Kill Switch (32 page)

Junie told me that two nights ago—the night I woke up—two of her most trusted employees, a scientist and a lieutenant who was second in command of FreeTech security, brought big canvas laundry carts up from the basement, loaded them up with computers and reams of technical papers, and rolled them out of the building at around three in the morning. The two thieves had since vanished.

“What did they get?” I asked.

“A lot of research,” she said, “but nothing we don't have backups for. It's just so scary that they came in at all. Why would someone steal that stuff?”

“Anything from the Majestic program?”

She shrugged. “Sure, a lot of our stuff originated there, but none of it's labeled ‘Majestic.' There are no direct links to the overall program or to M3. All we have in our records are the things we're doing with that tech.”

“Don't you have some of the Majestic stuff on your computer?”

“Well, of course I do, but my computer is always with me. I never leave it at the office unless I lock it in the safe. Same with Toys.”

I grunted. Toys—aka Alexander Chismer—is a former career criminal, terrorist, and enabler of terrorists who has inexplicably become Mr. Church's pet project. Church is apparently convinced that even someone with as many crimes on his soul as Toys can find genuine redemption. It makes me wonder why Church cares. I once suggested to Rudy that Church has so much blood on his own hands from things he did in the years before he started the DMS that maybe he needs proof that redemption is possible. Rudy offered no comment. He's Church's therapist, too.

In any case, Toys was put in charge of an obscene amount of money and charged with the task of making sure that it was used for the betterment of mankind. The money was stolen from Hugo Vox and the Seven Kings. How Church obtained it and why he risked giving it to Toys is beyond me. On the other hand, I have seen Toys in several situations where he could have done the easy thing or the wrong thing and instead he chose to put his life on the line to try and accomplish the right thing. Last year he saved the lives of Junie, Circe, and Circe's unborn baby. So, right now I have a no-murder policy in place for Toys. It is subject to change.

He is the financier beyond FreeTech and is Junie's confidant in that enterprise. He's one of the very few people who have access to some of the information once contained in the Majestic Black Book.

“Where does Toys keep his data?”

“He has a laptop he brings home with him, but it's one of the Xenomancer units built by Bug. Totally secure. And he has to contact Bug to get access whenever he logs on. It wasn't at FreeTech that night,” Junie said. “So really, they didn't get much that they could use.” She laughed. “It's weird, but I'd uploaded my old podcasts once when I was upgrading my computer. I backed up everything to my office hard drive and never deleted that part of it. I … well, I listen to them sometimes. Those were copied, too. How weird is that?”

When I met Junie she was running a very popular conspiracy theory podcast. UFOs, secret societies, hidden agendas, shadow governments. Like that. Nonsense stuff … except that all of it was true. Junie was born into the Majestic program and raised by foster parents who worked for Majestic Three. She knew whereof she spoke.

“What's Church doing about it?”

“He put some people on it, but as far as I know they haven't found anything yet. I'm just glad no one was there to get hurt,” said Junie, but she had tears in her eyes. “I just can't understand why they'd do something like this. I know them both. We're friends. They don't have criminal records, there's never been a complaint about them, and I've certainly never had to reprimand either of them. It makes no sense at all.”

We talked it through but there was nowhere to go with it. Like everything else in my life lately it was an inexplicable mystery.

Around midnight I got a call from Sam to say that Rudy was awake and lucid, but that he did not remember anything about what happened. Nothing. His last memory had been of driving to the hospital to see me.

“Did you talk to him?” I asked.

“I did. He's deeply troubled by what happened,” said Sam. “I'll stay here at the hospital until they transfer him to a private room. The big man told Circe what's going on and she's sitting with Rudy now.”

“Look, Sam,” I said, “when you see Rudy next … tell him how sorry I am. Please. Let him know.”

Sam sighed. “Cap, you want to know what Rudy told me tonight? He asked how you were doing and told me to tell you that he's sorry. He said that he sends his love.”

We were silent for a long time.

“Jesus Christ,” I said.

“I know.” Sam hung up and I clung to Junie for a long time as my heart broke and broke.

In the morning, I got dressed without help and over breakfast I caught up on the news. No one had yet stepped up to take responsibility for the disaster in Houston. Even the most radical right and left pundits had begun to question whether this was, after all, a terrorist attack. There was no evidence of any kind of explosion, no strange devices found at the scene. All they could find was wreckage and dead bodies.

I didn't buy it, though. No way in hell. Houston was only the most recent bizarre and destructive power failure.

Well, just call me paranoid. And you know that old line from
Catch-22.
Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you.

The next morning I drove to the Pier.

I still felt like crap, but it was time to get back to work.

 

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

THE PIER

DMS SPECIAL PROJECTS OFFICE

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

SEPTEMBER 8, 6:02
A.M.

Junie wanted to drive, but I insisted that it was no longer beyond me. And I was right. This morning I'd come awake with real energy. The high-protein diet, the massages, the meditation, the good loving with an astounding woman—all of that did wonders for me. I felt alive again. And with the vigor came anger and a fiery determination to figure out what the hell was going on.

I arrived at the Pier with Ghost as my wingman. Wing-mutt. Whatever. We hit the Starbucks drive-through. Venti Pike for me, couple of egg and sausage sandwiches for the fur-monster. Like old times.

The Special Projects Office is a big building built onto the end of an old amusement pier, hence its nickname. Our engineers dug into the bedrock under the seabed, too, so we had plenty of room for offices, labs, a massive fitness center, an even bigger training hall, storage, a garage, and more. I'd moved some of my most trusted staff out here from my old shop, the Warehouse, in Baltimore. We had 209 people working at the Pier and I'd been dreading a welcome-back party of some kind. I was wrong, though. The place was empty except for a few of the support staff.

My secretary, Lydia-Rose, met me at the front door, fists on hips, glaring at me. She's short, very curvy, very energetic, with lots of wavy black hair and the brightest smile in Southern California. Normally. She wasn't smiling now and as I got out of the car she was wagging a stern finger at me.

“You should still be in bed,” she snapped.

“Happy to see you, too,” I said, and kissed her cheek. Then her scowl melted away and she gave me a hug that nearly snapped my spine. Lydia-Rose's hugs straddle the fine line between hugging and mugging.

“I was so worried!” she cried as I disentangled myself from her with considerable effort.

“Where's Church?”

“In the big conference room. But he's in a mood. Maybe you should rest first.”

“Maybe I'll take a buddy nap with the boss.”

She gave me one of those looks, like she wasn't sure if I was joking. Or nuts.

The conference room was empty when I came in, but it was set with pitchers of water, coffee, tea, and two plates of cookies. A plate of Oreos and animal crackers on the near side of the table, and a plate of vanilla wafers on the other.

I looked at the cookies, then heard the door open behind me. “I sense a disturbance in the force.”

“Yes,” said a voice, and I turned to see Mr. Church.

Church is a big and blocky man, somewhere well north of sixty but looking like age didn't matter much to him. Dark hair going gray, eyes mostly hidden behind tinted glasses, and he wore very thin black silk gloves. All the time. His hands had been badly damaged during the drone thing a few months back. Company rumor says that they did some kind of radical procedures on him, and from what I can see he has full use of them, but he always wears the gloves now. Bunny has a pool going that Church has some kind of cyborg Darth Vader hands under the silk. I don't know if I agree. Maybe it's just that he has one flicker of vanity and doesn't want to show scars. I've asked Rudy about it, but he declined to answer. Rudy's more of a grown-up than the rest of us and prefers not to speculate about someone else's pain.

Church did not offer to shake hands, because he doesn't do that anymore. But he did something he'd never done before. He placed a hand on my shoulder.

“It's good to have you back, Captain,” he said. He squeezed my shoulder once and then walked around to the far side of the table, pausing briefly to scratch Ghost's head. Ghost wagged at him, too.

I asked, “Rudy?”

“Resting,” said Church. “However, if you're looking for an explanation as to what happened at the hospital … we don't have one. I've had three top psychologists interview him and I sat with him myself this morning.”

“Sam said he doesn't remember what happened.”

“That's not entirely true. Dr. Sanchez remembers almost everything, but he said it was like remembering a dream. He said that he was aware of what he was doing but he described it as watching events on TV. There was no direct connection to his actions.”

“So what are we talking here? Is he possessed? Is he going to spit green soup and levitate now?”

Church did not smile. No reason to. “I have reached out to a number of experts—friends in various industries. They are flying in from all over the globe. We will get to the bottom of this.”

I touched his arm. “Look, Rudy is my best friend. He's a better man than either of us. We need to help him.”

Church nodded. “We do and we are. Now, please, sit. We have much to catch up on and time is not our friend.”

“Is it ever?”

“Sadly, no.”

I sat down and poured myself a cup of coffee, added milk but no sugar. It occurred to me that I hadn't seen Brick Anderson, Church's personal aide and bodyguard, and I commented on it.

“He's picking up my cat,” said Church.

I waited, expecting there to be more. A punch line maybe. When he did not offer further explanation I said, “Um … cat? As in pet?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “Why do you sound so surprised? People own pets.”

“You don't.”

“I do, actually.”

“Let me guess,” I said, “it's a white-haired cat and you've decided to name it Blofeld.”

Church selected a vanilla wafer from the tray, broke it in half, and nibbled one piece. “No,” he said.

“Well, what is—?”

Before I could finish the question the door opened and in walked Brick with a plastic pet carrier. Brick is roughly the size of Nebraska. He used to be a top field operator before he lost a leg in combat. His new one is ultra-high-tech and hard to spot beneath his clothes. Church always takes care of his people. Actually, a lot of the DMS support staff is made up of former field agents who fell in battle but did not fall off of Church's radar. Family is family.

Brick is special, though, and we all knew it. Church trusts few people, and even among his inner circle there's almost no one who he shares his personal life with. When Church's former aide, Gus Dietrich, was killed during the Majestic Black Book case, Brick stepped up to fill that gap. He is a very smart but very quiet man, and he is fiercely loyal to Church. He is valet, butler, driver, confidant, and bodyguard. A friend, too. He has his own apartment in Church's house and his clearance level is actually higher than mine.

Brick smiled at me. “It lives.”

“Kind of.”

We shook hands, and I watched as he set the pet carrier on the table and opened the door. The cat that emerged was big and blocky like his owner, with smoky blue-gray fur and eyes as dark and round as ripe pumpkins. He had small ears that bent forward, and walked on short, strong legs. I recognized the breed, a Scottish Fold.

“Bastion,” said Church.

The cat walked across the table and I offered my hand for him to sniff. He did, then looked away with typical feline disinterest. I was noted but not deemed worthy of further interaction. My own cat, Cobbler, seldom treats me with any more enthusiasm, and I feed that little bastard. Ghost would walk through fire for me. So, on the whole I've become a dog person.

Ghost watched the cat with undisguised contempt. He's not a cat person, either. Bastion eventually settled onto the chair beside Church.

Brick said, “Got a call from Circe. She is not happy that you have Rudy in quarantine. She said that you are due for dinner tonight because someone has to eat the lamb chops she bought for her husband, and she doesn't want to hear any excuses about the world coming to an end. Her words. Oh, and she said to bring wine. Something that goes with lamb chops.”

“You told her that there is a grave national crisis and that I don't have time to socialize?”

Brick grinned. “Sure. Want to hear exactly what she said to that?”

Church sighed. “No, I believe I do not.”

“She said she wants you to bring a complete copy of Rudy's medical file. Nothing left out. I'll get one, so we're good there.”

“Will you please pick up the wine, too?”