The Cosega Sequence: A Techno Thriller

by Brandt Legg

  Gale looked at Rip in disbelief. “The Vatican?” she repeated.

  “Clastier is long gone from us, but they know he left papers behind and they have sought to destroy his words all this time.”

  “Is that why the Vatican is after us?” Gale asked Rip.

  Topper raised an eyebrow.

  “There’s no connection,” Rip stammered.

  “Everything is connected,” Topper corrected.

  “They have no idea.”

  “Oh, Ripley, come on now, they know everything. Rome ordered Clastier killed, they burned his church, and now they’re after you. They want the remainin’ descendents dead. Do you think Frank’s motorcycle accident was really an accident?”

  “If the Church had something to do with Frank’s death, that’s a separate case, but their pursuit of the Clastier Papers is unrelated to the Vatican’s murder of Josh Stadler.” Rip slapped the table. “They don’t know I’m a descendent.”

  “And I thought you were supposed to be some kind of genius. Come on, boy.”

  “These supposed Christians kill anyone they perceive as a threat, they don’t always stop to connect dots,” Rip shouted. “They don’t know about a connection between Clastier and what I found because, other than my involvement in both, there isn’t one.”

  Topper shook his head slowly. His face was etched by sun and secrets. “Some things get twisted from what they started as. I don’t know what you found, but without Clastier you would not have discovered it.”

  “I can’t deny that,” Rip agreed, sighing.

  “After two thousand years of consolidatin’ power, it’s impossible to add up the deaths and damage. The Church is more influential than any single nation and, you see, in the end, power always corrupts,” Topper said.

  “Maybe in business and politics,” Gale said, having a hard time with this new information, “but I know plenty of good, honest people who attend church every Sunday.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Topper said. “I make an appearance at our local Unity Church every now and again myself.” He winked. “But it’s like most things. It isn’t the citizens of a country that cause trouble in the world; it’s their government. Wherever you find power, you’ll find corruption. The Catholic Church is no different,” Topper said, then turned his attention back to Rip. “If they don’t know you’re a descendent, then why are they after you?”

  “Because of what I found.”

  Topper and Rip stared at each other for a long moment.

  Finally, Topper put a shaky hand on Rip’s shoulder. “Oh, my God. You found it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ripley, just how in the hell is it you’re still alive?”

  Chapter 27

  “Rip, you better tell me what’s really going on here,” Gale demanded.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Then simplify it for me. What’s in Clastier’s papers?” Gale asked.

  Rip looked at Topper.

  “I’m assuming she knows what you found?” Topper asked.

  Rip nodded.

  “Then she should know why she’ll likely be dead soon.”

  “You better talk fast, Rip!” Gale’s voice filled with anger.

  “I hardly know where to begin.”

  She was about to explode when Topper placed his wrinkled hand on hers.

  “Miss, maybe I can help. Let me take you back to the beginning, it’s the only way to know where we are now.”

  She looked at him hesitantly.

  “This story goes back to a time when not many European footprints had tracked this land. Ironically, Clastier himself was raised as a Catholic, maybe two hundred-fifty years ago, in a tiny place up in the mountains of Northern New Mexico, in a village of scattered settlements called Taos.”

  Rip, desperately wanting to get back to the Eysen, tried to excuse himself.

  “Ripley, you might want to stay a minute and learn something new about something old,” Topper said.

  Rip let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Mostly in those days,” Topper continued. “Indians still ruled the land, but Clastier’s father was a French trapper, not but a pocketful of French wanderin’ those parts back then, and he didn’t give the boy much more than his name. He left before his son even arrived. Clastier’s mother was a Spanish woman, can’t recall her name just now. Anyways, the boy grew up goin’ to church, but also playin’ mostly with Indian kids. They saw the mountains, canyons, and rivers as an endless playground,” he chuckled, sipped his lemonade, “and I guess it was.”

  “Maybe the short version would be better, Topper. Time is precious to us right now.”

  Gale shot Rip a disapproving look.

  “Time is always precious.” Topper smiled. “Okay, where was I? Clastier at that time would have been known by his first name, but it was lost to the ages and we only know him as Clastier. In fact, his youth is not much remembered, except that he was exposed to the religious teachings of the Catholic Church, and the spiritual ways of the Indians. His mother wanted him to become a priest and he spent some years studying. He was very close with several important church leaders of the day, but somewhere in his twenties, he started to split from the Church.”

  “Why?” Rip asked, knowing the answer, but wanting to keep Topper on the subject.

  “Well, he had some kind of experiences, and began to see the church as limiting. Soon, he became vocal in his ideas and opposition. Then, it didn’t take long before people understood his points and he actually started to develop a following. Back then, Catholics were attemptin’ to convert everyone on the planet, including the Native Americans.

  “It doesn’t seem to have stopped,” Rip interrupted.

  “That may be true, but in those days, the Church wasn’t as invincible, and back in Rome they saw Clastier as a threat to their missions in the New World. He was a real problem as his influence spread among the Indians and Spanish Catholics. Many of them abandoned the Church, and it could have easily led to the unraveling of organized religion in the New World.”

  “Jesus,” Gale said.

  “Well, not exactly, but the Bishop in Durango ordered the assassination of Clastier. He went into hiding at Taos Pueblo, where he wrote a summary of his beliefs and teachings. But soon church officials discovered his whereabouts, and he fled into the mountains.

  “Those were scary times, and Clastier’s disappearance only increased his popularity. The story starts to get a little fuzzy from there, but at some point, a devout follower escaped with the papers, and eventually brought them to relatives in Asheville. As he shared the story and writings with his family and neighbors, a group of them became so enraptured with Clastier, that they decided to build a church to study the teachings of this great man. Membership grew until the fire occurred; no one ever did figure out how it started. Thing is, the rumors said that the papers survived and for all these years there have been folks searchin’ for them, includin’ agents of the Holy See.”

  “Topper, do you know where they are?” Gale asked.

  Topper winked. “I’ve read them, Miss,” he said, excitedly.

  “I need to see them. Please,” Gale said. The story was affecting her on a deeper level than she liked to admit.

  “Miss, right from the first, you reminded me of a dream that came several times some years back. A woman’s voice asking, ‘Where is Clastier?’ It must have been you.”

  Rip, still unsure, could see that Topper had made up his mind and nodded his agreement.

  “Then it’s decided.” Topper patted her leg. “Maybe it’s time they were finally published. How can the Church stop thousands of copies?”

  “I don’t know if it’s time to publish,” Rip said. He didn’t believe the Vatican had yet connected him to the Clastier Papers, but it struck him that the same Church that had chased Clastier nearly two hundred years earlier in order to suppress something, now pursued him for the
same reason.

  “I want to see them,” Gale repeated.

  “How ’bout you get me another glass of lemonade and I’ll get Clastier’s papers.”

  “You mean they’re here? In this house?” Gale couldn’t believe it.

  Chapter 28

  “When I used to read the papers as a teenager, I thought my uncle had brought them here from a safe deposit box or something. I had no idea they were kept here,” Rip said.

  “Been here all along,” Topper said. “This place is even built with fire-stones from Clastier’s church. Those papers are the reason the secret room was put in this house.”

  They followed Topper to the library. “We have the originals, and a translation done in the mid 1800s.” He explained how many of the church survivors and their descendents met secretly in the house for almost a hundred and fifty years. However, over time, the first, and then next generation died off, and interest waned, as the third generation scattered.

  Rip had been sixteen when they first told him the whole story about Clastier. The mystical, religious and spiritual parts of the story hadn’t caught his imagination as it had some of the others, but the mysterious claims Clastier made, and the historical aspects took root deep within him. His lineage to the church builders came through his mother. She had large sections of the papers memorized, but his father had always insisted she not discuss them with Rip. His uncle had secretly taught Clastier’s legacy to Rip, in an effort to move the information safely to the next generation. Now, the prior generation was gone, and only Rip and one cousin survived. He shivered with the thought that if a bomb went off right then, Clastier would be lost forever. Some of the urgency had been lost through the years, but Clastier was more important now than ever.

  Topper pointed to the east wall. “It’s over there. Let’s see how good you are at findin’ things, Professor.”

  The bookcases were part of the first construction – at least two hundred years old. The craftsmanship was fantastic – no nails, no visible gaps – and half way down was the main support shelf, with wagons and children carved in pioneer scenes, wrapping the room. The books here were also old; the more modern titles occupied the wall near the entrance. Running his fingers along the smooth dark wood, he almost couldn’t believe Topper’s story of a secret room. It would be the perfect place to hide the stone casing, which he’d already decided not to bring in the event they had to leave Asheville.

  For ten minutes, he searched, before finding an almost invisible half-inch peg at the back of the case. Gale helped him remove more books, until he discovered that a similar peg was concealed in every other shelf about two feet from the corner. Once he had them all depressed, a nearly imperceptible click led him to the next step. He grabbed under the carving, where a child was doing a handstand on a stack of books, and all at once, a two-foot section of the shelf, nearly five-feet high, separated and swung into the library.

  “Bravo,” Topper smiled proudly. “It’s all done with levers and weights.”

  “Ingenious. I never would have found it if I hadn’t known it was here.” Rip peered into the opening. Before him was a narrow room, about four feet wide and six feet long. A very old oak desk that appeared to have been built in the room and a surprisingly comfortable-looking chair crowded the space. Books were stacked and filled three rows of shelves that ran along a low ceiling.

  “Why wasn’t I ever told about this room?” Rip asked.

  “Your father forbade it. If you were seen anywhere near it, then he’d know you were studying Clastier,” Topper whispered, as if Rip’s father might hear.

  Once inside the secret room, Topper removed the books from the top shelf and pushed several hidden pegs, causing a section of the ceiling to swing down to reveal an antique wooden box snugly concealed. He deftly pulled out Clastier’s original papers, a stack of folded parchment, perhaps half an inch thick, between worn leather. The text was written in gorgeous script, every word in Old-World Spanish. Then he handed Gale a loosely bound book, again containing beautiful script from a different hand, this one in English. She moved her hand across the first page and read aloud.

  English Translation

  of

  The Clastier Papers

  We often wonder of the true value of Life. We search for endless years as others have searched for endless ages.

  I am a common man. I am not trying to teach you anything, for everything written here, or anywhere else, is already part of you. It seems obvious that each of us holds no greater responsibility than to assist one another. In the journey back to our souls, there are many, many obstacles. There are layers to cut through, thousands of years of civilization to let go. Yet anything can be done in an instant – think of that. For as far as we seem to have drifted from the essential essence of ourselves, in truth, the veil is very thin and throughout our lives, it is often lifted with a breeze, but we seldom pay attention.

  Therefore, I am merely telling you what I have seen and remembered. If it helps you to remember, then you will remind me and show me. We must do this because none of us will completely return to their soul until we all return. This is why the more you help others, the more you are helped – it has always been this way.

  There is something else we all must know . . . there is deception within the Church that drives confusion and fear. Nothing should preach separation, for we are all one.

  There is a day in the past, and another in the future which mirror each other, and the same events repeat. The past can change the future, and the future changes the past.

  Rip recalled the first time he read the papers after his mother’s death; he had become obsessed with Clastier’s writings. It had been nearly two decades since he’d last held the papers he’d all but memorized. They were divided into two sections, The Attestations and The Divinations. The former were the bulk of the work, and comprised his teachings and philosophies. But The Divinations – a series of predictions for the future, most of which had already come to pass – was the part that had captured young Rip’s imagination, and sent him into the world seeking something that likely didn’t exist. He had found it intoxicating to be one of only a few people in the world to hold and know such secrets; information so provocative that Popes had sought its complete destruction. Topper and his uncle had told him Clastier’s story, and let him read the translation, but only a few were trusted to know where the original documents were hidden.

  But that didn’t matter because Clastier’s words, the way he alluded to ideas, explained mysteries with more mystery, took root in Rip and wouldn’t let go. He’d seen the papers as a complex treasure map, and had chosen archaeology in order to find what Clastier promised lay hidden. One of The Divinations, specifically, ignited the passion that propelled him to find the thing from the past that would change the future. And now that he had, it threatened everything.

  Chapter 29

  Harmer, Lambert, and Larsen drove straight to the bus station in Panama City, Florida. The sleepy attendant seemed surprised as they all rushed through the doors. Another Booker employee, just leaving the counter, met them. “Not enough options here, but we could get him on a bus to Jacksonville, and onto a train from there,” the man said.

  “The feds are probably only minutes behind us,” Lambert said.

  “Highway, train, plane, boat, that’s a lot for the FBI to cover,” Harmer said.

  “Jesus, you guys don’t have a plan?” Larsen blasted.

  “We do; in fact, we have several,” Lambert said.

  “Then pick one!”

  “Remember, the best plans are the ones that can change as circumstances do,” Harmer added, eyeing a no smoking sign suspiciously.

  Larsen shook his head. A rapid discussion ensued.

  Lambert got Delta Airlines on his cell phone and booked a flight to Atlanta leaving in twenty minutes. From there, they could go anywhere.

  “Booker has a remote home in Montana. He wants us to get you there, until he can figure this all out,” Har
mer told Larsen as they left the bus station. “Don’t worry, we’ve got a good plan.”

  “I thought you had several,” Larsen said.

  “We’ve got several good plans,” Harmer corrected. “We’ll split up at the airport, making it harder for them to find us.”

  Lambert found a short-term parking space and they raced to the terminal. There were two of them, no bags to check, not even any carry-on, the ticket agent remembered when the FBI questioned her an hour and twenty minutes later. She only glanced at their IDs, but recalled clearly that Larsen Fretwell had been one of the men that boarded the flight to Atlanta. “He was very tall,” she said.

  The flight took sixty-four minutes. They were moving through the busiest passenger airport in the world, as the first agents arrived. Lambert noticed the feds scanning the crowd, but somehow they made it to the airport shuttle undetected. The bus dropped them off at the Grand Escape, a stunning six-story hotel, part of a worldwide chain of some 2,800 owned by Booker. Calls had been made, an emergency exit left propped open, and surveillance cameras stalled, or reset. They picked up keys at the front desk to a room they never intended to use, then took the elevator to the top floor suite.

  The plan called for a helicopter to pick them up on the roof in fifteen minutes. It would be tricky because the only part of the roof open and flat enough for a landing was on the other side of the dramatic pyramid atrium. A narrow catwalk, in place for wiring, and accessible only from a panel in the supply closet next to the entrance to the stairs, was their best escape route.

  They were halfway across the catwalk when the FBI entered their room, and began filtering onto all the other floors. At the same time, agents spotted them from below. A burst of commands across walkie-talkies and bullhorns followed. Before the fugitives could reach the other side, the SWAT team lowered men onto the roof. Officers rushed onto the catwalk from both ends.