The Langley Profile

by Jack Bowie

  At 11:30 he heard back from Maddock. The agent had gone to the Métropole and determined that no one had seen the guest since he had left the previous morning. They had asked whether the room would be available sooner than expected. Then Maddock reported that he had gone to the room—he didn’t say how he had gained entry—and found all of Braxton’s clothes and computers. He hadn’t returned after receiving Slattery’s message. Maddock asked if he should investigate further.

  Slattery told him to clean the room and add any cost to Maddock’s bill. Saint Anthony didn’t do anything for free.

  There was no question in Slattery’s mind what had happened. Rockwell had kidnapped his friend. But for what purpose? Braxton didn’t know anything about the connection to the assassinations or the investigation into Rockwell and Nod.

  But Rockwell didn’t know that. Would he torture Braxton? Hold him as a hostage?

  It was time to close out Boston. There would be more assassinations and his focus needed to be elsewhere.

  He grabbed his phone and called Fowler. It went to voicemail.

  “Sam. It’s Roger. Adam is in the clear and you gave me what I needed to leverage McAllister. I really appreciate everything you’ve done. Why don’t you head back to D.C.? And add a bouquet for Pat to your expenses. I owe her, again.”

  Then he called Lewis and told her to get him on an evening flight to Geneva.

  Now there was just one stop left to make.

  * * *

  Slattery sat in the Boston Biotechnology Center lobby calmly sipping a cup of coffee from the cafeteria downstairs. At least he hoped he looked calm. Inside, his digestive system was still erupting like Mount Vesuvius.

  He had been too anxious to wait at the hotel any longer so he had checked out and taken a cab across the river. His gut told him he knew what McAllister would find. And that would lead to an even more sensitive conversation with the scientist.

  The anticipated call finally came.

  “Slattery … Actually, that won’t be necessary, Kerry. I’m waiting downstairs.”

  Five minutes later, Underwood had escorted him upstairs. He and McAllister were again in her office, again with the office door closed, again sitting face-to-face across the table. But this time, the attractive scientist looked even worse than he felt. Dark rings encircled her eyes and her blond hair hung limply around her head. She must have been up all night.

  “Okay, Mr. Slattery. Time to answer some of my questions. You were right. Durning and White both fit the Langley Profile.”

  McAllister pushed a folder across the table as Slattery’s jaw dropped.

  “Dr. McAllister, eh Kerry, you can’t call the profile--”

  “Well, I had to call it something,” she interrupted. “Now, back to honesty. Where did you get this profile? The data wasn’t very sophisticated, by the way. I’d guess just after the turn of the century?”

  Slattery shuddered at the reference. His turn of the century saw the coming of the automobile. He really did need to bring a translator to these meetings.

  He considered scanning the contents of the folder to buy some time, but he didn’t bother. He was sure he wouldn’t understand its contents. And McAllister might ask him even more embarrassing questions. It was time to move to the next stage.

  “What I am about to tell you is so classified I don’t even know how to describe it. But I, and those children, don’t have time to go through proper channels. So I’m going to tell you a story. You can draw your own conclusion.

  “Around, ah, the turn of the century, there was a senior manager at an intelligence agency. Let’s call him Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith decided he could create, or more accurately, select, the ideal intelligence operative. The perfect spy. DNA technology had been progressing rapidly. He was convinced if he could find the right set of genes, or gene abnormalities, he would be able to screen candidates for the profile. And find the perfect operatives.”

  McAllister jumped to her science’s defense. Her hands shot over the table, waving wildly. “But it’s not that easy, there’s--”

  “Yes, we know all that. Now. But back then it seemed like a promising concept. As the story goes. Mr. Smith’s agency funded a project to test the hypothesis. But without the ability to perform mass DNA sequencing, there were limits as to what he could do. So he selected a set of sample subjects. ‘Cohorts’ I think you call them.”

  “That’s where you got the profile. But who were the subjects?”

  “He couldn’t get any consensus from the military on the best soldiers, so he went in a different direction. Not one that was approved by his management, by the way. He secured the DNA samples of ten serial killers. It wasn’t hard for him to get. He had many contacts in the law enforcement community. From those samples, he identified a set of what he interpreted as markers that were common to his set of subjects.”

  “My God. That’s awful. It’s as stupid as the whole Warrior Gene controversy. What happened?”

  “In this story, the project dragged on for years, spending enormous amounts of money and turning up no useful results. Smith became obsessed. His breakthrough was always ‘just around the corner.’ Eventually, the agency canceled the project. Everyone was reassigned. But Smith was no longer able to function. He blamed the agency and all the bureaucrats for his failure. He was so disruptive to the agency he was fired. He was never heard from again. So it goes, of course.”

  “Of course. And you think he’s reappeared?

  Oh, hell. Why keep up the pretense? If any of this comes out, I’ll be the next one in Leavenworth.

  “It would make sense. Our Mr. Smith had contacts all around the world. If he could convince some of us, he could certainly convince other intelligence agencies, or even rogue factions, of the possibilities. The ultimate assassin. It’s quite a vision. And unfortunately, with all the new technology—your father’s included—it’s not impossible.”

  He took a breath. McAllister was sitting quietly in her “pensive pose”: head erect, eyes forward, hands clasped on the table. She was listening. It was time to make the request.

  “Which brings me to my next question. If Mr. Smith has reconstituted his project, he would need more subjects. I doubt these are the only two children that may have been taken. I’m afraid there could be more at risk.”

  Slattery was momentarily distracted. McAllister was lightly drumming her fingernails on the desk. Had he said something that bothered her?

  “So we really would like to investigate the possibility of other abductions. This would involve comparisons of …”

  The drumming became faster and louder. It was driving him crazy.

  “Are you late for a meeting, Dr. McAllister? If this conversation is boring you, I can certainly—”

  “It’s in the folder.”

  “In the folder? What’s in the folder?”

  McAllister shook her head as if Slattery was dumb as a stone. “The analysis you want, of course. Do you really think it wasn’t that obvious? I found fifteen abducted children that have the Langley Profile. Three were taken by relatives and are safe. Two were found dead under suspicious circumstances. Likely a sexual predator. That leaves ten that disappeared without a trace. Their ages were between seven and eleven, all in the past four years. The latest was taken just last week. Their names, locations and dates of abductions are there.” She pointed to the folder.

  Slattery reached over and finally opened the folder. Inside were ten pages that held the identities of the children McAllister had found. And likely were the members of Rockwell’s army.

  A dark shadow fell across McAllister’s face. She knew where this nightmare had begun.

  “You think Mr. Smith found his children by analyzing my data, don’t you?”

  “There’s only one place he could have found his targets. Wilson was paid to run programs that would identify the victims. Between your hidden demographic data and updated pictures, they wouldn’t be that hard to find. ”

  “What about Colleen
?”

  “I think they were spooked by our investigation into your access and security logs. Wilson must have told his bosses. They decided to remove the investigator.”

  “Why not just kill him?”

  “He would have been replaced. Some other consultant would have come in. Mr. Smith knows the procedures. What would stop, or at least slow, the investigation would be a more complex, even salacious, event. It was meticulously planned. I’m afraid Ms. O’Connor’s death was simply a means to their end.”

  McAllister leaned forward and placed her hands on the table, her face twisted into anger. “When Father won the X-Prize, I convinced him to use the award to create ChildSafe. And let me run the data operations. Everything I’ve done is to bring that murderer to justice. Not ruin the lives of innocent children. Find the people that did this, Mr. Slattery. Find them and make them pay.”

  Chapter 28

  Outside of Geneva, Switzerland

  Monday, 3:30 p.m.

  Rockwell stretched his aching muscles in front of his window as he waited for his aide to appear. Age was definitely taking its toll on the old soldier. The ease with which his team ran their drills and conducted the business of the farm was frustrating. Had it really been that long that he had been fighting his private wars? Well, the time of retribution would soon arrive.

  He heard a sound and watched as his aide entered the office and snapped to attention. “Has the next team reached their destination, William?”

  “Yes, Colonel. All the preparations have been completed. Our contact has been quite effective.”

  Rockwell nodded slowly. “Of course. I’m sure he has his own agenda ready to put in place.”

  “Anything that will upset our clients?”

  The Colonel smiled at the perception of his aide. Penrose was gaining a new insight into their work. He would be a worthy successor. Should that need ever arise.

  “I don’t believe so. Their objective is simply to cause chaos. And continuing profit for their businesses. We need only to do our part.” He paused, then continued in a different area. “How is Juliet adapting?”

  Penrose shook his head. “She’s having some difficulty, unfortunately. We had to remove her from the barracks and place her in the cellar for a few days. I think she is now back on track.”

  “I see. Well, these issues do arise. As I have told you, these small inconveniences will have much less effect on her than the alternatives. Continuing to have our very special individuals being brought up as normal will be ultimately hurtful to their psyches. Those efforts will drive them to social dysfunction, crime and mental illness. They simply must have a developmental plan that is consistent with their genetic makeup. That is the future we offer.”

  “Yes, sir. We all understand the importance of this discipline. Will that be all?”

  “Yes, William. Thank you.”

  Penrose turned and left his commander alone in the office.

  Rockwell knew it was hard on his team to lie to the children and administer punishment. But it was the only way to lead his recruits to their true potential. Nations wasted tens of millions of dollars training citizens who were psychologically unfit to be soldiers. And untold expense educating children in areas they were genetically unable to process. It was such a simple concept.

  His small team had now proven the power of this insight. Soon nations would come to him to learn how to discard their old ways and reach a new level of greatness.

  * * *

  Braxton had developed an escape plan. It had three parts: overpower, divert, and escape. But the first part depended on a weapon.

  He had spent the entire day working on his discovery. His motions were now mechanical, his actions a mind-numbing repetitive script.

  Up, down. Up, down. Left, right. Left, right. Pull.

  Up, down. Up, down. Left, right. Left, right. Pull.

  The yells from the exercise field had continued through most of the day, but now they had faded into the coming darkness leaving only the rustle of leaves and the call of a lonely hawk on the hunt. It was dinnertime and soon it would be time for Samson’s visit.

  He had extracted another inch of the nail. And no idea how many more were needed. Each pull had sent a stab of pain into his chest. His hand, arms and back ached and he had tasted the blood on his fingertips. He could feel his strength evaporating. If he didn’t escape soon, he wouldn’t be able to. He had to finish before the terrorist reappeared.

  But it was not to be. He was still working when he heard the bar on the door being lifted. He swept the dirt back around the nail and scrambled to the back of the cell.

  “Jesus. You look like crap,” Samson exclaimed when he entered. He had the same grotesque smile as the day before. “Stand up.”

  “Why?” Braxton whispered.

  “’Cause I say so. Get up.”

  As Braxton struggled to rise he noticed his hands. His fingers were scarred and covered in blood from the effort on the nail. He couldn’t let Samson see them. They might search the cell. He pulled his hands into fists and held them close to his sides.

  Samson walked toward him. “Good dog.” Then he threw out his arms, wrapped them around his prisoner and squeezed. Another rush of excruciating pain shot through Braxton’s chest. He felt completely helpless.

  Just as he was about to pass out, his captor released his clinch and tossed Braxton into the dirt like a rag doll.

  “Here’s your dinner.” Samson pulled an object from his pocket and tossed it in the dirt. “Where’s your cup?”

  Braxton had placed the styrofoam cup safely in a corner. He had feared he wouldn’t be given another. He crawled over and picked it up.

  “Well, you do have it.” The grimace suggested Samson was disappointed in this appearance. He again retrieved a bottle of water from his jacket and poured it into the cup, spilling as much as he put in.

  “Sweet dreams.”

  He turned and left.

  Braxton spent the waning minutes of light nibbling at his sandwich and nursing the cup of water. He was sure Rockwell was going to starve him to feebleness. All the more reason to complete his plan as soon as possible.

  Still, his mind kept coming back to the question of what Rockwell was doing.

  What is Nod?

  Rockwell’s office had been filled with maps. Braxton hadn’t recognized all of them, but many were of the Middle East: Israel, Palestine, Iran and Iraq. What did these places have to do with an army of children?

  The assassinations!

  Could Rockwell be the force behind the deaths in Israel and Iraq? The new reports had said children were involved in the murders. Was Nod a training camp for killers? And what did this have to do with Omega Genomics?

  He had to get this information back to Slattery, no matter what he thought of the man.

  * * *

  Fowler was exhausted from the flight from Boston. He had slept most of Sunday after the binge with Fitzgerald, and then overslept and missed Slattery’s call this morning. Happy that Braxton had been cleared and that he was finally heading home, he had tossed his clothes into his bag and taken a cab to Logan, eventually catching a noon shuttle to National.

  The older he got the harder travel became. He’d better start planning those trips he had always promised to his wife while they could still enjoy them.

  He picked up his car from the parking garage and headed up the GW Parkway.

  He really just wanted to go home to Silver Spring and collapse in bed, but there was something else he had to do first. And it had to be in person. He exited at Rt. 66, merged onto the Beltway and took the Tysons Corner exit. A few minutes later he was pulling into the Tysons Tower parking garage.

  When he walked through the door to Cerberus Consulting he must have looked even worse than he felt, at least from the reaction by Chu.

  “Sam!” she cried. “What’s wrong? What’s happened to Adam?” Her hands jumped to her face.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he pleaded. “It’s oka
y. I just got back from Boston. Everything’s okay.”

  Chu ran from her desk and threw her arms around the ex-cop. Then she pulled back and started pounding her fists on his chest.

  “Damn you, Sam Fowler. Why haven’t you called? Where is Adam?”

  Fowler just stood his ground and let the rage subside. It wasn’t like the diminutive assistant was going to hurt him. He knew all too well the terror and frustration of losing track of someone close to you.

  Finally, he reached down to her shoulders and pushed her back.

  “I’m sorry, Karen. We were trying to protect Adam. It’s been a crazy few days, First we—”

  “No,” she yelled. “Stop. There’s someone else you need to talk to.”

  Fowler’s head pulled back. Someone else? Who else would be in the suite?

  Chu led him into Braxton’s office and he saw an elegantly-dressed blond woman sitting in Braxton’s chair studying a stack of documents. Like she had replaced his friend.

  What the hell?

  The woman raised her face and Fowler’s mouth dropped.

  “Sydney? What are you doing here?”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Fowler, Chu and Sydney Walker were sitting in Cerberus’ shared conference room. Chu and Walker were sipping steaming tea while Fowler sat with a can of Diet Dr. Pepper, courtesy of Cerberus’ private stash dedicated for their lead investigator.

  “So tell us about Adam, Sam.” Walker had, not surprisingly, taken charge of the conversation. She had never been a particularly shy spook.

  Walker had changed little in the past year. Tall and slim, with blond hair that lightly brushed her shoulders and huge brown eyes that seemed to fill her face. He didn’t know anything about her background, but somewhere along the line, she had taken the adage “dress for success” to heart. After being pulled from a flaming California warehouse, she had still looked like she had just stepped off a Guns and Ammo photo shoot.

  “No,” he replied. “You first. What in the hell are you doing here? Last time I saw you, you were thanking me for saving your ass in Alameda.”