|
A. R. Yngve PARRY'S PROTOCOL (continued) ____________________________________________________________
THE VIETNAM MEMORIAL The two old men came walking along the paved path with the low sun at their backs. Their figures, and behind those the distant needle of the Washington Memorial, were reflected in the black marble surface of the V-shaped monument facing them. The flag rippled from the nearby flagpole, and the flag halliard smattered rhythmically in the wind. The tree-crowns were the color of flames, but the ground was yet almost free of dead leaves. Visitors were putting down flowers by the base of the monument; a few tourists were taking pictures. A cluster of Chinese tourists took a stand around the sculpture "The Three Servicemen", while one of them photographed the group. One of them made the V-sign to the camera. Abram pulled up the collar of his wool coat; he wore his hat pressed down over his ears. Next to him walked a fat, red-faced man with puffy cheeks; his eyes were hidden by the thick layers of wrinkles around his white eyebrows, and he wore heavy eyeglasses. The man wore a light gray coat and hat; he was visibly older than Abram. Just as they came up to the black name-list slabs, he pulled out a black scarf and swept it around his fat chin and neck. They stood in front of one memorial slab and appeared to read the engraved names of dead American soldiers, without looking at each other. "Kip," Abram said without turning in the other man's direction, "how long have our families known each other?" Kip O'Neill answered with a voice made hoarse by a lifetime of speaking: "Ever since the Sixties in Norfolk, when I was a lawyer running for Congress, and you were a radical student, the fiery spirit of my campaign staff... you went around telling everyone that Kip O'Neill would build unity across age, race, and class borders... but you got stern warnings not to mention Vietnam, it was a hot potato." O'Neill smiled faintly, though it hardly showed under his red cheek-pouches. Abram filled in: "You remember when I got into a fight with some rednecks who thought I was a hippie? I came to your house in the middle of the night, spilling blood all over your sofa, while your wife bandaged my head... my lumpy nose still reminds me of that." He drew a gloved finger down the uneven bridge of his nose, sighed lightly, and gazed up at the increasingly cloudy afternoon sky. Kip frowned, and said: "We haven't seen each other for years, since you lost Cathy." Abram bent down and picked up a red tulip from the monument's base, held it up to his worried eyes, and rotated it slowly between two fingers. "I've been doing my two jobs full time, but I'd be happy to come and visit you and Rhoda, now that you're retired and have the time..." "It's something about the Company, right?" Kip's question was put in a neutral tone, but Abram threw him a quick sideglance. Kip kept facing forward, waiting. "Yes, it's the Company. You've never liked my other job, but we've remained friends, _n'est-ce pas_?" "If you want to leak something, it's too late for me to do anything now, Abram. I was thrown out of the circle of action in '94." "Well, I've never been in the circle of action myself, so that makes us equal. I'd like to talk about secrets. Old secrets. Older than your career." "I'm listening..." "Suppose -- hypothetically -- that there was a secret so big, so dangerous, that the mere knowledge could shake up the entire nation..." "Nothing is rotten enough to upset the voters anymore. They all know their rulers are corrupt, that no one could become President without the permission of the mightiest men in America; and there aren't that many people who bother to vote anyway." Abram said: "I'm not talking about some petty affair with a pinup-girl, or arms-smuggling to some obscure Third World country, or taking bribes from foreigners. Nothing like that. Real secrets. The ones wars get started over. What would you suggest?" "Well... suppose, as a hypothetical example, that someone found irrefutable evidence of who shot Kennedy. Those things." "Exactly. What else could you imagine?" "Or... satellite photos of missile sites in Iran." "Not quite. Old stuff. World War Two." "I was in the war, as you know... landed in France on D-day... when we went into Germany, we once liberated survivors from that concentration camp. I'll never forget it; the stench of burned corpses and piles of bodies; little children reduced to just skin and bones, so starved that they got sick when we fed them. The rumor went among the officers that the Allied forces knew what was going on in the camps, but didn't bomb them... that they allowed it to continue." Kip paused momentarily, then uttered his verdict: "That they protected the butchers to get a hold on them... get them on our side against the Russians." "You know Stalin did even worse in East Germany," Abram pointed out. The Cold War was going on way back in 1944." "Wait, I'm getting to it. The point is that everyone -- everyone who was reasonably informed -- knew what a rotten game we were playing. That's the only kind of secrets that work, those that are so big that we simply refuse to see them. Lesser secrets always make headlines." "I get it." Tourists and visitors began to disperse; the clouds were flocking in the yellowing sky. Kip started to walk alongside the monument; Abram followed close by. "But still," Abram went on, "suppose there was a secret since the war, which a few persons in high places knew about, which they were forced to carry with them; perhaps even pass on... how would they do it?" "Remember the fuss over George Bush and his membership in the student sorority 'Skull And Bones'? Or the 'Friends Of Bill' list? Old friends stick together. So what? Loyalty ties which are made early, like among people who went to the same university, usually follow them a long way into their careers. "It's no secret, for instance, that the core of the CIA was made up of people who knew each other. That's the way politics works. Scrub my back and I'll scrub yours. Blood oaths and secret vows ain't necessary." "Mmm..." Abram tossed the tulip back at the base of the marble slab. "What's the Company up to these days?" Kip asked, the way one asks if it is raining outside. "Redefining its role, one might say. Have you ever seen a federal servant suggest that he ought to be fired?" "Yeah, and pigs can fly. The Company was created to fight the Communists, everyone knows that." "Do they, now? I was recruited by the Company pretty late, in the Seventies when it seemed to be crumbling under the pressure of a negative opinion. I never became anything but an occasional consultant, who would revitalize the organization with new ideas. After twenty years of writing reports -- nothing. The Russians were suddenly converted and it wasn't thanks to us." "Does it all seem pointless now?" Kip asked. Abram stopped in his tracks, and said: "I can't shake the feeling that we've been conned into playacting secret agents. But why? Just so the President could be able to say that we were stalling the Red Menace? But that was the Pentagon's job. While all the time, it was the Bomb that stalled the Reds. Even now." The last tourist retreated from the memorial site; the first raindrops began to fall. The two old men briskly walked north toward Constitution Avenue in silence. Abram unlocked the car that stood parked by the sidewalk. He let Kip into the front seat, and sat down behind the steering-wheel. Abram turned toward Kip, hesitant. Kip's red, puffy face buried his eyes and revealed nothing. "Kip, you know I would never leak anything that would hurt the safety of the country. Anyway, I don't know anything yet. Just guesswork. But if my guesses would be the least bit correct, we shouldn't meet again. If anyone would ask about me, tell them I'm depressed over a difficult patient. Tell Rhoda I'm sorry I couldn't see her. Should I drive you home?" The fat old man sighed, and said out loud: "A friend of mine showed me one of these stereograms... y'know, a kind of jumbled pictures: if you look at them in a precise certain way, you see the hidden image in the pattern. I tried, tried hard to look at the pattern the right way, but I never saw anything. My friend assured me the image was there, I just wasn't looking the right way. "Then it hit me: there are several ways of looking at this random pattern, so why should one of them be right and the others wrong? If I can't see a pattern someone else claims to be real, I must follow my own judgement -- and say: 'Pal, you're chasing shadows.'" Kip took out an umbrella from his coat and put it in his lap. He gave Abram a quick stare, his eyes showing a mix of fear and sorrow. "I can't help you where you're going, Abram. I'm sorry." The moment he finished his sentence he opened the door, put up his umbrella, and hurried away in the rain.
OCTOBER 9 Abram was sitting far back in the large passenger jet. The lights were out and most of his fellow travellers slept, or sat watching the movie screen with headphones over their ears. "In the feudal society," he dictated into his secretary, "only the court jester was allowed to openly ridicule the prince or king. His function could be regarded as therapeutical: the court had an outlet for its suppressed resentment against the ruler -- and the ruler was reminded that he was human and not infallible. "In a way, the jester is modern society's earliest precursor to the therapist: he encourages introspection with the distancing power of laughter... and that's why so many of them are smug faggots blah blah --" He yawned and shut off the device, dozing off quickly.
WESTMOREHAM INSTITUTE Red-eyed and sunken, Abram was let inside the main building. Joyce was on her way from a cell that the nurses were going through while serving meal trays from a cart. She waved, smiling warmly, and came to greet him. "Jetlag?" she asked, one arm's length away; Abram grunted. "Has Parry received the books I mailed to him?" Joyce scrutinized the man's crumpled coat and tired face. "Each time we've opened his cell he's been sitting down, reading. In my journal, I will have to state that his withdrawal from reality has deepened in the last few days. I hope you understand that I have a duty to take note of what I see..." Abram gave her a quick, wild glance that made her blink and instinctively look down. He took off his hat and paced toward the basement stairs, saying: "Tell him I want to see him in a few minutes."
Parry was feeding his pets when Abram came in. The patient seemed attentive, almost relaxed, and did not show his teeth. "Good evening, Doc. Did anyone follow you here?" Abram sank heavily onto his stool and raised a palm: "No, no. Well, I wasn't looking anyway. I'm a bit tired after the trip to Washington, so let's make this quick. Yes, I know -- the vent." He stood up with a faint groan, went up to the wall, sealed the vent, went back and sat down. "So: Before I write out Part Three of my CIA report -- the one that'll deal with internal security in the organization -- I wish to discuss the questions you asked earlier..." "And?" "I've consulted a few old acquaintances who know CIA history better than I do..." Abram hesitated, frowning. "...and they've all rejected the idea that the CIA is a questionable construction?" Parry added grimly. "Not quite. They tend to speak in riddles, either because they can't recall old details or they don't want to... But they've awakened my curiosity. Let's assume, for simplicity's sake, that there's some substance to your suspicions..." Parry started digging frenetically in the pile of books at his feet. He pulled up a thick volume and pressed an opened page against the glass wall. "Here! The CIA, as you know, was formed from the remains of the wartime organization O.S.S. -- the Office of Strategic Services. But President Roosevelt's clandestine chief of intelligence, John Franklin Carter, was against the idea. "In a memo to the President, dated October 1944, he suggested instead that they should revive the OSS as a dummy, to fool the British!" He swayed impatiently, staring at Abram: Abram tugged at his short beard. "Parry," he said with a sigh, "that's yesterday's news. Every now and then, the Pentagon brass and their Congressmen mutter that the CIA shouldn't try to do the military's work. The usefulness of the Company was questioned from the very start." "And that's where everyone stops thinking, Doc! You're afraid to draw the conclusion from obvious facts." "Namely, what?" "That the CIA is a functioning decoy, spawned by the Roosevelt administration." Parry was beginning to grow irritated again. "But why?" "Come on, Doc! The old wartime intelligence network had strong connections to its British counterpart, MI5. And already then they must have feared Communist infiltration -- Guy Burgess and Anthony Blunt were revealed as Russian 'moles' many years later. The Russians virtually knew everything the MI5 was up to!" Parry slammed the book shut and held it before him. Abram attempted to rise, but sank back. He made a sour face and looked into Parry's angular face. "Wait a minute. You mean that the CIA, as a 'dummy', would also draw attention from the Pentagon's intelligence network?" "That too! But of course the President and his people didn't want to be completely in the hands of the Pentagon, Roosevelt was too smart, too ambitious to lose the initiative. He must have laid the groundwork for his own, Presidential intelligence -- probably founded on his man John Franklin Carter's wartime organization." Abram rested his elbows on his knees and propped up his head. "I don't want to abandon this theory yet, Parry. But both Roosevelt and John Franklin Carter have been dead for a long time. A lot of the secret wartime records have been opened now. How come such a plot hasn't been revealed yet?" If there was sarcasm in Abram's question, Parry let it go unnoticed. "That's the problem which has kept me occupied while you've been away." Parry took a backward step. The cat in its basket meowed and the bird in the cage chirped, but he gestured at them to be silent. "I've been trying to make comparisons to other Presidents, who tried to build informal networks -- independent of Congress, the Supreme Court, or the Pentagon." "You're referring to the Iran-Contras arms deal and such affairs..." "Precisely! Just like the CIA, Oliver North, William Casey, and the rest failed pro primo: to overthrow Communist regimes in Latin America, and pro secundo: to keep it away from the media. "But the thing is, they weren't the first ones. Kennedy barely managed to save face after CIA's attempt to overthrow Castro sank in the Bay of Pigs -- an operation covertly approved by the President. You see the pattern, Doc? Everyone who involves the CIA, fails. The Company simply isn't supposed to be working." "Why would Roosevelt, old and dying, succeed where people like Kennedy and Bush failed? Why should his administration be so much better at keeping a secret?" "The answer's right in front of you, Doc, and you won't see it. After Roosevelt, television came around." Parry crouched in front of the TV set and turned it on: a loud commercial made the little cat start and run behind his legs, wailing. He pointed indignantly at the garish screen images, looking at Abram with a furious face: "That thing has been selling Presidents since the Korean War! Millions of Americans have been duped to vote for fantasy presidents which only existed on TV, while egotripping rich kids allowed the nation to fall apart!" Abram was stunned. "Roosevelt," Parry went on slowly, "was, next to Lincoln, the sharpest leader we ever had. He managed to lead an alliance of headstrong, discordant, and power-hungry men against Germany and Japan -- and won the World War on two fronts. Does any other President have such merits?" "I'm not quite following you. How... Are we able to guess how Roosevelt's secret postwar organization was meant to work?" "Not 'meant' to work, Doc. How it is working! With his experience, he was able to design a system which, contrary to others, would go safe from discovery." "How?" Abram almost whispered. Just then, a cartoon dog on the TV screen shouted: "You stoopid eediot!!" "Infiltration," answered Parry. "Tie together a handful of reliable men in key positions, at least one in each institution: the White House, the Pentagon, the Supreme Court, the CIA -- that is, the equivalent of the CIA at that time. But it has to be positions that they can keep for life! The Presidential seat, any publically elected office, is too uncertain. "With promises of influence, and threats of death for those who betray the others, the loyalty of the conspirators can be certified." Abram sat upright, unblinking, as if in a trance. "Would Roosevelt circumvent the Constitution in the same way as later Presidents?" "As most Presidents, only better. But even if the first purpose of his network was to serve the President..." Parry stopped and studied the pets in the corner. The bird sat silent, the cat was wailing. He shut off the TV and wiped his brow. "Get us some air, Doc."
"Where were we?" Abram asked. "Even if Roosevelt's and Franklin Carter's secret organization was meant to serve the President's need for intelligence, there are good reasons for believing that it soon broke off from the White House." "Which reasons?" "First, the inferior quality of Roosevelt's successors. Roosevelt died, and Harry Truman picked up the gauntlet in 1945. It's well known that he was against the revival of the OSS; which would have ruined the arrangement with a 'dummy' to cover a real network. I don't see how Roosevelt's men could cooperate in complete confidence with Truman -- there's nothing in the history books to support that possibility." Abram feebly raised an arm to object: "But... it took until 1947, before president Eisenhower could start the CIA from the remains of the OSS force." "Yeah! And all the time, the CIA concept was officially supported by a former OSS veteran -- Dulles, the Secretary of State." "Do you think Dulles was part of of Roosevelt-Carter's old network, then?" "Not sure. I think I he was just being used for the dummy cover without knowing it, just like Bill Donovan. The question is instead, whether President Eisenhower was a co-conspirator -- I mean, he answered directly to Roosevelt during the War. He was one of the inner circle. He appointed Dulles. But Truman, a vice president -- I doubt it..." Parry hesitated for a moment. "Then again, it's possible that Eisenhower -- being an old military man -- was loyal to the Pentagon intelligence networks, rather than any President-made network. In that case, Roosevelt's and Franklin Carter's men would not have told him about the real purpose of the CIA... he thought the CIA was 'real', and the secret presidential organization went unchecked. If so, the organization was for the second time without direct presidential approval. After that... I have no clue." "So where is the evidence that Roosevelt-Carter's network would have survived? Where would I find traces of them today?" Parry leaned at the glass wall with stretched arms, thinking. After an extended pause, he said: "First of all, the first co-conspirators must be very old, some of them must surely be dead by now. I'd suggest a computer-check of the old files on intelligence officers, high-ranking officers, employees of John Franklin Carter's department, and the staff close to Roosevelt. "Try to match those names with a list of all the oldest men in top places up to today -- the final matching list shouldn't be very long. The rest is up to you." Abram turned away from the glass wall, rubbed his face with one palm, and looked to the door. "To chase old men..." he said. "Do you realize what you're demanding of a man in my position? And if you should be right -- the CIA being an unknowing dummy, a secret network that might still exist -- the risk is pretty big that someone grows curious when I start poking around..." "Like I said before, Doc: You've got everything to lose. But aren't you curious?" "What would you gain from this, Parry?" "I know what you think, Doc -- that I'm an over-intelligent maniac. But on one point I think we can agree: most conspiracies fail, because nosy people start asking questions -- people like you and me. That's all you need to know." "So... what is your own, unofficial motive to bring up this matter to investigation?" Abram started at a sudden, dry laughter from Parry. "What do you think, Doc?" Abram spun around, seemingly struck with alarm. He watched a wildly staring, furiously grinning man with bloodshot eyes glare back with his fists clenched by his sides: nothing in his features suggested other feelings than suspicion, anger, and alert caution. "Let's quit for today," Abram said, a tone of defeat in his voice. "I've got a lot of work ahead of me."
CENTRAL WESTMOREHAM All available lights in the motel-room were switched on, including the desk lamp: yet Abram squinted over his laptop computer, as if barely able to see the letters on the screen. He made a printout, and the in-built laser printer printed out the written text from the screen. The sheet produced was empty save for one word: CATHY. Abram rose from his chair, tore off the paper from the printer slot and crumpled it up, before tossing it in the overstuffed waste basket among the other paper balls. He scratched his back, picked up his jacket from the back of the chair, got out his phone and punched in a number. Then he punched some scrambler buttons. A nasal, faint voice answered. "Hi, Abram. You know what bloody time it is?" "Eleven here and two in the morning there, but I know you're used to working late hours in the computer room. Listen, 'Jorge'. Have you had time for cross-checking those files yet?" "Soon. Has Ned given the go from your department?" "Of course. If you can't trust me, then who are you going to trust?" The voice in the phone gave out a short laugh. "Okay, okay. I'll call you when it's finished." "Thanks. And hey, I'll fix you tickets for the Canadian Rugby Cup next year." "Great. Bye!" "See ya." Abram put away the phone, undressed, took a shower, dressed again. He put on the jacket. He went to the door, took the coat and hat from the coat-hanger, opened and walked out on the parking-lot. The sky was black, and the illuminated main street stretched northward in a straight line. He put on his outdoor clothes; the coat billowed in the irregular gusts of wind. With his hands dug into his pockets he strode away to the car.
THE SWEAT LODGE BAR & GRILL The bar was smoky and half full; a local country band was playing a ballad for the buzzing customers, of which the majority sat by the tables around the tiny scene. By the sparcely populated counter sat Abram, leaning heavily over three empty whiskeyglasses. His eyes were hazy, his scalp a tangle of wisps. He was gloomily studying a couple of photographs in the opened wallet lying before him. The bartender, a puffy man with a ponytail and American Indian features, laid his elbows over the counter and gazed down at the pictures. "The wife?" he asked, neutral. "Yeah," Abram said shortly. He set his eyes and showed the photographs to the bartender. They pictured Abram, ten years younger and with long dark hair, next to a buxom woman with short, blond hair and dimples around squinting eyes. Both of them were smiling to the camera. "Divorced?" "Dead." "Sorry." The bartender pouted apologetically, then asked: "When?" "Seven years." "Sick?" "Cancer." "Tough." "Yeah." "Alone?" "Yeah." "So's she," the bartender said, nodding at a middle-aged woman who sat a few chairs away, glass in hand. Abram looked in her direction, smiled weakly at the bartender, and muttered: "Thanks." "Keep on truckin'." The bartender moved his attention to the other customers. Abram drew his scalp hair back into a semblance of order, and peered toward the woman. He caught her eyes. He nodded, lifting his drink in a little toast. The woman, wearing jeans and a blouse, raised her glass in reply and managed an uncertain smile. Abram stood up and moved closer, sitting down with one chair between him and the woman. They looked each other over for a second. The woman had short, straight brown hair and a face which was soft despite the lines of age. She wasn't wearing much makeup; her eyes were dark and clear, half-closed, and her nose seemed a little small in the wide-boned face. She looked him in the eye and asked "New in town?" in a firm, friendly voice. Abram stopped squinting, and said: "Yes. Making an extended field trip to the Institute outside town." His voice was getting to sound sleepy. The woman smiled with just a hint of skepticism: "Oh, you're a psychoanalyst." "Not quite," he said casually. "I study patients rather than cure them. Some use instruments, but I do a lot of interviewing too." "Sounds like an exciting job. What're they like, back on the funnyfarm?" "Well..." Abram stared curiously up into the rough ceiling boards, scratched his beard, and once again looked her in the eye. "May I ask you something." "Yes?" "Could a man act crazy, for more than five years, without really going insane?" She frowned, confused and replied: "Aren't you supposed to know those things?" Suddenly, Abram seemed very tired. His gaze dropped, and he muttered voicelessly: "It's what I used to think." They were both silent for a few seconds; Abram finished his drink and asked for another one. He added, without looking her way: "And anything the lady wishes." She smiled at him, but he didn't notice it as he continued brooding down into his glass. She ordered a new drink for herself and took a sip, throwing casual glances at Abram. After a minute, she asked: "So, what's the story about the man who's been acting crazy for five years." Abram clenched his last glass. "Look, I'm sorry I mentioned it. I was just thinkin' out loud, I'm not supposed to discuss these people's misery in private." A guilty expression crossed her face: "Sorry, I didn't mean to... you mean they're suffering a lot?" He blinked, and fixed her with grave, wide eyes: "They are the most lonesome beings in the world. All lost in themselves, completely estranged from the community of others. They could just as well have come from another planet." He gulped his whiskey, making a little laugh to himself, and added: "Then again, some of them believe just that." The woman appeared to ponder the statement for a second, then said to him: "You know, I have a friend who's joined one of those weird cults. And she's been told she's actually come from another planet, only she's been suppressing it to hide her mental powers from normal people. Like she was Supergirl in disguise." "Oh, that old merde." Abram sat up a little, assertively raising his voice. "Funny, that if enough people believe a crazy thing, they are considered sane. You can go around claiming all sorts of impossibilities. That you're Elvis. Or God, or whatever. And if only your followers are many enough, or you're powerful enough, nobody admits tu est fou!" He threw out his hand. "Maybe we should close down the asylums and turn the maniacs into popstars or something, that'd make them a lot happier. Not any less crazy, but happier." The bartender, eyeing the couple from another end of the counter, gave Abram a hard look. He saw it, and settled down. "What was your name again?" he asked the woman in a more delicate tone. Her face softened. "Annie. Annie Two Heads Collett." "Abram Lemercier." He took her hand and kissed it. "Madame," he added with an ironic smile. She laughed, flattered and embarrassed at once, then leaned closer with her hands held up before her chest. "You're French?" "Quebecois. Went to the U.S. as a student, met a girl, and got married. But that was long ago." He took a sip. "Are you American Indian?" "'Native Americans' they call us today." She smiled wryly at the bartender, who gave them a little nod. "Not long ago, we were just 'redskins', and before that, 'red savages'. So I guess we've come a long way." Abram smiled, and said: "Who knows, in ten years they might even call you 'human'." He made a short laugh and raised his glass. They clinked their glasses together. "To progress," he said. "To progress," she smiled, and clinked glasses again. Minutes passed, neither of them saying anything; watching each other, the other guests, and the musicians. The band ended their instrumental piece and received an applause. The bearded singer spoke into the mike: "Our next song was written by the band long ago, and you've probably heard it before." There were whistles and noises of approval from the audience. "It's called 'A Love To Believe In'." On cue, the bass-guitarist began; the band joined in. It was not an unusual Country & Western song in any respect:
When I look upon this world today
We may not be young and fair
The land is there like it's always been
And when our days are over When Abram and Annie applauded the band, one of them had moved closer to the other. The next moment, they were leaning against each other.
An hour or so later, Abram's car braked to a stop outside his motel-room. Annie stepped out of the driver's seat, and went around to open the door for Abram. He stepped outside, a bit awkwardly, and Annie gave a little shriek as he grabbed her waist and lifted her up, burying his head in her chest. He dropped her laughing to her feet. They began kissing, with increasing passion, as they walked arm in arm to his door. Once inside, they undressed without a word. The first time went quickly, in less than two minutes. "It's been years since," he confessed. "I didn't notice," she giggled. The second time lasted considerably longer.
OCTOBER 12 Abram and Annie were sleeping, locked in embrace, in the wide motel bed. Their clothes were scattered across the floor. A sudden loud beeping from his jacket made Abram raise his head from the pillow, his hair spreading in all directions. Squinting hard, he crawled out from between Annies limbs, and found his glasses on the bedside table. He put them on, reached down from the edge of the bed, and groped clumsily for the jacket. Annie mumbled sleepily, peering with screwed-up eyes at the window: the light of dawn was just entering through the blinds. Ignoring her, Abram dug up the phone and held it to his ear, still halfway out of bed. "Hello?" he said hoarsely. The computer chimed: "Incoming call from Langley. Use de-scrambling code number four, four, three, four." Abram punched in the right buttons. A slow, toneless voice came on. "Hi, Abram. Am I calling too early?" "'Jorge'? No. Did you do the cross-check?" "Yeah! The list ended up pretty short, once I had deleted all the names of people who were already dead. Got a pen?" "Hold on for a moment." He darted up from bed and sat down, naked, in the chair by the desk. Holding the phone by the ear, he found pen and paper. Frenetically, he wrote down a handful of lines, humming into the receiver. Annie sat up in bed, watching Abram as he wrote. He was soon finished, and thanked the man called "Jorge" in an excited tone. "I promise I'll repay you for this favor!" Abram put down the phone and stood up. "Who was it?" Annie asked in a clear voice. "A colleague," he said as he gathered clothes from the suitcase by the short end of the bed, and quickly started dressing himself. "Don't tell me," she sighed, scratching her ruffled head, "You gotta rush to work." "I'm sorry, Annie. But it's really important." With his pants drawn up to his knees he hopped over to her, leaned over, and kissed her on the mouth -- for a second. And so Annie watched Abram dress. He finished, went over to his tossed-away shoes, and stepped into them. "You forgot your socks," she noted dryly. "And besides, you're a bit early." Abram glanced at his wristwatch: "Damn! I hope the guard'll let me in even if it's only seven o'clock." He halted, turning to look at her with nervous eyes. "Did I get your number?" She smiled then, her features softening. "I'll write it down for you." She went up from bed, naked, and walked to the desk while Abram got into his jacket and coat; his eyes followed the swaying of her wide hips. He suddenly grabbed her wrist and pulled her close to him. She gave him a little mischievous smile with her thin lips, rubbing her small nose against his; but his expression went from bliss to muteness in two seconds. He folded his arms around her naked back, and she clung to his neck. "Believe me," he said softly, "I wish to see you again." They kissed each other deeply, Abram caressing Annie. Then he pulled himself away from her embrace, snatched the laptop and the dictation device, and hurried outside. The draft from the door made Annie shudder.
Abram came to the crossing with the sign WESTMOREHAM INSTITUTE 1.5 MILES and stopped his car to let a caravan of big trucks cross by, going westward. Suddenly he clasped his forehead, and blinked confusedly. He caught a glance of himself in the rear-view mirror: the image of a red-eyed man with tangled gray hair stared back. "What the hell am I doing," he mumbled at the mirror image. "I gotta get a hold of myself, gotta..." Angry honkings from the car behind made him start; the crossing traffic had passed by, and the morning traffic was down to a small trickle. Abram stepped on the gas pedal, twisted the wheel, and made a sharp U-turn. With renewed resolve, he drove back toward the motel. Another minute later he stopped on the parking-lot, took the laptop and the pocket secretary, slammed the car door shut, and walked briskly up to the reception house at the end of the row. He stepped inside, went up to the reception desk -- which was unmanned -- and found his roomkey lying there. He took it and returned to his room. The room was locked, but not yet cleaned: it was empty, and Annie's clothes were gone. He went right up to the desk and dumped his writing equipment. Abram picked up a notepad and read a message written in large, neat letters:
CALL SOON, ABRAM (509-689-2571) A wide, spontaneous smile spread across Abram's face, and he reached for his phone -- but seemed to change his mind. From the outside pocket of his jacket he extracted the short list of names, and studied it. He put the list on the desk next to the laptop-printer, hung up his coat and jacket, and eased down into the chair. Habitually, he drew a hand across his beard, switched on the word processor, and fed a sheet into the printer slot. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, he began typing with swift, deft fingers.
OCTOBER 15 Abram ceased tapping out text, pulled the last sheet from the built-in printer, and put it among the rest in the pile. He yawned deeply, stretching out his back and arms -- his back snapped and he winced -- and watched the motel-room. Fast-food cartons and paper mugs were scattered over the desk and floor, paper balls gathered at his feet. The bed was not made, and his clothes were lying on the floor. It was obvious that he had slept alone in the bed. Abram was dressed in a smelly T-shirt and boxer shorts. He picked up his agency phone, dialed, and punched a scrambling button. "Ned Wilson speaking." "Hi, Ned; it's Abram." "Hi! You're calling early." "I never get used to the time zones, sorry. I just finished the third part of my report. A burst of inspiration came over me." "Ehxcellent, ehxcellent! That was fast. You coming down here soon?" "Uh, Ned, all this zone-crossing is giving me sleeping problems. Could you send me a courier to get it?" "Lemme see... sorry, all couriers are out on assignments right now, and I'll need the report A.S.A.P." "Let's ignore the regulations just for once. Let me fax it over. I can put my cell-phone into a fax machine, scramble the fax signal, and let it carry the signals to your phone in Langley, where you unscramble the signals and feed them to your fax." "Ah' didn't quite follow you there, Abram -- but it still won't work! The information that passes through your fax when you feed the papers might be tapped via some connection, and those signals won't be scrambled -- not in ordinary machines, as far as I know. Stick to your own protected hardware." "Right. Okay. I'll fly over today or by tomorrow, I've got my other job to do." "Tha's fine. See ya. Bye." "Bye." Abram tried to put the phone back in his jacket, but missed the pocket and dropped it onto the floor. His face was suddenly contorted by anger; he cried out, almost sobbing: "Damn! Damn, damn this shit!!"
On the flight headed south-east, Abram switched on the computer that rested in his lap, logged in and clicked on the program icon ELIZA EXPERT V.7. The program, which was an advanced simulation of a psychoanalyst, came up on the flat screen, and it asked a first question: WHAT DO YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT? Abram typed in the question: HOW DO I KNOW IF I AM GOING INSANE? The program's response came within less than a second: DO YOU THINK THAT YOU ARE GOING INSANE? NO. I SEE. NO, YOU DON'T. PARDON? THE SUBJECT IS PARANOIA. TELL ME HOW YOU FEEL. I FEEL AS IF MY BOSS IS PERSECUTING ME. WHY DO YOU THINK YOUR BOSS IS PERSECUTING YOU? BECAUSE HE -- Abram paused, then changed the sentence: PERHAPS HE IS A HOMOSEXUAL, OUT TO GET ME. FOR HOW LONG HAVE YOU HAD THE NOTION OF BEING PERSECUTED BY HOMOSEXUALS? I AM NOT BEING PERSECUTED. I SEE. TELL ME MORE. I AM HAVING SLEEPING PROBLEMS, DUE TO JETLAG OF COURSE, AND I HAVE THESE STRANGE NIGHTMARES. TELL ME MORE ABOUT THESE STRANGE NIGHTMARES. IN ONE NIGHTMARE I AM IMPRISONED IN A CAVE, WHERE I CANNOT MOVE, AND I SEE SOMEONE STARING AT ME FROM AN OPENING. TELL ME WHY YOU CANNOT MOVE IN THE CAVE. IN THE NIGHTMARE, I LOOK DOWN AND DISCOVER THAT MY ARMS AND LEGS HAVE BEEN SEVERED, THAT I AM JUST A HEAD AND A BODY. WHO DO YOU THINK SOMEONE WHO IS STARING AT YOU ARE? MY COMMON SENSE TELLS ME HE MUST BE A SYMBOL OF ME OR PARRY, AN IDENTIFICATION WITH PARRY.
COULD SOMEONE WHO IS STARING AT YOU BE: NO.
TRY TO DESCRIBE THIS TO ME: FUK YOU FUKYOUFUKYUGUIFUOIGOIGUEBH D IOGIO PLEASE TRY TO BE MORE CONSTRUCTIVE. I WILL: I WILL PULL YOUR PLUG! THAT'S NOT A NICE THING TO SAY. Abram threw his laptop computer to the floor, and something cracked inside it. The passengers sitting nearby stared at him. A stewardess came, picked up the damaged laptop, and handed it back to Abram. He avoided her eyes, and the eyes of the other passengers -- he folded his arms tightly together, and shut his eyes hard...
WESTMOREHAM INSTITUTE "Long time no see, Doc. What've you been up to now?" Parry's tone was remarkably calm and level. He stood leaning with one shoulder against one corner of the plexiglass wall, indifferently looking at Abram, who had just sealed off the room. It was early in the morning. "Are they still giving you as heavy doses every night?" "Not since you told them to lower the doses. But it always takes me a while to wake up in the morning." He yawned. His eyes opened attentively when Abram took out the name list from his briefcase; he rushed to the middle of the glass wall and Abram went up close. Parry read quietly as Abram held the list up to his eyes:
ANDERSON, NEVILLE - DIRECTOR OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL
RAYMOND, COLMER - ADVISOR TO THE SECRETARY OF STATE
STANTON, PETER - DEPUTY DIRECTOR OF THE CIA
ULMGARD, HAROLD - AIR FORCE INTELLIGENCE OFFICER, PENTAGON
WADE, JOSHUA - AIR FORCE GENERAL, ASSISTANT CHIEF STRATEGIC AIR COMMAND He read the list over and over, for almost a whole minute. His palms, pressed against the glass, started to tremble as in a cramp. He backed slowly, eyes fixed on the paper, and nearly stumbled on the little cat; it leaped away with its tail raised. As if a cold wind had blown through the hermetically sealed chamber, Parry hugged himself, trembling. He murmured something inaudible. Abram put his ear to the glass and listened. "I said," Parry repeated a little louder, "that I didn't believe you'd have the guts to do it, much less tell anyone..." "I've already told my superiors," Abram answered. Parry lunged at the glass, roaring with sudden fury: "WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?!" He pounced at the glass, his gaze shifting wildly about him. Abram made a calming gesture; Parry stopped his pounding. "Wait, Parry. I didn't mean literally. All I did, was to insert these five names into the text of the report -- in a reference, in a footnote, as writer of a made-up book title -- in such a way that if you don't know the connection between the names, you won't spot it. "It's an old spy trick. If you're right about them, someone will notice it and contact me. This report will be read at the top." Parry scrutinized Abram's face: Abram was more haggard than he, but calm and collected. "Open the air vent and show me the report itself," Parry commanded. Abram returned to the glass wall and held up the paper bundle. On the title page was, as before, a contents page:
IMAGES OF THE NEW FUTURE
By DR. ABRAM LEMERCIER PART 3: THE INNER ENEMY
3.1. SEPARATISM IN NORTH AMERICA
3.2. CONTROLLING THE INSTITUTIONS
3.3. ALTERNATIVE CONSTITUTIONS 3.4. Notes and Sources Parry gestured at Abram to turn pages; quiet and tense, he skimmed through the rest of the document. A few minutes later, when he was finished, Parry held a finger to his mouth and pointed at the air intake. Abram sealed it. Parry took in air, seemingly gathering himself together. "You used a lot of what I said. And your little list, without asking me. So... Doc... what do you think will happen now?" Abram paused, poised in a similar manner, then answered Parry: "I will prove to you, that your conspiracy theory is completely groundless." He assumed a face of professional understanding: "What will happen is this. The day before yesterday, I flew to Langley and handed in a copy of this report to my superior's office. He scanned it through while I was watching, and gave me an early positive response. Immediately, I went back here and rested the entire yesterday. By this time..." He paused, checking his watch. "...by this time, copies of the completed report have been sent by courier, to the members of the National Security Council and the President. They will read it, discuss the problems and suggestions presented there; assign a special committee to investigate futurology and security issues; and perhaps even use my finished report as a reference. "And," he added calmly, "nothing is going to happen to neither you nor me." Parry made a convulsive shudder: he giggled joylessly, almost hysterically. He gave Abram an inscrutable, hollow stare. "I actually began to believe I knew you, could predict your behavior," he said mutely. "How stupid of me. How shamefully, obscenely stupid. "Everyone is out for something. You're out for prestige, you must prove above all that you are sane, that I'm nothing but a confused human wreck in need of treatment. You lied about working for the CIA, just to raise my curiosity. Perhaps you're an instrument for the unknown power, without knowing it yourself." Suspicion had grown back into his features, stronger than before. Abram opened his mouth to speak -- but gave up. Another couple of seconds they stood there facing each other. And Abram wavered, turned away, and moved to the air vent. He removed the covering piece of insulation from the vent, and put it in his pocket. Picking up his case, Abram went to the door; unlocked it, opened, and exited. Parry stood immobile, his stare following Abram until the door slid shut and was locked from outside.
Joyce was in the large corridor on the entrance floor. Abram came up from the basement stairs, accompanied by two nurses. Joyce took her cell-phone from her ear, turned toward the nurses, and gave them each a telling glance. They responded with slight nods. Abram walked up to her where she stood by the sentry booth. He looked her in the eye with concern; she met his eyes with her usual calm. "Bad news?" she asked. "Yes. I'm afraid I'll have to abort my interviews with Par... with Patrick. His condition's worsened quickly, he's as inaccessible as when we first met -- or worse." "I'm sorry, I really am," Joyce said. She stretched out her arm and touched his shoulder; Abram straightened up and looked mildly surprised. Joyce gave him a sad smile with her eyes half-shut. "For a while, you made me hope again; that's not too common around here. Thanks for trying." Abram gave the short, brown woman a faint smile, and replied: "Thanks yourself, for putting up with a pompous upper-class psychoanalyst. Do you want me to fill in the usual forms now, or could it wait? I promise the Institute will be compensated for its expenses." Joyce turned away, looking out through one of the tall, barred windows. Out there, one could see soft hills and fields; telephone poles along the road that stretched eastward away from the town; the bright, late morning sky; a couple of farmhouses by the horizon... "There's a few men outside the gates, who've been asking for you while you were talking to Parry," she said without moving. "What?" Abram did not seem to understand. "The guard at the gate said that they're from the FBI and their papers seem to be in order." Slowly, quietly, the two nurses stepped closer to Abram, hands resting on the night-sticks hanging by their belts. Abram saw it; his forehead began to glisten. A shrill little laugh escaped him. "I-I don't understand what you mean... let me make an important phonecall!" He spun around, holding up his hands. The nurses stopped, giving Joyce questioning looks. Abram spun around again to meet her expressionless gaze. He pleaded: "Just one call! Alone! Okay?" Joyce shrugged, her hands in her pocket, and said: "Okay. Go to the end of the hall." She nodded in the suggested direction. He half-ran to it. At the end of the corridor was a door to the chapel-like annex. He felt at the handle; it was locked. Abram pressed his shoulder against the door and got out his phone, punched in the number to Langley with clumsy fingers, and waited for an answer. There came three dial-up signals. Then another three. And three more. And three more. After fifteen signals he cut off the call, and glanced anxiously toward the other end of the corridor. Joyce was talking to the nurses and the door-guard, but so low that only a wordless murmur could be heard from where Abram stood. He punched up the phone list onto the phone's display window, let addresses and numbers scroll past, and stopped by the name GIORDANO BRUNO. He frantically punched in the number. After three signals, a recorded voice answered: "The number has recently expired. For further information on the addressee, please contact the Los Angeles Police Department. The number has recently expired. For further inf --" Abram disconnected, but kept the phone to his ear; Joyce was moving, over by the entrance, looking at her watch. "Shit!" he mumbled, then: "Kip! Good ol' Kip..." Abram dialed the number to Washington, muttering: "Come on... answer me, you fat bastard..." After ten signals and no response he gave up. He started, as Joyce's voice echoed across the floor. "One call! They're losing their patience!" The heavy nurses began to move in on him. "Annie," he mumbled, then: "No". Abram took a deep breath, wiped his brow, held up the phone's control panel to his face. He punched in the command: ERASE ALL FILES On the display came the reply question: ARE YOU SURE Y/N? He punched in a confirmation. The computer wrote: ALL ERASED; WHAT NOW? Seeing the question, Abram suppressed a laugh, snorting. He put away his phone and turned to face the approaching wardens; their soft shoes made almost no sounds. When they were less than five meters away, Abram pulled the gun out of his jacket.
The nurses halted; Abram waved his Beretta in front of their faces. He shouted in a hoarse voice: "Back off!! Drop your batons... gently!" They dropped their night-sticks, anxiously following his moving arm. Joyce shouted at them with her phone to her ear: "Do as he says! The Feds have called the sheriff, he's on his way with reinforcements!" Abram gave out a hysterical giggle, then screamed: "What lies have they been telling about me?!" as he advanced along the corridor, driving the backing nurses before him. The nurse Simon tried talking to the wild-eyed, armed man, without shifting focus from his gun: "Calm down, Dr. Lemercier. Nobody wants to harm you. I'm sure they just want to ask you a few questions..." The door-guard Mark was coming out of the booth. "Shut up and hold your arms above your head! I might be a lethal desperado, so don't take any chances! Joyce!! Tell the guard to hold his gun where I can see it -- and then empty the magazine! Now!! Then drop the gun on the floor!" Reluctantly, the guard obeyed. Abram came up to Joyce, who appeared to retain her self-control. "Abram, what's going on?" she asked with suppressed intensity. "Why're you carrying a weapon in here?" "Didn't those false Feds tell you that?" Abram gestured at the four people to gather opposite the booth; they responded quickly. "Joyce," he said forcedly, "Those people out there are bluffing, they can't have called the sheriff. Call him now!" She looked at him, confused: "What are you saying?" "They don't want any more witnesses, and you could also be in danger. I'm not just a psychologist -- I work for the CIA! Call him, dammit!" Joyce stared in disbelief; but she took her phone and punched in the number. She waited tensely while the calling signals beeped from the receiver: once; twice; three, four, five times. She gave Abram a look of despair and fear, her small hands trembling visibly. He cursed again, and said: "Throw down your phone. Is there only one exit from the building?" Joyce nodded silently, dropping her cellular phone on the floor. The door-guard glanced furtively at the steel door behind them. Suddenly, a megaphone-enhanced voice boomed from outside: "This is the FBI! We have the building surrounded, Abram! If you're not coming out in a minute, we storm the building! You have one minute!" "Jerks," the guard muttered, "the building is a bloody fortress. They'll have to blast their way inside, or break up the windows." Abram looked to the door, then at his hostages. He paled visibly, then shouted: "Everybody down into the basement -- quickly!" He backed off and ushered them down the basement stairs, waited for the last one to disappear from view, and picked up the guard's revolver and bullets from the floor. He put them in his pocket and ran to the stairs. At the top of the stairs he turned and glanced over his shoulder, through the armored window closest to the entrance. On the lawn outside, he could see two blue-clad figures rigging a tube-shaped contraption onto a thick tripod. Abram rushed down the stairs, shouting: "Take cover!!" When his feet touched the foot of the stairs, there came a sharp, whistling sound. In the next second, the building was shaken by a deafening bang, followed by the rumble of brick, mortar, and glass crashing down over the first floor.
The shockwave blew a cloud of dust and debris down the stairs, just as Abram threw himself away from it. He was drenched in dust, the lamps in the basement ceiling blinked -- one lamp exploded above his head -- some of the waterpipes cracked, gushing hot water. Abram heaved himself to his feet. He coughed, took out a handkerchief, held it to his mouth. Further away in the basement corridor, the others screamed and coughed. "You believe me now?!" he barked coarsely as he came closer to the group. Joyce's eyes were red from the dust covering their clothes and faces. She leaned against the wall and kept coughing. "Who are those crazies?" she said. "I've got to see if the patients were hurt." Abram stood in her way, aiming the gun above her head: "Listen," he said in a weak voice, "they are out to kill me, and probably everyone who's spoken to me. As soon as any of you pokes his head up those stairs, we all get shot! They're probably on their way in now." "Oh my God," Joyce wailed, holding her head with both hands, "what'll we do?" Abram got an odd gleam in his eyes, his teeth grinned white in his dusty grey face. "Let Parry out!" he said. Joyce, the guard, and the two wardens were stunned. "Let him out," Abram snarled, "or I shoot you now!" Joyce nodded to the wardens, who quietly disappeared into a narrow side corridor. Joyce went over to the visitor's door at the other side, and opened it up. Abram stuck in his head and shouted: "Parry, they are coming for us! Come out now and help me, if you wanna live!" The moment he said it, the wardens' steps approached. They came running in terror, chased by Parry; he grinned wolfishly, stabbing at them with two sharpened metal rods -- taken from the bird cage. At their feet, the little cat darted past and away, up over the rubble that covered the staircase. Next, the canary fluttered past and up into the light. Parry stopped when he saw Abram with the gun; he grinned triumphantly at Joyce, who backed off in wide-eyed horror. "I heard the bang. How many are they?" He was suddenly sharp and alert. "Don't know, but they'll soon find us." They looked to the basement stairs: a thick layer of bricks and mortar had slid down over the steps, but there was enough room for a man to crawl between the rubble and the stairway ceiling. There were muffled thumpings and screams from the cells upstairs -- then, the faint crackling of several boots carefully walking across the rubble on the floor. The group listened breathlessly for another second -- and Parry whispered to them: "Any more firearms here?" Abram handed him the guard's revolver and the cartridges; Parry began loading it without satisfaction. "Anything explosive?" he went on. "Any sharp objects?" He held up his improvised metal-rod weapons. The warden Simon whispered, stutteringly: "All firearms were carried by the guards -- but here there's just heating oil for the boiler, some g-gasoline cans and gardening t-tools..." Simon stopped, listening. From above came the muted smattering of machine-gun fire. One by one, the screams from the remaining five patients ceased. "Quickly now," Parry whispered. "Get the gasoline, a lighter, and the fire hose. I need lots of water. Then hide in my cell!" "Come on!" Abram urged, waving his gun at the personnel.
Within fifteen seconds, Parry had received the gas cans and a lighter, and the nurses had turned on the water and rolled out the hose -- all the while watching the stairs. As Simon quickly turned up the water pressure, a round metal object bounced down the staircase. Parry, holding the hose nozzle, reacted within a moment. He leaped into the side corridor leading to his cell. The grenade exploded in a dull, flashing bang, and a puff of smoke instantly filled the basement. All ceiling lamps imploded -- followed by a wet thud when Simon was hurled past the special room and hit the boiler at the end of the basement. Parry coughed in the darkness, muttered a curse. Then, silence -- except for the sound of water trickling down from the ceiling. A dark figure crawled down the blocked stairway, feet first, and swept a flashlight beam through the smoke. The figure, a man dressed in dark-blue coveralls, cap, dark glasses, and a flak jacket, froze still. He aimed a submachine gun and his flashlight at Simon's bloody body; it lay twisted against the pipes and lockers of the boiler, grey with dust. "One dead guy here!" the man shouted toward the stairs. Another voice replied from the top of the stairs: "Check all rooms, there are some missing ones!" The man stepped toward the side corridor a few meters ahead of him. Suddenly, there was a sound from behind the corner ahead -- the man fired a quick burst from the waist -- the next second, a gasoline can swept in a burning rag was thrown at him from a point near the floor. It bounced at the wall on his right and exploded into fire and metal splinter. The explosion threw the man backward and he caught fire, screaming. He got up on his feet and threw himself like a living torch at the closest leaking water pipe -- and was struck down on his left by a high-pressure water jet from Parry's fire hose. Parry rushed out of the side corridor and drenched the burning figure in water, putting out the flames in three seconds. He aimed the jet at the fires by the stairs, while crouching down at the smoking body. He tore loose a part of his already torn sweater, and wrapped it around his hand -- and wrung loose the machine-gun which hung by a strap to the body's shoulder. The stench from the burned body made Parry's nose and eyes run. The most of the flames were put out in a few seconds, and he dropped the gushing water-hose to the wet floor. Something rustled down the stairs -- he grabbed the hot machine-gun and spun around on his knees. Another armed man slid down the rubble -- he did not quite manage to answer Parry's volley of bullets. In the stroboscopic flash from the nozzle flame, the man flickered like a figure in a silent movie -- twitched and spattered the wall behind him with blood. He toppled backward and Parry leaped to his feet. With his sooty Uzi aimed at the foot of the stairs, Parry tore at the fallen man's shoulder strap; opened it, pulled loose another Uzi and a few grenades, and added them to his arsenal. From upstairs, excited voices and running steps were approaching. Parry grabbed two grenades from the the shoulder strap, pulled the safety pins with his teeth, waited a second -- the steps were very close. He stood up, shook off the loose safety pieces from the grenades -- paused a second -- lobbed the grenades up through the stairway -- darted away. Two almost simultaneous bangs shook the basement as Parry ran to the special room that had been his cell. He threw open the visitor's door and lit the cigarette lighter: on the other side of the room, behind the glass wall, Abram, Joyce and the two others were huddling in the dark. "Everybody out," Parry ordered in a wheezing voice.
Parry was the first to crawl up from the half-buried basement -- grimy, sore, and shirtless. He squatted down in the brick-piles and coughed up dirty phlegm, breathing hard. The two grenades had blown off some rubble from the top of the staircase, and had killed three blue-clad men. Another few feet off, a giant hole was gaping through the window wall: on its opposite, the same explosion had scorched the wall. All windows were blown out, and the indoors sentry-booth had been smashed to pieces. Parry skimped over to the hole in the wall. He watched cautiously across the open place; it was quiet out there. The tripod rocket launcher was still standing over by the fence. "Come on out!" he wheezed to the others. Coughing, wearing rags wrapped around their mouths and eyes, the dirtied group crawled up one by one: Abram, Joyce, the door guard Mark, and the surviving nurse. As soon as she got to her feet, Joyce stumbled over the rubble to the open, blackened cell doors. She peered inside one of them, screamed, turned away in disgust. Parry gave her a fierce look: "Quicker and easier than lobotomy, huh?" he snapped. Joyce's round face twisted in despair; she kneeled convulsively and vomited over the fallen wall pieces. Parry gestured at the others to follow him quietly. They carefully jumped out through the breached wall and sneaked along it toward the entrance. The gravel field in front of the entrance steps was empty; glass shards cracked under their feet. The four-man group rushed on a line toward the open gates. Parry shivered in the chilly autumn air. By the sentry-booth, a blue van stood parked; it was empty. They looked in through the open booth: the guard lay dead on the floor with a bullet-hole in his head. Abram opened the rear doors of the van and checked its insides; he found a working apparatus with a miniature parabolic antenna, aimed through a small side window. Parry and the others came looking. "Jamming equipment, " Abram said. "That's why Joyce couldn't get through to the sheriff. The Company's latest stuff!" "Doc!" Parry waved him closer. "If this was the work of the Company, do you think they'd leave in the van, after waking up the entire county with all that noise?" "No, you're right. And where's the traffic gone?" Everyone could see it: the road from town was completely empty. Abram suddenly seemed struck by insight: "Parry! They must have blocked the road. And that could only mean one other escape route..." A shout from the nurse interrupted him: "Look!" The nurse was pointing to the south. From a point low in the sky a growing dot had appeared, and with it an increasing buzz; then no longer a buzz, but the staccato beating of rotorblades. Parry looked up in fear, and dashed back toward the Institute. He turned as he ran, screaming hoarsely: "FBI Blue and Kevlar Grey are the colors to wear this Fall!" Abram ran after him, followed by the door guard. Only the nurse remained, waving enthusiastically at the approaching helicopter.
Within a few minutes the big helicopter, white and unmarked, had arrived. Rotorblades thundering, it made a turn around the fenced institution area -- ignoring the waving man on the parking-lot twenty meters below. From the gash in the building, three blue-clad, armed figures jumped outside and began running on a single file toward the gates. The helicopter sank down on the parking space, whipping up big dust clouds. A door slid open in its side; the nurse ran to it. "Thank God you came!" he shouted over the noise. "Someone has attacked the --" He stopped -- one of the running blue-clad figures gunned him down from behind. Gaping, he fell forward. The man who had shot him waved at the helicopter pilot, while the aircraft's wheels touched the ground. Two other men in similar blue clothes jumped out the open slide door. The man waved at them too -- his face was hidden by a cap and sunglasses. He remained standing until the two newcomers were less than thirty feet off. The foremost of the two men began shouting at him: "Good work! Now let's get outta --" He was cut off; the waving man mowed them both down with the Uzi in his other hand, leaped over their falling bodies, scampered to the slide door and heaved himself inside. There was a cracking gunshot from the cockpit -- the windshield was perforated. The two other blue-clad figures who had been following the waving one scuttled closer, ducking down. They were: Abram and Joyce. Parry peeked out the slide door, tearing off his sunglasses. He grinned maliciously at them, shouting over the decreasing rotor noise: "I had to do it, the dumb nurse could've gotten us all killed! Does any of you know how to fly one of these?!" Joyce took off her shades, staring at him with lowered eyebrows, eyes full of hate -- she was unarmed. "I have a helicopter certificate," she said loudly. "Where are we going to go now, you mad killer?" Parry waved them on board, his exhilaration showing through the grime on his face. "We're gonna send greetings to old friends!" he yelled hoarsely. From the Institute, the door-guard came running -- he was the only one alive, who wasn't disguised in the assassins' fake uniforms.
"I used to work as a flying doctor, way up north, before I got my chair at the Institute," Joyce explained vacantly. She settled herself in the pilot seat and went over the instrument panel. Parry and Abram dragged away the dead pilot and dumped the corpse on the ground. The door-guard, supporting himself against the rear wall of the cargo cabin, stared fearfully at them. He looked up at Abram, very pale. "Are you really a CIA agent?" he asked. "No," Abram sighed, "I'm just a consultant. I write classified stuff, though." Joyce put on the pilot's headset, turning to the others with icy calm. "May I suggest, gentlemen, that we at least send out an emergency call to the state police?" "Check the radio," Parry said shortly. Joyce switched it on, tried a few frequencies. Nothing happened. She gave him a suspicious eye: "Did you..." "Didn't have to," he droned. "This death squad was so secret, they weren't even allowed to use a radio or phone." He turned serious again, pointing the Uzi at her: "Take us to the nearest radio station. I want to see what happens, if the dinosaur we awakened is stomped on its tail. Start it up!" Joyce warmed up the engines, turning her gaze out through the windshield: "This old Sikorsky is a piece of junk -- it'll never go up to top speed. But the fuel meter's adjusted for an expansion tank -- it can go very far. The WRBC station is a mile away -- we can be there in a few minutes." The rotor made a metallic cough-like sound and started to spin. "Can't you just please let me off?" the door-guard whined from the cargo cabin. Parry went back, grabbed the slide-door and began pulling it to a close. "Get out, then," he snapped. The guard stumbled out, rolling away as the chopper lifted above him.
- Parry, I see the point of the radio station. But what -- what are we going to tell them? - The truth, Doc. What else is there to say. - Nobody'll believe us. - That's not the point. The point is to spread the secret, spread it so thin they can't kill everyone who hears it. - I've sworn not to betray my country. This isn't easy for me. - Is the CIA your country? Or the people who try to kill you, are they 'America'? Are they worth dying for? You're the crazy one, not me! Ha ha... - Merde! This isn't funny! Why do you keep wisecracking all the time? - My fellow patients weren't exactly the funniest lot in the world. And when I showed signs of depression, I was sometimes treated with electric shocks. You should try laughing a little more, Doc -- pep you up for the work ahead. - Okay, okay. So how do we say it? The whole affair, straight from the beginning? Our deal? I could at least leave you out of the story. - ... - We may not have much time -- look, the radio mast. We must make a decision now, Parry! - We go for the truth, keep quiet about my part if you want to. But time's short -- I'm not sure what comes next, but I fear the worst -- so we make it really quick. If we confuse people, so much better. That'll give them something to talk about, spread the word. - Please don't start shooting again. I hate violence. - I hate violence too -- against me. Now get out!
WRBC RADIO BROADCAST STATION "...is blocked by a truck with no license plates. The fire brigade's attempts to move the vehicle are impeded, by the fact that the truck's tires have been shot -- yes, you heard it -- have been shot to pieces. The truck's driver was spotted disappearing into a blue van going east. We will continue to monitor the development of the strange events this morning..." The radio DJ, a young man with a long beard and hair reaching down over his forehead and shoulders, took a gulp from a soda can. He picked up a compact disc from a rack of numbered slots, fed it into a CD player -- all in one second -- while continuing his rapid, rhythmic monologue. "You're listening to WRBC, reaching five thousand listeners twenty-four hours a day! The time is seven-fifty, and the talk of the town is the mysterious series of explosions from the Westmoreham Institute. A white helicopter has been spotted as it flew from the place. "While we're waiting for you, good listeners, to call in your own eyewitness reports, we're playing Jerry Lee Lewis' classic 'Great Balls of Fire!'" As the music played, the phone calls stacked up on the computer monitor next to the DJ. He stretched out and sighed -- grinning. The studio technician made the thumbs-up sign on the other side of the windowpane -- and started in surprise. Suddenly, someone kicked in the door to the DJ's studio. Two dirty men barged in, armed with Uzis. Behind them came, at a much slower pace, a black woman. The DJ stared in amazement at the dirty, blue-clad intruders, and exclaimed: "What the hell is going on?" "We're straight from the Institute," Parry replied, aiming at the DJ's pot belly. "And we've got the best scoop of your life! Keep transmitting, whatever happens! Doc! Check out the technician, so he won't try to switch us off the air!" The technician reeled back when Abram came in to him -- but the DJ waved at him to stay put: "Do as he says, Brian! I want this on the air, too!" The studio technician let "Great Balls of Fire" fade out, and gestured to the DJ to start his pitch. The DJ adjusted microphone headsets onto the heads of Abram, Parry, and Joyce, and plugged them in.
- This is Mike Moorcock on WRBC, and I've got some very exciting guests here in the studio, straight from the Westmoreham Institute! Next to me sits: Dr. Joyce Oregon, medical superintendent at the Institute; Patrick Rymowicz, a former patient there and recently released; and Dr. Abram Lemercier, psychologist from Virginia, who also works as part-time consultant for the CIA. - Drop the bullshit, and let me say a few words. - Okay, Mr. Rymowicz... you're on the air! - I want to urge everyone living within ten miles' radius of the radio station, to immediately evacuate the area. This is not a joke. The entire transmission area may soon be in danger. I repeat, evacuate the area if you're within ten miles of the station. But stay tuned to this station, and spread the news. Please tape this transmission if you can. I repeat... - Patrick, let me explain the entire story behind the explosions first. Okay? - Okay, but be quick. - Mr. Moorcock, this is my CIA security clearance card. Would you please examine it, and confirm it's real? - ...yes, it seems not to be a fake. - All right then. I've been studying a patient over at the Westmoreham Institute since September -- Patrick here. While doing that, I was working on a continuous futurological study for my CIA department. Its subject is the planning of security strategies for the next century, and the report was classified -- only the President, some CIA top people, and the National Security Agency were supposed to read it. Three chapters had been delivered, before the incidents this morning interrupted my work. I was attacked, and had to escape the Institute together with the staff and a patient. All the others there were killed during the attack. I think my futurology report was the factor that led to the attack. It seems that I -- by complete coincidence -- had described certain secret arrangements which already existed, though I didn't know it by the time. When the report reached certain high officials within the National Security Council -- it includes people from the CIA, the Pentagon, and the White House -- someone, somewhere, concluded that I had an informer in the organization, or otherwise was a security risk. - What kind of secrets could it be, that -- ow! -- be careful, it might go off! Tell Red-Eyes here to calm down -- - It's okay, Patrick. Well, I don't know for sure where my speculations came too close to reality. But there was one suggestion, the "Mecca Doctrine" proposal, that was very likely to... to... - Say it, Doc. Screw "national security" -- the world has the right to know. Say it! - I... I will. The "Mecca Doctrine" proposal emanates logically from the Western World's interest in protecting the Mid-East oil production -- as was demonstrated in the Persian Gulf War. I proposed a secret, informal agreement with the military establishment of Israel: that if there would ever be an escalating conflict between Israel and the Moslem states... that they must avoid a nuclear strike against the large oil fields. As a suitable alternative for nuclear retaliation, the Kaba shrine in Mecca would be chosen instead... considering the great demoralizing effect on the Moslem population, if it was totally destroyed. My report also suggested a possible scenario, where Mecca was the first-strike target for nuclear weapons. But the entire idea depends on one condition: that our Arab allies would never, ever get to know about it. If the agreement existed, and I have no proof whatsoever of that, the consequences might be... Jesus, I shouldn't really have said this... - The truth is cruel, Doc. "They" must've been shadowing him to find his "source" -- and when they couldn't find it, they decided to eliminate all who'd even talked to him -- just to be safe. It was that kind of "death squad" that attacked the Institute. "What a senseless waste of human life!" Ha ha... - I don't find mass murder to be a laughable matter. - Forgive him, Joyce, he hasn't tasted freedom in five years. It was with the help of the Institute staff and... some of the patients, that a few of us managed to survive the assassination attempt. Now all I wish, is to stay alive long enough to reveal the dirty game I'm fed up with. There isn't time to --
A signal from the cell-phone in Abram's clothes interrupted him. He mumbled an inaudible excuse and raised himself up, dropping his headset. Parry got over to his seat and pushed a paper note in front of the DJ. "We gotta fly, but stay here and read this message every five minutes -- or we'll blow this station to pieces. Adios!" The DJ held up the paper. Scribbled down by hand, it read: IF YOU WANT TO COMPLAIN ABOUT THE CURRENT STATE OF THE NATION, PLEASE ASK FOR THESE (PARTLY) RESPONSIBLE PERSONS:
NEVILLE ANDERSON, HEAD OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL; P.S: ASK THEM HOW THEY'VE MANAGED TO REMAIN ACTIVE PAST THEIR 80TH BIRTHDAYS. The trio quickly deserted the sound-proof studio. The DJ and the technician stared dazedly at each other -- and went back to work. "Our guests were in a hurry, but they left a very strange message, which can only be heard on this station: WRBC with Mike Moorcock! To the newly arrived listeners, I can tell that..."
Police sirens were approaching. With a firm grip of Joyce's arm, Parry rushed to the exit, next to Abram. Abram slowed down next to a food cart, grabbing a coffee thermos and a few food packs. The three hurried out on the parking space, to the helicopter which stood apart from the few cars there. Joyce climbed into the cockpit, shouting desperately: "It's hopeless, I say! There is nowhere you can escape, and the fuel won't last to Canada!" She strapped herself to the pilot seat, Parry holding on to it behind her. "Do as I said anyway. If we stay here too long, we're dead," he replied hoarsely. Parry supported himself against the wall as the engines started, then moved down to the cargo cabin. Abram sat on a fold-out metal bench, hungrily eating of the stolen sandwiches. He looked up on Parry and offered him a food pack, but Parry declined: "Gimme the one you've started on instead. And for God's sake turn that thing off!" The mobile phone in Abram's clothes was still beeping incessantly, as in the radio station. Abram gave Parry his sandwich, pulled down the zipper of his flak jacket and coveralls, and got out his phone. He held one hand over his other ear -- the noise from the rotorblades was high -- cranked the phone volume up to the max, and pressed the receiving button. Parry sat down next to him. "Hello?" Abram shouted. "INCOMING CALL FROM CLASSIFIED SOURCE. USE DE-SCRAMBLING CODE THREE, SEVEN, ONE, ONE." The loud computer-voice crackled in the earpiece; Abram winced, but obeyed. An amplified, but human male voice came on: "MR. LEMERCIER, THIS IS NEVILLE ANDERSON OF THE NSA. YOUR SUPERIORS IN THE CIA HAVE ASKED ME TO TRY TALKING SENSE INTO YOU." Abram wavered on his seat, as the chopper suddenly made a lurching lift-off. He turned red with anger: "Are you trying to lecture me about being SENSIBLE?!" "COME NOW, ABRAM. YOU DO REALIZE THAT WHAT HAPPENED, WAS FOR THE SAFETY OF OUR NATION'S CHILDREN?" "What else have you been doing to preserve national security?! Creating a decoy organization called the CIA, perhaps?!" "LISTEN, ABRAM. IF YOU JUST REVEAL WHO GAVE YOU THE INFORMATION, WE LET YOU GO FREE. THAT'S ALL WE'RE ASKING FOR." "If only you knew... ha ha ha!" "WHO? IS IT ONE OF US?" "First I want a few answers in return!" "SPEAK." "What kind of muscle does your group have?!" "I THINK YOU JUST SURVIVED A FRACTION OF IT. QUITE IMPRESSIVE, ACTUALLY. BUT WE'VE GOT YOU PINNED LIKE A FLY ON THE WALL." "Can you control parts of the national defense too?" "ONLY THE PARTS THAT REALLY MATTER." "How did you manage to make such long careers?" "BY STICKING TOGETHER AND ELIMINATING THE COMPETITION. THERE ARE SO MANY WAYS." "But what'll you do when you grow too old?" "WE'VE ALREADY BOUGHT DECADES TO OUR LIFE SPANS. SENILITY, HEART DISEASE, IMMUNE DEFIENCIES, IMPOTENCE... THERE'S A CURE FOR EVERYTHING NOWADAYS, IF YOU CAN PAY. DID YOU KNOW SOME DOCTORS USE ABORTION WASTE AND STOLEN GLANDS FROM THE THIRD WORLD, AS RAW MATERIALS FOR SOME TREATMENTS? AMAZING." "So you're not giving up what you've started?" "WE REMAIN LOYAL TO OUR NATION'S BEST INTERESTS... UNLIKE TRAITORS SUCH AS YOU. DO YOU REALIZE THE DAMAGE YOU'VE DONE?" Abram covered the phone receiver and said into Parry's ear: "You were right. There may be a Mecca Doctrine or a secret organization, in some form or another! I'll try to bluff them that I know." He spoke into the receiver again: "Whose idea was this 'Nuke Mecca' plan?" "THAT DOESN'T MATTER NOW, THE POINT IS THAT THESE PLANS SHOULDN'T NORMALLY LEAK FROM OUR NETWORK. AND DON'T BELIEVE WE CAN INFLUENCE EVERYTHING THE GOVERNMENT OR THE PENTAGON DOES. PRESIDENT NIXON, FOR INSTANCE, CAUSED US MANY PROBLEMS." "Does the current President know about the existence of your network?" "YOU'RE FISHING TOO DEEP, ABRAM. YOU DON'T REALLY WANT TO KNOW THAT." "Goodbye then!" "WAIT! WE PLEDGED LOYALTY TO PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT... AND NO ONE AFTER HIM. WE HAVE, WITH MORE OR LESS SUCCESS, TRIED TO ADMINISTER HIS TESTAMENT." "What testament?!" "THE NUCLEAR BOMB, AND THE STRUGGLE AGAINST AMERICA'S ENEMIES. EVEN A TRAITOR LIKE YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO UNDERSTAND THAT." "Roosevelt's dead! Communism is dead! You already have won the struggle, can't you see? If the Russians get to know this..." "YOU'VE GOT IT ALL WRONG. IT'S THE RUSSIANS WHO KNOW OF OUR EXISTENCE, NOT THE PRESIDENT -- NOR ANY PRESIDENT AFTER ROOSEVELT." "What?!" "AMERICA'S ENEMIES WERE AND ARE EVIL. THEY ONLY UNDERSTAND THE ULTIMATE THREAT. WE CALL OUR STRATEGY 'REXICIDE'. IF AMERICA IS REALLY THREATENED, WE KILL THE PRESIDENT AND PUT THE BLAME ON THE ENEMY. WITH SUCH A POSSIBILITY, NO ENEMY ON EARTH GOES SAFE FOR NUCLEAR RETALIATION. ONLY OUR MOST POWERFUL ENEMIES KNOW ABOUT IT, AND THEY KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF THEY TRY TO EXPOSE US." "I don't believe y--!" Abram's voice faltered. Parry handed him the thermos; he took a gulp of the hot beverage, grimaced and turned red, dropping the hot thermos on the floor at his feet. "HELLO! ARE YOU STILL THERE?" Abram's eyes started to water as he spoke: "Yes, I'm here! Prove to me that you're telling the truth!" The enhanced voice made a pause for about five seconds, then returned: "THERE'S NO TIME FOR THAT NOW. BUT I CAN SAY THIS MUCH: AFTER THE BAY OF PIGS FIASCO WHICH WE DIDN'T SUPPORT, AND THE CUBAN MISSILE CRISIS, WE HAD TO SHOW THE RUSSIANS WE WEREN'T BLUFFING. THEY STARTED TO BELIEVE WE WERE GETTING WEAK. AFTER OUR DEMONSTRATION OF POWER IN 1963, THEY NEVER DARED TO CHALLENGE US AGAIN." Abram's eyes didn't water anymore -- he was weeping: "You're lying, you bastard! Not him -- you couldn't have killed him!" "QUICKLY NOW, BEFORE I HAVE TO CUT YOU OFF. WHO IS YOUR SOURCE? IS IT WADE?" The voice was very upset now. Abram grinned joylessly, and exchanged an -- insane? -- glance with Parry. He nodded silently. Abram said loudly: "There's an inner circle, Anderson! I didn't get to know their names, but I know they're gonna try a coup, very soon! Perhaps in connection with this affair they paid me to create with my report! There's two or three of you, against the others! Will you let me go now?" The voice in the phone was dead silent for a long moment, then snapped: "DON'T BE RIDICULOUS, LEMERCIER. GOODBYE." Disconnection. Parry, who had been eavesdropping, backed away. Abram dropped the phone on the bench, burying his head in his hands. His body made a slight shudder of exhaustion as he sighed deeply, and exhaled. Parry moved over to the right side-door window; from that point he could see the curving fields stretch out to the south. Dark plow-furroughs and yellow grass formed a patchwork, interspersed with orange rows of trees. Beyond that, hills and forests. He stood there watching for a minute, then moved towards the cockpit. "Let's check out the skies," he said, and there was worry in his face.
They squeezed in on both sides of Joyce's seat and gazed out through the windshield plates. The bullet-hole in the glass had been patched up with some Plastic Padding, but the cracks partly obscured the view ahead. Parry put on his sunglasses again, asking: "Speed and altitude?" "200 kilometers per hour, about 300 feet up," Joyce replied. Parry suddenly stiffened, seeking with his eyes for something above the helicopter. He pointed up above the sun: "There! See those vapor trails?" Abram felt in his coverall pockets; Parry handed him his own shades and Abram put them on top his eyeglasses. High up in the sky, four white trails shone from a barely discernible aircraft with long V-shaped wings. Abram said: "Could it be a B-52..? There's an airforce base further south. You think they'll bomb the radio station?" "Or worse. We gotta go higher up, fast!" The twitches under Parry's eyes had returned. Joyce jerked her head his way; the sunglasses hid her eyes, but the corners of her lips were drawn down. "I could try going up to a thousand feet or more, but we'll lose speed." She slowly pulled the helm closer to her. The helicopter's engines whined as they strained under the abrupt rise into thinner air. They waited; the minutes crawled by. Parry watched the altitude meter until it showed 2300 feet; he put a hand on Joyce's shoulder. "Joyce," he said, "keep the shades on. Be prepared for a powerful flash of light: whatever you do, cover your eyes when it comes. Then be ready for heavy turbulence. We'll go astern and strap in." He gave her shoulder a pat and the two men left the cockpit. They placed themselves into the seats and put on the safety belts. Parry got his sunglasses back; Abram shadowed his eyes with his hands. Abram grabbed his mobile phone, mumbling a curse. "What is it?" Parry asked. "There was this woman... I met her in Westmoreham before I finished the report... we spent the night together... she might be in danger too, since she talked to me. She gave me her number..." "If you call her, they'll trace the call to her for sure." "I know! Or she might already be..." He grasped the phone so hard his knuckles went white. Then he dialed Annie's number. There came two signals. Three. Then: "Hi! You've come to Annie Collett. I'm not at home right now, but if you leave your number and a message after the signal, I'll call you back. Bye!" "Perhaps she heard our warning on the radio," Abram said to himself. "Perhaps she made it out of town." Then, folding his hands and looking down: "Patrick, perhaps we're as good as dead. If... if you die and I live, is there anyone you'd want me to inform afterwards?" Parry looked -- not stared -- at the tired, filthy, long-haired old man in the coverall next to him. He gazed into thin air, and said: "No. My parents died years ago -- their estate financed much of my time at the Institute. And I lost touch with my relatives long before that." Abram's forehead wrinkled; he looked in sad amazement at Parry. "No loved ones? No friends? Not even a teaching colleague or student you once knew?" Parry shook his head, still gazing at nothing. Abram's head sank down again. Parry lowered his gaze, and asked calmly: "Is there anyone who should be informed if you die?" "Yes..." He shook his head quickly. "No. The CIA? Intelligence people never become real friends. I can't trust any of them now. My wife died seven years ago. No children. "And I can't risk letting my dear relatives in Canada get involved, so they mustn't know anything. There was that woman in Westmoreham... but I never got the time to really know her. Maybe they killed her too." They said nothing for a little while, only the rotorblades and their breath sounding. Parry, still wearing his sunglasses, turned to Abram. "Abram?" The psychologist grunted. "Abram, you're the only person I ever dared to trust during all those five years." The old man's head shot up: Parry's eyes were hidden to him, but his face appeared solemn, almost softer. Without his usual nervous jerkiness of movement, Parry offered him his right hand. Abram shook it with a slight smile on his face. "Thanks for your help, Patrick. I don't blame you for anything." "Thanks yourself, Doc." They let go of each others' hands and crouched down, Abram shielding his eyes. One second passed. Two seconds. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. And the next second, one could have believed the sun was crashing down upon the earth behind them.
From somewhere behind the helicopter, an intense light burned in through the side windows -- turning every smooth surface in the cabin into a miniature sun. A moment later, the light from outside receded into a pulsating, yellowish floodlight. After an indefinite passage of time, Abram moved his hands from his eyes and peeked up. Suddenly, the shockwave hit the helicopter. A distant, immensely vibrant thunder suffused the air. The aircraft heaved forward -- the wind wailing with sudden force as it tore at the side doors. Abram and Parry were jerked forward, then recoiled as the safety belts held them in place. They had their hands behind their necks, and Abram groaned with pain as his hands slammed into the wall behind him. The helicopter dropped, began to level off, then wavered uneasily for a few seconds before it stabilized. Parry wriggled out of his two-point belt, and hurried up to the cockpit. Joyce, wearing a cap and sunglasses, sat sweaty and trembling at the controls. She twitched when Parry entered. "Can we make it down?" he asked nervously. "I... think so," Joyce said; her voice was weak and slow. "Was it really an... atomic bomb that went off behind us? I'll make a full turn so we can see... okay?" He nodded. She turned the vehicle in a wide arch. Abram entered the cockpit just in time to see what they had left behind. They said nothing -- held their breath -- barely blinked at the sight: A few miles away, a glowing mushroom-cloud was rising up from the horizon where once Westmoreham had been. Smoke from numerous fires began to billow up from the ground, several miles away from ground zero; further out, enormous dust clouds were being stirred up from the fields. The helicopter swung back and the destruction disappeared from view; ahead of it lay the blue, distant hills and mountains, and the increasingly clouded sky. "I just can't understand it yet," Joyce said to no one in particular. "I'll take us as far as the fuel will last, then I don't know." "Fine," Parry answered, "but don't land near any city. We're not nearly out of danger yet." He turned to leave -- when Joyce stretched back and grabbed his arm. He froze; tears were streaming down from under her sunglasses. "Stay with me. Please." They both stayed.
When the helicopter went down to land several hours later, the sun was beginning to set into a deep-red dusk. Up above, heavy cloud masses were stacking -- their edges lit red from the west. Using a searchlight, the aircraft lowered itself unsteadily onto a narrow gravel path, between a pitch-dark field and a cluster of naked trees. The helicopter's lights went dark, the engines fell silent, the thunder of the rotorblades receded into a hissing. Three dark figures exited the vehicle, and ducked down into the ditch by the field's edge. They peeked up through the dry grass, scanning the darkening landscape: far off south, a river reflected the light from scattered houses. Closer lay just the light from a handful of houses; one or two fields, and the forested hills. "Could that be Spokane, down to the south?" Abram asked. "Impossible, we're much further east," Joyce said. "Probably just a small town. We can't stay here, we'll freeze to death." "I won't drop my Uzi -- we're not safe yet," Parry said. Abram whispered: "Okay. Hide the weapons in your clothes, and we'll get to the nearest house. We'll say that we were taking flying lessons, when we were surprised by the blast. First of all, we ought to get more fuel to the chopper. Then maybe we can get to Canada. Otherwise, a car is the top priority. "But we don't hurt or threaten anybody, 'cause that would only make our case look worse. Okay?" Parry mumbled his reluctant consent. They hid the Uzis inside their coveralls and left the ditch, condensed air steaming from their faces. When they had walked about fifty meters south along the gravel path, they came to a wider, dark asphalt road. Two car headlights suddenly beamed from behind a grove, close to the group. "Just act like you need help," Abram told them. "Let me do the talking." He rushed up onto the middle of the road and waved at the car to stop. A powerful pickup truck with an empty platform roared past Abram, braked, then backed. He strode over to the edge of the road, still waving with one hand; the other he kept close to the zipper of his collar. The truck's left side-window was wound open; a skinny old man in a hunter's cap poked out his head, giving Abram's features a sour look. The driver opened his mouth -- full of all too white falseteeth -- and barked: "Whatever happened to you, son?!" Abram gave him an embarrassed, half-desperate smile: "Me and a friend just made an emergency landing with a helicopter. We were taking flying lessons far, far away from here. There was a terrible explosion, and we were forced to fly over here... we must call for help, but my phone is broken..." The driver loudly interrupted Abram's fast speech: "I drove here when I heard your helicopter going down. Jump up on the platform, and I'll take you to the sheriff!" Abram hesitated an instant, then waved at the others who came up from the roadside and climbed onto the platform. They clung close together behind the driver's cab; the truck quickly took off on the dark road. Abram leaned close to Parry and said in his ear: "He's driving us to the sheriff and I couldn't object, it would only have made him suspicious. Just stay calm and let me explain things." Joyce, Abram, and Parry all began to shiver, and huddled closer together in the cold draft. "You're beginning to lose control again, Doc," Parry said angrily. "What if they've sent out a bulletin about us? We were on the radio this morning," he said between the chattering of his teeth. "The WRBC doesn't reach this far," Joyce stuttered. "And a nuclear explosion should knock out parts of the phone system -- just like your phone ceased to work, Abram." Abram pulled up his collar a little higher, restlessly peering at the landscape sweeping past them. It was almost night now, and the land was black. "Okay," he said tensely, "we don't know what to expect. I'm just begging you, Parry: stay calm until we know for sure what's happened today. In the worst case, we'll only be forced to tell the truth, _n'est-ce pas_?" Nobody laughed, and they pressed closer together. After a few minutes' travel, they came to a more densely populated area with scattered houses. The truck passed a sign saying ROSANDA COUNTY -- SHERIFF'S OFFICE 200 FEET. A few houses later, they turned in on a wide driveway lit by floodlights. The driveway lay in front of a two-story brick house with the sign ROSANDA SHERIFF'S OFFICE -- MUNICIPAL HALL. The driver stopped the truck, stepped out and urged the three passengers to follow him inside. With Abram walking first after the man, they went through the bright glass-door entrance into the shiny white reception. The skinny old man, wearing a padded leather coat and boots, took off his hunting-cap and waved it, smiling, at the young woman behind the reception counter. "Good evening, Trish," he shouted in his loud old man's voice, "is the sheriff in?" "Hi Pete!" she shouted in a friendly tone, the way one does to a person with hearing problems. She leaned across the counter, saw the three figures behind him, and quickly picked up the phone: "Pete just came in, with three people who seem to have arrived from a war. Yes. Yes. No. Okay." She hung up and smiled at them. "The sheriff will soon come to help you. Wouldn't you like to sit down while you wait?" She gestured at the couch on the other side of the reception. The three, and the man called Pete, went quietly over and sat down. Parry called urgently to the receptionist: "Miss --" She sat up, worried. Parry asked gravely: "Is there a TV here? We've got to see the news." The girl smiled apologetically, and reached up at the large monitor hanging in the ceiling next to her. She turned it in their direction, switched it on and asked: "What channel?" "CNN," Parry replied quickly. She pressed the channel number, and a newscaster appeared on the screen: "...is on its way to the site and will soon bring you pictures of the disaster." Everyone in the reception stared at the screen: Parry, Abram, Joyce, the receptionist and Pete. Behind the newscaster was the image of a mushroom cloud and the headline NUCLEAR DISASTER IN THE U.S.? "Today's big news is the mysterious nuclear explosion that occurred in Westmoreham County, southeast Washington State. All phone and radio communications with the small town are cut off, and contradictory testimonies arrived just before and after the accident. Many escaped witnesses have quoted a warning that was transmitted from the local radio station, minutes before the blast, and an obscure message which suggested a terrorist act. "Other witnesses have claimed that a B-52 bomber plane was flying over the area just before the explosion. The Pentagon has so far refused to give any comments on the situation." The newscaster stopped, appeared to read something from the teleprompter, then cleared his throat and continued: "We've just received news that our flying reporter from Seattle has reached the outer parts of the disaster area. Over to Barbara Wahn, Westmoreham." The broadcast cut to a plain in deep-red dusk, shot from at least 300 feet up with a moving videocamera. Deep below, glowing smoke columns rose from a gigantic, elliptic firezone in the background. Over the rotorblade noise, an emotional female voice began to speak: "This is Barbara Wahn, live from Westmoreham County. The burning area you see over there... somewhere in the middle, the fire is several miles wide... is all that remains of a small town with about four thousand inhabitants. I... I can't describe it in words. The National Guard has troops ready to enter in radiation suits, but firestorms are still raging and making it too dangerous to send in rescue patrols. "Right now, fire-brigades from the entire state are being mobilized to try and limit the spreading of the fires. Rain is in the air, and the public in neighboring regions should not go outside with the risk of radioactive fallout and..." The female voice cracked into an uncontrolled sobbing, a hand waved in front of the camera. The sobbing voice shouted: "Cut! Cut!" The newscaster came into view again, looking a bit shaken. He went on, slower than before. "We've just received an unconfirmed statement from a Pentagon source: this morning, a highly placed Air Force officer ordered a B-52 bomber to fly over Westmoreham on what was assumed to be a training mission with non-armed bombs. An incorrect order was given, and an armed atomic bomb was dropped by mistake. The officer responsible for the faulty order, a certain General Joshua Quaid..." "No! Jerks!" Parry said out loud. "...assistant chief of the Strategic Air Command, did today commit suicide according to the same Pentagon source. "The White House has so far declined to comment upon the events. A spokesman for the White House Public Relations Department promised that the President will hold a press conference as soon as he, quote, 'has got a clear picture of the actual scope of the event.'" A phone rang and the receptionist answered, more calls blinking on her relay board, lining up on her monitor. Pete folded his hands, mumbling a soundless prayer as his eyes remained fixed on the screen. Joyce sat weeping silently. Abram whispered to Parry: "I don't get it. Did Wade really kill himself after giving that order? That would rob the others of their most important tool of power." "We don't know if it was suicide," Parry whispered. "Perhaps they finally tried to finish each other off, because of that lie you told Neville Anderson." "That was just a cheap trick," answered Abram. "Should I have told him the truth, that such a well-guarded secret was revealed by a mental patient?" Parry frowned, raising his voice a little: "No, they wouldn't buy that. But I think you got them to seriously start mistrusting each other -- it was probably just a matter of time anyway, after decades of secrecy. I think Wade committed suicide to prevent the others from doing the 'coup' you lied about; to break their power to use the Bomb." "But the bombing? He couldn't have decided that on his own." "No," Parry consented, "we don't know exactly who agreed on the bombing, but we could assume that at least Wade and Neville Anderson did. The decision to attack American territory must have disrupted their unity, and their strategy broke down..." Then Parry's face lit up: "We've won, Doc! If the other four would try to assassinate the President now, the 'Rexicide' strategy wouldn't work. All the attention on Wade must have awakened the President, and any attempt on his life now would only increase their exposure. If only we'd got through the list of names which should've been read on WRBC -- then the whole affair would soon be over." They looked up at the TV screen again: some word from a newscaster had caught their ears. "...a recording of the message that was read on the local radio channel, just before the explosion." Abram and Parry held their breath; a noisy tape recording with odd snapping disturbances -- radiation damage? -- was played on the news program. "...if you want to complain about the current state of the nation, please ask for these partly responsible persons. "Neville Anderson, head of the National Security Council; Colmer Raymond, advisor to the Secretary of State; Pete Stanton, Deputy CIA chief; Harold Ulmgard, Pentagon Intelligence officer; and Joshua WaDZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ --" Parry jerked to his feet, waving his fists: "Yes! Got'em! We made it, Doc!" He stopped dead, his head turning toward an inner door. The sheriff and two deputies had just arrived into the reception. They, Abram, Joyce, the receptionist, and Pete stared at him. "Concealed weapon!" one deputy screamed, pointing at the suspicious bulge in the belly of Parry's bloodied coveralls -- fully visible. The loose Velcro straps of Parry's flak jacket had opened up when he had leaped up from the couch. Parry's face hardened -- he instantly pulled down the zipper of his coveralls, reaching for the Uzi or a grenade -- the receptionist screamed and ducked down -- and he was immediately gunned down by the sheriff and his assistants. They had drawn their revolvers in an instant. He was hit in the chest and his right arm -- the impact threw him backward. Grimacing, he fell on his back. Abram made a move toward him, but stopped. The sheriff shouted rapidly at Abram, aiming at his head: "Freeze! You two -- put your hands behind your heads!" Desperately looking at Parry, who lay writhing on the floor, Abram obeyed the order. "You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent..." The deputies quickly searched Abram and Joyce, and took Abram's Uzi and Beretta. The sheriff took a knife, and cut loose Parry's bloodied gun and grenades from his strap. He handed them to the other deputy. "Trish!" He threw a glance at the counter; the terrified receptionist's head peeked up. "Call Dr. Jameson and the hospital for an ambulance. Critical gunshot wounds." She picked up the phone. The other deputy kneeled over Parry, unpacking some First Aid. He opened up the coveralls. Blood was streaming across Parry's chest; his breathing was forced and wheezing. "Abram," Parry said in a faint voice. Abram ignored the first deputy's gun and kneeled down next to Parry's head. "Closer," Parry mumbled. With Abram's ear almost touching his cheek, he muttered: "Giordano Bruno... a student... taped my lectures. He told me... final lecture... hidden inside staircase to his L.A. apartment. The power behind the power... I just scraped the surface... you see? You must continue my work." Abram lifted his head, looking helplessly down on Parry's white face: Parry's eyes were half-shut, but under the eyelids his eyes were flickering about as wildly as before, with the old hunted expression. His pupils stopped and focused on Abram's face -- and he showed his teeth in a final wolf grin. "Y'think you broke me," he said calmly. "But now I see you..." His grin contracted a little; his eyes went still. The deputy felt the man's throat for a pulse and said: "He's dead." Pete held his cap to his chest and made the sign of the cross. "Sorry about that," the sheriff said, "but he gave us no choice. As soon as Trish told you that Pete had brought the three of you here, we connected you to the A.P.B. on the three terrorist suspects from Westmoreham." "I'm not a terrorist," Joyce objected sourly -- her tears had ceased. "It was those two who took me hostage, after we'd been attacked by CIA agents or --" she stopped abruptly, looking down on Parry's dead body. "What'll happen to us now?" Abram said with a resigned face. "That's not my decision," the sheriff stated. "The A.P.B. on you is a federal matter, so we're turning you over to the FBI." He lowered his gun, looking questioningly at Parry's corpse; then at Abram's grimy, lined face. "How about some explanations?" The sheriff, a homely-looking man in his thirties, scratched his temple and squinted as if thinking hard. "I mean, what's all this nonsense about CIA agents? It was your helicopter we heard landing, wasn't it? Why were you carrying that arsenal, and what've you got to do with the A-bomb over Westmoreham? And who was he, by the way?" He nodded in the direction of the corpse on the reception floor. Abram looked into the ceiling, expressionless: "That was..." -- he appeared to be talking to someone else -- "a life wasted in the pursuit of the unattainable." He turned to Joyce. "There won't be any report," he told her.
THE PENTAGON The room was windowless, very quiet, and very dark, except for the couch which Abram lay tied to; a small lamp was shining in his face. There were several figures sitting in the shadows around him, and a man with a cart standing next to him. The cart contained an active tape recorder, and some medical equipment including syringes and tiny injection dosage bottles. The man turned off the recorder, and there came a voice from the shadows: "How do you feel, Abram?" Abram looked dazedly up above him, his eyes unfocused, and slurred: "Like shit, thank you. Your truth-serum is way better than the pot we used to smoke when I was young." He giggled, then fell silent. "So," the voice resumed, "you've told us a fascinating story; and the tape of that mad teacher's lectures you were carrying, makes your story credible. It seems you've helped us remove a problem in the administration. "That secret intelligence ring was a very big potential threat, as they showed when they panicked and nuked American ground. We're happy to be rid of them, and our enemies too, of course. But you've given us a lot of trouble. "We can't cover up this affair completely, since you went public with the name list... but luckily enough, most ordinary people won't understand its significance anyway. The conspirators have either killed themselves or vanished -- well, that makes it easier to cover up the whole truth. We can't even put you on trial for high treason, since that would alert our Arab allies to the reality of the 'Mecca Doctrine'. "So what should we do about you, Abram? You're the only living witness who has a clue to this carnage -- we can let that woman go free, because she already half believes you to be a raving lunatic. She'll be easy to convince to keep quiet. But you, Abram, you're unreliable. We can't have CIA employees running around telling the public things they shouldn't hear. Abram giggled again, saying in a thick voice: "Okay, mes amis, la comedie est fini. What'll it be? A bullet in the head, a false suicide note? A one-way ticket to a mental asylum, and a quick lobotomy?" He began singing to himself like a drunken man: "They're coming t'take me away, ha-ha, They're coming t'take me away, ho-ho, hi-hi, ha-ha..." "Shut up, you goddamn idiot," another voice from the shadows snapped. "I say we get rid of the traitor." The man next to Abram cried hush: "He's still a bit drugged, please don't disturb his recovery." The first voice responded: "You see, Abram? Even among my own, there are those who wish to eliminate you on the double. But I don't want that. Because your story impressed me. You have a special talent for dealing with people, gaining their trust -- they confide in you without being paid money. We can't allow such talent to be wasted." The man behind the voice rose from his chair, went closer to Abram's couch -- keeping his face in the shadow. "So this is what we do: we see that you forget what needs to be forgotten, get you fired from the CIA, and your university; we let you go. Take a long vacation. Visit your relatives in Canada. You need to relax. "But we'll be keeping an eye on you all the time. If you break down, develop a drinking problem, destroy yourself -- then we won't lift a finger to help you. If you reveal the truth to anyone, we eliminate you. We let you live -- for later use. Whenever we may need your special talents, we'll fetch you. And you'd better be grateful, Abram. You'd better be." Abram was silent for a long while. Finally he replied, partly in French: "D'accord, okay, sale connes, I'm infinitely grateful. Now let me loose, before I piss myself."
EASTON UNIVERSITY Abram woke up with a faint, frightened yelp. His gaze flickered about his cramped office: bookshelves, a cluttered desk, a chair, and a view of the campus from the window. The old wall-clock sounded a delicate ting-ting signal; it was two in the afternoon, local time. A knocking came from the door, a pause, then another knocking. Abram pushed away the blanket which covered his body. He sat up on the couch -- still dressed in a shirt and slacks -- found his shoes, and put them on. The knocking on the door intensified. With a prolonged groan, he rose to his feet and lurched to the door. When he opened, Abram faced a grave middle-aged man in a conservative suit and a wool muffler around his neck. Abram squinted, pulling back his unruly scalp hair. "Abram?" said the visitor. "Good morning, Steve. Long time no see," Abram muttered in a cracked voice, and let the man inside. "Yes, long time indeed," the man said with a contemptuous sniff, as he scanned the room. He had a soft, slightly bloated face and body, but hard glassy eyes. "Did I wake you?" Abram adjusted his eyeglasses -- he had slept with them on -- and searched among his things for something, while talking: "I suppose you've heard what happened at the place where I was studying that patient?" Steve frowned: "Yes, it's all over the news now. God, a bomb dropped on a small town. Terrible story... I understand you were tired after that. How did you... I mean, were you anywhere close to the... explosion?" "I don't want to talk about it." He opened a drawer and pulled out a table phone, connecting it to the wall socket. "Any messages for me while I've been away?" Abram sat down at the desk and dialed the number to Annie. There was no answer. "Did you lose your cellular phone in... in Westmoreham?" Abram grunted distractedly, ignoring him. He dug through his paper and book piles for a moment, then looked up at Steve. "You haven't got a phone book, do you? I've lost my entire list of numbers and addresses." Steve sniffed and said: "Abram, I understand this isn't the right time to challenge your victimization. But we have to have a serious talk about your work here. Two FBI persons were here yesterday, asking questions about you." Abram's eyes met Steve's hard, glassy ones -- and he said, with a feral grin: "Spare me the politically correct bullshit. You can't fire me, Steve -- I quit." "I didn't mean to --" "Yes, you did. Ask the janitor to carry in some empty boxes for my books. I'll hand in my resignation today." Steve held up a hand to stop Abram's pacing around the chamber. Abram halted, tired irritation written all over his features. "Please, Abram; I'm not just the principal. I'm also your colleague and friend since many years. I know you're going through some hard times, so if you'd just sit down and talk to me --" "You know, Steve: those cold fish-eyes of yours always did betray you. Now leave me alone before I kick you out. This office is mine until I hand in the resignation." The principal's face went purple, and his mouth tightened to a thin line. Without a word, he left the office. Abram went back to his desk, and made a call. "New York Post, may I help you?" "Is Kris Silverstein in? Tell him it's 'Old Merlin.'" In a second, a man with a Brooklyn accent answered: "'Old Merlin'"? How are you, it's been a long time!" "I'm okay. Kris... 'my old mother is in the room, and she's eager to listen in'. What should I tell her?" "That I'm doing just fine, and 'your old mother shouldn't worry about me.' Okay, is there anything you'd like us to meet and talk about?" "No, wouldn't make much difference now. Look -- I need to find someone, and I don't think the authorities will be of any help. Could you give me a clue to what to do?" "Where was the last place you saw this person?" "Westmoreham." "Oy gevalt! That place is a mess -- the body count has hardly begun yet. Is it a close relation? A disaster eyewitness?" "This is no cover story, Kris. It's personal." "Sorry. But I think I know what to do. Listen..."
SPOKANE AIRPORT, WASHINGTON STATE "Where can I find Annie Two Heads Collett?" "Let me look it up, sir." The WAC second lieutenant worked the keyboard of her portable computer, and found the name on the list: "Here she is, sir. Row M, bed 418." "Thanks." Abram paced across the huge, clear-lit aircraft hangar, now converted into a temporary assembly camp for hundreds of civilians. Rows upon rows of tent-beds were covering the floor, with canteens, portable lavatories, showers, and wide hospital tents in the corners; all marked as U.S. ARMY property. He pushed his way past scores of other people of all ages, all searching restlessly with their eyes, calling someone's name. Some children were lying on the beds, quietly waiting, some were reunited with adults -- some sat alone, crying aloud or in silence. More female soldiers dashed around, some sitting down to comfort a lonely child, aged man, or woman. The noise of shouted names echoed through the spacious hangar: "Edward! Edward?" "Susie? Susie!" "Norton! We're here!" "Joe!" "Loretta... Loretta!" "Bettie Ann! Eve! Bettie Ann! Eve? Eve?" "Wave if you can see us!" It took him a couple of minutes to find the bed; it was empty, but used. He sat down on it and waited, watching the area. After a while, he checked his electronic wristwatch. It had ceased to work. "Damn electromagnetic pulse," Abram muttered. He ripped off the watch and tossed it away. Another few minutes were spent waiting. Then he took a pen and notepad from his coat pocket, and wrote:
ANNIE, I WAS HERE LOOKING BUT COULDN'T FIND YOU. PLEASE WAIT HERE UNTIL I RETURN, OR CALL SILVERSTEIN AT THE NEW YORK POST, AND ASK FOR "OLD MERLIN". He added the phone number, folded the note and put it on the pillow. As he turned to leave... "Abram!!" Annie's scream made him start up, diving into the crowd. Annie pushed her way forth and rushed into his arms; almost instantly, she began to cry, clinging to him as he rocked her slightly. After a minute, she managed to speak in clipped sentences: "I heard you and the madman on the radio -- I was on my way home from a nightshift in Spokane -- I turned the car and drove back -- and then a while later I heard the explosion far away -- I learned what'd happened -- the entire town was destroyed and everyone there was killed! Why, why, Abram? What did you have to do with it?" Her voice broke as she started to cry again. He kissed her face, mumbling: "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... I must explain, but it's dangerous for you to know... come, sit down and let's talk." They sat on her bed, Abram holding her as he spoke. He told her little, but enough. When he had finished explaining, Annie was silent. She suddenly said in a calm, strong voice: "You must help me find the men who did this, Abram. You must make sure that they are all dead or punished. They killed my friends, killed my home." She stared into his eyes. Hers were red and shiny, but fierce and alive with determination. "I won't leave you until you do. You hear me?" He nodded slightly, grasping her hands. "I swear, Annie. I swear." He helped her to her feet. "Are you staying here any longer?" he asked. "To wait and see if any people you know should arrive here?" "Yes," she said, wiping her eyes. "Good. I must go looking for some friends myself, then we'll meet soon and decide what to do. I will be forced to leave the country for a while." He took the note from the pillow and pressed it into her palm. "I'll come back for you." Again, he left her.
MAYWOOD Giordano Bruno's apartment had been reduced a blackened, burnt-out brick shell; most of the two-story block of flats was relatively unharmed. The staircase leading up to the apartment was blocked by police line tape. Abram walked from the taxicab to the parking-lot next to the ruin. It was a clear, sunny day; he was dressed in his hat, bermuda shorts and a pastel-yellow shirt. He put his briefcase down by his feet and checked his new wristwatch: 12:54 PM. He sat down on the stiff briefcase, relaxing his body and hairy, pale legs. He watched people, traffic, and airplanes passing by. Eventually, another taxicab stopped nearby. A fat old man wearing hat, shirt, and slacks stepped out and waved at Abram. It was Kip O'Neill. Abram stood up, watching him with wary, emotionless eyes as he half-ran down the sloping sidewalk; Kip was red-faced and sweating heavily. They met; Kip shook Abram's hand with both his hands. "Thank you for warning me that day, Abram!" he said, his gritty voice full of emotion. "I let a security firm check our house in Washington, and it turned out our phones were bugged! Me and Rhoda managed to hide out in a motel -- just before someone fire-bombed our house. When they bombed Westmoreham, I thought you were dead!" He laughed so that his cheek-pouches shook -- but Abram showed no reaction. Kip's eyes seemed worried behind thick eyeglasses. "Abram... you're not thinking that I knew anything? I know I left you in a conspicuous manner when we first met, but I can explain that. The day we were about to meet, I got an anonymous call from some CIA guy; and he warned me to keep my ears and mouth shut, or they'd see that I was put on trial. Somehow they'd found out that we used to talk about secret things, and I got scared... When you warned me later, I saw the danger and took action." Suddenly, Abram smiled. He patted Kip's shoulder. "It's okay," he said in a warm voice, "I believe you." Kip laughed again, relieved, and gave Abram a friendly hug. "Now tell me, Abe. Why were we supposed to meet here?" "Come." Abram looked cautiously about him while they crossed the parking space, and came to Giordano Bruno's ruined apartment. Abram moved into the shadow under the concrete staircase -- which was intact -- and opened his briefcase. While Kip acted as lookout, he pulled out a flashlight and surveyed the flat underside of the stairs. He found nothing further up, and kneeled carefully down on the sooty asphalt. He searched the crack between the ground and the stairs. Soon, he found a brighter spot where concrete had been poured on and carefully smoothed out. He picked up a shiny new hammer and chisel from the case, and started picking around the edges of the spot. The surface of the filling cracked open after a few hits: behind it lay a package the size of a palm, wrapped in several layers of plastic bags and sellotape. Abram freed the package from the niche, brushed off concrete remains -- then he hastily shoved it and the tools into his briefcase, and went back to the sidewalk. Kip followed, confused. They waited another few minutes, until a four-door Volvo sedan stopped on the street next to them. Annie was behind the wheel, dressed in a T-shirt and a skirt that showed her powerful legs. Abram opened the back door and jumped inside before Kip. As Kip shut the door behind them, Annie stepped on the gas and dived in between two cars ahead on the road. The lunch rush was in progress, and the traffic was dense. Annie gave Abram and Kip a brief glance over her shoulder. "Annie Collett," she said briefly. "You must be O'Neill." "I don't think we've met before, Miss Collett," Kip said in a friendly voice -- and threw a knowing smile in Abram's direction. "No. Abram and I met in Westmoreham, just five days before --" Her voice faltered. She picked up a newspaper from and tossed it at them: the newsstand edition of USA TODAY. "Look," she said, her face tight with concealed emotion. "Look what they did to my home town, to my friends!" The page spread showed an aerial photograph of a dark crater, marking the site of the small town's center. The large headline read: "THE VIEW FROM GROUND ZERO". Abram and Kip held up a close-up spread of the crater: a tiny lake of rainwater had been formed and frozen there. There were more pictures of the site. Not a single house was standing. A few telephone poles and power-line pylons stuck up from flattened ruins -- interspersed by a few asphalt roads which had melted and then frozen into cracked sheets of black glass. The WRBC radio mast still stood up, defiantly, but the adjacent building was crushed. Further out from the town were piles of overturned, burnt-out car wrecks -- those who had not reached far away enough. One car was full of black, shrivelled corpses in various sizes: a former family. The caption below the picture explained: "All birds in the vicinity are dead or escaped -- many remaining bodies were left to freeze stiff after the rain that followed upon the blast." Kip made a choked sound. Annie said: "I waited in the assembly camp for anyone I knew to show up... nobody came but Abram." Kip looked questioningly at Abram, who nodded: "It took me some time to find her, the police wouldn't help me. I can't tell you what really happened, Kip -- now I'm a free man, but a pariah. You may have heard some rumors about the five men who were somehow connected to the incident --" "Yes," Kip interrupted eagerly, "there have been rumors in my circles that General Wade was part of some secret, very old cabal. You don't have to say more." "Look here," Abram told him. He indicate a full-page article in the newspaper, bearing the headline "ALL THE GENERAL'S MEN". Half a page was occupied by a photo of Joshua Wade: a vital but very wrinkled, long-faced man in uniform. The caption below it read: "COMMITTED SUICIDE: GENERAL WADE, SAC. The same day, four other top men died in mysterious circumstances. Pentagon denies a connection, but speculations continue." Inset next to the larger photograph were four small photos of old men, some taken many years ago. The text pieces next to them were brief: NEVILLE ANDERSON (89): His car found in Potomac River same night; body not yet found. COLMER RAYMOND (93): Hit by car on his way to the White House; assailant unknown. PETER STANTON (88): Found shot in Langley, with body of Ned Wilson (63); a high-ranking CIA man, also shot. HAROLD ULMGARD (90): Heart failure in his Pentagon office after an overdose of heart medicine. "Did you ever meet any of these people during your time in Congress, Kip?" Kip scrutinized the pictures with concern, then shook his head: "No... but I've come across some of the names long ago. They were not politicians like me, but civil servants. You can see it on their faces, that they sat in secure places for many years." He grunted contemptuously. Abram tugged at his beard, muttering to himself: "Ever since that October day, I've been asking myself if anything makes sense anymore. A bunch of old men I've never seen murder several thousand people, in order to keep a secret revealed by an unknown madman. And all these other victims who didn't know anything either... Giordano... a man whose name I can't mention, to protect his family, he got nothing but a short paragraph in the local newspaper... the personnel at the Institute and those other patients... even Ned Wilson might not have known why he was killed... "Could I have saved them by not taking some fatal decision? Am I the one... ultimately responsible?" Annie slowed down the car, turned it into a littered backalley, and stopped the car. She faced Abram, holding a revolver in her hands, and took aim at his head. "Don't you think I've been thinking about it too?" Her voice choked with anger and despair. "Perhaps I've slept with the man who killed my friends! Should I shoot you for that?" Annie screwed up her eyes, little wrinkles of laughter appeared around them though she wasn't laughing. Her thin lips were clenched; her hands were trembling visibly. Abram was not shocked like Kip was. He looked gravely into her eyes and said with no trace of irony: "If you're going to shoot me, you'd better cock the trigger first." Her gaze dropped to the uncocked trigger. She shut her eyes, her mouth twisting, cramp-like, into a soundless laughter. There came no sound from her lips; she began to cry, and dropped the gun. "Damn you!" Annie sobbed. Her mouth opened in a quiet scream; Abram leaned across the seat and held her. She hugged his head and clenched her lips together. "Don't leave me." "I won't." They sat cheek to cheek for a minute -- until Kip cleared his throat and asked in a muffled tone: "Abram, that package you picked out of the ruin... what is it?" Abram gently freed himself from Annie's arms, and took up the package from the case. With his Swiss Army knife, he cut away the plastic wrapping and extracted a cassette tape. Annie wiped her face on her arm, looking curiously at the tape in Abram's hands. On it was a hand-written label: P. RYMOWICZ' FINAL LECTURE (30 MIN.) "Is that him on the tape?" she asked. "The madman on the radio?" "Yes," Abram said. "It's also supposed to feature the sound of when he shoots a student dead in front of an entire class. The act that finally got him put into the asylum." He handed the tape to Annie, who put it in the tape deck and pressed PLAY. Parry's voice reverberated through the car stereo: "Today, you will only have to write down one sentence. I'll take it right now, so those of you who are too tired to follow my entire argument can relax. Write down the following sentence: We -- are -- property. 'We are property.' Got that? Good. "Today's subject is: 'Our Place In The Universe.' As you know, astronomers have not yet discovered -- read my lips, they have not discovered -- living life on other planets. Yet they argue that life must have existed in the universe for several billion years. What should we conclude from these contradictory facts? Are our telescopes not powerful enough? Are we the only ones who are looking? Have other civilizations in space been annihilated -- by themselves or by nature -- before they got a chance to contact us? "Or... or are they already among us? While human beings have lived on our planet for at most a hundred thousand years, extraterrestrial civilizations must have existed millions, even billions of years before our time. The all-too-obvious absence of signs from these super-civilizations confirm the suspicion that we are under --" "Shut it off!" Abram ordered. Annie stopped the tape player. He made a silent gesture; she took out the tape and gave it to him. Abram pulled out the scissors of his army knife and snipped off the thin tape, then pulled it out into a long tangle. He ceased this action, mumbled a curse and broke the cassette open with a twist of his hands. He wound open the side-window and tossed out the cracked remains.Kip and Annie stared at him. He crossed his arms and met their eyes. "I'm sick and tired of listening to maniacs," he said shortly. "But it's your job to do that," Annie replied, smiling a little. He shook his head: "Not anymore. Let's get to the airport. Kip has got to get home to his family, and I've got to catch a plane to Canada." "To visit your relatives?" Annie rested her arm and chin on her seat. "I used to spend Christmas in Quebec with my eccentric clan, before my wife died many years ago. I'll stay in touch with you." "You know what," she said in a teasing tone, jutting out her chin, "I've just quit my job to take a long vacation. Up north." Abram drew his hand across his thick, pointy moustaches, then over his short, graying beard. He gave her an insecure look, and wrinkled his forehead. She made giggle, touched his forehead with her fingertips and asked: "Have you noticed that you're always fingering your beard when you're thinking about what to say?" He took his hand from his chin and grasped her fingers. "For a hundred years," Abram said and began to smile.
AUTHOR'S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The hallmark of a lousy writer is that he writes about subjects he knows nothing about; In PARRY'S PROTOCOL I have been trying to stay within my range of competence. The following reference works made this book possible: "The Shadow Warriors: O.S.S. and the Origins of the C.I.A.", by Bradley F. Smith"; "The Smithsonian Guide to Historic America: Virginia and the Capital region", with text by Henry Wiencek; "CIA: a History" by John Ranelagh, plus various other literature covering the same fields. Special thanks to Swanson's travel agency and the Tourist Department of Washington State, for their illustrated brochures; and to my neighbors, who endured the noise of my typewriter for such a long time.
A. R. Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL (c)A.R.Yngve 1993, 1997, 1999, 2001. All rights reserved. |