Anthony frowned. “They were fields. Containing... things. What exactly do you need clarification on?”
Again with the look like Anthony had said something completely ridiculous. “Well... can you describe them?”
“Blue. Electrical-ish,” said Anthony shortly. He turned back to Bea. “I have reason to believe that Cicero is about to make a—”
Movement out of the corner of Anthony’s eye made Anthony stop speaking immediately; realizing it was just the analyst, leaning forward as if closer proximity would get the information into his brain that much faster.
Anthony sealed his lips, gave the analyst his stoniest stare, before looking pointedly at Bea. “Is there a reason he’s here?”
“It’s all right,” said Bea. “Elliot has been read into the Cicero file. Please continue.”
“Or, you know, cycle back and be a little more descriptive than blue,” said Elliot.
Anthony’s nostrils flared. “Bright blue,” he snapped. If it was possible to shame the analyst—Elliot—into shutting up, surely a glare full of danger and the possibility of untold bodily harm would do it. (Anthony had lost track of how many rogue agents fell prey to such looks.)
Elliot, however, just spluttered. “Bright—”
Anthony ignored him. “Something bothered me about the lab. I didn’t put it in the report—”
“Of course you didn’t,” muttered Elliot.
Do not engage, do not engage, do not engage... “—because I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. But I’ve been mulling it over, and I think it’s worth following. As you know, Cicero has deployed drones across the world. Enrique and I were attempting to determine the ultimate goal and destination of those drones—and on his last mission, Enrique discovered this.”
Anthony flicked the tissue-thin schematics out of the breast pocket of his coat and graciously handed it to Bea. She unfolded them carefully before laying the paper out on the table where they could all examine them.
“A rocket,” said Bea thoughtfully. “And you believe this is the lynchpin in Cicero’s plans?”
“Yes. The rocket is powerful enough to achieve a substantial altitude,” began Anthony, pointing to the various features on the schematics. “It might even be space-worthy, but it’s difficult to say—”
Elliot, however, had fallen to his knees and was studying the schematics intently. “Are you kidding me?” he said, excitement creeping into his voice. “Bea, this is the missing piece! Look.” He tapped the round bump near the top of the rocket’s tip. “This is it, right here!”
“Yes, I think you’re right,” said Bea slowly, examining the spot where Elliot had pointed.
Anthony frowned. “What are you talking about? That’s just the cover to the control panel.”
“Cover to the—” spluttered Elliot. “Are you serious? That’s O’Leary’s drone.”
“Drone?”
Elliot reached back for his file folders, and began flipping through them rapidly, before pulling out several photographs. They were extremely pixelated, as if they’d been enlarged several times over, but the drone was clear enough. It was shaped like a jellyfish, with a rounded head and tentacles.
“Agents Richards and Melton took these four months ago in Wales at one of O’Leary’s testing sites,” said Elliot. “Top speeds of fifty miles an hour, not that they can get that far. Their internal motors explode before they reach a mile. They don’t make sense as weather drones. But if they’re meant to attach to one of Cicero’s rockets...”
Anthony saw the sense of it—but it still rankled. “And you think this is the rocket?”
“Has to be. See, the code marked on the top of the drones? T9-76.” Elliot tapped the schematics—and sure enough, the cover to what Anthony had assumed was the control panel was labeled T9-76. “It’s a match. That’s the drone. And you found the rocket that launches them.”
“What do the drones do?” asked Anthony, frowning.
“O’Leary claims they’re weather machines. But we don’t think so. We believe they’re an EMP—electromagnetic pulse,” Elliot defined for him, which rankled even more than Elliot being right about the drone. As if Anthony didn’t know what an EMP did. “One powerful enough to knock out the power for a city twice the size of New York.”
“I know what an EMP is,” said Anthony coolly.
“Oh really? Because you sure didn’t know to include this in your report two days ago,” snapped Elliot, tapping the schematics. “We believe these EMPs are designed to take out the satellites that control social media: Facebook, Twitter, TikTok. Tumblr.”
“People still use Tumblr?” said Anthony.
“Of course people still use —THAT’S NOT THE POINT. The point is, if O’Leary and Cicero can take out social media, then they’re the ones who control it. Forget what that means for anyone who uses social media as a source of news –O’Leary and Cicero will have proven their method works. And their next plan for it may not be as benign.”
“Would YouTube be next?” said Anthony with mock innocence.
“Try the world’s nuclear weapons facilities,” snapped Elliot.
“Oh dear, that did escalate quickly,” mused Anthony.
“Enough,” said Bea. She sounded a little more testy than usual—no doubt, thought Anthony, she was just as annoyed as Anthony by Elliot’s pressuring her favorite agent. Who was Anthony. Naturally. “Anthony, where is the rocket now?”
“Bulgaria. I believe he’s planning the first launch in two days.”
“Two days!?!?” yelled Elliot. “Oh my God, you’ve been sitting on this information for almost a week, we could have been doing something about it already—”
“Hardly,” said Anthony, his voice tight. “I’ve been busy.”
“And you’re the only one who can go after Cicero?” said Elliot, incredulous.
“Well,” said Anthony flatly. “Yes.”
Elliot’s mouth dropped open as he stared at Anthony. Anthony wasn’t sure why. No other agent had ever been successful against Cicero. Surveillance, undercover operatives working as janitors, interrupting supply lines—that was child’s play. Anyone could do it.
But meeting the notorious supervillain face to face? That was Anthony’s role alone.
“You are unbelievable,” said Elliot.
“Quite,” said Anthony, determined to take it as a compliment, even if Elliot didn’t mean it as one.
“Boys, boys,” said Bea as she briskly folded up the schematics again. “Elliot, didn’t you say that O’Leary is in Bulgaria this weekend as well?”
Elliot grimaced. “You think he’s planning to be there at the launch?”
“Perhaps,” said Bea, cool as a cucumber.
“Who?” asked Anthony blankly.
“Who—come on!” yelled Elliot. “Do you even read the reports we send to you?”
“No,” said Anthony. “Why?”
“Because Archibald O’Leary has been bankrolling Cicero for the last twenty years!” howled Elliot.