Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) Page 6

  “So maybe I’ll make the mountain come to me. Tell me how to get back in touch with you?”

  Albo reached into his jacket and came out with a black business card. There was no name on it—only a phone number printed in small white numerals. “This will route you through to my cell. Just know, they’ll expect news on Calloway—his certain death—within the next week or two, at the most. If you don’t comply, Pippa will be terminated.”

  “Then I guess I’ll need to work fast, won’t I?”

  “What makes you think I won’t tell my superiors about …”

  I cut him off: “That I got the best of you? That I was given the name of the man at the very top of the Order by simply giving you a little headache? Tell me, how do you think that will go over, Albo? Do you think … maybe … they’ll consider you a liability at that point? Perhaps they’ll take out their revenge, starting with your family. No. You won’t mention any of this. You can only hope and pray that I find a way to bring down the Order, freeing you from the crushing weight you carry around with you day to day.”

  I watched Albo, sitting there slumped, looking back at me. He had a lot to consider. Finally he said, gesturing to the business card in my hand, “Don’t use that number. All incoming calls are monitored.” He picked up a pencil off the desk and scribbled a phone number onto the top sheet of a note pad.

  He tore off the sheet, folded it, and handed it to me. “Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m able.”

  I nodded and handed Albo back his gun.

  Chapter 11

  The Order’s same two black-clad military men were back at the entrance to the office. Both had their weapons up and pointing toward me. Albo gave them a confident nod and said, “Let him pass. He understands what he has to do.”

  I moved toward the doorway and squeezed past them without looking back at Albo. At the bottom of the stairs, another ten or so similarly outfitted armed men were fanned out in a semicircle around the construction trailer. I heard a faint sound of static coming from one of the men’s radios. I assumed he was being told to let me pass. I moved around them, heading straight for one of the larger, bored-out tunnel openings off to my left. I wouldn’t be returning to the Lockkeeper’s House chimney, as I doubted I had the stamina, at this point, to climb the hundreds of metal rungs. I recalled the basic layout of the plans and the underground tunnel construction. The closest egress from this subterranean maze was through a hidden panel above me, near the FDR monument. I entered the tunnel and headed off into the semi-darkness.

  I couldn’t get the image of Pippa’s horrific attack out of my mind. Her suffering, how close she was to being killed—her vulnerability. My heart ached and all I wanted to do was rush to her side. I was tempted to comply with anything Heidi and the Order asked of me to ensure her future safety. But after years of doing what I do, I’ve learned one can’t give in to that kind of manipulation. In the end, both her and my suffering would never end. The chance of Pippa being allowed to live long-term, at the hands of her captors, was pretty much non-existent anyway. No, I needed to rescue her.

  * * *

  Going directly to Calloway wouldn’t be an option. That’s what handlers were for, and Curt Baltimore was mine. I called him as soon as I emerged from the subterranean tunnels into a tall grove of boxwood shrubs on the outskirts of the FDR Monument. Baltimore told me to sit tight and wait for him. Ten minutes later he showed up, driving a nondescript Ford sedan. He pulled over to the curb on busy Ohio Drive, where I quickly got in as he pulled into traffic.

  He scowled at me, “You reek.”

  “Thank you … nice to see you, too. I need to talk to Calloway.”

  “You can speak to me.” He continued to stare at me. “What’s wrong with you? Your hands are shaking.”

  “I’m fine. Where do you have me staying?”

  “Where you asked to stay… The Jefferson. But you need to be debriefed first.”

  “No, I need a shower … give me an hour or two.”

  “Pippa?” he asked, his tone more amiable.

  “I’ll tell you everything during the debrief. Just give me some time.”

  It took another seven or eight minutes to reach the hotel. Baltimore drove into its small circular drive and stopped at the hotel’s entrance, keeping the engine running. “Be back here in two hours.”

  A young, sandy-haired porter opened my car door. Seeing me sitting there, dressed in dirty gardener overalls, and getting a good whiff of me, he immediately stepped back, while keeping one hand on the car door. As I exited, he took another step back. Baltimore leaned over the passenger seat and looked up at me. “You’re registered as Mr. Drew Gallop … keys at the counter.”

  I watched Baltimore pull away, aware of the fact I hadn’t disclosed crucial information. Pippa’s life lay in the balance and I needed to think things through first. The porter rushed ahead of me and opened the big brass door at the hotel’s entrance. “Enjoy your stay here, sir.”

  * * *

  Room key in hand, I made my way to the small inset alcove off of the lobby where two polished brass elevator doors sat unmoving. I pushed the call button and the door on the right immediately opened. A sturdy, elderly woman wearing a blue bonnet-style hat briskly moved past me, leaving a heavily perfumed car interior in her wake. I was tempted to press the button for the seventh floor, where my room was located, but honestly didn’t think I could hold out any longer. From my frequent trips to Washington, and regularly staying at this two-hundred-year-old establishment, I had my tapping-in routine down pat. The hotel’s high-voltage lines came in through the sub-basement. I pressed the B button and waited for the door to close. Alone, I leaned back and closed my eyes, finding Pippa waiting for me there—her legs flailing outward and her face contorted—fear in her eyes. The car came to a jerky stop and the door slid open.

  Where the rest of the hotel was elegant, catering to highbrow millionaire businessmen and high-up government officials, its basement was no different in appearance than that of any other D.C. commercial building. Dimly lit and damp, even above my own stink, there was an earthy, mold-like tinge to the air. The shaking in my hands had spread to the rest of my body. I wrapped my arms around myself and, hunched over, made my way into the bowels of the hotel’s underground.

  “You can’t be down here.”

  With his back to me, I’d spotted the black maintenance man, working at a small workbench off to my left. I was fairly sure he hadn’t noticed me, but I was wrong. Normally, talking my way out of this kind of situation, or inserting a perfectly placed suggestion into someone’s mind, wouldn’t be a problem. But my brain faculties were completely muddled and my mental powers almost toast.

  I hurried along the slump stone passage without slowing my pace.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you, man. Stop!”

  I heard his footfalls quickening behind me so I ran as best I could manage, heading for an obscure metal door up ahead, marked Panels. A tall wooden crate partially blocked the passage, and I had to turn sideways to move past it. Holding up behind it, I leaned against the wall and watched the man’s approach by looking through a narrow gap between the crate and the wall.

  I tried hard to think of something … some reason for being down here. Nothing came to me. I momentarily pictured myself being bailed out of jail … perhaps by Baltimore. In the silence of the basement passageway, I saw him slow—looking for me. He hadn’t spotted me yet. Once again, I tried to enter his mind. This time I was successful. There’s an emergency on the fifth floor. Toilets overflowing … shit’s all over the place … hurry!

  I looked again and found no one over there. The passageway was empty.

  I hurried to the door marked Panels and, as expected, it was locked. I knew where the key was kept from previous visits to the hotel’s Panel room. I retraced my steps, back to the small work area and workbench. I found the rusted old Sanka coffee can on a shelf and riffled through the collection of door keys that were secured to a metal ring. Once back at the Panel door I unlocked it and let myself in. The room was no different than a hundred other electrical rooms I’d found myself in over the last few months. The incoming high-voltage line was located in a pipe, painted red, emerging from the stoned wall three feet off the concrete floor. The enclosed room, seeming more like a vault, was easily ten degrees cooler than the rest of the basement. I found myself shaking even more uncontrollably than I had seconds earlier. I really needed to find a better way to tap in.

  I knelt down and leaned my head against the hard, cold pipe. Instead of the typical, blissful tapping-in process I had grown accustomed to … I was immediately aware of something odd, something new. As if being physically pulled, manhandled, by strong hands—I was transported past the place where I’d typically spend my mental tapping-in process. I became aware of others—the same beings I had never looked directly at, ensuring they’d stay faceless and leave me alone. Now, heads turned and dark-shaped bodies scurried out of our way. I tried to pull away—to free myself from the being’s grasp. We moved faster as an increasing warble sound pulsed around us; there was a red glow somewhere ahead of us. I reached a hand out in front of myself and felt something thick and viscous, as if we were moving through molasses, and more dark shapes began converging there. And then, suddenly, I no longer noticed others around me here in these blurry surroundings. I realized the pair of tightly gripping hands were now gone. Something in front of me moved—it was getting closer to me. It looked human … no … maybe not human.

  Help me, Rob … oh God … help me!

  What do you want? What do you want from me?

  Look at me.

  I am looking at you.

  LOOK at me! Really look at me … you must look at me!

  He was in my mind … or was it my own mind speaking? My heart continued to race. Why am I so afraid? I wanted to leave this place—get away from this … this being. I turned my eyes away from the approaching dark shape. Instinctively, I knew not to look into his eyes. How do I know that?

  I have waited so long for this, Rob.

  What do you want?

  You know.

  Who are you?

  You know who I am … I am Darwin.

  You want your freedom … you want to leave this place? I questioned.

  Yes … will you help me?

  The shape, now mere inches in front of me, shifted position. For a fleeting moment I saw enough detail through the viscous surroundings to make out something: it was an eye. I looked away.

  You cannot deny what you already know, Rob.

  Stop! Get out of my mind.

  It’s only a matter of time, Rob … for the transference. You’ll find someone, just as I found you. It is the way. It is time.

  No! My thoughts flashed to Pippa, near death, desperately struggling for life. Suddenly, anger rose up in me; fury consumed me. I felt my hands tighten into fists and I stood up tall. I no longer feared this being, this thing that wanted to trade places with me. I would die fighting anyone, or anything, that kept me from rescuing Pippa.

  Clarity. The viscous surroundings were taking shape. The being before me was taking shape. I no longer struggled to turn away. I glared at him, my eyes wide open. I moved closer, towering over him. The being looked left and right, and then stepped back.

  It is my turn, Rob.

  Find someone else.

  I have tried … I cannot—

  I reached for the being that was not human. I wanted to tear its strangely shaped head from its strangely shaped body. I wanted to kill it.

  It is my turn, Rob.

  I awoke out of breath, my fingers still wrapped around the red-painted metal pipe. Anger still seethed in me.

  Chapter 12

  I was in my seventh floor hotel room, overlooking Sixteenth Street NW and busy Washington, D.C. beyond. I showered, shaved, and dressed in the starched white shirt I saw hanging in the closet, and a dark gray suit. Polished shoes had been lying side by side beneath. Everything was impeccably tailored to my build. I checked the inside jacket label but didn’t recognize the Italian designer’s logo. Apparently, the powers that be at SIFTR had other plans for me today … above and beyond using a leaf blower and digging trenches. I decided on an old-fashioned Windsor knot and adjusted the light blue and yellow striped tie beneath my collar. Looking in the mirror, my eyes held fast on my forehead. Who … or what is in there? Something from my past, or perhaps something looming in my future … was wrangling for my very existence. Would I have to confront this entity every time I tapped in? Would it even be me emerging the next time?

  There was a brown paper bundle, lying on the vestibule, with a blank envelope affixed to it. I opened it and read the enclosed card:

  Rob: Inside you will find a wallet, holding credit cards and one thousand dollars cash. You have a license and passport included as well. You’ll be traveling so don’t forget to grab the suitcase in the closet.

  Meet me in the Quill.

  Baltimore.

  I glanced into the partially opened closet and saw an upright case waiting there.

  * * *

  I dragged the rolling suitcase behind me and left it with a porter in the Jefferson’s lobby. I backtracked, climbed three steps, and headed down an adjacent hallway—airy, with bright-white painted walls and high-up crown moldings. I passed by the small library, with its collections of hundreds of hardbound books, and overstuffed chairs and couches, and entered the Quill.

  There are few places that provide such an immediate impact. To me, this is the quintessential man cave—with its indirect lighting, dark wood flooring, mahogany bar and tables—the lounge exudes comfort and luxury. I spotted Baltimore at the far side of the room, sitting at a small table by a window.

  I sat across from him, noticing he too was business-dressed in suit and tie.

  “You smell better.”

  “I’m having the overalls sent to your home as a special gift.”

  He ignored my comment, only looking up from his laptop to acknowledge an approaching waitress.

  I pointed to Baltimore’s glass. “Same as his.”

  She did an about-face and headed off toward the bar.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said.

  He nodded and finally brought his attention across to me. “Look, I suspect you have more questions. Maybe you feel we haven’t been completely honest—”

  I cut him off and leaned in: “Just shut the fuck up.”

  He looked at me, startled. “What … what’s wrong?”

  “Earlier today, I watched a video clip—watched as Pippa was nearly decapitated. Let me ask you, Baltimore, have you ever watched someone you cared about being garroted from behind? Watched their eyes bug out, blood seep from between their fingertips as the flesh of their throat rips apart?”

  His face grimaced. There was true concern in his eyes. “Oh my god. Is she …”

  “Dead? No … I don’t think so. It was a demonstration meant for my benefit.”

  The waitress returned with my drink and a replacement one for Baltimore’s empty tumbler. I took a sip of the aged whiskey, slowly swallowing the smoky alcohol, which delightfully burned all the way down my throat.

  I continued, “Pippa has been taken hostage by Heidi Goertz.”

  “As in Leon and Heidi Goertz?”

  “Don’t play dumb. This is where you start leveling with me … or so help me—”

  Baltimore held up a palm in mock surrender. “Hey, no need for threats. I suspected you’d have questions at this point. I’ll tell you what I can, but first you need to tell me everything that happened. Start at the beginning.”

  I sat back and let out a breath. “I need to speak to Calloway. This all revolves around Calloway.”

  “That’s not going to happen. He’s … let’s just say he’s dealing with his own set of problems. He’s gone to ground.”

  That jived with what Alberto Boccaccio spoke of. Calloway was being hunted.

  “You knew that WZZ was back in the picture?”

  He nodded.

  “You knew about this Order? This power-broker consortium?”

  Baltimore’s expression alone said I was stating the obvious. He pursed his lips and seemed to be weighing what he was about to say. “What you’re calling the Order is referred to by ten or twenty other names, as well. It’s not talked about openly. Not if you want to keep breathing.”

  “Seriously?”

  “The problem is, you never know who it is you are really talking to. Perhaps you’re being tested by someone within the organization itself.”

  “So what if you are?”

  “I don’t know what you were told, Rob. But now that you are aware of this … this … Order … you are at risk. We’re talking about a group so powerful, so influential, that having you—or anyone else—sanctioned is a very simple matter for them. Only a little blip in the organization’s everyday operations.”

  “I was told they control government agencies—”

  Baltimore’s agitation was clearly growing and he cut me off: “You’re not getting it. They, quite often, are those agencies. It’s not like they are a separate, definable group of people. The Order is a conglomerate of highly influential men and women, from all around the globe—from government officials to corporate CEOs to organized crime bosses to …”

  “I get it,” I said. “How does one join?”

  “It’s by invitation only. One can petition the Order for inclusion, but rarely does someone get in that way. Truth is, most individuals are invited, and even that’s more of a mandate. They want the influence or services you can wield, and they don’t take no for an answer. They can be very persuasive.”

  I looked at Baltimore. In light of what I’d told him about Pippa, he quickly realized I already knew about that. “The president … he’s a part of this group?”

  “Sure. All presidents are. Comes with that high level of position, on a global scale. But that doesn’t mean James C. Morrison is one hundred percent in their clutches either.”