Mad Powers (Tapped In) (20 page)

* * *

There were at least twenty covert agencies, in or around Washington, D.C., that I could think of off the top of my head. The more secret, mostly those associated with the Department of Defense such as NSA and DIA, the less restrictions there were. To get necessary funding, each agency was supposed to be under some sort of congressional oversight review board, but I knew this wasn’t always the case. SIFTR was privately funded, according to what Baltimore told me on the plane, by an international committee. Even though it was a very small organization, its resources were staggering—in the billions, if necessary.

There was a black SUV waiting for us at Dulles. Baltimore got behind the wheel and we drove directly to Georgetown. We pulled to a stop in front of a three-story brownstone on North Street.

“You’ll be staying here for the next few days,” Baltimore said. I opened the car door and moved to climb out. “Be ready by 6:00 a.m.,” Baltimore added. I shut the door and the SUV accelerated away.

Ten stair steps up, a large red door opened and a silver-haired man, casually dressed in slacks and a blue cardigan sweater, smiled down at me. “Good evening, Mr. Chandler.” He held the door open and beckoned me to come on up. “My name is Tony; welcome to Riley House.”

I stepped past Tony into a large foyer. He closed the door and entered a pass-code on a panel by the side of the door. I heard the sound of electronic actuators and some serious hardware lock into place.

“This way, sir,” Tony said, walking forward past a large winding staircase to another set of doors, decorated with ornate brass hardware. I followed him into a large sitting room area that once was, perhaps in an earlier time period, a parlor. At the back of the room was another doorway, which led us into a large kitchen. “I’ll leave you here with Ms. Rosette. Feel free to grab a snack. She’ll get you situated in your room … good evening.”

“Thanks.”

Tony strode back the way we’d come and I turned to see a long table that could easily seat twelve. Obscured by three cereal boxes and a jug of milk, I spotted a glimpse of blonde hair.

“Hungry?” Pippa asked, with a full mouth of Captain Crunch.

I sat across from her, separating two of the boxes so I could see her face.

“I was starving. Want me to get you a bowl?” she asked.

“No, thanks, I’m good. How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know, maybe five hours?” she replied, shoveling in another mouthful. “You’ve been briefed?”

I nodded.

“I didn’t expect you to show up. You made it pretty clear that you were out. Retired, I think you put it.”

I shrugged. “Maybe after this job.”

She seemed disinterested and her focus returned to the printed back on one of the cereal boxes. “So what is this place?” I asked.

“An old historic federal townhouse. Actually, all four townhomes on this side of the street are interconnected. More SIFTR assets. We’ll be staying here while they prep us for the mission.”

I looked around the kitchen and large dining area. “Had a chance to look around?”

Her eyes stayed on the box. She continued to crunch away. “Um, not really. Why?”

So this was how it was going to be. The cold treatment: more fallout for not finding some way to contact her over the past year. Truth was, I couldn’t really blame her, and perhaps I should have done more … somehow gotten a message to her.

“Basement.”

“Basement?” I repeated.

“Utility room’s down there. Passcode is 5612.” Pippa got up, grabbing the boxes of cereal, and carried them into the kitchen; she disappeared into a pantry. I put the milk away in the refrigerator and deposited her bowl and spoon in the sink.

“How’d you get the code?” I asked.

“I’m not going to tell you all my secrets,” she said, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed over her chest. Our eyes met for the first time and she continued, “And remember, what goes on in here, is none of your damn business.” She pointed with her thumb at her own forehead.

I nodded. “Promise.”

“Good. I’ll show you to your room—come on.”

We left the kitchen through a different set of doors and passed through a game room with a sectional couch and large screen TV at this end and a pool table at the other. The back stairway was positioned at the rear of the house and I followed Pippa up the narrow staircase. I had to make a conscious effort to keep my eyes averted from her all-too-perfect backside, three steps in front of me. At the third level, Pippa pointed to a series of doors down an adjacent hallway. “You’re there, on the right, second doorway. We have a meeting with Baltimore at 6:00 a.m.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that to me.”

“You’ll find that your room has been stocked. Clothes, toiletries, everything you’ll need.” She continued on without looking back. When she got to what must be her bedroom, she entered, and without looking back, shut the door. I heard the sound of a deadbolt clicking into place.

Sure enough, there were clothes in the closet and toiletries in the bathroom. I peeled off my clothes and got the shower going. While I waited for the water to get hot I thought about what Pippa had said. Why had I agreed to work with SIFTR? There were a number of options available to me now, given my new talents. Did I really need to put my life on the line for an organization I knew little about? And even less about what their true motives were? I stepped under the hot water and brought my thoughts back to Pippa. She was the reason. She’d changed over the past year: more confident—self-sufficient. A year or more ago, she was prepared to leave the agency, give up her career so we could make a go of our relationship. Now, she was all business. A career agent.

I toweled off and found a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt in a chest of drawers in the bedroom. Everything fit, including a pair of new Nike tennis shoes I found on the floor of the closet. According to the clock on the bedside table, it was just after midnight. I slipped out of my room and headed for the stairs. I made my way down the three levels I’d traversed earlier and continued down another far less formal set of stairs that ended up in the basement. Sure enough, a metal door marked Utility was off to the left. I entered 5612 into the keypad next to the door and heard it unlatch. The room was brightly lit from overhead fluorescents. Two large, cylindrical elevator-drive motors, with flywheel assemblies, were stationary across from me. Thick metal cables were looped into each one and disappeared into the ceiling above, into what must be the elevator shaft. The power panels were to my right. Like so many electrical panels I’d come into contact with over the last week, I knew where to go—where to find the incoming high-voltage lines. It had become routine, like other bodily regimens, such as eating or going to the bathroom. I gave it little thought, other than always taking the necessary precaution to avoid getting myself electrocuted.

Four minutes into it, with my head resting against the cool steel pipe, something changed. The familiar connection, the song that routinely filled my consciousness, was now accompanied by something else—something far less abstract than I was used to.

Hello, Rob. Welcome back.

The voice was as familiar to me as hearing my own. Not since I’d sat within the crumpled confines of my crashed rental car on that Kingman highway had I felt this level of connection—the oneness.

Who are you? … What are you?
I asked, feeling my consciousness expanding—accelerating—pulled farther out, into the vastness of pure energy itself. Limitless, yet confined to a single trajectory, toward something or someone.

I’ve been searching for a thousand lifetimes, Rob. Will you help me?

I was getting closer, approaching a destination that seemed familiar, yet entirely new, too …undefined edges of nothingness, the formless beginning to taking shape. I, myself, was taking shape.

You’re almost here, Rob.

A loud clank and the sound of the elevator motors whirling to life jarred me back to reality. My connection gone, I heard the elevator settle to a stop one floor above me.

Chapter 32

I cleared out of the utility room, entered the passcode to relock it, and took the stairs back up to the first floor two at a time. I sprinted into the kitchen and heard footsteps in the game room. They were coming closer.

Tony entered the kitchen holding a Sig Sauer 9 mm at waist level. I came out of the pantry holding Pippa’s same three boxes of cereal. Startled, Tony raised his weapon toward my head.

“Mr. Chandler, I didn’t realize you were up and about.”

“Stomach was grumbling. Must be a time zone thing. Sorry, Tony, did I disturb you?”

“It’s quite all right, we’re used to late-night fridge raiding here,” Tony replied, while looking around the kitchen to see if I was alone. He walked to a door that led to the backyard. Checking that it was indeed locked, he lowered his gun and his casual smile returned. “I’ll leave you to it; enjoy your snack.”

I nodded and while he turned back the way he’d come, I read his mind:

Late night snack my ass …

He was suspicious. He knew I’d been down in the basement, but he wasn’t overly worried about it. I put the cereal back on the shelf and made my way back to my room.

Had I imagined the voice, that presence, pulling me toward something:
Will you help me, Rob?
I felt an uneasiness deep within myself. I’d heard and felt
its
desperation. One thing I knew for certain: I wasn’t alone out there; wherever that was when I tapped in. I knew now that I needed to find out who, or what, needed my help.
How the hell would I do that?

* * *

Tony, dressed in a different cardigan, this one rust-colored, offered me a hot cup of coffee as I entered the kitchen.

“Thanks.”

Pippa was seated at the table in the same chair she’d been sitting in the previous night.

“Morning,” Pippa said, not looking up from the NY Post held up in front of her. “Nice suit.”

Before I had a chance to sit down, Baltimore strode into the kitchen. “Good morning, Tony. Ms. Rosette, Mr. Chandler, we have fifteen minutes to get across town.”

Baltimore did an about face and hurried out. Pippa tossed her paper on the table, took another quick sip of coffee and followed. I took another sip, placed my half-empty cup in the sink, and scurried after them.

Pippa was already sitting shotgun in Baltimore’s black SUV when I got to the curb. I climbed into the back seat. The SUV lurched forward and we merged into the morning traffic. Pippa lowered the sun visor and slid open the little panel to access the vanity mirror. I saw her appraise herself, turning her head one side to the other—then her eyes momentarily flicked toward me. I smiled. She closed the panel and slapped the visor back into place.

“Where we off to?” I asked.

“First, we’ll be meeting with Mr. Calloway and others on the team. The timeframe for getting you both into Germany has been accelerated. We have a lot to accomplish today.”

Twelve minutes later, Baltimore pulled over to a red curb beneath a
No Parking
sign. He tossed a government-issued plastic tag onto the dashboard and we all got out. We were at the National Mall. Baltimore headed in the direction of the Lincoln Memorial. Pippa stayed to his left side, while I walked on his right.

“You two okay?” Baltimore asked, looking at Pippa and then over toward me.

We both replied at the same time.

“Great,” I replied

“Terrific,” Pippa said.

We hit the marble steps at the same time and climbed up toward the imposing statue of Abraham Lincoln, seated high above us. We passed through two marble pillars and looked up at the immortalized face of the sixteenth U.S. president. Baltimore veered off to his left and we followed closely behind, through another set of high-reaching marble pillars, until we were at the farthest south wall. There, waiting for us, stood a Washington D.C. policeman next to a plain wooden door. Baltimore nodded at the officer who opened the door, holding it wide enough for Pippa and myself to enter behind Baltimore. Two men in suits, unmistakably secret-service agents, were standing sentry at the top of a metal stairway. The agent on the right murmured something into his left sleeve.

Descending the winding stairway, the three of us were enclosed within the very foundation of the monument. One hundred years of moisture deposits dripped from small, white stalactites high above us. Six additional secret-service agents were stationed in a semi-circle at the northwest quadrant of the room. On that wall was a massive, rusted, iron door. Upon our arrival it started slowly to slide sideways. Metal wheels complained as they rolled on steel rails mounted to the floor. The first man through the door was James C. Morrison, president of the United States. Dressed in a smart navy blue suit, blue and red striped tie, and a small U.S. flag lapel pin, he moved with hurried purpose. Calloway, dressed in a dark gray suit, followed closely behind. In the distance, beyond the open metal door, I heard the unmistakable sound of a train or subway. I’d heard that there was a subterranean rail system for senators and congressmen to move about Washington in secret, when necessary. Perhaps the president himself had his own private means of subterranean travel around town.

Morrison moved directly toward the three of us and held out his hand, first shaking Pippa’s, then mine. “Pippa, Rob, thank you again for committing to invaluable service to your country. By now you have both reviewed the mission dossier. The assignment objectives are straightforward: acquire the Spatz software code; destroy WZZ’s capacity to utilize this code, and stop Leon Goertz from taking control of key financial markets. My presence here alone should convey to you how important I believe this assignment to be. The WZZ has infiltrated virtually every covert agency around the world. Bringing down Goertz is imperative.” Morrison looked over to Calloway. Appearing to weigh something in his head, he continued: “But I want more. I want the WZZ completely decimated. Now, Mr. Calloway does not believe the parameters of your mission should be expected to get all that accomplished.”