Origin - Season One

by James, Nathaniel Dean

  When Mike got back to his office, Jessops was talking to someone on his cell phone with the folder open on the desk in front of him.

  “Anyway, I’ve got to go,” Jessops said. “I’ll call you later.”

  He put the phone down and closed the folder. “Tell me, Agent Banner, you think it was just one guy?”

  “Unlikely,” Mike said.

  Jessops stood and held out his hand. “For what it’s worth, I think you did a good job. I’ll make sure the director knows that.”

  Mike had to stifle what would have been a sarcastic laugh. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

  When Jessops was gone Mike closed the door and called Mitch in DC.

  “Hey, Mitch, how’s it going?”

  “That depends on what you mean. If you’re talking about my car, it’s hardly going at all.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not talking about your car. Listen, we’re off the job.”

  “The Fellowship of the Fed is breaking up already?”

  “I’m afraid so. Have you finished your report?”

  “Yeah, it’s right here in front of me. You know, I’ve been thinking –”

  “I’m going to stop you there, Mitch. One, because I haven’t had a lot of sleep. But more importantly, I’m no longer the investigating officer on the case. Whatever you have, include it in the report. If someone else wants to pursue it, I’m sure they’ll be in touch.”

  “Wow, you sound really pissed off,” Mitch said.

  “Well, I’m not. Relieved, maybe. And grateful to be getting back to my day job.”

  “All right, amigo. You’re the boss. I guess I’ll see you down here in about ten years then.”

  “Don’t count on it. Actually, there is one thing you could do for me.”

  “Shoot.”

  Mike hesitated.

  “I’m still listening,” Mitch said.

  “Could you run an internal personnel check for me?” Mike said.

  “Sure. Although as you surely know, you’re cleared to do that yourself.”

  “I know. It’s just that –”

  “You don’t want a record of it showing up on your system. Now you’re talking my language, Kemosabe. What’s the name?”

  “It’s nothing like that. I –”

  “Hey, say no more. Office politics, man. I get it.”

  Mike lowered his voice. “The name’s Jessops. Apparently he’s the White House liaison, whatever the hell that means.”

  “He’s there? In New York?”

  “Just arrived, yeah.”

  “I’m on it. I’ll call you back in an hour.”

  Mitch called back fifteen minutes later. “Okay, I found him. Bruce Wayne Jessops. What did you want to know?”

  “Bruce Wayne?”

  “Yep, it appears we’ve found Batman. Born eleven March seventy-three in Sacramento, California. Joined the Bureau in ‘99. Mother deceased. Father is Jeffrey Wayne.”

  “The senator?”

  “Yep. Jessops was his mother’s maiden name. I’m guessing he took it to avoid the flak.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s everything in the record, yeah. You want me to dig deeper?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Lift a few stones? That kind of thing.”

  “If you’re talking about breaking the law, then no, definitely not. In fact, forget I ever mentioned it. Just send the report through.”

  “Solid copy. And if you need any more superheroes found, you know where I am, old buddy.”

  Mike put the phone down and made his way back to the couch. He needed a twenty-minute power nap to clear his thoughts. He was asleep within two.

  Chapter 13

  Skyline Defense New York, New York Monday 17 July 2006

  1700 EDT

  Carl Bosch looked up when Jack entered. “Christ, Jack. When was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”

  “I’m fine. Probably caught something on the subway.”

  “Well don’t give it to me; I’ve got enough shit to deal with as it is. Some fucking hedge fund has decided to outbid us on the New Mexico site. Get Marius to find out who they are. If they want to play hardball, we’ll give them what they want. And tell him I still haven’t seen the profile on that guy in Omaha, what’s his name?”

  “Kesler.”

  “Yeah, him. Richelle has been chewing my ear off about it. If he’s good to go we need to get him down to Houston as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll get Marius on it,” Jack said.

  “Good.”

  Jack turned to leave.

  “Hey, maybe you should take a couple of days off,” Carl said.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Jack’s phone began to ring. “I need to take this.”

  “Just get me that profile.”

  “I’m on it.”

  It was Rollins. Jack let the phone ring until he was back in his office.

  “Steve, what have you got?”

  “Ever heard of a guy named Gerald Ross?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “He’s a security systems engineer. Retired a couple of years ago and moved to Massachusetts. He’s not on the list you gave me, but his name’s come up three times already. According to his former colleagues he was the best in the field.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Still in Boston.”

  “Good. Check him out. Call me back if you find anything.”

  Chapter 14

  Wellfleet Town Pier

  Cape Cod Bay, Massachusetts Monday 17 July 2006

  1800 EDT

  Gerald Ross stood and raised his glass. “Gentlemen,” he proclaimed in a voice that was not quite a slur yet, “As always, it’s been a pleasure. To fair seas and the men who sail them!”

  The rest of the men gathered at the table held up their own glasses and repeated the toast.

  “Anyone heading back to the Cape this weekend?” One of them asked and the group quickly took up the discussion.

  Gerald walked back to the bar and asked for the phone. The barman took the handset from the cradle behind the counter and handed it over.

  “Darling, it’s me,” Gerald said when his wife picked up. “I’m leaving in a minute. Should be home before eight. Did you manage to get the car looked at?”

  “No. The damn painters turned up an hour late,” his wife said. “I haven’t had time to go anywhere. I hope you’ve had dinner, because there won’t be anything here when you get back. I’ve got to run down to the Jensens’ at five and pick up the dog.”

  “I’ve already eaten.”

  “You mean you lost your appetite drinking.”

  “Christ, you know me well, woman.”

  “I know you well enough to be sure you’ll sail that damn boat out into the open sea one day and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’ll ever get that lucky. Anyway, I’ll see you this evening.”

  “Yes, dear. Two of me, I have no doubt.”

  Gerald hung up and handed back the phone.

  “Another, sir?” The barman asked, pointing at the glass in Gerald’s hand.

  “No, thank you. I still have to sail home.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” the barman said.

  “If only my wife were as optimistic.”

  The young man gave him an understanding smile and walked to the end of the counter to serve another customer.

  Gerald left the building and made his way across the yard to the foot of the main pier. His boat was moored at the end. She was a 48-foot Sunseeker Superhawk with a navy blue and white hull.

  The boat had been his retirement present to himself and the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. Her name was Felicity Gail and she was sound to a fault. He had put in the hours, learning everything from navigation to engine maintenance. Eventually, even Cynthia had come to accept the boat, no small feat considering she had threatened to scuttle it herself when he first
brought it home and showed her the stub in their checkbook. He had paid $115,000 for her.

  He ran an absentminded hand over the sleek fiberglass hull and thought that perhaps, when he got old enough, and his head no longer dictated to his body, he would take her out and head into the sunset. It would be a hell of a way to go.

  His daydreaming was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone, which he had thoughtlessly left on the helmsman’s seat. He climbed up the short rope ladder, walked around to the cockpit and picked it up.

  When he saw the number, he dropped the phone and jumped down the short flight of steps into the cabin. He pulled the cushion off one of the seats, opened the hatch and pulled out a laptop. When the operating system had loaded, he found the pier’s wireless network, opened the internet browser and typed motherandbabystuff.com. The web page had a pink and baby blue motif and contained a variety of prams, cots and other baby paraphernalia for sale. He clicked on one of the cribs and the screen displayed an error page to say the link had an invalid URL. Ignoring the message, he typed a sixteen-digit number on the keyboard that didn’t appear on the screen. When he pushed enter, it turned blank for several seconds, then showed a simple command interface of green alphanumeric characters against a black background. He typed another password followed by the words seek identify, hit enter again and sat back. A moment later, text began to fill up the screen.

  pass-code accepted.........

  finding proxy 1............

  connected..................

  finding proxy 2............

  connected..................

  finding proxy 3............

  connected..................

  finding proxy 4............

  connected..................

  finding proxy 5............

  connected..................

  satellite up-link..........

  starting scrambler.........

  line secure................

  dialing....................

  The voice at the other end sounded worried. “Ross?”

  “I’m here,” Gerald said. “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t use this line anymore.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Cape Cod. On the Pier. Why?”

  “I don’t have time to explain, but you need to get out of there.”

  “Why?” Ross said.

  “Because someone’s looking for you, Gerald. And I’m not talking about the cops. Three of the engineers who worked on Nova have been contacted in the last twenty-four hours.”

  “Why the fuck are they looking for me, Walter? What happened to ‘they’ll never risk it because it would be suicide’?”

  The line went silent for a moment.

  “All I can tell you is that I don’t think the hard drive I gave you has anything to do with what I was looking for. I don’t think it even belongs to the CIA.”

  Gerald’s face became a study in disbelief. “You told me no one would come looking. You promised me that!”

  “I know. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Did you get a chance to see what was on the drive?”

  “No!” Gerald said, his voice rising to a shout. “It’s ten years old! I told you, I don’t have the hardware. And it’s in my house. Cynthia’s at home, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Listen to me. I’m going to help you, but first I need you to do something. Call Cynthia. Tell her whatever you need to, just get her out of the house and as far away as possible. She needs to take the hard drive with her.”

  “You’re insane,” Gerald said. “They can have the damn thing.”

  “It might not make any difference.”

  “It won’t make any difference if we give them what they want?”

  “I don’t even know who they are right now, Gerald. Until I figure that out, we can’t take any chances.”

  “Oh god!” Gerald said. “What am I supposed to do?”

  The anger had gone out of him. Now he was just afraid.

  “Call Cynthia. Get her to leave and take the drive with her. Tell her to put as many miles between herself and the house as possible.”

  “You know her,” Gerald said. “She’ll want to know why. She’s sick, for Christ’s sake. I can’t just tell her to leave.”

  “You’ll think of a way. You have to. As for yourself, just get out of there. Stay close to the shore. I’ll contact you again as soon as I can.”

  “Where are you?” Gerald asked.

  “Not far. Now go!”

  The screen flashed and the new message read:

  line terminated................

  Gerald pushed the laptop closed and ran back to the cockpit for his phone. Cynthia picked up on the first ring.

  “Honey, it’s me. I need you to listen to me very carefully.”

  “Gerald, are you drunk?” Cynthia asked.

  Gerald took a deep breath and said the only thing he believed would get her attention. “Cynthia, shut your fucking mouth and listen to me. This is serious. I don’t have time to explain, so you’re going to have to trust me.”

  When she spoke again her voice was unsteady. “Gerald, you’re scaring me.”

  “Cynthia, I need you to do what I tell you. Someone might be coming to the house to look for me. If they do, you can’t be there. I want you to go into my office and open the safe.”

  There was silence, followed by a faint sob. And then, barely audible, “Okay.”

  He waited for her to get downstairs and heard the door opening. A moment later she was back.

  “I don’t know the code.”

  “It’s two, eight, six, five, nine, five.”

  He heard the safe beeping as she typed in the numbers, then a click as the door opened.

  “Take out the black bag and go to the garage.”

  “What is it, Gerald?”

  “Never mind, darling. Just do it.”

  He could hear the initial shock beginning to wear off. Cynthia was unstable, but she was also stubborn. He was going to have her get some things together and take the gun from the drawer in his bedside table, but thought better of it.

  “I’m in the garage,” Cynthia said, her voice a little steadier now, a little more skeptical.

  “Good. Get in the car and open the garage door.”

  It seemed to take an eternity, but eventually he heard the car door open and shut again. In the background the whir of the electric door opener started up.

  “Now what do I do?” she asked.

  “Put it in drive and go.”

  “Where?”

  He knew that to tell her to just go anywhere would be too much. He decided to send her somewhere familiar. If Walter didn’t like that, it was tough shit.

  “I want you to go to Uncle Kyle’s place in McIndo Falls. Drive to Chicopee, then cross the river and head up Interstate 91. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  “Gerald?”

  “What?”

  “Please tell me you haven’t sold the house.”

  The question was so unexpected, and yet so in tune with her over-cynical nature that despite everything, he almost laughed.

  “No, darling. I haven’t sold the house. Now I need you to get going.”

  “To Chicopee?”

  “To Chicopee, then onto I-91. I’ll call Kyle and let him know you’re coming. Don’t stop until you get there.”

  “You’ll call me?”

  “Yes. As soon as I can.”

  He hung up before she could say anything else and prayed that she wouldn’t change her mind and go back into the house. It was by no means a sure thing that she wouldn’t. If she went back now, it would be to the medicine cabinet upstairs. If she did that, whoever Walter thought might be coming could break into the house with a bulldozer and probably find her still asleep on the couch.

  Gerald looked around, trying to decide what to do next. Walter had told him to get out of there. What he wanted to do was cross the bay, find a car and drive to meet Cynthia. Sailing
down the coast while she was out there going out of her mind would be torture. What he decided to do was neither.

  He started up the engine, walked to the bow and cast off the line. He did the same to the stern line, eased the boat back from the pier and turned her into the harbor. When he reached open water, he pushed the throttles all the way forward and set a course due north for the tip of Halibut Point and home.

  Chapter 15

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Monday 17 July 2006

  2000 EDT

  Francis Moore, who still thought of himself as Walter Scott or Harry Fisher, and sometimes Lee Baker, was sitting in the living room of a small rented apartment on the outskirts of Boston. There were eleven names and phone numbers written on the notepad in front of him.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the next number on the list. The woman who answered sounded like she’d been asleep.

  “Hello?”

  “Good evening, ma’am. My name is Daren Hill; I’m with the Boston District Attorney’s Office. I was hoping to speak to Mr. Parker if he’s at home.”

  “Hold on.”

  He heard her shout something. A moment later, a man came to the phone. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Parker, My name is Daren Hill; I’m with the Boston District Attorney’s Office. I’m sorry to be calling at this hour.”

  “That’s all right. How can I help you?”

  “I believe you spoke to one of our investigators yesterday?”

  “Yeah, Henry something.”

  “Harold Waxman.”

  “That’s it, Harold. Nice guy.”

  “I just wanted to call and see if maybe you’d remembered something else. The case we’re putting together is very important and we could really use all the help we can get.”

  “Like I said, I left Allied Bishop three years ago. I haven’t really kept in touch with anyone in that time.”

  “I understand. Well, thank you anyway, Mr. Parker. And if you do think of anything, please give us a call.”

  “You got it.”

  Francis put the phone down and cursed.

  Of all the possible problems the plan had presented, the one thing he had known for an absolute certainty was that they wouldn’t dare retaliate. The danger of exposing the country’s most clandestine assassination program might not have been enough to stop the CIA from trying to find him, but risking a leak to the press of the break-in would. The conclusion was obvious: the drive wasn’t theirs. That led to two other very disturbing questions. Who the hell did it belong to? And what was it doing in a safety deposit box owned by the CIA?