Pray for the Innocent

by Alan Orloff

  They took their dishes back to the kitchen, then hooked left, away from the wing where King was bunked. Slattery stopped at a keypad lock, punched in some numbers. A metallic click granted them access, and Slattery opened the door. They entered a long hallway, with rooms branching off the central line, and it seemed more like a school or office building than the hacienda’s cushy living quarters.

  “These are offices and workrooms. A skeleton crew works here, even when no ops are in process.” Slattery drew up next to an elevator and punched in another code, unlocking the elevator. They hopped on, and Slattery pressed the B5 button. The doors whooshed closed, and King felt the elevator’s descent in his lower gut.

  They passed floors B1 through B4. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. “How far down are we going?” King asked.

  “Far enough.”

  The elevator finally stopped, and the doors opened into a cavernous room. They stepped out of the elevator, and King moved to one side, stopping by the wall so he could take it all in. A high ceiling arched over a two-story-high wall composed entirely of video screens. Maps, still pictures, video feeds all created a crazy-quilt mosaic. Two rows of workstations faced the wall in front of a raised platform supporting four black leather swivel chairs. Strangely, only four or five people were working in the room, which clearly could have housed five times as many busy bees.

  “What do you think?” Slattery asked. Without waiting for an answer, he said, in a quieter voice, “I think it’s overkill myself, but this is one of Locraft’s babies, and he pays my freight, so . . .”

  King simply nodded. Surely with all this technology, they could find Amanda.

  A door on the other side of the room opened, and Colonel Locraft came striding through. When he saw King and Slattery lurking by the elevator, he gestured to them. “Come in, come in. Let me show you what we’ve got.” His booming voice reverberated in the open space, turning it into a giant echo chamber. King noticed that none of the technicians at the workstations even glanced up.

  He and Slattery met Locraft on the platform in the center of the room. King was reminded of the bridge of the starship Enterprise, but instead of being in outer space, they were in the bowels of the earth. “Have a seat.”

  Slattery stepped up on the platform, but King hesitated.

  “Come on, Dr. King. Take a load off. These are the best seats in the house,” Locraft said. Judging from the colonel’s huge grin, King knew Slattery was understating how Locraft felt about his baby. He beamed like a proud papa.

  King took his place on the end, next to Slattery, preferring to stay as far away from Locraft as he could. He shrank into his seat, prepared for Locraft to order him to change seats, but the colonel had other things on his mind.

  Showing off, for one. Mine is bigger than yours.

  “Attention up there,” Locraft said, pointing to the massive video wall. All three men swiveled their seats to get a better view. Locraft pulled a tablet out of a slot on the side of his chair and started tapping the screen. As he did, the video screens changed.

  This entire setup reminded King of the FBI control center he fictionalized in Chaos in the US. He’d imagined an enormous central nerve center where FBI agents could monitor every “place of importance” in the country. After that book came out, both Lanny and his editor had gotten visits from the FBI, wanting to know more about King’s research sources. For some reason, they’d never contacted him directly. Probably figured their visit might get written into a future novel.

  Locraft fiddled with his tablet some more. “Okay. Here we go.” A two-story map of DC had coalesced on the wall, the pictures on each of the individual video screens melding into the familiar diamond-shaped city. “Based on all of the input we’ve received and analyzed, this is the current plot of Dragunov’s possible attack points. Those with a calculated higher probability are in red. Those with a medium probability are in yellow, and those less likely are in green.”

  Scores of colored data points were scattered across the map. Some were easy to make out: the White House, the Capitol, the Lincoln Memorial, a variety of spots along the Mall. Others King didn’t have a clue about.

  Locraft hit another button, and a series of red Xs materialized. “These represent the incidents that have already occurred.” In the top right corner, several of the screens had changed to map insets—one was the neighborhood where Connelly had lived, and another was the area around National Cathedral.

  Slattery turned to King. “We have our analysts feeding data to the model. I know we’re trying to apply logical, quantitative techniques to what is ultimately a nonquantitative problem, but it’s the best we can do. Not to say we’re ignoring the other side of the equation—we hope to get something useful from your interviews with Dr. Pandricke. And we’ve incorporated the notes and potential scenarios you were kind enough to furnish us.”

  “What about Amanda? Any leads?”

  Locraft got busy on his tablet. Seven blue triangles popped up on the screens. Four were clustered near the Pentagon. The other three were spread around the city. “Here are the locations of the men running down leads right now. The Pentagon group is at the office, working the phones and contacting sources. The other three are out where the rubber meets the road. We also have two men here, doing analytics, massaging the data. I have to remind you that we don’t have any proof she’s been taken by Dragunov. When we get that proof, we’ll assign more men to the task. A lot more.”

  King nodded. He prayed Amanda was inadvertently jerking them around, that she’d gone on a spontaneous trek in a rain forest somewhere.

  One of the technicians called out over his shoulder. “Colonel, we’ve got a report from the Jefferson Memorial. Thompson says he’s gone over it and couldn’t find anything amiss. No hidden explosives or biological agents or anything out of the ordinary.”

  With his tablet, Locraft manipulated the video screen, and the Jefferson Memorial now took center stage, with its location marked by a yellow circle. Medium threat. Then the image zoomed in until the memorial took up about half the wall. Slowly, the map dissolved and turned into a live video image of Jefferson himself. Illuminated by lights, it looked majestic. Peaceful. Reverential.

  And in perfect high-def. King found himself gawking; the display technology was almost as impressive as the memorial itself. If he were still writing thrillers, he’d be taking notes, figuring how to incorporate all of this gee-whiz stuff into his next book.

  A cell phone rang. It took a moment before King realized the ring tone was coming from his pocket. He pulled his phone out and checked the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number and glanced at Slattery.

  “Yes, we get cell service down here. Dishes on the roof, and we pipe the calls down here the old-fashioned way—copper. Feel free to answer it.”

  King connected the call and put the phone to his ear.

  “Mathias King?” The man’s voice was soft.

  “Yes?”

  “This is . . . you can call me Dragunov. And I think I’ll call you by your real name, Nick Nolan.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  King’s heart hammered. “What? Who is this?” He’d never spoken to the man before, of course, yet he knew for an absolute certainty this was no put-on.

  “You know who I am, don’t you?”

  “Uh, yes. Yes, of course.” With his free hand, King grabbed Slattery’s arm and squeezed. He mouthed, “It’s him. Dragunov.”

  Slattery’s pupils flared, and he mouthed back, “Put it on speaker.” Then he scrambled from his seat and rushed over to a nearby technician at a workstation.

  King fumbled the phone as he looked for the speaker button. He caught the phone before it hit the floor and found the right button. Dragunov’s voice came through, louder and tinnier.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes. I’m here,” King said. “But I’m not Nick Nolan. There is no such person.” Did this guy really think King was the character Nick Nolan? Of course, if Dragu
nov thought he was a fictional character, King guessed it all kind of made sense, in some bizarre fashion.

  “Have it your way,” Dragunov said. “It doesn’t matter what you call yourself. Either way, I have something you might be interested in.”

  Locraft had taken Slattery’s chair and was breathing down King’s neck.

  “What’s that?” King asked, sweat trickling under his arms.

  “Actually, it’s a who.”

  “Amanda? Is she all right?” King’s throat constricted.

  “Yes and yes. So far. I just wanted you to know she was safe and sound. As long as you cooperate, she’ll stay that way.”

  “What do you want?” King asked.

  “I think you know what I want.”

  “What? I have no idea.”

  Off to the side, Slattery and the technician each were whispering into headsets. On the video wall, the maps kept shifting.

  “I want you, of course.”

  “Me? Why?”

  A hesitation. “Because . . . I have . . . You need to . . .”

  King waited for an explanation, but none came. “Okay. Okay. Let Amanda go and I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Another long pause. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “A trade, then. I’ll trade places with her.”

  Silence.

  “Do you want money?”

  “No. Not money. You.”

  Next to him, Locraft started gesturing wildly and shaking his head. King turned away, giving the colonel more of his shoulder. “Let me talk to her.”

  “She’s sleeping. And I wouldn’t want to wake her. She looks so peaceful.”

  “Listen. I think it would be best if—”

  “I’ll call you back tomorrow at noon, with details. Take care, Nick Nolan.” The call ended.

  King looked up from his phone. Everyone was staring at him. Then Locraft jumped to his feet. “Kee-rist Almighty. Did we get him?”

  Slattery hustled back to the command area. “We’re closing in now.” He turned and yelled at the tech. “Put it up on the wall.”

  The maps shifted again, and an image in the center grew, just as it had before, but it stayed in map mode. A blinking red dot moved north. “Is that him?” King asked, to no one in particular.

  “That’s him,” Locraft growled. “We got that sumbitch. Fuckin’ A, we got him!”

  King didn’t know the world of terrorists and espionage, not the real world, but this seemed too easy. Tracing a phone call? Wasn’t that something out of a Mannix show from the seventies? One small part of him was disappointed that a villain he’d created could be trapped so easily. Hubris had always been one of his less appealing traits. But of course, in this case, he didn’t mind his creation fucking up if it meant Amanda’s safe return.

  Locraft barked out orders; everyone manning workstations snapped to attention and made calls and banged their computer keyboards. On the wall, colored blips seemed to change direction and start flowing toward the blinking red dot, as if they were iron filings being drawn to the magnet, who in this case was Dragunov.

  King watched, fascinated. With the exception of the O.J. Simpson white Bronco debacle, he’d never seen a chase unfold before him in real time. For the next five minutes, Locraft orchestrated his people, drawing the noose tighter and tighter around Dragunov’s red dot.

  One of the technicians spun in his chair to face the command area. “We’ve got a visual. From Tommy Wilkes. He’s within twenty yards.”

  “Put it up.”

  A nighttime picture, just like the ones from the TV show Cops, filled the screen. A dark-colored pickup truck was idling at a red light. All of a sudden, three men, guns drawn, approached the vehicle. One guy crept closer to the driver’s seat, while the other two kept him covered.

  He grabbed the door handle, yanked the door open, and wrestled the driver from the cab. He was an old guy, wearing a cowboy hat. Full white beard.

  The excitement drained from the room. “Shit. That’s not Dragunov,” Slattery said, putting into words what everyone else must have been thinking.

  King knew it was too easy.

  On screen, the men searched the pickup, but King couldn’t really make out much detail, not from the dashboard camera transmitting their pictures. A moment later, one of the men entered the frame and pulled out his phone. Three seconds later, a technician said to Locraft, “It’s Wilkes.”

  “Pipe it through,” Locraft said.

  “Colonel, we got Dragunov’s phone. He must have tossed it into this truck bed as it passed by. We’ll interrogate the driver to see if he saw anything, but . . .”

  “Roger, Wilkes.” Locraft made a cutting motion across his throat, and the tech discontinued the call. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK.” He clamped his mouth closed, and the muscles in his jaw rippled beneath the skin.

  “Yes, sir,” Slattery said.

  Locraft turned to King and took a few, quick breaths. “Don’t worry. When that bastard calls again, we’ll be ready for him. And this is good news about your daughter. If he wanted her dead, she’d already be dead. Don’t worry, he won’t hurt her.”

  Despite that assurance, King felt his entire world crashing down on him. Dragunov had Amanda. And who knew what insane things he would do. King tried to latch on to the glimmer of hope offered by Locraft. If Dragunov could be believed—a gigantic, monumental if—then he could trade places with her.

  Fine by him.

  The next hour raced by in spots, dragged in others. Periods were filled with three or four agents relaying information, followed by long spells of silence—only the sound of keyboards under the perpetual-motion fingers of analysts. All trying to get a bead on Dragunov’s location—and Amanda, by extension.

  King spent the entire time praying Dragunov would go through with his deal.

  At around midnight, Slattery returned to his seat next to King and spoke to Locraft. “PAM has been updated.”

  “Excellent,” Locraft said, reaching for his tablet.

  “We’ve loaded it with the latest information, namely the analysis of Dr. King’s interview this afternoon and Dragunov’s phone call and recent approximate locations,” Slattery said.

  King let out an involuntary grunt.

  Locraft glanced up and glared at him. “You don’t think much of my computer program? It’s a tool, Professor King.”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  “PAM has access to all the classified and mission-specific data we compile, in addition to all public databases and information repositories, as well as the internet. Tremendous advances in data storage and parallel computing techniques have allowed us to develop PAM so we can get answers in more or less real time. What might have taken days—or weeks—in the past now takes seconds. And PAM is adaptive. She analyzes all the data she has to come up with her response, but as new information becomes available, she adjusts her analyses accordingly. She’s the ultimate what-if application.”

  King felt nauseated listening to Locraft talk about an application as if it were a person. To screw things up requires a person, to royally screw things up requires a computer. “That’s what you’re worried about, some ridiculous abstraction? How about finding my daughter?” King had endured enough of their bullshit.

  “Why don’t we fire it up? Show Dr. King what PAM is capable of?” He hit a few keys on the tablet, and one corner of the video wall went dark. A moment later, a giant flashing cursor materialized. Locraft typed something on the tablet, and the question appeared in a giant font on the big screen. Will we apprehend Dragunov within the next two weeks? Locraft clicked an “Enter” button right below the text of the question.

  The question was replaced by the answer: 72% affirmative. Locraft translated the obvious for King. “That means, according to our calculations, there is a seventy-two percent chance we will apprehend Dragunov within the next two weeks.”

  Locraft typed something in, and it appeared on-screen as a fully formed question.
Is Dragunov after a ransom?

  18% affirmative.

  Locraft’s fingers tapped out something on the tablet. What does Dragunov want? Rank options.

  A spinning top appeared on-screen for a moment, then it was replaced by PAM’s answer: Hostage trade: 35%, Unknown: 29%, Ransom: 18%, Suicide trap: 15%, Surrender: 3%.

  Who does Dragunov want to trade his hostage for?

  Mathias King. 98% Affirmative.

  King didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was ludicrous, of course, to expect such a precise estimation of something affected so drastically by chance and human factors. It was even sadder to think that these men, these highly placed officials in the US government, believed in their little Magic 8 Ball toy.

  “Would you like to try, Dr. King?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. I’ll switch to voice recognition mode.” He hit a few buttons. “Now, just speak normally. We’ve been working on PAM a lot longer than Apple worked on Siri. She’s quite remarkable, really. For a bunch of silicon chips, anyway.”

  King took a few deep breaths, not sure what he thought would be gained by playing along. Maybe it was like horoscopes or fortune cookies. If you got a prediction you liked, you believed it. If not, it was all poppycock. He enunciated his words carefully. “If I trade places with Amanda and become Dragunov’s hostage, will she be okay?”

  PAM flashed her answer on the video screen quickly. 84% affirmative.

  King relaxed, just a hair. Eighty-four percent was pretty good odds. Considering. “What about me? If I trade places with Amanda, will I remain unharmed?”

  33% affirmative.

  Locraft spoke up. “Under that scenario, how many more people will die before Dragunov is captured?”

  Range 9 – 47, to a 73% confidence level.

  Locraft’s features tightened.

  “That’s a pretty wide range,” King said, glancing at Locraft. He wondered if PAM counted him as one of the nine to forty-seven casualties. Locraft opened his mouth to ask a question, but King forged ahead. “What happens if we don’t trade places, if Amanda remains Dragunov’s hostage?”