As Collins looked the paper over, he gently removed the yellow flimsy from its protecting plastic. Jack knew it had to be done this way, because the director, Niles Compton, was a stickler for the department not changing, altering, or correcting history in any way through the auspices of the Event Group. He would not have signed on for it.
Just as Jack stood and looked at the mummified remains of Earhart, the hiss of the vault door sounded and he quickly placed the paper back into his pocket. He slowly turned and saw Sarah McIntire standing at the threshold of the thick steel door.
"I think I'm beginning to become jealous," she said as she took in the dark form of Jack who stood motionless under the spotlights of the vault.
"Nah, she's a bit too old for me," he said as he turned back to look at the corpse in the acrylic chamber.
"Yeah, but she's your type. Pushing the envelope like she did, I guess you could say she had balls."
Collins smiled and then turned back to face Sarah.
"I guess you could say she's like someone else I know, actually two someones."
"Jack, what in the hell are you doing here?" Sarah asked, not catching the plural meaning to Jack's strange statement.
Collins didn't answer. He just smiled at the small geologist and shrugged.
"How did you know where I was?" he asked instead of answering her question.
"The director, Jack. He's right outside the vault door, he wants a moment with you. He knows you've been down here nearly every day and he said something about a clandestine trip you made to Langley and then a quick stop at the National Archives in Washington. Why didn't you tell me about it?"
"It's something I have to work out on my own, so you have to sit this one out. Now tell Niles he can come in. He deserves a crack at me."
Sarah swallowed, and then with one last look back at Jack, turned away and stepped from the dimly illuminated vault.
Collins hated not being able to explain something he didn't understand himself. Sarah needed to know all there was about him and his personal life if they were to continue growing closer. His eyes looked up as Niles Compton stepped over the frame of the vault's door. He still had the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to the elbows and his hands were now in his pants pockets. As usual, Niles looked tired and worn. The spotlights dimly reflected off of his balding head.
"Hello, Colonel."
"Mr. Director," Jack said as he stepped forward.
"Col—" Compton started and then stopped. They had worked together for over three years now, and he knew the formalities between them had to end. "Jack, are you going to tell me what's going on?"
"You have as much tact as a battleship in a pond, Niles."
"I believe you should come right out and say what's on your mind, wouldn't you agree?"
"The world would be a better place. And in answer to your question, I don't know if I can tell you. One side of it is a personal matter, the other professional."
"We" — Niles paused, rethinking his statement—"I need you here, Jack. The world's in a mess, the country's not far behind, and to be frank with you, this department's seen better days. Without you the past three years, we would have lost it all here. You have something that's taking your mind off your duties here; I think after all of this time you've earned the right to be trusted."
"Thank you, Niles."
Compton walked up to the acrylic chamber and looked inside. He, like Jack did a few moments ago, placed his hand on the lid and smiled.
"I'm going to miss her when she's gone," Niles said as he looked up and into Jack's blue eyes. "Obviously you will, too."
Collins didn't respond, he just held the eyes of his director. Then he slowly reached into his pocket and brought out the navy department signals receipt and, closing his eyes, he slowly reached out and handed the paper to Niles.
"Ah, the missing signals message from the Archives, I was wondering when you were going to tell me about it."
"You knew?" Jack asked, not really surprised. Then he quickly understood, "Ah, Pete and Europa."
"That damn computer knows more about what the National Archives has in its files than the people who catalog its items. Yes, Pete knew two hours after you left Washington." Niles held the paper out and then looked at it. "We could have talked about this, Jack."
"I don't even know why I did it." It looked like Collins was going to continue, but stopped and just shook his head.
Compton smiled. "I'm not as by-the-book as people think. I've done some pretty stupid things here myself. You know, once, back when we had the intact crypt of Genghis Khan — I think I was a computer room supervisor then — long before Senator Lee gave me the entire department, I cut all surveillance to his vault, put on his hat, and swung his sword around to beat all hell."
Jack had to smile at the picture Compton's memory described. The little balding computer nerd wearing a fur hat and chopping at the air with the sword of a man that came close to conquering three quarters of the globe.
"Well, needless to say, I was caught red-handed by none other than the senator himself as he was giving a tour of the vaults to the director of the General Accounting Office."
"That must have made your day."
Niles smiled at the memory. "Yeah, three weeks of house arrest in my own room on level eight, then a disciplinary letter in my file." Niles turned and looked at Jack, still smiling. "You know what the old man did?"
"I'll bite, Niles, what did he do?"
"The next month he promoted me to the department head of Computer Sciences, and on that day he allowed me to transport the remains of Genghis Khan back to Mongolia and rebury it. That was my very first and only real field expedition."
Jack smiled and nodded his head. He didn't really know why the director told him that story, but it placed a far more human face on Niles Compton.
The director nodded his head, lightly patted the acrylic chamber, and then looked at the remains of Amelia Earhart for probably the last time.
"Senator Lee promoted me because he found out on that day that I had an imagination. He said that was a deciding factor in me getting Computer Sciences. He said you need an imagination to be a leader." Niles held Jack's eyes with his own and then continued. "Sometimes I hate history, Jack. It's not fair in a lot of cases." Niles placed the signal message from the navy department on the chambers top and then slid it over toward Collins. "Just hide the orders in a not-so-obvious place on her remains."
Collins looked from the letter to his boss. He nodded just once.
"Now, Jack, do you want to fill me in as to why you stopped and visited your sister at the CIA? A sister you never listed as a family member in your file?"
"How in the hell did you know that?"
"I just happen to have a best friend with the title of president of the United States. He wouldn't allow the director at Langley to use one of my people without the courtesy of informing me as to why. I agreed with allowing you to cooperate with them for the simple reason you know what your sister's thoughts are. "
"The director of the CIA told the president?"
"Your sister and the operation she's currently running is the reason for your interest in seeing to it that Amelia here gets her just rewards, isn't that right?"
Jack was astounded at what Niles knew about what was happening in his life. He decided to come clean about his sister and her situation. It took a half an hour, but Jack felt better for doing it.
Niles had listened in silence and then he stood and turned away, and was just about to leave when he turned once more to face Jack.
"Keep me posted on your sister, Jack." Niles smiled. "And by the way, your letter of reprimand regarding the theft of national treasures will be placed in your file also, just like the senator did me." Compton then abruptly turned and stepped over the high threshold of the vault and disappeared into the massive hallway.
Jack Collins smiled for the first time since he heard what his baby sister was up to. Then he slowly and carefully lifted t
he cover of Earhart's enclosure, and placed the navy signals message and history back into the proper and correct perspective.
MONTREAL, CANADA
TWO DAYS LATER
The rented Audi sat parked as it had for the past two hours in front of the large cast-iron gates that led to one of the most famous structures in Montreal. The estate was as old as Canada itself, and historians claimed it was actually designed by Marquis Louis-Joseph de Montcalm, the commander of all the North American French forces during that country's battle with the British Empire for control of the Americas — the French and Indian War of 1754–1763. The woman sitting in the rented car knew better. She had done her homework and was aware that the estate hadn't been built until five years after the Marquis's death. Her proof was in the CIA archives in Langley, Virginia. The French Canadians perpetrated the rumor to lure tourist dollars into their city.
The man in the driver's seat lowered his binoculars and looked out into the warming spring day.
"You know, we're sticking out like a sore thumb here. I mean, anyone could look out of any one of those two hundred gilded windows and see us."
The dark-haired woman didn't say anything as she silently watched the house that sat a hundred yards up the long drive. Her blue eyes never leaving the stone facade of the mansion. She panned to the right and looked through the window at the city almost ten miles away. There were a few pillars of smoke from the riots but it looked as though the Canadian government had quelled most of the protests and violence concerning the recent push for French speaking independence.
"This place is fast becoming a mess," she mumbled.
"Maybe we should—"
"We'll stay right here." The woman finally afforded the older man a glance. Her features were soft and she spoke to her partner as if she were a teacher instructing a slow student even though his years of service far outweighed her own. "I don't give a damn if they see us, Mr. Evans. They need to know they are being watched and that old sins are not forgiven — at least by the United States."
The man knew the young woman was tired. She had flown into Montreal just six hours before and she was out of sorts. He just hoped the head of the northeast field desk wasn't making an error in judgment. He knew as well as she that the two men inside that house were two of the most ruthless killers that had ever worked for the old KGB. The field operation was made possible only because of an anonymous tip and a package delivered to her desk that had very unexpectedly brought the golden child, the wunderkind of the agency, out from behind her desk at Langley. Tired as she was, Lynn Simpson looked through the man alongside her. He knew from her reputation — an impressive one for someone as young as she was — and realized that she didn't care what he thought. She played her own game and did it very well.
"We have a vehicle approaching from Tenth Street, followed by a van," came a voice over the earpiece in both agents' ears.
"Thank you, unit two, they are expected company," Simpson said into the microphone located just under her jacket collar.
"Who are they?" Evans asked as he looked from the beautiful young woman and then into his rearview mirror.
"CSIS," she said as she removed the field glasses from his hands and looked through them at the house.
"Why would we bring in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service if we're just watching and verifying if that's really them inside? We don't have anything on Deonovich or Sagli, no warrants at least."
"You'll have to excuse me if you weren't informed of everything that comes across my desk, Agent Evans. Right now the Canadian authorities have them entering Canada under false passports and thanks to an anonymous source, we also have them coming into Seattle with those same false papers. Now, can I assume you're armed?"
"In the glove box. Will I need it?" he asked, not liking the way this thing was shaping up.
Agent Lynn Simpson lowered the field glasses, but didn't look at Evans when she handed him the binoculars. Keeping her eyes on the house, she reached for the glove box, opened it, found the Glock nine-millimeter, and then handed it to him.
"You are currently qualified with that, I presume?" she asked him with the first touch of a smile to cross her lips that morning. "I'm just kidding, Evans, just keep it close. I couldn't get my weapon into the country."
"Wait, didn't you fly in by a company plane?"
"Commercial," she said as she opened the car door but looked back before she stepped out. "I needed the travel miles."
Evans watched her as she closed the door and then walked to the rear of the rented Audi as the car and van approached. He closed his eyes and cursed, now realizing the assistant director wasn't here under any kind of authorization from the company. He chambered a round into his nine-millimeter, making sure the safety was on, and then threw open his door.
"I know what you're thinking, Evans, and yes, the director of Intelligence knows we're here; she made me contact CSIS to let them know we'd be in country. We'll soon have the company of the head of the Montreal sector of counterintelligence greeting us." She looked over the top of the Audi and shook her head. The older agents were getting so paranoid that someone was going to snatch their pension right out from under them since most refused to take chances any longer.
The Canadian government car stopped and a large man with a balding head stepped out of the passenger's side, smiled at Lynn, and held out his hand.
"Well, I thought your bosses at the Farm were keeping a closer eye on you these days?" the man asked, shaking the hand of the much smaller American woman.
"Hello, Punchy, how are the wife and kids?"
Jonathan "Punchy" Alexander had been trained through the offices of British Intelligence, MI-5, and was one of the best field men Lynn had ever met. He was the man responsible for shutting down the largest terrorist organization on the North American continent two years prior, and held the prison key to over one hundred and twelve enemies of the West. He was currently Canada's flavor of the month, or year for that matter.
"My kids are all anarchists and the wife is still mean as a snake," he said as he released her small hand. He looked at the pretty American and watched her eyes. "I suspect that most of my kids are downtown protesting with the rest of the crazies about independence from Ottawa. How's your brother? I haven't seen him in years, hell, I haven't even heard about him, and in our game that says something. I hope the U.S. government didn't bury him too deep after his little snit with the army."
"I wouldn't know about that. If he was dead, I'm sure my mother would have said something about it."
Alexander sensed anger behind the bland look that she put on her face as she casually uttered those words and decided to push a little more. He thought, Maybe I'll get something for my report.
"Still touchy on the subject of your brother, I see."
She looked straight at the much larger Canadian and tilted her head and raised her left eyebrow.
"Okay, I'll leave it alone." He knew the problems of big brother, little sister because of the career path the latter had chosen. His old friend wasn't happy his baby sis had opted for the intelligence end of things. Alexander cleared his throat and then looked up at the chateau. "Now, you're not standing in front of Chateau Laureal because of the early season tourist rate, so what are you doing in the great white north, Agent Simpson?"
"Gregori Deonovich and Dmitri Sagli," she said as she held the Canadian intelligence officer with her stark blue eyes.
All humor and goodwill left his features. He looked at Lynn and then immediately turned toward the giant house and then without looking away from the structure gestured for his men to exit the car and van.
"I take it you were informed of their arrival by a contact from my country who works for you?"
"Let's not get territorial, Punchy, I was informed anonymously and then I immediately called you people."
Alexander unceremoniously removed the field glasses from Agent Evans and raised them to look at the chateau, allowing Evans a chance to glare at t
he larger man.
"You're sure it's those murderous bastards?"
"They didn't even bother to disguise themselves coming through the airport. It was like they wanted to be seen."
Alexander lowered the glasses and fixed Lynn with a look.
"You know, they knew you would be called in any event. Of all the people in the world, they would want to confront you."
"Am I missing something here?" Evans asked.
"Yes. If I know your boss, you've missed everything. The two men of Slavic origin inside of that house have a file on them in every Western intelligence service and those files are over a foot thick. And somewhere in those reports you will find a reference to your Ms. Simpson. She's dogged them since the time she was first assigned to the desk she now occupies. Altogether these two Russians have killed five American, six British, one New Zealander, three Germans, and two Canadian intelligence people, and that's all after their time at the KGB ended."
"So what have they been doing since?" Evans asked looking from Alexander to Lynn.
"Don't you brief your field people?" Alexander asked, sparing Lynn a cold look. "They are the joint heads of the largest organized crime syndicate in Russia. That's what KGB retirement means nowadays. The last I heard, they were expanding into the Ukraine and Kazakhstan, which is why I'm so concerned about them coming here where they don't own the intelligence agencies or the police. Besides, with all of this rioting going on and with a major coup in the offing if things don't calm down, them being here makes a mess, just a larger mess." Alexander raised the glasses again and watched the house. "May I assume that your FBI and even your own director don't know that you and your boys are in Canada?"
"My immediate boss thought we could take care of this on our own, Punchy, without bringing both of our agency heads in on it; the legalities involved would have taken too much time. With what's happening here we thought a low profile was best. Look, Sagli and Deonovich are here for a reason, and no matter what that reason is, them being in that chateau uninvited is what we call, in the States, probable cause."
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