Orlando shrugged, took his hand and tried to shake it and get done quickly, as if afraid of germs. “We’ll let you know, but we’ve also got a few more exercises we’d like to run through with you tomorrow. This was just one of many indicators of psychic talent. Some do well on it, some…well they have other talents.
Boris held the grip a little longer, then let go and wriggled into his sweatshirt. He flipped up his hood, keeping the smile the whole time. “Great, looking forward to coming back, just let me know.”
He glanced around the room, then back out into the hall and up at the cameras, continuing his smile. My work here is done.
“See you soon, Mr. Natch.” See all of you soon…
He closed the door behind him. Head down, hands in his pockets, he nonchalantly sauntered out into the hall, past the security guard and his holstered weapon, down the long corridor and the past the War Room and the recreation center and relaxation chamber, all the places he’d seen without visiting. Just as he had seen Caleb Crowe and the NASA woman in the far section of the facility, down two levels.
He hadn’t come in time to affect their efforts, but that hadn’t been his mission. He had seen enough. Touched enough. The Louisiana bitch was just the icing on the cake. Just a little harmless fun. Sure, he strayed from his cover, veered from the mission, but why not? The rest was so easy.
They weren’t prepared for him, for what he could do. Hadn’t a clue, not with all their powers and predictive abilities. He was something different, the purest wild card, a bull about to rage through their little China shop operation.
Boris held back his joy at the ease of his success, at penetrating the very lair of the enemy with such ease. He had planted a virtual bomb back there, nothing so crude as a physical concoction of fertilizer and electronics, but something far more deadly.
Smirking under his hood, he gave a two finger salute to the two armed guards at the main glass doors after strolling over the marble tiled lobby, past the flanking Egyptian falcon-armed goddesses. Under their watchful but impotent gazes, Boris took his leave. There was nothing they could do, nothing any of them could do.
The only one he worried about was the senator. Calderon — or actually the one who wore the face of his former associate. However, Xavier Montross was far too busy at the moment, believing it to be his moment in the spotlight; his greatest victory at hand, he had no time to go poking into something that was going to blindside his friends and this rogue institution that had long outlived its welcome.
Goodbye Stargate, he thought, pausing at the door and then exiting into the rain and heading quickly for the large black limo waiting around the corner.
He slipped inside as the door opened with his approach. Slid into the back seat and took the offered glass of champagne from the other sole occupant. A man in a perfectly starched black suit, shirt and tie, and a wide-brimmed black hat pulled low over his forehead. A cigarette hung from his lips, unlit as if it was just a prop.
He was man of indeterminate age, with eyes of slate-blue, inscrutable and almost perpetually glazed as if seeing hues, wavelengths and sights no one else could perceive. Boris pulled back his hood and accepted the glass.
“Well done,” said the man as the limo drove off into the rain.
“You observed.”
“Of course.”
“So, no problems. You saw it all went perfectly.”
“You took a needless chance.”
Boris paused, the glass at his lips. He met the man’s eyes and was again, as always, unnerved by them. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.” He removed the cigarette, held it in his fingers and gave it his full attention, as if surprised by its presence. “The woman has alerted Caleb’s sister. We need to move up the time frame.”
Boris’s hand shook, and the other reached out and gently took the glass back, opened the window and poured the champagne out into the rain. “Celebration can wait.”
Boris felt like curling up into the corner, into the shadows away from the passing streetlights and the rain whipping in through the window before it closed.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“The fault is mine, for trusting in one so young and impatient.”
“I won’t stray again. I…”
“No, you won’t.” The man returned the cigarette to his lips, then folded his arms. “We are patient, but this operation is too critical to fail, and it won’t. Fortunately we are close enough to begin, and your skills…while raw, have been more than up to the task.”
Boris swallowed hard, straightening up his shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Don’t worry,” said the man whose eyes retreated now into the folded darkness as the limo left the main roads and raced into the darker suburbs. “You still have a great role to play.”
6
Xavier Montross, still thought of himself as himself, despite knowing that the face looking back at him from the mirror — or on the news or in the papers — was in no way his, and in fact had for so long been the face of his once-enemy.
Still, he had to remind himself of the most important thing. Deposing this body’s former host, scattering Mason Calderon to the astral winds, was the victory of victories. Something maybe no one had ever done in the history of the world. So, looking upon the face of his foe was another sort of daily triumph he could savor. Also, with that victory came major spoils: immediate ascension into the upper ranks of power and prestige. He had sudden access to top-secret information, to backroom power deals and acceptance into circles only occupied by the upper elite decision makers and world-changers.
Such was the case with this room. He had arrived in Geneva last night, and had yet to see anything of its beautiful scenery, historic museums or quaint streets. Rushed immediately into a car and taken to this three-story brownstone and then down into a bunker three levels below the street, he had been in meetings ever since, with just one break for a meal.
Now they were ready to begin.
Montross rose and addressed the room. This public speaking gig, it wasn’t his thing, but he had made it a priority and was a quick study. After the initial body stealing, he had some work to do. Basically he went into seclusion for a couple weeks, and spent that time studying the late Mr. Calderon — his life, his mannerisms, his friends and his family. Fortunately the man was a widower, his kids grown and largely distant. Politics (and back room secret meetings and power struggles) was his life, but despite all the secrecy, there were still enough examples on YouTube and old CSPAN tapes, not to mention his early career running for office, that Montross could mimic the man well enough to fool most.
Those he was most worried about however, were the ones in this room, and the other agents and international counterparts who expected secrets to be held and deals to be honored. Fortunately, Calderon was a paranoid little bastard. He kept files on his fingerprint locked laptop, blackmail fodder perhaps, but the files were chock full of pictures and personal details, massive amounts of data on everyone he would ever come in contact within the months to follow.
If that wasn’t enough, Montross could always rely on his personal edge and remote view what he needed. It hadn’t been perfect, this disguise, but it worked, and he was here. Ready to move into the next phase.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to unveil the future of espionage.” He looked around the room, at the faces impatient and curious, and at the screen behind him, with the symbol of Stargate hovering in the blackness like a beacon. “The future, and the end of chaos.”