It makes no sense.
He leaned back and stretched when screams erupted from a nearby cave at the top of an embankment on the other side of the camp. He jumped to his feet, rushing toward the hillside when one of their local hires, Garcia, burst from the entrance and tumbled down the hill to the camp below, striking his head on a small rock, opening a gash on his forehead.
“Señor Professor! El Diablo esta en la cueva! El Diablo is in the cave!”
Acton reached him as the terrified man’s eyes fluttered then shut.
“Get some water and a med kit over here, now!” He knelt beside the unconscious man, examining Garcia’s body for broken bones and finding none. One of his students, Robbie Andrews, arrived with a canteen of water and the medical kit. Acton opened it as he eyed the now moaning Garcia.
He soaked a cloth in water then started to clean the wound. Garcia moaned louder as the cool liquid revived him and gradually he came to, trying to sit up. Acton held him down.
“Drink,” he ordered, holding a canteen to Garcia’s lips. The still weak man drank gratefully and when he had his fill he pulled away. Acton handed the canteen to Robbie, then waved the rest of the gathered students away. “Let’s give Garcia some space, shall we?” The students moved off, he knew disappointed, but his main concern was the health of their hired help, a man who had impressed Acton repeatedly over the past few weeks as he had taken on more and more duties, despite his deep reservations of disturbing “the ancestors”. Acton sat beside him, a calming smile on his face and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Now, tell me what you saw. And remember,” he said, looking down at Garcia with a reassuring smile, “you’re safe now.”
Garcia breathed a deep sigh. “Señor Professor, I see the Devil in the cave!” he said in his thick Peruvian accent, the fear still tingeing his voice despite Acton’s assurances of safety. It was clear the man’s superstitions had got the better of him, and it was something Acton had dealt with across the world. Superstitions were pervasive in all cultures, including Western, but especially so outside of the “First World”. It made hiring local help difficult sometimes, but usually the almighty dollar would win out.
Until one day you stumbled upon something that would send them into a panic and you’d suddenly find your camp devoid of workers.
He feared if he couldn’t calm Garcia down, they just might lose the limited help they managed to attract up to this remote location, which at the moment included only Garcia, two guards and one driver who brought their supplies.
“Tell me exactly what happened.” Acton continued to smile as he pressed slightly harder on the gash, trying to stem the flow of blood.
“I was digging at the wall like you ask me to and I finally get through—”
“You got through?” Acton and Robbie looked at each other with excited smiles. “What did you see?”
“El Diablo, I see El Diablo! I look through the hole and I first could see nothing so I get my light and then I can see. I see two red eyes looking at me. It was the Devil, Señor. I swear! I run outta there.”
Acton was skeptical to say the least, knowing Garcia’s superstitious nature. Whatever he had seen however was enough to send this poor man into a panic. And two red, glowing eyes had to be something; perhaps a reflection off of some jewels. The thought of what Garcia might have found had his own heart racing, but for now he had to calm the man whose breathing had quickened its pace.
“Two eyes?”
“Yes. Come, I show you if you not believe me!” Garcia pleaded.
Acton knew the best way to calm Garcia was to humor him. Expressing any doubt in what he had seen would insult the man’s honor. Besides, regardless of what Garcia thought he had seen, Acton had no doubt he had seen something, and he was just as eager to find out what that might be, as Garcia was to prove he wasn’t lying.
“No, you rest here. I’ll go and look myself.” Acton rose and started up the path leading to the cave entrance. He motioned for a couple of students to watch Garcia and for Robbie to follow him. “Grab some gear.” They soon arrived at the entrance and crawled through the narrow opening of the cave discovered the day before behind a heavy growth of bushes by a couple of amorous students. Once inside, the narrow passageway opened up allowing the professor and Robbie to walk upright, but single file, deeper into the damp, dripping cave. Two hundred feet in, they found the hole Garcia had been laboring at all day. Acton shone his flashlight through, coughing at the overwhelming stench. At first, he too saw nothing.
Then he gasped.
Fort Meade, National Security Agency Headquarters
Echelon chewed through, as was its mandate, every phone call, e-mail, fax and telex message sent either by land or satellite from its laboratory in the National Security Agency building. Its Dictionary watch list was programmed to listen and look for certain hot words such as “bomb” or “anthrax.” Any such messages or calls were flagged for review, which depending on the priority of the words and number of hits in a particular conversation or sequence of communication, meant either immediately reviewed, or put on a file to be reviewed possibly months later. The call from Peru at 17:52 Eastern Standard Time was immediately reviewed:
[CLASSIFICATION TOP SECRET UMBRA GAMMA PRIME]
[DICTIONARY HITS: CRYSTAL, SKULL, ACTON, NEW YORK]
[SOURCE ILC INTERNATIONAL LEASE CARRIER INTSAT-ALPHA]
[CALL ORIGIN: LIMA, PERU, ROAMING CELLULAR PHONE 212-555-7723]
[CALL DESTINATION: NEW YORK, NY, USA, LAND LINE 212-555-8838]
[# OF SUBJECTS = 2]
[SUBJECT IDENT: CALLER1 = ANDREWS, ROBERT IDENT SRC = TELCO]
[SUBJECT IDENT: CALLER2 = ANDREWS, JOHN IDENT SRC = TELCO]
[START OF TRANSCRIPT]
[CALLER1] “John, it’s me, Robbie. Can you hear me?”
[CALLER2] “Barely, man. Where are you?”
[CALLER1] “I’m still in Peru, on the dig with Professor ACTON.”
[CALLER2] “Oh yeah? I didn’t think I’d hear from you until you got back. What’s up?”
[CALLER1] “ACTON shut down the dig and sent us all to Lima for the night so I thought I’d call and see how you and Dad are doing.”
[CALLER2] “We’re fine. Dad’s starting to recover from the stroke. I really wish you could be here but he understands how important getting to work for ACTON is. How’re things going there? Why the shutdown?”
[CALLER1] “He found something. Something pretty cool but we’re not allowed to talk about it. Only two of us have seen it.”
[CALLER2] “What is it?”
[CALLER1] “I’m not supposed to tell, John. If ACTON found out I’d be kicked off the dig!”
[CALLER2] “How would he find out? I’m you’re big brother man, come on!”
[CALLER1] “Okay, okay. We found a CRYSTAL SKULL, perfectly preserved in a hidden chamber. It’s incredible John, I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
[CALLER2] “A CRYSTAL SKULL? What the hell is that?”
[CALLER1] “According to the professor a few of them have been found around the world but nobody knows who made them. He was extremely excited when he first found it but then he seemed to get scared.”
[CALLER2] “Scared?”
[CALLER1] “Yeah, I don’t know why. Maybe he doesn’t want to attract attention what with the problems down here. Anyway, my cellphone is starting to die so I’ll say goodbye. Tell Dad I love him and I’ll see him as soon as I’m back in NEW YORK.”
[CALLER2] “Okay, you be careful down there.”
[CALLER1] “I will, bye.”
[END OF TRANSCRIPT]
Washington, DC
“What a day!”
James “Jimmy” Masters swirled his glass containing three fingers of an eighteen-year-old Ardmore single malt, the distinct aroma of smoke bringing back memories of his stay in Speyside, Scotland, several years ago with his wife. He raised the glass, toasting the empty rear of his limo, and took a long drag of the
harsh liquid. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt as he felt his reward begin its job, his entire body enjoying the effects. He leaned back into the plush leather and closed his eyes as he let a long sigh escape.
His phone rang.
“Shit!”
He left his eyes closed, debating whether or not to answer. He knew he had to; his job was too important to let calls go unanswered. But at the end of a long day like today, he yearned for what it must have been like decades ago when cellphones and car phones didn’t exist.
Downtime!
That’s what he needed, desperately. Downtime.
A second ring.
When he had agreed to take on this job for President Jackson, a longtime friend, he hadn’t realized how much work there’d be. And neither had his wife. She was tolerating it better than he had feared, and he tried to take her with him on business trips whenever he could and schedule an extra day or two of “alone time” when possible, but intelligence conferences, especially surrounding black ops like he was involved with, weren’t always held in the most hospitable of conditions.
Three rings.
He sighed and put the leaded Steuben crystal glass on the drink tray and retrieved his phone from the breast pocket of his jacket that lay tossed on the seat beside him.
I can’t wait until Jackson’s administration is over and I can get fired.
He knew no matter what he did while Jackson was President, his job was safe, for he was there for one specific task, one the American public could never know about, one that even his own wife knew nothing about. One that had been handed down to him by his own father.
He pressed the talk button. “Masters.”
“Sir, we have an Umbra Gamma Prime document here for immediate review.”
“I’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone and pressed the button to lower the glass partition separating him from the driver. “Jerry, turn us around, I need to get back to the office, fast.” His chauffeur of many years radioed the escort vehicles as Masters raised the partition, picked up his glass and gripped the overhead handhold.
The mini-motorcade’s lead Lincoln Navigator cut left, jumped the median and blocked oncoming traffic. The Town Car limo locked up its brakes and followed, jostling its well-prepared VIP as the trailing Navigator cut across, assuming the role of lead vehicle. All three vehicles turned on their lights and sirens, leaving a trail of burnt rubber, smoke and a dozen confused drivers in their wake.
Umbra Gamma Prime.
It was one of the highest classifications of Top Secret there was in his business. In fact he had never had one cross his desk since he had taken the job, despite dealing with countless terrorist threats—both domestic and abroad—and having sent teams across the world in secret.
But tonight, on a night when there was nothing going on in the world that he could think of that would warrant such a high classification, he was being called back to read a file that couldn’t even leave his office due to the high level of security.
There was only one thing he could think of that might have triggered this level of security, and it had his heart racing the entire fifteen minutes it took to arrive at his office.
“Sir, here’s the communiqué.” A Marine aide handed him the dossier and took his jacket. The dossier was sealed and tied with a red and white ribbon reading “TOP SECRET UMBRA GAMMA PRIME—DIR SPC OPS EYES ONLY.”
“No interruptions.” His aide closed the door as Masters entered and headed for his desk. Sitting down, his leather-backed chair exhaling under him, he glanced around the large office to make sure he was alone, then removed a device from his top desk drawer that resembled a small tape recorder. He pressed a button to activate the Radio Frequency Interference Generator to disrupt any visual or audio bug in his office, which, despite the device’s effectiveness, was swept three times a day and after any visitor. The Umbra Gamma Prime document in his hands, however, demanded every possible precaution against someone eavesdropping.
Breaking the seal, he opened the dossier and scanned the identified keywords. His eyes shot wide open as his suspicions were confirmed. He skimmed the conversation then read it again, carefully, making sure he hadn’t misinterpreted it. His heart slamming against his ribcage, he hit the intercom button on his phone. Static. Cursing, he turned off the jamming device then hit the button again. His aide answered.
“Yes, sir?”
“Get me Darbinger.”
“Right away, sir!”
White House Chief of Staff Lesley Darbinger ran down the corridor leading to the Oval Office. He stopped just before the door and took several gasping breaths. This is ridiculous. I need to get back into shape. He used to jog five miles a day, but not anymore. No more time. But winded at 200 feet? These days he felt he did more running in the office than outside. And it clearly isn’t enough.
“Is he in?” he panted as he stepped into the outer office.
The fifty-something woman behind the desk looked up and stuck a pencil in the tight bun on top of her head. “Yes, sir.” She picked up the phone. “Mr. Darbinger to see you, Mr. President.” She hung up and nodded toward the door. “Go on in, Mr. Darbinger.” A Secret Service agent opened the door to the oval office and Darbinger stepped through.
Stewart Alfred Jackson sat behind his desk reading a briefing paper. He tossed the folder on the oak desktop and laid his glasses down as Darbinger entered. They had met at Yale over thirty years ago and had been close ever since. Darbinger had worked on his gubernatorial, senate and presidential campaigns. With everything they had been through together over the years, Darbinger knew Jackson trusted him implicitly. He was his friend, his confidant, and his sounding board. He was the man he told all his secrets to. He was the man Jackson trusted more than his own wife.
And today, both of their lives were about to change, forever.
“What’s on your mind, Les?” Jackson asked as he circled the desk and motioned to one of the leather couches.
Darbinger sat down to his friend’s right and glanced around the office, making sure they were alone, and taking in the history represented by every object that adorned it at the same time. He leaned forward and lowered his voice as he realized he was about to add to that history.
“Mr. President, I just had a conversation with the Director of Special Operations.”
“Jimmy Masters?” Jackson asked as he sat on the opposite couch.
“Yes, Mr. President.” Darbinger lowered his voice further. “He thinks they found it.”
Jackson leaned forward. “Found what?”
Darbinger tried to steady his breathing as his heart raced, shoving blood through his system at too quick a pace, the excitement and terror of the moment almost overwhelming. He took a deep breath and looked in his friend’s eyes.
“The final missing skull.”
17th Street, Washington, DC
Billy sat up in bed and looked around to see what had woken him, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Sunlight poured through the window. A little too much sun for 6:00 a.m. A glance at his alarm clock showed a flashing 12:01.
“Shit!” He jumped out of bed, realizing it was the sound of nearly every electronic device in the apartment beeping as the power came on that had woken him. Running to the dresser, he grabbed his Tag Heuer watch. 8:15. “Shit!”
He rushed to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face then ran his wet fingers through his sandy-brown hair, trying to make it look not too obvious he had skipped the shower. Swishing some mouthwash he found a clean pair of slacks on the floor and thrust his legs in. Running back to the bathroom he spat the mouthwash into the sink, grinned at the mirror to check his teeth for last night’s dinner, then pulled on a pair of socks from the floor. He grabbed the dress-shirt hanging on the back of the bathroom door he had planned to iron the night before, but had put off, and tried to will the wrinkles out with his hands. Tossing a tie around his neck and a blazer over his shoulder, he bolted from his apartmen
t with his electric shaver, trying to shave a weekend’s worth of growth off before his first day on the job.
This is all I need, to be late on my first damned day! Dad will kill me!
He hailed a cab and jumped in.
“Where to, buddy?” asked the cabbie in a thick Middle Eastern accent.
“The White House.”
The cabbie looked in his rearview mirror, eyes narrowing. “Aren’t you a little young to be working there?” he asked as he cranked the wheel, pulling a U-turn and surging them toward the hallowed residence.
Billy shrugged, gripping the “Oh Jesus” bar, debating if he should put his seatbelt on. “Intern.”
“Ahh, that explains it,” replied the cabbie as he floored it, blasting through the red light. Billy’s eyes bulged as he yanked on the seatbelt, a little too hard, the tensioner halting him in his haste. Easing back on the belt, he eventually got himself secured, but only minutes later he was at the rear entrance, shoving a few bills through to the driver and jumping out, rushing through security and toward the rally point for the new interns.
He skidded to a halt, gaping at a line that zigzagged like an international arrivals area and threatened to spill out into the hallway if any more arrived. Surrounded by the excited buzz of dozens of young interns getting to know each other, he soon realized he needn’t have worried about being late his first day. Everyone was being fingerprinted, photographed, swabbed for DNA, and retinal scanned. Even a voice sample was taken. Man, what’s next, a semen sample? His watch beeped noon as he arrived at the front of the line.
“Name?” asked the bored clerk.
“William Augustus Guthrie.”
“Guthrie?” The clerk snapped his gaze up. “As in the former Speaker of the House?”
Billy nodded and lowered his voice. “Look, I’d kind of like to keep that quiet.”
The Protocol (A James Acton Thriller, Book #1) Page 2
