“Very well,” Roland replied. He pulled a file from his briefcase and laid it on the desk. “I rather thought you might need some of that. This is all that is transmissible for the purposes of this discussion. It’s a very sensitive project.”
“I understand,” George said, standing up and holding out his hand. “Sorry we had this little bump.”
“No problem,” Roland said, all smiles. “But to be clear, there are no more issues, right?”
Grosskopf knew what he should say but he just couldn’t do it.
“When you speak to the company representative, assure him that there will be no further interest from the FBI.”
“That’s not the same as there is no further interest from the FBI,” Roland said, a touch angrily.
“Dr. Roland,” the ADD said. “Let me be perfectly blunt. If you do not assure the company representative that there will be no further interest from the FBI, then you will never work in government service again. Or as a Beltway Bandit. When it comes to who meets the criteria for secure information, the FBI Deputy Director is God. And in certain matters, and this is one, I sit at his right hand. You. Will. Assure. The. Company. Representative. If you have to give an Oscar-winning performance to do so.”
“What is going on?” Roland asked, ashen.
George flexed his jaw muscles for a moment then smiled thinly.
“This is all that is transmissible for the purposes of this discussion. It’s a very sensitive project.”
“Satire…”
“Is all I’m willing to give you at the moment,” Grosskopf said, now furious. “Except one more thing. The next time DARPA decides to go fucking around with the supernatural, clear it with this department first!”
“How did you know…?” Roland asked then paused. “What is Special Investigations?”
“You are now beyond your need to know,” Grosskopf said. “But you can be assured that my DD will be talking to your Director by the end of the day. Good day, Dr. Roland.”
Grosskopf took several deep breaths after the door was closed, then picked up the handset of his STU and hit the red button.
“Sir, we have a serious problem…”
Germaine looked at the secure message from the Special Investigations Department and the added note from the Deputy Director and sighed. He had been dreading this day. Thus far, through careful manipulation, the Foundation had managed to head off most scientific inquiry into the realm of the supernatural.
The frank reality was that in most cases it simply wouldn’t work. Gods and demons did not care for humans prying into their secrets and would actively work against experimentation. “It seems a fact that miracles can only occur in an environment devoid of skepticism.” This was held up by scientists as proof that “believers” were simply deluded.
What scientists failed to appreciate was that they were trying to quantify something that active, thinking entities simply did not want quantified.
But there were occasional attempts, researchers willing to stake their reputations on quantifying “the paranormal.” And they almost invariably failed. If the powers that created such paranormal events didn’t ensure it, the Foundation certainly tried its best. In most cases, funding simply dried up. “Investigate ghosts? Get a real job.”
The “almost” usually had to do with demons. Some researcher would find a functional summoning method and use it. And usually end up dead or possessed. It happened to poor Tesla in the end.
This, however, was something different. The psychotics in Chattanooga were not even members of the test group. And the researchers apparently had managed to avoid possession. This, in fact, was a nightmare. The entity matched nothing he, even with his vast knowledge of the occult, recognized. But there was one lead.
And there were others, a very few, with more knowledge than he. And access to even more esoteric tomes and texts. He picked up the phone.
“Dr. Carson, it is Germaine. I would like you to look at a symbol and see if you can find any information on it…”
There was another call he felt he had to make. As he talked to Dr. Carson, he pulled out his pad and started typing in a message in Attic Greek.
The language of the Vatican.
Barb was frustrated. She knew that the plague affecting the area had something to do with the Art District. But a solid hunch was not enough for a search warrant.
They’d interviewed more counselors and determined that, whatever their differences, all seven of the Madders had “anger management issues.” But that was all they had. A hunch about the Art District, a trail of shell corporations and seven psychotics with “anger management issues.”
“We need a break,” Kurt said, looking at another set of field notes.
“We need to get a look inside those buildings,” Barb said.
“I mean a break as in ‘coffee,’” Kurt corrected. “Want anything?”
“No,” Barb said.
As if by timing, as soon as Kurt was out of sight her cell phone rang. It was the ringtone of the Foundation: “Amazing Grace.”
“Mrs. Everette, it’s Augustus.”
“How are you, Mr. Germaine?” Barb asked.
“Busy. This will all sound very dramatic, but bear with me. I would request that you go, unaccompanied, to Our Lady of Perpetual Help Catholic church and see Sister Mary Katherine. The sister will introduce you to a man there. You should block out at least one hour for doing so. He has additional information for you on this matter.”
“Very well,” Barbara said, nodding. “I take it asking for a hint is pointless.”
“It is,” Germaine said. “Godspeed.”
When Kurt came back Barb was gone. He shrugged, set down the two cups of coffee and picked up another set of notes.
Our Lady of Perpetual Help church turned out to be a sprawling campus just off of Interstate 75 that included not just a church but a Catholic school and a large rectory. Barbara eventually found the nun she had been directed to find, and was led to a small residential building behind the main buildings and directed to a room at the end of the hall.
The man who opened the door was dressed in a pink polo shirt and green slacks and was tall, dark and handsome. Those were the three words that went through her mind along with a quick and strong stab of physical attraction. She suppressed the latter and said a very quick prayer of forgiveness. But he was just hot as hell. Latin, unquestionably, despite a definite northern US accent, bit over six feet, slender but strongly muscled with the face of a fallen angel who’d enjoyed the ride. The sole feature that was awry was that his nose had had somewhat poor reconstructive surgery. Faint scars of sutures laced the left side. And that, in fact, only added to the look.
“I’m Barbara Everette,” she said, somewhat flustered. “Is this…?”
“Mrs. Everette,” the man said, smiling broadly in return. Nice teeth. Nice. He extended a hand, which turned out to be heavily calloused. “I am Brother Marquez. Welcome.”
“Brother?” Barb said as the man waved her into the room. There were two small suitcases and three ballistic nylon bags cluttering the double.
“Brother Karol Marquez,” the monk said, closing the door. “I am the team leader for Opus Dei Special Action Squad One.”
Barbara sipped some really excellent tea and watched the monk preparing his own coffee. His movements were quick and sure, but now that she was past her initial shock she could detect the sharp and semi-robotic motions of a person who had trained extensively on close-quarters battle.
“That’s an interesting coffee maker,” she said, wanting to slap herself for the inanity. But Brother Marquez
