The Speed of Sound

by Eric Bernt

  Stenson slowly sat up in his chair. “Calm down, Daryl. I can barely understand you when you talk so fast.” He glanced at Jason as if to say, From now on, you do the talking.

  Daryl Trotter handed his boss copies of the two federal warrants.

  Stenson skimmed the documents, looking puzzled. “Why the hell would Barnes go and make his housekeeping public?”

  “I believe the answer lies with an additional warrant, which was issued for a New York Police detective named Butler McHenry.” Daryl handed him the third warrant.

  Stenson didn’t read more than the detective’s name. “Who is he, and what does he have to do with anything?”

  “He’s wanted for harboring Drummond and Parks.”

  Stenson paused to digest the information. “Why would a New York City detective harbor two federal fugitives?”

  “Because he’s one of the detectives assigned to the subway gas attack that killed Dr. Drummond’s boyfriend, the professor.”

  Stenson scratched his chin, letting this sink in. It took him a moment to catch up to what the former chess Grandmaster had put together.

  Jason chimed in. “People go to the police because they want help.”

  Caitlin was not about to be left out of the conversation. “Or because they have information they think would help in an investigation.”

  Even Stenson was opening his eyes a little wider now. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. “For the detective to risk his own career, he must have heard something rather extraordinary.”

  Jason added, “Just like Edward’s doctor.”

  Daryl connected the dots. “I believe whatever they heard is something that links either Dr. Fenton or Michael Barnes to the incident in the subway.”

  Stenson smiled ever so slightly. “Or both.” He couldn’t help but think of how efficient it would be if both parties were involved. He turned to his young protégé, Jason. “Well, I’ll be damned, Mr. Greers. It looks like you were right. There is a connection.”

  Jason grinned slyly, careful not to show too much emotion. Mr. Stenson wouldn’t appreciate that. Neither would his peers. “Thank you, sir.”

  “And, more importantly, it looks like the echo box is a reality.”

  “It looks that way, sir.” Jason said it with all humility. He knew to let his earlier discovery that day speak for itself.

  Stenson looked around to the four corners of his office. “My God, can you imagine the secrets this room could give up?” His expression of wonder and amazement turned quickly to one of foreboding and concern. “We must acquire the device at all costs.”

  His three lieutenants turned to each other, wheels spinning. The expression at all costs was used rarely within this building, especially by Bob Stenson. With all the resources at their disposal, the statement was significant. Caitlin asked, “How many assets do we have in the immediate New York area?”

  Jason answered with commanding certainty. “Think bigger. We should pull in everyone from the entire Eastern Seaboard.”

  Daryl read a text message on one of the several handheld devices he carried with him at all times. “NYPD is reporting McHenry is en route with the device to the Sixth Precinct, along with the other two fugitives.”

  Caitlin could see what was coming. “Barnes’s security personnel will be waiting for them, where they intend to take possession of Edward, the doctor, and the device.”

  Stenson still managed to remain perfectly calm as he picked up the phone. “That’s not going to happen.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Crooked Stick Golf Club, Carmel, Indiana, May 27, 3:07 p.m.

  Senator Davis was playing his best round of the year. He was on the eleventh hole at Crooked Stick, his favorite course. His last couple of rounds had been truly dreadful, but his ball was currently smack-dab in the middle of the fairway on the eleventh hole. It was a 457-yard par four, and the senator had just hit one hell of a drive. He was not known as much of a big hitter, but he had most definitely gotten all of this one. The ball carried a good 220 yards and didn’t stop rolling for another 30, in part because of the downward slope of the fairway. His playing partners were certain he’d been taking private lessons, and demanded to know from whom. Davis swore he hadn’t had time for lessons. He was just on his game today.

  The pin was 175 yards away. His caddie suggested a five iron, but the senator was feeling strong. He was going with a six. A nice, firm six. He’d taken several practice swings when he felt a vibration in his pants pocket. It was his new phone. The one he had just received and was instructed to keep on his person at all times. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. He turned away from the rest of his foursome as he flipped open the device. “Good afternoon.”

  “Senator, good afternoon. Bob Stenson calling. I’m sorry to interrupt your round. How’s Crooked Stick treating you?”

  Davis couldn’t believe it. How the hell does he know I’m in the middle of a round at Crooked Stick? The senator looked around, wondering who the hell was spying on him. He saw no one but the other three golfers he was playing with and their caddies. He answered, uncomfortably, “Not too shabbily.”

  It didn’t occur to the senator to look straight up, not that it would have done any good. Stenson’s vantage point was 423 miles above the earth. The same one Caitlin McCloskey had been using to follow the National League East fans. The GeoEye-1 Reconnaissance Satellite was the world’s most advanced commercial imaging satellite. Its publicly available images were impressive, but it was the classified abilities of this satellite that were simply astonishing. Stenson, of course, was watching these.

  GeoEye-1 had been funded primarily by the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency (NGA) to the tune of $478 million. The decision had been made by the NGA’s new director, Lieutenant General James Culpepper, who happened to be an acquaintance of three of the Foundation’s seven founders. They had called in some favors to get Culpepper the job, so when the original puppet masters contacted him on behalf of GeoEye, Culpepper was not about to say no. To that request, or anything else. Culpepper readily committed half a billion dollars of taxpayer money.

  It took one phone call.

  In exchange for that one phone call, GeoEye granted the American Heritage Foundation unlimited access to the classified portion of the satellite. It turned out to be costing the company roughly $53 million a year in lost revenue, but no one in the company ever complained. Particularly since the chairman was about to ask for the Foundation’s help to secure the funding for their next satellite, GeoEye-2, which was going to cost over a billion dollars.

  Stenson talked to the senator warmly, like they were old friends. “Give Justice Barkley my best, won’t you?”

  “I’ll do that.” It somehow made the senator feel better that he wasn’t the only one under the thumb of the American Heritage Foundation.

  “Allow me to get right to the point, Senator. It appears Dr. Marcus Fenton’s patient has managed to make his echo box work. Acoustic archeology is real.”

  The head of Corbin’s six-iron club dropped to the fairway as his arm went limp. “I don’t believe it.”

  “We were dubious as well, but circumstances lead us to believe otherwise.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “Fenton’s head of security has issued a federal warrant for the arrest of a doctor and patient who left hospital grounds in possession of the echo box.”

  Davis remained skeptical. “Could be just another one of his ploys.”

  “True. But if the echo box is working, we believe Fenton’s objective in reacquiring the device will be to take it underground.”

  Davis was flabbergasted. He’d never trusted the arrogant son of a bitch, and sure as hell wasn’t about to start now. “He’ll never get away with it.”

  “Senator, all he’d have to do is claim the device still doesn’t work, and no one would be the wiser.”

  It was so obvious. Davis didn’t have to be convinced of what Marcus Fenton was capable of. �
�If this technology is real, it should be in the hands of the NSA or NRO. Certainly not Fenton’s.”

  “We believe that, as chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, you need to hear a demonstration for yourself to confirm its legitimacy.”

  Davis liked this idea. He liked it a lot. “How would you suggest I go about arranging such a demonstration?”

  Senator Corbin Davis had just asked the right question. “The New York office of Homeland Security is at your disposal. National Director Merrell will do whatever you tell him. He doesn’t need to know the specifics. All he needs to know is that the device is classified, and that his agents are to take possession of it from the NYPD.”

  “Won’t Fenton’s people have something to say about that?”

  “It’s private security guards in the employ of a government-funded psychiatric facility versus federal agents from the Department of Homeland Security. Who do you think will flinch first?”

  Davis smiled, glad as hell that Stenson and he were on the same side. “I’m calling Director Merrell now.”

  “Let us know if we can be of any assistance.”

  After hanging up with Davis, Stenson turned to his protégé, who had been allowed to remain in the office as he spoke to the senator. “Any questions?”

  Jason Greers was humbled. All he had strategically considered was how quickly they could get their independent contractors to converge on New York City. It hadn’t occurred to him that the far more elegant solution was to get others to do the work for them. It only took one phone call and wouldn’t cost them a dime. And it further cemented their new relationship with the Indiana senator.

  It was the American Heritage Foundation who would take the echo box underground, not Dr. Fenton. The old windbag had surely planned to use the device to tout his own genius and keep his facility funded in perpetuity. The Foundation, however, was going to keep the echo box all to itself. They would know even more than they did now, and no one would be the wiser.

  But a few specifics still needed explaining. “You don’t actually intend to allow Senator Davis to hear the device, do you?”

  Stenson smirked. “Absolutely.” From behind his desk, he studied Greers, who looked confused until Stenson finished mapping out the upcoming steps in detail.

  If there was ever a doubt in Jason Greers’s mind about his chosen career, Stenson knew it was long gone. “If we have the echo box, and no one else does, that would be . . . a very good thing for us.”

  “That’s rather an understatement, don’t you think?”

  Greers nodded. “I thought you would appreciate it.”

  “I do,” Stenson acknowledged.

  The protégé considered what was to follow. “Eventually, Edward Parks will try to build another prototype.”

  “If he is given the resources, of course he will.”

  “Fenton could manage to find someone else to step in.”

  “He could.” The mentor wanted his charge to see it for himself. The move was obvious.

  “Doesn’t that concern you?”

  “Does it look like it concerns me?” Stenson locked eyes with Greers. See it, already. See it.

  It took only another moment before Greers understood. “We’re not going to let that happen.”

  “Of course not.” Stenson smiled. Greers had passed yet another test. “The moment we are in possession of the echo box and confirm that it’s operational, Edward Parks becomes a liability.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Sixth Precinct, New York City, May 27, 3:11 p.m.

  Interrogation Room Five was pretty much the same as the other four interrogation rooms inside the Sixth Precinct. A windowless box with a metal table and two chairs in the middle. The table was scratched with graffiti. The chairs repaired with duct tape. Eddie stood, slowly rotating his head back and forth as he made himself comfortable. They had parked two blocks away on Beach Street, and entered the station through the west emergency exit, just as the lieutenant had instructed. “Detective McHenry, why is this room called an interrogation room?”

  “Because it’s where we interrogate suspects.”

  “Why do you interrogate suspects?”

  “To see what they will reveal about a particular crime.”

  “Do they ever lie?”

  “Only when they open their mouths.”

  Eddie looked around the walls of the room. “There are probably a lot of very interesting echoes bouncing all around us.”

  Skylar chimed in. “I bet there are, too.”

  “Why would you bet, Skylar?”

  “Because I believe you are correct. And if you believe something is correct, people sometimes make a wager on that belief.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Would you like me to lend you some?” she asked with her usual warmth, which kept Eddie at ease.

  “Five million dollars, please.”

  She was reminded that money had no meaning for him. Skylar took out a bill. “I don’t happen to have that much on me at the moment. How about one dollar?”

  “Is that enough to bet with?”

  “Yes, Eddie. It’s plenty.”

  “Okay. One dollar.” Eddie accepted the currency, staring at it with interest. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do with it, or even how to hold it. “I bet one dollar.”

  “I bet one dollar, too.” She placed a bill on the table. Eddie copied her action, putting his dollar next to hers.

  “That’s two dollars in the pot,” she told him.

  “What pot?”

  Skylar clarified, “Whoever wins the bet gets to keep both dollars.”

  “Forever?” Eddie asked with a degree of amazement.

  “You can do whatever you want with them.”

  “Can I buy a car?”

  “No, Eddie, you cannot buy a car.”

  “You said, ‘You can do whatever you want with them.’” Butler was visibly amazed at Eddie’s imitation of Skylar.

  “You can do anything that only costs two dollars.”

  “What costs only two dollars?”

  “Well, a pretzel, for one thing.”

  Butler interrupted, “Could we please get on with this?”

  Skylar nodded to Eddie. “I will tell you some things you can buy for two dollars after you win the bet. Let’s hear the echoes.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Main Entrance, Sixth Precinct, May 27, 3:42 p.m.

  Lutz and Hirsch had been standing in front of the station for fifty-seven minutes. There had been no sign of Dr. Drummond or Edward Parks, and the two former intelligence agents were beginning to doubt there would be. Hirsch scanned the passing pedestrians. “This is a jerk-off.”

  Lutz agreed. “They’re either already inside, or holed up somewhere.”

  “If they’re inside, we’re going to need help getting them out.”

  “I think the cavalry just arrived.” Lutz was staring at two black Suburbans, which screeched to a halt in front of the station. Six Homeland Security agents got out of each van, moving quickly toward the entrance to the station. “Thanks for coming.”

  The lead agent was more amused than annoyed. “Who the hell are you?”

  “We work for Michael Barnes at Harmony House.”

  The agent stared at them blankly. “Who the hell is Michael Barnes?”

  Hirsch and Lutz waited for the agent to crack a smile and let them in on the joke. But the federal agent was dead serious. Lutz didn’t like being toyed with. “He’s the one who sent you here, asshole.”

  “No, he didn’t. The director of Homeland Security, Arthur Merrell, did. I’m Agent Harold Raines. Step out of the way.”

  Lutz didn’t move. “Call your boss. You were sent here to assist us.”

  “You’ve been misinformed.” Agent Raines turned to his associates. “Arrest him if he doesn’t move.” The agents eyeballed Lutz, waiting. After a moment, Lutz stepped backward, allowing Raines and the others from the Department of Homeland Security to enter the
police station. All except two, who remained by the entrance with the Harmony House security personnel.

  Hirsch stepped away from them as he dialed Michael Barnes. “Sir, we have a situation.”

  The station went eerily quiet as Raines led the parade of Homeland Security agents toward the office of Deputy Inspector Nataro. Every cop, perp, lawyer, victim, witness, and loved one stared with curiosity as the dark-suited men marched past them. What the hell was going on? Everyone had a guess. It must have something to do with the subway gas attack. Did the agents know who did it? Was the perpetrator in the building?

  Suddenly, everyday adversaries were united against the enemy that had ripped open the wound this city would never recover from. They readied their cell phones to snap pictures or tweet the news. Some didn’t even bother to wait, and speculated on the proceedings. If they guessed right, they might even become famous. Sadly, no one was ever punished for being wrong these days. And no one was rewarded for coming in second. All anyone cared about was breaking a story, whether they broke the right one or not.

  Deputy Inspector Anthony Nataro acted surprised as Agent Raines was led inside his office. “What can I do for you?” Of course, Nataro knew damn well what the agent was there for, but the deputy inspector was never one to tip his hand.

  “I’m here to transfer the federal prisoners you have in custody.”

  “Which prisoners would those be?”

  Agent Raines handed him the transfer order, which was signed by Department of Homeland Security Director Arthur Merrell.

  Nataro reviewed the document. “If we had them, I’d give them to you. But we’re still waiting for Detective McHenry to turn himself in.” He lied incredibly well. Which was why he was going to make a great politician.

  Raines was clearly getting frustrated. “When is the last time you had any communication with him?”

  “About forty minutes ago.”