In the early 2000s, the director recognized the increasing reach of the media, including online sleuths and bloggers, so with the blessing of the president he stored all of the historic data that had been gathered, and released all investigative power to a newly formed private company. That company was the Delphi Group. It derived its name from the famed city in Greece, home of the mythic oracle that spoke prophetic words to the Greek world.
The company’s current head, Dr. Alexander Ross, was no mystic, but he was one of the most talented gatherers of information in the history of the United States. He was a former Director of National Intelligence and CIA case officer. His no-nonsense approach, coupled with a natural affinity for secrecy, made him the perfect leader for an organization like Delphi.
And while the investigation of UFOs and alien life was no longer high on the agenda of Delphi, there were enough bizarre events around the world to warrant the attention of the United States government and the private tentacles that extended on its behalf. Government spooks had discovered that unusual events often signaled valuable scientific advances on the part of other countries.
Delphi’s headquarters were located on the top floor of a modern, mirrored office building on Wilson Boulevard in Arlington, Virginia. Its employees used a private lift just past the main row of elevators in the lobby. The other occupants of the building had been told that Delphi was a private investment firm that catered to northern Virginia’s wealthiest clientele, but not everybody bought the story.
In fact, one could often hear the true nature of Delphi being debated in the Starbucks on the ground floor. Some declared that the firm catered to criminals. Others maintained the investors were foreigners of ill repute. A third group was convinced that it was an outpost of the NSA. Whatever happened on the top floor, none of the gossipers had ever managed to actually speak to anyone who worked there. They came and went as ghosts.
In addition to the headquarters in northern Virginia, the Delphi Group also operated four field facilities around the country. A simple naming convention was used for each: Facility 1 (F1), Facility 2 (F2), and Facility 3 (F3). The first two included shooting ranges, running trails, rock-climbing walls, and faux towns that were used for urban tactical training. The third facility, F3, was located just northeast of Mount Powell, Colorado, and was known affectionately as the Lodge. The Lodge served primarily as deep cover, a place for operatives to disappear for a period of time following a sensitive mission.
Toward that covert facility, the man in white made his way.
CHAPTER THREE
It took him about five minutes to scale the mountain and reach the Lodge. He used a barely noticeable trail that snaked up through the maze of trees. He knew it well, and never once used the tactical flashlight that was clutched in his left hand. The man paused only twice, both times to scan for thermal images. Nothing was moving on the slope.
The Lodge was located at the back of a small plateau about three hundred feet up, shielded from view by a thick stand of fir and aspen trees. It was built into the mountain using concrete and steel construction and consisted of three floors. The ground floor was completely concrete with no windows or portals. The two upper levels were covered for their entire length with bulletproof, mirrored glass, so that occupants could see out, but those on the outside couldn’t see in.
The ground floor was used for storage — a snowmobile, weapons, ammunition, and various other pieces of equipment. It was also the main point of entry, one of only two ways in. The other point of entry was strictly in the event of an emergency. It consisted solely of a solid steel hatch at the very top of the building, accessible only by repelling from a cliff above.
Living quarters were located on the second floor. It consisted of three bedrooms, one bath, and a small kitchen, all of which opened off a long hall that was bordered on one side by the mirrored glass. The third floor was mostly empty. It had been built for future expansion and was, in the meantime, used as a place to survey the surrounding terrain for hikers, bears, and other trespassers.
The man entered through the steel door on the ground level. After locking it securely behind him, he placed the rifle in its rack, hung up his Neoprene white snowsuit, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. It was dark inside, and he decided to leave the light off, as was his practice.
When he reached the second level, the man walked to the kitchen at the far end. Knowing he might need a jolt, he quickly sought out caffeine. He opened the cabinet door and searched until he found what he was looking for, a coffee pod. Pure gold. He pushed the pod into the receptacle of the single-serve brewer and hit the small blinking button on top. In a few seconds, the machine sputtered to life, making a familiar whine as liquid energy squirted down into the mug.
Twenty-eight seconds later, there was a loud sucking sound and the flow of coffee ceased. Mug in hand, the man left the kitchen and sat down at a table in front of the long window that ran the entire length of the floor. The view was spectacular; the white trunks of the aspen trees and the snow-laden limbs of the fir trees glowed in the darkness beyond the glass. A slight breeze blew between the trees, making small cyclones of flakes.
A closed laptop lay on the table in front of the man. Just as he reached out to open it, there was a flash of gray and black to his right. Something was moving fast. He wheeled around, lifting his arm instinctively. The intruder landed squarely on the table, hunched in a defensive posture. A stare-down ensued, and after a few seconds the intruder finally let out a loud meow.
“Sam,” said the man, shaking his head. “Still no respect for a trained operative?” The feline ignored the jest and stepped directly onto the laptop, purring and rubbing his nose against the man’s arms.
“Now get going. You know ol’ Ross gets irritable when Daddy doesn’t call home on time.” He lifted the gray tabby and set him gently on the floor. Sam meowed in protest but then retreated to his bowls in the kitchen.
The man opened the laptop and pressed the power button. The processor beeped and whistled as it came to life.
As he waited for the computer to run through its security protocols, the man wondered why he was being asked to make contact with Arlington. He had been seen several times during the last mission in Italy, which would typically require a dark period of six months at the Lodge, and he had only been there for three. To have him come back out at that point would be a violation of Delphi protocol.
Could issues have arisen in Italy since he had returned to the United States? The mission had been deemed a complete success, one of the greatest in the history of Delphi, but perhaps there were some rocks yet to be overturned. Or perhaps the organization they were investigating had more tentacles than they had previously thought. Carmen Petrosino had been left to oversee the cleanup, and she was as competent a case officer as they had.
Then his mind moved to other possibilities: did they have questions regarding the final report that only he could answer? He doubted it. Carmen knew the operation as well as he did. And if they simply had questions, then why code orange? Perhaps there were problems with other operations, but that seemed unlikely. He was their best operative — that wasn’t arrogance; it was simply a fact — but he was familiar with all of the ongoing missions and couldn’t envision a situation that would require him to come out. The whole thing was a mystery.
The Windows chime brought him out of his thoughts. The desktop had loaded. There were 3 USB cables lying on the table in front of him, each of a different color. He chose the yellow one and inserted it into the side of the laptop. As soon as he did, there was another loud beep, and a login box with four fields appeared. He entered his username and then a series of three different passwords, all with fifteen or more characters.