She winced. “We’re twins, remember? I know that I don’t look . . . the way you look right now.”
She turned around and her voice took on the hard edge I knew so well. “I suppose you’ve come to evict me.”
I didn’t reply, because there was something else in her voice, that thing I’d wondered about a moment before. Was it a hint of desperation?
I frowned. Was Zander right? Was Genie broke? The utility business was my fault, but . . .
“It’s cold in here, too.”
“Yes, I’ve been, um, conserving.”
“The gas company shut off the heat, Genie.”
She kept herself turned away from me. “I know.”
“I’ll have it turned back on.”
She spit an angry, “No,” and faced me. “I’m not your charity case.”
“But you are my sister.”
That statement hung between us, ripe with years of bitterness.
“Do as you wish, Gemma; I’ll get my things together and be out of here in the morning.”
“I don’t know why. No one else is living here at the moment. I’d rather have someone taking care of the place than have it sit empty.”
Wow. I even surprised myself.
“And I suppose you expect me to take care of your ugly cat, too!”
Classic Genie was back.
“He seems to like you.” (What a wonder!)
“Well, he’s a pest.”
“No, what I mean is, Jake doesn’t like anyone.”
She glanced down at Jake, who was glued to her leg. He meowed and purred louder.
“Oh, yeah, I see what you mean.” (Sarcasm deluxe.)
“I’m serious. Watch this.”
I walked over and stood next to her. Jake growled and sank his teeth into my leg. I shook him off—but not before he’d clawed me six ways to Sunday.
“See? Jake detests me. Always has—but, then, he pretty much detests everyone. No one in the neighborhood would take money to pet him; they know he’ll bite or scratch. But he did love Lucy.”
Jake, all innocence, sat on Genie’s foot—on her foot!—preening and licking his paws.
His manners were exquisite.
Annoying wretch.
“Well . . . he’s never scratched me.”
“Interesting. Lucy was the only one he’d ever cared for. Until you.”
We didn’t say anything and the silence became uncomfortable. Genie seemed to have fallen into a daze. She stared at the floor without moving.
Finally, I cleared my throat. “I’d better get going. Just wanted to . . . check in with you.”
Genie snapped out of her stupor. “That’s it?”
“Um, what do you mean?”
“You aren’t . . . you aren’t asking me to leave?”
I shook my head. “No. Like I told you, I’d rather have someone taking care of the place.”
“Oh.” She blinked a little.
“I’ll have the power turned back on.”
She nodded, once.
“Well, see you.” I was headed for the back door when she called me back.
“Gemma?”
“Yeah?”
“Is . . . is that woman still looking for you? Cushing?”
At first I thought she’d asked because turning me in to Cushing would likely end her present financial difficulties. Then, as I mulled over her question, I realized I’d heard something else: distinct animosity toward Cushing, certainly, but also a bit of curiosity, a touch of disbelief.
I guess in Genie’s mind, I would always be the ugly, stupid sister—and she couldn’t wrap her head around any valid reason why Cushing would want me so . . . urgently.
“Oh, yes. Seen the news lately? She’s still hunting me.”
“But, what is that all about? I mean, really about? She said . . . she said it was a national security affair.”
I sighed. “She thinks it is. Calls it that, but it’s a lie. Regardless, I can only tell you a little; I can’t tell you everything.”
“Whatever.” The scathing edge was back.
I ignored her antipathy. “Genie, I think you’ve figured out how corrupt Cushing is, how malicious.”
Genie barked out a laugh that was so typical Genie, it set me on my guard. “Cushing malicious? You have no idea.”
“Actually, Genie, I do have an idea. I can tell you from first-hand experience that Cushing is a stone-cold murderer. And I can tell you that if she were to ever get her hands on me, well, when she finished, I’d be dead, too. And that’s why I won’t ever allow her to catch me.”
Genie shifted so that, by the light from the window, she could see me better. For a long moment, she studied me.
I let her and stared back. Unfazed. Unafraid. Unyielding. My jaw firm.
“Y-you seem different, Gemma. Not just how you look. You . . . I think you actually believe what you just said.”
“The part about not letting Cushing have me?”
“Uh, yes.”
I locked eyes with my sister, probing the vulnerability her reduced circumstances had produced, wondering if it was real. Not that I believed it could be: I had no illusions. When she landed a job, the same old Genie would make a splendid resurgence.
Finally, I said, “You can take this to the bank, Genie: I’m neither weak nor am I defenseless. I am well able to handle myself. The next time Cushing and I meet, I will beat her.”
Genie fell back a step, uncertain of me. A little fearful of the fire I’d allowed her to glimpse.
On the drive home, I had the nanomites turn the utilities back on: They took cash from Kathy Sawyer’s account and shifted it around to a couple dozen accounts, a little here and a little there, then pulled all the bits back together and plunked the past-due payments into the utility companies’ accounts, after which they triggered the reconnect orders. I was confident that no forensic accountant would be able to detect, let alone unsnarl, the nanomites’ digital sleight of hand.
Along the way, I stopped at an ATM and withdrew three hundred dollars.
Things weren’t right between us, between Genie and me. I didn’t believe they ever would be. Still, I felt the nudge of the Holy Spirit to be kind. Generous.
“All right, Lord. Whatever you say.”
I drove back to my house and slipped the wad of cash through the cat door where Genie was sure to find it—If Jake didn’t catch my scent on it and shred the bills to bits first.
~~**~~
Chapter 19
I had a lot on my mind that night. I was so grateful to God for helping us rescue Emilio! He was safe and home with Abe where we all knew he belonged. I spent part of the morning thanking God again and again. The other part I spent wondering about Cushing: What was she was doing? What was she planning next?
The nanomites were watching her. For weeks, they had monitored her emails, electronic calendar, and phone logs. If a single byte of notable data appeared, they would tell me.
It was early Wednesday when they spoke to me.
Gemma Keyes. General Cushing has just placed a secure call on her calendar for this morning. Our assumption is based upon the notation she employed to designate previous secure calls. Shall we go?
“The same notation she employed to designate previous secure calls” referred to the code Cushing had used to note the weekly secure calls she scheduled with Colonel Greaves—the words, Sandia Café, plus the time. Albuquerque had no “Sandia Café.” The initials “SC” for Sandia Café were code for “secure call.”
The call couldn’t be with Colonel Greaves. He was, as Gamble had informed me, dead—and under suspicious conditions, at that. If Cushing were not speaking with Greaves today, who would she be speaking with on the secure call?
A tingle of excitement shot down my spine. Were we getting close to identifying Cushing’s handler, the real power behind her? If I were in the SCIF with Cushing today, could the nanomites trace the call and identify the individual on the other end?
“Abso
lutely, Nano. We should go.”
Oh, yes, indeed. I was quite interested in being present during this call.
Monitoring her conversation would be less complicated this time since we knew which SCIF Cushing used. It would be, in fact, simple: The call was scheduled for 11 a.m.; we would be inside the SCIF before Cushing was.
***
I was relaxed and confident as we drove from the parking garage up I-40 to the Eubank exit and, a few minutes later, parked at Costco. The expanded numbers of the revived nanocloud allowed me to move about without fear of detection. Our deeper union had removed the restrictions that used to hamper me: I was now visible or invisible at will and could assume the appearance of whomever best suited the situation. I was still getting used to my new norm, but it felt good.
Nanostealth in exchange for a “normal” life? Not, I advised myself, the worst tradeoff ever.
With the nanomites’ and my combined abilities, I supposed that we could even do some good in this world. After. After the danger was past. I was even beginning to contemplate exactly what that good might look like—if and when Cushing and her superiors were no longer a threat to our existence.
I walked onto the base and into the SCIF. When I closed the door, the clock on the wall read 10:45. I had fifteen minutes to kill, and I used it to think about Emilio. The kid was so different when we’d brought him home. Happy. I wasn’t used to his continual grin, but I loved it. I loved him. If I couldn’t have my own children, at least I had Emilio.
I smiled. Also, not the worst tradeoff in the world.
Zander and I were committed to helping Abe raise Emilio. Our joint responsibility and the fellowship we shared would be enough.
Would have to be enough.
No, I acknowledged, it truly would be enough. Because of Jesus.
It was right at that moment, as I waited for Cushing, that I recognized the improved state of my heart. What was it that Zander was always saying? “Godliness with contentment is great gain?”
I felt rich inside. Once all the drama with Cushing was at an end, my life would be replete. Replete—as in having enough. And I’d find a new mission for me and the nanomites.
Everything would be okay.
Gemma Keyes, she is here.
I heard the clicks of the keypad outside the door before it opened and Cushing entered. She closed the door and turned the lock; the red “in use” sign over the door lit up. She hurried to the desk and sat down to wait for the phone to ring.
Something was off about her.
I studied Cushing. The woman wasn’t as imposing or scary as I’d thought her to be when I first met her. I noted fresh lines around her mouth and eyes, too. She seemed uncertain. Stressed even. Was she . . . nervous?
I wonder—
The phone rang. Cushing swallowed, composed herself, and lifted the receiver. “General Cushing here.”
I closed my eyes. The nanomites flowed into the phone and down the lines. I joined them, and we listened in on Cushing’s conversation.
“Good morning, General.”
Something about the voice on the other end seemed familiar.
The call is coming from a short distance southwest of Baltimore, Maryland, Gemma Keyes.
“Can you be more specific, Nano?”
Soon, Gemma Keyes.
My mouth opened as the unknown party spoke. In short, concise statements, he laid out his directions to Cushing. I still couldn’t quite put a face or name to the voice—
Gemma Keyes, the call originates in a SCIF on the U.S. Army base of Fort Meade.
“Fort Meade?”
Specifically, Gemma Keyes, the SCIF resides within the 350 acres apportioned to the NSA.
“The NSA?” I sat there, blinking, trying to make sense of it.
NSA stands for the National Security Agency. I dug into the nanocloud’s library, sucking up data on the agency: The NSA is the most clandestine espionage organization in the world. Its headquarters on the base include more than thirteen hundred buildings, and it is the largest employer in Maryland.
The NSA oversees the United States’ signal intelligence (SIGINT) gathering. One subset of SIGINT is communications intelligence (COMINT), the interception of communications between individuals, such as telephone conversations, text messages, and various types of online interactions, including email and social media.
A second subset of SIGINT is electronic intelligence (ELINT), the monitoring and gathering of other electronic signals not used directly in interpersonal communication. Since much of the gathered ELINT is encrypted, the NSA also employs cryptographic functions or cryptanalysis to decipher messages its SIGINT functions gather.
I already knew (from our overhead search for the car that took Emilio) that the NSA owned four geostationary satellites. I hadn’t known that it operates SIGINT monitoring stations throughout the world.
I frowned. What was Cushing’s connection to the NSA? She was Air Force. I would have speculated DIA (the military’s Defense Intelligence Agency), not NSA.
However, my next realization didn’t take much of a leap. When I put the nanomites and their abilities into the NSA mix, instantly, the role Cushing’s handler intended them to play came into sharp focus: How would an army of nanomites impact and advance America’s COMINT, ELINT, and cryptanalysis?
The digital world is awesome.
I had said that. Those had been my words when the nanomites and I reset the scene after Cushing’s attack on the FBI office. Yes, the nanomites could do just about anything in the digital world. They could hack, gather and store data, and crack encrypted communications—anywhere and any kind. The nanomites, if properly “handled,” could remake the shape and speed of intelligence gathering. They would own the world’s communications.
It would be a walk in the park for them.
With trepidation, I followed that thread: Information is power.
Supposedly, NSA’s COMINT is concerned only with the communications of foreign entities, but if the nanomites were directed by the wrong hands? The nanomites could topple governments and nations. For that matter, if the nanomites were misused, they would personify Orwell’s dreaded Big Brother and end freedom of thought or expression here in America. In the world.
No. I couldn’t believe that our government would approve of such overarching surveillance. But it wouldn’t need to be “the government,” would it? A single, determined individual in a position of power and with a support network of covert, strategically placed operatives might change the face of America without anyone being the wiser—until it was too late.
I scanned the history of the NSA. I ran the names and photos of the agency’s public face, its director and deputy director, the senate committees charged with oversight of the agency, its past directors—
I froze.
The person to whom Cushing was speaking? My breath caught in my throat as I connected the featureless voice on the other end of Cushing’s call with the name and photo before my eyes.
I stopped what I was doing and concentrated on their conversation.
The caller laid out his next moves and, at each detailed step, Cushing answered with a curt, “Yes, sir.” Given what I now knew, each sentence was an appalling revelation, a thudding blow to my heart. Worse than my nightmares had conjured.
Dr. Bickel, Gamble, and I had theorized about Cushing’s handler or handlers. Dr. Bickel had suggested that they were well-placed and formidable politicians. During his FBI press conference, he’d even stated, “I must make it clear that General Cushing could not have acted alone in this cover-up or on her own authority. She could not have pulled off such an egregious deception of the public’s trust without the political power of individuals high above her.”
When SAC Wallace was interviewing Cushing and Gamble had challenged her, she’d warned them: “Agent Gamble, you have no idea what you have interfered in. This case has authorization at the highest levels. The. Highest. Levels.”
When I’d listened in on t
hat interview, Cushing’s words had alarmed me.
Now I knew why.
“Nano. We need to take a trip. Tonight, if possible.”
A trip? Where are we going, Gemma Keyes?
“You heard the conversation?”
Yes; we have recorded the audio and uploaded it to our library.
“Good. We’re going to need it.”
Again, they asked, Where are we going, Gemma Keyes?
“To Washington, D.C. We need to warn you-know-who.”
It is important to warn him?
“Well, yeah.”
Sometimes the nanomites were worse than clueless. They were obtuse.
In my agitation, I must have moved. Shifted. Shuffled. Cleared my throat? I don’t know which, but Cushing broke off her response to the caller. She clutched the phone with both hands and stared around the room, her eyes startled. Alarmed.
I didn’t breathe. I tried not to move a muscle. Of course, I could still hear everything they said to each other.
“What is it?”
“I heard something.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like someone is here. In the SCIF with me.”
“How could someone be in the SCIF with you? Isn’t it locked?”
“Uh . . . sir, I think she’s here.”
“She who? What—you mean her?”
Cushing nodded, then shook her head and whispered, “Yes. Her.”
“Has she been listening?”
“I-I would assume so. At least to my end.”
“She could know nothing from your side of the conversation.”
“But what if . . . what if she heard your end, too?”
“I doubt it, but even if she did? Well, there’s nothing she can do. I . . .”
He went silent, as though rethinking Cushing’s suggestion. Cushing did not intrude on his pause, although her eyes darted back and forth through the little room, unable to stop looking for me.
The man on the other end came to a decision. “Keep yourself at the ready, General; I’m pushing the schedule ahead.” He outlined the changes, and Cushing answered with her usual, “Yes, sir.”
“Whether she is in the room or not and whether she has heard or not, General, will make no difference. It is too late for her to interfere in any meaningful manner.”
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