by George Noory
“And he didn’t,” Greg said. The conclusion was evident from Aaron’s tone and Greg immediately saw a flaw in the reasoning behind the picture theory. “The images would have been erased as soon as they were recorded.”
“Yes, that’s what we ultimately decided. They are too smart to leave the evidence stored in a file that could be hacked into.”
“The greatest danger to the visitors is the NRO,” Greg said. “There’s more chance of exposures from satellites than any other sources. That makes controlling the NRO a necessity.”
The NRO had in constant motion reconnaissance satellites ringing the entire planet, snapping thousands of pictures every day. The cameras wouldn’t be directed toward UFOs but it was inevitable that pictures would be taken of them. The visitors would also have to deal with any other satellites capable of detecting them, but the NRO would be the main risk of exposure.
Greg asked, “What did Ethan actually find?”
Aaron gave him a look over a sip of soda. “That’s what we need to know from you.”
Here we go again.
“What if I told you Ethan never gave me anything?”
“I would say you’re a liar. Ethan told us he had gotten the information for you to expose on your show. And he showed us proof because we wanted to know what he planned to do with the information he found.”
“What proof?”
“Receipt for a money transfer from you to him. He said you had given him the money so that he could get out of the country and go into hiding when you released the information over the air. He was going to share the information with us at the same time, but he didn’t. He got so cranked up on meth that we couldn’t get anything from him except gibberish. Another Aaron told me he thought Ethan had taken a dose that fried his brains.”
Perhaps provided by someone who wanted Ethan’s brains to be scrambled, Greg thought.
“I can’t explain why money got transferred out of my account to Ethan’s, but I guarantee you it got there without me knowing anything about it.”
“Is that what you told the police?
“They didn’t believe it.”
“Neither do I.”
“It should be obvious that if I had the information you believe Ethan got from cracking an NRO program, I wouldn’t be running around trying to find it. Like Ethan told you, I’d be on the air with it, not on the run from the police, hiding out in a trolley at an amusement park.”
“We don’t believe you. And we’re willing to make a deal. Give us the file Ethan downloaded and we’ll help you disappear.”
“Disappear? I don’t want to disappear. I want to clear my name.”
“You don’t have another choice. Unless you turn over the file to us, you’ll be met by the police before you can exit the tour. One of our people is hanging out by the police substation in CityWalk. If I give a signal, you’ll be grabbed before you make it back to your car. We know where you parked, of course.” He smirked again. “We have access to the cameras.”
The smirk really pissed Greg off. It gave him tight jaws. “That’s a good, public-spirited attitude,” he said. “Blackmail me rather than help me out.” As he spoke he slipped his hand into Ali’s handbag. “I don’t think I like you, one-one-whatever your number is. I think you’re an arrogant asshole.”
Greg brought his hand out of the handbag with Ali’s phone and leaped forward and grabbed 11101 around the neck, jerking him close with the side of his face against the Aaron’s. He snapped a selfie of himself and the jerk.
The Aaron pulled free. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Get us back to CityWalk, you prick, before I send your ugly mug to my Web site and it goes viral. When that happens you can explain why you helped me steal secrets—if you can talk between gulps of toilet water they’ll waterboard you with.”
* * *
Walking to the car, Ali said, “That was quick thinking on your part. I can’t even imagine how you thought of it or how you pulled it off.”
“An act of desperation and frustration arising from being an innocent man caught up in a web of intrigue. I’m not only tired of everyone knowing more than me, but of everyone thinking I know more than I do. And being called a liar.”
51
Leon followed the silver Honda Civic carrying Greg and Ali from the CityWalk parking lot down the hill to a right on Lankershim, up to Cahuenga and then the Ventura Freeway heading toward Pasadena. At Pasadena the Honda merged onto the 210 East, with the white van behind it.
Leon already knew the destination of the people he was following. It was the Azusa safe house that Franklin had arranged for them.
He proudly repeated every turn he made, speaking aloud to continuously update the Voice on his progress, all of which was unnecessary since the van was being tracked by his controllers. He tried to keep the Honda in sight but it wasn’t necessary since it was also being tracked.
The Honda got off at the Azusa exit and pulled into the drive-through of a fast food place.
Leon pulled over to the curb and stopped at a spot that kept the Honda in sight.
“Is it time to punish these people?” he asked the Voice.
There will be a time to punish the man, but the time is not right. But it will be soon.
The Honda pulled over to a parking space in the fast food lot after receiving the food.
“They’re gonna eat it there,” Leon said.
He hated the waiting. He worked best and was most manageable if he had simple goals with quick results. Anything that required patience, planning or introspection was pushing the envelope with him.
He had thoughts, but they didn’t stay around and build into anything. Thoughts about childhood, of his nonexistent brutal father and absentee mother, dark days at schools and the orphanage where he beat on children he could hurt and took beatings from ones who could hurt him, flashed like cars speeding by on a dark road, but little of it stuck to be mulled over.
Everything that went through his mind was real to him despite the fact some of it never happened and much of it came down far different than he remembered.
He had no abiding interest in people. He was an emotional desert with occasional volcanic eruptions of rage, a person who had no need for friendship or companionship, and had never been in love with or even infatuated with a woman or even had an intimate, down-and-dirty, personal, let-it-all-hang-out conversation with anyone.
The lengthiest conversations he had were with psychiatrists, during which he lied about anything important and said what he thought the doctors wanted to hear. He fooled no one, but he believed he was being clever and manipulative and it gave him a satisfying sense of power.
He never had much schooling and knew little about the world other than the range of things that affected him. He didn’t possess the commonsense skills needed to survive daily life at the most basic level—working for a wage, paying rent and utilities and buying food.
Early on he found it easier to commit crimes to get the necessities of life because he couldn’t hold down a job. Getting locked up in a prison or mental hospital was a relief—it meant he was in a controlled environment in which he didn’t have to survive on his own. Confinement worked well only temporarily because he was unable to control his impulse to do violence. He would soon become fixated on how he could murder someone in the facility.
Being captive to the Voice was comfortable, almost like being back at the hospital, because it didn’t require that he keep a job and pay bills. It was even better than prison or a psych ward because it gave him an outlet for his rage.
He had been chosen for murder assignments because he had few needs beyond eating, excreting and sleeping. What he enjoyed most beyond eating and sleeping was playing violent video games and watching action films.
He also had a fascination for virtual Internet gambling, but only for the slot machines. He played them on the Internet at every opportunity, even if it was just pausing for a few minutes in his van. The simplicity and mindlessness of the
slots with their colorful displays, sound effects and loud payoffs held his attention.
He didn’t question the reasons behind the commands he was given because the Voice satisfied all his needs without raising his ire. He got rewards when he did well, extra time playing computer games, slot machines and watching action movies. There had been a time when violent porn had been on his cravings list, but no more because he no longer had sexual urges.
Years earlier he would have had sexual cravings for both sexes that were violent and impossible for him to control. Those uncontrollable urges were dulled after he was chemically castrated in the mental hospital. He had agreed to the process because it got him out of his cell and a look at his surroundings and thoughts about ways to escape.
He was still being chemically castrated as part of his management by the Voice. The drug was part of the cocktail of antipsychotic drugs that kept his violent sexual urges under control. It wasn’t a once-and-then-done treatment, but had to be periodically administered to keep the drive from returning.
The castration drug reduced Leon’s sex drive, the compulsive, violent sexual fantasies he used to suffer and his capacity to achieve arousal and erection. The rest of the cocktail kept his other murderous impulses in check, at least until they were needed to complete missions.
The purpose was not to protect society from a violent, sexually deviant psychopath, but for his controllers to keep him on a choke chain and direct his aggressions for their own use.
A side effect of the castration drug would be apparent to anyone who saw Leon’s naked chest before he had been given the drug—his breasts were larger now. Gynecomastia, the development of larger than normal breasts in men, was a side effect of the drug. So was an increase in body fat. The physical side effects were similar to what eunuchs suffered.
The Honda left the fast food parking lot and he followed behind it as it headed in the direction of the foothills that began just a few miles from the freeway.
The car made a left turn into a residential development but he didn’t follow behind it because he was concerned he would be spotted. Instead, he drove farther up the road and made a U-turn, coming back and turning into the development. He already knew the address.
The Voice said, Park at least a block away from the house, Leon. And wait until I tell you it is time to go.
“What will I be doing?”
God’s work, Leon, as you always do, as Saint Leon did before you.
“I’m hungry.”
Later, after your work is done. You haven’t heard the man you are following speak, have you, Leon?
“No. Not yet.”
When you hear the man’s voice, it will be familiar to you. He sounds like your father.
52
Novak hated telling Mond things he didn’t like hearing.
“The woman using the name Alyssa Neal has not been identified as a member of any governmental or private intelligence agency. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Ditto for any other documentation about her.”
“She’s been erased,” Mond said. “It’s difficult but not impossible to do. We’ve done it many times.”
She started to ask why the agency had erased people but a look from him stopped her: she was certain he regretted making the statement. A signal coming through on her control panel saved her from getting snapped at for his mistake.
Novak said, “Sir—Nowell and the woman have been spotted.”
“Put it on the screen.”
The scene that came up on the war board was of Greg Nowell and the woman calling herself Alyssa Neal standing by a garishly lit store selling tourist items.
“Where are they?”
“CityWalk. The outdoor mall at the Universal Studios tour.”
“When was this shot?”
“Twenty-nine minutes ago. It’s the mall’s CCTV put online.”
“Twenty-nine minutes. We might be able to catch up with them. First let’s see if they’re still there. Go directly to the parking exits, starting with the one closest to where they’re standing.”
Novak entered a search command on all the mall’s cameras for images of the two suspects and brought up images of them in the parking lot getting into a silver Honda Civic to leave CityWalk. They followed the car out of the parking lot and down the steep incline to a right turn on Lankershim.
“You familiar with the area?” Mond asked her.
“Yes, sir. I live in North Hollywood.”
“Where would you guess they’re heading?”
“They could be going anywhere, but if they stay headed in the same direction they would be able to get onto the Ventura Freeway.”
“Which goes to?”
“It goes east and west and connects to other freeways that also go north and south. I’ll pull up the east and west freeway on-ramps to see which one they take.”
Mond got up and paced. She had not seen him so excited till now, but they had a chance to close in on the suspects.
“East, sir, they’re heading in the direction of Pasadena, but the freeway connects to the 10 that goes all the way to Florida.”
“Scan the exit cameras for the car starting with the closest one to where they got on the freeway.”
The agency’s superfast computers flew through each exit camera in seconds. Novak jumped in her seat when she got a hit.
“Got ’em, sir. They got off the freeway just a moment ago. A place called Azusa. It’s not a heavily populated area.”
“Get our field people headed there in copters, direct drones for immediate aerial surveillance, get satellite coverage and notify the local police to immediately detain them but they’re not to question—”
“Wait!”
“What? Don’t interrupt me.”
“Sir, there’s a priority-five message for your eyes only.”
Novak passed the link to the message to Mond’s cell phone. She tried not to look but it was obvious that the message did not sit well with Mond. At first he seemed surprised, a slap-in-the-face surprised. And puzzled. Now he appeared petrified. She cringed, wondering if she had done something to generate the message of the highest priority.
When he spoke, he didn’t look at her. “We have been ordered off the surveillance. Shut down all programs being used. Get the word out to our field agents to return to—”
“That can’t be!” Novak gasped. “We’ve found them in real time. We just need to get the local police to grab them.”
Mond’s face had turned pale when he read the message. Now it went red. “Don’t ever question an order. I should have you reprimanded.”
“I—I’m sorry, sir, I just—”
“You don’t understand, you’re not seeing the big picture.”
Mond got up and paced, getting control of his anger. He waved up at the image of the car on a street in Azusa.
“The decision’s made. They will deal with Nowell and the woman in another manner.”
53
“What’s the matter?” Ali asked.
Greg had been peering in the side and rearview mirrors since they got off the freeway in Azusa and ate fast food. They had stopped at an In-N-Out Burger before heading out of the business district, going north, toward the foothills.
He kept checking the car’s mirrors as they headed for the neighborhood of Bob, Franklin’s under-the-radar friend. It was dark and all Greg saw in the mirrors were headlights.
“I don’t know. Paranoia. I noticed a van behind us as we got off the freeway. I can’t tell if it’s still back there.”
“What kind of van?”
“I’m not sure, a company van, white, maybe a plumber or something.”
“You really are paranoid if you think we’re being followed by plumbers.”
“Yeah, but a van almost turned me into roadkill on my way to the funicular the night you passed me that cryptic message. Don’t forget Rohan was paranoid, too, but he might have opened the door to a guy in a work uniform. I’m trying to remember if I saw a company van on
Rohan’s street when I got there, but nothing pops up.”
Azusa was one of the hundreds of unmemorable bedroom towns and districts for the nearly 20 million people of the L.A. combined area that spread out from the coast to the desert for about fifty miles in every direction. The main part of the town hugged the area between the 210 Freeway and the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains.
Not far from the freeway the foothills began, rising to nearly nine thousand feet, not particularly high peaks when compared to the Sierras. Narrow roads, not all paved, led up the foothills from the flatlands, with most of the roads ending in dead ends, often at lakes or reservoirs.
The trees and bushes were the typically moisture-stunted variety found in Southern California. The farther east one went, greenery stopped and the sparse, sandy Mojave and Sonoran deserts unfolded. The basin turned into an oasis only where water stolen from the north of the state and other western states was used.
“I’m wondering what comes after Bob,” Ali said.
He knew she was not happy about the way things had gone with the Aaron. She thought Greg hadn’t been tolerant enough with the jerk.
“We need them,” she told him earlier as they headed for Azusa. “How else are we going to get help?”
He didn’t see the secret organization of hackers as rescuers. They had their own agenda and he doubted it amounted to much more than what the CityWalk Aaron had said—give me the secret file or we’ll turn you in to the cops. Once they had the file and their fifteen minutes of fame, Greg and Ali could rot in prison.
No one was going to protect them from the authorities. No one could for long, anyway. Once he ran out of friendly, safe places to stay, and Bob might be the last one, and ran out of places to search for the file, which he already had, he wondered what else was left except to wave down the nearest cop and tell him he’d made his day by helping him capture a desperate criminal.
He sensed the darkness closing in on him, smothering, as if he had disturbed some primeval, preternatural underworld that dark things escaped from. He felt claustrophobic. He needed to get out of the car and walk but that wasn’t in the cards at night in a strange town. He would just attract the attention of the police.