Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project

by Douglas, Daniel P.

  He waited.

  Nothing. No battering ram, not so much as a knock, either. No sounds, no voices.

  And yet there he crouched, cowering in a corner of his motel room. He felt more manipulated than ever and so goddamn, motherfucking useless!

  Standing, gun still pointing at the door, Harrison moved forward. A quick retrieval of the postcard with his free hand preceded a hasty glance at the image on the front of it.

  Jesus fuckin’ Christ!

  He shoved the card with the Jefferson Memorial on it into his pocket.

  He unlocked the door next, then knelt. The door’s knob twisted under his sweaty grip as he opened it to peer outside. He looked right at the second-floor landing, down at the parking lot below, and then left at the remainder of the second-floor landing and more of the parking lot below.

  No one.

  He closed the door and locked it.

  Harrison backed into the room until he reached an area between the corner of a wall by the bathroom and the still unmade king-sized bed, and then he pulled out the postcard. Once settled into his cover, Harrison looked at the card and a saw a handwritten message. This time, however, the name that followed the message was not “Echo Tango.” Reading the name several times, Harrison’s consciousness flashed to an incident many years ago, to the Aurora case, to the time when an air force general and his security team in Hemet California nearly shot and killed him, Holcomb, and other FBI personnel.

  The memory and the name, Edward Taylor, forced Harrison’s teeth together into a gritty, angry clench. “Fucking asshole.”

  The scent of witch hazel coming from the card made Harrison even more angry and frustrated.

  “How would he know about that?”

  Harrison shook his head and read the short message on the card: “One more errand. Come to room 117 and I’ll explain. No harm will come to you.”

  Harrison knew what the underlined “you” meant. Taylor had demonstrated all too well on the Aurora case a willingness to use violence as a primary enforcement option.

  But the postcard also raised another obvious question for Harrison.

  “How the hell did he find me?”

  Harrison held no clear reason to trust Taylor. No rationale could get him to put on his coat, collect his keys and wallet, and walk downstairs. Anger did not do it either. Curiosity was an afterthought.

  The lump in his throat could have been from sadness.

  But, as he stood there in front of room 117, ready to turn the knob and meet his informant, Harrison knew that sadness was just a thin layer, a tiny core wrapped inside a thick mantle of regret. He had missed so much, and like it or not, behind Taylor’s manipulation, some very important answers waited for him.

  He swallowed hard, hoping for clarity, and for purpose.

  Just before stepping into the unlocked room, Harrison drew the Colt and held it at his side. He nudged inward and saw Taylor, a vulnerable, unarmed target sitting in a padded cloth chair facing the door about midway through the room. He too looked forlorn, his hands resting in clear view on the chair’s arms.

  Harrison closed the door behind him and then raised his gun. “You don’t mind if I look around, do you?”

  Taylor nodded. “Please do, Mr. Harrison. But I assure you, I am alone and you are safe for the moment. And we have much to discuss.”

  “And for the moment, just shut the fuck up.”

  Chapter 35

  Margaret O’Donnell, FBI

  For the fifth time in less than an hour, Maggie O’Donnell checked her watch. The Christmas Eve party in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia, was crowded, noisy, and just plain dull. She wanted little to do with this particular crowd. Everyone tried so hard to promote their connections, real or fabricated, to the Washington, DC, scene.

  “What they’re really after is good parking,” she said to herself, looking at the morass.

  She was under no obligation to attend the party in the first place. But, as it was with most of these get-togethers, Maggie attended out of hope, and, like it or not, she was connected to the Washington scene. An FBI forensic scientist by trade, she also taught, wrote columns, advocated for environmental causes, and, most notably, painted artwork whose creations had found their way into some of the most prominent of Washington, DC, homes. Maggie also served as a board member for several regional arts organizations.

  Maggie searched for substance, and managed to thrive on what little came her way or what she found by hoping for it. In her early forties, Maggie O’Donnell was involved, active, still single, and optimistic about people but impatient with those who carried no soul.

  Maggie’s sofa mate interrupted her meandering thoughts. “No, seriously, Dr. O’Donnell, Georgetown University most definitely has many professional opportunities that you should consider. Most definitely.”

  At the moment, Maggie preferred career advice from the potted plant sitting next to her. At the very least, she had known the plant about ten minutes longer than she had known this Georgetown dean.

  “So you’ve told me,” Maggie said.

  “Most definitely. You’re in the prime of your life, after all.” The dean’s subtle and clever caress of her kneecap with the back side of his fingertips accompanied the sultry tone in his voice.

  Maggie set her wine glass on the end table next to the sofa, bid a silent adieu to her plant friend, and stood up. She saw the dean begin to rise, but she cut him off. “No, don’t get up. I am late for an appointment.”

  “Really?” The dean said, looking confused.

  “Most definitely.”

  Following the path she had charted after her arrival at the party, Maggie maneuvered toward the exit. Patience exhausted, she grabbed her coat from the rack next to the door and reached for the knob.

  “Oh! Oh, Maggie! You’re not leaving so soon?”

  The pleasant, cheerful voice from behind reminded her of the opening pitch from a solicitous telemarketer, and it was just too loud to ignore. Maggie could not pretend that she had not heard the woman’s voice, so she turned around, smiling.

  “Ah, Gretchen, the party looks like a hit, as always,” Maggie said. “But it is Christmas Eve, and I have so many gifts yet to wrap and a house full of relatives in Richmond I have to face tomorrow.” Maggie put her hand on the doorknob and turned it.

  “But this won’t take long. You haven’t spoken a word to Alfredo tonight. I wanted so much for you two to get acquainted. He’s a real success story. An inspiration.”

  Maggie looked at her hostess, a development director for an arts coalition that promoted artists-in-residence programs. Alfredo was their latest shooting star. She opened the door just enough to feel the cold outside air press through the opening. “It will have to wait, sorry. Thanks for having me over.”

  “All right, dear, have a merry Christmas, and plan on attending my New Year’s Eve celebration. But I can’t guarantee Alfredo will still be available.” Gretchen winked and chortled.

  “Barring anything unforeseen, I’ll be here. Well, Merry Christmas.” Maggie waved and stepped outside.

  A steady northwesterly wind scoured the frozen surface of the Potomac River, and a fresh blanket of snow covered the streets and sidewalks in Old Town Alexandria. Maggie walked two blocks along the waterfront to her parked car, a red MINI Cooper, located on a cul-de-sac next to a row of fashionable townhomes. From the trunk, she pulled out a scraper and started with the roof. An imaginary line bisected the surface. She brushed fore and aft. Next came the rear and front windows, followed by trunk, hood, and bumpers. After the side windows, she cleared the mirrors, lights, and turn signals. Afterward, she paused to examine her work.

  “You always were thorough,” a male voice commented from behind her.

  At first startled, Maggie then returned to her work after recognizing the voice belonged to Art Holcomb. She put the scraper in the trunk. Holcomb moved from behind a sidewalk-buckling oak tree and onto the curb next to her car. He held a muddy backpack.

&n
bsp; “Let me guess, Maggie, you have a house full of relatives to deal with and gifts to wrap?”

  “You know me too well.”

  “Scary, huh? How’s milady Gretchen? Still trying to fix you up good and proper?”

  “You don’t scare me, you just annoy me. Sometimes, anyway. Not now, but sometimes.” Maggie paused and inspected Holcomb’s clothes and appearance. “You look dirty. You probably stink. Somebody beat you up?”

  “A freight train ran into me.” Holcomb pointed at Maggie’s car. “I don’t mean to be forward, but can you help me to your car, such as it is, and let me stay at your place tonight?”

  Maggie stepped forward. In addition to Holcomb’s tattered, torn, and dirty clothes, he also endured multiple scratches, scrapes, and bruises. His lips were pale and chapped.

  And yet, he’s smiling.

  Maggie helped Holcomb into her MINI, saying, “Don’t make fun of my car.” Once seated herself, Maggie set the heat, checked her mirrors, switched on the headlamps, and headed for the Beltway. She glanced at her passenger. “You asleep already?”

  “Huh? No, no, just resting my eyes,” Holcomb said, yawning.

  “Judging from your appearance, I’d say the scuttlebutt is true.”

  Holcomb lifted his head from the passenger-side window. “What scuttlebutt?”

  “That you’re in trouble with the brass.”

  “As if that’s anything new.”

  “I think it’s serious this time. The orders are to detain you on sight. Any reason why I shouldn’t do just that?”

  Holcomb gazed at her with his best impression of a sad puppy-dog face he could muster. “Because you love me?”

  “Huh, you wish. You’re going to have to do much better than that, Art.”

  Holcomb smiled; even his teeth looked dingy. “All right, all right, Maggie, let me ask you, have you ever been to Wichita this time of year?”

  Chapter 36

  I Enjoy History, Keep Going

  Taylor remained quiet while Harrison finished the search of the room and of him. After checking the door one last time to ensure it remained locked and chained, Harrison holstered the .45 and sat on the edge of the bed near Taylor. He exhaled a cleansing, relaxing breath.

  “Have you seen today’s paper?” Taylor said.

  “Fuck you, General. I’ve been too busy to keep up on the latest headlines.”

  “Take a look.” Taylor pointed to a newspaper on the table next to them. “It’s an interesting story. It includes your friend, Officer Ridley.”

  “Hand it to me, and then sit in the chair next to the window. I’d rather you get shot at than me.”

  Taylor complied.

  Harrison looked at the front page of the Tucson Sun Times. An air force file photo of Taylor accompanied a headline that read, “Top Officer Missing, Linked to Drug Probe.”

  “There’s no mention of you or Agent Holcomb in that story yet, but they do allude to you two. Go ahead, read it,” Taylor said.

  Intermittent glances at Taylor interrupted Harrison’s review of the article, but he noticed right away that a secondary headline related to the story read, “Also Implicated in Disappearance of Las Vegas Police Officer.”

  “Ridley’s missing?” Harrison said.

  “That’s what the newspaper says.”

  Harrison read on and learned that between statements from air force investigators, police detectives, and descriptions of seized evidence, the story presented a remarkably plausible account of a drug trafficking scheme orchestrated by General Edward Taylor, a former pilot, squadron commander, and, most recently, intelligence officer. Portions of the story indicated air force authorities had Taylor under scrutiny for some time and suspected he had connections to both civilian and government trafficking associates. Las Vegas police officials reported the case of the missing police officer to the air force after they found an empty bottle of scotch with Taylor’s fingerprints inside Officer Ridley’s bloodstained apartment.

  “Christ, is he dead?” Harrison said.

  “Judging from the story, I’m guessing he put up a struggle. But I don’t know if he is dead or not, Mr. Harrison. Now I’m the cover story. Just like Major Blair had a cover story. They must have found the scotch bottle in my house. They would have plenty to pick from.”

  “So they know you betrayed them.”

  “Most certainly. Whether you like me or not, we are in this together.”

  Harrison tossed the newspaper on the bed and paced a few steps away from the general.

  “You have every reason to be upset,” Taylor said. “But there are important matters that still need tending.”

  “You bet there are,” Harrison said, turning to face Taylor.

  “Then let’s discuss our situation.”

  Harrison pulled up a chair near Taylor and sat down. “How did you know I would be here?”

  “I’ve had audio surveillance on your apartment and office for quite some time.”

  “You’re a bastard. For how long?”

  “Long enough to know that your client Elena Zinser and her husband, Chuck, are getting divorced. But more importantly, I overheard you and Holcomb discuss plans before he left for Wichita. You both agreed this motel would be your fallback point if something went wrong on your end. By the way, has he contacted you?

  “No.” Harrison’s patience wore thin. “How am I supposed to know this isn’t some elaborate scheme to reel in me and Art? But instead of using Ritter this time they’re using you?”

  “Colonel Ritter?” Taylor smiled and said, “Hmm, interesting choice on their part.”

  “I wouldn’t describe it that way. Look, I don’t know about you, but I don’t like being stabbed in the back by people I thought I could trust—”

  “You escaped, didn’t you? You escaped from Dreamland and from the park.”

  The comments caught Harrison off guard, and he hesitated before continuing.

  “I guess I was lucky.”

  “Luck had some small part in it, yes.”

  “Look, how the fuck did they know I had an anonymous informant? Huh? How? And while we’re at it, maybe you can tell me a little about what I saw in the desert, and I’m not just talking about Blair’s dried-up remains and skull. And—” Harrison stopped, knowing what he really wanted to ask, but he threw his hands up and said, “First things first. How’d they know?”

  Taylor sat up straight. His green eyes with their cockpit-perfect vison focused on Harrison. “They learned it from you.”

  “From me?”

  “Yes, but not directly, though. I blame myself for that. I should have revealed certain information about their intelligence-gathering methods to you sooner. Probably happened in Vegas; Ridley must have been scanned.”

  “Scanned?”

  “Yes. What did you tell Ridley?”

  “Not much, I—” Harrison’s stomach dropped. He remembered the conversation he had with Ridley at his father’s home in which he disclosed his work with an anonymous informant.

  “You must have told him. It’s unfortunate, but, like I said, I blame myself.”

  “When you say, ‘scanned,’ what do you mean?”

  Taylor put his right palm on his forehead and rubbed the front of his short, cropped hair. “Perhaps I should start at the beginning?”

  To Harrison, the general’s request seemed genuinely respectful, as if he were still trying to sort out all the details himself, while at the same time trying to convey his sensitivity toward Harrison’s rapidly diminishing patience. “Go ahead,” Harrison said, leaning back into his chair. “Don’t leave anything out.”

  Relieved, Taylor folded his hands on his lap and said, “I have spent the last fifteen years assigned to the Saint Mary Project. Officially, Saint Mary does not exist. But concealed within the Air Research and Development Command at Wright-Patterson Air Base, it has a reach that extends around the world, and into history.”

  “I enjoy history—keep going.”

  “As I
have explained, the Roswell incident was indeed the result of an accident involving two alien craft. The exact reason for this accident is still unknown, at least by me. The Army Air Corps managed the recovery, survey, and research operations, but the Department of Defense took over those responsibilities following the passage of the National Security Act of 1947.

  “A secret unit within DOD that combined military and civilian specialists was assigned the task of analyzing the wreckage and the alien life forms. A special security group was assembled and assigned to protect, with extreme prejudice, the new project, code-named Saint Mary. Financing channeled through accounts fronted and maintained by the newly created Central Intelligence Agency. Information was, and still is, highly compartmentalized. Only a small group of people known as the Circle are aware of the complete details.”

  “The Circle? Who are the members?”

  Taylor sighed and shook his head. “I do not know.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s the truth. My project assignment was to a working group that serves the Circle. The chairman of the working group acts as a liaison with the Circle. He knows the identity of that body’s members. I do not.”

  “What’s the chairman’s name?”

  “Dennis.”

  “And does Dennis have a last name?”

  “I’m sure he does, but I have not been made aware of it.”

  Harrison waved his hand. “Go on.”

  “Ordered by President Truman, the Saint Mary Project was implemented with a twofold mission: one, total secrecy maintained at any cost, and two, the exploitation and understanding of alien technology and biology. This second part of the mission was oriented toward the enhancement of US national security. No deviations from these particulars were allowed under any circumstances. Complete responsibility for control of the project, including applications of alien technology, rests permanently with the Circle. This unusual protocol has been maintained due to the overriding perception by those responsible that if the knowledge of such a discovery were made public, national and worldwide institutions would collapse.”