The Ragnarok Conspiracy (27 page)

Dr. Anthony Russell entered his office at 8:30 a.m., precisely. If asked, he would have said that he was a classic obsessive-compulsive personality, kept in check by therapy and occasional medication, and that such business was his own, thanks very much. Not a single item in the room could have been described as dusty, out of place, or in need of repair. The blinds had been cleaned for the third time that month only yesterday. The air filter systems were regularly replaced. The carpet needed looking at—he would see to that later today.

Whatever his idiosyncrasies, Dr. Russell was a highly respected figure in psychiatry at Fort Marshall, and, in fact, among all of Army medicine. His attention to detail was exactly what was required in observing patients, as well as in prescribing medications and monitoring their effects. But what made Dr. Russell truly stand out was that he just plain cared about US soldiers more than anyone else did.

In the early 1990s, he had begun several unique studies to examine the psychological trauma and syndromes afflicting veterans of the first Persian Gulf War. What he had learned there had been invaluable, if insufficient, for treatment of the far more terrible trauma soldiers faced after the Iraq War. A combination of multiple tours of duty, guerrilla warfare with terrorist tactics, and shoddy commitment to veteran care post-duty had left one of the most damaged generations of US military personnel since—well, since as long as he could remember, and that included Vietnam.

These things made Anthony Russell angry, but he was far too composed—some might say uptight—a person to ever voice such anger in
a conventional manner. As the third generation of men in the Russell family to serve proudly, his loyalty to the military was absolute. That which he could not speak up about he sought to address through his work. This partially explained the mountain of effort, the numerous programs and studies for veterans that came from his initiative. He hoped in the end, he might make a difference.

He placed his briefcase in its precise location on the desk, wiped the computer screen with a dust cloth, and switched it on. First task in the morning was e-mail, and there was usually lots of it. He scrolled through the lists—so many invitations for speaking engagements, pharmaceutical company offers that he knew amounted to little more than bribes for their products, and the occasional penis enlargement advertisement that slipped through spam filters.
How creative they could be with spelling
, he thought.

Near the end of the list, an e-mail caught his eye. It took him several seconds to place the name and account—Michael Inherp. He had not heard from the boy since he had left therapy several years ago, simply disappearing, never giving explanation or motive or plans for his future. This had disturbed Dr. Russell. It was certainly a rash thing to do. Inherp had served two tours in Iraq, during which he had seen an IED turn his best friend inside out, stood by as a group of crazed soldiers sodomized a young Iraqi teen, and hidden his sexuality from the men around him who constituted his closest family during those traumatic periods. He was not accepted at home—gay men were still beaten in some parts of the country. All these things were very hard on a man who loved his country, who signed up to fight for it after 9/11.
Where was the boy now?

He opened the e-mail and scanned the contents. As he read, his face constricted, his eyes squinting even behind his glasses, as if he wondered whether he was reading the text correctly. Finally, he took his glasses off and rested them precisely on his desk, rubbing his eyes. He stared out into the space of his office for several silent moments, recalling the text of the e-mail.

Dear Dr. Russell
,

I don't have much time, and it is important that you believe me. Several years ago, I joined the organization known as Mjolnir. I know you have read about them. They promised me a chance to protect America in a way the Army could never do. They have been smart, not like what we've wasted our money and blood for in Iraq, sir. They want to destroy our enemies.

At first I believed, along with them. But something has happened that has changed that. It's important that you believe me. They are planning something terrible. They plan to use a stolen weapon, not conventional, in their next attack. I've seen it. It's real. I've attached photographs of the missile and the serial number.

Please, you have to believe me. Show this to Army Command. To someone. Anyone. I'll do what I can, but I'm only one person. They are serious. They will do this. I don't know where or when, but it's a Muslim target, like all the others.

You helped me when things were dark, and I'll always be thankful. I am sorry to have let you down. But this is more important than me.

Yours, M. Inherp

The photographs showed what indeed looked like a missile inside a large crate, followed by several close-ups of the serial number.
A nuclear weapon? Is he delusional?
His mind raced. Certainly a lost nuclear weapon would have been front-page news. It was impossible. The military had exacting standards, and the press would eat this up as the country and world went into a panic.
Maybe that's what they had intended to stop?
Could the US government hide something like this? It was beyond credibility.

It could be a delusional episode
, he told himself, perhaps born from his deep conflict in loving and hating the military. That could have generated a fantasy that he was correcting the mistakes of the military, his need to join the terrorists to “complete” his mission, and his human
side taking over in warning him.
Could he have faked the images?
Of course he could. It was easy in this day and age of image-editing software.
But not the serial numbers.
There was a way to address the veracity of his story. Russell shook his head. Dare he bring this up in a serious fashion to the army? Some dent it would make in his reputation if this turned out to be the hoax of a disturbed soldier.

“Michael, what in God's name has happened to you?”

Anthony Russell fingered the handle of his briefcase nervously. The secretary had told him the general had been on a very important conference call. Russell had no doubt of it, but the waiting was agonizing. He had known Lieutenant General Fred Marshall for twenty years. The general had become nearly a father figure to him, part of the community that had watched his career develop from a committed therapist to a full-blown researcher and advocate for combat veterans. Marshall was also instrumental in the progression of Russell's career, using his influence at various stages to secure funding and promotion through the ranks. He had on more than one occasion referred patients to him who had failed all other treatments. He had even gone so far as to solicit Russell's opinions and reviews of many of the army's pre-combat training procedures for soldiers, as well as for post-combat care. Russell drew a deep breath. The general had championed his causes, leading to many important changes in how the army handled the trauma of combat. There had been no way to repay him.

Today he felt at a loss for how to prepare for the scheduled meeting. In a few minutes, he would walk into the office next to him and try to make a case for a stray nuclear weapon, the existence of which had been provided by an admittedly mentally unsound former patient. Russell knew the general would hear him out, but he also knew that the general could only believe this was a hoax.
The US military lose a nuclear weapon?
It was unthinkable. And if the unthinkable had happened, it would not be a secret. They would have mounted the largest search imaginable. Russell could not defeat the logic either. All he had was his professional intuition developed over a span of several decades.

The door swung open, and the general ushered in the psychiatrist. Russell tried to put his emotions aside and focus on the issue at hand.

“General Marshall,” Russell began formally.

“Anthony, it's good to see you again!” The general gave him a strong handshake and motioned him to sit.

Russell managed a smile. “I would agree, General. But, under the circumstances, I find myself mostly in an agitated state.”

Marshall nodded and took a seat behind his desk. “I understand. Then let's get straight to business. Tell me what's going on again. To be honest, your phone call was a bit unsettling.”

“I anticipated as much. But all I ask is that you hear me out. Not only for the potential seriousness of what I have told you, but for my years of service to the armed forces. I dared not take this to anyone else at this juncture. I needed someone I could trust.”

Marshall nodded again while Russell continued. “I have told you about the e-mail I received and its contents. I have brought them here on a CD-ROM rather than e-mail them to you.” Russell handed over a jewel case to the general. “I would rather not spread it beyond my own e-mail account for obvious reasons—that is both for patient confidentiality as well as the sensitivity of the contents. I have removed from the material contained on the CD any clear reference to the individual.”

General Marshall stuck the disk into the tray of his computer. “I understand. So tell me, Anthony, you see this kid as sound enough mentally to trust these amazing statements?”

“Honestly, General, no. I do worry about his mental state. However, I must be clear. He had never evinced any sign of delusional psychosis. Moderate depression, anxiety, but nothing beyond that. I can't speak to what has happened over the last year, however. I have felt in a bind on this. My decision to come to you was based on our long relationship, so if this is a product of a troubled mind, no damage is done. However, if there is some truth to his incredible story, it would be too important not to try to look into it in some fashion.”

“Yes, of course” the general mumbled, somewhat distracted as he examined the images on the disk. “Well, if it's a hoax, Anthony,
the missile looks very convincing. Air Force cruise missile, aircraft mounted.” He squinted at the screen. “Oh, now that is interesting. Like you said, we can read the serial numbers. Not too bright if he's making this up, I must say. Easy to verify, although.…That
is
very interesting,” he trailed off, staring at the screen. After a moment he glanced toward Russell. “Anthony, please remind me where he served.”

“Iraq. Infantry.”

“He's never worked with weapons systems, missiles, conventional or nuclear?”

Russell shook his head. “No, not that I know of. He wasn't qualified. Why?”

The general looked back toward the screen and spoke. “This is
very
interesting. For a man who wasn't trained with such weapons, he seems to know a lot about serial number format. As someone who has, and whose memory is quite good, it appears to me that he has nailed the digit structure almost perfectly in this image.”

Russell felt his stomach tighten. As much as he would hate to ruin his reputation, the alternative—that he was right—was even more frightening.

“He claims he is a member of this terrorist group, Mjolnir.”

“Yes, so you mentioned.” The general glanced once more at the computer screen, took off his glasses, and placed them on his desk. He turned again to Russell, his expression serious. “I think I need to make some phone calls.”

Russell replied stiffly, a chill running through his body. “Yes, sir.”

Blake Morrison walked out to the mailbox and opened it.
The usual
, he thought: several bills, a pile of catalogs seeking to burst the box, and an assortment of random junk mail. The sun arced over the surrounding hills on its way downward, half-concealed in clouds and throwing off bright beams of light alternating with shade to create a complicated woven pattern in the dimming sky.
Sunshine.
Something he might be able to enjoy if he weren't working so damn hard writing code all day long.

A gray VW Jetta pulled up the street and came to a stop in the driveway across from his house.
The Agent.
Everyone on the block knew The Agent
, he thought with some annoyance. How anyone came to know he worked for the FBI had been forgotten, but everyone knew. The man didn't deny it if asked, but he didn't offer much either.
Keeps to himself
, would be the nicer way to put things. Morrison preferred
arrogant
and
aloof
. The man never participated in block or neighborhood activities, rarely spoke with his neighbors. Always seemed to have important things to do, more important than the ordinary Joes he lived around. Morrison had spent a lot of time speculating on just what his neighbor did for a living. He had spent even more time speculating on what he did in his home. He never once had seen a woman go in or come out of that house. He had on occasion seen men. For Blake Morrison, that was enough.
Damn pervert's a homosexual
, he told himself for the fiftieth time as he closed the mailbox. He watched The Agent step out of the Jetta, grab his briefcase, close the door, and try to avoid eye contact with him.
What do you have to hide, Agent Man?

Morrison shook his head and turned back around. If there was one
thing he couldn't abide, it was those homosexuals. Invading all decent neighborhoods, television, schools, forcing their morals on the rest of America. He walked slowly back toward his house, looking over the Victoria's Secret catalog addressed to his wife.

His next sensation was of flying and darkness. When he regained consciousness, it was with the taste of hard concrete in his mouth. He opened his eyes and saw that he was facedown on his sidewalk, perhaps ten feet from his porch. A strange crackling sound seemed to fill the air behind him, and the ringing of numerous car alarms invaded his consciousness. Or were those screams?

He stumbled to his feet, blood covering his face, the left side of his head numb and feeling swollen. His left arm hurt. Yes, those were definitely screams. He turned around slowly and had trouble interpreting what he saw. Across the street, where a small ranch-style home had once stood, there was a raging fire. Smoke billowed into the air, and debris littered the weed-covered lawn, apparently raining down as far as his own manicured front yard. The VW Jetta was a shell, as if it, too, had been blown apart by some incredible force. People were pouring out of their homes, some screaming, some speaking on cell phones, many looking bewildered and shocked. He suddenly realized that he must have been one of them.

“Blake, what the
hell
is going on?”

He turned around and saw his wife standing in the doorway, her initial expression of confusion replaced by one of shock. He simply stared at her.

“Blake? What happened to you? My
God
, is that Mr. Kanter's
house
?”

Morrison said nothing, turning around slowly to look at the burning remains. The Agent. Fire. There was no way anyone was coming out of that alive.

Mira Vujanac got off the bus and walked briskly up the street toward a small brownstone. The light had dimmed fast in the city once the sun had gotten behind the buildings, and Vujanac hated to be outside
at night. Twenty years ago, when the city was much less safe, she had been mugged and raped at knifepoint near the park. Despite years of therapy and more money than it cost to send her children to college, she had never been freed of the fear of walking the streets after dark. She clutched her bag as every stranger passed by, focused almost maniacally on the small black gate that protected the tiny space in front of her door.
Still plenty of light
, she reminded herself and yet accelerated her pace.

Suddenly, a dark shape appeared from one of the stairways on her right. Mira reacted instinctively, her past attack having given her a heightened sense of threat, so that she identified the hostile intent in the movements before she was even conscious of it. She reached into her bag and pulled out her mace spray, turned and aimed as she had been taught in her self-defense classes, and sprayed.

The man was too fast. He had anticipated her movement and, with his left arm, swatted away her right, knocking the can of mace from her hand. With his right, he brought up a dark object, a gun with a long and large barrel.
Oh, God, not again.

Angel Lightfoote walked along the bridge in Central Park, looking down and watching the slow passing of autumn leaves floating on the murky waters of the pond. She passed the couples strolling by holding hands, wrapped in fall jackets, and shielding their faces from the strong wind. Many stopped to stare at her: a waterfall of orange hair, long white dress down to her bare feet, and no jacket. She didn't mind, even if she did notice. There were more important things.

Lightfoote sighed, staring at the trees of the park, leaves turning, soon to become silent skeletons. Winter was a dark time for her, and she dreaded the sleeping of the plants and the sense that life was frozen, stilled, and hidden from view. In that winter bleakness, the concrete of the city no longer seemed so sterile. In fact, she might even prefer it to living things that had been silenced by the cold.

She turned to leave, to return home before the night fell. She began to walk but stopped suddenly. She cocked her head to one side and
stared, as if listening intently.
The animals are quiet
, she thought. Lightfoote had always been able to hear things, see things, sense things that seemed unavailable to everyone else around her. She had struggled as a child, not realizing that those things she knew effortlessly were invisible to others, and that she had to be careful to pretend not to notice them or risk alienating other people with her strangeness. Joining the FBI, she had found for the first time a usefulness for her strange sensitivity. She didn't fool herself—everyone still thought of her as
different
and kept a certain cautious distance. But for them, she was at least
useful
on many occasions, when she was able to intuit or connect facts to answers that others could not.

Something is wrong.
She felt it in the air flowing over her, in the strange silence from the living heartbeats she sensed around her.
They are afraid.
Lightfoote realized that she, too, was afraid, and that she was beginning to feel the source of the others' fear. Something close, something hostile, something
murderous
approached. With growing panic, Lightfoote finally began to realize that it was seeking her.

She spun in several directions, trying to see what this thing was and from where it approached. But the bridge and surrounding region were empty, save the scattering leaves and the sound of wind.

Run, Angel. Run.

A voice spoke intently in her mind. All her body felt the urge to flee, and in a single instant, she gave way and raced down the bridge toward the park exit. At that moment, wood splintered from behind her and the voice called out harshly.
You cannot run away.

Angel ran faster. Her white dress flowed out from her body as she raced, pieces of wood exploding inches behind her. She leapt onto the broad handrailing of the bridge and dove through the air. She felt weightless as she drifted down like a white leaf on the wind and plunged into the green mass of water below.

The phone calls kept rolling in. John Savas sat in his office, shocked and disbelieving. Across from him, Cohen sat in a chair weeping, nearly hysterical and overcome with grief. As he put down the receiver, he
brought his hand to his forehead and squeezed, a headache pounding, crushing him like a vice. Unbidden, his mind scrolled through the names:
Larry, Mira, Matt…Manuel
. All confirmed killed,
murdered
, one call after another bringing in horrific news, inducing nauseous baths of emotion and shock. The FBI was scrambling to locate the remaining agents of Kanter's division and the parallel division chiefs. It was a nightmare of proportions he had never imagined.

“That was Morgan from Johnson's division. Manuel was found burned alive inside his car on I-80.”

“
Oh, God!
” Cohen burst out sobbing, anger and despair haunting her face. “Please, John, it has to stop.
Please
.”

Savas didn't care anymore who saw them together. He walked over and reached around the chair back to hold her. Everything they knew was collapsing around them.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, burying her head in his shoulder.

“I don't know, Rebecca. I don't know. These guys are real monsters. They're ripping open our bellies today.”

The door pushed open slowly, and they stared in shock at the stained and soaked white dress that draped the body of Angel Lightfoote. She smelled of a swamp, and greens and browns polluted the once bright colors of her dress. Her long hair was matted and snarled, hanging in tangled clumps from her head. Her hands were bloodied and bruised, as if they had suffered some blunt-force trauma. But she was alive.

Cohen leapt up, nearly knocking Savas over as she ran to embrace Lightfoote. “Angel, Angel, Angel!” she cried holding the battered woman in her arms. She pulled back and stared into her face, tears on her cheeks.

Lightfoote smiled faintly. “Hi, Rebecca.”

Savas stood and walked over to the two women. “Angel—my God, what happened?”

Lightfoote cocked her head to one side and seemed to look out into the distance. “Evil,” she said simply. “Something evil wanted to kill
me. It shot at me. I dove into the water and banged on a rock. I didn't get up until I had swum far enough away.”

Cohen stared mournfully at Lightfoote. “Angel, it's been horrible, everyone…”

“Is dead,” finished Lightfoote. Her expression didn't change.

“We don't know that!” Savas interrupted. “We have numerous…confirmed deaths, Angel. The entire department is being decimated. Larry's dead—killed by a bomb at his house. Several heads of other divisions that have been involved in the case. For us, Matt and Manuel. There are reports that both my apartment and Rebecca's were broken into. Frank managed to overcome his assailant, who fled. J. P. is only alive because some drunk teen plowed into his car in the early morning, setting off the bomb underneath. We don't have any word about other targets.”

“Two, at least, in CIA,” rolled the booming voice of Husaam Jordan as he entered the room. He had a bruised face and an ice pack on his right eye. A fire burned in his left.

Cohen put her arm on his shoulder. “Husaam—my God. You're hurt.”

“You should have seen the other guy,” he said grimly. “Actually, I would not recommend that. They're fishing him out of the East River as we speak.”

Savas stepped toward the CIA agent. “They have targeted CIA? How?”

“There must have been enough unsecured information in the bowels of FBI computing connecting our groups. Many at the CIA felt it was a mistake to enter into these collaborations. I don't think even the worst critics could have anticipated how deadly a mistake it would be.”

He stared intently at Savas. “John, the time has come to move, and move quickly against Gunn. I don't care how we try to sell it, but this should give us the ammunition we need.”

Savas shook his head. “Husaam, I'm sure we can make a strong enough case that Mjolnir is behind all this to convince anyone. But we have nothing, nothing at all directly linking Gunn. Now he's out of the country. We have no reliable information where he is!”

“A warrant to search his office, his house, anything.”

“That takes time.”

Jordan scowled. “As you see, time is running out.”

“Yes, sir. That's affirmative, sir.” Air Force colonel Jim Cranston nodded vigorously, staring at his computer screen. “Only those two—General Marshall and an army doctor named Russell. We've punted this up to State, and they are moving now to bring those two in for control of this situation. It is understood that all information flow outside of approved channels must be stemmed.”

A voice on the other end of the line spoke rapidly, high tension in the voice. Cranston responded. “I can't answer that one, sir. I know the general consensus is that we need to open this up to other agencies, and now with the possibility that it's in the hands of a terrorist organization—
this
terrorist organization, in particular—I think that voice will become nearly unanimous.”

The colonel listened intently and nodded. “I believe that is true. But it will be beyond our influence at that point. I think they will judge the possibility of leaks a necessary risk. You know my long-standing position on this. I think it's been a grave mistake from the beginning to keep this buried.”