The Cosega Sequence: A Techno Thriller

by Brandt Legg

  Busman had moved Sean and his handlers to Taos. Sean had been going crazy; confined to a cabin in the woods. The thirty-minute drive through Taos Canyon and his hotel room in town were a welcome change of scenery. They even complied with his request for doughnuts, and bacon, for breakfast; the same breakfast shared with his girlfriend, after their first overnight. He missed her and promised himself that whenever this was all over, he would propose. No one knew that Sean’s hotel was less than a mile from Gale and Rip’s.

  Priorities changed after the botched Grinley raid. The NSA picked up a conversation between high-level Vatican officials discussing Gaines and one of the artifacts. The Church’s description of what they called the Ater Dies was stunning. “With the new information from Rome,” Busman’s superior told him, “Gaines’ surviving the raid was a good thing. But it means we’ve got a bigger problem; other than just getting to Gaines before the FBI or the Vatican.”

  An NSA computer, scouring millions of phone calls in the areas where Gaines had traveled since finding the artifacts, had turned up a call between him and fellow archaeologist Larsen, in which the artifacts were mentioned. That, coupled with other data the intelligence agency had uncovered, indicated that what the Vatican called the Ater Dies was one and the same as what Gaines had named the “Eysen.”

  “So we need Gaines’s knowledge to acquire a complete understanding of the purpose, meaning, and workings of the Eysen?” Busman asked his superior.

  “He’s crucial.”

  “That might be a little tricky, with the FBI and the Vatican also pursuing,” Busman said.

  “Tell me what you need. This is SAB.”

  Busman didn’t need to be reminded; he felt the pressure of the Scorch And Burn assignment every waking minute and knew nothing was out of bounds – breaking laws, assassination, – whatever it took to achieve the objective, to get the Eysen, and now bringing Gaines in alive, with it. Plan B would need to be modified and Sean Stadler might have to be sacrificed. He jumped rope for twenty minutes; it helped him think.

  Barbeau wasn’t surprised to hear of the NSA’s fiasco on the mesa. He’d already started calling Gaines “Houdini” and this was at least salve for his bruised ego. If the mighty NSA couldn’t capture the professor, when they had him completely surrounded by a Special Ops unit, then the Bureau’s misses didn’t look so bad. And, more importantly, Barbeau needed to be the one to bring them in, or something terrible was going to happen. He hadn’t figured out just what that was, but he knew enough to know the situation was becoming more complicated every hour.

  This case felt desperate; he wasn’t just in a chess match with Gaines, but was also waging a battle with anxiety. Over the past fifteen years, it hadn’t been just the Bureau changing; the entire government had become so obsessed with stopping terrorism, that long-established checks and balances had been eroded. But this one was even worse; it was as if the rulebook had been burned.

  Chapter 10

  Wednesday July 19th

  After a forty-minute walk, Gale and Rip reached the Taos Pueblo a few minutes before it opened at eight a.m. The cool summer morning air, a reminder of the high desert, carried a hint of wood smoke.

  “I’ve read about it and seen photos, but it’s more than I imagined,” Rip said as they stood on the banks of the teeming Rio Pueblo, a wide and shallow creek that had provided drinking water for centuries.

  “It’s as if it was sculpted out of the earth.” Gale marveled at the turquoise doors and layered adobes stacked on top of each other five stories high.

  Rip imagined what it would be like to excavate such a site a thousand years from now. The earthen walls would leave little trace; it would be the plastic, metal, and ceramics that might give a clue. But what if that didn’t exist? What if it had been properly disposed of and nothing had been left behind? What if he was excavating such a site; ten thousand years from now, a hundred thousand, or a million? Nothing would remain.

  The tour guide, a young native woman, gave a brief history as she led them toward a beautiful five-story adobe structure at the base of Taos Mountain. The light earth-colored buildings against the pine-covered mountains, wrapped in the bluest sky, were a breathtaking sight. “I can see why this place inspired Clastier to write,” Gale whispered to Rip, as the tour guide began her talk.

  “Our ancestors lived in this valley long before Columbus stumbled on America and hundreds of years before Europe emerged from the Dark Ages.” The tour guide swept her arm out before her. “It is believed that the main part of these buildings were constructed between 1000 and 1450 A.D. When the first Spanish explorers arrived in 1540, Hlauuma, the north house, and Hlaukwima, the south house, would have appeared much as they still do. The Spaniards believed that our pueblo was one of the fabled golden cities of Cibola. It’s the oldest continuously inhabited community in North America, and a UN World Heritage Site.”

  Gale and Rip, the only ones on the tour, nodded appreciatively. In their line of work, they were both familiar with the Taos Pueblo.

  Rip had grown up reading Clastier’s writings, the bulk of them done at Taos Pueblo from where Clastier made his final escape attempt. Gale had been consumed by his papers for days, and was obsessed about discovering the connection to the Eysen. On the walk to the Pueblo, they reviewed all they knew of Clastier, and considered what might have happened to him once he left Taos. The Church had a posse after him, but there is no record of his capture. In fact, beyond the papers in her pack and those left behind in Asheville, no proof of his life existed at all.

  “Any questions?”

  “What religion is practiced at the Pueblo?” Gale asked, wanting to get into the church.

  “The majority of my people are Catholic. We practice that, along with the ancient Indian religious rites.”

  “Don’t the two conflict?” Rip asked. Gale nudged him.

  “No. The Pueblo religion is very complex. The two are interwoven like the white and brown threads in my blouse – together they make a beautiful fabric.”

  Rip figured she’d heard the question before and decided not to bring up the fact that Catholicism had been forced on her people; things hadn’t been going so well since the Church had woven itself into the fabric of their culture.

  “Could we see the church?” Gale asked.

  “Of course. On the way, we’ll just stop at some of the shops, so you can see the insides of the houses.”

  “Do people still live here?” Gale asked, trying to sound touristy.

  “Oh, yes. About one hundred and fifty people live full-time within the old Pueblo village. Another nineteen hundred Taos Indians live on our surrounding lands. You’ll like the shops. We’re famous for our mica-flecked pottery, moccasins, and drums. There are many wonderful artisans here.”

  Rip was impatient to get into church across the way. A crudely painted board next to the shop’s entrance read “Wood Crafts.”

  “Remember,” the tour guide began, “within the Pueblo walls, tradition dictates no electricity or running water are allowed.”

  She was right, Rip thought, as he stumbled into the shop, the only light coming from the small narrow doorway. Rip had to take off his sunglasses to avoid walking into anything. A dozen carved masks, flutes and walking sticks were on display; another rack held a few pipes and a small glass case of trinkets. He was about to leave when; the proprietor, a very wrinkled Native American man, smiled at him. Rip smiled back. Then the man’s toothless expression turned angry. He stabbed his bony finger into Rip’s chest.

  “How dare you return here?” The man grabbed a stick and shook it at him. Rip immediately assumed the man recognized his picture from the news, and was ready to flee, when Gale stepped between them.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, looking directly at the old shopkeeper.

  “You cannot stop him!” the man yelled at Rip, ignoring Gale.

  Their tour entered. “Grandfather, Grandfather. It’s okay.” She patted his shoulder then turned to Gale. �
�I’m sorry. He sometimes thinks he sees things that are not there.”

  “No. It is true,” the man shouted. “I was Tagu, I was there.” He glared at Rip.

  Gale and Rip froze and shared a desperate glance. Clastier’s closest friend at the Pueblo had been named Tagu.

  Chapter 11

  Grinley had spent the night in a friend’s yurt. When the soldiers hit the roof, he was already in the tunnel. There were enough remote controlled and timed weapons to keep them busy for a while. They’d find it much easier to blast the back door, than to try bulletproof windows, or the reinforced steel plates on the roof. And he was right. By the time they gained access, nearly an hour had elapsed. Grinley had already made it to the main road with a duffle of cash and two cell phones. A friend picked him up and dropped him at an old pool hall, where he waited for someone else, who drove him to a back road, where a third buddy waited – the one who owned the yurt. Grinley, an old paranoid drug dealer, was determined never to return to prison, nor to be killed by his enemies. He had so many escape plans; he couldn’t remember them all.

  At the New Mexico State Police district headquarters, Barbeau and Hall sipped coffee and waited for another break, as the sleepy little town came awake. At least, it appeared that the Vatican agents had been right – Gaines was in Taos. But it troubled him when Hall pointed out that no one had actually seen Gaines since he’d left the dig site.

  Word of the raid on Grinley’s compound reached Nanski and Leary long after it ended, because of a new system Barbeau and the Director had implemented. Tired of the Attorney General keeping the Vatican updated on the case, Barbeau and Hall now reported developments to a DIRT agent first, and waited as long as possible before entering the normal chain of command, which would lead quickly to Dover. Trying to keep the NSA out of the loop was, as the Director put it, “a whole other monster; the NSA, by design, is beyond the reach of anyone.”

  Leary sucked on a successive series of wintergreen Lifesavers, while Nanski worked the phone – first the Cardinal in Rome, and then Pisano, his Vatican contact in the states. Leary was more bored than tired. Nanski was neither, but his nerves were wearing thin. Perhaps more than anyone, he knew the stakes. No one, especially the NSA, could be allowed possession of these artifacts, or the Church would be destroyed. Each passing day brought the greater risk of more people learning the astonishing secrets. Nanski knew a point existed when killing people would no longer protect the Church, and he feared that point was very close. Too many agents were in Taos trying to get the artifacts.

  Leary watched in awe, as Nanski strategized and continually tried to anticipate Gaines’ next move. But Nanski was frustrated; either little evidence of Clastier’s life remained, or Rome was purposefully keeping it from him. The high-ranking Cardinal, who had been feeding them information, was also navigating a mysterious world of competing interests and egos. “Power is not something you hold; it’s a fluid and dangerous thing that can turn on you at any time. This is particularly true in the complex world of the Holy See,” the Cardinal had told them.

  Senator Monroe needed to be the next call. Pisano had talked to him, but Pisano didn’t grasp the magnitude of the situation. Nanski punched the Senator’s private number into his cell.

  “Senator, I hope you don’t mind if I get right to the point. I know about your relationship with Gale Asher, and was hoping you could tell me something about her that might help us anticipate their next move.”

  The Senator had been expecting the call, but Nanski hadn’t been expecting his response. “Listen to me, Nanski. You’ve bungled this thing from the start. I’ve always believed the Vatican had one of the best intelligence outfits, but I’ll bet a couple of amateur private eyes from the yellow pages could have caught them by now. There is only so much I can do to help your cause, but I can tell you this: there should be no question as to where Gale’s loyalties lie.”

  Chapter 12

  “My grandfather sometimes lives between two worlds,” the Pueblo tour guide said.

  Gale looked back over her shoulder at the centuries-old buildings. “Can we just talk to your grandfather?” she pleaded.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the tour guide said, as they approached the church. She had had to practically push them out of his shop while holding her grandfather at bay. “I’ve never seen him so upset.”

  “He called himself Tagu,” Rip said. “Who did he mean?”

  “That’s not his name. I’ve never even heard it before. Please don’t think too much about what he says.”

  “Does he see past lives?” Gale asked.

  The tour guide stopped and considered Gale for a moment, before walking into the church’s courtyard. “Let’s not discuss these things any more.”

  Gale was about to speak, but Rip raised his hand just enough to catch her attention and waved her off.

  San Geronimo Church, a lovely small brown and white adobe building with twin bell towers, stood at the center of the Pueblo. As the guide told of its history, Rip continued to look back toward the old man’s shop. He bumped into a woman trying to take a photo. Tourists arriving in greater numbers suddenly made him feel more exposed. Rip strode inside the church, wanting to complete their task and put the Pueblo behind them. Gale caught up, needing to tell him they had to go back and find the shopkeeper, but the formidable silence of the chapel stopped her. Its bright white plaster walls offset the dark wooden vigas supporting the ceiling, the worn wooden pews, all drew one’s focus to the bright blue niches containing depictions of saints and idols at the altar.

  They stood quietly for a few moments, Rip hardly seeing any of it as his thoughts raced. A group of tourists entered, filling the small space. Gale tugged Rip toward the door. The tour guide was waiting at the entrance to the courtyard, so Gale led Rip to an empty corner instead.

  “I don’t know why I went along with this. Do you think Clastier left us a note in there?” Rip asked. “We should be using our time to get deeper into the Eysen or finding a place to hide, not wasting it on this dead priest.” Rip pointed to the church. “And even if he had left some kind of message or clue, he was there so long ago; it’s surely been painted over or remodeled away by now.”

  “Oh my God,” Gale said, looking back at the twin bell towers. “We’re at the wrong church. Clastier never set foot in this building. It wasn’t even here when he was.”

  “What are you talking about?” Rip asked.

  “She just told us.” Gale pointed to their tour guide. “This church was built around 1850, to replace the one destroyed by the U.S. Army in 1847.”

  “Of course, the ruins we saw on the way in.”

  They hurried over to the guide and asked about the history of the church.

  “The original church was built in 1619, at another part of the Pueblo, but was destroyed in the 1680 revolt,” she explained. “Soon after, another church was constructed at the same site.” She pointed north but Pueblo buildings blocked the view. “And, sadly, it was destroyed again in 1847.”

  “Can we see the ruins?” Gale asked.

  “Certainly. Unfortunately, I have to pick up another tour group at the gate, but I’ll show you how to get there. It’s easy.”

  A few minutes later, they stood behind a low adobe wall, which stretched around a field of wooden crosses. At the center of the old cemetery, a solitary adobe bell tower rose from the earth as if it was a natural formation – the lone survivor of the 1847 Taos Revolt.

  “It stands there like a martyr,” Gale said, “like it shares a poetic vision with the mountains.”

  Rip looked at Gale in a moment of warmth; then went over the wall.

  “That’s not allowed,” Gale began.

  “I know, and I’m sorry. Normally, I’m respectful of culture and traditions, but I’m wanted for murder at the moment,” he said, as if breaching the cemetery wall was a minor offence. “And if we’re looking for something, let’s look, and then get the hell out of here.”

&nbs
p; Gale scanned the area. They were on a deserted edge of the village. She followed, weaving her way through the crowd of crosses. They reached a crumbling wall next to the bell tower, where stacks of more old and weathered crosses in varying sizes lay piled like old wounded soldiers, forgotten and broken. “When the old crosses fall down, they lean them against the ruined church,” Gale said. “One hundred and fifty people were slaughtered, when American soldiers attacked this church in 1847.”

  “I don’t know what you think we will find here. If I had time to do a proper excavation, maybe we could piece something together about Clastier. But we don’t, and it wouldn’t be likely we’d find anything of him because, as you pointed out, there was an awfully bloody battle here in the meantime.”

  “Rip, take a deep breath. It’s not about digging up the past. We need to look at this through Clastier’s eyes. This was his world. And his words helped plant the seeds for the revolt that caused this damage.”

  Rip looked up at the tower, touched its earthen walls, which rightfully should have melted back into the land at least a century earlier, yet miraculously remained. A strange sense of worlds colliding overtook him.

  He glanced over at Gale, and was astounded to see her meditating. She sat on the ground, back against the rough wall, inhaling deliberately. Rip’s first impulse was to yell at her how inappropriate it was; for a hundred obvious reasons. Instead, for reasons he didn’t understand, he joined her.

  Rip closed his eyes, and tried to push the knots of tension and fear from his fatigued mind. He felt as if he were naked in front of a crowd and found it difficult to relax. But the warm sun on his face, and the stillness of the Pueblo, quieted his nerves.