Chris Jordan - Torn

All things being equal, no dead body means no prosecution. Exceptions are made if there was a witness to the crime, and the witness is willing to testify, but no one had ever been foolish enough to testify against Bagrat Kavashi. Not and survive. The last eyewitness who attempted to give testimony in the province of Pshavi ‘caused’ an explosion in the courthouse resulting in the death not only himself, but the entire team of prosecutors.

Vash-for a while thereafter known as “Boom-Boom”-survived the explosion by hiding behind the judge’s steel-plated desk, as planned. Unfortunately the judge, an engagingly corruptible fellow, did not make it. There wasn’t really room for two under the desk. Too bad, he’d rather liked the judge, but when a bomb is about to detonate, a man has to trust his instincts.

He sips at the vodka, savoring the ice-thickened alcohol. Back home the habit was to pound the stuff down, shot after shot, but Vash prefers to take it slow, maintaining control. In the old days he used to secretly dispose of his drinks while the others slammed and roared and eventually fell senseless to the floor. He’d be the only sober man in the room, indeed the only conscious man, and sometimes took advantage by strangling a rival or two.

Soothed by the warmth of the vodka, he activates a surveillance screen and begins to tap the keyboard, coaxing up images. Both live feeds and the recorded backup. Vash knows the programs inside and out. And while his private sanctuary does not have the flash of Eva’s multiscreened command center, he’s a professional while she is, at best, an enthusiastic amateur.

Ten minutes later he’s located Wendall Weems. The ugly little man is right where he should be, inside his multiroomed bunker, where he believes himself to be protected, if not invulnerable. So did Eva simply get it wrong-did she neglect to check all the rooms? Or does Ruler Weems have, as the Americans say, something up his sleeve?

Vash makes a few adjustments to the motion-detecting software, then begins to run the digital video back over the last twenty-four hours, searching for an anomaly. Which obediently pops up after a relatively short interval.

He sits back in his chair, puzzling it out. At exactly 1205 hours, the Bunker is completely empty. Not a creature is stirring, not even the mousy Mr. Weems. Vash scrolls it back another twenty seconds, and the motion-detecting software pops up, providing an image of Weems entering the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom.

His men had not bothered to plant a surveillance camera in the bathroom. Moisture from the showers tended to fog up or short out small cameras, and besides, no one wanted to see Weems on the potty. It was enough to document him entering and exiting. But exiting is the problem, because Weems never does. The next time his motion is detected almost four hours have passed and Weems is ambling down a hallway toward his library, looking preoccupied.

Convinced there must be something wrong with the software, Vash calls up the files for the device positioned outside the bathroom. As he recalls, it’s a model SDR35, a fully functional smoke detector equipped with a covert video camera, utilizing a Sony CCD image sensor. Simple, reliable, and effective. And true to form, there’s nothing wrong with the camera or the video feed. It faithfully records the closed door of the bathroom from the moment Weems enters until the present, and never does the ugly little man emerge, nor does anyone else enter. A bathroom that, according to the blueprints, has only the one door. And yet the next time Weems trips a motion detector, hours have passed and he’s in another part of the Bunker.

Impossible, on the face of it, but nevertheless true. Clearly something is truly amiss. Ruler Weems has been a bad little gnome. He has secret passageways that don’t show up on the blueprints. But where do they lead? Where was he for the missing three hours? Somewhere within the Bunker, maybe perusing some until-now-unknown collection of illegal porn? That would be delicious, and might even be useful. But what worries Vash, what furrows his handsome brow, is the possibility that Wendall Weems has a way to leave his Bunker without being seen, and thus the ability to confer with his supporters without being monitored by BK Security.

Bad little gnome.

Much as he’d like to hang around the Hive and socialize, Shane skips lunch and hurries back to his domicile unit, intent on checking in with Maggie Drew.

Housekeeping has made a visit, leaving fresh towels on the rack. No sign that any prints have been lifted-fingerprint powder is messy stuff-but he’s assuming his water glass has been bagged as part of the security routine, because if he’d been in charge, that’s what he’d do. Just as he assumes they’ve copied the files off his laptop, strictly as a precaution. In fact, he hopes so, as it will confirm that Ron Gouda is just another ambitious contractor looking to get ahead. More numbers to crunch for the Ruler database, and no indication-not yet-that his impersonation has been detected.

With cell phones not functioning, Shane has no choice but to use the landline thoughtfully provided by his hosts. In full confidence that will he be recorded, if not actually monitored, he punches in the agreed-upon number, which begins with the area code for Dayton, Ohio.

“RG Paving, how may I direct your call?”

“You’re talking to the big cheese, honey babe.”

“Mr. Gouda! How are you, sir? Is the skiing good?”

“Ha! Nobody believes me when I tell ’em this ain’t a skiing vacation. Like nobody seems to believe old Ronnie’s interested in improving his mind. Why is that? Never mind. Thing is, I only got a short interval before I got to get back. But I really need to cross a few t’s on the bid for the I-75 grade-and-pave. Hate to lose that one just because I didn’t give it the hairy eyeball one last time. Can you send the PDF to my e-mail? Thanks a mil, honey babe.”

He disconnects, opens the laptop, and waits for the link to activate on the encrypted messenger software. His old pal Charley Newman calls it ‘Instant Messenger For Spooks,’ which pretty much sums it up, but you don’t have to be a spy to want your personal e-mails to remain private, and that goes triple for federal employees. It does mean that Maggie will have to use her personal computer, not the office terminal, but that’s probably for the best, too. Her message pops up on the screen.

Honey babe?

That’s what the big cheese calls his Gal Friday.

So, how goes it, Mr. Cheese?

Weird but interesting. Very slick operation. Security level extremely high, verging on paranoid. Cells don’t work. My guess is, all communication filtered through security. Plus, I think I was drugged last night.

WHAT?

Can’t be sure, but other guests report falling deeply asleep at exactly the same time. Possible airborne sedative. Fentanyl or something equally effective.

FENTANYL HIGHLY DANGEROUS!!!

Anything on our friend Missy?

ACKNOWLEDGE FENTANYL DANGEROUS!!!

Okay, acknowledge. Don’t worry, I won’t be in my room tonight when they pump the stuff in, if that’s what they’re doing. Now what about the mysterious Missy? Any luck?

Yes, indeed! Mysterious M. identified as Melissa G. Barlow, spouse of Eldon Donald Barlow, gameware designer. A Level Five member and a big-time contributor to Ruler coffers, associated with the Weems faction. Eldon owns many, many toys, including a Gulfstream G-450.

You are my sunshine! Address?

Sorry. Barlow residence not specified as to street address, just listed as ‘ski lodge, Conklin.’

That’ll get me started. Anything else?

Leave while you can. RIGHT NOW.

Soon, honey babe, soon.