by John Sneeden
He leaned forward and double-clicked on the account, which he assumed was owned by someone on the Operation Green Beacon team. The name had been blacked out to protect their identity.
Strangely, there were only twenty or so emails in the Inbox. That alone was a red flag. Who kept their Inbox that clean? As he examined the subject lines, he realized that most, if not all, of the messages were spam. An advertisement for cheap sexual performance pills, another peddling a scheme to make a thousand dollars a day working out of your home.
The absence of any meaningful emails did seem a bit suspicious, but was that the only reason it had been flagged? Was there something else? And then it hit him. How could he have forgotten Sweeper’s most important feature? Grimes used his cursor to access a drop-down menu at the top of the screen. He looked at the various choices and selected Highlight Suspect Items. A flash of red appeared immediately on the left side of the screen.
The draft folder.
When he opened it up, there was one email. He double-clicked on it. Empty.
Grimes smiled. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book, and still one of the most effective. It was a way of communicating without having to send messages across the Internet, where they could be snatched up by law enforcement or the intelligence community. Instead, two or more parties would establish an email account. All parties would have the login information and could access the account from anywhere in the world. If one member of the group wanted to communicate something, he or she would login and create an email. Then, instead of sending it, they would simply save the email into the draft folder. That allowed others to sign in and read the same message at their convenience. Once the message was read by all parties, it would be deleted.
So Sweeper had found the suspicious email in the draft folder, but that didn’t necessarily mean there was malevolent intent. Every day thousands of people across the planet started emails only to be interrupted before they could actually send the message.
So how should he proceed? Grimes tapped his teeth with a pen, sifting through ideas like a data processor.
Bingo.
Grimes opened the Sweeper drop-down menu again, asking it to search for the IP addresses of those accessing the account. About a minute later, several addresses displayed on the screen. He clicked on the first one and noted the geographic location. It was a medium-sized city in the United States, probably the location of the mission team operative. Nothing unusual about that, at least not on the surface.
Grimes then clicked on the second IP address. As he read the information, he frowned. Why would someone be accessing the account from there? Needing more information about the location, Grimes toggled over to Google Maps and entered the specific address. When the pertinent information came up, the blood rushed from his face. He could scarcely believe what he was reading.
His heart pounding, Grimes snatched up a headset, securing it over both ears. Then he accessed a secure line via his computer.
After two rings, a female voice spoke in his headphones. “Central Intelligence Agency. Secure Line Operator. How may I direct your call?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE ORACLE SENT a text and then leaned back in his chair, letting out a deep sigh. “Keiko, be glad you’re not married.”
The humanoid looked up from her chair in the corner of the office. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“Unfortunately there is,” he said, tossing his phone onto a pile of folders on his desk. “It’s Helen’s birthday—”
“Her birthday is not until Friday,” Keiko said. “She was born in—”
The Oracle held up a hand. “I know, I know, Keiko. That’s not what’s important here. We were going to celebrate it tonight, and she’s not happy about my plans.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently the grand opening gala for the new Mars wing of the Air and Space Museum isn’t good enough for her.”
Keiko tilted her head. “You were going to tour the new wing of the museum on her birthday.”
“Look, it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s one of those fancy schmancy gala dinners with champagne, gerbil food, classical music… all those things she says she loves. Only apparently now she doesn’t!” He lifted his hands in the air.
“Sir, might I suggest—”
“Any other time she would’ve been elated. It’s her kind of thing. I’m telling you, the only time Helen doesn’t want to go to one of these events is when I plan it. The woman is insufferable!”
“I think—”
“In fact, I can’t tell you how many times she’s complained that we don’t do the DC social circuit. No cocktail parties, she says. No summer concerts at the art gallery, she says.” He glared at the phone, as if somehow Helen were still there on the other end. “I’ll never understand women, Keiko.”
Keiko blinked twice and said, “Sir, if you’re willing, I’d be happy to help you with the arrangements.”
“You know, if she had only told me…” He looked up at Keiko. “I’m sorry?”
“I’d love to help you arrange your date with Mrs. Ross. Brett gave me some special programming for this type of thing.”
“Foster did what?”
“He programmed me with information regarding the psychological motivations of both men and women, and more specifically how they apply to dating in the modern world.”
The Oracle lifted an eyebrow. “He asked you to do that, did he?”
“Yes, sir. He also asked me to download a database of restaurants and a calendar of special events in the DC area.”
“I’ll have to speak to him about this when he gets back.” Ross leaned forward and placed his arms on the desk. “So you really think you can help me?”
“I know I can, sir. I can run a diagnostic report on your wife that will help me determine the ideal place for you to take her. Brett had me run the same report on Ms. Amanda Higgs.” The Oracle’s eyes narrowed. Keiko looked at him for a moment then continued. “I can change a few parameters to correspond with your wife’s—”
A loud buzz sounded from a speaker on the Oracle’s desk. “Sir?”
The Oracle leaned forward. “Yes, Kristine.”
“I have Lieutenant General Charles McFadden on the line, sir. He says it’s urgent.”
McFadden. What could the Director of the DIA want? Delphi rarely worked with that arm of intelligence. In fact, he only remembered speaking to McFadden on two occasions, both social events. This couldn’t be good news.
“Okay, I’ll take it,” the Oracle said. He mashed a lighted button on his phone. “This is Ross.”
A deep voice boomed out of the speaker. “Ross, this is Director McFadden.”
“Good morning.” Ross leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.
“Thank you. It was a good morning… until about ten minutes ago.”
The Oracle frowned.
McFadden continued. “I’m afraid we’ve uncovered something requiring our immediate attention. What can you tell me about Operation Green Beacon?”
Why was he asking about Green Beacon? Ross wasn’t concerned that McFadden was aware of their operation in Brazil—after all, the director was one of a few select individuals who knew about the existence of Delphi. But he was concerned about why he wanted to know.
The Oracle leaned forward and put his arms on the desk. “We’re performing covert due diligence. I can give you more detail if you need it, but in essence, we are following up on a signal that was broadcast from the Amazon basin.”
“A signal?” McFadden sounded concerned. “Does this involve the Brazilian military?”
“No. We’re attempting to locate the source of a strange audio transmission that was initiated in the Amazon basin,” the Oracle said. “The CliffsNotes version is that we feel there could be advanced technology involved.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “It’s even a little more bizarre than that. But I’m not sure how much information you need.”
“Le
t me tell you what we’ve discovered, and then we can decide if we need to discuss the operation further.” McFadden cleared his throat. “Ross, I don’t know any other way to put this, but it appears your operation has a mole.”
The blood rushed out of the Oracle’s face. “A mole? There must be some mistake.” His mind shuffled through the names and faces of those involved, lingering on a couple who jumped out as suspects.
“I wish there were.”
“Who is it?”
McFadden gave him the name of the mole and who that person had been in contact with.
The Oracle’s heart pounded. It seemed unthinkable that he could be responsible for this kind of betrayal. The entire mission was now at risk. In fact, unless they could figure something out, it was likely they’d have to abort.
“Who’s your man in charge?” McFadden asked.
“Zane Watson.” The Oracle put his glasses on the desk and rubbed his temples.
“I’m assuming you have a way of contacting him. I think the three of us should probably discuss how to proceed from here.”
The Oracle opened a drawer and retrieved a satellite phone. “I’ll conference him in right now, General.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ZANE AWAKENED SLOWLY. The acetaminophen was wearing off, and his head was throbbing again. He could tell that he was lying in a hammock, and he could hear the crackle of a fire close by. He tried to force himself back to sleep, but the pain wouldn’t let him.
Suddenly, he detected the odor of tobacco. “How is the head?”
Jorge.
Zane opened one eye. The Brazilian sat a few feet away, smoking a cigar.
“Not good.” Zane groaned and adjusted his position in the hammock. “When did you put me in a hammock?”
“Before going to sleep you complained of nausea. Dr. Mills was scared that if you were on the ground you might roll onto your stomach, vomit in your sleep, and choke. My job is to make sure you stay on your side.”
“So I guess you drew the short straw.”
Jorge looked at him. “Short straw?”
“It’s an expression,” Zane said as he adjusted the rolled-up shirt someone had placed under his head. “It means you got picked to sit here until I woke up.”
Jorge laughed. “I don’t mind watching you.” He looked back at the fire. “This is perfect, actually. It’s given me time to think.”
“Glad your mind is functioning. Not even sure I know my own name.”
Realizing sleep was no longer an option, Zane tossed aside the mosquito netting then turned and put his feet on the ground. After easing out of the hammock, he took a few ginger steps and sat down near the fire.
“Easy, amigo,” the Brazilian said, watching him with a wary eye.
“I’m fine.” Zane eased back against a tree.
“I’ll get you some water.” The Brazilian stood, walked over to a tent, and ducked inside.
While he was gone, Zane looked around. They had made camp in a natural clearing in the forest. Along the perimeter of the clearing were some of the largest trees he’d ever seen. They reminded him of the redwoods in the Sierra Nevada, only these might be even larger. The whole scene looks prehistoric, he thought.
Something moved on the far side of camp. Turning, Zane saw Bennett walking patrol along the perimeter. The soldier gripped his rifle tightly as he stared out into the maze of giant trunks.
Closer in, Zane saw Katiya, Amanda, and Max sitting on a log, discussing something in low whispers. A second fire burned there.
“Here you are,” the Brazilian said, offering him a canteen.
Zane took it and unscrewed the cap. “Thank you.” He took a swig then said, “I guess we were wrong.”
Jorge frowned and pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “Wrong? Wrong about what?”
“You and I both thought there were two groups out there.” He took another swig of water. “The Chinese and the one or two men who’ve been following us through the jungle. I think it’s obvious now that they’re one and the same.”
Jorge’s brow furrowed. “Why do you assume that?”
“It’s pretty simple, actually. Just before we arrived at the crater rim, I heard someone slipping around through the woods, probably the same person or persons you saw. Then an hour later, we’re hit with gunfire from the ridge.” Zane looked at Jorge, trying to see if there was understanding in the Brazilian’s eyes. “Don’t you see? Those were scouts sent out to gather information. They reported that we were in a vulnerable position, and an attack was organized.”
“If you say so,” Jorge said, taking another draw on his cigar.
Zane frowned. “You don’t think that’s what happened?”
“No, I don’t. First of all, the one following us was a man of the jungle, someone who knows this place as well or better than I do. I’ve been tracking animals and people for many years, and this man was as good as I’ve ever seen, assuming there is only one. He was a shadow in the trees, always able to stay just beyond my senses.” He looked at Zane. “No offense, but if this were some Chinese soldier slipping around in the woods, even your Green Berets would’ve known it.”
Zane shrugged. “And yet, you and I both knew he was there.”
“You’re right, he got a little sloppy.” Jorge stroked his mustache with two fingers. “At first he watched us from a distance, and I doubt it took him very long to realize that most in our group had no clue what was going on around them. So he came closer and watched some more. At that point, he made a costly mistake. Instead of remaining cautious, he assumed that we were all new to the jungle. He didn’t realize that some of us could detect him if he wasn’t careful.”
“You and me,” Zane said.
“And the boy, Osak.”
Zane frowned. “But what about this afternoon? I heard him clearly. That doesn’t sound like a jungle genius.”
“As I said, he became sloppy, arrogant even. He could probably see you’d become separated from the others. My guess is he thought it strange you were talking into something and wanted a closer look.” He shrugged. “Even the best make mistakes if they underestimate their prey.”
“Then how did the Chinese get called in so fast?”
“They weren’t called in. Their source—this mole—probably told them we were headed toward the crater rim, and they simply set up in the woods there. They probably figured they’d wait until we were at the bottom then take us all out at one time.”
Zane rubbed the tender place on his head as he sorted through everything he’d just heard. Finally, he asked, “So who was the man in the woods? Surely you have some idea.”
There was a long moment of silence. Jorge stared at the fire and took a couple of draws on his cigar before speaking. “I’ve been trying to push the thought away for some time, but I can’t anymore. I believe whoever is following us belongs to a hostile tribe.”
Zane sat up straight. “What a minute. You assured us that all of the resident tribes were harmless. That’s what I’ve communicated to our team from day one.”
Jorge looked at Zane. “Everything I told you and your people was true. The tribes in this region generally don’t pose any threat to outsiders.” Jorge stared intensely at the fire, a look of deep concern spreading across his face. It was the first time Zane had seen him display anything approaching fear. Finally, the Brazilian continued. “There is a legend… I’ve only heard it a few times… that speaks of a band of male Indians. They’re almost never seen, but those who have seen them speak of their frightening appearance. Their bodies are said to be painted entirely black, except for white rings around their eyes. Some say that their teeth are carved to points like vampiros.”
“Vampires,” Zane said with a frown.
“These men are said to sneak into villages like phantoms. They’re able to move past sentries and into the tents of women. They have their way with them then slip out again.”
“Why don’t the women raise the alarm?”
�
��When they wake up, there is a knife against their throat. Not only that, but when they look into those eyes and see the teeth, they are frozen with fear.” The Brazilian picked up a stick and held it into the flames, lighting its tip. “It is said that if the bastard child is a male, the hostile tribe will return later to take him as one of their own.”
“And what are these hostiles called?”
“The Dawanis.” The Brazilian’s gaze moved around the camp as if even the mention of the word might cause one of them to appear.
“Never heard of them.”
“If the stories are to be believed, they are also known for randomly killing many of the indigenous people. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. They are said to have the ability to mimic voices, luring them out into the jungle.”
“Sirens,” Zane said. “So why random killings?”
“To project fear. They’re wanderers, so my guess is it helps them maintain control over the people throughout their range. Sometimes they even place the heads of their victims just outside the village.”
Zane’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve always wondered if the stories of headhunters were true.”
“While not common, I can assure you they’re very much real.” Jorge tossed the remainder of his cigar in the fire.
After a long pause, Zane asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
“Because there are many legends associated with the jungle. Some are just that—legends. But many of the stories are true. And if I told you everything I know, you’d have nightmares of shrunken heads and evil spirits.” Jorge gave a little laugh.
He had a point. Zane had heard many jungle legends, and it would have been foolish to try to warn the team of every potential threat. Now that he thought about it, tourist groups traveled safely through this region all the time, and the only threats they faced were from nature—venomous snakes, poisonous frogs, jaguars, electric eels, piranha.
“So you believe we’re being followed by one or more men from this tribe?” Zane asked.
