contractor—”
“I know Mainline,” I said. “They were everywhere in Iraq,” and all at once they were both staring at me like I had pox.
“—had just walked out of merger negotiations with the L Corporation of Herndon, Virginia—”
“Also spooks, I’ll bet,” Tauber said. “It’s the right neighborhood,” and Max nodded.
“Authorities at the two companies were unable to explain why the helicopter pilot turned into a water tower instead of following his flight plan.”
Video flickered on the screen. “It’s bullshit,” Max said immediately. “Look at his face,” he said. “He’s looking where he’s going. He went on purpose.”
“Which doesn’t mean he meant to,” Tauber said drily.
Max nodded. “He was ‘persuaded’.”
“By who?” I asked.
“Let’s see,” Tauber considered, “what country would want to knock off our security contractors? Name the top six.”
“No,” Max shook his head. “The question is, who’d be interested in knocking off the head of Mainline, sabotaging the Mayor of Copenhagen and a nuclear powerplant in New York State? When you’ve figured that out, then you’ve got something.”
“Controversy grew today over the proposal for nuclear disarmament raised by Aryana Singh, the new Indian Premier. An attempted no-confidence vote in the Indian Parliament was disrupted by several dozen demonstrators inside the chambers and an estimated group of more than 10,000 outside. Sizeable demonstrations took place in London, Berlin, Frankfurt, Paris and Tokyo.”
“What did Mainline do in Iraq?” Max asked.
“Everything,” I answered. “Bodyguards for the VIP’s, they ran the food concessions at the bases, they brought fuel in from Kuwait.”
“Fuel?” Tauber growled. “Iraq’s got oil.”
“They’re not producing it fast enough—at least that’s what they told us. What they produced went to paying for the government.”
“Paying off the government, more likely,” Tauber said.
“We should get going,” Max said and I stuffed my things into my bag.
We approached Durham just before 9, joining the morning rush past a skyline that waffled between glass tower and impregnable cliff dwelling. Miriam Fine lived in a suburban town on the outskirts. “I’m unsatisfied with your instructions,” Max complained. “Technically, she doesn’t even live in Durham.”
“Complain to Dave next time you see him,” I told him. “I’m just a vessel.”
“Why don’t you find her?” he remarked, looking at Tauber. “This should be perfect for remote viewing.”
“I need pen and paper,” Tauber said and I knew where it was in the glovebox. He closed his eyes and took several long breaths. His breathing got lighter and lighter after that, to the point that I thought he was either asleep or expiring. But, just at the point that I got concerned, his hand started moving on the page, sketching a very loose oval with a bulge on one side and a couple cross-hatch markings, first towards the top, then leaving a space and continuing the lines below. Beneath the oval, he began sketching a series of small rectangles and then abandoned them, ending with several stacked boxes. His eyes opened and he smiled at what was probably my skeptical expression. “Your subconscious,” he said, “is a whole lot more powerful than yer conscious—it’s in touch with stuff your conscious mind wouldn’t fraternize with to save yer life.”
“The conscious mind wants control,” Max interjected. “It wants everything in a neat box. If you just let the hand move however it wants to—don’t try to control, don’t second-guess—you can draw directly from the subconscious.”
“You get a bit at a time,” Tauber continued, “first a feeling, then a little more detail and a little more and if you’re lucky, wham! You get the big picture.” He pointed at the glovebox. “Let’s see that map,” he said and I handed it to him.
“Okay,” he said, pointing,
“I know Mainline,” I said. “They were everywhere in Iraq,” and all at once they were both staring at me like I had pox.
“—had just walked out of merger negotiations with the L Corporation of Herndon, Virginia—”
“Also spooks, I’ll bet,” Tauber said. “It’s the right neighborhood,” and Max nodded.
“Authorities at the two companies were unable to explain why the helicopter pilot turned into a water tower instead of following his flight plan.”
Video flickered on the screen. “It’s bullshit,” Max said immediately. “Look at his face,” he said. “He’s looking where he’s going. He went on purpose.”
“Which doesn’t mean he meant to,” Tauber said drily.
Max nodded. “He was ‘persuaded’.”
“By who?” I asked.
“Let’s see,” Tauber considered, “what country would want to knock off our security contractors? Name the top six.”
“No,” Max shook his head. “The question is, who’d be interested in knocking off the head of Mainline, sabotaging the Mayor of Copenhagen and a nuclear powerplant in New York State? When you’ve figured that out, then you’ve got something.”
“Controversy grew today over the proposal for nuclear disarmament raised by Aryana Singh, the new Indian Premier. An attempted no-confidence vote in the Indian Parliament was disrupted by several dozen demonstrators inside the chambers and an estimated group of more than 10,000 outside. Sizeable demonstrations took place in London, Berlin, Frankfurt, Paris and Tokyo.”
“What did Mainline do in Iraq?” Max asked.
“Everything,” I answered. “Bodyguards for the VIP’s, they ran the food concessions at the bases, they brought fuel in from Kuwait.”
“Fuel?” Tauber growled. “Iraq’s got oil.”
“They’re not producing it fast enough—at least that’s what they told us. What they produced went to paying for the government.”
“Paying off the government, more likely,” Tauber said.
“We should get going,” Max said and I stuffed my things into my bag.
We approached Durham just before 9, joining the morning rush past a skyline that waffled between glass tower and impregnable cliff dwelling. Miriam Fine lived in a suburban town on the outskirts. “I’m unsatisfied with your instructions,” Max complained. “Technically, she doesn’t even live in Durham.”
“Complain to Dave next time you see him,” I told him. “I’m just a vessel.”
“Why don’t you find her?” he remarked, looking at Tauber. “This should be perfect for remote viewing.”
“I need pen and paper,” Tauber said and I knew where it was in the glovebox. He closed his eyes and took several long breaths. His breathing got lighter and lighter after that, to the point that I thought he was either asleep or expiring. But, just at the point that I got concerned, his hand started moving on the page, sketching a very loose oval with a bulge on one side and a couple cross-hatch markings, first towards the top, then leaving a space and continuing the lines below. Beneath the oval, he began sketching a series of small rectangles and then abandoned them, ending with several stacked boxes. His eyes opened and he smiled at what was probably my skeptical expression. “Your subconscious,” he said, “is a whole lot more powerful than yer conscious—it’s in touch with stuff your conscious mind wouldn’t fraternize with to save yer life.”
“The conscious mind wants control,” Max interjected. “It wants everything in a neat box. If you just let the hand move however it wants to—don’t try to control, don’t second-guess—you can draw directly from the subconscious.”
“You get a bit at a time,” Tauber continued, “first a feeling, then a little more detail and a little more and if you’re lucky, wham! You get the big picture.” He pointed at the glovebox. “Let’s see that map,” he said and I handed it to him.
“Okay,” he said, pointing,
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