Deception Point Page 1

Introduction Demise, in this neglected spot, could come in innumerable structures. Geologist Charles Brophy had persevered through the savage wonder of this landscape for a considerable length of time, but then nothing could set him up for a destiny as primitive and unnatural as the one going to come to pass for him. As Brophy's four huskies pulled his sled of geologic detecting hardware over the tundra, the mutts out of nowhere eased back, looking skyward. â€Å"What is it, girls?† Brophy asked, venturing off the sled. Past the social occasion storm mists, a twin-rotor transport helicopter curved in low, embracing the icy tops with military mastery. That is odd, he thought. He never observed helicopters this far north. The airplane landed fifty yards away, kicking up a stinging shower of granulated day off. His pooches whimpered, looking vigilant. At the point when the chopper entryways slid open, two men plummeted. They were wearing full-climate whites, equipped with rifles, and advanced toward Brophy with pressing expectation. â€Å"Dr. Brophy?† one called. The geologist was confounded. â€Å"How did you know my name? Who are you?† â€Å"Take out your radio, please.† â€Å"I'm sorry?† â€Å"Just do it.† Confused, Brophy pulled his radio from his parka. â€Å"We need you to transmit a crisis dispatch. Diminishing your radio recurrence to one hundred kilohertz.† One hundred kilohertz? Brophy felt absolutely lost. It's not possible for anyone to get whatever low. â€Å"Has there been an accident?† The subsequent man raised his rifle and pointed it at Brophy's head. â€Å"There's no opportunity to clarify. Simply do it.† Trembling, Brophy balanced his transmission recurrence. The main man presently gave him a note card with a couple of lines composed on it. â€Å"Transmit this message. Now.† Brophy took a gander at the card. â€Å"I don't comprehend. This data is off base. I didn't-â€Å" The man squeezed his rifle hard against the geologist's sanctuary. Brophy's voice was shaking as he transmitted the unusual message. â€Å"Good,† the main man said. â€Å"Now get yourself and your canines into the chopper.† At gunpoint, Brophy moved his hesitant pooches and sled up a slip slope into the payload inlet. When they were settled, the chopper lifted off, turning westbound. â€Å"Who the damnation are you!† Brophy requested, starting to perspire inside his parka. Furthermore, what was the significance of that message! The men said nothing. As the chopper picked up elevation, the breeze tore through the open entryway. Brophy's four huskies, despite everything fixed to the stacked sled, were whining now. â€Å"At least close the door,† Brophy requested. â€Å"Can't you see my mutts are frightened!† The men didn't react. As the chopper rose to 4,000 feet, it banked steeply out over a progression of ice gorges and precipices. Out of nowhere, the men stood. Without a word, they held the vigorously loaded sled and pushed it out the open entryway. Brophy viewed with sickening apprehension as his pooches mixed futile against the tremendous weight. In a moment the creatures vanished, hauled wailing out of the chopper. Brophy was at that point on his feet shouting when the men snatched him. They pulled him to the entryway. Numb with dread, Brophy swung his clench hands, attempting to fight off the amazing hands pushing him outward. It was no utilization. Minutes after the fact he was tumbling toward the gaps beneath. 1 Toulos Restaurant, adjoining Capitol Hill, brags a politically erroneous menu infant veal and pony carpaccio, making it an amusing hotspot for the quintessential Washingtonian force breakfast. At the beginning of today Toulos was occupied †a discord of clanging flatware, coffee machines, and cellphone discussions. The maitre d' was sneaking a taste of his morning Bloody Mary when the lady entered. He turned with a rehearsed grin. â€Å"Good morning,† he said. â€Å"May I help you?† The lady was alluring, in her mid-thirties, donning dark, creased wool pants, traditionalist pads, and an ivory Laura Ashley pullover. Her stance was straight †jawline raised marginally †not haughty, simply solid. The lady's hair was light earthy colored and formed in Washington's most famous style †the â€Å"anchor-woman† †a lavish feathering, twisted under at the shoulders†¦ sufficiently long to be hot, however short enough to remind you she was likely more astute than you. â€Å"I'm a little late,† the lady stated, her voice unassuming. â€Å"I have a morning meal meeting with Senator Sexton.† The maitre d' felt an unforeseen shiver of nerves. Representative Sedgewick Sexton. The representative was an ordinary here and right now one of the nation's most popular men. A week ago, having cleared every one of the twelve Republican primaries on Super Tuesday, the congressperson was essentially ensured his gathering's selection for President of the United States. Many accepted the congressperson had an eminent possibility of taking the White House from the troubled President the following fall. Of late Sexton's face appeared to be on each national magazine, his battle motto put all over America: â€Å"Stop spending. Start mending.† â€Å"Senator Sexton is in his booth,† the maitre d' said. â€Å"And you are?† â€Å"Rachel Sexton. His daughter.† How absurd of me, he thought. The similarity was very obvious. The lady had the congressperson's entering eyes and refined carriage †that cleaned demeanor of versatile respectability. Obviously the representative's exemplary acceptable looks had not skipped ages, despite the fact that Rachel Sexton appeared to convey her endowments with an effortlessness and quietude her dad could gain from. â€Å"A delight to have you, Ms. Sexton.† As the maitre d' drove the congressperson's little girl over the eating zone, he was humiliated by the gauntlet of male eyes following her†¦ some circumspect, others less so. Not many ladies ate at Toulos and considerably less who resembled Rachel Sexton. â€Å"Nice body,† one burger joint murmured. â€Å"Sexton as of now get himself another wife?† â€Å"That's his little girl, you idiot,† another answered. The man laughed. â€Å"Knowing Sexton, he'd presumably screw her anyway.† At the point when Rachel showed up at her dad's table, the representative was on his cellphone speaking uproariously around one of his ongoing victories. He looked up at Rachel just long enough to tap his Cartier and remind her she was late. I missed you, as well, Rachel thought. Her dad's first name was Thomas, in spite of the fact that he'd received his center name some time in the past. Rachel speculated it was on the grounds that he enjoyed the similar sounding word usage. Representative Sedgewick Sexton. The man was a silver-haired, well-spoken political creature who had been blessed with the smooth look of drama specialist, which appeared to be proper thinking about his gifts of pantomime. â€Å"Rachel!† Her dad clicked off his telephone and remained to kiss her cheek. â€Å"Hi, Dad.† She didn't kiss him back. â€Å"You look exhausted.† Thus it starts, she thought. â€Å"I got your message. What's up?† â€Å"I can't approach my girl out for breakfast?† Rachel had learned quite a while in the past her dad only from time to time mentioned her organization except if he had some ulterior thought process. Sexton took a taste of espresso. â€Å"So, how are things with you?† â€Å"Busy. I see your crusade's going well.† â€Å"Oh, we should not talk business.† Sexton inclined over the table, bringing down his voice. â€Å"How's that person at the State Department I set you up with?† Rachel breathed out, previously battling the desire to check her watch. â€Å"Dad, I truly haven't had the opportunity to call him. What's more, I wish you'd quit attempting to-â€Å" €Å"you must set aside a few minutes for the significant things, Rachel. Without affection, everything else is meaningless.† Various rebounds rung a bell, yet Rachel picked quietness. Being the greater individual was not troublesome when it went to her dad. â€Å"Dad, you needed to see me? You said this was important.†