by Phil Swann
Timon tossed the phone onto the bed and settled back, resting his head on a pillow. He closed his eyes and said out loud, “Pray God that will suffice.”
Chapter Eleven
Since the divorce, FBI Agent Grey Pryce was spending more time in the office—ironic, given his ex's biggest complaint with him was he spent too much time in the office. But as drab as his twelve-by-twelve box at the Bureau was, it was still cheerier than his tiny apartment in Alexandria. It was also better decorated. It had been nearly a year and a half to the day since the assassination, and officially, the investigation was closed. Commissions were formed, hearings held, findings issued. Allegations and recriminations were hurled at everyone from Chief of Staff Steven Donnellson to the head of the Secret Service. In the end it was concluded that a mentally unbalanced lone assassin used a friendship with the president's brother to gain lethal access to the leader of the free world. Poor judgment and a reckless lack of adherence to protocol led to the colossal breakdown in security that cost the president his life. Jobs were lost, careers were ruined, and a nation mourned. But ultimately, the succession of power was exercised without perturbation, and now the country was moving on. The country was—Grey wasn't.
The third floor of the J. Edgar Hoover Building was all but abandoned, sans the occasional janitor who would stroll by Grey's opened office door and acknowledge him with a nod. Grey would look up over his desk lamp and politely return the nod, sometimes adding a salute. The nightshift was so used to the agent's presence that one night when Grey had slipped down the street for something other than day old coffee, the entire cleaning crew practically organized a search party. To avoid future misunderstandings, Grey started playing music in his office to let everyone know that even if he wasn't at his desk, he was nearby and everything was A-okay. Tonight, it was jazz; Dave Brubeck's Time Out album was spinning on an old portable phonograph Grey had owned since college.
Grey leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Paul Desmond's brilliant sax solo on “Take Five” was coming to an end, and Grey knew he should go home and get some sleep. Sleep? What the hell was sleep? He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten an uninterrupted eight hours. Why couldn't he just let it go like everyone else had?
He stared at the stacks of files on his desk and felt…what? He wasn't sure. Exhaustion? Absolutely. Pride? Sure. Sadness? Yes, more than a bit. After all, that was a year and a half of his life sitting on the desk. A year and a half neatly bound, collated, and alphabetized. Of course the files, as did all cases at the Bureau nowadays, also lived neatly on an FBI computer server, but Grey was old school and preferred being able to look at ink on paper and hold it in his hands. It somehow made a case more real, and this case couldn't be more real. The amount of data was staggering: interviews, timelines, eyewitness accounts, financial data dating back years, as well as a minute-by-minute tick-tock of Dwayne Jackson's life on the weeks leading up to the assassination. It was all there in black and white. Jackson's complete biography was researched, dissected, scrutinized, followed-up on, then followed-up on again by not just him but by dozens of other agents working under him. All the interviews were pinpoint specific and obsessively thorough. Nothing had been overlooked. No question had been left unasked or unanswered. He was sure he now knew Dwayne Jackson better than the man had known his own self. He’d done his job well—he knew he had. No one could have led the investigation better. But in the end, when it came to Jackson's motive, the results were still inconclusive. And that, Grey understood as the record ended and the stylus lifted, was why he wasn't sleeping at night.
He got up from his desk, walked across the room, and turned off the record player. He took the LP from the turntable and returned it to its cardboard sleeve. How many more nights was he going to spend sifting through the same mountain of information expecting to find something new? He knew motive was ultimately not really important. He had sent scores of criminals to prison without having a clue what was going through their troubled minds. It didn't matter why someone committed a crime, just that he or she had committed it. That was the argument the higher-ups made in the end. “He did it, and he did it by himself,” they all argued. “The country needs closure, Grey. It's over.” Was it really that simple? Was he looking for complexity where there was none to be found?
The Internet, of course, was replete with conspiracy theories, one more outlandish than the other. A generic Google search on the subject was actually laughable. Everything from trilateral commissions to time-traveling space aliens were alleged to be behind the assassination. Many drew a connection between Lincoln, Kennedy, and Lambros, asserting the same secret society was responsible for all three killings. The Grassy-Knoll-On-LSD-Conspiracy Grey liked to call that one. Within the Bureau, however, the theories were far less spectacular. The most popular motive was that Jackson had just cracked—nothing more sinister than that. Employment problems coinciding with a recent romantic relationship gone south had sent the man spiraling into a deep depression and looking for somebody, anybody, to blame. Jackson's friendship with the president's brother presented an opportunity too enticing for the man's broken brain to pass up. It was a theory satisfying to no one, but for lack of anything better, it was a theory everybody was willing, if not eager, to accept.
There were a few, most notably cable news, who believed there was a racial aspect to the attack. Jackson was an African-American who came from typical inner-city hardship, and the president represented the white man's continued dominion over the black man. Of all the reasonable theories, Grey found this one to be the most ludicrous. There was no evidence that Jackson had been racially radicalized at all.
There was another theory, however, that did carry some weight with Grey. It was the one that implicated the president's younger brother. But this eventually lost steam too. Indeed, Ben Lambros had set up the meeting that got Jackson in the room with the president, but that was the end of it. There was no evidence pointing to Ben Lambros knowing what Jackson was going to do. Also, Ben Lambros had no compelling motive either. There was sibling rancor between the president and Ben, but no one believed their animosity had escalated to the point of murder. Truth told, even Grey thought that was a stretch. But the fact remained that Lambros the Younger had been a person of interest for Grey from the very beginning. Even now, with the case officially closed, Grey couldn't get the gnawing feeling from his gut that Ben was somehow connected to the president's assassination. The problem was he had no evidence to back up his suspicion, nothing except the gnawing in his gut. And that was another problem, because if it was one thing Grey Pryce had learned over the years, it was to trust his gut.
Exhausted, Grey gathered the files from his desk, wrapped them with a large rubber band, and returned them to the freestanding safe located in the far corner of his office. He turned out the desk lamp, locked his door, and headed to the elevator.
“Excuse me, Agent Pryce?”
Grey turned and saw a man in a white maintenance uniform. “Hey, Carl, how’s it going?”
“Just fine, sir,” the man answered.
“What’s going on?” Grey asked, seeing that Carl was not at all “just fine.”
“Well, sir…I was wondering if you could help me?”
“If I can.”
“It’s about my grandson, Lowell. I mentioned him to you a while back.”
“Sure, the one who’s starting Georgetown in the fall. Is he okay?”
“Yes…well…actually, no. You see, he needed to get a job while in school, and I was able to finagle him something in maintenance here at the Bureau.”
“That’s great. What’s the problem?”
“He failed the mandatory drug test,” Carl replied, his embarrassment only slightly overshadowed by his ire.
“Oh, Carl, I’m sorry.”
“Me too, sir. Given the state of things these days, jobs are darn hard to come by. I lay one at his feet, and he does something like this. I’m so dang mad at that boy I could just spit.�
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“What did they catch?”
“Marijuana.”
“I see. Isn’t your grandson from Colorado?”
“Yes, sir. Denver, the Mile High City,” the man responded, completely oblivious to the joke he’d just made. “He says there must have been a mistake because he swears he gave up the whacky tobacky a long time ago. I guess my question to you is, should I believe him?”
Grey couldn’t help but want to smile. After a year and a half of dealing with what he’d been dealing with, a teenager smoking pot actually struck him as quaint. “Well, buddy, it’s been a long time since I worked that particular area of law enforcement…”
“But is it possible?” interrupted the old man.
“Yes,” Grey answered.
“Really?”
“But not very likely.”
“Oh…I see.”
“Yeah, false-positives can happen from time to time with certain controlled substances, opiates like heroin, for instance. But with marijuana…well, the tests are pretty accurate.”
“Yeah, that’s what my supervisor said.”
“But you know what?” Grey added, wanting to give the old fella some hope. “He could be telling the truth about not having smoked it in a long time. THC tends to stay in the system for a while. Maybe he could reapply in a few weeks. I’ll be happy to pull some strings to make that happen, if you’d like. Just tell him to keep his nose clean.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir. I’ll tell him just that. These damn kids think they can do anything they want. Rules don’t apply to them. I blame video games, that’s what I think.”
Grey smiled. “Well, Carl, I got nothing better so…you’re probably right.”
“Good night, sir. Thank you again.”
“You’re welcome. Good night, Carl.”
Grey watched the man waddle away until the elevator doors opened. He stepped in and pushed the button for the garage level. As the elevator descended, Grey’s mind began to turn. When the thought hit him, it wasn’t a sudden flash. It was more a series of random, disjointed sentences strung together. The elevator landed and the doors opened, but Grey didn’t exit. He stood motionless for several seconds, allowing time for the doors to close again. The elevator didn’t move. Grey didn’t move. “Oh shit,” he said, running his hand over his face.
He wasn’t sure what he was going to actually do as he pushed the button back up to the third floor. But as the elevator began to rise, he knew two things for certain: one, this was going to be a long night. And two, he was about to piss off a lot of very important people.
Chapter Twelve
It was just after four in the morning when Dr. Ellie Scotes entered her small London flat. She was completely spent. She gently set down her duffle bag, plugged in her long-dead cell phone, and collapsed on the bed without even considering taking off the clothes she'd been wearing since racing across the savanna in what now seemed like years ago. When the doorbell rang, she was sure her eyes had been shut for all of twenty seconds. A glance at the clock informed her she'd been hard asleep for over six hours.
Ellie stumbled to the door and looked through the peephole.
“You alive?” an older woman said, staring back.
Beatrice Whitt, director of the Museum of Great Britain, entered holding two Starbucks cups. “Ellie, you poor dear, you look like shit.”
“Well, let's see,” Ellie said, taking the coffee. “Over the last twenty-seven hours I've sweated out a third of my body weight, hurled a rattle-trap down a mountain that wouldn't even come close to passing the most generous MOT inspection, dodged semi-automatic gunfire on the savanna from a bunch of psychopaths, narrowly missed getting caught up in an attempted coup, then puddle-jumped my way back to London in a four-seater airplane. Yeah, I might not be what you'd call fresh.”
“We were told the airports were shut down. How did you get out?”
“NGO pilot who was staying at the same hostel as the team; he and his stone-age Bonanza were headed to Heathrow. I pulled the old damsel in distress routine.”
“Well played, sweetie,” Beatrice cooed. “An escape with style.”
“Not sure being crammed into a lawn mower with wings for eight hours is the proper definition of with style, but I got out.”
“Well, whatever it cost, just give me the receipt, and I'll have you reimbursed.”
“So, I guess you'll be having dinner with Reg next week.”
“Reg?” Beatrice asked, genuinely confused.
“The NGO pilot. That was his price.”
Beatrice Whitt laughed and then spontaneously gave Ellie a long hug. Beatrice towered over Ellie, the most frequent and generous description of the woman being she was handsome and noble looking. Ellie was sure Beatrice was English aristocracy, but Beatrice never said anything about it and certainly never put on airs. “I'm a digger,” she’d tell people. She insisted she got her job because she knew what dirt felt like. Ellie respected her for that, and loved her for everything else.
“I can't tell you how relieved we were when we got your call,” Beatrice said. “Your team was worried sick, and I don't mind telling you everyone at the museum has been a proper mess. Please promise you'll never do that again.”
“Don't worry, I don't plan on it,” Ellie said. “Did the kids get home okay?”
“They're all safe and sound with stories to tell for years.” Beatrice dropped her head and continued, “Ellie, dear, I'm so very sorry I evacuated the team without you. But when I heard there was a rebel uprising, I had to get those kids out of there.”
Ellie smiled through a yawn and patted the woman's hand. “You did the right thing, Bea. I'm fine.”
“This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was told unequivocally by the Nigerians you'd be safe.”
“Yeah, well, it comes with the territory,” Ellie said, going to her duffle bag. “Did all the artifacts get out safely?”
“Yes. The museum's board is over the moon, and the Nigerian Archeology Society couldn't be happier. All the Nok artifacts have been registered with the Nigerians under the understanding they'll stay here in London on loan for further study. It's an amazing find, Ellie. Moreover, the collaboration with the Nigerians has been a fantastic diplomatic coup. Don't be surprised if you get a call from 10 Downing. The PM knows your name now.”
Beatrice saw that Ellie wasn't listening. “Ellie, did you hear—”
“Bea, I have something in that bag,” Ellie said, her voice carrying more weight.
“Yes, dear, I suspect you have many things in that bag.”
“You don't understand, Bea. I have something I found at the site yesterday. Something we can't tell the Nigerians about…not yet, at least.”
“Ellie, luv,” Beatrice said, her voice almost a whisper. “Do you know what will happen if the Nigerian government thinks you smuggled an artifact out of—”
“I didn't smuggle anything. I had no way of letting anyone know what I found. Besides, I'm not sure what I'd tell them.”
“For heaven's sake, why?”
“Because…it would be tricky.”
“Ellie, what are you—”
“It's not Nok,” Ellie said, cutting Beatrice off. “What I found yesterday was not Nok. To tell you the truth, I don't know what it is. I mean, I know what it is, but…”
“Ellie, you're not making—”
“I know, just…” Ellie stopped talking and pulled the bubble-wrapped object from her duffle. Some tape had come loose, but all in all it was none the worse for wear considering everything. Ellie set the artifact on the kitchen table, and Beatrice watched as she carefully cut away the plastic. Beatrice Whitt's eyes widened as dirt from the Nigerian cliffside fell onto the kitchen table and Ellie revealed the relic.
“It's a lyre,” Beatrice said, almost in a whisper.
“Yes,” Ellie replied, watching Beatrice's reaction.
“It looks—”
“Greek. Probably Mycenaean,” Ellie said, finishing the woman's s
entence. “I'm guessing 900 BC, maybe older.”
“You found this at the site?” Beatrice asked, eyeing the object from all sides.
“Yes.”
“At the same site where the Nok instruments were found?”
“Yes,” Ellie answered again.
“In the ground?”
“Yes!” Ellie said, this time over a giggle.
“But…” Beatrice searched for the words, “…how did it get in Nigeria?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Ellie said, smiling like a child.
“And it looks nearly…”
“Perfectly preserved. Yes, yet another question.”
Beatrice's face suddenly got serious. “Oh, Ellie, this isn't good at all.”
“Like I said, this is going to be tricky.”
“That might be the biggest understatement of all time.”
“I know,” Ellie said, setting the ancient lyre on the table. “We're dealing with a region of the world that is very sensitive about its identity. Bea, I understand why the Nok discovery has made everybody so happy. The Nigerians have the pride of claiming an advanced sub-Saharan culture most experts thought never existed, and we Brits get to be the good guys who helped make that happen. And I have a pretty good idea why that's so important to our government.”
“The petroleum industry owns that country, you know that, Ellie,” Beatrice said.
“So, it's true? I have been working for the oil companies?”
“No, luv, you've been working for David Livingston, John Hanning Speke, and the Church of England,” Beatrice answered, her voice as dry as salt. “Of course you've been working for the oil companies, we all do. Ellie, the bloody Niger Delta is practically the gateway for all oil exports out of Africa. I can't say for sure, but I suspect the British government wants to open up more oil exploration in the region. Yes, the Nok discovery was a great way of creating some goodwill among the population before we go in and rape their land. But now—”
“Yeah,” Ellie interrupted. “Lord, I hate politics.”