The Nemesis Program

Chapter Twenty-Six

In the middle of a warm, sultry night in May, in an attractive townhouse in a sleepy, moonlit, tree-lined street in Shepherdstown, Fairfax County, a cell phone had started ringing on the bedside table.

The man in the bed woke up, shot an arm out from under the sheet and grabbed the phone. He scowled as he clamped it to his ear. ‘Who the hell’s this? Do you know what time it is?’

‘Am I speaking to Jack Quigley?’ said the caller. Male, maybe forties, gravelly voice, audibly agitated.

‘This is Quigley. Who’re you?’

‘Carlisle,’ the caller said. ‘Yeah, Steve Carlisle, that’s right.’

‘You don’t sound too sure about that, Mr Carlisle.’ Quigley also thought he sounded as if he’d been drinking. ‘I don’t really care. I don’t know you, I don’t know how you got this number. Call me again and I’ll have the cops on you, understand?’

‘Don’t hang up,’ the caller pleaded. ‘I need your help. Can’t say who gave me your number. They said you could be trusted.’ A pause. ‘I worked for the government, too. Please listen to me.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a private citizen,’ Quigley lied. ‘You need help with something, I suggest you go to the cops.’

‘I can’t go to the cops. I can’t go to the Feds. You’re Company, right? You’re who I need.’

‘The Company’ was what its employees and other United States Government officials called the CIA. Jack Quigley was a Special Investigator with the agency, but what he did for a living wasn’t meant to be public knowledge. ‘Whoever told you that is mistaken, and this conversation’s over. Do not attempt to contact me again. That’s a warning. Goodbye.’

Quigley was just about to end the call when he heard the caller say, ‘Mitch Shelton.’

He instantly snatched the phone back to his ear. ‘What did you say?’

‘Mitch Shelton,’ the caller repeated. A pause, then: ‘I know how he died.’

The words were like a slap. Shelton and Quigley had joined the agency at the same time back in the early 2000s and gone through several recruit training programs together, forming a friendship. There was a framed photograph of the two of them on the wall in Quigley’s office, taken five years or so earlier on a canoe trip in the Missouri Breaks. Quigley, then 39 and still looking as fit as in his Marine Corps days; Shelton, a year older, tanned and handsome with a mile-wide grin — the two of them were in brightly-coloured wetsuits and mock-sparring with their canoe paddles. In latter years, Mitch had been deployed in various roles overseas, not all of which he could talk openly about, and they’d only been able to catch up now and then over a beer or six.

Then four months ago, while on a scuba diving vacation off the Florida coast with his wife Janice, tragedy struck.

According to the coroner’s report, the cause of Mitch’s death had been accidental drowning, perhaps brought on by a cramp, nobody knew. Even more horrifically, his floating body had been caught up in the propellers of a boat sometime after death had occurred, causing such mutilation that he’d had to be identified from dental records.

‘Everyone knows how Mitch died,’ Quigley said, swallowing hard.

‘No, they don’t,’ the caller said. ‘But if you wanna go on believing a bunch of lies, that’s up to you. Not just about Shelton. He’s just for starters.’

‘Your name isn’t Carlisle,’ Quigley snapped. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘There’s a phone booth two blocks south of your house. Be there in ten minutes and dial this number.’ The caller read it out twice. ‘You got that?’

‘I have it. But why should I do it?’

‘You want to know more, don’t you?’ the caller said, then hung up.

Quigley almost didn’t bother taking the bait. He didn’t waste time on cranks and he was upset by the reminder of what had happened to poor Mitch. More importantly, to respond to this guy was an admission of what he did. It could be a mistake.

Minutes ticked by. Quigley sat on the edge of the bed and fretted, unable to put the call out of his mind. Finally, as time was running out, his burning curiosity overwhelmed him. He did want to know more.

He pulled on his clothes and hurried downstairs. The dog had come out of his basket and was wagging his tail in the dark hallway, full of expectation. ‘Hey, Red. You feel like a midnight run?’ Quigley said, grabbing the leash from the stand and clipping it onto his collar. He and the big Labrador lived alone together in the townhouse. There was no Mrs Quigley, not yet. The CIA didn’t leave a lot of time for a personal life, especially for someone as dedicated to their job as he was.

Quigley leapt down the steps from his front door and sprinted up the night street with the dog pounding happily along behind him, tongue lolling. Quigley reached the phone booth two blocks south and dialled the number he’d been given. He was out of breath and knew he needed to work on his fitness.

‘I was beginning to think you wouldn’t call,’ said Carlisle’s voice.

‘All right, you got my attention. I don’t like this anonymous crap, and I especially don’t like being gotten out of bed in the middle of the night. You know who I am, so you know the kind of trouble I can bring on you if you mess with me.’ Against his better judgement, Quigley was coming out in the open now, but he was hooked.

‘Nobody’s messing. You alone? Definitely nobody followed you?’

Quigley waved his arm exasperatedly at the empty street around him. ‘Who’s going to follow me through Shepherdstown at this time of the goddamn night?’

‘If you only knew. You really have no idea, do you?’

‘You’d better start talking to me, asshole,’ Quigley said, ready to put the phone down.

There was a pause. ‘Three words,’ Carlisle said. ‘The Nemesis Program.’

To Quigley, it sounded like something out of a bad spy movie. ‘What the hell is that? I’ve never heard of it.’

‘If I’d thought you had, I wouldn’t even be speaking to you.’

‘Quit talking in riddles. Tell me about Mitch Shelton instead.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m doing,’ Carlisle explained. ‘Shelton was involved with Nemesis. He was recruited to the program nearly two years ago.’

‘He never told me anything about it.’

‘Go figure,’ Carlisle said. ‘These guys don’t do transparency. Nobody talks about Nemesis, nobody knows about it. Not CIA, not Homeland Security, not even the President.’

‘But you do,’ Quigley said sceptically. ‘That makes you someone really special, right?’

‘I was part of it,’ Carlisle said. ‘I know everything there is to know. Shit that’d bring down the whole administration if it got out. The most highly classified government program there is, and for a good reason. What they’re into makes the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency look like kids’ stuff.’

‘So you can tell me all about DARPA,’ Quigley challenged him, probing.

‘I could tell you plenty,’ Carlisle said. ‘Look, you gotta believe me. I was with the Nemesis Program for three years, until I quit two months ago. Got myself discharged on medical grounds — depression and alcohol and substance abuse problems. Truth is, I just couldn’t live with myself anymore, knowing what they were doing. I just had to get out. Now I’m scared, I’m shit scared, but I have to do something.’

‘Do something about what?’ Quigley demanded.

There was a heavy pause. ‘That’s all I’m gonna say for now. You want to know the rest, we have to meet in person.’

‘You’re telling me you’re a drunken addict with mental health issues. That doesn’t inspire a whole lot of confidence.’

‘Like I say, you want to go on swallowing their motherfucking lies, that’s your business. What I have to say could bust everything wide open. I figured you could help me, but maybe I should just take my chances with CNN. When it blows up you’ll be real sorry you missed out.’

‘Hold on. Why me? I’m just an investigator. I’m part of a machine, a small part. I don’t have any real power.’

‘This is hot, my friend. I go straight to the higher levels with it, I’ll get fried. What I heard is, you’re a real straight shooter and you don’t fuck around. That true?’

‘I do my job,’ Quigley said. ‘Whatever it takes to get it done. If that makes me a straight shooter, then I guess that’s the way it is.’

‘Then meet me tomorrow night in D.C. The American City Diner on Connecticut Avenue Northwest. Know it?’

Quigley could feel himself getting sucked in deeper. He paused a beat. ‘I’ll find it.’

‘Seven-thirty. Be there. You won’t know me but I’ll know you.’

Click. And the phone went dead.