The Tower

Chapter 16

Her blond ponytail swaying with each step, Agent Travers walked down the sleek black corridor with a briefcase handcuffed to her wrist. She ran her card down a slot in one of the large metal panels and a segment of the wall rolled back to reveal another long corridor. At the end of the second corridor, she placed her eye in front of a laser scanner. The check cleared with a series of beeps and a huge steel door clicked open. Travers entered the inner sanctum.

The room she stood in was the office of the man behind the men behind the scenes at the FBI. As far as anyone knew, the room was his home as well, for nobody ever saw him enter or leave the building. He seemed to be eternally present, a single beating heart within the labyrinthine network of subterranean corridors.

The room was empty except for a large black desk, with accompanying chair, that sat in the middle of a dark rug, and a single chrome-and-leather chair placed facing the desk. There was an enormous computer on the desk, and several video monitors were within easy view of the man sitting there, giving him access to an immense range of FBI intelligence that he could recall with the punch of a key. Though he was a solitary man in an airtight room, he seemed to know everything.

There was a great deal of agency lore surrounding this man, but it was anybody's guess as to how much of it was true. After he'd lost an eye in a freak accident or an operation, depending on which version one heard, he had taken the code name Wotan, referring to the German god who had traded an eye for knowledge. His remaining eye had grown quite sensitive to light, so he kept the room dimly lit. There was, however, almost as much artifice to his surroundings as there was need, since Wotan enjoyed his status as the agency mystery. By remaining in the shadows, he appeared even more intimidating and powerful, which was precisely what he wanted.

"Sit down, Agent Travers," he said quietly, his voice that of an older man.

Travers sat in the small chair ten feet from the desk, dangling her arm to allow the briefcase to rest on the floor. She stared at the row of blank screens set into the wall. When Wotan took meetings, which was not often, he turned off the video monitors.

"Yes, Wotan?"

"Any leads on Atlasia?"

"Well, sir, we found the speedboat about ten miles offshore. It appears he had set it so it would be headed out to sea, so we can't exactly pinpoint where he got out. He may have drowned. We put out roadblocks and sent search parties through all the beachside towns in proximity to the Tower, but there's nothing so far."

"It appears we have a child in need of punishment," Wotan said softly. "And the Tower?"

"Everyone there died except Claude Rivers, an Eleventh Leveler. The sleeper."

Wotan nodded in recognition. "Peter Briggs himself has ordered Rivers back in there as quickly as possible. Plus, I don't want him mingling with the other prisoners and guards. It puts them in danger."

"I'll inform Warden Banks."

"How'd Rivers survive?"

"It was an unusually high tide, so the water eventually covered up even his cell, but he ripped the U pipe out of his toilet and used it as a snorkel. The water's surface was only about four inches above the top of his ceiling bars. He spent the better part of an hour staring at the rippling air just out of reach before the emergency crew arrived.

"We notified all the prisoners' families, and no one should be a problem, with the exception of Cyprus's mother." She paused and pursed her lips. "She's a real bitch, sir."

Wotan leaned forward and light from the dim lamp fell on his face. Travers saw his bare eye socket, the skin stretched over the hole.

"I called Briggs first thing this morning. We're not going to fool around on this one." Wotan drummed his fingers on the desktop, then stopped. "I want Marlow on it," he commanded softly.

Travers shifted uneasily in her chair. "Sir, can't you give us more time on this? Marlow's a hell of a guy to unleash in this situation- it's like letting a fifteen-year-old loose in a whorehouse, if you'll pardon the metaphor."

"It's a simile. And I want him."

A moment of silence followed, broken when Wotan cracked his knuckles by pulling his fingers down at the joint with the thumb of the same hand, one at a time. He paused between each pop, letting the noise fill the air. When he finished his fingers, he made a fist with his thumb inside and tightened it. His thumb cracked sharply. Then, he cracked the fingers of his other hand in similar fashion.

Travers sat quietly in the chair and waited for this ritual to end. She cleared her throat nervously. "Very well, sir. We'll put out the retainer and update him. Marlow usually works alone when he tracks, but we'll give him the flexibility to take another agent-partner if he needs it. He usually doesn't like the distraction, though."

Travers rose from the chair. "Wotan, sir… we will keep intelligence on it, won't we?"

"Of course. Just don't interfere with Marlow. I want him well-oiled and on course as soon as possible." His fingers traced the edge of the weighty marble ashtray that sat always within his arm's reach on the desktop. "Marlow will bring him in. He always does."

Travers had to lean forward to hear Wotan's final words, his voice was so faint. She snapped her head in a quick nod and left the room as Wotan ran his fingers gently over the bare socket of his left eye.