The Portent Page 6
The prisoner watched him enter and then looked away. The officer took note of the infinity-loop tattoo on her neck and then positioned himself where his frame could block the vertical window slit in the door. He removed his cap from his close-cropped blond hair and put it under his arm, exchanging it with the slender notebook he had brought into the room. He began skimming the contents.
“Comfortable, Ms. Leyden?” he asked dispassionately as he turned a page.
“Where am I?”
“You’re at Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota.”
“I turned myself in. I should be in jail talking to my lawyer. What am I doing on an Air Force base?”
“You’re here because I want you here,” he replied coldly, turning another page. “The charges against you are very serious.”
“Federal jurisdiction doesn’t mean Air Force,” she replied. “I’m not stupid.”
“That depends,” he stated, closing the notebook. “Your case would normally be handled by the FBI, but—unfortunately for you—you’ve endangered national security. You and your boyfriend took something that is of personal interest to me. How smart you are is directly related to whether you decide to be useful.”
“Go to hell! How does stealing a few pieces of mostly indecipherable notes and blueprints endanger national security?”
“That’s for me to decide.”
“I want to see a lawyer.”
“I’m afraid not. And if things get as far as a trial, it will be by military tribunal.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not some terrorist.”
“You’re apparently not familiar with the way the military and Homeland Security define ‘terrorist.’ We’re working together nowadays. It’s a wonderful world of mutual cooperation that enables us to detain ‘domestic extremists’ like yourself.”
“What a pile of crap.”
“My report says you think my employer is a police state. Are you saying you wouldn’t fight us over that quaint piece of paper we call the Constitution?”
“Damn right.”
“Well, there you are. In the eyes of the Justice Department, you’re an extremist. They were forward-thinking enough to include people like you in the guide they published to assist the military and Homeland Security in identifying who we could potentially detain indefinitely under the National Defense Authorization Act. Thanks for making my job easy.”
“Creep. What are you going to do, torture me?” she mocked.
“Perhaps some other time. I’d enjoy that, but I’m in a hurry today,” he said casually, in an almost bored tone. She felt a chill.
“The truth is, after we’re done here, I’ll decide whether to let you go or commit you to an asylum for the rest of your life. A few months in some of the places I could send you would make you wish for a lethal injection.”
Becky stared at him, her mouth open in stunned silence.
“Let me give you some clarity, Ms. Leyden. You’re thinking that the Fargo police or perhaps the FBI know your whereabouts. They don’t. Those two fine institutions of law and order know that the military has taken jurisdiction here. The two FBI agents who transported you from Fargo to the airport believed they were delivering you to a flight to DC. But unbeknownst to them, you wound up on a different plane. They have no idea where you are—and even if they did, they’d know that you can be held in any number of prisons without charges or trial for a very long time once you’re classified an extremist. They’d know it could be years before anyone ever saw you again. Plus, they have their own bloated caseloads to worry about. So you’re already well off the radar.”
“Who the hell are you?” Becky said, her teeth clenched in rage as she tried to keep her wits.
“I’m Colonel Vernon Ferguson, United States Air Force. But perhaps you’re really wondering why I’ve threatened you so transparently?”
Becky said nothing, her chest heaving, her mind overwhelmed with anxiety. Her eyes began to tear up.
“I thought so,” the Colonel taunted her. “Well, between you and me, it’s because you won’t remember any of this conversation an hour from now.” He looked at his watch.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know anything else!” she pleaded.
“There’s always something new to learn. Remember, it would be in your best interest to be cooperative.”
The Colonel opened his notebook again and withdrew several items. He stepped toward the girl.
“While your escapades with the Antarctic documents would be enough to make me eager to chat with you, I’m interested in you for other reasons—three, to be precise. First, my associate, who’s due to arrive here in a few minutes, noticed the particular tattoo on your neck. Second, your file indicates that your father and grandfather both served in the military. These two observations make me suspect you’re one of ours.”
“W-what does that—”
“In a moment. The third reason I’m interested in you concerns where you applied to graduate school. We may have a mutual acquaintance at Georgetown.”
“So what?” she spat, trying to be brave.
“So we’d best get started. Pay attention, please,” the Colonel said condescendingly. “I have three photographs in my hand. Please look at each one carefully.”
Colonel Ferguson held up the first photograph, a black and white portrait of a man in a tweed suit. Becky gazed at it. A slightly dazed expression appeared on her face.
“Now this one.” He slid the first photo behind the others, revealing another black and white photograph. She stared at the image of a World War II German officer in full uniform. Her eyes began to water. Saliva dripped from her mouth.
“And finally …” The last photograph was of a civilian man wearing a white lab coat. Becky wretched violently. The Colonel jumped backward toward the door to avoid the ejections of vomit that spewed from her throat and splattered onto the cold, hard floor. Becky’s torso heaved in rhythmic spasms as her stomach emptied, timed to gurgling, frightened gasps. Becky dropped to her knees but quickly lost her balance. Her hands shot out in front of her, slapping down into the warm, chunky muck, to break her fall.
“Excellent,” the Colonel mused aloud, putting the pictures back into the folder. “We’re making progress. Now, one more thing, quickly.”
Still on all fours, Becky’s body quivered, her eyes closed. She slowly sat back to a kneeling position and gazed up submissively at him.
“I’m going to scan your brain now,” he explained, smiling insincerely. “It’s just something I do.”
The girl’s body instantly became taut. Her eyes rolled back into her head. The Colonel heard no sound; there were no words. Instead, he saw a kaleidoscope of images from all stages of her life, everything the girl had ever seen—people, places, objects, events. The chronology was uneven, as images stored in the human brain must be retrieved by other brain functions for sorting, but everything was here.
Hmmm, Melissa Kelley—what a small world. He continued tunneling through Becky’s mind, seeing the girl’s boyfriend, the fragments. He stopped abruptly. Now this is indeed a surprise. My, my, the plot thickens. It’s implausible, but not impossible.
He released her, and Becky collapsed into the pool of her own vomit and groaned. The Colonel folded his arms behind his back, his chin resting on his chest, deep in thought. She would speak under duress—her pain threshold is low—but at best she may only know a city or town. I can do better. She can do better.
He heard a feeble whimper and glanced down at the shaken girl, who was struggling again to right herself. “Well, Ms. Leyden, thank you for your cooperation. You will indeed be of use to me.”
The lock on the door clicked. The Colonel turned to acknowledge the expected visitation. “Good morning, Becker.”
The new arrival nodded. He was dressed in an impeccably-tailored business suit and had an equally stylish winter overcoat draped over his arm. He looked disdainfully at the floor, which was still awash with the acrid contents of the g
irl’s stomach. “We have a candidate,” he observed dispassionately.
“Yes,” the Colonel replied and handed him the folder. “Your guess was correct. You have a keen eye, Becker.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“She’ll be useful in several ways, but I’ll need your assessment.”
“That may take a while.”
“Understood, but make it a priority.”
“Certainly.”
Colonel Ferguson placed his cap on his head. “Get her cleaned up and give her the usual screen memory. Tell the MP she’s ill. She’s to be kept here under normal security—nothing unusual that would draw attention. There’s no need for undue caution. We’ll talk about her after your evaluation.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Colonel turned toward the door and grabbed the knob, then paused, momentarily seized by a thought. Yes, what a delightful idea. A difficult challenge—something dramatic. A demented smile creased his face. How … providential. He turned the knob and left the room.
14
It is better to be violent, if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover impotence.
—Mahatma Gandhi
“It’s Nili—apparently there was a setback,” Neff said, looking down at the text message.
“You gonna call her?” Malone asked as he accelerated past a car on the interstate.
“Yeah,” Neff answered, dialing. “I’ll put her on speaker.”
The phone rang only once. “I’ll make it quick,” said Nili’s voice, reverberating inside the car. “We got here and nothing looked like it was supposed to—no hard drives, no boxed files, nothing. There was food still in the refrigerator. They took only what we came for.”
“You’re sure it was the right location?”
“Yes. The sleep chamber was in an attic accessible only through the second-floor crawl space, just like we were told. They left enough in there so we’d be able to tell we’d found it. They wanted us to know we’d failed.”
Neff looked at Malone, who shook his head and said nothing.
“What happened then?”
“We had visitors.”
“Who?”
“Muscle—two men, lightly armed, plain clothes. Totally unexpected.”
“Were they a problem?”
“No. We took care of them. They didn’t know we were inside since we parked a few hundred yards away. They’re in a storage shed in the backyard. What do you want to do with the place?”
“You’re certain there were no survivors?”
“Absolutely.”
“Torch the house and get out of there.”
“Are you coming back to Miqlat soon?”
“Not for a while. We may make some progress this evening.”
“I’ll update everyone. So long.”
Neff turned off the phone and gazed at the road. “Let’s hope dinner goes better than that did.”
15
It’s not enough that we do our best; sometimes we have to do what’s required.
—Sir Winston Churchill
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Melissa asked, watching the snowflakes streak across the headlights, propelled by a strong crosswind.
“Nope,” Brian answered, “but I can’t say it feels like a bad one, either—at least if we’re careful.”
The two of them fell into silence as Brian drove toward Fargo. The last few days had been a strain. Brian’s episode with the two strangers in the library had been a shock. They were both certain that the two men could not be trusted.
“I just can’t shake the feeling that our encounter with Becky might have something to do with these two guys,” Melissa said, breaking the silence. “The two things seem so unrelated, but my intuition says otherwise. I can’t see a link, but there must be one.”
“I admit, it bugs me, too—the lack of a connection, that is.”
“We don’t have the luxury of believing in coincidences.”
“No, we don’t,” Brian agreed, making a turn.
“So why are we meeting them for dinner?”
“It was my turn to cook,” Brian quipped, smiling at her as he stopped at a light.
“Good answer. I’m—we’re hungry.” She smiled back, patting her stomach. “I hope I don’t make a spectacle of myself.”
“How do you feel?” he asked, squeezing her hand.
“Pretty good. I won’t ask you how I look, though.”
“I think you just did. Nothing’s changed. You’re still adorable.”
“I can’t believe you just used the word ‘adorable.’ ”
“ ‘Radiant’ would have been too much of a blow to my manhood.”
“Thanks for sparing me.”
Brian started moving through the light. “We’re almost there.”
“Honestly, though, why are we doing this?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t like the circumstances, but I also have this sense that maybe the reason we sense a link is because there is one—but not a bad one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe it’s providence. I mean, think about the last six months. We’ve seen a lot of awful things and had some terribly close calls, but those things are at the forefront of our minds because they were so traumatic. We filter our feelings now through the fear those events generated.”
“Sounds like survival instinct to me.”
“I wouldn’t disagree, but it’s one-sided. What gets lost are the unspectacular things—the small convergences of circumstance that accrue to our good. Maybe we’re supposed to be there tonight.”
“I guess that’s possible, but we still have to be cautious.”
“We will.”
“We need to keep the conversation about you,” she added, “since it was you who brought them here. They know about Becky and her discovery—at least the gist of it—but not much else, unless they’re being coy.”
“I’m thinking if they had more to say to me, they would have said it. I didn’t get any indication that they know more than who I am, what I posted online, and what they caught from our conversation with Becky. They don’t know where we were last summer, and if they don’t believe we’re really married, they’ve disguised their suspicions very well.”
“There it is on the right,” Melissa alerted him.
Brian pulled the car into the lot and shut off the ignition. He didn’t open the door. “One guess as to what’s creeping me out,” he said to Melissa, peering through the windshield at the restaurant.
Melissa looked around at the outside of the property. “The lot’s almost empty. It should be full on a Saturday night.”
“Bingo.”
“There are lights on inside,” Melissa said, straining her eyes, “but I can’t really see anyone.”
The two of them sat quietly in the car, unsure of what to do.
“Why do I have the feeling that the place is going to be crawling with Special Forces any minute now?” Brian quipped.
“Don’t say that,” Melissa scolded. “That’s nothing to joke about.”
Brian started the car. “I don’t like it. If they want to talk to us, they know where to find us.” He began to pull out.
“Wait,” Melissa said suddenly, putting her hand on his shoulder.
Brian followed her gaze. The front door of the restaurant opened, and a young waitress dressed in dark slacks, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a fresh apron left the building.
“I know that girl,” Melissa said, surprised.
The waitress hurried toward the car on Melissa’s side. Brian lowered the passenger-side window.
“Hi, Dr. Carter!” the waitress said cheerily. “Nice to see you again! This is where I work on the weekends. Come on inside. We’re expecting you and your husband. My supervisor sent me out to get you when he saw the lights go back on.”
“Hi, Amy. It didn’t look like the place was open.”
“Technically, we’re not,” Amy explained, shiver
ing in the cold. “There are two men inside waiting for you. They bought out the restaurant tonight, so the four of you have it all to yourselves. Must be a special occasion—it’s the first time I’ve gotten a tip before I even did anything!”
“Thanks for letting us know,” Melissa said, smiling. “Go back in before you freeze. We’ll be right there.”
They watched the girl disappear back into the building.
“There’s no way we’d be going in there if you hadn’t known her,” Brian said, still watching the restaurant door.
“You’ve got that right.”
“Seems like—”
“Just hold that thought.”
16
A ship is safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are for.
—William G. T. Shedd
“Thank you for dinner, Mr. Neff,” Melissa said as she watched the waitress clearing the dishes. “The circumstances were a bit unusual, but it was worth the time.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. And call me, Graham, please,” Neff replied. “I hope after tonight we can be less formal.”
“I’m not sure how much we’ll be seeing you. Aren’t you going to be returning to … where was it again?”
“Montana.”
“I’m sure you have a lot of business to attend to—whatever it is that you can’t tell us you do.”
“Yes, we’re busy,” he answered, ignoring Melissa’s obvious dissatisfaction over the secrecy he’d maintained over dinner. “I should tell you that we’re not going to give up on getting help from your husband.”
“I just don’t see what more I can do for you,” Brian said. “You’ve asked some good questions tonight, but they’re the sorts of questions that would take hours or days to unpack and really address. They’re just beyond sound bites.”
“That’s precisely our point. We need to pick your brain—however long that takes.”
“But why? What’s the context?” Brian insisted. “What would you do with the information? It can’t be just to satisfy your curiosity.”
“Why isn’t it enough to know you’re helping us out? You obviously felt burdened to get your thoughts out to as many people as possible. All we’re asking for is more. Does that seem unreasonable?”