Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (160 page)

“Once you scrape away several layers of insults, that almost sounds like a compliment,” Julia said.

“Let’s say I give you what you want. Access to Ian Westhelle. Tell me exactly what you’re hoping to find.”

She took a deep breath. “I need answers. First, did someone tamper with the implant? I’ll let Chang worry about the software, but I want to know if someone physically got into Westhelle’s skull. If possible, I want to finish downloading data from the implant. Do a real neuro and psych exam. He wasn’t even conscious when I examined him. I’m convinced that Sarah Redd stopped me before I could finish my work. Frankly, I don’t care what you guys are hiding—operationally, I mean—but I need to know what went wrong medically.”

The sidewalk curved back to the main thoroughfare of the Mall, where hundreds of people walked alongside the Reflecting Pool toward the Lincoln Memorial. On the other side of the pool, she knew, was the black gash of the Vietnam Memorial, now hidden from view. Markov pulled her aside rather than leading her into the crush of tourists.

“I’m going to give you your chance, Nolan. To be frank, I don’t think you’ll get anywhere. Sarah said there was no useful data to be had, and I believe her. But even if she was hiding something from me, even if every word was a bold-faced lie, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to know everything, just what’s important to my job.”

“That’s not what you said in Namibia when Sarah showed up and whisked Ian away. And the way she made you ride in that beat-up truck with the marines, while she rode in style—how can you not take that as an insult? You were mad, I could see it on your face.”

“Momentarily surprised, that’s all. I’m sure she had good reasons.”

“You really are a company man, aren’t you?”

“This is not the job for freelancers. We didn’t win the cold war through James Bond-esque antics, but by cool-headed, methodical ground work. By people like me,” he added. “Just because I work in the system doesn’t mean I don’t think independently.”

“Where is Ian? Is he in an asylum somewhere? He is, isn’t he?”

Markov ignored her questions. “Some ground rules. First, you will keep your mouth shut. Don’t tell Chang, or Sarah, or even your husband. You will report to me and only me.”

She nodded. This didn’t sound like rule following to her. This sounded like Markov authorizing a—how had he put it?—freelance operation.

“Second, I want a complete report when you return. Now, you want to know where to find Westhelle? He’s in Utah.”

“Utah?”

“Yes, Utah. In some ways a more exotic country than Namibia.”

She laughed, then stopped at the stern look on his face. “So can I call your secretary for arrangements?”

“I’ll take care of the arrangements myself. Oh, and Julia?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t be an idiot. You’re putting me in an awkward position. You screw up out there, bring too much attention to yourself… Well, I’m not going to be in that noose with you.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Chang scooped a mouthful of egg foo yung onto his chopsticks from the white cardboard container and chewed with his mouth open as he typed.

Markov had a coat hanger up his ass. No other way to explain it. Dude was as stiff as the tits on a dead rat.

Chang’s mouth turned into a sneer. Not his problem. It’s just government. He’d put up with it before and he could do it again. He had been surrounded by incompetents his whole life. And government attracted them like flies.
Like the stupid Department of Motor Vehicles.

To Chang, everything wrong with the world began and ended with the DMV. His first introduction had been at the age of sixteen when he went to get his driver’s license. He took the written test, handed it in to the slack-faced functionary at the desk and waited while it was corrected by hand. The clerk moved his eyes down the paper, pulled a red pencil out of the drawer and circled two answers.

“Only missed two, nice job.”

Chang rolled his eyes. “Check it again.”

“Dude, you passed.”

“I didn’t miss two. #17. Question was how many feet should you stop ahead of a train crossing if no cross bars are present. Answer is ‘C’.” He gave the clerk a smug look and shrugged.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I’m just saying I didn’t miss any of your ridiculous questions. And while we’re on the subject, there were four that didn’t even have a right answer.
ALL
of the options were wrong. I just picked the one I knew your pea brains would choose.”

“
Next!”

“I’m not done with you. Can I talk to a supervisor?”

Apparently he couldn’t. It got worse during the driving test, where he was failed because his driving was too jerky. The fat oaf who failed him was as chuckleheaded as the clerk when Chang protested that there actually wasn’t any law against heterogeneous speed, just driving too fast or too slow.

Ever since then, he classified most people into either DMV employees or people too stupid even for the DMV.

He couldn’t decide which camp Markov fit in.

Whatever.
If Markov wouldn’t give him the help he needed, he’d find another way. He only took this job because it was interesting. And now they were trying to take away the best parts of the project. He could be making eight times the money writing crappy little algorithms for investment bankers. No, 800 times the money.

But it was boring. At least figuring out how the brain worked was cool. It wasn’t just ordinary software, he was actually writing code for the brain. And the implant was an awesome tool. How many scientists were working on the brain? 50,000? Chang had no idea what they were doing, but was sure the government was wasting craploads of money. He could figure it all out himself, and that was just for curiosity’s sake.

The monkeys were helpful, but not enough. Once he’d sort of taken to doing his own experiments on controlling the monkeys—Markov wasn’t need to know on that—he’d made some pretty quick progress in being able to manipulate some basic brain states. Fear, pain, orgasm. But humans were more complex. And more interesting.

He wasn’t doing anything unethical. If somebody with a nanogram of intelligence were in charge, it would have been the first assignment Chang received. You can’t have these incredibly valuable resources running around with no ability to control them if they go AWOL. And what about safety? How can you feed them commands if you don’t know how to stimulate the brain in the right pattern rather than just record?

Besides, Ian Westhelle was basically a vegetable. Like those old people in hospitals that drool with their mouths open and waste the country’s resources on feeding tubes and laxatives and heart surgeries. The only ethical thing to do was to use Ian as a model to figure out how to overclock the implant.

He’d finally convinced Markov to set up a remote terminal at the psych ward so they could record brain waves from the implant. Probably a good idea to at least be able to see if it were functioning. It’s only for recording, Chang had told him. A dummy terminal with a wireless receiver didn’t actually have the power to send signals.

Well that part wasn’t actually true.
But it’s not like Markov would have been able to understand wireless technology even if Chang had a year to explain it to him. And Sarah and some of the operations guys understood. Sarah had asked him in Windhoek after Julia left just what the implant could and couldn’t do and Chang had explained about how he’d figured out how to send auditory commands. She’d been very interested in that part. She didn’t need to tell him what to do. He could take a hint about what was useful and what wasn’t. And she was at least four levels higher in authority than Markov.

There it is.
Chang had the connection, and began uploading an upgrade to the software on the remote terminal.
Shouldn’t be long now.

________

There were two times to attempt an escape from an enemy camp, Ian knew. The first was right away, before they had you behind bars, razor wire, and machine guns. Second was later, when the enemy had you secured, after the guards fell into a routine, convinced you posed no threat.

They came in twice a day to drug him. The evening shift was two large men with stun batons and a male nurse to force the liquid down his throat. Two more guards stood outside the door and as he lolled his head back in feigned stupor, he could see through the corner of one eye that they were armed with Benelli M4 Super 90 shotguns.

The morning shift was much the same, but one of the two men with stun batons was both bigger and less dangerous. He carried himself in a lazy, inattentive way. What’s more, the two armed men at the door seemed to be good friends, and chatted while the nurse drugged Ian.

Morning and night, Ian swallowed the psychoactive drugs, then gagged himself over the sewage pit as soon as they locked up behind him. And he planned. He could overwhelm the morning shift. Take out the big, slow guy, get his stun gun, then finish the other man. Using the nurse as a shield, he’d be on those two chatty guys at the door before they knew it, and then he’d be armed.

The shotgun was both good and bad. The good was that it would make him instantly lethal. The bad was that any guards would possess equally lethal firepower. He’d rather face a half dozen men with handguns and automatic rifles than a single military shotgun. The shotgun needed less aiming, less skill, and even in the hands of undertrained, unprepared guards, Ian didn’t want to face them in what he assumed would be narrow hallways.

But ultimately, in spite of the initial advantages, there was a critical flaw with a morning escape. Let’s say he broke from his cell and disabled or eliminated any guards, made it outside. He still had to cross the sagebrush and reach that mountain. How could he do that in broad daylight, with snipers to gun him down before he could make it a hundred yards? Of course, he could only see through one narrow slit of a window, so maybe there was some completely different terrain on the other side.

But what if he freed his fellow prisoners? Joe Kilroy, Gandhi, and the Almighty—assuming these last two existed—could be useful allies, or at least enormously disruptive.

He couldn’t involve them in his planning, because he had only talked to Kilroy for one day and an evening before the workers returned. They banged around all day behind the wall, chatting, cursing, hammering, and then they’d closed up the new system and the weird acoustics that had transmitted sound from one cell to the next were gone. He was alone again.

________

When Ian’s chance came, it wasn’t morning or evening, but about noon, judging from the light that trickled through the window. The door was so heavily insulated that he didn’t hear anyone in the hallway, or have any warning until it started to swing open.

Luckily, he was lying on his bed with his face to the wall, half-asleep, half planning his escape, when he heard people behind him. And voices, a man and a woman.

“I should get more help,” the man said.

“Thought you said he was no danger.”

“He’s not.”

“But he’s not drugged, either?” she asked.

“No, he’s been in a catatonic state for days now. He’ll get up occasionally and eat or drink something, defecate on the floor, or whatever, but that’s about it. Still, you’ll need a couple of guys to carry him.”

“Hold on, let me check him out first.”

Ian could feel her approach and his muscles tightened. One woman, a man at the door and perhaps they were alone. If there had been a third rule of escape attempts it would have been to be prepared for unexpected opportunities. There would be no better time. The woman was leaning very close now.

She touched his head. “Ian?”

He turned and slammed his forehead into her face. She flinched backwards, so she didn’t take the full blow, but it was enough to send her to the floor with a cry. The man she’d been talking to was just behind her, now scrambling backward with his hands fumbling for something at his belt.

Ian thrust out his foot and connected his bare heel with the man’s jaw. He fell to the ground with a cry. The woman was reaching for something and Ian threw his arm around her neck. His other hand grabbed her hair to twist her head and snap her neck.