The Sound of Echoes

by Eric Bernt

  In 1988, Ronald Reagan was in the third year of his second term in the Oval Office. The American Heritage Foundation considered the decision to facilitate the former actor’s ascent to the presidency the single best move it had made during its first thirteen years of existence. Every policy it had acted to implement had been put into place. Likewise every judge and every appointee. The AHF now had measures of control in every area of the federal government, and in a growing number of state and local ones as well.

  Things couldn’t have been going better, which was what concerned the new director of the foundation—at least, that was what he told his most recent hire, a young Princeton graduate named Robert Stenson. Lawrence Walters was one of the seven original founders. It was understood back in 1975, when the foundation first opened its doors, that Lawrence would succeed the original director, Tobias Ritter, upon his retirement. That event occurred considerably sooner than anyone inside the American Heritage Foundation had anticipated, due to the discovery of Tobias’s stage III pancreatic cancer. Sadly, the one factor the foundation’s elder statesman couldn’t manipulate to his liking was his own health.

  After making sure Reagan was reelected, Tobias turned over the foundation director’s chair to Lawrence with a quiet admonition: “Stay true. To our mission. To our principles. And our values. If you ever find yourself wondering if you’ve lost your way, you already have. You must be certain you can trust that all who join the effort have the strength of character to bring down the house if you, or anyone else, leads us astray. Everyone must have their own Alpha Reset Protocol.”

  Lawrence knew exactly what he meant. In the construction business, if a foundation wasn’t rock-solid, the rest of a building could never be. The only way to fix such a problem was to tear the structure down to the ground and start over. The same was true within the intelligence community, particularly in black ops, where there was no reporting structure or oversight. Correction or repair had to come from within. Any member of a black-ops team had to be willing to demolish the enterprise and perform a master reboot.

  Caitlin’s father had explained this to Robert Stenson on his first day. The new hire, who came to be called Bob, seemed to take it to heart, although such a demolition never became even a remote consideration while Lawrence was in charge. His character was impeccable, and he never allowed his ego or other personal considerations to influence any decision he made while director.

  When his eldest daughter, Caitlin, had proven herself worthy to the rest of the foundation’s hiring committee, Lawrence made sure to privately impart the importance of developing an Alpha Reset Protocol. She said she understood the value of such a plan but admitted to having no practical idea of how to execute one, should the time ever come. That was when her father put his arm around her and said, “If that day ever does arrive, you can use mine.”

  Stenson, studying the face of his now-feeble mentor, was distracted by the antiseptic smell that permeated Lawrence’s retirement home. It wasn’t quite as bad as the inside of a hospital, but it was close. Stenson regretted that he, too, would most likely live out his final days in a facility like this. He spoke on a completely even keel. “Tell me what you discussed.”

  Lawrence stared back with an expression that was difficult to read. It was either defiance, disdain, or a complete lack of comprehension. His hand shook as he unconsciously reached for the necklace that was no longer around his neck, but his voice didn’t waver. “Alpha. Reset. Protocol.”

  Stenson stared back with both surprise and disbelief. “You didn’t.”

  Lawrence repeated the three words exactly as he had spoken them the first time.

  Stenson couldn’t believe the old man was still capable of such a move. He was disappointed in himself that he hadn’t considered that the enactment of an emergency plan might have been the reason for Caitlin’s visit. “You son of a bitch.”

  Lawrence remained expressionless. His hands continued to shake as he spoke with slow determination. “You were never Churchill.”

  “Good day, Lawrence.” Stenson got up and left.

  Lawrence did not try to watch him leave. A slight smile spread across his face. After a moment, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep like nothing at all had happened.

  CHAPTER 21

  RITTENHOUSE SQUARE

  PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

  June 1, 4:08 p.m.

  Butler McHenry hadn’t stolen a car since he was fourteen years old. It had been a crime of opportunity when he and his closest childhood friend, Lamont, had come upon a Mercedes pulled to the side of the road. A couple was arguing inside it. They were yelling in a language he didn’t understand—he guessed that they were speaking Russian, but it could have been German or Czech, for all he knew. Anger needed no translation.

  The woman in the passenger seat suddenly jumped out of the car and ran down the block, kicking off her stiletto heels when they proved to be an impediment. The guy in the driver’s seat immediately got out and went after her, picking up her shoes along the way. Butler often wondered why the man had remembered to do that, particularly in light of what he had forgotten: his keys. He had left the door open and the engine running.

  The two fourteen-year-olds turned to each other, deciding this must be a sign from God that they were supposed to steal this car. I mean, why would the guy leave a Mercedes unlocked and running right in front of us if the good Lord didn’t want us to steal it? Butler scrambled into the driver’s seat and put the transmission into drive. The car accelerated so quickly that he almost instantly lost control of it.

  “Look out!” Lamont screamed.

  Butler barely managed to avoid sideswiping several parked cars and screeched to a halt. “Damn, this thing is fast!”

  “You mind trying not to kill us?”

  “Relax, Grandma.” Butler resumed driving, gradually growing comfortable with the power of this machine. In fact, he would be spoiled for years by the performance of its engine. No car he would drive for another decade would come close to its level of horsepower or handling.

  Lucky for them, the car had less than an eighth of a tank of gas and ran out before they could get into serious trouble. Thereafter, Lamont never let Butler forget that he didn’t get a turn behind the wheel that night. He used it as an excuse to go first whenever the boys did anything together, including when they went down to the army recruitment center, in their senior year of high school, and enlisted. And he was still using that excuse six years later, when they were placed on the same black-ops team because of how well they collaborated.

  Lamont always insisted on going first, and he did so in a Baghdad alley when their team was ambushed. Even after taking a fatal bullet, he still managed to kill four hostiles, probably saving Butler’s life along with the other members of his team.

  Butler would never again let anyone else he cared about go first in anything.

  Now he and Skylar were in the back of a Philadelphia cab, which he had hailed after the phone call with Caitlin. Butler was never more thankful that Lyft and Uber hadn’t entirely eliminated traditional taxi service, because those newer services required an account and payment by credit card. They did not accept cash, and that was bad for anyone who wanted their whereabouts to remain unknown.

  He had instructed the cab driver to take them to the nearest shopping mall, which turned out to be only a few blocks away. Skylar didn’t seem to understand why they would be going to a mall but had regained enough of her senses not to ask any questions until they had gotten out of the vehicle at One Liberty Place. The sidewalk was bustling. They moved with the crowd. “You mind telling me what we’re doing here?”

  “Getting a vehicle.” He methodically scanned the area around them.

  “What’s wrong with yours?”

  “They’ll be looking for it.”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Who is ‘they’?”

  “The people who have Eddie and his box.”

  Skylar stopped, looking at him skepti
cally. “You’re a police officer. You can’t steal a car.”

  Butler paused, exasperated, and then asked sharply, “Do you want Eddie to live through the day?”

  Her knees nearly buckled. She was clearly becoming overwhelmed. “I don’t understand what’s going on, Detective.”

  Butler felt bad. He had dealt with life-or-death situations more times than he would care to count, but these experiences had given him the ability to remain emotionally detached when such circumstances arose. Unfortunately, at least according to the NYPD’s Sixth Precinct shrink, Butler reacted as if every situation were life or death. You’d be great in a life raft, she once told him. But most days, you aren’t in one.

  Today, however, he was. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on, either. All I know is I got a call from someone who said you were in danger. And she was right.”

  Skylar tried to collect herself. “Who called you?”

  “I don’t know. But she knew about you, and she knew about Eddie and the box. She also knew things about my military record that were supposed to be classified.”

  Skylar had the expression of someone whose suspicions had just been confirmed. Once in the service, always in the service. “When were you in the military?”

  “Before I became a cop.”

  “Did she know where Eddie is?”

  “She said he’s being taken to Alexandria, Virginia, and that we need to intercept him before he gets there.”

  “So what are we standing here for?” After a moment, she cracked a smile. She might not have been completely back to normal, but she was getting there.

  Butler surveyed the area. “Wait here, sunshine. I’ll be right back.” As he moved toward the parking garage, several car horns started blaring from the entrance of the adjacent Westin hotel. An unexpected rush of arriving guests had overwhelmed the valets on duty, who were scrambling from car to car to greet arrivals and unload their luggage. The valets had double-parked a number of cars in the entrance until they could clear up the logjam. Keys for these cars were left on the valet stand, where there was normally an attendant on duty. Butler reached the valet stand and quickly surveyed the keys. He yelled toward an attendant: “Excuse me.”

  The flustered attendant responded as politely as he could. “Sir, I’ll be right with you.”

  Butler held up a set of keys. “I just need to get a bag from my car. I’ll put the keys right back.” He walked briskly toward the double-parked cars before the attendant could protest. Butler maneuvered around a Bentley and a Maserati, the kind of cars valets left closest to their stands, and pressed the “Unlock” button on the remote in his hand. The headlights of a Chevy Impala blinked. It was easily the oldest and least valuable car parked at the hotel’s entrance.

  He got in, started the engine, and sped away before the valets had time to notice. He pulled to the curb in front of Skylar and rolled down the passenger-side window. “Get in.”

  She got in the passenger seat and said, “You couldn’t have found us a nicer ride?”

  “New cars have tracking systems.” He pulled into traffic.

  Skylar shook her head. “I would make a terrible criminal.”

  CHAPTER 22

  REAL ESTATE OFFICE

  RITTENHOUSE SQUARE

  June 1, 4:21 p.m.

  The yellow van with the Superior Cleaners logo parked abruptly in the alleyway next to 1731 Locust Street in Philadelphia, just off Rittenhouse Square. A crew of three in matching yellow coveralls quickly placed orange cones around the van and began unloading several large pieces of industrial cleaning equipment, including two empty fifty-five-gallon barrels, which they moved to the front of the building owned by the American Heritage Foundation.

  Upon entering the foyer, all three were surprised to find someone still alive on the premises. In their line of work, this was almost never the case. Carla remained hog-tied in the middle of the front foyer and had only managed to move thirteen feet in the hour since Butler and Skylar had left her. Her wrists and ankles were badly bruised and bleeding from her struggles against her restraints. “Thank God you’re here.”

  The cleanup men glanced at each other, not entirely sure how they were supposed to proceed. The leader motioned to the older of his guys to deal with the woman while he inspected the rest of the premises. In an office down the hall, he readily came upon Tristan’s body, still wearing the rubber Einstein mask, which had a bullet hole through its forehead and was spattered with dried blood. The body was cold and lying in a pool of dark-red fluid. At least one thing on this job is as it’s supposed to be. The leader took out his cell phone and called their employer.

  In the front lobby, Carla pleaded with the older cleaner, promising to do anything he asked if he would only untie her. “I’ll give you all the money I have.”

  “How much is that?” The older man glanced to his colleague, seeming amused.

  “A little over thirty-seven thousand. I’ll take you to my bank and have them write you a cashier’s check.” There was a desperate level of urgency to her voice.

  “I’ll tell you what, it’s tempting. I could do a lot with thirty-seven grand.” He glanced over to his younger associate. “What about him?”

  “That’s all I have. You’d have to split it.”

  “I think he’d be more interested in other services you might be able to provide.”

  “Whatever he wants,” she replied convincingly.

  The younger cleaner stepped closer, about to join the conversation, when their superior returned. “Let her go.”

  Carla visibly relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God.”

  The older cleaner turned to his boss with genuine surprise. “Really?”

  The leader smirked. “You know these people better than that.” He quickly took out a plastic bag and wrapped it over Carla’s head. She started to suffocate immediately. “Lay down some plastic before she creates more mess for us to clean up.”

  The other two men swiftly set down a large plastic sheet on the floor and moved Carla’s thrashing body on top of it. Her eyes bulged wide while she screamed as loudly as she could. Outside the bag, however, little sound could be heard. As her body started to go limp, a yellow puddle formed on the plastic beneath her.

  The older man nodded to his boss. “Good call.”

  “It wasn’t me who was gonna be cleaning it up.” As soon as Carla stopped twitching, they rolled up her body in the plastic sheet, then folded her in half at the waist so she would fit inside one of the fifty-five-gallon drums. There wasn’t a drop of bodily fluid to be found anywhere on the floor. They were, after all, professionals. Satisfied with their work, they carried the second barrel down the hall to the other body, which was going to take them considerably longer to clean up due to the amount of dried blood and bullet holes.

  Caitlin McCloskey was surprised how much she liked driving her father’s vintage Cutlass. It might have had 117,000 miles on the odometer, numerous cracks in the vinyl seating, and passenger-side windows that would no longer roll down, but it also brought back a lot of memories from her youth. This was the car she had first learned to drive in. It was the vehicle she’d been driving when she got her first speeding ticket. It was also the car her father took her to college in. She couldn’t help but feel that this was the car she was supposed to be driving now as she headed to whatever was waiting for her.

  The Google Maps directions to the location of the GPS coordinates her father had written down had taken her around the southern edge of Dulles Airport. It made sense to her that he had chosen a location close to a major international airport. Gilberts Corner was a small unincorporated area in Loudoun County, Virginia, that was about as rural as you got in this part of the country. There was no town, and not even a traffic light. Only three recently installed roundabouts that forced passersby to slow down when driving through the local residents’ beloved hamlet.

  Caitlin turned left onto a dirt road called Toad Hall Lane and continued drivin
g until it dead-ended at a single overgrown driveway that was protected by a weathered metal gate. Google Maps informed her, You have arrived at your destination. She stepped out of the car to find that the gate was locked with a rusty combination lock that required four numbers to open. She rotated the tumblers to her birthday, 0-1-0-8, but the lock wouldn’t open. She then tried her father’s birthday, 1-1-2-7, but that didn’t work, either. Caitlin grew momentarily concerned, when she realized what the combination had to be. She entered the numbers of her parents’ wedding anniversary: 1-0-2-3. Presto, the lock opened. Now certain that she was in the right place, she pushed open the old gate just enough to allow the Cutlass through.

  Caitlin drove up a narrow driveway that wound through dense trees until it reached a small clearing, where a modest farmhouse stood on a knoll. A developer would have described it as a teardown, which meant it had a lot in common with the Cutlass she was driving. She parked the car and approached the front door, somewhat surprised to see no evidence of a security system. There was only a small lockbox attached to the door handle, the kind Realtors use when selling empty homes. The box required a combination of three entries—letters this time, not numbers. Caitlin knew the answer immediately: A-H-F. The initials of the American Heritage Foundation opened the box, revealing a key. She inserted the key into the front door and opened it.

  CHAPTER 23

  AMERICAN HERITAGE FOUNDATION

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  June 1, 4:40 p.m.

  Returning from the nursing home, Bob Stenson was greeted by Jason Greers the moment he stepped out of his car in the parking lot. “Sir, we—”