The bedrooms and den were in the same condition. In the kitchen, she found blood on the counter and along the floor. A discarded knife had blood on it as well, while a cricket bat had been broken in half where it had been smashed against a hard surface.
It looked as if Professor Cross had put up a courageous fight. The fact that he was gone and not lying dead in the house was both hopeful and ominous.
Hopeful because they might have a chance to save him if they could figure out where Barlow and his men were going next. Ominous because without the professor to help them, and the Writings of Qsn to clue them in, Morgan had no idea where that might be.
She stared at the cricket bat. “Sticky wicket,” she whispered. “Indeed.”
Returning to her car, she called Pembroke-Smythe and relayed the bad news. Her next call went out long-distance to Kurt Austin in America. She left a simple message. “Professor Cross has been abducted. His house has been destroyed. Hope you’re making better progress than I am.”
CHAPTER 46
Number One Observatory Circle, Washington, D.C.
Kurt appeared overdressed as he walked toward the gate of the large home on the grounds of the Naval Observatory. He wore a sharply tailored tuxedo, patent leather shoes and a black bow tie. His French-cuffed shirt was starched nearly to the point of being armor and his cuff links and matching studs were made of cobalt that had been mined from the bottom of the sea.
Before he reached the white-painted house with the green shutters, he stopped at a guardhouse and presented his ID to a member of the Secret Service. After being scanned with a metal detector, he walked up to the canted porch and was allowed into the house by a staff member.
“He’s out on the veranda,” she said. “He requested that you meet him there.”
Kurt was led through the formal reception hall and then through an elegantly appointed living room. From there, he passed through the garden room and out onto the back porch.
Number One Observatory Circle was the official residence of the Vice President of the United States. It was designed to support a family and guests, though for the last several years the only official full-time occupant was a confirmed bachelor.
Kurt found that bachelor on the back deck, puffing away on an impressive cigar.
“Mr. Vice President,” the assistant said. “Your guest has arrived.”
James Sandecker measured just over five feet six inches tall. Despite the lack of height, he commanded the attention of everyone who met him. He had a stocky build, an intense face and bright red hair. The perfectly trimmed Van Dyke beard on his chin was his calling card.
Before accepting the honor of becoming Vice President, Sandecker had built NUMA into the organization it was today. It had been his idea, based on a love of the sea, and he still took a special interest in its activities.
Sandecker nodded to the assistant and then stared at Kurt suspiciously. “You’re a little overdressed for a scuba diver.”
Kurt grinned like a wolf. “And I thought admirals wore white to formal occasions.”
“I’d prefer it,” Sandecker admitted. “On the other hand, your penguin costume has me concerned. Is there a reason you’re in a tux?”
“Thought you might need a wingman for the fund-raiser,” Kurt said. “Unless you already have a date for the party.”
Sandecker had an active social life and was in high demand on the Washington social circuit. His appointment to the Vice Presidency had brought oversight and restrictions that complicated his personal life to a degree, but, being a resourceful man, Sandecker had found ways around them.
“Number one rule of fund-raisers,” Sandecker said. “Never take a date to one of these things. It bores them to tears and makes the other women jealous.”
Kurt tapped the side of his head. “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever accidentally become a politician.”
Sandecker put the cigar back in his mouth, then blew a cloud of blue smoke out into the backyard. “What makes you think I need a wingman for tonight? I don’t recall sending you an invitation.”
Kurt had expected the question and was ready with his response. “My first month at NUMA you had me extract you from a tedious gala where agency Directors were forced to spend the night schmoozing with Congressmen and Senators in hopes of getting larger budgets for the following year. I recall you suggesting my job prospects depended on how successful I was.”
“That they did,” Sandecker said. “Fortunately for you, you didn’t let me down.”
“Glad to hear it,” Kurt said. “Now, the way I figure it, if there’s anything worse than a gaggle of Congressmen and Senators looking to be fawned over, it has to be lobbyists and money donors who want to suck the life out of you before handing over a dollar. Which makes tonight’s gala even more of a torture test.”
Sandecker preferred blunt, straight-to-the-point talk, something in short supply since he’d become a politician. He appreciated Kurt’s assessment. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “But I’m the Vice President now. I can fake a national emergency if I need to get away.”
Kurt adjusted his cuffs. “You could,” he said. “But you wouldn’t do it right out of the gate. Bring me along and I’ll tell you a story to help pass the time. You’re going to like this one. It begins with lost Egyptian treasure, ends with a pilot unknown to history who crossed the Atlantic on his own a few weeks before Lindbergh.”
“What’s on tap for the middle part?”
“A beautiful English agent, a group of arms dealers who’ve been making my life extremely difficult for the last few weeks and intrigue at every turn.”
Kurt noticed Sandecker’s eyes glinting in the light. He’d momentarily stopped puffing on the cigar, but it remained clenched between his teeth.
“Or,” Kurt suggested, “I could leave you to the special interest groups and send you a written summary next week.”
Sandecker released another cloud of smoke, aiming this one upward into the still night air. It formed a perfect ring before dissipating. “Don’t be so hasty,” he said. “Can’t hurt to bring you along. I’ll get you an earbud and we’ll pretend you’re with the Secret Service. Who knows, someone might shoot at me tonight. But first I want to know what the objective is. What are you after?”
“What makes you think I’m after something?”
Sandecker laid the cigar down carefully, placing it in an ashtray and allowing it to go out naturally rather than mashing it, which would cause it to smoke bitterly.
“Kurt,” he said like a knowing father. “If you’re going to survive in Washington, you’re going to have to become a better liar. Tonight will do you some good. Some of these people could teach a master class in the art of untruthful speaking.”
Officially invited, Kurt offered a slight bow as if to say, Lead on.
The two men walked to the front of the house and stepped out under the portico. In his previous position as head of NUMA, Sandecker had pointedly refused to be chauffeured around in limousines, avoiding them as if they were a sign of the Apocalypse. Maintaining that independence wasn’t as easy now that he was Vice President. Official functions demanded official transportation. And while this was technically a private affair, the agents on Sandecker’s protection detail were as stubborn as he was.
“Morris,” Sandecker said, speaking to the lead Secret Service agent. “I won’t be in need of your services tonight.”
“Are you canceling the fund-raiser?”
“No,” Sandecker said. “I’m using Kurt here for close protection.”
Morris didn’t bat an eye. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vice President. With all due respect to Mr. Austin, I can’t allow you to go alone.”
Sandecker exhaled a dissatisfied grunt. “So much for wielding the reins of power. What’s the minimum detail that won’t get you fired?”
“The driver and myself.”
“Fair enough,” Sandecker said. “Let’s go.”
Morris called for the VP’s car and a larg
e black sedan pulled up to the front of the house. From the outside, it appeared to be a Cadillac with all the right badges. Underneath, it was actually a purpose-built armored vehicle. It rode on a truck chassis, weighed nearly twenty thousand pounds and was protected by five-inch-thick bulletproof glass, along with layers of steel, ceramic plating and Kevlar.
Kurt and Sandecker climbed in the back, Morris got in the front with the driver and the armored vehicle began to move off.
“Comfortable?” Sandecker said, settling in across from Kurt.
“Beats the crosstown bus,” Kurt said. “Mind if I have a drink? Max says I’m dehydrated.” He reached toward a small refrigerator.
“That fridge won’t help you,” Sandecker warned.
Kurt had already pulled it open. Instead of cold beverages, he found clear bags of red liquid hanging inside. Labels stuck to the bags were covered in fine print, the name SANDECKER sticking out prominently. “Did you become a vampire since the last time we met or—”
“It’s my own blood,” Sandecker said.
“That’s only slightly less creepy.”
“They draw liters of the stuff every other month,” Sandecker explained. “It starts right after you take office. It goes with me wherever I travel, in case something terrible were to befall me and I needed a transfusion on the way to the hospital.”
Kurt closed the door, noticing now that a placard on the outside read MEDICAL SUPPLIES. “I see.”
“They used to keep the stuff in the trunk,” Sandecker explained. “But I pointed out, that wouldn’t do me much good if we got rear-ended by a suicide bomber or hit in the tail with an RPG.”
Kurt sat back while Sandecker opened a different refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. It even had the Vice Presidential seal on it. “You can keep the bottle as a collector’s item. Might be worth ten cents someday.”
As Kurt twisted the cap off, Sandecker opened another compartment and plucked a big cigar from a humidor. “Had this installed myself. More important than the blood bank.”
Kurt had to laugh.
“Now,” Sandecker said, lighting the cigar, “tell me the story.”
Kurt relayed the details in a conversational way, leading Sandecker into asking questions, piquing his interest with cliff-hangers and answers. As they pulled up to the fund-raising venue, Kurt threw out the final hook, explaining how the Writings of Qsn had once been on American soil but that the truth about those who’d smuggled the tablets remained hidden in files he couldn’t access.
Sandecker sat back, eyeing the crowd outside the Potomac Club and taking one last puff of the cigar, before making a critical decision. He pressed an INTERCOM button and said to Morris, “Change of plans,” he ordered. “Take us to the J. Edgar Hoover Building.”
“Now, Mr. Vice President?”
“Yes,” Sandecker said. “Now.”
“But it’s almost ten o’clock.”
“It’s the FBI,” Sandecker said. “They don’t close up shop for the evening.”
CHAPTER 47
J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.
The façade of the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue was made up of concrete blocks and deep-set square windows. It was an architectural style known as Brutalism. And while there were plenty of government edifices of similar design, it seemed most appropriate for the one named after the power-hungry former Director of the FBI.
Even on the brightest day, FBI headquarters was an imposing sight. At night it was like approaching a fortress.
The décor inside was slightly warmer, if still unmistakably government-issue—bland furniture, secured steel doors and a long desk where every visitor had to be identified and checked in, even the sitting Vice President.
The desk administrator, whose name was Trotter, was young, with limited managerial experience—as those placed on the night shift usually were. He seemed perplexed by the situation. He’d had agents appear in the middle of the night, seen suspects or witnesses brought in under cover of darkness, even had the occasional lunatic try to bust into the place claiming that Elvis or Santa Claus was being held captive there, but he’d never had a sitting Vice President stop by for an after-hours visit.
“I’m not sure what to tell you, Mr. Vice President,” he said. “The Director and the Assistant Directors have all gone home. Perhaps you could have one of them look into these files in the morning?”
“Not necessary,” Sandecker said. “I’m here tonight. I just need one of your archivists.”
Kurt offered some additional advice. “What we really need is someone who knows how to access the older files and records.”
“And you are?”
“Kurt Austin, Special Projects Director at NUMA.”
“The underwater guys?”
“That’s us.”
Sandecker took over the conversation. “We’re wasting time. Before you get all worried, we just need to look at some files from the early 1900s. Nothing political, nothing relating to anyone living today, just historical information we’ll be accessing on my clearance.”
Trotter rubbed his hands together and exhaled. The FBI had been dragged into politics way too often in the past decade, but it was unlikely that files from the early 1900s could stir up much of a hornet’s nest. And it was the Vice President asking. “Ms. Curtis would be your best bet,” he said. “And you’re in luck because she’s still here.”
He pulled out a pair of visitor badges, felt odd handing one to the Vice President, but had the two men sign in anyway.
“Something strange about the way he said ‘in luck,’” Sandecker noted.
Kurt nodded. He’d noticed it too.
Trotter used a radio to summon Ms. Curtis and then buzzed them through. “She’ll meet you in the inner foyer,” he said. “Try not to make her mad.”
Kurt attached the visitor badge and followed Sandecker through the inner doors to the second foyer. “Wonder what he meant by that?”
“We’re about to find out,” Sandecker said.
The doors at the far end opened and Ms. Curtis joined them. She was a thin woman, fit and strong for seventy-five years of age. She wore a beige ankle-length skirt, a green top and comfortable sensible shoes. A pair of reading glasses with purple frames dangling from a sparkling chain rested against her chest.
“Hmm,” she said as if surprised or unimpressed. “And I thought this was one of Gary’s late-night jokes. What can I do for you, Mr. Vice President?”
“Glad you recognized me,” Sandecker said.
“Oh, you’re easy to spot,” she said. “You’re colorful.”
Kurt did his best to suppress a laugh.
“We’re looking for some very old files,” Sandecker said. “And once we find them, we may need to wake the Director and clear the viewing of them. That way, you won’t get in trouble for showing them to us. If he gives you any guff, I’ll take the blame.”
“It’s okay,” Ms. Curtis said. “I’m not afraid of the Director. He and I have an understanding.”
Kurt stepped forward. “Kurt Austin,” he said, introducing himself. “You can call me Kurt.”
“Miranda Abigail Curtis,” she said in response. “You can call me Ms. Curtis.”
This time it was Sandecker who struggled not to laugh.
Ms. Curtis turned and waved them forward. “This way, gentlemen.”
They followed her to the far end of what seemed an endless white hall and stepped onto an unadorned elevator, which took them down four levels to the sub-basement of the building. Stepping out of the elevator, they entered a huge open storehouse. It ran under the entire building, covering nearly five acres of space, every square foot of it filled with numbered cabinetry.
The FBI had used this underground vault almost since its inception, adding more storage as time went on. Not all the filing cabinets matched since they’d been purchased and installed at different times over the decades. As Kurt looked at a map of fire exits on a bulletin board, he co
uld see that the layout was circular, with spokes meeting in the center, like a spider’s web.
“Welcome to my parlor,” Ms. Curtis told them as if channeling his thoughts. “The records hall spans the width of the building and the entire space beneath the courtyard right up to Pennsylvania Avenue. We have nearly fifteen million files stored down here, an estimated seven thousand tons of paper. And that doesn’t include computer files or other evidence, which is stored elsewhere.”
“So,” Kurt said. “Do you use the Dewey Decimal System or—”
She fixed him with a withering glare. “Something tells me you were a troublemaker in school, Mr. Austin. We knew how to deal with that type of attitude back in my day.”
“I’ll try to behave,” Kurt said.
“You do that,” she said. “Now, how old are these files you’re looking for?”
“From the 1920s,” Kurt said.
“Then we’ll have to use the old computer,” she said. “Not everything has been brought up to date.”
The streets of Washington were home to more security cameras, motion sensors, security guards and police officers than perhaps any other spot on earth. That was especially true on Pennsylvania Avenue, with its abundance of government buildings. But what the banks of cameras, sensors, guards and police on the street had missed, what even the Vice President’s Secret Service agents and Kurt Austin had not taken notice of, was a large crow sitting on an outstretched branch of a tall tree across from the entrance to the FBI building.
They hadn’t seen it fly down the street or noticed it landing. Nor had anyone questioned what a daylight-loving bird like a crow would be doing out in the middle of the night. Neither had they seen an identical bird sitting atop a streetlight a hundred yards down the road.
The crow in the tree and its twin on the pole were mechanical devices made of lightweight Space Age materials and powered by the next generation of compact lithium-ion batteries. They flew like regular birds, flapping their wings when taking off and gliding when they had enough altitude. They perched and even squawked like the real thing once they had landed. But their iridescent eyes were actually powerful cameras capable of seeing in regular wavelengths and infrared. Hidden in their beaks were sensitive microphones capable of picking up voices at long distances when pointed in the right directions.
Journey of the Pharaohs - NUMA Files Series 17 (2020) Page 23
