Houseman caught the tension and took over. “The text speaks of machines that can read thoughts, of the government being involved with types of research that can be used to that effect. This person stipulates, this person makes assumptions, nothing more than theories.”
“Is he telling the truth?” Spicer asked.
“That’s irrelevant. What is, however, is that this person isn’t respecting our secrecy policy.”
“At Sigma,” Dr. Michaels said, “we get the mandate of developing things from either the NSA, CIA, all the branches of the military, and the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. They supply us with funding and we delegate to universities. They have the right to take credit for their discoveries, for the most part, but have in no way the right to leak information before we’ve been informed and given consent.”
“That’s always been the deal and this person broke it,” Houseman said. “So find this man and have a discussion.”
Spicer delicately put the iPad on the table and nodded.
“Tell me, am I the Head of Security or the only security guy?”
Houseman smiled. “I like your attitude.”
He should have figured that his new position wouldn’t be as quiet as promised.
Chapter 4
Coming out of Housman’s office, he saw a ramrod-straight African-American man standing next to the assistant’s desk. He was about 30. The dark suit wasn’t necessarily of the best quality and finest cut but it was neatly pressed, as was the starched shirt. From this and the posture, Spicer knew he was some sort of military guy even though the haircut was slightly longer than regulation.
The guy brightened up when Spicer spotted him and he came forward. “Gene Spicer?”
“Yeah?”
“Hi, I’m Lieutenant Ned Wallace.” He extended his hand to introduce himself and Spicer didn’t have a choice but to shake it. “We haven’t had the chance to meet yet. I’ll be your assistant.”
“Lieutenant of what?” Spicer asked as he began walking away. The kid quickly fell in next to him.
“Navy, I was an aviator.”
“Was?”
“There was an incident over Libyan territory. They transferred me to Naval Intelligence, making covert transports, that sort of thing. This led to here.”
Sure, Spicer snorted silently. The universe had a way of funneling the world’s fuck-ups to the CIA.
“What about the guy before me, you liked working with him?”
“Oh sure, but we didn’t see a whole lot of action. He was a former cop so for him the idea of a good time was sitting in his office while listening to a ball game.”
“What did he die of?”
“Heart attack.”
“Did you see it happen?” Spicer asked, still convinced that the Agency handled firings with tidy little convenient murders. He had cynicism down to an art form.
They reached the bank of elevators.
“Yeah, the bastard was eating a chili dog when it hit him. I thought he was choking, did the Heimlich and everything. Turns he was dead before I’d even started. Truckloads of cholesterol, the doctor said.”
It actually made him chuckle which somewhat endeared him to Spicer. Still, the story didn’t convince him.
“Promise me that if you get the order for me you’ll use a gun, all right?”
Ned frowned with puzzlement as Spicer stepped into the elevator. “What are you talking about?”
Andrews Field, the airfield portion of the formerly known Andrews Air Force Base which was now known as Joint Base Andrews, was busy as ever. It took more than ten minutes for the sedan Ned was driving to finally reach the gate and even then it took just as long for their credentials to get checked out. After all, this was where Air Force One was based so every visitor was treated as if they were going to meet the President.
They were finally directed to a hangar and they parked in the designated area behind. A Gulfstream aircraft was being prepped for takeoff and Spicer and Ned climbed aboard after the younger man spoke to an Airman First Class, giving the proper paperwork.
Spicer had been all over the world, he’d done things that few people could ever be able to wrap their head around, but he had never been in a luxury executive jet like this one. Although small with enough space for 16 passengers, the entire cabin looked like the first-class section of a commercial flight. A gorgeous female Air Force Staff Sergeant showed them to their seats in the back.
She said, “It shouldn’t be very long, the general should be arriving any minute now.”
As she left, both men craned their necks to admire what should have been on a recruitment poster.
Ned turned to his boss. “When we can hitch rides with military transports, we do it. The 89th Airlift Wing is always nice enough to accommodate Sigma. When they can’t and other branches don’t have handy flights, we go commercial. And if that’s impossible too, we can literally commandeer Air Force planes. They send us the bill afterwards.”
“Nice.”
Spicer looked at his watch impatiently and the aviator picked up on it.
“So how does it feel to be at the right side of God?”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s how me and my old partner referred to Houseman. This guy knows everything that nobody’s supposed to know.”
“How’s that?”
Ned leaned in closer and looked around to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard, which was easy since they were the only other passengers.
“Sigma, man. That’s what we do. The JFK assassination, ring a bell? The truth about the whole thing is locked in his office. Same thing about the aliens at Roswell. Hell, he even knows about Amelia Earhart.”
“Jesus.”
Right then, a stern three-star general came on board followed by a junior officer and a man in a suit. They were seated toward the front and Ned continued.
“I know what you mean. It’s our job to keep that secret. People would kill to get our jobs, man, I’m telling you.”
Spicer waited for him to expand on the subject but he didn’t. Instead, the young man bent down and started going through the pouch in front of him. When he didn’t find what he was been looking for, he waved at the flight attendant.
“Hey, Sarge! You have any peanuts?”
The New York Express-Ledger was in an odd position. It didn’t have the journalistic reputation of the Times and yet it wasn’t so concerned with the tabloid sensationalism of the Post. It was right there in the middle. Business was going surprisingly well in spite of the recent media revolution and the newspaper had moved in swanky new offices on Manhattan’s Second Avenue.
The editor-in-chief had his office on the 10th floor and an early lunch was spread out on his crowded desk, although it was still untouched. He looked at Spicer and his assistant as if they were mob shakedown artists intruding on his territory.
“So what can I do for the FBI?”
Spicer had to give it to Sigma, the job came with a nice variety of official badges and credentials. It would definitely come in handy. Still, it didn’t faze the newspaperman who went to stand behind his desk but didn’t sit down.
“You ran a full page ad in your paper this morning, page 36.”
“Yes, so?”
“We’d appreciate you telling us who paid for it.”
The editor snorted and didn’t mention that he hated having the black guy strolling around the office as if he owned it. “I can’t give you this information.”
“Sure, you can,” Spicer said with a forced smile. “We’re the FBI.”