The Genesis Plague

32

Only minutes ago, Agent Thomas Flaherty and Professor Brooke Thompson had arrived at the branch office of Global Security Corporation. Sipping tea from a Styrofoam cup, Brooke sat alone in Flaherty’s spartan cubicle, peering out the east-facing window that provided a spectacular tenth-floor view of downtown Boston. Directly below was Quincy Market, where the city’s historic colonial centrepiece, Faneuil Hall, sat dwarfed beneath the sleek skyscrapers of the financial district — a sharp juxtaposition of America’s past and present. Her gaze panned out beyond the Christopher Columbus waterfront park and the Long Wharf promenade to settle on Boston’s Inner Harbor. Shafts of sunlight lanced the grey clouds and joined in a sparkling circle atop the icy dark water. Maybe, she hoped, the bright spot portended more than just a passing storm.

The past half-hour had been a whirlwind. Following the harrowing escape in the tunnel, Flaherty had exited the Mass Pike and continued on to downtown. His wrecked car was ignored by the police cruisers, which sped past in response to the fatal collision blocking the interstate tunnel deep beneath Copley Place. At this moment, she thought, another Big Dig was currently under way.

She was still struggling to reconcile how Flaherty had so brazenly put their lives on the line, though he had done an adequate job of explaining to her that assassins were incredibly driven to finish their work. ‘Those guys are hardwired to do whatever it takes to eliminate their targets,’ Flaherty had told her. ‘Failure to do so means the end of an assassin’s career, and possibly his own life. Gives them a pretty powerful incentive to win.’

Flaherty had also told her that he’d been trained to avoid at all costs getting into a shooting match with hired guns, since most were former marine snipers and Special Ops commandos. So the prudent course of action was simple: flee. And, miraculously, Flaherty had managed to do just that.

The assassin’s failed attempt would take time to disseminate back to the unknown client, Flaherty had told her. And that precious time ‘off the grid’ provided them a fleeting tactical advantage.

It was no wonder that he’d headed directly here, she thought, turning her attention back to where she was. This seemingly innocent office was a veritable fortress that would be near impossible for an outsider to infiltrate. At the entrance to the building’s parking garage, Flaherty had been required to present his encrypted security badge to a trio of heavily armed, burly security guards wearing crisp navy coveralls with red arm bands and GSC shoulder patches (the agency’s patriotic emblem purposely designed to convey a symbiotic relationship to the US military). The head guard had quizzed Flaherty about the Concorde’s alarming condition, while one of his minions performed a cursory search of the car’s interior and trunk.

Meanwhile, the third guard had requested for Brooke to step out from the vehicle so he could wave a security wand over her limbs and torso. Then he’d brought her to a computer terminal and vetted her while running a check on her driver’s licence. Satisfied that she harboured no propensity for espionage, he had escorted her back to the Concorde and held open her door in polite valet fashion.

After the head guard had let down the retracting thick metal posts that blocked the garage’s entrance ramp, Flaherty had driven on to his reserved ground-level parking spot. He’d used the same ID as a keycard to access a dedicated elevator that had no control panel, only an emergency stop button and panic phone, and a security camera. The elevator had let them out directly into an elegant entry foyer, furnished with plush leather armchairs, oak-panelled walls, flat-screen televisions tuned to MSNBC, CNN and Fox, and a receptionist seated behind a sliding glass window. At first, Brooke had felt like she’d stepped into her dentist’s office. But the main entryway, situated at the end of a short corridor leading off the reception area, was fitted with a formidable security door. With two more armed guards flanking the door, it was anything but welcoming.

The facility itself took up the building’s entire tenth floor, with a ‘team-based’ open-plan office that provided clear views to windows on all four sides. When Brooke had commented to Flaherty on the irony of all this security for an office surrounded by glass, Flaherty had explained that the windows were blast-proof, tinted to keep out prying eyes both day and night, even dampered against vibration to prevent hi-tech spies from tracing conversations with parabolic microphones. ‘This ain’t no fish-bowl,’ he’d conspiratorially confided.

No matter what work was performed here (or at the firm’s twenty-six similar offices Flaherty had said were located around the globe to ensure maximum redundancy and logistical advantages), the layered security protocols seemed excessive. She figured the firm was a living testimonial to its products and services.

But even this hi-tech nerve centre had no knowledge of why Brooke Thompson had been secreted into Iraq in 2003, and why now someone wanted her dead because of it.

God, how can this be happening?