“Who are you people?” Golden demanded.
Bailey handed her a similar leather case with an official looking card with her photo and a shield. “You are now officially a consultant to the National Security Agency.”
“So you’re NSA?” Golden pressed.
Bailey shook his head. “As I said, we’re with the Cellar.”
“And the Cellar isn’t the NSA?”
“No,” Bailey said.
Gant could tell Golden was getting frustrated. “So what is the Cellar? Who does it work for? Why pretend to be NSA?”
Gant leaned back and closed his eyes. Rest when you could was a lesson he’d learned early in his Special Forces career. He’d had the same questions as Golden years ago when he’d first been recruited by Bailey to work for the Cellar. He really didn’t know that much more after all that time. And Tony, his brother. How much more had he known? Tony had already worked for the Cellar for several years before they came calling for Jack. And by that time, Tony had ‘retired’ from the organization, disappearing with Neeley. Jack had always wondered what leverage his brother had had to allow him to escape the Cellar’s clutches. And why had Bailey dug his brother’s grave up?
“The Cellar,” Bailey began, “was formed by presidential decree in 1947. Have you ever heard of Majestic-12?”
“The alien thing?” Golden asked. “Roswell? Area 51?”
“Disinformation,” Bailey said succinctly. “Majestic-12 was a group formed by President Truman after the Second World War to bridge the gap between domestic and international security and intelligence and, in reality, be an overseeing agency. As you know the FBI is responsible for domestic crime and intelligence and the CIA for international intelligence. Then you have the military and their various covert units and intelligence services. And the National Security Agency. The alphabet soup of federal agencies with very little coordination. The Cellar was the part of Majestic that was formed to police all those agencies.”
“The cops for the cops,” Golden summarized.
“Roughly,” Bailey agreed.
“How come I’ve never heard of it?” she asked.
Bailey stared at her with a blank face. “We do not advertise our presence. Only those who have a need to know are aware of the Cellar’s existence.”
“What legal powers does the Cellar have?”
Gant perked up slightly, waiting for the answer to Golden’s question, one he himself had never asked. He realized that coming from the Army, he had just fit into the Cellar’s domain without much question. Of course, when he’d been recruited, he hadn’t been in the mood or place to ask questions.
Bailey seemed to be considering how to answer. “The Cellar exists under a direct Presidential order. It operates outside of what you would consider the law. It is a law unto itself and unto those in the covert world cross the line into activities harmful to our country and its citizens.”
“So it’s illegal?” Golden summed up.
“You’re not listening,” Bailey said. “It is not possible to apply common law, whether Federal or local, to those we hunt.”
“Not possible or not prudent?” Golden asked.
Gant almost enjoyed watching Bailey get grilled. Nero’s right hand man, Bailey was rarely ever challenged.
“Both,” Bailey said. “Sometimes the transgressions involve classified operations. In all cases they involve people with security clearances. Additionally, it would not be smart to put on trial or incarcerate these types of personnel. Yes, the publicity would not be good, but most prisons would have a hard time holding people trained to get out of prisons.”
Gant remembered his own SERE — survival, evasion, resistance and escape — training at Fort Bragg years ago. He knew that Golden couldn’t envision all the training these people went through and why that made them so extremely dangerous if they went rogue.
Apparently Bailey also felt the same. He leaned forward toward the woman. “Doctor Golden, you need to appreciate that we are talking about people — and an environment — that is very different from who the normal citizen is and what they experience in day to day life.”
Gant thought the most interesting aspect of this conversation was what Bailey wasn’t telling her. He also thought it intriguing that as far as he knew, Golden had yet to ask why she had been brought in on this. He could feel the air pressure changing and the plane slowing. Silence reigned once more as they landed in Maryland. A military Bell Jet Ranger helicopter was waiting for them, blades already turning to take them to Fort Meade and the Cellar.
CHAPTER FIVE
The first thing Emily noticed was that the van was not moving. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but she thought she had been given another shot sometime during the drive. Everything from the bar parking lot to this moment was a blur. She knew there were things she had wanted to remember, but her mind seemed to be a muddled canvas of sounds and smells and bumps. The only consistent feeling was the fear and she did not like that all. The fear was making her weak and she couldn’t afford to be weak.
She wondered how long the van had been stopped. As if in answer to her thought, the door began to slide open. She could see nothing. Rough hands grabbed her and started pulling her toward the door. She had planned to fight, but her limbs felt useless, and beyond her control. She could do nothing, but allow herself to be lifted like a baby, out of the van.
She immediately felt the cooler air. She had worn only a short skirt and sleeveless top since she had only planned for a night of sweaty dancing. She couldn’t tell if her thin denim shirt was still tied around her waist. She remembered knotting it when the bar had become impossibly warm. She thought it must be daylight because even though the air was cool, she could feel heat on her bare skin.
The man was very strong. He seemed to have no difficulty carrying her. At first she thought he would set her down as soon as he took her from the van. Instead he seemed to be walking somewhere with her.
Emily suddenly became terrified that he was carrying her to the edge of a cliff. What if he just extended her over space and let go? Tied as she was she could do nothing, but squirm in his arms. Then she began to scream. The screaming must have affected him, because suddenly she felt him bend down and dump her to the ground. She fell painfully onto her tied wrists and began to cry. She was thirsty and exhausted. She was ready to face whatever this freak had in mind. She just wanted to be left alone.
He pushed her head toward her chest and began to fiddle with the blindfold. Suddenly it was off, and she clamped her eyes shut as the sunlight painfully hit her sensitive eyes. It took a few moments for her to tentatively try to lift her eyelids. When she did, she looked around. She was in a forest; a thick forest, by the look of it. Her abductor had dumped her in a little clearing made by the collapse of a couple of the older trees. He was standing behind her, and she almost couldn’t turn her head to look. She knew enough about men like him to guess that her death was probably immanent.
When she did turn, she was surprised. He was wearing a baklava. His entire head was covered in black, except his eyes and a cruel-looking slit for his mouth. He looked huge and terrifying, but Emily suddenly felt a flash of hope. He was keeping his face covered; that must mean something.
“What are you going to do to me?” Her voice surprised her. It was a harsh rasp.
He said nothing. He merely pulled a short lead that you would use to train a dog from his pocket, and fastened it around her neck. Silently, he began pulling, indicating she should follow. Emily tried to get up. She had been drugged for hours, if not days. She felt dizzy with panic and dehydration. He tried to pull her to her feet again, but she simply couldn’t move. He kept pulling.