“Is that all of them?” asked Bell.
“Yes. Wait, no, there was one from yesterday’s session. Here it is. De Vermis Mysteriis,” said Greene. “It translates as—”
“Mysteries of the Worm, got it. Anything else?”
“No. But, Mr. Bell, please understand, I researched these titles. They’re pure nonsense—”
Bell hung up without saying good-bye.
He finished his drink, poured another, and then called a man who knew a man who knew a man. One of those kinds of calls.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sergeant Brick Anderson sat across from Mr. Church. They were the only passengers aboard the Gulfstream G650 as the bird rocketed westward at mach point-nine-two, near the upper range of its fast cruising speed. Church was finishing a call with the president of the United States, and Brick had eavesdropped on some of it. The president was an unhappy man. He yelled. A lot. Captain Ledger’s name was taken in vain, and there were threats against his life. A lot of those. The jet had flown a lot of miles while Church tried to calm the commander in chief down and convince him that Captain Ledger had not taken leave of his senses and that the missile strikes against Gateway One were not, in fact, evidence that the man had become a global terrorist or simply a madman. Church had to do a lot of maneuvering to assure the president that the actions taken were well within the scope of the powers granted to the DMS as part of this mission. Church reminded him, section and verse, of the special powers granted through the Department of Military Sciences charter, particularly in cases involving an imminent and dire biological or technological threat.
Church had the call on speaker because, Brick suspected, why should he suffer alone?
Several times Brick had to turn away to hide a grin, even though they were painful grins. No matter how this ultimately played out, Captain Ledger’s ass was going to be in a sling. Church caught one of his grins and gave him a sour look, but then he smiled and mimed putting a pistol to his own head and pulling the trigger.
When the call ended Church looked ten years older. Brick poured them both glasses of wine and they sat drinking in silence for a few minutes.
“Is POTUS going to want Joe’s head on a pike?”
Church considered the deep red depths of his wine. It was a Homer pinot noir from Shea Wine Cellars in Willamette. Not terribly expensive but very good. Rudy Sanchez had sent Church a case some months ago and this was the last bottle.
“It would be in the president’s best interest to reread the DMS charter.”
“You’re saying he can’t order you to fire Joe?”
Church merely shrugged and sipped the wine.
The phone rang and Brick answered it, spoke quietly, grunted in surprise, and held the phone against his chest for a moment.
“Wow,” he said to Church. “It’s Harcourt Bolton, Senior. Says it’s important.”
Church held out a hand and took the phone, once more put the call on speaker, and said, “Harcourt, it’s good to hear from you.”
“Right back at you, Deacon. Listen, I have a couple of things,” said Bolton in his usual boisterous tone. “Heard you’re having a challenging day. POTUS said something about your boy Ledger blowing the ass off the world. Words to that effect.”
Church said, “No comment.”
Bolton laughed. “Wasn’t asking for one. Just offering sympathy. Ledger’s a good kid, but he’s still young. Not like us old dinosaurs.”
“I have complete faith in Captain Ledger.”
“Oh, hey, I’m not saying otherwise. He saved my bacon a couple of times. It’s nice to know that fogies like us have hotshot kids to send out tiger hunting. Makes me wish I still had the tools for that kind of stuff. Those were good days. Damn, we pissed on walls all over the world. Geez, remember that time in Madrid when I—”
“Harcourt,” said Church, “much as I would love to chat, this isn’t the best time for it.”
“Right, right, of course. You have some spin control to do. I know the timing sucks, too, ’cause you and your boys have had a run of bad luck lately. Big win against the Seven Kings but the last six or seven cases have turned on you. Bad luck can go in runs; believe me, I know. Sorry to see it happening for the DMS.”
Brick studied the red depths of his wine, not wanting to meet Church’s eyes. Bolton was right about the DMS hitting a rough patch. And it wasn’t seven cases that had gone south on them, it was closer to a round dozen. High casualties in firefights, some civilian casualties, too. Failed missions, questionable intel, squandered resources, wrecked vehicles, and hostiles that slipped through the DMS’s fingers. So far Joe Ledger’s Special Projects Office had managed to hold a near-perfect track record, but given the bizarre verbal field report and the lack of substantiating data — at least so far — the DMS all-stars were likely to lose their shining status. It was all very stressful and so strange. Brick knew a lot of the team commanders and many of the field operators. It was not like them to be clumsy. Church didn’t hire second-stringers. So far, though, there were mysteries and questions and nothing even remotely like an answer.
Bolton said, “Hey, Deke, I’m sorry as hell that it was my intel that put Ledger at Gateway. I thought it would be a walk in the park for a gunslinger like him.”
“We’ll survive,” said Church. Brick knocked back the rest of his wine and poured more for both of them.
“Sorry, boy. Not trying to kick you when you’re down. I know what it feels like when you lose a step getting to first base. That’s why I stepped out of the field. Just commiserating,” Bolton said, then cleared his throat. “Listen, the real reason I’m calling is to ask if you’ve been tracking those power outages? You know the ones I mean, the racetrack mess and the GOP debate?”
“I’m aware of them,” said Church. His voice was as wooden as his face.
“You looking into it?”
“You probably know I wasn’t given that case, Harcourt,” said Church. “POTUS assigned a task force. Joint Homeland and NSA.”
Bolton snorted. “Then you know they found exactly nothing. That team’s a step down from a clown college. Their report concluded that the two incidents, though remarkable, are probably not connected. They’re calling the power losses a coincidence. What do you think of that bullcrap?”
“That report has not yet been forwarded to me,” said Church.
“Really? They filed it this morning. My people got it for me within half an hour. I’ll send you a copy.”
Brick winced, but Church merely said, “You have an excellent team, Harcourt. I take it you disagree with the team’s findings?”
“Findings? Ha! That bunch couldn’t find their asses with a laser-guided missile. Of course I disagree. Don’t you?”
“It’s not my case, Harcourt. Why are we having this conversation?”
“Geez, why are you so cranky lately? You didn’t used to be like this.”
“Harcourt…”
“Right, right. I’m calling you because it actually might be your case after all,” said Bolton. “I called the president as soon as I was done reading that piece-of-crap report. I told him that it was wrong.”
“And how did you come to that conclusion, Harcourt?”
“Easy math, Deke. I’ve been juggling a couple of investigations, you know, tapping my old network to see if I can shake some bedbugs out of the linen. There are a couple of case profiles I’ve been putting together to hand off to the young lions here at Central Intelligence. But as it turns out, two of these cases are different ends of the same case. First one is a real Dan Brown thing, you’ll love it. Somebody ought to write a book. Short version is that there’s a new black market that’s been operating on the fringes of the Middle East. Run by a guy named Ohan, who’s a non-Muslim Turk who’d cut out your mother’s liver and sell it back to you for ten bucks plus installation. Sweetheart of a guy by all accounts.”