The R.E.M. Project_A Thriller Page 21

  Claire said, “I knew something was up with the guy from the get-go.”

  “What is interesting,” Dawa said, connecting the dots, “is that the facility in Costa Rica was funded by Asteria and operated by former CIA agents.”

  Fenton said, “Ryan Tanner and Dick Doyle.”

  “Yes,” Dawa said. “Now it looks like the agency has borrowed from their playbook and picked up right where Tanner and Doyle left off. This facility in Virginia, the same people working for Tanner . . . It can only mean one thing.”

  “Tanner was playing both sides,” Claire said. “Using Asteria to fund the project while selling information to his old CIA buddies.”

  “Precisely.” Dawa laid the memo down and said to Fenton, “This is incredible. How did you ever find a way to obtain this information?”

  “That’s the beauty of government security,” Fenton grinned. “The private sector has been gobbling up cybersecurity jobs for years now, because they pay better. When the best hackers in the world work for telecoms and banks, it means government cybersecurity falls one step behind. And as fast as the Internet evolves, one step is all it takes.”

  Dawa nodded and pretended to follow what the young hacker was saying. He said, “I think it goes without saying that none of this is admissible in court.” The detective turned to Claire. “Do you think there is anything here we can take to the press?”

  “Honestly, no. Everything I see here was obtained illegally. Sure, it would catch the attention of conspiracy theorists and guys with tinfoil hats. But no self-respecting media outlet is going to touch any of this.”

  Paul said, “And it would expose us. I don’t think the risk is worth the reward.”

  “With you on that one,” said Donny. “I mean, what, we’re gonna wave our hands and basically beg these guys to come after us? After what happened today? No way.”

  Fenton leaned in. “What exactly did happen this morning, dude?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” Donny said. “It was like a blackout. One minute I’m sitting here with you guys, the next I’m about to go for a swim with the fishes.” They all looked toward the Talmadge Bridge, visible from the tall lobby windows. “And the weirdest thing is that I can’t remember a thing. I mean, I know deep down something incredibly fucked up was going on in my head. Any of you ever wake up knowing you had the most insane dream of all time, but you just can’t remember it? It was something like that.”

  Claire knew just where Donny was coming from. “This is not good news,” she said. “This kind of behavior doesn’t just happen out of the clear blue sky. What Donny’s describing here sounds exactly like the Ocula effect. Either an outlier had a dream about Donny going hara-kiri on himself, or someone intentionally planted the thought there.”

  Paul asked, “You think the CIA is going after the remaining outliers again?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Claire said. “Kovic assured me the search was off, but that was before he betrayed me in Costa Rica. It would certainly explain why my mind’s been at relative ease, since he likely thinks I died in the blast.” She asked Fenton, “Anything popping up on your mental radar?”

  “Not a thing. Not that I know of, anyway.”

  Donny’s eyes sharpened as he scrutinized the response. Either the kid was a great actor, or he was telling the truth; the latter of which meaning he had no knowledge of the dream that had led the team to Savannah to find him in the first place. But if that were the case, what about the jump drive Fenton had pointed out during Donny’s lucid dream? What were the odds of Donny randomly dreaming about Fenton’s jump drive, only to have Dawa return from Fenton’s old apartment with the device in hand?

  The scenario reminded him of the volcano incident six months earlier. Suddenly, Donny was uneasy again. In the beginning, the orthodox science behind Ocula had made a lot of sense to him. Gene therapy led to weird side effects in a small number of patients. Those patients had amplified brainwaves during R.E.M. sleep; brainwaves that were then picked up by other organisms nearby. A far-out theory, but something he had come to accept.

  But volcanoes weren’t organisms, and the case of Fenton Reed only exacerbated his anxiety. The way Claire had explained it to him, Ocula was supposed to be a one-way street: Electromagnetic radiation—brainwaves—sent messages to targeted minds nearby. Those messages influenced others to take any number of actions. Anything the brain could dream up was fair game. But in this case, Fenton had told him about a jump drive, and Dawa had delivered. So many things weren’t adding up, but one thing was certain: there was no way this was a series of coincidences.

  Donny took his eyes off the ceiling and regrouped. “What about the outliers we don’t know about?”

  Fenton asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Let not our troubled souls forget that Ocula 1.0 is still just as dangerous as the new and improved version. It’s what got us here in the first place. What got my business partner killed. Remember?”

  “He’s right,” Paul said. “There were 2,000 participants in the original clinical trial, and a dozen outliers were reported. Fast forward to today and Ocula’s been on the open market since March. How many people are having these same side effects that we don’t even know about?”

  Disturbed, “I didn’t even think about that,” Fenton said. He did the math in his head. “That’s about half a percent.”

  Paul said, “But multiply that by a few million users—”

  “—And you’re talking thousands of people potentially dreaming up crazy shit from coast to coast.”

  They all sat back in their chairs as the demoralizing reality sank in. They looked at one another, then Dawa said, “Well. Anyone have any ideas?”

  “I have one,” Claire said. “And I think it’s our only play.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  She took a deep breath. “I can make contact with Kovic. Turn myself in.”

  The table erupted before she could finish. “Are you out of your mind, Claire?” Paul said, loud enough to get several hotel guests to look over. Paul waved to say sorry, and they returned to their own affairs.

  Claire continued. “Hear me out. According to these documents, the new facility has the capacity to influence people within a 150-mile radius. The place is like its own news station, complete with the ability to broadcast whatever message it wants to straight to dreamers for miles. If I can get in there and use the machine myself, we can broadcast our own message to thousands, maybe millions of people.”

  Fenton said, “It could work. I didn’t print off everything here, but there’s a folder on my jump drive titled ‘Project Scope Statement.’ Inside there’s a whole bunch of stuff about the goals of the project, like creating a system that could guarantee an effective reach across the entire D.C. area.”

  “For obvious reasons,” interrupted Donny. “Give the CIA the ability to sway the politicians, and they’ll be free to do as they please.”

  “What I’m saying is,” Fenton said, “if this thing can reach D.C., then there’s a good chance the right people will hear whatever you’ve got to say, Claire. If you need any help, you can count me in.”

  Dawa asked, “What about the element of surprise, Claire? It is safe to believe that Colin Kovic thinks you are dead. There must be some way we can use this to our advantage . . .”

  “How? By sneaking me into a CIA black site?” Claire shuffled through Reed’s documents and found a blueprint. She slid it over to Dawa. “Check out the security at this place, Dawa. Entrance codes. Retinal scanners. Armed guards—the works. It would take about two seconds before the project lackeys realized I’m still alive, and just a few seconds after that to take me out for good. The only way we’re getting in here—the only way we can get the word out about Asteria in a way that is sure to bring them down—is if I turn myself in and agree to meet Kovic at the site.”

  “How do you know Kovic won’t kill you on the spot?” Paul asked.

  “I don’t. But do you guys have any bett
er ideas?”

  They didn’t.

  Chapter 27:

  Done

  Skies were clear on a Friday night, giving a bright gray moon the freedom to shine down over the Vajrayãna Monastery without a single cloud getting in the way. Inside, Michelle lay in bed wide awake, arm under her pillow, eyes locked on a moonlit window that was putting her in an irresistible trance. Panes of glass filled the window in her room and were outlined in soft silver as the moon outshined every star around it.

  The last two nights locked up at the Vajrayãna Monastery had become the pinnacle of a six-month stretch of high anxiety, fear, and frustration for the young Mrs. Freeman. Kidnapped by a psychotic ex-CIA agent; uprooted from her home in the suburbs for a life in hiding; and driving nonstop from one coast to another (only to be left alone in an unfamiliar place with a friend of Dawa’s who frankly creeped the poor woman out) was enough to drive anyone mad. This wasn’t living. Just surviving.

  And, a new marriage was already on the rocks. While her husband Paul was off playing soldier (like he’d always wanted) and trying to save the world, she was effectively on house arrest. Left behind once again. Of course, the last time she and Paul had been apart it was against his will, and Michelle felt guilty for insinuating in her mind that he could have done anything about it.

  Still, it felt like some cosmic force was doing everything it could to pull the two apart. Even when Paul had called to check in earlier, it had felt like he was doing it out of obligation, in a hurry to get back to the mission. What had started as a promising high school romance had blossomed into the perfect little marriage, complete with a house in the burbs and a newborn—only to wilt at the first sight of a serious challenge.

  Few marriages could survive the duress the Freemans had been put under, and in that respect, Michelle could stop beating herself up for a moment. It didn’t help that Paul was still convinced she’d drugged him to begin with either; the man’s trust issues dated back to high school. But just like Michelle hadn’t made out with Paul’s arch nemesis Jason Young at Jessica Reilly’s Sweet Sixteen party, Michelle had also had nothing to do with Paul’s acquisition of Ocula. Oh, the fragile early years of marriage, where resilience is tested and doubts are aplenty.

  She turned to face away from the window and prayed for drowsiness. Even with her anxiety working its way out through a pair of restless feet kicking the covers off the bed, she could start to feel her eyes burning that burn that came right before that inescapable kind of sleep that arose out of pure exhaustion.

  But Aaron cried, and visions of sugar plums and counting sheep by a cozy fire quickly dissipated. She sat up and threw her pillow across the room, hitting a lamp on an end table and almost knocking it off. It rocked left, then right while Michelle watched in angst, seconds feeling like hours, before it came back to rest on the table, only slightly out of place. She breathed a great sigh of relief, thankful the expensive-looking lamp hadn’t busted all over the hardwood floors and roused Dawa’s Asian friend with the wandering eyes. Then again, he was probably standing just outside the door.

  Michelle flipped on the lights to find her young son had rolled off his pallet of comforters and blankets. Her cold feet hit the floor and she thought no wonder he’s awake. She picked him up and rocked him back to sleep, then put him in the bed next to her. She was trying to ween him off the need to sleep in Mama’s bed every night, but what the hell. The first year of Little Man’s life had been less than conventional, and even though his vocabulary was mainly limited to Mama and Dada and baba (kids learn real quick how to ask for a bottle) he still probably had some understanding of the trauma they had gone through.

  But unlike the worries and stresses that tend to nag the fully developed minds of adults, Aaron’s upset didn’t stick too long. Soon he was right back to sleep, back in the comfort of his loving mother. She lay there for a few moments after the last sign of wakefulness, checked to make sure he was sleeping well now, then slowly eased out of bed. A drink was calling her name from Dawa’s kitchen, even though she figured him for a guy who only stocked his fridge with juice and water. With any luck, she might find something a little stronger.

  She opened the door and looked down the hall. Dawa’s friend Tsomo was sitting in the foyer at the end of the long corridor in khaki slacks and a button-up, one sharply-dressed foot propped on the other, and reading a book. She tried to step out quietly, but as soon as she was in the hallway, he looked up.

  “Ah, Mrs. Freeman,” he said, folding his book shut. “Such a pleasant surprise this evening.”

  Busted. Dammit.

  “Hi, Tsomo,” she said, disappointed she’d been caught. The kitchen was closer to her room than the foyer. If she was fast, maybe she could get there before Tsomo had the opportunity to rise from his chair. Just a little haste . . .

  No such luck. Michelle took the first step and Tsomo was already getting up to walk her way.

  “Is there anything I can help you with, Mrs. Freeman?”

  “Just going to the kitchen, Tsomo.”

  Hopefully, “Perhaps I’ll join you?”

  Tsomo had been a friend of Dawa’s for his entire adult life; Michelle had been a guest for barely two days. She could hardly say no.

  She motioned for the thirty-something to come on. “Sure. Why not. Hell, maybe you can help me find the scotch.”

  “Scotch?” Puzzled, “I didn’t take you for a drinker, Mrs. Freeman.”

  “You’ve known me two days, Tsomo. Stick around much longer and I’m sure you’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

  ***

  The bottle of Sauvignon Blanc was a pleasant surprise to Michelle, especially after Tsomo had assured her that the monastery was a place free of drugs and alcohol. Her instincts told her otherwise, armed with the knowledge that Dawa loved to cook. One look in the back of the pantry, nestled behind the cookies and sodas that were surely Donny’s, and the bottle was spotted.

  Michelle wasn’t a heavy drinker, but such a find was a lifesaver on a sleepless night. She searched through one of the drawers and found a bottle opener, and within minutes she was sitting on a barstool in front of the kitchen island, sipping room-temperature wine and listening to her new acquaintance explain how he had come to know Dawa Graham.

  “Atlanta’s about the last place I thought I’d wind up when I was a teenager,” said Tsomo as he sat across from Michelle, sipping hot tea, elbows propped on the island. “I was born in San Francisco, lived there my whole life. All my friends were there, my school was there . . . life was good and I had no reason to think we’d leave. We didn’t travel much; no vacations or weekend trips or anything like that. So when my dad came home from work one day and told me and my mother and my little sister we’d be moving within the month, it didn’t exactly go well.”

  Tsomo ran his hand through his dark and carefully parted hair, and Michelle could tell the memory made him uncomfortable. Concerned, “We don’t have to get into it if you don’t want—”

  “No. That’s okay. It’s all in the past now anyway. Let’s just say I became a little hard to handle, especially after we arrived at our new home in Atlanta and the reality set in that we were here to stay.”

  “Hard to handle? Pssh, sounds like your average teenager to me.”

  “I assure you, it was a little worse than that. Unruly and disobedient at first, yes. But by the time I was a sophomore in college, I had already become quite fond of alcohol and weed, and was beginning to move onto bigger and better things.” Tsomo shook his head, disgusted with his past behavior. “I’d try anything anyone handed to me. Pain pills. Speed. Acid. Ecstasy. If it was illegal, I wanted it. Partly because I was turning into an addict, yes, but mostly just to get back at my dad for uprooting the family a decade earlier.”

  “That’s a lot of time to hold onto resentment,” Michelle said, gently swirling the wine in her glass.

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, believe me. I was a mess, my grades were sinki
ng, and I was about to flunk out of school. So, when I came home for summer break between sophomore and junior year, my father had had enough. He told me he had found a man by the name of Dawa Graham who had just recently opened a center focused on the teachings of Tibetan Buddhism. I became one of Dawa’s first students. He helped me turn my life around, and I’ve been trying to pay him back ever since.”

  “Sounds like an incredible man,” Michelle said.

  The comment raised a red flag for Tsomo. Curiously, he asked, “How did you say you know Dawa again?”

  “College!” Michelle blurted out, caught a little off guard. She lowered her tone. “I mean, I went to Georgia State. Took transcendental meditation as an elective. Had to write a paper on Dawa’s work here at the monastery.” The more she rolled on with the concocted story, the worse it sounded. Stop talking. Start drinking.

  Tsomo said, “I would love to read this paper one day.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She took a long sip of wine and looked away.

  Tsomo took the hint and dropped it.

  “So,” he said, “your husband is helping Dawa with an investigation?”

  “Yes, he and—” She was so close to naming Ford, with no clue as to how much Tsomo knew about the situation. She looked at the wine and checked herself. Careful not to ramble, Michelle. “—and one of Dawa’s coworkers. They’re looking for some teenage hacker who broke into some government system. I think he’s wanted by the FBI; I can’t remember. Anyway, that’s all they told me.”

  She briefly analyzed Tsomo to see if he bought the story, then retreated back to her wine. Sure, she knew Dawa and Tsomo were close, but the detective never mentioned Ocula around his old student. Instead, he’d told Michelle to tell Tsomo they knew one another from college. The little white lie seemed innocuous at the time, but could only signal that Dawa was hiding things from Tsomo. And if that were the case, odds were he didn’t know all the juicy details behind the Savannah trip.

  The conversation went silent for a moment—something that would have made her extremely uncomfortable without the help of a little vino. Now, the quiet didn’t bother her so much. Her hair draped like a dirty-blonde curtain between her and her glass as she twirled it to pass the time.