The Cosega Sequence: A Techno Thriller

by Brandt Legg

“That’s not Gaines and Asher!”

  Barbeau stopped fifteen feet from the car. He could see what Hall saw. They were roughly the same build and description, but they were not his targets. He ran to the one who looked most like Gaines and yanked him around by the shoulder. “Who the hell are you?”

  Before the startled man could answer, Barbeau stepped around to check the license plate. It matched the one the traffic camera had shown Gale and Rip getting into that morning. “Who are you?” Barbeau repeated. “How did you get this car?”

  The trooper handed Barbeau the man’s ID. “Sir, he’s from Baltimore. Byron Creighton. Business card says he’s a stockbroker.”

  Barbeau shook his head. “And the woman?”

  “His wife, Pam.”

  “What are you doing in New Mexico, Creighton?”

  “On vacation.”

  “If you’re from Maryland, why are you driving with North Carolina plates?”

  “It’s a rental. Look, if I was speeding, this is a little over the top.”

  “Shut up. Haven’t you been Mirandized?”

  “Meringue-what?” Creighton answered.

  “Don’t get smart, you low-life.”

  “Easy,” Hall said to Barbeau “He’s on vacation.”

  “He is not on vacation,” Barbeau shouted. “Does the car check out? Is it a rental?”

  “We’re still waiting word,” the trooper said.

  Hall pulled Barbeau away from the car. “What’s going on? We got the wrong car. Let’s get back up in the air and find the right one.”

  “Come on, Hall, you’re a better agent than this. We got the wrong car on purpose. They switched and sent us on this wild-goose chase so Gaines could get away. The plate matches the traffic camera. You saw the stills of Gaines getting into this car hours ago.”

  “You think Gaines is so sophisticated that he had look-a-likes and another vehicle on standby?”

  “No, but the NSA is.”

  “They’re trying to capture him, not help him get away.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Why would they help him escape? Booker maybe, but not the NSA.”

  “It’s the NSA.”

  “Why are you so sure? Because Creighton is too cool? He knows we can’t touch him, and Booker’s people would have just pulled Gaines and Asher out. They’d be in Mexico by now.”

  “Why wouldn’t the NSA just pull him?”

  “I don’t know. They need him out. Maybe he has some – wait, I’ve got it. What does Gaines do? He finds stuff. There is still something to find and they need him to do it.”

  The trooper came over and interrupted. “The plate is bogus. The car is registered to the U.S. Government.”

  “Let me guess,” Barbeau said. “Division is classified.”

  “Correct,” the surprised trooper answered.

  Barbeau walked into the sagebrush, while he waited for the Director to get on the line. Hall followed. “I want to find out what he wants us to do now. How are we supposed to capture fugitives if they’re being aided by the NSA?” Barbeau said, squinting back at the three “actors” handcuffed by the car. “And what do we do with those imposters?”

  The Director’s voice mail came on. Barbeau hung up. “Damn it, he must already be with the President. Charge those three with obstruction of justice. They’re not to get phone calls until I speak with the Director.”

  Hall conveyed the orders to the trooper and exchanged contact information. As the helicopter lifted off again, Hall realized they were all out of leads, and wondered where they were going. He asked Barbeau through the headsets.

  “We’re going to the place where secrets hide.”

  Chapter 29

  Rip was bothered by Gale’s talk of reincarnation. He hadn’t admitted to her that he felt a similar but milder form of déjà vu at the Pueblo Church ruins, and again at the San Francisco de Asís Mission Church. Taos Mountain, the whole Sangre de Cristo range, in fact, and the gorge all seemed strangely familiar.

  He’d read only a fraction of Clastier’s letters, but was intrigued by twice seeing Clastier’s notes to Padre Garcia, whose church was located between Taos and Las Trampas. He could tell by Clastier’s words to Flora that he and Garcia were close. Perhaps those letters had also survived. The archaeologist in him wanted to tell Sean to turn around and head back to Las Trampas, but that would be back into the hornet’s nest they had only narrowly escaped. He needed to get into the Eysen, his Eysen. He still couldn’t believe there was another. Everything was different now that he understood Clastier wasn’t merely prophesying, but had actually looked into the magic ball and seen what Rip had.

  They were now loaded with camping gear and food, and would hopefully soon be lost on the back roads heading into the wilds of northern Arizona. Rip watched the wickedly beautiful, inhospitable landscape pass and wondered what it would have been like in Clastier’s time. Not much had changed except the ability to travel on paved roads in automobiles. Clastier had fled Vatican agents under primitive conditions but he didn’t have to contend with instant communication, satellite tracking, and modern weaponry. Rip checked his pack, the gun, cash, and flashlight Grinley had so kindly given to him. He was a stranger on the run, a man in trouble.

  Poor Grinley owed him nothing, and had become another victim in this grueling race. Rip tallied the cost again, as he had taken to doing in the quiet times – Josh Stadler, Larsen Fretwell, Ian Sweedler, Topper. Was Fischer dead? How else had they found Grinley? That meant they had likely found and killed Fischer and Tuke. The cops and Booker had also lost people. How many more would die?

  Thinking about Booker’s involvement brought back the betrayal in West Memphis. He didn’t want to believe Booker would turn him in to the authorities. He’d known about Booker’s more public, ruthless side, but over the years he’d also witnessed Booker’s obsession with archaeology. They’d talked at length about Rip’s Cosega theory. Other than Larsen and Rip, no one knew or cared more about Cosega. Booker actually seemed more fixated than Rip. He was especially fascinated with Clastier. Although Rip had never shown him the papers, Booker sometimes talked as if he’d read them.

  Now Rip felt responsible for keeping Sean and Gale safe, and hoped it never came down to a choice between saving them or the Eysen.

  “Damn it!” Sean said suddenly. “A road block.”

  They had just come around a bend. There was no way to turn around. Rip’s hand clutched the door handle.

  “What do I do? What do I do?” Sean yelled.

  A police officer stood in the middle of the road, halting traffic with his arm. Rip looked back and saw several cars behind them, guardrails on either side. They couldn’t even get out of the car without being seen.

  “Keep going. Slow down and then just zoom past,” Gale said, her pulse quickening. “You can get around that tow truck.”

  A pickup truck was on the shoulder ahead, its door open. Beyond it and behind the cop, a giant tow truck had lines extending over the ravine beyond their line of vision. A sheriff’s car, a state police vehicle, and another wrecker also cluttered the road ahead. They were trapped.

  “It’ll take them two minutes to have us all in cuffs!” Gale shouted.

  “Even if we could get around, that would just attract attention. They’d be all over us,” Rip said. “But this isn’t for us; there’s been an accident. They’re pretty busy, maybe they won’t recognize us.”

  “What do I do?” Sean asked again.

  “Stay calm.”

  The trooper yelled but they couldn’t understand him.

  “Someone’s coming!” Gale said as another man dressed in jeans and a t-shirt approached the car.

  “It’s a pretty bad wreck,” the man said from a few feet away. “Car went over the embankment. The driver was messed up something terrible; he might not make it. They already got him to the hospital.”

  Sean couldn’t respond.

  “I saw the whole thing, called it in on my cell phone.
Wanna see pictures?” He started working his phone, walking toward the car.

  Sean waved him off.

  “Oh, yeah, pretty grizzly stuff,” he looked disappointed not to be able to share his eyewitness coverage. The line of cars was growing longer behind them. The second tow truck moved out of their lane. “Look up and smile, you’re on TV,” the man said to them. The sound of a helicopter surged Rip’s adrenaline.

  Gale leaned into the windshield, looked up and saw it. “News helicopter,” she said, only a little relieved.

  Suddenly, the trooper signaled them to proceed.

  “Bueno-bye,” the man with the cell phone said, waving as they passed.

  Sean pulled ahead slowly, none of the cops even glanced at them. A minute later, they were back up to fifty miles per hour and clear.

  Sean checked the rearview mirror and recognized Busman’s vehicle behind them. No one had noticed an NSA operative sliding around the car and quietly placing magnetic New Mexico license plates over the North Carolina ones while the man talked to them about the accident. That man was also a highly trained agent; he hadn’t really seen the accident, because there hadn’t been one. Even the news chopper was bogus. It was all a staged distraction, so the NSA could continue to insure the FBI would not find Gaines. Often things aren’t what they appear, Sean thought.

  Chapter 30

  Kruse and Harmer were tailing the FBI agents back to Taos, when Booker reached them. “Forget the FBI,” he said. “They have no idea what’s happening. Chart a new course. You’re going to Arizona.”

  “According to the dossier you sent, Rip’s father lives in Flagstaff. But he wouldn’t be that dumb, would he?” Kruse asked.

  “Rip is anything but dumb. He knows the feds know where his father lives, but Rip has spent a lot of time in Arizona and knows it fairly well, so anything is possible. I think the feds and the Vatican have lost the trail, and will likely figure Flagstaff is a probable destination for Rip; so we need to make sure we get him before he gets there.”

  “Any clues as to which route?”

  “Yeah. Back roads. My guess is 550 to 64.”

  “Cool, we’ll pick it up in Española.” Kruse said, pulling into a gas station to make a U-turn.

  “One more thing. The NSA is tracking his car, so we have to deal with their involvement.”

  “Why haven’t they just grabbed him?”

  “Because they know what he has and need his cooperation. But Gaines also knows what he has and would never knowingly give them his cooperation.

  “We’re going to need some help.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Barbeau and Hall checked into a motel. Other agents would arrive soon. In the meantime, they walked to a nearby restaurant recommended by the desk clerk and ate a fine authentic New Mexican meal of burritos and burgers smothered in green chilies. The Director’s personal assistant was calling, as they were finishing, and informed Barbeau that the Director would not be in touch until morning. Barbeau couldn’t believe it. He wanted to know about the meeting with Dover and the President; but more than that, he needed to make him aware of the NSA’s interference, and was desperately hoping for some input from the Director. “Maybe he’s being held,” Barbeau said, sarcastically.

  “Hey, don’t joke about that,” Hall said. “The Attorney General, being corrupt with the President’s knowledge, is a little too Watergate for me. This whole thing, Senator Monroe and Asher, Booker, the Vatican running around killing people;, it’s testing the edge of my sanity. But the NSA, who might be able to hear our conversation right now; aiding in the escape of fugitives, being pursued by the FBI . . . that’s beyond crazy. Doesn’t it just scare the hell out of you?”

  “Do you recall, back at the Academy during training, we were asked to create a scenario as bad as we could imagine? And then, the instructor would take us through it, step-by-step, as to how to break it down, investigate, resolve?”

  “Yeah, Quantico was a long time ago, but that’s one exercise that sticks out. We came up with some horrific stuff.”

  “We did, too, but nothing close to this. Am I scared? Hell yes, Hall. I’m terrified. The Vatican may see what Gaines found as something that could destroy the Catholic Church; but I’m more concerned that this case could destroy something far more fragile . . . the United States Constitution.”

  “Good. I thought it might just be me.” He looked across the table, as Barbeau put down his soda. “Because, you know what this looks like? The only thing standing in the way of a silent coup d'état is the Director of the FBI.”

  “And us.”

  “Great. And us,” Hall said. “And the Director just spent a couple of hours with the enemy and he’s gone dark. It doesn’t look good.”

  “Do you even know who the enemy is?”

  “It’s supposed to be Gaines and Asher; maybe Booker Lipton. Instead, it’s more like the U.S. Attorney General, the National Security Agency, a U.S. Senator, and maybe the President of the United States.”

  “Don’t forget the Pope.”

  “We’re screwed.”

  “Kind of feels that way.” Barbeau signed the credit card receipt and stood up. “But remember, we have one secret weapon that none of the others have.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re right.”

  “How do you know?”

  Barbeau shot him a confused look. “How do I know? Because I’m so rarely wrong, that it actually causes me physical pain, when it happens.”

  Hall laughed. “Well then, I guess I chose the right side.”

  Barbeau nodded seriously, then made some calls, as they walked back to the motel. In the morning, they would meet with the historian, visit Taos Pueblo where the tribal police had interviews set up with the tour guide, the shopkeeper and his thugs, and if all went well, the state police might locate Grinley. Taos had many secrets; Barbeau planned to uncover as many as he needed to find out why the Vatican and the NSA were so intent on getting the artifacts, and if he could figure that out, he might just be able to locate Gaines and bring him in safely. However, the morning would hold a different kind of surprise.

  Chapter 31

  After a while, Gale took over the driving. They were heading west, into the sun, and the glare was giving Sean a headache. U.S.-550 is the kind of road that ribbons across the wide-open desert, and on a hot summer evening you can almost see a band of cowboys, lost in time, galloping across the sagebrush in a cloud of dust. Farmington was the last big town. After that, traffic, already thin, would trickle down to almost nothing. The NSA was staying well back as to not raise suspicions, and they had other ways of tracking. Busman wasn’t worried.

  Sean stayed quiet as Gale and Rip discussed plans. “We’ll make it to Canyon de Chelly tonight and put all this great camping gear to use.”

  “Thanks for getting all that, Sean,” Gale said.

  “Sure, I like shopping when someone else pays,” Sean said. “Why Canyon de Chelly?”

  “I’ve got a buddy there who will hide us for as long as necessary,” Rip said.

  “Canyon de Chelly is on the Navajo Reservation, right? So your friend is Navajo?” Gale asked.

  “Yeah, is that okay?”

  “Of course. I’m just making sure three white fugitives will be welcome in Indian country,” Gale said, laughing.

  “The Navajo Nation is the largest Native American reservation. We’re talking more than 27,000 square miles across northeastern Arizona, and stretching into New Mexico and Utah.”

  “Sounds like a great place to hide.”

  “It’s very remote. And Tahoma is a good friend; we met eight or nine years ago on a dig.”

  “Can the government trace your friendship?” Gale asked.

  “Not likely,” Rip said. The NSA technician in charge of monitoring the audio in the car couldn’t help but smirk.

  “Thanks to Sean showing up, we may have finally lost the feds. Now maybe we’ll have time to figure this thing out.”


  When they stopped for gas at a busy Farmington station, Sean went to the restroom. Busman came in after him and found Sean standing in front of a urinal.

  “We need more conversation about the Eysen.”

  “Rip already suspects something. I don’t want to be too pushy.”

  “We’ve heard no indication he suspects anything.”

  “You aren’t looking at his face.”

  “Relax, Sean. Everything is going great,” Busman smiled, but then turned serious. “Our patience isn’t endless. I’d like to have all the details we need in the next twenty-four hours. Think you can handle that?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “I’m just not sure what to do.”

  “Be yourself. Right now, you’re acting too nervous. Joke around with them. Flirt with Gale.”

  “I’m not really in a joking mood.”

  “This is important. Remember our deal. You get what you want, we get what we want.”

  “Okay, I’ll try.”

  “Good. And Sean-don’t forget to wash your hands.”

  A distant thunderstorm created an explosive sky of cumulonimbus clouds, lightning, and large patches of blue and dark purple, all while the sun set behind the otherworldly rock formation called Shiprock.

  “What a sight,” Gale said, looking up from her journal. “Do you feel the electricity in the air? Something amazing is happening.”

  “What?” Sean asked, trying to sound light. He was driving again, said it made the trip go faster for him. He kept his thoughts on simple things, rather than the tragedy his life had become over the last week.

  “I wish I knew,” Gale said. “But something is definitely happening. And I have a feeling we’ll know soon.”

  For some reason, Gale’s mystical tone made Sean even more nervous and caused him to, once again, withdraw. Busman’s car was so far back now he could only see it on long open straight-aways, of which there were too many for his liking.

  “Navajo call it Tsé Bitʼaʼí, meaning ‘winged rock’ the Anglo name is Shiprock,” Rip began. “It’s a twenty-seven-million-year-old volcanic formation, but interestingly, the Navajo creation story cites the sacred peak as bringing their people to this land.”