Iris Rising Read online

  IRIS RISING

  Charles Hubbard

  Book two of the

  Quantum Trilogy

  This ebook edition first published, 2017

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Copyright © Charles Hubbard 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9954381-2-5

  http://charles-hubbard.com

  To Nana Blue, who was always proud of me

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Firstly, to my family for allowing me the indulgence of writing. I am grateful for your patience and continued support. And again, to Scott Tavner and Leonie Kenny for your valuable suggestions and time. Once again you have put the red pen to good use. Even after my valiant attempts to reign in every grammatical error or typo, I recognize that any remaining are my own.

  1

  Boston, Massachusetts

  CIA Assistant Director Zane Black spots the car one hundred yards ahead as he makes a slow left onto Milford Street: a dirty green Lincoln Town parked opposite the apartment building with fake brown leather top and antenna bent past breaking point, muffler churning out exhaust smoke.

  Might as well put flashing neon signs on it, he thinks smirking.

  He turns off the headlights, kills the engine and coasts pulling over. Tires brush against the curb. Looks down and clenches palms. The meandering rhythms of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony no.5 playing through the Spotify app on his phone and connected to the car sound system via Bluetooth haven’t yet hinted of the climax to come.

  Past peak hour, the back roads were relatively quiet except for a street-sweeper a block back and the fading taillights of a taxi having made a U-turn up ahead. Black’s wearing sneakers, blue sweat pants, an old T-shirt with a faded Grateful Dead decal on the front—the kind you can’t iron—and a black hoodie, because that’s what you wear to the gym. And that’s where he’d be if it weren’t for the phone call informing him Professor Peter Nash went for a swim in the San Francisco Bay in his car.

  The pounding in his chest and dry mouth tell him it has been a while since he last killed. But it quickly comes back. Focus pulls him in. Taking a steadying breath he allows the smirk to stay as he reaches over and takes out the 9mm Beretta from the glove box—the same gun used for his first kill the year a loser who had a hard-on for Jodie Foster took a shot at Reagan. Loves the dead-weight feel of it. Looks down the barrel pointing to the ground between his feet with one eye closed. His hand steadies as he lines up the sight. Realizes he’s stopped breathing.

  The expected consequences of his plan are starting to congregate and crowd around a central axis. It’s time to sweep the few stray pawns from the board to make way for his final run. The last few moves before checkmate.

  Checks rearview and side mirrors, both sidewalks.

  Nothing.

  He slides in a magazine, screws on the silencer, switches off the safety and puts one in the chamber.

  It looks like the men are arguing, but what about? Black has an idea. He’s good at reading people, their body language, subtle changes in expression and small gestures. Most people lie. The trick is to work out their motive. But he’s already worked that out.

  2

  The Barn (CIA data facility), Technology Square, Boston

  ‘Be back later,’ John Masen says walking past Travis Sparks’ cubicle and looking up at the clock in Paul Pascal’s office. ‘I'll—’

  ‘Hold on.’ Travis Sparks stands and leans over the partition wall. Masen stops. Sparks lowers his head and softens his voice: ‘Our agreement…the two Chinese.’

  ‘When I get back,’ Masen taps the top of the partition with his knuckles signaling both the commitment and his haste to leave. ‘I’ll be two, three hours tops. And thanks again for setting up the call with Jessica.’ It only felt real hearing her call him Slick. And now, knowing she’s safe at a Navy base in Japan, the last forty-eight hours feels a long time ago.

  The plan is to grab a bite to eat from Emilio’s: a calzone and something sweet to drink, then to the apartment and call to arrange a time to identify De Luca’s body. Best not to ignore the three unanswered messages from the morgue on his cell phone any longer. But he wants something solid in his stomach when he’s hit with the physical reality of death.

  Masen walks a few steps, stops, turns back and makes sure no one is within earshot, and says squinting with a slight twist of his head, ‘You didn’t leak any news?’

  Scanning the news earlier, he’d came across a blog post feeding into larger circulated news sites that the Bradbury’s were expecting some news about their missing daughter. Nothing specific, no named sources, just a photo of both parents clutching each other under a porch light, a glint of a smile, hope. An anniversary piece with a new hashtag campaign: #bringjessicahome started by an Austin blogger. Not that it stopped commentators from speculating Jessica might be coming home soon. A story about a teenage girl kept prisoner underground for over a decade having recently escaped was one possible scenario getting traction.

  Sparks shakes his head and rubs his nose.

  ‘You did,’ Masen says pointing. ‘You rub your nose when you're hiding something.’ Shakes his head and mumbles, ‘…Hashtag bring Jessica home.’

  Masen hides the fact he thinks the leak is a good thing. The neighbors in sympathy keeping their porch lights on until her return.

  ‘Maybe,’ Sparks says looking down, conscious not to rub his nose. ‘It’s harder to kill in the light.’

  The absence of any news about her rescue is a mixed blessing for Masen and Sparks. Keeping a lid on the incident so it doesn’t blow up in the media and create another layer of complication. It’s logical, the usual play. However, Masen knows the Company is keeping a wrap on things while they hunt down the person responsible for the fake CIA communication that sent the US Navy on a rescue mission that nearly triggered World War Three.

  A large chunk of Masen’s brain is busy churning the words about what he’s going to say to Pascal when he sees him next. He’d promised Sparks he’d confront him over the allegations about being a double agent and do something to stop two PLA computer hackers from being killed.

  Sparks thinks Byzantine Candor is a ruse for something else. What it could possibly be, he didn’t say. Sparks probably thinks the Company killed JFK, faked the moon landing and is hiding an alien species deep underground at Area 51. Masen doubts it’s anything other than a hunch. A flight of fancy. Either way, it would have to wait until tomorrow morning when Pascal gets back from the Security Council briefing.

  Masen rakes a hand through his hair and stretches. ‘Twelve hundred retweets…want anything from Emilio’s? Pizza, sub, sandwich…’

  ‘Rib sub and a Coke thanks,’ Sparks says sitting down and waves his gratitude getting back to work. ‘Cheers. And John.’

  Masen turns.

  ‘Join the cause, brother. It’s well over eighteen hundred.’

  3

  Securing the hoodie over his head, Black crouches along the sidewalk checking the Lincoln’s mirrors, in windows of passing houses and the shadows of doorways on both sides of the street. He imagines a kid on the second story in one the houses looking down on him, tracing his movements with a finger, pretending it’s a gun. Makes a popping sound as he takes the shot. But kids don’t look out of windows anymore, their too busy looking at iPads and smart
phones.

  Ahead, the silhouetted tops of two heads. Picks his target. He’ll handle Masen himself later. It will be a pleasure. Straightens with a shrug, tightens his grip. Anticipation surges through him like the spark connecting foreplay to the main event. Checks the tightness of the silencer. No need to compensate for recoil for a point blank shot.

  Boosted from an alley in South Boston, the car grows larger and looks more out of place amongst slick European models parked out on the street.

  The men inside are arguing. Local men, professional, connected. The same men Black spoke with earlier who now look agitated, distressed, distracted.

  ‘You stuffed up,’ the driver protests. The scar running down his neck looks like a sleeping lizard.

  ‘Don’t try dropping me in the shite over this…you heard him. Black sounded resolved if you know what I mean.’ Stabs a finger into his partner’s shoulder. ‘You wanted to see that piece of—’

  But before the man finishes his sentence, Black aims, turns his head placing a free arm to protect his face from the glass and fires. There’s a flash and sound of shattering glass. One shot through the temple. In one fluid movement Black opens the door and pulls the limp body out and lets it fall to the sidewalk maintaining his aim on the driver.

  ‘Hands on the wheel.’ Gestures by stabbing the gun. ‘Both hands.’

  Black feels warm air rushing over his top lip. His world focused to what’s a few feet in front of him.

  ‘…Look mister,’ the driver says. The side of his face looks like someone smashed a glass jam jar across his cheek. A hand on his gun, too late to pull it out.

  Black shoots the driver’s thigh. The man grimaces. Breathing is labored. ‘Okay! Okay, on the wheel. I got it…got it.’ Rubs his face with a shoulder while gripping the wheel with both hands. Flakes of bone rake against flesh and warm blood runs down his cheek.

  ‘You Tony?’ Black asks.

  Head bowed, the man nods.

  ‘Funny.’ Black inhales the pink mist tinged with the smell of stale cigarette. ‘Get out, Tony.’

  Trembling, Tony twists towards the door and moves out with both hands visible. Eyes on the gun. Gulps.

  ‘You and I are going for a drive.’ Black jerks his head back towards his car. ‘I’m riding shotgun.’

  The fire in Tony’s leg keeps him leashed. He tries placing the voice as he stands. Thinks it’s related to the new Vietnamese place on Treamont Street he visited last week where the owner shortchanged him 100 bucks. Taught him a lesson. Sliced open a bag of rice, knocked over some cans that was everything foreign, pocketed some cigarettes and punched the yellow monkey in the side of the face with knuckledusters as a reminder of why he needs protection.

  Black now standing behind Tony nudges him in the back and says, ‘Well, get moving.’ And follows his stare to the body on the sidewalk. They slowly walk back to the car both men failed to spot.

  Tony desperately wants to wipe the bone and blood that’s seeping into his mouth. He could shout, but he’d be dead before anyone walked out a front door or looked through a window. People are locked away in homes. Lights glowing against drawn curtains.

  ‘Open the door with one hand,’ Black says holding the gun with both hands anticipating a move. Tony nods slowly and deliberately, conscious one hand stays vertical as the other opens the door, thinking of a way to overpower him or to run. Biding time.

  The voice comes to him.

  ‘We had an agreement,’ Tony protests then looks up at Masen’s apartment building. ‘We were keeping—’

  ‘You were suppose to be tailing Professor Peter Nash,’ Black says dismissively. ‘You followed him from university and watched his car drive off the road into the bay?’

  Hears the lie in the pause.

  Tony’s the point man and only spoke with Black via phone, never face-to-face. Further detail was via text on a burn phone and payment by means of cash drop-off in a bus terminal locker in Boston South Station. This is the longest conversation they’d ever had.

  ‘…The conditions, you know,’ Tony says trying to blot out the pain, ‘plus we never thought he would skid off the road.’

  The men figured Nash’s routine of driving between Stanford University and home wouldn’t change for one day. And why would it? Nash’s routine was as predictable as the tides. But Tony itched to visit his girlfriend in Chelsea, so flew back to Boston a day early and left his partner to keep tabs on Nash in San Francisco. But between driving to the airport and driving back, a report came through over the radio scanner that a car had crashed. A body dragged out of the bay.

  ‘We came back straight away to keep an eye on your boy, until you wanted him gone.’

  The message fails to cut through. Black sizes up Tony. Eyes have a sharp focus but the architecture of his face droops. Hair color just a shade too dark to convince anyone other than himself of his age. Reached his apex of physical and mental fortitude twenty years prior, back when Black was hitting his strides, racking up scores on the board and making a name for himself in the business. Tony wouldn’t have it over him, not then, not now.

  ‘It’s not professional,’ Black says.

  ‘I have money.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Black snaps jovially, almost laughs. ‘Grumpy old men waiting in a car this time of night don’t dent the weekly wage bill.’

  He’s enjoying the banter. And why not? It won’t be long until he has the data and the feel of the sun on his back, the sounds of waves and more money in the bank than he could ever hope to spend in a hundred lifetimes.

  Tony lifts his shoulders and inhales deeply. ‘Nash would have been taken care of tomorrow. What’s a day?’

  It’s a fair question. The hit on Nash was planned for tomorrow. But what’s happening isn’t a matter of timing.

  ‘Stop.’ Black moves on the road so the car doesn’t obscure his aim. ‘Take off your shirt and wipe your partner from your face.’

  Tony fights for a solution not to get in, for an excuse. He knows getting in means death, but there is nothing other than to obey. Keep breathing and hope for a plan.

  Black is pleased with the outfit’s work: the honey trap with Pascal and eliminating Nash’s team. Both delivered as promised. But they’d gotten lazy or careless. Unforgivable.

  ‘What was funny?’ Tony asks taking off his shirt and wipes the mess from his face, fills up his mouth with saliva and makes a show of spitting on the ground.

  ‘Thought I shot the right man,’ Black says. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I was impressed with San Francisco and I enjoyed the photos of Lane.’ Uses the opportunity when Tony’s eyes are covered by his shirt to scan the area. All is quiet, like Christmas eve and the kids are tucked up in bed. And it feels like Christmas. Tony is the box that’s played with then torn to pieces.

  The shirt falls to the ground. The tip of Tony’s gun stowed in the small of his back juts out above his belt. Useless. It might as well be home, under his pillow where he always kept it when he’s sleeping, two doors down from the kids’ rooms.

  Alexa and Freddy, Tony thinks. I didn’t kiss their foreheads before I left. The failure liquefies in his eyes.

  Black increases pressure on the trigger just in case his reflexes have waned over the years and Tony manages to get a jump on him. But sees he has all but lost hope; slouched shoulders, relaxed arms. A leg that’s now a liability. Knuckles are pink so he’s not tensing for a fight. It’s as if all his energy is being grounded. Black can almost taste the hopelessness and fear in the back of his throat.

  ‘Hand on the wheel.’ Black swaps the gun to his other hand and gets in. ‘Start the car.’

  The car starts first go. Tony wanted it to stall, wanted the battery to be dead or to be out of fuel to buy some time. But new cars start the first time and who runs out of petrol? The engine still warm enough to blow comforting air. Tony wears a quizzical look as classical music starts playing.

  ‘No lights,’ Black says. ‘Same a
s before.’

  ‘Both hands,’ Tony says.

  Tchaikovsky’s symphony starts it’s long wane that finishes in glorious crescendo.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Tony continues. His voice weak, somber.

  Pushing and twisting the gun into Tony’s side, Black puzzles why people shed their accent and talk with a similar cadence when they know they’re going to die. Conducts the music with an imaginary baton at the windscreen. Tony pulls out from the curb and Black points up ahead to end of the street.

  He shoots.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Black says and places a gentle hand on Tony’s shoulder still conducting. ‘Kidney. Give it a second…wait,’ and adds calmly and holds still while Tony turns to him, then down at the gun. ‘Not long now.’

  A cough.

  Black knows there’s no need for the gun so places it in the glove box. Touches the shaft with a wet finger to make sure it isn’t going to leave a burn mark.

  ‘Technology. Wifi,’ Black says shaking his head turning the cell over and looking with wonder at the screen. ‘Free streamed music…makes you glad to be alive.’

  Tony looks pleadingly. Dark blood of lumpy oil dribbles from his mouth. Black reaches over and clicks on the indicator and helps into the turn all the while humming to the music. A pointless question of why washes over Tony as his side erupts in pain, grips the wheel hard so he doesn’t collapse. Warmth drains from his face and eyes search for salvation, but discovers only a cold stare. A beautiful look of terror on his face.

  Black doesn’t want it to end.

  ‘Drive me to where I need to go and I’ll end it.’

  There’s no hope, no thinking. Tony nods in shock, but it isn’t him, there’s a disconnect between body and brain, then the briefest moment of clarity he is going to die.