The Phoenix Egg

by Richard Bamberg

  THE PHOENIX EGG

  Richard A. Bamberg

  Text Copyright © 2005 Richard A Bamberg

  Text Copyright © 2017 Richard A Bamberg

  All Rights Reserved

  Published in the United States of America

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  First Edition published in 2005 by Invisible College Press.

  Second Edition published in 2017by Verðandi Press

  Cover images by LaVie Photography, Seattle WA

  ISBN-13: 978-0692572955 (Verðandi Press)

  ISBN-10: 0692572953

  9876543210:

  DEDICATION

  This novel, like all of them, is dedicated to my friends and family.

  .

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With grateful thanks to Rene’, Robert, Del, and DeAnna.

  .

  CHAPTER 1

  Fog rolled in from the Pacific, deepening the twilight gloom of Darwin Street. Lights came on in the Victorian townhouses, and a shadow passed across the curtains of the second floor of 3909.

  In the darkness between the globular illuminations of street lamps, a white minivan with a PP&G logo idled at the curb. From the rear of the van, John Blalock, a muscular, compact man, could see the front of number 3909 and even the shadows on the second floor. However, John concentrated his attention on a pair of computer screens. On one screen, encrypted data flowed in a gibberish stream of alphanumerics, on the other deciphered text revealed the true purpose of the man in the townhouse.

  John manipulated the image, revealing that the text flowed down still another screen. Another man sat at that terminal. Tom M. Blevins, a balding computer programmer who upon turning forty had taken to augmenting his income through the sale of company secrets. The image panned right and took in a cluttered office. Books were stacked on every surface; crumpled fast food bags littered the floors overflowing a little plastic trash can, and green light from a thirty-gallon aquarium reflected garishly off the walls.

  John typed, and the screen of encrypted text split on the horizontal and a decrypted version appeared on the lower half. John studied the data for a moment and then smiled as he had seen enough. He took mirrored shades from the desk and slipped them on until they touched the gold contacts on what looked like an antique hearing aid hanging over his left ear. The image from Blevins’ townhouse appeared on the left lens.

  He opened the side door, snatched his overcoat from the chair, and stepped down to the sidewalk. While scanning the street, he slipped the coat on and rolled the collar up until it touched the brim of his battered Henschel hat. A row of parked cars lined both sides of the street and disappeared into the fog, but he was alone. He left the coat unbuttoned, slid the van’s door closed, and triggered the remote locks.

  At the front door of the townhouse, John glanced around, seeing no one, he pulled a pair of steel picks from a case and knelt in front of the door. Although he’d worked this lock a couple of days earlier, breaking and entering was never easy when his thick fingers had to manipulate the delicate picks. His teeth clenched as though that would help make the pins align. The last one lifted into place, and he rotated the lock. The bolt slid back with a soft clack. He exhaled softly.

  John stowed the picks and stood. He aimed a small silver case at the LED on the door’s security panel and pressed its only switch. The case transmitted a series of signals, and the LED shifted from red to green

  He slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

  A single low wattage bulb barely illuminated the faded print of tiny blue birds in the wallpaper. A pair of doors led to the left, and a narrow set of stairs went up the right-hand wall. The air smelled of garlic and spices from Chinese takeout. John listened. The townhouse was quiet save for the soft bubbling of an aquarium pump. He closed the door and climbed the stairs.

  The stairs had groaned with his weight on his first visit. This trip John kept his feet close to the wall. At the upper floor, he paused in the hallway. The image in his sunglasses showed Blevins hadn’t moved. John stowed the glasses in his shirt pocket.

  Moving slower, listening, careful of every step, he crept down the hallway toward the only room with a light on. As he drew near, he could hear Blevins typing on a keyboard.

  John’s hand went to his belt and detached a foot long metal rod. Holding it behind him in his right hand, he stepped into the doorway.

  Blevins hunched over the computer screen. Five steps before John reached him, the man reacted.

  Whirling toward John, he reached under his jacket.

  “Don’t,” John said and took another step.

  Blevins didn’t reply, but metal glinted in his emerging hand.

  John snapped the telescoping baton its full length and lunged forward. His hand swept upward and chopped the weighted baton against Blevins’ fingers.

  Blevins uttered a single a cry of pain, dropped a small revolver to the floor, and yanked his injured hand back. Without hesitating, Blevins stood and jabbed at John’s face with a left. John blocked the blow with his raised forearm. When Blevins followed up with a right cross, John slashed downward.

  A bleat of pain followed the sharp crack of breaking bone.

  Blevins backed away, holding his wrist. “My arm. My arm. You son of a bitch. You broke my arm!”

  “I warned you.” He followed Blevins step for step at a safe distance.

  Blevins backed up until he reached a table with a heavy brass lamp. He turned, grabbed the lamp with his good hand, and swung at John’s head.

  John ducked as the base of the lamp swung past him and hit with the baton. The first blow caught Blevins’ left knee and the second caressed his temple as he fell. The lamp left Blevins’ hand and crashed out a front window showering glass onto the sidewalk below.

  Blevins lay on the floor, temporarily stunned.

  John stood over him for a moment, waiting for another attack. But Blevins had had enough.

  John collapsed the baton and jammed it back into his belt.

  Turning toward the computer, John hit the switch on the power strip. He removed a pair of snips from a jacket pocket and quickly cut all the cables leading to the computer.

  With a wary eye on Blevins, John took a trash bag from another pocket and ransacked the desk for disks. When he had all of them in the bag, he tied the end in a knot and set it on top of the computer.

  Blevins rolled over and sat up. He made the mistake of trying to use his right hand and let out a little screech.

  John turned to face him. “
You know who I am?”

  Blevins nodded.

  “Then you know you’re getting off easy this time. If I run into you again, I won’t be as forgiving. Either find another line of work or another state to work in.”

  He paused. Blevins’ face gave no indication that he had understood. John pulled out the baton and snapped it into extension.

  Blevins’ eyes widened. He nodded his head slowly.

  “That’s better.” John collapsed the baton and stowed it again. He lifted the trash bag in one hand and the computer in the other.

  The hair on his nape tingled. Then he saw what his subconscious had already noticed, a shadowy movement in the aquarium. Not the fish. A reflection, at the door, behind him.

  Without turning, John dove over the desk as a gunshot thundered behind him. He scrambled around; groping for the gun Blevins had dropped. Another gunshot and splinters flew from the desk near his head. John flattened.

  Where was that damn gun? He could have sworn it fell right here. His hand brushed cold metal. Instantly, his fingers tightened around the barrel. John drew the gun toward him even as his head twisted to find the shooter. Still on the floor, he could see beneath the desk. Past dust bunnies and a discarded candy wrapper, he saw a pair of shoes near the door.

  Rotating the revolver in his hand, John aimed and fired in one quick motion.

  He missed, and the shooter’s feet disappeared through the doorway before John could get off a second round.

  “What’s the matter asshole?” John taunted. “Don’t go away mad, the party’s just starting.”

  He held his breath, his gun aimed at the open door, and he waited for the shoes to reappear.

  “I’ve got all night,” John said. “But you know someone’s called the police by now. Give yourself up before they get here. They don’t have to know you were trying to kill me. A little corporate espionage will only get you three to five, attempted murder will get you ten to fifteen.”

  No reply. John glanced over at Blevins. The geek still held his broken wrist.

  The man met his gaze, and John smiled at him. “Suit yourself. I’m sure Blevins can work a plea bargain and get off if he turns you in.”

  Blevins panicked. “No, he’s lying. I wouldn’t do that. Honest, you know me better than that. I’d never–”

  The gunshot that opened a hole in Blevins’ head stopped his protest.

  Blevins sagged back against the wall like a scarecrow without its magic.

  John swung back toward the door, too late. He could hear footsteps pounding down the hall.

  He leapt to his feet and rushed to the door. The hallway was empty. Had the killer run down the stairs or was he waiting for John to step into the open?

  His ears still rang from the blast of the gunshots, but he thought he heard the creak of the stairs. John flicked the lights off and stepped into the hall. He crept forward, the revolver pointed at the top of the stairwell. Halfway down the hall, he heard the front door slam.

  John walked to the top of the stairs and looked around the corner. The killer would want to be long gone before the police arrived and he could already hear sirens in the distance.

  John took a deep breath. Lowering his weapon, he returned to the upstairs office.

  Blevins hadn’t moved. His dead eyes stared accusingly at John. To the right company, the patent for what Blevins stole was a multimillion-dollar jackpot, to Blevins, it was a one-way ticket to the grave.

  John set Blevins’ revolver on the desk and went outside to wait for the police.

  CHAPTER 2

  Scott Corning signed out in the Los Alamos National Laboratory visitor’s log and passed his temporary security badge to the nearest guard.

  “Sir, your briefcase.”

  Scott glanced up and barely avoided flinching when he caught sight of the disturbingly ugly mole on the guard’s thick neck. Covering his reaction with a cough, Scott set his briefcase on the counter. He flicked the latches and swung open the top, the guard briefly inspected the interior.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Scott mumbled a “you’re welcome” to the shorter man, but the guard’s attention had wandered off. He closed his briefcase and left by the double glass doors that led to the parking lot.

  Outside, the cold afternoon air immediately fogged his glasses. Scott tugged a neatly folded handkerchief from the breast pocket of his wool suit and wiped off the fog as he crossed the parking lot. It’d be dark soon, and he wanted to get down the mesa before the roads worsened. He got behind the wheel of the Taurus and set the briefcase on the seat next to him. He backed out of the parking space and turned toward the gate. At the traffic light, he turned left across the concrete and steel bridge that spanned the canyon between the laboratory and the town of Los Alamos. Once across the bridge, he turned right onto state highway 502 that lead south through town, past the small airfield, and then down the mesa to Santa Fe.

  Back in the early days of Los Alamos, they carved the road out of the piñon and mesquite covered mesa wall and had never really improved on the original work. The ride gave a beautiful view of the valley and the other mesas, but Scott had seen it many times before and the vista had become mundane. The afternoon rush of people from the lab had passed, and the road was nearly deserted. Ice formed on his radio antenna and made inroads on the windshield even though he had the defroster on full.

  Black ice might be forming on the road, but Scott had to consciously force himself to keep his speed below forty. The deal had taken the better part of two years to arrange, but now that it was finally a go, he had to stay on top of things.

  Nearly halfway down the mesa he rounded a curve and had to slow as a delivery truck pulled onto the road from the shoulder, blocking his lane. Belching dense black smoke from its exhaust, the truck slowly accelerated. Scott hung back as they entered a series of curves.

  They were doing less than 20 mph. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. He cursed under his breath and sounded his horn.

  There was no response from the truck.

  “Damn fool. There’s no excuse for this. It never fails. Anytime I’m in a hurry I encounter some moron putzing along.”

  Scott started around the truck but pulled back in immediately. They were in a long sloping curve to the right, and he couldn’t see more than a hundred feet ahead. He was in a hurry, but he wasn’t crazy. In about a mile, the road straightened out for a short stretch, and he could easily pass the truck there. Might as well relax, he told himself.

  The dash clock read after six, Caitlin’s meeting with the new clients should be over. He clicked the power button on the cell phone.

  “Dial Caitlin,” Scott said and waited for the connection.

  ***

  The sun was a ball of crimson fire, only half-seen above the distant horizon. Its light gleamed off the bridge and bathed the aircraft carrier passing beneath it with a ruddy glow. The bridge dwarfed the carrier, which in turn dwarfed the score of sailboats that flanked its passage through San Francisco’s Golden Gate. Caitlin Maxwell stood at the railing. She held her drink in one hand and clutched her linen jacket together with the other. Although she was nearly a thousand feet above the breakers, the wind bore the distinctive briny odor of the sea.

  Dean Koenig touched her elbow, and her raven hair fanned out to the side when she turned to him.

  “Magnificent view isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Magnificent? It’s like looking down on the mortals from atop Mount Olympus.”

  The observation deck at the top of the Pacific Rim Suites, built on what had been the officer’s housing complex of Presidio Army Post, enjoyed an immense panoramic view of the coastline, the Bay, and the city. From the northeast corner, Caitlin could see the hills around Napa Valley, the green oasis of distant Muir Woods, and the gray skyline of Oakland. The foreboding walls of inescapable Alcatraz were visible to the left of Coit Tower. To seaward, the windblown cliffs on the western edge of the peninsula held dozens of homes that
teetered on the brink of destruction as if waiting to plummet to the surf during the next winter storm.

  “Mount Olympus? You missed your calling, Caitlin. You should have been a poet.”

  She chuckled, faint and melodious. “No, I tried poetry. I never had the feel for it. Poetry requires a measure of innate talent that I lack.”

  “I find it hard to believe you lack anything,” the voice came from behind her.

  She turned to greet Carl Teigue. The meeting with Teigue and Koenig on Caitlin’s improved data interface had gone into overtime, and they’d moved from the main floor lounge to the hotel’s rooftop bar. On the third round of drinks, the men concluded that the packaging Caitlin had offered them two hours earlier was exactly what they needed.

  Caitlin felt certain they had made up their minds before coming upstairs. She’d seen the surreptitious glances that passed from Koenig to Teigue as he proposed they adjourn to the bar. The blue-eyed Teigue, at thirty-two, was married, but the forty-four-year-old Koenig was a perennial bachelor and Caitlin had known since lunch that he was going to try to entice her back up to his apartment.

  She wasn’t sure what her response would be. Still, the obvious attraction he showed was flattering and reminded her that it’d been six months since her last physical encounter with a man. That had been the start of her separation from Scott. Maybe she had spent too much time worrying about business and not enough enjoying life.

  Teigue was saying something Caitlin could scarcely hear over the wind. “It’s been a pleasure, Caitlin. I have to run, or Sandra will worry about me.”

  Caitlin let go of her jacket and took his extended hand. The crisp February wind whirled the material out from her thin silk blouse. Goosebumps popped out along her arms. She suppressed a shiver. “That’s all right, Carl. It was nice to meet you. I’m looking forward to working with you.”