Dead Wrong Page 4

  Rasmussen muttered, “I see.”

  “By now I’m sure every one of you can appreciate the huge potential Doctor Wyse’s work holds for the intelligence community. Presently he has stable DARPA funding and a solid clinical arena in which to continue the PTSD portion of his work. The intelligence-gathering application, however, is highly classified and cannot be continued in a municipal trauma center.”

  Lawson bit. “Obviously this is a pitch. What is it?”

  “With funding from, shall we say, sympathetic friends, Wyse can transfer his PTSD work to a small start-up company, RegenBiologic. Presently all the grants and money end up there. But as far as his other work, it will need to move to a facility that cannot be discovered by civilians. My proposal is for the CIA to establish a proprietary company to run in parallel within RegenBiologic. This is the only way to keep it secret.”

  “I see. So you’re suggesting the proprietary is where Wyse will do his memory transfer work?”

  Cunningham couldn’t suppress his grin. “Correct.”

  Lawson frowned. “Seems to me this is a smoke screen to conceal work that, if the press ever got its hands on, would be a huge embarrassment to the U.S. intelligence community, to say nothing of the political blowback at a time when significant budget cuts are being made.”

  Anticipating Lawson would be a pain in the ass, Cunningham had the answer ready to go. “I wouldn’t put it in those exact terms. The agency would serve as the review board.”

  Lawson scoffed. “I’m not all that worried about the ethics, Clyde. My main concern is where he gets the donors and recipients. Not only that, but where could he possibly do the surgery and keep it classified? You have an answer to those questions?”

  “You guys are masters at concealment, plus you have all the resources. I would leave those details up to you, but I think the goals would be best served by establishing a proprietary company. As to where the work might be done, well, look how many unaccounted prisoners you have scattered around the world.”

  Lawson nodded. “Okay, so that accounts for the donors. Where would he get the recipients?”

  “That’s the easy part. How many informants do you and other agencies place into witness protection programs each year? People who want to drop out of sight and never be found again? In other words, you have a plentiful supply of rats who, if they want to stay alive, don’t have any other choice but to agree.”

  5

  DOCTORS HOSPITAL

  MCCARTHY CAREFULLY PRESSED on the edges of the tiles where the steel struts gave them most support. Would they be strong enough to support him? So far this seemed to be the case, so he leaned forward, applying more weight. They held. He remained leery but saw no other option than to try.

  After taking a deep breath, he pulled his entire body up onto the false ceiling and slithered forward into stifling stale air, thick dust, and mildewing duct tape. Amazingly, the tiles held. He curled around enough to replace the removed tile, cutting down the light to only shards of fluorescence from seams and pinholes in the light fixtures. On forearms and knees he crawled forward, navigating more by feel than by sight. Fear tingled up his spine, urging him to move faster while at the same time cautioning him to not make a sound. On top of that was the fear that the tiles would give way, dropping him through the ceiling.

  He heard Washington yell, “What the fuck! Hey, Sikes, the doc out there?”

  They had realized he was gone. In a moment they’d figure out he was up here. He began to panic but talked himself down—but he still increased his pace, concentrating on moving one limb at a time while panting from heat and adrenaline. Sweat rolled down his face and off his nose, his pulse hammering in both ears.

  “Sikes! Man, get your ass in here, on the double.”

  His eyes were adapting to the dim light, allowing him to move faster, his confidence growing as he got the hang of it. A wad of dust shot up his right nostril and lodged in the back of his throat. He gagged back a cough, paused to sniff and swallow, tears streaming down his cheeks. The urge to cough worsened, threatening to morph into a sneeze. He breathed through his mouth and tried to ignore it. It wasn’t working. In desperation, he buried his face in the crook of his elbow and sniffed, forcing the glob of mucus down his throat. He silently gagged and swallowed, and it was gone.

  Sikes yelled, “Son of a mother bitch!”

  McCarthy started moving again, pushing his luck, struggling to increase the distance from them, hoping to find a hiding place before they looked into the dropped ceiling. Yeah, but when they finally did look up here, then what?

  He didn’t have an answer for that.

  He could make out a narrow corridor formed by a sheet-metal duct on the right and an insulated hot air supply on the left. But the dim light rapidly disappeared into a black hole about five feet ahead. Was it a dead end? He stopped and glanced around, but the only other option would be to return the way he came, leaving him no choice but to move forward.

  His chin slammed something hard and cold. He groped blindly and felt a pipe with a shut-off valve left of center. Too low to crawl under. Too high to climb over?

  Sikes yelled, “Where the fuck is he?”

  “The ceiling, man. That’s the only place he could’ve gone. Swear to God I was watching the door the whole time. He sure as hell didn’t come out.”

  McCarthy reached over the pipe and explored by feel, founding nothing within an arm’s length to block him. He started crawling over, the valve scraping his skin. He was pulling his right leg over when his pants snagged. Without thinking, he jerked his leg forward, ripping his cuff.

  He heard a metallic clink.

  He froze, thinking he’d broken the valve, but he didn’t hear anything like running water or gas escaping. Then he realized he’d knocked his pager off his belt. He curled around to reach for it just as Sikes said, “Washington, get your ass on up there. Take a look-see.”

  Don’t. Leave it! Go!

  He started moving again, frantically trying to figure out of what to do. Okay, think about it. Washington stands on the desk, pops a tile, and takes a look around. Then what? For starters, without dark-adapted eyes he wouldn’t be able to see much. Yeah, but what if he has a flashlight?

  In which case, I’m seriously fucked.

  The narrow passage forced him to make a right turn. He was halfway through when a beam of light flashed off the galvanized duct to his left.

  Aw shit, here they come.

  A second later he was around the corner. He stopped, put a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound of his breathing, and listened. A fluorescent light fixture hummed. Water tinkled through a pipe. The rhythmic whoosh of a fan echoed through the ventilation duct. He didn’t hear a sound from Sikes or Washington.

  Now what? Probably not a great idea to move—even the slightest noise might give away his location.

  Finally he heard Washington say, “No way this thing’s gonna hold me, Lieutenant.”

  “Bullshit. Holds him, so it should damn well hold you. You’re not that much heavier.”

  “But it’s gonna have two of us on it.”

  “Stop whining, Washington. Get the fuck up there and drag his ass down here.”

  “You so sure about it, get your own ass up there.”

  “It’s not a request, Sergeant; it’s a direct order.”

  Carefully, McCarthy squirmed around in the cramped space to face the way he had come. Barely able to kneel, his back flush against the cement ceiling, he fished the cell phone from his pocket and pressed one of the buttons to light the display. There was only a one-bar signal up here, but that would be enough to call 9-1-1.

  Washington yelled, “Yo, Doc, you up here?”

  Washington’s voice seemed louder than expected, startling him. He peeked around the edge of the sheet metal and saw Washington’s head sticking up through the same hole he’d come through, rotating slowly one way and then the other, the angle of light casting weird shadows over his face. It amazed him to s
ee he’d crawled only twenty feet from the entrance point. Tom held his breath.

  “I’m warning you, man; don’t answer and you’re gonna piss me off.”

  Trapped. Now what? Yell for help? Do that and Washington would be on him in a millisecond. Besides, the offices on this floor had closed early for the long weekend. Even if someone happened to be on this floor, would they even hear him? Could he call 9-1-1? Again, they’d hear him. Shit!

  It seemed as though he had only two options: continue crawling—to where, he wasn’t sure—or hold tight to see what happens. Both had risks. But it also left Sikes and Washington two options: come up here or go away. And if Washington did come up, maybe the false ceiling would cave in. Or maybe he wouldn’t find him. So it seemed best to stay put.

  But if Washington did come …

  He didn’t want to think about that.

  How the hell did this happen? Clearly, someone made a huge error by mistaking him for someone he wasn’t. Then again Sikes seemed to know several things about him. He thought back over what Sikes had said, but nothing made sense.

  DARPA? Classified material?

  He knew that the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency did weird military research, everything from weapon design to novel skin grafts for wounded soldiers. But that was it. Classified documents? That was a stretch. Far as he knew, he’d never laid eyes on one.

  Washington continued to silently peer into the space and listen, his eyes adapting to the dark with every passing second.

  Although Tom’s eyes had been adjusted to the dark longer, that advantage would soon vanish. He glanced around once more, and, to his horror, realized the lower edge of the ventilation duct was three inches above the tiles, exposing his legs and hands. Soon Washington would be able to see him kneeling behind the duct. To make matters worse, any movement now would draw Washington’s attention.

  Okay, so distract him.

  “Doc, think you and I got off on the wrong foot here. Things got a little crazy down there, man. We’re sorry about that. All we want is information. That’s all. Information. Shit like who’s got the documents. That’s all there is to it, man. You can understand that, can’t you? That’s something we need to know. Nothing’s gonna happen. Now get your ass on down from here. No need be getting yourself all dirty. Sheeiit, if you ain’t careful you might fall outta there, hurt your bad-ass self.” He laughed, a deep, resonant, mean-as-hell laugh.

  McCarthy cupped the phone to deaden the beeps, dialed his pager, hit SEND.

  On the display he watched the call connect and then immediately disconnected and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He glanced in the direction he had initially headed. A dark, narrow passage continued for quite a way, formed by ventilation ductwork on one side and pipes on the other. But where and how far did it go? He’d lost all sense of direction. Did it matter? What he needed most was to put distance between him and Washington.

  Light flashed off a patch of silver duct tape to his right.

  Here it comes. Washington was shining a light into the crawl space, sweeping it a full 360 degrees.

  McCarthy tapped his knuckles on the large duct next to him, causing a thump thump to echo along the length.

  The light abruptly stopped moving. Washington yelled, “Yo, Sikes. He’s up here all right. Just heard him.”

  “Then what the fuck you waiting for? Get up there and drag his sorry ass down.”

  McCarthy started crawling, faster now, precisely planting his palms, knees, and toes close to the rails to keep the tiles form breaking, his movement stirring up dust. He heard a grunt from where Washington should be, then a solid metallic CLUNK, as if Washington had bumped into a strut with something metallic, like his gun. Move! Faster.

  GUN IN HAND, safety off, Elroy Washington inched into the dark crawl space, tentatively at first, unsure if the false ceiling would support his weight, especially with no idea of McCarthy’s proximity. Although strong enough to hold one man, could the tiles possibly hold two? It supported him, buoying his confidence. He cautiously moved forward a few feet, then stopped to listen for McCarthy: movement, breathing, anything to help locate his position. So far he had heard only the two thumps. From the sound, he suspected they had come from the large ventilation duct straight ahead. The problem, he knew, was that sound travels along pipes, making accurate localization difficult. Also, all the sharp corners and bare surfaces can bounce sound around, making the true source difficult to locate. Still, his best guess was that McCarthy had crawled into the narrow passage dead ahead.

  He flicked off the light to allow his eyes to adapt to the dark again. Times like this, in the moments before a firefight, his adrenaline zoned him into a strangely comforting high. With his highly honed combat skills, going up against a rank amateur like McCarthy would be a piece of cake.

  “Hey, Doc, you over there? Give me a sign; let me come help you down.”

  Water gurgled through a pipe to his left. A cooling duct hummed softly off to his right. Not a sound from McCarthy. The warm air was stale from no circulation, the dust thick, causing his eyes to sting. Sweat beaded across his forehead, saturating both eyebrows before sliding into his eyes. He wanted to rub them but didn’t want to risk shifting all his weight to one side, so he blinked away the sting. Fucking hot up here too. Had to be over ninety degrees, the combination of dust and heat reminding him of Iraq.

  Get this shit over fast so’s you can get the fuck out.

  As he crawled into a passage between a ventilation duct and pipes, his left hand brushed something he instinctively knew didn’t belong here. Smooth, rectangular. He thought cell phone? He held it up to the weak light from the opened ceiling tiles. Jesus, will you look at this. A beeper. Had to be McCarthy’s. One more bit of evidence that this was McCarthy’s route. He was probably just up ahead.

  Smiling, he flicked on the Maglite for a glimpse at the narrow passageway. A horizontal pipe, maybe a foot above the false ceiling, cut across the path. Fuck, he’d have to crawl over it. A few feet beyond that the ducting and pipes forced a rightangle turn. Fool was probably just around the bend. He lowered the light for a look under the ducting, searching for McCarthy’s legs. Didn’t see him. Still, the traitor couldn’t be too far away.

  SIKES WATCHED WASHINGTON’S legs disappear into the crawl space, then followed the sounds of his slow, cautious movements overhead. Noisy bastard. How the hell could McCarthy be up there without making a damn sound? Head cocked, he listened harder, but heard only Washington. Meaning what? McCarthy was stationary? If so, Washington must be closing on him. McCarthy would either have to start moving again or fight Washington. And far as he knew, the doc wasn’t armed. Unless, of course, he had a gun in his office and had taken it up there. But he suspected that he didn’t.

  Sikes moved from McCarthy’s office to the hall in case McCarthy tried to drop down from the ceiling and run for the exit. He heard Washington call to McCarthy but couldn’t make out the words.

  He wanted to tell Washington to shut the fuck up, stop making noise, but he didn’t, figuring that any communication between them would give McCarthy cover to move as well as disclose their locations. Besides, Washington, a seasoned combat veteran, knew what to do. McCarthy, on the other hand, didn’t know shit, making it a no-contest matchup. One in which patience would win.

  Suddenly, a series of chirps came from directly overhead, a distinctive sound Sikes recognized instantly: a beeper. Had to be McCarthy’s. He smiled at the rookie mistake. Should’ve turned the fucker off. It was a screw-up a trained operative would never make.

  Before McCarthy could silence it, Sikes stepped left to a spot directly below the sound. Cunningham’s orders had been clear: Interrogate McCarthy, determine exactly how much classified information had been taken, and then do the right thing. And that’s where he and the colonel saw eye to eye. Both men knew damn well terrorists never admitted everything. Oh sure, they might divulge enough to get you off their ass, but whenever possible, they held back
or lied. To them, misinformation was their last small victory in a lethal endgame. And sure as shit, if arrested and sent to trial, McCarthy would look respectable enough to only receive a slap on the wrist. So he and the colonel shared an unspoken understanding. If Sikes did the right thing, Cunningham would make sure nothing came of it. This understanding saved everybody a ton of hassle.

  Sikes aimed directly overhead to where McCarthy had to be and yelled, “Big mistake, motherfucker.”

  6

  LAKEVIEW MEDICAL CENTER, SEATTLE

  BERTRAM WYSE’S MOOD this morning was especially foul. Surgery—repairing a skull defect on a skateboarder with more adolescent self-confidence than skill—turned out trickier than anticipated. Not only that, but the start of his case had been delayed because of a three-car accident south of Tacoma on I-5. Two critically injured patients arrived via helicopter for surgery at 1:10 AM, which, in turn meant that the night shift hadn’t had time to put together the instruments for the start of the elective cases. Which sucked. To make matters worse, the case itself ended up taking ninety minutes longer than he’d anticipated.

  Now, 1:13 in the afternoon, he was behind schedule.

  Stripping off his gloves, he stepped away from the operating table to admire his work. Once the kid’s hair grew back, you’d never be able to tell that the right side of his skull had been rearranged into a jigsaw puzzle of bone fragments held together with titanium struts and screws. A perfect cosmetic result. Yes, he shamelessly admitted, his surgical skills were superb. He doubted another neurosurgeon could match, much less improve on, such an excellent result.

  He checked the wall clock. Being behind schedule by more than one hour would cut into his professor rounds. He told the resident assisting him, “Go ahead, finish and take him to recovery. I’ll check him later,” before pushing through the heavy swinging doors into the hall.