Enemy Agents, page 30
And, of course, Harry Milton, slumped backward in his chair, his rumpled dress shirt stained with blood.
“What happened?” said Quarrel, after everyone else looked to him.
“His ribs are poking outward,” said Meg, the resident expert on novel ways to kill a man. “I’d say something inside his body blew up.”
“You mean . . . ” Quarrel started to say, before he was sure what he even intended to ask, “you mean he ate a bomb?”
She shook her head. “I’d say it was implanted. Anything that could create this kind of force would have been too big to slip into his food. I’ve X-rayed Harry before. He had a pacemaker. I’d say it was hiding a small plastic explosive.”
“Jesus,” Quarrel said again.
“And I know what triggered it,” said Gig, who was standing beside Harry’s desk, the closest of any of them to Harry’s body. Gig had Milton’s computer screen turned sideways so he could see what Harry had been working on. “Harry never used this thing. He kept his mission files on paper, got his briefings in hard copy. He only turned the computer on if he absolutely had to. And today, he was using a program that I’ve never seen him use.”
“Which was what, exactly?” demanded Hall, his patience wearing thin. Hall, like Quarrel, had only just been released from custody only to find that their boss was dead. For a man with Hall’s short fuse, it was agonizing to stand around waiting for answers. Gig turned the big old computer monitor to face Hall.
“Harry was using his satellite tracker program. This is designed for detonating a small explosive implanted inside a GPS-linked tracking implant.”
“Oh, shit,” said Meg, realizing what he meant.
“What?” asked Quarrel.
Meg answered him: “As far as I know, there’s only one man alive with a bomb inside a tracker: Shark Scarret. It’s the threat that Harry used to keep Shark in line.”
“The bomb in Shark’s neck,” said Quarrel. “Harry triggered it, and his pacemaker exploded.”
“Dammit!” shouted Jack. “I’m the one who told him to take Shark out. He could have killed him ten years ago!” Hall turned away, shaking his head. Quarrel thought Hall may have wiped his eyes, but he made sure nobody could see it happen.
Quarrel looked to Harry again. The old spymaster’s head was tipped way back, his bloodshot eyes still open. Quarrel walked past the techies to reach Milton, and closed the old man’s eyes. He looked to the others to see that they were all looking to the floor, in an unspoken, impromptu moment of silence. Quarrel took a deep breath and let the silence linger for just a few seconds before he interrupted it.
“Can we at least see where Shark was?” he asked Gig.
“Actually, yeah. I guess Shark’s tracker was still implanted. Must be how he could fool Harry for all these years . . . ”
“So where was Scarret?”
“The Yukon. I’ve got it coordinated right here onscreen.” Gig pointed to the corner of the satellite image.
Hall turned back to face everyone, his face red but his anger less. “Write it down, find me a plane. This ends tonight.”
Meg nodded. “I’ll get a plane, but if you want a pilot, I’m coming with you.”
Hall shook his head. “Not a chance. You’re not a field agent.”
Meg stepped closer to Hall, her petite frame dwarfed by his massive, linebacker-sized body. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you know how to disarm a gigantic microwave gun? Of all the people here, which one is a scientist whose entire job is building crazy weapons?”
“You can come,” said Quarrel. He turned to Hall, “We need her.”
“No we don’t need her,” Hall snapped. “Because I’m not disarming it, I’m blowing it sky high. Kilo, get me as much C-4 as we’ve got.”
“Then fly your own damn plane,” responded Meg. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t know how.”
Finally, Hall caved. “I don’t have time for this. Load up and let’s get to the plane.”
#
While Hall loaded up on guns, bombs, and ammo, and Meg packed a bag with electronic gadgets, Quarrel got on the phone. He knew that while Hall’s plan to blow the Teacup to pieces was the best way to ensure it was never activated, there were no guarantees that they would succeed. Quarrel needed to know that even if the Teacup was fired, it would never hurt anyone. He needed to know that there wouldn’t be another building full of people dying for whatever insanity plagued Mercier, Shark, and Boswell.
So Quarrel imagined a plan, happening one step at a time, like falling dominoes:
Swift tracks down Mrs. Thorpe, and rescues her from Boswell.
Swift finds a way to tell Thorpe that his wife is free.
Thorpe escapes from Fatale and Mercier, and shuts down the satellite.
The Teacup becomes useless without the reflector to point it down at the Earth.
It was a perfect redundancy: Quarrel and Hall’s mission set out to the Yukon to stop the TCPE, while Swift and Thorpe work on killing the satellite from the other side of the world. When he had been an office drone back in Ottawa, he had dreamed of the spy life. He had imagined himself as a solo operative, working alone, needing no help. Now, he was praying for the success of a plan that he wouldn’t even be involved in. A plan where he was counting on Swift, Saleb, and Thorpe to come through. It wasn’t what he had imagined. It was the real world, and he finally understood that.
He called Thorpe’s cell.
#
In the penthouse of the GX building, William Thorpe squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to watch as Mercier pulled the trigger.
And then his phone rang.
“What’s that?” said Mercier to one of the goons.
“It’s his phone,” said the guard.
Thorpe’s phone had been brought in for Mercier to examine, along with his briefcase. Mercier had left the case sitting on the loveseat, but the phone was still on a side counter, chiming out an urgent ring. Sensing that the phone call might keep him alive a minute longer, Thorpe spoke up.
“Only Quarrel has that number. If he’s calling, he’s got something important to say.”
Mercier’s nostrils flared and he lowered his gun. “Bring the phone,” he said to one of the guards. One of the two former-military bodyguards went and retrieved the phone from the counter and placed it in Mercier’s free hand. “Answer it, on speaker, and do be discreet.”
Thorpe nodded and reached for the phone. Thorpe knew what Mercier didn’t, that he had already tipped his hand to Quarrel. Quarrel knew that Thorpe was being blackmailed, so both ends of the conversation would be lying. He only hoped that Quarrel knew which lies to tell.
“Thorpe,” said Thorpe, answering the call.
“It’s me,” said Quarrel.
“What’s up?”
“Milton’s dead. Shark Scarret’s still alive. The bomb implant, it was . . . ”
“I see,” said Thorpe. Quarrel was doing well, thought Thorpe. Tell them truths that they already know so they don’t see the lies. “Where does that leave you?”
“There’s no one left to run CIB so Jack’s calling the shots now. We’re going all-out on the weapon in the Yukon. I need you to get everything you can out of Fatale and take down the satellite that GX is using to aim the beam. Between the two of us, we should be able to stop this thing.”
Mercier nodded. Quarrel had just revealed his own plan, to attack the weapon in the north, which Mercier would now counter-attack with a plan of his own. However, Quarrel had also been clever enough to keep up the lie that Thorpe was in hiding with Fatale, which is what he wanted Mercier to hear. The bit about Thorpe taking the satellite down was clearly an instruction for Thorpe, but Mercier was so confident that Thorpe was beaten, he only smiled at that part. When Quarrel paused, Mercier whispered, “The girl?”
“Where’s your new friend? Swift?” Thorpe asked into the phone.
“Overseas,” said Quarrel. “Retrieving some important messages, files, photographs. She’ll be safe. Once she had what she needed, she was going to disappear for good.”
“OK. I’ll do what I can on the satellite. Stay in touch.”
“I will,” said Quarrel. They both hung up.
Mercier grinned. “So, they’re about to leave CIB, heading for the Teacup. I should have an army around the place before they arrive. You’ve been very useful, Mr. Thorpe.”
“Obliged,” responded Thorpe.
“We’ll keep him alive for now, in case Quarrel decides to check in with more insights into his brilliant plan of attack,” Mercier said to one of the guards. “Take him upstairs and lock him up. And make sure that phone stays charged!”
The goons jerked Thorpe out of the chair and marched him to a stairway leading up into a hidden level between the penthouse and the roof. Thorpe didn’t fight them. He was too inspired by Quarrel’s hidden message.“Messages, files, photographs.She’ll be safe.” Thorpe had told Quarrel about his wife’s kidnapping by writing a message on the file that held photographs. Swift was overseas, and she would be safe.
There was still hope for Julia. And that was a reason to live.
It was a reason to keep fighting.
#
After Quarrel hung up, he looked at Gig. “Did we get it?”
Gig grinned. “Thorpe’s cell went through this cell tower,” he said, pointing at the screen on his workstation computer. Both men were crammed inside Gig’s surprisingly small office while Hall, Kilo and Meg were gearing up for their mission. “Thorpe answered that call from the GX building, Manhattan.”
It was Quarrel’s turn to grin. “He’s with Mercier. That’s where Mercier will control the satellite from.” Which meant that as long as Thorpe could stay alive, all it would take is word that his wife was safe and Thorpe would be able to take out the satellite. “He’s exactly where we want him to be.”
There was a knock on the door frame, and Hall was standing there. “We’re set. Let’s roll,” he was already heading for the elevator before he finished saying it. Quarrel shook Gig’s hand and ran after Hall. They reached the elevator shaft and called for it to descend, and Meg caught up to them just before the bank-office-elevator reached them.
“What took you so long?” demanded Hall.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said. “It just occurred that maybe I should pack warm clothes.”
They climbed onto the elevator and started to rise, three people about to fly across the continent to take on God-knows-how-many GX contractors, Shark Scarret, and a giant ray gun.
“Don’t worry,” said Quarrel. “Canada’s beautiful in the spring.”
#
Erica Gibbons and Peter Hershey found the nearest hotel and booked a room. After weeks apart, weeks where she wasn’t even sure that Mercier had kept his promise to keep Pete alive, she had her man back. With him, she didn’t have to be Fatale, the ruthless bitch that she played with Thorpe. She could just be Erica, and now that they were reunited she realized how much she had missed being Erica.
They were making out in the elevator, holding hands in the hallway, and somehow managed to get the door open with their hands all over each other. They fell into the bed, already with clothes loosened, buttons open. His kiss was the same, maybe a little more aggressive, a little hungrier, but they had been apart for weeks and she felt the same way. She needed him.
Ottawa had started as just a job. Infiltrate the CSIS-2 office. Cultivate useful relationships with higher-ranked agents in order to get at classified intelligence. Watch out for certain red flags, like the Jekyll and Hyde book. It was easy work for someone as skilled as Fatale. But it was also a long con, and she had ever been a quick-and-dirty sort of agent.
And over time, Fatale had settled into the role so well that she felt comfortable there. CSIS was small compared to the American or British Services. The agents there watched out for terrorism and protected people. It was good work, with a minimum of politics or personal games or bullshit. It was easy to do that work and feel good about it. It was easy to be Erica and feel good about it.
And the agent she seduced, Pete Hershey, was a good guy. He had enough ambition and drive to keep him distracted from her deception, and was a good enough man to make her feel loved. It was easy enough to fall for Erica’s man and feel good about it.
And when she did hear from Zoeli, whom she didn’t know was actually Mercier, it was almost jarring to think about having to call in a hit against the office, to disrupt all their good work, to kill them. To kill Hershey.
It was only a week before the bombing that she had bargained for his life, telling Zoeli that she wouldn’t call in red flags if Zoeli didn’t guarantee Peter’s safety. After Zoeli agreed, they went on the training course together, and spent every night together in that motel, living as openly as a couple as they had ever dared. For Fatale, this would have been a deception, a game she played to fool a man into feeling something. But when she was with Hershey, she wasn’t Fatale, she was Erica, and Erica was in love.
She had given five years of service to Hugo Zoeli’s organization, and each year was a two million dollar payday. She now had ten million dollars, the man of her dreams, and no obligations. It was time for “Fatale” to go away, and she had a feeling that wherever they ended up living, her new identity would be named Erica.
The first time they made love in that New York hotel was rough, fierce, almost violent. Hershey had betrayed his nation, his office, he had let people die for her. All that aggression, all the emotional hell of the last few weeks came out of them both in rough, passionate, angry love.
The second time was slower, more like the old them. He was only alive because of her. And the more she thought about it, the more she felt she was only living for him. Her entire adult life had been a series of crimes, of short-term stays among people she couldn’t stand. And then Hershey had come along and she suddenly had a home. He still smelled like the old Pete, even if he had spent a few weeks locked up wherever Mercier was hiding him. When the second session was over, they rolled onto their backs, side-by-side, catching their breath.
“I guess you got over it,” she said.
“Over what?”
“That I’m not who you thought I was.” She rolled to face him, looking deep into his eyes, and she realized that she wanted forgiveness from him. She had lied, betrayed him, she had called in the bomb that killed his entire office. She had ruined his life. Looking at him, she realized that she could never make up for the pain she had caused him.
After the bombing she had tried to be heartless about it. She had treated Thorpe like garbage, attempting to dehumanize him in her mind because she knew that Mercier would kill both Thorpe and his wife, which was another cross to bear. She had tried to bury guilt, to be as cold as Mercier, but now that Peter was back, she started to feel the weight of the last month. She realized now just how horrible it all was that for once in her career she couldn’t justify a kill. She was the bad guy on this, and she had made Peter Hershey her victim. Lying in bed with him, she was more than naked, she was hollow. His forgiveness would do a lot to fill that hole in her heart.
“They explained it,” he said. He reached to squeeze her hand between his.
“How did they do it?” she asked.
“Explain it?” he said, “Explain you?”
“No,” she said, “how did they keep you from dying in the bomb?”
“Oh,” he looked away from her, and she knew she shouldn’t have brought it up. Pete sat up, turned away, and reached to find his underwear on the floor. “They waited for me to come down for my smoke break,” he said, his back to her. “Then a couple guys threw me into a car and drove away, and as soon as we hit the safe distance the building exploded.”
“And then they told you why you lived,” she said, ashamed. “They told you I bargained to keep you alive.”
“Basically,” he said as he leaned over the side of the bed to pick up his pants.
She pulled a sheet over her body as he climbed to his knees on the bed, still holding his slacks in front of his body. He walked to her on his knees, his right hand digging in one of the pants pockets. She stretched out, contented, and smiled up at him.
Hershey pulled a knife from the pocket and tossed the pants over her face.
She swung her left arm up to block the pants from landing over her eyes, and the arm consequently blocked the first stab from the switchblade as Hershey swung it down hard for her throat. The blade cut into her forearm instead of her throat, but Hershey had put his weight behind the thrust and the knife continued down, stabbing Erica in the left shoulder. She screamed and rolled as the knife pushed her left side into the soft hotel bed, so her right arm came up and around Hershey, grabbing at his free arm before he could use it to steady himself. She hooked her right arm around his left, grabbing his t-shirt at the shoulder, and with a turn of her hips she tossed them both off the side of the bed.
In a different situation, this move would have allowed Fatale to land with her attacker in an incredibly painful arm-bar. But as it was, she hit the ground on her left side, where the knife was still buried in her shoulder, and with a shriek of pain she let him go and Hershey rolled away, taking the blade with him.
“Peter,” she said, her eyes flooding with tears. Hershey didn’t acknowledge her voice. All of his tenderness, his affection, his very personality was gone. All Hershey did to acknowledge that the woman who loved him was calling his name was adjust his knife in his hand and go for another killing blow.
But the first stab had woken her up. She wasn’t Erica now. She was back to what she had always been before—Fatale—and Fatale would defend herself. She was figuring out his style now, all recklessness, going for a quick, hard kill, and she was ready for him. She called his name again, in her gentlest, kindest voice, pleading for him to snap out of it, but underneath it she was preparing to move. Peter had been playing her, stringing her along and now that she was done working for Zoeli—or Mercier, now that she knew who he was—Peter was going to get rid of her. She hoped he would interpret her pleas as weakness and go for another foolish stab, and that’s exactly what he did.
