Free Mercury Rests by Robert Kroese Page A

well. She caught a glimpse of another following close behind. Two agents who had been posing as a married couple sat in the rear seat behind Jacob and Christine, and Agent Daltrey sat in the front passenger’s seat. A tense-jawed black man, also wearing a dark suit, was driving.
    The SUV glided through the nighttime traffic like some giant manta ray skimming the freeway for plankton. The vehicle’s speedometer needle was hovering just below 95. Wherever we’re going, Christine thought, we’re in a hurry.
    Soon they were passing the Lincoln Memorial on their right, and the unmistakable obelisk of the Washington Monument was visible ahead of them. The monument made Christine think of the Egyptians and the pyramids. She wondered if there was anytruth to the myth that Washington, DC, had been laid out according to some sort of mystical Masonic plan. A few weeks ago, she wouldn’t have believed it, but knowing what she did now about the engineering of Los Angeles by the secret society known as the Order of the Pillars of Babylon, she didn’t know what to believe anymore. The Universe was turning out to be a pretty strange place.
    The SUV turned sharply into an unmarked parking garage and was waved in by a uniformed attendant. They continued underground for a few minutes and then came to an abrupt halt, the other two vehicles sliding in alongside them. Doors flew open, and Christine and Jacob were escorted through a steel door into a dimly lit tunnel. After some ten minutes of brisk walking, the procession reached another door. Agent Daltrey held his thumb to a scanner, and a green light went on. Daltrey beckoned for them to go through, and he followed, leaving the bulk of the procession behind. At first Christine thought it strange that all these agents would come along only to be left here in the hallway, presumably just short of their destination, but then she realized that their job was finished: the whole point of this convoy was to ensure the successful delivery of her and Jacob. Somebody very important had decided that they were either very important or in a lot of danger—or possibly both.
    Behind the door was a hallway lined with nondescript offices—the sort of place where government interns and other denizens clutching to the lowest rungs of the DC bureaucracy toiled late into the night drinking Starbucks coffee and pissing out press releases and legislation. After a few more minutes, with Agent Daltrey barking an occasional “Left here!” or “Keep right!” they found themselves in a somewhat better neighborhood. The offices were larger and featured floor-to-ceiling windows thatwere covered by shuttered blinds rather than actual walls. Clearly they were still underground, but this was the sort of underground where important people went to be protected from bombs and other unpleasant aboveground happenings, not the sort of underground where you got stuffed because there wasn’t enough room for you on the surface. Daltrey led them to a door at the end of a hallway and knocked. A muffled reply came from within and he opened the door.
    They shuffled inside and Daltrey directed them to sit in two black leather chairs across from a large desk. Behind the desk sat a stocky gray-haired man with thick, stubby fingers. A stern look gripped his face. He appeared to be in his early sixties. A plaque on his desk read:
    D.A.D. Dirk Lubbers
    “Director Lubbers,” Jacob said nervously. “What are you...that is, if I may ask...”
    “Shut up, Slater,” growled Lubbers. “You’re lucky I don’t have you fired after your little disappearing act. I should have known you were holding out on me at the HeadJAC meeting.” He managed to point something like a smile in Christine’s direction. “You must be the reporter,” he said. “Temetri.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Christine, trying not to sound as frightened as Jacob. “I’m afraid I don’t know what this is all about.”
    “I think you do,” said Lubbers. He held