by Bob Mayer
Conner had already gotten enough footage for a good minute-and-a-half spot, but she still followed the police wagon down to the station, where Devlin and his partners were booked for unlawful trespass. She was impressed with the efficiency of the Our Earth organization as the men were bailed out in almost record speed.
Devlin was coming out of the courtroom, still clad in his filthy overalls, when he spotted her standing by the door. He walked over to her and smiled. “The news lady. Channel 4. How much time do we get tonight? Thirty seconds?”
Conner looked up at his grime-streaked face and decided he was worth more than a perfunctory two-to-three-minute chat. She already knew some background and hoped to coax more from him. Randall Simpson Devlin was almost more of a story than the group to which he gave all of his time and the majority of his money. And money was the key to Devlin—his family was loaded, thanks to a hardworking great-grandfather, good family marriages, and efficient tax attorneys.
She knew from her research that Devlin’s childhood had been spent in East Coast mansions surrounded by the best primary caretakers money could buy. His first toy car was large enough for him to ride in; his first pet was a pony. His father had hoped he would enter the family business after the Choate-Ivy League route, but Devlin at eighteen had turned away from his family’s money and connections to make it on his own. Conner’s theory was that in Our Earth he had found a way to assuage his guilt and thereby enjoy the fruits of his ancestor’s labor.
Standing there outside the police station, Conner was impressed that he both knew who she was and had spotted her at the plant. She wanted to know more. There was a great story standing in front of her and she meant to get it. “No, sixty seconds. But I can make it ninety if you let me buy you a drink and then talk to me.”
She wasn’t sure why she had asked him out for the drink. It just seemed like the right thing to do. It was far more than the story. The facts that Devlin was attractive, rich, and would be gone from the city in the morning and out of her life were very enticing.
Devlin smiled at her. “I’m not exactly dressed to go out. How about we go back to my hotel while I get changed. I’ll take that drink and talk when I’m clean.”
Conner was not surprised when the cab dropped them off at the most expensive hotel in downtown Chicago. Devlin smiled at her look, as though he expected some comment about his extravagance. “I figure four hours in that filth is worth this, wouldn’t you agree? As a friend of my father’s used to say—’never complain, never explain.’“
Conner smiled back. “Henry Ford.”
Devlin seemed slightly surprised. His eyes lingered on her face. “You’re no dumb mouthpiece, are you?”
“No, Mr. Devlin, I’m no dummy.”
Devlin remained silent until they were in his suite. He showed her where to make the drinks and left to take the much needed shower. Conner was flipping through a thumbed copy of short stories when he returned to the living room wearing loose khaki pants and a tight polo shirt. He looked very good with all the gunk removed. His blond hair was just beginning to thin but was a nice contrast to his blue eyes. He had a muscular body. Conner was swift to note that it was his natural build and not one he worked on. He had the beginnings of that soft look that comes from an easy life and middling ambition.
She held up the book. “Fitzgerald. So, Mr. Devlin. Is it true? Are the rich really different from me and you? Or should I say me?”
He shot her another dazzling smile and pulled her into his arms. She felt him grow hard beneath the pants. “No, not at all. I’d say the rich aren’t very different. The main luxury is more time to think about things.”
Conner pulled away and sat down on one of the overstuffed damask sofas. “The rich seem to skip a lot of preliminaries.”
Devlin sat across from her and picked up the drink she’d made for him. She noticed the manicured nails before she noticed how fine the hands were. “I’m sorry, Conner. May I call you Conner? I hope I didn’t seem rude, but you are an incredibly beautiful woman and well read on top of that. I guess I got carried away.”
Conner nodded an acceptance to his apology and pulled out a notebook. “Devlin—may I call you Devlin? Or do your friends use your first name?”
He showed a set of perfect teeth. “Devlin is fine.”
“So, Devlin. Tell me about a life of environmental activism after a youth of unparalleled luxury.”
Devlin leaned back, crossing his legs and putting both arms on the back of the sofa. He looked for all the world like the scion of a wealthy family. “The hounds of the press appear to skip a lot of the preliminaries also.”
“I’ve always found a good interview to be an excellent preliminary,” Conner remarked, her eyes meeting his.
Devlin talked for a long time.
Later, when they were lying in a tangle of linen on his king-size bed, he asked her about her newscast that night. She looked down at him, pushing aside the tendrils of dark hair that had fallen across her eyes, and informed him that if she didn’t show up at the station on time they knew she was on a story.
Devlin wrapped his hands around her thin waist, looked up at her, and replied: “Well, I’d definitely say you’re on a story now.”
At the time, Conner had found the comment amusing, and she had silently agreed.
The next day a bouquet of roses was waiting on her desk at work. Conner became irritated when her coworkers looked at her curiously, and the whole incident began to seem like a mistake. She knew that the flowers put the burden on her to get in touch with him, but she didn’t. She had her life planned, and a relationship with Devlin—or anyone—would just get in her way.
Conner sometimes wondered if she’d made the right decision, but then came the offer of the job in Atlanta and she’d thought about nothing but work since then—at least until the other day when she’d picked up the phone and called Devlin.
With the click of the computer screen locking upright, Conner banished that memory and went to work to ensure that her future would be as successful as her past.
ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI
26 NOVEMBER 1996
“Come in,” Sammy called out, pressing her back against the far wall of the van and pointing the pistol at the back door. The metal door swung open and a figure was standing there, silhouetted against the parking lot lights.
“Whoa!” The man dropped a duffel bag he’d been carrying and held his hands away from his body. “Take it easy. I’m Riley. Colonel Pike sent me.”
“Come in and shut the door,” Sammy ordered.
Riley threw in his duffel bag and then followed it. With the door swung shut, the inside was almost pitch black. “Could you put down the gun, please?” Riley asked.
Sammy slid the pistol back in the shoulder holster. It had been an anxious four hours waiting here in the dark. She’d started doubting reality in that time, not wanting to believe she’d killed a man earlier this evening. Then she’d started getting paranoid, wondering if even Pike was to be trusted. When she’d called him with parking lot information, the colonel had relayed to her Riley’s name and approximate time of arrival. She’d spent the interim trying to figure out what steps to take next. Although she might be relatively safe for the moment, she knew her sister was heading into something much more dangerous than she expected.
“The colonel told me to keep you safe and not much more,” Riley remarked as he sat down on his duffel bag. “Care to fill me in on what’s going on?”
For the second time that evening Sammy related the events that had occurred since leaving the office supply shop. Riley also had her backtrack a bit and give him all she knew on Eternity Base. When she was done he sat silent for a few moments, then spoke. “We need to get rid of this van and the gun. They’re the two things that can link you to the body.”
Sammy shook her head. “Our first priority is to warn my sister.”
Riley shook his head in turn. “No. At least not through SNN—that’s the most likely source o
f the leak reference Eternity Base. Think about how those places operate. They’ve got more people getting paid off than any South American government. It’s the perfect conduit for intelligence organizations to sink a line to fish for information. If you try getting in touch with her through SNN, you might as well advertise your presence, and from what you told me about your sister, she would probably continue on with the story anyway.”
“Then we catch up with her,” Sammy declared firmly.
“What?” Riley blinked in the dark.
It was the decision she had come to more than an hour ago, and she was determined to follow it through whether Riley agreed or not. “We catch up with her and warn her. You can protect her along with me.” Sammy leaned forward. “The colonel told me not to go to the cops. You’re telling me not to go to SNN. I agree with both of you. Either way we could be putting our heads in the lion’s mouth.”
She continued. “We don’t know who that man worked for, and until we do, we won’t be safe. The only way we’re going to find out who is behind this is by linking up with Conner and helping her find Eternity Base.”
Having said what she’d needed to, Sammy watched Riley in the dim glow from the windshield, waiting to see how he’d react. Pike had only said that Riley was ex-Special Forces and did good work. He was a far cry from the Rambo type so commonly portrayed in films, but Sammy had expected that because her own father had been slight of build and a quiet, thoughtful man.
The one quality Riley had—a quality Sammy noticed in almost every ex-SF man she’d ever met—was a sense of quiet competence and confidence. He looked as though he’d had a rough couple of days, with his growth of beard and his red-rimmed eyes, but then she had no idea what he’d been doing, so that didn’t bother her. Something about him told her that he’d know what to do, and that he’d do it without his ego getting in the way. Underlying that, she also sensed some other deep emotion, but right now she couldn’t put her finger on it. She only hoped that he would be willing to go along with her plan.
“I need to check it with the colonel,” was Riley’s only reply to her words. “Let’s make a call.”
Sammy followed as Riley led the way over to a pay phone in the terminal. She could hear only his side of the conversation and was impressed that Riley gave his boss just the facts with no editorializing. Most men she’d met had seemed to feel that no matter what a woman said, they could think of a better idea.
“He wants to talk to you.” Riley held out the receiver.
“Mike, it’s Sammy.”
The colonel’s voice rumbled in her ear. “You heard what Riley told me?”
“Yes.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“I think it’s the only thing we can do,” she replied.
The colonel chuckled. “You sure have your daddy’s smarts. He was always a good one for coming up with some harebrained scheme. The amazing thing was that they usually worked. I’m alive today because a few of his ideas worked when mine wouldn’t have.
“I can’t order Riley to go with you. I’m going to tell him I’ll pay him double his usual salary, but that won’t mean much to him. If he decides to go, it’ll be because he wants to—not for money. That’s all I can do. If he decides against it, I suggest you two come here to my safe house and I’ll try using some of my contacts to sort out this shit storm. Is that all right?”
Sammy knew it was the best she was going to get. “Yes.”
“All right. Put him back on.”
She handed the phone to Riley; he listened for a few minutes, not saying a word. His eyes continually scanned the airport and the parking area outside.
“Talk to you later, sir.” Riley hung up the phone and then looked at her. “The colonel says your dad was in Special Forces. MACV-SOG. And he’s MIA.”
Sammy nodded.
Riley looked over her shoulder at the deserted ticket counters. “We won’t be able to get our tickets until they open up in a few hours. I say we get some sleep in the van before then. I also need to get rid of the gun. Can’t take it with us.”
Sammy held up her hand. “Tickets to where?”
Riley gave a hard smile. “Antarctica. Where else?”
Chapter 8
INTELLIGENCE SUPPORT AGENCY (ISA), HEADQUARTERS
SOUTHWEST OF WASHINGTON, D.C.
Bob Weaver was a third of the way through his in box when he came upon the encrypted fax from Falcon. He quickly decoded it and then stared at the resulting message for a few seconds before turning to his computer:
Request ID on Antarctic base, code-named Eternity Base.
Established 1971 by army. Investigative team dispatched P.M.
25th to locate Eternity Base.
Falcon 2200Z/11/25/96
Weaver accessed military records and quickly searched the database. After twenty minutes of fruitless effort, he was convinced of one thing: there was no record in the ISA’s classified database of an Eternity Base.
The Intelligence Support Agency was the military’s secret version of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA). Lavishly funded by the Pentagon’s multibillion dollar black budget and accountable to no one but the National Security Council, it had tentacles in every domestic and foreign source of information. The ISA was more than a gathering agency, though. It also acted on the information it received, implementing numerous covert actions both in the United States and overseas in the name of national security.
The ISA had contacts throughout the business world, men and women in critical places who worked with the ISA to forward the interests of the military and, concurrently, the massive industrial complex that supported the military. The ISA was the covert arm of the military-industrial complex that President Eisenhower had so feared, and its power was far greater than even those briefed on its existence dared believe.
Weaver encoded a message and electronically dispatched it to Falcon’s handler, stationed in Atlanta. He had no idea when it would be relayed to Falcon, or even who Falcon was, but that wasn’t his responsibility. He picked up the next piece of paper in his in box and went to work on that.
ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI
The hand on her shoulder woke Sammy out of a deep sleep, and she was momentarily disoriented as she took in her surroundings.
“We’re boarding,” Riley said quietly. His eyes were red rimmed from not having slept at all, either in the van or in the terminal.
Sammy stood up and stretched. She had nothing but her wallet and the rumpled and stained clothes on her back. She’d managed to wash off most of the blood on her shirt and jeans in the airport ladies’ room, and since both garments were dark, what remained wasn’t noticeable.
Riley held out a newspaper and cup of coffee. “Not a thing in here about a body being found, so that’s good.”
Sammy accepted the paper and watched as the herd moved toward the boarding gate. “The colonel said you’d been in Special Forces.”
Riley nodded as he sipped his coffee. “I had almost twenty years in.”
“Officer or enlisted?”
“Enlisted, then warrant officer.”
“Why’d you get out?”
Riley looked at her for a second before replying brusquely. “I retired. Is that OK?” He didn’t know what Pike had told her and he didn’t want to talk.
“So you think I shouldn’t ask questions?”
Riley was surprised at her directness. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by what I said. I mean, you asked me why I got out and I told you.”
Sammy relaxed. The loudspeaker in the waiting area announced final call for boarding. Riley pulled out the tickets. “Window or aisle?”
Sammy blindly grabbed one and looked at it. “Aisle.”
AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND
27 NOVEMBER 1996
Conner threw bags into the back of the pickup truck while Vickers, Kerns, and Lallo carefully stowed the cases containing their electronic gear. It was hard to believe their seemingly never-ending flight fr
om Hawaii was finally over.
Conner didn’t know what to make of Devlin. For some reason she’d remembered him differently. About six foot four, tanned, with blond hair cut in a carefully casual style and rugged good looks, he would have been perfect for one of those beer commercials—kayaking down whitewater rapids while several beautiful women awaited him at the other end. Perhaps that’s what bothered her. He looked as though he came from central casting. She hoped there was more to him than that.
There was a curious intensity about Devlin that was offset by a congenial, perfect smile. Conner had not remembered that smile, and it made her slightly uneasy. She had to give him credit for one thing, though—he ran a very smooth operation. Within forty-five minutes of landing, they had all their gear gathered together, were through customs, and were ready to move.
Conner slid in the passenger side of the pickup while Vickers and Lallo joined Kerns for the ride in the van. They rolled around the perimeter road of the runway until they came to a small hangar.
“Here we go,” Devlin announced, getting out and sliding the hangar doors open. They drove in and parked. Two planes were sheltered inside. Conner got out and joined the rest of her party.
“This is our bird,” Devlin announced, standing in front of the nose of a sleek-looking twin-engine plane. Conner noted the skis bolted on over the three wheels and the extra fuel tanks hanging under the wings. “And this is our pilot, Peter Swenson.”
The pilot, who was toiling over the left engine, acknowledged his introduction with a grimy wave. Swenson looked as though he’d done more than his share of hard living, his graying hair and lined face indicating a life spent in the outdoors. “Swenson was originally a bush pilot from Australia, but he’s done quite a few Antarctic runs for us,” Devlin added. “We’ll leave the gear here. Let’s move into the ready room and get coordinated.”
