moment, but then he shook his head. “Sorry, I had to remove that feature. The new processor puts greater demands on the system memory, and there wasn’t enough left for archiving the video feed.”
“Damn,” Jim muttered. But then he thought of something else, another way to identify the CIA bastard. He pointed at the computer on Arvin’s desk. “Can that machine interface with the implant on your scalp? The thing you called the Dream-catcher?”
“Well, yes, yes it can.”
“Go ahead and set it up.”
Arvin looked puzzled. “What are you—”
“You saw the agent several times. You have a visual memory of him. We’re going to download it. Come on, set it up.”
“All right, all right.” Arvin turned on the computer. The machine came to life and began to load the appropriate software. “I can’t promise this will work,” he warned. “The Dream-catcher doesn’t provide good images unless the visual memory is a strong one.”
After a few seconds an image of the laboratory appeared on the screen. The center of the image was in focus and the periphery was blurred. For a moment Jim saw himself on the screen, crisp and clear, but then the area of focus shifted elsewhere, darting across the room.
“Okay, close your eyes,” Jim said. “Try to remember the agent.”
Arvin closed his eyes and the screen went black. It stayed that way for several seconds. Then vague shapes started to flash across the screen. An image of a black limousine emerged from the darkness, then faded away. Then Jim saw an image of the lower half of a man’s body, showing pin-striped pants and a pair of patent-leather shoes. Finally, a man’s face appeared on the screen, but Jim saw right away that it wasn’t the CIA agent. It was George Clooney. After a moment Clooney’s face vanished and was replaced by the faces of Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts.
Jim frowned. “Arvin, what are you doing? Remembering the Oscars?”
“Sorry. It’s so easy to get distracted. Especially when you’re nervous.”
“Just concentrate. Think of the agent. Your liaison. Remember the last time you saw him. Where were you?”
Various streetscapes flashed across the screen in rapid succession: a busy intersection, a strip of stores, a residential block, an empty parking lot. But then Arvin seemed to lose his concentration again. The screen showed a kitchen, a refrigerator, a half-gallon of orange juice. Jim grew exasperated. “Come on, Arvin! The agent! The man who threatened you!”
Arvin seemed completely flustered, and the screen showed a confusing jumble of colors and shapes. But then Jim recognized something. He tapped the computer’s keyboard, freezing the screen before the fleeting image could disappear. It was a face with a very distinctive feature, a deep scar on the left cheek that looked like a backward Z.
Jim remembered that scar. He’d worked with the man back in the nineties, when Jim and Kirsten were helping the CIA intercept the communications of Al Qaeda terrorists. This particular CIA agent had coordinated the rendition program that transferred captured terrorists to the Egyptian secret police. Jim had never learned the agent’s real name; the bastard had told him the same thing he’d told Arvin, that he didn’t need to know it. But Jim remembered the code name the agent used. It was Hammer.
TEN
As soon as Jim Pierce left the lab, Arvin Conway collapsed. He slid off his chair and fell to the floor, writhing in pain. It had never been this bad before. It felt like there was a hot coal inside his guts, and the searing heat was spreading up and down his back. Frantic, he fumbled in his pocket for his vial of opiates. It took all of his will just to open the vial, put two tablets on his tongue and swallow. Then there was nothing to do but lie on his back and ride it out.
Over the past year Arvin had become an expert on pain, a connoisseur of agony. It came in waves, usually triggered by stress. That was probably what made
“Damn,” Jim muttered. But then he thought of something else, another way to identify the CIA bastard. He pointed at the computer on Arvin’s desk. “Can that machine interface with the implant on your scalp? The thing you called the Dream-catcher?”
“Well, yes, yes it can.”
“Go ahead and set it up.”
Arvin looked puzzled. “What are you—”
“You saw the agent several times. You have a visual memory of him. We’re going to download it. Come on, set it up.”
“All right, all right.” Arvin turned on the computer. The machine came to life and began to load the appropriate software. “I can’t promise this will work,” he warned. “The Dream-catcher doesn’t provide good images unless the visual memory is a strong one.”
After a few seconds an image of the laboratory appeared on the screen. The center of the image was in focus and the periphery was blurred. For a moment Jim saw himself on the screen, crisp and clear, but then the area of focus shifted elsewhere, darting across the room.
“Okay, close your eyes,” Jim said. “Try to remember the agent.”
Arvin closed his eyes and the screen went black. It stayed that way for several seconds. Then vague shapes started to flash across the screen. An image of a black limousine emerged from the darkness, then faded away. Then Jim saw an image of the lower half of a man’s body, showing pin-striped pants and a pair of patent-leather shoes. Finally, a man’s face appeared on the screen, but Jim saw right away that it wasn’t the CIA agent. It was George Clooney. After a moment Clooney’s face vanished and was replaced by the faces of Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts.
Jim frowned. “Arvin, what are you doing? Remembering the Oscars?”
“Sorry. It’s so easy to get distracted. Especially when you’re nervous.”
“Just concentrate. Think of the agent. Your liaison. Remember the last time you saw him. Where were you?”
Various streetscapes flashed across the screen in rapid succession: a busy intersection, a strip of stores, a residential block, an empty parking lot. But then Arvin seemed to lose his concentration again. The screen showed a kitchen, a refrigerator, a half-gallon of orange juice. Jim grew exasperated. “Come on, Arvin! The agent! The man who threatened you!”
Arvin seemed completely flustered, and the screen showed a confusing jumble of colors and shapes. But then Jim recognized something. He tapped the computer’s keyboard, freezing the screen before the fleeting image could disappear. It was a face with a very distinctive feature, a deep scar on the left cheek that looked like a backward Z.
Jim remembered that scar. He’d worked with the man back in the nineties, when Jim and Kirsten were helping the CIA intercept the communications of Al Qaeda terrorists. This particular CIA agent had coordinated the rendition program that transferred captured terrorists to the Egyptian secret police. Jim had never learned the agent’s real name; the bastard had told him the same thing he’d told Arvin, that he didn’t need to know it. But Jim remembered the code name the agent used. It was Hammer.
TEN
As soon as Jim Pierce left the lab, Arvin Conway collapsed. He slid off his chair and fell to the floor, writhing in pain. It had never been this bad before. It felt like there was a hot coal inside his guts, and the searing heat was spreading up and down his back. Frantic, he fumbled in his pocket for his vial of opiates. It took all of his will just to open the vial, put two tablets on his tongue and swallow. Then there was nothing to do but lie on his back and ride it out.
Over the past year Arvin had become an expert on pain, a connoisseur of agony. It came in waves, usually triggered by stress. That was probably what made
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