The Siren Project (32 page)

Mouse disconnected his computer, then
recabled the diner’s credit charging system so the owner would never know
anything had happened.

When they were safely back in the car
cruising across town, Gunter said, “If there is an entire command structure
devoted to causing insurgency in other countries, that would explain how these
pieces have been pulled together. And the secrecy. No other government in the
world would be happy to hear of Sincom's existence.”

Mitch watched the lights of the city
flashing past. “It’s just crazy enough that some fool in Washington paid for
this thing to be invented, but to use it against ourselves is madness.”

“He said it was outside the US Command
Authority,” Christa said thoughtfully. “Could an entire black project go rogue?”

“Could we sell arms to Iran? Or drugs in
South East Asia?” Mitch asked. “Of course it's possible.”

Mouse tapped his fingers anxiously on the
computer resting on his lap. “I’m for bugging out of here.”

“Where would we go?” Gunter asked.

“Who cares! We’ve got enough money to live
like kings for the rest of our lives. Pick a country, somewhere sunny. But if
we keep screwing around with this thing, it’s going to crush us.”

Christa looked to Mitch uncertainly. “EB
was our ace. If he's gone...”

“And Knightly's gone, and Prescott,” Mouse
said. “You heard what he said,
extreme
collateral
damage. What the hell does that mean? Are they going to nuke the city?”

“If you think it's too big,” Mitch said, “You
don't have to stay.”

“What are you going to do?” Christa asked.

“No one ever accused me of having enough
smarts to dodge a bullet.”

“Oh crap!” Mouse said, guessing what was on
Mitch’s mind. “They forced you out of the Marines and kicked you out of the Secret
Service. You don't owe anyone, anything. Let’s bug the hell out of here. Go
surfing, get a suntan. Screw this spook mind control crap.”

“That would be the smart thing to do. The
only problem is, I can’t help thinking about that A-hole, McNamara, telling me
about the people who run things, who matter. I happen to think, I matter,
that’s why I vote in our stinking elections. You guys go surfing, I’ve got a
party to crash.”

There was silence for a moment, then Gunter
said, “I am German. I do not surf.”

Christa sighed. “And I burn in the sun.”

Mouse looked from one to the other, then
shook his head, exasperated. “Oh man!”

Mitch studied the scene of organized
chaos outside the convention center. Media vehicles, many of them with
satellite dishes lined the streets, while news crews jostled for position
inside and outside the center. The roads surrounding the convention center had
been closed to normal traffic, ensuring no vehicle without a special pass got
through.

“Where are we meeting him?” Christa asked.

Mitch motioned toward the line of unmarked
trucks parked opposite the convention center entrance. “Over there,” he said,
turning to Gunter and Mouse. “Make a sweep around the building. Assume they’ve
got pictures of you both, so be careful.”

Gunter patted the bulge under his coat
meaningfully. “Always.”

“If you see anything, call it in, and stay
out of sight. Let Lamar’s men do the work.”

“You hear that G?” Mouse said. “Let the FBI
do the work.” Of the four of them, Mouse was the only one unarmed, having no
affinity with guns.

“Observers only,” Gunter agreed, then he
and Mouse threaded their way through the crowds, staying close to the news
trucks for cover.

“Now, let’s see if the FBI really are on
the job,” Mitch said as they started across the street toward the FBI vehicles,
winding their way through a sea of people carrying placards exhorting their
candidates.

The gray FBI trucks were parked end to end
and roped off, with dark suited agents strategically positioned to keep
curiosity seekers at a sanitary distance. At the entrance to the cordon, one of
the security men stopped them.

“My name's John Mitchell. I’m here to see
Agent Lamar. He’s expecting me.”

The FBI security man spoke into his two
way, got a crackling response, then stepped aside. “Third vehicle, over there.”
He switched channels, then spoke into his radio informing the other security
men down the line Mitch and Christa had been cleared.

At the third vehicle, the security guard on
duty intercepted him “Mr Mitchell?”

When Mitch nodded, the guard pulled the
metal door at the end of vehicle three open for them. Inside, the left wall of
the truck was lined with television monitors displaying direct feeds from all
the security cameras in the convention center. Spread the length of the truck
was a team of FBI agents watching the screens and communicating with agents
mingling with the crowd outside.

“Mitchell.” Agent Lamar greeted them with a
curt nod. “I want you to know, I consider you escaped and the only reason I’m
not arresting your ass is because I haven't decided what to charge you with.”

“I didn’t escape, I was released.”

“I gave no order.”

“Well, when you find out who did, thank
them for me.”

“I’ll do that, right before I have them
suspended.” Lamar glanced back at the crew monitoring the convention center. “After
your call, I alerted the Bureau.” He turned to Mitch curiously. “Didn’t you
tell me yesterday the phones were bugged?”

“They are, but I got us immunity. You
included. It’s a long story.”

“We got security so tight around this
place, an ant couldn’t fart without us knowing.”

“How many agents?” Mitch asked.

“A couple of hundred covering the streets,
plus forty to fifty convention security people inside.”

“Have you checked them out?”

“They’re okay. All from a local security
company. They said their people have been more thoroughly screened for this job
than for anything they’ve ever done. Apparently, the convention organizers have
given security a top priority.”

“Take my word, Lamar, you can’t trust
anyone.”

Lamar gave Mitch a curious look, sensing
there was something more to his meaning. “We've got metal detectors on every
door. Every vehicle inside the perimeter has been double checked, and there are
sniffer dogs crawling all over. If that isn't enough, I've got a couple of SWAT
teams and two choppers standing by. You don’t know how this attack is supposed
to occur, do you?”

“Only what I told you on the phone, the
attack is due today at noon, involving special forces types, and they expect to
cause a lot of damage.”

“Why noon?”

“I don’t know. What’s happening at midday?”

Lamar went to a table mounted on the right
side of the command vehicle, picked up a sheaf of stapled papers and flicked
through them. He came back to Mitch and Christa, skimming the documents. “It's
the plenary session, a speech by George W. Fraser.”

Mitch looked over Lamar’s shoulder at the
list. “Senate Appropriations Committee Fraser?”

“Yeah, he’s flying up from Washington for
the speech. Probably means a full house.”

“He tried to have us killed.”

The FBI Special Agent looked skeptical. “I'll
need more than your word to act on that.”

“The smart thing to do is to call off the
convention,” Christa said.

“I tried, but the organizers won’t do it. They’re
more interested in party fund raising than conspiracy theories. I'd need solid
intelligence to cancel the convention.”

Mitch glanced at Christa. “How does the
room look to you?”

“All good,” she replied, indicating no one
in the room had the tell tale signs of conditioning.

“Okay Lamar, here it is,” Mitch said,
pitching his voice to reach only the FBI Agent. “Rogue elements in the military
and the intelligence community are using top secret technology to conduct an
illegal operation against the US Government. Fraser's part of it. This militia
group is a cover for a special forces unit controlled by the rogue group. Anyone
who gets in the way ends up dead, or worse.” Mitch decided to skip mentioning
mind control, Lamar was having trouble keeping up as it was.

“Worse than dead?” Lamar said, skeptically.
“If they're going to bomb the convention center at noon, doesn't it seem
strange to you that Fraser is here then? Do you really think he's going to blow
himself up?”

“I can’t explain it. Let me see that schedule.”
Mitch took the sheaf of papers and ran his eye down the list of speakers. “It's
a who’s who of the American right.”

“They’re his political allies,” Christa
said, herself starting to doubt the rationale for an attack. “Why kill them?”

“Cut down on the competition?” Mitch
suggested.

“Eliminate opponents more like it,” Lamar
said. “Fraser’s got the right split down the middle over his security agenda. A
lot of people on that list think Fraser's an extremist. If not for the rise in
terrorism, he’d be out there on the lunatic fringe.”

“What's his agenda?” Mitch asked.

“More power to the security forces, bigger
defense budgets, crack downs on border control and immigration, tougher arrest
laws, suspend habeas corpus. He says he wants to secure the homeland.”

“Turn the homeland into a police state, more
like it,” Christa said.

“He’s right about one thing. One day, some freaking
fanatic is going to set off a nuke in one of our cities.”

“You sound like you think it’s inevitable,”
she said.

“It is inevitable. The country's too damn
big, and a nuke is too damn small. We can’t stop a couple of crazies hiding in
a cargo container and setting off the big one when the ship enters port. At best,
we can delay it. Try to keep nukes out of the hands of the fanatics, but sooner
or later, someone who hates our guts will get one. And they will use it.”

“Getting a nuke isn’t easy,” Christa
countered.

“Bullshit! The Russians have lost at least
fifty kilograms of nuclear material, that's if some fool didn't sell it on the
black market. The Pakistanis have nukes. The Iranians are trying to get them. It's
only a matter of time before terrorists get their hands on one, if they haven't
already.”

“We get the picture.” Mitch handed the
convention papers back to Lamar. “So, if the convention center is destroyed, a
lot of Fraser’s political opponents will be killed, and he’s clear to promote
fear across the country and get what he wants.”

“That’s a mighty big if, Mitchell.”

“At least put a tail on Fraser.”

“I can't just start following a US senator
without just cause.”

“How about a crater the size of Manhattan?”

“That'd do it, but right now, I don’t have
enough evidence to issue a parking ticket.”

Mitch lowered his voice. “Don’t you find it
coincidental that he’s coming here, right when this terrorist attack is going
to occur? That son of a bitch knows it’s going to happen, and he wants to be
here when it does.”

Lamar was silent for a few moments. “Alright
Mitchell. I'll put someone on him, unofficially. If any questions are asked,
I'll say . . . it was for his protection, because of the report of a terrorist threat.”

“Now you're talking.” Mitch glanced at the
video screens. “Mind if we look around?”

“Look only. You see anything, call me. No
cowboy bullshit.”

Mitch nodded. “What frequency are you on?”

Lamar gave him the frequency. “You
carrying?”

“Yes.”

“Registered?”

Mitch smiled. “Depends what system you look
in.”

“Make sure it doesn’t leave the holster.”

“Understood.”

Mitch and Christa left the command vehicle,
slipped under the rope encircling the FBI zone and began strolling along the
sidewalk.

“Are we looking for anything in particular?”
Christa asked.

“I’ll let you know when I see it,” Mitch
replied as he scanned the trucks, news crews and convention attendees heading
toward the entrance. “If I pick out people, can you take a look at them?”

“Sure, just keep in mind, my battery runs
down fast, and I’m strictly short range.”

“I’ll be selective.”

They strolled past several TV news trucks,
one with a crew filming a reporter filing a story. Standing unobtrusively in
the distance was a man in a suit, hands clasped together in front as he slowly
watched people moving around him.

“What about that guy?”

Christa studied the man, her eyes gradually
losing focus as she attuned her mind to his thought patterns. After a few
moments, she shook her head. “He’s clear. Any particular reason you picked him?”

“He’s FBI. You can tell from the cheap
suit,” Mitch grinned. “Just checking the Fibbies are on the right team.”

They moved on, drifting through the crowd. Several
times Mitch selected people that caught his attention, and each time Christa
gave them a clean bill of health. Ahead, an unmarked white van crept through
the crowd, pulling up behind a fast food stall. Four men carrying large gray
metal cases with an audio company’s logo on their jackets, jumped out. They pulled
open the rear doors of the van and unloaded four large black metal cases.

“How about them?”

Again Christa paused as she studied the
men. “Nope, they're good.”

Mitch watched suspiciously, noting the FBI
agent stood off in the crowd ignoring them. He waited for the agent to approach
the audio team, but the agent paid no attention as they carried the metal cases
across the street toward the convention center. “God damn it!”

Mitch broke into a run, slipping rapidly
through the crowd until he reached the first audio man. He put his hand on the sound
engineer's chest. “Hold it, buddy. Mind if I see what’s in the case?”

“Audio equipment,” the engineer said,
moving to step past him.

Mitch took a step forward, pressing the
man’s chest more firmly. “I insist. Open the case!”

The sound engineer looked irritated. “You
got a badge?”

“Open it!” Mitch ordered.

“Beat it!” the engineer said, attempting to
push past.

Mitch grabbed the audio man's jacket with
one hand as he pulled his gun with the other. “Open the case, now!”

“Okay, okay!” The sound engineer said,
shocked, suddenly afraid. He placed the case on the ground and unlocked it, opening
it wide to reveal an amplifier.

Mitch glanced at it, then turned to the
second audio man, who had stopped to see what was happening. He aimed his gun
at the sound technician. “Open your case!”

Grudgingly, the technician unlocked his
case to reveal a portable mixing desk, as footsteps approached. Mitch turned to
see several FBI men running toward him, one with a dog, the other drawing a
gun.

“Put down the gun, sir!” an agent called,
his pistol leveled at Mitch.

Mitch raised one hand. “It’s okay, I’m
working with Lamar!” He slid the gun into his shoulder holster. “Have the
sniffer dog check these cases.”

The FBI agent didn't lower his gun, but nodded
to his partner to have the dog sniff the four cases. When the dog had finished,
the handler shook his head, having found nothing.