“I would say that’s a good idea, sir.”
They continued to watch Nora work. This body looked much like the other one, the face partially obliterated by some as-yet-unknown agent. Once again, it was lying on its back in a loose and careless position, but as Nora moved down to the torso, Morwood realized with surprise that it was not a man but a woman.
He quickly covered up his disappointment. “Well, well,” he said, “Look what we’ve got here.”
Tappan breathed out in surprise. “This just gets weirder and weirder.”
Nora, Emilio, and Scott continued working, uncovering the rest of the body. The sun was now an hour from the horizon.
The dirt winked with another sudden glint. Rapidly Nora’s brush uncovered a smooth, gleaming metal surface resting next to the hip bone of the second corpse. With every sweep, the exposed object looked stranger and stranger: two gleaming ovoids of a silvery metal, one six inches in diameter, the other perhaps eighteen inches, connected by a complicated maze of tiny metal pipes, tubes, and valves. At one end was a dial.
Nobody said anything, but the surprise and consternation deepened. Nora finally paused in her work and she and Emilio climbed out of the hole while Scott put away the tools. The six of them stared at the object in utter silence. It was so peculiar, so perfectly made, so…alien, that Morwood was taken aback.
“Well,” said Nora after a long moment. “Anyone got a guess as to what that is?”
Given all the rumors about Area 51 and UFO abductions, Morwood could surmise what people were thinking. But nobody voiced their thoughts.
“Finish clearing away the dirt and let’s remove it,” said Tappan, his voice gravelly with suppressed excitement.
Nora took a series of photos of the object in situ and then continued digging around it with a palette knife, flicking and sweeping away the dirt. Emilio and Scott had paused working on the lower extremity of the corpse and were now spectators as well.
After ten minutes, she had completely exposed the object. She inserted a wooden chopstick underneath and, ever so carefully, pried it from the grip of the earth. With gloved hands, she turned it over.
Stamped on the bottom, in clear script, was:
HICHEM INDUSTRIES
EDISON, NEW JERSEY
3H Bleed 1X-20X
This was followed by some stamped numbers.
There was a silence. Then Tappan began to chuckle, which became a laugh. “And who said God doesn’t have a sense of humor? For a moment there I was convinced that was an alien object!” He shook his head ruefully. “Sure got my heart rate up. Although I should note it is from New Jersey.”
“Well,” Nora said, “if it isn’t an alien artifact, what the hell is it?”
“Tomorrow,” Corrie said, “we’ll lift those bodies. In the meantime, let’s put that device into an evidence box. We’ll get all this back to the FBI lab and I promise you, we’ll have answers soon.”
Morwood felt an inner glow of satisfaction at Corrie’s authoritative tone. That was more like it. But when she threw him a glance to check for his approval, he frowned and looked away.
12
LIME, DRIVING HIS Subaru west on Dolley Madison Boulevard, took the back exit into CIA headquarters, then drove slowly through one parking lot after another until he found a spot he liked near the Memorial Garden. He’d spent much of his free time after work giving his vehicle some TLC, and it was once again paying him back the love.
Exiting the car, he followed the sidewalk that looped around to the main entrance. It was a longer walk than necessary, but the weather in Langley was fine and—since he’d spent many recent working hours in a cubicle—he wanted to enjoy it. He entered the chilly lobby with its long rows of tall, narrow columns; went through the usual ID checks; then headed for the elevators. People were walking, as usual, back and forth over the large CIA seal set into the floor, engrossed in their business and paying it no mind. Lime, as always, was careful to step around the image of the eagle, shield, and compass rose.
He made the familiar trip up to the third floor, down a maze of narrow corridors, and past another ID checkpoint before he reached his destination: a closed door of dark wood, with a nameplate beside it that read RUSH, J. He smoothed his shirt front, then knocked on the door.
“Enter,” came the voice from inside.
Lime opened the door and stepped in, shutting it behind him. The office looked straight out of a Hollywood set dresser’s manual: large desk, laptop, three phones, drawn shades, photo of the president on the wall, bookshelves holding shadow boxes full of military medals. Colonel Jack Rush fit the image, too, with his carefully clipped hair, wiry frame, high, gaunt cheekbones, and immaculate uniform.