The Archangel Project (25 page)

“I was just reading something about the museum in my
retired officer magazine,” said Devereaux, turning to rummage through a stack of magazines on a nearby end table. “There's an American Legion convention in New Orleans this week and they're holding a reception for Medal of Honor winners in the World War II Museum.”

October stared at him. “When?”

“Today, I think.” He pulled a magazine out of the pile. “Here it is. At six. T. J. Beckham will be in town to deliver the convention's keynote address and he's scheduled to make an appearance at the reception tonight.”

“Hell.” Jax stared down at the printed schedule Devereaux had shoved into his hands. “They're not just going to blow up a bunch of war heroes. They're going to assassinate the Vice President of the United States.”

 

“You need to phone this in right away,” said October as they strode across the church parking lot toward his car. “Get them to cancel the reception and warn the Vice President—”

“Hold it, hold it,” Jax said, swinging to face her. “You do realize, don't you, that we don't have one shred of evidence that any of this is going to happen?”

She turned toward him, her face shining with such determination and naiveté that it made his chest ache. “But if
you
tell them—”

He wanted to laugh. “You think this will have credibility because it comes from me? I'm supposed to be sitting at a desk right now composing a report on the error of my ways.”

Her eyes narrowed with a quick flare of anger. “Okay, so I'll call it in myself.”

“Oh, right. What are you going to say? ‘Hi, I'm October Guinness. You may have heard of me. I'm going to be featured on next week's
America's Most Wanted
.'”

“I'll make an anonymous call!”

“That ought to increase your credibility. You'll be just one more crank caller phoning in a bomb threat. Believe me, they get them all the time. If Beckham is going to be at the museum tonight, that means they've already swept the place for bombs. They'll just ignore you.”

“They must have missed it.”

“How?”

“What are you suggesting we do?” She swiped her arm through the air in disgust. “Just sit around and watch it unfold on television? If no one's going to listen to us, then we need to go down there and try to stop this thing ourselves.”

“And how exactly are we going to do that?”

“I don't know! But we need to do something.” She sucked in a quick breath that shuddered her chest, the sunlight filtering down through the leaves of the maple trees at the edge of the drive casting shifting patterns of shadow across her face. “One time, when I was in college, I saw someone I knew—a good friend. I was just sitting in French Lit class and suddenly I could
see
her. It wasn't like you see someone who's right there in front of you. It was more an image I held in my mind. She was crawling out her dorm window, standing on the ledge. It was a sunny day in early spring and I could see the breeze ruffling the curls around her face. But of course I didn't believe I was really seeing her so I just sat there, listening to that lecture. She jumped.”

Jax wanted to say something, but couldn't.

He watched the tendons of her throat work as she swallowed. “It happened again, when I was in Iraq. The outfit I was with became convinced this gathering in the western desert was a terrorist camp. I knew it wasn't. I could see children chasing each other and laughing, a young girl dancing. I tried to tell my CO, but he wouldn't listen to me. I had no evidence. There were no corroborating reports. He put me in his nutcase bag and called in an attack.”

He studied her pale, set face. The heat of the afternoon had brought a sheen of perspiration to her cheeks and upper lip. “So you went out there to try to stop it,” he said softly, “and got yourself shot.”

She nodded, her lips pressed into a tight line. “It was a wedding. Two big tribes. We killed something like
150 people, most of them women and children. I got there too late.”

“October—” He reached for her, but she swung away, her brown eyes wide and hurting.

“No. Don't you understand? I didn't believe in it then. I didn't know about remote viewing, or what Dr. Youngblood used to call spontaneous viewing experiences. But now I do know. This is something I've seen under controlled conditions. And this time—maybe this time I can make a difference.”

“But we don't know where the bomb is.”

“No. But everyone has hunches—some weird, inexplicable ability to pick up on what we can't see or know by what we call normal means. Some people have that ability more than others, maybe, but we all have it. It's like when you're looking for your keys and somehow you just know to pick up your brother's coat and look under it.”

“I suspect finding a bomb in a museum is a lot more complicated than remembering where I left my keys.”

A warm breeze feathered stray wisps of her sun-streaked hair across her cheek, but she made no move to brush it back. He watched the features of her face harden. She'd reached a decision and there was no way he was going to talk her out of it. “If you don't want to come with me, I'll go by myself.”

Jax sighed. “I'm coming. And I'm going to phone it in.” He reached for his cell and punched in Bubba's number. “I just wanted to make sure you understood what we're up against. This is why all the intel branches quit fooling with this shit. There's no way to verify any of it, short of sticking your neck out and hoping nobody lops your head off.”

 

Jax waited until they were airborne before putting in a call to Matt.

He laid out the details of their conversation with Dr. Sadira Gazsi and the results of the remote viewing session. There was a long silence, then Matt blew out a hard sigh.

“You can't call this in, Jax. You got no evidence for any of it. Nobody's going to believe it. All you'll do is blow what's left of your credibility.”

“How about another anonymous tip?”

“We can try it. The Secret Service is a bit jumpy because of that bomb factory the FBI found in the Ninth Ward. I hear they're tightening security. But they've swept the museum, Jax. How could there be a bomb in there?”

“What, Matt? You telling me now that
you
don't believe in remote viewing?”

“Sometimes it's right on the money,” said Matt. “And sometimes it's just flat out wrong.”

Jax glanced over to where October sat, her head half turned away as she stared out the window. “Everything has fit so far,” he said.

Matt grunted. “We managed to get into Fitzgerald's computer. The password was his boys' names: benrichard. Right there on his desktop was a file called the Archangel Project.”

“So what's in it?”

“Unfortunately, it's encrypted and we haven't been able to break it yet. But there are some subfiles that aren't encrypted, stuff that looks like it was imported from someplace else. E-mails and shit.”

“And?”

“There's a list called ‘Jamaat Noor Allah.' I'm told that means the Light of God, by the way. It contains the names of six Middle Eastern men. Tourak Rahmadad…Samir Haddad…any of this ring a bell?”

“No.”

“We've been in contact with immigration. I'm sending you their files and visa photos. One of them is Lebanese but the rest are Iranian.”

“I don't like the sound of that.”

“I didn't think you would. There's also a flight itinerary. Our boy Fitzgerald flew into New Orleans yesterday morning. But this is kinda weird. He was scheduled to fly out of Baton Rouge early on June seventh. That's tomorrow.”

“I don't understand,” said October, when Jax gave her Matt's report. “Why would he be scheduled to fly out of Baton Rouge?”

“Because if someone blows up the Vice President tonight, the first thing they'll do is close the New Orleans airport.” Jax opened his laptop. The files from Matt were already starting to come through. “Here come the photos. Maybe you'll recognize one of them.”

She moved to stand behind him, and the screen instantly froze.

“Damn it,” Jax swore, hitting the keys. “What the hell happened?”

She picked up her Nordstrom bag and headed toward the back of the jet. “I'm going to shower and change,” she said.

Jax watched her walk away. Her skirt was short and
flippy enough that it swirled around her toned thighs as she maneuvered into the plane's bathroom and shut the door. Then he glanced back down at his laptop. And it was the strangest thing. As soon as she moved away from him, the computer unfroze.

New Orleans: 6 June 5:55
P.M
. Central time

A light drizzle was falling when the Gulfstream touched
down at the Lakefront Airport. The day was overcast and sultry, the light flat and dull with the promise of more rain.

“What time is it?” October asked as they taxied toward the terminal.

Jax glanced at his watch. “Almost six. The reception starts in five minutes, but T. J. Beckham's not supposed to put in an appearance until seven.”

“This last trip is gonna cost you extra, podna,” said Bubba, bringing the plane to a halt. “I had a job down in Guadalajara I'm missing. We're talking five thousand an hour.”

“Bubba,” said Jax, unlatching the door. “We're trying to save the world here and you're talking about profit margins and overheads?”

“Hey, I'm a patriot. But I'm also a businessman. You see Halliburton and Keefe donating their services to the war effort? No.”

“Oh? So you're going over to the dark side now, are you?”

“What are you talking about, dark side? Hold on there.” Bubba unbuckled his seat belt and whipped off his earphones. “I'm coming with you.”

Jax swung around to look back at him. “You're what?”

“Don't get the wrong idea. I'm just protecting my investment. You get yourself killed, I'm never going to collect.”

 

The Monte Carlo was still parked where Jax had left it. He'd expected it to have attracted the attention of the local constabulary, since the back window was shot out and it had a few other stray bullet holes. But he guessed that was asking too much of the NOPD's post-Katrina force.

“I'll drive,” said Bubba, lifting the keys from Jax's hand. “The last time I rode with you, you almost got me killed.”

Jax laughed. “No I didn't.”

“You did.” Bubba eased his enormous frame behind the Monte Carlo's wheel. “So. How do I get there?”

“Turn left here, then head for the interstate,” said October. She glanced back at Jax, who'd taken the rear seat. “I read someplace that they now regularly jam cell phones in an area where the president or the vice president is making an appearance.”

“They do,” said Jax.

“So how are they going to detonate this bomb?”

“They probably have an infrared sensor set up. Something that can receive a coded message from a transmitter rigged to a timer. You can jam an electronic frequency, but you can't jam light.”

“Or they could be using a suicide bomber,” said Bubba.

“I can't see some mercenary for GTS volunteering to blow himself up for the good of the company.”

“No,” said Bubba. “But what about the ragheads in those visa applications Matt sent you? Where you think they fit in all this?”

October twisted sideways in the seat to face him. “Tell me, Bubba: do you call Jews ‘kikes'?”

He glanced over at her warily. “No. What you think I am? A neo-Nazi or something?”

“Do you call blacks ‘niggers'?”

“No. My mama raised me better'n that.”

“Then why did you just call those men ragheads?”

“Because they attacked us on 9/11. They—”

“No, they didn't. Nineteen young men did, and they're dead. I don't know about you, but I don't want to be held responsible for every sin committed by every American living or dead.”

“Jax?” said Bubba, meeting Jax's gaze in the rearview mirror. “Help me out here, podna.”

Jax grinned. “Sorry, Bubba, but you stepped in that one.”

“He does have a point, though,” said October. “GTS could have set up the assassination, then tricked one of those students into believing he was a martyr to a
higher cause. I have a friend named Gunner who swears something like that happened on 9/11.”

“The problem with that theory,” said Jax, “is that no suicide bomber would ever get past the security at the door.”

“So why did Paul Fitzgerald have that list of Middle Eastern men on his computer?”

“They're patsies. The ones who have been set up to take the fall.”

“But why do they need patsies? You remember what Samira Gazsi said. The Armageddon Plan calls for an attack on Iran
even if
they're not linked to the next terrorist attack.”

Jax shook his head. “That might have worked a few years ago. But things have changed. Iraq changed them. The American people have been lied to too many times and they're starting to get wary. It's easy to stir them up by talking about fighting to defend freedom and democracy, but they're not stupid. They see the national debt shooting into the stratosphere. They see young men and women coming home in body bags and wheelchairs from a useless war that has nothing to do with freedom or democracy, and everything to do with politics and oil and big profits for the defense industry. They're not going to go tripping down that primrose path so easily a second time. They're going to want to see proof.”

“So the young Iranians have been set up to be the new version of yellow cake and WMD,” said October.

“Exactly. Even if there's no link between the Iranian students and the Iranian government, people in this
country will be too scared to be thinking straight. I suspect the Administration would find it easy to make the case for another war.”

Bubba swept onto the interstate. “I don't want to rain on y'all's parade, but how you planning on getting into this reception? It's not a public event. I heard on the radio comin' in here that they've got the streets blocked off out front. There's some group of protesters that are pissed off because they're making them hold their rally a good block away.”

“Gunner,” said October, sitting forward.

Jax looked over at her. “What?”

“Gunner Eriksson. He's a friend of mine. No one holds a protest rally in New Orleans without Gunner's PA system.” She turned toward him. “Let me use your phone.”

Jax handed it over. She started to flip it open, then paused. “What if they've tapped Gunner's line?”

Jax met her worried gaze. “At this point, that's a risk you're just going to have to take.”