by J D Ventura
Try as she might, all Claire could remember from the funeral service were those stolen glances, the staring. She didn’t remember the coffin’s slow descent into the ground, or one of the men from the funeral home slipping on the wet AstroTurf that surrounded the open grave. She couldn’t recall throwing a white rose on the casket or her young cousin, Ricky, running back to the funeral director’s car to get her mother a small lawn chair to sit on, because people were concerned she would faint in the summer heat, having not eaten in days.
No, the day her sister was buried had been erased, like a sandcastle at high tide. All that remained were the stares and her mother’s words, whispered into her ear as she hugged her in front of the gathering, everyone touched by Evie’s attempts to comfort her surviving daughter.
“You could have saved her,” she growled, like an injured animal, snapping at her own wound. “You could have.”
Claire tried to respond to her now. She wasn’t sure if the words were just in her head or coming out of her mouth. “Mother, I held on as long as I could. I held on. I held on. I held on.”
“Okay, Mommy isn’t here, sweetheart,” Martin was saying, as he and Dylan hoisted Claire into the back of a black SUV. “Just lie down, Claire, and take a nap. We’ll explain everything when you wake up.”
“I’m sorry, Mommy,” said Claire.
“I know you are,” Martin said. “I forgive you. Now go to sleep.”
The first thing Claire saw when she opened her eyes was a simple blue bedside lamp on a cheap IKEA nightstand. She was lying on an unfamiliar mattress, still in her black dress. The satin ribbons of her high heeled shoes trailed out from underneath the bed, which was covered by a thin salmon-colored quilt. The room had nothing hanging on the walls, which were painted baby blue. Through the room’s open doorway, she saw a small green couch and a television. Martin was sitting on the sofa, watching CNN. When he noticed she was awake, he sighed, pushed off from his knees into a standing position and walked slowly toward her, holding the small of his back.
“How do you feel?” he asked, resting one shoulder on the door frame.
“Like someone drugged me, asshole,” she said. “Did you drug me?”
“’Fraid so, Claire. If we hadn’t you would have made a scene last night, maybe called the D.C. police, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.”
“So you kidnapped me?”
“It’s not kidnapping when we do it, Claire.”
“Oh really, then what do you call it?” she asked, sitting up in bed.
“Claire, we need your help,” he said, walking into the room now. He grabbed a small metal desk chair from the corner, spun it around, and straddled it with his arms folded on its back.
“You know, Jessica, I am sure, is worried sick about me,” she said, scanning the room for her purse or cell phone. “She has probably called the police by now.”
“We texted her, well, you texted her, technically. We used your phone. Anyway, she thinks you heard from Sam and you headed back to West Virginia last night to meet him.”
“And my car?”
“We’ve taken care of that already.”
“Where am I?” she asked, swinging both her feet over the edge of the bed and attempting to stand. The entire room tilted to the left and she felt a pang of pronounced nausea. “Is this some secret bunker?”
Martin laughed. “No, it’s a semi-furnished apartment in Georgetown. Secret bunker? You’re funny.”
“Well, I’m glad I amuse you,” said Claire. “Can I have some water?” Martin just stared at her, evaluating the authenticity of the request.
“Sure,” he said, walking slowly to the open kitchen just behind the television. His back to her, he shouted, “Claire…”
“Yes,” she said.
“Full disclosure. I’m armed, okay?”
She sat in silence, except for the sound of water filling a glass. He walked back to her and handed her the drink, which she took a sip of before shakily placing it on the nightstand.
“So, how am I helping you,” she said, trying her best to not sound scared. She squeezed the fingers of her left hand with those of her right to stop them from shaking. Her wedding band pushed painfully into her pinky and middle fingers.
“Okay, I’m going to leave out some details, partly because some of them are classified and partly because there are some things we don’t know.”
“Okay,” she said.
“All right. Your husband made an unprecedented discovery at work,” he said.
“What exactly did he discover?” she asked.
“Do you know what the AX9 satellite is? Did he ever mention that to you?”
“No,” she said. “He really tried not to discuss his work, as I said.”
“Okay, well, it’s a classified mission anyway, so that’s good that he didn’t mention it.” He smiled at Claire, who did not smile back. “Okay, so, I have clearance to share some details of this with you, so here goes. The AX9 was a satellite sent into space by the United States government some fifty years ago. It was done in absolute secrecy. And it had a very specific mission and destination. To explore a part of the solar system from which a series of very fuzzy radio transmissions had originated several years earlier.”
“I don’t understand what this has to do with Sam. He wasn’t even alive 50 years ago,” Claire said, contemplating escape as her head began to finally clear.
“Claire, please, let me explain. So, like I said, listening devices on Earth had picked up radio transmissions from – okay, forgive the Star Wars reference here – a galaxy far, far away.”
Claire groaned. “Is this a joke? I am beginning to think I am on some bad reality TV show.”
“Claire, please. For a decade, these transmissions-”
“Transmissions? Like from little green men?”
“-these transmissions were just indecipherable static. In response, NASA built and launched the AX9. But as time passed, the project was labeled a boondoggle. Administrations came and went and eventually, AX9 was entirely scrapped. Space noise. Nothing more. That was the determination. It was such garbled crap nobody was even listening to what it was sending back….except Sam.”
“What?”
Martin moved from the chair to the foot of the bed. Claire pushed herself away from him, positioning her back against the worn pressed-wood headboard. “When Sam found out about AX9, he reestablished communication with the satellite. The big shots at NASA figured it couldn’t hurt. If Sam wanted a side project, fine. And nobody seemed all that interested in what he was doing. Until-”
“Until what?”
“Until one day your husband emails his boss-”
“Ethan?”
“Yes,” Martin replied. “Ethan Fromholzer. So, Fromholzer gets an email recently from a very excited Sam. Now, I don’t mean for this to upset you Claire, but at this point, Sam’s behavior had become a little erratic, so Fromholzer took all of this with a grain of salt.”
“Okay, but what did the email say?”
“The email said that he had made a ‘major discovery’ related to the AX9 project and he needed to meet with him immediately.”
“So did they meet?”
“No, Sam never showed up to the meeting. When Fromholzer called Sam, Sam said he talked to the director of his department, Gunderson, but he couldn’t remember the conversation. He was distraught and was heading back to West Virginia. Couldn’t recall what he had discovered.”
The limo ride. “Jeopardy.” Sam told me this, too. Claire said nothing. Martin stared at her intently, but she quickly filled the silence by asking, “But Ethan didn’t believe him?”
“He believed Sam genuinely couldn’t remember. He knew about Sam’s dementia, but was surprised it was already so debilitating. Anyway, when Fromholzer had the computer folks at the agency pull all of the data f
low on AX9, it had all been deleted from NASA’s servers, the day before. On the day he was supposed to meet with Fromholzer, but instead allegedly met with Gunderson, Sam localized all the data to his laptop and walked out the door with it.”
“Why would he do that?” Claire asked.
“We don’t know.”
“What does Director Gunderson say?”
“I wish I could tell you that. We can’t find him, either.”
“You can’t find the director of Sam’s division?” said Claire, astonished.
“No, but we have a hunch as to where he might be.”
“So you don’t even know what he discovered?”
“No,” Martin said. “And the link to AX9 has been disabled and none of the engineers at NASA have the slightest idea how to get it back online.”
“I’m so confused,” Claire said. “None of this is making any sense.”
“Claire, we think your husband has come under the influence of foreign agents and they are either planning to purchase or steal the data he took from NASA,” he said. “Something or someone changed his mind from sharing this with the top brass, above Gunderson, who we also suspect is involved. Or his dementia led him to spill the beans, and, when his reasoning returned, he tried to dismiss that email to Fromholzer. Either way, we intend to find out.”
“Foreign agents?”
“Russians, we think,” said Martin, with a shrug, as if he doubted what he was saying.
“And, wait a minute, so, you think someone in my neighborhood is, like, a Russian spy?”
“Essentially, yes,” Martin said. “I know it’s hard to believe.”
“And they are holding Sam hostage?
“Or, and I know this is also not a comforting proposition, he is colluding with a foreign power. Look, at this point, we know he has been calling you and the calls are originating from somewhere within your neighborhood.”
“And, so what the hell am I supposed to do? Ask him to surrender? This sounds like a big misunderstanding. He has early-onset dementia for Christ sakes. He’s not a Russian spy.”
Martin leaned into Claire, balancing himself on his arms, his hands palm-down on the flimsy mattress. “Mrs. Sturgis, we need you to go home, to West Virginia, and help us find your husband. He is not safe right now, and neither are his secrets.”
Chapter 14
The plan was explained to her on the windowless ride back to West Virginia in the back of a nondescript van. Martin drove and she sat next to two of his “colleagues,” Bill and Summer. She had been around D.C. long enough to know Bill was some sort of special ops guy. He was maybe 40, but with a 27-year-old’s body. His massive biceps and broad shoulders made his head look too small for his frame. He wore mirrored sport sunglasses, a blue blazer over an Oxford shirt, and jeans. He looked like a cool high school vice principle, only Claire was 100 percent convinced he was a trained killer who assuredly had a gun strapped somewhere to his athletic physique.
Summer was a younger black woman with her hair pulled back and up into a severe bun. She was petite and of average height but with limbs too lanky and out of proportion in relation to her tiny build. She wore no makeup, but her youthfulness didn’t require any. She was, by any interpretation, a beautiful woman, but beneath that beauty Claire detected a deep sense of purpose and loyalty to her mission. It was Summer who sat alongside Claire on the bench seat, while Bill sat silently behind them, his knee bouncing up and down while he occasionally snapped his gum. Despite Martin and Bill’s reluctance to explain what was next, Summer seemed much more empathetic to how Claire was processing the situation.
On the sidewalk outside of the Georgetown apartment, Claire was reluctant to get in the van – she had thought about running down the street screaming for help, but Summer had assured her “everything will be all right,” and “things will make more sense” after they were explained, which she had offered to do once they were on the road. This is such an obvious case of good cop, bad cop, Claire thought. But Summer was good. It felt authentic, and Claire was so tired of distrusting of everything and everyone at this point, even her own husband, she welcomed even the facsimile of trust.
“So, Claire, it’s my role to get you up to speed as to what’s next,” she said, slapping her palms decisively in her lap, as chirpy and playful as a kindergarten teacher kicking off a sing-along. “I want to go over what the objective is and what your role will be.”
“My role?” As badly as she wanted to find Sam and be done with all of this, she also didn’t want to go deeper than she already was. This felt deep enough. What’s next? Are they going to want you to wear a wire?
“Yes, you’ll have a role to play in what happens next. For starters, Claire, we want you to wear a listening device,” said Summer, pulling a brown leather briefcase from the floor and unlocking its brass latches with an efficient flick of both her thumbs. She retrieved a small, clear plastic box from inside and opened it, as if proposing to Claire. “It’s a crown. You know, for your tooth.”
“My tooth?” Claire said, reflexively touching her cheek. “I don’t think I understand.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Summer. “We used your dental records to ensure it will fit. It should click into place right above your back left molar. I have a special adhesive. It picks up anything within 10 feet, even if your mouth is closed. Don’t worry, you won’t swallow it.”
“I-I-” Claire stammered. “Why, exactly, do I have to wear that? You want me to record Sam?”
Summer put the bug back in the briefcase and sighed, as if she were about to say something very important. She folded her long hands on top of the case, as if to pray.
“Claire, we are pretty convinced you may not see Sam right away. And it’s extremely important for this mission-”
“This is a mission?”
“-extremely important for this mission you not show up back in the Village hysterical and screaming out for Sam in the streets. You need to be calm.”
“Calm? And what does calm look like when my teeth are wired for sound and I have FBI agents-”
“We don’t work for the FBI.”
“Okay, CIA, whatever! I’ll have you three down the street listening to me grind my teeth while I drink chardonnay by the gallon, because that’s all you’ll hear, I promise you.”
Snap. Chew, chew, chew. Snap. Chew, chew, chew. Snap.
“Bill, if you snap that gum one more time, I am going to break your neck with my inner thighs, so help me God, and you know I’m trained to do it,” Summer said, without turning around.
“Mmmm, that sounds fun,” he laughed, giving Martin a chummy wink in the rearview mirror.
“Asshole,” growled Summer, before turning back to Claire. “Claire, we want you to approach Stephanie and Marc.”
Initially Claire was shocked to hear their names come out of Summer’s mouth, but the more she thought about it, the more their involvement in whatever was happening made sense. She hadn’t mentioned the conversation she overheard. Were Stephanie and Marc Russian spies?
Claire decided to play completely dumb with Summer and see how far she could get. “What do Marc and Stephanie Hall have to do with Sam’s…what are we calling it, a disappearance? A kidnapping? That’s how screwed up this all is. You want me to help you, Summer, as if that’s even your real name, but I don’t even know what the hell is happening. If I’m going to be effective on this, this, mission, then you need to start leveling with me as to what you think is actually happening here.”
“Do you remember anything from the night of the party? At the Murrays’?”
Claire had mentioned she had seen Sam off to bed before heading over to the Murray’s party, but she found the non-sequitur jarring, nonetheless. “From early in the night, yes, before the party, but then later, my memory of being at the party is very cloudy. Just bits and pieces. Why?”
&
nbsp; “Only if you’re willing, I’d like to give you a mild sedative and use hypnotherapy to ask you a few questions about that night, about the parts of the night you don’t remember.”
“Shit,” said Claire. “Okay, let’s do it. If you think it will help us find Sam, I’ll do it.”
“Okay, Claire, I want you to put on these sound-canceling headphones and I am going to put on this headset and speak to you through the microphone. It will help you focus if you can’t hear the road noise.” Claire put the headphones on and instantly she could hear nothing except for her own breathing and then, when she turned on the power to her headset, Summer’s breathing.
“Okay, Clarie, can you hear me? That sound level okay?”
Claire nodded yes as she noticed Summer take a syringe out of a small green vanity bag. “Of course it’s a shot, not a pill. Are you guys ever not creepy spy people?”
This elicited a hearty laugh from Bill. Without being asked, Claire rolled up her right sleeve and turned slightly to give Summer the most ideal access to her exposed upper arm. She turned her head just as the needle penetrated her skin. Summer depressed the plunger, pushing the stinging drug into her vein. Instantly every muscle in her body went limp. Claire’s head rolled from her right shoulder to her left, as if her neck had been snapped. Summer pushed Claire’s shoulders down in the seat and positioned her head against the headrest.
“Jesus, you really knocked her out,” said Bill. “She’s full-on Weekend at Bernie’s. I can’t wait to hear this chat.”
“How many cc’s did you give her?” asked Martin. “Remember, that shit is strong.”
“Will you both shut the hell up and let me do my job?” Summer snapped. “She’ll be right where I need her in about 10 minutes. With this stuff, you get the best results if you go deep and get them talking as they start surfacing from it. Too little and they just act silly and become too distracted by their own thoughts.”