“That doesn’t sound safe,” I said.
“It isn’t. Why do you think I’ve been so anxious? It’s just like the guys in World War II that would operate radio sets to connect the French Resistance to British intelligence. The Gestapo could hear them; they just didn’t know what the operator was talking about because it was all in code. They’d drive around the neighborhood trying to zero in on the signal so they could make an arrest. And if they did, those guys were dead. Not just dead, but Gestapo dead. I’ve been sitting in here every night just drinking rum and waiting to be caught.”
“That sounds horrible,” I said.
“It is. But you’re better off, because you get out of this bunker pretty frequently. If you bring the laptop in your luggage and use the VPN from some hotel room somewhere, the odds of getting caught are basically nil.”
“Thanks, Kumar. This will help.”
“Are you alright, Holder? You look kind of sick.”
“I’m really drunk. Much more than I planned to be. I should probably sit for a minute.”
“It’s funny, but I think I’m more clear-headed than I was before you came in here,” he said.
“Well, you did throw up,” I pointed out.
“That’s not it. Most of the rum I’ve had tonight was in the last fifteen minutes. I just don’t feel as scared now, and that’s strange in a way. I don’t have any idea what your loyalties are.”
“I’m one of the good guys,” I said.
“One of the good guys? What does that even mean, Gavin? I’m a good guy too, if I’m the one who gets to rate myself.”
“You’re definitely one of the good guys. And a brave man too. A scared man, but a brave man.”
“And you? Are you scared?”
“I’m too mad to be scared. I don’t ever think too much about what might happen to me. The only thing I care about is doing what I came here to do. My own survival is… not a priority.”
“That’s kind of hardcore,” he said.
“That’s me,” I said. “I started out as a hardcore punk kid, a long time ago in an abandoned hospital with a bunch of other punk rock street kids. And the only thing that’s changed since then is that I lost my way, did a lot of things that were against my own values.”
“Like joining the FBI in the first place?” he said quietly.
“Very funny,” I said. “I’m not political. I joined the FBI to catch bad guys and earn a paycheck. I’m working here for my own reasons.”
“No wonder the boss doesn’t really trust you. My people don’t really trust you either.”
I shrugged.
“Has anyone ever trusted you?” he asked. I didn’t answer him.
Chapter 23
“Before I go,” I said, “one more thing.” I put my glass down and stood up, wobbled enough that I wasn’t sure I could walk anywhere, and decided to sit back down again until we were done talking.
“What is it?” asked Kumar. He looked suspicious, and I realized we might not be friends anymore. We knew too much about each other.
“You need to be careful,” I said. “A lot more careful. I’ve known you were scared for days, but I just put it down to fear of being accused unjustly. I thought you were a timid guy, which you are in a way except you’re also a bad-ass. It’s just that you’re a timid badass. If you keep acting scared all the time, someone like Jesse is going to see it too. But he probably won’t assume your innocence the way I did.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to get either of us killed.”
“Good man. If you want to survive this, you and I are going to need to work together.”
“What do you mean exactly?” he asked.
“You’re deep inside one of the secret projects. Which one?”
“Guidance systems for the satellite.”
“The satellite they’re using for the Quod Glasses project?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, good. I don’t exactly know what I’m looking for yet, but I need you to tell me about anything that strikes you as strange, anything that doesn’t add up.”
“Why would I do that, Holder? I’m not an informant.”
“And I don’t work for the FBI anymore, so that doesn’t matter. Look, if we don’t share information, we’re as good as dead. You’ve got to help me here. Otherwise I might miss something, and then…”
He nodded, and I stuck out my hand for him to shake. We had a deal. The most fearful brave man I had ever met was going to spy for me.
That night in my room in the bunker, I dreamed of Jackie. And not just Jackie, but Astrida too. It must have been all the alcohol – burgundy followed by rum is quite a mix. I hit the bed, didn’t even bother to take my shoes off, and dropped down into the darkness with one leg hanging out over the floor.
At first it was the parking lot, rain slicked and blood-wet. Mike Croop was dead or dying, I was stabbed and bleeding, rain was pouring down on me. Jackie Cole was staring at me in grief and horror, unsure of what to do to save me, deeply remorseful.
That’s probably how I knew it was a dream while I was still inside it, because I’m not so sure that Jackie Cole can even feel remorse. She saved my life that night – that much is true. She killed Mike Croop to keep him from killing me. She refused to kill me herself even though Mother wanted her to. She sewed me up to keep me from bleeding out. That isn’t nothing, but then she tricked me into thinking I had killed Mike Croop myself. And I had believed that for fifteen years. When she reappeared, she methodically deceived me until she had what she wanted, then killed Jim Duffy and escaped with Father’s money. Wherever she was now with all that money, I knew for a fact that she didn’t feel bad about it. No tear was rolling down her cheek for Gavin Holder as she sipped a margarita on a Samoan beach, or flew down the slopes of some Alpine mountain with her new ski instructor.
But in the dream, Jackie was sobbing with fear and guilt. That meant she cared, that meant she was sorry for what she had done to me or for what she would eventually do to me. Dreams can be stupid.
She leaned over and picked me up somehow, carrying me easily over one shoulder. That isn’t what happened in real life. In real life she had Mother’s help to get me up and get me walking. One of the only details I could remember about the whole thing was the look of my feet as they hit the pavement, stumbling along to Jackie’s field hospital. But in the dream she carried me, and in the dream she wasn’t bringing me to an abandoned building to stitch me up by the light of a flashlight. Instead she was bringing me to Astrida’s apartment in Hennington, so naturally she morphed into Astrida along the way.
That was a much better outcome when it came right down to it, because Astrida had never done anything to harm me. Astrida liked me – and I definitely mean that in the past tense. We met each other at Andrew’s house, courted briefly, then spun apart in anger and resentment. But in the dream, Astrida set me down on the couch and we started talking just like we used to. Not before everything went bad, but before it all went bad for me and her.
“I can’t keep carrying you around all night,” she said. “You’re heavy.”
“Is that some kind of a dream metaphor?”
“No. You’re huge. Holder, here’s the thing. I always wanted to help you with one of your cases.”
“Yeah. I know. I’m sorry I fucked that up for you. I was being paranoid.”
“Never mind that,” she said. “There’s no use in going down that road, and right now I’m trying to talk about something else.”
“Well, what’s that?” I asked her.
“Remember the flash drive? The one you asked me to look at for you in Hennington?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s a classic hacker’s trick. Get an authorized user to install a flash drive into your target system, then you can infect the system itself.”
“I’m not a hacker, Astrida. I know enough about computers to do my budget and poke around on Youtube.”
“But I a
m,” she said. “If you’re not sure what direction to go, just ask yourself, What Would Astrida Do?”
What Would Astrida Do? WWAD. Like I said, dreams can be pretty stupid sometimes.
Chapter 24
I was hung over for most of the next day, and the vegetarian cafeteria in the bunker did not provide me with the red meat and dark brown ale that might have helped me get my bearings. I was spooning a chick pea curry into my mouth dispiritedly when I got the message that Kohl was looking for me. The bearer of the message was Jesse Spindrift, who always seemed to know when Kohl wanted to find me for some reason. He stood over the table grinning down at me, as if someone had told him I was headed for the gallows.
“Fine,” I said. I couldn’t even bring myself to finish the bowl of curry first just to spite him. Instead I picked it up and took it with me, dropping it in the trash can on the way out. Jesse came with me, as if he wanted to see me hang for himself.
When I got to his office, Vitalius handed me a yellowed old newspaper clipping. I glanced at it quickly, and recognized it as containing some of the same information found in Father’s FBI file.
Search For Controversial Couple - Local eccentrics Vitalius and Theresa Kohl were reported missing today by neighbors Steven and Shelly DuBar. The Kohls were accused of involvement in the Stone Creek real estate scandal three years ago, and have been dogged by accusations of fraud and disputes with their neighbors ever since…
“Have you seen this before?” he asked me.
“Sure. It was in your old FBI file before that program of yours erased it.”
Thanks to Astrida’s help, Father’s key drive had never been installed in the FBI computer system at all. But Vitalius didn’t know that. He thought there was no record in the system that could be used against him in his new role as a tech celebrity.
“Steven and Shelly. Such tiresome neighbors. Always complaining and quibbling about something or other. A right of way through some access path, if I remember right. I want you to remove the threat.”
“The threat? What threat is that? You don’t even own that property anymore.”
“They’ve resurfaced. After my wife and I disappeared, they did too. I didn’t hear anything about them for many years. But now they’re on Facebook.”
He gestured at the computer on his desk as if this proved what a sinister and impertinent pair they really were.
“But why are they a threat in the first place?” I asked.
“Does it matter?” asked Jesse sharply.
“Of course it matters,” said Vitalius. “I don’t want or need unthinking automatons. But I’m surprised that you need me to spell it out for you, Gavin. They know things about me. Things that could interfere with my Great Work.”
“I thought the Great Work was the Reddening.”
“The Reddening was only the final stage in that particular Great Work. There is always another Great Work, another salve et coagula to be performed and perfected. You saw what the clip said, these lies about Stone Creek. One thing leads to another, and anyone looking too deeply into Stone Creek would uncover more. Things that must not be allowed to come out publicly, not when we’re just about to get the Senate to approve a few crucial regulatory changes. I need you to make sure they don’t go to the press, and I need you to do it as quickly as possible. They could see me on a Youtube video or news program at any time, and decide to go to the media about their old neighbor and his… misdeeds.”
“We’re saying this sort of thing in front of Spindrift now?” I said, making sure not to hide the disgust in my voice. “Loose lips sink ships, Vitalius.”
“One of the best ways to ensure loyalty is to make everyone equally guilty,” he said. “But I want him to go with you in any case. He’s always so worried about your whereabouts.”
“Not him,” I said.
“Why is that? And what makes you think it is yours to decide in the first place?”
Jesse was glaring at me, but that wasn’t a problem. I’d call it a benefit. The real reason I didn’t want him with me is that he’d be watching me too closely, which would make it that much harder to save the DuBars. But I couldn’t say that, so I had to improvise.
“Because I need him here. He’s the one I’ve trained most thoroughly, so when I’m out doing an errand for you, I need him to stay here.”
“Bringing someone else into this project would increase the exposure.”
“Not the guy I’m thinking of. His name is Frank Hill, and he’s done this kind of work before. His nickname when he was still a cop was Wet Work Frank.”
“That does sound promising. Why did we hire a man like that?”
“Because we’re all just as bad or worse? Except Jesse here, of course. Jesse’s really just a good administrator.”
Kohl chuckled. “I’m not sure you should let him talk about you that way, Jesse.”
“Permission to shoot him, then,” said Jesse sullenly.
“Permission denied. Take Frank Hill on this job with you, Gavin,” said Vitalius. “I’ll book your flight. You’ll be heading to Maine tonight via Boston. Then off to Peak’s Island in Casco Bay. It won’t be easy to get off the island successfully after doing the job, but I assume you’ll manage somehow. You’re a resourceful individual.”
“It won’t be a problem,” I said. But it sure wouldn’t be a piece of cake.
Chapter 25
The way things played out, it was a problem to even get there at all. Frank Hill and I drove into Reno, caught our flight with no complications, and landed in Boston. That was when all our troubles started.
The plane to Portland was delayed, then delayed again, and finally canceled. I checked for other flights, but there were none. It was only then that I thought of taking a bus up to Maine, which would have been possible a few hours earlier but no longer was. We couldn’t get a rental car because we’d been drinking for hours in the airport bar while we were waiting for our flight. The airline didn’t want to comp us for a hotel room until we told them who we worked for and how much money he had to sue them with. It was after midnight when I finally found myself pouring drinks from the wet bar for Wet Work Frank while we waited in our complimentary hotel room near the airport to catch the 5:35 am flight to Maine.
“Thanks, boss,” said Frank, taking the gin and tonic I had just mixed for him. “This beats the hell out of arguing with those people.”
“Here’s to that.” We clicked glasses, and Frank sighed a long and contented sigh. “Kohl’s not so bad. Much more generous than the NYPD.”
“Or even the FBI,” I said, swallowing half my drink.
“Oh, come on,” he said. “You had it made there. So many opportunities to wet your beak. Organized crime, outlaw bikers… it’s the land of milk and honey.”
“I was assigned to an anti-terrorist task force,” I said. He snorted.
“You’re telling me Al Qaeda doesn’t have any money? Bin Laden was loaded. Of course you can’t just take a taste in that scenario, you’ve got to shut them down completely before they do anything. But so much the better. Instead of just taking a little here and there you, walk away with everything.”
Frank Hill had gray hair, and cold blue eyes that saw nothing but dollar signs.
“It was harder for me,” he said. “A smaller paycheck, and fewer opportunities for skimming off cream. I had my share, of course. Don’t get me wrong. But I was pushed into wet work eventually by financial necessity.”
“How’s that?’ I asked, refilling his drink for him. I needed him unconscious, and I needed him to get there without taking me with him.
“I was overextended on my house,” he said. “Behind on payments, underwater on the mortgage… I was going to lose it, so I started snapping fingers for the Cherry Hill crew. Then knees. By the time they asked me to do the big one, it was no big deal. What about you, boss?”
Frank had supposedly done a bunch of hits for the Cherry Hill branch of the Gambino crime family. He had even been prosecuted, bu
t the District Attorney had failed to convict him of anything. Fun guy to share a late-night drink with.
“Oh, you know. I just kept shooting people,” I said. “Bank robbers and white supremacists mostly. Sometimes with a submachine gun. The FBI disapproved, and I wanted a career with a better work-life balance. So I looked up Mr. Kohl.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a weirdo?”
“Sure they have. Anyone ever tell you you’re a bloodthirsty freak?”
“What’s that you’re saying?”
His eyelids were flickering, and it was obvious he was about to fall asleep. Two gin and tonics. Several drinks at the airport, but by this point that was hours ago. Wet Work Frank was a lightweight.
He slumped over and fell back on the mattress and I got out the laptop. Here in a hotel room in Boston there wasn’t really any need to use the VPN, but I did it anyway to develop good habits.
My goal for tonight was to find out about the Ja Lama – the one I currently worked with, not the warlord from the 1920s. But that’s all that came up for the first several pages of search results, so I read one of those entries to get a bit of context:
Ja Lama, also known as Dambiijantsan. Russian citizen of Kalmyk Mongol ethnicity. Bandit and guerrilla fighter known for intense hatred of both the Russian and Chinese governments. Arrived in Outer Mongolia in 1890, claiming to be a Buddhist monk as well as the grandson of the rebel leader Amursana. After establishing himself as an important military leader, Ja Lama participated in the Mongol liberation of Khovd from Chinese control in 1912. When Khovd fell, Ja Lama is said to have cut out the hearts and brains of all Chinese captured in the city, and to have decorated his yurt with the skins of Chinese prisoners. Establishing himself as a warlord in the Black Ghobi, Ja Lama and his Mongol followers lived by robbing caravans and growing opium. Slain by undercover police officer Baldandorj in 1922.
I had definitely learned something. The Ja Lama was nothing like the Dalai Lama. After glancing through several pages of results about the historical warlord, I finally came across this brief reference on an Internet forum devoted to checking the credentials of self-declared gurus:
Firebolt Page 8