Power Trip Read online

  I stood up and shook his hand. “Of course,” I said, “we know what curiosity did to the cat.”

  Miller shrugged. “Yes, but cats only get nine lives.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Christina and I lay sprawled across her bed, both sweating, both laughing. She couldn’t stop making cracks about how she’d just won the husband lottery, and asked if I could put in for retirement right now. “And do it over the phone,” she said. “Don’t take a chance of even getting in the car. We have plenty of groceries to last weeks.”

  Yes, I used to be jealous of my various selves, but I’ve matured. Besides, I was damned content myself, and not just because of the taste buds.

  Part of me knew I’d have to tell her that I was leaving very soon, but I couldn’t ruin this particular moment. We got so few of them. I wanted it to last as long as possible. So I stroked her back and we talked for another hour before padding into her kitchen to look for an early afternoon snack. It was 1:30 and she’d have to leave for the restaurant soon.

  “So did you change those hours at work?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh. Want some home-made granola? I just made it yesterday.”

  I got the message. We weren’t going to spend our limited amount of time right now talking about how much I was away. She was right. “I’ll eat anything and everything.” I put a handful in my mouth. Delicious. Right then I got a text from Poole. My new clothes would be arriving any minute.

  See, another thing we had to manage. From shrimpy dude to Mr. Universe, my wardrobe had to change. Now, I didn’t always care for their choices, but they were getting much better. I was reluctant to spend too much of my own money on something that would just get bloodstained and cremated.

  I excused myself, put on the track suit I’d worn home from the office, and went through the sliding panel into my place. Ten minutes later the buzzer sounded and I directed the traffic of delivery people from the hallway to my walk-in closet. After giving them a generous tip I wandered back to my wife’s house.

  “Anything tight around the chest and upper arms, you know, to accentuate your deliciousness?” she asked.

  I put my hands on my hips. “If you keep this up I’m going to think you were disappointed in the original me and just faked it.”

  “Eric, I honestly have very little recollection of the original you. Although I think you had blond hair.”

  “Brown.”

  “About 5-11?”

  “6-1.”

  She raised her hands, palms up. “See? Very little recollection. But you were sooo charming. That’s all that matters, right?”

  “All? Didn’t seem like it a few hours ago.”

  She grasped my chiseled chin with her fingers. “You’re charming from top to bottom. A few hours ago I simply gave the bottom half equal time. Here, I put that granola into some yogurt. And there’s toast with some of that jam you brought back. You’ll be here when I get home tonight, or do you have to rush off to be Super Eric?”

  I leaned down and kissed her. “I’ll be here. But, babe . . .”

  “I know.” She turned around and began putting things back into the fridge. “Is it tomorrow?”

  “Yes. But not until late afternoon, so we have most of the day before you go to work.”

  “Any chance you’ll be home for Christmas?”

  The question rocked me. My entire existence right now, at least in the eyes of Quanta and Q2, was to ensure people could have a Christmas. If I failed . . .

  My pause must’ve been enough of an answer for Christina. She let it go and instead asked, “Can we at least do a movie somewhere tomorrow? I haven’t been in ages.”

  I chased her down at the sink and wrapped my arms around her waist. “That, my love, is a date.”

  When she left for the restaurant I went back to my side of our dual lodging and caught up on my banking. Yes, the dashing life of a secret agent. When you’re gone most of the time the bills don’t pay themselves. I’d just finished when the phone vibrated with a video call from Poole. I looked at it for three rings, knowing it could only be news I didn’t want to hear. Just before it could go to voicemail I connected.

  “How are things with the new body?” she asked in classic Poole earnestness. “Acclimating well enough?”

  “Poole, I refuse to believe you called me at home because you’re concerned about that. But thank you, that’s a very considerate gesture. Now, what do you want?”

  “First, I wanted to thank you for the thoughtful gift. I love peach jam.” She switched her screen so that it showed an image of a man. “Do you know this person?”

  I leaned forward and studied it. “Doesn’t look familiar. Who is he?”

  “He’s with the FBI. The name is Fife. He—”

  I cut her off. “You’ve got to be kidding. Someone in law enforcement named Fife?” With the image taking up the screen I couldn’t see her face, but I felt the waves of a blank stare. “Poole, you’ve never heard of Barney Fife?” I asked.

  “His first name isn’t Barney.”

  “No, I mean . . . Never mind. Too much Nick at Night for some of us. Go ahead. Why am I looking at a long-faced Fed named Fife? Which sounds like the start of a limerick. But why?”

  “I’m sending this to you,” she said. “You’re meeting him tomorrow morning in Miami, seven a.m.”

  “Oh, no no no. I was told I’d be home until tomorrow afternoon. You’re saying I have to leave tonight?”

  “Things have really intensified since your shootout in Georgia. Quanta wants you rested and ready to meet Fife in the morning so you need to get down there now. He’ll be working with you quite a bit on the rest of this case. He has most of the details.”

  Great. This is another element of the job that chaps me, but I’d known it since day one. Duty comes first. I’d say family comes second, but according to Q2 rules I’m not even supposed to have a family. It’s not like I could whine to Poole about leaving Christina. She knows as much about Christina as she does Barney Fife.

  “Okay,” I said with a pronounced sigh for effect. “Send me the info. What time do you have me leaving tonight?”

  I left a long, corny note in Christina’s kitchen. It was full of promises about making it up to her. These were lies she and I both let slide because . . . well, it was just easier to let them slide. She’d be disappointed, but she, too, knew the consequences when she agreed to semi-shack up with me. Then I left a voicemail, just to make sure she knew I was sorry.

  There were many reasons why Q2 agents weren’t supposed to marry, and I’d always accepted the obvious ones. We live a dangerous life, which could be dangerous for our spouses. It wouldn’t be out of the question for enemies to try to get at us through the people in our lives.

  But as I looked at the note propped up against her coffee maker I thought about an intangible reason. I genuinely missed my wife when I left on an assignment. I’m not going to say it distracted me and kept me from performing at top efficiency.

  And yet, what if it did? You never hear about secret agents being head over heels. We’re supposed to be cold-blooded loners who grab one-night stands like everyone else grabs a Starbucks. Personal relationships, in this line of work, are just too personal.

  I can’t comply with that stereotype. I may be a Frankenstein’s monster but I’m not a robot. My emotions transfer right along with my memories, my OCD tendencies, and my faults. And as much as we lampoon the sensitive, new-age man, you’ll get no apologies here. If I could I’d scream about Christina from the mountaintop. So, no, I’m not crazy about this secret relationship shit; there’s just not much I can do about it. At least not right now.

  Sometimes I wonder if I can collect enough trophies for Quanta and the organization that I’m able to storm into her garden and lay down the law: I enjoy what I do, but I have a partner for life. Deal with it. Give me just a little more time off. And buy us a nice dinner out occasionally.

  Who was I kidding? It would never happen.

&nb
sp; I picked up the note and underlined the I love you I’d written at the bottom.

  I dressed, packed a bag that included a baggie of the homemade granola, and used my phone to find a ride. All the way to Dulles I wondered how I ever could make things up to my wife. To be honest, Christina was never completely torn up when I left. That’s not a shot at her in any way. From the minute I met her — I still owe you that story — I knew she was used to being alone. Relished it, in a lot of ways. She’d made her own sacrifice by adjusting her solo style.

  So maybe I was the only one really worried about this. She liked being with me, but she liked her alone-time, too. How would we deal with that when the time came for me to stop getting killed for my country? That was a bridge we’d drive off when we got to it.

  Even though it was only a three hour flight I nodded off. I was at my hotel before midnight and took a sleeping pill to make sure I didn’t stay awake until three.

  At 6:55 I sat in the hotel restaurant, drinking coffee and catching up on sports scores. At five past seven Fife walked in and sat across from me. He was tall and thin but otherwise had nothing in common with the Mayberry man. His clothes were Miami chic, and his full head of hair sported a slight pomade sheen. I knew in a minute I liked his style. He talked like me, including the same snarky attitude. I rarely worked with anyone — it’s not a common practice for Q2 agents because of the questions we don’t care to answer — but I could work with this dude.

  Especially when I found out he’d worked at Q2 until only three months ago.

  “Oh, really?” I said, carefully tempering my response. I had no idea how much he knew about my role in the organization and we certainly weren’t allowed to discuss it with anyone.

  He saw the consternation on my face and laughed, then lowered his voice. “You can relax, Swan. I know all about reinvestment.”

  I absorbed this for a moment. “I’m going to need some explanation. People don’t just leave Q2 with that information.”

  “They do when they’re a plant.” He glanced around. “Okay, let me explain. At Q2 we do just fine on our own, but you know we’ve always needed a liaison with other agencies. We need to be able to talk with the FBI, CIA, NSA, even the Girl Scouts if it could help. But our hands are tied by how little we can reveal.

  “So Quanta came up with this idea. Transfer someone from Q2 to each of these agencies, someone who’s on the inside of Q2’s, um, techniques. We have a woman inside CIA, and I understand that next month we’ll have someone else with Homeland Security. I’m the FBI connection. My job is to liaison with Q2 agents so we can exchange information. This protects all of our secrets but still gets the job done. So, yes, Swan, I know you’re a man of a million faces. Relieved?”

  “Very,” I said. “You were never a field agent?”

  “Strategies and tactics. Planning and such. But I was a cop and detective in Philly for 15 years before I got tired of being a target for punks. Besides, the Barney Fife jokes got to be a bit much. Anyway, I can still shoot at people if necessary, but I prefer to not constantly be on the receiving end. I don’t get a do-over like you.”

  I finished my coffee and requested a refill from the server. “This not only makes sense, it helps a lot. Quanta could’ve at least given me a heads-up, though.”

  “Probably wanted to screw with you. Has she kicked the hell out of you in the garden like she has with me?”

  “Only a hundred times. Maybe we should go together and whip her ass.”

  “I think we’d need a third.”

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s talk about next steps. First, any news on Richter? I’ve been out of it for a couple of days.”

  “Well, he’s been seen since you ruined that motel room in Georgia,” he said.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Here. Miami. Yesterday. That, my friend, is why you’re here.”

  “Huh. So he’s not incapacitated from the shootout. That sucks.”

  “He’s limping, so you obviously winged him.”

  Winged. Nobody in my business likes to think they winged someone. I’m surprised I hadn’t already had an earful from Quanta. I hoped my chagrin didn’t show.

  “Do we know what his plan is in Miami?” I asked.

  Fife shook his head. “No, but indications are he’s preparing to meet someone.”

  “The twins.” When he didn’t respond, I looked out the window at the foot traffic going by in the early morning sunshine. Everyone was dressed like they had to prove they lived in Miami. It’s a funny town.

  Of course, it might not be Lucas and Gillian. It’s possible Richter was here to eliminate another LoGo problem child. But for some reason my brain was screaming TWINS. Poole had said things intensified. To me that indicated the operation was moving into the Christmas home stretch, and from now on they’d forego appearances of working at their headquarters in Nevada. It didn’t matter much anymore. If things went their way, some people would have mere days left to enjoy their text messages and indoor lighting.

  “If the twins do show up,” I said, “that means their operations base is probably nearby. And they own an island in the Caribbean. In fact, they have to. It says in all the villain manuals that you must own a private island from which to orchestrate the end of the world.”

  “Yeah, but it makes sense,” Fife said. “Since their company is all about building and installing alternative energy, I assume the island could sustain itself for centuries. Even if they’re not planning armageddon, an island base could provide tax benefits.”

  I nodded and stirred cream and sugar into my fresh cup of coffee. “But we have to know for sure. They could just use the island as a jumping-off point to the real base somewhere else.”

  “Sounds like a fishing expedition is in order. We’ll have satellite images of the island by this time tomorrow, which should help us assess their defensive preparations.”

  “I’m going to assume that’s extensive. They’ve had a couple years to build up everything.”

  Fife looked dubious. “But they would’ve pulled everything off without a hitch if one person hadn’t spoken up. Are we sure they’re heavily guarded? I mean, they are just a company, not a country.”

  This was a fair point. “Here’s what I know,” I said. “So far they’ve been a step ahead of us on everything we’ve explored. Sure, it could all just be Richter, but money can buy a lot of defense. And these people are loaded. It would be a gigantic mistake to assume they haven’t built themselves a fortress.”

  “Okay. So what do we do about that? Unless we have proof of anything, we can’t send in the Marines.”

  “No, we can’t,” I said. “But we can send in a Trojan Horse.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Turned out we didn’t get the satellite data until late the following day. That meant I had two days to kill in Miami. While waiting I bought a swim suit and went to the beach, something I never do. I don’t get the infatuation with sand. It’s so . . . sandy. And scratchy. But just once in my life I wanted to know what it was like to be that guy on the beach, the one who looks like he can bench press a grand piano with a refrigerator sitting on top of it. And, sure enough, it was as hilarious as I thought it would be. No fewer than six young women and eight young men approached and flirted their asses off. I guess the guys are just bolder about making a move.

  I was courteous to each of them, and even accepted a few cocktails to be social. But I never led any of them on. We had lots of laughs and I got to play some pretty competitive volleyball. I’m rarely tall enough to be a force at the net, but now I spiked like a mo-fo for hours. I texted a photo to Christina with the caption: “Another tough day at the office.” She wrote back: “Divorce papers en route.”

  And I could eat again, so I did. And did again. And then did some more. Miami doesn’t disappoint when it comes to great food, including ethnic cuisine for days. If I stayed much longer there was a good chance the super bod would become super blub. There wasn’t enough beach volleyb
all in the world to make up for the empanadas and Cuban sandwiches I gorged on.

  That second night at around eight o’clock I met Fife in a small lounge on Key Biscayne. Fife didn’t drink so he sipped iced tea and watched me make love to a blue-ish house-special concoction with rum. And I’d never even liked rum before.

  We ordered food and got down to business.

  “Let’s go in order,” Fife said. “The pulse equipment, the drones, and the home base. One of our Bureau agents, Velasquez, led a small team investigating the practicality of a non-nuclear warhead device capable of producing the kind of electromagnetic pulse powerful enough to knock out and damage heavy-duty power plants. She reported back yesterday that the technology is actually an offshoot of LoGo’s own solar energy research.”

  “That must bring them more joy than anything,” I said. “Knowing they’re using some of their own inventions to facilitate this plan.”

  “No doubt. Velasquez also said the only downside to the tech is size. Each device would have to weigh a minimum of 500 to 600 pounds.”

  I dunked some of my ice cubes with a straw. “Yeah, that would normally be a problem, but our shitty little middleman in Georgia told me he’d have no trouble producing stealthy aircraft capable of hoisting something that size.”

  “Okay. So the devices, as far as we can tell, have already been assembled and even tested.”

  “Where would they test them?”

  “Right here,” Fife said. He pushed his tablet across the table. On the screen was a network news story highlighting mysterious power outages in the far north. Two power plants, one in Alaska and one in Saskatchewan, had been knocked out for more than two days by what spokespersons were calling ‘a bizarre solar flare.’

  The story went on to say the damage was unprecedented. One senior engineer in Saskatchewan suggested the only plausible explanation, given the circumstances, was a combination of an untimely solar eruption coinciding with a temporary breach in the Earth’s protective magnetic field. The resulting cosmic ray could’ve fried the components of each power station.