Mad Powers (Tapped In) (21 page)

Pippa replied first, “I assure you, Mr. President, we will do everything we can to accomplish what you’ve asked us to do.”

I’d wasted no time before peering into President Morrison’s mind. The stakes were just too high not to. There was something he wasn’t telling us. Not so much a lie as an omission. And then there it was: he was feeling guilt. Pippa and I were to be sanctioned off at the conclusion of the mission. Success or fail, we were to be silently, and properly, disposed of.

Smiling, Calloway moved forward and, taking the president by the elbow, ushered him back toward the direction they’d come. The meeting was over.

I held up a hand, gesturing that I wanted to add something else. The smile quickly left Calloway’s face, but the president, turning his attention back toward us, looked honestly interested.

“I would request that you reconsider one aspect of this mission.”

Morrison looked confused.

“Termination of assets in the field, namely us, when the assignment is over.”

Morrison’s thoughts were written all over his face …
how on earth could you possibly know that?

I continued, “Agreeing to serve my country is one thing. Embarking on a suicide mission is quite another. Especially when the plan to terminate us has been conveniently left out of both Rosette’s and my dossiers.”

“You’re out of line, Chandler,” Calloway spat. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”

Pippa looked at me and then turned toward the president. “Is that true? Is what Chandler is saying part of your plan?” she asked.

Morrison kept his eyes locked on mine. When he finally answered, his voice was barely audible. “That determination was only recently arrived at. I apologize. These decisions are not made lightly. National security takes precedence over—”

I cut him off mid-sentence. I was very angry. Perhaps it was a year confined to a seven hundred-square-foot flat in Russia, or being set tup to plow headlong into a telephone pole on the outskirts of Kingman, or the fact that I could read the president’s mind. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t the same person I was one year ago and I wasn’t willing to play the spy game anymore. Not under these conditions. “Find yourself another agent. I’m not interested. I’m officially retired.”

“Then you’ll find yourself officially taken into custody. You won’t be the first, or the last, agent to go to prison for insubordination,” Calloway seethed.

I smiled at the tan, gray-haired man. He was a man who had his own secrets—things he certainly wouldn’t want the president to be made aware of. I looked deep into his mind and knew in an instant that even the president was not beyond Calloway’s reach. There were certain contingencies already in place—one such, called
Meridian
,
was a course of action that would take care of a president who no longer went along with the philosophical dictums of the SIFTR organization.

I felt Pippa’s hand on my wrist. Ever so slightly, she was shaking her head. She was telling me, with her eyes, not to go there—not to reveal things that I couldn’t possibly have a way of knowing.

“No, Rob’s right,” Morrison said to Calloway. “Rob, Pippa, I give you my word. Succeed or fail, there’ll be no repercussions—no action taken against either of you, other than to say thank you and welcome you back home. Please accept my apology—we need you for this mission … both of you.”

Chapter 33

I told the president I would complete the mission. I also said this would conclude my involvement with SIFTR and, thereafter, I would no longer work as an undercover agent for the U.S. government. I would officially retire and I fully expected, at that point, to be left alone. Calloway said something about us needing to talk further about that aspect, but he quickly left with the president.

The rest of the day was all about prepping for the mission ahead. We split up. Pippa had a doctor’s appointment and then would be off to familiarize herself with every aspect of Pam Craft’s life, as well as the essentials of Baden-Baden high society.

I was taken to SIFTR headquarters, twenty-five miles northeast of Washington, D.C. in Baltimore, Maryland—on the outskirts of Fort Meade. Unlike the massive National Security Agency headquarters building three miles away, the SIFTR building was nondescript and unless someone was specifically looking for the site, it would pretty much go unnoticed. It was a one-story concrete affair, and Baltimore and I entered through the building’s front door into a wide lobby that looked as if it hadn’t been updated since the 1960s. Even the security guard, sitting at an oak desk, looked to be wearing a policeman’s costume from an era long gone.

We walked past the guard who barely acknowledged our presence. “Impressive,” I said, joining Baltimore at an ancient-looking, paint-chipped elevator door. “This building ever make the transition from telegraph to telephone service?”

Baltimore, with a bemused expression, gestured for me to move ahead when the car arrived. The elevator had 1960s-style wood paneling on the walls and tired, worn linoleum flooring. From the exterior, it looked to be a one-story building so there was only one direction the car could go—downward. Five seconds into our descent, a projected, red-glowing virtual panel appeared to the right of the older, original panel. While the old panel showed three floors, the newer panel listed eighteen. Baltimore pressed his thumb against a small square area and brought his face closer to what I surmised was a retina scanner. The virtual panel changed to a pleasing blue color and Baltimore tapped at the number twelve. In seconds, the car came to a stop and the doors slid open.

We stepped into a bustling corridor where men and women hurriedly moved here and there. Gone was the archaic 1960s decor. Glass and brushed metal was the dominant theme and rich gray carpeting lay beneath our feet.

“First, we need to see how out of shape you are. Then, we’ll determine what your skill-level is in close combat fighting, as well as your proficiency in handling weapons,” Baltimore said. He held open a glass door simply labeled
Training
.

Baltimore led me into a locker room and showed me where I could find the necessary workout clothes I’d need. Five minutes later we were in an area of a gym covered with thick vinyl matts. Both of us wore protective face gear and padded gloves.

Baltimore was in decent shape. We did several minutes of stretching and it was then I realized how out of shape I really was. Baltimore was looking forward to smacking me around a bit. He was mystified why I’d been selected for the upcoming mission, when he, in his mind, was the far better choice.

As of late, I was finding it less and less an ethics-issue to read people’s minds. Of course there would be exceptions, such as Pippa, but I could no more ignore my new sixth sense than I could any of the other five I was accustomed to using since birth. Right now, Baltimore was reviewing in his head how he was going to humiliate me with a combination of punches, kicks, and maneuvers that would pin me to the floor.

Baltimore was going to start with a backspin to his right and deliver a back kick into my solar plexus. I moved in preemptively with a front kick to his stomach, followed by a one-two, left-right series of uppercuts to his chin. Baltimore went down on his rear end.

He got to his feet and came at me like an angry bull. His mind was now working on autopilot and any advantage I’d had reading his thoughts was greatly reduced. He finished his attack with a spinning crescent kick to my chin and I went sprawling to the mat. For the next forty-five minutes neither of us could get the upper hand on the other. By the time Baltimore held up his hand saying we were done, we were drenched in sweat and heaving to catch our breaths.

“Shower, then the range. Perhaps you’ll do better with a gun in your hand,” Baltimore said, with a smile.

* * *

Baltimore was already there and shooting when I arrived at the range. The back counter held a wide assortment of handguns, and both semi- and automatic assault weapons.

“Let’s start with handguns. Grab that Sig Sauer P226R, the .357.”

I found the one he was referring to and ejected and checked its mag. Standing beside Baltimore, I racked the slide and chambered a round.

“Don’t forget these,” Baltimore said, handing over a set of ear muffs.

The man-sized target was set fifteen yards out. I moved up to the small counter, positioned my feet as I’d done a thousand times before, aimed the SIG, and rapidly fired off twelve rounds, emptying the high-capacity magazine.

Baltimore toggled a switch to retrieve the target. Two tight groupings: heart and head. Two rounds had landed a half-inch away from the others. “Not bad. Could be better,” Baltimore said. He attached a new target and sent it back.

He was right. I was out of practice. I was irritated that my firing skills had slipped the past year.

Baltimore brought back a Glock 32, .357 from the back counter. He chambered a round and quickly fired toward the target. Upon a close review of his target, it was evident Baltimore was well practiced. Two groupings, like mine, but tighter and none had wandered.

“Nice shooting,” I said.

We stayed there for two more hours. By the time we left, I was back in form, shooting as well as, if not better than, Baltimore.

We ate lunch in the commissary. The food was surprisingly good and the portions were generous. “What’s next on the agenda for today?” I asked.

“Conference room. Dive back into the mission particulars—much more detailed.” Baltimore smiled. “Later, you have an appointment with our quartermaster—our own version of Q.”

But first, Baltimore, myself, and two SIFTR agents, Ben and Sylvia, went through the entire mission, from stem to stern. Digitized overheads were used and displayed images of all the players on a ginormous 70” screen monitor. Much attention was given to the Goertz’s Baden-Baden castle and its sprawling countryside grounds. There were several snapshots of Leon’s office and an adjoining small service room. I paid extra attention to where city power lines entered the estate, along with the multiple methods I might use to access that area.

We also reviewed the key players of the WZZ organization. All were male, German, and mega-millionaires in their own right. There was some discussion about meetings—where they actually assembled. To date, there were no pictures—not a hint how and where they met.

The last part of the meeting was dedicated to my cover: a multi-millionaire in my own right, I was MIT-educated, with a Ph.D. in Systems Architecture. At thirty I’d started my own company—providing proprietary cloud-based servers, with new, blazingly fast hard-drive technology that was years ahead of anything else on the market. Friendly photos, along with detailed correspondence—emails and legal contracts—had all been fabricated. Without too much digging, one could find pictures of me with Microsoft’s Bill Gates, Google’s Larry Page, and Apple’s CEO, Tim Cook. I was high tech’s new wonder boy of the hour.

By the time we’d left the conference room, I was starting to feel the effects of too many hours, both physically and mentally pushed well beyond what I was used to. A midday tapping-in session would help, but probably wouldn’t be in the cards right now.

The SIFTR Lab was impressive. Two floors down from
Training
, it was departmentalized and occupied the entire floor. Beyond clean, beyond sterile, the lab looked right out of a sci-fi blockbuster. Baltimore ushered me down a long corridor flanked on both sides by floor to ceiling glass. Men and women in white lab coats worked at benches and conversed in cubicle offices. It was then I saw a familiar face. Sitting in what looked like a dentist or doctor’s chair, her legs up and extended, was Pippa. A doctor, stethoscope hanging around his neck, was talking to her; his animated hands were describing something. Pippa caught my eye. She did not look happy.

“In here,” Baltimore said, pushing a sliding glass door open wide enough for us both to enter.

“This is Bridgett Bigalow, SIFTR’s quartermaster … our version of Q,” Baltimore said.

I was surprised to see not only a woman, but one who was quite young. I estimated her age to be mid-twenties to early thirties, max. She wore thick-lensed glasses, no makeup, and short dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She reached up to my hair and with two fingers felt its texture. Her eyes looked enormous and distorted by her glasses. She pushed in even closer, totally invading my personal space. I’d met people like her before … absolute geniuses, savants, but lacking even rudimentary social skills. With that noted, I instantly liked her. There was something refreshingly honest about her bare-bones practicality.

I watched her leave the room, then reenter a few moments later. She was holding something in her hand—a glass beaker, half-full of clear, water-like liquid. She set the beaker atop a workbench and put on latex gloves. She brought the beaker over to a small sink and poured some of the liquid over her hands. She turned to face me.

“Oops. You need to take off your clothes.”

I looked over at Baltimore, who remained expressionless. I unbuttoned my shirt and slipped it off.

“Um … Wait, go behind here,” she said, pulling a plastic curtain around that hung from a curved rod affixed high on the ceiling. “Take off all your clothes.”

I moved behind the curtain partition and took off the rest of my clothes.

I heard Bigalow rewetting her hands at the sink, and then she was back at my side, the two of us together behind the curtain. Her hands went to my chest, her small fingers wetting what little chest hair I had. She left, returning with wetter hands. Underarms, privates, and the hair on my head were doused with the clear, odorless liquid.

“Get dressed,” she said, removing her gloves and throwing them into a small disposal bin attached to the wall. “You’ll need to come back for the antidote.”

“Antidote?” I asked, confused.

She’d apparently left, because I didn’t get an answer. Baltimore was waiting for me when I came back around the curtain. “Where’d she go?” I asked.

“This way.” Baltimore took me through several adjacent lab areas; we soon found Bigalow standing at a workbench where she was adjusting some kind of oscilloscope.