“HELLO, DETECTIVE. I’M KATRINA. I hear you’re looking for me.” She motioned toward her office. “We can talk in my office.”
After the two men sat down in the two chairs across from her desk, she took a seat in a sleek leather chair behind the desk. She remembered Kirk Weston from pictures and surveillance videos from the MAG Chamber. It seemed this man was not one to give up easily.
“So, Detective, what can I do for you?” She folded her hands and looked at the two men across from her. Detective Weston was dressed in a white T-shirt and blue jeans. His leather jacket was tattered and in dire need of replacement, but he looked better than the last time she saw him.
“We just want to ask you a few questions.” Pulling out a photo, he placed it on her desk and slid it toward her. She picked it up and looked at it without expression before handing it back to him.
“Is that you, Miss Meskhenet?”
“May I ask what this is regarding, Detective?” She avoided the question, hoping he didn’t notice her evasion. The trail to her was cold, and the case was closed, but something in his eyes told her this would not be the last time she saw him in her office asking questions.
“That’s confidential, Miss Meskhenet. But I have other photos of a woman who looks a lot like you driving away from a crime scene and into this very office building. Can you explain that?”
She could tell this would get out of hand if she didn’t give him something he thought was a help. Or maybe she should shut him down so hard he had no reason to ever come looking her way again. She was a smart and complicated person, but she was not careless. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was detailed and covered her tracks in every situation. Now, with a cop poking his nose in a high-profile investigation, she was glad she was so thorough. “When was this taken, might I ask?”
The detective looked over to his partner then back to her with a knowing look in his eye.
She knew now he knew he was chasing a cold case and had nothing on her other than some blurry satellite pictures. “Last year in October. October fifth, to be exact. Can you tell me where you were on that day?”
“I’m not sure where I was a year ago. Do you remember where you were a year ago Detective Weston?”
Kirk grinned and nodded. “Actually, yes. I can tell you exactly where I was.”
Isis mentally kicked herself. Wrong thing to ask. “Let me see what I can do.” She pushed a button on her phone. “Biba, please pull everything on my schedule from October fifth of last year.” She smiled at Kirk. “We keep very good records, due to how much I travel with the company.”
The intern came into the office a few minutes later with a folder marked October. He glanced at the two men sitting across from his boss, handed the folder to Isis, and left the room without speaking.
“Okay.” She flipped through the folder until she came to the fifth. “Here it is. You said the fifth of October, right? I was in Baghdad working on a story about oil drilling and its effects on our environment. Here’s my hotel receipt plus a few from a local restaurant.” She smiled politely as she handed the contents to the detective.
* * *
KIRK TRIED TO HIDE his disappointment as he looked through the folder. Everything was signed and date stamped for the fifth of October. She was his only real lead, but maybe this woman wasn’t Isis Kanika. He thought back to her file. Did it contain fingerprints?
He returned the folder. “Thank you, Miss Meskhenet. Apparently you’re not the woman we’re looking for. Do you have any idea who the person in this photo is?”
She glanced again at the photo. “It is a little fuzzy, but I can understand how you could mistake her for me. Same hair color and skin tone. The fact she drove to this building is very strange, but this is a big parking garage. Maybe she just came here to drop something off.”
Kirk looked at Geoff, who hadn’t spoken the entire time, hoping he had something to offer, but got nothing extraordinary from his expression. He turned back to Isis. “Thanks for your time.”
“Not a problem. If I can be of any further help, just let me know.” She stood and walked them to the door.
As they were about to leave, Kirk asked, “Oh, one other thing. Does the name Isis Kanika ring a bell?”
She thought for a moment. “It sounds Egyptian in origin. But, no, I can’t say that it does.”
He nodded. “Thanks, anyway.” As they made their way down the hall toward the elevators, Kirk thought about the interview. Everything fit so well. The picture leading them to the building. This woman and the Isis lead... “Geoff, I think we’re being played.”
“How so, boss?”
“Everything fits too well—the picture, the building, and this Katrina woman looking like our suspect. I think we were set up to think it all came from here. Something is definitely going on, and we need to find out what it is.”
“So we’re back to square one, huh?”
“No, we ruled out this Miss Meskhenet woman, which leaves us with one other option.”
Geoff looked confused, but then his face lit up. “Follow the file, right?”
“Yup, the file was sent to the FBI. From there, the case was ruled as a freak food poisoning accident. Something went wrong—or should I say someone. We find who touched that file, we find our guy.”
* * *
ISIS SHUT HER OFFICE door and sighed in relief. That was too close for comfort, but at least she convinced them. Or did she? She sat in her leather chair and spun around to look out the window. The sun was shining on the frost-covered ground, which sparkled like gems in a clear stream. She could see the outline of Central Park with the trees, the faint glint of light as it hit the water. Picking up her phone, she dialed Big B.
“They’re gone. Can you text me when Mark is out?”
“Will do.”
She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair to let the sun warm her face. How much of her story did the detective believe? Was he on a vendetta now that he was free? Was he out for blood? She hoped he wouldn’t be a problem and made a mental note to bring it up in the next meeting. They might need to intervene again in Detective Kirk Weston’s life.
* * *
THE MAN SWIVELED HIS chair to meet Mark’s gaze. He wore a tailored, black, pinstriped suit and wire-rimmed glasses.
Mark gasped when the older man rose from his chair. It was as if he knew him, knew him well, but couldn’t remember who he was or when he’d seen him before. The thought bothered him. This was happening a lot these days. Was his memory going? Or was he in some sort of twilight zone, where everyone knew him—but he couldn’t remember them?
“Who are you?” His simple question broke the silence and made him feel like he had some sort of control, as slim as it might be. The man, who had thick, silver hair, appeared to be in his late sixties or seventies. The cane that leaned against his desk had a bright-red ruby on top. It sparkled and glimmered, looking like an all-knowing eye.
“That’s a loaded question, Mark. In time you will know everything.” The older man stood, reached for his cane and walked to where Mark stood. He held out his hand.
Mark took his hand. The man’s handshake was firm and warm. Somehow, that made him feel a little better, despite every cell in his brain telling him something was wrong, dangerously wrong.
“My name is Solomon. I’m the leader of the World Justice Agency. I’m sure you have many questions, which will be answered in due time. Just be patient with us, if I might be so bold as to ask.” Pointing to a chair, he motioned for Mark to sit down.
Mark walked over to the wood-lined chair, sat down, and watched this—boss—or mastermind, or whatever he was—pace in front of the desk, his cane clicking. From the looks of it, Solomon didn’t need the cane. Mark wondered why he used it.
For a moment, the gray-haired man stood with his back to him, stroking his neatly trimmed beard, as if to gather his thoughts.
Mark looked around the room, marveling at the tall bookcases, wondering what wisdom they held and the years it must have taken to build the collection. He’d never seen so many books in one place. There had to be thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands covering every wall, floor to ceiling, all around the great room.
Solomon leaned with both hands on the cane. “I’m going to tell you who we are and what we do. After I’m finished, you may ask any questions you like, and I will answer them. Is that acceptable to you?”
Mark nodded.
“The world is filled with violence, evil, hate.” Solomon began. “For thousands of years, justice was meted out by kings and judges. In our current era, it is the duty of government. In centuries past, citizens have sometimes been driven to rise against their governments to restore justice when it was lost.” He stepped to the nearest bookshelf and pulled out a leather-lined book that looked like it was about to crumble.
“This great country was founded on the rights of the people. The people ruled themselves because everyone had the same basic values as to was acceptable, what was considered a crime, what was sin—if you will. Today, we are losing more rights every day with each perverted laws Congress passes in the name of saving us from ourselves. The Supreme Court houses judges who crave power and overturn whatever laws they are not paid to support. We have lost the passion and the common sense to see the difference between a what and why.”
He leaned toward Mark, looking deep into his eyes.
Mark felt like Solomon was looking into his very soul. The feeling unnerved him so much he wanted to turn away—but he couldn’t.
“Do you see the murder, the rape, the evil going on all around you? Do you feel the fear of dark alleys where women are raped and killed without retribution?” He straightened. “I do, Mr. Appleton. I see that our justice system is not doing what it should. I see where it is understaffed, unable to keep up with the amount of hate that is splashed across our streets every single hour of every single day.”
Standing tall, he raised his voice as he paced the room. “Throughout time, there were groups of people who were appointed judge and jury. In Bible times, it was the Levites. In the reign of the British Empire, it was Parliament. In our great country, it’s the Supreme Court.”
He slammed his cane on the floor, his eyes blazing with passion. “WJA is here to bring balance to the court system. We, the World Justice Agency, carry out justice. We are here to uphold the law that says if you kill, you will pay with your own life. Eye for eye. Tooth for tooth. Life for life. This is our country, and we are taking it back.
“We have two choices. We can sit by and let our country burn under the flag of tolerance, or we can recreate a world where our children and grandchildren can live in safety.” Once again, he slammed the cane against the floor.
Mark swallowed. The guy was serious.
Sitting down in the oversized chair behind his large desk, he turned his back to Mark and sighed. “You see, Mark, WJA is the last thing holding America together. We are involved in every part of government and in every agency, and the reason you are here today is because of us.” With a soft voice, he finished. “I’m your father, Mark.”
Mark clutched the arms of his chair as he tried to remember his childhood. His parents had died in a plane crash when he was a baby. As far as he knew, he’d lived with foster parents most of his life. He didn’t have many memories before the age of twelve.
“What are you saying?” He choked on the words.
Solomon turned his chair, rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers together. “I’m not your blood father, Mark, but I’m the one who rescued you after your parents died. You lived down here with me until you were eleven years old. I taught you and trained you up as a child.”
Mark opened his mouth, then closed it. “I don’t believe it. If it was true, I’d remember you. I’d remember this place.” This was crazy. He had to get out. Get back to the real world. He tried stand but was too dizzy. He plopped back down in the chair with a thump, feeling his stomach turn and a lost, confusing loneliness wash over his soul.
“Just relax. It will all come back to you.” Solomon stood and walked over to a dial on the wall. He turned it, and the room filled with music, strong voices of people singing opera. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. It was so soothing, it felt like… like home.
The music filled his ears and his mind, making everything come into focus. The fear and confusion left him and a sense of peace wrapped him like a warm blanket. He thought of his wife and daughter, but this time, he remembered more than just the recent past. Memories buried deep within his subconscious began to surface. Yes, he remembered Solomon.
It felt like a movie in fast-forward. The images of his childhood flipped through his mind, skipping from one event to another, taking him back to a world he’d forgotten. He opened his eyes to see Solomon standing in front of him with a kind smile on his face.
“Welcome home, son.”
* * *
MARK SPENT THE EVENING walking through the underground buildings with Solomon, Isis, and the rightfully named Big B as his guides. Solomon was gentle, almost tender. Isis was quiet but obviously taking it all in, not missing a thing. Big B was loud and cheerful in a rather intoxicating way. Mark laughed at his jokes and fought to remain upright each time the giant man pounded his back.
The Merc Building served as a physical home for WJA, and a media company was the front organization that the agency used to cloak its activities. The Merc was the ops base for most of their field agents. The front organization allowed their operatives to penetrate otherwise inaccessible areas, such as the Middle East, and even other areas where nothing but traditional press credentials would do.
He was astounded by the maze of training rooms, which provided everything from hand-to-hand combat to classes on reading satellite maps to French, Chinese and ancient Greek language instruction. The organization appeared to be far from a group of hell-bent assassins who traveled the world dealing out revenge. They were trained and organized in a way that made the CIA and the FBI look like a bunch of schoolyard kids playing hide and seek.
Mark learned that there were four classifications of assassins. The first was the Avenger Class. This group was comprised of people who came to the organization through some sort of family crisis. Like Mark, their families were killed or somehow taken from them. They were enlisted to avenge someone or something. Trained to take on the deadliest missions, they jumped when no one else would. They had nothing to lose.
The second was the Co-op Class. These agents were trained in highly sensitive missions that involved stealth and agility. Most of these killers were women, due to their ability to blend in. Isis, Mark learned, was a CC assassin. Their missions involved chemical warfare and had to be carried out with absolute accuracy and discretion.
The third was the D Class. Those agents were trained in all aspects of explosives and heavy weapons. They were called in when the WJA got involved in a combat operation and in situations where multiple targets or buildings were to be eliminated.
Then, there was a fourth and very rare classification. Only a select few advanced to that level. These elite belonged to the Sniper Class. Highly trained snipers, they were also schooled in the curriculum of the three other classes, including hand-to-hand combat. The SC class could only be held by a born assassin, one who was brought up by the WJA and trained from birth.
Mark rubbed his forehead. That was it. He was a trained assassin. The thought made him cringe, but as his past came flooding back, he knew deep down that was what he’d been born to do.
They walked through the main command center, where people scurried from one place to another. Screens were lit throughout the room.
Solomon swept his hand over the scene. “Each person in this room is responsible for a single operative. They are making sure the people in the field have everything they need. Plus, they monitor their progress.” He turned to Mark. ”You’ve been awfully quiet. Any questions.”
“Why is it I don’t remember all the training I supposedly had as a child? I remember bits and pieces, like maybe some martial arts, but not everything.” The memories were jumbled and seemed to come in slow bursts.
“We use a process that buries the information deep within a child’s subconscious. It was taught to you before you could even talk. The mind before the age of three years of age is like a sponge. We simply programmed the information into you using a machine I created. I’ll show you.”
They followed a walkway that wound its way around the command center. It ran next to the wall, about forty feet in the air, and was suspended from the ceiling by large cables. Along the way, they passed five doors—all closed—with no windows through which he could peek. When they reached the last door, Solomon opened it, and they went inside.
The room was dimly lit, but from there, they could see into a second room through one of the large, rounded windows on the south wall. It appeared to be a small computer room with three men in head-to-toe medical suits working at a machine.
Mark could see a small chair apparatus suspended from the ceiling like a giant robot’s hook. It had a rounded bottom with a soft, padded lining and a pillow at the top. Round pads dangled from it like spider legs.
“We have one of my children here now.” Solomon pointed to a woman dressed in ordinary clothing holding what looked to be maybe a five-month-old baby. She held the sleeping child close to her body and looked down at it with love. He could tell she cared deeply for the baby.
After the child was put in the bed, the woman placed small electronic pads on the baby’s feet, then pulled down a clear plastic top and locked it in place.
After everything was set, the men at the computers began to work.
“What are you going to do?” Mark asked. He felt a little sick and for a brief second wondered if he was about to witness some sort of evil sacrifice or a mad-scientist moment where the crazy old man yelled for Igor to “pull the switch.”
“Don’t worry. We won’t hurt him. Just watch.”
The baby woke and looked around, content as could be, as if in a baby swing. The clear plastic top apparently acted like a computer monitor, flashing images so fast Mark couldn’t tell what the pictures were. He watched the baby, expecting it to cry out in fear, but he—or was it she?—just sucked his thumb and watched the images with an indifferent expression on his face.
“What’s happening?”
“Right now, that child is learning everything there is to know about hand-to-hand combat. When the image is beamed through the electronic pulse, it sends a signal to his brain and makes a muscle memory of it. So his brain retains the information, and the baby’s brain thinks it is actually performing the actions, like taking apart a weapon or pulling the trigger and so on.” Solomon’s voice grew excited as he talked.
“Does it hurt him?”
“No, no. Everything’s on a subconscious level, so the baby is just sleeping or watching the screen and will not remember anything. And the best part is, if the child grows up and doesn’t want to be a part of the WJA, they won’t have any memory of it.”
“How is that possible? I mean, I remember some things about this place.”
“Yes, but you only remember me, or maybe a room, or when we played catch in a park. You remember places, people and experiences but not any of your training. It will only come to you when you need it. And with practice, you’ll be able to turn it on and off at will.”
Mark gaped at him.
“You don’t believe me?”
The next instant, he felt the cold steel of a knife blade on his throat. Before he could even think, he grabbed the back of the knife with his hand and twisted it downward as he dropped to one knee. As the attacker was thrown off balance. Mark flipped around, and in one swift movement, threw the attacker to the floor and straddled him, holding the knife to his throat.
“Hold on!” Big B yelled. He touched Mark’s shoulder. “It was just a test. Don’t kill him, buddy.”
Mark looked up at Solomon, who was laughing, and released his attacker, who got up and pulled off his ski mask. He was one of the men who had been standing at the first checkpoint on the way in. He offered Mark a nod and walked away.
“So, Mark, how did you know how to do that?” Solomon asked. “Have you ever had any training or experience with someone holding a knife to your throat?”
Mark thought a moment. “I don’t know. I just reacted with my instincts.”
“Exactly. That is what we do here, in this lab. We create instincts. You don’t remember them until you need them.”
Mark folded his arms and thought about the explosion and the men at the cabin. He’d done what felt natural. He‘d known what to do, how to talk, what to say—and how to keep the situation in his control, as if he’d done it a thousand times.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Solomon said. “All the children in this program are either orphans or children of current employees. We make sure the orphans are placed in good foster care at around age eleven. All the employees’ children are free to come in for training and go home afterward, if they like. Anyone who lives here is cared for and assigned to a current family already in the program.”
“So I was in the orphan program?”
“Yes, and that older man you saw on the way in was your caregiver. He and his wife tried to give you as normal a life as possible. They loved you very much.”
“I thought he looked familiar. Mr. Able, right?”
“Yes. His wife passed last year, but he’s still here with us.” He patted Mark’s shoulder. “Big B will take you upstairs to get checked in and run through all the rules and legal information. I’ll see you later tonight, after dinner, and will try to ease your mind over a drink.”
Big B walked Mark back to the main lobby area. Mark glanced back as they entered the elevator. If this was a wild dream, he didn’t know whether he wanted to wake up or not.