The Traveler's Companion (3 page)

Gibbons was beaming, though he tried to fight it. “I’m just trying to do my part in a new era of intelligence gathering,” he said, stammering a sound bite.

“And humble, as well. Maybe a statue outside the auditorium would be more appropriate.”

“Next to Nathan Hale’s?” Iverson asked, chuckling.

“Instead of. Put Hale in storage,” Angela said.

“Is she targeting me?” Gibbons asked, clearly enjoying it.

“This is hardly Level One, Mark,” Iverson said. “Speaking of, how’d your date go, Angela?”

“Awesome. We had cocktails, took a walk by the museums in DuPont Circle, and then we went to a cute little coffee shop for cheesecake and espresso. At the end of the date he was a little forward, but all in all—”

“Do you think he’ll call you?” Gibbons asked.

She shrugged with a sigh and said, “He said he would, but there’s a fourteen percent probability he was lying.”

Iverson smiled. “I’m sure he will.”

Gibbons sighed and said, “Angela, we called you in here because we’ve had a rough night. What I’m about to tell you is highly classified. You understand that, right?”

“All classified information is strictly on a need to know basis,” Angela said.

“Does she understand, Ryan?” Gibbons asked.

“She understands.”

“I’m not going to go to her Facebook page and find this conversation on her wall, am I?” Gibbons asked.

“No, sir.”

“Is she connected to the Internet?”

“A dedicated CIA spy satellite link is used for information exchange. It’s impenetrable to hackers.”

“That’s what they all say,” Gibbons growled while making a few selections on the console. An image came up on the flat screen monitor. A security camera in the CIA infirmary provided a live feed of an unconscious bleached blonde. EEG wires streamed from her forehead, temples, and earlobes. The beeping of her life-support apparatus came through the speakers like a metronome.

“Earlier tonight the security guard found this girl in the lobby. You might recognize her. Her name’s Melissa Fleming. She’s the heir of a condiment tycoon and she’s become the latest celebrity train wreck the press can’t get enough of.

“The security guard said she was just standing there, a statue in a yellow miniskirt and white leather go-go boots. She was completely catatonic,” Gibbons said.

“Does this mean the offices have been compromised?” Iverson asked.

“What do you think?”

Meekly, Iverson mumbled his retort, “I guess so.”

“You want to tell me how a bleached-blonde socialite infiltrates CIA headquarters?” Gibbons asked.

Caught off guard, Iverson stammered for an explanation. What did Gibbons expect him to say: “While shopping along Rodeo Drive she suddenly realized the CIA security system ran on a holographic optical algorithmic interface. She ditched the paparazzi, picked the front door lock with a common bobby pin, and, to foil the ankle-high laser grid alarm system, performed a high wire act reminiscent of Cirque du Soleil. Voila!” As Deputy Director of the DS&T, he was responsible for research, development, and deployment of the various technological aspects of intelligence gathering, not for building security.

Iverson bit his lip and said, “I’d need to double check the security platform. Check the cameras. Could’ve been an internal breach. Maybe someone on the inside was trying to impress the girl. . . .”

“She’s listed in the CIA database as an informant,” Angela said.

“That’s right,” Gibbons said. “She was contacted by the CIA about six months ago when rumors were going around that she was dating C.C. Go. We asked Miss Fleming if she, in fact, knew Mister Go, and she said she did. When we requested she provide us with some information on Mister Go in a semi-official capacity, her official response was, ‘Oh my God! That would be so cool!’ But, when push came to shove, she was probably too afraid. She never gave us anything useful.”

“The CIA database reports C.C. Go as having a ninety percent probability of being an urban legend,” Angela said.

Iverson sighed at her stilted, automaton-like words. “We need to work on your syntax.”

Gibbons said, “Various sources in and out of the intelligence community have suspected that, for more than a decade now, C.C. Go has been the author of a self-published travel book called
The Traveler’s Companion
. It’s not a book available to the average Joe. The cost for a single copy is in excess of a million dollars. The book contains information about and directions to illegal functions, such as the location of black markets, drug dens, and sex parlors to mention but a few. A couple of years ago, one of our men in the field reported that he had found one of Go’s destinations. It was a restaurant, for lack of a better term, that served Long Pig, which is human being. Sick stuff. Of course he’s evaded detection and has become sort of an urban legend because of it, and, much to our embarrassment, sort of a folk hero. Celebrities claim to have met him, some of them even assert to have been romantically involved with him. So far, we can’t confirm these reports.”

“You think he’s behind this?” Iverson asked, now understanding Gibbons’s interest in Angela. It made sense. She was the perfect candidate to seduce and destroy an internationally wanted playboy. Other agents might recoil from the decadence rumored to take place in C.C. Go’s world, but not Angela. She’d be up for anything.

“Miss Fleming has only uttered one phrase since she’s been here,” Gibbons said. He looked down at a file and read: “ ‘I am a glass of orange juice.’ ”

“Orange juice? Freshly squeezed or from concentrate?” Angela asked, winking at Gibbons.

Gibbons chortled, replying, “She didn’t specify.” He turned to retrieve a chart from atop a file cabinet. “Take a look at this, Angela. Blood and hair analysis revealed trace elements of cocaine and LSD in Miss Fleming’s work-up.” He handed it to her reluctantly, unsure of her ability to read. He watched with rapt attention as she opened the folder and began to peruse the text.

“She’s in a drug induced coma,” Angela offered, looking over the readings.

“The doctor said she’s in shock,” Gibbons said.

“From the drugs?” Angela asked.

“There was only a small amount in her blood. With LSD you never know, but I’ve seen people do more and suffer less,” Gibbons said.

“Then what happened to her?” Angela asked.

“Who knows?”

Gibbons stood up from the black leather chair and approached the live feed. “She was last seen in Paris where she’s studying acting at the Sorbonne. We have yet to get surveillance on her alleged boyfriend, C.C. Go. To be clear, we’re not actually sure Go exists. Could all be rumor and innuendo.” He made a selection on the touch screen and brought up a sketch composite on the flat screen. “This picture comes from shady eyewitness accounts and the artist’s imagination, but it represents the only known likeness of C.C. Go.” The sketch was crude, indeed. If the CIA sold picture frames, this would have come with it. He had chiseled features and tousled hair. He was wearing sporty sunglasses. He was frowning, of course, yet more than anything else he looked angry.

“Sending Melissa Fleming to us this morning was a message. Someone doesn’t like us snooping around in their elite little world,” Gibbons said. He handed Angela a red folder. “Here’s Go’s file. Take a look then meet us down in the infirmary.”

Case# 3721-04

Code Name: “The Native”

SECURITY CLEARANCE: TOP SECRET

C.C. Go:

He has a sort of mythical stature. To some recruits he represents the brass ring, while to others he’s merely an invention the CIA uses to motivate cadets, similar to the way parents use Santa Claus to get children to be good. Others believe, like academics postulating about Homer or Shakespeare, that he’s a collection of men. Among criminals he’s rumored to be a black ops division of the government, a clever ruse that will lead them to capture.

There’s also a rumor about a man who was the son of a travel book writer.

As the legend goes, C.C. Go’s father, Devin Go, was a moderately successful travel book writer. He was never wealthy, but he dressed in expensive European suits and patronized exclusive restaurants and clubs, gaining access to this world through sheer charisma. He wrote several books intended for the wealthy traveler. His readers might find listings for five star hotels, ski slopes in the Swiss Alps, and romantic getaways at tropical resorts. He met his wife, Lia Lynn Paciera, a Hawaiian native, while she was working as a cocktail server at a resort on the island of Maui. They traveled to exotic destinations around the world and bore a child on the road. C.C. was raised on trains, planes, and rental cars.

A footnote on the bottom of the page read:

Although C.C. Go’s country of origin is unknown, CIA intelligence data suggests Czechoslovakia or France.

Devin Go also had a range of hedonistic appetites. He visited the red light districts at night when his wife and child were asleep. As a preteen, C.C. Go once followed his father along the Rue St. Denis in Paris, a small strip of which is infamous for legal prostitution. He watched as his father solicited a prostitute. It must have fascinated and horrified him because his covert operations became a nightly ritual: opium dens in Asia, secret poker games in Monte Carlo, strip clubs in the States. One can only assume what kind of impression this would make on a small boy whose family represented the sphere of his social life. He kept a journal, his only outlet.

Devin Go’s lifestyle would ultimately be his downfall. He died of a heart attack at 47, utterly broke. C.C. was just 17.

He and his mother later settled in the south of France, the exact whereabouts unknown.

A few years later, C.C. Go’s journal would come in handy. At the age of 19 he published his first book:
The Traveler’s Companion
. But it wasn’t a book one could find at the local bookstore. It was an elegantly leather-bound abomination containing illustrations, maps, and coordinates to all of the places his father had visited. While on any continent, the owner of such a book was only a few hours from acquiring a concubine, purchasing drugs, or gaining instant access to secret societies. For the wealthy hedonist, it was a dream come true. There were only ten copies printed, all of which were sold to his mother’s various contacts for ten thousand dollars each. The owners were sworn to secrecy and promised a second edition, more places, more debauchery.

At age 20, C.C. Go set out to travel the world to research the sequel. One year later, he returned with it. This edition included contact arrangements for drug cartels, black market information including where to buy human organs, the locations of orgies, and where to acquire slaves. Subsequent books would contain in them places to assume a new identity, where to find forged documentation of any kind, and web addresses to some of the many exclusive clubs on the Internet. Secret Intel obtained by United States officials have also confirmed that an ocean vessel at sea in the Atlantic, cloaked by advanced antiradar technology, was also listed as a destination in one of his latest books. What went on during this vessel’s voyage was unknown, and because his books are obsolete after one year, no one will ever know.

In owning a copy of
The Traveler’s Companion
, one thing is certain: the level of debauchery is only limited by the bravery of the user. And although obtaining a copy has been impossible for the average person, as well as the CIA, C.C. Go was a millionaire by age 25.

He has been on the CIA’s top ten most wanted list for five consecutive years, yet no one is actually sure if he’s a real person. His name is on the bindings of the most notorious books in history, but no biographical information has been found. All that exists is a psych profile extrapolated from urban myths.

Considering the women he’s rumored to have dated, analysts presume him to be handsome. He inherited his mother’s dark complexion and his father’s style. His height is estimated at 5¹11º to 6¹1º and his weight might be anywhere from 160 to 180 pounds. CIA psychologists agree with rumors of his being a womanizer given his upbringing. Growing up on the road would have made it difficult to establish lasting relationships. The trauma of witnessing his father’s prurient lifestyle might have made him, not only unwilling, but unable to establish a committed emotional bond.

A footnote read:

A rumor that he lived on the moon started when one of his books allegedly included a trip on the Space Shuttle. A well-known musician was scheduled to take the trip, but when the news got out, an investigation was conducted. When the musician’s house was searched, embers from a leather-bound book were found in his fireplace. He denied everything.

CHAPTER 3

Melissa Fleming was a young woman of twenty-two, more cute than beautiful, and now completely catatonic. Her eyes were closed and her face was ghostly white. EEG wires streamed out from her head and intertwined with her bleached-blonde hair.

Angela ran her head up and down the girl’s body like a pendulum. It might have looked humorous to an observer, but out of all of Angela’s senses her olfactory sense was her most valuable. Forty thousand skin cells left the human body per minute, and the synthetic nasal receptor cells inside her nostrils could use any one of them to run a DNA analysis. With one whiff of Melissa’s breath, Angela knew the type of alcohol she had drunk that night and the brand of cigarettes she had smoked. The vodka was Russian and the cigarettes were French.

Iverson had taken the staff doctor, Dr. Adler, into the hallway while Angela conducted her analysis. Few members of the CIA staff outside of the DS&T laboratories had clearance regarding Angela’s true identity, and Iverson wanted to keep it that way. The staff doctor knew Angela as the deputy director’s daughter and a recently recruited agent of unmentioned expertise.

Dr. Adler confirmed that the socialite had taken the LSD orally, no less than six hours earlier. Two club stamps were on her left arm, one on her wrist and one on the back of her left hand. Both stamps were from well-known clubs in Paris, France. A flight from France to Virginia took approximately seven hours, which led them to believe that she must have taken the LSD on the plane rather than at a club, though that seemed like an odd thing to do.

“Maybe she was kidnapped and given the drug against her will,” Iverson offered.

“I didn’t detect any signs of a struggle,” Dr. Adler said. “And you don’t often hear about LSD being used to kidnap young girls.”

“Has anyone checked the flight records coming in from France?” Angela asked.

Hearing Angela’s question, Iverson peeked around the doorframe and said, “Yes, we ran a check. Nothing yet.”

As Angela was studying the club stamps on the back of the girl’s hand to determine the exact time she had patronized the clubs, Melissa’s head shifted slightly and she let out a moan.

Iverson rushed into the room. “Stand back, Angela!”

But it was too late. Melissa’s bloodshot eyes darted open. Her arms came out like striking snakes, elbows locking, two hands throttling Angela’s neck. She let out a maniacal sound like a revving engine, her hands tightening, her thumbs digging into the soft flesh of Angela’s throat. Choking, gasping for breath, Angela tried to pry apart the hands, but the grip was too tight. Her jiu-jitsu programming initiated. She dropped to her knees, using her body weight to break the hold, but Melissa fell with her, their bodies entangled in an avalanche of hospital blankets and I.V. tubes.

Melissa was now on top of Angela, straddling her, her grip benefiting from the position. Veins were throbbing in her temples, her face flushed with blood. Her eyes were wide, filled with insanity, with rage. Did she know her victim, see her, or was someone else’s face above Angela’s neck? She let out a scream accompanied by chokehold thrusts. “You! Are! Invited!”

Dr. Adler put Melissa in a full nelson to pry away her hold on Angela’s neck. Iverson was trying to grab at the girl’s flailing legs and was taking a few blows to the midsection in the process. Iverson finally got her by the ankles while Dr. Adler clutched her wrists. They lifted her, her body thrashing about in midair like a beach towel in the wind. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she let out a primal cry like a howling wolf. Then she went limp.

They carried her to the bed.

“Is she dead?” Iverson asked, out of breath.

“No, just spent from the seizure,” Dr. Adler said.

“That was a seizure?” Iverson asked.

Angela got up and wearily made her way toward the safety of the hallway. Massaging her neck, coughing, eyes watering, her systems were scrambling to return her body to normal.

Dr. Adler went to Angela. “That happens sometimes with trauma victims. Don’t take it personally. She didn’t know who you were. Let me see your throat.” With his fingers stabbing into her jaw, he pried her reluctant head back to inspect her neck. He peered over round, wire-rimmed glasses and said, “There’ll be a few bruises. Take a deep breath for me.”

She inhaled and exhaled slowly.

“Is she okay, Doctor?” Iverson asked.

“A little bruising around the esophagus . . . she’ll be fine,” Dr. Adler concluded.

Just as Iverson was counting his blessings that his billion-dollar creation hadn’t been destroyed before going on active duty, the lights in the corridor suddenly flickered. A disconcerting sound of declining electrical power in the building preceded the overhead fluorescent tubes fading into murky ineffectual shafts. They stood in an eerie silence. After a few seconds the auxiliary generator kicked in. Red bulbs behind caged sconces saturated them in red light.

“Now what?” Dr. Adler asked.

Iverson stuck his head into the infirmary to make sure Melissa was all right.

“Oh shit! She’s gone!”

* * * * *

Iverson rolled back the surveillance video once more, yet after viewing it four times he didn’t expect to see anything different. In slow, frame by frame playback, he watched the attempt to strangle Angela, the sudden and mysterious flash of white light that exposed the camera completely, and then the power outage. When the auxiliary lamps came on, the video revealed nothing on Melissa Fleming’s hospital bed but knotted sheets. She was gone. Like magic.

“What’s that?” Angela asked, pointing at the monitor. “There’s something in that flash of light.”

“Probably one of our shadows filtering in from the hall,” Iverson said.

Angela interfaced with the computer, hijacking it from her superior, and rolled the video back. She selected the frame she wanted, highlighted a portion of it, and then magnified it. Affectionately, she put her hand on Iverson’s shoulder and asked him, “Are you okay? Your blood pressure’s a little high.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

Angela’s highlighted image on the monitor revealed a dark patch inside the flash of light, something that looked vaguely human. Was someone reaching out for her?

“It looks like a hand,” she said.

None of the cameras or surveillance equipment had reported anyone in the room except cleared personnel. To Iverson that was sufficient. He rejected Angela’s findings and pondered out loud, “How the hell did she slip by us?”

He turned his attention to Angela and finally noticed something. “Angela, your badge.”

Like a heart attack victim, she put her hand to her chest and let out a gasp. Her badge was gone.

Iverson dropped his hands into the low pockets of his lab coat and extracted one cigarette from a pack. “Let’s go outside, Angela. I need a smoke.” He stood and made his way to the exit.

“Building security is going to have to take care of this,” Iverson mumbled to himself. Angela had to hurry to catch up with him. “Either way it’ll still be my fault. A socialite miraculously goes missing from one of the most highly secured buildings in the world and I’m to blame.”

Iverson scanned his access card to open the door and went into the staircase.

“But cigarettes are bad for you,” Angela said, reluctantly following him out.

“I have something I want to show you!” Spryly, with the use of the staircase railing, he ascended the stairs, skipping steps. When he got to the landing, he scanned his card again and was allowed through the exit door.

“Your wife died from cancer, Doctor Iverson.”

On his way to a cement ashtray, he put a cigarette in his mouth. “That’s correct,” he said, the sound of a faulty lighter as accompaniment.

“Don’t you think you should quit smoking?”

“Why? She can’t get any deader.” He shook the lighter, trying to get it to work. “Look up at the stars. You see them?”

She looked up, seeing splatters of white specks in the night sky.

“As you know, all stars are suns. And as you’re also aware, planets are created by supernova remnants. The elements inside a star cook over billions of years and then the star eventually begins to die and finally it explodes and out goes the stuff to create other stars and planets. All life comes from stars. You know all of this, of course,” he said, the cigarette propped between pursed lips, his hands cupping a lighter that was only offering sparks.

“Are you referring to the triple alpha process? How carbon is made inside a star’s fusion reactor?” Angela asked.

“Damn,” he said, searching his pockets. “You don’t have a light, do you?”

She shook her head.

He finally gave up and put the cigarette back in the pack.

“My point is that the elements that made you came from that star just like everyone else. In that respect, you’re no different from anyone. Who knows? Somewhere inside your computer matrix there may be a fledgling seed of consciousness. Did man ponder his existence in his primal beginnings? I doubt it. The need for survival was all consuming.”

“Science makes quantum leaps every hundred years or so, but isn’t the creation of consciousness still God’s territory?”

“What I mean is that you’re not just a thing cloned from random DNA and hooked up to a machine. Genetically speaking, you’re the daughter I never conceived. To me, you’re just as important as any other sentient being on this planet. Do you understand that?” Iverson asked.

“I think so, Doctor Iverson.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” he said, looking up at the sky. “Right now there are more important things you need to know. The director has cleared you for active duty. As an active agent for the CIA, there are certain pitfalls that come with the job. Your sensors have already detected it and the appropriate software will run the sequence when initiated, but I wanted to explain it to you personally so you wouldn’t be confused . . . should the time come. They made me do it. I hope you don’t blame me. I don’t quite know how to say this . . . this is harder than I thought. . . .” Iverson rubbed his eyes with thumb and finger. “You’ve been implanted with a self-destruct sequence. Should your identity be compromised, a form of potassium cyanide will be released into your biologically-based brain functions. The CIA has a flair for the dramatic when it comes to these things. Operatives have been given ‘L Pills’ since the early part of the twentieth century. I guess what I’m trying to tell you. . . .” He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and suddenly became angry and emotional. “I know I haven’t been the greatest father. I’m responsible for bringing you into this life and into this profession—Jesus, I’ve felt more like a pimp than a parent, but I just want you to know that it wasn’t my decision. My purpose in creating you was to save lives. Now, I wish I could save you. But I can’t. It’s just part of our line of work. I’m sorry.”

“I’d be more concerned for your well-being should something happen to me,” Angela said.

“Why is that?”

“We’ve become close and sometimes separation can be emotionally jarring.”

Iverson smiled from embarrassment. “You’re right. You knew that whole lecture was a lot of nonsense. The truth is I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I ever lost you. I’d be worthless. My only friend is a bot. You must think I’m pathetic.”

“Not at all. Just human,” she said, smiling warmly.

“We should get back to the lab.”

“Should we take that book with us?”

“What book?”

“Someone left a book on the table. I had a chance to run his DNA. There’s a fifty-five percent probability he’s the man known as C.C. Go.”

Iverson turned to see that there was now a book on the picnic table near the cement ashtray. “How the hell . . .? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We were engaged in intimate conversation.”

Iverson began to pace, pulling at his beard.

“Urban lore purports C.C. Go as having Polynesian and European extraction, which coincides with my DNA analysis,” Angela said.

“I’m calling it in.” He took out his cellular phone, dialed, and said into it, “This is Deputy Director Ryan Iverson. There’s an intruder on the premises. I’m at the west side smoking section. Send security immediately!”

While scanning the area, he took Angela by the arm and said, “Let’s get back inside.”

“Wait, Doctor Iverson,” she said. “What about the book?”

“We can’t touch that. Who knows what’s in it?”

She scanned the book. “It’s bound in leather . . . gold leaf embossed on the cover . . . twenty-four pound paper. I do detect an electronic device inside the book.”

“A detonator?” Iverson asked.

“A transmitter of some sort, but unlike any remote detonator I can reference.”

Cautiously, the doctor approached the picnic table. With his hands together behind his back, he bent at the waist to get a better look at the book. In gold writing on a dark leather background, the cover read:
The Traveler’s Companion
.

“Shit,” he said with one stroke of the beard. He turned to her. “Let’s get a team out here.”

“Already on their way.”