MIND FIELDS Page 13

  As soon as he was old enough, Jimmy entered the police academy, but even police work didn’t provide enough excitement for him. He attended night school and studied criminal law in the hopes of getting into the FBI, but fate twisted in a different direction and he landed in the National Security Agency, commonly referred to as the NSA.

  Whenever possible, he made time to visit Jenna, five years his junior. He felt obligated to make sure she had what she needed to make a life for herself, at least that’s what he had always told himself. But when she moved back to Ireland to marry Jonathan McKnight, he realized that he needed her more than she needed him. It was tough having no one, no family in the country, but it made him more valuable as an NSA operative. He had little to lose, and his dedication to the job paid dividends. He advanced through the ranks, and currently was in charge of the development of covert operations technology. His specialty was biotechnological weapons, a very controversial area, which was opposed by the current Democratic administration.

  Nobody knew the potential of nanotechnology as a weapon better than James O’Grady, and it had become his primary area of focus. Back in the early 2040’s when he first read of the possibilities of replacing brain cells with microscopic computers, he immediately saw the potential for its use in agency activity. To be able to monitor the thoughts and actions of a target would be the ultimate in espionage, but until then, he hadn’t even imagined something like that could actually be possible.

  By that time, JT Anderson was already making a name for himself in the world of technology and business, and after weathering the controversy of his stormy departure from Hopkins, O’Grady knew that Anderson was the kind of man he could sway to his side. He set up a meeting with Anderson, under the guise of being a political lobbyist who could help BNI obtain government funding for nanotech research. He wasn’t being entirely untruthful; his connections on Capitol Hill were considerable.

  Anderson was not difficult to convince. Not only was he motivated by the promise of government funding to advance R&D at BNI, but he considered himself a true patriot as well. The thought of helping the CIA develop technology that could help the United States was alluring. After all of the controversy over the Hopkins split, Anderson was considered something of a rebel, the kind of man who achieved success in American society, but success without honor. The thought of doing something that could cast him in a heroic light appealed to JT’s boyish idealism.

  O’Grady was highly influential in the development of the neurological nanobot project at BNI. He was the one who had convinced Anderson to establish a new lab dedicated solely to this project. He had been instrumental in setting up security protocols to keep the work safe, and had encouraged Anderson to put the project into the hands of a young nanobotic specialist named Sean Lightbourne. Once Lightbourne joined the team, work proceeded rapidly. O’Grady was pleased with the progress and used his political influence to introduce Anderson to Senator Russell Stetson, a proponent of a strong military presence for the United States, and an influential member of the Senate Subcommittee on Nanotechnology.

  O’Grady liked to keep a low profile, and communicated with Anderson only when absolutely necessary. He had given Anderson strict instructions never to try to contact him at the Agency, but gave him his private cell phone number for emergencies.

  “This had better be damned important, JT. I had to cancel lunch with the Senate Majority Leader, not a great career move.”

  Anderson glanced over his shoulder as he shook James O’Grady’s hand and hurried him through the door of Flanagan’s Pub.

  “I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t. The less we’re seen together the better. I’m no idiot, Jimmy, but there was no other time I could slip away today and this can’t wait.”

  Flanagan’s was a discreet establishment frequented by many politicians, lobbyists and local business leaders in suburban D.C.. Their private lunchrooms weren’t the place to grab a cheap burger, but the privacy was secure. Flanagan’s reputation was made on that security. The long, private drive into the wooded estate owned by Harry Flanagan assured that the press could never be certain who was meeting with whom. In fact, they rarely bothered to even stake out the place, because it never resulted in a story their readers could sink their teeth into.

  O’Grady and Anderson settled in at their table and ordered quickly. The waiter left and carefully closed the door to the private dining room behind him.

  “OK, JT. What’s got you so jumpy?”

  “A detective from Baltimore came snooping around BNI this morning, some guy named Kincade. Ever hear of him?”

  O’Grady shrugged. “Nah, doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Damnedest thing, though. I mean, he didn’t schedule a meeting or anything. He just came running at me in the parking garage this morning and chased me into the building.”

  “Chased you? What in the hell did he want?

  “Routine questions, he said. But I didn’t buy it.”

  “Why not? What did he ask you about?”

  “Just some basic stuff – how we manufacture the neuronanobots, how they work, the clinical results, that kind of thing. Then he left.”

  “That was it? And you called me in a panic over that? Hell, JT, your reaction is the only thing that sounds suspicious about this whole thing.”

  “No, listen. You weren’t there. The stuff he asked, that’s all stuff that anyone could get in five minutes on the Net. That wasn’t what he came to ask me. I’m sure of it.

  I could see it in his eyes, but as soon as Stan walked in, his whole demeanor changed. I mean …”

  “Stan? You called a lawyer in when a cop said he just wanted a little info on nanobot production for a case? Are you nuts? Listen, man, this whole thing’s going to blow up in our faces if you don’t keep your cool. We’ve got the highest level of national security on this. There’s no way some street cop could have gotten wind of the project.”

  “I’m telling you he knows something.”

  “Well, if he wasn’t suspicious that something was going on at BNI before he met with you this morning, he sure as hell will be now. Hell, even the waiter was nervous after he got a look at you. You’re oozing anxiety.”

  JT wiped his brow. “I’m not used to this kind of thing, Jimmy. Not like you. I can take on a boardroom full of angry investors, I can maneuver an aggressive press corps into writing a story in a way that makes me look like the philanthropist of the century, but I don’t like dancing around the law.”

  “Get over it. We are the law.”

  The waiter walked in and served their meals quickly. “Everything satisfactory, gentlemen?”

  They both nodded affirmatively.

  “Just ring if you need anything.” He motioned to the blue button on the wall. He would not return until summoned. O’Grady watched him walk out.

  “What was this detective’s name?”

  “Richard Kincade. He’s with the BPD. Here’s his card.” He handed the card to O’Grady who glanced at it, and then stuck it in his shirt pocket.

  “I’ll take care of this guy. Now relax and enjoy your lunch. They’ve got the best crab cakes in D.C. here.”

  JT felt a little better. O’Grady had connections. JT wasn’t sure just exactly what those connections were and he did not intend to ask, but when James O’Grady said a problem was taken care of, it was taken care of.

  “As long as we’re here, why don’t you give me an update on the project. I don’t think I should be seen with you at BNI for a while with this detective snooping around.”

  “What, here?”

  O’Grady looked up from his meal, and motioned around the room with both arms. “Christ, JT, this place is more secure than the Oval Office. Nothing leaves this room.”

  JT was hesitant, but gave i
n.

  “Well, the Phase Three bots have been completed. They are designed to be injected into a host who has already been treated with TPNT, the Two Phase Neuronanobot Treatment for brain injury. The Phase One bots repair the damage caused by a brain injury, the Phase Two bots go to the same spot and replace the dead nerve cells, and the Phase Three bots are attracted to the same area by a chemical released by the Phase Two bots. When the new Phase Three bots get there, they hook up to the nerve cells in the area, and … now this is the really cool part … they can send any message we want to the rest of the brain through those connections. In other words, we can take control of that person’s brain, tell them to do anything we want.”

  “Awesome, JT, awesome, but how do you control them? How do you change the message after they’re already inside someone’s brain?”

  JT beamed. He was clearly proud of his work. “We’ve developed a way to control the Phase Three nanobots by radio frequency. We have the ability to reprogram them after they are in the brain with a simple little remote control device that’s no bigger than a cell phone. In essence, anyone who has our Phase Three bots in their head becomes our robot.”

  “Can these cells be detected? I mean, can they be traced back to BNI?”

  “Well, that was a problem at first. We made the first Phase Three bots out of an inorganic material. It was the only way we could get the radio frequency controller to work. The problem was, that inorganic material lit up on an MRI; they were easy to detect. That’s why we killed off that first subject, that Hanes fellow, and had him cremated. Somehow, that seemed like a poor long-term solution. The bots would have limited application if we had to kill off their hosts and cremate them each time. Sooner or later it would arouse suspicion.”

  “Seems you may have already done that,” O’Grady said, tapping the pocket that contained Richard Kincade’s business card.

  “Yeah, well anyway, we solved that. One of my guys managed to make the Phase Three bots organic. They can’t be detected by any scans now. You wouldn’t even find them on an autopsy. Once the body’s dead, they look just like any other nerve cells in the brain. At first, they were harder to control than the inorganic bots. The first subject went into uncontrollable seizures when we tried to activate them. It was a good field test though. She was hospitalized and scanned with every machine available in an effort to get her seizures under control, and the doctors never picked up anything suspicious. The organic Phase Three bots are medically invisible.”

  “You got the kinks out of it now? We can’t risk failure. We’re only going to have one shot at this.”

  “Oh yeah, we’ve got it nailed down now. The next two tests went perfectly. We got one guy to drive his car right off a bridge, man. Plunged it into the Middle River — clean investigation; no evidence of foul play.”

  O’Grady raised an eyebrow. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  “Thanks,” JT smiled, “but we’ve done much better. On the final test, we stepped it up a notch. We got the subject to carry out a much more complex task, something she never would have done on her own. The whole thing went like clockwork, and afterwards she didn’t have a clue what she had done.

  “After that, we figured we were ready for the big time. Our first real target…”

  “Yeah, I read about that one,” O’Grady said with a smile.

  “Thought you might have,” JT said proudly. “Well, we got him to hurt someone he trusted more than his own mother, and to kill himself in the process. If we can do that, we can do anything.”

  O’Grady listened intently as he ate. He was clearly pleased.

  JT Anderson felt much better when he walked out of Flanagan’s than he had when he walked in.

  The crab cakes were good.

  __

  “Two beef burritos, extra hot, two sides of slaw, two Cokes.” The heavyset woman with graying, medium-length hair slapped the freshly wrapped burritos down on the counter. “Anything else, hon?”

  “That’ll do it. Thanks.” Richie paid her and grabbed the burritos off the counter. Every Wednesday, he and Hank would treat themselves to lunch at Lexington Market. It was Richie’s turn to buy this week.

  He walked over to the table that Hank was holding for them. “Here you go, buddy.” He set the bag on the table and pulled up a chair.

  “God, I love these things.” Hank had already pulled his food out of the bag and taken a hearty bite out of his burrito by the time Richie settled in.

  Kincade smiled as he watched Hank frantically grab for his Coke as the hot sauce kicked in. “What a wuss.”

  Hank snarled as his took a swig of his soda, two things not easily done simultaneously. He put the can down and belched.

  “Nice, Hank. Real nice.”

  “Thanks. Say, what’d you think of Shelly? Pretty hot, huh?”

  “Oh yeah. How’d you get her to go out with someone like you, anyway?”

  “Oh she was dyin’ for me, man. She was just lucky I called her, you know?

  “Yup, one lucky gal.” Richie didn’t even feign sincerity.

  “Did she help you out on that BNI case? Anything useful?”

  “Very.” Kincade still wasn’t sure what was going on at BNI, but his strange meeting with JT Anderson this morning had convinced him that there was something there worth digging for.

  “Good. Hey, what do you think of the Ravens’ chances against the Packers this weekend?” Hank didn’t mind talking about his success with a gorgeous woman, but he hated talking about work when he didn’t really have to. He always changed the topic of conversation to sports at the first opportunity.

  “Hadn’t thought about it much. I’m not really into football yet. It’s still too early in the season.” Kincade was proud to root for the local teams, but he was more of a fair weather fan. He liked to see if the team was a playoff contender before he invested his precious weekend time watching the games.

  They ate quietly for a few minutes, only peripherally aware of the CNN newscast that blared from the TV hanging in the corner of the room. The presidential primary campaign updates were starting to show up more often as candidates declared their interest in the battle to become the Republican nominee who would challenge the incumbent Democratic president. Huntley Forsyth was one of the most popular presidents in history and many of the leading Republicans were hesitant to join a race they were likely to lose.

  An attractive young news anchor on CNN was interviewing one of the few who decided to take on the improbable task of unseating President Forsyth: Senator Russell Stetson of Maryland. The local senator had a lot of friends in Baltimore.

  “Turn it up, turn it up. I went to school with Stetson,” someone shouted from a table at the other end of the dining area.

  The TV volume rose and filled the room. It was no longer easy to ignore as background drivel, and the two detectives focused on the television along with everyone else.

  “Even if you do manage to capture your own party’s nomination, do you think a young senator like yourself really has a chance against President Forsyth?” the reporter asked a polished looking Senator Stetson, grinning ear to ear and dressed in a pin-striped, three piece suit.

  “I’ve got nothing but respect for Mr. Forsyth. He’s a heck of a nice guy, but I think the American people need and deserve more than a nice guy. Sure, life is good for Americans now, but the world remains a tinderbox and we’ve been resting on our laurels for too long. Our military is the weakest it has been in three decades. We’re getting soft in the middle, and there are those who salivate at a chance to hit us when we’re down. I aim to make America strong again and assure that this wonderful lifestyle we enjoy will still be here for our children when their time comes.

  The sound dimmed as CNN faded to commercial.

  “Spoken like a true Republic
an, eh Richie.”

  Kincade was preoccupied, still staring at the screen.

  “Richie?”

  “Uh, yeah…true Republican. Say, what do you know about this guy Stetson? I know he’s our own senator, but I never pay much attention to politics.”

  “Oh, real up and comer. This guy’s either really got something on the ball, or he’s got something on a lot of people in Washington. I mean, he’s like forty-seven, forty-eight … something like that, and he’s already on his second term in the Senate. He’s got the ear of the majority leader, and was even rumored to have been offered the VP slot on the Republican ticket in the last election. He supposedly would have gotten it too, if it weren’t for his age. Everybody likes this guy.”

  “What’d he do before politics?”

  “Hey, I’m not a total geek, you know.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Actually,” Hank said, “I’m embarrassed to say that I do know the answer to that one, though. See, Stetson worked at GE in the legal department with my brother-in-law, Bill. That’s how I know so much about him. I’ve got to admit, I’m no political whiz kid either. Bill say’s Stetson was a great schmoozer. You know, knew just what to say and what to do to get on everybody’s good side. Bill never trusted him, though. Said he knew his stuff, but he had kind of a skewed view on life, a supporter of the idea that the government should control of all aspects of our lives. Not too big on the personal freedom thing.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  “Yeah, but that was all on the QT. It was just the kind of stuff that he’d mention to Bill over a two-martini lunch, you know? On the record, he never says anything that could offend anyone.”