The R.E.M. Project_A Thriller Page 30

  Well, there was one positive, and for that Lancaster was relieved and grateful, even if it wasn’t showing through her stern expression and half-rim glasses. Wall Street was tearing Asteria Pharmaceuticals a new one, all thanks to a signal sent out from Skyline the weekend before. By Monday’s opening bell, the market was responding. Hard to ask for better results. If only the CIA was responsible . . .

  Lancaster dwelt on that last part while Kovic and Cline filled the two chairs facing her desk, sitting and waiting in total silence, each of them apprehensive about speaking unless spoken to. She dropped the report on her desk, and then started in on Cline.

  “So, let me get this straight. The asset you were supposed to handle in Costa Rica comes back with a vengeance after the death of her friend in a failed drone strike that you authorized?”

  Cline looked up and nodded yes, then returned to counting stitches in the carpet like a kid being scolded by his mother, too afraid to look up.

  Lancaster continued, “Then this asset, a journalist, threatens to expose the entire operation unless you give her a meeting at our facility, and you agree to it? Does that cover all the bases so far?”

  “Director Lancaster, if I may—”

  “You may not,” Lancaster interrupted. “The only reason I signed off on Project THEIA in the first place was to keep this technology contained—not to let more people in on the CIA’s botched operations. Your trigger-happy actions south of the border turned a valuable asset into an enemy, Cline. One who is once again on the loose and off the radar.”

  Cline couldn’t defend his actions. Sure, he’d known what he was doing at the time, and had felt like he had good enough reason to make the call. It made more sense to clean up the entire mess in Costa Rica in one fell swoop rather than take a chance on a chatty journalist who wouldn’t be able to resist running the story of the century after the fact. At least, that had been Cline’s thought process. His M.O. had always been the same: eliminate the variables, ask questions later. Claire Connor was a variable, and Cline was just cleaning up Kovic’s mess. Still, Lancaster hadn’t given the order, and even though Cline had taken the lead on the Costa Rica operation, deviating from the plan by betraying an asset was something Lancaster would have never signed off on.

  And, this was exactly why. Lancaster went over the report again, line by line, steaming with fury and ruminating on all the possible outcomes that could spell the end of the agency—and her career. “This program Claire ran before escaping,” Lancaster pointed out in the report, “the CIA file—is this the same software she ran on Asteria before sending the signal?”

  Kovic leaned forward and answered, “Yes, it’s the same. It also points to her true intentions all along. After the underground shockwave knocked everyone below ground unconscious, she was able to escape from holding, use Project THEIA to run her own programs, and broadcast those programs across the region.”

  “And you’re convinced one of these programs is responsible for Asteria’s sudden sell-off and negative press coverage?”

  “Absolutely. The software was crude, but all signs point to the obvious. Hell, doesn’t take much to spook investors these days anyway. Now imagine having a little voice inside your head screaming, ‘SELL! SELL! SELL!’ until the wee hours of Monday morning. What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get to work and hear your colleagues saying the same damn thing?”

  Lancaster asked, “What about the CIA file? Do we have anything to worry about there?”

  Kovic said, “I don’t believe so. The program hadn’t been fully executed when we shut it down. These signals play on people’s dreams, and can feel just as real as us talking here one minute, only to fade into obscurity the next. If anything were going to happen as a result from the CIA file she uploaded, we would have heard about it already.”

  Another positive. At least the run-in with the outliers hadn’t been a total catastrophe. Still, the agency had plenty of cleaning up to do. Lancaster thumbed through the report and found the section on Claire’s accomplices. “This Fenton Reed guy—how much do we know about him?”

  “A lot, actually,” Cline said. “Reed’s got a juvenile record involving a computer-hacking scheme in his hometown. A couple of years later he’s volunteering for the Asteria drug trials. Word is that Tanner tried to pick him up last year, but Reed escaped and has been on the run ever since.”

  “And we’re sure he’s working with Connor?”

  “Lifted his fingerprints off a backpack our guys found in the woods about a half a mile north of Skyline. Paul Freeman’s, too. They’re definitely working together.”

  “And Dawa Graham—is he cooperating?”

  Kovic and Cline looked at one another. Then Cline sighed. “Not really. Graham’s proving to be a hard egg to crack, but we’re working on it.”

  “Maybe instead of cracking eggs,” Kovic said, “we should be focused on getting him over to our side. This guy’s Atlanta P.D. for Chrissake. Surely he can understand the magnitude of the situation; the national security risks; the importance of keeping this thing contained—”

  “Give it time,” Lancaster said. “I’m sure he’ll come around.” She checked the report again, then said, “Graham’s not one of the outliers from the original clinical trials. Do we know how he fits into all this?”

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it,” Kovic said. “If there’s any connection between Graham and the clinical trial participants, we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Lancaster sat back in her chair, still uneasy about the turn of events, but a little relieved nonetheless. “Well, at least we know Claire’s on our side, whether she knows it or not. Between her message to stockholders and our message to Hoover and Linklatter, I think Asteria is going to be nothing more than a cautionary tale within the year.”

  “That’s certainly a silver lining to all of this,” Cline said. “I mean think about it. Ocula’s getting taken off the market. That was the primary objective all along.” Cline shifted in his seat as he downplayed his mistakes. “It wasn’t the smoothest ride, but who cares how we got here? We still made it to our final destination, right?”

  The statement sounded a lot like an excuse. Lancaster hated excuses. “Yes, well. We still have plenty of loose ends to tie up, and plenty of work to do ahead of us. With so much at stake here and so many people out there fully aware of how powerful Ocula is, we can’t afford to drop our guard. Not for one minute.”

  Cline leaned in. “Does this mean Project THEIA remains online?”

  Lancaster rolled her fingers on the desk and thought on it. A promising appointment as the first director of Central Intelligence had quickly turned into a janitorial position cleaning up the mess caused by the previous administration. Everything about the project turned her stomach, from the illegal detainment of citizens deemed national security threats, to the covert production of a weapon of mass destruction. The nation—and the world for that matter—was better off without Ocula.

  But, sometimes you had to fight fire with fire, and the CIA couldn’t afford to give up their highly influential weapon just yet.

  “Yes. The project stays, at least until we can get this threat fully contained. Do you two understand what that means?”

  Kovic and Cline exchanged glances, then nodded. They understood.

  Chapter 39:

  The Call

  The notes plastered to the front door of the Vajrayãna Monastery signaled to the four outliers stepping out of the car something they hadn’t thought of until they had arrived back in Atlanta: they weren’t the only ones looking for Dawa Graham.

  They all stepped out of the car, hesitant to approach, wondering if anyone affiliated with local or federal law enforcement was waiting inside, ready to attack.

  Except for Paul. He boldly walked to the door and pulled the yellow Post-it from below the peephole. It was from one of Dawa’s coworkers:

  Missed you at the station today. Tried calling. Let us know everything’s okay. — P
hil.

  Paul crumpled up the note and glanced over the rest of the door hangers. There must have been a dozen notes stuck in the doorjamb and shoved underneath. He started collecting them, then used the key under the little Buddha statue by the door to get inside.

  The echo of his feet hitting the hardwoods bounced off the maroon plaster walls and reverberated through the dark and empty foyer. He tossed the notes on the end table near the door and called for his wife and son.

  “Michelle! Aaron! You here?”

  No response. Only echoes called back from the hollow, cathedral-like building.

  “Michelle!” He walked down the hall and to the kitchen, where he noticed a piece of paper lying on the island. Apparently, Dawa’s friends hadn’t been the only ones leaving notes. He picked it up and read:

  Paul,

  Had to leave. I know the last six months have been rough, but Aaron and I aren’t going to be placeholders in your life any longer. If you need me, you can reach me at (555) 555-3998.

  —Michelle

  No terms of endearment. No cordialities. Short, and not so sweet. Paul had put his wife’s needs on the back burner for months now, and she’d finally had enough.

  He let the note fall out of his hands, then took a seat on the stool, shoulders slouched and head hanging low. Soon Claire walked in, followed by Fenton and Donny.

  “Everything okay in here?” Claire asked.

  “No. Not in the least.” He stared down at the note lying face-up on the floor as a poignant wave of guilt came flooding in. Of course she left, thought Paul. Why wouldn’t she? The stress. The danger. The life on the run and off the grid. It was enough to test any couple, let alone one barely two years into a marriage.

  Donny stepped closer and eyed the note. “Damn,” he said. “Really sorry to hear about that, Paul.” Paul nodded with gratitude, even if Donny’s condolences sounded about as sincere as one of his late-night sales pitches.

  Fenton chimed in, too. “Yeah, man. That just—that just plain sucks.”

  Claire saw the number scribbled on the note and asked, “You need a moment to give her a call?”

  The question almost didn’t register.

  Finally, “Yeah. I’ll step out here in a sec, once we figure out where we’re going from here.” He tried to regain some sense of composure, but making it back to Atlanta alive only to find out Michelle was gone had sent his mind into an uncontrollable tailspin. Dazed, he said to Donny, “You’re still a wanted man, Ford. And judging by all those notes on the door, it looks like Dawa’s APD buddies are getting a little worried. Maybe we need to get you somewhere that’s a little more low-key. Hell, maybe we all need to get somewhere that’s a little more low-key.”

  Donny agreed. “Can’t stay here with cops banging down the doors, that’s for sure.” He thought about the deal he’d made with his friend and mentor; how he would gladly turn himself in to the authorities once Asteria was brought to justice. Technically, the downfall of one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies in the world was already playing out live on every cable news station. But with Dawa missing and the CIA still focused on weaponizing Ocula, Ford’s run was far from over. No way he could turn himself in now. Not yet.

  “You guys still think the CIA nabbed Graham?” Fenton asked the group.

  Paul said, “It’s the only explanation for his disappearance. For the car he left on the side of the road, keys still in it. Someone grabbed him fast—I just hope we hear from him soon.”

  The rest agreed, but no one was holding their breath. The most tragic part of Dawa’s disappearance was the fact that out of the entire group, he was the only one who wasn’t an outlier, who hadn’t been wanted by the CIA and Asteria (at least in the beginning). Dawa was just a good detective, an even better man, eager to help those in need. Of course, he would also be the first to tell someone that no good deed went unpunished.

  The good news—if one could even call it that—was that Dawa was worth more to the CIA alive than dead, especially after the Skyline incident. An Atlanta Police detective got caught nine hours from his stomping grounds near a clandestine CIA mountain compound that had just been attacked moments earlier . . . What was he up to? What did he know? And more importantly, who was he working with? Picking him up was no doubt a solid lead for Langley. The group could only hope his value would buy them enough time to find him and get him back in one piece.

  Always the pragmatist at the expense of compassion, Donny chimed in. “Well, if Michelle’s not here then I think we’d better head out. If the CIA’s got Dawa, then it’s only a matter of time before they send some of their goons here to snoop around. No point in sticking around for that.”

  Claire shot Donny a shut-the-fuck-up glare that could have cut through glass. Insensitive prick. Donny might have been right, but that was beside the point—Paul’s wife had just dropped him a Dear John letter and skipped town with their infant son. Probably a good idea to give Paul a minute before voicing one’s own concerns about one’s own ass.

  She hadn’t forgotten the bombshell Kovic laid on her at Skyline, either. According to Kovic, Tanner was the one who had drugged Paul with Ocula to begin with—not Michelle. It was a revelation she should have picked up on from the beginning, but good investigative journalist or not, stress had a way of putting the blinders on. But there was little doubt now. Tanner hiring Alex’s older brother to see if there was a familial connection to the genes Ocula affected made a hell of a lot more sense than Michelle slipping Paul a comatose cocktail the night before his kidnapping.

  She wanted to let Paul in on the truth right then and there, to let him know his wife’s hands were clean, but the timing wasn’t right. Claire recalled how Paul had suspected Michelle of drugging him from the very beginning. How would he feel once he realized he had placed all that blame and suspicion on his completely innocent wife? She watched Paul’s face turn a pale white, his eyes welling up now. He was nearing his breaking point, and she didn’t want to push him over the edge with a guilt trip like that.

  I’ll tell him. Not now, but soon. When the timing’s right.

  The room was quiet again as everyone stood circled around the kitchen island, each navigating their own deluge of whichever thoughts weighed heaviest on their hearts. Paul’s eyes fixed on the note on the floor, lost in the emotional guilt of a marriage that appeared to be over.

  Claire silently repeated the vow she made to Aguilar on the plane: They’re all going to pay. They’re all going down.

  Donny found himself staring into a set of disappearing cracks in the sheetrock walls again. Troxler’s fading. Everything we think we see disappears sooner or later—from his business partner Bill Stevens to his assistant-slash-lover Marci to that volcano down in Costa Rica. Give it long enough, and everything was certain to succumb to the void.

  Then there was Fenton Reed, standing there and chewing his bottom lip, pretending to be deep in thought like the others, but focused more on catching quick and stealthy glances of Claire’s backside in those tight blue jeans. She shifted her weight and his mouth curved into a smile—one he quickly had to reel in the moment Claire busted him out of the corner of her eye.

  It was clear there were certain benefits that were inherent to the underdeveloped teenage mind, like the inability to take anything seriously—or take one’s mind off sex—even in the face of imminent danger. But the grownups had few reasons to be excited. Sure, every indicator pointed to the fact that Asteria seemed to be finished, but it was still too early to call the game. Stocks rise and stocks fall, and while it didn’t look the overextended pharmaceutical giant would pull itself out of the hole, stranger things had happened.

  Still, no company could fully recover from such a hard sell-off. The financial impact would be felt in every department and in every lab across the globe. Further, the likelihood that investors would point to the company’s riskiest asset as a reason for the plummeting stock price was high. Even if Asteria managed to stay in business, it would have t
o be without Ocula. And that, at least, was a silver lining in an otherwise shit situation.

  A sliver of good news, but nothing that could take away from the fact that they’d lost one of their own, and they were the only ones who could get him back.

  A battle at Skyline had been won. But the war was far from over.

  An uncomfortable silence dragged on for what seemed like an eternity before Paul resolved to breaking it. He was about to speak up when the phone rang.

  “Michelle!” He jumped up from the stool. The phone was on the other side of the kitchen, a cordless model set on the counter next to the sink. He picked it up and answered, “Michelle, is that you?”

  There was a long silence. Nothing from the other end. “Michelle?”

  The line crackled and broke the caller’s words up into an incoherent ramble, but the voice sounded eerily familiar—and it wasn’t Michelle.

  “Who is this?” Paul asked.

  Finally, the line cleared and the voice answered:

  “No, Paul. It’s me. It’s your brother, Alex.”

  To Be Concluded …

  Resources

  This novel is a work of fiction, but several of the themes covered in this book have real-world ties. The following list of resources was put together to help anyone interested in learning more about the science, history and current events behind the book.

  Breggin, Peter. “From FDA to GSK: The Dangerous Partnership between Government and Big Pharma.” The Huffington Post, TheHuffingtonPost.com, 26 July 2008, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-peter-breggin/from-fda-to-gsk-the-dange_b_115117.html.

  Chow, Harrison. “The Emotional World of Propofol Dreams, Part I: A Personal Perspective.” California Society of Anesthesiologists, 7 Nov. 2011, http://csahq.org/news/blog/detail/csa-online-first/2011/11/08/the-emotional-world-of-propofol-dreams-part-i-a-personal-perspective.