The Archangel Project (24 page)

“If I came up with a scheme to trigger the implementation
of the Armageddon Plan,” said Jax as they crossed the lobby to push open the foundation's massive, brass-framed glass doors, “I think I might be tempted to call it the Archangel Project.”

October paused at the top of the institute's broad granite steps to glance over at him, her eyes narrowing against the hazy sun. “Do you honestly believe that's what this is all about? A plan to launch a fake terrorist attack someplace in New Orleans and provoke the Armageddon Plan?”

“It fits, doesn't it?”

“But why New Orleans? Why not someplace bigger, more important. Someplace like New York or L.A.?”

“I can think of several reasons to pick New Orleans,” Jax said. “What could be more despicable than terrorists hitting a city that's just beginning to pull itself back together after a devastating hurricane? Ever since Katrina, a lot of people in this country feel pretty emotional
about New Orleans. They've given up their vacations to go down there and gut houses and help rebuild. It's like they've adopted the city as their own. An attack on New Orleans would hit this country hard.”

“But I don't get it. You heard her. An attack on Iran has the potential to destroy the world as we know it. Why would anyone want to deliberately shatter the world economy and provoke World War III?”

“Because unless we're dealing with the nutcase Rapture crowd, the men behind this don't believe the consequences will be that severe.” Jax stared across the parking lot, toward where he'd left the BMW. At some point in the last half hour, a blue commercial van had backed in right beside him.

“Remember all the hype that led us into Iraq?” he said, his gaze on the blue van as they cut across the lot. “I'm not talking about the mythical WMDs or the nonexistent ties between Saddam and Osama. I'm talking about the fairy-tale assumptions that the Iraqi oil reserves would pay for the war, and that our troops would be greeted with flowers, and that a puppet government put in place by an invading army could somehow be called a democracy. Every analyst with any sense was warning that populations generally greet invading armies with bullets, not flowers, and that the destruction of Iraq's secular government would plunge the country into a brutal civil war and eventually bring the Shiites to power. But who listened? People believe what they want to believe, even generals and government leaders. You think Hitler expected what happened to him when he attacked Poland?”

October brought up one hand to lift the hair off the
back of her neck as heat and the stench of new tar roiled up at them from the blacktop. “Keefe,” she said. “That's what this is all about, isn't it? Defense contracts and oil leases. And because the Iraq War has exhausted our military, a new war with Iran will require even more reliance on mercenary outfits like GTS. Talk about a win-win-win situation.”

Jax nodded, still studying the van as they neared the edge of the parking lot. No one was at the wheel, but it was impossible to see into the paneled back. “It's inevitable that companies like Keefe and Halliburton will push for war,” he said. “It's where they make their highest profits. The men on their boards know their sons won't be the ones going off to die or be maimed, and thanks to all the tax cuts for the rich that have been pushed through in the last few years, it's us poor suckers in the middle who'll be left holding the bill. And if Dr. Gazsi is right and oil prices go through the roof, well, that's also a good thing for the Keefes and Halliburtons of this world, isn't it?”

“There's a big difference between pushing for war and setting off a bomb in an American city to provoke one.”

“It's a line that's been crossed before. Jewish terrorists blew up the King David Hotel in Jerusalem back in the forties, remember? And no one knows to this day who really set fire to the Reichstag in Berlin back in the thirties.”

She paused while he pointed his remote at the BMW and punched the button. “So what are they going to hit in New Orleans? The Crescent City Connection? The Superdome?”

“That's the problem, isn't it? We don't have a clue what they're going to hit or when they're going to hit it,” said Jax, reaching to open the passenger door for her. The passenger window was like a mirror, showing him the reflection of the haze-obscured sun and the image of the blue van that had pulled in beside him. “All we know is—” He broke off as he saw the van's panel door begin to slide open.
“Get down!”

Jax spun around just as the barrel of a silenced pistol appeared
in the opening door. But the guy in the van had miscalculated. He was right-handed, which made it awkward for him to open the door with his left hand and still be in the best position to shoot.

Lunging toward him, Jax grabbed the pistol barrel and twisted it straight up. He heard the man's hiss of pain, then the unmistakable crack of bone as the guy's finger caught in the trigger guard and snapped. Tightening his grip on the barrel, Jax jerked him out of the van.

The guy yelped. “What the—”

Jax swung him around and slammed him up against the side of the van. That's when he saw the second man crouched in the back. Bad Guy Number Two started to dive out, aiming for Jax. But October grabbed the man's arm and used his own momentum to smash him face first into the side of Jax's BMW. Blood poured from his broken nose. He sagged, stunned but not out, just as Jax wrested the gun away from the first guy.

Jax had to bring the pistol handle down three times on his head before he slumped, unconscious, to the blacktop. October kicked the second guy in the head and knocked him flying. He didn't get up.

“You're good,” said Jax, moving quickly to relieve both men of their guns, cell phones, and keys—anything to slow them down.

He straightened to find her inspecting the side of his BMW. “I don't think I dented it,” she said, a worried frown creasing her forehead.

Jax choked on a laugh and yanked open the door. “Let's get out of here.”

 

As soon as they were out of the parking lot, he put a call through to Matt. “You need to send someone to pick up Dr. Gazsi,” Jax said. “Fast. Some goons followed us here. They might decide to play it safe and silence her.”

“I'll get on it right away,” said Matt.

Jax glanced over to where October sat with her arms wrapped across her chest. “You okay?”

She nodded, turning her head to fix him with her frank brown-eyed stare. “Did you recognize either of those guys?”

“No. What do you think? That I know every hired thug in the country?”

“I don't really know anything about you, do I? You might have seen my file, but I haven't seen yours.”

“Maybe that's a good thing.”

She didn't crack a smile. “Is it? Tell me about the death squads in Colombia.”

He shifted gears. “What do you know about Colombia?”

“Bubba mentioned it.”

“Bubba has a big mouth.”

“So what happened?”

He shrugged. “I was up in the mountains, recruiting agents. As part of gaining the mestizos' trust, we were training some of the villagers in self-defense. The idea was to help them fight back against the rebels.”

“And?”

“One morning I was out working with a couple dozen men from a village when it was hit by a right-wing paramilitary death squad. They just swept in and started machine-gunning people. Men. Women. Kids. Everyone.”

“Why?”

“Why? I don't know. Maybe one of the men from the village had the nerve to start a labor union at the local Coca-Cola bottling factory. Or maybe some general wanted to drive them off their land so he could grow coca on it. It happens all the time.”

“So what did you do?”

“I had some old AK-47s I was teaching the men to shoot. I handed them out and we attacked, whooping and shouting like crazy. The death squad thought we were a rebel force and ran.”

She kept her gaze on his face. “And this guy Ross?”

“He was with the death squad. I recognized him because I'd seem him before. He was one of the Special Forces people around the ambassador.”

“You mean the American ambassador to Colombia?”

“That's right. Gordon Chandler. I went to the embassy and confronted him with the asshole's Special Forces beret.”

“And?”

“And he told me it was none of my business.”

“So you
punched him
?”

“I lost my temper.”

A crooked smile touched her lips.

“What?” he said.

But she just shook her head and turned away to gaze out the window.

 

They drove in silence for some time.

She continued sitting ramrod straight, her arms wrapped across her chest. There was a coiled quality about her, and suddenly he understood what it was about.

“You're nervous about this remote viewing, aren't you?” he said.

She swung her head to look at him. The late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the car window fell across her face and brought out the warm highlights in her hair, honey-touched with strands of caramel and sun-streaked flaxen. “Yes.”

“Are you usually nervous?”

“No. But I've never tried to do a viewing that was this important before. What if I can't do it? What if all I'm accessing is my imagination and it's all wrong?”

“Then we'll just have to figure out what's going on some other way.”

“What other way?” she asked, her gaze hard on his face.

But he didn't have an answer, and she knew it.

New Orleans: 6 June 12:25
P.M
. Central time

Tourak Rahmadad decided to stop by Mona's Café on Carrollton for lunch. Normally he loved eating the oyster po'boys and gumbo and crawfish étouffe that had made New Orleans cuisine famous. But not today. Today he wanted stewed lamb and baba ghanoush. Today he wanted comfort. He wanted to be reminded of home.

But the tendrils of nervousness in his gut made it hard to eat. He glanced at his watch. Six and a half more hours. He pushed his plate away and watched one of the old dull green streetcars clatter past on the grassy strip of the neutral ground.

He'd thought Dr. Hafezi might call to wish him luck, to tell him he'd do fine. But Hafezi hadn't called. Tourak had everything he needed. He had his press pass, his equipment. He knew what he had to do and how to do it. But Hafezi had always been so supportive, so encouraging. Tourak knew a vague sense of disappointment he tried to shake off.

He supposed it was possible Dr. Hafezi hadn't called because he knew he could trust Tourak, knew he would do a good job. Tourak sucked in a deep breath. He could do it. He just had to keep telling himself that.

He'd make his mother proud.

Silver Spring, Maryland: 6 June 2:30
P.M
. Eastern time

Once, Ed Devereaux had been a warrant officer in the
Army. He'd spent his entire career in intel, running agents in Southeast Asia and monitoring Soviet troop movements from Germany. Then he caught an assignment as a remote viewer at Fort Meade.

This was back in the seventies, when the program had the support of people like General Stubblebine, commander of the Army Intelligence Command. According to Matt, Devereaux had never been one of the best viewers, although he'd done respectable work. His wife died of breast cancer six months before he retired in 1981. Six months after that, he'd gone to become a priest.

Devereaux lived now in a white frame rectory on a leafy street in Silver Spring. He met them at the door, a small man with thinning gray hair and a gentle smile.

“Come in, come in,” he said, opening the door. “I have everything set up for you.” He led them toward a room at the back of the house. “I hope you'll understand my need to keep quiet about this. Somehow, I doubt my parishioners would be comfortable with the knowledge that their priest once walked on fire and attended spoon bending parties.”

“Henry told me about the spoon bending parties,” said October as they followed the priest down a short hall. “He said he could never do it. Could you?”

“Not very well, I'm afraid. But I saw people do it.” He put his hands together. “Now…there's a couch if you like to do your viewing lying down, or I've set up a table, if you prefer that.”

“I'll sit at the table. Do you have a pencil and a pad?”

“Yes, yes.”

She pulled out a chair and sat, while he scurried to assemble paper and a couple of pencils that he laid before her. “I also have Hemi-Sync tapes from the Monroe Institute, if you'd like to—”

“Thanks, but I don't need them.”

“Really? I always did.” He took the seat opposite her while Jax stood in the doorway, watching and listening.

She sat very straight, her eyes closing as she took a long breath. Jax could see her visibly relaxing, her breathing becoming deep and slow, her lashes resting thick and dusky against her golden cheeks.

“Good, Tobie,” said Devereaux, watching her closely. “Relax. Focus your attention on the Skytrooper.”

Her eyes flickered open. “You mean the photograph?”

“No. Not the photograph. The airplane in the photograph. That's the target.”

She closed her eyes again, her breath flaring her nostrils. “I see it. The fuselage is dark. Not shiny. I think it's dark because it's painted. Except for the underbelly. That's light. I can see a row of windows, but they're…empty.”

“Can you go into the plane?”

She nodded, her chest rising gently with each slow breath. “Curving walls. Cold. I'm not getting anything more. Just…fear.”

“That's okay. Step back from the airplane and look at it again. Do you see any kind of insignia?”

“A star? A circle? I can't be sure.”

“Good. Take another step back, Tobie. Tell me what you see around the airplane.”

“I see a large flat expanse reflecting the light. It's a sheet of water, I think, behind the plane…” She paused. “Except that it has grids.” Picking up the pencil, she began to sketch rapidly, barely looking at the paper, as if the images were simply flowing to her hand. “No. Not water. It's a window. A huge window, or maybe a modern building with glass sides. It's like the plane is flying in front of it.”

Jax knew a frisson of alarm. Oh, God, he thought. Airplanes and skyscrapers.

“There's a big round tube,” she said. “It runs up and across.” She drew the tube running up, then across, as if it were dangling in the sky.

“A tube?”

“Just a tube. I'm not getting anything else.”

“Okay, Tobie. Describe the surface you're standing on.”

Jax watched as a quiver of concentration passed across her face. He couldn't understand what she was seeing, or how. But in that moment he had no doubt that what she was doing was real.

“Concrete,” she said. “I'm standing on a semicircle of concrete. Hard. Gray. There's a railing in front of me, then it drops off. It's like I'm standing at the edge of a cliff.”

“Turn around and tell me what you see.”

“A black cylinder. A row of black cylinders.” She sketched them, one above the other, their function unclear. “They're not guns, they're too big around and short. But they're pointed at the plane.”

“What's behind the cylinders?”

“It's gray.” She hesitated, then shook her head, the ends of her hair brushing across her slim shoulders. “I'm not getting anything.”

“Okay. Turn around so you're facing the airplane again, then take a step closer to the edge and look down. What do you see?”

“Vehicles. Big green trucks. There are two of them…no, three. The first one is the biggest. It…it has only one wheel. A short, wide wheel. No, it's not a wheel, it's a tank tread. It's a tank. I can see the machine gun mounted on the top.”

Jax's brows twitched together. Maybe they were off base completely. This was starting to sound more like Baghdad than New Orleans.

“Good, Tobie,” said Devereaux. “What else?”

“The second vehicle is smaller, and the third one is even smaller than that. There's an anchor. But I don't think it's a boat. There's something big and boxy beside it. Gray.” She shook her head. “I'm not getting anything else from it. Just…fear again. It's as if the fear has bled into it, become a part of it.”

“Okay, Tobie. Now turn around and look behind you. What do you see?”

“Gray. It's all gray. It's like I'm in a big, gray, open space. I get the impression of concrete. More tubes. Girders. A building that isn't finished yet, or maybe a warehouse.” Her pencil scratched quickly across the next page of the pad, sketching. “There's another gun, bigger than a machine gun. It's like an artillery field piece, but it's old. It's—”

She broke off, her chair skittering across the floor as she surged to her feet. “I know what it is. It's not a warehouse. It's a museum. I'm inside a museum.” She snatched up one of the sketches. “These tubes are air-conditioning ducts.” She laid the pad down on the table, her gaze lifting to Jax's, her face oddly pale. “It's the National World War II Museum in New Orleans. But they don't have a Skytrooper there. They have only two planes, one's a British Spitfire and the other's a naval torpedo bomber, an Avenger. They have them suspended from the ceiling on cables. But there's no Skytrooper.”

Jax pushed away from the door frame. “Maybe they changed their display.”

“Are you kidding? Those things weigh tons. They don't change them.”

Jax was aware of Ed Devereaux, his gaze flicking from one to the other. “Isn't that the place they used to call the D-Day Museum?” asked the priest.

“Yes,” said October. “They changed the name after Katrina.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “What's the date today?”

“The sixth of June,” said Jax. “D-Day.”