Gulf Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  “More?” I asked.

  “If she’s marrying the men, three in seven years, that sounds like she’s acting as a jihadi bride. Getting her home to America means moving her to a jail while they try to sort that all out. She’d be treated like a terrorist.”

  “Sophia Abadi thinks that she might be a slave.”

  “Wait. You took this to Dr. Abadi?”

  “Not this. Well, yes, this in a way. I didn’t give her details about Kaylie. I showed her the read out from Zoe to get cultural information about the names—which I just explained to you—and to see if perhaps Sophia had contacts in the area or could tell me anything from the GPS locations using her unique satellite software. As to the software, she’ll look to see if there’s anything interesting to report. By interesting, I mean does she see anything that sticks out to her about these sites. For example, she said that ISIS often uses slaves to dig at tels to find the conflict relics. She can see if there are excavations that happened that correlate with the dates of the children’s medical assessments.”

  There was a long pause. “We don’t know what they look like. We don’t have fingerprints. Zoe told me that when they were collecting the blood samples, they thought that collecting the fingerprint data would scare people away, and the blood would be a far more useful tool.”

  Sophia had pointed out the same thing, that we had no easy way to tell which children Kaylie’s kids were. I didn’t know if the children were together or separate. I didn’t know if the people who were raising the children loved them and wanted them or were exploiting them, or something in between.

  I didn’t even know if they were still alive.

  But I had a solution to identifying them.

  “That’s why I suggested boots in the area, if we had rapport, perhaps they would just tell the truth. Or…we could test the children.”

  “DNA will take too long and would be cost prohibitive if there are many of the right gender in the right age ranges.” Prescott’s voice was still a tight fist. The air barely made it up his throat. It sounded like he was swallowing his thoughts.

  “Granted. But let’s go back to Zoe Kealoha and your affiliation with her.”

  He jumped right in line with my thoughts. “The prototype I was supposed to test for Zoe?”

  “Exactly. She developed a device that can do a field rule in-rule out when it comes to familial blood markers. And I have the vial of Melody Foley’s blood in my cooler. The problem being, even though it’s Zoe’s invention, the CIA and DARPA might have something to say about it being out in the field. They’ll want to make sure that there’s no way that it could land in enemy hands. If our enemies get hold of it, and get a look at the software, that puts the BIOMIST data base collection at risk. And too, it puts the Middle Eastern population at risk. I was just reading an article about this. Do you remember when they sent that medical team in to try to vaccinate the kids whom they thought might be Osama bin Laden’s children?”

  “When they hoped to get blood draws and test it on Zoe’s machine, yes.”

  “Apparently in city centers throughout the region, parents are tepid about getting their children immunized because they think America is up to something that might endanger their kids. Without their immunizations, childhood diseases are becoming regional epidemics.”

  “But that doesn’t effect BIOMIST because they’re working out in the rural areas?”

  “They collect everywhere there are people. The parents are right to think that something’s going on, just not the something that they might suppose.”

  “Going back to what you were saying, I can’t imagine the analyzer being allowed out in the field.”

  “Unless it’s you who takes it there.”

  Silence met that statement.

  One hand on the steering wheel, I chewed on my other thumb nail.

  The silence was too sharp edged. I started packing words into the empty space. “If Zoe rigged the analyzer with a remote detonator or some such apparatus,” I suggested. “It could be a call-in number, a timer, some other triggering event… The machine has its own power source. Zoe could retrofit the machine to self-sabotage.”

  His breath came out in a rush. I could imagine him rubbing his hand over his face while he processed. “All right,” he said. “I have to go talk to Zoe about this. If she agrees, I’ll take it up the ladder for permission, get my team together, and head into the field.”

  “How long would it take to rig the system? I’m asking because I think it’s important for you to leave right away. Thinking this can be slow rolled because the kids are probably okay might be a mistake for this reason, Kaylie’s timer’s ticking. Having you and your team already in country, looking for the children, would put you that much closer if we get actionable data on Kaylie.”

  “True.”

  “It’s an argument in case the signatures you need aren’t forthcoming. On the subject of the analyzer and the safety system, I know there are flash drives that if you put the code in wrong three times, it will release an acid to melt the data. Zoe has an acid system in her WASPs on a micro level. She should know what to do.”

  “It’s four-thirty—”

  I glanced down at the clock on my dash. “She’ll be gone for the day. Zoe said she had a personal thing to get to at four. She’s usually in her lab by six every morning to miss the traffic. If you were standing there looking all puppy-dog eyed, I bet she’d help.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think that there’s any particular look that I could give Zoe that would motivate her in one way or another. But her knowing an innocent woman was in trouble and that we needed to save her kids, she’d at least try.”

  “Do we know Kaylie’s innocent?” I asked, pulling up to the guardhouse at Iniquus and lifting my badge.

  My question was met with silence.

  After getting a nod, the gate lifted. I pulled into a parking space in front of the atrium door. I had hoped to get back to Iniquus before now, I wanted to talk to someone over on Panther Force. Margot if possible. I had a theory that I needed to scratch off my page.

  Since my question to Prescott had been rhetorical and cautionary, I continued, “Will you be okay getting cleared for a trek to Iraq?” I asked Prescott.

  “Even if I’m green-lighted on taking in the blood marker analyzer, I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as driving up to a house, putting a child into a Jeep, and heading home.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Walking to the end of the hall that housed Panther Force, I knocked on Margot’s office door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  I popped the door open a crack and stuck my head in. “Do you have time for a three-minute question?”

  She waved me in. “What’s up?”

  Margot was an ex-CIA field operative. Why she left, I had no clue. She seemed to like to keep her head down. She was friendly but didn’t share anything personal. I’m sure that served her well in the spy-world. Here on Panther Force, she made things hum. No task too small, no challenge too big. She was a team player all the way.

  I pushed the door shut. “I’m working on a case, and I’m trying to scratch possibilities off a laundry list.” I moved to one of the two padded chairs positioned in front of her desk.

  She leaned back in her seat, lacing her fingers and letting her hands rest on her chest, thumbs pointing up. This was a body gesture display of self-restraint and dominance, which is exactly what I would expect from Margot. She had the expertise under her belt, but she’d mete it out carefully.

  “Black ops,” I said.

  She tucked her thumbs. Not a subject she was willing to talk about.

  “Specifically, the Rex Deus and how their members went from the land of the living to disappeared into the world of black ops.”

  She moved her hands to the arms of her chair. Okay, she was a little more open to this. “The Rex Deus is a group who are working together for some outcome that we have yet to define,” she said. “What we do know is
that some of the members were involved in Israeli special forces.”

  “There was an explosion.” I leaned forward. “Everyone was listed as killed in action. If the explosion took place, and there was no DNA evidence to support the theory of their death, wouldn’t they be listed as missing in action, presumed dead or some such thing?”

  “Not if the government was complicit in disappearing the group.”

  “Would it have to be the government?”

  “It could be insiders who worked for the military who framed things up. But someone had to help them.”

  “And there was also your Mossad counterpart who was in Paris back when you were with CIA. She was in a building that exploded and was deemed killed in action. But she was alive and well. She was also doing black ops. Did she join with Rex Deus?”

  “She didn’t have the Rex Deus tattoo on her arm when Thorn saw her. But we don’t know what the tattoo is all about. So her not having it doesn’t mean anything. Thorn did put a Rex Deus member to sleep in the men’s bathroom in Belgium. That guy woke up and moved on before we could get Interpol involved.”

  “But you thought this woman was dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “In an explosion.”

  “Yes.” She pulled her brow tight. “Is this about a contract you’re working on?”

  “The contract I’m working on involves an FBI, CIRG team. They thought a woman was dead. It looks like she’s not. Obviously, no body.”

  “And you think she faked her death?”

  “No.” I scratched my nose. “I don’t know what to think. I guess the question came up for me because this woman is a scientist, and she was in Tanzania a while back. I thought about Randy. Sometimes my brain just picks a thread here and there and I try to make whole cloth out of it. Working on this case about a scientist, having ties to Tanzania, and I think there was a Rex Deus who was killed in that attack.”

  “Yes.”

  “There seems to be some overlap. But there’s seven years between these events. I guess I’m trying to rule-in and rule-out possibilities. And one of them could be that the missing woman wanted to vanish. Like I said, I’m checking this possibility off my list—the black-ops. In order for someone to disappear into the shadow world, I suppose they’d have something under their belt, training-wise that would give them some tradecraft and survival skills. CIA, Mossad, Special ops. Something.”

  “Almost certainly.”

  I paused to consider why the men had to go through the subterfuge of the explosion. It must mean that they had family and friends who needed to believe they had died. I couldn’t get past the selfishness of it. The meanness. What a terrible thing to do to someone.

  Surely, those family members and even their friends spent sleepless nights wondering about their loved one’s last moments and what it felt like to be in that explosion.

  Melody Foley’s graphic description of her nightmares still clung to my imagination. The hot breath of the animal, the sharpness of the teeth sinking in…

  That attack never happened; Kaylie wasn’t killed or eaten by wild beasts.

  Seven years of those nightmares. Not to say that nightmares weren’t warranted. Just to say that they should probably have taken a different form.

  Warranted…that was an interesting thought I’d bubbled up.

  I wondered what Avril would make of that in a therapy session.

  Did I think my own nightmares were a requirement of my situation? Did I find it reasonable to assume that—animals or not—Kaylie’s falling off the radar screen would necessitate nightmares that tortured her family, as well?

  Hearing about Melody’s sleepless nights, seeing her in such distress, normalized my own situation for me. That was probably another thing I should bring up in counseling.

  I sighed heavily.

  Margot pressed her lips together and canted her head. “Lynx, are you all right?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You don’t look well. You look like you’re not getting enough sleep. You seem off somehow. I’m asking as a friend. You have me worried.”

  I reached up and scratched beside my eye, letting my gaze stray to the abstract painting on the wall. Well this was the second time today someone basically said I looked like shit. I didn’t know what to say to Margot. I hoped she didn’t think I was so off my game that I wasn’t functioning. I focused back on her with a forced smile. “I’ve been worried about my Abuela Rosa. I’m going down to Puerto Rico tomorrow night to check on her. I’m taking a long weekend.” I stood. “Working weekend. This gal is in the wind and in imminent danger. But I’ve gone as far as I can. Now, I have to wait to get information in house.”

  Margot stood as well, keeping us on the same level.

  I knew that psychological trick. You don’t let the power shift by allowing someone to look down at you.

  “You’re approaching the anniversary of Angel’s death.” Margot nodded as if this was all the explanation she needed about my state of mind. “I think it’s a good idea that you’ll be with his family. I’ll light a candle for you when I get back to the barracks.”

  “Thank you.” Emotions pressed against my eyes, making them water. I turned to leave so Margot wouldn’t see the frown that tugged my lips.

  “I hope you find her, the woman who’s in imminent danger,” Margot said, as my hand caught the doorknob.

  I got my face under control and looked back over my shoulder. “Thank you. So do I. One other question, do you know a CIA operative working in Syria and Northern Iraq named John Grey?”

  Her body froze as I tipped open this new box.

  This was the actual purpose of me coming here. I just wanted it to come when she would least expect it so I could read her body language. “I need to get in touch with him about this case. Can you facilitate that?”

  She sat down.

  “It’s an Iniquus case.” No kidding. But I wanted Margot to remember she wasn’t CIA any more, and we use our knowledge, wherever and however we accrued it, to get positive outcomes to our directives.

  It worked.

  She laced her fingers, a sign that she wanted to hold that information caged. “I need to make a phone call.”

  I nodded and let myself out.

  As I walked back to the elevator bank, horror energy swirled around me. Kaylie’s case seemed to be one big fat energetic trigger, fuel for the fire that I was already battling in my own psyche. It occurred to me that the exhaustion that I felt from my own shit-mares, might make me more porous energy-wise.

  I wondered if I hadn’t picked up this desperation energy from Melody Foley. The way she looked this morning in the conference room with Kaylie’s picture in hand was exactly how I felt.

  What I needed to do was go meditate and ground out some of these sensations. I obviously wasn’t masking them very well, since people were casting worried eyes my way.

  So much for my fluffy bunny charade.

  Just as I pushed the elevator button to go down to the lobby and head to the men’s barracks that housed Striker’s apartment, I heard it again, the knowing: “As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Striker’s apartment at the men’s barracks was an oasis. The floor to ceiling window that created one of the living room walls made this room feel like a tree fort by day with the glittering Potomac River below. At night, it was a symphony of lights from the cars moving on the Washington streets and above them the stars.

  Tonight, as the storm raged outside, I had a gas fire snapping in the stone fireplace, flanked by shelves of books. The wisdom of history, the strength shown through memoires, and the glory of art were all there, should I have the time and interest.

  My task this evening, though, was to gather more information about the possibilities of Kaylie’s circumstances.

  Beetle and Bella, my faithful Dobermans, lay beside me as I rested my head on the arm of the leather couch and pulled my knees up. My computer
stationed on my stomach. My fingers hovered over the keys.

  Angel was in my mind, distracting me. “Please come. Please help me.”

  I had spoken with a priest up at the National Cathedral on Saturday about how to help a soul that had gone to Hell. The priest said they could perform a mass in Angel’s name, but if his soul had gone to Hell there wasn’t really anything that could be done. Did I want to talk about the circumstances of my husband’s being rejected from Heaven? Did I want to save my own soul through penance?

  I had explained that I wasn’t Catholic, and Hell wasn’t part of my belief system.

  The priest thought maybe those beliefs had landed my husband down with the Devil. After all, Angel wasn’t supposed to marry a non-Catholic with a different belief system.

  “We had received special permission in order to be married,” I explained. One of the reasons our marriage had been held up until the afternoon before Angel left.

  “Your marriage is not the reason your husband went to Hell, then.”

  “I would say not.” No, in my mind, it was Angel’s own after-life beliefs that had created and sustained his Hell. And as I relived Saturday’s conversation with Father Paul, it occurred to me that I might have a solution to helping Angel’s soul.

  Granted, it was a paradigm stretch. But, honestly, over the last few years, what wasn’t?

  Since the priest hadn’t been able to help, I thought about who else I could turn to for information, a plan.

  Then I landed on Herman Trudy, General Coleridge, and Galaxy.

  Last year, Iniquus had been under attack. It was then that I discovered the United States military’s Galaxy Project.

  Talk about a mind blower!

  Even experiencing my own psychic skills, and those of Miriam, and even my Strike Force brother Gator Aid Rochambeau, this group still did things that made me question all assumptions about how the Universe worked.

  The Galaxy project was developed by the US government in response to the research that Russia was doing into psychic spying. Our own system of psychic spying, known under the scientific term “Remote Viewing,” was developed by Stanford University. Our government tasked the Pentagon to develop the program. A military team was composed and trained using Stanford’s scientific protocol and methodology. They officially disbanded in the mid-1990s, but there were rumors that it continued on as black ops.