Ashton felt no particular shame about influencing the system a little. This work was going to do so much for the world. A little rule bending wasn’t going to kill anyone.
The research continued, and things went very, very well. The first people to take place in the trials could hear the test tones easily, though many of them had no way to actually interpret this new sensation. It was like watching those “first sound” videos all over again, Ashton had thought with pride.
It took fine-tuning, but every test subject eventually reacted to the test tones, even if they’d never heard a sound in their entire lives.
It was the breakthrough they’d been hoping for, and it was a cause for huge celebration. Ashton had arranged a big party, right here in his own penthouse, to laud Patel and his team.
Too soon, as it turned out.
Within weeks of the first successful trials, the team started to report side effects among the test subjects. Ashton didn’t understand quite everything they brought to the next review meeting, but he understood the implications of it all. Their technology, which was such an amazing hope for the world, was dangerous. Scary dangerous.
Ashton sat in with the team and AMSL’s CEO and COO when the results were given. It was a pretty dark day. A scary day. And Ashton found himself wondering how he, of all people, had come to be in this place, making the choices he was forced to make. He was a musician, an artist. His work had been rock-and-roll, up until just a few short years ago. In a lot of ways, music was still the only thing he really knew. What was he doing, sitting at the head of a table full of people who were discussing something so dangerous, it could be compared to the atomic bomb?
It was a hard decision, but everyone agreed that this research had to be scrapped. Every public record of it would be erased, and related research kept aside would be classified to the point of being nearly non-existent.
Ashton had agreed to all of this. He owned this company, and controlled a majority of the shares, and so he’d been included in the decision. But he could tell that his CEO and COO would have preferred to keep him out of it. Maybe to protect him. Or maybe to keep him from interfering, if he hadn’t agreed with them. But he had agreed. Of course, he had agreed.
The data was wiped from AMSL’s systems. The prototypes were all destroyed. And Patel and his team were all forced to sign non-disclosure agreements, with penalties that would have caused Bill Gates to file for government assistance.
It was done. Buried. No one would explore that avenue again—not in that direction, at least, and certainly not at AMSL.
Except …
Ashton was no scientist. He’d done rather poorly in grade school, and had dropped out of high school to start his first band. But over the years he’d come to appreciate learning and knowledge, and there was a part of him that couldn’t stand the idea of letting something brilliant be lost forever. It would be like losing a tune that came to you in a dream—losing perfect lyrics that could move someone to tears. He couldn’t stand the thought that they’d come so close to this, and now it had to be torn down by their own hands, lost to history forever.
His legacy. Lost.
He couldn’t just let it go.
So, he’d made a copy.
It was just the data from the company’s network. The prototypes were all destroyed. But Ashton had used his own personal clearance to snag the bits and pieces that AMSL had agreed to keep. And he’d gotten lucky. Six months earlier, Patel’s research partner, Dr. Bristol, had died in an accident, and her records had all been secured and stored. That was the rule, put in place by AMSL’s security chief, Nick Peters. And it was a lucky break.
Her files contained sensitive information, about ongoing projects. Including this one. If he was being honest, Ashton had to admit that he had no idea how complete this data was. But Bristol had been active in the start of the trials, so there was a good chance she had records of nearly everything.
Ashton wasn’t sure how he’d stumbled across her files. He’d been in the system, rooting around for anything related to the project. It had a very memorable codename—Devil’s Interval. Ashton wasn’t much for computers, but he could use a search engine, and he grabbed anything tagged with that codename. His clearance must have given him access to the secured and archived files as well as active ones. That’s all he could figure.
He had used microSD card to smuggle out everything that had been on the system—a maneuver that rather made him feel like a spy. He had, in fact, hummed the ‘Mission Impossible’ theme as he made his exit.
Getting that SD card out of the building was as easy as pie. No one ever searched the owner of the company. In fact, unlike everyone else, who had to trot in and out of security on the main floor, Aston had the option of leaving by helicopter from the roof, unmolested and unscanned. Which was exactly what he’d done.
That had been two weeks ago. The research was all gone now. The prototypes all destroyed. Every bit of progress they’d made had been set back.
Ashton was now considering his options. At first, he thought he might approach some of the other researchers from the company—those who had not signed the NDA. But that might tip someone off, and cause headaches he wasn’t prepared to deal with. So instead he reached out to his network again, asking around to see who might be able to take on this level of research and development. Maybe he could hire someone privately. Someone who wasn’t already working for him.
His business manager had some promising leads, and he was already scheduling meetings with a few people. One of those meetings was to take place in the morning, right here in Ashton’s penthouse. It was the safest place, with no chance of paparazzi or eavesdropping.
That appointment put Ashton here in his home for the first time in weeks. Travel had always been a part of his work, mostly on tour buses, but also First Class flights and the, eventually, private jets. His travel had always been about the music before, but these days, as often as not, it was about AMSL business. He was constantly making appearances, doing interviews, meeting with investors and shareholders and potential partners. He let his business manager handle all the finer details, but it was important for Ashton himself to be there, as the face of the company.
It was boring, and exhausting, but as long as he had a guitar with him he weathered it well enough. He could handle just about anything, with a guitar in his hand.
Now, though, he had hope for once. And he was having mixed feelings about it.
His apartment was dark and quiet, which was always a little unnerving to him. It reminded him too much of the hearing loss he was suffering. These days he could use tech from his own company to compensate for his hearing loss, but he was holding out. Devil’s Interval would have been an invisible way to restore his hearing. He wasn’t ready for the world to see him with even one of AMSL’s sleek and streamlined hearing aids.
He looked out over the Manhattan skyline, a perforated pattern of lights interrupted by streams of neon. Spotlights ranged and roved in the distance, sweeping signals across the sky, telling people where to find the party. The sounds of the street were muted from this height, and from the thick glass of his windows. Ashton shook himself, and took his phone out of his pocket. After a few taps there was music, playing just loud enough from speakers around the room that it could wash over him and make him feel more at home and less isolated.
Much better.
He also brought up lights from under the cabinets and racks around the space, providing some ambient atmosphere. Nothing too jarring. This had been a long day, and he just wanted to relax a bit before turning in. He’d pour himself a whiskey—probably Wild Turkey. He might have money and might have a skyline view of Manhattan, but he was still a Texas son. It was hard to beat the small town out of somebody, even after several decades.
He sat at his piano—a refurbished Steinway Grand from the 1800s that had cost him ninety-thousand back in the 80s. It was perfectly tuned, and playing it had always taken him back to his early days, lear
ning piano from his grandfather, playing Baptist Hymns on the rickety box that Gramps kept in a shed behind the house. It had been too big to be in the house proper. And unfortunately, after years of sitting in the heat and humidity of that backwater Texas town, it had suffered a great deal of rot and decay.
By the time Ashton had become successful enough to afford restoring it, there wasn’t enough left to restore. He’d had to settle for having the old piano bench fixed and polished—though he kept the nicks and dings, the character of the thing. He paired it with this very expensive older cousin to his grandfather’s rickety instrument, and the incongruity of it made him smile every time. He could just imagine Gramps scoffing at the finery of the Steinway, telling Ashton, “You might get the sound out of that thing, but you won’t get the soul.”
Ashton smiled. He patted the bench, and then looked up at the old, ragged hymnal that he kept on the Steinbeck’s music rack. He’d opened that hymnal only a handful of times over the past few decades. More so recently.
Ashton’s career had been hard rock-and-roll, but he still appreciated the classics. The soulful sounds of R&B. The sexual undertones of smooth jazz. And, maybe out of a sense of familial nostalgia, the strident and hopeful marches of those old country hymns.
He played one now—Amazing Grace—and smiled as he thought of Gramps belting out the lyrics in his gravely baritone, as if singing it loud enough might save someone’s life.
Ashton stopped playing when he heard another sound, though, from somewhere in the apartment.
“Hello?” he called.
Maybe Richard, his business manager, had stopped by. They had partnered to produce a few new artists, and sometimes that work went late. Richard had a key, and an open invitation to use the spare bedroom, even if Ashton was out of town.
“Richard, that you?” Ashton called, still tinkering with the keys of the Steinway.
But there was no answer.
Ashton stood from the bench and looked around. The darkness of the apartment was broken by the downlights below the cabinets and above the racks of albums and CDs and awards. There were still deep pockets of shadow everywhere, though. And for the first time, those shadows were giving Ashton a bad feeling.
“Anybody here?” he asked.
There was a slight thump, and it sounded like it was coming from one of the guest bedrooms. Maybe it was Richard, after all? But something wasn’t right.
Ashton moved toward the sound, picking up one of his guitars in the process. They didn’t call these things ‘axes’ for nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time Ashton had used one to beat the crap out of an overzealous fan.
He reached into his pocket and took out his phone, hitting speed dial for the front desk. “I think I may need security,” he said to the girl who answered.
“We’ll have someone up there in just a moment, Mr. Mink. Do you need me to dial 911?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m not sure, actually.”
“I’m calling to be safe. Please find a safe place, Mr. Mink. Security should be there any second.”
He hung up. “Any second,” he said to whoever was hiding in the space. “You hear that? Now look, I don’t like having lay a beat down on somebody. And I’d rather we didn’t have any problems. If you’re a fan, I get it. I’m happy to sign something. I can even give you a little gift. If you’re here to rob me, then just take what you want and leave now. I won’t even try to stop you.”
Again, there was no answer, and Ashton was starting to wonder if he was imagining things.
He was about to give up, to go out into the hall and wait for security. He’d let them do a sweep, just to make sure things were ok. But he was sure at this point that he was imagining the whole thing.
Suddenly, someone pressed something hard and frightening into his back.
“Tell me where you have hidden the data,” a man’s voice said.
“I …” Ashton started, but was cut off as the gun was pressed harder into his back.
“Before you lie to me, I know that you have it. I know it was taken from your company’s network, two weeks ago, and I know that you saved it to a microSD. Where is it?”
Ashton shook his head. “It ain’t here, brother. I don’t have it.”
“You have one more chance,” the voice said. “If you don’t tell me now, I’ll kill every guard that comes through that door, and then I’ll kill you. Do I sound like someone who would bluff about that?”
Ashton swallowed, and felt sweat moving down his side, under his shirt. “No,” he said. “Please …”
“Where?” the voice asked.
Ashton pointed a shaking hand at his piano. “There,” he said. “The … it’s in the hymnal.”
The man jerked Ashton backward, then pushed him forward toward the piano. “Grab it,” he said.
Ashton reached out and grabbed the old book, knocking a ream of blank composing paper and a couple of pens to the floor as he picked it up.
The hymnal was one of the few things he had left from his grandfather. It had been part of Ashton’s origin story—part of the beginning of his career. It had started all of this. It was the foundation of everything, including AMSL. Ashton hesitated as a part of him rebelled, wanting to protect the book from this man.
“Give me the chip,” the man said.
His hands shaking, Ashton opened the hymnal to the back cover. He worked a fingernail into the seam where the cover met the pages, and peeled the paper backing away just enough to reveal the microSD, stuck with a bit of adhesive to the cardboard stock. He lifted the tiny memory card out between his index finger and his thumb.
There was a hard knock on his front door then.
“Mr. Mink, this is building security. We are using our master key to enter.”
“Give me the card,” the man said, holding out a gloved palm.
Ashton shakily placed the card in the man’s hand. “Please, just leave, ok? I’ll distract the guards, have them look in my bedroom. You can just hide near the door and rush out. They’ll never see you.”
The man said nothing, and the front door opened, casting a cone of light across the floor.
The guards were ex-police officers, hired at salaries that far exceeded what they made on the Force. They were trained, and they knew how to deal with hostage situations. They were skilled in negotiation, and in taking down bad guys.
They were dead before they’d even drawn their weapons.
Two silenced shots from the man’s gun, striking the chests of the two former police officers.
Ashton let out a yell, and as hysterics overtook him it turned into a scream. Years of belting high-pitched lyrics on stage made that scream powerful and even, and there was a hope that maybe someone would hear it. Maybe they’d come to his rescue.
The man shoved Ashton hard, sending him to the floor. As Ashton rolled over, the man aimed at him. “I loved your music,” he said. “Big fan.”
He pulled the trigger.
Part I
Chapter 1
Manhattan FBI offices
The Manhattan offices of the FBI’s new Historic Crimes Division were just a couple of cramped rooms crammed into a far corner of the FBI’s regular, newly-remodeled offices. One space served as a conference room, for those very rare times that there were more than two people working a case. The other served as Agent Roland Denzel’s office.
Dan Kotler had wandered into the latter with two cups of coffee in his hands. He placed one on Denzel’s desk, and was in no way surprised when his agent friend didn’t so much as look up from his laptop. Denzel reached for the coffee, brought it to his lips, and then looked at Kotler, surprised.
“This is good,” he said.
“It’s from that new place a block over.”
“The Greek place?”
Kotler nodded, smiling and sipping at his own dense and dark brew.
Denzel nodded appreciatively and turned back to his screen. “Welcome back. How are things in Atlantis? You were the
re nearly three weeks this time.”
Kotler laughed. “Good, but slow. I was helping to organize dive teams to explore the sunken parts of the city. There’s a lot down there, but the currents and some tectonic issues make things dicey. We sent a robotic probe in and got some amazing images, though. I expect it will be a few more months before the research team decides to make an official public announcement. Also, we’re not sure it’s Atlantis.”
This made Denzel finally look up. “What?”
“Well, it has all the earmarks,” Kotler said. “The evidence for is pretty strong, but the evidence against is getting stronger.”
“But we were shot at,” Denzel said.
Kotler laughed again. “That isn’t really considered proof, Roland.”
“What about all that nonsense with Gail McCarthy and Eric van Burren?”
Kotler shrugged. “That only proves that they thought it was Atlantis. We’re still verifying everything.” Seeing the look of near devastation on Denzel’s face, Kotler retreated a bit. “Don't worry, it's still a significant archeological discovery. At this point, there’s just as much a chance that it really is Atlantis. But you wouldn’t arrest someone without proof, right? You'd make a case, based on facts. It’s the same thing. Think of archeology as the FBI of history.”
Denzel scoffed and sipped his coffee, shaking his head in quiet disbelief.
Kotler knew what he was feeling. It was so tempting to just give over, to decide that things were settled and all the facts were known. It would be so much easier, and so much more fun, to just accept everything at face value and call the mystery solved. Especially in cases like this one, where both speculation and emotions ran high, and where so many lives were affected. Being able to publicly announce the discovery of the true, real, not-a-myth-or-legend Atlantis would change the world. It was disappointing to even think that they might not have it after all.
Especially after everything they'd gone through with that case (such as getting shot at), and all the lives that had been impacted.
The Devil's Interval Page 2
