Sedona Conspiracy

by James C. Glass

  “At least one person outside the base knows our cover. I don’t find that comfortable.”

  “Gil apparently thinks it’s necessary. I hope your act wasn’t so good that Coulter will have doubts and decide against working with either one of us.”

  “I know the look, Leon. The guy is not an amateur. One or both of us will be getting a call from him soon. In the meantime, I’m calling Gil, deep line.”

  Eric went to his desk, tapped at the keyboard. ‘Saw Uncle John, and his health worries me. Please call me tonight. Eric.’ He sent the message to his Aunt Emma via satellite link, then went back to work at his desk.

  There were four telephone calls that afternoon, all of them for Leon, and none of them from John Coulter. At six, they closed the office. Leon looked at him darkly, and said, “If Coulter doesn’t call tomorrow, I’ll have to suspect your theatrics have fucked us up, my man. That will not be good for either of us.”

  Eric didn’t offer a reply, and they went their separate ways. Leon headed uptown in his Humvee, and Eric drove home. Clouds were moving in from the southwest, and light rain was forecast. Eric checked his paper shard and thread indicators at the front door, and nothing was disturbed. There were no strange odors in the house. He changed into shorts and T-shirt, and popped two readymade chicken potpies into the oven.

  His cell phone played a passage from Beethoven’s Ninth, and Eric answered it.

  “Price here.”

  “Gil. What’s the problem?”

  Eric told him everything about the meeting with Coulter. “Leon says you set up the contact with this guy. How much does he really know, and where does he hear I have an assignment to get rid of Davis? That’s news to me. Anything else left out in my briefing?”

  “The briefing was for you. The extra assignment was for whoever is running Coulter. It was in a supplemental file, and buried deep. I guess I’m a bit surprised Coulter dared to use it.

  “So you’re telling me my dossier has been cracked, and my cover blown. Why don’t I just close up shop and head for home? Leon, too.”

  “Easy. It’s all selective, all in the family for the little drama we’re writing here. Coulter has just told us he’s working for a government, not a corporation. No company has the hardware to decrypt that deep file as fast as he did. We added that file two days ago.”

  “He offered me twenty fucking million just to get on his ‘team’. If he gives me the money, can I retire?”

  “If we’d told you everything, how could you have acted so surprised and indignant? Leon says your face was nearly purple when you came back to the office. That doesn’t sound like you. Something else going on?”

  “I don’t like being manipulated. There are too many players in this game, and God-knows how many I’m not aware of yet, and I’m not being told everything. I’d like to come out of this alive, something I was never concerned with when I worked alone. If that means I’m getting too old for this, then tough shit. I don’t like other people making up the rules of the game as we go along. I make my own rules, or I’m out of here.”

  “Fair enough. There shouldn’t be any more surprises from our end, but I don’t regret not briefing you about Coulter. He’s been nibbling at the hook, but today he bit it. Accessing that deep file gives us a short list of countries he could be working for. Our insiders will be looking at the most likely candidates for decrypting the file so quickly. Sit tight. Coulter will call again. And watch Davis carefully. Look for any change in his attitude towards you. He and Coulter might be tighter than we think. Or not. If Coulter’s handlers want that aircraft back, Davis could be working with him or against him. It would be nice to know which it is.”

  “I’m not sure about Leon, either,” said Eric.

  “Treat him right. He’s as hard-core as you are. You don’t have to like him, but work with him. If you can’t do that, I’ll have to pull you out and give you a desk somewhere. I don’t think either one of us would like that.”

  It was a light enough slap on the cheek, and Eric took it. “I hear you,” he said.

  “Good. You’re the best at what you do, so do it. You could be in a central position soon. I want daily reports from now on, six p.m. eastern, this number.” Gil gave him the number. “I’ll pick up on the tenth ring. Otherwise, you hang up, even if I answer.”

  “A bit dramatic, isn’t it?”

  “I have my reasons. Got the number?”

  “Yes.”

  The call terminated with a click. Seconds later there was dial tone, and Eric punched his phone off. A recording, or was someone else listening to their conversation? The number Gil had called from looked like a landline. Unsecured? The Gil Eric knew didn’t do sloppy things like that without a reason.

  Dinner was quick, the cleanup quicker. Eric hated mealtimes, had hated them since his long-ago divorce. It was the one time he didn’t like being alone. He washed his few dishes in the sink, and put them away, and sat down in a living room chair to read a magazine.

  The kitchen telephone rang, and he picked it up on the second ring. It was Leon.

  “Coulter just called me. He said he was amused by your act, but I think he was checking to be sure it was an act. I took responsibility for everything, told him I hadn’t let you know his client was the party the aircraft was stolen from, that you thought you were dealing with some corporate technology thief. I said we’d talked, I’d explained everything, and you were okay with it.”

  “I am?”

  “Oh, yes. He wants some ideas on how that aircraft might be returned to its lawful owner. Better start thinking about it. Coulter’s going out of town, wants to meet with both of us in a week.”

  “Okay,” said Eric.

  “You busy right now?” Leon’s voice was suddenly back in friendly mode.

  “Reading a magazine.”

  “Want to do something interesting?”

  “Like what?”

  “A little work with the handguns. I’m itching to shoot something.”

  “You have an extra gun for me?”

  “Sure, but cut the crap and bring along whatever you have. I don’t know about you, but recent events encourage me to polish my hardware skills. Besides, I want to see what you shoot.”

  “Right now?”

  “Sure. Come through the tunnel. The door’s unlocked, and cookies will be served. Coming?”

  “Yes,” said Eric, and hung up. What the hell. He retrieved the Colt Modified and three extra magazines from a closet shelf, the Walther holstered in its usual place at his ankle. He left the room lights on, and went through the long tunnel to Leon’s basement, the holstered Colt dangling from his hand. He knocked once, the door opened, and Leon was standing there in a white robe. He wore yellow-tinted shooting glasses, and held a small spotting scope with tripod in one hand. His eyes went instantly to the Colt Modified, and he smiled.

  “No gun, huh? What is it?”

  “Long slide Colt, Harris trigger and bushing, rubber grips.”

  “Nice. I prefer the Smith .41. My hands are small.” Leon led him to the two metal conduits that were his shooting range. A long, black semi-auto lay on a table there. Eric put his Colt on the other table. Downrange, a bull’s-eye target was brightly illuminated fifty feet away.

  “What’s your barrel?” asked Leon.

  “Four-five-one. I shoot standard hardball. Four magazines, here.”

  “Won’t be enough,” said Leon. “I’ll get what you need.” He went to a cabinet behind them, came back with a box of fifty full-load cartridges, and smiled. “Five rounds load and lock. At your leisure, sir.”

  Both men inserted earplugs and then put on cushioned muffs. The bull’s-eye of the target was a black dot that didn’t even cover the front blade of his pistol’s sight, and Eric was used to shooting at silhouette targets. He squeezed off five shots slow-fire. Leon fired five times in ten seconds, waited for Eric to finish, and turned on a motor that brought both targets back to them.

  Not bad, thought Eric
: two nines, a ten and two X’s. He looked at Leon’s target, saw two tens and three X’s.

  Leon saw his look, peered at Eric’s target. “Pretty good for an analyst who doesn’t carry a gun. Let’s do it again, rapid fire, and I like match pressure. How about a quarter a target?”

  They went through a dozen targets each, five shots in ten seconds. By the end of the session, Eric was putting nearly everything in the ten and X rings, but Leon had beaten him every time.

  “I think you were actually trying there towards the end,” said Leon.

  “It’s one thing to punch holes in paper,” said Eric, “and another thing to kill a man.”

  Leon looked at him coldly. “I know it is.”

  “I bet you do,” said Eric. And both men knew at that instant their relationship had suddenly changed.

  They finished the evening with decaf and cookies, did not talk about private things. Eric didn’t even mention his outing with Nataly. There was some small talk about new artists in town, until both men were yawning. It was only nine when Eric went back to his own house. He read for a while, spent half an hour staring mindlessly at the television, and then went to bed.

  Sleep came slowly. For a while he was again focused on the black dot of the bull’s-eye target, the sights aligning, the gentle squeeze of the trigger, the recoil pressure traveling along a rigid arm to the shoulder, the sights realigning without conscious effort. He drifted away finally to a place of dreams unremembered, while hundreds of yards from him Leon was visiting the golden being that was the higher manifestation of him.

  Near midnight there was a click from the basement, but Eric was sleeping deeply. A stairway squeaked, and shortly afterwards a shadow filled the doorway to the bedroom. The shadow moved to Eric’s bed, and took form. It was a man, his face shrouded with a hooded mask. He took a bottle from his pocket, sprayed a gentle mist over Eric’s face, and waited a moment for the rhythm of Eric’s breathing to slow. Satisfied, he attached three wires to Eric’s forehead, and turned on a palm-sized device in his hand. The device glowed with flickering points of light on its face, and then went dark. The man detached the wires from Eric’s head, and left the room.

  By the time he reached the doorway, the man was once again a formless shadow.

  * * * * * * *

  It was two hours past her usual time for sleep, but Nataly sat mesmerized by what she saw on the computer screen as the long, violent history of Eric Price scrolled past her view. No wonder he was divorced, she thought. He was never home. This much was obvious, even from the incomplete NSA file that had been hacked for her. Several pieces were missing, each covering periods of six months to a year, missions so black they were not included in the general file.

  She picked up the telephone, punched in seven numbers.

  “Nataly. The file has several gaps in it. Can you fill those in for me?”

  She listened a few seconds, then, “How long, then? We’re moving ahead with this tomorrow, and I need to know everything I can get about him.”

  Nataly rolled her eyes at the reply. “That’s not funny, Vasyl. You know what I mean. Get back to me tomorrow, even if you haven’t found anything. Okay. Bye.”

  She hung up, and immediately felt a movement of cool air that washed over her face and bare arms. She tensed, but kept her eyes on the computer screen, not reading.

  The cold went away, but she felt the presence somewhere behind her by the balcony of her bedroom that overlooked the pool. She forced her mind away from Eric’s file, focused on what she’d read about Leon several weeks before, and what little, useful intelligence she’d been able to get on Davis.

  The presence was moving behind her, right to left, coming off the balcony and inching towards the darkened corner of the room beyond her bed, all the while probing at her mind.

  This was not good. She really needed to study Eric’s file in private, and without interruption, and then get to bed.

  Nataly suddenly turned around. At the foot of her bed, two shimmering columns of air were now changing colors to blend with the shadows. A third had just entered from the balcony, and was still a dark gray. All three flashed darkly when Nataly stood and stomped a foot hard on the floor.

  “All of you, get out of this room right now! One more violation of protocol, and I’ll go to the Council, and you’ll be left to explain the repercussions to your masters. Now, get out of here!”

  The shadows fled the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  PROGRESS

  Eric awoke fuzzyheaded, and his mouth was dry. Two cups of coffee cleared his head, but he pushed away a bowl of cold cereal half-eaten and settled for a piece of toast spread with peanut butter.

  The van arrived at six, the driver a sergeant who said nothing beyond “good morning”, and played a horrible, country western CD all the way to the base. By the end of the trip, Eric had a dull headache from it, and vowed not to allow a repeat of the experience.

  Sergeant Alan Nutt was waiting for him at the elevator, clipboard in hand, took one look at him and said, “Rough night, sir?”

  “Didn’t sleep worth a damn,” said Eric, as the elevator arrived. They got in, and descended.

  “Looks like you’ll be filling in for Doctor Johnson, at least until Davis names a replacement,” said Alan. “Too bad about Johnson. Sure was sudden.”

  “I heard it was a heart attack. You never know, with these type A personalities,” said Eric.

  “Yeah,” said Alan, and then there was a pause.

  “I don’t think it was a heart attack, sir. Do you?”

  Eric looked steadily into the man’s eyes. “What makes you think it wasn’t, Alan?”

  Alan met his gaze, and held it. “I just don’t, sir. Johnson is the third Tech Supervisor since I’ve been here. The first left with ulcers, the second just left without explanation, and now this. Seems to be a hazardous job, and now it looks like you’ll be doing it. I guess what I’m saying is you should watch your ass, sir.”

  Eric suddenly had a good feeling about the man. “I will, sergeant, and you watch yours, too. Anything else I should know?”

  “If I hear it, you’ll know it, sir. The word is there’s trouble with the Pregnant Sparrow project: not much progress, and a lot of frustration.”

  “That’s what I hear, too, Alan.”

  “You here to fix it?”

  “I’ll do whatever they let me do, but the documentation I have to work with is pretty poor.”

  “Oh, then you’re in for a good surprise, sir. The manual everyone has been waiting for came in last night. Colonel Davis brought it down himself. I’m taking you right to it in Sparrow’s Bay.”

  The elevator door opened, and they walked. Overhead a small bird flew desperately in circles, looking for a way out. Eric looked up at it.

  “Overhead was open a while early this morning. They get in here sometimes, and we let’em out at night, before they crap all over the place,” said Alan.

  Pregnant Sparrow sat in gloom. Beside it a crooked-neck lamp illuminated a small table, and three men were standing there, looking down at something.

  “Good morning,” said Eric, and the men stepped aside from the table.

  “Are you Price?” asked one of them.

  “I am. This is Sergeant Nutt. He’s here to make sure I don’t say anything that’ll get me in trouble.”

  Alan shook his head, and smiled.

  “Colonel Davis says we report to you until further notice. I’m Frank Harris, Systems Analysis.”

  Eric shook his hand.

  “Elton Steward, Materials Testing,” said another man, and held out his hand.

  “Rob Hendricks, Flight Operations,” said another. “We’ve been working with Doctor Johnson on this bird for the past six months without any documentation. Today we got it, only to discover we can’t read it.”

  Eric looked down at an open loose-leaf notebook on the table, and turned a page. “Ah,” he said, a suspicion now confirmed, “that’s because it’
s in Russian.” He turned another page, scanning quickly.

  “Shouldn’t be hard to find a translator on the base,” said Rob.

  “Don’t bother. I can read it.” Eric riffled pages, looking at section headings. “Looks like a flight manual: pre-flight check list, start-up sequence, instrument panel. Pretty brief. I’ll need a day to get through it and make a rough translation. I don’t see anything about the aft section I’m most interested in.”

  “The empty section?” said Elton.

  “I doubt it’s really empty. I think it’s part of the power plant.” Eric paused at a page, leaned down for a closer look. “Here, it talks about a mixing plenum. The details must be in here. Can someone get me a recorder, or even a secretary? The translation of this can be quick if I have some help.”

  “Use mine, sir,” said Alan. “I’m also pretty good at shorthand, if you slow down for me.”

  “We need some chairs,” said Rob, and hurried away. A minute later he came back with two privates in tow, and six straight-back chairs. The men sat down around the table, Eric bent over the flight manual. Alan put his recorder on the table and sat with pen poised over his clipboard.

  “Ready when you are, sir. Just nod when you want the recorder on.”

  The translation came in bursts of broken English, Eric’s brain working directly in the Russian tongue like a native. Alan struggled to keep up, and often asked for repeats when the strange mix of Russian and English confused him. The other men were attentive at first, sitting at the edge of the circle of light, a darkened bay behind their backs and overhead. Gradually, their attention drifted in and out, the words becoming nonsensical to their minds. After an hour of this, Rob finally stood up and gestured for the other two men beside Eric and Alan to follow him.

  “I think we’d best wait for a cleaned up version of what you’re doing. I can’t follow it, and we’re not helping you any. Why don’t we meet here tomorrow morning?”

  Eric nodded, and said something else the men didn’t understand.

  A moment later, Eric and Alan were alone in a circle of light next to the shadowy silhouette of a stolen aircraft called Pregnant Sparrow. They worked hard through lunch and past dinner without a break, until a Master Chief showed up looking for Alan and took a message back to Colonel Davis about what was going on. Davis sent the man back with an invitation to use a conference room four levels up, and had sandwiches and coffee sent in for them. A computer and printer were provided. Eric finished the translation at eight in the evening.