It was still a weak train of thought, he couldn’t help but think. Clutching at a lot of straws, making a lot of suppositions and guesses- what if the mask had nothing to do with the 33rd Degree? For all any of them knew, the Freemasons knew nothing about it. And if that was the case, then all that Tesla took was nothing but arcane secrets linking back to the esoteric past of the brotherhood.
“You said you needed my help,” he remembered suddenly.
“Tesla died in 1943, alone and broke in a New York hotel room,” King explained. “Because of the dangerous nature of his work, after his death all of his work and property was impounded by the FBI and the O.S.S.” The Office of Strategic Services was the predecessor of the CIA, Langley knew. “Supposedly there were two truckloads of papers taken away and branded ‘Top Secret’ by J. Edgar Hoover himself. Eventually Tesla’s nephew won possession of the materiel but conspiracy theorists, and anyone with a dash of reality, believe that all of the most sensitive and valuable stuff was kept by the O.S.S.”
“We believe that somewhere in that materiel is the location of the mask,” Nadia concluded, “if not the mask itself.”
Langley heard a warning bell ring in his head. His earlier concerns about the true nature of the U.S.’s involvement in this crisis came rushing back to him. Had one piece of the mask been right under their nose the whole time? And if so, did anyone else know about it?
“I’ll speak to my contact in the CIA,” he replied half-heartedly, “see if I can get us access to at least some of the files. But it won’t be easy, and it will take time. If the only evidence we’ve got that they kept hold of some of Tesla’s research back in the forties is nothing more than conspiracy theories then it’s going to be tough just getting them to admit it. In the meantime, I think we should be pursuing other avenues. Where are we on the other missing piece of the mask?”
The downcast looks of all three scientists confirmed his fears. King answered. “We’ve got nothing.”
Langley offered them an encouraging smile, despite feeling anything but encouraged. “Come on. You’ve got this far, you’ve found the other missing pieces and a possible trail for the Bouda mask. Surely you’ve got something.”
“That’s just the thing. We have no trails to follow, no leads, no clues. I don’t even know where to start looking. I thought that once we’d found the Egyptian and Easter Island mask, then it would just be a case of tracking down the Bouda mask which Pryce stole. But there’s nothing mentioned in the Kernewek diary. As far as I can tell, Kha’um assumed that other than the piece Pryce stole, the Xibalba mask was the final piece of the puzzle.”
“We’ve been going through books and searching the web for any reference to magical masks,” Sid added, placing a hand on King’s shoulder. Langley could see how exhausted he was. More than anyone, King felt a responsibility to find the mask, though it went beyond his desire to keep it out of unfriendly hands. It was an obsession, Langley knew. One which had driven his father to his death. “The truth is that there are so many legends and myths that there’s no starting place-”
“I’ll find it,” King cut in with sudden determination. “It’s out there somewhere, and I’ll find it.”
Langley studied the screen for several long moments. “Okay, keep on it Ben. If what you say about Tesla’s research is true then at least the Bouda piece is safe for the time being. The final piece is the wild card. It’s out there, somewhere, and you’re not the only one looking for it now.”
King nodded and after brisk, to-the-point farewells, Langley cut the video feed and leaned back in his chair, mulling over in his mind everything he had just learned.
He closed his eyes and felt the tantalising fingers of sleep clawing at his consciousness. For a moment he considered letting it embrace him but then the intercom on his desk beeped. He pressed the speaker button and his assistant, Kelly’s, voice came through it.
“Ambassador?” She sounded more tentative than normal. “I found the contact details for Doctor Emmett Braun, the doctor who diagnosed Karen Weingarten.”
“Thank you Kelly. Send it to my screen.”
There was a pause. “Um, sir . . . Doctor Braun was killed in a road accident nine days ago.”
Langley threw himself upright and stared at the speaker phone as though it had just sprouted legs and done a little dance. His words to King echoed in his mind. ‘At least the Bouda piece is safe for the time being.’
He was beginning to think that his statement couldn’t have been further from the truth.
44:
Out of the Ashes
Ocean Avenue,
60 Miles South of New York City, USA
Alexander Langley drove the black SUV down the coastal road. To the left waves broke against the rocky shoreline while to the right the sun sank lower in the sky, casting long shadows from the trees which hemmed him in. The built in sat-nav glowed dully from the centre console, its muted screen taking up the position ordinarily occupied by a stereo system. Open on the passenger seat, wirelessly connected to the internet, his laptop continued its search through classified government files but he fancied that he already had what he needed.
Sitting dauntingly on his desktop was an encrypted folder. The data-tag read ‘Phoenix’ and, whatever it contained, was large, and very highly protected. Despite being a member of the president’s cabinet, a representative of the U.N. Security Council and a retired SOG field commander, none of his security clearance allowed him access to it. In fact, after trying for the third time, a stark warning had told him that his failed attempt to access the classified file had been logged and that any further attempts would be a breach of federal law.
Coincidentally, Jack Harman had been tied up in meetings all day and unable to take his numerous calls. In fact, no one high up enough in the CIA to help had been available all afternoon, which in itself was odd considering he was the appointed commander of an international U.N. mission of vital national, and even international security, and in direct command of a CIA Special Operations Group team.
Getting nowhere with the file he’d promised King he’d look into, he’d shifted his attention on to the death of Doctor Emmett Braun but had fared little better there. He’d found reports in online newspapers about the tragic death of a renowned scientist but he’d been surprised to discover that Braun’s speciality wasn’t in tropical diseases, as he had suspected. Instead, he was an eminent specialist of radiation related illnesses. He’d produced a number of treatments for radiation poisoning and had been instrumental in developing detection methods and classifications of different types of radiation and their varying effects. He had been involved with most of the major radiation-related accidents of the last quarter century, most notably Chernobyl and Fukushima. Yet, strangely, he had been brought in to identify a supposedly ‘tropical disease’ picked up by an archaeologist in the middle of Venezuela.
It was all the proof Langley needed. The U.S. had known about the tachyon radiation right from day one. Unsurprisingly, Braun’s reports had been classified, as had all the medical data gathered at John Hopkins hospital, above his clearance level.
The hands-free speaker phone system continued the shrill dial tone but this time he’d shifted track. With all his attempts to reach Harman or anyone else in the CIA either gone unanswered or been rebuked by surly receptionists with a mightier-than-thou attitude, he’d instead tried a totally different number.
“Hello?” a female voice answered casually. Langley could hear children in the background, the sounds of meat sizzling in a pan and the clatter of pots.
“Jenny? It’s Alex.”
“Alex? Hi, how are you?”
The number he’d dialled was the cell phone of Jennifer Harman, Jack’s wife, and Langley instantly felt a pang of guilt for using his friendship with the family to get through to the CIA chief.
“Oh, not too bad, not too bad,” he said as breezily as he could. “Listen Jenny, I don’t mean to be rude but I�
��ve been desperately trying to get through to Jack all afternoon but I think he’s cell phone must be off. You know what he’s like,” he laughed. “Is he there?”
“Yeah, sure,” Jenny replied happily. “I’ll just put him on.”
Got you! Langley thought triumphantly. As he had expected there was a muffled pause as Jenny told her husband who was on the phone and admitted that she’d told him he was there. After a lengthy wait during which Langley could picture his friend’s reaction, Jack Harman’s voice echoed through the tinny speakers of the SUV.
“Hello Alex.”
Langley couldn’t help but smile. He heard the reticence in the other man’s voice.
“Jack, you’re a hard man to reach.”
“I’ve been in meetings all day.”
“So I’ve been told. It seems that just about anybody who’s anybody in the Agency has been in meetings all day. In fact, your secretary just told me about five minutes ago that you were still in a meeting and would be unreachable for hours.”
“I managed to slip away early. A bit of family time. I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh sure, sure.” He followed the curve of the road to the right, leading him away from the coast. “I was just starting to feel a little neglected. I must have left a dozen messages on your answer phone.”
Harman cracked. They both knew they were wasting one another’s time playing this game. Harman had been avoiding his calls, simple as that. “What do you want, Alex?”
Any fake levity evaporated from Langley’s voice too. “I want Phoenix.”
The pause was a little longer than it should have been, confirming Harman’s knowledge. “Never heard of it.”
“Really? I’m looking at the encrypted file on my laptop right now. It was buried deep in the agency’s archives-”
“Becky, go help your Mom,” Harman said unexpectedly. Becky was Jack and Jenny’s eldest. “Because I told you to! Just do it!” Then all his attention was back on Langley. “Alex, I’m your friend so I’m going to give you a bit of friendly advice. Stay away from Phoenix.”
“You know I can’t do that Jack. Phoenix has information relating to the Moon Mask. All I need is access-”
“You think I can give you access?” Harman laughed. “I don’t even have access.”
“You’re the Director of Intelligence at the CIA-”
“I know that Alex, but even my clearance has limits.”
That was astonishing. The upper echelons of the CIA were made up of the directors of Intelligence, Science & Technology, Support, the Centre for the Study of Intelligence and the National Clandestine Service. These five directors reported to the Associate Deputy Director, the Deputy Director and the Director himself. For someone of Harman’s level to be denied access to anything in the CIA meant that it was one of the most closely guarded secrets in America.
“But you know the file exists,” Langley accused. “So you must know something about it.”
“All I know is that whatever it contains, it is dangerous. And by trying to access it you’ve dropped yourself smack bang in the middle of that danger.”
“I’m willing to take that chance Jack.”
“Well I’m not.” Langley knew what his friend was saying. He’d been ordered not to speak to Langley and he knew that, by showing an interest in whatever Phoenix was, all the eyes and the ears of the CIA would be watching him. Most likely this phone call was being recorded and if Harman gave away anything he’d be thrusting himself and his family into whatever danger he’d implied existed.
“I understand,” Langley said. “Sorry for interrupting your evening.”
Just as he went to hang up, Harman interrupted. “Alex,” he said nervously. “Be careful.”
Sea Girt,
New Jersey, USA
Forty-five minutes later, Alex Langley walked up to the porch of the Braun residence and knocked twice.
Situated right on the rocky coastline with its own jetty, moored to the end of which was a ramshackle small blue and white motorboat, the house was in generally good shape but could have used a lick of paint and a tidy-up in the yard. Most of the houses in Sea Girt, just over a hundred miles south of New York City, were of a similar style. It was a place, Langley guessed, where the middle-class liked to retire; a sort of poor-man’s posh neighbourhood filled with dentists, plastic surgeons, retired car sales men and medium-level entrepreneurs.
After a lengthy wait, he at last heard the sounds of keys turning and then the door creaked open. A small lady peered out at him and despite her advanced years- she had to be pushing ninety- she glared at him without any sense of intimidation.
“What do you want?” she demanded in a strong southern drawl that was somehow out of keeping with her frail appearance.
“Missus Braun? My name is Alex Langley. I work for the United Nations. I’m sorry for your loss, but I was hoping I might be able to ask you some questions about your husband-”
“I already answered all your questions,” she replied defensively. “I ain’t got nothin’ more to say to you suits.”
“Suits?”
“That’s right. You lot, in your fancy suits, coming around here terrorising poor Emmett all of his life. And what’s he get for his troubles? Knocked off. Is that what you’re here for? To finish me off too?”
Langley tried to hide the quiet bemusement that twitched the corners of his mouth. “I assure you Missus Braun. I’m not here to ‘knock’ anyone off.”
She looked him up and down, her eyes sharp and calculating. They lingered for a moment on the five-o’clock shadow around his lower jaw and his tired eyes. “You do seem different to the others. Alright, you got five minutes. Come on in.”
She thrust the door wide open and then descended into the long corridor leaving Langley to let himself in. He followed her into living room where she had crashed onto a threadbare green and red floral sofa. Langley scanned the room, noting the antiquated television set in the corner standing in stark contrast to the ultra-modern-looking computer which seemed out of place in an otherwise typical old-person’s-home. Scattered amongst shelves full of trinkets- bells, ceramic eggs, shoes and Russian dolls- were dozens of photos depicting what he supposed were the same two people. Some were old, sepia, and portrayed a young man and woman, both handsome in their day, but as the photographs got newer, the couple grew older.
He picked one up. “Is this your husband?”
“The clocks-a-ticking, Langley. You’ve got four minutes left.”
This was no soft, reminiscing granny he was talking to but a harsh, sharp witted woman whom he was sure could hold her own in the UN Council chamber. He discarded the pleasantries and got straight to the point.
“Did your husband ever talk about his work?”
“My husband was a patriot Mister Langley. A patriot until the day he died. If he was ordered not to talk about his work, even to me, then he wouldn’t so much as utter a word.” She shrugged. “Not consciously at least.”
“Not consciously? What do you mean?”
“Emmett had dreams- nightmares really. Or night terrors.” Her face turned hard again. “Whatever you people had him involved in, it haunted him all his life. When he was asleep, he’d cry out, calling names, screaming and babbling incoherently. Get them out!” she screamed suddenly, startling Langley with her impression. “Get them out! He’d scream over and over again.”
“When did these dreams start?” Langley asked. “I know he was at Chernobyl. Was it after that?”
The old woman laughed with a bitter twist of melancholy. “Do you want to know why Emmett went into medicine? Why he spent his entire life studying the effects that radiation has on the human body and trying to find ways to treat it?”
Langley felt like saying ‘not if it eats into my four minutes’ but kept his mouth shut. The old lady’s change in topical direction might reveal something.
“Emmett wasn’t interested in science, or nucle
ar power . . . and certainly not war. All that he cared about was his duty. His duty to me, his wife. His duty to his country. But most importantly, he cared about his duty to his race, to humanity. That is a duty that goes beyond national boundaries, beyond flags. That’s why he was at Chernobyl. That is why, even as a very old man, retired, he was at Fukashima. That is why, at the age of almost ninety, he went with those men in suits almost two weeks ago, and he never returned.” Her voice began to crack, raw emotion threatening to weaken her hard resolve. “Now I am become death; the destroyer of worlds,” she whispered.
The words hit Langley. The very same worlds had been going through his head since the tachyon threat fell in his lap.
“Robert Oppenheimer said those words, referring to his thoughts when they detonated the first atom-bomb,” she explained needlessly. Langley knew the words, originally spoken by Vishnu in Hindu scripture, very well. “Emmett used to quote them whenever he heard of another nuclear accident. He knew right from the beginning that those horrible weapons brought about far more death and horror than just the initial blast. And then they started building nuclear power stations!” The vehemence died away into melancholy again and Langley could see that she was on an emotional rollercoaster, one minute high and angry and hard as nails, the next small and weak and longing to be reunited with her lost love.
“He told me once,” she continued, “that in cracking the atom mankind had released the ultimate evil upon itself and that, after all he had seen, it was his responsibility, his duty, to battle it. Everywhere that people were dying and suffering because of radiation, Emmett went, always questing to ease their suffering, always hoping that what he learned this time would save people the next time.” She gestured her head sharply at the computer in the corner. “He used to sit on that infernal thing for days on end, even after he’d retired, even when he became an old, old man. He never gave up. He never forgot his duty.”
Moon Mask Page 47
