Agbero

Chapter 1

Danny Hawkins’s headache was at Stage nine on his personal scale, and should it reach Stage 10, he’d just pull out his Sig Sauer 9mm and end it all with seven cents of lead. He tried to shake the horrific image from his head, literally, but the motion rattled his brain against his skull and served only to exacerbate the problem.

No single source of tension and frustration could bring the chiseled thirty-five year old Tucson FBI agent to his knees, but the confluence of several factors were ganging up on him. Danny glared at his city league basketball teammate and U.S. Border Patrol agent, Ted Rochert, who was casually gnawing on a massive, pungent and disgusting chorizo and egg breakfast burrito.

How the hell can you eat that in here? Hawkins’s nausea was now fueling his headache.

Rochert shrugged and said nothing as he took a shark-like bite from the dripping pillow- sized mass.

Hector Rodriguez, Rochert’s Border Patrol partner, shot Hawkins a look that reeked of false concern.

Hey buddy, you look a little green in the gills. His laugh ricocheted off the white tile of the Pima County morgue as coroner Dr. Esteban Mendoza pulled the slab from the chiller and unzipped the body bag. Hawkins felt worse, even a bit wobbly in the knees.

There’s your boy, Mendoza said flatly. He looked at Hector Rodriguez, who was now staring intently at his smart phone.

Well? Mendoza nodded towards Rodriguez. Are you going to tell him or am I?

Tell me what? Hawkins asked weakly as he felt his own breakfast rising. He looked at Rochert and watched him swallow another huge bite of burrito quickly. It was obvious that Rochert knew how much discomfort he was causing and was enjoying it to no end.

I’ll tell you what. Rochert dabbed a napkin at the grease on the side of his mouth as Hawkins’s stomach churned and his headache intensified. So, he said, waving his burrito at Rodriguez, we picked up this customer southeast of town… Rochert used the Border Patrol vernacular to describe a dead body, "…and my esteemed Latino partner couldn’t tell a brother from an Indian."

Just a second, Rodriguez protested. Ass wipe here didn’t do any better when we loaded him in the truck.

Rochert grabbed a few strands of his white-blond hair and pulled them straight up. "See this? Swedish-French hybrid. You, on the other hand, have no excuse, mi amigo."

Hawkins looked at the corpse and summed him up. Lean, small, five-eight at best, and he sure as shit looked Hispanic to him, but he could be talked into Native American.

Haven’t you noticed a thing we have in Arizona called reservations? Hawkins asked sarcastically.

Hah! Rodriguez taunted the coroner. You see?

Rochert quickly interrupted with a cliché. "Not a Sitting Bull Indian - Gandhi type Indian. And he was headed towards Mexico at a dead run - all in designer sweats and two-hundred buck running shoes."

Hawkins looked back at the body and then to Rodriguez. Where was this?

Near the San Rios notch, Rodriguez responded. We found his car down at the trailhead.

Jesus Christ. Hawkins laughed for the first time that morning; despite the headache and nausea, he tried to keep his sense of humor. I’ve run down there myself. It’s a massive workout up to the notch. It’s like only a few hundred yards from the top down the other side to the border. He rubbed his head, which was covered with a sealskin of short black hair, cut almost as close to the head as a recruit’s first military chopping. So, did Gandhi check out with heat stroke?

Diamondback bite is my guess. Mendoza pointed towards two faint punctures on the right calf of the body. One of the marks had an incision near it - Hawkins surmised it to be the result of a tissue sample having been taken. We’ve kept him in the chiller for a month because the damned toxicology lab is taking forever. I’m surprised I haven’t seen it by now. Maybe I’ll give them a call.

Rodriguez seemed suddenly animated. Ted ran his prints.

Still battling a swooning sensation, Hawkins looked at Rochert with eyebrows raised.

Ready for this? Rochert seemed proud. "Prints were everywhere. The son of a bitch was up for the Nobel Prize."

Hawkins massaged his throbbing temples with both hands. If he didn’t get out soon, the smell of the morgue was going to win the battle with his stomach and he’d hear about it for years. They would never forget it. No way was he going to lose it in here. No shit? He gestured towards the door. Can we chat in the canteen?

Rochert licked his fingers. You need to spend more time in here; you’d get used it.

It’s not the stiffs; it’s that goddamned thing. He motioned to the burrito. Smells like shit.

Rochert looked doubtful but followed Hawkins and Rodriguez to a small vending area down the hall from the morgue. The two Border Agents purchased small cups of foul coffee while Hawkins opted for a huge bottle of cold water from another machine. Water was the only thing he’d even consider putting into his curdled milk can of a stomach right now.

Hawkins looked wearily at Rodriguez. By the way, the next time you have a wild-assed idea about a case the bureau should take, don’t send it to me from your personal email account. That shit is all monitored and the computer boys were on my ass when it came in.

What’s the big fucking deal? Rodriguez replied dismissively.

They say it isn’t secure, that’s the big fucking deal.

So, Nobel Prize candidate? Hawkins checked his watch, indicating his friends had only a few minutes to convince him this was an FBI case.

His name was Ramu Shandru, a big shit in physics. Rochert swept his hand through the air for emphasis.

Hawkins’ head jerked up. Physics? Did he work at RSC - the Randall Supercollider facility?

Yeah, that’s why his prints were in the system - government facility and all. You know him? Rodriguez asked.

No, but that’s where Marcie works; she said there are hundreds of PhDs at RSC.

Who’s Marcie? Rochert asked, puzzled.

The new honey, Rodriguez looked at Hawkins and then to Rochert and chuckled.

So now the second factor catalyzing his headache came back to the forefront of his mind.

At the gym three weeks earlier, Hawkins had just completed a set on the bench press when he sat up and wiped the sweat from his face. After lowering his towel, he was staring directly at the back and bottom of a well-toned woman stretching her hamstrings by bending over and touching her palms to the floor without bending her knees. He seemed to recall this was called a downward dog in yoga. Hmmm…

She had a sweatshirt wrapped around her waist, and Hawkins inwardly celebrated his good fortune as she stood up straight, untied the sweatshirt, let it drop to the floor, and exposed her bare back. Hawkins let loose an explosive laugh when he saw the tattoo Turn Me Over in the middle of her back. The woman pivoted on her heels and glared at him. Hawkins immediately stifled the laugh and straightened his face into a somber mask - for only two seconds, and then he burst into a second laughing fit.

Can I help you? she asked. She had blond-streaked auburn hair tied back in a ponytail. She was shockingly perfect even without makeup and dripping with sweat.

Turn me over? Hawkins slid helplessly from the weight bench to the mat beneath it and howled, tears streaming from his eyes.

I’m so happy you’re amused, she said, walking to him and offering him a hand up from the floor.

Let me guess; you blame it on tequila? Hawkins smirked as he rose to his feet.

Yes, as a matter of fact. My girlfriend and I had a few margaritas and walked past a parlor on Speedway by the university. I walked in with the intention of putting my boyfriend’s initials on my wrist as a sweet gesture.

They missed. How’d your boyfriend like that? He said, pointing to her back.

He thought it was funny until I whipped off my sweatshirt to play volleyball with some of his friends.

Did he think it was funny then?

Not so much, she laughed. And, by some odd coincidence, we’re no longer dating.

Shallow bastard, Hawkins replied with mock gravity. Danny Hawkins, he said, shaking her hand.

Marcie Gill. She spread her lips into a wide, porcelain-toothed smile. And you’ve never done anything after drinking that you regretted later?

Nothing permanent. So what do you do, Marcie?

Nuclear physicist.

Hawkins rocked back on his cross trainers. No really.

Really. Nuclear physicist. Does that trouble you?

Hawkins grabbed his water bottle from the floor near the bench and smiled wryly. No, it’s just that when I was in graduate school, well, we didn’t have women like you in class.

Tattooed?

No, he laughed again, beautiful. They all looked like they had no choice on a Friday night but to study.

Oh, that’s bad, she said shaking her head, "and not just a little sexist. But thank you for the backhanded compliment anyway. So, Danny Hawkins, what do you do?"

FBI.

No really.

Really. FBI.

So, is your graduate degree in like, fingerprinting?

Now you’re the one stereotyping.

What then?

Masters in computer science, Johns Hopkins.

Impressive - for a cop. She bent over to pick up her sweatshirt. So, you’re some sort of CSI guy?"

Field agent.

Her mouth fell open in mock indignation. "You shoot people?"

No - well not unless they shoot first.

Well that sounds interesting, Danny Hawkins. Maybe you’d like to tell me more over a beer?

Sure, he replied, taken aback but thrilled nonetheless. The bar upstairs?

I’ll shower and meet you there in ten minutes. Or do you need longer than that? You look like a high maintenance guy to me.

He rubbed his sheared cap of black hair. With this?

He rushed through the shower and then took the stairs two at a time to the club bar. As he entered, there sat Marcie Gill, hair still wet, in a tee shirt, shorts, and sandals, with two beers on the table. She raised her arm and tapped her wristwatch with her finger.

Hawkins said, You cheated. At least I dried my hair.

Marcie laughed, Spoken like a true loser.

So, RSC? That’s a hike out from Tucson.

She pulled her wet hair back with one hand and slung it forward over her right shoulder, tilting her head as she did so. It’s the place almost every physicist aspires to work. Few get in.

How did you?

Alton Samuels, the reverend at my old church in Atlanta. Heard of him?

Hawkins eyebrows arched. No, and I didn’t know men of the cloth were so well-connected.

Mine was.

Atlanta’s your home?

Georgia Peach. My daddy worked in telecommunications and we lived in Buckhead. Sorta the party district in those days. Old southern money for the most part. He was a computer guy. Taught me programming when I was in middle school.

Ah, so you’re a geek! He laughed.

I guess. It helped me when I was in graduate school. I worked as an intern near Cal Tech and did some moonlighting as a telecom engineer to earn beer money.

Wait, is it Dr. Gill?

It is, she replied with a chuckle, a unique designation I share with 432 people at RSC. She sipped some beer and looked at her watch. She stared into Hawkins’s eyes. So, what’s your story in two minutes or less?

Two minutes? Born in Baltimore where my parents still live, two sisters, both older.

John’s Hopkins? So, you never left home?

For undergrad at Northwestern, but Johns Hopkins was a great school, so yes, I came back home to Baltimore.

So did mommy do your laundry? she teased.

I lived across town, but I wasn’t so proud that I wouldn’t come by with my laundry basket right before dinner on Sundays.

Suddenly, Marcie rose from the table and hoisted her backpack on her shoulder. She pointed to the beers. Pay the man, you lost.

You’re leaving? You haven’t finished your beer. He pouted like a six-year-old.

Sorry, plans. She set her backpack on the table and pulled out a pen. She scribbled her phone number on a napkin and slid it across the table to Hawkins. Call me sometime and I’ll walk out on you again. She took a few steps, stopped, and flashed her fluorescent smile. And do call, Agent Hawkins. Ciao.

They went out a few times, and in Danny’s opinion, each date was full of laughter, clever quipping back and forth, and some fascinating, more serious discussions. Yet, he’d see her twice in a week, then not reach her for a week or two afterwards, and when he saw her again, she was flirtatious and seemingly oblivious to the fact that so much time had passed since their last date. He couldn’t figure out if she wanted a fling or a serious relationship or what.

And that is how his headache started this morning, but Rochert dragging him into the morgue with its unique ambiance and then tear-gassing the room with that piece of shit roadside burrito had pushed him to the brink.

Hawkins pulled several napkins from a chrome dispenser on the counter and fastidiously swept crumbs from the only table in the canteen. So, why are you running prints anyway? I didn’t think you guys had that kind of time; you know, beating the bush and all?

He doesn’t, Rodriguez blurted, he’s a Danny Hawkins wannabe.

Ah, bullshit, Rochert burped the words. Shandru’s an interesting bastard aside from physics.

How so? Hawkins asked.

He was a psychic!

Danny Hawkins stared at his friend, who’d fixed his gaze on him, awaiting a reaction.

You mean like tarot cards, tea leaves?

Hardly.

Then what?

He was working for the goddamned CIA. He was a goddamned CIA staff psychic. There was this program called Stargate. Look it up, I swear to God the CIA hired a bunch of fucking psychics.

Hawkins regarded the comment in silence as he sipped from his bottle of water. He gave no indication he was interested, but his friends knew he was processing the information.

So, Rochert said, what do you think?

Hawkins leaned back in his chair, knowing the question the Border Patrol agent was actually asking. Is the bureau interested? Not really. Man runs in desert; snake tags man; man dies. The chief wouldn’t allow me to give you too many cycles of time for this. But, what the hell? You’re on the way to my office, so I can stop by to see what you have.

Okay, Rochert replied, we’re in at seven in the morning for a half-hour briefing. I can hand you all that I have.

I’ll be there. Hawkins abruptly rose from his chair. See you shitheads in the morning.

Chapter 2

His fluid stride through the airport was powerful, arrogant, and balanced. More than a few women glanced at him as he passed. His slender build and ink-black skin suggested a professional athlete, perhaps an NFL wide receiver or an NBA point guard. He walked past the throngs of tourists locked in the serpentine dance back and forth through the crowd control barriers, and many flashed a who the hell does he think he is? scowl. Some whispered.

Appearing oblivious, yet aware, he walked to the front of the First Class passenger ticketing line. He twirled his ticket envelope in his fingers with the uncommon dexterity of a magician performing a card trick. Flipping it over twice between his breast pocket and the counter, he gently slid it forward, perfectly aligned with the edge of the Formica. His cuff-linked sleeve slid back to reveal an understated, yet beautiful Jaeger-LeCoultre watch with a light brown crocodile strap and silver clasp.

His chameleonic face flashed from its neutral countenance to a wide, bright smile in an instant. It was futile for the ticket agent to respond in any fashion that didn’t involve an equally effusive smile.

Good morning, that is a lovely necklace. It really frames your beautiful smile. Just one to Boston please. No bags to check.

She glowed red in the cheeks from embarrassment and thanked him. Within a few moments, she handed him his boarding pass. Just the effect he’d wanted.

Thank you so much. Your beauty really is a blessing. You do know you are blessed?

She couldn’t answer and remained in a fog as he walked towards Security. Seconds later, an overweight, sweaty couple, festooned with cheap nylon bags slammed their tickets on the counter, sending their identification and car keys sailing behind the ticket agent and onto the floor. The ticket agent thought, back to reality.

Within minutes, he sat in the First Class lounge sipping a Perrier with lime and fixed his attention on the Wall Street Journal NASDAQ quotations. His biotech holdings were soaring. He glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes to boarding. There were a dozen other passengers in the lounge, plus two ticket agents, and a bartender. Though apparently absorbed in his paper, he had taken complete stock of everyone in his proximity. He quickly compartmentalized them into groups prioritized by their relative level of threat to him. Atop that list sitting at nearly a forty-five degree angle was a large man who looked like a corn-fed Texan toting an overstuffed, worn leather carry-on. His senses had been kicked into a heightened state when he saw the man whisper to the bartender when he thought no one was looking. Only he had noticed that the bartender filled a rocks glass with a couple of cubes of ice and then splashed two fingers of iced tea on top. When the Texan took the rocks glass back to his seat, he put on a particularly good display of a man sipping a decent scotch - tightening his lips and then slightly smacking them. Although the man tried to appear focused on the large television and ESPN broadcast, François sensed something about the Texan: Threat.

The Texan had zeroed in on the tall man and though he was surreptitiously monitoring his target, he couldn’t know that the man he was observing had long since been analyzing him. He also did not have the faintest clue just how dire his situation was and that his actions in the next few minutes would dictate his future.

Chapter 3

Daniel David (D.D.) Barrington strode into the office holding a carrier of assorted gourmet coffees, lattes, and cappuccinos. He walked first to Alicia Cumming’s desk.

Let’s see, cappuccino with cinnamon and sweetener on the side.

Cumming’s eyes widened with admiration for Barrington. Where else, she thought, could one have cappuccino delivered by a brilliant multi-millionaire? She glanced at Barrington as he walked up to his towering office manager, Jackson Dade.

Here you go, Mr. Dade, he said, I admire a man who takes his coffee the hard way: black and scalding hot.

Isn’t that how you take it, Dr. Barrington?

That’s why I admire you, he laughed. The joke never went stale, even after this, the hundredth repetition.

Barrington continued to make deliveries to other office workers before grabbing the last cup himself and also snatching a handful of messages from a clip near his office door.

Dr. D.D. Barrington was a tall, charming, athletic-looking man with impossibly thick white hair, a chiseled, handsome face, and a commanding voice with an indeterminate accent, neither southern nor Midwestern. Cummings, his consigliere, operations manager, and friend set aside her own coffee, followed him into his office where he glanced at three perfectly arranged stacks of letters and notes and a separate pile of newspapers that were offset just enough so that he could glance at the headlines on each one without moving the other.

Good morning, D.D. Are you ready for your schedule?

Yes, what do we have?

As was their daily custom, Barrington and Cummings took chairs at the large mahogany conference table in his office.

We have a priority reading interview in just a few minutes, and another at 2:00 PM. We have normal pre-reading interviews at 3:30 PM and 5:30 PM. Alicia Cummings passed the neatly tabbed folders to Barrington.

OK then. Any trouble with their backgrounds? He said without looking up.

None at all, she said as she folded her glasses. But we do need to get back to the Robert Heltran Show. Have you had a chance to think about it?

Yes. I’m not sure another show is necessary right now.

"But he’s Robert Heltran!" Cummings pleaded.

I know that. But doesn’t he harangue his guests? He looked at her with one eyebrow arched.

Maybe the odd miscreant, but he likes you, according to his producer.

I bet. How can I be sure this won’t be another witch hunt? He furrowed his brow as he grasped and slid the folders closer.

I’ve spoken with the producer twice, and I don’t get that vibe at all.

When is it?

"The taping is a week from Wednesday.

I don’t know, Barrington hesitated. Can you please meet their producers in person and get a read on them?

Alicia stood up and gathered her papers. She strode towards the door and turned.

Not a problem. I’ve already done some of that, and he’s pretty clean on the subject.

Thank you, dear. You forgot your cup. Barrington held it out for her. She took a pivot-step towards him, grabbed her cup and briskly exited Barrington’s office.

Moments later, Barrington’s administrative assistant, Sandy Fielding, popped her head into his office.

D.D., are you ready for your priority reading interview with Mabel Corrino?

Please send her in, Sandy.

Mabel Corrino was tastefully dressed, sixty-five years old; hair dyed an unnatural dark blond, but otherwise nondescript.

Barrington stood up and took her hand in both of his.

Welcome Mrs. Corrino, I’m so glad to see you.

I’m very nervous about meeting you and all, Dr. Barrington.

Well, that just won’t do, he said with a smile. Please call me D.D. His disarming charm set the woman at ease.

Two comfortable chairs stood over to the side of his vast mahogany desk. He ushered her over to them. Please, sit down.

Thank you, Dr. Barrington.

D.D., please, he pleaded, and then he got down to business.

I understand your husband passed suddenly. May I ask how?

It was an automobile accident. He went to the convenience store to pick up some milk. It should have taken twenty minutes. He didn’t return after an hour, but it wasn’t unusual for him to make a side trip or two. I wasn’t worried.

Barrington considered their ages and assumed the couple communicated in the shorthand often adopted by people married for forty years. I’m very sorry for your loss. How many times had he spoken those words in one form or another? Barrington jotted on his notepad before speaking again. Did he pass at the scene of the accident?

Mabel Corrino thought his tone was somewhat distant, even clinical. No. He died in the emergency room. I’d received a call and they said Angelo had been in a serious accident and that I should come right away. She halted and drew a half breath. I got there and people were scrambling about. I walked up to the receiving desk and they asked me to take a seat and told me someone was on their way out to speak with me. It was the doctor who worked on Angelo. I could tell the news was horrible.

I see. Barrington touched Mabel Corrino’s hand and spoke softly. Don’t tell me anything more.

OK, she replied tentatively.

It was clear to Barrington that Mabel Corrino was taken aback by his statement. Mabel, have you heard the term ‘cold reading’?

I’m afraid not.

It refers to people claiming to have psychic ability that really just pepper their clients with enough questions until they get something they can use. It’s a parlor trick. He leaned forward in his chair. We know that the fifty-thousand dollars you’re investing with us is a great deal of money. That’s why we guarantee your satisfaction with our work by refunding every cent if we don’t make substantial progress with your reading. I’m not going to probe further. I just would like to know if there is something specific that you are hoping we can accomplish.

Mabel Corrino rocked back in her chair and exhaled. I… she stopped suddenly.

What is it?

It’s just that… she halted again.

Relax and just tell me, Barrington urged.

I don’t want to question a doctor.

Barrington immediately seized upon the comment. Mabel, this is very important: did you have issues with the doctor?

Mabel shook her shoulders ever so slightly. I - I’m not sure how to say it. It was just for a moment, and I just felt - I felt odd.

About your husband’s death? I’m sorry to be direct; did they perform an autopsy?

Yes. Something about massive head trauma.

Barrington gently cradled his chin as he regarded the woman’s expression. He dropped his hand to his lap. You’re troubled by this opinion?

There was a long silence. Finally, she looked at Barrington. Troubled? She thought for a moment. Yes, I guess I’m troubled.

Barrington closed his eyes for a few moments, and then opened them slowly.

I feel comfortable I have what I need. I want you to go home and get some rest, he said, standing from his chair and reaching his hand out for hers.

She stood up as well. She was now more than a little confused. That’s all you need then? She felt disoriented.

That’s it, he smiled.

But, she stammered, When do we meet for the actual reading?

We don’t, Mabel. I read alone, and then I’ll be in touch with you whether I reach your husband or not. Barrington knew she’d been briefed on the protocol, but grief had occluded more than a few customer’s recollections.

I’ve never seen it done like that.

I just need to meditate before I reach out to the spirit world. We’ll be in touch in a few days. I’m sure it will work out. Thank you so much for coming in.

Moments after Mabel was escorted out by Sandy Fielding, Barrington strode over to a keypad on the wall, punched in a code, and a wood panel opened to reveal his concealed chambers. By typing in the combination, the outer doors to his office across the room automatically locked, and a small blue light illuminated on the wall outside. The process also forwarded his phone to Sandy Fielding just outside his office. This was her cue that he was to remain totally undisturbed. Barrington sat in solitude in his private chamber with the lights dim, but not off. He walked over to a safe, placed his thumb on the biometric reader, and, after clearing that challenge, tapped in a string of codes.

Moments later, he removed a small card from the safe and took it over to his desk that was overwhelmed by a large flat panel television he used as a monitor, stretching fifty-two inches diagonally. There was a small wireless keyboard sitting on a plain wooden table next to an armless secretary’s chair. The walls were draped in a dark maroon, pleated material. All sounds in the room that escaped the thick drapes would be trapped by several feet of insulation sandwiched between drywall to the front and thick particle board to the rear. There was a small computer in the room with a network cable running into a VertaDefender hardware firewall, one of the most secure units on the market. As Barrington typed, an identical unit flickered in the bowels of the Randall Supercollider Complex a few miles from the Fort Huachuca Army base in the Sonoran desert southeast of Tucson. The result of a collaboration of scientists from all over the world, the supercollider was built in direct response to the Large Haldron Collider (LHC) constructed by the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN), near Geneva. The massive Randall Supercollider was just less than twice the circumference of the LHC, stretching nearly thirty-two miles in an oval of tunnels containing nearly three thousand superconducting magnets sheathed in liquid helium.

Scientists who went through a rigorous vetting could schedule time on the Randall Supercollider, and months of planning and scheduling were required to orchestrate all of the resources at the RSC for a particular study.

With one exception. A special module had been developed and delivered to the RSC two years previous. An order had arrived one day from the Department of Energy, who managed the RSC, and most of the staff at RSC assumed some sort of dark project was being staged. Personnel were required to accommodate a team of anonymous and incommunicative engineers who arrived to install a special detector module on the supercollider in the rear quadrant of the facility. After the detector was installed, the entire operation of the unit was veiled in a secrecy that evoked hushed whispers in the break rooms. Notice would come to the RSC that the unit was to be made available for special DOE work with less than a day’s notice. When these computer reservations came from afar, all scheduled uses of the supercollider were cancelled unless overridden by the RSC Director, and although protests for overrides were fast and furious, none had ever been granted.

The giant detector was in the shape of a huge disk, nearly one hundred feet in diameter. It looked a bit like a flying saucer on its side. That was the technician’s opinion anyway. The PhDs, on