by Robert Cain
Gently, he disentangled himself from Dr. McDaniels. "Rod!” she said. Her face was wet. "Are you okay?” "Function nominal,” he replied. Rising, he looked around the room. Drake was removing the PARET helmet, Weston anxiously helping him.
"Chris! What the hell happened?” The CIA man looked from the SEAL to Rod and back again.
"I’m okay, I’m okay!” Drake said. His face, too, was wet. "Damn, I’m sorry. My fault. I guess I kind of lost control.”
Rod’s acute senses detected Drake’s increased heart rate, the flushed skin, the tension in his voice. He was upset, but otherwise he seemed functional.
"What do you mean, Chris?” McDaniels asked. "Lost control how?”
"I was . . . remembering.” Drake’s hands clenched again, then slowly relaxed. Rod could see that they were trembling, ever so slightly. "Good God, it was like I was there again. I couldn’t handle it.”
"Damn!” McDaniels said. "I was afraid of that. A feedback loop . . .”
Weston shook his head. "Feedback what?”
The PARET helmet worked by generating a weak electromagnetic field that registered the neural patterns of the subject. It also tended to isolate those patterns, insulating them from distracting thoughts or outside interference. That had very much the same effect in humans as a light hypnotic trance, the sort that allowed a human to remember things in vivid detail, even if they had happened years before.
And sometimes there was the faintest echo, reinforcing those patterns, strengthening them. Rod understood the phenomena perfectly, even though it was poorly understood in human PARET subjects. In computers it was called a programming loop.
Fascinating that it could happen in humans as well.
He could still feel the effects of a similar loop within his own thought processes. Strange ... his memory was perfect, but that black, sinking, nightmarish sense of loss he’d experienced for a moment was fading. Already he found it impossible to recapture it, even to recall it.
But something had happened, hadn’t it? Something had changed.
No. All systems were functioning nominally.
An inner command superimposed a window on his visual display. The faces of two men, drawn from Drake’s memory, stared back at him within his own mind, and he felt an inner shiver of. . . what? Fear . . . anger . . . loathing . . .
Could a robot . . . hate?
"Mr. Weston,” Rod said. "I have the information you required. It is coming through on the printer now.”
The laser printer in the corner began to hum as paper fed into the machine.
They were photographs, halftones indistinguishable from the black-and-white portraits that might have been printed in a magazine. Rod watched impassively as Drake, Weston, and McDaniels looked at the photos. Others crowded around, fascinated by what were, in effect, snapshots of a man’s memories.
McDaniels suddenly looked up. "Wait a minute! All of you ... out!” She began herding the other RAMROD technicians away.
"What’s the matter, Doctor?” Weston asked.
"Good God, Mr. Weston! You realize what we’re looking at there? Surely Chris has a right to some privacy. ...”
Rod had trouble understanding the concept, but he saw Weston nod. "Maybe we should clear the room. Chris?”
"Sure. Whatever you want.” He sounded tired, weak. "Heather can stay, if she wants. . .
Weston looked at McDaniels. "Okay, everybody out,” he said quietly. "You can stay, Doctor. But I think we’d better keep this to the three of us for the moment.” His eyes met Rod’s for an instant. "The four of us.”
Four of the photos showed the four murderers in Drake’s home, each captured at a different moment, their expressions showing various emotions: surprise, pain, anger, lust. They seemed exaggerated, and Rod wondered if they really had looked like that, or if their expressions had been exaggerated by Drake’s memory. The last two were of Esposito and the blond man who had brought the MAC-10.
Weston pointed to one. "Well, we know that’s not Esposito. Not the real one, anyway.”
"Right.”
Rod’s head cocked slightly to one side, a human mannerism he was still learning to imitate. Somewhere at the back of his mind, separated from that part of his brain used to communicate with the humans, images— photographs stored in literally millions of electronic files—flickered at the edge of awareness. "I am now scanning police and government records for all subjects,” he said. "I have positive matches for the four dead men. Hardcopy briefs are coming through now.” The printer hummed. Weston reached into the output hopper and removed three pages. "Yep,” he said. "These are the names the police came up with at the time. Federico Chaco Vegas. His brother Julio. Arturo Alvarez, Ramon Gomez. All street-level hoods. Members of a Hispanic gang called Los Salvajes. Long arrest records, all of them ... possession ... distribution ...” Drake reached out and took one of the sheets. "Chaco Vegas,” he said. His voice was brittle, like ice. "He’s the one . . .”
"He’s dead, son,” Weston said. "You killed him.” "I remember.” Drake seemed to shake himself, then looked sharply at Rod. "Look at the heading on these files! These are Virginia State Police arrest records! He’s pulling them out of Richmond somehow, and printing them here!”
"I have completed examining the computer files for state and local police in Virginia, Maryland, the District of Columbia, and the Portsmouth-Norfolk-Virginia Beach area,” Rod said. "I have now accessed the computer files of the FBI in Washington, D.C.”
Drake’s eyes widened. "My God! Can he do that?” McDaniels shrugged. Her eyes had scarcely left Rod since his fall, and she still looked worried. "Rod has a built-in cellular phone system,” she explained. "And an internal modem. If he knew the number and the passwords, I guess he could tap into any computer system anywhere, as long as it had a modem hookup, too.”
"Acquiring the appropriate numbers is simply a matter of accessing the appropriate electronic directories,” Rod said. Images continued to flicker through some remote part of his awareness. "The passwords are more difficult, but since the files are designed for broad-based official user access, they are generally available in help menus or police files.”
"God damn,” Drake said. "You people have created a robot hacker!”
Weston was watching Rod intently. "Good intelligence is the key to any war,” he said. "Maybe Rod’s best weapon in the war on drugs will be information.'’'' Rod continued to run through the FBI files. They were enormous, far larger and more comprehensive than the police files. He narrowed his search to East Coast records compiled within the past five years.
The images of the two unknown men remained in his mind as the records blurred past. Smiling. Evil. Rod had known the dictionary definition of the word evil but had not been certain that he felt what it meant.
Looking at those two faces in his memory—in Drake’s memory—somehow explained the word.
There was a satisfying inner click of resolution in the back of Rod’s mind. "I have another match,” he said. He activated the printer again. "Hardcopy is coming through now.”
Weston picked up the data sheet and rapidly scanned it. "It’s our blond friend. Oh, shit . . .” He looked up at Drake. "Our old friend Michael Howard Braden.” "The helo pilot . . .” Drake’s face was grim. Weston kept reading for a moment, more carefully now. "Shit!” he said. "This is a 201 file.”
"What’s that?” McDaniels wanted to know.
"It means the guy’s worked for the CIA. We’ve got a live one here.”
"Indications are that the subject escaped by motor vehicle,” Rod said. "There is no record of his death with—”
McDaniels laid a hand on Rod’s arm. "That’s not what he meant, Rod,” she said.
Weston held up the printout and read aloud. "Michael Howard Braden. Born Dallas, 1947. West Dallas High . . . Texas A&M . . . Here we are. Served with Special Operations Group beginning 1969. Helicopter pilot . . . and fixed-wing transports. Flew special missions for the CIA into Laos and Cambodia in
the early seventies. Discharged in ’74. Looks like he maintained Company contacts, though. He was a contract pilot in Nicaragua starting in ’76, first with the Somozistas, later with the Contras.” Weston looked up. "He’s still listed on the 201 as a CIA contract agent.”
"What does that mean?” McDaniels asked.
"Means he’s a freelancer, working for the Company part-time. And according to this, he’s on active status now.”
"In the hospital in Panama with dysentery,” Drake said, his voice tightly controlled. "My ass. He was there, with Esposito. Does that mean this is all CIA?” "A rogue operation,” Weston said. He shook his head. "God, a rogue op. It proves Diamond is Company, because only a Company man could pull something like this together. And it means Diamond has other Company people working for him.”
"The same voice,” Drake said, remembering. "The same accent. Braden flew that helo dust-off in Colombia. But instead of a rescue—”
"He set you up. It fits.”
"It might also give us a handle on Diamond,” Drake said. "Braden’s got to know how to contact him. Maybe he even knows the guy. . . .”
Weston looked at Rod. "There’s no address listed here. What else can you get on the bastard?” "Checking.”
"Unfortunately,” Weston said, "Rod’s only going to be able to work with information that’s part of the system. He caught Braden because the guy was stupid enough to show his face at Chris’s house.”
"Not stupid,” Drake said. "I was as good as dead. I think—”
"I have additional information,” Rod said. He was expanding his search of government files, hunting for the man who had impersonated the real Esposito, still with no success. But he’d turned up something relevant on Braden.
"Whatcha got, son?” Weston asked.
"Item. Michael Braden is still listed as being in Gorgas Army Hospital, Panama. However, the Gorgas patient records show no one there by that name.
"Item. A Captain Brady Howard is listed on an Army flight from Bogota to Andrews Air Force Base yesterday, with a fueling stop at Homestead Air Force Base, Florida.
"And 'Brady Howard’ is listed as a cover name for Michael Howard Braden,” Weston said, reading the 201-file printout again. "Right.”
"That is correct,” Rod said. "Item. Agency records show a CIA safe house in Georgetown being assigned to Michael Beasely three days ago.”
"Another cover name.” Weston lowered the printout. "This guy gets around, doesn’t he?”
"There is a high probability that Braden-Howard- Beasely is currently using the Georgetown safe house as a base of operations,” Rod said. "Surveillance or apprehension at that address is a definite possibility.” "You’re damned right it’s a possibility,” Drake said. He looked at Weston, fire in his eyes. "Let’s go pick him up.”
"Hold on there, son,” the CIA man said. "We’re not authorized to—”
"The hell with authorization, man,” Drake exploded. "What do you want to do, ask permission from your buddies at Langley? Maybe ask Diamond himself?” "No. Certainly not.” Weston looked at Rod again. "I am wondering if we can’t use this somehow. Maybe to smoke Diamond out.”
"You mean let them know at Langley that we’re going after Braden and see who jumps?”
"Something like that.” He continued to stare at Rod. "And maybe our friend Rod here is about to get his first field test.”
"That would be gratifying,” Rod said. "I have long theorized about conditions in the world outside the walls of this facility and have anticipated witnessing them at first hand.”
"Whoa, there,” Drake said. "You mean you’ve never been outside the laboratory?”
"Correct,” Rod replied. "However, I anticipate no problems in such an operation. My programming has been designed to allow me to function adequately in uncontrolled environments.”
McDaniels patted Rod’s shoulder. "You may have a few things to learn yet.”
"Yeah,” Drake said softly. "It’s a nasty world out there.”
Briefly, Rod wondered how the objective reality of the world outside the lab walls could be different from that inside ... or from the world he experienced indirectly through the PARET feed. He did not understand but decided that travel outside those walls might well give him the data he needed to resolve the question.
He felt the familiar, satisfying click of numbers matching. "I have a match on the final subject,” he said. "Hardcopy is coming through.”
Weston picked up the sheet and started reading. "State Department . . . My God, Rod, where did you get this?”
"State Department records on foreign nationals traveling inside the United States,” Rod replied. "I could find no sign of the subject in CIA files. However, a newspaper clipping which was scanned and stored with CIA archival material caught my notice and led me to check the appropriate State Department files.”
"Colonel Luis Delgado-Valasquez,” Weston read. "Colombian national. First entered the U.S. in 1984 as a military attaché with the Colombian embassy. Senior officer believed operating with the DAS.”
"DAS?” McDaniels asked. "What’s that?”
"Their FBI,” Weston replied. "And I think I see now why they were so eager to silence you, Chris.” "Why?”
"Group Seven has been trying to expand our information exchanges with the DAS. I know for a fact this Delgado was slated to work with Group Seven personnel on upcoming joint projects.” He shook his head. "Diamond must have figured there was a good chance that you’d run into Delgado. If you did ...”
"I’d remember him as the guy who led my team into an ambush. Right.”
Weston reached into the printer basket. "Here’s a copy of that newspaper clipping. And a translation. The original is in Spanish.”
"Read it.”
"El Espectador, 12 November 1986,” Weston read. " 'President Barco meets with American diplomats to discuss extradition treaty.’ ” He compared the photo, which showed the U.S. ambassador shaking hands with Colombian President Virgilio Barco Vargas, with the image taken from Drake’s memories.
"Delgado is in the background,” Rod said. He extended a hand, pointing to a member of the crowd watching the meeting in the newspaper shot. The figure was wearing a uniform and dark glasses, but the resemblance was unmistakable.
"So I see.” Weston returned to the printed biography. "It doesn’t say anything here about him working with the drug lords. In fact, he was in charge of government operations against the Medellin cartel in 1988. He led a series of raids that bagged five high-level Medellin people.”
"Working against the competition,” McDaniels suggested.
"An excellent working hypothesis, Doctor,” Rod put in. "He could well have been working for the Cali cartel.”
"Or the Salazars,” Weston said. "Yeah. It fits.”
"So how do we find him?” Drake asked. "And I do mean we. I’m in on this, Weston. I want this guy.”
"You’re in,” Weston said softly. "As to the how, we follow up the leads we have.” He slapped one of the dossier printouts on the table. "We start by paying Mr. Braden a visit.”
Rod felt an inner thrill similar to the click of resolution over a satisfactorily completed problem. The sensation—of satisfaction, of completion—was a new one, which itself was . . . satisfying.
He had already deduced that apprehending Braden would be the next step in a plan to ferret out Diamond.
He was pleased that Weston was in agreement.
Three hours later, Charles Wilson Vanecki made a notation in the phone log in the RAMROD telephone exchange, listing the caller, the number called, and the time. Vanecki had worked at Langley before the man he knew as Diamond arranged for his transfer to the Farm.
Noting that the caller was one of several names he was paid to take note of, he listened in on the conversation for several moments before another call forced him to attend to his legal duties.
And hours later, at a service station phone booth outside of Barlowe Corners, Virginia, he made another call to
a memorized phone number that was to be used only in an emergency. . . .
© Chapter Nine
DRAKE LEANED BACK in the right-hand rear seat of the limousine as it pulled out of Washington National Airport and merged with the traffic heading north on the George Washington Memorial Parkway. Weston sat in the middle, with Rod to his left. The front seat was occupied by the driver and an FBI man named Kenzie, both wearing conservative business suits. Drake had glimpsed an H&K MP5 submachine gun on the floor by Kenzie’s foot, and he knew that the driver was armed as well.
Their car was sandwiched between two identical black limos, each of which carried four more armed men.
The ten-man security unit was FBI. Four of them— Kenzie, the driver, and two men in the lead car—were regular agents, but the rest were members of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s elite Hostage Response Team. The HRT—pronounced "Hurt” and sometimes referred to by insiders as "Super-SWAT”—was a fifty- man unit trained in close-quarters combat, special entry techniques, assault tactics, and other standard antiterrorist and hostage-rescue skills. Weston had called Washington and arranged for the HRT detail to join the RAMROD party on the Washington National runway reserved for occasional military or official traffic.
"Are they for our protection or to arrest Braden?” Drake had asked as they climbed out of the Huey and hurried across the runway to where the three black limos and their armed escort were waiting.
"A little of both,” Weston had replied. "The CIA doesn’t have powers of arrest. That’s the FBI’s department, which is why I brought them in on this.” Weston had grinned. "Anyway, a few extra guns won’t hurt when we confront our Texan friend, right? We don’t know who he has in there with him, or how well armed they might be.”