by Brandt Legg
“Look,” Rip said, pulling her to the ground. Not too far away they could see a helicopter taking off. “That’s coming from the camp.”
“You mean we’ve only come that far?” Gale asked, defeated.
“We’ve got to get back into the forest. Come on!”
They sprinted into the safety of the trees. As the shadows receded, Rip found what he was looking for on the map, about two miles away. They jogged around tall pines, heavy oaks, majestic beech trees, until thirty minutes later, giant boulders occupied the forest like an army. The huge stones, some forty or fifty feet high, came from nowhere, while the trees competed for space.
“It’s like another world,” Gale said, as the boulders completely took over the landscape, forming caves, tunnels, pits, and bridges.
“This is Indian Rocks, a sacred site for a long-forgotten tribe.”
“It’s remarkable.” Gale reached for Rip’s shoulder.
“Professor Gaines,” a loud male voice said from somewhere in the stone maze.
Rip dropped silently to the ground. Gale froze.
They tried to find the source of the voice. A blur of movement, crunching leaves and footsteps, “Hey, Professor Gaines.”
Rip didn’t know the voice and still couldn’t see anybody.
“Professor, Gale, it’s Sean Stadler, Josh’s brother,” he shouted.
Gale exhaled in relief.
“We’re trying to avoid attention,” Rip called out softly.
“Oh, yeah, right. Sorry. I wasn’t sure you were here yet.”
They met next to two round stones the size of mini-vans. “You look just like Josh,” Gale said hugging him.
“I’m actually the better looking one, but he’s a little smarter so it equals out,” Sean said, showing off his dimples.
“Let’s get to your car,” Rip said. “There’s no time.”
“Sure, I’m parked about two or three minutes away. Slid my Jeep right behind a Park Service maintenance shed. Can’t even see it from the road,” Sean said, smiling at Gale, hoping she’d be impressed with his cleverness.
A loud thwopping roar suddenly sent terror through them – the unmistakable sound of a military helicopter flying in fast and low. The upper branches of the tall trees whipped around as it hovered.
Chapter 9
Rip, Gale and Sean rushed into a stone tunnel. The chopper circled above them.
“Damn it, it must have seen us,” Rip said above the steady drumbeat of the rotors.
“How could they through all the trees?” Gale asked.
“Who knows what kind of imaging equipment they’ve got.”
Rip considered their options. Escaping on foot might be best; in the vast forest they might be able to get away before agents caught up, but they had to try for the car. If they needed to, they could always abandon the vehicle later and slip back into the trees.
“Listen,” Gale said, stopping suddenly. “It’s going away.”
The chopper moved off to the west and repeated its pattern. But the incessant sound of rotating blades and churn of the Blackhawk’s engine would continue to haunt them.
The irreparable damage Rip had done to his career was one thing; the possibility that he could wind up in prison hit him like a wave of food poisoning. In all his years of searching for a Cosega find, he’d assumed there would be some resistance at the new view of our past, but he’d never expected to be hunted like an animal.
“Rip, are you okay?” Gale asked.
“No,” he said. Exhaustion and tension gnawed at him, his legs burned. She thought his eyes were teary, but he started jogging. “We’ve got to get to the car!” he shouted. They darted across the sleepy Blue Ridge Parkway.
Sean’s ten-year-old, primer-grey Jeep looked like an oasis, but the relief was fleeting. They knew agents were fanning out through the forest, roadblocks were being coordinated, and more helicopters . . . this would be a long day.
“Where to?”
Gale answered, “Asheville, North Carolina.” She looked back at Rip.
He nodded. Their plan, hatched in the night, seemed less likely to succeed now with the reality of a closing net around them.
“What’s in Asheville?” Sean asked but didn’t wait for an answer. “I knew a girl there once. Pretty place.”
Rip held his pack across his lap. “Look, Sean, I don’t want to be rude, but it’s really not a good idea to tell you too much.”
“Sure, sure,” Sean smiled in the rearview mirror, giving Rip a wink, “I’m cool; the cloak and dagger stuff is no problem. We’ll play it however you want, Professor.”
The forty-five mile per hour speed limit in the nation’s busiest national park made Rip nervous. The park was actually a 469-mile road. They needed to go faster, but he told Sean to keep it at forty-eight.
Four more government SUVs arrived at the camp, now overrun with close to forty government employees from various agencies. Barbeau and Hall reviewed the reports coming in from various field agents.
“Larsen Fretwell got a room at the Ty River Motel in Nelson County, Virginia. He tried calling Ripley Gaines’ satphone six times. Gaines has it shut off and must have the battery out because we’ve been unable to trace it.” Hall scrolled his tablet. “This morning Fretwell started driving north approximately thirty minutes ago, just stopped at a diner.”
Barbeau just grunted. The tent was stuffy as the morning rose and he had a bad feeling this might not wrap up quickly.
“Fretwell doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. He’s not running. His background is completely clean. Maybe we should pick him up and do a thorough questioning. He might say more with an attorney holding his hand.”
Barbeau glared at Hall. “This guy is much more used to us out there making noise.”
“Do we have a motive theory yet?”
Barbeau had thought about it all night and knew the question would be asked repeatedly during the day by his superiors, but it annoyed him that Hall asked. “They found a priceless artifact. Gaines is greedy.”
Hall nodded. They both knew it wouldn’t satisfy anyone, but Hall didn’t really want to wade into that mess yet with Barbeau; still, it bothered him. He’d heard of Gaines even before reading his file. Gaines showed up on TV anytime an archaeological story made the news. He had no known drug, alcohol, or gambling issues; he didn’t even have a wife. A major publisher had signed him to a two-book deal: the first, “The Future of the Past,” would be released in three months. Hall had just subpoenaed a copy of the manuscript. This kind of man doesn’t steal artifacts. He could make more money talking and writing about them.
“Just because his motives aren’t obvious, doesn’t mean the guy isn’t crooked. By the end of the day we’ll know a lot more,” Barbeau said, leaving the tent. He walked to the cliff and spoke with a government archaeologist who had been working with an agent compiling scientific data and a schedule of facts to be included in a report for higher-ups.
Hall caught up and as they stood looking around at the bustling camp, he struggled to voice his concern.
“You have something else?” Barbeau asked, sensing Hall’s apprehension.
“It’s just . . . the bureau has escalated this case to an extreme level, literally overnight.”
“So?”
“This guy’s not a terrorist. There’s no justification for these kind of resources being utilized on what’s really nothing more than a theft.”
“I’ll let the Director know you disagree with how he’s running the agency when I speak to him later.”
“Barbeau, why don’t you get the chip off your shoulder so you can see a little more clearly? How many cases have you been on where the Director oversees like this?”
“I haven’t had this kind of interference since the Rudolph case,” Barbeau admitted.
“Exactly. And that was a media circus. The Director had to watch every step; that guy had killed people and was a known bomber. We’re looking for a scientist who took some old carved ball o
ut of the dirt. The media doesn’t even know it happened.”
“They probably expect the media to get wind of it soon. I’m sure the Director will brief me later. I’ll keep you in the loop.” Barbeau had been hiding his anxiety from the start. He’d been with the bureau for twenty-eight years and something was wrong with this case. Even the way the FBI first got involved didn’t add up. He hoped the Director would have answers.
Josh rubbed his aching head and shifted uncomfortably in a green vinyl and chrome chair. It had been a fitful night in a chain motel room with bad TV. The cramped waiting room smelled of pine cleaner. He wanted to meet Ian Sweedler, give him the casing and be done with this business. Josh worried that involving Sean had been a bad idea and was thinking of calling him when Ian Sweedler, looking as if he’d been born and raised in a lab, walked in. His white coat, oversized glasses, and shiny prematurely-balding head, screamed nerdy science geek, but there was a warmth about him.
“How long have you been working for Professor Gaines?” Ian asked while they walked back to an employees’ break room.
“I’m actually a photographer, just doing a favor for a friend, “Josh said.
He carefully unwrapped the casing from an old blanket. Sweedler stepped back. “Ginodino! Is there another half to this thing?” He whistled. “Was there anything inside?”
“I have no idea,” Josh lied.
“Rip is always finding the coolest stuff. Do we know anything about where, how, when it was found?”
“I don’t know a thing, I’m just the messenger. But Rip said it is extremely important and he needs an age as soon as possible.”
“Don’t worry, I owe Rip a few favors, I’ll get it fast-tracked.”
Josh hesitated, reluctant to leave it, but Rip had said Ian could be trusted. He gave him his cell phone number.
Back on the Washington Beltway, Josh tried calling his brother, but Sean was out of range. He checked his voice mail. “Why haven’t they called?” he asked out loud. He didn’t notice the car following him.
Chapter 10
The United States Attorney General, Harrison Dover, leafed through the report; he found the description of the stone globe disturbing. None of it made sense to him; he knelt and prayed, as he did every morning with his staff. Dover, a devout Catholic, often shared information with contacts at the Vatican. He knew that next to Israel, the most reliable intelligence network in the world belonged to the Vatican. These days, the US needed all the help they could get.
Dover wanted to know what church scholars thought of this strange event – a renowned archaeologist uncovering and then absconding with an artifact that appeared to predate even Darwin’s theories of the history of man. A source reported that Gaines had declared the discovery would rewrite church history, but Dover had heard claims like that his whole life. So it surprised him when a Cardinal in Rome phoned to request an urgent meeting.
Three hours later, Dover ushered Francesco Pisano, a Vatican representative, into his office. They discussed the status of the case, and Pisano conveyed the Pope’s interest in the artifacts. Pisano liked people to know he knew the Pope, but he’d really only met him once. He actually answered to a man more than a dozen rungs down the Vatican ladder. Pisano was a pious man who took his job seriously even if he didn’t understand the nuances of each order given to him, but he followed them precisely to avoid making mistakes. The Church didn’t like things botched and Pisano had a solid record of cleaning up and avoiding messes. He didn’t know it yet, but the Eysen was the most important case he’d ever been assigned, and meeting with the United States Attorney General gave him some idea of the gravity. He suddenly felt very important.
“Forgive me, Francesco,” Dover said to the small, balding man, “but I don’t understand why an unseen object dug from the forest of the Virginia mountains could possibly concern the Holy Father.”
“It’s a matter on which I’ve not been fully briefed. Several Cardinals will arrive from Italy tomorrow to provide more details. However, I assure you if it wasn’t of the utmost priority to the Pope, then I would not have been called in to meet with you,” Pisano said, while evaluating the Attorney General’s suit, unsure if it was nicer than his own. He considered style critical to success and spent more on clothes than his budget should allow. In the end he decided his Armani was better than Dover’s Ralph Lauren.
“You’re asking me to escalate an investigation, commit considerable resources –”
“The Holy See is making this request,” Pisano corrected. “Haven’t I been clear?”
“Yes,” Dover squinted at Pisano. “I’m of course inclined to grant this favor; however, I’ll need more to go on. I don’t operate in a vacuum.”
“It should be enough that I am here on behalf of the Pope.”
Dover, a powerful man, was not used to being stonewalled and that’s just what he believed Pisano was doing. But the Attorney General was also a practical and skilled politician and the recent news reports speculating that he could be a future vice presidential candidate were inaccurate only in that they underestimated his ambitions.
A silence hung in the room.
“You are Catholic.”
Dover nodded.
“Your Pope has asked.”
But it wasn’t his deep faith and loyalty to the Church that caused Dover to yield; it was the possibility that a terrifying chain of events may have begun with Gaines’ discovery. Pisano had been vague and eluded to prophecies from secret texts long concealed within the high walls of the world’s smallest country surrounded by Rome.
“We’ve been vigilant in recent years, hoping it would never happen, but carefully watching for any hints . . . and now it seems we are witnessing its beginning.” Pisano’s words made Dover shudder.
Pisano had been unwilling to leave until he had received promises from Dover that, among other things, included complete disclosure to the Vatican. Pisano left with digital copies of all the files and a complete set of the photos they’d recovered from Josh Stadler’s camera. “We’re not sure the agents got all of his memory cards. There are no close-ups of the artifact even though we have testimony that some were taken,” Dover told him. Pisano, disappointed, made a note, his mood tempered only by the fact that the Attorney General’s Florsheim shoes were no match for his Versaces.
Afterwards, Dover called the Director of the FBI, who in turn immediately sent word to Barbeau’s supervisor that the search for Ripley Gaines would no longer be a minor case . . . apprehending Gaines and recovering the artifacts were now the Bureau’s highest priorities. “No noise,” Dover had told the Director. “I don’t want to see this in the Post.”
The call had been short as both the Attorney General and the FBI Director were on their way into meetings. But the Director, surprised by the development, had asked the Attorney General what warranted the unprecedented escalation. “National Security, more later,” had been his terse reply. “How long can this take, Director? You’ve got a bumbling college professor and some two-bit reporter running through the woods with an old stone ball. Get it done.”
Barbeau’s stomach tightened. Being in charge of a priority case rarely ended well and one which needed to stay secret increased the chances for disaster. His only hope to avoid a career damaging hit would be a swift capture. The net widened; they scrutinized, questioned, and watched anyone closely connected to Rip, Gale, Larsen, or the Stadler brothers. An hour after Barbeau got word, the Director himself phoned for an update and ended the call with a firm directive. “Wrap up Gaines within twenty-four hours. This guy is an amateur.”
Chapter 11
Pisano received regular updates from Dover’s office, but his superiors in Rome believed the FBI wasn’t always efficient, or at least didn’t utilize the full range of options available to the Church. Ever since Gaines had published Cosega, the Church had been developing a sophisticated plan to discredit him. But an actual find would require more drastic measures.
The Vatican had n
umerous agents in the states and normally Pisano would have been free to choose which were best suited for the mission. However, everything about this situation was different and Rome insisted that Joe Nanski be used. Nanski and his partner, Mark Leary, both in their early forties, had worked together for years helping the Church with a variety of jobs, from security and advance work for papal visits; to investigating and discrediting countless sexual abuse allegations against priests. The pair had proved loyal, discreet, and effective.
Pisano knew both men well and briefed them while driving to a large suburban church in Vienna, Virginia. Leary, a fanatic who believed all non-Catholics were working against God, made him a little nervous. He grew up in a Catholic orphanage, always dreaming of playing professional football and eventually earning a full athletic scholarship to Notre Dame; becoming a standout on and off the field. The New York Jets drafted him but near the end of a brilliant rookie year, Leary blew out his knee. With his football dreams destroyed, he contemplated suicide. Only working with youth charities gave his life purpose – the Church saved him. His faith and involvement deepened, and eventually led him to a post with a high-ranking Cardinal. By the time he turned thirty, he was recruited into the Vatican’s Secret Police.
For Nanski, the brain to Leary’s brawn, life had taken a different course. He studied to be a priest before meeting his future wife; after which he became a religious scholar. Over the years, as more cases required his knowledge, he’d been granted access to an incredible range of historical texts. Although slim, wearing eye-glasses, and with a generally wimpish appearance, the “Bible nerd,” as his wife called him, was no less passionate about his faith, and would do whatever was required to protect the Church, including kill.
The two men had met six years earlier while on a sticky case of untangling a bishop from Mafia extortion, and had become friends. Both possessed the critical ingredient needed by a servant of the Church – absolute devotion.