Infiltrator Page 3

Their work was another surprise for each of them as they struggled to define their job to the others, and consider those aspects that they felt confidential. Each could report the generalities of their careers, but as they spoke they realized for some reason they didn't know much about certain aspects of what they did day to day that would cause them to be selected for a special debriefing. For example, none could recall what they were supposed to be doing or what they reported on earlier in the day. They couldn't say who had assigned them to go to the meetings, even though they strongly believed it was a task directed by someone in their management.

  "Who are we?" Pam asked softly, in a subdued voice.

  We are being manipulated," Mark said finally, voicing what Jessie and several others were thinking. He was anxious to get back to his office, and fully intended to investigate what his management believed he was doing this day. Somehow he was certain they wouldn't have the perspective that he had spent the day on an official task.

  "Hypnotism?" Glen asked. "Drugs of some kind?"

  "Brainwashing," Jerry Marshal suggested.

  "I know a bit about such techniques," Jessie said, "and none of them would be as effective as this seems to be. This is something new and more insidious."

  "Our government is using us somehow?" Stephanie asked. Her position in one of the premier news organizations naturally made her suspicious of the government for anything.

  "Ours, or someone else's?" Mark asked pointedly.

  "Something we need to find out," Jessie said. "And something we need to do on our own, at least for the moment. Somehow I don't think it would be wise to make our suspicions widely known."

  "Despite our differences, we are all intimately linked into whatever this is," Glen agreed.

  "Even Mr. Johnson?" Pam asked.

  "Had to be," Jessie said. "The attack and his being fatally shot couldn't have been planned. Under normal circumstances, none of us would have been together after the day's session."

  "Then what was that warning he gave us, that we all so mysteriously understood?" Monica asked. "Why not in English?"

  "I think his use of those words was more than a warning. I think it was a command as well, that somehow has made us reluctant to discuss this matter with anyone."

  "Something triggered subliminally?" Mark asked, intrigued by Pam's idea.

  She shrugged. "We seem to have been programmed by someone to forget a lot, and take certain actions. Why not something to keep all of us from revealing our existence to anyone official?"

  Stephanie nodded. "If it had been just me and Mr. Johnson, I'm sure I would have gone home and completely forgotten about the whole thing. Even now, I find it's hard to recall the details of what happened to him."

  "And his burning up like that?" Jerry asked. "Is everyone suggesting we each have an implanted trigger and are basically walking fire bombs against our secret being discovered?"

  That was a thought none of them wanted to think about.

  "It's clear none of us knows what is going on," Mark said. "But I intend to dig into this, quietly. I think we need to exchange contact information, stay in touch, and pass along anything we can learn. Each of us should carefully see what they can learn about what our respective management knows about our bi-yearly activities, and pay careful attention as to whether we are doing anything out of character. I have a feeling there are actions we are supposed to take, that each of us is unaware of."

  "I want to be part of that," Jessie said. "You and I should take the lead on this given our respective professions. At least once a week we need to have some kind of contact. If something develops that suggests a change or more frequent communication, we'll address the matter in real time."

  "And we agree we aren't reporting what happened earlier?" Pam asked, just to be clear on the matter. It was obvious she would go along with the group, even if there hadn't been a deep-seated impulse to forget the matter.

  Mark nodded. "I think bringing this up would be dangerous, but I couldn't tell you why."

  Reluctantly, the others agreed. They exchanged contact information, with Jessie suggesting they each acquire a cheap throwaway phone for further contacts. She gave them an Internet link that was secure and where they could exchange information as well, including the new phone numbers once they acquired the new cells.

  Not long after the taxis started to arrive. Jerry and Stephanie shared one, as they lived in the same direction. Jessie, Pam, and Monica took the second, leaving Mark and Glen Taylor to take the third. After dropping Glen, Mark sat back for the long ride to his apartment, considering the strange developments of the day.

  Chapter 3

  The taxi ride took far longer than Mark would normally have expected. The streets were only partially cleared, and the driver was forced to make several detours in order to reach the apartment complex where Mark lived. Finally, however, the familiar sandstone colored building with the stoop out front appeared outside of the window of the cab. Handing the haggard driver a larger than normal tip, Mark climbed out of the taxi and made his way in the cold toward the entryway. No one else was evident on the street, which had been plowed sometime earlier, but which was heavily drifted along the edges of the street. He was glad he would be taking the subway, which was only a block away, into the office in the morning. He swiped the electronic key and heard the satisfying click as the door unlocked, passing through and heading into the lobby. Knocking the accumulated snow off his shoes, he headed for the elevators, and a few minutes later was headed down the hall toward his apartment.

  Once inside, the door locked behind him, Mark headed for his bedroom, where he dug away at a number of plastic containers holding old clothing and blankets, exposing a small safe that was securely fastened to the wall. Inside he retrieved one of his two pistols. One was a small Kimber CDP in .45 ACP, which despite its light weight and small size, he'd found to be just a bit uncomfortable for concealed carry, unless he was wearing heavy clothing as was the case this time of year. Instead he pulled out the smaller and lighter S&W M&P9 Shield. It came with an integral Crimson Trace green laser and, unlike the similar Glocks, had the optional external thumb safety. He'd heard all of the arguments about the practicality of the Glock's safeties, but they were all in the trigger, and once that was activated all bets were off. He could only speak for himself, but under certain conditions his finger was known to wander into the trigger guard, and having the thumb safety was a means of ensuring there would be no accidental discharges.

  He wasn't certain why he felt the sudden need to have a weapon at hand, but the events of the past few hours were unusual to say the least, and the uncertainties the exchange around the dinner table at the restaurant had raised about himself and the others caused him to feel the need for a security blanket. Inserting a magazine, and chambering a round and setting the safety, he extracted the magazine and replaced it with one of the full ones. He slipped the diminutive pistol into his right front pocket, and slipped two additional magazines into his left. He was a passable shot, having passed all of the Agency's courses, and having acquired a passing interest, periodically went to the range to practice. His own weapon ready, he wiped the worn revolver he'd recovered from the snow bank dry and placed it into the safe for now.

  Finally, he reached into the safe again and pulled out two of the unopened boxes each containing a disposable phone. He'd bought a number of them more than a year earlier to have on hand, and never felt a need for one up to now. Closing the safe, he carried the two boxes into the living room, and set them down on the circular coffee table. Then he walked over to the counter adjacent to the kitchen, opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of scotch. Pouring himself a stiff shot, something he probably didn't need after the amount they had all drank at dinner, he headed back over to the couch. Setting the drink down after taking a couple of warming sips, he opened the first of the phones and checked the charge. Not enough, and he plugged the unit in, before doing the same with the other. He'd finish up after a shower.

/>   Back a bit later, wrapped in a robe but still carrying the small Smith in the large pocket, he considered refreshing the drink he'd been working on, but decided he'd had enough. He checked the charge, and decided it was sufficient to proceed. He slipped in the small SIM card and walked himself through the activation process. In less than five minutes he had a new number, with more than a hundred dollars in use-as-you-go minutes. He noted the number, and committed it to memory, an easy task given his above average recall.

  Then he unpacked the second phone. In a matter of a few minutes he had moved the SIM from his primary phone into the body of the second, cheap disposable one. He marked this one with a long scratch on the side to distinguish the otherwise identical phone from the covert line he'd activated a moment earlier. While anyone who might be tracking his number would still be able to do so, anything that might have been done to the phone itself was now neutralized. He would miss some of the functionality the expensive smart phone offered, but for now, he felt better having it removed from the game. He pulled the battery out, and slipped it into the empty box the cheapie phone had come in. Once this was all resolved he could switch back.

  As he headed toward his small office, he looked around his apartment. There was a picture of Annie and him on the end table, and another, the only one he realized he had, of his parents and siblings with himself on a long ago camping trip. Yesterday he might have said that Annie was his girlfriend. Now, however, as he examined the two pictures, he realized there was little or no emotional attachment to either of the photos or the people in them. He and Annie went out on occasion, and had shared casual sex, but he now realized there was nothing serious going on there. Their dates had been infrequent, and he hadn't any real plans at the moment for another. Window dressing, he realized. He'd had a photo from his phone blown up and framed, but the motivation was most likely other than he'd thought.

  As for the family picture, he once again wondered if he had ever lived with the people depicted. Had he ever even seen them before? He felt a chill as he tried to dredge up any memories that would prove he was the person in that photo and these were really people who mattered to him. This morning he would have taken it for granted, but now he knew otherwise. They might as well have been actors hired to create the picture. He realized he was going to have to travel to his childhood home this weekend and put this matter to the test. It was a clue too important to let pass.

  Passing by the pictures, he headed into the small office and pulled a yellow legal pad from a drawer. He wanted to capture his thoughts and organize what he knew. He thought better when he wrote things down. Before starting, he logged onto his computer and directed his attentions to the Internet address that Jessie had provided as a secure contact for them. Once he'd passed by the login keys that she had given them, he posted a brief message with the number of the disposable phone he'd just activated. Wondering if he should post some of his concerns, he finally simply left, leaving only his first name and the number. Then he returned to the pad and started writing notes.

  He started with Bud Johnson's name. He knew less about the young Wall Street investor than any of the others after their hours long discussions at dinner. He didn't believe the man was somehow different than the rest of them. That suggested what he had done, and Mark was certain Bud had initiated the flash that consumed his dying body, then the rest of them must have that ability hidden away inside them as well. What a chilling thought!

  What was he? A mole or a spy of some kind? But wouldn't he know if he was? Obviously he'd be more effective if he were aware of what he was supposed to be doing. As it was, he didn't have a clue what he might be doing, and what he'd reported on today during the eight plus hours he'd been in that building. Clearly he was being controlled and directed by someone. And whoever it was, had a way of controlling and limiting his memory, apparently planting any number of directions, thoughts and beliefs in his head. Thinking of Bud Johnson, he wondered just what commands were hidden in there waiting to be activated, and just how they did it. And how was he controlled in the long months between sessions?

  He was convinced all of them had been deliberately kept from learning much about one another. They had arrived in the morning and gone into meetings almost immediately. At the end of the day, when they might have socialized, they had always been released at spaced intervals. Only the unusual storm had changed things today. But now, what would their manipulators learn? Bud's case was left at the building, and he wouldn't be showing up at work. Would they know or suspect that the rest of them were aware of his death? Was there any way they could know they witnessed what happened? And what about the police? For some reason Mark didn't believe the police would become involved, not that there would be anything constructive they would be able to do. If they did however, didn't that suggest his suspicions were somehow flawed? He also wondered if there might be a way to check on Bud's work. What would happen on that end when he didn't show up? How would his disappearance be viewed?

  He had lots of questions and not many answers. He turned his focus on the other members of the group and what he had learned during the dinner discussions. They were mostly relatively young, Jerry being the lone exception, and all had positions that placed them in close proximity to major leaders in various aspects of Washington society. Pam, Jessie and himself were linked into the government, with Jessie and he also intimately linked into the covert world. Pam was an aide to one of the more prominent Senators. Both Glen and Jerry were linked to the military, with Glen an actual member and Jerry a high level contractor to the Joint Chiefs. Monica was an engineer in the military aerospace sector, while Stephanie was an engineer in the media and communications world. Bud, of course, had been a link into the financial dealings of Wall Street.

  Important sectors all, but why these specific areas? He could think of numerous others equally important. Then he had a disturbing thought. Perhaps their small group was merely a subset of the total operation. But the key still came back as to who could be behind this, and if they were operatives working for someone, why didn't they realize the fact. It was all too weird, and he wasn't sure how to approach the problem. Clearly, revealing anything wasn't going to be wise until he knew more.

  He doubted he was going to be able to sleep. He wondered what he might learn in the morning, and would be very interested in discovering what his superiors at NSA believed he had been doing while absent from work today. He no longer believed his day had been an official assignment given to him. The day after tomorrow would be Saturday, and he would definitely follow up on checking out his personal background, which felt all too superficial.

  Mark pushed the tablet aside. He was too spent and had the beginnings of a hangover from too much scotch to make any real sense of at this point. He was just about to stand and head to the bedroom when one of the cheap phones rang. He thought it must be his normal line, but was surprised to see that it was the one for which he'd just posted the number online.

  Surprised, he hesitantly reached for the phone, and accepted the call.

  "Hello?" he said cautiously, not using his name.

  "Mark?" asked a voice he'd last heard not too long ago. He was a bit surprised he was able to place the voice, and the face that went with it. Jessie. That was quick. He pictured the petite blond woman with the cute features and surprisingly deep blue eyes. She apparently was thinking things over just as he was.

  "Yeah," he replied. "You didn't waste any time."

  "I didn't really expect to see anything posted yet, but was going to put my number there for the rest of the group and I spotted yours. You must have had a phone on hand like me. Was it already activated, or did you just do that?"

  Mark could read her mind. Was he using a phone that he'd used before, or was he starting fresh.

  "Just activated this one," he replied, knowing that would put her mind at ease. "I have a supply on hand, although I never really thought they would be needed.

  She laughed, the sound of her throaty chu
ckle appealing over the line.

  "I go through a number of them, but this one is fresh also."

  She gave him the number, which he committed to memory.

  "I can't stop thinking about all of this," she admitted. "It's very disturbing on a personal level, and worrisome on a professional level. Normally something like this would be a no brainer, and I'd have reported it already, but something tells me that isn't a wise move this time. What do you think? You're in the same business as me."

  "Similar, but not the same. I'm less of an active agent and focus on computer spying, with some interesting hacking thrown in. I've only been involved in a couple of minor field assignments."

  "Still, any ideas since we parted?"

  "I'm befuddled, but am quite certain that this is not something official as I've long believed. I'm a bit afraid to consider if we are spies, infiltrators, traitors, or individuals that have somehow been taken over for something ominous."

  "I can't believe I'm a traitor," Jessie said softly. "This is something we are doing against our will. The question is, how do we find out who is pulling the strings?"

  "Pretty loose strings," Mark noted. "We go off for half a year and then report in. How are our actions directed when we are gone? How do we even know what we are supposedly doing?"

  "Perhaps we aren't taking direct action, just monitoring, and what we are exposed to do is passed on at these weird sessions?"

  Mark considered that.

  "My gut tells me there is more to it than that," he responded after thinking it over. "After what we saw Johnson do, I wonder if part of the session is to somehow plant instructions or triggers into our subconscious. My head always feels strange when I come out of those meetings."

  "And these implanted commands are triggered by certain events coming to pass?" Jessie asked.

  "Perhaps, or maybe they simply contact us by phone, use some trigger phrase. I wondered if our phones are secure or might have been tampered with. I switched out my SIM and am using a different one for now. Don't want to be carrying the one I took into that session today."