Pandora's Temple

by Jon Land

  Shinzo’s left hand was starting to itch now, but scratching never brought any relief or even feeling. “Inside the laboratory, I threw open the seals, and the heavy doors to the vacuum chamber blew outward. I felt something slam into me, thought it would blow me backward. But then I felt as if I had been lifted into the air, hovering above the floor when in reality my feet remained planted in place. I realized I’d thrown my hands up to protect myself against whatever force I suddenly felt passing straight through me as if I was made of water. I felt weightless. I remember looking at the hands still raised protectively before me. I remember feeling great joy that I had achieved the fate you yourself had long contemplated.”

  “Then what, my son?” the apparition challenged.

  “I blacked out. When I woke up, I was being tended to in the van. That’s the first time I realized . . .”

  Again Shinzo glanced at his covered hand, his voice tailing off.

  “We are close, my son, closer than we have ever been before. Find the woman again. Learn everything she knows about the oil rig to plan your next steps.”

  “The police have her now, Father. But she has been transferred to the custody of Homeland Security,” Shinzo said, reporting what he’d learned from e-mailed reports from the agency’s New Orleans office. His specialty had always been computers and hacking, chosen to complement his father’s skills in the expectation they’d wage their battle side by side for years to come.

  “Then you know where they’ll be taking her.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Don’t suppose—do! Use your men, your resources.”

  “A suicide mission. The headquarters is impregnable.”

  “So you’re giving up.”

  Shinzo swallowed hard.

  “Concede and all you’ve suffered will be for naught. Show me the source of your suffering. Show me what you show no other.”

  Shinzo tugged off the thin black mitten from his left hand with his right and held both up to the mirror for his father to see. But the ghostly specter was gone, revealing only his own form reflected in the murky light and steaming warmth of the room. Arms held upward, palms out, to reveal the price he had paid for the relentless pursuit of his father’s goals:

  Shinzo Asahara had two right hands.

  CHAPTER 48

  New Orleans

  Folsom parked in a red zone in front of the police building on North Rampart.

  “Perks of the trade,” he announced to McCracken and Wareagle.

  The five-story, clay-colored building looked bland but functional, with dozens of equidistant windows indicating a simple design of like if not identical and interchangeable office spaces. A parking garage rose parallel on the building’s south side while its north overlooked a side street closed off to vehicular traffic.

  Folsom’s Homeland Security ID got them quickly through lobby security and into the reception area leading into the squad room where the real police business actually went on.

  “More of you?” the clerk, a large-jowled man with thick glasses that still left him squinting, said to Folsom.

  “What do you mean more of us?” Folsom asked him.

  “I just checked another two agents from Homeland Security through a few minutes ago.”

  “Lock the building down, Folsom!” McCracken ordered.

  “It’s probably—”

  “Just do it!”

  “They had IDs exactly like yours,” Detective Hurst said, handing Folsom back his identification.

  They had reached the interrogation room the two imposters from Homeland Security had entered mere minutes before. Uniformed officers stood on either side of the door with guns drawn, three more standing slightly behind them while McCracken and Wareagle hung back ready to push their way forward as soon as it became necessary.

  The officers, led by Hurst, burst through the interrogation room door in the next instant, guns raised and ready. Folsom followed, McCracken and Wareagle staying exactly where they were but still close enough to see inside.

  The room was empty.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” Folsom asked McCracken. “You knew they’d be gone.”

  “Men like this don’t stick around any longer than they have to.”

  “I’ve ordered the building and surrounding block closed off. Nobody in or out.”

  “Knock yourself out, Folsom.”

  “You have a better idea, sir?”

  “We check out the building security station. Then, Hank, you get the chance to work some of your Homeland Security magic.”

  “That’s them,” McCracken noted, as the police tech froze a picture of two men escorting a woman between them across the third floor of the adjacent parking garage. “I recognize the woman too.”

  “She calls herself Katie DeMarco,” said Folsom. “But that’s not her real name.”

  The tech zoomed in and clicked his mouse, enlarging the shot so the grainy, underpixelated quality masked any identifying features.

  “See the way the men are holding her?” McCracken asked, pointing at the screen.

  “One on either elbow,” Folsom answered. “So what?”

  “So the man on the right’s positioned behind her, the way I would be if I were holding a knife or gun against her back.”

  Folsom regarded the screen again. “The way you would,” he repeated.

  “Tough world out there, Hank. You should visit it some time.”

  According to the Deepwater Venture work logs and preliminary police report, Katie DeMarco was the rig’s assistant to the operations manager, and as such was privy to pretty much all its inner workings. McCracken had already reviewed a picture of her exiting a boat upon its return to the Port of New Orleans from a resupply run to the Venture. Pulled off a security camera as well, it was similarly grainy but provided just enough resolution for him to be certain the women captured in both shots were one and the same, a match for the woman he and Johnny Wareagle had saved yesterday at K-Paul’s from figures nearly identical to those impersonating Homeland Security agents here at the police station.

  “Who are you really, Katie DeMarco?” McCracken asked out loud.

  Folsom had arranged to run the young woman’s likeness through the massive databases maintained by Homeland, but as of yet the software had yielded nothing. Apparently an e-mail had reached the Venture two nights before the incident asking Assistant Operations Manager Paul Basmajian to detain her, since her fabricated identity didn’t pass the muster of a more detailed background check. Obviously Baz never saw the e-mail, because if he had, McCracken was sure the woman never would have gotten off the rig.

  He watched as the tech started the tape again, another camera picking up the trio reaching a dark green SUV. One of the men eased Katie DeMarco ahead of him into the backseat while the other climbed into the front.

  The tech froze the screen there. “This was thirteen minutes ago according to the time stamp,” he reported. “She’s long gone by now.”

  McCracken swung toward Folsom. “How far does Homeland’s surveillance reach extend into New Orleans?”

  “Far enough.”

  Wareagle jerked a second chair out from beneath the monitoring station.

  “Prove it, Hank,” said McCracken.

  CHAPTER 49

  New Orleans

  Folsom sat down and wheeled the chair back into place. He copied a still shot of the dark green SUV, then logged into an ultrasecure Homeland Security site that required multiple access codes and passwords to enter.

  “Can you move any faster?” McCracken prodded.

  “You ever hear of procedure?” Folsom shot back at him.

  “Sure and it’s mostly good for getting people killed.”

  Folsom’s fingers started typing quicker as he plugged in the police station street address in one box and pasted the picture of the SUV into another, then hit Enter.

  “Talk to me, Hank, and talk fast.”

  “Every camera in a fifteen-mile radius is now looking f
or the vehicle,” he explained. “That means every ATM, traffic cam, security camera, every drive-through window—all are sending visual data toward that purpose. Their feeds will all be compiled and extrapolated in real time by one of our supercomputers, and if we’re halfway lucky we’ll have a hit in minutes.”

  “Keep extrapolating,” McCracken told him, already backing up for the door with Johnny Wareagle. “The Indian and I will get ready to hit the road.”

  “Wait,” Folsom said, reaching into his pocket, “take this.”

  He handed McCracken what looked like a high-tech version of the standard Bluetooth earpiece.

  “Long-range transmitter?”

  Folsom looked as if he had to stop himself from shaking his head. “Not what we call it, but close enough. Operates on a dedicated bandwidth and frequency with direct satellite feed. So we can stay in touch.”

  McCracken fit the earpiece into place. “Aren’t I lucky?”

  He and Wareagle had just reached an unmarked sedan with a big block V-8 provided them courtesy of the NOPD when Folsom’s voice chimed hollowly in his ear.

  “Okay, McCracken, I’ve got our vehicle heading southeast on Martin Luther King Junior Boulevard and making a U-turn at Oretha C. Haley Boulevard and then taking a right onto South Claiborne Avenue eight minutes ago now.”

  McCracken climbed behind the wheel and gunned the car’s powerful engine.

  “Next shot I’ve got is two minutes later in traffic approaching the ramp to the I-10, west for Baton Rouge.”

  Wareagle fastened his shoulder harness as McCracken screeched off, following the SUV’s identical path.

  “I’ve got them on US-90 for a half mile before merging onto I-10 heading west.”

  McCracken picked up speed, weaving in and out of traffic and honking his horn instead of using the big car’s siren. “How long ago?”

  “Six minutes,” Folsom reported. “Wait, I’ve got them taking the Causeway Boulevard North exit and proceeding onto North Causeway less than one minute ago. Christ . . .”

  “What?”

  “They must be headed across Lake Pontchartrain. Where are you?”

  “Merging on I-10 now. How far does that put me behind them?”

  No response.

  “Folsom?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I’ve got them passing onto the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway just now in real time. That puts you exactly five-point-one miles behind them.”

  “So you can see me too?”

  “On a separate screen. Why?”

  “Because I just gave you the finger, Hank.”

  “We don’t have nearly the camera coverage on the other side of the causeway, McCracken. We stand to lose them if you can’t intercept prior.”

  “Expecting a miracle?”

  “Just like Mexico.”

  “I lost one in Mexico, Folsom. Don’t intend for that to happen today.”

  “Then you better step on it,” McCracken heard Folsom say in his ear loud enough to cause a flutter in his skull.

  “Wait,” McCracken said, realizing something. “Check the long view of the causeway. I believe you’ll find the bascule drawbridge at about the center of the span.”

  “Holy shit, you’re right.”

  “Then work your magic and order it opened.”

  The drawbridge was actually located at the sixteen-mile marker of the Causeway Bridge, activated under normal conditions with only substantial notice and never during peak daytime travel hours.

  “You read me, McCracken?” Folsom’s voice blared in his ear.

  “Loud and clear, Hank.”

  “Traffic has been stopped and the drawbridge will be raised in three minutes’ time.”

  McCracken realized the easy flow of cars on the causeway was slowing, a sea of brake lights flashing ahead. “Where’s the SUV?”

  “About a mile ahead of you and one mile in front of the drawbridge.”

  “How long does that give Johnny and me to reach it?”

  “Six minutes to raise, six minutes to lower, and, say, another five to approximate a ship passing through. So figure twenty before traffic flow resumes. Is that enough?”

  “Guess it’ll have to be, won’t it?”

  “You don’t sound thrilled by the prospects.”

  “A gunfight in the open with whoever nabbed Katie DeMarco’s going to do lots of collateral damage. Not a lot of places for bystanders to go other than over the side.”

  “This coming from the legendary McCrackenballs?”

  “The bad guys these days seem to operate with entirely new rules of engagement. Shoot fast and often and hit whatever you can.”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to shoot better.”

  “First we’ll have to get close enough. Any ideas, Folsom?”

  “Well,” the man from Homeland Security started, “you’re about to hit the snarl so whatever you do, it’ll have to be on foot.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  Ahead, McCracken could see a number of men holding hand-scrawled cardboard signs up for those now stalled in place to see. The signs were pretty much uniform in message, held in cracked, soiled hands by those claiming to be homeless, jobless, or both. And, judging by their appearance, McCracken disputed none of that. There was even an older man advertising himself as a Vietnam vet rolling about the snarl in a wheelchair.

  “Indian?” he raised, aware Johnny Wareagle’s gaze had tilted in the same direction.

  “My thoughts exactly, Blainey.”

  “Then let’s get to work.”

  CHAPTER 50

  New Orleans

  “If you’ll come with us, Ms. DeMarco.”

  Katie had sensed something amiss as soon as Detective Hurst ushered the two men into the conference room and closed the door behind them. Something was wrong about their demeanor, their eyes too furtive and intense. She could try to pass it off as the paranoia expected under the circumstances, but there seemed to be no inquisitiveness in their gazes or their intentions, their mind-set entirely wrong for the task.

  “I’d like to use the bathroom first, if that’s okay,” Katie had said, hoping to create the opportunity to separate herself from these men, while unsure about what exactly she’d do once she managed that.

  “Certainly,” one of the men said. “On our way out.”

  Instead, though, they’d made straight for the parking garage with her request to visit the bathroom ignored. The two men walked with her always in the middle, one or both of them with a firm grasp on her elbows or arms. And, as soon as they reached the garage, she felt the barrel of a gun pressed low against her back.

  “Keep moving,” the man holding it said. “Don’t stop, don’t cry out, don’t look at anyone passing by.”

  Katie heard the static-riddled cackle of a soft voice providing instructions in the other man’s nearly invisible earpiece.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said amid the garage’s dark confines smelling of oil, concrete, and lingering exhaust fumes.

  The men kept leading her on, the gun pressing against her harder.

  “Just keep walking,” one of them said quite calmly, brushing off her lame attempt at escape with what looked like a smirk.

  It was the last thing either of them had said, through the drive that took them across the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway where they suddenly became mired in traffic in view of a rising drawbridge. That respite gave Katie fresh opportunity to consider her options for flight. These men didn’t care what she knew, any more than the men who’d followed her into K-Paul’s yesterday did.

  Or the men who’d killed Todd Lipton and his team in Greenland. And Twist last night.

  Katie watched the driver touch his barely visible earpiece, the soft garble of static reaching her again.

  “New orders,” he said, his gaze cocked back toward the man on her right.

  Katie felt his free hand take her by the hair and jerk her downward. She glimpsed the silenced pistol steadying on her skull, and was abou
t to to close her eyes when someone rapped on the window.

  CHAPTER 51

  New Orleans

  McCracken had approached the white-haired man in the wheelchair with Wareagle looming just behind him, dropping a ten-dollar bill into the cup held on the man’s seat between his two legs.

  “What unit were you with, soldier?”

  “Twenty-Fifth Infantry Division. Tropic Lightning,” he said proudly.

  “Saw plenty of action in the Tet and more, then. First Brigade or Second?”

  “First.”

  “Bet you were pleased as punch to get back home to Schofield in ’71. May, wasn’t it?”

  “It was. Remember it like it was yesterday.”

  “Except,” McCracken said, “you’re remembering it wrong. First Brigade of Tropic Lightning was gone by the previous December. And those gloves you’re wearing are plenty worn, but not in the spots from wheeling that chair around. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll throw you over the side.”

  The man looked up at McCracken, his expression that of someone who’d just swallowed something sour. “You want your ten dollars back?”

  “Nope. Consider it a rental fee.”

  “For what?”

  “Get up.”

  McCracken eased the wheelchair with Johnny Wareagle resting in the seat the final stretch to the green SUV parked in clear view of the raised drawbridge.

  “Remind me next time it’s your turn to do the pushing, Indian,” he said between labored breaths. “Man, HALO drops from five miles were easy compared to this.”

  Of course, Johnny Wareagle’s vast bulk made him stand out under any circumstances, but less so in a seated position that allowed him to hunch his shoulders and crane his body to hide his true size. McCracken eased the pistol Folsom had procured for him into easier drawing range when they drew to within three vehicles of the SUV.

  “Just in case, Indian.”

  Wareagle grinned slightly. “Just in case,” he repeated.

  Her captor’s hold slackened enough to allow Katie to peer upward. The man rapping his knuckles on the window had his hair clubbed back into a ponytail that was rimmed with gray strands where it pulled back from the temples. His eyes looked like liquid pools of darkness. Katie had just registered how big his chest and shoulders were, easily wider than the breadth of the wheelchair, when her captor in the backseat lowered the window to shoo the beggar away.