Agent Out

by Francine Pascal

  Leaning back in her chair, gazing around the room, Gaia attempted to visualize the scene. Don’t be afraid to use your imagination, Agent Crane had lectured them all back at Quantico. Sometimes it’s the most powerful weapon you’ve got. If you can visualize events you never saw, then you can find details in them you’d never catch any other way.

  So what happened here?

  Gaia looked over at the door—the one she’d come in through.

  Catherine’s captors had been over there, Gaia imagined. Watching the door. They weren’t pumping station employees—they broke in, too.

  The smashed window, Gaia remembered.

  So they stood there while Catherine sat here, at eleven fifty-five, and she realized they weren’t watching her, so she decided to send me an e-mail—

  While she printed that document, she realized, nearly clapping with triumph as she figured it out. That’s why they brought her here—to steal that document.

  Clicking the mouse on the document’s icon, Gaia selected the repeat print command.

  There was a pause and then a click and a hum as the machine she hadn’t recognized—the one with the yellow light on its face—started making chugging noises. After twenty seconds of this, a sheet of paper about four feet wide started to inch out of the machine.

  It’s a printer that makes big documents, like blueprints and engineering plans. That’s how they store all their stuff—they just keep them in the computer and print the ones they need.

  It took six minutes for the massive document, the size of half a bedsheet, to emerge from the big printer. It finally spilled to the ground, and Gaia picked it up, spreading it out on the oak table.

  Gaia couldn’t make heads or tails of it at first. It was a very complicated schematic or diagram of something. But it was all Greek to her—

  Except, somehow, it wasn’t. Squinting at the page, Gaia realized that there was something familiar about it; some pattern somewhere in the maze of lines and shapes that she’d seen before somewhere. And the computer had printed a single black X in the middle of the diagram. Moving her face close to the page, she suddenly noticed that the horizontal and vertical lines had small labels. Federal … Mifflin … Bella Vista … Cantrell …

  Those names sounded familiar. They reminded her of something she’d seen very recently. Sometimes having a photographic memory was a hindrance rather than a help; there was so much information moving through her brain that she could have difficulty realizing what she was remembering. Moving in closer to the strange, rectangle-filled schematic, she saw another label that snapped it into focus.

  Liberty Bell.

  Now she had it. This was a map of the city of Philadelphia.

  But why is that important?

  Gaia didn’t know. Furthermore, she didn’t understand what all the lines and rectangles were—or what the black X meant.

  Looking again, Gaia realized suddenly that like a buried-treasure spot on a pirate map, the X was marking a particular intersection in the city … Decatur and Main, the two crossing streets were labeled.

  That was interesting. Of course, she still had to figure out what—

  What was that?

  A clanking noise somewhere in the distance.

  The pumping machinery?

  That elderly guard, making his rounds?

  Either way, the message was the same: time to leave. Rolling up the enormous document, Gaia spared five seconds to go back and delete the e-mail Catherine had sent—just in case somebody came into this room later and discovered it—and then, flicking out the lights, holding the tube of paper that was covered with mysterious hieroglyphics she couldn’t begin to understand, Gaia sneaked out of the Municipal Works Technical Records Department, closing the door behind her, and, retracing her steps by memory, began making her way back out of the ancient stone building. She couldn’t stop fingering Catherine’s bracelet in her pocket.

  Gaia

  Time Stamp: 2:51 p.m.

  [Recorder on] Okay, it’s getting on three in the afternoon and I’m doing this again. At this point, as a fugitive from justice, on the run from the bureau, having directly disobeyed an FBI agent’s order at gunpoint that I surrender myself, I guess it’s fairly ridiculous for me to still be making agent’s logs.

  Except maybe it’s part of who I am now. Maybe I shouldn’t call all these new behaviors “FBI”—maybe they’re just me. I’m going to keep making agent’s logs because they help me think.

  Not that it’s doing any good right now.

  When Marsh told me about gray ops, I didn’t want to believe it. But then he disappeared. If he was wrong—if the bureau just wants to take me in and question me, if they’re not trying to kill me—then why did Winston Marsh vanish?

  It’s a serious problem. Because anyone who would kill Marsh—who would surgically remove a private detective from the face of the earth just because he chanced his way into the edge of a federal investigation of terrorists—won’t stop there.

  If they get to me, they’re going to find out about Will—and what he did for me. And then they’ll have to “gray op” him, too.

  I was so reassuring. I told him it wasn’t any risk at all; I demanded that he just start doing research into what turned out to be a terrorist cell. And now he’s in as much danger as I am. [Pause]

  I think I’ve done it again. I’ve gone and gotten myself into that condition where there’s a boy in my life and I can’t control how I feel about him. I remember there was a time when I swore I’d never do that again.

  But that was a long time ago. And I’m older now and maybe a little bit wiser. Maybe it’s okay to be back in this condition. I have to admit that since this whole FBI thing began, this roller-coaster ride of love and death, Will’s been the one consistently dependable thing in my life. I can’t say that about Jennifer Bishop, who was, I guess, my first friend and ally in the bureau, or about Malloy … or even Catherine or Marsh, the latest would-be “spirit guide” to enter my life and then vanish.

  I’m tired of making mistakes. I want to fix the ones I’ve made—and then I don’t want to make any more.

  Marsh—I hope you’re alive. And I’ll honor what you did for me—when I save Catherine, it will be thanks to your help. Without you I’d be nowhere.

  But now I’m on my own again.

  And I’ve got to warn Will. If they think he knows anything at all …

  This really is like a twilight zone I’ve stumbled into. It’s like that dream I had this morning when I was following the river deep into that dark country. I’m still driving, still recording, still looking for my friend. I could still use a little help. I still could use Will Taylor, right here next to me in the car—I guess that might be my one wish, but don’t tell him I said so. And whether I’m a fugitive, a criminal, or an agent, I’m still on the case. I’m following this river all the way to the end.

  Agent Moore signing off. [Recorder off]

  HACKER CITY CHATSTREAM #49—90

  transcript August 23, 2005, 15:04:01 EDT

  type alt-x to exit; alt-p to print

  WILL22: Gaia.

  GAIA13: Will.

  WILL22: Are you OK?

  GAIA13: Yes. No. I’m not sure. I’m lying on a bed in a cheap motel in Collingswood, PA, near Philadelphia.

  WILL22: What happened last night? I got worried.

  GAIA13: Sorry about that. Rudely interrupted.

  WILL: Did you get my info?

  GAIA13: Yes, I did. Thnx for helping, Will.

  WILL22: Don’t mention it.

  GAIA13: Catherine was here, in this town. She was here TODAY, Will.

  WILL22: What?

  GAIA13: She’s been abducted by the terrorist organization in that memo, Will. Socorro. Rossiter took her to Baltimore and I fought him, but he got away and I never found her … she’d been moved.

  WILL22: Damn.

  GAIA13: Will, I could smell her shampoo on the pillow. It was REALLY HER tied up in that basement. I can’t even think abou
t it.

  WILL22: We’ll find her, Gaia. But we’ve got to bring the bureau in and tell them everything you’ve found out.

  GAIA13: NO NO NO NO NO

  WILL22: Gaia, don’t be unreasonable. I know you think they don’t care about finding Catherine, but I can’t believe that’s true.

  GAIA13: Will, listen, you’ve got to PROMISE ME you won’t say a word to anyone at Quantico about this. You have to PROMISE because it’s life and death.

  WILL22: What are you talking about?

  GAIA13: You read Winston Marsh’s record, right? You understand who he is? You would trust him if he told you about a secret undocumented FBI policy?

  WILL22: ??

  GAIA13: According to Marsh there are “gray operations,” or gray ops, where they terminate—that’s assassinate—agents who have come in personal contact with terrorists or terrorist organizations.

  WILL22: And there’s no record of it?

  GAIA13: Exactly. At first I didn’t believe it. But Will, Marsh VANISHED right after he told me that. And the FBI’s been after me since yesterday.

  WILL22: Gaia, listen. The memo I sent you says “El Dia”—the day they’re doing whatever horrible thing they’re doing—is tomorrow.

  GAIA13: I know, and I’ve got to find out what it is because Catherine’s going to be right in the middle of it.

  WILL22: Do you have any clues at all?

  GAIA13: Just this big chart that Socorro stole from the Department of Public Works, which I finally figured out is a map of Philadelphia. It’s got a single intersection marked—Decatur and Main. But the map has a layer of lines over it that I don’t understand at all.

  WILL22: What do the lines look like?

  GAIA13: Just like lines, running throughout the city and converging on particular spots.

  WILL22: Could they be water pipes?

  WILL22: Gaia?

  GAIA13: Oh my God—yes. Yes, that’s exactly what they are. Here, they lead to the reservoir and interlock with the sewers. Yes—this is a map of the Philadelphia water system.

  WILL22: And Socorro has that map? Gaia, is Socorro going to poison the Philly water supply?

  GAIA13: I have to go to that intersection … Decatur and Main … tomorrow.

  WILL22: Gaia? Are you sure that’s a good idea?

  GAIA13: If you’ve got a better one, now’s the time.

  WILL22: I’ve got a MUCH better idea. TELL THE FBI that Catherine’s in the hands of James Rossiter. They’ve got him on file, like I told you before. When they see his name, they’ll jump.

  GAIA13: Will, you’re right. Rossiter. He’s the key to figuring out what Socorro’s doing and where Catherine is.

  WILL22: Exactly.

  GAIA13: This is important. Don’t reveal ANYTHING to Malloy or Bishop or anyone else about any of this.

  WILL22: Because I’m going to get “gray-opped”? Gaia, come on. You know how paranoid you sound.

  GAIA13: DO NOT TALK TO THEM. Will, I am very serious about this. You’ve got to PROMISE ME you won’t say a word. If you had heard Marsh’s description of gray ops, you would take me seriously. And it was only a few hours later that the white van showed up. We can’t trust anyone. We’ve got to do this alone.

  WILL22: Gaia, don’t go to Philly if you’re not sure what you’re doing.

  GAIA13: Miss you. Really miss you.

  WILL22: Miss you too.

  GAIA13: Wish you were here.

  WILL22: Me too. Gaia, please don’t do anything risky or stupid.

  GAIA13: God, I’m SO TIRED. So tired, Will. I feel like I’ve just been going and going and I had nothing but weird dreams last night and now my eyes feel like they’re made of lead.

  WILL22: Gaia?

  WILL22: Gaia, are you there?

  GAIA13: Tired. I’ll

  WILL22: Gaia?

  WILL22: Gaia? Are you there?

  WILL22: Gaia?

  the lying was easier

  OUT OF THlS NlGHTMARE

  At three-thirty exactly, Will Taylor hurried across the Quantico base courtyard toward the administration building. He nervously checked his watch as he walked. This time of the afternoon most of the base’s personnel were busy elsewhere, on the shooting ranges, in the laboratories, or in the classrooms. Trainees were working out or practicing their tradecraft in Hogan’s Alley or doing research.

  Any of which Will could have been doing that afternoon rather than sitting in his dark dorm room behind a locked door, secretly using an illegal Internet connection scheme to chat with a missing—and wanted—trainee. Had Will been doing something innocent, he would have been perfectly comfortable obeying Special Agent Malloy’s telephone summons.

  He spent an incredibly tense ten minutes pacing his dorm room, sweating as he watched the blinking cursor at the bottom of the Hacker City chat stream window, where he had typed Gaia’s name five times in a row and gotten no response.

  She’s fallen asleep, Will thought frantically, drumming his fingers on the back of his desk chair as he stared at the frozen conversation on his screen and wondered what to do next. When the phone rang right then, Will jumped about a foot in the air—and the voice on the other end hadn’t exactly calmed him down.

  “Taylor? Malloy,” the chief said quietly. “Meet me in the admin lobby at fifteen-thirty hours.”

  No explanation of what the meeting was about; no explanation of anything at all.

  Why the lobby? Will thought randomly. Why not his office as usual?

  Will had barely managed to croak out, “Yes, sir,” before the connection was broken. Moving like a guilty teenager about to get caught with a cigarette, he turned on the room’s lights and snapped off the computer.

  Are they onto us? he worried frantically as he walked up to the glass doors of the administration building. The phone call had come right in the middle of his second “Hacker City” chat with Gaia.

  Did that mean they’d somehow been detected?

  Pulling open the broad glass door and walking into the cool, air-conditioned lobby of the administration building, Will concentrated on staying calm—he figured that if anything was going to make this difficult, it wouldn’t be any problem he had in answering questions. Will was good at thinking on his feet. The problem would be if he got too excited, if he let his mounting fear show.

  Will took a deep breath and stepped up to the security desk, flashing his entry badge. The guard waved him through, and Will nodded distractedly, looking around for Malloy.

  It didn’t take long to find him. “Taylor!” Malloy called out from the end of the lobby, past the row of steel-shod elevators. “Get over here.”

  Will hurried forward. Malloy was standing impatiently in front of a black steel door that led to the basement stairwell. A sign on the door read BASEMENT and, below that, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  “Yes, sir,” Will said, walking up to the chief. He was unsure of the protocol—whether to salute or reach to shake hands—and stood motionless, not knowing what to do next. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Come this way,” Malloy muttered, reaching to swipe his own pass card at the steel door’s sensor. There was a deep bass rumble and then a loud chunk as the door swung open. Malloy stiffly held the door for Will, who hurried past him and found himself at the top of a narrow, cement-walled staircase. “You need to see just how big a problem you’re creating.”

  What does that mean? Will wondered. And why down there?

  At the bottom of the stairs a wide glass doorway opened to a brightly lit, gleaming white corridor. A sign on the glass door read

  NATIONAL SECURITY DATABASE NETWORK WARNING THIS FACILITY IS AVAILABLE DURING RESTRICTED HOURS ONLY OPENS AT 1000—CLOSES AT 1700 EVERYDAY—NO EXCEPTIONS

  Will had heard something about that rule. According to rumors, the base’s most sensitive antiterrorism and anticrime computer networks and files were down here in this basement. The underground location meant that lead and rock shielding could protect the computer systems from even the m
ost elaborate, cutting-edge seismic espionage schemes, where computers were probed from a distance using radio wave transmitters.

  “I want you to see what we’re up to down here,” Malloy told Will. He turned a corner into another corridor and passed through a doorway into a small room. There were elaborate computer terminals at opposite walls and several technicians working at server racks on either side of the terminals.

  “Nothing on the credit card from Precinct 31, sir,” an operative at one of the computer terminals called out. “Switching inquiry to Precinct 33.”

  “Thank you,” a gray-bearded man with glasses and a clip-board said. Will recognized him: Dr. Wolfson, the director of the digital security and surveillance network.

  “Local police in Rensulano County have received the description of the Altima,” another operative said. “Sir, they speculate that the suspect could be anywhere in the Collingswood vicinity—we’re cross-checking in order to narrow that down.”

  They’re tracking her, Will realized dismally. They’re down in this basement using their antiterrorism crime-fighting data network to do it, and they’re right on top of her. Have they always known where she was?

  “Taylor,” Malloy said, “I want you to meet a visitor from our Baltimore branch—Special Agent Thorn Kinney.”

  Malloy indicated a trim, well-built man in his mid-thirties. Will had never seen him before, but it was obvious that the man was a field agent—and probably a seasoned one, judging by his appearance. His blond hair was cut short. There was a large bandage taped to the side of his neck.

  “So you’re the one,” Kinney said. He moved his jaw carefully, wincing in pain. “Gaia Moore’s partner in crime.”

  “Excuse me?” Will squinted at Kinney. The older man stared right back. He was giving Will a look—a deliberately confrontational gaze, as if he was thinking about fighting him. “I’m not a ‘partner in crime’ with anyone, sir.”

  “Shut up and listen,” Malloy said furiously, stepping forward and pointing his finger at Will. “Agent Kinney encountered Gaia Moore yesterday afternoon in Baltimore, traveling with a man who, if we’re sure of our information, is an extremely dangerous international criminal.”