25

            The online background report ran close to twenty-five pages.  It confirmed what Cutty had already learned about Thorne—address, date of birth, vehicles registered to him, marital status, home phone number—but it also gave him much, much more.

            Thorne’s Social Security number.  His mailing addresses for the past twenty years.  The duration of his military service, pay grades he’d achieved, and where he had been stationed throughout his enlistment.  The income he had reported to the IRS over the past seven years and the taxes he had paid.  The purchase price of his home, and an assessment of its current value.  His credit report and cumulative score from the three reporting bureaus.  His estimated net worth. 

            Also included were details from his marriage certificate three years ago, which contained the name and birth date of his comely bride, the former Lisa Boyd, and their parents’ names, too.  The firearms license for which he had been approved, not the least of which were a concealed weapons permit and details of the prodigious number of weapons he had registered.

            “This guy is planning to wage war, Valdez,” Cutty said.  He put his thick finger on the MDT display.  “He’s got fifteen—yes, fifteen—firearms on file.  Is he not intending to be a soldier in Satan’s army?”

“Si,” Valdez said.  She drove aimlessly around the dark city, as he had yet to give her a destination.

            “I wonder where he stores all of this weaponry.  I should have searched the rest of the house.”

            Her eyebrows arched.  “Go back?”  

            “No.  It’s irrelevant.  Remember the word—no weapon formed against you shall prosper.  With God on our side, it doesn’t matter if Thorne has a thousand guns in his arsenal.”

            The report listed every account Thorne held: banking, investments, credit cards, utilities, Internet access, cellular phone providers, insurance.  It included account numbers for each respective entry, and passwords, too, when applicable.    

            Cutty could have taken the information, and, for all practical purposes, become Thorne.  In an information-based society, every person could be reduced to a digital dossier, with data

vulnerable to tampering by those who possessed the requisite keys.

            Underneath the account list, there was a menu of commands that allowed the user to monitor or freeze a target’s financial assets. 

            He selected the MONITOR option. 

            From that moment forward, if Thorne withdrew money from an ATM, or made a purchase with his debit or credit cards, Genesis would record the time, location, and amount of the transaction.  It had proven a successful method to trap a mark about ninety-eight percent of the time, and worked because targets had no clue their spending patterns were being observed. 

            But always, someone was watching, someone was recording.

            If Thorne somehow managed to slip their virtual net, however, Cutty would execute a freeze.  An account freeze was a riskier tactic, because the mark would quickly realize something was amiss and go on alert.  But without funds, no one could run for long.

            The last section of the report offered information on Thorne’s known associates, a basic table containing names and addresses of about a dozen family, friends, and business colleagues.  In the event that other, more precise tracking methods failed, Cutty could turn to the associates index, and start digging. 

            His cell phone vibrated.  The incoming number belonged to division headquarters.  Probably the dispatcher calling.

            “Cutty speaking.”    

            A gravelly voice rumbled: “This is the Director.”

            Cutty straightened so fast in the seat that the keyboard flipped out of his lap.  

            Valdez glanced away from the road.  “Is okay?”

            Cutty covered the handset.  “It’s the Director.”

            Her lips formed a startled “o,” and she dropped her speed, as if concerned the Director would remotely take note of her speedy driving and rebuke her—which wasn’t all that far-fetched, as all fleet vehicles were linked to a central computer.          

            Cutty cleared his throat.  “Uh, how are you, sir?”

            “If I’m calling you at this hour, obviously I am not well,” the Director said.  “You lost your primary target.”

            He should have known they would find out about the Judas.  They knew everything.  The Director, in particular, had a reputation as a man who rarely slept, who constantly scanned Genesis in search of updates on the dozens of division missions in progress throughout the world at any given time.  A whippet of a man in his late-sixties, with close-cropped steel-gray hair, hawk-like eyes, and a pointed chin, he’d once been a legendary Army master sniper, and had in fact recruited Cutty into the organization, trained him, and drawn him up through the ranks.

            Their teacher-student relationship hadn’t afforded Cutty any special privileges.  The Director actually seemed to drive him harder than he did the other servants, was quick with a lacerating rebuke, and downright parsimonious with his praise.

            He often reminded Cutty of Father.

            “I did indeed lose the target, sir, and I apologize for not yet sharing that information with my dispatcher,” Cutty said.  “I’ve been engaged with a secondary target that I have reason to believe is significant.”

            “The primary target is off the grid.  We’ve lost it, due in part to your botched efforts at containment.”

            Cutty pulled in a tight breath, silently suffered the tongue-lashing.

            “But that target is no longer relevant,” the Director said.  “You are correct.  Your secondary target is indeed more significant.”

            Cutty released a pent-up breath.  “Praise God.”

            “Mr. Anthony Thorne poses an urgent threat,” the Director said.  A target’s name was rarely invoked, certainly not during phone calls, though they communicated over encrypted lines.  The Director’s break with protocol suggested the gravity of the situation.

            “I’ve been studying a background report on Thorne,” Cutty said.  “He’s a Marine.”

            “I know that,” the Director said.  “That’s not why he’s a threat.”

            “It isn’t?”

            “The Prophet himself summoned me to speak of Thorne.  He awakened from a most disturbing dream of the man, this very night.  What do you say of that?”

            Cutty couldn’t say anything.  The Prophet had dreamt of Thorne?  In Cutty’s eight years of service in the division, the Blessed One had never expressed a personal interest in one of his missions.

            “Your silence speaks volumes,” the Director said. 

            Cutty swallowed.  “What message did the Prophet receive in his dream?”        

            “That’s not for you to know.  Suffice to say, it was most troubling.”

            Although the Director declined to supply more information, Cutty’s vivid imagination offered only one possible answer: assassination.   The Judas was more than a mere betrayer, and Thorne was much more than an intriguing accomplice.  The two men, and whatever other co-conspirators they had engaged, were scheming to murder The Prophet.

            It was such an unthinkable idea that he dared not speak it aloud. 

            “Eliminate Thorne, his wife, and anyone who stands in your path,” the Director said.  “This must be done most expeditiously.  The Prophet is eagerly awaiting a report of the successful completion of your mission.”

            Cutty was trembling.  To be charged with a mission in which the Prophet had a deeply-vested interest . . . this was the opportunity of a career.    

            “It will be done,” Cutty said.  

            “The one who performs this divine service will be blessed beyond measure,” the Director said.  “Those were The Prophet’s words.  Consider the blessings in store for you, the desires of your heart, and they will be granted.”

            Cutty looked at Valdez, and his pulse quickened.  The desires of his heart, indeed. 

            “I’ll expect your report of completion by oh-nine hundred hours—today,” the Director said, and terminated the connection.

            “What did Director say?” Valdez asked.

            “The Prophet—yes, the Prophet himself—is demanding that we eliminate Thorne and his wife,” Cutty said.  He read his watch.  “And we’ve got less than eight hours to do it.”