by Brandt Legg
“How did you get a name like that?” Rip asked while they drove a 1980s Honda Accord into the setting sun.
“I got it the old-fashioned way . . . I earned it.” Elpate laughed.
“Elpate was a kingpin,” Dyce said.
“I don’t recall. It was so long ago. Half the drugs they deal these days hadn’t even been invented yet.”
“Elpate isn’t being modest; his brain cells are all fried,” Dyce said. “But it’s a good story. He started dealing pot and coke as a teenager; got smart and lucky. By age twenty-two, he had conquered the known world, like Alexander the Great.”
“Known world?”
“He controlled most of the coke and weed coming from Mexico into the U.S.”
“Wow. Then how come he’s driving this old junker?” Rip asked.
“Hey, man. Don’t disrespect my wheels! You want to walk, gringo?”
“Sorry, I . . . ” Rip stuttered.
“He’s messing with you, Rip,” Dyce said. “He knows the car sucks. Elpate used to have two Porsches, a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, and a Rolls.”
“I wish I could remember the Ferrari,” Elpate said.
“Then he got busted,” Dyce said. “DEA took it all. Gave him a couple of life sentences.”
“Why aren’t you still in jail?”
“You writing a book?” Elpate shot back.
“No, I . . . ”
Rip, he’s messing with you again.”
Elpate laughed. “I’m a reformed man.”
“His attorneys got him off on appeal, found some legal technicality,” Dyce corrected.
“That’s lucky,” Rip said.
“Shooot. That may seem lucky to you, but I didn’t get the Ferrari back.”
Dyce and Elpate continued to rib each other. Rip, used to being exhausted, could barely keep his eyes open any longer. “You’re safe now,” Dyce told him. Stretch out back there and get some rest. It’ll be hours until we get there. I’ll wake you.”
Rip trusted Dyce, and did find some relief in finally being out of the U.S., and back on the ground; but he didn’t feel safe, and wasn’t sure he ever would again.
“I’ll be okay,” Rip said, rolling down his window as the driver and Dyce passed a joint between them. “Hey, Dyce, you know my dad is ‘Mr. Right Wing,’ one of the most conservative talk radio hosts on the air?”
“Yeah, so,” he said, coughing out a cloud of smoke.
“How on earth did you two remain friends all these years?”
“Oh, well, remember that your dad and I were just kids when we met, and we stayed best friends all through school. That’s too much history. Those friendships from youth, when the world seems so big, they never go away; there’s just too much truth in them.”
Rip wished he could have known his dad before politics and ideology ate his brain. They had never agreed on much, and Clastier drove a further wedge. Prior to his mother’s death, she had wanted Rip to know about being a descendent of the church builders and to be allowed to study Clastier, but his father was adamantly opposed, saying it was all “fairytales and blather.” The older Gaines wasn’t Catholic, but did regularly attend church, although Rip wasn’t sure which denomination – Methodist or Baptist; he always confused them. It was unclear to Rip just how much his father knew about Clastier, since they’d never discussed the subject.
His late uncle and Topper had introduced Rip to Clastier, at his mother’s secret dying wish. At fifteen, Rip was already taking college courses and exploring numerous career paths. Neuroscience, astrophysics, and marine biology were among his many interests, but he was unable to choose one, until he read Clastier’s work. He learned quickly the “power of the papers”, and why Clastier’s writings had inspired an entire nineteenth century mountain town to construct a “church” to study them. Where those before him had sought the hidden meaning between the lines, Rip built his life around the mission of finding the hidden “impossible object” the Divinations promised. The words, “Within the stone is a light, which will cause the holy city to collapse, for it shall erase the past, demonstrate all knowledge to be false and the scriptures to be a hoax,” burned in him and focused, for the first time, his wild insatiable mind.
Now here he was driving into the night through the Mexican countryside with a couple of aging stoners. The engine of the 1980s Honda occasionally coughed and regularly wheezed, but the miles between Rip and all the troubles back in the States were adding up. At great cost he had the prize, and finally the exciting work of understanding just what that meant could truly begin. He needed to decode the Cosega Sequence in order to find out exactly what the Eysen was, who had built it and, more importantly, why.
Chapter 6
Booker typed Gale’s location into an encrypted text and sent it to Kruse. He had anticipated her next request and sent another one to Larsen. “Stay put. I’ll get someone to you in the next thirty minutes.”
“I’m not going with anyone other than Larsen.”
“He’ll be there, too. But Gale, I don’t think you realize just how much danger you’re facing.”
“You’re wrong about that. If I didn’t know the situation, I would never have called you,” Gale said, bitterly. “Especially after you’ve made matters so much worse. I don’t think you understand the situation.”
“Then I look forward to our enlightening each other,” Booker said. He’d been happy to end the call without having to tell her Gaines was actually alive. That task would fall to Larsen; as soon as they were safely at their destination. Getting her there would be the trick. BLAX, the most elite unit of Booker’s security squad, had two advantages over the NSA operatives watching her: surprise and numbers.
Fortunately, Booker had been prepared for the extraction of Gale and Rip for days and it had all come down to Flagstaff. The timing worked in Booker’s favor as the NSA had only two operatives there. Twenty-three minutes after Booker and Gale spoke, an army of BLAX agents arrived. Although the NSA could also monitor the motel from satellites, that only helped against normal targets.
BLAX agents identified two vehicles, each containing two adult occupants. Only one was NSA, but they couldn’t waste time determining which car. Gale left her room at the prearranged time and headed for the highway, quickly crossing the empty lanes. She walked casually along the shoulder, south toward Flagstaff, with her arm and thumb extended.
At the same time, BLAX agents implemented a “sun-pulse-shadow” to blanket a thousand-foot radius; effectively blocking all cell, Internet, and most importantly, satellite communications. One of Booker’s companies had developed the technology, which had been sold exclusively to U.S. intelligence agencies. Also referred to simply as “the Haze” or “SPS,” the equipment effectively made the NSA blind and deaf to the area. The Haze could be defeated, but only after a frustrating game of cat and mouse that could last hours.
The moment Gale left her room, the NSA operatives had tried to contact Jaeger in the command center but were blocked by the Haze. They pulled out of their parking space, but before they could reach the highway, all four tires were simultaneously shot out with silencer-equipped rifles. The NSA operatives, with weapons drawn, fled their car and headed to the highway; seeking cover along the way.
Kruse, Harmer, and Larsen picked up Gale in a rented van, while another van filled with BLAX agents pulled into the motel lot, directly in front of the NSA agents. They knew the NSA operatives would find a way to follow Gale, and therefore needed to be engaged. However, Booker was anxious to avoid killing U.S. agents; so BLAX used tranquilizers. It took less than ninety seconds to neutralize the NSA team and transfer them into the van. Later, they would be left in the desert, twenty minutes outside of town, just prior to when the drug would subside.
A dangerous side effect to using SPS was that the Haze left an electronic footprint that would signal Jaeger that Gale was gone and, more unfortunately, that Booker had her. Booker knew the risks, but he had to cripple the NSA’s surveillance appara
tus; if he hoped to get her away safely. Still, it presented numerous problems, and he expected to hear from the Attorney General, or even the President.
Soon Gale, Larsen, Kruse, and Harmer were airborne, picked up in one of Booker’s custom $22 million Augusta Westland AW101 VVIP helicopters. Flying at 180 miles per hour, they would be in Gale’s chosen destination in about two hours. Booker would arrive to meet with them, but hadn’t been planning on the trip, so he’d be four hours behind them. It was the last place in the world he wanted to go, but Gale would cooperate only if she could return to Taos.
Chapter 7
Larsen sat across from Gale in one of the plush leather seats. Kruse and Harmer were a few rows back reviewing the many possible locations where Rip might be.
“Do you know this is the same type of helicopter the President of the United States flies in, Marine One?” Larsen asked Gale. ”But I think that this one must be nicer.”
Gale stared blankly at him. “I don’t give a damn about the President’s helicopter or how many planes Booker has.”
“Fine, but he just used his helicopters to save you from the NSA.”
“I thought those were FBI agents.”
“The FBI is a bit behind, your problem is all the NSA agents.”
“The NSA has agents?”
“According to Booker, the NSA has an army of assassins and spies. They don’t just crunch data anymore, they use it.”
“It takes a snake to know a snake,” Gale sneered. “But if Booker’s right about the NSA, then they are the ones who killed Rip, and that means they have the Eysen now.”
“Gale, I should have told you as soon as we picked you up,” Larsen said sheepishly.
“What?” she asked, alarmed.
“The news report about Rip is bogus.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s alive,” Larsen said, grinning. “Rip is alive and free.”
Her face lit with an elated smile; she laughed for a second, and then turned angry. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“We don’t know exactly.”
“Turn this thing around; take me back to Flagstaff.”
“We can’t do that, Gale.”
“Get Booker on the phone. I want to return to Arizona. That son of a bitch knew when I called him, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know what he knew.”
“Bull! Why are you being so loyal to Booker?”
“Booker wants the same thing I do. He’s trying to protect Rip, you, and the Eysen.”
“Booker doesn’t give a damn about me. He’s only helping Rip because he wants the Eysen.”
“If that’s true, why did you call him?”
“Because the Eysen is more than an eleven-million-year-old super-computer, but in order to prove that, to find its full potential, it needs to be understood.”
“And you think Booker understands it?”
“Yes, I think Booker understands a lot more about all this than he’s telling. But that’s not why I called him. I need money and protection. Lots of both, to find the answers, and Booker is the only one who can provide that.”
“What about Senator Monroe?”
She stared at him as if slapped. “So, he told you, too?”
“It was a long time ago. I don’t care.”
Gale suddenly realized that Larsen still thought they might be a couple. “Larsen, look, a lot has happened since you and I last saw each other. You and I, how can I put this?” She looked across the small cabin table. “Do you remember, we were about to call it quits; the day we found the Eysen.”
“We were?” Larsen asked, looking hurt.
“Yes. And even though we never got the chance to talk; it has to be over between us. I mean, let’s please stay friends, but that’s it. I’m sorry. Okay?”
Larsen stared at her a moment. “You fell for Rip, didn’t you?”
“You’re kidding. What is it with men? I decide not to go out to dinner and dancing with you, and it’s because I’m interested in someone else? Did it ever occur to you that I’ve been too busy running for my life, and I don’t want a boyfriend at the moment?”
“All right, Gale,” Larsen said, in his best calm voice. “We’re friends. More than that, we’ve all risked everything to protect the Eysen. We have no idea where it is or even exactly what it is, but you’ve spent days studying it. Why don’t you tell me what you learned?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because, I don’t know your motives.”
“You don’t know . . . I found the damned thing. Do you realize that, Gale? Rip and I looked for proof of Cosega for years, but in the end I’m the one who found it. Then he steals it and runs into the night. All this could have been different.”
“That’s my point, Larsen. You still think Rip made a mistake. You think he caused all this death and mayhem, when in fact, everything that has happened proves he was right.”
“I’ll admit that, but for someone who is as close to Senator Monroe as I understand you are, to question my motives is pretty incredible. Why aren’t you with Rip anymore anyway? How did you get separated?”
“Ask Booker.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Booker told him about Monroe and me. After finding out about you and me, and Sean’s betrayal; it was all he needed to remember he didn’t like me from the start.”
Larsen nodded.
“I mean it. I wasn’t going to talk to Booker. Sooner or later this thing will have to land and when it does; I’ll call Monroe if I have to, but I’m going back to Arizona.”
Harmer walked up and took the seat across the aisle from Gale. “We just got word. Rip was on a small plane that took off from an airstrip outside Flagstaff a few hours ago. An FBI agent and one of the Vatican’s men were killed.” She tapped a cigarette on the armrest, flipping it over, and starting again; knowing she couldn’t light it.
“Where’d the plane go?” Gale asked.
“We don’t know yet.”
“Why should I believe you?”
Harmer rolled her eyes. “Don’t.”
Chapter 8
An FBI agent showed up at Barbeau’s hotel room. He’d just watched a report on Gaines’ death, and was mystified at the blatant propaganda the NSA was using, but for whose benefit?
“Special Agent Dixon Barbeau?”
“Yeah.”
He identified himself as an agent for DIRT, the FBI Director’s covert unit. “Would you mind coming with me, sir?”
Barbeau put on his shoes and followed the agent. The elevator was busy, so they took the stairs, three fights. As soon as they reached the parking lot, the agent handed Barbeau a phone.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Barbeau recognized the FBI Director’s voice.
“I already reported the shooting to the Office of the Inspector General under Order 2492, and I’ve also advised the Civil Rights Division’s Criminal Section of the incident. In light of Agent Hall’s death, there should be no question that my use of lethal force to stop Leary was justified.”
“Damn it, Dixon, the phone is scrambled. I don’t want the damned official version. Tell me what in the name of hell possessed you to let Gaines go?”
Barbeau was surprised by the question. Although he trusted the Director about as much as he could trust anyone involved in this case, he’d been planning to keep him in the dark about what really happened. “What do you know?”
“I know that I’m still considering getting on the red-eye and coming out there to take your badge, so I can personally see the look on your face when they slap the cuffs on you for obstruction of justice, aiding and abetting a fugitive, and murder.”
“Murder?”
“I’ve seen the film. Did you warn Leary?”
“If I’d warned Leary, Gaines would be dead, maybe even me.”
“And if you’d warned him, maybe Gaines wouldn’t have gotten aw
ay. And that wouldn’t have been any good, would it? What the hell were you thinking? Tell me something really good, Dixon, because I’ve got four DIRT agents standing in the parking lot ready to take you in.”
Barbeau had already spotted them. The Director actually thought he might resist; it was astonishing. But the real surprise was the film. He knew the NSA had satellites that could do that, but that meant they knew exactly where Gaines was and they had also let him go. “You yourself told me that if we brought Gaines in, ‘the artifacts will disappear either to Rome or to the NSA. Then, Gaines would be killed in a staged suicide.’ I believed you and thought we needed more time.”
“Jesus! Are you the Director? Why do you think you get to make that call? Your job was to apprehend the suspect. You don’t get to decide what happens next. That’s well above your pay grade.”
“I decided I could not safely bring in the suspect. If you need to charge me, do it.”
“Don’t tempt me,” the Director said. Neither spoke for a moment. “You should have discussed it with me.”
“It wasn’t premeditated. I saw Leary kill Hall and couldn’t stop it, but I could save Gaines. Seeing what the Vatican was willing to do, and knowing the NSA was actively blocking us, it just all suddenly came together. Hall never believed Gaines was the bad guy in this case. I guess I finally agreed with him. He essentially died to protect that damned artifact. I wasn’t ready to just let it wind up in the hands of those who killed him; without first knowing what it is.”
“I’m sorry about Hall, he was a good man,” the Director said. “But you have no idea how big a mess this has put us in. The NSA has film of the lead investigator in the case letting the suspect go. They gave it to Attorney General Dover, and he shared it with the Vatican. The President is getting pressured from three sides, and he and Dover have been all over my ass for the past two hours.”
“The NSA let Gaines go.”
“Hell, I know that.”
“Has anyone asked them why?”
“No one cares what the NSA does. The Vatican figures the longer it takes for the NSA to get Gaines; the more chance they have at him. Dover and the President are doing what the NSA wants, so if they think it’s best to let him run around loose a little longer . . . ”