Merrell took out the two keys and unlocked the cases from the agents’ wrists. The agents handed over the locked cases, along with the keys. Merrell was surprised when the two men in nondescript uniforms immediately turned to go back inside. The director of Homeland Security asked, “Don’t you have anything for me to sign?”
They paused. “What would you like to sign?” one of the men asked.
The director of Homeland Security didn’t appreciate the man’s tone. “Something that acknowledges transfer of this technology to your possession.”
The two men in the plain uniforms glanced at each other, as if they found the statement amusing. “Sir, the ground you are now standing on does not appear on any map of this facility. There was no transfer because there is no technology.” They carried the two cases into the nondescript building as Merrell and his party returned to the waiting Chinook.
Bob Stenson watched the helicopter take off into the night sky. He waited calmly inside his Chrysler until the helicopter’s running lights disappeared from view, then pulled up to the well-lit, windowless building whose use his predecessor had arranged with the elder Bush while he was still director of the CIA. Stenson couldn’t even remember now what favor the founders had done for the then-aspiring politician, but it most certainly involved future residency in the White House.
Bush’s thank-you was to have all official records of the building expunged. The massive facility had gone through so many operational changes over the last decade that no one individual was aware of all that went on at JB MDL, except in their assigned area. This nondescript building was just one of so many others. Nobody knew what went on inside it, and nobody really cared.
Stenson had instructed Indiana senator Corbin Davis to select this site to store the echo box because it was the most secure building on the Eastern Seaboard. It was also the best place for the senator to test the technology, which was set to begin first thing in the morning. Stenson knew that the building being part of JB MDL would give the senator a false sense of comfort because it felt so official.
It worked every time.
CHAPTER 101
Philadelphia Office, Department of Homeland Security, May 28, 6:26 a.m.
Skylar paced her cell like a caged animal. She guessed it was somewhere around six thirty a.m. She hadn’t slept more than forty-five minutes. No one had spoken with her yet. The female guard who delivered her breakfast never said a word. The guard simply slid the tray through the opening in the cell door and exited.
The food was awful, but the coffee was good. A four, in Eddie’s vernacular. After finishing her breakfast, she paced back and forth, counting her steps before she even realized it. Which made her feel better and worse at the same time. Skylar didn’t know where Eddie was. Or what kind of shape he was in. But she knew he would be scared. Terrified, in fact. Which only further fueled her determination. Skylar’s one and only goal was to see Eddie again. It was her fault he was in this mess. And she would do whatever it took to get him out of it.
She continued to pace. Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight . . .
CHAPTER 102
Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, May 28, 7:01 a.m.
Eddie stared at the ceiling. At least, that was the direction he was looking. Straight up. He was lying on his back inside Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. The patient room number was 423. It was at the end of a hall. Two agents were stationed by the door. One by the elevator bank. And one outside the hospital’s main entrance.
Eddie didn’t seem focused on anything at all. He was barely blinking. And hadn’t moved since waking up sometime in the middle of the night. A squat nurse from the Dominican Republic sat by his bedside, asking every so often if he’d like anything to eat or drink. Her voice was gentle, and her accent was comforting. It was no coincidence she had been selected for this assignment. But he had yet to respond to her. He was hooked up to an IV drip, so at least his body was getting fluids.
The hospital’s chief of emergency surgery, who had treated Eddie upon his arrival the night before, entered the room with one of the agents stationed outside the door. The doctor checked Eddie’s charts and asked the Dominican nurse, “How’s he doing?”
“Same as before. No change.”
The doctor nodded, pleased. “Has he spoken yet?”
The nurse shook her head. “Not a word.”
“Has he been offered anything to eat or drink?”
“Every fifteen minutes.” She showed him the notepad where she kept detailed records.
The doctor leaned down toward Eddie, smiling warmly. “How are you feeling this morning, Edward?”
Eddie stared at the ceiling.
“Can you hear me?”
Eddie did not answer. His jaw remained clenched.
The doctor studied him, speaking with reassurance. “There’s no rush. Take all the time you need. Just let us know if there is anything we can do to make you more comfortable.”
Eddie stared blankly at the ceiling as the doctor left with the agent, who stopped him in the hall. “How long do you think it will be before he talks again?”
“Hard to say.”
“Try.”
The doctor realized the agent needed something to report to his superiors. “The good news is the patient is no longer in shock. Pupil dilation and autonomic responses are back within normal range. The patient also no longer appears to be a danger to himself or others. As to when he’ll communicate, there’s really no way to know. In cases like this, time is the best healer. He needs to want to talk. If we try to force him, it will probably only make things worse. It could even retraumatize him and send him back into shock. All we can do is be patient, and let nature take its course.”
CHAPTER 103
Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst, Trenton, New Jersey, May 28, 7:37 a.m.
Senator Corbin Davis watched with eager interest as his world-class experts studied the two devices inside the nondescript building in the middle of JB MDL. The scientists’ names were Pembrose and Landgraf. Both were familiar with the device and the science behind it. Both were also skeptical the technology would ever work. They were only too happy to debunk whatever nonsense was afoot, or to be the first ones to hear reconstituted echoes. The trio had been escorted directly inside a small conference room. As soon as the scientists completed their work, they and the senator were to be escorted out of the building and off the grounds.
The scientists clearly knew how to operate the device, having tested it on several previous occasions. They readily caused the box to spring open, revealing the eight one-inch satellite microphones, which performed their perfectly synchronized ballet.
The senator asked, “What’s it doing?”
Pembrose, the younger of the scientists, answered, “Acoustically mapping the room.”
Landgraf, the veteran, added, “In theory.”
Pembrose replied, “We’ll know soon enough.” They both kept their eyes glued to the progress bar that appeared below the three-dimensional image of the space. The counter quickly climbed: Three percent . . . six percent . . . nine percent . . . , but then started to slow. Eleven percent. Twelve percent took longer. Thirteen was even slower than that. After another two minutes, the counter had still not reached fifteen percent.
Corbin Davis studied the differing expressions of his two experts. Pembrose looked disappointed, like a child who didn’t get the present he wanted for his birthday. Landgraf grinned smugly, like he knew this would happen all along.
The senator grew concerned. “Is it supposed to take this long?”
The younger scientist reluctantly replied, “No.”
“So what does this mean?”
The older scientist cleared his throat, then answered bluntly. “The device doesn’t work.”
The senator had trouble remaining calm. “Son of a bitch. You’re sure?”
Landgraf nodded. “Yes.”
Davis turned to the younger brainiac, hoping for a different opinion. “There’s no way you could have missed something?”
The scientists glanced at each other. Pembrose replied, “Give us thirty minutes, and we’ll be able to tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt.”