Room 1515 Read online

  Room 1515

  By Bill Wetterman

  Room 1515 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s fantasy life. Any resemblance to actual occurrences or people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Bill Wetterman

  All rights reserved

  Second Edition

  Other Novels by Bill Wetterman:

  The Fifth Step 9-2012

  Global Conquest 2-2013

  This novel is dedicated to my

  loving wife, Pam, who puts up

  with my writer’s temperament.

  Prologue

  Donna O’Connor’s shoulder hit the ground, and the jolt jarred her back to consciousness. The smell of burning rubber filled the air, and she rolled up on her elbow. Someone must have pulled her out of her parents’ car. Her eyes followed the sound of her rescuer’s footsteps back down the Virginia mountain slope toward the bend of the highway. Heavy smoke rose up like a curtain, blocking the view of the road below.

  “My God,” she screamed. “My family’s still trapped down there.”

  Then she heard the screeching of airbrakes and the sound of a crushing impact. A storm of fire blasted into the air. Molten dust and debris billowed toward her. She sucked in a deep breath and collapsed flush against the rocky ground, pressing herself flat. Shards of debris fell like hail around her. The ground shook from the impact of heavy objects hitting the ground.

  An eerie silence followed.

  She managed the courage to open her eyes. Rubble lay strewn over the hillside. A vehicle’s headlight had embedded itself within a few feet of her head. She wasn’t dead or floating out of her body. She didn’t see the lights of heaven. Daring to push up with her hands, she inched onto her knees and stared down at the road.

  Black towers of fire and smoke billowed into the sky. Nothing moved. No one could have survived the blast that mangled and incinerated the vehicles. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she made no attempt to wipe them away.

  There wasn’t one visible scratch on her. Where was the God she’d prayed to all her life? Her dad said God worked everything for the good of those who loved Him. But everyone she cared for was gone. She heard an angry wail and realized the sound came from her, a shriek that couldn’t numb her pain.

  Chapter 1

  Day 1

  “Please sit down, Applicant Twelve.”

  The man speaking to her seemed pleasant enough. But the day hadn’t gone as expected. She didn’t anticipate standing where she was. The scent of lemon polish tickled her nose. He motioned to a comfortable looking leather armchair, one of two that sat in front of his mahogany desk. He pointed again and smiled. So she sat.

  “You can ask me any three questions you wish,” he said in a mellow tone. “After that, I’ll do the talking.” He seemed relaxed. The creases in his face complimented a soft smile much like her father’s had been when he was trying to be reassuring.

  “One minute I’m sitting in an auditorium filled with CIA applicants. My number is called, and I’m whisked halfway across New York to your office. Why am I here?”

  “Would it interest you to know that only one in every twenty thousand candidates meets me?”

  He’d sparked her interest. She nodded ladylike. “I always knew I was special.”

  “Your test scores say you’re unique. Your intelligence is Mensa level. But it’s your personality profile that earns you an audience with me. You’ve been tapped for possible inclusion into a select unit.”

  “Do you lead that unit?”

  He grinned. “That’s your second question. I’m in charge of one segment of it.”

  Her gut told her he was honest. Having rarely experienced fear, she tended to go places normal people don’t. So sitting here didn’t faze her. He’d stimulated her curiosity. “I thought I was applying for an administrative position in hospitality with the CIA. Do you even work for the CIA?”

  He sat up straight and folded his thick, paw-like hands in front of him. She guessed him to be well over six foot tall and close to two-hundred twenty pounds. Maybe he’d reached fifty years old, but she couldn’t tell for sure.

  “No,” he said. “In a sense, the CIA works for the same organization I work for.”

  “What is your organization called?”

  “Sorry. You’ve had your three questions. Now it’s my turn. Please answer honestly.”

  “Sure.”

  “Your parents and your brother were killed in a car accident eight years ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did their deaths affect you?”

  “I’m sorry. How do you know that? The accident part isn’t on my paperwork.”

  He smiled. “Within an hour, I’ll know your entire life story, including your bra size. Please answer my question.”

  “Everything inside me numbed. I lived. That they died and I didn’t doesn’t seem fair.”

  “I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

  People were always sorry for her loss. What people said didn’t matter to her anymore. She didn’t care what others felt. She didn’t feel anything toward people at all. She loved bunnies and squirrels, and little fuzzy kittens. But she kept people at a safe distance emotionally.

  “You’ve never had a boyfriend?”

  “I’ve dated, but no to the boyfriend part.”

  “Your closest living relative is your mother’s first husband, a Sheldon Cross, living in Frankfort, Germany?”

  “Yes, if he’s still alive. We weren’t close.”

  He stared at her with a slight smirk on his face. So she stared back at him wondering who would blink first.

  “Your psychological evaluation is astonishing.”

  “I could have told you that without an evaluation.” She studied his eyes. He seemed genuinely concerned for her. So she decided to trust him, smirk and all.

  “I don’t know what you’re looking for,” she said. “But I do know a good job match is based upon talent and compatible personalities. I’ve lost whatever ability I have to feel emotional attachments. Years have passed since I had those connections. I can tell if someone else loves, hates, cares, or doesn’t. Except for an occasional twinge, I haven’t experienced love, hate, or caring in the past eight years.”

  “But you’re not a sociopath.”

  “No, I have a high standard of rational values.”

  “Why never a boyfriend?”

  “A boyfriend requires a relationship. I’m not capable. I get off on physical stimulation. I enjoy sex. But I don’t understand love, compassion, or anything a man needs outside of the physical.”

  “If I told you to act compassionate, could you?”

  “Act compassionate? Yes, but I wouldn’t feel it emotionally, only intellectually.”

  He nodded and looked as though he was going to speak. But he didn’t.

  Had she revealed too much? She wanted adventure and purpose. She didn’t want to lose this opportunity, so she spoke up. “My inability to connect with people makes me vulnerable. I need leaders around me to guide my decisions. I don’t trust myself to make them alone. But I’m very capable of executing a plan once I understand it.”

  “One of those leaders would be me, if I select you. Three more questions.”

  “Okay.”

  “What motivates you?”

  “Succeeding and being praised,” she said. “I need responsibilities within my capabilities.” She smiled and leaned toward him again making eye contact. “I want to be rewarded for my achievements.”

  “You used to be a gymnast?”

  “Yes, until my breasts got too big, then I took up martial arts.”

  He chuckled. “I suppose breast size would be a problem in gymnastics. Descr
ibe your ideal job, please.”

  “What I do doesn’t matter. I want to serve my country. That’s why I applied to the CIA.”

  “You said you have a high standard of rational values. What do you mean?”

  The question seemed absurd. It meant what it meant. “I have no sense of good or evil. I do have a sense for positive outcomes. If something accomplishes a rational goal, it’s right. If not, it’s wrong.”

  “You may call me, Ursa.”

  A strange name, but a form of acceptance came with the gesture. “Ursa, it is.”

  Ursa leaned forward and spread his hands apart. “If a man threatened the United States, and over time I put you in a position to get very close to him, even to the point of having a sexual relationship with him. . .” He paused and appeared to study her face. She didn’t blink. “After finding out what had to be done to squelch the threat, I ordered you to kill him. Could you?”

  “Yes.” She surprised herself at how easily she said the words.

  Ursa stood and pushed a button on the wall behind him. A large muscular man entered the room. Ursa came around the desk. “Please stand up, Applicant Twelve. Welcome to the Hercules Project.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” she said and shook his hand.

  “You won’t see me again for a year. When you do, you’ll be fully trained physically, fully educated in our methodology, and technically equipped for battle against anything our country’s enemies can throw against us.”

  “I’ll do my very best.”

  Ursa turned to the muscular man and asked, “When were you born, Magnus?”

  “1,670 days ago, Director Ursa.”

  Applicant Twelve struggled to understand.

  “Today,” Ursa said and pointed at her, “you are one day old.”

  Chapter 2

  Day 366

  Ursa adjusted his seatback for his descent into Washington National. He held four files in his hands reading and rereading them, then marking notations on his notepad. When he came to Applicant Twelve’s file, his pulse quickened. She’d been his number one selection a year earlier. This was the first chance he had to see if he’d been right.

  “Please fasten your seatbelt, Director,” the flight attendant said, “Hercules 2 will land in ten minutes.”

  Ursa put up his tray table. He stuffed everything away, except Applicant Twelve’s file. As the sound of the flaps coming down screeched in his ears, he focused first on her photo and physical augmentation report. She required the few adjustments given to just four special candidates thus far in Hercules’ existence.

  Government scientists surgically changed Applicant Twelve’s irises from brown to blue. They embedded an experimental communications implant behind her left earlobe. Once those procedures healed, she received semi-permanent full body skin smoothing and revitalizing treatments, giving her skin texture a creamy moist look. This procedure would be repeated in seven years, if she was still alive. Nothing else about her needed work.

  Satisfied with these results, Ursa moved on to the physical and martial arts report.

  “Wonderful,” he said aloud, “just as I thought.”

  In one year’s time this hotel management major had bested her class in ultimate hand-to-hand combat and mixed martial arts, even Magnus had difficulty handling her.

  The jet hit an air pocket. Ursa grabbed the arms of his seat with both hands, catching her file between his knees before it hit the floor. He glanced around but everyone else appeared not to notice his edginess.

  A note at the bottom of her psychological evaluation struck him as significant.

  This candidate mimics emotions. She reacts to how other people respond and copies those responses with accuracy. However, her brain scans show she’s simply acting.

  How long will she be of value to him? Ursa hoped he could keep her alive and well until her fifteen-thousandth day arrived. Impossible? No. Improbable? Yes. If she made it to day 1,872, she’d be above average.

  #

  Applicant Twelve’s mind devoured the edition of USA Today she’d found in the waiting room outside Ursa’s office. She hadn’t seen or heard anything about world events while inside her training facility. She finished the paper in ten minutes and looked for something else to read. Her intelligence quotient had been measured five different ways and averaged at 152. She could retain more than ninety percent of what she read in her general recall memory.

  “Applicant Twelve?” a female voice asked. “The director has been delayed. He should arrive shortly. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  Her response took a millisecond to form. She smiled, “Sure, why not.”

  She studied the woman for a moment. Young, maybe her own age, twenty-four or five, slim, and well educated.

  “Nice outfit, who designed it?” she asked.

  The woman blushed. “The dress is the latest from France. Would you like cream or sugar?”

  “Neither, I’m watching my weight.”

  She wondered why the woman blushed, and whether it would be courteous to mention it to her. She didn’t.

  A half hour later, with every magazine read and looked over twice, Applicant Twelve heard the door open and glanced up to see Ursa step out of his office. “Good to see you again.” He extended his hand. She rose and accepted the handshake. “Nice to see you, Director.”

  Ursa ushered her inside and shut the door. His office in Washington looked exactly like his office in New York had looked, right down to the paint colors, molding, and pictures on the walls. The only exception was a photograph of a young woman. She assumed by her brown curly hair and eyes the woman was his daughter.

  “This is a standard office for my level,” Ursa volunteered without her asking. “Now let’s get down to business. Is your implant operating correctly?”

  “Yes sir. I can hear and respond.” Would Ursa be with her through her assignments? Without guidance, her tendency would be to fight and survive. “Sir, will you be my boss, and for how long?”

  “Ultimately, until one of us dies, yes. But I head a team, and most of your daily contact will be with them.”

  “Oh.” Not having instant access to Ursa, pricked at her ego.

  “You know my name as Ursa. It’s really Ursa Minor. I report to Ursa Major.”

  She frowned. “Those names sound a little like university professors playing an Avatar game.”

  “I enjoyed your frown,” he said. “But this is not a game. Your contacts are Polaris—”

  A voice in her head interrupted Ursa, “Hello, Applicant Twelve.”

  “Hello,” she said. “Your voice is high quality.”

  “Another word choice,” Polaris answered.

  “Soothing.”

  “Good.”

  Ursa cleared his throat. “Polaris works days. Vega and Rigel work second and third shifts. They are assigned to you exclusively.”

  Magnus entered from the other door as he had on her first day. Looking every bit the taskmaster, he handed her a black briefcase. “Open it.”

  She did as instructed. Inside she found a .38 caliber Smith & Weston revolver, a small spring-loaded switchblade, ammunition, cleaning instruments and oils, and an identification packet with a social security card, passport, driver’s license, and four credit cards issued to a Laverna Smythe.

  “Laverna is your first assignment name for as long as your first assignment lasts.”

  “Haven’t I earned a code name yet?”

  Ursa chuckled, and Applicant Twelve mimicked him and intentionally added a smirk.

  “Forget your birth name,” Ursa said. “Forget your assignment names after you finish them. The only permanent name you have now is your new Herculean name. We never refer to a Herculean name as a code name.”

  “What is my name?”

  “Peacock.”

  Pride warmed her. The name felt comfortable. She belonged. A quick analysis said she’d joined something worthwhile.

  “Peacock,” she mused. “I like it. At first, I though
t the word came from the bird, but of course, the name is for the Star, Peacock. I’m a bit disappointed. All my contacts, and you, have names from the Northern Hemisphere and are among the top ten brightest, but I’m a Southern Hemisphere star.”

  “Yes, a blue giant. Don’t you see? Your contacts are guiding stars. They’ll signal you from afar. You’ll operate at a distance. Now pick up your gun.”

  Peacock didn’t understand. But she rubbed the revolver with her fingers. She lifted the handle out of its hollow in the case with her right hand and grasped it correctly with her left.

  “Shoot Magnus,” Ursa said.

  The shot rang out in less than a second. The bullet struck Magnus in the middle of his hair-covered left temple and red globs splattered the wall and the door behind him. But he didn’t fall. The shocked expression on his face slowly faded into a grizzly looking sneer.

  “You tricked me,” she snapped and wagged her finger at Ursa. “It’s paint.”

  “You passed your final exam.”

  The door behind Magnus opened and several staffers entered carrying a cake.

  “Welcome to Hercules, Peacock,” Ursa said. “Let’s all sing “Happy Birthday.”

  Chapter 3

  Day 404

  Peacock opened her eyes to view a room brightened by the first rays of light filtering into her 17th floor suite. The new Emerald of the Americas Hotel had been her home for the past thirty-three days. From her balcony, she had a clear view of the Blair House, the White House, and Lafayette Park. She strolled to the window and pulled back the sheers. “Good morning, President Charles W. Monroe, I’m at your service.”

  “This morning you’re at my service, Peacock.”

  Polaris, or one of his partners, was always around it seemed.

  “Give me an update while I shower. You know it takes a girl in my business a long time to get ready.”

  “Ursa received information while you were sleeping. You may become involved at some point. Have you ever heard of Stromiehre International?”