by Sean Ellis
“I could have told you that.” She tried to remember if she actually had told him. When she had last seen him, in Nepal, just before going under the mountain in pursuit of Walter Aimes, she had known about the Trinity’s awesome destructive potential, but Carlson had only been interested in bringing her back into the fold, using her unique precognitive ability to make her into the perfect spy…or assassin. Evidently, over the course of the last few months, the Trinity had moved up on everyone’s list of priorities.
“Yeah, well to tell you the truth, I’m not exactly in the loop on any of this.”
“Ah, so that’s why you’re being so nice.”
They arrived at the gate leading away from the flight line and Carlson waited until they were through before resuming. “I’ve been briefed on the Trinity but I’m betting you know a whole lot more about it than anyone is willing to tell me.”
She shrugged. “Ask away.”
He glanced over at her. “What is it?”
She let out a low whistle. “Better ask something else.”
“Look, I get that it’s…what do you want to call it? Supernatural? You don’t need to explain all that to me. This might come as a surprise, but you aren’t the only person in the Agency with extra-normal abilities.”
That actually did come as a surprise, but only because she’d never really stopped to think about it. As she pondered how to answer his question, she discovered that she had one of her own. “You said you looked for me, in Nepal. Did you, ah, find anyone else?”
“Your boyfriend? The cop? Yeah, we found him.”
On some intuitive level, she had already figured that much out. Atlas had found her on the mountain, but not the Trinity. He had only acquired it later, when his mercenaries had stolen it from Los Alamos, so, obviously, Carlson had found DiLorenzo, because the United States government had taken possession of the relic. “And was he…?”
“He’s okay now. Had a little frostbite and some…psychological trauma, but we sent him back home a couple months ago with a clean bill of health.”
She closed her eyes, savoring the sense of relief that accompanied that news. Uncertainty about whether DiLorenzo had survived, and guilt at having abandoned him, had gnawed at her throughout her captivity. Now that the burden was gone, she was surprised at the other emotions that flooded through her: fond memories of his attempts to charm her; the stirrings of desire, too long suppressed; the pain of watching her first love, Curtis Lancet, murdered by Marquand Atlas, vaporized by a blast of energy from the Trinity
She shook her head, trying to push those feelings back into the dark corner where they’d lain dormant for so long. “He must have told you about it. What we saw, and what Aimes tried to do with it?”
Carlson nodded slowly. “I’d still like to get your take on it, though. I mean, what are we dealing with? Magic? Alien technology?”
Is there a difference? She didn’t articulate the thought, but it was true enough. Where was the line drawn? She had once seen a vision of the world before man, or rather, a world where the earliest Homo sapiens possessed extraordinary psychic powers—and were in almost every other way, unrecognizable as human. Then a strange figure—in her implanted memories, he was called the Wise Father—had appeared in the world, not to interact with this strange human society, but instead to lift up the outcasts—those who, through random genetic mutations, had been psychically weak. The Wise Father had given those outcasts the Trinity, three ring-shaped devices that were in fact made up of nano-machines—microscopically small robots. Definitely technology, a technology as advanced beyond human understanding as the smart phone was beyond a string between two tin cans, but still rooted in principles that could be understood and explained.
And yet, to say that the Trinity was a sophisticated computer was the grossest kind of understatement.
She explained this to Carlson as patiently and thoroughly as she could, but when she had finished, she knew that she had done nothing more than articulate her own ignorance. She realized something else, too. She was sick to death of the Trinity and everything it represented. It had taken too much from her, and now that it was back in safe hands—relatively speaking, she supposed—she wanted nothing more to do with it.
Right, like that’ll happen.
“So what’s going on with this SEAL commander?” he asked.
She shook her head; another question she couldn’t answer.
“I mean…what? He touches this thing, and suddenly he’s Superman? Or maybe, I should say Moses. Is he really claiming to have a message from God? For the president? What’s that about?”
That had been bothering her as well. The Trinity wasn’t a holy relic, but a device—an artifact of technology; it could be connected to religious beliefs in only the most oblique way, and that meant that either Collier was receiving a broadcast on another channel, or he was delusional. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I don’t want to guess,” he said, his voice edging into a sneer. “I want to know. I want intel from the person who was right there when it all went down.”
There it is, she thought. Well, I knew this was coming. “So is that what you want, Jack? You want me to spy on Collier’s meeting with the president?”
“There isn’t going to be a meeting with the president. This guy—Collier—is a highly decorated naval officer; he knows how D.C. works and he sure as hell knows that nobody just strolls into the Oval Office for a chat.”
“What do you want from me, then?”
“Find out what his divine revelation is. And make sure he doesn’t do something stupid.” Carlson took a breath. “Look, this should make you happy. It’s not like I’m sending you on a field assignment. You’re already chummy with the SEALs; all you have to do is keep me posted.”
“Okay, Jack, you win.” Mira gave a sigh of frustration, but it was more to maintain the pretense that her compliance was under protest. She was getting off easy. “I’ll be your spy. Just remember, we’re all on the same side.”
“Ha! Don’t you believe that for a second.”
20.
Mira was already awake, lounging in a magnificently soft, queen-sized feather bed, when the door to her room began to rattle with an insistent knocking. The fact that she wasn’t shocked out of a deep slumber didn’t make the noisy intrusion any less irritating. She growled, cursed, tried to block out the sound with pillows, but the assault continued for a full minute. When it finally stopped, she sat up and began looking around for a clock.
“Should have hung the do-not-disturb sign,” she muttered, swinging her legs around and planting her feet on the floor. Her toes curled on contact with the plush pile carpet; even the floor coverings were a treat for the senses.
With Uncle Sam footing the bill, she had decided to book a room at the Ritz-Carlton, in Foggy Bottom just a few blocks away from the White House, and she couldn’t recall having ever experienced such luxury. She had decided to take Carlson’s advice, and had soaked in a hot bath until her fingertips were pink and pruney. Then, she had ordered an hour-long massage, and a veritable banquet from room service to be delivered when the rub down was finished. The masseuse had been young, muscular, and very good looking, and her intuition told her that his flirtatious banter was more than just an effort to coax a bigger gratuity from her, but as gratifying as his advances were, she was surprised to discover that she felt no attraction to him whatsoever. Instead, she found herself wishing that he was someone else—someone like Curtis or DiLorenzo, or even Booker. In the end, he got a nice tip but nothing more.
After a meal of mostly seafood, which she started craving as soon as she saw the menu, washed down with a bottle of late harvest Willamette Valley White Riesling, she was properly drowsy and settled into the cloud-soft bed for what she hoped would be a good night’s sleep.
Remarkably, she had slept well. If there had been dreams, she did not remember them upon waking. And, when she had drifted into semi-consciousness, there had been no sense of disloca
tion. She had known exactly where she was, and she had been content to simply lie there in a state of restful wakefulness, without any of the dark forebodings that had plagued her for so long.
Then the damned knocking had started.
She stood and was just about to shrug into one of marvelous guest bathrobes when the door swung open.
Her reaction was almost instinctive. Though she sensed no danger whatsoever, her reflexes took over and she dove for cover, partly to conceal her nakedness and partly to find a place of concealment, just in case the intruder was someone with a darker purpose than merely dropping off fresh towels. As she dropped behind the bed, she caught the barest glimpse of the unwelcome visitor.
It wasn’t a housekeeper.
“Booker!” She raised her head a few inches above the mattress, verifying that she had indeed seen what she thought she had seen. “What the hell?”
The handsome SEAL gazed back at her with a faintly bemused expression. “Oh, sorry. The door was unlocked so I thought—”
“Like hell it was.” Her earlier panicked reaction was quickly becoming raw anger. “What are you doing here? No, you know what? I don’t care. Just get out.”
He didn’t budge. “You were supposed to call.”
“Out!”
He shrugged, but instead of backing out of the room, he turned around. “Get dressed. We’re burning daylight.”
She stared at the back of his head as if she might bore through him with her gaze. “Are you deaf?”
“We’re going to the White House.”
That extinguished her rage like a bucket of ice water. She stood and pulled on the robe. “You can turn around. What’s this about the White House?”
“Captain Collier’s waiting downstairs.” Booker turned and she saw a tension in his extremities like a coiled spring about to snap. “He’s got something to tell the president and he wants us there.”
Mira recalled her earlier conversation with Carlson. “Does he have an appointment?”
“He says it’s taken care of. All I really know is that he told me to find you.”
Her brows came together in a frown. When Carlson had told her not to let Collier do something stupid, she figured her boss meant to keep him away from the news media. She glanced at one of the bedside chairs where her blue and gold Navy physical fitness uniform sat neatly folded. “I can’t go to the White House. I don’t have anything to wear.”
“You look fine just the way you are.” He smiled mischievously, but only for a few seconds. “Just put something on. It doesn’t matter how you look.”
It did not escape her notice that Booker wasn’t exactly dressed for an audience with the Commander-in-Chief either; he wore blue jeans, a gray T-shirt, a black leather jacket, and motorcycle boots.
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, but then gestured for him to turn around again. Clearly, there was no reasoning with Booker, but maybe she’d have better luck with Collier.
The SEAL captain was waiting for them in the lobby, and like his subordinate, wore casual civilian attire—a dark blue polo shirt and khaki Dockers. Unlike Booker, Collier seemed completely serene as he greeted Mira with a nod. “Good, you’re ready. Let’s go.”
“Actually, I was hoping we could talk about this a little?”
“We can talk and walk.” Collier immediately started for exit as if the problem was solved, and Mira almost had to jog to catch up to him. In a matter of just a few seconds, they were outside on the sidewalk that bordered 22nd street. Mira expected him to call for a cab, or perhaps head for the adjacent parking garage, but instead the two men—Collier leading and Booker right behind him, began striding south. Both Collier and Booker took long, urgent strides, and it was all she could do to match their pace.
No time for subtlety. “What are you going to tell the president?”
He kept walking, but turned his head to look at her. “You are aware of the truth…the Ascendant Ones and the Wise Father…can’t you figure it out?”
Mira found no reassurance in that. Collier had originally attributed his message to God and that detail was just enough to make her wonder if Collier’s version of the truth and hers were substantively different.
They crossed the asterisk-shaped intersection of New Hampshire, L Street and 22nd, and continued south, past a long row of red brick brownstone residences. The street might have been an upscale neighborhood in any modern city. It was hard to believe that they were in the seat of power for the free world, and that these were the homes of the people who controlled the destiny of the nation—lawmakers, lawyers and lobbyists. One block ahead lay the infamous K Street, which had become synonymous with lobbying firms and political power brokering, and just beyond that, radiating out at an angle from Washington Circle Park, like a spoke on a wheel, was Pennsylvania Avenue. Collier executed a militarily precise half-turn and headed southeast along that renowned thoroughfare. He never broke stride, and somehow—Mira didn’t think it was just luck or coincidence—the traffic lights were all in their favor.
“So…the White House.” Mira was starting to feel a little panicked. “You can’t seriously expect me to show up at the White House dressed like this?”
Another sidelong glance. “Trust me, no one will notice you.”
“Wow, you know exactly what to say to make a girl feel special.”
Nothing. Not even a hint of a smile.
Pennsylvania Avenue was clogged with early morning traffic, but in every other way it seemed unremarkable—a busy urban street in Anytown, USA—with taxis and commuter vehicles and city buses creeping relentlessly through a maze of concrete and glass. There were no skyscrapers here, not like in New York, just squat, blocky office buildings, the tallest no more than ten stories. Mira scanned some of the storefronts facing the street, desperate for anything that might help her derail the runaway train that was Collier’s mission.
She turned to Booker. “Hey, is there a Starbucks around here? I need my coffee.”
The younger SEAL just shrugged.
The next few blocks passed too quickly as Mira tried to come up with something—anything—to slow Collier’s relentless progress, but then, with almost no warning, they arrived at a section of the avenue closed to vehicle traffic by two rows of vertical posts. A police car was positioned in front of the barricade, but the officer behind the wheel didn’t even glance their way as they strolled past, along with a flow of early morning tourists and other pedestrians. A few seconds later, she got her first look at the White House, looking almost exactly as it did on the back of a twenty dollar bill.
The North Lawn was cordoned off by a tall wrought iron palisade, but there were gated entry points that could be opened to permit vehicle access if needed. Collier approached one of these with the confidence and familiarity of someone who traveled this route on a daily basis.
Mira held her breath in anticipation of the expected confrontation with the gatekeepers. So much for not being a prisoner anymore.
The uniformed park service police officers simply opened the gate and stepped aside to let them pass.
What the hell?
Collier headed down the broad drive that curled around the North Lawn Fountain, passing several more uniformed police, as well as several small knots of men and women in professional attire and a gaggle of journalists poised behind video cameras on tripods. Everyone seemed completely oblivious to the trespassers.
He’s doing this with the Trinity…cloaking us somehow. A second realization followed almost immediately: if Collier’s intentions were anything but honorable, she would be alone in trying to stop him.
A single sentry—a U.S. Marine in full dress uniform—stood at the double doors leading into the West Wing, and as they approached, he executed a smart half-turn and opened the door to admit them.
They moved through a veritable maze of hallways and reception rooms. Mira wasn’t paying attention to their route, she was focused solely on Collier. They passed through a cramped corridor, barely wi
de enough to permit them to walk single-file, and then turned right, past a cluttered desk where a young man worked busily at a computer keyboard, and entered the Oval Office.
The room was crowded with people, but the low murmur of conversation died as soon as Collier entered. The Cabinet secretaries, military officers, and assorted department chiefs—Mira spied her own ultimate boss, the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency—all became as still as clothing store mannequins. Only one face turned to greet them, the face of the person sitting behind the ornately carved Resolute Desk.
“Please forgive the intrusion,” Collier said. “But it is very urgent that I speak with you, Madame President.”
21.
Mira felt like a spectator, as if the scene playing out before her was some kind of bizarre dinner theatre. But then, the president’s eyes met her own for just a brief instant, and she knew that whatever happened next, she was part of the show.
To her credit, the woman who had been elected President of the United States appeared flustered for only a moment, before easing back in her chair, her hands folded on her lap. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I promise you, this was a very bad idea.”
“No kidding,” Mira murmured.
“Ma’am, I’m Eric Collier. I led the mission to retrieve artifact NLAL 770.”
The president cocked her head at the mention. “Captain Collier? Yes, I know who you are. I’m told that you have refused to surrender the artifact to the representative from Los Alamos.”
“It’s safer with me.”
The president frowned but let the matter drop. Her gaze switched to Mira. “And you must be Mira Raiden?”
Mira nodded dumbly, but Collier resumed speaking. “Again, ma’am, I apologize for interrupting your daily briefing, but I think we both know that there was no way this meeting would ever happen if I tried to go through conventional channels.”