“Certainly a possibility.”
“But why break in? What’s left to steal?”
“Unknown. When the Koenig senior staff realized the hammer was about to fall they tried to clear things up in a hurry. A lot of material was destroyed to keep it from falling into our hands and, by association, a congressional committee. The task force recovered a lot of melted disks, destroyed hard-drives and that kind of thing. Bug put his team on it to see if there was enough left to determine whether they trashed the actual records or if what we recovered was pure junk. Computer records are small, and easy enough to hide. The task force might have missed a flash drive or some disks. If someone was there last night, it’s likely they removed whatever was hidden. However, we do need to check.”
“Swell.”
“What little we did recover,” Church continued, “tied into something that’s clanged a few warning bells for MindReader.”
When the DMS was formed it was built around a real mother of a computer system that was entirely owned by Mr Church. Aside from being enormously powerful and sophisticated, MindReader had two primary functions. First, it collated information from all of the major intelligence networks, including some who didn’t know their data was being mined, and then looked for patterns. Often different agencies will have gotten whiffs of things or obtained pieces of information, but MindReader sorted through all of it and began assembling fragments into whole, actionable pictures. A lot of our effectiveness is built on being able to spot trouble before it literally blows up in our face.
MindReader’s other function was actually its scariest aspect. It could intrude into virtually any other computer system, poke around, take what it wanted, and then rewrite the target’s security software so there was absolutely no record of the intrusion. All other intelligence software leaves some kind of scar on the target system; MindReader is a ghost.
“What bells?” I asked, not really wanting to know.
“Sadly, it’s vague. The North Koreans and Chinese were both providing funding for a project codenamed ‘Changeling’. We don’t know the nature of the program, but when nations who don’t always have our best interests at heart are willing to transfer funds in excess of fifty million…”
He left the rest to hang.
“Have you talked to Dr Hu about this?”
Hu was the head of the DMS science division. He was both a super-genius in multiple disciplines and a world-class heartless asshole. We have failed to bond on an epic level.
“Dr Hu is intensely interested in it because he feels it may be connected to a project we caught wind of last year that dealt with transformative genetics.”
“I don’t even like the sound of that.”
“Neither do I. It’s a radical branch of transgenics in which animals of various kinds are given gene therapy in order to provoke controlled mutations. We saw some of that in the Jakoby labs.”
“Ah,” I said, loading that syllable with as much scorn as I could. The Jakobys were a family of brilliant geneticists. Immeasurably dangerous. Their Dragon Factory laboratory was used to create animals that, at least, looked like mythical creatures. Big game hunters paid millions to hunt unicorns and centaurs. It didn’t matter that the animals were genetic freaks whose DNA was now hopelessly corrupted. Nor did it matter that the resulting mutations were often painful for the animal and virtually guaranteed a short and agonizing life. None of that mattered. The novelty market allowed them to raise money for more destructive projects, including ethnic-specific pathogens intended to fuel a new genocide.
We shut them down. Hard.
And it was there at the Dragon Factory that Grace died.
“Do these Koenig assholes have the Jakoby research? ‘Cause if they do I’m going to find them and remove important parts.”
“It’s unlikely. MindReader would have flagged that. But it seems that their scientists were working along dangerously similar lines. To what end we don’t know. Once the red tape is sorted out I intend to have our people be first through the door to do a thorough examination of any materials left intact.”
“Must be pissing you off that we’ve had to wait so long.”
He said nothing, and nothing showed on his face, but there was a palpable feeling of tension buzzing around him. Yeah, he was pissed.
When he finally spoke, it was a shift in topic. “Last night’s police report opens a door of opportunity. We have a chance to put someone in the building. Not to remove anything, of course, but to have a quiet look-around without eyes on him. I’d like that to be you.”
“And I suppose if there was a file conveniently labelled ‘Changeling’ I shouldn’t let it lay there and gather dust.”
Church snorted. “If life were that simple, Captain, we would be out of jobs.”
“I thought the ATF had feet on the ground there.”
“They didn’t see anything last night.”
“And the cops did?”
He spread his hands, and I had a sneaking suspicion that he had something to do with that police drive-by and any subsequent report. Made me wonder if there was anything to see. ATF boys are usually pretty sharp.
“Besides,” added Church, “the ATF team has declined to break the seal and enter the premises.”
“Why?”
“Because if anything is disturbed or if there is any procedural error when someone does step inside, then that agency takes the political hit.” He shook his head. “If you look too closely for logic you’ll injure yourself.”
“Okay, I get that the bullshit factor is high. But why me? Why send a shooter?” I asked.
“Because you were a cop before you were a shooter. If nothing else, you should be able to determine if the place has been broken into. Work it like a crime scene.”
“And if I find someone poking around in there?”
His smile was small and cold. “Then you have my permission to shoot them.”
Nice. You can never really tell when he’s joking.
“One more thing,” said Church as I reached for the doorknob. “Our friends in the UK have expressed some interest in this matter. They red-flagged some of the negotiations between the Koenig Group and North Korean buyers, and they’ve been hunting for any possible information on Changeling. They’re sending a special agent to liaise with you. Her name is Felicity Hope. Expect her call.”
“She’s with MI6?”
“No,” he said, “Barrier.”
Barrier was Great Britain’s so-secret-we’ll-bloody-well-shoot-you group that was the model for the DMS. Church helped set it up, and once it proved to be invaluable against the new breed of 21st century high-tech terrorist, he was able to sell Congress on the Department of Military Sciences. But just hearing that name was the equivalent of a swift kick in the nuts for me.
Grace Courtland had been a senior Barrier agent. She’d been seconded to the DMS at Church’s request and for a few years she was Church’s top gun. Maybe the world’s top gun. I worked alongside her, respected her, fell in love with her. And then buried her.
The pain was too recent and too real.
Church adjusted his tinted glasses. I knew that he was following my line of thought and gauging my reaction. I also knew that he wouldn’t say anything. He wasn’t the kind of guy who engaged in heart-to-hearts. What he gave me was a single, brief nod, just that much to acknowledge the memory. He loved Grace like a daughter. His pain had to be as intense as mine, but he would never show it.
It cost me a lot to keep it off my face.
-3-
Twenty minutes later I was in a Black Hawk helicopter, heading away from Baltimore’s sunny skies, heading toward the coastline of southern New Jersey.