Ghost Rendition Page 5

  Pratt had parked my Camry right in front of his apartment building. It was a foot and a half from the curb and the nose was pointed out into traffic. I was surprised it hadn’t gotten sideswiped. It gave me an idea.

  I slithered into the driver’s seat of the Jag. Then I hit my Camry’s remote and unlocked its doors. It made that annoying beeping sound and flashed the lights. The Suit sent a couple of shots in that direction by reflex. While his head was turned, I gunned the motor and drove the Jag right at him. He turned and fired, but I had already pushed open the door and rolled out onto the sidewalk. The Jag rammed into the Escalade and sent the Suit flying.

  “Get in the car, Danny,” I yelled.

  He was already on his feet. The kid was hard to figure. He was naïve enough to believe he could get away with going back to his apartment, but quick enough to pick up what I was trying to do faster than the Suit had. Pratt already had the Camry started as I dove into the passenger’s seat.

  Pratt banged the car in front getting out of his bad parking job. I slammed my foot down on top of his to get us accelerating down the street. The Suit yelled, “Chara,” and shattered the Camry’s back windshield with one of the heavy 12.7-mm slugs from his Desert Eagle, probably out of spite. My poor car was taking a beating. My only solace was that I had probably totaled Rowan’s car.

  I knew the Desert Eagle was designed by the Israeli military. That alone was not enough to convince me that the Suit was Israeli. Hearing him yell “chara” did. Buddhists aren’t supposed to curse, but I’d heard Nachash say it enough to know that chara means “shit” in Hebrew. I can curse in at least ten languages myself, but this sounded like it was from the heart. He was likely Mossad. The question was why an Israeli operative would be after Pratt.

  “Are we going home?” Pratt asked as if we were roommates.

  “Get on the West Side Highway heading north.”

  I needed to get him alone. I didn’t want to hurt the kid, but I was tired of guessing what was going on. The problem was, I still didn’t have a safe house I could trust, and I didn’t want him back at my house.

  “Can we stop for an orange soda? I get dehydrated when I’m nervous.”

  I was deciding which wiseass answer to give him when a spray of bullets shattered one of the Camry’s few remaining windows. My friends in the Mercedes were back. These guys loved to shoot and didn’t seem all that particular about what they hit. They were a car’s length behind and to the left of us. They had actually done us a favor giving us a noisy alert that they were coming.

  “Get into the left lane. I’ll take care of them if they come up on the right.”

  Pratt almost bounced us off the concrete abutment making the lane change. I threw a couple of shots through the shattered back window to get a feel for what we were dealing with. They deflected off the Mercedes’ front windshield, confirming my guess that it was bulletproof. I would have to go for the tires when they made their move to flank us on the right. But they stayed on our tail and didn’t squeeze off their usual hail of bullets. That was the real giveaway.

  I jumped up in my seat and covered my window with the back of my vest. There was only one reason that they wouldn’t try to out-position us, they had a second car. My ribs were still tender, and the bullets hitting my vest felt like they were scraping the skin off them. If they’d had a rifle I would have fared much worse, but the second car was another Mercedes and the bullets were more 9-mm hollow points. Whoever outfitted these guys must have bought in bulk.

  Both cars opened up on us, and the remaining windows on my poor Camry bid a sad farewell. I pushed Pratt down in his seat. The body of the car was reinforced with high-grade steel. As long as we stayed below the window line, we were well shielded. But it wouldn’t be long before our friends figured that out and went for our tires.

  “Switch places with me,” I barked.

  I slid under Pratt, and for a moment he was perched on my lap like he was my kid and I was teaching him to drive. I took the wheel, swerved into the left lane, and hit the gas. Shards of the ruined front windshield glass blew back at me. This was going to cost a lot to fix, and it wasn’t like I could put in an insurance claim. The Camry was souped up enough to outdistance the Mercedes on an open road, which would have been fun. Leaving luxury cars in my family sedan’s dust is always worth a smile. But there was too much traffic for that, and I definitely wasn’t going to be able to outgun them. That left outsmarting them.

  I swerved into the center lane and eased down on the brake, letting the car in front of me put some distance between us. I needed room to maneuver. One Mercedes took the left lane and one took the right lane. When they tried to flank me, I alternated speeding up and slowing down to keep them from getting a clean shot. I didn’t vary the pattern. They both caught on at the same moment. I slowed down and they slowed down with me, one on each side. They were so proud of themselves, they each let loose a torrent of bullets. I hit the gas and went from thirty to sixty in about two seconds. Pratt laughed happily as the two cars lit each other up.

  “Are you having a good time?”

  “You told me I should enjoy being alive,” he said.

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “Oh. I’m not good with sarcasm.”

  “I’ll try to stick with irony,” I said.

  “That was sarcastic, right?”

  I didn’t have time to answer. Our friends in the Mercedes had only done superficial damage to their cars, and now they were pissed. They fired at us from both sides, finally figuring out that they should go for the tires. If we got a blowout at this speed, it wouldn’t be pretty. This crew seemed less worried than the others about taking Pratt alive, or maybe they didn’t mind getting damaged goods. I swerved as unpredictably as I could, but they were bound to get lucky by sheer volume of fire.

  “What’s our next move?” Pratt asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Is that sarcastic?”

  I gave him a quick glare and went back to swerving.

  “Do you want me to get rid of them?” Pratt asked.

  “Not bad, but your delivery needs work.”

  “I’m not being sarcastic,” he said and whipped out his computer. “Those expensive cars almost all have some kind of accident avoidance system. I should be able to get in via satellite through their navigation system.”

  “Do it fast,” I said as a bullet grazed the Camry’s back left tire. It wasn’t a full blowout. I was able to keep control, but sharp maneuvers were out. The Mercedes on our right darted in front of us. The one on the left accelerated next to us. The back window slid down enough to reveal the barrel of a Remington R51. He was going to blow the rest of our tires, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  I gripped the wheel tightly. I doubted I would be able to hold her, but I could try to avoid flipping over. I had my Browning in my right hand, pressed against the wheel. I didn’t want to have my gun trapped in my shoulder harness when the air bags deployed. I braced myself for impact. But the Mercedes to our left slammed on its brakes. The car behind it rammed into it, and they both careened into the middle of the highway, causing a nasty pileup. Pratt gave a triumphant war cry.

  “Get the other one before he catches on,” I said.

  Pratt worked his keyboard like a virtuoso pianist. The Mercedes in front of us swerved left and smashed into the abutment.

  “I’m not sure what you did, but good job,” I said, as we cruised by it.

  “That wasn’t sarcastic?”

  I tousled his hair. He gave me a big sloppy grin. “The newer cars are all big computers on wheels. Once I got in through the NAV, I could access all its systems. Accident avoidance, automated parking, cruise control, oh, I should have made them do figure eights. That would have been cool!”

  I pulled off the highway to change the tire. Pratt didn’t get out of the car. He sat there in the passenger seat playing with his computer.

  I hate changing tires. First of all, I’m a bit o
f a germophobe. It was yet another reason that medical school wasn’t an ideal fit for me. And kneeling on the highway handling greasy car parts is not my idea of fun. And second, I’m not good at it. My iPhone has more computing power than the first Apollo rocket, and they can’t give me a jack that you don’t have to pump by hand? Plus, at least one of the lugs always sticks. And those stupid doughnut tires look like they belong on the plastic Big Wheel Devon used to scoot around in. By the time I had it changed, I was pretty cranky.

  I pulled out my wig and glasses from the trunk of my car and adjusted them looking in the side view mirror. They made me look like a mad scientist who had rolled out of bed. Pratt started cackling as soon as I got into the car. This from a guy who looked like three different people dressed him and never talked to each other.

  “You and the Egyptians are going to have lots of fun together,” I said.

  “That’s sarcastic, right?” he asked hopefully.

  The fact was, if he was a sleeper agent, then Egypt was where he was headed, and he deserved it. I cringed realizing that it had become an “if” now. That’s why I had saved him, right? I had to make sure he was guilty if I was going to send him to die. Uncertainty is dangerous for contractors. It makes you hesitate, which is not good for your health. That’s why you’re not supposed to talk to your renditions. You’re supposed to trust your brief and focus on execution.

  “Execution flows from intention.” For a moment I thought it was Pratt saying this. Then I realized it was Nachash whispering in my head. Not only was he distracting me, he was annoying. I wished he were still around so I could yell at him.

  “If you want to be helpful, stop sounding like a fortune cookie,” I replied in my head.

  Not only was he still talking in riddles, but I couldn’t blame him. Some part of my own brain was making this shit up. I pulled over in front of a bodega.

  “You can go inside and see if they have orange soda, but other than that you stay right here. I won’t be long, okay?”

  Pratt nodded. I gave him his computer back and motioned for him to get out. “If I have to track you down, it won’t be pleasant. Not to mention if one of the parade of psychopaths finds you first.”

  Mike’s Service Station was passable for little stuff, but for major repairs I used a glorified chop shop on Jerome Avenue in the South Bronx not far from Yankee Stadium. Lino, the owner, did good work and he didn’t ask questions. I hedged my bets by disguising myself as an undercover cop complete with badge and bad attitude. I left Pratt behind because I didn’t want to take the chance that someone canvassed body shops looking for us and Lino decided to be helpful. I also wanted to test Pratt. I had placed a tracking microdot on his computer. It would still be a pain in the ass to track him down if he ran, but if he stayed it would tell me something about him.

  I dropped off the car, faked a laugh at Lino’s wisecrack about my driving, and jogged back to where I left Pratt. While I ran, I tried Nachash’s emergency number again. No answer. Then I checked the job boards on my phone. It was the fail-safe Rob and I used. If there was no other way he could safely contact me, he posted a listing on Health Matters, a job board for health professionals. It was very old school, except in the old days you put the ad in a newspaper. The listing would be for a clinical supervisor at the Intelligent Mental Health Clinic—a special person needed for a special mission and a cell phone number. We’d never had to use it, but if Rob had escaped somehow, it was still a possibility. I knew it was a long shot, but I still felt disappointed when it wasn’t there.

  I started fantasizing about shooting Rowan to make myself feel better. I wouldn’t kill him right away. I’d shoot him in the foot first and let him bleed for a while. Then a kneecap. Then one in the gut. A gut shot is a bad way to die. It takes a long time, and it hurts. I considered adding a shot in the groin, but it felt a little cliché. Then I started to visualize him comforting Suzanne outside the school and the groin was right back in play.

  When I got back to Pratt, he was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, sipping from a can of orange soda with a straw and typing on his computer. What did Rob want me to figure out about this kid? Was he trying to tell me he was innocent or alerting me that he was more than he seemed to be? How many people were after him? And how did they know about him to begin with? When there were this many questions, it usually meant there was what my college statistics professor called a lurking variable. Nachash had encouraged me to take math classes to sharpen my analytical thinking. I thought I was too analytical for my own good already.

  A lurking variable is a factor that influences a result without your realizing it. Let’s say you do a study on what causes heart attacks. You look at the data and find that the subjects who were on a diet had fewer heart attacks, and you’re all excited. You’re going to write the diet book that cures heart attacks. The problem is that gender is a lurking variable. Women diet more frequently. They are also less likely to have heart attacks than men. There goes your diet book. All you’ve done is yet another study that shows that men’s tickers go before women’s do. Rob had gone out of his way, maybe lost his life, to warn me that something was different about Pratt. Then all hell breaks loose. What variable was I missing? And why were Nachash and Rob likely dead because of it?

  “I’m starving. Can we get some food? I’m in the mood for a veggie burger,” Pratt asked.

  “You’re a vegetarian and you drink that crap?”

  “I don’t believe in killing animals unnecessarily. Why would you kill something that’s completely innocent?”

  “Enough of the kid next door act. You infiltrated an NSA shop to steal its tech for a foreign country, and people are killing each other over it. I’m not going to forget that just because you remind me a little of my son.”

  Tears streamed down Pratt’s face. I knew that good actors could cry on command, but this was impressive.

  “I never wanted anyone to get hurt.”

  “Well, that hasn’t worked out too well, has it?” I said, already feeling bad for yelling at him.

  “I’m not a traitor. After what happened to Snowden, I wanted to make sure everyone knew that.”

  “Then why did you run when I left you alone in my house?”

  “I had to get to my apartment.”

  “Why?”

  “For these.”

  He pulled out a sheaf of paper and handed it to me. It was mostly computer code, which might as well have been gibberish, but one sheet I understood immediately. It was what looked like an authentic whistleblower complaint. That was the lurking variable. Pratt wasn’t a foreign agent. And we were both in even more trouble than I’d thought.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Do you want a burrito?” I asked Pratt.

  “Is it vegetarian?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you have any orange soda?”

  “How about a Capri Sun?”

  “Awesome, that’s my third favorite.”

  I felt guilty lying to him about the burrito, but he did eat two of them and drank three Capri Suns, which even Devon had outgrown.

  “If you knew that Advanced Crypto was an NSA shell company, why did you go to work for them in the first place?” I asked.

  “I grew up wanting to be James Bond. I thought spies helped their country. But it turned out to be a lot more complicated.”

  “Yeah, it’s not all Sean Connery and beautiful women.”

  “Who’s Sean Connery?” Pratt asked.

  I gave him a hard look to see if he was jerking my chain, but the kid didn’t have a sarcastic bone in his body.

  “How many people have you killed? You’ve been doing this a long time. It must be a lot. Doesn’t it bother you?” Pratt said.

  “How do you know how long I’ve been in the business?”

  “I mean you are kind of old. What’s the retirement age for agents? Do you pack it in when you’re sixty-five because I can’t see a sixty-year-old guy running around shooting people.”


  “I’m not an agent. I’m a contractor. And I’m not that old. Focus. You lodged a whistleblower complaint. What was your plan?”

  “I realized that Tiresias wasn’t only for spying on the bad guys, it was for spying on everyone. I tried to talk to my supervisor about it, but he literally laughed at me. And not in a nice way.”

  I would like to have been a fly on the wall for that talk.

  “I went to his supervisor, but neither of them seemed to appreciate that. I tried to quit, but they made it clear that wasn’t an option. They couldn’t finish the code without me. I tried sending emails to the heads of every department in the NSA. It was easier to get the addresses than it should have been. A couple of agents showed up the same day and told me that I better stop making trouble or bad things would happen. That’s when I made the whistleblower complaint. What else could I do? I didn’t want to end up in Russia like Snowden,” Pratt said.

  “What are all the other papers about?”

  “The rest is critical Tiresias code that I didn’t want to risk exposing. It was stupid. I have it all in my head anyway, but I get compulsive sometimes. I kept worrying that I would forget it. I wrote down the key elements. Paper is the best security. No one can hack it. Ironic, right?”

  The kid was big on irony, but he was missing the punch line. He had two of the most powerful spy agencies in the world in a bigger panic than if he actually were a foreign agent. He was what scared them the most, a true believer. No wonder they wanted him renditioned. They would make him complete his code and then he would disappear and never be heard from again. It was what they called a ghost rendition. You ceased to exist.

  “When I first showed up, you thought the CIA sent me to protect you because you were a whistleblower? You realize that NSA agents intercepted whatever you sent before it got to anyone who would give a shit, right?” I said.

  Pratt didn’t blink. Sometimes the kid seemed like he was in his own world.