by Jaxon Reed
Nguyen motioned to the Army officer and said, “This is Major Collin Hamilton. He’s in charge of the facility at the moment. Thanks for letting us use your office, Major.”
Hamilton nodded and smiled politely. Bryce noted he sported dirty blond hair. He looked to be in his late 30s or early 40s, with high cheekbones and a slightly lupine face.
Hamilton said, “The whole place is really yours. Thank you for letting us use it.”
“That’s a formality, of course,” Nguyen said to the others. “In fact, Jacques Renard has created quite the controversy back in D.C. You would not believe the turf wars being staked out right now for a piece of him.”
“And yet, nothing has been decided, otherwise he would not still be here,” Friedman said.
Nguyen nodded and said, “Agent Friedman cuts to the heart of the matter. It’s far too early for any decision to be coming out of Washington. We are maintaining the status quo. He is to remain sedated and confined for the time being.”
Hamilton frowned and said, “And that’s problematic, as far as the Army is concerned. We’ve run about all the tests we can while he’s unconscious, and we have next to nothing to show for it. Granted, his brain scans show some interesting differences between those of . . . ‘normal’ people, for lack of a better word. But we’re not going to be able to do any real experiments until we can wake him up and talk with him . . . get a chance to see what he can do in a controlled environment up close and personal. Both of our doctors, DeSoto and Chang, agree on this.”
“With all due respect,” Friedman said, “that’s a terrible idea. You have no idea what this boy is capable of.”
“On the contrary, sir. We’ve all seen the footage. We know a great deal of what he’s capable of.”
“Confining him and running experiments on him is the absolute wrong thing to do,” Friedman said. “He will find a way to escape, spreading chaos and death wherever he goes. Where are you holding his mother?”
“She’s here, on the second floor of this facility. Her room is right above the front door. We’re keeping her sedated too, out of an abundance of caution. But if holding the subject is so dangerous, I presume you have a better option, Agent Friedman?”
Friedman looked at each person in turn before responding. He said, “You must eliminate this threat. You cannot keep him alive and confined. He was kept in such a state back in France, and he eventually escaped once he developed his full powers. The longer he lives, the stronger he gets. You simply cannot allow him to exist.”
Hamilton leaned back in his chair and regarded Friedman coolly. He said, “You’re very passionate about killing this boy, for someone who is dosed up on emotion-damping drugs.”
“I am only stating the facts. The threat must be dealt with.”
“You would have us kill a teenaged boy?”
“I would have you kill a Level Three Psychic Terrorist, Major.”
“Hm. Well, it’s not my decision to make. This one is going all the way up to the highest levels in Washington before it’s over and done with, I suspect.”
11
Bryce walked into the office the next morning and found Parker already at their shared desk. She looked up from her virtual monitor when he sat down.
“How’s it going? Has Melody seen anything?”
Bryce could feel the slightest hint of jealousy underneath her questions.
This mild romantic interest is unsettling, he thought.
Out loud he said, “No, nothing definitive yet. She said this morning that she dreamed of a tankbot shooting at a building.”
“A tankbot? From the Army? That’s weird. What’s that about?”
Bryce shrugged. He said, “No idea. Give it another night or two and she’ll start having more vivid dreams, maybe give us something we can use.”
Inwardly he chastised himself for using the word “night” instead of “days.” Parker knew of the unusual arrangement he had shared with Melody all these years. Though divorced, they remained true to one another. Bryce often joked and called it “a divorce of convenience.”
Inevitably, Parker’s jealousy crept up a notch with the word “night,” and its implications of intimacy. Gently, Bryce reached out and soothed it away like placing balm on a burn. He worked at it, gently massaging down her negative emotion. Within seconds the jealousy was gone.
Again, he reflected on the fact he was not as powerful as Desiree had been, nor as powerful as many other harpies for that matter. But he had grown adept at resolving minor emotional issues like this one.
For her part, Parker did not notice his efforts. She said, “We found the factory where the chips were made for your tele-sniper.”
Bryce raised his eyebrows, questioningly.
She said, “It’s in Taiwan. Turns out they manufacture millions of those things. Lots of industrial applications. Lots of customers. Different outfits buy them in bulk, thousands to an order, all over the world.”
“So, no chance we can hunt down who ordered this batch? Serial numbers or anything?”
Parker shook her head. “They weren’t really designed that way. We could trace all the orders, particularly the ones that went to Europe or North America. But even so, whoever bought them from the factory may have resold them to our sniper at a later date.”
“So, it’s a dead end.”
“Pretty much. But, it’s more data for the gristmill.”
Bryce nodded in agreement and logged into his terminal. Almost immediately, the building’s AI chimed in the corner of both their virtual monitors.
“Incoming call, FBI.”
Bryce and Melody locked eyes for a second. He said, “Accept.”
The monitors dissolved to be replaced by Nguyen’s upper torso on the desk, along with Colonel Clark’s.
Nguyen said, “Detectives, I wanted to bring you into this conversation. I think you need to hear this. Okay, Colonel, explain everything again for Bryce and Parker.”
Clark locked eyes with the two detectives and nodded at them. He said, “When you went through our security check yesterday with the Europol agent, everybody was given the green light. And that was that. Ordinarily we’d think nothing of it. However, the Pentagon recently placed all data processing under a new AI review protocol. Last night, while examining the background checks on you three, it flagged something suspicious.
“As you know, irises are like fingerprints. No two are alike. While the agent’s scan shows in the official records he is who he says he is, our AI discovered an old record that is identical.”
Bryce said, “How old of a record are we talking about?”
“From the early 2020s, when iris scanning first started picking up steam. It took a while to take off. Irises have been an accepted biometric norm for passports since 2006. United Arab Emirates was the first country to use it. The technology is rather sophisticated, and fingerprints are easier to catalog, so the rest of the world was slower to adopt it. But over time, the practice spread.
“Our AI found a record from someone entering the U.S. during an early experimental trial of iris scanning for visitors from the Middle East. The record was stored on a State Department server that was subsequently shuttered when they transitioned to cloud storage. When the old backup drives were found decades later, no one thought much about it. Data retrieval on something so old was not considered paramount.
“But, eventually the government does get around to taking care of things. Last year the scans from that trial run were finally entered into our global database. Of course, by now, everyone who entered the country back then is dead. Or should be. They darn sure shouldn’t still be 42 years old.”
Parker said, “And this record is identical, or nearly identical to Agent Friedman’s? From what I remember about iris scan technology, the digital photograph examines tons of datapoints in the eye. Is it possible for someone to have a closely matching iris? After all, there are billions of people out there.”
The colonel nodded and said, “Ordina
rily I’d agree with you that there should be some probability of a near match, however remote the statistics say it could happen. But, this is an identical match.”
Everyone remained silent for a moment as Bryce and Parker absorbed the information.
Finally, Bryce said, “So, there’s an error somewhere. The old scan’s data got corrupted somehow.”
Clark said, “That’s the first thing we thought, too. And we ruled it out. The data is legit. And, the old iris scan matches Europol Agent Noam Friedman’s iris scan exactly. Every single datapoint aligns flawlessly.”
Bryce said, “What are you saying? Friedman hasn’t aged in all this time? Come on. There must be a mistake somewhere. And if he’s that old, his iris scan should be popping up in the records over and over again down through the decades. Fingerprints too, for that matter.”
“We’ve been through the same thought process you are going through, Detective, I assure you. And we’ve been very thorough in our searches. We discovered many of our old iris scans may have been tampered with at some point. We found some rogue software that surreptitiously deletes certain data after a period of time. We never noticed it before because we weren’t looking for it.
“Long story short: our entire biometrics dataset is not as secure as we thought it was, including fingerprints. So we looked at the last element: facial recognition. It’s sometimes easy to fool, although it’s gotten much better the last few decades. Our people put Friedman’s photograph through the system and extended the search way back.”
Bryce held his breath. Parker asked the question they both were thinking. She said, “How far back?”
“To the dawn of photography in the 19th century. Granted, older photographs don’t have the same level of detail, but our AI has made a lot of strides in recent years.”
A new virtual screen popped up between the two holograms, and it quickly populated with picture after picture of the same face: Noam Friedman’s.
Bryce heard Parker’s sharp intake of breath as she gasped, and he felt her shock and surprise roll over him.
He furrowed his brows and reached over to a photo of Nazi concentration camp victims, taken shortly after they were released.
Bryce pulled it closer. He made an enlarging motion with his fingers and it grew in size.
There, with three other Jews, stood an emaciated Noam Friedman staring grimly back at the camera.
Nguyen, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, cleared his throat softly.
He said, “One of the reasons I wanted to bring you into this discussion, Detective Bryce, is your familiarity with . . . the unexplained. Do you have any idea who . . . or what . . . we are dealing with here?”
Bryce shook his head slowly as he stared in the eyes of Friedman from the photograph dated 1945.
He said, “No. But I know somebody I can ask.”
-+-
Bryce felt Parker’s annoyance as she waved her hand over the hologram in front of her, dismissing the overseas call.
She said, “Europol is zero help. They act like it’s no big deal we have concerns about one of their guys. They refuse to hand over any records or useful information on Friedman. They’re stonewalling.”
Bryce said, “We’ve got an APB out. He doesn’t have an active phone chip, evidently, but if he shows up on a camera somewhere, we’ll get an alert.”
He turned back to his computer terminal and said, “I’m going to try to get a hold of Dr. Drossel.”
He waited tensely for a connection. A moment later Katherine’s face appeared on the virtual monitor, her silver hair tied up in a bun as before. Bryce recalled she had an older phone and would not be showing a hologram.
“Hello, Detective! Daddy has been very interested in the progress of your case.”
In the background Bryce heard someone coughing loudly. Katherine’s face glanced toward the sound with a look of concern, then she turned back to Bryce.
She said, “I’m afraid he’s not doing very well. The doctors say he could pass any time, but every morning he wakes up with some energy. Not like he used to have, mind you, but enough to get through the day.”
The coughing grew louder and Bryce heard the old man’s voice saying, “Is that him? Is that the detective, Kat? Let me talk to him!”
Katherine smiled at Bryce and walked over to a bed. The view shifted to follow her. There, sitting up under a sheet, the old professor filled up the screen. His eyes were a bit hazy. His hair was uncombed, and he needed a shave. But the fire of life still burned in him.
“There you are, Detective! How goes the case? We’ve been watching the news every day, but the only thing coming out of Texas has to do with some terrorist at the airport and mass chaos at a rock concert.”
Bryce decided to cut to the chase. He said, “Sir, in all your studies, have you ever heard of a man who . . . well, a man who did not die? An immortal. Someone living a very, very long time.”
“Why yes. Yes, of course. The Wandering Jew. Quite famous, he was. They say he was present at nearly every important event in European history.”
“‘The Wandering Jew?’ Is that what they called him?”
“Yes. He was cursed to live until the return of Christ. He can’t die, you see. He wanders the earth. They say Jesus cursed him on the day of Calvary, before being crucified. He mocked the Lord as he carried the cross, and Christ told him he would not die until the end times, when Christ returns.”
Bryce sat back in his chair, stunned. He rubbed his chin, deep in thought.
He looked up at the old man and said, “So, is it true? You keep saying, ‘they say.’ Does such a person actually exist?”
Drossel coughed a moment before answering. Finally he said, “About 40 years ago I was at a conference in Brussels and had a pleasant conversation with one of the historians working on some project or other with the EU. Somehow the discussion turned to the Wandering Jew, and this fellow began to tell me an interesting tale. He said the Wandering Jew had become the world’s most efficient assassin. Centuries of practice, you see. He knew the best ways to kill a person and get away with it. He could bypass all the world’s security systems.
“According to him, as time went on, the Wandering Jew grew ever more knowledgeable and proficient, keeping up with all the latest technology. He listed several high-profile killings over the years that remain unsolved, and blamed them all on this one man.
“At the time, I chalked it up to conspiracy theories. But later, I started coming across some textual references to the Wandering Jew in medieval manuscripts. I noticed two mentions of him in separate books that were written hundreds of miles apart from one another about the same time. One was in Old English, the other in German. Much to my surprise, their recorded details surrounding the Wandering Jew were nearly identical.
“That led me down a rabbit trail, as you might imagine. I started cross-referencing every mention of him in every text I could find. He popped up in books across all the major languages, even some of the Nordic ones. Even in Russian. And all accounts were strikingly similar.
“So, I’ve changed my mind over the years. I do believe the Wandering Jew exists. I admit the evidence is circumstantial, but when you see that many references to the same person across so many texts, in a society where information and people traveled slowly if at all, I can’t believe it’s all a coincidence.”
Drossel stopped to cough again, and Bryce let him catch his breath.
The old man took a drink of water and said, “A funny thing, Detective. My discussion with that fellow also included the secret societies of the Middle Ages. Mostly we talked about the Templars since they are so well-known thanks to all those movies. But we also talked about the Vehm Gericht. This man was convinced the Courts of Westphalia had enlisted the Wandering Jew to do their dirty work for them.”
Bryce’s froze, as several things fell into place at once.
He recovered and said, “Thank you, Professor. You’ve been a big help. I’ve got to go n
ow.”
“Oh, absolutely. Call back anytime. It’s rare I find someone the least bit interested in matters of Medieval Europe.”
Bryce promised Drossel he would call again soon. He ended the connection and stood up from the desk. Parker looked at him with an arched eyebrow.
He said, “I’ve got to talk with Captain Kim. I don’t think our secure location is very secure anymore.”
-+-
Bryce remained on the line with Nguyen, Clark, and Chief Jones as his car rushed over the city, making a beeline for the FBI’s building on the west side. Parker sat in the passenger seat.
The colonel seemed the least impressed. Clark said, “So let me get this straight, you feel the facility is in danger?”
“My source indicates the facility will come under attack today, Colonel. We need to buttress its defenses as much as possible, as quickly as possible.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen from our end. Our nearest active people are a hundred miles from your location. And I’m not going to ask the Air Force to spare some of their flyboys for us on a top secret situation like this.”
“We’ll send some agents over, Detective,” Nguyen said. “But we don’t have many to spare at the moment.”
Jones’s deep voice rumbled over the line. He said, “He’s my employee, and it’s my call. I’ve worked many years with Detective Bryce. If he tells me he needs more people at a certain location, I’ll send more people. The police department has your back, Detective. I’m sending two SWAT teams over there, on the double.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Nguyen said, “We don’t have enough Hexenhammer onsite for many additional personnel. But so long as the subject remains unconscious, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
Clark said, “I don’t like this. At all. And I remind you, that building remains under US Army command.”
“We’re not going there to take over the facility, sir,” Bryce said. “We’re going to protect it. And the boy.”
“Fine. I’ll allow you and the other officers on the premises. But you are going in as a protection detail only. No special access to the subject. And no interference with our work in there.”