Helius Legacy

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Helius Legacy Page 26

by S Alexander O'keefe


  Mason hesitated a minute and then said, “One other thing. I will be out of the country on business for about three days. During two of those days, I will be difficult to reach. I assume you will have resolved our problem by the time I return?”

  Paquin ignored Mason’s question.

  “Good night, Mr. Mason.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Dallas, Texas

  December 7, 1999 / Tuesday / 8:00 a.m.

  William Spencer waited impatiently for his computer to boot up.

  He was hoping Tobey Nelson had sent him an e-mail updating him on the investigation of the crash site in California. He would have called to check on the investigation, but it was two hours earlier in Los Angeles. Nelson wouldn’t be in the office for at least another hour, maybe two, depending on traffic.

  When the e-mail screen came up, he browsed through the list of messages. There was nothing from Nelson. Just in case Tobey had sent the message to his personal account, Spencer checked it. There was nothing from Nelson, but there was something from [email protected], the anonymous source that alerted him about the crash. Spencer clicked on the message.

  “Our latest information indicates that a company called Helius Energy is the hunter. We don’t know the why.”

  Spencer recognized the corporation. Helius was a large energy conglomerate. Its headquarters were in Austin. Spencer found it hard to believe that Helius had anything to do with the attack in California. Why would Helius try to kill a retired intelligence operative?

  Spencer ran a Google search on the company and scanned the material information. Then he ran the company through the “Edgar” database maintained by the Securities and Exchange Commission. He found two recent filings indicating that the company was in the process of registering a huge bond offering.

  An hour later, Spencer received a call on his private line.

  “Spencer.”

  “Hi, Bill, it’s Tobey.”

  “Hey, buddy.”

  “I have an update on that matter we talked about yesterday. The agent I assigned to the matter went back out to our mysterious crash site. She conducted another circuit of the area and picked up a set of snowmobile tracks. She followed the tracks in one direction and they led back to a remote mountain cabin about three or four miles to the east.”

  “Was anyone home?”

  “No, but the car was still in the driveway, which was odd, since the nearest paved road is about a mile away, and the town is about five miles from there. So either someone has a good set of feet, or they left on the snowmobile.”

  “Who’s the owner?”

  “The car and the cabin are registered to one John Caine, age forty- four He lives outside the City of Hesperia. It’s on the east side of the San Bernardino Mountains, about sixty miles from the cabin. We called his house, but there was no answer.”

  “Did you run a check on him?”

  “Yes, sir. Not even a parking ticket.”

  Spencer could tell by Tobey’s voice that he had more.

  “I also ran a wider search. I called our Pentagon liaison, and he checked to see if Mr. Caine was ever in the military.” “And?”

  “Yes, sir. Our boy was a Ranger in the late seventies. But there’s more. Although it took some heavy arm-twisting, the unofficial word that I got was Mr. John Caine worked black ops.”

  “For the army?”

  “Not our army. Apparently Caine joined the French Foreign Legion after he left the Rangers, and was eventually assigned to a heavy duty special operations unit. That was all my contact’s clearance could get him. He told me that if we wanted more, we would have to talk to our friends at Langley.”

  Spencer leaned back in his chair, trying to absorb the information.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Spencer said.

  “Good question. I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Spencer hesitated for a second. He wanted to bring Tobey up to date on the Helius information, but he didn’t want to pull O’Connor into the open. Then he figured out a way to skirt the issue.

  “I’m in the dark here, too, but there has been a development on this side that may help us. When I got in this morning, I received an anonymous tip.”

  “It seems you’ve been getting quite a few of those lately,” Nelson said with both a smile and a question in his voice.

  “We’ll get to that. Anyway, the tip came by e-mail. The sender suggested that Helius Energy was behind the attack in California.”

  “Helius? Who’s that?”

  “It’s a billion-dollar energy company. Their HQ is in Austin, but they have operations all over the world.”

  “Why would Helius try to kill a retired ex-special-ops soldier, and who, pray tell, is feeding you this information?”

  Spencer expected the last question. Fortunately, Tobey’s discovery of Caine’s background with the French gave him a ready answer.

  “The first contact I had about this matter came by phone. The caller had an accent—a French accent. I think French intelligence is quietly trying to look after one of their own.”

  Before Tobey could go further down that road, Spencer turned the conversation back to him.

  “By the way, do we know whether the target was killed and cleaned up along with the chopper?”

  “We can’t say for sure, but we don’t think so. Not if he was driving the snowmobile. We found a second set of tracks leading away from the crash site and we found the machine. It was parked in a stand of trees about a mile outside of town. Bill, give me a minute.”

  Spencer heard a voice in the background of Tobey’s office. Tobey said thanks and came back on.

  “Bill, I’m looking at two sets of phone records that were just faxed over.”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah, I had Justice get a search warrant from the district court. Given what we have so far, it was easy enough. Of course the assistant A.G. has got wind of this matter and now wants in on it all the way.”

  “Oh boy,” Spencer said.

  “Bill, we have to bring Justice in on this. It’s too big for us to keep in our back pocket any more, particularly with this French issue. Hell, State and CIA may want to know about this, too.”

  Spencer knew that Tobey was right. If Helius was the driving force behind this monster, then a whole lot of people would want to get involved in it. Spencer’s problem related to one particular person in the Justice Department: someone in his own backyard.

  “That’s not my problem, Tobey. Helius is located in Austin. That’s in the Western District of Texas. The United States Attorney for the Western District is Michaela Russo. I’m sure you recognize that name.”

  Nelson did recognize the name, and like Spencer he understood the politics that were an integral part of the U.S. Department of Justice.

  The DOJ divided the country into regional offices, and each regional office was assigned a U.S. attorney. The individuals in these positions were political appointees, and more than a few of them had political ambitions. Marquee cases with a lot of press time were the proverbial coin of the realm. Any U.S. attorney who was cut out of a “hot” case in his or her region would be a very unhappy camper. In the case of Michaela Russo, who everyone knew had national political aspirations, her screams of rage would be heard all the way back to Washington.

  “Russo, that’s just great,” Tobey said. “Okay, just tell me what you want to do.”

  Spencer considered his options. He wanted at least another day to get his arms around the case before he formally notified Russo of the investigation.

  “How about this? I’ll assemble as much data on the case as possible today. Tomorrow, I will e-mail Russo with a case summary. You tell the folks at Justice up there that you think Texas will be working the case, but you’ll get back to them. If they push you, tell them to call Russo. By then she’ll have the e-mail and they can fight it out between themselves.”

  There was a hesitation on the other side of the
line.

  “Works for me, buddy. This may be a joint effort, but as far as I’m concerned it’s your show,” Nelson said.

  Spencer smiled to himself. What Nelson was really saying was I’ll follow your lead, but if there are any problems with Washington or Justice, I’ll direct them to you. Spencer was okay with that.

  With the political issues solved, Spencer switched gears. “Do you see anything interesting in the list of calls?”

  “Let me see. Nothing that jumps out at me on the home phone. Let me look at the list for the cell phone. No, no, and then a big yes! I got some good news. It appears as though John Caine has developed a big interest in the great state of Texas. Almost every call that I see here in the last forty-eight hours has a Texas area code. I’ll have the list faxed to you right away. Your people can track down these numbers. I’ll keep working this end.”

  “Thanks, Tobey. As soon as I get the results, I’ll give you a call.”

  After hanging up, Spencer walked over to the window and looked out on the Dallas skyline. What had they gotten into?

  Dallas, Texas

  December 8, 1999 / Wednesday / 11:00 a.m.

  The work-up on Caine’s phone calls showed an early morning call on Saturday to the Austin American-Statesman, from a location in Riverside, California. Later that same morning, Caine had made two calls to one Andrea Marenna in Austin, Texas. One call was made from a location in Riverside, California. The second was made from Austin, Texas.

  Caine had also called a cell phone number in Houston. The number was registered to a Bahamian corporation. One call was made from California. The second was made from Austin. Spencer circled the two names and handed the list back to the junior agent he’d recently assigned to the case, Ashley Morgan.

  “I need everything you can get on Ms. Marenna and this corporation as soon as possible.

  “Coming right up.”

  “Thanks.”

  Spencer watched the tall African American woman walk out the door. She was six months out of the academy. All of her reviews to date had been exceptional, particularly in the firearms field. She’d shot a perfect score three times in a row at the range, beating two old hands who were considered the best of the best.

  The young agent’s shooting skill made sense to Spencer, because he knew her background. Her father had been a sergeant in the U.S. Army Special Forces. After his knee had been permanently injured on a mission, the elder Morgan had spent twenty years as a firearms instructor at Fort Bragg. Agent Morgan had served as the master’s avid apprentice. She was more than an expert marksman; she was a walking encyclopedia on firearms.

  Spencer turned back to his computer and pulled up a form that every office was required to file with the bureau’s central database in Washington. The report gave Washington a summary of each new investigation. The agent in charge of the investigation was required to assign a rating to the investigation that weighed the risk posed to the public by the alleged perpetrators, the geographic scope of the threat, and the resources that would be required to pursue the investigation. Spencer intended to give the new file a mid-level rating for now. This was defensible given the lack of clear data. It would also keep the matter from being swarmed over by his superiors, at least for a week or two. Once the picture became clearer, he would update the rating.

  It took Spencer half an hour to complete his write-up. He labeled the matter a joint investigation with the Bureau’s Los Angeles office. When he finished, he e-mailed the draft report to Tobey for approval and walked down to the duty desk, where an agent was reviewing incoming information about possible federal crimes within the Southwest region during the past twenty-four hours. The agent’s task was to sift through the information and then prioritize the matters. Big issues such as bomb threats, major shooting incidents, and similar matters would be referred up the line for immediate attention.

  Spencer stopped at the coffee station across from the agent and gave him a friendly wave.

  “Anything exciting happening?”

  The agent nodded affirmatively.

  “Pretty big. There was a shootout in downtown Austin last night. It looks like a city prosecutor was shot.”

  Spencer just shook his head and started back to his office, but stopped before he reached the door and turned back to the agent.

  “Can I see the write-up?”

  “On the Austin shooting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here it is.”

  Spencer picked up the summary of the incident and the extracts from the police reports. The information was confusing. Apparently there had been a shootout, but it wasn’t clear who was involved or why. As he started to hand back the report, a name at the tail end of the report flew off the page at him.

  “Andrea Marenna, an Austin attorney, and a forty-year-old white male, about six feet tall, are considered persons of interest to this investigation.”

  Spencer turned to his administrative assistant.

  “I need a flight to Austin. Actually get two tickets on that flight and inform Agent Morgan that she’s going to Austin to investigate a new case.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Austin, Texas

  December 7, 1999 / Tuesday / 9:50 a.m.

  The address that Jaq had given him was in an older industrial area on the outskirts of Austin. Building 16 was a cinder-block-and-steel warehouse on a corner lot. The complex was protected by ten-foot barbed wire. The building across the street was of similar construction. A “For Lease” sign was hanging on the fence outside the building.

  Caine drove around the block twice before pulling in the front gate, which was open. He followed the driveway to an alley in the rear and parked the pickup. Before getting out, he pulled out the Browning, checked the magazine, and turned off the safety. He put the gun back in his jacket, but kept his hand on it.

  Caine walked past the loading dock to the steel door on the other side with the “Number 16” stenciled over it. The door opened and Jaq stepped out. The Haitian smiled and grabbed Caine’s hand in an iron grip.

  “You look like shit, Caine. It’s lucky that Uncle Jaq is here to save your sorry ass. Of course, I brought along a little help, just in case.”

  “Thanks, Jaq, but all I—”

  A deep baritone that Caine hadn’t heard in ten years interrupted him.

  “A little help. What bullshit.”

  Caine turned and took in the sight of Sergeant Joe Vlasky walking toward him from the gap between the two smaller buildings on the other side of the alley. The Pole’s face had a few more lines than it had a decade earlier, but he still had the physique of a powerlifter. If anything, the ex-legionnaire had added even more muscle to his square frame since the last time Caine had seen him. Vlasky grabbed Caine in a bear hug that crushed the breath out of him, and then gave him a slap on the shoulder when he released him.

  “So where’s the fight, corporal?” Vlasky said, a smile on his face.

  A third voice called down from the flat roof of the warehouse above him.

  “Giovanni! Up here.”

  Caine looked up and stared at the handsome face of Pietro Marchesano. The wiry five-foot-eight Italian was waving to him with both arms. His Mediterranean features didn’t seem a day older.

  “Buongiorno, my friend.”

  Caine waved back, too stunned by the appearance of the three men together to speak. Pietro had joined the team after MacBain had been killed in Africa. Any replacement joining the unit after that incident could have expected a long integration process, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Pietro’s quiet competence and skill, particularly as a sniper, had earned him the respect of every member of the unit after two missions. His irrepressible good humor, no matter what the circumstances, had done the rest.

  As Caine looked at the three men, he was almost overwhelmed by emotion. The men had forged a bond of friendship, brotherhood even, despite their disparate backgrounds and personalities, during the decade they’d worked
together. But there was something more—something that he’d never fully appreciated until the last three days. They’d been with him every time he’d faced the risk of death in the past. Knowing they were with him had made the challenge bearable. During the last three days, he’d been forced to stand on that precipice alone, knowing that any mistake would push him and Andrea into that abyss. The unrelenting psychological pressure and physical strain of that experience had brought him close to the breaking point. Seeing the three of them standing there lifted a massive weight from his shoulders.

  Caine suddenly realized that one man from the team was missing: Colonel Etienne Ricard. Then he heard a voice from inside the door Jaq was holding open.

  “Gentlemen, must I drink this fine burgundy all alone? Come!”

  Caine walked to the doorway. Etienne Ricard was standing beside an old wooden table inside the warehouse. Five glasses circled a dark red bottle of wine.

  “Corporal Caine, it has been far too long.”

  Caine unconsciously came to attention and saluted. Ricard casually returned the salute and waved him in.

  “Too long indeed, Colonel,” Caine said as he looked into the intense gray eyes of the man who’d been his commanding officer for ten years. Ricard was thinner than Caine remembered, and his hair had more salt than pepper in it, but his tanned and aristocratic bearing radiated the same quiet power and dignity that Caine remembered. Caine shook his head slowly. They’re all here.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-NINE

  Travis County, Texas

  December 7, 1999 / Tuesday / 9:00 a.m.

  Andrea was awake when the wiry Latino in his late thirties opened the door to the room and turned on the overhead light. The man was of medium height. His hair was cropped short, and he had a hard, weathered face. His cheekbones and eyes looked more American Indian than Spanish. The sleeves on his sweatshirt were rolled up, revealing muscled forearms that were decorated by a patchwork of tattoos and small scars.

  Andrea stared at the man as he crossed the room. He avoided making eye contact, but made no effort to hide his face. After disconnecting the chain, he led her out of the room to the back of a truck parked in the main warehouse. A second Latino man, wearing a worn flight jacket, was standing near the cab of the truck. He was younger and taller than the first man, but had similar hair and facial features. When Andrea glanced over at the man, he also made no effort to hide his face. In fact, he returned the look, grinned suggestively, and then made a comment to the man beside her in Spanish. Andrea understood the comment, but didn’t react. She was thinking about their failure to cover their faces. Something had changed. They were no longer worried about her getting out of there alive. That should have terrified her, but it didn’t. She was just too tired and numb to care.

 

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