“Yeah, well, that’s pretty frigging great and all,” I said, “but doesn’t that put us more out than we were?”
“Out is out,” said Church. “The DMS is no longer a secret organization and never will be again. We need to accept that and move on.”
“Who else’s name is out there other than mine?”
“No one,” said Bug. “We stopped that in its tracks.”
I sat back and sipped my coffee. My hands were shaking, and not all of it was from the caffeine I’d been chugging since getting to the hospital. “Where’s the White House in all this? There hasn’t even been an official statement about the earthquake other than the usual ‘thoughts and prayers’ crap.”
“Nothing from the Oval Office,” said Church. “Though there was a tweet about ‘rogue secret organizations’ undermining the country.”
“I missed that one.”
“It was pulled as soon as the full video stories hit the news services,” said Bug.
I glared at him. “Can’t you just go in and deactivate his social media accounts?”
“Sure, except that I’m under orders not to.” He glanced at Church, who shrugged.
“The DMS is not a bully,” said Church, “and it is not our policy to interfere with the First Amendment. What Bug did with the cell phone videos is providing more information, not editing what is being put out there.”
“And our talking heads?”
Church looked me in the eye. “Find one who has uttered a single untruth.”
I sighed. “Guess I’ve become too conditioned to false narratives.”
“Sign of the times,” said Bug. “Oh, hey, on a totally different topic… when are you coming up here, Joe?”
“I… um… well, with Auntie and all…”
“Captain,” said Church, “I don’t think there’s anything else you can accomplish here. Doc Holliday has been in discussions with Junie about the incident on the road with the Closers and the T-craft. And Nikki Bloom will likely have useful information based on the keywords you provided. Take my jet to Brooklyn. Listen to the presentation and then we’ll talk again.”
And that was the end of the conversation. He stood up and tapped the Scroll to end the videoconference. His expressions are always hard to read, but I knew enough not to push the matter now. He wanted me in New York and I think he wanted to use the time it would take me to get there to allow him some quiet time to think things through. Pushing him on it wasn’t going to get me anywhere.
So I went to Brooklyn.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
After Captain Ledger left, Mr. Church spent two hours sitting beside Aunt Sallie’s bed, holding one limp hand. He ignored the constant noise of the ICU and instead listened to his own thoughts. Auntie slept on, probably unaware that he was there. Parts of frowns and splinters of winces tried to manifest on her features — conjured no doubt by her dreams — but the muscles were too slack and the emotions melted away.
He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and when he looked at the display he felt a wince form on his own mouth. Church rose and walked into the hall and stepped into a quiet corner as he answered.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” he said. “I’m glad you and your family are safe.”
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“A joke, sir?”
“Oh, like I’m supposed to believe you’re happy the White House didn’t fall down on our heads.”
Church closed his eyes. “Why would I make a joke in a time like this? My concern is genuine. And again, I extend the offer for any assistance myself or my department can offer.”
“Assistance? That’s a laugh. You’re lucky I don’t have you and everyone who works for the DSM arrested. Your boy Ledger is a terrorist and belongs in Guantanamo. I’ve spoken with the director of Homeland Security and the attorney general, and don’t be surprised if you hear from them.”
“Mr. President,” said Church patiently, “I would caution you against taking such an action. I understand that you are upset, but I can assure you that Captain Ledger is—”
“He’s a psychopath and a criminal and he’s going to jail. I’ve requested that Congress establish a committee to review all DSM cases and actions, and as soon as things settle down here you can expect that to happen. Don’t think it won’t. You’ve been a rogue organization for too long and I will shut you down.”
“Mr. President, it would be a mistake to cross that line.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It is a statement of fact. The DMS exists to be a first line of defense against terrorist threats involving radical technologies. We are uniquely qualified to handle such threats, and we are structured to be a rapid-response unit. There is no other organization within the United States government that can do what we do. Not in the intelligence community nor the military. To remove us would be to expose this nation to grave threats.”
“Wow, I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered this level of arrogance before,” said the president. “Who exactly do you think you are?”
Church said nothing.
“I’m going to take you down,” warned the president. “You and every single one of the traitors who works for you. That’s a promise. Want to make another threat now? Is that what you want to do? Go ahead, see what happens.”
“No, Mr. President,” said Church evenly, “I believe we understand each other.”
The president began to say something else, but Church ended the call. He leaned on the wall for almost a full minute, looking down the hallway at the door to Aunt Sallie’s room. He pushed off the wall and began walking away when his phone vibrated again. Despite the stress he was feeling, Church smiled when he saw who it was.
“Lilith,” he said gently. “It’s good to hear your—”
“Listen to me,” barked Lilith, “it’s Violin.…”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
While I flew to Brooklyn I spent some quality time with the DMS version of an Identikit, which is a utility cops all over the world use to make composite drawings of suspects. Like all cops — or in my case, former cops — I’m a trained observer who knows how to spot unique details. The MindReader version is intuitive and offered a lot of suggestions based on the architecture of similar kinds of faces to the one I was building. It took about an hour and two glasses of Church’s very expensive Teeling Vintage Reserve, thirty-year-old Irish single malt, but when I was done I stared down at the face of the man who’d Tased Ghost and me.
It was not a killer’s face. There was none of the vacuous stupidity of the street criminal or the hardened soullessness of the professional assassin about him. There was no fanatical gleam in his eyes. It was a face. In my reconstruction I’d even managed to put some of the emotion I’d seen on his features. Regret. I was sure of that. And fear. Maybe even panic.
I hit the keys to enter the image into the MindReader facial recognition and pattern search utilities. They not only matched the photo to indices of mug shots, but also the millions of snapshots taken by traffic cams, airport cams, CCTV, and social media. The collective database was massive and I leaned back with my whiskey and figured that I’d get some kind of hit within the next twenty-four hours.