They’d also stopped once for gas, only to learn that there wasn’t any. Fortunately, Sam had remembered to transfer all of the food, water, and gasoline from the rental car before they abandoned it in the field, next to the barn and burning house in southwestern Oklahoma.
Brock agreed with her assessment: they’d easily make Denver, but not much further.
She’d dialed the Denver field office number several times, hoping to make arrangements to deal with their passenger, a person of interest – which was to say, the prime suspect – in what was shaping up to be one humdinger of a crime/espionage thing. Sam wasn’t sure what to call it – espionage was a crime, after all, but this particular espionage episode happened to include all sorts of larceny, conspiracy, misappropriation of government resources, and other things.
She hadn’t had any luck reaching the Denver guys, and, truth be told, she was hoping for a breakthrough with Mike Charles before any “enhanced” interrogation methods were required.
But it wasn’t going well. Charles was snoozing in the backseat, wearing a ridiculous tropical shirt and a pair of neon yellow sneakers Sam had picked up for him at a small mom-and-pop truck stop along the way, to replace the shoes and shirt the kidnappers had stolen.
“You can have anything but gas,” the old truck stop lady had said. “Ain’t got none of that. And ya gotta pay cash.” The old lady was apparently oblivious to the dollar’s recent plummet. Sam paid her gratefully, without letting her in on the news.
One thousand percent inflation, one of the radio stations had observed, just before the giant Kansas nothingness had swallowed all the radio signals and the station went to static. I’m no economist, but that sounds problematic.
It made her think of those strange Monopoly Man videos. She’d noticed another one playing mutely in the background at the truck stop. “There he goes again,” the lady said. “Tellin’ us to make nice with each other. Well an’ good to be Christian about it, I s’pose, but where’m I gonna get m’gas from?”
A good question, for which Sam, for one, had no immediate answer. She suspected that not many people did, despite the cartoon figure’s suggestion that it was as simple as making another agreement with one another. Whatever the hell that means.
Brock awoke, groggy, and smiled at Sam. He laid his head across her thigh.
Random.
Beautiful.
Her phone buzzed. Dan Gable.
“What is it, 2 a.m. there?”
“Getting on toward three,” Dan said. “I went home for a while to take care of Sara and the kiddos. A thought struck me around midnight, and I couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“Husband of the year.”
“Right,” Dan said. “Pretty sure Sara hates me. Anyway, I was thinking about those strange cartoon videos that keep popping up everywhere. You seen them?”
“Monopoly Man?”
“Right.”
“Those have me confused. They fried a bunch of comm satellites, right?”
Dan laughed. “Three of them. That only leaves a hundred and forty of them remaining over the Western Hemisphere.”
“Silly me. Nerd illiterate.”
“I’m used to it by now,” Dan said.
“So, anyway, you called your new NSA friends,” Sam guessed, hoping to get Dan to the point.
“How’d you guess?”
Sam stroked Brock’s cheek. “Magic.”
“Anyway, the uplink signal has to be coming from somewhere.”
“Monopoly Man himself being the existence proof,” Sam said.
“Smartass. But yes. So I asked the signals guys at NSA to throw me a bone, in exchange for all of the discretion that I continue to display regarding what is shaping up to be the intelligence failure of the millennium.”
“Did they balk?” Sam asked.
“Not at all. They came through in a big way. The uplink signal was broadcast to the satellites from dozens of locations each time. Different locations for each broadcast. The NSA guys were able to parse them in the time domain and do some serious multi-lateration math.”
“Did you have any friends in high school?”
Dan ignored the barb. “They were able to measure the start time of each station’s broadcast down to a silly degree of accuracy. The uplink dishes in the center of the US started transmitting microseconds earlier than the dishes on the coasts.”
“So they got a source location by comparing the times?”
“Exactly.”
“And?”
“There’s a bit of uncertainty involved, and any kind of internal electronic delays at any of the relay dishes would totally screw up the math, but they think they have a large enough sample size to narrow the source location down.”
“Which is where, exactly?”
“Denver.”
“Seriously?”
“Well, sort of. Denver, plus or minus three hundred miles in any direction,” Dan said.
“What?”
“The error ellipse of their triangulation math. A limitation of the number of samples they got and the measuring accuracy of the receiving equipment.”
“That’s a lot of territory,” Sam said.
“Yeah, but it’s narrowed down significantly from our prior search area, which encompassed the entire globe.”
“Solid point. So Denver it is. Luck would have it, that’s where we’re headed already.”
“Field office there?”
“Yep,” Sam answered.
Dan connected the dots. “Mr. Charles in need of some extra persuasion?”
“Right. If you run across any dirt on him in your travels, that would be useful from a leverage standpoint. But I’m hoping he comes around.”
“Count on it.”
They ended the call.
Sam caressed Brock’s face and neck. He smiled, turned, and kissed her hand. “You’re quite a handful, Special Agent Jameson.”
“So glad you don’t seem to object.”
“Object? I turned the world upside looking for you.”
“Glad it wasn’t just me.” She stroked his cheek. “I happen to be excruciatingly fond of you.”
“Thanks for inviting me along while you save the world.”
“Thanks for making my life worth living.” Ironic smile.
“We all do what we can.”
32
Banff, Canada
The Friday morning sun threw sheets of blazing orange across Lake Minnewanka, placid in the dawn stillness, bathing the opulent penthouse in the kind of light that made anything seem possible. At least, that was always the Facilitator’s reaction to such moments, an optimism that was likely responsible, at least in part, for his rise to the top of what was arguably the world’s most powerful organization.
It was certainly the world’s most secretive organization – there were no written communications, no bank accounts, no disk drives full of incriminating evidence, no staff, no logos, and no mission statements. There wasn’t any need for any of that. The Consultancy’s mission was so obvious as to be unspoken: utter domination of the world’s means of production.
Pragmatically, such an objective demanded dalliances of a political and military nature, which the Facilitator engineered with equal measures of careful circumspection and brutal precision. Anonymity was paramount. Shill corporations, politicians of all ilk and ideology, clandestine services, special operators, and now, apparently, convicted felons – all were useful arrows in a very impressive quiver.
But it had been a rough week. The Facilitator’s innate optimism had been tested, forcing him to rely on his other three-sigma attribute: his ruthlessness. Sociopathic, some might say, and his isolated and insulated life would lend credence.
As would the ice-cold, nearly instantaneous decision to have his second-in-command, a fellow crusader with nearly three decades of loyal service under his belt, unceremoniously offed. Business was business. Leaks and loose ends were always fatal. It’s how anonymous organizations remained anonymo
us.
For the Facilitator, it wasn’t the having, but the getting that gave him a charge, a splash of what the hipster Québécois called raison d’être. Or maybe it was the French who said it. He was indifferent to the cultural nuances – he was an equal opportunity baron, and believed that all races were perfectly suitable sources of labor and capital.
At least, they had been, until the world had shifted beneath his feet on Tuesday morning.
But adaptation is the hallmark of the über-species, and the Facilitator considered himself among the über-elite. Not without cause – he had amassed one of the largest fortunes in history. He was, by his own reckoning, the richest anonymous man to ever walk the planet.
The phone on the mahogany desk made the peculiar, insistent buzz it always made when a supplicant awaited in the lobby. On schedule. Always a positive sign. The Facilitator buzzed him up.
A “normal” man of his wealth would have stewards, attendants, and fluffers of varying skill to tend to the more prosaic aspects of living, such as answering the door, but the aforementioned security considerations had robbed the Facilitator of the enjoyment endemic to his layer of the Upper Crust. He walked heavily across the large great room to the penthouse’s front door, twisted the dead bolt, and held the door for the fat man on the other side.
“Good day.” The Facilitator’s greeting sounded stiff even to his own ears.
“Damn fine view!” And a damn fine comb-over, tossed over a slightly bulbous pate and greased into semi-permanent submission, yet failing to fully cover the big, shiny melon, leaving the characteristic monk stripe all the way around Bill Fredericks’ head, and, in back, a beacon-red shape not unlike a monkey’s ass.
The slovenly man’s jocularity and lack of deference was testament to either his irrational indifference to the Facilitator’s fear-inducing credentials and personal history, or his complete ignorance of them. Disagreeable either way, the Facilitator decided, motioning toward an oversized leather chair arranged in front of an equally outsized wall of windows.
The Facilitator sat heavily in an adjacent seat. “Ball Sack?”
“When in Rome,” Fredericks said, by way of explanation. “Actually, Balzzack011. Apparently the numbers are important in the ‘hacker’ world.” He made air quotes.
Balzzack011 was just one of his many monikers, each tailored to a particular situation. Bill Fredericks, Avery Martinson (to his wife and kids), Arturo Dibiaso, and a host of other identities checkered the man’s past. Each had seemed like a bit of a new start, though he had dragged his disagreeable proclivities, characteristic irreverence, and body odor with him to each new stop along Alias Alley. An asshole by any other name, as his peers said behind his back, and sometimes to his face.
“News?”
“My trip was fine, thanks for asking.”
“That’s not what I was asking,” the Facilitator said.
“That’s what I was saying.”
“Excuse me?”
“Certainly.” Fredericks smiled.
The Facilitator was momentarily confounded. He had spent all of the decades in recent memory almost entirely insulated from people such as Fredericks, buffered by layers of far more refined, if somewhat sycophantic, executives and politicians. Insolence was rarely something he had to endure.
“Just having a bit of fun with you,” Fredericks said by way of apology. “That guy was smoked, like you asked. At least I think it was you who asked, anyway. Really kind of tough to tell these days. Seems like there’s a bit of what they call organizational change mismanagement, though I’m not pointing any fingers. Maybe we could call in one of those bullshit artists from one of those big consulting firms, you know, to use made-up words to misstate the obvious.” Fredericks laughed at his own humor.
The Facilitator’s eyes narrowed. He made it a rule never to show anger unless it was to his strategic advantage, and he wondered whether this might be a good moment to teach a lesson. “You are aware of whose audience you’re now in?”
Fredericks smiled. “Not particularly. Though now that you mention it, it does kind of seem like we have different ideas about your importance. Maybe you can fill me in.”
“Maybe not.” A hard gaze.
Fredericks didn’t blink, flinch, or otherwise wilt.
“What a difference a week makes,” the Facilitator said. “I watched footage of your interrogation last weekend.”
Fredericks responded with blinking, flinching, and if not wilting, certainly a close cousin to it.
A wicked smile grew on the Facilitator’s face. “Eviscerated by a thirty-something pinup model. Redhead, no less. By your reaction, I can tell that you’re appropriately ashamed.”
Fredericks didn’t answer. He was busy being appropriately ashamed, and thinking of the ways he would hurt Sam Jameson if the opportunity ever arose. Misplaced aggression, of course, because the vise that the Homeland bitch had squeezed him in was certainly of his own making. Details.
“But I compliment you on your taste in prostitutes,” the Facilitator said, the pecking order now firmly established. “Relatively unspoiled, if memory serves.”
Fredericks’ blush deepened.
“I would imagine that this week’s chaos wasn’t entirely unwelcome to you,” the Facilitator continued. “Spared you a few uncomfortable conversations, did it?”
Fredericks exhaled and nodded.
It was clear to the Facilitator that the fat case officer wasn’t accustomed to the marionette’s role. Fredericks clearly enjoyed the advantage in the vast majority of his leveraged conversations, and the Facilitator enjoyed watching embarrassment and annoyance do battle for a controlling interest in the Agency asshole’s facial expression.
“I feel we’re much better prepared to communicate meaningfully with each other now,” the Facilitator said with a bemused smile, reaching for a glass of sparkling water. “You were just about to tell me about our dear friend Mr. Mondragon, the, as you say, hacker.”
Fredericks nodded, visibly relieved by the change of subject. “Already off the reservation. He reached out to a supplier and asked for ‘chipzezz.’”
“That’s a meaningful request?”
“Geek slang for a new computer. Parole violation.”
“Murky waters, given that his FBI handlers have sanctioned his computer use.”
Fredericks nodded. “I’m not inclined to drop a dime to the Bureau stiffs. But he did make a copy of all the shit he built to steal all that fake money.”
“Entrepreneurship?” the Facilitator asked.
“My guess is yes.”
“Scale?”
Fredericks snorted. “He set you up on a global scale. What makes you think he did anything less for himself?”
“Is his setup repeatable?”
Fredericks shook his head. “Not easily. The guy is pretty special with computers. Like autistic or something. My guess? We’d have to recruit half a dozen people to replace him.”
“Do so.”
Fredericks narrowed his eyes. “I’m not squeamish, as you know, but are you sure it’s necessary? I mean, he’s not exactly wise to the big picture.”
“The plan is self-evident by virtue of its execution. He was important in the beginning because of his unique skills, and we moved quickly to take advantage of the market chaos. But he’s now a rival. You know what must be done.”
Fredericks shrugged. “Suit yourself. Timeframe?”
“The monitoring software has provided you with the necessary account access information?”
“Pretty sure. I mean, it’s geeky shit, and it’s not my area of expertise, but there’s a couple thousand account numbers and passwords stored up by now.”
“Then he is your highest priority.”
“Seems like an awful lot of brains just to splatter a wall with. Sure we can’t use the kid for something else?”
“Loyalty above competency. Always.”
“You expected loyalty from the kid?”
The Facilit
ator shook his head. “I had no such expectations. I’m merely reiterating what I hope are very clear priorities.”
Fredericks’ eyes narrowed and a knowing smile creased his lips. “They were right about you, old man. You’re ice fuckin’ cold.”
With a flick of his finger, the Facilitator ended the conversation.
“I’ll see myself out,” Fredericks said.
The Facilitator watched him leave, observing that Fredericks’ type always wanted the last word, always needed the illusion of control over something. They invariably became liabilities as a result.
Fredericks’ time would certainly come, probably sooner rather than later.
But not right now. Right now, the Consultancy had use for him, disagreeable though he was.
33
Lost Man Lake Ranch, Colorado
Friday morning arrived gently for Protégé. He’d eased off on the scotch at just the right time during the evening’s philosophical exchange with the growing crowd of illuminati that had been arriving steadily since the so-called “devolution event” four days earlier.
He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off of Allison, which he considered to be a good sign as they entered the second week of their whirlwind romance. She didn’t seem at all put off by his amorous advances. If anything, he worried he couldn’t keep up with her appetite.
Protégé heard her rhythmic breathing and rolled over to regard her. Ridiculously gorgeous. Dark brunette strands draped carelessly across her face, counterpoint to the perfect lines of her nose and cheeks, somehow parting to make way for those incredible lips. His eyes wandered down her length, following the line of her hips, bedcovers pulled low enough to cause tingling.
As if on cue, Allison’s eyes opened, brilliant, piercing blue laser beams of intelligence and frank sensuality. “Caught me staring,” Protégé said.
She smiled. “Lucky me.” Her hand wandered.
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