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by Judith Reeves-Stevens

  Too much, Jess knew. Then David made it worse. Much worse.

  “The MacCleirigh Foundation, your ‘Family,’ exists to search for the temples. So tell me, what happens when they’re found?”

  “There’s more to us than that.” Victoria’s voice was even, but Jess knew that outrage was beneath it.

  “Not a lot,” David said. “It’s pretty much the fate of all institutions. They’re formed to achieve a particular goal, but when they get big enough, rich enough, they put their first goal to the side and work only to ensure their own continued existence.

  “The Family’s no different,” he continued. “Look what Jess had to go through to get you people to finally listen to her. If Su-Lin destroys the temples, then the Family’s search will never end and the MacCleirigh Foundation goes on forever. End of story. But thanks to Jess, you’ve got something bigger to think about now. If you do find all your temples, including the White Island, and maybe even rediscover the big secret that you defenders lost—no matter what that secret is, no matter if it’s still even meaningful after so many centuries have passed—the Foundation will have fulfilled its goal and it’s all over. Right?”

  Victoria replaced the handset. Jess didn’t have to look at Bakana or the operative. She knew what she would see. Shock. And condemnation. David had just made it clear that the Family’s newest defender had knowingly broken its most sacred vows.

  Her cousin seemed to have aged in only moments. “Jessica . . . how could you betray us? Florian chose you herself.”

  Jess refused to capitulate. “David is one of us, so I told him everything.”

  “Even if he is,” Victoria said with finality, “he’s not a defender. Now he knows too much. Unfortunately, he’s not the only one.”

  Her gaze swept the room, including Bakana and the operative.

  “What you’ve done, Jessica . . . It’s out of my hands. Our traditions give me no choice.” Jess heard the finality in her cousin’s words. “None of you can ever leave this place again.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  “Are you ready?” General DiFranza asked.

  Lyle sat at a console at the end of the central table in the Emergency Conference Room of the National Military Command Center. It had been three years since his last visit to the Pentagon, and that had been for an outdoor memorial service. He had never been at the heart of the nation’s military command structure, and had never imagined being in a situation where three generals with eight stars among them would be looking to him to take action. The others in the room—Captain Trevor Kingsburgh and his two air force communications specialists, five analysts from the National Reconnaissance Office, two from the National Security Agency, and six other unsmiling civilians who pointedly had not been introduced to him—were icing on this particular cake.

  The only good thing about what was about to happen was that Roz Marano wasn’t present to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Even if it turned out to be the right thing, as it often was, it would be to the wrong people. Small mercies, Lyle thought.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. He looked down again at the cheat sheet the Department of Justice had prepared for him.

  “Bulldog?” DiFranza said. “How’re your boys doing?”

  Carter “Bulldog” Tyrell was the other three-star general in the room. He was checking the progress of an aircraft currently depicted as a blue triangle on one of the six large display screens on the double-story wall to Lyle’s left.

  The aircraft was an MC-130H Combat Talon II that had just completed its second inflight refueling over the Pacific. On board was a team of twelve Air Commandos from the 1st Special Operations Wing unit operating out of Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada. They were en route to their first staging point on their mission: Christchurch International Airport, New Zealand, the USAF’s most southerly operational foreign airbase. It was just under two thousand miles from Vanuatu.

  Bulldog covered the small mike on his headset and answered DiFranza’s question. “ETA three hours. On-site eight hours after landing Christchurch.”

  DiFranza, Lyle, and almost everyone else in the room checked two of the other large screens on the left wall. One showed a crisp surveillance photo of Ironwood’s sprawling home in Port Vila, Vanuatu. The other screen of interest was a world clock. In eleven hours, it would be 3:00 A.M. in that region of the Pacific, a definite advantage for the air commandos who’d be able to see in the dark with thermal imagers.

  If Lyle’s phone call didn’t go well, then Holden Ironwood was going to have visitors on his island paradise.

  “You’re on, Jack.” DiFranza gave Lyle a pat on the shoulder, then stepped away to let him work. Lyle nodded at the airman seated beside him. The airman pressed a single button on the console.

  Lyle picked up the black receiver in front of him and heard the faint hollowness of a satellite connection, then the distinctive buzz of a Vanuatan phone ringing. Only once.

  “Ironwood.” Lyle was surprised at Ironwood’s harsh tone, as if he’d been expecting a call other than one that could guarantee his personal safety.

  “Jack Lyle.”

  At that, Ironwood’s usual bonhomie returned. “What can I do for you, Agent Lyle?”

  “Well, sir, I’ve checked out the Cornwall printout as you suggested, and I’m ready to talk. But I’m going to need some additional assurances from you.”

  “You’re ready to talk. I like that. How many people you got listening in on this call, son?”

  Lyle didn’t have to think about his answer. “Let me see. I’ll count.” Half the room looked surprised by that comment, but Lyle knew the only way he had a chance of gaining Ironwood’s trust was to be completely honest. “Including me, there’re twenty I can see. Couldn’t tell you who else might be listening up the line.”

  Ironwood seemed pleased with his answer. “And where are all you fine people calling from?”

  DiFranza shook his head at Lyle.

  “Let’s just call it a secure and undisclosed location. But you’re important, Mr. Ironwood, and from the amount of brass in this room, it’s safe to say you’ve got our attention.”

  “Then it’s your move, son.”

  Lyle knew what the first step was but glanced down at his cheat sheet anyway. “First, we need to be certain your method for extracting information from the SARGE database is real.”

  Ironwood snorted. “You already know that. That’s why you’ve got twenty people in that room.”

  “No, sir. We don’t know it. And we can’t take your word for it. Bottom line, we need a copy of your disk.”

  “Son, give me credit for having half a brain, will you? If I give you that disk before we come to a satisfactory understanding, you won’t need me. We make our deal based on my guarantee that the technique on that disk—let’s call it an algorithm so you know what you’re bargaining for—works the way I say it does. Then, when all’s said and done, if I’ve been playing you, you can lock me up in Area 51. You’re already protected in this arrangement, so I’m not showing you squat. Move on.”

  DiFranza gestured for Lyle to do so.

  “How many copies of the database did you make?”

  “You got the one in my casino. I’ve got one other backup that’s operational, in what you could also call a secure and undisclosed location. And then a second in the same facility that’s just a stack of unconnected drives.”

  “We’ll need proof of that,” Lyle said. It was on his checklist, but he knew what Ironwood’s response would be.

  “I’ll say it one more time: You’re already protected. Anything I tell you that turns out not to be true, my deal’s over. I know that. Why don’t you?”

  Lyle looked over all the other demands the DoJ had put down on the sheet, each one carefully prioritized and bulleted. He knew Ironwood wouldn’t go for any of them. So why bother?

  “Listen, Mr. Ironwood.” Lyle held out the receiver, crumpled up the sheet of paper. “Hear that? That was the list of demands they gave me. They’re
done.”

  He heard Ironwood laugh.

  “So now it’s your turn. What do you need from us?”

  Ironwood answered so quickly and concisely, Lyle realized the billionaire had his own list prepared.

  “First, full immunity from any and all charges related to my ‘acquisition’ of the database for myself, my son, and everyone else who aided and abetted me, especially my fine programmers.” Lyle looked up to see one of the civilians give him a nod—that demand had been expected and could be worked out.

  “Second, immediate cessation of all probes and audits by Treasury, and a guarantee that no new probes or audits will be launched as retaliation.” Another civilian waggled her hand back and forth—maybe something could be worked out.

  “Third, and most important of all, immediate and complete disclosure by the White House of all documents and other evidence relating to the ongoing cover-up of the government’s knowledge of UFOs and alien visitation.”

  Roz would have loved to hear that one. Lyle lifted an eyebrow at DiFranza, but the general was frowning, looking over at another civilian who shook his head once.

  He was still trying to make sense of that exchange when DiFranza came closer to whisper, “Can’t release what doesn’t exist.”

  “Uh, that it?” Lyle asked Ironwood, thrown off his rhythm.

  “I think that’s enough for you fine folks. All I ever wanted was to get the truth out. Do that for me, and I’m a happy man.”

  “Well, all right, so here’s the consensus.” The next words were some of the hardest Lyle had ever had to say. “Full immunity we can talk about. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He had to pause then, to let the disgust he felt shake out and sink to the bottom of his gut. Then, “The Treasury thing looks to have some complications, but it seems something can be done.”

  “Let’s get to full disclosure.”

  “Well, that’s the thing. I’m told that the government can’t release what doesn’t exist.”

  “The hell it doesn’t.”

  “I’m being honest with you here, Mr. Ironwood. I’ve dealt with enough bleeding-edge technology cases to have heard rumors of some great store of alien technology. And, guess what? I haven’t. There are three Air Force generals in the room with me right now, all honorable men, and they have no knowledge of what you want, either.”

  “Agent Lyle, you haven’t been listening to me. I didn’t go to all the bother and expense of getting a copy of your database to sell military secrets to the Red Chinese. I did it to find buried evidence of alien visitation. Visitation that is still going on today, that the government knows about, and that the people of the world deserve to know about, too.”

  Lyle looked to DiFranza. DiFranza looked to the unsmiling civilian. The civilian shook his head once. DiFranza took the phone from Lyle.

  “Mr. Ironwood, this is U.S. Air Force General Lou DiFranza.”

  Lyle couldn’t hear Ironwood’s reply, but the general looked surprised by it. Then very surprised. “He hung up.” DiFranza passed the phone back to Lyle, spoke to his fellow general. “Bulldog, as of now, you are go on Operation Clawback.”

  Lyle pushed away from the table and stood up. True, he had failed to make a deal with Ironwood. It was also true, now, that no deal had to be made. The Air Commandos would have his target in custody within eleven hours. Back to the States within a day of that. Justice would be served after all.

  Still . . .

  He walked over to DiFranza. “General, if I’m out of line, I never asked this question. But when Ironwood wanted evidence of UFOs released, and that civilian—”

  “Dr. Satomura. Psychiatrist,” the general said promptly. “Works extensively with Special Operations Command on hostage situations, ransom demands, areas of that nature.” He laughed, though Lyle thought laughter was a touch unfair.

  “I see what you’re getting at, and no, there are no UFOs. No alien UFOs, that is.” The general leaned in conspiratorially close. “It’s no secret we have a lot of, let’s call them ‘interesting’ aircraft flying, but none of them are from Mars. Mak Satomura, he’s been through negotiations like this before, and when the subject makes an impossible demand, like wanting the government to bring someone back from the dead, or trading something for the president, or evidence of UFOs, that’s a sign that further negotiation is unlikely to produce a satisfactory outcome. So when Ironwood made that screwball demand, he was letting us know he never wanted to make a deal in the first place.”

  Lyle had no reason to doubt that the explanation of the exchange he’d witnessed between the general and the civilian was a good one. But Roz? She would have had a completely different interpretation of it.

  “Ironwood, he actually believes in UFOs and aliens, you realize,” Lyle said.

  “Lots of people do, but they don’t put the safety and security of the United States at risk to pursue their delusions. He’s dangerous, Jack. You did an exemplary job proving he stole SARGE. You got his accomplices and his son in custody. And you tracked him down for us. That’s outstanding work. Now we’ll take it from here.” DiFranza held out his hand, and Lyle knew a dismissal when he saw one.

  He shook the general’s hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  “We’ll let you know how it plays out.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Lyle left the Emergency Conference Room. A marine corporal escorted him to the Pentagon’s Metro entrance and watched as he passed back through the security scanners.

  Lyle walked to his car in the lot under the pedestrian bridges, trying to decide why he felt so troubled.

  He had done his job. Ironwood would be apprehended.

  For all the man’s crazy talk, though, after speaking with him directly, Lyle’s instincts were telling him the complete opposite: Ironwood wasn’t crazy.

  Lyle drove off, deciding to put some distance between himself and the Pentagon listening posts that heard in real time every cellular phone call placed within a three-mile radius of the building.

  He needed to talk to Roz.

  He needed to ask her the question he couldn’t ask anyone else.

  What if Ironwood was right?

  FORTY-FIVE

  “Has it all been a lie?” Bakana asked. “The Secret’s lost?” She looked pale, close to tears, stricken by the revelations that had been forced upon her.

  Victoria was dismissive of her bewilderment. “You shouldn’t have heard any of this, but you have. Su-Lin was right to act to confine them.”

  “Bakana, everything David said is true,” Jess said.

  “There’s a way to settle this,” David said to Victoria. He still held the Taser. “Get Jess and me a detailed image of the sun map. Have an astronomer derive a date from it. Match it to the star map from the Chamber of Heaven. Then let everyone in the Family know the location of the White Island.”

  “You can’t know the two maps will give you that location.”

  “You can’t know they won’t. Unless you try.” He aimed the Taser at her. “The laptop. Use it.”

  Victoria crossed her arms. Her refusal unequivocal.

  “Consider this, then,” David said. “The First Gods shared their knowledge and gave you a secret to defend. Whatever it was, your Family lost it. Jess is giving you a chance to get that back. But you won’t even let us go looking for it. You’d throw away the Mystery of the Promise—just to preserve your own domain.”

  “Finished?” Victoria asked.

  “That’s up to you.”

  “Fine. Put the weapon down. My security people are outside that door by now.”

  “You never called them.”

  “The blast door’s closed. It’s an emergency, and I’m not out there. I don’t have to call them.”

  “Jess, can you check?” David kept the Taser leveled on Victoria. The defender stayed where she was, unreadable.

  “I’ll have to open it,” Jess said. There was no glass in the door, no way to see into the hallway outside.

  “Go ah
ead.”

  She slowly turned the brass doorknob in the dark wooden door, opened it about an inch, and—

  —the door flew open as a young man burst in, seizing her by the throat with one arm as he aimed a gun at David.

  “Put it down, mate.” His Australian accent was strong. He wasn’t an operative from Cross in Zurich. He was one of the Shop’s—and Victoria’s—personal security guards. His weapon was unknown to David, but it was a firearm, not a Taser.

  David made one last attempt to reach the scholar inside Victoria. “When did you become so afraid of the truth?”

  “Put down the weapon,” she said, “or I’ll tell him to shoot you.”

  David looked at Jess, saw only despairing resignation in her eyes. So he took a step to put the Taser on the corner of Victoria’s desk. The guard moved to retrieve it. In that split second of inattention, his gun moved off target as Bakana tripped him.

  “Bakana! No!” Victoria cried.

  David was already grabbing for the Taser as Jess leapt for the guard. The impact of her body threw him off balance. His gun swung up, fired blindly, and as he fell back, he struck his head on the sharp desk edge. His eyes lost focus, then closed as he slumped, unmoving.

  As if in a trance, Bakana picked up the guard’s gun.

  Jess held out her hand.

  Bakana gave it to her. “The promise must be kept,” she said. Then she turned apologetically to Victoria and—her hand flew to cover her mouth.

  The Defender of Canberra was in her chair, bloody hands pressed to her chest, staring at Jess with incredulity. “You’ve ruined us all . . . you’ve . . .”

  Then she stopped as if seeing something at a great distance, and sighed her last breath. Her head fell forward.

  Jess turned to David, stricken. “How did this—”

  There was no time for regret, just action. “Bakana, how do we get out of here?” David asked.

  Victoria’s assistant gulped, struggled to speak. “The . . . the blast door’s sealed. She was . . . she was right . . . it’ll take a day—”

  “No,” David said. “There’s got to be another way.” He turned to Jess. “Talk to her.”