The Archangel Project (11 page)

Michael Hadley was in a foul mood. His eye hurt. His head
hurt. His shoulder was stiff. But more than anything, last night's debacle had stung his pride. He was a Navy SEAL, for Christ's sake. He'd been trained to kill. Had killed, more times than he could remember. And a pathetic, psycho loser of a girl had beat the shit out of him.

He pecked at the keys of his laptop, then let out his breath in an explosive sound that brought Palmer's head around.

“What is it?”

“She cleaned out her bank accounts this morning as soon as the bank opened.”

Palmer stood up so fast he knocked his chair over. “What the hell? Those accounts were supposed to be frozen.”

“It took a while to get through to our contacts. The directive reached the bank about a minute too late.”

Palmer swore long and hard. “And the taps on her friends' phones?”

“They should be in place by noon.”

Lance came to drum his fingers on the edge of the table. “It shouldn't take long now.”

Hadley wasn't so sure. “She seems to be playing it smart. She hasn't called anyone.”

“She will. So far she's been lucky. But she's going to make a mistake, sooner or later. And when she does, we'll nail her.”

 

Leaving her Bug in a lot at the edge of the Quarter, Tobie pushed her way through the crowds toward Jackson Square.

With each step, she penetrated deeper into a different world, a world of narrow shady streets and Creole buildings of worn brick and crumbling plaster, where banana trees were draped over iron gates and fountains whispered unseen from hidden courtyards.

As she neared the leafy outlines of the square, she could hear a speaker's voice coming loud and clear over Gunner's PA system. “The ancient buildings of this city are a priceless heritage that the people who run New Orleans are willing to squander in the name of greed,” said a woman, her voice throbbing with indignation. “They say it's the only way to get this city back on its feet, to prevent the blight left by the storm from becoming permanent, and to provide our people with jobs. But who's going to want to visit New Orleans once the very buildings that make this city unique have been knocked down to make way for some tacky casino and another dozen high-rise hotels that could be anywhere? Where will the jobs be then?”

A rousing cheer rippled through the growing crowd.
Squinting against the morning sun, Tobie was about to cross the street when she saw a sign propped in the dusty window of a shop near the corner:
PREPAID CELL PHONES. NO CREDIT CHECKS. NO HASSLES.

Changing direction, she ducked into the store and bought one.

 

Tobie circled the square, her gaze scanning the crowd. She could see Gunner Eriksson fiddling with the wiring of his PA system at the edge of the square. She sometimes wondered what the activists and agitators of New Orleans would do without Gunner Eriksson and the PA system he carted around in his old Chevy van. She made sure no one was watching him before she approached and said quietly, “Gunner, I need to talk to you.”

He swung around, his mouth going slack. A tall, tow-headed Swede originally from Minnesota, he looked like he'd be more at home at the helm of a Viking ship cutting through iceberg-filled northern seas than in the steamy heat of New Orleans. “Tobie!”

“Not so loud.” She threw a quick glance at the people milling about them. “Can we go someplace quieter?”

“Come over here.” Taking her arm, he drew her out the gates to the narrow alley that ran alongside the cathedral. “Pia called me,” he said, swinging to face her. “She said you're running from the FBI.”

“They could be FBI. I don't know.” Tobie shivered and clutched her arms across her chest. It was cooler in the alley, the air scented by the ancient dank stones of the old Spanish buildings around them. “I need
you to tell me what you know about Keefe Corporation.”

His blue eyes opened wide. “Keefe? You think Keefe has something to do with this?”

“I'm not sure. Their name was on some documents I saw. What can you tell me about them?”

“Jeez. Where do you start? They're in everything from oil exploration and drilling to every kind of big-time construction project you can think of. Airports. Chemical plants. Dams. You name it.”

“Ever hear of something called the Archangel Project?”

He thought a moment, then shook his head. “I know Keefe was in with Halliburton on that oil pipeline project the Taliban refused to let them build in Afghanistan. Maybe it has something to do with that. Now that we've taken out the Taliban, the pipeline project's a go.”

“Gunner, we hit Afghanistan because of 9/11.”

“You think it's all just a coincidence?”

Tobie stared off across the square, to the Moon Walk and the tops of the ships just visible over the looming mass of the levee holding back the river. She'd learned a long time ago not to try to argue with Gunner's conspiracy theories.

“I know Keefe was providing a lot of the logistical support in Iraq when I was there,” she said.

Gunner nodded. “There was a big stink when they were awarded that contract. It was never put up for public bid, and the President's brother sits on their board of directors. Some senator tried calling for an investigation, but the Administration kept saying the
criticism was just politically motivated, and the guy couldn't seem to get the press interested.”

“So he dropped it?”

“No. He was killed in a private plane crash.” Gunner watched a group of tourists in shorts and tank tops stroll past, their shoulders fiery red with sunburn. Tobie could see his eyes were troubled. “Have you thought about going to the police?”

“And tell them what? That the FBI is trying to kill me? You know they'll think I'm crazy.”

Gunner nodded. He knew about her psychiatric discharge from the Navy, and he knew how people treated her when they heard about it. “Where are you staying?”

“I've got a hotel.”

“You know Pia and I would be glad to have you come—”

“No,” said Tobie quickly. “I don't want to put you in any more danger than I already have.”

“Don't worry about—”

“Gunner, these men are killing people.”

He was silent for a moment. A hot breeze picked up, heavy with the smell of the river and crab boil from the restaurant on the corner. In the square, a new speaker had taken the mike.

Gunner said, “We should be finished here by noon. If you want, I can look into Keefe, see what I turn up. I'll give you a call if I find something, but it would be better if we prearranged a meeting spot.”

“A meeting spot?”

“Yeah. Say, City Park? Maybe at Bayou St. John, near the stables?”

“Why the park?”

“It's a nice open space. If they have either one of us under surveillance, we'll know it. And laser and infrared microphones require a line of sight they won't have among the trees.”

Once, Tobie might have laughed. Instead, she dug a notebook and pen from her bag and jotted down her new number. “I bought one of those prepaid phones so no one can trace it.”

He gave her a lopsided grin. “I thought I was the paranoid conspiracy nut.”

She punched him lightly on the shoulder and smiled. “Where do you think I learned this stuff?”

Jax found the house at 5815 Patton Street silent and baking
in the hot morning sun. It stood on short piers, its weatherboard siding painted yellow with white trim and black shutters.

Pushing open the low gate, he walked up a path edged with liriope and white four o'clocks closed tight against the light. The neighborhood was quiet and smelled faintly of the dampness left by last night's rain. His footsteps echoed dully as he climbed the two wooden steps to the front porch. He was about to knock, then noticed the door stood slightly ajar. When he touched his knuckles to the panel, the door creaked open about half a foot.

“Hello?” he called, not expecting an answer. Young women living alone in cities with New Orleans's crime rate didn't leave their doors unlatched.

He glanced around the covered porch, with its fanciful gingerbread trim and white rocking chairs, to the street beyond. A black Suburban parked at the corner
had its windows up and the engine running, probably for the air conditioner. The windows were tinted, so he couldn't see the driver, and from this angle he couldn't get the license number. It probably meant nothing. Just some soccer mom waiting for her kid to finish his piano lesson.

Jax put one hand on the Beretta Cougar he wore shoved in a waistband holster at the small of his back. “Miss Guinness?”

There was no answer. He pushed open the door and went inside.

The house had been efficiently but thoroughly ransacked. Walking through the living and dining rooms into the kitchen beyond, Jax studied the half-emptied grocery bag with an overturned tub of Ben and Jerry's ice cream that had melted and run down the counter. Across the room, a neat bullet hole showed in the fractured glass of the utility porch door. The door was still open, and the bullet had obviously been fired from the inside.

He made a quick search of the bedroom, then moved to the small side garden. He was expecting a body. He didn't find one.

Wandering back inside, he put in a call to Matt. “Looks like whoever got your Dr. Youngblood might have also taken out the girl.”

There was a silence at the other end of the phone. Then Matt said, “She's dead?”

“I don't know. Someone's torn her house apart and shot up her side door. There's a blood smear on one of the kitchen cabinets, but it's not much. Looks like she ran. She could have got away.”

“Any idea yet who's doing this?”

“No. But I don't see anything that links back to the Company.” Jax hesitated. “Although there is a black Suburban parked down the street.”

Matt grunted. “Everyone drives SUVs down there. They need them to evacuate for hurricanes.”

“Do you want me to come in?”

“Not yet. Something is obviously going on. I've got some info on the girl I'll be sending you.”

Jax gazed out the open door at a swaying clump of butterfly iris in the side garden. “I have tickets to the Opera House tonight.
Turandot.
”

Matt laughed and hung up.

Stepping carefully around a pool of melted ice cream on the floor, Jax walked over to inspect the scarred wood of the back door frame. A bullet had buried itself in the wood. He was fingering the gouge when he heard a soft meow.

He swung around. An orange and white cat stood before the refrigerator, shifting restlessly from one front paw to the other.

“Hey there.” Crouching down, he scratched behind the cat's ears and smiled as the cat closed its eyes in purring bliss. “Where is she? Hmmm? Do you know?”

 

From where he was parked down the street, Sal Lopez put in a call to Palmer.

“Our girl's got company. Some dude in a G6. Late twenties, early thirties.”

“Is he in the house?”

“Affirmative. Want me to check him out?”

“Negative. Get out of there. He's probably calling the cops.”

Lopez jotted down the G6's license number. Then he threw the Suburban into gear and hit the gas.

In Jax's experience, if you wanted to know what was really
going on someplace, you talked to the secretary.

The secretary of Tulane's psych department was a fleshy woman named Chantal LeBlanc. She wore a lime green and aqua striped shirt, inch-long false fingernails, and enormous gold hoop earrings that bounced against the ebony skin of her neck when she moved her head. At the sight of Jax's press card, her eyes widened and a big smile spread across her face.

“You want to know about Dr. Youngblood, you've come to the right place,” she said, leaning forward and dropping her voice.

Jax settled himself in the chair beside her desk. “You know about the project he was working on?”

She huffed a laugh. “'Course I know. Who you think typed up all them funding proposals?”

“He was having a hard time finding funding?”

“Wasn't he just. He got a bit of money from the university, but that ran out months ago.” She dropped her voice even lower. “They didn't believe none of it.”

“Really?”

“Nope. Called it voodoo and hoodoo and just plain hooey.”

Jax laughed. “In those words?”

She grinned. “Not exactly. But it's what they think, believe me.”

“Yet he did get funding from someone.”

She shook her head, the big hoops swinging. “Lately, he was paying people outta his own pocket.”

“Where was he applying for funding?”

Chantal's face fell and she glanced away. “I don't know. He always did the cover letters himself.”

“Was there anyone in the department here working with him?”

“Are you kidding? He got a few undergraduates through work study and by offering them credit, but no one in the department here would touch that stuff—not even the grad students. I think the only reason he got Dr. Vu to agree to help him was because she was kinda sweet on him.”

“Dr. Vu?”

“Elizabeth Vu. She's a statistician with the math department. Their offices are in Gibson Hall.”

 

Tobie sat in her car with the windows down and the sunroof open, letting out some of the heat. She wanted to call her next door neighbor and ask him to lock up her house and check on Beauregard, but when she glanced
at her watch, it was barely eleven. Ambrose King never got up before noon. He could be really, really cranky if anyone woke him before that.

She called the Colonel instead.

His voice was reassuringly calm. “Tobie. You're not using your cell phone, are you?”

She stared off across the heat-shimmered, black-topped parking lot to where a tour bus was disgorging a load of middle-aged women all wearing identical bright yellow fanny packs. “No.”

“Good. I've been worried about you. Remember anything yet?”

“A little. I need to talk to you.”

“I'm just getting ready to take Whiskey for a walk along St. Charles.” Whiskey was the McClintocks' arthritic old yellow lab. “Why don't you come join me?”

She turned the ignition and rolled up the windows. “I'll be right there.”

 

By the time Tobie pulled in next to the curb on St. Charles and parked, the morning's blue sky had faded to a white heat haze, and puffs of clouds were beginning to appear on the horizon.

After Katrina, the floodwaters from the collapsed levees had reached as far as St. Charles. She'd seen pictures of survivors paddling pirogues down the venerable avenue. But unlike some sections of the city where the water had reached depths of twelve feet and more, the ground here was higher; the gracious old mansions that stood on brick piers on either side of the street were little touched.

As she got out of her VW, a streetcar clanged past on its newly rebuilt tracks, the green metal of its side dull in the heat. She could see the Colonel coming up the neutral ground toward her, the old yellow dog padding happily at his heels. Tobie waited for a lull in the traffic, then crossed over to meet them.

“I've been thinking about your visitors,” he said as she fell into step beside him. “I still have a few friends in Washington. If you like, I could give them a call. Put out a few feelers and see what I touch.”

Whiskey came up to sniff Tobie's hand, and she stooped to pet the old dog. “You think those men really are linked to the government in some way?”

“FBI badges are one thing; IDs are something else. I think we might be looking at some kind of a linkage, yes. But not necessarily. All you need is an organization with good graphics capability.”

“I've remembered the viewing session they were interested in.”

He glanced over at her. “And?”

“The target was an office in some large modern building. I'm not sure exactly where, but it didn't look like anything in New Orleans. There was a file on the desk, labeled the Archangel Project. It contained photographs, including one of an old airplane. I recognized the logo on the file. It was the Keefe Corporation.”

He was silent for a moment, his lips pursed. “This isn't good, Tobie. Keefe has a lot of ties to the Administration. To everything. Hell, they're in something like two hundred countries. They're everywhere.”

“My friend Gunner says the President's brother sits on their board of directors.”

“Your friend Gunner is right.”

They watched Whiskey frisk on ahead, his tail wagging, his nose to the grass, sniffing. McClintock said, “There was a time when the lines between business and government were clearly drawn. That's not true anymore. Now we have a vice president meeting with energy representatives to help draft the Administration's energy program, and pharmaceutical companies helping draft legislation for prescription drug benefits. The military doesn't even have its own mess halls and laundries and motor pools anymore; all that's let out to private contractors for big bucks. Hell, we even hire private companies to come into our prisons and torture people.”

“You're starting to sound like Gunner.”

McClintock didn't smile. “The way I see it, either you know something these men want to know, or you know something they don't want anyone else to find out about. They took the time to talk to you, which means they want something from you, some kind of information. But I suspect they're willing not to get it in order to shut you up.” He glanced over at her. His gray eyes were hard. “You need to figure out what that something is.”

“I've tried. I can't.”

“Until you do, Tobie, you can't trust anyone. Anyone. If you let these people get you boxed in, you're dead.”

Tobie felt a chill tingle around the juncture of her shoulder blades. “What do you mean, ‘boxed in'?”

“I mean you can't let the police bring you in. Even just for questioning.”

A BMW convertible overflowing with college students cruised by, the top down, music blaring, a blond girl in a halter top hanging out the back and laughing. A shriveled black man with a plastic bag bulging with aluminum cans was working the trash receptacles in the neutral ground. As they drove past, the girl lobbed her beer can at him and shouted something.

“Could they do that?” Tobie asked. “Take me away from the police?”

“With FBI credentials? In a heartbeat.”

McClintock watched the old man stoop to pick up the girl's beer can. “I think maybe you should consider getting out of town. Finding someplace to hide.”

“With my mother?”

“No. Not there. Not anyplace familiar.”

“For how long?”

He gazed off across the broad, leafy avenue.

“You mean forever, don't you?” She swung to face him. “I'm not doing that.”

“October—”

“No. I'm just starting to get my life back together. I'm not going to let some jerks with guns and ties to a bunch of money-grubbing politicians come along and destroy it. These people think I know something that can hurt them. Well, you know what? I'm going to remember what that something is, and I am going to hurt them. I'm going to destroy them, before they can hurt me or anyone else again.”