The Nephilim

by Greg Curtis

  In response to the agents' charges of course their employer was battling them on the nightly news, saying that none of the messages and alerts had ever been issued. That there had been no such task force established. And that no agent had been killed. It was a shocking trial by media that seemed to grow worse every night. The lawyers' goal it seemed was to defend their clients by showing systemic failures throughout the department, while Treasury in turn was trying to show gross incompetence on the agents' part.

  The lawyers had decided on another tactic as well. If they couldn't get Garrick charged with some sort of criminal involvement – and they really wanted to as it would get their clients out of the dog house to some extent – they'd try blackening his name instead. So night after night, instead of hearing an apology he heard himself indirectly being called incompetent and unprofessional, described as a rogue agent, and accused of everything from a poor work ethic to sexual deviance. It was a game of course. They were trying to discredit him as a witness before the trial. Make it look as though even if he wasn't a criminal his life had enough holes in it that he could have reasonably been mistaken for one. But knowing what they were doing and why didn't really help him deal with it.

  He could perhaps sue them. But the lawyers were very careful about how they said what they did. It was defamation but with just enough substance to the claims to make it hard to prove. And in any case he did have secrets to keep. Secrets that would be better kept if this entire mess just went quietly away. And that was what he dreamed of.

  He was used to a nice quiet life. He did his job well, and while he did keep a few secrets from his employers, the quid pro quo was that he caught a rather large share of the worst criminals in the country. And he had naturally hoped that one day he would get some commendations, and in time get promoted. That was the plan. It wasn't a hugely ambitious one, but it had seemed a good one. It had seemed achievable. And he'd enjoyed it.

  Now his career was in tatters. Though he was guilty of nothing, his face was front page news. He was both a hero and a villain. Hollywood was calling. So were the tabloids. There were book and film deals being offered for his story as the agent who hunted down serials. And there were tell alls as well, promising to expose his life of crime.

  To add to his woes he had become an embarrassment to the bureau. While it might be six months before he could return to work, it would be years before he could go back on the street without being recognised.

  Worse, questions were being asked about his methods. Official questions. He had been allowed a lot of latitude in his work because he got results. But that would change. His supervisor had checked in on him and hinted at the bad news. He would be given a partner, that much was certain. Probably someone who really loved rules. And someone who would ask questions about how he jumped from one clue to another. Paperwork would have to be done on time and not at the end of a hunt. There would be much tighter oversight of him. That would make it nearly impossible to hunt.

  The world it seemed had become a three ring circus and he was the main attraction. His life was now spent trying to avoid the curious stares of his neighbours and the endless questions of the hospital staff helping him with his recuperation. He was constantly being asked for opinions and interviews, all of which he had steadfastly refused. It hadn’t stopped the reporters from hounding him in the hospital and then in his home when he'd discharged himself though. It had also led to worried calls from his mother most nights as she watched the news from her home in Florida. She was far from well, often needing week long stays in the various institutions after an episode, and living with the very real effects of post traumatic stress. This would not be helping her.

  Maybe it was time to go private.

  It was a thought that had been spinning through his head ever since his release from the hospital. After all, he didn't have to just hunt criminals. Though he could do that through the bounty hunting system, he could do other things too. And there were plenty of missing people with large rewards posted. He could hunt them down just as easily. It would mean a better class of people he would have to deal with – fewer criminals and less danger. Better hours that he could determine for himself. No more paperwork, no medicals and no more bosses. And probably better money. Other hunters had gone private and they all said it was good. And Cassie would want him to – which was a reason not to in his book.

  But against that he would no longer be an agent. And he loved being an agent. He was proud of it. Whenever he put a bad man away he felt a sense of achievement. Cassie of course didn’t approve. She said he could be doing far more good finding missing children and that his being an agent was just a childish fantasy. But it was more than that to him. It was his life.

  The chime of the doorbell interrupted Garrick's melancholic train of thought, and he was grateful for it. Lately his thoughts had been taking him down into some dark and strange places. Of course as Garrick started the complicated ritual of stretches and contortions as he tried to snag his crutches and get out of the chair, he knew he probably didn't want to see his visitor. It was probably another reporter. He'd kicked them off his property but they still kept trying every so often. The last one had collected his mail for him from the box and brought it to the door pretending that she was doing him some sort of favour. She hadn't been thrilled by his reaction.

  “Coming!”

  Garrick yelled it at the door as he finally managed to make it to his feet, and then started making his way to the entrance hall. It wasn't a long journey in terms of distance, but like everything else in his life these days, it took time.

  When he finally got there and opened the door it was to discover a woman standing there. She was dark haired and quite attractive, and quite well dressed too if in an informal way. He liked the way her long dark hair fell down over the white of her blouse and the pastel coloured jacket. But probably the most attractive thing about her to him just then was that she didn't have a microphone in her hand or a cameraman standing behind her. The media were remorseless. That alone deserved some civility.

  “Yes?”

  It made a change from simply opening the door and telling reporters to go away. Or yelling at them when they bothered him too often.

  “Special Agent Hamilton?” She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a leather ID. “I'm Maricia Dylan of Diogenes. Can I come in?”

  “Diogenes? What the hell is Diogenes?”

  It was rude, he knew that. And he normally hated being rude. But the fact that she was claiming to be from some new agency meant trouble. Moreover the fact that she could show him an official looking ID with it showing as her agency didn't mean anything. She could have drawn it up on her computer. She quite possibly had. There were a number of smaller agencies about, often dealing with very select issues, and he didn't know them all. But still, Diogenes seemed like a very strange name for one.

  “Ancient Greek philosopher. He taught that the simple life is the virtuous life.” She smiled at him as if it should mean something to him. “A maxim that you seem to live by.”

  “Ah huh.”

  As an explanation it didn't really tell him a lot. Actually it didn't tell him anything at all. And he wasn't completely sure if her remark was a compliment or a way of telling him that he lived like a pauper. It could be both. And dressed as he was in track pants with a cut out leg for the cast, a sweat shirt and bare feet he felt a little like a beggar. But what else could he wear?

  “Perhaps something a little more relevant please?”

  “Diogenes monitors people like you.”

  “Agents caught in the media spotlight?”

  Now that made sense. Or maybe he just wanted it to make sense. He wanted nothing more than for this nightmare to be over. And when he thought about it, Diogenes did sound like the sort of name a PR company might use. But they didn't usually carry official looking ID's.

  “Nephilim.”

  She dropped the word as if it was nothing, and Garrick all but froze in shock. Ho
w the hell could she know? And more importantly what was he supposed to do about it? Eventually his brain started working again and his first instinct was to deny it.

  “That's not -.”

  “Please don't bother denying it.” She held up her hand for effect. “The fact that I can name you as a nephilim knowing that you are one means that I have to have that knowledge. It's not the sort of thing you can just guess. There can't really be any doubt.”

  “Now can I come in please. I really don't want to discuss what I have to tell you on your doorstep with the press watching.”

  Reluctantly Garrick let her in. He had to. What she knew – or what she pretended to know – wasn't something that reporters should hear, and some of them had boom mikes. They could be listening even from the edge of his property. Besides, she didn't look particularly intimidating and even though he was still crippled and limping badly, if the worst came to the worst he thought he could handle her.

  She also didn't look like a reporter. But she knew what he was – unless she was a phenomenal guesser – and that made her very dangerous. So, after pushing the door closed behind her he followed her into the living room, somewhat annoyed at how slow he was in following her. But that was the reality of his life and would be for some time to come.

  By the time he'd made it down the short hall and turned to enter the sitting room, she was already making herself comfortable on the couch. But while that also annoyed him, he did have to admit that she looked good sitting there. He didn't get a lot of visitors in his home, and of those who did visit he'd mostly prefer that they didn't. But she was quite pretty with her long dark hair, brown eyes and svelte figure. The smile didn't hurt either.

  “This is nice.” She smiled politely. “Simple yet still quite homey.”

  She wasn't talking about the room he guessed. Not with its tattered wall paper and fading paint. If she was talking about anything, it was the furnishings he'd brought into the room to make it more comfortable and the wall hangings he was using to cover up the worst of the deterioration. But probably she was just being polite. In a month or so when his cast was off he had been thinking about starting on some interior decoration. He would have some spare time on his hands while he was unfit for duty. A lot of spare time. Rehabilitation would take many more months. While it was healing and until he could finally pass his physical he would finally have the time to do some of the painting he'd always planned on doing. But that didn't matter just then.

  “Agent Dylan you were going to explain something about how you know what you claim you do.” She might look like a casual visitor but she wasn't, and Garrick knew he had to concentrate on what mattered. And what mattered wasn't interior decoration.

  “Straight to the point huh? You really are a policeman. And it's Maricia.” The smile vanished to be replaced by a much more serious frown.

  “All right then. But first, who and what I am and who and what Diogenes is, can wait. For the moment I'm here to talk about our mutual problem. Armando Benedict.”

  Just the mention of his name sent warning bells ringing in Garrick's head. Loud ones. He suddenly knew who she was, or more accurately who she represented. And he wanted nothing to do with her. Especially if she knew about the nephilim. She could make his life very difficult.

  “Look I've already told a hundred odd agents – everyone from Treasury and Justice and the Bureau – I don't know him. I've never had any dealings with him.”

  “Tell your bosses, they're barking up the wrong tree. I hunt down kidnappers, fugitive murderers who cross state lines and serial killers. I don’t hunt those involved in forgery and burglary. That's for the white collar people.” And he didn't do white collar. Everyone knew that, as much as some desperately wanted to believe otherwise. If the day came that Benedict started killing people, then he might be set on his trail. Until then he didn't care about him.

  “My bosses?” She stared at him quizzically. “They already know that. And I'm not here to accuse you of anything. It's not about what you have to do with him. It's about what he has to do with you. Or hadn't you realised yet that he was responsible for messing with Treasury's agents? Feeding them false information, giving them fake orders, and sending them out after you?”

  “What?”

  He hadn't realised that and her words caught Garrick off guard. He hadn't even considered the possibility. Even now as she said it, he didn't understand. Even assuming she was right – and that was a big assumption – what possible reason could the ageing forger and bank robber have for messing with him?

  Then he suddenly remembered Cassie in the hospital and her concern about him and what he might do. Were the two things linked? “Why would he be after me?”

  “Because you messed up his plans. And more importantly because you know that the girl's a key.”

  She dropped in the last so casually that he almost missed it. But then he noticed the word and his mouth fell open in shock. She knew that Katarinka was a key and that he was a nephilim. That was something very few people outside of his people would know. It made him wonder just how much else she knew.

  “A key?” Garrick tried to look mystified as he asked the question.

  “Don't play coy with me. You're not very good at it” She cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes as if looking for something. “Strange really for an agent and a nephilim both. You're a hunter, she's a key and both of you are nephilim.”

  “And how the hell do you know that?” There was no longer any point in denying it – she knew too much. But how?

  “Diogenes.”

  “A little more information please.” Diogenes still meant nothing to him even though she kept saying it as if it should.

  “Officially we're an organisation concerned with the authentication and documentation of ancient documents. Experts in antiquities across the world. And while we do do all of that, in actual fact we are the leading and oldest international organisation concerned with it, we also have another role. We work to keep the existence of the Choir and the nephilim hidden – among other things. Antiquities is just our cover – and our meal ticket. But Diogenes has been around since ancient times. We have bases all over the world. And all of them work to keep you lot off the radar.

  “And Benedict is something to do with you?”

  “Hell no! We have standards and they begin with a decent moral code! No greedy little thieves allowed.”

  She seemed offended by the suggestion and no matter who she was that had to be a good thing. Especially when she seemed to know so much about things she shouldn't.

  “Benedict was a spook once upon a time. It's what makes him so good at what he does. And so dangerous.”

  “Spook? He was CIA?”

  That Garrick hadn't heard, but then he'd never really spent much time wondering about the thief. Benedict had never been on his radar as someone to hunt. Still, there had always been rumours that Benedict was some sort of rogue agent. On the other hand the number of stories about the man were almost countless and as someone who spent his days tracking serial killers rather than forgers, he'd never really paid any of them much attention.

  “Recruited at the height of the cold war when he was just twenty. Where he was before that we don't know, but we do know he was brought in to the fold so young because he had potential. He was trained in what today they call penetration and perversion. Back in the seventies there was no name for it. He was simply the dirty tricks guy who was sent in to destabilise political enemies. Need some fake currency to undermine an economy? – He was your man. Want to stir up political protest in another country without anyone connecting it with you? – That was Benedict. Need a foreign political party embarrassed and discredited? – That was his job.”

  “For nearly a decade he was their top guy. And that was during the end of the cold war. His skills were priceless. Unfortunately his loyalty wasn't. The CIA trained him and used him, but so did others and he became known as a private contractor. He was still useful but they h
ad to pay, and then watch him in case someone else paid him more. In the end, when Reagan met Gorbichov he was of no value at all. But he still found work with the country's enemies. So they tried to lock him away. He didn't like that.”

  “He also ran into problems with employers. Sometimes it was because he worked for their enemies at the same time. Sometimes he decided to renegotiate contracts at inconvenient moments. Sometimes he flat out betrayed them. After a while no one would hire him. No one he would work with anyway. That was a problem for him. But he found a solution. Eventually he decided that the best money could be made as a thief.”

  “For the last twenty five or thirty years now he's been completely private. Using all the skills they taught him to make himself incredibly rich. There have been a string of international robberies – banks and casinos mostly. Also counterfeiting operations and fraudulent pyramid investment schemes. All up he's probably stolen half a billion dollars.”

  “Unfortunately for him the world has moved on. The CIA have been keeping tabs on him as best they can. Cracking his aliases, finding his homes and hunting him down like no one else. He is an embarrassment to them and worse he probably has a lot of their most well buried secrets tucked away in his memory. And their banking connections have meant that his money keeps vanishing.”