Wet Work Page 3

  Segmented into several long barracks rooms with adjoining lavatory facilities, the ward’s primary feature was the large dayroom at its center. Dozens of tables were arrayed about the massive room, affording the returnees a place to eat their meals and play cards or other games, as well as read the stacks of newspapers and magazines that were being provided by the crateload. Many of the returnees spent that first night devouring the publications and watching the news on the room’s clusters of televisions.

  Though the majority of the broadcasts were dominated with reports, updates, and conjecture about “the 4400,” Lona also had managed to learn a few other interesting bits of information. In the time she had been gone, President Clinton had served two terms, after which his wife was elected to the Senate, and President Bush’s son now held his father’s former office. The United States had suffered a horrific terrorist attack on its own soil three years earlier, taking thousands of lives and triggering protracted conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq. A second space shuttle, Columbia, had been lost in flight, everyone and everything appeared to have a “website” as well as a cellular phone, and three additional Star Trek television series had come along.

  Interesting times, indeed.

  Of the news programs currently devoting extensive coverage to the mystery of the 4400, it intrigued Lona to see that more than a few were holding debates as to the rights of the returnees. The idea that they might be incarcerated illegally was countered with the not unreasonable position that the 4400 could be carrying some kind of contagion or, as one agent had suggested, that they might even be brainwashed sleeper soldiers coerced by a rogue government or terrorist organization. No matter how seemingly bizarre, such possibilities had to be investigated before the enigmatic group could be released.

  Many of the journalists on the different screens were asking the same questions as the returnees themselves: Why? For what purpose had they been taken? Who was responsible? Theories about that also had filled the airwaves, each sounding more fantastic and ridiculous than the last, and many of which were undoubtedly fueled by the spectacular event that had heralded the arrival of the 4400. The immense ball of light, first believed to be a massive comet on a collision course with Earth, was now believed to be an artificial construct, though its origins remained unknown. Implausible hypotheses involving alien abductions and interrogations, along with all manner of obscene experiments on the part of the supposed extraterrestrials, were being given serious time and attention on what Lona would have thought were reputable news programs.

  In fact, she had come to the conclusion that the very concept of reporting the news seemed to have been supplanted by the sort of sensationalist tripe that at one time had been the purview of supermarket tabloids. It was a concept she found annoying, considering the sheer availability of information that now was possible with the expansion of cable television and the Internet. Still in their infancy in 1992 so far as commercial and public interests were concerned, the Internet and the World Wide Web now offered the casual user a seemingly limitless supply of information on any imaginable topic. Indeed, Lona and the rest of the returnees had been given access to the Internet via a row of computer stations—each of which was both more compact and more powerful than the bulky desktop model she once had owned—though it quickly became obvious that only a small segment of the 4400 possessed even rudimentary personal computer skills.

  For her own part, she had considered using the workstations to seek out news regarding any developments in the worldwide hunt for her alter ego, which surely would have been stymied for at least a time following her disappearance. Had someone finally discovered the Wraith’s true identity? The closest she had come was archived newspaper articles from the day of Miraj al-Diladi’s assassination, where she had read that the killer was never apprehended. She had not delved deeper, wary of her efforts being monitored by NTAC personnel and triggering any unnecessary alarms.

  “Alicia Colbern, Returnee Number 3,085, please report to Interview Room 1.”

  The voice on the intercom repeated the instructions, echoing over the dayroom’s background noise and pulling Lona from her reverie. Looking up from where she sat reading a newsmagazine, she saw a door open at the room’s far end, its sleek metallic surface emblazoned with a large black “1.” A young man, a returnee, exited the small room, seemingly agitated by whatever had taken place during his own session.

  I guess it’s time to start finding out how much they really know.

  Making her way across the dayroom, Lona stepped through the doorway, entering the cramped cubicle that resembled the type of visitor’s station found in most prisons. A sheet of thick glass divided the room, and on the other side she saw a tall, lean man regarding her. She guessed him to be in his early to middle forties, with blue eyes and dirty blond hair cut short in a style consistent with law enforcement or certain branches of the military. He wore a dark sport coat and slacks with a light blue pullover shirt, and Lona noticed the slight yet still perceptible bulge of the pistol holstered at his right hip beneath the jacket. Though he attempted to offer a welcoming smile, Lona noted the tightened line of his jaw and even anguish in his eyes. Whatever had happened between him and the previous interviewee, it appeared to have affected him on an emotional, perhaps even personal level.

  I wonder what that means?

  “Please, have a seat,” the man said, his voice filtered through the speaker grille connecting both halves of the room. He gestured toward the chair that was the lone furnishing on this side of the divider and Lona did as asked, edging closer to the narrow ledge that served as a table or desk facing the glass shield. The man took the chair opposite her, clearing his throat. “My name’s Tom Baldwin. I’m one of the lead investigators assigned to figure out how all of you came to be here and, hopefully, why you were taken in the first place.” Shaking his head, he released a small, humorless chuckle. “Piece of cake, right?”

  He said nothing else for a moment as he opened the manila file folder he had brought with him and began jotting something down on the first page. Observing this in silence, Lona noted that Baldwin was left-handed. The folder’s cover was labeled with her name—or, rather, the alias she had provided during that preliminary interview at Highland Beach—and was embossed with the logo of the agency he represented, the National Threat Assessment Command, or NTAC, as she had seen it abbreviated. Lona had no reason to recognize the agency or its parent organization, the Department of Homeland Security, as both groups were formed in the aftermath of the catastrophic terrorist attacks of 2001 and given the specific mission of defending the United States from similar or even deadlier future assaults.

  “I know that you’re probably anxious to get out of here as quickly as possible, Ms. Colbern,” Baldwin said after he had finished studying the folder’s contents. “I hope you’ll understand that you’re being kept here for your protection as well as the public’s, until such time as we can verify that you’re not carrying anything harmful, like…”

  “An alien disease?” Lona finished, smiling as she cut him off. Leaning back in the chair, she folded her arms across her chest.

  Despite his apparent earlier gruff mood, Baldwin smiled at the joke. “Something like that, I suppose.” She could see the skepticism in his eyes. The agent did not believe that the 4400 had been abducted by extraterrestrials, and it was obvious he was having trouble accepting that the returnees all were people taken from different points over the preceding decades. Like most investigators, Baldwin maintained the hope a logical explanation would be found, if only he searched long enough and hard enough to find it.

  “We’re in the process of determining everyone’s identity along with attempting to notify any next of kin.” Looking down at the folder once more, he asked, “It says here that you have no family. Is that correct?”

  Lona nodded. “I’m an only child and an orphan raised by foster parents. They both died when I was in college.” It was part of the cover identity she had established for
Alicia Colbern, one of the dozen aliases she had crafted above and beyond the set of alter egos provided by her handlers. Offering an alias to the NTAC agents was easy, particularly since she had been carrying no identification at the time of her apparent abduction. Alicia possessed everything so as to present the appearance of a genuine person—a Social Security number, a driver’s license, a home address in Tampa, Florida, even a carefully crafted employment and education history.

  The only hitch would be the fingerprints and photograph collected by NTAC as, thanks to her given profession at the time of her abduction, they would match nothing on file within any known database anywhere in the world save one. While the United States government’s vast intelligence apparatus surely had grown larger and more powerful in the twelve years since her disappearance, her file would almost certainly remain inaccessible except to a select few individuals. Because of those people and the power they wielded, Lona held no illusions that the story she was weaving would stand up to prolonged scrutiny. Instead, she was gambling that she and the rest of the 4400 would be released before any of her former superiors learned that she was sitting all but gift-wrapped here in NTAC’s quarantine center.

  She watched him studying her file again, and this time his brow knit in apparent confusion. “According to your preliminary interview, you disappeared on June 7, 1992.”

  “That’s right,” Lona replied. “I was jogging on my lunch break. You know, getting out of the damned cubicle for a while. Next thing I know, I’m standing on that beach with everyone else.” She had no way to know how or if her different identities were listed in any missing persons reports. All of that would depend on how her disappearance was handled by her support network when it became obvious that she would not be returning home. In the meantime, the date she had given Baldwin corresponded to the day she had left Wyoming for Baltimore to complete her preparatory activities prior to the arrival of Sheik Miraj al-Diladi in the city. Until such time as she was able to make contact with her web of lifelines, she would have to continue improvising her backstory as it related to her abduction. In order to keep things simple, she opted to go with the battle-tested method of incorporating as much truth into her undercover story as possible. “Is something wrong?”

  Shaking his head, Baldwin answered, “No. I mean, it’s just that…” He sighed, frowning as he wiped the side of his face. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing. I’d just remembered a case I was working in June 1992, is all.”

  Had he been in Baltimore that day, perhaps working for the FBI or some other local law enforcement agency?

  She made a mental note to research that information at her first opportunity, once she was well away from this place.

  “Do you have anyone you’d like us to call?” Baldwin asked, putting aside whatever was bothering him. “A friend, co-worker, or other emergency point of contact?”

  There was only one option, of course, only one person Lona could trust, assuming that person was still alive and not in prison. “Yes,” she replied. “There is someone. Would you be able to deliver a message when you make the call?”

  Baldwin nodded. “Of course. I’ll see that it’s taken care of as soon as possible.”

  Sooner the better, Lona decided. The time to act was fast approaching. If she was to be successful in the coming days, she would need a plan.

  FIVE

  FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA

  IT TOOK NICHOLAS MCFARLAND until the second iteration of his cellular phone’s custom ringtone before he awoke. Rolling over, he tried to untangle himself from the bedclothes while reaching for the phone. He succeeded only in knocking it from his nightstand to the floor.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, still groggy from sleep and groping for the errant phone as it continued to ring, its backlit display screen illuminating the room.

  Beside him in the bed, his wife, Linda, rolled away from him and pulled her pillow over her head. “Have I mentioned lately how much I hate that phone?” she muttered.

  “Not since dinner,” McFarland replied, though he doubted his wife heard him, as he already could hear her breathing returning to its normal sleep rhythm. Smiling at her practiced and enviable ability to tune out both him and the demands of his work, he flipped open the phone’s cover to find that he had received a text message. It carried a priority alert and instructions to log in to his secure electronic mail account as soon as possible. “ASAP,” of course, was a Company euphemism for “Get your ass in gear.”

  Grabbing his robe from where it draped across the foot of the bed, he glanced at the bedside clock, grunting in irritation when he saw the time. Being roused in the middle of the night was part of the job, of course, but that did not mean he had to like it.

  He exited the room as quietly as possible so as to avoid further disturbing Linda, and closed the door behind him. Once in his study, he reached for the encrypted laptop computer sitting atop his desk, selecting the icon that activated his email. Accessing the account required a log-on ID and password cipher that changed once every twelve hours, and it took his still sleep-fogged mind an extra moment to recall the current keyword. He ran one hand through his close-cropped hair before wiping grit from his eyes, waiting for the laptop to synch up with the secure workstation in his office at the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia.

  Then, he wiped them again when he got his first look at the email staring back at him from the computer’s plasma display. He frowned as he read the subject line. That had to be it, McFarland decided: he was seeing things.

  Lona Callahan?

  He had no trouble recalling the name, of course. One of the most brutally effective freelance operatives ever employed by the Agency, Callahan had performed all manner of critical assignments during the 1980s and into the 1990s, most of which were illegal actions and remained classified to all but a handful of individuals. Numerous law enforcement agencies around the world, working jointly under the general supervision of the FBI and MI5, still had open case files on Lona Callahan, though of course her true identity remained a mystery to them. So far as they and the rest of the world were concerned, the person they sought was still known only as “the Wraith.”

  Callahan’s employment as a contracted agent had begun after she accepted an assignment given to her by another case officer, who had taken it upon himself to solicit the services of freelance operators to perform various covert activities for which the Agency could enjoy the option of denying responsibility. Callahan, at the time a relative unknown in the murder-for-hire business, had used the underground mercenary networks to contact the handler. Her first assignment—a test as much as it was a legitimate mission—had been to carry out an assassination in South America.

  Upon completion of that task, payment was made to her through a Byzantine series of electronic funds transfers, arranged by Callahan with the same artful knack she had at protecting her anonymity and location while at the same time shielding the Agency from culpability. This bizarre employer-employee relationship had existed without incident for nearly nine years, during which Callahan saw her handlers face-to-face only on rare occasions, even after McFarland was briefed into the situation and devised the Wraith persona to cloak her activities.

  He regarded the photograph attached to the email, which depicted the strikingly beautiful woman he had met only once. Her dark red hair cut in a short, feminine style that bared the back of her neck, she stared out from the photograph with piercing emerald green eyes that seemed bottomless, as though offering any onlooker an unobstructed view into her soul. There was a relaxed set to her slender jaw, and while it appeared as though she had attempted to affect an expression of anxiety and perhaps confusion—likely a simple feat when this picture was taken in the NTAC quarantine center—McFarland recognized a familiar determination in her expression. Yes, indeed, this was Lona Callahan.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said aloud, shaking his head.

  Though she had successfully carried out the assassination of M
uslim cleric Sheik Miraj al-Diladi in June 1992, Callahan had failed to contact her handler following that mission. FBI agents and police officers on the scene in Baltimore had found no forensic evidence to connect her to the assassination. As no reports of her being captured or killed had ever surfaced, McFarland and the others responsible for issuing her assignments eventually had come to believe that she simply had walked away, giving up her dangerous, enigmatic existence in order to enjoy whatever luxurious lifestyle could be purchased with the several million U.S. taxpayer dollars she had banked over a decade’s time. Extensive search efforts had of course been conducted, with agents tracking clues all over the world, but Callahan had proven most proficient at concealing all traces of her real life.

  Christ, he thought. To this day, I’m not even sure that’s her real name. Bearing that in mind, it did not surprise him when all attempts to find her had failed.

  Now, it appeared that a reason for her disappearance was finally being offered, as incredible as that explanation might be. Lona Callahan had not, as previously believed, been living a life of utter luxury thanks to the sizable fortune she had amassed as a government-sanctioned gun-for-hire. Instead, she apparently was one of the 4,400 people who had appeared from within the monstrous ball of light that had descended from space to hover above Mount Rainier in central Washington State a week ago. McFarland, along with what he suspected was the rest of the world, had watched the remarkable story unfold each day on the news, at once intrigued and mystified as details regarding the strange visitors began to emerge. While he still held many doubts as to the veracity of the reports coming from NTAC—that these people had all “returned” after being abducted at different points in time stretching back more than six decades without having aged so much as a second from the time they originally disappeared—he was unable to counter the wild notion.