by J. B. Turner
“Right goddamn now.”
Patterson did as he was told. He got the Mazda and drove it across the Key Bridge into Virginia. The GPS guided him to the Quincy Street parking lot, and he headed up to Level D. Deserted. Not one car apart from his.
Patterson wondered how long his source would be. He was reliable to a fault. But the elaborate ploy of using someone else’s car seemed to indicate his source had been spooked by something.
The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if his source was just paranoid. Then again, did his source have reason to be? In light of what was happening, it was probably a prudent move. A better-safe-than-sorry approach suited Patterson just fine.
His mind drifted and he switched on the radio at a low volume. A preprogrammed jazz station playing John Coltrane. The music reminded him of his ex-girlfriend, who had played Coltrane’s albums nearly all the time. He loved it. But even for him, a jazz lover, it became slightly trying when she didn’t listen to anything else.
His cell rang.
“Jeff, where are you?” It was his best friend from college, Ronnie Bryant.
“Oh shit, man, I totally forgot.”
“It’s poker night. The guys are all here.”
“Damn. Listen, I’m kinda tied up just now.”
“Man, that’s bullshit. Since you’ve been single, you’ve turned into a goddamn recluse. That’s not the way it works. You’re supposed to get out there and live a little.”
“Listen, I’m sorry. I’ve got work to do. I’m meeting up with someone. It’s pretty important. Totally forgot.”
A long sigh answered him. “Jeff, this is not cool. Come on, I get that you love your job, but man, just leaving us standing here without calling? That’s bullshit.”
Patterson shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye a police cruiser came into view. “Look, I gotta go. We’ll talk later.” Jeff hung up.
The cop car pulled up behind him, blocking him in.
What the hell was this?
Patterson watched out of his rearview mirror as two police officers got out. Heavyset. The smaller of the two stepped forward and tapped on his window.
“Get out of your car, sir,” he said.
Patterson wondered what the hell they wanted. He opened his door. “What’s the problem, Officer?”
The cop said, “You mind explaining what you’re doing, sir?”
“Waiting for a friend. Is that a problem?”
“ID, please.”
Patterson pulled out his wallet and handed over his driver’s license. “Satisfied?”
The cop scanned his ID as the police radio crackled into life, a woman’s voice talking of suspicious activity.
“You mind explaining who you’re supposed to be meeting?”
“A friend.”
“Has this friend got a name?”
Patterson cleared his throat. “I’m a journalist. I’m meeting someone about a story.”
“A journalist, huh? You do drugs?”
“What?”
“I asked if you do drugs.”
“Drugs? No . . . What the hell kind of question is that?”
“Are you hiding any drugs or drug paraphernalia in the car?”
“Gimme a break.”
The radio crackled again, giving the name of the car’s owner. A name he didn’t recognize. “This isn’t your car, is it?”
Patterson felt himself flush. “It’s . . . Look, this is kinda complicated.”
“So you’re in a car that doesn’t belong to you, waiting for a friend?”
“I know it sounds a bit strange . . . but it’s the truth.”
“You mind if we look in this car?”
Patterson sighed. “Look, it’s not mine . . . but I don’t see why not.”
The second cop, with a bull neck and a hard face, got a flashlight from the patrol car and searched the vehicle, pulling up carpets and everything he could. “Clean.”
Patterson said, “Of course it’s clean.”
The smaller cop walked around to the rear of the small yellow car. “You won’t mind opening the trunk, will you?”
Patterson said, “Look, this is getting a bit silly. I want to know which precinct you guys work out of. Who your superiors are.”
“Open the trunk!”
“What is this? I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t get this.”
“Sir, I’m going to ask you a second time—you wanna open the trunk?”
“This isn’t my car.”
“Just open it.”
Patterson shook his head and sighed. He could see he wasn’t going to win this particular argument. He took the key out of the ignition and popped open the trunk. Inside was the naked, dead body of his source.
Face blue gray, marks around his neck.
Jeff felt himself go into shock, legs nearly giving way.
Then he was violently sick.
The cold metal of a gun was pressed to the back of his head.
“Not a fucking move!” the cop snarled.
Patterson’s mind was in free fall. “Oh Christ, what the hell is happening, man?” He dry-heaved, retched, and began to cry. He slumped down cross-legged on the asphalt, his back against the cop car, head in his hands. “Jesus Christ. I don’t understand. This is crazy. I don’t know anything about this. What the fuck is going on?”
The cops radioed in for backup as a black SUV pulled in behind the cruiser.
Four big guys with dark suits, white shirts, and tightly knotted ties emerged. The oldest stepped forward and flashed his card at the cop. “FBI,” he said.
The cop said, “Sir, this is now a crime scene.”
The Fed stared long and hard into the trunk. “Jesus H. Christ. That’s the guy we were investigating. We had him under surveillance. Shit.”
The cop said nothing.
The Fed pointed at Patterson. “And who is this?”
The cop said, “He was in the car. Journalist, he says. But it’s not his vehicle.”
Two Feds pushed past the cops and hustled Patterson into the back of the SUV.
“Hey, what’s this?” Patterson said as the Feds strapped him into the back of the SUV.
The cop said, “Hey, this is our jurisdiction, motherfucker. You goddamn know it!”
“Not anymore. We’re leading on this. Now fuck off.”
“Bullshit.”
The Fed stepped up to the cop and eyeballed him. “You gotta problem with the FBI, Officer?”
The cop said nothing, clearly seething.
The Fed stared at him. “Get it taped up. And call in backup, will you?” He turned and slammed the rear door shut. Then he climbed into the front passenger seat.
The SUV sped off with Patterson in the back. He was quickly handcuffed by a Fed sitting in the back seat. “I swear to God, sir,” he said, “I know nothing about what happened.”
“Do you know that man in the trunk?”
Patterson sighed. “I know him. As a source. That’s all.”
The Fed up front turned and faced Patterson. “This is national security, son. I imagine you know what that entails.”
Patterson began to shake.
“You’re in deep trouble, son. You got a lot of questions to answer. And we’re going to get those answers, do you hear me?”
Patterson’s heart sank. He stared out of the tinted windows as a Fed in the back seat pulled out his cell phone and gave details of the found body. He felt numb. What the fuck was this? What the fuck was happening? It felt like he was in the middle of a nightmare and was about to wake up. But every second he was in the car crawling through the dark streets, he knew this was real . . . Horribly real.
“What do you know?” the Fed in the front snarled.
“Listen to me, I don’t know what the fuck happened. I just spoke to him about half an hour ago. Maybe an hour, I don’t know. This is all crazy, man. I have no idea what’s going on.”
“And your phone records will confirm that?”
“Of course they will.
But I swear to God, this has nothing to do with me.”
The Fed was silent as they negotiated the near-empty DC streets.
“Where are you taking me? Hoover Building?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
Patterson felt a growing sense of apprehension. He sensed something was amiss. His gut was telling him this was not just an ordinary crew of FBI guys. They looked and acted differently than the Feds he had known over the years. He shifted in his seat as the car headed south on the freeway. “You never answered my question.”
“What question?”
“Where are you taking me?”
“A facility. A safe facility.”
“A safe facility? What in God’s name is a safe facility?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
The initial apprehension turned into real fear as they headed away from DC. They drove on south, first along the freeway and then down some country roads. Through a manned checkpoint and to an underground garage. Patterson was hustled inside. Down harshly lit corridors, antiseptic white walls reflecting the glare.
Patterson felt his insides move. “Hey, are you guys playing some kind of prank? Because if you are, it really isn’t funny. This doesn’t look like an FBI field office.”
The Fed beside him said, “Relax, son, this is just a national security precaution.”
“So where are we?”
“First, we’re going to interview you. Do you have any medical conditions? Are you on any meds?”
“Yeah, I’m on meds. I’m a diabetic.”
“How long since you took your insulin?”
Patterson racked his brain. “I can’t remember . . . I’m a couple of hours overdue. So, yeah, need to get some in me.”
“OK, we’ve got an FBI physician available right now. And then after he sorts you out, we’ll get your photograph, fingerprints, then we’ll interview you.”
“This is nuts. I need to speak to my lawyer. I’ve got rights. I’m an American. I know my goddamn rights.”
The Fed opened a door and Patterson was ushered inside. A doctor with a white coat was there. “Doc, we need our guy in ten minutes. He’s diabetic, or so he says.”
The doctor leaned forward and placed the stethoscope to Patterson’s chest. He listened for a few moments. “Your heart rate is very fast. Do you have anxiety problems?”
“Are you kidding me? Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. And this place sure as hell is not helping.”
The doctor nodded. “Do you take anything for it?”
“Xanax mostly.”
“And you’re on insulin shots?”
“Yeah, of course.”
The doctor took out a penlight and shone it in Patterson’s eyes. “Xanax, huh?” He looked across at the detective. “How would you feel if I prescribed some Xanax so we can reduce any anxiety during the interview?”
The detective shook his head. “Not just now.”
The doctor cleared his throat as he felt the pulse in Patterson’s neck. “Certainly raised heart rate. Afraid Xanax is out of the question. But I assume an insulin shot would be OK.”
Patterson closed his eyes, close to tears. “Yes, thank you.”
The doctor turned to the detective. “Apart from heightened anxiety, he appears to be in good physical health. But he needs this insulin shot.”
The Fed nodded. “Sure.”
The doctor went to a cupboard and ripped open a plastic pack with a syringe inside. Then he jabbed it into a small insulin container, extracting the drug that would keep Patterson conscious. “Where do you usually get it?”
“I usually do it into my thigh.”
“Upper left arm OK today?”
Patterson nodded. He felt a jab as the drug was injected.
“You’re good for twenty-four hours.”
The Fed said, “Appreciate your help, Doc.” Then he grabbed Patterson up from the seat and hustled him to a side room with a Coke machine at the far end.
“Take a load off, kid,” the Fed said. “I’m Special Agent Larry Greer. I’ve been assigned to a special unit set up to investigate the theft of classified materials from the NSA.”
Patterson sat down. “Would the person you were investigating be the guy in the trunk?”
The Fed shook his head. “No. But we believe this man knew a certain CIA operative very well. They both served in Iraq. Military. Our CIA guy was an intelligence expert and computer whiz. Like Snowden. Maybe even worse, if you can imagine that.”
Patterson said nothing.
“Tell me about this guy in the trunk. You’ve met him before.”
“I want to see a lawyer. Right fucking now.”
The Fed said, “You’re up to your neck in this, son. You’re in no position to issue instructions. As it stands, you’ll be held on suspicion of murder.”
Patterson shook his head. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on. That wasn’t me. Don’t you fucking understand that? This is bullshit. I’ve been set up.”
“Set up by who?”
Patterson looked at the mirror at the far end of the room. “Is this being filmed?”
The Fed nodded. “For your security.”
“How many times do I have to say it? It wasn’t me.”
The Fed leaned against a wall. “You seem very agitated, Jeff. Why is that?”
“Why? Because there was a body in the trunk. A source of mine. And then I’m taken to this fucking place in the middle of nowhere.”
“This is used for special operations. Classified.”
Patterson lowered his head and closed his eyes. His head was beginning to feel fuzzy.
“It’s a secure holding facility.”
Patterson felt waves of exhaustion wash over him. “Why am I not in a DC police precinct?”
“Are you refusing to answer questions?”
“No, I fucking am not.”
The Fed turned around and headed over to the Coke machine. He punched a button and two Cokes came out. He handed one to Patterson. “Here, take it,” he said.
Patterson opened the can and took three or four large gulps. It tasted good. “Thanks.”
The Fed sat down in the seat opposite. “We’re here to find out what happened, Jeff. Can you understand that?”
“Sure I can understand it.” Patterson felt his eyes getting heavier as the room began to move. “I don’t feel too good.” Swirling colors and walls caving in on him.
“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”
Then everything went black.
Patterson sensed he was in darkness, trussed up. There was a jolt and engine noise. He realized he was in the trunk of a car. Unable to open his eyes. The voices of men in the background. He felt himself fighting to stay conscious. Then the voices got louder.
“Warehouse ready?”
“Middle of nowhere. Nearest place is some fucking quarry ten miles away.”
“Perfect.”
Patterson felt a sense of foreboding like he’d never felt before. He willed himself to move. But he was paralyzed. Drugged. That’s what it was.
His mind flashed back to the doctor. In his mind’s eye, he saw the man in a different light. While before he had seen a man looking after his medical condition, now he realized the doctor had been instrumental in taking him out. And then he wondered, what if they’d already known about his medical condition? Was that possible?
The Feds seemed to be on the scene at the same time as the cops. Surely, if they had been monitoring his source, they would have known what had happened to him.
But then again, were those guys actually Feds?
The more he thought about it, the more scared he became. A feeling of dread was burrowing deep within him. He was scared to breathe. But he was also scared to try and hold on, despite the drug’s paralyzing effects.
The car bumped over a pothole and Patterson’s body was jerked against what felt like a body. Was someone else with him? Were they incapacitated too?
A few sharp turns, then
over what felt like rough, uneven ground.
The vehicle began to reverse hard and fast. A few voices outside of the vehicle. The trunk was opened.
Patterson felt a jab in his arm, and he was swallowed up again by the darkness.
When he came to he was lying on a cold, concrete floor, staring up at a cracked ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a naked black woman covered in blood, a needle in her arm. He wanted to scream. To move. But he couldn’t.
Voices in the distance. Getting closer.
Footsteps.
He sensed people were watching him.
A masked man loomed into view, towering over him.
Then a gun was pressed to his head. “I could kill you.”
Patterson tried to move. To say something. But nothing came.
“But I don’t have to. You’re about to be neutralized. Draw your last breath.”
Patterson felt tears spill out of his eyes.
“When they see you and this filthy hooker, they will make assumptions. America is very quick at jumping to assumptions. Good night, Jeff.”
Patterson strained to stay conscious . . . felt his eyes get heavy before they began to close.
Nineteen
Four days out
Nathan Stone had passed his five-hundredth push-up of the morning inside the new cottage, blinds drawn. The only sound was his breathing and rain battering off the slate roof. He drove himself hard. Heart pumping fast. Muscles firm. Mind clear. Endorphins kicking in. He got up and did some shadowboxing for ten minutes. Then he lay down and crunched out two hundred sit-ups.
He felt himself transported to a place of contentment in his mind. His soul felt calm.
Stone did some breathing exercises and sat himself down for an hour-long yoga session. He began to stretch. Move. Breathe. Deeper and deeper into the zone. The world of clear thinking. Hard choices.
He listened to his heartbeat for a few minutes. Controlled.
He got up and went into the bathroom and stared at his new face in the mirror. A face he could barely discern from the old one. He touched his left cheek. His skin was warm. Was this really him? But it was. They had created a new shell for him. A new identity.
He didn’t exist. He never had. And that was good.
Stone felt exhilaration wash through his body. It was good to be back out in the world. Free. But it felt strange. Out of the compound. The facility.