Covenant A Novel

J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING

WASHINGTON DC

AUGUST 28, 1 P.M.


I’ve told you everything.”

Ethan sat in a hard metal chair with his wrists cuffed to the legs. A camera in one corner of the cell recorded the conversation, an FBI agent guarding the door as Ethan sat staring at the pockmarked face of Special Agent Axel Cain.

“Everything,” Cain repeated cynically, smiling with his lips only. “Mr. Warner, you’ve been embroiled in an international conspiracy that has resulted in several deaths, one of which was at your own hands and witnessed by a half-dozen FBI agents, myself included.”

“It was self-defense.” Ethan shrugged, beyond caring by now.

“You injected him with something that caused his innards to melt and pour out of his eyes, ears, and ass!” Cain shouted. “Overkill, don’t you think?”

“Not for a man who committed the crimes he has.”

Cain looked down at his notes, shaking his head.

“The district attorney won’t see it like that. You left Israel without passport or papers, entered the United States as an illegal immigrant, and then proceeded to injure several men, acquire a firearm for which you were not licensed, and commit the homicide of a respected local pastor.” Cain grinned coldly. “And that’s the way I’ll be presenting it.”

“Bullshit baffles brains,” Ethan muttered.

Cain’s grin didn’t slip as he stood.

“Sticks and stones, Mr. Warner. You’re going away for a very long time, make no mistake about that.”

The cell door opened as Cain made his way out, only to be pushed back in by two men in smart suits. Before Cain was even able to protest, the two men flashed badges at him.

“We’ll be taking Ethan Warner into our custody,” the taller of the two said in a voice that brooked no argument.

“He’s our suspect,” Cain blustered. “We’ve got evidence, witnesses, and—”

“Presidential pardon,” said the shorter of the two men.

Ethan experienced a brief sensation of disbelief.

“Presidential pardon?” he echoed, as though he were as appalled as Agent Cain.

“If you’ll come with us,” said the taller man, who then turned to Cain. “Release him, now. This case is closed.”

Cain, his blotchy face flushed red with restrained fury, nodded to the guard, who quickly released Ethan from the chair.

“This is insane,” Cain protested. “Who the hell has the authority for this? The president doesn’t even know about what’s—”

“That’s classified, Defense Intelligence Agency information and well above your pay grade,” the tall man said. “Any more questions and we’ll take you into our custody as well.”

Cain blanched and stepped back as Ethan walked out of the cell, following the two men down the corridor.

“Seriously?” he asked them. “Presidential pardon?”

“Not quite,” said the shorter of the two, “but close enough.”

Ethan saw two more suited men appear ahead, Nicola Lopez wedged between them and looking equally bemused.

“How do we keep meeting like this?” he asked her.

“Bad luck and timing?”

Ethan said nothing as they were led to the underground parking lot of the FBI headquarters. Three black SUVs were waiting, an ad in themselves for government-agency business. Once inside, they were driven out of the parking lot and turned for the District.

“You tell them anything?” Ethan asked Lopez.

“I’d barely sat down when Secret Service turned up,” Lopez explained. “Cain’s got sand up his ass about the case being shut down.”

“So I noticed. He a friend of yours?”

“You think?”

The SUVs drifted down Pennsylvania Avenue, and for one moment Ethan thought that they were really heading to meet the president. He felt slightly deflated as the vehicles rolled past and on toward the Capitol.

“We’re not that important,” Lopez said with a wry smile.

“That’s what worries me,” Ethan said. “Where are we going?”

“For debrief,” said one of the agents in the front of the vehicle. “Then to the Hart Senate Office Building.”

“How’s Senator Black?” Lopez asked.

This time the agent looked over his shoulder and winked.

“He’s fine, you did good.”

Ethan and Lopez shared a glance, and Ethan wondered what the hell was going on as the vehicle turned away from the District and headed through nondescript industrial areas near the Anacostia River. They finally pulled up outside what once was part of the old navy dockyards, the towering old storage warehouses. Nearby, extensive building work was under way converting the unused buildings into flashy new apartments.

The SUVs rolled toward a particularly battered-looking warehouse that faced away from the city, and as they approached a loading door raised automatically, allowing the three vehicles to roll inside. Ethan looked over his shoulder and saw the rollers close up again as though swallowing them whole.

“Why the cloak-and-dagger routine?” Ethan asked the agents.

“Keeps you out of the media eye,” one of them explained. “FBI would have broadcast your arrests to the world, and we don’t want that to happen.”

Ethan felt a slight tension return to his body.

“Are we going for a swim wearing concrete flippers?”

The two agents laughed, but said nothing as the SUVs rolled to a halt. The doors were opened by agents from the outside, all of them competent-looking men with earpieces and carefully concealed weapons.

Ethan stepped out, and was quickly hurried away by two agents in the opposite direction of Lopez.





You understand the importance of the situation?”

Ethan nodded.

“I can understand why you’re doing this, yes.”

Ethan was sitting in a comfortable room buried deep in the center of the old warehouse, his voice sounding oddly muted and monotone in the anechoic chamber built into the solid concrete of the dock. The differences between this room and Patterson’s macabre operating theater were the soft couch, the coffee and doughnuts, and the straight-talking man who sat opposite. In his forties and with a long, serious face, he was the epitome of the discreet but capable government agent, and called himself Mr. Wilson.

“The DIA can’t afford this kind of security leak right now,” Wilson explained. “People think that to maintain security around delicate matters people like us use violence or intimidation, even murder. We don’t, if at all possible. We prefer to keep people on our side and explain to them why we are doing what we’re doing.”

Ethan nodded.

“That’s very reasonable and convenient, as I quite like being alive.”

Wilson smiled.

“The simple fact is that we don’t know what these aliens were, what they were doing here seven thousand years ago, or whether they visit us now. The remains found in Israel by Dr. Lucy Morgan will remain under lock and key for further study, and will not reach the public domain for some decades yet.”

Ethan frowned.

“Surely people are ready for this kind of thing?”

Wilson nodded in agreement.

“Absolutely correct, Ethan, if you’re referring to the educated, prepared countries of our Western world: barely one sixth of Earth’s population. We in the West might be mentally prepared for the presence of extraterrestrial species and their visitation of Earth, but what about the rest? What chaos might be caused in the Middle East, the former Soviet States, South America, and elsewhere?”

Ethan raised an eyebrow.

“Surely they’re prepared enough not to commit mass suicide.”

“Perhaps,” Wilson conceded. “But combined with that uncertainty is the fact that we ourselves don’t know why these … beings visit us. We don’t know what they want. We don’t know where they come from. We don’t know if they’ll arrive in greater numbers in the future. All the talk about conspiracy by government to conceal the truth, like Roswell, is utter crap. We don’t know the goddamn truth ourselves and are just trying to keep a lid on things until the rest of the world stops blowing itself to hell. Then, maybe, we’ll start seeing how we might deal with all of this.”

“If they’re hostile, we need to work together,” Ethan said.

“Exactly,” Wilson said. “And even if they’re not, we don’t want one country welcoming them with open arms as another opens fire or tries to steal technology to get the upper hand. It’s just the kind of shortsighted thing that some dictatorships might try, and God knows what would happen if we pissed these beings off. As it is, they can infiltrate our airspace with impunity and make a mockery of our defenses even when we do detect them.”

Ethan finished his coffee and set his mug down.

“So, silence all around then?” he guessed. “It never happened.”

Wilson nodded frankly.

“Dr. Sheviz is in the care of Bedouin nomads, which I think we can both assume will not be a pleasant experience for him. Most of the other key players are dead. Lopez and you will sign an official secrets declaration, as will your friends Safiya and Aaron Luckov before their return to Israel. All trace of events will be removed from the records of all agencies involved, and Kelvin Patterson died tragically from natural causes.”

“What about Lucas Tyrell?” Ethan asked. “Lopez said he was killed during his investigation.”

“He died a hero,” Wilson said with genuine intensity, “and that will be on the record.”

“What about Joanna Defoe, my fiancée?”

“That will be for Senator Black to explain.”

“And the bloodline?” Ethan asked. “The message in a bottle that those remains represent? Surely we all deserve to know what the message is?”

Wilson’s features hardened, and he stood from his chair.

“They’ll be studied. Let’s just say that if you leave someone a calling card, you’ll make sure there’s a way of calling back on it.”

“And what if any one of the others goes public with what happened?” Ethan asked out of curiosity as he stood.

Wilson smiled as he shook Ethan’s hand, but his eyes were cold.

“Three things. First, nobody will believe them except the cranks and weirdos. Second, they’ll find themselves experiencing a long and continuous run of bad luck. If that doesn’t silence them, then the third thing will happen, and nobody wants that. Enjoy a long life, Mr. Warner.”





HART SENATE OFFICE BUILDING

WASHINGTON DC


Why wasn’t I told?”

Ethan sat on the edge of a finely furnished couch opposite Senator Isaiah Black. The senator sighed, picking his words with care.

“It was a difficult time,” he began, “and the administration didn’t know how to handle—”

“The truth?” Ethan cut in. “It was a difficult time for me, in case they hadn’t noticed. They knew what had happened to Joanna Defoe and they refused to tell me.”

Black nodded, raising a placatory hand. “Please, I’m just the messenger here.”

“So what happened?” Ethan pressed.

Senator Black spoke quietly, holding Ethan’s pensive gaze.

“According to the Defense Intelligence Agency, Joanna Defoe traveled into Gaza before Operation Cast Lead, Israel’s retaliation for rocket attacks by Hamas. She was talking to high-level militants and filming them as they attempted to launch Qassam rocket attacks into Sderot. At some point MACE operatives decided to abduct or detain Miss Defoe against her will near Jabaliya.”

Black hesitated for a moment. Ethan waited, keeping his gaze fixed on the senator until he was compelled to continue.

“Jabaliya was hit by aerial attacks at several points during the conflict, each of which caused numerous casualties among the Hamas leadership. Israel believed that Joanna Defoe was inadvertently killed during one such attack, but it would seem likely that she may not have been there at all, held captive by MACE forces elsewhere.”

Pain pinched the corners of Ethan’s eyes and his top lip quivered.

“Why wasn’t I told?” he asked again.

“Most of the details were kept from the public because, essentially, the apparent passing of your fiancée was considered a direct result of Israeli military action. However, that action was against legitimate targets.”

“And Joanna likely wasn’t even there.”

Senator Black nodded.

“Pastor Kelvin Patterson was behind the entire operation, having gained a controlling share of MACE in order to provide security and mobility, as well as plausible deniability in the form of advanced cryogenic battlefield surgery for his experiments. This was nobody’s fault except his, and at least now you have the truth.”

“All lies lead to the truth,” Ethan said. “Do they know what happened to Joanna afterward?”

“I’m afraid the trail runs cold at that point,” the senator said. “If Byron Stone or Spencer Malik knew anything about it, they took their secret to the grave.”

Black looked down at a legal file in his lap.

“It has been decided that in recognition of your efforts both to liberate Lucy Morgan and, not least, to prevent Kelvin Patterson from killing me, the administration should compensate you for your loss. They understand that you have suffered a great deal, and that any court hearing would find in your favor. I do not think that the terms of your compensation will be disappointing.”

“They would be disappointing to Joanna.”

“I know,” Black said, the line of his jaw hardening. “But I think that you’re by now aware of the delicacy of what’s come to pass and of the need for security. All other parties have been compensated to their satisfaction, including Lucas Tyrell’s family. I owe you my life, Mr. Warner, and if it’s of any consolation, I’m willing to offer my support to you in any way from this day on. I never forget a debt.”

Ethan stood up, and finally managed a faint smile.

“I may call you up on that one day, especially if you make it into the White House.”

Senator Isaiah Black grinned as they shook hands.

“I hope that you do.”