The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol (25 page)

“Hey, aren’t you forgetting something?” Jack points to his ankle monitor.

“Oh…sorry.” Arnie heads back.
 

Emma sighs.
 

Blocking the signal is old school for Arnie and only takes a few minutes. He hacks Jack’s monitor first. Jack is quick to place it on Arnie’s ankle.
 

Then it’s my turn to swap with Emma. In no time, we’re done.

“Now, get out of here, you two—before we all end up in these things permanently,” Emma huffs.

She doesn’t have to ask twice.

Chapter 14

Death Becomes Her

What becomes a legend-in-the-making most? Her funeral couture! So that you look your best on the day of your big sendoff, here’s what you do:

First, pick out the perfect dress that will knock them dead! Tips: stay away from black (since everyone else will be wearing it), and keep to a style with classic lines. You don’t want to show up in the afterlife in something that looks dated after a few millennia.

Second, set up a practice session with your funeral director, to go over your hair and makeup requirements. If you’re lucky, he’ll make you look better
 
dead than alive!
 

Third, ask that they set your face in a smile, but that your teeth don’t show. Nothing is worse than having everyone remember you with lipstick on them!

Finally: Consider dying young. You might miss out on a lot of fun stuff, like having kids, a fiftieth wedding anniversary, and playing grandma, but
 
remember: looking your best always means making sacrifices.

Ryan is right. Security at the Quorum’s conference is tighter than a gnat’s ass. A workshop minion pats us down before we go through a gauntlet of ID measures, all of which we pass, no problem.

The hotel’s lobby holds sixty or so people. “It’s as if the
Star Wars
bar scene was reshot with every hate group stereotype,” I murmur.
 

All of them are making their way toward the hotel’s meeting room. I watch as a group of tatted-up skin-headed Neo-Nazis walk warily around a cluster of black-clad Muslim extremists. Nothing brings people together like a thirst for knowledge: in this case, seeking ways to tear each other apart, literally.

We are handed a badge, but there is no name on it, just a bar code. “My guess is that it has a GPS tracker as well,” Emma warns us. “Dump it if you wander into what is clearly an off-limits area. And by the way, we’re tracking at least two hundred hot spots.”

“Are there any large clusters of hot spots in some of the bedroom suites, or some that are in the same large room, but look isolated from each other? Perhaps lining the walls, or in rows?” Jack asks.

“What you’ve just described fits one of the ground floor conference rooms, all the way in the rear of the hotel,” Emma replies. “It seems to hold about fifty, maybe sixty people. They are in straight rows. None are moving.”

“It may be a holding pen for the missing agents,” Jack suggests.

“Jack, check it out,” Ryan commands. “If it’s what you suspect, Abu and Dominic will join you, and I’ll inform Branham. He’ll send out the Cavalry.”

“Roger,” Abu murmurs.
 

“There seems to be a digital lock on the door,” Emma notes. “I’ll try to hack it. Wait until you get my high sign. When you reach it, I’ll open it from this end, so that it doesn’t set off a silent alarm.”

“Will do,” Dominic promises.

“In the meantime, Donna, keep your eyes on the prize: Carl, Gigi, Heinried, the Biarritz mystery woman, and Fake Donna,” Ryan says. “If you see any of them, call for back up.”

“On it,” I whisper.
 

As I round a lobby corner, I notice a door placard that reads:
 

TRIED AND TRUE INDOCTRINATION
THROUGH MEMORY MODIFICATION
SPEAKER: Dr. X – PROGRAM RESEARCHER

Ryan and Emma see the same thing through my eyes. I know this because Ryan exclaims, “Damn it! Lee will be livid.”

“No shit. Imagine the backlash should it ever be known that DARPA taught them all they needed to know to create homegrown jihadists,” Emma adds.
 

 
“I’m going to go and check it out,” I say. “I guess we’ll know if Dr. Wollstonecraft was turned after all.” I pray not, for her sake and Evan’s.

 
“Hey, I’ve just passed the finance pitch room,” Jack says. “It’s empty, but there’s a brochure on the table. I’ve pocketed it. Should be interesting to see what terms the Quorum offers these days.”

“I wonder if the interest is lower than the mortgage on our condo?” Emma muses out loud.

I’d laugh along with the rest of them, but I’ve just walked into the Memory Modification workshop.

My eyes move to the podium, where Dr. X stands—

Or in this case, Dr. Norbert Welles, the researcher from the start-up MesmerMind, who headed up DARPA’s research on neural implants.

Well, what do you know…
 

“—that mind no longer has to be over matter,” Norbert Welles explains to the ballroom’s crowd, which is standing room only. “Instead, it can now work in tandem with the physical enhancements that will be taking place in your super soldiers.”
 

I squeeze in between a bow-tied Louis Farrakhan wannabe and someone who’s ignoring the dress code notice that KKK robes can be warn only during cocktail hour.
 

Both seem happy to have me as a buffer. In fact, Mr. KKK taps his hat in my honor. Bowtie blows me a kiss. Suddenly, both of them are too close for comfort. Yuck! I’ve never thought I’d be the meat in a hate group sandwich. Honestly, this job comes with so few perks. I’m going to talk to Human Resources about that.

“This short video shows you our process in its entirety,” Welles declares. “Let’s watch it, shall we?”

The lights go dark so that all can clearly see the wall-sized monitor behind the podium. A second later, the screen is filled with the image of a beautiful young woman:

Gigi.

“
Oh, mon Dieu
!” Jean-Pierre shouts so loudly that I cover my ear.

She is seen lying on the beach with her friends, Nicolette and Suzette. “As you see, this potential recruit has no direction in her life,” Welles says. “When taken in by us—under no duress, mind you, and that is
very
important—she gives us a full dossier in personal intel: family members, friends, intimates, as well as her memories at every age. From that, we are able to discern her greatest fear, and turn it into her greatest loss—a post-traumatic stress, if you will.” He pauses grandly. “With loss comes grief. With grief comes resolve. Our goal is to turn her resolve into
revenge
.”

The video now shows her strapped down on a laboratory table. Electrodes protrude from her head. Next to it are three monitors, each attached to a different machine: a PET scan, an MRI scanner, and a digital infrared camera for thermographic imaging.
 

“The human brain has millions of neurons, each covered in tiny filaments known as dendrites. While they never touch, they communicate via the synapses—or spaces—between them. Our emotional memories, say fear or hate, or for that matter, love—are stored in a group of neurons called the amygdala, which is located here”—he points to the spot between Gigi’s eyes—“in the temporal lobe.” He gazes around the room. In answer to some of the awestruck faces he sees, he chuckles. “Bored, perhaps, with this science lesson? Here’s where it becomes interesting. You see, we plant
a false memory
—in this case, the death of a dear intimate at the hands of a militant government agency. First, you’ll see the memory itself.”
 

The next scene is a video of a SWAT team surrounding Jean-Pierre. Despite kneeling with his hands behind his head, despite the fact that he’s begging for his life, they riddle his body with bullets.

The last thing he’s heard shouting is, “Gigi—Donna! Save me!”

Why me too?

“Once the memory is planted, we embellish it with others. The recruit is now open to ways in which she can seek revenge in order to right the wrong. To accomplish her goal, she will even consent to changes in her physicality.” The video now shows quick scene cuts of Gigi working out through the course of each day since we last saw her. By the last shot she is toned and muscular.

The screen goes black.
 

In his next sentence, Dr. Welles explains why: “For us to see the extreme lengths to which she is now willing to go, you’ll follow me. We have buses set up to take us on a little field trip.”

The crowd drones excitedly as it eagerly moves out of the room and into the lobby.
 

“That fantasy—it was
not
me!” Jean-Pierre insists. “I swear on…on Nicolette’s grave!”

“We don’t doubt you,” Ryan declares. “Jean-Pierre, you must focus on the task at hand.”

“
Oui
, Monsieur.” The resolve in Jean-Pierre’s voice is clear and resolute.

As I fall into line, I hear Ryan say, “Jack, turn around and get on that bus with Donna! She may need backup.”

“On it,” Jack whispers.

As one of the last people on the bus, I end up near the front of it.
 

Norbert Welles comes up behind me.

I take the only seat available—

Next to my ex-husband Carl.

No. Oh…no.

“What are the odds?” Emma squeals into my ear.

You’re telling me.

“Excuse me, Madame, but you’re sitting in my seat.” Welles is clearly annoyed that he can’t sit near his fearless leader.

Carl looks me over appraisingly. “Where are your manners, doctor? A gentleman always gives a lady the last seat.”

As we pull away from the curb, I see Jack, running for the bus.

He is too late.

I don’t look at Carl. Instead, I look out the window at the car in the next lane.

Oh, my God, it’s Jean-Pierre.

To keep from drawing attention to him, I look front and center instead. I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses. Otherwise, Carl might see the dread so obviously in my eyes.
 

Suddenly, he lays his hand over mine.