by D C Alden
The C-17s wheels slammed into the runway and the airframe shuddered as the aircraft slowed. Mike snapped off his seat belt. Everyone was already on their feet, prepping to deplane. Everyone except Lucas. Mike shimmied along the aisle in front of him and leaned over the seat. Lucas was staring through the window as the aircraft bumped along the taxiway. Mike snapped his fingers.
‘Hey!’
Lucas turned, his eyes wide, his expression uncertain. Exactly how Mike wanted him to be.
‘That’s Munich out there,’ he told the Englishman. ‘Where you go next depends on you. If you give us false intel or send us on a wild goose chase, you’ll be in a Russian hellhole by sunrise, I absolutely guarantee that. If you ID Philip and Marion, you have a chance to walk away.’
That was a lie of course. Lucas was a mass murderer, as heartless as any pathological serial killer. He was going down, he just didn’t know it yet.
Lucas nodded. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Good boy.’ Miller and Boswell flanked the prisoner. ‘Get him on his feet,’ Mike told them
He led everyone to the port door near the rear of the aircraft. A helmeted airman cracked it open and cold air rushed inside. A fleet of dark vans waited for them. Mike led them down the steps, and he shook the hand of a waiting German intelligence agent. As he took a seat inside the van his stomach suddenly churned. What if we don’t find them? What if we fail and millions die? He banished the thought from his mind.
There was no if.
And failure was not an option.
Coffman trudged through the woods, her breath fogging on the frigid air.
She was wrapped in a thick winter coat and presidential beanie, and as she followed the path up towards the distant ridge, she remembered another time, when the creature had charged down through the trees towards her, when she’d come close to death. Back then she’d deliberately foregone the protection of her security detail, and her would-be assassin, Costello, was now buried somewhere down in the dark gorge below her. She’d believed his death had marked the beginning of a new era, a future filled with promise. Then the first of Bob’s videos had arrived, and that changed everything. When Bob had dangled the carrot of global dominance she’d taken the bait. After the events in Baghdad, what else would she do?
But the world had turned and things were starting to run out of control. She’d expected that, had steeled herself for some degree of chaos and unpredictability, but awkward questions were now being asked about Baghdad, Alaska and missing soldiers. Wilson’s phone was ringing off the hook with invitations to every political talk show imaginable. So far he hadn’t accepted any — at least that’s what Bob’s surveillance was telling them — but that wouldn’t last.
Erik walked beside her, wearing thick boots and a quilted parka. He stared ahead, his hands thrust into his pockets, his bearded face like a stone mask. The new look suited him, Coffman decided, though she thought the reason for its growth might be psychological, something to do with telling lies and the subconscious desire to cover his mouth. Not lies, she corrected herself, disinformation. They’d barely spoken since they’d left the complex, and Coffman could feel her Chief of Staff’s anxiety radiating off him.
Up ahead, the lead Secret Service agent had disappeared over the rise. She glanced over her shoulder, saw the other agent further down the hill. Around her, scattered through the trees, the others were too far away to hear anything that passed between them. She slipped an arm through Mulholland’s and kept her voice low.
‘You seem preoccupied.’
Mulholland offered a strained smile. ‘I’m thinking about all those spinning plates.’
‘So, what’s the word from Bob?’
‘One of the deployment team has gone down with food poisoning. It’s not a problem, just a delay.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Coffman cursed, ‘You’re telling me that our plan to reshape the world has been put on hold because somebody shit their pants? Has Bob never heard of a backup plan?’
‘It’s frustrating, I agree. And to make matters worse, the UN Security Council has started making noises. They believe we’ve been holding out on them since Baghdad.’
Coffman snorted. ‘You mean the same Security Council who okayed the plan to nuke the city? They’ve got a goddamn nerve.’
‘We still need allies, Amy.’
‘Agreed. Pencil some face time with the ambassador.’
‘Will do.’
‘What else?’
‘Wilson’s down in Lubbock as we speak,’ Mulholland told her.
Coffman snorted. ‘Guess he’s not so smart after all.’ They walked in silence until they crested the ridge, where they stopped to take in the view. The sparsely wooded slope fell away towards the valley below, rising up again like a dark wave to form another ridge, and another beyond that. Above their heads, a slab of grey cloud moved low and slow across the sky. Coffman turned to face Mulholland. His hands were buried in his pockets as his eyes watched the trees and the distant men who loitered between them.
‘They’re too far away to hear anything,’ Coffman reassured him.
‘Can’t help being paranoid.’ He held her gaze and said, ‘The pressure’s building. Jim’s getting bombarded daily with requests for interviews. Even Metro PD is inquiring about Vasquez. Unless we move soon, the tide might just turn against us and — ’
‘They’ll bury us both. I get it, Erik. So, we light the fuse ourselves until Bob’s guy can peel his ass off the can. Is everything ready in Texas?’
Mulholland scanned the trees as he spoke. ‘Reserve units have been mobilised across the country, and Charlie has ordered field deployments in a handful of key states, including Texas. Forts Bliss and Hood have surged men and equipment into the field, which gives us political cover, but it’s raised a few eyebrows. Jim’s preparing statements for when the time comes. There’ll be an outcry, Amy. You’ll be burned in effigy for not passing on the warning to the public.’
‘And start a national panic? Besides, we’ll stop the outbreak dead in its tracks.’
Mulholland held up his hands. ‘You know my feelings on that.’
‘Only too well,’ she said. She took a deep, cold breath and let it out slowly. ‘So we’re ready?’
‘As we’ll ever be.’
Coffman pulled her beanie down a little lower as the first flakes of snow began to spiral down from the sky. ‘Get word to Bob. Tell him to start the party.’
Chester Stokes had two simple jobs to do.
The first was to deliver a letter to the concierge desk at the Overton hotel, and the second was to drive across town to the South Plains Mall and go watch a movie. Easy, peasy, Japanesey.
He parked his beat-up Impala in the parking lot and strolled into the mall. He’d been told to buy a ticket for the evening movie at the IMAX cinema. He had to take an end-of-row seat and wait to be joined by a fifty-something guy who would identify himself as Ray. Chester would then hand over the padded envelope and leave the cinema. For his troubles, he’d be paid one thousand dollars, in cash. He’d already received five hundred in advance, thrust in his hand by a big guy in a cowboy hat and sunglasses who’d propositioned Chester in the parking lot of the Lubbock County Probation Office behind Main Street. He’d climbed inside the man’s pickup truck, listened to the terms of the deal, and readily accepted. He’d pocketed the cash, with the promise of doubling his windfall after he’d completed the mission. As an added bonus, if the guy didn’t show, Chester could keep whatever was in the envelope. It was an easy gig by any standards, and the Lord knew Stokes needed some good luck.
A career criminal for half of his forty-two years, Chester had long ago reached the conclusion that crime didn’t pay. The big job he’d always dreamed of had never materialised, and Chester, despite being a born and bred Texan of poor white stock, had an unlikely aversion to firearms, so liquor stores and banks were not an option. Instead his trade of choice was burglary, domestic as opposed to commercial, and small-time frauds. He’d had a couple o
f decent scores in his time, had burgled a couple of houses where he’d hit pay dirt, but success, like his ill-gotten gains, had never lasted long. Truth be told, Chester Stokes was a loser.
He’d said as much to the suit in the probation office. After all, eighteen months ago he’d sunk low enough to attempt to rob an old lady of her life savings while posing as a telephone repairman. Her son had arrived unannounced at the old lady’s home in Fort Worth, and to compound Chester’s bad luck, the man, a former prize fighter, had beaten Chester very badly. After a stay in hospital he’d spent fourteen months in county jail, where he’d reflected on life and the growing futility of it. However, release had come early and Chester decided it was time for a fresh start. And it was outside the parole office when the cowboy had approached him. Maybe his luck had finally turned a corner.
Now, with five crisp Benjamin’s in his jeans pocket — and the promise of five more — Chester wandered through the South Plains Mall to the IMAX cinema where he purchased a ticket, a bucket of popcorn and a mega-soda before making his way into the movie theatre. They were showing some kind of superhero crap, but Chester didn’t care. He was juiced by the thought of a thousand easy bucks, and as he settled into his seat and tipped a handful of popcorn into his mouth, Chester Stokes wondered what other work the cowboy might have for him.
Ray Wilson climbed out of a cab and headed through the doors of the mall, chased inside by a cold north-easterly wind. Inside, shops and restaurants were busy with the Friday night crowds, and as Ray passed a Tex-Mex restaurant his stomach grumbled with hunger. A freshly-grilled steak would certainly hit the spot. His doctor had advised him to lay off the red meat, but he was in Texas, goddammit. Sometimes exceptions had to be made, so the plan was to persuade his mystery contact to talk over steak and fries. Meeting inside a cinema was an odd thing to do, especially on a busy Friday night. Ray had questions, and tonight he hoped to get some answers.
The letter had promised as much. It had been dropped off at the hotel and hinted at unedited video footage from the Baghdad embassy, of as-yet-undocumented testimony from a civilian eyewitness who’d survived that terrible day and night and wanted to go on the record. Ray was as excited as he was intrigued; all the other testimony had come from military or State Department sources, which naturally would be heavily redacted. This unknown, courageous soul — whoever he or she was — wanted to give an unvarnished account of events. It was Ray’s job to get as much out of the witness as possible.
But Ray had to be careful too. Powerful individuals would do anything to cling to power, and that involved making problems go away. It was why somebody had run a truck over Kelly Novak’s car, why a military helicopter that just happened to be carrying all but one of the Delta survivors had crashed. And why that man had dropped off the grid to save his own life.
All of these thoughts crossed Ray’s mind as he hurried through the mall to the IMAX cinema. He purchased a ticket and made his way inside the dark auditorium. Light flickered across a sea of faces watching the giant screen behind him. Ray scanned the aisle seats in the centre block and saw the guy with the white Dallas Cowboys cap a few rows above him. The man was eating popcorn and watching the screen. Ray gestured to the adjacent seat.
‘Do you mind?’
The man looked up. ‘Are you Ray?’
Ray nodded and the man got up and moved along a seat. Ray sat down next to him. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ he whispered.
‘About what?’
‘Baghdad.’
The man stared at him a moment longer, then reached into his coat pocket. ‘I got an envelope is all.’
Ray took the offered package and felt it in the dark of the theatre. It was padded envelope, and the contents were rectangular and malleable. Ray’s first thought was money.
‘What’s this?’
‘No clue,’ the man shrugged, taking a long slurp of his drink.
‘Hey, you wanna keep the noise down?’
Ray twisted in his seat, saw a young guy behind him, a college-age kid with a square jaw and a pretty girl sat beside him. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ’He leaned in closer to popcorn man. ‘We can’t talk in here. Can we step outside?’
‘You don’t want it?’ the man asked, spitting popcorn crumbs.
‘What’s in it?’
‘The fuck should I know?’
‘I said, shut the hell up. Don’t make me tell you again.’
The kid behind was getting riled. Courtship rituals for the benefit of the girl, Ray figured. He heard her giggle in the darkness.
‘It’s not that simple,’ Ray persisted. ‘I have questions.’
The man snatched the envelope out of Ray’s hand. ‘You don’t want it, fine. Your choice.’
‘Look, this isn’t how it’s done. Whoever’s paying you — ’
‘I’m just the messenger,’ the man hissed. ‘You want the package? It’ll cost you fifty bucks.’
‘Excuse me?’
The man grabbed another handful of popcorn and tipped it into his mouth. ‘You heard me,’ he munched, ‘you want the package, it’s fifty bucks.’
Ray’s heart sank. The mystery phone call and email that had brought him to Texas were genuine, he was convinced of it. The letter delivered to the hotel was also genuine, or so he believed, but the dark and quiet location, plus popcorn guy’s bizarre attitude were ringing serious alarm bells. Ray decided there was only one way to find out if this whole setup was on the level.
‘I think we’re done here.’
‘Whatever,’ the man replied, watching the screen.
Ray hesitated for just a moment, then he stood up and headed for the exit. He lingered out in the foyer for a couple of minutes, just in case the guy took the bait and came after him, but he didn’t show. Ray swore under his breath and walked away.
He decided to go back to the Overton and send an email to his mystery contact, but it felt a little hopeless. Lubbock could be a dead end, he decided. He was no closer to discovering the truth of Baghdad than he was before he’d left DC. He’d been lured to Texas, that much was obvious, so that left only one question that needed an answer.
Why?
Chester’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched the guy get up and leave the theatre. He’d walked away empty-handed too, unwilling to take the package that Chester had most certainly offered him. Instead of a simple hand-off, the guy had complicated matters by asking stupid questions. And who the fuck did he think he was giving Chester Stokes orders? I ain’t in county jail any more, no sir.
He congratulated himself on his quick thinking; the fifty bucks thing was genius, and it had scared the guy off, a stupid move on his part. Because Chester was convinced the envelope contained a brick of money.
His stomach churned with excitement. The cowboy told him he could keep whatever was in it if the guy was a no-show. Well, he’d showed, and he’d also walked away empty-handed. Asshole.
Chester put the empty popcorn container on the floor and slapped his hands clean. He reached inside his coat for the envelope, checking his watch at the same time. It had been almost ten minutes since the guy had left. Long enough.
He kept his eyes on the movie, waiting for the sound to crank up so he could rip open the envelope. He also didn’t want to piss off the kid behind him. He was a big guy, probably some kind of football hero, and the memory of his beating at the hands of a younger, fitter man still lingered.
Up on the giant screen a car barrelled along a city street before flipping over in a crescendo of light, noise and flame. Chester ripped open the package and put his hand inside.
He pulled out another bag, this one smaller and made of thick, clear plastic. There was something dark and rectangular inside. Chester took his door key out of his pocket and sliced open the plastic. He reached inside for the object then yanked his fingers back. They were wet. Motherfucker. He brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed.
It was the last rational thought Chester Stokes would ever have.
He jumped to his feet, his consciousness shutting down as a terrible rage coursed through him. And then the smell hit him, the stench of so many vile creatures all packed together in one —
‘Sit the fuck down, asshole!’
Chester spun around and vomited a stream of barely-digested popcorn across the kid’s face and chest. The thing next to him screamed and Chester grabbed her hair, dragging her over the seat towards him. He ripped fistfuls from her scalp and she screamed in agony, collapsing into the aisle. Chester lifted a foot and crunched his shoe into her mouth before being knocked off his feet by a screaming stinker. Chester scrambled upright and launched himself onto the next row, filled with an insatiable urge to spill blood. There were others behind him now, just like him. He could sense them in the darkness, hear their cries, and was comforted by their proximity, by their rage.
He leapt into the stairwell as hundreds of people stampeded towards the exits, pushing, pulling, crushing the weak and vulnerable. He leapt on backs and ripped faces open with his bare hands. He vomited, bit and screamed.
They didn’t know it, but the violence now being meted out by Chester Stokes and dozens of others far exceeded anything that was being played out on the screen above them.
‘That’s her! And that’s him, that’s Philip!’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Hundred percent. She’s cut her hair, dyed it too, but that’s definitely Marion.’
Mike stared at the screen, at the couple entwined in the departure lounge. The positive ID had taken over three hours. Tapper had interfaced the proprietary facial recognition software into Munich airport’s CCTV system and reran the video feed from the predicted time-frame window. Marion’s photofit had been matched with forty-one potential targets, using identifiers such as skull shape, facial bone structure, measurements between eyes, ears, noses and chins, and a dozen other permutations. The data had been crunched, and the forty-one targets had been whittled down to a dozen, then four, then one.
None of them had been Marion.