Marschenko looked away. “Long enough for my friends to find me,” he said, bolstering himself.
Jones uncrossed his arms and pointed at the ceiling. “This isn’t just a dampening field. I’m using a scatterer too.”
Fear tightened Marschenko’s belly as he looked up at the ceiling. How the hell was he going to get out of this?
“If you’re going to torture me, get on with it. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Jones shook his head slowly. “I told you, I’m not going to torture you. Torture’s not very effective at getting the truth. I need the truth. And I’m not giving you any drugs to loosen your tongue. I know that the nanobots circulating through your bloodstream communicate with the cerebral monitor implanted behind your forehead to prevent truth drugs from taking effect. We both know that too high a dosage could kill you. I don’t want you dead, Jack. I want information. Besides, you’re not to blame. You’re confused by all the meds and propaganda your superiors feed you.”
Marschenko eyed Jones warily. Jones appeared to know a lot about the Elite Ops troopers, stuff he couldn’t have learned from Marschenko’s file.
“Where’s Joshua?”
“You’re not going to get any answers from me.”
“Why keep going back to that strip club, Jack? You got a thing for Lily?”
“You stay away from her.”
“Or what, Jack? What are you going to do to me?”
“You touch one hair on her head and I’ll kill you.”
“Relax, Jack,” Jones said. “I don’t want to hurt Lily. And I’ve got nothing against you personally. You were just following orders. You’re a professional. Like me.”
“Look, Jones, if you believe in God and country, you’ll let me go. I’ll see if I can get you any info on the kid. That’s the truth. But if you keep me here, there’s gonna be hell to pay. Believe it.”
“You want the truth, Jack? I can do anything I want. You’re in my world now. I make the rules. You want to talk about God? I’m God. You can do as I ask or not. It’s all up to you. There’s only one way you’re getting out of here and that’s to tell me everything you know. You may not believe that yet. But you will. It might take a week, or a month. But sooner or later you’ll understand that I’m the only one who can help you.”
Jones stood, walked to the wall, patted it, then faced Marschenko and leaned against it. “This place is well hidden. No one knows about it but me. No one will find you unless I tell them you’re here.”
Jones returned to the center of the floor, where he picked up the Las-pistol, pointed it at Marschenko and slowly pressed the trigger.
Marschenko knew the weapon couldn’t fire but he flinched anyway, closing his eyes as he prepared for the pain.
“Set to your brainwaves and fingerprints,” Jones said. “Useless to anybody else unless it’s reprogrammed.” He reached for the helmet, put it on. It looked absurdly large on him. He shook his head from side to side, the helmet wobbling on his shoulders. In a muffled voice he said, “Roomy.”
He pulled the helmet off, chuckling lightly, then said, “I’d better take this pistol, just in case. But I’ll leave the helmet as a reminder of the life you used to have—the life you can have again if you cooperate. It’s up to you.”
“You got any water?” Marschenko said.
Jones pointed to a small tube hanging from the ceiling. Marschenko had missed seeing it earlier. “There’s nutri-water in there. Just suck on it. Don’t struggle or you could break the tube. Then you’ll be without water. I’ll be back in a few days. By then you’ll be in pain, a lot of pain. Until then the television will let you see what’s happening out there in the world you used to inhabit.”
Jones turned on the television, set it to the 24-Hour Real News Network, where a commentator was explaining how the rise in tensions between the nonreligious Devereauxnians and the Christians, Muslims, Jews and other religious groups was leading to increased civil unrest. Adjusting the volume to a comfortable level, Jones headed for the stairs. He placed a foot on the first tread and looked back.
“Like I said, I figure you were just following orders. If you didn’t kill him, I won’t kill you—unless you don’t talk. Then you die.”
“You won’t kill me,” Marschenko said.
Jones shrugged, then turned away. “So long, Jack.”
Marschenko nearly called out for Jones to wait but he held back and Jones disappeared up the stairs.
Marschenko’s breaths came more quickly. He wanted to scream. Jones was right about the withdrawal. Marschenko could already feel the tingling: a prelude to the pain. Elite Ops troopers who retired were weaned off their medication over a period of months, not days. They never quit cold turkey. Would he even survive the process? Would he want to? He’d heard about a trooper who was captured and held for over a week before being rescued. Poor devil went mad. Would that be his fate?
Even worse, Marschenko was alone. No reassuring voices in his head. No one to talk to. Trapped in a basement just like when his mom got mad at him. The dim light reminded him of the hours he’d spent alone with the rats. He could still hear them scrabbling at the walls, their claws scraping the cement. Just a hallucination. He peered into the corners. Too dark to see. He had to find a way out. Couldn’t wait for the Elite Ops to rescue him. He worked on the bonds, rubbing them back and forth against the rings in the ceiling beams.
Chapter Two
Jeremiah Jones stared at the sentinel camera until he heard the slight click of the door unlocking itself. Then he opened the door and stepped into Elias Leach’s office, where multicolored lights imparted a sunset glow to the room.
Eli stood up from behind his desk, turned to his elderly cleaning lady, Mrs. Harris, and said, “That will be all, Manyara.”
Mrs. Harris muttered something about nonsense and secrets as she shuffled over to her cart. “Leave you two bigshots to ruin the world,” she said as she wheeled the cart out the door, shaking her head.
Eli chuckled as he gestured for Jeremiah to take a seat. “Couldn’t get along without her. Her incessant insults keep me grounded.” Then he moved across the office to a small divan opposite the chair Jeremiah took.
Jeremiah studied him. Forty years older than Jeremiah’s forty-two, Eli stood five-feet, two-inches tall. The hair atop his head had long vanished, leaving only a white fringe around the edges. He’d mentioned once that he chose not to re-grow his hair or his body, though he could have done so quite easily, because he wanted people to know that appearance was unimportant. Yet Jeremiah knew he was sensitive about his height too, rarely standing in the presence of others. Sitting on the sofa he looked almost childlike—certainly not threatening. He loved to cultivate an avuncular air. In conversation, his eyelids often drooped, as if he were half asleep, but Jeremiah knew better than to assume that Eli was ever anything but fully alert. Today he wore a red cardigan and dark brown pants, and sat with his legs crossed, one finger tapping lightly on the arm of the sofa.
He was the most dangerous man Jeremiah had ever met.
He was also the brightest. He ran CINTEP—the Center for International Economic Policy—an independent organization ostensibly working to open free markets worldwide. In reality that was a secondary aim. Under the direction of Elias Leach, CINTEP eliminated dictatorial regimes, fought terrorism, engaged in espionage and developed strategies to ensure the political and economic dominance of America around the globe. Jeremiah had been a field agent—a ghost—then Head of Operations. But after Joshua was kidnapped he worked only haphazardly, as a consultant, while he devoted the bulk of his time to searching for his son. He’d been in and out of uncounted government buildings and databases in the past four years; he’d searched orphanages, shelters and schools; so far he’d found nothing.
“How’ve you been?”
“I’m fine,” Jeremiah answered.
“Have you got Jack Marschenko?”
Jeremiah furrowed his brow. “Marschenko?”
“Come now, Jeremiah. Richard Carlton’s been calling me constantly. Somebody broke into his computer system last month, downloaded archival vid footage and exited the system without leaving a trace as to his whereabouts. He thinks it was you.”
“Why?”
“Carlton claims he finally recovered the footage you were seeking, the feed that was supposedly damaged beyond repair. It puts Marschenko at the park where your son disappeared. He says you’re the only one who was seeking access to it, so you must have been the hacker. He’s furious, wants you arrested.”
Jeremiah shrugged. “He can’t prove anything.”
“I’m worried about you, Jeremiah. Carlton Security runs the Elite Ops. If Richard Carlton decides you had something to do with Marschenko’s disappearance, he’ll sic his troopers on you like the wrath of God. I don’t want to lose my Head of Operations.”
“Former Head of Operations,” Jeremiah corrected him. “I’m still on leave. And the Elite Ops are soldiers. They’ll comply with the rule of law.”
“Marschenko didn’t…if he took Joshua. Listen, Jeremiah, although the Elite Ops are technically government employees, Carlton Security owns all their equipment, all the software. More of the privatization of the military. And with all that hardware in their bodies,” Eli shivered, “all the hormones and proteins and programmed nanobots, who knows how they’ll react to somebody snatching one of their own?”
“What did you tell Carlton?”
“I told that asshole nothing. He stonewalled us for a long time on the vid feed from the park, saying it was damaged beyond repair.”
“I still can’t figure why the Elite Ops took Joshua.”
“I don’t know, Jeremiah. For the last four years I’ve kept my ears open. I’ve checked every source I have for anything that might help locate your son. There’s been no hint of his whereabouts.”
“I appreciate your help,” Jeremiah said. He fought to keep his voice under control. Privately he wondered just how much Eli had done. If Eli cared about Joshua’s disappearance, it was only because of the impact that event had on Jeremiah’s ability to run Operations. All Eli ever concerned himself with was making sure the job got done. Jeremiah shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. No ransom, no demands. Nothing.”
Eli’s hands spread apart. “Maybe Marschenko acted alone.”
Jeremiah got to his feet and began pacing. He took measured breaths. Calming breaths. “Marschenko’s no perv. This wasn’t some random event. Whoever sent Marschenko knew I was a ghost. Somebody with high sources in the government.”
Eli shook his head. “It wasn’t that.”
“How can you be sure?”
“If Joshua’s kidnapping was ordered by someone highly placed, I would know. Jeremiah, please. Stop making yourself crazy. You can’t blame yourself for Joshua’s kidnapping. Sooner or later Marschenko will tell you what he knows. Meanwhile, I have a job for you.”
“What kind of job?”
“A field assignment of vital importance.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Yes.” Eli smiled briefly and gestured for Jeremiah to sit. Jeremiah remained standing. “The President herself will be joining us any moment now.”
“The President’s coming here?”
“She’ll be on projection,” Eli said.
* * *
Jay-Edgar, Eli’s thin, pasty technology expert, opened a channel to the White House. A holo-projection appeared in the semi-darkness, a three-dimensional image of the President of the United States, Angelica Hope. The former actress and professional tennis player wore her famous blond hair up in a bun and what appeared to be silk pajamas under a richly decorated robe. Although she’d only been in office eighteen months, Jeremiah noticed a few more lines on her face. At her right hand sat General Ralph Horowitz, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, still in uniform despite the late hour. Eli shifted on the divan so as to be able to view the projection without turning his neck. Jeremiah settled his chair a few feet away so that he and Eli could be captured by 3-D cameras for the President too. He’d never cared for 3-D projections. They gave him a headache.
The President said, “Elias, it’s good to see you again. I hope you’re doing well.”
“Very well, Madam President,” Eli replied. “This is Jeremiah Jones, my former Head of Operations…and one of the ghosts.”
Jeremiah said, “Madam President.”
“Have we met before, Jeremiah?” the President asked. “You look familiar.”
“No, ma’am,” Jeremiah said. “But I was at your inauguration, providing supplemental security. If you saw me there, you have a most impressive memory.”
The President waved away the compliment. “On to business. Gentlemen, we’re facing a crisis. Our nation’s security—indeed, its very survival—is at stake. I’m not talking strictly about the resurgence of terrorist activity, though that is one aspect of the problem. Nor am I solely concerned with the demand by several states to be allowed to secede: Texas, Minnesota, Vermont. It’s more than that. Not since the Civil War have we as a nation been so divided. Many factors are to blame, and everyone recognizes the need to take action. Since Congress is as fragmented as the rest of the country, I’ve asked Elias to handle the most immediate threat to our nation’s stability and one that could have the most severe long-term consequences.”
“Let me get right to the point, Jeremiah,” Eli said. “We want you to go after Devereaux.”
“Walt Devereaux? Secretary General of the United Nations?”
“The former Secretary General, yes,” Eli said.
Jeremiah glanced at the President, who remained seated, calmly regarding him. At her side, General Horowitz raised one eyebrow as he stared at Jeremiah.
“You want me to kill Walt Devereaux?”
“No, no,” Eli said, holding up his hands to emphasize his point. “We need him alive and unharmed. We believe he’s created a bio-weapon, perhaps a super-virus that could wipe out humanity.”
“That’s crazy,” Jeremiah said. “Devereaux’s always been a man of peace.”
President Hope said, “Devereaux reported to my predecessor, President Davis, that he had formulated weapons of mass destruction. We don’t know whether he actually built them or just put together a blueprint as an intellectual exercise but we want to talk to him before Gray Weiss gets a hold of him.” She used the correct Germanic pronunciation, so Weiss’ last name sounded like vice.
“The Attorney General?” Jeremiah shook his head. It still irked him that Weiss, a close friend of Richard Carlton, had prevented Jeremiah from obtaining a warrant to search Carlton Security’s vid-files. “Why is he involved?”
“Mr. Weiss is a deeply religious man,” the President said. “He’s also extremely ambitious. And he’s been obsessed with Devereaux for a long time—ever since Devereaux published The Ladder, in which he insisted there is no God. Weiss believes that Devereaux is the anti-Christ, and that capturing Devereaux will catapult him to the Presidency.”
“But why is he after Devereaux now?”
“Well, lately Devereaux’s begun discussing the ladder of enlightenment again, as well as the necessary evolution of humanity, which has brought the conservative religious movement to the forefront again. People are angry—on both sides. The level of violence has risen dramatically in the past few months. Some of our analysts are suggesting that Devereaux intends to use his bio-weapon to force the evolution of humanity. And Weiss is attempting to take advantage of that.”
Jeremiah had a sudden insight. “You’re really after Weiss, aren’t you.”
“Yes and no,” the President said. “With the Justice Department largely independent of the White House’s reach, I can’t recall Weiss. However, it’s imperative t
hat Weiss not succeed in arresting Devereaux. You must find Devereaux first.”
“If Devereaux is arrested,” Eli said, “those bio-weapons, should they exist, might be used against the country. He may have given them to the Escala.”
“Ess KOL la?” Jeremiah said. “Who are they?”
“E-s-c-a-l-a,” Eli said. “Spanish for ladder. That’s what they call themselves, though many call them pseudos. They’re actually the Mars Project astronauts—brilliant scientists—and they’ve been enhanced with animal DNA to enable them to survive on Mars. They’re followers of Devereaux, who is their biggest supporter. He wants the Mars Project, dropped by President Davis, to move forward.”
“You’ll be filled in on the Escala later,” the President said. “The point is—up until now we’ve had no reason to believe Devereaux was a threat. But recent electronic intercepts indicate that Devereaux may be plotting to release a deadly bio-weapon soon. And with Weiss planning to arrest him, Devereaux may disperse the virus. Or the Escala might do so. Devereaux is dangerous, and some of his followers are fanatics.”
Jeremiah said, “Just like Weiss and his followers.”
“True,” the President said.
“Our biggest fear,” Eli said, “is that Devereaux manufactured one or more of the bioweapons he designed. He may even have unleashed the virus that wiped out Rochester, Minnesota.”
“The Susquehanna Virus? I thought Susquehanna Sally created that?”
“She claimed responsibility. We have yet to verify that.” Eli closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and said, “Or find her, for that matter. And Devereaux predicted we would face something like the Susquehanna Virus a couple of years before it was released. So we can’t be certain he wasn’t involved in that tragedy.”
“That simply doesn’t sound like Devereaux.”
“I agree,” President Hope said, “but until we speak with him, we won’t know the truth.”
“Jeremiah?” Eli said.
Jeremiah shrugged. He knew there was no alternative but to accept the assignment. He began to miss his old partner, Julianna, who had terminated their partnership with a knife to his belly. Together they’d been the best team CINTEP had ever assembled.
The Susquehanna Virus Box Set Page 2