White: A Novel (19 page)

She hated to let her beloved husband sit there in his office all night, but she also knew how the voices came for him.

“Just catching up on a little reading,” Ellis reassured her.

He laid the book down on a side table, forgetting to mark his place.

“You go on back up, darling. I’ll be right there.”

That’s when God had come for him, Ellis knew. That’s when he’d been saved. Every breath he’d drawn since that impossible night had been in homage to His holy calling and the belief that one day this orphan of faith might prove worthy.

“THIS IS CRAZY,”
Jeremy announced. He made no effort to hide his humor at standing in an empty room wearing a green Nomex flight suit and a video game-style headset over his eyes. The Buck Rogers contraption was attached by a thin wire to a two-inch belt around his waist.

“Nothing is too good for the Justice Department!” John joked. He still seemed to find Jeremy’s assertion of an FBI “cover” amusing.

“You should try pimping this in mall arcades. You’d make a million.”

“I’d certainly hope so.” The technician harrumphed. “It cost more than that to develop!” He made a couple final adjustments, then flipped a toggle switch.

“Holy shit!” Jeremy exclaimed a little too loudly.

“Turn down the contrast if it’s too bright,” the technician said. He sounded annoyed that Jeremy didn’t like the default settings.

Once properly adjusted, the headset changed Jeremy’s view from four blank walls to an open expanse of chaparral, mesquite, and ankle-high cactus. The virtual reality simulator transported him through time and space to a brilliant cerulean sky drifting over broad horizons. A bright midday sun shone down on his T-shirt-clad shoulders.

“Amazing,” was all the FBI sniper could say. Any direction he looked provided realistic, high-definition video of a place far and away from Harvey Point.

“I’m adding audio now,” the technician advised. “It’s fully interactive, but you may hear a very brief time delay on some questions. The software runs off a binary logic program, but we still have a few kinks in some of the ‘Y’ diversions.”

With that, Jeremy’s link to anything he remembered as real disappeared into a Zane Grey novel. There was the rush of a desert wind, the sound of horses whinnying; gunfire nearby. Dry fragrances of the open range drifted through his nose, though John would later explain them off as psychosomatic.

“Mr. Walker?” someone said.

Jeremy turned to his right and there in front of him stood a fifty-seven-year-old former Special Forces colonel known in retirement as the last of the old-school spooks—a black ops warrior who had never hidden behind diplomatic cover.

“Colonel Ellis,” Jeremy responded. “An honor to meet you, sir.” He was making things up as he went along, of course, but a certain amount of respect seemed appropriate.

“Nice to meet you, Jeremy,” the colonel said. He wore a para-ordnance Combat Special in a DeSantis speed-draw holster on his right hip. A Rolex GMT II with a black face and a two-tone red-and-blue bezel glistened on his wrist. His boots looked perfectly polished, despite a light coat of Texas caliche.

“I’ve read so much about you,” Jeremy fawned. Andropov had taught Jeremy the importance of sticking closely to his carefully backstopped résumé and not adopting false airs with the new persona. Still, anyone in Jeremy’s position would have kowtowed to Ellis’s pedigree. Few had accomplished what he had during a military career.

“Yes, well, don’t believe everything you read,” Ellis responded.

Jeremy tried to decide where to steer the conversation. John, the Yale theologian, had briefed him on Christian Identity Movement dogma and various perversions of Biblical teachings that he could expect to hear from Phineas priests. Paul, the Johns Hopkins psychologist, had done everything possible in forty minutes to warm Jeremy up to the colonel’s particular psychopathy. George had briefed him on what Army intelligence knew of this man’s thirty-year career: fitness-for-duty reports, postings, personal background, even details of highly classified operations he had conducted overseas. Fred still hadn’t gotten to the WMD rundown, but Jeremy assumed that could wait until the end.

“I assume you’re settled in the bunkhouse,” the colonel said. “Why don’t I just show you around.”

“Appreciate the tour, Colonel,” Jeremy said.

And with that, Jeremy dove into virtual reality preparation for a mission that any normal man would have paused to fear.

SIRAD LEANED BACK
in her chair and considered the real problem confronting this team of experts. If one of Jordan Mitchell’s secret sharers really had decided to attempt a run on the other key subsets, it also meant that person might have compromised Borders Atlantic’s true intentions: intelligence gathering. The fact that Jordan Mitchell’s company had served as an incubator for the CIA’s Nonofficial Cover Program would prove very lucrative, either as blackmail or as a secret for sale to foreign interests, particularly the Saudis.

“What’s our time line on this?” she asked.

“No way to tell,” Ravi said. “It depends on how much of a chance this intruder is willing to take. They could simply sit back and watch us for a response. They could move boldly forward. There is no way for us to predict what they’ll do if we do not understand their true intentions.”

Sirad pointed at the man in the I Can’t Dunk shirt.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name?” she asked.

“Does it matter?” He shrugged.

“I guess not.” Sirad shrugged back. “I’d just rather not say ‘Hey, you.’”

“Ray.”

“OK, Ray . . . what would we expect next?”

The man barely took time to think.

“I’d guess a lattice algorithm-based attack. That’s if these guys are real pros and not some high school hackers.”

“I agree,” Ravi said. “They’re going to use lattice approximation algorithms to try and break in. That’s what I’d do.”

“Anyone else?” Sirad asked. She realized that eleven other people in the room hadn’t said a thing.

“I don’t know how long it will take for these people to attempt an intrusion,” said a Korean woman with short hair the color of coal. “But I have a pretty good idea of how to find them.”

Everyone looked at her. They had all focused so squarely on defense that no one had even considered turning the tables.

“Go ahead,” Sirad encouraged her.

“A poison pill. When an oncologist wants to track down rogue cancer cells, he gives the patient a radioactive isotope. I suggest that we offer a lure, something they will swallow and take home with them. Something we can track.”

Sirad nodded. It made perfect sense.

“We suspect a lattice-based attack, so let’s tease them a little bit,” the Korean said. “I say we unlock one of our ports and see who pops in for a look.”

Ravi nodded. I Can’t Dunk folded his arms across his chest. He liked the idea but felt diminished for not thinking it up first.

“I like it.” Sirad spoke with all the conviction one could muster at such an hour. If this attack really did come from one of Mitchell’s secret sharers, the outcome could prove devastating, not just for the company, but for the country as well. “Any reservations?”

“Not as long as we act very carefully,” Ravi cautioned. “Anyone smart enough to get this far might not go for a transparent ruse.”

“Then let’s not make it transparent,” Sirad said. She stood and pointed to I Can’t Dunk.

“I don’t have to tell you how important opsec is at this point,” Sirad admonished. Government employees swore oaths to God and country, but Borders Atlantic had to rely on careful employment screening and money. Corporate secrets were hard to keep.

“I’m going to talk to Mr. Mitchell about this. He’s the only one outside this room who will know.”

“Not necessarily,” another voice piped up. Sirad turned toward a tall, thin man sitting at a laptop. “I just got flash traffic from our White Plains off-site. They say our peeping Tom has shown himself.”

The man typed a quick response, then read a reply.

“And?” Sirad hurried him.

“And you’d better read this yourself, ma’am,” he said, turning the keyboard to face her. “’Cause I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

MORNING DAWNED WITH
a bright, midwinter eye on the Holiday Inn outside Englewood, New Jersey. By 6:30
AM
, its restaurant was already filling up with hungry travelers.

“Don’t point!” one of them barked. A heavyset black woman in a pink velour sweatsuit grabbed her son by the arm and yanked him back toward his scrambled eggs.

“Easy, girl!” the man of the family exclaimed under his breath. He sat facing the big-screen TV but turned again to look at the appalling sight behind them. “It ain’t the boy’s fault. Nobody should come into a dining room looking all busted up like that.”

The object of this family’s distraction sat three tables away, near the front windows. He appeared oblivious to curious eyes, staring out onto Route 4 where it stacked up with commuters just west of the George Washington Bridge.

“Hush an eat yo meal,” the woman in the sweatsuit scolded. “How’d you like someone starin’ at you?”

“Damn . . . if I looked like that I’d expect it!” The man exaggerated a shiver, then faced his meal and did as he was told. “That’s one ugly white man.”

If the ugly white man heard them, he didn’t show it. The pain in his head shut out everything but the mission.

“I wish you’d told me you were hurt this badly,” a female visitor said, pulling up a chair and sitting next to him. “I would have gotten here sooner.”

“I’m all right,” the man lied. “Looks worse than it is.”

“I doubt that,” she said. “I’m sure you’re in agony. But from what I hear, you probably like that.”

The woman checked for signs of surveillance but saw nothing of particular interest. A black family sat in front of a big-screen TV. A table of men in cheap suits talked near the salad bar. Most people didn’t try to hide their understandable interest.

“Where are we?” the man asked.

The woman got up and slipped a five-dollar bill into the jukebox. Beyoncé Knowles gave their conversation some cover.

“I think we’re right where we need to be,” the woman said. She sat on his left side so he could see her without straining.

“What about the rumor?”

“It’s no rumor,” she answered. “There’s a detainee in Cuba. Guantánamo Bay. Told me he knows about Jafar al Tayar. He said he’d heard talk on the Arab street—that he knew more but wanted a deal in writing from the Agency before he’d give out any more details.”

The woman grabbed a menu from between the salt and pepper shakers and pretended to read.

“Did you bury it?” he asked.

“Of course. My report said nothing about Jafar al Tayar.”

“What about the prisoner?”

“Suicide and violence among the prisoners is a real problem at Camp Delta, you know? He’s not going to be a threat for long.”

She motioned for a waitress.

“What about the witness in Los Angeles?”

“They flew him back to the Farm, but he doesn’t know anything. No one believes him anyway. The Bureau is running down everyone he ever worked with or knew. The Agency is pulling out all the stops, trying to tie him to something . . . anything. Those morons will be fixated on him for weeks.”

“Good,” the man said. This was going better than he’d dared hope.

“Look . . . I’m sorry about what happened over there,” the woman said. “It wasn’t supposed to . . .”

The man held up his right hand.

“OK.” The woman nodded. “Are you going to be able to finish your mission?”

Her companion adjusted a wide swath of bandages that covered the entire left side of his head. Translucent white hair flopped down at the edges, almost indistinguishable from the sterile gauze. One almost iridescent pink eye looked out from the dressing of a horrific wound.

“The right eye is gone,” he said. “The bullet took out part of the socket, but they put in a small plate. I can get fitted for a prosthesis once everything heals a little bit.”

He paused for a moment. The pain stopped him cold at times—a bright electric chill that felt tantalizingly close to orgasm.

“It was a complete accident,” he continued. “French’s shot ricocheted off something and grazed my head. Wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“It’s not for us to question, Caleb,” the woman said. “God has his own ways. This had to happen for a reason.”

The albino tilted his head ever so slightly. God did have his own ways. If not for His providence, none of this would have been possible to begin with.

“What do you want me to tell my father?” Caleb asked.

“Tell him I have learned of nothing that jeopardizes the project. If anything turns up, I’ll be one of the first to know. The time line remains the same. From my perspective, we’re good to go.”

Caleb shook his head.

“You’ve done a fine job,” he said. The Beyoncé song ended, and he waited a moment for the next to cover his words. “I’m sure the colonel will be very proud of you.”

“We’ll save the pride until this is done,” she said, standing to leave. “Good to see you, Caleb.”

“Good to see you, Sarah. Or is that what you want me to call you now?”

“Try Jane.” She laughed. “GI Jane. The Delta boys seem to like that.”

WHEN JEREMY HAD
finished his virtual tour of the Homestead and bid farewell to the virtual Colonel Ellis, he flipped the On/ Off switch and removed the headset.

“Well?” John asked him. “What do you think?”

“I think this is amazing,” Jeremy said.

“What you just saw is precisely what you should expect at the Homestead,” said the technician. “At least visually.”

“How did you do it? How did you get video like this?” Jeremy noticed that he had begun to sweat, though the room remained a comfortable seventy degrees.

“It’s not video,” the technician claimed proudly. “It’s all simulation. Computer-generated imagery based on stuff we culled from promotional materials, Internet sites, and sources who have attended schools there. Some of it came from satellites—two-dimensional pics that we augmented in a process called photogrammetry.”