But, for all their genius, the scientists had made a terrible mistake. The drugs they’d used to heal his concussion had also reconnected the neurons they had fried with bursts of radiation.
Only Eric Wise knew that John had regained his memories, and only Eric knew that John was deeply ashamed of his actions.
The souls of the five hundred and twelve casualties of the Red Cross bombing weighed heavily on his heart.
As they made their way through the Florhof, John murmured, “Nice place.”
Valerie stopped at Katrina Reinemann’s door and whispered, “Can you open it?”
A few seconds passed and then the lock clicked. From the War Room at Area 51, Karen Kryzowski said, “You’re welcome.”
Karen was one of the OTM’s lead analysts and the one who had discovered tankers full of oil parked off the coasts of the United States, Africa, and Saudi Arabia.
If her analysis was correct, then billions — if not trillions — of dollars were being stolen from the wealthiest nations of the world. Someone was draining the coffers of their governments and squashing the struggling middle classes of the developed world.
Noise echoed down the hallway. John recognized at least two different men’s voices mingled with a woman’s. They were talking and laughing loudly, and John pointed at the door. “Val?”
Valerie nodded. They entered the room, and Valerie shut the door firmly behind her.
The hotel room was surprisingly modern, with a low, tasteful bed, and a comfortable chair next to a bookcase under the window facing the street.
They were alone. Katrina Reinemann’s luggage sat in the corner, but there was no sign of the woman.
“Tell me what you see,” Deion said through their earpieces.
“No sign of the target,” John said.
“She’s not a target,” Valerie said. “She came to us, remember?”
“Only after you put out feelers,” Deion reminded them. “What else do you see?”
“Nothing,” John said. “It looks like she just… left.”
Valerie checked the bed. “The sheets aren’t disturbed.” She riffled through the luggage on the floor. “A change of clothes. Shoes. Makeup. Check the armoire, John.”
The armoire sat against the wall opposite the window. It was at least as tall as he was, and ornate carvings covered the doors.
As he neared it, he picked up the faintest whiff of feces and urine. He took a breath, opened one of the doors, saw what was inside, and quickly closed it. “I found Reinemann.”
Valerie glanced up from the luggage. “You mean…”
“What?” Deion demanded.
John took another deep breath and opened the door again. Katrina Reinemann dangled from a metal rod that ran across the inside of the armoire. She was naked and wrapped tightly in a cocoon of plastic, her face sickly gray and squishy.
Duct tape circled Reinemann’s body, but it failed to create an airtight seal. Judging from the smell, he guessed she had been dead for several hours.
Valerie’s hand touched his shoulder, and he turned to find her staring at the dead body.
“Oh my God,” Valerie said.
There was a crackling over the earpiece. “What’s the sitrep?” Deion asked.
Valerie took a choking breath. “Katrina is dead. She’s been murdered.”
Eric Wise, the director of the OTM, sat in the situation room adjacent to the War Room.
The War Room was the biggest of the hollowed-out chambers under the mountains of the Air Force’s Groom Lake facility. What had once housed the American stealth program and a fleet of stolen enemy aircraft now belonged to the OTM.
The sprawling underground base was enormous, and the War Room was the center of the action. From there, analysts monitored information streams from around the world. Network taps at every major Internet backbone redirected traffic to the OTM data centers. Live streams from JSOC mixed with data feeds from the CIA, NSA, NRO, and other three-lettered agencies. Predictive algorithms and AI agents combed through the data, looking for emerging threats.
Eric sighed heavily, took a sip of his lukewarm coffee, and tossed his tablet computer onto the table, almost knocking aside three giant stacks of paperwork.
All this information and Karen still can’t figure out who’s responsible for the surging oil prices. We’re drowning in information, damn it, and most of it is useless to me!
There was a knock on the door. “Enter,” he said without looking up.
Sergeant Todd Clark opened the gray steel door and stepped inside. Clark was a solidly built man in his mid thirties, with light brown hair, always dressed in a freshly pressed Army uniform. He was one of the few OTM members trusted to run the War Room. Eric valued his steady hand.
“Deion needs to speak with you.”
“Problems?”
Clark nodded.
“Have a seat,” Eric said.
“I thought you were heading out.”
“You think this mountain of paperwork signs itself? Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about I promote you and then you can sign for me?”
Clark shook his head. “Not a chance. That’s why you get paid the big bucks.”
“That’s why I do it,” Eric said, slapping his forehead. “The money.” He picked up his tablet and fiddled with it until Deion’s face appeared on the wall monitor. “Tell me you gathered new evidence.”
Deion shook his head. “How’s the weather, Deion? Is Switzerland nice? It’s not often a brother gets to live it up on the government’s dime in a swanky city—”
“Don’t give me that poor black kid routine,” Eric said. “You went to Harvard.”
“That was a scholarship,” Deion said. “I still had to work three jobs to cover tuition—”
“You worked one job,” Eric interrupted, “and that was as a professor’s assistant.”
Deion smiled wide, showing a mouthful of teeth. “All those beautiful girls, though. It was rough on a brother.”
“Oh yeah? Speaking of which, how’s Valerie?”
Deion rolled his eyes. “You’re not gonna start with that shit again? I told you, the timing’s not right.”
Sergeant Clark coughed into his hand.
Eric glanced at Clark. “Even the sergeant doesn’t buy it.”
“The sergeant can mind his own damned business,” Deion said. “Maybe the sergeant needs to get out and find himself a woman.”
Clark smirked. “I do quite well.”
Eric raised an eyebrow. It was news to him. Clark was the ever-present steady hand in the War Room. As Eric’s second-in-command, Clark practically lived there. “When do you find the time?”
“I prioritize.”
Eric turned his attention back to Deion. “Speaking of prioritizing, what do you have for me?”
Deion’s grin faltered. “Maybe I just wanted to gaze upon your handsome face.”
Eric snorted. “You’re going to tell me something I don’t want to hear. I know, because you always sweet-talk me first.”
Deion’s smile evaporated. “Reinemann was murdered.”
Eric exhaled slowly and counted to five before asking, “How?”
“Strangled,” Deion said. “John and Val found her.”
“Where?”
“Inside her hotel room.”
The gears in Eric’s brain spun. “The body?”
“Hard to clean up,” Deion said. “The hotel is too public. We’re going to need help making it disappear.”
“The Federal Intelligence Service isn’t exactly on board with our counterterror activities,” Eric said. “A body is going to be a tough sell to the NBD. We’d have to coordinate through the CIA.”