Superpowers 1: Superguy

by T. Jackson King

  “I know that,” Janet said. “Anyway, please tell my boss that I have gotten half the interviews done on the adult children of Los Alamos lab scientists, plus I’m putting in extra time doing interviews of Green Mask suspects. I know industrial espionage is a bit lower on our priority ranking than terrorism, but it’s what they hired me to do.”

  Beverly’s expression turned sympathetic. “Hey, I’ll tell boss Lederberg you are working overtime on both of these projects. You enjoying your first field assignment?”

  Was she? “Yeah, it’s good being out in the field. While we can track down lots of links and stuff using our cyberware, still, nothing replaces the old one-on-one personal interview. I like reading the body language and expressions of people.”

  “I know,” Beverly said, smiling easily. “You were always good at that in classes at Quantico. I envied you.” Her girlfriend looked down at her desk. “My office phone is calling for attention. Give me a call later about this Green Mask suspect. Okay?”

  “Will do. See you later.”

  Janet’s phone lost its image of Beverly, returning to the usual home screen image of multiple app icons. She put the iPhone into the pocket of her jacket, stood up, grabbed her black purse, stuffed her room card into it, and headed out into the hallway, aiming for the elevator that led to the ground floor and the parking lot.

  Today Webster was working at REI from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. That meant he would not be at his apartment until this evening. Recalling her memory of the interior of his apartment, she remembered the view of the bathroom she had gotten thanks to an open door. The bathroom held a sink, mirror and on the sink was a mug holding a couple of toothbrushes and a razor. She assumed the toilet and shower were off to one side, out of the brief view she had while looking down the short hallway that led from the living room to the bathroom, closets and bedroom.

  There should be a hairbrush in either the bathroom or the bedroom. If she used one of her lock-picking tools on the apartment door, she should be able to unlock both the deadbolt and the door knob itself. Then she could grab some hairs from the hairbrush, grab one of the toothbrushes, then go out and relock the door. She would come back later, in the evening, to interview Webster about where he had spent yesterday afternoon. And also to get a phone picture of the rings on his left hand. While the covert entry she planned was illegal without a search warrant, she was too frustrated from the long hours spent interviewing people for her two jobs. And if the hair sample matched the DNA profile from the Empire State Building hairs, then for sure it would prove Webster was Green Mask. Her photo of his rings, combined with how perfectly he matched the physical parameters and the store visitations would just be additional supporting data. Maybe she would get a raise from handing the deputy director the identity of Green Mask. At the least she would earn more respect from the older male members of the agency. And that was important to her.

  Janet got into her rental car, started it up and drove out of the lot. She turned right onto Trinity Drive, also known as Highway 502. She looked forward to the great view of the valley to the east of Los Alamos as she drove down the narrow road that hugged the sheer rock wall that was the eastern exit point for the town. When driving on a road with a sheer drop-off, she preferred to be on the uphill side.

  She smiled at her reaction. She was not usually fearful. As a special agent she had done lots of target shooting at human-like targets as part of her Quantico training. She had continued that pistol training in the basement shooting range in the Hoover building. She did not expect to have to use her pistol while interviewing Webster. The man might have a rifle and handgun in his apartment. Or might not, if he had not held onto those weapons, which were recorded as belonging to his father. No matter. She was good at reading body language. She would make her covert entry, grab what she needed, then exit and later return for a final interview of Webster. And if the man really was Green Mask, well, she hoped he would not use his telepathy to read her mind. That would be most impolite.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Andrew looked across his desk at the face of Special Agent Beverly Chase. The young black woman had just finished giving him a rundown on her recent talk with Special Agent Janet Van Groot. She looked nervous, sitting in one of the chairs opposite his desk. After all, it was just her and him in the room. Feeling empathy for someone so new to the agency, he gave her a half-smile.

  “That news from Van Groot is encouraging. So this young man she will be interviewing lives in Santa Fe, works for REI and has shown up on the retail store videos?”

  “Yes sir, he matches all those parameters.”

  “So why didn’t Van Groot give you a name and address? She has to have both if she is going to interview him again this evening?”

  Discomfort showed on Chase’s face. “Sir, I don’t know why Janet wouldn’t give me a name. She seemed so sure he could be this Green Mask guy. I’ve found, though, that she is very thorough in her counterintelligence work. She does not make a statement without having multiple supporting lines of evidence.”

  All those were the habits of a good agent. Still, his wife Martha wanted to know who had saved the life of their niece Mira, as did he. Owing a personal debt to Green Mask did not erase the urgency to identify the man and find a way to stop him from interfering in complex law enforcement operations. While the man had unusual abilities and remarkable powers, he was not immune to injury, as the BBC interview had documented. And whatever Andrew felt toward the man, the president herself had made clear to him and to the director that she wanted this man identified and brought out into the open. While the man’s assurance he would not enter the White House without an invitation had been a positive element, neither he nor the Secret Service nor any other member of the nation’s sixteen intelligence agencies ever relied upon assurances. Facts and direct control of a suspect were what mattered. Especially when dealing with someone like Green Mask.

  “I’m sure Special Agent Van Groot is very thorough. I appreciate you coming to me with this update on the Green Mask suspect interviews.” He tossed her one of his cards. “My personal email address is on the back of that card. As is my personal phone. Contact me tonight, no matter the time, when you hear from Van Groot. If she confirms this man as Green Mask, we need to get Albuquerque field office agents up there to help her in taking custody of this man. If that is possible. We might have to use an animal tranquilizer dart on him, in view of his teleportation abilities.”

  Chase looked shocked, then nodded slowly. “I will contact you as soon as Janet calls me with her interview results.”

  “Good. Dismissed.”

  The young agent stood up, stepped away from her chair, gave him a nod and turned to head out. The solid wood door that separated his corner office from the rest of the seventh floor shut smoothly.

  While the news about a possible Green Mask identity was encouraging, his first priority was getting more agents at work on tracking down the internet, social media and local contacts of Khan and Alkoury. In particular he wanted an in-person interview done of Mohammed Khan, now that the man was awake from the skull surgery. That guy had to have some accomplices in Memphis who had helped him and Alkoury in their prep work for the St. Louis attack. Tracking them down, and tracking down the Houston supporters of the six stadium attackers, were now the agency’s top priority.

  While Yamaguchi had been right that the cell phones on the six were fused lumps of plastic and metal, the two vehicles they had arrived in and their motel room were intact. Agents had been working on both. They had also found a discarded Cricket phone in a nearby trash dumpster. The agency’s Cyber Division was already at work on it, tracking down the phone calls made using the cell phone. It appeared the device had been used by one of the six jihadists. Now, if they could turn up a computer used by one of the six, they might gain even more leads on other covert sleeper cells.

  It was clear Islamic State had activated the four cells with the aim of showing to a worldwide audience that the United States w
as a ‘toothless tiger’ when it came to its ability to protect its national landmarks and the people who visited them. Those four cells had failed, mostly due to the sudden appearance of Green Mask. But the man could not be everywhere, nor could he have visited every American landmark that might be targeted. His agency had the men and women to do this work. It had the computers and specialized algorithms. And it never stopped hunting those who carried out terror attacks, or aimed to make such an attack.

  Andrew stood up. It was time to head over to Virginia and pay a visit to Jacob Whitson. The National Counterterrorism Center in McLean had been working in close coordination with his SIOC and Richardson. But NCTC had its own intelligence sources. Time to find out if they had any clues about the next terror attack. For as sure as he liked baseball and hot dogs, there would be another attack.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I made it to the corner of Familia and Manhattan with four minutes to spare. I grabbed my lunch bag, locked the bike and headed for the back door of REI. Pushing open the metal door, I walked into the break room. It wasn’t empty. Standing next to the Kronos check-in machine was Bridget Hampstead. She had on her ‘I’m the boss’ look. That never meant anything good. I nodded to her, walked over to my locker, tossed my lunch bag into it, then turned and headed for the Kronos.

  “Hi Bridget. Think we’ll have lots of customers today?”

  She looked at me intently. “Do you have a doctor’s written excuse for not showing up for work on Saturday? Your sudden illness left me short-handed.”

  Damn. She was pissed. And the way she had her fists pressing against her hips was not good. “Uh, no, I don’t. But I was really sick. It felt like the stomach flu. Didn’t know I was supposed to get you a slip in order to claim a sick day.”

  “Well, you do need a doctor’s note, when it’s sudden like that.” The thirty-something brunette frowned, then shook her head, causing her ponytail to swing from side to side. “Go ahead and register on Kronos. But I’m changing you to half-time. Full-time hours are reserved for those who have proven themselves reliable in showing up for work. You weren’t reliable Saturday.” She turned away and headed for the door leading out to the retail floor.

  “When do I check out today?”

  “Two p.m. That’s half-time for today,” she said, then disappeared out the swinging door.

  I signed into the Kronos machine, fighting the impulse to give her slim butt a mental push so she would fall onto the floor and look like a klutz to any nearby customer. I’d been at REI for almost a year and had never before missed work. Then again, never before had I tried to juggle saving hostage lives with working a full-time job. Damn. Maybe I would need that crowdfunding site a lot sooner than I’d thought. My work here had been a good deal. I was one of the ten people working full-time out of a total staff of forty. Bridget was one of four shift managers. What she’d done was allowed by company policy. But it meant I would lose my health insurance. You had to be working 26 hours a week in order to qualify for that. Twenty hours a week didn’t cut it. And my mental powers did not extend to fixing illnesses, whether mine or anyone else. Double damn.

  Pushing open the swinging door to the floor, I headed for the camping and bedroll section, options flying through my head. Maybe I could appeal Bridget’s cut-back to Mr. Clarence. He was the senior manager for this store. Maybe he would tell Bridget to give me a second chance at keeping my full-time hours. But did I really want to stay full-time? Or even part-time? It had felt very good to help those people in Houston and earlier. It had felt good inside, where I had been hurting ever since the loss of my Dad. And my Mom. This felt like something I should discuss with Valery, before I walked up to Bridget and gave her the finger, accompanied by a loud “Fuck You!” before the customers lined up at the checkout counter.

  “Hey Jeff, you feeling better?” called Billy as he headed my way.

  The guy’s narrow face was clean-shaven like mine and he was dressed in spiffy shirt and pants, not the bluejeans and hoodie I wore. “Hey Billy. Yes I am.” I paused, looking him over. “You look dressed up. You aiming for a manager slot?”

  Billy grinned his happy-go-lucky grin. “Nope. I’m not stupid. But this new girl I’m dating really likes me. She motivated me to start looking like I got an office job, rather than serving beer at Second Street Brewery.” He shrugged. “So I’m trying a new look. Whatcha think?”

  I turned to resorting the bedrolls on the top of a nearby shelf. “I think you look good. So this one might be the one? Or are you still juggling multiple gals on your dating app?”

  Billy walked over to lend me a hand. “She could be. I haven’t called back any of the other gals I’ve dated. Wanted to see how this scene works out.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Lois. Lois Anderson. She’s a Santa Fe native. Leastwise her family’s been here for lots of years.”

  “Well, congrats guy. Hope you and she work out.”

  Briefly I felt jealous. The memory of Van Groot thinking I looked handsome and that she had been willing to go out with me for a beer and a meal hit me deep. Then I told my inner self to stop being deluded. Having a steady girlfriend requires hiding half or more of whom I am. It hadn’t worked with Mercedes. I hadn’t tried to make it work during college. And now, when the whole world had seen me on the BBC, was for sure not the time to go romancing. Leastwise it seemed that way to me. Maybe Valery would have some insight into the romance thing too.

  I waved to Billy as he headed off to his section of the store, then turned and began looking for display irregularities caused by customers handling stuff and then tossing or dropping it back to the table or shelves. One thing Mr. Clarence emphasized was the importance of every section of the store looking orderly, attractive and appealing to the customers who came in from the Market Street entrance. If I was going to appeal my hours change, I had better make my part of the store shine like new.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Janet stood before Webster’s apartment door. The metal numbers of 412 stared at her. She looked to the right, down the long hallway that led from Webster’s fourth floor corner apartment to the rest of the apartments. There was no one visible. And the hallway ceiling lacked the black dome of a security camera. Those had only been present in the elevator and outside the office that handled rentals. That could be due to the complex being a few decades old, even though it was located close to the intersection of St. Francis Drive and St. Michael’s Drive, two of the busier roads in Santa Fe, if her experience was anything to go by. She’d gotten to the apartment complex after spending the morning in an interview of a guy in Espanola, which was almost on the way to Santa Fe. It was early afternoon, but well before the time for the end of Webster’s shift.

  Still, it would be best to get this done sooner than later. She unslung her purse, reached in, got out her lock picker container, pulled out two of the standard ones, hung the purse on her shoulder and began working on the deadbolt lock that was higher on the door.

  In thirteen seconds she heard the ‘click-thunk’ of the bolt drawing out of the door frame. She squatted down and went to work on the door knob. It was a standard brand, one that was guaranteed susceptible to the tools she had bought right after graduation from Quantico. The locksmith had been a referral from one of her instructors. While it was against agency policy for agents to possess or carry lock picker tools, plenty of them did, going back to the J. Edgar Hoover years. Back then the formalities of a search warrant had been less stringently enforced than in the last few decades.

  “Click,” went the door knob.

  She pulled her tools out of the knob, stuffed them in the container, looked both directions, saw no one and grabbed the knob. It turned easily. She stepped into Webster’s apartment, pushing the door closed behind her. She turned and locked the deadbolt, then found the door knob. She twisted its lock stud. A ‘click-snap’ sounded.

  It was dark, very dark. She touched on the rocker light switch. She saw the same arrangement a
s before. A short hallway took her past the kitchen alcove on the left, ending up in a living room with couch, recliner, glass coffee table, bookcases, artwork on the walls and a fireplace in one corner. She looked left. Long green drapes covered the glass door that led out to the small porch. No one outside could see her. She walked across the living room, then down the short hallway that led to the bathroom at the end. She stepped inside the bathroom, reached to the right and flicked on the light, then scanned. In front of her was a large mirror that reflected her gray jacket and part of her pantsuit. Below it was a decent fake marble sink. To the left was a glass-enclosed shower stall. To the right was a white porcelain toilet. And sitting on the sink at the upper left was a shaving mug with two toothbrushes in the mug, next to the razor. She reached out and touched both. The wet one she grabbed by its handle. Putting her purse on the sink, she pulled out a clear plastic zip-lock evidence bag and stuffed the brush inside it. It went into her purse.

  She needed hair from the hairbrush. Where was it? She stepped back. Below the marble sink was a cabinet door. To its right were three drawers. She opened the top one. Yes! Sitting there among three combs was a brown plastic hairbrush. And in the brush end she saw many black hairs. Pulling out another evidence bag, she used tweezers that were in the same drawer to pull out as many loose hairs as she could find. They all went into the bag. She noticed that two of seventeen hairs were red on the lower end. Clear evidence of red hair being dyed black. She opened the other drawers. Packaged soap of cheap quality filled the middle drawer. The bottom drawer held a small hand mirror, like that which some people took on a camping trip. Its glass had several smudges on it, two of which looked like fingerprints. Nice! She put it into a third bag.

  “Click-thunk,” came from the entry door. That was followed by a ‘click’ as the door knob was unlocked.