Wet Work Page 4

  He also had kept abreast of NTAC’s ongoing investigation into the 4400, thanks to the interagency background checks currently under way. In addition to verifying identities through the returnees’ own statements, fingerprints, dental records, or DNA where applicable, discreet inquiries also were being made to every law enforcement entity on the planet, attempting to ascertain whether any of the so-called displaced individuals appeared on any Most Wanted or terror watch lists. Lona Callahan had provided a false name and background—one that did not appear in any of the files McFarland and his peers had kept on her—and her fingerprints were not on record anywhere in the world save for one highly classified database at CIA headquarters in Langley. It was only a matter of time before the match was made, and though the results of that search were not forwarded on to NTAC, a preprogrammed series of alerts was set into motion, including the notification of McFarland himself.

  According to the information provided by “Alicia Colbern” to NTAC, she had disappeared in June 1992, though she had given a different location. This, along with other information she had given, offered just enough truth to withstand a great deal of the government scrutiny it would receive. Fortunately for her, and for McFarland, Homeland Security’s resources and access to classified information held by other intelligence agencies were still not as far-reaching as originally had been envisioned during that department’s conception.

  McFarland flinched when his phone rang again. Irritated at his own reaction, he reached for the phone, guessing at who might be on the other end of the line and certain it would be one of two people. He was right.

  “Hello, Lynn,” he said, pleased at his powers of deducing the all but preordained. “How’s the weather down in San Antonio?”

  “Nick,” replied the voice of Lynn Norton, McFarland’s longtime friend and onetime fellow CIA deputy director, “I just got a ciphered email. Is this for real?”

  Nodding though Norton could not see it, McFarland said, “So far as I can tell at the moment. Naturally I’ll be seeking independent confirmation, but her fingerprints were a match.” As he spoke, he was careful to avoid mentioning specifics, mindful of the fact that he and Norton were conversing on an open phone connection.

  Through the phone, McFarland heard the other man exhale in disbelief. “All this time and she’s been getting probed by aliens or some other such damn thing? It’s crazy. What are you thinking?”

  McFarland paused, ignoring the sudden gnawing urge he felt to smoke a cigarette and instead reaching for the crystal carafe perched near the corner of his desk. “Bringing her in, of course,” he said as he poured himself a glass of water. Indeed, it had been on his mind from the first moment he had eyed the email report. Given she had been gone for twelve years without having aged a day or lost so much as an iota of her previous skills, conditioning, or experience due to atrophy over such an extended period, Lona Callahan could once again be an invaluable asset. There were all manner of difficult, hazardous, and just plain illegal assignments for which an operator of her proven talents would prove ideal. She might be useful for another decade, at least, assuming she was not captured or killed or did not disappear again, either of her own volition or that of some as yet unknown third party.

  Norton asked, “Who else knows about this?”

  “Other than you and me? Only Fred, as soon as he reads his email,” McFarland replied, referring to their mutual friend and another retired senior Agency executive, Frederick Morehouse. Like Norton, Morehouse also had left government service years earlier for the higher pay and arguably lesser stress of the private sector, though he had soon grown weary of the corporate world and opted to retire altogether. At present, he was spending his golden years golfing and doting on his grandchildren from his farmhouse in Atlanta. “Beyond that, there’s no one else who knows the specifics.” There once had been a fourth member of the informal cabal who assisted in coordinating Callahan’s assignments and support network, Michelle Davenport, but she had died as a result of breast cancer nearly a decade ago.

  On the phone, Norton coughed. “So, what do we do?”

  Taking a long drink of water from his glass, McFarland replied, “For the moment, nothing. She knows to maintain her cover until such time as she’s contacted via proper protocols.” Her actions to this point had been consistent with an agent operating in a hostile situation under deep cover and dependent upon outside forces to initiate the extraction. McFarland was certain Callahan would sit tight within NTAC’s quarantine ward and bide her time. “Besides, so long as those people are being held in isolation, it’s Homeland Security’s game. We have no jurisdiction, and going in there making a fuss over her will only arouse their suspicions. She knows what to do, and she’ll be fine. Until then, we’ve got some work to do in order to be ready.”

  Norton laughed. “We? I’m retired, pal.” In truth, he was the chief executive officer of a booming defense contractor in San Antonio, which at present was competing against larger though more controversial outfits to provide services and supplies to the United States military as it continued its protracted operations in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other Middle East hot spots. After a moment, he added, “I know, I know. Once in, never out. Blah, blah, blah. What do you need me to do?”

  “I’ll be in touch soon,” McFarland replied. “Count on it.” If nothing else, he would need a trusted confidant who also was well aware of Callahan’s history and capabilities. As much as he hated to admit it, twelve years was a long time.

  I’ve got a hell of a lot of catch-up reading to do, and pretty damned quick.

  The phone conversation ended, but McFarland suspected his old friend and colleague had no intention of returning to bed. Both men had invested much in time, energy, and money in the contracting and support of Lona Callahan during her years of service. As he sipped his water, McFarland was already imagining the myriad uses to which she could be put in short order.

  Lona, Lona, you wayward child, he mused. Welcome home.

  REINTRODUCTION

  OCTOBER 2004

  SIX

  NTAC

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  LONA CALLAHAN COULD feel the energy coursing through the dayroom, which at this moment seemed cramped as it played host to all of the 4400 as well as several NTAC agents. It was the first time that all of the returnees had been assembled in such fashion since their initial appearance on Highland Beach. During the ensuing weeks, NTAC agents had opted to work with their quarantined pledges individually or in smaller groups, striving to understand the remarkable and still-unexplained event that tied together these thousands of people from scattered parts of the world as well as different points in time.

  So, Lona decided, for everyone to be gathered here in this manner on this day probably meant that something interesting was about to happen. She found it more than a bit telling that the televisions, which heretofore had been allowed to run constantly since the beginning of the quarantine, had been shut off without explanation late the previous evening. Obviously, the rest of the world already knew whatever it was NTAC was not telling the 4400.

  Were they being transferred to another, more secure facility? The notion of being moved through covert means to a secret location had played on Lona’s mind, but she discounted the idea almost as quickly as it had come. Relocating thousands of people without attracting attention in a world enveloped by constant live news coverage was a ludicrous proposition at best. Still, Lona had to admit that the sudden desire to control the flow of information to the returnees was more than a bit unsettling.

  I guess we’ll find out soon enough.

  A small dais was staged at what had been designated as the front of the massive room, and atop it was positioned a podium with a microphone. The front of the podium was adorned with a gold seal bearing the NTAC logo, and behind it stood a man in his late forties or perhaps early fifties. He was thin, almost gaunt in Lona’s opinion, his brown hair lightly peppered with gray. His dark suit was offset by a plain white
shirt and unimpressive blue tie featuring a generic geometric pattern; the typical attire of a mid-level government supervisor. He presented the appearance of a man in that precise position and carrying the requisite level of responsibility, who had with much reluctance grown into a life of long hours, little recognition, and no hope of advancement. Lona figured him for a divorcee, with two or more kids who were the primary reason he stuck with an unfulfilling yet secure career, providing some measure of stability and at the same time keeping him from crawling too far into the bottle, which likely had become his best friend in recent years.

  I wonder how the past few weeks have changed his lot in life.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention for a moment,” the man said into the microphone, raising his hands in a gesture for the audience to quiet down as his voice was piped through the dayroom’s sound system. He waited a few beats before continuing. “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Dennis Ryland, and I’m the director of the NTAC offices here in Seattle. To keep a long story short, I’m the one tasked with overseeing your investigations and hopefully finding some answers.

  “I’d be lying if I said I understood what all of you must be feeling as you think about returning to a world that…that’s moved on without you in many respects.” He paused, and while Lona could see that Ryland was speaking from notes, she thought he might also be trying to add something else to his prepared remarks, perhaps even trying to inject some bit of humanity into the proceedings. Like the 4400 themselves, he and everyone who worked for him found themselves in uncharted waters.

  Leaning on the podium, Ryland said, “While I regret the need to keep you here these past weeks, I hope you’ve come to understand that this wasn’t done with malice, but instead because we simply didn’t know if we might be dealing with some form of contagion that you may have acquired from…wherever it is that you were taken. I’m happy to say that none of the tests conducted to date have found any evidence of infection of any kind.” A collective murmur of relief rippled through the assemblage.

  “We have no reason to keep you here any longer,” Ryland said after the commotion died down. “Therefore, it’s my pleasure to tell you that once we’ve arranged some new required protocols, you will be released from quarantine and permitted to go wherever you wish.”

  Applause erupted throughout the dayroom, echoing off the cement walls, with hugs and handshakes shared along with pats on the back and various other gestures of support and newfound camaraderie. Despite her preference to maintain some form of detachment from her fellow 4400s, Lona found herself participating in the emotional exchange. They all had come through an inexplicable ordeal, but it seemed that they would finally be allowed to take that first step toward regaining at least something resembling a normal life.

  Even as she hugged an elderly woman who had all but started crying, Lona caught the expression on Ryland’s face. The NTAC director was doing his best to maintain a neutral composure, but she could tell that he was not happy with this new development. Obviously, the mystery surrounding her and the rest of the 4400 was one that had dominated his every waking moment since their abrupt arrival. Lona had no doubt that Ryland and his agents would rather be left to continue their investigations while she and the others remained in quarantine, as it would only be that much harder to track the returnees once they scattered to the four winds.

  Pesky things, those civil rights.

  Sarcasm aside, Lona had kept apprised of the ongoing legal debates surrounding the returnees thanks to the televisions in the dayroom, and knew that the American Civil Liberties Union, various other advocacy groups, and the public at large had been tirelessly lobbying for the release of the 4400. The ACLU even had filed several lawsuits on behalf of the families of numerous returnees. Lona suspected that such pressure was now too much to ignore, particularly given the rather important fact that there was no evidence of wrongdoing on the part of any returnee, which included very few prior criminal records. In the end, the government had but one response to the ceaseless public outcry.

  Waiting for everyone to once more settle down, Ryland gestured with his hands for the group to again give him their attention. “Now, I’m sure it’s crossed your minds that this isn’t as simple as sending you on your way. Even as we speak, a comprehensive program for relocation and acclimation assistance is being readied that will offer whatever aid you require as you return to your private lives. At the same time, we remain committed to learning everything we can about what happened to each of you.”

  That was a tall order, Lona knew, as did everyone else in the room. For the past six weeks, NTAC had been expending uncounted man-hours and other resources toward finding out what or who was behind the abduction and return of the 4400. No clues had been found, with many pundits on the television news programs decrying the likelihood of any explanation presenting itself in the near future. Indeed, as most people seemed to believe that an extraterrestrial intelligence was responsible, nothing less than a gigantic alien spaceship landing on the White House lawn would be enough to satisfy the questions seemingly harbored by everyone.

  Interestingly, while many of her fellow returnees seemed almost consumed by the question of why they had been taken and returned, Lona herself had realized some weeks ago that the mystery did not seem as much an issue. Naturally she had thought and wondered about it, but rather than fall into despair over her abrupt displacement from her previous life, instead she found herself at ease with her surroundings and the reality of the “new world” awaiting her outside the quarantine center. In fact, she found herself almost serene when considering the notion. Of course, Lona was forced to concede that—unlike many of the others—she was fortunate to have been taken from a point in time not so far removed that her return presented her with reentering an all but alien world. Making up for lost time after twelve years would be far easier than attempting to overcome a fifty-year gap, to be sure.

  Ryland continued his remarks for several moments, outlining how the United States government had pledged to assist the returnees during the coming transition, such as with job training in order to provide updated vocational skills, health and unemployment insurance, help in finding homes or providing rental vouchers, as well as aiding in the location of surviving relatives and friends for those returnees for whom a next of kin had not yet been notified.

  “What if we have nowhere to go?” one man asked. “I’ve been gone forty-eight years. My wife’s dead, and no one’s been able to locate my daughter.”

  “You may stay here as long as you need or want to until you can get back on your feet,” Ryland replied. “It’s not our intention to turn our backs on you, now or ever.”

  More instructions followed, detailing how returnees would check in at weekly intervals with regional NTAC offices wherever they decided to relocate. Ryland reiterated the government’s position on solving the mystery surrounding the returnees, soliciting the assistance of the 4400 themselves if they perchance learned anything on their own that might aid in the investigation.

  “The out-processing will take a few days,” he added, “but we expect that everyone will be free to go by the end of the week. In the meantime, we hope to make your last few nights with us as comfortable as possible, and my people stand ready to assist you in any way as we prepare for your departure. I’ll be happy to take questions for a few minutes, but before I do, I just want to thank you all for your cooperation and your patience. I know it hasn’t been easy for any of you, but I promise you we’ll see this through together.”

  Hands shot up across the dayroom. Most of the questions dealt with contacting friends and family members, but Lona already was tuning out those conversations. Instead, her thoughts were turning to her own next steps. Given the amount of time that had passed since she and the other returnees entered quarantine, Lona found it impossible to believe that any of her former handlers did not know she was here. No visitations had been permitted, but she had to believe that her
unusual status would by now have attracted some sort of attention. Was NTAC’s security cordon so tight that even her superiors were prevented from contacting her? If so, that umbrella would shortly be lifted, at which time Lona would have to be ready, but even that concern could not weigh down the growing excitement she was feeling.

  Soon, she would be free.

  SEVEN

  NTAC

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  “GOOD LUCK.”

  The NTAC agent behind the counter smiled as he spoke the words, but to Lona Callahan the salutation sounded scripted if not outright forced. She supposed she should not blame the young man, as he likely had offered that same set of well-wishes to hundreds of people throughout the morning.

  She collected from him the packet of information and vouchers prepared for her by the NTAC team responsible for processing the 4400’s release. On top of the packet was a laminated blue card and matching lanyard, and on the card in bold white print was her quarantine number: 3085. Families or close friends of individual returnees—thousands of whom were at this moment waiting outside the NTAC building or even inside the reception lobby—had been given a matching card in the hopes of facilitating reunions. Lona could see the logic behind the protocol, given that in many cases, relatives would be a generation or more removed from a returned family member, possibly having grown up not knowing the missing person. Not for the first time, Lona was thankful that her absence had been comparatively short, making her forthcoming acclimation far easier.

  It also helps that there’s no family waiting for me.