The Second Ship (25 page)

Chapter 53

“So what is the report?”

Jack spoke into his cell phone as he moved across the parking lot toward the far end of the shopping mall.

“I’ve been monitoring home lines on all the scientists on the Rho Project.” Harold's voice on the far end was delayed and sounded slightly distorted, an annoying side effect of the encryption device. “Other than what is in the report I faxed you, we have nothing of great significance so far.”

“What about Dr. Anatole? She was mentioned in the New Year’s Day Virus message.”

“She’s a cold fish. Adheres to security procedures by the book. And forget about Stephenson. His phone calls consist of things like, ‘Get over to my office now.’ I’ve never heard someone less talkative on the phone.”

“So you’re telling me we've got nothing? What about the bugs?”

“If you mean the ones you planted in the McFarland and Smythe houses, there is the barest mention of some of the scientists calling for them to work weekends. They seem more excited by their kids' national science project than anything else.”

“What project?”

“Their kids have pooled their money, with help from both fathers, and are trying to build a home-sized cold fusion device.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Apparently not very. I did some checking, and several graduate students around the world are doing roughly the same thing. The papers on the subject are flying around the Internet.”

“Odd for high school students, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“In most places, yes. Not here in Los Alamos, though. Most of the parents have PhDs and work at the lab. Even the teachers are highly qualified. This school is first-rate.”

“So we have nothing.”

“I didn’t say that. We have nothing direct. However, I’ve been running some cross correlation algorithms against the recorded phone conversations of all of the scientists on the program.”

“Yes?”

“It looks like a small subset of them are working on something in a different wing of the Rho Project building.”

“Let me guess. Nancy Anatole is one of the ones working in that section.”

“Bingo.”

“A bit thin. Anything else?”

“One other thing. I ran a voice stress analyzer on every one of the recordings. The voice stress in the Anatole group is higher than the others, in every case.”

“Who had the highest measurements?”

“Dr. Anatole and Dr. Rodriguez.”

“What about Stephenson?”

“Cool as a cucumber. The man is completely calm and comfortable.”

“So you think Rodriguez is in as deep as Dr. Anatole?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. He has some other reasons for stress. His son has been in and out of cancer treatment for the last several years.”

“That would do it.”

“One final thing, Jack.”

“What?”

“I think you can pretty much rule out Gil McFarland and Fred Smythe. No voice stress, and they’re not part of the Anatole grouping.”

“That’s good to hear, although it’s what I expected. They seem to be just good, solid folks. Listen, I have to pick up Janet. Get back to me when you have something new.”

“Wilco.”

Jack flipped the cell phone cover shut and then, glancing quickly around, stepped into the Audi.

Chapter 54

It was more than could be hoped for: a sunny, warm February morning after a night of fun with his extended houseguest. Priest Williams stretched his arms wide, letting the bright rays of the sun irradiate his naked body. The thin air of the high country provided little filtration, a fact that sent anyone concerned about cancer or premature aging scurrying for the SPF 45 sunblock, even in the midst of winter.

Priest smiled. That was one of the many things he no longer had to worry about.

Feeling his stomach rumble reminded him of one of the things he did need to attend to, though. Although he imagined that he could survive a very long time without food, it would not be pleasant. And his guest certainly needed to be fed if she was going to last as long as he wanted her to. That meant today was shopping day.

Turning away from the sun, Priest stepped back through the doorway from his deck into the bedroom of his cabin, closing the sliding glass door behind him. As he headed toward the shower, he threw the Navajo rug over the closed trapdoor leading to the soundproof cellar below. Then, whistling the theme song to The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, he walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

The drive into Los Alamos took a little over forty-five minutes in the truck, most of it a bone-rattling ride along the dirt road that led from his cabin back to the highway. By the time he pulled into the Safeway parking lot, noon was not far away.

Priest’s tastes were not fancy. Steaks, burgers, fries, milk, cereal, coffee, beer, chips, and salsa. Throw in a couple of impulse items on the way back to the register, and he was done.

Opening the tailgate, Priest quickly transferred the bags into the bed of the truck. Then, as he was about to slam the tailgate closed, he saw someone who caused him to move out of sight behind the passenger side of the vehicle.

There, on the far side of the parking lot, just getting out of a red Audi Quattro, was Jack Gregory. Priest felt the hair along his neck, back, and arms stand straight up.

“Jack, my boy,” Priest breathed. “Now what in the world is a heavy hitter like you doing in town?”

Priest had run into Jack Gregory on three separate occasions. Once in the horn of Africa, once in Afghanistan, and the last time in Pakistan. Priest had never liked him, and the feeling was mutual. Still, there was one thing to be said for Jack. He was the deadliest man Priest had ever run into, perhaps the only one who could handle someone like Abdul Aziz without the special augmentation Priest now enjoyed.

Priest clenched his teeth so hard they threatened to crack. With a deep breath, he forced himself to relax. As much as he owed Jack personally for what he had done to Priest in Pakistan, that would have to be put on hold. Dr. Stephenson would certainly want to know about Jacky boy's presence here.

Priest keyed in the speed-dial number for Stephenson and was reaching for the send button when he saw her. The woman was strikingly beautiful. Tall. Athletic. She moved with all the grace of a dancer right up to Jack Gregory, wrapped her arms around his neck, and gave him a kiss that elevated Priest's heart rate just watching it. She slid into the passenger seat of the Audi, and Jack closed her door behind her.

Suddenly Jack paused and raised his head, almost like an animal catching a strange scent on the wind. Priest ducked back behind the truck. No doubt about it. That bastard was dangerous.

After several seconds, Jack got into the Audi and drove away. Priest watched the car disappear around the bend and then stepped out from behind his truck once again.

Who was the hot little number with Jack? Without a doubt, she was an operative, and if she was teamed with Jack, that meant she was one of the best.

The last time Priest had met Jack, it had ended badly, with Priest's body broken in so many places he had barely survived. Jack did not like being double-crossed. But now, Priest was not the same man. Now he had a little surprise in store for his old acquaintance.

“I think I’d like to get to know that little gal of yours, Jacky boy,” he murmured.

But Dr. Stephenson would not like him playing with the pretty secret agent girl. Priest stared at the cell phone for several seconds before flipping it closed and pocketing it.

What Dr. Donald Stephenson didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Chapter 55

Diving into the stands after a basketball tended to be painful. In this case, thirteen stitches worth of pain.

Mark stared in the bathroom mirror, looking at the swelling just above his left eyebrow. The doctor said he would have a small scar, but that was about it. As Mark stared at it, he thought it might actually come out looking rather cool.

The audience reaction had been great. He grinned as he thought about it. The game was winding down through the last thirty seconds before halftime, and Jerry Clark had thrown him a long breakaway pass that missed. Still, Mark had managed to get a hand on it and deflect it back to his teammates before crashing headlong into the bleachers. He immediately clawed his way back to his feet and was headed for the court when several hands grabbed him. That was when Mark noticed the blood. Even shallow wounds to the forehead tended to bleed like a stuck pig, and this one was no exception. The coach told him to lie down on the court, and by the time someone rushed over with a towel to put some direct pressure on the cut, his eye sockets had filled with blood.

Jerry, bending over his prostrate form, practically yelled, “Oh my God. It looks like he has twin pools of blood instead of eyes. Hey! Someone get a camera.”

His buddies were a little short on sympathy, but the cheerleaders made up for it.

That little stunt had cost the team its first loss of the season. Even though Mark had felt fine to go back in if they would only butterfly bandage the cut, the coach sent him to the hospital to get stitches and to be checked for a concussion. By the time the intern finished sewing his head and shining a little flashlight in his eyes, the game was over.

Roswell Goddard High School 83. Los Alamos High School 78.

So much for the perfect season.

Mark finished dressing, brushed his teeth and hair, and then headed down to breakfast. Unfortunately, the McFarlands had departed early that morning for an appointment in Santa Fe, which meant he and Jennifer would be eating their mom's cooking.

Jennifer caught Mark’s eye as he strolled into the kitchen, giving him a small shake of the head, which meant something like, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter this room.” The smell of burning toast had not quite reached a thickness that would set off the smoke alarm, but that didn’t reassure him.

How a woman as talented as his mother could produce such inedible meals was one of the deep underlying mysteries of the universe. You would expect a bad cook to deliver bland-tasting dishes that left little to look forward to. But Linda Smythe went beyond the normally bad, settling in at spectacularly, amazingly bad. Mark didn’t think she could do worse if she tried. Cutting into her eggs either produced hard bits of a yellowish, rubbery substance or, worse yet, slimy little worms of liquid white that crawled toward the edges of your plate.

Oh well. Mark would gut it out and do his best to avoid hurting his mom’s feelings. After all, she had made the effort to feed them, so he would make the effort to eat it.

This morning's meal proved to be surprisingly edible, despite the look he had received from Jennifer. A quick scraping of the toast removed most of the charred bits. Adding the firmly cooked eggs, a slice of cheese, and some salt and pepper created an Egg McSmythe that wasn’t half bad.

“Thanks, Mom. That was great,” he said, rising from the table with his orange juice in hand.

Linda Smythe smiled at him. “You’re a terrible liar, but I appreciate the compliment anyway.”

Mark laughed and kissed her on the cheek. “Jen and I will be working in the garage for a bit, and then I’m going for a long run.”

“Not too fast. Mind those stitches.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I promise not to pop a vessel.”

Mark led the way to their workshop, Jennifer close on his heels.

“So where are we at?” he asked as they reached the workbench.

Jennifer pulled up the stool in front of her laptop. A new USB cable ran from the back of the computer to an electronic circuit board mounted atop the tank.

“I still have about six hours of work on the program that will manage the subspace tuning algorithm Heather developed. After that, I’ll have to write some test driver software to simulate the responses. With my homework load, I don’t think I can finish before next weekend.”

“Then you better get to it, Sis. Don’t let me hold you up.”

“So you’re still planning on jogging out to the ship to retrieve the laptop and QT device?”

“Yep. I called Heather last night and told her we needed them here. It’s just not practical to monitor what’s happening with Stephenson otherwise. Besides, you can run your little encryption virus on it and scramble the data.”

“I guess it’s no more dangerous than everything else we’re doing. Kind of a long jog, though. Why not take the bike?”

“I feel like running. It’s only about eighteen miles round-trip. Not even marathon distance.”

“Yes, but coming back you’re going to have that laptop and stuff in your backpack.”

Mark grinned. “I think I can handle it.”

“Well, get going, then. You'll want to be back for dinner. Mom's cooking lasagna.”

“Gee, I’d hate to miss that,” Mark said as he headed back inside.

Mark quickly changed into his shorts, sweat suit, and running shoes, threw his backpack over his shoulders, and set off at a steady jog. As he disappeared around the bend onto the trail that led cross-country to the ship, far behind him, staying well out of sight, another jogger mirrored his path.