The Sound of Echoes

by Eric Bernt

  Eddie smiled as he started to drift off. “I have never talked to an angel before. I don’t know what I should say.”

  “Allow me to introduce you, then. Eddie, this is Lolo. Lolo, this is Eddie.” Before she could complete her introduction, his eyes closed. He had already fallen asleep, but the blissful smile remained across his face.

  Lolo stared at him. “He’s sleeping again. Like a baby. They sleep like that, you know? Babies.” She paused, then added, “I’m glad he isn’t dead.”

  Skylar nodded. “We’ll try that again when he’s awake.”

  “When do you think that will be?”

  “Probably morning. I’m going to give him enough sedative to sleep through the night.”

  Lolo then had a thought that seemed to energize her. “I will bet he’s going to be very hungry when he wakes up.”

  Butler seemed to realize what she was thinking. “I have a distinct feeling he’s going to be absolutely starving.”

  “Do you know what Eddie likes to eat in the morning?”

  He answered quickly. “Pancakes and bacon and hash browns, bacon not too crispy.” He ignored Skylar’s glare.

  Lolo nodded, heading for the door. “Does he like egg soufflé?”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “I like making egg soufflé. Dr. Davenport says it’s one of my better dishes.”

  “It’s hard to imagine anything you cook not being fantastic,” Butler commented.

  “Just nothing purple,” Skylar added. “Eddie doesn’t like purple foods.”

  “No purple food. Right. That’s good to know.” And with that, she was out the door.

  CHAPTER 41

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  June 1, 9:46 p.m.

  The first time someone walks into the Oval Office, they immediately pause to take in their surroundings. Because it’s so iconic. Because they’ve seen it so often in the news and photographs and movies, from the time they were born. Because they can’t really believe they are actually in the office of the president of the United States.

  The first thing Daryl Trotter noticed as he carried in the echo box was not the impressive collection of photographs, nor the two-hundred-year-old Seymour clock, known as the Oval Office grandfather clock. What caught Trotter’s attention was the plushness of the rug. His shoes seemed to sink a full inch into the perfectly groomed fibers as he cautiously stepped into the room. It was the softest carpeting he’d ever walked on. He had to stop himself from audibly saying, “Ahhh.”

  He looked up to admire the domed ceiling, another thing most first-time visitors do. It is adorned with the presidential seal. The ceiling, over eighteen feet high, is legendary for supposedly allowing the president when seated at his desk to hear any conversation in the room, even when whispered. Kennedy had famously attempted to use this to his advantage during several critical negotiations during the Cuban missile crisis.

  Jason Greers, on the other hand, acted like his first visit to the Oval Office was no big deal. Like he belonged here. Because that’s what he seemed to want the two Secret Service agents who had escorted them in to think. These two stone-faced men had greeted them as they passed through the metal detector that all West Wing visitors were required to go through. Both the echo box and laptop were scanned for residue of explosives, toxins, and any other type of substance that might bring harm to the president’s work space.

  Greers and Trotter were also full-body scanned. Both, of course, were clean. Given the nature of their work, and that their presence had been requested by the president himself, the process should have been expedited. However, the White House had been suddenly placed on lockdown when a protestor of the current administration had decided to climb the perimeter fence, resulting in a three-hour delay. Gaining entrance to the White House, it seemed, had a lot in common with getting through airport security during Thanksgiving weekend. The taller of the Secret Service agents had closely inspected the echo box after it passed through the scanners. “What type of equipment is this?”

  Before Trotter could answer, Greers jumped in. “It’s classified.”

  The agent received some information through his headset that seemed to confirm this. “Follow me.”

  Greers slowly walked the perimeter of the Oval Office, stepping softly while closely inspecting the walls and windows, in particular. He turned to the agents and asked, “Would you mind giving us the room?”

  The agent repeated the request into the microphone on his wrist. The response was immediate. “Can’t do that. If you’re in here, we’re in here.”

  Pretending to be annoyed, Trotter shook his head with exasperation. “Then don’t move until we conclude our business.” He kneeled next to one of the windows as part of the performance and looked up into the sky.

  Piecing together what little information they had gleaned, the agents would later surmise that Trotter was imagining the spy satellites supposedly looking down upon them, listening to the president’s every word.

  Greers turned to Trotter. “What kind of wave refraction do you think we’re dealing with?”

  Trotter responded with a nonsense answer to the nonsense question as he connected the laptop to the echo box. “Depends on the satellite’s orbit. Seventy-one to eighty-seven if it’s geosynchronous; thirty-two to forty-nine if it’s not.” His tone was clinical, just like it always was. It was hard for him to keep a straight face; he would later admit to enjoying his part of the ruse.

  Stenson was counting on the fact that, somewhere between his earlier conversation with the president and the tidbits these two Secret Service agents would pick up, word would get out about the spy satellites that had apparently been listening to Washington elites for who knows how long. Oh, the havoc it will wreak! Those with the most to hide would be the first to ask the president whom he had hired to check his acoustic security. After procuring a favor from the worried party, he would forward their concerns to the American Heritage Foundation for consideration. Stenson was counting on them lining up in droves.

  Greers was once again in awe of how deftly his superior could leverage an already impressive advantage into an overwhelming one. For years, the director-in-training had privately wondered, should they ever get the echo box to work, how they would manage to physically get the device inside the most sensitive spaces, which were always the most secure. It had never occurred to him to fabricate an espionage campfire tale, such as the threat of bad actors spying on Americans from outer space. It seemed preposterous to him—but then again, so did the ability to re-create never-before-recorded sounds; and yet, here he was, echoing the Oval Office with the explicit permission of the president.

  Greers had a lot to learn from Bob Stenson.

  Trotter looked up from the laptop. “Ready when you are.”

  Greers glared at the agents. “You can breathe normally, but otherwise, remain absolutely still.” They nodded their understanding. Greers turned to his counterpart. “Commence.”

  Trotter activated the process. The protective doors of the echo box popped open, revealing eight microsatellites. Their synchronized movements were mesmerizing. These extraordinary devices had the ability to record the decayed remains of partial energy fragments, which were once-audible sound waves, still bouncing around the room. And as any physics student knows, matter can neither be created nor destroyed—it can only change form. Much like water can be frozen into a solid and also warmed back into liquid, similarly, once properly recorded with Eddie’s device, his recently revised algorithms could take these decayed acoustic remains and re-create the original sounds.

  Anything that was ever spoken in this or any other room could now be heard. Any lie. Threat. Promise. Deal. Plea. Seduction. Scream. Manipulation. Negotiation. Debauchery. Or crime.

  There would be no more secrets.

  Greers and Trotter both had goose bumps. They felt like they alone were in on the most amazing secret in the modern world as they watched the three-dimensional acousti
c map of the space appear on the laptop screen. A progress counter appeared below it: 9 percent complete . . . 17 percent . . . 28 percent. It continued rising steadily.

  One of the agents could see the screen as well, and he became concerned. When he lifted his wrist to communicate with his superior, Greers quickly raised his hand with one finger extended. His meaning was clear: Don’t you dare speak a word.

  The agent quickly considered his options and acquiesced, lowering his arm back to his side. The progress continued: 45 percent . . . 61 percent. It took less than three minutes for the entire process to complete. The counter read: 100 percent. Trotter looked up at the agents and couldn’t resist the opportunity to perform an encore. “Our work here is complete. We will now process the data for analysis. You can tell the president he will have our results shortly.” He started shutting down the technology and began to pack it up.

  Greers was tempted to roll his eyes as he watched the two agents closely. Both were obviously curious about what had just occurred, but neither was about to ask. “Gentlemen, thank you for your cooperation. Would you be so kind as to escort us out?”

  And with that, Trotter and Greers were led out of the White House in possession of the greatest trove of national secrets in the history of the United States.

  CHAPTER 42

  AMERICAN HERITAGE FOUNDATION

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  June 1, 10:22 p.m.

  Very few people scared Bob Stenson. After all, he’d hired dozens of different assassins and teams of killers over the last twenty years to ply their trade on behalf of the American Heritage Foundation. These people were the best in the world at what they did. Most were former military turned mercenary. Some used guns, some used knives, and others preferred garrotes or poison or plastic explosives. Each had a specialty. But Mr. Elliott was different. His signature was not defined by method, but by style.

  He was brutal. Intentionally, cruelly, unspeakably brutal. A genuine sadist. The man enjoyed inflicting pain upon others, and the more, the better. He rarely killed a target quickly, because it denied him the pleasure of witnessing the fear and pain that preceded an imminent death. This was known because his methodology included documenting his efforts whenever possible.

  For those who had cleared his complex security-screening process and been granted access to his ultraexclusive dark-web site, a collection of the most horrific videos ever made was available for viewing. These showed Mr. Elliott killing heads of state in front of their wives and military leaders along with their children; he had even videotaped himself decapitating foreign journalists and their entire families. Several of his torture methods could only be described as barbaric, if not medieval.

  He was believed to be American but had conducted his business exclusively outside the United States. Most of his clientele lived in South America or territories in or around Russia, because they seemed more attracted to his approach. That also explained why he had never been caught. The few times Interpol or other international agencies had sent men after him, they’d ended up playing the lead roles in Mr. Elliott’s snuff films, which he had made available as free downloads on his site.

  Bob Stenson was repulsed by Mr. Elliott—both by what he had already done and by what he was capable of doing. Stenson was genuinely scared of him, which explained why he had never hired him. But every now and then, circumstances have a way of conspiring against someone to act in opposition to their established principles.

  The director of the American Heritage Foundation had reached out to the nine teams and individuals he trusted who were believed to be currently active in the field. One team’s members were recovering from injuries sustained during a recent mission for Stenson and wouldn’t be operational for several months, if ever. Two simply didn’t respond, which meant they were dead or off-grid. And the other six were already on assignment and wouldn’t be available for weeks. That left him one choice.

  Stenson took a moment before he placed the call, making sure this was something he was comfortable doing. The answer was no, but he didn’t have any other options. Fuck it. This is her fault. She forced me into this situation. He needed a job done, so he took a deep breath and dialed the number listed on the man’s website.

  It was answered on the second ring. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” the killer asked with surprising eloquence.

  “Bob Stenson.”

  There was a slight pause on the line. “Well, isn’t this an honor! Mr. Stenson, your reputation precedes you, sir. How nice to receive your call.”

  Stenson had trouble reconciling Mr. Elliott’s elegant voice and educated manner of speaking with what he had just glimpsed on the man’s website. Stenson had expected someone brutish, even beastly. A talking gorilla, or a Cro-Magnon man. Something less than human.

  Of course Mr. Elliott was educated. And literate. And intelligent. The only way anyone got away with what he had for so long was by being a diabolically clever actor playing a role. The man had found a marketing angle, a truly unique niche, and he exploited the hell out of it. While he wasn’t the first to do so, he had certainly taken the act to an unprecedented level of depravity. What David Blaine was to magicians, Mr. Elliott was to assassins.

  “I have a job.”

  “I had already assumed this wasn’t a social call.” He said it with a charm that even Tom Wolfe would have admired.

  “The task needs to be completed immediately.”

  “In my line of work, it’s rare when one doesn’t.”

  “The job is in the States.”

  There was now a considerable pause on the other end of the line. Mr. Elliott could be heard taking a long, deep breath as he considered the proposition. “You do know I prefer to perform my services elsewhere.”

  “I’m prepared to compensate you for the inconvenience.”

  “Mr. Stenson, what we are discussing is not inconvenience—”

  “One,” he said abruptly. Stenson meant one million dollars.

  There was no misunderstanding. It was more money than Mr. Elliott had ever been offered, by a factor of two. Mr. Elliott continued, “This would involve a level of risk I have never previously been willing to take on.”

  “Two.” The offer was doubled. Two million.

  The killer paused briefly. “I sincerely don’t want to decline your offer, for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that I am well aware that once rebuffed, you will never—”

  “Three.” Stenson’s voice didn’t waver. He clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  There was another pause on the line.

  “Five,” Mr. Elliott countered.

  If there had been an audience for this negotiation, as in an auction house during bidding over fine art, a hush would have fallen over the crowd, like the one that followed the $450 million bid for Da Vinci’s Salvator Mundi.

  “Done,” Stenson replied almost immediately. To his knowledge, this was now the most expensive hit ever contracted. It was certainly the most expensive one he’d ever paid for. Half of the payment would be expected now, half upon completion.

  “I will transmit my banking details momentarily.” Mr. Elliott tried to conceal his own astonishment, but imperfectly. He clearly couldn’t believe that Stenson had called his bluff. The sadist was atwitter.

  “I will send the first payment, along with all pertinent information about the target.”

  “Forward everything you have, pertinent or otherwise. It is not uncommon for a seemingly trivial detail to be of great significance.” Mr. Elliott paused. “I can’t believe I haven’t asked this yet. What’s the target’s name?”

  Stenson paused briefly, knowing he was about to seal the fate of someone he had considered family for many years. And it wasn’t simply that she was going to die. She was going to die horribly. There was a high likelihood that she would be tortured first. In ways that were unthinkable. And worse, the hit might include members of her family. Her husband. Her children. And her father,
whom Stenson considered to be his father figure and mentor.

  This is her fault. She brought this upon herself. There is no mistaking her intentions. She means to burn the house down to the very ground. It was she who declared war first, not I. So I am entitled to use whatever means necessary to protect all that I have built, which includes her father’s legacy. I’m not going to let her get away with this, for his sake as well as mine.

  He knew that once he spoke her name, there would be no going back. Once you jumped off this cliff, you could not unjump. “Caitlin McCloskey.”

  CHAPTER 43

  SAFE HOUSE

  GILBERTS CORNER, VIRGINIA

  June 1, 10:33 p.m.

  Caitlin tracked the Embraer Phenom as it descended toward Minot, North Dakota, home of the worst anhydrous ammonia spill in US history, which sickened most of its citizens when a train derailed in 2002, resulting in a gigantic cloud of gas enveloping the city of thirty-seven thousand.

  She was relieved as the plane touched down safely. Part one of her family’s journey to their new lives, the air-travel portion, was now complete.

  Part two was the driving portion. A car was waiting on the tarmac for them. Well, a truck, actually. A Ford F-150 with seventy-six thousand miles on the odometer. The vehicle wasn’t much to look at, but that was the point. It looked like most of the other trucks in the area, and that meant they wouldn’t stick out. They would look like they belonged here. And that was important, especially in these first few days and weeks.

  Minot was only fifty miles south of the Canadian border. Anyone trying to follow them would assume that their final destination was somewhere in Manitoba or Saskatchewan. But crossing the border would mean presenting their new identification to the border guards. While Caitlin had every confidence in the document forger who’d created the passports for her, she didn’t want to press her luck unless it became absolutely necessary. Besides, she wanted her kids to grow up in this country. She’d already devoted too much of her life to propping up the American dream to completely abandon it now.