He edged the car up the winding drive lined with sculptured hedges of varying geometric shapes. Coveport belonged in this neighborhood.
The Marine sergeant snapped to attention, his rifle squarely to his chest, as Mike turned the hedged corner. He couldn't see the man's eyes and wondered if, in fact, he had any when a voice boomed from beneath his stiff brimmed cap.
"Halt," the Marine said, obviously not for the first time in his life.
Mike's eyes fell on the man's weapon. You bet I will.
A second military man, armed only with a clipboard and pen, stepped from the sentry box and marched to Mike's door.
"Name," the second man said.
"Ma, Ma, Michael Flagg," he stuttered, cranking down the window, "to see Mr. Ageton."
"I have a listing for a James Flagg."
"Yes, sir, that's me."
"Very well, proceed. Have some identification available at Position Two."
"Yes, sir." He slammed the stick shift back in gear as the barricade lifted.
Mike exhaled. "Worse than Langley! Position Two. Shit, who the hell did I come to see, the King of Siam?" he said aloud when he was sure he was out of earshot.
Not needing to exceed first gear, he fumbled for his wallet in his hip pocket as he steered the additional turns leading to the second sentry post. His driver's license was sufficient identification and the remaining one hundred yards was straight paved macadam, save for two quadrants of metal grating which the car sang over in second gear.
The huge white Colonial-style mansion with its presuming Doric pillars, which Mike had expected, was absent. In its place stood a magnificent stone Tudor castle, its walls hidden completely by swirls of clinging ivy. The leaded windows stretched to the whitish-gray slated roof, its burnished-copper drains graciously accepting the gifts of the weather. Mike swung his car around the simple stone fountain that stood in the center of the circular drive and parked.
The reddish-brown haired man standing at the front door stepped to the slate path, his pace was brisk, almost nervous. His brown turtleneck sweater and tweed jacket against the backdrop of this majestic estate held its completion, as the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle completes and complements. He too belonged, as did the copper drains and imposing stone turrets.
The man swung his bulky arm up and slapped Mike with a vise-like grip. "Good morning, James?"
Mike smiled. "Don't tell me, Cambridge, right?"
"I take umbrage, my friend, Magdalene at Oxford, in fact." The man tried his best to affect a look of insult.
"Pardon me."
"But of course. David Featherstone's the name. By Gawd, you all are a bloody sight! I'd 'eard about you from the others this morning, but to be honest, I thought it might be a bit of an exaggeration. Does that dome of yours radiate any heat?"
"No more than yours, I'm told."
"Well. Better let Peri know you're here. He's sure to get a bloody charge out of you, if I know my Peri. Let's go 'round back. I suppose I should warn you, 'e's a bit of an eccentric.”
*****
The two followed the flagstone path around the side of the estate exchanging pleasantries. Mike mentioned his preference for the use of his middle name when, with apologies, Featherstone explained that the tedious work at Coveport, for the most part, was carried out by government employees who have a penchant for accuracy, even at the cost of being inaccurate.
They tread lightly on the damp slate, the south side being the most exposed. The morning sun tried unproductively to tear through the blanket of clouds, the white wispy tufts held firm, sending a light rainfall earthward, upset periodically by a gust of wind. The lawn to their left was dotted with labyrinthine carved, stone birdbaths and beyond a small pond, its rippled surface pitted by the light drizzle, stood a partially screened aviary. Mike squinted to read the small, wooden plaque, hung by a single strand of wire, on the cage: ARISTOPHANES.
"Quite a place you have here," Mike said, "very impressive."
"Oh, wait a few months. Aristophanes'll ‘ave more birds than you can shake a stick at. Some of them leave, despite the fact that it's ‘eated year-round, but they always come back."
"You heat that thing? It's open on two sides," Mike said.
"Combination of solar and wind power. What nature giveth, she taketh away."
The path widened into a spacious patio, the flagstone now alternating in prismatic pastels. The surroundings seemed bleak, due only to this season. In the late spring, the flower boxes guarding the perimeter would be in bloom, exploding the senses with their colors and scents. But now, the white wrought iron furniture, a few pieces in need of touch up, was cold and alone.
David Featherstone stepped to the edge of the patio and looked across the barren landscape extending fifteen hundred yards to the trees beyond. "There ‘e is." He swung his massive arm upward, pointing, then tugged the neck of his sweater forward, plunging his other hand into the opening. He withdrew an Acme Thunderer, put it to his pursed lips and blew.
Mike contorted his face in supposed pain. "Good grief, that's loud!"
"Peri's idea, we all carry them. ‘E's usually out of earshot when ‘e's needed, and that's quite often."
About midway across the expanse, a small figure of a man was hunched over an archer's target, plucking arrows from it with obvious delight. At the burst of the whistle, he spun his plump body in its direction and broke into a trot, his wobble increasing in speed seemingly beyond the physics of his body's girth. As he approached the two men — falling no less than three times in the process — the golf shoes that covered his tiny feet clattered onto the slate and he doubled over. He was not breathless, instead he was laughing uncontrollably, slapping his thighs with his stubby fingers.
"Aaahhhhhh! The aurora borealis never looked so good! I love it."
Mike smiled and offered his outstretched hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ageton."
"Peri, please call me Peri, all my friends do," he smiled too, the grin squeezing his cheeks into dimples.
"Fine, Peri —"
"And may I call you Jim?" he asked.
"Actually, I prefer Mike or Michael."
"Good. Good, I like that...Michael...Michael the Archangel."
"That's all I need is to sprout wings, the halo's enough for now thanks."
"Aaahhhhhh!" Peri roared again. "You're a joy, Michael, you're a joy. Just let me finish this set and we'll go inside and get comfortable."
"Fine," Mike said.
Peri lifted a pre-cocked medieval crossbow from the flower box, inserted and arrow and fired.
Direct hit on the tattered bull's-eye.
Mike was trying hard to remember what exactly was said about the clothes making the man — if there was truth in this statement, trouble may lie ahead.
Pericletus Anthony Ageton could have sprung, full-blown, from an animator's pen. He stood five feet four inches tall, with the aid of his spiked golf shoes and his weight was equaled to that of Michael's much larger frame. His clothes hung from his body as if tossed, at random, from a great height — loose, rumpled, oversized. His baggy pants seemed to match one of the colors in his shirt, a ghastly blue-red-orange paisley-like combination, the likes of which would stand out at any luau. The ensemble was wrapped to finality with a red and white plaid madras sports jacket and a surprisingly simple, thin black tie.
In spite of his bizarre accouterments, Pericletus was a lovely looking man. His wide, ocean-blue eyes were childlike, as was the softness of his healthy pink complexion. His tonsured head contained a few strands of golden-blond hair, positioned presumably by the swipe of a hand rather than a comb or brush. Because of his height, Mike found himself crouching to speak to the man as he shot the remaining five arrows.
*****
"You know, with all this security, I'm surprised I wasn't frisked for handguns or the like." The two were now seated in the Drawing Room off the Great Hall. The breakfast table was situated near enough to the marble fireplace, which Michael figured cou
ld easily hold his automobile, as to provide comfortable but not overpowering heat. Mike sipped coffee and waited for Peri to finish his croissant before lighting a cigarette with Peri’s permission.
"On the contrary, you were searched no less than six times on the way in. Our government is very touchy about the information it has stored here." Peri placed his teacup down and removed a file folder from the serving tray beside him.
"Huh, I don't get it?" Mike said.
"Granted, you were not manhandled. I'm very touchy about that when it comes to my guests. But here, for example," Peri ran his finger down the page in front him. "You have fifty-seven cents in your right hand pocket, one quarter, one dime, four nickels and two pennies. Oh, there's also twenty-eight cents under the front passenger's seat."
Mike's reflex action was to go for his pocket but he jerked his hand back.
"X-rays, electronics, fiber optics...they're in the hedges along the drive, the metal grating your car passed over. Very sophisticated, I designed much of it myself," Peri said.
David Featherstone poked his head into the room. "Excuse me gentleman, Peri, Jason's on line four."
"Is it Monday already?" Peri glanced down at his wrist despite the fact it held no watch. "My, my. I'll take it in here. And would you please have someone copy Michael, I think we'll need more than one visit." Peri hoisted his corpulent frame, tossed the cloth napkin onto the serving tray and closed the file folder. “By the way, the King of Siam is not a guest here." Peri smiled. "Not this week at any rate. Besides, the name was changed to Thailand for a second time in '49." Mike felt his face grow hot as Peri snatched the landline receiver.
"Morning, Jason, shoot.... Tsk, tsk, getting forgetful in your old age, I taught astronomy for eighteen months. Altazimuth, a-l-t-a-z-i-m-u-t-h. Somewhat like a surveyor’s theodolite. It measures the altitude and azimuth of stars, planets, et cetera...that's right...make it a nice Chablis, say '63...yes.... My turn next week, be on your toes.... That's right.... Have a good week.... Goodbye."
Peri replaced the receiver, stared absentmindedly for a moment, and then looked at Mike.
"A little game a friend of mine and I play, called can't look it up, strict mnemonic reference. No books or computers allowed. I obviously would have the advantage there but the first of the month is foreign language day. There I have an honest advantage, Jason only speaks fourteen languages."
Peri slid the chair back under his portly frame. "Now where were we? Ah yes, crossbows...did you know that the maximum range for a crossbow is say, 500 to 600 yards? Effective range, maybe a tenth of that. I, however, expect to change that."
Crossbows! Is this — Mike wondered if his brain was a wired for sound. Nah! — guy nuts? Who the fuck was talkin' about crossbows?
"Really? Interesting," he said.
"Well, let's change the subject, shall we?"
Please do.
"Let's just start with a few simple questions."
"Sure." Mike glanced at the man's hideous shirt as he removed the sports jacket and let the full effect of the colored swirls assault his sensibilities. Colorblind? Argument with his wardrobe coordinator? Insane tailor? Bad taste. Sure, that was it, bad taste.
"Occupation?" Peri asked, scribbling the same on a yellow legal-sized pad with a dull three-inch long pencil.
"Student. Medical."
"Ah.... Specialty?"
"First year, haven't decided."
A man in a stained laboratory smock pushed a small metal cart through the door, the wheels screeching across the hard oaken floor. "This the one to be copied, Peri?"
Peri nodded.
"Okay, smile. That's good." A flashbulb exploded. "Now, if you'll just speak into this gizmo here, hey diddle diddle, will be fine, whatever."
Mike didn't know what to make of the electronic paraphernalia. He shrugged his shoulders and spoke: "Is this a dagger that I see before me, the handle toward my hand, come let me clutch thee —"
"A Shakespeare fan. That'll be fine. Okay, that's it. Thank you. Be ready in ten minutes, Peri."
"Thanks, Larry."
The man's exit was as quick as his entrance, the screech of the wheels less noticeable now.
Mike rubbed the spots from his eyes. "What was that all about?"
"Easier on you. I have a number of guests that come here on a regular basis. Friends, business associates. So instead of subjecting them to Checkpoint Alpha, Bravo every time, they get a free pass. The security's just as tight, just no turnstiles. We could have gotten your voiceprint from the driveway instruments but direct recording is always better for clarity. I'll have David show you the entrance later. Now...college major?"
"Chemistry."
"Now we're getting somewhere. Ever been subjected to radiation?"
"Color TV...microwave oven...cell phone…dentist's office...your hedges."
Peri laughed. "One point for Michael. Chemotherapy?"
"No, thank God."
"Ever perform any extracurricular experiments?"
"Nothing major."
"And minor?"
"Nothing really. I used to whip up my own home concoctions, you know, cleaning detergents, shampoos, that sort of thing. Nine cents for deodorant, you can't beat that. But my girlfriend put the nix on it. Used to call me Dr. Frankenstein."
"Ever have anything go awry on you?"
"Nope...I was a straight A student in chemistry," Mike said indignantly.
"Umm...so are half the terrorists that blow themselves up in basements every day. Mistakes do happen. Any significant hair loss since the occurrence?"
"No, sir."
"Skin rashes?"
"Uh ah."
"I understand you were tested by the government, yesterday or the day before."
"Yes, for a couple of days actually."
"Incompetents, all of them. Most of their botched up messes come here to us. Well, I suppose I could requisition their data. Who handled it, do you know?"
"Well, a Mr. Stephen Collinsworth was in charge —"
"Collinsworth! The swine."
"He spoke well of you too."
"Huh?"
"Just kidding."
"He'd step on his grandmother's back if it'd get him a rung higher."
"Seemed very professional to me."
"Professional, yes. He plays the game well; I'll give him that. I'll give his office a call.”
“Is he CIA? I couldn’t even tell.”
“Langley does not equal CIA.” Peri looked down at the contents of the folder again and shuffled some pages. “I read the transcript of your television interview. You were rightfully confused… it’s intentional. Let’s just say there are a number of ‘off the books’ cell structures. Jointly, they affectionately refer to themselves and the others as The Agency. They sometimes co-opt office space.”
“You work for them? They sent me your business card?”
“No. Logics Incorporated is my hobby. Helping people is my hobby. When something interests me, I have a look. And you interest me.” Peri stood and stretched his legs. “I'd like to take some scalp and hair samples in the lab. Will you follow me, please.”
*****
It took Peri several minutes to clip his samples and Mike was ready to bid his farewell. He slipped his Windbreaker from the coat rack, wrestled it on, and turned slowly back around unable to leave without a passing comment on Pericletus' attire.
"I wanted to mention this before, that's quite an interesting shirt you're wearing. Paisley, isn't it?"
"Heavens no, Michael," he said, grinning his grin. "I wouldn't be caught dead wearing paisley. Look closely, they're paramecia! A gift from a former biology student of mine."
"I see." Mike nodded and turned to walk through the doorway.
I wouldn't be caught dead wearing paisley. I might learn to like this guy after all.
Chapter 7
"Sure, Mike, I think it's a terrific idea." Craven's voice sounded from the speaker of Mike’s cell phone, as was its habit every few ho
urs since Mike hastily scratched his signature on the contract. "I'll have one of our writers work on something appropriate."
"No, no," Mike said, "if I'm gonna give a speech it'll be in my own words."
"You'll let me look it over, of course."
"Hell, Tim, I don't even know if I'm gonna write anything down. I just wanna let people know what's goin' on."
"Great, the ‘untold story’, shall I have the Enquirer there?"
"Kiss my ass, I'm serious here and you're jerkin' me around." He kicked his feet up onto the hassock and leaned back in his chair.
"Easy, Mike, just kidding, lose your sense of humor?"
"Maybe."
"Okay, I'll set it up but a small auditorium may not be good enough, I'll work on it. Oh hey, while we're on the subject of speaking, are you familiar with any of the electronic evangelist, you know, Pat Robertson, that ilk?"
"You think I live in a cave? Even if I did, they'd probably still bite me on the ass. I've watched a few, a mild distraction, easy to ignore while doing some light reading. I never paid much attention though, why?"
"Maybe I should bring over some DVDs. I've been studying them myself, very interesting, from a business point of view. You could learn a lot."
"No thanks. There's a lot of things in this world that'd bore me to tears but I'd be hard pressed to think of anything worse than sittin' around watchin' that crap. I'll pass."
"I think it's a mistake, but you're the boss. One important thing though, Mike, they all do it, all of them. Repeat yourself, Mike...repeat yourself."
"Okay, okay, okay, okay. How's that?"
"You learn fast, with me you'll go places. One other thing, then I'll let you go. I think it's important that the new Messiah have 20-20 vision so I took the liberty of making an appointment with an ophthalmologist for a LASIK treatment and we'll need you —"
Mike pressed the end key on his cell phone.
"Assholes!" He turned to Cheryl sitting on the sofa opening more letters. "I'm surrounded by 'em, assholes to the left of me, assholes to the right."
A Reluctant Messiah Page 5
