Paul Johnson - The nameless dead

I’d made a few unsuccessful attempts to put my leg in the way of Quincy’s unrestrained kicks. He’d always managed to pull out in time.

‘Haven’t you got anything better to do than watch me all day long?’

‘I do. So Special Agent Simms and her team watch for me.’

‘Oh, great.’ I wondered if there was a camera in the bathroom-I hadn’t been able to spot one. The idea of the asexual Simms watching me in there was strangely disturbing. ‘So what’s going on, Peter? You’re getting me back to full fitness, you’re letting us communicate with the outside world. Are we going to get out soon?’

He stared at me. ‘I don’t know, Matt. There may be some movement in Justice’s position. The birth should help.’

‘How about Doc Rivers’s reports? He says I’m making good progress with the deconditioning.’

‘Why do you think I’m down here, Matt? I’ll be talking to him later. I might even look in on a session.’

That didn’t fill me with hope. If another trigger kicked in…

‘How about some firearms practice?’ I asked, putting the pressure back on him. ‘You know I’ll need it if we get out.’

‘Will you? Whatever you think, I reckon the Bureau’s quite capable of protecting you and yours from the so-called Soul Collector.’

‘Touche,’ I said, shaking my head. Getting round Sebastian was about as easy as spearing mosquitoes.

‘I’m working on things.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll see you again before I go back to D.C.’

‘Hey,’ I said, as he walked to the door. ‘You never told me what happened when you were undercover in L.A.’

The FBI man looked round. ‘That’s classified.’ He paused. ‘What the hell? You’re almost family now. Put it this way-the studio went out of business and the Mob lost five soldiers.’

‘You’re some tough guy,’ I said. ‘How many special agents breathed their last?’

‘That really is classified,’ Sebastian said, slamming the door behind him.

Arthur Bimsdale was watching Sergeant Quincy Jerome instruct some very raw-looking army recruits in the basics of self-defense. There were regular thuds as they hit the padded floor of the dojo; none of them managed to lay a hand on the big man.

‘Why don’t you give it a shot?’

The special agent turned and saw that his boss had sat down behind him on the tiered benches. ‘Em, I don’t think that would be a good idea, sir.’

‘Don’t you?’ Peter Sebastian gave the tight smile that always appeared when he wanted to put the squeeze on a subordinate. ‘What’s the matter? Forgotten everything you learned at Quantico?’

‘No, sir. It’s just that I wouldn’t like to put him in the hospital.’

Sebastian’s eyes opened wide. ‘Very good, Arthur. Maybe you have got a spine after all.’ He frowned. ‘I’d still like you to challenge the sergeant.’

Bimsdale knew there was no point in further resistance. He’d already taken a chance by answering his boss back. He waited patiently till the squad was dismissed, then made his way over to the mat without looking at Sebastian.

‘Excuse me, Sergeant, could I challenge you?’

Quincy Jerome looked at him dubiously. ‘Who exactly are you, son?’

Bimsdale explained.

‘Okay, Arthur. How do you want to do this?’

Bimsdale had taken off his suit jacket and shoes, and placed his pistol and shoulder holster carefully on the floor. ‘I don’t suppose you’d let me throw you and then pretend you got concussed?’

‘You don’t suppose right,’ the sergeant said, with a laugh. ‘You FBI dudes are really something.’ He stepped back quickly as Bimsdale launched a high kick at his throat.

The contest lasted longer than Sebastian had expected. He knew from his assistant’s file that the young man had done well on every module at Quantico, but he assumed he’d been putting on a show for the examiners. After twenty minutes, during which Bimsdale almost put Jerome down several times, he walked over to the dojo.

‘All right, gentlemen,’ he said, clapping his hands.

Both combatants were breathing heavily and Arthur Bimsdale’s tie had come undone.

‘You’ve made your point,’ Sebastian said to his assistant. ‘Go and have a shower, then meet me at the science block.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Bimsdale said, voice louder than usual.

‘So, Sergeant,’ Peter Sebastian said when they were alone, ‘what do you think?’

Quincy Jerome wiped his forehead with his forearm. ‘Not bad for a Bureau guy.’

‘Not Bimsdale. How’s Matt Wells coming along?’

The sergeant grinned. ‘Sorry,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘Yeah, Wells is in pretty good shape. Someone taught him some useful moves.’

‘Any sign of him losing control of himself?’

‘You mean like some kind of robotic fighting machine?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean, Sergeant.’

‘Nope. He gets into the zone well and stays pretty cool.’

Sebastian considered the reply. ‘All right. Give him daily sessions at the range from tomorrow.’

‘Just pistol, or rifle, too?’

‘Both. And Sergeant? Make sure he knows that at least two weapons will be trained on him all the time he’s armed.’

As Sebastian walked away, Quincy Jerome wondered, not for the first time, exactly what kind of game was being played around him.

Bimsdale was alone in Rivers’s office when his boss arrived.

‘Impressive, Arthur,’ Sebastian said. ‘You’re wasted working for me. You should be in a field office, leading the charge.’

‘Not me, sir,’ the young man replied. ‘I can learn so much from you.’

His superior gave him a questioning look. ‘Tell me, how does fighting square with your Episcopalian principles? Your file says you shot a man in Montana.’

Bimsdale nodded. ‘He was threatening to execute a hostage.’

‘So you killed him and got a reprimand for excessive use of your weapon.’

‘The hostage was an eight-year-old boy, sir. He’d been…’

Sebastian raised his hand. ‘I read the file, remember. I asked about your religious beliefs.’

The young agent held his superior’s gaze. ‘So did the recruitment board. I told them that being an Episcopalian would affect my performance only in positive ways.’

‘What does that mean?’ Sebastian asked, as the door opened.

‘Ah, there you are,’ Rivers said. His glasses were perched on his bald head and he had a sheaf of papers under his arm. ‘All’s well in Washington, I hope.’

Sebastian nodded, glancing back at his assistant as if to say that their discussion would be resumed. ‘Bring us up to speed on the subject Matt Wells, please, Doctor.’

The scientist sat down at his untidy desk and tried to find a space for the papers he was carrying. ‘Matt Wells,’ he said, as if the name was unfamiliar. ‘Yes, yes, Matt Wells.’ He dug out a laptop and opened it, then pulled his glasses down. ‘Indeed,’ he said, peering at the screen. ‘Response to the latest trigger was good, definitely improved on the previous one. Evidence of deep conditioning minimal.’ The doctor looked up. ‘Of course, you realize that the very nature of such conditioning militates against us finding traces of its presence.’

Sebastian nodded. ‘And your drug regime?’

‘Substantially curtailed now. The effects became counterproductive as the subject gained more conscious control over his reactions to triggers.’

‘So Wells is functioning like a normal human being again?’

Rivers considered that. ‘What is normal, I wonder? According to the report you provided, the subject’s behavior prior to what happened in the cathedral was largely rational.’

‘That was what made the attacks on the President by him and Karen Oaten so disturbing. They were impossible to predict.’