Absolute Doubt (Fallen Agents of T-FLAC Book 1) Page 10

  The sun crested the mountain behind the long, low, one-story cement building, shading the gravel in the front parking area. According to his men, the plant itself comprised thirty thousand square feet. Damned big for an emerald mining operation. But not too big if they were processing the E-1x here on the premises, which is what Turley and the others suspected. Only suspected because the operatives, being that they were new hires, had not yet been inside the building or the secure yard behind it.

  According to Turley, who'd guesstimated the activity inside using heat sensors and infrared scanning equipment on his night patrols, the lab and E-1x processing operations took up fully three quarters of the structure. The rest was for the sorting, and processing of the emeralds. Eight people worked in the emerald side of the building. Two in the lab area. Thirty in the mines. Now that he was up close and personal, Daklin knew there were at least one-hundred-forty-four guards with twenty, equally well trained, Dobermans.

  The cinderblock building had one door in front, no windows and, according to Ram, via his father, one hell of a ventilation system, more suited to an industrial laboratory than a mining plant. Off to the left, partially hidden by the eastern corner of the building, an enormous, round vibrating screen stood silent beside a muddy Cat Track Drill.

  The drill indicated they were digging down. Emeralds or E-1x? They sure as hell wouldn't be loading schist with the highly volatile E-1x into the vibrating screen for sorting. The action would take out half the mountain range. It was an excellent plan, but somewhat premature.

  Several enormous earth-moving machines, clearly not in use, threw deep shadows off to the side of the building. Daklin made a mental note of their locations, and how much open space lay between them and potential entry points. They'd provide cover later.

  "This way, Your Excellency." Xavier placed his hand on a biometric pad beside the Tungsten steel door, leaning closer for an iris scan. After a moment, the door swung open. "Wait here," he instructed Ram in Spanish, then indicated Daklin should precede him inside where another door led into a large, brightly lit room.

  A dozen people worked inside gray office cubicles, heads down with no eye contact. No sign of emerald processing, or the scent of honey to indicate the presence of E-1x. An animated conversation between two men and a woman abruptly ended when they saw Xavier. All three scurried back to their desks.

  A tube light, flickering overhead, wasn't doing any favors to the stark bare cement gray walls and open ceiling with exposed ductwork and electrical pipes. The place smelled of mold and body odor.

  A phone rang somewhere, and was answered in soft tones. Daklin hoped Ortiz, stationed directly outside the door, was aware of the brief reprise in the jamming signal, and had contacted Control for updates. Just another day at the office, taking orders for explosives from terrorists all over the world. There were no direct lines into or out of the building. An elaborate routing system pinged the calls and internet connections to the far corners of the earth and back again in a spaghetti of misdirection and fail-safes.

  As of this morning, Echo team, working around the clock, was nofuckingwhere close to breaking the encryption, locating the source of the jamming, and giving the T-FLAC teams dependable comm ability. Daklin glanced around. Gray cubicle walls could be any office pit, anywhere in the world. A closed door to the left, and another, this one solid steel and secure, to the right. The lab, he suspected. Closed circuit cameras provided more surveillance and covered most of the room. Daklin made a mental note of the blind spots; might come in handy later. Other than the click of the neon light overhead, and indistinguishable phone conversation, it was eerily quiet as everyone pretty much stopped what they were doing and seemed to be holding their breath as Xavier and Daklin walked in.

  Xavier indicated their route with a broad gesture of his hand. "This way, Your Excellency."

  Daklin stopped walking. "Before we go to the scene of the tragedy, I wonder if I might see Dr. Sullivan's workspace so I can report back to his sister? Perhaps I can put her concerns to rest and give her an explanation as to where her brother might be?"

  He wanted a look at Sullivan's lab. Preferably with Sullivan in it. Then he'd haul the guy’s ass back to the hacienda so his sister could see he was alive and well. His men could then take the scientist to Montana. Unfortunately, Daklin suspected they weren't going anywhere near the lab or Sullivan today. He was there to say a prayer for the dead, not take a tour.

  "I don't know where Dr. Sullivan went, Your Excellency," Xavier said with some irritation. "I don't know how many ways I can tell Miss Sullivan her brother simply left in the middle of the night without explanation. Surely if he was in his lab, I’d know it."

  "But as far as you know, he's alive and well?"

  "He was when he was last seen here. This way, Your Excellency."

  "The explosion was in his lab?"

  "No, in a small storage building in back, outside the mine entrance." Other than a few closed doors, which didn't indicate what was behind them, the gray cement walls of the corridor were blank.

  "You were fortunate to escape with your life, Franco. An explosion powerful enough to kill five people was possibly strong enough to kill even more if they'd been in the building that day."

  Judging by the difference between the outside structure and the inside, the walls were nearly five-foot thick concrete and probably reinforced with a web of rebar. Strong enough to take a direct hit from something as big as a 747 and be left with nothing more than a dark smudge and maybe a nick or two on the exterior walls. "I was not here at the time, Your Excellency."

  Convenient.

  "We have to go outside, and unfortunately the area is quite wet." He arched a brow.

  Daklin smiled. "I'm not afraid of getting my feet wet, Franco. Lead on."

  Each door they passed had a card reader outside for secure entry. Xavier indicated one of them. "This is where we size and polish emeralds for shipping."

  "I'd be interested in seeing the process if we have time." Not. Unless the room contained some part of the process for E-1x, Daklin didn't give a shit about what they were doing.

  "I'll have Liseo show you when he returns. He's very knowledgeable about the process."

  Another biometric door. Franco did the hand and iris scan, and the foot-thick door opened onto an enormous gravel courtyard with fifteen-foot high metal gates at each end, presumably for trucks to enter and exit. On the other side of what was a twenty-thousand square foot parking lot, stood double tungsten steel doors that sealed the mine entrance.

  Deep indentations of tire treads, filled with water, indicated the passage of heavy trucks to and from the mine to processing machines inside the secure compound, and continuing outside the electrical fences, passing security, to dump useless rock and by-product.

  To the right of the mine entrance stood what remained of a small building, perhaps originally thirty feet by thirty feet. One story. Roof gone, walls blackened and crumbled. Blown to hell.

  "I don’t recommend going any closer, Your Excellency. The walls are precarious. My men will tear down the ruins when they have time."

  Daklin's heavy black shoes crunched over soggy gravel. “Where lives have perished, I like to spend time alone to walk where they had their last moments on earth. Then I'll pray for them and give them the final blessing they weren't able to receive before God took them home.” In other words, he wanted a closer look at the steel door blocking the mine entrance.

  Daklin opened his prayer book and removed the handwritten list of names Xavier had someone prepare for him earlier. "I’ll pray over each name.”

  "Of course, Your Excellency."

  Remembering to pull the heavy cross and chain from his pocket, Daklin walked the perimeter, his head bowed, his gaze strafing the area. Speeding up his pace, he circled to the back of the small structure.

  Crouching, he found the point of origin at the inside, back corner, then started a down and dirty search from the V shape outside of the fire's b
urn path. There was no need to conduct a chemical analysis. The V pattern indicated a small amount of E-1x had been detonated close to the ground. The six-foot deep crater formed by the explosion indicated a fraction of a gram of material had been used. E-1x was that powerful.

  Rounding the corner, back into Xavier's view, Daklin withdrew from his pocket the small, plastic bottle of "Holy Water" he'd filled from the water bottle in his room earlier. He opened it and started to sprinkle the water on the ground. At the same time, analyzing and processing the visual evidence, he concluded this was not the explosion that killed the men. That had probably occurred inside the mine itself, not out here.

  That, however, wasn't the point of this morning's exercise.

  Now he had a firsthand view of the lay of the land and the scope of Xavier's security. As intel had indicated, this operation was pretty damn impenetrable.

  #

  After breakfast with Father Marcus, River returned to the hacienda. The squat security guy with no neck gave her a silent nod when she came in, watching as she climbed the stairs. Did he think she was there to steal the silver or that dark and terrifying painting of a woman breastfeeding a rather demonic looking baby? She felt much better after she closed and locked the heavy bedroom door behind her.

  After a shower, she changed into a simple red and white striped maxi sundress, fixed her hair and makeup, and went to sit on the bench at the foot of her bed to check for phone messages.

  No messages. No signal.

  With a successful business to run, she was always busy. It wasn’t in her makeup to sit around doing nothing. There were always designs for the new collection to work on, spreadsheets to study, and sales calls to make. If she wasn't on her phone, iPad, or computer, she was at her drawing board. She hadn't taken a vacation in over five years, and she liked it that way. Now she couldn’t even speak to her assistant thanks to the lack of cell signal. Lord, what she wouldn’t give for a hot spot. Los Santos sorely needed a Starbucks.

  This enforced pause away from work to find Oliver was frustrating. She hated feeling powerless. She needed a plan, needed to take freaking action instead of waiting around, twiddling her thumbs. She slipped her feet into flat sandals, then going in search of Jorge the mechanic, and her missing rental car.

  The church and hacienda stood sentinel atop a small hill overlooking the long, straight road running through the narrow valley. The cobbled street wound through the town, like an artery flowing to the town’s heart.

  Taking measured steps on the uneven road, she headed toward the square in the village center. From a distance, clusters of small homes looked colorful and picturesque, but the closer she got, she noticed disrepair and peeling paint she hadn't observed on her run earlier. The over-decorated hacienda didn't reflect that Cosio was a dirt poor, third world country, but the outer streets did.

  A large, two-tier stone fountain anchored the picturesque square, with side streets, like spokes of a wheel, leading off the central plaza. Houses were attached in a long row of colorful squares like beads on a thread. Painted warm, happy colors, many homes sported flowering plants in containers beside their front doors, or hanging from window ledges. Bright profusions of fiery red, vibrant pink, and sunny yellow blooms showed that Father Marcus wasn't the only one in town with a green thumb. The air was thick with the scent of the flowers lingering in the mid-morning air. Large flowering trees separated the blocks, casting shade and a dusting of orange petals onto the streets. Several elderly men sat on stone benches placed in the deep shade. To say that the people of Los Santos worked on a different time clock than the rest of the world was an understatement. It was Wednesday and barely nine in the morning. Were all the younger villagers at work? And where did they work? At the plant and mine? The closest town was hours away, and so far, the only vehicle she'd seen was the one the bishop and Franco had been in earlier. Despite the absence of traffic, the square was a hive of activity, a hive in slow motion, River observed, amused.

  Taking her phone out of her bra, she scrolled to a picture of Oliver taken several years ago. Like herself, Oliver was fair-haired, and pale-skinned. Among the locals, with their glossy black hair and milk-coffee-colored skin, he'd stand out like a beacon.

  Two dozen black-clad women and a handful of older men were setting up tables and chairs around the fountain. Several women threw colorful tablecloths on tables, while others centered fat, honey-colored wax candles amid cut boughs of leaves and flowers. They all paused to watch River’s progress. Several gave shy greetings.

  It looked pretty and festive, and even with everyone's slow pace, a feeling of excitement hummed in the air. After stopping here and there to admire someone’s handiwork--beautifully stitched tablecloths or artfully arranged flowers--River showed them her brother’s picture. She got no recognition from anyone. Chatting women, filling containers at the fountain, glanced up as she approached.

  "What's the occasion?" River asked the three women, in Spanish. "La fiesta." The youngest, sixty-ish, responded shyly as water dripped down her arm and splashed her black dress. "Para dar la bienvenida el Obispo."

  "Everyone is very excited and honored to meet such a great man." An older woman, the map of her life carved into the deep wrinkles on her face, gave River a gap-toothed smile. "Many hope the bishop will bless us, our village, and our families. To shake hands with a religious man who has touched the Pope would be like shaking hands with el Papa himself." Her snapping black eyes belied her age.

  "I'm sure His Excellency will bless everyone." River presumed he would. Not that she had any clue what a bishop should do, but since he was here, why wouldn’t he bless these people? He couldn't possibly be as surly and sarcastic to the villagers as he'd been with her.

  After introducing herself to Maria, Magda, and Ines, River told them she was there to visit her brother. Like the others she'd spoken to, they didn't recognize Oliver by name. She showed them his photo on her phone. "Do you recognize him?"

  They hadn’t seen him.

  They hailed several people working nearby, but everyone shook their heads after inspecting the photo. They were more fascinated by the phone itself than by Oliver's picture.

  With a sigh, River asked directions to Jorge's garage. As she walked, she stopped more people on the street to show them Oliver's picture. All she got were consistent headshakes, and "No, señorita."

  The sun beat down on her head and bare shoulders as she wandered through the narrow, picturesque streets. A young woman sweeping the sidewalk in front of her house smiled shyly, a little girl clinging to her legs. She didn't recognize Oliver when River showed her the picture either.

  How could Oliver live in a place for five years and not have a single person recognize him? Yes, he was private and reclusive, but surely he came to town sometimes? At least for a goddamn walk! Franco said she was staying in the room Oliver used. He must've left the hacienda on occasion.

  "Oliver, you have some explaining to do," River whispered as she walked further down the hill. She had such a heavy feeling of dread that she rubbed the goosebumps on her arms despite the heat of the sun.

  It seemed farfetched and alarming, but maybe he was being held hostage. Oh, God. Had he suspected what was about to happen and sent her the money so she could pay a ransom? No one had contacted her to demand payment. And who was holding him prisoner? Franco? And if so, why?

  That train of thought didn't make sense. But what else would explain Oliver's disappearance and the huge chunk of money he'd deposited in her account, with no explanation or warning?

  If he was being held hostage, then the last person she could ask would be the very person holding him. "Damn it to hell, Oliver! Call me." At least then she'd know he was alive.

  Who could she ask for help? Bishop Daklin? He wasn't warm and fuzzy, but maybe there was some goodness in his heart. He was a bishop, after all, and he could make discreet inquiries. She'd ask him when he returned. A sliver of optimism crept inside her. Maybe her concern would be all for no
thing when they came back with Oliver.

  Turning the corner, she encountered two men heading up the hill. She showed them Oliver's picture. They shook their heads. She thanked them and, as she was picking up her phone, saw that she had service! Hot damn! She hit speed dial. Oliver's phone just rang and rang. She would have left another message, but the recorded voice told her his message box was full. Shit. Of course it was. Ignoring his messages was par for the course for her brother. She tucked the phone back between her breasts.

  Did the villagers know why Bishop Daklin was gracing their little town? Did they know about Franco's apparition? Had anyone else seen it? River was willing to bet they hadn't. Xavier didn't strike her as a gullible man, nor one with any imagination, so she had no idea what he'd really seen. Whatever it was, or wasn't, River wasn't a big believer in woowoo of any kind, whether from another dimension, or straight from heaven. But if a bishop had come all this way, sent by the Pope no less, then this might be a once in a lifetime event she shouldn't miss.

  An apparition. A vision. Ephemeral. More than a dream, but not quite real.

  What did an apparition look like? River wanted to know. She'd do a Zag search and find out.

  Visions. Apparitions. Fantasy.

  It could be the name of a new product line, inspired by the elusive and ephemeral, and the unsmiling bishop, his serious blue eyes and the impossibly hard set of his jaw. Sexy and tough. Hard and soft... She liked the juxtaposition.

  What, exactly, would it take to make a man like that relax?

  He might be a bishop, but he was still a man. Maybe all his testosterone was backed up?

  She shook herself, immediately feeling as guilty as a Catholic schoolgirl, then chuckled when she reminded herself she had no clue how that was supposed to feel.

  Just thinking about the bishop though, so quickly after thinking about decadent lingerie, made her realize how fast her thoughts could become really wrong.

  Straight-out, flat-out wrong.