maybe you're still working out what to say. I know how hard it was for me to start. But if what my cellmate said is true, then I know you haven't given up on me. So, try to understand what I'm about to tell you: it was Them.
They got inside my head, screwed with my emotions, got me all fucked up, and by the time I was standing in front of the Pope I hardly knew which end was up. You said I was changing. It was true. They were doing it to me. Sending their little signals through the LINK.
You know what this means, right? It means they did it, Dee. They changed lead to gold. You'd better watch yourself ... watch anyone who's LINKed.
Daniel
Chapter 8
The coffee was stale and the room smelled of old cigarette smoke. I peeled the edges of the Styrofoam cup and lined the pieces up in a straight row on the marred table. The clock on the wall read two in the morning. A headache hovered on the edges of my consciousness, while the shadows on dirty gray walls haunted me. The FBI agent who was playing "good cop" did not look happy. He glanced over at the one-way glass and cleared his throat. "Maybe we should try this again?"
It wasn't really a question I was expected to respond to, so I continued peeling. The line of white pieces was getting longer. I imagined them as lifeboats abandoning the tepid coffee. The wood of the table looked like an enormous dark sea. The white pieces were tiny by comparison.
"How do you know Jibril Freshta?"
I glanced up at the agent's deceptively soft green eyes and sighed. "I told you already. I don't. Until now, I'd never even heard his last name."
"What were you doing at his apartment?" He looked as impatient with this process as I was. "It seems rather coincidental, then, wouldn't you agree, Ms. McMannus, that you were with a known Muslim radical and a possible member of the Malachim Nikamah, at the time?"
"Malachim? You mean Michael?"
The agent nodded. "I've been told his precinct's Internal Affairs Department has had a close watch on him since his transfer from Pennsylvania."
"Gee," I sneered, "I wonder who told you that."
"Don't be a wiseass, McMannus," bad cop said from where he leaned against the wall. It was Dorshak. For effect, he wore just his shirtsleeves. The black holster was a dark contrast to the perfectly pressed white oxford. He'd been showing me that gun for hours. Instead of being impressed with the battered .45, all I could think was he must have gotten a raise finally, after all this time. His shirt was so white that under the harsh light it almost blinded me. I recognized his haircut from last week's issue of GQ. Too bad he didn't have the looks to carry it off. It made him look half-finished, as though he had all the right parts, but none of them fit.
"So," I said, leaning back in the chair. I held up my bruised chin with more confidence than I felt. "You've had me followed ever since our phone conversation, haven't you, Ted?"
"I knew you couldn't stay away from Angelucci." Dorshak squinted. He crossed his arms in front of his barrel chest. He used his fists to give his biceps extra bulk. "I tried to warn you this would happen."
I laughed. "Oh, yeah. Thanks a lot. You're a true friend."
"Don't act like any of this is my fault, McMannus. You're the one with the history of consorting with terrorists and murderers." Dorshak's tone was indignant and he wagged his finger at me. "Why don't you try cooperating with the Bureau for once, and answer this guy's questions, huh?"
"Why don't you answer a question of mine, Ted? Why is the tech-theft case with Jordan Institute still open?"
"What?" Dorshak looked honestly baffled by my request. "Who?"
"It's the case Daniel and I were working on before he shot the Pope."
He shook his head from side to side. "I don't know anything about that case. If you think that has anything to do with what's happening now, well, then you've been listening to those conspiracy theorists too long, Dee."
I swallowed the desire to rise to Dorshak's bait. My instincts told me Dorshak knew nothing about the Jordan Institute mystery. I glanced over at the FBI agent, who watched our exchange patiently. He had a slightly faraway look in his eyes. Most likely he was recording the conversation and transmitting it to the Bureau's local office. There a tea
m of agents deciphered my every word and gesture and relayed back the appropriate response to the field agent.
"What was it you people wanted?" I positioned my face dead center of the eye where the fiber-optic camera was hardwired. I resisted the urge to wave.
"Freshta. How do you know Jibril Freshta?"
He was like a bloody robot. "I don't. How many times do I have to tell you? I don't know him."
"What were you doing at his apartment?"
I studied the table, hiding my pupils from a possible scan. He'd probably register the elevated heart rate, but there wasn't much I could do about that. I let the air in my lungs come out in a slow breath and shook my head.
"If you roll over on them, you can still save yourself," Dorshak growled. "But, as you should know, the antiterrorist act is pretty strict. Keep this attitude up, and you'll end up on death row. Like Danny."
"Of course," reminded the agent, "the Bureau can be lenient. If you cooperate, things will go easier on you."
The threats were almost verbatim from the last time I sat in this hard plastic seat. I shut my eyes. It seemed like a thousand years since I was on the other side of this table, and Danny and I would argue over who was going to get to be bad cop this time. He always insisted a woman made a better good cop. To which, I countered, woman as bad cop had pure shock value. Besides, I would remind him, his warm brogue would melt even the hardest heart.
The FBI agent was trying out his version of the "comforting, trust-me" look right now. It just didn't have Daniel's style.
"Come on, McMannus," Dorshak snarled. "You know how this works. The cop is the one we want. He's already under Internal Affairs' watch since his contact with the Malachim. All we need is a little more proof that he's antigovernment. You of all people should know hearsay is admissible evidence in antiterrorist cases."
"I resent that implication. Daniel was no terrorist." I shoved my fingers through the perfect line of Styrofoam lifeboats. One of them capsized. I swept the rest up into my fist.
"He shot the Pope in cold blood, even he's admitting that now." Dorshak gave me a pitying glance. "But, I forgot, you're not LINKed anymore. You don't have access to the interviews he's given lately. Your partner is way over the deep end, McMannus – way over. He actually claims the angels told him to do it. They ... what was it he said ... ? 'Guided his hand.' "
"Wha ...?" I thought I'd hardened myself to any assault on Danny's character over the last year, but Dorshak's words punctured my resolve. Danny never believed in the LINK-angels. He always said if they were a sign from God, the true God, why did they only appear to the affluent – those connected by expensive wetware? Daniel convinced me, Jesus was a man for the poor, the outcast. Why would God only talk to the rich? It seemed like a major change in policy.
I took a deep breath. Dorshak had to be mind-fucking me. "Right," I sneered. "And you've got a bridge to sell me."
"You don't have to believe me." Dorshak forced a thin smile. "It's a matter of public record. Why don't you get your pal Mouse to bootleg a copy of it sometime."
That stung. Of everything Dorshak tried, suggesting that I needed to rely on others for info really hurt. I stuffed the wads of Styrofoam I'd been crushing in my palm into my pocket.
The FBI agent looked at me with renewed interest. Forgetting his "good cop" character, he asked, "You know the Mouse?"
My fingers stroked the edges of the hard shell of the implant at my temple to ease my headache some.
"They're lovers," Dorshak answered for me. "Deidre sleeps with anyone."
"Anyone except you, Ted. How does it feel to be the only man the 'whore of Babylon' wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole?"
"Pretty damn good," he sneered. Dorshak put his hands in his pockets, and rocked forward on the balls of his feet confidently. I only knew I got to him because of the slight flush rising from his collar. It was bright pink next to the starched white of his shirt. "At least I know I'm disease-free."
"Are you so sure?" I purred. "Well ..." I made a show of carefully inspecting his new shirt and designer tie, "... maybe you did get enough of a raise to finally afford 'licensed help.' "
My head snapped to the side. The pain from the blow to my cheek lagged seconds behind. Dorshak's enhanced muscles had ahold of my suit-coat lapels before I realized I'd been hit. He dragged me out of my seat. The plastic chair crashed to the floor with a hollow sound. I used his own hyped-up momentum against him and brought up my knee.
With a strangled moan, Dorshak let go of me. He stumbled back against the solid oak table. The look in his tear-rimmed eyes made me step back.
I cursed. From his reaction, I realized I only managed to graze his crotch. "Next time I'll get ahold of them, Ted, and I won't let go."
A growl came from deep in Dorshak's throat. The FBI agent was on his feet and between us with his arms outstretched. "Cool down, Sergeant," the agent said, reprising his good cop role. "I'm going to have to ask you to step outside. Take some time out."
With a hand protectively over his balls, Dorshak retreated. "You won't live through the next time, bitch," he spat.
The FBI agent carefully righted the chair. Dusting off the seat, he gestured enticingly. "Are you okay?" he asked. The soft, green eyes filled with compassion. "Can I get you something?" He glanced at my mutilated cup, and suggested, "More coffee perhaps?"
"No." I eyed the proximity of his gun. Deciding against a federal offense, I slumped down into the cool curve of the chair with a defeated groan. "Thanks, I'm fine."
"We're all tired," he said with almost genuine emotion. He half sat, half leaned against the edge of the table. I could smell his cologne. It was spicy and exotic – not what I would have expected from him.
"It would be nice to go home." He rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "We're not asking for a lot from you, Ms. McMannus, just enough to convict Angelucci. If you help us, we might even be willing to forget how you pulled your gun on a federal agent."
"I guess I lost my mind," I admitted.
"Your response was understandable, even forgivable ..." The unspoken 'if' was heavy in his meaningful tone.
"You want me to do it again," I said mostly to myself, "and get burned again. You know, the last time I trusted one of your guys all I got was kicked in the teeth for it. I was promised anonymity in exchange for information about Danny." My eyes sought out his, and I jabbed my thumb angrily at my chest. "I was never supposed to see the witness stand, and instead, not only am I there, but I'm all over every LINK frequency from here to Kalamazoo."
His green eyes looked distant. I must have really gotten the home office in a buzz. I glanced at the clock, timing them. It took three full clicks before the agent spoke.
"The Bureau wanted to keeps its promise to you," he said slowly. "But Interpol claimed jurisdiction. When the case went to Christendom's courts, it was out of our hands."
"I know that." My tone was flat. I wasn't going to give him an inch. "I was there."
"I think you're putting your faith in the wrong people for the wrong reasons, Deidre. All we're asking from you is a little information. In fact, all you have to do is tell us what the three of you were doing at Freshta's apartment."
When I found myself reaching up to caress the receiver, I jerked my hand away. I suddenly remembered the strange object Jibril gave me. I dug in my pocket for it. Of course, I found nothing except lint and Styrofoam pieces. All my possessions were locked in a safe box as part of the arrest procedures.
"Looking for this?" The agent held the mysterious item up for me to see. It was a short and squat cylinder, no larger than the spent casing of a .45. Smooth and silver it gleamed seductively in the harsh light. "Can you tell me what it is?"
"No," I said truthfully. I had to hold on to my own hand to keep myself from rubbing the implant.
"It's a hematite bead." He dropped it on to the table.
"It's a what?" I asked, stunned.
"A bead, for a necklace or something." The agent
dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Take a look."
With numb fingers, I picked it up to examine it. On the top and bottom were holes for a string. I turned it over and over in my hands and prayed its true nature would be revealed. It was just as the agent said: a bead, nothing more.
"Where's the real item?" I tossed down the bead hard enough that it bounced. "What kind of idiot you take me for?"
The agent smiled. There was gloating around the edges of his curled lips. The good cop persona was slipping. "I'm not sure. Maybe you should tell me." Crossing his arms in front of his chest, he continued, "Tell me something, Deidre. If I had the 'real' item, why wouldn't I use it against you? Were you after a data chip? Something else?"
I looked at the bead and tried to remember what Jibril had handed me. I picked it up again and pressed it into my palm. The bead was cool, almost as cold and heavy as the dead receiver in my head.
"Do you have any idea why Jibril would set up a clandestine meeting to pass you something so useless?"
"Fuck," I breathed. "It was all for nothing."
"So it seems," the agent said with a smirk. He moved around the table. His hard-heeled shoes clicked on the linoleum floor. "Now why don't you tell us what they wanted from you, and what you thought you were getting in exchange?"
I gripped the smooth bead tighter. Did Michael intend to set me up? It seemed likely. Jibril wouldn't even let go of my hand as the FBI broke down the door. All he would do was talk about the will of Allah. Yet if they intended to be caught, why were they surprised? And, why did Michael resist arrest? Was it just a show for me? To make me think it wasn't a setup? It didn't make any sense. Dorshak said they didn't want me, but Michael. Otherwise, I might've believed Michael double-crossed me. But, why would the FBI want me? I had no real political power to wield against Letourneau or anyone else for that matter. I was a celebrity, sure, but without the LINK, I was a nonplayer.
Archangel Protocol Page 9