The Ascendant: A Thriller

by Drew Chapman

  “That’s right, Garrett. She works for us too. She’s on our side, not yours. She debriefed us on your little fuck session. She told us all the details that only a lover would know.”

  “Bullshit,” Garrett blurted out.

  Agent Stoddard laughed. “You are nowhere, Reilly. And you are nothing. With nobody looking out for you. I control your fate, utterly and completely. Welcome to the Patriot Act, asshole, because it is your new home.”

  There was silence in the small room. Garrett tried to collect himself. He was a jumble of competing emotions, sudden, desolate loneliness being the strongest of them. He grimaced, looked at the two Homeland Security agents, and said, “Fuck you.”

  Agent Stoddard pulled the black hood from behind his back and slammed it over Garrett’s head. The room went black. Garrett could feel the agent’s hot breath at his ear.

  “No, Garrett, fuck you,” he said.

  There were footsteps. A door slammed. Then silence.

  Garrett said nothing, and was glad the hood was covering his face. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Hot, salty, painful tears. His throat was choked with silent sobs. Could it really be true? Had he been wrong about Alexis? Utterly and completely wrong? Again? Was she nothing more than a spy, working for the government, leading him to this place without a shred of real feeling on her part? Or was the Homeland Security agent just saying that to throw Garrett off balance?

  He no longer knew. He no longer had any sense of what was real, unreal, faked, or heartfelt. Avery? Kline? Metternich? The Chinese? What the fuck was going on in his life? In the world? Even his own emotions seemed upside down. The love he had been so sure of a few days ago now seemed juvenile and embarrassingly misguided.

  Alone with his thoughts, time passed slowly. Seconds, minutes, hours maybe? It was silent in the small room, disorienting. He found his mind going blank. A Coldplay song—“Clocks”—played over and over again in his head. He hated Coldplay, but the song wouldn’t go away.

  The door opened. There were footsteps and then Garrett’s chair was tilted backwards about forty-five degrees. Fingers probed at his face through the canvas hood, and suddenly, without warning, cold water was sprayed into his mouth and up his nose. It flooded his throat. Garrett gasped, caught by surprise. He tried to breathe, but the torrent of water was too much, and unending. He tried to turn his head, but a pair of hands clamped onto his ears and kept his face tilted upright. The sensation was terrifying—no air, and no chance of getting any. A pure animal fear gripped him. He thrashed, desperate for air, desperate for the water to stop. But it didn’t—it just kept coming, a steady deluge directed straight into his mouth and nose. His throat began to seize up, raw with water and choking. And just when he was about to lose consciousness . . . it stopped.

  Garrett gasped, his lungs heaving, sucking in every last bit of oxygen they could get. But the respite lasted only a few seconds. The hands grabbed his ears again and another blast of cold water shot against his face. This time he held his breath, but the water kept coming, and he was still oxygen-deprived from the last bout. In seconds he was gasping again, and a moment after that, choking. He tried desperately to free his hands and legs to strike out at his torturers, but the handcuffs were tight around his wrists, and he could do nothing. His body was rigid with fear, his esophagus swollen and shutting down. He felt, instinctively, that he would die. And soon.

  And then it stopped again. He sucked down air.

  And then it started again. Water. More water.

  Three more times they doused him. Three more times they gave him five seconds to recover. Then they stopped. Garrett coughed the water out of his throat and nose. He threw up briefly into the black hood, the smell of vomit trapped now at his nose. He felt Agent Stoddard’s breath at his ear again.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this, Garrett,” the agent whispered. “We just want to know who the man on the train was.”

  “I don’t know,” Garrett grunted. He could barely speak.

  “How’d you get his e-mail address?”

  Garrett froze. They wanted him to betray Avery Bernstein. He wanted to cry again. If he told them that Avery had given him the e-mail address, he would be utterly and completely alone in the world. Without friend or family.

  He said nothing. The room was silent for a minute, maybe two. The hands let go of his head, his chair was placed upright, and the footsteps left the room. Garrett breathed deeply. Never had oxygen seemed so exotically wonderful. His heart was pounding.

  After thirty minutes, Garrett regained some of his calm, but he was physically and mentally exhausted. He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew his head was drooping down onto his chest, but that lasted only a moment, because the room was instantly engulfed in sound—a throbbing, pulsing electronic blast of white noise, seemingly directed right into his ears.

  Garrett woke with a start. He understood right away that they were not going to let him sleep, and another wave of despair washed over him. They were going to try to break him. Garrett had no sense of whether he could withstand that, or if he even wanted to. He didn’t try to sleep again.

  Twenty minutes later they came back into the room and continued his water torture. After the fourth torrent Garrett was sure he was going to die. He could feel his consciousness spiraling away into a black void. And then they stopped. But they didn’t let him sleep. The pulsing, pounding noise assaulted him every time he was on the verge of slumber. How did they know his eyes were closed under the black canvas hood?

  By the end of the fifth water-boarding session, Garrett had lost all sense of reality. He was a mind detached completely from its body. He could not hold a single coherent thought in his head. The worst part wasn’t the actual torture—it was the brief moments in between the torture sessions, when he was waiting for the pain and terror to start again. The hope that they were finished was corrosive to his willpower. He understood that this was all part of the plan. Part of the torture.

  Again and again Agent Stoddard’s voice whispered at his ear. “Tell us what we want to know, Garrett, and it all stops. No more water. No more noise. Food, some sleep. What do you say, Garrett? Huh? Tell me now and I’ll make it stop.”

  Garrett cleared his throat and managed to gasp: “Kline. I’ll tell Kline.”

  59

  A HOMELAND SECURITY SAFE HOUSE, APRIL 15, 11:32 PM

  “Good Lord,” General Kline said as he stared at Garrett’s pale face. “What did they do to you?”

  Garrett tried to keep his head up, his eyes open, but it wasn’t easy. His entire body was racked with pain. Every muscle felt like it was on fire. He had been stressed to his limits, and his body was paying the price. His hair was still wet; droplets ran down his face. The line of his skull fracture felt like caustic acid seeping into his brain.

  “Tortured me,” Garrett whispered, his throat raw. “They tortured me. They can’t do that, can they?”

  Kline pursed his lips. “They did. So I guess they can.”

  “This is America,” Garrett said. “I’m a fucking citizen.”

  Kline nodded slightly, as if to say, True, but not much that can be done about it now.

  Garrett craned his head, looking around the small room. The floor was covered with water. There was a drain in the corner. He hadn’t seen that before. The camera and tripod were gone. Garrett supposed they had been smart enough not to film what they’d done. Garrett hated the two Homeland Security agents with an intensity he hadn’t even known he was capable of.

  “Motherfuckers,” Garrett hissed. “I’ll fucking kill them.”

  “Garrett,” Kline said, leaning close, “just tell me whatever you know and I’ll try to get you out of here. I’m on your side, but you gotta help me.”

  Garrett stared at the general. It was clear that Kline was playing the good cop, Homeland Security the bad. But at least Garrett had gotten the good cop in the room with him. At least he could breathe. Now he had to make the most of it.

&nb
sp; “I honestly don’t know who the man on the subway was. He said his name was Hans Metternich, and he said you were lying to me. Using me. That the government had set the bomb at Jenkins & Altshuler. And that I should think twice about helping you.”

  “How did you get in contact with him?”

  Garrett breathed deep. “I can’t tell you that. But it wasn’t some spy or enemy agent. It was harmless.”

  “Nothing is harmless anymore, Garrett. Everything has consequences. How’d you get this Metternich’s e-mail address?”

  Garrett swallowed hard, then shook his head. “Can’t tell you.” There was no way he was going to give up Avery Bernstein. If they killed him for it, so be it—at least he had taken a stand in his life.

  Kline pushed his chair back and stood. “Then I can’t help you, Garrett. I’m going to have to leave you with Homeland Security.” He turned and headed for the door.

  “Good luck with the Chinese.”

  General Kline stopped, turned, and sat back down across from Garrett. The anger rose in his voice. “Not sure if you’ve noticed this, but I could get more info on the Chinese Communist Party from a waiter at Hunan Balcony. You haven’t exactly been knocking it out of the park lately. Time is up on Ascendant—the president is shutting us down. Hell, I’ve been trying to stop Secretary Frye from putting your head on a stake all week, and you’ve made me look like an idiot. You’ve been a complete bust, so the Chinese-intel card is not going to get you much right now.”

  Garrett let out a breath, trying to calm himself, trying to appear in control. He said, “I know why they’re attacking us.”

  “Bullshit,” Kline said. “You’re trying to save your skin.”

  “Yes. I am,” Garrett said. “But I also understand what’s happening in China, and now it all makes sense. All the attacks. All the chaos. It fits into a pattern perfectly. It’s the answer we’ve been seeking this whole time. And if you don’t know the pattern, then you can’t fight back.”

  Kline studied Garrett’s face, the lines of vomit caked around his chin. “And if this information is true, withholding it from me gives you leverage? Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Make them let me go.”

  “I don’t control Homeland Security. Anyway, why should I believe you?”

  “How many times have I been wrong so far?”

  Kline seemed to consider this. Then he spoke, calmly, methodically. “I can’t promise you anything, Garrett. You’ve been digging your own grave, and doing a damn good job of it. Just tell me what you know about the Chinese and I’ll do my best. That’s the only offer I’m going to make you. You have ten seconds.”

  Garrett didn’t hesitate. “An insurgent is rising in central China. A new Mao. His name is Hu. The Tiger. He’s starting a rebellion. It’s gaining in popularity. And the Chinese government is terrified. They’re afraid that they’re going to get overrun.”

  Kline sat motionless for thirty seconds, staring at Garrett as he took in this piece of information. Then he wiped his glasses clean and said, “Tell me everything.”

  And Garrett did.

  • • •

  After that, they let him sleep. They didn’t unlock his handcuffs, but they switched the manacles so his wrists were in front of his torso instead of behind his back. They kept cuffs on his right ankle, but even so, Garrett could lay his head on the small table in front of him, hands under his forehead, and close his eyes. The first time he did, he expected a blast of white noise to wake him, but it didn’t, and he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  Stoddard woke him later—Garrett wasn’t sure how much later—with a glass of water and a chicken-salad sandwich. Garrett drank the water in one gulp, then lingered over the sandwich. The bread was stale and the chicken salad tasted like vinegar, but Garrett didn’t care. It was some of the best food he’d ever eaten.

  Agent Stoddard watched him eat, then took the plate and glass away. Before he left the room he said, “You’re never seeing daylight again, you know that, right, Reilly?”

  “They have daylight up your ass?” Garrett said. “ ’Cause that’s where I’m gonna stick my foot.” It didn’t even make any sense, but it was the first thing that came into Garrett’s head, and he liked saying it. Agent Stoddard just stared at him, then left.

  Garrett slept some more. He was awakened by a familiar voice.

  “Garrett?”

  Garrett sat up and blinked. Alexis Truffant was sitting across from him. She was studying his face. “Are you okay? General Kline said they water-boarded you.”

  Garrett was too stunned to answer. He swallowed, then tried, instinctively, to pat his hair down and wipe the sleep from his eyes. His wrists strained against the handcuffs.

  He stared at her. “Why did you leave?”

  “Now is not the time.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

  Alexis shot a glance over her shoulder. Garrett saw that the video camera and tripod were back, and aimed at him.

  “I needed to sort out my feelings. I needed to see if things were going to work out with my husband.”

  “You could have left me a note. Or called. Anything. A post on my fucking Facebook page would have worked.”

  “I was confused. And upset . . .”

  “And working for the government,” he said. “Did Kline tell you to leave?”

  Alexis hesitated, then nodded her head yes. “He suggested I clear my head. Get away from you for a while. We were never supposed to have a relationship.”

  Garrett grimaced as he stared at her. She was as beautiful as ever, regal cheekbones slanting down her olive-colored face, black hair pushed back behind her ears.

  “Never?” he said, pain welling up in his chest.

  Alexis looked away for a moment, composed herself, then turned back to Garrett. “Look, we have some questions about the information you gave to General Kline. If you could answer them . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “I know, I know. You and Kline will try to get me out of here.”

  Alexis lowered her voice and leaned forward slightly. “You don’t begin to understand the politics of the current situation. There are agencies that believe you, fully, and have faith in what you are telling them. And there are others that would like to see you sent to Guantánamo as an enemy combatant. And those agencies are not playing well together right now. You are this close to a lifetime in prison. Given what’s been done to you over the past twenty-four hours, you know that I’m not being overly dramatic.”

  “Ask away,” Garrett said.

  Alexis laid a yellow legal pad on the table and began to write on it. “What you told General Kline has been disseminated to the group. About a new Mao-like figure leading a rebellion in China. But how could we not know anything about it?”

  “China is a repressive government. They keep strict controls on the media. On all forms of information.”

  “Sure,” Alexis said, scribbling notes as she spoke. “We know that. We also have spies all over that country. And none of them are telling us what you’re telling us.”

  Garrett took a deep breath, trying to regain strength and order his thoughts. “Because the Chinese government is clamping down, full strength. This is the one thing they fear more than anything else. They don’t care about foreign invaders anymore. Who’d occupy China? They’ve weathered economic disintegration before as well. But a popular, grassroots insurgency? That has traction with regular people? That’s a nightmare. A nightmare with plenty of historical precedence—it’s what Mao did to China’s previous leadership. They are doing absolutely everything in their power to keep this under wraps.”

  Alexis wrote down his answer. “How does your theory explain why the Chinese have launched attacks against us these last few weeks?”

  “It provides motive.”

  “Which is?”

  “War as diversion. Wars promote nationalism. During times of conflict people rally around the flag,
even in China—especially in China. They listen to their government. More important, they are inclined to believe their government. The Communist Party is trying to inject a dose of nationalism into the population, hoping it will cool the revolutionary fever burning in the center of the country. At the very least, war will distract people from the issues in front of their faces: corruption, land dispossession, income inequality, environmental catastrophe. Those are burning issues in China right now. And they are at the heart of the Tiger’s rebellion.”

  Alexis countered right away: “But why covert attacks? Nobody in the Chinese population knows anything about this. If we’re at war, it’s a secret war. That doesn’t promote anything.”

  Garrett smiled. He was reminded of the hours they had spent in the shack at Camp Pendleton, arguing points of politics and logic. It was funny how quickly they fell back into old routines, even with his hands bound by the wrist and his lungs raw from torture. Those moments were probably what he missed most about Alexis.

  He smiled. “You’re right. That’s why what we’re experiencing, in my opinion, aren’t the first shots of a war. They’re provocations. The attacks have been masked, but just barely. The Treasury sell-off came in coded numerical intervals. Numbers with high significance in Chinese culture. The Vegas real estate sell-off was initiated through an offshore firm called the May Fourth Movement. And they didn’t really bother to hide who bought and then destroyed a molybdenum mine in Colorado. Everyone knew it was a Chinese company. They want us to know who’s behind this. They want us pissed off.”

  “So that . . .” Alexis waved a finger in the air as the truth began to set in.

  “So that we’ll hit them,” Garrett confirmed. “Because if we turn around and strike openly, if we are the aggressors, then they can portray themselves as the victims. Which is guaranteed to garner domestic support. And they’re figuring that will siphon off support for the insurgency. My guess is that the Chinese government figures they can handle anything we can throw at them, short of a nuclear attack. And we’re not crazy enough to do that. Not yet, at least. But they are scared shitless of their own people. More than a billion pissed-off Chinese citizens could wash away the ruling elite in a matter of days. And the party knows this. It’s what happened when Mao took power, and they will not risk a repeat performance.”