by G T Almasi
“Oh, crap,” I groan after Cyrus tells me this. “I’m sorry, sir.” I brace myself for one of his roof-shaking scoldings.
Cyrus shrugs, and his eyes flick away from my face. “It happens.”
Uh oh.
I keep my eyes pointed at my boss while I comm to Trick, “Why isn’t Cyrus yelling at me? What’s wrong with him?”
Patrick holds his expression steady. “Nothing’s wrong with him.”
“He is pissed, though, right?”
“Oh-h, yeah.”
“About me losing that firefight?”
“No, not that.”
“What, then?”
“You know how Levels are supposed to comm intel to their Info Operator the moment they receive it?”
“Oh.” Damn. “That.”
“Yeah, that.” Patrick shifts his feet so he’s behind our boss. “Cyrus gave me a loud earful when he realized we’d dropped that ball, but he cooled off when we realized how badly hurt you were.”
I sit up straighter. “Sir, I’m sorry I forgot to comm my intel to Solomon. Couldn’t the Med-Techs access my Bio-Drive?”
“They could—” he sighs “—but you didn’t copy the files off the data pod.”
Double damn.
“And your partner didn’t remind you.” Cyrus turns and briefly roasts Trick with a scorching glare. Trick’s jaw tightens, but otherwise he stands still.
I look down at the bedcovers. “Boss, I’m really sorry. It was … I …”
Shit, that data was the whole reason I went to Baghdad.
He sighs. “It’s all right, Alix.” His hand pats my leg through the blanket. His fingernails are very smooth, and he has unusually long fingers. “Rashid got a sense of what was on the data pod from your reaction to it. Hearing your father’s voice after so long can’t have been easy.” He pulls a chair up to my bedside and sits down. “It’s been a long three months, though. We’ve only been able to work with the intel you got from Jacques, which isn’t much. The sole copy of Rashid’s intel is in your organic memory, and maybe in your Day Loop.”
Three months lost. “Oh, crap,” I groan. “Boss, I—”
Sharply, Cyrus says, “You’ve already apologized, Scarlet, but I want you to remember this. We never know what’s going to happen out there. The moment you harvest intel, you send it in. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” I say quietly. “Do you want my report now?”
“Not yet. Chanez is on his way. Let’s wait for him so you only have to say it once.” He softens his voice. “There were two positives to the delay. We had time to research the Blades of Persia, and things had a chance to cool down a bit.”
It seems my high-visibility adventures in Baghdad forced Director Chanez to account for why his agents were shooting up someone else’s city. The Director tacked our Middle East trip onto the Fuerza Libertad mission, backdated the entry, and talked his way past his superiors.
“I didn’t know the dates in CORE could be faked,” I comm to Patrick.
“They can’t, supposedly,” he comms back. “Chanez’s clearance must give him a work-around.”
Cyrus tells me that—based on the evidence Patrick and I gathered in Paris—the ExOps brass is questioning whether my father was genuinely assigned to investigate the Blades of Persia or if he just made it up and went rogue.
Well, my report will certainly have something to say about that.
CHAPTER 20
NINETY MINUTES LATER, 9:15 A.M. EST EXOPS HEADQUARTERS, HOTEL BETHESDA, WASHINGTON, D.C., USA
“Okay, and one more.” Harriet hands me another pill.
“Jesus, Harriet,” I grouse, “this one’s as big as a baseball!”
“Oh, that’s nothing.” She’s totally imperturbable. “You should see how we get the really gigantic pills into people.”
“Hmph.” I cram the pill into my mouth, sip some water, and choke it down. “Glagh! It tastes like a baseball, too.”
Harriet cheerfully ignores me and chirps, “All righty, sweetheart, you’re done.”
She could give a shit what the pills taste like.
“Now then, gentlemen,” Harriet purrs to Cyrus and Director Chanez. “I’m sure the world is about to end, but if you wear out my patient”—she flashes a big smile—“I will kick both your honky asses off my floor.” Harriet bustles herself out of the room, followed by my bosses’ stunned stares.
Patrick presses his lips together to keep from laughing. “You tell ’em, Harriet,” he comms to me.
“Now we know who wears the pants around here,” I comm back.
Director Chanez shifts his eyes back and forth a couple of times, like he’s trying to figure out if that was insubordination or not. He shakes his head a little, shifts in his chair, and clears his throat. “Scarlet, let’s begin with the files Rashid gave you. I’ve got Info recovering what they can from your Day Loop, but I’m not sure there’s much left.”
I comm to Trick, “What happened to my loop?”
“It didn’t like the electric shock I used to wake you up after you crashed into the river.”
“How about me being in a coma?”
“It didn’t like that either.”
Meanwhile, Chanez is saying, “I’ll hear what you can tell me now. They were your father’s reports from his last mission, correct?”
“Yes, Director.” I summarize the written reports as best as I can. I vividly recall my dad’s recorded conversation, and I’m able to recite most of it from memory. Chanez remains keenly focused on everything I say. Only when I’m finished does he ask questions.
“Scarlet, you’re sure about the name of the man your father worked for in Baghdad?”
“Kazim Nazari? Yes, sir.”
“And your father’s reports were clear that a man called Winter was running the Blades of Persia?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well,” Chanez says to Cyrus, “it sounds like this man Winter is real, after all. One moment, please.” The Director stops talking, and his eyes seem to lose focus. He’s comming. His expression shifts as he concentrates on his comm conversation. After a minute, his eyes clear and he looks at me again. “Okay, I’ve forwarded what you just said to Information Coordinator Harbaugh. He’ll run it through the jackframes and see what he turns up.”
I shift my position in bed. “Do we know anything about Winter, sir?”
“Only that Winter, or a group writing as Winter, periodically releases statements and manifestos to the press. He writes about freeing his people from the oppression of the West, that sort of thing. But the Blades have never claimed responsibility for a terrorist attack, and Winter has never appeared in public. He’s been more myth than man.”
“Except now he has a known associate,” Cyrus adds.
“Yes, he does.” Chanez stands up and gets himself a cup of water from the cooler in the corner. “And myths do not have associates.” Chanez and Cyrus discuss what they’ve heard about Winter. What little there is tends to contradict itself. Winter has done a good job of masking himself.
The door opens, and a stoutly built middle-aged woman clomps into the room, hands Chanez a sheaf of papers, and stomps back out again. Seems like Chanez prefers his secretaries to be the taciturn Brunhilde type.
I ask, “Do we know who Kazim is, sir?”
“We do now.” Chanez reads from a printed sheet. “Kazim Nazari, originally from Damascus, is a microbiologist and former biology teacher. He received his PhD at New York University, and his tuition and board were paid for by a charitable fund called the Darius Covenant. His current location is unknown.”
“Is that scholarship fund part of all this, sir?” Patrick asks.
“I would say so. It’s existed for almost ten years now. We’ve already got a file on it.” Chanez flips to another page and tells us that the Darius Covenant pays for selected people to go to college. Science degrees, mostly. Middle Eastern people, always. The administrators of the Darius Covenant have spotless records, but where the mo
ney comes from is still unknown. Our traces have only gotten lost in a web of shell corporations and affiliated organizations, most of which are barely more than a post office box and a disconnected phone number.
“Darius Covenant,” I mumble. “That’s a pretty dramatic name for a scholarship fund. Do we think it’s dirty?”
“Definitely.” Chanez nods. “Why else would its corporate structure be so convoluted?” He sets his printed pages aside and says to Trick, “Solomon, sit next to Scarlet, please, so I can brief you two at the same time.”
I scoot over to make room for my partner. He sits on the corner of the bed. Chanez leans forward with his elbows on his knees.
“Scarlet, your report indicates that your father was pursuing what he believed to be a genuine ExOps Job Number. It links Kazim Nazari with our mystery man, Winter, and his Blades of Persia. That link may even connect the Blades of Persia with the Darius Covenant. This is a significant breakthrough, because we finally have someone to go after. Good work, both of you.”
“Thank you, sir!” Through the covers, I poke my finger into my partner’s leg. Patrick smiles.
Cyrus says to me, “We also have a possible explanation for all the Russian Levels you’ve been encountering. First Hector in New York, then your mother’s kidnappers, and finally those three competitors who were waiting for you when you dropped into Baghdad.” He rubs his chin and looks at his boss. “None of these confrontations have fit the KGB’s normal methods.”
“Agreed,” the Director says, “Our Soviet cousins are much more discreet.” Chanez glances at me. “More effective, too.” He flips through his paperwork. “We haven’t heard a whisper from our sources in the Kremlin, and we definitely would have picked up something about three blown ops.” Chanez sets his papers on his lap and rubs his eyes. “No, these missions are being run by someone with extensive tactical resources but without the operational apparatus of a state-run covert agency.”
Cyrus’s eyebrows move up. “We’ve stumbled into a private war.”
“Exactly.” Director Chanez leans back in his chair and inhales deeply. “Our next step is to track down Kazim Nazari. He can lead us to Winter, the Blades, and the mystery behind Big Bertha’s last mission. I intensely dislike that we know so little about this. But what needs our immediate attention is how you two keep getting ambushed everywhere you go. Your trip to Baghdad didn’t officially happen until you were already back here.” Chanez thoughtfully taps his pen on his pile of paperwork. “We either have a mole, or someone has tapped into ExOps.”
Chanez says that he’s run a full security scan on everyone at ExOps. He didn’t find anything, but he admits that doesn’t mean there isn’t a mole. In fact, he’s pretty certain there’s been one for a while.
ExOps suffered a major security breach soon after my father was captured. The evidence indicated that there were three moles—an astonishing number in such a small agency. They ferreted out two of them, but the third mole either escaped or just never got caught. This third mole, nicknamed Scorpio, has haunted ExOps for eight years. These ambushes may be renewed activity on Scorpio’s part.
“Your last cover mission was based where you actually went.” Chanez jots down a note on one of his printouts. “This time, I’ll set up something that masks not only what you’re doing but also where you’re going. If you still get jumped, it’ll be because of where you physically are, not what the paperwork says.”
“Sir,” Patrick asks Chanez, “how could it be someone on the outside?”
Chanez answers, “It’s not probable, but anything is possible. Tapping into ExOps would be difficult. They’d need full access to multiple jackframe systems, one of which is only intermittently connected to the network. Unless …” He considers for a moment. “If someone had root access to your commphones, they could trace your locations through your No-Jack modules. But I don’t think anyone has that kind of clearance. I certainly don’t.”
Chanez writes another note to himself, then says, “Our friend Kazim Nazari left his teaching job ten years ago. He hasn’t appeared in our records since then, except for his apparent engagement with Big Bertha.” The Director puts his pen down and looks at me and Patrick. “Which brings us to your next Job Number. Scarlet and Solomon, I want you to interview a CIA stringer who may lead us to Kazim.”
“What’s the stringer’s name, sir?” Patrick asks.
“I don’t know.” Chanez’s expression reveals not a trace of irony. “But I know who does.” He tells us that the CIA maintains a Very Important Asset in the Middle East. The Director knows the case officer who runs him. This officer is based in—
“—Manhattan.” Chanez pauses dramatically and lowers his eyebrows at me. “Scarlet, I do not want another Wild West show. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Director.”
“I also don’t want to explain why we need this intel. If the CIA finds out about Big Bertha’s lost mission and our evident security problems, they’ll bury us with an Office of Security probe. We need to acquire this information without asking for it.”
I expect the Director to say something else, but instead he silently regards me and my partner. There’s a pregnant pause.
I comm to Trick, “Did I hear that right?”
“A-yup,” he comms back. “We’re gonna black bag the CIA.”
“Wow,” I comm.
Chanez makes some more notes, then says, “An Infiltrator will perform the actual acquisition. Cyrus, you can assign whoever you like. Scarlet, you and Solomon will provide backup and Info support.”
“Yes, sir,” we both say.
The Director turns to Cyrus. “Meanwhile, you and I will dig into CORE and find out where the hell the reports for Big Bertha’s last mission came from.”
“Yes, sir,” Cyrus says.
I ask, “Director, the nurse will need my schedule. When is the official briefing for this mission?”
Chanez stands up. “We just had it.”
TO: Director Chanez
FROM: Cyrus El-Sarim, Front Desk
SUBJECT: Advancement of Scarlet-A59 to Level 8
Dear Sir,
Attached please find the after-action reports, Information Department analyses, and field team testimonials from Scarlet’s latest mission in Baghdad. I strongly recommend that we promote this outstanding field agent from Level 6 to Level 8.
She has survived, yet again, a situation that probably would have killed any of our other Junior Levels. Her performance demonstrated stunning physical talents, ferocious combat instincts, and a bottomless pain threshold.
Her skill set will be a major factor in helping us achieve our goals regarding Big Bertha’s lost mission and the Blades of Persia. Please feel free to contact me with any questions you may have regarding this matter.
Respectfully,
Cyrus El-Sarim
CHAPTER 21
TWO WEEKS LATER, THURSDAY, AUGUST 28, 10:05 A.M. EST EXOPS HEADQUARTERS, HOTEL BETHESDA, WASHINGTON, D.C., USA
Every day I spend in rehab, I find another reason to hate being in rehab. The first day it was all I could do to have Cleo help me walk down to the end of the hall, and that was with a goddamn walker. My legs were as floppy as cooked spaghetti, and my forehead was slick with sweat from the effort. The second day Harriet removed my catheter and helped me use a bedpan to pee. I’d never used a bedpan before, and after that one time I vowed that I’d get to the bathroom if I had to drag myself there by my fingernails. A twenty-year-old woman deserves some dignity.
While I was on my twelve-week holiday in Comaville, Harriet shifted the position of my body so I wouldn’t get bedsores and Dr. Herodotus used some mild electrotherapy to keep my muscles active, but even with my Mods and physical conditioning I have to learn how to walk all over again. My legs have been incredibly stubborn about this. At first, I couldn’t even get myself out of bed without falling down in a cloud of swear words. After a week I could lurch myself into the bathroom with my stupid walker. Thank God my arms st
ill have some strength, because they had to do most of the work. It’s been two weeks since I woke up, and now I can get around fairly well. It’s been really humbling to be so completely dependent on other people.
I’ve done a lot of reading. Patrick brought me tons of files and dossiers from the ExOps Archive, including a long New York Times article with information about the European campaigns in World War II. I’ve only read stories about the American fight against Japan, so it’s interesting to read about what happened in “the other war.”
I’ve also been grinding my language skill by taking an advanced course in German. Every morning a nurse wheels me to class, where I learn amazing words like Geschwindigkeitsbegrenzung, which simply means “speed limit.” My classmates and I have found that the easiest way to memorize these monsters is to shout them at one another while we pound our fists on our desks.
After class I have lunch, then more physical therapy, then dinner. In the early evenings I either meet with Cyrus or attend a tedious Info briefing about the Blades of Persia or the Middle East. All this activity keeps my mind off how much I hate rehab, but eventually I wind up back in my goddamn bed, trapped and lonely.
Last week I was so miserable that Cyrus wheeled me outside to the park across the street from the Bethesda for our meeting. He set me on the grass under a tree and sat next to me. I helped him unload a bag of lunch he’d brought from a deli down the street. Subs! Sodas! Bags of potato chips! That morning, Dr. Herodotus had finally cleared me for regular food. I tore into my sandwich like a Tasmanian devil. After a week of being on hospital chow, it tasted like heaven. Cyrus and I ate and went over some things that the Information Department had figured out.
Cyrus didn’t waste much time on small talk. “We think someone has taken out a contract on you and hired the Blades of Persia to carry it out.” He cracked open a can of soda.
I reeled in shock. My mouth hung open for a moment until I remembered it was still full of potato chips. I crunched them down. “Who the hell would take out a hit on me? I’m only a Level 6—I mean, Level 8.”