Into the Fire(118)
kay.
* * *
As Evan rode the 60 Freeway east into the Mojave, the sun set with blistering beauty. By the time he pulled off into the arid scrubland, the earth was lit with oranges and pinks. He drove until there was not a road or building in sight and then another twenty minutes after that.
When he finally stopped, the sun had freshly vanished, the sky backlit with an ambient glow. From the truck vault, he grabbed a three-man tent, popped it up on the dirt, and then lowered shades over the mesh windows to seal them tightly.
If there was to be a live video feed, he couldn’t afford to have anything in the background. No star positions, no distinctive geographic features in the landscape, no sourceable plant life indigenous to the region.
He went back to the truck, hauled out a Pelican case, and brought it inside the dark nylon dome. He pulled up the yagi directional antenna and then set up the SMA connector and the omni stubby antenna. Within seconds the tiny makeshift GSM base station had stealthily hooked into the network.
Teasing the RoamZone from his pocket, he turned it on and enabled the Wi-Fi hot spot, joining the LTE network. Before leaving Castle Heights, he’d slotted in a brand-new SIM card and moved the phone service from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa to Istanbul.
It was full dark outside, the tent lit only by the phone. The cicadas were going at it aggressively, and he played with audio filters until he’d dampened all background noise.
He dialed the number and told the switchboard operator, “Dark Road.”
After the click he punched in the extension.
It rang a half dozen times.
And then President Victoria Donahue-Carr answered. “I’m glad you reestablished contact,” she said. “I’m going to give you another number enabled for video feed.”
Evan did not answer.
She read off a number.
He hung up.
He dialed the second phone number through an encoded videotelephony software program.
The line gave a spritely trill, and then the president appeared.
She was sitting on a high-backed couch in the Oval with a Secret Service agent at her side. Having been broken up into digital packets and bounced around the world, the connection was grainy, and when Evan leaned closer, he saw that the agent was not rank-and-file but Special Agent in Charge Naomi Templeton.
Broad shoulders, tough bearing, bluntly cut blond hair.
She was one of the few people to have seen Orphan X in the flesh.
“We can’t make anything out,” the president said. “It’s just black.”
Evan moved the RoamZone closer to his face, showing only the strip of his eyes and the bridge of his nose.
Naomi looked over at Donahue-Carr. “That’s him, Madam President.”
Donahue-Carr straightened on the couch. Her hands were resting open on one knee. A practiced pose to disguise her tension. “Thank you,” she said to Naomi. “That’s enough.”
She and Evan waited while Naomi exited the Oval through a panel door that disappeared seamlessly as it shut.
The president said, “Have you considered my offer?”
“What are the conditions?” Evan said.
It was the first time he’d spoken, and his words had an impact. Donahue-Carr’s hands flared up from her knee, but then she remembered herself and settled her posture once more.
“We can’t pardon you, not officially, since you don’t exist,” she said. “But we’ll stop coming after you if you stop coming after us.”
Evan said nothing.
“Think about it, Orphan X. You could have a normal life. Live like a human being.”
Evan thought about Mia in his doorway last night. Her hands on his cheeks. The taste of her mouth.
“Are you still there? I’m seeing only blackness.”
Evan said, “I’m here.”
“There is one more condition,” she said. “There can be no more extracurricular activities. Of any kind. You’ve been rumored to run missions of a … personal nature.”
She waited for Evan to respond, but he gave nothing up.
“We cannot have a former government asset with your training operating in any capacity,” she added. “Understand?”
“Yes,” he said, and hung up.
* * *
When he arrived back at Castle Heights, a late-night get-together was in full swing in the so-called social environment. A number of residents slurped Nespresso and gabbed on the armless love seats.
Johnny Middleton told an animated story, and at the punch line Hugh Walters threw back his head and slapped his knee. Even the Honorable Pat Johnson from 12F had made a rare appearance, throwing some ham-handed flirting in the direction of Lorilee Smithson.
Mia wasn’t among them. But Evan figured that given his newly minted status, they’d have time enough to resume the conversation they’d begun in his doorway.
Johnny shifted, and Evan caught a glance of Ida Rosenbaum sitting in the center with queen-bee aplomb. Her feet were up on the synthetic leather ottoman, her hands folded across her purse. Her vintage marcasite-and-amethyst necklace was on proud display against her white cable-knit sweater. Now and then her fingertips crept up to find assurance that it was still there.
Bathed in the sounds of laughter and conversation, Evan walked from the garage to the elevators.