Ex-Purgatory: A Novel (18 page)

Another squeal of brakes made him spin. The black sedan had doubled back, too. It stopped in the road right behind him. Its nose was inches from the Hyundai’s rear bumper. The two black vehicles and his own car had him surrounded on three sides. Even as he thought it a second car pulled up in the far lane. They formed a tight box around him.

The passenger door opened while the sedan settled and a short blonde stepped out. The woman he’d glimpsed as they drove by outside his apartment. Her hair was cut short. She had a face that might’ve been cute when she was younger, but had gotten lean and harsh as she matured. She wore the same dark suit as the men in the van, and her driver.

The blonde held up something dark in her hand. A twitch of her fingers opened it to show a gold shield, a photograph, and some tiny words on a white background. George registered a capital
S
, but the wallet closed before he could read anything.

“George Bailey,” the woman said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. She was just letting him know everything was intentional and deliberate.

George realized an instant too late he should’ve spent that thinking time trying to run.

A man grabbed either arm. A third one dropped the bag over
his head. It was made of heavy black material, like denim. He heard a zipping sound as it cinched around his neck.

He fought back. The man holding his right arm let go. George swung his arm around and heard a grunt of pain from someone. The man holding the other arm let go, but then someone slammed into him. The world spun inside the black bag, something hit him in the side of the head, and everything stopped.

IT WAS VERY
stuffy.

George realized the darkness wasn’t unconsciousness but something draped over his head. He reached up to pull it away and something cold clicked and cut into his wrists. Then he remembered the van and the men and—

“He’s awake.”

The bag whipped off his head. The blonde was standing in front of him. She was going through his wallet. She had his driver’s license out and was holding it up to the light. She tilted it back and forth, checking the holograms.

They were in a square room. One of the dark-suited men stood in each corner. One had a bruise on the side of his head that hadn’t been there when they grabbed him. Another one had splints on two fingers and his thumb. The only furniture was the chair George was handcuffed to and a table off to the side.

There wasn’t a mirror. He thought there was always a one-way mirror in these rooms so people on the other side could watch what went on. He craned his head around. No mirror, and also no cameras.

He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

The blond woman tossed his license on the table. His credit cards were already there, along with what little cash he had and a few receipts. “George H. Bailey.
H
stands for Harrison.” She
shook her head. “Seriously, with a name like that you’d think Homeland would’ve picked you up years ago.”

“It’s my real name,” he said.

“I know,” she said. She pulled a few grocery store cards from his wallet, glanced at each of them, and tossed them on the table. “Your parents were Beatles fans?”

She stared at him for a moment and George realized she was waiting on an answer. He swallowed and tried to stay calm. “
Star Wars
,” he said. “Dad said I was almost George Han Bailey, but Mom won out.”

The man in the corner to George’s left, the one with the bruise, bit back a snort.

The blonde’s gaze didn’t waver. “Are you a sci-fi geek?”

“When I was a kid.”

“Not anymore?”

“No more than anyone else, I guess.”

Another long pause stretched out. Her eyes were bright green. The longer he looked, the more he was sure she wasn’t a nice person.

He looked away from her eyes. “Ummmm … What’s this all about?”

The blonde tossed his wallet on the table. “You do any sports?”

“What?”

“Football? Weightlifting? Maybe a little soccer on your lunch break?”

“I … no.”

“Nothing?”

“I ride my bike to work sometimes in the summer. That’s it.”

“Ever take anything for that?”

“What?”

The blonde nodded at the man with the splints. “You put up a real fight when we grabbed you.”

“I was scared.”

“A lot more of a fight than a guy your size and build should be able to. Especially against guys like these.” She paused again. “My friend here thinks you’re on steroids.”

He shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“Good,” said George. “You’re right.”

“You’re way too skinny to be on steroids. My bet was meth.”

He blinked. “I’m not on anything.”

“You sure about that?”

“I have to do a drug test every six months. I don’t even smoke.”

She held out her hand. One of the men placed a cell phone in it. George realized it was his. She made a few quick swipes at the phone’s screen and then held up the call log for him to see. “Yesterday morning,” she said, “you placed a call to Sandia Labs in New Mexico. The Pulsed Power Project. The call lasted just under nine minutes.”

This pause was twice as long. George wasn’t sure if she wanted an answer and he didn’t want to risk interrupting her if she started talking again. Once he was sure she was waiting on him, he gave a quick nod. “Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you call the lab?”

“I was looking for someone.”

“Barry Burke?”

“Yes.”

“And you found him.” Another statement, not a question.

“Yeah.”

“How do you know Mr. Burke?”

“I …”

The blonde set his phone on the table and crossed her arms. “It’s not really a tough question,” she said. “How do you know him?”

“I’m not sure I do,” admitted George.

“So why were you calling him?”

George started to talk, then closed his mouth.

“Well?”

“I think … I think I’d like to talk to a lawyer,” George said. “Counsel. Whatever you call it.”

The blonde’s mouth twitched into a new shape. If it was a
smile, it was a cruel one. “A lawyer?” she echoed. “What year do you think this is, George? I don’t have to give you a bathroom if I don’t want to. Answer the question. Why were you calling Barry Burke?”

Something burned at the back of his throat and he swallowed it down. “To see if I recognized him. Recognized his voice.”

“But you don’t know him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so? Have you ever met?”

George shook his head. “No.”

“Ever talked on the phone before?”

“No.”

“Exchanged e-mails? Online chat? Message boards? Anything?”

“No.”

“So how would you recognize him?”

George closed his mouth again.

“According to the receptionist you were on hold for a minute and a half while Mr. Burke got to the phone. You talked for a little over seven minutes. What did you talk about?”

“Nothing.”

“You didn’t say anything? You just stood there with the phone in your hand?”

“No, of course—”

“So what did you talk about?”

“I asked who he was. He made a joke.”

“What kind of joke?”

George tried to roll his shoulders. The cuffs bit into his wrists. “I said I thought I had the wrong person. He said if there was another Barry Burke, he probably had a goatee and a sash.”

The blonde furrowed her brow. “What the hell does that mean?”

“
Star Trek
,” said one of the agents behind George. “In the mirror universe all of the
Enterprise
crew wore sashes to show their rank, and the evil Spock had a goatee.”

“Shut up, Winston,” she snapped.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“I just told you to shut up.” Her gaze settled on George again. “So,” she said, “did you recognize Burke?”

He thought about it for a long moment. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Did he recognize you?”

George paused with his lips half-open. “I don’t know.”

The blond woman stared at him. “In the past week you’ve stopped twice at the Army recruiting office on Lindbrook. Why?”

“Look, I think I at least get to know what this is all about. I’m pretty sure that’s in the Bill of Rights.”

“We’re getting to it,” she said. “Why were you at the recruiting office?”

“My car broke down. I was looking for help. Somebody with jumper cables.”

“And the second time?”

“Same thing.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Your car broke down twice in one week, both times in front of the same office?”

“No,” said George. “The first time was half a block away. The second time was a little before it, but then I knew they had the cables.”

“Who did you talk to there?”

“A sergeant, I think. I don’t know military ranks that well. And a lieutenant.”

“Names?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.” The huge officer’s name floated up in his memory. “The big guy, the lieutenant, was named Freedom.”

The blonde traded looks with one of the men behind George. Not the
Star Trek
fan. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the man thumb-typing into a BlackBerry.

“Yesterday afternoon,” the blonde said, “you visited a woman named Karen Quilt at the Four Seasons Hotel.”

“Yes,” said George.

“Do you know Miss Quilt?”

“No. I mean, just from her pictures and stuff.”

“Never met her? Never sent her any e-mails or anything?”

“No.”

“You have any feelings for her?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Do you have dreams about her? Fantasies?”

George paused, then shook his head. “No.”

The blond woman noticed the pause. “Are you stalking her?”

“No!”

She picked his phone and her thumb swung back and forth. She held it out so he could see the message on the screen. “Nikolai Bartamian texted her address to you. The hotel she’s staying at.”

Something twisted in his gut. “Yes.”

“I’m guessing for someone in his line of work, that’s very frowned on. You know there’s a good chance he’ll get fired for that, right?”

“Yeah,” said George. “He said he might.”

She gave him another long stare. “So you’re not stalking her, but you’re willing to risk your friend’s job to get the address of a woman you’ve never met. Am I getting this right?”

“No.”

“So clear it up for me.”

“I just …” He hung his head.

“You wanted to see if she recognized you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you think she would know you?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t explain it, I’m sorry.”

“Did she recognize you?”

He sighed. “No.”

“According to her security force in the lobby, you were in the penthouse with her for almost twenty minutes.”

“It was only ten,” he said. “A lot of that was elevators and finding the room.”

“If she didn’t recognize you, what were the two of you talking about for ten minutes?”

“Old movies,” he said. “And Sherlock Holmes.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Bailey.”

He pressed his lips together in a line.

The blonde held out her hand again. The man with the splints took George’s phone away and handed her a brown folder. She tapped it against her hand twice before opening it. Her gaze left George and dropped to the pages inside the folder.

“Are you aware,” she said without looking up, “Miss Quilt is connected to a suspected terrorist? A man wanted by the CIA and Homeland Security, not to mention MI5 and pretty much every other intelligence organization on Earth?”

“I thought everybody knew that,” he said. “Hasn’t it been in
People
magazine and
TMZ
and all that?”

“You watch
TMZ
?”

“No.”

“Read
People
?”

“No. I think it was an issue of
Maxim
I found in the cafeteria.”

“And you looked it up online, didn’t you?”

The back of his throat sizzled. He swallowed again and nodded.

“It’s funny,” she said. “We’ve been going over your browser history, and it seems like you double-checked a lot of this information last night after you met with her.”

She held up a photograph. There was a string of numbers and letters down the side of the image. The photo was fuzzy, and the subject’s head was shaved almost bald, but there was no mistaking his harsh features and small glasses. They were sunglasses in the picture, and George found himself wondering if Karen’s father wore polarizing lenses.

The blonde pushed the photo closer to George. “Have you seen this man?”

He looked at the photo for a long moment. “I’m not sure.”

“Think carefully, George,” she said. “Your answer could influence the next thirty-five to forty years of your life.”

And then, just when George was ready to give up, the door opened and the President and First Lady walked into the room.

The President looked at George in the chair. Christian, the
First Lady, put her hand up to her mouth, aghast. She turned back to another suit in the doorway and murmured something.

“What’s all this?” President Smith asked. “I just asked you to get him for a talk.”

The blond woman looked confused, but hid it quickly. “The assignment was snatch and grab for interrogation, Mr. President.”

“What?” The commander in chief shook his head. “No, just a talk. Literally, just a … oh, for God’s sake, uncuff him.”

The blonde shot a look at one of the agents behind George. A lot of her confidence had vanished. It made her face softer, but she still didn’t look nice.

The
Star Trek
fan released the cuffs and George brought his arms around. He expected horrible welts from the tight restraints, but his wrists weren’t even bruised.

As soon as George’s arms were free the President waved the others away. “Out,” he said. “Give us a minute.”

The agents looked at the blonde. She gave a quick nod and they filed out of the room. President Smith looked at her, but she squared her shoulders and let her hands hang loose at her sides. He sighed and turned to his wife.