Primeval: An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “I need proof that she is alright, otherwise you can go straight to hell. We don’t pay criminals for killing our people.”

  “Proof is forthcoming. Right now you need to return to your agency and gather one piece of information. Six months ago, there was a robbery at the Denver Museum of Natural History. Several valuable pieces were stolen, along with some very valuable papers that were stored in one of these artifacts.”

  “What does this have to do with—?”

  “If you interrupt me once more, we will send your agent back to you in many pieces.”

  Grogan was silent as she tried desperately to focus on the voice in the dark.

  “We want the name of the thief of these artifacts delivered to us. We will recover the property ourselves. This should not be too difficult to obtain for an agency of your renown.”

  “That could be impossible. The case may be ongoing in Denver and the name could be—”

  A small box thumped against her leg and fell to the flagstone walkway.

  “Our intentions toward your agent are inside the box. In twenty-four hours you will place an advertisement in the Washington Post in the lost-and-found section of that paper. A lost female puppy, a Yorkshire Terrier that goes by the name of Lynn. Please contact—here you will give the name of the thief that we seek, and his address. Once we have recovered what it is we seek, your agent will be returned to you whole, well, minus some weight, but otherwise intact. There will be no interference from the authorities at this thief’s location. If you interfere, we will have no choice but to relieve the local civilian population of their lives. We have the manpower and the weaponry to achieve this. Are you clear on your instructions?”

  “Yes.”

  As she waited, she could tell the large man had gone. The air around her grew less heavy as she took a deep breath. She was frightened for the first time in her adult life as she realized these people knew where she lived. That information was classified and a breech such as that was totally out of the realm of possibility.

  She reached down slowly and before touching the small box, she tapped it with her toe. It moved easily, meaning there was practically no weight to it. Then she picked it up. If they wanted to kill her, they could have done it quickly and quietly just now in her own front yard, so she gently shook it. There was something loose inside.

  “Jesus,” she mumbled as she placed her large bag on the walkway and then tore the brown packing tape from the top of the box. As she turned the box toward the weak front-porch light, she almost dropped it.

  “Oh, God,” she said as she saw the human finger with the red nail polish on it.

  CIA—LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Nancy Grogan was still shaken as she sat beside Stan Rosen in the director’s office. On the speaker phone was the forensics lab far beneath the main floors of the complex.

  “The fingerprint match has been confirmed as that of Agent Simpson. Blood type is the same as on file and we are currently running a DNA match from a sample she gave two years ago to alleviate any chance of print alteration.”

  “What are the chances of that?” the director asked as he tossed down the pen he was holding onto his desktop.

  “The old KGB had become quite adept at the science, but in this case, we figure it’s Agent Simpson’s finger. We can say that the agent was alive when her finger was amputated.”

  “Thank you. Please send me the results of the DNA match as soon as you get them.”

  Director Easterbrook looked from the speaker box to Nancy Grogan’s pale face.

  “Okay, what have we got on this theft in Denver?”

  “Stan Rosen is helping out on that end; he has an operations agent in the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. It was your influence that opened that particular door for Stan. The CBI will hopefully have whatever the local authorities have on the robbery.”

  The phone buzzed and Easterbrook’s secretary came on.

  “Sir, Director Grogan has a call from Montreal.”

  “Put it through.”

  “This is Grogan,” she said leaning forward in her chair.

  “If my superiors knew I was making this call, you know what would happen. As it is, they didn’t think to bug a hospital phone line.”

  “Mr. Alexander?” Nancy asked.

  “You have my regrets for not being able to better help Agent Simpson.”

  “This is Director Easterbrook, Mr. Alexander. You have our sincere apologies for this accidental foray onto your turf; I can assure you that this will never—”

  “Mr. Director, I have very little time and a very sore shoulder and back. Those bulletproof vests are not all that they are cracked up to be. Now, our people have picked up something that may help you, but this information comes with a warning. We believe Sagli and Deonovich were after two items, one of which they recovered from the château; the other, as you may already know if you have had contact with them, was stolen quite some time ago on your side of the border.”

  “How were you able to come across this in a burnt-out hulk of a mansion?”

  “We may not have all of your resources, but we still have reasonable deductive prowess, Ms. Grogan. The explosive charges were set in a specific room of the château. It housed only one exhibit, the personal artifacts belonging to Jenson P. Lattimer of Boston. This material is what was known on the museum tour as the Lattimer Papers. That coincides with your homicide in Seattle, Washington, of one Valery Serta, a logging magnate. The cause of death was brutal, the details of which you can, get from the Seattle PD. We don’t know why he was killed; however, cross-referencing his name in our data banks we came up with these Lattimer Papers and something about the man’s father and his arrival into North America sometime after the turn of the century. This information is pretty ordinary and we were able to obtain copies of the brief mention of his name, but the real prize was an incomplete artifact called the Petrov Diary. This diary somehow ended up in the hands of this Lattimer character of Boston, an old blueblood who placed them on exhibit in honor of a long lost uncle.”

  “You have saved us a lot of valuable time, Mr. Alexander; we are very grateful.”

  “Ms. Grogan, if this case leads back to Canadian soil, you and your agency are to stay home, I have convinced my superiors to let me handle the case from here. There will be no publicity on this side and I am working totally autonomously.”

  “Why would you think it will lead them back to your country?” Director Easterbrook asked, showing his anger.

  “Because Mr. Easterbrook, the Lattimer Papers referred to a lost treasure in the Canadian wilderness, and we suspect that is what Sagli and Deonovich are after.”

  An hour later, just moments before Director Easterbrook lifted the phone, it buzzed.

  “Sir, the president is on line one,” his assistant said from his outer office.

  “Yes, sir,” he said as he lifted the receiver.

  “Harmon, I just read this damn mystery novel you sent over. This has got to be a joke. Are you telling me these two Russians risked their lives to come to a hostile country for the sake of a treasure map?”

  “We are still collating data as we speak, Mr. President. We can’t be real sure of anything at this point, at least not until we can get a line on who stole that diary from Colorado.”

  “Well here’s a little nugget for you. With the Canadian Prime Minister threatening to go public with our little foray onto Canadian soil, he has cut off the flow of information from his end. You were lucky this Punchy Alexander here has closer ties with us than his agency does.”

  “Yes, sir, that is the one break we have gotten.”

  “Now, evidently we have an agent who may or may not be dead. I have a decision to make here, Harmon. I owe her brother a lot. Hell, everyone in this damn country does.”

  “Maybe I can help you with it if you would allow me to look at this man’s file.”

  “Forget it, no one sees the file on Jack Collins; don’t ask again. As it is, he has ties everywh
ere within our government. Now, I have to get word out to his boss to make sure he doesn’t get directly involved any more than his sister already has him. With what Agent Simpson passed along to you, it’s obvious we may have to flush a bad guy out of our own cornfield. Until we know what these bastards are up to, I’m going to keep Collins in the dark, no matter what his sister has asked him to do for her. Now you did good, Harmon, by bringing me and Jack’s boss onboard with this thing when you did, but the situation has now changed.”

  “The suspicions Agent Simpson brought to me involved her brother, and I knew Collins worked for you in some capacity. I believe he may know something we don’t about his sister’s suspicions; we need to contact him and brief—”

  “Mr. Easterbrook, it’s not just Colonel Collins; he happens to be affiliated with the most brilliant people in the world. If he gets wind of his sister’s predicament, believe me, he and his people will become involved. Now, get back to me when you have more; right now I have to make a call.”

  _______

  Across the Potomac River, the president of the United States hung up the phone and shook his head, which was beginning to ache. He reached out and slid over a small laptop computer and used a small key to unlock the lid. He raised the top and then hesitated. He took a breath and then used the cursor. He slid over to the only heading on the left side of the screen. It read 5656 in blue numbers. He clicked on the icon and then waited, knowing that the next face he would see would be that of Director Niles Compton, his friend, and the head of the blackest agency in government—the Event Group.

  EVENT GROUP COMPLEX

  NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA

  The large office had forty 56-inch monitors arrayed around its walls. One monitor, the largest at the center of the far wall was over one hundred inches in diameter. The large desk had four smaller pop-up monitors that comprised the communications link with the rest of the complex, and, of course, the commander-in-chief of the United States. The monitor on the far left illuminated and the seal of the president appeared as a warning to Niles Compton that the president was making a call to the complex.

  Niles lay down the proposal by the Nuclear Sciences Division, which recommended the department requisition a new electron microscope to replace an aging device before the restart of operations and field assignments. Compton wrote DENIED on the outer proposal sheet, knowing it would make Assistant Director Virginia Pollock angry as hell, but Niles knew that with all of the repairs to the facility underway, he could not squeeze any more funds out of an already stretched budget; after all, it’s not like they could file an insurance claim. Virginia’s department for the time being would have to bite it. Niles looked at the laptop screen and waited. Soon, the presidential seal was replaced by a test pattern, and then the face of his old college roommate, the president of the United States, appeared.

  “Mr. President,” Niles said, growing concerned at the stern look on the president’s face. This isn’t going to be a social call.

  “Niles, a problem has developed that concerns one of your people.”

  “Who?”

  “Colonel Collins, I’m afraid.”

  “Damn it, we really don’t need this right now. What’s the situation, sir?” he asked.

  “When we spoke and allowed Jack in on a certain operation being conducted at CIA, I really didn’t know how dangerous the individuals we were dealing really were and so I didn’t go into detail about Collins and his sister. What I am about to tell you is classified to the point that you are the only person to be told about it. I do not, I repeat, do not want the colonel to hear about this. At the very least, the situation is touchy—and it could turn deadly. Am I understood, Niles?”

  Niles didn’t want to commit to answering, but he knew his old friend well enough that if he didn’t respond the way he wanted him to, the president would clam up and not tell him what was going on.

  “Understood,” he finally relented.

  “Damn you, Niles, don’t you hand me that crap. Say it: You won’t tell Collins anything about this.”

  “No, sir, I won’t.”

  He could see by the president’s expression that the answer he gave was ambiguous at best, but his oldest friend pursed his lips and gave in to Niles, knowing the MIT grad could go all day long and not give him the correct answer to his question.

  “Okay, smart-ass, but I’ll hang you, friends be damned, if you tell Collins.”

  “So far you haven’t told me anything, Mr. President.”

  “The colonel’s sister has been kidnapped. Her field team was ambushed in Canada on the mission I was assured was just a criminal investigation, and she was taken by two very salty characters, Russians—ex-KGB.”

  “Jesus, and you don’t want Jack to know about this? We don’t even know why his sister contacted Jack. I figured it was just for advice on something.”

  “Damn it, Niles, this is a full-blown international incident. I’m not giving you any more details at this time, and you’d better not go digging around with Europa, either, or I’ll order the damn thing removed from your complex, is that understood?”

  The supercomputer, Europa, had been a gift to the Event Group from the Cray Corporation. The system was remarkable at breaking into other computers and gathering intelligence through backdoor spying, useful in getting information from around the world on university and privately funded archaeological digs. There were only four others like her, one at the NSA, the CIA, the FBI, and the Pentagon.

  “Again, your point is understood. However, I want it on record that I protest this order not to inform one of my people about something that affects him directly.”

  “Noted, Mr. Director,” the president said angrily, knowing Niles was trying to get pissy with him. “Follow orders here. You know, and I know, what would happen if the colonel found out. There would be trouble, and frankly, I don’t need it at the moment. I have every agency in the country working at getting her back, the Canadians are—” The president stopped, knowing he was giving his friend too much information. “I just wanted to alert you so you can break it to him if the end result is bad.”

  “Please keep me informed.”

  “I will,” the president answered, his gaze intense.

  Niles watched the screen go blank and then he closed the laptop. He replaced his glasses and didn’t hesitate a second before picking up the phone to the outer office.

  “Have Europa find Colonel Collins and get me his location in the complex.”

  Niles replaced the phone and then stood. He didn’t bother putting on his coat or his tie. He walked to the large double doors and made his way out to his assistant in the outer office to await the location of Colonel Collins.

  Jack had to be told immediately; the Event Group owed him that much. Regardless of what the president did to Niles personally for disobeying his order, the colonel would be told, or the talk they had had earlier wouldn’t be worth the breath used to say the words.

  As Niles waited, he knew he was about to open a tightly sealed can of worms, and that all hell was about to break loose when that seal was broken. He was about to unleash Jack Collins on the world of international crime.

  Jack was sitting with Sarah McIntire at the only lounge inside of the Event Group complex, The Ark, named after the Group’s most valued artifact. The Ark was situated on level eight, closest to the complex living quarters and was run by retirees from the Group. It was a place where they could all unwind without having to resort to taking the underground tram through gate two into Las Vegas.

  Sarah was cognizant of the few off-duty personnel who sat at the bar or tables situated farther away. She was tempted to slide her hand across the small round table and place it over Jack’s, but she restrained herself. The full bottle of beer sat untouched in front of the colonel as he continued to stare a hole through the tabletop. Sarah tempted fate and reached out for him, damn military etiquette.

  “Did the director have anything useful to say?” she asked a
s a way of making him at least look up at her.

  Instead of answering Sarah, Jack reached out and took her hand and stood, forcing her to do the same. He pulled her along to the far wall and stopped at the old-fashioned jukebox the Group had salvaged from a Philippine bar where the last songs played upon it were those heard the night of December 6, 1941. Jack had added a few of his records from his extensive collection, only because he was the only one in the entire complex who still had forty-five RPM records in his possession. He reached out and punched a few fake ivory numbers. Then he took Sarah by the waist and waited until the song started.

  “You never cease to amaze me, Colonel,” she said as she recognized the strains of Percy Sledge singing, “When a man loves a woman . . .”

  As Jack pulled her close to him, Sarah didn’t care who was present—she placed her head against his chest and allowed Jack to hold her tight. She didn’t know what was bothering him, but at that moment she only knew he was holding her and that, she figured, was all there was in the world.

  When the song finished, Collins leaned down and kissed Sarah, deeply and with a total disregard for where they were. For her part, Sarah almost collapsed into him. Finally, he released her and they walked back to their table. They didn’t notice the stunned gazes of the few Group personnel present as they sat down.

  Jack took her hand and squeezed it tight, and then he smiled. “Just small talk. You know Niles isn’t the warmest person in the world and he struggles when it comes to anything outside of the auspices of the Group. Personal issues aren’t his strong suit.”

  Sarah looked around her; the others inside The Ark were talking amongst themselves and were not paying them any attention. “What?” she asked trying to remember what they had been talking about before his public proclamation of his love for her.