Chapter Five

The slick-black sedan bombed down the interstate that led into the northern rim of New York City. They sat in silence, Candida and Keyes, and Matt could feel the silence creeping over his flesh like a parasite. He looked at the watch on the dashboard. Eight forty-five. It had been an uncomfortable hour.
After prowling around the first floor of the FBI's slowly aging USAPATRIOT department in Washington, he had finally been forced to ask the hispanic assistant if she was, indeed, his partner after all. He had been treated with a snappy and fierce reply, some of it in hissy Spanish. Keyes was no linguist.
USAPATRIOT stood for Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism. It was named after the Act that was introduced following the terrorist attacks in the opening years of the century. However, as the years progressed and the umbrella of terrorism widened, Keyes found his job move from glorified cop to a divine protector. Their remit now covered unsolicited foreign activity, immigration, illegal trade and more - all aspects of homeland security that their parent organisation, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, were supposed to cover with their greatly inflated budget.
Candida had tooled up (despite it taking her fifteen minutes, allowing Keyes a wry smile and thoughts that most feminists would lobby against) and they had eventually taken the only remaining vehicle in the carpool - nicknamed 'The Kangaroo' by his colleagues due to the erratic condition it had been kept in, and the way it handled on the road. After a lengthy journey in silence, they were now nearing their first objective - a briefing in Union Square on a secure line. Keyes hadn't seen Ritten since they left the brief, but he had seen the trail of destruction left behind - papers flew, people backed out of the way, and telephone conversation ended angrily. News from the FBI team already in place was clearly not good. It worried Keyes. The data they had been given in the brief only gave the outline of the story, but it was enough to make him realise that implications could be huge. The murder of Ivan a full month ago still hung over the Agency in the form of a huge question mark, and the NSA were yet to turn up any solid communications to help the efforts. Worse still, in three days there was the Summer Parade through the streets of New York City, and the citizens were still reeling from the assasination of their Mayor by what seemed to be a group of thugs hooked on some new designer drug. The fear was there, he knew that much. But worse still, he also knew the threat was there. For once, they had been unable to release anything to the media that was worthwhile - not even a lie could improve the situation. The Mayor really had been killed by a group of opportunistic addicts. Another murder the Agency was being compelled to solve by the White House, who remained adamant that there was a reason behind it. Keyes saw none.
But the links simply weren't there, even to someone who had seen the data. An old man gets shot in a bad part of town, and the FBI gets nervous because he turns out to be Russian. The mayor goes out alone too late at night and ends up worse off for it. Neither the Mayor, an old Vietnam vet who had won the hearts and minds of the people asa new generation took the throne of the populace, nor 'Ivan', a crazy European who hadn't bothered anyone in years, seemed like a threat. Whatever the experts had found at the crime scene, Matt felt sure it was going to be weak.
To his surprise, Candida broke his train of thought with her first friendly words.
"You been doing this long?"
Only the questioning tone in her voice rescued the question from a strange accent.
"About four years. I graduated from the state university with a diploma in Mathematics. Wanted to become a cryptologist." he snorted lightly, "Then I ended up as a field agent."
He shook his head as if to clear it of any negativity.
"What about you?" he asked. It seemed polite, and an opportunity to salvage a bad start.
"I'm twenty-three. Been a cop in Rio since I was seventeen. Guess I just took all the opportunities I was offered, ended up as an intelligence analyst."
"You're an analyst? Why are you here? And why are you in the field?"
"Don't worry, Rambo, I won't get in your way. I'm here purely as an advisor."
He took a few turns through some city blocks, and the signs to Union Square directed him through the muddle of a New York morning.
"Well this is New York. So I hope you're ready to fall straight on your ass."
On the dashboard his cellphone started barking at him. He took a hand off of the wheel as they turned a last corner and hit a button.
"Keyes."

"Okay, what do you have for me."
The stretcher's veil of white cotton belied the gore lying underneath, but she had seen it all before. Another murder, another citizen falls foul of cruel fate. She had quickly learnt that mental distance from the... corpses... was the only way to remain sane.
She had worked in the mortuary for three years now, a medical intern without enough ambititon to make it anywhere else. She retained a little pride, though - most people left the job after six weeks because of the nightmares.
The man that wasn't carrying the stretcher walked up to her, a few papers in his hands and a world-weary expression on his face.
"Murder victim. Bullet wound. I'm sure your autopsy will give us all the information we need."
He flashed his badge, though she'd seen enough in her time to only register the golden glint, and then thrust the papers into her hand. She snorted as the stretcher dumped its load onto one of the duralumin trolleys.
"I don't touch them any more. Not my scene." she said. The cop produced a cigarette from his pocket.
"You can fuck him for all I care, just sign the damn papers."
New York's Finest... she thought as she dragged the pen across the paper, intentionally slow. He snatched the top form out of her hand and made for the door, mumbling something vaguely insulting. The two other cops followed him out.
It was a tradition that had slowly become standard practice that whoever signed for a stiff gave the body a look-over to check it was as they expected it to be. She checked the information she had been given. Not a lot. In the corner of her eye, the white sheet gave off a ghostly glow against the musty daylight. She edged over to it, keeping her eyes on the papers at all times. Killed over coffee. Poor bastard.
"John Falk." she said to herself, though she paused slightly as if waiting for him to reply.
"Well, let's take a look at you." she pulled back the pearlescent gauze.
"Oh, Christ..."
Even three years couldn't desensitise you completely.