Implant Page 17

  “There’s someone else with her,” Markov said. “She’s not alone.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “She escaped, first of all. How did she get past security if she was alone? I’m guessing that she was with the inmates as they rushed the guards.”

  “We already knew that,” Sarah said. “The guards would have concentrated on the inmates and maybe she slipped past in the confusion. And even if she escaped with one or more of the prisoners, maybe they split up and went separate ways.”

  “You need to think like Julia,” Markov said. “She’s risked everything to free Ian Westhelle from the psych ward. She’s desperate to find out what happened. No, I don’t think she’d split up with Agent Westhelle, not if she had any say. Then what did she do? She stole a car and she swapped out license plates. But that’s the behavior of a field operative concealing his tracks, not a doctor. So I assume they’re traveling together. That complicates our search, but at the same time it means that if we find one, we’ll have both. Has she called Terrance?”

  “Well, no. Terrance called her, but she didn’t pick up. It went to voice mail, though, and she hasn’t called in to retrieve his message, give us a new bead on her location. The ATM was north of Nephi, in the direction of Salt Lake. The man with the stolen plates had also stopped there to gas up.”

  “Ian might have feinted north, then headed in some other direction,” Markov said.

  “We thought about that. We’re stopping cars near St. George and the freeway approaches to Las Vegas, and tracking roads leading in and out of Utah. We had a couple of leads in Salt Lake City and Boise, Idaho, but nothing has panned out so far.”

  ”What other resources have you committed?”

  “I’ve got a pair of spookies crisscrossing the state, trying to send instructions to Ian’s implant. Chang whipped up something that should disable Agent Westhelle if we can get in range.”

  “How many agents on the ground?”

  “None, yet.”

  This surprised Markov. “That’s big country out there, a million places to hide. They could hole up until we exhaust ourselves looking. Without agents on the ground, we might never find them.”

  “I could live with that,” she said. “I just need them out of the way until we resolve matters in Namibia.”

  Sarah finished her coffee, then frowned at the bottom of the mug. She held it out for Markov. “Would you mind?”

  Markov dutifully went to the coffee machine in the break room, poured her a fresh cup and then started a new pot. He brought it back with a handful of sugars and creamer packets.

  “Two sugars, one cream,” she said when he tried to hand it over.

  He clenched his teeth as he mixed in the sugars and the creamer, then gave her the mug. She took it without comment, drank deeply.

  “What exactly is going on in Namibia?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about that, I’ll handle it. But the situation is touchy, to say the least. The Chinese are furious, the Namibians are even more pissed off. Even our friends in the Namibian government are getting anxious.”

  Markov listened, and nodded. So much political capital burned, so many assets wasted, and for what? He knew precious little. It wasn’t a simple recon mission gone wrong, of course. He knew about the Chinese drilling concessions, of course, the scope of their work in the country, but why was this so important, so urgent, for America? Nobody asked his opinion, but he thought it was time cut losses, make apologies, and get out.

  “All the more reason to track down Westhelle and Dr. Nolan,” Markov said. “What if Westhelle wants to go back to Africa and “finish what he started” like he was ranting in Namibia? He’s capable of anything. Forget the mess he made in Utah, the guy killed his best friend.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  “So send a ground team. Neutralize Westhelle. Better yet, capture him, if you can.”

  “Very good. Can you fly out today?”

  Markov blinked. “Me? I’m not field ready.”

  “Oh, get off it,” she scoffed. “I can’t believe you’re squeamish. I’ve read your file.”

  He thought about the people he’d killed, about the wife of the Sudanese ambassador, struggling for breath. “I’m not squeamish. It’s my physical skills. I’m pushing forty-five, Westhelle is what, twenty-eight, twenty-nine? Former special ops, athlete. I need to be realistic about my abilities.”

  “I’m not asking you to go mano a mano with the guy. But you can track him down, you’re good at that.”

  “And when I find him?”

  “Take a team, let them do the dirty work. Just make sure they’re guys who can keep their mouths shut.”

  “Theoretically, they all can,” he said. “It’s a requisite of the job.”

  “Maybe, but I need to be sure. That’s why I’m sending you. You know how to take orders, and you have a knack for finding people who don’t want to be found, and you know how to keep your mouth shut. This is bigger than just one botched mission, Anton. The entire implant program is jeopardized if he is captured and the implant is discovered. It puts one of our most crucial intelligence secrets at risk.”

  Ah, so that was it. He was not a particularly curious man, but again, he wondered what was going on that Sarah seemed so anxious to keep it quiet.

  “Fine. Let me gather a few things and I’ll be in Utah by this afternoon.”

  His mind was already formulating a short list of field operatives. And he’d need computer assets, money. Military resources, satellite images. Oh, and contacts in Canada and Mexico when Ian fled the country, as he surely would, rather than booking a ticket directly for Africa.

  “Just keep him out of Namibia, whatever you do,” Sarah said. “Can I have your word on that?”

  “I don’t make promises about unknowable events.”

  “No? Well here’s a knowable event. You don’t catch Ian Westhelle, this is going to get out. And if it does, I’ll have no choice but to tender my resignation to the president. When I go down, it will be like a giant ship sinking, with everyone swimming as hard as they can in every direction to keep from getting sucked to the bottom with me. You, you’re so close that I’m quite certain that you’ll drown.”

  “I understand,” Markov said. “Perfectly.”

  #

  As soon as Markov left her office, Sarah Redd got on the phone. She was in full damage-control mode now, and it was time to cut Terrance loose.

  Markov, that fool. The only good thing about him was his loyalty, his by-the-books, hierarchy-driven mentality. She’d rather have a brilliant innovator like Tim Stevens in the field, or better, Gretchen Caruthers. Either would be better at taking down Westhelle and Julia Nolan. But they were also more likely to screw up spectacularly.

  The phone picked up, rattled for a minute as the person on the other end banged around to get the receiver to his ear. “Yeah?” Terrance asked in a groggy voice.

  “Were you asleep?”

  “No, not at all.” He sounded more alert by an order of magnitude. “I’m awake.”

  “Whatever, get your butt out of bed and get some coffee or something. It’s almost night in Namibia and I need you to get hold of our contacts before they disappear for the weekend.”

  “Okay, what do you need me to tell them?” Terrance asked.

  “We’re done, we’re out.”

  “Huh, what?”

  “You know what I mean. Things are out of control and we have to back out. That means no SOCOM support, no covert actions, nothing. They’re on their own. No, better that you tell them that our official position will be that the current government of Namibia is legitimate and we will resist any attempts to undermine the democratic underpinnings of Namibian society, blah, blah, blah.”

  “But that’s a complete reversal. The army is ready to move, and our friends in the government are counting on us. And the Chinese—”

  “I know what it means,” Sarah said. �
�They’re going to be angry, and it will probably just help the Chinese solidify their holdings. But it doesn’t matter. We have to step back and lick our wounds.”

  Terrance was quiet for a long time. “This is going to hurt,” he said at last. “I mean personally. I’ve already made certain commitments. I have obligations.”

  “Financial, you mean.”

  “That’s right. I need the money.”

  “Why don’t you just blurt it out,” she said. “Because nobody has ever tapped a phone before. God.”

  What an idiot. Like a kid with his first job who buys a sports car and gets a bunch of credit cards. He’d overspent, based on his anticipated take from Namibia. Well, it had all been speculative, nothing guaranteed. He was going to learn that the hard way.

  “It’s over, Terrance. You can thank your wife for that.”

  “How is Julia?”

  “She’s fine,” Sarah lied. “We’ll bring her back in a few days. Of course, she’ll have to find other work. This is too big a screw-up for me to cover for her, but I’ll let you deal with that later. First, take care of Namibia.”

  Terrance groaned. “I told her not to get involved. Why didn’t she listen? Now she’s going to lose her job and we need that paycheck more than ever.”

  “Focus on Namibia,” she said, more sternly. “Your marital troubles can wait.”

  “Okay, right. Yeah, I’ll do that. Let me make a few calls and I’ll get back to you.”

  Sarah hung up the phone. She would take care of Terrance’s marital problems for him. No more Julia, no more problems. He could thank her later.

  She drained the coffee mug, then glanced into the hallway to see if the secretary had arrived yet to get her more coffee. But it wasn’t even seven, and Maggie wouldn’t show up for another hour. Reluctantly, Sarah made her way to the break room to get her own refill.

  Chapter Twenty-four:

  Julia’s eyes blinked open. She slid a few tangled strands of hair out of her eyes and slowly sat up in the back seat of the car. Her back was killing her. For the most part, she was in good shape, but when she slept on a hard surface, or went camping, she was stiff for hours.

  Easily half her patients were spine patients – they were in neverending supply, always hoping the next surgery would end the pain that consumed their lives. She tried to discourage most of them from surgery. Her standard line was that there were few good reasons to have a first back surgery, but all kinds of reasons to have a second and third.

  Seeing as much back pain as she did, she took care of her abdominals. Although her trips to the gym were usually confined to the first three weeks of January each year, she did manage to do a quick abs workout most days, and took pride that she’d never once missed work or been laid up with back pain. Unlike Terrance. About twice a year he’d throw out his back in some stupid tug of war match or trying to do too much in the garage and would be out of commission for a week, downing all the muscle relaxants and pain killers she’d let him have.

  Terrance. That thought brought to her mind the grim reality she found herself in. What would Terrance say? Against everything sensible he’d told her, she’d violated direct orders. How many people had died? Scenes from the prior day’s battle played through her mind until she shook her head and rubbed her eyes.

  What was she thinking? It was Terrance who had lied, had pretended to help, acted as though he understood what she was feeling, then probably turned her in to Markov. It was confusing and frightening how quickly things had spiraled out of control. Enough. She had to make a plan. She sat up and watched Ian’s chest rise and fall as he slept. He was snoring lightly, but the sound gave her comfort, as if to reassure her that someone was here with her. She’d got him into this mess, put the implant in his head. Granted he hadn’t exactly helped by shooting up the place and killing half a dozen guards, but what was he supposed to do, imprisoned in that awful place by the people he’d risked his life to protect?

  The biggest danger he faced right now was from that implant. All it would take was a plane, or a radio tower, or someone on the ground. Fry his brain. That’s exactly what they would do. She had to believe they had the capability to send a program to his implant that would cause massive bursts of electrical activity. No. They’d probably hit the brain with rhythmic pulses, like a strobe light. Status epilepticus—uncontrolled seizures.

  But there was no way to take out the implant. She had no tools, no staff, no monitoring equipment. Cutting the wires might help, but left him exposed to what could be a greater risk. It would be like walking around with a lightning rod into his brain.

  What about the control? Could she damage it? Disable it? No, too risky. She could cause exactly what she hoped to prevent. She didn’t understand the electronics enough. Never enough damn time to learn everything. It was like a ticking bomb, just waiting for someone to detonate it, keeping time with its state of the art microlithium battery.

  The battery! Yes, that was it. She could take out the battery. Without power, the device would sit idle in his chest, but would still be connected to the leads preventing stray currents.

  She reached forward and grabbed Ian’s forearm. “Ian!” she whispered. “Wake up!” Why was she whispering? “Ian!” she shouted.

  He grunted and jerked awake. The disorientation cleared after an instant. “Julia. Where? What’s the matter?”

  “The battery! We’ve got to take out the battery!”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s time to take out your battery! Don’t you see? That will disable the implant.”

  Ian rubbed at his eyes. “I just fell asleep.”

  “We’ve got to do it now. Before morning. Why take chances? ’There’s got to be a hospital around here somewhere.”

  “And we’re going to check in at the ER and ask them to take out the battery from my top secret brain implant? I’ll end up back at the psych ward.”

  “No, silly. These sleepy little hospitals have NO security. We’ll walk right into the OR and I’ll take it out myself. But we need to move. It’s almost three in the morning.”

  “That’s what it feels like. But yeah, I hadn’t meant to stay in one place so long.”

  “Come on!” she urged, but Ian was already fumbling for his keys, and reaching for the ignition. She jumped out of the back and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Where to?” he asked, as he pulled the car onto the dirt road.

  “Back to Monticello,” she answered. When we passed through I saw a hospital sign. It’s probably only a half hour from here.”

  #

  Their car was the only one on the road. Monticello was barely a town, really. Highway 191 served as Main Street and there were half a dozen other streets that branched off with houses and businesses mixed together. This time of night, they could drive the length of town in three minutes.

  They followed the signs and pulled up outside of San Juan County Hospital on First North and Fourth West. A few scattered cars sat in the parking lot. They parked and Julia motioned for Ian to follow around the dimly lit back entrance. The door was open.

  A white-tiled hallway stretched in front of them with large signs pointing to “Clinics,” “Radiology,” and “Emergency.” Julia veered away from Emergency and toward Radiology. All these hospitals were organized more or less the same way. You could just about guarantee that the inpatient wards would be on the second floor, pathology in the basement, ER and imaging on the first floor. In two turns she found the door to the operating room.

  Julia heard footsteps. Ian grabbed her and pressed her against the wall. She glanced at him and shook her head, then pushed his arm away. She strode forward casually after motioning for Ian to follow. As they turned the corner, a middle aged woman in scrubs came down the hallway toward them.

  As she saw Julia and Ian, she paused. “Hey, do I know you?”

  Julia smiled. “Not yet. I’m Heather. This is John.”

  Ian nodded. He looked tense.

 
; Julia continued, “Just coming on shift. I’m moonlighting in the ED. I work in Saint George, usually.”

  The woman smiled back. “Who’s the hunk?”

  Julia winked and said, “Nobody. Promise you won’t tell?”

  The woman gave her a crooked smile and walked down the hallway. “See you around.” She looked back over her shoulder at Ian. “See you around too, I hope.”

  Julia walked a few steps, then doubled back.

  Ian looked angry. “‘Promise you won’t tell?’ We could have avoided her.”

  “Relax. I know how these people think.”

  “What if she were from the ED?”

  “She’s not the type. Her scrubs were tucked in. She had tape and scissors in her front pocket and didn’t look angry. She’s a floor nurse.”

  Ian raised his eyebrows. “You know, you might have a future as a field agent.”

  “Good, because I’m going to be in the market for a new job soon.”

  Julia walked right through the front door of the deserted foyer to the operating room and turned behind the nurse’s desk and white board, through a set of blue curtains and down the main hallway to a pair of wooden doors with small inset windows. She whispered to Ian. “Here’s the OR.”

  Ian followed and hopped up on the table in the center of the room. “I’ll just make myself at home.”

  Julia was already in the back supply room, rummaging through stacks of sealed blue and white plastic containers with surgical trays. She fished out a central line tray, and grabbed a few packages of sterile towels, a boat of 4x4 gauze pads, a few proline sutures, a half sheet drape, and a couple pair of sterile gloves. Finally, she found the tips for the bovie cauterizer, and walked back into the room. She reviewed the procedure in her mind.

  Had to move fast. No need to gown up – this was going to be in and out. She pushed the equipment to the side of a metal instrument stand, then opened the tray and unfolded the blue paper to create a sterile field. She opened each of the items she’d brought in turn and dropped them onto the blue paper. “You ready?”

  “Are you sure we want to do this? I mean, maybe the implant could still be useful.”