The Sibyl Conspiracy
A Logan Grant and Anna Booth Thriller
Background: This is the first novel I ever finished writing. Although I didn’t publish it first. Having spent almost a decade and a half — yeah that is right — I kept wanting to tweak and adjust it and only after I found myself changing things back for the fourth or fifth time did I relent. In some ways this was both a passion project. If you liked the National Treasure movies or the Da Vinci Code story I suspect that you will truly enjoy this. My intention is for this to be the first of a trilogy, but the story as told currently is self-contained. I hope you enjoy it.
C L Broogle
The Story:
A secret hidden since the American Revolution, a conspiracy dating back to the end of the Civil War, and a question. What if fate is real? If it came knocking, would you be its victim or its master? Working late one night at her office, Anna Booth, an analyst at the Department of Homeland Security, stumbles into this very dilemma when she unknowingly brushes up against a conspiracy dating back to the founding of the United States of America. This shatters her all-too-normal life while endangering everyone she knows. Her only hope for survival is that, together with FBI agent Logan Grant, she can uncover the truth at the heart of The Sibyl Conspiracy.
Pursuing them from the Capitol Rotunda in DC to the farmlands of Northern Maryland and the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia are forces in the service of Alistair Fairbanks. His family’s control of this secret has granted them wealth, power, and a mastery of history for over a century and a half. Along the way, glimpses into the elite power structures controlled by the Fairbanks family, clues about its source and origin, hidden truths of American history, and Anna’s potential role in a conspiracy dating to the American Revolution and US Civil War emerge. As this unfolds, Anna and Logan will square off against Alistair in a deadly game that will determine who will be the master and who will be the victim of fate.
Chapter 1
Anna Booth was one in a million, which made her perfectly ordinary—at least by Washington, DC standards. She spent her days toiling away as one of the faceless masses working for the federal government. Most nights, she attended graduate school, leaving almost no time for a social life. The only thing that set her apart in a crowd was the tight spiral curls of her amber hair.
She navigated her way through Lafayette Park by the White House, a path that reminded her why she came to DC—out of necessity. Over time, this city had a way of making anyone question every life choice that led to being here. Today was one of those days.
Around noon, the newly appointed Secretary of Homeland Security had decided—likely after watching some cable show or reading a leadership manual for dummies—that each department needed to justify its existence in writing. Why her office, responsible for overseeing the continuity of government in the event of a major disaster, needed to justify itself with anything more than a copy of its letterhead was beyond her.
She lifted her head slightly. The soft light of the early evening sun filtered through the green leaves, warming her face, and melting away some of her tension. It was a good time to be walking in Washington. The day’s heat and humidity were giving way to cooling breezes flowing between the buildings.
The crowds had thinned as most workers in the District began their journeys home. Most tourists had also cleared off the streets in search of their evening meals. This latter group often seemed oblivious to the fact that Washington was a working city, not just a tourist destination. She mused that the White House looked even more stately without the fanny-pack crowd wandering around its iron fence, camera phones in one hand and mangled Metro maps in the other.
Anna glanced at her watch. “Crap!” Her focus snapped back to her planned route to class. Tension built in her legs, and as it released, she pushed off, sprinting as fast as she could.
* * *
Alistair was anything but ordinary. At a cursory glance, the uninitiated might mistake him for just another senior lawyer or high-powered professional in a generic expensive suit, swimming through the halls of Washington’s power elite. But such an assumption would be incredibly wrong. Evidence of his true stature lay in the fact that it didn’t matter he was running late to an event filled with foreign ambassadors and other DC power players. He could be late for anything. Captains of industry, market makers, heads of state, and even royalty would make allowances for the head of the Fairbanks family.
This deference wasn’t because his family was simply rich or powerful. After all, there were thousands of rich and powerful families in the world. It was because, in the overworld—which so many of the global elite aspired to join—his family had been kingmakers, both figuratively and, in some cases, literally, in every major field of human endeavor for over a century.
In a media-obsessed world saturated with people seeking fame, the Fairbanks family’s near-allergic avoidance of attention and celebrity was a key element of their mystique. Of course, occasional publicity might arise from any of the various entities in the Fairbanks empire. There was also the rare interview in the right publication. And by “right publication,” it meant one in which the family held a major or majority stake. However, you would never see a Fairbanks on the cover of a tabloid, starring in a reality show, or preening on social media.
From the day they were born—and some in the know even joked it started before conception—the children of the Fairbanks clan were instructed in their roles and responsibilities. The first lesson drilled into them was that power—real power—meant more than notoriety. In fact, notoriety could be, and often was, antithetical to power. Maintaining this power was vital to the family’s continued success, and that mattered above all. In his current role, Alistair oversaw the health and growth of that empire, and he was very good at his job.
As the armored SUV carrying him weaved through the few remaining vehicles on the road—mostly empty taxis and rideshares at this hour—Alistair sat quietly in the plush black leather seats, reviewing his talking points for tonight’s reception. Though he loathed these types of events, preferring the solitude of his estates and private meetings to the farce of the Washington social scene, tonight served a greater purpose.
This minor inconvenience would ensure the approval of the EU board of regulators for the merger between the two largest Fairbanks-owned European biotechnology firms. Despite the headlines in the Wall Street Journal and Financial Times, the decision was never in doubt. Alistair’s appearance at the German embassy gala would secure the desired outcome. His payment for the regulatory accommodation was granting the German government five minutes of his time on the sidelines of the event. It would be a fair trade. This merger was projected to generate an additional five billion dollars in the first half of next year for the Fairbanks family. If the estimates held, it would be a hundred billion more over the next decade, in cost savings and increased revenues. There would also be the inevitable boost to the market capitalization of the newly merged entity.
A chime from the onboard video link interrupted Alistair’s reading. He might have been annoyed had he been busy. Even at twelve years old, he could have handled tonight’s gathering of the self-important movers and shakers of Washington. He reached down to the armrest and tapped the control panel, which activated the large screen separating him from the driver. After a moment, the rotating three-dimensional Fairbanks corporate logo on the screen was replaced by the face of Alistair’s dutiful assistant.
Alistair didn’t bother looking up from his reading materials. “What is it, Mr. Ross?” He knew that a call to the patriarch of the Fairbanks family en route to any event would only come from Jonathan Ross. Jonathan, in his early thirties, was young for his position as Alistair Fairbanks’s special assistant. He had short, dirty blond hair, brown eyes, and was always clean-shaven. His family had served the Fairbanks for generations and had never disappointed.
“I wanted to inform you, Mr. Fairbanks, that your meeting with the President has been rescheduled, as per your request. He had to rearrange a cabinet meeting and several scheduled phone calls, but they were able to accommodate you on such short notice.”
“Good. I should think it wasn’t too great an inconvenience, considering the amounts we moved into his campaign.” Alistair looked at the screen as he placed the file on the seat. “Have you heard anything from our office in India?”
“No, sir. I believe there’s a holiday celebration going on, so we likely won’t get an official word until tomorrow,” Jonathan replied, shuffling through his documents without making eye contact.
“Not good enough! I want you on the phone to Lok Kalyan Marg tonight for a firm commitment from the Prime Minister on the new research facility. If he can’t provide one, tell him I might have to look elsewhere, maybe within the opposition parties this time.” Alistair reached for the crystal glass of water sitting next to him.
Shifting nervously from his papers to the computer at his side, Jonathan stammered, “Sir, it’s almost morning there. Should we…” He cut himself off, realizing his mistake of daring to think, much less suggest an alternative. “Yes, sir, I’ll take care of it immediately. Is there anything else you’ll need from me this evening?”
“No, that’s all.” Alistair tapped the control to end the call before Jonathan could say anything else. A smile formed as he marveled at the young man’s servile nature. Sometimes Jonathan’s need to please made him forget that Alistair was the only person he was not to inconvenience. A call from Jonathan on behalf of Alistair Fairbanks was not to be ignored by even the most senior members of the Fairbanks family, let alone a temporary head of state.
Alistair pressed another button on the panel, switching to one of the business news channels. He had about ten minutes before arriving and wanted to catch up on a few trivial items that passed for news, just in case the need arose at the party.
* * *
Anna nearly knocked over a street vendor and narrowly missed a group emerging from the World Bank headquarters as she rushed to Monroe Hall. Despite feeling exhausted from navigating this urban obstacle course, she still had a few minutes to spare.
She wondered if any of those she had dodged heard her hurried apologies. In Washington, no one would have been surprised if she hadn’t bothered.
Entering the building, she glanced toward the elevators but opted for the stairs. Knowing her luck, the elevators would either be slow or broken. Besides, her class was closer to the stairwell on this side of the building anyway.
As she exited the stairwell, she saw the door to her classroom closing.
“Please don’t let it be Kline,” she thought. The last thing she needed was another ten-minute lecture on punctuality.
Gathering the last of the strength in her legs, she sprinted toward the classroom, hoping to make it in time.
Cracking the door open, she looked for Kline’s signature weathered brown leather satchel, but it was nowhere to be seen. She let out a sigh of relief.
She had just missed Logan Grant, a member of her study group, entering the room. To Anna, Logan was like an unfinished puzzle—one that seemed to be missing a few pieces.
In many ways, his background was a template of federal service: college degree from somewhere, military service—including overseas deployments—and finally, the FBI. He probably had even been an Eagle Scout and captain of whatever sport he played in high school, given his athletic build. His face was always clean-shaven, and his hair cut short, even beyond the typical FBI standard.
However, he lacked the arrogance one might expect from such a background. He had a self-deprecating, goofball quality at times, and on rare occasions, his protective social mask would slip, revealing glimpses of hidden depth.
As Anna walked to her seat, she noted the various clusters of study groups and couldn’t help but smile at their composition.
Without conscious effort, the class had naturally divided itself into four groups: students who came directly to graduate school formed one, while those who worked in Washington comprised the other three.
The group of professional students often had the most innovative solutions, but the other three groups would quickly dismantle them, illustrating the stark difference between theory and practice.
The professional Washingtonians, in turn, subdivided along organizational lines. One group consisted of “Hill rats,” who spent most of their time trading gossip about various Congressional offices and trying to move to a more senior representative’s office or a better committee assignment. Those in the House were aiming for the Senate. All of them hoped to become senior political appointees or, worse yet, one of the most loathsome Washington creatures—a lobbyist.
Next were those working in the executive branch at departments dealing with domestic issues. These individuals were at places like the Department of Education or other organizations most Americans wouldn’t know existed.
Members of this group were obsessed with office politics, expanding their fiefdoms—if they were at least a GS-14—or competing over who held the highest GS position. Of course, protecting their retirements was a priority. Innovative policy and serving the public were often secondary or even tertiary concerns for most of them.
Finally, there was Anna’s group, consisting of government and contract employees working at the State Department, various intelligence organizations, Homeland Security, the DoD, and Mr. Logan Grant as the sole representative from the FBI.
They jokingly referred to themselves as the practitioners of the dark arts, though most had relatively mundane desk jobs where the greatest risk was a paper cut or a terrible stapling accident.
In Washington, the more mundane someone’s portfolio, the more likely they were to play up its importance and the pseudo-secrecy surrounding it. In contrast, those doing the most interesting work never drew attention to what they did or where they worked and tended to avoid playing the usual Washington games.
“How’s that new secretary working out for you?” Logan whispered as Anna slumped into a seat next to him.
Her curls cascaded across her face as she settled in. She took in her first full breath since passing the Old Executive Office Building. Moving her hands over her cheeks, she tried to gather her hair into what might become a ponytail with the tie from her wrist.
“Oh, great,” Anna turned to reply. “Are you sure you boys over at the Bureau don’t need an extra target on your firing range?”
She struggled as loose strands kept falling across her flushed cheeks.
“No, it’s okay. He’d probably want us to justify our use of bullets,” Logan said with a knowing smile.
Anna’s face turned red as she realized that word of the secretary’s absurd self-justification policy had already leaked out.
“How in the world do you know about that?”
She hoped it wasn’t common knowledge yet. Then again, it could be another case of the Grant Network being ahead of everyone. She had yet to figure out how a person so recently transferred to Washington had established such a wide and deep web of sources across the government. She assumed it was a military thing.
In Anna’s case, she had been working at the Department of Homeland Security for almost three years and often had no idea what was going on in her own office, let alone the Department or DC. This could also just be a function of working for DHS.
Logan reached for his laptop. “Don’t worry. It seems several people in your office were so annoyed that they sent copies of the memo all over town. I’m sure this fad policy will pass soon enough.”
“Only when he hears a new idiotic idea,” Anna said, giving up the fight with her hair.
Before Logan could reply, Dr. Kline entered the room, silencing most of the chatter.
“Welcome, everyone,” Dr. Kline said. He had the soft voice of a man who could be the poster child for old professors but the demeanor of a rabid pit bull faced with an all-you-can-eat Texas BBQ buffet.
“I suppose you’re ready to move on from the Greeks to the Romans, hmm?”
He placed his satchel in its usual spot and began rummaging inside it. A general murmur of “yes” rolled through the room.
“Good, good. Today we’ll go from the myths of Romulus and Remus to the beginning of the Republic. I do hope you did the reading.”
This time he didn’t wait for a response, quickly scribbling notes on the whiteboard. Soon, the entire class was furiously trying to keep up, in case he decided to engage in his usual practice of erasing his unintelligible scrawls as quickly as he wrote them.
* * *
Dr. Kline was in rare form. Over the next two hours, he ensured that Logan, Anna, and the rest of the class had no time to think. His entire lecture blended into one seemingly long sentence, without apparent stops or even noticeable pauses for breath.
“Thus, ended the reign of Tarquin, the seventh and final king of Rome,” Dr. Kline said, capping his marker. “As one might guess, after such terrible rule, the Roman people—or more precisely, the elites within Rome—were ready for a change, and this change...”
“Wait a minute,” a lightly Southern-accented voice interrupted from the back of the room.
All eyes turned toward Anna.
“Dr. Kline, something in this account doesn’t add up.”
“What might that be, Ms. Booth?” Dr. Kline’s voice carried a hint of surprise. “Do you have a different version of these events?” His tone suggested he was gearing up for a debate.
“No, Dr. Kline...” She quickly scanned through her notes. “It’s the story of the Cumaean Sibyl, or however you pronounce it, that doesn’t make sense to me.”
A smirk crossed his face, at odds with the raised eyebrow on his right. “What about it doesn’t make sense?”
“Well,” Anna bit her lower lip slightly, “wouldn’t Tarquin have noticed that the Sibylline scrolls he bought didn’t mention a king of Rome in the future? I mean, if I had bought three books from some old lady for the same price she asked for the original nine, I’d want to check them out.”
“What do you mean?” Dr. Kline’s smirk vanished, and his raised eyebrow furrowed. After all, a graduate-level history class was not a place for common sense, debate, or original thought.
“If I were Tarquin, I’d sit down and read them. I might notice that the time of the kings in Rome would end. That would make me want to find out who the last king was supposed to be. And if I saw a reference to myself, I’d think twice about how I treated the people of Rome. That makes sense to me...”
Anna’s voice trailed off as she noticed the other students staring back at her in disbelief.
“You bring up an interesting idea, Ms. Booth.”
Anna’s posture straightened for a moment, but only for a moment.
“However, isn’t it equally plausible that reading he would be the last king might have caused him to act the way he did, which in turn led to his ouster?”
“I guess it could...” Anna began sinking back into her chair, bracing for the fallout from her ill-timed question.
“You guess? Ms. Booth, this is history. If you wish to guess about things, I would recommend a philosophy or perhaps a theoretical physics class, where your amateurish efforts at analysis might be more appropriately utilized.”
Anna’s instinctive reaction to his condescending tone surged forward before her common sense could stop it.
“Excuse me, professor, but myths about crazed women burning books about the future, which the buyer can’t use to save his skin, seem likely to contain fewer facts than your average philosophy course.”
“Well, Ms. Booth—” Dr. Kline’s voice became calm and measured. “Since this story seems to have sparked such passion for academic exploration within you, I have a special assignment. Just for you.”
With that, Anna knew she had crossed a line.
“In two weeks, you will present to the class a fifty-page, single-spaced analytical study of the account of the Sibylline prophecies, comparing it with the myth of Cassandra. Is that a fair opportunity for you to explore what you would do in Tarquin’s place?”
The faint buzzing of the few remaining fluorescent lights in the room became the only noticeable sound.
“Now,” Dr. Kline continued, addressing the whole class, “if that is all the speculation we have for this week— I would remind you that next week’s reading covers the entire Republican period up to the reign of Augustus. It’s extensive, so I’d recommend starting early rather than leaving it for the night before. I’ll see you all next week.”
Dr. Kline began packing his satchel as the classroom emptied. Without looking up, he addressed Anna as she passed by.
“Oh, and Ms. Booth— I want a research outline of your special assignment on my desk by next week. For my approval.”
“Of course, Professor.”
Her better angels kept her from adding, ‘and I know just where to stick it,’ which would have felt good to say, at least for her, but wouldn’t have helped.
* * *
“Nice job, Anna. Really smooth,” Logan’s voice came from behind as she entered the hallway. “Taking on someone with Kline’s reputation—or more importantly, his ego. What in the world were you thinking?”
“I guess I wasn’t! Okay?” Anna snapped, rummaging through her bag to channel her nervous energy.
Logan moved away from the wall near the door and fell in step beside her. “Well, I guess this confirms what they say about DHS analysts.”
“Listen,” she lowered her voice. “I’m not in the mood for salt in the wound. If you don’t mind, Logan...” She continued the futile search through her bag.
Logan had a knack for sensing vulnerabilities and an instinct to press them. It made him an effective interrogator, but combined with his sometimes-dry sense of humor, it could be counterproductive in social settings.
“Sorry. Let me make it up to you.”
Anna finally stopped fidgeting with her bag and looked up at him. “And how do you plan to do that?”
“I don’t know. How about some coffee?”
Anna smirked, then turned and headed towards the stairway.
Logan watched her walk away, confused, before rushing to catch up. “Okay, okay. How about I walk you to the Metro? What better security could you ask for than an FBI escort?”
She paused at the stairwell entrance. Without turning, she said, “Okay. Deal.”
“Great. I think Foggy Bottom is the closest, but—” Logan adjusted the bag on his shoulder.
“Sorry, I take the Red Line. So, Farragut North.”
“Alright. How about we go this way?” He motioned in the opposite direction of the stairs. “It’ll be quicker if we cut through the yard.”
Anna glanced up at him as he pointed towards the elevators with a smile. She had to admit, the enigma of Logan Grant intrigued her.
“On the way, why don’t you explain why you seem so plugged into this town?”