The Archangel Project (22 page)

A second Crown Victoria tore up the ramp from the underground
parking garage. “Shit,” said Jax, throwing a quick glance in the rearview mirror. “There's two of them.”

He sped up the street, the first cruiser hard on his ass, the second darting out into the lane beside them and moving up fast. At the first intersection, he spun a quick right, flooring the accelerator as he straightened the wheel, the rear end fishtailing. Beside him, October flung out a quick hand to steady herself.

“Those are police interceptors,” he said, the Trailblazer's engine racing as he tore up the street. “We're never going to outrun them.”

She craned around to look back. “They're police?”

“No. No lights and sirens. But these guys have the same cars police drive. Which means they're fast.” He hung another quick right, forcing the second car to fall back behind the first.

“So what do we do?” she asked. “We can't keep going around the block.”

“I don't intend to.”

They were almost at the next intersection. Jax geared down rapidly from fourth to third, then down to second, the engine revving way up as he kept his foot off the brake.

The cruiser behind him roared up on his back end. Jax geared down to first. Tobie watched his face harden.

“What are you doing?”

“Brace yourself.” Halfway around the next corner, he slammed on the brakes and threw the Trailblazer into reverse.

“What the—”

He floored the accelerator, sending the Trailblazer screaming backward. The heavy SUV slammed into the cruiser's right front at an angle, crumpling the fender back into the wheel and setting off its air bags.

Jax threw the car into first and floored it again, disengaging a nanosecond before the second cruiser plowed into the back of the first.

“You all right?” he asked, throwing her a quick glance as he raced up the street.

“Yeah.” She craned around to look behind them. “Oh, shit. Here comes the second guy.”

Jax's eyes darted toward the rearview mirror. The pileup had immobilized the first cruiser, but not the second. Tires squealing, air bags still deflating, it whipped around the crippled first car and tore after them.

The light at the next corner was changing. Jax floored the accelerator, streaking through the intersection under
a yellow light. The light turned red. The Crown Victoria barreled on through. An early morning commuter slammed on his brakes and went into a sideways skid, his horn blaring as the cruiser shot past.

Jax narrowed his eyes against the rising sun spilling golden light through the canyons of tall buildings. He could see a green space up ahead on his right, a small park of grass and low shrubs some two blocks before the street he was on merged with another street at a Y intersection.

He eased the SUV into the gutter, the right tires rubbing against the curb as he cut in close. There was a crosswalk with a handicap curb cut, just past a four-story building of glass and steel, where the park began. “Hang on,” he yelled.

October grabbed for the armrest. He jerked the wheel to the right, just enough to send his right front tire into the curb cut, then straightened out with his right wheels on the sidewalk, his left wheels in the gutter. The Trailblazer tilted wildly as he ran that way for some thirty feet. He wiped out two parking meters, the impact jarring the wheel under his grip. A cross-walk sign tumbled off the front hood to skitter across the street.

She flinched. “What are you doing?”

“I'm going to cut across the park. But if I turn straight into the curb it'll flip the car.”

“Uh…fire hydrant,” she gasped, one hand braced against the Trailblazer's roof, the other still gripping the door's armrest.

“I see it.” By now he'd eased his left tires against the curb. The friction pulled the heavy car up so that they
literally climbed the curb. He felt the left tires grab the sidewalk's concrete and immediately spun the wheel to the right. The SUV skidded sideways, missing the fireplug with inches to spare.

“Holy shit.”

He tore across the green strip, the Trailblazer's big tires ripping through soft earth and grass and smashing rosebushes. Careening through a line of low shrubs onto the far sidewalk, the Trailblazer rocked and bounced as it clattered down off the curb and onto the far street. He hit the gas, tires squealing as he spun the wheel to the right and tore back up the street.

“What are they doing?” he asked. “Can you see?”

She craned to look behind them. “They're going up to the intersection. There's no way they can follow you across the park in that car.”

He made a quick left, then a right, then another left, weaving through the city streets, moderating his speed as the morning traffic increased and they left their pursuers far behind.

October released her death grip on the armrest and smoothed the skirt over her thighs with a hand that was not quite steady. “Well,” she said, studying the Trailblazer's ravaged front and rear ends. “It's a good thing you don't rent these cars in your own name.”

“I should have remembered that brass sign,” said October,
pushing a small serving of scrambled eggs around on her plate. “Global Tactical Solutions. God. I saw it in the viewing session. How could I have forgotten something like that?”

They had stopped for breakfast at a small old-fashioned diner just off Lemmon Avenue. Jax tried to put in a call to Division Thirteen, but all he got was Matt's voice mail. “You're familiar with Global Tactical Solutions?” he asked, looking up at her.

“Are you kidding? They're all over Iraq—almost as much as Blackwater. Those guys make more money in a day than most of our soldiers make in a month. They have better equipment, better armor, and they can kill, rape, and steal as much as they want, because the Iraqi officials can't touch them. And because they're civilians, the American military can't touch them either.”

He grinned. “Not some of your favorite people, are they?”

“No. They're mercenaries. Their very existence perverts everything this country is supposed to stand for. It's like we're morphing into Imperial Rome.”

“Did you know GTS is a wholly owned subsidiary of Keefe Corporation?”

She wrapped her hands around her coffee mug and shivered as if she were cold. “No. But that explains a lot, doesn't it? Henry Youngblood obviously got Keefe interested in the use of remote viewing for mineral exploration and put in a funding proposal to them. As part of the test viewing, they gave him the coordinates of GTS's headquarters in Dallas.” She gave a soft, humorless laugh. “They probably thought I'd describe the fountain outside, maybe a vague impression of the building. Instead, I zeroed in on a file that was lying on some executive's desk. The Archangel Project.”

Jax finished the last of his eggs and pushed the plate away. “In a sense, this complicates things. GTS has a lot of other clients besides Keefe. They could be working on this Archangel Project for anyone.”

“Including the U.S. Government.”

“Including the U.S. Government,” Jax agreed. He reached for his coffee. “I think that bomb factory in the Lower Ninth may be the key. Right now, we don't know if GTS set it up or if they were just watching it. But I'm inclined to think it's theirs. After all, they're the ones who responded to our break-in.”

She gave up all pretense of eating and pushed her own plate away. She'd barely touched it. “Bomb facto
ries make bombs to blow things up. So what are these guys planning to hit?”

“They may not be planning to blow up anything. Sometimes the threat of a bomb can be nearly as effective as the real thing. Look at the hysteria that swept both Britain and the States when the Brits supposedly uncovered a terrorist cell that was about to blow up a bunch of airplanes with peroxide and acetone. It was actually impossible. Did it matter at that point? No. Anyone who wants to get on an airplane still needs to shove all their liquids into one of those silly little Ziploc bags. It's a lot easier to make people scared than it is to calm them down and get them to listen to reason.”

“You think that's what this is about? Making people afraid?”

“The box of Korans sort of makes it look that way, doesn't it?”

“But what could that photograph of an old Skytrooper I saw have to do with this? Does anyone even still use them?”

“There must be hundreds of them still in service. Those planes are real workhorses. I know we used them in Vietnam. And I've heard some of the ones still flying in South America saw action during the Normandy invasion.”

She pushed her coffee aside untouched. “There were other photographs in that file. If I could just remember some of them…” Her voice trailed off, her head turning away as she stared silently out the window at the street beyond, still largely empty in the pale light of dawn.

Jax studied the curve of her cheek, the stubborn tilt of her chin. He still thought remote viewing belonged in a carnival with card tricks and palm readers, and yet…
“You need to do another remote viewing session,” he heard himself saying.

She swung her head to look at him, her splayed fingers raking the hair off her forehead. “I can't. I told you, I tried. The link between the tasker, the site, and the viewer is important. Otherwise there's no way of knowing what is real and what is simply imagination. It's hard enough as it is. Henry told me that's why all the intelligence branches finally dropped remote viewing. Sometimes it's amazingly accurate, but it's often just flat-out wrong, and there's no way of knowing which is which. I'm afraid that if I try to task myself, all I'll get is my imagination.”

“So what we need is to get you to someone who knows how to do this tasking.”

“Right. Like who?”

“You said it yourself: all the intelligence branches were dabbling in this at one time or another. There must be someone around here who knows how to do this. We just need to find him.” He was reaching for his phone when it rang in his hand.

He flipped it open. “Hey, Matt. I've been trying to get ahold of you.”

“I've been with the Big Man. How fast can you get here?”

“You mean, to D.C.?”

October looked up at him, one eyebrow raised in silent inquiry.

Matt said, “The DCI wants you in his office pronto.”

“Chandler? What for?”

“He's one unhappy hombre. Someone on high has been sitting on him. You'd better be there.”

Jax let out a long, particularly crude oath.

“By the way,” said Matt, “I finally got a report on Fitzgerald. He works for Global Tactical Solutions.”

“We kinda figured that out for ourselves, Matt. What else do you have on him?'

“He is—or rather, was—a Middle East specialist. Speaks Farsi.”

“Farsi?”

“That's right. He had an Iranian wife, but they've been divorced for a couple of years now. She works here in D.C., at a think tank.”

“Get her address. What about the house in the Lower Ninth Ward?”

“The FBI raided it early this morning. Everything was exactly as you described it, except there was no dead body.”

“And the security system?”

“Fed to a house in the Irish Channel. It was rented by an Iranian named Barid Hafezi. The same guy who bought the Charbonnet house two months ago.”

“Who is he?”

“A journalism professor at UNO. His wife's a biochemist at Loyola.”

“That doesn't sound good.”

“No. And get this: the guy's missing. They're grilling his wife right now. Her name is Nadia. She says she doesn't know anything, but they've got some guys from Gitmo they're bringing in to interrogate her.”

“Ah, Jesus. What are they going to do? Waterboard her?”

Matt made an incoherent noise. “It's the classic sce
nario politicians and journos always use as a justification for torture, isn't it? If there's a terrorist attack about to go down and she knows about it—”

“And if she doesn't? Or if it's a setup?”

“You think it might be? There were traces of Semtex on that canvas bag they found.”

“Well there would be, wouldn't there? What about the Archangel Project? Turn up anything on that yet?”

“Still nothing.”

“Listen, Matt. I need you to do something for me. Find me someone who knows how to task a remote viewer. See if we can meet with him as soon as I finish with the DCI.”

Matt gave a ringing laugh. “You're kidding me, right? I thought you didn't believe in this shit.”

“I don't.”

Jax snapped his phone closed and looked up to find October watching him. “What was that about?” she asked.

He downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp and stood up. “The DCI's got his tit in a wringer about something.”

“The what?”

“The DCI. Director of Central Intelligence, Gordon Chandler.”

“Is he the guy you said you punched at some embassy dinner party?”

“That's him.” Jax paused to flip open his phone again and punch in a number. “Hey, Bubba. Got enough fuel to get us to D.C.?”

New Orleans: 6 June 6:10
A.M
. Central time

Lance stood at the window, his gaze on the heavy gray sky.
The day had dawned hot and sultry, with a thickening bank of clouds that promised rain by the afternoon.

The report of the FBI raid on the Charbonnet Street house had already reached him. It wasn't part of the plan to have the house found first. But the development was manageable, more a complication than a derailment. The Feds had, naturally, traced the house's security system to the Irish Channel, but Michael Crowley had plenty of time to clear out. It's the way they'd planned it, except that part of the operation was running about twelve hours ahead of schedule.

His phone rang and he flipped it open without looking at the number. It was his six-year-old, Missy.

“Mommy told me you were coming home this morning,” she said.

Lance closed his eyes. “I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry. It shouldn't be much longer now.”

“Barney misses you.”

Lance smiled. Barney was Missy's gray tabby. “I miss Barney, too. But not as much as I miss you. I love you, honey. I'll see you tonight.”

Lance closed the phone and was staring out over the city when Hadley pushed up from his laptop. “Looks like they're in Dallas,” he said, hitting the Print button.

“Dallas? How the hell did they get to Dallas?”

Hadley stood with his hand out, waiting to catch the paper feed. “I don't know, but they showed up at headquarters. Even used Fitzgerald's access card to pop the lobby door.”

Lance swung around. “What the fuck? Did they get in?”

“Nope. They ran.”

Lance stood, snapping his fingers. “Send a team out to Fitzgerald's house ASAP. They took his wallet and keys, remember? Maybe we can catch them there. And get somebody out to the airport. If they rented a plane, I want to know about it.”

Hadley handed him a printout of a lean guy in a polo shirt standing outside headquarters. “At least we got a good picture.”

Lance grunted. The security camera photo was grainy but sufficient. “So that's the son of a bitch.”

“Our boys chased them, but they got away.” Hadley waited a beat. “They also wrecked two more of our cars.”

Lance studied the open elevator just visible in the
photograph's background, and smiled. “That's okay. The asshole's been recalled to Langley, and he's still got the girl with him. Tell our guys in D.C. to get ready. I don't care what they do to him. But this girl better be dead before seven o'clock tonight or we're all in trouble.”

 

Jax Alexander was asleep before the Gulfstream taxied down the runway. But Tobie was too wired to drop off. She finally gave up and went to slip into the empty seat beside Bubba Dupuis.

“Aren't you supposed to file a flight plan or something?” she asked.

Bubba looked up from adjusting his controls and shrugged. “Nah. Even when I do, I usually lie about where I'm going.”

Tobie huffed a soft laugh. “What exactly do you do for a living, Mr. Dupuis?”

“Call me Bubba.” He shrugged. “I fly things for the Company—and for other outfits. Things and people.”

She felt a chill that stilled the laughter on her lips. “You mean, as in the secret renditions the Administration has been doing?”

His brows drew together in a frown. “Nah. Not me. I don't believe in kidnapping people and ‘disappearing' them into secret prisons. As far as I'm concerned, it's that kind of shit that makes the bad guys bad guys.”

She glanced back at the man asleep in one of the reclining leather seats. “How long have you known Jax Alexander?”

“Let's see…it must be a good five or six years now.
First time I met him, he was running from a bunch of Samburu in Kenya. You should have heard the shit I caught when I landed in Nairobi with a damn spear sticking out of my fuselage.” He leaned back in his seat and stretched. “I seem to spend half my time bailing Jax out of some tight spot or another. The last time was in Colombia.”

Tobie smiled. “More spear-throwing natives?”

“Nah. Right-wing death squads and a pissed-off ambassador. Chandler. Jax coldcocked the son of a bitch.”

“Why?”

Bubba went back to fiddling with his controls. “I think it might be better if you asked Jax to explain it to you.”

Tobie stared at the man who still slept soundly, one tanned arm thrown up to shade his eyes from the dim light. She'd met a few CIA guys in the Green Zone in Baghdad; company men who never hesitated to suppress uncomfortable truths or twist the facts when the politicians in Washington let it be known that was what they wanted. This man was nothing like them.

“He'll tell you he only does this shit for the excitement,” Bubba said, as if following the drift of her thoughts. “But it isn't true. Get him drunk enough, and he'll start talking about our obligation to make a difference in this world and to fight for the people who can't fight for themselves. And the need to keep the bastards honest.”

“Even if the bastard in question is the American ambassador?”

“Especially then.”

Tobie studied the big, hairy pilot beside her. “So why do you help him?”

“Me?” Bubba laughed. “Because Jax always manages to see that I get paid, one way or another.”

“What do you mean, one way or another?”

“Well…let's just say a few times he had to get a bit creative.” Bubba frowned and flicked his finger against one of his instruments. “I don't know what it is, but ever since you sat down here, it's like everything on the panel froze.”

Tobie got up and quietly moved away.