“Agent Simon, I’m afraid I may not be able to help you with this.”
Simon’s stomach dropped. Is he part of this? “Why is that?”
Conway shook his head, continuing to type. “It’s just — no matter how I try, I’m locked out of the system when I try to access any of the mission reports on these agents.”
Simon breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s okay. It’s likely a security clearance issue.”
“I don’t know,” he said, looking confused. “I’m embarrassed to say this, but I’ve never seen the system behave this way before. Normally, if it were a clearance issue, it would let me know, especially so it would be clear what was required.”
Simon leaned forward. “And this doesn’t flag it as security?”
“No. It doesn’t flag it as anything. I’m just booted out of the system whenever I type in my credentials.”
“It might just be an issue with the implementation. I’ve got pretty high access — comes from having run this division a decade or so ago. Why don’t you use my clearance codes.”
“Sir, I don’t think I’m allowed to—”
“Just let me sit back there and enter the information.” Simon tried to appear calm, even as adrenaline rushed through his veins. Whatever he had said a moment ago to the man, this was not normal. Now he really wanted to see those files. But Conway was right — it was against protocol for him to enter the clearances directly. In fact, access in this manner would be against protocol altogether. He had to be careful not to spook him, or he’d lose this opportunity.
“Yes, well, okay then. I’m interested to see what happens now,” said the records agent standing to the side of the chair.
Curiosity killed the cat, thought Simon as he rose and walked around the desk, sitting in the vacated seat in front of the computer. He scanned his entry card and entered his security code. There was a pause, and then the screen disappeared, reloading the main menu.
“Exact same thing that happened to me,” said Conway.
“I’m locked out of these files?”
“Looks like it, Agent Simon. I would’ve thought someone at your level would have access.”
That makes two of us. Simon thought back to the strange phone call from Houston. Suddenly, she didn’t seem so paranoid. What are you boys hiding at CTC?
“There must be some software bug. Conway, what do you think my options are now?”
“I don’t know, sir. I think the best bet is to go to CTC itself.”
Like hell. The last thing he wanted to do now was telegraph that he was looking into this. “And if that doesn’t work?”
“There’s the more centralized records division. Maybe there is something quirky about the data sharing.” The man didn’t look like he believed in that hypothesis very much.
Simon nodded and stood up. “You’re probably right. Thanks. I’ll look into these options. You’ve been a great help. I’m sure it’s just a glitch.”
Several miles away, an office was dark except for a small desk lamp and the glow of a computer screen. An alert tone beeped, and a red icon with an exclamation point flashed in the middle of the monitor. From the shadows on the side, an arm reached out and moved the mouse pointer over the icon and clicked. A window opened on the screen enclosing a video transmission. A man’s face appeared.
“Director Darst?”
“Speaking. You realize that you are contacting me on a trigger alert.”
“Yes,” said the man, swallowing.
“And that this alert is only to be triggered under certain very specific conditions.”
“Yes, sir,” he continued, his tone slightly more confident. “Those conditions have been met. Several attempts were made to access restricted files at CTC.”
“Continue.”
“They occurred today at 5:30pm from the Counterproliferation Records terminals. One access was a top-level security clearance.”
“Whose?”
“Former director Fred Simon.” The face on the screen appeared very concerned.
“And was this access granted?”
“No. No, sir! As instructed, only Angler Security codes apply to these files. But, sir, I’m not sure this is standard—”
“That will do,” cut in the voice sharply. “You have properly followed instructions. Your reassignment will begin immediately tomorrow.”
“Reassignment, sir?” The young man’s face suddenly constricted.
“Details in the morning, to be delivered to you at Reagan Airport at zero eight-hundred. Be there on time. Good-night.”
A finger tapped the mouse again, and the video window disappeared, the confused face of the young agent contracting to a point. The hand from the shadows picked up a smartphone and entered a long series of digits. After several seconds, a beeping tone was heard. There was a click, and the shadow spoke.
“This is Loyal. We have a problem, Lophius.”
21
Disorientation. Bright lights. Strapped to the chair. A knife beneath him, impaling him. Blind agony. His own screams.
Sweat soaked his shirt and dripped into his eyes. His legs ached, blisters on his feet. He was approaching the top of the hill, the terrain uneven, the ascent steep along this direction. He had chosen it for this very reason. It was near the edge of his stamina, but he had learned to calibrate his body like a precision instrument. The physical exertion was manageable. Discipline. Of mind more than anything. The greatest threat was emotional.
As if on cue, another flashback assailed him. Visions flooded his consciousness. More disorientation. Lines of people, waiting. Tellers. Marbled columns. A gun was in his hand, a frightened woman at the other end of it, shoveling money into a sack. More lights. A computer terminal, passwords hacked, access granted, information stolen. Blood. A gloating face, floating before flames, the laughter of a tormenter beneath the sands.
Sunlight blinded him. He stumbled across the tree line, breaking into a more barren landscape. He paused a moment, doubled over more from memory than fatigue, his breath in gasps. He clicked the bottom on the stopwatch and glanced at the time. Better. I’m nearly ready for the next stage.
He removed the backpack and dropped it on the ground in front of him. Crouching down beside it, he grabbed a water canister and drank. Replacing the bottle, he turned over on his back, lying down on the rough soil and rocks. A slight intake of air was all that revealed the residual pain that this action elicited. As it faded, he closed his eyes and instantly fell into a dream. A repeating dream, one that he knew his psyche needed to relive as much as his body required the continued input of steroids and nutrients to rebuild itself. The old man waited far below, and he waited deep in memory.
“No!” the solid form corrected. “Your stance is key. It doesn’t matter how many fancy moves you have if with one quick motion I can unbalance you!”
With that, the old man showed just how deadly he was, or must have been in his youth. The youth saw the move coming and countered it, but in doing so lost his footing. Instantly, the old soldier was standing over him, the bright desert sun blinding him from above, a knife in his hand and held to the throat of his defeated student.
“Again you are dead!” The old soldier reverted to Russian, issuing a stream of curses. “We are wasting our time. You are too old to unlearn so much. We can’t go forward because your past holds you back!”
He stepped away from the youth, the exertion clearly having tired him, straining his aging body so that his step carried a more pronounced limp. The youth knew the old man by now. Knew his strength of will. He must be in great pain.