by John Ringo
“Your side of the investigation,” Kurt said. “I’m not seeing anything. But here’s an interesting fact.”
“What?” Barb asked, looking around. There was no one and, as far as she could tell, nothing in sight except the buildings.
“Chattanooga has its fair share of street people,” Kurt said, looking around. “Lots of sheltered nooks and crannies in this area. As far as I know, the cops don’t specifically roust people around here. So where are they?”
“Not here,” Barb said.
“As if they know better?” Kurt asked.
“Possible,” Barb said, nodding. “It would probably be a question for one of your cop friends. We’re supposed to meet with Hugh tomorrow evening, right? Let’s pack it in.”
* * *
“There, I told you,” the woman said, peering through night-vision binoculars. “They’ve sent another.”
“Not a powerful one, though,” the man with her said. “Not from what I can see.”
“She’s strong. She tries to Cloak it, but she does so poorly. On the other hand…”
“They’re looking in the wrong place.”
CHAPTER SIX
George Grosskopf, Assistant Deputy Director, Special Investigations Unit, thought that he might as well buy stock in Pepcid AC and Ambien. There were things man ought not wot of. And he, for his sins, was the guy in the federal government in charge of all of them.
During his slow climb up the FBI ladder George had tried, like any sane agent, to stay off the Special Circumstances call list. Unfortunately, not only did he get more than his fair share of SC investigations, he managed to survive them all, not a common characteristic of the positions. If you weren’t killed by your third, you were generally driven insane. Statistically, five was about the maximum any field agent could handle. He’d had a total of eight.
So since he’d managed to get up to Section Chief when the previous head of SIU had dropped dead of an almost assuredly natural heart attack, he’d been tapped to replace him. Since that day he’d never gotten a night’s sleep without a triple dose of the strongest sleeping pills known to man. And don’t even get started on the acid reflux.
As an ADD, even of the smallest and most secret section in the Bureau, he reported directly to the Deputy Director. And while other ADDs might have to wait on hold or call back later, he never did. Of course, he rarely hit the red button on his STU-III. But when the DD got a call from SC-SIU, he dropped everything. Because it meant the shit was about to hit the fan.
Nobody visited SIU. Damned few people had any idea what it was other than a box on the manning chart. It was deliberately buried deep in the belly of the Hoover Building. If he didn’t occasionally have to run to the DD’s office like a bat out of hell, he’d rather it be in the satellite office in West Virginia. SIU didn’t exist, and he liked it that way.
So he’d been sort of surprised to be asked to meet with a guy from DARPA. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency often interacted with the Bureau on aspects of national security and counterintelligence. But how the guy had picked SIU for his visit was anyone’s guess.
“Doctor Roland,” George said as the scientist entered his office.
Roland was a “suit” scientist. Nice suit, no less. Armani. Probably an egghead as well, but he’d gotten far enough up the feeding chain to have the standard bureaucrat look. Five foot eleven. Two hundred, maybe two-ten. Brown, brown. Wore contacts. No distinguishing marks.
“ADD Grosskopf,” Roland said, shaking his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me so quickly.”
“I was curious what interaction there might be between my office and yours,” Grosskopf said, noncommittally.
“I can’t open up the details of the compartment; the information is highly secure,” Roland said, uncomfortably.
“It’s a shield office,” Grosskopf said. “My SCI classification is the same as the Director’s and I do more secure work. You can talk.”
“In that case, I think it’s a case of blue on blue, frankly,” Roland said, smiling disarmingly and sitting down in the lone chair. “We have a contract with a company that is investigating some advanced concepts in crowd management. Some of the people they work with are…unusual people. Recently some of them had a visit from the FBI. The company contacted me to find out what was going on. I checked into it and found that it was an SCI investigation out of your office. So I’m here to try to calm the troubled waters.”
“That’s vague enough that while I get what you’re saying, I have nothing to go on,” Grosskopf said, flatly.
“It involved some officers of a corporation called Trilobular,” Roland said, sliding a packet onto the SC’s desk. It appeared to be a pamphlet for a corporation, and the design on the front was…three curves forming three lobes.
There had been occasional moments in his job when George wished he could crawl under a rock and forget everything he knew about Special Circumstances. He knew he was the best guy to be sitting in the seat; he just wished he wasn’t. But there had never previously been a time when he wished he could just have a stroke, right now—go out quick and not have to hear the rest of a conversation.
He was feeling that way.
There were never very many SC investigations. So he read the field reports every morning. And he had a near-eidetic memory. Furthermore, not only were the Madness killings a major SC hot spot, the description of the jewelry the “hostess” wore was strangely hard to forget. He’d read Kurt’s report, including his reporting of Adept Three Everette’s reactions and suspicions.
And now he had found out that the US Government, specifically the DOD, had its fingerprints all over the Madness killings.
Oh. Joy. Might as well call Chattanooga “Raccoon City.”
There was only one thing to do. Dissemble.
“I can take care of that, I’m sure,” Grosskopf said. “But I’ll need the contract code, the SCAP box, and the name of the contracting company.”
“Why?” Roland said, frowning.
“To make sure we don’t stumble on each other again,” Grosskopf said, smoothly.
“Very well,” Roland replied. He pulled a file from his briefcase and laid it on the desk. “I rather thought you might need some of that. This is all that is transmissible for the purposes of this discussion. It’s a very sensitive project.”
“I understand,” George said, standing up and holding out his hand. “Sorry we had this little bump.”
“No problem,” Roland said, all smiles. “But to be clear, there are no more issues, right?”
Grosskopf knew what he should say but he just couldn’t do it.
“When you speak to the company representative, assure him that there will be no further interest from the FBI.”
“That’s not the same as there is no further interest from the FBI,” Roland said, a touch angrily.
“Dr. Roland,” the ADD said. “Let me be perfectly blunt. If you do not assure the company representative that there will be no further interest from the FBI, then you will never work in government service again. Or as a Beltway Bandit. When it comes to who meets the criteria for secure information, the FBI Deputy Director is God. And in certain matters, and this is one, I sit at his right hand. You. Will. Assure. The. Company. Representative. If you have to give an Oscar-winning performance to do so.”
“What is going on?” Roland asked, ashen.
George flexed his jaw muscles for a moment then smiled thinly.
“This is all that is transmissible for the purposes of this discussion. It’s a very sensitive project.”
“Satire…”
“Is all I’m willing to give you at the moment,” Grosskopf said, now furious. “Except one more thing. The next time DARPA decides to go fucking around with the supernatural, clear it with this department first!”
“How did you know…?” Roland asked then paused. “What is Special Investigations?”
“You are now beyond your need to know,” Grosskopf said. “B
ut you can be assured that my DD will be talking to your Director by the end of the day. Good day, Dr. Roland.”
* * *
Grosskopf took several deep breaths after the door was closed, then picked up the handset of his STU and hit the red button.
“Sir, we have a serious problem…”
* * *
Germaine looked at the secure message from the Special Investigations Department and the added note from the Deputy Director and sighed. He had been dreading this day. Thus far, through careful manipulation, the Foundation had managed to head off most scientific inquiry into the realm of the supernatural.
The frank reality was that in most cases it simply wouldn’t work. Gods and demons did not care for humans prying into their secrets and would actively work against experimentation. “It seems a fact that miracles can only occur in an environment devoid of skepticism.” This was held up by scientists as proof that “believers” were simply deluded.
What scientists failed to appreciate was that they were trying to quantify something that active, thinking entities simply did not want quantified.
But there were occasional attempts, researchers willing to stake their reputations on quantifying “the paranormal.” And they almost invariably failed. If the powers that created such paranormal events didn’t ensure it, the Foundation certainly tried its best. In most cases, funding simply dried up. “Investigate ghosts? Get a real job.”
The “almost” usually had to do with demons. Some researcher would find a functional summoning method and use it. And usually end up dead or possessed. It happened to poor Tesla in the end.
This, however, was something different. The psychotics in Chattanooga were not even members of the test group. And the researchers apparently had managed to avoid possession. This, in fact, was a nightmare. The entity matched nothing he, even with his vast knowledge of the occult, recognized. But there was one lead.
And there were others, a very few, with more knowledge than he. And access to even more esoteric tomes and texts. He picked up the phone.
“Dr. Carson, it is Germaine. I would like you to look at a symbol and see if you can find any information on it…”
There was another call he felt he had to make. As he talked to Dr. Carson, he pulled out his pad and started typing in a message in Attic Greek.
The language of the Vatican.
* * *
Barb was frustrated. She knew that the plague affecting the area had something to do with the Art District. But a solid hunch was not enough for a search warrant.
They’d interviewed more counselors and determined that, whatever their differences, all seven of the Madders had “anger management issues.” But that was all they had. A hunch about the Art District, a trail of shell corporations and seven psychotics with “anger management issues.”
“We need a break,” Kurt said, looking at another set of field notes.
“We need to get a look inside those buildings,” Barb said.
“I mean a break as in ‘coffee,’” Kurt corrected. “Want anything?”
“No,” Barb said.
As if by timing, as soon as Kurt was out of sight her cell phone rang. It was the ringtone of the Foundation: “Amazing Grace.”
“Mrs. Everette, it’s Augustus.”
“How are you, Mr. Germaine?” Barb asked.
“Busy. This will all sound very dramatic, but bear with me. I would request that you go, unaccompanied, to Our Lady of Perpetual Help Catholic church and see Sister Mary Katherine. The sister will introduce you to a man there. You should block out at least one hour for doing so. He has additional information for you on this matter.”
“Very well,” Barbara said, nodding. “I take it asking for a hint is pointless.”
“It is,” Germaine said. “Godspeed.”
* * *
When Kurt came back Barb was gone. He shrugged, set down the two cups of coffee and picked up another set of notes.
* * *
Our Lady of Perpetual Help church turned out to be a sprawling campus just off of Interstate 75 that included not just a church but a Catholic school and a large rectory. Barbara eventually found the nun she had been directed to find, and was led to a small residential building behind the main buildings and directed to a room at the end of the hall.
The man who opened the door was dressed in a pink polo shirt and green slacks and was tall, dark and handsome. Those were the three words that went through her mind along with a quick and strong stab of physical attraction. She suppressed the latter and said a very quick prayer of forgiveness. But he was just hot as hell. Latin, unquestionably, despite a definite northern US accent, bit over six feet, slender but strongly muscled with the face of a fallen angel who’d enjoyed the ride. The sole feature that was awry was that his nose had had somewhat poor reconstructive surgery. Faint scars of sutures laced the left side. And that, in fact, only added to the look.
“I’m Barbara Everette,” she said, somewhat flustered. “Is this…?”
“Mrs. Everette,” the man said, smiling broadly in return. Nice teeth. Nice. He extended a hand, which turned out to be heavily calloused. “I am Brother Marquez. Welcome.”
“Brother?” Barb said as the man waved her into the room. There were two small suitcases and three ballistic nylon bags cluttering the double.
“Brother Karol Marquez,” the monk said, closing the door. “I am the team leader for Opus Dei Special Action Squad One.”
* * *
Barbara sipped some really excellent tea and watched the monk preparing his own coffee. His movements were quick and sure, but now that she was past her initial shock she could detect the sharp and semi-robotic motions of a person who had trained extensively on close-quarters battle.
“That’s an interesting coffee maker,” she said, wanting to slap herself for the inanity. But Brother Marquez had her thrown. She hadn’t felt this attracted to a man since she met Mark in college.
“With as much traveling as we do, I find carrying some small creature comforts to be lacking in sin,” Brother Marquez said, looking over his shoulder and giving her another movie-star grin. The coffee maker took small cup-like packets that made one cup of coffee or tea apiece in about twenty seconds. She made a mental note to get the name of the manufacturer. “Given that Indonesia is a coffee producer you would think you could get a decent cup. Such is not the case. And the idea of coffee that is taken from feces…There is a special circle of Hell, I am positive, reserved for people who give other people coffee made from rat droppings. Especially unawares.”
Brother Marquez took a seat on the end of one of the beds and pulled a file out from under one of the nylon bags.
“Germaine made a request of our cardinal superior to have us visit this area,” Marquez said, taking a sip of his coffee. From the smell of it, it made espresso seem weak. “And I cannot say that he was wrong.”
Barb flipped open the thin file and surveyed it.
“There’s almost nothing here,” Barb said. “Nothing we don’t have. The psychosis is supernaturally induced. We’d deduced that. It’s not even true psychosis. They’re simply dead. Soul-drained. But still vital. It has the potential to have a wider effect. Okay, we’d considered that. The source will be a demon or mystical device that will have a symbol…that’s the same symbol as Vartouhi was wearing. That’s just confirmation that she’s involved, and I was pretty certain on that. But a mystic symbol is not enough for a search warrant.”
“Indeed,” Brother Marquez said. “But that symbol is why we are here. The reason that that file is so…sparse is that it is what you can give your FBI contact. He’ll be sent a similar file though his channels, since the FBI is aware of the information. Upper echelons of the FBI are aware of…more. Some of it I do not have. Need to know, as they say. But some more I do. A tale I shall tell.”
“Go ahead,” Barb said, getting comfortable. “Does it start ‘Once upon a time’?”
“Given my background, I suppose I s
hould start ‘So there I was, no shit…’” Marquez said with a grin.
“You were military?” Barb said, surprised.
“For my sins,” the monk replied. “Or, rather, I am now in this position for my sins during my military service and before,” he added with a shrug. “But I digress. So there we were, no shit. My tale starts with a group of French archaeologists in Syria in 1923. The proverbial shepherd boy had found some pottery fragments, which attracted the attention of a local magistrate. A small expedition visited the area. They found a city that had been destroyed, they believed, by an earthquake or possibly waters drying up or just drifted away. There were some fragmentary inscriptions of no known language. Almost everything was shattered, destroyed, gone. They only found one fragment that was of any value at all.”
The monk pulled a somewhat larger file out of a bag and slid out a picture. It was a copy of an old sepia-toned photograph that showed a piece of chiseled stone. The only thing that was clear on it was the symbol the hostess had been wearing. There might have been some human figures and flowing script, but it was so worn as to be illegible.
“Unknown race, unknown religion, the lost civilization, Terra X,” Brother Marquez said with a shrug. “The archaeologists catalogued their meager finds and took back the stone tablet. It was filed under ‘uninteresting’ in the French Museum of Archaeology, and moldered there for several decades.
“In the 1950s the Hittite language was finally deciphered, and it opened up a door into the past. A fragmentary codex of the Hittite history detailed the destruction of a race called the Osemi.”
“Never heard of it,” Barb said.
“That is because the Hittites were quite complete in their destruction,” Brother Marquez said, frowning. “And I cannot find them wrong in that. The Osemi were, according to the Hittites, worshippers of demons. And given that the Hittites were worshippers of Baal, that’s saying something. Let me correct, worshippers of a demoness. Her name was not recorded by the Hittites, perhaps so that her name would be lost. But the Osemi were fanatical in her worship. And to them she gave, quote, great powers in battle. End quote.”