The Silent Army (8 page)

His voice trailed off as the room brightened around me, and the colors appeared around his head. Over the past two years, I’d gotten better at doing what I did. I didn’t have to get close anymore or tell him to go to sleep. Most people didn’t even need to be totally under for me to get them to tell me what I wanted to know, and it was less obvious that way.

“Just take it easy, Mr. Reese,” I said.

I eased the colors back into a cold, calm blue, and watched his face relax.

“I just have a few questions. Will you cooperate?”

“Sure,” he breathed, settling back into the wheelchair.

I risked a glance back toward the glass panel that separated the rooms. It was a one-way mirror, so I couldn’t actually see the people on the other side, but I could sense them to the point that I knew where they were standing. Vesco and his friend were together, back toward the far wall. The woman, Alice, was standing directly in front of the glass, watching me. Her mind was calm and interested, but not suspicious. I looked back to Nico’s list.

“Did you smuggle in the twelve devices?” I asked. The paper didn’t say what kind of devices they were.

“Yes.”

“Was Holst your original contact?”

“No,” he said, “but the guy who set up the deal and the one who did the pickup were supposed to be two different people. I knew that.”

“So you were expecting Holst?”

“I didn’t know who I was expecting. The guy who set it up supplied a cipher. The pickup man provided the key. They also had the money. Everything was in order.”

“So nothing seemed strange about the deal?”

Reese’s brow twitched. “One thing,” he said.

“Tell me.”

“The buyer wanted the revivors too.The two that came to make the pickup didn’t say anything about that.”

“No?”

“No. That blond bitch, especially. She looked put off by the whole thing. Next thing I know, the goddamn Feds are busting down the doors, so I figured it was a sting; the bitch and her pervert friend were undercover. I go downstairs to take care of her, and she starts shooting.”

“You didn’t see where the case ended up?”

That actually seemed to excite him a little. An electric white began to course under the cool blue that surrounded him.

“I thought you had it,” he said. He didn’t know.

“Did the buyer say what the targets were?” I asked.

“Just that they were big.”

“Big?”

“At least three large-scale urban targets,” he said. It took me a minute to realize what it was that he was saying.

“They’re going to blow something up?” I asked.

“What the hell else do you do with a nu—”

“The nature of the case’s contents is classified,” a voice snapped over the intercom, loud enough to cut the man off, but it was too late. I knew what he was going to say. He had a weird look on his face, a sort of excitement in his eyes, even despite being under. Whatever was going to happen, he wanted it to happen.

The city is going to burn.
That’s what the dead woman said. Was this what she meant?

“Okay,” I said weakly. My heart had started to pound. “That’s all.”

“You can’t stop it now,” he said. “Change is coming, and you can’t—”

“Shut up,” I said, and he did.

I looked at the bottom of the paper Nico had given me, and it seemed to be turning in a slow circle in front of me. There were a few more questions he wanted asked that I was not expecting. Normally I think I would have chickened out, but I was still reeling from what I’d heard. I barely thought about it when I called back into the next room.

“Agent Vesco, can you come in here for a second?” I called back. “The rest of you can go if you want. I’m done with him for now.”

The door opened and Vesco came in. He looked at me like I was an idiot.

“He’s lying, Ott,” he said. “If interrogation was that easy, anyone could do it. That case is worth millions; he knows where it is. They would have had a route set up to carry it back underground in the event they got busted.”

“He’s not lying.”

“So you ask him a question, and just accept the first thing that comes out of his mouth? He’s a black market- arms dealer sitting inside the Federal Building; he’ll say whatever he—”

“He’s not lying. Shut up,” I said, and he did. His face went slack, but not too slack. I was careful not to push him too hard.

“Come closer,” I said. “Sit down next to me.” He did, and I leaned closer, to whisper in his ear.

“Did you know Holst and Takanawa would be in the hotel?” I asked. He whispered the answer in my ear.

“Yes.”

“What were you told?”

“Not to process them. To let them leave with the case, and then report that it was never at the site. To keep Wachalowski out of it.”

“Who told you that?” I asked. He paused.

“I don’t remember.”

“Why did you agree to go along with that?”

“I . . . don’t remember.”

He wasn’t lying. He couldn’t be, not to me.

“That’s all,” I said, and let him go. I folded the paper and stuffed it in my pocket. Vesco blinked and looked confused for a second before he got up and walked out without saying another word.

Jerk,
I thought. The door closed behind him. I could sense his presence as he passed by the one-way mirror, and back out into the hall. His friend had already gone, but the other presence, the woman named Alice Hsieh, was still there. She was still standing near the glass, watching me. Her mind was still calm and curious.

Without looking back at the mirror, I focused on her. I was going to make her leave too, before I called the guard back in to take the suspect away. When I concentrated on her, though, and began to push, something gently pushed me back. Around the cool and curious glow of her consciousness, I saw a thin, white halo appear, so faint it was almost invisible.

Then I really did turn and look, and I could feel her looking back. That faint halo showed up on only one kind of person.

Alice Hsieh was like me.

Calliope Flax—FBI Home Office

I tried Wachalowski one more time on my cell across the street from the Federal Building and let it ring. I’d called him a few times, but he wasn’t picking up. I picked the phone up at a convenience store, and I was supposed to be gone another two years so it wasn’t a total ditch, but I was sick of getting his voice mail.

“. . . Special Agent Nico Wachalowski. Leave a mes—”

I hung up. After a minute, I crossed the street.

The last time I had a run-in with the Feds, it wasn’t exactly a win. They screwed me on a reward I had coming, doped me, grilled me all night, then kicked me to the curb. The place still made me a little edgy.

A camera followed me up the steps, and drones in suits watched from a gate just past the door. I walked up to it and flashed my ID card.

“Flax, Calliope,” the door said. “First Class. Violations including: assault, illegal possession of a weapon, public drunkenness, and speeding place you as security risk: medium-high.”

Some asshole going by looked over. The door kept talking.

“Records show a recent return from military service,” it said. “Honorable discharge at rank EMET Corporal. Awarded commendations: Bronze Star, and Purple Heart. Welcome back, EMET Corporal Flax.”

“Just open.”

The door clicked, and I pulled it open and went in. The place looked part military and part corporate jerk-off, full of suits with guns and big wallets. The lobby was decked out, and the floor had a big, fancy seal on it. There were flags and spy cams on every wall, and a big metal detector and X-ray up front. I took off my jacket and dropped it on the belt while the bald guy behind it watched.

“Welcome back, Corporal. Step through, please.”

I went through, and after he checked me out, he gave the coat back.

“You meeting someone?” he asked.

“Agent Wachalowski.”

“He expecting you?”

“He said look him up when I got back,” I said.

“Sign in, please.”

I signed the log, and he gave me a badge to wear.

“Elevator’s that way. He’s on the fifth floor.”

The lift was full of suits, and on the way up I did a sweep with the JZI. I found a ton of nodes, so a lot of the goons there were ex-military. One of them could have been Wachalowski, but I hadn’t actually talked to him on the JZI yet, so I didn’t have his ID. When the car hit five, I got out and headed down the hall to find someone to ask.

Halfway down, an old guy eyed me and moved in. He was my height and blocky, but soft in the middle. His face wasn’t soft, though, and one of his eyes was a fake. I could tell right off he was in charge.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I’m here to see Agent Wachalowski. Do you know where I can find him?”

“What’s your name?”

“Cal Flax.”

Orange light flashed in the darks of his eyes, and I picked up an intrusion on my JZI. Some message popped up about me being inside a federal facility, and my security dropped. He scanned all my systems, top to bottom. The guy was heavily wired.

“EMET Corporal Calliope Flax,” he said. “Aka Fang, aka Hayvan.” That last one made him grin a mean grin. “The Beast?”

The guys in my platoon called me Fang because of the missing tooth. Hayvan was what the punks in Juba called me, after I started patrolling with the jacks.

“Yes, sir.” He was reading something on his JZI, I could tell. As he did, his face changed. Some of the hard-ass went out of him. I used a backscatter filter on him while I waited, and he let me. Under the muscle and flab he had some armor plating, muscle and joint work, and some ugly chunks of scar tissue.

After a minute he held out his hand, and I shook it. His big hand gripped like a vise.

“I’m Assistant Director Henry Noakes,” he said. “Agent Wachalowski is in the field, but he’ll want to see you.”

“If you say so.” I was half thinking he might back-pedal when he saw me on his front doorstep.

“He dropped your name a couple times,” he said. “He’ll want to see you. Hold on.”

Orange light flickered in his eyes again. A few seconds later, a call came in. It was from Wachalowski.

“Thanks,” I said. He nodded.

Call accepted.

Calliope,
he said.

Cal.

I didn’t expect you back so soon.

Two guys in suits came around the corner. One looked over his shoulder, then back at his buddy as they passed, and I caught the G-man’s name.

“. . . Wachalowski find her anyway?” he said.

“You got me.”

Neither did I.

I’m glad you came by; I was hoping you would when you got back.

It was an honorable discharge.

I don’t doubt it. Is Assistant Director Noakes still standing there?

Yeah. The guy’s hard-core. He’s wired up the ass.

That might be the one place he isn’t wired. Can we meet later?

Sure.

Name the spot. I’ll find it.

The Pit? It’s in Bullrich.

Got it. I’ll get in touch as soon as I’m out of the field. We’ll meet there.

Right then a scrawny chick in a raincoat came around the corner, tailing the two suits that just passed. She was short and built like a stick with a big beak nose. Her hair was red and she was pale as a ghost. She looked down at the floor when she walked. When I got a good look at her face, it hit me like a brick.

You will remember Zoe Ott.

I got that weird flash again. I was underground. It was cold and dark. I could hear gunfire. Someone was chasing me. I pushed past a sheet of plastic and down a long hall to a room filled with cages. . . .

Gotta go.

I cut the line.

“You got any other business here?” Noakes asked.

The stick with the red hair went by us. When she did, she looked up at me, then back at the floor.

“No,” I said. “Thanks again.”

“Welcome back.”

She was heading for the elevators, and I went after her. When the car showed up, I followed her in.

In the reflection off the brass, I saw her check me out. I knew her. She was down in that cold, dark place two years ago.

How the fuck did I just forget her?

I set the JZI recording, and got a good look at her face. I didn’t know why she was there, but it was a good a time as any to get some answers. The numbers ticked off on the LCD as the car headed down, and I went for the emergency stop button.

I didn’t do it, though. Something stopped me and I just stood there. When the doors opened, she scooted out and made a beeline for the front door. I stepped out, but I didn’t follow her. I just stood there.

“Elevator trouble?” some guy in a suit said.

“How the fuck should I know?” I said. He gave me a look and made a point of clipping my shoulder when he passed, but I still just stood there. Why the fuck did I just let her go?

I killed the JZI recording. At least I had a face to go by, and if she was there two years ago, then Wachalowski must know who she was. I bumped to the start of the footage and let it run so I could see her face again.

In a window I watched the footage play. The feed showed the shiny brass doors of the elevator, and I could see my own reflection in it. She was standing to my left. I got some good frames of her face, but that was it. Then I heard myself talk.

“Hey,” I said to her. She didn’t look up.

“Hey.”

I froze it. I stood there and stared at the image in the window. In it, I was looking down at her beak profile and she had her eyes on the floor. I hadn’t said anything to her; I knew I hadn’t. The whole thing happened less than a minute ago.

I leaned against the wall next to the door and let it keep running.

“Where do I know you from?”
I asked her.

She shrugged.
“You don’t.”

I hit the emergency stop and the car bucked as the bell rang and kept ringing. She jumped and looked up at me.

“What are you doing?”
she squawked.