“So let me get this straight,” the president said, his hollow voice ringing through the room. “You gentlemen are proposing that we enable an organization that would enforce America’s economic interests without being accountable?”
“Yes, sir. That’s exactly what we’re proposing,” confirmed Fitzgerald.
There was a long pause before the president spoke again. “If—and that’s a long-shot ‘if’—I were to entertain this idea, who do you possibly propose would head this…this International Market Stabilization Institute?”
“There’s only one man who could lead IMSI,” Coyne replied.
“And that is?” prompted President Muller.
“Charles Mapother.”
The president paused, hesitation creeping into his voice. “Where have I heard that name before?”
“He’s the FBI’s lost lamb,” Fitzgerald prompted.
“Or black sheep, as some might call it,” threw in Shamrock.
“Thirty years ago, he was the most promising young agent on the FBI’s roster,” Coyne explained. “But his biggest mistake was to start making waves. He was very vocal about how the Bureau’s policies might be fine for murderers and con men but would be impotent against terrorists. Considering that terror cells hadn’t really set their sights on us yet, nobody up the chain wanted to hear what he had to say. He hit the glass ceiling at the FBI, so to speak, and he left before he turned thirty.”
“Where’d he move to?” the president asked, curious despite himself.
“Nobody’s sure,” answered Shamrock. “He was independently wealthy—his father hit it big in shipping containers—but rumor had it that he kept working for us; more specifically for the CIA as a private entity. Apparently, he was hired most often to extract information from troublesome elements in organizations like the Islamic Brotherhood.”
“Extract information?” the president repeated. “You mean torture?”
“Among other things, but yes, Mapother is known to be ruthless,” Shamrock confirmed. “He’s also smart as hell, has an incredible network of contacts who owe him a favor, and always manages to get the best people on his team. He’s our man.”
A heavy stillness filled the room for a long moment.
“This organization couldn’t run without some kind of oversight, gentlemen.”
His three friends looked at one another. None seemed happy about his proposal. Steve Shamrock was the only one daring a reply. “We can’t agree on these terms, Robert. We all know how inefficient and bureaucratic an organization’s governmental oversight is. IMSI would need to be controlled by its investors,” he said.
“And by that you mean you three?” the president asked incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”
Shamrock nodded, but Coyne raised his hand. “You don’t need to raise your hand to speak, Simon,” President Muller said. “You know that.”
“What about an oversight committee of one?” Coyne asked.
“We never spoke about this,” Shamrock argued furiously. “IMSI needs to be control—”
The president interrupted him by raising his hand. “What do you mean, Simon?”
“What if the only oversight committee needed was you?”
“I’d be happy with that,” Andrew Fitzgerald said without pause. “That would work.”
President Muller looked in Shamrock’s direction. His friend was shaking his head. “I can’t support this. I need to know where my millions are going.”
“Do you?” Coyne asked. “I implicitly trust Robert.”
“We can actually do this without you, Steve,” added Fitzgerald. “It’s not what I want, and I’m sure Simon will agree with me on this, but there’s a greater good to achieve here.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Andrew,” confirmed Coyne.
Shamrock’s expression couldn’t hide that he hadn’t expected this. For a minute, President Muller thought he would see his friend walk out of the Oval Office. Instead, Muller saw determination in Shamrock’s eyes. “Okay, then,” he said. “If Robert agrees, I say we go ahead.”
All eyes turned to the president.
“Gentlemen, I’ll give a qualified yes.”
―
Oval Office
Washington, DC
The man who stood in front of President Muller was over six feet tall and about sixty years old. He was dressed in a dark Armani suit and expensive loafers. His silver hair was carefully combed away from his face, exposing his high, wide forehead and strong jaw line. His Italian silk tie was perfectly centered, and his demeanor indicated that he was a man accustomed to being in charge.
“Richard Phillips told me you wanted to see me, Mr. President?”
“That’s correct. I know it’s unusual, but I wanted to let you know how much I appreciated what you and your agency have accomplished within the last eighteen months.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied his guest, more or less standing at attention. “What can I do for you?”
The president cleared his throat. “I’m very well aware that you’ve got carte blanche for your operations, Charles. However, if you would find the time to look into something for me, I’d appreciate it very much.”
“DNI Phillips mentioned something about the Ottawa bombings.”
President Muller gestured toward an inch-thick report on his desk. “The CIA thinks ISIS is behind the attacks. On the other hand, Richard is leaning in another direction. He believes the Sheik is responsible.”
“What do you want from us exactly, Mr. President?” asked Charles Mapother.
“I want you to confirm that these attacks aren’t in any way a prelude to an assault on our soil,” said Muller. “I want to know who’s behind it and how it was financed. If you find any evidence—and I really mean any evidence—that the United States might become a target, I want you to hunt down these animals and destroy them.”
The president’s eyes were focused and unwavering.
“I might have the perfect tools to do just that, Mr. President.”
“And one more thing before you leave, Charles.”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
Muller stood up from behind his desk and walked over to Mapother. He handed him the last picture of Ambassador Ray Powell that the Sheik had sent to the CIA. “Even though Powell’s Canadian, we’ve lost a lot of credibility with our Middle Eastern allies over this. They know we’ve been helping the Canadians find him, with the results you know. The Sheik’s playing us like fools.”
“What do you want me to do, sir?”
“Find him, if you can. Bring him back to his family. They’ve suffered enough.”
Mapother glanced at the picture.
“I’ll see what we can do, Mr. President.”
CHAPTER 10
Johns Hopkins Hospital
Baltimore, Maryland
Mike Powell woke up with a lurch. Immediately, a powerful ripping sensation seared through his body. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t open his eyes, and he could barely breathe. He felt trapped. He tried to talk, but no sound came out. His mouth was so dry.
“Don’t panic. Relax and concentrate on your breathing,” said a steady female voice. “My name is Christina, and I’m your nurse. I know how you feel. Right now you can’t open your eyes, and your whole body feels like you ran fifteen marathons in a row. But don’t worry—you’re in good hands. Now I’m going to give you a light sedative that will put you back to sleep. Don’t fight it. When you wake up, you’ll be able to open your eyes and talk.”
Thirty seconds later, Mike’s eyes rolled back in their sockets, and his body relaxed again.
―
“Can anyone explain what just happened?” asked Dr. Fletcher Webb. In a conference room in the basement of Johns Hopkins Hospital, a group of medical experts was seated around a long table. “I thought this
patient was supposed to be kept in a coma for another week.”
“Plans have changed, Doctor,” said a man who was standing at the back of the room, the only one who was not part of Dr. Webb’s medical staff. Everybody turned to listen to what this stranger had to say. “We’re moving ahead of schedule.”
“The patient isn’t ready,” protested Dr. Webb.
“It’s not for you to decide,” the stranger replied icily. “Perhaps we should have this discussion in private, Doctor.”
Not wanting to enter an argument he might very well lose, Dr. Webb dismissed his staff from the room. Charles Mapother was not someone you wanted to squabble with in public.
“I think that you’re being overprotective of your patient,” Mapother said once they were alone.
“Overprotective?” repeated the bewildered doctor. “Don’t you remember that this man was shot twice less than three weeks ago? By all accounts he should have been killed.”
“I didn’t forget, Doctor,” answered Mapother calmly. “And I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that I’ve paid for his treatment. Yet we don’t have the luxury of time. Our own specialists are saying that his body will heal much faster if he’s conscious. Besides, it’s time that we signed him out. We have plans for him, and they can’t wait any longer.”
Dr. Webb seemed to stumble for words. He wasn’t used to being told what to do. “It might, but chances are that it won’t. Listen, I can’t approve this.”
“I think you misunderstood me, Doctor. I don’t make suggestions. I am telling you what to do. I expect him to be ready to receive visitors a week from now.”
“B-but that’s impossible.”
“Make it happen, Doctor.”
“But hospital authorities will never allow it. If the chief of medicine finds out—”
“I’ve already cleared it with Director Kern,” said the silver-haired man. “It seems he likes the two million dollars in charitable donations I send this hospital every year.”
Dr. Webb’s mouth was agape.
The man continued, fixing his gaze on Dr. Webb. “You might be one of the best reconstructive surgeons in the country, Dr. Webb, but your job here is done.”
―
Opening his eyes was the most difficult task Mike had ever accomplished. A massive headache made him wish he could go back to sleep, but he forced himself to take in his surroundings. The room was plunged in semidarkness. A few weak rays of sunlight were slipping through the closed drapes. Turning his head toward the window, Mike was surprised to see a man sitting in an armchair, watching him.
“Good morning, Mike,” greeted the man with a jovial tone.
“Who…who are you?” he asked. His tongue felt like sandpaper.
“Let me get you some water,” said the man, starting toward an en suite bathroom. He came back with a small Styrofoam cup filled with water and helped Mike take a sip.
Swallowing made Mike cough, and instantly his whole body was aflame. He nodded his thanks.
“I see you’re still in some pain,” said the man.
“Who are you?”
“I am a friend, Mike. A friend who took care of you when you needed help.”
Mike realized that the man’s intelligent eyes were deathly cold. Ruthless. He wouldn’t want to make enemies with this man.
“Where’s my wife? Where’s Lisa? Where’s Melissa?”
“Unfortunately, your wife isn’t here right now. You’ve been in a coma for the last three weeks, Mike.”
Three weeks? wondered Mike. Lisa must have had the baby by now, and I missed it!
“Once she recuperated from her own injuries, your wife spent nearly every waking hour here with you,” continued the stranger. “We finally convinced her that she needed to take care of herself for a bit, while we took care of you. But she was contacted this morning. She is flying to Baltimore as we speak.”
“From her own injuries? Why would she be flying to Baltimore? And who the hell are you?” Mike asked, his patience wearing thin. Nothing was making any sense to him.
“She’s coming to Baltimore because that’s where we are now, Mike. You’re in the hospital. Do you know why you’re here? Do you remember what happened?”
“I’m not sure,” Mike admitted after a few moments.
“Do you remember anything about the terrorist attack at the airport?”
“The airport?”
Suddenly, it all came back.
Oh, my God, the airport. What about Paul?
He remembered Robichaud being inside the airplane when all hell had broken loose in the terminal. He remembered the blood and bodies of passengers all over the terminal. He remembered the wounded Ottawa police officer raising his gun and…
Mike tried to sit up in his bed, but the maneuver took more out of him than it should have, sending waves of pain over his entire body. As the blood rushed through his body, his face suddenly became very itchy.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the man said, seeing Mike’s hand lift toward his face. “Your scars are still sensitive. I’ll call Christina, the nurse. She’s very good. She’ll take care of any discomfort you might be feeling.”
“What…what happened?”
“You were shot in the face, Mike. We almost lost you. Fortunately, your jawbone deflected the bullet away from your brain. But it did do a lot of damage. You’ve had to undergo a lot of surgeries…They had to reconstruct a lot of your palate and sinus cavities. But don’t worry—the best surgeons this country ever produced treated you. Within a couple of months, you’ll be completely healed.”
Mike tried to imagine what the man was telling him. He just couldn’t wrap his mind around it.
“Am I…am I disfigured?” Mike whispered.
“Take it easy, Mike. Considering that your face stopped a bullet, you look pretty good. But I’ll bring you a mirror if you want.”
The man got up from his chair and went back to the bathroom, this time returning with a small round mirror. He switched on the nightstand lamp beside the bed and held the mirror eighteen inches from Mike’s face.
His green eyes and jet-black hair hadn’t changed, but the surgeons had rebuilt some parts of his face. He still had a handsome, powerful look, but his features were all somewhat different, especially in the lower part of his face.
“But why am I at a hospital in Baltimore if I was shot in Ottawa? How did I get here? And how come my wife was injured?”
“Let’s just say that this particular hospital could provide you with the kind of care you needed, Mike. As for your wife, I think it would be better if she explains everything to you herself.”
Mike raised the mirror again and took another look.
Baltimore? What the hell?
His thoughts were interrupted by a set of footsteps entering the room. He looked up and placed the mirror next to him on the bed.
“Good morning,” said the nurse, who must be Christina. She walked directly to the window and slowly opened the curtains. She approached the bed and placed a moist towel on the lower left side of his face. “How are you feeling?”
“All right, considering,” he answered.
The nurse was a couple inches shy of six feet and looked athletic even though she was wearing loose blue scrubs. She wore her long brown hair up in a ponytail. Her movements were fluid and gentle as she brought the towel across his forehead.
“It’s good to finally hear your voice. I feel like I’ve known you for a long time. But I have to admit that our discussions were a little one-sided, considering you were in an induced coma for three weeks,” she said.
“An induced coma?” Mike repeated, confused. A million thoughts began to run through his mind.
“I’ve been wondering what the voice of my mysterious patient Mr. Walton sounded like,” she continued as she set the washcloth on the bedside t
able. “And now I get to find out even sooner than expected. It’s like Christmas came early.”
“Walton? My name’s not Walton. It’s Powell,” Mike corrected her, his mind still swimming.
A strange look came over Christina’s face as she reached for the metal clipboard at the foot of his bed. After flipping through the papers of his chart, she gave Mike a concerned look.
“Why don’t you get some rest, Mr. Walton? I’ll come and check on you soon,” the nurse said, returning the clipboard to its holder.
“It’s Powell. My name’s Powell! And why was I induced into a coma? What the hell is going on here?” he shouted, struggling once again to sit up.
The silver-haired man stood and placed his hands on Mike’s shoulders, gently but firmly returning him to the mattress. “Calm down, Mike, just calm down.”
“I won’t calm down,” Mike hissed. “I’ll ask you this one last time. What the hell is going on here?”
The man sighed heavily, then turned to Christina. “Would you mind excusing us for a minute, please?”
The nurse nodded once and slipped out of the room.
“All right, Mike, I’ll tell you.” He cleared his throat and grasped Mike’s arm to keep him calm. “You are no longer Mike Powell. Mike Powell was shot dead three weeks ago.”
CHAPTER 11
Johns Hopkins Hospital
Baltimore, Maryland
Mike was stunned by the statement. How could he be alive if he was dead? Who was he?
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Mike yelled, ripping his arm away from the stranger’s grasp, causing the hand mirror to crash to the floor.
Suddenly, two men wearing identical business suits entered the room. They must have been standing just outside Mike’s door. Security guards? he wondered. What the hell?
“Is everything all right in here?” the larger of the two guards asked, a tall black man with a bulge clearly visible through his jacket.
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