The Ghost

Chapter 1

SANTA MONICA FARMER’S MARKET

Two bucks. Best price on heirloom tomatoes in the whole United States, the man in the blue overalls announced. Sydney Bristow smiled at him and switched her large, canvas shopping bag from her left shoulder to her right.

Sorry. I already picked up tomatoes around the corner, she said. And they were cheaper, Sydney thought, looking over the man’s display of vegetables.

It was an exceptionally beautiful morning in Los Angeles, and Sydney was making the most of it. I love the farmer’s market, she thought as she walked down the street, perusing the produce and flower stalls. It’s a nice change of pace, she thought, eyeing some particularly fine-looking asparagus. No one shooting at me, no bombs to disarm…I’d much rather decide between red and yellow bell peppers than between cutting the red or yellow wire on a ten-megaton nuke—like I had to yesterday.

On a whim, Sydney opted to buy the red and yellow peppers. As she handed her money to the older Chinese woman at the stall, the hairs on the back of Syd’s neck tingled. Something’s not right, she thought. Knowing better than to dismiss a warning signal, no matter how small, Sydney quickly took stock of the situation. Smiling, being careful not to seem alarmed, she scanned the market. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary…until she caught the quick flash of sunlight off a camera lens. Sydney adjusted her position so that she could see the photographer reflected in the rear view mirror of the seller’s van. There he was: a middle-aged man with an expensive digital camera, lurking behind a display of organic honey and definitely taking pictures of Syd. He didn’t look threatening, but Sydney had learned to never gauge an opponent based solely on appearance.

I think you have an admirer, the Chinese woman said, handing Sydney her change.

Sydney laughed. Okay, Syd thought. Even the bell pepper lady spotted this guy. This is not professional surveillance. Thanking the woman, Sydney moved down the street, one eye on the man with the camera.

As Sydney came to the intersection of Second and Arizona, the center of the market, she caught a glimpse of the man reflected in a mylar balloon tied to the bumper of a pickup truck full of strawberries. He was closer than before. She could even hear the sound of the camera’s shutter. Getting a little cocky, aren’t you, Syd thought. Time to find out who you are.

Sydney turned down Arizona, noting with satisfaction that the increasingly bold photographer followed after her. Hoping to maneuver him toward the far end of the market, she lingered over a display of cheap, designer-knockoff sunglasses. Once she saw the man pass by her in the mirrored lens of a pair of Pradoo glasses, Sydney turned and walked rapidly toward him. Spooked, the photographer spun around and started making his way toward the far end of the street. Perfect…exactly what I wanted you to do.

Syd was closing the gap, drawing within a few feet of the fast-walking stranger, when her shopping bag was grabbed from her hand. Damn, she thought, why now? The thief, a clean-cut kid in his early twenties, was racing away from her…back toward the center of the market. If it were only a question of stolen produce, she might let it go, but her keys and her cell phone were in that bag as well. With a regretful last glance at the vanishing photographer, Sydney turned and took off after the purse snatcher.

The market was crowded, but the thief was making good time. Sydney ran as fast as she could, trying hard not to plow anyone over. Stop him! Sydney shouted, hoping that someone would at least try to slow the guy down. He’s got my bag!

The crowd was thinning as Sydney neared the end of the market, but the thief was almost completely in the clear. As soon as he rounds that corner, he’s going to be a lot harder to catch. With a final burst of speed, Sydney cut left and cleanly vaulted a table of beautiful watermelon slices. Two strides later she caught up to the thief and swept his legs from under him with a well-placed kick.

He went down hard, dropping Sydney’s bag in an attempt to shield his face from the onrushing asphalt. As he lay there, gasping for breath, Syd spun around and, kneeling on the man’s back, twisted one of his arms behind his back.

A smattering of applause and laughter drew Sydney’s attention: quite a little crowd had gathered. Great, she thought. Undercover agents are not exactly encouraged to make scenes in public. Afraid that any moment now a policeman would show up, Sydney turned her attention back to the thief. This could be your lucky day. I don’t feel like filling out a police report, she said. Syd got off of the man’s back, allowing him to get to his feet. As he wiped the gravel off of his skinned knees and elbows, Sydney got her first good look at the guy. This isn’t a purse snatcher, she thought. This is a frat boy.

The guy looked at her sheepishly, then spoke. Look, I’m sorry. Some guy said he’d pay me five hundred bucks if I could grab your purse and make it to the far end of the street. I thought it was just some reality TV thing.

Five hundred…what guy? Point him out to me, Sydney demanded.

The would-be thief looked around at the crowd. Many of the onlookers were openly laughing at him. He shook his head. I don’t see him. He was just some weird old dude. Had on a fancy suit with a white rose in the…ummm…

Lapel? Syd offered.

Yeah. The lapel. But he ain’t here now.

Sydney was confused but decided to extricate herself from the situation altogether. She’d already drawn too much attention. Okay, get out of here. And don’t go grabbing anyone else’s bag…no matter how much someone offers you.

The frat guy smiled gratefully. I’m sorry, he said. Syd just nodded and waved him off. He turned to leave, stopped, and turned back. Hey, do you have a boyfriend? he called to Sydney.

Sydney did her best to suppress a laugh. You have got to be kidding me. The guy just shrugged a can’t blame a guy for trying shrug and walked away.

As she picked up her bag from the ground, Sydney heard the familiar click of a camera shutter. Looking up, she saw the photographer standing at the edge of the crowd…snapping off one shot after another. Sydney was fed up with the course that her morning was taking. What happened to my day off? She rushed the shutterbug. Before he could react, she had grabbed the man’s camera and, with impressive speed, put him in a chokehold by twisting the strap around his neck, while simultaneously thumbing open the camera’s side door and ejecting the memory card.

Why are you taking pictures of me? Talk, Sydney said, giving the camera strap a sharp tug for emphasis.

Please, Miss Bristow. You’re hurting me.

How does this guy know my name? Sydney wondered.

The crowd was gathering again, some of them starting to wonder out loud if Sydney was some kind of lunatic, and the photographer looked genuinely terrified. I’m sorry, Ms. Bristow. He said he was your colleague. He told me it was just a practical joke he was playing on you.

Sydney released the pressure on the camera strap. Who did? Where is he? She asked.

The man glanced around the crowd, then back to Sydney. He’s not here. The man in the suit. He gave me five hundred dollars to follow you and take your picture. Please don’t hurt me.

This has gone far enough.

Loudly, for the benefit of the crowd, she feigned a fit of embarrassed laughter. Oh my God. This must be one of Steve’s jokes. I didn’t hurt you, did I? Sydney helped the man untangle himself from his camera strap, apologizing profusely the entire time. Time to beat a hasty retreat.

Sydney walked away from the market as fast as she could go without drawing any more attention to herself. Just as she was rounding the corner onto Ocean Avenue, her phone started to ring. Fishing it from the depths of her bag, Sydney noted that the call was from her partner, Marcus Dixon. Hey, Dixon, what’s up?

Don’t shoot the messenger, he replied. I hate to do it to you on your day off, Syd, but Sloane’s called a briefing for two o’clock. Looks like we have a new assignment. Great.

As she hung up the phone, Sydney felt someone tugging at the hem of her shirt. She spun around, ready to fight it out, only to find an eight-year-old girl holding a white rose. Sydney dropped her hands from their attack position as the little girl held out the flower.

The man gave me money and said to give you this. He said he would see you at the office, she said with a shy smile, and then walked away.

Chapter 2

LOS ANGELES

The train rattled along beneath the streets of downtown Los Angeles, carrying the late-morning crowd to their destinations. Alone on a bench at the back of the very last car, Sydney Bristow contemplated the white rose, now sealed in a ziptop bag. It gave every appearance of being a normal flower, but Sydney intended to have Marshall check it out just the same. Better safe than sorry.

The metallic screech of brakes drew Sydney’s attention as the train pulled to a stop. The doors hissed open and a handful of people moved to exit the car. Syd gathered her belongings, stuffing the rose back into her purse, and slipped off the train just before the doors slid shut again.

Sydney glanced around, making sure that she was unobserved, and then made her way toward the end of the platform. She passed a man in a transit authority uniform sweeping the already spotless floor. As she moved past him, he made eye contact and gave an almost imperceptible nod: all clear to enter.

She slipped around the edge of the platform, past a barricade, and entered a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Once inside, she flipped a series of breakers and switches, disengaging the massive locks on the blast-proof doors of APO headquarters.

The gleaming white hallways of APO were busier than usual. Junior agents dashed from office to office, gathering information from their senior counterparts and distributing it as needed. Sydney pulled the plastic bag containing the rose from her purse and turned down a back corridor, headed for Marshall’s workshop.

As Syd approached his door, APO’s resident tech wizard, Marshall J. Flinkman, burst out of his office carrying a steaming mug of coffee. Attempting to move as quickly as possible without spilling any of the scalding liquid on his own hand, Marshall pushed past Sydney without acknowledging her presence.

Marshall…, Sydney called after him, holding up the bag. Could you…?

Marshall glanced up from the mug, just long enough to see the rose in Sydney’s hand, and then let out an agonized wail as he disappeared around the corner: White roses. Why didn’t I think of that? Everyone knows he loves white roses.

What is going on around here? Sydney muttered as she followed Marshall’s trail of coffee splashes around the corner, which led straight across the floor of the bull pen and into the glassed-in briefing room that occupied the center of the cavernous space. Through the glass, Sydney could see her fellow agents gathered around the conference table. There was Michael Vaughn, her boyfriend—just the sight of him made Sydney smile—sitting next to his lifelong friend Eric Weiss. Marcus Dixon, her partner ever since her first days in intelligence, was also present. At the head of the table, standing with his back to the wall of high-tech video monitors, was Arvin Sloane, the head of APO and the most evil man that Sydney had ever had the displeasure of knowing. The focus of all their attention was sitting at the conference table—a dapper gentleman in an expensive-looking, blue and white seersucker suit.

As the stranger accepted the cup that Marshall reverentially offered to him, Sydney noticed the immaculate white rose in the lapel of his suit. She watched in amazement as the man took a sip of the coffee and then, apparently finding the brew to his liking, reached out and patted Marshall on the head like a puppy.

A familiar voice came from behind Sydney. If Marshall had a tail, he’d be wagging it. Sydney turned to find that her half sister, Nadia Santos, had joined her. Nadia was Sloane’s daughter—the product of an affair with Sydney’s mother—but, in spite of their twisted family history, Sydney had grown to love and trust her sister completely.

Nadia, who is that? Marshall looks like he’s going to faint. Sydney took note of the rapt attention that Sloane and her fellow agents were paying to the stranger. Actually, they all look like they’re going to faint.

I don’t know. They’ve been like this for the last two hours, ever since that man arrived. I wanted to go meet him, see what all the fuss was about, but I’m trying to finish up the report on the Madagascar mission. We’re delaying the start of the briefing until your father gets here.

Does our visitor have a name? Sydney inquired.

Nadia shrugged. Not as far as I know. Marshall said something about the ‘Ghost’ being here, but he was a little too excited to pass along anything as helpful as a name.

Sydney looked back toward the briefing room, her face taking on the same fascinated expression that Vaughn and the others shared. The Ghost? You’re kidding me. I always assumed that he was just a rumor. Like the boogeyman for young agents. No wonder Marshall’s excited. The Ghost is an obsession of his.

Now it was Nadia’s turn to be curious. Who is the Ghost? How come I’ve never heard of him?

Not that many people remember him, I guess. His heyday was some time in the seventies. Like I said, I wasn’t even sure that he ever really existed.

What do you know about him?

Sydney continued to stare at their visitor as she answered. "He’s a legend. If even half of what they say about him were true, he’d be the greatest psy-ops genius of all time. Supposedly he is so far underground and has changed aliases so many times that no one knows his true identity anymore. Some people say that even he doesn’t remember who he is."

Nadia laughed. That’s not genius. That’s delusional. And if that were the case, how do we know that the man in there—Nadia pointed to the briefing room—is really who he says he is.

Sydney shook her head, finally tearing her eyes away from the man in the suit and turning to face her sister. I don’t know. The only thing we know for certain is that if he got clearance to enter this facility, he must have some very highly placed connections. Sydney held up the plastic bag for Nadia to see. And we know that he likes white roses.

Where did you get that?

It was given to me at the farmer’s market this morning. A gift from the Ghost, apparently.

Nadia looked confused. Have you two already met?

No. Not face-to-face, at any rate. But I think that it’s time I introduced myself. Sydney excused herself from Nadia and headed for the briefing room, ready to meet a ghost.

Chapter 3

APO HEADQUARTERS

As Sydney entered the briefing room, the well-dressed man was holding forth on the history of the MK-ULTRA project. Upon seeing Sydney, he cut himself off in mid-sentence and practically jumped to his feet.

Sloane smiled at her…that reptilian smile that never failed to make Sydney’s blood run cold. Crossing the room toward Sydney, Sloane attempted to make an introduction. And this is Ms.—

The stranger spoke up before Sloane could finish. Ms. Bristow. Yes. What a pleasure. Truly, Ms. Bristow, a very great pleasure indeed. I have been following your remarkable career ever since its inception and may I just say that the very thought of working with you thrills me to the core. Please forgive me my little stunt at the market this morning, but I really could not resist the opportunity to observe you in action, so to speak. And, as expected, you did not disappoint. Bravo, Ms. Bristow. Very well played; very well played, indeed. Ah…but I can see that you are a little confused by all of this. Please don’t fret, my dear…. All will be made clear in time. For now, just know that you can call me Mr. Connors, and that I am overjoyed to finally make the acquaintance of the daughter of the finest man with whom I ever had the privilege to serve.

Completely flustered by the torrent of words that Mr. Connors had unleashed, all that Sydney could manage was a feeble Um…

While Sloane and her fellow agents expressed their curiosity about the stunt at the market, Sydney took a better look at the strange man smiling at her from across the room. He was slightly shorter than average, but gave the impression of being powerfully built underneath his impeccably tailored suit. He appeared to be in his mid-sixties, but the youthful sparkle of his eyes and his wide, apparently genuine smile gave a definite impression of youth and vitality. His voice was slightly high-pitched and he spoke rapidly, with no discernible accent. Sydney suspected that the man’s convoluted speech patterns and curiously flattened accent were designed to conceal any information about his origins. On the table next to him were a battered leather briefcase and an umbrella. Quite the dandy, she thought.

Connors’s expectant smile and unwavering gaze snapped Sydney out of her reverie. She crossed the room and shook the man’s outstretched hand. I’m sorry. You really threw me for a loop this morning. It’s nice to make your acquaintance as well, Mr. Connors. Or should I call you the Ghost?

He laughed and clapped his hands. Delightful. This is going to be even more fun than I had hoped.

Taking a seat at the table, Sydney made eye contact with Vaughn, who raised a questioning eyebrow. Without him saying a word, she understood his concerns: What happened at the market? Are you all right? She smiled reassuringly at him, letting him know that she was fine. His concern filled her with a warm, comforting feeling that wiped away the strangeness of the last few hours and brought her