Read World Without End Online

Authors: Chris Mooney

Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Thriller

World Without End (4 page)

"We came in on that in the end, after the chopper was stolen. That one was strange, I'll give you that much, but this time, we're involved right from the beginning. Angel Eyes doesn't even know we're here."
"That suit offers total invisibility. Wearing it, being invisible you would be a god. He could walk in and out of any company he wanted, steal whatever he wanted. Shit, the guy could walk straight into the White House and assassinate the President." Conway twirled his coffee cup on the desk, stopped, and then said, "A man would go to great lengths to have that kind of power."
Bouchard propped his elbows up on the chair's arm, spread his fingers wide and then stared at his fingertips as he bounced them together.
"You really believe the shit's going to hit the fan today."
"The truth is we've studied what little intel we've got on this guy, and we're not any closer to discovering what makes him tick. He has an uncanny ability to stay off the radar screen. He reminds me of a bolt of lightning just pops out of the sky, strikes its target and then disappears."
"Does Dixon's sudden need to go skydiving have anything to do with why you're spooked?"
Late yesterday evening, Dixon called Conway at home and with a voice bursting with enthusiasm said that they were going skydiving first thing tomorrow morning. Conway, an experienced skydiver, had tried to talk him out of it, but Dix said no, he was going to do it with or without Conway.
"You've got to admit, it's odd," Conway said.
"Dix said he had to do it. Today."
"So?"
"So you don't know Dixon. This isn't his style. The guy suffers from panic attacks and he suddenly has the need to go skydiving? Come on.
It doesn't fit."
"You're suggesting that someone might have put him up to this."
It was a possibility, sure, but highly unlikely. Dixon's life was monitored around the clock. Every phone call, e-mail, fax, therapy session everything that the man had said or did for the past two years had been recorded and analyzed. If someone had contacted Dixon, the IWAC team would have known and would have immediately reported it to Conway.
That hadn't happened, of course. So why was that sick feeling still twisting inside his gut, telling him something was wrong?
It's Psychology 101, my friend. You're afraid that what happened with Armand is going to be repeated today, so what are you trying to do?
Control the outcome by minimizing the risks.
"I'm saying it doesn't fit," Conway said.
"I'll admit it's odd," Bouchard said.
"But Dixon's an odd duck. I talked it over with Pasha. Everything checks out."
In a flash, Conway recalled the day of Paul Devincent's funeral. His wife had died three years before of cancer, and now that he was gone, his two small boys, ages eight and six, would go to live with an uncle in San Francisco. Conway would never forget the haunted look on the boys' faces as they watched their father's coffin being lowered into the ground.
Paul Devincent shouldn't have died. If I had done my goddamn job, then those kids wouldn't be orphans.
"What do you want me to do, Stephen? Cancel the meeting and blow our one clear shot at taking this guy off the board?" Bouchard opened his hands in an inviting motion, his tone so patient, so understanding, that it grated on Conway.
Conway looked out the window. It was mid-October, about two weeks away from Halloween, the blue sky cloudless. Back home in Boston, the air would be cool and filled with the pleasant aroma of leaves and wood-burning smoke blowing from chimneys. But here in Austin, it was going to be another scorcher full of humidity.
"Stephen?"
"I voiced my concerns," Conway said.
"Do you find your team members talented?"
"Of course."
"Intelligent? Dependable?"
"You know I do."
"Do you trust them?"
Conway looked back and shot Bouchard a hard look.
"With my life."
"Then have faith in me when I tell you all the bases are covered.
Go skydiving, go to a movie, get him laid go wherever Dixon wants to go today. I want him nice and relaxed when he walks inside the airport with the CD. Dixon's the key to this operation."
"Understood," Conway said.
Bouchard leaned forward in his chair.
"Hindsight's great after the shit's hit the fan," he said.
"Hindsight loves to tell you what you should have done. I'm here to tell you that there was nothing, Stephen, nothing you or I or anyone else could have done that morning that would have prevented the Armand gig from turning sour. You're lucky you didn't die."
But two team members two of my friends did die, and I've also lost the laser rifle. Conway drank some of his coffee. The whole operation had turned FUBAR Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.
"I have confidence that it will go smoothly," Bouchard said, and stood up.
"You should, too. Just focus on Dixon."
"I won't let you down."
"You didn't let me down the first time, Stephen." Bouchard opened the door and then shut it behind him, leaving Conway alone in the quiet air-conditioned room.
Conway went to take a swig of coffee and saw a tiny clump of cream that had settled on the top. He thought of the evasive rat that once again, despite all the intense planning, had managed to thwart the trap and escape with the prized cheese.
The architectural plans for the penthouse suite were so odd, so unusual, that the condo association, naturally, had balked. But when it was explained that the owner suffered from a compromised immune system, the condo association, fearing a discrimination lawsuit, decided to let it go through. It certainly helped matters that each of the board members had received a handsome cash gift for their assistance.
The contractor who oversaw the construction had made a copy of the plans and had them framed. The two pictures had hung on the wall inside his home office until a burglar, for reasons unknown, stole them. The contractor died shortly thereafter, in his sleep, the victim of a heart attack.
The penthouse consists of three floors. The first and second floors are made up of wide, airy rooms with high ceilings and magnificent windows that offer sweeping, breathtaking views of the city of Austin, Texas. The floor is a seam-sealed white laminate called Mepalam; the corners of the room are rounded and leave no crevices, allowing for easier cleaning. Most of the third floor is uninhabitable; it is packed with bulky HEPA air-purification equipment and temperature controls that keeps the air inside the suite cool, even during the winter months. The refrigerated air and the Vesphene/Spor-Klenz cleaning solution keeps any bacteria or germs from incubating. At least, that's what his mind believes to be true.
Beyond the front door is what can only be called a two-room changing chamber. The first part has a floor made of white marble and a set of four lockers, two on each wall, for the three-man cleaning team. They work solely for the owner and have been handpicked for their discretion. They are well paid and must submit to blood tests at the beginning of each month. In this age of technology, disease runs rampant a man in his position needs to be careful. When the owner is in Austin, as he has been for the past few months, they come to clean the condo every two weeks. If you are granted the rare opportunity to meet the man inside, this is what you must do:
Strip out of your clothes and hang them neatly inside the locker. Now face the long, rectangular monitor. The owner will want to check your skin for sores or lesions. Exposed cuts, even ones that are in the process of healing, are cause for rejection. Make sure your nails are trimmed. And do not try to hide anything. Security cameras placed in the corners watch your every move.
The stainless-steel shower has two doors that operate on locks controlled by the owner. Enter. The door will shut and lock itself, and the water will be turned on for you. It is hot. Pick up the bottle of PhisoHex and the scrub brush and then face the monitor. Start scrubbing your skin, paying particular attention to your fingernails, a known breeding ground for bacteria. If the owner is satisfied with the manner in which you have washed, the water will be shut off and the lock on the shower's second door will be released. Step out into the second room and begin the elaborate process of suiting up.
The regimen is specific. Do not deviate from it for any reason.
Towel yourself off and then toss the towel inside the biohazard bag.
Use the iso-foam alcohol on your skin. Make sure you cover each part of your skin; the camera is watching you, and you will be told about the areas you've missed. Tyvek suits, folded and sealed inside plastic bags, are stacked in a stainless-steel container next to the shower.
Rip open the bag and place the provided sterile Tyvek strip on the floor. Place one foot on the strip and then put the bootie on your other foot. Now step down with the booted foot and place the second bootie on your exposed foot. Slip into the Tyvek body suit and secure the hood around your head. The Tyvek body suit will keep your body hair and any remaining dead skin cells from contaminating the condo.
The glove process is elaborate and time-consuming. Two pairs of gloves are required. Again, rub your hands with the iso-foam alcohol and then put one glove on, rolling the cuff down. Repeat with the other. Now rub more iso-foam alcohol on your gloved hands and repeat with the second set, making sure that the gloves are sealed under the cuffs of your Tyvek suit. Secure the breathing filtration system across your mouth and nose, and then put on your goggles. If the owner is satisfied by the procedure, you are granted access.
The lock on the door clicks open. Come inside.
The HVAC unit is a constant, low rumble. The air-conditioning units give the rooms a cold, refrigerated feel. As always, the owner is alone.
Outside, the morning temperature has already reached ninety degrees.
The man's breath fogs the air and then disappears. If he is bothered by the cold, he doesn't show it. He stares out the window, the sunlight bright and warm against his pale face. He can stand like this for hours and stare. Thinking. Meditating. Right now, he is thinking about the origin of the name the CIA has given him: Angel Eyes.
The man's real name is Amon Faust. The CIA doesn't know this, of course. They know nothing about him. But Faust knew about them, about the trap waiting for him at the airport.
This morning, Faust was dressed in white linen pants and an off-white sweater. When inside, he preferred wearing white, the only color that could be bleached. His head recently had been shaved. Faust detested body hair. Each morning, he shaved his head and the few patches of skin on his body that were not horribly scarred by the burn. Only his eyebrows remained. Removing them would only draw attention when traveling outside. His line of work demanded anonymity.
Faust walked across the hardwood floor in his bare feet to the living area. Clipped to the waistband of his pants was a phone with a wire running to the headset and microphone. He would be on the phone a large part of the day.
It was safe to talk. The windows were multiple-pane glass with a Mylar film inside. If someone outside was using a laser listening device to pick up vibrations off the glass, they wouldn't be able to hear anything. The phone he used had state-of-the-art digital encryption that Raymond Bouchard and his private group of twenty-first-century warriors couldn't crack. The condo's walls were lined with copper and for added security he had devices that prevented phone calls, conversations, and emissions from TV and computer screens from being picked up by any outside monitoring devices.
Mounted on the wall was an audio system along with a single row of neatly stacked titles of rare vinyl records that dated back to the early fifties. He preferred vinyl records over audio tapes and compact discs, or the more popular MP3 music files, which could be pirated from any number of Internet sites. Faust found the weight and feel of the cardboard sleeve in his hands comforting, the way the needle sounded when it first hit the record, implying a shared intimacy between the singer and listener.
He was in the mood for something soulful. He scanned the titles…
Dinah Washington. Perfect. He removed the cardboard with his bare hands and then slid out the record, catching a whiff of the aged, moldy cardboard. The man who brought him these records, Gunther the boy Faust had raised himself, used a special cleaning process to disinfect the record. Ultraviolet light killed lingering germs on the cardboard sleeve.
Faust played one of his favorite songs: "TV Is the Thing This Year." As Dinah sang over the ceiling-mounted speakers, he walked into the kitchen, rubbing his hands over the cool, smooth surface of the Corian counters. He preferred the look of granite but couldn't risk possible infection. Granite was notorious for holding germs and lethal bacteria deep in the microscopic crevices, places that not even the cleaning solutions could reach. He opened the Sub-Zero refrigerator and removed a glass bottle of water. Faust had the water imported from Iceland, where the water came from a glacier that was over one thousand years old. He did not drink water from the United States, and avoided drinking any fluid stored in plastic. The chemical used to form plastic, Bisphenol-A2, was a carcinogen known to leach its way into bottled water. The world was in such a deplorable state, plagued with viral diseases that had no cure and cancers and toxins that lived in the very air we breathed, the food and water we ate. Faust knew his measures were extreme, but they would help to ensure his health. He had to live in order to carry out his personal vision.
The phone rang. Faust pressed the TALK button.
"Yes, Gunther."
"Conway and Dixon are on their way to the skydiving school."
"How many following?"
"A surveillance unit and two vans containing their Hazard Teams."

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