Journey Through the Mirrors (16 page)

“No, I only know what you’ve recently told me.”

“Until we all fled here to New Chicago, your mother used this voice recorder as a diary of sorts. She recorded her most intimate and private thoughts on memory chips.”

“Like my father’s journal.”

“Yes, very much like that,” Mr. Perrot said, picking up the memory chip. “This is the chip that Jasper and I found in the recorder. You only need to insert this and press the Play button.”

Logan took the chip from Mr. Perrot and did just that. His face lit up with a smile when he heard his mother’s voice for the first time in almost three years.

“That was my reaction, too,” Mr. Perrot said.

*  *  *

The recorder clicked off as the second of the two recordings ended. Logan was no longer smiling. “My parents knew,” he said. “They suspected six years ago that Simon and Andrea were up to something.”

Mr. Perrot nodded. “And they never said anything to me about their suspicions.”

“I wish they had.” Logan sighed. “You might have been able to get them to take the threat of Andrea and Simon more seriously. Maybe they’d still be alive today if they did. I know Simon denied it,” he continued, “but I still think he had something to do with their murders. I guess we’ll never know for sure now.” He saw a strange look come over Mr. Perrot’s face. “What is it?”

“I still worry about the others who might have been helping him,” Mr. Perrot said. “We always suspected that Simon and Andrea could not have done that alone. When Victor Ramplet was exposed, our concerns were justified. We also heard Simon say at Ramnagar Fort that he intended to parlay with a man named Dario. Nine months have gone by, and no additional evidence of co-conspirators has surfaced, but this still weighs on my mind.” As much as Logan wanted to put the Freedom Day plot behind him, it still weighed on him, too. “Your mother’s mention of the man in a wheelchair also troubles me somehow.”

“Did you know him?”

“I only saw him on rare occasions, cavorting with Simon and Andrea,” Mr. Perrot said. “I would say four or five times in the years that I was on the Council. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t visit them more often. He was always very well dressed, and we all assumed he came from means, just like Fendral.”

“You told me that my father was communicating with Cynthia Brown as Henry Cutler,” Logan said. “Why would my parents speak to Cynthia about their suspicions and not you?”

“I don’t think they ever fully relinquished their desire to help guide the organization they were instrumental in establishing. I can understand that. Besides,” he added, smiling, “they were probably trying to protect me. Camden always did, you know, ever since he first found me.”

Logan took that in appreciatively before changing tacks. “My mother mentioned someone named RJ. Sounds like he gained some notoriety or at least got his face in the paper. Do you know who he was?”

“I remember him as one of the Forgotten Ones who returned with us to Washington, D.C., after your father found the books,” Mr. Perrot said. “He seemed to be very fond of your mother, but he didn’t take to Camden or me. He would leave anytime we approached. He was younger than all of us and actually spent most of his time with Simon. I only knew him as RJ. He didn’t stay in Washington long; he left soon after your mother and father announced that they were getting married.”

Logan nodded. “My mother talked about her other recording chips. I wonder if they can shed some light on the man in the wheelchair.”

Mr. Perrot smiled. “Yes, the missing chips.” He walked around the table and over to the Golden Acorn mosaic. He motioned for Logan to join him and took the recording chip that he and Jasper had discovered the day before out from the easel tray.

“Where did you find this?” Logan asked, as Mr. Perrot handed it to him.

“Right here.” Mr. Perrot pointed to the empty spot in the array of gold tiles on the mosaic where the chip had been. “All of these are the same shape and size as the recording chip you are holding in your hand.”

“So that’s why she read the passage from the story of the Golden Acorn.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Perrot confirmed.

“Have you listened to it yet?” Logan asked, holding up the chip that Mr. Perrot had given him.

Mr. Perrot shook his head.

Logan walked back over to the table and placed the chip from the mosaic in the recorder. Then he hit the Play button.

16

The reason something happens is as important as the reason other things do not.

—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

WASHINGTON D.C., 6:22 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 21, 2070

After landing at Dulles International Airport, Valerie made a quick stop at her apartment in Washington, D.C.’s Glover Park district and then went directly to the World Crime Federation’s headquarters. She was sitting alone in a conference room waiting for Director Sully, the newly installed director of the WCF, who was late for the meeting she herself had urgently requested. Waiting for a meeting to begin was not Valerie’s idea of productivity. She wanted to get down to the lab and join her team so they could start strategizing about their investigation into the gas-processing plant disaster in the North African Commonwealth. Valerie glanced at the time on her PCD and checked for any more messages from Logan about Jamie’s condition.

She looked around the large conference room. This was the first time she had set foot in it since the infamous WCF and WSA meeting nine months ago. The then head of joint operations, Samuel Covington, had made the blunder of his career by assigning Victor Ramplet, the head of the World Security Agency, to take command of the worldwide
mission to stop the Freedom Day plot. The traumatic events immediately following were still fresh in her mind. Victor Ramplet turned out to be a traitor, and that meeting was the last time she’d seen her old boss, Dominic Burke, alive. The gag order suppressing the existence of the Freedom Day plot along with the involvement of Simon Hitchlords and Andrea Montavon in the killing of tens of thousands of people along the east coast of the North American Federation was still in place. People had been told that a satellite had malfunctioned, emitting a radiation pulse that was lethal to certain susceptible individuals. No less alarming, world leaders hadn’t even revealed that 99 percent of the world’s population was still walking around with altered DNA because of a serum Simon and Andrea had covertly dispensed via the worldwide MedicalPod System. NAF president Enrique Salize had convinced his counterparts around the globe that panic and insurrection would ensue if people learned that the entire world had been seconds away from experiencing the same carnage that had taken place on the NAF’s east coast. Samuel Covington had to take the blame for the entire fiasco so that politicians could escape accountability, and Valerie felt sorry for him. In order to keep Covington from talking, President Salize had appointed him to the position of budget attaché, which added up to nothing more than a glorified accountant.

The doors to the conference room swung open. Director Sully entered, followed by two men wearing dark blue suits and deep-burgundy-colored kufis. Bridget Sully was tall and slender, with green eyes and brown hair in a chic bob. She wore a designer pantsuit and high heels that brought her height to just less than two meters. One of the men was carrying a shoebox-size gray plastic container with a biohazard emblem on it. Valerie stood and greeted them.

“This is Senior Agent Valerie Perrot,” Director Sully said. “Agent Perrot and her team have been assigned to investigate the processing plant implosion.”

“Nice to meet you, Agent Perrot,” said the taller of the two agents. “We have heard many good things about you. We are from the WCF
field office in the North African Commonwealth and are leading the investigation there. I am Senior Agent Duna, and this is Agent Ayalla.” The second man nodded.

“I’ve just returned from a trip and will be catching up with my team as soon as we are finished here,” Valerie said. “They’ve already started their investigation.”

“With the cause of the explosion still unknown,” Agent Duna said, “we have had to shut down the other three drilling platforms as a precaution.”

“Are there any theories?” Valerie asked.

“Yes, which is why we have come in person.” Agent Duna set the box down on the table in front of Valerie. “These are samples of a foreign residue we found in the pump chamber of the well that imploded.”

“We sent a video probe into the well,” Agent Ayalla said. “We estimate that there are more than two tons of this material under the collapsed well site.”

“Two tons?” Valerie asked.

“Yes. We have no idea how so much foreign material could have gotten into the well cavity.”

“What about the other wells? Do they contain whatever this is?”

“The foreign substance has been discovered in all four wells. We believe that it was only a matter of time before all the platforms imploded.”

“What kept the other three wells from imploding?”

“We don’t know,” Agent Duna said.

Valerie placed her hand on the box. “I’ve already dispatched one of my agents,” she said. “Alex Daniels should be arriving in the Commonwealth in less than four hours. Let’s see what my team can find out.”

“What Agent Perrot means,” Director Sully interjected, “is that she and her team
will
figure this out.”

Valerie kept silent, uncomfortable with the possible overstatement.

“Our new facilities here are state-of-the-art and well equipped to handle this type of investigation. Valerie will have the sample analyzed before any of her team members leave tonight.”

“We arrived with President Jabarl earlier today,” Agent Duna said, rejoining Agent Ayalla. “She is planning to meet with your President Salize to discuss the energy supply problem. She and the business leaders of North Africa are gravely concerned that if the natural-gas issue is not addressed promptly, the NAF will turn to other gas suppliers.”

“The Commonwealth has worked long and hard to establish the strong economic development of Africa,” Agent Ayalla said. “I would hate to see our efforts over the last decade go to waste.”

The Commonwealth’s current president, Sanura Jabarl, took over when her mother, Dalia Jabarl, was assassinated in 2049. Dalia had organized one of the largest grass-roots movements in the history of Africa when, in 2040, she led the effort to bring the message of
The Chronicles of Satraya
to every corner of the African continent. She traveled from cities to suburbs to farmlands to the most remote pockets of civilization on the vast continent, offering people hope and a new way of thinking. They instantly threw their support behind her unorthodox approach. She did not tell them what they wanted to hear; she expressed in no uncertain terms what they
needed
to hear. She challenged them to grow their own food, to start businesses based on barter, to band together in communities to provide services for the common good instead of waiting for the world to come and save them.

Her assassination in 2049 divided Africa into two nations, the North African Commonwealth, of which Dalia’s daughter Sanura was elected president, and the Republic of South Africa. Dalia Jabarl’s assassin was never identified.

Director Sully turned to Agents Duna and Ayalla. “Would you gentlemen mind waiting in the hallway a moment? I need to speak with Agent Perrot privately. Then I will escort you to your meeting with President Salize.” They nodded and left, and Sully turned to Valerie. “Agent Perrot, this is your top and only priority. Director Burke might have accepted words like
try
and
see
, but I don’t. Your team
will
figure this out, or I’ll find another unit to handle this investigation. I don’t have to tell you the implications of one of our energy trading partners
being crippled. I assured the president we would get to the bottom of this promptly.”

Valerie knew it would be more politically expedient to nod her head and not bristle at her supervisor’s tone, but she said, “With all due respect, Director, if you have a problem with something that I or my team has done or is doing, no problem. Tell me about it. But do not think, imply, or suggest that my unit isn’t giving one hundred percent every day they come to work at the WCF. If you want to assign another team to this case, do it now, and tell the president you pulled us off. I have no problem with that. But I can assure you, my unit
is
the best the WCF has.”

“Good to know, Agent,” the director said, seemingly unruffled by the rebuke. She walked to the door and said over her shoulder before leaving, “You’ve confirmed my suspicions about you.”

Valerie watched her go, unsure of what she meant. Choosing not to dwell on it, she grabbed the biohazard box and left the conference room through another set of doors.

After the defunct WSA had been absorbed into the WCF, a larger and more advanced research facility was required to accommodate the additional personnel and added responsibilities. Crates and boxes lined the corridors and hallways leading to the new lab, which was known as the Cube. Valerie used her badge to open a set of doors leading to the large warehouse-like room whose dimensions made it a perfect square. Electricians and computer technicians were still working to get everything fully operational.

“There you are,” Valerie said, finding her team, Sylvia and Chetan, and walking over to where they were sitting.

“We’re so relieved that you’re OK,” Sylvia said. “You had us all worried after the earthquake.”

“How are Logan and his children?” Chetan asked.

“Everyone is basically OK. His daughter hit her head when she fell, but the doctors said she’ll be fine once she gets some rest.” Valerie paused and looked around. “This place is a mess.”

“It looks worse than it is,” Sylvia said. “They have all the critical systems up. They’re spending most of their time now getting the global monitoring system up and running.” She gestured to the north side of the Cube, where a huge three-dimensional image of a rotating globe was projected.