From the Ashes (7 page)

On the numeric keypad to the right of a heavy steel door – the only features in the otherwise stark concrete room – he punched in the 8-digit code, prompting the pad to slide back into the wall, then up, revealing another console with a small camera lens, a microphone, and a large LCD touch-pad. He pressed his right palm to the touch-pad, a red light-bar like that of a copy machine passing over his hand and recording his fingerprints, handprint, and pulse – in case someone might try to use the hand of a dead agent to gain access. He enunciated his agent identification number into the microphone, and centered his left eye in front of the camera lens, which image-captured his retina.

When the security computer had checked the passcodes and biometric data against the agent files in the system, verifying that he was indeed supposed to be in the building, a small green light next to the camera lens lit up. One last step. Enrique backed up two steps, turned his face and body to the center camera, cognizant of the other four that were also focused on him in his current position, and stared patiently into the lens. The operator on the other side saw that it was a living agent – and only that agent – and pressed the button to buzz him through. Rushing to push open the door before the lock reactivated – and he had to go through the whole process again – Enrique entered the brightly lit headquarters of the Division.

Some people found the security measures to be a bit overkill, but not Enrique. He was glad for anything that would protect this great nation of his from the treacherous subversives who would see its downfall. And he was proud to be an important cog in that powerful machine. It was the current director, Harrison Greer, who had taken an interest in Enrique’s abilities – and lack of personal connections. Enrique’s background fit the profile that Greer had found produced exceptional field agents, and after contacting Enrique and making his proposal, Greer had arranged for him to be one of the first casualties of the war in Afghanistan. According to the official report, Enrique Ramirez had been blown apart by a land mine – left over from the Soviet occupation of the country in the eighties – while on patrol. He had gone off alone, as he was wont to do, and never came back. An explosion was heard, and
somebody s
body was found, though it had gotten such a good blast from the land mine – and the second land mine that the torso had conveniently landed on – that identification was all but impossible. Just the way the Division liked it. After months of training, he had undertaken his first assignment, excelled, and the rest was history. Albeit unwritten history.

He turned a corner, walked to the end of the stark, tile-floored, white-painted concrete-walled hallway and stopped. Lingering, he stared at the gray steel door, which displayed a copper nameplate bearing the single word:
Director.
He had always relished being summoned before the man who held this office. Greer was the father he had never had, the mentor and leader he had always needed, and Ramirez had always been his golden child. But things with Greer lately had been... different somehow. Ramirez took a breath and rapped twice on the door.

“Enter,” came the gruff reply from within. Ramirez did so.

Enrique had heard it said that you could tell a lot about a person by the way they decorated their “space,” be it their home, their office, or even the interior of their car. The centerpiece of the office was a shiny aluminum desk about the size of a pool table; a desktop computer, a legal-sized pad of paper, a black mesh pencil cup, and a Civil War-era cannonball, held in the bowl of a specially constructed display stand, were all that graced its top. Three framed pictures hung behind the desk. In the center was the standard portrait of the current President of the United States. Flanking him were the pictures of the two former directors of the Division: Harrison Greer’s father and grandfather. Nepotism was generally looked down upon these days, especially when it came to public office, but this office was anything but public, and every Greer that had held this position had proven more than competent.

Other than the portraits, the walls were whitewashed and unadorned. No nonsense, no superfluous distractions. Ramirez liked that dedication, that single-mindedness that Greer, as his mentor, had in turn instilled in him. The only features in the room other than the desk were the two filing cabinets located on the left wall opposite the entry door, a closet behind the desk that Ramirez had never seen open, and a three-foot-long bombshell that stood in one corner behind the desk. No one within the Division, save Greer himself, really knew whether it was a real, live bomb or not. When Ramirez had once inquired, Greer had told him that it was a reminder of the explosive nature of the secret they were sitting on. Like the bomb’s unknown danger potential, each subject slated for elimination by the Division, given time and freedom to pursue things further,
might
never discover enough to really pose a threat to the nation. But, Greer would finish the metaphor, is it really worth the risk to let someone whack the tip with a hammer just to find out?

Harrison Greer was hunched over his desk, flipping through some documents in a manila folder. His piercing gray eyes turned toward the door. His tanned face sat on a muscular neck. His thick head of brown hair belied his forty-eight years of age, the salt-and pepper at the temples and the sun-weathered wrinkles around his eyes the only indications of his age. His body was that of a weightlifter, tugging at the seams of his gray suit.

“Ramirez,” Greer said as he placed the file on the desk and stood, extending his full six-foot-three frame. Ramirez, being five inches shorter, had long fostered the joke, privately of course, that Greer was someone he ‘looked up to.’ “Have a seat.”

Ramirez eased himself into the chair opposite the desk while Greer walked over to the filing cabinets and extracted another folder. Returning to his chair, the Director adjusted the folder on his desk, folded his hands, and fixed Ramirez with a stare.

“Ramirez, last night’s mission...” Greer pursed his lips, as if the next words held an acrid distastefulness. “It may have been premature.”

Ramirez raised an eyebrow but remained silent, his hands folded in his lap.

“I don’t want to say anything else until I know more, but that’s where I need you again.” Greer took a deep breath, and shook his head once, like he were shooing away an obtrusive thought. “Apparently Rickner had a laptop that he kept at home. He may have kept his most sensitive discoveries there.”

“I didn’t see a laptop when I was there, or I would have grabbed it then.” Ramirez made a face. “Why didn’t Recon pick up on this before?”

“Apparently he never connected it to the Internet. Cautious, I suppose, especially after he realized what he’d stumbled across. We found his student account, and thought that was it. He must’ve paid cash for the laptop and forgone any warranties. No record of the laptop, until this morning when... well, never mind the particulars. The fact of the matter is I need you to get that laptop. It should be at his apartment. Perhaps hidden somewhere. Find it and bring it back.”

Ramirez waited. Greer was silent, his eyes locked back on the contents of the manila folder. “Anything else, sir?” Ramirez asked.

Greer swallowed, looked up. “Sorry. No. Not yet. Just report back as soon as you have that laptop. It is paramount that we get the laptop and the information it contains immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” Ramirez stood to leave, conscious of the fact that Greer was distracted by something he wasn’t telling him. “Sir, permission to speak freely?”

“Granted.”

“Are you okay?” Ramirez tilted his head to the side. “I mean, you seem a little-”

“Distracted?”

Ramirez nodded. “Perhaps.”

Greer leaned forward over his desk. “You know the feeling you get when your ticket matches the first five numbers in the Mega Lottery? You’re incredulous at your luck and tingling with anticipation, waiting for that last number, the Powerball, to come up?”

“Not personally, but I can imagine.”

“We may have a winning lottery ticket on our hands, Ramirez.” Greer jabbed a meaty finger at the intel lying on his desk, still locking eyes with Enrique. “And this laptop may be our Powerball. Go get it.”

Washington, D.C.

Some things in life never seemed to change. Vacations were planned and canceled; engagements made and terminated; brothers and fiances killed. But the omnipresent golden arches of McDonald’s were always around. During his travels around the world with his brother, Michael had often joked that, if the world were plunged into nuclear holocaust, cockroaches and McDonald’s – along with the odd Starbucks – would be all that survived. And in this spirit of constancy and familiarity, Jon and Mara approached the restaurant that remained the same despite the tumultuous state of their own lives.

Jon was now free of his luggage – he and Mara had dropped his bags off at her apartment, then walked the five blocks to the nearest of the ubiquitous restaurants in the Washington Metro area. The pair was walking close, Jon at times sliding his arm around Mara’s shoulder and squeezing her side against his in an attempt to comfort her, to comfort himself, and, in some small way, to absolve himself of some of the guilt he felt over his recent jealousy toward her.

The breakfast rush was tapering off, and Mara grabbed a booth while Jon ordered their food. Five minutes later, Jon returned with two sausage-egg-and-cheese biscuits, two orders of hash browns, a coffee, and a Coke.

“Breakfast of champions,” Jon announced as he set the food on the table.

Mara stared at him. “Uh huh.”

“Eat up,” he urged as he grabbed a biscuit from the tray.

Mara took a hash brown from the tray and began to pick at it, putting the morsels in her mouth in slow, detached movements. Jon was halfway through his biscuit – he hadn’t even realized how hungry he had been – when he noticed Mara’s demeanor.

“Not hungry?”

“Hungry.” Mara dropped her hash brown onto the tray. “Just no appetite.”

“Mara, you gotta eat. When Mom died, Dad just retreated into his research. Didn’t eat, didn’t let Michael and me help him through the pain. He just isolated himself in his misery. He lost twenty pounds that he didn’t have to lose, and he almost had to be put in a hospital to boost his electrolytes intravenously. If we’re gonna get through this, we’re gonna have to keep our strength up. Emotionally and mentally we’re shot, but if we start wasting away physically...” He let the thought hang in the air between them. Hoping it would give her some impetus to keep pushing on. But, as Jon knew all too well, it was damned hard.

“I know. I just...” She drifted off. An uncomfortable silence filled the void.

Jon looked at his biscuit, then back at Mara. “You want to talk about it?”

“God, Jon, it was horrible.” Her words tumbled out in an avalanche of emotion. “I was supposed to drive him to the airport. Eight a.m. My first morning as an engaged woman, sending my husband-to-be off on a big adventure. But when I got there, he didn’t answer. The apartment was quiet, and the peephole was dark. I figured he had gotten another ride, or perhaps overslept, but he would have let me know if he didn’t need me to pick him up, and he never would have missed this trip. I tried calling his cell, but there was no answer. And I heard his ringtone from inside the apartment. I thought he might be in the shower or something, so I used my key to get in.”

Jon raised his eyebrows and took a long pull of air. All this was too much for him, but regardless, it was where they were. And as distasteful as the story’s ending was sure to be, Mara needed to tell it. And Jon needed to hear it.

“But everything was wrong,” she continued breathlessly, as though the story had been kept inside her for too long and now was forcing itself out of her mouth. “It was too dark, like some supernatural shadow had been draped over the room. I called his name, making my way toward the bedroom, and then my voice caught in my throat as I gagged on a scent I’d never smelt before. One I hope never to smell again. I wanted to run away, just flee that apartment and never look back. But I couldn’t. So I went to the bedroom. Forced myself not to gag as the smell became stronger. I opened the door and... His head... so much blood. Blood everywhere.” She took a few quick heavy breaths, as though she were beginning to hyperventilate. Then she composed herself and continued. “The police are calling it suicide, but—”

“But no freaking way,” Jon finished her sentence through a mouthful of sausage, egg, and biscuit.

Mara snorted a quick laugh despite herself, which quickly gave way to the prevailing frown. “Yeah. No way.”

Jon swallowed and shook his head. “I didn’t even know Michael owned a gun.”

“He didn’t, at least not legally. Certainly none that I knew of, but the cops say he could have gotten it from any number of illegal dealers around the city. Which I don’t doubt that he
could
have, but I have serious doubts that he would. But there was a gun in his hand – the murder weapon, they said – when I found him.”

“But the cops didn’t know Michael so they didn’t factor that into their
official
assessment.” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “So what
evidence
pointed the cops to a conclusion of suicide?”

“They say there was no sign of a struggle, no sign of forced entry, no evidence of anyone else in the apartment that night. They matched the bullet that killed him with the gun found by the body. And the gun was fired through the...” She paused, cringing. Her hand went instinctively to the small silver cross that hung around her neck, which she rubbed between her fingers.

“Take your time.”

“No, no, I’m fine.” She stared at a spot on the table and started picking at the chipping Formica with one fingernail. “The gun was fired from under his jaw through his b...” She looked like she was about to vomit, then regained her composure, “...through his brain. Typical suicide shot.”

Jon made a face. “Not Michael.”

“No, Jon. Not Michael at all. Especially what with everything that was going
right
in his life. He was really stoked about this new dissertation topic he had started a week or so ago. Some real breakthrough that was supposed to have helped ‘all the pieces fit’ and ‘make his career.’” She looked down at her hands resting on the table. “And of course, there was me...”