by Brandt Legg
“My sister made it,” Tahoma answered, exchanging a glance with Rip. “She is a warrior in the kitchen.”
“How is Mai?” Rip asked. Gale detected a soft and hopeful tone in Rip’s voice.
“She’s as much of a firecracker as you remember.”
“It’s been a while. I should have kept in touch,” Rip said, while chewing on a flatbread sandwich of vegetables and eggs that might have been the tastiest thing he’d ever eaten.
“Probably you should have,” Tahoma said. “But the seasons are different in dreams.”
Gale thought it an odd statement, but Rip nodded as if it were profound logic; as if he’d heard it many times before. She was envious of how easily Tahoma wore his spirituality.
“Sean, I brought you a cola,” Tahoma said, fishing a cold can from a small cooler.
“Thanks! My favorite breakfast beverage,” Sean said, noticing that Gale and Rip got tea.
Tahoma nodded, his eyes squinting during a lingering stare. He smiled. “When y’all done eating, I’ll take you deeper.”
“Thanks, Tahoma . . . for everything.”
Tahoma started breaking down the unused tent. Gale grabbed their stuff from the other one. “Your eyes tell a story,” Tahoma said to her.
She’d heard similar pick-up lines countless times, but she suspected Tahoma meant it in a different way. “How do you see so much?”
He thought for several seconds. “It seems that in your society everything exists on two separate levels: there is the living and there’s the dead. There are humans and animals, known and unknown, the latest news and the long forgotten. Everything is separate.” He tossed their sleeping bags in the back of his truck. “My people have always understood that it is easier to walk between the worlds. Otherwise, you’re half-blind.”
Rip rode with Tahoma, while Sean and Gale followed in the rental. When the canyon finally came into view, it seemed like a vision, something that could hardly be real. Lacking the magnificence of the Grand Canyon or the drama of Bryce Canyon, Canyon de Chelly, instead, had a mystical sense to it – littered with ruins, petroglyphs, and sacred sites, while also being a living community of farms, ranches, and orchards.
“Incredible,” Gale said to Tahoma once they parked the rental and she squeezed in front, between him and Rip. Sean rode in the open back of the truck.
“Hang on back there,” Tahoma said to him through the sliding window, “It’s gonna get a little bumpy.”
“Have your people always lived here?” Gale asked.
“They say our ancestors, the Anasazi, have lived in the canyon for five thousand years,” he said, then leaned over toward Rip, “but it has been much longer.” Gale assumed Tahoma knew of Rip’s Cosega theory. The colorful cliffs had been formed over millions of years. “It’s actually three connecting canyons, with many hiding places,” Tahoma added, laughing.
Two hours later, after they’d been on the canyon floor for a while, he stopped below an ancient cliff dwelling; that, at first, Gale didn’t notice because it so perfectly matched the surrounding rock. Tahoma produced sandwiches that were beyond delicious. “Your sister?” Gale asked.
“Yeah, Mai doesn’t like people to be hungry,” Tahoma said. Another hour and a half of boulders, ruts, and dense vegetation robbed the truck of enough road to continue. “It’s just a short hike now.”
They made their way into a poet’s glen. A large open cave met a canopy of cottonwood trees, completely obstructing the area from the rim, nearly a thousand feet above. A spring fed a stream and the meadows nearby were almost entirely shielded by outcroppings of rocks and trees.
“Wow, it’s tailor-made as a hideout,” Rip said, smiling.
“My people needed to hide many times,” Tahoma said. He helped them set up their tents. “I’ve got to get going, but I’ll be back in the morning. You’re well stocked with provisions.”
“Thank you again, Tahoma. Please give my best to Mai, and thank her, too.”
“I will. She might ride along with me in the morning.”
“I’d love to see her again,” Rip said.
Sean went off to explore the area, which gave Gale and Rip another chance to debate whether to include him in their studies of the Eysen. “I don’t know how you’re going to avoid showing it to him,” Gale said. “We’re all stuck down here together. You can’t just wander off to a sunny spot, spend hours watching it, and think he’s just going to sit by the stream all day.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Rip, we’d still be in Taos without him. We probably would have been arrested that first day up on the Blue Ridge Parkway.”
“Why do you keep defending him?”
“He’s my friend’s little brother. My dead friend, who I helped kill.”
“You?”
“Josh wouldn’t have taken the casing to the lab, if I hadn’t gone along with it.”
“Were you two sleeping together?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“An inappropriate one. I’m sorry.”
“We’ve been together almost every minute for the past ten days, and you still find new ways to annoy me. What if Josh and I were lovers, what if we were going to be married? How does that matter? He’s dead.” Gale walked off in tears.
Rip followed. “Gale, I didn’t mean, I mean, I wasn’t . . . ”
“No, you weren’t. That’s the problem with brilliant people; they’re always selfish. Why is that?”
“I wouldn’t know. Haven’t I just proven I’m anything but brilliant?”
“You’ve proven you’re arrogant. That’s all.”
“I don’t want anyone else to know about the Eysen until we understand it.”
“Do you remember the part of Clastier’s papers where he talks about trust?”
“Yes. He says that trust seems like a never-ending lesson.”
“So trust me. Trust Sean.”
“Clastier said that in order to understand trust; one must feel betrayal, and then trust again, even knowing that he will be betrayed again.”
Gale nodded.
“I can’t risk the betrayal.”
“But you must.”
“Why?”
“Because Clastier told you to and we’re dancing in his ballroom.”
Chapter 35
The FBI Director paced in an open patch of dust between a juniper tree and two large chamisa bushes. “The President and the Attorney General are compliant, but they’re also fighting.”
“How can they do both?” Barbeau asked.
“Because they have no choice. If they’re not compliant, then they’re dead. But they are secretly fighting. The trouble is, I don’t know if they’re patriots or just hungry for their own power.”
“So, what you’re telling me is that we’re on our own?”
“No. I’m saying we can’t trust anyone but ourselves.”
“What about DIRT?”
“DIRT is safe,” the Director said. “What about Hall? Do you have any reason to doubt him?”
“Nothing I can think of.”
“Just remember, you can’t believe anything, not even the truth.”
“That kind of makes our job impossible.”
The Director looked at Barbeau as if he’d just said something foolish. “Neither the Vatican nor the NSA gets to Gaines before we do.”
“Then I need Hall to know.”
“Tell him as little as possible. Anyone can be a link back into the administration; anyone can make a mistake and say something, someplace where the NSA has ears.”
“We need allies. Isn’t there anyone we can join forces with who isn’t likely to undercut us?”
“The Attorney General wants the Vatican to get the artifact. The President likely prefers the FBI to win, but he’s boxed in ten different ways. The NSA, of course, wants it all to themselves.”
“And Booker?” Barbeau asked.
“Booker is a hard one to figure. My guess is, he wants it himself.�
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“So, he isn’t loyal to Gaines?”
“Booker Lipton is only loyal to Ben Franklin,” the Director said.
“That seems too easy. Hall thinks there’s more to him than that.”
“Maybe Hall is working for him.”
“Director, not everyone is corrupt.”
“It sure as hell feels that way. Speaking of corrupt, then there’s our friend, Senator Monroe.”
“Where are his loyalties?”
“Barbeau, you’ve been out in the field too long. Inside the Beltway, most people know that politicians are not loyal. Monroe’s a Catholic and the Vatican is a powerful force, their intelligence is already being used to advance him and his policies, and soon it’ll discredit his biggest rival, the Governor of Texas. Still, in the end, even the Pope knows that Monroe can’t be counted on completely, but they really want another Catholic in the White House. Lest we discount Monroe’s ties to the U.S. intelligence community, he‘s their greatest champion – increasing budgets, expanding powers, and protecting them at every turn. In the end, he’ll side with the greatest power.”
“Yeah, but is that Booker and his billions, the current President, the Attorney General, the Vatican, or the NSA?”
“Or his ex-girlfriend?”
“Gale Asher has no power.”
“Don’t be so sure. Monroe has met with Vatican officials, the President, Dover, and the NSA in the last three days. He may not have met with Gale Asher, but don’t assume she doesn’t count. She already has what everyone else is trying to get.”
“So you came to Taos to tell me that the President of the United States is being controlled by the NSA, the United States Attorney General is being controlled by the Vatican, and the man likely to be our next President is frighteningly corrupt?”
“No, I came because we know what Gaines has. The Vatican refers to it as the ‘Ater Dies,’ Gaines has dubbed it the ‘Eysen’ but, regardless this thing is much more than an artifact. It’s the history of the planet . . . and its future.”
Chapter 36
Kruse and Harmer had spent the night in Farmington, New Mexico, awaiting word on their next destination. Booker called just after 7 a.m. local time, to tell them Gaines was at Canyon de Chelly, Arizona, about a three-hour drive.
“It’s rugged country and well within the Navajo Reservation, but I did the tribal government a favor a few years back, and I may still have a connection or two there. If we can locate them, we’ll need to do an extraction and you should expect competition. I’ve got a bird on the way and some back-up artillery.”
“You’re bringing in shooters to take on the feds? Is that the best way to handle this?” Kruse asked.
“It’s the only way.”
“That sounds less like an extraction and more like an act of war.”
“That’s just what this is.”
Kruse wanted to know where Booker was getting his information. Originally, he’d guessed the source was in the Justice Department, but lately they’d been ahead of the feds. Booker had to have someone inside the administration, possibly the CIA, or maybe even the NSA. But he wouldn’t ask, even if the phones had been safe. Booker would never answer, and would likely fire him for the question.
“We’ll be there by ten,” Kruse said.
“Good. Hopefully I’ll have some new information for you by then.” Booker hung up and called the Senator. That Monroe agreed to a second meeting was a good sign. If he’d decided to turn down Booker’s billion dollar offer, he could have done that on the phone, but details surrounding a yes, or even a reasonable counter-offer, would require a face-to-face meeting.
As soon as they were finished, Booker would leave the area. No matter what the outcome of their conversation, the nation’s capital wasn’t safe. Booker was at the center of the greatest crisis in known history, involving only a dozen or so key players. The balance could shift easily with a single death. If a few more died, it was anyone’s game.
“Thanks for coming,” the Senator said, as they walked through Rock Creek Park near Washington’s border with Maryland.
“Have you considered my offer?” Booker asked, stopping along a low bank of river rocks, not far from an old arched stone bridge.
“Yes. But that’s not why I asked you here today. Your offer, while generous, falls a little short and I’ll have to decline.”
“You could have done that over the phone.”
“I certainly could have, but as I said; I didn’t ask you here to discuss your offer.”
“If it’s a matter of more money . . . ” Booker began.
“No, no. Booker, a billion was a fair amount, even for someone as rich as yourself. But you’re competing with the U.S. Treasury and the wealth of the Catholic Church. I’ll soon have those at my disposal; so you can keep your money.”
“Fair enough, Senator. Then why am I here?” Booker asked, not at all uncomfortable with the blatant corruption contained in the Senator’s statement.
“I would like to make you an offer.”
“On whose behalf?”
“I’d consider it a personal favor.”
Booker hesitated for a moment. He felt certain Monroe would be the next President, knowing better than most that elections didn’t mean much, really never did. And he didn’t care who occupied the White House. “They’re all corrupt,” he’d told a friend, who had asked advice on which candidate would be better for his business. “The best one is the one who does what he’s paid to do,” Booker replied, meaning he paid good money for politicians and expected things in return.
But Senator Monroe was different. Yes, he was shrewd and calculating like all his predecessors, and he even had a decent heart in there somewhere, but each passing year the world consolidated power into fewer and fewer hands, and Monroe was the first to fully understand and have impeccable and strong connections to the three groups that actually run the world – the Church, the corporations, and the Community, also known as the world’s intelligence agencies led by the United States.
Monroe could become the most powerful man in history; only one thing stood in his way. Standing there gazing into the eyes of the wildly ambitious Senator, Booker put the pieces together. He often did that during negotiations; all his accumulated wealth was partially owed to his uncanny ability to read people and situations so accurately. The Senator was about to ask Booker’s help in obtaining or destroying the only thing that could stop him – the Eysen.
“Tell me, Senator, who would you give it to, if you had it?”
“Give what?” Monroe tried, with his best poker face.
Booker stared unblinking.
“How did you know the favor I would ask?” It was the first time in their negotiations that Monroe had been bested.
“Because, if a man of your power does not want my money; there is only one other thing I might be in the position to do for you.”
“Yes, well, you’re correct. I’d like your help getting the Eysen from Gaines.”
“My question still stands.”
“What difference does it make? I might even keep it myself.”
“Okay, and what would I get in return?”
“Are you eager to have the Church or the Community as enemies?”
“So, you’re threatening me?”
“No, no. It’s just that they can be such good friends. Surely we all need good friends.”
“I have good friends, Senator.”
“One can never have too many friends.” Monroe smiled.
Booker searched the trees, suddenly worried he might be arrested, or worse. The humidity suggested a thunderstorm. He wore one of his trademark linen suits and carefully took off his jacket, folded it over his arm, and rolled up his sleeves. The Senator watched patiently and loosened his own necktie, thankful for the shade but longing for his air-conditioned car – not far away a driver waited.
“In my experience, friends you have to pay for are worth less than the ones who come free.”
&nb
sp; “Booker, what do you care about a fancy artifact? Surely, it’s not worth going to war over.”
“War?”
“Things have been stirred up. Crazy to have all this trouble over something that’s been buried forever. Why don’t we let the Church and the Community fight over it, and you and I go about our business as usual?”
“You do realize that I don’t have it, and don’t even know where they are.”
“But you might. And if and when you do, I’d like you to cooperate, help me get the Eysen.”
“First, tell me who would you give it to, if you had it?”
“The Church.”
“Interesting.” Booker knew he was lying. He didn’t question the Senator’s devotion to the Catholic Church; it’s just that the smart play would be to give it to the more powerful force; namely, the NSA. But Booker didn’t believe Monroe was going to do that either because, with the support he already had from the Church, corporations, and the Community; if Monroe could keep the Eysen for himself, his power would be unmatched and unquestioned. What surprised and worried Booker was that Monroe had already figured that out, and as far as he knew, the Senator had never even laid eyes on it.
“So you’ll play ball?” Monroe asked.
“There’ll be a price,” Booker said, as the two men locked eyes.
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you when the time comes,” Booker said, never losing eye contact. “But it’ll be a price you’re willing to pay.”
“Then I can count on you to do the right thing?”
“Senator, when money and power are involved, you can always count on Booker Lipton to do the right thing.”
Chapter 37
Sean found Gale and Rip sitting by the stream. The sun filtered through the cottonwood trees, but the canyon’s rim was not visible. No one could see them. He watched from a distance for a few seconds before clearing his throat. They were staring at the Eysen, the thing that had caused so much suffering. He wanted to run and grab it, then smash it on the rocks. He would have, too, but it wouldn’t bring his brother back; it wouldn’t do anything, except prove Josh’s death had been a waste. Josh had died guarding that damn thing and no matter what else Sean was going to do, he was determined to protect it.