The Devil's Interval

by Kevin Tumlinson

  “Everything but Dr. Patel,” the voice replied. “Thanks to you and your FBI partner. But I may be able to work without him. Your … benefactor … is offering a missing piece of research that Simon could never locate. He managed to recreate the missing information on his own. But with this, he might have completed his prototype years sooner.”

  “Something historic, I take it?” Kotler asked.

  “Missing pages. From the journal.”

  Kotler nodded. “I’ve never seen the journal up close, but I assume that’s what your man grabbed from the workbench in London? While we were in the Newton chamber?”

  “It’s been an invaluable artifact. It fills in all the gaps from Dr. Patel’s previous research. All but the final component.”

  “The evil mind control component?”

  “That would be the one. Now, you rest there, Dr. Kotler. My guest has arrived. Once I’ve verified the pages are authentic, you’ll be handed over.”

  “Ok, but could we not do the hood …” His objections were cut off as the hood was once again pulled over his head.

  He sat in the faux darkness, with only tiny dots of light bleeding through the pores of the hood. He concentrated on controlling his breathing, even meditating a bit. In confined situations like these, he could catch a glimmer of what Denzel must go through, in tight spaces. But Kotler had learned long ago, and practiced often, the meditative art of controlling his breathing and his anxiety. He kept his mind focused on each breath, until he was free to think and dwell upon other things.

  He’d gotten quite a bit of information from his captor, during that chat. He wasn’t sure how useful that information would turn out to be, but that was always the case. Information, data of any kind, was only useful in the proper context. And sometimes you needed to have the information first, and find the context second.

  Right now, he had information that was clicking into place with data he already possessed. The story that was unfolding was different than he might first have imagined, but that served only to make new details stand out for him.

  Of course, his exploration of all the new data was being hampered by the big question mark-shaped sword of Damocles hanging over his head. He seemed to be enjoying the ‘good fortune’ of having a benefactor—someone who wanted him for their own purposes. But those purposes were unknown, and could lead to him being in far more trouble than he currently found himself. Any comfort he might have taken in his relative safety from the night before was now dampened by fear of the unknown dangers that might be coming.

  Kotler had no way of knowing how long he’d sat there, hood over his head and bladder threatening to burst. His guru would have been proud of his composure, considering what a hard case Kotler had been during meditation studies. Kotler silently thanked God and sent blessings to his guru, who would surely be shocked to discover that any of his teachings had managed to remain in the skull of the impulsive and impatient archeologist.

  Kotler heard two sets of footsteps, both of which had become familiar now, as they had entered and exited this room several times since depositing him roughly in this chair.

  They cut his bonds this time, and Kotler immediately flexed and rubbed his wrists. They then pulled the hood from his head, and stood on either side of him.

  He glanced up at each of them, then experimentally braced his palms on the arm of the chair and rose to his feet. He watched them, but they stood in stoic silence. They were two thick-necked and brutish men, each wearing long sleeved Henley shirts that were stretched tight across bulging muscles. They wore sunglasses, despite being both indoors and in a darkened room, though the bright interrogation lights might have been justification enough.

  Kotler blinked into those lights now, shading his eyes, trying to see past them.

  “You’re free to go, Dr. Kotler. Your benefactor has a car just outside of that door.”

  Another set of lights came on, illuminating a set of double metal doors to Kotler’s right.

  “Who is it?” Kotler asked. “What do they want?”

  “You’ll find all of that out soon enough.”

  “And the pages? You got everything you need?”

  “Everything,” the voice said.

  Kotler felt his guts twist. He glanced at the two guards—doubting they were mere mooks, and feeling safe in assuming they were well trained. He couldn’t take them, he figured, without seriously hurting himself in the process. Maybe not even then.

  He needed just a few more seconds. He needed to get as much information as possible, before he lost access to the person on the other side of the line. More importantly, he needed to see if he could do anything at all to stop what they were doing.

  “Please,” Kotler said, turning to face the lights and the disembodied voice beyond. “What you’re building—it’s more dangerous than you seem to realize. It’s a weapon. It will hurt a lot of people. You have a chance to stop this. I’m asking you to take it.”

  “Dr. Kotler, you can either walk through those doors voluntarily, or my men will drag you through them and dump you on the other side. Your benefactor was not specific about what physical condition you should be in.”

  Kotler nodded. He turned to the doors and gingerly walked straight to them, his legs still a bit rubbery and his lower back aching. A night sleeping on a concrete floor, followed by hours of being tied to a hard-backed chair, hadn’t done him any favors.

  He wasn’t sure, now, what frightened him more: The fate awaiting him on the other side of those doors, or the fate awaiting all of humanity if the Devil’s Interval was completed. He decided his own safety and well-being were not as important as that of humanity, and with that he took a deep breath, calmed himself, and pushed through the doors like a Sheriff pushing his way into a saloon. Whatever was out there, he’d face it, and hope that he could escape, and somehow use what he knew to stop Devil’s Interval from sending the world to hell.

  The doors slammed closed behind him as he stepped away, out into the echoing chamber of a cavernous garage, or possibly some sort of hangar. The space was enormous, and there were large, cable-driven doors on either end, big enough for a plane or possibly construction equipment to fit through.

  Before him, idling, was another black SUV, very like the one he’d been pulled into only last night.

  On a hunch, he opened the back door to climb in, and suddenly found himself staring, shocked, his mouth agape.

  “Well hello, Dan,” a familiar female voice said. A voice he had not expected to ever hear again. “Get in.”

  “Gail,” he said, dumbfounded.

  Abigail McCarthy. The one that got away—from both Kotler and the FBI.

  “It’s been a few months,” Gail said, smiling. “I thought it might be time for a reunion.”

  Chapter 17

  The SUV took them straight to a small airport about half an hour outside of Manhattan. They pulled up to the front of a large hanger, where a Gulfstream G650 was waiting. The SUV drove into the hangar, just as the jet’s engines spun to life.

  “If we’re taking a trip, could I please use the restroom first?” Kotler asked. “I’m really about five minutes away from making a mess.”

  “That would be unpleasant,” Gail said, shaking her head in mock sympathy. “Get out.”

  Kotler got out, without challenge. He stood and stretched a bit, his aching back finally getting some relief.

  The two men who had been in the front seat of the SUV climbed out and went to the back, opened the hatch, and removed a suitcase and a small, metal attaché case. They placed both on the floor of the hanger, between Gail and Kotler.

  “I want you to know,” Gail said, “I don’t hold a grudge, over Atlantis. As it turns out, things have gotten quite a bit better for me, since then.”

  “You took over van Burren’s smuggling network?” Kotler asked.

  Gail smiled. “That, yes. There was so much more than I had expected, though. I think you’d be fascinated, Dan. But then, you’re a bit too
… oh, I suppose ‘moral’ is the right word.”

  “Morals and ethics,” Kotler said flatly. “Always getting in the way.”

  Gail laughed, lightly. “For some of us.”

  “Gail, I don’t know what you’re planning here, but it’s not too late. The pages you traded for me—those people are building a weapon. A hideous and ugly weapon.”

  “Oh, I know. And I do feel terrible about that. But it was all I had to trade for your release.”

  Kotler was studying her, and wondering what she was planning. Her body language was always so tightly controlled—she was nearly impossible to read. Deceptive, even to her most minute movements.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked.

  She smiled, and walked around the suitcase, coming to stand in front of him. She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling, and then rose to kiss him on the lips. “I’ve changed some of my plans, and I think that one day you might consider joining me.”

  “Joining you?” Kotler said. “In what?”

  “In life, Dan,” she smiled, laughing again. “In the adventure.”

  “Gail, that isn’t going to happen. You’re … well, you’re a murderer, for starters. And a thief. A smuggler. I mean, honestly, you and I could not be more opposite.”

  “That’s true,” she said, smiling. “But right now, you owe me your life. Opposite or not.”

  “And what will I have to do to repay you?” Kotler asked. “Where are we going?” He raised and hand, waving toward the plane.

  Gail glanced back over her shoulder, then once again to Kotler. “Oh that? No, that’s for me. You’re staying here.”

  Kotler blinked. “I … I am?”

  She nodded to the attaché. “That’s for you. Take it. You’ll know what to do with it. And when you and that hunk of an FBI agent get all of this current nonsense figured out, saving the world and all that, I want you to focus your attention on this. Solve it, and you’ll find me again. How’s that for a promise?”

  “What is it?” Kotler asked.

  She laughed. “Dan, that’s what I want you to figure out!”

  She turned then, and one of the men grabbed her suitcase, carrying it to the plane. She followed him up the steps, with the second man behind.

  At the top, she turned to Kotler and shouted. “The keys are in the ignition. Drive safely!”

  With that, she and the two men disappeared into the plane, the doors closing behind them.

  Kotler watched as it taxied away from the hangar. He took note of the numbers on the tail, though he knew it would do no good. Gail was too well connected, having taken over Richard van Burren’s operation gave her incredible resources. They could trace that plane’s flight path, but Gail was already out of their reach.

  Kotler went to the attaché and picked it up, feeling its weight. The case itself was heavy—packed with fire retardant material, to protect the contents. It would be bullet proof as well, Kotler knew.

  The hatch of the SUV was still open, and Kotler placed the case on the floorboard, opening it to see the contents.

  Inside were three objects.

  The first was a compass, made of brass and glass, and roughly the size of the palm of his hand. It was old, judging by both the patina and the engravings around its edge.

  The second object was a stone—somewhat opaque, and obviously, Iceland spar. Otherwise known as a Viking sunstone. They were used to navigate the seas even on cloudy days, according to legend. Recent facts had come to light which proved this to be accurate, and Kotler had studied one similar to this before, during his time at the Pueblo site. There had been a sun stone recovered among the Viking ruins, in connection to the Coelho medallion.

  Kotler put the compass and sun stone back into the case, fitting them to their custom-molded places in the velvet-sheathed foam. He turned his attention to the third item.

  It was a thin plate of brass, etched with symbols that Kotler thought might be Phoenician. In one end, there was a perfectly round hole, about the size of a dime, and encircled with text that was difficult to make out through what might be centuries of patina. Whatever this was, Kotler knew it was the riddle that Gail wanted him to solve. Something about this thin, brass plate held a mystery that Gail needed revealed. She was counting on Kotler’s inborn curiosity to drive him, if nothing else. And she was right—he wanted to solve this, to determine what its secrets were. He also wanted to find Gail, to hold her accountable for all she’d done.

  Kotler closed the case, and left it in the back of the SUV as he lowered the hatch. He wasn’t sure what game Gail was playing, but if it meant he could get out of here safely, he was going to play along, for a while, at least.

  He went to the driver’s side of the SUV, and sure enough the keys were in the ignition. He took them, locked the SUV with the key fob, and then looked around, assessing.

  He spotted what he was after in just a few seconds, and hurried that way.

  Kotler was fluent in several languages, including many that were long dead and out of use. But at that very moment, he was grateful that he understood one of the most universal symbolic languages on the planet: Even without translation, he could recognize the sign for “men’s room.”

  Chapter 18

  Denzel looked over Dr. Bristol’s logs, related directly to Devil’s Interval, searching for any sign that she may have ever had the journal in her possession. There had been nothing on the manifest of items removed from her office, which was to be expected: Even if she’d had it when she died, she might never have officially logged it.

  If they were going to find the trail of this thing, they’d have to pick it up in the terabytes of notes and images and video that had been archived from Bristol’s personal folder on the AMSL servers.

  As Denzel sifted through all that data—admittedly not his strong suit but too important to leave to anyone else—Holden was busy trying to track down Bristol’s sister in Chicago. So far, neither of them was having much luck.

  “It’s like she just vanished, after her sister’s death,” Holden groused. “The apartment she was renting has had a new occupant for months. No forwarding address. Her mobile phone gives me a deactivation message. Even her email bounces.”

  “Weird,” Denzel said absently, running through some video footage of Dr. Bristol—brunette, slender, a bit mousy at times—and was suddenly curious about a package that had been delivered to her through AMSL’s internal mail system. She had signed for the package, which meant it would be listed in the building’s logs. After that, she had looked around as if making sure no one was watching, and then went into her office and closed the door and the blinds.

  Denzel scrubbed through the video, watching the office door, until it opened again awhile later, and Bristol walked out. She’d been inside for nearly an hour. From the vantage point of the camera, there was no sign of the package, and no way to know its contents.

  He jotted some notes about the clip, including its timecode, and kept running footage.

  “I’m going to see if I can get access to her credit card activity,” Holden said. “Something’s not right.”

  Denzel looked up then. “Credit card?”

  “For the sister. Kate Bristol,” Holden said, giving him a look like he’d known Denzel hadn’t been listening. “She’s missing.”

  “Any reports?” Denzel asked.

  “Nothing. No one here ever asked who her employer was, since there was no reason to. So, I don’t even have a place to start. But my gut is telling me there’s something weird here.”

  “Do you think she may have been abducted? Over the journal?”

  “Or worse,” Holden said.

  Denzel considered this, and looked back at the footage. Bristol’s door still stood open, and he could see a bit of the interior. It was somewhat sparse, compared to other offices within view. There were a few items, mostly small objects on the desk itself. No sign of photos. And all the books and binders in the case behind the desk looked less than person
al.

  “Your gut’s telling you something’s weird,” Denzel said. “I’m getting the same feeling.”

  He opened the manifest of personal belongings again, zipping through it with swipes over the surface of the smart tablet. It wasn’t a very long list. A coffee mug and a travel mug, which seemed normal enough. A makeup bag containing lipstick, face powder, mascara, and chap stick. A grooming kit with nail files, trimming scissors, nail clippers, and a needle with a bit of thread. The list went on like this—mostly line items of minutia. The sort of bric-a-brac you’d expect from anyone’s desk. No more, no less.

  No photos. No handwritten notes-to-self. No books.

  Where was the package?

  The date on the video was only three weeks before Bristol’s death. That was a blessing, Denzel knew, because it limited the amount of time he’d need to scrub through video. He ran the whole thing at double speed, stopping any time someone entered Bristol’s office. He paid attention to every coming and going, looking at their hands, watching to see if they carried anything.

  Eventually Nick Peters appeared on screen, shutting and locking the door to Bristol’s office. This would be the day they learned of her death. Peters was locking everything down, including access to her files.

  Denzel kept the video running at high speed until someone came to unlock the door. He ran this in real time, and watched everything very closely. Two of Peters’ security team entered the room with a couple of file boxes. They loaded these methodically, going through every drawer, and turning to scan the shelves. Everything was removed from the desk, but nothing was taken from the book cases.

  They left the room, locking it behind them, and Denzel followed them by switching camera views, trailing them digitally until they came to the secure storage area. They placed the boxes on shelves in that area and left.

  Denzel ran the footage at high speed again, and watched as months sped by. No one touched the boxes until the day they were brought out for Denzel’s inspection.