Marc Cameron - Act of Terror

“And what does this Kyrgyz woman say?” Thibodaux moved up next to the screen, as if closer scrutiny might reveal his friend’s location.

“That’s the glitch.” Palmer frowned. “That red blob there is the storm that’s been dumping snow on the area since late yesterday. We sent a Blackhawk over Boroghil Pass from the Pakistani side. Those Kyrgyz migrate down from the high pastures every year about this time before the big snows hit. There was no sign of the camp Deuben sent them to. They could have already headed down to Sarhad to get ahead of the storm. The Blackhawk had to get back to base before it got caught in a whiteout-no time to do a thorough search. They can barely keep a bird in the air at those altitudes anyway.”

“What about this spot here?” Thibodaux ran his finger along a band of light greens and blues on the map. “A break in the weather?”

“Bingo,” Palmer said. “Not big enough to get an aircraft on the ground, but if we run it through time lapse on Damocles it does show us something interesting.”

Palmer tapped that keyboard and brought up the same map with a time stamp of an hour before. The gap in the weather had passed over a mountain valley roughly ten miles from the spot the Kyrgyz camp was supposed to have been. Centered in the rocky scree along the mountain side was a small purple dot, nearly invisible to the naked eye.

“What am I looking at?” Thibodaux rubbed his jaw.

“Maybe nothing.” Palmer shrugged. “Maybe a fire.”

Thibodaux sighed. “I’ve been to that part of Afghanistan, sir. There’s not much to burn in those mountains except yak shit.”

“What we do know is that the dot wasn’t there five hours before. It’s some sort of anomaly and fire is the best guess.”

“If it’s a fire big enough to see from a satellite, it’s likely Quinn’s handiwork. Let’s get someone in there to get him out.”

Palmer leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across the flat of his stomach. “My thoughts exactly.” The muscles in his jaws and neck flexed like taut cables. “But we can’t. The next band of weather has moved in and stalled. All the technology in the world and we’re stymied by clouds. Until they move, we’re not getting anyone in or out.”

Near Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

“I need to talk to Bundy,” Fargo said, walking through the back door of the remote farmhouse set in the middle of a twenty-acre parcel, five miles from the Gettysburg Battlefield. His collar was unbuttoned and a frayed red power tie hung loose around his neck. He was at the end of his rope and he needed answers.

Two young Echoes wearing black Doc Martens boots and sporting military buzz cuts sat at the kitchen table playing cards. Neither stood when he entered, though they knew he outranked them.

Castelleti, a big-eared kid with the beginnings of a beard, looked up with a sneer.

“I asked you a question, men,” Fargo snapped. “Is he here?”

They grunted, nodding to the stairs leading to the basement.

The one named Jimenez peered up over his cards. “We got a new client who didn’t show up for his hearings with the congressman.” He suddenly began to look around the room as if trying to locate something out of place. “You smell that, Colonel?”

“Smell what?”

“That stuff that smells like piss.” Jimenez sniffed. “You know what that is?”

“I don’t know.” Fargo took a long whiff. “What?”

“It’s piss!” Castelleti smirked, red in the face.

Both men threw their cards on the table and broke into uncontrollable laughter, shaking their heads.

Fargo swallowed.

“Go on down, Colonel.” Jimenez hooked a thumb over his shoulder, stopping to catch his breath. “Maybe you could help the sarge on this one. This new guy’s givin’ us zip so far.”

Fargo had no stomach for interrogation, but the last thing he wanted was for a couple of snot-nosed subordinates to see him sweat.

“All right,” he blustered. “I’ll do that. It’s important that I see him.”

Fargo grabbed the wooden banister to steady himself as he made his way down the dark concrete steps to the musty basement. The smell of urine did indeed waft up to assault his nose. The movies he’d seen, no matter how graphic, were tame compared to the real thing. Graphic images had the power to alarm for a moment, but the mind became inured after a short time. The sounds of screaming, pleading, or even whimpering-which Fargo felt was the worst-added shock value, but even they made one numb after a time. But when sight and sound were combined with the smell of actual human misery, the sensations burned into a special place at the back of his skull where they would stay forever.

Fargo paused at the two-way mirror set in the wall of what had been a root cellar in the back corner of the basement. The farmhouse was surrounded by acres of vacant land so there was no need to soundproof the room. Bundy claimed the ability for one subject to hear another’s woes, if they happened to have two clients, had a tenderizing effect.

The Echoes’ latest subject was Steve Luttrell, number thirty-seven on Congressman Drake’s list. Luttrell was a professional staffer for a powerful left-leaning lobbying firm in downtown D.C. He was in his late forties with a full head of snow-white hair that had once been red. He loved Mexican food to a fault and it showed in the prominent gut that folded over onto his lap. He was completely nude. Plastic flex cuffs secured pink shoulders, hands, knees to a gray metal chair in the center of the basement room. His back was to the door so as rob him of even the slightest notion of escape. Bright light glared in his face, causing him to squint through tearful red eyes. Strings of snot ran down the soapy white skin of his hairless chest.

Bundy sat in another chair five feet away, inside the circle of light, staring at the man with cold pig eyes.

Luttrell blinked against the assaultive light. “Why are you doing this?”

“You tell me,” Bundy said, his voice a coarse whisper.

Luttrell threw his head back, howling at the ceiling. “I can’t tell you anything if you don’t ask me any questions!”

“What should I ask you, Steve?” Bundy said.

“I… don’t… know,” he sobbed.

“Why weren’t you at your congressional hearings, Steve?”

“What?” He blinked. “I… I… what does that matter?”

“Are you a spy, Steve? A mole?”

Luttrell’s chest heaved. “Noooo! Why does everyone suddenly think I’m a spy?”

“Okay. Let’s talk about your wife,” Bundy said. His voice sounded like the hiss of a snake. Pure evil. “Do you think you make her happy, Steve?” He leaned in close. “Because from where I’m sitting I don’t think you could possibly make her as happy as I could.”

A malignant smile spread over Bundy’s face.

“You know, Steve,” he said. “When we’re in training, they teach us the three Ds-debility, dependence, and dread… But you know what, Steve?” Bundy sighed, leaning forward in his chair. “I came up with a little something that works so much faster in my experience. I call them the three Ts. Can you guess what they are?”

“No… no… idea…” Luttrell’s words came in breathless stops and starts.

Bundy reached behind his back to take out a pair of pruning shears. “Toenails, teeth, and testicles, Steve,” he said. “Isn’t that just brilliant? I think it’s brilliant.”

Luttrell began to blubber like a baby. “I… you… what…”

Fargo’s cell phone began to ring. Luttrell’s head snapped up, craning to see what was making the familiar noise outside the room.

Bundy’s smile vanished.