Enemy Agents (15 page)

ϝ

“It’s a digamma. In numerology it corresponds to six. It’s archaic, so it’s no longer used in the Greek alphabet, but it’s still used in higher math, in something called a digamma function. Not sure if that’s significant or not.”

He clicked to another picture. It was a fancy room, very old-world, lots of wood paneling. And on that wall, painted in blood, was the same funny F.

“This is the room where Matthew Crowe died. They cut his head off and wrote this letter on the wall. Note the way the lower horizontal line bends downward. It’s not an F, it’s a digamma. That was one day before my boss received a digamma in the mail, which was an hour before the building exploded. First they mail us a message, then they paint it in blood, then they try to blow up all traces. Doesn’t make sense, but it’s a start.”

He changed the image again, showing a funny little retro electronic gadget. “This is a control computer from a 1980s-era nuclear warhead. One of these computers was stolen this week, but nobody tried to move on the actual bombs when they were taken apart last month. The thieves knew where and when the transport would be. They even knew which trucks were decoys.”

After another click, the screen showed a beautiful woman. “This is the only other survivor from my office. She survived because she was a mole, planted in my office for unknown reasons. You’ve heard of the freelancer Fatale, AKA Rochelle Noir, AKA Sasha Black, well this is her. She worked in my office for six months and on the very day we got that letter, the office exploded. She is currently in the employ of an assassin named Martin Mercier, who has her poking around the executive offices at Globection Corporation. We don’t know what they want to steal from GX, but Fatale going directly from the Ottawa bombing to undercover at GX headquarters tells us it’s a priority. And every step of this scheme—Crowe’s real identity, my office, the control computers—indicates that our terrorists have intel from the very top. From inside CIB.”

Milton chimed in again. “And since I know I’m not the goddamn traitor it must be one of you, selling us all out. At least now that you’ve seen each other’s faces, you know who to watch out for.”

Hall leaned on his elbows. “We’re completely compromised? Is there anyone we can trust?”

Harry shrugged as he answered. “Young Mr. Quarrel was called in from Canada just for this. He had no idea CIB existed until I told him. You can trust him with anything you turn up. And considering that Martin Mercier hates William Thorpe more than seven burning hells, and spent most of the 1980s trying to kill him, I’d say Thorpe’s about fifty percent trustworthy.”

“Thanks, old chap,” said Thorpe, raising his martini.

Quarrel turned off the projector. “Any questions?”

Shark threw his metal martini glass back to Thorpe. “If this Mercier’s so bad, how come I never heard of him?”

Milton answered. “Because he was the best. Left no traces. We only know of him from a few cases MI-7 investigated, but nobody has ever seen his face or even officially confirmed—”

“One person did. One person saw his face,” interrupted Thorpe, looking into his drink.

Milton continued, “Plus, Mercier retired. Disappeared. I don’t think we’ve even heard his name since the Berlin Wall fell. But MI-7 tells me his prints turned up at the GX New York office on some stolen CIA information.”

There was a heavy silence as everyone tried to figure out who among them best fit into this complicated situation. Swift felt that this might be her last chance to address them all, and forced herself to raise her hand.

The young man, Mr. Quarrel, nodded to her. “Yes, um, sorry we haven’t met, you’re Swift?”

“Yeah. I was wondering . . . who’s Jupiter?”

Nobody answered. Jack Hall moved his mouth like he was thinking about saying something, but eventually they all looked at Milton.

“There is no Jupiter,” Milton admitted.

“Of course there is. I talk to him on the phone. I’ve worked for him for years.”

“I’ve been Jupiter from time to time,” said Hall.

“Ditto,” said Samantha.

“Me too,” said the one called Smith, finally speaking.

Milton explained, “You see, it’s just . . . he’s not a person. Jupiter’s a computer. Miss Swift, you have a set of skills nobody in this room can match. And sometimes, we need you to acquire things for us. When that happens, we call a computer system, which we call Jupiter. It modulates the caller’s voice so you always hear the same voice on your end. It allows agents to use the best infiltrator in the service—you—without actually having to blow their covers to meet with you. As for today’s meeting, I’m the Jupiter who called you, because I’m the one who put your name on the suspect list, because I know you’ve been in the mainframe and I know you’re a lying thief and I know you’re less trustworthy than any of the other agents here today. Does that answer your question?”

Swift was floored. Not only was there no Jupiter, but Milton just told a room of deadly assassins that she might be the traitor. “Um . . . ” she began.

“Quarrel didn’t mention it, but Khalid Saleb was broken out of custody last week. By a woman. Any comment?” Milton asked.

“Don’t look at me,” was all she could think of. She wanted to tell them that Jupiter was evil and that Saleb was innocent, but what good would it do? The mole was in the room. Talking about Zurich would only make them cover their tracks.

“And why not look at you?” asked Samantha. Before this, Swift had been glad for the other woman’s company, but now Samantha looked dangerous. She reminded Jessica, once again, of a hungry lioness. “If I didn’t do it, and this Fatale didn’t do it, who does that leave?”

“Break it up, ladies,” said Quarrel. “We’re done. The top priority for all of you is to investigate the leak, find proof, and bring it to me. We want the mole alive if possible.”

With that, Milton and Quarrel filed out of the room, closing their private door behind them. Each of the other agents took their time, eyeing each other, wondering when to leave
.
Was it safer to leave early, or did that look suspicious
?
Thorpe mixed himself another drink. Boswell and Shark pored over the documents. Hall was the first to go, since he obviously couldn’t stand to be in the same room as Shark, and he was followed quickly by Smith.

Shark put out his cigar on the table and then thumped off with noisy footsteps, and Thorpe packed his folder into the bar-case along with the bottles, glasses, and shakers before he departed. Watching them file out, one at a time, Swift realized that they were letting each other ride the elevator alone. Was that to avoid a fight, or to give each other a five minute head start?

Finally, it was down to Boswell and Swift, still sitting next to each other. Boswell had read every detail of the case, and Swift was still only half-way through.

“I know I didn’t bust that traitor out of jail,” Boswell said menacingly. “And if this Fatale character was in New York while someone else was in the desert, well there ain’tmany top-level femal
e
infiltrator
s
left in the world, are there?” Boswell’s fingers tapped loudly on the tabletop, before she scooped up her folder and headed for the door. She shouted back at Swift, without so much as turning around.

“I gotta call my kids. But I’ll be seeing you real soon.”

18

“This was foolish,” shouted Harry Milton a half-second after leading Chris Quarrel back to Milton’s office.

“It’s a calculated risk.”

“Calculated on what, exactly? Hope that they won’t all kill each other, or that they will? For god’s sake you can’t just put Hall and Scarret in a room and hope it’ll all work out.”

“What I hope is that the good eggs outnumber the bad ones.” Quarrel was surprised how calm he was now that the meeting was over. He had wanted this, he had initiated it. Now it was over and the real work could be done. “They’re the best in the world. If we’ve got one loyal agent for each traitor, we come out on top.”

“So that’s it?” Milton was angry. Quarrel had never seen him this angry. Milton’s default mode was to be curt, but right now he was fuming. The left side of his upper lip was twitching upward into an involuntary sneer. They both stood to the side of Milton’s office, where a narrow counter ran between a filing cabinet and a shelving unit. “Your brilliant plan is hope that the
y
cancel each other ou
t
?”

“Not at all,” said Quarrel, “The real purpose of this meeting should happen within the next few hours.”

Milton pulled the cork from a bottle of scotch and threw it against the wall. He swilled straight from the bottle. “If you don’t stop dicking me around—”

“I know who bombed my office. It was Erica—
Fatale
.” Quarrel picked up two of the glasses from the counter, flipped them right-side-up, and poured scotch from Milton’s bottle. “And now the traitor knows that I know.”

“So?” Milton’s lips pursed shut and he cocked his head while slowly walking behind his desk. As he passed Quarrel, the young agent pushed a drink into his hand. Milton was calmer now, and Quarrel could see the gears turning behind the spymaster’s eyes.

“You’re using the mole to send a message,” he thought out loud.

“I had to send up a flare. Let the leak run and tell Mercier that we know all about Fatale.”

“That’ll force them to go on the offensive to cover their asses. They’ll want to kill you to protect whatever they’ve got planned. You’re painting a target on your own back.”

“After this morning every bad guy in this thing’s going to be gunning for me. The mole, Mercier, Fatale; they’ll all want me gone. And that’s when the traitor will show himself. When they come for me.”

“This is a terrible plan,” said Milton. “They’ll just kill you. Sniper round to the head. Poison in your sleep. Then we’re back to square one.”

“I realize that’s a possibility,” said Quarrel. “Like I said, I hope the good eggs outnumber the bad. As long as I have some allies in that room, I think I can do this. I know I can trust Thorpe. He showed me a photo of Fatale without realizing I know her. If he was on the inside, he would have been trying to keep me from making the connection.” Quarrel sipped his drink, his hand was steady. “That’s one ally. And I’m betting that not everyone’s as corrupt as Erica.”

Milton gulped his scotch. “I give you fifty-fifty”

“You think half of your guys are bad?”

“No. Fifty-fifty that you survive.”

They clinked their glasses together and drank.

#

Senator Bill Anderson was dining at an expensive steakhouse in Washington D.C. A couple of lobbyists from the oil sector were buying him a very large steak and talking about offshore drilling. Anderson schmoozed like the talented politician he was, asking the occasional pointed question, laughing at jokes, and not committing to anything they wanted. After ordering a tea and a small slice of pie, the senator excused himself to the men’s room.

There was a man in one of the stalls, but otherwise it was empty. Anderson used the urinal and by the time he was done the other man was washing his hands.

“Hey, aren’t you the congressman from Ohio?” ask the man, looking at Anderson in the mirror.

“Senator, yeah. Bill Anderson,” he said. “Anywhere else, I’d shake your hand,” he joked while he waited for his turn at the sink.

“So you were the one who let that Canadian punk worm his way into the CIB?” The man was still rinsing the soap bubbles off his hands.

Senator Anderson turned pale. “Are you here to kill me?”

“No, sir. Just the distraction. She’s here to kill you.”

The Senator felt a pinprick at the back of his neck, and suddenly the world was blurry.

#

Quarrel was eating room service and digging through old case files when his cellphone rang.

“I was wrong.” It was Milton, and his voice was shaky. It was the first time Quarrel had heard the old man sound like this. He was scared, or at least very sad.

“Milton?”

“I was wrong. When I told you that you were drawing a target on your own back. It wasn’t you who should have been afraid.” Quarrel realized that Milton sounded so strange because he was well on his way to being drunk.

“Harry, what happened?”

“You let the dogs loose, kid. You cornered a dangerous animal.” He paused and Quarrel heard a gulp. “Turn on the news.” Milton hung up.

Quarrel turned on the TV to one of the all-day news networks. The story was just breaking. Senator Anderson was dead of a heart attack in a restaurant bathroom.