Wired (11 page)

16

David
Desh entered the woods near the back of the motel, the night vision equipment that
Kira had provided now firmly over his eyes, and picked his way through the
trees as quickly as he could. The woods at night provided a spectacle few would
ever witness, requiring both the interest and expensive IR night vision
equipment to maximize the experience. Desh had been lucky enough to be properly
equipped on many occasions and see the woods come alive at night as nocturnal
birds, amphibians, mammals, and reptiles scurried onto the stage under cover of
darkness, unaware that technology could now offer night-blind humans a peek at
their previously hidden universe. Warm-blooded bats, normally invisible against
the night sky, now showed up clearly as they winged after insect meals, and owls
terrorized rodent populations, often swallowing their prey whole.

Tonight,
though, Desh didn’t have the luxury of letting himself get distracted. His
entire focus was on plotting a path that would allow him to traverse the
quarter-mile wide strip of trees as quickly as possible. Ten minutes later he
emerged from the trees. A road paralleled the woods, but Desh stayed close to
the tree line and out of sight of headlights, continuing to put distance
between himself and the motel.

After
jogging for a few miles he spotted the steeple of a church across the road,
with a small parking area in front, and hurriedly approached it. He passed a
sign that read
Saint Peters Lutheran Church.
Pushing aside feelings of
guilt, he forced the lock on the front door of the brick building and slid
inside.

He
went straight to the main sanctuary, stepped onto the altar, and deposited the
cell phone he had removed from Kira’s assailant behind the pulpit, leaving the
phone closed but still on. Within minutes he was back just inside the tree
line, staying out of sight and watching all access points to the church
carefully.

Desh
settled in for what he expected to be a long vigil. Periodically, he retreated
farther into the woods and did jumping jacks to keep his blood flowing and to
generate warmth on the chilly autumn night. He had the odd feeling that if Kira
Miller had had an extra coat in her magic bag, she would have left that in the
bathroom for him as well.

So
what to make of her? Could her story have been true? It was impossible to say. But
regardless, Desh had to admire her competence. She planned brilliantly, was
quick on her feet, and was decisive.

But
was she too decisive? She had shot one of the intruders to get information with
a ruthless efficiency. Few people were capable of acting so callously. On the
other hand, she could easily have killed them all. A true psychopath wouldn’t
have hesitated. Unless for some unfathomable reason it continued to be of
importance to her to convince Desh she was innocent, so much so that she was
able to sublimate her psychotic nature.

Or
was she not a psychopath at all? Had she really been a model citizen before she
had altered her own brain chemistry? Maybe. But even if she was, it was equally
possible that the changes to her nature she claimed to have come about as a
result of her experiments had become permanent, despite her assurances to the
contrary.

But
this still wouldn’t explain the deaths of her parents and uncle and teachers,
Desh realized. Even if the murder of her brother and her collaboration with
terrorists could be explained as a result of self-induced psychopathic
behavior, a horrible side effect of the rewiring of her own brain, these
earlier murders could not be. Could it be that she honestly was unaware of her
own true nature? What if she had suffered from schizophrenia and had developed
a split personality at a young age? Maybe it had always been a Dr. Jekyll, Mr.
Hyde thing with her, with the changes to her brain chemistry doing nothing more
than allowing the Mr. Hyde personality to become more dominant.

Desh
shook his head, annoyed with himself.
Why was he trying so hard to identify
some part of her that was innocent!
He knew that she was getting to him,
but he hadn’t realized just how much until now. Along with a powerful intellect
that he found stimulating and those soft, expressive eyes, there was a charm
and sincerity to her that was undeniably appealing, even though he knew it was
nothing but an accomplished acting job. He had to hand it to the ancient
Greeks: they knew that a treacherous woman who could still captivate a man was
far more dangerous than the most powerful of sea monsters. How many others had
been mesmerized by Kira Miller’s siren song, he wondered, letting down their
guard and crashing against the cliffs. If their paths crossed again, he had
better find a way to tie himself to the mast if he wanted to have any chance of
surviving the encounter.

He
was still lost in thought, forty minutes after he had abandoned the cell phone,
when a large, two-door sedan pulled off the road a hundred yards before the
church. Two men with night-vision equipment of their own jumped out and without
a word began to double-time it to the church, leaving the driver waiting in the
car. They had taken the bait already. Impressive. Whoever they were, they were
exceedingly well connected. Despite the police presence in the motel, they had
been able to pull the required strings to retrieve their men and track the
missing cell phone in record time.

Desh
pulled out the tranquilizer gun he had borrowed. Despite the fact they had been
tailing him, they were still most likely friendlies. He wasn’t exactly in a
trusting mood, but he wasn’t about to consider lethal force, either, until he
knew who they were.

Desh
sprinted along the tree line in the opposite direction from the church so he
could circle back around behind the car. As the two men entered St. Peters,
Desh cut quietly across the road and noiselessly lowered himself into a
military crawl. He inched forward toward the passenger door, not even allowing
himself to breathe. He was betting the driver had not locked the car.

Desh
let out a slow, preparatory breath and quietly removed his goggles, leaving
them on the ground next to him. Then, in a single fluid motion, he shot up from
the ground—catching the door handle on the way up—and yanked the door wide
open.
It wasn’t locked
. Wasting no
time congratulating himself, Desh pointed the gun at the startled driver, who
had just begun reaching for his own weapon. “Hands on the dash!” he barked
fiercely.

17

The
driver studied Desh thoughtfully, and then calmly placed his hands on the dash
as instructed. The tip of Desh’s tongue protruded just slightly through his
lips as it tended to do whenever he was engaged in any physical activity that
required his absolute concentration. He slid through the car’s open door and
into the back seat, his gun never wavering from its target.

“Slide
over and close the door,” commanded Desh in hushed tones.

The
man did as he was told.

“Now
slide back and get us on the road. Quickly!” demanded Desh. “Head farther away
from the Church.” Desh had no interest in passing the man’s colleagues who he
knew would be exiting the church at any moment after they discovered they had
been set up.

The
driver did as instructed, and the church rapidly receded in the rear-view
mirror.

“Very
impressive, Mr. Desh,” the driver allowed. “But then, I
have
heard good
things.”

“Who
are you?” demanded Desh. “And why were you and your people following me?”

“Call
me Smith,” said the driver, a short, wiry man in his late thirties, with short
brown hair and a two-inch scar under his ear that followed his jaw line. “After
a session with Kira Miller you get a little paranoid, don’t you? Don’t know who
to trust or what to believe.”

“Smith,
huh,” said Desh to himself. The man was unmistakably military. And along with
the obvious alias, there was a peculiar arrogance about him, as though he
considered himself above it all; unencumbered by rules that might apply to
lesser men. “Black-Ops, then?” guessed Desh.

A
self-satisfied smile flashed across Smith’s face. “That’s right,” he said. “We
had a shot at the girl and we took it. Sorry we surprised you. Given what
you’ve just gone through you’re reacting the way any smart soldier would. But
we’re on the same side you and I. Really.”

“Why
was I under surveillance then, if we’re on the same side?”

“I
would be happy to explain that and much more, Mr. Desh. I’m the one who
authorized putting you on this Op in the first place. I trust that Colonel Connelly
gave you a number to call when you found the girl?”

Desh
didn’t respond.

“I’m
going to lend you a cell phone,” said Smith. “I have two of them. I’m going to
reach in my pocket for the phone but remain facing the road. I’ll throw it back
to you. If I begin to pull out a gun, shoot me,” he added.

Desh
knew that at their current speed any hostile exchange would cause them to
crash, killing them both. Mutually assured destruction. Smith would realize
this as well.

“Okay,”
said Desh, nodding warily. “But very slowly.”

The
man reached into his pocket and carefully inched out the phone, lifting it with
his hand facing backward so Desh could see. Still facing the road, he flipped
the phone over his shoulder. Desh caught it with his left hand while he continued
to train the tranquilizer gun on Smith with his right.

“Dial
the number that the colonel gave you,” instructed Smith.

Desh
flipped open the phone and dialed the number he had memorized. As the call went
through, a ringtone melody issued from Smith’s shirt pocket. He looked at Desh
in the rear-view mirror and raised his eyebrows. “Mind if I get that,” he said
smugly.

Smith
reached into his shirt pocket and flipped open the phone. “Hello, Mr. Desh,” he
said, his voice arriving in stereo from both the front seat and through the
phone in Desh’s hand. “I think it’s time we had a little talk.”

18

Desh
still wasn’t sure who to trust, but Smith had established his authenticity,
even if Connelly hadn’t been aware of his activities. Even so, Desh had an uneasy
feeling in his gut that wouldn’t seem to go away.

“Okay
then,” said Desh. “Let’s talk.” He continued to point the gun at the black-ops
agent.

“I’ll
tell you what, Mr. Desh. How about I pull off to the side of the road and we
have a disarming ceremony first.”

Desh
remained silent.

“What
do you say?” pressed Smith. “You can keep your gun on me while I toss all of my
weapons into a bag in my trunk—including the gun strapped to my ankle. You can
frisk me to be sure.” He paused. “In return, you can hang on to your weapon. Just
don’t point it at me.”

Desh
gazed at the scarred man thoughtfully, but said nothing.

“And
while we have a little discussion and get to know each other,” pressed Smith,
“I’ll even drive you home. As long as you sit in the front seat. Be easier to
talk that way, and I refuse to be your chauffeur.”

Desh
thought through all the angles and finally agreed. Five minutes later two guns
and a combat knife were tucked in a bag and locked safely away in the trunk,
and Desh was satisfied that Smith was now unarmed. After allowing the wiry man
to contact his men to give them a quick situation report, Desh settled into the
passenger seat, safely restrained in a seat belt, but angling his body so he
was facing Smith rather than the road and was out of the man’s easy reach.

“All
right,” said Desh, as Smith accelerated back onto the road, his left hand on
the steering wheel and his right arm resting on the storage console between
them. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m
afraid that isn’t how this needs to work,” said Smith evenly. “I
will
tell you everything. Make no mistake about that. I do understand how confused
this woman can make someone and that we surveilled you without your knowledge. So
I’m willing to cut you some slack. But we’re going to do this my way,” he
insisted. “First you answer my questions. Then I’ll answer yours. Despite
heading a black-ops agency that doesn’t formally exist and using an alias, I am
still your superior officer. I’m sure Connelly told you that.”

Desh
raised his eyebrows. “Superior officer?” he said, unimpressed. “Come off it,
Smith. You’ve been calling me
Mr.
Desh. You know I’m a civilian. Connelly did tell me to follow your
instructions, but
Mr
. Desh can tell you to go to hell anytime he wants.”

Smith
sighed. “All right,
Mr
. Desh. Let’s try this another way, then. If you
want to know what’s going on, you’ll have to answer my questions first. Period.
Otherwise, I’ll leave you completely in the dark.” He glanced sideways at Desh.
“Well?”

Desh
glared at him for several long seconds but finally nodded irritably.

“Good,”
said Smith. “So tell me how Kira Miller got the drop on you.”

Desh
told him about receiving the fake message from Griffin and what had happened at
the hacker’s apartment. Smith interrupted occasionally for clarification but
said very little otherwise. When Desh described how Kira had stripped him and
had him dress in sweats, Smith glanced at his gray outfit, considerably worse
for wear since Kira had pulled it from her duffel, and an amused smile came
over his face.

Smith
listened intently as Desh described the precautions Kira had taken at the
motel. Smith was well aware that they had worked to great effect on his men. Desh
ended his narrative at the point at which Kira had exited through the adjoining
motel room, leaving out any mention of her claims of having invented material
that could hide her heat signature.

“Damn
she’s slippery,” commented Smith when Desh was finished. “It’s uncanny how she
manages to stay at large. And then, to risk kidnapping the elite soldier coming
after her practically in the middle of the nation’s capital—and get away with
it. She has balls the size of Texas,” he said, partly in frustration and partly
in admiration.

Smith
paused in thought as they shot along the dark highway, nearly abandoned at this
early hour except for the occasional trucker hauling cargo through the night. The
car’s ride was smooth and its well-tuned engine issued only the softest of
roars to interrupt what would have otherwise been a cocoon of silence. Desh’s
entire universe had been reduced to the luxury interior of an expensive sedan,
the twenty-foot swath made by its headlights as they cut through the enveloping
darkness, and a stranger using an alias whose motives were currently just as
hidden as the stretch of road beyond the headlights.

“Okay,”
began Smith, having finally plotted his interrogation. “You said she talked
with you for an hour or so. What did she talk about?”

“She
claimed she was innocent,” said Desh. “She wanted to convince me.”

“Did
she say why this was important to her?”

“No,”
said Desh. He considered telling the black-ops officer that she had told him
her goal was to recruit him to her side, but immediately decided against it.

“Did
she explain away all the bizarre deaths and disappearances that occurred around
her when she was growing up? Or the death of her boss? Or the murder of her
brother?”

“She
insisted she didn’t kill her parents. The other incidents didn’t come up at
all. Neither did any mention of Ebola or bio-weapons. She mentioned terrorists
only in the context of denying that she had any connection to them.”

“I
see. Then on what grounds did she claim to be innocent if she made no effort to
refute the airtight evidence against her?”

Desh
shrugged. “I don’t know. Your men interrupted before she got that far.”

“Let
me understand. She wanted to prove her innocence. Yet after an hour of
discussion she had not addressed even a single thing she was accused of?”

“That’s
right,” responded Desh.

Smith
took both eyes off the ruler-straight road and studied Desh for several seconds.
Finally, apparently unable to find any signs of deceit, he returned his
attention to the road. “So what
did
she talk about in that time?”

Desh
sighed. “About experiments she conducted to increase her own intelligence. The
theory behind it, the results of the experiments; that sort of thing.”

Smith
raised his eyebrows. “Did she say she was successful?”

Desh
nodded. “She claims to be able to enhance her intelligence to immeasurable
levels.”

“I
see,” said Smith, noncommittally. “And did she tell you how she applied this
newfound brilliance of hers?” he asked.

“Not
a word,” said Desh.

“Did
she
offer
you anything?” asked Smith.

“Like
what? Money?”

Smith
studied him carefully once again, as if this would enable him to precisely
judge the sincerity of Desh’s response. “Like anything. Money. Power. Enhanced
intelligence of your own.” He raised his eyebrows. “Other considerations that
might be appealing.”

Desh
furrowed his brow in confusion. “Other considerations? You can’t mean sex,” he
said in disbelief.

Smith
shook his head irritably. “Of course not,” he replied.

Desh
shrugged. “Then I’m afraid you’ve lost me. But regardless of what you’re trying
to hint at, she didn’t offer me a single thing. Period. Not a thin dime. Not
that I could be bought in any case,” he added pointedly.

Smith
paused for a long time in thought. “Did you believe her story?” he asked
finally, taking a new tack.

“What,
about her ability to elevate her IQ, or that she was innocent?”

“Both,”
said Smith.

“With
respect to enhanced intellect—I don’t know,” said Desh, shrugging. His eyes
narrowed in thought. “She’s an extraordinary scientist, that’s beyond dispute. And
she weaved a very convincing scientific rationale around the concept. Autistic
savants do exist and do demonstrate what one hundred billion neurons can do
when wired slightly differently than normal. As farfetched as it is, she made
optimizing her own brain seem possible, even
reasonable,
for someone
with her talents.” He paused. “Is she innocent? That one is easier. Of course
not. Other than claiming she was innocent, she didn’t provide a shred of
evidence, as we’ve discussed.”

The
corners of Smith’s mouth turned up in a knowing smile. “But she still got to
you a little, didn’t she? Even without providing any evidence, you half wanted
to believe her, didn’t you?”

“What
I might have
wanted
to believe and what I actually
do
believe are
two different things,” snapped Desh defensively.

“I’ve
never met her,” said Smith. “But she’s brilliant and I’m told she has a way
about her. She can suck you in, dazzle you with logic that seems irrefutable,
and do it in a way that’s absolutely sincere. Not to mention that she has a
wholesome, doe-eyed beauty that some men find hard to resist. You must have
felt her pull.”

Desh
frowned. “A little,” he admitted. “But I know what she is and my guard was up. She
may have intended to provide evidence of her innocence. Maybe she would
eventually have even tried to bribe me, but we’ll never know. Your men crashed
the party and all she talked about was her ability to make herself smarter.” He
paused and added sharply, “You can believe anything you want.
That’s
what happened. That’s
all
that happened.”

Smith
was silent for several long moments as they continued hurtling down the dark
highway. Traffic was still sparse but had begun picking up, ever so slightly,
with the gradual approach of dawn. “I believe you,” he said at last. “I
conducted a number of interrogations in a past life and I think you’re telling
the truth. On the important things at any rate,” he added.

“Good,”
said Desh. “So are you ready to take your turn in this little information
exchange of ours?”

Smith
considered. “All right,” he replied. “First of all, we believe Kira Miller
really has found a way to turn herself into the ultimate savant. And our
experts seem to agree that, properly organized, there’s almost no level of
intelligence the one hundred billion neurons you spoke of can’t reach.”

“Do
you have actual evidence of this optimization?”

“Yes.
Most of it circumstantial, but enough that we’re convinced. What you say she
told you fits right in with what we know. It’s interesting that she told you
she gave herself this immeasurable IQ,” continued Smith, “but she didn’t say a
word about how she applied this intelligence.” He eyed Desh meaningfully. “If
you had supreme intellect, what problem would you tackle?”

Desh
shook his head tiredly. “Look . . . Smith . . . usually I’m up for riddles and
guessing games. Really. But I haven’t slept in almost twenty-four hours and
it’s been a tough day, so why don’t you just tell me.”

“Immortality,”
said Smith simply.