Laughing Boy. Hollingshead must be talking about Laughing Boy. “He’s been activated? Maybe that’s good news — two of us running down leads can cover a lot more ground than one,” Chapel pointed out.
“Unfortunately he’s not as proactive as you’ve shown yourself to be,” Hollingshead said, sounding contrite. “In fact, I fear he’s simply bird-dogging you. After your recent success, I sent a team to pick up what was left of the… fellow in question. Your new shadow got there first. What he did with the remains is currently unknown.”
Chapel thought about that. If Laughing Boy had taken the body of the dead detainee, it could simply mean the CIA didn’t want the local authorities claiming the remains of a man who was carrying a dangerous virus. But why not let Hollingshead’s people take care of it? Banks must have had his reasons. Maybe there was something about the body he didn’t want anyone else to see.
Yet another mystery to add to the already enormous pile of mysteries in this operation. Chapel shrugged it off. “At least the… specimen is under wraps. Do you think I need to worry about our civilian friends?”
Hollingshead didn’t sound sure when he answered. “No one has declared war just yet. Chalk this one up to a shot across our bows, maybe. For now we’re all pulling in the same direction,” he said. “Just keep your eyes open.”
“Will do, sir.”
“All right, then. I’ll put Angel back on, and she can help you coordinate your next move.”
Chapel talked to Angel briefly, arranging to have a cab waiting when he left the veterinary clinic. Then he opened the door of the examination room and headed out to the front of the office, where Julia and her receptionist were talking quietly. Julia had a balled-up tissue in her hand, and the receptionist was rubbing her back in slow circles. Apparently Julia had finally gotten a chance to start grieving for her mother.
“I’ll be going now,” Chapel told her. “If there’s anything I can do—”
“You already have,” Julia told him.
“I might have some more questions,” he suggested. “But I’ll give you some time, first. I’m… I’m so sorry.”
She nodded. She wasn’t even looking at him anymore. “You should get a CT scan at some point. Make sure your brain wasn’t injured in that concussion.”
“If I get a chance, I will,” he told her.
“You’ll want a doctor who specializes in human patients for that.” She got up to unlock the front door. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I say I never want our paths to cross again.”
He couldn’t blame her for that. “Thanks for all your help.”
She shrugged. He started to walk out the door, but she stopped him by putting one hand on his artificial shoulder. He flinched, even if she didn’t. He’d never gotten used to people touching him there.
“Captain,” she said, “be careful. But find the rest of them, and make sure nobody else has to go through this. Grief, I mean. It sucks.”
“I’ll do my best,” he promised her.
IN TRANSIT: APRIL 12, T+11:29
Back to work. The next name on the list was Christina Smollett. She was in New York City, too. Hopefully she was still alive.
A new cab was waiting for him in front of Julia’s clinic. He climbed in, and the car rolled smoothly away before he’d even had a chance to tell the driver what address he wanted.
“All taken care of,” Angel told him.
“I appreciate it.” He tapped on his knee with the fingers of his artificial hand. When he’d been talking with Julia, he’d almost forgotten the time-sensitive nature of his operation. Now that he was away from her, the ticking of the clock started to bother him again. “We’ll have to make this next visit quick. What can you tell me about Christina Smollett?”
Angel hummed a little tune while she worked. “Interesting,” she said, after a minute.
“Anything you’d like to share?” Chapel asked.
Angel laughed. “If I understood it, I’d give you some analysis. What I’m looking at is just facts. Christina Smollett has a social security number, a date of birth — August 23, 1959—and a mailing address we already knew, 462 First Avenue, New York, where you’re headed now. Beyond that? Not much. As far as I can tell she’s never filed a tax form, for one thing.”
“That’s odd for a woman in her fifties,” Chapel mused.
“Never been married, no children. No family left, either — her parents died a while back, both from natural causes and at advanced ages. No brothers or sisters. She doesn’t have a bank account. She doesn’t have any academic records past high school, which… let me check… she did graduate from, though not with particularly impressive grades. From there the list gets pretty monotonous. No driver’s license. No history of service in the armed forces. No arrests, warrants for arrest, or so much as a parking ticket. Never been fingerprinted, and I can’t find a single photograph of her taken after 1971. It’s like she hasn’t so much as touched the world in forty years.”
“Sounds like she’s been living off the grid,” Chapel said.
“And you sound like you’ve got a theory, sweetie.”
“More like a hunch,” Chapel said. “I’m betting Christina Smollett works for the CIA. Probably in the National Clandestine Service. She’s undercover, or at least off the books.”
“They certainly don’t list her on their payroll,” Angel confirmed.
“Helen Bryant and William Taggart were both CIA employees. I’m pretty sure every single name on that list is or was as well. We’re tracking down the people who worked on some operation in the eighties. Probably something the CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology got up to.”
“Aren’t they the ones who make the exploding pens and cyanide-filled false teeth?” Angel asked. “The gadget shop?”
“They do more than that. They were the ones who ran MK-ULTRA, for instance. That’s exactly the shop that Drs. Bryant and Taggart would work for. And unless I’m way off, I’m willing to bet Christina Smollett worked in the directorate as well.”
“Let me do some more checking, see what I turn up,” Angel said.
As the cab rolled into Manhattan the traffic picked up a little, but it wasn’t long before they were on First Avenue. The cabdriver rapped on the partition and glanced over his shoulder. “You want the emergency room or the main entrance?” he asked.
“What? Emergency room?” Chapel said. “No, I’m going to a private residence. A house or an apartment building.”
“Oh, sorry. With that bruise on your head I figured you were checking yourself in. You sure you have the right address?”
“Definitely. 462 First Avenue,” Chapel confirmed.
“Buddy,” the cabbie told him, “maybe you should have them take a look at your head. That’s the address for Bellevue Hospital. You know — the place where they send all the crazies.”
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+11:55
Chapel reached for his wallet to pay the cabdriver, but the man waved his hand to say no. “All prepaid, and I’m not going to take advantage of a guy like you,” the cabbie said, smiling broadly.
“A guy like me?” Chapel asked.
“No offense, friend, no offense meant. I have a mother in Ohio, she’s like you, okay? So I understand how hard it can be.”
Chapel started to reach up to touch his artificial arm, then stopped himself.
“When you have trouble keeping track of things, right? When maybe you have memory problems. My mom’s got the Alzheimer’s, she’s doing all right, though.”