The Cosega Sequence: A Techno Thriller

by Brandt Legg

  Chapter 42

  Inside the truck stop, smells of old frying oil and stale cigarettes greeted them. Rip spotted a payphone and debated a call to Booker. He pulled Gale aside, while Fischer went to the restroom.

  “We’re in the clear now,” Rip said. “We should get out of here before Fischer decides to be a hero.” They spoke in hushed tones next to two beeping, unused video games.

  “We can trust him.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Rip asked, craning to get a view of the bathroom door.

  “Intuition.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “What are we supposed to do; call Booker again? Look what happened the last time. Four hours later, the FBI knocked on our door,” Gale said, flashing anger.

  “But why would Booker turn us in?”

  “I don’t need to know that, to know we shouldn’t call him again. Maybe he didn’t turn us in; maybe they have his phones tapped, but no one knows we’re with Fischer,” Gale said.

  “Even if he’s not back there calling the cops right now, how long will it take the feds to find out whose room we dropped in on?”

  Gale hadn’t thought about that. Fischer emerged from the restroom wiping his hands on a brown paper towel. He found them. “Now, about that meal.”

  They sat by a front window. Semi trucks moved down the interstate in a never-ending succession, creating a rhythm like waves breaking on the beach. Rip had wanted to get out when they picked up Fischer’s load, but they’d been at a deserted warehouse, and there was nowhere to go. He had a feeling this might be their last chance. He’d left the casing in the secret room in Asheville and wondered if it had been found by whoever killed poor Topper. After all these years of protecting the Clastier Papers, and looking for what turned out to be the Eysen; it seemed insane that both artifacts, and the Odeon, had wound up in their damp packs at a greasy truck stop in Arkansas. Rip couldn’t let go of the circles and their patterns on the casings. If they could be solved, the Eysen might finally reveal its secrets.

  “Rip, you sure are lost in thought,” Fischer said. He and Gale had been talking, but Rip didn’t know what about.

  Rip tried to smile, looking at the plate of food that would likely upset his already knotted stomach.

  Fischer’s weathered face captivated Gale. She wondered what stories each line could tell; sensing a life crafted from the storms and emptiness of decades on the road – and in prison.

  “Gale tells me you’re an archaeologist.”

  Rip nodded and shot Gale a look.

  “How’d you get into that line of work, other than it makes a great cover for stealing government property?” He winked.

  “The past gives us clues as to who we are. Sometimes they are bones, and I try to sense the personality of a long-lost fellow traveler on the journey across time. Those forgotten faces, from a distant age, laughed and cried. Their experiences, like ours, belong to all humanity. I try to unlock their secrets, so that we can hear their stories.”

  Gale stared at Rip, surprised by his sincere reply.

  Four hours later, they blew past Oklahoma City. Four hours after that, they stopped again outside Amarillo, Texas for dinner.

  “I’ve got an old friend in Tucumcari, New Mexico, who would probably lend you a car.”

  “Are you serious?” Gale asked.

  “It wouldn’t be much. He owes me a few favors. I trust him . . . completely.”

  “I’m not sure when we could get it back to him.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  Another two hours and they were at a dusty adobe house on the west side of Tucumcari. Fischer’s friend, a large, jovial Hispanic man called Tuke, gave Rip the keys to an old pickup truck. He and Fischer had served time together. “Quite a stretch, a number of years back,” Fischer told Gale.

  “Tuke, that’s an unusual name,” Gale said.

  “My given name is Fernando, but in prison sometimes we pick up other names. Often they call you the name of the town you’re from. Tucumcari was too long.”

  “Tuke, I don’t know when, or even, if I can get this truck back to you,” Rip said.

  “I’d kind of like it back, but I’m okay. I owe Fischer. It’s on you,” Tuke said, looking at Fischer.

  Fischer nodded.

  Tuke studied his old friend and then nodded in return. “But if you need a place to stay in Taos, I can call a buddy. He’s good people.”

  Gale looked at Rip, who was hesitant, then to Fischer.

  “It’s a good time to have friends,” Fischer said to Gale. “Even if they’re borrowed. I learned a long time ago, the loyalty of friends is a greater power than the will of an enemy. A true friend will outlast any tangle of trouble, and our own desperation.”

  “Amen,” Tuke said. He wrote the name Grinley, along with an address and phone number on the inside of a partially used pack of matches, and handed it to Gale. “I’ll call Grinley and tell him you might come ’round.”

  As Gale and Rip drove away, he noticed tears on her cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want Fischer to die.”

  “Why would he die?” Rip asked.

  “Because he helped us,” she cried.

  Constant thoughts of Josh, Larsen and Topper haunted him, too. They drove on, in silent darkness, into the unknown and toward Taos.

  Chapter 43

  The white Lexus, carrying Sean Stadler and the man from the bus, along with the driver, stopped at a security gate at the Asheville Regional Airport. The guard had been expecting them and raised the heavy bar allowing them to pass into the section that housed private planes. A fueled Cessna jet, engines-on, was waiting; the three men quickly boarded. The tower immediately cleared them for takeoff, and the pilot taxied to the airport’s only runway.

  Moments later FBI agents stopped at the gate, produced IDs, and demanded the guard raise the gate. The guard refused. An agent jumped the bar and pursued on foot.

  “Are they on that plane?” Another agent screamed at the guard, pointing to the only aircraft moving. “Open that gate.” The agent drew his gun.

  The guard refused but did not draw his weapon.

  Another agent arrested and handcuffed the guard, while his partner found the button, and raised the bar. Simultaneously, back at the Federal building, Hall was talking to air traffic control.

  “This is Special Agent Wayne Hall with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You have a plane that is preparing for takeoff. You are not to allow it into the air. Do you understand?”

  “Uh, yes sir. We do speak English here, in North Carolina. But, uh, I’m afraid I can’t help you out,” the controller said in a country twang.

  “Why the hell not? There is a material witness to a federal investigation on that plane.”

  “Well, sir, be that as it may, I really don’t know if you’re truly who you say you are.”

  “I understand. Can you just delay that takeoff until I can get your boss on the phone? What’s the name of your supervisor? I will have the FAA call him and give you authorization.” Barbeau paced behind Hall, dialing the Director on his cell.

  “Yeah, well, even if I do believe you, I can’t hold this plane.”

  “You hold that plane until we can reach your supervisor, or you are going to be in a world of trouble. Do you understand? This is the FBI!”

  “Cleared for takeoff. I hear you, agent, but their authorization comes from a little higher up than yours.”

  “Listen to me, John-Boy,” Barbeau yelled. “You hold that plane. This is Special Agent Dixon Barbeau and I’ll have the Director of the FBI on your ass in about three minutes.”

  “You listen to me, Dick, if you boys really are FBI, then you sure don’t have your act together.”

  The agents at the airport reported on another line, “It’s in the air. Stadler is away.”

  Hall told the agents to get into that tower and arrest the controller, and then went to work trying to obtain a flight plan for the Cessna.
Barbeau held his head in his hands and sat back in his chair, as if he’d been shot. The Director finally came on the line.

  “Barbeau, take me off speaker,” he said, and then told him where the order approving the takeoff had originated. Barbeau was stunned, but more of the pieces were falling into place. In his exhausted state, Barbeau knew he needed help to figure this out, yet the Director had told him that no one could be trusted, not even Hall, but he couldn’t think of anyone else.

  With the FAA tracking the Cessna, and Gaines long gone, Barbeau asked Hall to take a walk with him. They ate take-out sandwiches from a nearby deli on a bench near the street. The air, muggier than normal, even for a July night, seemed to hold the light glowing from streetlamps.

  “Rain’s coming soon,” Barbeau said.

  It had been an excruciatingly long day. Hall was exhausted, didn’t want to talk about the weather, but he knew Barbeau was even worse off. He said nothing.

  “This is one screwed-up case. There are some things you don’t know, things that aren’t in the file and can’t go in the file. Are you good with that?”

  “Depends.”

  “That’s not the answer I need.”

  “Look, Barbeau, I don’t even like you. I’m not doing something that’s going to mess up my career.”

  “The Director knows everything I’m about to tell you.”

  “Does he know you’re telling me?”

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t want to know.”

  “It’s not like that. You know what really happened in Atlanta?” Barbeau said, not waiting for an answer. “Finn Lambert, one of the suspects killed in the Atlanta catwalk collapse, who helped Larsen Fretwell escape the beach in Florida, was ex-CIA.”

  Hall’s interest piqued. “Where and how did Larsen Fretwell hook up with a spook?”

  “That’s not all, Lambert’s employer at the time of his death was Booker Lipton.”

  “CIA, Booker Lipton? I’m listening.”

  “I thought you might be.”

  “Turns out Booker funded most of the digs that our Professor Gaines has done.”

  “That didn’t come up on our background searches.”

  “No,” agreed Barbeau. “Booker has taken extraordinary measures to be certain that his support of Gaines, like his employment of Lambert, and the other man who died in Atlanta, was not traceable to him.”

  “Why? Have they been stealing ancient artifacts all these years and running a black market? Does Booker need more money?”

  “I wish it were that simple. Booker is only a small piece of the puzzle. We have reason to believe that Josh Stadler’s murder was ordered by the Vatican and carried out by its agents.”

  “Whoa!” Hall said. “I thought the Vatican only did straight intelligence. I didn’t think they did murder, at least not in the last hundred years or more.”

  “It’s unusual but not uncommon. They normally have much cleaner ways to advance their agenda, given the Church’s vast reach and influence.”

  “The artifacts must have some pretty amazing religious significance,” Hall said.

  “Oh, the artifacts are very significant,” Barbeau replied. “Those same agents are probably the ones who beat us to Gaines in the West Memphis motel. They may even have him now.”

  “God damn.”

  “And you want to talk about a significant artifact? Remember what the air traffic controller said? Someone with more juice than the FBI ordered that plane into the air. Well, let me tell you that the people who just helped Sean Stadler escape work for the NSA.”

  “Barbeau, I thought I said I didn’t want to know.”

  “Wait, I haven’t even told you about the White House,” Barbeau said, coolly.

  Hall walked to a trashcan to dump his food wrappers, but kept his soda. “Tell me about the White House,” he said, returning.

  “That’s the part we know the least about,” admitted Barbeau, “but the Attorney General seems to be coordinating the investigation with the Vatican, and the President has knowledge of the arrangement, thereby giving tacit approval.”

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. The Catholic Church is dictating the actions and the resources of US law enforcement at its highest levels?” Hall asked, skeptically.

  “Correct.”

  “What else are they controlling? What other policy decisions are they making for us?”

  “It’s hard to say how big this is,” Barbeau said.

  “Back up. You said the NSA was involved. Are they monitoring the Vatican or the Bureau?”

  “Come on, you know they monitor everything. Their interest in this case seems to be about one of the artifacts. They either want it, for some reason known only to them, or they are simply trying to keep it out of the Vatican’s hands.”

  “Why do they want a couple of stone bowls, and . . . hold on a minute, they aren’t stone bowls,” Hall said, standing back up and pacing in front of the bench. “The photos and witnesses say it was a globe that they pulled out of the cliff, a hollow globe. Those casings were protecting something. This isn’t about the casings or the little quartz oval artifact at all. Something was inside, and Gaines took it with him. That’s why he so easily sent one of the casings away, because it’s just a damn wrapper for the real prize.”

  “The globe is like a Trojan Horse; we’ve had people working day and night, trying to decode the carvings on the casing, with absolutely no luck. We’ve been so focused on what the outside was, that it never occurred to me, or anyone else apparently, that the important thing was inside,” Barbeau said.

  “But what was so vital to get the Vatican committing murder and the NSA stomping all over the FBI?”

  Chapter 44

  Monday July 17th

  In Tuke’s old pickup, Gale and Rip stayed on back roads and encountered few cars. Around two in the morning, just outside Taos, they drove down a narrow dirt Forest Service road; pulled over and fell asleep in the truck. They were awakened by a sharp knock on the driver’s side window. A forest ranger motioned for Rip to roll the window down. He silently cursed himself for being there, glanced around looking for an escape, then complied.

  “Sorry, sir, the trip from Amarillo took longer than we expected and, a few hours ago, we realized we were too tired to drive any farther,” Rip explained to the ranger.

  “Where are you heading?”

  “Taos.”

  “You’ve only got about twenty more minutes to go. Are you okay to drive now?”

  “Yes, sir, thanks.”

  “Okay,” he said, nodding to Gale. “Sleeping is only allowed in designated camping areas within the Carson National Forest.” The ranger waved them on.

  “That was close,” Gale said, as they drove away.

  “I kept thinking he was going to ask for ID,” Rip said. “Let’s get something to eat and then head to Grinley’s place. We’re crazy to spend one more minute on the road.”

  “I thought you weren’t sure about Fischer and his friends.”

  “If he was going to turn us in, he’d have done it by now. I think your instincts are right about him. Besides, right now his crowd is on the same side of the law we are. I think I feel better with them.”

  Gale ran into Cid’s Food Market for supplies, and they gobbled sandwiches, as they headed north. She wanted to visit the Taos Pueblo, Clastier’s last stop before fleeing, but knew Rip was right- they needed to get off the road. The town had the feel of another country, adobe houses built of mud and straw, nestled against the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

  Rip slowed down as they crossed the Gorge Bridge. A straight six hundred-foot drop down the narrow canyon to the Rio Grande River – terrifying in its beauty – made it a popular spot for suicide jumpers. The bridge was the final landmark before the turnoff to a winding dirt road. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into Grinley’s driveway. The house wasn’t visible from the road, but a large golden-colored, barking dog escorted them the remainder of the way.

&n
bsp; The place may have been one of the oddest structures Rip had ever encountered; at least, in the western hemisphere. Part adobe, part log cabin, with some kind of corrugated metal spaceship-type siding. On top of that, there were castle-like turrets lining the edges of the roof, as well as towers on the corners. Gale and Rip remained in the car for several minutes, less worried about the dog than the outlandish dwelling in front of them. Finally, a shirtless man, with shoulder-length thin gray hair and a matching scraggly beard, appeared at the front door. Rip thought he saw him set down a shotgun on the front porch.

  “Who sent ya?” the wiry, tanned man asked.

  “Tuke,” Rip answered, opening the car door. “I’m Rip, this is Gale.”

  “Thought so,” he said, his eyes darting about, sizing up the strange people from the civilized world. “Do you like prickly pear salad?”

  Gale smiled. “You must be Grinley?”

  “To some folks.”

  “You’re kind to have us.”

  “I’m partial to those that piss off The Man,” Grinley said.

  “We’ve managed to do that,” Rip said, glad his misfortune was at least good for something.

  A rabbit ran out of the trees, and not far behind was a big gold dog. “That Deeohjee, he’s always gettin’ after bunnies.” Grinley shouted, “Git ’em, boy.”

  “Deeohjee, what an unusual name; how do you spell it?” Gale asked.

  Grinley smiled. “D – O – G”. Then he erupted in laughter. “Come on in.”

  Inside, sun from a large skylight filtered through blown glass tubes and bulbs of every imaginable shape and color. “An old girlfriend did those,” Grinley motioned, as Gale marveled. “Everyone in Taos is an artist, or at least knows one.”

  Rip didn’t have much patience left. He had waited days to get back to the Eysen, desperate to unravel its mysteries. And a brilliant plan was needed for staying one step ahead of their pursuers, but what Grinley said next grabbed all his attention.

  “Just saw your photo on CNN.com. They say you killed a man.”