Cosega Sphere (The Cosega Sequence Book 4) (22 page)

Rathmore stood in the dimly lit NSA situation room surrounded by massive monitors providing real-time images and data of the numerous crises swirling around the hunt for the Sphere. He stared disbelievingly at the young analyst who’d delivered the news that Professor Yamane was dead. “How? When?”

“Hawaii PD found his body behind a coffee shop across from the university campus forty minutes ago,” the analyst said. “No sign of foul play. Officer on the scene said it looks like a heart attack.”

“I’ll bet it does,” Rathmore scoffed. “How did they identify the body?”

“Wallet was in his pocket, driver’s license, credit cards, everything. Apparently the dean has been called to make a positive ID, but that hasn’t happened yet. No next of kin on the island.”

“I want every scientist who may have worked on anything having to do with the Sphere arrested, although don’t call it that. Refer to it as protective custody,” Rathmore said. “Do it now. We’re going to get this train back on track. Choo-choo, people, choo-choo!”

“Are you sure it’s wise to start arresting Nobel laureates?” Murik asked.

“I’ve got a dead professor, a vanished plane, and a blind kid hiding in a hospital,” Rathmore said. “I don’t know what the hell is wise. I’m not even sure what’s real anymore, but I do believe those scientists have the answers to all of this, and I intend to find out.”

“I’d like to hear the plan,” Murik said, “before your choo-choo turns into a train wreck.”

After the devastating news of Professor Yamane’s death and the disappearance of Asher’s plane, they still had one lead, and it was safely tucked down the hall—Dixon Barbeau. If anyone knew how Gaines and Asher had escaped and could find the duo, it was the ex-FBI agent who’d tracked them from the start and then let them go.

“Barbeau is my plan.”

“Barbeau’s been in custody,” Murik said, puzzled. “How is he going to help us find the plane, the Sphere, or Professor Yamane’s killer?”

“You know as well as I do that seven years ago Barbeau let them walk. We don’t really have a clue as to what he’s been doing since. Whatever it is, it’s a big secret, and he’s too damn cocky. My bet is he’s working for Booker Lipton. Speaking of which, any word from King?”

“His office says he’s caught in the Russia-China situation,” a technician replied. “The Unit’s been rerouted to Asia.”

“I’ll bet,” Rathmore sneered.

“What are you going to do?” Murik asked, tapping commands into his INU.

“Find that leech hole,” he barked at his team, then turned back to Murik. “This is a damned Scorch and Burn! I’m going to give Barbeau one last chance to cooperate, and if he doesn’t, he’s going to find out first hand about how well we’ve perfected our enhanced interrogation methods.”

“Sir, an update on the Russia-China conflict,” another technician interrupted. “The Chinese and Russian air forces are now engaging one another in the Sea of Japan. In addition, breaches of airspace have been increasing. The Chinese are moving missiles, and there has been a major bombing in the Russian border city of Vladivostok.”

Rathmore looked to Murik. “This is yours for the next hour. Send for me if we find Asher’s plane.”

“You do know the SEAL team is about to move on the hospital?” Murik reminded him.

“We’re going in with overwhelming force. It’s a Dark-Star unit. They never fail. They’re going after a blind, sedated, six-year-old girl,” Rathmore said. “Do you think you can handle that?”

“Hey, Claude, I’m CIA. That’s what we do,” Murik shot back. “I just thought you might want to micromanage because that’s what the NSA does.”

“I’m glad you think this is all so damned funny,” Rathmore said, pausing at the entrance of the situation room. “Just make sure we round up every last scientist, because I promise you that if we don’t, every single one of them is going to wind up dead or vanished.” The door closed behind him.

Murik, happy to be free of Rathmore’s heavy and tense approach to every situation, contacted his boss. After the call, he looked to prioritize the assignments. Although an outsider to the all-NSA staff, Murik was well-liked, and much more popular than Rathmore.

He consulted with the talent in the room as he handed out directives. The situation room and the converging events seemed to be brimming over with one crisis after another, each requiring crucial decisions. Perhaps the biggest question was how they were all connected. With Rathmore gone, Murik could use the NSA resources to focus on an aspect of the situation he had not shared with his gruff NSA counterpart.

The CIA was assisting the FBI in working a very disturbing case involving the recent disappearance of dangerous viruses from Centers for Disease Control and World Health Organization labs. For obvious reasons, it was being kept from the public, but Murik had other reasons for wanting to keep it from Rathmore. Murik did an unauthorized air-link of his INU to an NSA server. The illegal maneuver took about twenty seconds, and could have been completed only by a highly trained agent.

Murik juggled the updates and continued to watch the ever-changing monitors. The viruses, the escalating Russia and China war in Asia, the SEAL team about to take the hospital in Fiji, the continuing fruitless search for the disappearing plane, overseeing the rounding-up of Booker’s UQP scientists in Hawaii, and monitoring the investigation into the death of Professor Yamane.
As the events churned inside the NSA situation room, two pieces of information came in that Murik knew could make the difference in the fate of Gaines and his Eysen-Sphere.

Murik now had sole discretion as to how to handle the developments. He looked at the clock. He didn’t know how long he had until Rathmore returned, but it could be at any time.

He contacted his boss and ordered a strike on a little known island that was owned by a private company, which was owned by a small corporation, which was a subsidiary of another company, which was controlled by a known associate of Booker Lipton. The island was in the flight range, and on one of the projected paths of the Gulfstream which had been carrying Gale Asher.

Then he directed agents under his command to isolate a key group of the UQP scientists from the master list. The scientists were the core Sphere researchers. Murik wanted them as far away as he could get them from the mass NSA roundup. Rathmore had repeatedly stated how much was at stake with locating the Sphere, but really, he had no idea.

Rathmore hurried down the corridors and moved through several security zones until he reached the holding area. There, as instructed, was a bottle of Gentleman Jack Whisky, Barbeau’s favorite, or one of them. Rathmore cradled the bottle, along with a crystal glass, borrowed from some unknown source inside the NSA headquarters, and entered the interrogation room, where he found Barbeau sound asleep.

“Barbeau, waaake uuuup,” he sang. “Time to go to school . . . or would you rather PAR-TEEEEE?” he asked, clicking the glass against the bottle.

Barbeau forced his eyes open and found the unwelcome sight of two things he detested: alcohol and Rathmore. The former had already destroyed his life, and the latter seemed intent on doing it all over again.

“What do you want, Rathmore?” Barbeau asked, as if a subordinate had interrupted his vacation. “Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep? Which I must say is damned difficult under these awful fluorescents.”

“I brought you a nightcap,” Rathmore said, smiling as he swirled the amber liquid around inside the clear bottle of rare Tennessee whiskey. “Just a quick taste, what do you say?” Rathmore brightened his tone, as if offering ice cream to a toddler.

“Tempting,” Barbeau replied, “but even when I did drink, I had two rules: never drink alone, and never drink with loser pieces-of-garbage.” He glared at Rathmore, then in the tense silence, Barbeau slowly smiled and winked. “So even if you leave, and I wish you would, I still wouldn’t drink that piss water.”

“Oh, you’ll drink,” Rathmore said, his eyes burning through Barbeau. “You’ll drink even if I have to get you strapped to this damned table and force an IV into your arm.”

“Do it then,” Barbeau didn’t care. He assumed he’d be either dead or free within hours anyway, and it was beyond him to determine which it would be.

Rathmore stared at him while slowly twisting the top on the bottle until the black seal broke. He removed the cap and inhaled the powerful scent of aged alcohol. Then he tilted the bottle to Barbeau. “Just a sniff? That wouldn’t hurt anything. Just smell how good this is.”

Barbeau glanced indifferently at both the bottle and the man offering it, wondering if Rathmore really believed he was God, or if that had just become part of his shtick.

“I’m going to tell you a little story,” Rathmore said, setting the bottle on the table directly in front of Barbeau. “What if I told you that Booker Lipton put Gale Asher onto a commercial airliner in Fiji, which landed a few hours ago in Honolulu, and from there she boarded a private jet, a Gulfstream registered to a media company most likely controlled by Booker?”

“So?”

“Let me back up a minute.” Rathmore then told Barbeau about Cira and the fake plane crash into the ocean. “Sound familiar?”

“No.”

“Really?” Rathmore sneered. “It should.
You
helped them fake their deaths before with an aircraft crash.”

“Their helicopter blew up.”

“The point is that it was a farce, and you were in on it.”

Barbeau shook his head.

“Well, we followed the Gulfstream,” Rathmore continued. “We had F/A-18 Hornets all over it, satellite tracking, everything . . . ” He stopped talking when he saw Barbeau begin to smile. “What’s so funny?”

“You lost her. You were hoping she would lead you to Gaines so you let her slip away, all cocky and sure, and then boom, she disappeared on you.” Barbeau laughed loudly. “Why, hell, if that isn’t a cause for a drink.” He picked up the Gentleman Jack, inspected it, and took a long whiff. “Hmm, stronger than I recalled.” Still holding the bottle, he smiled broadly at Rathmore and chuckled again. “Where was she headed?”

“West coast,” Rathmore said begrudgingly. “Last projections pointed to San Diego, Arizona, maybe even into northern Mexico.”

Barbeau nodded.

“Why did you help them?” Rathmore asked, really wanting to say, “Where the hell are they?” He was certain that Barbeau knew, or at least had a very good idea. He also knew that Barbeau didn’t like him, and that he’d have to work around that and whatever motives Barbeau had for helping them in the first place if he had any hope of getting the ex-FBI agent to drop a clue.

“I didn’t help them, but perhaps you should be asking why
Booker
helps them.”

“He’s greedy. The Sphere is a profit machine that keeps him decades ahead of his competitors.”

Barbeau shook his head, remembering how he used to think the same way. “Do you believe our government is corrupt?”

“There’s corruption in every government. You can’t escape it. Corruption is built into the system.”

“What if it keeps growing?”

Rathmore shrugged.

“What if it grows out of control? What if it becomes larger than the system?”

“What’s this got to do with Gaines?” Rathmore asked impatiently.

“How come you can’t pick up Booker?”

“Booker is too big to get, you know that.”

“Too big to fail, too big to get, too big to stop?” Barbeau chanted.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, amused that Barbeau was rubbing his fingers over the smooth glass whiskey bottle, almost caressing it.

“The Sphere is too big to stop. It’s not something to hand over to HITE. It could swallow up our whole existence.”

Rathmore hid his shock that Barbeau knew about HITE. Only those with the absolute highest security clearances were made aware of the ultra-secret intelligence division.

“‘Swallow up our whole existence?’ Maybe you sniffed a little too much of that whiskey,” Rathmore said.

Barbeau nodded. “Maybe, but you’re so worried about where Gale Asher is that you fail to realize I just answered every question you’ve ever asked me.”

“What? How?”

“I’m not going to do your job for you, Rathmore. Go play the tapes over a few times and see if you can figure it out.”

“Where the hell do you get off being so smug? Do you
realize
how much trouble you’re in? A washed-up federal agent, a dry drunk, soon to be convicted of treason, and you’re acting all high and mighty as if you’re superior. Superior to what? You screwed up your marriage and couldn’t even get being a father right.”

Barbeau hardly flinched, but he managed to douse Rathmore with most of the Gentleman Jack before a guard got into the room and helped subdue him. Barbeau laughed as they cuffed him. “Good time to go ask your boss for that promotion,” Barbeau said, laughing harder. “Do you think he’ll believe that
you
haven’t been drinking?”

“I’m going to enjoy watching you fry,” Rathmore spat.

“Fry? I’ll be out of here before you can get the paperwork filled out,” Barbeau taunted. “The thing is, Rathmore, because you’re with the NSA, you think that you’re on the top of the food chain. You think no one can touch you. But you’re in a dog fight between F-35s and T-50s and all you have is a wrinkled paper airplane, not to mention you haven’t even noticed the starships closing in.” Barbeau felt a headache coming on, but let the fury of the moment carry him through.

“I’ll see you on death row,” Rathmore said, trying to blot the whiskey from his face as he stormed from the room.

“You fool,” Barbeau shouted to the door, as it bolted closed. “You don’t even realize
we’re all already
on death row!”