The Utopia Experiment

47

“Is a little goddamn hot water too much to ask?” Smith said, unable to control his mounting frustration as he ran the faucet over his numb hands. The only heat and light in the dilapidated farmhouse came from the flames crackling in a woodstove that looked like it hadn’t been used since the turn of the century.

“Come over by the fire,” Randi said, throwing a threadbare blanket she’d found over his shoulders and pulling him toward the living room. Fred Klein slid a low stool — the only piece of furniture in the house — toward the stove and Smith lowered himself carefully onto it.

“Sorry about the accommodations,” Klein said as Randi knelt and rubbed Smith’s back vigorously, trying to get the blood circulating. “It’s not the Four Seasons, but it’s on its own hundred acres and owned by a fictitious mining company that can’t be traced to us. If you need medical attention we can bring someone in.”

Smith shook his head, fighting off another of the endless waves of nausea that refused to subside. “My body temperature’s coming back up and there’s nothing you can do about the effects of the Merge but wait them out.” He paused. “Thanks for coming for us, Fred. I know the risk you’re taking.”

“I don’t think you have much to thank me for. Too little too late.”

Smith just stared into the flames in front of him. While he’d always admired Klein’s patriotism and intellect, the retired spook wasn’t exactly a spring chicken and had very little direct experience with ops. Smith had always assumed that in this type of situation he and Randi would be sacrificed — an unfortunate fact of life that he understood and could live with. But seeing Klein standing there with a gun bulging in his jacket put the man in an entirely a new light. Smith’s already enormous respect for him grew just a little more.

Klein’s phone beeped and he seemed grateful to be able to divert his attention to it. Randi took the opportunity to stoke the fire, trying not to look worried while Smith watched her in his peripheral vision.

“All right,” Klein said, stuffing his phone back in his pocket after a brief conversation that consisted mostly of worried grunts on his end. “We have a positive ID on all three men.”

“Mercs?” Randi said.

He shook his head. “Active military. Two SEALs, one special ops marine.”

“What the hell were they doing at my friend’s cabin?”

“No one seems to know. The SEALs are posted to Afghanistan and the marine is an advisor in Iraq. I’m guessing they were supposed to be on their way back by now with no one the wiser.”

“They didn’t just fly to the States on their own,” Smith said. “Someone gave the order.”

“James Whitfield,” Klein said.

“Who?”

“He’s a retired military intelligence officer who consults for an organization that lobbies on behalf of the military. I think you’re familiar with him, Jon. Gray hair, scar on his neck?”

“What do you mean by ‘lobbying for the military’?” Randi said. “You mean he’s in the pocket of defense contractors?”

“No, actually. While he’s definitely been involved in making sure that our soldiers are well equipped, he’s also supported serious cuts in unnecessary bases and weapons systems. His goal is to make the military stronger, but also cheaper and more efficient — something that hasn’t won him many friends in Congress and the military industrial complex. I’ve only met him in passing, but I have to admit that I’ve always been an admirer.”

“Well, I can tell you that those guys weren’t trying to lobby us,” Randi said.

Klein crossed his arms and leaned against the wall behind him. “I think there’s a good chance that Whitfield is the one behind the money disappearing from the Pentagon. It just never occurred to me to look at him. I was focused on criminal activity — someone embezzling or a contractor covering up a failing project. Not someone diverting money to fund an organization looking to help the military.”

Smith finally turned away from the fire. His hands were thawing to the point that numbness was giving way to pain. “Am I the only one here who thinks it sounds a lot like you’re describing yourself? Whitfield sounds like your mirror image. Some kind of evil counterpart.”

Klein considered that for a moment. “Counterpart? Possibly. Evil? I’m not sure. There’s nothing I know of in his background to suggest he’s anything but an incredibly patriotic and competent former soldier.”

“It’s a hazy line, isn’t it?” Smith said. “Doing what you believe is right without any real authority. Killing people from the edges of democracy…”

“We save lives,” Randi said, sounding a little indignant.

“Maybe he does, too,” Smith responded. “Maybe he sees the importance of the Merge to our soldiers and thinks we’re poking our noses into places that could jeopardize that.”

“At this point, his motivations are irrelevant,” Klein said. “What we know is that the man is smart, motivated, and well connected. Your transfers didn’t work only because Whitfield had no way of knowing about my involvement—”

“And we aren’t dead because I’m one of the only people who really understands the control and command structure of the Merge’s military operating system.” Smith thumbed toward Randi, who was adjusting the blanket around his shoulders. “And of course because of the paranoia level of certain CIA operatives.”

“Miscalculations I myself might have made,” Klein admitted. “But I wouldn’t make them again. And neither will he.”

“Can we get him off our backs?” Randi said.

“I honestly don’t know. It’s a dangerous fight for us to get into.”

“Particularly in light of the glass house we live in,” Smith said.

“Exactly. Going toe-to-toe with Whitfield could shine a very bright light into places that need to stay dark.”

“And where does that leave us?” Randi said.

“Our primary concern is the proliferation of the military version of the Merge. We need to understand how those Afghans got those head studs and what they were doing with them. Secondarily, we need to look into the behavioral issues that you’re concerned about and the possibility that the Merge has capabilities we’re not aware of or that it can be subverted in ways we don’t understand.”

“But what’s Whitfield’s angle?” Randi said.

“If I had to bet money, I’d say that he somehow got early access to the military units and what happened in Afghanistan was some kind of pre-release test.”

“Maybe,” Smith said. “But maybe not. We found out that Christian Dresner was part of the athletics program in East Germany.”

“Athletics? I don’t follow,” Klein said.

“He has a history of experimenting on humans.”

“You think he could be behind what happened there?”

“The human brain is very different from a rat brain or even a chimp brain. I’d never given it a lot of thought until now but in order to get his system to integrate with the mind, there would have had to be a fair amount of direct experimentation.”

Klein nodded, obviously seeing where he was headed. “But where are all the early test subjects? I’ve never heard anyone talking about being involved in those kinds of trials.”

“And let’s not forget Craig Bailer,” Randi said. “It’s possible that his death was just a coincidence, but now I’m starting to doubt it.”

“Do we have any information on that?” Smith asked.

“Apparently his car missed a turn and rolled down an embankment. The bodies were badly burned, so information is shaky. Based on Bailer’s lungs, he was dead before the fire started, but there was no obvious trauma. Best bet is a heart attack. The passenger — a member of Dresner Industries’ board — appears to have been knocked unconscious and died in the fire. No obvious evidence of foul play.”

“Doesn’t mean there wasn’t any,” Randi pointed out.

“No it doesn’t,” Klein admitted. “Any thoughts on how to proceed?”

“Get our hands on Dresner?” Randi said.

“That’s not going to happen,” Klein said. “Beyond his obvious wealth and connections to more world leaders than I can count, he’s a German national who tends to move constantly between compounds set up all over the world. I’m not sure I could even find him, let alone get you access to him.”

“What about the psychologist he escaped East Germany with?” Randi said.

“Gerhard Eichmann?” Klein said. “You think he might be involved?”

“We Googled him on the way back from Germany,” Smith said. “He worked for a few years after making it to the West and then pretty much disappeared. A guy that brilliant should be at a top university or at least have a trail of publications in academic journals. Instead, there’s nothing.”

“And you think he was working on the Merge project?”

“He wouldn’t be a bad guy to have around if you wanted to integrate machine and mind.”

“Any idea where he is?” Klein said.

“Maybe Morocco, but we need Star to do some digging.”

Klein nodded. “We have to move fast on this. I’ve managed to postpone both your transfers but doing any more could generate tracks that I can’t cover. Talk to Eichmann and see what you can find out. But — and I want to be very clear on this — you’re not to take any direct action without my authorization. For now, we’re just gathering intel.”

“What about Whitfield?” Randi said.

“I’ll see what I can do to keep him off you, but I can’t promise anything. My advice is to watch your back.”

His phone rang and he pulled it from his jacket again. “Yes? ETA? Okay, I’ll be ready.

“Time for me to go,” he said. “We need to get the chopper in and out of here before the sun comes up. Good luck.”