WASHINGTON WAS IMPLODING and Ty Ward was in the black hole centre of it.
He’d spent the morning trying to keep angry Congressmen away from the President. Word of Delancy’s (second) death had spread fast, and every member of his party seemed to think the killing had been an act of partisanship. They demanded to know why Dawson had done it, how he’d been given access to Delancy, when his trial would begin and who would preside over it. The other party, meanwhile, stayed quiet but, behind closed doors, they snickered and celebrated and toasted Dawson.
Ty himself had interviewed Dawson after the . . . what, murder? Execution? Termination? Dawson had stated that not only had Delancy committed an act of high treason, but he knew that Moreby had been planning to use Delancy to infiltrate the human government. Dawson claimed his action had saved them all. Ty believed him.
That didn’t help when trying to fend off three-dozen angry politicians. He knew the President needed time to prepare her response to what Dawson had done, that it was his job to give her that space, but he had little patience for these senators and representatives who, only a day ago, had been worried about banning gay marriage in order to “keep America fruitful and multiplying”.
He’d been trying to calm down a senator from Florida when a young woman he knew as an aide to a representative from California had run up and told him she’d seen blood pouring from under the door that led into the CIA offices. Even though blood was seldom a good sign, Ty was secretly relieved to be pulled away from the shrieking middle-aged Floridian. He followed the woman through corridors and around corners until they reached the office with a hand-written sign that read CIA DIRECTOR AARON GILLESPIE.
There was a large amount of blood pooling out from beneath the door.
Ty told the woman to leave, which she did, quickly. He knew he should wait for help – preferably armed help – but if someone was still alive, bleeding to death while he stood by outside . . .
He tried the door, which was unlocked. Heart hammering, he looked in, moving cautiously.
There was a body on the floor just inside.
Ty knelt, trying to keep one eye on the surroundings – but when he saw the knife still clutched in one of the dead man’s hands and verified that the blood streams were pouring from slit wrists, he put aside caution. The corpse lay face down, and even though he knew, he put two fingers beneath the chin and tilted the head up enough to verify the identity: It was Gillespie. Dead. Suicide.
Rising, Ty stepped around the blood and body, making sure there was no one else present, no signs of struggle, nothing out of the ordinary.
That was when he saw the gruesome message written across the walls, three red words scrawled in blood atop layers of taped-up printouts and articles:
WE CANT WIN
“Jesus,” he muttered to himself.
He found a tape dispenser on Gillespie’s desk, a blank sheet of paper, and a Sharpie pen. He used the pen to write DO NOT ENTER on the paper, then left the room, stringing tape across the opening and attaching his handmade sign. He’d worry later about cleaning up. Maybe he’d tell the shrieking Florida senator to do it.
In the meantime, he’d have to tell the President that whatever little intelligence Gillespie had recently been supplying would now be gone.
Dr Willson Armitage <w.armitage@cdc.gov> |
|
To: |
Sandra Steele <s.steele@whitehouse.gov> |
Sent: |
THU, Nov 14, 4:27 PM |
Subject: |
HRV antiserum |
Please advise President that attempts at creating HRV antiserum from files of G. Singh and blood of subject Moon completely successful. Expect to be able to produce large quantities shortly. Complete report to follow.
W. A.