The Nameless Dead

by Paul Johnston

  ‘I’ll bet you do, lady. Can I give you something for your trouble?’

  The woman turned away. ‘Just stay off my tail. If I hear you behind me, I’ll empty my clip into your Roadster.’ She glanced back. ‘I’ve got another one for you, if necessary.’

  Back on Ditmars Boulevard, the woman headed for the subway. Seagulls were shrieking above the buildings, flying in from Rikers Island, with its teeming prison, and the strait between Queens and Manhattan that was called Hell Gate. Her broker Havi wouldn’t be impressed by what she’d done—she’d been contracted to kill Vlastos, but she had decided that the rapist Larengo should be punished. The Colombians would give Havi a hard time, but she thought Vlastos would survive. Larengo had crossed a line.

  She felt an unusual lightness of spirit, although that did nothing to alleviate the ache in her upper back that had appeared a few weeks back. She had painkillers at home. What would her ex-lover Matt Wells think if he heard the dreaded Soul Collector had just righted a wrong that was beyond the normal reach of justice, and that she was pleased she’d done it?

  Sometimes the line between good and evil was as blurred as a charcoal drawing in the rain.

  Six

  A week passed and we started gearing up for the birth. Karen seemed fine, though she got tired very quickly. She looked magnificent, like a galleon with the wind in every sail, as she moved around our rooms. Judging by the size of her bulge, my son was going to live up to his name. I was still having daily sessions with Quincy Jerome and, when pressed, he agreed that I was making progress. My body disagreed. I had more bruises than a linebacker—American football was the only sport I could get on the TV set we’d been provided with—but my fitness was definitely improving. I spent a lot of time on the internet, catching up with old contacts and, as much to see if there was any censorship going on, searching for traces of Heinz Rothmann and my lethal ex-lover Sara Robbins. None of the sites I logged on to were blocked by the Feds, nor did I find anything about the pair except out-of-date media reports.

  We were sitting watching a romantic comedy—not my choice—after dinner one evening, when Karen let out a groan.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, immediately panic-stricken.

  She grimaced and then smiled. ‘Calm down, Matt. I’m supposed to be the nervous one.’ She ran a hand over her abdomen. ‘Oh, you little swine. Stop doing that. It hurts.’

  ‘You aren’t having contractions, are you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘I have a feeling it won’t be long, though.’

  I fetched her a glass of water and she gradually got back to normal.

  ‘Do you want me to call the health center?’ I asked.

  Karen shook her head. ‘It’s okay. Things are calming down.’ Then she swallowed hard and her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘What is it, my love?’ I said, putting my arm round her shoulders.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said, sobbing. ‘It’s just…it’s just I’m so happy…to be having our son….’ She blinked and looked into my eyes. ‘I’d never have done this if it wasn’t for you.’

  I laughed. ‘You got that right. Remember how it started?’

  She inserted her elbow under my arm. ‘Don’t make a joke of it, Matt. I…I’ve never felt so happy.’

  It was infectious. I felt tears in my eyes. ‘Neither have I,’ I said, kissing her. ‘Neither have I.’

  Karen slept unusually deeply that night, and so did I; no nightmares or blood-lathered memories, and no Sara. Despite all the bullshit—the kidnapping, the conditioning, the Rothmanns’ conspiracy, being held in this Spartan camp for weeks—the imminent arrival of our son was all that mattered; that and Karen keeping well.

  In the morning we had breakfast together and I went off for a session in the pool with Quincy. I’d asked him to see if he could arrange some time on the shooting range, thinking that perhaps he’d be able to swing it with his superiors, but that didn’t work out. I knew who I could blame for that.

  And when I got back to our rooms, there he was— Peter Sebastian, sitting at the table, in front of our laptop.

  ‘Where’s Karen?’ I asked, looking around the living room.

  The FBI man raised his hand. ‘Good to see you, too, Matt.’ He gave me a tight smile. ‘Don’t worry, she’s lying down in the bedroom.’

  I took a deep breath. I had got to the stage that anything to do with Karen provoked unease, or, rather, blind panic.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, going over to shake his hand. ‘Though I don’t know why. You’re the reason we’re still stuck here. Karen should be in a proper hospital.’

  Sebastian raised an eyebrow. ‘Where Sara Robbins could get to her?’

  I wasn’t letting him get away with that. ‘I guess I assumed the mighty FBI would be able to protect us outside of the camp.’

  ‘Cool it, Matt,’ he said, closing the laptop. ‘You know she’ll get excellent care here.’

  I circled the table, unwilling to sit down with him.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘Have you got kids?’

  ‘Sure. They’re both at college now.’

  ‘You remember what it was like when they were born?’

  Sebastian smiled weakly. ‘Not much. I was on duty both times. That was when I was working undercover in L.A.’

  ‘Really?’ I was interested because he’d never said much about his past. ‘What were you pretending to be? A junkie?’

  ‘Nice,’ he said, with a subdued chuckle. ‘Actually, I was supposed to have a coke habit. No, the Bureau was investigating links between a Hollywood studio and organized crime. I was a writer with a hot script about the Mob.’

  ‘Who wrote it?’

  ‘Not me, obviously. We found some washed-up script editor and kept him in booze for a month.’

  ‘The romance of the writing life.’

  He looked up at me. ‘Why aren’t you spending your days writing a book about your experiences?’

  Further proof that we were being watched around the clock. I let it go. ‘Because they haven’t ended yet, Peter.’ I sat down opposite him. ‘When are you going to let us go from this shit-hole?’

  He looked around the room. ‘I’ve seen worse.’ He put his hand on the computer. ‘What do you think of this? I haven’t heard any thank-yous.’

  ‘Screw you. When we can walk out the gates of this concentration camp, I might consider thanking you. Until then, you can swivel.’ I raised my leg and pointed at the tracking unit. ‘What am I? A common criminal?’

  Sebastian’s expression was blank. ‘Many Americans would say you’re something a lot worse than that if they knew. Going after the President wasn’t the best move you ever made.’

  ‘So put us on trial. You know any decent lawyer will argue we didn’t know what we were doing.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to risk that? Karen will be nursing your son. Do you want her to do that in court, with the TV cameras running? Do you really think you can win a trial against the President? Even my word wouldn’t be enough.’

  ‘Of course not.’ I looked away. ‘I appreciate the computer and the combat training.’

  ‘How’s that going? Sergeant Jerome comes highly recommended.’ He smiled. ‘Shame you can’t get him to smash the tracking unit on your ankle for you.’

  I’d made a few unsuccessful attempts to put my leg in the way of Quincy’s unrestrained kicks. He’d always managed to pull out in time.

  ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do than watch me all day long?’

  ‘I do. So Special Agent Simms and her team watch for me.’

  ‘Oh, great.’ I wondered if there was a camera in the bathroom—I hadn’t been able to spot one. The idea of the asexual Simms watching me in there was strangely disturbing. ‘So what’s going on, Peter? You’re getting me back to full fitness, you’re letting us communicate with the outside world. Are we going to get out soon?’

  He stared at me. ‘I don’t know, Matt. There may
be some movement in Justice’s position. The birth should help.’

  ‘How about Doc Rivers’s reports? He says I’m making good progress with the deconditioning.’

  ‘Why do you think I’m down here, Matt? I’ll be talking to him later. I might even look in on a session.’

  That didn’t fill me with hope. If another trigger kicked in…

  ‘How about some firearms practice?’ I asked, putting the pressure back on him. ‘You know I’ll need it if we get out.’

  ‘Will you? Whatever you think, I reckon the Bureau’s quite capable of protecting you and yours from the so-called Soul Collector.’

  ‘Touché,’ I said, shaking my head. Getting round Sebastian was about as easy as spearing mosquitoes.

  ‘I’m working on things.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll see you again before I go back to D.C.’

  ‘Hey,’ I said, as he walked to the door. ‘You never told me what happened when you were undercover in L.A.’

  The FBI man looked round. ‘That’s classified.’ He paused. ‘What the hell? You’re almost family now. Put it this way—the studio went out of business and the Mob lost five soldiers.’

  ‘You’re some tough guy,’ I said. ‘How many special agents breathed their last?’

  ‘That really is classified,’ Sebastian said, slamming the door behind him.

  Arthur Bimsdale was watching Sergeant Quincy Jerome instruct some very raw-looking army recruits in the basics of self-defense. There were regular thuds as they hit the padded floor of the dojo; none of them managed to lay a hand on the big man.

  ‘Why don’t you give it a shot?’

  The special agent turned and saw that his boss had sat down behind him on the tiered benches. ‘Em, I don’t think that would be a good idea, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Peter Sebastian gave the tight smile that always appeared when he wanted to put the squeeze on a subordinate. ‘What’s the matter? Forgotten everything you learned at Quantico?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s just that I wouldn’t like to put him in the hospital.’

  Sebastian’s eyes opened wide. ‘Very good, Arthur. Maybe you have got a spine after all.’ He frowned. ‘I’d still like you to challenge the sergeant.’

  Bimsdale knew there was no point in further resistance. He’d already taken a chance by answering his boss back. He waited patiently till the squad was dismissed, then made his way over to the mat without looking at Sebastian.

  ‘Excuse me, Sergeant, could I challenge you?’

  Quincy Jerome looked at him dubiously. ‘Who exactly are you, son?’

  Bimsdale explained.

  ‘Okay, Arthur. How do you want to do this?’

  Bimsdale had taken off his suit jacket and shoes, and placed his pistol and shoulder holster carefully on the floor. ‘I don’t suppose you’d let me throw you and then pretend you got concussed?’

  ‘You don’t suppose right,’ the sergeant said, with a laugh. ‘You FBI dudes are really something.’ He stepped back quickly as Bimsdale launched a high kick at his throat.

  The contest lasted longer than Sebastian had expected. He knew from his assistant’s file that the young man had done well on every module at Quantico, but he assumed he’d been putting on a show for the examiners. After twenty minutes, during which Bimsdale almost put Jerome down several times, he walked over to the dojo.

  ‘All right, gentlemen,’ he said, clapping his hands.

  Both combatants were breathing heavily and Arthur Bimsdale’s tie had come undone.

  ‘You’ve made your point,’ Sebastian said to his assistant. ‘Go and have a shower, then meet me at the science block.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Bimsdale said, voice louder than usual.

  ‘So, Sergeant,’ Peter Sebastian said when they were alone, ‘what do you think?’

  Quincy Jerome wiped his forehead with his forearm. ‘Not bad for a Bureau guy.’

  ‘Not Bimsdale. How’s Matt Wells coming along?’

  The sergeant grinned. ‘Sorry,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘Yeah, Wells is in pretty good shape. Someone taught him some useful moves.’

  ‘Any sign of him losing control of himself?’

  ‘You mean like some kind of robotic fighting machine?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean, Sergeant.’

  ‘Nope. He gets into the zone well and stays pretty cool.’

  Sebastian considered the reply. ‘All right. Give him daily sessions at the range from tomorrow.’

  ‘Just pistol, or rifle, too?’

  ‘Both. And Sergeant? Make sure he knows that at least two weapons will be trained on him all the time he’s armed.’

  As Sebastian walked away, Quincy Jerome wondered, not for the first time, exactly what kind of game was being played around him.

  Bimsdale was alone in Rivers’s office when his boss arrived.

  ‘Impressive, Arthur,’ Sebastian said. ‘You’re wasted working for me. You should be in a field office, leading the charge.’

  ‘Not me, sir,’ the young man replied. ‘I can learn so much from you.’

  His superior gave him a questioning look. ‘Tell me, how does fighting square with your Episcopalian principles? Your file says you shot a man in Montana.’

  Bimsdale nodded. ‘He was threatening to execute a hostage.’

  ‘So you killed him and got a reprimand for excessive use of your weapon.’

  ‘The hostage was an eight-year-old boy, sir. He’d been…’

  Sebastian raised his hand. ‘I read the file, remember. I asked about your religious beliefs.’

  The young agent held his superior’s gaze. ‘So did the recruitment board. I told them that being an Episcopalian would affect my performance only in positive ways.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Sebastian asked, as the door opened.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ Rivers said. His glasses were perched on his bald head and he had a sheaf of papers under his arm. ‘All’s well in Washington, I hope.’

  Sebastian nodded, glancing back at his assistant as if to say that their discussion would be resumed. ‘Bring us up to speed on the subject Matt Wells, please, Doctor.’

  The scientist sat down at his untidy desk and tried to find a space for the papers he was carrying. ‘Matt Wells,’ he said, as if the name was unfamiliar. ‘Yes, yes, Matt Wells.’ He dug out a laptop and opened it, then pulled his glasses down. ‘Indeed,’ he said, peering at the screen. ‘Response to the latest trigger was good, definitely improved on the previous one. Evidence of deep conditioning minimal.’ The doctor looked up. ‘Of course, you realize that the very nature of such conditioning militates against us finding traces of its presence.’

  Sebastian nodded. ‘And your drug regime?’

  ‘Substantially curtailed now. The effects became counterproductive as the subject gained more conscious control over his reactions to triggers.’

  ‘So Wells is functioning like a normal human being again?’

  Rivers considered that. ‘What is normal, I wonder? According to the report you provided, the subject’s behavior prior to what happened in the cathedral was largely rational.’

  ‘That was what made the attacks on the President by him and Karen Oaten so disturbing. They were impossible to predict.’

  ‘And you are wondering whether they still have it in them to behave like that.’

  ‘Of course. That’s what all this is about, no?’

  The scientist pursed his lips. ‘To be frank, I don’t know. I’d say it was unlikely, given the treatment both have received, but I can give no guarantee. Of course, we have treated the female subject less intensively because of the pregnancy.’

  ‘Would you say allowing Matt Wells to shoot on the range was a risk?’ Sebastian asked.

  ‘Undoubtedly, but probably a small one.’

  ‘Just as well. I’ve already authorized it.’

  Arthur Bimsdale looked shocked. ‘Did you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I did, Special Agent. I’m sorry, should I have asked your p
ermission?’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘All right, Doctor,’ Sebastian continued. ‘Two final questions. Has your treatment in any way compromised Karen Oaten’s chances of giving birth successfully?’

  Rivers sniffed. ‘Considering the state she was in when she arrived, I’d say it’s remarkable that she’s done as well as she has.’

  ‘Which is hardly an answer, but never mind. Two, is Matt Wells capable of functioning reliably outside the camp?’

  This time the scientist was taken aback. ‘I was led to understand that the therapy was open-ended.’

  ‘Nothing’s forever, Doctor,’ Sebastian said, getting to his feet. ‘This time I’ll need a clear answer.’

  Rivers pushed his glasses back onto his cranium and stared at the two men. ‘I’ll give you your answer. No, I do not think he would be reliable in the outside world and I will take every possible step to see that he remains here.’

  With that, Peter Sebastian headed for the door.

  Seven

  One had a Mossberg shotgun and the other a Smith & Wesson Sigma pistol, but I tried to blank them out, the soldiers who were covering me. Quincy Jerome was standing behind them, carrying an M4 carbine. There was only one thing to do. I pulled down my ear protectors.

  I took aim at the target that had started to move toward me up the lane of the range. It had been nearly two months since I’d fired a shot, but I remembered the training Dave had given me. I had taken up the correct stance, feet apart and legs bent at the knee, and was holding the Glock 17 in a doublehanded grip. I took a breath and fired off nine shots, a second between each one.

  The target kept on coming, stopping a yard in front of me.

  ‘Suck on that, Quincy,’ I said, looking over my shoulder.

  The big man strode up. ‘Shee-it. You’re even better with a moving target. Everything in the inner head ring and five, no, six, nose shots.’ He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘You don’t need no refresher course, man.’

  He didn’t know about Sara. She was a better shot than I.