The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol

by Josie Brown

  Emma sighs. “He will have dissected the damn thing in no time, and all will be right in the world again. Seriously, I don’t know who’s a bigger baby: him, or Nicky.”

  “Let’s not digress to the obvious, people! We all want to get out of here before sundown.” The thought of a decent night’s sleep brings a smile to Ryan’s lips. “Any more loose ends to clear up so that we can close the case file on Operation Hercules?”

  A thought hits me. “I’ve got one. How did you guys find me?”

  “You can thank your penchant for slovenliness,” Dominic replies. “I presume it’s why you wore the same pants in which you put the GPS tags, is it not?”

  The way in which I stab the table with my pen between his open index and middle fingers warns him against presuming anything.

  “Donna!” Ryan warns.

  I put my hands in my lap and smile prettily at him.

  He shakes his head. “Anything else?”

  I turn to Jack. “What did Trisha say to Janie that got her so upset?”

  Jack laughs. “It’s my fault. You see, I told her that should she have the urge to tell someone where you really were, she should simply reply that you are watching from Heaven. Unfortunately, Janie then let it be known that her mother had already informed her that you were burning in hell instead. Your daughter—being a chip off of your very luscious block—replied, in no uncertain terms, that if that were the case, Babette would most likely join her there, since Babette was, and I quote, ‘the worst mother in the world.’ Needless to say, Janie didn’t take it too well. Apparently, neither did Babette. I think the Craigs have finally been banished from Lion’s Lair.”

  “Oh, I seriously doubt that,” Ryan retorts. “Speaking of the Chiffrays, Lee wanted to show his appreciation to the Craigs with a little quid pro quo: he asked Assistant Attorney Reynolds to send a letter to the trustee of the Martin family, warning of an investigation if Evan’s funds weren’t released to him, or to the organizations who were also beneficiaries of the Martin Family largesse. Evan should be hearing from the trustee within twenty-four hours.”

  Good for Lee. Other than a pardon, it’s the best way he could repay me for initiating ghost protocol on this operation. I’m sure Reynolds balked, but too bad.

  “Which leads us to one other bit of cleanup. I feel it will answer a lot of the questions we still have outstanding as to why Operation Hercules failed so miserably in its application.” Ryan turns to Emma. “Want to give them the news?”

  “It was really Abu’s great idea.” She nods in his direction.

  Abu shrugs “As Donna so pointedly discovered”—he smothers his grin—“this Carl—as well as Tatyana, Salem, and Heinried—were imposters, and the real ones are dead after all. But who were the fakes? And, for that matter, who put them up to it, and why? I found it hard to believe that Fake Carl was the mastermind. So I got to thinking: what if it were something Eric Weber set into motion? I thought it worth mentioning to Ryan.”

  Ryan nods. “And I asked Emma to tap into the visitor logs at Eric’s, er, ‘hotel’.” He means the dark site where Eric is being held until he takes his last breath. “There’s been only one visitor.”

  He taps the screen, showing time-stamped webcam footage of it:

  Dr. Norbert Welles appears on the screen.

  “My God,” Jack murmurs. “How did he get access?”

  “Apparently, he used his research with Operation Hercules as the reason for need.”

  I zoom in to the name he writes when he signs in:

  Frank N. Stein

  “Clever,” I murmur.

  Ryan shrugs. “What do you say, Donna, are you up for a visit to your biggest fan?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  But only because I need closure on this anecdote.

  “You look disappointed, my dear! Were you expecting a straight jacket and metal mask?” Eric Weber clucks his tongue. “How cliché.”

  Frankly, I didn’t know what to expect. His cell—in this state-of-the-art maximum-security prison high on a sheer butte somewhere deep in a Utah mountain range—could be on the set of a James Bond movie. Even seeing that he is tethered by his wrists and ankles to a metal chair that is bolted into the steel floor of a cage made of impenetrable glass, I ask myself: Can even this place hold back the wrath of the titular head of the Quorum?

  With what I’ve just been through, I give it a fifty-fifty chance.

  When I don’t answer him, he stares me down. There may be a smirk on his face, but there is adoration in his eyes.

  A psychopath who is in love with the one who got away? Now, that’s a cliché.

  Finally, Eric sighs. “I presume you’re here to talk about my little army of phantoms.”

  “Yes.” I lower myself onto the chair that has been placed five feet from the glass cage. My strategy: act dumb. With so many still unanswered questions, it’s easy to do. “Eric, how did you do it? How did you bring them back to life?”

  He laughs joyously, as if we’re sharing a joke at a cocktail party. “You’ve got it backwards, my dear! We never did.”

  “But…but I was with him: Carl. He knew things only Carl would know. And his DNA analysis confirmed it. For that matter, so did that of my…twin, or whatever—”

  “Good, good! The authorities must cover all aspects of verification, eh? And that of Salem as well?” His grin is as wide as a jack-o-lantern’s. “And what of Tatyana? How is she?” He shakes his head at his gaffe. “I meant to say, how was she? She is now dead again, I presume?”

  “Yes. Jack killed her—this time around.”

  “Don’t be so jealous. You got her the first time. Maybe it was an act of transference on his part. She was so much like you—a natural. Did he strangle her? Such a pretty little neck!” He tilts his head and smiles, as if envisioning the deed.

  I stifle my urge to shiver. “Nah. Bullet to the head.” I mimic the act, pointing to his as I pull an imaginary trigger.

  Apparently, he doesn’t like my little joke. His jack-o-lantern grin fades. “You should ask your questions,” he demands crisply. “Otherwise, you’ll lose your window of opportunity to leave. At dusk, the winds are so wicked that one cannot fly off this godforsaken rock.”

  “Eric, level with me. Were they clones, or”—okay, I don’t believe I’m saying this—“Zombies?”

  “Zombies? No! Clones are closer to the truth. We called them ‘twins’ because their genetic make-up is almost identical to that of the original subject—the ‘immortal,’ if you will. But the goal was to simply satisfy any DNA test that would validate the twin as the immortal.”

  “How did you accomplish this?”

  He’s all smiles again. “Whereas it is true that each snippet of DNA contains common variants, the code found in all organisms can be laid out in a simple chart bearing sixty-four amino acids. God gave us a wonderful head start, and Dr. Brooks’ research took advantage of it.” He laughs. “The good doctor created a database that identifies tens of thousands of these commonalities in the genetic code. Like Acme and other covert agencies and governments, the Quorum keeps samples of our operatives’ DNA on hand. Dr. Welles took it from there. An acceptable twin’s profile had to have somewhat more than four hundred matching variants.” He preens at the beauty of it all.

  So that’s why Salem’s and Carl’s evil twins passed Acme’s DNA analysis—and Gigi too, for that matter.

  “Obviously, a twin’s external features weren’t always the same as the original’s,” I counter. “Even identical twins have mirror features.”

  “When enhancements were needed, it was done the old fashioned way: with dye, make-up, or sometimes a vocal chord was altered,” Eric concedes. “And of course, plastic surgery—you know, a nip here, a tuck there.” He taps the middle and index fingers together, as if they are scissors.

  “Speaking of which, there was one very important feature you got wrong on Fake Carl.” I hold up a pinky finger then let it droop.

  He chuckle
s at the sarcasm in my voice. “The rumors of Carl’s manhood were so often exaggerated that I doubt any twin could have lived up to it! I suppose we should have tried harder. If it is any consolation, he was a disappointment to me, too…Oh! Not in that way.” He winks knowingly. “The audacity of the man—to think he could run this scheme without me! Such arrogance! In that way, too, he was exactly like the original. And it was he who convinced the others that they didn’t need me.”

  “Who was he, anyway?”

  “A Russian, of course. Undercover here, in the United States.” Eric sighs. “SVR agents—bah! There isn’t a loyal one among them. I blame Putin for that.” He shrugs. “No matter. I knew you could stop him, my dear Donna. My little super soldier girl!”

  I yawn to show him I am immune to his flattery. “Why attempt to fake an ‘immortal’ in the first place?” I ask.

  His smile fades. “Isn’t the reason obvious? All facets of Operation Hercules—regenerative bodies, strengthened bodies, perfected bodies—and full access to everything your mind holds, including every memory—is one way in which the Quorum lives forever.”

  Noting my stare, he sighs at my lack of awareness of the obvious. “How did you feel, my pretty, when you saw Salem, whom you’d only killed a few weeks prior? I’m sure Jack did a double-take at the sight of Heinried. Just the thought of an organization made of humans who’ll never die strikes terror in the hearts and minds of men!” My slight nod is the acknowledgement he needs. “Oh, how I wish I could have been there when you set eyes on Carl! Did you faint? Were there tears? …No? Of course not. You’re made of stronger stuff than that. It’s why we had such a hard time finding a perfect match for you.” He winks playfully. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear this, my pet, but in full disclosure we encouraged your twin, little Gigi, to put on a bit more weight.”

  “Thanks for your honesty,” I say dryly. “The brainwashing portion of your little experiment must have taken forever. And where did you get all the juicy little details that only the original or an intimate would know?”

  “Every Quorum member goes through hypnosis. Their memories are documented in a dossier.” He leans in, conspiratorially. “Traditionally, it is used as a way in which to ensure our members’ loyalties. No one wants her naughty little secrets aired in public, am I right? But last year, when we first saw Eileen’s intel on Operation Hercules, we realized how it might be better used: as a means to immortality.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “You’re quite mad.”

  “Ten years ago, I would have agreed with you. Ten years from now—had you not interfered, that is—I’d be recognized as the genius who discovered the fountain of youth!” His eyes open wide with his passion. “What others would pay for a sip! And, as with everything humankind does, it all begins with the hunger for war. Blame your government, my dear Donna, not little old me. If it wasn’t trying so hard to create the perfect soldier, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me today.” He chuckles. “For that alone, the stealth of Operation Hercules was worth it.” A sudden thought darkens his eyes. “Poor Eileen! I’d hoped she’d live to see this day.” He shakes his head sadly. “Still, she has achieved a sense of immortality. Her work continued even beyond her passing. From what I gather, the Quorum has you to blame for finally putting her to rest yet again.”

  “The iPad would not have stayed hidden forever.” I shrug. “So much for ‘immortality.’ From what I could tell, the planting of new memories in the twins had its limitations. I didn’t know Salem or Tatyana as well as I knew Carl, but I knew them well enough to suspect they weren’t who they said they were.”

  “The initial research on Dr. Wollstonecraft’s memory modification was so promising that it made us hopeful. And when the technique was applied to the twins, our monitoring showed that the memories were in fact taking root in the fertile synapses provided by their young robust minds. But unfortunately, we could never emulate Dr. Wollstonecraft’s success.”

  “It didn’t work, thanks to a little thing called free will.” I’m proof of this, although I’d never let him know that.

  He shrugs his own acquiescence. “Perhaps. In any event, we made the decision to shelve the dream of immortality. Still, it made a convincing dog-and-pony show as we moved to our Plan B: sell our methodology to those who are willing to try anything to recruit new members: the myriad of terrorist cells that pock the earth.” He laughs. “Welles insisted he could enhance Dr. Wollstonecraft’s memory modification techniques so that when the moment came for a united front, a key memory planted deep within the recesses of each soldier would have turned them against their leaders, into a united Quorum army spanning the world.”

  “It didn’t matter what ideology motivated any individual group,” I reason, “as long as anarchy was created.”

  “Yes! You understand now!” He nods at me, his star pupil. “The cells’ leaders never realized that they’d be training their armies to march, lockstep, in our war.”

  “Did you truly believe Welles was up to the task?” I ask.

  “I guess we’ll never know. More than a third of our test subjects—the kidnapped covert field agents—resisted the process. They were exterminated. But there are enough who showed progress for us to at least pretend we’d created our own army of super soldiers, all of whom were once loyal to their own countries.” Eric shrugs. “The research being done by Dr. Brooks would have brought the body to its optimum physical level. Dr. Welles showed us how to resurrect the injured, sick, and dying. Linked with Dr. Wollstonecraft’s memory research—or so we thought—we should have created the perfect soldier: strong, regenerative, and unwavering in his or her commitment to the cause.” He shrugs. “Instead, when the planted memories were in conflict with their own thoughts and beliefs, it created anger and agitation that could not be controlled.” He smiles. “So you see, my dear, by exterminating these mutants, you did the Quorum a favor. We thank you to no end.”

  “You act as if you’re still a part of it.”

  Eric looks at me as if he’s seeing me for the very first time. “My pet, one never quits the Quorum.”

  I rise with a smile. “You forget. I did.”

  Eric’s laughter follows me out the door.

  Eric is right about one thing: the wind. George and I have a stomach-churning helicopter takeoff from the butte.

  I’m still thinking about the project’s failure when we land in Salt Lake City, where Acme’s plane waits on the tarmac.

  “Go on, let me hear you say it,” George teases me. “‘Home, Jeeves.’”

  I laugh. “You took the words out of my…no, wait! Would you mind if we took a detour?”

  “If we get caught, will you face the wrath of Ryan?”

  “He’ll appreciate why I did it, so yes. Besides, it will only take a couple of hours. See if you can get clearance into Oakland.”

  He does, and we’re on our way: to find the missing link.

  Shelley Wollstonecraft is surprised to see me, as she should be. As to be expected, she is even more surprised that Evan isn’t with me. Still, she ushers me into her office.

  “He wrote me to apologize for being the cause of the malware.” She laughs. “It happens so often—even here at the university, with all of our tech security measures—that he really shouldn’t feel guilty. It wasn’t his fault. It’s just that this was a particularly virulent strain. I wanted him to be aware of it, for the safety of his own computer, or other emails he may have been sending out.”

  “Evan truly didn’t have any idea what was sent with the file. Thank you again, for not holding it against him.” I hesitate before adding, “In fact, it was a Trojan virus, sent with the approval of POTUS and Director of Intelligence Barnham.”

  She sits, stunned. “How do you know this?”

  “My company is a consultant to several security agencies in the U.S. government, including DARPA. The president assigned it the task of plugging a leak on the research of Operation Hercules. Evan’s appointment was to ha
ve given us an opportunity to access your cell phone’s photo archive. It didn’t work out that way.”

  “Because I didn’t have the phone with me,” she reasons.

  “Yes, exactly. But then, when you encouraged him to send you his memory research, we saw our way back into your photo archive, which we assumed was synced with your computer and some cloud archive.”

  She nods.

  “Dr. Wollstonecraft, I’m not proud that we used an unsuspecting teenager’s budding relationship with you to do it. That being said, you know better than most what is at stake here. It’s why I’m being honest with you.”

  “I realize that.” Shelley shrugs. “I also realize you could have found a myriad of other ways to access my phone.”

  I look down at the ground. “I wish we had.”

  She sighs. “I presume you’re here because I was cleared of any wrongdoing.”

  “Yes. But another scientist was implicated: Norbert Welles.”

  “Ah. So, he acquiesced to Graffias International?”

  I look closely at her. “Graffias approached you too?”

  “Yes. The contact, Heinried Müller, came with a very generous offer—much too generous for what he claimed he really wanted, which was a license for commercial use of the research—after we were released from our contract with the government, of course. When I didn’t accept it, he thought threats would work better. I quit hearing from him when he finally got what he wanted.” She smiles slyly. “Only, he didn’t, really.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Müller’s full court press put me on edge. Then one night, after I’d gone home, I came back here to my office to pick up a student’s research paper I’d forgotten. As I opened the door, I sensed a presence. It wasn’t a person, but something that looked like a tiny insect. It was flying around my desk. My entrance startled it. First, it froze. A moment later it flew toward the ceiling and hovered there. Only then did I realize it was a drone.” She shakes her head in wonderment. “It was looking at the latest results of an Operation Hercules test subject! After that, I hid all the research. When it came time to write my white paper, I deliberately left out important techniques used in the gathering of the project’s true findings. I knew that when the time came for the military’s actual implementation with live subjects, I’d be assigned to lead it anyway. At that point, all of these techniques would be put back in play.”