Blue Labyrinth

50

The office was spartan, functional, and — as befitted the personality of its occupant — contained more than a hint of military efficiency. The large desk, gleaming with polish, held nothing beyond an old-fashioned blotter, a pen-and-pencil desk set, a phone, and a single photo in a silver frame, arranged in orderly ranks. There was no computer or keyboard. An American flag stood on a wooden stand in a corner. The wall behind contained bookshelves racked with volumes of military history and Jane’s yearbooks and annuals: Armour and Artillery, Explosive Ordnance Disposal, Military Vehicles and Logistics. Another wall displayed an array of framed medals, awards, and commendations.

A man sat behind the desk, wearing a business suit, crisp white shirt, and dark-red tie. He sat erect, and he wore the suit as one might wear a uniform. He was writing with a fountain pen, and the scratch of the nib filled the otherwise silent office. Outside the single picture window lay a small campus of similar buildings, clad in black glass, surrounded by a double set of chain-link fences topped with razor wire. Past the outer fence was a line of trees, rich and green, and, in the farther distance, a splash of blue lake.

The phone rang and the man picked it up. “Yes?” he said curtly. His voice was full of gravel, and it seemed to come from deep within his barrel chest.

“Mr. Barbeaux,” came the secretary’s voice from the outer office. “There are two police officers here to see you.”

“Give me sixty seconds,” he said. “Then show them in.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man hung up the phone. He sat at his desk, motionless, for another few seconds. Then, with a single glance at the photograph, he rose from his chair. He was just over sixty years of age, but the motion was made as effortlessly as by a youth of twenty. He turned to examine himself in a small mirror that hung on the wall behind his desk. A large, heavy-boned face stared back: blue eyes, lantern jaw, Roman nose. Although the tie was perfectly knotted, he adjusted it anyway. Then he turned toward the door to his office.

As he did so, it opened and his secretary ushered in two figures.

Barbeaux looked at them in turn. One was tall, with dark-blond hair that was slightly windblown. He moved with authority, and with the grace of a natural athlete. The other was shorter and darker. He returned Barbeaux’s look with an expression that betrayed absolutely nothing.

“John Barbeaux?” said the taller man.

Barbeaux nodded.

“I’m Lieutenant Peter Angler of the NYPD, and this is my associate, Sergeant Slade.”

Barbeaux shook the proffered hands in turn and returned to his seat. “Please, sit down. Coffee, tea?”

“Nothing, thanks.” Angler sat down in one of the chairs ranged before the desk, and Slade followed suit. “This is quite the fortress you have here, Mr. Barbeaux.”

Barbeaux smiled at this. “It’s mostly show. We’re a private military contractor. I’ve found that it pays to look the part.”

“I’m curious, though. Why build such an extensive operation way out here, in the middle of nowhere?”

“Why not?” Barbeaux replied. When Angler said nothing, he added: “My parents used to come up here every summer. I like the Schroon Lake area.”

“I see.” Angler crossed one leg over the other. “It is very pretty country.”

Barbeaux nodded again. “In addition, land is inexpensive. Red Mountain owns more than a thousand acres for use in training, warfare simulations, ordnance testing, and the like.” He paused. “So. What brings you gentlemen to upstate New York?”

“Actually, Red Mountain. At least in part.”

Barbeaux frowned in surprise. “Really? What possible interest could the NYPD have with my company?”

“Would you mind telling me what it is that Red Mountain Industries does, exactly?” Angler asked. “I poked around a bit on the Internet, but your official site was rather short on hard data.”

The surprised look had not left Barbeaux’s face. “We provide training and support to law enforcement, security, and military clients. We also do research in advanced weapons systems and cutting-edge tactical and strategic theory.”

“Ah. And would that theory extend to counterterrorism?”

“Yes.”

“Do you provide on-the-ground as well as back-office support?”

There was a slight pause before Barbeaux answered. “At times, yes. How, exactly, can I be of help to you?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment, if you’ll permit me just one or two more questions. I assume the U.S. government is your biggest client?”

“It is,” said Barbeaux.

“And so it would be fair to say that maintaining your reputation as a security contractor is of great importance to you? I mean, all those congressional oversight committees and that sort of thing.”

“It is of paramount importance,” replied Barbeaux.

“Of course it is.” Angler uncrossed his legs and sat forward. “Mr. Barbeaux, the reason we’re here is because we have uncovered evidence of a problem in your organization.”

Barbeaux went very still. “Excuse me? What kind of problem?”

“We don’t have the details. But we believe there is a person or persons — it might be a small cadre, but it’s more likely to be a rogue individual — who has subverted Red Mountain’s resources and may be involved in unauthorized doings. Perhaps private arms dealing, training, or mercenary activity.”

“But that’s simply not possible. We vet all new employees extensively, with the most exhaustive background checks available. And all ongoing employees must submit to yearly lie detector tests.”

“I understand it must be hard for you to accept,” Angler replied. “Nevertheless, our investigations have led to this conclusion.”

Barbeaux was silent for a moment, thinking. “Naturally, I’d like to help you gentlemen. But we are such a scrupulously careful outfit — you have to be, in this business — that I just don’t see how what you say could be.”

Angler paused briefly before continuing. “Let me put it in a different light. If we’re right, wouldn’t you agree that — whatever the specifics — it would leave Red Mountain vulnerable?”

Barbeaux nodded. “Yes. Yes, it would.”

“And if it were true, and news leaked out… well, you can imagine what the fallout would be.”

Barbeaux considered this for a moment. Then he slowly released his breath. “You know—” he began, then stopped. And then he stood up and came around the desk. He looked first at Angler, then at Sergeant Slade. The shorter man had been silent throughout the conversation, letting his superior do the talking. Barbeaux looked back at Angler. “You know, I think we should have this conversation someplace else. If I’ve learned anything in my life, I’ve learned that walls can have ears — even in a private office such as this.”

He walked to the door, led the way through the outer office, to the hallway beyond, and then to the elevator bank. He pressed the DOWN button, and the nearest set of doors whispered open. Ushering the two police officers in ahead of him, Barbeaux stepped in himself and pressed the button marked B3.

“B3?” Angler asked.

“The third level below ground. We have a couple of ordnance proving ranges down there. They are soundproofed and otherwise hardened. There we can talk freely.”

The elevator descended to the lowest level, and the doors opened onto a long concrete corridor. Red lightbulbs within metal cages threw a crimson glow over the hallway. Stepping out of the elevator, Barbeaux walked down the hallway, passing the occasional windowless door of thick steel. At last he stopped before one marked simply PR-D, opened it, flicked on a row of light switches with the back of his palm, then satisfied himself that the room was unoccupied before showing the two officers in.

Lieutenant Angler entered and looked around at the walls, floor, and ceiling, which were all lined with some kind of black, rubberized insulating material. “This looks like a cross between a squash court and a padded cell.”

“As I said, we won’t be overheard.” Barbeaux closed the door and turned to face the officers. “What you say, Lieutenant, is very disturbing. However, I’ll cooperate as best I can.”

“I felt confident you’d say that,” Angler replied. “Sergeant Slade has done a background check on you, and we feel you’re the kind of man who would want to do the right thing.”

“How can I help, exactly?” Barbeaux asked.

“Launch a private investigation. Let us help you unmask this operative or operatives. Mr. Barbeaux, the fact is we’re not interested in prosecuting Red Mountain. We came into this sideways, through a murder investigation. My interest is in a potential suspect, connected to the murder, whom we believe may be involved with rogue elements in your company.”

Barbeaux frowned. “And who is this suspect?”

“An FBI agent whom I’d rather not name, for the present. But if you cooperate, I’ll see that Red Mountain is kept out of the papers. I’ll bring the FBI agent to justice — and you’ll see your firm rid of its rotten apple.”

“A rogue FBI agent,” Barbeaux said, almost to himself. “Interesting.” He glanced back at Angler. “But this is all you know? You have no more information on the identity of this rotten apple inside my own company?”

“None. That’s why we’ve come to you.”

“I see.” Barbeaux turned to Sergeant Slade. “You can shoot him now.”

Lieutenant Angler blinked, as if trying to parse this non sequitur. By the time he turned toward his associate, Slade had his service piece out. Raising it calmly, he fired a quick double tap into Angler’s head. The lieutenant’s head snapped back and his body crumpled to the floor, a fine mist of blood and gray matter settling over it a moment later.

The sound of the shots was strangely muffled by the proving chamber’s soundproofing. Slade looked at Barbeaux as he put his weapon away. “Why did you let him go on for so long?” he asked.

“I wanted to find out just how much he knew.”

“I could have told you that.”

“You did well, Loomis. You’ll be compensated accordingly.”

“I hope so. The fifty grand a year you’ve paid me so far doesn’t cut it. I’ve been working overtime, covering your butt on this. You wouldn’t believe the strings I had to pull behind the scenes just to make sure that the Alban Pendergast case was assigned to Angler.”

“Don’t think it isn’t appreciated, my friend. But now there’s some pressing business to attend to.” Barbeaux walked to a phone that hung near the door, picked it up, and dialed a number. “Richard? It’s Barbeaux. I’m in Proving Range D. I’ve made quite a mess. Please send Housekeeping down to deal with it. Then get the Ops Crew assembled. Set up a meeting in my private conference room for one PM. We’ve got a new priority.”

He hung up the phone and carefully stepped over the body, lying in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. “Sergeant,” he said, “take care not to get any of that on your shoes.”