Project Maigo

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Can anyone tell me why the China room color theme is red?” Mindy asks.

  A little girl raises her hand, eager. “Cause it’s pretty?”

  “Good guess,” Mindy says.

  Consumed by boredom, I open my mouth. “It matches First Lady Grace Coolidge’s dress. The one in her portrait.”

  All heads turn toward me. Mindy looks impressed. Endo, who’s disguised as an aging college professor, complete with a tweed jacket, bland slacks and streaks of gray in his hair, stares at me indifferently. He’s trying not to show any kind of reaction to me at all, but his lack of outward reaction means he’s trying to hide his true reaction, which is probably annoyance. I shouldn’t have spoken at all.

  “That’s...right,” Mindy says. “Not many people know that.”

  Not many people have toured the White House four times this week, I think. I’m disguised as a middle-aged man with nothing better to do than tour Washington, D.C. solo. I’ve got a fake pot belly beneath my God-awful sweater. A thick gray mustache that looks eerily similar to Woodstock’s, matches my messy head of gray hair. I wasn’t sure I could stand a wig, but it fits like my beanie cap, so I’ve barely noticed it.

  “And do you know who else is in that portrait?” Mindy asks. She’s got a slight edge to her voice, like I’ve challenged her historical authority and it’s now time for a trivia smackdown.

  I know the answer. It’s Rob Roy, her dog. But getting into a mental showdown with Mindy isn’t going to help my cover. We’ve already been in this room a minute longer than usual, and the Secret Service tends to notice things like that. “Uhh, Roy Rogers. Her cat.”

  Mindy snickers. “Close. It was her dog, Rob Roy.”

  “Riiight,” I say. “I ate at Roy Rogers last night.”

  Satisfied with her trivial dominance, Mindy waves the tour to follow her out of the room and into the hall, where we’ll turn into the Vermeil Room and learn all about the collection of silver-gilded boredom. As we enter the hallway, I notice that Endo is hanging back a bit, waiting for me, no doubt about to give me a whispered rebuke.

  We come shoulder to shoulder, casually, looking in different directions. When we bump, we turn to each other, like we’re apologizing.

  “I know,” I start, “I shouldn’t have—”

  “We’ve been made,” he says.

  “Because I spoke?” This is a ridiculous idea. My mustache fluffs outward as I blow between my teeth, which is how today’s character laughs.

  “Before that,” he says. “I don’t know what tipped them off, but if we don’t get out now, we’re going to—”

  A pair of hands land on our shoulders. “You’re going to what?”

  We turn to find a pair of Secret Service agents staring at us. These guys look like a sense of humor was beat out of them in the womb. They’re relaxed, though, and haven’t drawn their weapons. Endo and I went through security. They know we’re not armed. Doesn’t mean we couldn’t put up a fight, I guess. That’s when I notice the army of black suits acting casual, but keeping an eye on the situation.

  The taller of the two men, whose crow’s feet and confident glare mark him as the man in charge, gives us a subtle grin. “Gentlemen, my name is Agent Dunne.”

  “What seems to be the problem?” Endo asks in a scholarly British accent.

  “The problem,” says the taller of the two agents, “is this mustache.” He takes hold of my phony facial hair and yanks. It tears away from my face, bikini waxing my upper lip in the process.

  My hands slap over my mouth. “Oww!”

  Dunne turns to Endo. “And your gray hair is running.”

  I glance at Endo, and sure enough, a drip of white is sliding down his cheek.

  “So, Director Hudson, I would appreciate it if you’d come with me.”

  I stand rooted in place. The surprise on my face must be obvious, because Dunne says, “We ID’d you on your way in today. Mr. Endo was harder because he’s not a government employee, but we’re aware of his presidential order to work with you.”

  I glance back at the tour, moving off down the hall. Mindy was never this interesting, but I very much preferred her peppy presence to the cold, knowledgeable stare of this agent.

  “Look,” Dunne says, a crack in his calm demeanor showing as his eyebrows descend, “I haven’t tased, cuffed or kicked you shitless out of professional courtesy. But I don’t care if you’re the damn Speaker of the House. If you are here, in this house, covertly, you are my bitch. Understood? You will come without incident, right now, or your day is going to get fugly in a hurry.”

  I grin. I respect a man who can curse creatively. I’m also glad he didn’t outright ask if we were here because of a Kaiju-related danger. I wouldn’t have enjoyed lying to him. Though he’s bound to ask—if he gets a chance, that is.

  “Lead the way.”

  We’re watched by a cadre of hawk-like Secret Service agents, but they stay cool, maintaining their posts. They know who we are, that the government that pays their bills pays mine, and the company that pays the President is represented by Endo. We’re just not supposed to be here. Sure, maybe hacking the guest registry is a federal crime, but that was Watson, not me.

  After a two minute silent stroll, we reach the West Wing, which is the business end of the White House, where the Oval Office is located. I’ve never been here before, though I’m familiar with the layout, and not just from watching the TV show The West Wing. We studied schematics of the President’s home, just in case things got hairy while we were visiting. But the functions of many of the rooms on this side of the building are classified, especially those below the West Wing, which is where we’re headed. We take the stairs down to the second floor. The only two rooms I even know exist down here are the Situation Room and the Navy Mess, which is actually quite proper looking. Despite the covert nature of the rooms we pass, they’re all quite resplendent—all dark, stained, hard wood, polished to pristine perfection. Paintings hang on the walls. Fresh flowers here and there. The rug beneath our feet feels cushy and new. It’s like a 1950s gentlemen’s club, without the cigarette smoke.

  Dunne stops by a door and slides his keycard through a lock. The indicator light turns green, and Dunne opens the door.

  More stairs. Leading down. Now this is new to me. After our previous tours of the White House, you’d have thought we’d seen everything, or at least the occasional glimpse of what went on behind the scenes. But there’s not even a hint that something less than regal might exist in or around the building. As I step down the concrete utilitarian stairs, I feel like I’ve stepped into a different world. A dark, scary cave hidden beneath the enchanted forest. The door at the bottom of the stairs is opened for us. We’re expected.

  “Keep going,” Dunne says, when I slow down.

  The hallway beyond is mostly white and devoid of decoration. We’re led past several closed doors, which I suspect house the White House’s security elements. This is where the Secret Service does the dirty work. Monitoring visitors. Running background checks. Detaining—perhaps interrogating—people who aren’t supposed to be here. Like us.

  My suspicions are confirmed when we’re led into a classic interrogation room. One desk. Two chairs. A mirrored wall. I motion to the desk and raise an eyebrow at Dunne. “Really?”

  “Protocol,” Dunne says, reaching out his hands. “Going to need your phones.”

  Before handing my phone over, I say, “I have the President on speed dial. I could—”

  “Last I heard,” Dunne said, “President Beck had put you on the ‘do not answer’ list.”

  “He’s just upset that I didn’t put out last time he bought me dinner.”

  I’m relieved some when Dunne cracks a smile. It also makes me feel bad for what’s coming next.

  Dunne takes my phone, makes sure it’s shut off and turns to Endo, who already has his phone held out. As Dunne begins to take the phone, Endo drops it. Dunne reaches out to catch it, reacting instinctually. As the agent
dips forward, Endo slaps his wrist—and the watch that isn’t a watch—against the man’s head, stabbing the neural implant into Dunne’s temple. The small device, once attached, takes on the color of the victim’s skin, making it invisible to anyone that isn’t up close and personal.

  Endo holds out his hand. Dunne gives him the caught phone.

  “Come inside and close the door,” Endo says, the transmitter embedded in his skull allowing him to control anyone wearing the implant. Dunne dutifully obeys.

  “Is there anyone in the room next door?” Endo asks, glancing at the two way mirror.

  “Shouldn’t be.”

  Endo pulls out a chair and sits down like he owns the place. He crosses one leg over the other, smiles and says, “Good. Now here’s what I need you to do.”

  33

  Water dripped from General Lance Gordon’s heavy eyebrows, temporarily obscuring his vision as he slipped his head up out of the Potomac River. He could see the Washington Monument rising out of the National Mall like a beacon. It wasn’t just the tallest structure in Washington, D.C.; at 555 feet it was the tallest obelisk in the world. Although he couldn’t see it, he knew the White House and President Beck would be a straight shot north.

  He had spent the previous two nights inside the mouth of his smallest child. Under his guidance, the pair slipped slowly upriver, until they were within striking distance. His other children waited in the deeper water of Chesapeake Bay, clinging to the bottom. The bay, at its deepest, was 208 feet down. As soon as the children stood up, they’d be revealed.

  And that was the plan. Create an unavoidable threat to which all military units would respond. In the chaos that followed, he would move in quickly, before Beck could evacuate, and then...he’d kill two birds with one stone. Or one fist as the case may be.

  He knew Hudson was here as well. He didn’t understand how, but he knew. He could sense the man’s presence. At first, he believed his plan would be undone. But neither Hudson nor Beck had left the area, a fact he’d confirmed the previous night when he’d done some recon. He found moving across the city’s dark rooftops quite easy, and with his new found strength, speed and agility, he’d had no trouble avoiding detection from the local population or from the Secret Service. He could have killed Beck in his sleep, but then Hudson would have fled.

  Better to let two targets become one, he had decided. And when the two men he loathed most were dead, his vengeance wouldn’t be complete, it would have only just begun. He was drawn to these men on a personal level, the way Maigo’s personality drew Nemesis toward Alexander Tilley. But when they were dead, he would focus his attention on the rest of the world. He could feel their corruption. It screamed at him, in his Nemesis heart. The world was begging to be purified through violence.

  He would start with Washington, D.C., a city he knew to be corrupt to its core, despite the lofty promises and plastic smiles. Then he would move south. To Fort Bragg, his one-time home and the location of the only fighting force on Earth he believed posed a threat. And once they were out of the way...

  Gordon smiled. He’d always wanted to see the country, state by state. But now he wasn’t just going to see the country, he was going to reshape it. He was going to remake the world, measuring his progress in tons of ash and blood.

  But first, he had to wait for darkness to return again. Then he would light up the night.

  34

  Our sixth tour through the White House is a little different from the previous five. The most noticeable difference is the absence of Mindy. I can’t picture Agent Dunne as a jabberjaw know-it-all, but with the neural implant embedded in his temple, he’s like a sedated introvert. This concerns me at first because he’s just silently leading the way. But no one gives him a second look. I wouldn’t be surprised if part of his job description is silently escorting visitors through the halls. The one agent that does look our way simply glances at Endo and me, and then nods at Dunne. All in all, it’s a short walk back to the stairs, up one flight and down the hall toward the most famous office in the world.

  “Let’s avoid the secretary,” Endo says, his voice quiet, but easily heard by Dunne. While he can hear Endo’s voice, he’s also influenced by Endo’s will. I want to apologize to the man. He’s just doing his job. But it’s led to a violation of his freedom. I remember what if felt like to have no control, and Endo just had me sit down. Dunne is breaking every Secret Service rule, oath and precaution. For all he knows, we are here to kill Beck and he’s helping.

  “This way,” Dunne says, motioning for us to follow through the wide corridor separating the Oval Office and the Roosevelt Room. We slip through a door and into the less formal West Wing, where several offices are located, including the Vice President’s and the Chief of Staff’s. Conversations leak out of open doorways. A set of fingers type too hard on a computer keyboard. Distant laughter. The West Wing is busy, though the hall is empty.

  Just as I am sure we are going to be caught, Dunne opens a door to our left and motions us through. We enter a small dining room, elegantly decorated, but also functional. This is where the President eats his less prestigious meals between writing speeches, working on policy and making shitastic decisions that put me and the people I care about—not to mention millions of Americans—in danger.

  But not today.

  Today he’ll get the chance to do the right thing.

  Or not.

  The outcome will be the same, either way.

  I’m surprised when Dunne opens another door and motions us through, this time with a polite smile and a nod.

  “Laying it on a little thick,” I whisper to Endo. “When this is done, he’s going to hunt you down.”

  “I’m no longer controlling him,” Endo says.

  On the inside, I’m thinking something close to, whhhaaaaa? But I manage to ask a slightly more intelligent question. “But...how?”

  Dunne walks past us, through the study, which I’ve barely noticed. He pauses at a second door, listening.

  “His memory of today’s events are...skewed,” Endo says. “He is simply doing his job.”

  “You didn’t...” I point to my head, wiggling my finger.

  He nods. “Subtle changes. In his mind, we’ll always be good guys. Don’t worry, it takes more time and focus to alter a mind permanently than it does to make someone sit in a puddle. You’re still you.”

  The memory makes me frown. “That was a really dirty puddle.”

  “Sorry,” Endo says, wearing a smile that says he’s not.

  I look to Dunne and decide to test Endo’s claim. “What’s the hold up?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Dunne says. “President Beck is speaking to someone. Since your meeting is private and unscheduled, I believed it best to wait.”

  Well holy guacamole, it worked.

  “How?” I ask Endo. “You should have told me about this sooner.”

  Endo must know I’m right, but he’s not apologetic. “Keep your thoughts simple. A key phrase that encompasses everything you want, works best. Think it over and over until it becomes their thought. Their belief.”

  “Their reality,” I say.

  “Exactly. The more complex the control, the longer it takes.”

  The sound of a distant door closing catches my attention. Dunne turns around, oblivious to our conversation. “Sounds like the room is clear. Let me take a look.”

  Without knocking, Dunne opens the door to the Oval Office.

  “Agent Dunne?” It’s Beck. He’s confused by the sudden interruption. I detect a trace of fear as well, probably because the Secret Service would only enter the room unannounced if there was some kind of danger.

  Dunne ignores the leader of the free world and waves us in, “You guys are clear.”

  Walking past Dunne’s open arms and big smile is surreal. This is the guy who wanted to kick me shitless and fugly. Now he’s like my Aunt Gertrude at Thanksgiving. These neural implants are dangerous. So much so that I’m rethinking our plan.
<
br />   “What’s going on?” Beck stands behind the Resolute desk. He’s dressed in black slacks and a blue button-up shirt. His jacket hangs over the back of the desk chair. His red tie is loose. He wasn’t expecting company. He’s more angry than afraid now, glaring at Endo and then at me with his piercing light blue eyes that can look both intimidating and manic. “Hudson, I’m going to have your job for this.”

  I nearly smile at the way his double chin—the chubbiest part of the man’s body—jiggles when he speaks. “You could probably do a lot worse than that.”

  “You’re damn right!” He picks up the phone. “You’re in the shitter too, Dunne.”

  Oblivious, Dunne responds, “I’ll just wait outside.” He steps back into the side office and closes the door.

  “Before you call...” Endo starts, making himself comfortable in one of the two flower print couches positioned face-to-face in front of the large, ornately carved desk. The office itself is far gaudier than I would have imagined. The gold and white oval rug covering most of the floor is some kind of modern design that looks more like an 8-bit Mario got sick. To make it worse, red flowers cover the design like explosions, or blood. Next to Gordon and his Kaiju, it’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen. The paintings around the room are equally bad, framed in gold. “…I believe you will want to hear us out. My employer would agree.”

  The phone hovers next to Beck’s ear, but he doesn’t dial.

  “You’ve been ignoring your supporters,” Endo says. He nods at me. “And those who have saved you in the past. That is rude, don’t you think?”

  “Look,” Beck says, leaning forward, one hand on the desk, the other hanging up the phone. “I’m not some stooge you can just tell what to do. Irregardless of your employer’s support, I need to do what is best for this country.”

  I raise an index finger. “First, did you really just say, ‘irregardless?’ And second, since when is letting giant monsters kill U.S. citizens and smash billions worth in property, what is ‘best for this country?’”