Arch Enemy (26 page)

B
y the time the single working elevator dinged its arrival on the nineteenth floor of the Acevedo building, everyone but Alex Morgan had already gotten off.

“I'm here to see Mr. McGovern,” Alex said to the receptionist.

She peered out the window, from which she could see the Charles River in the distance. The Acevedo building towered over most others in downtown Boston, and she was very near the top.

As a Deputy Vice President, her quarry, Leonard McGovern was an important man.

“Oh, are you the student?” The receptionist was perky and friendly and there was a slight condescension to her voice. Good. Being underestimated was its own kind of power. “Please, take a seat.” She motioned at some leather office chairs to her left. “Can I get you anything while you wait?”

“I'm good, thank you so much.”

Alex nestled into a comfy leather couch, arm around her purse at her side. She had nothing of her usual sporty look today. Instead, she looked the part of a student angling for an interview—gray herringbone pantsuit, hair in a neat clip, and even—
gasp
—makeup.

Alex's phone vibrated. Message from Simon.

 

Is it time yet?

 

She typed back to him:

 

Hold your horses. I'm still waiting to be called in.

 

She felt the familiar flutter in her gut, that blend of fear and excitement she lived for. She distracted herself by taking in the surroundings. The office this high up was a long way from the plywood and gray walls of the worker drones. Through her mother's professional eyes, Alex saw everything that made the decor expensive: the bold color scheme in clashing metallic colors, furniture made out of real wood, and the sprinkling of flowers, orchids and crocuses and Spathiphyllum.

“Mr. McGovern will see you now.”

The inner office had an open plan, with a couple of closed-off conference rooms and private offices against two sides of the building, among which was McGovern's, light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows on Alex's right.

Alex played up the difficulty of walking on her crutches as the receptionist led her to her destination. Another rather surly receptionist opened the door marked with McGovern's name.

“Please, come in,” McGovern said. “Alex, right?”

McGovern was a bald man with yellowed teeth and a shiny nose. He had a friendly but overeager manner. Alex liked him right away, which didn't make the assignment any easier.

“Thank you so much for seeing me, Mr. McGovern.”

McGovern's office had a sprawling view of the North End's chaotic mass of red brick buildings and the water beyond, shimmering in the sun.

The receptionist pulled out the chair for Alex—an Eames Mesh, if she wasn't mistaken. Worth about fifteen hundred each.

“It's always a pleasure to talk to an alumna. Go Raptors!”

Alex pumped a fist. “Boola boola.”

“Would you like anything?”

“Oh, I don't want to impose.”

“Oh, goodness, it's no imposition! Agnes, get me a coffee, and for Alex . . . ?”

“A water, please. Thanks so much.”

Agnes left to collect the drinks and McGovern turned his full attention to Alex, resting his jaw on the heel of his hand. “Now, what can I do you for?”

Alex played the role of the enthusiastic future corporate climber. “I have so many questions, I'd hardly know where to begin.”

“You're interested in management as a career, is that right?”

“I just like to get things
done
.” She did her best simulation of starry eyes. “Like, give me a spreadsheet and data and watch me entertain myself for hours.”

Agnes returned to the office and set a mug of coffee in front of McGovern and a glass of water for Alex.

“Well, that's certainly good to hear.” He put two lumps of sugar in the coffee, just like they'd told her he would. “It's a never-ending challenge,” he said, stirring the liquid with a spoon. “There's something new to deal with every day.

“I'll bet.”

He took a sip of his coffee and exhaled hard. “Hot.”

She reached in her pocket and sent Simon the signal message they'd prearranged.

Seconds later, McGovern's cell rang. Polemarch had rigged it so that the call would appear as coming from the CEO.

“I'm sorry. I'm going to have to take this. Could you just give me a minute?”

Alex shifted, making a big show of collecting her crutches, making herself seem about fifty percent more incompetent than she really was. “You know what?” he said as he stood. “Stay put. I'll take this outside. Would you excuse me?”

He walked out of the office. That was her cue.

She reached into her purse and opened the mint tin inside. She popped the lid and turned it over onto her palm. The tiny pill rolled in the grooves of her hand. She took it between her finger and thumb and, stretching forward, dropped it into the mug of coffee. She picked up the spoon and stirred, watching it dissolve as readily as the sugar had.

Alex started in her seat when the door opened.
Amateur.

“How strange,” said McGovern to himself. “Anyway, where were we?” She watched as he slurped his coffee, ending with a lip smack and an
aaah
.

“You were just telling me about the challenges of working in management.”

“Ah, yes,” Another sip of coffee, which Alex now noticed he used to stall for time as he was thinking of something to say. That's what her father might call
actionable information
. Ask complex questions, make him drink. “You have to have the creativity of an artist, you know, and, and”—another sip—“and the discipline of a long-distance runner. You know what I mean?”

“I think I get the picture,” she said. “So what would you say is your favorite part of this job?”

“Helping people.”
Slurp
. “It's knowing that my work is going to impact the lives of the literally millions of people that benefit from the products that we ship around the world.”
Slurp.
“But the best part is the work we do with the US military. We provide support for—for operations in—”

Sweat was forming on his bald head. He kept rubbing the nape of his neck and fidgeting with objects on his desk. She could hear his breathing as it grew shallow and rapid.

“Are you okay, Mr. McGovern?”

“So sorry,” he said, just about jumping to his feet. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He sprinted out of his office. Alex saw Agnes stand at her desk and stare as he ran down the hallway. Alex didn't see him go into the bathroom as the door to his office swung shut.

She was alone. McGovern wouldn't be back for a few more minutes, at least. And there it was, his computer, open and logged on.
Yahtzee.

Alex turned the monitor to face her and pulled the wireless mouse and keyboard where she could use them. She opened a browser window in private mode and then typed in the complex URL she had committed to memory for the purposes of this mission.

She hit Enter.

The screen only flashed the text
THANK YOU,
and the browser window shut itself down.

The door handle turned and Alex looked up, startled. It was Agnes, the receptionist. Alex looked guilty as hell, keyboard on her lap, monitor turned 180 degrees from its usual position. No use acting innocent.

“Um, I'm sorry, I just really needed to check my e-mail,” she said. “Phone went dead.” She held up her cell phone with a helpless shrug.

The assistant looked at her with narrowed eyes. Had she seen something? Did she suspect?

“You kids,” she clucked. “Can't disconnect for five minutes.”

“I've just been expecting this e-mail—”

“Don't explain. Just don't do it again.” She seemed nervous, like she was afraid her boss would blame her for not preventing Alex's transgression. “I'm afraid Mr. McGovern appears to be ill. He asked whether he might be able to reschedule another day.”

“Oh, no problem at all,” she said. “I'm sorry to hear he's not feeling well.”

“Do me a favor and don't leave any sign that you used his computer,” she said. “Mr. McGovern is very protective of his privacy.”

“Oh, of course. Not a trace, I promise.”

“All right, dear. Can I help you with those?” She motioned toward the crutches.

“Oh, no, I've gotten pretty good at it. Watch.” She got up off the chair in a half-graceful motion. “It's done wonders for my upper arms.”

Agnes held the door open for Alex. “Thank you so much,” Alex said as she hobbled through. “Should I e-mail about setting up another date?”

“Please do. We'll be in touch.”

Alex grinned as she moved away. “Most definitely.”

 

Alex settled into the passenger seat of Simon's beater 1996 Corolla. Her skin was tingling, but she kept her poker face while they were still in view of the Acevedo Tower.

He set off down Water Street.

“Did you do it?” he asked.

She waited until they reached the corner and laughed in exhilaration. “It's done, baby.”

“Wow.” Simon took a left on Kilby. “We really did it. Were you scared? Did he—”

He was interrupted by Alex's ringing phone. “Shut up, it's gotta be Polemarch.” She answered in speakerphone. “Hello?”

“You've done well. We've gained access to McGovern's computer. This is an important piece in our ongoing operation. With your help, we're going to bring down Acevedo.”

“Heck yeah,” said Simon.

“This is all I'll need from you at the moment. Stand by for further contact.”

He hung up. Alex squealed in joy. “Simon! We're
in
! We're
doing it
!”

Things had never felt more right for Alex Morgan.

M
organ woke up in the Barracks—what they called the room lined with bunk beds adjoining the Zeta gym. With nothing to go home for—Jenny gone, Neika at a dog sitter's—he had spent the night there. It must have been morning, but underground that didn't mean much.

He took a shower and was pulling on denim pants when Shepard called him from the hallway outside. “Come out when you can. I've got something for you.”

He put on a shirt and walked out into the War Room, where Bloch was waiting, arms crossed, leaning on the table by Shepard. “Merullo got in touch with us earlier this morning,” she said. “The Legion has made contact.”

“Can we trace them?” Morgan asked.

“No,” said Shepard. “Not even the NSA can crack deep web encryption.”

“What did Merullo say?”

“They want to meet,” Bloch said. “Today. In about an hour and a half at the Common.”

“It's a trap.”

“It's definitely a trap,” said Shepard, swiveling in his chair.

“So we set our own,” said Morgan. “We scatter tactical around the Common and see what crops up when I show. Unless,” he said to Bloch, “you've got a problem with this.”

“I've already called in tactical,” she said. “I know when a risk is worth taking, Morgan. And this one is.”

 

The sun shone, lighting up the snow on Boston Common. The trees, bare for the season, were frosted with powder as well, and the whole scene gave the impression of a snow globe before shaking. People bundled up in winter coats went about their daily business, crossing the park for convenience or for the view. Morgan walked the path at a leisurely pace, shoes sinking into the snow, looking around and letting himself be seen.

“I have a really bad feeling about this,” said Bishop over the communicator.

“I think that's a healthy attitude to take,” said Shepard. “Given the circumstances.”

“Keep the channel clear. Essential communication only,” Bloch said, always the professional.

Diesel and Spartan, the best sharpshooters on the team, had taken positions atop neighboring buildings so that between the two of them they covered the entire expanse of the park, with significant overlap. Tango and Bishop, meanwhile, were pacing the square, keeping their distance from Morgan and their eyes on all passersby.

“Anyone see anything?” Morgan asked. “Eagle's nest?”

“Negative,” said Diesel.

“Hard to know what we're looking for.” A woman's voice—Spartan. “We've got about fifty people total on park grounds. Nothing suspicious yet.”

“No snipers up in the buildings either,” said Diesel.

“Ground crew?”

“Nothing,” said Tango.

“Not a goddamn thing,” said Bishop.

Morgan considered what they were looking for. He didn't for a minute believe that someone was here to meet Merullo, but he looked the part anyway—blue sports jacket, sneakers, and a yellow beanie, all taken from Merullo's not too fragrant wardrobe. Morgan was roughly his size, and in the winter, it might be enough for someone who'd never met either of them to take one for the other.

But Morgan was preparing for an attempt on his life. He wore Kevlar under the jacket, and his Walther was tucked into its shoulder holster under his jacket. He kept his peripheral vision clear, looking out for tails. Having the Zeta tactical team getting his back didn't hurt, either.

He spotted a man walking alone coming the opposite way on the same path. Their eyes met and lingered for longer than normal. White male, between twenty and thirty. Was this their guy? They exchanged glances as he drew nearer. “I think I've got him,” said Morgan. “Lone man, moss green parka, about six two, coming my way.”

“Copy, Cobra,” said Spartan. “I have a visual.”

The man approached and put his right hand in his pocket. Morgan tensed and slipped his hand inside his coat and wrapped his fingers around the grip of his Walther PPK.

“Hold,” he said.

The man pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his nose, passing Morgan without incident.

“Stand down.”

“
Peekaboo.
” An unfamiliar voice over the communicator.

“Who was that?”

“Who was what?” Bishop asked.

“
They can't hear me. Only you.
”

Morgan looked around for the source of the voice. Too many people whose mouths were covered by scarves.

“Shepard, someone's patched into our frequency.”

“What? How do you know?”

“He's talking to me
.
” Morgan's gaze jumped from person to person, trying to find anyone who didn't fit.

“
Now that wasn't very polite.
”

“Who are you? What do you want?” He crossed out the couple at ten o'clock, the three kids at eleven.

“
I wanted to meet you. Just like I told the incompetent Mr. Merullo. Who, I think you may not be too sorry to hear, has met with a regrettable end
.”

So they had killed Merullo. The stranger was right. Morgan couldn't work up too much compassion. “Come out then, if you want to meet me. Say hello.”

“
I think this is close enough for me.
”

“Cobra, keep talking to him,” said Shepard. “I'm trying to isolate his signal.”

“
Tell Shepard it's not worth the trouble. He won't be able to.
”

Three people on their own on the pathway that would meet his to the right. It could be any one, or none of them.

“How did you get to Jakande?”

“
Everyone has something to hide. We found his something. Several somethings, actually
.”

“Why did you want White dead? I thought we were on the same side.”

“
We are not
,” the voice hissed. “
You serve the status quo. We fight for something more.
”

“Who are you? Praetorian?”

The man laughed as if Morgan had said something very stupid. “
He wouldn't bother with an insect like you. And don't bother looking. You won't see me.
”

“It's like the signal's jumping around,” said Shepard. “I can't zero in.”

“I wouldn't be so sure.”

“
You mean your team? Two snipers on the roof, two patrolling the Common?
”

Shit. They are still two steps ahead.
“So, what now?”

“
Soon, you will see a sign of our power. Give up. Stop looking for us. You've failed every step of the way so far. Keep trying, and you won't only lose. You will die.
”

“Who are you?” Morgan shouted. Nearby pedestrians maneuvered around him. Crazy man on the Common, best not to get too close. “What do you want?”

But the voice had vanished, leaving behind only white noise on a now dead radio channel.