“Sorry about that,” Condon said, and ran his hands through his sandy hair.
“Don’t apologize to me,” I said tightly. “Apologize to Ben. You’re the bastards who did this.”
It wasn’t a fair assessment, but no one tried to set me straight. Three doctors came out of the back of an unmarked van and checked us over, then gave us some injections. I made one last visit to the bathroom, and, when I came out, I felt as empty as I’ve ever been in my life.
Ben and I and three others climbed into an Air Force Learjet, and a few minutes later we took off into a clear morning sky.
They left Banning with the car. He waved at us from beside the hangar. Rudy Banning, whether he wanted to be or not, was a survivor.
Once we were at altitude, the oldest of the three agents unbelted and walked forward, hunched over in the low cabin. He had a square, tanned face topped with a thatch of graying brown hair, black eyes, and well-formed Levantine lips. He clamped his hand on the blue fabric of my seat back to steady himself while he spoke.
“My name is David Breaker,” he said. “We want to thank you for all you’re doing.” I heard his stomach grumble. “Ben might have described our operation.”
“A little,” I said.
“I’ve been put in charge of this part of the effort. We’re taking you to New York. To Manhattan. As you can see, I don’t feel good, and it isn’t because of airsickness. We’re pretty ashamed, but we’re doing all we can to make up for it, including a little intestinal penance.”
“Fine,” I said tonelessly. I still did not know whom to believe, whom to be nice to, and certainly not whom I would trust with my life.
“I, personally, did not know about Silk until a month ago. But that’s neither here nor there, and after the death of your brother, with the collusion of a portion of the Agency, I just wanted to . . .”
“Apologize,” I said, feeling another brutal cut of anger. “The hell with it.”
“You need to know some things about this operation. One, it is not sanctioned by the President. The President tests positive as a recent taggee. We’ve disengaged two of the people we think are running him, but there could easily be backups. Some of my colleagues are monitoring all the President’s phone calls. I don’t know what more we can do, practically or constitutionally, at this point. So we’re ultimately on our own, illegal as it may be. First we need to weed out the center of Silk activity in North America. That effort requires your help, Dr. Cousins. This afternoon, if all goes well, we’re putting an armed team, everyone we can muster, Army, CIA, NSA, FBI, maybe twenty people, into the Jenner Building in New York. You know the one I’m talking about?”
“Ben told me,” I said. “Anthrax Central.”
“That was its cover for years. We hope to have it under our control by the time our plane lands. You’ll go in with a security team. We want to give you a chance to evaluate their facilities. Think of it as a kind of dress rehearsal for the big show in Florida.”
“Lemuria?”
Breaker nodded.
“I can help you right now, possibly,” I said. I looked at Ben, sitting across the aisle from me, partially hidden by Breaker. Ben leaned forward and our eyes made contact. For no good reason whatsoever, I trusted the very man who had pulled the trigger on Rob.
Rob would have appreciated that. It would have amused him greatly.
“How?” Breaker asked.
“Tell your scientists to antisense piecework, that’s piece with an i-e, regulus, and chopper. It was my brother’s last message to me.”
“Antisense?”
“They’ll know what I mean. Add them to the list in your elixir. Immunize all of us again, if there’s time.”
Breaker seemed doubtful. “If there’s time,” he said. An agent seated behind us shifted an assault rifle to one side and recorded the names on a paper notepad. I spelled them all several times to make sure.
Breaker plugged a small DVD player into a screen mounted in the seat back. “This is from a security camera in the cafeteria at the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, DC,” he said. “Two weeks ago.” A title card came up: “TAPS HOOVER July 29.”
The segment, shot from a security camera at a high angle, showed two skinny boys and two matronly women working in the kitchen and food line. All wore aprons and plastic snoods. They worked a number of serving stations, cleaning up and replacing food.
One by one, they used little plastic bottles to spray a salad bar, steam tables, and, finally, racks of Jell-O cups, puddings, and other desserts. Men and women filling their trays paid no attention. Just part of the routine.
Then, more segments with titles like “TAPS CIA ARL VA July 30,” “TAPS FBI ACDY Aug 2.”
“It’s the beginning, or the resumption, of a general massive assault on our institutions, conducted by perhaps fifty Silk runners,” Breaker said. “They’re aware of our activity, apparently are frightened by it, and are taking measures to counter it.”
Sound recordings followed, several phone calls from outside the FBI headquarters to offices within.
“The callers claim to be relatives,” Breaker said. “Often dead relatives. They read through lists of numbers and ask them to be repeated. Nearly everyone repeats the numbers. Afterward, the agents remember only receiving blank phone calls.”
“I’m familiar with the routine,” I said.
“You can see the size of our problem,” Breaker said.
“It’s huge,” I agreed. “I think you’ve waited too long.”
Breaker lifted his eyebrow. “Possibly.”
“Any word on Garvey and Crenshaw?” Ben asked.
“None,” Breaker said. “We won’t take any action against collusive agents until we have the situation well in hand. And until we know whether or not they were tagged.”
“Give me a crack at them. I’ll take action,” Ben said in a low rumble.
“You are not essential to this operation, Mr. Bridger,” Breaker warned. “I will remove you if necessary.”
