by E. R. Mason
Markman rattled open the worn, brown wooden door to Chief Wandell's office, and tapped on the smudged glass window to get his attention. The Chief sat shuffling through a pile of documents on his desk, a stack that seemed too large for a single man to tackle. "You asked me to come in, Chief?"
"Markman, yeah, come on in. Take a seat. God, anything to get away from this hazardous materials stuff. What crap. You know we got written-up for throwing empty whiteout containers in the trash? This shit's getting ridiculous!"
Markman closed the rickety door and took a seat in front of the wide, gray metal desk. He sat back, pushed his shoulder-length, brownish-blond hair aside and tugged at the collar of his black, turtleneck. His brown corduroy sports jacket slipped open as he leaned back.
"Hey, that was damn incredible, that thing bringin' the kid out, eh?" said the Chief.
"Very incredible."
"We could use a few dozen of those things around here. How'd Cassell ever come across it anyway?"
"It's a long story. He had a friend at the TEL corporation. Some kind of informal lease arrangement was made. When the company was destroyed, it gave him legal ownership. He's really uptight about it, though. Keeps worrying that someday the government will show up claiming it in the name of national security, but nothing like that has happened yet."
"Well, I for one hope it doesn't. That thing could save our asses again someday. I'll remember to forget I ever saw it."
Markman nodded. "It's one of the reasons the old man hates publicity so much. He's afraid the wrong bureaucrat will notice."
Wandell tugged at his golf club tie until it was pulled further away from the collar of his wrinkled blue dress shirt. Sweat lines had formed around the upper arms. He leaned back in his noisy swivel chair and tapped an eraser-tipped pencil on his desk. "So anyway, the reason I called you, I think it's about the lady you found in the lake. I just got a call from Ann Rogers. Remember her?"
"You mean the ice-maiden who performed the Spanish inquisition on me the last time she was here?"
Wandell stifled a laugh. "She must've enjoyed it, she asked about you."
"Why was she asking about me?"
"She wouldn't say, exactly. Easy to guess though, isn't it? When we ran our Jane Doe through the system for ID, it must've rung their bells. They've gotta be working on something to do with her."
"The Feds wouldn’t want anything from me. I’m a civilian."
Wandell leaned forward over his desk as far as his over inflated stomach would allow. He pitched a small piece of white paper with an address on it across the desktop at Markman.
"It gets stranger. They're sending a rep over to talk to me, and they want you to meet them at that address.”
"Me? I don't get it."
"Beats me. Strictly clandestine stuff. You know the Feds. The secrecy of their work prevents them from knowing what they're doing."
Markman studied the Chiefs poorly written directions as he rose to leave. The address was for the First Federal Bank Building on Main Street, the fifth floor. It was an unsettling request. He opened the office door and started out.
"Scott, by the way, there’s an officer out there waiting to come in. Would you ask him to come in? God, sometimes I hate this job."
"You mean the guy that looked kind of nervous as I was coming in?"
The Chief nodded and waved at the question in a gesture of frustration. "He went in the doughnut shop and left his cruiser running. Some kids from a street gang hopped in and took it for a joyride."
"Oh man, did you get it back?"
"Oh yeah, sure, we found it parked in the fountain over at Church Street Station. They cracked the windows just enough so that the damned thing filled with water."
“You're kidding?"
"Hell no! The brazen little bastards even hung around long enough to catch some goldfish and put them in it! Makes us look like real pros, don't it?"
Markman winced and backed out the door, resisting an insensitive smile. As he crossed through the densely populated maze of cluttered desktops, he spotted the patrolman in question.
"Hey, the Chief asked me to tell you to go ahead in."
The young, uniformed officer stopped sifting through papers and looked up with a strained expression.
"Damn kids."
Late afternoon shadows cast moody designs on the dusty, wind-blown streets of the city, as Markman eased his foot back from the accelerator, keeping his journey to the First Federal Building almost within the posted limits. The slick, black Mustang Five-0 was overpowered by design, because the edge, any edge, was a thing Markman had always had a taste for, a passion that he knew someday might get him killed. Scott Markman was a creature of paradox, raised in a contradictory environment. His isolated upbringing in the mountains of Tibet had somehow failed to prejudice him against modern society and its elaborate toys. As a racing fan, he had taken to the Daytona Speedway like an unchaperoned child in a candy store and was somewhat notorious for his insistence that the Tao existed beyond one hundred and thirty miles per hour.
It was quitting time for the nine-to-five crowd when Markman arrived at his destination. Through the revolving glass doors came men with pale skin and receding hairlines, and professional women with the look of steel in their eyes. They were citizens from a world within a world, a city within a city, where fluorescence took the place of sunlight, and desktop terrain bore more fearful dangers than those in the real world jungle.
Markman made his way against the flow to the elevator doors, where an executive-type waited as the overhead numbers counted down. The man glanced briefly and coldly at Markman in the manner upper corporate executives usually do, and then tried to pretend he was alone. When the doors opened, they stepped in together, the executive nearer the controls.
“Would you hit five for me?" asked Markman.
"Actually you want ten, Mr. Markman," replied the man and he smiled. "Ann is waiting for us there. My name's Hall, I'm an associate. Sorry for the melodramatic introduction, but I think you'll understand shortly."
"What's this all about?"
Agent Hall assumed a practiced smile and waited in silence until the car had stopped. "Ah, we've arrived. Let's go in. Ann will explain everything."
The thirtyish, very fit agent led Markman down a wide, carpeted hallway and through an open door into a plain, moderately sized meeting room. Ann Rogers sat at the end of a long briefing table near a video machine and monitor screen. Her light brown hair was artfully wrapped up in a swirl and lines of early middle age in her face were made slightly more apparent by the bright room light. She smiled and buttoned the front of her dark business suit jacket as the two men entered.
"Mr. Markman, thank you for coming. Please have a seat. I promise not to waste your time."
Markman and his escort took seats near her. Markman leaned back and folded his hands in such a way that his body language plainly conveyed impatience. Ann Rogers understood.
“You're here because we need your help."
Markman could not help a look of cynicism. “Your agency wants my help?"
Hall spoke up from across the conference table. "Don't look so surprised, Mr. Markman. You have an interesting history. We looked into you after the Cassell affair. Some things just seemed too good to be true.”
"Just what job is it you think I can do for you?"
Rogers leaned slowly forward. "There is something we think you can do for us, that maybe no one else can."
Markman began to feel increasingly uneasy.
Rogers continued. "We've been investigating a certain radical group for some time now and there have been problems. They call themselves the Dragon Masters. Ever hear of them?"
"No.…”
"It's one of those fantasy role-playing kind of games that are so popular. Only this one is different. It’s something straight out of the twilight zone. People are disappearing or being killed, and we haven't been able to get to first base. We've lost some very good people on it."
"You’
ve lost people? How many?"
Rogers looked at Hall with regret. "Seven; three just recently."
A moment of tense silence passed.
Rogers continued, "That's not all. These people aren't just street types playing around. Most of them are professional people with money. They have a toy of sorts they use. It's called a Sensesuit. You play the game wearing it, and if you lose, it kills you."
"Oh come on, you guys are kidding around. What is this really about?"
Rogers ignored the skepticism, leaned back and continued. "We have no idea where the suits come from. We don't understand how they're made, and we haven't even been able to get our hands on one. I know this all sounds crazy, but I have something here that I think will convince you we're serious."
Rogers turned in her seat to the video player. She pushed in a partially-loaded DVD as Hall moved to dim the lights. The agency's investigative logo appeared on the screen and faded to the picture of a large, empty, windowless room.
In the center of the room, the figure of a man stood motionless and alone. Though he faced the overhead camera, none of his features were visible through the odd, form-fitting body suit that he wore. It was rippled with tubular, vein-like irregularities that covered the entire surface area. A strangely contoured black helmet encompassed all of his face and head. It was joined to the suit at the collar by a sealed joint. The helmet bore molded protrusions where the eyes were located, but no openings had been provided for sight.
The dark form stepped cautiously forward and abruptly dropped to a crouched position. He twisted left and right as though straining to see something that was not there, and then bolted suddenly to the left, stopping just inches from one of the barren, plastered walls that enclosed the spacious room. Though the overhead camera had a sensitive, omnidirectional microphone working in conjunction with it, there were no sounds other than the man's own footsteps.
The figure turned and stood ready with his back to the wall and his knees bent. Suddenly he clutched his left arm and fell writhing to the floor. He began crawling forward, lashing out with the good arm as though fighting some unseen enemy. With encumbered movement he fought back to his feet and ran, first left, then a cut to the right, then back to the left again. It was an insidious retreat around an empty room that was somehow always diverted from collision with the real-world barriers.
Finally, the nervous figure stopped in the far, right-hand corner, massaged the injured arm, and turned one hundred and eighty degrees, never stopping, always guarding himself against some invisible assault.
But the second confrontation was even more brutal. The ill-prepared player suddenly stood upright and blocked with the good arm, then buckled over and fell back to the floor. Body parts were systematically damaged one at a time, and the twisting figure grabbed at each as the attack continued. The ruthless onslaught continued for several minutes until the Sensesuit victim became unresponsive, and an eerie silence fell over the scene. A few seconds later a white flash-fire erupted around him, as he became engulfed in a magnesium-like display of white and orange flame. Ann Rogers switched off the monitor and turned to Markman with the very strained expression of someone who had watched something very unpleasant, one too many times.
"He was one of ours, Mr. Markman. We were extraordinarily lucky to get the tape. It's the first thing they've overlooked."
Markman sat back in his seat with an expression of somber disbelief. "Is that how they all died?"
"No, two went that way. Three others to an explosive, and one just disappeared."
"People play this insanity of their own accord?"
"There's money involve, the promise of some kind of priceless reward. But if you die, the club inherits everything you own. Somehow all records of your property cease to exist. It becomes part of the group's financial base. We don't understand how they do that, either."
"Why are you telling me all this? I don't know anything about it. I don't have anything to do with any of it. I'm still not sure I even believe it."
Agent Hall began the well-planned petition. "Hell, you're already on the case, Markman. You found the woman in the lake, didn’t you? You’d like to see her killers brought in, right?"
"I’m not a cop. They were short of divers. I was just helping out."
“But you do odd jobs that could be called investigative.”
“I don’t get it. You guys are pros. I’m a civy. Why would you want me involved?”
"Find the Dragon Masters' council, and you'll have the people who killed the lady in the lake. She was the girlfriend of an unlucky player. She must have been told something she wasn't supposed to know. She was afraid to go to the police so she ran as far and as fast as she could. She made it as far as Orlando."
A spike of anger arose within Markman as he thought back to the pale white face at the bottom of the cold, pine-stained lake. He looked at Hall, then back at Rogers. “I still don’t get it. What could I do that you couldn’t?"
Ann Rogers made a faint smile. “You're the perfect choice for this, Scott, for many reasons. As I said, we've had some serious problems. One of our people must have been forced to talk. I'm sure it wasn't by choice. Somehow they’ve got an inside line on federal agents and local law enforcement. That's why we've lost so many. You, on the other hand, are invisible. You worked auxiliary for Wandell’s department for a while, but they don’t keep personal data on civilian volunteers, so there’s no record of you. You even got shot once, a story I’d really love to hear sometime, but even in that report, they listed you only as a civilian ride-along There’s no record of you for them to find. Like I say, you’re invisible. We want to give you a new cover name with a complete history. Then, we want you to become a player."
"What?"
“You would be extremely hard for them to find out. Since so much of your life was spent overseas, there are not a lot of records on you. Getting into the organization is difficult. It takes someone extremely athletic and quick thinking to play the game. You could do it."
“Wait a minute here. I can't just disappear one day."
Hall exchanged wary glances with Rogers. He took a deep breath and spoke cautiously. “You already have."
An atmosphere of hostility suddenly filled the quiet meeting chamber. Ann Rogers shifted nervously in her seat and chose her words with great care. "We have a substitute Scott Markman already taking your place, but only as much as necessary. Just enough to make it look like you are still around, using your credit card, all the routine things you do."
Markman began to tap his fingers irately on the tabletop. "Gee, and I was starting to follow along so well until now."
“We have an agent who fits your profile perfectly. You'd be surprised at the resemblance. We're quite good at making one person look like another these days. Even your neighbors will not suspect, although your double will be seen only occasionally, and only during off-hours.”
"Were you thinking of allowing me any say at all in this," asked Markman indignantly.
"Easy, Scott," said Rogers. “You can refuse to do this right now and no harm will have been done. You can drop out any time you like, in fact. It would just be a matter of exchanging places with your double. You could forget about resolving the case of the lady in the lake though, never mind the seriousness of the problem we've just told you about. It's more than just murder that concerns us, you know. It's the suit technology. There's never been anything like it. Whoever is producing them is dangerous, very dangerous."
"And what about my family and friends?"
Agent Hall sighed and gently straightened a portfolio resting on the conference table in front of him. “You have no family, Scott. Your mother passed away when you were very young. Your father refused to place you with foster parents, so you grew up being shuttled back and forth between the States and Southwest Asia, one or two months here, the rest there. You lost your father in the crash of an Air Force Stealth Bomber. Your few friends are on the force, except for the Cassell's, and you
can handle them any way you think best."
"Well, that’s all a bit disturbing. I guess there's not too much the two of you don't know about me, is there?"
"It was very necessary, Scott," replied Rogers. "There has to be no way for them to connect you to us. Of the three agents who managed to infiltrate the club, none were able to communicate directly with us afterward. It's a pretty deep cover assignment. As I've said, we were just lucky to happen across the tape you saw; our man recorded his own death in the hope we would find it. The way we've chosen to do this, there is no way they can ID you as Scott Markman since he never left. You already have a complete computer history now for a new cover, and there's no way or reason to question it."
"And if I decide to take a chance on becoming body bag number eight, just who am I?"
Rogers smiled. She sensed she was winning her case.
“You are David Julian. You're an arms dealer who specializes on the side in the sport of paintball. We know about your abilities with weapons, so it's a perfect fit. You distribute wholesale and are always on the road. We're guessing the Dragon Masters will be very interested in a game player who can provide them with real firearms when necessary."
With that, Agent Hall reached inside his suit jacket and tossed a thick billfold across to Markman. “There's everything you need to be real, Mr. Julian. Try not to get too extravagant with the credit cards, okay?"
"And if I agree to this madness, who are my contacts?"
Hall replied, “You're looking at them. The fewer people involved, the better our chances."
"And how do I contact you?"
"Our people will shadow you everywhere you go unless it compromises your situation," said Rogers. "I doubt even you will make them. You write out your communications on anything handy at the time. When you want delivery, you leave the message in any convenient place, light a cigarette, and then put it out. We'll see it. It's that simple. When we want to communicate with you, you'll know. So what do you say, willing to give it a try?"
"I don't smoke. Nobody smokes anymore."
"We know, but David Julian does. Julian was a real person. We were secretly investigating him for illegal arms sales. He accidentally overdosed one evening, and we stepped in before anyone knew. He had no family and very few friends. As far as the world is concerned, David Julian is alive and well. Julian bought every quit-smoking gimmick on the market, but they never worked. I guess when you’re quietly selling guns to terrorists, you can’t quit nervous habits.”
"I want some time to think this over. I'll let you know."
Rogers responded. "Well, it starts from the time you leave this room, Scott. You only stopped in here because David Julian has an account with this bank. We'll give you a phone number to call when you're ready. Enter a one-one at the tone. No voice communication. If we don't hear from you by tomorrow, we'll assume you're out of the deal. And Scott, don't take too long to think about it, people are dying."
Chapter 7