Chronic fear f-2

by Scott Nicholson

  “Our people weren’t involved,” he said. “As far as I know.”

  Burchfield looked off in the distance, perhaps fondly recalling his disgusting behavior on that long-ago night, when he’d rutted sinfully with Anita while under the influence of Seethe. If he ever needed a reminder, Forsyth had stashed away a video recording, the one Burchfield had assumed was destroyed with the rest of the facility.

  “Collateral damage is sometimes necessary,” Burchfield said. “But we need to nail that down and make sure the autopsy shows no foul play. Primary season is when those little rumors start percolating. And I have a few hand grenades of my own, but I need to lay out some landmines and tear gas first.”

  “The Monkey House is ancient history, Daniel,” Forsyth said. “Hell, I barely even remember it, and I was there.”

  “But somebody remembers besides the CIA. And we better find out who it is, before Fox News and MSNBC and that goddamned Diane Sawyer get wind of it.”

  “We got a saying back in East Kentucky. It goes, ‘If you don’t stir in the outhouse, it don’t stink so much.’”

  “If we could fit that on a bumper sticker, we’d have this thing won already,” Burchfield said.

  The knock came again.

  “I know, two minutes!” Burchfield shouted. CNN had tight live programming, as did all the cable news networks, and Burchfield’s swing through Atlanta had allowed him a chance to drop in on the Centers for Disease Control. In addition to providing a great photo op of a somber Senator Daniel Burchfield talking with medical researchers, he’d been able to buttonhole a few of them and inquire about any breakthroughs in drugs treating post-traumatic stress disorder.

  While the inquiries sounded like those of a leader concerned about the country’s combat veterans, it was also a chance to see if Sebastian Briggs’s experimental compounds had somehow entered the black market and made an end run back into the system.

  Since Forsyth wasn’t officially a candidate for anything, he didn’t have to campaign, and thus could devote time and energy to working behind the scenes and tracking potential threats.

  But it also meant retrofitting the past, making sure Burchfield was spotless, no matter how much whitewash it took. And some of that wash might be red if necessary.

  “Scagnelli’s snooping around the NSA, FBI, CIA, the usual,” Forsyth said. “I’d say you have about eighty percent support there, which means nobody’s likely to knock your legs out from under you. But there might be a rogue agent somewhere, somebody who wants to freelance on the side.”

  “Be sure to check out Scagnelli, too,” Burchfield said, straightening his tie for the third time. “He’s an opportunist just like the rest of us. He might have learned something and decided to turn it into a lottery ticket.”

  “He learned that your last consultant died from a sudden heart attack,” Forsyth said. “But that may not work again, because Scagnelli ain’t got a heart.”

  “Whoever is behind it, before we take them out, I need to know one thing.” Burchfield’s face grew serious, and even the Botox regimen couldn’t diminish the hard wrinkles around his eyes.

  “What’s that?”

  “Whether or not Seethe and Halcyon still exist. I’m not even sure they were real.”

  “They’re real. Those drugs have changed you.”

  “How?”

  “You’re more intense now. It goes over as passion. And I think you can ride that to the White House if you can keep a lid on it.”

  “I am in control.” Burchfield brushed past him and opened the door, where the pretty production assistant was waiting to outfit him with a wireless, clip-on microphone. He grinned boyishly as she attached it to his breast pocket.

  “Be careful, I’m ticklish,” he said.

  “Bet you say that to all the voters.”

  “Only the pretty ones.”

  She blushed and finished the job, giving him an extra pat to make sure the wire was completed concealed. Burchfield’s smile stayed with him as he was escorted before the bright lights and cameras.

  Forsyth watched from the wings in admiration as Burchfield masterfully fielded questions about his foreign policy, budget plan, and the all-important controversy over whether the Tea Party was going to fracture the Republicans and create an opening for a third-party candidate.

  When Burchfield deftly dodged questions about a potential running mate, it was Forsyth’s turn to smile.

  Seethe and Halcyon changed both of us, Daniel.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Dr. Morgan?”

  Alexis looked up from the computer, where X-rays of Mark’s brain were scattered across the screen. Even though the images were filed under a pseudonym, she was careful to intersperse images of other volunteer subjects so anyone cracking into the vector machines wouldn’t notice an obsession with any one case.

  But she instinctively minimized the window anyway, leaving up images of four other brains.

  “What is it, Haleema?” she asked her graduate assistant.

  “Have you seen my laptop? I left it here yesterday when I had an appointment with my advisor.”

  Alexis flashed to the memory of the two men who’d raided the lab. She’d conducted another search that morning and hadn’t noticed anything out of place or missing. She’d settled on the story that the men were after drugs, which made pharmacies and medical facilities popular targets for addicted, desperate crooks. Lying to herself had become easier with practice, and denial was one of the most basic survival mechanisms.

  “I haven’t seen it,” Alexis said. “Are you sure it was here?”

  Haleema pointed a slender brown hand toward a narrow cubicle where volunteers filled out their paperwork. “It was on the table. I meant to come back and pick it up last night, but I got tied up by my boyfriend.”

  Alexis tried not to smile, and the young woman recognized the double entendre. She might have blushed, though her skin was too dark to reveal the rush of blood to her cheeks.

  “I mean…he took me to a play on campus. So I couldn’t get back here, and I figured the lab would be locked anyway.”

  “I left early, and no one else should have been in here,” Alexis said. Haleema, an honors student planning to become a brain surgeon, wasn’t authorized to enter the lab without Alexis present. Alexis had very briefly wondered if Haleema was involved in yesterday’s raid, but Haleema would have had to illegally copy one of the few existing keys to the door. Besides, it wouldn’t have been hard for Haleema to steal while Alexis was consumed with her research.

  Maybe she stole things that didn’t need to be carried.

  “I can’t afford another laptop,” Haleema said, eyes misting in frustration.

  “I’m sure it’s around here somewhere,” Alexis said. She left her chair and checked her desk drawers and cabinets, repeating the search she’d conducted earlier.

  Haleema checked the cubicle again, adding, “It’s not just the computer that worries me. All my research was on it, too.”

  Haleema had been correlating images for the brain-stimulation study, handling a lot of the grunt work of noting the before-and-after differences in the brain scans. Since most of the images revealed only minute changes, her job was to create the median from which the deviations could be measured.

  “It’s backed up on the vector machines, isn’t it?” Alexis asked, browsing a shelf filled with binders and journals to make sure the laptop hadn’t been tucked among them.

  “Most of it,” Haleema said. “I didn’t get a chance to upload yesterday’s data.”

  “That’s okay,” Alexis said. “We can go to the last update and catch up from there. But that laptop probably cost a few thousand dollars. I know we don’t pay that much, and it would suck for you to take out another student loan.”

  “Some of the data may be saved,” Haleema said. “I e-mailed thumbnails of the image batch to my university account so I could work on them from the library.”

  “I told you to keep it off the netwo
rks, damn it! It’s hard enough to keep electronic information private on dedicated devices, but anything sent over a network is fair game for anybody to steal.”

  Haleema drew back, cowering a little. Alexis realized she’d better not let her rage run wild, or Haleema might start wondering about the real nature of the work.

  “Sorry,” Haleema said, lowering her gaze to the floor.

  The subjects had been assigned numbers to protect their privacy, and when the results were published, no names would be revealed. But during the analysis, Alexis was running both names and assigned numbers to avoid mistaken identities. If someone had hacked the records, that would have led them to take a closer look.

  Or raid the lab.

  “Anything particular you were correlating?” Alexis asked, more calmly.

  “I was working on the Ds,” Haleema said. “Four or five, if I remember correctly.”

  Davis.

  Alexis forced her voice to remain steady. “And you e-mailed them all?”

  “Yes.” Haleema picked up a stack of manila folders to check behind it.

  “With names and numbers assigned?”

  “Yes, the way we did all of them.”

  Alexis pretended to keep searching but she knew the laptop was gone. Whoever had been watching her must have hacked into Haleema’s e-mail. It wouldn’t even be that difficult, since the university had a large IT staff devoted solely to maintaining the networks, any of whom could have opened her e-mail.

  Or granted password access to an interested bidder.

  You’re getting as paranoid as Mark. Nobody cares about the brain chemistry of college students besides the Miller Brewing Company. I’ve been very careful.

  Still, the Donnie Davis files couldn’t be a coincidence. She’d lumped Mark’s scans in with the others so they wouldn’t be identified as anomalies, and Haleema was too inexperienced to notice the tiny lesions that only a skilled eye could detect.

  “I don’t think it’s here, Dr. Morgan,” Haleema said, worried and depressed.

  “Maybe you left it in your dorm room, or your boyfriend’s apartment. Have you checked with Lost and Found?”

  “No,” Haleema said. “Should we call the campus police?”

  “Let’s not do that yet,” Alexis said. “It’s got to be around here somewhere.”

  She said the words vacantly and automatically, knowing it had walked out of the room yesterday afternoon under the arm of one of the intruders.

  But why didn’t they steal the vector machines or my desktop? Sure, those would be much harder to carry away without attracting notice, but then they would have had a better chance of tracking my digital footprints.

  Whatever the reason, Mark’s brain scans were now in somebody else’s hands, and whether they knew what they were looking at or not, the covert thieves held the early evidence of how her husband had changed since the Monkey House exposure.

  Evidence of how she had changed him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  National Clandestine Service Officer B.H. Gundersson had spent all his life trying to make up for being born with the name “Byron.” Back before he was old enough to know it was a dorky name, he liked it. Then in the sixth grade, some wiseass kid had called him “Lord Byron,” and one of the teachers said it was the name of a Romantic poet, and the boys rode his case until high school, when he got big enough to crack a few skulls if necessary.

  And he’d found it necessary.

  To make matters worse, he kind of liked poetry, although he preferred Shelley to Byron. Even worse than that, he was a little chubby and squishy, and girls often thought he was gay. Maybe the boys, too, but he was big enough to keep their mouths shut. Then one day he’d made the mistake of wearing a gold T-shirt and a black leather jacket, and some girl had called him “Bumblebee,” and that drew a few laughs and caught on for a while.

  Finally, he’d settled on “Bee,” even writing it on all his homework until that’s how it appeared in the football program, which his dad thought sounded tough and his mom said she could live with, though he’d always be Byron to her.

  The kind of shit you think about when you’re sitting in a tree. Should’ve just gone with my middle name in the first place.

  But Horace was even worse than Byron, as evidenced by the army captain at the Citadel who’d referred to him as “Horse,” a slightly better nickname than Bee and a little higher up the food chain.

  Luckily, the CIA let him go by his initials and, as a core collector for the CIA’s National Clandestine Service, he was just as happy as B.H. Gundersson, although a couple of times they’d issued him false identities for some domestic work. But all the name games had been a waste of time, because Field Director Harding referred to him as “Gundy.”

  While ostensibly the NCS was charged with coordinating information across all the different intelligence agencies in the post-9/11 U.S., it hadn’t taken Gundersson long to realize the creation of a new agency had simply snicked another wedge out of the pie. Occasionally the juice from one piece leaked over to another, but some top dog always had a fork jammed hard in the center of his particular slice.

  As a patriotic American, he prayed that there would never again come a time when thousands of civilian lives depended on communication between people whose mouths were full of pie.

  But it was a little ironic, in a Bruce Willis-movie kind of way, that the NCS was established for foreign intelligence yet spent a good deal of time snooping on its fellow agencies.

  He looked through the binoculars again, sitting twenty feet up a young maple tree. His view wasn’t quite as interesting as it had been last night, when the couple had given him quite a show through the infrared binos, but it appeared they were finally stirring along with the birds around him.

  Gundersson hadn’t spent the entire night in the tree. He was a targeting officer, not paramilitary. The killers were on covert missions overseas, handling assault weapons and explosives in locales where there weren’t many trees. People like him were usually chained to a desk, poring through e-mails, financial records, and questionable Google habits, but they also made good field workers because no one knew they were field workers.

  Compared to dodging rockets in Islamabad, staking out a couple of reclusive hippies seemed like an easy gig.

  The only thing that bothered Gundersson was why the CIA was wasting time on these guys when al-Qaeda was still Code Red and the next Timothy McVeigh was probably stopping by the feed store for a truckload of fertilizer at that very moment.

  The guy, Roland Doyle, rolled out of bed first and went flopping toward the bathroom and out of Gundersson’s limited view. The woman peeled down the sheets and stretched, and he was disappointed to see her grab a robe from the floor. She stood and Gundersson thought she was headed after hubby, but instead she slipped into the robe and came right to the window.

  Then she looked directly at him and he froze.

  No way. I’m in camo and a hundred feet deep in the woods, and all this April foliage is thick enough to hide an army.

  Then she glanced left and right before pulling the curtains closed.

  Gundersson finally released a breath. They said sixth sense was a bunch of baloney, but in his experience, people often expressed discomfort when they were being observed, even if they didn’t quite understand why. Something just felt different.

  But the house was quiet and still, and the pair was likely in the shower, rinsing off last night’s dirty play with a round of aquatics.

  From his briefing, he’d learned that these two were involved in some sort of secret drug test. Harding, a Desert Storm vet, stressed that it hadn’t been a CIA drug test, like when they’d given hallucinogenic drugs to civilians in the MK-Ultra experiments during the Cold War. Harding made it clear he didn’t like that “wavy gravy shit,” and that Gundersson wasn’t to engage the targets. Somebody way up the chain, somebody so high that Harding could merely roll his eyes heavenward, ordered that the pair be monitored until further notic
e.

  With the curtains drawn, Gundersson figured he was done for the day. The couple’s routine was to eat breakfast on the porch, feed the gaggle of hens they kept in an open pen behind the cabin, take a little walk along the creek, dig in the garden for maybe an hour, and then rest a little before lunch. After lunch, he’d log onto his computer and she’d get out the paints and brushes.

  Gundersson zoomed in on the painting currently drying on the easel.

  Sure looks like some drugs involved. Freaky stuff like that, it’s no wonder they kicked her out of the university. Couldn’t have her warping the minds of our next generation of grade-school teachers.

  But he’d not observed any drug use of any kind, not even a bottle of cooking sherry. For crazed, anti-American hippies and possible threats to national security, they sure seemed docile.

  He was just getting ready to climb down from the tree and head back to his camp on the edge of the national wilderness area when the couple came out on the porch.

  Gundersson slowly lifted the binoculars again.

  Shit.

  Roland Doyle was armed, wearing nothing but boxer shorts, a black revolver dangling at his side. He clearly wasn’t trained with it, because he carried it like somebody in a movie. Wendy Leng hunched behind him in a bathrobe.

  “Where did you see it?” Doyle asked, not bothering to lower his voice.

  She pointed about thirty feet to Gundersson’s right.

  Roland marched down the porch steps, across the narrow skirt of ragged grass, and into the forest. Leaves crunched and scuffed under his bare feet. Gundersson was armed but he didn’t dare move, although he gently let the binoculars rest by their strap against his chest.

  Harding said Roland Doyle was “a nothing,” despite a few alcohol-related legal troubles in the past. The unspoken message was that Gundersson was on a babysitting errand and it was time to just shut up and follow orders. Wendy Leng was even cleaner, despite her subversive art. On the surface, they were just intellectual rebels, maybe a little too liberal for their own good but certainly not plotting to smuggle nuclear weapons.