The Atlantis Trilogy Box Set- The Complete Series

by A. G. Riddle

  As with the attack in Cape Town, no one has claimed responsibility for the attack in Mar del Plata.

  “It’s very concerning that we have no idea who’s involved,” said Richard Bookmeyer, a Professor at American University. “Based on the initial reports, if either the victims or the perpetrators of the attacks are part of a terrorist network… it would indicate a level of sophistication not currently thought possible by any known terror entity. It’s either a new actor or a significant evolution of an existing group. Both scenarios would require re-examining what we think we know about the global terrorism landscape.”

  We will update this story as details unfold.

  9

  Clocktower Station HQ

  Jakarta, Indonesia

  David was studying a map of Jakarta and Clocktower’s safe houses around the city when the surveillance tech walked in. “He’s here.”

  David folded the map up. “Good.”

  Josh Cohen walked toward the nondescript apartment building that housed Clocktower’s Jakarta Station Headquarters. The buildings around it were mostly abandoned—a mix of failed housing projects and dilapidated warehouses.

  The sign on the building read “Clocktower Security, Inc.,” and to the outside world, Clocktower Security was just one of a growing number of private security firms. Officially, Clocktower Security offered personal protection and bodyguard services to corporate executives and high-value foreign nationals visiting Jakarta, as well as private investigation services when local law enforcement was “less than cooperative.” It was the perfect cover.

  He entered the building, walked down a long hallway, opened a heavy steel door, and approached the shiny silver elevator doors. A panel beside the doors slid back, and he placed his hand on the reflective surface and said, “Josh Cohen. Verify my voice.”

  A second panel opened, this one level with his face, and a red beam scanned up and down while he held his eyes open and head still.

  The elevator dinged, opened, and began carrying Josh to the building’s middle floor. The elevator ascended silently, but Josh knew that elsewhere in the building a surveillance tech was reviewing a full body scan of him, verifying he had no bugs, bombs, or otherwise problematic items. If he was carrying anything, the elevator would fill with a colorless, odorless gas and he’d wake up in a holding cell. It would be the last room he’d ever see. If he passed, the elevator would take him to the fourth floor—his home for the last three years and the Jakarta headquarters of Clocktower.

  Clocktower was the world’s secret answer to state-less terror: a state-less counterterrorism agency. No red tape. No bureaucracy. Just good guys killing bad guys. It wasn’t quite that simple, but Clocktower was as close as the world would ever get.

  Clocktower was independent, apolitical, anti-dogmatic, and most importantly, extremely effective. And for those reasons, the intelligence services of nations around the world supported Clocktower, despite knowing almost nothing about it. No one knew when it had started, who directed it, how it was funded, or where it was headquartered. When Josh had joined Clocktower three years ago, he had assumed he would get answers to those questions as a Clocktower insider. He had been wrong. He had risen through the ranks quickly, becoming Chief of Intelligence Analysis for Jakarta Station, but he still knew no more about Clocktower than the day he’d been recruited from the CIA’s Office of Terrorism Analysis. And they seemed to want it that way.

  Within Clocktower, information was strictly compartmentalized among the independent cells. Everyone shared intel with Central, everyone got intel from Central, but no cell had the big picture or insight into the larger operation. And for that reason, Josh had been shocked to receive an invitation six days ago to a sort of summit meeting for the chief analysts of every Clocktower cell. He had confronted David Vale, the Jakarta station chief, asking him if this was a joke. He’d said that it wasn’t and that all the directors had been made aware of the meeting.

  Josh’s shock at the invitation was quickly trumped by the revelations at the conference. The first surprise was the number of attendees: two hundred and thirty-eight. Josh had assumed Clocktower was relatively small, with maybe fifty or so cells in the world’s hot spots, but instead, the entire globe was represented. Assuming each cell was the size of Jakarta Station—about fifty agents—there could be over ten thousand people working in the cells, plus the central organization, which had to be at least a thousand people just to correlate and analyze the intel, not to mention coordinate the cells.

  The organization’s scale was shocking—it could be almost the size of the CIA, which had around twenty thousand total employees when Josh worked there. And many of those twenty thousand worked in analysis in Langley, Virginia, not in the field. Clocktower was lean—it had none of the CIA’s bureaucracies and organizational fat.

  Clocktower’s special ops capabilities likely dwarfed that of any government on Earth. Each Clocktower cell had three groups. One third of the staff was case officers, similar to the CIA’s National Clandestine service; they worked undercover in actual terror organizations, cartels, and other bad-guy-run groups, or in places where they could develop sources: local governments, banks, and police departments. Their goal was Human Intelligence (HUMINT)—first-hand intel.

  Another third of each cell worked as analysts. The analysts spent the vast majority of their time on two activities: hacking and guessing. They hacked everyone and everything: phone calls, emails, texts. They combined that Signals Intelligence, or SIGINT, with the HUMINT and any other local intel, and transmitted it to Central. Josh’s chief responsibilities were to make sure Jakarta Station maximized its intelligence gathering and to draw conclusions about the intel. Drawing conclusions sounded better than guessing, but his job essentially came down to guessing and making recommendations to the station chief. The station chief, with counsel from Central, then authorized local operations, which were conducted by the cell’s covert operations group—the last third of the staff.

  Jakarta’s covert ops group had developed a reputation as one of Clocktower’s leading strike teams. That status had afforded Josh something of a celebrity status at the conference. Josh’s cell was the de facto leader of the Asia-Pacific region and everyone wanted to know what their tricks of the trade were.

  But not everyone was star-struck with Josh—he was glad to see many of his old friends at the conference. People he had worked with at the CIA or liaised with from other governments. It was incredible; he had been communicating with people he had known for years. Clocktower had a strict policy: every new member got a new name, your past was destroyed, and you couldn’t reveal your identity outside the cell. Outbound phone calls were voice-altered by computer. In-person contact was strictly forbidden.

  A face-to-face meeting—with every chief analyst of every cell—shattered that veil of secrecy. It went against every Clocktower operating protocol. Josh knew there must be a reason—something extremely compelling, and extremely urgent—to take the risk, but he never would have guessed the secret Central revealed at the conference. He still couldn’t believe it. And he had to tell David Vale, immediately.

  Josh walked to the front of the elevator and stood close to the doors, ready to make a beeline for the station chief’s office.

  It was nine A.M., and Jakarta Station would be in full swing. The analysts’ pit would be lit up like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, with analysts crowded around banks of monitors pointing and arguing. Across the floor, the door to the field ops prep room would be wide open and likely full of operatives getting ready for the day. The late arrivals would be standing in front of their lockers, donning their body armor quickly and stuffing extra magazines in every pocket on their person. The early risers usually sat around on the wood benches and talked about sports and weapons before the morning briefings, their camaraderie interrupted only by the occasional locker-room prank.

  It was home, and Josh had to admit that he had missed it, although the conference was rewardin
g in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Knowing he was part of a larger community of chief analysts, people who shared the same life experiences as him, people who had the same problems and fears as he did, was surprisingly comforting. In Jakarta, he was head of analysis, he had a team that worked for him, and he answered only to the station chief; but he had no real peers, no one to really talk to. Intelligence work was a lonely profession, especially for the people in charge. It had certainly taken its toll on some of his old friends. Many had aged well beyond their years. Others had become hardened and distant. After seeing them, Josh had wondered if he would end up that way. Everything had a price, but he believed in the work they were doing. No job was perfect.

  As his thoughts drifted back from the conference, he realized the elevator should have opened by now. When he turned his head to look around, the elevator lights blurred, like a video in slow motion. His body felt heavy. He could hardly breathe. He reached out to grab the elevator rail, but his hand wouldn’t close; it slipped off, and the steel floor rushed up.

  10

  Interrogation Room C

  West Jakarta Police Detention Center

  Jakarta, Indonesia

  Kate’s head was killing her. Her body ached. And the police had been no help at all. She had woken up in the back of a police car, and the driver had refused to tell her anything. Things had only gotten worse once she reached the police station.

  “Why won’t you listen to me? Why aren’t you out there looking for those two boys?” Kate Warner stood, leaned over the metal table and stared at the smug little interrogator who had already wasted twenty minutes of her time.

  “We are trying to find them. That is why we are asking you these questions, Miss Warner.”

  “I already told you, I don’t know anything.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” The little man tilted his head from side to side as he said the words.

  “Maybe, my ass. I’ll find them myself.” She stepped toward the steel door.

  “That door is locked, Miss Warner.”

  “So unlock it.”

  “Not possible. It must be locked while a suspect is questioned.”

  “Suspect? I want a lawyer, right now.”

  “You are in Jakarta, Miss Warner. No lawyer, no call to the American Embassy.” The man continued looking down, picking dirt off his boots. “We have many foreigners here, many visitors, many people who come here, who do not respect our country, our people. Before, we fear American Consulate, we give them lawyer, they always get away. We learn. Indonesians are not as stupid as you think, Miss Warner. That is why you do your work here, is it not? You think we are too stupid to figure out what you are up to?”

  “I’m not up to anything. I’m trying to treat autism.”

  “Why not do that in your own country, Miss Warner?”

  Kate would never, in a million years, tell this man why she had left America. Instead she said, “America is the most expensive place in the world to conduct a clinical trial.”

  “Ah, then it is about the cost, yes? Here in Indonesia, you can buy babies to experiment on?”

  “I haven’t bought any babies!”

  “But your trial owns these children, does it not?” He turned the file around and pointed at it.

  Kate followed his finger.

  “Miss Warner, your trial is the legal guardian of both of these children—of all one hundred three—is it not?”

  “Legal guardianship is not ownership.”

  “You use different words. So did the Dutch East India Corporation. Do you know of it? I am sure you do. They used the word colony, but they controlled Indonesia for over two hundred years. A corporation controlled my country and its people, and they treated us as their property, taking what they wanted. In 1947, we finally got our independence. But the memory is still raw for my people. A judge will see this as just the same. You did take these children, did you not? You said it yourself, you did not pay for them. And I see no record of the parents. They gave no consent to the adoption. Do they even know you have their children?”

  Kate stared hard at him.

  “I thought so. We are getting somewhere now. It is best to be honest. One last thing, Miss Warner. I see that your research is funded by Immari Jakarta—Research Division. It is probably only coincidence… but very unfortunate… Immari Holdings purchased many of the assets of the Dutch when they were driven out sixty-five years ago… so the money for your work came from…”

  The man stuffed the pages in the folder and stood, as if he were an Indonesian Perry Mason making his closing argument. “You can see how a judge might see this, Miss Warner. Your people leave, but return with a new name and continue to exploit us. Instead of sugarcane and coffee beans in the 1900s, now you want new drugs, you need new guinea pigs to experiment on. You take our children, run experiments you could not run in your own country, because you will not do this to your own children, and when something goes wrong—maybe a child gets sick or you think the authorities will find out—you get rid of these children. But something goes wrong. Maybe one of your technicians cannot kill these children. He knows it is wrong. He fights back, and he is killed in the struggle. You know the police will come, so you make up this story about the kidnapping? Yes. You can admit this; it will be better. Indonesia is a merciful place.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “It is the most logical story, Miss Warner. You give us no alternative. You ask for your lawyer. You insist we release you. Think about how this looks.”

  Kate stared at him.

  The man stood and made for the door. “Very well, Miss Warner. I must warn you, what follows will not be pleasant. It is best to cooperate, but of course, you clever Americans always know best.”

  11

  Immari Corp. Research Complex

  Outside Burang, China

  Tibet Autonomous Region

  “Wake up, Jin, they’re calling your number.”

  Jin tried to open his eyes, but the light was blinding. His roommate, Wei, huddled over him, whispering something in his ear, but Jin couldn’t make it out. In the background, a booming voice called over the loudspeaker, “204394, report immediately. 204394, report immediately. 204394. 204394. Report.”

  Jin leapt out of the small bed. How long had they been calling him? His eyes darted left and right, searching the three-meter-by-three-meter cell. Where were his pants and shirt? Please, no—if he was late and forgot his outfit, they would kick him out for sure. Where were they? Where—? Wei sat on the opposite bunk, holding up the white cloth pants and shirt. Jin snatched them and pulled them on, almost ripping the pants.

  Wei stared at the floor. “Sorry, Jin, I was asleep too. I didn’t hear.”

  Jin wanted to say something, but there wasn’t time. He ran out of the room and down the hall. Several of the cells were empty and most had only one occupant. At the door to the wing, the orderly said, “Arm.”

  Jin held out his arm. “204394.”

  “Quiet,” the man said. He waved a handheld device with a small screen over Jin’s arm. It beeped and the man turned his head and yelled, “That’s it.” He opened the door for Jin. “Go ahead.”

  Jin joined about fifty other “residents.” Three orderlies escorted them to a large room with several long rows of chairs. The rows were separated by tall, cubicle-like walls. The chairs looked almost like reclining beach chairs. Beside each chair, a tall silver pole held three bags of clear liquid, each with a tube hanging down. On the other side of each chair stood a machine with more readouts than a car dashboard. A bundle of wires hung from the bottom and was tied off on the right chair rail.

  Jin had never seen anything like it. It never happened like this. Since he had arrived at the facility six months ago, the daily routine had rarely changed: breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the exact same times, always the same meals; after each meal, blood draws from the valve-like device they had implanted in his right arm; and sometimes, exercise in the afternoon, monitored by electrodes on hi
s chest. The rest of the time, they were confined to the three-meter-by-three-meter cells, with two beds and a toilet. Every few days or so they took a picture of him with a big machine that made a low droning sound. They were always telling him to lie still.

  They showered once per week, in a large, coed group shower. That was by far the worst part—trying to control the urges in the shower. During his first month, a couple was caught fooling around. No one ever saw them again.

  Last month, Jin had tried to stay in his cell during shower time, but they had caught him. The supervisor had stormed into his cell. “We’ll kick you out if you disobey again,” he had said. Jin was scared to death. They were paying him a fortune, an absolute fortune. And he had no other options.

  His family had lost their farm last year. No one could afford the taxes on a small farm anymore; a larger farm, maybe. Land values were skyrocketing, and the population was swelling throughout China. So his family did what many other farm families had done: sent their oldest for work in the city while the parents and younger children held on.

  His older brother found work in a factory making electronics. Jin and his parents visited him a month after he started. The conditions were much worse than here, and the work was already taking its toll—the strong, vibrant, twenty-one-year-old man who had left his family’s farm looked to have aged twenty years. He was pale, his hair was thinning, and he walked with a slight stoop. He coughed constantly. He said there had been a bug at the factory and everyone in his barracks had gotten it, but Jin didn’t believe him. His brother gave his parents the little money he had saved from his salary. “Just think, in five to ten years, I’ll have enough to buy us another farm. I’ll come home and we’ll start again.” They had all acted very excited. His parents had said they were so proud of him.