Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project

by Douglas, Daniel P.

  At the bottom, he stepped off the escalator and admired the platform area. Works of art, statues, and colorful mosaics made Harrison believe he stood inside a museum instead of a subway station. He did not expect to make such a discovery, and he nearly missed his train.

  Squeezing through the closing doors, Harrison found the car had plenty of empty seats. Everyone inside, though, had something to read, and most squinted at the pages of their newspapers, books, or magazines. One man, arms folded, slept and snored.

  The ride to Moscow State University lasted just long enough for Harrison to feel warm and ready to handle the wintry chill outside. He exited the train and, again, found himself among beautifully sculptured figures and brightly decorated hallways. The crowd at this station was livelier than the one in downtown, mainly due to a boisterous group of children waiting for a train.

  Outside, mustard-colored buildings stood among dull gray structures with dark windows. The streets, a mix of cobblestone and cracked asphalt, held few pedestrians and offered no indications of any taxis. Harrison realized that the church could be anywhere within several blocks of the station. A block away, Harrison saw a few people standing in line at a booth. He walked their way, hoping to get directions. Drawing closer, he noticed there were several of these booths. Each one a mini shop, selling various goods from sunglasses and wallets, to beer and vodka.

  None appeared to have gloves.

  The shop with the least number of customers sold sausages and rye bread. He got in line and placed an order. The server worked fast and provided helpful directions to Krasny Sobor, just four blocks away.

  Harrison wrapped the sausage in the rye bread and ate it while walking. Although satisfying, the meal left him hungrier than before. He took a final bite, and then turned a corner onto Mechtatelnaya Ulitsa. The church waited for him at the end of this street, in a courtyard between two old dormitories.

  Puzzled by what he saw, Harrison stood there in front of the building where he expected to find Krasny Sobor, wondering why it did not look at all like a church. He saw the two dormitories, but noticed the building between them had a rather plain appearance, and did not have any domes or other features common to Russian churches. Its facade split and crumbled in places, and he could not see any identifiable entrance.

  Walking across the courtyard, Harrison approached the far side of the building and managed to find a stone stairwell that led below street level. He descended the icy steps and tugged on a thick, solid wood door. The door let out a loud creak when opened. Inside, Harrison felt a wave of warm, scented air embrace him. The aroma, richly blended incense, candle wax, and burning wood, filled his lungs.

  Dark wood floors buckled under his shoes. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he found another staircase to his right that appeared to lead up to the main hall. He ascended the steps and entered a wide room. Round alabaster pillars rose from the floor in several rows. Hundreds of flickering candles spiraled around each pillar. Icons and more candles lined an altar at the front. Faded biblical murals adorned the walls. An old woman sat next to a young boy on one of the two benches inside the room. The child watched her pray, his patience waning. Harrison could not see any others in the church, so he waited respectfully for the old woman to finish before continuing his search.

  The boy noticed Harrison looking in his direction, and immediately bowed his head. The woman patted him on the knee.

  A door closed in a corner of the room hidden by one of the pillars. An old man with a long, uneven beard and garbed in beige-and-white robes walked into view. The man read a book and looked deep in thought. As the man approached Harrison, he prepared himself to make contact.

  “Excuse me,” Harrison said in Russian. “Unhappily, I was told Father Petrov is deceased?”

  The man stopped. His head remained motionless, but his eyes gazed over the top of the book. After blinking a few times, he closed the book and raised his head. “Your news is premature. My travels are extensive, but I have yet to make that journey,” Father Petrov said, his voice clear and strong. He also seemed to make an effort to speak slowly.

  “You must have many interesting souvenirs.”

  Father Petrov looked at the ceiling and around the room. “A priest has but meager possessions. Having possessions does not make one happy, but perhaps I can share with you a small gift?”

  “If you wish. Maybe something literary and unique?”

  Petrov nodded, and then motioned for Harrison to follow him. They walked toward the door where the priest had entered the room. In silence, Petrov opened the door and led his visitor into a short hallway. A few steps more and they crammed into a small storage room. Flimsy shelves surrounded them and buckled under the weight from candles, matchboxes, and English-language Bibles. Several large baskets, filled with jars of pickled tomatoes and cucumbers, sat on the floor.

  After placing his book onto a shelf, Petrov knelt beside a basket next to one of the walls. He slid the basket away and lifted a wood plank from the floor. A latch clicked. Behind him, another floorboard released. He reached around and pulled it out of the way. The motion sent a plume of dust into the air. Inserting his hands into the hole in the floor, he recovered a black nylon gym bag.

  “I will make a donation in your name to the Orthodox Church,” Harrison said.

  “Take it. It belongs to you now.”

  Harrison leaned forward and withdrew the bag from Petrov’s trembling hands. He cradled it against his chest.

  Petrov led him back into the church’s main hall. A youth choir had formed and gathered near the altar. Harmonious voices rose, sweet and unsullied, filling every inch of the room.

  “Prekrassny, da?” Petrov said.

  Harrison nodded. Yes, beautiful.

  “You know, for an American you speak Russian very well,” Petrov said in impeccable English.

  Harrison held still. He had anticipated the priest would realize he was a foreigner, but hoped the subject would not come up for discussion.

  “It is all right; I will understand if you do not wish to speak.” The priest bent close and said, whispering, “It is just that I did not expect the courier to be an American.”

  “Allies can be found in unexpected places.”

  “Yes. This is God’s will. I am sure he will guide you safely.” Petrov’s eyes exuded genuine kindness and reassurance.

  “I must be going.” In Russian, Harrison wished the priest good health and a happy New Year. As the choir continued to sing, he drifted toward the exit. Nearing the door, he paused again, closed his eyes, and inhaled a deep breath of the warm, scented air of the church. Outside, the frosty wind shoved him toward the subway. The hotel and strong coffee broke the physical chill. In the privacy of his room, he felt his sovereignty returning. The document contained so many secrets. But they were in his hands now.

  Hands that gripped the truth.

  What is the larger purpose?

  He searched the pages. The document had so many names.

  My purpose?

  The document could answer so many questions. When he finally found an answer, and accepted it, his hands trembled.

  And so did his heart.

  Chapter 41

  That Fresh Paint Smell

  The scent of new paint and carpeting floated through the corridors of North Range’s command building. General Stone and Colonel Ritter found odd comfort in the freshness of the place. That comfort did not prevent their hurried steps. After exiting an elevator, both men nearly collided with Janice and Professor Moresby as they, accompanied by two armed guards, headed topside for a break in the fresh air. The foursome scooted aside, offering up some extra space for the two officers to pass them in the hallway.

  But General Stone stepped in their path, saying, “How are we feeling?

  The professor ignored Stone. He flipped through a notebook and scratched his gray head. Colonel Ritter walked on with a quickened pace, leaving the group behind.

  Janice watched the colonel fo
r a moment before looking at Stone. “Fine, sir. Still a little shaky, but doing a lot better. It is kind of you to ask.”

  “Let Schmidt know right away if you feel sick or something.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  Stone aimed his sharp features at the professor. “Are we on schedule?”

  “Yes, General,” Moresby said without making eye contact. He mumbled something derogatory, barely audible, about the need for an armed escort.

  “Very well, Professor. Keep up the good work.” Stone excused himself and joined Ritter inside the general’s sparsely furnished office.

  The movement of equipment and furniture from Ohio to Nevada remained an ongoing process. The general settled into his temporary seating arrangements, a white-and-black folding director’s chair, and rubbed his face. Tiredness, like floodwaters breaking through a disintegrating barrier, swept over him. He wanted sleep, but too many activities required his direct supervision. Stone took his time, perhaps too much time, to sandbag the crumbling walls that kept the tiredness at bay.

  “What you’ll need to do next, Colonel, is proceed to Tucson and seize the contents.”

  “Sir, as I mentioned earlier, there are a dozen safe-deposit boxes registered to individuals under the name William Harrison, or under his known alias. How will I justify all of the seizures?

  Stone unlocked his desk’s top drawer and withdrew a crisp piece of paper. While reaching for the document, he realized how much lower than normal he sat. A momentary awkwardness encouraged him to straighten up. It did not help. The worn-out director’s chair failed to elevate him to a more comfortable level. The idea of finding a cushion or pillow to place under his backside occurred to him, but a still-alert cell of gray matter sparked, fueling his self-respect. He reached up and stretched his arm across the desk. “The federal courts believe in fighting espionage as much as we do.”

  Ritter took hold of the paper and read it over. The document, a court order, authorized the Department of the Air Force, in conjunction with the Department of Justice, to seize any necessary bank records and holdings of William Harrison, a.k.a. Wesley Hiatt.

  “We can’t afford to overlook any of them. We won’t retain the property of any innocents,” Stone said.

  Ritter nodded and read further. A half smile crinkled his features. “This says that Harrison is a Russian spy.”

  “Suspected Russian spy. Apparently, he made too many friends with the other side when he worked counterespionage in the FBI. They seduced him with money, women, so forth. The shooting that ended his career apparently didn’t end his real work. A former partner at the FBI is involved too. We’re uncertain exactly how far up their network goes—could be linked to Taylor. Arms traders, drug dealers. It’s all the same. And they must be stopped, because although the former enemy is gone, the world is still a dangerous place. Got it?”

  Ritter folded the paper and slid it inside his jacket. “Yes, sir. Shall I use the security team already in Tucson to assist me?”

  “That will be fine. Just leave a couple agents on surveillance in case Harrison shows up at his home or office.”

  “Yes, sir, but you don’t think he’ll show?”

  “If I’m right, he’ll turn up in Los Angeles, but the male hybrid is handling that. Now, about Holcomb?”

  “There was one credit card charge, in his real name, for an airline ticket to Houston, but that turned out to be a dead end. One encouraging lead comes from the Atlanta FBI office. An agent assigned to a railroad liaison task force thinks he may have seen Holcomb at the Amtrak station there.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  The sandbags loosened. Stone steadied himself before speaking. “Aside from the fact he could be anywhere, it’s important to remember that we don’t approach. We want him to lead the way.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve contacted Quantico, just on the off chance he attempts to use their facilities. There’s a forensic scientist there whom some of his colleagues say he’s friendly with.”

  “Follow it up. Chances are he won’t go through Quantico, though, given the reception he received in Wichita.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stone leaned back, sinking, rubbing his face again. “Any other ideas, Colonel?”

  “If Harrison turns up in Los Angeles, then Holcomb will probably be there as well, like you say. But sir, if I may be honest, all of them could be on the other side of the planet for all we know. Who knows what their plans are?”

  A sandbag or two fell completely away. Stone yawned, and then said, “I don’t mind your honesty, Colonel.” The tone remained polite, but Stone’s cheeks and forehead grew warm. He wrapped his palm around the partially drained coffee mug sitting on his desk. “It’s better than ‘yes, sir’ all the time.” Stone’s other hand found an aspirin bottle in the desk’s center drawer. “But my gut feeling is that Taylor brought Harrison in so they could recover property stolen from the project, property that disappeared many years ago, when Harrison’s family still lived in California.” His face cooled, and he stared, expressionless, at Ritter before flipping the lid off the aspirin bottle. “Yeah, Los Angeles is where we need to focus the search for them all.” He tapped four of the pills into his coffee mug and swirled it around. “But there’s work to be done in Tucson as well.” Stone nodded at the door. “Get on it. And, Colonel…” Stone paused to loosen his shirt collar and gulp down the lukewarm brew.

  “Sir?”

  “Hurry back.” The bitterness made Stone’s lips curl. “We are very rapidly running out of time.”

  Chapter 42

  Infinite Horizons

  The setting sun’s rays diffused through the hazy late-Monday-afternoon sky over Los Angeles. Soon, the cityscape would glisten in a false twilight, masking the grime it had collected daily for decades. A wide horizon of twinkling, glowing points of light fooled the eyes. Each shining at the center of an orbit, they flickered on, beginning their deception for another night.

  Sitting on the bed next to a table lamp inside room 509 of the Metropolitan Suites on Los Feliz Boulevard, Harrison stared at some of the pages in the thick classified document he had recovered in Moscow. A multitude of thoughts and emotions clamored for his attention, but all he could grasp in full was the brewing noisy agitation on the crowded lanes of the nearby Hollywood Freeway.

  Harrison checked the door, ensuring it remained locked, just as it had been for the last four hours. He edged toward the window, pulling one of the drawn drapes aside. Peering through the gap, he recognized no one.

  He chose the armchair next to a glass coffee table and tried to sit again, forcing himself to stay put. Raising his right leg onto the table elicited a subtle groan before he stared at the crashed Roswell craft’s engineering document again.

  W. Von Kreuzen, chief metallurgist, had filed a seven-page report in January, 1948. It summarized the results of an examination of a metallic plate he’d conducted for the air force. The conclusion, simple and concise, read as follows: “Nothing in our nature or science could be responsible for its creation.”

  There were other such summaries, filed from July, 1947, through the early 1970s. Technical drawings, chemical formulas, and countless frustrations. But they’d had some success regarding the analysis of the saucer-shaped craft and its components.

  One name, near the bottom of the table of contents, stood out next to the “Propulsion Dynamics” section. The researcher’s remarks for this section appeared on pages 89 through 97. Harrison read portions of them again:

  The translucent plate is definitely utilized in conjunction with the propulsion system. Reconstruction of the experimental showed this to be the case…Analysis of the components is difficult due to the exotic materials used in their construction…Identification of the external and internal objects was completed through lengthy modeling of existing natural elements combining with heavier elements yet undiscovered…Our guesswork has revealed a significant finding…The power cell will bring infi
nite horizons within our reach.

  A diagram showed the power cell measured eight inches in length and width, and a half an inch thick. Its gross weight barely reached two ounces.

  Infinite horizons, Dad?

  A month before his accident, Harrison’s father had telephoned him at the FBI Academy. He was planning to retire soon, worn out from years of travel as a salesman, and wanted to relax with Mom.

  They were together in Palm Springs, one of their favorite getaways. A day of golf, shopping, drinks with friends—the Carrs. Then, later, their dreams ended. A gas leak in their hotel room ignited. The explosion and fire left only charred remains, collapsed between the twisted bed frame and fused to the mattress coils.

  Harrison never doubted the explanation.

  Until now.

  Protocol One.

  Such a benign expression for terminal malignancy.

  Almost always gone or away on business, Harrison’s father seemed distant on the rare occasions when he rejoined the family at home. He was a quiet man who never angered except occasionally during the evening news or when he nicked himself shaving.

  “Damn it! Where is the goddamn witch hazel?”

  Harrison’s occasional trips to Griffith Observatory with his father when he was a youngster were the only clear memories of closeness to him. And now, seeing his father’s name on the Roswell documents, he treasured the memories of those trips even more than the extraordinary knowledge at his fingertips.

  The man, fascinated with the exhibitions, would talk endlessly about the untouchable, infinite horizons beyond Earth that observatories around the globe reached for with telescopes. The adolescent Harrison thought his father odd for saying such things, dismissing the words as an attempt to help him develop an interest in science. At that tumultuous age, Harrison’s only persistent curiosity concerned the girls who sat next to him in class.