“Any questions?” I asked.
There were none.
“Very well,” I said. “New drill, Top—three to two, broken leg.”
“Bite my balls,” said Ivan, but he was grinning, enjoying what was coming. Lydia laughed and punched him on the arm.
Top gave me a curt nod. It was one of his favorite scenarios, too.
The group was divided into five-man teams. Three bad guys, two good guys; but the kicker was that one of the good guys was to simulate having a badly broken leg. Working together, the good guys had to fight their way past the three opponents, cross fifty feet of the mat, and cross a safe line Top had taped on the far side. The bad guys were allowed to have wooden knives and clubs. The good guys were not.
It was a bitch of an exercise. There were variations of it to simulate broken arms, being blinded, or in bigger groups having two soldiers protect a “shot” comrade from the whole rest of the team. There was nothing academic about any of this, most of the people in this room had already been in one real-life version of this kind of thing. And that’s a damn sad fact to report.
Ghost, however, sat up to watch and was apparently entertained by the thuds of wood on skin and the sounds fighters made when their mock opponents weren’t feeling all fuzzy and warm.
My phone rang. The screen display showed an icon of a steeple.
My boss, Mr. Church. Before I could get anything else out he cut me off. “My office. Now.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
The Hangar
Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn
Sunday, August 31, 11:33 a.m.
Church was alone in his office and he gestured for me to close the door and sit. I dropped into a leather chair. Ghost sat in the corner, watching us both.
“Captain,” Church said without preamble, “we are having an interesting day.”
“I know. I heard about Riggs and the Berserkers.”
“Before we get to that, where are we with the candidates? How soon before they’re ready to roll?”
I sucked my teeth. “‘Roll’ as in begin official training, or ‘roll’ as in go into the field?”
“The field.”
“Ideally? Three weeks. Why, how much time do I have?”
“Almost none. We’re having an interesting day.”
“I hate the word
interesting
.”
He snorted. “So far most of what’s happening does not directly involve us, but I don’t like the way the day is shaping up. If things move in a certain direction I would hate to lose a step getting into gear. To that end, we may have to dismiss anyone who needs hand-holding and assign the rest where they’ll do the most good.”
“That bad, huh?”
He merely grunted. There was a beautiful cut-glass water pitcher and two glasses on his desk. He poured us each a glass. In the middle of the desk, perhaps slightly closer to him than me, was a plate of cookies. Church always had cookies. If he had to jump off a sinking ship in only his skivvies he’d land in a lifeboat that was stocked with cookies. They were either his only weakness—or perhaps the only proof of his humanity—or maybe there was some kind of significance to the cookies. To which ones were on offer apart from his ubiquitous vanilla wafers; and to the times he offered one, or didn’t, and how many he ate—and how often. Rudy and I have been trying to work it out for years. We were sure there was something there.
Or maybe Rudy and I had become batshit paranoid. Jury was still out.
Church took a vanilla wafer, tapped the crumbs off, took a small bite, and set the cookie down in the precise center of a paper napkin. “Have you watched the news this morning?”
“No. Been busy making life miserable for the candidates. Why? Are the Berserkers—?”
“No. We have no news on that situation. However, a bomb was detonated this morning at a sports center in Lexington, Kentucky. Initial reports suggest it was a backpack bomb similar to the Boston Marathon event some years ago.”
“More Chechnyans?” I asked.
“Witnesses say that the suspects were two teenage boys, probably Asian.” He described the situation. “This is breaking news, so you now know as much as I do. However, I rolled Moonshine Team to provide any on-site assistance, and I put them at the disposal of the ATF and local law.”
“Okay.”
“There was also an explosion at a law library in Gettysburg. One casualty, no witnesses. Nature of the bomb is unknown. So far no one is connecting the two, but I dislike coincidences. I sent Liberty Bell Team via helo to put eyes on that.”
I nodded.
“We don’t yet know if these are connected to each other or to the situation developing on the Net.”
“Yeah, Bug sent something for me to watch, something about a hacker video, but I haven’t had time to take a look. It didn’t seem to be our sort of thing.”
“Take a look now, Captain,” he said. “I think you’ll find that it’s very much our thing.”
He picked up a remote and pointed it at the flatscreen on the wall. The face of a pretty Korean gal appeared on the screen. Betty Page haircut, big sunglasses, bright red lipstick.
“Okay, monkeys,” said the Korean girl, “pay attention, ’cause there are three things you need to know and Mother Night is here to tell you.”
We watched the video. Twice.
“Crap,” I said. “Mother Night? She’s back? How old is this?”
“It’s a combination of a brief prerecorded video loop used as a placeholder, probably to attract attention, followed by what appears to be a live feed.”
“That girl … she looks like the one I…”
Church’s eyes were dark marbles behind the tinted lenses of his glasses. He waited for me to continue. “Very similar,” he said, “but we ran facial recognition on both women and they are not a match. This woman is likely as much as ten years older. And before this video began there was a second video, a loop of yet another Asian woman in an identical costume.”
“What’s that mean? Is Mother Night a
them
rather than a
her
?”
“Unknown.”
“Jesus,” I said. “We should keep a lid on this. Who’s seen the video?”
Church sighed. “Too many people. This ‘Mother Night’ video, as it’s already being called, appeared in an extraordinary number of places via a Trojan horse that contained some very sophisticated intrusion viruses. Conservative estimate is two hundred million computers have been infected, very likely over a period of weeks or months. Bug said you could position this kind of Trojan horse on search engines like Wikipedia or stream sites such as Netflix and Hulu. Naturally, every news network has broadcast it. Bug tells me that it has already gone viral on YouTube.”
“Shit.”
“There’s more. Vice President Collins has been in touch with me.”
“Of course he has,” I said sourly. When Ghost heard the name Collins, he made one of his low growly noises. Not the kind of noise you’d want to hear when your name was mentioned. “Dare I ask what he said?”
Church pursed his lips. “He has officially informed me that his Cybercrimes Task Force is taking jurisdiction of this matter because he is convinced it falls under the umbrella of the VaultBreaker case.”
“Really? ’Cause I think that whole attempted-murder thing in Baltimore dribbled the Mother Night case into our court.”
“Not according to him,” continued Church. “The Veep went on to say that we are to offer additional field support to the CTF.”
“‘Field support’?” I said, giving it the same inflection you’d give “nutsack pimple.”
“Yes. He would like us to run down a few things for him.”
I smiled. “Like what? Pick up his dry cleaning and walk his dog? I mean, did I miss the part where we became his lackeys?”
“If so, then I missed the same memo. And it’s highly likely that task list will be misfiled.” Church pursed his lips. “The Veep is a difficult man to admire. However, our immediate concern is Mother Night.”
He replayed the video.
“What’s the deal with the anarchist rant?” I asked.
“The phrasing is a bit glib,” he said. “It could be a deflection. Nor does it give us insight to her real agenda.”
“Oh boy.” I thought about it. “And Labor Day’s on Monday. Are we thinking that the anarchy thing and Mother Night’s field trips to mad science labs are connected? It’s a stretch, but I can see it. Maybe. Labor is work, working for a wage, working for the system, working for the Man, that sort of thing. Could be some kind of proletariat link there—”
“It’s possible,” Church said dubiously.
“Wouldn’t be the first time some bonehead’s confused anarchy with socialism or Marxism. Most people don’t know the difference.”
He made a noncommittal sound, unconvinced.
I changed direction. “Much as I really hate to do it, I could also make a case for the anarchist comment and the bombs in Gettysburg and Lexington to be connected.”
“I agree with you on that much,” Church said. “It’s why I sent teams to each location. Dr. Sanchez and Circe are currently reviewing the video in hopes of decrypting any possible subtext. It’s Circe’s fear that if this is an anarchist matter then the ‘burn to shine’ reference may be a coded call to arms.”
“That’s the same phrase Violin said had been painted in blood on a lab full of dead people.”
“Yes,” Church said, nodding. He tapped a key on his laptop and Bug’s brown, bespectacled face filled the big screen on the wall. “Where are you with the ‘burn to shine’ analysis?”
“I have a couple of things so far. Oh, hey, hi, Joe. And is that Ghostie? How’s it going, pups?”
Ghost thumped his tail a few times. He likes Bug. He doesn’t wag his tail around Aunt Sallie or Dr. Hu. Ghost is a very discerning dog.
“Bug…” Church prompted.
“Right, burn to shine. That’s a very pop-culture phrase. Kind of a twist off the old ‘candle that burns brightest burns half as long.’ Or maybe the other one, you know, it’s better to burn out than fade away.”
“Specific examples?” asked Church.
“Sure. Burn to Shine is the name of a series of direct-to-DVD film projects created by Christoph Green and Brendan Canty—he used to be the drummer for Fugazi. Get this—for each DVD they select a house that’s scheduled for destruction and then get a local band to curate the event. They do a rock concert as part of the daylong event to destroy the house. The DVDs document each house’s history and so on. Not recent, though. Last one was in 2008.”
“‘Destruction of houses,’” I echoed. “Gettysburg and Lexington…?”
“Possible,” said Church, “or a general reference to destruction of any established structure or organization. Government, schools…”
“There’s more,” said Bug. “First off, a lot of musicians seem to grab that as a title or lyric. There was an album of that name by Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals back in 1999. Rudy thinks that ‘innocent criminals’ could be one extreme interpretation of anarchists who cause destruction based on their beliefs that society needs to be torn down. If it’s what society needs then it isn’t criminal.”
“Got it,” I said. “Anything else?”
“Lots, but one more that Circe thinks might fit.”
“Hit me.”
“Remember that show,
The Sopranos
? The theme song was by a group called Alabama Three. There’s a line, ‘You’re one in a million. You’ve got to burn to shine.’”
“Right,” I said.
“Well, get this, in the context of that song that advice is given as a quote from the singer’s mother. And, guys, remember, in the beginning of the song he wakes up and gets himself a gun.”
Church said, “Ah.”
“I’m compiling a list of all references in music, song, books, whatever. It’ll be a long list, though, ’cause I’m including direct quotes and anything that kind of says the same thing.”
“Good work, Bug,” said Church. “Keep us posted.”
“Wait,” I said quickly. “Bug, did you get anywhere with those text messages I’ve been getting?”
Bug looked troubled. “Actually, Joe, Samson Riggs got one, too. Right after the fight in Virginia.” He told me about it. “Same thing, though. No real caller ID and a dead end on a traceback.”
“How’s that possible? The only person who could block MindReader was Hugo Vox, and we now
have
that tech courtesy of that weasel Toys.”
Toys, aka Alexander Chismer, was a wanted criminal who had first served as assistant and valet to Sebastian Gault and later to Hugo Vox and the Seven Kings. He was on the most-wanted list in thirty countries.
“What can I tell you, Joe?” said Bug.
“You can tell me where I can find Toys so I can park my car on him. If he’s selling Vox’s technology—”
“He’s not,” Church said. “In fact, Mr. Chismer was quite helpful to us since he resigned from the Seven Kings organization. He is not currently on our wanted list.”
“He’s on mine,” I insisted.
Church gave me a long look through the tinted lenses of his glasses. “No, Captain, he is not. I believe you’ll discover that Mr. Chismer has become quite a useful ally. He is, of course, under constant scrutiny. However, he is designated a friendly and that means all hands off.”
It was not an invitation to a debate, though if there had been fewer things catching fire I might have pushed it. I wanted to know why Toys was no longer in the crosshairs.
Into the awkward silence, Bug said, “I have one more thing about ‘burn to shine.’ There are chat room rumors of an unlicensed video game called Burn to Shine that’s being distributed through underground networks. We’re trying to get our hands on a copy.”
“What kind of game?” asked Church.
“That’s where I think we’re going to overlap with Mother Night,” said Bug, “because from the chatter online it sounds like something that would appeal mostly to the real extreme anarchist crowd. Very edgy stuff. Rape, random murder of civilians, insurrection, and that sort of thing.”
“Whatever happened to Pong?”
“Whatever happened to bearskins and stone knives?” replied Bug.
“Point taken.”
“Find a copy of that game,” ordered Church.
“Working on it. Apparently the CTF has tried several times to obtain copies but has not so far succeeded.”
“The CTF couldn’t find its ass with a GPS,” I observed, and no one disputed me.