Chimera (6 page)

THE PENTAGON:
APRIL 12, T+5:42

“I know it seems like a hard task we've given
you,” Hollingshead said, shrugging in apology.

“I'm just not sure how I'd even begin,” Chapel
admitted.

“There, at least, we can help you.” Hollingshead
drew a folded-up sheet of paper from his pocket. As he unfolded it and smoothed
it out he said, “Now, you can't ask us how we came by this, son, or what these
people have in common. But we are—let's say eighty percent—sure that our
detainees will attempt to make contact with the people named on this list.”

He handed the paper to Chapel. There were eight
names on it, each matched with a last known address. He didn't bother reading
the names yet, instead looking up at the two men facing him. “Permission to
guess something, sir?”

Hollingshead chuckled. “That, I think, we can
allow.”

“If I were an escapee from a . . . from a
DoD facility, the first thing I'd want to do was to make contact with my family.
Friends, professional contacts . . . anyone I could trust. I'm
assuming that's where these names come from.”

“Look, Banks. Look—he's already on the case,”
Hollingshead said, with a warm and generous smile. “I told you he was our
man.”

“He's already making mistakes is what he's doing,”
Banks countered.

Hollingshead's smile faded. “I'm afraid that's
true, son.” He looked Chapel straight in the eye. “Those aren't family members
or friends,” he said. “The word for them is—ah, there's no good word for it,
let's say—let's call them—”

“Intended victims,” Banks said.

Chapel frowned. He glanced down at the list
again.

“It's a kill list,” Banks went on.

Chapel nearly dropped the piece of paper.

Hollingshead waved his hands in the air as if he
wanted to calm everyone down. “That sounds so very dramatic! It's not wholly
inaccurate, though. The one thing we are certain of is that our detainees are
going to go after these names and do everything they can to murder them. Keeping
these people alive—”

“—is secondary,” Banks butted in. “Taking out the
targets is the only thing you need to worry about. But with this list at least
you know where they're headed.”

Chapel scanned the list quickly, not bothering to
memorize the names. He was more interested in the addresses for the moment. In
his head he put together a map of the locations. New York City, Atlanta,
Vancouver in Canada—that was going to be a jurisdictional nightmare—Chicago,
Denver, Seattle, Alaska. That was an awful lot of ground to cover. But it was
better than just going door-to-door throughout the entire continental United
States, asking if anyone had seen a shaggy-haired man with a murderous
disposition.

When he had the map in his head, he glanced over
the names. A couple of them were doctors, by the look of it—or Ph.D.s, at least.
He only recognized one of the names. “Hayes. Franklin Hayes—he's a federal
judge. He's been in the news recently.”

“The president chose him to be the next justice on
the Supreme Court,” Hollingshead said. “He's just waiting for the Senate to
confirm his appointment.”

Chapel wondered if that made his job harder or
easier. Harder because if someone was gunning for a high-ranking judge it would
be tough to keep it out of the papers. Easier because a man like that would
already have some security.

“He'll be the first one you make contact with, of
course,” Banks said. “He's the highest-value target.”

Chapel shook his head. “With all due respect, sir,
he won't.” He tapped the list with his artificial index finger. “Judge Hayes is
on—what? The Tenth Circuit Court? The address for him here is in Denver. If the
detainees are limited to traveling by train or by bus—” He glanced up for
confirmation.

“So far that's what we've seen, yes,” Hollingshead
confirmed. “They don't have driver's licenses or passports. They won't be able
to board an airplane. And they don't know how to drive a car. That's a small bit
of luck, eh?”

“—then it will still take two days for one of them
to arrive in Colorado.”

“That sounds right,” Hollingshead confirmed.

Chapel nodded. “Meanwhile we've got two names here
in New York City. An hour and a half from the Catskills by train. A detainee
could already be there. Two people are already at risk. It has to be my first
stop.”

“Whatever!” Banks said, throwing his hands in the
air. “Just do it. Hollingshead, I want constant reporting on this. Total
accountability from your office.”

“Of course,” Hollingshead said. He was staring
Chapel right in the eye while he spoke. “I'll make sure to keep you in the
loop.”

“As for you,” Banks said, jabbing a finger in
Chapel's direction, “you do what you're told, you keep your mouth shut, and you
end this problem as fast you goddamned well can. You need something from CIA,
we'll provide it, as long as you keep our name out of things. You have a
sidearm? You're going to need one. And I want you in civvies while you're
working on this. I don't want the public to see an army asshole running around
in full dress uniform, shooting at our targets.”

“I would need to go home and change.”

“There's a rack of civilian clothing in the room
back there,” Hollingshead said, gesturing at a door at the back of the bar. “You
can take your pick. As for a sidearm, I've already thought of that.” He reached
behind the bar and produced a black pistol with the squared-off lines of a SIG
Sauer P228—a weapon Chapel had handled more than once, since it was common issue
among the armed forces. The army, which had to have its own name for everything,
called it the M11.

“Nice weapon,” Chapel said. At least here he could
impress his superiors with his knowledge. “9x19 mm ammunition—the favorite
cartridge of police and military units everywhere. Good stopping power, but
without the kick of heavier ammo so you don't have to refocus after each shot. A
short slide and barrel so it's easily concealed. Normally it takes a
thirteen-round magazine but you've put the fifteen-round magazine from a P226 in
there—you can tell by the way the magazine sticks a little way out of the grip.
Not the fanciest gun in the world but one of the most dependable.”

Hollingshead glanced at Banks, looking impressed.
Banks just shrugged.

Hollingshead set the pistol down on the bar and
came over to shake Chapel's hand. When Chapel held out his right hand,
Hollingshead grasped it—then grabbed Chapel's artificial left hand as well. He
didn't flinch at all when he touched the silicone. “All right, son. Go get
changed while I finish up here with our civilian friend.”

“Sir,” Chapel said. He headed through the indicated
door and found a little room beyond, a cloakroom by the look of it. Two Z-racks
of men's suits stood there, each suit wrapped in plastic like they'd just come
back from the dry cleaner's. Along one wall was a dresser full of crisp white
shirts still wrapped in cellophane.

He took off his cap and started to unbutton his
jacket when he heard voices from the bar room beyond. He closed the door to the
cloakroom but not all the way. He wanted to hear what they had to say.

“—goddamned cripple, at least tell me that robot
arm of his isn't his shooting arm,” Banks grumbled.

“I assure you, I didn't just pick Chapel's name out
of a hat,” Hollingshead replied. “He's the man we want—the man we need for this.
Given some of your preconditions and your damnable sensitivity issues.”

“You'd better be right. For all of our sakes.”
Banks grumbled something else Chapel couldn't make out. Then he raised his voice
and spoke more clearly. “You've got just as much to lose here as I do,
Rupert.”

“A point I am firmly aware of. Now why don't you
and your crop-headed monster get out of my office, so I can get back to
controlling this situation?”

Chapel had to grin at that.
Crop-headed monster
. He could think of worse names for Laughing
Boy—plenty of them—but that one fit just fine.

When he'd finished dressing, he stepped back out of
the cloakroom to find Banks and Laughing Boy gone. They hadn't even bothered to
wish him good luck. Not that he minded much.

“Look at you!” Hollingshead said. “I wouldn't
recognize you. Which I suppose is the point.”

Chapel ran a hand down the front of his new suit.
“I haven't worn one of these in a while. I've got my dress uniforms for formal
occasions, and when I'm off duty, I'm more of a polo shirt and jeans man.”

“How's the fit? In the, ah, shoulders?”

Chapel had ended up taking the slacks from one suit
and the jacket from a bigger one. He needed extra room in the shoulders for two
reasons. One was to give the clamps that held his arm on more room. The other
was to give him space to conceal his sidearm.

They taught you all kinds of fun stuff in spy
school, including how to dress yourself. “It's good.”

He pulled down on the cuffs of the suit jacket and
stared at the dark fabric. It was the wrong color. It wasn't green or blue. It
wasn't a uniform. “Sir,” he said, in a small voice—because if the army had
taught him one thing above all others, it was how to show respect to a superior
officer. “Sir. Please. I hate to even say this out loud. But . . . I
am
a cripple. I am too old for this job, and too
long out of active duty. If this mission is as important as you say—”

“Son, I'm going to mark this little moment of doubt
down to pressure. The stress of a new and daunting assignment.” Hollingshead
stood up straight and Chapel couldn't resist coming to attention. “We're going
to pretend you never said that. And if you ever call yourself that horrible name
again—cripple—I'm going to start believing it, and I can't afford that. You are
the right man for this job. The only man for this job. Now. I'd ask if you're
ready, if you need more time,” Hollingshead said, “but we don't have that
luxury. I'll take you to the helipad now, and you can get started.”

THE PENTAGON:
APRIL 12, T+6:21

As Hollingshead led Chapel up through various
layers and corridors of the Pentagon, every soldier they passed stood to
attention and saluted. Clearly they knew the man—and respected him. Chapel found
himself grinning, despite the screwed-up situation he'd landed in. This was a
whole other world from the cubicle farm at Fort Belvoir. This was the game—the
Great Game, they used to call it.

As they made their way through the lobby toward the
helipad deck, a squad of soldiers at the security checkpoint stopped in the
middle of searching visitors and lined up by the door like they were competing
for who got to hold it open. They watched Hollingshead like he was about to
perform some kind of magic trick. Hollingshead might look like a stuffy old
professor from Yale or Harvard, but these men knew better.

“I have a question, sir,” Chapel said.

“You're free to ask, of course.” Hollingshead's
mouth curled in a funny kind of smile. “I'll tell you anything I can.”

“I just wanted to know—how should I be addressing
you? If I'm working for you now, I'd like to know whether I should call you
Colonel . . . or General.”

“Are those my only options? They used to call me
Commodore. Then it was Rear Admiral.”

“Sir,” Chapel said, his spine stiffening. “Beg your
pardon. I didn't realize you were in the navy.”

“Try not to hold it against me,” Hollingshead said.
He waved the guards away and pushed the doors open himself, letting a gust of
fresh air come blasting into the security lobby.

A helicopter—a Bell 407, painted in civilian colors
and with no DoD markings at all—was waiting on the Pentagon's helipad. Its rotor
was already spun up by the time Chapel and Hollingshead arrived.

The noise of the chopper was enough to make it
difficult for Chapel to hear what Hollingshead was saying. He'd been rambling on
about what kind of support Chapel would have in his mission—an unlimited budget,
the ability to requisition police and National Guard units as required—but
Chapel hadn't been listening with more than half an ear. He was too busy trying
to remember what he knew about New York City, a place he'd only been a handful
of times in his life.

“Captain,” Hollingshead said, nearly shouting over
the roar of the helicopter's engine.

“Hmm?”

“Captain! I'm about to commit an act of treason!
I'd appreciate it if I could have some of your attention.”

That made Chapel focus, and quickly. “Admiral,” he
said.

“You have a number of questions, I'm sure, which
haven't been answered yet. I can't tell you everything, but I can give you a
little more than you've heard so far.”

Chapel could barely hear Hollingshead's voice over
the roar of the rotor blades, but he leaned close to catch every word. He
understood how serious this was.

“What happened this morning, at the camp, was a
disaster. It was supposed to be impossible. It was also, in a way, the luckiest
break we're likely to get.”

“Admiral?”

“The CIA—Banks, specifically—was supposed to be in
charge of any escapes from that camp. He had someone in our ranks there—a
mole—who was supposed to call him if such a thing happened. For reasons no one
knows, the mole failed to make that telephone call. Because it is a top secret
DoD facility, it was put on my desk instead. My office was given oversight on
this. I mobilized the capture teams immediately. You've guessed by now what
happened to them. I was quite prepared to send more men, as many as it took—this
is that big a threat. But by that time, Banks had finally heard what was going
on. He went straight to the president and demanded he be given this
operation.