MJ-12

by Michael J. Martinez

  Frank marveled at Zippy’s Enhancement. Danny called her ability psychometry, which he defined as the ability to glean information about a person or object just from touch. She was getting pretty good at looking for intel, just as Frank had learned how to focus his death watch experiences so that he got only the skills or knowledge he wanted. The drawback for Zippy, though, was that she could never really shut it off. Hence the gloves she usually wore when she wasn’t on duty.

  “That reporter cover’s pretty handy,” Danny said. “Let’s get over to Copeland. I think we’re gonna start the show in a few.”

  “We know how the colonel’s feeling?” Frank asked as they started toward Copeland, who was holding court among several Syrians and, apparently, telling some pretty good jokes.

  “Maggie says he’s angry and nervous,” Zippy replied. “Apparently, al-Quwatli didn’t show up for this one, and Za’im thought he would. Now he’s wondering what the hell the President is up to.”

  “Great, angry coup leader,” Frank muttered. “This’ll be fun.”

  Copeland excused himself and walked over to Frank and Zippy just as Danny faded away into the crowd. “You two ready?” he asked cheerily.

  “Sure,” Frank replied. “Where to?”

  Copeland smiled and walked toward one of the exits of the large, ceremonial foyer and down a corridor. A few guests mingled on the sidelines, and some of them seemed to note their passing with just a touch more than casual interest. Several of the voices in Frank’s head took interest.

  Male, mid-thirties, Arabic descent, unarmed, English-made watch. Looking at Zippy. No threat.

  Female, late twenties, Caucasian, Turkish-made dress, French-made shoes. Either English or French. Likely from the consulate, possible ally.

  Male, late thirties, Caucasian, shoulder mount, Russian-tailored suit. We’ll see him again. Not an ally.

  Frank glanced back at the guy with the bad Russian suit, who looked like he was glaring at them as they passed, but he’d already turned a corner to rejoin the party. “Who was the sourpuss back there?” Frank whispered.

  “Karilov,” Copeland replied, his voice a touch too loud for Frank’s tastes. “Soviet Consulate. Probably my opposite number. Not much of a talker. Now, Vasiliev, his boss? Great fellow, really. I think he likes the game as much as I do. Much more interesting than Keeley.”

  “You’re social with the Soviet consul?” Zippy asked incredulously.

  “Well, sure, Miss Silverman. We all go to the same parties. We all visit the same politicians. We attend sessions of Parliament and go to major court hearings and all those things. It’s just rude not to be social. Vasiliev isn’t rude. Karilov is. Ah, here we are.”

  By now, they were alone in a side corridor, in a maze of offices surrounding the parliamentary chamber. Copeland opened the door and immediately smiled at the two Syrian Army officers inside. “Evening, fellows. He knows we’re coming,” Copeland said.

  They were ushered into the room—a secretary’s anteroom—and quickly frisked by one of the officers as the other stood with his hand on his holstered pistol. Even Zippy was frisked, and her purse searched—they were nothing if not thorough.

  Frank looked over at Zippy, but she alleviated his concern with a glance—she hadn’t gleaned anything particularly troublesome from the guard. Copeland, meanwhile, was already heading for the inner office.

  “Colonel al-Za’im, it is wonderful to see you again, my friend.”

  Behind the desk, a large man in a garish military uniform rose to take Copeland’s hand. Za’im was taller than average and built like a brick house—thick and stocky, no neck, balding hair, full face. Frank couldn’t help but think that he looked like Edward G. Robinson, the actor who defined gangsters in the movies.

  “Who are these people?” Za’im asked in passable, accented English. “Your friends from Washington you told me about?”

  “Why, yes, Colonel, this is—”

  Frank interrupted with a raised hand and a step forward. “You can call me Frank, Colonel. And this here is Miss Silver. And if it’s all right with you, we’ll leave it at that. You understand, of course.”

  Za’im smiled slightly, and Frank relaxed. He wasn’t going to let his real name get around, and he figured a truncated “Silver” rather than “Silverman” would go over better with the Syrian military leadership—the same leadership that got their asses handed to them by the Israelis just the year before.

  “Of course. Mr. Frank, Miss Silver. We thank you for your support of the Syrian people,” Za’im said, almost as if he were bored. “May I present Colonels al-Hinnawi and al-Shishakli, my friends and fellow Syrian patriots.”

  Everybody shook hands cordially. Al-Hinnawi was, if anything, stockier and more dour looking than his boss, while al-Shishakli was quite different—tall, lean, with a politician’s smile and a clever look about him. Al-Shishakli gave both the newcomers a thorough once-over behind his smile and his patrician-sounding “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Chairs were brought in, seats were taken. “Now, Mr. Copeland, how will these individuals help retake our nation from the criminal al-Quwatli? You know it was terrible supplies, inferior weapons, and unreasonable orders that prompted our defeat last year—certainly not the heart of the Syrian soldier! Can you help us with the supplies and weapons? We can handle the orders, of course.”

  Copeland sighed and smiled. “My friend, you know that the United States cannot directly give you arms and supplies as you prepare to replace a democratically elected government—no matter how terrible that government has become!” he added quickly. “Once you have taken power and set new elections, then we would be happy to discuss a wide variety of aid packages, including rewards for completing the TAPline agreement that the current administration has set aside.”

  “And so, I ask again, why are these individuals here?” Za’im asked. “This one, Mr. Frank, is he some kind of military advisor? And Miss Silver? Surely not military!” The colonels in the room had a good chuckle at this, while Zippy forced a smile for her audience.

  “No, Colonel. These two will be helping me with our little operation at my house. We’re still on, yes?” Copeland asked.

  “Ah, yes. Our pretext for the rest of the world,” Za’im said. “It is clever. And these two will help you catch the thieves we will send to your home?”

  “They are both highly trained operatives and will not only assist in capturing the burglars but also in interrogating them to bring the truth of the current administration’s involvement to light,” Copeland said proudly.

  At this, al-Shishakli leaned forward, worry on his face. “Now, understand clearly, Mr. Copeland. We will not stand for any Syrians seriously injured in this operation. You may defend yourself and your home, but we expect the return of our … operatives, let’s say … without lasting damage.”

  Al-Hinnawi chuckled slightly and spoke in Arabic, which Frank understood quite clearly. “Adib, do you expect him to invite the burglars in for tea? All that matters is that al-Quwatli is blamed. If our men are a little worse off, is that not more believable?”

  “I will not have good men harmed if I can help it, not at the hands of these Americans!” al-Shishakli hissed in Arabic. “Colonel al-Za’im, you cannot stress this enough.”

  Za’im looked at his two subordinates, one on either side, then addressed Copeland in English once more. “Again, casualties are to be avoided, and we would prefer no lasting harm to anyone involved. But capturing the burglars in the act is most important.”

  “We can do that,” Frank reassured him. “Mr. Copeland here has a great plan.”

  The doors opened again, and a small boy—couldn’t have been more than ten to Frank’s eye—walked in, dressed like a sheik from Lawrence of Arabia, complete with headscarf. He walked over to al-Shishakli, and whispered in his ear.

  “Ah, I think it is time to return to the party,” the colonel said. “Someone was just asking for you, Colonel al-Za’im.”

&nbs
p; Za’im nodded and stood. “We will aim for March seventh for our operation,” he told Copeland. “A day on either end, perhaps, depending on how quickly al-Quwatli wishes to strike. I will try to send word, but be ready.”

  Copeland shook hands with all three colonels. “My family will be out of the house starting the second, just to be sure. Good luck to us all.”

  More pleasantries were exchanged, and the colonels filed out, the little Arab boy in tow. “Who’s the kid?” Zippy asked Copeland when they were gone.

  “I think he’s Shishakli’s boy. Learning the family business from the ground up.”

  “You keep your eye on Shishakli,” Frank said to Copeland. “He’s the brains of this whole operation.”

  Copeland smiled. “Very good, Mr. Lodge. You’re absolutely right. Now, shall we get back to the party?”

  Frank followed Copeland and Zippy back through the halls, wondering just how much Copeland wasn’t telling them about his plans—or whether the man was just winging it all along on a cloud of bluster and bullshit.

  As Frank approached the bar, he saw Maggie chatting amiably with a number of Syrians and assorted Europeans—she’d bitch about it later something fierce, but you never know who might be useful later on. Cal could learn a thing or two from her.

  “A drink, my friend,” said the man next to him. “To strong international relations.”

  Lost in his head, Frank turned to suddenly find the Russian-looking fellow from earlier standing next to him, eying him with a curious smile and holding out a glass of champagne—it was Karilov, from the Soviet embassy. Cursing himself for being careless, Frank nonetheless smiled back and took the proffered glass.

  Leningrad accent, came a voice in Frank’s head. College educated, but not in the West. With so many voices in his head, Frank wasn’t always sure who was talking at any given moment, but the information was useful. “I think I’m hearing a Leningrad accent, if I’m not mistaken?” Frank said cordially.

  The Russian’s eyebrows shot up. “Very impressive, Mister … ”

  “Smith. U.S. State Department. Linguistics. And you are?” Frank asked, trying to sound pleasantly ignorant.

  “Karilov. I work at the embassy of the United Soviet Socialist Republics. A pleasure, Mr. Smith.” The two shook hands and Frank got the distinct feeling that neither of them believed the other’s last name for one second. “So, what brings an expert in Russian languages to Damascus, of all places?”

  Frank smiled. “I speak many languages. You’d be surprised.”

  “I have no doubt. And I see here this evening a few other new faces as well. Very interesting.”

  Frank looked around with what he hoped passed for an innocuous expression. “Well, my fiancée is over there, but otherwise? I wouldn’t know. I imagine there’s always a rotating cast of characters around here.”

  “Indeed, but it is wise to take note. Something for you to consider as you settle into your new position,” Karilov said. “There’s always someone taking note.”

  The Russian sketched a little bow, then walked back among the partiers, leaving Frank looking for exits and praying Copeland wasn’t as sloppy as he seemed.

  March 5, 1949

  Alexei Mikhailovich Petrov had heard of men during the Great Patriotic War, wounded men who had lost limbs—hands, arms, feet, legs. He remembered one in particular, a corporal who barely looked old enough to shave, in the bed next to his, shortly after the siege of Stalingrad had been lifted. This corporal had screamed in pain, saying his legs felt as though they were on fire. No amount of vodka or critically short-supplied morphine could bring relief.

  All this despite the fact he no longer had legs.

  Alexei Mikhailovich remembered this corporal now, because he too was suffering from a lost limb, though one that had always been invisible. His phantom reach, his pull, his Empowerment, as it was called at the Bekhterev Institute—gone. All he had was the memory of it, the mental urge he channeled through the ether that would draw things to him. Weapons, crates, men, even an automobile. All pulled toward him, such strong power at his beck and call.

  But these Americans, they had taken it away from him with their infernal device. Alexei Mikhailovich had heard stories of such instruments, but only as rumor in the halls of the Bekhterev Institute, where the Soviet Union housed and trained its Chempiony Proletariata—its Champions of the Proletariat. Their intelligence had not been able to confirm that the Americans had discovered the means to nullify Empowerments, but Alexei, like most other Empowereds, had been operating under the assumption.

  The Soviet’s Istanbul operation had gone horribly, horribly wrong—their intelligence had accounted for only three American Empowereds, and there turned out to be more. The woman in particular, the one who turned fear into a dagger and thrust it into men’s hearts, they had not accounted for her. Her anger and rage in the cisterns under the ancient city that night had been something to behold. It was a horror like Alexei had never felt, not even when a Nazi bayonet had pierced his chest, barely missing his heart. No horror was comparable to what that woman could weave.

  And then water, a flood, and rock. That was all he remembered after the fear. The rest was a haze, a stupor unlike any other. Floating, barely registering sound and noise, only hunger and a need for light and movement that never came. Weeks, months—the Americans had told him it had not been very long, but he did not believe them. It was months, he was sure of it, because he had wasted away to barely fifty-five kilograms by the time they had revived him, allowed him to eat and talk, read and sleep normally. It took him a week before he could walk again and take a piss like a man should, standing up.

  His fury far surpassed his physical condition, but he hid it well. There would be a time when the Americans would slip up, when their nullifying field would collapse or falter and he could reach out again. He would lay waste to all around him on that day, and he savored the possibilities of what he might do and to whom. There was the Navy man, Wallace, who continued to act like his friend—a laughable ruse. And the scientist, Bronk, with his team of white-coated lackeys, studying him like a rat in a maze.

  Alexei always acknowledged them. He talked with them about the small things. But he would not divulge information. They knew of Bekhterev; they had even heard of Director Beria’s involvement. They had gathered some passable intelligence, he had to admit. But he would not tell them anything more. Not even when they brought that witch down to frighten him. He begged and pleaded, pissed himself, screamed in abject terror, tried to claw his own eyes from his skull—but still he did not relent.

  It wasn’t for Mother Russia he did this, not really, though he would of course swear otherwise should he ever return. No, he held on because he hated these people and wanted them all to die for what they had done to him.

  Even this one, who showed up today. Alexei Mikhailovich had never seen him before, and he suspected it was a new tack the Americans were trying in their attempts to break him.

  “Mr. Petrov,” the man said in English, taking a seat across from Alexei’s cot in the cell’s only chair. “Do you know where you are?”

  Alexei was startled to hear a German accent, an accent he knew well from Stalingrad. The man was thin and reedy, with slicked-back hair, balding, a cruel mouth and a Roman nose. He wore a suit and a lab coat—a scientist, or so they would have him believe.

  “I am a captive of the United States of America, an unlawful captive. I was taken from a neutral country and brought somewhere. I was drugged for a very long time, and now I am kept locked away to be studied for my ability. The rest does not matter.”

  “Does not matter?” The German smiled. “I should think it matters quite a lot. Would it surprise you to know you are in America itself?”

  Alexei considered this and decided he would see what this man’s game was. “It would not surprise me. America is a large country, like Russia. Your people, when they visit me, they wear light clothing, they have dust on their shoes. I would say that
not only am I in America but I am in the southwestern part of this country. I believe this would include the states called Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Utah, and Nevada.”

  “Impressive, Mr. Petrov. You’ve been trained well. In fact, you’re absolutely right. But forgive me if I don’t tell you exactly where quite yet.”

  “Yet?” Alexei asked, eyes narrowing. “I have no time for games. Whatever you’re here to do, get on with it.”

  “You have all the time in the world, and I have something you want,” the German said.

  “There is only one thing I want, and it is something you will not allow.”

  “Prisoner exchanges happen all the time.”

  “That is not what I want.”

  The German’s smile grew broader. “Then it is vengeance. An admirable goal.”

  Alexei stood up from his cot. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Not important, though what is important is that you keep my visits here to yourself. Do not tell the others who see you here, Commander Wallace and Dr. Bronk.”

  “Why?” Alexei demanded.

  “Because our interests are not aligned with theirs, of course.”

  “This is a trick. Another way to try to break me.” Alexei began to pace. “Have you not done enough to me yet, you bastards?”

  The German rose and stepped close to Alexei, lowering his voice to barely a whisper. “There is a vortex here. You know of what I speak. It is here, and so are you. You will be visited by someone else. Something else. Soon. It calls itself Vanda. And you must listen to what it says.”

  Without another word, the German walked out of the room, locking the doors behind him. It was only then that Alexei realized that he had come without guards, that this was the slip-up he’d been waiting for. How easy it would have been to overpower the mad German scientist, threaten his life, walk out. Such stupidity! He was a fool, caught off guard by silly mind games!