Origin - Season Two (37 page)

Now that the storm had begun to blow over, he was back in Phoenix. In a sleight of hand that could only be called genius, Geraldine had bought up a significant amount of the airtime already paid for by the two opposition campaigns at bargain basement prices. She was determined to take full advantage of the lull to paint Mike as the only viable candidate going forward.

The first sign Mike got that all wasn’t sunshine and good cheer at the studios of the local FOX affiliate was when the presenter due to interview him, a woman named Pam Clark, didn’t even stop by to say hello before they began. When he joined her in the studio halfway through the morning news hour Pam was all business. Despite Mike being the only candidate left, she introduced him as the “wild card,” although the way she said it made it sound more like
asshole
.

“Tell me something,” Pam said when she had finished the introduction, “do you believe it’s morally appropriate for your campaign to buy up airtime paid for by the Republican National Committee? I only ask because I’ve heard you drove a pretty hard bargain, some say as low as a quarter of the asking price.”

Mike had been ready for a cold reception, but nothing like this. He did his best to keep his composure and said, “I have no idea what we paid, but I’d be very surprised if the twenty-two people that make up my staff could be honestly accused of bullying the second-largest political party in the country.”

“Well, I wasn’t suggesting you bullied them,” Pam said, “just that you refused to pay a fair price.”

Mike heard someone cough behind him and turned to look. Geraldine was standing just behind the backdrop holding up a sheet of paper. Mike read the sentence she had written on it in black marker and nodded.

“As far as I’m aware,” Mike said, “they offered to sell the time back to the studio before we spoke to them. I think you offered them considerably less than we did.”

If this rebuke phased her, Pam didn’t show it. Instead of responding she moved on to the next question. “You were a member of the FBI, is that right?”

“For twenty years, yes,” Mike said.

“Here in Phoenix?” Pam said.

“For the last ten months I was the director of the local office, that’s correct.” Mike said.

“And what do you say to the allegations some people are now making that you had knowledge of the illegal activities of the other candidates while you were still employed by the FBI?”

Mike shook his head in wonder. “I wasn’t aware anyone had suggested that was the case.”

“Well, they have,” Pam said. “I’m only asking if there is any truth to it.”

“Sure,” Mike said. “Well, as far as I know the evidence was only received days prior to the arrests. I announced my candidacy almost three weeks ago. That should answer your question.”

Apparently it didn’t.

“Actually, some reports suggest the FBI have been looking into this for quite some time. If that’s true, as the head of the local office you would have had access to any information on the case, wouldn’t you?”

“If I did,” Mike said, “I wouldn’t be in a position to comment on it here. But I didn’t.”

“But as you said, you can’t comment. You see where I’m coming from, don’t you? How can the voters be sure one way or the other?”

“I didn’t say I
can’t
comment,” Mike said. “I said I
wouldn’t
be able to comment if I did know anything. Which, incidentally I don’t. If you say there are reports, I’d be quite happy to have a look at them and address any specific concerns.”

But Pam wasn’t in the mood to talk about her sources. She was ready to move on.

“I read that during your time as a field agent in New York you were held hostage for over two weeks by a terrorist cell, is that right?”

“Yes,” Mike said.

“I guess it’s fair to say that would have been quite stressful, to say the least.”

“It wasn’t nice,” Mike said. “I certainly wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.”

“I can only imagine,” Pam said, sounding not the least bit sympathetic. “According to an article published shortly after you were released you were in therapy for several weeks. I presume that would have been to deal with the stress, am I right?”

“I received a psychological evaluation,” Mike said. “It’s standard procedure.”

“Is it true that one of the psychiatrists who treated you also diagnosed you with Stockholm syndrome?”

“No. Not that I’m aware of.”

“But it’s possible,” Pam said. “Stockholm syndrome is—”

“I know what it is,” Mike said. “And I think I would have been informed if that diagnosis had been made. If what you’re asking is whether or not I sympathize with terrorists because I’m mentally ill, then the answer is a definitive no. Frankly, I find the suggestion in poor taste.”

“There’s no need to be aggressive,” Pam said.

To emphasize her point she pushed her chair back and deliberately looked over at the camera man as if worried things might be getting out of hand. Mike was about to stand up and walk off the set when there was a loud burst of static from the speakers in the studio. Pam suddenly pulled the earpiece out of her ear as if it had shocked her. A moment later the voice of the show’s producer came booming through the speakers.

“You’ve got him on the ropes, Pam. Let’s go in for the kill. Tell him you’ve seen another report suggesting he may also have been diagnosed with intermittent explosive disorder. That should send him over the edge. Pam? Can you hear me?”

“Turn it off,” Someone shouted from behind the camera. “And tell him to shut up.”

A moment later someone cut the live feed and the screens at the back of the studio went blank. Geraldine walked onto the set. “Come on, we’re leaving.” Then she looked at Pam and smiled. “Nice work, Miss Clark. And good luck finding a new job.”

She led Mike out into the parking lot. He thought she was going to launch into a tirade, but instead she laughed and said, “Holy shit, you should have seen that asshole’s face when he realized what was happening.”

“What
was
happening?” Mike said. “I was about to walk off the set.”

“I switched the feed,” Geraldine said.

“
You
did that?” Mike said.

“You’re goddamn right I did. And just in time. You heard him, they were going in for the kill. I just wish I could be there when they lose their broadcasting license for breach of conduct.”

Washington DC

Sunday 24 June 2007

1900 EDT

Wentworth stood as soon as the door opened. His guest was in his late forties and underdressed for the surroundings, in a pair of faded jeans and a red T-shirt adorned with the Adidas logo.

“Gerry, thanks for popping in,” Wentworth said. “How’s being single again working out for you?”

“Not too bad,” Gerry replied. “Thanks to you.”

“And the kids?”

“They’re getting used to the new arrangement. I got every other weekend.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“That why I’m here?” Gerry asked. “To give you an update on my personal circumstances?”

“That, too,” Wentworth said. “Although I did want to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“A little bird told me the FBI had some trouble down in Richmond,” he began.

Gerry looked up, clearly surprised. “A little bird, hey?”

“Is it true?”

“Might be,” Gerry said. “You understand of course that I couldn’t possibly confirm a rumor of that nature.”

“No, of course not.”

“What else did this bird have to say?” Gerry asked.

“That they haven’t found the person or people responsible.”

“That it?” Gerry said.

“That the director might be up for early retirement.”

“Like I said, I couldn’t possibly comment on something like that.”

“I understand,” Wentworth nodded. “Well, give my best to Jackie when you see her.”

Wentworth took an envelope from the top drawer of his desk and slid it across the table. Gerry tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans without a word.

“You take care,” Wentworth said. “I hear the dating scene in DC these days is not for the faint of heart.”

“I think I’ll manage,” Gerry said. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

When he was gone Wentworth walked to the door of the bathroom and opened it. Stan and Ronny were standing, hand-in-hand, next to the sink. Both looked scared to death.

“Well?” Stan said.

“They haven’t identified you,” Wentworth said.

“Really?” Stan said. “Because to me it sounded like he didn’t have anything to say on the subject at all.”

Wentworth smiled and said, “He said everything he needed to. Gerry’s been a client of mine for over fifteen years. He’s also a security advisor to the secretary of state. If they’d managed to ID either of you from the CCTV footage he’d know. And you didn’t leave any prints, right?”

“I didn’t touch anything,” Stan said.

“And you’re sure your friend won’t talk?”

“Shooter?” Ronny grinned. “He wouldn’t know either of us from dog shit if we talked him through every minute we were there.”

“Then you can stop worrying,” Wentworth said. “If I hear anything to the contrary, you’ll be the first to know. For now I suggest you go back to your lives and forget this little episode.”

When he reached the door, Stan turned back to Wentworth. “It’s a shame, you know. I reckon that performance just might have won me a Golden Globe.”

The Isle of Dragons

Monday 25 June 2007

0900 EEST

The landing site had undergone a remarkable transformation in the three days since the container arrived. Erik had reassigned three quarters of his crew, thirty men in all, to the job of resurrecting the old hangar. The frame was complete, and half of the roof was now in place. The fact that most of the materials had been taken from the Amity site gave the building an odd haphazard look, but no one was complaining.

Since their trial run with the rations, several additional items had been recovered by members of the RP One team. These included various items of uniform and protective clothing; a handheld sensor that detected trace elements in the ground such as minerals and bacteria; several tanks of what appeared to be fresh water; and a neck brace that turned out to be an emergency thermal body heating device for the treatment of hypothermia. Each of these had been passed on to the staff of Aurora who had set themselves with much enthusiasm to the task of studying the objects in-depth.

For this occasion, the work crew had been retired, leaving only Francis, Richelle, Erik, Titov and Naoko to witness what was sure to be one of the more interesting episodes in the history of mankind.

“You guys ready?” Mitch said over the radio.

Richelle raised her radio and said, “You want the truth?”

“Not necessarily,” Mitch said.

“Then yes, we’re ready.”

“Alright. Give us a second.”

The second turned out to be minutes. Forty-five of them. In the ensuing exchange all that anyone really understood on the container end was that activating what Watkins referred to as the “body of god”—the name sent a chill down Richelle’s spine every time she heard it—was considerably more complicated than anything they had tried so far. When the moment finally arrived it was accompanied by a yelp of triumph over the radio. Not long after this the container began to hum. They all felt the vibration as it spread into the ground beneath them.

“What’s going on?” Richelle said into the radio.

It was Watkins who answered. “The system is going through some kind of charge cycle. It’s going to take a couple of minutes.”

The vibration grew stronger. They saw Erik look up at the frame of the new hangar with clear concern.

“I don’t like this,” Richelle said. “Maybe we should ask them to shut it down.”

“Not yet,” Francis said.

He was about to add something when the vibration stopped. As it had on every other occasion, a section of the container began to extend outwards, only this one was the full height, almost twelve feet, and at least five feet thick. By the time it came to a stop it was protruding at least ten feet. Francis stepped forward and inspected one side, then walked around to the other.

“Guys,” Francis said. “You need to come see this.”

Francis was staring up in mute amazement. The others joined him a moment later and adopted identical poses. Standing behind what appeared to be a pane of thin glass was a man. At least it looked like a man. The figure was over ten feet tall and jet black from head to toe. Its features had been subtly exaggerated to project masculinity, like the statue of a god in the ancient world. This was most prominent in the high cheekbones and square jaw of the face, which seemed to stare down at them through its dead black eyes as if accusing them of being mere mortals. The only other thing that distinguished the figure from that of a real person was the fact that it had no genitalia.

“It makes sense now,” Richelle said.

“What does?” Francis said.

“The name,” Richelle said. “The body of god.”

When Mitch asked what they were all staring at, Richelle lifted the radio to her mouth without lowering her eyes. “I think it might be the devil.”

“The what?”

“I don’t know,” Richelle said.

Before Mitch could reply, the sheet of glass evaporated in front of their eyes and the figure stepped forward of its own volition. All five of them staggered back in horror. Naoko hit the ground on his ass and crawled back, crablike, on all fours, the look in his eyes that of a man who knows he is about to die. It wasn’t so much the fact that it had moved as
how
it had moved. There was no awkward series of jerky movements accompanied by the sound of spinning motors—the way most people imagined an actual robot would move—just a single fluid motion. The effect was enhanced by the fact that its outer skin appeared to be as elastic as the real thing, even though it had the texture of polished glass.

“Mitch, this thing is moving,” Richelle murmured, her voice low, as if it might be able to hear her.

“Yeah, we can see it,” Mitch said without a hint of concern. “We’re pretty sure that was supposed to happen.”