Fires of Midnight

by Jon Land

  But that wasn’t all. Susan wished it were.

  “You once experienced a great tragedy yourself, did you not?” Actually, absurdity might be a better way to describe it. Her parents had died of liver cancer within six months of each other while she was a junior in high school. Doctors told her the odds against such an occurrence were fifty million to one. But when her brother was diagnosed with leukemia two years later, they rated the odds of her becoming afflicted with that or some other deadly cancer in her lifetime as better than seventy-five percent.

  “Tell me, Doctor, how were you able to recover from such a catastrophic loss?”

  Susan hadn’t been able to respond to Fuchs and doubted he much cared. He simply wanted her to know he knew, that he was capable of knowing anything. The truth was she was able to recover and forge on by fighting, a battle waged in labs with test tubes and microscopes, as she became intimately acquainted with virulent diseases both infectious and noninfectious.

  Eventually that study had brought her to Atlanta and the CDC, where she came to regard the infectious disease department and later Firewatch as springboards that could propel her into a position of real power there or somewhere else. Chief of genetic research, perhaps, at a major biotech firm. The cure for cancer lay somewhere in that realm and Susan desperately wanted to be a part of the process, as much as anything because its deadly specter was almost certain to lurk in her future as well.

  “That would indicate your interest in Joshua Wolfe is not purely unselfish, either … .”

  Fuchs was right and Susan hated thinking it made her no better than he. So she had to prove to herself that she was better by helping the boy. She knew what it was like to live with a single obsession. If Joshua Wolfe let the tragedy of the Cambridgeside Galleria dominate the remainder of his life, he would fall victim to it just as Susan had to cancer, without yet being stricken by the disease. He would spend his life in an emotional vacuum in which every potential relationship became a reminder of hurt and loss, instead of a possibility of hope.

  And yet she could not help thinking that Joshua Wolfe had become her hope. For that she wanted him as much as Fuchs did. Perhaps the colonel’s offer was worth considering. Perhaps the boy’s best chance did lie with—

  No ! No!

  Fuchs and Haslanger would destroy the boy to get what they wanted or, worse, let him destroy himself. They were too self-absorbed to realize that would be the emotional upshot of what they would be asking him to do. Design new and more precise ways to kill. Make him relive Cambridge over and over again. Get as much out of him as they could before he cracked.

  She couldn’t allow it. Saving the boy from Group Six meant saving at least a small part of herself. She had to get him out of here before Fuchs’s claws sank in too deep to pry off.

  But how?

  Krill was waiting in his chair when Haslanger returned to his office, lit only by the fluorescent glow of his desk lamp.

  “I trust things went well,” the doctor greeted.

  “The woman wasn’t alone,” Krill reported, handing something out to him.

  In the thin wash of light, it took Haslanger a moment to realize it was a black and white picture attached to a manila folder.

  “This man was with her,” Krill offered for explanation. “I identified him from one of Washington’s data bases—a number of them, actually. His name is Blaine McCracken.”

  Haslanger looked at the grainy picture and then flipped open the folder. “You knew where to search?”

  “It wasn’t hard. You might say he’s one of a kind. McCrackenballs.”

  “What?”

  “Page three. Skip ahead. McCrackenballs—that’s what some call him. Care to hear why?”

  Haslanger didn’t bother turning to page three.

  “Because some years ago he shot out the balls of Winston Churchill’s statue in London after the British upset him. I dare say he does not like to be upset.” Krill paused. “He’s upset now.”

  “You left him alive?”

  “Someone else at the library intervened.”

  “An ally of McCracken’s?”

  “Perhaps. It doesn’t matter.”

  Haslanger sighed, the file a lead weight in his hand. “It does if it means Group Six has been compromised. It does if we’re facing a threat from more than a single man.”

  At that, Haslanger could have sworn he saw the trace of a smile flicker across Krill’s fleshy lips.

  “Keep reading.”

  “You’re a real pain in the ass,” Hank Belgrade said, from his usual position on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. “From now on, you call, talk to my voice mail.”

  McCracken sat down edgily next to him. “Erich Haslanger, Hank.”

  Belgrade flashed his open palms. “Notice I came empty-handed. There’s a reason for that. Haslanger’s file reads deceased as of 1983.”

  “But you and I know better.”

  “I don’t know how you step in the shit you do, MacNuts, but the piles just keep getting bigger.” His stare tightened. “Group Six. Heard of it?”

  “Bits and pieces.”

  “Use your imagination.”

  “Haslanger?”

  “Gainful new employment for the son of a bitch. I don’t know how you dug up all you did on him, but lemme tell you, the info could embarrass plenty of people who like to stay out of the news.”

  “What are my chances of getting in to have a talk with him?”

  Belgrade frowned. “You’d have a better chance of getting an audience with God. Nobody gets into Group Six through the front door without the kind of clearance you ruled yourself out of being granted a long time ago.”

  “Even if somebody on their staff is responsible for the largest mass murder in U.S. history?”

  “What?”

  “I was in Cambridge yesterday.”

  Belgrade’s oversized jowls seemed to quiver. “Oh, shit …”

  “I know who engineered the massacre at the Cambridgeside Galleria. I was in his dorm room at Harvard. Child prodigy, born about 1980. Sound familiar?”

  “Operation Offspring …”

  “It’s still active, Hank, and my guess is that Haslanger never stopped running it. For Group Six now.”

  “This kid was behind the whole thing?”

  “That’s right, and Harry Lime served as his guardian up until the kid started work in the doctoral sciences program at Harvard last fall. Rest is still sketchy but it leads to Group Six because that’s where Haslanger can be found.”

  “And the kid?”

  “Gone. Disappeared.”

  “You saying Group Six was behind what happened?”

  “If I did, would it help me get granted access?”

  Belgrade shook his head. “MacNuts, aren’t you hearing me? Group Six is protected to the highest level. Their fuck-ups are handled strictly inhouse. So you wanna go around playing crusader, all you’re gonna do is let them know you’re coming.”

  “Could be it’s just Haslanger who’s responsible. Would that make a difference?”

  “Sure, maybe for the worse. Pentagon’s gone through a lot of trouble to keep Haslanger’s participation secret. You go stirring things up in the typical MacNuts fashion and they’ll batten down the hatches.”

  “I guess I’ll just have to find a way in on my own, Hank.”

  “Was me, I’d walk away from this one.”

  Blaine’s eyebrows flickered. “I’m not you.”

  “Sure, and you can never walk away, either. Run into trouble, though, and no one in these parts will know you. Memories in the good ole D. of C. are fickle. Calling in debts won’t save you and friends won’t be worth shit, you take these people on.”

  “I’ll try not to step on any toes.”

  TWENTY

  Joshua Wolfe waited until the maid was just finishing the room on the tenth floor of the Hyatt Grand Cypress in Orlando before he slid through the open door.

  “Perfect timing,” he greeted, pulling hi
s backpack from his shoulders as if he belonged.

  The woman smiled at him and was gone.

  He had escaped the men at Harry’s apartment barely five hours before, beating them to Key West Airport and sneaking his way on board a forty-two-passenger U.S. Air commuter plane bound for Orlando. He hid in the single lavatory for twenty minutes before the plane started to board and then claimed a seat while the flight attendant was busy ushering passengers on. He chose one in the very first row, figuring it would be easier to work his way backward in search of another if the real occupant appeared. Fortunately no such passenger arrived and the flight attendant seemed none the wiser.

  Upon arriving in Orlando, he simply joined the flow of human traffic to the main terminal via a futuristic tram that was packed solid with eager and weary travelers, mostly families with children. He followed the bulging crowd to the baggage claim area, his eyes sweeping the various carry-on bags the newly arrived visitors shouldered or hauled. He was looking for the kind that held a laptop computer inside, an advanced model featuring a built-in modem. When he found the type of case he was looking for, Josh fell in behind the man holding it and melted back into the crowd. A woman walked alongside the man, two boys and a girl trailing slightly behind. A family of five, then, and that meant lots of luggage, which would serve Josh well.

  The family reached the carousel where their bags would be arriving. As hoped, the father unshouldered the computer carrying case and rested it on the floor near the rest of their carry-ons. Then he slid forward to claim a spot in front of the carousel before the tread began to move. The two boys were playing a video game, the girl holding her mother’s hand as she stood between her brothers and the father. A loud whine sounded and the motorized tread started to churn, the first bags winding their way toward their owners. Judging by the number of people squeezed tightly together, the flight must have been packed. Everyone seemed to push forward en masse, except the two boys busy with their video game.

  Josh cut a direct path for the computer case, crouched to mock tying his shoe, and started into motion again with the case in his hand and backpack still slung over his shoulder. He followed the signs for ground transportation and never looked back. He made straight for the taxi stand and gave Disney World as his destination to the dispatcher. The cab slid away from the curb, Josh gazing behind him only then to make sure no one had given chase.

  When the cab deposited him in the sprawling Magic Kingdom parking lot a half hour later, the laptop was squeezed into his backpack in place of a discarded sweatshirt. He bought his admission ticket and rode the monorail to the actual park entrance. Once there, the expanse of the place both amazed and intimidated him. But the presence of so many other teenagers proved a comfort: even if the Handlers had already traced him this far, they would never be able to pick him out amidst such a crowd. He would be inside the Magic Kingdom for only as long as it took to hide the second vial of CLAIR. Carrying it around just added more complications to his plight, and the lighter he traveled the better. The vial might have added only a few ounces but its presence was starting to weigh heavily on his mind.

  He was in the park for barely an hour before he located the perfect hiding place and then reached the Hyatt via its private shuttle bus. Staying in one of the Disney hotels would have been simpler logistically, but that would be where the Handlers would begin their search once they traced him to Orlando.

  The maid had barely closed the door to the room in the Hyatt behind her when Josh set up shop on the room’s double bed, spreading the contents of the Handler’s wallet atop it in a semicircle around the laptop. There were nine separate pieces of identification encompassing six different names. The process ahead could prove long and arduous—challenging, Josh preferred to think, and he loved a challenge. The business about men like the Handlers being untraceable was bullshit mostly. Everyone left a trail, especially in the case where an operative from one agency was loaned out to another, a scenario that Josh suspected had been the case yesterday.

  He plugged the computer into a wall socket and ran a cord from the telephone jack to the built-in modem.

  “The boy’s in Orlando,” Sinclair reported.

  “Orlando?” returned Fuchs.

  “He was seen approaching a commuter plane bound for there in Key West. We arrived too late to meet it, but got to the baggage claim area in time to hear a man insist a boy meeting Josh Wolfe’s description stole his computer.”

  “He stole a computer?”

  “We’re not sure where he went from the airport, but we’re questioning all bus and cab drivers to find out.”

  “And rental car companies, Sinclair.”

  “But the boy’s only—”

  “With a computer and modem, he could make himself any age he wants. Make a rental reservation, have a car ready and waiting. Billed to the President’s credit card, or yours or mine, if he knew who we were.”

  “I’ll check, sir.”

  “Keep me informed.”

  Josh knew the passwords to get in the front door of virtually any of the nation’s prime data banks. His plan was to scan the personnel records of various agencies in search of a match for the six different names the Handler went by, according to his wallet. If successful, ultimately Josh would learn who had dispatched him to Key West and thus who was behind Harry Lime’s disappearance.

  The process was both harder and easier than Josh had expected. Easier because of the simplicity of accessing the information he wanted. Harder because of the depth of it. The files for active agents working for any of the various Washington agencies were immense. Josh tried searching for a match with any of the names the Handler’s wallet contained. After an hour, he found one through the FBI.

  Under the alias of Cole Chaney he had been retained as a surveillance specialist in a case involving a major international drug bust. Chaney was not carried on the regular Bureau rolls, but his assignment had been duly authorized and logged.

  Josh stayed with that name, running searches through all the data banks he could access. As it turned out, Chaney had worked for just about every three-letter group at some time or another, and a more in-depth search revealed that his other identities were all logged in the CIA in a file grouping labeled “Cousins.” Cousins must have been the spy agency’s version of temps, as opposed to full-time “brothers” or “sisters,” called in when specific tasks required men the agency lacked the funds to keep on permanent staff.

  The next phase was chronology, determining who exactly had retained Chaney for his assignment today in Key West. “WORKING” appeared on the laptop’s monitor and lingered there for the long minutes he waited impatiently for a response. This was a difficult search even for the most sophisticated computers to perform. Beyond that, there was the very real possibility that Chaney’s participation hadn’t been entered yet and never would be.

  Josh’s fear subsided, replaced by excitement when fresh information began to roll across the screen. There wasn’t much, just a few lines, but it piqued his curiosity.

  CHANEY, COLE ASSIGNED GROUP SIX 6/30/96

  ACCESS ZO-9XR-57, ROUTING OUT OF DALLAS,

  NO CLOSE OUT

  He had it! Josh had no idea what “NO CLOSE OUT” meant but it was the other mysterious phrase that commanded his attention:

  Group Six.

  He had never heard of such an organization, had no idea what it was. But its connection to himself, the Handlers, and thus Harry’s disappearance through Chaney was almost certain.

  Intrigued, Josh typed in the access code provided. Nothing. Just more of Chaney. He needed to get in, if not through the front door, then the back. He had no password for Group Six, no way to reach the guts of the system. Josh tried the access code again, keeping the same ZO prefix but changing the configuration of the letters and numbers that followed. When this failed to get him anywhere, he repeated the process with 57 as the key instead, again with no results. As a last shot he typed in the 9XR center code. His heart leaped when a si
ngle word on the screen prompted him further: SPECIFY.

  He was in! Well, almost. He keyed in 9XR again, followed by 1XA, chosen at random. It took a few moments for the Group Six database to respond: WAITING.

  He had done it! The primary data banks of Group Six, whatever it was, were open to him.

  Josh curled himself into a tighter ball and began typing.

  “Yes,” Fuchs said into his intercom.

  “This is Larsen in the com center, Colonel. Sorry to bother you, sir, but we have a bit of an emergency here.”

  Fuchs looked at Haslanger and put the call on speaker. “Go on, Larsen.”

  “I have just been alerted to an intrusion into our computer network from the outside. Someone’s gained access to our system. I’d like your permission to shut down and reboot.”

  Fuchs felt a chill slither through him. “Can you trace the origin of intrusion?”

  “Yes, but it will take several minutes. Whoever’s broken in could do untold damage by then.”

  “Run the trace,” Fuchs ordered.

  “But, sir—”

  “Run the trace.”

  For Joshua Wolfe, the work had been reduced to the information flying across the laptop’s monitor. There was no room around him, no bed beneath him. There was only the screen and his fingers working the keyboard to make it live.

  He had dug his way deep into Group Six’s data banks and was utterly fascinated. If this wasn’t the most sophisticated, advanced and wellequipped research facility he had ever encountered, it was close. Harvard’s top labs were nothing compared to those of the mysterious organization he had never heard of until just minutes ago. With their equipment, he could for starters fix what had gone wrong with CLAIR in Cambridge, identify the specific part of the formula where the error was and correct it.