Jim DeFelice - Cyclops One

Then again, he’d been convinced of his own as well.

“I have a confession,” he said when Blitz finally paused.

Blitz’s face blanched.

“It has nothing to do with Jolice or any of that,” said McIntyre quickly.

Blitz instantly looked relieved. “Yes?”

“I killed somebody when I was on the ground in Kashmir.”

“What?”

McIntyre explained as slowly and carefully as he could.

“Well…,” said Blitz when he was done.

McIntyre rose. “I’m resigning. It’s all right.”

“It sounds like it was an accident, under very difficult circumstances,” said Blitz.

“Thanks for saying that, Professor. Thanks.” He reached into his pocket and took out the envelope with his formal resignation, sliding it quietly on the desk before he left.

Megan York’s death did not help the investigation, but it didn’t blow it, either. Knowing about the island base not only gave the investigators a shot at tracking through the tangle of dummy and legitimate corporations that had been employed by the core conspirators, it also gave them real charges to use for leverage in the investigation — charges that could be cited in subpoenas and court orders. Bonham’s murder was another promising avenue, assuming the trail team on Borg didn’t lose the hit man as he hunted for his impersonator.

There were, however, indications that the conspirators were several steps ahead. Despite the flood of agents Hunter had sent to swarm over Jolice and its associated companies, several of its key officers could not be located. Only one board member so far had been interviewed: an eighty-eight-year-old resident of a nursing home in upper Michigan. Megan York’s cousin, Congressman Taft, would clearly be hung out to dry, but he was already represented by the best criminal defense lawyers in D.C. Most unpromising of all, Fisher’s boss had personally taken over the FBI side of the investigation.

Luckily for Fisher, he was not among the “hundreds and hundreds of agents working the case.” Hunter’s math had to be divided by three, at least. The boss had notified him that he was needed on more important investigations, which undoubtedly would turn out to be as far away from this one as possible.

Not that he was going to complain. The interesting stuff was all done; from here on out it was just shoe polish and brown-nosing.

Fisher leaned back in his seat, listening as Jemma Gorman finished filling in the rest of the team at the secret base in Montana on what was going on. In the world according to Jemma, the entire universe had been saved by one female colonel who refused to give up.

As Jemma yammered on, Fisher thought about Megan York. He had decided, mostly based on what Howe had told him, that she had been sincere about wanting the weapons developed because they might end war. That wasn’t true of the others — greed and power pretty much ruled the day, as always — but it was an interesting exception, the sort of thing that made the rule. Fisher hadn’t run up against altruism as a motive for treason before; it would make for the kind of story that could get you a few drinks at the old agents’ home when the Social Security money ran out.

“And I think it would be appropriate, now that we’re wrapping up, to give credit where credit is due,” said Gorman. “Andrew — Mr. Fisher — if you can take your face out of that coffee mug, we’d like to give you a hand. Your work consistently led the way.”

Fisher looked at her. She actually seemed sincere.

“I think I’ll wait for the medal,” said Fisher.

Gorman shook her head. The rest of the room laughed.

“Beer’s on,” said somebody, and they began filing out to find the mess, where there was indeed free beer.

“I meant it,” said Gorman, coming over.

Fisher stood slowly. “Yeah, well, I got most of it wrong all along,” he said.

“It’s the end that counts.”

“Uh-huh. You were almost right about the Russians.”

“So you’re saying I’m not a nincompoop, huh?” Gorman folded her arms.

“Seventy percent of intelligence is genetic,” said Fisher.

“What’s your excuse, then?”

“Touché.” He reached into his pocket and pounded on the new pack of smokes.

“No comeback? No repartee? What happened? Somebody put decaf in your coffee?” asked Gorman.

Fisher opened the pack and pulled out a cigarette. A whiff of butane, a hint of smoke, a hit of nicotine — his fatigue vanished.

“So, you going to Mom’s for Thanksgiving?” asked Gorman.

“Yeah, I guess,” Fisher said. “You?”

“Uh-huh. I’m coming in the Sunday before.”

“My flight’s Saturday. I’ll pick you up.”

“Thanks.” Gorman smiled at him, then took a step to leave. “See you there.”

“Not if I see you first.”

“Very funny, little brother. You ought to be a comedian.”

“You do it so well I’d never want to compete,” said Fisher, blowing a perfect ring of smoke into the air.