Wormhole - 03 Page 8

  They’d established identities in seventeen countries, not counting the United States, arranging for documents to be delivered to intermediaries and stored in lockers, long-term storage, and safe-deposit boxes around the world. Money was moved to offshore bank accounts and funded the establishment of companies, some of which had only a post office box as an address while others were legitimate small businesses purchased for umbrella corporations. Jack’s rule of thumb was that no single business they controlled should have assets of more than seventeen million dollars.

  Heather had laughed at that number, but upon further consideration judged his logic sound. Governments zeroed in on even numbers and big companies. And although big was generally defined as companies having values of more than 500 million US dollars, that figure varied widely by country and market. Besides, if and when you ran into problems that compromised a particular operation, you wanted your loss to be isolated from the bulk of your assets. Completely separate entities of small size operating under different corporate structures in different countries.

  The seed money for their operations they had taken from Jennifer’s raid on the Espeñosa cartel accounts. With Heather’s unique talent for spotting trends and patterns, their investments had quickly blossomed, especially since they could obtain the most detailed insider information on upcoming corporate events. Strictly illegal, but so was practically everything else they were doing.

  Heather glanced across at Jennifer and Mark, both at their own workstations, completely engrossed in the task at hand. And the task at hand was to figure out what Dr. Donald Stephenson was up to.

  She focused her attention back on her own LCD display, scanning through all the news stories surrounding Stephenson’s release from prison, the president’s apology, Stephenson’s appointment as the US representative to CERN, and his surprising elevation to head the scientific team at the ATLAS detector.

  She blasted through all the English-language links and then started in on the foreign sites, specifically those closest to the Large Hadron Collider: Swiss, French, German, Italian, Spanish. And although Heather was proud of the language skills she and Jennifer had acquired over the last few months, they were nothing like Mark’s. That was why they’d left the Russian, Eastern European, and Chinese sites to him.

  Problem was, the deeper she looked, the less sense everything made. Stories coming out of the US government and the major European governments about Dr. Stephenson’s appointment to the LHC matched too perfectly. Since when had the Europeans started knuckling under to the US on high-energy physics research? After all, they’d built the largest supercollider in history. Yes, the US had contributed, but this was truly a European-led effort.

  And yet somehow the acclaimed French physicist Dr. Louis Dubois had calmly stepped aside to let Donald Jailbird Stephenson take over his position, willingly accepting a lesser role on the project.

  Two hours later she was no closer to figuring it out. Mark and Jen also reported no significant progress.

  Heather rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands, stretching in her chair to restart circulation to her lower extremities. Outside, the wind had died out, leaving the sounds and smells of a slow, steady rain to break the night’s silence. Nearer at hand, the click of keyboard keys rose above the hum of computer fans.

  Rising from her chair, Heather walked to the door and stepped out into the night, sheltered from the rain by the overhanging eave. She inhaled deeply, letting the cool damp air fill her lungs as it cooled her skin.

  Over at the main house all the lights were out, but Heather could make out Jack’s lithe form leaning back in one of the porch chairs, apparently regarding her as she looked back at him. What was he thinking about? As much as she liked and respected him, he remained a mystery. The deadliest man she could imagine often showed a lightheartedness that lifted the spirits of all those around him. At other times he drove them like a slave master on one of those old Roman battle ships. She could practically hear him yelling, “Ramming speed!” to the drummer.

  Betrayed by his country, the world’s most hunted man relaxed on his dark porch, feet propped on a table, listening to the rain. He sat there waiting for answers from his team, not rushing them, just waiting.

  Feeling the weight of that responsibility draped over her shoulders like a heavy wet blanket, Heather took another deep breath, then turned and walked back into the comm center.

  The afternoon sun’s rays slanted in through the living room window, wedging into the gap between the curtains, painting a bright yellow spot on the floor. Little dust specks swam through the sunbeam like tiny fish in an aquarium.

  Linda Smythe sat on the couch staring straight ahead, completely unaware of the sunbeam’s effort to brighten the dark room. If she had noticed, she would have walked over and dragged the curtains more tightly together. There was no room for light in the dark place in which she dwelled.

  On the chocolate-brown coffee table, a tall glass beaded water into a ring at its bottom, a ring that had grown a stray finger that reached out toward the round white pill sitting to its right. Linda’s gaze flicked down, paused at the pill, and then returned to the empty spot above the television. Trazadone had lost its allure, impotent at relieving her dark misery. It just made her want to sleep. But sleep was worse than waking. Sleep meant dreams. In dreams, her twin babies left her. In dreams, her twin babies died.

  She knew they were dead. If they had lived, they would have contacted her. They would have contacted Fred, or Anna, or Gil. For whatever reason, Jennifer had run off and Mark and Heather had gone after her. Whatever horrible thing Jennifer had gotten herself involved in had killed them all. It was the only explanation for the months of silence. She knew her kids. No way would they have left their parents to suffer so long without word. No way.

  The authorities had been no help at all, despite their canned “The investigation is ongoing” responses. They’d written the Smythe and McFarland kids off as they had so many thousands of other runaways. Linda could practically hear the officers she contacted wondering why they couldn’t just put three more faces on some milk cartons and call it a day.

  Fred knew Linda was in trouble; he had known for some time. It tore Linda up inside to see how hard Fred worked at bringing some little bit of cheer back into her life. The sweet man smothered her in love, all the while raging at himself inside his head, as if will alone could do the impossible.

  For that matter, Anna and Gil had done their best too. They were all so strong. Each suffering in his or her own way, somehow grabbing hold of an inner strength that Linda couldn’t find. She might have found it after Jennifer left. Given enough time and support, she thought she might have. But Mark too? It was as if someone had stabbed her in the heart, then reached through the gaping hole to rip out what little remained.

  Linda rose unsteadily to her feet, turned, and made her way around the end table with its opened King James Bible. She stopped to stare down at the book, gold leaf on the edges of the pages, so lovingly made it felt good in your hands. Never religious, Linda had turned to the Bible in desperation. She’d read the whole thing, found paragraphs that should have given her comfort.

  And she’d prayed. God, how she’d prayed. Lord, just give me back my kids. Take me instead. Anything, Lord. I’ll do whatever you want. Just let my kids come home safe.

  Lot of good it had done her. She picked up the Bible, dropped it into the small elk-embossed trash can, and then turned and slowly climbed the stairs.

  The cold spring wind swept down from the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, whipping Tall Bear’s long black hair over his shoulders, an icy cat-o’-nine-tails stinging his face. Not that the wind would have been any warmer back home on the Santa Clara Indian Reservation. The bulk of New Mexico sat on the east slope of the Rocky Mountains, east of the Continental Divide, birthplace of the Chinook winds. In springtime it formed in the high country, a mighty raiding party, screaming down the steep slopes in a savage assault that sent everything in
its path cowering behind available cover.

  An image from his youth leapt unbidden to his mind. The sky had been gray, like this one, spitting sleet pellets driven horizontal by the icy wind. They stung his cheeks, ears, and neck as he rode, herding a sick cow into a pen. Tall Bear tilted his head hard to the left, his cowboy hat’s broad brim providing his only protection. Then he’d seen it. Not ten yards away from him, his father, Screaming Eagle, sat atop a big bay mare, huddled beside a telephone pole, instinctively seeking shelter on the lee side of the tall stick of wood. It was one of the funniest damn things Tall Bear had ever seen.

  Screaming Eagle had been one tough Indian. As Tall Bear forced his mind back to the present, looking at the gathering before him, he knew that if they were going to get through what was coming, they were going to need a lot of men like his father.

  Constructed entirely of adobe, the Taos Pueblo was home to around 150 full-time residents. Other tribal members lived in more modern homes outside the walls, but still on the reservation. Because it was situated on 99,000 acres of tribal land at an elevation of over 7,000 feet, Tall Bear thought it was a perfect place for the celebration. The second such declaration of independence to be held on New Mexico tribal lands.

  Since the end of 1970, when President Richard M. Nixon signed Public Law 91-550, formally returning the sacred Blue Lake and its surrounding lands to the native people, no other ceremony had held such historical relevance. It had taken sixty-four years of struggle to overturn the injustice that had taken this land away from the people. But it had only taken two years for the Taos Pueblo community to go completely off-grid.

  Tall Bear had led the push for a similar effort on the Santa Clara Reservation. But the Taos Pueblo had given the movement a widely publicized momentum, and it was rapidly being adopted by tribes across the country. Now, as he stood gazing across the courtyard at the St. Jerome Church and its surrounding brown-and-white adobe walls, with three white crosses visible atop the church roof, Tall Bear felt a warm glow wash away his awareness of the biting breeze.

  With a few final words in the Tiwa language, tribal governor Vidal Padilla pulled the rope that released the tarp covering a small adobe alcove on the outer wall, revealing a larger-than-life ceremonial mask sheltered within. Stepping to his right, Padilla flipped the switch, filling the enclosure with a soft eternal light.

  Amid vigorous applause from the native onlookers, Vidal Padilla smiled, and Tall Bear smiled along with him. This trickle of electricity marked the first watts of many from the pueblo’s new Kwee Cold Fusion Reactor.

  The Washington Mall was beautiful in the early morning light. At this hour of the morning, the sun hung low in the sky, and its reflection off the Tidal Basin backlit the cherry blossoms. As journalist Freddy Hagerman jogged among them, they glowed pale pink and white, scenting the morning air with just a hint of ancient Japan.

  In the best physical condition of his life, Freddy filled his lungs with air, holding it for two full strides before slowly letting it out, enjoying the extra spring the artificial running leg gave him. The other leg was his weak link. It gave his stride a long-short-long-short wobble that was disconcerting to watch. But he’d gotten used to it. That fake leg was so good he had actually contemplated replacing the other one.

  “Damn sure won’t be Benny Marucci’s people doing the cutting,” he muttered to himself as he ran.

  Freddy had never been much of a physical fitness nut. Funny how getting chased cross-country, frozen, and shot, and having your leg jigsawed off by a couple of mob thugs could change your appreciation for life. Besides, now that he was famous, he needed to take better care of himself.

  Gotta make this last.

  Shit. He’d even had ex-wives calling him, saying how much they’d missed him, how it’d be nice to get together again. Not happening.

  Freddy made a left turn, picked up the pace for the final stretch, and let himself coast to a stop at the base of the Washington Monument. Placing both hands behind his head, letting his lungs work like a bellows, Freddy began the cooldown walk back to his car.

  The brand-new gunmetal-gray Lincoln MKX detected the key fob in his pocket, unlocking the driver’s door as he approached. He opened the door, bending across to grab a dry T-shirt from the passenger’s seat. Walking around the back of the vehicle, Freddy pressed the open-liftgate button on the fob, pulled off the wet T, balled it up, and tossed it inside the spacious hatchback compartment.

  Then he shrugged on the dry one. It was navy blue and sported his favorite question in bold white letters.

  “Do I look like I give a rat’s ass?”

  Freddy turned around, propping himself up against the back as he removed the curved spring that was his running leg. Lovingly wiping it with a dry towel, Freddy exchanged it for his walkabout leg. One nice thing about making the kind of money the NY Post had offered him to take the DC political beat: He could afford really nice legs. Hell, he could afford really nice ass for that matter.

  Pressing the close-liftgate button, he walked around and opened the car door. It wasn’t until he settled into the driver’s seat that he saw it. A small yellow Post-it note stuck high up on the left side of the configurable instrument panel.

  What the hell?

  Some asshole had been in his car. But how? Freddy always locked it, and these new cars had more secure locks than older cars. Plus, whoever had broken in had relocked it. At least Freddy thought so. Thinking back on it, he was pretty sure he’d heard the door unlock as he approached.

  He checked the glove box. His wallet was still there, no money or credit cards missing. Nothing else in the vehicle showed any sign of tampering. Just the yellow sticky note on the dash.

  His hand reached forward, grabbed the yellow piece of paper by the corner, and pulled it free. Thirteen small, neatly printed words.

  “Bigger than Henderson House. 6:15 p.m. Library of Congress foyer. I’ll find you.”

  Worth every penny.

  Freddy Hagerman wasn’t a big fan of government spending, but every once in a great while they got it right. Standing inside the entrance of the renovated Library of Congress, Freddy knew he was looking at one of those rare government projects. The Great Hall’s intricate arches surrounded a brass-inlaid wood floor, its grandeur breathtaking. Although he’d been in the Thomas Jefferson Building many times, it always affected him the same way.

  Freddy glanced down at his watch. Six thirteen p.m. Time to get a move on, if he didn’t want to miss his appointment. And this was an appointment he didn’t want to miss.

  Since fame had come calling, he couldn’t count the number of so-called “informants” who had tried to interest him in stories, all guaranteed to be the biggest thing he’d ever done. And even though Freddy could smell bullshit a mile away, just listening to these people had wasted more time than he cared to think about. It was why he no longer talked to anybody who hadn’t been vetted by Julia, his administrative assistant. But this was different. He had to admit that breaking into his car had gotten his attention. It had started his reporter’s nose itching. Now that itch had spread to his legs, getting them moving toward the center-most of five empty desks on the Main Reading Room’s second circle.

  His butt had barely settled into the chair at his reading station when a woman slid into the chair to his left, bending over a large hardcover book, her salt-and-pepper hair neatly tied back in an academic ponytail, framing a profile that bespoke driven intelligence. Before he could speak, she shushed him.

  “Don’t talk to me,” she said, her voice a barely audible whisper. “Keep your eyes on your desk, and for God’s sake, try to look studious.”

  Freddy turned back to his desk. He didn’t have a book, so his Franklin Day Planner was going to have to do, if he didn’t want to stand out like a lighthouse on a foggy Cape Cod night. He flipped it open, pretending to study his upcoming appointment schedule.

  The woman paused so long that Freddy began to wonder if he’d made a mistake. Then she
began again, her voice even softer than before.

  “I guess it’s best to start with a brief introduction. My name is Dr. Denise Jennings. For the last twenty-five years I’ve worked at the National Security Agency. Based upon that alone, everything I tell you is completely off the record. Your continued silence means you agree to these terms. If you don’t, just stand up and walk away, right now.”

  Once again she paused, giving him time to consider.

  “At this point in my career, all I want to do is make it to retirement, preferably alive and not in prison. Unfortunately, I’ve stumbled upon some information that I want nothing to do with. I should have washed my hands of the whole damned thing.”

  She inhaled deeply, holding her breath a full two seconds before exhaling.

  “Let’s get this straight, whatever you decide to do with this information, after tonight I’m done. I picked you to hand this off to because you’ve already shown a remarkable penchant for digging up dangerous dirt.”

  Freddy flipped to the next page in his calendar. He didn’t know if she was NSA or not, but he’d check it out later tonight. For now, he’d keep an open mind and listen.

  “On Thanksgiving night, last year, just as your story about Henderson House was hitting the wire, an anomaly occurred within the ATLAS detector at the Large Hadron Collider near Geneva. What I’m about to tell you is the most closely guarded secret on the planet.”

  There it was again, the pause, the deep breath. Freddy turned another page. Her voice grew so quiet Freddy found it difficult to understand her words.

  “During a test at the LHC, what CERN scientists are calling the November Anomaly formed at the beam interaction point and continued to exist after the particle beam was turned off. The thing is currently contained within a redundant electromagnetic cage. The bad news is that it has a high probability of decaying into a black hole that can consume the Earth.”