Rogue Oracle Read Online Free PDF Page B

sub-subbasement of the Library of Congress in downtown Washington. The space had once been used for archives, but a pipe leak rendered it unusable for document storage. The place always smelled of mildew, and the supply cabinet was prone to pillaging by rogue librarians. Tara remembered being chased from the copy machine three floors up by an archivist wielding a heavy-duty stapler. He’d been a good shot, had dented the elevator door with the stapler he’d hurled at Tara’s head before she escaped.
    The building was familiar, the same one SP HQ had been in when she’d been an agent. There was more security at the door now; despite Harry’s creds, Tara had still been subjected to a full search and fingerprinting to get a temporary ID. She’d been impressed at the instant background check station behind the security desk, and with the screens showing surveillance camera footage from more than two dozen angles within the building.
    Standing in an elevator with Harry as it descended below street level, Tara adjusted the still-warm laminated badge on her lapel. “Do they still call Special Projects the ‘Little Shop of Horrors’?”
    Harry blinked. “No. I’ve never heard that.”
    Tara stared at her shoes. “Sorry. That’s what we called it when I worked here.”
    His face split open into a grin. “It fits.”
    “Are there still turf wars with the librarians?”
    “Yeah.” Harry sighed. “They stole our refrigerator a couple of weeks ago.”
    “Did you get even?”
    “Sort of. They didn’t realize that there was a severed head a forensics tech left in the fridge until they got it upstairs. We assembled a raiding party and took it back. In the process, we swiped a really sweet espresso machine.”
    Tara smothered a laugh with the back of her hand. “Some things never change.”
    The elevator doors opened to reveal a glass fishbowl, full of dark-suited fish swimming in blue light. Flat-screen computer monitors glowed on stainless steel desks, the hum of servers indistinguishable from the overhead fluorescent shop lights. Desks were clustered together like a newsroom bullpen. Glass partitions muffled sound and gave the illusion of privacy. Filched archival shelving lined the walls, stacked with evidence boxes. Cords had been duct-taped to the concrete floor to prevent tripping, and coffee was burning, somewhere. Underneath it all, Tara could still smell the old, pervasive scent of mildew.
    “You guys got some new toys,” Tara remarked.
    “Three cheers for the Homeland Security budget.” Harry jabbed a thumb at a glass-walled office. “Even paid for a sweet flat-screen TV for the boss to monitor the cable news.”
    “Who’s the new division chief?” The previous division chief had met a bad end. The official reports had said that he’d died in the performance of his duties, but Tara knew better.
    “Ron Aquila, from U.S. Marshals. You know him?”
    “No. Is he ex-Secret Service?”
    “Yeah. Seems okay, so far. A stand-up guy.” Harry pursed his mouth, and Tara reminded herself to ask Harry for more details, later.
    A short Hispanic man in the glass-walled office passed in front of the television, tapped on the glass, and beckoned to Harry.
    “Is that Aquila?”
    “Yeah. Come meet the boss.”
    Tara followed in Harry’s wake to the office, smoothing the front of her suit jacket. Returning to Special Projects made her nervous. It was like falling into an old pattern of the past all over again, one she’d tried to forget.
    Aquila circled around his desk to greet her. Tara noticed the desk did not match the steel and glass of the rest of the décor. It was an old, polished, wooden desk. Tara guessed it had come with him from Treasury. It suggested Aquila could be sentimental … or was simply intolerant of waste. It also suggested that he didn’t care much for what others thought, which was a good start.
    “Chief Aquila, this is Dr. Sheridan.” Harry made the introductions.
    Aquila shook Tara’s