Event

SEVEN

After the meeting broke up, Collins and Everett made, their way to an early dinner.

"Well, that was different. Didn't like the way the old man looked though," Jack said.

Everett thought a moment, then stepped closer to the major. "I think the senator's not well. He shouldn't be this involved. Maybe he wants this to be his last hurrah, so to speak, but that's just my opinion, and I would die for that guy." Carl fell silent a moment. "There's scuttlebutt that says the president is thinking about fully retiring the senator, even taking away his advisory status, even though Doc Compton would kill to keep him on." Carl pursed his lips a moment. "Sure would hate to see that."

"If it does happen, what about all this?" Jack asked, gesturing at the complex around him.

"Dr. Compton has been calling the shots around here since 1993 or so, with Alice easing him into the position." Everett took the major by the elbow and steered him away from the others, walking slowly along the hallway. "As I mentioned earlier, there have been some serious leaks from somewhere. That goddamn Farbeaux and whomever he is working for have shown up at the oddest places and have done us, the Brits, Germans, and Israelis a lot of damage. A few of their intelligence agencies actually accused the U.S. of harboring this guy and whomever he works for. I'm glad you're here to take command and sort this mess out."

Jack knew he had a lot of hard work ahead of him.

The president of the United States sat for a moment after the view of the Event Center went dark. The president stood and walked over to the blinds and pulled them aside. He smiled and waved at his daughters with the red-bordered file and the pages that the Group had just sent over. The girls, along with the first lady, were playfully tossing the burning hot dogs into the air and letting them hit the grill, accompanied by laughter. He smiled and slowly turned away from the window in thought.

He had quickly scanned the pages the Group had sent over and felt numb. If what Lee thought was happening was indeed really happening, the president didn't know if they had the assets to stop it. He slowly walked over to his wall safe and opened it and placed the pages inside, then closed it and locked it with his key. He turned away and went to the side door of his office and opened it and waved the Secret Service agent in.

Roland Davis had been on the presidential detail for the past three years and knew when the president had a lot on his mind. When he wasn't smiling, that meant he was occupied with one problem or another.

"The staff just made a fresh batch of lemonade, Mr. President," Agent Davis said.

"Thank you, Roland," the president said as he turned and made his way for the door and his reunion with burnt hot dogs. "After I choke down dinner, I would like to speak with the chief of staff, and get General Hardesty on the horn, in"--he paused and looked at his watch and then outside to his smiling wife--"say an hour?"

"Yes, sir, one hour."

The president went through the door and into the nice evening.

Special Agent Roland Davis slowly slid the door closed, then pulled the blinds closed to offer the first family their privacy. The outdoor security teams were now responsible for the president's safety. Davis then went over and pushed a button on the coffee table in front of the large couch, sending the liquid-crystal plastic conference screen back into its nest in the ceiling, at the same moment he reached underneath and deftly removed a small device he had hastily placed there before the president's conference. He quickly clipped it to his radio on his belt, then turned and walked over to the swinging door that led to the small entranceway. He swung it partway open; sitting at a small desk was the Secret Service duty officer.

"Stan, I'm going off the air to make a personal call to my wife at work," he said, holding the door open with one hand. "The boss is outside with the family."

"You bet, just let me know when you're back on the air, and if the boss comes back in"--Stan tapped one of the six video monitors on the desk--"end the call real quick."

"Sure thing." Davis removed the earpiece from his left ear, and while the duty officer reached into his top drawer, Davis quickly reached down and shut off the radio on his belt, his hand moving so quickly he knew it went unnoticed.

"Here ya are," the officer said as he tossed Roland his personal cell phone.

Every agent on the president's security detail was required to turn in all personal equipment while on duty, including cell phones. Davis nodded his head in thanks and let the door swing closed. He walked back into the wood-paneled living room and stepped to the small window next to the bar and partially separated one of the hanging blinds. The president was now sitting in a lounge chair grimacing at the hot dog that was sitting in a plate on his lap. Roland let the panel drop back and then walked to the center of the room. He raised the cell phone and dialed a preprogrammed number. The connection was quickly made.

"Clausins Department Store," a female voice answered.

"Hi, can you connect me with accounting please, this is Roland Davis calling for his wife," he said, not giving in to the temptation to look around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. The cameras were still on and very much active even though the president was currently outside.

"One moment please," the voice said.

There was a series of clicks, and then just like any other holding signal, the gentle swell of a soft and melodic version of "Eleanor Rigby" came into his right ear. The Muzak was a nice touch, he had to admit that.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Davis, she's in a sales meeting at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?"

As he listened to the coded phrase, he quickly reached to his side under his jacket and switched on the miniature digital recorder that he had just attached to his voice-activated radio. The same one he had just removed from the bottom of the coffee table. Then he quickly placed the cell phone by his hip and counted to two; he left it there another four seconds just to be sure. In that short time, a burst transmission was sent three times through the cell phone that was completely silent, or if anyone was listening, such as the NSA, they may have caught the soft sound of hissing like any other cell call. The coded recording of the president's meeting with the Event Group would be heard by others in a matter of minutes.

He quickly placed the phone to his ear and said, "No thanks, I'll speak with her when she gets home." He closed the cell phone and smiled. He would be paid a nice amount for his treachery.

The Genesis Group had been located on Seventh Avenue for the past sixty years and had passed that time as anonymously as any tree among many in the forest of buildings in one of the largest cities in the world. Few noticed that only a couple of people a day came and went from the nondescript sandstone building, but the ones that did were delivered to the address in limousines and wore clothing few outside of habitues of the largest boardrooms in the world could afford. The Sage Building was sixteen stories of boring turn-of-the-century architecture that drew absolutely no attention from anyone. The ornate interior decorations that occupied its dust-free corners had been purchased from all the best houses of Europe and Asia, but the most outstanding feature of the Sage Building was found five stories below the surface of the busy street.

The old man sat in a high-backed, electric wheelchair and looked into the glass enclosures before him. The three containers and the craft were there as they had always been. The information gained from them had long since been filed away, and the cabinets that held those files were being covered, he was sure, with thick layers of dust somewhere on the floor below him.

The largest display in the immense subbasement was to the right of the smaller enclosure containing the three aluminum bio-tanks. This viewing case was filled with the vehicle recovered from Roswell in 1947; its electronics and engines had long since been dismantled and analyzed many, many years ago at the then named Wright Field in Ohio. Little remained of the saucer after all the metallurgy that had been conducted on the debris. But what there was of it had been put back into some semblance of its original shape. The craft was almost unrecognizable as only the front and lower portions had been re-created. The upper dome was long gone, as the scientists and company engineers had had their way with it. He thought back through the years and remembered the excitement among his handpicked people as the technology had been retrieved.

The old man looked at the lower section, what the eggheads had confirmed had been the cargo hold of the vessel. This section was sparse in its reconstruction, but he could see the many metal containers that had been recovered and, once examined, placed back inside. The one in the center held his attention and had for the past sixty-odd years.

The large crate was sitting on the Plexiglas floor (that was a prop also, as the original floor had been used for testing as so much of the craft had). The contents, of course, had never been in his possession, but the mere thought of what it must have contained at one time was mind-boggling.

He closed his eyes as a small pain crossed from left to right across his chest. He knew it wasn't serious but he removed a small ornate Chinese case from his vest pocket nonetheless and quickly slipped a small white nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue. All the while his eyes never left the crate where spotlights illuminated it and it alone.

Again the old man reached out and this time removed a box from a small table beside his large wheelchair. He gently lifted the lid on the aluminum container and stared into the satin-lined interior. He lowered the box to his lap and used his index finger to touch the long and curved claw inside. It was fourteen inches in length and was serrated on both sides. The claw flared on the tip into what looked like two spoons that were arranged on either side just before the devastatingly sharp tip. The entire length curved like the prehistoric claws found in museums of animals long vanished from the surface of this world. He lovingly removed the claw from its box.

Whatever animal had used this weapon also used it as a digging instrument. The creature had obviously been a bur-rower of some sort, or so his expensive teams of scientists had said. The DNA recovered from the claw was so alien to our universe that the eggheads declared that the sample had to have been severely contaminated. Their analysis of the atomic structure of the sample told them it could never have survived anyplace with a gravitational field.

Bah! Sons of bitches don't know what they are talking about, the old man thought. An impossibility, they said. Well here it is right in my hand. The claw proved that this animal had existed and he would have loved to have seen it. He had lied and cajoled the old boys in the Agency so long ago, fooled them into thinking there was nothing to it. Even the Majestic 12 council, President Truman's think tank, conceived after Roswell to discover the ramifications of life beyond this world, had no idea these artifacts still existed. Even the old hawks at the time, Curtis LeMay and Allen Dulles, were just as happy never to have to deal with anything from Roswell again outside of the technology they gleaned from it. As for the possibilities of the animal, out of sight, out of mind was their philosophy.

He placed the claw back into the box and closed the lid. It would go back into his safe upstairs where no one would ever lay hands on it. This was lus only personal claim to the crash at Roswell, and no one would take it from him. He set the box on the small table and looked at the enclosure next to the saucer. They were lined up side by side. Glass viewing plates had been placed in the upper half of the lids for viewing the corpses inside.

Every once in a while he wondered if the evidence of that night should be shared with the powers that be, but then he would catch himself. He knew that it was he and his company, now his son's, that were the only ones that would be strong enough to lead the way in combating the enemy they had discovered in the scrub brush in New Mexico. Or, if it was handled just right, they might acquire a new weapon for their own country if the chance arose. After all, if it was good enough for use as a weapon outside this world, it would sure enough be good for America.

"You know, Dad, if you continue to come down here into this cold and dank basement, I'm going to leave orders for it to be locked up." The voice came from an open doorway at the top of the long theater-type aisle. "It can't be good for you."

The old man turned and faced the man who was backlit by the open door.

"It's all I have left, and now you threaten to deny me even that?" he responded, then turned back around.

The tall man let the door close behind him and made his way slowly down the descending aisle. The basement had been set up like a small theater, and the seats were strategically placed to view the craft. The old man's only son sat in the front row right behind the wheelchair his father had ordered placed on the small riser of a stage so he could see the artifacts better. He didn't say anything for a moment, just watched the old man and shook his head. He undid the waist button of his expensive suit jacket and waited. The younger man had jet-black hair that was combed straight back, and his features were just as his father's had been so long ago, aggressive and unyielding.

"I've received some information that may be of interest to you... and us," he said as he crossed his right leg over the other. He brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from the fabric of his pants.

The old man didn't say anything. His gaze never wavered from the exhibits in front of him.

"The president's been having some very interesting meetings with your old friend Garrison Lee and Director Compton."

At the mention of Lee's name he saw his father's shoulders twitch and his body tense.

"I take it I have your attention, for the moment at least?" The younger man enjoyed the advantage he momentarily had over the old man. He knew it upset his father no end that Garrison Lee still had people who depended upon him for advice, when his father had been cast aside by the ever-changing environment of a very different world, a world of science and manufacturing, not dreaming about monsters and invasions. Lee had outlasted him and he hated him for it. But the younger man decided to soften his approach. He still respected his father for his strength and foresight when America needed it the most.

"It's my understanding our distinguished president meets with the Event Group once a week, why should it concern me? It's you and our company that has a misguided interest in antiquities and mysteries from the past, not I," the old man replied without turning.

The current president and CEO of one of the largest defense contractors in the world, the son still tried to keep his father up-to-date on all that the corporation was doing, even their search for antiquities as investments.

"Even if it's something from the past that involved Roswell and Purple Sage?" the son said, letting the statement sink in for a moment. "The meeting was held in regards to a situation this morning involving an incident where two navy F-14s were downed."

"Purple Sage?" The old man went rigid in his chair.

"It's my understanding from what we received from our asset at Camp David that this incident involved two unidentified craft that closely resemble what you're looking at right now. We First learned of the incursion from our station at the pole. We even have infrared evidence of their arrival."

The old man didn't move for a moment. He just sat and absorbed the information his son had just delivered. The technology gained in Roswell had once again paid dividends. He blinked and he felt his body and mind kick into a gear he no longer thought he had.

"Purple Sage," he mumbled with a smile.

"The information has been confirmed by our Event Group asset who used the code name in his phone conversation." His father had given the Roswell Incident this code name years before.

"We must learn everything we can," the old man said as he finally used the electric motor and spun his chair to face his son. "If this is a new part of Operation Purple Sage, we must be in on it at every step, is that clear?"

The younger man stood and buttoned his coat. His father's manic demeanor where this subject was concerned was something he never liked. Purple Sage had been a godsend for the company and indeed it wouldn't even exist if it weren't for what had been found, but his father was overzealous.

"I understand how important this is, not only to you, but to the defense of our country. That's why we do what we do. But remember, it was you who drove the Genesis Group and aspects of our corporation so far underground that it was hard for us to maneuver in the light of day. It was handled so badly your friends had to fake your death. Because of the way you and those two maniacs LeMay and Dulles handled things in '47, we're underground patriots. I won't allow such misplaced zeal to harm the corporation or this country again, is that clear... Father?"

The old man ignored the reference to his past and his official nonexistence. "You have someone competent to debrief the Event asset?"

The younger man never liked being too close to his father. It was as if he still had to look up slightly into those dark eyes, as if the old man had never been condemned to that damn wheelchair, and that unnerved him, and a man in his position never liked that loss of control.

"I'm going to contact the Frenchman's Black Team in L.A. He's not using them at the moment."

"What? Why not send the Frenchman himself?"

"The asset believes he's delivering information we don't have. I don't want Farbeaux anywhere near that man, he's a mercenary we cannot trust near Purple Sage, he would try and profit from it any way he could. You have shown too much trust in him in the past. If it weren't for the antiquities we pay him off in, he would have stabbed us in the back years ago. Now, with Purple Sage, he would have a reason to forgo his rewards."

"Do as you wish, but handle it carefully."

"I'm informing the Black Team to eliminate the Event asset as soon as they arrive in Las Vegas. We already have the information he's selling, and we simply don't want Reese and his treachery to lead anyone to us."

The old man reversed his wheelchair and stared at his son. "That's our main information source at the Event Group! We can't just eliminate him. I taught you better than that! We need eyes next to Lee and that egghead Compton. We have to know everything they're doing, because if I understand Lee correctly, he'll see a danger to the country and that is all, not a possible resource."

"Hear me, Father. I don't order the deaths of anyone as casually as you did in your day, and you did teach me very well about dangerous people. This subject matter is far too hot to take a chance that Reese won't screw up somehow and lead the Group right to the doorstep of this company, or even, God forbid, the doorstep of this very building. We cannot have the Genesis history come spilling out, now can we? As a courtesy to you, and because I respect what you have done in the past, I will keep you up-to-date and as involved as I can. But know that if this is truly Purple Sage-related, I will not endanger either the group or the company. Reese is expendable, he's a traitor to his organization, which means, in a roundabout way, he's a traitor to his country, even if he is selling us the information."

"The thought of Lee being stabbed in the back by such a man, well, it has always made me sad." He looked at his son. "Just because I hate the bastard and because Lee's a Boy Scout doesn't mean he's not an American and a patriot in his own misguided way, he's just blind to the things that need to be done." The old man smiled when he saw the strange look on his son's face. "Does that shock you that I almost admire Lee after all these years?"

"No, but don't think for one minute that Lee has forgotten about his missing personnel back in '47. Everyone tells me, including yourself, that Lee has been waiting for years for some link as to what happened to his men. From his history, patriot or not, I understand he's the one who can really make people vanish. So, clearly stated, no one must be allowed to lead them to us. As of right now he isn't even thinking of you; after all, you're dead."

"Of course, you're right, but imagine what this country could do with a specimen such as that animal? Our soldiers wouldn't have to die fighting madmen around the globe. We must find out, we must." The old man reached out and took his son's hand.

His son exhaled and patted his father's hand. "We'll take care of it. If it's happening again and we can get anything out of it, more technology, or the animal, the country will be the better for it. As you say, maybe we can turn the situation, or the creature, to the benefit of the United States, to use against our enemies, either here, or out there," he said. Glancing upward, he patted the hand again.

The son released his father's hand and turned and left. The old man slowly sank into the plush cushion of his wheelchair. Then he lowered his aging head and turned the chair and faced the exhibits once again. His gaze centered on the containers holding the bodies of the three alien life-forms, and a sick smile slowly formed on his thin lips as he turned and looked at the cage that had once contained an animal that had specifically been brought here. A creature that might very well be back on this planet, and this time, it might just be alive.

He knew his son would want the secrets that came hand in hand with the animal. But it would all be wasted if Lee got there first. Everything they could have learned from such a magnificent species would be lost to that fucking Boy Scout.

He tapped the box containing the claw of the beast and smiled even more broadly.

"You better be careful, Senator Lee," he said. "If they are indeed back, and if they are successful this time, something may be out there that will explain to you in no uncertain terms why man has always been afraid of the dark."

The man sat at the ornate czarist-Russian antique desk and studied the gold-encrusted cross that had just recently come into his possession. It weighed an astounding half kilo. With a jeweler's loupe he examined the green emeralds that adorned the cross down its center. Smiling, he removed the glass from his right eye and turned his large chair to face the huge glass wall that afforded him a view of Los Angeles as it sprawled westward toward the Pacific Ocean. The house on Mulholland Drive had been paid for in cash thanks to small trinkets such as the one he now held in his hand. His eyes roamed from the lights of the city below to the pool that wound its way around from the side of the house to a stop just below his window. He then held the gold cross up against the blue of the pool and admired the emeralds that sparkled.

"The Cross of Father Corinth," he said softly. The very cross the priest had made specifically to bless the Spanish soldiers that had helped loot and rape Peru in 1533. The late father Corinth had then been a part of the Francisco Pizarro expedition.

His reverie was interrupted by a soft knock on the study door. The man placed the cross on his desk and covered it with a satin cloth.

"Yes," he said, hating the interruption at what was supposed to be his quiet time.

The door opened and a big man with short-cropped hair stood there. He was well dressed in a black sport jacket and black nylon T-shirt underneath.

Henri Farbeaux, former colonel in the French Army and late of the French Antiquities Commission, looked the American over and then waved him in. The man walked toward the desk and sidestepped the huge lion skin that sat in front of the Frenchman's desk and held out a manila file.

Farbeaux looked at the file without moving. He then looked back at the cross and uncovered it and once again examined it. "What is that?" he asked, letting the man know his interruption wasn't appreciated.

"It's our Black Team's field report on our successful infiltration of the General Dynamics Pomona facility." The man patiently held the file out to the Frenchman.

"Ah, the Space Systems engineer," he said as he again laid the cross down and took the file.

"We can turn him, he's sloppy. It took us only three days to find his mistress. The initial approach has been completed by Hector, and our engineer friend would be quite amenable in assisting Centaurus in acquiring the blueprints for the TOIL system."

Farbeaux had been working in vain for over six months on his own to find something with which to blackmail the engineer in charge of TOIL, and then Hendrix had sent his Men in Black out to assist him and they had achieved results in only five days. The female agent code-named Hector was undoubtedly good at getting needed and well-hidden information out of highly placed sources.

Hector, he thought. Hendrix and his talent for naming his different Black Team members by ancient period names always made him smile. But regardless of their overly dramatic code names, they did get results. TOIL--Tactical Oxygen Iodine Laser, the new toy on the block that Centaurus had to have as their own. Where General Dynamics would have to face years of testing to achieve U.S. government certification, Hendrix would bypass all of that and have a working prototype in six to eight months and ready for government scrutiny. Another weapons system the company could call its own.

Farbeaux signed the report and handed the file back to Achilles, another stupid name.

"I suppose you will be taking your team out of here now?"

"It depends on the orders we receive from New York."

A near silent buzzing came from the man's jacket, and he removed a small radio while he looked at the Frenchman. Hendrix had warned him again and again about Farbeaux. He was not to be taken lightly. He was an opportunist and not an official member of the Centaurus family, therefore he was a man to be watched.

"Achilles."

"I have New York on the secure line in the office," the voice said.

Farbeaux acted as though he didn't overhear the man's counterpart downstairs and continued to examine the cross on his desk.

"I have the report signed. Inform New York it will be sent on the secure channel."

Farbeaux saw the man out of the corner of his eye tense up as the caller said something he couldn't overhear.

"Hendrix himself?" he mumbled into the small radio. "I'll be right down," he said quickly, and placed the radio back into his pocket.

"If you'll excuse me, I'll get this off to the New York office," Achilles said as he quickly turned with the file and hurriedly left.

Farbeaux finally looked up and watched as his door closed.

"Idiot" he mumbled, and slid the valuable cross across the desk and then leaned over and used a key to unlock his bottom right drawer.

The Black Team were guests in his home while they were here to assist in the Pomona operation. They had brought their own secure communications system and thought their software was invulnerable to tapping, which it very much was, but it wasn't the system that Henri was tapping into, it was the man himself.

He pulled a small box, a gift he had liberated from the French government while he had been employed with them, from the drawer and set it on his desk and opened the lid. Inside the opened lid were sixteen small six-inch monitors lined in three rows. He selected DOWNSTAIRS OFFICE, and the monitor came alive showing a clear color picture from an embedded camera in the heating duct on the ceiling. One of the Men in Black was pacing in front of the desk that had their secure phone system upon it. Farbeaux smiled as he reached down and found a small toggle switch and tested the camera angles. The picture easily moved toward the door and waited. Then he turned on the laser system that was mounted just below the camera and initiated the invisible beam. Then he turned on the small recording device and looked to make sure the small two-inch disc was turning.

Farbeaux saw Achilles enter the office and, ignoring his pacing counterpart, go straight for the scrambling device on the desk. Anyone hardwired into the system for spying purposes would only hear meaningless blips and beeps instead of words. But that didn't worry him as he watched Achilles pick up the phone receiver. He quickly adjusted the camera and pinpointed the laser on the man's ear as he sat in the chair behind the desk. Farbeaux adjusted the beam and moved it down an inch as the camera zoomed in. The laser was now exactly centered on the earpiece of the phone itself. Thus the conversation was being recorded after the voice on the other end had already been descrambled by the Centaurus system. The cleverer you think you are, the easier the system is to beat in the simplest manner, he thought. Just eavesdrop, like putting a glass to the wall. He set the system on AUTO-TRACK and the system imprinted on the receiving earpiece and kept tracking that spot.

"It's very rude to keep secrets from your host, Achilles," he said as he leaned back in his chair and waited.

The flashing light blinked several times when a few minutes later the call downstairs was terminated. Farbeaux then lightly punched a button that shut the system down as he watched Achilles leave the room. He smiled as he hit the playback button on the recorder and placed a set of headphones over his ears. He heard the chirps and whistles as the filter scrambled the call, making it come out the other end sounding like a slowed-down recording of Darth Vader. Very dramatic, he thought, smiling. Then he listened, it was indeed Mr. Hendrix calling his boys.

"Achilles," the man said downstairs.

"I have an assignment for your Black Team. The Frenchman is not to know anything," Hendrix said.

Farbeaux listened with his eyes closed, seemingly not even breathing.

"Yes, sir."

"This involves Purple Sage, so it is of the highest priority. This is why the Black Group was first created. Do you understand that?"

"Perfectly," the man downstairs answered.

"There will be a man at the Ivory Coast Lounge in Las Vegas. He is our main asset at a think tank nearby. He is to be eliminated immediately, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. Subject's name?"

"Reese, Robert Reese. He's expecting to sell information concerning our Purple Sage file. We don't need it and sadly we also don't need him any longer, as he has just undoubtedly and unknowingly compromised his position. We need him buried deeply. We believe he may even be aware of the Event personnel disappearances in '47. This we cannot have and cannot take a chance of Lee and Compton finding out about. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir, I will gather my team and be in Las Vegas ASAP."

"Don't bother to explain your destination to Legion, the Frenchman can smell opportunity. His loyalty does not figure into our company's goals."

"Yes, sir, he is someone that can clearly be handled," Achilles said.

"Do not, I repeat, do not underestimate that man. He is resourceful, he knows the Group in the desert intimately. He is not one of your case files that you can scare into silence. Now, did he receive his payment for that detail work in Silicon Valley?"

"Yes, sir, he's admiring the cross as we speak."

"Good, that should keep the greedy bastard occupied while you're in Las Vegas."

"The field report on the success of the General Dynamics operation?" Achilles asked.

"No hurry, it's now a low priority. This Reese operation takes precedence, is that totally clear? Waste no time getting your Black Team out there."

"Yes, sir."

The connection was terminated.

Farbeaux removed his headphones and then placed his magic box back in the drawer and locked it. Purple Sage, Reese? The only asset he was aware of in the Las Vegas area was the Event Group rat that worked for Compton and Lee. What was so valuable as to burn such a man as he? And this Purple Sage?

Farbeaux stood and retrieved the Cross of Father Corinth, wrapping it carefully in the black satin cloth, and returned it to his wall safe. He then went to his desk drawer and removed a walnut box and lifted the lid. He drew out a polished Glock nine-millimeter pistol. He also removed a small cylinder that was embedded beside the weapon and slipped the silencer into his jacket pocket and the Glock into a holster he had removed from the same drawer. The desk phone buzzed.

"Yes," Farbeaux said as he picked it up.

"My team has been ordered out of state for a day or so," Achilles said.

"Good, maybe I can do some research without interruption."

"Yes, sir."

He knew his corporate sponsor had been scared by something and knew that whatever Purple Sage was, it had been initiated by the Event Group. So, that's why this Reese had become a liability, that and information he had on Event personnel disappearing in 1947.

He would have to find out exactly what was at stake. He wasn't about to be left out of an Event that could well be beneficial to Henri Farbeaux. He looked at his watch as he slid his jacket on. It would take the Black Team a while to gather and then make the commercial flight to Vegas. He would have time to beat them if he hurried. He quickly called his pilot and ordered him to file a flight plan from LAX to McCarran Airport in Las Vegas. He would beat the Black Team to Vegas and find out why New York was in such a panic.