Sidney Sheldon (1991) - " THE DOOMSDAY CONSPIRACY "

THE DOOMSDAY CONSPIRACY
Book by Sidney Sheldon

WILLIAM MORROW AND COMPANY, INC. NEW YORK

Copyright 1991 by Sheldon Literary Trust

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Library of Congress Cataloging.in.Publication Data
Sheldon, Sidney.
The doomsday conspiracy by Sidney Sheldon.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-688-08489-3
I. Title.
PS3569.H3927D66 1991
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

This is for Jerry Davis Acknowledgment
I wish to express my appreciation to James J. Hurtak,
Ph.D., and his
wife, Desiree, for making available to me their invaluable
technical
expertise.

May you live in interesting times.
-ancient Chinese curse
Uetendort, Switzerland
Sunday, October 14, 1500 Hours

The witnesses standing at the edge of the field were
staring in horrified silence, too stunned to speak. The scene that
lay before them was grotesque, a primeval nightmare dredged up from some
deep, dark depths of primitive man's collective unconscious. Each
witness had a different reaction. One fainted. A second one vomited.
A woman was shaking uncontrollably. Another one thought: I'm going to
have a heart attack! The elderly priest clutched his beads and crossed
himself.
Help me, Father. Help us all. Protect us against this
evil incarnate.
We have finally seen the face of Satan. It is the end of
the world'.
Judgment Day has come. Armageddon is here. -..
Armageddon ...
Armageddon...
Sunday, October 14, 2100 Hours
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR COMSEC EYES ONLY
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
MESSAGE: ACTIVATE
NOTIFY NORAD CIRVIS, GEPAN DIS GHG VSAF, INS.
END OF MESSAGE
Sunday, October 14, 2115 Hours
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NAVAL INTELLIGENCE 17TH DISTRICT
EYES ONLY
SUBJECT: COMMANDER ROBERT BELLAMY
ARRANGE TEMPORARY TRANSFER THIS AGENCY, EFFECTIVE
IMMEDIATELY.
YOUR CONCURRENCE IN THE ABOVE IS ASSUMED.
END OF MESSAGE
Day One Monday, October 15
Bellamy was back in the crowded hospital ward at Cu Chi
Base in Vietnam
and Susan was leaning over his bed, lovely in her crisp
white nurse's
uniform, whispering, "Wake up, sailor. You don't want to
die."
And when he heard the magic of her voice, he could almost
forget his
pain. She was murmuring something else in his ear, but a
loud bell was
ringing, and he could not hear her clearly. He reached up
to pull her
closer, and his hands clutched empty air.
It was the sound of the telephone that fully awoke Robert
Bellamy.
He opened his eyes reluctantly, not wanting to let go of
the dream.
The telephone at his bedside was insistent. He looked at
the clock.
Four A.M. He snatched up the instrument, angry at having
his dream
interrupted.
"Do you know what the hell time it is?"
"Commander Bellamy?" A deep, male voice.
"Yes"
"I have a message for you, Commander. You are ordered to
report to
General Hilliard at National Security Agency headquarters
at Fort Meade
at oh six hundred this morning. Is the message
understood, Commander?"
"Yes." And no. Mostly no.
Commander Robert Bellamy slowly replaced the receiver,
puzzled. What the
devil could the NSA want with him? He was assigned to
ONI, the Office
of Naval Intelligence. And what could be urgent enough to
call for a
meeting at six o'clock in the morning?
He lay down again and closed his eyes, trying to recapture
the dream. It
had been so real.
He knew, of course, what had triggered it. Susan had
telephoned the
evening before.
"Robert..."
The sound of her voice did to him what it always did.
He took a shaky breath. "Hello, Susan."
"Are you all right, Robert?"
"Sure. Fantastic. How's Moneybags?"
"Please, don't."
"All right. How's Monte Banks?"
He could not bring himself to say "your husband." He was
her husband.
"He's fine. I just wanted to tell you that we're going to
be away for a
little while. I didn't want you to worry."
That was so like her, so Susan. He fought to keep his
voice steady.
"Where are you going this time?"
"We're flying to Brazil." On Moneybags's private 727.
"Monte has some
business interests there."
"Really? I thought he owned the country."
"Stop it, Robert. Please."
"Sorry."
There was a pause. "I wish you sounded better."
"If you were here, I would."
"I want you to find someone wonderful and be happy."
"I did find someone wonderful, Susan."
The damned lump in his throat made it difficult for him to
speak.
"And do you know what happened? I lost her."
"If you're going to do this, I won't call you again."
He was filled with sudden panic.
"Don't say that. Please." She was his lifeline. He
could not bear the
thought of never speaking to her again.
He tried to sound cheerful. "I'm going to go out and find
some luscious
blonde and screw us both to death."
"I want you to find someone."
"I promise."
"I'm concerned about you, darling."
"No need. I'm really fine." He almost gagged on his lie.
If she only
knew the truth. But it was nothing he could bring himself
to discuss
with anyone. Especially Susan. He could not bear the
thought of her
pity.
"I'll telephone you from Brazil," Susan said. There was a
long silence.
They could not let go of each other because there was too
much to say,
too many things that were better left unsaid, that had to
be left
unsaid.
"I have to go now, Robert."
"Susan?"
"Yes?"
"I love you, baby. I always will."
"I know. I love you too, Robert."
And that was the bittersweet irony of it. They still
loved each other
so much.
You two have the perfect marriage, all their friends used
to say.
What had gone wrong?
Commander Robert Bellamy got out of bed and walked through
the silent
living room in his bare feet. The room screamed out
Susan's absence.
There were dozens of photographs of Susan and himself
scattered around,
frozen moments in time. The two of them fishing in the
Highlands of
Scotland, standing in front of a Buddha near a That hlong,
riding a
carriage in the rain through the Borghese gardens in Rome.
And in each
picture, they were smiling and hugging, two people wildly
in love.
He went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.
The kitchen clock read 4:15 A.M. He hesitated a moment,
then dialed a
number. There were six rings, and finally he heard
Admiral Whittaker's
voice at the other end of the line.
"Hello."
"Admiral"
"Yes?"
"It's Robert. I'm terribly sorry to wake you, sir. I
just had a rather
strange phone call from the National Security Agency."
"The NSA? What did they want?"
"I don't know. I've been ordered to report to General
Hilliard at oh
six hundred."
There was a thoughtful silence.
"Perhaps you're being transferred there."
"I can't be. It doesn't make sense. Why would they?"
"It's obviously something urgent, Robert. Why don't you
give me a call
after the meeting?"
"I will. Thank you."
The connection was broken. I shouldn't have bothered the
old man,
Robert thought.
The admiral had retired as head of Naval Intelligence two
years earlier.
Forced to retire, was more like it. The rumor was that as
a sop, the
Navy had given him a little office somewhere and put him
to work
counting barnacles on the mothball fleet, or some such
shit. The
admiral would have no idea about current intelligence
activities. But
he was Robert's mentor. He was closer to Robert than
anyone in the
world, except, of course, Susan. And Robert had needed to
talk to
someone. With Susan gone, he felt as though he were
living in a time
warp. He fantasized that somewhere, in another dimension
of time and
space, he and Susan were still happily married, laughing
and carefree
and loving. Or maybe not, Robert thought wearily. Maybe
I just don't
know when to let go.
The coffee was ready. It tasted bitter. He wondered
whether the beans
came from Brazil.
He carried the coffee cup into the bathroom and studied
his image in the
mirror. He was looking at a man in his early forties,
tall and lean and
physically fit with a craggy face, a strong chin, black
hair, and
intelligent, probing dark eyes. There was a long, deep
scar on his
chest, a souvenir from the plane crash. But that was
yesterday. That
was Susan. This was today. Without Susan.
He shaved and showered and walked over to his clothes
closet. What do I
wear, he wondered, Navy uniform or civilian clothes? And
on the other
hand, who gives a damn?
He put on a charcoal gray suit, a white shirt, and a gray
silk tie. He
knew very little about the National Security Agency, only
that the
Puzzle Palace, as it was nicknamed, superseded all other
American
intelligence agencies and was the most secretive of them
all. What do
they want with me? I'll soon find out.
The National Security Agency is hidden discreetly away on
eighty-two
rambling acres at Fort Meade, Maryland, in two buildings
that together
are twice the size of the CIA complex in Langley,
Virginia.
The agency, created to give technical support to protect
United States
communications and acquire worldwide electronic
intelligence data,
employs thousands of people, and so much information is
generated by its
operations that it shreds more than forty tons of
documents every day.
It was still dark when Commander Robert Bellamy arrived at
the first
gate. He drove up to an eight-foot-high Cyclone fence
with a topping of
barbed wire. There was a sentry booth there, manned by
two armed
guards. One of them stayed in the booth watching as the
other
approached the car.
"Can I help you?"
"Commander Bellamy to see General Hilliard."
"May I see your identification, Commander?"
Robert Bellamy pulled out his wallet and removed his 17th
District Naval
Intelligence ID card.
The guard studied it carefully and returned it.
"Thank you, Commander."
He nodded to the guard in the booth, and the gate swung
open. The guard
inside picked up a telephone.
"Commander Bellamy is on his way."
A minute later, Robert Bellamy drove up to a closed,
electrified gate.
An armed guard approached the car.
"Commander Bellamy?"
"Yes."
"May I see your identification, please?"
He started to protest and then he thought, What the hell.
It's their
zoo. He took out his wallet again and showed his
identification to the
guard.
"Thank you, Commander." The guard gave some invisible
sign, and the
gate opened.
As Robert Bellamy drove ahead, he saw a third Cyclone
fence ahead of
him. My God, he thought, I'm in the Land of Oz.
Another uniformed guard walked up to the car. As Robert
Bellamy reached
for his wallet, the guard looked at the license plate and
said* "Please
drive straight ahead to the administration building,
Commander. There
will be someone there to meet you."
"Thank you."
The gate swung open, and Robert followed the driveway up
to an enormous
white building. A man in civilian clothes was standing
outside waiting,
shivering in the chill October air.
"You can leave your car right there, Commander," he called
out. "We'll
take care of it."
Robert Bellamy left the keys in his car and stepped out.
The man
greeting him appeared to be in his thirties, tall, thin,
and sallow. He
looked as though he had not seen the sun in years.
"I'm Harriso_ Keller. I'll escort you to General
Hilliard's office."
They walked into a large high-ceilinged entrance hall. A
man in
civilian clothes was seated behind a desk.
"Commander Bellamy-"
Robert Bellamy swung around. He heard the click of a
camera.
"Thank you, sir."
Robert Bellamy turned to Keller.
"What-?"
"This will take only a minute," Harrison Keller assured
him.
Sixty seconds later, Robert Bellamy was handed a blue and
white
identification badge with his photograph on it.
"Please wear this at all times while you're in the
building, Commander."
"Right."
They started walking down a long, white corridor. Robert
Bellamy
noticed security cameras mounted at twenty-foot intervals
on both sides
of the hall.
"How big is this building?"
"just over two million square feet, Commander." '~at?"
"Yes. This corridor is the longest corridor in the
world-nine hundred
and eighty feet. We're completely self-contained here.
We have a
shopping center, cafeteria, post exchange, eight snack
bars, a hospital,
complete with an operating room, a dentist's office, a
branch of the
State Bank of Laurel, a dry-cleaning shop, a shoe shop, a
barbershop,
and a few other odds and ends."
It's a home away from home, Robert thought. He found it
oddly
depressing.
They passed an enormous open area filled with a vast sea
of computers.
Robert stopped in amazement.
"Impressive, isn't it? That's just one of our computer
rooms. The
complex contains three billion dollars' worth of decoding
machines and
computers."
"How many people work in this place?"
"About sixteen thousand."
So what the hell do they need me for? Robert Bellamy
wondered.
He was led into a private elevator that Keller operated
with a key.
They went up one floor and started on another trek down a
long corridor
until they reached a suite of offices at the end of the
hall.
"Right in here, Commander." They entered a large
reception office with
four secretaries' desks. Two of the secretaries had
already arrived for
work. Harrison Keller nodded to one of them, and she
pressed a button,
and a door to the inner office clicked open.
"Go right in, please, gentlemen. The general is expecting
you."
Harrison Keller said, "This way."
Robert Bellamy followed him into the inner sanctum.
He found himself in a spacious office, the ceilings and
walls heavily
soundproofed. The room was comfortably furnished, filled
with
photographs and personal mementos. It was obvious that
the man behind
the desk spent a lot of time there.
General Mark Hilliard, deputy director of the NSA,
appeared to be in his
middle fifties, very tall, with a face carved in flint,
icy, steely
eyes, and a ramrod-straight posture. The general was
dressed in a gray
suit, white shirt, and gray tie. I guessed right, Robert
thought.
Harrison Keller said, "General Hilliard, this is Commander
Bellamy."
"Thank you for dropping by, Commander." As though it was
an invitation
to some tea party. The two men shook hands.
"Sit down. I'll bet you could do with a cup of coffee."
The man was a
mind reader.
"Yes, sir."
"Harrison?"
"No, thank you." He took a chair in the corner. A buzzer
was pressed,
the door opened, and an Oriental in a mess jacket entered
with a tray of
coffee and Danish pastry. Robert noted that he was not
wearing an
identification badge. Shame. The coffee was poured. It
smelled
wonderful.
"How do you take yours?" General Hilliard asked.
"Black, please."
The coffee tasted great. The two men were seated facing
each other in
soft leather chairs.
"The director asked that I meet with you." The director.
Edward
Sanderson. A legend in espionage circles. A brilliant,
ruthless puppet
master, credited with masterminding dozens of daring coups
all over the
world. A man seldom seen in public and whispered about in
private.
"How long have you been with the 17th District Naval
Intelligence Group,
Commander?" General Hilliard asked.
Robert played it straight.
"Fifteen years." He would have bet a month's pay that the
general could
have told him the time of day when he had joined ONI.
"Before that, I believe you commanded a naval air squadron
in Vietnam."
"Yes, sir."
"You were shot down. They didn't expect you to pull
through."
The doctor was saying, "Forget about him. He won't make
it." He had
wanted to die. The pain was unbearable.
And then Susan was leaning over him.
"Open your eyes, sailor, you don't want to die." He had
forced his eyes
open and through the haze of pain was staring at the most
beautiful
woman he had ever seen. She had a soft oval face and
thick black hair,
sparkling brown eyes and a smile like a blessing. He had
tried to
speak, but it was too much of an effort.
General Hilliard was saying something. Robert Bellamy
brought his mind
back to the present.
"I beg your pardon, General?"
"We have a problem, Commander. We need your help."
"Yes, sir?"
The general stood up and began to pace.
"What I'm about to tell you is extremely sensitive. It's
above top
secret."
"Yes, sir."
"Yesterday, in the Swiss Alps, a NATO weather balloon
crashed.
There were some experimental military objects aboard the
balloon that
are highly secret."
Robert found himself wondering where all this was leading.
"The Swiss government has removed those objects from the
balloon, but
unfortunately, it seems that there Were some witnesses to
the crash.
It is of vital importance that none of them talk to anyone
about what
they saw. It could provide valuable information to
certain other
countries. Do you follow me?"
"I think so, sir. You want me to speak to the witnesses
and warn them
not to discuss what they saw."
"Not exactly, Commander."
"Then I don't under-"
"What I want you to do is simply track down those
witnesses.
Others will talk to them about the necessity for silence."
"I see. Are the witnesses all in Switzerland?"
General Hilliard stopped in front of Robert.
"That's our problem, Commander. You see, we have no idea
where they
are.
Or who they are."
Robert thought he had missed something.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The only information we have is that the witnesses were
on a tour bus.
They happened to be passing the scene when the weather
balloon crashed
near a little village called..." He turned to Harrison
Keller.
"Uetendorf."
The general turned back to Robert.
"The passengers got off the bus for a few minutes to look
at the crash
and then continued on. When the tour ended, the
passengers dispersed."
Robert said slowly, "General Hilliard, are you saying that
there is no
record of who these people are or where they went?"
"That is correct."
"And you want me to go over and find them?"
"Exactly. You've been very highly recommended. I'm told
that you speak
half a dozen languages fluently, and you have an excellent
field record.
The director arranged to have you temporarily transferred
to the NSA."
Terrific.
"I assume I'll be working with the Swiss government on
this?"
"No, you'll be working alone."
"Alone? But-"
"We must not involve anyone else in this mission. I can't
stress enough
the importance of what was in that balloon, Commander.
Time is of the
essence. I want you to report your progress to me every
day."
The general wrote a number on a card and handed it to
Robert.
"I can be reached through this number day or night.
There's a plane
waiting to fly you to Zurich. You'll be escorted to your
apartment, so
you can pack what you need, and then you'll be taken to
the airport."
So much for "Thank you for dropping by." Robert was
tempted to ask
"Will someone feed my goldfish while I'm gone?"
but he had a feeling the answer would be "You have no
goldfish."
"In your work with ONI, Commander, I assume you've
acquired intelligence
contacts abroad?"
"Yes, sir. I have quite a few friends who could be of use
"You're not to get in touch with any of them. You are not
authorized to
make any contacts at all. The witnesses you're looking
for are
undoubtedly nationals of various countries." The general
turned to
Keller.
"Harrison-" Keller walked over to a filing cabinet in the
corner and
unlocked it. He removed a large manila envelope and
passed it to
Robert.
"There's fifty thousand dollars in here in different
European currencies
and another twenty thousand in U.S. dollars. You will
also find
several sets of false identifications that may come in
handy."
General Hilliard held out a thick, shiny black plastic
card with a white
stripe on it.
"Here's a credit card that-"
"I doubt if I'll need that, General. The cash will be
enough, and I
have an ONI credit card."
"Take it."
"Very well." Robert examined the card. It was drawn on a
bank he had
never heard of. At the bottom of the card was a telephone
number.
"There's no name on the card," Robert said.
"It's the equivalent of a blank check. It requires no
identification.
Just have them call the telephone number on the card when
you make a
purchase. It's very important that you keep it with you
at all times."
"Right."
"And Commander?"
"Sir?"
"You must find those witnesses. Every one of them. I'll
inform the
director that you have started the assignment."
The meeting was over.
Harrison Keller walked Robert to the outer office. A
uniformed marine
was seated there. He rose as the two men came in.
"This is Captain Dougherty. He'll take you to the
airport. Good luck."
"Thanks."
The two men shook hands. Keller turned and walked back
into General
Hilliard's office.
"Are you ready, Commander?" Captain Dougherty asked.
"Yes." But ready for what? He had handled difficult
intelligence
assignments in the past, but never anything as crazy as
this. He was
expected to track down an unknown number of unknown
witnesses from
unknown countries. What are the odds against that?
Robert wondered. I
feel like the White Queen in Through the Looking Glass.
"Why sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible
things before
breakfast." Well, this was all six of them.
"I have orders to take you directly to your apartment and
then to
Andrews Air Force Base," Captain Dougherty said.
"There's a plane waiting to-" Robert shook his head.
"I have to make a stop at my office first."
Dougherty hesitated.
"Very well. I'll go there with you and wait for you." It
was as if
they didn't trust him out of their sight. Because he knew
that a
weather balloon had crashed? It made no sense. He
surrendered his
badge at the reception desk and walked outside, into the
chill, breaking
dawn. His car was gone. In its place was a stretch
limousine.
"Your car will be taken care of, Commander," Captain
Dougherty informed
him.
"We'll ride in this."
There was a high-handedness about all this that Robert
found vaguely
disturbing.
"Fine," he said.
And they were on their way to Naval Intelligence. The
pale morning sun
was disappearing behind rain clouds. It was going to be a
miserable
day. In more ways than one, Robert thought.
Ottawa, Canada 2400 Hours
His code name was janus.
He was addressing twelve men in the heavily guarded room
of a military
compound.
"As you have all been informed, Operation Doomsday has
been activated.
There are a number of witnesses who must be found as
quickly and as
quietly as possible. We are not able to attempt to track
them down
through regular security channels because of the danger of
a leak."
"Who are we using?"
The Russian. Huge. Shorttempered.
"His name is Commander Robert Bellamy."
"How was he selected?"
The German. Aristocratic. Ruthless.
"The commander was chosen after a thorough computer search
of the files
of the CIA, FBI, and a half dozen other security
agencies."
"Please, may I inquire what are his qualifications?"
The Japanese. Polite. Sly.
"Commander Bellamy is an experienced field officer who
speaks six
languages fluently and has an exemplary record.
Again and again he has proved himself to be very
resourceful. He has no
living relatives."
"Is he aware of the urgency of this?"
The Englishman. Snobbish. Dangerous.
"He is. We have every expectation that he will be able to
locate all
the witnesses very quickly."
"Does he understand the purpose of his mission?"
The Frenchman. Argumentative. Stubborn.
"No."
"And when he has found the witnesses?"
The Chinese. Clever. Patient.
"He will be suitably rewarded."
The headquarters of the Office of Naval Intelligence
occupies the entire
fifth floor of the sprawling Pentagon, an enclave in the
middle of the
largest office building in the world, with seventeen miles
of corridors
and twenty-nine thousand military and civilian employees.
The interior
of the Office of Naval Intelligence reflects its seagoing
traditions.
The desks and file cabinets are either olive green, from
the World War
II era, or battleship gray, from the Vietnam era. The
walls and
ceilings are painted a buff or cream color. In the
beginning, Robert
had been put off by the Spartan decor, but he had long
since grown
accustomed to it.
Now, as he walked into the building and approached the
reception desk,
the familiar guard at the desk said, "Good morning,
Commander. May I see
your pass?"
Robert had been working here for seven years, but the
ritual never
changed. He dutifully displayed his pass.
"Thank you, Commander."
On his way to his office, Robert thought about Captain
Dougherty,
waiting for him in the parking lot at the river entrance.
Waiting to
escort him to the plane that would fly him to Switzerland
to begin an
impossible hunt.
When Robert reached his office, his secretary, Barbara,
was already
there.
"Good morning, Commander. The deputy director would like
to see you in
his office."
"He can wait. Get me Admiral Whittaker, please."
"Yes, sir."
A minute later Robert was speaking with the admiral.
"I presume you have finished your meeting, Robert?"
"A few minutes ago."
"How did it go?"
"It was-interesting. Are you free to join me for
breakfast, Admiral?"
He tried to keep his voice casual.
There was no hesitation.
"Yes. Shall we meet there?"
"Fine. I'll leave a visitors' pass for you.
"Very well. I'll see you in an hour." Robert replaced
the receiver and
thought, It's ironic that I have to leave a visitors' pass
for the
admiral. A few years ago, he was the fair-haired boy
here, in charge of
Naval Intelligence.
How must he feel? Robert buzzed his secretary on the
intercom.
"Yes, Commander?"
"I'm expecting Admiral Whittaker. Arrange a pass for
him."
"I'll take care of it right away."
It was time to report to the deputy director. Dustin
fucking Thornton.
D ustin "Dusty" Thornton, deputy director of the Office of
Naval
Intelligence, had won his fame as one of the greatest
athletes ever to
come out of Annapolis.
Thornton owed his present exalted position to a football
game. An
Army-Navy game, to be precise. Thornton, a towering
monolith of a man,
had played fullback as a senior at Annapolis in Navy's
most important
game of the year. At the beginning of the fourth quarter,
with Army
leading 13-0, two touchdowns and a conversion ahead,
destiny stepped in
and changed Dustin Thornton's life. Thornton intercepted
an Army pass,
pivoted around, and charged through the Army phalanx for a
touchdown.
Navy missed on the extra point but soon scored a field
goal. After the
ensuing kickoff, Army failed to make a first down and
punted into Navy
territory. The score stood at Army 13, Navy 9, and the
clock was
running.
When play resumed, the ball was passed to Thornton, and he
went down
under a heap of Army uniforms. It took him a long time to
get to his
feet. A doctor came running out onto the field. Thornton
angrily waved
him away. With seconds left to play, signals were called
for a lateral
pass. Thornton caught it on his own ten yard line and
took off.
He was unstoppable. He charged through the opposition
like a tank,
knocking down everyone unlucky enough to get in his way.
With two
seconds to go, Thornton crossed the goal line for the
winning touchdown,
and Navy scored its first victory against Army in four
years. That, in
itself, would have had little effect on Thornton's life.
What made the
event significant was that seated in a box reserved for
VIPs were
Willard Stone and his daughter, Eleanor. As the crowd
rose to its feet,
wildly cheering the Navy hero, Eleanor turned to her
father and said
quietly, "I want to meet him."
Eleanor Stone was a woman of large appetites. Plainfaced,
she had a
voluptuous body and an insatiable libido. Watching Dustin
Thornton
savagely plow his way down the football field, she
fantasized what he
would be like in bed. If his manhood was as big as the
rest of his
body... She was not disappointed. Six months later,
Eleanor and Dustin
Thornton were married. That was the beginning. Dustin
Thornton went to
work for his father-in-law and was inducted into an arcane
world he had
not dreamed existed.
Willard Stone, Thornton's new father-in-law, was a man of
mystery.
A billionaire with powerful political connections and a
past shrouded in
secrecy, he was a shadowy figure who pulled strings in
capitals all over
the world. He was in his late sixties, a meticulous man
whose every
movement was precise and methodical. He had razorsharp
features and
hooded eyes that revealed nothing. Willard Stone believed
in wasting
neither words nor emotions, and he was ruthless in
obtaining what he
wanted.
The rumors about him were fascinating. He was reported to
have murdered
a competitor in Malaysia and to have had a torrid affair
with the
favorite wife of an emir. He was said to have backed a
successful
revolution in Nigeria. The government had brought half a
dozen
indictments against him, but they were always mysteriously
dropped.
There were tales of bribes, and senators suborned,
business secrets
stolen, and witnesses who disappeared. Stone was an
adviser to
presidents and kings. He was raw, naked power. Among his
many
properties was a large, isolated estate in the Colorado
mountains where
every year scientists, captains of industry, and world
leaders gathered
for seminars. Armed guards kept out unwanted visitors.
Willard Stone had not only approved his daughter's
marriage, he had
encouraged it. His new son-in-law was brilliant,
ambitious, and, most
important, malleable.
Twelve years after the marriage, Stone arranged for Dustin
to be
appointed ambassador to South Korea. Several years later,
the President
appointed him ambassador to the United Nations. When
Admiral Ralph
Whittaker was suddenly ousted as acting director of ONI,
Thornton took
his place. That day Willard Stone sent for his
son-in-law.
"This is merely the beginning," Stone promised.
"I have bigger plans for you, Dustin. Great plans." And
he had
proceeded to outline them. Two years earlier, Robert had
had his first
meeting with the new acting director of ONI.
"Sit down, Commander." There was no cordiality in Dustin
Thornton's
voice.
"I see by your record that you're something of a
maverick."
What the hell does he mean? Robert wondered. He decided
to keep his
mouth shut.
Thornton looked up.
"I don't know how Admiral Whittaker ran this office when
he was in
charge, but from now on we're doing everything by the
book. I expect my
orders to be carried out to the letter. Do I make myself
clear?"
Jesus, Robert thought, what the hell are we in for here?
"Do I make myself clear, Commander?"
"Yes. You expect your orders to be carried out to the
letter." He
wondered whether he was expected to salute.
"That's all."
But it was not all.
A month later, Robert was sent to East Germany to bring in
a scientist
who wanted to defect. It was a dangerous assignment
because Stasi, the
East German secret police, had learned about the proposed
defection and
was watching the scientist closely. In spite of that,
Robert had
managed to smuggle the man across the border, to a safe
house. He was
making arrangements to bring him to Washington when he
received a call
from Dustin Thornton telling him that the situation had
changed and that
he was to drop the assignment.
"We can't just dump him here," Robert had protested.
"They'll kill him."
"That's his problem," Thornton had replied.
"Your orders are to come back home." Screw you, Robert
thought. I'm not
going to abandon him. He had called a friend of his in
M16, British
Intelligence, and explained the situation.
"If he goes back to East Germany," Robert said, "they'll
chop him.
Will you take him?"
"I'll see what can be done, old chap. Bring him along."
And the
scientist had been given haven in England.
Dustin Thornton never forgave Robert for disobeying his
instructions.
From that point on, there was open animosity between the
two men.
Thornton had discussed the incident with his
father-in-law.
"Loose cannons like Bellamy are dangerous," Willard Stone
warned.
"They're a security hazard. Men like that are expendable.
Remember
that." And Thornton had remembered.
Now, walking down the corridor toward Dustin Thornton's
office, Robert
could not help thinking about the difference between
Thornton and
Whittaker. In a job like his, trust was the sine qua non.
He did not
trust Dustin Thornton.
Thornton was seated behind his desk when Robert walked
into his office.
"You wanted to see me?"
"Yes. Sit down, Commander." Their relationship had never
reached the
"Robert" phase.
"I've been told you've been temporarily transferred to the
National
Security Agency. When you come back, I have a-"
"I'm not coming back. This is my last assignment."
"What?"
"I'm quitting."
Thinking about it later, Robert was not sure exactly what
reaction he
had expected. Some kind of scene. Dustin Thornton could
have shown
surprise, or he could have argued, or been angry, or
relieved. Instead,
he had merely looked at Robert and nodded.
"That's it then, isn't it?"
When Robert returned to his own office, he said to his
secretary, "I'm
going to be away for a while. I'll be leaving in about an
hour."
"Is there some place where you can be reached?"
Robert remembered General Hilliard's orders.
"No."
"There are some meetings you-"
"Cancel them." He looked at his watch. It was time to
meet Admiral
Whittaker.
They had breakfast in the center yard of the Pentagon at
the Ground Zero
Cafe, so named because it was once thought that the
Pentagon was where
the first nuclearbomb attack against the United States
would take place.
Robert had arranged for a corner table where they would
have a degree of
privacy. Admiral Whittaker was punctual, and as Robert
watched him
approach the table, it seemed to him that the admiral
looked older and
smaller, as though semiretirement had somehow aged and
shrunk him. He
was still a striking-looking man with strong features, a
Roman nose,
good cheekbones, and a crown of silvered hair. Robert had
served under
the admiral in Vietnam and later in the Office of Naval
Intelligence,
and he had a high regard for him. More than a high
regard, Robert
admitted to himself. Admiral Whittaker was his surrogate
father.
The admiral sat down.
"Good morning, Robert. Well, did they transfer you to the
NSA?"
Robert nodded.
"Temporarily."
The waitress arrived, and the two men studied the menu.
"I had forgotten how bad the food here was," Admiral
Whittaker said,
smiling. He looked around the room, his face reflecting
an unspoken
nostalgia. He wishes he were back here, Robert thought.
Amen.
They ordered. When the waitress was out of earshot,
Robert said,
"Admiral, General Hilliard is sending me on an urgent
three-thousand-mile trip to locate some witnesses who saw
a weather
balloon crash. I find that strange. And there's
something else that's
even stranger. 'Time is of the essence,' to quote the
general, but I've
been ordered not to use any of my intelligence contacts
abroad to help
me."
Admiral Whittaker looked puzzled.
"I suppose the general must have his reasons."
Robert said, "I can't imagine what they are." Admiral
Whittaker studied
Robert. Commander Bellamy had served under him in Vietnam
and had been
the best pilot in the squadron. The admiral's son,
Edward, had been
Robert's bombardier, and on the terrible day their plane
had been shot
down, Edward had been killed. Robert had barely survived.
The admiral
had gone to the hospital to visit him.
"He's not going to make it," the doctors had told him.
Robert, lying
there in agonizing pain, had whispered, "I'm sorry about
Edward. ... I'm
so sorry."
Admiral Whittaker had squeezed Robert's hand.
"I know you did everything you could. You've got to get
well, now.
You're going to be fine." He wanted desperately for
Robert to live. In
the admiral's mind, Robert was his son, the son who would
take Edward's
place. And Robert had pulled through.
"Robert"
"Yes, Admiral?"
"I hope your mission to Switzerland is successful."
"So do I. It's my last one."
"You're still determined to quit?"
The admiral was the only one Robert had confided in.
"I've had enough."
"Thornton?"
"It's not just him. It's me. I'm tired of interfering
with other
people's lives." I'm tired of the lies and the cheating,
and the broken
promises that were never meant to be kept. I'm tired of
manipulating
people and of being manipulated. I'm tired of the games
and the danger
and the betrayals. It's cost me everything I ever gave a
damn about.
"Do you have any idea what you're going to do?"
"I'll try to find something~useful to do with my life,
something
positive."
"What if they won't let you go?"
Robert said, "They have no choice, have they?"
The limousine was waiting at the river-entrance parking
lot.
"Are you ready, Commander?" Captain Dougherty asked.
As ready as I'll ever be, Robert thought.
"Yes." Captain Dougherty accompanied Robert to his
apartment so he
could pack. Robert had no idea how many days he would be
gone. How
long does an impossible assignment take? He packed enough
clothes for a
week and, at the last minute, put in a framed photograph
of Susan. He
stared at it for a long time and wondered if she were
enjoying herself
in Brazil. He thought, I hope not. I hope she's having a
lousy time.
And was immediately ashamed of himself.
When the limousine arrived at Andrews Air Force Base, the
plane was
waiting. It was a C20A, an Air Force jet.
Captain Dougherty held out his hand.
"Good luck, Commander."
"Thanks." I'll need it. Robert walked up the steps to
the cabin. The
crew was inside finishing the preflight check.
There was a pilot, a copilot, a navigator, and a steward,
all in Air
Force uniforms. Robert was familiar with the plane. It
was loaded with
electronic equipment. On the outside near the tail was a
high-frequency
antenna that looked like an enormous fishing pole. Inside
the cabin were
twelve red telephones on the walls and a white, unsecured
phone.
Radio transmissions were in code, and the plane's radar
was on a
military frequency. The primary color inside was air
force blue, and
the cabin was furnished with comfortable club chairs.
Robert found that he was the only passenger. The pilot
greeted him.
"Welcome aboard, Commander. If you'll put on your seat
belt, we have
clearance to take off"
Robert strapped himself in and leaned back in his seat as
the plane
taxied down the runway. A minute later, he felt the
familiar pull of
gravity as the jet screamed into the air. He had not
piloted a plane
since his crash, when he had been told he would never be
able to fly
again. Fly again, hell, Robert thought, they said I
wouldn't live. It
was a miracleNo, it was Susan. ... Vietnam. He had been
sent there
with the rank of lieutenant commander, stationed on the
aircraft carrier
Ranger as a tactics officer, responsible for training
fighter pilots and
planning attack strategy. He had led a bomber squadron of
A-6A
Intruders, and there was very little time away from the
pressures of
battle. One of the few leaves he had was in Bangkok for a
week of R and
R, and during that time he never bothered to sleep. The
city was a
Disneyland designed for the pleasure of the male animal.
He had met an
exquisite That girl his first hour in town, and she had
stayed at his
side the whole time and taught him a few That phrases. He
had found the
language soft and mellifluous.
Good morning. Arun sawasdi. Where are you from? Khun na
chak nai?
Where are you going now? Khun kamrant chain pai?
She taught him other phrases too, but she would not tell
him what they
meant, and when he said them, she giggled.
When Robert returned to the Ranger, Bangkok seemed like a
faraway dream.
The war was the reality and it was a horror. Someone
showed him one of
the leaflets the marines dropped over North Vietnam. It
read: Dear
Citizens: The U.S. Marines are fighting alongside South
Vietnamese
forces in Duc Pho in order to give the Vietnamese people a
chance to
live a free, happy life, without fear of hunger and
suffering. But many
Vietnamese have paid with their lives, and their homes
have been
destroyed because they helped the Vietcong.
The hamlets of Hai Mon, Hai Tan, 5a Binh, Ta Binh, and
many others have
been destroyed because of this. We will not hesitate to
destroy every
hamlet that helps the Vietcong, who are powerless to stop
the combined
might of the GVN and its allies. The choice is yours. If
you refuse to
let the Vietcong use your villages and hamlets as their
battlefield,
your homes and your lives will be saved.
We're saving the poor bastards, all right. Robert thought
grimly.
And all we're destroying is their country.
The aircraft carrier Ranger was equipped with all the
state-of-the-art
technology that could be crammed into it. The ship was
home base for 16
aircraft, 40 officers, and 350 enlisted men. Flight
schedules were
handed out three or four hours before the first launch of
the day.
In the mission planning section of the ship's intelligence
center, the
latest information and reconnaissance photos were given to
the
bombardiers, who then planned their flight patterns.
"Jesus, they gave us a beauty this morning," said Edward
Whittaker,
Robert's bombardier.
Edward Whittaker looked like a younger version of his
father, but he had
a completely different personality. Where the admiral was
a formidable
figure, dignified and austere, his son was down-to-earth,
warm and
friendly. He had earned his place as "just one of the
boys." The other
airmen forgave him for being the son of their commander.
He was the
best bombardier in the squadron, and he and Robert had
become fast
friends.
"Where are we heading?" Robert asked.
"For our sins, we've drawn Package Six." It was the most
dangerous
mission of all. It meant flying north to Hanoi, Haiphong,
and up the
Red River delta, where the flak was heaviest. There was a
catch-22:
They were not permitted to bomb any strategic targets if
there were
civilians nearby, and the North Vietnamese, not being
stupid,
immediately placed civilians around all their military
installations.
There was a lot of grumbling in the allied military, but
President
Lyndon Johnson, safely back in Washington, was giving the
orders.
The twelve years that United States troops fought in
Vietnam were the
longest period it has ever been at war. Robert Bellamy
had come into it
late in 1972, when the Navy was having major problems.
Their F-4
squadrons were being destroyed. In spite of the fact that
their planes
were superior to the Russian MiG's, the U.S. Navy was
losing one F-4
for every two MiG's shot down. It was an unacceptable
ratio.
Robert was summoned to the headquarters of Admiral Ralph
Whittaker.
"You sent for me, Admiral?"
"You have the reputation of being a hotshot pilot,
Commander. I need
your help."
"Yes, sir?"
"We're getting murdered by the goddamned enemy. I have
had a thorough
analysis made. There's nothing wrong with our planes-it's
the training
of the men who are flying them. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"I want you to pick a group and retrain it in maneuvers
and weapons
employment. - The new group was called Top Gun, and
before they were
through, the ratio changed from two to one to twelve to
one. For every
two F-4's lost, twenty-four MiG's were shot down. The
assignment had
taken eight weeks of intensive training, and Commander
Bellamy had
finally returned to his ship. Admiral Whittaker was there
to greet him.
"That was a damned fine job, Commander."
"Thank you, Admiral."
"Now, let's get back to work."
"I'm ready, sir."
Robert had flown thirty-four bombing missions from the
Ranger without
incident. His thirty-fifth mission was Package Six.
They .had passed Hanoi and were heading northwest toward
Phu Tho and Yen
Bai. The flak was getting increasingly heavy. Edward
Whittaker was
seated on Robert's right, staring at the radar screen,
listening to the
ominous bass tones of enemy search radars sweeping the
sky. The sky
directly ahead of them looked like the Fourth of July,
streaked with
white smoke from the light guns below, dark gray bursts
from the
fifty-five-millimeter shells, black clouds from the
hundred-millimeter
shells, and colored tracer bullets from heavy machine-gun
fire.
"We're approaching target," Edward said. His voice
through the
headphones sounded eerily far away.
"Roger."
The A-6A Intruder was flying at 450 knots, and at that
speed, even with
the drag and weight of the bomb load, it handled
remarkably well, moving
too fast for enemies to track it.
Robert reached out and turned on the master armament
switch. The dozen
500-pound bombs were now ready to be released. He was
headed straight
for the target.
A voice on his radio said, "Rome-you have a bogey at four
o'clock high."
Robert turned to look. A MiG was hurtling toward him,
coming out of the
sun. Robert banked and sent the plane into a steep dive.
The MiG was
on his tail. It loosed a missile. Robert checked his
instrument panel.
The missile was closing in rapidly. A thousand feet away
... sIx
hundred ... four hundred "Holy shit!" Edward yelled.
"What are we waiting for?"
Robert waited until the last second, then released a
stream of metal
chaff and went into a steep climbing turn, leaving the
missile to follow
the chaff and crash harmlessly into the ground below.
"Thank you, God," Edward said.
"And you, pal." Robert continued the climb and swung
behind the MiG.
The pilot started to take evasive action, but it was too
late. Robert
loosed a Sidewinder missile and watched it crawl up the
tail pipe of the
MiG and explode. An instant later, the sky was showered
with pieces of
metal.
A voice came over the intercom.
"Nice work, Romeo." The plane was over the target now.
"Here we go," Edward said. He pressed the red button that
released the
bombs and watched them tumble down toward their target.
Mission
accomplished. Robert headed the plane back toward the
carrier.
At that instant, they felt a heavy thud. The swift and
graceful bomber
suddenly became sluggish.
"We've been hit!" Edward called.
Both fire-warning lights were flashing red. The plane was
moving
erratically, out of control. A voice came over the radio.
"Romeo, this is Tiger. Do you want us to cover you?"
Robert made a split-second decision.
"No, go on to your targets. I'm going to try to make it
back to base."
The plane had slowed down and was becoming more difficult
to handle.
"Faster," Edward said nervously, "or we're going to be
late for lunch."
Robert looked at the altimeter. The needle was dropping
rapidly. He
activated his radio mike.
"Romeo to home base. We've taken a hit."
"Home base to Romeo. How bad is it?"
"I'm not sure. I think I can bring it home."
"Hold on." A moment later the voice returned.
"Your signal is 'Charlie on arrival.'" That meant they
were cleared to
land on the carrier immediately.
"Roger."
"Good luck."
The plane was starting to roll. Robert fought to correct
it, trying to
gain altitude.
"Come on, baby, you can make it." Robert's face was
tight. They were
losing too much altitude.
"What's our ETA?"
Edward looked at his chart.
"Seven minutes."
"I'm going to get you that hot lunch." Robert was nursing
the plane
along with all the skill at his command, using the
throttle and rudder
to try to keep it on a straight course. The altitude was
still dropping
alarmingly. Finally, ahead of him, Robert saw the
sparkling blue waters
of the Tonkin Gulf.
"We're home free, buddy," Robert said.
"Just a few more miles."
"Terrific. I never doubted" And out of nowhere, two MiG's
descended on
the plane with a thunderous roar. Bullets began thudding
against the
fuselage.
"Eddie!
Bail out!" He turned to look. Edward was slumped against
his seat
belt, his right side torn open, blood spattering the
cockpit.
"No!" It was a scream.
A second later, Robert felt a sudden, agonizing blow to
his chest.
His flight suit was instantly soaked in blood. The plane
started to
spiral downward. He felt himself losing consciousness.
With his last
ounce of strength, he unfastened his seat belt. He turned
to take a
final look at Edward.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. He blacked out and later had
no recollection
of how he ejected out of the plane and parachuted into the
water below.
A Mayday call had been sent out, and a Sikorsky SH-3A Sea
King
helicopter from the U.S.S. Yorktown was circling, waiting
to pick him
up. In the distance, the crew could see Chinese junks
rapidly closing
in for the kill, but they were too late.
When they loaded Robert into the helicopter, a medical
corpsman took one
look at his torn body and said, "Jesus Christ, he'll never
even make it
to the hospital." They gave Robert a shot of morphine,
wrapped pressure
bandages tightly around his chest, and flew him to the
12th Evacuation
Hospital at Cu Chi Base. The "12th Evac," which served Cu
Chi, Tay
Ninh, and Dau Tieng bases, had four hundred beds in a
dozen wards,
housed in quonset huts arranged around a U-shaped compound
connected by
covered walkways. The hospital had two intensive-care
units, one for
surgery cases, the other for burns, and each unit was
seriously
overcrowded.
When Robert was brought in, he left a bright red trail of
blood across
the hospital floor.
A harried surgeon cut the bandages from Robert's chest,
took one look,
and said wearily, "He's not going to make it. Take him in
back to cold
storage."
And the doctor moved on.
Robert, fading in and out of consciousness, heard the
doctor's voice
from a far distance. So, this is it, he thought. What a
lousy way to
die.
"You don't want to die, do you, sailor? Open your eyes.
Come on."
He opened his eyes and saw a blurred image of a white
uniform and a
woman's face. She was saying something more, but he could
not make out
the words. The ward was too noisy, filled with a
cacophony of screams
and moans of patients, and doctors yelling out orders, and
nurses
frantically running around administering to the savaged
bodies that lay
there.
Robert's memory of the next forty-eight hours was a haze
of pain and
delirium. It was only later that he learned that the
nurse, Susan Ward,
had persuaded a doctor to operate on him and had donated
her own blood
for a transfusion. Fighting to keep him alive, they had
put three IV's
into Robert's ravaged body and pumped blood through them
simultaneously.
When the operation was over, the surgeon in charge sighed.
"We've wasted our time. He's got no more than a ten
percent chance of
pulling through." But the doctor did not know Robert
Bellamy. And he
did not know Susan Ward. It seemed to Robert that
whenever he opened
his eyes, Susan was there, holding his hand, stroking his
forehead,
ministering to him, willing him to live. He was delirious
most of the
time. Susan sat quietly next to him in the dark ward in
the middle of
the lonely nights and listened to his ravings.
..... The DOD is wrong, you can't head in perpendicular
to the target
or you'll hit the river. -.. Tell them to angle the
dives a few
degrees off target heading. ... Tell them - -." he
mumbled.
Susan said soothingly, "I will."
Robert's body was soaked in perspiration. She sponged him
off.
---- . You have to remove all five of the safety pins or
the seat won't
eject. ... Check them. -.."
"All right. Go back to sleep now."
----- The shackles on the multiple ejector racks
malfunctioned.
... God only knows where the bombs landed. - Half the
time Susan could
not understand what her patient was talking about.
Susan Ward was head of the emergency operatingroom nurses.
She had come
from a small town in Idaho and had grown up with the boy
next door,
Frank Prescott, the son of the mayor. Everyone in town
assumed they
would be married one day.
Susan had a younger brother, Michael, whom she adored. On
his
eighteenth birthday, he joined the Army and was sent to
Vietnam, and
Susan wrote to him there every day. Three months after he
had enlisted,
Susan's family received a telegram, and she knew what it
contained
before they opened it.
When Frank Prescott heard the news, he rushed over.
"I'm really sorry, Susan. I liked Michael a lot." And
then he made the
mistake of saying, "Let's get married right away."
And Susan had looked at him and made a decision.
"No. I have to do something important with my life."
"For God's sake! What's more important than marrying me?"
The answer was Vietnam. Susan Ward went to nursing
school. She had
been in Vietnam for eleven months, working tirelessly,
when Commander
Robert Bellamy was wheeled in and sentenced to die.
Triage was a common
practice in emergency evacuation hospitals. The doctors
would examine
two or three patients and make summary judgments as to
which one they
would try to save. For reasons that were never truly
clear to her,
Susan had taken one look at the torn body of Robert
Bellamy and had
known that she could not let him die. Was it her brother
she was trying
to save? Or was it something else? She was exhausted and
overworked,
but instead of taking her time off, she spent every spare
moment tending
to him.
Susan had looked up her patient's record. An ace Navy
pilot and
instructor, he had earned the Naval Cross. His birthplace
was Harvey,
Illinois, a small industrial city south of Chicago. He
had enlisted in
the Navy after graduating from college and had trained at
Pensacola. He
was unmarried.
Each day, as Robert Bellamy was recuperating, walking the
thin line
between death and life, Susan whispered to him, "Come on,
sailor. I'm
waiting for you."
One night, six days after he had been brought into the
hospital, Robert
was rambling on in his delirium, when suddenly he sat
straight up in
bed, looked at Susan, and said clearly, "It's not a dream.
You're
real." Susan felt her heart give a little jump.
"Yes," she said softly. "I'm real."
"I thought I was dreaming. I thought I had gone to heaven
and God
assigned you to me."
She looked into Robert's eyes and said seriously, "I would
have killed
you if you had died."
His eyes swept the crowded ward.
"Where-where am I?"
"The 12th Evacuation Hospital at Cu Chi."
"How long have I been here?"
"Six days."
"Eddie-he-"
"I'm sorry."
"I have to tell the admiral."
She took Robert's hand and said gently, "He knows.
He's been here to visit you." Robert's eyes filled with
tears.
"I hate this goddamn war. I can't tell you how much I
hate it."
From that moment on, Robert's progress astonished the
doctors. All his
vital signs stabilized.
"We'll be shipping him out of here soon," they told Susan.
And she felt
a sharp pang.
Robert was not sure exactly when he fell in love with
Susan Ward.
Perhaps it was the moment when she was dressing his
wounds, and nearby
they heard the sounds of bombs dropping and she murmured,
"They're
playing our song."
Or perhaps it was when they told Robert he was well enough
to be
transferred to Walter Reed Hospital in Washington to
finish his
convalescence, and Susan said, "Do you think I'm going to
stay here and
let some other nurse have that great body? Oh, no. I'm
going to pull
every string I can to go with you." They were married two
weeks later.
It took Robert a year to heal completely, and Susan tended
to his every
need, night and day. He had never met anyone like her,
nor had he
dreamed that he could ever love anyone so much. He loved
her compassion
and sensitivity, her passion and vitality. He loved her
beauty and her
sense of humor.
On their first anniversary, he said to her, "You're the
most beautiful,
the most wonderful, the most caring human being in the
world. There is
no one on this earth with your warmth and wit and
intelligence."
And Susan had held him tightly and whispered in a nasal,
chorus-girl
voice, "Likewise, I'm sure."
They shared more than love. They genuinely liked and
respected each
other. All their friends envied them, and with good
reason. Whenever
they talked about a perfect marriage, it was always Robert
and Susan
they held up as an example. They were compatible in every
way, complete
soul mates. Susan was the most sensual woman Robert had
ever known, and
they were able to set each other on fire with a touch, a
word.
One evening, when they were scheduled to go to a formal
dinner party,
Robert was running late. He was in the shower when Susan
came into the
bathroom carefully made up and dressed in a lovely
strapless evening
gown.
"My God, you look sexy," Robert said.
"It's too bad we don't have more time."
"Oh, don't worry about that," Susan murmured. And a
moment later she
had stripped off her clothes and joined Robert in the
shower.
They never got to the party.
Susan sensed Robert's needs almost before he knew them,
and she saw to
it that they were attended to. And Robert was equally
attentive to her.
Susan would find love notes on her dressing-room table, or
in her shoes
when she started to get dressed. Flowers and little gifts
would be
delivered to her on Groundhog Day and President Polk's
birthday and in
celebration of the Lewis and Clark Expedition.
And the laughter that they shared. The wonderful
laughter...
* * * The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom.
"We'll be landing in Zurich in ten minutes, Commander."
Robert Bellamy's thoughts snapped back to the present, to
his
assignment. In his fifteen years with Naval Intelligence,
he had been
involved in dozens of challenging cases, but this one
promised to be the
most bizarre of them all. He was on his way to
Switzerland to find a
busload of anonymous witnesses who had disappeared into
thin air. Talk
about looking for a needle in a haystack. I don't even
know where the
haystack is. Where is Sherlock Holmes when I need him?
"Will you fasten your seat belt, please?"
The C20A was flying over dark forests, and a moment later,
skimming over
the runway etched by the landing lights of the Zurich
International
Airport. The plane taxied to the east side of the airport
and headed
for the small General Aviation building, away from the
main terminal.
There were still puddles on the tarmac from the earlier
rainstorms, but
the night sky was clear.
"Crazy weather," the pilot commented.
"Sunny here Sunday, rainy all day today, and clearing
tonight. You
don't need a watch here. What you really need is a
barometer. Can I
arrange a car for you, Commander?"
"No, thanks." From this moment on, he was completely on
his own.
Robert waited until the plane taxied away, and then
boarded a minibus to
the airport hotel, where he collapsed into a dreamless
sleep.
Day Two 0800 Hours
The next morning Robert approached a clerk behind the
Europcar desk.
"Guten Tag."
It was a reminder that he was in the German-speaking part
of
Switzerland.
"Guten Tag. Do you have a car available?"
"Yes, sir, we do. How long will you be needing it?"
Good question. An hour? A month? Maybe a year or two?
"I'm not
sure."
"Do you plan to return the car to this airport?"
"Possibly."
The clerk looked at him strangely.
"Very well. Will you fill out these papers, please?"
Robert paid for the car with the special black credit card
General
Hilliard had given him. The clerk examined it, perplexed,
then said,
"Excuse me." He disappeared into an office, and when he
returned, Robert
asked, "Any problem?"
"No, sir. None at all."
The car was a gray Opel Omega. Robert got onto the
airport highway and
headed for downtown Zurich. He enjoyed Switzerland. It
was one of the
most beautiful countries in the world. Years earlier he
had skied
there. In more recent times, he had carried out
assignments there,
liaising with Espionage Abteilung, the Swiss intelligence
agency.
During World War II, the agency had been organized into
three bureaus:
D, P, and I, covering Germany, France, and Italy,
respectively. Now its
main purpose was related to detecting undercover espionage
operations
conducted within the various UN organizations in Geneva.
Robert had
friends in Espionage Abteilung, but he remembered General
Hilliard's
words: "You're not to get in touch with any of them."
The drive into the city took twenty-five minutes. Robert
reached the
Dubendorf downtown exit ramp and headed for the Dolder
Grand Hotel.
It was exactly as he remembered it: an overgrown Swiss
chateau with
turrets, stately and imposing, surrounded by greenery and
overlooking
Lake Zurich. He parked the car and walked into the lobby.
On the left
was the reception desk.
"Guten Tag."
"Guten Tag. Haben Sie ein Zimmer fur eine Nacht?"
"Ja. Wie mochten Sie bezahlen?"
"Mit Kreditkarte." The black and white credit card that
General
Hilliard had given him. Robert asked for a map of
Switzerland and was
escorted to a comfortable room in the new wing of the
hotel. It had a
small balcony that overlooked the lake. Robert stood
there, breathing
in the crisp, autumn air, thinking about the task that lay
ahead of him.
He had nothing to go on. Not one damned thing. All the
factors to the
equation of his assignment were completely unknown. The
name of the
tour company. The number of passengers.
Their names and whereabouts.
"Are the witnesses all in Switzerland?"
"That's our problem. We have no idea where they are, or
who they are."
And it wasn't enough to find some of the witnesses.
"You must find every one of them." The only information
he had was the
place and date: Uetendorf, Sunday, October 14. He needed
a handle,
something to grab onto. If he remembered correctly,
all-day tour buses
left from only two major cities: Zurich and Geneva.
Robert opened a
desk drawer and took out the bulky Telefonbuch. I should
look under M,
for miracle, Robert thought. There were more than half a
dozen tour
companies listed: Sunshine Tours, Swisstour, Tour Service,
Touralpino,
Tourisma Reisen... He would have to check each of them.
He copied down
the addresses of all the companies and drove to the
offices of the
nearest one listed.
There were two clerks behind the counter taking care of
tourists.
When one of them was free, Robert said, "Excuse me. My
wife was on one
of your tours last Sunday, and she left her purse on the
bus. I think
she got excited because she saw the weather balloon that
crashed near
Uetendorf."
The clerk frowned.
"Es tut mir viel leid. You must be mistaken.
Our tours do not go near Uetendorf."
"Oh. Sorry." Strike one.
The next stop promised to be more fruitful.
"Do your tours go to Uetendorf?"
"Oh, ja." The clerk smiled.
"Our tours go everywhere in Switzerland. They are the
most scenic. We
have a tour to Zermatt-the Tell Special. There is also
the Glacier
Express and the Palm Express.
The Great Circle Tour leaves in fifteen-"
"Did you have a tour Sunday that stopped to watch that
weather balloon
that crashed? I know my wife was late getting back to the
hotel andThe
clerk behind the counter said indignantly, "We take great
pride in the
fact that our tours are never late. We make no
unscheduled stops."
"Then one of your buses didn't stop to look at that
weather balloon?"
"Absolutely not."
"Thank you." Strike two.
The third office Robert visited was located at
Bahnhofplatz, and the
sign outside said Sunshine Tours. Robert walked up to the
counter.
"Good afternoon. I wanted to ask you about one of your
tour buses. I
heard that a weatherbaIloon crashed near Uetendorf and
that your driver
stopped for half an hour so the passengers could look at
it."
"No, no. He only stopped for fifteen minutes. We have
very strict
schedules."
Home run!
"What was your interest in this, did you say?"
Robert pulled out one of the identification cards that had
been given
him.
"I'm a reporter," Robert said earnestly, "and I'm doing a
story for
Travel and Leisure magazine on how efficient the buses in
Switzerland
are, compared with other countries. I wonder if I might
interview your
driver?"
"That would make a very interesting article. Very
interesting, indeed.
We Swiss pride ourselves on our efficiency."
"And that pride is well deserved," Robert assured him.
"Would the name of our company be mentioned?"
"Prominently."
The clerk smiled.
"Well, then I see no harm."
"Could I speak with him now?"
"This is his day off." He wrote a name on a piece of
paper.
Robert Bellamy read it upside down. Hans Beckerman.
The clerk added an address.
"He lives in Kappel. That's a small village about forty
kilometers from
Zurich. You should be able to find him at home now."
Robert Bellamy
took the paper.
"Thank you very much.
By the way," Robert said, "just so we have all the facts
for the story,
do you have a record of how many tickets you sold for that
particular
tour?"
"Of course. We keep records of all our tours. Just a
moment." He
picked up a ledger underneath the counter and flipped a
page.
"Ah, here we are. Sunday. Hans Beckerman. There were
seven
passengers. He drove the Iveco that day, the small bus."
Seven unknown
passengers and the driver. Robert took a stab in the
dark.
"Would you happen to have the names of those passengers?"
"Sir, people come in off the street, buy their ticket, and
take the
tour. We don't ask for identification." Wonderful.
"Thank you again." Robert started toward the door. The
clerk called
out, "I hope you will send us a copy of the article."
"Absolutely," Robert said.
The first piece of the puzzle lay in the tour bus, and
Robert drove to
Talstrasse, where the buses departed, as though it might
reveal some
hidden clue. The Iveco bus was brown and silver, small
enough to
traverse the steep Alpine roads, with seats for fourteen
passengers.
Who are the seven, and where have they disappeared to?
Robert got back
in his car. He consulted his map and marked it. He took
Lavessneralle
out of the city, into the Albis, the start of the Alps,
toward the
village of Kappel. He headed south, driving past the
small hills that
surround Zurich, and began the climb into the magnificent
mountain chain
of the Alps. He drove through Adliswil and Langnau and
Hausen and
nameless hamlets with chalets and colorful
picture-postcard scenery
until almost an hour later, he came to Kappel. The little
village
consisted of a restaurant, a church, a post office, and
twelve or so
houses scattered around the hills. Robert parked the car
and walked
into the restaurant. A waitress was clearing a table near
the door.
"Entschuldigen Sie bitte, Fraulein. Welche R ichtung ist
das Haus von
Herr Beckerman?"
"Ja." She pointed down the road.
"An der Kirche rechts."
"Danke."
Robert turned right at the church and drove up to a modest
two-story
stone house with a ceramic tiled roof. He got out of the
car and walked
up to the door. He could see no bell, and knocked.
A heavyset woman with a faint mustache answered the door.
"Ja?"
"I'm sorry to bother you. Is Mr. Beckerman in?"
She eyed him suspiciously.
"What do you want with him?"
Robert gave her a winning smile.
"You must be Mrs. Beckerman."
He pulled out his reporter's identification card.
"I'm doing a magazine article on Swiss bus drivers, and
your husband was
recommended to my magazine as having one of the finest
safety records in
the country."
She brightened and said proudly, "My Hans is an excellent
driver."
"That's what everyone tells me, Mrs. Beckerman. I would
like to do an
interview with him."
"An interview with my Hans for a magazine?"
She was flustered.
"That is very exciting. Come in, please." She led Robert
into a small,
meticulously neat living room.
"Wait here, bitte.
I will get Hans."
The house had a low, beamed ceiling, dark wooden floors,
and plain
wooden furniture. There was a small stone fireplace and
lace curtains
at the windows.
Robert stood there thinking. This was not only his best
lead, it was
his only lead.
"People come in off the street, buy their ticket, and take
the tour. We
don't ask for identification. -. -,, There's no place to
go from here,
Robert thought grimly. If this doesn't work out, I can
always place an
ad: Will the seven bus passengers who saw a weather
balloon crash Sunday
please assemble in my hotel room at oh twelve hundred
tomorrow.
Breakfast will be served.
A thin, bald man appeared. His complexion was pale, and
he wore a
thick, black mustache that was startlingly out of keeping
with the rest
of his appearance.
"Good afternoon, Herr?"
"Smith. Good afternoon." Robert's voice was hearty.
"I've certainly been looking forward to meeting you, Mr.
Beckerman."
"My wife tells me you are writing a story about bus
drivers." He spoke
with a heavy German accent.
Robert smiled ingratiatingly.
"That's right. My magazine is interested in your
wonderful safety
record and-"
"Scheissdreck!" Beckerman said rudely.
"You are interested in the thing that crashed yesterday
afternoon, no?"
Robert managed to look abashed.
"As a matter of fact, yes, I am interested in discussing
that too."
"Then why do you not come out and say so? Sit down."
"Thank you." Robert took a seat on the couch. Beckerman
said, "I am
sorry I cannot offer you a drink, but we do not keep
schnapps in the
house anymore." He tapped his stomach.
"Ulcers. The doctors cannot even give me drugs to relieve
the pain. I
am allergic to all of them."
He sat down opposite Robert.
"But you did not come here to talk about my health, eh?
What is it you
wish to know?"
"I want to talk to you about the passengers who were on
your bus Sunday
when you stopped near Uetendorf at the site of the
weather-balloon
crash." Hans Beckerman was staring at him.
"Weather balloon? What weather balloon? What are you
talking about?"
"The balloon that-"
"You mean the spaceship."
It was Robert's turn to stare.
"The ... spaceship?"
"Ja, the flying saucer."
It took a moment for the words to sink in. Robert felt a
sudden chill.
"Are you telling me that you saw a flying saucer?"
"Ja. With dead bodies in it."
"Yesterday, in the Swiss Alps, a NATO weather balloon
crashed.
There were some experimental military objects aboard the
balloon that
are highly secret." Robert tried hard to sound calm.
"Mr. Beckerman, are you certain that what you saw was a
flying saucer?"
"Of course. What they call a UFO."
"And there were dead people inside?"
"Not people, no. Creatures. It is hard to describe
them." He gave a
little shiver.
"They were very small with big, strange eyes.
They were dressed in suits of a silver metallic color. It
was very
frightening."
Robert listened, his mind in a turmoil.
"Did your passengers see this?"
"Oh, ja. We all saw it. I stopped there for maybe
fifteen minutes.
They wanted me to stay longer, but the company is very
strict about
schedules."
Robert knew the question was futile before he even asked
it.
"Mr. Beckerman, would you happen to know the names of any
of your
passengers?"
"Mister, I drive a bus. The passengers buy a ticket in
Zurich, and we
take a tour southwest to Interlaken and then northwest to
Bern. They
can either get off at Bern or return to Zurich. Nobody
gives their
names."
Robert said desperately, "There's no way you can identify
any of them?"
The bus driver thought for a moment.
"Well, I can tell you there were no children on that trip.
Just men."
"Only men?"
Beckerman thought for a moment.
"No. That's not right. There was one woman too."
Terrific. That really narrows it down, Robert thought.
Next question: Why the hell did I ever agree to this
assignment?
"What you're saying, Mr. Beckerman, is that a group of
tourists boarded
your bus at Zurich, and then when the tour was over, they
simply
scattered?"
"That's right, Mr. Smith."
So there's not even a haystack.
"Do you remember anything at all about the passengers?
Anything they
said or did?"
Beckerman shook his head.
"Mister, you get so you don't pay no attention to them.
Unless they
cause some trouble. Like that German."
Robert sat very still. He asked softly, "What German?"
"Affenarsch! All the other passengers were excited about
seeing the UFO
and those dead creatures in it, but this old man kept
complaining about
how we had to hurry up to get to Bern because he had to
prepare some
lecture for the university in the morning."
A beginning.
"Do you remember anything else about him?"
"No."
"Nothing at all?"
"He was wearing a black overcoat." Great.
"Mr. Beckerman, I want to ask you for a favor. Would you
mind driving
out with me to Uetendorf?"
"It's my day off. I am busy with-"
"I'll be glad to pay you."
"Ja?"
"Two hundred marks."
"I don't-"
"I'll make it four hundred marks."
Beckerman thought for a moment.
"Why not? It's a nice day for a drive, night?"
They headed south, past Luzern and the picturesque
villages of Immensee
and Meggen. The scenery was breathtakingly beautiful, but
Robert had
other things on his mind. They passed through Engelberg,
with its
ancient Benedictine monastery, and Brunig, the pass
leading to
Interlaken. They sped past Leissigen and Faulensee, with
its lovely
blue lake dotted with white sailboats.
"How much farther is it?" Robert asked.
"Soon," Hans Beckerman promised.
They had been driving for almost an hour when they came to
Spiez.
Hans Beckerman said, "It is not far now. Just past Thun."
Robert felt
his heart beginning to beat faster. He was about to
witness something
that was far beyond imagination, alien visitors from the
stars. They
drove through the little village of Thun, and a few
minutes later, as
they neared a grove of trees across the highway, Hans
Beckerman pointed
and said, "There!"
Robert braked to a stop and pulled over to the side of the
road.
"Across the highway. Behind those trees."
Robert felt a growing sense of excitement.
"Right. Let's have a look."
A truck was speeding by. When it had passed, Robert and
Hans Beckerman
crossed the road. Robert followed the bus driver up a
small incline
into the stand of trees. The highway was completely
hidden from sight.
As they stepped into a clearing, Beckerman announced, "It
is right
there."
Lying on the ground in front of them were the torn remains
of a weather
balloon.
I'm getting too old for this, Robert thought wearily. I
was really
beginning to fall for his flying-saucer fairy tale. Hans
Beckerman was
staring at the object on the ground, a confused expression
on his face.
"Verfalschen! That is not it."
Robert sighed.
"No, it isn't, is it?"
Beckerman shook his head.
"It was here yesterday."
"Your little green men probably flew it away." Beckerman
was stubborn,
"No, no. They were both totdead."
Tot-dead. That sums up my mission pretty well. My only
lead is a crazy
old man who sees spaceships. Robert walked over to the
balloon to
examine it more closely. It was a large aluminum
envelope, fourteen
feet in diameter, with serrated edges where it had ripped
open when it
crashed to earth. All the instruments had been removed,
just as General
Hilliard had told him.
"I can't stress enough the importance of what was in that
balloon."
Robert circled the deflated balloon, his shoes squishing
in the wet
grass, looking for anything that might give him the
slightest clue.
Nothing. It was identical to a dozen other weather
balloons he had seen
over the years.
The old man still would not give up, filled with Germanic
stubbornness.
"Those alien things ... They made it look like this.
They can do anything, you know."
There's nothing more to be done here, Robert decided.
His socks had gotten wet walking through the tall grass.
He started to
turn away, then hesitated, struck by a thought. He walked
back to the
balloon.
"Lift up a corner of this, will you?"
Beckerman looked at him a moment, surprised.
"You wish me to raise it up?"
"Bitte."
Beckerman shrugged. He picked up a corner of the
lightweight material
and lifted it while Robert raised another corner. Robert
held the piece
of aluminum over his head while he walked underneath the
balloon toward
the center. His feet sank into the grass.
"It's wet under here," Robert called out.
"Of course." The Dummkopf was left unsaid.
"It rained all yesterday. The whole ground is wet."
Robert crawled out from under the balloon.
"It should be dry."
"Crazy weather," the pilot said.
"Sunny here Sunday." The day the balloon crashed.
"Rainy all day today and clearing tonight. You don't need
a watch here.
What you really need is a barometer."
"What?"
"What was the weather like when you saw the UFO?"
Beckerman thought for a moment.
"It was a nice afternoon."
"Sunny?"
"Ja. Sunny."
"But it rained all day yesterday?"
Beckerman was looking at him, puzzled.
"So?"
"So if the balloon was here all night, the ground under it
should be
dry-or damp, at the most, through osmosis. But it's
soaking wet, like
the rest of this area." Beckerman was staring.
"I don't understand. What does that mean?"
"It could mean," Robert said carefully, "that someone
placed this
balloon here yesterday after the rain started and took
away what you
saw."
Or was there some saner explanation he had not thought of?
"Who would do such a crazy thing?"
Not so crazy, Robert thought. The Swiss government could
have planted
this to deceive any curious visitors. The first stratagem
of a cover-up
is disinformation. Robert walked through the wet grass
scanning the
ground, cursing himself for being a gullible idiot. Hans
Beckerman was
watching Robert suspiciously.
"What magazine did you say you write for, mister?"
"Travel and Leisure."
Hans Beckerman brightened.
"Oh. Then I suppose you will want to take a picture of me,
like the
other fellow did."
"What?"
"That photographer who took pictures of us." Robert
froze.
"Who are you talking about?"
"That photographer fellow. The one who took pictures of
us at the
wreck. He said he would send us each a print. Some of
the passengers
had cameras, too."
Robert said slowly, "Just a moment. Are you saying that
someone took a
picture of the passengers here in front of the UFO?"
"That's what I am trying to tell you."
"And he promised to send you each a print?"
"That's right."
"Then he must have taken your names and addresses."
"Well, sure. Otherwise, how would he know where to send
them?"
Robert stood still, a feeling of euphoria sweeping over
him.
Serendipity, Robert, you lucky sonofabitch! An impossible
mission had
suddenly become a piece of cake. He was no longer looking
for seven
unknown passengers. All he had to do was find one
photographer.
"Why didn't you mention him before, Mr. Beckerman?"
"You asked me about passengers."
"You mean he wasn't a passenger?"
Hans Beckerman shook his head.
"Nein." He pointed.
"His car was stalled across the highway. A tow truck was
starting to
haul it away, and then there was this loud crash, and he
ran across the
road to see what was happening. When he saw what it was,
the fellow ran
back to his car, grabbed his cameras, and came back. Then
he asked us
all to pose in front of the saucer thing."
"Did this photographer give you his name?"
"No."
"Do you remember anything about him?"
Hans Beckerman concentrated.
"Well, he was a foreigner. American or English."
"You said a tow truck was getting ready to haul his car
away?"
"That's right."
"Do you remember which way the truck was headed?"
"North. I figured he was towing it into Bern. Thun is
closer, but on
Sunday, all the garages in Thun are closed."
Robert grinned.
"Thank you. You've been very helpful."
"You won't forget to send me your article when it's
finished?"
"No. Here's your money and an extra hundred marks for your
great help.
I'll drive you home." They walked over to the car. As
Beckerman opened
the door, he stopped and turned toward Robert.
"That was very generous of you." He took from his pocket
a small
rectangular piece of metal, the size of a cigarette
lighter, containing
a tiny white crystal.
"What's this?"
"I found it on the ground Sunday before we got back on the
bus."
Robert examined the strange object. It was as light as
paper and was
the color of sand. A rough edge at one end indicated that
it might be
part of another piece. Part of the equipment that was in
the weather
balloon? Or part of a UFO?
"Maybe it will bring you luck," said Beckerman, as he
placed the bills
Robert had given him in his wallet.
"It certainly worked for me."
He smiled broadly and got into the car. It was time to
ask himself the
hard question: Do I really believe in UFOs? He had read
many wild
newspaper stories about people who said they had been
beamed up into
spaceships and had had all kinds of weird experiences, and
he had always
attributed those reports to people who were either looking
for publicity
or who should have thrown themselves on the mercy of a
good
psychiatrist. But in the past few years, there had been
reports that
were less easy to dismiss. Reports of UFO sightings by
astronauts, Air
Force pilots, and police officials, people with
credibility, who shunned
publicity. In addition there had been the disturbing
report of the UFO
crash at Roswell, New Mexico, where the bodies of aliens
had purportedly
been discovered. The government was supposed to have
hushed that up and
removed all the evidence. In World War II, pilots had
reported strange
sightings of what they called Foo fighters, unidentified
objects that
buzzed them and then disappeared. There were stories of
towns visited
by unexplainable objects that had come speeding through
the sky. What
if there really are aliens in UFOs from another galaxy?
Robert
wondered. How would it afect our world? Would it mean
peace? War?
The end of civilization as we know it? He found himself
half hoping
that Hans Beckerman was a raving lunatic, and that what
had crashed was
really a weather balloon. He would have to find another
witness either
to verify Beckerman's story or to refute it. On the
surface, the story
seemed incredible, but yet, there was something nagging at
Robert. If
it was only a weather balloon that crashed, even if it did
carry special
equipment, why was I called into a meeting at the National
Security
Agency at six o'clock in the morning and told that it was
urgent that
all the witnesses be found quickly? Is there a cover-up?
And ifso ...
why?
Later that day, a press conference was held in Geneva in
the austere
offices of the Swiss Ministry of Internal Affairs. There
were more than
fifty reporters in the room and an overflow crowd outside
in the
corridor. There were representatives from television,
radio, and the
press from more than a dozen countries, many of them
loaded down with
microphones and television gear. They all seemed to be
speaking at
once.
"We've heard reports that it was not a weather balloon.
-.."
"Is it true that it was a flying saucer?"
"There are rumors that there were alien bodies aboard the
ship.
"Was one of the aliens alive?"
"Is the government trying to hide the truth from the
people? The press
officer raised his voice to regain control.
"Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a simple
misunderstanding.
We get calls all the time. People see satellites,
shooting stars...
Isn't it interesting that reports of UFOs are always made
anonymously?
Perhaps this caller really believed it was a UFO, but in
actuality it
was a weather balloon that fell to the ground. We have
arranged
transportation to take you to it. If you will follow me,
please Fifteen
minutes later, two busloads of reporters and television
cameras were on
their way to Uetendorf to see the remains of a
weather-balloon crash.
When they arrived, they stood in the wet grass surveying
the torn
metallic envelope. The press officer said, "This is your
mysterious
flying saucer. It was sent aloff from our air base in
Vevey. To the
best of our knowledge, ladies and gentlemen, there are no
unidentified
flying objects that our government has not been able to
explain
satisfactorily, nor to our knowledge, are there any
extraterrestrials
visiting us. It is our government's firm policy that if
we should come
across any such evidence, we would immediately make that
information
available to the public. If there are no further
questions..."
Hangar 17 at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia was locked
in complete
and rigid security. Outside, four armed marines guarded
the perimeter
of the building, and inside, three high-ranking Army
officers stayed on
alternate watches of eight hours each, guarding a sealed
room inside the
hangar. None of the officers knew what he was guarding.
Besides the scientists and doctors who were working
inside, there had
been only three visitors permitted in the sealed chamber.
The fourth visitor was just arriving. He was greeted by
Brigadier
General Paxton, the officer in charge of security.
"Welcome to our menagerie."
"I've been looking forward to this."
"You won't be disappointed. Come this way, please."
Outside the door
of the sealed room was a rack containing four white,
sterile suits that
completely covered the body.
"Would you please put one on?" the general asked.
"Certainly." Janus slipped into the suit. Only his face
was visible
through the glass mask. He put large white slippers over
his shoes, and
the general led him to the entrance of the sealed room.
The marine
guard stepped aside, and the general opened the door.
"In here."
Janus entered the chamber and looked around. In the
center of the room
was the spaceship. On white autopsy tables at the other
side lay the
bodies of the two aliens. A pathologist was performing an
autopsy on
one of them.
General Paxton directed the visitor's attention to the
spaceship.
"We're dealing here with what we believe to be a scout
ship," General
Paxton explained.
"We're sure it has some way of communicating directly with
the mother
ship."
The two men moved closer to examine the spacecraft. It
was
approximately thirty-five feet in diameter. The interior
was shaped
like a pearl, had an expandable ceiling, and contained
three couches
that resembled recliner chairs. The walls were covered
with panels
containing vibrating metal disks.
"There's a lot here we haven't been able to figure out
yet," General
Paxton admitted.
"But what we've already learned is amazing."
He pointed to an array of equipment in small panels.
"There's an integrated wide-field-of-view optical system,
what appears
to be a life-scan system, a communication system with
voice-synthesis
capability, and a navigational system that, frankly, has
us stumped. We
think it works on some kind of electromagnetic pulse."
"Any weapons aboard?"
Janus asked.
General Paxton spread out his hands in a gesture of
defeat.
"We're not sure. There's a lot of hardware here we don't
begin to
understand."
"What is its source of energy?"
"Our best guess is that it uses monoatomic hydrogen in a
closed loop so
that its waste product, water, can be continuously
recycled into
hydrogen for power. With all that perpetual energy, it
has a free ride
in interplanetary space. It may be years before we solve
all the
secrets here. And there's something else that's puzzling.
The bodies
of the two aliens were strapped into their couches. But
the
indentations in the third couch indicate that it was
occupied."
"Are you saying," Janus asked slowly, "that one may be
missing?"
"It certainly looks that way."
Janus stood there a moment frowning.
"Let's have a look at our trespassers." The two men
walked over to the
tables where the two aliens lay. Janus stood there
staring at the
strange figures.
It was incredible that things so foreign to humanity could
exist as
sentient beings. The foreheads of the aliens were larger
than he had
expected. The creatures were completely bald, with no
eyelids or
eyebrows. The eyes resembled Ping-Pong balls.
The doctor performing the autopsy looked up as the men
approached.
"It's fascinating," he said.
"A hand has been severed from one of the aliens. There's
no sign of
blood, but there are what appear to be veins that contain
a green
liquid. Most of it has drained out."
"A green liquid?" Janus asked.
"Yes." The doctor hesitated.
"We believe these creatures are a form of vegetable life."
"A thinking vegetable? Are you serious?"
"Watch this." The doctor picked up a watering can and
sprinkled water
over the arm of the alien with a missing hand. For a
moment, nothing
happened. And then suddenly, at the end of the arm, green
matter oozed
out and slowly began to form a hand.
The two men stared, shocked.
"Jesus! Are these things dead or not?"
"That's an interesting question. These two figures are
not alive, in
the human sense, but neither do they fit our definition of
death. I
would say they're dormant."
Janus was still staring at the newly formed hand.
"Many plants show various forms of intelligence."
"Intelligence?"
"Oh, yes. There are plants that disguise themselves,
protect
themselves. At this moment, we're doing some amazing
experiments on
plant life."
Janus said, "I would like to see those experiments."
"Certainly. I'll be happy to arrange it."
The huge greenhouse laboratory was in a complex of
government buildings
thirty miles outside of Washington, D.C. Hanging on the
wall was an
inscription that read: The maples and ferns are still
uncorrupt, Yet, no
doubt, when they come to consciousness, They too, will
curse and swear.
Ralph Waldo Emerson Nature, 1836
Professor Rachman, who was in charge of the complex, was
an earnest
gnome of a man, filled with enthusiasm for his profession.
"It was Charles Darwin who was the first to perceive the
ability of
plants to think. Luther Burbank followed up by
communicating with
them."
"You really believe that is possible?"
"We know it is. George Washington Carver communed with
plants, and they
gave him hundreds of new products. Carver said, 'When I
touch a flower,
I am touching Infinity. Flowers existed long before there
were human
beings on this earth, and they will continue to exist for
millions of
years after. Through the flower, I talk to Infinity...
Janus looked around the enormous greenhouse they were
standing in.
It was filled with plants and exotic flowers that
rainbowed the room.
The mixture of perfumes was overpowering.
"Everything in this room is alive," Professor Rachman
said.
"These plants can feel love, hate, pain, excitement ...
just as animals
do. Sir Jagadis Chandra Bose proved that they respond to
a tone of
voice."
"How does one prove something like that?" Janus asked.
"I will be happy to demonstrate." Rachman walked over to
a table
covered with plants. Beside the table was a polygraph
machine. Rachman
lifted one of the electrodes and attached it to a plant.
The needle on
the dial of the polygraph was at rest.
"Watch," he said.
He leaned closer to the plant and whispered, "I think you
are very
beautiful. You are more beautiful than all the other
plants here. -.."
Janus watched the needle move ever so slightly.
Suddenly, Professor Rachman screamed at the plant, "You
are ugly!
You are going to die! Do you hear me? You are going to
die!"
The needle began to quiver, then it moved sharply upward.
"My God," Janus said.
"I can't believe it."
"What you see," Rachman said, "is the equivalent of a
human being
screaming. National magazines have published articles
about these
experiments. One of the most interesting was a blind
experiment
conducted by six students. One of them, unknown to the
others, was
chosen to walk into a room with two plants, one of them
wired to a
polygraph. He completely destroyed the other plant.
Later, one by one,
the students were sent into the room to pass by the
plants. When the
innocent students walked in, the polygraph registered
nothing. But the
moment the guilty one appeared, the needle on the
polygraph shot up."
"That's incredible."
"But true. We've also learned that plants respond to
different kinds of
music."
"Different kinds?"
"Yes. They did an experiment at Temple Buell College in
Denver where
healthy flowers were put in three separate glass cases.
Acid rock was
piped into one, soft East Indian sitar music was piped
into the second,
and the third had no music. A CBS camera crew recorded
the experiment
using time-lapse photography. At the end of two weeks,
the flowers
exposed to the rock music were dead, the group with no
music was growing
normally, and the ones that heard the sitar music had
turned into
beautiful blooms, with flowers and stems reaching toward
the source of
the sound. Walter Cronkite ran the film on his news show.
If you wish
to check it, it was on October 26, 1970."
"Are you saying plants have an intelligence?"
"They breathe, and eat, and reproduce. They can feel
pain, and they can
utilize defenses against their enemies. For example,
terpenes are used
by certain plants to poison the soil around them and to
discourage
competitors. Other plants exude alkaloids to make them
unpalatable to
insects. We've proved that plants communicate with one
another by
pheromones."
"Yes. I've heard of that," Janus said.
"Some plants are meat eaters. The venus flytrap, for
example.
Certain orchids look and smell like female bees, to decoy
male bees.
Others resemble female wasps to attract the males to visit
them and pick
up pollen. Another type of orchid has an aroma like
rotting meat to
coax carrion flies in the neighborhood to come to them."
Janus was
listening to every word.
"The pink lady's-slipper has a hinged upper lip that
closes when a bee
lands, and traps it. The only escape is through a narrow
passageway out
the rear, and as the bee fights its way to freedom, it
picks up a cap of
pollen. There are five thousand flowering plants that
grow in the
Northeast, and each species has its own characteristics.
There is no
doubt about it. It's been proven over and over that
living plants have
an intelligence."
Janus was thinking: And the missing alien is at large
somewhere.
Day Three Bern, Switzerland
Wednesday, October 17
Bern was one of Robert's favorite cities. It was an
elegant town,
filled with lovely monuments and beautiful old stone
buildings dating
back to the eighteenth century. It was the capital of
Switzerland and
one of its most prosperous cities, and Robert wondered
whether the fact
that the streetcars were green had anything to do with the
color of
money. He had found that the Berners were more easygoing
than the
citizens from other parts of Switzerland. They moved more
deliberately,
spoke more slowly, and were generally calmer. He had
worked in Bern
several times in the past with the Swiss Secret Service,
operating out
of their headquarters at Waisenhausplatz. He had friends
there who
could have been helpful, but his instructions were clear.
Puzzling, but
clear.
It took fifteen phone calls for Robert to locate the
garage that towed
the photographer's car. It was a small garage located on
Fribourgstrasse, and the mechanic, Fritz Mandel, was also
the owner.
Mandel appeared to be in his late forties, with a gaunt,
acne-pitted
face, a thin body, and an enormous beer belly. He was
working down in
the pit of the grease rack when Robert arrived.
"Good afternoon," Robert called.
Mandel looked up.
"Guten Tag. What can I do for you?"
"I'm interested in a car you towed in Sunday."
"Just a minute till I finish this up."
Ten minutes later, Mandel climbed out of the pit and wiped
his oily
hands on a filthy cloth.
"You're the one who called this morning. Was there some
complaint about
that tow job?"
Mandel asked.
"I'm not responsible for-"
"No," Robert reassured him.
"Not at all. I'm conducting a survey, and I'm interested
in the driver
of the car."
"Come into the office."
The two men went into the small office, and Mandel opened
a file
cabinet.
"Last Sunday, you said?"
"That's right."
Mandel took out a card.
"Ja. That was the Arschficker who took our picture in
front of that
UFO." Robert's palms felt suddenly moist.
"You saw the UFO?"
"Ja. I almost brachte aus."
"Can you describe it?"
Mandel shuddered.
"It-it seemed alive."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I mean ... there was a kind of light around it. It kept
changing
colors. It looked blue ... then green I don't know.
It's hard to
describe. And there were these little creatures inside.
Not human,
but-" He broke off.
"How many?"
"Two."
"Were they alive?"
"They looked dead to me." He mopped his brow.
"I'm glad you believe me. I tried to tell my friends, and
they laughed
at me. Even my wife thought I had been drinking. But I
know what I
saw."
"About the car you towed - - -" Robert said.
"Ja. The Renault.
It had an oil leak, and the bearings burned out. The tow
job cost a
hundred and twenty-five francs. I charge double on
Sundays."
"Did the driver pay by check or credit card?"
"I don't take checks, and I don't take no credit cards.
He paid in cash."
"Swiss francs?"
"Pounds."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I remember I had to check the rate of exchange."
"Mr. Mandel, do you happen to have a record of the license
number of the
car?"
"Of course." Mandel said. He glanced down at the card.
"It was a rental. Avis. He rented it in Geneva."
"Would you mind giving me that license number?"
"Sure, why not?"
He wrote the number down on a piece of paper and handed it
to Robert.
"What is this all about, anyway? The UFO thing?"
"No," Robert said, in his sincerest voice. He took out
his wallet and
pulled out an identification card.
"I'm with the IAC, the International Auto Club. My
company is doing a
survey on tow trucks."
"Oh."
Robert walked out of the garage and thought dazedly, It
looks like we
have a fucking UFO with two dead aliens on our hands.
Then why had
General Hilliard lied to him when he knew Robert would
discover that it
was a flying saucer that had crashed?
There could only be one explanation, and Robert felt a
sudden, cold
chill.
The huge mothership floated noiselessly through dark
space, seemingly
motionless, traveling at twenty-two thousand miles an hour
in exact
synchronization with the orbit of the earth. The six
aliens aboard were
studying the three-dimensional field-of-view optical
screen that covered
one wall of the spaceship. On the monitor, as the planet
Earth rotated,
they watched holographic pictures of what lay below while
an electronic
spectrograph analyzed the chemical components of the
images that
appeared. The atmosphere of the land masses they overflew
was heavily
polluted. Huge factories befouled the air with thick,
black, poisonous
gases while unbiodegradable refuse was dumped into
landfills and into
the seas. The aliens looked down at the oceans, once
pristine and blue,
now black with oil and brown with scum. The coral of the
Great Barrier
Reef was turning bleach-white, and fish were dying by the
billions.
Where trees had been stripped in the Amazon rain forest,
there was a
huge, barren crater. The instruments on the spaceship
indicated that
the earth's temperature had risen since their last
exploration three
years earlier. They could see wars being waged on the
planet below,
which spewed new poisons into the atmosphere. The aliens
communicated
by mental telepathy. Nothing has changed with the
earthlings. It is a
pity. They have learned nothing. We will teach them.
Have you tried to reach the others? Yes. Something is
wrong.
There is no reply.
You must keep trying. We must find the ship.
On earth, thousands of feet below the spaceship's orbit,
Robert placed a
call from a secure phone to General Hilliard. He came on
the line
almost immediately.
"Good afternoon, Commander. Do you have anything to
report?"
Yes. I would like to report that you are a lying
sonofabitch.
"About that weather balloon, General -.- it seems to have
turned out to
be a UFO." He waited.
"Yes, I know. There were important security reasons why I
couldn't tell
you everything earlier."
Bureaucratic double-talk. There was a short silence.
General Hilliard
said, "I'm going to tell you something in the strictest
confidence,
Commander. Our government had an encounter with
extraterrestrials three
years ago. They landed at one of our NATO air bases. We
were able to
communicate with them." Robert felt his heart begin to
beat faster.
"What-what did they say?"
"That they intended to destroy us." He felt a shock go
through him.
"Destroy us?"
"Exactly. They said they were coming back to take over
this planet and
make slaves of us, and that there is nothing we can do to
prevent them.
Not yet. But we're working on ways to stop them. That's
why it's
imperative that we avoid a public panic so we can buy
time. I think you
can understand now why it's so important that the
witnesses are warned
not to discuss what they saw. If word of the Idents, as
we refer to
them, leaked out, it would be a worldwide disaster."
"You don't think it would be better to prepare people
and?"
"Commander, in 1938, a young actor named Orson Welles
broadcast a radio
play called 'War of the Worlds' about aliens invading the
earth.
Within minutes there was panic in cities all over America.
A hysterical
population tried to flee from the imaginary invaders. The
telephone
lines were jammed, the highways were clogged. People were
killed.
There was total chaos. No, we have to be prepared for the
aliens before
we go public with this. We want you to find those
witnesses for their
own protection, so we can keep this under control."
Robert found that he was perspiring.
"Yes. I-I understand."
"Good. I gather you've talked to one of the witnesses?"
"I've found two of them."
"Their names?"
"Hans Beckermanhe was the driver of the tour bus.
He lives in Kappel...."
"And the second?"
"Fritz Mandel. He owns his own garage in Bern. He was
the mechanic who
towed the car of a third witness."
"The name of that witness?"
"I don't have it yet. I'm working on it. Would you like
me to speak
with them about not discussing this UFO business with
anyone?"
"Negative. Your assignment is simply to locate the
witnesses.
After that we'll let their respective governments deal
with them. Have
you learned how many witnesses there are?"
"Yes. Seven passengers plus the driver, the mechanic, and
a passing
motorist."
"You must locate them all. Each and every one of the ten
witnesses who
saw the crash. Understood?"
"Yes, General."
Robert replaced the receiver, his mind in a whirl. UFOs
were real.
The aliens were enemies. It was a horrifying thought.
Suddenly, the uneasy feeling Robert had had earlier
returned in full
force. General Hilliard had given him this assignment,
but they had not
told him everything. What else were they holding back?
The Avis rental-car company is located at 44 Rue de
Lausanne in the
heart of Geneva. Robert stormed into the office and
approached a woman
behind the desk.
"May I help you?"
Robert slammed down the piece of paper with the license
number of the
Renault written on it.
"You rented this car out last week. I want the name of
the person who
rented it." His voice was angry.
The clerk drew back.
"I'm sorry, we are not permitted to give out that
information."
"Well, that's just too bad," Robert retorted, "because in
that case, I'm
going to have to sue your company for a great deal of
money."
"I do not understand. What is the problem?"
"I'll tell you what the problem is, lady. Last Sunday
this car ran into
mine on the highway and did a hell of a lot of damage. I
managed to get
his license number, but the man drove away before I could
stop"
"I see." The clerk studied Robert a moment.
"Excuse me, please."
She disappeared into a back room. In a few minutes when
she returned,
she was carrying a file.
"According to our records, there was a problem with the
engine of the
car, but there was no report of any accident."
"Well, I'm reporting it now. And I'm holding your company
responsible
for this. You're going to have to pay to have my car
repaired. It's a
brand-new Porsche, and it's going to cost you a fortune.
"I'm very sorry, sir, but the accident was not reported,
we cannot take
any responsibility for it."
"Look," Robert said in a more reasonable tone of voice, "I
want to be
fair. I don't want to hold your company responsible. All
I want to do
is have that man pay for the damage he did to my car. It
was a
hit-and-run. I may even have to bring the police into
this. If you
give me the man's name and address, I can talk directly to
him, and we
can settle it between us and leave your company out of it.
Is that fair
enough?"
The clerk stood there, making up her mind.
"Yes. We would much prefer that." She looked down at the
file in her
hand.
"The name of the person who rented the car is Leslie
Mothershed."
"And his address?"
"Two thirteen A Grove Road, Whitechapel, London, East
Three." She
looked up.
"You are certain our company will not be involved in any
litigation?"
"You have my word on it," Robert assured her.
"This is a private matter between Leslie Mothershed and
me."
Commander Robert Bellamy was on the next Swissair flight
to London.
He sat in the dark alone, concentrating, meticulously
going over every
phase of the plan, making certain that there were no
loopholes, that
nothing could go wrong. His thoughts were interrupted by
the soft buzz
of the telephone.
"Janus here."
"Janus. General Hilliard."
"Proceed."
"Commander Bellamy has located the first two witnesses."
"Very good. Have it attended to immediately."
"Yes, sir."
"Where is the commander now?"
"On his way to London. He should have number three
confirmed shortly."
"I will alert the committee as to his progress. Continue
to keep me
informed. The condition of this operation must remain
Nova Red."
"Understood, sir. I would suggest The line was dead.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR BUNDESANWALTSCHAFT
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
1. HANS BEcKERMANKAPPEL
2. FRITZ MANDEL-BERN
END OF MESSAGE
At midnight in a small farmhouse fifteen miles from
Uetendorf, the
Lagenfeld family was disturbed by a series of strange
events. The older
child was awakened by a shimmering yellow light shining
through his
bedroom window. When he got up to investigate, the light
had
disappeared.
In the yard, Tozzi, their German shepherd, began barking
furiously,
awakening old man Lagenfeld. Reluctantly, the farmer got
out of bed to
quiet the animal, and when he stepped outside he heard the
sound of
lrightened sheep crashing against their pen, trying to
escape. As
Lagenfeld passed the trough, which had been filled to the
brim by the
recent rainfall, he noticed that it was bone dry.
Tozzi came running to his side, whimpering. Lagenfeld
absently patted
the animal on the head.
"It's all right, boy. It's all right."
And at that moment, every light in the house went out.
When the farmer
returned to the house and picked up the telephone to call
the power
company, the phone was dead.
If the lights had remained on a moment longer, the farmer
might have
seen a strangely beautiful woman walk out of his barnyard
and into the
field beyond.
The Bun desan
Geneva 1300 Hours
The government minister seated in the inner sanctum of the
headquarters
of the Swiss intelligence agency watched the deputy
director finish
reading the message. He put the message in a folder
marked Top Secret,
placed the folder in the desk drawer, and locked the
drawer: "Hans
Beckerman und Fritz Mandel."
"Ja."
"No problem, Herr Minister. It shall be taken care of."
"Gut."
"Wann?"
"Sofort. Immediately."
The following morning on his way to work, Hans Beckerman's
ulcers were
bothering him. I should have pushed that reporter fellow
to pay me for
that thing I found on the ground. These magazines are all
rich. I
probably could have gotten a few hundred marks. Then I
could have gone
to a decent doctor and had my ulcers taken care of He was
driving past
Turler Lake, when ahead of him, at the side of the
highway, he saw a
woman waving, trying to get a lift. Beckerman slowed down
to get a
better look at her. She was young and attractive.
Hans pulled over to the side of the road. The woman
approached the car.
"Guten Tag," Beckerman said.
"Can I help you?"
She was even prettier close up.
"Danke." She had a Swiss accent.
"I had a fight with my boyfriend, and he dropped me here
in the middle
of nowhere."
"Tsk, tsk. That's terrible."
"Would you mind giving me a lift into Zurich?"
"Not at all. Get in, get in."
The hitchhiker opened the door and climbed in beside him.
"This is very kind of you," she said.
"My name is Karen."
"Hans." He started driving.
"I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come
along, Hans."
"Oh, I'm sure someone else would have picked up a pretty
woman like
you."
She moved closer to him.
"But I'll bet he wouldn't have been as good looking as
you."
He glanced over at her.
"Ja?"
"I think you are very handsome." He smiled.
"You should tell that to my wife."
"Oh, you're married." She sounded disappointed.
"Why is it all the wonderful men are married? You look
very
intelligent, too."
He sat up straighter.
"To tell you the truth, I'm sorry I ever got involved with
my
boyfriend." She shifted around in her seat, and her skirt
climbed up
her thigh. He tried not to look.
"I like older, mature men, Hans. I think they're much
more sexy than
young men." She snuggled up against him.
"Do you like sex, Hans?"
He cleared his throat.
"Do I-? Well, you know ... I'm a man.
"I can see that," she said. She stroked his thigh.
"Can I tell you something? That fight with my boyfriend
made me very
horny. Would you like me to make love to you?"
He could not believe his luck. She was a beauty, and from
what he could
see, she had a great body. He swallowed.
"I would, but I'm on my way to work and-"
"It will only take a few minutes." She smiled.
"There's a side road up ahead that leads into the woods.
Why don't we
stop there?"
He could feel himself getting excited. Strher. Wait
until I tell the
boys at the office about this! They'll never believe it.
"Sure. Why not?"
Hans turned the car off the highway and took the little
dirt road that
led into a grove where they could not be seen by passing
motorists.
She slowly ran her hand up his thigh.
"Mein Gott, you have strong legs."
"I was a runner when I was younger," Beckerman boasted.
"Let's get your trousers off." She undid his belt and
helped him slide
his pants down. He was already tumescent.
"Ach! Ein grosser!" She began to stroke him. He moaned,
"Leck which
doch am Schwanz."
"You like to be kissed down there?"
"Ja." His wife never did that for him.
"Gut. Now just relax."
Beckerman sighed and closed his eyes. Her soft hands were
caressing his
balls. He felt the sharp sting of a needle in his thigh,
and his eyes
flew open.
"Wie?"
His body stiffened, and his eyes bulged out. He was
choking, unable to
breathe. The woman watched as Beckerman slumped over the
steering
wheel. She got out of the car and slid his body into the
passenger
seat, then got behind the wheel of the car and drove back
down the dirt
road onto the highway. At the edge of the steep mountain
road, she
waited until the road was clear, then opened the door,
stepped on the
gas pedal, and as the car started to move, she jumped.
She stood there
watching the car tumble down the steep cliff. Five
minutes later, a
black limousine pulled up beside her.
"Irgendwelche Problem?"
"Keins."
Fritz Mandel was in his office ready to close the garage
when two men
approached.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm closing. I can't" One of the
men
interrupted.
"Our car is stuck down the highway.
Kaputt! We need a tow."
"My wife is waiting for me. We are having company
tonight. I can give
you the name of another-"
"It's worth two hundred dollars to us. We're in a hurry."
"Two hundred dollars?"
"Yes. And our car is in pretty bad shape. We'd like you
to do some
work on it. That would probably come to another two,
three hundred."
Mandel was becoming interested.
"Ja?"
"It's a Rolls," one of the men said.
"Let's see the kind of equipment you have here." They
walked into the
service area and stood at the edge of the pit.
"That's pretty good equipment."
"Yes, sir," Mandel said proudly.
"The very best." The stranger took out a wallet.
"Here. I can give you some money in advance." He removed
some bills
and handed them to Mandel. As he did so, the wallet
slipped out of his
hands and fell down into the pit.
"Verflucht!"
"Don't worry," Mandel said.
"I'll get it." He climbed down into the pit. As he did
so' one of the
men walked over to the control button that operated the
raised hydraulic
lift and pressed it. The lift started to descend.
Mandel looked up.
"Be careful! What are you doing?"
He started to scramble up the side. As his fingers touched
the ledge,
the second man slammed his foot down on Mandel's hand,
smashing it, and
Handel dropped back down into the pit, shrieking. The
heavy hydraulic
lift was inexorably descending on him.
"Let me out of here!" he cried.
"Hille!" The lift caught him on his shoulder and began
pressing him
down into the cement floor. A few minutes later, when the
terrible
screams had stopped, one of the men pressed the button
that raised the
lift. His companion went down into the pit and retrieved
his wallet,
careful not to get blood on his clothes. The two men
returned to their
car and drove off into the quiet night.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
ESPIONAGE ABTEILUNG TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
1. HANS BECKERMAN-TERMINATED
2. FRITZ MANDEL TERMINATED
END OF MESSAGE
Ottawa, Canada 2400 Hours
Janus was addressing the group of twelve.
"Satisfactory progress is being made. Two of the
witnesses have already
been silenced. Commander Bellamy is on the trail of a
third."
"Has there been a breakthrough yet on SDI?"
The Italian.
Impetuous. Volatile.
"Not yet, but we're confident that the Star Wars
technology will be up
and functioning very soon."
"We must do everything possible to hurry it. If it is a
question of
money" The Saudi. Enigmatic. Withdrawn.
"No. There's just a bit more testing to do."
"When is the next test taking place?"
The Australian. Hearty.
Clever.
"In one week. We will meet here again in forty-eight
hours."
Day Four-London
Thursday, October 18
Leslie Mothershed's role model was Robin Leach. An avid
viewer of
"Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous," Mothershed carefully
studied the
way Robin Leach's guests walked and talked and dressed
because he knew
that one day he would appear on that program. From the
time he was a
small boy, he had felt that he was destined to be
somebody, to be rich
and famous.
"You're very special," his mother would tell him.
"My baby is going to be known all over the world."
The young boy would go to sleep with that sentence ringing
in his ears
until he truly believed it. As Mothershed grew older, he
became aware
that he had a problem: He had no idea exactly how he was
going to become
rich and famous. For a period of time, he toyed with the
notion of
being a movie star, but he was inordinately shy. He
briefly
contemplated becoming a soccer star, but he was not
athletic. He
thought about being a famous scientist, or a great lawyer,
commanding
tremendous fees. His school grades, unfortunately, were
mediocre, and
he dropped out of school without being any closer to fame.
Life was
simply not fair. He was physically unprepossessing, thin,
with a pale,
sickly complexion, and he was short, exactly five feet
five and a half
inches. Mothershed always stressed the extra half inch.
He consoled
himself with the fact that many famous men were short:
Dudley Moore,
Dustin Hoffman, Peter Falk....
The only profession that really interested Leslie
Mothershed was
photography. Taking photographs was so ridiculously
simple. Anyone
could do it. One simply pressed a button. His mother had
bought him a
camera for his sixth birthday and had been wildly
extravagant in her
praise of the pictures he had taken. By the time he was
in his teens,
Mothershed had become convinced that he was a brilliant
photographer.
He told himself that he was every bit as good as Ansel
Adams, Richard
Avedon, or Margaret Bourke-White. With a loan from his
mother, Leslie
Mothershed set up his own photography business in his
Whitechapel flat.
"Start small," his mother told him, "but think big," and
that is exactly
what Leslie Mothershed did. He started very small and
thought very big,
but unfortunately, he had no talent for photography. He
photographed
parades and animals and flowers, and confidently sent his
pictures off
to newspapers and magazines, and they were always
returned. Mothershed
consoled himself with the thought of all the geniuses who
had been
rejected before their ability was recognized. He
considered himself a
martyr to philistinism.
And then, out of the blue, his big opportunity had come.
His mother's
cousin, who worked for the British publishing firm of
HarperCollins, had
confided to Mothershed that they were planning to
commission a
coffeetable book on Switzerland.
"They haven't selected the photographer yet, Leslie, so if
you get
yourself over to Switzerland right away and bring back
some great
pictures, the book could be yours."
Leslie Mothershed hurriedly packed up his cameras and
headed for
Switzerland. He knew-he really knew-that this was the
break he had been
looking for. At last the idiots were going to recognize
his talents.
He rented a car in Geneva and traveled around the country
taking
pictures of Swim chalets, waterfalls, and snowcapped
peaks. He
photographed sunrises and sunsets and farmers working in
the fields.
And then, in the middle of all that, fate had stepped in
and Aged his
lile. He was on his way to Bern when his motor failed.
He pulled over
to the side of the highway, ~ous. why me? Mothershed
moaned. Why do
these things always hap~ ~ me? He sat there fuming,
thinking about the
p~o~ time lost and how expensive it would be to have his
oar towed.
Fif:een kilometers behind him was the village of 'l'him.
I'll get a tow
from there, Mothershed thought. That shouldn't cost too
much. He
flagged down a passing gasoline trnc~.
"I need a tow truck," Mothershed explained.
"Could you stop at a garage in Thun and have them come and
get me?"
The truck driver shook his head.
"It's Sunday, mister.
The closest garage that's open will be in Bern."
"Bern? That's fifty kilometers from here. It will cost
me a fortune."
The truck driver grinned.
"Ja. There they get you by the Sundays." He started to
drive on.
"Wait." It was difficult to get the words out.
"I'll-I'll pay for a tow truck from Bern."
"Gut. I will have them send someone out." Leslie
Mothershed sat
cursing in his disabled car. All I needed was this, he
thought
bitterly. He had already spent much too much money on
film, and now he
would have to pay some bloody thief to tow him to a
garage.
It took almost two interminable hours for the tow truck to
arrive.
As the mechanic started to attach the cable from his truck
to the car,
there was a flash of light from across the highway,
followed by a loud
explosion, and Mothershed looked up to see what appeared
to be a bright
object falling out of the sky. The only other traffic on
the highway
was a tour bus that had pulled to a stop in back of his
car. The
passengers from the bus were hurrying toward the scene of
the crash.
Mothershed hesitated, torn between his curiosity and his
desire to move
on. He turned and followed the bus passengers across the
highway. When
he reached the scene of the accident, he stood there
transfixed. Holy
God, he thought. It's unreal. He was staring at a flying
saucer.
Leslie Mothershed had heard about flying saucers and had
read about
them, but he had never believed they existed. He gaped at
it, awed by
the eerie spectacle. The shell had ripped open, and he
could see two
bodies inside, small, with large skulls, sunken eyes, no
ears and almost
no chins, and they seemed to be wearing some kind of
silver metallic
suits.
The group from the tour bus was standing around him
staring in horrified
silence. The man next to him fainted. Another man turned
away and
vomited. An elderly priest was clutching his beads and
mumbling
incoherently.
"My God," someone said.
"It's a flying saucer!"
And that was when Mothershed had his epiphany. A miracle
had fallen
into his lap. He-Leslie Mothershed-was on the spot with
his cameras to
photograph the story of the century! There was not a
magazine or
newspaper in the world that would reject the photographs
he was about to
take. A coffee-table book about Switzerland? He almost
laughed aloud
at the idea. He was about to astonish the whole world.
All the
television talk shows would be begging from him, but he
would do Robin
Leach's show first. He would sell his photographs to the
London Times,
the Sun, the Mail, the Mirror-to all the English
newspapers, and to the
foreign papers and magazinesLe Figaro and Paris-Match,
Oggi and Per Tag.
Time and USA Today. The press everywhere would be
pleading with him for
his photographs. Japan and South America and Russia and
China and-there
was no end to it. Mothershed's heart was fluttering with
excitement. I
won't give anyone an exclusive. Each one will have to pay
me
individually. I'll start at a hundred thousand pounds a
picture, maybe
two hundred thousand. And I'll sell them over and over
again. He began
feverishly adding up the money he was going to make.
Leslie Mothershed was so busy adding up his fortune that
he almost
forgot to take the pie.
"Oh, my God! Excuse me," he said, to no one in
particular, and raced
back across the highway to get his camera equipment.
The mechanic had finished hoisting the front end of the
disabled vehicle
in the air, ready to tow it away.
"What's going on over there?"
he asked.
Mothershed was busy grabbing his camera equipment.
"Come and see for yourself."
The two men moved across the highway to the wooded area,
and Mothershed
pushed his way through the circle of tourists.
"Excuse me," he said.
"Excuse me." He adjusted the focus on his camera and
started snapping
pictures of the UFO and its eerie passengers. He took
pictures in black
and white and in color. As the shutter clicked each time,
Mothershed
thought, A million pounds ...
another million pounds ... another million pounds.
The priest was crossing himself and saying, "It's the face
of Satan."
Satan, hell, Mothershed thought exultantly. It's the face
of money.
These will be the first pictures that prove that flying
saucers really
exist.
And then, suddenly, a terrifying thought occurred to him.
What if the
magazines think these pictures are fake? There have been
a lot of faked
photographs of UFOs. His euphoria vanished. What if they
don't believe
me? And that was when Leslie Mothershed had his second
inspiration.
There were nine witnesses gathered around him. Without
knowing it, they
were about to lend authenticity to his discovery.
Mothershed turned to face the group.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he called out.
"If you would all like to have your photographs taken
here, just line up
and I'll be happy to send each of you a print, free."
There were excited exclamations. Within moments the
passengers from the
tour bus, except for the priest, were standing beside the
remains of the
UFO.
He was reluctant.
"I can't," he said.
"It's evil!" Mothershed needed the priest. He would make
the most
convincing witness of them all.
"That's just the point," Mother~he'd said persuasively.
"Don't you see? This will be your testimony about the
existence of evil
spirits."
And the priest was finally persuaded.
"Spread out a little," Mothershed ordered, "so we can see
the flying
saucer." The witnesses shifted their positions.
"That's it. Very good. Excellent. Hold still, now."
He snapped half a dozen more pictures and took out a
pencil and paper.
"If you'll write down your names and addresses, I'll see
to it that each
of you gets a print." He had no intention of sending any
prints. All he
wanted was corroborating witnesses. Let the bloody
newspapers and
magazines try to get around that!
And then, suddenly, he noticed that several people in the
group had
cameras. He couldn't allow any other photographs but his!
Only photos
that had the credit "Photograph by Leslie Mothershed"
could exist.
"Excuse me," he said to the group.
"Those of you who have cameras, if you'll pass them to me,
I'll take a
few pictures of you so that you'll have some taken with
your own
cameras." The cameras were quickly handed to Leslie
Mothershed. As he
knelt to frame the first shot, no one noticed that
Mothershed clicked
open the film compartment with his thumb and held it ajar.
There, a
little bit of nice bright sunlight will help these
photographs no end.
Too bad, my friends, but only professionals are allowed to
capture
historic moments.
Ten minutes later, Mothershed had all their names and
addresses. He took
one last look at the flying saucer and thought exultantly,
Mother was
right. I am going to be rich and famous.
He couldn't wait to return to England to develop his
precious
photographs.
"What the hell is going on?"
The police stations in the Uetendorf area had been
inundated with
telephone calls all evening.
"Someone is prowling around my house. -.."
"There are strange lights outside...."
"My livestock is going crazy. There must be wolves
around. .
"Someone drained my watering trough. -.." And the most
inexplicable
telephone call of all: "Chief, you'd better send a lot of
tow trucks out
to the main highway right away. It's a nightmare. All
traffic has
stopped."
"What? Why?"
"No one knows. The car engines just suddenly went dead."
It was a night they would never forget.
ow ~ng ~ the assignment going to take? Robert wondered,
as he strapped
himself into his first-class seat on the Swissair flight.
As the plane
rushed down the runway, its huge Rolls-Royce engines
hungrily swallowing
the night air, Robert relaxed and closed his eyes. Was it
really just a
few years ago that I took this same flight with Susan to
London? No. It
was more like a lifetime ago.
The plane touched down at Heathrow at 6:29 P.M., on
schedule.
Robert made his way out of the maze and took a taxi into
the sprawling
city. He passed a hundred familiar landmarks, and he
could hear Susan's
voice commenting excitedly on them. In those golden days,
it had never
mattered where they were. It was simply enough that they
were together.
They brought their own happiness with them, their own
special excitement
in each other. Theirs was the marriage that would have a
happy ending.
Almost.
Their problems had started innocently enough with an
overseas call from
Admiral Whittaker while Robert and Susan were traveling in
Thailand. It
had been six months since Robert had been discharged from
the Navy, and
he had not talked to the admiral in all that time. The
call, reaching
them at the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok, was a surprise.
"Robert? Admiral Whittaker."
"Admiral! It's good to hear your voice."
"It hasn't been easy tracking you down. What have you
been up to?"
"Not very much. Just taking it easy. Having a long
honeymoon."
"How is Susan? It is Susan, isn't it?"
"Yes. She's fine, thank you."
"How soon can you get back to Washington?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"It hasn't been announced yet, but I've been given a new
assignment,
Robert. They've made me deputy director of 17th District
Naval
Intelligence. I'd like you to come aboard."
Robert was taken aback.
"Naval Intelligence? Admiral, I don't know anything
about-"
"You can learn. You would be doing an important service
for your
country, Robert. Will you come and discuss it with me?"
"Well-"
"Good. I'll expect you in my office Monday at oh nine
hundred.
Say hello to Susan for me."
Robert repeated the conversation to Susan.
"Naval Intelligence?
That sounds so exciting."
"Maybe," Robert said doubtfully.
"I have no idea what's involved."
"You must find out."
He studied her for a moment.
"You want me to take it, don't you?"
She put her arms around him.
"I want you to do whatever you want to do. I think you're
ready to go
back to work. I've noticed in the last few weeks how
restless you've
become."
"I think you're trying to get rid of me," Robert teased.
"The honeymoon is over."
Susan put her lips close to his.
"Never. Did I ever tell you how crazy I am about you,
sailor? Let me
show you.
Thinking about it latertoo late-Robert decided that that
was the
beginning of the end of their marriage. The offer had
seemed wonderful
at the time, and he had gone back to Washington to meet
with Admiral
Whittaker.
"This job requires brains, courage, and initiative,
Robert. You have
all three. Our country has become a target for every
little tinhorn
dictatorship that can breed a terrorist group or build a
chemical-weapons factory. A number of these countries are
working on
atomic bombs at this moment so that they can hold us at
ransom. My job
is to build an intelligence network to find out exactly
what they're up
to and to try to stop them. I want you to help me."
In the end, Robert had accepted the job with Naval
Intelligence, and to
his surprise, he found that he enjoyed it and had an
aptitude for it.
Susan found an attractive apartment in Rosslyn, Virginia,
not far from
where Robert worked, and busied herself furnishing it.
Robert was sent
to the Farm, the CIA training ground for Secret Service
agents.
* * * Located in a heavily guarded compound in the
Virginia countryside,
the Farm occupies twenty square miles, most of it covered
in tall pine
forest, with the central buildings in a ten-acre clearing
two miles from
the front gate. Dirt roads branch off through the woods,
with locked
swinging barricades, and No Entry signs posted. At a
small airfield,
unmarked aircraft arrive and depart several times a day.
The Farm has a
deceptively bucolic setting, with leafy trees, deer
running in the
fields, and small buildings innocently scattered around
the extensive
grounds. Inside the compound, however, it is a different
world.
Robert had expected to train with other Navy personnel,
but to his
surprise, the students were a mixture of CIA inductees,
marines, and
Army, Navy, and Air Force personnel. Each student was
assigned a number
and housed in a dormitorylike room in one of several
Spartan two-story
brick buildings. At the Bachelor Officer Quarters, where
Robert stayed,
each man had his own room, and shared the bathroom with
another. The
mess hall was across the road from the BOQ cluster.
On the day Robert arrived, he was escorted to an
auditorium with thirty
other newcomers. A tall, powerfully built black colonel
in Air Force
uniform addressed the group. He appeared to be in his
middle fifties,
and he gave the impression of quick, cold intelligence.
He spoke
clearly and crisply with no wasted words.
"I'm Colonel Frank Johnson. I want to welcome you here.
During your
stay you will use only your first names. From this moment
on, your
lives will be a closed book. You've all been sworn to
secrecy. I would
advise you to take that oath very, very seriously. You
are never to
discuss your work with anyone-your wives, your family,
your friends.
You've been selected to come here because you have special
qualifications. There's a lot of hard work ahead of you
to develop
those qualifications, and not all of you are going to make
it. You're
going to be involved in things you have never even heard
of before. I
cannot stress enough the importance of the work you will
be doing when
you finish here. It has become fashionable in certain
liberal circles
to attack our intelligence services, whether it's the CIA,
the Army, the
Navy or the Air Force, but I can assure you, gentlemen,
that without
dedicated people like yourselves, this country would be in
one hell of a
lot of trouble. It's going to be your job to help prevent
that. Those
of you who do pass will become case officers. To put it
bluntly, a case
officer is a spy.
He works under cover.
"While you're here, you're going to get the best training
in the world.
You'll be trained in surveillance and countersurveillance.
You'll have courses in radio communications, encoding, and
weaponry and
map reading.
"You'll attend a class in interpersonal relations. You'll
be taught how
to build a rapport, how to draw out an individual's
motivations, how to
make your target feel at ease."
The class was hanging on every word.
"You'll learn how to meet and recruit an agent. You'll be
trained in
how to make sure meeting places are secure.
"You'll learn about 'dead drops,' how to covertly
communicate with your
contacts. If you're successful at what you do, you will
carry out your
assignments unnoticed and undetected."
Robert could feel the excitement that charged the air.
"Some of you will work under official cover. It could be
diplomatic or
military.
Others will work under unofficial cover as private
individuals-as
businessmen, archaeologists, or novelists-any profession
that will give
you access to the areas and types of people likely to have
the
information you're looking for. And now I'm going to turn
you over to
your instructors. Good luck." Robert found the training
fascinating.
The instructors were men who had worked in the field and
were
experienced professionals. Robert absorbed the technical
information
easily. In addition to the courses Colonel Johnson had
mentioned, there
was a brushup course on languages and one on cryptic
codes. Colonel
Johnson was an enigma to Robert. The rumor circulating
about him was
that he had strong connections at the White House and was
involved in
high-level covert activities. He would disappear from the
Farm for days
at a time and suddenly reappear.
An agent named Ron was conducting a class.
"There are six phases to the clandestine operational
process. The first
is spotting. When you know what information you need,
your first
challenge is to identify and target individuals who have
access to that
information. The second phase is assessment. Once you
have spotted
your target, you have to decide if he really has the
information you
need, and if he might be susceptible to recruitment. What
motivates
him? Is he happy in his job? Does he have a grudge
against his boss?
Is he over his head financially? If the prospect is
accessible and
there's a motivation that can be exploited, you move along
to phase
three.
"Phase three is development. You build up a relationship
with a
prospect. You manage to run into him as often as possible
and build a
rapport. The next phase is recruitment. When you think
he is ready,
you go to work on him psychologically. You use whatever
psychological
weapons you've got-revenge against his boss, money, the
thrill of it.
If a case officer has done his job well, the prospect
usually says yes.
"So far so good. You have a spy working for you. The
next step is
handling him. You must protect not only yourself, but him
too. You
will arrange surreptitious meetings and train him in the
use of
microfilm and, where appropriate, clandestine radio. You
will teach him
how to detect surveillance, what to say if questioned, and
so on.
"The last phase is dl-sconnecting. After some period of
time, perhaps
your recruit will be -erred to a different job and no
longer have access
to the information, or maybe we will no longer need the
information to
which he does have access. In any case, the relalionship
is ended, but
it's important to end it in such a way that the recruit
doesn't feel he
has been used and is looking for vengeance. -.."
Colonel Johnson had been right. Not every one made it
through the
course. Familiar faces kept disappearing. Washed out.
No one knew
why. No one asked.
One day, as a group was preparing to go into Richmond for
a surveillance
exercise, Robert's instructor said, "We're going to see
how good you
are, Robert. I'm going to send someone to tail you. I
want you to lose
him. Do you think you can do that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good luck."
* * * Robert took the bus into Richmond and began
strolling the streets.
Within five minutes, he identified his trackers. There
were two of
them. One was on foot and one was in an automobile.
Robert tried
ducking into restaurants and shops and hurrying out back
doors, but he
was unable to shake them. They were too well trained.
Finally, it was
almost time to return to the Farm, and Robert still had
not been able to
get away from them. They were watching him too closely.
Robert walked
into a department store, and the two men took up positions
where they
could cover the entrances and exits. Robert took the
escalator up to
the Men's Clothing Department. Thirty minutes later when
he came down,
he was wearing a different suit, a coat and hat, and was
talking to a
woman and carrying a baby in his arms. He walked past his
pursuers
without being recognized.
He was the only one that day who had successfully eluded
surveillance.
The jargon taught at the Farm was a language unto itself.
"You probably won't use all these terms," the instruc'or
told the class,
"but you had better know them. There are two different
kinds of agents:
an 'agent of influence' and an 'agent provocateur." The
agent of
influence tries to change opinion in the country where he
operates. An
agent provocateur is sent to stir up trouble and create
chaos.
'Biographic leverage' is CIA code for blackmail. There
are also
'black-bag jobs,' which can range from bribes to burglary.
Watergate
was a black-bag job."
He looked around to make sure that the class was paying
attention.
They were spellbound.
"From time to time some of you may need a 'cobbler'-that's
a man who
forges passports."
Robert wondered whether he would ever use a cobbler.
"The phrase to demote maximally is a nasty one. It means
to purge by
killing. So does the word terminate. If you hear someone
talking about
the Firm, it's the nickname we use to refer to the British
Secret
Service. If you're asked to 'fumigate' an office, you
won't be looking
for termites, you'll be looking for listening devices."
The arcane
expressions fascinated Robert.
"'Ladies' is a euphemism for females sent to compromise
the opposition.
A 'legend' is a biography of a spy that is faked to
provide him with a
cover. 'Going private' means leaving the service."
The instructor scanned the class.
"Any of you know what a 'lion tamer' is?"
He waited for an answer. Silence.
"When an agent is sacked, he sometimes gets upset and may
make threats
to reveal what he knows. A muscleman, or lion tamer, is
called in to
soften him up. I'm sure none of you will ever have to
deal with one."
That drew nervous laughter.
"Then, there's the term measles. If a target dies of
measles, it means
he was murdered so efficiently that death appeared to be
accidental or
due to natural causes. One method of inducing measles is
to use
'Tabun." That's a colorless or brownish liquid compound
that causes
nerve paralysis when absorbed through the skin. If
someone offers you a
'music box,' they're offering you a wireless transmitter.
The transmitter operator is called a musician. In the
future, some of
you will be operating 'naked." Don't rush to take off your
clothes; it
simply means that you're alone and without any assistance.
"There's one more thing I want to discuss today.
Coincidence. In our
work, there is no such animal. It usually spells danger.
If you keep
running into the same person again ahd again, or you keep
spotting the
same automobile when you're on the move, cover your ass.
You're
probably in trouble.
"I think that's enough for today, gentlemen. We will take
up where we
left off' tomorrow."
From time to time, Colonel Johnson called Robert into his
office "to
have a chat," as he put it. The conversations were
deceptively casual,
but Robert was aware of an underlying probing being
carried on.
"I understand you're happily married, Robert."
"That's right."
They spent the next half hour talking about marriage,
fidelity, and
trust.
Another time: "Admiral Whittaker thinks of you as a son,
Robert. Did you
know that?"
"Yes." The pain of Edward's death was something that
would never go
away.
They talked about loyalty and duty and death.
"You've faced death more than once, Robert. Are you
afraid to die?"
"No." But to die for a good reason, Robert thought. Not
senselessly.
The meetings were frustrating to Robert because they were
like looking
into a trick mirror. Colonel Johnson could see him
clearly, but the
colonel remained invisible, an enigma cloaked in secrecy.
The course lasted sixteen weeks, and during that time,
none of the men
was permitted to communicate with the outside world.
Robert missed
Susan desperately. It was the longest they had ever been
apart. When
the four months were up, Colonel Johnson called Robert
into his office.
"This is goodbye. You've done an excellent job,
Commander. I think
you're going to find your future very interesting."
"Thank you, sir. I hope so-"
"Good luck."
Colonel Johnson watched Robert leave. He sat there for
five minutes
without moving, then reached a decision. He walked over
to the door and
locl::ed it. Then he picked up the telephone and made a
call.
Susan was waiting for him. She opened the door of their
apartment,
wearing a sheer negligee that concealed nothing. She flew
into his arms
and held him close.
"Hi, sailor. Want to have a good time?"
"I'm having one," Robert said happily, 'yust holding you."
"God, I missed you so much!" Susan drew back and said
fiercely, "If
anything ever happened to you, I think I would die."
"Nothing is ever going to happen to me."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She studied him a moment, concerned.
"You look so tired."
"It was a pretty intensive course," Robert admitted.
He was understating it. With all the texts and manuals to
study, in
addition to the practical, hands-on lessons, none of the
recruits had
been able to sleep more than a few hours a night. There
was little
grumbling for a very simpIe reason: They were well aware
that what they
were learning could one day save their lives.
"I know exactly what you need," Susan decided. Robert
grinned.
"I'll say." He reached for her.
"Wait. Give me five minutes. Get undressed." He watched
her walk away
and thought, How damned lucky can a man get? He began to
get undressed.
Susan returned a few minutes later. She said softly,
"Umm. I like you
naked."
He heard his instructor's voice, saying, "Some of you will
be operating
naked. It means you're alone and without any assistance."
What have I
gotten into? What have I gotten Susan into?
She led him into the bathroom. The tub was filled with
warm scented
water, and the room was dark except for four candles
flickering on the
sink.
"Welcome home, darling." She slipped out of her negligee
and stepped
into the bathtub. He followed her.
"Susan-"
"Don't talk. Lean back against me." He felt her hands
gently caressing
his back and shoulders, and he felt the soft curves of her
body against
him, and he forgot how tired he was. They made love in
the warm water,
and when they had dried themselves, Susan said, "So much
for the
foreplay. Now, let's get serious."
They made love again, and later, as Robert fell asleep,
holding Susan in
his arms, he thought, It will always be like this.
Forever.
The following Monday morning, Robert reported for his
first day of duty
at the 17th District Office of Naval Intelligence at the
Pentagon.
Admiral Whittaker said warmly, "Welcome home, Robert.
Apparently you
impressed the hell out of Colonel Johnson."
Robert smiled.
"He's quite impressive himself." Over coffee, the admiral
asked, "Are
you ready to go to work?"
"Eager."
"Good. We have a situation in Rhodesia -.."
Working in the Office of Naval Intelligence was even more
exciting than
Robert had anticipated. Each assignment was different,
and Robert was
given the ones classified extremely sensitive. He brought
in a defector
who revealed Noriega's drug-smuggling operation in Panama,
exposed a
mole working for Marcos in the American Consulate in
Manila, and helped
set up a secret listening post in Morocco. He was sent on
missions to
South America and to the East Indies. The only thing that
disturbed him
was the long separations from Susan. He hated to be away
from her, and
he missed her terribly. He had the excitement of his job
to occupy him,
but Susan had nothing. Robert's case load kept
increasing. He spent
less and less time at home, and that was when the problem
with Susan
became serious.
Whenever Robert came home, he and Susan would run hungrily
into each
other's arms and make passionate love. But those times
began to be
further and further apart. It seemed to Susan that no
sooner did Robert
return from one assignment than he was sent away on
another.
To make matters worse, Robert could not discuss his work
with her.
Susan had no idea where he went or what he was doing. She
knew only
that whatever he was involved in was dangerous, and she
was terrified
that one day he would leave and never return. She dared
not ask him
questions. She felt like a stranger, completely shut out
of an
important part of his life. Of their life.
I can't go on like this, Susan decided.
When Robert returned from a four-week assignment in
Central America,
Susan said, "Robert, I think we had better have a talk."
"What's the problem?"
Robert asked. He knew what the problem was.
"I'm frightened. We're slipping away from each other, and
I don't want
to lose us. I couldn't stand it."
"Susan-"
"Wait. Let me finish. Do you know how much time we've
spent together
in the last four months? Less than two weeks. Whenever
you come home,
I feel as though you're a visitor instead of my husband."
He took Susan in his arms and held her tightly.
"You know how much I love you."
She laid her head on his shoulder.
"Please don't let anything happen to us."
"I won't," he promised.
"I'll have a talk with Admiral Whittaker."
"When?"
"Immediately."
"The admiral will see you now, Commander."
"Thank you."
Admiral Whittaker was seated behind his desk signing
papers. He looked
up as bellamy entered and smiled.
"Welcome home, Robert, and congradulations. That was an
excellent job
in El Salvador."
"Thank you, sir."
"Sit down. Can I offer you some coffee?"
"No, thank you, Admiral."
"You wanted to talk to me? My secretary said it was
urgent. What can I
do for you?"
It was difficult to begin.
"Well, sir, this is personal.
I've been married less than two years, and-"
"You made a wonderful choice, Robert. Susan's a fine
woman."
"Yes, I agree. The problem is that I'm away most of the
time, and she's
unhappy about it." He added quickly, "And she has every
right to be. It
isn't a normal situation."
Admiral Whittaker leaned back in his chair and said
thoughtfully, "Of
course what you're doing isn't a normal situation.
Sometimes sacrifices
have to be made."
"I know," Robert said stubbornly, "but I'm not prepared to
sacrifice my
marriage. It means too much to me."
The admiral studied him reflectively.
"I see. What is it you're asking?"
"I was hoping that you could find some assignments for me
where I'm not
away from home so much. This is such a large operation,
there must be a
hundred things I could do closer to home."
"Closer to home."
"Yes."
The admiral said slowly, "You've certainly earned that. I
don't see why
something like that can't be arranged."
Robert smiled in relief.
"That's very good of you, Admiral. I would certainly
appreciate it."
"Yes, I think we can definitely arrange that. Tell Susan
for me that
the problem is solved." Robert stood up, beaming.
"I don't know how to thank you.
Admiral Whittaker waved a hand of dismissal.
"You're too valuable a piece of manpower for me to let
anything happen
to you. Now go home to your bride."
When Robert told Susan the news, she was thrilled.
She threw her arms around him.
"Oh, darling, that's wonderful."
"I'm going to ask him for a couple of weeks off so we can
take a trip
somewhere. It will be a second honeymoon."
"I've forgotten what a honeymoon is like," Susan murmured.
"Show me."
Robert showed her.
* * Admiral Whittaker sent for Robert the following
morning.
"I just wanted you to know I'm making some arrangements
about the matter
we discussed yesterday."
"Thank you, Admiral." Now was the time to mention taking
a leave.
"Sir-" Admiral Whittaker said, "Something has come up,
Robert." The
admiral began to pace. When he spoke, there was a note of
deep concern
in his voice.
"I've just been informed that the CIA has been
infiltrated. It seems
that there has been a steady leak of top secret
information. All they
know about the spy is that his code name is the Fox. He's
in Argentina
right now. They need someone outside the agency to handle
the
operation. The director of the CIA has asked for you.
They would like you to track the man down and bring him
back. I told
them the decision is up to you. Do you want to undertake
it?"
Robert hesitated.
"I'm afraid I'll have to pass on it, sir."
"I respect your decision, Robert. You've been traveling
constantly and
have never turned down an assignment. I know it hasn't
been easy on
your marriage."
"I'd like to take on this job, sir. It's just that"
"You don't have to say it, Robert. My opinion of your
work and
dedication will always remain the same. I just have one
favor to ask of
you."
"What's that, Admiral?"
"The deputy director e of the CIA asked to meet with you,
regardless of
your decision. As a courtesy. You don't mind do you?"
"Of course not, sir."
The next day Robert drove to Langley for his meeting with
the deputy
director.
"Sit down, Commander," the deputy director said after
Robert entered the
large corner office.
"I've heard a lot about you. All good things, of course."
"Thank you, sir."
The deputy director was a man in his early sixties, with
fine white hair
and a small brush mustache that moved up and down as he
drew on his
pipe. A Yale graduate, he had joined the OSS during World
War II and
then moved into the CIA when it was formed after the
conflict. He rose
steadily up the ranks to his present position in one of
the largest and
most powerful intelligence agencies in the world.
"I want you to know, Commander, that I respect your
decision."
Bellamy nodded toward the deputy director.
"There is one fact, however, that I feel I should bring to
your
attention."
"What's that, sir?"
"The President is personally involved in the operation to
unmask the
Fox."
"I didn't know that, sir."
"He regards it-as I do, too-as one of the most important
assignments
this agency has had since its inception. I know of your
situation at
home, and I'm sure the President is sympathetic too. He's
a real family
man. But your not taking on this assignment might
throw-how should I
say it-a cloud on the ONI and Admiral Whittaker."
"The admiral had nothing to do with my decision, sir,"
Robert said.
"I understand that, Commander, but will the President
understand that?"
The honeymoon will have to be postponed, Robert thought.
* * * When Robert broke the news to Susan, he said gently,
"This is my
last overseas assignment. After this I'll be home so much
you'll get
sick of me."
She smiled up at him.
"There isn't that much time in the world.
We're going to be together forever."
The chase after the Fox was the most frustrating thing
Robert had ever
experienced. He picked up his trail in Argentina but
missed his quarry
by one day. The trail led to Tokyo and China and then
Malaysia.
Whoever the Fox was, he left just enough of a trail to
lead to where he
had been but never to where he was. The days turned into
weeks, and the
weeks turned into months, and always Robert was just
behind the Fox. He
called Susan almost every day. In the beginning, it was
"I'll be home
in a few days, darling." And then, "I might be home next
week." And
then, finally, "I'm not sure when I'll be back." In the
end, Robert had
to give up. He had been on the Fox's trail for two and a
half months
with no success.
When he returned to Susan, she seemed changed. A little
cooler.
"I'm sorry, darling," Robert apologized.
"I had no idea it would take so long. It was just-"
"They'll never let you go, will they, Robert?"
"What? Of course, they will."
She shook her head.
"I don't think so. I've taken a job at Washington
Memorial Hospital."
He was taken aback.
"You've what?"
"I'm going to be a nurse again. I can't sit around
waiting for you to
come home to me, wondering where you are and what you're
doing,
wondering whether you're dead or alive."
"Susan, I-"
"It's all right, my sweetheart. At least I'll be doing
something useful
while you're gone. It will make the waiting easier." And
Robert had no
answer to that.
He reported his failure to Admiral Whittaker. The admiral
was
sympathetic.
"It's my fault for agreeing to let you do it. From now
on, we'll let
the CIA handle their own damned problems. I'm sorry,
Robert." Robert
told him about Susan taking a job as a nurse.
"That's probably a good idea," the Admiral said
thoughtfully.
"It will take the pressure off your marriage. If you took
on some
overseas caseloads now and then, I'm sure it won't matter
as much." Now
and then turned out to be almost constantly. That was
when the marriage
really began to disintegrate.
Susan worked at Washington Memorial Hospital as an
operating room nurse,
and whenever Robert was home, she tried to take time off
to be with him,
but she was caught up more and more in her work.
"I'm really enjoying it, darling. I feel I'm doing
something useful."
She would talk to Robert about her patients, and he
remembered how
caring she had been with him, how she had nurtured him
back to health,
back to life. He was pleased that she was doing important
work that she
loved, but the fact was, they were seeing less and less of
each other.
The emotional distance between them was widening. There
was an
awkwardness now that had not existed before. They were
like two
strangers trying desperately hard to make conversation.
When Robert returned to Washington from a six-week
assignment in Turkey,
he took Susan out to dinner at Sans Souci.
Susan said, "We have a new patient at the hospital.
He was in a bad plane crash, and the doctors didn't think
he was going
to live, but I'm going to see to it that he does." Her
eyes were
glowing.
She was like that with me, Robert thought. And he
wondered if she had
leaned over the new patient and said, "Get well. I'm
waiting for you."
He rejected the thought.
"He's so nice, Robert. All the nurses are crazy about
him."
All the nurses? he wondered.
There was a small, nagging doubt at the back of his mind,
but he managed
to get rid of it.
They ordered dinner.
The=following Saturday, Robert left for Portugal, and when
he returned
three weeks later, Susan greeted him excitedly.
"Monte walked today for the first time!" Her kiss was
perfunctory.
"Monte?"
"Monte Banks. That's his name. He's going to be fine.
The doctors couldn't believe it, but we wouldn't give up."
We.
"Tell me about him."
"He's really darling. He's always giving us gifts. He's
very wealthy.
He flies his own plane, and he was in a bad crash, and-"
"What kind of gifts?"
"Oh, you know, just little thing-candies and flowers and
books and
records. He tried to give all of us expensive watches but
of course we
had to refuse."
"Of course."
"He has a yacht, polo ponies - That was the day Robert
began calling him
Moneybags.
Susan talked about him every time she came home from the
hospital.
"He's really dear, Robert." Dear is dangerous.
"And he's so thoughtful. Do you know what he did today?
He had lunch
sent from the Jockey Club for all the nurses on the
floor."
The man is sickening. Ridiculously, Robert found himself
getting angry.
"Is this wonderful patient of yours married?"
"No, darling. Why?"
"I just wondered."
She laughed.
"For heaven's sake, you're not jealous, are you?"
"Of some old man who's just learning to walk? Of course
not."
Like hell I'm not. But he wouldn't give Susan the
satisfaction of
saying so. When Robert was at home, Susan tried not to
talk about her
patient, but if she did not bring up the subject, Robert
would.
"How is old Moneybags doing?"
"His name is not Moneybags," she chided.
"It's Monte Banks."
"Whatever." It's too bad the sonofabitch couldn't have
died in the
plane crash.
The following day was Susan's birthday.
"I'll tell you what," Robert said, enthusiastically,
"we'Il celebrate.
We'll go out and have a wonderful dinner somewhere and-"
"I have to work at the hospital until eight."
"All right. I'll pick you up there."
"Fine. Monte is dying to meet you. I've told him all
about you."
"I look forward to meeting the old man," Robert assured
her.
When Robert arrived at the hospital, the receptionist
said, "Good
evening, Commander. Susan is working in the orthopedic
ward on the
third floor. 5~~~5 expecting y~~~~7 She picked up the
telephone. When
Robert got off the elevator, Susan was waiting for him,
wearing her
white starched uniform, and his heart skipped a beat. She
was, oh, so
damned beautiful.
"Hello, gorgeous."
Susan smiled, strangely ill at ease.
"Hello, Robert. I'll be off duty in a few minutes. Come
on. I'll
introduce you to Monte."
I can't wait.
She led him into a large private room filled with books
and flowers and
baskets of fruit, and said, "Monte, this is my husband,
Robert." Robert
stood there staring at the man in the bed. He was three
or four years
older than Robert and resembled Paul Newman. Robert
despised him on
sight.
"I'm certainly pleased to meet you, Commander. Susan has
been telling
me all about you." Is that what they talk about when she
is at his
bedside in the middle of the night?
"She's very proud of you."
That's it, buddy, throw me a few crumbs. Susan was
looking at Robert,
willing him to be polite.
He made an effort.
"I understand you'll be getting out of here soon."
"Yes, thanks mostly to your wife. She's a miracle
worker."
"Come on, sailor. Do you think I'm going to let some
other nurse have
that great body?"
"Yes, that's her specialty." Robert could not keep the
bitterness out
of his voice.
The birthday dinner was a fiasco. All Susan wanted to
talk about was
her patient.
"Did he remind you of anyone, darling?"
"Boris Karloff."
"Why did you have to be so rude to him?"
He said coldly, "I thought I was very civil. I don't
happen to like the
man." Susan stared at him.
"You don't even know him. What don't you like about him?"
I don't like the way he looks at you. I don't like the
way you look at
him. I don't like the way our marriage is going to hell.
God, I don't
want to lose you.
"Sorry. I guess I'm just tired."
They finished their dinner in silence. The next morning,
as Robert was
getting ready to go to the office, Susan said, "Robert, I
have something
to say to you. -.."
And it was as if he had been struck in the pit of his
stomach. He could
not bear to have her put what was happening into words.
"Susan-"
"You know I love you. I'll always love you. You're the
dearest, most
wonderful man I've ever known."
"Please-"
"No, let me finish. This is very hard for me. In the
last year, we've
only spent minutes together. We don't have a marriage
anymore.
We've drifted apart."
Every word was a knife stabbing into him.
"You're right," he said desperately.
"I'll change. I'll quit the agency. Now. Today. We'll
go away
somewhere and-" She shook her head.
"No, Robert. We both know that wouldn't work.
You're doing what you want to do. If you stopped doing it
because of
me, you would always resent it. This isn't anybody's
fault. It
just-happened. I want a divorce."
It was as though the world had caved in on him. He felt
suddenly sick
to his stomach.
"You don't mean that, Susan.
We'll find a way to-"
"It's too late. I've been thinking about this for a long
time.
All the while you were away and I sat home alone and
waited for you to
come back, I thought about it. We've been living separate
lives. I
need more than that. I need something you ~~~~~ give me
~~y~~~~~~) He
stood there, fighting to control his emotions.
"Does this-does this have anything to do with Moneybags?"
Susan hesitated.
"Monte has asked me to marry him." He could feel his
bowels turning to
water.
"And you're going to?"
"Yes."
It was some kind of crazy nightmare. This isn't
happening, he thought.
It can't be. His eyes filled with tears.
Susan put her arms around him and held him close.
"I will never again feel about any man the way I felt
about you. I
loved you with all my heart and soul. I will always love
you. You are
my dearest friend."
She pulled back and looked into his eyes.
"But that isn't enough. Do you understand?"
All he understood was that she was tearing him apart.
"We could try again. We'll start over and-"
"I'm sorry, Robert." Her voice was choked.
"I'm so sorry, but it's finished."
Susan flew to Reno for a divorce, and Commander Robert
Bellamy went on a
two-week drunk.
Old habits die hard. Robert telephoned a friend at the
FBI. Al Traynor
had crossed Robert's path half a dozen times in the past,
and Robert
trusted him.
"Tray, I need a favor."
"A favor? You need a psychiatrist. How the hell could
you let Susan
get away?"
The news was probably all over town.
"It's a long, sad story."
"I'm really sorry, Robert. She was a great lady. I-never
mind.
What can I do for you?"
"I'd like you to run a computer check on someone."
"You've got it. Give me a name."
"Monte Banks. It's just a routine inquiry."
"Right. What do you want to know?"
"He's probably not even in your files, Tray, but if he
is-did he ever
get a parking ticket, beat his dog, run a red light? The
usual."
"Sure."
"And I'm curious about where he got his money. I'd like a
fix on his
background."
"So, just routine, huh?"
"And Tray, let's keep this between us. It's personal.
Okay?"
"No problem. I'll call you in the morning."
"Thanks. I owe you a lunch."
"Dinner."
"You've got it."
Robert replaced the receiver and thought: Portrait of a
man clutching at
straws. What am I hoping for, that he's Jack the Ripper
and Susan will
come flying back into my arms?
Early the following morning, Dustin Thornton sent for
Robert.
"What are you working on, Commander?"
He knows perfectiy well what I'm working on, Robert
thought.
"I'm winding up my file on the diplomat from Singapore,
and-"
"It doesn't seem to be occupying enough of your time."
"I beg your pardon?"
"In case you've forgotten, Commander, the Office of Naval
Intelligence
is not mandated to investigate American citizens." Robert
was watching
him, puzzled.
"What are you-?"
"I've been notified by the FBI that you have been trying
to obtain
information that is completely out of the jurisdiction of
this agency."
Robert felt a sudden rush of anger. That sonofabitch
Traynor had
betrayed him. So much for friendship.
"It was a personal matter," Robert said.
"I-"
"The computers of the FBI are not there for your
convenience, nor to
help you harass private citizens. Do I make myself
clear?"
"Very."
"That's all."
Robert raced back to his office. His fingers trembled as
he dialed
202-324-3000. A voice answered, "FBI."
"Al Traynor."
"Just a moment, please."
A minute later, a man's voice came on the line.
"Hello. May I help you?"
"Yes. I'm calling Al Traynor."
"I'm sorry, Agent Traynor is no longer with this office."
Robert felt a shock go through him.
"What?"
"Agent Traynor has been transferred."
"Transferred?"
"Yes."
"To where?"
"Boise. But he won't be up there for a while. A long
while, I'm
afraid."
"What do you mean?"
"He was struck by a hit and run driver last night while
jogging in Rock
Creek Park. Can you believe it? Some creep must have
been drunk out of
his mind. He ran his car right up on the jogging path.
Traynor's body was thrown more than forty feet. He may
not make it."
Robert replaced the receiver. His mind was spinning.
What the hell was
going on? Monte Banks, the blue-eyed all-American boy was
being
protected. From what? By whom? Jesus, Robert thought,
what is Susan
getting herself into?
He went to visit her that afternoon.
She was in her new apartment, a beautiful duplex on M
Street. He
wondered whether Moneybags had paid for it. It had been
weeks since he
had seen Susa.n, and the sight of her took his breath
away.
"Forgive me for barging in like this, Susan. I know I
promised not to."
"You said it was something serious."
"It is." Now that he was here, he didn't know how to
begin.
Susan, I came here to save you? She would laugh in his
face.
"What's happened?"
"It's about Monte."
She frowned.
"What about him?"
This was the difficult part. How could he tell her what
he himself
didn't know? All he knew was that something was terribly
wrong. Monte
Banks was in the FBI computer all right, with a tickler:
No information
to be given out without proper authorization. And the
inquiry had been
kicked right back on ONI. Why?
"I don't think he'~he's not what he seems to be."
"I don't understand."
"Susan-where does he get his money?"
She looked surprised at the question.
"Monte has a very successful import-export business."
The oldest cover in the world.
He should have known better than to have come charging in
with his
hatrbaked theory. He felt like a fool. Susan was waiting
for an
answer, and he had none.
"Why are you asking?"
"I was-I just wanted to make sure he's right for you,"
Robert said
lamely.
"Oh, Robert." Her voice was filled with disappointment.
"I guess I shouldn't have come." You got that right,
buddy.
"I'm sorry."
Susan walked up to him and gave him a hug.
"I understand, "she said softly.
But she didn't understand. She didn't understand that an
innocent
inquiry about Monte Banks had been stonewalled, referred
to the Office
of Naval Intelligence, and that the man who had tried to
get that
information had been transferred to the boondocks.
There were other ways of obtaining information, and Robert
went about
them circumspectly. He telephoned a friend who worked for
Forbes
magazine.
"Robert! Long time no see. What can I do for you?"
Robert told him.
"Monte Banks? Interesting you should mention him.
We think he should be on our Forbes Four Hundred
wealthiest list, but we
can't get any hard information on him. Do you have
anything for us?"
A zero.
Robert went to the public library and looked up Monte
Banks in Who's
Who. He was not listed.
He turned to the microfiche and looked up back issues of
the Washington
Post around the time that Monte Banks had had his plane
accident. There
was a brief item about the plane crash. It mentioned
Banks as an
entrepreneur. It all sounded innocent enough. Maybe I'm
wrong, Robert
thought. Maybe Monte Banks is a guy in a white hat. Our
government
wouldn't have protected him if he were a spy, a criminal,
into drugs.
... The truth is that I'm still trying to hold on to
Susan. Being a
bachelor again was a loneliness, an emptiness, a round of
busy days and
sleepless nights. A tide of despair would sweep over him
without
warning, and he would weep. He wept for himself and for
Susan and for
everything that they had lost. Susan's presence was
everywhere. The
apartment was alive with reminders of her. Robert was
cursed with total
recall, and each room tormented him with memories of
Susan's voice, her
laughter, her warmth. He remembered the soft hills and
valleys of her
body as she lay in bed naked, waiting for him, and the
ache inside him
was unbearable.
His friends were concerned.
"You shouldn't be alone, Robert."
And their rallying cry became "Have I got a girl for you!"
They were tall and beautiful, and small and sexy. They
were models and
secretaries and advertising executives and divorcees and
lawyers.
But none of them was Susan. He had nothing in common with
any of them,
and trying to make small talk with strangers in whom he
had no interest
only made him feel more lonely. Robert had no desire to
go to bed with
any of them. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to rewind
the film back
to the beginning, to rewrite the script. With hindsight
it was so easy
to see his mistakes, to see how the scene with Admiral
Whittaker should
have played. The CIA has been infi~d by a man called the
Fox.
The deputy director has asked for you to track him down.
No, Admiral.
Sorry. Pm IIaking my wife on a second honeymoon.
He wanted to reedit his lile, to give it a happy ending.
Too late. Life did not give second chances. He was
alone. He did his
own shopping, cooked his meals for himself, and went to
the neighborhood
laundromat once a week when he was home.
It was a lonely, miserable time in Robert's life. But the
worst was yet
to come. A beautiflil designer he had met in Washington
telephoned him
several times to invite him to dinner. Robert had been
reluctant, but
he had finally accepted. She prepared a delicious
candlelight dinner
for the two of them.
"You're a very good cook," Robert said.
"I'm very good at everything." And there was no mistaking
her meaning.
She moved closer to him.
"Let me prove it to you." She put her hands on his thighs
and ran her
tongue around his lips. It's been a long time, Robert
thought. Maybe
too long. They went to bed, and to Robert's
consternation, it was a
disaster. For the first time in his life, Robert was
impotent. He was
humiliated.
"Don't worry, darling," she said.
"It will be all right." She was wrong.
Robert went home feeling embarrassed, crippled. He knew
that in some
crazy, convoluted way, he had felt that making love to
another woman was
a betrayal of Susan. How stupid can I get?
He tried to make love again several weeks later with a
bright secretary
at ONI. She had been wildly passionate in bed, stroking
his body and
taking him inside her hot mouth. But it was no use. He
wanted only
Susan. After that, he stopped trying. He thought about
consulting a
doctor, but he was too ashamed. He knew the answer to his
problem, and
it had nothing to do with medical advice. He poured all
his energy into
work. Susan called him at least once a week.
"Don't forget to pick up your shirts at the laundry," she
would say. Or:
"I'm sending over a maid to clean up the apartment. I'll
bet it's a
mess." Each call made the loneliness more intolerable.
She had called
him the night before her wedding.
"Robert, I want you to know I'm getting married tomorrow.
It was difficult for him to breathe. He began to
hyperventilate.
"Susan-"
"I love Monte," she said, "but I love you, too. I'll love
you until the
day I die. I don't want you ever to forget that."
What was there to say to that? "Robert, are you all
right?"
Sure. I'm great. Except that I'm a fucking eunuch.
Scratch the
adjective.
"Robert?"
He could not bear to punish her with his problem.
"I'm fine. Just do me a favor, will you, baby?"
"Anything I can."
"Don't-don't let him take you on your honeymoon to any of
the places we
went to." He hung up and went out and got drunk again.
That had been a
year earlier. That was the past. He had been forced to
face the
reality that Susan now belonged to someone else. He had
to live in the
present. He had work to do. It was time to have a chat
with Leslie
Mothershed, the photographer who had the photographs and
names of the
witnesses Robert had been assigned to track down on what
was going to be
his last assignment.
eslie Mothershed was in a state beyond euphoria. The
moment he had
returned to London, clutching his precious film, he had
hurried into the
small pantry he had converted into a darkroom and checked
to make sure
he had everything on hand: filmprocessing tank,
thermometer, spring-type
clothespins, four large beakers, a timer, and developer,
stop-bath
solutions, and fixer.
He turned out the light and switched on a small red
overhead lamp. His
hands were trembling as he opened the cartridges and
removed the film.
He took deep breaths to control himself. Nothing must go
wrong this
time, he thought. Nothing. This is for you, Mother.
Carefully, he
rolled the film into reels. He placed the reels ,~ the
tank and filled
it with developer, the first of the liquids he would use.
It would
require a constant temperature of 68xF and periodic
agitation. After
eleven minutes, he emptied the contents and poured the
fixer over the
reels.
He was getting nervous again, terrified of making a
mistake. He poured
off the fixer for the first wash and then let the film sit
in a tankful
of water for ten minutes. This was followed by two
minutes of constant
agitation in a hypocleansing agent and twelve more minutes
in water.
Thirty seconds in photo-flo solution ensured there would
be no streaks
or flaws in the negatives. Finally, very, very carefully,
he removed
the film, hung it up with clothespins, and used a squeegee
to remove the
last drips from the film. He waited impatiently for the
negatives to
dry. It was time to have a look. Holding his breath,
heart pounding,
Mothershed picked up the first strip of negatives and held
it up to the
light. Pe~ct. Absolutely perfect!
Each one was a gem, a picture that any photographer in the
world would
be proud to have taken. Every detail of the strange
spacecraft was
outlined, including the bodies of the two alien forms
lying inside.
Two things he had not noticed before caught Mothershed's
eye, and he
took a closer look. Where the spaceship had cracked open
he could see
three narrow couches inside the ship-and yet there were
only two aliens.
The other thing that was strange was that one of the
aliens' hands had
been severed. It was nowhere to be seen in the
photograph. Maybe the
creature had only one hand, Mothershed thought. My God,
these pictures
are masterpieces! Mother was right. I'm a genius. He
looked around
the tiny room and thought, The next time I develop my
film, it will be
in a big, beautiful darkroom in my mansion in Eaton
Square.
He stood there fingering his treasures like a miser
fingering his gold.
There wasn't a magazine or newspaper in the world that
wouldn't kill to
get these pictures. All these years the bastards had
rejected his
photographs with their insulting little notes.
"Thank you for submitting the photos that we are herewith
returning.
They do not fit our present needs." And: "Thank you for
your
submission. They are too similar to pictures we have
already printed."
Or simply: "We are returning the photographs you sent us."
For years he
had gone begging to the creeps for jobs, and now they were
going to
crawl to him, and he was going to make them pay through
the nose. He
could not wait. He had to start immediately. Since
bloody British
Telecom had shut off his phone merely because he happened
to be a few
weeks late making his last quarterly payment, Mothershed
had to go
outside to find a phone. On an impulse, he decided to go
to Langan's,
the celebrity hangout, and treat himself to a
much-deserved lunch.
Langan's was well beyond his means, but if there was ever
a time to
celebrate, this was it. Wasn't he on the verge of
becoming rich and
famous?
A maitre d' seated Mothershed at a table in a corner of
the restaurant,
and there, at a booth not ten feet away, he saw two
familiar faces. He
suddenly realized who they were, and a little thrill ran
through him.
Michael Caine and Roger Moore, in person! He wished his
mother were
still alive so he could tell her about it. She had loved
reading about
movie stars. The two men were laughing and having a good
time, not a
care in the world, and Mothershed could not help staring.
Their glances moved past him. Smug bastards, Leslie
Mothershed thought
angrily. I suppose they expect me to come over and ask
for their
autographs. Well, in a few days they're going to be
asking for mine.
They'll be falling all over themselves to introduce me to
their friends.
"Leslie, I want you to meet Charles and Di, and this is
Fergie and
Andrew. Leslie, you know, is the chap who took those
famous photos of
the UFO."
When Mothershed finished his lunch, he walked past the two
stars and
went upstairs to the phone booth. Director Inquiries gave
him the
number of the Sun.
"I'd like to speak to your Picture editor." A male voice
came on the
line.
"Chapman."
"What would it be worth to you to have photographs of a
UFO with the
bodies of two aliens in it?"
The voice at the other end of the phone said, "If the
pictures are good
enough, we might run them as an example of a clever hoax,
andMothershed
said waspishly, "It so happens that this is no hoax. I
have the names
of nine reputable witnesses who will testify that it's
real, including a
priest." The man's tone changed.
"Oh? And where were these pictures taken?"
"Never mind," Mothershed said cagily. He was not going to
let them
trick him into giving away any information.
"Are you interested?"
The voice said cautiously, "If you can prove that the
pictures are
authentic, yes, we would be very interested."
Damn right you would, Mothershed thought gleefully.
"I'll get back to you." He hung up. The other two phone
calls were
just as satisfactory. Mothershed had to admit to himself
that getting
the names and addresses of the witnesses had been a stroke
of pure
genius. There was no way now that anyone could accuse him
of trying to
perpetrate a fraud. These pictures were going to appear
on the front
pages of every important newspaper and magazine in the
world.
With my credit: Photographs by Leslie Mothershed.
As Mothershed left the restaurant, he could not resist
walking up to the
booth where the two stars were seated.
"Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, but would you give me
your
autographs?"
Roger Moore and Michael Caine smiled up at him pleasantly.
They
scribbled their names on pieces of paper and handed them
to the
photographer.
"Thank you."
When Leslie Mothershed got outside, he savagely tore up
the autographs
and threw them away.
Screw them! he thought. I'm more important than they
are.
obert took a taxi to Whitechapel. They drove through the
City, the
business section of London, heading east until they
reached the
Whitechapel Road, the area made infamous a century earlier
by Jack the
Ripper. Along the Whitechapel Road were dozens of outside
stalls
selling everything from clothing to fresh vegetables to
carpets.
As the taxi neared Mothershed's address, the neighborhood
became more
and more dilapidated. Graffiti was scrawled all over the
peeling,
brownstone buildings. They passed the Weaver's Arms Pub.
That would be
Mothershed's local, Robert thought. Another sign read:
Walter
Bookmaker. ... Mothershed probably places his bets on
horses there.
They finally reached 213A Grove Road. Robert dismissed
the taxi and
studied the building in front of him. It was an ugly
two-story building
that had been divided into small flats. Inside was the
man who had a
complete list of the witnesses Robert had been sent to
find.
Leslie Mothershed was in the living room poring over his
windfall when
the doorbell rang. He looked up, startled, filled with a
sudden
inexplicable fear. The ring was repeated.
Mothershed scooped up his precious photographs and hurried
into the
converted darkroom. He slipped the pictures into a pile
of old prints,
then walked back into the living room and opened the front
door. He
stared at the stranger who stood there.
"Yes?"
"Leslie Mothershed?"
"That's right. What can I do for you?"
"May I come in?"
"I don't know. What is this about?"
Robert pulled out a Defence Ministry identification card
and flashed it.
"I'm here on official business, Mr. Mothershed. We can
either talk here
or at the ministry." It was a bluff. But he could see
the sudden fear
on the photographer's face.
Leslie Mothershed swallowed.
"I don't know what you're talking about, but-come in."
Robert entered the drab room. It was shabby-genteel,
dreary, not a
place where anyone would live by choice.
"Would you kindly explain what you're doing here?"
Mothershed put the proper note of innocent exasperation in
his voice.
"I'm here to question you about some photographs you
took."
He knew it! He had known it from the moment he heard the
bell.
The bastards are going to try to take my fortune away from
me. Well, I'm
not going to let them do it.
"What photographs are you talking about?"
Robert said patiently, "The ones you took at the site of
the UFO crash."
Mothershed stared at Robert a moment, as though caught by
surprise, and
then forced a laugh.
"Oh, those! I wish I had them to give to you."
"You did take those pictures?"
"I tried."
"What do you mean ... you tried?"
"The bloody things never came out." Mothershed gave a
nervous cough.
"My camera fogged. That's the second time that's happened
to me." He
was babbling now.
"I even threw out the negatives. They were no good. It
was a complete
waste of film. And you l::now how expensive film is these
days." He's
a bad liar, Robert thought. He's on the edge of panic.
Robert said
sympathetically, "Too bad. Those photographs would have
been very
helpful." He said nothing about the list of passengers.
If Mothershed
lied about the photographs, he would lie about the list.
Robert glanced
around. The photographs and the list had to be hidden
here somewhere.
They shouldn't be difficult to find.
The flat consisted of a small living room, a bedroom, a
bathroom, and
what looked like a door to a utility closet. There was no
way he could
force the man to hand over the material. He had no real
authority. But
he wanted those photographs and the list of witnesses
before the 515
came and took them away. He needed that list for himself.
"Yes."
Mothershed sighed.
"Those pictures would have been worth a fortune."
"Tell me about the spaceship," Robert said. Mothershed
gave an
involuntary shudder. The eerie scene was fixed in his
mind forever.
"I'll never forget it," he said.
"The ship seemed to-to pulsate, like it was alive. There
was something
evil about it. And then there were these two dead aliens
inside."
"Can you tell me anything about the passengers on the
bus?"
Sure I can, Mothershed gloated to himself. I have all
their names and
addresses.
"No, I'm afraid I can't." Moth- 1 ershed went on, talking
to conceal
his nervousness.
"The reason I can't help you with the passengers is that I
wasn't on
that bus. They were all strangers."
"I see. Well, thank you for your cooperation, Mr.
Mothershed. I
appreciate it. Sorry about your pictures."
"So am I," Mothershed said. He watched the door close
behind the
stranger and thought happily, I've done it! I've
outsmarted the
sonsol'bitches.
Outside in the hall, Robert was examining the lock on the
door. A
Chubb. And an old model. It would take him seconds to
open it. He
would start surveillance in the middIe of the night and
wait for the
photographer to leave the flat in the morning. Once I
have the list of
passengers in my possession, the rest of the assignment
will be simple.
Robert checked into a small hotel near Mothershed's flat
and telephoned
General Hilliard.
"I have the name of the English witness, General."
"Just a moment. All right. Go ahead, Commander."
"Leslie Mothershed. He lives in Whitechapel, at 213A
Grove Road."
"Excellent. I'll arrange for the British authorities to
speak to him."
Robert did not mention the passenger list or the
photographs.
Those were his aces in the hole.
* * * Reggie's Fish and Chip Shop was located in a little
cul-de-sac off
the Brompton Road. It was a small establishment with a
clientele made
up mainly of clerks and secretaries who worked in the
neighborhood. Its
walls were covered with football posters, and the parts
that were
exposed had not seen fresh paint since the Suez conflict.
The phone behind the counter rang twice before it was
answered by a
large man dressed in a greasy wool sweater. The man
looked like a
typical East Ender except for a gold-rimmed monocle fixed
tightly in the
socket of his leff eye. The reason for the monocle was
apparent to
anyone who looked closely at the man: His other eye was
made of glass
and of a color blue that was generally seen on travel
posters.
"Reggie here."
"This is the Bishop."
"Yes, sir," said Reggie, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Our client's name is Mothershed. Christian tag, Leslie.
Resides at
213A Grove Road. We need this order filled quickly.
Understood?"
"It's already done, sir."
eslie Mothershed was lost in a golden daydream. He was
being
interviewed by members of the world press. They were
asking him about
the huge castle he had just bought in Scotland, his
chateau in the South
of France, his enormous yacht.
"And is it true that the Queen has invited you to become
the official
royal photographer?"
"Yes. I said I would let her know. And now, ladies and
gentlemen, if
you will all excuse me, I'm late for my show at the
B.C....', His
reverie was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. He
looked at his
watch. Eleven o'clock. Has that man returned? He walked
over to the
door and cautiously opened it. In the doorway stood a man
shorter than
Mothershed (that was the first thing he noticed about
him), with thick
glasses and a thin, sallow face.
"Excuse me," the man said diffidently.
"I apologize for disturbing you at this hour. I live just
down the
block. The sign outside says you're a photographer."
"So?"
"Do you do passport photos?"
Leslie Mothershed do passport photos? The man who is
about to own the
world? That is like asking Michelangelo to paint the
bathroom.
"No," he said rudely. He started to close the door.
"I really hate to bother you, but I'm in a terrible jam.
My plane leaves for Tokyo at eight o'clock in the morning,
and a little
while ago when I took out my passport, I saw that somehow
my photograph
had been torn loose. It's missing. I've looked
everywhere.
They won't let me on the plane without a passport photo."
The little
man was near tears.
"I'm sorry," Mothershed said.
"I can't help you."
"I'd be willing to pay you a hundred pounds." A hundred
pounds?
Toaman withacas the andachateau and a yacht? It's an
insult. The
pathetic little man was going on.
"I could go even higher. Two hundred or three hundred.
You see, I
really must be on that plane or I'll lose my job."
Three hundred pounds to take a passport picture? Not
including the
developing, it would take about 10 seconds. Mothershed
began to
calculate. That came to 1,800 pounds a minute. Eighteen
hundred pounds
a minute was 10,800 pounds an hour. If he worked an
eight-hour day,
that would be 94,400 pounds a day. In one week, that
would come to
"Will you do it?"
Mothershed's ego jockeyed with his greed, and greed won
out. I can use
a bit of pocket money.
"Come in," Mothershed said.
"Stand against that wall."
"Thank you. I really appreciate this." Mothershed wished
he had a
Polaroid camera. That would have made it so simple. He
picked up his
Vivitar and said, "Hold still." Ten seconds later it was
done.
"It will take a while to develop it," Mothershed said.
"If you come back in-"
"If you don't mind, I'll wait."
"Suit yourself."
Mothershed took the camera into the darkroom, put it into
the black bag,
turned off the overhead light, switched on the red light,
and removed
the film. He would do this in a hurry. Passport pictures
always looked
terrible anyway. Fifteen minutes later, as Mothershed was
timing the
film in the developer tanks, he began to smell smoke. He
paused. Was
it his imagination? No. The smell was getting stronger.
He turned to
open the door. It seemed to be stuck.
Mothershed pushed against it. It held fast.
"Hello," he called out.
"What's happening out there?"
There was no response.
"Hello?"
He pressed his shoulder against the door, but there seemed
to be
something heavy on the other side of it keeping it closed.
"Mister?"
There was no answer. The only sound he could hear was a
loud crackling
noise. The smell of smoke was becoming overpowering. The
flat was on
fire. That's probably why he left. He must have gone to
get help.
Leslie Mothershed slammed his shoulder against the door,
but it would
not budge.
"Help!" he screamed.
"Get me out of here!"
Smoke was starting to pour under the door, and Mothershed
could feel the
heat of the flames beginning to lick at it. It was
getting difficult to
breathe. He was starting to choke. He tore at his
collar, gasping for
air. His lungs were burning. He was beginning to lose
consciousness.
He sank down on his knees.
"Oh, God, please don't let me die now. Not now that I'm
going to be
rich and famous...."
"Reggie here."
"Was the order filled?"
"Yes, sir. A bit overcooked but delivered on time."
"Excellent."
When Robert arrived at Grove Road at two o'clock in the
morning to begin
his surveillance, he was confronted with an enormous
traffic jam. The
street was filled with official vehicles, a fire engine,
ambulances, and
three police cars. Robert pushed his way through the
crowd of
bystanders and hurried over to the center of activity.
The whole
building had been engulfed by the fire. From the outside
he could see
that the first-floor flat occupied by the photographer had
been
completely gutted.
"How did it happen?"
Robert asked a fireman.
"We don't know yet. Stand back, please."
"My cousin lives in that flat. Is he all right?"
"I'm afraid not." His tone became sympathetic.
"They're just taking him out of the building now."
Robert watched as two ambulance attendants pushed a gurney
carrying a
body into the ambulance.
"I was staying with him," Robert said.
"All my clothes are in there. I'd like to go in andThe
fireman shook
his head.
"It wouldn't do you any good, sir. There's nothing left
of the flat but
ashes."
Nothing left but ashes. Including the photographs and the
precious list
of passengers with their names and addresses.
So much for fucking serendipity, Robert thought bitterly.
In Washington Dustin Thornton was having lunch with his
father-in-law in
the lavish private dining room in Willard Stone's offices.
Dustin
Thornton was nervous. He was always nervous in the
presence of his
powerful fatherin-law.
Willard Stone was in a good mood.
"I had dinner with the President last evening. He told me
that he's
very pleased with your work, Dustin."
"I'm very gratified."
"You're doing a fine job. You're helping to protect us
against the
hordes."
"The hordes?"
"Those who would try to bring this great country to its
knees. But it
is not just the enemy outside the walls we have to beware
of. It is
those who pretend to be serving our country, who fail to
do their duty.
Those who do not carry out their orders."
"The mavericks."
"That's right, Dustin. The mavericks. They must be
punished.
If-" A man walked into the room.
"Excuse me, Mr. Stone.
The gentlemen have arrived. They're waiting for you."
"Yes." Stone turned to his son-in-law.
"Finish your lunch, Dustin. I have something important to
take care of.
One day I may be able to tell you about it."
he streets of Zurich were filled with weird-looking
creatures with odd
sbapes, misshapen giants with large, grotesque bodies and
tiny eyes, and
with skin the color of boiled fish. They were meat
eaters, and she
hated the fetid smells they exuded from their bodies.
Some of the
females wore animal skins, the remains of the creatures
they had
murdered. She was still stunned by the terrible accident
that had taken
away the life essence of her companions. She had been on
earth for four
cycles of what these strange-looking beings called luna,
and she had not
eaten in all that time. She was faint from thirst. The
only water she
had been able to drink was the fresh rainwater in the
farmer's trough,
and it had not rained since the night she arrived. The
rest of the
water on earth was undrinkable. She had gone into an
alien feeding
place, but she had been unable to stand the stench. She
had tried to
eat their raw vegetables and fruit, but they were
tasteless, not like
the succulent food at home.
She was called the Graceful One, and she was tall and
stately and
beautiful with luminous green eyes. She had adopted the
appearance of
an earthling after she left the site of the crash, and she
walked
through the crowds unnoticed.
She was seated at a table in a hard, uncomfortable chair
that had been
built for the human body, and she read the minds of the
creatures around
her.
Two of the beings were seated at a table near her. One
was speaking
aloud.
"It's the chance of a lifetime, Franz! For fifty thousand
francs you
can get in at the start. You've got fifty thousand
francs, haven't
you?"
She read the loud thoughts in his head.
Come on, you swine. I need the commission.
"Sure, but I don't know-" I'll have to borrow it from my
wife.
"Have I ever given you bad investment advice?"
Make up your mind.
"It's a lot of money." She'll never give it to me.
"What about the potential? There's a chance to make
millions." Say yes.
"All right. I'm in." Maybe I can sell some of her
jewelry.
I have him! "You'll never regret it, Franz." He can
always take a tax
loss.
The Graceful One had no idea what the conversation meant.
At the far end of the restaurant, a man and woman were
seated at a
table. They were talking in low voices. She stretched
her mind to hear
them.
"Jesus Christ!" the man said.
"How the hell could you get pregnant?"
You stupid bitch!
"How do you think I got pregnant?"
Your cock did it! Pregnant was how these beings gestated,
procreating
clumsily with their genitals, like their animals in the
fields.
"What are you going to do about it, Tina?"
You've got to get an abortion.
"What do you expect me to do? You said you were going to
tell your wife
about me." You lying bastard.
"Look, honey, I am, but this is a bad time." I was crazy
to ever get
involved with you. I should have known you were trouble.
"It's a bad time for me, too, Paul. I don't even think
you love me."
Please tell me you do.
"Of course I love you. It's just that my wife is going
through a rough
period right now." I don't intend to lose her.
"I'm going through a rough period right now too. Don't
you understand?
I'm having your baby." And you're damn well going to
marry me. Water
was coming from her eyes.
"Calm down, honey. I tell you, everything is going to be
fine. I want
the baby as much as you do." I'll have to talk her into
an abortion. At
a table next to them, a male creature was seated alone.
They promised me. They said the race was fixed, that I
couldn't lose,
and like a fool, I turned all my monry over to them. I've
got to find a
way to put it back before the auditors come. I couldn't
stand it if
they put me in jail. I'll kill myself first. I swear to
God, I'll kill
myself At another table, a male and female were in the
middle of a
discussion. ..... it's nothing like that. It's just
that I've got
this beautiful chalet in the mountains, and I thought it
would be good
for you to get away for a weekend and relax." We'll spend
a lot of time
relaxing in my bed, cherie.
"I don't know, Claude. I've never gone away with a man
before." I
wonder if he believes that.
"Oui, but this is not a sex thing. I just thought of the
chalet because
you said you needed a rest. You can think of me as your
brother." And
we will try some good, oldfashioned incest.
The Graceful One was unaware that the various peopIe were
speaking in
different languages, for she was able to filter them all
through her
consciousness and understand what they were saying.
I must find a way to get in touch with the mothership, she
thought. She
took out the small, hand-held silvercolored transmitter.
It was a
divided neuronet system, half of it consisting of living
organic
material and the other half of a metallic compound from
another galaxy.
The organic material was composed of thousands of single
cells, so that
as they died off, others would multiply, keeping the
connections
constant. Unfortunately, the dilitheum crystal that
activated the
transmitter had broken off and was lost. She had tried to
communicate
with her ship, but the transmitter was useless without it.
She tried to eat another leaf of lettuce, but she could no
longer stand
the stench. She rose and started toward the door. The
cashier called
out after her, "Just a minute, miss. You haven't paid for
your meal."
"I'm sorry. I do not have your medium of exchange."
"You can tell that to the police."
The Graceful One stared into the cashier's eyes and
watched her go limp.
She turned and walked out of the feeding place.
I must find the crystal. They are waiting to hear from
me. She had to
concentrate to focus her senses. But everything seemed
blurred and
distorted. Without water, she knew, she was going to die
soon.
Day Five Bern, Switzerland
Robert had come to a dead end. He had not realized how
much he had
counted on obtaining Mothershed's list of names. Up in
smoke, Robert
thought. Literally.
The trail was cold now. I should have gotten the list
when I was in
Mothershed's fiat. That will teach. me t~teach. Of
course! A thought
that had been in the back of his mind suddenly came into
focus. Hans
Beckerman had said, "Affenarsch! All the other passengers
were excited
about seeing the UFO and those dead creatures in it, but
this old man
kept complaining about how we had to hurry up to get to
Bern because he
had to prepare some lecture for the university." It was a
long shot,
but it was all Robert had.
He rented a car at the Bern airport and headed for the
university.
He turned off Rathausgasse, the main street of Bern, and
drove to
Langgassestrasse, where the University of Bern was
located. The
university is composed of several buildings, the main one
a large
four-story stone building with two wings and large stone
gargoyles
adorning the roof. At each end of the courtyard in front
of the
building are glass skylights over classrooms, and at the
rear of the
university is a large park overlooking the Aare River.
Robert walked up the front steps of the administration
building and
entered the reception hall. The only information
Beckerman had given
him was that the passenger was German and that he was
preparing his
lecture for Monday.
A student directed him to the Office of the
Administration. The woman
seated behind the desk was a formidable figure. She had
on a severely
tailored suit, blackframed spectacles, and she wore her
hair in a bun.
She looked up as Robert entered her office.
"Bitte?"
Robert pulled out an identification card.
"Interpol. I'm conducting an investigation, and I would
appreciate your
cooperation, Miss-"
"Frau. Frau Schreiber. What kind of investigation?"
"I'm looking for a professor." She frowned.
"His name?"
"I don't know."
"You do not know his name?"
"No. He's a visiting professor. He gave a lecture here a
few days ago.
Montag."
"Many visiting professors come here every day to give
lectures.
What is his discipline?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"What does he teach?"
Her tone was growing impatient.
"What subject did he lecture on?"
"I don't know."
She let her exasperation show.
"Tut mir leid. I can't help you.
And I am too busy for frivolous questions like this-" She
started to
turn away.
"Oh, it's not frivolous," Robert assured her.
"Es ist sehr dringend." He leaned forward and said in a
low voice, "I'm
going to have to take you into my confidence. The
professor we're
looking for is involved in a prostitution ring."
Frau Schreiber's mouth made a small "0" of surprise.
"Interpol has been on his trail for months. The current
information we
have on him is that he is German and that he gave a
lecture here on the
fifteenth of this month." He straightened up.
"If you don't want to help, we can conduct an official
investigation of
the university. Of course, the publicity-"
"Nein, nein!" she said.
"The university must not be involved in anything like
this." She looked
womed.
"You say he lectured here on-what day?"
"The fifteenth. Monday."
Frau Schreiber rose and walked over to a filing cabinet.
She pulled it
open and scanned some papers. She extracted several
sheets from a
folder.
"Here we are. There were three guest professors who gave
lectures here
on the fifteenth."
"The man I want is German."
"They are all German," Frau Schreiber said stiffly.
She shuffled the papers in her hand.
"One of the lectures was on economics, one on chemistry,
and one on
psychology."
"May I see those?"
Reluctantly, she handed the reports to Robert. He studied
the sheets.
Each one had a name written down with a home address and a
telephone
number.
"I can make a copy of these for you, if you wish."
"No, thank you." He had already memorized the names and
numbers.
"None of these is the man I'm looking for." Frau
Schreiber gave a sigh
of relief.
"Well, thank God for that. Prostitution! We would never
be involved in
such a thing."
"I'm sorry I troubled you for nothing." Robert left and
headed for a
telephone booth in town.
The first telephone call was to Berlin.
"Professor Streubel?"
"Ja."
"This is the Sunshine Tours Bus Company. You left a pair
of glasses on
our bus last Sunday when you were touring with us in
Switzerland and-"
"I do not know what you are speaking about." He sounded
annoyed.
"You were in Switzerland on the fourteenth, were you not,
Professor?"
"No. On the fifteenth. To give a lecture at the
University of Bern."
"And you did not take our bus tour?"
"I have no time for such foolishness. I'm a busy man."
And the professor hung up. The second call was to
Hamburg.
"Professor Heinrich?"
"This is Professor Heinrich."
"This is the Sunshine Tours Bus Company. You were in
Switzerland on the
fourteenth of this month?"
"Why do you wish to know?"
"Because we found a briefcase of yours on one of our
buses, Professor,
and "You have the wrong person. I have been on no tour
buses."
"You did not take a tour of ours to the Jungfrau?"
"I just told you, no."
"I'm sorry to have bothered you."
The third call was to Munich.
"Professor Otto Schmidt?"
"Yes."
"Professor Schmidt, this is the Sunshine Tours Bus
Company. We have a
pair of your glasses that you left on our bus a few days
ago, and-"
"There must be some mistake."
Robert's heart sahk. He had struck out. There was
nowhere left to go.
The voice went on.
"I have my glasses here. I have not lost them." Robert's
spirits
soared.
"Are you sure, Professor?
You were on the Jungfrau trip on the fourteenth, were you
not?"
"Yes, yes, but I told you, I have not lost anything."
"Thank you very much, Professor." Robert replaced the
receiver.
Jackpot! Robert dialed another number, and within two
minutes he was
speaking with General Hilliard.
"I have two things to report," Robert said.
"The witness in London I told you about?"
"Yes?"
"He died in a fire last night."
"Really? Too bad."
"Yes, sir. But I believe I've located another witness.
I'll let you know as soon as I check him out."
"I'll wait to hear from you, Commander."
General Hilliard was reporting to Janus.
"Commander Bellamy has located another ~~~~~~~~)~ "Good.
The group is
getting restless.
Everyone is worried that this story will surface before
SDI is
operational."
"I'll have more information for you soon."
"I don't want information, I want results."
"Yes, Janus."
Plattenstrasse, in Munich, is a quiet residential street
with drab
brownstone buildings huddled together as though for
protection. Number
5 was identical to its neighbors. Inside the vestibule
was a row of
mailboxes. A small card below one of them read,
"Professor Otto
Schmidt." Robert rang the bell.
The apartment door was opened by a tall, thin man with an
untidy mop of
white hair. He was wearing a tattered sweater and smoking
a pipe.
Robert wondered whether he had created the image of an
archetypical
college professor, or whether the image had created him.
"Professor Schmidt?"
"Yes?"
"I wonder if I might talk to you a moment. I'm with-"
"We have already talked," Professor Schmidt said.
"You are the man who telephoned me this morning. I am an
expert at
recognizing voices.
Come in."
"Thank you." Robert entered a living room crowded with
books.
Against the walls, rising from floor to ceiling were
bookcases filled
with hundreds of volumes. Books were stacked everywhere:
on tables, on
the floor, on chairs. The sparse furniture in the room
seemed to be an
afterthought.
"You're not with any Swiss tour bus company, are you?"
"Well, I-"
"You are American."
"Yes."
"And this visit has nothing to do with my lost glasses
that were not
lost."
"Well-no, sir."
"You are interested in the UFO I saw. It was a very
upsetting
experience. I always believed they might exist, but I
never thought I
would see one."
"It must have been a terrible shock."
"It was."
"Can you tell me anything about it?"
"It was-it was almost alive. There was a kind of
shimmering light
around it. Blue. No, maybe more of a gray. I-I'm not
sure."
He remembered Mandel's description: "It kept changing
colors. It looked
..... - then green."
"It had broken open, and I could see two bodies inside.
Small ...
big eyes. They were wearIng some kind of silver suit."
"Is there anything you can tell me about your fellow
passengers?"
"My fellow passengers on the bus?"
"Yes."
The professor shrugged.
"I know nothing' of them. They were all strangers. I was
concentrating
on a lecture I was going to give the next morning, and I
paid very
little attention to the other passengers."
Robert watched his face, waiting.
"If it will help you any," the professor said1 "I can tell
you what
countries some of them came from. I teach chemistry, but
the study of
phonetics is my hobby."
"Anything you can remember would be appreciated."
"There was an Italian priest, a Hungarian, an American
with a Texas
accent, an Englishman, a Russian girl-"
"Russian?"
"Yes. But she was not from Moscow. From her accent, I
would say Kiev,
or very near there."
Robert waited, but there was only silence.
"You didn't hear any of them mention their names or talk
about their
professions?"
"I'm sorry. I told you, I was thinking about my lecture:
It was
difficult to concentrate. The Texan and the priest sat
together. The
Texan never stopped talking. It was very distracting. I
don't know how
much the priest even understood."
"The priest-"
"He had a Roman accent."
"Can you tell me anything more about any of them?"
The professor shrugged.
"I'm afraid not." He took another puff on his pipe.
"I'm sorry I can't be of any help to you."
A sudden thought came to Robert.
"You said you're a chemist?"
"Yes."
"I wonder if you would mind taking a look at something,
Professor."
Robert reached in his pocket and pulled out the piece of
metal Beckerman
had given him.
"Can you tell me what this is?"
Professor Schmidt took the object in his hand, and as he
examined it,
his expression changed.
"Where-where did you get this?"
"I'm afraid I can't say. Do you know what it is?"
"It appears to be part of a transmitting device."
"Are you sure?"
He turned it over in his hand.
"The crystal is dilithium. It's very rare. See these
notches here?
They suggest that this fits into a larger unit. The metal
itself is ...
My God, I've never seen anything like it!" His voice was
charged with
excitement.
"Can you let me have this for a few days? I would like to
do some
spectrographic studies on it."
"I'm afraid that's impossible," Robert said.
"But-"
"Sorry." Robert took back the piece of metal. The
professor tried to
conceal his disappointment.
"Perhaps you can bring it back. Why don't you give me
your card? If I
think of anything more, I'll call you."
Robert fumbled in his pockets for a moment.
"I don't seem to have any of my cards with me."
Professor Schmidt said slowly, "Yes, I thought not."
"Commander Bellamy is on the line." General Hilliard
picked up the
telephone.
"Yes, Commander?"
"The latest witness's name is Professor Schmidt. He lives
at
Plattenstrasse 5 in Munich."
"Thank you, Commander. I'll notify the German authorities
immediately."
Robert was on the verge of saying "I'm afraid that's the
last witness
I'll be able to find," but something held him back. He
hated to admit
failure. And yet, the trail had become cold.
A Texan and a priest. The priest was from Rome. Period.
Along with a
million other priests. And there was no way to identify
him. I have a
choice, Robert thought. I can give up and go back to
Washington, or I
can go to Rome and give it one lasts....
Bundesverfassungsschutzamt, the headquarters of the Office
for the
Protection of the Constitution, is located in central
Berlin on
Neumarkterstrasse. It is a large, gray, nondescript
building,
indistinguishable from the buildings around it. Inside on
the second
floor, in the conference room, the chief of the
department, Inspector
Otto Joachim, was studying a message. He read it twice,
then reached
for the red telephone on his desk.
Day Six Munich, Germany
The following morning, as Otto Schmidt headed for his
chemistry lab, he
was thinking about the conversation he had had with the
American the
evening before. Where could that piece of metal have come
from? It was
astonishing, beyond anything in his experience. And the
American
puzzled him. He said he was interested in the passengers
on the bus.
Why? Because they've all been witnesses to the flying
saucer? Are they
going to be warned not to talk? If so, why didn't the
American warn
him? There's something strange going on, the professor
decided. He
entered the laboratory and took off his jacket and hung it
up. He put
on an apron to keep his clothes from getting soiled and
walked over to
the table where he had been working for many weeks on a
chemical
experiment. If this works, he thought, it could mean a
Nobel prize. He
lifted the beaker of sterile water and started to pour it
into a
container filled with a yellow liquid. That's strange. I
don't
remember it being such a bright yellow.
The roar of the explosion was tremendous. The laboratory
erupted in a
gigantic blast, and pieces of glass and human flesh
spattered the walls.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
BFV TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
4.
OTTO SCHMIDT-TERMINATED
END OF MESSAGE
Robert missed the news of the professor's death. He was
aboard an
Alitalia plane, on his way to Rome.
b ustin Thornton was getting restless. He had power now,
and it was
like a drug. He wanted more. His father-in-law, Willard
Stone, kept
promising to bring him into some mysterious inner circle,
but so far he
had failed to fulfill that promise. It was by pure chance
that Thornton
learned that his father-in-law disappeared every Friday.
Thorton had called to have lunch with him.
"I'm sorry," Willard Stone's personal secretary said, "but
Mr. Stone is
away for the day."
"Oh, too bad. What about lunch next Friday?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Thornton. Mr. Stone will be away next
Friday also."
Strange. And it became even stranger, because when
Thornton called two
weeks later, he received the same reply. Where does the
old man
disappear to every Friday? He was not a golfer or a man
to indulge in
any hobbies.
The obvious answer was a woman. Willard Stone's wife was
very social
and very rich. She was an imperious woman, almost as
strong in her way
as her husband. She was not the sort of woman who would
tolerate her
husband having an affair. If he is having an affair,
Thornton thought,
I've got him by the balls. He knew he had to find out.
With all the
facilities at his command, Dustin Thornton could have
found out very
quickly what his father-inlaw was up to, but Thornton was
no fool. He
was well aware that if he made one misstep, he would be in
big trouble.
Willard Stone was not the kind of man to brook any
interference in his
life. Thornton decided to investigate the matter himself.
At five A.M.
on the following Friday, Dustin Thornton was slumped
behind the wheel of
an inconspicuous Ford Taurus, half a block from Willard
Stone's imposing
mansion. It was a cold, miserable dawn, and Thornton kept
asking
himself what he was doing there. There was probably some
perfectly
reasonable explanation for Stone's odd behavior. I'm
wasting my time,
Thornton thought. But something kept him there.
At seven o'clock, the driveway gates opened, and a car
appeared.
Willard Stone was at the wheel. Instead of his usual
limousine, he was
in a small, black van used by the household staff A
feeling of
exultation spread through Thornton. He knew he was onto
something.
People lived according to their pattern, and Stone was
breaking the
pattern. It had to be another woman.
Driving carefully and staying well behind the van,
Thornton followed his
father-in-law through the streets of Washington to the
road that led to
Arlington.
I'll have to handle this very delicately, Thornton
thought. I don't
want to push him too hard. I'll get all the information I
can about his
mistress, and then I'll confront him with it. I'll tell
him my only
interest is in protecting him. He'll get the message.
The last thing
he wants is a public scandal.
Dustin Thornton was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that
he almost
missed the turn that Willard Stone had taken. They were
in an exclusive
residential district. The black van abruptly disappeared
up a long,
tree-shaded driveway.
Dustin Thornton stopped the car, deciding on the best way
to proceed.
Should he face Willard Stone with his infidelity now? Or
should he wait
until Stone left and then talk to the woman first? Or
should he quietly
gather all the information he needed and then have a talk
with his
father-in-law? He decided to reconnoiter.
Thornton parked his car on a side street and walked around
to the alley
at the back of the two-story house. A wooden fence
blocked off the back
of the yard, but that was no problem. Thornton opened the
gate and
stepped inside. He was facing huge, beautiful, manicured
grounds with
the house at the rear.
He moved quietly in the shadow of the trees that lined the
lawn and
stood at the back door, deciding what his next move should
be. He
needed proof of what was going on. Without it the old man
would laugh
at him. Whatever was happening inside at this moment
could be the key
to his future. He had to find out. Very gently, Thornton
tried the
back door. It was unlocked. He slipped inside and found
himself in a
large, oldfashioned kitchen. There was no one around.
Thornton moved
toward the service door and pushed it open slightly. He
was facing a
large reception hall. At the far end was a closed door
that could have
led to a library. Thornton walked toward it, moving
quietly. He stood
there listening. There was no sign of life in the house.
The old man
is probably upstairs in the bedroom.
Thornton walked toward the closed door and opened it. He
stood in the
doorway, staring. There were a dozen men seated in the
room around a
large table.
"Come in, Dustin," Willard Stone said.
"We've been expecting you.
Rome proved to be difficult for Robert, an emotional
ordeal that drained
him. He had honeymooned there with Susan, and the
memories were
overpowering. Rome was Roberto, who managed the Hassler
Hotel for his
mother, and who was partially deaf but could lip-read in
five languages.
Rome was the gardens of Villa d'Este in Tivoli, and the
Ristorante
Sibilla and Susan's delight at the one hundred fountains
created by the
son of Lucretia Borgia. Rome was Otello, at the foot of
the Spanish
Steps, and the Vatican, and the Colosseum and the Forum
and
Michelangelo's Moses. Rome was sharing a tartufo at Tre
Scalini and the
sound of Susan's laughter, and her voice saying, "Please
promise me
we'll always be this happy, Robert."
What the hell am I doing here? Robert wondered. I don't
have any idea
who the priest is, or whether he's even in Rome. It's
time to retire,
to go home and forget all this.
But something inside him, some stubborn streak inherited
from a
long-dead ancestor, would not let him. I'll give it one
day, Robert
decided. Just one more day. The Leonardo da Vinci
Airport was crowded,
and it seemed to Robert that every other person was a
priest. He was
looking for one priest in a city of-what? Fifty thousand
priests? A
hundred thousand?
In the taxi on the way to the Hassler Hotel, he noticed
crowds of robed
priests on the streets. This is impossible, Robert
thought. I must be
out of my mind.
He was greeted in the lobby of the Hassler Hotel by the
assistant
manager.
"Commander Bellamy! What a pleasure to see you again."
"Thank you, Pietro. Do you have a room for me for one
night?"
"For you-of course. Always!"
Robert was escorted to a room he had occupied before.
"If there's anything you need, Commander, please..."
I need a bloody miracle, Robert thought. He sat down on
the bed and lay
back, trying to clear his mind.
Why would a priest from Rome travel to Switzerland? There
were several
possibilities. He might have gone on vacation, or there
might have been
a convocation of priests. He was the only priest on the
tour bus. What
did that signify? Nothing. Except, perhaps, that he was
not traveling
with a group. So it could have been a trip to visit his
friends or
family. Or maybe he was with a group, and they had other
plans that
day.
Robert's thoughts were going around in a futile circle.
Back to the
beginning. How did the priest get to Switzerland? The
chances are
pretty good that he doesn't own a car. Someone could have
given him a
lift, but more probably he traveled by plane or train or
took a bus. If
he were on vacation, he wouldn't have a lot of time. So
let's assume he
took a plane. That line of reasoning led nowhere.
Airlines did not
list the occupations of their passengers. The priest
would be yet
another name on the passenger manifest. But if he were
part of a
group...
The Vatican, the official residence of the pope, rises
majestically on
Vatican Hill, on the west bank of the Tiber, in the
northwest end of
Rome. The dome of St. Peter's Basilica, designed by
Michelangelo,
towers over the huge piazza, filled day and night with
avid sightseers
of all faiths.
The piazza is surrounded by two semicircular colonnades
completed in
1667 by Bernini, with 284 columns of travertine marble
placed in 4 rows
and surmounted by a balustrade on which stand 140 statues.
Robert had visited there a dozen times, but each time the
sight took his
breath away.
The interior of the Vatican, of course, was even more
spectacular.
The Sistine Chapel and the museum and the Sala Rotonda
were
indescribably beautiful.
But on this day, Robert had not come here to sightsee. He
found the
Office of Public Relations for the Vatican in the wing of
the buzilding
devoted to secular aliais. The young man behind the desk
was polite.
"May I help you?"
Robert flashed an identification card.
"I'm with Time magazine.
I'm doing an article on some priests who attended a
convocation in
Switzerland in the past week or two. I'm looking for
background
information." The man studied him for a moment, then
frowned.
"We had some priests attend a convocation in Venice last
month.
None of our priests was in Switzerland recently. I'm
sorry, I'm afraid
I can't help you."
"It's really very important," Robert said earnestly.
"How would I go about getting that information?"
"The group you are looking for-what branch of the church
do they
represent?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"There are many Roman Catholic orders. There are
Franciscans, Marists,
Benedictines, Trappists, Jesuits, Dominicans, and several
others. I
suggest you go to the order they belong to and inquire
there."
Where the hell is "there"? Robert wondered.
"Do you have any other suggestions?"
"I'm afraid not."
Neither have I, Robert thought I found the haystack. I
can't find the
needle.
He left the Vatican and wandered through the streets of
Rome, heedless
of the people around him, concentrating on his problem.
At the Piazza
del Popolo, he sat down at an outdoor cafe and ordered a
Cinzano.
It sat in front of him, untouched.
For all he knew, the priest could still be in Switzerland.
What order
does he belong to? I don't know. And I have only the
professor's word
that he was Roman.
He took a sip of his drink.
There was a late-afternoon plane to Washington. I'm going
to be on it,
Robert decided. I give up. The thought galled him. Out,
not with a
bang, but with a whimper. It was time to leave.
"Il conto, per favore."
"Si, signore."
Robert's eyes swept idly around the piazza. Across from
the cafe, a bus
was loading passengers. In the line were two priests.
Robert watched
as the passengers paid their fares and moved toward the
back of the bus.
When the priests reached the conductor, they smiled at him
and took
their seats without paying.
"Your check, signore," the waiter said. Robert didn't
even hear him.
His mind was racing. Here, in the heart of the Catholic
church, priests
had certain privileges. It was possible, just possible...
The offices of Swissair are located at 10 Via Po, five
minutes from the
Via Veneto.
Robert was greeted by a man behind the counter.
"May I see the manager, please?"
"I am the manager. Can I help you?"
Robert flashed an identification card.
"Michael Hudson.
Interpol."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Hudson?"
"Some international carriers are complaining about illegal
price
discounting in Europe-in Rome, particularly. According to
international
convention-"
"Excuse me, Mr. Hudson, but Swissair does not give
discounts.
Everyone pays the posted fares."
"Everyone?"
"With the exception of employees of the airline, of
course.
"Don't you have a discount for priests?"
"No. On this airline, they pay full fare." On this
airline.
"Thank you for your time." And Robert was gone. His next
stop-and his
last hope-was Alitalia.
"Illegal discounts?"
The manager was staring at Robert, puzzled.
"We give discounts only to our employees.
"Don't you give discounts to priests?"
The manager's face brightened.
"Ah, that, yes. But that is not illegal. We have
arrangements with the
Catholic church."
Robert's heart soared.
"So, if a priest wanted to fly from Rome, say, to
Switzerland, he would
use this airline?"
"Well, it would be cheaper for him. Yes."
Robert said, "In order to bring our computers up-to date,
it would be
helpful if you could tell me how many priests have flown
to Switzerland
in the past two weeks. You would have a record of that,
wouldn't you?"
"Yes, of course. For tax purposes."
"I would really appreciate that information."
"You wish to know how many priests have flown to
Switzerland in the past
two weeks?"
"Yes. Zurich or Geneva."
"Just a moment. I will talk to our computers."
Five minutes later, the manager returned with a computer
printout.
"There was only one priest who flew Alitalia to
Switzerland in the past
two weeks." He consulted the printout.
"He left Rome on the seventh and flew to Zurich. His
return flight was
booked for two days ago."
Robert took a deep breath.
"His name?"
"Father Romero Patrini."
"His address?"
He looked down at the paper again.
"He lives in Orvieto. If you need any further-" He looked
up.
Robert was gone.
Day Seven Orvieto, Italy
Robert stopped the car on a hairpin bend on route 5-71,
and there across
the valley, high on a rise of volcanic rock, was a
breathtaking view of
the city. It was an ancient Etruscan center with a
world-famous
cathedral, half a dozen churches, and a priest who had
witnessed the
crash of a UFO.
The town was untouched by time, with cobblestone streets
and lovely old
buildings, and an open-air market where farmers came to
sell their fresh
vegetables and chickens.
Robert found a parking place in the Piazza del Duomo.
He crossed to the cathedral and went inside. The enormous
interior was
deserted, except for an elderly priest who was just
leaving the altar.
"Excuse me, Father," Robert said.
"I'm looking for a priest from this town who was in
Switzerland last
week. Perhaps you-" The priest drew back, his face
hostile.
"I cannot discuss this."
Robert looked at him in surprise.
"I don't understand. I just want to find-"
"He is not of this church. He is from the Church of San
Giovenale." And
the priest hurried past Robert.
Why is he so unfriendly?
The Church of San Giovenale was in the Quartiere Vecchio,
a colorful
area with medieval towers and churches. A young priest
was tending the
garden next to it. He looked up as Robert approached.
"Buon giorno, signore."
"Good morning. I'm looking for one of the priests who was
in
Switzerland last week. He "Yes, yes. Poor Father
Patrini. It was a
terrible, terrible thing that happened to him."
"I don't understand. What terrible thing?"
"Seeing the devil's chariot. It was more than he could
stand. The poor
man had a nervous breakdown."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Robert said.
"Where is he now? I would like to talk to him."
"He's in the hospital near the Piazza di San Patrizio, but
I doubt if
the doctors will allow anyone to see him." Robert stood
there,
troubled. A man suffering a nervous breakdown was not
going to be much
help.
"I see. Thank you very much."
The hospital was an unpretentious one-story building near
the outskirts
of the city. He parked the car and walked into the small
lobby. There
was a nurse behind the reception desk.
"Good morning," Robert said.
"I would like to see Father Patrini."
"Mi scusi, ma-that is impossible. He cannot speak with
anyone."
Robert was determined not to be stopped now. He had to
follow up the
lead Professor Schmidt had given him.
"You don't understand," Robert said smoothly.
"Father Patrini asked to see me. I've come to Orvieto at
his request."
"He asked to see you?"
"Yes. He wrote to me in America. I've come all this way
just to see
him."
The nurse hesitated.
"I do not know what to say. He is very ill.
Molto."
"I'm sure it would cheer him up to see me."
"The doctor is not here-" She made a decision.
"Very well. You may go into his room, sjgnore, but you
may only stay a
few minutes."
"That's all I'll need," Robert said.
"This way, per piacere."
They walked down a short corridor with small, neat rooms
on either side.
The nurse led Robert to one of the doors.
"Only a few minutes, signore."
"Grazie."
Robert entered the little room. The man in the bed looked
like a pale
shadow lying on the white sheets. Robert approached him
and said
softly, "Father The priest turned to look up at him, and
Robert had
never seen such agony in a man's eyes.
"Father, my name is-" He grabbed Robert's arm.
"Help me," the priest mumbled.
"You must help me. My faith is gone. All my life I have
preached of
God and the Holy Spirit, and now I know that there is no
God. There is
only the devil, and he has come for us-"
"Father, if you-"
"I saw it with my own eyes. There were two of them in the
devil's
chariot, but, oh, there will be more! Others will come!
Wait and see.
We are all doomed to hell."
"Father-listen to me. What you saw was not the devil. It
was a space
vehicle that-" The priest let go of Robert and looked at
him with sudden
clarity.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
Robert said, "I'm a friend. I came here to ask you about
the bus trip
you took in Switzerland."
"The bus. I wish I had never gone near it." The priest
was becoming
agitated again.
Robert hated to press him, but he had no choice.
"You sat next to a man on that bus. A Texan. You had a
long
conversation with him, remember?"
"A conversation. The Texan. Yes, I remember."
"Did he mention where he lived in Texas?"
"Yes, I remember him. He was from America."
"Yes. From Texas. Did he tell you where his home was?"
"Yes, yes. He told me."
"Where, Father? Where is his home?"
"Texas. He talked of Texas."
Robert nodded encouragingly.
"That's right."
"I saw them with my own eyes. I wish God had blinded me.
I-"
"Father-the man from Texas. Did he say where he was from?
Did he
mention a name?"
"Texas, yes. The Ponderosa."
Robert tried again.
"That's on television. This was a real man.
He sat next to you onThe priest was becoming delirious
again.
"They're coming! Armageddon is here. The Bible lies! It
is the devil
who will invade the earth."
He was shouting loudly now.
"Look out! Look out! I can see them!"
The nurse came hurrying in. She looked at Robert
reprovingly.
"You will have to leave, signore."
"I need just one more minute-"
"No, signore. Adesso!"
Robert took one last look at the priest. He was raving
incoherently.
Robert turned to go. There was nothing further he could
do. He had
gambled on the priest giving him a lead to the Texan, and
he had lost.
Robert returned to his car and headed back toward Rome.
It was finally
over. The only clues he had left-if they could be called
clues-were the
mention of a Russian woman, a Texan, and a Hungarian.
But there was no way to pursue them any farther. Check
and check mate.
It was frustrating to have come this far and then to be
stopped. If only
the priest had remained coherent long enough to give him
the information
he needed! He had been so close. What was it the priest
had said? The
Ponderosa. The old priest has been watching too much
television and, in
his delirium, he obviously associated Texas with the
once-popular TV
show, "Bonanza." The Ponderosa, where the mythical
Cartwright family
lived. The Ponderosa. Robert slowed the car and pulled
over to the
side of the road, his mind racing. He made a U-turn and
sped back
toward Orvieto.
Half an hour later, Robert was talking to the bartender in
a small
trattoria in the Piazza della Repubblica.
"You have a beautiful town here," Robert said.
"It's very peaceful."
"Oh, si, signore, we are quite content here. Have you
visited Italy
before?"
"I spent part of my honeymoon in Rome."
"You make all my dreams come true, Robert. I've wanted to
see Rome ever
since I was a little girl."
"Ah, Rome. Too big. Too noisy."
"I agree."
"We live simple lives here, but we are happy." Robert
said casually, "I
noticed television antennas on many of the roofs here."
"Oh, yes, indeed. We are quite up-to-date in that
respect."
"One can see that. How many television channels does the
town receive?"
"Only one."
"I suppose you get a good many American shows?"
"No, no. This is a government channel. Here we receive
only shows made
in Italy."
Bingo! "Thank you."
Robert placed a call to Admiral Whittaker. A secretary
answered the
phone.
"Admiral Whittaker's office." Robert could visualize the
office. It
would be the kind of anonymous cubbyhole they kept for
nonpersons the
government no longer had any use for.
"Could I speak to the admiral, please? Commander Robert
Bellamy
calling."
"Just a moment, Commander."
Robert wondered whether anybody bothered to keep in touch
with the
admiral now that the once-powerful figure was part of the
mothball
fleet. Probably not.
"Robert, it's very good to hear from you." The old man's
voice sounded
tired.
"Where are you?"
"I can't say, sir."
There was a pause.
"I understand. Is there something I can do for you?"
"Yes, sir. This is rather awkward because I've been
ordered not to
communicate with anyone. But I need some outside help. I
wonder if you
could check on something for me?"
"I can certainly try. What would you like to know?"
"I need to know whether there's a ranch anywhere in Texas
called The
Ponderosa."
"As in Bonanza?"
"Yes, sir."
"I can find out. How will I reach you?"
"I think it would be better if I called you, Admiral."
"Right. Give me an hour or two. I'll keep this just
between
ourselves."
"Thank you."
It seemed to Robert that the tiredness had gone out of the
old man's
voice. He had, at last, been asked to do something, even
if it was as
trivial as locating a ranch.
Two hours later, Robert telephoned Admiral Whittaker
again.
"I've been waiting for your call," the admiral said.
There was a
satisfied note in his voice.
"I have the information you wanted."
"And?"
Robert held his breath.
"There is a Ponderosa ranch in Texas. It's located just
outside of
Waco. It's owned by a Dan Wayne."
Robert heaved a deep sigh of relief.
"Thank you very much, Admiral," Robert said.
"I owe you a dinner when I get back."
"I'll be looking forward to that, Robert."
Robert's next call was to General Hilliard.
"I located another witness in Italy. Father Patrini."
"A priest?"
"Yes. In Orvieto. He's in the hospital, very ill. I'm
afraid the
Italian authorities won't be able to communicate with
him."
"I'll pass that on. Thank you, Commander."
Two minutes later, General Hilliard was on the line to
Janus.
"I've heard from Commander Bellamy again. The latest
witness is a
priest. A Father Patrini in Orvieto."
"Take care of it."
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DirECTOR SIFAR
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
5. FATHER PATR N-ORVETO
END OF MESSAGE
The headquarters of SIFAR is on Via della Pineta, on the
southernmost
outskirts of Rome, in an area surrounded by farmhouses.
The only thing that would cause a passerby to give a
second glance at
the innocent, industrial-looking stone buildings occupying
two square
blocks would be the high wall surrounding the complex,
topped by barbed
wire, with security posts at each corner. Hidden in a
military
compound, it is one of the most secretive security
agencies in the
world, and one of the least known. There are signs
outside the compound
reading: Vietate Passare Oltre i Limiti.
Inside a Spartan office on the first floor of the main
building, Colonel
Francesco Cesar was studying the flash message he had just
received. The
colonel was a man in his early fifties with a muscular
body, topped by a
pitted, bulldog face. He read the message for the third
time.
So, Operation Doomsday is finally happening. una bella
fregatura.
It is good that we have prepared for this, Cesar thought.
He looked
down at the cable again. A priest.
It was after midnight when the nun walked past the desk of
the
night-duty nurses at the little hospital in Orvieto.
"I guess she's going to see Signora Fillipi," said Nurse
Tomasino.
"Either her or old man Rigano. They're both on their last
legs."
The nun glided silently round the corner and walked
directly into the
priest's room. He was sleeping peacefully, his hands
gathered almost as
if in prayer, on his chest. A wedge of moonlight sliced
through the
blinds, casting a golden band across the priest's face.
The nun removed a small box from beneath her habit.
Carefully, she took
out a beautiful cut-glass rosary and placed it in the old
priest's
hands. As she adjusted the beads, she drew one of them
quickly across
his thumb. A thin line of blood appeared. The nun took a
tiny bottle
from the box and, with an eye dropper, delicately squeezed
three drops
into the open cut.
It took only a few minutes for the deadly, fast-acting
poison to work.
The nun sighed as she made the sign of the cross over the
dead man. She
left as silently as she had come in.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
SIFAR TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
5. FATHER PATRI NI-ORVETO-TERMINATED
END OF MESSAGE
Frank Johnson was recruited because he had been a Green
Beret in Vietnam
and was known among his comrades as the Killing Machine.
He loved to
kill. He was motivated and highly intelligent.
"He's perfect for us," Janus said.
"Approach him carefully. I don't want to lose him."
The first meeting took place in an army barracks. A
captain was talking
to Frank Johnson.
"Don't you worry about our government?"
the captain asked.
"It's being run by a bunch of bleeding hearts who are
giving the store
away.
This country needs nuclear power, but the damned
politicians are
stopping us from building new plants. We depend on the
damn Arabs for
oil, but will the government let us do our own offshore
drilling? Oh,
no. They're more worried about the fish than they are
about us. Does
that make sense to you?"
"I see your point," Frank Johnson said.
"I knew you would, because you're intelligent." He was
watching
Johnson's face as he spoke.
"If Congress won't do anything to save our country, then
it's up to some
of us to do something."
Frank Johnson looked puzzled.
"Some of us?"
"Yeah." Enough for now, the captain thought.
"We'll talk about it later." The next conversation was
more specific.
"There's a group of patriots, Frank, who are interested in
protecting
our world. They're pretty high-powered gentlemen.
They've formed a
committee. The committee may have to bend a few laws to
get its work
done, but in the end, it will be worth it. Are you
interested?"
Frank Johnson grinned.
"I'm very interested."
That was the beginning. The next meeting took place in
Ottawa, Canada,
and Frank Johnson met some of the members of the
committee.
They represented powerful interests from a dozen
countries.
"We're well organized," a member explained to Frank
Johnson.
"We have a strict chain of command. There's a Propaganda
Division,
Recruiting, Tactics, Liaison ... and a Death Squad." He
went on.
"Almost every intelligence organization in the world is
part of this."
"You mean the heads of-?"
"No, not the heads. The deputies. The hands-on people
who know what's
going on, who know what danger our countries are in."
The meetings took place all over the world-Switzerland,
Morocco,
China-and Johnson attended all of them.
* * * It was six months before Colonel Johnson met Janus.
Janus had
sent for him.
"I've been given excellent reports about you, Colonel."
Frank Johnson
grinned.
"I enjoy my work."
"So I've heard. You're in an advantageous position to
help us."
Frank Johnson sat up straighter.
"I'll do anything I can."
"Good. At the Farm, you're in charge of supervising the
training of
secret agents in the various services."
"That's right."
"And you get to know them and their capabilities."
"Intimately."
"What I would like you to do," Janus said, "is to recruit
those whom you
feel would be most helpful to our organization. We're
interested only
in the best."
"That's easy," Colonel Johnson said.
"No problem." He hesitated a moment.
"I wonder-"
"Yes?"
"I can do that with my left hand. I'd really like to do
something more,
something bigger." He leaned forward.
"I've heard about Operation Doomsday. Doomsday is right
up my alley.
I'd like to be a part of that, sir."
Janus sat there, studying him a moment. Then he nodded.
"Very well, you're in."
Johnson smiled.
"Thank you. You won't be sorry." Colonel Frank Johnson
left the
meeting a very happy man. Now he would have a chance to
show them what
he could do.
Day Eight Waco, Texas
Dan Wayne was not having a good day. As a matter of fact,
he was having
a dreadful day. He had just returned from the Waco county
courthouse,
where he was facing bankruptcy proceedings. His wife, who
had been
having an affair with her young doctor, was divorcing him,
intent on
getting half of everything he had (which could be half of
nothing, he
had assured her lawyer). And one of his prize bulls had
to be
destroyed. Dan Wayne felt that fate was kicking him in
the balls.
He had done nothing to deserve all this. He had been a
good husband and
a good rancher. He sat in his study contemplating the
gloomy future.
Dan Wayne was a proud man. He was well aware of all the
jokes about
Texans being loudmouthed, largerthan-life braggarts, but
he honestly
felt he had something to brag about. He had been born in
Waco, in the
rich agricultural region of the Brazos River valley. Waco
was modern,
but it still retained a flavor of the past, when the five
C's had been
its support: cattle, cotton, corn, collegians, and
culture.
Wayne loved Waco with all his heart and soul, and when he
had met the
Italian priest on the Swiss tour bus, he had spent almost
five hours
going on about his hometown. The priest had told him he
wanted to
practice his English, but actually, as he thought back on
it, Dan had
done almost all the talking.
"Waco has everything," he had confided to the priest.
"Our climate's great. We don't allow it to get too hot or
too cold. We
have twenty-three schools in the school district and
Baylor University.
We have four newspapers, ten radio stations, and five
television
stations.
We have a Texas Ranger Hall of Fame that will knock you
out. I mean,
we're talking history. If you like fishing, Father, the
Brazos River is
an experience you'll never forget. Then, we have a safari
ranch and a
big art center. I tell you, Waco is one of the unique
cities of the
world. You must come and pay us a visit." And the little
old priest
had smiled and nodded, and Wayne wondered how much English
he really
understood.
Dan Wayne's father had left him a thousand acres of
ranchland, and the
son had built up his cattle herd from two thousand to ten
thousand.
There was also a prize stallion that was going to be worth
a fortune.
And now the bastards were trying to take it all away from
him. It
wasn't his fault that the cattle market had gone to hell,
or that he had
gotten behind with his mortgage payments. The banks were
closing in for
the kill, and his only chance to save himself was to find
someone who
would buy the ranch, pay off his creditors, and leave him
with a little
profit.
Wayne had heard about a rich Swiss who was looking for a
ranch in Texas,
and he had flown over to Zurich to meet him. In the end,
it had turned
out to be a wild-goose chase. The dude's idea of a ranch
was an acre or
two with a nice little vegetable garden. She-eet!
That was how Dan Wayne had happened to be on the tour bus
when that
extraordinary thing occurred. He had read about flying
saucers, but he
had never believed in them. Now, by God, he certainly
did. As soon as
he returned home, he had called the editor of the local
newspaper.
"Johnny, I just saw an honest-to-God flying saucer with
some dead,
funny-looking people in it."
"Yeah? Did you get any pictures, Dan?"
"No. I took some, but they didn't come out."
"Never mind. We'll send a photographer out there. Is it
on your
ranch?"
"Well, no. As a matter of fact, it was in Switzerland."
There was a
silence.
"Oh. Well, if you happen to come across one on your ranch,
Dan, give me
another call."
"Wait! I'm being sent a picture by some fellow who saw
the thing."
But Johnny had already hung up. And that was that.
Wayne almost wished that there would be an invasion of
aliens.
Maybe they would kill off his damned creditors. He heard
the sound of a
car coming up the drive and rose and walked over to the
window. Looked
like an easterner. Probably another creditor. These days
they were
coming out of the woodwork. Dan Wayne opened the front
door.
"Howdy."
"Daniel Wayne?"
"My friends call me Dan. What can I do for you?"
Dan Wayne was not at all what Robert had expected.
He had envisioned a stereotype of a burly Texan. Dan
Wayne was slight
and ~ristocratic-looking, with an almost shy manner. The
only thing
that gave away his heritage was his accent.
"I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time?"
"That's about all I've got left," Wayne said.
"By the way, you're not a creditor, are you?"
"A creditor? No."
"Good. Come on in."
The two men walked into the living room. It was large and
comfortably
furnished with western-style furniture.
"This is a nice place you have here," Robert said.
"Yeah. I was born in this house.
Can I offer you anything? A cold drink, maybe?"
"No, thanks. I'm fine."
"Have a seat."
Robert sat down on a soft, leather couch.
"What did you want to see me about?"
"I believe you took a bus tour in Switzerland last week?"
"That's right. Is my ex-wife having me followed? You
don't work for
her, do you?"
"No, sir."
"Oh." He suddenly understood.
"You're interested in that UFO thing. Damndest thing I
ever saw. It
kept changing colors. And those dead aliens!" He
shuddered.
"I keep dreaming about it."
"Mr. Wayne, can you tell me anything about the other
passengers who were
on that bus?"
"Sorry, I can't help you out there. I was traveling
alone."
"I know, but you spoke to some of the other passengers,
didn't you?"
"To tell you the truth, I had a lot on my mind. I wasn't
paying much
attention to anyone else."
"Do you remember anything about any of them?"
Dan Wayne was silent for a moment.
"Well, there was an Italian priest. I talked to him quite
a bit. He
seemed like a nice fellow. I want to tell you something,
that flying
saucer thing really shook him up. He kept talking about
the devil."
"Did you speak to anyone else?"
Dan Wayne shrugged.
"Not really. ... Wait a minute. I talked a little bit
to some fellow
who owns a bank in Canada." He ran his tongue across his
lips.
"To tell you the truth, I'm having a little financial
problem here with
the ranch. It looks as though I might lose it. I hate
goddamn bankers.
They're all bloodsuckers. Anyway, I thought this fellow
might be
different. When I found out he was a banker, I talked to
him about
trying to work out some kind of loan arrangement here.
But he was just
like all the rest of them. He couldn't have been less
interested."
"You said he was from Canada?"
"Yeah, Fort Smith, up in the Northwest Territories.
I'm afraid that's about all I can tell you." Robert tried
to conceal
his excitement.
"Thank you, Mr. Wayne, you've been very helpful." Robert
rose.
"That's it? Would you like to stay for supper?"
"No, thanks. I have to be on my way. Good luck with the
ranch."
"Thanks."
Fort Smith, Canada Northwest Territories Robert waited
until General
Hilliard came on the line.
"Yes, Commander?"
"I found another witness. Dan Wayne. He owns The
Ponderosa, a ranch
outside of Waco, Texas."
"Very good. I'll have our office in Dallas speak to him."
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR DCI
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
6. DANIEL WAYNE-WACO
END OF MESSAGE
In Langley, Virginia, the deputy director of the Central
Intelligence
Agency studied the transmission thoughtfully. Number six.
Things were going well. Commander Bellamy was doing an
extraordinary
job. The decision to select him had been a wise one.
Janus had been
right. The man was always right. And he had the power to
have his
wishes carried out. So much power. ... The director
looked at the
message again. Make it look like an accident, he thought.
That
shouldn't be difficult. He pressed a buzzer.
The two men arrived at the ranch in a dark blue van. They
parked in the
courtyard and got out of the car, carefully looking
around. Dan Wayne's
first thought was that they had come to take possession of
the ranch. He
opened the door for them.
"Dan Wayne?"
"Yes. What can I-?"
That was as far as he got.
The second man had stepped behind him and hit him hard
across the skull
with a blackjack.
The larger of the two men slung the unconscious rancher
over his
shoulder and carried him outside to the barn. There were
eight horses
in the barn. The men ignored them and walked to the last
stall in back.
Inside was a beautiful black stallion. The large man
said, "This is the
one." He put Wayne's body down.
The second man picked up a cattle prod from the ground,
stepped up to
the stall door, and hit the stallion with the electric
prod. The
stallion whinnied and reared up. The man hit him hard
again across the
nose. The stallion was bucking wildly now, confined in
the small space,
smashing against the walls of the stall, his teeth bared
and the whites
of his eyes flashing.
"Now," the smaller man said. His companion lifted the
body of Dan Wayne
and tossed it over the half door into the stall. They
watched the
bloody scene for several moments, then, satisfied, turned
and left.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
DC TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
6. DANIEL WAYNE-WACO-TERMINATED
END OF MESSAGE
Day Nine Fort Smith, Canada
Fort Smith, in the Northwest Territories, is a prosperous
town of two
thousand people, most of them farmers and cattle ranchers,
with a
sprinkling of merchants. The climate is demanding, with
long and
rigorous winters, and the town is living proof of Darwin's
theory of the
survival of the fittest.
William Mann was one of the fit ones, a survivor. He had
been born in
Michigan, but in his early thirties, he had passed through
Fort Smith on
a fishing trip and had decided that the community needed
another good
bank. He had seized the opportunity. There was only one
other bank
there, and it took William Mann less than two years to put
his
competitor out of business. Mann ran his bank the way a
bank should be
run. His god was mathematics, and he saw to it that the
numbers always
came out to his benefit. His favorite story was the joke
about the man
who went to a banker pleading for a loan so that his young
son could
have an immediate operation to save his life. When the
applicant said
he had no security, the banker told him to get out of his
office.
"I'll go," the man said, "but I want to tell you that in
all my years,
I've never met anyone as coldhearted as you are."
"Wait a minute," the banker replied.
"I'll make you a sporting proposition. One of my eyes is.
a glass eye.
If you can tell me which one it is, I'll give you the
loan." Instantly,
the man said, "Your left one." The banker was amazed.
"No one knows that. How could you tell?"
The man said, "That's easy. For a moment, I thought I
detected a gleam
of sympathy in your left eye, so I knew it must be your
glass eye."
That, to William Mann, was a good businessman's story.
One did not
conduct business based on sympathy. You had to look at
the bottom line.
While other banks in Canada and the United States were
toppling like
tenpins, William Mann's bank was stronger than ever. His
philosophy was
simple: No loans to start up businesses. No investments
in junk bonds.
No loans to neighbors whose children might desperately
need an
operation.
Mann had a respect that bordered on awe for the Swiss
banking system.
The gnomes of Zurich were bankers' bankers. So, one day,
William Mann
decided to go to Switzerland to speak to some of the
bankers there to
learn if there was anything he was missing, any way he
could squeeze
more cents out of the Canadian dollar. He had been
received graciously,
but in the end he had learned nothing new. His own
banking methods were
admirable, and the Swiss bankers had not hesitated to tell
him so. On
the day he was to leave for home, Mann decided to treat
himself to a
tour of the Alps. He had found the tour boring. The
scenery was
interesting, but no prettier than the scenery around Fort
Smith. One of
the passengers, a Texan, had dared try to persuade him to
make a loan on
a ranch that was going into bankruptcy. He had laughed in
the man's
face. The only thing about the tour that was of any
interest was the
crash of the so-called flying saucer. Mann had not
believed in the
reality of that for an instant. He was sure it had been
staged by the
Swiss government to impress tourists. He had been to Walt
Disney World,
and he had seen similar things that looked real but were
faked. It's
Switzerland's glass eye, he thought sardonically.
William Mann was happy to return home.
Every minute of the banker's day was meticulously
scheduled, and when
his secretary came in and said that a stranger wished to
see him, Mann's
first instinct was to dismiss him.
"What is it he wants?"
"He says he wants to do an interview with you. He's
writing an article
about bankers."
That was a different matter entirely. Publicity of the
right kind was
good for business. William Mann straightened his jacket,
smoothed down
his hair, and said, "Send him in." His visitor was an
American.
He was well-dressed, which indicated that he worked for
one of the
better magazines or newspapers.
"Mr. Mann?"
"Yes."
"Robert Bellamy."
"My secretary tells me you want to do an article about me.
"Well, not entirely about you," Robert said.
"But you'll certainly be prominent in it. My newspaper-"
"Which newspaper is that?"
"The Wall Street Journal." Ah, yes. This is going to be
excellent.
"The Journal feels that most bankers are too isolated from
what's going
on in the rest of the world. They seldom travel, they
don't go to other
countries. You, on the other hand, Mr. Mann, have the
reputation of
being very well traveled."
"I suppose I am," Mann said modestly.
"As a matter of fact, I came back from a trip to
Switzerland just last
week."
"Really? Did you enjoy it?"
"Yes. I met with several other bankers there. We
discussed world
economics."
Robert had pulled out a notebook and was making notes.
"Did you have any time for pleasure?"
"Not really. Oh, I took a little tour on one of those
buses. I had
never seen the Alps before."
Robert made another note.
"A tour. Now that's exactly the kind of thing we're
looking for,"
Robert said encouragingly.
"I imagine you met a lot of interesting people on the
bus."
"Interesting?"
He thought about the Texan who had tried to borrow money.
"Not really."
"Oh?"
Mann looked at him. The reporter obviously expected him
to say more.
"You'll certainly be prominent in it."
"There was this Russian girl."
Robert made a note.
"Really? Tell me about her."
"Well, we got to talking, and I explained to her how
backward Russia was
and what terrible trouble they were heading for unless
they changed."
"She must have been very impressed," Robert said.
"Oh, she was. Seemed like a bright girl. For a Russian,
that is.
They're all pretty insulated, you know."
"Did she mention her name?"
"No-wait. It was Olga something."
"Did she happen to say where she was from?"
"Yes. She works as a librarian at the main branch in
Kiev. It was her
first trip abroad, I guess because of glasnost. If you
want my
opinion.. .'~ He stopped to make sure Robert was writing
it down.
"Gorbachev sent Russia to hell in a handbasket. East
Germany was handed
to Bonn on a plate. On the political front, Gorbachev
moved too fast,
and on the economic front he moved too slowly."
"That's fascinating," Robert murmured. He spent another
half hour with
the banker, listening to his opinionated comments on
everything from the
Common Market to arms control. He was able to get no
further
information about other passengers.
When Robert returned to his hotel, he telephoned General
Hilliard's
office.
"Just a moment, Commander Bellamy." He heard a series of
clicks, and
then General Hilliard was on the line.
"Yes, Commander?"
"I've traced another passenger, General."
"The name?"
"William Mane. He owns a bank in Fort Smith, Canada."
"Thank you. I'll have the Canadian authorities speak to
him right
away."
"By the way, he gave me another lead. I'll be flying to
Russia this
evening. I'll need a visa from Intourist."
"Where are you calling from?"
"Fort Smith."
"Stop at the Visigoth Hotel in Stockholm. There will be
an envelope for
you at the desk."
"Thank you."
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
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SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
7. WILLIAM MANN-FORT SMITH
END OF MESSAGE
At eleven o'clock that evening, William Mann's doorbell
rang. He was
not expecting anyone, and he disliked unannounced callers.
His
housekeeper had retired, and his wife was asleep in her
room upstairs.
Annoyed, Mann opened the front door. Two men dressed in
black suits
stood in the doorway.
"William Mann?"
"Yes."
One of the men pulled out an identification card.
"We're from the Bank of Canada. May we come in?"
Mann frowned.
"What's this about?"
"We would prefer to discuss this inside, if you don't
mind."
"Very well." He led the men into the living room.
"You were recently in Switzerland, were you not?"
The question threw him off guard.
"What? Yes, but what on earth-?"
"While you were gone we had your books audited, Mr. Mann.
Are you aware
that there is a shortage in your bank of one million
dollars?"
William Mann looked at the two men, aghast.
"What are you talking about? I check those books every
week myself.
There has never been one penny missing!"
"One million dollars, Mr. Mann. We think you're
responsible for
embezzling it."
His face was turning red. He found himself sputtering.
"How-how dare you! Get out of here before I call the
police."
"That won't do you any good. What we want you to do is
repent."
He was staring at them now, confused.
"Repent? Repent what?
You're crazy!"
"No, sir."
One of the men pulled out a gun.
"Sit down, Mr. Mann."
Oh, my God! I'm being robbed.
"Look," Mann said, "take whatever you want. There's no
need for
violence and-"
"Sit down, please."
The second man walked over to the liquor cabinet. It was
locked.
He smashed the glass and opened the cabinet. He picked up
a large water
glass, filled it with scotch, and carried it over to where
Mann was
seated.
"Drink this. It will relax you."
"I-I never drink after dinner. My doctorThe other man put
the gun to
William Mann's temple.
"Drink it, or the glass is going to be full of your
brains."
Mann understood now that he was in the hands of two
maniacs. He took
the glass in his shaking hand and took a sip.
"Drink it down."
He took a larger swallow.
"What-what is it you want?"
He raised his voice, hoping that his wife might hear and
come
downstairs, but it was a vain hope. He knew what a sound
sleeper she
was. The men were obviously here to rob the house. Why
don't they just
get on with it?
"Take anything," he said.
"I won't stop you."
"Finish up what's in the glass."
"This isn't necessary. I-" The man punched him hard above
his ear. Mann
gasped with pain.
"Finish it."
He swallowed the rest of the whiskey in one gulp and felt
it burning as
it went down. He was beginning to feel giddy.
"My safe is upstairs in the bedroom," he said. His words
were beginning
to slur.
"I'll open it for you." Maybe that would wake his wife
and she would
call the police.
"There's no hurry," the man with the gun said.
"You have plenty of time for another drink."
The second man went back to the cabinet and filled the
glass to the brim
again.
"Here."
"No, really," William Mann protested.
"I don't want it."
The glass was shoved into his hand.
"Drink it down."
"I really don't-" A fist slammed into the same spot above
his ear. Mann
almost fainted from the pain.
"Drink it."
Well, if that's what they want, why not? The quicker this
nightmare is
over with, the better. He took a big swallow and gagged.
"If I drink any more, I'm gonna be sick." The man said
quietly, "If you
get sick, I'll kill you." Mann looked up at him and then
at his
partner. There seemed to be two of everybody.
"What do all of you want?"
he mumbled.
"We told you, Mr. Mann.
We want you to repent."
William Mann nodded drunkenly.
"Okay, I repent." The man smiled.
"You see, that's all we ask. Now..."
He put a piece of paper in Mann's hand.
"All you have to do is write 'I'm sorry. Forgive me.'"
William Mann
looked up blearily.
"That's all?"
"That's all. And then we'll leave."
He felt a sudden sense of elation. So this is what it's
all about.
They're religious fanatics. As soon as they left, he
would call the
police and have them arrested. I'll see to it that the
bastards are
hanged.
"Write, Mr. Mann."
It was difficult for him to focus.
"What did you say you want me to write?"
"Just write 'I'm sorry. Forgive me.'"
"Right." He had difficulty holding the pen. He
concentrated very hard
and began to write.
"I'm sorry. Forgive me."
The man took the paper from Mann's hand, holding it by the
edges.
"That's very good, Mr. Mann. See how easy that was?"
The room was beginning to spin around.
"Yeah. Thank you. I've repented. Now would you leave?"
"I see that you're left-handed."
"What?"
"You're left-handed."
"Yes."
"There's been a lot of crime around here lately, Mr. Mann.
We're going
to give you this gun to keep."
He felt a gun being placed in his left hand.
"Do you know how to use a gun?"
"No."
"It's very simple. You use it like this...." The man
lifted the gun to
William Mann's temple and squeezed the banker's finger on
the trigger.
There was a muffled roar. The bloodstained note dropped
to the floor.
"That's all there is to it," one of the men said.
"Good night, Mr. Mann."
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
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7. WILLIAM MANN-FORT SMITH-TERMINATED
END OF MESSAGE
Day Ten Fort Smith, Canada
The following morning, bank examiners reported a million
dollars missing
from Mann's bank. The police listed Mann's death as a
suicide.
The missing money was never found.
Day Eleven Brussels, 0300 Hours
General Shipley, the commandant at NATO headquarters, was
awakened by
his adjutant.
"I'm sorry to wake you up, General, but we seem to have a
situation on
our hands."
General Shipley sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
He had had a
late night entertaining a group of visiting senators from
the United
States.
"What's the problem, Billy?"
"I just received a call from the radar tower, sir. Either
all our
equipment has gone crazy or we're having some strange
visitors."
General Shipley pushed himself out of bed.
"Tell them I'll be there in five minutes."
* * * The darkened radar room was filled with enlisted men
and officers
gathered around the lighted radar screens in the center of
the room.
They turned and sprang to attention as the general
entered.
"At ease." He walked over to the officer in charge,
Captain Muller.
"What's going on here, Lewis?"
Captain Muller scratched his head.
"It beats me. Do you know any plane that can travel
twenty-two thousand
miles per hour, stop on a dime, and go into reverse?"
General Shipley was staring at him.
"What are you talking about?"
"According to our radar screens, that's what's been going
on for the
last half hour. At first we thought it might be some kind
of electronic
device that's being tested, but we checked with the
Russians, the
British, and the French, and they're picking up the same
thing on their
radar screens."
"So, it couldn't be something in the equipment," General
Shipley said
heavily.
"No, sir. Not unless you want to assume that all the
radar in the world
has suddenly gone crazy."
"How many of these have appeared on the screen?"
"Over a dozen. They move so fast that it's hard to even
keep track of
them. We pick them up, and they disappear again. We've
eliminated
atmospheric conditions, meteors, fireballs, weather
balloons, and any
kind of flying machine known to man. I was going to
scramble some
planes, but these objects-whatever they are-are flying so
damned high
that we'd never be able to get near them."
General Shipley walked over to one of the radar screens.
"Is anything coming in on your screens now?"
"No, sir. They're gone." He hesitated a moment.
"But General, I have a terrible feeling they'll be coming
back."
Ottawa, 0500 Hours
When Janus finished reading General Shipley's report
aloud, the Italian
stood up and said excitedly, "They are getting ready to
invade us!"
"They have already invaded us." The Frenchman.
"We are too late.
It is a catastrophe." The Russian.
"There is no way-" Janus interrupted.
"Gentlemen, it is a catastrophe we can prevent."
"How? You know their demands." The Englishman.
"Their demands are out of the question." The Brazilian.
"It's no business of theirs what we do with our trees.
The so-called
greenhouse effect is scientific garbage, totally
unproven."
"And what about us?"
The Gorman.
"If they forced us to clean up the air over our cities, we
would have to
shut down our factories. We would have no industries
left."
"And we would have to stop manufacturing cars," the
Japanese said.
"And then where would the civilized world be?"
"We are all in the same position." The Russian. 'u have
to stop all
pollution, as they insist, it would , the world's
economies. We must
buy more time until Wars is ready to take them on."
Janus said crisply, "We are agreed on that. Our diate
problem is to
keep our people calm and to avoid spread of panic."
"How is Commander Bellamy progressing?"
The Canadian.
"He's making excellent progress. He should be finished in
the next day
or two."
Kiev, the Soviet Union ike most of her countrywomen, Olga
Romanchanko
had become disenchanted with perestroika. In the
beginning, all the
promised changes that were going to happen in Mother
Russia sounded so
exciting.
The winds of freedom were blowing through the streets, and
the air was
filled with hope. There were promises of fresh meat and
vegetables in
the shops, pretty dresses and real leather shoes, and a
hundred other
wonderful things. But now, six years after it had all
begun, bitter
disillusion had set in. Goods were scarcer than ever. It
was
impossible to survive without the black market. There was
a shortage of
virtually everything, and prices had soared. The main
streets were
still filled with rytvina-huge potholes. There were
protest marches in
the streets, and crime was on the increase. Restrictions
were more
severe than ever. Perestroika and glasnost had begun to
seem as empty
as the promises of the politicians who promoted them.
Olga had worked at the library in Lenkomsomol Square, in
the center of
Kiev, for seven years. She was thirty-two years old and
had never been
outside the Soviet Union. Olga was reasonably attractive,
a bit
overweight, but in Russia that was not considered a
disadvantage. She
had been engaged twice to men who had moved away and
deserted her:
Dmitri, who had left for Leningrad; and Ivan, who had
moved to Moscow.
Olga had tried to move to Moscow to be with Ivan, but
without a
propiska, a Moscow residence permit, it was not possible.
As her thirty-third birthday approached, Olga was
determined that she
was going to see something of the world before the Iron
Curtain closed
around her once again. She went to the head librarian,
who happened to
be her aunt.
"I would like to take my vacation, now," Olga said.
"When do you want to leave?"
"Next week."
"Enjoy yourself."
It was as simple as that. In the days before perestroika,
taking a
vacation would have meant going to the Black Sea or
Samarkand or
Tbilisi, or any one of a dozen other places inside the
Soviet Union.
But now, if she were quick about it, the whole world was
open to her.
Olga took an atlas from the library shelf and pored over
it. There was
such a big world out there! There was Africa and Asia,
and North and
South America. ... She was afraid to venture that far.
Olga turned to
the map of Europe. Switzerland, she thought. That's
where I'll go.
She would never have admitted it to anyone in the world,
but the main
reason Switzerland appealed to her was that she had once
tasted Swiss
chocolate, and she had never forgotten it. She loved
sweets. The candy
in Russia-when one could get it-was sugarless and tasted
terrible.
Her taste for chocolate was to cost Olga her life.
The journey on Aeroflot to Zurich was an exciting
beginning. She had
never flown before. She landed at the international
airport in Zurich
filled with anticipation. There was something in the air
that was
different. Maybe it is the smell of real freedom, Olga
thought.
Her finances were strictly limited, and she had made
reservations at a
small, inexpensive hotel, the Leonhare, at Limmatquai 136.
Olga checked in at the reception desk.
"This is my first time in Switzerland," she confided to
the clerk, in
halting English.
"Could you suggest some things for me to do?"
"Certainly. There is much to do here," he told her.
"Perhaps you should start with a tour of the city. I will
arrange it."
"Thank you."
Olga found Zurich extraordinary. She was awed by the
sights and sounds
of the city. The people on the street were dressed in
such fine clothes
and drove such expensive automobiles. It seemed to Olga
that everyone
in Zurich must be a millionaire. And the stores! She
window shopped
along Bahnhofstrasse, the main shopping street of Zurich,
and she
marveled at the incredible cornucopia of goods in the
windows: There
were dresses and coats and shoes and lingerie and jewelry
and dishes and
furniture and automobiles and books and television sets
and radios and
toys and pianos. There seemed to be no end to the goods
for sale. And
then Olga stumbled across SprungIi's, famous for their
confections and
chocolates. And what chocolates! Four large storefront
windows were
filled with a dazzling array of them.
There were huge boxes of mixed chocolates, chocolate
bunnies, chocolate
loaves, chocolatecovered nuts. There were
chocolate-covered bananas and
chocolate beans filled with liqueurs. It was a feast just
to look at
the display in the windows. Olga wanted to buy
everything, but when she
learned the prices, she settled for a small box of
assorted chocolates
and a large candy bar.
Over the next week, Olga visited the Zurichhorn Gardens
and the Rietberg
Museum and the Grossmunster, the church erected in the
eleventh century,
and a dozen other wonderful tourist attractions. Finally,
her time was
running out.
The hotel clerk at the Leonhare said to her, "The Sunshine
Tours Bus
Company has a fine tour of the Alps. I think you might
enjoy that
before you leave."
"Thank you," Olga said.
"I will try it." When Olga left the hotel, her first stop
was to visit
SprungIi's again, and the next stop was at the office of
the Sunshine
Tours Bus Company, where she arranged to go on a tour. It
had proved to
be most exciting. The scenery was breathtaking, and in
the middle of
the tour, they had seen the explosion of what she thought
was a flying
saucer, but the Canadian banker she was seated next to
explained that it
was merely a spectacle arranged by the Swiss government
for tourists,
that there were no such things as flying saucers. Olga
was not
completely convinced. When she returned home to Kiev, she
discussed it
with her aunt.
"Of course there are flying saucers," her aunt said.
"They fly over Russia all the time. You should sell your
story to a
newspaper.
Olga had considered doing it, but she was afraid that she
would be
laughed at. The Communist party did not like its members
to get
publicity, especially the kind that might subject them to
ridicule. All
in all, Olga decided that, Dmitri and Ivan aside, her
vacation had been
the highlight of her life. It was going to be difficult
to settle down
to work again.
The ride along the newly built highway from the airport
into the center
of Kiev took the Intourist bus one hour. It was Robert's
first time in
Kiev, and he was impressed by the ubiquitous construction
along the road
and the large apartment buildings that seemed to be
springing up
everywhere. The bus pulled up in front of the Dnieper
Hotel and
disgorged its two dozen passengers. Robert looked at his
watch. Eight
P.M. The library would be closed. His business would
have to wait
until morning. He checked into the huge hotel, where a
reservation had
been made for him, had a drink at the bar, and went into
the austere
whitewashed dining room for a dinner of caviar, cucumbers,
and tomatoes,
followed by a potato casserole flavored with tiny bits of
meat and
covered with heavy dough, all accompanied by vodka and
mineral water.
His visa had been waiting for him at the hotel in
Stockholm, as General
Hilliard had promised. That was a quick bit of
international
cooperation, Robert thought. But no cooperation for me.
"Naked" is the operational word.
After dinner Robert made a few inquiries at the desk and
meandered over
to Lenkomsomol Square. Kiev was a surprise to him. One
of the oldest
cities in Russia, it was an attractive, European-looking
city, situated
on the Dnieper River, with green parks and tree-lined
streets.
Churches were everywhere, and they were spectacular
examples of
religious architecture: There were the churches of St.
Vladimir and St.
Andrew, and St. Sophia, the last completed in 1037, pure
white with its
soaring blue bell tower, and the Pechersk Monastery, the
tallest
structure in the city. Susan would have loved all this,
Robert thought.
She had never been to Russia. He wondered if she had
returned from
Brazil yet. On an impulse, when he returned to his hotel
room, he
telephoned her, and to his surprise the call was put
through almost
immediately.
"Hello?"
That throaty, sexy voice.
"Hi. How was Brazil?"
"Robert! I tried to telephone you several times. There
was no answer."
"I'm not home."
"Oh." She had been trained too well to ask where he was.
"Are you feeling well?"
For a eunuch, I'm in wonderful shape.
"Sure. Great. How's Money-Monte?"
"He's fine. Robert, we're leaving for Gibraltar
tomorrow." On
Moneybags's fucking yacht, of course. What was the name
of it? Ah,
yes. The Halcyon.
"The yacht?"
"Yes. You can call me on it. Do you remember the call
letters?"
He remembered. WS 337. What did the WS stand for?
Wonderful Susan?
... Why separate?... Wife stealer?
"Robert?"
"Yes, I remember. Whiskey Sugar 337."
"Will you call? Just to let me know you're all right."
"Sure. I miss you, baby."
A long, painful silence. He waited. What did he expect
her to say?
Come rescue me from this charming man who looks like Paul
Newman and
forces me to go on his two-hundred-and-fifty -foot yacht
and live in our
squalid little palaces in Monte Carlo and Morocco and
Paris and London
and God alone knew where else. Like an idiot, he found
himself half
hoping she would say it.
"I miss you, too, Robert. Take care of yourself." And
the connection
was broken. He was in Russia, alone.
Day Twelve Kiev, the Soviet Union
Early the following morning, ten minutes after the library
opened,
Robert walked into the huge, gloomy building and
approached the
reception desk.
"Good morning," Robert said.
The woman behind the desk looked up.
"Good morning. Can I help you?"
"Yes. I'm looking for a woman whom I believe works here,
Olga-"
"Olga? Yes, yes." She pointed to another room.
"She will be in there."
"Thank you."
It had been as easy as that. Robert walked into the other
room past
groups of students solemnly studying at long tables.
Preparing for what
kind of future? Robert wondered. He reached a smaller
reading room and
walked inside. A woman was busily stacking books.
"Excuse me," Robert said. She turned.
"Yes?"
"Olga?"
"I am Olga. What do you wish with me?"
Robert smiled disarmingly.
"I'm writing a newspaper article on perestroika and how it
affects the
average Russian. Has it made much difference in your
life?"
The woman shrugged.
"Before Gorbachev we were afraid to open our mouths. Now
we can open
our mouths, but we have nothing to put in them." Robert
tried another
tactic.
"Surely there are some changes for the better. For
instance, you are
able to travel now."
"You must be joking. With a husband and six children, who
can afford to
travel?"
Robert plowed on.
"Still, you went to Switzerland, and-"
"Switzerland? I have never been to Switzerland in my
life."
Robert said slowly, "You've never been to Switzerland?"
"I just told you." She nodded toward a dark-haired woman
who was
collecting books from the table.
"She's the lucky one who got to go to Switzerland."
Robert took a quick look.
"What's her name?"
"Olga. The same as mine." He sighed.
"Thank you."
A minute later, Robert was in a conversation with the
second Olga.
"Excuse me," Robert said.
"I'm writing a newspaper article on perestroika and the
effect that it's
had on Russian lives." She looked at him warily.
"Yes?"
"What's your name?"
"Olga. Olga Romanchanko."
"Tell me, Olga, has perestroika made any difference to
you?"
Six years earlier, Olga Romanchanko would have been afraid
to speak to a
foreigner, but now it was allowed.
"Not really," she said carefully.
"Everything is much the same."
The stranger was persistent.
"Nothing at all has changed in your life?"
She shook her head.
"No." And then added patriotically, "Of course, we can
travel outside
the country now."
He seemed interested.
"And have you traveled outside the country?"
"Oh, yes," she said proudly.
"I have just returned from Switzerland. Is very beautiful
country."
"I agree," he said.
"Did you get a chance to meet anyone on the trip?"
"I met many people. I took bus, and we went through high
mountains. The
Alps." Suddenly, Olga realized she shouldn't have said
that because the
stranger might ask her about the spaceship, and she did
not want to talk
about that. It could only get her into trouble.
"Really?"
asked Robert.
"Tell me about the people on the bus." Relieved, Olga
responded, "Very
friendly. They were dressed so-" She gestured.
"Very rich. I even met man from your capital city,
Washington, D.C."
"You did?"
"Yes. Very nice. He gave me card."
Robert's heart skipped a beat.
"Do you still have it?"
"No. I threw it away." She looked around.
"Is better not keep things like that." Damn!
And then she added, "I remember his name. Parker, like
your American
pen. Kevin Parker. Very important in politics. He tells
senators how
vote."
Robert was taken aback.
"Is that what he told you?"
"Yes. He takes them on trips and gives gifts, and then
they vote for
things his clients need. That is the way democracy works
in America."
A lobbyist. Robert let Olga talk for the next fifteen
minutes, but he
got no further useful information about the other
passengers. Robert
telephoned General Hilliard from his hotel room.
"I found the Russian witness. Her name is Olga
Romanchanko. She works
in the main library in Kiev."
"I'll have a Russian official speak to her."
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR GRU
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
8. OLGA ROMANCHANKO-KIEV
END OF MESSAGE
That afternoon Robert was on an Aeroflot Tupolev Tu154 jet
to Paris.
When he arrived three hours and twenty-five minutes later,
he
transferred to an Air France flight to Washington, D.C.
At two A.M. Olga Romanchanko heard the squeal of brakes
as a car pulled
up in front of the apartment building where she lived, on
Vertryk
Street. The walls of the apartment were so thin that she
could hear
voices outside on the street. She got out of bed and
looked out the
window. Two men in civilian clothes were getting out of a
black Chaika,
the model used by government officials. They were
approaching the
entrance to her apartment building. The sight of them
sent a shiver
through her. Over the years, some of her neighbors had
disappeared,
never to be seen again. Some of them had been sent to the
Gulags in
Siberia. Olga wondered whom the secret police were after
this time, and
even as she was thinking it, there was a knock on her
door, startling
her. What do they want with me? she wondered. It must
be some
mistake.
When she opened the door, the two men were standing there.
"Comrade Olga Romanchanko?"
"Yes."
"Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye." The dreaded GRU.
They pushed their way past her into the room.
"What-what is it you want?"
"We will ask the questions. I am Sergeant Yuri Gromkov.
This is
Sergeant Vladimir Zemsky." She felt a sudden sense of
terror.
"What's-what's wrong? What have I done?"
Zemsky pounced on it.
"Oh, so you know you have done something wrong!"
"No, of course not," Olga said, flustered.
"I do not know why you are here."
"Sit down," Gromkov shouted. Olga sat.
"You have just returned from a trip to Switzerland, nyet?"
"Y-yes," she stuttered, "but i~it was. ... I got
permission from-"
"Espionage is not legal, Olga Romanchanko."
"Espionage?"
She was horrified.
"I don't know what you are talking about." The larger man
was staring
at her body, and Olga suddenly realized she was wearing
only a thin
nightgown.
"Let's go. You are coming with us."
"But there is some terrible mistake. I'm a librarian.
Ask anybody here whoHe pulled her to her feet.
"Come."
"Where are you taking me?"
"To headquarters. They want to question you." They
allowed her to put
on a coat over her nightgown.
She was shoved down the stairs and into the Chaika. Olga
thought of all
the people who had ridden in cars like this before and had
never
returned, and she was numb with fear.
The larger man, Gromkov, was driving. Olga was seated in
the back with
Zemsky. He somehow seemed less frightening to her, but
she was
petrified by who they were and what was going to happen to
her.
"Please believe me," Olga said earnestly.
"I would never betray my-"
"Shut up," Gromkov barked.
Vladimir Zemsky said, "Look, there's no reason to be rough
with her. As
a matter of fact, I believe her."
Olga felt her heart leap with hope.
"Times have changed," Comrade Zemsky went on.
"Comrade Gorbachev doesn't like us to go around bothering
innocent
people. Those days are past."
"Who said she's innocent?"
Gromkov growled.
"Maybe she is, maybe she isn't. They'll find out soon
enough at
headquarters."
Olga sat there listening to the two men discussing her as
if she were
not there.
Zemsky said, "Come now, Yuri, you know that at
headquarters she will
confess, whether she's guilty or not. I don't like this."
"That's too bad. There's nothing we can do about it."
"Yes, there is."
"What?"
The man next to Olga was silent for a moment.
"Listen," he said, "why don't we just let her go? We
could tell them
she was not at home.
We'll put them off for a day or two, and they will forget
all about her
because they have so many people to question."
Olga tried to say something, but her throat was too dry.
She
desperately wanted the man beside her to win the argument.
Gromkov grumbled.
"Why should we risk our necks for her? What do we get out
of it? What
is she going to do for us?"
Zemsky turned and looked at Olga questioningly. Olga
found her voice.
"I have no money," she said.
"Who needs your money? We have plenty of money." Gromkov
said, "She
has something else." Before Olga could reply, Zemsky
said, "Wait a
minute, Yuri Ivanovich, you can't expect her to do that."
"That's up to her. She can either be nice to us or go
down to
headquarters and get beaten up for a week or two. Maybe
they'll keep
her in a nice shizo."
Olga had heard about shizos. Unheated four-by-eight-foot
cells with
wooden-plank bed and no blankets.
"Be nice to us." What did that mean?
"It's up to her."
Zemsky turned to Olga.
"What do you want to do?"
"I-I don't understand."
"What my partner is saying is that if you're nice to us,
we could just
drop this whole thing. In a little while, they'll
probably forget about
you."
"What-what would I have to do?"
Gromkov grinned at her in the rearview mirror.
"Just give us a few minutes of your time." He remembered
something he
had once read.
"Just lie there and think of the czar." He giggled. Olga
suddenly
understood what they were getting at.
She shook her head.
"No, I could not do that."
"Right." Gromkov started speeding up.
"They'll have a good time with you at headquarters."
"Wait!" She was in a panic, not knowing what to do.
She had heard horror stories of what had happened to
people who had been
arrested and become zeks. She had thought that that was
all finished,
but now she could see that it was not. Perestroika was
still just a
fantasy. They would not allow her to have an attorney or
talk to
anyone. In the past, friends of hers had been raped and
murdered by the
GRU. She was trapped. If she went to jail, they could
keep her for
weeks, beating her and raping her, maybe worse. With
these two men, at
least it would be over in a few minutes and then they
would let her go.
Olga made her decision.
"All right," she said miserably.
"Do you wish to go back to my apartment?"
Gromkov said, "I know a better place." He turned the car
around. Zemsky
whispered, "I'm sorry about this, but he's in charge. I
can't stop
him."
Olga said nothing.
They drove past the bright red Shevchenko Opera House and
headed for a
large park bordered by trees. It was completely deserted
at this hour.
Gromkov drove the car under the trees and turned off the
lights and
engine.
"Let's get out," he said.
The three of them got out of the car.
Gromkov looked at Olga.
"You're lucky. We're letting you off easy. I hope you
appreciate it."
Olga nodded, too frightened to speak. Gromkov led them to
a small
cleared area.
"Get undressed."
"It's cold," Olga said.
"Couldn't we-?"
Gromkov slapped her hard across the face.
"Do as you're told before I change my mind."
Olga hesitated an instant, and as his arm drew back to hit
her again,
she started unbuttoning her coat.
"Take it off" She let it drop to the ground.
"Now the nightgown."
Slowly, Olga lifted the nightgown over her head and pulled
it off,
shivering in the cold night air, standing naked in the
moonlight.
"Nice body," Gromkov said. He squeezed her nipples.
"Please-"
"You make one sound, and we take you to headquarters." He
pushed her to
the ground.
I won't think about this. I'll pretend I'm in Switzerland
on the bus
tour, looking at all the beautiful scenery.
Gromkov had dropped his pants and was spreading Olga's
legs apart.
I can see the Alps covered with snow. There is a sleigh
going by with a
young boy and girl in it.
She felt him place his hands under her hips, and he shoved
his maleness
into her, hurting her.
There are beautiful cars along the highway. More cars
than I have ever
seen in my life. In Switzerland everybody has a car. He
was plunging
into her harder now, pinching her, making wild, animal
noises.
I will have a little home in the mountains. What do the
Swiss call
them? Chalets. And I will have chocolates every day.
Boxes of them.
Gromkov was withdrawing now, breathing heavily.
He stood up and turned to Zemsky.
"Your turn." I will get married and have children, and we
will all go
skiing in the Alps in winter.
Zemsky had zipped open his pants and was climbing on top
of her.
It will be such a wonderful life. I will never return to
Russia.
Never. Never. Never.
He was inside her now, hurting her more than the other man
had,
squeezing her buttocks and pushing her body into the cold
ground until
the pain was almost unbearable.
We will live on a farm where it's quiet and peaceful all
the time, and
we will have a garden with beautiful flowers. Zemsky
finished with her
and looked up at his companion.
"I bet she enjoyed it." He grinned.
He reached down for Olga's neck and broke it.
The following day there was an item in the local paper
about a librarian
who had been raped and strangled in the park. There was a
stern warning
from the authorities that it was dangerous for young women
to go to the
park alone at night.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
DEPUTY DIRECTOR GRU TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
8. OLGA ROMANCHANKOKIEvTERMINATED
END OF MESSAGE
Willard Stone and Monte Banks were natural enemies. They
were both
ruthless predators, and the jungle they prowled was the
stone canyons of
Wall Street, with its high-powered takeovers, leveraged
buyouts, and
stock deals.
The first time the two men clashed was during the
attempted takeover of
a huge utility company. Willard Stone made the first bid
and
anticipated no problem. He was so powerful and his
reputation so
fearsome that very few people dared challenge him. It was
a great
surprise then when he learned that a young upstart named
Monte Banks was
contesting his bid. Stone was forced to raise his own
bid, and the ante
kept going up. Willard Stone finally acquired control of
the company,
but at a much higher price than he had anticipated paying.
Six months later, in a takeover bid for a large
electronics firm, Stone
was confronted again by Monte Banks. The bidding kept
escalating, and
this time Banks won. When Willard Stone learned that
Monte Banks
intended to compete with him for control of a computer
company, he
decided it was time to meet with his competitor. The two
men met on
neutral ground in Paradise Island, in the Bahamas.
Willard Stone had
made a thorough investigation into the background of his
competitor,
learning that Monte Banks came from a wealthy oil family
and had
brilliantly managed to parlay his inheritance into an
international
conglomerate.
The two men sat down to lunch. Willard Stone, old and
wise; Monte
Banks, young and eager. Willard Stone opened the
conversation.
"You're becoming a pain in the ass."
Monte Banks grinned.
"Coming from you, that's a big compliment."
"What is it you want?"
Stone asked.
"The same as you. I want to own the world." Willard
Stone said
thoughtfully, "Well, it's a big enough world."
"Meaning?"
"There's room enough for both of us." That was the day
they became
partners. Each ran his own business separately, but when
it came to new
projects-timber and oil and real estate-they went into
deals together,
instead of competing with each other. Several times the
Antitrust
Division of the Justice Department tried to stop their
deals, but
Willard Stone's connections always prevailed. Monte Banks
owned
chemical companies responsible for massive pollution of
lakes and
rivers, but when he was indicted, the indictment was
mysteriously
dropped.
The two men had a perfect symbiotic relationship.
Operation Doomsday
was a natural for them, and they were heavily involved in
it.
They were on the verge of closing a deal to purchase ten
million acres
of lush, tree-rich land in the Amazon rain forest. It was
going to be
one of the most profitable deals they had ever gone into.
They could not afford to let anything stand in their way.
Day Thirteen Washington, D.C.
The Senate of the United States was in plenary session.
The junior
senator from Utah had the floor.
..... and what is happening to our ecology is a national
disgrace.
It is time that this great body realized that it is its
sworn duty to
preserve the precious heritage that our forefathers
entrusted to us. it
is not only our sworn duty but our privilege to protect
the land, the
air, and the seas from those vested interests that are
selfishly
destroying it. And are we doing this? Are we in all
conscience doing
our best? Or are we allowing the voice of mammon to
influence us...?"
Kevin Parker, seated in the visitors' gallery, glanced at
his watch for
the third time in five minutes. He wondered how much
longer the speech
was going to last. He was sitting through this only
because he was
having lunch with the senator and he needed a favor from
him. Kevin
Parker enjoyed walking through the corridors of power,
hobnobbing with
congressmen and senators, dispensing largess in return for
political
favors.
He had grown up poor in Eugene, Oregon. His father was an
alcoholic who
had owned a small lumberyard. An inept businessman, he
had turned what
should have been a thriving business into a disaster.
The young boy had to work from the age of fourteen, and
because his
mother had run away with another man years earlier, he had
no home life
at all. He could easily have become a drifter and ended
up like his
father, but his saving grace was that he was
extraordinarily handsome
and personable. He had wavy blond hair and fine
aristocratic features
that he must have inherited from some long-forgotten
ancestor. A few
affluent townspeople took pity on the boy, giving him jobs
and
encouragement, going out of their way to assist him. The
wealthiest man
in town, Jeb Goodspell, was particularly eager to help
Kevin and gave
him a part-time job with one of his companies. A
bachelor, Goodspell
often invited young Parker to join him for dinner at his
home.
"You can be somebody in this life," Goodspell told him,
"but you can't
make it without friends."
"I know that, sir. And I certainly appreciate your
friendship.
Working for you is a real lifesaver."
"I could do a lot more for you," Goodspell said. They
were seated on
the couch in the living room, after dinner. He put his
arm around the
young boy.
"A lot more." He squeezed the boy's shoulder.
"You have a good body, do you know that?"
"Thank you, sir."
"Do you ever get lonely?"
He was lonely all the time.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, you don't have to be lonely anymore." He stroked
the boy's arm.
"I get lonely, too, you know. You need someone to hold
you close and
comfort you."
"Yes, sir."
"Have you ever had any girls?"
"Well, I went with Sue Ellen for a while."
"Did you sleep with her?"
The boy blushed.
"No, sir."
"How old are you, Kevin?"
"Sixteen, sir."
"It's a great age. It's an age when you should be
beginning to start a
career." He studied the boy a moment.
"I'll bet you'd be darn good in politics."
"Politics? I don't know anything about that, sir."
"That's why you're going to school, to learn things.
And I'm going to help you."
"Thank you."
"There are plenty of ways of thanking people," Goodspell
said. He
rubbed his hand along the boy's thigh.
"Many ways." He looked into Parker's eyes.
"You know what I mean?"
"Yes, Jeb."
That was the beginning.
When Kevin Parker was graduated from Churchill High
School, Goodspell
sent him to the University of Oregon. The boy studied
political
science, and Goodspell saw to it that his protege met
everybody. They
were all impressed with the attractive young man. With
his connections,
Parker found that he was able to do favors for important
people and to
bring people together. Becoming a lobbyist in Washington
was a natural
step, and Parker was good at the job.
Goodspell had died two years earlier, but Parker had by
then acquired a
talent and a taste for what his mentor had taught him. He
liked to pick
up young boys and take them to out-of-the-way hotels where
he would not
be recognized.
The senator from Utah was finally finishing. ..... and I
say to you
now that we must pass this bill if we want to save what is
left of our
ecology. At this time, I would like to ask for a
roll-call vote."
Thank God, the endless session was almost over. Kevin
Parker thought
about the evening that lay ahead of him, and he began to
get an
erection. The night before, he had met a young man at
Danny's P Street
Station, a well-known gay bar. Unfortunately, the young
man had been
with a companion. But they had eyed each other during the
evening, and
before he left, Parker had written a note and slipped it
into the young
man's hand. It said simply, "Tomorrow night." The young
man had smiled
and nodded.
Kevin Parker was hurriedly getting dressed to go out.
He wanted to be at the bar when the boy arrived. The
young man was much
too attractive, and Parker did not want him picked up by
someone else.
The front doorbell rang. Damn. Parker opened the door.
A stranger stood there.
"Kevin Parker?"
"Yes-"
"My name is Bellamy. I'd like to talk to you for a
minute."
Parker said impatiently, "You'll have to make an
appointment with my
secretary. I don't discuss business after office hours."
"This isn't exactly business, Mr. Parker. It concerns
your trip to
Switzerland a couple of weeks ago."
"My trip to Switzerland? What about it?"
"My agency is interested in some of the people you might
have met over
there." Robert flashed his false CIA identification.
Kevin Parker studied the man more carefully. What could
the CIA want
with him? They were so goddamned nosy. Have I covered my
ass?
There was no point in antagonizing the man. He smiled.
"Come in.
I'm late for an appointment, but you said this won't take
more than a
minute?"
"No, sir. I believe you took a bus tour out of Zurich?"
So that's what this is all about. That flying saucer
business. It had
been the goddamndest thing he had ever seen.
"You want to know about the UFO, don't you? Well, I want
to tell you,
it was a weird experience."
"It must have been, but frankly, we at the agency don't
believe in
flying saucers. I'm here to find out what you can tell me
about your
fellow passengers on the bus." Parker was taken aback.
"Oh. Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there. They were
all strangers."
"I understand that, Mr. Parker," Robert said patiently,
"but you must
remember something about them."
Parker shrugged.
"Well, a few things. ... I remember exchanging a few
words with an
Englishman who took our pictures."
Leslie Mothershed.
"Who else?"
"Oh, yes. I talked a little to a Russian girl. She
seemed very
pleasant. I think she said she was a librarian
somewhere."
Olga Romanchanko.
"That's excellent. Can you think of anyone else, Mr.
Parker?"
"No, I guess that's about-oh, there were two other men.
One was an
American, a Texan."
Dan Wayne.
"And the other one?"
"He was a Hungarian. He owned a carnival or circus or
something like
that in Hungary." He remembered.
"It was a carnival."
"Are you sure about that, Mr. Parker?"
"Oh, yes. He was telling me some stories about the
carnival business.
He was certainly excited seeing that UFO. I think if he
could have, he
would have put it in his carnival as a sideshow. I must
admit, it was a
pretty awesome sight. I would have reported it, but I
can't afford to
get mixed up with all the weirdos who claim they saw
flying saucers."
"Did he happen to mention his name?"
"Yes, but it was one of these unpronounceable foreign
names. I'm afraid
I don't remember it."
"Do you remember anything else about him?"
"Only that he was in a hurry to get back to his carnival."
He glanced
at his watch.
"Is there anything else I can do for you? I'm running a
little late."
"No, thank you, Mr. Parker. You've been very helpful."
"My pleasure." He flashed Robert a beautiful smile.
"You must drop by my office and see me sometime. We'll
have a nice
chat."
"I'll do that."
So it's nearly over, Robert thought. They can take my job
and shove it.
It's time to pick up the pieces of my life and start over.
Robert placed a call to General Hilliard.
"I've just about wrapped it up, General. I found Kevin
Parker. He's a
lobbyist in Washington, D.C. I'm on my way to check out
the last
passenger."
"I'm very pleased," General*Hilliard said.
"You've done an excellent job, Commander. Get bak to me
as quickly as
you can."
"Yes, sir."
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR CIA
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
9. KEVIN PARKER-WASHINGTON, D.C.
END OF MESSAGE
When Kevin Parker arrived at Danny's P Street Station, he
found it even
more crowded than it had been the evening before. The
older men were
dressed in conservative suits, while most of the younger
men were in
Levi's, blazers, and boots. There were a few who looked
out of place,
in black-leather outfits, and Parker thought that that
element was
disgusting. Rough trade was dangerous, and he had never
gone in for
that sort of bizarre behavior. Discretion, that had
always been his
motto. Discretion. The handsome young boy was not there
yet, but
Parker had not expected him to be. He would make his
entrance later,
beautiful and fresh, when the others in the bar would be
tired and
sweaty. Kevin Parker walked up to the bar, ordered a
drink, and looked
around. Television sets on the walls were playing the MTV
station.
Danny's was an S-and-M-stand and model-bar. The younger
men would
assume poses that made them appear as attractive as
possible, while the
older men-the buyer-would look them over and make their
selections. The
S-and-M bars were the classiest. There were never any
fights in them,
for most of the customers had capped teeth, and they could
not afford to
chance having them knocked out. Kevin Parker noticed that
many of the
patrons had already selected their partners. He listened
to the
familiar conversations going on around him. It fascinated
him that the
conversations were always the same, whether they took
place in leather
bars, dance bars, video bars, or underground clubs that
changed their
locations every week. There was an indigenous argot.
"That queen is nobody. She thinks she's Miss Thing...."
"He went off on me for no reason. He gets so terribly
upset. Talk
about sensitive "Are you a top or a bottom?"
"A top. I have to give the orders, girl," snapping his
fingers.
"Good. I like taking them...."
"He read me for filth. ... Just stood there criticizing
me ...
my weight, my complexion, my attitude. I said, 'Mary,
it's over between
us." But it hurt. That's why I'm here tonight... trying
to forget him.
Could I have another drinks At one A.M., the young boy
walked in. He
looked around, saw Parker, and walked over to him. The
boy was even
more beautiful than Parker had remembered.
"Good evening."
"Good evening. Sorry I'm late."
"That's all right. I didn't mind waiting." The young man
took out a
cigarette and waited while the older man lit it for him.
"I've been thinking about you," Parker said.
"Have you?"
The boy's eyelashes were incredible.
"Yes. Can I buy you a drink?"
"If it will make you happy."
Parker smiled.
"Are you interested in making me happy?"
The boy looked him in the eyes and said softly, "I think
so."
"I saw the man you were here with last night. He's wrong
for you."
"And you're right for me?"
"I could be. Why don't we find out? Would you like to go
for a little
walk?"
"Sounds good."
Parker felt a tingle of excitement.
"I know a cozy place where we can be alone."
"Fine. I'll skip the drink."
As they started toward the front door, it suddenly opened
and two large
young men entered the bar. They stepped in front of the
boy, blocking
his way.
"There you are, you sonofabitch. Where's the money you
owe me?"
The young man looked up at him, bewildered.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I've never seen
you be-"
"Don't give me that shit." The man grabbed him by the
shoulder and
started marching him out to the street. Parker stood
there, furious.
He was tempted to interfere, but he could not afford to
get involved in
anything that might turn into a scandal. He stayed where
he was,
watching the boy disappear into the night.
The second man smiled at Kevin Parker sympathetically.
"You should choose your company more carefully. He's bad
news." Parker
took a closer look at the speaker. He was blond and
attractive, with
almost perfect features. Parker had a feeling that the
evening might
not be a total loss, after all.
"You could be right," he said.
"We never know what fate has in store for us, do we?"
He was looking into Parker's eyes.
"No, we don't. My name's Tom. What's your name?"
"Paul."
"Why don't you let me buy you a drink, Paul?"
"Thank you."
"Do you have any special plans for tonight?"
"That's up to you."
"How would you like to spend the night with me?"
"That sounds like fun."
"How much money are we talking about?"
"I like you. For you, two hundred."
"That seems reasonable."
"It is. You won't be sorry."
Thirty minutes later, Paul was leading Kevin Parker into
an old
apartment building on Jefferson Street. They walked
upstairs to the
third floor and entered a small room. Parker looked
around.
"It's not much, is it? A hotel would have been nicer."
Paul grinned.
"It's more private here. Besides, all we need is the
bed."
"You're right. Why don't you get undressed? I want to
see what I'm
buying."
"Sure." Paul started stripping. He had a great body.
Parker watched
him, and he felt the old familiar urge beginning to build.
"Now, you get undressed," Paul whispered.
"Hurry, I want you."
"I want you too, Mary." Parker began to take off his
clothes.
"What do you like?"
Paul asked.
"Lips or hips?"
"Let's make it a cocktail. Excuse the pun. We've got all
night."
"Sure. I'm going into the bathroom," Paul said.
"I'll be right back."
Parker lay on the bed naked, anticipating the exquisite
pleasures that
were about to happen. He heard his companion come out of
the bathroom
and approach the bed. He held out his arms.
"Come to me, Paul," he said.
"I'm coming."
And Parker felt a burst of agony as a knife slashed into
his chest.
His eyes flew open. He looked up, gasping.
"My God, wha~?"
Paul was getting dressed.
"Don't worry about the money," he said.
"It's on the house."
MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
CIA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
9. KEVIN PARKER-WASHINGTON, D.C.-TERMINATED
END OF MESSAGE
Robert Bellamy missed the late news bulletin because he
was on a plane
to Hungary to find a man who owned a carnival.
Day Fourteen Budapest
The flight from Paris to Budapest on Malev Airlines took
two hours and
five minutes. Robert knew very little about Hungary
except that during
World War II, it had been a partner in the Axis, and had
later become a
Russian satellite. Robert took the airport bus to the
center of
Budapest, impressed by what he saw. The buildings were
old and the
architecture classic. Parliament House on the Rudolph
Quay was a huge,
NeoGothic structure that dominated the city, and high
above the city on
Castle Hill was the Royal Palace. The streets were
crowded with
automobiles and shoppers.
The bus stopped in front of the Hotel Duna
Intercontinental.
Robert walked into the lobby and approached the concierge.
"Excuse me," Robert said, "do you speak English?"
"Igan. Yes. What may I do for you?"
"A friend of mine was in Budapest a few days ago, and he
told me he saw
a wonderful carnival. I thought as long as I was in town,
I might take
a look at it. Can you tell me where I might find it?"
The concierge frowned.
"Carnival?"
He pulled out a sheet of paper and scanned it.
"Let's see. In Budapest at the present time, we have an
opera, several
theater productions, ballet, night and day tours of the
city, excursions
in the country.. ." He looked up.
"I'm sorry. There are no carnivals."
"Are you sure?"
The concierge handed the list to Robert.
"See for yourself." It was written in Hungarian.
Robert handed it back.
"Right. Is there anyone else I might talk to about this?"
The concierge said, "The Ministry of Culture might be able
to help you."
Thirty minutes later, Robert was speaking to a clerk in
the office of
the Culture Ministry.
"There is no carnival in Budapest. Are you sure your
friend saw it in
Hungary?"
"Yes."
"But he did not say where?"
"No."
"I am sorry. I cannot help you." The clerk was
impatient.
"If there is nothing else-' "No." Robert rose to his
feet.
"Thank you." He hesitated.
"I do have one more question. If I wanted to bring a
circus or a
carnival into Hungary, would I have to get a permit?"
"Certainly."
"Where would I go for that?"
"To the Budapest Administration of Licenses."
The licenses building was located in Buda mplete medieval
city wall.
Robert waited for thirty minutes before he was ushered
into the office
of a formal, pompous official.
"Can I help you?"
Robert smiled.
"I hope so. I hate to take up your time with something as
trivial as
this, but I'm here with my young son, and he heard about a
carnival
playing somewhere in Hungary, and I promised to take him
to see it. You
know how kids are when they get an idea in their heads."
The official stared at Robert, puzzled.
"What is it you wanted to see me about?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, no one seems to know where
the carnival
is, and Hungary is such a big and beautiful country-well,
I was told
that if anyone knew what was going on in Hungary, it would
be you."
The official nodded.
"Yes. Nothing like that is permitted to open without
being issued a
license." He pressed the buzzer, and a secretary came in.
There was a
rapid exchange in Hungarian. The secretary left and came
back two
minutes later with some papers. She handed them to the
official. He
looked at them and said to Robert, "In the past three
months, we have
issued two permits for carnivals. One closed a month
ago."
"And the other?"
"The other is currently playing in Sopron. A little town
near the
German frontier."
"Do you have the owner's name?"
The official consulted the paper again.
"Bushfekete. Laslo Bushfekete."
* Laslo Bushfekete was having one of the best days of his
life. Few
people are lucky enough to spend their lives doing exactly
what they
want to do, and Laslo Bushfekete was one of those
fortunate few. At six
foot four and three hundred pounds, Bushfekete was a big
man. He
sported a diamond wristwatch, diamond rings, and a large
gold bracelet.
His father had owned a small carnival, and when he died,
the son had
taken it over. It was the only life he had ever known.
Laslo
Bushfekete had grandiose dreams. He intended to expand
his little
carnival into the biggest and best in Europe. He wanted
to be known as
the P. T. Barnum of carnivals. At the moment, however,
he could only
afford the usual sideshow attractions: the Fat Lady and
the Tattooed
Man, the Siamese Twins and the Thousand-Year-Old Mummy,
"dug up from the
bowels of tombs in ancient Egypt." Theri there was the
Sword Swallower
and the Flame Eater, and the cute little Snake Charmer,
Marika. But in
the end, all they really added up to was just another
traveling
carnival.
Now, overnight, all that was going to change. Laslo
Bushfekete's dream
was about to come true.
He had gone to Switzerland to audition an escape artist he
had heard
about. The piece de resistance of the act was a routine
where the
performer was blindfolded, handcuffed, locked in a small
trunk, then
locked in a larger trunk, and finally lowered into a tank
of water. It
had sounded fantastic over the telephone, but when
Bushfekete flew to
Switzerland to see it, he found that there was one
insurmountable
problem: It took the escape artist thirty minutes to
escape. No
audience in the world was going to stay around staring at
a trunk in a
tank of water for thirty minutes. It had looked as though
the trip had
been a complete waste of time. Laslo Bushfekete had
decided to take a
tour to kill the day until it was time to catch his plane.
As it turned
out, that ride changed his life.
Like his fellow passengers, Bushfekete had seen the
explosion and raced
across the field to try to help any survivors in what they
all thought
was a plane crash. But the sight that had confronted him
was
incredible. There was no question but that it was a
flying saucer, and
in it were two strange-looking little bodies. The other
passengers
stood there gaping at it. Laslo Bushfekete had walked
around to see
what the back of the UFO looked like, and then he had
stopped, staring.
About ten feet in back of the wreck, lying on the ground
out of sight of
the other tourists, was a tiny severed hand with six
fingers and two
opposing thumbs. Without even thinking, Bushfekete had
taken out his
handkerchief, scooped up the hand, and slipped it into his
carryall.
His heart was beating wildly. He had in his possession
the hand of a
genuine extraterrestrial! From now on you can forget all
your fat
ladies, tattooed men, sword swallowers and flame eaters,
he thought.
"Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, for the thrill of a
lifetime.
What you're about to see is a sat that no mortal has ever
seen before.
You are looking at one of the most incredible objects in
the universe.
It's not an animal. It's not a vegetable. It's not a
mineral. What is
it? It's part of the remains of an extraterrestrial... a
creature from
outer space. ... This is not science fiction, ladies and
gentlemen,
this is the real thing.... For five hundred forints, you
can have your
photograph taken with the..." And that reminded him. He
hoped that the
photographer who had been at the crash site would remember
to send the
photograph he had promised. He would have it blown up and
put next to
the exhibit. That would be a neat touch. Showmanship.
That's what life
is all about. Showmanship.
He could not wait to return to Hungary and start to
fulfill his
grandiose dream.
When he arrived home and unwrapped the handkerchief, he
noticed that the
hand had shriveled. But when Bushfekete rinsed off the
dirt, amazingly,
it regained its original firmness.
Bushfekete had hidden the hand safely away and had ordered
an impressive
glass case with a special humidifier built for it. When
he was through
exhibiting it in his carnival, he planned to travel with
it all over
Europe. All over the world. He would set up exhibits in
museums. He
would have private showings for scientists; perhaps, even
for heads of
state. And he would charge them all. There was no end to
the fabulous
fortune that lay ahead. He had told no one about his good
luck, not
even his sweetheart, Marika, the sexy little dancer who
worked with
cobras and puff adders, two of the most dangerous
ophidians. Of course,
their poison sacs had been removed, but the audience did
not know that
because Bushfekete also kept a cobra with its poison sac
intact. He
displayed the snake free of charge to the public, which
watched it kill
rats. It wasn't surprising that people got a thrill out
of watching the
beautiful Marika let her pet snakes slither across her
sensuous,
half-naked body. Two or three nights a week, Marika came
into Laslo
Bushfekete's tent and crawled across his body, her tongue
flicking in
and out like her pets. They had made love the night
before, and
Bushfekete was still exhausted from Marika's incredible
gymnastics. His
reminiscences were interrupted by a visitor.
"Mr. Bushfekete?"
"You're talking to him. What can I do for you?"
"I understand you were in Switzerland last week."
Bushfekete was
instantly wary. Did someone see me pick up the hand?
"What-what about
it?"
"You went on a bus tour last Sunday?"
Bushfekete said cautiously, "Yes."
Robert Bellamy relaxed. It was finally over. This was
the last
witness. He had taken on an impossible assignment, and he
had done a
good job. A damned good job, if I say so myself "IIehave
no idea where
they are. Or who they are." And he had found them all.
He felt as if
a tremendous burden had been lifted from his shoulders.
He was free
now. Free to return home and to begin a new life.
"What about my trip, mister?"
"It's not important," Robert Bellamy assured him.
And it wasn't, not any longer.
"I was interested in your fellow passengers, Mr.
Bushfekete, but now I
think I have all the information I need, so-"
"Oh, hell, I can tell you all about them," Laslo
Bushfekete said.
"There was an Italian priest from Orvieto, Italy; a
German-I think he
was a chemistry professor from Munich; some Russian girl
who worked in
the library in Kiev; a rancher from Waco, Texas; a
Canadlan banker from
the Territories; and some lobbyist named Parker from
Washington, D.C."
My God, Robert thought. If I had gotten ~ him first, I
could have saved
a lot of time. The man is amazing. He recalled them all.
"You have quite a memory," Robert said.
"Yeah." Bushfekete smiled.
"Oh, and there was that other woman."
"The Russian woman."
"No, no, the other woman. The tall, thin one who was
dressed in white."
Robert thought for a moment. None of the others had
mentioned a second
woman.
"I think you must be mistaken."
"No, I'm not." Bushfekete was insistent.
"There were two women there." Robert made a mental count.
It simply
did not add up.
"There couldn't have been."
Bushfekete was insulted.
"When that photographer fellow took the pictures of all of
us in front
of that UFO, she was standing right next to me. She was a
real beauty."
He paused.
"The funny part is I don't recall seeing her on the bus.
She was
probably in the back somewhere.
I remember she seemed kind of pale. I was a little
worried about her."
Robert frowned.
"When all of you returned to the bus, was she with you?"
"Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing her after
that. But I was
so excited by that UFO thing, I wasn't paying much
attention."
There was something here that did not fit. Could there
have been eleven
witnesses instead of ten? I'll have to check that out,
Robert thought.
"Thank you, Mr. Bushfekete," he said.
"My pleasure."
"Good luck."
Bushfekete grinned.
"Thanks." He didn't need luck.
Not anymore. Not with the hand of a real genuine alien in
his
possession.
That night Robert Bellamy made his final report to General
Hilliard.
"I have his name. It's Laslo Bushfekete. He runs a
carnival outside of
Sopron, Hungary."
"That's the last of the witnesses?"
Robert hesitated an instant.
"Yes, sir." He had started to mention the eighth
passenger, but he
decided to wait until he had verified it. It seemed too
improbable.
"Thank you, Commander. Well done."
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR HRQ
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
10. LASLO BUSHFEKETE-SOPRON
END OF MESSAGE
They arrived in the middle of the night, when the carnival
was shut
down. They left fifteen minutes later, as silently as
they had come.
Laslo Bushfekete dreamed he was standing at the entrance
to the large
white tent, watching the huge crowd lined up at the box
office to buy
their five-hundred-forint tickets.
"Come right this way, folks. See the genuine body part of
an alien from
outer space. Not a drawing, not a photograph, but an
actual part of an
actual ET. Only five hundred forints for the thrill of a
lifetime, a
sight you will never forget."
And then he was in bed with Marika, and they were both
naked, and he
could feel her nipples pressing against his chest and her
tongue
slithering across his body and she was crawling all over
him, and he got
an erection, and he reached for her and his hands closed
over something
cold and slimy, and he woke up and opened his eyes and
screamed, and
that was when the cobra struck.
They found his body in the morning. The cage for the
poisonous snake
was empty.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
HRQ TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
10. LASLO BUSHFEKETE-SOPRON-TERMINATED
END OF MESSAGE
General Hilliard made a call on the red phone.
"Janus, I've received the final report from Commander
Bellamy. He's
found the last of the witnesses. They've all been taken
care of."
"Excellent. I'll inform the others. I want you to
proceed at once with
the rest of our plan."
"Immediately."
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTORS: SIFAR, M16, GRU, CIA, COMSEC,
DCI, CGHQ, BFV
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
11. COMMANDER ROBERT BELLAMY-TERMINATE
END OF MESSAGE
Day Fifteen
Robert Bellamy was in a dilemma. Could there be an
eleventh witness?
And if there was, why didn't any of the others mention her
before? The
clerk who sold the bus tickets had told him there were
only seven
passengers. Robert was convinced that the Hungarian
carnival owner had
made a mistake. It would have been easy to ignore it, to
assume that it
was untrue, but Robert's training would not permit it.
He had been too well disciplined. Bushfekete's story had
to be checked
out. How? Robert thought about it. Hans Beckerman. The
bus driver
will know.
He placed a call to Sunshine Tours. The office was
closed. There was
no listing in Kappel for a Hans Beckerman.
I'm going to have to go back to Switzerland and settle
this, Robert
thought. I can't leave any loose ends. It was late at
night when
Robert arrived in Zurich.
The air was cold and crisp, and there was a full moon.
Robert rented a
car and took the now-familiar drive to the little village
of Kappel. He
drove past the church and pulled up in front of Hans
Beckerman's home,
convinced that he was on a wild-goose chase. The house
was dark. Robert
knocked on the door and waited. He knocked again,
shivering in the cold
night air.
Mrs. Beckerman finally answered the door. She was
wearing a faded
flannel robe.
"Bitte?"
"Mrs. Beckerman, I wonder if you remember me? I'm the
reporter who's
writing an article on Hans. I'm sorry to bother you so
late, but it's
important that I speak to your husband."
His words were greeted with silence.
"Mrs. Beckerman?"
"Hans is dead." Robert felt a small shock go through him.
"What?"
"My husband is dead."
"I-I'm sorry. How?"
"His car went over the side of the mountain." Her voice
was filled with
bitterness.
"The Dummkopf Polizei said it was because he was full of
drugs."
"Drugs?"
"Ulcers. The doctors cannot even give me drugs to relieve
the pain. I
am allergic to all of them."
"The police said it was an accident?"
"Ja."
"Did they perform an autopsy?"
"They did, and they found drugs. It makes no sense." He
had no answer.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Beckerman. I-" The door
closed, and Robert
stood there alone in the cold night. One witness was
gone. N~two.
Leslie Mothershed had died in a fire. Robert stood
thinking for a long
time. Two witnesses dead. He could hear the voice of his
instructor at
the Farm: "There's one more thing I want to discuss today.
Coincidence.
In our work, there is no such animal. It usually spells
danger. If you
keep running into the same person again and again, or you
keep spotting
the same automobile when you're on the move, cover your
ass. You're
probably in trouble."
"Probably in trouble." Robert was caught up in a series
of conflicting
emotions. What had happened had to be coincidence, and
yet ... I've
got to check out the mystery passenger.
His first call was to Fort Smith, Canada. A distraught
woman's voice
answered the telephone.
"Yes?"
"William Mann, please."
The voice said tearfully, "I'm sorry. My husband iris no
longer with
us."
"I don't understand."
"He committed suicide."
Suicide? That hardheaded banker? What the hell is going
on?
Robert wondered. What he was thinking was inconceivable,
and yet ...
He began making one phone call after another.
"Professor Schmidt, please."
"Ach! The professor died in an explosion in his
laboratory. ..."
"I'd like to speak to Dan Wayne."
"Poor devil. His prize stallion li:icked him to death
last. .
* * "Laslo Bushfekete, please."
"The carnival's closed. Laslo is dead...."
"Fritz Mandel, please."
"Fritz was killed in a freak accident...." The alarms
were going full
blast now.
"Olga Romanchanko."
"The poor girl. And she was so young...."
"I'm calling to check on Father Patrini."
"The poor soul passed away in his sleep."
"I have to speak to Kevin Parker."
"Kevin was murdered...."
Dead. Every one of the witnesses dead. And he was the
one who had
found and identified them. Why had he not known what was
going on?
Because the bastards had waited until he was out of each
country before
executing their victims. The only one he had reported to
was General
Hilliard.
"We must not involve anyone else in this mission.... I
want you to
report your progress to me every day."
They had used him to finger the witnesses. What is behind
all this?
Otto Schmidt had been killed in Gormany, Hans Beckerman
and Fritz Mandel
in Switzerland, Olga Romanchanko in Russia, Dan Wayne and
Kevin Parker
in America, William Mann in Canada, Leslie Mothershed
America, William
Mann in Canada, Leslie Mothershed in England, Father
Patrini in Italy,
and Laslo Bushfekete in Hungary. That meant that the
security agencies
in more than half a dozen countries were engaged in the
biggest cover-up
in history. Someone at a very high level had decided that
all the
witnesses to the UFO crash must die. But who? And why?
It's an
international conspiracy, and I'm in the middle of it.
Priority: Get under cover. It was hard for Robert to
believe that they
intended to kill him too. He was one of them. But until
he knew for
certain, he could not take any chances. The first thing
he had to do
was to get a phony passport. That meant Ricco in Rome.
Robert caught the next plane out and found himself
fighting to stay
awake. He had not realized how exhausted he was. The
pressure of the
last fifteen days, in addition to all the jet lag, had
left him drained.
He landed at Leonardo da Vinci Airport, and when he walked
into the
terminal, the first person he saw was Susan. He stopped,
in shock. Her
back was to him, and for a moment, he thought he might be
mistaken. And
then he heard her voice.
"Thank you. I have a car picking me up." Robert moved to
her side.
"SusanShe turned, startled.
"Robert! What-what a coincidence!
But what a lovely surprise."
"I thought you were in Gibraltar," Robert said. She
smiled uneasily.
"Yes. We're on our way there. Monte had some business
here to take
care of first. We're leaving tonight. What are you doing
in Rome?"
Running for my life.
"I'm finishing up on a job." It's my last.
I've quit, darling. We can be together from now on, and
nothing will
ever separate us again. Leave Monte and come back to me.
But he could
not bring himself to say the words. He had done enough to
her. She was
happy in her new life. Leave it alone, Robert thought.
She was
watching him.
"You look tired." He smiled.
"I've been running around a little." They looked into
each other's
eyes, and the magic was still there. The burning desire,
and the
memories, and the laughter, and the yearning.
Susan took his hand in hers and said softly, "Robert.
Oh, Robert. I wish we-"
"Susan-" And at that moment, a burly man in a chauffeur's
uniform walked
up to Susan.
"The car is ready, Mrs. Banks." And the spell was
broken.
"Thank you." She turned to Robert.
"I'm sorry. I have to go now.
Please take care of yourself."
"Sure." He watched her leave. There were so many things
he wanted to
say to her. Life has a lousy sense of timing. It had
been wonderful
seeing Susan again, but what was it that was troubling
him? Of course!
Coincidence. Another coincidence.
He took a taxi to the Hassler Hotel.
"Welcome back, Commander."
"Thank you."
"I'll have a bellman take up your bags."
"Wait." Robert looked at his watch. Ten P.M. He was
tempted to go
upstairs and get some sleep, but he had to arrange his
passport first.
"I won't be going to my room right away," Robert said.
"I would appreciate it if you would have my bags sent up."
"of course, Commander."
As Robert turned to leave, the elevator door opened, and a
group of
Shriners came pouring out, laughing and chattering. They
had obviously
had a few drinks. One of them, a stout, red-faced man,
waved to Robert.
"Hi there, buddy ... having a good time?"
"Wonderful," Robert said.
"Just wonderful." Robert walked through the lobby to the
taxi stand
outside. As he started to get into the taxi, he noticed
an
inconspicuous gray Opel parked across the street.
It was too inconspicuous. It stood out among the large,
luxurious
automobiles around it.
"Via Monte Grappa," Robert told the taxi driver. During
the drive,
Robert looked out the rear window. No gray Opel. I'm
getting jumpy,
Robert thought. When they arrived at Via Monte Grappa,
Robert got out
at the corner. As he started to pay the driver, he saw,
out of the
corner of his eye, the gray Opel half a block down the
street, yet he
could have sworn it had not followed him. He pad his fare
and started
walking, moving away from the car, strolling slowly,
stopping to look in
shop windows. In the reflection of a store window, he saw
the Opel,
moving slowly behind him. When Robert reached the next
corner, he
noticed that it was a one-way street. He turned into it,
going against
the heavy traffic. The Opel hesitated at the corner, then
sped away to
beat Robert to the other end. Robert reversed direction
and walked back
to the Via Monte Grappa. The Opel was nowhere in sight.
Robert hailed a taxi.
"Via Monticelli."
The building was old and unprepossessing, a relic of
better days.
Robert had visited it many times before on various
missions. He walked
down three basement steps and knocked on the door. An eye
appeared at
the peephole, and a moment later the door was flung open.
"Roberto!" a man exclaimed. He threw his arms around
Robert.
"How are you, mi amico?"
The speaker was a fat man in his sixties with white,
unshaven stubble,
thick eyebrows, yellowed teeth, and several chins. He
closed the door
behind him and locked it.
"I'm fine, Ricco."
Ricco had no second name.
"For a man like me," he liked to boast, "one name is
enough. Like
Garbo."
"What can I do for you today, my friend?"
"I'm working on a case," Robert said, "and I'm in a hurry.
Can you fix
me up with a passport?"
Ricco smiled.
"Is the pope Catholic?"
He waddled over to a cabinet in the corner and unlocked
it.
"What country would you like to be from?"
He pulled out a handful of passports with different
colored covers and
sorted through them.
"We have a Greek passport, Turkish, Yugoslavian, English-"
"American," Robert said.
Ricco pulled out a passport with a blue cover.
"Here we are. Does the name Arthur Butterfield appeal to
you?"
"Perfect," Robert said.
"If you'll stand over by the wall, I will take your
picture."
Robert moved over to the wall. Ricco opened a drawer and
took out a
Polaroid camera. A minute later, Robert was looking at a
picture of
himself.
"I wasn't smiling," Robert said. Ricco looked at him,
puzzled.
"What?"
"I wasn't smiling. Take another one." Ricco shrugged.
"Sure.
Whatever you say." Robert smiled while the second
passport picture was
taken. He looked at it and said, "That's better." He
casually slipped
the first picture into his pocket.
"Now comes the high-tech part," Ricco announced. Robert
watched as
Ricco walked over to a workbench where there was a
laminating machine.
He placed the picture on the inside of the passport.
Robert moved to a
table covered with pens, ink, and other paraphernalia and
slipped a
razor blade and a small bottle of glue into his jacket
pocket.
Ricco was studying his handiwork.
"Not bad," he said.
He handed the passport to Robert.
"That will be five thousand dollars."
"And well worth it," Robert assured him, as he peeled off
10
five-hundred-dollar bills.
"It's always a pleasure doing business with you people.
You know how I
feel about you." Robert knew exactly how he felt. Ricco
was an expert
cobbler who worked for half a dozen different
governments-and was loyal
to none. He put the passport in his coat pocket.
"Good luck, Mr.
Butterfield." Ricco smiled.
"Thanks."
The moment the door closed behind Robert, Ricco reached
for the
telephone. Information was always worth money to someone.
Outside, twenty yards down the street, Robert took the new
passport out
of his pocket and buried it in a trash can.
Chalf. The technique he had used as a pilot to lay false
trails for
enemy missiles. Let them look for Arthur Butterfield.
The gray Opel was parked half a block away. Waiting.
Impossible.
Robert was sure that the car was the only tail they had.
He was certain
the Opel had not followed him, and yet it kept finding
him. They had to
have some way of keeping track of his location. There was
only one
answer: They were using some kind of homing device. And
he had to be
carrying it. Attached to his clothes? No. They had had
no opportunity.
Captain Dougherty had stayed with him while he packed, but
he would not
have known what clothes Robert would take. Robert made a
mental
inventory of what he was carryingcash, keys, a wallet,
handkerchief,
credit card. The credit card! "I doubt if I'll need
that, General."
"Take it. And keep it with you at all times."
The sneaky sonofabitch. No wonder they had been able to
find him so
easily. The gray Opel was no longer in sight.
Robert took out the card and examined it. It was slightly
thicker than
an ordinary credit card. By squeezing it, he could feel
an inner layer.
They would have a remote control to activate the card.
Good, Robert
thought.
Let's keep the bastards busy.
There were several trucks parked along the street loading
and unloading
goods. Robert examined the license plates. When he came
to a red truck
with French plates, he looked around to make sure he was
not observed
and tossed the card in the back of the truck.
He flagged down a taxi.
"Hassler, per favore." In the lobby, Robert approached
the concierge.
"See if there's a flight out of here tonight to Paris,
please."
"Certainly, Commander. Do you prefer any particular
airline?"
"It doesn't matter. The first flight out."
"I will be happy to arrange it."
"Thank you." Robert walked over to the hotel clerk.
"My key, please. Room 314. And I'll be checking out in a
few minutes."
"Very good, Commander Bellamy." The clerk reached in a
pigeonhole and
pulled out a key and an envelope.
"There's a letter here for you."
Robert stiffened. The envelope was sealed and addressed
simply:
"Commander Robert Bellamy." He fingered it, feeling for
plastique or
any metal inside. He opened it carefully. Inside was a
printed card
advertising an Italian restaurant. It was innocent
enough. Except, of
course, for his name on the envelope.
"Do you happen to remember who gave you this?"
"I'm sorry," the clerk said apologetically, "but we have
been so busy
this evening...."
It was not important. The man would have been face less.
He would have
picked up the card somewhere, slipped it into the
envelope, and stood by
the desk, watching to see the room number of the slot that
the envelope
was placed in. He would be waiting upstairs now in
Robert's room. It
was time to see the face of the enemy.
Robert became aware of raised voices and turned to watch
the Shriners he
had seen earlier, entering the lobby, laughing and
singing.
They had obviously had a few more drinks. The portly man
said, "Hi
there, pal. You missed a great party."
Robert's mind was racing.
"You like patties?"
"Hoo hoo!"
"There's a real live one going on u~," Robert said.
"Booze, girls-anything you want. Just follow me,
fellows."
"That's the American spirit, pal." The man clapped Robert
on the back.
"You hear that, boys? our friend here is throwing a
party!"
They crowded into the elevator together and rode up to the
third floor.
The Shriner said, "These Italians sure know how to live it
up. I guess
they invented orgies, huh?"
"I'm going to show you a real orgy," Robert promised.
They followed him
down the hall to his room. Robert put the key in the lock
and turned to
the group.
"Are you all ready to have some fun?"
There was a chorus of yeses...
Robert turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped
to one side.
The room was dark. He snapped on the light. A tall, thin
stranger was
standing in the middle of the room with a Mauser equipped
with a
silencer, half drawn. The man looked at the group with a
startled
expression and quickly shoved the gun back in his jacket.
"Hey! Where's the booze?"
one of the Shriners demanded.
Robert pointed to the stranger.
"He has it. Go get it." The group surged toward the man.
"Where's the liquor, buddy?"...
"Where are the girls?"...
"Let's get this party on the road...."
The thin man was trying to get through to Robert, but the
crowd was
blocking his way. He watched helplessly as Robert bolted
out the door.
He took the stairs two at a time.
Downstairs in the lobby, Robert was moving toward the exit
when the
concierge called out, "Oh, Commander Bellamy, I made your
reservation
for you. You are on Air France flight 312 to Paris. It
leaves at one
A.M."
"Thanks," Robert said hurriedly.
He was out the door, into the small square overlooking the
Spanish
Stems. A taxi was discharging a passenger. Robert
stepped into it.
"Via Monte Grappa." He had his answer now. They intended
to kill him.
They',- not going to find it easy. He was the hunted now
instead of the
hunter, but he had one big advantage. They had trained
him well. He
knew all their techniques, their strengths, and their
weaknesses, and he
intended to use that knowledge to stop them. First, he
had to find a
way to throw them off his trail. The men after him would
have been
given a story of some kind. They would have been told he
was wanted for
smuggling drugs, or for murder, or espionage. They would
have been
warned: He's dangerous. Take no chances. Shoot to kill.
Robert said to the taxi driver, "Roma Termini." They were
hunting for
him, but they would not have had enough time to
disseminate his
photograph. So far, he was faceless.
The taxi pulled up at Via Giovanni Giolitti 36, and the
driver
announced, "Stazione Termini, signore."
"Let's just wait here a minute." Robert sat in the taxi,
studying the
front of the railway station. There seemed to be only the
usual
activity. Everything appeared to be normal. Taxis and
limousines were
arriving and de~ing, discharging and picking up
passengers. Porters
were loading and unloading luggage. A policeman was
busily ordering
cars to move out of the restricted parking one. But
something was
disturbing Robert. He suddenly realized what was wrong
with the
picture. Parked fly in front of the station, in a
no-parking zone, were
three unmarked sedans, with no one inside. The policeman
ignored them.
"I've changed my mind," Robert said to the driver.
"Via Veneto 110/A." It was the last place anyone would
look for him.
The American Embassy and Consulate are located in a pink
stucco building
facing the Via Veneto, with a black wrought-iron fence in
front of it.
The embassy was closed at this hour, but the passport
division of the
consulate was open on a twenty.four-hour basis to handle
emergencies. In
the foyer on the first floor, a marine sat behind a desk.
The marine looked up as Robert approached.
"May I help you, sir?"
"Yes," Robert said.
"I want to inquire about getting a new passport. I lost
mine."
"Are you an American citizen?"
"Yes."
The marine indicated an office at the far end.
"They'll take care of you in there, sir. Last door."
"Thank you."
There were half a dozen people in the room applying for
passports,
reporting lost ones, and getting renewals and visas.
"Do I need a visa to visit Albania? I have relatives
there...."
"I need this passport renewed by tonight. I have a plane
to catch...."
"I don't know what happened to it. I must have left it in
Milan...."
"They grabbed my passport right out of my purse...."
Robert stood there
listening. Stealing passports was a thriving cottage
industry in Italy.
Someone here would be getting a new passport. At the head
of the line
was a welldressed, middle-aged man being handed an
American passport.
"Here is your new passport, Mr. Cowan. I'm sorry you had
such a bad
experience. I'm afraid there are a lot of pickpockets in
Rome."
"I'll sure see to it that they don't get hold of this
one," Cowan said.
"You do that, sir."
Robert watched Cowan put the passport in his jacket pocket
and turn to
leave. Robert stepped ahead of him. As a woman brushed
by, Robert
lunged into Cowan, as if he had been pushed, almost
knocking him down.
"I'm terribly sorry," Robert apologized. He leaned over
and
straightened the man's jacket for him.
"No problem," Cowan said.
Robert turned and walked into the public men's room down
the hall, the
stranger's passport in his pocket. He looked around to
make sure he was
alone, then went into one of the booths. He took out the
razor blade
and bottle of glue he had stolen from Ricco. Very
carefully, he slit
the top of the plastic and removed Cowan's photograph.
Next, he
inserted the picture of himself that Ricco had taken. He
glued the top
of the plastic slot closed and examined his handiwork.
Perfect. He was
now Henry Cowan. Five minutes later, he was out in the
Via Veneto,
getting into a taxi.
"Leonardo da Vinci." It was twelve.thirty when Robert
arrived at the
airport. He stood outside, looking for anything unusual.
On the
surface, everything appeared to be normal. No police
cars, no
suspicious.looking men. Robert entered the terminal and
stopped just
inside the door. There were various airline counters
scattered around
the large terminal. There seemed to be no one loitering
or hiding
behind posts. He stayed where he was, wary. He could not
explain it,
even to himself, but somehow everything seemed too normal.
Across the room was an Air France counter.
"You are on Air France flight 312 to Paris. . . . It
leaves at one
Robert walked past the counter and approached a woman in
uniform behind
the Alitalia counter.
"Good evening."
"Good evening. Can I help you, signore?"
"Yes," Robert said.
"Would you please page Commander Robert Bellamy to come to
the courtesy
telephone?"
"Certainly," she said. She picked up a microphone. A few
feet away, a
fat middle-aged woman was checking a number of suitcases,
heatedly
arguing with an airline attendant about overweight fees.
"In America, they never charged me for overweight."
"I'm sorry, madam. But if you wish all these bags to go
on, you must
pay for excess baggage."
Robert moved closer. He heard the attendant's voice over
the
loudspeaker.
"Will Commander Robert Bellamy please come to the white
courtesy
telephone. Commander Robert Bellamy, please come to the
white courtesy
telephone." The announcement echoed throughout the
airport.
A man holding a carry-on bag was walking past Robert.
"Excuse me," Robert said. The man turned."
"Yes?"
"I hear my wife paging me, but"-he indicated the woman's
bags-"I can't
leave my luggage." He pulled out a ten-dollar bill and
handed it to the
man.
"Would you please go over to that white telephone and tell
her I'll pick
her up at our hotel in an hour? I'd really appreciate
it." The man
looked at the ten-dollar bill in his hand.
"Sure."
Robert watched him walk over to the courtesy telephone and
pick it up.
He held the receiver to his ear and said, "Hello? ...
Hello?
The next moment, four large men in black suits appeared
from nowhere and
closed in, pinning the hapless man to the wall.
"Hey! What is this?"
"Let's do this quietly," one of the men said.
"What do you think you're doing? Got your hands off me!"
"Don't make a fuss, Commander. There's no point"
"Commander? You've got the wrong man! My name is Melvyn
Davis.
I'm from Omaha!"
"Let's not play games."
"Wait a minute! I've been set up. The man you want is
over there!" He
pointed to where Robert had been standing.
There was no one there.
Outside the terminal, an airport bus was getting ready to
depart.
Robert boarded it, mingling with the other passengers. He
sat at the
back of the bus, concentrating on his next move.
He was desperate to talk to Admiral Whittaker to try to
get answers
about what was going on, to learn who was responsible for
killing
innocent people because they had witnessed something they
were not
supposed to have seen. Was it General Hilliard? Dustin
Thornton? Or
Thornton's father-in-law, Willard Stone, the man of
mystery. Could he
be involved in this in some way? Was it Edward Sanderson,
the director
of NSA? Could they be working together? Did it go as
high as the
President? Robert needed answers.
The bus trip into Rome took an hour. When the bus stopped
in front of
the Eden Hotel, Robert disembarked.
I've got to get out of the country, Robert thought. There
was only one
man in Rome he could trust. Colonel Francesco Cesar, head
of SIFAR, the
Italian Secret Service. He was going to be Robert's
escape from Italy.
Colonel Cesar was working late. Messages had been
flashing back and
forth among foreign security agencies, and they all
involved Commander
Robert Bellamy. Colonel Cesar had worked with Robert in
the past, and
he was very fond of him. Cesar sighed as he looked at the
latest
message in front of him. Terminate. And as he was
reading it, his
secretary came into the office.
"Commander Bellamy is on line one for you."
"The Lido bar in Trastevere."
"Wait right there. I'll see you in exactly one hour."
"Thanks, amico." Robert replaced the receiver. It was
going to be a
long hour.
Thirty minutes later, two unmarked cars coasted to a stop
ten yards from
the Lido bar. There were four men in each car, and they
were all
carrying automatic weapons.
Colonel Cesar got out of the first car.
"Let's do this quickly.
We don't want anyone else to get hurt. Andate al dietro,
subito."
Half the men silently went around to cover the back of the
building.
Robert Bellamy watched from the rooftop of the building
across the
street as Cesar and his men raised their weapons and
charged into the
bar.
All right, you bastards, Robert thought grimly, we'll play
it your way.
Day Sixteen Rome, Italy
Robert placed a call to Colonel Cesar from a phone booth
in the Piazza
del Duomo.
"Whatever happened to friendship?"
Robert asked.
"Don't be naive, my friend. I'm under orders, just as you
are. I can
assure you, there is no use in your running.
You're at the head of every intelligence agency's most
wanted list.
Half the governments of the world are looking for you."
"Do you believe I'm a traitor?"
Cesar sighed.
"It doesn't matter what I believe, Robert. This is
nothing personal. I
have my orders."
"To take me out."
"You can make it easier by turning yourself in."
"Thanks, paesano. If I need more advice, I'll call Dear
Abby." He
slammed down the receiver.
Robert was aware that the longer he was at large, the
greater the danger
he was in. There would be security agents closing in on
him from half a
dozen countries.
There has to be a tree, Robert thought. The line came
from a legend
about a hunter who was relating an experience he had on
safari.
"This huge lion was racing toward me, and all my gun
bearers had fled.
I had no gun, and there was nowhere to hide. Not a bush
or a tree in
sight. And the beast was charging straight at me, coming
closer and
closer."
"How did you escape?"
a listener asked.
"1 ran over to the nearest tree and climbed it."
"But you said there were no trees."
"You don't understand. There has to be a tree!" And I
have to find it,
Robert thought.
He looked around the piazza. It was almost deserted at
this hour.
He decided it was time to have a talk with the man who had
started him
on this nightmare, General Hilliard. But he would have to
be careful.
Modern electronic phone tracing was almost instantaneous.
Robert
observed that the two telephone booths next to the one he
was in were
both empty. Perfect. Ignoring the private number General
Hilliard had
given him, he dialed the switchboard of NSA. When an
operator answered,
Robert said, "General Hilliard's office, please."
A moment later, he heard a secretary's voice.
"Goneral Hilliard's office." Robert said, "Please hold
for an overseas
call." He dropped the receiver and hurried into the next
booth. He
quickly redialed the number. A different secretary
answered, "General
Hilliard's office."
"Please hold for an overseas call," Robert said. He let
the receiver
hang, walked into the third booth, and dialed. When
another secretary
answered, Robert said, "This is Commander Bellamy. I want
to speak to
General Hilliard."
There was a gasp of surprise.
"Just a moment, Commander." The secretary buzzed the
intercom.
"General, Commander Bellamy is on line three."
General Hilliard turned to Harrison Keller.
"Bellamy is on line three. Start a trace, fast."
Harrison Keller hurried over to a telephone on a side
table and dialed
the Network Operations Center, manned and monitored
twenty-four hours a
day. The senior officer on duty answered.
"NOC. Adams."
"How long will it take to do an emergency trace on an
incoming call?"
Keller whispered.
"Between one and two minutes."
"Start it. General Hilliard's office, line three. I'll
hang on." He
looked over at the general and nodded. General Hilliard
picked up the
telephone.
"Commander-is that you?"
In the operations center, Adams punched a number into a
computer.
"Here we go," he said.
"I thought it was time you and I had a talk, General."
"I'm glad you called, Commander. Why don't you come in
and we can
discuss the situation? I'll arrange a plane for you, and
you can be
here in-"
"No thanks. Too many accidents happen in airplanes,
General."
In the communications room, ESS, the electronic switching
system had
been activated. The computer screen began lighting up.
AX121-B ...
Ax122-C ... AX123C...
"What's happening?"
Keller whispered into the phone.
"The Network Operations Center in New Jersey is searching
the
Washington, D.C., trunks, sir. Hold on."
The screen went blank. Then the words Overseas Trunk Line
One flashed
onto the screen.
"The call is coming from somewhere in Europe. We're
tracing the
country...."
General Hilliard was saying, "Commander Bellamy, I think
there's been a
misunderstanding. I have a suggestion.
Robert replaced the receiver.
General Hilliard looked over at Keller.
"Did you get it?"
Harrison Keller talked into the phone to Adams.
"What happened?"
"We lost him."
Robert moved into the second booth and picked up the
telephone.
General Hilliard's secretary said, "Commander Bellamy is
calling on line
two."
The two men looked at each other. Gonersl Hilliard
pressed the button
for line two.
"Commander?"
"Let me make a suggestion," Robert said. General Hilliard
put his hand
over the mouthpiece.
"Get the trace working again."
Harrison Keller picked up the telephone and said to Adams,
"He's on
again. Line two. Move fast."
"Right."
"My suggestion, General, is that you call off all your
men. And I mean
now."
"I think you misunderstand the situation, Commander. We
can work this
problem out J~ "I'll tell you how we can work it out.
There's a
termination order out on me. I want you to cancel it."
In the Network Operations Center, the computer screen was
flashing a new
message: AXJ55-C Subtrunk A21 verified. Circuit 301 to
Rome.
Atlantic Trunk 1.
"We've got it," Adams said into the phone.
"We've traced the trunk to Rome."
"Get me the number and location," Keller told him.
In Rome Robert was glancing at his watch.
"You gave me an assignment. I carried it out."
"You did very well, Commander. Here is what IThe line
went dead.
The general turned to Keller.
"He hung up, again." Keller spoke into the phone, "Did
you get it?"
"Too quick, sir."
Robert moved into the next booth and picked up the
telephone.
General Hilliard's secretary's voice came over the
intercom.
"Commander Bellamy is on line one, General."
The general snapped, "Find the bastard!" He picked up the
telephone.
"Commander?"
"I want you to listen, General, and listen closely.
You've murdered a
lot of innocent people. If you don't call off your men,
I'm going to
the media and tell them what's going on."
"I wouldn't advise you to do that, unless you want to
start a worldwide
panic. The aliens are real, and we're defenseless against
them. They're
getting ready to make their move. You have no idea what
would happen if
word of this leaked out."
"Neither have you," Bellamy retorted.
"I'm not giving you a choice. Call off the contract on
me. If there's
one more attempt made on my life, I'm going public."
"All right," General Hilliard said.
"You win. I'll call it off. Why don't we do this? We
can-"
"Your trace should be working pretty good, now," Robert
said.
"Have a good day." The connection was broken.
"Did you get it?"
Keller barked into the phone. Adams said, "Close, sir.
He was calling
from an area in central Rome. He kept switching numbers
on us."
The general looked over at Keller.
"Well?"
"I'm sorry, General. All we know is that he's somewhere
in Rome.
Do you believe his threat? Are we going to call off the
contract on
him?"
"No. We're going to eliminate him."
Robert went over his options again. They were pitifully
few. They
would be watching the airports, railroad stations, bus
terminals, and
rental-car agencies. He could not check into a hotel
because SIFAR
would be circulating red notices. Yet he had to get out
of Rome. He
needed a cover. A companion. They would not be looking
for a man and a
woman together. It was a beginning. A taxi was standing
at the corner.
Robert museed his hair, pulled down his tie, and staggered
drunkenly
toward the taxi.
"Hey, there," he called.
"You!" The driver looked at him distastefully. Robert
pulled out a
twenty-dollar bill and slapped it into the man's hand.
"Hey, buddy, I'm looliin' a'get laid. You know what that'
means? D'you
speak any goddamn English?"
The driver looked at the bill.
"You wish a woman?"
"You got it, pal. I wish a woman."
"Andiamo," the driver said.
Robert lurched into the cab, and it took off. Robert
looked back.
He was not being followed. The adrenaline was pumping.
"lIalf the governments in the world are looking for you."
And there
would be no appeal. Their orders were to assassinate him.
Twenty minutes later they had reached Tor di Ounto, Rome's
red-light
district, populated by whores and pimps. They drove down
Passeggiata
Archeologica, and the driver pulled to a stop at a corner.
"You will find a woman here," he said.
"Thanks, buddy." Robert paid the amount on the meter and
stumbled out
of the taxi. It pulled away with a squeal of tires.
Robert looked around, studying his surroundings. No
police. A few cars
and a handful of pedestrians. There were more than a
dozen whores
cruising the street. In the spirit of "Let's round up the
usual
suspects," the police had conducted their bimonthly sweep
to satisfy the
voices of morality and moved the city's prostitutes from
the Via Veneto,
with its high visibility, to this area, where they would
not offend the
dowagers taking tea at Doney's. For that reason, most of
the ladies
were attractive and well-dressed. There was one in
particular who
caught Robert's eye. She appeared to be in her early
twenties. She had
long, dark hair and was dressed in a tasteful black skirt
and white
blouse, over which she wore a camel-hair coat. Robert
guessed that she
was a part-time actress or model. She was watching
Robert. Robert
staggered up to her.
"Hi, baby," he mumbled.
"D'you speak English?"
"Yes."
"Good. Le's you an' me have a party." She smiled
uncertainly.
Drvnks could be trouble.
"Maybe you should go sober up first." She had a soft
Italian accent.
"Hey, I'm sober enough."
"It will cost you a hundred dollars."
"That's okay, honey."
She made her decision.
"Va bene. Come. There is a hotel just around the
corner."
"Great. What's your name, baby?"
"Pier."
"Mine's Henry." A police car appeared in the distance,
headed their
way.
"Let's get outta here."
The other women cast envious glances as Pier and her
American customer
walked away.
The hotel was no Hassler, but the pimply faced boy at the
desk
downstairs did not ask for a passport. In fact, he barely
glanced up as
he handed Pier a key.
"Fifty thousand lira."
Pier looked at Robert. He took the money from his pocket
and gave it to
the boy.
The room they entered contained a large bed in the corner,
a small
table, two wooden chairs, and a mirror over the sink.
There was a
clothes rack in back of the door.
"You must pay me in advance."
"Sure." Robert counted out one hundred dollars.
"Grazie."
Pier began to get undressed. Robert walked over to the
window. He
pushed aside a corner of the curtain and peered out.
Everything
appeared to be normal. He hoped that by now the police
were following
the red truck back to France. Robert dropped the curtain
and turned
around. Pier was naked. She had a surprisingly lovely
body.
Firm, young breasts, rounded hips, a small waist, and
long, shapely
legs.
She was watching Robert.
"Aren't you going to get undressed, Henry?"
This was the tricky part. .... . tell you the truth,"
Robert said, "I
think I had a little too much to drink. I can't give you
any action."
She was regarding him with wary eyes.
"Then why did you-?"
"If I stay here and sleep it off, we can make love in the
morning."
She shrugged.
"I have to work. It would cost me money to-"
"Don't worry. I'll take care of that." He pulled out
several
hundred-dollar bills and handed them to her.
"Will that cover it?"
Pier looked at the money, making up her mind. It was
tempting. It was
cold outside, and business was slow. On the other hand,
there was
something strange about this man. First of all, he did
not really seem
to be drunk. He was nicely dressed, and for this much
money, he could
have checked them into a fine hotel. Well, Pier thought,
what the hell?
Questo cazzo se ne frega? "All right. There's only this
bed for the
two of us."
"That's fine."
Pier watched as Robert walked over to the window again and
moved the
edge of the curtain aside.
"You are looking for something?"
"Is there a back door out of the hotel?"
What am I getting myself into? Pier wondered. Her best
friend had been
murdered hanging out with mobsters. Pier considered
herself wise in the
ways of men, but this one puzzled her.
He did not seem like a criminal, but still.. .
"Yes, there is," she said.
There was a sudden scream, and Robert whirled around.
"Dio! Dio! Sono venuta tre volte!" It was a woman's
voice, coming
from the next room through the paper-thin walls.
"What's that?"
Robert's heart was pounding. Pier grinned.
"She's having fun. She said she just came for the third
time."
Robert heard the creaking of bed springs.
"Are you going to bed?"
Pier stood there naked, unembarrassed, watching him.
"Sure." Robert sat down on the bed.
"Aren't you going to get undressed?"
"No."
"Suit yourself." Pier moved over to the bed and lay down
beside Robert.
"I hope you don't snore," Pier said.
"You can tell me in the morning."
Robert had no intention of sleeping. He wanted to check
the street
during the night to make sure they did not come to the
hotel. They
would get around to these small, third-class hotels
eventually, but it
would take them time. They had too many other places to
cover first.
He lay there, feeling bone-tired, and closed his eyes for
a moment to
rest. He slept. He was back home, in his own bed, and he
felt Susan's
warm body next to his. She's back, he thought, happily.
She's come
back to me. Baby, I've missed you so much.
Day Seventeen Rome, Italy
Robert was awakened by the sun hitting his face. He sat
up abruptly,
looking around for an instant in alarm, disoriented. When
he saw Pier,
memory flooded back. He relaxed. Pier was at the mirror,
brushing her
hair.
"Buon giorno," she said.
"You do not snore." Robert looked at his watch Nine
o'clock. He had
wasted precious hours.
"Do you want to make love now? You have already paid for
it."
"That's all right," Robert said.
Pier, naked and provocative, walked over to the bed.
"Are you sure?"
I couldn't if I wanted to, lady.
"I'm sure."
"Va bene."
She began to dress. She asked casually, "Who is Susan?"
The question caught him off guard.
"Susan? What made you ask?"
"You talk in your sleep."
He remembered his dream. Susan had come back to him.
Maybe it was a
sign.
"She's a friend." She's my wife. She's going to get
tired of Moneybags
and return to me some day. If I'm still alive, that is.
Robert walked over to the window. He lifted the curtain
and looked out.
The street was crowded now with pedestrians and merchants
opening up
their shops. There were no signs of danger.
It was time to put his plan into motion. He turned to the
girl.
"Pier, how would you like to go on a little trip with me?"
She looked at him with suspicion.
"A trip-where?"
"I have to go to Venice on business, and I hate traveling
alone.
Do you like Venice?"
"Yes...."
"Good. I'll pay you for your time, and we'll have a
little holiday
together." He was staring out the window again.
"I know a lovely hotel there. The Cipriani." Years ago
he and Susan
had stayed at the Royal Danieli, but he had been back
since, and it had
become sadly run down, and the beds were impossible. The
only thing
that remained of the hotel's former elegance was Luciano,
at the
reception desk.
"It will cost you a thousand dollars a day." She was
ready to settle
for five hundred.
"It's a deal." Robert said. He counted out two thousand
dollars.
"We'll start with this."
Pier hesitated. She had a premonition that something was
wrong.
But the start of the movie she had been promised a bit
part in had been
delayed, and she needed the money.
"Very well," she said.
"Let's go."
Downstairs, Pier watched him scan the street carefully
before stepping
out to hail a taxi. He's a target for somebody, Pier
thought.
I'm getting out of here.
"Look," Pier said, "I'm not sure I should go to Venice
with you.
I-"
"We're going to have a great time," Robert told her.
Directly across
the street he saw a jewelry store. He took Pier's hand.
"Come on I'm going to get you something pretty."
"But-" He led her across the street to the jewelry store.
The clerk
behind the counter said, "Buon giorno, signore. Can I
help you?"
"Yes," Robert said.
"We're looking for something lovely for the lady." He
turned to Pier.
"Do you like emeralds?"
"I-yes."
Robert said to the clerk, "Do you have an emerald
bracelet?"
"Si, signore. I have a beautiful emerald bracelet." He
walked over to
a case and took out a bracelet.
"This is our finest. It is fifteen thousand dollars."
Robert looked at Pier.
"Do you like it?"
She was speechless. She nodded.
"We'll take it," Robert said. He handed the clerk his ONI
credit card.
"One moment, please." The clerk disappeared into the back
room. When he
returned, he said, "Shall I wrap it for you, or-?"
"No. My friend will wear it." Robert put the bracelet on
Pier's wrist.
She was staring at it, stunned.
Robert said, "That will look pretty in Venice, won't it?"
Pier smiled up at him.
"Very."
When they were out on the street, Pier said, "I-I don't
know how to
thank you."
"I just want you to have a good time," Robert told her.
"Do you have a car?"
"No. I used to have an old one, but it was stolen."
"Do you still have your driver's license?"
She was watching him, puzzled.
"Yes, but without a car, what good is a driver's license?"
"You'll see. Let's get out of here." He hailed a taxi.
"Via Po, please."
She sat in the taxi, studying him. Why was he so eager
for her company?
He had not even touched her. Could he be-?
"Qui!" Robert called to the driver. They were a hundred
yards away
from Maggiore's Car Rental Agency.
"We're getting out here," Robert told Peer. He paid the
driver and
waited until the taxi was out of sight. He handed Pier a
large bundle
of bank notes.
"I want you to rent a car for us. Ask for a Fiat or an
Alfa Romeo. Tell
them we'll want it for four or five days. This money will
cover the
deposit. Rent it in your name. I'll wait for you in the
bar across the
street."
Less than eight blocks away, two detectives were
questioning the hapless
driver of a red truck with French license plates.
"Vous me faites chier. I have no idea how the fuck that
card got in the
back of my truck," the driver screamed.
"Some crazy Italian probably put it in there."
The two detectives looked at each other. One of them
said, "I'll phone
it in."
Francesco Cesar sat at his desk, thinking about the latest
development.
Earlier the assignment had seemed so simple.
"You won't have any trouble finding him. When the time
comes, we will
activate the homing device, and it will lead you right to
him." Someone
had obviously underestimated Commander Bellamy.
Colonel Frank Johnson was seated in Goneral Hilliard's
office, his huge
frame filling the chair.
"We have half the agents in Europe looking for him,"
General Hilliard
said.
"So far, they've had no luck."
"It's going to take more than luck," Colonel Johnson said.
"Bellamy's good."
"We know he's in Rome. The sonofabitch just charged a
bracelet for
fifteen thousand dollars. We have him bottled up.
There's no way he
can get out of Italy. We know the name he's using on his
passport--Arthur Butterfield." Colonel Johnson shook his
head.
"If I know Bellamy, you haven't a clue about what name
he's using. The
only thing you can count on is that Bellamy won't do what
you count on
him to do.
We're after a man who's as good as the best in the
business. Maybe
better. If there's any place to run, Bellamy will run
there. If
there's any place to hide, he'll hide there. I think our
best bet is to
bring him out in the open, to smoke him out. Right now,
he's
controlling all the moves. We have to take the initiative
away from
him."
"You mean, go public? Give it to the press?"
"Exactly."
General Hilliard pursed his lips.
"That's going to be touchy. We can't afford to expose
ourselves."
"We won't have to. We'll put out a release that he's
wanted on a
drug-smuggling charge. That way we can get Interpol and
all the police
departments in Europe involved without tipping our hand."
General Hilliard thought about it for a moment.
"I like it."
"Good. I'm leaving for Rome," Colonel Johnson said.
"I'm going to take charge of the hunt myself." When
Colonel Frank
Johnson returned to his office, he was in a thoughtful
mood. He was
playing a dangerous game. There was no question about it.
He had to
find Commander Bellamy.
Robert listened to the phone ring again and again. It was
six A.M.
in Washington. I'm always waking the old man up, Robert
thought.
The admiral answered on the sixth ring.
"Hello"
"Admiral, I-"
"Robert! Wha~?"
"Don't say anything. Your phone is probably bugged.
I'm going to make this fast. I just wanted to tell you
not to believe
anything they're saying about me. I'd like you to try to
find out
what's going on. I may need your help later."
"Of course. Anything I can do, Robert."
"I know."
"I'll call you later."
Robert replaced the receiver. No time for a trace. He
saw a blue Fiat
pull up outside the bar. Pier was at the wheel.
"Move over," Robert said.
"I'll drive." Pier made room for him as he slid in behind
the wheel.
"Are we on our way to Venice?"
Pier asked.
"Uh-huh. We have a couple of stops to make first." It
was time to
spread some more chaff around. He turned onto Viale
Rossini. Ahead was
the Rossini Travel Service. Robert pulled over to the
curb.
"I'll be back in a minute."
Pier watched him walk into the travel agency. I could
just drive away,
she thought, and keep the money, and he would never find
me. But the
damn car is rented in my name. Cacchio!
Inside the agency, Robert walked up to the woman behind
the counter.
"Good day. May I help you?"
"Yes. I'm Commander Robert Bellamy. I'm going to do a
bit of
traveling," Robert told her.
"I'd like to make some reservations."
She smiled.
"That's what we are here for, signore. Where are you
planning to go?"
"I'd like a first-class airline ticket to Beijing,
oneway."
She made a note.
"And when would you like to leave?"
"This Friday."
"Very good." She pressed some keys on a computer.
"There's an Air China flight leaving at seven forty P.M.
Friday night."
"That will do nicely."
She pressed some more keys.
"There we are. Your reservation is confirmed. Will that
be cash or-?"
"Oh, I'm not through yet. I want to reserve a train
ticket to
Budapest."
"And when would that be, Commander?"
"Next Monday."
"And in what name?"
"The same."
She looked at him strangely.
"You are flying to Beijing on Friday and"
"I'm not finished," Robert said pleasantly.
"I want a one-way airline ticket to Miami, Florida, on
Sunday."
Now she was openly staring at him.
"5 ignore, if this is some kind of a Robert pulled out his
ONI credit
card and handed it to her.
"Just charge the tickets to this card."
She studied it a moment.
"Excuse me." She went into the back office and came out a
few minutes
later.
"That will be perfectly all right. We will be happy to
make the
arrangements. Do you wish all the reservations under one
name?"
"Yes. Commander Robert Bellamy."
"Very good."
Robert watched as she pressed more buttons on the
computer. A minute
later, three tickets appeared. She tore them off the
printer.
"Please put the tickets in separate envelopes," Robert
said.
"Of course. Would you like me to send them ~?"
"I'll take them with me."
"Si, signore."
Robert signed the credit card slip, and she handed him his
receipt.
"There you are. Have a nice tri~trip~r-" Robert grinned.
"Thanks." A minute later he was behind the wheel of the
car.
"Are we going now?"
Pier asked.
"We have just a few more stops to make," Robert said.
Pier watched him
carefully scan the street again be fore pulling out.
"I want you to do something for me," Robert told her. Now
it's coming,
Pier thought.
He's going to ask me to do something terrible.
"What is it?"
she asked.
They had stopped in front of the Hotel Victoria. Robert
handed Pier one
of the envelopes.
"I want you to go to the desk and reserve a suite in the
name of
Commander Robert Bellamy. Tell them you're his secretary
and that he'll
be arriving in an hour, but that you want to go up to the
suite and
approve it. When you get inside, leave this envelope on a
table in the
room."
She looked at him puzzled.
"That's all?"
"That's all." The man made no sense at all.
"Bene.~' She wished she knew what the crazy American was
up to. And who
is Commander Robert Bellamy? Pier got out of the car and
walked into
the lobby of the hotel. She was a bit nervous. In the
course of
practicing her profession, she had been thrown out of a
few first-class
hotels. But the clerk behind the desk greeted her
politely.
"May I help you, signora?"
"I am the secretary to Commander Robert Bellamy. I wish
to reserve a
suite for him. He will be here in an hour."
The clerk consulted the room chart.
"We do happen to have one very nice suite available."
"May I see it, please?"
Pier asked.
"Certainly. I'll have someone show it to you." An
assistant manager
escorted Pier upstairs.
They walked into the living room of the suite and Pier
looked around.
"Will this be satisfactory, signora?"
Pier had not the faintest idea.
"Yes, this will be fine."
She removed the envelope from her purse and laid it on a
coffee table.
"I wi=l leave this here for the commander," she said.
"Bene."
Curiosity got the better of Pier. She opened the
envelope. Inside was
a one-way plane ticket to Beijing in the name of Robert
Bellamy.
Pier put the ticket back in the envelope, left it on the
table, and went
downstairs. The blue Fiat was parked in front of the
hotel.
"Any problem?"
Robert asked.
"No."
"We have just two more stops to make, and then we're on
our way," Robert
said cheerfully.
The next stop was the Hotel Valadier. Robert handed Pier
ayother
envelope.
"I want you to reserve a suite here in the name of
Commander Robert
Bellamy. Tell them he'll be checking in within an hour.
Then "I leave
the envelope upstairs."
"Right."
This time Pier walked into the hotel with more confidence.
Just act
like a lady, she thought. You've got to have dignity.
That's the
fucking secret.
There was a suite available in the hotel.
"I would like to look at it," Pier said.
"Of course, signora."
An assistant manager escorted Pier upstairs.
"This is one of our nicest suites." It was beautiful.
Pier said
haughtily, "I suppose it might do. The commander is very
particular,
you know."
She took the second envelope out of her purse, opened it,
and glanced
inside. It contained a train ticket to Budapest in the
name of
Commander Robert Bellamy. Pier stared at it, confused.
What kind of
game is this? She left the ticket by the bed stand.
When Pier returned to the car, Robert asked, "How did it
go?"
"Fine."
"Last stop."
This time it was the Hotel Leonardo da Vinci. Robert
handed Pier the
third envelope.
"I would like you to-"
"I know."
Inside the hotel, a clerk said, "Yes, indeed, signora, we
have a lovely
suite. When did you say the commander will be arriving?"
"In an hour. I would like to examine the suite to see if
it is
satisfactory."
"Of course, signora."
The suite was more lavish than the other two Pier had
looked at.
The assistant manager showed her the huge bedroom with a
large canopied
bed in the center. What a waste, Pier thought. In one
night, I could
make a fortune here. She took out the third envelope and
looked inside.
It contained an airplane ticket to Miami, Florida. Pier
left the
envelope on the bed. The assistant manager escorted Pier
back to the
living room.
"We have color TV," he said. He walked over to the
television set and
turned it on. A picture of Robert leaped onto the screen.
The
anchorman's voice was saying: ..... and Interpol believes
that he is
presently in Rome. He is wanted for questioning in an
international
drug smuggling operation. This is Bernard Shaw for CNN
News." Pier was
staring at the screen, transfixed.
The assistant manager turned off the television set.
"Is everything satisfactory?"
"Yes," Pier said slowly. A drug smuggler!
"We'll be looking forward to seeing the commander." When
Pier joined
Robert in the car downstairs, she looked at him with
different eyes.
"Now we're ready." Robert smiled.
At the Hotel Victoria, a man in a dark suit was studying
the guest
register. He looked up at the clerk.
"What time did Commander Bellamy check in?"
"He has not been here yet. His secretary reserved the
suite. She said
he would be here within the hour."
The man turned to his companion.
"Have the hotel staked out. Get reinforcements. I'll
wait upstairs."
He turned to the clerk.
"Open the suite for me."
Three minutes later, the clerk was opening the door to the
suite.
The man in the dark suit moved in cautiously, gun in hand.
The suite
was empty. He saw the envelope on the table and picked it
up. The front
of it read: "Commander Robert Bellamy." He opened the
envelope and
glanced inside. A moment later he was dialing the
headquarters of
SIFAR.
Francesco Cesar was in the middle of a meeting with
Colonel Frank
Johnson. Colonel Johnson had landed at Leonardo da Vinci
Airport two
hours earlier, but he showed no signs of fatigue.
"As far as we know," Cesar was saying, "Bellamy is still
in Rome. We've
had more than thirty reports on his whereabouts."
"Any of them check out?"
"No."
The phone rang.
"It's Luigi, Colonel," the voice on the telephone said.
"We've got him. I'm in his hotel suite at the Hotel
Victoria. I have
his airline ticket to Beijing. He is planning to leave
Friday."
Cesar's voice filled with excitement.
"Good! Stay there. We will be right over." He hung up
and turned to
Colonel Johnson.
"I'm afraid your journey was for nothing, Colonel. We've
got him. He's
registered at the Hotel Victoria. They found an airline
ticket in his
name for Beijing on Friday."
Colonel Johnson said mildly, "Bellamy registered at the
hotel in his own
name?"
"Yes."
"And the plane ticket is in his name?"
"Yes." Colonel Cesar rose.
"Let's get on over there." Colonel Johnson shook his
head.
"Don't waste your time."
"What?"
"Bellamy would never-" The telephone rang again. Cesar
snatched it up.
A voice said, "Colonel? This is Mario. We've located
Bellamy. He's at
the Hotel Valadier. He's taking a train Monday to
Budapest. What do you
want us to do?"
"I'll get back to you," Colonel Cesar said. He turned to
look at
Colonel Johnson.
"They found a train ticket to Budapest in Bellamy's name.
I don't
understand what-" The telephone rang again.
"Yes?"
His voice was pitched higher.
"It's Bruno. We've located Bellamy. He's registered at
the Hotel
Leonardo da Vinci. He's planning to leave Sunday for
Miami. What shall
I-?"
"Come back here," Cesar snapped. He slammed down the
phone.
"What the hell is his game?"
Colonel Johnson said grimly, "He's seeing to it that
you're wasting a
lot of manpower, isn't he?"
"What do we do now?"
"We trap the bastard."
They were driving on the Via Cassia, near Olgiata, headed
north toward
Venice. The police would be covering all the major exits
from Italy,
but they would be expecting him to go west, to head for
France or
Switzerland. From Venice, Robert thought, I can take the
hydrofoil to
Trieste and make my way up to A use. After that...
Pier's voice interrupted his thoughts.
"I'm hungry."
"What?"
"We haven't had any breakfast or lunch."
"I'm sorry," Robert said. He had been too preoccupied to
think about
eating.
"We'll stop at the next restaurant."
Pier watched him as he drove. She was more puzzled than
ever. She
lived in a world of pimps and thieves-and drug smugglers.
This man was
no criminal.
They stopped at the next town in front of a small
trattoria.
Robert pulled into the parking lot, and he and Pier got
out of the car.
The restaurant was crowded with patrons, and noisy with
conversations
and the clatter of dishes. Robert found a table against
the wall and
took a seat facing the door. A waiter approached and
handed them menus.
Robert was thinking: Susan 8hau1d be on the boat by now.
This may be my
last chance ~ talk to her.
"Look over the menu." Robert rose.
"I'll be right back." Pier watched him walk over to the
public
telephone near their table. He put a coin in the slot.
"I would like to talk to the marine operator in Gibraltar.
Thank you."
Who is he calling in Gibraltar? Pier wondered. Is that
his getaway?
"Operator, I want to place a collect call to the American
yacht,
Halcyon, off Gibraltar. Whiskey Sugar 337. Thank you."
A few minutes passed while the operators talked to each
other and his
call was accepted.
Robert heard Susan's voice on the telephone.
"Susan-"
"Robert! Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. I just wanted to tell you-"
"I know what you want to tell me. It's all over the radio
and
television. Why is Interpol hunting you?"
"It's a long story."
"Take your time. I want to know."
He hesitated.
"It's political, Susan. I have evidence that some
governments are
trying to suppress. That's why Interpol is after me."
Pier was listening intently to Robert's end of the
conversation.
"What can I do to help?"
Susan asked.
"Nothing, honey. I just called to hear your voice once
more in case-in
case I don't get out of this."
"Don't say that." There was panic in her voice.
"Can you tell me what country you're in?"
"Italy."
There was a brief silence.
"All right. We're not far from you.
We're just off the coast of Gibraltar. We can pick you up
at any place
you say."
"No, I-"
"Listen to me. It's probably your only chance of escape."
"I can't let you do that, Susan. You'd be in jeopardy."
Monte had walked into the salon in time to hear part of
the
conversation.
"Let me talk to him."
"Just a moment, Robert, Monte wants to speak to you.
"Susan, I haven't-" Monte's voice came over the line.
"Robert, I understand you're in serious trouble."
The understatement of the year.
"You might say that."
"We'd like to help you out. They won't be looking for you
on a yacht.
Why don't you let us pick you up?"
"Thanks, Monte, I appreciate it. The answer is no."
"I think y~~~r~ making a mistake. ~~~~~~ be safe ~~~~~)~
Why is he so
eager to help? "Thanks, anyway. I'll take my chances.
I'd like to
speak to Susan again."
"Of course." Monte Banks handed the phone to Susan.
"Talk him into it," he urged.
Susan spoke into the phone.
"Please let us help you."
"You have helped me, Susan." He had to stop for a moment.
"You're the best part of my life. I just want you to know
that I'll
always love you." He gave a little laugh.
"Although always may not be such a big deal anymore.
"Will you call me again?"
"If I can."
"Promise me."
"All right. I promise."
He slowly replaced the receiver. Why did I do that to
her? Why did I
do that to myself? You're a sentimental idiot, Bellamy.
He walked back
to the table.
"Let's eat," Robert said. They ordered.
"I heard your conversation. The police are looking for
you, aren't
they?"
Robert stiffened. Careless. She was going to be trouble.
"It's just a little misunderstanding. I-"
"Don't treat me like a fool. I want to help you." He was
watching her
warily.
"Why should you help me?"
Pier leaned forward.
"Because you've been generous to me. And I hate the
police. You don't
know what it's like to be out on the streets, hounded by
them, treated
like dirt. They arrest me for prostitution, but they take
me to their
back rooms and pass me around.
They are animals. I would do anything to get even with
them. Anything.
I can help you."
"Pier, there's nothing you-"
"In Venice the police will catch you easily. If you stay
at a hotel,
they will find you. If you try to get on a ship, they
will trap you.
But I know a place where you will be safe from them. My
mother and
brother live in Naples. We can stay at their house. The
police will
never look for you there."
Robert was silent for a moment, thinking about it. What
Pier said made
a good deal of sense. A private house would be much safer
than any
other place, and Naples was a big port. It would be easy
to get a ship
out of there. He hesitated before he answered. He did
not want to put
Pier in danger.
"Pier, if the police find me, they have orders to kill me.
You would be
considered an accomplice. You could be letting yourself
in for
trouble."
"It's very simple." Pier smiled.
"We won't let them find you."
Robert returned her smile. He made up his mind.
"All right. Eat your lunch. We're going to Naples."
Colonel Frank Johnson said, "Your men have no idea where
he is headed?"
Francesco Cesar sighed.
"Not at the moment. But it is only a matter of time
before-"
"We don't have time. Have you checked the whereabouts of
his ex-wife?"
"His ex-wife? No. I don't see what-"
"Then you haven't done your homework," Colonel Johnson
snapped.
"She's married to a man named Monte Banks. I would
suggest that you
locate them. And fast."
She wandered down the broad boulevard, barely conscious of
where she was
going. How many days had it been since the terrible
crash? She had
lost count. She was so tired that it was difficult for
her to
concentrate. She desperately needed water; not the
polluted water that
the earthlings drank, but fresh, clear rainwater. She
needed the pure
fluid to revive her life essence, to gain the strength to
find the
crystal. She was dying.
She staggered and bumped into a man.
"Hey! Watch where-" The American salesman took a closer
look at her and
smiled.
"Hi, there.
Imagine bumping into you like this!" What a doll.
"Yes, I can imagine that."
"Where are you from, honey?"
"The seventh sun of the Pleiades."
He laughed.
"I like a gal with a sense of humor. Where you headed?"
She shook her head.
"I do not know. I am a stranger here."
Jesus, I think I'm on to something.
"Have you had dinner?"
"No. I cannot eat your food."
I've got a real weirdo here. But a beauty.
"Where are you staying?"
"I am not staying anywhere."
"You don't have a hotel?"
"A hotel?"
She remembered. Boxes for traveling strangers.
"No.
I must find a place to sleep. I am very tired."
His smile broadened.
"Well, Papa can take care of that. Why don't we go up to
my hotel room?
I've got a nice, big comfortable bed there.
Would you like that?"
"Oh, yes, very much."
He could not believe his good luck.
"Wonderful!" I'll bet she's great in the hay. She looked
at him,
puzzled.
"Your bed is made of hay?"
He was staring at her.
"What? No, no. You like your little jokes, don't you?"
She could barely keep her eyes open.
"Could we go to bed now?"
He rubbed his hands together.
"You bet! My hotel is just around the corner." He picked
up his key at
the desk, and they took the elevator to his floor. When
they got to his
room, the man asked, "Would you like a little drink?"
Let's loosen you up.
She wanted one desperately, but not the liquids the
earthlings had to
offer.
"No," she said.
"Where is the bed?"
My God, she's a hot little thing.
"In here, honey." He led her into the bedroom.
"You're sure you wouldn't like a drink?"
"I am sure."
He licked his lips.
"Then why don't youer-get undressed?"
She nodded. It was an earthling custom. She removed the
dress she was
wearing. She was wearing nothing underneath.
Her body was exquisite.
The man stared at her and said happily, "This is my lucky
night, honey.
Yours, too." I'm going to fuck you like you've never been
fucked
before. He tore off his clothes as fast as he could and
jumped into bed
beside her.
"Now!" he said.
"I'm going to show you some real action." He glanced up.
"Damn! I left the light on." He started to get up.
"Never mind," she said sleepily.
"I will turn it off." And as he watched, her arm reached
out, out,
across the wide room, and her fingers became leafy green
tendrils as
they brushed against the light switch.
He was alone in the dark with her. He screamed.
They were traveling at high speed on the Autostrada del
Sole, the
freeway to Naples. They had been driving in silence for
the last half
hour, each preoccupied with his own thoughts.
Pier broke the silence.
"How long would you like to stay at my mother's house?"
she asked.
"Three or four days, if that's all right."
"That will be fine."
Robert had no intention of staying there for more than one
night, two at
the most. But he kept his plans to himself. As soon as
he found a ship
that was safe, he would be on his way out of Italy.
"I'm looking forward to seeing my family," Pier said.
"You have just one brother?"
"Yes. Carlo. He is younger than me."
"Tell me about your family, Pier."
She shrugged.
"There is not much to tell. My father worked on the docks
all his life.
A crane fell on him and killed him when I was fifteen. My
mother was
ill, and I had to support her and Carlo. I had a friend
at Cinecitta
studios, and he got me bit parts. They paid very little,
and I had to
sleep with the assistant director. I decided I could make
more money on
the streets. Now I do a little of both."
There was no self-pity in her voice.
"Pier, are you sure your mother won't object to your
bringing a stranger
home?"
"I am sure. We are very close. Mother will be happy to
see me.
Do you love her very much?"
Robert glanced over at her in surprise.
"Your mother?"
"The woman you were talking to on the telephone in the
restaurant-Susan."
"What makes you think I love her?"
"The tone of your voice. Who is she?"
"A friend."
"She is very lucky. I wish I had someone who cared for me
like that. Is
Robert Bellamy your real name?"
"Yes."
"And are you a commander?"
That was more difficult to answer.
"I'm not sure, Pier," he said.
"I used to be."
"Can you tell me why Interpol is after you?"
He said carefully, "It's better if I don't tell you
anything. You could
be in enough trouble just being with me. The less you
know, the
better."
"All right, Robert."
He thought about the strange circumstances that had
brought the two of
them together.
"Let me ask you something. If you knew that there were
aliens coming
down to earth in spaceships, would you panic?"
Pier studied him a moment.
"Are you serious?"
"Very."
She shook her head.
"No. I think it would be exciting.
Do you believe such things exist?"
"There's a possibility," he said cautiously. Pier's face
lit up
"Really? Do they have real-I mean-are they built like
men?"
Robert laughed.
"I don't know."
"Does this have anything to do with why the police are
after you?"
"No," Robert said quickly.
"Nothing."
"If I tell you something, will you promise not to be angry
with me?"
"I promise."
When she spoke, her voice was so low he could hardly hear
her.
"I think I am falling in love with you."
"Pier-"
"I know. I am being foolish. But I have never said that
to anyone
before. I wanted you to know."
"I'm flattered, Pier."
"You're not making fun of me?"
"No. I'm not." He looked at the gas gauge.
"We'd better find a filling station soon." They came to a
service
station ftteen minutes later.
"We'll fill the tank here," Robert said.
"Fine." Pier smiled.
"I can call my mother and let her know that I am bringing
home a
handsome stranger."
Robert drove up to the gas pump and said to the attendant,
"Il pie no,
per favore."
"Si, signore."
Pier leaned over and gave Robert a kiss on the cheek.
"I will be right back."
Robert watched her walk into the office and get change for
the
telephone. She's really very pretty, Robert thought. And
intelligent.
I must be careful not to hurt her.
Inside the office, Pier was dialing. She turned to smile
and wave at
Robert. When the operator came on, Pier said, "Got me
Interpol.
Subito!"
From the moment Pier had seen the news broadcast about
Robert Bellamy,
she had known she was going to be rich. If Interpol, the
international
criminal police force, was looking for Robert, there had
to be a huge
reward out for him. And she was the only one who knew
where he was! The
reward would be all hers. Persuading him to go to Naples,
where she
could keep an eye on him, had been a stroke of genius.
A man's voice on the telephone said, "Interpol. May I
help you?"
Pier's heart was pounding. She glanced out the window to
make sure
Robert was still at the gas pump.
"Yes. You are looking for a man named Commander Robert
Bellamy, yes?"
There was a moment of silence.
"Who is calling, please?"
"Never mind. Are you after him or not?"
"I'll have to transfer you to someone else. Will you hold
the line,
please?"
He turned to his assistant, "Put a trace on this. Pronto!"
Thirty seconds later, Pier was speaking with a senior
official.
"Yes, signora. Can I help you?"
No, you fool. I'm trying to help you.
"I have Commander Robert Bellamy. Do you want him, or
don't you?"
"But, yes, signora, we want him very much. And you say
you have him?"
"That's right. He's with me now. How much is he worth to
you?"
"Are you speaking of a reward?"
"Of course I'm speaking of a reward." She glanced out the
window again.
What kind of idiots are these? The official signaled to
his assistant
to move faster.
"We have not yet set a price on him, signora, so-"
"Well, set one now. I'm in a hurry."
"How much of a reward are you expecting?"
"I don't know." Pier thought for a moment.
"Would fifty thousand dollars be all right?"
"Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money. If you tell me
where you
are, we could come to you and negotiate a deal thatHe must
think I'm
pazza.
"No. You either agree to pay me what I want now or-" Pier
looked up and
saw Robert approaching the office.
"Hurry! Yes or no?"
"Very well, signora. Yes. We agree to pay you...."
Robert came
through the door, moving toward her. Pier said into the
telephone, "We
should be there in time for dinner, Mama. You will like
him. He is
very nice. Good. We will see you later. Ciao."
Pier replaced the receiver and turned to Robert.
"Mother is dying to meet you."
* At Interpol headquarters, the senior official said, "Did
you trace the
call?"
"Yes. It came from a filling station on the Autostrada
del Sole. It
looks like they're on their way to Naples." Colonel
Francesco Cesar and
Colonel Frank Johnson were studying a map on the wall of
Cesar's office.
"Naples is a big city," Colonel Cesar was saying.
"There are a thousand places for him to hide there."
"What about the woman?"
"We have no idea who she is."
"Why don't we find out?"
Johnson asked. Cesar looked at him, puzzled.
"How?"
"If Bellamy needed a woman companion in a hurry, as a
cover, what would
he do?"
"He would probably pick up a whore."
"Right. Where do we start?"
"Tor di Ounto."
They drove down the Passeggiata Archeologica and watched
the
streetwalkers peddling their wares. In the car with
Colonel Cesar and
Colonel Johnson was Captain Bellini, the police supervisor
of the
district.
"This is not going to be easy," Bellini said.
"They're all in competition with one another, but when it
comes to the
police, they're like blood sisters. They won't talk."
"We'll see," Colonel Johnson said.
Bellini ordered the driver to pull over to the curb, and
the three men
got out of the car. The prostitutes were eyeing them
warily. Bellini
walked up to one of the women.
"Good afternoon, Maria.
How's business?"
"It will be better when you leave."
"We're not planning to stay. I just want to ask you a
question.
We're looking for an American who picked up one of the
girls last night.
We think they are traveling together. We want to know who
she is. Can
you help us?"
He showed her a photograph of Robert. Several other
prostitutes had
gathered around to listen to the conversation.
"I can't help you," Maria said, "but I know someone who
can." Bellini
nodded approvingly.
"Good. Who?"
Maria pointed to a storefront across the street. A sign
in the window
read: Fortune-teller-Palm Reader.
"Madam Lucia might help you."
The girls laughed appreciatively.
Captain Bellini looked at them and said, "So you like
jokes, do you?
Well, we're going to play a little joke I think you're
going to love.
These two gentlemen are very eager to have the name of the
girl who went
off with the American. If you don't know who she is, I
suggest you talk
to your friends, find someone who does know, and when you
have the
answer, give me a call."
"Why should we?"
one of them asked defiantly.
"You'll find out."
One hour later, the prostitutes of Rome found themselves
under siege.
Patrol wagons swept the city, picking up all the women
working the
streets and their pimps. There were screams of protest.
"You can't do this.... I pay police protection."
"This has been my beat for five years. ..."
"I've been giving it to you and your friends for free.
Where's your
gratitude?..."
"What do I pay you protection for?..." By the following
day, the
streets were virtually empty of prostitutes, and the jails
were full.
Cesar and Colonel Johnson were sitting in Captain
Bellini's office.
"It's going to be difficult to keep them in jail," Captain
Bellini
warned.
"I might also add that this is very bad for tourism."
"Don't worry," Colonel Johnson said, "someone will talk.
Just keep the
pressure on."
Their break came late in the afternoon. Captain Bellini's
secretary
said, ~~~~~~~~5 a Mr. Lorenzo to see you."
"Send him in."
Mr. Lorenzo was dressed in a very expensive suit and wore
diamond rings
on three fingers. Mr. Lorenzo was a pimp.
"What can I do for you?"
Bellini asked. Lorenzo smiled.
"It's what I can do for you, gentlemen. Some of my
associates inform me
that you are looking for a particular working girl who
left town with an
American, and since we are always eager to cooperate with
the
authorities, I thought I would give you her name."
Colonel Johnson said, "Who is she?"
Lorenzo ignored the question.
"Naturally, I'm sure you would want to express your
appreciation by
releasing my associates and their f:friends." Colonel
Cesar said, "We
are not interested in any of your whores. All we want is
the name of
the girl."
"That is very gratifying news, sir. It's always a
pleasure to deal with
reasonable men. I know that-"
"Her name, Lorenzo."
"Yes, of course. Her name is Pier. Pier Valli. The
American spent the
night with her at the L'Incrocio Hotel, and the next
morning they took
off. She is not one of my girls. If I may say so-"
Bellini was already
on the telephone.
"Bring up the records on a Pier Valli. Subito!"
"I hope you gentlemen are going to show your gratitude
by-" Bellini
looked up, and then said into the phone, "And cancel
Operation Puttana."
Lorenzo beamed.
"Grazie."
Pier Valli's records were on Bellini's desk five minutes
later.
"She started streetwalking when she was fifteen. She has
been arrested
a dozen times since then. She-"
"Where does she come from?"
Colonel Johnson interrupted.
"Naples." The two men looked at each other.
"She has a mother and brother living there."
"Can you find out where?"
"I can check it out."
"Do that. Now."
They were approaching the suburbs of Naples. Old
apartment houses lined
the narrow streets, with laundry hanging out of almost
every window,
making the buildings look like concrete mountains flying
colorful flags.
Pier asked, "Have you ever been to Naples?"
"Once." Robert's voice was tight. Susan was sitting
beside him,
giggling. I heard Naples is a wicked city. Can we do a
lot of wicked
things here, darling?
We're going to invent some new things, Robert promised.
Pier was watching him.
"Are you all right?"
Robert brought his mind back to the present.
"I'm fine."
They were driving along bay harbor, formed by the Castel
dell'Ovo, the
old abandoned castle near the water.
When they arrived at Via Toledo, Pier said, excitedly,
"Turn here."
They were approaching Spaccanapoli, the old section of
Naples.
Pier said, "It's just up ahead. Turn left onto Via
Benedetto Croce."
Robert made the turn. The traffic here was heavier, and
the noise of
horns deafening. He had forgotten how noisy Naples could
be. He slowed
the car down to avoid hitting the pedestrians and dogs
that ran in front
of the car as if they were blessed with some kind of
immortality.
"Turn right here," Pier directed, "into Piazza del
Plebiscito." The
traffic was even worse here, and the neighborhood more run
down.
"Stop!" Pier cried out.
Robert pulled over to the curb. They had stopped in front
of a row of
seedy shops.
Robert glanced around.
"This is where your mother lives?"
"No," Pier said.
"Of course not." She leaned over and pressed the horn. A
moment later,
a young woman came out of one of the shops. Pier got out
of the car and
raced to greet her. They hugged each other.
"You look wonderful!" the woman exclaimed.
"You must be doing very well."
"I am." Pier held out her wrist.
"Look at my new bracelet!"
"Are those real emeralds?"
"Of course they are real."
The woman yelled at someone inside the store.
"Anna! Come on out.
Look who is here!"
Robert was watching the scene, unbelievingly.
"Pier-"
"In a minute, darling," she said.
"I have to say hello to my friends."
Within minutes half a dozen women were clustered around
Pier, admiring
her bracelet, while Robert sat there helplessly, gritting
his teeth.
"He is crazy about me," Pier announced. She turned to
Robert.
"Aren't you, caro?"
Robert wanted to strangle her, but there was nothing he
could do.
"Yes," he said.
"Can we go now, Pier?"
"In a minute."
"Now!" Robert said.
"Oh, very well." Pier turned to the women.
"We must leave now.
We have an important appointment. Ciao!"
"Ciao!"
Pier got into the car beside Robert, and the women stood
there watching
them drive away.
Pier said happily, "They are all old friends."
"Wonderful. Where's your mother's house?"
"Oh, she ~~~5~~~ live in the ~~~y~)) "What?"
"She lives outside of town in a little farmhouse, half an
hour from
here."
The farmhouse was on the southern outskirts of Naples, an
old stone
building set off fi:from the road.
"There it is!" Pier exclaimed. 'isn't it beautiful?"
"Yes." Robert liked the fact that the house was away from
the center of
town. There would be no reason for anyone to come looking
for him here.
Pier was right. It's a perfect safe house.
They walked up to the flont door, and before they reached
it, the door
flew open and Pier's mother stood there smiling at them.
She was an
older version of her daughter, thin and gray-haired, with
a lined,
careworn face.
"Pier, cara! Mi sei mancata!"
"I've missed you too, Mama. This is the friend I
telephoned you about
that I was bringing home."
Mama did not miss a beat.
"Ah? Si, you are welcome Mr.-?"
"Jones," Robert said.
"Come in, come in."
They entered the living room. It was a large room
comfortable and
homey, crammed with furniture.
A boy in his early twenties entered the room. He was
short and dark,
with a thin, sullen face and brooding brown eyes. He wore
jeans and a
jacket with the name Diavoli Rossi sewn on it. His face
lit up when he
saw his sister.
"Pier!"
"Hello, Carlo." They hugged.
"What are you doing here?"
"We came to visit for a few days." She turned to Robert.
"This is my brother, Carlo. Carlo, this is Mr. Jones."
"Hello, Carlo."
Carlo was sizing Robert up.
"Hello." Mama said, "I will fix a nice bedroom for you
two lovebirds in
the back."
Robert said, "If you don't mind-that is, if you have an
extra bedroom,
I'd prefer a room to myself."
There was an awkward pause. The three of them were
staring at Robert.
Mama turned to Pier.
"Omosessuale?"
Pier shrugged. I don't know.
But she was sure he was not a homosexual. Mama looked at
Robert.
"As you wish." She hugged Pier again.
"I'm so happy to see you. Come into the kitchen. I will
make some
coffee for us."
In the kitchen, Mama exclaimed, "Benissimo! How did you
meet him? He
looks very rich. And that bracelet you are wearing. It
must have cost
a fortune. My goodness!
Tonight I will cook a big dinner. I will invite all the
neighbors so
they can meet your-"
"No, Mama. You must not do that."
"But cara, why should we not spread the news of your good
luck?
All our friends will be so pleased."
"Mama, Mr. Jones just wants to rest for a few days.
No party. No neighbors." Mama sighed.
"All right. Whatever you wish." I'll arrange for him to
be picked up
away from the house, so Mama will not be disturbed.
Carlo had noticed the bracelet, too.
"That bracelet. Those are real emeralds, huh? Did you
buy that for my
sister?"
There was an attitude about the boy that Robert did not
like.
"Ask her." Pier and Mama came out of the kitchen. Mama
looked at
Robert.
"You are sure you do not want to sleep with Pier?"
Robert was embarrassed.
"Thank you. No." Pier said, "I'll show you your
bedroom." She led him
toward the back of the house to a large, comfortable
bedroom with a
double bed in the middle of the room.
"Robert, are you afraid of what Mama might think if we
slept together?
She knows what I do."
"It's not that," Robert said.
"It's-" There was no way he could explain.
"I'm sorry, I-" Pier's voice was cold.
"Never mind." She felt unreasonably offended. Twice now
he had refused
to sleep with her. It serves him right that I am turning
him over to
the police, she thought. And yet she felt a small,
nagging sense of
guilt. He was really very nice. But fifty thousand
dollars was fifty
thousand dollars.
* * * At dinner Mama was talkative, but Pier and Robert
and Carlo were
silent and preoccupied. Robert was busily working out his
plan of
escape. Tomorrow, he thought, I'll go down to the docks
and find a ship
out of here. Pier was thinking about the phone call she
was planning to
make. I'll call from town, so the police cannot trace it
here.
Carlo was studying the stranger his sister had brought to
the house. He
should be an easy make.
When dinner was over, the two women went into the kitchen.
Robert was
alone with Carlo.
"You're the first man my sister has ever brought here,"
Carlo said.
"She must like you a lot."
"I like her a lot."
"Do you? Are you going to take care of her?"
"I think your sister can take care of herself." Carlo
smirked.
"Yeah. I know." The stranger seated across from him was
well dressed
and obviously rich. Why was he staying here when he could
have stayed
at some fancy hotel? The only reason Carlo could think of
was that the
man was in hiding. And that brought up an interesting
point. When a
rich man was in hiding, somehow, some way, there was money
to be made
from the situation.
"Where are you from?"
Carlo asked.
"From no place in particular," Robert said pleasantly.
"I travel a lot."
Carlo nodded.
"I see." I'll find out from Pier who he is.
Somebody will probably be willing to pay a lot of money
for him, and
Pier and I can split it.
"Are you in business?"
Carlo asked.
"Retired."
It would not be hard to force this man to talk, Carlo
decided.
Lucca, the leader of the Diavoli Rossi, could crack him
open in no time.
"How long will you be staying with us?"
"It's hard to say." The boy's curiosity was beginning to
get on
Robert's nerves.
Pier and her mother came out of the kitchen.
"Would you like some more coffee?"
Mama asked.
"No, thank you. That was a delicious dinner." Mama
smiled.
"That was nothing. Tomorrow I will prepare a feast for
you."
"Good." He would be gone by then. He stood up.
"If you don't mind, I'm rather tired. I'd like to turn
in."
"Of course," Mama said.
"Good night."
"Good night."
They watched Robert as he walked toward the bedroom.
Carlo grinned.
"He doesn't think you're good enough to sleep with him,
eh?"
The remark stung Pier, as it was meant to. She would not
have minded it
if Robert were a homosexual, but she had heard him talk to
Susan, and
she knew better. I'll show the stronzo.
Robert lay in bed thinking about his next move. Laying a
false trail
with the homing device that had been hidden in the credit
card would
give him a little time, but he was not depending too much
on it.
They probably would have caught up with the red truck by
now. The men
who were aiter him were ruthless and smart. Were heads of
world
governments involved in the massive cover-up? Robert
wondered. Or was
it an organization within an organization, a cabal in the
intelligence
community acting illegally on its own? The more Robert
thought about
it, the more feasible it seemed that the heads of state
might be unaware
of what was going on. And a thought struck him. It had
always seemed
odd to him that Admiral Whittaker had suddenly been
retired from ONI and
relegated to some Siberia. But if someone had forced him
out because
they knew he would never be part of the conspiracy, then
it began to
make sense. I have to contact the admiral, Robert
thought. He was the
only one he could trust to get to the truth of what was
happening.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow. He closed his eyes and
slept.
The creaking of the bedroom door awakened him. He sat up
in bed,
instantly alert. Someone was moving toward the bed.
Robert tensed, ready to spring. He smelled her perfume
then and felt
her slide in bed beside him.
"Pier-What are you-?"
"Ssh." Her body pressed against his. She was naked.
"I got lonely," she whispered. She snuggled closer to
him.
"I'm sorry, Pier, I-I can't do anything for you." Pier
said, "No?
Then let me do something for you."
Her voice was soft.
"It's no use. You can't." Robert felt a deep
frustration.
He wanted to spare both of them the embarrassment of what
was not going
to happen.
"Don't you like me, Robert? Do you not think I have a
beautiful body?"
"Yes." And she did. He could feel the warmth of her body
pressing
closer.
She was stroking him gently, rippling her fingers up and
down his chest,
moving lightly toward his groin. He had to stop her
before the
humiliating fiasco was repeated.
"Pier, I can't make love. I haven't been able to be with
a woman
since-for a long time."
"You don't have to do anything, Robert," she said.
"I just want to play. Do you like being played with?"
He felt nothing. Goddamn Susan! She had taken more than
herself away
from him, she had taken a part of his manhood. Pier was
sliding down
his body now.
"Turn over," she said.
"It's no use, Pier. I-" She rolled him over, and he lay
there cursing
Susan, cursing his impotence. He could feel Pier's tongue
moving along
his back, making tiny, delicate circles, moving lower and
lower. Her
fingers were gently flicking over his skin.
"Pier-"
"Ssh."
He felt her tongue spiraling down deeper and deeper, and
he began to
feel aroused. He started to move.
"Ssh. Lie still."
Her tongue was soft and warm, and he could feel her
breasts trailing
along his skin. His pulse began to quicken. Yes, he
thought.
Yes! Oh, yes! His tumescence grew until he became rock
hard, and when
he could stand it no longer, he grabbed Pier and turned
her over.
She felt him and gasped, "My God, you're enormous. I want
you inside
me."
And a moment later Robert plunged into her, and then again
and again,
and it was as if he had been reborn. Pier was skillful
and wild, and
Robert reveled in the dark cave of her velvety sofI:ness.
They made
love three times that night. Finally, they slept.
Day Eighteen Naples, Italy
In the morning, as the pale light was coming through the
window, Robert
awakened. He held Pier close in his arms and whispered,
"Thank you."
Pier smiled mischievously.
"How do you feel?"
"Wonderful," Robert said. And he did.
Pier snuggled against him.
"You are an animal!" Robert grinned.
"You're good for my ego," he said. Pier sat up and said
seriously, "You
are not a drug smuggler, are you?"
It was a naive question.
"No."
"But Interpol is after you." That hit closer to home.
"Yes."
Her face lit up.
"I know! You're a spy!" She was as excited as a child.
Robert had to laugh.
"Am I?"
And he thought, Out of the mouths of babes...
"Admit it," Pier insisted.
"You're a spy, aren't you?"
"Yes," Robert said gravely.
"I'm a spy."
"I knew it!" Pier's eyes were glowing.
"Can you tell me some secrets?"
"What kind of secrets?"
"You know, spy secrets-codes and things like that. I love
to read spy
novels. I read them all the time."
"Do you?"
"Oh, yes! But they're just made-up stories. You know all
the real
things, don't you? Like the signals that spies use. Are
you allowed to
tell me one?"
Robert said seriously, "Well, I really shouldn't, but I
suppose one
would be all right." What can I tell her that she'll
believe? "There's
the old window-shade trick."
She was wide-eyed.
"The old window-shade trick?"
"Yes." Robert pointed to a window in the bedroom.
"If everything is under control, you leave the shades up.
But if
there's trouble, you pull one shade down. That's the
signal to warn
your fellow agent away."
Pier said excitedly, "That's wonderful! I've never read
that in a
book."
"You won't," Robert said.
"It's very secret."
"I won't tell anyone," Pier promised.
"What else?"
What else?
Robert thought for a moment.
"Well, there's the telephone trick."
Pier snuggled closer to him.
"Tell me about that."
"Er-let's say a fellow spy telephones you to find out if
everything is
all right. He'll ask for Pier. If everything is fine,
you say, 'This
is Pier." But if there is any problem, you say, 'You have
the wrong
number."' "That's wonderful!" Pier exclaimed.
My instructors at the Farm would have a heart attack if
they heard me
talking this nonsense.
"Can you tell me anything else?"
Pier asked. Robert laughed.
"I think those are enough secrets for one morning."
"All right." She rubbed her body along his body.
"Would you like to take a shower?"
Pier asked.
"Love to."
They soaped each other under the warm water, and as Pier
spread Robert's
legs and began to wash him, he became tumescent again.
They made love in the shower.
While Robert was getting dressed, Pier put on a robe and
said, "I'll see
about breakfast." Carlo was waiting for her in the dining
room.
"Tell me about your friend," he said.
"What about him?"
"Where did you meet him?"
"In Rome."
"He must be very rich to have bought you that emerald
bracelet."
She shrugged.
"He likes me."
A dozen security agents and the Naples police force were
scouring the
city for Robert.
Carlo was busily making his own plans for Robert. Pier
was getting
ready to telephone Interpol again.
The danger in the air was almost palpable, and Robert felt
as if he
could reach out and touch it. The waterfront was a
beehive of activity,
with cargo ships busily loading and unloading. But
another element had
been added: There were police cars cruising up and down
the quai, and
uniformed policemen and obvious-looking detectives
questioning
dockworkers and sailors. The concentrated manhunt took
Robert by
complete surprise. It was almost as if they had known he
was in Naples,
for it would have been impossible for them to be
conducting this intense
a search for him in every major city in Italy. He did not
even bother
to get out of the car. He turned around and headed away
from the docks.
What he had thought would be an easy plan-to board a cargo
ship bound
for France-had now become too dangerous. Somehow they had
managed to
track him here. He went over his options again.
Traveling any distance
by car was too risky. There would be roadblocks around
the city by now.
The docks were guarded. That meant the railroad station
and airport
would be covered as well. He was in a vise, and it was
closing in on
him.
Robert thought about Susan's offer.
"We're just off the coast of Gibraltar. We can turn
around and pick you
up, anyplace you say. It's probably your only chance of
escape." He
was reluctant to involve Susan in his danger, and yet he
could think of
no other alternative. It was the only way out of the trap
he was in.
They would not be looking for him onaprivate yacht. IfI
can findaway to
get to the Halcyon, he thought, they could drop me off
near the coast of
Marseilles, and I can get ashore by myself That way, they
won't be in
danger. He parked the car in front of a small trattoria
on a side
street and went inside to make the call. In five minutes,
he was
connected with the Halcyon.
"Mrs. Banks, please."
"Who shall I say is calling?"
Monte has a fucking butler to answer his phone on the
yacht.
"Just tell her an old friend."
A minute later he heard Susan's voice.
"Robert-is that you?"
"The bad penny."
"They-they haven't arrested you, have they?"
"No. Susan." It was difficult for him to ask the
question.
"Is your offer still open?"
"Of course it is. When-?"
"Can you reach Naples by tonight?"
Susan hesitated.
"I don't know. Hold on a moment." Robert heard talking
in the
background. Susan came on the line again.
"Monte says we have an engine problem, but we can reach
Naples in two
days."
Damn. Every day here increased the chances of his getting
caught.
"All right. That will be fine."
"How will we find you?"
"I'll contact you."
"Robert, please take care of yourself."
"I'm trying. I really am."
"You won't let anything happen to you?"
"No, I won't let anything happen to me." Or to you. When
Susan
replaced the receiver, she turned to her husband and
smiled.
"He's coming aboard."
One hour later, in Rome, Francesco Cesar handed a cable to
Colonel Frank
Johnson. It was from the Halcyon. It read: BELLAMY
COMING ABOARD
HALCYON. WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED. It was unsigned.
"I've made arrangements to monitor all communication to
and from the
Halcyon," Cesar said.
"As soon as Bellamy steps aboard, we've got him."
The more Carlo Valli thought about it, the more certain he
was that he
was about to make a big score. Pier's fairy tale about
the American
running away from his wife was a joke. Mr. Jones was on
the run, all
right, but he was running from the police. There was
probably a reward
out for the man. Maybe a big reward. This had to be
handled very
delicately. Carlo decided to discuss it with Mario Lucca,
the leader of
the Diavoli Rossl.
Early in the morning, Carlo got on his Vespa motor scooter
and headed
for Via Sorcella, behind the Piazza Garibaldi. He stopped
in front of a
run-down apartment building, and pressed the bell on a
broken mailbox
marked "Lucca."
A minute later a voice yelled out, "Who the fuck is it?"
"Carlo. I have to talk to you, Mario."
"It better be good at this hour of the morning. Come on
up.
The door buzzer sounded, and Carlo went upstairs. Mario
Lucca was
standing at an open door, naked. At the end of the room
Carlo could see
a girl in his bed.
"Che cosa?
What the hell are you doing up so early?"
"I couldn't sleep, Mario. I'm too excited. I think I'm
onto something
big."
"Yeah? Come in."
Carlo entered the small, messy apartment.
"Last night my sister brought home a mark."
"So what? Pier's a whore. She-"
"Yeah, but this one is rich. And he's in hiding."
"Who is he hiding from?"
"I don't know. But I'm going to find out. I think there
might be a
reward out for him."
"Why don't you ask your sister?"
Carlo frowned.
"Pier wants to keep it all for herself.
You should see the bracelet he bought her-emeralds."
"A bracelet? Yeah? How much is it worth?"
"I'll let you know. I'm going to sell it this morning."
Lucca stood
there, thoughtful.
"I'll tell you what, Carlo. Why don't we have a talk with
your sister's
friend? Let's pick him up and take him over to the club
this morning."
The club was an empty warehouse in Quartiere Saneta that
had a room that
was soundproof. Carlo smiled.
"Bene. I can get him down there easy enough."
"We'll be waiting for him," Lucca said.
"We'll have a little talk with him. I hope he has a nice
voice, because
he's going to sing for us." When Carlo returned to the
house, Mr. Jones
was gone. Carlo panicked.
"Where did your friend go?"
he asked Pier.
"He said he had to go into town for a little while. He'll
be back.
Why?"
He forced a smile.
"Just curious."
Carlo waited until his mother and Pier were in the kitchen
preparing
lunch, then hurried into Pier's room. He found the
bracelet hidden
under some lingerie in a dresser drawer. He swiftly
pocketed it and was
on his way out when his mother came out of the kitchen.
"Carlo, aren't you staying for lunch?"
"No. I have an appointment, Mama. I'll be back later."
He got on his
Vespa and headed toward the Quartiere Spagnolo. Maybe the
bracelet is
phony, he thought. It could be paste. I hope I don't
make a fool of
myself with Lucca. He parked the motorbike in front of a
small jewelry
store that had a sign in front that read: Orologia. The
owner, Gambino,
was an elderly, wizened man, with an ill-fitting black wig
and a
mouthful of false teeth. He looked up as Carlo entered.
"Good morning, Carlo. You're out early."
"Yeah."
"What have you got for me today?"
Carlo took out the bracelet and laid it on the counter.
"This."
Gambino picked it up. As he studied it, his eyes widened.
"Where did you get this?"
"A rich aunt died and left it to me. Is it worth
anything?"
"It could be," Gambino said cautiously.
"Don't fuck around with me."
Gambino looked hurt.
"Have I ever cheated you?"
"All the time."
"You boys are always kidding around. I'll tell you what I
will do,
Carlo. I'm not sure I can handle this by myself. It's
very valuable."
Carlo's heart skipped a beat.
"Really?"
"I'll have to see if I can lay it off somewhere. I'll
give you a call
tonight."
"Okay," Carlo said. He snatched up the bracelet.
"I'll keep this until I hear from you."
Carlo left the shop walking on air. So, he had been
right! The sucker
was rich, and he was also crazy. Why else would someone
give an
expensive bracelet to a whore? In the store, Gambino
watched Carlo
leave. He thought, What the hell have those idiots gotten
themselves
into? From under the counter, he picked up a circular
that had been
sent to all pawn shops. It had a description of the
bracelet he had
just seen, but at the bottom, instead of the usual police
number to
call, there was a special notice: "Notify SIFAR
immediately." Gambino
would have ignored an ordinary police circular, as he had
hundreds of
times in the past, but he knew enough about SIFAR to know
that one never
crossed them. He hated to lose the profit on the
bracelet, but he did
not intend to put his neck in a noose. Reluctantly, he
picked up the
telephone and dialed the number on the circular.
It was the season of fear, of swirling, deadly shadows.
Years earlier
Robert had been sent on a mission to Borneo and had gone
into the deep
jungle after a traitor. It had been in October, during
musim takoot,
the traditional head-hunting season, when the jungle
natives lived in
terror of Batii Saiang, the spirit that sought out humans
for their
blood. It was a season of murders, and now for Robert,
Naples had
suddenly become the jungles of Borneo. Death was in the
air. Do not go
gentie into the fucking night, Robert thought. They'll
have to catch me
first. How had they traced him here? Pier. They must
have tracked him
down through Pier. I have to get back to the house and
warn her, Robert
thought. But first I have to findaway out of here.
He drove toward the outskirts of the city, to where the
autostrada
began, hoping that by some miracle it might be clear.
Five hundred
yards before he reached the entrance, he saw the police
roadblock. He
turned around and headed back toward the center of the
city.
Robert drove slowly, concentrating, putting himself into
the minds of
his pursuers. They would have all avenues of escape out
of Italy
blocked. Every ship leaving the country would be
searched. A plan
suddenly came to him. They would have no reason to search
ships not
leaving Italy. It's a chance, Robert thought. He headed
for the harbor
again. The little bell over the door of the jewelry shop
rang, and
Gambino looked up. Two men in dark suits walked in. They
were not
customers.
"Can I help you?"
"Mr. Gambino?"
He exposed his false teeth.
"Yes."
"You called about an emerald bracelet." SIFAR. He had
been expecting
them. But this time he was on the side of the angels.
"That's right. As a patriotic citizen, I felt it was my
duty-"
"Cut the bullshit. Who brought it in?"
"A young boy named Carlo."
"Did he leave the bracelet?"
"No, he took it with him."
"What's Carlo's last name?"
Gambino lifted a shoulder.
"I don't know his last name. He's one of the boys in the
Diavoli Rossi.
That's one of our local gangs. It's run by a kid named
Lucca."
"Do you know where we can find this Lucca?"
Gambino hesitated. If Lucca found out that he had talked,
he would have
his tongue cut out.
If he did not tell these men what they wanted to know, he
would have his
brains bashed in.
"He lives on Via Sorcella, behind the Piazza Garibaldi."
"Thank you, Mr. Gambino. You've been very helpful."
"I'm always happy to cooperate withThe men were gone.
Lucca was in bed with his girlfriend when the two men
shoved open the
door to his apartment. Lucca leapt out of bed.
"What the hell is this? Who are you?"
One of the men pulled out his identification. SIFAR!
Lucca swallowed.
"Hey, I haven't done anything wrong. I'm a law abiding
citizen who-"
"We know that, Lucca. We're not interested in you. We're
interested in
a boy named Carlo."
Carlo. So that's what this is about. That fucking
bracelet! What the
hell had Carlo gotten himself into? SIFAR did not send
men around
looking for stolen jewelry.
"Well-do you know him or don't you?"
"I might."
"If you aren't sure, we'll refresh your memory down at
headquarters."
"Wait! I do remember, now," Lucca said.
"You must mean Carlo Valli. What about him?"
"We'd like to have a talk with him. Where does he live?"
Every member of the Diavoli Rossi had to swear a blood
oath of loyalty,
an oath that they would die before they would betray a
fellow member.
That was what made the Diavoli Rossi such a great club.
They stuck
together. One for all and all for one.
"Do you want to take that trip downtown?"
"What for?"
Lucca shrugged. He gave them Carlo's address.
Thirty minutes later, Pier op_ned tye door to find two
strangers
standing there.
"Signorina Valli?"
Trouble.
"Yes."
"May we come in?"
She wanted to say no, but she did not dare.
"Who are you?"
One of the men pulled out a wallet and flashed an
identification card.
SIFAR. These were not the people she had made her deal
with.
Pier felt a sense of panic that they were going to try to
cheat her out
of her reward.
"What do you want with me?"
"We'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Go ahead. I have nothing to hide." Thank God, Pier
thought, Robert is
out. I can still negotiate.
"You drove down from Rome yesterday, didn't you." It was
a statement.
"Yes. Is that against the law? Was I speeding?"
The man smiled. It did nothing to change the expression
on his face.
"You had a companion with you?"
Pier answered carefully.
"Yes."
"Who was he, signorina?"
She shrugged.
"Some man I picked up on the road. He wanted a ride to
Naples."
The second man asked, "Is he here with you now?"
"I don't know where he is. I dropped him off when we got
into town, and
he disappeared."
"Was your passenger's name Robert Bellamy?"
She knitted her brow in concentration.
"Bellamy? I don't know. I don't think he told me his
name."
"Oh, we think he did. He picked you up on the Tor di
Ounto, you spent
the night with him at the L'Incrocio Hotel, and the next
morning he
bought you an emerald bracelet. He sent you to some
hotels with airline
and train tickets, and you rented a car and came down to
Naples, right?"
They know everything. Pier nodded, her eyes filled with
fear.
"Is your friend coming back, or has he left Naples?"
She hesitated, deciding which was the best answer. If she
told them
that Robert had left town, they would not believe her
anyway. They
would wait here at the house, and when he turned up, they
could accuse
her of lying for him and hold her as an accomplice. She
decided that
the truth would serve her better.
"He's coming back," Pier said.
"Soon?"
"I'm not sure."
"Well, we'll just make ourselves comfortable. You don't
mind if we look
around, do you?"
They opened their jackets, exposing their guns.
"N-no."
They fanned out, moving through the house. Mama walked in
from the
kitchen.
"Who are these men?"
"They are friends of Mr. Jones," Pier said.
"They have come to see him."
Mama beamed.
"Such a nice man. Would you like some lunch?"
"Sure, Mama," one of the men said.
"What are we having?"
Pier's mind was in a turmoil. I have to call Interpol
again, she
thought. They said they would pay flfiy thousand dollars.
Meanwhile,
she had to keep Robert away from the house until she could
make
arrangements to turn him in. But how? She suddenly
remembered their
conversation that morning.
"If there's trouble you pull one shade down ... to warn
someone away."
The two men were seated at the dining room table eating a
bowl of
capellini.
"It's too bright in here," Pier said. She rose and walked
into the
living room and pulled down the window shade. Then she
went back to the
table. I hope Robert remembers about the warning.
Robert was driving toward the house, reviewing his plan of
escape.
It's not perfect, he thought, but at least it should get
them off the
trail long enough to buy me some time. He was approaching
the house.
As he neared it, he slowed down and looked around.
Everything appeared
to be normal. He would warn Pier to get out and then take
off. As
Robert started to park in front of the house, something
struck him as
odd. One of the front shades was down. The others were
up. It was
probably a coincidence, but still... An alarm bell
sounded. Could Pier
have taken his little game seriously? Was it meant to be
a warning of
some kind? Robert stepped on the accelerator and kept
driving. He
could not afford to take any chances, no matter how
remote. He drove to
a bar a mile away and went inside to use the telephone.
They were seated at the dining-room table when the
telephone rang.
The men tensed. One of them started to rise.
"Would Bellamy be calling here?"
Pier gave him a scornful look.
"Of course not. Why should he?"
She rose and walked over to the telephone. She picked up
the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Pier? I saw the window shade and-" All she had to do was
say that
everything was all right, and he would come back to the
house. The men
would arrest him, and she could demand her reward. But
would they
merely arrest him? She could hear Robert's voice, saying,
"If the
police find me, they have orders to kill me." The men at
the table were
watching her. There was so much she could do with fifty
thousand
dollars. There were beautiful clothes to buy, cruises to
take, a pretty
little apartment in Rome.... And Robert would be dead.
Besides, she
hated the goddamned police. Pier said into the telephone,
"You have the
wrong number."
Robert heard the click of the receiver and stood there,
stunned.
She had believed the tall tales he had told her, and it
had probably
saved his life. Bless her. Robert turned the car around
and headed
away from the house toward the docks, but instead of going
to the main
part of the port that serviced the freighters and ocean
liners leaving
Italy, he drove to the other side, past Santa Lucia, to a
small pier
where the sign over a kiosk read: "Capri and Ischia."
Robert parked the
car where it could easily be spotted, and walked up to the
ticket
seller.
"When does the next hydrofoil leave for Ischia?"
"In thirty minutes."
"And for Capri?"
"Five minutes."
"Give me a one-way ticket to Capri."
"Si, signore."
"What's this 'si signore' crap?"
Robert said in a loud voice.
"Why don't you people speak English like everybody else?"
The man's eyes widened in shock.
"You goddamn guineas are all alike. Stupid! Or, as you
people would
say, stupido." Robert shoved some money at the man,
grabbed the ticket,
and walked toward the hydrofoil.
Three minutes later he was on his way to the island of
Capri. The boat
started out slowly, making its way cautiously through the
channel.
When it reached the outer limits, it surged forward,
rising out of the
water like a graceful porpoise. The ferry was full of
tourists from a
variety of countries, happily chattering away in different
tongues. No
one was paying any attention to Robert. He made his way
to the small
bar where they served drinks. He said to the bartender,
"Give me a
vodka and tonic."
"Yes, sir."
He watched the bartender mix the drink.
"There you are, signore." Robert picked up the glass and
took a
swallow. He slammed the glass back down on the bar.
"You call this a drink for Christ's sakes?"
he said.
"It tastes like horse piss. What's the matter with you
goddamn
Italians?"
People around him were turning to stare. The bartender
said, stiffly,
"I'm sorry, signore, we use the best-"
"Don't give me that shit!"
An Englishman nearby said stiffly, "There are women here.
Why don't you
watch your language?"
"I don't have to watch my language," Robert yelled.
"Do you know who I am? I'm Commander Robert Bellamy. And
they call
this a boat? It's a piece of junk!" He made his way to
the bow and sat
down. He could feel the eyes of the other passengers on
him. His heart
was hammering, but the charade was not over yet.
When the hydrofoil docked at Capri, Robert walked over to
the ticket
booth at the entrance to the funicolare. An elderly man
was in the
booth selling tickets.
"One ticket," Robert yelled.
"And hurry up! I don't have all day. You're too old to
be selling
tickets, anyway. You should stay home. Your wife is
probably screwing
all your neighbors."
The old man started to rise in anger. Passersby were
giving Robert
furious glances. Robert grabbed the ticket and stepped
into the crowded
funicolare. They'll remember me, he thought grimly. He
was leaving a
trail that no one could mIss.
When the funicolare came to a stop, Robert shoved his way
through the
crowd. He walked up the winding Via Vittorio Emanuele, to
the Quisisana
Hotel.
"I need a room," Robert told the clerk behind the desk.
"I'm sorry," the clerk apologized, "but we are fully
booked. There is-"
Robert handed him sixty thousand lire.
"Any room will do."
"Well, in that case, I think we can accommodate you,
signore.
Would you register, please?"
Robert signed his name: Commander Robert Bellamy.
"How long will you be staying with us, Commander?"
"One week."
"That will be fine. May I have your passport?"
"It's in my luggage. It'll be here in a few minutes."
"I will have a bellboy show you to your room."
"Not now. I have to go out for a few minutes. I'll be
right back."
Robert stepped out of the lobby, into the street.
Memories hit him like
a blast of cold air. He had walked here with Susan,
exploring the
little side streets, and strolled down Via Ignazio Cerio
and Via Li
Campo. It had been a magic time. They visited the Grotta
Azzurra, and
had morning coffee at the Piazza Umberto. They took the
funicolare up
to Anacapri, and rode donkeys to Villa Jovis, Tiberius's
villa, and swam
in the emerald green waters at the Marina Piccola. They
shopped along
Via Vittorio Emanuele and took the chair lift to the top
of Monte
Solaro, their feet skimming over the vine leaves and leafy
trees. Off
to the right, they could see the houses sprinkled down the
hillside
toward the sea, flowering yellow broom covering the
ground, an
eleven-minute ride through a colorful fairyland of green
trees, white
houses and, in the distance, the blue sea. At the top,
they had coffee
at the Barbarossa Ristorante, and then went into the
little church in
Anacapri to thank God for all their blessings, and for
each other.
Robert had thought then that the magic was Capri. He had
been wrong.
The magic was Susan, and the magician had left the stage.
Robert went
back to the funicolare station at the Piazza Umberto, and
took the tram
down, quietly mingling with the other passengers. When
the funicolare
arrived at the bottom, he walked out, carefully avoiding
the ticket
seller. He went over to the kiosk at the boat landing.
In a heavy
Spanish accent, Robert asked, "-A que hora sale el barco a
Ischia?"
"Sale en treinta minutos."
"Gracias." Robert bought a ticket.
He walked into a bar at the waterfront and took a seat in
the back,
where he nursed a scotch. By now they would have
undoubtedly found the
car, and the hunt for him would narrow. He spread out the
map of Europe
in his mind. The logical thing for him to do would be to
head for
England and find a way to get back to the States. It
would make no
sense for him to return to France. So, France it Is,
Robert thought. A
busy seaport to leave Italy from. Civitavecchia. I have
to get to
Civitavecchia. The Halcyon.
He got change from the owner of the bar and used the
telephone. It took
the marine operator ten minutes to put his call through.
Susan was on
the line almost immediately.
"We've been waiting to hear from you." We. He found that
interesting.
"The engine is fixed. We can be in Naples early in the
morning. Where
shall we pick you up?"
It was too risky for the Halcyon to come here. Robert
said, "Do you
remember the palindrome? We went there on our honeymoon."
"The what?"
"I made a joke about it because I was so exhausted."
There was a
silence on the other end of the line. Then Susan said
softly, "I
remember."
"Can the Halcyon meet me there tomorrow?"
"Hold on a moment." He waited.
Susan returned to the telephone.
"Yes, we can be there."
"Good." Robert hesitated. He thought of all the innocent
people who
had already died.
"I'm asking a lot of you. If they ever found out you
helped me, you
could be in terrible danger."
"Don't worry. We'll meet you there. Be careful."
"Thanks."
The connection was broken.
Susan turned to Monte Banks.
"He's coming."
At SIFAR headquarters in Rome, they were listening to the
conversation
in the communications room. There were four men in the
room. The radio
operator said, "We've recorded it if you would like to
hear it again,
sir."
Colonel Cesar looked at Frank Johnson questioningly.
"Yes. I'm interested in hearing the part about where
they're going to
meet. It sounded like he said Palindrome. Is that
somewhere in Italy?"
Colonel Cesar shook his head.
"I never heard of it. We'll check it out." He turned to
his aide.
"Look it up on the map. And keep monitoring all
transmissions to and
from the Halcyon."
"Yes, sir."
At the farmhouse in Naples, the phone rang. Pier started
to get up to
answer it.
"Hold it," one of the men said. He walked over to the
phone and picked
it up.
"Hello?"
He listened for a moment, then threw the phone down and
turned to his
companion.
"Bellamy took the hydrofoil to Capri.
Let's go!"
Pier watched the two men hurry out the door and thought:
God never meant
me to have so much money, anyway. I hope he gets away.
When the ferryboat to Ischia arrived, Robert mingled with
the crowd
boarding it. He kept to himself, avoiding eye contact.
Thirty minutes
later, when the boat docked at Ischia, Robert disembarked
and walked
over to the ticket booth on the pier. A sign announced
that the ferry
to Sorrento was due in ten minutes.
"A round-trip ticket to Sorrento," Robert said. Ten
minutes later he
was on his way to Sorrento, back to the mainland. With a
little luck,
the search will have shifted to Capri, Robert thought.
With a little
luck.
The food market at Sorrento was crowded. Farmers had come
in from the
countryside bringing fresh fruit and vegetables and sides
of beef that
lined the meat stalls. The street was thronged with
vendors and
shoppers.
Robert approached a husky man in a stained apron loading a
truck.
"Pardon, monsieur," Robert said, speaking with a perfect
French accent,
"I'm looking for transportation to Civitavecchia. Would
you happen to
be going that way?"
"No. Salerno." He pointed to a man loading another truck
nearby.
"Giuseppe might be able to help you."
"Merci."
Robert moved over to the next truck.
"Monsieur, would you be going to Civitavecchia by any
chance?"
The man said noncommittally, "I might be."
"I would be glad to pay you for the ride."
"How much?"
Robert handed the man a hundred thousand lire.
"You could buy yourself a plane ticket to Rome for that
much money,
couldn't you?"
Robert instantly realized his mistake. He looked around
nervously.
"The truth is, I have some creditors watching the airport.
I'd prefer
to go by truck."
The man nodded.
"Ah. I understand. All right, get in. We're ready to
leave."
Robert yawned.
"I am tres fatigue. How do you say? Tired? Would you
mind if I slept
in the back?"
"It's going to be a bumpy ride, but suit yourself."
"Merci."
The back of the truck was filled with empty crates and
boxes.
Giuseppe watched Robert climb in, and he closed up the
tailgate.
Inside, Robert concealed himself behind some crates. He
suddenly
realized how exhausted he really was. The chase was
beginning to wear
him down. How long had it been since he had slept? He
thought of Pier
and how she had come to him in the night and had made him
feel whole
again, a man again. He hoped she was all right. Robert
slept.
In the cab of the truck, Giuseppe was thinking about his
passenger. The
word was out about an American the authorities were
looking for. His
passenger had a French accent, but he looked like an
American, and he
dressed like an American. It would be worth checking out.
There might
be a nice reward.
One hour later, at a truck stop along the highway,
Giuseppe pulled up in
front of a gas pump.
"Fill it up," he said. He walked around to the back of
the truck and
peered inside. His passenger was asleep.
Giuseppe went inside the restaurant and made a telephone
call to the
local police.
The call had been routed to Colonel Cesar.
"Yes," he said to Giuseppe, "that sounds very much like
our man. Listen
carefully. He is dangerous, so I want you to do exactly
as I tell you.
Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where are you now?"
"At the AGIP truck stop on the way to Civitavecchia."
"And he's in the back of your truck now?"
"Yes." The conversation was making him nervous. Maybe I
should have
minded my own business.
"Don't do anything to make him suspicious. Get back in
your truck and
keep driving. Give me your license number and a
description of your
truck." Giuseppe gave it to him.
"Fine. We will take care of everything. Now get moving."
Colonel Cesar turned to Colonel Johnson and nodded.
"We have him. I'll have a roadblock set up. We can be
there by
helicopter in thirty minutes."
"Let's go."
When Giuseppe replaced the receiver, he wiped his sweaty
palms on his
shirt and headed for the truck. I hope there won't be a
shoot-out.
Maria would kill me. On the other hand, if the reward is
large
enough... He climbed into the cab of the truck and headed
for
Civitavecchia. Thirty-five minutes later, Giuseppe heard
the sound of a
helicopter overhead. He looked up. It had the markings
of the state
police. Ahead of him on the highway, he saw two police
cars lined up
next to each other, forming a roadblock. Behind the cars
were policemen
with automatic weapons. The helicopter landed at the side
of the road,
and Cesar and Colonel Frank Johnson stepped out.
As he neared the roadblock, Giuseppe slowed the truck
down. He shut off
the ignition and jumped out, running toward the officers.
"He's in back!" he shouted.
The truck rolled to a stop. Cesar shouted, "Close in."
The policemen
converged on the truck, weapons ready.
"Don't shoot," Colonel Johnson yelled.
"I'll take him."
He moved toward the back of the truck.
"Come on out, Robert," Colonel Johnson called, "it's
over."
There was no response.
"Robert, you have five seconds." Silence.
They waited.
Cesar turned to his men and nodded.
"No!" Colonel Johnson yelled.
But it was too late. The police began firing into the
back of the
truck. The noise of the automatic fire was deafening.
Splinters of
crates began flying into the air. After ten seconds, the
firing ceased.
Colonel Frank Johnson jumped into the back of the truck
and moved the
crates and boxes out of his way. He turned to Cesar.
"He's not here."
Day Nineteen Civitavecchia, Italy
Civitavecchia is the ancient seaport for Rome, guarded by
a massive fort
completed by Michelangelo in 1537. The port is one of the
busiest in
Europe, servicing all seagoing traffic to and from Rome
and Sardinia.
It was early in the morning, but the port was already
alive with noisy
activity. Robert made his way past the railroad yards and
stepped into
a small trattoria filled with pungent cooking odors and
ordered
breakfast.
The Halcyon would be waiting for him at the appointed
place, Elba.
He was grateful that Susan had remembered it. On their
honeymoon, they
had stayed in their room there making love for three days
and nights.
Susan had said, "Would you like to go for a swim,
darling?"
Robert had shaken his head.
"No. I can't move. 'Able was I, ere I saw Elba.'" And
Susan had
laughed, and they had made love again. And bless her, she
has
remembered the palindrome. Now all he had to do was to
find a boat to
take him to Elba. He walked down the streets leading to
the harbor. It
was bustling with maritime activity, crowded with
freighters, motor
boats and private yachts. There was a landing for a
ferryboat. Robert's
eyes lit up when he saw it. That would be the safest way
to get over to
Elba. He would be able to lose himself in the crowds.
As Robert started toward the ferry landing, he noticed a
dark, unmarked
sedan parked half a block away, and he stopped. It had
official license
plates. There were two men seated inside the car watching
the docks.
Robert turned and walked in the other direction.
Scattered among the dockworkers and tourists, he spotted
plain-clothes
detectives trying to look unobtrusive. They stood out
like beacons.
Robert's heart began to pound. How could they possibly
have tracked him
here? And then he realized what had happened. My God, I
told the truck
driver where I was going! Stupid! I must be very tired.
He had fallen asleep in the truck, and the absence of
movement had
awakened him. He had gotten up to look out and had seen
Giuseppe go
into the gas station and make a phone call. Robert had
slipped out of
the truck and climbed into the back of another truck
headed north toward
Civitavecchia.
He had trapped himself. They were looking for him here.
A few hundred
yards away were dozens of boats that could have afforded
him an escape.
Not any longer.
Robert turned away from the harbor and walked toward town.
He passed a
building with a huge colorful poster on the wall. It
read: Come to the
Fairgrounds. Fun for All! Food! Games! Rides! See the
Big Race! He
stopped and stared. He had found his escape.
the fairgrounds, five miles outside the town, where a
number of large,
colorful balloons spread across the field, looked like
round rainbows.
They were moored to trucks while ground crews were busily
filling their
envelopes with cold air. Half a dozen chase cars stood
by, ready to
track the balloons, two men in each car, the driver and
the spotter.
Robert walked up to a man who seemed to be in charge.
"It looks like you're getting ready for the big race,"
Robert said.
"That's right. Ever been in a balloon?"
"No."
They were skimming over Lake Como and he dropped the
balloon down until
it touched the water.
"We're going to crash," Susan screamed. He smiled.
"No, we're not." The bottom of the balloon was dancing on
the waves. He
threw out a sandbag, and the balloon began to lift again.
Susan laughed
and hugged him and said...
The man was speaking.
"You should try it sometime.
It's a great sport."
"Yeah. Where is the race heading?"
"Yugoslavia. We have a nice easterly wind. We'll be
taking off in a
few minutes. It's better to fly early in the morning when
the wind is
cool."
"Really?"
Robert said politely. He had a quick flash of a summer
day in
Yugoslavia.
"We have four people to smuggle out of here, Commander.
We must wait
until the air is cooler. A balloon that can lift four
people in the
winter air can only lift two people in the summer air."
Robert noticed that the crews were almost finished filling
the balloons
with air and had started to light the large propane
burners, pointing
the flame into the envelope opening, to warm the air
inside.
The balloons, which were lying on their sides, began to
rise until the
baskets stood upright.
"Mind if I look around?"
Robert asked.
"Go ahead. Just stay out of everyone's way."
"Right." Robert walked over to a yellow and red balloon
that was filled
with propane gas. The only thing holding it to the ground
was a rope
attached to one of the trucks.
The crewman who had been working on it had wandered off to
talk to
someone. There was no one else near.
Robert climbed into the basket of the balloon, and the
huge envelope
seemed to fill the sky above him. He checked the rigging
and equipment,
the altimeter, charts, a pyrometer to monitor the
temperature of the
envelope, a rate-of-climb indicator, and a tool kit.
Everything was in
order. Robert reached into the tool kit and pulled out a
knife.
He sliced into the mooring rope, and a moment later, the
balloon started
to ascend.
"Hey!" Robert yelled.
"What's going on here? Get me down!"
The man he had spoken to was gaping up at the runaway
balloon.
"Figlio d'una mignotta! Don't panic," he shouted.
"There's an altimeter on board. Use your ballast and stay
at one
thousand feet.
We'll meet you in YugoslavIa. Can you hear me?"
"I hear you."
The balloon was rising higher and higher, carrying him
east, away from
Elba, which was to the west. But Robert was not
concerned. The wind
changed direction at varying altitudes. None of the other
balloons had
taken off yet. Robert spotted one of the chase cars start
up, moving to
track him. He dropped ballast and watched the altimeter
climb. Six
hundred feet... seven hundred feet...
nine hundred feet ... eleven hundred feet...
At fifteen hundred feet, the wind began to weaken.
The balloon was almost stationary now. Robert dropped
more ballast. He
used the stair-step technique, stopping at different
altitudes to check
the wind direction.
At two thousand feet, Robert could feel the wind begin to
shift.
It swayed in the turbulent air for a moment, then slowly
began to
reverse direction and move west.
In the distance, far below, Robert could see the other
balloons rising
and moving east toward Yugoslavia. There was no sound at
all except for
the soft whispering of the wind.
"It's so quiet, Robert.
It's like flying on a cloud. I wish we could stay up here
forever."
She had held him close.
"Have you ever made love in a balloon?"
she murmured.
"Let's try it."
And later, "I'll bet we're the only people in the world
who have made
love in a balloon, darling." Robert was over the
Tyrrhenian Sea now,
heading northwest toward the coast of Tuscany.
Below, a string of islands stretched in a circle off the
coast, with
Elba the largest.
Napoleon had been exiled here, and he had probably chosen
it because on
a clear day, Robert thought, he could see his beloved
island of Corsica,
where he had been born. In exile Napoleon's one thought
was how to
escape and get to France. Mine, too. Only Napoleon
didn't have Susan
and the Halcyon to rescue him. In the distance, Monte
Capanne suddenly
loomed up, rising more than three thousand feet into the
sky.
Robert pulled the safety line that opened the valve at the
top of the
balloon to allow the hot air to escape, and the balloon
began to
descend. Below him, Robert could see the lush pink and
green of Elba,
the pink that came from the granite outcrops and Tuscan
houses, and the
green of the heavy forests. Below, pristine white beaches
were
scattered around the edges of the island.
He landed the balloon at the base of the mountain, away
from the city,
to attract as little attention to himself as possible.
There was a road
not far from where he had landed, and he walked over to it
and waited
until a car came by.
"Could you give me a lift into town?"
Robert called.
"Certainly.
Jump" The driver appeared to be somewhere in his eighties,
with an old,
wrinkled face.
"I could have swore I saw a balloon in the sky a little
while ago.
Did you see it, mister?"
"No," Robert said.
"Visiting?"
"Just passing through. I'm on my way to Rome." The
driver nodded.
"I was there once." The rest of the ride was made in
silence. When they
reached Portoferraio, the capital and only city of Elba,
Robert stepped
down from the car.
"Have a nice day," the driver said in English. My God,
Robert thought,
Californians have been here. Robert walked along Via
Garibaldi, the
main street, crowded with tourists, mostly families, and
it was as
though time had stood still. Nothing had changed; except
that I've lost
Susan, and half the governments in the world are trying to
assassinate
me. Otherwise, Robert thought wryly, everything is
exactly the same.
He bought binoculars in a gift shop, walked to the
waterfront, and sat
at a table outside the Stella Mariner Restaurant, where he
had a clear
view of the harbor. There were no suspicious cars, no
police boats, and
no policemen in sight. They still thought they had him
bottled up on
the mainland. It would be safe for him to board the
Halcyon. All he
had to do now was wait for it to arrive. He sat there
sipping
procanico, the delicate native white wine, watching for
the Halcyon. He
went over his plan again. The yacht would drop him off
near the coast
of Marseilles, and he would make his way to Paris where he
had a friend,
Li Po, who would help him. It was IronIc. He heard
Francesco Cesar's
voice saying: "I've heard you've made a deal with the
Chinese."
He knew that Li Po would help him because Li had once
saved Robert's
life, and according to ancient Chinese tradition, he had
become
responsible for Robert. It was a matter of win
yu-"honor."
Li Po was with the Guojia Anquanbu, the Chinese Ministry
of State
Security, which dealt with espionage. Years earlier
Robert had been
caught while trying to smuggle a dissident out of China.
He had been
sent to Qincheng, the top security prison in Beijing. Li
Po was a
double agent who had worked with Robert before. He
managed to arrange
for Robert to escape.
At the Chinese border, Robert had said, "You should get
out of this
while you're still alive, Li. Your luck won't last
forever." Li Po had
smiled.
"I have ren-the ability to endure, to survive."
One year later, Li Po had been transferred to the Chinese
Embassy in
Paris.
Robert decided that it was time to make his first move.
He left the
restaurant and wandered down to the waterfront. It was
crowded with
large and small boats leaving from Portoferraio.
Robert approached a man polishing the hull of a sleek
motorboat.
It was a Donzi, powered by a V-8 351 horsepower inboard
engine.
"Nice boat," Robert said.
The man nodded.
"Merci."
"I wonder if I could rent it to take a little cruise
around the harbor?"
The man stopped what he was doing and studied Robert.
"That might be possible. Are you familiar with boats?"
"Yes. I have a Donzi back home."
The man nodded approvingly.
"Where are you from?"
"Oregon," Robert said.
"It will cost you four hundred francs an hour." Robert
smiled.
"That's fine."
"And a deposit, of course."
"Of course."
"She's ready to go. Would you like to take her out now?"
"No, I have some errands to run. I thought tomorrow
morning."
"What time?"
"I'll let you know," Robert said.
He handed the man some money.
"Here's a partial deposit. I'll see you tomorrow."
He had decided it would be dangerous to let the Halcyon
come into port.
There were formalities. The capitaniera di porto-the
"harbormaster"-issued each yacht an autorizzazione and
recorded its
stay. Robert intended for the Halcyon to be as little
involved with him
as possible. He would meet it at sea. In the office of
the French
Marine Ministry, Colonel Cesar and Colonel Johnson were
talking to the
marine operator.
"Are you sure there has been no further communication with
the Halcyon?"
"No, sir, not since the last conversation I reported to
you."
"Keep listening." Colonel Cesar turned to Colonel Johnson
and smiled.
"Don't worry. We'll know the moment Commander Bellamy
boards the
Halcyon."
"But I want to get him before he's aboard." The marine
operator said,
"Colonel Cesar, there is no Palindrome listed on the map
of Italy.
But I think we've pinned it down."
"Where is it?"
"It's not a place, sir. It's a word."
"What?"
"Yes, sir. A palindrome is a word or sentence that is
spelled the same
forward or backward. For example, 'Madam I'm Adam." We've
run some
through our computers." He handed him a long list of
words.
Colonel Cesar and Colonel Johnson scanned the list.
"Kook ...
deed ... bib ... bob ... boob ... dad ... dud ...
eve ... gag ...
mom ... non ... noon ... Otto ... pop ... sees ...
tot ...
toot..." Cesar looked up.
"It's not much help, is it?"
"It might be, sir. They were obviously using some kind of
code.
And one of the most famous palindromes was supposedly said
by Napoleon:
'Able was I, ere I saw Elba."' Colonel Cesar and Colonel
Johnson looked
at each other.
"Elba!
Jesus Christ! That's where he is!"
Day Twenty The Island of Elba
It first appeared as a faint speck on the horizon, rapidly
looming
larger in the early morning light. Through the
binoculars, Robert
watched it materialize into the Halcyon. There was no
mistaking the
ship. There were not many at sea like it.
Robert hurried down to the beach where he had arranged to
rent the
motorboat.
"Good morning."
The owner of the boat looked up.
"Bonjour, monsieur.
Are you ready to take it out?"
Robert nodded.
"Yes."
"How long will you want it for?"
"No more than an hour or two."
Robert gave the man the rest of the deposit and stepped
down into the
boat.
"Take good care of it," the man said.
"Don't worry," Robert assured him, "I will." The owner
untied the
painter, and moments later the boat was headed out to sea,
racing toward
the Halcyon. It took Robert ten minutes to reach the
yacht. As he
approached it, he saw Susan and Monte Banks standing on
the deck. Susan
waved to him, and he could see the anxiety in her face.
Robert
maneuvered the small boat next to the yacht and tossed a
line to a
deckhand.
"Do you want to bring it aboard, sir?"
the man called.
"No, let it go." The owner would find it soon enough.
Robert walked up
the ladder to the spotless teak deck. Susan had once
described the
Halcyon to Robert, and he had been impressed, but seen in
person it was
even more impressive. The Halcyon was two hundred and
eighty feet long,
with a luxurious owner's cabin, eight double suites for
guests, and
cabins for a crew of sixteen. It had a drawing room, a
dining room, a
study, a salon, and a swimming pool.
The ship was propelled by two twelve-hundred-andfifty
horsepower
sixteen-cylinder turbocharged Caterpillar D399 diesel
engines, and
carried six small tenders for going ashore. The interior
design had
been done in Italy by Luigi Sturchio. It was a floating
palace.
"I'm glad you made it," Susan said.
And Robert had the impression that she was ill at ease,
that something
was wrong. Or was it just his nerves?
She looked absolutely beautiful, yet somehow, he was
disappointed.
What the hell had I expected? That she would look pale
and miserable?
He turned to Monte.
"I want you to know how much I appreciate this."
Monte shrugged.
"Glad to help you out." The man was a saint.
"What's your plan?"
"I'd like you to turn and head due west to Marseilles.
You can drop me off the coast and..." A man in a crisp
white uniform
approached. He was in his fifties, heavy-set, with a
neatly trimmed
beard.
"This is Captain Simpson. This is..." Monte Banks looked
at Robert for
help.
"Smith. Tom Smith."
Monte said, "We'll be heading for Marseilles, Captain."
"We're not going into Elba?"
"No."
Captain Simpson said, "Very well." He sounded surprised.
Robert scanned the horizon. All clear.
"I'd suggest we go below," Monte Banks said. When the
three of them
were seated in the salon, Monte asked, "Don't you think
you owe us an
explanation?"
"Yes, I do," Robert said, "but I'm not going to give you
one. The less
you know about this whole affair, the better. I can only
tell you that
I'm innocent. I'm involved in a political situation.
I know too much, and I'm being hunted. If they find me,
they'll kill
me."
Susan and Monte exchanged a look.
"They have no reason to connect me with the Halcyon,"
Robert went on.
"Believe me, Monte, if there were any other way for me to
escape, I
would have taken it." Robert thought of all the people
who had been
killed because he had tracked them down.
He could not bear to have anything happen to Susan. He
tried to keep
his voice light.
"I would appreciate it for your own sake if you didn't
mention that I
was ever aboard this ship."
"of course not," Monte said.
The yacht had slowly swung around and was heading west.
"If you'll excuse me, I have to have a word with the
captain."
Dinner was an awkward affair. There were strange
undercurrents that
Robert did not understand, a tension that was almost
tangible. Was it
because of his presence? Or was it something else?
Something between
the two of them? The sooner I get away from here, the
better, Robert
thought.
They were in the salon having an after-dinner drink when
Captain Simpson
came into the room.
"When will we reach Marseilles?"
Robert asked.
"If the weather holds, we should be there tomorrow
afternoon, Mr.
Smith."
There was something about Captain Simpson's manner that
irritated
Robert. The captain was gruff, almost to the point of
being rude. But
he must be good, Robert thought, or Monte would not have
hired him.
Susan deserves this yacht. She deserves the best of
everything.
At eleven o'clock, Monte looked at his watch and said to
Susan, "I think
we had better turn in, darling."
Susan glanced at Robert.
"Yes." The three of them rose.
Monte said, "You'll find a change of clothes in your
cabin. We're about
the same size."
"Thank you."
"Good night, Robert."
"Good night, Susan."
Robert stood there, watching the woman he loved going off
to bed with
his rival. Rival? Who the hell am I kidding? He's the
winner.
I'm the loser.
Sleep was an elusive shadow dancing just out of reach.
Lying in his
bed, Robert was thinking that on the other side of the
wall, only a few
feet away, was the woman he loved more than anyone in the
world. He
thought of Susan lying in her bed, naked-she never wore a
nightgown-and
he felt himself beginning to get an erection. Was Monte
making love to
her at this moment or was she alone-... And was she
thinking of him and
remembering all the great times they had had together?
Probably not.
Well, he would be out of her life soon. He would probably
never see her
again. It was dawn before he closed his eyes.
In the communications room at SIFAR, radar was tracking
the Halcyon.
Colonel Cesar turned to Colonel Johnson and said, "Too bad
we couldn't
intercept him at Elba, but we've got him now! We have a
cruiser
standing by. We're just awaiting word from the Halcyon to
board her."
Day Twenty-one
Early in the morning, Robert was on deck looking out over
the calm sea.
Captain Simpson approached him.
"Good morning. It looks like the weather is going to
hold, Mr. Smith."
"Yes."
"We'll be in Marseilles by three o'clock. Will we be
staying there
long?"
"I don't know," Robert said pleasantly.
"We'll see."
"Yes, sir."
Robert watched Simpson stride off. What is it about the
man? Robert
walked back to the stern of the yacht and scanned the
horizon. He could
see nothing, and yet- In the past, his instincts had saved
his life more
than once. He had long ago learned to rely on them.
Something was
wrong.
* * * Out of sight beyond the horizon, the Italian navy
cruiser
Stromboli was stalking the Halcyon.
When Susan appeared for breakfast, she looked pale and
drawn.
"Did you sleep well, darling?"
Monte asked.
"Fine," Susan said.
So they didn't share the same cabin! Robert felt an
unreasonable sense
of pleasure from that knowledge. He and Susan had always
slept in the
same bed, her naked, nubile body spooning into his.
Jesus, I've got to
stop thinking like this.
Ahead of the Halcyon, on the starboard bow was a fishing
boat from the
Marseilles fleet bringing in a fresh catch.
"Would you like some fish for lunch?"
Susan asked. Both men nodded.
"Fine."
They were almost abreast of the fishing boat. As Captain
Simpson walked
by, Robert asked, "What is our ETA to Marseilles?"
"We'll be there in two hours, Mr. Smith. Marseilles is an
interesting
port. Have you ever been there?"
"It is an interesting port," Robert said.
In the communications room at SIFAR, the two colonels were
reading the
message that had just come in from the Halcyon. It read
simply: "Now."
"What's the H4lcyon's position?"
barked Colonel Cesar.
"They're two hours out of Marseilles, heading for port."
"Order the Stromboli to overtake and board her
immediately."
Thirty minutes later, the Italian navy cruiser Stromboli
was closing in
on the Halcyon. Susan and Monte were at the fantail of
the yacht
watching the warship racing toward them.
A voice came over the cruiser's loudspeaker.
"Ahoy, Halcyon.
Heave to. We're coming aboard."
Susan and Monte exchanged a look. Captain Simpson came
hurrying toward
them.
"Mr. Banks-"
"I heard it. Do as they say. Stop the engines."
"Yes, sir."
A minute later, the pulse of the engines stopped, and the
yacht lay
still in the water. Susan and her husband watched as
armed sailors from
the Navy cruiser were lowered into a dinghy.
Ten minutes later, a dozen sailors were swarming up the
ladder of the
Halcyon. The naval officer in charge, a lieutenant
commander, said,
"I'm sorry to trouble you, Mr. Banks. The Italian
government has reason
to believe that you are harboring a fugitive. We have
orders to search
your ship."
Susan stood there watching as the sailors started
spreading out, moving
along the deck and going below to search the cabins.
"Don't say anything."
"But-"
"Not a word."
They stood on the deck in silence, watching the search go
on.
Thirty minutes later, they were assembled again on the
main deck.
"There's no sign of him, Commander," a sailor reported.
"You're certain of that?"
"Absolutely, sir. There are no passengers aboard, and we
have
identified each member of the crew." The commander stood
there a
moment, frustrated. His superiors had made a serious
mistake.
He turned to Monte and Susan and Captain Simpson.
"I owe you an apology," he said.
"I'm terribly sorry to have inconvenienced you.
We'll leave now." He turned to go.
"Commander-"
"Yes?"
"The man you're looking for got away on a fishing boat
half an hour ago.
You should have no trouble picking him up."
Five minutes later, the Stromboli was speeding toward
Marseilles. The
lieutenant commander had every reason to be pleased with
himself. The
governments of the world had been pursuing Commander
Robert Bellamy, and
he was the one who had found him. There could be a nice
promotion in
this, he thought. From the bridge, the navigation officer
called out,
"Commander, could you come up here, please?"
Had they spotted the fishing boat already? The lieutenant
commander
hurried up to the bridge.
"Look, sir!"
The commander took one look, and his heart sank. In the
distance ahead,
covering the horizon, was the entire Marseilles fishing
fleet, a hundred
identical boats returning to port. There was no way in
the world to
identify the one Commander Bellamy was on.
He stole a car in Marseilles.
It was a Fiat 1800 Spider convertible, parked on a dimly
lit side
street. It was locked, and there was no key in the
ignition. No
problem. Looking around to make sure he was not observed,
Robert made a
rip in the canvas top and shoved his hand inside to unlock
the door. He
slid inside the car and reached under the dashboard and
pulled out all
the wires of the ignition switch. He held the thick red
wire in one
hand while, one by one, he touched the other wires to it
until he found
one that lit up the dashboard. He then hooked those two
wires together
and touched the remaining ones to the two wires hooked
together until
the engine began to turn over. He pulled out the choke,
and the engine
roared into life. A moment later, Robert was on his way
to Paris.
His first priority was to get hold of Li Po. When he
reached the Paris
suburbs, he stopped at a phone booth.
He telephoned Li's apartment and heard the familiar voice
on the
answering machine: "Zao, mes a....... Je regrette que je
ne sois pas
chez moi, mais ii n'y a pas du danger que je reponde pas a
votre coup de
telephone. Prenez garde que vous attendiez le signal de
l'oppareil."
"Good morning. I regret that I am not at home, but there
is no danger
of my not returning your call. Be careful to wait for the
tone."
Robert counted out the words in their private code. The
key words were:
Regret ... danger ... careful.
The phone was tapped, of course. Li had been expecting
his call, and
this was his way of warning Robert. He had to get to him
as quickly as
possible. He would use another code they had employed in
the past.
Robert walked along the Rue du Faubourg St. Honore.
He had walked this street with Susan. She had stopped in
front of a
shop window and posed like a mannequin. 'Would you like
to see me in
that dress, Robert?"
"No, I'd prefer to see you out of it." And they had
visited the Louvre,
and Susan had stood transfixed in front of the Mona Lisa,
her eyes
brimming with tears. ...
Robert headed for the offices of Le Matin. Just down the
block from the
entryway, he stopped a teenager on the street.
"Would you like to make fifty francs?"
The boy looked at him suspiciously.
"Doing what?"
Robert scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed
it to the boy
with a fifty-franc note.
"Just take this into Le Matin to the want-ads desk."
"Bon, d'accord."
Robert watched the boy go into the building. The ad would
get in in
time to make next morning's edition. It read: "Tilly.
Dad very ill.
Needs you. Please meet with him soon. Mother."
There was nothing to do now but wait. He dared not check
into a hotel
because they would all have been alerted. Paris was a
ticking time
bomb.
Robert boarded a crowded tour bus and sat in back, keeping
a low, silent
profile. The tour group visited the Luxembourg Gardens,
the Louvre,
Napoleon's tomb in Les Invalides, and a dozen other
monuments.
And always Robert managed to lose himself in the middle of
the crowd.
Day Twenty-two Paris, France
He bought a ticket for the midnight show at the Moulin
Rouge as part of
another tour group. The show started at two A.M. When it
was over, he
filled in the rest of the night moving around Montmartre,
going from
small bar to small bar.
The morning papers would not be out on the streets until
five A.M.
A few minutes before five, Robert was standing near a
newspaper stand
waiting. A red truck drove up, and a boy threw a bundle
of papers onto
the pavement. Robert picked up the first one. He turned
to the want
ads. His ad was there. Now there was nothing to do but
wait. At noon
Robert wandered into a small tobacconist shop, where
dozens of personal
messages were tacked to a board. There were help wanted
ads,
advertisements for apartments to let, students seeking
roommates,
bicycles for sale. In the middle of the board, Robert
found the message
he was looking for.
"Tilly eager to see you. Call her at 50412645."
Li Po answered on the first ring.
"Robert?"
"Zao, Li."
"My God, man, what is happening?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
"My friend, you're getting more attention than the
president of France.
The cables are burning up about you. What have you done?
No, don't
tell me. Whatever it is, you're in serious trouble.
They've tapped the
phone at the Chinese Embassy, my phone at home is tapped,
and they're
watching my flat. They've been asking me a lot of
questions about you."
"Li, do you have any idea what this is all-?"
"Not over the phone. Do you remember where Sung's
apartment is?"
Li's girlfriend.
"Yes."
"I'll meet you there in half an hour."
"Thanks." Robert was keenly aware of what jeopardy Li Po
was putting
himself in. He remembered what had happened to Al
Traynor, his friend
at the FBI. I'm a fucking Jonah. Everyone I come near,
dies.
The apartment was on Rue Benouville in a quiet
arrondissement of Paris.
When Robert reached the building, the sky was heavy with
rain clouds,
and he could hear the distant rumble of thunder. He
walked into the
lobby and rang the doorbell of the apartment. Li Po
opened the door at
once.
"Come inside," he said.
"Quickly." He closed the door behind Robert and locked
it. Li Po had
not changed since the last time Robert had seen him. He
was tall and
thin and ageless. The two men clasped hands.
"Li, do you know what the hell is going on?"
"Sit down, Robert." Robert sat.
Li studied him for a moment.
"Have you ever heard of Operation Doomsday?"
Robert frowned.
"No. Does it have anything to do with UFOs?"
"It has everything to do with UFOs. The world is facing
disaster,
Robert." Li Po began to pace.
"Aliens are coming to earth to destroy us. Three years
ago, they landed
here and met with government officials to demand that all
the industrial
powers close down their nuclear plants and stop burning
fossil fuel."
Robert was listening, puzzled.
"They demanded a stop to the manufacturing of petroleum,
chemicals,
rubber, plastics. That would mean the closing down of
thousands of
factories all over the world. Automobile and steel plants
would be
forced to shut down. The world economy would be a
shambles."
"Why would they-?"
"They claim we're polluting the universe, destroying the
earth and the
seas. ... They want us to stop making weapons, to stop
waging war."
"A group of powerful men from twelve countries got
together-top
industrialists from the United States, Japan, Russia,
China. ... A man
with the code name of Janus organized intelligence
agencies around the
world to collaborate in Operation Doomsday to stop the
aliens." He
turned to Robert.
"You've heard of SDI?"
"Star Wars. The satellite system to shoot down Soviet
intercontinental
ballistic missiles."
Li shook his head.
"No. That was a cover. SDI was not created to fight the
Russians. It is
being designed for the specific purpose of knocking down
UFOs. It's the
only chance there is of stopping them."
Robert sat there in stunned silence, trying to absorb what
Li Po was
saying, while the rumble of thunder grew louder.
"You mean, the governments are behind-?"
"Let's say there are cabals within each government.
Operation Doomsday
is being run privately. Do you understand now?"
"My God! The governments aren't aware that.. ." He
looked up at Li.
"Li-how did you learn all this?"
"It's very simple, Robert," Li said quietly.
"I'm the Chinese connection." There was a Beretta in his
hand.
Robert stared at the gun.
"Li-!"
Li squeezed the trigger, and the sound of the shot mingled
with a sudden
deafening crack of thunder and a flash of lightning
outside the window.
The first few drops of clean rainwater awakened her. She
was lying on a
park bench, too exhausted to move. For the last two days,
she had felt
her life energy flowing out of her. I am going to die
here on this
planet. She drifted into what she thought would be her
last sleep. And
then the rain came. The blessed rain. She could hardly
believe it.
She lifted her head to the sky and felt the cool drops
running down her
face. It began to rain harder and harder. Fresh, pure
liquid. She
stood up then and raised her hands high, letting the water
pour over
her, giving her new strength, bringing her back to life.
She let the
rainwater fill her body, absorbing it into her very
essence until she
began to feel her tiredness vanish. She felt herself
growing stronger
and stronger until finally, she thought, I am ready. I
can think
clearly. I know who can help me find my way back. She
took out the
small transmitter, closed her eyes, and began to
concentrate.
It was the lightning streak that saved Robert's life. At
the instant
that Li Po started to squeeze the trigger, the sudden
flash of light
outside the window distracted him for a moment. Robert
moved, and the
bullet hit him in his right shoulder instead of his chest.
As Li raised the gun to fire again, Robert gave a side
thrust kick,
knocking the gun out of Li's hand. Li spun forward and
punched Robert
hard in his wounded shoulder. The pain was excruciating.
Robert's
jacket was covered with blood. He lashed out with a
forward elbow
smash. Li grunted with pain. He riposted with a deadly
shuto chop to
the neck, and Robert evaded it. The two men circled each
other, both of
them breathing hard, looking for an opening. They fought
silently in a
deadly ritual older than time, and each knew that only one
of them would
come out of this alive. Robert was weakening. The pain
in his shoulder
was increasing, and he could see his blood dripping to the
floor.
Time was on Li Po's side. I've got to end this quickly,
Robert thought.
He moved in with a front snap kick. Instead of evading
it, Li took the
full force of it, and was close enough to Robert to drive
his elbow into
Robert's shoulder. Robert staggered. Li moved in with a
spin and back
kick, and Robert faltered. Li was on top of him in an
instant,
pummeling him, pounding his shoulder again and again,
backing him across
the room. Robert was too weak to stop the rain of
punishing blows. His
eyes began to dim. He fell against Li, grabbing him, and
the two men
went down, smashing a glass table, shattering it. Robert
lay on the
floor, powerless to move. It's over, he thought. They've
won. He lay
there, half-conscious, waiting for Li to finish him off.
Nothing
happened. Slowly, painfully, Robert lifted his head. Li
lay next to
him on the floor, his eyes opened wide, staring at the
ceiling. A large
shard of glass protruded from his chest like a transparent
dagger.
Robert struggled to sit up. He was weak from the loss of
blood.
His shoulder was an ocean of pain. I have to get to a
doctor, he
thought. There was a name-someone that the agency used in
Paris-someone
at the American Hospital. Hilsinger. That was it. Leon
Hilsinger.
Dr. Hilsinger was ready to leave his office for the day
when the
telephone call came in. His nurse had already gone home,
so he picked
up the phone. The voice at the other end of the phone was
slurred.
"Dr. Hilsinger?"
"Yes."
"This is Robert Bellamy... Need your help. I've been
badly hurt.
Will you help me?"
"Of course. Where are you?"
"Never mind that. I'll meet you at the American Hospital
in half an
hour."
"I'll be there. Go right to the emergency room."
"Doctor-don't mention this call to anyone."
"You have my word." The line went dead. Dr. Hilsinger
dialed a number.
"I just heard from Commander Bellamy. I'm meeting him at
the American
Hospital in half an hour...."
"Thank you, Doctor."
Dr. Hilsinger replaced the receiver. He heard the
reception door open
and looked up. Robert Bellamy was standing there with a
gun in his
hand.
"On second thought," Robert said, "it might be better if
you treated me
here."
The doctor tried to conceal his surprise.
"You-you should be in a hospital."
"Too close to the morgue. Patch me up and make it fast."
It was
difficult to talk.
He started to protest, then thought better of it.
"Yes. Whatever you say. I'd better give you an
anesthetic. It will-"
"Don't even think about it," Robert said.
"No tricks."
He was holding the gun in his left hand.
"If I don't get out of here alive, neither do you. Any
questions?"
He felt faint.
Dr. Hilsinger swallowed.
"No."
"Then get to work...."
Dr. Hilsinger led Robert into the next room, an examining
room filled
with medical equipment. Slowly and carefully, Robert
slipped out of his
jacket. Holding the gun in his hand, he sat down on the
table.
Dr. Hilsinger had a scalpel in his hand. Robert's fingers
tightened on
the trigger.
"Relax," Dr. Hilsinger said nervously.
"I'm just going to cut your shirt."
The wound was raw and red and seeping blood.
"The bullet is still in there," Dr. Hilsinger said.
"You won't be able to stand the pain unless I give you-"
"No!" He was not going to let himself be drugged.
"Just take it out."
"Whatever you say."
Robert watched the doctor walk over to a sterilizing unit
and put in a
pair of forceps. Robert sat on the edge of the table,
fighting off the
dizziness that threatened to engulf him. He closed his
eyes for a
moment, and Dr. Hilsinger was standing in front of him,
the forceps in
his hand.
"Here we go." He pushed the forceps into the raw wound,
and Robert
screamed aloud with the pain. Bright lights flashed in
front of his
eyes. He started to lose consciousness.
"It's out," Dr. Hilsinger said.
Robert sat there for a moment trembling, taking deep
breaths, fighting
to regain control of himself.
Dr. Hilsinger was watching him closely.
"Are you all right?"
It took Robert a moment to find his voice.
"Yes. ... Patch it up."
The doctor poured peroxide into the wound, and Robert
started to pass
out again. He gritted his teeth. Hang on. We're almost
there.
And finally, blessedly, the worst was over. The doctor
was strapping a
heavy bandage across Robert's shoulder.
"Give me my jacket," Robert said.
Dr. Hilsinger stared at him.
"You can't go out now.
You can't even walk."
"Bring me my jacket." His voice was so weak he could
hardly talk.
He watched the doctor walk across the room to get his
jacket, and there
seemed to be two of him.
"You've lost a lot of blood," Dr. Hilsinger cautioned.
"It would be dangerous for you to leave." And more
dangerous for me to
stay, Robert thought. Carefully, he slipped his jacket on
and tried to
stand.
His legs began to buckle. He grabbed the side of the
table.
"You'll never make it," Dr. Hilsinger warned. Robert
looked up at the
blurry figure in front of him.
"I'll make it." But he knew that the moment he left, Dr.
Hilsinger would be on the phone again. Robert's eyes fell
on the spool
of heavy surgical tape Dr. Hilsinger had used.
"Sit in the chair." His words were slurred.
"Why? What are you-?"
Robert raised the gun.
"Sit down."
Dr. Hilsinger sat. Robert picked up the roll of tape. It
was awkward
because he only had the use of one hand. He pulled the
end of the wide
tape loose and began to unroll it. He moved over to Dr.
Hilsinger.
"Just sit quietly and you won't get hurt." He fastened
the end of the
tape to the arm of the chair, and then started winding it
around the
doctor's hands.
"This really isn't necessary," Dr. Hilsinger said.
"I won't-"
"Shut up." Robert continued to bind the doctor to the
chair. The
effort had started the rivers of pain flowing again. He
looked at the
doctor and said quietly, "I'm not going to faint."
He fainted.
* * * He was floating in space, drifting weightlessly
through white
clouds, at peace. Wake up. He did not want to wake up.
He wanted this
wonderful feeling to go on forever. Wake up. Something
hard was
pressing against his side. Something in his jacket
pocket. With his
eyes still closed, he reached in and held it in his hand.
It was the
crystal. He drifted back to sleep.
Robert. It was a woman's voice, soft and soothing. He
was in a lovely
green meadow, and the air was filled with music, and there
were bright
lights in the sky overhead. A woman was moving toward
him. She was
tall and beautiful with a gentle, oval face and a soft,
almost
translucent complexion. She was dressed in a snow white
gown. Her
voice was gentle and hushed.
"No one's going to hurt you anymore, Robert. Come to me.
I'm waiting
here for you." Slowly, Robert opened his eyes.
He lay there for a long moment, then sat up, filled with a
sudden sense
of excitement. He knew now who the eleventh witness was,
and he knew
where he was to meet her.
Day Twenty-three Paris, France
Robert telephoned Admiral Whittaker from the doctor's
office.
"Admiral? Robert."
"Robert! What's going on? They told me-"
"Never mind that now. I need your help, Admiral. Have
you ever heard
the name Janus?"
Admiral Whittaker said slowly, "Janus? No. I never heard
of him."
Robert said, "I've found out he's heading some kind of
secret
organization that's killing innocent people, and now he's
trying to kill
me. We have to stop him."
"How can I help?"
"I need to get to the President. Can you arrange a
meeting?"
There was a moment of silence.
"I'm certain I can."
"There's more. General Hilliard is involved."
"What? How?"
"And there are others. Most of the intelligence agencies
in Europe are
in it, too. I can't explain anymore now. I want you to
call Hilliard.
Tell him I've found an eleventh witness."
"I don't understand. An eleventh witness to what?"
"I'm sorry, Admiral, but I can't tell you. Hilliard will
know. I want
him to meet me in Switzerland."
"Switzerland?"
"Tell him I'm the only one who knows where the eleventh
witness is.
If he makes one wrong move, the deal is off. Tell him to
go to the
Dolder Grand in Zurich. There will be a note waiting for
him at the
desk. Tell him I also want Janus in Switzerland-in
person."
"Robert, are you certain you know what you're doing?"
"No, sir, I'm not. But this is the only chance I've got.
I want you to
tell him my conditions are not negotiable. Number one, I
want safe
passage to Switzerland. Number two, I want General
Hilliard and Janus
to meet me there. Number three, after that, I want a
meeting with the
President of the United States."
"I will do everything I can, Robert. How will I get in
touch with you?"
"I'll call you back. How much time will you need?"
"Give me one hour."
"Right."
"And Robert-" He could hear the pain in the old man's
voice.
"Yes, sir?"
"Be careful."
"Don't worry, sir. I'm a survivor. Remember?"
* * * One hour later, Robert was speaking to Admiral
Whittaker again.
"You have a deal. General Hilliard seemed shaken by the
news of another
witness. He's given me his word you will not be harmed.
Your
conditions will be met. He's flying to Zurich and will be
there
tomorrow morning."
"And Janus?"
"Janus will be on the plane with him." Robert felt a
surge of relief.
"Thank you, Admiral.
And the President?"
"I spoke to him myself. His aides will arrange a meeting
for you
whenever you're ready." Thank God!
"General Hilliard has a plane to fly you to-"
"No way." He was not going to let them get him into a
plane.
"I'm in Paris. I want a car and I'll drive it myself. I
want it left
in front of the Hotel Littre in Montparnasse within half
an hour."
"I'll see to it."
"Admiral?"
"Yes, Robert?"
It was difficult to keep his voice steady.
"Thank you."
He walked down Rue Littre, moving slowly because of the
pain. He
approached the hotel cautiously. Parked directly in front
of the
building was a black Mercedes sedan. There was no one
inside. Across
the street was a blue and white police car with a
uniformed policeman
behind the wheel. On the sidewalk, two men in civilian
clothes stood
watching Robert approach. French Secret Service.
Robert found that he was having trouble breathing.
His heart was pounding. Was he stepping into a trap? The
only
insurance he had was the eleventh witness. Did Hilliard
believe him?
Was it enough? He walked toward the sedan, waiting for
the men to make
a move. They stood there, silently watching him.
Robert moved toward the driver's side of the Mercedes and
looked inside.
The keys were in the ignition. He could feel the eyes of
the men
fastened on him as he opened the door and slid into the
driver's seat.
He sat there a moment, staring at the ignition. If
General Hilliard had
doublecrossed Admiral Whittaker, this was the moment when
everything
would end in a violent explosion.
Here goes. Robert took a deep breath, reached down with
his left hand,
and turned the key. The motor purred into life. The
secret servicemen
stood there watching him drive away. As Robert approached
the
intersection, a police car pulled in front of his car, and
for a moment,
Robert thought he was going to be stopped. Instead, the
police turned
on their red flashing light, and the traffic seemed to
melt away.
They're giving me a fucking escort!
Overhead Robert heard the sound of a helicopter. He
glanced up.
The side of the helicopter was marked with the insignia of
the French
national police. General Hilliard was doing everything
possible to see
that he arrived in Switzerland safely. And after I show
him the last
witness, Robert thought grimly, he thinks he's going to
kill me. But the
general is in for a surprise. Robert reached the Swiss
border at four
o'clock in the afternoon. At the border, the French
police car turned
back, and a Swiss police car became his escort. For the
first time
since the affair had started, Robert began to relax.
Thank God Admiral
Whittaker had friends in high places. With the President
expecting a
meeting with Robert, General Hilliard would not dare to
harm him. His
mind turned to the woman in white, and at that instant, he
heard her
voice. The sound of it reverberated through the car.
"Hurry, Robert. We are all waiting for you." All? Is
there more than
one?
I'll find out soon enough, Robert thought.
In Zurich Robert stopped at the Dolder Grand Hotel and
wrote a note at
the desk for the general.
"General Hilliard will ask for me," Robert told the clerk.
"Please give this to him."
"Yes, sir."
Outside, Robert walked over to the police car that had
been escorting
him. He leaned down to talk to the driver.
"From here on in, I want to be on my own./ The driver
hesitated.
"Very well, Commander." Robert got back in his car and
started driving
toward Uetendorf and the scene of the UFO crash. As he
drove, he
thought of all the tragedies that had occurred because of
it and all the
lives that had been taken. Hans Beckerman and Father
Patrini; Leslie
Mothershed and William Mann; Daniel Wayne and Otto
Schmidt; Laslo
Bushfekete and Fritz Mandel; Olga Romanchanko and Kevin
Parker. Dead.
All of them dead.
I want to see the face of Janus, Robert thought, and look
into his eyes.
The villages seemed to race by, and the pristine beauty of
the Alps
belied all the bloodshed and terror that had started here.
The car
approached Thun, and Robert's adrenaline began to flow.
Ahead was the
field where he and Beckerman had found the weather
balloon, where the
nightmare had begun. Robert pulled the car over to the
side of the road
and switched off the engine. He said a silent prayer.
Then he got out
of the car and crossed the highway and went into the
field.
A thousand memories flashed through Robert's mind.
The phone call at four in the morning.
"You are ordered to report to General Hilliard at National
Security
Agency Headquarters at Fort Meade at oh six hundred this
morning. Is
this message understood, Commander?"
How little he had understood it then. He recalled General
Hilliard's
words: "You must find those witnesses. All of them." And
the search
had led from Zurich to Bern, London, Munich, Rome, and
Orvieto; from
Waco to Fort Smith; from Kiev to Washington, and Budapest.
Well, the bloody trail had finally come to an end, here
where it had all
begun.
She was waiting for him, as Robert had known she would be,
and she
looked exactly as she had appeared in his dream. They
moved toward each
other, and she seemed to be floating toward him, a radiant
smile on her
face.
"Thank you for coming, Robert."
Had he actually heard her speak, or was he hearing her
thoughts? How did
one talk to an alien being? "I had to come," he said
simply. There was
a totally unreal quality to the scene.
I'm standing here speaking with someone from another
world! I should be
terrified, but in my whole life, I've never felt more at
peace.
"I have to warn you," Robert said.
"Some men are coming here who want to harm you. It would
be better if
you left before they arrive."
"I cannot leave."
And Robert understood. He reached in his pocket with his
left hand and
pulled out the small piece of metal containing the
crystal.
Her face lit up.
"Thank you, Robert." He handed it to her and watched her
fit it into
the piece she held in her hand.
"What happens now?"
Robert asked.
"Now I can communicate with my friends. They will be
coming for me."
Was there something ominous in that sentence? Robert
recalled General
Hilliard's words: "They intend to take over this planet
and make slaves
of us." What if General Hilliard was right? What if the
aliens did
intend to take over the earth? Who was going to stop
them? Robert
looked at his watch. It was almost time for General
Hilliard and Janus
to arrive, and even as Robert thought it, he heard the
sound of a giant
Huey helicopter approaching from the north.
"Your friends are here."
Friends. They were his mortal enemies, and he was
determined to expose
them as murderers, to destroy them.
The grass and flowers in the field began to flutter wildly
as the
helicopter came to a landing.
He was about to come face to face with Janus. The thought
of it filled
him with a murderous rage. The door of the helicopter
opened.
Susan stepped out.
n the mothership, floating high above earth, there was
great joy.
All the lights on the panels were flashing green.
"We have found her!"
"We must hurry."
The huge ship started to hurl itself toward the planet far
below.
For a single instant, time was frozen, and then it
shattered into a
thousand pieces. Robert watched, stunned, as Susan
stepped out of the
helicopter. She stood there for a second, and then
started toward
Robert, but Monte Banks, who was right behind her, grabbed
her and held
her back.
"Run, Robert! Run! They're going to kill you!" Robert
took a step
toward her, and at that moment General Hilliard and
Colonel Frank
Johnson stepped out of the helicopter.
General Hilliard said, "I'm here, Commander. I've kept my
part of the
bargain." He walked over to Robert and the woman in
white.
"I assume this is the eleventh witness. The missing
alien. I'm sure
we'll find her very interesting. So it's finally
finished."
"Not yet. You said you would bring Janus."
"Oh, yes. Janus insisted on coming to see you."
Robert turned toward the helicopter. Admiral Whittaker
was standing in
the doorway.
"You asked to see me, Robert?"
Robert stared at him, unbelievingly, and there was a red
film before his
eyes. It was as though his world had collapsed.
"No! Why-? Why in God's name?"
The admiral was moving toward him.
"You don't understand, do you?
You never did. You're worried about a few meaningless
lives. We're
worried about saving our world. This earth belongs to us
to do with as
we please."
He turned to stare at the woman in white.
"If you creatures want war, you're going to get war. And
we'll beat
you!" He turned back to Robert.
"You betrayed me. You were my son. I let you take
Edward's place. I
gave you a chance to serve your country. And how did you
repay me? You
came whining to me to let you stay home so you could be
with your wife."
His voice was filled with contempt.
"No son of mine would ever do that. I should have seen
then how
distorted your values were."
Robert stood there paralyzed, too shocked to speak.
"I broke up your marriage because I still had faith in
you, but-"
"You broke up my-?"
"Remember when the CIA sent you after the Fox? I arranged
that. I
hoped it would bring you to your senses. You failed
because there was
no Fox. I thought I had straightened you out, that you
were one of us.
And then you told me you were going to quit the agency.
That's when I
knew you were no patriot, that you had to be eliminated,
destroyed. But
first you had to help us with our mission."
"Your mission? To kill all those innocent people? You're
insane!"
"They had to be killed to stop them from spreading panic.
We're ready
now for the aliens. All we needed was a little more time,
and you've
given it to us."
The woman in white had stood there listening, saying
nothing, but now
her thoughts floated into the minds of those standing in
the field.
"We have come here to prevent you from destroying your
planet. We are
all part of one universe. Look up."
Their heads turned toward the sky. There was an enormous
white cloud
overhead, and as they stared up at it, it changed before
their eyes.
They were looking at a vision of a polar ice cap, and as
they watched,
it began to melt, and the water came pouring through the
rivers and
oceans of the world, flooding London and Los Angeles, New
York and
Tokyo, and coastal cities around the world in a dizzying
montage. The
vision changed to an enormous vista of desolate farmlands,
with crops
burnt to cinders under a broiling, merciless sun, and the
corpses of
dead animals strewn across the landscape. The scene
before their eyes
changed again, and they saw riots in China, and famines in
India, and a
devastating nuclear war, and finally, people living in
caves. The
vision slowly disappeared.
There was a moment of awed silence.
"That is your future if you go on as you are.>~ Admiral
Whittaker was
the first to recover.
"Mass hypnosis," he snapped.
"I'm sure you can show us other interesting tricks." He
moved toward
the alien.
"I'm taking you back to Washington with me. We have a lot
of
information to get from you." The admiral looked at
Robert.
"You're finished." He turned to Frank Johnson.
"Take care of him."
Colonel Johnson removed his pistol from his holster.
Susan broke away
from Monte and ran to Robert's side.
"No!" she screamed.
"Kil_ him!" Admiral Whittaker said. Colonel Johnson was
pointing a gun
at the admiral.
"Admiral, you're under arrest."
Admiral Whittaker was staring at him.
"What-What are you saying? I told you to kill him.
You're one of us."
"You're wrong. I never have been. I infiltrated your
organization a
long time ago. I was looking for Commander Bellamy not to
kill him, but
to save him." He turned to Robert.
"I'm sorry I couldn't get to you sooner."
Admiral Whittaker's face had turned ashen.
"Then you'll be destroyed too. Nobody can stand in our
way. Our
organization-"
"You no longer have an organization. At this moment, all
the members
are being rounded up. It's finished, Admiral."
Overhead, the sky seemed to be vibrating with light and
sound. The huge
mothership was floating down directly above them, bright
green lights
flashing from its interior. They stared in awe as they
watched it land.
A smaller spaceship appeared, and then another, and then
two more, and
another two, until the sky seemed to be filled with them,
and there was
a great roar in the air that became a glorious music that
echoed
throughout the mountains. The door of the mother ship
opened and an
alien appeared.
The woman in white turned to Robert.
"I am leaving now." She moved toward Admiral Whittaker,
General
Hilliard, and Monte Banks.
"You shall come with me."
Admiral Whittaker drew back.
"No! I won't go!"
"Yes. We will not hurt you." She held out her hand, and
for an instant
nothing happened. Then, as the others watched, the three
men began
slowly moving in a daze toward the spaceship.
Admiral Whittaker screamed, "No!"
He was still screaming when the three men disappeared
inside the
spaceship.
The woman in white turned to the others.
"They will not be harmed. They have much to learn. When
they have
learned, they will be brought back here."
Susan was holding Robert tightly.
"Tell people they must stop killing the planet, Robert.
Make them
understand."
"I'm only one man."
"There are thousands of you. Every day your numbers grow.
One day
there will be millions, and you must all speak with one
strong voice.
Will you do it?"
"I'll try. I'll try."
"We are leaving now. But we will be watching you. And we
will be
back." The woman in white turned and entered the
mothership. The
lights inside began to glow brighter and brighter until
they seemed to
light up the entire sky. Suddenly, without warning, the
mother ship
took off, followed by the smaller ships, until finally
they all vanished
from sight.
"Tell the people they must stop killing this planet."
Right, Robert
thought. I know now what I'm going to do with the rest of
my life.
He looked at Susan and smiled.
The Beginning AUTHOR'S NOTE In researching this novel, I
have read
numerous books and magazine and newspaper articles citing
astronauts who
had reportedly had extraterrestrial experiences: Colonel
Frank Borman on
Gemini 7 supposedly took pictures of a UFO that followed
his capsule.
Neil Armstrong on Apollo 11 saw two unidentified
spacecraft when he
landed on the moon. Buzz Aldrin photographed unidentified
spacecraft on
the moon.
Colonel L. Gordon Cooper encountered a large UFO on a
Project Mercury
flight over Perth, Australia, and recorded voices speaking
languages
later found to belong to no known earth language.
I talked to these men, as well as to other astronauts, and
each assured
me that the stories were apocryphal rather than
apocalyptic, that they
had had no experiences of any kind with UFOs. A few days
after my
telephone conversation with Colonel Gordon Cooper, he
called me back. I
returned his call, but he had suddenly become unavailable.
One year
later, I managed to acquire a letter written by him, dated
November 9,
1978, and discussing UFOs.
I telephoned Colonel cooper again to ask him if the letter
was
authentic. This time, he was more forthcoming. He
informed me that it
was and that on his journeys into space, he had personally
witnessed
several flights of UFOs. He also mentioned that other
astronauts had had
similar experiences that they were warned not to discuss.
I have read a dozen books that prove conclusively that
flying saucers
exist. I have read a dozen books that prove conclusively
that flying
saucers do not exist. I have run videotapes purporting to
be
photographs of flying saucers and have met with therapists
in the United
States and abroad who specialize in hypnotizing people who
claim to have
been taken up into UFOs. The therapists say that they have
handled
hundreds of cases in which the details of the victims'
experiences are
startlingly similar, including identical, unexplainable
marks on their
bodies. An Air Force general in charge of the Blue Book
Project-a
United States government group formed to investigate
flying
saucers-assured me that there has never been any hard
evidence of flying
saucers or aliens. Yet, in the foreword to Timothy Good's
remarkable
book Above Top Secret: The Worldwide UFO Cover-up, Lord
Hill-Norton,
Admiral of the Fleet and British Chief of Defense Staff
from 1971 to
1973, writes: The evidence that there are objects which
have been seen
in our atmosphere, and even on terra firma, that cannot be
accounted for
either as manmade objects or as any physical force or
effect known to
our scientists seems to me to be overwhelming. ... A
very large number
of sightings have been vouched for by persons whose
credentials seem to
me unimpeachable. It is striking that so many have been
trained
observers, such as police officers and airline or military
pilots...
In 1933 the 4th Swedish Flying Corps began an
investigation of
mysterious unmarked aircraft appearing over Scandinavia,
and on April
30, 1934, Major-General Erik Reuterswaerd issued the
following statement
to the press: Comparisons of these reports show that there
can be no
doubt about illegal air traffic over our secret military
areas. There
are many reports from reliable people which describe close
observation
of the enigmatic flier. And in every case, the same
remark can be
noted; no insignias or identifying marks are visible on
the machines.
... The question is: Who or what are they, and why have
they been
invading our air territory?
In 1947 Professor Paul Santorini, a leading Greek
scientist, was asked
to investigate missiles flying over Greece. His research,
however, was
curtailed: "We soon established that they were not
missiles. But,
before we could do any more, the Army, after conferring
with foreign
officials, ordered the investigation stopped. Foreign
scientists flew
to Greece for secret talks with me." (Emphasis added.)
The professor
confirmed that a "world blanket of secrecy" surrounded the
UFO question
because, among other reasons, the authorities were
unwilling to admit
the existence of a force against which there was "no
possibility of
defense."
From 1947 to 1952, the Air Technical Intelligence Center
(ATIC) received
approximately fifteen hundred official reports of
sightings.
Of these the Air Force carries twenty percent as
unexplained: Air Chief
Marshal Lord Dowding, commander in chief of the RAF
Fighter Command
during the Battle of Britain in 1940 wrote: More than
10,000 sightings
have been reported, the majority of which cannot be
accounted for by any
"scientific explanation." They have been tracked on radar
screens ...
and the observed speeds have been as great as 9,000 miles
an hour. ...
I am convinced that these objects do exist and that they
are not
manufactured by any nation on earth. [Emphasis added.] I
can therefore
see no alternative to accepting the theory that they come
from an
extraterrestrial source.
Recently, in Elmwood, Wisconsin, the entire town watched
as flying
saucers moved across their skies for several days.
* * * General Lionel Max Chassin, who rose to the rank of
Commanding
General of the French Air Forces and served as General Air
Defense
Co-ordinator, Allied Air Forces, Central Europe (NATO),
wrote: That
strange things have been seen is now beyond question. ...
The number of thoughtful, intelligent, educated people in
full
possession of their faculties who have "seen something,"
and described
it grows every day.
Then there was the famous Roswell Incident in 1947.
According to
eyewitness reports, on the evening of July 2, a bright
disk-shaped
object was seen over Roswell, New Mexico. The following
day, widely
scattered wreckage was discovered by a local ranch manager
and his two
children. The authorities were alerted, and an official
statement was
released confirming that the wreckage of a flying disk had
been
recovered. A second press statement was immediately
issued stating that
the wreckage was nothing more than the remains of a
weather balloon,
which was dutifully displayed at a press conference.
Meanwhile, the
real wreckage was reported to have been sent to Wright
Field. The
bodies were described by one witness as like human but
they were not
humans. The heads were round, the eyes were small, and
they had no
hair. Their eyes were widely spaced.
They were quite small by our standards and their heads
were larger in
proportion to their bodies. Their clothing seemed to be
one-piece and
grey in color. They seemed to be all males and there were
a number of
them. ... Military personnel took over and we were told
to leave the
area and not to talk to anyone about what we had seen.
According to a document acquired from an intelligence
source in 1984, a
highly secret panel, code-named Majestic 12, or MJ-12, was
formed by
President Truman in 1947 to investigate UFOs and report
its findings to
the President. The document, dated November 18, 1952, and
classified
Top Secret/Majic/Eyes Only, was allegedly prepared by
Admiral
Hillenkoetter for president-elect Dwight Eisenhower and
includes the
astonishing statement that the remains of four alien
bodies were
recovered two miles from the Roswell wreckage site.
Five years after the panel was formed, the committee wrote
a memo to
then president-elect Eisenhower about the UFO project and
the need for
secrecy: Implications for the National Security are of
continuing
importance, in that motives and ultimate intentions of
these visitors
remain completely unknown. ... It is for these reasons,
as well as the
obvious international technological considerations and the
ultimate need
to avoid a public panic at all costs, that the Majestic 12
Group remains
of the unanimous opinion that imposition of the strictest
security
precautions should continue without interruption into the
new
administration.
The official explanation of denial is that the document's
authenticity
is questionable.
The National Security Agency is reported to be withholding
more than one
hundred documents relating to UFOs; the CIA, approximately
fifty; and
the DIA, six.
Major Donald Keyhoe, a former aide to Charles Lindbergh,
publicly
accused the United States government of denying the
existence of UFOs in
order to prevent public panic.
In August 1948, when a top secret Estimate of the
Situation by the Air
Technical Intelligence Center offered its opinion that
UFOs were
interplanetary visitors, General Vandenberg, Air Force
Chief of Staff at
the time, ordered the document burned. Is there a
worldwide government
conspiracy to conceal the truth from the public? In the
short space of
six years, twenty-three English scientists who worked on
Star Wars-type
projects have died under questionable circumstances. All
of them had
worked on different facets of electronic warfare, which
includes UFO
research. A list of the deceased and the dates and
circumstances of
their deaths follows.
1. 1982. Professor Keith Bowden: killed in auto crash.
2. July 1982. Jack Wolfenden: died in glider accident.
3. November 1982. Ernest Brockway: suicide. 4. 1983.
Stephen
Drinkwater: suicide by strangulation.
5. April 1983. Lieutenant-Colonel Anthony Godley:
missing, declared
dead.
6. April 1984. George Franks: suicide by hanging.
7. 1985. Stephen Oke: suicide by hanging. 8. November
1985.
Jonathan Wash: suicide by jumping from a building.
9. 1986. Dr. John Brittan: suicide by carbonmonoxide
poisoning.
10. October 1986. Arshad Sharif: suicide by placing a
rope around his
neck, tying it to a tree, and then driving away at high
speed. Took
place in Bristol, one hundred miles away from his home in
London.
11. October 1986. Vimal Dajibhai: suicide by jumping
from a bridge in
Bristol, one hundred miles away from his home in London.
12. January 1987. Avtar Singh-Gida: missing, declared
dead.
13. February 1987. Peter Peapell: suicide by crawling
under car in
garage.
14. March 1987. David Sands: suicide by driving car into
cafe at high
speed.
15. April 1987. Mark Wisner: death by selfstrangulation.
16. April 10, 1987. Stuart Gooding: killed in Cyprus.
17. April 10,1987. David Greenhalgh: fell off a bridge.
18. April 1987. Shani Warren: suicide by drowning.
19. May 1987. Michael Baker: killed in auto crash.
20. May 1988. Trevor Knight: suicide. 21. August 1988.
Alistair Beckham: suicide by self-electrocution.
22. August 1988. Brigadier Peter Ferry, suicide by
self-electrocution.
23. Date unknown. Victor Moore: suicide.
Coincidences?
In the past three decades, there have been at least
seventy thousand
reports of mysterious objects in the sky and countless
more sightings,
perhaps ten times as many, that have gone unreported.
Reports of UFOs have come from hundreds of countries all
over the globe.
In Spain, UFOs are known as objetos foladores no
identificados; in
Germany, fliegende Untertassen; in France, soucoupes
volantes; in
Czechoslovakia, letajici talire.
The eminent astronomer Carl Sagan has estimated that our
Milky Way
galaxy alone may contain some 250 billion stars.
About a million of these, he believes, may have planets
capable of
supporting some form of civilization.
Our government denies the existence of extraterrestrial
intelligence,
yet on Columbus Day, in 1992, in Cali fornia and Puerto
Rico, NASA will
activate radio telescopes equipped with special receivers
and computers
capable of analyzing tens of millions of radio channels at
once to
search for signs of intelligent life in the universe.
NASA has nicknamed the mission MOP for Microwave Observing
Project, but
astronomers refer to it as SETI, for Search for
Extraterrestrial
Intelligence.
I have asked two former presidents of the United States
whether they
have any knowledge of UFOs or aliens, and their responses
were negative.
Would they have told me if they had had any information?
Given the blanket of secrecy that seems to surround the
subject, I think
not.
Do flying saucers really exist? Are we being visited by
aliens from
another planet? With new technology probing deeper and
deeper into the
universe, looking for signs of intelligent life in space,
perhaps we
will have the answer much sooner than we expect.
There are many working in space exploration, astronomy,
and cosmology
who, not content to wait for that answer, put themselves
out on a limb
and make a prediction of their own. Jill Tartar, an
astrophysicist and
SETI project scientist at NASA's Ames Research Center, in
Ames, Iowa, is
among them: There are 400 billion stars in the galaxy.
We're made of
stardust, really common stuff. In a universe filled with
stardust, it's
hard to believe that we are the only creatures who could
be.
November 9, 1978 Ambassador Griffith Mission of Grenada to
the United
Nations 866 Second Avenue Suite 502 New York, New York
10017 Dear
Ambassador Griffith: I wanted to convey my views on our
extra-terrestrial visitors popularly referred to as
"UFO's", and suggest
what might be done to properly deal with them. I believe
that these
extra-terrestrial vehicles and their crews are visiting
this planet from
other planets, which obviously are a little more
technically advanced
than we are here on earth. I feel that we need to have a
top level,
coordinated program to scientifically collect and analyze
data from all
over the earth concerning any type of encounter, and to
determine how
best to interface with these visitors in a friendly
fashion. We may
first have to show them that we have learned to resolve
our problems by
peaceful means, rather than warfare, before we are
accepted as fully
qualified universal team members. This acceptance would
have tremendous
possibilities of advancing our world in all areas.
Certainly then it
would seem that the UN has a vested interest in handling
this subject
properly and expeditiously.
I should point out that I am not an experienced UFO
professional
researcher. I have not yet had the privilege of flying a
UFO, nor of
meeting the crew of one. I do feel that I am somewhat
qualified to
discuss them since I have been into the fringes of the
vast areas in
which they travel. Also, I did have occasion in 1951 to
have two days
of observation of many flights of them, of different
sizes, flying in
fighter formation, generally from east to west over
Europe. They were
at a higher altitude than we could reach with our jet
fighters of that
time. I would also like to point out that most astronauts
are very
reluctant to even discuss UFO's due to the great numbers
of people who
have indiscriminately sold fake stories and forged
documents abusing
their names and reputations without hesitation. Those few
astronauts
who have continued to have a participation in the UFO
field have had to
do so very cautiously. There are several of us who do
believe in UFO's
and who have had occasions to see a UFO on the ground, or
from an
airplane. If the UN agrees to pursue this project, and to
lend their
credibility to it, perhaps many more well-qualified people
wiil agree to
step forth and provide help and information.
I am looking forward to seeing you soon.
Sincerely, L. Gordon Cooper Col. USAF (Ret) Astronaut
LCC:jm