Sedona Conspiracy

by James C. Glass

  “You think one man can do this?”

  “It’s pretty much a closed shop, sir. Any more than one new person could be suspicious. And the man I’m considering is a lone wolf at his best.”

  “You don’t need my authorization, Gil. Do what you think is necessary, but get us that technology, the plane, the generator, the whole package intact. I don’t have to tell you how much we need it.”

  “I understand, Mister President. My operative will be on his way by tomorrow evening. I’m seeing him in the morning.”

  Evans smiled, and downed the last half of his drink in a gulp. “Anything I can do, Gil. Keep me in the loop.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “I miss it, you know. The challenges, action, even the fear. But I was a lot younger, then.”

  “I know the feeling, sir. All I fly now is a desk, but I have good people to do the work and I try to stay out of their way. A good man once taught me that.”

  Evans smiled again. “Finnish that scotch, then, and join me for a sandwich and coffee before you have to leave. It’s been a while, Gil. I want to hear all about those grandkids.”

  They retired to a dining room with a long oaken table lit by candles, and a military chef served them slices of rye bread and a plate heaped with pastrami. They talked until midnight, renewing a friendship going back three decades, a common heritage going back to childhood in the desert country of the southwest. And when the helicopter lifted off, Gil looked outside, saw the silhouette of his president and friend standing behind the dimly lit window, and he contemplated the loneliness of great power.

  The helicopter sped him to the base where he would don pressure suit and helmet for the Mach 4 flight back to Langley. Gil only glanced at the bright stars in a clear Arizona sky, then took the file of Eric Price out of his briefcase and began to read. It was a thick file, full of a rich history of both brilliance and violence, the history of a complex man with multiple personalities living together under an uneasy truce.

  Gil needed all of those personalities to work together this time. He searched for a way to encourage it. By the time he got back to Langley, he actually thought he’d found the answer.

  * * * * * * *

  The ceiling of the cavern was a hundred feet above the red-rock floor, and two cranes moved along hanging tracks there, preparing to move cargo. The port wall itself was now darkened and transparent, and the lights behind it flickered like distant stars. It was already cold, and the men waiting in front of the wall hugged thick parkas to stay warm.

  The cranes were dropping their great hooks toward the floor when a baffled door screeched upwards in a far wall of the cavern, and an electric switch engine pushed two flat cars inside on another set of tracks to receive cargo. As they came to a stop, the port wall suddenly turned green, then blue with flashes of red, and rolled upwards like another great door. Behind it was pitch-blackness, then sudden movement. Packing crates eight feet wide and equally high came out of the darkness, each carried on a hydraulic lifter operated by a single man. The men awaiting their arrival rushed to attach webbing and lift-eyes to each crate, and the cranes dutifully moved each across the cavern to the receiving flatcars. There were ten crates, and in twenty minutes they were loaded and the switch engine backed slowly out of the cavern with its precious cargo, the door closing behind it. Ten men pushed the hydraulic lifters back into the darkness, the port wall shimmered green, and was transparent again.

  Nobody noticed that eleven men had come in with the lifters.

  The cranes moved back into their resting positions in the corners of the cavern, the operators descending in one-man elevators in clear plastic tubes and joining the rest of the receiving crew. A military flatbed truck came to get them and drove them out of the cavern along an open tunnel curving out of sight near the train tracks.

  High above the floor, a long window looked out onto the port wall. Figures moved there. The lights in the cavern went out, leaving only the star-like flickers of blue behind the port. The light behind the window went out. Silence descended on the cavern, and remained there for several minutes.

  Suddenly, a red light bloomed by the port wall. The light was carried by a man who went straight to one of the elevators, and lifted himself to the control cabin of a crane. An electric engine whirred, and the crane’s great lifting hook was lowered to the floor. The man descended from the cab, went to the hook. A second light flared, this one white and hot, and the man played it over the crane’s lifting cable at a single spot for only a few seconds. He ascended the elevator again, and the crane’s hook was lifted back to its resting position. The electric engine ceased to whir. Again there was only the red light as the man came down the elevator and went back to stand at the port wall. The red light flicked out. Blackness and silence returned to the cavern, but not for long.

  The port wall suddenly shimmered green, and then blue and red as it soundlessly rolled upwards. The silhouette of the man was briefly visible before the port closed again, and the man was gone.

  The cavern was empty again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ERIC PRICE

  It wasn’t as if he’d planned to come home early, a trick to catch Jenny doing what he knew she’d been doing for months. No, the assignment had come out of the blue, and he had a late afternoon plane, and some things to pack for cold weather where he was going, so he caught a cab home and there was the guy’s Mercedes sitting right in front of the house. He let himself in with the stealth of his profession and went up the stairs without a sound, past Gia’s bedroom, their little girl, their love-child, down the hall to the master-bedroom and half-opened door and sounds of rising pleasure, and there they were, tangled in the sheets, humping and grinding and moaning, and he slammed the door back on its hinges and they freaked.

  Jenny screamed, and the guy came out of her, pop, like a cork out of a bottle, and his eyes were the size of poker chips. Eric smiled, pulled the Smith-forty-five from his shoulder holster and pointed it at the sweating couple. “Now,” he said, “The only question is, which one of you do I kill first?”

  Jenny burst into tears and was pleading with him to understand; the guy just babbled and frothed at the mouth. Eric went ahead and shot both of them, Jenny first, then the guy, right in the forehead, and their blood sprayed over the wall from floor to ceiling. But when he paused to admire his handiwork there was a shrill scream from behind him, and when he turned there was Gia in her teddy bear pajamas, Annie-doll clutched tightly, and she shouted, “You didn’t have to kill mommy! You’re a bad daddy! I’ll never speak to you again. Never, never, never!” She ran back to her room and slammed the door behind her.

  And Eric Price finally awoke.

  He awoke sweating, and disgusted with himself. The bedcover was on the floor, and the sheets were a twisted mess around his legs. He untangled himself, got his feet on the floor, put his head in his hands and sat that way for a minute, coming back to reality. No, he hadn’t killed Jenny, but a part of him still thought about doing it. There’d been no surprising a happy couple in bed. He’d simply come home from a three-month assignment in Bulgaria to find a house empty except for his clothes and a few personal things and a note lying on the floor by the front door.

  You’re never here, and you don’t care about us. I’ve found someone who does. My lawyer will contact you. Jenny.

  Seventeen years ago.

  The dream disgusted him, the product of a brain-part he despised, the part that hated and plotted and killed. It was not Eric Price, not now, not at this moment. It was an evil, rancid thing, deep inside, but alert to anything that threatened or abused him.

  He knew what had triggered the dream again. The day-old memory instantly brought an ache to his chest, a constriction in the throat, a burning in the eyes. A phone call while he was gone, the message left by a daughter who had refused contact with him for seventeen years.

  Daddy, this is Gia. Mom will be furious if she finds out I called you, so please don’t tell her. I’m
getting married in two weeks. Michael is giving me away, of course. Mom insisted on that. You probably don’t care, but I’m letting you know anyway. Maybe someday things can be different between us, but not now, so I’m not inviting you to the wedding. I don’t feel good about that; I guess that’s why I’m calling. But I missed you again. You’re just never there, daddy. You never were. Bye.

  Eric wiped his eyes dry, then showered and dressed for the day. Breakfast was toast with peanut butter, and coffee. The limousine arrived for him at nine. He got in, and never saw his driver. The windows were totally blackened, but his trained mind followed the turns and measured the distances by instinct as they drove out into the Virginia countryside. Later, if required to, he would be able to locate the meeting place within a mile or two, but it was unlikely that Gil would ever use the place again.

  One hundred and thirty four minutes later the car slowed, then stopped. A man wearing a black suit with a power tie opened the door. The loosely fitting suit failed to hide the bulk of a shoulder holster from an experienced eye. “Follow me, please,” said the man.

  They were in a garage of concrete with a steel-baffle door already closed and a personnel door to one side. They went through it into what looked like a private residence with Georgian furnishings in dark woods and brass. The windows were covered with blinds, and lights were on. Gil sat on a couch in a lushly furnished front room, and several files lay open on a glass-topped coffee table. A silver tray was there with a press-down coffee server, and two glass mugs.

  “Morning,” said Gil, and patted the sofa where Eric should sit.

  Eric sat. “Nice place.”

  “Borrowed from a friend,” said Gil. “Pour yourself coffee if you want it. We’ll be having lunch in an hour. This won’t take long, and you can do most of your reading on the plane. There’ll be a two week prep period in Phoenix before you go into the field.”

  “I thought this was for data analysis.”

  “It is, but it’s also a cover for something deeper. You’ll be living in town, so you need a cover, and that’s what the prep is about. You’re going to be an art dealer.”

  “What?”

  “Sedona is an art center. You’re getting a crash course in contemporary art represented there. You work out of your home, connected to galleries all over the country. You’re going to have an active social life.”

  “Why can’t I work at the base? This is a military problem, not civilian.”

  “The man we have there now thinks otherwise. He thinks there are commercial interests in the technology, interests that have compromised some of the leadership. There are several problems here, Eric, and they all affect base security. We want you in a position to see the overall picture, and that means playing two roles.”

  “You have a lot of people experienced in domestic operations. Why me?”

  Gil smiled. “Your record in data analysis and tech evaluation is top-notch. We have to be sure we’re being fed accurate information because we’re dealing with three factions, and two of them are resistant to giving us anything. You’ve spent over a decade in Eastern Europe, and you know how they love anarchy in their private business dealings. The technology is important to us; you need to find out if it’s real, accurate, and who the hell is trying to keep us from getting it. The bad guys might include American business interests who want it for their own. That’s enough challenges, even for you. Security prevents us from giving you much help. We have one man inside, and that’s all you’ll get. You’ll have to recruit your own allies without dropping your cover.”

  “What about command-chains?”

  “Once you’re settled, we’ll contact you regularly, but you run your own day-to-day operation.”

  Eric’s eyes narrowed. “And what if it becomes necessary to neutralize someone?”

  “That we will have to talk about,” said Gil firmly. He opened a lower-left drawer, withdrew a manila envelope stuffed tightly by its contents, and pushed it across the desk for Eric. “This is for starters: local cultural material, maps, and some bios of key people you’ll be dealing with. The rest will be waiting for you in Phoenix. You’re flying out this evening.”

  “I’d like to get a few things from home to take with me.”

  “Give me a list. You’re staying here until the plane is ready. All that you need is packed and ready. Your apartment is being cleaned and secured. You could be gone for several months this time.”

  Eric thought of Gia’s wedding, and frowned. Gil seemed to read his mind.

  “Sorry about your daughter. I didn’t see my kids much either while they were growing up, but I was lucky enough to have a wife who stuck with me.”

  “You heard the recording?”

  “We heard it when it came in; you know that. Time heals a lot of things, so for now just let her be happy. Do your job; it’s what you have. Okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s okay—for now.” Eric took the envelope from the desk and looked at Gil darkly. “Not for much longer, I think.”

  Gil nodded. “We’ll talk about that. It happens to all of us. It happened to me. Don’t worry about it. Just do the job this time, and then we’ll talk.”

  Eric nodded. “What now?”

  “Coffee, lunch, and a quiet room where you can read. You leave in four hours. Good hunting.”

  They shook hands, and a security agent arrived to take Eric away again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WARNINGS

  The office of World Arts was always closed and locked during business hours, its occupant coming and going at all times. Leon Newell was said to be computer-linked with business partners who did acquisitions and shipping in Phoenix, New York and San Francisco. His concern was setting up domestic and foreign markets for fine and cultural arts from the U.S., Europe, and Asia. Like many other entrepreneurs in Sedona, he preferred to live and work in a lovely small-town setting and commute one or two days a week to his regional office in Phoenix, doing much of his business by computer. At art openings he appeared in thousand-dollar, tailored suits, but otherwise was seen publicly in jeans, silk shirts and alligator-skin boots.

  Leon was a small man, slim, a chiseled face with green, piercing eyes and carefully trimmed, red hair. He was meticulous about his appearance: clean-shaven face, nails cleaned and polished, and every hair in its place with fashion purpose. It was said his academic training was in art education, but he demonstrated a wide knowledge of history, anthropology and physical science, and had deep interests in all aspects of new-age culture. This made him a welcome guest among the socially elite in town and the target of more than one sophisticated and available woman there. Leon’s somewhat affected speech and gestures only charmed them, and suspicions of the men about Leon’s sexual preferences quickly evaporated as they got to know him better.

  He lived in a two million dollar Santa Fe-style adobe on two acres west of town. The house was nearly invisible a hundred yards off Dry Creek Road, hidden by a forest of cactus, shrub mesquite and juniper. It was owned by World Arts Corporation, and paid for in cash, no specific names on the title. The property was surrounded by a rail fence in metal painted olive green, and was entered through an electronically controlled gate. A security system included floodlights activated by the motion of something as small as a mouse, it was said, but the neighbors were also wealthy, and understood the privacy of the rich. They did not complain. Leon came and went in his yellow Humvee, gave a few, lavish parties for the chosen among them, and otherwise lived an unobtrusive life.

  He was regarded as an important member of the community, and so people were naturally excited when they learned that one of his business partners would soon join him in their little town.

  Leon, on the other hand, had been given the news earlier at home, and was not so much excited as he was disturbed by it.

  The news had come to his home via satellite in the regular morning’s transmission from Washington. Eric Price was both a program and technology analyst with the highest credentials fr
om operations in Europe and Asia. The man’s extensive file was attached. All the man’s work was with the military, and there was no mention of direct links to CIA or NSA. A Pentagon operative, perhaps, career military. Gil had simply countersigned the order, and forwarded it without warning. Perhaps he hadn’t had any. The Pentagon was reacting to the security problems, and slow progress at the base. They were taking steps to speed things up. Perhaps. Leon had received the notice indirectly, since he was not a link in the military chain of command.

  There was a way to check the information flow. Leon picked up his cell phone and dialed the private number of Colonel Alexander Davis, linked to him by military satellite. The call was answered on the second ring.

  “Davis.” The voice was low, and soft.

  “Leon. I just got word about the new analyst they’re sending out for Shooting Star. I suppose you know about it.”

  “Yesterday morning. How did you find out about it?”

  “NSA Phoenix sent me a copy of the Pentagon order. We’re providing his cover in town.”

  “I saw that. I asked for this help months ago. I don’t see why they can’t house him at the base. Everything he needs is here.”

  “He’s not just a tech analyst. Half his record is for restructuring programs and rebuilding security networks. Didn’t you get his file?”

  “I got it. He smells like a CIA operative to me. When I asked the Pentagon about it I was told the question was not relevant. Isn’t he one of yours?”

  “No. His record is military. I have nothing to do with his operation except to provide his civilian cover while he’s here. I’ll probably learn more when he arrives tomorrow. We’re putting him up in a house close to mine, and he’ll have a place in my office in town. I’ll let you know anything new that comes up.”