by Dom Testa
Another heavy sigh. “I didn’t agree to help Steffan. I agreed to help Jayanti.”
I took my eyes off the road to stare at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means . . . look, I’m tired and I’m starving. And on top of that I don’t feel like talking right now after everything that’s happened. Can we just get some food, and get to a hotel so I can sleep? We’ve got a long-ass drive tomorrow, and you’ll have all day to hear the sordid story. Is that okay? Or do you need to kill me and dump my skinny corpse?”
He went back to sulking, glaring out his window. I left him alone until stopping for gas at the Flying J in Lordsburg. I wasn’t hungry, but Aiken grabbed a handful of the unhealthiest shit you can get at a truck stop. He’d polished off the M&Ms and half the package of mini-donuts within minutes.
It took another two hours to finish passing through New Mexico and we did it in complete silence. I didn’t feel like sharing my playlist with him. Too personal.
El Paso is in Texas but it’s still the Mountain time zone, so we rolled into the outskirts at ten o’clock. I found a room with two queen beds at a passable motor inn.
Once inside I locked the door and checked the bathroom. It had a window, but barely; it was one of those squatty rectangles near the ceiling. As thin as he was, even Aiken would have a difficult time squeezing through.
“I’ve got some calls to make,” I said. “Behave yourself. Watch TV, or do whatever a chemical scientist does to pass the time.”
I opened the curtains to allow me to see into the room from outside. But just to be sure I took the room’s clunky telephone and unclipped the handset. It would go outside with me. This brought a disgusted grunt from Aiken, but he positioned himself on the far bed and curled up facing the wall.
Outside, I leaned against the BMW’s hood and texted Poole, as promised. Short and sweet, I gave her the name and location of the motel and said we’d be back on the road at seven a.m. That would get us into the Alamo City by mid-afternoon.
After that I calculated the time in Washington and hoped that Christina would still be up. She was.
“Where’s my secret agent tonight?” she asked.
“I’ll give you a hint: Marty Robbins.”
“I have no idea who that is.”
“An old country singer,” I said. “His big hit was called El Paso. I think the Grateful Dead did a version, too.”
“Who are they?”
“Stop playing around.”
She laughed. “Yes, I know the Dead. My father took me to see them when I was 12. I never forgave him. Although I do like the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream flavor, Cherry Garcia. So what are you doing in Texas?”
“Drinking a Dr. Pepper, chasing villains, making the country a safer place to live. Actually just a quick stop. I’ll be in San Antonio tomorrow.”
“Oh, yum. Chile Rellenos.”
“That’s my wife, the chef. I’m partial to the Whataburger, myself.” I paused while a car with its radio blasting through an open window rolled past. “How was work?”
We spent five minutes catching up. It was after midnight in Washington, so she chatted while getting ready for bed. I pictured her moving about her side of our dual living space. Suddenly I was homesick.
Assignments for a Q2 field agent came in spurts. There would be times when I was on the road, killing and getting killed, 90 days out of 100. Then there might be a stretch where I stayed in the D.C. area. That usually involved additional training, often in tech updates, but also the requisite ass-whooping at the hands of Quanta.
During those precious weeks at home I practically suffocated Christina. It was strange because I’d never been so head-over-heels. Sure, there was the college affair with Stacey Bromley-now-Haas, but that, upon reflection, was just me being young and stupid in the ways of love. An infatuation, or, as a friend of mine once called it, the love mulligan.
And, to be honest, once I got a new assignment I think Christina was quietly relieved. Don’t misunderstand, she loved me and I knew she was happy to be married. But she also appreciated the freedom my job provided. She got a nice helping of matrimony with a side of privacy.
While I leaned against a rental car in El Paso, keeping watch through a window as a misguided scientist curled up in the fetal position.
Christina yawned. “Babe, I have to go to sleep. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ll call you again when I can.”
We said goodnight. Then I leaned back and looked up at the West Texas night sky, slightly faded by the nearby city lights but sharper than what I could see in Phoenix. Times like this gave me a tinge of regret. For a few minutes I’d question my career choice, wondering if there was something else I’d be perfect for. Something that wouldn’t have me scurrying around the Western Hemisphere, stomping out bad guys and eating lousy food.
But the feeling would pass. The loneliness and insecurity would dissolve, leaving me with the realization that there wasn’t another job perfect for me. It was this job. I was good at it, despite the occasional blunder — like getting poisoned.
And I did enjoy it. Professional athletes try to explain the exhilaration of winning a championship, and we’ve heard about the runner’s high. It was something similar for me, a surge of endorphins at the conclusion of a major assignment, especially those that included a close call. It was living on the razor’s edge between calm and catastrophe, and it powered me.
I pushed away from the car and was about to walk back inside when my phone vibrated. It was a text from the always-diligent Poole, burning the midnight oil.
Darnell Cox, the goon hired by Parks, had been found.
In San Antonio.
Things were about to get real.
Chapter Thirteen
The breakfast burritos were small and heavy on the potato, which always struck me as cheap filler. But the green chili was excellent. I ate both of mine as soon as we merged back onto I-10, while Aiken, true to form, devoured three. Confinement did nothing to dampen his appetite.
It was a chilly morning, temps in the low 30s, and the day began overcast. I’d scraped a thin layer of frost from the windshield and had the seat warmers on low. But we’d be driving into the sun and the forecast promised a dramatic improvement by the time we reached the San Antonio hill country that afternoon.
As the miles swept beneath us I considered the news about Cox. His appearance pretty much confirmed that Parks was in Texas for his appointment, or would arrive soon. The good news was that, although Parks and Pradesh were meticulous about staying below the radar, Cox was as bad as Jonas. Poole sent me his hotel information, an inn within walking distance of the historic Riverwalk.
I’d brought Jonas along for the ride because I thought he might come in handy tracking down Parks. Having the hired gun in town was even better, and knowing I could focus on the downtown area saved time.
The location made sense. For decades San Antonio relied on tourism and the military for revenue, but now they were on the hunt for fresh income streams. Lately the city had lured tech companies from the sprawl of Austin, and many of these offices were clustered in newly-renovated spaces. I was confident that, with the help of Poole, I could zero in.
In the light of a new day an air of curiosity replaced Aiken’s defiant ‘tude. Instead of glaring out the passenger window he seemed interested in the trip, and eventually started questioning me.
“You know,” he said, “you pulled me out of Tucson at the point of a gun. But I never saw any kind of badge.”
I smiled. “I’ve always found the barrel of a gun much more of an inducement than any ID.”
“So who do you work for? I assumed it was one of the national security departments. NSA or something.”
“Jonas, my employer isn’t important. I’ve told you enough. I have the power to operate in the best interests of the country without worrying about interference from any local agency. Is that good enough for you?”
“I don’t even know your name. What am I supposed to
call you?”
“I like Pharaoh. But I’ll settle for Eric.”
“What are you going to do with Steffan?”
“Stop him. To what extent I do that will be up to him. If he cooperates, he’ll be taken into custody. If not, I’ll ruin his day.”
He contemplated that as he drank from a container of orange juice. In a voice that was trying much too hard to be nonchalant he said, “And what about Jayanti?”
I glanced at him. “All right. I’ve been patient. I’ve let you sulk like a child for four hundred miles. That’s over. Now, you told me you weren’t involved with this because of Parks. So what the hell is your connection with Pradesh? What made you help her?”
There was no answer for a long time. I waited for him to find the words.
“I met Jayanti at a science conference a year ago. We had similar backgrounds in our studies and she was very interested in my work with chemical relationships. As it turned out, I was very helpful in the projects she was involved in with Steffan. So we met often.”
“That’s it?” I asked. “You do a few calculations together and suddenly you’re willing to become a criminal for her?”
“Not exactly.” He paused. “Some of those meetings were late into the evening, and, well . . .”
I nearly spit out the coffee I’d been sipping. “Holy shit. You slept with Pradesh?”
When he just stared through the windshield I couldn’t help it; I laughed hard.
“Damn, Jonas. I wasn’t prepared for that.” I shook my head and chuckled again. “You nerdy types are a randy bunch, aren’t you? She’s sleeping with Parks. And you’re married.”
He still didn’t say anything.
“So walk me through everything. You have sex with Jayanti and then what?”
It was obvious this discussion was the last thing he wanted. But he finally cleared his throat and said, “She was cool about everything at first. Even talked Steffan into signing off on a proposal of mine, adding his stature to the program. But it wasn’t long before she asked me to help him with some things he was working on. Of course I did; I mean, if you’re invited to work beside a Nobel Prize winner you don’t think twice.
“I didn’t understand exactly what he was trying to accomplish at first. The work he gave me was the kind of stuff that was buried in the middle of a project, so I didn’t know for a long time what his ultimate aim was. And I certainly never understood his motivations. And then, when they became a little more clear, I knew I didn’t want to be a part of it. I told both of them.”
It began to make sense, and I finally understood. “They blackmailed you.”
His voice was low. “Yes. Professionally and personally. Steffan threatened to spread the word that I was deeply involved with his biochemical plans — which I wasn’t, but from my association with him it would look like I definitely was. And Jayanti had all sorts of texts and photos that she said she’d give to my wife.”
“These are some wonderful people you’ve hooked up with,” I said.
He turned to me. “Look, Eric, or whoever you are. When all of this started I had no idea it was this bad. I knew Parks was angry and borderline-crazy, but I never thought Jayanti would be part of something that included murder. So I went along. I didn’t like it, but I went along. And then the more I helped, just a little bit here and there, the deeper I was in it. Okay?”
“Doesn’t forgive a goddamned thing, Jonas. All it does is explain it.”
After that we cruised in silence for a while. I felt him steaming from the passenger seat, a mixture of anger, despair, and plain embarrassment. Well, the damned fool had brought all of it onto himself.
Jayanti Pradesh had turned into quite the villainess. And yet I found myself with a confusing cocktail of emotions about her. Don’t get me wrong: She’d killed me once, would do so again without a moment’s hesitation, and she was part of a conspiracy to murder thousands. She was a very bad person.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel something bordering on admiration for her. She’d been frustrated in her attempts to pursue a legitimate scientific career, but had never wavered in her desire to win. She’d used her association with Parks to further her career, sure, but she’d also carried her weight with his programs and his business.
She’d managed to convince Aiken, a man with talent and a solid reputation, to betray not only his marriage but all of his ethics.
It had been child’s play for her to get me, a well-trained and experienced secret agent, up to her room where she poisoned me with something as simple as ice from her room’s fridge. It had all seemed so easy for her.
How could I not have a grudging respect for everything she’d accomplished? I could hate her intentions and still applaud her abilities.
It was going to almost pain me to take her down, which might easily involve a bullet.
This wasn’t the first time I’d deeply admired an adversary. Two years earlier I’d actually apologized to a wily character named Chester Fuller moments before putting a kill shot into his brain. The sequence of events went like this:
Shot to the chest, which got him to drop the rifle pointed at me.
Apology.
Finishing shot through his forehead.
That guy was about as evil as they come, having snuffed out 11 people and with plans to make it triple digits — and yet in another universe we could’ve been friends. Stylish as hell, great sense of humor, and a mind sharp enough to pilot a Fortune 500 company if he’d been so inclined. Instead, a wire had come loose somewhere and he’d turned to murder.
I liked Chester. It was too bad I had to kill him.
There was also a reluctant respect for the asshole called Beadle. Look, there wasn’t a goddamned good thing about him, but I’d never managed to take him out and he’d offed me more than once. That has to induce some kind of approbation, whether you like it or not. He was a pro, one who’d bested me. I hated him and admired him at the same time. One day, Beadle. One day.
The only time I broached this subject with Quanta — the ability to loathe and yet respect the slime we’re charged with eliminating — she’d surprised me. I’d expected a scoff. Instead, she grew quiet for a time before revealing one of her own stories. Nobody knew much about Quanta’s resume, except that she went from premier agent to overseeing two different country’s programs before taking over Q2. I had enough wisdom to keep my mouth shut when she opened up.
It was a long story, but I can sum it up. Quanta tracked a man who befuddled the secret service of three separate European nations, a man who put a bullet into her back. While recovering, she hatched the plan that would ensnare him. She told me that when it finally went down, she almost mourned the end of the hunt.
Might seem nuts to you. Might seem nuts to most people. Made total sense to me.
Our job is to find and erase the worst people. Those people, it just so happens, are generally smart enough to rise above the level of petty criminal and wanna-be gangster. To capture our attention they have to be. Probably not much different from admiring Tom Brady even though you might hate the rival Patriots.
And now, once again, a knave had wormed her way into that category. Jayanti Pradesh may not have accumulated the kill totals of the biggest badasses — yet — but in this game, style points do count.
We stopped in Fort Stockton to gas up and stretch our legs. Aiken hit me up for a few dollars so he could grab two bags of junk food and a fountain drink big enough to bathe in. As promised, the sun had broken through. Before getting back in the car we sat on a picnic table next to the convenience store, soaking up the rays, and I watched him eat combinations of Funyuns and Bugles. That was new to me.
I tried it. Strangely good together.
Between mouthfuls Aiken said, “What happens to me when this is over?”
“That depends on a lot of things,” I said. “How much you’re able to help. How deep you were into everything in the first place. How many people die as a result of your contributi
ons. How much you get on my nerves.”
He gave a hint of a smile. “They say couples shouldn’t take vacations, especially road trips, until they’ve known each other a while. We’ve barely met.”
I pulled a handful of Bugles out of the bag. “Tell me something. This little club of angry scientists. Is that really a thing, or was that a smoke screen, too?”
“Yeah, it’s real. Totally informal, of course. But there are get-togethers. Happy hours, stuff like that. No minutes recorded, if that’s what you mean.”
“So I’ve been thinking about that. If enough scientists feel slighted, or even humiliated, could something like this Parks project spring up again? I mean, you guys may be socially awkward, but a lot of you seem capable of a Biblical-sized shit-storm.”
The smile disappeared and he looked down at his crusted fingers. “A year ago I would’ve said no. The whole conceit of a mad scientist was just Hollywood selling tickets. But now? With the pressure on science to keep up with the escalation of technology? A population that talks about noble causes when it’s really just every man and woman looking out for themselves?”
“All right,” I said. “So I’m tired of calling them everything but their name. What is it?”
He kicked at something on the bench of the picnic table, then looked at me.
“They call themselves the Arcetri.” He pronounced it Ar-Chet-Tree.
“Sounds impressively Italian. Is it for real or did you just see it in The DaVinci Code or something?”
“Oh, it’s real. But the wrong Italian. Not DaVinci. Galileo.”
I raised an eyebrow, but didn’t interrupt this time.
“Galileo was way ahead of his time,” Aiken said. “Helped push science along when it was criminally held back by the ignorance of others. His discoveries, his writings, his ideas. Just incredible. He was a man way ahead of his time.
“The church, which had all the power in the 17th century, tolerated most of his work and his theories. But in 1633 they were challenged by one of Galileo’s books that dared to claim the Earth wasn’t the center of the universe. It orbited the sun. And that contradicted the interpretation of holy scripture. It was heresy.”