Cracks in Reality (Seams in Reality Book 2)

by Siegel, Alex

  "You found the journal?" Tungsten said.

  "Yes, but it was written by Serkan. It was fake. All the evidence was fake."

  "Serkan built a case against his own master and then killed himself in a horrible way?"

  "That's the power of mind-control," Andrew said. "Blake was with us the whole time. Whenever the investigation got stuck, he gave us a subtle hint to get it moving again. The clues led us to an underground base in the woods where a bunch of survivalists lived. We met Phillip there. That must be where Blake learned about him."

  "The base was well defended," Charley interjected. "Tonya used a portable seam to get inside without a shot being fired. She saved a lot of lives."

  "How exactly did she do that?" Tungsten said.

  "A little bit of mind-control."

  "But everybody keeps saying that's illegal."

  "Special circumstances," she said.

  He stared at her, and she blushed.

  "The point is," Andrew said, "soldiers brought the seam in an armored truck. They were obviously from the Army. Now I believe they came from Mumford."

  "I see." Tungsten said. "By the way, what was Blake doing while Tonya was using illegal mind-control?"

  "He stayed in the car. She didn't want him anywhere near the seam."

  "Unsupervised?"

  Andrew nodded. "We had the seam. He couldn't do anything."

  "How far was the car from the truck?"

  "What are you getting at? Soldiers were guarding the truck."

  "Not all the time." Charley stared at Andrew. "Remember? We heard about it afterwards. Shots were fired at the car, and the soldiers went into the woods, but they never found the shooter."

  "So," Tungsten said, "Blake had free access to the armored truck for a period of time, and where did it go after the operation?"

  "It took the seam back to Mumford," she said in a tone of horror, "back to Montaña de la Serpiente."

  Andrew felt rising anger. "That bastard planted a tracking device or something!" He looked around for witnesses and lowered his voice. "The business with Serkan wasn't about Keene at all. He just wanted us to think that. His goal from the beginning was locating the Vault."

  "A plan within a plan," Charley said. "A trick within a trick. Brilliant."

  "That's how an operative thinks," Tungsten said.

  "No, that's how a magician thinks. I was wrong about Blake. Obviously, he's ambitious enough to go after the Vault, but I still don't understand the bad publicity about biological weapons."

  "That part is obvious. As you said, the security around the Vault must be extremely intense. Blake won't be able to get inside even with all his tricks. They're prepared for threats like him."

  Andrew picked up the thought. "But if there is enough public scrutiny, the government might be forced to move the contents of the Vault somewhere else."

  "Exactly." Tungsten nodded. "And that kind of move will necessarily be very risky. It's the opportunity Blake needs. He can ambush the convoy. Webster must suspect Blake is the source of the rumors for exactly this reason, which is why Webster called us into his office. It all makes sense."

  Andrew sat back in awe. Blake's plan was breathtaking in scope and creativity. At every step, his enemies had misunderstood his intentions. Andrew wondered if he were even capable of such meticulous, insightful planning.

  "We can't tell anybody," Charley said.

  "Huh?" Andrew turned to her. "Why not?"

  "You heard Webster. We know where the Vault is. If he finds out we know, we'll go to prison. We're as dangerous to the BPI as Blake, and in your case, maybe even more dangerous. You're a war mage."

  "But we can tell Tonya."

  She shook her head. "Not unless we must. I don't want to put her in the same danger as us. It's bad enough Tungsten knows."

  "And if I were a BPI agent," Tungsten said, "I'd have to report you. It's a good thing I'm just a contractor and technically a civilian."

  Andrew breathed a sigh of relief.

  "It's all up to us," Charley said. "We have to stop Blake by ourselves."

  "Not quite," Tungsten said. "The government will investigate the rumors and try to find the source. I expect the NSA is already on it, but Blake won't make it easy for them."

  "So what should we do?"

  "The same. Just because the NSA is working a case doesn't mean we can't."

  "But chasing down the source of internet gossip is a job for hackers," Andrew said.

  "That's certainly the right place to start." Tungsten paused. "It might be time for me to call in an old favor or two."

  "You know a hacker?"

  "When you've been around the world as many times as me, you meet all kinds." Tungsten smirked. "I know just the guy."

  * * *

  Tungsten parked the car in front of a two-story shopping center. An exterior breezeway provided access to the second floor. Andrew saw a sports supply shop, a dance studio, a drycleaner, a tax preparer, and a bar among other stores, about twenty in total. The building was made of clean red brick.

  Tungsten, Andrew, and Charley got out of the car. The air had warmed a little, and Andrew left his coat unzipped.

  "Which one?" he said.

  "There," Tungsten replied. He pointed at a place called, "Slippery Weasel Tavern."

  "Funny name."

  "It's a joke, but most people won't get it."

  Tungsten led Andrew and Charley inside.

  The tavern featured a huge bar made of elaborately carved wood which was big enough for twenty customers. An abundance of small, round tables had high chairs. The lighting fixtures looked like antique gas lamps. Andrew expected a television for watching sports, but he didn't see one in this place. The room was quiet. Only two people were at the bar, and another two were at a table, but Andrew expected the light crowd was due to the early hour.

  The bartender was wearing a black vest, a white shirt, and a black tie. He was tall and gaunt. Thick stubble on his chin and cheeks contrasted with an almost bald scalp. The dark color of his skin and the shape of his eyes suggested a mixture of African and Oriental heritage.

  He stared at Tungsten with a shocked expression. "Tungsten? Is that you?"

  Tungsten grinned. "Yeah. Long time no see."

  The bartender ran out from behind the bar and gave Tungsten a manly hug. The two men then shook hands vigorously.

  "This is Weasel," Tungsten said, "a buddy from way back. My young friends are Andrew and Charley."

  "Nice to meet you." Andrew shook Weasel's hand.

  Charley did the same.

  Tungsten looked around. "Cool place."

  "Thanks," Weasel said. "It's my retirement home. Hey, you look great! You could pose for a muscle magazine. You still pulling cars with your teeth to impress the girls?"

  "No. My dentist told me to stop. I don't think it ever worked anyway."

  "It's strange seeing you out of uniform. That cheap blue suit makes you look like a fed."

  "I am a fed," Tungsten said, "sort of. I'm a contractor."

  Weasel's eyes widened. "Huh? You're working for a paycheck now? That's hard to believe. You were always so gung-ho about duty and honor. You told me you would've been a soldier for free. You also told me you would retire to a beach in Jamaica when you were done with the Army."

  "I tried that beach for a while. It was boring. I needed some action, but I didn't want another long-term commitment, so I took a one-shot job."

  "With who?"

  "An unnamed federal agency," Tungsten said.

  "Go ahead and be mysterious if you want. Who are your friends?" Weasel looked at Andrew and Charley.

  "Same federal agency."

  "They're feds, too?" Weasel gaped. "They don't look it. Too young."

  "They have special skills. Very special."

  "I guess they must."

  "Speaking of retirement," Tungsten said. "I never pictured you as a bartender."

  "It's an easy gig. All I have to do is pour drinks and listen
to guys complain about wives and sports teams. I can sleep without worrying about waking up in the trunk of a car."

  "I can't believe you don't still dabble in your old business."

  "Well..." Weasel looked away innocently.

  "Coincidently, I'm looking for an expert in your old business."

  "I already guessed this visit wasn't purely social."

  "It never is," Tungsten said, "and you do still owe me for saving your life."

  "Among other things." Weasel sighed. "Let's continue this conversation in the privacy of my office."

  He asked a waitress to watch the bar for a while. He took Tungsten, Andrew, and Charley to a small office in the back. It contained an antique wooden desk, padded chairs, and two file cabinets. The walls were painted an unusual burgundy. Loose paperwork was scattered across the desk. Weasel had a small computer, but Andrew could tell it was woefully obsolete, certainly not one he would expect for an expert hacker.

  Tungsten looked around. "This is it?"

  "You don't like it?" Weasel said.

  "Seems a little... low tech."

  "Here's the thing. I trust you, but I've never met those two." Weasel nodded towards Andrew and Charley. "They seem like good people, but you know how it is in this business. It's all about reputation and credentials."

  Andrew opened his mouth to respond, but a sharp look from Tungsten made Andrew close it.

  "I'll vouch for them," Tungsten said.

  "I'm sure," Weasel said, "but that may not be good enough. Just tell me what the problem is."

  "Did you see the headlines today? A secret stash of biological weapons on Mumford Base. What did you think when you saw that?"

  "Seemed a little farfetched, but it was none of my business."

  "We think we know who is responsible for that rumor," Tungsten said, "and we need to erase him. We want your help."

  "You're telling me this as a duly sworn federal agent?"

  "More or less."

  Weasel frowned. "Then why aren't you going through official channels? Call the NSA. They have hundreds of hackers."

  "The problem is this case isn't really ours. It was assigned to us without being assigned to us, if you get my meaning."

  "Unfortunately, I do. You want me to participate in a backdoor mission, and you won't even tell me who it's for. On top of that, I have to open up my operation to two kids I've never met before. I assume you're not the only people working on this."

  Tungsten nodded. "I'm sure the NSA, the FBI, the Military Intelligence Corps, and others are already involved. Our efforts will be supplementary."

  "So I'll be stepping on the toes of the big boys," Weasel said.

  "I'm afraid so."

  The two men stared at each other silently. Both had perfect poker faces.

  Andrew decided he had to speak up. "We're after a man named Blake Blutstein. He killed a lot of people, and he'll probably kill more if we don't stop him."

  "Sounds like a big problem." Weasel looked at Andrew. "Why is it your problem? Shouldn't you be in school instead of chasing after serial killers?"

  "Charley and I have had special training for dealing with Blake."

  "What are you talking about? You're not a fighter. You're too young and too soft."

  Andrew ran his fingers through his hair. His inability to tell the truth was deeply frustrating.

  "I'm not asking you to assassinate anybody," Tungsten said. "I just want you to use your fancy computers to do a little information gathering. Do I need to remind you what life was like for you in that Siberian prison? The risks I took to get you out? The promises you made afterwards? You owe me, and I always collect on my debts." He glared angrily.

  Weasel sighed and looked down at his hands. "If you vouch for them, I suppose that's good enough for me."

  "I do, and this mission is important. I'm still gung-ho about duty and honor."

  Weasel reached under his desk and did something with his hand. A concealed door in the back wall slid open. He rolled his chair into the secret room.

  Andrew stood up, walked around the desk, and followed Weasel into a hacker's paradise. Floor to ceiling racks were packed with computers. A bank of monitors covered most of one wall. Thick bundles of cables ran up to ducts suspended from the ceiling. An air-tight sheet of clear plastic separated the room into two sections: one for noisy hot computers and the other for people.

  "This is more like it," Tungsten said as he entered the room.

  "My secret bat cave," Weasel said.

  "But you said you had retired."

  "The bar doesn't generate enough income to support my mistresses. I take odd jobs to make up the difference. Now, let's see what we're dealing with."

  Weasel turned on all his computer screens. He began to type on an exotic ergonomic keyboard, and his fingers made the keys clatter.

  Andrew watched windows showing news stories pop up on the monitors. Charley had found similar material earlier in her internet search, but Weasel was working much faster.

  "The biological weapons story is everywhere," he said. "Thousands of sites."

  "We know," Andrew said. "Just tell us who started it."

  Weasel typed for a while. He gradually appeared more and more frustrated, and his keystrokes grew louder.

  "What's wrong?" Charley said.

  "It hit the internet at exactly two in the morning, and it hit everywhere. Thousands of people posted within the same minute all over the world. The story went viral immediately. Tricky." He turned to her. "Is Blake some kind of super-hacker?"

  She shook her head. "Not to my knowledge."

  "Then he's employing professionals who know how to cover their trail."

  "That's not a surprise. Can you figure out anything? Or maybe you're not as smart as you thought."

  Weasel raised one eyebrow. He turned back to his computer and typed furiously for several minutes.

  Eventually, he said, "Many of the original posts were on hacked social media accounts. I bet most of the real owners of those accounts don't even realize they were exploited. Hold on. Here's an interesting exception." He typed a little more.

  A video clip popped up showing a very attractive, Hispanic woman in a cute green business suit. She spoke to the camera, "Breaking news. We are seeing reports that the United States Army is secretly keeping a massive cache of biological weapons. This is a direct violation of the 1972 Biological Weapons Convention. Multiple sources confirm the cache is on Mumford Army Base." She pointed at a map of New Mexico on a screen behind her.

  Weasel stopped the clip. "Her name is Miranda Torres. She's a reporter in Washington, DC. This video appeared on the website of her news channel at 2:01 AM. It was obviously recorded before the story broke on the internet."

  "She knew ahead of time," Andrew said.

  Weasel nodded. "You should have a conversation with her. I'll continue to work."

  "Sounds like a great idea."

  "And I have a suggestion. If you're going to pretend to be federal agents, dress like it. Buy a suit." Weasel looked at Charley. "Both of you."

  "Before we go," Tungsten said, "I need a clean phone. I can't use my government phone for this job."

  "What color?" Weasel smiled.

  * * *

  Andrew looked up at a thirty-story office building. The exterior curved in a great arc which glittered in the sunlight. Alternating bands of windows and stainless steel panels went from the ground to the high roof.

  He itched his chest. He was wearing a brand new shirt, tie, and suit, and he was uncomfortable. The stiff fabric rubbed his skin the wrong way. The tie felt like a noose around his neck. He hadn't worn a suit since his cousin's wedding two years ago, and he still regretted agreeing to do it then.

  Charley had also dressed for the job, and not seeing her in a sweater was strange. Her blue blazer and slacks fit her slim body well. She had chosen a black shirt to add a touch of style instead of a white shirt like Andrew.

  "Let's go," Tungsten said.
r />   The three of them entered the building. They took an elevator up to a floor where a television station was located. Tungsten used his badge to get past fussy receptionists and security guards. Eventually, the team found Miranda Torres at her desk in the newsroom.

  The newsroom had a studio at one end, but most of it was standard office space. People were working at computers in cubicles. Plain fluorescent lights hung from a ceiling along with pipes and ductwork. Andrew had expected a little drama and excitement, but everybody was just quietly doing their job.

  Miranda was even prettier in real life than on television. She had perfect skin and the high cheekbones of a fashion model. Artistic touches of makeup made her dark eyes appear bigger than normal.

  She stood up from her desk. "Yes? Can I help you?"

  "We're federal agents." Tungsten showed his badge. "We have a few questions."

  "Again?" She rolled her eyes. "I've talked to you guys twice today already."

  "We're a different department."

  "Sure. You two look pretty young to be feds." Miranda raised her eyebrows at Andrew and Charley.

  "We're interns," Charley said.

  Miranda smirked.

  "Focus on me," Tungsten said. "You were one of the first people to report about Mumford Army Base. You were awake at two in the morning with the information before anybody else. How did that happen?"

  She crossed her arms. "I'll tell you what I told the rest. My sources are confidential. I won't give them up for anything."

  "This is a very serious matter."

  "Yes, it is, and so is the Biological Weapons Convention. So is the First Amendment which guarantees freedom of the press. I should also mention the Fourth Amendment, the one that talks about unreasonable searches and seizures. I haven't broken any laws, and I don't appreciate being harassed by a muscle-bound government goon."

  "Ms. Torres," Andrew said, "we're not harassing you. Lives are at stake here. Please, tell us what you know."

  "Sorry, kid, but I can't do that. If I lose my sources, I lose my job."

  Other people in the newsroom were gathering. They stood back at a discreet distance and watched.