by Darcy Fray
There was a knock on the door. Odd. Gordon was ostensibly here for the QuantumCon, but he hadn’t yet notified any colleagues of his presence. He answered the door to find an attractive young woman standing before him.
“I have a delivery for you from Dr. Pyotr Sidorov,” she said, handing him an unmarked white business envelope.
Gordon pulled a 50-ruble bill from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Thank you, sir. Can I be of any further assistance?”
“No, I’m all set. Thanks.” Gordon shut the door and took a seat on the elegantly patterned deep red armchair in his living room. He extracted the letter from its envelope. Typed on Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology letterhead, the letter read:
Dr. Pyotr Sidorov
Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology
Specialized Institute for Quantum Electronics
Mailing address: Russia, 117342, Moscow, ul. Vvedenskogo, 3
Phone: (495) 555-03-89 Fax: (495) 555-02-56
E-mail: [email protected]
Dear Gordon,
Thrilled to find you will be attending QuantumCon. I tried ringing you, but it seems you have changed numbers? Would love to buy you that Kvass I owe you. Give me a ring on my cell when you feel up to it.
Sincerely,
Pyotr
Gordon set the letter down on the side table next to him. That’s funny. He remembered briefly mentioning QuantumCon to Pyotr on their recent call, but he certainly hadn’t told him when he would be arriving or where he would be staying. He picked up the phone Wilkinson had given him before he departed. It looked like any other cell, with a dark gray plastic shell and backlit keypad, but unlike other phones, this one relayed every call through the office of U.S. Army Lieutenant General John Wilkinson, and it was carefully monitored day and night. Gordon dialed the number specified in the letter.
Pyotr picked up immediately.
“Gordon! Have I impressed you with my detective work?”
“I didn’t know you had it in you, Pyotr. I’ll be sure to give you a buzz next time I lose my car keys.”
“Well, you did mention that you would be attending QuantumCon, and I seem to remember that you were partial to the Grand Hotel Europe.”
“I commend your elephantine memory. Now what about that kvass you owe me?”
“I’ve got a much better idea. Meet me downstairs in the Caviar Bar and I’ll get you properly drunk.”
•••
Saint Petersburg, Russia - Caviar Bar
The Caviar Bar and Restaurant was elegantly appointed in a regal palette of deep reds, golds and creamy whites. Not a fan of fish eggs, Gordon opted for a hearty plate of beef Stroganov, while Pyotr indulged in the more fitting Beluga and Osetra caviar. Both men enjoyed shots of cold, crisp fine Russian vodkas with their meals, and the conversation flowed.
Pyotr pried a bit. “So, I’ve heard a rumor about you, my friend, and I must say, it really surprised me.”
“What would that be?” Gordon inquired as he shifted uneasily in his chair.
“An associate of mine from MIT mentioned that you’re on sabbatical,” Pyotr responded as he lifted a spoonful of Osetra to his lips. “I thought it odd.”
“News travels fast. Yes, I’m taking some time away from Caltech. Fully dedicating myself to my writing for a few months.”
“Writing? On what?” Pyotr had always been irrationally envious of Gordon’s Nobel Prize and no matter how hard he tried, he could never quite seem to disguise it.
“Funnily enough, I had planned on discussing it with you on this trip. I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly forthcoming in our last conversation.”
“Oh?” Pyotr’s curiosity was piqued. He had always known Gordon to be almost brutally direct and honest, not at all the type for intrigue.
“I’m writing a book on Zolkin.”
“Dr. Dmitry Zolkin? Why?” Pyotr could not, for the life of him, grasp why Gordon would set aside his groundbreaking research to focus on a man whose reputation and work were both littered with rumor and speculation.
“You don’t find his work fascinating?”
“Frankly, no. I find it to be embarrassing, unethical, misleading, irrational, irresponsible...what else? Oh, and dangerous.”
“Sounds like a bestseller to me.” Gordon laughed and raised a shot glass full of vodka. “To Dmitry.”
Pyotr reciprocated, “No, to you and your new career path, my friend.”
“So, can I count on your help with my research? You know him about as well as anyone, right?”
“I suppose that’s true, but it means little. Dmitry, like most of us, secluded himself with his work.”
“What about his wife, Sarah?” Gordon already knew the answer, but was interested to discover what Pyotr had heard.
“Sadly, she went missing at the same time as Dmitry. There are rumors...” Pyotr downed another shot. He was beginning to feel the effects of the vodka.
“Rumors?” Gordon, on the other hand, had drunk only one shot for every three that Pyotr drank and was just sober enough to steer the conversation.
“Well...some people are saying that Sarah discovered the dark side of Dmitry’s work and threatened to leave him...they say perhaps he ended her life and then his, but I have never known Dmitry to be a violent man. It seems out of character.” Pyotr shook his head and drank yet another shot.
“Any other rumors out there?” Gordon asked, as he indulged in another bite of his mouth-watering Stroganov. It was the first proper meal he’d had in days.
“There are those who believe he was successful with his Dusha studies and experiments, and perhaps a foreign or domestic power found the idea of weaponizing the energy to be highly advantageous. It makes far more sense than a murder and suicide. Think about it, if one were able to capture the power of the soul and it turned out to be a powerful, containable energy, then wouldn’t there be an eternally free-flowing supply? For every birth, there is a death, no?
Take it a step further and add a nefarious twist and one could also create and take life in a laboratory setting for the sole purpose of harvesting Dusha. Clone farms,” Pyotr posed as he waved down their waiter.
“Now you’ve made it sound like a bad Hollywood film, but I suppose you’re right. Scientific ethics have always taken a backseat to the research itself and no doubt to the real-world applications of said research.
“When was the last time you saw Dmitry?” Gordon glanced out the large window that looked out onto Nevsky Prospect. The snowfall was mesmerizing.
“I saw him a week before he disappeared. He was in Moscow and we had a meal and far too many drinks together at Kvartira 44.”
“Did he seem distraught or distracted in any way?”
“Well, I have never known Dmitry not to be distracted, but no...he didn’t seem distraught at all. In fact, just the opposite -- he was excited about an upcoming trip with Sarah to the United States, I believe. Now that I think about it, seems a bit odd given his disappearance around that time. You Yanks don’t have him locked up in some cell somewhere, do you?”
“I think the vodka is beginning to talk,” laughed Gordon, “and I need to get some sleep, but maybe we can pick this up again tomorrow? I can’t tell you how great it is to see you, Pyotr. Really.” Gordon rose from his chair, curtailing a prolonged goodbye.
The waiter approached with the guest check holder. Pyotr and Gordon both reached for it simultaneously.
“Gordon, this is on me. You are unemployed, after all,” Pyotr chuckled. He found more than a sliver of enjoyment in the truth of the statement.
“Next time, then. Oh...and Pyotr, would you happen to know Dmitry and Sarah’s last address? I just want to get a feel for their neighborhood...for the book.” Gordon was certainly not the most adept liar, but Pyotr was too drunk to notice or care.
“Sure. It’s on Bolshaya Morskaya at the southeast corner bordering St. Isaac’s Square. Second building in, on the third floor, I believe.”
CHAPTER NINE
Veritas Bellum
North Hollywood, CA - Crisp Residence
FLETCHER CRISP SAT at his desk in the spare bedroom/office of the North Hollywood mid-century style home he shared with his daughter. He navigated to the Veritas Bellum website on his desktop computer. Harper had updated the site with the photos and anthrax cover story yesterday and their web traffic was booming. Veritas had started as a fringe truth movement in the early 1980s, but due to its integrity in investigative reporting, had evolved into the go-to source for international exposés. With no designated leaders, anonymous membership, a rabid fan base and a brilliantly coded secure P2P-like network, it was nearly impossible for the government, or anyone, to penetrate it.
Fletcher had become involved with Veritas following the mysterious disappearance of his beloved wife, Jane, shortly after Harper’s birth. Jane had been an aspiring microbiologist and research specialist working on the link between pesticide use and Parkinson’s disease. On March 13, 1989, just three days after she was reported missing, her car was found at the bottom of a deep ravine bordering Malibu Canyon Road. Even after an exhaustive three-week search, her body was never found.
Jane had been fully aware of the controversial nature of her work. She knew it had the potential to upset the entire industrial-farming complex, but her early research had proven fruitful and she thought it would be unethical to cease. It was for the greater good.
Fletcher was sure that Jane’s death was a result of foul play. The pesticide industry generated over fifty billion dollars a year in sales, and that was an awful lot of money to put in jeopardy.
When Jane disappeared, Veritas contacted Fletcher anonymously and inquired if he would be interested in participating in a story about missing microbiologists who were involved in controversial research. He had never heard of Veritas Bellum, which at that time distributed its printed publication freely through libraries and bookshops, but he was looking for answers and would have agreed to almost anything at that point. He read the article upon its publishing and found it to be both shocking and eye-opening; in fact, the entire issue was.
Soon after, Fletcher entered a dark period of excessive drinking chased down by an unhealthy dose of self-loathing. He was ex-SAS and employed as a security consultant at a prominent firm in Los Angeles. If anyone should have seen the inherent danger of Jane’s work, surely he was the one. How could he have missed it?
It was the bright eyes, smiles and giggles of his baby daughter that brought him back from the depths of despair. From that moment on, Fletcher vowed to find the truth at all costs. Through persistence and patience, he slowly became more and more involved with Veritas, leading him right to the inner circle, where he remained today.
Harper’s voice drifted down the hallway. “Dad?”
“In the office.”
Harper opened the office door just enough to make eye contact with her father.
“Need the pyramid. I’m going to have Kumar take a look today.”
“The Kumar?” He never missed an opportunity.
“Yes, Dad. The Kumar is not only an accomplished actor and civil servant, but also a brilliant astrophysicist who moonlights at Caltech,” she teased.
Fletcher unlocked a small fire safe, stowed away in the back corner of the office closet. He removed the pyramid and handed it to Harper.
“I trust I don’t need to remind you how valuable this is?”
“I get it.”
“Good. Go forth in truth.” Fletcher looked after her as she walked away down the hall.
“Harper,” he called after her. “Care to pick me up some seeds on your way home tonight? Jumbo --“
“Jumbo. Salted. Sunflower. Seeds,” she interjected. She turned briefly toward him and flashed a smile before disappearing around the corner.
Some days she looked more like her mother than others, and this was one of those days. It was both a blessing and a curse.
•••
Pasadena, CA - Caltech Biological Imaging Center
Harper entered the Biological Imaging Center at Caltech to find Kumar, head down, madly typing away on a computer in the far corner of the otherwise vacant lab.
“Kumar, do you have a sec?”
Kumar jumped at the sound of Harper’s voice and turned to greet her with a nervous smile.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that,” Harper said as she laid her hand atop Kumar’s shoulder. She was fully aware of her feminine charms when she needed to be.
“No worries. What can I do for you?” Kumar put on his best cool guy act in addition to flexing his nonexistent deltoid, which rapidly warmed beneath her gentle touch.
“Well, it’s sort of an odd request...I found this object on a hike this past weekend and for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is.”
“May I see it?” Kumar looked up at her with his bright chestnut, almond-shaped eyes, catching her off-guard. They left an impression.
She reached into the backpack slung over her left shoulder and pulled out the pyramid. Kumar took it from her and studied it in silence for a moment.
“You’re definitely right about it being strange. If I had to guess, I would say it’s covered with some sort of nano-based coating. And its density is highly irregular.”
Kumar walked over to a BVZ-7600 x-ray machine and placed the pyramid on a table in front of it.
“Oh, and Kumar....I think we should keep this on the down-low. We’re both new...don’t want our department heads thinking we’re using university equipment for silly personal things.”
“No problem.” Kumar was very proud of his job and planned to keep it. He threw on a lead apron and handed one to Harper, who did the same.
He photographed the pyramid from a few different angles and examined the results on the adjacent monitor. He scratched his head.
“Hmm, that’s weird.” He tapped the side of the monitor a few times. No change.
“What is it?” Harper inquired, disguising her excitement. Maybe her father’s instincts were right after all.
“It’s completely radiolucent. It doesn’t show up on the x-ray...at all. I don’t get it.” Kumar was completely befuddled. How can something with such a high density be permeable to radiation?
“That does seem odd. Maybe your equipment needs calibration?”
“No, it’s been functioning perfectly. Hey, do you mind if I hang on to it and run a few more tests?”
“Sorry, but I’m going to be tied up the rest of the day until pretty late, so I think I’ll just take it with me. We should definitely grab a coffee or something some time,” she said. She handed him the lead apron and reached for the pyramid.
“Oh...yeah...sure, that would be great.” Like a true scientist, Kumar’s interest in Harper had been completely displaced by his interest in her enigmatic pyramid.
•••
Saint Petersburg, Russia - Grand Hotel Europe
Gordon emerged from the bathroom, still dripping, with a plush white hotel towel wrapped around his waist. He glanced at the clock atop his bedside table. Already one o’clock. Jet lag had stolen half the day from him. He was relieved to have some distance between himself and the prying eyes of Wilkinson.
The previous evening, he had explored QuantumCon in Saint Petersburg’s newly built ExpoForum, and he’d encountered many familiar faces, all of whom were interested in the reason for his departure from Caltech. After the first few times through his fictional account, he began to believe it himself. He quickly learned the power of prevarication.
He had planned on a return visit to the convention later that evening, and had purposely set aside the afternoon to explore Dmitry and Sarah’s neighborhood.
A quick peek behind his bedroom curtains revealed the same snowy scene that had followed him to bed the previous night. The falling snow, combined with the historical architecture of Saint Petersburg, added a certain gravitas to the already heavy task at hand.
It would be
cold wandering the streets all afternoon. He added a sheepskin Cossack hat, wool scarf and brown overcoat to his regular uniform.
He glanced down at a printout of the directions to Dmitry and Sarah’s apartment. The distance was just over one mile by foot:
Grand Hotel Europe
Mikhailovskaya Ulitsa, seventh, Saint Petersburg, Russia 191011
1. Head south on Mikhailovskaya Ulitsa toward Nevsky Prospect- 240 ft
2. Turn right onto Nevsky Prospect- 0.5 mi
3. Turn left onto Bol Morskaya Ulitsa - 0.5 mi
4. Turn right onto St. Isaac Square
Gordon stepped out onto the snow-covered sidewalk. The moisture in his nostrils froze instantly upon his first inhalation. A shiver ran up his spine as he pulled his scarf tightly around his neck. Living in Southern California had softened him.
He quickly found his way to Nevsky Prospect. Almost every building on the avenue stood as a monument on a par with a stroll down the Champs-Elysées or a walk along the most elegant streets of Amsterdam, Rome or Venice. Gordon made a point of absorbing and fully appreciating his surroundings. He had been in Saint Petersburg a handful of times, but was often too lost in his own thoughts to truly acknowledge the splendor of the city. It was a welcome distraction.
Gordon smiled as he approached 18 Nevsky Prospect. Looking down upon him from the iconic red, black and white sign on the side of the building was none other than Colonel Sanders. As he passed under the sign, he noticed the quaint Literaturnaya Cafe on the second floor above and made the uncustomary decision to pop in for a quick cup of tea and a warm-up. He had stupidly forgotten to purchase gloves, and what had started as a light snowfall had now developed into a squall, at least by Gordon’s somewhat skewed West Coast standards.
