Chimera (4 page)

Laughing Boy seemed to find that very funny.

There wasn't a lot, it seemed, that didn't amuse
Laughing Boy. He never stopped laughing the whole time they were in the car
together, though as he focused on his driving it dropped to a kind of dry
giggling that grated on Chapel's nerves. When they got to the Pentagon's parking
entrance, he pulled the car into a reserved spot but before he got out he
reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills.

“Gotta show due respect, right?” Laughing Boy
asked, with a hearty guffaw. He popped three pills in his mouth and dry
swallowed them. The effect was almost immediate. He grimaced and rubbed at his
chest and sweat broke out on his head, slicking his crew cut. Eventually he
recovered and looked over at Chapel with a grim smile. “Can't take those when
I'm driving.”

Chapel got a quick look at the pill bottle before
Laughing Boy put it away. The pills were something called clozapine—Chapel had
no idea what they were for, but he did notice that Laughing Boy stopped laughing
after taking them.

Thank heaven for small
favors,
he thought.

The two of them headed inside through the security
checkpoint, where Chapel had the usual hassles that came with having part of
your body replaced by metal. The soldiers who did his pat-down and search were
at least respectful—he doubted he was the only amputee they'd seen that day.
Chapel and the CIA man were given laminates, and a helpful guard gave them
directions on how to get to the office Laughing Boy named.

Chapel was not surprised when, five minutes later,
Laughing Boy ignored the directions altogether and took him deep into C Ring and
to an office on the wrong side of the building. They passed quickly through,
ignored by all the clerks in their cubicles, and back to an elevator in an
otherwise empty hallway. When the elevator doors opened, Chapel saw two soldiers
inside carrying M4 carbines. The soldiers demanded to see their laminates and
then let them in. One of the soldiers punched a button marked H and they started
to descend.

Chapel was a little surprised by that. The Pentagon
was built in five concentric rings of office space, rings A through E. There
were two sublevels underground called F and G that he knew of. He'd never heard
of an H level at all.

When the elevator doors opened again, he looked out
into a long hallway with unadorned concrete walls. The floor and ceiling were
painted a glossy battleship gray. Unmarked green doors stood every dozen yards
or so down the corridor, which seemed to stretch on forever. There were no
office numbers, nor any signs distinguishing one door from another. “How do you
even know which office you want?” Chapel asked Laughing Boy as they headed down
the echoing hall.

“If you're down here and you don't know which one
is which, you're already in trouble,” Laughing Boy told him.

“This isn't where DIA DX has its offices,” Chapel
pointed out. “I've seen those before. This isn't—”

He stopped because Laughing Boy was staring at him.
Waiting for him to ask a question. Chapel was certain there would be no
answers.

“Never mind,” Chapel said.

“Good dog.”

The CIA man took the lead, setting off at a good
clip, and Chapel followed. He did a double take when, for the first time, he saw
the back of Laughing Boy's head. There was a bad scar there—more of a dent—where
the flesh had turned white and no hair grew.

“Come on,” Laughing Boy said. “We're already late.”
He stood next to a door exactly like all the others, his hand on the knob.

Chapel hurried to catch up with him. Laughing Boy
turned the knob and revealed the room beyond—which was nothing like what Chapel
had expected.

THE PENTAGON:
APRIL 12, T+4:59

Classical music filled the air, soft and
almost lost under the sound of falling water coming from a splashing fountain in
the center of the space. The room beyond the unmarked door was lined with wooden
shelves full of leather-bound books, and the floor was covered by a rich blue
carpet. There were, of course, no windows—they had to be a couple hundred feet
underground—but the fountain kept the room from feeling claustrophobic.

Armchairs upholstered in red leather were gathered
around the room in small conversation areas, while to one side stood a fully
stocked wet bar with comfortable-looking stools. On the other side of the room
stood a massive globe in a brass stand and a giant map cabinet with dozens of
drawers.

It didn't look like an underground bunker. It
didn't look like an office, either. It looked like a private club, the kind of
place where old diplomats would sit and discuss foreign affairs over snifters of
brandy.

“Fallout shelter,” someone said from behind
Chapel's shoulder.

He turned and saw a man of about sixty dressed in a
three-piece suit and a bow tie. The suit was tweed—elegant but not exactly
stylish—and the man in it looked like a throwback to the nineteenth century,
with long sideburns and a pair of tiny wire-rimmed glasses. He smiled warmly as
Chapel stared at him.

“You're wondering where you are, of course,” the
man said. He held out a hand and Chapel shook it. “This whole level was supposed
to be a private fallout shelter for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I doubt it will
surprise you to know they demanded it have a pleasant little tavern. The other
rooms on this level aren't like this, sadly. Mostly they're full of metal cots
and preserved food from the 1960s. This room is my favorite.”

“It's . . . nice,” Chapel offered. Maybe
a little stuffy for his taste, but it definitely beat his cubicle back at Fort
Belvoir.

“Rupert Hollingshead,” the man said, and let go of
Chapel's hand. “I'm the one who sent you all those pesky text messages. I am
also, despite appearances, a member of the DIA directorate, though not of DX,
I'm afraid.”

“Captain James Chapel, sir, reporting,” Chapel
said, and gave Hollingshead a salute. If Hollingshead was DIA, then he had to be
military, either a full bird colonel or a brigadier general. The fact that he
was out of uniform didn't matter one whit.

Hollingshead returned the salute. “Oh, do be at
ease, Captain. As I was saying . . . fallout shelter, yes. Never used
for that purpose, of course, and abandoned for years. When I needed a quiet
little place to set up shop, I figured it would do. The walls are concrete six
feet thick and it's swept for listening devices every day. Can't be too careful.
I do apologize, Captain, but will you allow me to show you a seat? Time is
rather . . . ah. Short.”

“Damn straight,” someone else said.

Chapel hadn't noticed the bar's only other occupant
until he stood up from his chair. This one was much more what Chapel thought of
when he imagined a high-ranking intelligence official. He wore the customary
black suit, power tie, and flag pin. He had heavy jowls that made him look a
little like Richard Nixon, and he stood a little hunched forward as if his
posture had been wrecked by years of whispering into important ears.

The two of them, Hollingshead and this man,
couldn't have been less alike. But Chapel could tell right away they had the
same job. Spymasters—the kind of men who were always behind the scenes pulling
strings and counting coup. The kind of men who could start wars with carefully
worded position papers. The kind of men who briefed the president daily, but who
never let their faces show up on the evening news.

Chapel had been in intelligence long enough to know
that you never, ever questioned or messed with men like that. You saluted and
you said sir, yes, sir and you did what they said and you never asked why.

You couldn't keep yourself from wondering,
though.

“That's Thomas Banks,” Hollingshead said. “CIA,
though—shh! Don't tell anyone I told you that.”

He gave that warm smile again and Chapel couldn't
help but return it. He found himself liking Hollingshead already.

Banks, on the other hand, was going to be a hard
man to love—that was evident from his whole manner. “We need to get this
started,” he growled. “We've already lost five hours. Five hours we'll never get
back.”

“Of course,” Hollingshead said. “As for your friend
here, will he be staying?”

Chapel and both officials turned to look at
Laughing Boy, who had taken up a position just to one side of the door. Laughing
Boy didn't so much as squirm under the scrutiny.

“He's been cleared. Your man is, too, I assume,”
Banks said. “What are his qualifications? Doesn't look like much.”

“Captain Chapel's a war hero, actually,”
Hollingshead said. He went over to the bar and poured himself a glass of water.
He raised one eyebrow at Chapel, but Chapel shook his head to say he didn't need
anything. “If you were to ask him about his past, I'm sure he would be unable to
tell you a thing, and quite right. His entire service record and most of what
he's done since he came home is oh, quite classified. So I'll have to sing his
praises myself. He was one of the first to put, ah, boots on the ground as they
say, in Afghanistan, as part of Operation Anticyclone.”

“What, that mess with the Taliban?” Banks
asked.

Chapel had kept quiet about Afghanistan so long
even hearing other people talk about it made him feel weird. He kept his peace,
though—a captain didn't speak to men at this level until he was spoken to.

“Hmm, yes. He was dropped into Khost Province with
a number of Army Rangers. The idea was they would make contact with some highly
placed mujahideen and arrange with them to support our incursion there. This was
right after September eleventh, of course, when we still thought we had friends
in the Khyber Pass. Chapel and his men grew beards to honor the local customs,
and, more important, they carried briefcases filled with cash. The men he was
supposed to meet with were, after all, the same men the United States had once
armed and paid to fight the Soviets. That all happened on your side of the
aisle, Banks, I'm sure you remember—”

“That was before my time,” Banks grunted.

“Of course. Of course,” Hollingshead said, waving
away the protest. “The point is, Captain Chapel did his job and made contact.
Sadly, the men he was meeting with had already chosen their path and decided the
future lay with al-Qaeda. When the negotiations, ah, collapsed, the captain
found himself on the wrong end of a rocket-propelled grenade. This unfortunately
killed all the Rangers with him and left Captain Chapel badly wounded. His
captors refused to give him medical attention until he told them every single
thing he knew about U.S. troop movements in Afghanistan. He refused. By the time
our boys rescued him, his arm had gone septic and had to be removed.”

“He's a cripple?” Banks demanded.

“Look for yourself, Banks. He's fine.”

“This is the best man you could find me? I guess on
short notice—”

“Captain Chapel has my complete confidence,”
Hollingshead shot back. His eyes flashed with anger. “He is exactly the man we
need.”

“What's he been doing since we scraped him up and
brought him home?”

“Oversight on weapons system acquisitions. It
should come as no surprise to anyone here gathered that the private firms we
employ see defense contracts as an opportunity to rob America blind. Captain
Chapel here is in charge of keeping an eye on them and bringing them to justice
when they actually break the law.”

“So he's a professional snitch,” Banks said.

Hollingshead sighed a little. “I prefer the term
whistle-blower. The point is, simply, that you are looking at a man with Special
Forces training, field experience, and a finely tuned mind for police work. Who,
not least of all, knows how to keep a secret. Am I beginning to approach your
idea of a satisfactory candidate?”

“Maybe,” Banks said. “Considering the desperate
circumstances, and the sensitivity of the matter—”

“There's certainly no time to find anyone else,”
Hollingshead said, with those flashing eyes again. Chapel got the sense that for
all his genial nature, Hollingshead loathed Banks with a passion. Banks just
seemed like he hated everyone.

Hollingshead took a sip of his water. “Captain
Chapel,” he said, “I'm afraid there's no room for ceremony here. We need you to
come work for us and I'm sorry, but you aren't allowed to say no. As of this
moment, you've been seconded to this office and I will be your new reporting
officer.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Chapel said.

“And God help you, I've already got a job for you.
God help us all.”

THE PENTAGON:
APRIL 12, T+5:19

Hollingshead went behind the bar and pressed
a button hidden among the whiskey bottles. On the far side of the room a shelf
of books slid away to reveal a flatscreen monitor. It displayed the DIA seal, a
stylized earth orbited by red ellipses and surmounted with a torch.

“This is going to be a quick briefing,”
Hollingshead said. He sounded apologetic. “Since most of what we have is
strictly need to know. I can't stress enough how sensitive this mission is.”

Chapel wanted to ask why he was privy to it, then.
He was hardly the man for a top secret mission, not anymore. But he kept his
mouth shut.

“A little more than five hours ago—that would be
ten past six in the morning—a person or persons unknown carried out an attack on
a Department of Defense facility in upstate New York. At this time we suspect
domestic terrorism.”

“It doesn't matter
why
it happened,” Banks insisted. “Stick to the
what
.”