Run

by Andrew Grant

  “Somewhere between zero and zero. But don’t worry. There’s a lot of bullshit in there, but it’s really pretty simple. It says that everything I’ve already told you, and anything I tell you in the future, is classified under the Patriot Act. Think of it as being like attorney/client privilege. You cannot reveal, imply, hint at—basically do much more than dream about—anything I’ve said or you’ve learned while you’re with me. If you do, two things will happen: Innocent people will die. And someone like me will crash through your door and take you to prison for the rest of your life. Clear enough?”

  “I guess.”

  “What do you think? Sign now? Or sign when your attorney gets here? Because realistically, those are your only two options.”

  “I’ll sign now.”

  McKenna passed me a pen and I scrawled my name in the space at the bottom of both pages.

  “Good decision.” He took the form and pen back, dropped them into the briefcase, then scrambled the combination lock. “It means I can go ahead and offer you a choice other than sitting around in this miserable hutch for a couple of days. It has to do with your wife. And the memory stick she has. Because we could be looking at a very serious situation here, Marc. I know it seems surreal, all this chasing around after something so tiny. But the consequences of not retrieving it are huge. And now you’ve signed that piece of paper, I can tell you why. Remember I confirmed the virus had reached the White House?”

  I nodded.

  “OK. This is what it does. It seeks out the climate control system. But not of the aboveground White House. Not the part you see on TV. It homes in on the equipment in the bunker, beneath it.”

  “There is a bunker? I thought it was urban legend.”

  “No. It’s real. It gets used all the time, because protocol calls for the President and his staff to get evacuated down there whenever there’s an environmental alert. And if ever there was a system with a hair trigger, it’s the White House environmental system.”

  “The virus gives false environmental alarms? No. That wouldn’t make sense. It suppresses the alarms, so the President doesn’t take shelter when he should?”

  “No, and no. It waits, dormant and undetected, until the environmental alarm causes an evacuation on its own. It doesn’t matter if it’s a real alarm, or a false one. What matters is the President goes down to the bunker. Because what happens when the doors lock behind him is the clever part. First, the climate control system does the opposite of what it’s supposed to. It switches off the oxygen supply and the CO2 scrubbers, and vents whatever clean air’s left to the outside world. And while that’s happening, the management system sends a stream of false data to the local monitoring station—and the remote sites in Nebraska and Washington state—which makes the operators think everything’s peachy.”

  “The President would suffocate?”

  “He would. And so would all his staff. His family, too, if they were around when the alarm was triggered. A hundred-plus people, depending on when it happens. All killed by the system that’s designed to protect them.”

  “Like sticking a Polaroid in front of a CCTV camera. No one would know anything was wrong. Until it was too late.”

  “Exactly. And think of the damage it would do. The President, plus the cream of the political and administrative crop, all wiped out in one fell swoop. Not the worst terrorist attack in terms of numbers. But by impact? Off the charts. It would take the nation decades to recover.”

  I’d met the President once. Years ago. When he was still a Senator. I hadn’t much liked him. I certainly hadn’t voted for him. Since then he’d been nothing more to me than a smiling face on the front of countless newspapers. But the thought of that same guy—whose hand I’d shaken, who’d looked me right in the eye—lying dead on the floor of his bunker? His body contorted, lips blue, tongue bulging out of his mouth? It struck me: Stalin was right. One death can be a tragedy. And despite the warmth of the room, I felt a patch of goose bumps spread between my shoulder blades.

  “Who’s behind this?”

  “Iran. Syria. Yemen. One of a dozen radical Islamic groups not tied to any specific state. America’s not short of enemies.”

  “OK, wait. Back up. You stopped the massacre from happening. Why the panic over one missing memory stick?”

  “We stopped the initial attack, yes. But we have to prevent future ones, as well. The virus is heuristic—it’s self-learning. It’s always adapting and evolving, which is why every known iteration has to be studied. And more than that, it’s a question of containment. As a piece of programming—the way it can conceal itself, replicate, target specific systems—it’s incredibly sophisticated. We can’t risk anyone else getting hold of it. Imagine it in Air Force One, or a nuclear power plant. Actually, don’t. Just help us get that copy back from your wife.”

  “How? What do you want me to do?”

  “Call her. Sweet-talk her. Convince her to give it back to us. You can’t share the reasons, but you can see how important it is she cooperates. And if she claims not to have it, there’s no one else who knows her well enough to tell if she’s lying.”

  I thought about his request, but I knew there was no chance of her answering me. It was like getting ready to ask for our first date. Except that back then, I only feared she hated me. Now I knew she did.

  “OK. But I should text, not call. Because if you want Carolyn to cooperate, using me as the messenger may not be the way to go.”

  “I disagree.” McKenna shook his head. “I know about the spat you guys are having, but think about it. If you’re right and she somehow reached out to Weimann last night, she could have thought it was the quickest way to get the stick back for her cronies. That’s one explanation. But equally, she could have done it to take the heat off you. Which shows she still cares about you. And will listen to you.”

  I felt a brief flicker of hope, hearing his words. But it was soon snuffed out by other thoughts. Like how she cared more about worming her way into LeBrock’s affections—and his bed—than standing by her husband.

  “Come on, Marc. Try. And if she doesn’t respond to you, we’ll take the next shot. But it’ll go a lot easier on her if we don’t have to.”

  “All right. I will. How do you want me to handle it?”

  “First, confirm she has the stick. Then, set up a drop. There’s a drive-through ATM in Pound Ridge. Tell her to approach it at three pm, today. Wait in line if other customers are there. Then put the stick on top of the machine, and drive away.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Ask if she made copies. If she did, we’ll need those, too. And the computer she copied them on.”

  “Understood.”

  “Thank you, Marc. I know this has been a rough ride, and I appreciate you sticking with the program.”

  I nodded, then picked up my phone and starting keying in what I hoped would be a suitable message. But I didn’t tell McKenna my real motive for helping him. I wasn’t doing it out of patriotic duty. Or gratitude. Or to spare Carolyn from whatever alternative approach he’d been hinting at.

  After everything she’d done, I just wanted to have a hand in bringing her down.

  Saturday. Early afternoon.

  THE ATM MCKENNA HAD PICKED FOR THE AMBUSH WAS A HUNDRED yards outside the original part of Pound Ridge.

  There was only one entrance, flanked by a pair of huge stone eagles. Beyond that the lane forked, leading to two separate machines. An iron-and-glass roof covered a generous area, extending way out in all four directions. The pitch was exaggeratedly steep, and it came down very low at the sides. And bizarrely, that made it reminiscent of a bird feeder Carolyn had bought for our backyard when we first moved in together.

  McKenna told me to park the car near the exit to a yard where someone had spread out all kinds of broken-down, rusty agricultural artifacts. I guessed they were for sale. In the town where I grew up, they’d have been called junk. Here, I bet they were called art. With price tags to match,
no doubt. The white van had arrived before us, and was already sitting at the edge of the ATM forecourt.

  “Where are the others?” I asked, after McKenna stopped me from switching off the engine.

  “Patience. All will be revealed.”

  “Did we have to get here so early?” I looked at my watch. It was only 2:07 pm. Still the better part of an hour to wait.

  “We did. If you want to intercept your target, you have to be there first. That’s common sense. I just hope your wife uses common sense, too, Marc. I hope she shows up. And brings the memory stick. And that it’s the right one.”

  “What if she doesn’t show up? What if something stops her? If she gets in an accident?”

  “Let’s not borrow trouble. In the meantime, stay focused. You’re still her husband. If she’s not driving her own car, you’ve got the best chance of spotting her.”

  I MUST HAVE CHANGED my mind four hundred times over the next forty minutes, endlessly cycling through increasingly crazy and desperate reasons for wanting Carolyn to appear on time, then hoping she wouldn’t come at all. All the contradictory mental flick-flacks were exhausting, so by the time I saw a car approaching the ATM—a white Camry—at just after quarter-till, I doubt there was any trace of emotion left in my voice.

  “It’s not her.”

  The Camry’s driver took her time at the machine, and was still there when a red Volvo pulled into the other lane.

  “Not her.”

  The Camry was replaced by a dark blue Chevy Volt.

  “No.”

  A silver Grand Cherokee nosed in behind the Volvo.

  “Not her.”

  The Volvo pulled away, the Cherokee moved up, and a black Chrysler 200 took the place of the Chevy.

  “Not her.”

  The Cherokee gave way to a blue Dodge minivan.

  “No.”

  The Chrysler swapped with a red Volvo.

  “Not her.”

  The minivan rolled forward, and was followed up by a Camry. In white.

  “Wait a minute!”

  McKenna winked at me.

  The same six cars—driven, I now understood, by McKenna’s agents—kept up their slow-motion ballet for the next twelve minutes. They never appeared in the same order. And they never left either ATM lane vacant, even when a stray civilian got in on the act.

  The effect was mesmerizing. Before long I was making little bets with myself. Which car would be next? Which direction would it approach from? Which lane would it take? The process was strangely addictive, so it was almost an anti-climax when, at three minutes to three, I finally caught sight of Carolyn’s car.

  “There she is. A little early.”

  “Silver BMW.” McKenna spoke calmly into a handheld radio. “License plate alpha mike golf, one two zero one. Incoming, from the south. Places, everyone. You know what to do.”

  CAROLYN’S CAR WASN’T MOVING FAST, and when it signaled, turned, and pulled smoothly up to wait behind the minivan, you’d have thought she was just an ordinary shopper needing some cash before getting the last of her groceries.

  The driver in the Dodge finished her withdrawal and moved forward, heading for the exit. It was a perfectly innocuous maneuver. But she hadn’t noticed the Chevy was also leaving, and was set to reach the point where the lanes merged again at exactly the same moment. The Chevy’s horn blared. Its driver hit the brakes. The Dodge swerved, and took half a second longer to stop.

  I couldn’t tell if the cars had actually collided. They were too far away. But if they hadn’t, it would be a miracle.

  I glanced across at McKenna, but as usual his expression gave nothing away.

  For ten drawn-out seconds no one moved. The mismatched vehicles remained locked in a kind of David-and-Goliath standoff on the far side of the ATMs. Then the Chevy pulled back six feet, the driver giving himself room to trace an exaggerated semi-circle around the front of the minivan before straightening and heading out through the exit.

  The Dodge driver showed a little more caution after that, and when she finally moved on, Carolyn was left with the whole ATM area to herself. Her car rolled forward and the driver’s door opened. I caught a glimpse of blond hair escaping from a baseball cap as her arm reached out and she placed a black nylon computer case at the foot of the nearer machine.

  She’d been told to leave the bag on top of the ATM, but still. Carolyn was done for. The net would close around her any second …

  But the net didn’t close. Carolyn just shut her door and drove back toward the street, slowly and calmly. No revving of her engine. No screeching of her tires. And no agents to surround her, and lead her away in handcuffs to face the fate she so richly deserved.

  Outraged, I reached for the gearshift. But before I could move it out of Park, McKenna stretched across and turned off the ignition.

  “Calm yourself. There’s no rush. Let’s see what she left us. If we’re not happy, then we’ll go after her.”

  “How? She’s getting away. We don’t know where she’s going!”

  “Except that we do, Marc. Now. Because nothing that just happened here was an accident. And it wasn’t a one-way exchange.”

  Saturday. Mid-afternoon.

  THE NYLON BAG CAROLYN HAD LEFT AT THE ATM WAS ONE OF A limited edition of corporate gifts that AmeriTel had produced, six months before I’d joined the company. I’d heard people talk about them. But I’d never seen one before, because Roger LeBrock guarded them like the crown jewels, releasing them only to his most favored cronies.

  It always fascinated me how the richest people were the ones who pinched their pennies the hardest. That’s what I focused on, anyway. It was better than speculating about how Carolyn had become one of the lucky recipients.

  MCKENNA’S ROOM AT THE HOTEL was the same size as mine, but he’d somehow shoehorned a small table into the space at the foot of the bed. He placed Carolyn’s bag down and—having already checked it with airport-style security wands and explosive detectors before moving it from the ATM—he went ahead and opened the zips.

  Inside there was a laptop computer—a high-end Toshiba I’d never seen Carolyn use before—its power supply, two memory sticks, and a handwritten note:

  No copies of the data were made. The computer was used only to check the contents.

  “Your wife’s handwriting?” McKenna asked.

  I nodded.

  “Let’s see if she’s telling the truth.”

  NORMALLY, WATCHING AN AMATEUR try to find his way around a keyboard is excruciating, but I have to give McKenna his due. He fired up Carolyn’s computer, connected the memory sticks, used a DVD to load the Homeland Security virus suite, and started up the software without making any serious missteps. Then he left the diagnostic routines running in the background while he checked the computer’s recent activity.

  “Looks like she was on the level,” he said. “All the data files for two twenty- four-hour periods have been deleted from both the sticks. But nothing’s been copied. And assuming it’s the AmeriTel data on the sticks, the virus check will be a formality.”

  Seven minutes later we had our confirmation. The White House virus was present, as expected. McKenna read the results from the screen then nodded, closed down the machine, and pulled the memory sticks from their sockets.

  “Do they look familiar?” He held the sticks out for me to see.

  “I couldn’t swear to it. Probably. They’re the right brand. I’m guessing one got stolen from my house. The other, Weimann must have given to Carolyn.”

  “Good enough for now. Forensics might be able to tell us more. But we have enough to wind things up here.”

  “Wait. You can’t stop now. What about the deleted records? That’s obviously an attempt to hide the information leaked to AmeriTel before the auction.”

  “I’m sure it is. And we know all about it now, thanks to you. We’ll put people on it. Specialists. Heads will roll, believe me. But that’s a separate investigation. It doesn’t relate to containi
ng the virus. It’s tangential.”

  “What about Carolyn?”

  “What about her? She gave us what we need.”

  “What if there are more copies of the virus? Or more infected machines? Shouldn’t you bring her in? Question her, at least?”

  “No, Marc. As far as your wife’s involvement is concerned, I’m satisfied. The outstanding contaminated items have been recovered. We’ve done a thorough job.”

  It struck me that he didn’t know the stick Weimann had given Carolyn was itself a copy, and that I still had my original in my pocket. But the way the conversation was heading, I didn’t feel it was time to show all my cards.

  “I still say you’re making a mistake, letting Carolyn walk away.”

  “Is this really concern for the case I’m hearing, Marc? Or the desire to punish your wife? Because it seems to me you need a marriage counselor right now more than you need a field agent.”

  “So my wife walks. And what about me? If your investigation’s winding up, can I go, too?”

  “Of course not. Your situation’s nowhere near the same as your wife’s. You have paper out on you for murder. She has dubious taste in friends and poor impulse control, if you’re to be believed. But listen. Keep this in perspective. We’re on your side. We’re handling the police. The charges will go away. Trust me. Now get some rest. And remember: Don’t set foot outside unless I clear it first.”

  Saturday. Afternoon.

  THE WOMAN SOUNDED BORED WHEN I CALLED HER, TWO MINUTES after McKenna had led me back to my room. “Reception. How can I help?”

  “This is Mr. Bowman. Room 112. I can smell smoke. From the corridor.”

  “Sir?” The woman’s voice was alive now. “OK. This is what I need you to do. Go to your door. Do not open it, but touch the handle and tell me how it feels.”

  I counted to five, but didn’t bother to move. “Hot! Too hot to hold.”

  The hotel fire alarm began to wail.