The Nephilim Protocol

Blast from the Past

The clear glass elevator slides into the top of the Tower. I actually count two floors of offices that flash past us before it slows to a stop and the doors chime open. Sergeant Grim Goatee gestures—I guess I should be glad he doesn't actually push me—and we step out.

I'm expecting some sort of otherworldly environment of harsh whites and steels, or wood paneling or something, but actually it's just glass panels everywhere, with people sitting at plastic pre-fab desks. The computer hardware looks pretty nice, and it seems everyone at this level has their own office, but there's not a lot of fancy stuff. It's very minimalist and not even fancy minimalist. Almost disappointingly mundane. I guess they spend all their money on those fancy guns.

Wolfe walks straight towards the frosted glass room at the back. The big guy in the blue pinstripe suit is sitting at a desk just in front of the double doors, tapping on a laptop. I wonder how his big hands even fit on the keys. He nods as we approach.

"We'll be using the teleconference room," Wolfe says, not even breaking stride as she pushes through the double doors.

I follow, a bit confused. "I'm sorry ... teleconference?"

Wolfe's jaw is twitching all over the place. "Special Agent Cross of the FBI's Mass Shootings unit, who's been working with the Pittsburgh police regarding the incident at your school somehow ..."—this last word comes out with particular venom—"received a tip that our department might be able to put him in touch with Gareth Dickson, reportedly a material witness in the shooting, without whose vital testimony alleged shooter J'son Baker is likely to go free." She lets out a huff. "Politiciking bastard," she mutters. "UN top secret facility, but some senator makes promises about 'justice for the lost' and suddenly, never mind security protocols!"

"J'son?" I ask, following Wolfe into a muted room just off the glass-and-metal executive office. "Testimony? What about?"

"I imagine they'll tell you. Just answer their questions as honestly as you can, without giving them any information about your time here." She glares at me. "If I so much as suspect you of hinting about this place or its location, I will cut off the feed."

"Why? Could they do something?"

"Of course not." She gestures me to a chair at the end of a long table. "The video is going to be on that screen," she says, pointing. "I'll be at the control console on the left. You have half an hour—no more. Understand?"

"I ..."

But she's gone. The screen at the front of the room is coming to life, showing a heavy-faced middle-aged man in a suit with a nametag I can't read.

"About time," he says. He peers at me. "Hm. Well, you match the description all right. Suppose I'll have to work with that. UN will count as a registered entity. Now before we begin, you must know that this call is being recorded and may be entered as evidence in court proceedings. Any false evidence will be regarded as a felony offense, punishable by up to five years in prison. Understand?"

I feel inclined to laugh—five years in prison sounds like a good break—but the way Wolfe is looking at me clearly shows that would be the wrong choice. "I understand," I say.

"Very well." The heavyset man nods. "This is Special Agent Cross, beginning video interrogation 4.39. Please state your name for the record."

I guess they want the legal name. "Chad Gareth Dickson."

"Noted. Beginning interview." He makes a small note on the packet in front of him. "Were you a former student at Andrea Dworkim Academy?"

"Yes."