Infringement (22 page)

Despite the nearly constant drizzle, Declan spent as much time as he could in the garden overlooking the Urubamba Valley below. He spent hours counting the visible Incan terraces and tracing them up the mountainsides and along the river banks, trying to imagine what the area must have looked like hundreds of years earlier when the Incas populated the region.

The climate, cuisine and sheer beauty of the Peruvian Andes agreed with Declan. He’d never seen such an awesome and stunning place before, so different in every respect than anything he’d known in the United States. His energy and strength increased steadily, as did his appetite, both physically and spiritually.

Atau, the young man of Quechua descent who cooked the meals and was responsible for overseeing the care of the guest house in which Declan and Megan were staying, had set up a comfortable chaise lounge and small table under a canopy in the garden for Declan. Noticing Declan’s interest in the Incan terraces and the Sacred Valley more generally, Atau had brought out a few books written in English about the Incas and Peru. Declan spent most of the day reading about the Incas and the Andes. He also began delving more and more deeply into his Bible.

He wasn’t quite sure why exactly, but something about reading his Bible in that setting, amidst the seemingly endless beauty surrounding him, brought the pages to life for Declan. He read about Adam and Eve and the Garden of Eden in Genesis 2 and tried to imagine a setting more scenic, more perfect than the one he was in. It wasn’t that Declan fully believed yet, or at least he hadn’t yet acknowledged a renewed belief in God. However, something was undeniably drawing him, pulling on him, calling him if you will, and for the first time since his dad had passed away, Declan wasn’t inclined to fight it. Whatever, or whoever, it was.

_______________________

British Airways Flight 167 touched down at David Ben-Gurion International Airport. After collecting his bag and clearing customs and immigration, Louis Martino caught a cab for the relatively short drive to Jerusalem.

The taxi driver asked in English, “Where are you headed?”

“To the King David Hotel.”

“You’ll like the King David very much. In my opinion, the top hotel in Jerusalem.”

“Oh, I’m not staying there. I wish I were. I’m staying at the Crowne Plaza, but I’m a journalist, so I’m headed to the King David first for the press conference with the Foreign Minister and to see what kind of newsworthy gossip I can pick up. Do you live in Jerusalem?”

“Yes.”

“How have things been? It seems pretty quiet at the moment.”

“It’s the calm before the storm so to speak, I fear. Jerusalem has been relatively safe. Tel Aviv, as you probably know, was hit. The rocket fire has been almost constant near the borders. The airport, Tel Aviv and Jerusalem are very well protected, relatively quiet the last couple days, but most think that’s going to change soon as the IDF response accelerates.”

“What do you think?”

“I think we’re about to find ourselves engaged in an all-out war very soon. Maybe hours, maybe days. But, we’re ready. The IDF, our leaders and our people are well prepared. We’ll come out of it stronger than before. ‘Never again’ we say, ‘never again.’ If you’ve come for news, you’ll have no trouble. It will find you soon enough.”

_______________________

Having heard nothing from Evan, Michelle left the children in the care of her mother-in-law and drove back into the city to try and find him or find out what had happened to him. With the ongoing protests and riots, conditions in the city had devolved into something just shy of chaos.

Already concerned foreign markets had significantly tapered their purchase of U.S. treasury bonds, which had sparked a minor sell off. The interest rate on 10 year treasury bonds had shot up over 200% and the U.S. dollar’s continued reign as the world reserve currency was in doubt as governments and institutional investors around the world, fearing a potential civil war in the United States, had begun calling for the United Nations and the IMF to institute a new reserve currency to replace the dollar. The foreign market for U.S. treasuries had all but dried up.

The immediate results could be seen and felt in every city and town in the United States. As she headed toward Evan’s office, Michelle passed gas stations advertising gas at $8.17 a gallon with lines of cars stretching blocks waiting to fill up. The grocery stores appeared almost under siege, with people rushing to buy whatever food was still on the shelves and the lines at the banks and ATM machines, for those that were still operating, were at least two hour waits to get cash. A general sense of panic filled the air all around town.

Michelle finally reached Evan’s office and parked outside. She rushed inside to find the receptionist sitting at her place at the front desk. “Hi, Mrs. Parker,” the receptionist greeted.

“Have you seen Dr. Parker today?”

“No, he hasn’t been in for the past few days and nobody has heard anything from him. Is everything okay?”

“He hasn’t contacted any of his partners or been in to see patients?”

“No, I’ve had to cancel all his appointments. We’ve tried to call his cell and the home phone, but only got his voicemail. Is he okay?”

“I don’t think so. Thank you, I’ve got to go,” Michelle replied as she rushed back outside with tears beginning to pour out of her. She had no idea where Evan could be or what to do next, where to go.

Michelle hurried back to her SUV, but as she was about to get back in, a man came up quickly behind her and shoved her to the ground. Not knowing what had happened, Michelle looked up to see the man in her face, yelling “Give me the keys!”

“What?”

“Give me the damn keys,” he yelled again as he knelt down and began patting her coat pockets. Michelle screamed and the man, getting more and more frustrated, backhanded her across the mouth, busting her bottom lip open.

Suddenly, another man violently pulled Michelle’s assailant off of her and threw him against the SUV. The would-be-car-thief slammed into the side of the silver Denali and bounced off, landing hard on the ground. Michelle scrambled to get up off the cold pavement as the second man pulled a handgun from inside his coat and pistol whipped the assailant in the street.

Finished, he turned to Michelle and asked, “Are you okay?”

She stood trembling uncontrollably, still trying to comprehend what had happened and unable to say anything. The second man took hold of her hands gently and looked her in the eyes. “Try and calm down,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m Kevin Cameron, Declan’s friend from the Bureau. You’re alright, but you need to get out of here and get back to the house you’re at out by the lake.”

“How’d you…”

“Look, I want to help you. Get out of town. Don’t stop anywhere for anything. Go back to the lake house and I’ll get in touch with you in the next day or so.”

“But, I’m looking for my husband.”

“I know, and I know where he is. You have to trust me and you have to go right now.”

“You know…”

“I know where he is,” Kevin said again as he gently forced Michelle back into the SUV. “I’ll contact you at the lake house in the next few days and explain everything, but don’t, under any circumstances, leave the house or come back to the city. It’s not safe. Now go and don’t stop for anything or anyone.”

Tear gas canisters exploded on all sides of Jessica and the white smoke began to fizz and sizzle into the night air. Jessica was jostled by bodies running chaotically in all directions around her. She stood still for a moment, her mouth and nose covered by a bandana tied around her face, trying to regain her composure and figure out the best way to safety. Gun shots whipped loudly to her left in succession and as she turned in that direction, she watched as another female protester was thrown backwards through the air before landing lifelessly a few feet away.

Jessica’s pulse quickened and her body began to shake uncontrollably. Rage and panic overtook her as she looked through the white gas into the open lifeless eyes of the dead woman. In a dash, she ran in the opposite direction, trying to escape the tear gas and gunfire, trying to find some sort of shelter from the storm, a place to hide from the screams and pain-filled shouts that permeated the air around her.

The scene was complete chaos. Death littered the streets. Jessica hurried away from the stinging gas into a small open area featuring a series of park benches set around a circular concrete fountain. It was an idyllic setting in other, normal, circumstances. More gunshots raced past her, seemingly targeted at her. Jessica threw herself down onto the pavement behind the small fountain wall and laid there almost prostrate with her face pressing hard into the cold concrete. She could hear gunfire and footsteps running around the little park, but refused to raise her head or eyes to look. Then, more gunfire and a scream, followed by more shots and the heavy lumbering sound of boots running on the pavement right past her.

The rush of noise and violence finally carried past her and, for a second, there was only her heavy breath against the cold silence. As she lifted her head, she could hear a faint voice on the other side of the fountain saying, “Come in, come in.”

Jessica pulled herself slowly up onto the fountain and, peering over, spotted a Homeland trooper lying in a small pool of blood on the other side. He appeared to be talking into a radio in his helmet, saying “Come in, I’m hit. Come in.” From what Jessica could tell, he had no idea she was behind him. The trooper was wearing the same uniform as the Homeland trooper who had, nights earlier, forced Jessica “to earn her freedom”. The pain and anger of that all too recent violation suddenly flooded her senses. She simultaneously wanted to kill someone, anyone, and to crawl up into a small ball and die herself. Her eyes burned into the back of the trooper’s helmet. Whoever he was, she wished he was dead. Tears of rage and humiliation burst from her eyes.

As she stood sobbing, Jessica saw the trooper’s weapon on the ground a few feet away from him, just out of his reach. Without thinking, she ran across the fountain and jumped down on the other side, swiftly picking up the rifle. The trooper saw her and tried to pull himself up, but was unable. Jessica, who had never before held a gun, turned and aimed the weapon at the injured trooper. He looked no older than twenty, maybe even younger and she could see the fear of death in his eyes.

“Please,” he quivered. “Please, I don’t want to die.”

All Jessica could see was that uniform, that logo on the sleeve and those thick black combat pants tucked into his stupid black boots. A hatred she had never known before seethed within and her mind, unwillingly, took her again to the backseat of the Homeland cruiser. Tears continued to stream down her cheeks as the weapon trembled in her shaking hands.

“Please,” he pleaded again. “Please, God, don’t kill me.”

Jessica heard nothing but the heavy breathing of the trooper above her in the backseat of the cruiser. She saw nothing but the small erratic lines in the black interior ceiling of the cruiser, she’d focused on so intently in order to avoid looking at her rapist. Her hands squeezed the rifle as though she sought to crush it. She fired off two rounds from the automatic weapon, both of which found the lower torso of the already badly wounded Homeland trooper. The trooper let out a labored howl and writhed on the ground in his own blood.

Jessica dropped the weapon on the pavement and ran in the opposite direction away from the ironic serenity of the fountain and back out into the chaos of the surrounding streets. As she reached the next intersection, a concussion grenade exploded nearby and Jessica was thrown against the wall of a building, where she collapsed, unconscious on the sidewalk.

Bleeker and Kevin Cameron entered the small dark holding cell where Evan lay in a crumpled ball on the floor.

“Lights,” Bleeker called out. “And let’s get two chairs in here as well.”

A few seconds later, a dull, yellowish, artificial light partially illuminated the cell. Evan’s eyes closed, then flickered a few times in an effort to adjust to the dull light. A guard brought two brown metal folding chairs into the cell and set them up opposite one another, then stepped back outside, the cell door closing securely behind him.

“Cameron, pick him up and set him as upright in the chair as you can,” Bleeker ordered. Trying to handle the battered Evan as gently as possible, without looking like he was attempting to be gentle, Kevin slowly lifted him from the floor and propped Evan up in the metal chair opposite Bleeker.

“He’s burning up,” Kevin said.

“What, does he have a fever?”

“It feels like it to me. His body feels like it’s on fire.”

Bleeker looked Evan over and said, “You do look like crap, my friend.”

Evan’s head hung low as he sat slumped over, looking as though he might fall forward. Whether it was the light or the upright position, a disoriented nausea overtook Evan and he suddenly vomited what little food he’d been given on the floor next to the chair. Kevin, who had been standing behind the chair, reached over and caught Evan as he was about to fall back down to the floor.

Bleeker quickly pushed himself back in his own chair, away from the vomit. “Let’s make this quick,” he said. “I’m due in D.C. tomorrow and I’m gonna be pissed if this guy gets me sick.”

“Agreed,” Cameron replied.

“So, Dr. Parker, your relative usefulness to me has run its course and you’ve run out of time. I’m on my way to D.C. tomorrow, where I’ll be taking up a special advisory role on the president’s national security staff. Part of my new duties will be devoted to the recently implemented martial law and quelling the various civil insurrections that have broken out. The other part will focus on more targeted, sensitive matters. I know, your heartfelt congratulations aside, none of this really means anything to you. However, my first act in connection with the more targeted sensitive matters I spoke of should interest you. It’s been decided to go public with the story about how your brother, and possibly even you, were working with David Stanton on his failed plan.”