Page 90 of False Flag

Staci nodded. “Finally having to pay reparations is strong motive to change history.” She let out a slow breath. “This also explains why my internet access on the island has been locked up and Osborne’s tech team has been less than helpful.”

“Freya shared the recording you sent her yesterday,” Brie said. “I’m sorry you had to put up with that.”

That perked Jake’s attention. Recording? What happened with Osborne’s tech team?

Staci shrugged. “Freya and I worked out a plan for how to deal with them. But until that happens, the only working email I have on the island is my Lost Civ address.” She turned to Jake and gave him a sad smile. “I knew going in that Osborne’s name was probably toxic to Indigenous groups on both sides of the border. I even had an argument with Lloyd about how I couldn’t use that address to contact First Nations groups for the documentary.”

Brie tapped the USB drive on the table. “On here is a list of First Nations elders Bastian reached out to on your behalf. There’s shockingly little written history of Letora Island, but the oral history should run deep. I can guarantee no one will be willing to go on the record—nothing in writing at all—so no email communication, and they won’t go near Letora.”

Staci nodded. “If you can set it up, I’ll do what I can to make sure their voices are included in the report.”

“If you aren’t able to follow up,” Brie said, “I can do it for you. Let Osborne think his ploy to hamper your research worked. In the meantime, I’m your new assistant.”

“Brie, that would be amazing. And I can use the boat to leave the island for updates.”

“That was the goal in providing a secure boat,” Bastian said. “To make sure you can access the information you need. This work is long overdue.”

“What do we say to Gerard about this?” Jake asked. “He’s going to wonder where your information is coming from.”

“I’ll tell him a version of the truth—that while we were in Victoria, I followed up with historians, archaeologists, and Indigenous groups I couldn’t reach from Letora.” She glanced around the galley. “The bigger question is, how do we explain this boat?”

“I’ll tell Gerard it’s on loan from one of my dad’s fishing buddies, who is a Kalahwamish tribal member. He knows Lloyd and I grew up on Puget Sound.”

“Tell him Lou Warren is your dad’s friend,” Bastian said. “Lou’s the right age—hell, he probably did know your dad—and he works in our fisheries department. I’ll tell Lou to back you up if he’s contacted. He hates Campbell with a passion. His office is the one that handles treaty rights inquiries—people trying to prevent tribal members from accessing usual and accustomed fishing areas—and invariably, the excuse they cite is Campbell’s assertion that white people were here before the tribes.”

The casual use of Campbell’s disinformation continued to surprise him. He knew better by now, but he’d been a vaguely entertained listener who never really took the guy’s words to heart. He hadn’t examined what they really meant, nor had he considered there could be an agenda behind them. He certainly hadn’t considered how other people would use Campbell’s words to refuse to honor treaty rights.

It had been a fun thought exercise. A way to reconnect with Lloyd.

But Jake had grown up on tribal land, and his father had supported a family of four with fishing. Jake knew better than most how important fishing rights and laws were. He should have recognized the intentional harm of Gerard’s invented mythology. Should have known there were always people ready to exploit an idea for personal gain.

Now that he finally saw it, he was, frankly, embarrassed.

He should have examined it. Should have considered the meaning. As a casual listener, he could—and would—cut himself some slack. It was marketed as entertainment, and he’d been entertained. But as a man who knew several archaeologists and given that his brother had signed on to the expedition to prove the theories, he should have looked at the evidence.

He’d sat at a table with Gerard and listened to him accuse archaeologists as a whole of being part of a massive cover-up and conspiracy. Surely, he should have asked Diana—an archaeologist he’d gotten to know in the last year—at the very least.

But he hadn’t, and the reason was mortifying. He’d feared she’d deny Gerard’s words, and she would be the liar.

He would never confess that thought to a soul. No. It was his shame to sit in and process. That he would have trusted a man without a PhD in archaeology over a woman with one for no better reason than that the man had charisma. A following.

He said he was a leader. A thinker. A scholar. And Jake had accepted his words as fact.

Staci didn’t have her PhD, but she had clearly studied Gerard’s theories with more attention to understanding and proving or disproving their merit than even Gerard had.

Lloyd had been taken in by a con man. And now he was dead. Why? Had Lloyd somehow been a threat to Gerard’s con?

“Staci, what do you know about the maps Lloyd was making for Gerard? Was there anything…there?”

“I don’t think so.” She gave him an apologetic look.

He nodded encouragingly. “Say it.”

“He had a bloated ego over being ‘self-trained,’ when in reality, he didn’t know how to read the data. Osborne gave him access to satellite data that’s probably top secret. Certainly highly restricted, and Lloyd saw every fault and fissure as proof of the existence of Mu. And it’s worth pointing out he was looking at the fricking Ring of Fire.”

“Lord,” Brie said.

“Yeah. It was…a lot. I had the sense that Gerard hired me to rein him in. Point him in the right direction. But I’m no expert in satellite data—archaeologists who use it take years to develop their interpretive skills—and my job isn’t to find Gerard’s proof, but to vet it.”