by C. S. Graham
It was a situation the new president would not live to regret.
“I didn’t know you intended to make your move here,” said Quincy. “In Davos, of all places.”
“Can you think of a better place?”
Quincy laughed. “No. But you might have warned me.”
“The fewer people who know the details of what we’re doing, the better.”
Quincy worked his jaw back and forth in what Leo recognized as suppressed annoyance. “It’s not exactly like I’m a bit player in all this,” said the secretary.
Leo set aside the heavy crystal carafe with a soft thump. “I never meant to imply that you are.”
It was a lie, of course. Secretary of State Quincy, like former president Randolph before him, was a puppet. A politician selected and groomed by men who managed, financed, and carefully promoted his career for their own ends.
Still faintly smiling, Leo came to settle in the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. The premier suite at the Belevedere was reserved for him every year at this time, although he did not always choose to attend the Forum. Lately Davos had become overrun by NGOs and self-indulgent, conspicuously philanthropic celebrities who wanted to talk about AIDS and the environment and a host of other liberal time wasters.
Conspiracy theorists the world over loved to tut-tut and shudder at the power of the “Davos men.” But the truth was that a conclave like Davos was too large, too diverse, too open for its members to ever effectively connive together to rule the world. Their plenary debates were even available on YouTube, of all things, with key quotes going out on Twitter.
But there was still a place in the scheme of things for organizations like the World Economic Forum. If nothing else, they kept the energies of the masses focused and distracted. The real work of determining the fate of the world was done elsewhere, by men like Leo working in select groups of like-minded individuals who kept their meetings closed to the press and their membership rolls a secret. Organizations whose members realized that if they didn’t act quickly—and aggressively—their days of God-given, untrammeled economic dominion might soon be brought to an end.
“And the next step?” said Quincy, puffing on his cigar.
Leo raised his brandy to his lips and smiled. “Patience, Forest. The second phase will come at its preordained time.”
“And that is—when?”
“Soon. Very soon.”
Chapter 5
Herndon, Virginia: Friday 2 February 7:05 P.M. local time
Special Agent Elaine Cox of the FBI’s elite Art Crimes Team stood at the one-way mirror, a folded sheet of paper clenched in her hand, her gaze fixed on the honey-haired young woman seated at a table on the far side of the glass. Elaine had been an FBI agent for eighteen years. If asked, she’d have said she was hard to impress and almost impossible to amaze. But what she’d witnessed in the last few hours had her blood thrumming with excitement and wonder.
She’d read a lot about remote viewing over the years. From her long friendship with Colonel McClintock, she’d heard about the incredible successes the Army had had with RV before their program imploded back in the nineties. But nothing could compare with being in a controlled environment and actually watching a master remote viewer reach out with her mind and “see” an object hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of miles away. Maybe, just maybe, they’d be able to use the information October was providing to finally track down some of the most precious of the tens of thousands of artifacts still missing from the museums and archaeological sites of Iraq.
A clipped male voice at Elaine’s elbow said, “It’s all bullshit. You know that, don’t you?”
She turned her head to study the wiry, sandy-haired agent beside her. His name was Mark Kowalski and he wasn’t part of the Art Crimes Team. He was here as a special representative of Duane Davenport, who’d insisted one of his men be present to observe the remote viewing sessions. On one level, that annoyed the hell out of Elaine. But she was smart enough to realize that putting up with the presence of a skeptic like Kowalski was a small price to pay for Davenport’s letting her project go forward. The head of the criminal division was well known for being hostile to anything that even vaguely smacked of what he liked to call “New Age woo-woo idolatry.”
She opened the folded paper she’d been holding and held it out. “You call this bullshit? Look at number four on the list.”
Kowalski stared at the paper, his nostrils flaring. The sheet contained a list of the twelve items Elaine had selected from among the thousands that had disappeared from Baghdad’s National Museum during the U.S. invasion and occupation of Iraq. The loss of Iraq’s archaeological treasures was an unforgivable tragedy, not only for the Iraqi people but for all of mankind. As the site of ancient Mesopotamia, Iraq was the cradle of Western civilization. From its rich, fascinating cultures—Sumer, Assyria, Babylonia—had sprung everything from writing and seeder plows to sailboats and the concept of zero. As an American, Elaine felt a profound weight of personal responsibility for what had happened, and she was determined to get as many of the artifacts back as she could.
It hadn’t been easy, narrowing the list down to just twelve items. But she only had October for a few days, and Elaine knew she couldn’t push the girl too hard. Even with the best viewers, fatigue would set in after a while and the viewer’s accuracy would start going down.
Following the protocol suggested by McClintock, the name of each of the selected items had been written on a separate three-by-five-inch card that was then placed in a double, opaque envelope and randomly assigned a four-digit number. When October viewed an object, she was told nothing about the item except the number written on the front of the envelope.
That afternoon, she’d been run against “item number 3524.” She’d described a gold dagger with blue stones set into the handle and sheath. Even without looking at her list, Elaine had known immediately what October was “seeing.” It was King Meskalamdug’s dagger, from the Royal Cemetery of Ur. October had described the item against a backdrop of what sounded very much like the Park Avenue apartment of Aaron Leibowitz, a wealthy, well-known specialist in ancient Middle Eastern art who Elaine had long suspected maintained a secret collection of stolen antiquities.
Of course, October’s viewing wouldn’t be enough to enable them to arrest Leibowitz or even get a warrant to search his apartment. But now that they knew where to look, Elaine’s team could begin gathering the evidence that would, hopefully, enable them to nail the bastard.
“She musta seen the list,” said Kowalski.
Elaine tried to tamp down her temper. “You know she didn’t.”
“She’s either seen the list, or she’s made a pact with the devil. What we’re witnessing here could be some sort of wizardry.”
At that, Elaine let out a peal of laughter.
A muscle bunched along Kowalski’s prominent jaw. “You think that’s funny?”
On the far side of the glass, Peter Abrams, the Naval Intelligence psychologist who worked as McClintock’s assistant, cleared his throat and said, “Okay, Tobie; you ready?”
Kowalski said, “Leviticus tells us that a woman who is a medium or a wizard should be—”
Elaine held up her hand in an impatient gesture, silencing him. October and Abrams were in a soundproof chamber, with an audio-video feed to the observation room and the recording equipment it contained. But Elaine didn’t want to miss a moment of this next session.
Abrams rested his palm on the opaque envelope lying on the table before him. “Relax now, Tobie. Focus your attention on item number eight nine two one. Describe your perceptions to me.”
October sat in a comfortable chair on the far side of the table, a carafe of water, a pad of paper, and pencils within easy reach. She was a small, slim young woman in jeans and a navy pullover, with dark brown eyes and shoulder-length hair she wore pulled back in a clip. She had spent the last ten minutes settling into a meditative state McClintock called the Zone. Now
she said, “I get the impression of something smooth. A number of similar items that are smooth and transparent, like glass. Only, they’re not glass. Each item is formed of two rectangles of this material, sandwiching something between them. There are many of these glasslike units, each about nine by eleven inches. It’s like they’re lined up sideways.” Reaching for the drawing pad and pencil before her, she began sketching in long, bold strokes. “Like this.”
Peter Abrams cleared his throat. “You say something is sandwiched within these glass-like units. Can you describe it?”
October nodded. “Each one is very similar. They’re old and flat. I get an impression like sheets of paper. But they’re not paper, they’re woven. Sort of like cloth, but they’re not cloth. They have writing on them.”
Elaine was aware of Special Agent Kowalski shifting uneasily beside her. She glanced at him, her earlier sense of elation beginning to ebb. She thought she had a pretty good idea what October was “seeing”: an ancient papyrus, once divided into folios and bound into a codex. Invented by the Romans, a codex was an early form of book that replaced the scroll. From Tobie’s description, it sounded as if the pages of this codex had now been separated and preserved by mounting each in a double-window mat sandwiched between two sheets of quarter-inch ultraviolet-filtering acrylic.
The problem was, there was no codex on Elaine’s list. And because the number written on the envelope—8921—was completely arbitrary, they wouldn’t know what artifact Tobie was supposed to be viewing until they opened the envelope.
“Can you read the writing on these woven sheets?” asked Abrams.
“No. It’s unfamiliar to me. But I keep getting these flashes of strange images.”
“Describe these images.”
October shook her head, her brows drawing together. “It’s like . . . biblical illustrations. Of the Tower of Babel. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon.” Her pencil moved across the paper, but even from this distance Elaine could see that she wasn’t sketching walls or gardens. She was drawing a huge, strange cross.
“Maybe back up a bit,” suggested Abrams. “Tell us something about the environment.”
“I’m inside a room. It’s cool. Very dry. Controlled. The lighting is subdued, without windows. It feels like it’s a shrine, or a museum. Only, there are no people.”
“Can you see anything else in the room?” asked Abrams.
“More glasslike sandwiches of different sizes, held in their own special cases. A flat surface, like a table. A locked cabinet.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Can you get above the room? Maybe tell us something about the building?”
“I get the impression of rough wood. Very rugged, yet also oddly luxurious.” As she spoke, she started a new drawing. “It’s like a log cabin, only on a grand scale. Like a lodge.”
She barely looked at her work; it was as if the images flowed directly from her mind to the paper. “I don’t think it’s a building open to the public. I get the impression of a private place, guarded, with many secrets. This is a place where all is not as it seems.”
“Can you shift your angle a bit? Tell us something of the surroundings?”
“I get a sense of grass, browned by winter. There are stands of trees, like a forest. Some have bare branches, but most are evergreens.” She started a new drawing.
“Here’s the main building.” Her pencil moved across the page. “The trees are here . . . and here. It’s like I’m perched on a slope, looking out over water. A wide expanse of water. I get the feeling of cold. There’s a long, straight road nearby. Only, it’s not a road. It’s paved, but it starts and stops suddenly. There are lights—here, and here.” She added them to her sketch. “I think it’s a runway, not a road.”
Again, Elaine was aware of Kowalski shifting his weight beside her, as if he were uncomfortable.
October said, “Yes, it must be a runway. There are two men standing beside a plane.”
“Can you get closer to these men? Maybe tell us something about them?”
“I get the feeling of great power and wealth. Power, and a dangerous kind of arrogance. It emanates from both men.”
Elaine found herself choking down a welling of frustration and disappointment. She knew remote viewing was never one hundred percent accurate; McClintock had warned her of that. She realized now just how lucky they’d been with the first viewing. Not only had October zeroed in on the artifact, but Elaine herself was familiar with the New York apartment October described. But this session . . . this session was a complete miss.
Peter Abrams was saying, “Can you go back to the building at the top of the hill?”
“I can, but . . . . there’s something oddly compelling about these men. I’m getting impressions of snow. But although it’s cold here, there is no snow on the ground. I keep getting the name ‘Noah.’ ”
“Just the name?”
“Yes.”
Elaine was aware of Special Agent Kowalski stiffening beside her. She threw him a quick glance and found him gazing at October with narrowed eyes.
“Tell me more about this snow,” said Abrams.
“I get the impression of a deep valley. Something very important is to happen in this snowy place and it’s linked to something else that is planned for a different place. An event these men expect to remake the world.”
In the small soundproof room, Peter Abrams stared across the table at October. “Did you say, ‘remake the world’?”
“That’s what they think.”
Elaine felt a chill run up her spine. She had no idea what October was targeting, but she nevertheless had no doubt that October had been drawn by one of the artifacts on that list to something. Something powerful and frightening.
Anything can be targeted, McClintock had told once her. A person, an object, an organization. Anything. Even someone’s thoughts can be targeted. You just need to have a good enough remote viewer.
As if from a long way off, she heard the sound feed of Abrams’s voice, saying, “Describe this event they’re planning.”
“I keep getting images of a snake. Not a coiled snake, but a ruby-eyed snake slithering through a swath of green. I get the feeling of water. Lots of water rushing in, like a flood. Only, the flood isn’t the event, it’s—”
Elaine heard a sliding click. She was so focused on the drama unfolding on the other side of the one-way mirror that her brain moved slowly, identifying the sound too late as the rasp of a pistol being racked.
She turned just in time to see Special Agent Mark Kowalski aim his suppressed Glock 26 at her head and fire.
Chapter 6
“Tell me more about this water you’re seeing,” Tobie heard Peter Abrams say. “Is it moving, or still?”
She drew a breath and let it out slowly, centered deep in the near dreamlike state of remote viewing. “I get the impression of both,” she said. “It’s like—” She broke off, her eyes widening as an inexplicable, suffocating terror coursed through her.
Across the table from her, Abrams said, “Stay deep, Tobie. Focus on the target.”
Tobie found she was struggling simply to draw a breath. “I’m trying. It’s just . . .”
“I understand. But it’s important that you hold your focus. Tell us about the water.”
“The, uh, water . . .” She closed her eyes and willed herself to sink back into her Zone. “The water—”
The heavy soundproof door on the far side of the room flew open and hit the wall with a crash. A man she recognized as Special Agent Mark Kowalski burst into the room, his big Glock held in a purposeful two-handed grip. Tobie was facing him, the table between her and the door. But she was still drifting in the upper levels of her Zone, her limbs heavy as if in sleep, her reaction times slow.
“What the hell?” demanded Abrams, his chair skittering across the floor as he pushed to his feet. “What’s wrong?”
Kowalski’s first bullet hit Abrams
in the shoulder, his shirt instantly blooming a wet scarlet. Slapping one hand to his bloody shoulder, Abrams staggered backward and went down.
Kowalski pivoted toward him, gun extended.
“No!” screamed Tobie. Thrusting up, she grabbed the carafe of water and hurled it at the shooter just as his finger tightened again.
The carafe hit the FBI agent high on his upper arm then careened off to slam into the wall. The vessel shattered, spraying broken glass and water across the room. Kowalski flung up a crooked elbow to protect his face. Tobie heard the pop-pop of two more suppressed rounds. Abrams jerked. Lay still.
Her heart pounding painfully, hands curling reflexively into fists, Tobie scrambled around the table and launched into a flying snap kick. The ball of her foot slammed into the FBI man’s tightly clenched jaw. His head whipped around and he let out a grunt.
Landing lightly, she hit him with a roundhouse kick to the side of his head. He dropped to his knees, stunned. But his body was turned in such a way that his gun hand was still sheltered from her.
She whirled and fled through the open door.
Erupting into the deserted corridor, she veered to the left, toward the bank of elevators that lay at the core of the building. With the clatter of her own frantic footsteps echoing loudly in her ears, she tried desperately to remember what she knew about the unfamiliar building complex.
Special Agent Cox had arranged for Tobie to perform her remote viewings at the offices of a private consulting firm that worked with the FBI. The soundproof room and its adjacent control room lay on the third floor of a multistory building that formed part of an office park of clustered modern high-rises surrounded by acres of rolling lawns and trees. When Tobie arrived earlier that afternoon, the parking lot had been crowded, a steady stream of people going in and out of the offices.
