Flight of the Serpent

by R. R. Irvine writing as Val Davis

  “Good morning,” Stone said from Washington.

  “Dick,” Hanlan plunged in, “John’s been looking into the crash of his grandson’s airplane near a place called Mesa d’Oro in Arizona. Apparently there’s something unusual going on there. It’s designated a U.S. military no-fly zone and non-military helicopters are enforcing it. I hope you’re sitting in front of your computer.”

  “Where else, sir?”

  “That’s my boy. See what you can come up with in our database.”

  “Place names aren’t my favorite with this new software, sir, but I’ll give it a try.”

  “Dick’s a wizard,” Hanlan said. “Of course, you’d be surprised what kind of access a congressman has. We can link up with just about anybody’s computer, except maybe the CIA’s.” He winked. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if they could tap into our system.”

  From Washington Stone said, “There is a listing for Mesa d’Oro, Arizona. It’s the site for something called the National Research Institute for Behavioral Statistics.”

  “A government facility?” Hanlan asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “What else have you got, Dick?”

  “Nothing. That’s all it says.”

  “What do they do?”

  “It doesn’t say.”

  “Who’s funding it?” Hanlan asked.

  “I don’t know, sir. Let me try the budget.”

  Hanlan shrugged at Gault and Nick. “That’s Washington for you.”

  “Uh-oh,” Stone said. “Black money.”

  “That means the funding is classified,” Hanlan said. “Which probably means the institute does some kind of work for the Defense Department. Check the no-fly zone, Dick.”

  “It’s already working, sir. Uh-oh. We’ve got another hit. All inquiries to be submitted through ISA.”

  “That’s the Internal Security Agency,” the congressman explained. “Very hush-hush.”

  “They’re probably tracking our computer entry now,” his aide added.

  “Okay, Dick. If the trench coats show up, refer them to me. I’ll take the heat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hanlan broke the phone connection, then leaned back in his chair. “Do you know how many intelligence agencies this country has?”

  He held up a hand to forestall guesses. “Neither do I. That’s why we set up the ISA. It’s supposed to keep track of all covert activity. Because of it, damn near everything they do is classified. Their existence is too, I think. So that’s it, John. I’ve hit a wall.”

  “And if I went to Washington and tried the Defense Department myself?” Gault asked.

  “From what you tell me, you were seen flying over the institute. That means they already know about you, John. If they had anything to say, you would have heard it by now.”

  “What about the illegals we told you about? The man named Sanchez Nick spoke to.”

  “That I can do something about. I’ll contact the Immigration people and have them look into it. You’ll hear from me in a day or two, I promise.”

  Hanlan stood up to shake hands with Gault. “And if my grandson’s death is tied in to that mesa?”

  “You bring me concrete proof of that, and I’ll go after them no matter how secret their classification.”

  Chapter 27

  Frank Odell entered his classified identification code into the phone scrambler and waited. He’d been sitting in his office for the last hour, since the moment the alert had come through to stand by for a priority call. During that time, he’d eaten two Twinkies, a Snickers bar, and a bag of potato chips.

  “All the basic food groups,” he muttered to himself. He might as well have added ice cream, and pizza, and be done with it. In the end, none of it mattered. His arteries wouldn’t kill him. Stress would do that. Hypertension in spades dealing with the Director or, worse yet, Mr. Smith. Now there was a man who made even the Director weak in the knees. Smith, it was said, wasn’t his real name, but a house name used by a succession of ISA chairmen.

  The phone rang. Odell picked up the scrambler phone and said, “Yes, sir?”

  “Do you recognize my voice?”

  “Yes, Mr. Smith.”

  “Do you remember the ground rules we laid down when I hired you for this job?”

  “Yes,” Odell assured him, remembering the daylong briefing. Right then, he should have gone into another line of work. He’d started in newspapers, for God’s sake. He could always go back. Sure, and starve to death. Or worse yet, fall behind on his alimony.

  “I’d like to hear rule number one.”

  “I work for you,” Odell said. “I answer to you. No one else.”

  “What about the Director?”

  “He only thinks I work for him.”

  “From now on, I want daily reports on the Director’s activities.”

  I’ll be damned, Odell thought, mistakes were catching up with the Director after all. “I don’t have access to his daily logs.” Until now, Smith had been satisfied with weekly status reports, gathered mostly from rumors and hearsay.

  “A packet is on its way to you. It will arrive within the next four hours. It contains everything you need for continuous surveillance. And no, you don’t have to worry about installation. The necessary equipment is already in place.”

  Odell rolled his eyes. Security was not his job, not specifically. So maybe this was nothing but an exercise, a test of Odell’s loyalty. Then again, maybe the Director was testing him through Mr. Smith.

  “Don’t think,” Smith said, mind reading. “Just follow instructions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll start right now. Give me your report on all activities for the past two weeks.”

  As ordered, Odell proceeded to bring the ISA Chairman up to date, including the destruction of the cliffs near Ophir and the dispatching of the Director’s Blackbird team.

  “Yes, that verifies what I have,” Smith said as soon as Odell concluded. “What I tell you now goes no farther. If it does, I’ll know about it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There’s a possibility, only a possibility at this time, that the Director is becoming a liability. In that event, I may require independent action on your part.”

  Jesus. Odell didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Consider my position,” Smith said. “One of ISA’s special objectives is radiation containment. And yours is just one of the sites I have to worry about. I’m sure you can understand the problems that raises.”

  “Yes, sir,” Odell said, though he didn’t understand a damned thing. Why was Smith telling him this? He fingered his radiation badge. As usual, it showed no sign that he’d been overexposed. Then again, maybe it was nothing but a dummy. Maybe he was a guinea pig and didn’t know it.

  “The Director promised me solutions,” Smith said.

  “And has he delivered?” Odell ventured.

  “If he had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “You mean it’s all for nothing?”

  “I’m not asking you to be an assassin. Not personally anyway.” The phone in Frank Odell’s hand went dead.

  Chapter 28

  Outside the congressman’s office, Gault straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. He looked like a man who’d come to a decision, Nick thought. She was tempted to ask him about it, but figured he’d tell her when he was ready.

  Smiling crookedly, he tossed his keys in the air with one hand, caught them in the other, and then opened the passenger’s door for her. Furnace air flooded out, a good ten degrees hotter than the ninety-degree sidewalk temperature. Downtown Salt Lake, as clean as it was, with its wide streets and pioneer landmarks, seemed on the verge of spontaneous combustion.

  No, Nick decided, correcting herself, her impression had nothing to do with the weather. It was how she felt inside.

  Gault drove west toward the airport. Within a few blocks the air conditioner had the pickup’s small cab cooled down
.

  “Bob Hanlan’s a good man,” he said. “He’ll do what he can for those illegals, but that will take time.”

  “Are you suggesting something else?” Nick asked.

  “We need more information.”

  That was an understatement, Nick thought, closing her eyes against the road glare. But where would they look? Paula had nothing more to give, and Matt’s cookie-tossing reference didn’t make any sense.

  Nick’s eyes popped open. “What about the newspaper? Somebody there ought to know something. Reporters keep notes, don’t they? And files?”

  “Do you know anything about computers?” Gault asked.

  “Enough.”

  “Matt gave me a tour of his office once. It’s all computerized. The reporters type in their stories and push a button. The story goes to the editor, who reads it, makes whatever changes are necessary, and pushes another button. And bang-go. The story is set in type and ready to roll. The thing is, each reporter has his own computer, so he can store his own stories and research.”

  “Lead me to it,” Nick said.

  “Why don’t I drop you at the paper and then head to the airport to see if Theron needs any help with the Lady-A.”

  “You’re Matt’s family,” Nick pointed out. “They might give you access to his things. They don’t know me.”

  “I thought you were going to the Genealogy Library this morning?”

  “If you can give up the Lady-A for a while, I can do the same with my research.”

  He snorted. “I guess Theron can get along without me.”

  Gault pulled over to the curb and stopped. “Before we turn around and go back to the paper, there’s something I’d like to do.”

  Without warning, he leaned across the seat and kissed her on the cheek. The kiss was chaste, merely a sign of affection, but Nick couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice as she asked, “What was that for?”

  “For being such a good friend,” he replied.

  Nick laughed. “Let’s hope the people at the newspaper agree. If there are any clues about Matt’s story, they should be there.”

  Chapter 29

  Wiley slammed on the brakes. “Jesus Christ! Why don’t they make up their minds.”

  Ahead of them, Gault’s truck pulled a U-turn and headed back toward town.

  “I told you you were following too close,” Voss said.

  “Bullshit. The man’s a menace on the highway.” Wiley started his own U-turn.

  “Hold it. Not too soon, or he’ll spot us.”

  “What do you want me to do, lose him?” Wiley said, though he knew there was no chance of that.

  “Shee-yit!” Voss emphasized his comment by turning up the volume on their radio receiver. Via the carefully placed bug in Gault’s pickup, the lady archaeologist was saying, “It would help if you knew the editor personally.”

  “I know his name,” Gault replied. “Reese.”

  “Anything else?” she said.

  “I’ve never been a fan of the Herald.”

  “Look it up!” Wiley snapped as he completed the U-turn and accelerated.

  Voss fanned through the telephone book. Carrying it, along with the Yellow Pages, was standard procedure on any assignment.

  “Second South and Main Street,” Voss said. “If you speed up we can beat them there.”

  Wiley checked the rearview mirror. “We don’t want to get a ticket.”

  Voss flashed his credential. “This sucker will get us through anything.”

  Wiley nodded. Voss was right. The credential, which was absolutely genuine, guaranteed a free ride through any local law enforcement problem.

  “And if that doesn’t work,” Voss said, drawing his .357, “I’ll let this speak for us.”

  Wiley smiled grimly. He loved his work. But then who could blame him? Working for the Director, he and Voss didn’t have to answer to the same rules everyone else did. They had life and death in their hands. They were immune.

  They were going to finish the job. But first, they’d pay a visit to the Herald.

  Chapter 30

  As Nick got out of the truck, the asphalt felt sticky underfoot. The sign on the Walker Bank Building read 9:45 and 90 degrees. By the time she and Gault reached the Herald half a block away, she was soaked and longing for her Cubs cap to keep the sweat out of her eyes. But wearing a baseball cap was hardly the impression she wanted to create. She wanted to look professional and in control. The expression on Gault’s face made him look like a force of nature.

  She disliked the Herald’s editor, George Reese, on sight. He reminded her of Ben Gilbert, her double-dealing department chair. She tried to keep an open mind but his eyes were evasive and shrouded by a perpetual squint. His condolences to Gault sounded rehearsed, if not perfunctory.

  Gault dismissed the comments with a wave. “We’ve come about Matt’s personal effects.”

  “Of course.”

  “We’d also like to take a look at his files.”

  Reese put his hands together in a gesture that was so reminiscent of Gilbert that Nick wanted to throttle him on the spot. She could almost predict what he was going to say next.

  He cleared his throat and fixed his gaze somewhere above and behind Gault. “Technically, those aren’t Matt’s files. They’re the property of this paper and I can see no benefit from your perusing them.”

  “I’d just like to understand what Matt was working on before he died. Maybe it would help me understand why the accident happened.”

  A look of alarm crossed Reese’s face. “I hope you don’t think the paper’s responsible for Matt’s accident. Our employment package includes life insurance for our employees, but that’s the extent of our liability. We never put our people in harm’s way if we can help it. Besides, as I understand it, he was flying a private plane, one of yours.”

  Nick thought that Reese was starting to resemble a ferret. Then, seeing Gault leaning forward in his chair clenching his fists, she nudged him with her foot, a signal to let her do the talking. For a moment, she thought he was going to ignore her, then he sighed and sat back.

  “What we really need,” she said, “is a little guidance from you, Mr. Reese.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what your relationship is with Matt Gault?” the editor asked.

  “She’s a friend of the family.” Gault answered so softly Nick knew it had cost him not to react more violently.

  “You see, Mr. Reese,” Nick improvised, “Matt thought a great deal of you. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard him say how much he respected your work.”

  The flattery was obvious, but the man seemed pleased by it nevertheless.

  “Matt was our top investigative reporter,” Reese said. “We gave him a lot of leeway. He wasn’t on a daily deadline like most reporters, but he’d let us know when he was getting close.”

  “Was he close this time?”

  “That’s a good question.” Reese seemed to preen. “Matt was very guarded when it came to his exclusives, but we went along with him because he never let us down. This last story, though, was giving him fits. I know that much. He said he had everything but a source who’d go on the record. That’s what he was after in Arizona.”

  Nick nodded encouragement. “Matt said you were the best when it came to protecting sources.”

  Reese smiled with pleasure. “We had a working headline, War Criminals. That was Matt’s angle. Homegrown American war criminals in peace time. That’s how he sold me on the story.”

  “Do you think any of it is written down?”

  “Matt didn’t like to put anything down on paper until he had it all up here.” Reese tapped the side of his head.

  “Surely, there are files?” Nick said.

  “If I know Matt, we lost most of the good stuff when that plane of his went down. We might find something in his computer, but it won’t be anything we can publish. I can promise you that.”

  “Mr. Reese,” Nick said, “we’d appreciate anything
that might help us come to terms with our loss.”

  “You have to understand that whatever’s in the computer belongs to the paper. That’s company policy.”

  “Of course.”

  “Matt’s personal items are yours to take, naturally.”

  The personal items were nothing more than a framed photograph of Paula, a good-luck charm in the shape of a B-24, and a cigarette lighter that looked as if it had never been used.

  Reese switched on the computer, then called up a directory of Matt’s files, which dealt exclusively with past stories that had already appeared in the Herald.

  “He should have erased this stuff,” Reese said. “It’s eating up disk space.”

  “Could we read through them first?”

  “I could find you some back issues, if you’d like.”

  “That would be great for a scrapbook,” Nick said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gault grimace. For an instant she thought he was going to lose control and say something that would kill her rapport with Reese. But all Gault did was fold his arms across his chest as he perched on the edge of the adjacent desk.

  Oblivious, Reese helped Nick into what had been Matt’s chair, taking the opportunity to run his fingers along the small of her back. She smiled, masking her urge to kick him in the balls.

  Reaching around her, Reese showed her how to access the files, beginning with an article on water pollution in southern Utah. They were using WordPerfect, probably due to the Utah location, but it wasn’t much different from the word processor she used at Berkeley.

  Nick heard a buzz as he leaned over her. He pulled out a pager and checked it.

  “Seems I’m wanted,” he said. “Nobody can do a thing around here without my help. If you need anything else . . .” He smiled suavely. “I’ll be in my office. Or ask Chet here. He can always give you a hand.”

  Chet was at the next desk, one in a line of five. All had computers.

  “This is Nicolette Scott,” Reese told him. “And Matt’s grandfather.”