by John Sneeden
Zane was drawn out of his thoughts by Brett’s voice. “Do you want to see how to trigger it?”
Zane shook his head in an attempt to clear away thoughts of Katiya. “Absolutely.”
Brett scooted his chair closer and took the device from Zane. “We decided to make detonation a two-step process. Complete only one of the two steps, and all you have is a flashlight that doesn’t work. Complete both in order, and you have a very lethal weapon.”
“So it’s a flashlight that doesn’t actually light up?”
“Correct.” Brett pointed at the place where the head of the flashlight connected to the body. There was a small black line on the head, which lined up with a small green line on the body. “As you can see, we’re now on green. The first step is to twist the head over to red. That indicates you’re live.”
“Just like a gun.”
“Once you’re on red, you proceed to step two.” Brett pointed at a cap on the opposite end, the place where you’d ordinarily load the batteries. “It’s not a screw-on. It’s a hinged pop-off.” He placed a fingernail along the edge of the cap and applied pressure. A moment later, it popped open, revealing a black button.
“Press it, and the detonation process is complete.” Brett snapped the cap back into place. “As I said before, you have five or six seconds to get it on target.”
“That cap looks hard to get off. Did we really need to make it a two-step process?”
“The Oracle insisted on it. He said he didn’t want any dead operatives.”
“Let me guess; he said it was an OSHA reg.” Zane took the device back from Brett and held it under the lamp again. “I have to admit, this is a pretty sick weapon. What explosive material does it use?”
“It’s a PETN blend,” Brett replied, using the acronym for pentaerythritol tetranitrate.
“A favorite of terrorists.” Zane nodded. “If I’m remembering correctly, I believe the Shoe Bomber and the Underwear Bomber both used PETN.”
“They weren’t the only ones. I could give you a much longer list. It’s widely used, but the key for us was combining it with the right detonating substance.”
Zane ran a hand through his long brown hair. “So you just came up with this yourself? Since when did our beloved computer geek become a ballistics expert?”
“I wish I could take credit, but I can’t. Let’s just say, I got some assistance from a couple of friends at DARPA.”
DARPA stood for the Defense Advanced Research Agency, an arm of the U.S. military involved in the research and development of cutting-edge technology.
“We’re working with DARPA now?”
“Not exactly. I have a couple of buddies at the gym. I—”
Zane’s phone lit brightly and skittered across the desk. He plucked it up and looked at the screen. “The Oracle.”
Brett glanced at his watch. “And to think, we almost made it out. If he asks, I’m not in the building.”
Zane laughed and placed the call on speaker. “Yes, sir.”
“Watson, where are you?”
Zane heard the rush of traffic in the background. “The office, why?”
“How soon can you be at our favorite watering hole?”
“If you’re buying, I can leave now.”
“Unfortunately, we’re not meeting for a friendly drink tonight. I need to bring you up to date on something that needs our immediate attention.” There was a brief pause as the Oracle cursed at a driver. “Where is Foster?”
Zane’s eyes shifted toward Brett, who shook his head vigorously. “He’s right here, showing me the new toy you two have been hiding from me.”
“Tell him he can join us if he’d like. Otherwise, I’ll see him in the morning.”
Brett let out a sigh of relief.
“I think he has plans.” Zane gave Brett a wink.
“Oh, and Watson…”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him to give you a couple of the devices before he leaves. You’re going to need them.”
CHAPTER THREE
Washington, D.C.
THE SNOW ARRIVED with a roar. Large, heavy flakes swirled out of the night sky like ashes from a cosmic fire. Spring was less than three weeks away, but winter refused to give up its grip on the nation’s capital.
His windshield was now a mushy mess. Zane switched on his wipers as he turned north on 15th Street. Minutes later, he eased the silver Jeep Cherokee up to the curb in front of the Old Ebbitt Grill. Situated just east of the U.S. Treasury, the iconic eatery was the favorite watering hole of Dr. Alexander Ross, a place where he could shake off the stress of late-afternoon meetings at FBI headquarters. In fact, over time, the restaurant had become Delphi’s unofficial gathering place for social events and impromptu meetings.
After tossing his keys to a valet attendant, Zane crossed the mushy sidewalk and opened the brass-framed door. The noisy din of the main dining area rushed to meet him.
A petite brunette hostess approached. “Good to see you, Mr. Watson.”
“Good to see you, Kaitlyn. I assume my fearless leader is already here.”
“He is.” After mumbling something into her headset, she led him through the main dining area and past the atrium seating. As she neared a door along the left wall, she turned toward him. “It must be something important because all he wanted was water.”
Zane lifted an eyebrow. “It’s Friday, and he didn’t order cognac? Someone must have died.”
Kaitlyn giggled as she opened the door and waved him in. “Enjoy your evening.”
“Watson, you’re nine minutes late.” The Oracle was seated at the far end of the table, his face lit by the screen of his laptop. Amanda Higgs and Carmen Petrosino sat on the left. Zane often referred to them as salt and pepper. Amanda had long, straight blond hair, while Carmen, an Italian by birth, had long raven hair and olive skin. As he came in, Carmen gave him a salute while Amanda looked up from her phone and gave him a little wave.
“I don’t recall committing to a time.” Zane shut the door behind him, tossed his coat onto a nearby hanger, and took a seat at the near end of the table. “And I’m doing fine. Thanks for asking.”
“The ladies got here nine minutes ago. That means you’re nine minutes late.”
“Watch out,” Carmen said. “He’s a little prickly tonight.”
“I see that. Sad what happens to the man when he abstains from cognac.”
The Oracle removed his reading glasses. “Perhaps later, Watson.”
“I’m proud of you for setting aside your usual routine. I’m assuming it’s the heavy subject matter.”
“That’s mostly it.” He patted his belly. “Although I must admit Helen has made a few choice remarks about my expanding midsection, so I may be on a health kick for a while.”
“Expanding midsection?” Zane laughed. “You might weigh one fifty if you hold a medicine ball.”
“You know Helen… It’s always something.”
The door opened, allowing in a rush of noise from the atrium. A thirty-something blond server crossed the room and set glasses of wine in front of Amanda and Carmen. She turned toward Zane. “Can I get you anything?”
“Guinness draft, please.”
“Certainly.”
After the server walked out, the Oracle said, “No flirtatious remark for the new waitress, Watson? You’re disappointing us.”
Zane shook his head. “First, you tell me I’m late for a meeting with no start time, and now, you’ve shifted to the personal insults. You’re in rare form tonight.”
Carmen looked at the Oracle. “You must not have heard the news. Your senior operative has changed his ways.”
The Oracle tossed his glasses on the table and leaned forward. “What news?”
Amanda looked up from her phone, her mouth lifting into a grin. “You didn’t know?” She nodded at Zane. “He’s currently involved with a certain world-renowned anthropologist.”
The Oracle’s eyes narrowed. “Dr. Mills?”
>
“The one and only,” Carmen said.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Carmen laughed. “He’s only been to New York every other weekend for the last several months. Did you think that was for pastramis?”
The Oracle shifted his gaze to Zane. “Does this mean you’re abandoning your role as our resident bimbo whisperer?”
“Dr. Ross!” Amanda scolded him. “I haven’t seen his head turn once since we got back from Brazil.”
Zane wondered how he should respond. No one knew about the recent breakup, not even Carmen. Now might be a good time to fill them in since there wouldn’t be time for questions and answers. “Actually, we’re actually no longer an item.”
Carmen’s face morphed into a frown. She seemed troubled at the news. “What? You’re joking, right?”
Zane shook his head.
She held his gaze for a moment. “We need to talk later.”
“So sorry, Zane,” Amanda said. “You know how much we all love Katiya.”
The door opened again. The server entered and deposited Zane’s beer. As far as he was concerned, she couldn’t have arrived at a better time. He would probably talk things over with Carmen later, but now certainly wasn’t the time.
“All joking aside,” the Oracle said after the server departed, “I’m sorry things didn’t work with Dr. Mills. I don’t know her well, but I do know she’s a quality human being and a heck of an archaeologist.”
“Anthropologist,” Amanda said.
“Whatever.”
“I agree,” Zane said. “She’s a special lady.”
The Oracle’s expression turned more serious. He pulled a small notepad from his suit pocket. “Earlier this afternoon, I had an impromptu meeting with the director of the FBI.” He read something on the top page then looked at Amanda. “Are you familiar with an archaeologist named Dr. Richard Pauling?”
“Of course,” Amanda said.
Zane didn’t recognize the name but wasn’t surprised Amanda knew him. A former faculty member at the University of Texas at Austin, she’d been a rising star in the field of archaeology prior to coming on board with Delphi. She’d come to their attention while assisting Delphi in investigating the death of her father, Ian Higgs. During the operation, she’d performed with poise and passion that didn’t go unnoticed by all involved.
For his part, the Oracle preferred hiring operatives with at least some scientific expertise. In that regard, Amanda had fit the bill perfectly. A courtship ensued, with a deal finally being reached which would allow her to work for Delphi and keep her job in academia. While they weren’t completely happy with the arrangement, Amanda’s supervisors at UT agreed to let her have a reduced role at the school. She would teach two classes, both in the fall, and she would make herself available to supervise various digs. She would also continue to publish research papers in order to maintain her standing in the field.
“We don’t have many rock stars in archaeology,” Amanda continued, “but Dr. Pauling certainly is one. He’s made some of the world’s most important discoveries—artifacts that even most laypeople would be familiar with.” Her brows pinched together. “He used to be a professor of Near East archaeology at UCLA. Last I heard, he was doing private work in Spain, Italy, somewhere like that.”
“He’s been living in Venice for the last three years,” the Oracle said.
Carmen smiled. “He’s living in Venezia? Please tell me we’re going to meet with him there.”
“We’ve been in touch with one of Dr. Pauling’s colleagues.” The Oracle shifted his gaze to Amanda. “Do you recognize the name Andrew Rust?”
“I do,” she replied. “I’m not quite as familiar with him, but he wrote one of the textbooks I used in undergrad. If I’m remembering correctly, he’s a professor of Near Eastern archaeology just like Dr. Pauling.”
The Oracle nodded. “They were colleagues at UCLA for the better part of two decades. Rust said they were extremely close during that time, even away from campus. They worked out at the same gym, frequented the same restaurants in Santa Monica, and even worked together at a few major archaeological sites.
“About four years ago, Pauling’s parents died. From all indications, they were loaded. We’re talking major dollars. And guess what? Pauling was an only child.”
“I remember hearing about that,” Amanda said. “After getting his inheritance, Pauling moved off to work on his own. There were whispers he traded on the black market, although I can’t say for sure.”
“Yes, that’s when he moved to Venice,” the Oracle said. “Strangely, Rust told us Pauling didn’t stay in touch very much after moving overseas.”
Zane frowned. “They lost contact completely?”
“Not completely, but the relationship changed. According to Rust, they spoke a few times by phone, and that was about it. Pauling had said he wanted Rust to visit him in Italy, but he never followed up with a formal invitation.”
“Perhaps it’s tied to the new work Amanda referred to,” Carmen suggested. “If he was involved in the black market, perhaps he thought Rust would judge him for that—assuming it’s true.”
“That’s certainly possible,” the Oracle agreed. “In any event, what we do know is the two grew apart over time.”
Zane took a sip of beer then set his glass on the table. “That’s a nice story, but what does it have to do with us?”
“Patience, Watson. I was just coming to that. Rust said he hadn’t heard from Pauling for about two and a half years. That is, until two days ago.” The Oracle flipped to another page in his notepad and slid it down the table to Zane. “What you’re about to see is the content of a text Rust received from Pauling.”
Zane’s brows pinched together as he read the words written on the top sheet: They are coming for me. The document is real. Major implications for humanity and for truth. You can find it. Start with William Albright. After reading it three times and committing it to memory, he passed it to Carmen.
The Oracle waited until all three had read it. “As you can see, the message is very cryptic. In anticipation of your first question, no, we don’t know what document he’s referring to.”
“Let me make sure I understand what you’re saying,” Carmen said. “Pauling texts Rust about a document, and Rust says he doesn’t know what Pauling is talking about? That’s bizarre.”
“Indeed, it is,” the Oracle said.
Zane said, “I hate to keep repeating myself, but what does—”
“Pauling has disappeared,” the Oracle said, anticipating his question. “After getting the text, Rust called him right away but got no answer. In fact, he called him a half dozen times, and each time, it rolled to voice mail.”
“E la polizia?” Carmen asked.
“Rust didn’t contact the Venice police. When he couldn’t reach Pauling, he called a friend who is an FBI agent in Los Angeles. After getting the basics of the story, the agent contacted FBI headquarters in DC, who, in turn, made a courtesy call to the Venice police. They went by his house several times but were unable to reach him. Even so, they still aren’t treating this as a crime.”
“Are they treating it as a missing person case?” Zane asked.
“The short answer is no,” the Oracle answered. “First of all, Italian police don’t handle those types of cases the same way we do.”
Carmen nodded.
“Second,” the Oracle continued, “they’re not sure Pauling is truly missing because he doesn’t work a normal job and lives alone. He does have a daughter here in the States—Florida, I believe—and if she isn’t able to make contact with him in the next seventy-two hours, she’ll be able to file a missing person report.”
Carmen’s brow furrowed. “The text still bothers me. I just find it hard to believe Rust doesn’t have any idea what Pauling was referring to.”
“It’s not really all that strange,” the Oracle said. “Remember, Rust hasn’t had much recent contact with Pauling. And if what Amanda t
old us is true, Pauling may have been seeking out relics and documents Rust hasn’t even heard of.”
“I think we’re ignoring the elephant in the room,” Zane said. “Pauling said someone was coming for him. Do we know who that might be?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, and that’s why the director called me this afternoon. Obviously, they suspect foul play.”
As the group fell into silence, Zane stood and walked over to the window. Outside, the snow fell heavily. A family of well-bundled tourists walked by, their breath puffing out in clouds. After they disappeared around the corner, he said, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think it’s safe to say Dr. Pauling is probably at the bottom of a Venetian canal.”
“Unfortunately, you may be right,” the Oracle said. “This means there are two mysteries here: who killed him, and what is the document they’re looking for?”
“I guess that means we’ll start to get a trickle of answers in seventy-two hours,” Zane said.
“That’s when the Venice police are going to get started. The FBI believes an American citizen has likely been killed, and they don’t want to wait in order to find out why.”
“So what next?” Amanda asked.
The Oracle leaned back in his seat. “First, we need to determine whether or not Dr. Richard Pauling is, in fact, dead.”
“I think we know that answer,” Zane said.
“Assuming he’s dead, we need to find out who did it and why.”
Carmen slapped her hand on the table. “I’m ready to go to Venezia. When do we leave?”
The Oracle slid the notepad back into his coat pocket. “The three of you fly out tomorrow afternoon.”