The Siren Project (13 page)

“Are you Dr Steinus?”

“Use nothing related to your identity, or
you will be detected. While Miss Malleson has no electronic identity, they know
who she is.”

“How much time would I have if I used a
credit card?”

“A few seconds. Every database in America
is compromised.”

Mitch swallowed.
Every
database?
“I understand.”

“Go to the Fedex office in South Street, Baltimore.
What you need will be waiting for you there.” EB hung up.

Christa was standing beside the flight
attendant as the last of the passengers boarded. Mitch waved for her to come to
him. The look on his face left her in no doubt they were not boarding the
plane.

When she was close, Mitch took her arm and
started them toward the exit, whispering, “We’re out of here.”

“Who was it?”

“Deep frog in your Throat,” Mitch said as
he led Christa to the airport entrance where they hailed a cab to take them
into Baltimore.

* * * *

Mitch collected the package waiting
for him at the FedEx office. It contained two envelopes from a major bank with
offices in Baltimore and a small box. One envelope was addressed to a man Mitch
had never heard of, the other addressed to a woman. Mitch handed the female
addressed envelope to Christa, tearing open the other. Inside was a credit card
and a printed form with a security number for automatic teller cash advances. Christa’s
envelope also contained a credit card and a security number. Mitch opened the
small box, finding a brand new 9mm pistol and several ammo clips.

“Very thoughtful,” he said, pocketing the
gun, before examining the cards. “These aren’t forgeries. Somehow Frog Throat
got these things issued and couriered to the FedEx office in just a few hours. Even
Mouse would be impressed by that.”

“Could it be a trap?”

“Only one way to tell.”

They walked a block until they found an
automatic teller machine. Mitch slid his card into the slot, typed in the
identification number and checked the balance.

“Whew, fifty grand!” Mitch exclaimed,
surprised at the size of the balance.

Mitch withdrew a thousand dollars, then the
auto teller screen went blank before his card was returned. A message typed
across the teller screen.

THE CREDIT CARDS CANNOT BE TRACED TO YOUR
TRUE IDENTITY.

“I’ll be damned,” he said, then pressed the
OK button.

I WILL KNOW WHERE YOU ARE ANY TIME YOU USE
THIS CARD.

Mitch wanted to ask a question, but this
was a one way communication. He pressed the OK button again.

LOOK AT THE SECURITY CAMERA.

Mitch stepped back from the automatic
teller and looked around until he saw the small camera high on the wall aimed
at him. The camera zoomed in on his face.

I NOW KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE. NOW MISS MALLESON.

Mitch pressed OK and turned to Christa. “Princess,
look at the camera up there. Smile.”

Christa turned away, putting her hand to
the side of her face, masking it from the camera. “Are you crazy? There are no
pictures of me anywhere.”

Mitch glanced uncertainly at the security
camera. “He wants to know what we look like.”

Christa stepped out of the camera’s field
of view. “Who does?”

“EB. Frog Throat. He’s talking to me through
this teller machine.”

Christa glanced at the auto teller
uncertainly. “We’ve no way of knowing if we can trust him. This whole thing
could be a set up.”

Mitch nodded. “Yeah, it could. But he got
us out of the hotel before the goon squad caught us. If it was a set up, why
would he do that? Why warn us at the airport?”

“We don’t know if the warning at the
airport was real, or a way of keeping us here.”

“Well, he’s gone to a lot of trouble to get
us money and false names. If he’s setting us up, he’s doing it the hard way.

I REQUIRE MISS MALLESON’S PHOTOGRAPH TO
PREPARE FALSE IDENTIFICATION PAPERS.

Mitch read aloud the message on the auto
teller screen. “Christa, if McNamara was watching the hotel, they’ve got plenty
of surveillance photographs of us already.”

She thought for a moment, then nodded. “You’re
right.” She stepped out into the camera’s field of view and let the security
camera zoom in on her face.

I HAVE DIGITIZED BOTH YOUR FACES.

WHEN YOU BOOK INTO A HOTEL, USE THE CREDIT
CARD SO I CAN LOCATE YOU.

I WILL SEND THE IDENTIFICATION PAPERS TO
YOU.

Mitch looked at the camera and mouthed the
words, “Who are you?”

I CANNOT READ LIPS.

The screen went blank, then the normal
transaction screen returned. “He’s gone,” Mitch said, retrieving his card.

Christa inserted her card and found she was
also fifty thousand dollars richer. She withdrew a thousand. “Now what?”

“Contact Mouse, but first, I need to buy a
few things.”

“You’re not planning on using that credit
card to signal where we’re staying I hope?”

“Not sure,” Mitch said thoughtfully.

“I’ve gotten through life without identity
papers so far. I see no reason to start now.”

“It’s not the identity papers I’m
interested in. It’s EB himself. He could be a big fish, and I want to reel him
in.”

“A shark is a big fish,” Christa observed
dryly.

Mitch smiled. “Then I’ll be careful not to
put my hand in his mouth.”

* * * *

Christa watched the three rows of
thirty different types of television sets in the electronics store, while a
salesmen set up Mitch’s replacement cell phone account under the false name on
his EB supplied credit card. The thirty televisions were all tuned to the same
local channel, providing shoppers with an immediate sense of the picture
quality of each set. The late afternoon program was replaced by a news flash. Helicopters
were circling smoking wreckage on a charred landscape. Christa stepped forward
and turned up the volume enough to hear the commentary.

“. . . from Baltimore
to Los Angeles crashed in northern Arizona just fifteen minutes ago. The pilots
reported smoke in the cockpit and widespread electrical failures just moments
before the aircraft disappeared off radar screens. It's believed there were
more than three hundred passengers on the 747, which had been delayed leaving
Baltimore by twenty minutes due to engine problems. Initial reports indicate
there were no survivors . . .”

Christa waved Mitch toward her. As he
approached her, he glanced at the rows of television sets, all showing the same
shocking pictures of furiously burning wreckage consumed in acrid black smoke.

“That’s our flight!” she whispered,
trembling. “They shot it down! They thought we were on that plane, so they shot
it down.”

Mitch watched the screens for a moment
uncertainly. “It could have been an accident. They were having engine problems.”

Christa shook her head. “No, it was an
electrical failure. They used the directed energy weapon to short out the
plane’s electrical systems, just like they did to your cell phone. They murdered
over three hundred innocent people, just to kill us!”

Mitch watched the screen until the report
ended. “This means we can trust EB. We’ll use one of the credit cards when we
book into the hotel.”

Mitch walked slowly back to the salesman to
collect the cell phone and several small electronic devices he'd selected. He
put his cash away and paid for it with his new credit card.

* * * *

“Please hold.” The computer’s
prerecorded voice answered the call Mitch made with his new cell phone from his
hotel room. He'd assembled a scrambler from the electronic components he'd
purchased and keyed it to match the scrambler used by the computer in London. They
had all memorized the scrambler key and the components Mouse had identified for
just such an emergency.

Eventually Gunter answered. “We saw the
plane crash on television. We thought you were dead,” the normally taciturn
German said with a hint of emotion.

“They thought we were on board.”

“Why were you not?”

“It’s a long story,” Mitch said, not
wanting to mention EB, even on the scrambled line. “Someone took out Rayborne. Find
out who he spoke to in the twenty four hours after we met. He said he talked
with one of the senators on the committee, but there must have been others as
well.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a bunch of ex-NSA spooks on the
other side, all from something called Secondment 721. Find out what it is. And
that sound you recorded is something called an AM-X particle accelerator. It’s
experimental, so there can’t be too many of them. That’s about it, anything
your end?”

“Ya. They know about Mouse and me. All our
bank accounts inside the US are gone. Every form of identification stored
digitally has also been erased. Clearly, they do not want us leaving the
country.”

“What about the extras?” Mitch asked,
meaning the accounts outside the US under false names.

“They have not found them yet, so we can
still function. All three of our houses have been emptied, furniture, clothing,
carpets, everything has been removed. I saw it on the hidden cameras we left
behind, until they found them too. Removal vans arrived at each house at the
same time and stripped them clean.”

“They’re profiling us,” Mitch said. “So
they can predict our movements. They’ll have our fingerprints and DNA by now,
everything down to the color of our socks and type of toothpaste we use.”

“Ya, we think so too.”

“Okay, keep your head down.” Mitch hung up,
and started dialing another number when the door bell rang. He went to the door
and made the hotel steward identify himself, before he opened the door to
receive a parcel couriered to the hotel. Inside were two driver’s licenses,
complete with photo ID’s. The photographs were digitally enhanced images of the
pictures taken by EB using the bank security camera outside the automatic
teller.

Impressive.

He pocketed both ID’s and called Prescott
again. The same answering machine began its prerecorded message, then Prescott
picked up the phone.

“Mat, I know I’m not supposed to call, but
I had to warn you. You were probably spotted when we met outside the hotel this
morning. We had unwelcome visitors right after you left.”

“I got your message,” Prescott said a
little sleepily. “No sign of trouble so far.”

“Did I wake you?” Mitch asked.

“Nah, just catching a bit of shut eye. I
got a God awful headache. Too many late nights and fast women I guess. Listen
Mitch, I got something for you, a lead on Siren. And some documents you need to
see. Where are you?”

“In Baltimore.”

“I’ll drive up. Where can we meet?”

Mitch hesitated. “I can’t trust the line,
Mat, it could be bugged.”

“If they did see me, it’ll take them at
least twenty four hours to figure out who I am, where I live and then get a wire
tap set up.”

“I don’t know, Mat, these guys move fast.
Real fast.”

“I’ll watch for tails. If I see anything
suspicious, I’ll take them on a scenic tour of the nation’s capital.” Prescott
chuckled confidently.

“Okay, but if you’re so much as ten minutes
late, I’ll assume they’re onto you.”

“Deal. Make it five minutes late.”

“Meet us for dinner, eight o’clock sharp.” Mitch
gave him the address of a nearby restaurant, one he could watch safely from a
distance without revealing himself.

“Got it buddy. I’m on my way.” Prescott
said, then hung up.

* * * *

Prescott arrived at the restaurant
dead on eight o’clock, just as Mitch and Christa were preparing to order the
first course.

Mitch indicated the menu. “You want
something to eat?”

“No thanks.” Prescott rubbed his temple,
exhaling slowly. “Been fighting off a damn migraine all afternoon.” He signaled
the waiter. “Could I have a glass of water?” He took out a white capsule,
revealing a slight tremor in his hands. “Damned hangover.” The waiter returned
with a glass of water, which he used to wash down the headache pill with.

“So what have you got for us, Mat?” Mitch
said, noticing Christa's eyes had taken on a faraway look.

Prescott opened his briefcase. “I know what
the Siren Project is.”

Christa, seemingly lost in a private inner
reflection, gently projected her mental touch toward Prescott. She sensed a
rigid, unnatural, imprisoning structure enveloping a torn and damaged mind,
then she recoiled as a wave of sadness broke her concentration.