Sedona Conspiracy

CHAPTER TWELVE ^OPPORTUNITY

Eric got to The Coffee Pot at seven, but tourists already filled the little parking lot. He had to park across the street and risk his life in a sprint back across again in morning traffic. A tall man in western garb and a black Stetson identifying him as a big city dude watched Eric approach, and smiled.

“Good broken-field-running, Mister Price. Sorry we have to meet so early.” The man extended a hand. “John Coulter. Let me buy breakfast for your trouble.”

Coulter’s grip was firm, but his hand was smooth, and he’d used a musky and probably expensive after-shave that morning.

“Thanks,” said Eric. “We’ll probably have to wait a while.”

They went inside, and were fortunate. The first wave of diners was just finishing, and the second wave had not yet arrived. In ten minutes they were seated at a corner table, ordering coffee and three-egg omelets. The waitress brought coffee, and left them.

Coulter leaned forward and spoke softly. “Did Leon give you any hints about what to expect in this meeting?”

Eric made steady eye contact. “He said you’re a good source of business contacts, and he’s worked with you in the past. On the phone you said something about markets for a lot of things, including art and guns. I presume we’re here to talk about art, Mister Coulter.”

“That’s John, please. If we can do business together, I can provide you with dozens of markets for western art: scenics, cowboys, Indians, you name it. Europeans eat this stuff up, and I have a lot of contacts over there, west and east.” Coulter raised an eyebrow. “Eastern markets are tougher, but the right person can make a lot of money with them if he has the right product.”

“You could make more money if you worked directly with the artists. Why choose a middleman like me? I get my commission before you get yours.”

Coulter smiled. “The people I represent have wealth beyond our imagination, Eric. Money has no meaning to them. I am convenient, and so are you. I buy in bulk, and distribute what my clients desire. It is done privately, without fanfare. In the eastern block, a show of wealth remains impolite in elite circles. Money exchanges hands for many things without public knowledge, and not just art, as you well know.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Eric.

Coulter blinked slowly, and leaned closer. “Everything is for sale: art, ancient artifacts, weapons, nuclear material, state secrets, it’s all the same. Occasionally a thing is sold in error, but again, money is not an object, and that thing can be bought back for twice the price paid, or even more, if one deals with the right people.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with contemporary western art,” said Eric, and the waitress arrived with their breakfast.

They sat in silence until the waitress left. Coulter breathed in the odors of his food. “Let’s eat first. I’ve heard the meals here are excellent.”

“Yes, they are,” said Eric. He was surprised by the turn of the conversation. John Coulter did not sound like a corporate representative at all. Embassy staff, maybe, but what embassy? There was no detectable accent in his speech.

At the worst, surprise might produce an observable reaction. The two of them had eaten a few bites in silence when Eric suddenly asked, “Exactly which government are you representing, Mister Coulter?”

The man looked at something over Eric’s shoulder, and chewed thoughtfully, then, “I work for people, not governments, but I must admit that many of my clients are well connected. Shakers and movers, Eric, the people who make the world go around. A man who provides for their needs can quickly become wealthy beyond his imagination. And that could be you.” Coulter wiggled an eyebrow at him, and took another bite of his omelet.

“I would have to sell a great deal of art for that to happen, even if I inflated my commission for you.”

Coulter smiled, took a sip of coffee, and the smile disappeared. “Let’s not dance any longer, Eric. I know who you are, and why you’re here. You have recently obtained access to a piece of technology that is stolen goods. It belongs to my client, and he wants it back. He’s aware of the difficulty in accomplishing that, and the political consequences of retrieving his property. But he will pay any amount of money to as many people as necessary for the task. Leon is on our team, and one other person I’m afraid we consider less than reliable. He’s privately made some contacts with aerospace giants who might pay him more than we have offered. He might even have to be removed. Since that could arguably be part of the assignment from your government masters, you would be an ideal choice for the job if it became necessary.”

Eric felt heat come to his face, and played on it. He gave Coulter what he hoped was an expression of both anger and surprise, folded his napkin and slapped it on the table by his unfinished breakfast. “This must be another one of Leon’s little pranks, Mister Coulter, and I don’t appreciate it at all. It’s not even amusing.”

“Twenty million, Eric. That’s my opening offer, and I’m authorized to go higher. Just agree to join our team. Assignments can be negotiated later.”

Eric stood up. “Don’t bother to call Leon. I’ll tell him what I think of this myself. Maybe he should start looking for a new partner.”

“Talk to him,” said Coulter. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Goodbye, Mister Coulter. Thanks for the breakfast, but otherwise you have wasted my time.”

Coulter only smiled. Eric turned, walked away from him with the air of one offended by a foul odor or presence, and left the restaurant. He kept his posture all the way to the car, and drove back to the office in three minutes. Leon was on the telephone when he arrived, and looked up expectantly at him.

Eric pulled up a chair by Leon’s desk, sat down and stared at the man until his call had ended.

“You don’t look happy,” said Leon.

“I’m not.”

“What happened?”

Eric recited the entire conversation he’d had with John Coulter. “So, what did you tell him about me? He must think I’m pretty easy to get right to the point like that. I assume the other guy he mentioned is Davis. Since when am I supposed to eliminate Davis? You’re worse that a leak, Leon. You’re a flood.”

Leon held up his hands. “All approved by Gil, right from the get-go. The agency orchestrated my contact with Coulter in the first place. There are a lot of things going on behind our backs. And I never said anything about you eliminating Davis. That has to be a plant, so ask Gil about it.

“At least one person outside the base knows our cover. I don’t find that comfortable.”

“Gil apparently thinks it’s necessary. I hope your act wasn’t so good that Coulter will have doubts and decide against working with either one of us.”

“I know the look, Leon. The guy is not an amateur. One or both of us will be getting a call from him soon. In the meantime, I’m calling Gil, deep line.”

Eric went to his desk, tapped at the keyboard. ‘Saw Uncle John, and his health worries me. Please call me tonight. Eric.’ He sent the message to his Aunt Emma via satellite link, then went back to work at his desk.

There were four telephone calls that afternoon, all of them for Leon, and none of them from John Coulter. At six, they closed the office. Leon looked at him darkly, and said, “If Coulter doesn’t call tomorrow, I’ll have to suspect your theatrics have fucked us up, my man. That will not be good for either of us.”

Eric didn’t offer a reply, and they went their separate ways. Leon headed uptown in his Humvee, and Eric drove home. Clouds were moving in from the southwest, and light rain was forecast. Eric checked his paper shard and thread indicators at the front door, and nothing was disturbed. There were no strange odors in the house. He changed into shorts and T-shirt, and popped two readymade chicken potpies into the oven.

His cell phone played a passage from Beethoven’s Ninth, and Eric answered it.

“Price here.”

“Gil. What’s the problem?”

Eric told him everything about the meeting with Coulter. “Leon says you set up the contact with this guy. How much does he really know, and where does he hear I have an assignment to get rid of Davis? That’s news to me. Anything else left out in my briefing?”

“The briefing was for you. The extra assignment was for whoever is running Coulter. It was in a supplemental file, and buried deep. I guess I’m a bit surprised Coulter dared to use it.

“So you’re telling me my dossier has been cracked, and my cover blown. Why don’t I just close up shop and head for home? Leon, too.”

“Easy. It’s all selective, all in the family for the little drama we’re writing here. Coulter has just told us he’s working for a government, not a corporation. No company has the hardware to decrypt that deep file as fast as he did. We added that file two days ago.”

“He offered me twenty fucking million just to get on his ‘team’. If he gives me the money, can I retire?”

“If we’d told you everything, how could you have acted so surprised and indignant? Leon says your face was nearly purple when you came back to the office. That doesn’t sound like you. Something else going on?”

“I don’t like being manipulated. There are too many players in this game, and God-knows how many I’m not aware of yet, and I’m not being told everything. I’d like to come out of this alive, something I was never concerned with when I worked alone. If that means I’m getting too old for this, then tough shit. I don’t like other people making up the rules of the game as we go along. I make my own rules, or I’m out of here.”

“Fair enough. There shouldn’t be any more surprises from our end, but I don’t regret not briefing you about Coulter. He’s been nibbling at the hook, but today he bit it. Accessing that deep file gives us a short list of countries he could be working for. Our insiders will be looking at the most likely candidates for decrypting the file so quickly. Sit tight. Coulter will call again. And watch Davis carefully. Look for any change in his attitude towards you. He and Coulter might be tighter than we think. Or not. If Coulter’s handlers want that aircraft back, Davis could be working with him or against him. It would be nice to know which it is.”

“I’m not sure about Leon, either,” said Eric.

“Treat him right. He’s as hard-core as you are. You don’t have to like him, but work with him. If you can’t do that, I’ll have to pull you out and give you a desk somewhere. I don’t think either one of us would like that.”

It was a light enough slap on the cheek, and Eric took it. “I hear you,” he said.

“Good. You’re the best at what you do, so do it. You could be in a central position soon. I want daily reports from now on, six p.m. eastern, this number.” Gil gave him the number. “I’ll pick up on the tenth ring. Otherwise, you hang up, even if I answer.”

“A bit dramatic, isn’t it?”

“I have my reasons. Got the number?”

“Yes.”

The call terminated with a click. Seconds later there was dial tone, and Eric punched his phone off. A recording, or was someone else listening to their conversation? The number Gil had called from looked like a landline. Unsecured? The Gil Eric knew didn’t do sloppy things like that without a reason.

Dinner was quick, the cleanup quicker. Eric hated mealtimes, had hated them since his long-ago divorce. It was the one time he didn’t like being alone. He washed his few dishes in the sink, and put them away, and sat down in a living room chair to read a magazine.

The kitchen telephone rang, and he picked it up on the second ring. It was Leon.

“Coulter just called me. He said he was amused by your act, but I think he was checking to be sure it was an act. I took responsibility for everything, told him I hadn’t let you know his client was the party the aircraft was stolen from, that you thought you were dealing with some corporate technology thief. I said we’d talked, I’d explained everything, and you were okay with it.”

“I am?”

“Oh, yes. He wants some ideas on how that aircraft might be returned to its lawful owner. Better start thinking about it. Coulter’s going out of town, wants to meet with both of us in a week.”

“Okay,” said Eric.

“You busy right now?” Leon’s voice was suddenly back in friendly mode.

“Reading a magazine.”

“Want to do something interesting?”

“Like what?”

“A little work with the handguns. I’m itching to shoot something.”

“You have an extra gun for me?”

“Sure, but cut the crap and bring along whatever you have. I don’t know about you, but recent events encourage me to polish my hardware skills. Besides, I want to see what you shoot.”

“Right now?”

“Sure. Come through the tunnel. The door’s unlocked, and cookies will be served. Coming?”

“Yes,” said Eric, and hung up. What the hell. He retrieved the Colt Modified and three extra magazines from a closet shelf, the Walther holstered in its usual place at his ankle. He left the room lights on, and went through the long tunnel to Leon’s basement, the holstered Colt dangling from his hand. He knocked once, the door opened, and Leon was standing there in a white robe. He wore yellow-tinted shooting glasses, and held a small spotting scope with tripod in one hand. His eyes went instantly to the Colt Modified, and he smiled.

“No gun, huh? What is it?”

“Long slide Colt, Harris trigger and bushing, rubber grips.”

“Nice. I prefer the Smith .41. My hands are small.” Leon led him to the two metal conduits that were his shooting range. A long, black semi-auto lay on a table there. Eric put his Colt on the other table. Downrange, a bull’s-eye target was brightly illuminated fifty feet away.

“What’s your barrel?” asked Leon.

“Four-five-one. I shoot standard hardball. Four magazines, here.”

“Won’t be enough,” said Leon. “I’ll get what you need.” He went to a cabinet behind them, came back with a box of fifty full-load cartridges, and smiled. “Five rounds load and lock. At your leisure, sir.”

Both men inserted earplugs and then put on cushioned muffs. The bull’s-eye of the target was a black dot that didn’t even cover the front blade of his pistol’s sight, and Eric was used to shooting at silhouette targets. He squeezed off five shots slow-fire. Leon fired five times in ten seconds, waited for Eric to finish, and turned on a motor that brought both targets back to them.

Not bad, thought Eric: two nines, a ten and two X’s. He looked at Leon’s target, saw two tens and three X’s.

Leon saw his look, peered at Eric’s target. “Pretty good for an analyst who doesn’t carry a gun. Let’s do it again, rapid fire, and I like match pressure. How about a quarter a target?”

They went through a dozen targets each, five shots in ten seconds. By the end of the session, Eric was putting nearly everything in the ten and X rings, but Leon had beaten him every time.

“I think you were actually trying there towards the end,” said Leon.

“It’s one thing to punch holes in paper,” said Eric, “and another thing to kill a man.”

Leon looked at him coldly. “I know it is.”

“I bet you do,” said Eric. And both men knew at that instant their relationship had suddenly changed.

They finished the evening with decaf and cookies, did not talk about private things. Eric didn’t even mention his outing with Nataly. There was some small talk about new artists in town, until both men were yawning. It was only nine when Eric went back to his own house. He read for a while, spent half an hour staring mindlessly at the television, and then went to bed.

Sleep came slowly. For a while he was again focused on the black dot of the bull’s-eye target, the sights aligning, the gentle squeeze of the trigger, the recoil pressure traveling along a rigid arm to the shoulder, the sights realigning without conscious effort. He drifted away finally to a place of dreams unremembered, while hundreds of yards from him Leon was visiting the golden being that was the higher manifestation of him.

Near midnight there was a click from the basement, but Eric was sleeping deeply. A stairway squeaked, and shortly afterwards a shadow filled the doorway to the bedroom. The shadow moved to Eric’s bed, and took form. It was a man, his face shrouded with a hooded mask. He took a bottle from his pocket, sprayed a gentle mist over Eric’s face, and waited a moment for the rhythm of Eric’s breathing to slow. Satisfied, he attached three wires to Eric’s forehead, and turned on a palm-sized device in his hand. The device glowed with flickering points of light on its face, and then went dark. The man detached the wires from Eric’s head, and left the room.

By the time he reached the doorway, the man was once again a formless shadow.

It was two hours past her usual time for sleep, but Nataly sat mesmerized by what she saw on the computer screen as the long, violent history of Eric Price scrolled past her view. No wonder he was divorced, she thought. He was never home. This much was obvious, even from the incomplete NSA file that had been hacked for her. Several pieces were missing, each covering periods of six months to a year, missions so black they were not included in the general file.

She picked up the telephone, punched in seven numbers.

“Nataly. The file has several gaps in it. Can you fill those in for me?”

She listened a few seconds, then, “How long, then? We’re moving ahead with this tomorrow, and I need to know everything I can get about him.”

Nataly rolled her eyes at the reply. “That’s not funny, Vasyl. You know what I mean. Get back to me tomorrow, even if you haven’t found anything. Okay. Bye.”

She hung up, and immediately felt a movement of cool air that washed over her face and bare arms. She tensed, but kept her eyes on the computer screen, not reading.

The cold went away, but she felt the presence somewhere behind her by the balcony of her bedroom that overlooked the pool. She forced her mind away from Eric’s file, focused on what she’d read about Leon several weeks before, and what little, useful intelligence she’d been able to get on Davis.

The presence was moving behind her, right to left, coming off the balcony and inching towards the darkened corner of the room beyond her bed, all the while probing at her mind.

This was not good. She really needed to study Eric’s file in private, and without interruption, and then get to bed.

Nataly suddenly turned around. At the foot of her bed, two shimmering columns of air were now changing colors to blend with the shadows. A third had just entered from the balcony, and was still a dark gray. All three flashed darkly when Nataly stood and stomped a foot hard on the floor.

“All of you, get out of this room right now! One more violation of protocol, and I’ll go to the Council, and you’ll be left to explain the repercussions to your masters. Now, get out of here!”

The shadows fled the room.