Read The Archangel Project Online
Authors: C.S. Graham
The Archangel Project
C.S. Graham
To the people of New Orleans
“Let me see the sketches.”
“At the end of our last session, we explored theâ¦
Once upon a time, Dr. Henry Youngblood had been consideredâ¦
“Let me introduce you to my associates,” said Palmer, oneâ¦
Tobie was leaving Colonel McClintock's study when she felt herâ¦
Tourak Rahmadad snagged a bag of potato chips, popped openâ¦
Most people who knew October Guinness looked upon her decisionâ¦
Fire engines and police cars clogged the street, their flashingâ¦
Lance Palmer considered himself one of the good guys. Asâ¦
Pushing aside the memories of Iraq, Tobie got in herâ¦
The rolling hills and gently wooded glens to the westâ¦
Clark Westlake took the steps to the Executive Office Buildingâ¦
Tobie was spooning Pet Promise Wild Salmon Formula into Beauregard'sâ¦
Tobie tore through the darkened, wind-tossed side garden.
Jax Alexander lived in a narrow brick town house overlookingâ¦
Division Thirteen had its offices deep in the bowels ofâ¦
“Hey, lady! This is a private bus.”
Halfway down the block, Tobie pulled in close to theâ¦
Deep within the shadows of a spreading oak tree, Tobieâ¦
Barid Hafezi stood in the doorway to his daughter's darkenedâ¦
The Coliseum Street Guest House lay on a narrow, cobble-linedâ¦
The man Barid Hafezi knew only as “the Scorpion” parkedâ¦
The next morning, the sun came up like a bigâ¦
“You're not going to like this,” said Hadley, tossing aâ¦
Michael Hadley was in a foul mood. His eye hurt.
Jax found the house at 5815 Patton Street silent andâ¦
In Jax's experience, if you wanted to know what wasâ¦
Bob Randolph was the kind of man who was bornâ¦
Paul Fitzgerald walked out of the New Orleans Armstrong Airportâ¦
At twelve-thirty, Tobie called her next door neighbor, Ambrose King.
Tobie flipped open her phone and heard Gunner's voice.
Byblos Restaurant on Magazine was one of Tobie's favorite cafés,â¦
“How did they find me?” Tobie asked Gunner.
Tobie considered herself a typical all-American chicken-shit. She was notâ¦
The Orleans Marina lay in that part of the cityâ¦
Jax pulled his rented G6 into the marina's narrow stripâ¦
“You can put that thing away,” said Jax, keeping hisâ¦
Hadley rolled the Suburban to a stop in the shadeâ¦
Barid Hafezi was in his office at the University ofâ¦
Back at the Hilton, Jax took a long shower andâ¦
“How you doing, Jason?” said Clark Westlake to the manâ¦
Homicide detective William P. Ahearn stood at the water's edge,â¦
The target was easy enough to find: an old yellowâ¦
Jax was cleaning his gun at the table by theâ¦
Joe's Crab Shack was basically a long, covered pier withâ¦
Lance Palmer stood in the center of their suite atâ¦
Every respectable hypnotist in New Orleans had long since lockedâ¦
Just to the west of New Orleans and its suburbsâ¦
“So did it work?” Jax asked, pushing through the drunkenâ¦
His name was Michael Crowley, and when the call cameâ¦
Jax slithered head first down the steps. He could feelâ¦
“I don't think Neosporan is meant for gunshot wounds,” saidâ¦
Bubba Dupuisâas he introduced himselfâwas a great bear of aâ¦
“Why all the Korans?” asked Tobie as Jax pulled backâ¦
A second Crown Victoria tore up the ramp from theâ¦
“I should have remembered that brass sign,” said October, pushingâ¦
Lance stood at the window, his gaze on the heavyâ¦
“It probably wouldn't be a good idea for you toâ¦
October was clutching a big Nordstrom bag when Jax pickedâ¦
“If I came up with a scheme to trigger theâ¦
Jax spun around just as the barrel of a silencedâ¦
Once, Ed Devereaux had been a warrant officer in theâ¦
“I was just reading something about the museum in myâ¦
A light drizzle was falling when the Gulfstream touched downâ¦
“Hey, Gunner,” said Tobie, when he answered his phone. “It'sâ¦
Lance Palmer kept one hand inside his jacket, the handleâ¦
A crowd of latecomers still clogged the entrance to theâ¦
Tobie sprinted up the stairs, her breath sawing in andâ¦
Adelaide Meyer sloshed a measure of Russian vodka into aâ¦
Every morning of his life, T. J. Beckham rose atâ¦
- The government remote viewing programs, their history, and the various historical incidents described in this story are real, as are the books mentioned in relation to them. These programs, known as Grill Flame, Sun Streak, Center Lane, and Star Gate (among others), were officially terminated in 1995-96 and some of their relevant material declassified. Only declassified information has been divulged in this story. For an entertaining look at the programs' history, we suggest
Men Who Stare at Goats,
by Jon Ronson. - The declassified 1986
Defense Intelligence Agency Training Manual for Remote Viewing
is real and is available on the Internet. - The remote viewing sessions described in this book are as accurate as we can make them. For a more complete and authoritative analysis of the process, see Joseph McMoneagle's
Mind Trek
. - The September 2000 policy document of the Project for the New American Century (PNAC) described in this book is real.
- The U.S. contingency plan herein referred to as “the Armageddon Plan” is also real, although it is not known by that name.
- Division Thirteen is a figment of the authors' imagination.
- The spelling “al-Qa'ida” is a more accurate transliteration of the Arabic word than the more familiar “Al Qaeda” typically seen in the Western press.
Washington, D.C.: 4 June, 1:05
P.M
. Eastern time
“Let me see the sketches.”
Lance Palmer passed the folder to the elegant, Armani-clad woman who rode beside him in the limousine. He watched, silent, as she slipped on a pair of reading glasses and flipped through the folder's contents. She frowned at the crude representation of an encircled K emblazoned against a dark background, then paused again to stare at a vintage World War II C47 Skytrooper that seemed to soar through the air.
Hurriedly rendered in pencil on page after page of cheap loose-leaf, the drawings didn't look important. But these sketchesâand the person who drew themâhad the power to destroy some of the most important people in Washington and bring down a president.
Adelaide Meyer raised her gaze to Lance's face. “You're certain these sketches are from a remote viewing session and not the result of a security leak?”
“I'm certain.” Remote viewing had been the object of intense scientific and governmental investigation for more than sixty years, but most people still had a hard time accepting it as real. Lance would probably have been suspicious himself if he hadn't worked with remote viewers in the Army.
Through the tinted, water-flecked window beside him, he caught a glimpse of the Lincoln Memorial as it swept past, its normal horde of tourists thinned by the storm lashing the city. Adelaide Meyer peeled the glasses off her face and rubbed the bridge of her nose. At fifty-three, she was CEO of one of the world's largest corporations, a sprawling conglomerate with interests in everything from the construction and defense industries to oil. She was also, through a series of subsidiaries and holding companies, Lance Palmer's boss.
“When you came to me with this proposal, I never expected it to turn into such a disaster.”
Lance set his jaw. Thirteen years in Army Special Operations taught a man to accept responsibility for his mistakes. “It's a problem,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “But it's not a disaster. It can be contained. Right now these sketches are meaningless.”
Adelaide Meyer fit her reading glasses back on her face. She was slim and reasonably attractive for a woman her age, but in all other respects she was a woman cut in much the same mold as Madeline Albright and Maggie Thatcher: a hard-as-nails broad with the mind of a Rhodes scholar and the ethical standards of a serial killer.
“They won't be meaningless in forty-eight hours.” Flipping back through the drawings, she paused again
at the crude sketch of the old C47. Lance felt his ulcer burn. She looked up. “Who knows about this?”
“Henry Youngblood. The woman who did the remote viewing. I think that's all.”
Adelaide Meyer kept her eyebrows plucked into razor thin, unnatural arcs. As Lance watched, one eyebrow arched even higher in a parody of a smile that had been known to make prime ministers ill. “You think? We don't pay you to think, Mr. Palmer. We pay you to know. And to do.”
“If there's anyone else, we'll find them.”
She closed the folder, drummed her fingers on the gold-embossed burgundy cover. “This woman; who is she?”
“Probably a student. We've pulled a list of the people who've been working with Youngblood from the university's records.”
Her fingers stopped their drumming. “You don't know her name?”
“The only one who knows that is Youngblood. But he'll tell us. Don't worry.” Lance's organization was very good at extracting information. They'd perfected their interrogation techniques at Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib and a dozen other detention facilities the American people didn't want to hear about.
“See to it that he does.” Adelaide Meyer punched the button on the limousine's intercom and spoke to her driver. “Mr. Palmer will be leaving us. There should be a taxi stand at the next corner.” The limo slowed.
“I want this cleaned up.” She reached for the morning copy of the
Wall Street Journal
and snapped it open. “I want it cleaned up and I want it cleaned up fast. Or
I'll have someone else do it. And I can guarantee you won't be happy with that.” Over the top of the newspaper, her gaze met Lance's for one telling moment. “Understood?”
The limousine pulled in close to the curb, sending water from the gutter surging over the sidewalk. Lance opened the door. “Perfectly,” he said, and stepped out into the lashing rain.
The rain beat against his shoulders, ran down his cheeks in cool rivulets. He stood and watched the limousine speed away toward Capitol Hill. Then he nodded to the nearest taxi driver. “Reagan Airport,” he said, and slid into the backseat.
He put a call through to his wife, Jessica. “I'm afraid I'm going to be late tonight, honey. Tell Jason I'm sorry about missing his game.” He listened to Jess make the requisite noises, then said, “I should be home by midnight. If not, I'll see you tomorrow morning.”
Lance closed his phone. He had just over forty-eight hours, but he didn't expect this little clean-up operation to take anywhere near that long. He was very good at what he did.