The Cosega Sequence: A Techno Thriller

by Brandt Legg

  He tried to recall all of the Clastier Divinations, as the Eysen took him on a tour of world history from never-before-seen angles, providing new details and confirming historical theories. The atomic bomb destroying Hiroshima, viewed from the ground, showed horrific shots, as the explosions occurred that no camera could have survived. How did they do it?

  Moving pictures in color from centuries of wars across the globe bled into one another. Da Vinci painting the Mona Lisa, Shakespeare writing, the Great Wall of China being constructed, slave ships being loaded in Africa, the images kept coming. Rip watched, fascinated, as battles from the American Civil War played out, and then Lincoln getting shot, after his assassin was purposefully let into Ford’s Theatre. It expanded faster and faster until it raced as a collage of humanity’s history.

  When the action finally slowed to a stop, Rip was shocked to see that five hours had gone by. He’d not had food or water, hadn’t eaten or drunk since the Eysen had started, but he was grateful to have been able to record it all. The camera still had about half the space left on a 128GB card.

  Obviously this was how Clastier had been able to make his predications about the future. He wondered if Nostradamus, Saint Malachy, and other ancient prophets had used Eysens to peer into the future. The way they all wrote in a vague, sometimes riddle-like manner might have been because the visions were so out of context with their own times that they would have been unable to understand what they were seeing.

  Rip carefully put everything away and then ventured out to the kitchen in search of a meal. Dyce and Elpate were crashed in front of the TV, a rerun of some old sitcom. Rip heated up some rice and beans, cut up some tomato, onion, and avocado, and grabbed a cold beer.

  Today had been a good day, the first since he’d found the Eysen. Although no closer to decoding the Cosega Sequence, he now had the time and the tools to do it right. Then he thought about the five remaining prophecies contained in Clastier’s Divinations and shuddered.

  Chapter 24

  Barbeau arrived in Chimayó less than ten minutes after Gale, Larsen, and their AX escorts had left. He tried unsuccessfully to get Teresa to open the door, lacking a warrant or the energy to get into another food-fight with the old lady; he headed over to the church.

  He left his driver in the car, while he sat in the sanctuary for more than twenty minutes. Barbeau hoped something of the church would give itself to him, not as a sign or anything silly like that; he wasn’t Agent Hall. Barbeau believed in “good old-fashioned detective work.” And there was a good reason why Gaines had risked being captured, risked even his life, to come to all these dusty old churches in the middle of nowhere.

  Maybe if he sat there long enough, he would figure it out, connect the missing pieces. Chasing Gaines had distracted him from understanding the reason that he was chasing him. Hall had been right about one thing; renowned archaeologist Ripley Gaines had not taken the Eysen and other artifacts for money. Gaines knew he had something that the great powers in the world all wanted. And he believed, rightfully so, Barbeau thought, that those powers would misuse whatever secrets the artifacts held.

  But, why the churches? Were the artifacts religious? Was that why the Vatican had so much interest? He tracked the case over in his mind. Should he have let Gaines go? Could the Director and DIRT have protected Gaines? Would he ever get the chance to catch him again?

  Barbeau felt another headache coming on, the kind that painkillers couldn’t stop, but alcohol could; the problem was that “cure” only lasted a short time, and brought greater problems and lots more pain. Still, he wondered how far it was to the nearest liquor store. He recalled a neon sign in Española, “Saints and Sinners Package Liquors,” an appropriate name for this case, he thought, and most assuredly they would have his brand.

  He did what he always did when the lure of intoxication pulled him away from where he was supposed to be; a photo of his daughter on his phone softened him. It hadn’t been just the endless rigors of the job that cost him seeing her grow up; it had been something far sneakier, damn it. She had a child of her own now. A grandson he’d never met, not even a photo.

  He wandered into the room with all the crutches. There were dozens of them, wood, aluminum, hand-made, even canes, hung, not abandoned and forgotten, but as a reminder. Littered among them were crosses, beads, and pictures of saints and Jesus. It was almost a tacky display; yet, somehow that made it appear more authentic. What stories did this old building hold, what secrets did it hide? Gaines had come here even though the FBI and Vatican agents were minutes behind him. Why? Barbeau was making himself insane with it. He’d let the suspect go because he had to know. What has made one of the richest men in the world, the most dominant religion, and the top spy agency of the world’s lone super power, all so desperate they are killing anyone in their way?

  “The NSA is so worried, they aren’t even willing to bring Gaines in yet,” he said to himself, as he ventured back into the chapel.

  His phone rang to the disapproving stares from an elderly couple sitting in the pews. Barbeau looked at the number and quietly left the chapel.

  “Clastier was a nineteenth century Catholic priest who was defrocked, excommunicated, disavowed, and actually expunged by the Vatican,” the familiar voice of a DIRT agent began briefing him.

  “Apparently they didn’t like him much.”

  “No,” the agent said. “There is almost nothing known. Everything we have is from intercepts. “During his life, prior to disappearing in the mid-1800s, he preached at five different churches in northern New Mexico.”

  “Which ones?” Barbeau asked looking back at the small adobe church.

  “El Santuario de Chimayó, San Francisco de Asís Mission, San Geronimo at Taos Pueblo, San José de Gracia Church, and an unknown church which was destroyed but may have been located in or near San Cristobal, New Mexico.”

  “Where is the San José church,” Barbeau asked about the only one still standing that he had not visited.

  “Las Trampas, New Mexico.”

  Barbeau tapped the name into his phone and discovered the church was less than a twenty-five minute drive from his current location. While still on the phone with the DIRT agent, he told his driver where to go.

  His driver looked it up. “It’s kind of on the way back to Taos. We can take Highway 76, then after Las Trampas, we can pick up 518 back to Taos.”

  Barbeau nodded, at the same time listening to the agent’s voice in his ear tell him about the arrest warrant issued for Booker.

  “Damn, someone sure is scared,” Barbeau said. “Why did the Director do that?”

  “Monroe brought him overwhelming evidence. The Vatican had collected enough stuff on Booker that, if we can find him, we might actually be able to convict him.”

  It was then that Barbeau realized that if he had taken Gaines into custody and they had tried to hide him, the NSA or the Vatican would have not only killed Gaines, but they would have silenced Barbeau as well, by whatever means necessary.

  “Something else, too. You remember Nanski, the Vatican’s lead agent on this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s in Taos.”

  Chapter 25

  Gale could not believe she was holding a second Odeon. Teresa had kept it hidden since her mother had given it to her decades earlier. And her mother had received it from her mother, who was Clastier’s love, Flora. Teresa told Gale that it had been found with Clastier’s “black sphere,” now called an Eysen.

  Larsen nearly swerved off the road when Gale showed the second Odeon to him as they wound along highway 76 to Las Trampas. “How can there be two?”

  “There are also two Eysens?” Gale said flatly.

  “Should I pull over?” Larsen replied, shocked.

  “No. We don’t have time. I want to talk to the priest at San José de Gracia Church in Las Trampas and get back to Taos before Booker leaves.”

  “Booker won’t leave without talking to you,” Larsen said.
>
  “Why?”

  “Because nothing matters to him more in the world than the Eysen,” Larsen said. “Does he know there is more than one?”

  “I don’t know what he knows. But the second one was probably destroyed a hundred and fifty years ago by the Vatican,” Gale said.

  “What are they afraid of?”

  “The truth,” Gale said. “As Rip says, ‘people are only afraid of two things, the truth and the unknown.’ The Eysen is both.”

  Larsen smiled. “Yeah, I’ve heard him say that two or three . . . hundred times. I can’t believe there is another Eysen,” he said looking over at the Odeon. “That’s just like the one we found in Virginia. I wonder what it does?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look what the Eysen does. We never had time to see if the Odeon does anything.”

  “It’s in the sun, right now, and nothing is happening,” she said, holding it up to the windshield. “The Eysen is like a computer; maybe this is like a cell phone.”

  “Actually, it looks a little like the casing.”

  Gale raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think?” She twisted and pulled on the two sides. Nothing happened.

  “Rip was just gently moving the casing back and forth in his hands when, it came open.”

  She tried. Three seconds later it opened. “Oh my God!”

  Larsen checked the mirror for AX. Kruse and Harmer were staying close.

  “It’s a chip,” Gale said, holding it up to the light. The Odeon Chip did nothing. “That’s disappointing.” She stuffed the Chip into her pocket, closed the Odeon and put it back into her pack, then pulled out the copies of Clastier’s letters.

  “You’re going to read now?” Larsen asked. “That’s all the time you’re giving that little chip. You’re not much of an archaeologist.”

  “That’s right. I’m a reporter. The Chip is a mystery I can’t deal with right now. I need to know as much as I can about Clastier and Padre Romero, before we get to his church.”

  “He’s not going to be there, you know?”

  “Who?”

  “Padre Romero.”

  “My God, you sound just like Rip. I know that. But someone will be, and they may know something.”

  They rode in silence the rest of the way, while Gale read the letters. Kruse and Harmer continued to follow closely behind.

  San José de Gracia at Las Trampas, completed in 1760, was the oldest church affiliated with Clastier. “These old churches are all so beautiful,” Gale said, as they got out of the SUV. Kruse stayed in the car, but Harmer got out to smoke.

  “Another striking adobe structure.”

  “The parishioners have restored and maintained it so that it looks much the same as when Clastier was here.” She hurried to the door as it was getting late. “Locked.”

  “Tomorrow is Sunday; we can come back then, the place will be packed,” Larsen said.

  “We’re not tourists on vacation, I don’t know if there’ll even be a tomorrow.”

  Although Larsen thought the statement overly dramatic, he couldn’t disagree.

  A slim man, in gold frame glasses, wearing an old white tee shirt, faded jeans and a small tool belt, came around the side of the building. “Can I help you folks?” He set down several tubes of conduit and stood holding a roll of Romex wiring.

  “Do you know when someone will be here?” Gale asked, smiling at the man she guessed to be in his late forties.

  “Someone?”

  “I was hoping to speak with someone about the church’s history.”

  “Completed in 1760. The dozen or so families who lived in Los Trampas at that time had donated one-sixth of their paltry earnings from selling crops until they could buy enough supplies. They did all the work themselves . . . and it’s still here after more than two hundred and fifty years!” He grinned. Gale couldn’t tell if he was impressed with his knowledge, or the work of the original families.

  “Thank you. But I meant the history of the priests who served here.”

  “Oh,” the man said. “That’s a whole different conversation.”

  “Do you know where I can find the priest?”

  The man switched the roll of Romex to his left hand and extended his right. “I’m Father Józef Augustyniak Kowalkowski.”

  Gale look confused as she shook his hand.

  “Everyone just calls me Father Jak,” he smiled.

  “I’m sorry, I thought you were an electrician,” Gale said, while Larsen introduced himself.

  “I am today.” He smiled. “I’m also a groundskeeper, plasterer, painter, small animal vet, and airplane mechanic.”

  “Wow,” Gale said. “A real renaissance man.”

  “Well, I made up the part about being an airplane mechanic.” He laughed. “Anyhow, what did you want to know about my predecessors?”

  “Have you ever heard of Padre Romero, he would have been here – ”

  “1818 to 1851,” Father Jak finished. “Yes, he was one of our longest serving priests. A great man. Why your interest?”

  Gale looked at Larsen and then down to the car where Harmer was on her second cigarette. Returning her gaze to the friendly priest, she asked the dangerous question, as calmly as she could since time was short. “Have you ever heard of a man named Clastier?”

  Father Jak’s face registered surprise. He stared at Gale, speechless for a moment, and then handed the Romex to Larsen in order to free his hands. After digging a ring of keys from his pocket and looking over his shoulder, he simply said, “We better go inside.”

  Chapter 26

  Nanski was not shocked to see Gale Asher enter the church with the priest. Nor were the goons parked by the road entirely unexpected; he assumed they belonged to Booker. The surprise was that Larsen Fretwell was alive. How had that information not filtered back to him? The FBI, and therefore Attorney General Dover, must have known. Why keep that a secret? It didn’t matter now; Nanski had been granted a gift from God. He would not miss this opportunity.

  Being outnumbered was a minor problem. If only Leary were there. But, this was clearly divine intervention, and his faith was renewed. Over the last two centuries, a haphazard collection of houses, sheds, and barns had grown up around the church building. He’d been waiting in a nearby vacant barn for a couple of hours; not sure if anyone would show. He could see the car where Kruse and Harmer waited; they did not appear to be expecting trouble. Nightfall was approaching, and although that would be a better time to make his move, he couldn’t risk their leaving.

  He’d watched Father Jak, working on an electrical box, for more than an hour. Several times the priest had gone in and out of the back door; it wasn’t locked. Getting to the old church, without being seen, would be little tricky, but doable. Nanski checked his Ruger Mark III semi-automatic pistol, and shoved an extra ten-round magazine into his back pocket. His plan was to shoot Asher, Fretwell, and the priest; if necessary, then wait for Booker’s crew to blitz. He’d kill them, too.

  Gale, Larsen, and Father Jak stood inside the nave of the Church, smaller than it appeared from the outside. Only the white plastered walls and high ceiling, supported by vigas, helped expand the space. “Do you understand that the man you are speaking of never lived?” Father Jak asked.

  “I didn’t think priests were allowed to lie?”

  He smiled and nodded. “It is true, but also a lie.”

  “But, you know of him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me about him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “It is not my story to tell.”

  Gale let out an exasperated sigh and walked toward the altar. The religious images everywhere seemed entirely hypocritical to her now.

  Larsen told Father Jak that he was an archaeologist and Gale was a writer for National Geographic. The priest did not seem interested. He had been preoccupied ever since Gale first said Clastier’s name; as if it wer
e a secret known only to him, and no one had ever said it before.

  “We need your help,” Gale said.

  “I am at your service,” the priest smiled.

  “Then please, tell us about Clastier,” she said, recalling the same silly game with the historian at the San Francisco de Asís Church. “You know something that can help us and you say you will not.”

  His expression turned serious, and he did not speak for a full minute, while he stared at the ceiling.

  “How is it that you knew to come here?” he finally asked.

  “Clastier knew Padre –”

  “Please,” Father Jak interrupted. “Consider your answer carefully. How is it you knew to come here?” he repeated.

  Gale looked at Larson, who shrugged his shoulders. He was lost in this game of religious charades. Her answer was the same; she knew Clastier and Padre Romero were friends. She was about to say that, when she suddenly thought of how she knew that – from Teresa and Flora’s letters.

  “Flora sent me,” she said, looking the priest in the eyes.

  He breathed in deeply, nodding; the slightest smile appeared. “Please, come this way.”

  Nanski, waiting as long as he dared, finally began to inch his way toward the back door. In a frighteningly bit of bad timing, his phone vibrated. He crouched behind shrubbery, and checked the number; Pisano again. It wasn’t the first call; since Nanski had hung up on him. Pisano, furious that Nanski hadn’t gone to Mexico as ordered, had phoned repeatedly. As with the others, he ignored the call.

  Now, past the area where Booker’s people might have been able to see him; Nanski slipped into the shadows behind the church, with his gun ready. His phone buzzed again. Glancing at it, he saw this time Pisano was texting. “FBI in Taos. Barbeau went to Pueblo, San Francisco de Asís, and Chimayó.”

  “Barbeau at Chimayó could be a big problem,” Nanski thought. “It’s only about half an hour from here, and if Asher figured out the connection to Las Trampas, maybe Barbeau could.”