Jaxon paused and shook his head sadly. "The truth is, maybe I should have retired after the St. Patrick's hostage crisis was over," he said. "A lot of it happened on my watch."
"That's nonsense, Espey," Lucy said. "Who could have guessed at Kane's intentions? So, then, who do you work for?"
"I can't say," Jaxon replied. "And if you ask elsewhere, the government will deny our agency exists."
Lucy whistled. "Like Mission Impossible."
"Or when they sent us into Laos in sixty-nine," Jojola added softly. "We were to supply recon for marines, but the mission didn't officially exist. And if we were killed or caught, we would have simply disappeared in the eyes of our government."
"So who's behind this infiltrating and compromising?" Lucy asked.
"That's the million-dollar question, Lucy," Jaxon answered. "If we knew, we could cut the head off the serpent and the body would die. But we haven't been able to get anyone close enough yet to understand how they're organized or what their real aims are. Hell, we don't even know if they have a name they call themselves. They're not out there like al Qaeda or Hamas claiming responsibility for acts they did or even didn't do."
"If they're so secret, how do you know they exist?" Jojola asked.
"Good question," Jaxon answered. "I hope that my mission here tonight will help establish that. But up to this point, all we know is that there seems to be an organized group that is flying under the radar but manages to manipulate and use other people, even other organizations-including terrorists-to achieve its ends. One other thing we know is they are absolutely ruthless-so ruthless, if my guess is right, that they were willing to murder the Pope and a couple of thousand people as part of their plan."
"I thought Islamic terrorists and Kane were behind that-for their own ends," Lucy said.
"They were," Jaxon acknowledged. "But that doesn't mean that Kane and the terrorists weren't being assisted by someone else for purposes even they may not have realized."
"Do you have any suspects?" Jojola asked.
"Well, we have a name, Jamys Kellagh," Jaxon said. "Who he is, no one seems to know. However, we're told by informants that he seems to have been playing the middle man between Chechen extremists, Kane, and perhaps people in our own government, as well as the Russian government. But other than a name we have nothing-no photographs, no way of identifying him. We don't even know if Jamys Kellagh is a real name or an alias."
"So I assume all of this has something to do with what you want me to listen to," Lucy said.
Jaxon nodded. "Sorry to give you such a long story and provide so few answers. However, just a few days ago, we received a recording of a conversation purportedly between Jamys Kellagh and someone higher up in this organization. We're told it's important and may involve a plot in New York City."
Lucy sighed. "Of course. Why not? Just paint a target on Manhattan."
"I know how you feel," Jaxon said. "My kids are there now, too, living with their mother in Midtown. Unfortunately, as a symbol of the United States there aren't many better targets. But I have no idea what is being said in this message. That's why I've come to you."
Lucy looked up and had to blink away tears. She considered New Mexico her home now, but she'd grown up in Manhattan and that's where her family lived. She was tired of worrying about them. "So where's this message?"
Jaxon reached into his suit-coat pocket and pulled out a small device that Lucy recognized as an MP3 player. He reached into another pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag from which he removed a wafer-thin disc the size of a quarter and inserted it into the MP3. He handed the device, as well as a pair of earphones to Lucy, who put them in her ear and pressed the Play button.
Lucy heard two men talking in a foreign language with the apparent older man doing most of the talking. The message only lasted twenty seconds and ended with what sounded like, "Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh."
Lucy hit the Play button again, then a third time before placing it back on the table.
"So any ideas?" Jaxon asked.
Lucy pursed her lips. "It sounds Celtic…a very old archaic form if I'm right…but nothing I've heard before. That last bit, 'Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh,' sounded like a sign-off…sort of like 'See you later, alligator,' though I suspect it's not quite so innocent."
Jaxon looked at her for a long moment, then nodded and picked up the MP3 player. "Well, thanks for trying. I thought I'd give it a shot."
"Hold on," Lucy said. "I said I didn't know the language. However, with a little help from someone I know, we might get a translation."
"Who is this person?" Jaxon asked.
"Just a guy I know in Manhattan," Lucy replied. "I wouldn't want to give up his name until I've spoken to him. But he's spent most of his life studying the Celts-their languages and history. An odd duck, but I'd consider him the foremost authority in the United States. I'll give him a call."
"You trust him?"
Lucy smiled and nodded. "This guy lives with his mind in the twelfth century. I won't tell him anything except that I need to see him about a translation. He'll be happy to help. Like all right-thinking men," she added with a wink, "he's madly in love with me."
Jaxon chuckled. "Certainly any man who never changed your diapers, which leaves me out." He was interrupted by a coded rapping on the door. "Come in," he said.
The door swung open and Agent Tavizon poked his head in. "Sir, the farmer we tracked down earlier is here asking to see the young lady."
"He's a cowboy," Lucy said. "Let him in."
Jaxon nodded and Tavizon stepped back. Ned Blanchet appeared in the doorway, scowling and looking like he was about to avenge the farmer remark with his fists.
"Anything wrong?" he asked, walking over to Lucy with an angry glance over his shoulder at Tavizon, who looked at him blankly, the way a shark looks at a fish when it's not particularly hungry.
"Not any more than usual," Lucy said, and gave him a hug and a kiss.
"Great." Blanchet scowled more. "Just what I wanted to hear."
Jaxon shook Blanchet's hand. He respected the young cowboy, who'd proved himself to be a man of action, certainly more than Agent Tavizon was giving him credit for.
"So, when do we leave to see my friend?" Lucy said. She was getting impatient to get rid of the G-men so she could devote her attention to Ned.
Jaxon looked at Ned. "Sorry, pardner," he said before turning to Lucy. "But I'm going to have to ask Lucy to go with us now."
8
Gilgamesh barked twice at the sound of the buzzer announcing that visitors had arrived at the security door three floors below the Crosby Street loft. Karp scratched the dog behind the ears, got up from his easy chair to walk over to the apartment foyer, and pressed the intercom button.
"Hello?" he asked. The visitors were expected, as they'd called from LaGuardia Airport to say they were on their way, but at nearly midnight in Lower Manhattan, it paid to be safe.
"It's Mikey O'Toole and Richie Meyers. Have we come to the right place?" a voice replied from the speaker.
"You have, indeed," Karp said. He pressed the button to unlock the security gate and then opened the front door to wait for the elevator to arrive outside the loft.
When the elevator door slid open, two men began to step off with suitcases but stopped when they saw the enormous Presa Canario dog panting next to Karp, who noticed their expressions and chuckled. He thought of Gilgamesh as the family pet, but he sometimes forgot that many people took one look and immediately thought Hound of the Baskervilles, or maybe Cujo.
"Trovisi giu," Karp told the dog, who wagged the nub of his tail at the visitors-he was a lover, not a fighter, unless commanded otherwise-and then trotted over to the easy chair where Marlene was reading a newspaper and slumped to his belly with a sigh.