Evil Agenda

By Steven M. Moore

In this sci-fi thriller, the reader will travel from late 21st century Washington DC, on to Africa, to South America, to Switzerland, and to Spain, as the clone and the mutant attempt to survive the sociopath's scheming and the task force's pursuit--both want the mutant for further experiments.

But Kalinin has other projects, one involving the creation of a WMD to complement his mutant armies. What does this have to do with an alien artifact? And why does he need to foment a coup d'etat in Africa to continue with the project?

Filled with the machinations of rival groups struggling for dominance and those who often are their pawns, this novel has relevance for today's international power struggles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven M. Moore
• Release date: Oct 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781927114070

Steven M. Moore

If you’re reading this, thank you. Not many people find me...or recognize me as an author of many genre fiction novels. Maybe it’s because my name is too common—I thought once about using a pen name...and probably should have. Maybe it’s because I don’t get many reviews. (It's not hard to write one once you've read one of my books: just say what you like and dislike in a few lines, and why.) I know you have many good books and good authors to choose from, so I’m honored and humbled that you are considering or have read some of mine.You’re here on Smashwords because you love to read. Me too. Okay, maybe you’re here to give someone the gift of an entertaining book—that’s fine too. I love to tell stories, so either way, you’ll be purchasing some exciting fiction, each book unique and full of action and interesting characters, scenes, and themes. Some are national, others international, and some are mixed; some are in the mystery/suspense/thriller category, others sci-fi, and some are mixed-genre. There are new ones and there are evergreen ones, books that are as fresh and current as the day I wrote them. (You should always peruse an author's entire oeuvre. I find many interesting books to read that way.)I started telling stories at an early age, making my own comic books before I started school and writing my first novel the summer I turned thirteen—little of those early efforts remain (did I hear a collective sigh of relief?). I collected what-ifs and plots, character descriptions, possible settings, and snippets of dialogue for years while living in Colombia and different parts of the U.S. (I was born in California and eventually settled on the East Coast after that sojourn in South America). I also saw a bit of the world and experienced other cultures at scientific events and conferences and with travel in general, always mindful of what should be important to every fiction writer—the human condition. Fiction can’t come alive—not even sci-fi—without people (they might be ET people in the case of sci-fi, of course).I started publishing what I'd written in 2006—short stories, novellas, and novels—we’d become empty-nesters and I was still in my old day-job at the time. Now I’m a full-time writer. My wife and I moved from Boston to the NYC area a while back, so both cities can be found in some novels, along with many others in the U.S. and abroad.You can find more information about me at my website: https://stevenmmoore.com. I’m also on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorStevenMMoore; and Twitter @StevenMMoore4.I give away my short fiction; so does my collaborator A. B. Carolan who writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. See my blog categories "Steve's Shorts," "ABC Shorts," and the list of free PDF downloads on my web page "Free Stuff & Contests" at my website (that list includes my free course "Writing Fiction" that will be of interest mainly to writers).I don't give away my novels. All my ebooks are reasonably priced and can be found here at Smashwords, including those I've published with Black Opal Books (The Last Humans) and Penmore Press (Rembrandt's Angel and Son of Thunder). I don't control either prices or sales on those books, so you can thank those traditional publishers for also providing quality entertainment for a reasonable price. That's why you won't find many sales of my books either. They're now reserved for my email newsletter subscribers. (If you want to subscribe, query me using [e-mail].)My mantra has always been the following: If I can entertain at least one reader with each story, that story is a success. But maybe I can do better than that? After all, you found me!Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

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Also by Steven M. Moore

The Reader Will Enjoy these Sci-Fi Thrillers

The Secret Lab (Carrick Publishing eBook, 2011)

The Midas Bomb (Infinity Publishing trade paperback and eBook, 2009)

Full Medical (Infinity Publishing trade paperback, 2006, Carrick Publishing eBook, 2011)

Soldiers of God (Infinity Publishing trade paperback, 2008)

Survivors of the Chaos (Infinity Publishing trade paperback and eBook, 2011)

Visit Steve at stevenmmoore dot com.

Evil Agenda

A Sci-Fi Thriller

Steven M. Moore

Copyright 2011 Steven M. Moore

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-1-927114-07-0

Cover art by Carrick Publishing

Smashwords License Notes:

This e-book is intended for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Logo Design by Sara Carrick

CARRICK PUBLISHING

Steven M. Moore

Copyright 2010, 2011

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. This book is a work of fiction, revised, expanded, and edited from the online-serialized novel of the same name that appeared on the website stevenmmoore dot com.

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Prolog

Kalidas Metropolis pushed the button to brew the coffee and looked out the window at their small backyard with its tidy deck and patio and kidney-shaped pool. Her thoughts were about old times, though, not the relaxed comfort of her retirement with Sara. She remembered that last trip from the Center back to DC…

I suppose I’m now out of a job.

Pierce Hamilton smiled at her as the limo pulled away. It’s time. They all have good homes now, except for the oldest, and they will have to make their own ways in this crazy world. RP1 and SW2 were the first and they seem to be quite happy.

She sensed that the ex-National Security Adviser was studying her. Does he feel he’s more in his role of ex-priest? She avoided his eyes. The wiry man with the large beak could be very intimidating.

As the Virginia countryside rolled by, she watched through the one-way window of the speeding car. She felt empty and Hamilton likely knew it—Hamilton, always political, but still a sensitive man. I’ll miss them all, she said without facing those eyes.

You’ll have Johnny. You can’t be mother hen to them all. That’s too much responsibility, even for you. Hamilton was always supportive but in all likelihood knew that anything he said now would be lacking. Kali, it’s time for you to get your life back. Johnny will help you do that, don’t you think?

She finally looked him in the eyes, no longer embarrassed by the tears, and put her hand on his knee. I’ve met someone, Pierce. I don’t know if it will work out, but I’m going to give it the old college try.

Woman, your college try is a lot better than the average. I wish you the best. He put his hand on top of hers. And if you ever need a backup, call me. Well, until…you know.

You take that cruise to the Greek isles, Pierce. Make your days count; don’t count your days. Someone famous said that.

Old Rope-A-Dope himself, said Hamilton. He smiled at her puzzled expression. Mohammed Ali, the greatest fighter that ever lived.

Well, he was also quite a philosopher.

Part One: David in the Lions’ Den

Cloning, wow. Who would have thought? There should be a list of people who can and cannot clone themselves. —Ted Danson

One

The car stopped, its idling hydrogen motor but a whisper that was lost in the stiff breeze blowing through the steel trusses and in the murmur of wind waves pounding against the supports of the old Point of Rocks Bridge over the Potomac. A man and woman opened the doors, looked for approaching headlights, and then went to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. The two lifted out a heavy duffel bag and dumped it over the rail into the waters below.

It was surprising that in the 21st century both Maryland and Virginia still remained largely rural. As inner-city transportation improved, people moved in closer to their work centers. White-collar government workers still commuted, in contrast with general white-collar workers elsewhere who now could often telecommute. The secrets of government bureaucracy often required people to be on site and to use local intranets instead of the world internet. Moreover, formal face-to-face meetings were still valued in the country’s capital, contrasting with the VR encounters and informality of modern business.

Not far away off the George Washington Parkway, in McLean and Arlington, secret buildings cloaked the activities of people in their secret professional lives. Beltway bandits, the bottom feeders of the military-industrial complex, still hung off the Washington Beltway like cartridges on an ammo belt. Crystal City towers reached for the sky, their buildings housing the offices filled with secret government projects. The Navy Yard and the Pentagon were less muted in their flaunting the diminished power of what was once the most powerful country in the world.

The two with the duffel bag had no respect for that power. Their viewpoint was biased. They considered that international crime and terrorism were bringing all the industrialized nations to their knees. It was just a matter of time and chaos would reign supreme. They were anarchists.

However, everyone needs to make a living. They made theirs by killing. Some people called them terrorists; others called them assassins. The names didn’t matter. They both wanted the same thing—a good life.

They brushed off the dust the bag had left on their clothes and gave each other a high five. There were now headlights in the distance, so they returned to the car and drove on across the bridge into Loudoun County, Virginia.

***

Ten hours later a state trooper parked his cruiser in front of an aging town house in a gated community in Silver Spring, Maryland. After rechecking the address, Matthew Benji Benson went to the door and, finding no buzzer, used the knocker. He looked up and smiled for the security camera, holding up his badge, wasted motion since he was in full uniform.

How can I help you? It was a woman’s voice. A pleasant voice, thought Benson, but with an edge to it. All business, a force to be reckoned with.

I’m looking for Ms. Sara Holiday.

You’ve come to the right place. The door opened revealing a well-groomed woman with a pleasant smile. She carried her age with beauty and grace. Her wavy dark hair streaked with silver framed brown eyes that nonetheless twinkled with mischief. Sara’s about ready to come down. We often do a late breakfast, officer, especially on the Lord’s Day. Perhaps you’ll join us?

A cup of coffee, maybe?

She nodded. We’ll also see if we can tempt you with some sticky buns. She smiled and curled a finger, indicating that Benson should follow her. We don’t do anything fancy other days, but today we have cop food. Or close to it.

I suppose you mean donuts and coffee. I try to lay off the pastry, ma’am. He followed her to a breakfast table for four on an outside deck. The table was set for two but the woman began to put out dishes for him. He sat down. She poured coffee just for the two of them. And might I ask your name? he asked after a sip of the rich beverage. It was Colombian and brewed by an expert.

I’m Kalidas Metropolis. Sara and I are married. She eyed him over the edge of her cup. You have a problem with that?

He smiled. He didn’t like surprises. He had checked Sara Holiday’s data on his PDA before leaving the station. No problem, Ms. Metropolis. Not that it would matter, but my parents are two gay men and are great guys. Both lawyers. I disappointed them, I suppose, by becoming a cop.

You must tell us their story, said another woman coming onto the deck. Like Benson, she was black.

Tall, elegant. Both women about the same age, good looking. Quite a pair.

I’d rather hear yours, he said as Holiday sat. Metropolis stood and served coffee to her partner. But, as much as I appreciate your excellent coffee, the occasion is sad. I’m the bearer of bad news.

Excellent coffee and excellent sticky buns, corrected Metropolis, plopping one down on each of their plates.

You’re going to make me fat, Holiday objected.

Honey, we’re both fat in all the right places. Right, officer?

***

Benson put down his fork without sampling the pastry and studied the two. How do I answer that one?

Kali, you’re making the poor man nervous. Holiday ate a forkful of sticky bun, closed her eyes, and sighed. Her eyes then focused on his nametag. What is your bad news, Officer Benson?

Benson noticed that her voice had fallen to almost a whisper. Trooper Benson. You are a relative of John Holiday, correct?

Sara’s eyes opened wide. John Metropolis-Holiday, to be precise, aka Johnny Holiday. He thought he was going to be an actor at one time, so the latter is like a stage name. That impetuous young man is our adopted son. He’s a survivor, shall we say. He graduated from Wharton two years ago and is beginning to get his life together.

She said it with pride. Metropolis nodded.

I regret to inform you he’s dead, ma’am.

The cup of coffee dropped from Holiday’s hand and Metropolis choked on a bite of sticky bun. The first woman’s white housecoat had protected her from burns. The second, after dabbing away tears from her eyes that had made a mess of her light mascara, poured her partner another coffee and added some bourbon to both their cups. Benson declined.

We didn’t have many years together, said Holiday. Kali adopted him long before our wedding.

How—how did he die? asked Metropolis.

Benson knew that she was struggling to control her emotions. She seemed to be the stronger of the two but she also had the stronger connection to the victim. His body was found in the Potomac by two fishermen. It was in one of those canvas duffel bags. It looks like someone tossed him off a bridge just upstream.

Did he drown? asked Holiday.

No. Murder. Execution style. That’s why I’m here. He took another sip of coffee, choosing his words with care. Considering the special circumstances of his employment, there will be a complete investigation.

Special circumstances? asked Holiday. He worked for the SEC.

Yes, but he was on loan to a secret federal multi-bureau effort, a special task force on money laundering. Did he ever talk to you about his work?

No one, said Metropolis, looking at Holiday, who nodded, not even us, at least not about this task force. He came down from New York City about two months ago and seemed happy with his new assignment. Who else is in the task force?

I can’t say, said Benson, but continued upon seeing their disbelief, because I don’t know myself. I don’t have all the information.

Suppose I take that on faith, said Metropolis, although her voice’s timbre implied she wouldn’t. Why then are the State Police running this investigation?

We’re not. Multi-faceted, remember. We recovered the body, so I get the job of giving you the bad news, among other things. He forked some sticky bun and savored it, although the action seemed obscene, considering the circumstances. He was hungry. Excellent. Much better than donuts. The two women watched as he took another bite and washed it down with coffee this time. Of course, the crime may have nothing to do with his work. That’s why I have to ask about his personal life. People he has known, his activities and hobbies, and so forth. Benson took out his PDA. He watched as both dabbed at tears again. If you don’t mind, that is. I could come back later.

No, said Holiday, eat your bun and drink your coffee but listen well while Kali tells you about some of Johnny’s life. There’s a lot we don’t know and a lot we can’t tell. Benson raised an eyebrow. Don’t ask. Just listen.

***

The connection to Boston had a few wild pixels but Metropolis was happy to see her friend’s face. It was now Sunday afternoon, yet Jay Sandoval was still dressed in baby dolls.

What a pleasant surprise, the petite woman said. Or not. What’s wrong, Kali?

How to break the news? These two are so happy. I hate to spoil their day. But mine just went down the toilet too. Bad, Jay, really bad. Johnny’s dead.

No!

Chris Tanner, Jay’s husband, joined the conversation. Dressed only in short pajama bottoms, he was oblivious to his near nakedness. The three of them had been through a lot together. What happened, Kali?

Sara’s upset. She loved that kid. I put her to bed with a tranquilizer.

You seem to be holding up, said Sandoval. You were closest to him. Are you OK?

Bizet and bourbon do wonders. She told them about the visit from Trooper Benson. "This whole thing’s under a cloak of security. Déjà vu anyone?"

Don’t jump to conclusions, said Tanner. In spite of our history, not everything is a conspiracy. Let me do some checking. But with the way the Feds are now lording it over local law enforcement, there’s not much I can do. I’ll get the run-around. Tanner frowned. In a way, I can’t blame them. The country’s going to hell.

And we think that becoming a police state is the solution? The young couple remained mute, recognizing a rhetorical question. Metropolis became more precise. Can you at least check on what Johnny was involved in? Those kids have already suffered so much. I wouldn’t want any of the others to be affected.

They’re all safe in witness protection, aren’t they? asked Sandoval.

I hope so. We processed them as fast as we could once we made the decision. Johnny was the most exposed.

You can’t blame yourself for that, Kali. He bonded with you. He was the youngest.

So did the others, but Pierce wouldn’t let me have them all. Yeah, and I always felt I adopted a war orphan. It wasn’t easy getting him through the nightmares, but he grew out of them. Now they’re back to haunt us.

You don’t think any of that history relates to his death, do you? asked Tanner.

I don’t see how. I only mentioned to the trooper that Johnny had a special history before I met him but that most of it was none of his business. I did mention witness protection, though. His perked up from his sticky bun hangover with that one.

Yeah, I bet he liked that, said Sandoval.

He pretended not to mind and just maybe he didn’t. From the locals’ point of view, the Feds are keeping the state police in the dark anyway.

Which is how they’ll treat me, but I’ll check around anyway.

But you’re a cop. They’ll listen to you more than they will me.

Do you want me to come down? asked Sandoval. Do you need help with anything?

Just come to the funeral. Sara and I will need a few shoulders to cry on and a few warm bodies to hug.

Two

I turned into my parking space, settled my nerves from the commute, and studied the office building for a moment.

Success is always relative. My company covered the fourth and fifth floor of the Gaithersburg building, I made some nice change every quarter, and I drove a new Porsche sports car, one of the hydrogen models that went from 0 to 100 klicks in 60 seconds. I had my own parking space, complete with my name—David Olsen. However, I was still a workaholic, driving in three days per week to work twelve-hour days and busting my ass at home two exits towards DC the other four.

That happens when a guy’s wife dumps him. You either hit the bottle—not my style—or hit the local meat grinders looking for one-night stands—I tried for a bit—or you bury yourself in your work. There were other options, most of them unhealthy. I figured work was not a bad choice.

Life becomes a vicious circle before you even realize it. Everybody tells you that you have to find happiness but twelve-hour days won’t allow you to mix socially, except for the rare office birthday party. I got along with my employees, even though I saw some of them only in VR. There are not that many and they’re spread all over the world. It’s just a perception, but I think some of the local female employees even had targeted me as fair game. However, I never date people from the office, and I wasn’t going to meet anyone else by working so hard.

***

There I was, sitting in my fancy car and feeling morose and belligerent, when I spotted him, a small man dressed in a wrinkled tweed jacket and faded blue slacks, peering into office windows. I didn’t like the looks of what he was doing or how he acted, so I struggled out of my car and approached him.

Hey, fellow, can I help you?

It was just past 6 a.m. My office building was empty except for a security guard snoozing in the lobby. We tell them they can’t read or watch TV, so they doze off. I can’t blame them. The security company is based in Rockville but some of the guards commute all the way from the other side of DC. Moreover, they had to be there. No one in the building trusted modern technology enough to forego the human touch when it relates to security.

My Porsche was the only car in the parking lot. From the name on my space, the fellow would also have the advantage of knowing me while I didn’t know him. I never saw him before. I named him Costello. There was no Abbott.

I was just seeing if there was anybody here.

Well, I’m here, and I’m about to call 911 if you don’t give me name, rank, and serial number. I held up my PDA, one of those new models with the billion-pixel screen and numbers so small you’d swear the keypad was made in the Black Forest by elves. If you could find a movie worth watching, you could watch it and get bios on the actors by pointing to their images with a microscopic cursor no one can see. It has other features, most of them useless to me. How ‘bout a name to start? This is a secure facility.

That was just a partial lie. Floors one through three belong to a beltway bandit that survives on Pentagon largesse. They consequently had scifs (often written as skiffs, but the acronym is for Special Compartmented Information Facility), but my company’s security needs were more mundane—they were primarily focused on where to hide the donuts, bagels, and coffee from vultures, although the amount of those delights had diminished with all the telecommuting.

Costello smiled. I’ll be going, Dr. Olsen. Sorry to bother you.

Dr. Olsen? The name on the parking space was just David Olsen. The jerk knew too much. I took an immediate dislike to him. He looked a little like a disagreeable IRS agent who had once audited me.

As he passed, I tried to catch him by the arm. Big mistake. I wound up on my ass in a bed of ornamental ivy, wondering how long it would take my tailbone to recover.

Costello disappeared down the drive and took a right onto the avenue. I suppose he had left his car there.

I picked myself up, calling after him with a few choice words in multiple languages. Then I dialed 911.

***

Ever see those old movies with the keystone cops? One of the men sent by the Gaithersburg PD was a real donut boy, an amiable, heavy-jowled, rosy-cheeked fellow that could be an excellent Santa Claus for the kids come Christmas time. He was the senior cop.