The Genesis Plague - Michael Byrnes [37]
Once his fingers had thawed to an itchy tingle, he took out his BlackBerry and started thumbing his preliminary findings into a secure e-mail message addressed to his boss, with a CC to Jason Yaeger.
Jason Yaeger. They’d met during orientation at Global Security Corporation only two years ago. That high school valedictorian from Alpine, New Jersey, was meant to teach some arcane history course at an Ivy League university or find a cure for cancer - not scour the Middle East for terrorists. But Jason Yaeger was out for vengeance. In his eyes, that hard determination glimmered like a razor’s edge. To lose a brother the way he had …
Composing the e-mail helped Flaherty formalize his initial assessments: Professor Brooke Thompson had been forthright in answering questions about her involvement in an excavation that had taken place in northern Iraq in 2003; though Ms Thompson was unwilling to breach her confidentiality agreement about the findings in aforementioned project, the nature of her involvement seemed consistent with her expertise in deciphering ancient languages; and though her back-story would require verification, he would not consider her a flight risk should further inquiries be warranted. Flaherty did, however, emphasize that the excavation’s implied covert coordination by the US military merited further investigation.
He fixed a couple typos, then sent the report off into space.
A more comprehensive summary would be required. That would happen tonight, on his laptop, at Doyle’s Cafe over a pint of Guinness and an order of steak tips, with the Celtics hoopin’ it up on the big screen. And all the snow in the world wasn’t going to put the kibosh on that.
He pocketed the BlackBerry and put the car in drive. The mounting snow constricted the street, making a U-turn impractical. So he continued straight on Museum Road and made a right at the T intersection. As he started along The Fenway, a splash of happy pastel colours set against the dreary grey museum edifice caught his eye. He glanced over to the steps leading up to the columned portico overhanging the building’s north entrance. Immediately he recognized the puffy sky-blue ski jacket, pink wool cap and rainbow-striped scarf that had been hanging on the back of Brooke Thompson’s chair.
Oh yeah, she’s definitely from Florida, he smiled.
The sidewalks had yet to be shovelled and she was having a tough time getting the wheels of her rolling attache case to spin. The snow won, and she settled for dragging the case over the fresh powder. En route to her car, he guessed.
Luckily, she didn’t spot him cruising by, because he certainly didn’t want to come off as a stalker.
As Flaherty continued slowly along the slippery roadway, he noticed the north door open a second time. Out came another familiar face: the nosy guy with the Dumbo ears from the cafe. The guy’s beady eyes immediately went to Brooke Thompson, scanned the area, then snapped back to Brooke Thompson. They were the leering eyes of a real stalker.
Bundled warmly and revelling in the beauty of the fresh snowfall that blanketed the Fens, Brooke Thompson plodded through the snow while towing her attache case like a dog pulling a dogsled.
To her right, she noticed that the reflecting pools had frozen over and the snow now reached up to the nose of Antonio Lopez Garcia’s monumental bronze doll’s head, crowned with a dollop of pristine snow. If there was artful expression in plopping a huge head on to the museum’s lawn, the message was lost on her. Seeing it today did manage, nonetheless, to evoke a deep response - it jogged memories about the etchings Brooke had studied in that Iraqi cave, which included a graphic retelling of a woman’s beheading. Those images, though masterfully crafted, were not intended to illicit