by Eric Bernt
Eddie stared at the ceiling. At least, that was the direction he was looking. Straight up. He was lying on his back inside Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. The patient room number was 423. It was at the end of a hall. Two agents were stationed by the door. One by the elevator bank. And one outside the hospital’s main entrance.
Eddie didn’t seem focused on anything at all. He was barely blinking. And hadn’t moved since waking up sometime in the middle of the night. A squat nurse from the Dominican Republic sat by his bedside, asking every so often if he’d like anything to eat or drink. Her voice was gentle, and her accent was comforting. It was no coincidence she had been selected for this assignment. But he had yet to respond to her. He was hooked up to an IV drip, so at least his body was getting fluids.
The hospital’s chief of emergency surgery, who had treated Eddie upon his arrival the night before, entered the room with one of the agents stationed outside the door. The doctor checked Eddie’s charts and asked the Dominican nurse, “How’s he doing?”
“Same as before. No change.”
The doctor nodded, pleased. “Has he spoken yet?”
The nurse shook her head. “Not a word.”
“Has he been offered anything to eat or drink?”
“Every fifteen minutes.” She showed him the notepad where she kept detailed records.
The doctor leaned down toward Eddie, smiling warmly. “How are you feeling this morning, Edward?”
Eddie stared at the ceiling.
“Can you hear me?”
Eddie did not answer. His jaw remained clenched.
The doctor studied him, speaking with reassurance. “There’s no rush. Take all the time you need. Just let us know if there is anything we can do to make you more comfortable.”
Eddie stared blankly at the ceiling as the doctor left with the agent, who stopped him in the hall. “How long do you think it will be before he talks again?”
“Hard to say.”
“Try.”
The doctor realized the agent needed something to report to his superiors. “The good news is the patient is no longer in shock. Pupil dilation and autonomic responses are back within normal range. The patient also no longer appears to be a danger to himself or others. As to when he’ll communicate, there’s really no way to know. In cases like this, time is the best healer. He needs to want to talk. If we try to force him, it will probably only make things worse. It could even retraumatize him and send him back into shock. All we can do is be patient, and let nature take its course.”
CHAPTER 103
Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst, Trenton, New Jersey, May 28, 7:37 a.m.
Senator Corbin Davis watched with eager interest as his world-class experts studied the two devices inside the nondescript building in the middle of JB MDL. The scientists’ names were Pembrose and Landgraf. Both were familiar with the device and the science behind it. Both were also skeptical the technology would ever work. They were only too happy to debunk whatever nonsense was afoot, or to be the first ones to hear reconstituted echoes. The trio had been escorted directly inside a small conference room. As soon as the scientists completed their work, they and the senator were to be escorted out of the building and off the grounds.
The scientists clearly knew how to operate the device, having tested it on several previous occasions. They readily caused the box to spring open, revealing the eight one-inch satellite microphones, which performed their perfectly synchronized ballet.
The senator asked, “What’s it doing?”
Pembrose, the younger of the scientists, answered, “Acoustically mapping the room.”
Landgraf, the veteran, added, “In theory.”
Pembrose replied, “We’ll know soon enough.” They both kept their eyes glued to the progress bar that appeared below the three-dimensional image of the space. The counter quickly climbed: Three percent . . . six percent . . . nine percent . . . , but then started to slow. Eleven percent. Twelve percent took longer. Thirteen was even slower than that. After another two minutes, the counter had still not reached fifteen percent.
Corbin Davis studied the differing expressions of his two experts. Pembrose looked disappointed, like a child who didn’t get the present he wanted for his birthday. Landgraf grinned smugly, like he knew this would happen all along.
The senator grew concerned. “Is it supposed to take this long?”
The younger scientist reluctantly replied, “No.”
“So what does this mean?”
The older scientist cleared his throat, then answered bluntly. “The device doesn’t work.”
The senator had trouble remaining calm. “Son of a bitch. You’re sure?”
Landgraf nodded. “Yes.”
Davis turned to the younger brainiac, hoping for a different opinion. “There’s no way you could have missed something?”
The scientists glanced at each other. Pembrose replied, “Give us thirty minutes, and we’ll be able to tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
The senator mumbled under his breath as he moved toward the door. “I’m going to gut Marcus Fenton like a squealing pig.” Corbin Davis stepped outside the small conference room, where he was promptly met by the two guards in plain uniforms. “I need some privacy.” He glanced around at the handful of unmarked doors, expecting to be led into one.
The guards in the plain uniforms didn’t move. The taller one replied, “You will have to step outside the building, sir.”
The senator stared angrily, then stormed outside as he took out his shiny, new encrypted phone. The guards couldn’t help but notice that it matched their own.
CHAPTER 104
American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 28, 7:48 a.m.
Bob Stenson sat calmly in his office as he listened to the Indiana senator yelling over the phone. “Slow down, Senator. I need time to process this.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Your scientists are sure?”
“They’re confirming it now, but that is correct. The damn thing doesn’t work.”
Stenson exhaled loudly, playing his part with aplomb. “What the hell is Fenton up to?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I want him gone.”
Stenson, the master puppeteer, smiled ever so slightly. “It’s your call, Senator. We will support whatever action you see fit.” And like that, it was done. Senator Davis would convene the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence on an emergency basis, and Fenton would be terminated within the week. There was the obvious question of his replacement, but that was a matter that could wait. There was no urgency. Which was why Stenson leaned back in his chair and smiled.
This was, without a doubt, the greatest moment of his professional life. It made the whole hanging-chad business in 2000 pale in comparison. He was now in possession of the single most important technological advancement in intelligence in the last forty years, and no one knew he had it. Within a matter of hours, no one would believe the echo box even worked. The rest of the world would think they’d been led on a wild-goose chase by a blustery, old windbag hell-bent on bolstering his legacy. The good senator from Indiana would demand retribution, and Stenson would allow him to satisfy his bloodlust because Fenton would no longer be of any use to them.
What no one else knew was that after watching Homeland Security Director Merrell deliver the devices to the nondescript building at JB MDL, Stenson had replaced the devices with his own. These duplicates included every one of Eddie’s previous specifications. Namely, the ones that didn’t work. These facsimiles had been produced at Stenson’s request over a year earlier, when he’d decided to give some other brilliant minds a crack at acoustic archeology. While their efforts proved unsuccessful, Stenson had a feeling even then that his duplicates might one day serve a purpose. He just hadn’t imagined how important a role they would play.
All he had to decide now was which of the world’s greatest secrets he would listen to first. He had a president to bring down. And another one to
install. There were enemies to destroy. And fence-sitters to bring into line. Bob Stenson and the American Heritage Foundation were about to know anything they wanted, and no one would have a clue how they got their information. They would be unstoppable.
First, there was the matter of Edward Parks, who was officially now a liability. He could not be allowed to create another echo box, nor pass along the algorithms to anyone else capable of doing so. There was only one way to guarantee neither would happen. Stenson had no qualms about proceeding, and intended to initiate the order before leaving the office.
His private moment of glory, however, was interrupted by the sound of footsteps racing down the hall toward his office. “Slow down, Jason.”
Jason did not slow down. He ran straight into his superior’s office. “Sir, we have a problem.”
CHAPTER 105
Dr. Marcus Fenton’s House, Pine Hill, New Jersey, May 28, 8:33 a.m.
A police car parked in Marcus Fenton’s driveway for the second time in less than twelve hours. Prior to these two visits, the last time a law-enforcement vehicle had entered the property was in 2002, to inform Fenton of a string of nearby burglaries. He was not about to take any more nonsense from the NYPD, and he stormed out to the uniformed officer. “I’m not going anywhere, or saying a goddamn thing, without my lawyer.”
The officer looked confused. “Sir?”
Fenton stood his ground. “Unless you have a warrant, I’m not going anywhere.”
The officer shook his head. “I think there must be some misunderstanding. Are you Dr. Marcus Fenton?”
Only now did he notice the car was not NYPD. It had local markings. The officer was a local sheriff. Fenton answered, “Yes, I’m Marcus Fenton. What can I do for you?”
The sheriff paused for a moment, as he had been trained to do when delivering bad news. “Did a Michael Barnes work for you?”
CHAPTER 106
American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 28, 8:58 a.m.
The conference room inside the American Heritage Foundation was dead silent. Bob Stenson stood next to the large mahogany table, staring down at the devices sitting in the middle of it—the laptop supercomputer and the echo box, which had until last night been in the possession of Edward Parks and Skylar Drummond. There was also a second, commercially available computer, which belonged to the balding scientist Stenson had brought in to test Edward Parks’s device. The scientist’s computer was wired to Parks’s supercomputer, running system diagnostics.
The scientist, Carter Harwood, was the only person Stenson had ever trusted to work on Edward Parks’s devices. Like all Foundation employees and independent contractors, Harwood had come to their attention through strong personal recommendations. He had also survived their exhaustive background check. A great many leading scientists, it turned out, had a flag or two in their personal histories that disqualified them from further consideration by the Foundation. Such was the case with Pembrose and Landgraf, the scientists Senator Davis had brought with him to JB MDL. One was a former heroin addict. The other had started undergoing hormone therapy for gender reassignment.
When Stenson had cleared Harwood, twelve years ago, the Foundation director knew his man might never be capable of completing Edward Parks’s research, should it go unfinished for one reason or another, but Stenson was certain that Harwood could be trusted. And, ultimately, that was more important. Because what Stenson really needed in this position was a forger, not an artist. It was Harwood who produced the duplicate machines that had just been tested in the nondescript building on the grounds of JB MDL. He knew the devices better than anyone except for Edward Parks himself. Which was why Stenson listened when Harwood said there was a problem.
On the laptop supercomputer’s screen, there was an incomplete three-dimensional rendering of the conference room space. The progress counter read: 13 percent. The counter hadn’t changed in twenty-two minutes.
Stenson was immediately thankful he had not yet ordered the end of Edward Parks, who still might have a purpose to serve, after all. “Why isn’t it working?”
“I don’t know yet. I can’t give you an answer until I finish running the diagnostics.” Harwood, calm and clinical, motioned to his own computer, which was connected to Eddie’s. Harwood’s $3,000 machine was going to reveal what was wrong with the $300,000 machine.
Stenson looked around the table to his three lieutenants, who seemed equally dumbfounded. “Any ideas?”
Caitlin McCloskey pointed to the scratches from where Eddie had dropped the devices. “Maybe they were damaged when they were dropped.”
Harwood shook his head. “That was my first thought as well. But it’s not the case. I’m sure of it. Whatever the problem is, it’s not hardware related.”
Jason Greers asked, “So why would it work yesterday, but not today? Something has to have changed.”
Daryl Trotter made a comment that caused everyone to stiffen. “Only if the device was actually working yesterday.”
Jason took immediate offense, because this entire wild-goose chase had essentially started with him. “What are you suggesting, that the doctor and her mental patient faked the recordings?”
Daryl couldn’t stop himself from correcting Jason. “Technically, they’re echo reconstructions, not recordings.”
Jason snapped, “Whatever they are!”
Caitlin smiled briefly, knowing how much their boss disliked emotional outbursts. Jason was losing his cool.
Daryl remained completely even-keeled. “I’m not suggesting anything, Jason. I’m clarifying that there are two possible scenarios. One scenario is that the three reconstructions stored on the device—the one with Dr. Fenton and Michael Barnes, the one with the boy being hit, and the one of the kidnapping suspect being interrogated—are legitimate. In that case, you are correct. Something had to have changed. But if they’re not legitimate, the logic doesn’t follow.”
Stenson chimed in. “They’re legitimate. We know too much about Skylar Drummond and Edward Parks. Neither is capable of the kind of forethought to have intentionally set all this in motion. It’s simply too far-fetched.”
Vindicated, Greers glared smugly at Trotter, who shrugged. He was only trying to help. He wanted to make sure they considered every alternative. “So what changed?”
Harwood looked up as the diagnostics concluded. “Nothing.”
Jason stared at him. “Not possible.”
The scientist stared right back. “Machines don’t lie. I’m telling you I’ve compared every line of code from the previous version I tested, which I had stored on my machine, to the present version on the Parks machine. Not a single character in a single line of code changed.”
Caitlin McCloskey was dumbfounded. “So how do you explain it?”
Jason Greers didn’t know. Neither did Bob Stenson. Then Daryl Trotter got an idea. “Does each reconstruction include a separate file of the original degenerated sound waves that served as the basis for the reconstruction?”
Harwood knew the answer, but double-checked just to make sure. “All three folders include files with the original fragments, as well as each reconstructed version.”
“Why?” asked Stenson.
Trotter smiled. “I know what changed.”
CHAPTER 107
The Remains of Michael Barnes’s House, Swedesboro, New Jersey, May 28, 9:15 a.m.
Following the local sheriff, Marcus Fenton was allowed to pass beneath the yellow crime-scene tape that now stretched around the entire perimeter of Michael Barnes’s property. It wasn’t long after sunrise when the first of Barnes’s neighbors had noticed the currency fluttering into their properties. A few Facebook updates and tweets later, hundreds of people from all over the area had raced to the property, trying to grab whatever cash they could. Homeland had initially assigned a dozen agents to the scene, but quickly added another two dozen to maintain security and, more importantly, collect all the cash. By eleven forty-five a.m., their count had reach
ed well over $400,000, and they were barely through half of what they had found.
Much of the debris was still smoldering as the sheriff led Fenton toward the back of the property. The hood of Barnes’s car was lodged in his kitchen window. Articles of clothing, ranging from an olive-green winter parka to bright-orange swim trunks to white running shoes, dangled from tree branches in every direction. The two men were met by the Homeland agent in charge (AIC), Arlo Gunn, who was coordinating the cleanup. After brief introductions, Fenton asked, “What the hell happened?”
Gunn smiled. “We were hoping you could tell us.”
Fenton looked around at the devastation surrounding them, realizing how quickly his situation was going from bad to worse. “I have no idea.”
“Michael Barnes worked for you, didn’t he?” He asked it casually, without any hint of suspicion.
“He did. He was my head of security.”
“Where is that?”
“Harmony House. In Woodbury.”
“What kind of facility is it?”
“It’s a government-funded assisted-living facility for patients with particular gifts.”
Gunn scratched his sideburns, as if making mental notes for later. “How long had he worked for you?”
“Well over a decade. Almost fifteen years.”
Gunn nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. “How would you have characterized your relationship with the deceased?”
“Professionally, he was a trusted employee. But we had no personal relationship outside the workplace.”
“Had he ever mentioned that he kept a stockpile of cash and explosives on his property?”
“No, he never did. Honestly, I still find all this hard to believe.”
“Really?”
Fenton cleared his throat. “I mean, that he could have been so paranoid. And stupid. I had no idea.”
Gunn nodded. “Had the two of you gotten into any kind of argument yesterday?”