Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) (12 page)

“
I served some time, yes.” Military documents were difficult to fake, but not impossible. Not if you had the right connections and the proper funds.

“
Good,” said Perry. “We can use that. You see, we have a vision, Mr. Agnew. We believe that the world's governments are growing corrupted by their own power and greed. That religion is being eclipsed by the ultimate golden calf, so to speak.”

“
The golden dollar sign,” Sparrow said. “Capitalism. Brutality. Oppression. Green-blooded totalitarianism.”

“
Sounds like a real utopia you've got there.” Jesus, they were even more whacked that I'd thought.

“
Yes,” another man—Jay I think he'd said his name was, as in “blue”—agreed. “That is our vision. A utopia.”

“
You and Karl Marx both.” I snorted. “I think we all remember what happened to him in the history books. You want to wipe out oppressive capitalism, you can't do it by brute force. You have to offer a better system.”

“
An unfortunate moment in history to be sure,” Robin murmured. “But not entirely unforeseen.”

“
Our goal is on a much smaller scale, Mr. Agnew. We want recognition as an emerging party, the ability to introduce social policies, the ability to vote as a recognized group. We are willing to fight for that right, and if that means going head-to-head with those who oppose us directly then we will do so. There is already one group out there which stands for everything that we are against. Unlike us, they have what we want. Recognition. Reputation.”

Boo fucking hoo
, I thought.

“
Nothing would prove our cause quite so powerfully or dramatically as their strategic elimination,” Hawk continued. “On an international level. We do not believe in civilian casualties, Mr. Agnew. I think you will find that is but one of the differences between us. We believe in attacking the problem at the root, cutting off those who may be caught in its parasitic branches against their will.”

How poetic—and yet, it did have an advantage over the more traditional “deadheading” approach. Cut off what you can see and hope the rest will go away. That technique hadn't worked so well for Mr. Richardson.

“Who?” I asked. “You better not tell me it's the fucking President or any shit like that. I'm not interested in participating in high-profile assassinations. I don't care to spend the rest of my life in Guantanamo.”

“
Good God!” Hawk looked appalled — the first emotion he'd shown during this speech. “Are you insane, Mr. Agnew? Have you not listened to a word we said?”

“
We are not terrorists,” Perry said, in a poor attempt at pacification. “Radical groups receive bad press in the news media, but that is because they share an agenda with those who would oppose us. Such as this group. You probably haven't heard of them, Mr. Agnew. They make a point to stay out of print. However all the right people—”

“
Or the wrong people, rather,” Hawk cut in.

“
Yes,” Perry said, shooting him a silencing look. “—
people
are aware of their existence. They are the most open secret in the western world. They monitor millions of conversations a day, screening for mentions of their acronym and its members. Occasionally this does happen, and more often than one might think. Generally on conspiracy sites, or online periodicals.”

“
We have a collection of screen-shots,” Sparrow interjected. “Archived by date, publisher, and subject.”

“
Interestingly, the websites have the strange tendency to go offline—permanently—after mentioning this group by name.”

“
So do the authors.” Hawk met my eyes. There was a sense of knowing behind that flat, dark stare. I decided he was the one in this group to be wariest of—him, and the two women. “Most of them never turn up again.”

“
And when they do,” Perry said, “it's always dead.”

“
Scary,” I remarked. “But come on, don't keep me in suspense. Who are we really talking about here? It isn't as if we're dealing with the Russian mob.” I added an eye-roll for effect, knowing that they would expect this, as well.

“
Actually, that is more pertinent than you might believe.” Perry wrested the conversation away from Hawk like a driver grabbing at the wheel, and in doing so he ended up swerving right into my trap. “They call themselves the IMA. It stands for Integrated Military Affairs. They're a pseudo-military organization. That means that while they are not government affiliated, they do have government-level technology and training. A very dangerous combination. They hold no specific jurisdiction. Once they were considered a fairly respectable group with modest sociopolitical aspirations. Now, they are little better than a mob. A mob with the power and influence of the CIA or MI6.”

“
Their leader is an Irishman named Adrian Callaghan,” said Robin. “A very powerful man. In addition to all the usual training, he has studied psychology and has the equivalent knowledge base of one who has a PhD.”

“
At some time unknown he was administered the Hare Psychology Checklist. The maximum score on the test is forty, and many consider the cut-off line to lie around a score of thirty. Here, in the UK, a score of twenty-five is enough to merit serious concern. Adrian Callaghan scored a thirty-eight.”

“
We want him dead, Mr. Agnew,” said Robin. “The things he has done to our men and women are unspeakable.”

I believed her—because I'd seen what he was capable of firsthand.

“Him, and his toy soldier, Michael Boutilier,” Hawk said, cutting into my thoughts. It had taken a lot of training not to react to the sound of my own name. I met his probing stare calmly and thought,
This could be interesting
.

“
How about it, Mr. Agnew? Are you still interested?”

I wondered what Callaghan would make of this information. Speculatively, since I wouldn't be giving it to him. If he didn't already know that the BN was baying for my blood as well as his, he didn't need to.

With enough double-dealing on both sides I might be able to manipulate them both into shooting one another in the back. Save myself the trouble.

My hands formed fists in the pockets of my coat. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I think I'm real interested in this proposition of yours.”

Christina:

I woke up several times that night. Sounds that were perfectly innocuous during the daytime, like the creak of the apartment settling or the thwack of a tree branch against the window, took on a new and sinister context in the dark scape of my fear.

Being followed home by that monolith of a man hadn't helped. I kept thinking,
what if …?
and torturing myself with hypotheticals until my brain went blank as a sheet of paper on which my nightmares could scrawl themselves down for my own viewing pleasure.

I was tempted to take one of the Ambien tablets the psychiatrist had prescribed me, but they made me feel woozy. For obvious reasons I didn't want to be in a mental fog.

No, it's just going to be me, the nightmares, and the insomnia
.

My eyes felt stiff and swollen, as if they'd been scrubbed with sand. I picked sleep dust out of my eyelashes and glanced at my cellphone. The glowing numbers read 3:49. My vision blurred. I fell back against the pillow, digging the heels of my hands into my temples. I had that stupid freshman seminar in less than four hours.

The best thing to do—the wise thing—would be to close my eyes and go back to sleep. Depriving myself of a full night's rest was a bad idea; it was in my interests to stay alert. My brain just wasn't getting the memo.

I hoisted myself out of bed and trudged to the kitchen. I filled the pitcher with cold water and switched on the coffee machine. Extra-strong. Black. Eight cups of Ethiopian brew.

When the coffee was ready and I had it prepared the way I liked in my favorite mug, I went back to bed and propped myself against the wall, fingering the Saint Anthony medallion I'd taken to wearing around my neck. He was the patron saint of lost things. I'd found it at one of the thrift stores and it seemed like it would be bad luck to leave it there, especially since I'd been feeling lost myself.

I wondered if the medallion could help me find hope, or if that was too abstract, even for a saint.

Maybe I would sit out on freshman seminar. They didn't even bother to take roll. Better to stay at home than risk being jumped on my way to and from a unit-filler that didn't even matter when I was so exhausted.

If Michael were here, he would know what to do
.

Michael was gone, though, and he wasn't coming back, as per his agreement with the IMA. He had gone to work for them again for my sake, because he loved me—or so he claimed. He'd had ample time to rue that decision. I certainly was.

He had done terrible things, and a good deal of them were nigh unforgivable. Rape. Abuse. Threats. Violence. Murder. His employer had been a part of it, but some of those things, like the sexual assault, had been a judgment call. They had been fueled by malice and aggression, not blackmail. If that was what being in love caused people to do, to treat people like crap because you had no self-control and then validate all of it by saying three dumb words, I wasn't sure I wanted any part in it.

Love certainly hadn't made Michael happy. His ill-fated choice had condemned him to a life he professed to hate. A life that he would continue to hate until it likely killed him. He knew it, too: that final kiss was the physical manifestation of a broken heart, bitter and hopeful and sad, all at once.

Did he deserve to experience a life of the grief and pain he had put countless others through for the better part of a decade? In the beginning, back when my wounds and resentment were still fresh and cutting, I would have said, “Yes, absolutely.” I would have volunteered to put him into that position personally, and he would have deserved it.

Now, I wasn't so sure. That was a lot to wish on a fellow human-being.

I ended up falling asleep with the medallion clutched in one hand. I woke up with a start when cold liquid soaked into my clothing. For one horrifying instant I thought I had wet the bed. Then I noticed the brown tint to the stain, and the cocoa smell, and realized, to my great relief, that it was only coffee. That was one indignity I was to be spared.

It was my sole consolation that day.

Chapter Eleven

Turning Point

Michael:

If you have to make a private call, the best place isn't somewhere quiet and secretive. You need busy and loud. That's why I was making my way down a narrow alleyway that smelled like piss. I wasn't about to use my cellphone. Not after meeting up with the B-fucking-N. I wasn't going to dick around to find out, either. I threw the phone in the trash.

I doubted they'd think to ask what had happened to my cell, or whether they'd even notice it was gone, but if they did I could say it had been stolen. That kind of shit happened, especially to well-dressed foreign men who looked lost and seemed careless. It helped that the area I was wandering through was in a bad part of town. That would corroborate my story.

The Halfpenny Gambit
was the type of pub that looked like it should be condemned, and was probably a cockroach away from a visit from the FDA, or whatever the hell their Brit counterpart was. In other words, it was a dive lost in time and would almost certainly have a payphone.

I selected the one closest to the men's room. The constant white noise of echoed coughs, running
faucets, and flushing toilets would blur out the finer points of the conversation.

I dialed, twisting the steel cable around my hand in a choke-hold as the piece of shit let it ring. I knew he was there. He was reminding me who was in charge. Fucking power plays. I hated that shit.

“Yes?” he said at last.

“
It's Michael.” I didn't bother to hide my irritation.

“
You're late, then. Have some trouble with customs?” So that had been his doing. Fucking
dick
. “Of course, you always did have problems with authority, didn't you?”

“
Fuck you.”

“
You're lucky I didn't give them cause for a cavity search. Believe me, it was tempting.”

“
I'm sure it was, you twisted fuck.”

“
Yes, well. Time is money, lucky for you.” His tone sobered. “I take it the meeting went as planned.”

“
Apart from your delay, you mean? And the fact that you booked me into the shittiest five-star hotel in London? Yeah, everything's fucking peachy. I've got a question for you, Callaghan. How come you don't tell everyone about your acing the Hare Test? Too sore you didn't score a perfect mark?”

“
Did you actually discover anything worth my time, Michael?”

His time wasn't worth what came out my ass. “I  found something. Turns out the BN and I have something in common. We both want you dead. I'm bringing the friendship bracelets to the next meeting.”