“You’re not saying it’s the same guy? The CEO?”
“Yup. Dr. Cyrus Arlington.”
Okay, now that’s interesting.
How would Banner have gotten Arlington’s personal password?
“So, Fionna, this is all illegal, of course? Everything you just did?”
“Well, RixoTray did hire me to try getting past their firewalls and hacking into their system. I guess I’m just good at my job.”
That works for me.
“Anyway, I pulled up Arlington’s computer screen. There’s an image, the beginning of a video. It’s paused. It has something to do with—”
“Let me guess.” I think of our earlier conversation, anticipate what she’s going to say: “Kabul. The bombing that was averted.”
“Right.” Fionna sounds disappointed. “Of course, I can’t be positive, but it looks like it, yes. How did you guess that, by the way?”
“What you told me earlier; I’m starting to think like you. Listen, can you send me a copy of that image?”
“Better than that. I’m going to send you a link to the screen. If he starts the video, you’ll be able to watch it right along with him.”
“You deserve a raise, Fionna.”
“I could use one. Donnie needs braces.”
We hang up, and against the firm objections of the X-ray technician, I grab my shirt and leave to find Xavier and Charlene.
The X-rays can wait. Right now it’s movie time.
Riah heard the door open.
A woman entered, brisk and businesslike. Hair short, an Ellen DeGeneres boy cut. She was slightly built, just over five feet tall, but carried a commanding presence that drew the immediate attention of everyone in the room.
She nodded toward the twins, greeted Cyrus, then directed her gaze at Riah. “You must be Colette.”
Riah was a keen enough observer of human behavior to realize that there were certain societal protocols on how to address people, how to treat them. It didn’t mean that she necessarily understood why those conventions were in place, but it was immediately obvious that this woman did not follow them.
“Dr. Riah Colette, yes,” she told her. “I’m the head researcher on this project.” She decided to try something. “You don’t have to call me Dr. Colette, though. I’m fine with Riah.”
A small fire appeared in the woman’s eyes, and Riah could tell she was not used to being spoken to so directly. The response intrigued her. Oriana might be an interesting person to observe. To test.
“I am Undersecretary of Defense Oriana Williamson. And that’s what you will call me.”
Undersecretary of Defense? Riah wasn’t sure how high exactly that went up in the Pentagon’s command chain, but she knew it had to be close to the top.
Fascinating.
Undersecretary Williamson, who was currently dressed in civilian clothes, looked away from Riah toward Cyrus. “I don’t care if she’s been vetted. I told you it was too late to bring anyone else in on this. I do not like—”
“I’m not just being brought in on this,” Riah corrected her. “I mentioned a moment ago that I’m the head of the project at the R&D facility. I’m the one developing the neural decoding—”
“Synthetic telepathy.”
Riah had never liked that term. It made what she was doing sound somehow paranormal when it was simply the development of a brain-computer interface. “What’s your connection with it? Again?” She purposely posed the question in a challenging way to gauge how Oriana would respond. Riah was struck by the fact that Cyrus had at some point vetted her, gotten her military clearance to be here tonight.
Or did the twins do it?
The undersecretary scoffed at her. “You have no idea what this project is about.”
“Ma’am.” Daniel stepped forward, interrupting them. “Dr. Colette knows more about deep-brain stimulation of the Wernicke’s area than anyone. If we’re ever going to make this work with individuals, rather than just twins, she’ll be the one to figure out how.”
Darren nodded. “My brother and I need her in on this project if we’re going to be able to move forward with it on the time frame we’ve discussed.”
Williamson let out a small sigh of resignation. “Dr. Colette—”
“Riah really is fine.”
A set jaw. “Dr. Colette, you realize that the material on this video is absolutely confidential and you may not share what you see with anyone. It concerns matters of national security.”
National security?
She really had been vetted.
“Well?”
Riah had no idea who she might even be tempted to share the contents of the video with. “Of course.”
The Undersecretary of Defense pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Before we move forward, I need you to sign these release forms.”
“She’s been cleared,” Cyrus reiterated. “She wouldn’t be part of the project if she weren’t.”
“It’s alright,” Riah told him, then quickly scanned the papers and signed them.
The undersecretary collected the papers, filed them in her briefcase. “Alright. Let’s watch this video.”
Cyrus gestured toward the hall and picked up his laptop. “It’ll be easier for everyone to see if we use the screen in the conference room.”
The Footage
Charlene, Xavier, and I find an empty exam room. Slip inside. Xavier closes the door behind us. “I made some calls. I have some of the best people out there working on Project Alpha and Star Gate.”
“Good.”
As he’s locking the door, my phone vibrates.
A text.
The link from Fionna.
I click it.
An image comes up: a room with plaster-covered walls, a ceiling fan, and a window overlooking a Middle Eastern city.
The twins sat across the table from Riah and Undersecretary of Defense Williamson. Even though Riah knew that all the other people in the room were previously acquainted, she didn’t feel out of place. A lack of social anxiety was actually one of the perks for people with her condition.
The sprawling oval conference table lay centered in the room. Cyrus tapped a button on a console on the table, and the lights dimmed to a preset for watching videos. Then he depressed another button, and a large screen lowered from the ceiling and covered the front wall.
Williamson steepled her hands, leaned forward, asked Cyrus, “So have you seen it yet?”
“Not yet. No.” He connected his laptop to the projector system.
She faced the twins. “And you?”
“No.”
Riah didn’t wait for the question. “I haven’t seen it yet either. But I’m looking forward to it.”
“Well. So am I.”
The image from the laptop appeared on the projector screen. A room in Kabul.
Cyrus tapped the space bar and the video began.
The video begins.
We watch as the camera pans across the room, revealing two bearded men in Middle Eastern clothes standing beside a table. They’re speaking rapidly in a language I don’t immediately recognize.
“It’s Arabic,” Xavier announces.
“How do you—” Charlene begins.
“Shh.”
One of the men steps aside, and I can see a table littered with wires, cell phones, detonators, a pile of nails, and several boxes of ball bearings. The audio on the recording is remarkably good, and I can hear the rush of traffic and the intermittent blaring of horns outside the window.
The taller of the two men walks toward the window and tugs at the threadbare curtains. They don’t close all the way, however, and leave a gap nearly a foot wide, allowing for a narrow view of the building across the street.