“Copy,” said Darryl.
* * * *
Rachel Cohen was fascinated by Orrin Gillett, the man she was linked to. A lawyer—and a rich one, at that. Certainly, a good start! And he was handsome, too, if his own memories of his driver's license and passport photos were anything to go by. Not that he thought of himself as handsome—but the photos showed a man who was: lots of light brown hair, a great face, and beautiful brown eyes behind round rimless glasses. Still, Rachel wanted to see for herself, and—
And another memory of his came to her, one of a black Secret Service agent with a shaved head coming to get him, and—yes, yes—and bring him down here, and—
And the memory must be of only a minute or two ago, because here they came, coming down this corridor, and—
And Orrin Gillett was hot. She found herself saying an ebullient “Hi!” to him, like she was greeting an old friend—and, in a way, she supposed she was.
He looked at her, startled, but then smiled a terrific open-mouth smile at her. “Hello,” he said. “Nice day.” She had a strange feeling that his voice didn't sound quite right—which, she suddenly realized, was the same feeling she had when she heard recordings of her own voice; he remembered his voice as he himself heard it, resonating in his sinus cavities. “Do I know you?” he added.
“No,” said Rachel. “But I know you.”
His tone was affable but baffled. “I don't understand.”
Rachel nodded toward the door of the office Agent Dawson was using. “You will.”
Rachel knew she should get back to her desk, but work here had slowed to a crawl because most of the staff was still shell-shocked by the assassination attempt and the destruction of the White House; people were just sitting at their desks staring into space, or softly crying, or endlessly chatting to others, trying to make sense of it all.
Rather than heading down the corridor, Rachel instead took a seat in a little waiting alcove just past the room Agent Dawson was using. If her own experience was anything to judge by, Orrin Gillett would be coming out again in twenty minutes or so.
Whenever Rachel was considering doing business with a new company, she ran a simple test. She put the company name and the word “sucks” into Google. Every giant corporation had its detractors: “Microsoft sucks” yielded 285,000 hits, “FedEx sucks” produced 568,000, and “Disney sucks” served up a whopping two million pages. But for local businesses or obscure web companies, she'd found it a useful barometer.
Likewise, whenever she was interested in dating someone, she'd do a quick search on his name and the word “asshole": “Devan Hooley asshole” had helped her dodge a major bullet!
But now, in this particular case, she had something even better than Google. There was no doubt that Orrin Gillett was attractive. And he seemed like a nice guy: he had a warm, friendly smile, and teeth that either hadn't seen a lot of coffee, cola, or tobacco, or had been whitened, and—
And, yes, whitened. The Zoom! process, to be precise. Cost him six hundred bucks.
But he hadn't been a smoker since high school, he didn't like carbonated beverages, and his coffee intake was pretty average. But he had been treated with tetracycline as a kid, and it had left his teeth a pale tan, and he'd been self-conscious about it for years. And so he'd had the problem corrected.
Rachel thought about my girlfriend, but no memory came to her. And then—well, he was pretty buff, and impeccably dressed to boot!—she thought about my boyfriend. But the only memories that came were of her own exes, the most recent of which had left her life—or, at least, her bed—ten months ago.
And speaking of exes—ah.
Melinda.
And Valerie.
And Jennifer.
And Franca.
And Ann-Marie.
And that bitch Naomi.
She thought about them, but—
No, that wouldn't work. She couldn't think about them collectively; she had to pick one, and think about just her. Say, Valerie.
Ah. Blonde. Brown-eyed. Big-breasted. Rachel glanced down at her own chest: well, two out of three ain't bad. And—oh, my! Our Val liked it a little rough, didn't she? But . . .
But Orrin actually didn't. He played it up that way, because Val asked him to, but—
Ah, in fact that was one of the reasons they'd broken up.
She tried another one. Jennifer.
Hmmm. Long straight hair, blue eyes, and . . . a very strong chin—
Oh my God! It was Jennifer Aniston! Orrin had dated Jennifer Aniston!
But no. That was crazy. Aniston lived in Los Angeles and she dated movie stars and—
Of course. Thinking about Jennifer now, her last name was Sinclair, not Aniston. But Rachel was conjuring up the only long-haired, blue-eyed Jennifer she herself knew, or knew of—and, of course, the character Jennifer Aniston was most famous for playing had also been named Rachel.
Jennifer and Orrin had dated for only a couple of months. And, at least as Orrin remembered it, they had parted on good terms—although he'd not heard from Ms. Sinclair since.
Rachel picked up a magazine—the cover story, like so many magazines of late, was related to the spate of terrorist attacks; the cover photo was of the smoldering remains of the Willis Tower, the building Rachel had always called the Sears Tower until the day it fell. But she didn't put on her glasses, even though she thought her new pair with the mauve frames looked great on her. Instead, she stared at the pages of fuzzy type, concentrating not on them but on Orrin's past.
Prostitutes.
The memories were of streetwalkers seen in bad neighborhoods—but no direct interaction with them. Although those memories did slide into strippers, and he'd seen a bunch of them over the years, mostly while entertaining clients. The best place in DC, in his opinion, was the Stadium Club.
She turned the page; there was an ad for some pharmaceutical or other, and—
Rape.
Nothing.
I know she said she didn't want it, but you could tell . . .
Nothing.
And, finally, just to be sure . . .
I can be a real asshole when it comes to . . .
* * * *
She took a deep breath, and lifted her gaze now, looking at the featureless pale green wall in front of her.
. . . those damn telephone solicitors who call during dinner.
Rachel smiled, put down the magazine, folded her hands, and waited.
* * * *
Chapter 16
“Thanks, Darryl,” Susan said to Agent Hudkins, as he deposited Orrin Gillett in the office she was using.
Darryl nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Susan turned to the lawyer. “Mr. Gillett, you were in quite a hurry to leave earlier.” She was still sitting in the roller chair behind the kidney-shaped desk; Gillett had taken the seat opposite her.
“Yes, as I said, I had a meeting to get to.” He looked her in the eye and added, defiantly, “An important meeting.”
“I do apologize,” Susan said, in a tone that she hoped conveyed that she didn't really; she was still pissed at this clown. “Still, let me ask you a few questions. Can you tell me what you were doing here at the hospital?”
“I was visiting a friend, a partner in my law firm. He was in a car accident yesterday.”
“And where were you when the lights went out?”
“In the corridor. I'd just left my friend's room.”
“And tell me, Mr. Gillett, have you had any unusual experiences since 11:06 a.m. this morning?”
“Yes,” he said flatly. “I had a Secret Service agent pull a gun on me.”
Susan had to admire the man's moxie. She allowed herself a half-smile. “Beside that, I mean.”
“No.”
“No unusual thoughts?”
Gillett narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Just that: any unexpected visions, or memories, or . . . ?”
“That's a very strange question,” Gillett said.
“Yes, it is,” replied Susan. “Do you have a very strange answer?”
Gillett spread his arms. “What would you have me say?”
“Well, President Jerrison is in the building, and—”
“Yes, I know.”
Susan was about to let that pass; after all, there were lots of TVs in the hospital, and hundreds of smartphones that could have been used to look at news reports, not to mention doctors and nurses buzzing about what was going on. But something in the way Gillett had said “I know” struck her. “How?” she asked. “How do you know?”
He looked like he was at war with himself, trying to decide how much to share. She asked again: “How exactly do you know?”
Finally, Gillett nodded. “All right, okay. You mentioned visions. Well, I was—it was like I was in the corridor, as the president was rushed into surgery. I was—I had a gun, but I swear to you, Miss Dawson, I had nothing to do with what happened to the president. There were these two people on gurneys, an older man and a younger woman, and there was a nurse—a, um, forgive me, but a stacked nurse—and . . . “
Susan thought for a moment. There'd been a security guard with the two people in the corridor; she'd since learned the two people had been scheduled for a kidney-transplant operation, and she guessed the guard had been summoned in case they got unruly at being bumped to make room for Prospector. She consulted her notes for the security guard's name. “Ivan Tarasov—does that name mean anything to you?”
“Yes,” said Gillett. Then, more enthusiastically, “Yes! I don't know how, but I know all about him. He's been a guard here for four years, and he's got a wife named Sally and a three-year-old daughter named Tanya.”
Susan asked him a few more questions, just to be sure he really was linked to Tarasov. When she was done, Gillett said, “So, can I leave the hospital now?”
“No,” said Susan. “I'm sorry, but you're going to have to stay a while longer.”
“Look, unless you're going to charge me with something—”
"Mister Gillett,” Susan said sharply. “I don't have to charge you with anything. This is a national-security matter. You're going to do what I say.”
* * * *
Eric Redekop walked along a hallway at LT, wanting nothing more in the world than to go home. He was exhausted, and . . .
And, damn it all, he kept accessing Janis Falconi's memories. He didn't want them. He didn't want them at all. Yes, it was flattering—and surprising!—to know that she found him attractive. But he felt like a stalker, like he was invading her life, like a total fucking creep. That they both worked at LT just made matters worse: so many things here triggered him to recall her memories. That painting on the corridor wall: he'd never really noticed it before, but she'd stopped and looked at it repeatedly. Of course: she was an artist in her own right, he knew. And that orderly, there, walking toward him, whose name he'd never known before, was Scott Edwards, who had hit on Jan repeatedly.
He didn't need to know that. He didn't need to know any of it. But he knew it all; for any question he wondered about the answer instantly came to him. How much she made, when and where she'd lost her virginity, and—Christ—what her menstrual cramps felt like. He hadn't wondered about that—what man would?—but seeing the wall calendar, there, had brought to mind that her period had just ended, and that had led to the recollection of the pains.
He tried not to think about anything intrusive, but that was impossible. Telling himself not to wonder about her sex life had the same effect as wondering about her sex life: it immediately brought memories to mind of her and her husband Tony, and—
Damn it.
Tony pushing into her, even though she wasn't wet.
And his inability to keep from ejaculating almost at once.
And his rolling off her, and lying on his side, his back to her, ignoring her after he was done, leaving her sad and frustrated and unfulfilled, and—
Damn it, damn it, damn it! He didn't want any of this, and—
And he was passing a woman's washroom now, and—
Oh, Christ, no.
But it came to him.
Her, in there.
At night.
No one else around.
And—
And Janis was a nurse, and she had access to all sorts of drugs, including ones designed to make pain go away, and she'd been in so much pain because of Tony for so long now. He saw her tattooed arm, recalling it in much greater detail than he could have on his own, knowing the pattern of stripes on the tiger, the deployment of its claws, the glint in its eyes. He knew it like—well, yes, the cliché applied—like the back of his own hand. But that arm was holding a syringe, and Janis was injecting herself.
For once, he did try to search her memories, looking for any sign that she was a diabetic, but—
But no. He knew what he was seeing, what he was recalling. She was shooting up. To make life bearable, to get her though the day.
He was sympathetic. He knew drug addiction was common among nurses and doctors, but he did not wish to know her secrets, damn it. And, for God's sake, he was obligated to report this, but—
But what would he report? That he thought he remembered her shooting up? She hadn't willingly shared that with him, and he hadn't stumbled upon evidence. It was just in his head.
He continued to walk the corridors of the hospital, hating himself for invading her privacy, and wishing it would all come to an end.
* * * *
Chapter 17
Orrin Gillett came out of the room Agent Dawson was using for interviews. Rachel Cohen closed the magazine and put it back on the little table next to her chair, walked the short distance to where he was, and smiled her sweetest smile. “Hi,” she said.
Orrin looked startled that she was still here. “Oh, hi,” he replied. It wasn't nearly as sunny a greeting as before. “So I'm guessing from what you said before that you're the person who's reading me, right?”
Rachel nodded. “Right. Care to go for a walk?”
“They're not letting us leave the hospital yet.”
“No. But we can go down to the lobby; the cafeteria's there. Maybe get a bite to eat.”
“All right,” Orrin said, but he sounded distracted.
“'Kay,” she replied. “Just a sec.” She went to a nearby drinking fountain and bent over to get some water, her jeans pulling tight as she did so. It was a bit tricky to glance at him from this posture, but—yes—Orrin was checking her out. She allowed herself a smile that he couldn't see, then walked back to him. “Shall we go?”
* * * *
Peter Muilenburg and a half-dozen senior strategists were poring over weather forecasts for the target sites. The door opened and a male aide came in. “Excuse me, Mr. Secretary.”
“Yes?” replied Muilenburg.
“I've just gotten off the phone with the Secret Service agent-in-charge at Lima Tango, a Susan Dawson. They're getting a better handle on what's happening there. Yes, it seems clear that someone has access to Jerrison's memories, but they're just like any memories. Unless something brings a specific one to mind, you're not even aware you have that memory. It takes something to trigger it.”
Muilenburg looked up at the display board, and he saw the call sign CVN-74, representing the U.S.S. John C. Stennis, move a bit closer to its target position.
“Well,” said Muilenburg, “let's hope whoever it is doesn't read a newspaper or watch the news between now and the zero hour, because I can't see that stuff without thinking it's high time someone did something—and if they think that, they'll know what that something is, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” said the aide. “I imagine they will.”
* * * *
Kadeem Adams knew that President Jerrison was confined to his room in the ICU. But the man was gregarious by nature; Kadeem had seen that often enough on TV. And he was doubtless lonely. It was no fun being hospitalized, as Kadeem himself well knew. But, more than that, Jerrison was a politi
cian; he wouldn't be able to resist the photo-op. Even bedridden by an assassin's bullet the president would make time to see an Iraq War vet, to have his picture taken shaking the young man's hand, and—yes, Kadeem knew the stats—given how poorly Jerrison was doing with African Americans in the polls, to be seen congratulating a black soldier would be the best of all.
And so he went to Professor Singh's office and waited patiently outside the closed door until the man Susan Dawson had been questioning came out. Before she could bring someone else in, he entered himself.
Susan looked slightly flustered. “Hello, Kadeem.”
He smiled his warmest smile. “Hey, Sue.”
She didn't return the smile. “It's awkward, you knowing my memories.”
He nodded. “Sorry ‘bout showing off earlier. I don't mean to pry.”
She nodded. “No worse than what I've been doing with Professor Singh's mind, I guess. I just hope these linkages aren't going to last forever.”
“I dunno,” said Kadeem. “It be cool, in a way. I never got to go to college. But now I got a college-level education, kinda: whatever you remember of your classes, I can remember. Don't think geography would have been my choice of major, but I know things now I'd never have known.”
“I guess,” said Susan. “Anyway, what can I do for you, Kadeem?”
“Ma'am,” he said, “I got a favor to ask.”
She tilted her head slightly, apparently noting that he'd dropped the overly familiar “Sue.”
“Yes?”
“The president, he's just downstairs, right?”
She looked for a moment like she was going to deny it—a reflex security concern—but there was no point; it had been mentioned on newscasts that he was on the second floor. She nodded.
“I'd like to see him. Meet him. Y'know? Something to tell my grandkids about someday.”
Kadeem had no doubt that Susan, or one of her associates, had already been through his service record in minute detail. They'd know it was exemplary, and that he even had a degree of security clearance, because of the weapon systems he'd worked with. There was no reason at all to think he presented a risk.
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